#dreading she tries to loop me into a conversation about this

[exhaustedwerewolf]

… listening to a call of mostly white americans literally discussing sending prayers right now. writing. a list of prayers. and ‘good intentions.’ to send to children. I completely respect people’s choices to privately pray but I just feel like if you can afford to work in this fancy office you can afford to send. actual aid. the time you are spending in this meeting and sharing quotes and then asking they be typed in the chat and interrupting to change the wording from “healing thoughts to both sides” to instead send them to “all people” because there aren’t really sides (in an apartheid conflict)… I know there are limited things we can do as people far away and I know the instinct to- oh my god. “let’s include ourselves we are also traumatised.” someone just said that. yeah sorry I respect everyone’s responses to horrific tragedy are different and wanting to do something but this feels self congratulatory.

[elryuse]

Pt. 2 Troubles

BABEL'S CHAINS MASTELIST : HERE

Y'n's POV

The Next Morning

The next day started much like the last—my alarm blaring, my groggy attempt to silence it, and my mom sending me off with a reassuring smile. But this time, as I pedaled toward Babel University, an odd sense of anticipation weighed on me.

Was I dreading the day or looking forward to it? I wasn’t sure.

As I approached the gates of Babel, the familiar wave of whispers and stares hit me. I ignored them, parking my bike in the same corner as yesterday. My steps quickened as I made my way to the classroom, hoping to slip in unnoticed like before.

But when I stepped through the door, my heart nearly stopped.

Karina Yu was already there, lounging in her seat. Her perfectly polished nails tapped idly against her desk as she scrolled through her phone. When her sharp eyes flicked up and spotted me, a slow smirk spread across her lips.

And then, she waved.

It wasn’t subtle, either. Her arm stretched high, drawing the attention of half the classroom. A few of her friends snickered, and some students turned to look at me.

I froze, the heat rising to my cheeks. Why was she doing this?

“Y/n!” she called, her voice carrying easily over the chatter. “Come sit here.”

She patted the empty seat beside her.

My first instinct was to bolt, but her gaze pinned me in place. With no other choice, I shuffled toward her, painfully aware of every pair of eyes following me.

When I reached her desk, she grinned and moved her bag off the chair. “See? I saved you a seat.”

“Uh… thanks,” I mumbled, sliding into the seat.

The energy in the room shifted. Conversations buzzed around us, but I couldn’t focus on anything other than Karina’s presence beside me. She radiated confidence, her every movement casual yet commanding.

“Relax,” she said, glancing at me out of the corner of her eye. “You’re acting like I dragged you here.”

“I just… didn’t expect this,” I admitted, keeping my voice low.

She chuckled, resting her chin on her hand. “Why not? You’re interesting, remember?”

“I’m not sure if that’s a good thing,” I muttered, earning another laugh from her.

The Lecture Begins

The professor entered shortly after, and the room fell silent. As he launched into another dense economics lecture, I tried to focus on taking notes, but it was almost impossible with Karina next to me.

She didn’t seem to care about the lecture at all, doodling absentmindedly in her notebook. Occasionally, her elbow would brush against mine, sending my brain into overdrive.

“Hey,” she whispered, leaning closer. “What’s the answer to this one?”

I glanced at her notebook, where a half-written equation stared back at me. “It’s… 7.32.”

She jotted it down, her lips curving into a small smile. “You’re pretty handy to have around.”

“Glad I could help,” I said dryly.

The Lunch Break

When the lecture ended, I quickly packed up my things, hoping to escape the awkwardness. But as I stood to leave, Karina grabbed my arm.

“Lunch?” she asked casually, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

I blinked, stunned. “With you?”

“No, with the janitor,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Of course with me. Come on.”

Before I could protest, she looped her arm through mine and practically dragged me out of the classroom. A few students stared as we passed, their expressions ranging from curious to jealous.

When we reached the cafeteria, Karina led me to the same table as yesterday, where Winter, Giselle, and Ningning were already waiting.

“Look who I found,” Karina announced, pushing me into a seat beside her.

“Y/n!” Ningning greeted cheerfully. “Welcome back to the cool kids’ table.”

I glanced around nervously. “I’m not sure if I belong here.”

“Don’t be silly,” Giselle said, resting her chin on her hand. “Karina doesn’t invite just anyone to sit with us.”

“Yeah,” Winter added, smirking. “You must’ve done something to impress her.”

I turned to Karina, who was calmly unpacking her lunch. “Why me?” I blurted before I could stop myself.

She paused, her chopsticks hovering mid-air. Then, she looked at me with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Because you’re different,” she said simply. “And I like different.”

The rest of lunch passed in a blur. The girls talked and laughed, including me in the conversation more than I expected. Karina, however, seemed content to let the others do most of the talking, occasionally glancing at me with that enigmatic smile of hers.

By the time lunch ended, I felt like I’d stepped into a different world—and I wasn’t sure if I’d ever find my way back.

The Rival Encounter

The following day started much the same as usual, but it was the moments after class that took a surprising turn. As I was leaving the lecture hall, Karina waved me over—again.

“Sit here,” she said, patting the seat beside her in the cafeteria.

I hesitated, clutching my tray of simple food. The eyes of Babel University’s elite bore into me, their whispers audible even across the room. Still, something about Karina’s unwavering gaze made it hard to say no.

Sliding into the seat beside her, I braced myself for another round of teasing or curious prodding from her and her friends. To my relief, Ningning quickly shifted the attention with a story about her weekend, and the table’s atmosphere lightened.

The Walk

Lunch ended, and to my surprise, Karina and the girls insisted on walking with me. Ningning had latched onto my arm, her energy infectious as she joked about everything under the sun. Winter trailed slightly behind, her sharp eyes scanning the crowd like a hawk. Giselle walked beside Karina, who carried herself with her usual composed elegance.

I couldn’t help but feel out of place, like a black-and-white photo amidst a sea of vibrant color.

But things took a sharp turn when I accidentally bumped into someone.

The collision was minor—a gentle brush of my shoulder against someone’s arm. Yet, the aftermath was anything but.

“Oh, great,” a voice snapped.

I turned, finding myself face-to-face with a girl whose beauty was just as striking as Karina’s. Her long, sleek hair framed her delicate face, but her expression was anything but delicate. Her name tag read "Jang Wonyoung."

Behind her stood a group of equally stunning girls, their presence commanding the same aura of privilege as Karina’s group.

“Watch where you’re going,” Wonyoung said coldly, crossing her arms.

“I-I’m sorry,” I stammered, taking a step back.

“Sorry doesn’t cut it,” Yujin, another member of Wonyoung’s group, chimed in. Her sharp gaze bore into me, and her voice was as icy as her demeanor. “Do you even know who you just bumped into? Wonyoung doesn’t tolerate disrespect.”

“Yujin,” Gaeul, another girl in the group, said, her tone calmer but no less pointed. “He’s clearly out of his depth. Let’s not waste time.”

Karina stepped forward then, her expression unreadable.

“Out of his depth?” Karina repeated, her voice quiet but laced with steel. “I don’t recall Wonyoung being royalty. Or did I miss the coronation?”

Wonyoung’s eyes narrowed. “Karina, I didn’t realize you were running a charity. Is this your new project?”

Winter stepped up beside Karina, her arms crossed. “Wonyoung, if you’re going to pick a fight, maybe try someone who’s actually worth your time.”

The tension in the air was thick enough to cut with a knife. Students nearby had stopped to watch, their eyes darting between the two groups like spectators at a tennis match.

I opened my mouth to apologize again, but Karina’s hand on my shoulder stopped me.

“You don’t need to explain yourself,” she said firmly, her eyes locked on Wonyoung’s. “Some people just thrive on drama.”

Wonyoung’s lips curved into a tight smile. “And some people mistake arrogance for confidence.”

Karina didn’t flinch. “Funny. I was about to say the same thing.”

Before the situation could escalate further, Ningning stepped between them with her usual playful energy.

“Alright, ladies,” Ningning said, clapping her hands together. “Let’s save the drama for the stage, yeah? This isn’t worth anyone’s time.”

Wonyoung gave Karina one last withering glance before turning on her heel, her group trailing behind her like a flock of impeccably dressed swans.

As they walked away, Giselle muttered under her breath, “Always so theatrical.”

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “Thanks,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

Karina turned to me, her expression softening. “Don’t let them intimidate you. They’re all bark and no bite.”

“Mostly,” Winter added with a smirk.

Ningning looped her arm through mine again, pulling me along. “Come on, Y/n. Let’s get out of here before Wonyoung decides to stage a comeback.”

As we walked away, I couldn’t help but glance over my shoulder. Wonyoung was watching us, her expression unreadable.

Whatever I’d gotten myself into, it was clear that life at Babel University was only going to get more complicated.

To Be Continued…

[pointycorgiears]

When Cross Guild was formed, Crocodile failed to take into account how certain days were going to go. As in, this day. His birthday. He didn't know how, but Buggy had found out what day it landed on, and there was no escaping the consequences behind that.

Buggy was a clown after all. And, as the apparent Boss Clown around here, he was required (not really) to throw a birthday party for Crocodile.

By the time Crocodile realized what was happening, he tried to put a stop to it. It was too late though. Buggy had an underground influence that rivaled Crocodile's own, and the party was pretty much set. All preparations had already been made and there was no going back. The entire island was coming.

Well, Crocodile decided for himself that he wouldn't go. Everyone was going to be drunk off their asses anyway, it's not like they would notice.

Except for a few keen-eyed individuals.

Mihawk and his boy, the Seraphim child, had been working in the kitchen all day. No doubt Mihawk was cooking up something just for Crocodile, since the Cross Guild chefs would be handling the majority of the party's food. Everytime Talon passed by his office door, the boy would glance at him with a knowing smile. This would happen every few hours.

Crocodile could already picture the scathing, disappointed, and murderous glare from Mihawk if he did not at least show up to try whatever it was they were making. He thought about just hiding out somewhere on the island until the party ended, but Talon was just as much a hunter as his father, and that theoretical game of hide and seek would be over before Crocodile could get comfortable in his hideout.

So it seemed after all that Crocodile would be going to his own birthday party. He sighed and sunk back in his chair behind his desk, rubbing his temple. It was for appearances, he told himself. Just appearances. Like any other bothersome business meeting, at least he could decide that he was not going to enjoy it.

Crocodile glance over at the wall from his chair. The clock said 4:30. Evening shenanigans around here usually started at five. He was out of precious quiet, solitary time. He shut his eyes and tried not to dread what was coming.

Biddabiddabidda...

Crocodile sat up and stared at the transponder snail on the corner of his desk. He wasn't expecting any business or calls, so who could possibly be calling this late?

Maybe he finally had a distraction. Maybe this would be his salvation.

He picked up the receiver and the snail clicked the connection. "Yes?" he answered in a purposefully gruff voice.

There was some shuffling sounds on the other end. "Uhhh....hello?"

Crocodile almost dropped the receiver. No, that wasn't... "Is that really y-"

"Crocodile! Hey! Happy Birthday!"

"...Straw Hat? How did you get this number?"

More shuffling the background, until the other seemed to sit still. "Robin gave it to me! She said today's your birthday!"

Robin. "Why are you calling me, Straw Hat?"

"To tell you Happy Birthday, dummy!"

Crocodile was completely thrown for a loop. He resisted asking why again and fell back into the familiar safety of his dealing with business tone. "What is it you want, Straw Hat? I'm a very busy man. If it's Emperor business, you're going to have to talk to Buggy and that's a completely different number, which I'm not giving to you because I am not that clown's secretary."

"Hahahaha! You're funny!"

Crocodile was losing his patience. "Lu-" he caught himself, "Straw Hat. I appreciate the call, but what do you want?"

"Hey Croc," the other began, and Crocodile noticed the sudden shift in tone, "Jinbe told me what you did that day, at Marineford, and well, I never got to say thank you. You really saved us both."

There was a beat of silence before Crocodile responded. "Heh, you're welcome. Don't expect me to do it again, you brat." And please don't ask me why I did it...

Thankfully, another quick laugh told Crocodile the seriousness of their conversation was gone. "Heeheehee! You're a pretty neat guy after all, Croc! I hope we get to face each other again someday!"

"Heh, me too kid."

"You bet on it!" was the excited reply.

"It's good to hear your voice," Crocodile said before he could stop himself.

"Really? Why-Oh!" There was some shouting in the background. "I gotta go! It's time to eat! Happy Birthday Croc!"

"Thanks, Straw Hat."

"Bye Wani!"

The line clicked as it disconnected. Crocodile sat there frozen from those parting words. He suddenly remembered a man with long, wild hair joyfully waving at him from the deck of a ship. "Bye Wani! I'll see you soon! I love you!"

He set the receiver down.

He pushed that memory away, back to where it belonged with all the others. He leaned back in his chair and drew a deep breath. His cigar was currently out of reach, but he didn't bother lifting it from the corner of the desk with a tendril of sand. The old memory was locked away again, but the new memory of Luffy remained fresh in his mind. His voice was young and full of energy. It sounded so alive.

It was direct, like Dragon.

It had a hint of gravel, like him.

Crocodile smirked to himself. At least that was quite the birthday surprise. He sat up in his chair, straight. He felt jittery. Like the day had just started, even though the clock now read 4:50. It would be getting dark outside soon, but he felt like a beam of sunlight had awoken him bright and early.

He was alert. He was hungry.

He tried not to think too hard about why his mood changed.

Just as he got up from the chair and began stretching his legs, Talon fluttered past his office door again. The little clone poked his head in this time, eyes bright. "Are you ready to eat!? Come see what we made for you!"

No sooner did the boy take off, did Mihawk appear carrying a silver tray and eyeing Crocodile expectantly. He didn't have too much time to frown though, as Crocodile headed for the door.

"You are required upstairs, per Buggy's orders," Mihawk said.

"I know, I know," Crocodile huffed. "Let's get this over with then." He knew Mihawk caught the small smile on his face as he brushed past him.

"Are we finally in a good mood today?" the swordsman asked, following behind.

"As good as it's going to get. Now let's go see what you cooked up for me before I change my mind."

He was sure Mihawk noticed the spring in his step too.

[ladelinee]

Authors note: I can't believe I finally finished this part! I struggled with finding inspiration 😫, but I'm happy that you can enjoy it now! If you have any suggestions about what you'd like me to include in future parts, feel free to DM me 🖤 Enjoy!

Word count: 3,7K

Warnings: Negative thoughts, teasing, kissing, touching, +18 language.

“All shook up”

(Part 3)

The air was buzzing with excitement as Elvis prepared for his show backstage. With a soft hum, he sang improvised songs while his stylist meticulously adjusted every sequin and stitch on his jumpsuit. The intricate patterns on the fabric hugged his form, enhancing his stage presence. As the room filled with the murmur of conversations and equipment, Elvis remained poised and cool, ready to electrify the audience with his performance. It was a moment of pure anticipation, and you could feel the energy crackling in the air.

Joe entered the room, panting but trying to appear calm. "Hey E, how are you?" he asked.

Elvis turned around with a smile but sensed that something was off. "Hey Joe, everything alright?" he asked.

Joe hesitated for a moment before delivering the news that Elvis was dreading. "Well, I came to speak to you about this... Priscilla is on her way to see the show. She wants to surprise you."

Elvis's face immediately dropped at the mention of his wife's name. He knew that this could cause some trouble. "What? Ya're kiddin’ me, right?" he asked, trying to downplay its importance, but his nervous laugh betrayed his anxiety.

Joe's expression turned serious as he shook his head, "No, Elvis. She's really coming," he said. "I know we agreed to only have wives on opening and closing shows, and I tried to stop her with that, but she's determined to see you. She wants to make sure you're safe after the earthquake."

Elvis sighed and rubbed his face with his hands, looking irritated. "I know, Joe... I know the deal. Damn it, I didn't keep her in the loop.”

Elvis couldn't help but think about Y/n's beautiful face, which had been a nice break from his usual routine lately.

A staff member suddenly entered and informed Elvis that only 15 minutes were remaining until the start of the show.

Elvis nodded at the staff member. "Alright. I'll be there in a minute. Thank you"

Elvis let out a heavy sigh as he turned back to Joe again. “Ya know what, Joe, I was really hopin' to see y/n tonight. But now, it's lookin' like Cilla might just stay on over. Guess I gotta handle this whole thing right now”

“Hey, have you lost your mind?" Joe exclaimed. "There's no way you or any of the guys can leave now to deal with this, Elvis. The fans are swarming the building, trying to find their seats, and the media is everywhere. It's chaos out there!“

Elvis groaned and shook his head, thinking and walking in circles. "Damn... you're right, Joe.”

Suddenly Elvis walked towards the phone backstage, feeling his heart racing with anticipation. He pressed the dial button and tried to contact y/n's office. He thought that cancelling the date would be the quickest way to find a temporary solution.

"Damn it all…” Elvis let out a frustrated groan as he heard nothing but silence on the other end of the line.

"Mr. Presley, you have 10 minutes left." The staff member announced.

Elvis started feeling anxious and decided to resort to a plan B.

“Hear me, Joe. Hunt down that son-of-a-bitch Red, and instead of him playin' bodyguard tonight, send him for a minute to go and tell the girl this…”

Elvis thought for a moment and finally, with a snap of his fingers, he came up with a message. “Alright, just go on and tell her things got switched around. Tonight I'm dealin' with somethin' else, right at the last minute. Make sure she knows I'll ring her later to explain and I'm real sorry, ya hear?”

Joe nodded in agreement and began to head towards the door when Elvis interrupted him again.

“One last thing, tell Red to be gentle with her, will ya? At times, he's rougher 'n a bull in a china shop” Elvis sighed and ran his hands through his hair.

“Priscilla is getting on your nerves. Am I right?” Joe playfully teased Elvis to lighten the mood.

Joe's voice caught Elvis' attention as he looked up from his thoughts "Ya got no idea how much... I just want this night to be over, damn it" he said.

…“5 minutes, Mr. Presley”…

Elvis's demeanour changed, and he became laser-focused on giving his fans the performance of a lifetime. It was clear that nothing could stop him from delivering his best.

—————————————————————

“Seat 5, row B, on the right – get ready for a night to remember!” I exclaimed with contagious enthusiasm, guiding the last fan to their seat.

The night was so busy that every employee helped with the crowds coming to see Elvis. Time passed quickly, and the more time went by, the more nervous I became. "Only a few more hours until midnight" I whispered while hugging myself inside the furry coat that Elvis had given me.

As I began a daydream, my mind filled with fantasies and exciting scenarios. I wondered if Elvis would want to grab drinks with me, or maybe he would suggest we go to a secret spot. My mind ran wild with imaginations of all sorts.

My hands began to shake, but not from the cold. They were reacting to the sound of the applause and music coming from inside the showroom, a clear sign that Elvis was on stage. I couldn't help but smile to myself, feeling incredibly lucky at the thought of seeing him later. My body was responding to the nervous excitement, and my

smile seemed to light up the whole lobby.

My thoughts completely caught me off guard when I looked towards the front of the lobby and, to my utter surprise, there stood a stunning woman. Her graceful movements, almost like a model, along with the security team that accompanied her, were walking directly towards the entrance of the showroom.

It was Priscilla Presley.

I was so shocked that I couldn't find the right words to respond. I even missed the chance to welcome her myself. Thankfully an employee intervened, and she entered the showroom.

She made me question how on earth I thought I could ever stand a chance with Elvis. At that moment, I felt so small… and I was still wearing the coat that Elvis had given me, probably as a way to compensate me for the inconvenience rather than anything more significant.

As I was still trying to process the situation, a loud voice suddenly drew my attention. I turned to see a tall and red-haired man standing next to me, who I could only assume was Red West.

“Y/n? I have a message from Elvis” He asked. I could sense the weight of his words, especially given that he spoke on behalf of Elvis.

“Yes, it's me. How may I assist you?” I replied professionally. I waited nervously, unsure of what he would say next.

"He can't make it tonight, he is busy dealing with something more important, Have a good night, miss" Red said before rushing to the corridors leading backstage, without a chance for me to even reply.

The sudden change in my status from something special to something insignificant had sent my anxiety levels soaring, and I felt a hundred daggers piercing my stomach. The coat I was wearing began to feel heavier, as all the joy and excitement it was bringing me was suddenly drained away. I had been nothing more than entertainment for Elvis all this time. How stupid I was!

The sound of Elvis's voice filled the air. The lyrics were hitting me hard. The pain was too much to bear, and I knew I had to leave. As I walked away, the words of the song echoed in my mind, and I couldn't help but feel crushed and devastated.

“Do you gaze at your doorstep and picture me there?

Is your heart filled with pain, shall I come back again?

Tell me dear, are you lonesome tonight?”

At 4 pm, a new shift started and I found myself in front of the mirror once again. I applied concealer to hide my dark circles as I had barely slept the night before.

I stepped out of my office and walked over to do the daily check before attending to Elvis and his wife, a thought that made my heart ache.

"Oh la la! My dear friend!" Alex suddenly jumped out from the corner as if he were a tiger on the hunt. "Wow, what are those dark circles? Did your secret admirer make them for you?" he asked with a mischievous smirk as if he were fishing for information.

"I really don't want to get into it. He just cancelled everything, end of story" I said, my voice betrayed a hint of hurt.

I anticipated Alex would show some compassion towards me, but instead, he said:

"Look, I've never seen you like this before. First off, you're a top-notch pro. Let's not let the guard down now. Second..." Alex began sprucing up my hair and tweaking my jacket. "Dress to impress, so he kicks himself for what he's missing. And third... guess who left the hotel this morning?" Alex revealed with a sly grin as if he had the inside scoop on last night's drama.

Without even having a say in the matter, I was instantly swept up in a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. My expression became a mix of confusion and curiosity. Before I had a chance to voice my thoughts, Alex broke in.

"No time to waste!" he declared firmly, noticing that I was puzzled. "Elvis is up and asking for you. Please go! I will take care of the daily check" he assured me with a determined tone, urging me to focus on the immediate priority rather than being distracted by other matters.

"Oh, you really know how to keep the gossip alive, don't you?" I mumbled under my breath, a smile played on my lips as I headed towards the elevator.

Alex just shot me a friendly smile and gave me a wink to cheer me up. I nodded my appreciation and walked into the elevator, heading towards Elvis's penthouse.

“So I got up and walked out in that… hallway

Had my flashlight and my gun in one hand

I looked at that big chandelier hangin’ over the dining room table…

That son-of-a-bitch was shakin’ man, back and forth”

As I opened the door to the penthouse, I could already hear the sound of Elvis's voice coming from within.

When I stepped inside, I found Elvis sitting in an armchair with his back turned, dressed in black. The jumpsuit he had worn for the concert the previous night was on the floor, and the room was a little messy with some beer cans in the living room area.

Elvis continued talking on the phone until he finally noticed my presence. He said a quick goodbye to the person on the other end of the call and turned his focus to me.

He appeared to be quite pleased with the sight of me, though I could see a small glimpse of guilt on his face for having cancelled our plans the previous night. He didn't speak right away, probably awaiting my response.

“Good afternoon” I said smiling. I knew my role. The last thing I wanted to do was make this scenario personal. So, I maintained my professional demeanour, waiting for Elvis to speak first.

“Darlin’. M’sorry for cancelling our plans, last night was not easy, trust me.” Elvis said, regretful.

“It’s fine, Mr. Presley, I understand. I hope you had a nice time during the show with your wife.”

In return, I remained cold, maintaining my distance. It seemed that Elvis was getting anxious as he realized that I had no intention of engaging in any emotional connections with him.

Elvis seemed quite surprised by me calling him by his last name. "Darlin’, call me Elvis." He insisted.

I remained stoic, calmly replying "Fine, Elvis."

Elvis, worried about my answer, stared at the floor and then continued “Listen, Cilla ain't supposed to be showin' up here. Our marriage ain't going well, believe me. We ain't even sharin' the same bed”

I couldn't help but wonder whether what he said was true or just a lie. Although I wished it to be true, it seemed too good to be true. When faced with a challenge, I chose to respond boldly.

"If your marriage isn't going well, why are you still with her? " I asked. "I knew from the very beginning that you considered me as just an entertainment" I continued, letting my bitterness and frustration show.

Elvis got the point straightaway. “The main reason I'm still with her is all 'cause of my little girl, Lisa. She’s everythin’ to me. I… I love comin’ home and seein’ her pretty little face waitin’ for his daddy." Elvis explained while he walked towards me.

He held my chin gently in his hand, and his piercing gaze locked into mine. He stood so close that his towering height made it hard for me to even see the window behind him, casting a shadow with his broad shoulders.

“And…from the moment I saw ya...” he said, his voice low and steady. My heart raced as he continued, “…I felt somethin' special. That's why I argued with your boss to keep ya. Y/n, ya are very special to me, I can't deny it.” He said. My breath caught in my throat as I realized that the feeling was mutual.

"Is that true?" I asked with disbelief. I couldn't believe the words coming from his mouth. As he drew closer, my heart started pumping even harder. His presence made me weak. I was hopelessly drawn to him.

“I’ve never been so honest in my life, darlin’”

As I was still processing the weight of his words, Elvis swiftly reached out and held my face with both hands, bringing me into a deep kiss before I could react.

The kiss was filled with passion and hunger, almost as if we were both finally giving in to what we truly desired. I felt overwhelmed by the suddenness of his action, but I couldn't resist the feeling of attraction and passion I felt for him.

In the closeness we shared, my senses started to heighten. I could feel the warmth of his breath on my cheek and the firm grasp of his large, soft hands on my jaw. The familiar, sweet and musky scent of his fragrance, evoking memories of our first meeting, caused a tremble throughout my body.

One of his hands slowly slid down my back, as if a hissing snake was running over it. His hand stopped at my butt, grabbing it with desire. His movement was so powerful that he almost lifted me off the ground, slamming me against him.

I moaned into his mouth.

Elvis paused and looked me straight in the eye, making me skip a heartbeat. His blue eyes were filled with a mix of desire and affection.

"Goddamit, baby, do that again," he requested, his voice almost breathless with excitement. He looked down and noticed that he was hugging me so tightly that my breasts were pressed against his chest, and he let out a subtle groan of pleasure.

"I think somethin’ is in the way," Elvis said with a sly grin, now looking at my jacket. My face couldn't help but turn red, the blush of shyness and heat filling my body. His looks and his gestures were becoming more and more sensual and teasing.

Elvis gently removed my jacket, letting it fall directly to the floor. Meanwhile, his lips were close to mine and attempting to bite me. I couldn't help but moan softly, as he requested previously, when he grabbed my breasts by surprise before he finally managed to achieve his aim of biting my lip.

“Oh my… “ I added. I was starting to feel a tingling in my core. His warm and big hands grabbing my breasts with a possesive grip made me feel like in heaven.

"Baby, I can stop if ya want me to" He suggested with a cheeky smirk, while his hands moved down to my shirt and slowly unbuttoned it, his focus shifted to my black bra and looked at it with parting lips.

"No, please... keep going" I replied, my voice became more urgent and needy. I needed his touch, his caresses were like a drug to me and I couldn't get enough.

The manly smell and the roughness of his skin after having shaved yesterday were enough for me to notice the wetness of my panties.

I started kissing and licking his neck vigorously as if begging him for more.

"Oh fuck" he moaned under his breath. We both knew what was coming next, as his bulge hardened against my stomach and Elvis' eyes, gleaming with a hunter’s glint, turned hungry as they fixated on my bra. His hands moved swiftly and decisively, grabbing my breasts with urge and pulling my bra down. His gaze was fixed on my breasts and he was making no intention of stopping any time soon.

My breasts were still bouncing from the sudden movement Elvis made when I felt his warm breath and soft lips on one of my nipples, and my whole body began to tremble.

He kissed them softly at first, passing his tongue around, making me grab his black hair, and whine softly. That reaction convinced him to take it to the next level, and he started nibbling, getting them hard and giving me an even more intense pleasure. Right after, he pinched them and rolled between his fingers, making my breathing become heavier.

I started feeling my clit growing slowly and throbbing. I couldn’t help but rub my thighs together. Elvis watched how I was doing it with a naughty and amusing smile that slightly curled his lip “Hhm, There ya go.” He added.

He started playing harder with my nipples, turning them red. I was about to gasp when he grabbed my neck, taking control of my breathing.

I could feel Elvis’ pants tightening around his crotch area, and he started to buck his hips against me in a slow and sensual dry-humped motion. His breathing was heavy, as he was focused entirely on the sensation of my body and the friction he was making.

The mix of Elvis’ lips just inches apart from mine, mixed with the sound of his growls and his breath hitting my face, was overwhelming. The warmth of his hand on my neck, reddened nipples, and the heat caused from his bulge were driving me wild, the pleasure was too intense to handle at once, all while Elvis was enjoying my gestures and keeping his eyes piercing into mine.

I began to caress his bulge, and my eyes widened in surprise when I realized his length and how hard it was. Immediately I pulled his shirt towards me, eager to kiss him. He leaned back and avoided the kiss, laughing softly and teasingly.

“Well, well…look at ya. Miss Prim and Proper’s gone and turned into a little ol’ thing yearnin’ for me. So am I forgiven?" he said, his smile revealed that he was enjoying my attempts to get closer to him, and I couldn't help but feel desperate for more.

"Oh, Elvis...You're so..." I sighed, blushing but at the same time hungry for more.

Elvis removed his hand from my neck, and grabbed my butt once more. “So… what, darlin’?”He asked with husky and teasing voice while his hands started moving down to the edge of my skirt, slowly lifting it up and showing a glimpse of my panties.

Right before I could reply or he had the chance to peek beneath my skirt, a sudden knock at the door halted everything.

“Housekeeping, may I come in, please?” The voice from outside asked.

It seemed someone had noticed Elvis was awake, and sent them in to clean.

As soon as we started hearing the knocking on the door again, Elvis turned his head to look at the door, then at me. And I just froze. "Oh god, no. No, no, no!" I exclaimed in panic, my face turned pale. "They're going to come in anyway, and they'll see me like this"

Elvis laughed softly, leading me to the wardrobe. He said "Don't ya worry, we'll be hidden in here for a while. Come on, let's hide!" He took my wrist and helped me step into the wardrobe. When we were inside, Elvis kept laughing softly as he shut the door. “Well, ain’t this a pattern? We’re always endin’ up in these tight, shadowed spots.” He said.

He positioned himself behind me, my heart was racing. “This is not funny, Elvis,” I whispered while hiding in the wardrobe. I was terrified of being caught and fired.

As the housekeepers opened the door, I peeked out through the gap between the wardrobe doors and saw my jacket on the floor, with my name tag on it.

“Right, Mr. Presley is not here; I want the room impeccable,” a lady in a suit said before leaving the room.

Oh Lord, that was Angelica, Doris’ boss. That housekeeping manager hated me for no apparent reason, and if she catches wind of this, my career will be over.

The employees began cleaning the room, and my heart pumped with fear. “They’re going to see my jacket” I said, worried.

Elvis, standing behind me, grabbed my waist and pulled me closer, covering my mouth with his hand. “Shh…It’s okay, darlin’, ya work for me now. We’ll figure somethin’ out,” he whispered. “By the way… this ain’t over,” he added softly, his voice filled with desire as he finally brought his free hand to the front part of my panties.

The rush of thinking we might get caught, mixed with Elvis's touch, sparked a whole new excitement in me.

Today's shift was shaping up to be a real rollercoaster.

Need to recap? Part 2 here

Part 4

[azdoine]

Who Cares If It's Worth The Candle?

Three days ago I wrote an article on some recent rational stories. I had not read any fiction of this kind since the days of Harry James Potter-Evans-Verres, and, since I con­stantly heard animated discussions of the merits of the rational writers, I was curious to see what they were like today. The specimens I tried I found disappointing, and I made some rather derogatory remarks in connec­tion with my impressions of the genre in general. To my surprise, this brought me letters of protest in a volume and of a passionate earnestness which had hardly been elicited even by my occasional criticisms of Dath Ilan. Of the thirty-nine letters that have reached me, only seven approve my strictures. The writers of almost all the others seem deeply offended and shocked, and they all say almost exactly the same thing: that I had simply not read the right novels and that I would surely have a different opinion if I would only try this or that author recommended by the correspondent. In many of these letters there was a note of asperity, and one lady went so far as to declare that she would never read my articles again unless I were prepared to reconsider my position. In the meantime, furthermore, a number of other writers have published articles defending the rational story: Alexander Wales, Scott Alexander, Eneasz Brodski and Daystar Eld have all had something to say on the subject—nor has the um­brageous Eliezer Yudkowsky failed to raise his voice.

Overwhelmed by so much insistence, I at last wrote my correspondents that I would try to correct any in­justice by undertaking to read some of the authors that had received the most recommendations and taking the whole matter up again. The writer that my correspondents were most nearly unanimous in putting at the top was Mister Domagoj Kurmaić, who was pressed upon me by eighteen people, and the book of his that eight of them were sure I could not fail to enjoy was a time loop caper called Mother of Learning. Well, I set out to read Mother of Learning in the hope of tasting some novel excitement, and I declare that it seems to me one of the dullest books I have ever en­countered in any field. The first part of it is all about magic as it is practiced in university and contains a lot of information of the kind that you might expect to find in an encyclopedia article on tabletop role-playing-games. I skipped a good deal of this, and found myself skipping, also, a large section of the conversations between conventional scholastic characters: “Oh, here’s Xvim with the coursework. People may say what they like about coursework, but it does go on all through the quarter and make a backdrop,” etc. There was also a dreadful stock student of the undiagnosed autistic kind, with the embarrassing name of Zorian Kazinski, and, although he was the focal character of the novel, being Mister Domagoj Kurmaić’s version of the necessary Phil Connors prisoner, I had to skip a good deal of him too. In the meantime, I was losing the story, which had not got a firm grip on my attention, but I went back and picked it up and steadfastly pushed through to the end, and there I discovered that the whole point was that phenomenal arcane power can’t fix a broken family or mend estranged relationships. Not a bad idea for a character piece, and O. Henry would have known how to dramatize it in an entertaining tale of five thousand words, but Mister Kurmaić had not hesitated to pad it out to a book of seven hundred thousand, contriving one of those hackneyed cock-and-bull stories where the protagonist’s disability is a secret power, and larding the whole thing with details of training arcs, bits of quaint lore from OSR monster manuals, and the awful whimsical patter of worldbuilding.

I had often heard people say that Domagoj Kurmaić wrote well, and I felt that my correspondents had been playing him as their literary ace. But, really, he does not write very well: it is simply that he is more con­sciously literary than most of the other rational-story writers and that he thus attracts attention in a field which is mostly on a sub-literary level. In any serious department of fiction, his writing would not appear to have any distinction at all. Yet, commonplace in this re­spect though he is, he gives an impression of brilliant talent if we put him beside Mister Wertifloke, whose The Waves Arisen was also suggested by several corre­spondents. Mister Yudkowsky has put himself on record as be­lieving that Mister Wertifloke, as well as Mister Walker and Mister Solguard, writes his novels in "excellent prose," and this throws for me a good deal of light on Mr. Yudkowsky’s opinions as a critic. I hadn't quite realized before, though I had noted his own rather messy style, to what degree he was insensitive to writing. I do not see how it is possible for anyone with a feeling for words to describe the unap­petizing sawdust which Mister Wertifloke has poured into his pages as "excellent prose" or as prose at all except in the sense that distinguishes prose from verse. And here again the book is mostly padding. There is the notion that unregulated use of power would lead to climate disaster and the collapse of modern civilization, but this is embedded in the dialogue and doings of a lot of self-replicating warrior-magicians who are even more tedious than those of Mother of Learning.

The enthusiastic reader of rational stories will indig­nantly object at this point that I am reading for the wrong things: that I ought not to be expecting good writing, characterization, human interest or even atmos­phere. He is right, of course, though I was not fully aware of it till I attempted Project Lawful, con­sidered by connoisseurs one of the best books of two of the masters of this school. This tale I found completely unreadable. The story and the writing both showed a surface so wooden and dead that I could not keep my mind on the page. How can you care about liberating those damned who have never really been put in torment, because the writer hasn't any ability of even the most ordinary kind to persuade you to see them or feel them? How can you probe the the depths of the characters who surround the protagonist, because they are all simply fodder for dramatic irony? It was then that I understood that a true connoisseur of this fiction must be able to suspend the demands of his imagination and literary taste and take the thing as an intellectual widget. But how you arrive at that state of mind is what I do not understand.

In the light of this revelation, I feel that it is probably irrelevant to mention that I enjoyed The Flower That Bloomed Nowhere, by Lurina, more than the novels of any of these luminaries. There is a tinge of black magic that gives it a little of the interest of a horror story, and the author has a virtuosity at playing with alternative hypotheses that makes this trick of rational fiction more amusing than it usually is. I want, however, to take up certain points made by some of the above-mentioned articles. Mr. Munchkin informs the non-expert that the rational novel is a kind of game in which the reader of a given story, in order to play properly his hand, should bring his full attention to the stage. Common sense, it seems, is insufficient: the reader must be versed with Bayesian statistics, game theory, artificial intelligence, theory of mind, and modal realism. This may be true, but I shall never qualify. I would rather read golden age detective fiction, which at least does not involve the consumption of hundreds of ill-written blog posts.

An argument leveled by my interlocutors is that contemporary genre fiction has become so vapid, so abstracted or mass-market, that the public have had to take to the rational story as the only department of fiction where verisimilitude survives. This seems to me to involve two fallacies. On the one hand, it is surely not true that “the common authors of today” - to quote Ms. Neocalico - “have often,” in contrast to the authors of the past, “little or no story to tell,” that “they have allowed themselves to be persuaded that continuity is no consideration.” It is true, of course, that urban fantasy and comics - which, I suppose, must be accounted the emptiest going - have their various modern ways of boring and playing tricks on the reader. But how about the dreadful fanon and reinterpretations that one has to get over in HPMOR? The soft-serve science in Worm? The Deus Ex Machina of Unsong, in which the villain surrenders his cause? Is there anything in first-rate popular fiction quite so gratuitous as these longueurs? Even Rowling and Gaiman do certainly have stories to tell, and they have organized their works with an intensity which has been relatively rare in genre fiction and which, to my mind, more than makes up for the occasional arbitrariness of their narratives.

On the other hand, it seems to me—for reasons sug­gested above—a fantastic misrepresentation to say that the average rational story is an example of good story-telling. The gift for telling stories is uncommon, like other artistic gifts, and the only one of this group of writers—the writers my correspondents have praised—who seems to me to possess it to any degree is Mr. Alexander Wales. Worth the Candle is the only one of these books that I have read all of and read with enjoyment. But Wales, though in the community he’s lauded as a master, does not really belong to this school of rationalist fiction. What he writes is a work of portal fantasy which has less in common with Yudkowsky than with Stephen Donaldson and Michael Ende - the highbrow isekai which has substituted the blue text of numbers going up for the invisible backdrop of psychodrama. It is not simply a question here of a puzzle which has been put together but of an experience conveyed to the reader, the wonder and terror of an otherworld that is continually revealed in all its varied and unlikely forms. To write such a novel successfully you must be able to invent character and incident and to generate atmosphere, and all this Mr. Wales can do. It was only when I got to the end that I felt my old rational-story depression descending upon me again - because here again, as is so often the case, the explanation of the ontological mystery, when it comes, isn’t interesting enough. It fails to justify the excitement produced by the elaborate buildup of picturesque and sinister happenings, and one cannot help feeling cheated.

My experience with this second batch of novels has, therefore, been even more disillusioning than my expe­rience with the first, and my final conclusion is that the reading of rational stories is simply a kind of vice that, for silliness and minor harmfulness, ranks somewhere be­tween LitRPG and xianxia. This conclusion seems borne out by the violence of the letters I have been receiving. Rational-story readers feel guilty, they are habitually on the defensive, and all their talk about "well-written" fanfics is simply an excuse for their vice, like the reasons that the alcoholic can always pro­duce for a drink. One of the letters I have had shows the addict in his frankest and most shameless phase. This lady begins by pretending, like the others, to guide me in my choice, but she breaks down and tells the whole dreadful truth. Though she has read, she says, hundreds of rational stories, "it is surprising," she finally con­fesses, "how few I would recommend to another. However, a poor rational story is better than none at all. Try again. With a little better luck, you'll find one you admire and enjoy. Then you, too, may be a rationalist."

This letter has made my blood run cold: so the opium smoker tells the novice not to mind if the first pipe makes him sick; and I fall back for reassurance on the valiant little band of my readers who sympathize with my views on the subject. One of these tells me that I have underestimated both the badness of rational stories themselves and the lax mental habits of those who en­joy them. The worst of it is, he says, that the true addict, half the time, never even learns how to be less wrong. The addict reads not to find anything out but merely to get the mild stimulation of a few shows of wits and of the suspense itself of waiting until the protagonist takes over the world. That this strategy of conquest is nothing at all and does not really explain how to systematically win does not matter to such a reader. He has learned from his long indulgence how to connive with the author in the swindle: he does not pay any real attention when the disappointment occurs, he does not think back and check the chain of reasoning, he simply closes the tab and starts another.

To rational-story addicts, then, I say: Please do not write me any more letters telling me that I have not read the right books. And to the seven correspondents who are with me and who in some cases have thanked me for helping them to liberate themselves from a habit which they recognized as wasteful of time and degrading to the intellect but into which they had been bullied by convention and the portentously performed hijacking of Greg Egan and Charles Stross—to these staunch and pure spirits I say: Friends, we represent a minority, but Literature is on our side. With so many fine web novels to be read, so much to be studied and known, there is no need to bore ourselves with this rubbish. And with the URL shortage pressing on all publication and many first-rate writers forced out of the top 100 on Royal Road, we shall do well to discourage the squandering of this wordcount that might be put to better use.

[daryltwdixon]

Part IX

word count: 3k

no warnings apply

The past few days have been nothing but a blur of monotony and mounting dread. You’ve lost track of time in the windowless room, with only the faint creaks of the Sanctuary’s walls and the occasional hum of distant machinery to keep you tethered to reality. The handcuff around your wrist digs into your skin, the cold metal a constant reminder of your captivity, its weight as suffocating as the silence.

They haven’t left you to starve, but bread and water hardly count as sustenance. One of the wives comes in every so often, usually Amber or Frankie, their gazes darting anywhere but at you as they place the tray on the nightstand and quickly leaves. None of them speak, their steps hurried as if staying too long in the room might drag them into your punishment.

You’ve had nothing but your own thoughts for company. At first, you tried to keep your mind busy, focusing on small things—the flicker of light on the walls, the pattern of footsteps echoing outside. But soon enough, the reality of your situation seeped in, dragging you into an endless loop of replaying every choice, every mistake, every moment that brought you here.

You wonder about Daryl. Did he get away safely? Or did Negan’s men find him after all? The thought gnaws at you, twisting your stomach into knots. You’ve risked everything for him, but now you’re left with nothing—except the faint hope that he’s far from here, far from Negan’s grasp.

The door swings open, and you jolt, instinctively pulling at the cuff on your wrist. Negan strides in, Lucille slung casually over his shoulder. His grin is sharp, his eyes glinting with something dark and unrelenting.

“Well, look at you,” he drawls, his voice low and taunting. “Still sittin’ pretty. Enjoyin’ the hospitality?”

You glare at him but say nothing, your throat dry and tight.

Negan’s grin widens as he takes a few steps closer, his boots echoing against the floor. “You know, darlin’, I’ve been doin’ a lot of thinkin’ these past few days. Piecin’ things together. And wouldn’t ya know it—some things just don’t add up.”

He sets Lucille down, holding the base of her like a cane and leaning on her slightly as he tilts his head, studying you like you’re some fascinating puzzle.

“Dwight told me somethin’ real interestin’,” he continues, his tone almost conversational. “Said it was Carson—our dearly departed doc—who helped Sherry run off. But now I’m thinkin’... maybe she didn’t just up and disappear on her own. Maybe someone gave her a little nudge. What do you think, sweetheart?”

You swallow hard, your voice hoarse when you finally speak. “I didn’t help her,” you say firmly. “I had nothing to do with that.”

Negan leans in slightly, his grin fading as his eyes narrow. “You expect me to believe that?”

“It’s the truth,” you insist, meeting his gaze with as much strength as you can muster. “I didn’t help her.”

His eyes bore into yours, searching for any hint of a lie. Finally, he lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head, sitting on the side of the bed, “Maybe you didn’t. But you sure as hell had her help you, didn’t you? With Daryl.”

Your breath seizes, and you hesitate for just a fraction of a second—long enough for his grin to return, sharp and triumphant.

“See?” he says, his voice dropping into something quieter, more dangerous. “That’s what I thought.”

You sigh, your shoulders sagging slightly. “Negan, I barely knew her.” you admit, your voice soft but steady. “But she had met Daryl before. She told me that when they had escaped–her and Dwight ran into him, he had helped them and then they turned their backs on him when they decided to return. She felt like she owed him something. So when I--” you cut off, not wanting to get yourself in deeper trouble, but only telling the truth he needed to know, “She wanted to get him out of here.”

Negan’s eyes narrow, his grip on Lucille tightening, as if leaning on her in support as he processes your words. For a moment, there’s nothing but the faint hum of the room and the distant creaks of the Sanctuary. His grin fades, replaced by a cold, calculating stare.

“Well, ain’t that a fun little coincidence,” he says, his tone icy. “Daryl, Dwight, Sherry… all of it intertwined with you. And now here you are, tellin’ me you just happened to help my prisoner escape without knowin’ much about anything else?”

“I’m not lying,” you reply firmly, holding his gaze. “I didn’t know her well, but I knew enough to ask for her help. That’s all.”

Negan's movements are slow as he moves closer, “See, sweetheart, the thing about lies,” he says, his voice low and razor-sharp, “is that they’re kinda like splinters. Leave ‘em sittin’ too long, and they fester. So let me ask you again: how deep does this run? How long have you been plannin’ this little act of treachery?”

Your pulse quickens, but you refuse to flinch under his glare. “There wasn’t a plan,” you insist. “Not until I saw him here, being worked to the bone. Being tortured in the cell. I couldn’t just sit by and watch.”

His eyes darken, his jaw tightening as he leans in closer. “You couldn’t 'sit by and watch'?” he repeats, his voice rising slightly, the anger bubbling just beneath the surface. “You mean to tell me that after everything I’ve done for you—everything I’ve given you—you threw it all away for him?”

Your throat tightens, but you don’t look away. “I’m sorry, Negan.” you say quietly, your voice trembling but steady. “I had to do what was right.”

Negan lets out a sharp, humorless laugh, leaning back and running a hand through his hair. His movements are quick, almost frantic, like he’s trying to work through a puzzle he can’t quite solve. He finally sets Lucile down entirely, then turns back to you, his eyes blazing.

“And Sherry?” he demands. “Did you help her too? Did you send her off with a nice little map and a fuckin’ farewell letter while you were at it?”

“No,” you snap, the frustration bubbling over. “How many times do I have to say it? I didn’t help her. I didn’t even know she was planning to leave until you told all of us.”

Negan stares at you, his chest rising and falling with slow, measured breaths. The weight of his gaze pins you in place, but for the first time, you see something flicker behind his eyes. It isn’t just anger—it’s hurt. Deep, cutting hurt.

“You lied.” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “You knew Daryl, you used Sherry. You lied to me, over and over–risked everything for him... and you didn’t think to tell me a damn thing.”

You open your mouth to respond, but the words catch in your throat as his hand closest to you lifts, and for a moment, you brace yourself for the worst. But instead, he cups your face gently, his palm warm against your skin.

The shift is so sudden, so jarring, that it steals the air from your lungs. His thumbs brush over your cheekbones, his touch startlingly tender compared to the anger that’s been radiating off him moments ago.

“You know what kills me, darlin’?” he says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “It ain’t the lies. It ain’t even the betrayal.” He leans in closer, his forehead almost touching yours, and for the first time, you see the raw pain in his eyes. “It’s that I trusted you. More than anyone. And you still chose him.”

Your chest tightens painfully, your breath hitching as the weight of his words settles over you. You want to argue, to tell him it isn’t true, but the words won’t come.

And in that moment, you realize the truth: you do love him. Still, after all of this. 

It’s a twisted, complicated love—born of survival, necessity, and something deeper you can’t name. But it’s there, aching and undeniable.

Your heart shatters as his hand lingers for just a moment longer before he pulls away, his expression hardening again. The softness is gone, replaced by the cold steel of the man you know all too well.

He straightens, picking Lucille back up and slinging her over his shoulder. “Dr. Carson’ll be in soon,” he says, his voice flat. “You better hope he’s got good news.”

With that, he turns and strides toward the door, leaving you alone with the weight of his words and the unbearable ache in your chest.

The door creaks open, and the sight of Dwight stepping inside makes your stomach drop. He’s flanked by a man you don’t recognize, someone younger, with a professional air about him and a medical bag in hand.

You sit up straighter on the bed, your wrists raw and aching from the days of confinement. Dwight comes over to remove the handcuffs, and even with the relief of them gone and your free will somewhat recovered, the ghost of their weight still lingers. You glance between the two men, your voice dry and clipped. “I thought Doctor Carson was coming.”

The younger man adjusts his bag, offering a tight smile. “I am Doctor Carson.”

Your brow furrows, confusion flashing across your face. “Oh?”

Dwight steps forward, leaning casually against the wall, his expression unreadable. “The other Carson’s been taken care of,” he says flatly, his tone devoid of sympathy. “Negan found out he helped Sherry escape.”

The words hit you like a blow, and for a moment, you can’t breathe. You can't hardly believe the doctor of all people would help her, no matter if he liked Sherry. He wasn't the type of man to get involved in any of this. He was always a loyal part of the crew here. You wonder if he had been set up as a diversion in all this, if someone pointed a finger at him only because of his kindness towards her.

Doctor Carson—this new one—clears his throat, pulling your attention back to the present. “We should get started,” he says briskly, gesturing toward the small adjoining bathroom.

“So you’re…Doctor Carson from Hilltop. His brother,” you say, less of a question and more of a statement, the cogs in your brain finally putting it together. And when the younger Carson looks at you, his eyes void of any reaction, you nod, simply saying, “I’m sorry,”

As you rise to your feet, Dwight doesn’t move, his gaze sharp as it follows you across the room.

As you step into the bathroom, the fluorescent light flickers faintly, casting an eerie glow over the small space. The test sits on the edge of the sink, an innocuous little stick that feels far too significant for its size. You close the door behind you, the latch clicking into place, and exhale shakily.

Your hands tremble as you unwrap the test, the instructions blurring in your vision despite how simple they are. You do what you need to do, your movements automatic, and set the stick down on the counter.

For a moment, you just stare at it, the small digital screen blank, taunting you with its silence. “Please,” you whisper, your voice barely audible over the rush of your heartbeat. “Please, don’t let this happen.”

Once you’ve finished your task, you press your palms flat against the sink, steadying yourself and not bothering to glance at yourself in the mirror before stepping back into the room. The tension in the air is palpable, the weight of Dwight’s stare suffocating.

“So,” you say dryly, eyeing him as you lean against the doorframe. “He let you out, huh?”

Dwight shrugs, his lip curling faintly. “I’m a man of my word.”

You snort softly, the sound more bitter than amused. “Good to know.”

Doctor Carson gestures toward the bed, and you reluctantly sit, folding your arms tightly across your chest. He takes the test from you, setting it on the small table beside him as he waits for the results.

The minutes stretch unbearably, each second dragging on like an eternity. The room is suffocatingly quiet, save for the faint hum of the fluorescent light. Dwight stands like a statue near the wall, his expression impossible to read.

Your eyes flick to the test, the little screen still blank. Every prayer you’ve ever whispered—every desperate plea you’ve made to the universe—feels like it’s been funneled into this moment.

The minutes bore on for what feels like an eternity of silence until finally the screen changes, the faintest flicker of text appearing. Doctor Carson’s gaze shifts, and he leans forward slightly, reading the result.

His face betrays nothing as he turns back to you, his voice calm and steady.

“Well, congratulations are in order, Mrs. Smith. You’re pregnant.”

The words hit you like a freight train, the weight of them crushing the breath from your lungs. The room tilts, and for a moment, all you can hear is the rushing of blood in your ears.

Dwight’s gaze snaps to you, his expression still cold, but there’s a flicker of something—pity? Curiosity? You can’t tell, and it doesn’t matter.

The world feels like it’s crumbling around you, but you keep your face blank, refusing to let the crack show. “Of course I am,” you murmur bitterly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Doctor Carson rises, placing the test back in his bag without another word. The silence that follows is deafening, but the stifling thickness in the room is clear: everything has changed.

The door closes behind Doctor Carson with a heavy finality, leaving you alone with Dwight. He lingers near the wall, his arms crossed and his expression unreadable, but his presence feels suffocating.

You stay seated on the edge of the bed, your thoughts spiraling as the weight of the news sinks in. Pregnant. The word claws at your mind, impossible to shake. You feel like the walls are closing in, the air in the room growing thinner by the second.

After a long, oppressive silence, Dwight finally speaks. “Negan’s orders,” he says flatly, his voice breaking through the haze. “I’m supposed to stay here. Make sure you don’t do anything stupid now that you’re outta the cuffs.”

You glance at him sharply, your jaw tightening. “Anything stupid?” you echo, your voice dripping with bitterness. “Like what, Dwight? Throw myself out the window? Put myself out of my misery?”

He shrugs one shoulder, his gaze cool. “You tell me. You’ve had that look in your eyes since I walked in here.”

You scoff, dragging your hands through your hair, gripping it tightly as if it’ll keep you grounded. “You’ve got a hell of a lot of nerve,” you mutter, your voice trembling with frustration. “Standing there like you don’t get it.”

Dwight shifts uncomfortably, but he doesn’t respond.

“You’re just gonna do what he says?” you press, your voice rising. “Keep me locked in this room like some kind of breeding stock? Pretend none of this is fucked up?”

His jaw tightens, and he finally looks at you directly. “You don’t get it,” he says quietly. “I don’t have a choice. Neither do you.”

“That’s bullshit,” you snap, standing abruptly. The room spins slightly, but you steady yourself, your hands clenched into fists at your sides. “You had a choice with Sherry. You let her go. You helped her escape because you knew it was the right thing to do. And now, what? You’re just gonna stand there and watch while I’m trapped in here? While I’m forced to—”

Your voice breaks, and you press your lips together, swallowing hard against the rising tide of emotion.

“I didn’t help–” he begins, but you cut him off.

“After everything,” you continue, your voice softer now, trembling. “After Sherry, after what Negan’s done to you, to me... you have to understand. I can’t have this baby. I can’t let this happen.”

Dwight’s expression flickers, something breaking through the stoic mask he’s been wearing. His mouth opens like he’s about to respond, but then he closes it again, his jaw working silently as he looks away.

“Please,” you whisper, stepping closer to him. “Dwight. You have to help me. You know what this means. You know what he’ll do if I try to leave on my own. I can’t do it alone.”

He doesn’t move, his gaze fixed on the floor, his shoulders hunched as if the weight of your words is pressing down on him.

“Sherry didn’t want this, not for Daryl or you. She saved you, she saved Daryl.” you plead, your voice breaking. “Don’t let it all be for nothing, Dwight. Help me.”

The silence stretches unbearably, the tension in the room thick enough to choke on. Finally, Dwight exhales sharply, his hands flexing at his sides.

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” he mutters, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I know exactly what I’m asking,” you reply firmly. “I’m asking you to get me the hell out of here. The way you couldn’t save her.”

The words hang heavy in the air, and for a moment, you think he might walk out, leave you to your fate. But then he looks up, his eyes meeting yours, and there’s something raw and broken in his expression.

“I’ll think about it,” he says finally, his voice low and strained.

It’s not a yes, but it’s not a no either. It’s a sliver of hope, thin and fragile, but enough to keep you breathing.

You nod slowly, your throat tight. “Thank you,” you whisper, even though you know the fight is far from over.

Dwight turns away, his posture rigid as he leans back against the wall, resuming his silent vigil. The room falls quiet again, but this time, the silence feels heavier, charged with everything that's to come.

[chloessapphicapothecary]

"15% Remaining"...

"Oh come on... i charged this stupid thing this morning...." Beca muttered under her breath as she sat in her seat, looking at the annoying, familiar sight of her phone saying it was near dying, and she was literally minutes after take off. Smacking the phone with her finger, she showed off her frustration as she tried to get what little she could out of the dying device. She had e-mails to read and reply to and social media to maintain as she flew from NYC to Seattle, where she stayed when she actually had time to not be her busy, popular Record Producer self (which luckily for her, no one really knew producers by name, so she could fly all over the world woithout even so much as a 'Hey, arent you...?' conversations on the plane. She could just settle into her seat, and spend a few airborne hours in blissful, working obscurity.....

... unless her phone was this dead. And of course, she, against her better judgment, checked her laptop... so it was sitting, fully charged, under the plane.

Though, as fate would have it.... a rather laid-back, precocious redhead looked over to see the rather demonstrative finger pecking of the woman across the seat from her. Popping out her earbuds, she casually asked the woman across the aisle, "Excuse me, miss.... what kind of phone do you have?"

Beca, jarred from her irritate fuming, looked up through her long brunette hair towards the voice that was aimed towards her.

"Pixel 3..... why?" she asked, a bit defensively as she looked at the gorgeous redhead that was looking at her with such a warm, soft tone.... enough to be amlost disarming, were she not so irritated by her phones relative deadness.

"Oh, me too!" the warm, fliry redhead smiled. "Need some charge? Im at like..... 87%" the redhead offered, extending her phone across the aisle towards her.

"Dude, seriously?" She asked, partially taken aback, but mostly dumbfounded that this ramdom, pretty girl was literally swooping in to save her flight, single-handedly.

"If by dude you mean Chloe... totes." the redhead smiled, her warmth and smile making Beca uneasy, but not necessarily in a bad way.

"... who's Chloe?" Beca asked, a bit flustered, and even more confused.

The redhead just smiled. "Me.... i’m Chloe..... Chloe Beale." She explained, her tone warm and inviting, even as she watched Beca blush and devolve to the feeling of absolute foolishness as she didnt realize the obvious.

"Oh..... hey Chloe.... im Beca..... Beca Mitchell.." she half smiled, just wanting to crawl into a hole and hide until the awkwardness of her flub disappeared.

Chloe's eyes went wide. "Wait..... Beca Mitchell.... the producer?" Chloe asked, as she played it cool, and didn't fangirl any more noticably than she could hide. "As in.... produced hits for the likes of Swift, Grande, Clarkson, and more?" she asked, trying her best to keep her cool.

Beca swallowed hard. "Yeah.... thats me." she admitted, immediately dreading it. "So, whose juicy secrets do you want to know about?" she deadpannedly asked, as usually most who discovered who she was wanted ALL the juicy secrets.

"No one’s.... you’re like.... a musical genius!" Chloe finally let slip, before blushing almost as deep as her crimson locks.

Beca was noticeably thrown for a loop as she sat there.... she was shocked that when names like Ariana Grande and Taylor Swift were dropped.... that this person cared more about her. Quiet, insignificant her. "I.... I'm not that good.... i just help them be as talented as they are..." Beca played it off.

"Bullshit. Ive heard Ari.... and i've heard Ari when you produce.... girl... she’s next level." Chloe gushed. "Sorry.... I'm really trying not to fangirl... but I’m a music nerd, and i mean like.... for the behind the scenes stuff..." Chloe admitted, opening herself up bare to the Record Producer sitting across from her.

Beca started to respond, then froze, tried to rethink her words, then finally stammered out, "It’s ok.... you'd be surprised how rare this is...."

"Really? You're like.... Da Vinci, or Picasso... just with music..." the redhead blushed, phone still extended between them.

"Oh, sorry...." Beca smirked, extending her phone towards Chloe, the pair touching, and the pairs hands dangerously close to doing likewise.

"It’s ok.... I always told myself I wouldn't fangirl like that..... I'm sure it’s hella-annoying..." Chloe tried to play it off, hoping she didn't manage to make the award-winning producer think she was some crazy-stalker-music-nerd.

"It’s fine, trust me.... you're the first to ever actually treat me like i was Ariana or Taylor..." Beca replied, blush spreading across her cheek. "I usually manage to live in relative obscurity.... until i met you, Miss Beale." she teased.

"Oh please, call me Chloe.... well, for the next few hours until you disappear into Seattle... or elsewhere." the redhead said warmly.

"Ok, Chloe... and please, call me Beca....." the short brunette replied.

"Ok, Beca..... so, can i ask why you're flying to Seattle?" the redhead asked, somewhat submissively, not wanting to make Beca uncomfortable.

"I.... actually live there..." Beca replied, feeling rather good to be so upfront and honest with another person.

"Oh.... that’s great!.... it’s a wonderful city." Chloe smiled. Beca caught just a flash of it, but that image would be stuck in her head for awhile.

"What about you? If i may ask..." Beca added, smiling back... slowly but surely being drawn in by the living ray of sunshine sitting across the aisle from her.

"Oh..... I.... it’s a long story..." Chloe replied, getting a bit choked up by the memory.

"Oh, no, thats fine, you don’t owe me any explanation....." Beca tried to console the emotional redhead.

"No, it’s ok.... i moved out to New York to chase a relationship.... it didn't work." Chloe admitted, shruggung semi-nonchalantly at it all, though it was much more painful, in retrospect.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry...." Beca's facial features softened, and she wanted to hug the hurting girl. "... i’m so sorry he did that to you."

"It’s ok..... SHE ended up being an anchor that tried to sink me.... and i couldn't live that lie.... or that life..." Chloe replied, opening herself bare.

"Her? Oh.... I'm sorry... i just assumed, beautiful woman like you.." Beca blushed even deeper, equal parts for assuming.... and for realizing such a pretty girl was at least Bi, so much so she didn’t even realize how she had semi-flirtatiously ended her sentence.

"Its ok, no offense taken... but yeah.... i haven't dated a guy in like..... 6 years." she admitted nonchalantly, though the fact that Beca Mitchell called her ‘beautiful’ would live rent-free in her mind for a LONG time.

"Girl, i feel you.... i can’t remember the last time i had time to date..." Beca smirked, her heart fluttering inside her chest. Here was this girl, beautiful, warm, and kind..... and she was starting to entertain thoughts of crushing on her like a silly, pathetic school-girl… which usually didn’t bode well for the quiet brunette.

"No guys in New York worth your time?" Chloe asked, intrigued. "I’d think you'd have your choice of any guy you wanted..." the warm, open redhead replied frankly.

Beca began to reply, then smiled playfully, and decided to try the odds. "... i never said i was looking for a guy..." Beca replied with all the bravado of her on the Late-Night talk-show couch, even as she was panicking and hyperventilating inside.

Chloe took in a deep breath, and their phones disconnected for a moment as Chloe processed what she just heard, but she reconnected them almost immediately. "So.... you couldn't find a girl worth your time then?" Chloe asked playfully. "So.... what kinda girl does Beca Mitchell look for?..."

-------

Kudos to anyone who got the hint yesterday! Yes, Bechloe was my first ship, and the Chloe in "Chloe Danvers" comes from her. And in my defense, Cat Grant and Beca Mitchell will ALWAYS have my heart. (They both remind me of you, Maalkhati. 💜☀️)

El Mayarah,

Chlo. 💜☀️

[thehomeofplatonicfics]

As It Used to Be

Bone-mender!Reader x Miss Peregrine (platonic!)

Everyone was sat around the dinner table, just as it used to be before. Everything was as it used to be, it was safe once more. Your fellow peculiars, your family, were laughing and joking… Jacob made a wonderful addition by bringing in some fresh conversation. And yet, you sat back in your chair staring at your plate, not engaging with anyone at all. You couldn’t stop the feeling of dread creeping over your bones.

A particularly loud laugh from Emma shook you from your daze, and you forced a smile on your face as you brought your focus back to your family. You thought no one had noticed your lapse in attention, but you had failed to notice the beady eyes of Miss Peregrine watching you curiously. She decided to keep a close eye on you until the reset.

After dinner, everyone watched Horace’s latest dream… everyone except you, that is. While everyone crowded around the sofa, you hovered behind your makeshift family like a guard dog, pacing the floor. Olive and Fiona noticed and frowned to each other, before returning their attention to Horace’s dream. Miss Peregrine, however, was growing increasingly concerned by your behaviour. She was about to pull you aside to find out what was wrong, when Horace’s dream ended and the children all began getting ready for the reset.

The headmistress was determined to get to the bottom of it after she maintained the loop. However, the younger children commanded her attention until they went to bed. She noticed your door was closed, suggesting you were in bed. So, she walked past your room with a small shake of her head, not satisfied that she’d have to wait until the morning to confront you.

You were still awake, however. Staring up at the ceiling, you tried to calm your racing mind down, to quieten all your thoughts. There was still that foreboding sense of fear, that something was going to happen again, you just couldn’t shake it.

It was not until the early hours of the morning that you managed to fall asleep, though you would not remain so for very long. You began to dream that the Wight and his hollowgast had come back. They grabbed Claire and Hugh and you heard a sickening crunch as the hollow broke their bones in an attempt to grab their eyes. You ran towards them, trying to touch them and use your peculiarity as a bone-mender to heal them both. But you were too late. You had failed to save them.

You woke up with a scream as your body involuntarily launched itself upright. Loud, shuddering breaths echoed in the room as you frantically searched your surroundings. Realising where you were, and knowing you’d had yet another nightmare, you slumped against the wall in defeat, allowing yourself to cry.

A few seconds later, you heard rushed footsteps heading towards you. In anticipation you turned your head towards the door, the relief of seeing Miss Peregrine rush in making you cry even more. “Oh, little one…” The headmistress muttered as she sat on the edge of your bed, reaching her hand out to rest on your shoulder. You launched yourself towards her, clinging onto your mentor in as a tight a hug as you could manage. After the initial shock Miss Peregrine returned the hug, smoothing down your hair as she gently shushed you.

“You had a nightmare, Y/N?” You nodded, sniffing as you tried to wipe your tears away. “I’m guessing this isn’t the first time, is it?” Miss Peregrine asked, though she already knew the answer. “No, it’s not.” You whispered, turning your gaze away from her.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” The headmistress asked, her hand softly clasping yours. “I didn’t think it was important.” You replied defensively, continuing to avoid eye contact. “Well, now that I’m here, would you like to tell me about these dreams?” Finally you raised your gaze to look at the Ymbryne, hesitating for a moment before deciding to give in.

“Its about the… the Wight. And the hollow.” You began, shuddering at the mere mention of them. “They keep hurting the others, my family. And I try to heal them, try to save them… but I’m always too late. I never make in time, I always fail to save them.” You struggled to maintain composure as you looked up into Miss Peregrine’s concerned gaze. “I have to protect them! I won’t let anything hurt them!” You felt yourself being pulled into another hug and you made no effort to resist, Miss Peregrine softly shushing you once again.

“I know you won’t, Y/N. You already do a wonderful job, and we are lucky to have a bone-mender with us.” Miss Peregrine pulled back, cupping your face gently, her thumb gently brushing your cheek. “But you don’t need to be on guard all the time. We are safe here, our adventure has passed. I hope to not need to return to battle for a long, long time.”

You nodded slowly, trying to take the words in, wanting to believe them to be true. “Why don’t we go downstairs and I’ll make you some nice soothing tea.” Miss Peregrine offered gently, standing up and offering her hand to you. “Thank you.” You whispered, pushing back the covers and climbing out of bed to join her. Her arm wrapped around you like a wing, and together the two of you spent a quiet early morning. You were safe, just like you used to be.

[imthejudge]

make sense of me

Warren Graham x Nathan Prescott

Chapter Seven Word Count: 8,257

Chapter Six

Tags: fluff, hurt/comfort

Read on Archive

https://archiveofourown.org/works/41111322/chapters/120710245

-

Chapter Seven: improve

The following morning comes all too soon, the night having gone by in a blur. Such as it goes. Warren wakes up feeling… strange. Knowing it’s his last day stuck in the 80s before attempting to travel back home. This uneasiness knotted in his stomach doesn’t come from the anticipation or worry over the feat. Not entirely. It comes from the fact that he can’t convince Nathan to come back with him. And having run out of time to do so.

If only he’d known earlier. Or if there was some way of discovering this before they’d travelled. Before the storm, before the fight in the parking lot, before everything. What he would give to go back, all the way back. Before Jefferson ever got anywhere close to Nathan and the others.

Warren certainly considered it. The temptation to turn the dial to a date before anything happened. But he knows it’s too big of a risk, not being able to voice the idea to Nathan, who he’s sure probably thought of it himself. Both refusing to bring it up, like an unspoken agreement that it wasn’t a possibility, as much as it hurt to admit.

Messing with time, well. It's dangerous. Warren doesn’t even want to dive too deeply into their current circumstance. His mind likely to explode from trying to wrap his head around what being in 1983 might’ve contributed to the future already. To try to ‘fix’ what transpired before the events of he and Nathan’s present in 2013? Warren doesn’t need to go through loop after loop trying to change the future. It’s chaos theory, you know, the butterfly effect and all. Living through the attempt would likely cause them more pain than actual help. And as selfish as it sounds, Warren doesn’t want to put him or Nathan through that. The choices they might have to make… the consequences with them.

So it’s with a dreadful acceptance that Warren starts his day, wanting to push it all far from his mind. But, despite it all, there’s that little, tiny, bit of hope that still lingers. That perhaps it’s not too late yet. That Nathan can be swayed, and that’s what keeps him going. It’s enough motivation to plaster a somewhat acceptable–and at the very least neutral–expression on his face when he and Nathan meet up with Lou at the Two Whales for an early start on their last day.

But even Joyce’s prized smile and his favourite order of Belgium waffles can’t raise his spirits, only managing a couple mouthfuls before he begins aimlessly poking at it with his fork, gaze downcast.

“Uhh, I don’t think so. Warren’ll be the deciding factor.” Warren drifts back to the conversation at the mention of his name, focusing on Lou and Nathan as they eye each other competitively. “You don’t think he’ll agree with me?” Lou feigns a look of despair, shaking her head solemnly. “Sweet, unaware Nathan.” She takes a long sip of the chocolate milkshake she has in front of her.

“What’re we talking about?” Warren looks between the two of them, completely lost.

“Your friend over here thinks strawberry is the superior milkshake flavour,” Lou throws a thumb Nathan’s way with an expression like he’d just tried to convince her that the sun revolves around the earth.

“Yeah, cause it is.” Nathan crosses his arms and narrows his eyes, the expression so strikingly reminiscent of the version of Nathan Warren recalls before everything that it sends a chill along his spine.

The feeling only deepens when he clues into the fact that he’s going to have to agree with Lou, and therefore disagree with Nathan. “Err, chocolate all the way, man… sorry.”

Nathan tears his eyes away from Lou to squint them further, disgust curling his lip. Arms still crossed, he gives Warren a quick once over. “This explains so much.”

Warren has to stop himself from bursting out laughing and he can see Nathan’s expression has lessened somewhat, too, allowing himself the slightest quirk of his lips. Lou looks between them, shaking her head disapprovingly before she turns away from them and absentmindedly stirs her shake with her straw, “I don’t know what you guys think is so funny, this is a serious matter.” But amusement flashes in her eyes when she flickers them back to the boys’ direction. “But onto actual serious matters, we’ve yet to figure out a way to divert the energy from the lightning strike to Warren’s car. Which, if we don’t do, then all our work will practically be for nothing.”

Warren considers this. He had the idea of potentially finding a metal wire that they could lead from the source of impact–right on the bald head from the statue centering main campus–to where they’d situate his car.

When he shares his idea, Lou nods thoughtfully. “It’s risky, but probably the best option we have as the point of impact is so awkward. We’re lucky it’ll be late in the day, but I’m afraid that as much as that means there won't be any students around to witness us doing this, there is going to be campus security lingering about. And I have a feeling that messing around with the statue of Jeremiah Blackwell in the very middle of campus is going to be like lighting a beacon for them.”

“We’ll just have to be extra careful, then.” Warren states, not wanting to dwell on all the things that could potentially go wrong with their plan.

“I agree,” Lou blinks, fixing her gaze somewhere past Warren, no doubt already going over details in her head. A silence grows, the two of them determinedly lost in thought.

“I need to piss.” Nathan announces spontaneously and tonelessly, straightening up from his seat so fast Warren almost jumps.

As he walks off to the direction of the bathroom Lou shakes her head, an air of amusement still about her. “He’s a strange one.”

“Yeah,” Warren agrees lowly, though not being able to help the little bit of endearment that seeps into the response.

“Are you excited to go back?”

Warren looks up at her from his slumped position, having held his head in both his hands as his elbows rested against the booth table. She’s gazing at him expectedly, her smile replaced by genuine inquiry and a hint of something that Warren can’t quite pin. Though, it reminds him of how his mom would sometimes prod him back home when she was worried over him.

To the future, she means. He hesitates. “Yeah.” No. The instant contradiction of the voice in his head comes as a surprise, almost like he’d been avoiding actually asking that question internally so he’d never fully admit it to himself.

She’s unconvinced, Warren can tell by the way her brows knit together. But she doesn’t say anything more since Nathan’s walking back towards their booth and throwing himself across from Warren once more. They get the bill, which Lou pays without discussion, then they’re leaving the comfortable coziness of the diner to brace for the contrast of the brisk fall air outside.

“Shotgun.” Nathan bumps Warren’s shoulder as they head back to Lou’s car. Warren rolls his eyes, letting Nathan beeline it to the passengers seat while he bends down to tie his shoelace that’s come undone. But instead of witnessing Nathan launching himself in the front seat like he expects once he’s finished, Nathan’s still waiting beside the car door. “Hey nerd, you good?” Nathan asks once Warren catches up.

“Huh? Oh. Yeah.” Warren drops his gaze, hand reaching out for the backseat door handle. Pausing, he lets go of it to set his gaze back on Nathan. “Actually, no. Not really. I can’t stand the idea of going back to the future without you.”

Shock registers on Nathan’s face momentarily as he stares back. A beat passes between them, where that shock morphs into something else, something Warren can’t decipher and just as Nathan opens his mouth to speak Lou pops her head out of the driver's side window to peer over at them inquisitively, “everything okay? You guys coming?”

They don’t say anything. Then Nathan drops his eyes as he turns away, opening the passenger side door to duck inside. “Yeah…” Warren eventually answers once he’s inside the car, too. “Let’s go.”

-

They end up splitting off from Nathan, who goes back to the dormitories to shower, while Warren and Lou continue back to the school labs for what is likely their last time. Warren finds himself hung up over all these ‘last times’. The last time he’d see the Two Whales in its prime. The last time he’d sleep in Lou’s dorm room. The last time he’ll routinely work on the reactor with the best lab partner he could ever ask for.

The last time he’ll see Nathan.

The hardest one to accept of all.

Nathan. Who has, against all odds, become his friend in the end. There is a twinge of something in his chest. Somehow the term ‘friend’ just didn’t feel adequate enough. It’s a gut-wrenching feeling, really, since it’s accompanied by the realization that if he would try to define it further, it would only hurt more. Because whatever it is that developed between them will be staying right here. Stuck in 1983. Forever.

So Warren doesn’t want to dwell on the thought, no–he outright refuses to think about it further.

But as much as he tries to push it all away Warren has a difficult time concentrating when Lou and him tackle what’s left with fixing the reactor. He finds himself struggling to focus his full attention throughout that morning. Even going as far as zoning out while working on it, sometimes–much to his embarrassment–during crucial conversations with Lou.

The saint that she is, Lou didn’t lose her patience when he’d ask her to repeat something, or when he–not once, but twice–dropped the pair of pliers he brandished when aiding her in lining the interior walls with the last of the new material.

Continuing to fumble into the afternoon, Warren adds it all up to his concern. His mind wholly and inexplicably taken up by a single thing. Nathan . But it isn’t just about his consistent worry over the fact that Nathan said he wouldn’t go back with him, leaving him behind. No, it was just simply…Nathan.

His presence, his attention. That smirk he’d point at Warren when he’d try to provoke him. His eyes, his hands, his hair. The jacket he gave to Warren so that he can breathe him in at all times. Notes of all the different scents that could vaguely be described as who Nathan is, but aren’t close enough to commit to. So Warren doesn’t bother discerning them. He just knows he can’t live without it anymore.

How–as much as Warren has been avoiding thinking about last night–something shifted between them. Something that could be traced right back to the very moment that Warren entrusted letting Nathan carry the reactor in his hands. The trust Warren hadn’t realized he had put in him then, somehow further solidified after last night. Because that was the exact moment Nathan decided to return that trust.

And it’s cruel, really, to have shared such a vulnerable moment together only for the repercussions to become as fragile as paper that he will have to shred to pieces in order to go back home. Repercussions that are, simply put, how Warren has never become so enthralled with another human being before. Completely and utterly invested in Nathan.

And just when Warren starts to wonder when Nathan will show up, the door to the lab opens as the very person saunters in, immediately sweeping his half lidded and dark-circled eyes to meet with Warren’s. And for the third time that day Warren lets the pliers fall from his grasp, the disruptive sound of metal hitting the floor ringing around the space of the lab.

Warren instantly darts to pick them back up, embarrassed, his lab coat crinkling noisily as he does so and further cementing his humiliation.

“Hey,” Nathan nods his head to Warren.

“H-hi,” Warren stutters out in response. What the fuck was that?! A judgy voice that sounds way too similar to Nathan berates internally. Warren can sense himself turning red–from embarrassment, definitely from embarrassment–and swivels on the spot he’s standing to focus his attention back to the reactor Lou’s still busy with.

“Hey, Nate,” she calls to him with a small wave of her hand. And then he’s rounding the lab bench to walk into Warren’s direct line of sight again, precisely the opposite of Warren’s intentions when originally turning away.

But he’s there. And Warren has no choice but to witness in silent horror as he crosses his arms and begins pulling his sweater–Warren’s sweater–up and over his head, exposing the skin of his back as the shirt he wears underneath rides up with the motion. Warren’s drawn to the spot, until his shirt falls back in place, almost hanging off of him, really, and Warren tunes in that it’s the Grease shirt he himself had been using as a pyjama shirt.

Warren’s eyes widen. He doesn’t know why he’s so taken aback by the image. It’s not his shirt. It’s Lou’s. And yet he continues aiming his dumbfound reaction with increasing obviousness at Nathan as if this second layer of clothing that Warren has worn himself is somehow scandalous.  

Quickly fixing his face, Warren sends what he hopes isn’t a super noticeable side-eye at Lou who’s stationed across from him on the other side of the bench. She’s still transfixed by her work, to which Warren wastes no time shifting his attention back to Nathan. His hair is still a little wet from his shower, reminding Warren of how it had looked the day they’d first travelled here. The natural texture of his dirty blonde hair starting to come through as it dries. Some droplets that cling to the ends threatening to let go, and when they do they prove to be just as distracting as how they’d been on that first day after stepping out of the storm.

Nathan looks really good.

Warren tears his gaze away, pretending to be busy with a couple of tools that are laid out on the lab bench in front of him.

Nathan’s always looked good, though. He’s always been attractive, objectively so. Warren’s always known that. He supposes that’s what makes a popular guy like Nathan so popular… right? Is Nathan even popular? Warren assumes. Because he’s part of the football team and knows sooo many people. Not to mention his involvement with the Vortex Club, and whatever exclusive club within that club he’s a part of. So it’s easy to conclude how that, along with his obvious looks, makes him desired.

Okay, cool. So why is Warren so hung up on it? Yup. That’s Nathan Prescott. He’s also kind’ve an asshole. But not as much of an asshole as originally presumed. They’ve moved past that, and with all the acquired context, Nathan has turned out to be a completely different person from what Warren initially assumed. Therefore all of this factors as a reasonable enough consequence to Warren being internally occupied over the subject matter that is Nathan Prescott.

But, like, he looks sooooo gooood.

Warren lifts his gaze again, settling on Nathan across from him, now loitering on the lab bench adjacent to the one Warren and Lou work at. He’s always had those pronounced cheekbones, sure, but since when did Warren start paying so much attention to his neck–

“...did you want to take a break?” Lou leans into Warren’s frame of view.

“Huh?” He blinks, focusing on Lou’s tilted head across from him.

She quirks an eyebrow, looking over her shoulder at Nathan, then back at Warren with a slightly amused expression. “We’ve been going nonstop, it’s okay if you want to take a break and hang out with your friend for a bit. I can take over.”

“Oh, n–no, it's fine. Today’s the last day, we should take advantage of every minute.”

“There won’t be any point if your brain is too fried, Warren.” Warren gawks at her, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks. Is it that obvious? “You’ve been working too hard, taking breaks is important, too. We’re basically done, anyways. All that’s left is reattaching the door,” Lou clarifies.

“Ah, right,” Warren only reddens further. “I mean–are you sure? Because I can focus, I swear.”

She rolls her eyes, motioning Nathan’s way with her head. “Go on.”

-

“So where are we going?”

Warren pushes open the door of the main school entrance, holding it for Nathan and craning his neck to look over his shoulder at him. After triple checking it was okay with Lou to take a break–who insisted–and quickly shedding his lab coat, the two of them were on their way out. “I told you, I just wanted to take a break. And I’m hungry. We’ve been at it since this morning.”

“We driving?”

“Yeah,” Warren steers them in the direction of the parking lot, hyper aware of the fact that this is the first time it’s only the two of them since last night, if he’s not counting the very brief morning they shared before meeting up with Lou. Which he isn’t.

Silently, they walk across campus until descending the few steps into the parking lot. “Can I drive?”

Warren comes to a halt in front of his car, his eyebrows raised in surprise when he looks at Nathan, “Uh, sure, yeah.” He lightly tosses the keys he already brandishes in his hands, Nathan catching them effortlessly.

“Where to?” Nathan looks at him expectantly once they’re sat inside.

“Well, I felt bad extorting Lou of any more money sooooo...” Warren twists himself in an awkward position so he can get to the wallet in his jeans pocket, fighting against the seat belt he’s already fastened. “I still have, like, twelve bucks left and was thinking we’d pick up some sandwiches from the gas station?” Nathan’s gaze drops to the few crinked bills in Warren’s hand. “Um, I mean, if that’s okay with you,” he adds.

“E-Z Gas it is,” Nathan confirms as he starts the car and begins shuffling around to rearrange it to his liking. Then he’s pressing random buttons that even Warren isn’t familiar with, the irrational fear that his Chevy might explode causing him to latch onto Nathan’s arm to stop him.

Nathan doesn’t react, but Warren jolts and releases his hold a second later, the motion having been instinctive. “What are you trying to do?”

“This thing have any music?”

Warren flips it over to the CD that he has in. It’s a mixtape he’d made himself featuring a bunch of his favourite artists–ironically from the 80s–that he had the intention of lending to Max. He never ended up mustering up enough courage to do so, with how intimidating her music taste is. Giving her a thumbdrive full of cult classic films seemed an easier bet, especially since she’d expressed an interest after that one time they’d nerded out over just about everything they’d ever watched for 4 hours straight.

Nathan rifles through the mixtape, one hand on the steering wheel as he maneuvers onto the street, the windows already down due to a brightly shining sun that’s had the afternoon to turn the interior of the car into a sauna. Warren welcomes the cool breeze that flows in, enjoying the sensation of the sun against his face that he knows is fleeting with the storm bound to roll in later that day.

The sporadic sound of the first few seconds of a variety of songs abruptly stops when Nathan backtracks to one he likes. The familiar upbeat synth tempo of Take on Me by a-ha blasts through the dinky speakers of Warren’s Chevy and flows out of the windows when Nathan dials up the volume.

Talking away I don’t know what I’m to say I’ll say it anyway Today’s another day to find you Shying away I’ll be coming for your love, okay

Warren almost thinks it’s a joke, trying to read Nathan for any indication that he’s mocking Warren’s choice in music. But he can’t find anything to suggest he is, instead all he sees is how he leans back, one arm draped over the steering wheel. His hair all over the place from the wind in a way that Warren could never replicate himself because it just looks so cool. Almost reminiscent of a frontman to a band of the current century they’re stuck in.

But most surprising of all is his expression. No ounce of fear nor furrow to mark his usual scrutiny. And even with the consistency having faded in the last couple of days, Warren doesn’t think he’s ever seen Nathan this at ease.

So, needless to say I’m odds and ends But I’ll be stumbling away Slowly learning that life is okay Say after me ‘It’s no better to be safe than sorry’

He doesn’t know what to make of it, doesn’t want to think too deeply that this is the manifestation of his acceptance to stay. And Warren doesn’t know if he’s hurt more by the fact that Nathan is likely experiencing this sense of freedom for the first time in a long time or that he’s already so readily accepted a life where he’ll never see Warren again.

Or, perhaps, Nathan is simply enjoying a single moment of uninterrupted bliss. Something that Warren is quick to want to join in on. The comfort of listening to a favourite song while driving with the windows down. The laziness of the sun hitting the skin of his arm as he props it up on the window. The current company they share. As if for a second they can hold onto a life that sounds so much more promising than the one offered. Like there is a better end to the story they’re getting.

“Oh, things that you say Is it a life or just to play my worries away You’re all the things I’ve got to remember You’re shying away I’ll be coming for you anyway”

Warren didn’t realize how he’d started to sing along, lowly, but he’s not alone. He sees Nathan’s lips move along with the words. And before they know it, Nathan’s turned it up even louder and the two of them are shouting alongside each other. Hitting the high notes as a duet, both out of tune but neither of them bothered enough to care because their chests hurt too much from belting it out.

“Takeeeeeee on meeeeeee,

Take. On. Me.

Takeeeeee meeee onnnnn!

TAKE ON ME.

I’LLLLL BEEEEE GONEEEEEE

IN A DAY OR,

TWOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

They’re both breathing heavily when the song finishes, the silence filled by the rapid intake of air for only a second before they exchange a look of understanding and Nathan presses the back button on the radio console to start the song over again.

Warren almost urges Nathan to forget the gas station and tell him to just keep driving. For another couple of replays of the song? For the rest of the evening? Forever? He doesn’t know, but he doesn’t want it to end. The hunger in his stomach protests to the idea, so when the same E-Z Gas station they’d visited to get the frozen peas comes into view, it’s with much reluctance that Warren brings up a hand to turn the volume dial down.

They park and go in to grab their sandwiches and some bottles of Coca-Cola, this time passing on the peas. When they return to the car with their stuff, they unsheath their sandwiches from the red and white checkered paper they’re wrapped in and scarf them down sitting on the hood of the car in silence. Leisurely, they sip on their drinks until there’s nothing left to preoccupy themselves with.

After a minute or so passes without breaking the silence, Nathan slips off the hood of the car. Warren has to suppress the panic that rises from within him when he does this, brought back to the last time he’d done the same maneuver. But Nathan’s not running off, no hint of frustration surrounding him like last time.

Warren watches as he, instead, makes his way to the backseat to pull his sweater back on then come back around to where Warren still sits on the hood. Nathan shoves his hands in his pockets, fixing Warren with his stare, “let's walk to the beach.”

Before Warren can respond, his body answers for him and he’s jumped off. “Okay.”

-

The steady sound of the waves crashing on the beach can be heard before the trees open up from where they walk to reveal the expanse of sand. There’s an ethereal look of sunlight behind dark clouds that threaten to rain, casting everything in a weird lighting that almost looks artificially improved. Warren’s acutely aware of the beginnings of the storm that is bound to hit Arcadia Bay soon enough and bring them the lightning bolt to take them home. Him home.

They take their time walking toward the water, their steps awkward from the uneven sand. Warren had been hoping for a chance when it would just be the two of them again, trying to gather the courage to say something that’s been on his mind ever since Nathan told him about everything that happened.

He suddenly stops, looking up from his feet and telling himself now is as good a time as any. “Hey, um. I’m gunna try and stop him, you know.”

Nathan stops, too, only a couple of feet from where the tide reaches. He wears a confused expression when he looks back at Warren.

“Jefferson, I mean. I know you’re going to tell me not to because it will be dangerous but I can’t let him get away with everything he’s done to those people–and to you–it’s not… it’s not right. I’m going to expose him, he’ll be caught for what he did.” It was true, it had been a consistent thought throughout Warren’s mind. Jefferson can’t get away with it. And Warren will do everything in his power to stop him. “My friend’s mom is a lawyer, so that will probably help. And I’ll obviously be super careful, I won’t get involved but I’ll talk to the right people who can investigate it. We’ll find that Darkroom you mentioned and–and he won’t be able to hurt anyone ever again.”

Warren’s wringing his hands together nervously. Nathan isn’t facing him anymore, not saying anything as the silence begins to stretch out. Warren’s worried he’s breached the already delicate subject. Almost wonders if Nathan might turn to him in anger or pretend he has no idea what Warren is talking about. To discredit everything from last night due to regret in his state of vulnerability, as if to say it were a mere fever dream Warren conjured up.

Without facing Warren, but instead with his body angled away to face the beach, his gaze distant, he says something in such a low voice that Warren almost misses it, so close to being lost to the waves that crash on the shore. “I never thought there would be anyone who believed me.”

It takes a second for the words to reach Warren, for him to fully understand the weight behind them. Said so quietly, so calmly as if it lessened their severity. But it’s devastating to hear, remembering how distressed Nathan had been when he found him the previous night. Wild eyed and frantic and so scared in his confession to Warren.

Nathan finally turns himself to Warren, his expression taut as though he’s calculating everything Warren just said. “I don’t even need to ask you if you mean it. ‘Cause I think I already know you do.”

“I do. I mean every word of it.” Warren has to try to keep his voice from wavering from the sudden sense of overwhelming emotion that overtakes him. Of course he’d meant every word. Nathan deserves that. And Warren tries not to think how it will sort of feel like avenging him. Because even if Jefferson goes down, he will have succeeded in bringing Nathan down with him, as far as he knows.

“I know.” Nathan repeats, offering a small smile that’s quick to slip away again.

They watch the waves for a little while, Warren finding a strange comfort in the way it steadily lulls and crashes onto the bank. The water darkening the sand as it soaks in, before fading away.

“I’ve… actually been thinking…” Nathan casually holds his hands deep in his sweater pockets, kicking some of the sand they stand on with the tip of his shoe.

His eyes dart to Warren, who can’t help but stare back widely with increasing anticipation and a failed attempt not to make himself sound too hopeful when he lets out a breathy, “yeah?”

Nathan’s eyes skirt away again, and Warren almost thinks he’ll drop whatever it is that he was going to say. Warren wants to curse himself for his inability to act–for lack of a better word–chill.

“I…um… fuck.” Nathan tries. And Warren frowns. It’s not unlike Nathan to act frustrated, but if Warren didn’t know any better he swears Nathan almost seems… apprehensive?

“I–” Nathan tries again, articulating with his hand out in front of him now. Trying, but met with more frustration at his attempt to get the words out. He sighs, dropping his hand and making a strangled, choking type of noise. “And I–”

Warren is having difficulty hiding an expression of increasing amusement, his mouth turning into a smothered frown. It’s definitely a sight to behold Nathan like this. He’s got both his hands in front of him–a development–like he’s invisibly force choking someone. It’s very reminiscent of Anakin Skywalker in Revenge of the Sith, the episode of which he’s at the height of his tormented attractiveness, in Warren’s opinion. The comparison makes Warren internally reel back, always having fixated on Episode III Anakin.

Huh. Warren is fully frowning now, not having anticipated the rabbit hole his thoughts are sent down as some things seem to click into place for him–and at such an inappropriate moment.

He pushes the mental Venn-diagram comparing Nathan Prescott and Anakin Skywalker–and what it might mean to him–far from his mind, very far–however difficult it may be–to focus back on Nathan and his continued struggle, apparently not having noticed Warren’s own mental freakout. Thankfully.

“Look. Okay.” Nathan runs a hand through his hair, seemingly collecting himself somewhat. “I was pretty dead-set on staying here, to not go back, but… but things… everything has changed. And honestly–I couldn’t give a fuck about going back, at all–but now, now… you won’t be here for much longer. And when you’re gone I–And for so long I’ve been alone and I’ve been fine with that cause–cause it’s all I’ve ever known! And I don’t know if that’s what I–I… fuck!”

He’s pushed his fingers in his hair again, this time the action is frantic, forcing his head back to look at the sky. Warren blinks, taking in Nathan’s freakout which seems so oddly familiar because–

Nathan’s eyes grow wide, his expression slightly lax as if something’s suddenly dawned on him, “This is your fault! You’ve rubbed off on me, oh my God. I’m fuckin’ doomed. I’ve turned into you–”

Something escapes Warren–he can’t help it–too late to catch it before he realizes it’s a laugh that he’s let out. And in that instant Nathan reels on him, latching onto the gesture. His eyes are dangerously narrowed as his face screws up again “are you–are you kidding me right now?”

The way Nathan looks at Warren, like he could ignite him just from how his gaze burns into him somehow makes Warren crack up even more, he’s clapping a hand over his own mouth and trying hard not to double over. “Nonono, I’m not I’m–” but any attempt of lying is squandered by Nathan getting right up into his personal space and taking hold of his arm to try and pry it away.

“Are you seriously laughing at me when I’m trying to admit I have feelings for you?”

“I’m sorry! I swear I’m–wait, you what?” Warren’s dumbstruck, eyes wide and mind completely and utterly blank. It’s Nathan’s turn to smirk now and before Warren can blink or react in any way or absorb anything that Nathan said, the space between them–that he didn’t realize had grown so close in proximity–is closing, until–

Nathan’s lips crush against Warren’s in a flurry. Chapped and warm, the sensation so foreign Warren doesn’t know how to react. It’s only for a moment, but Warren instantaneously feels everything. Tasting him, it’s bitter, the desperation, the hope, his breath against Warren’s skin. And just as fast as it happened it’s over, breaking apart from each other with a jolt.

They both stand and stare at the other, breathing heavily, before Warren’s reaching out to grab Nathan’s face and force their mouths back together. He has no idea what he’s doing, or if it even remotely qualifies as anything real, his mind briefly thinking of how Nathan is probably way more experienced in this department, but shoving the thought away just as fast because he doesn’t care in that moment, he just knows he wants more, needs more. He’s greedy for it and Nathan seems to be just as eager. Impatient, yet so engrossed that there is no need to be. No need to rush but not being able to help the desperation that so completely consumes them.

Warren has no idea how much time has passed when they separate from each other again, but it comes with a need for air and a sudden question that jumps from his tongue–

“Does this mean you’ll–?”

“Yeah, nerd, I’m with you. We’ll go back together.” Nathan says, sort of exasperatedly, his hair array and what Warren notices is a growing smile that braces his lips. Real and whole and directed at Warren. It reaches his eyes in a way that makes them squint. So foreign to Warren but so full of life, bringing colour to cheeks that aren’t as gaunt or sallow as they once were.

The already heightened elation interpreted from the warmth in Warren’s own cheeks and chest spreads further as a grin widens across his face to the point where it’s almost painful. He compares it to the dance and how he’d felt when he saw Nathan standing in the middle of the dancefloor after showing up. All dressed up, camera pointed, face full of trepidation, and showing up for Warren. 

It makes his heart do a little flip, the realization of what this feeling he’s feeling is. And unspoken, he knows it’s exactly the same way that Nathan feels about him. All hesitation and doubt gone. That if there’s anyone in the entire universe that he’d wanted to see in that moment at the dance it would be him. That if there is anyone in the whole world he’d end up stuck with travelling through time it would be him. That if there is anyone to be trapped in an impossible situation, Warren’s glad it ended up being him.

Words can never describe how Warren feels about the circumstances that led them to this exact moment, however fragile and carefully constructed this moment may be. And he knows he wouldn’t change it for the world.

The feeling Warren’s experiencing must transfer physically–perhaps directly beaming off of him and directed straight at Nathan–because next thing, Nathan’s pushing a hand against Warren’s shoulder to knock him backwards, though with no real force. “Alright, ease up.”

But they’re both still smiling like idiots and Warren can’t tear his eyes away from Nathan, the wavy hair that dances across his forehead from a wind that’s picked up around them. How the strong sunlight that threatens to lower beneath the layer of storm clouds casts him in such perfect lighting Warren wonders if his mind might be playing tricks on him by dosing this particular moment through rose-coloured glasses, as if he’s growing nostalgic over it already.

Warren could bask in the happiness that emits from Nathan forever, rooted right to this spot. But he doesn’t have to. He won’t have to mourn this moment because Nathan is coming back with him and they’ll make many more moments like these.

“Come on, I’m ready to leave this fuckass place.” Nathan states eloquently and swivels where he stands, shoes digging into the sand further, before he begins trudging his way back up the beach.

“Yeah, me too.” And this time Warren means it.

-

Warren’s never been so aware of the way the sun slowly begins to set. Maybe not since he was still a young kid mourning the last few weeks of summer break before having to go back to school. The feeling wasn’t completely different from this, but at the same time it felt like nothing before.

It’s bittersweet, to say the least. The way the water in the bay pulls the sun down until swallowing it whole and dosing the small town into another star-filled night, putting an end to their last day.

“Hey nerd, you gunna help us or are you having a moment?”

Warren’s stood planted on the grass in the middle of the main campus, having zoned out from the view that cascades down to the horizon on the water. He spins around when Nathan calls him out, sending an apologetic and lopsided smile at him and Lou situated a couple feet behind Warren. “Sorry!” Just can’t believe we’re here already…”

Here meaning a mere hour away from when they’re supposed to travel back to the future. No big deal.

It’s started to rain, only sparsely, but enough to confirm the storm that is headed their way. Nathan has his hood on, pulled far over his hair so Warren can only make out the deep scowl he wears on his face. He holds up an umbrella to cover Lou, walking backwards together as she uncoils a thick copper wire from the spool in her hands leading from where they’d secured the end of it to the campus statue’s head.

“Here,” Nathan’s shoving the umbrella he wields into Warren’s hands after he lightly jogs to catch up to them. “Stay with Lou, I’m going to go grab the car and move it to the right spot on the main road.”

Their fingers brush, Warren hesitating with a response. He can’t explain the uneasiness that settles in his stomach at the idea of letting Nathan out of his sight, like something awful will happen in the few minutes they’re apart so close to going back.

“It’s okay,” Nathan says, low so only Warren can hear him. “I’ll be right back. I promise.”

Warren can only nod and watch as Nathan turns his back, “Wait!” Warren calls out, prompting Nathan to face him again. “I want to say a proper goodbye. To Lou. With the three of us.”

Nathan and Lou only stare at him for a second. Then Warren’s outstretching his arms, holding them wide, “Come on, bring it in.” Lou complies and so does Nathan, though not as willingly. But their enthusiasm is quick to change once they’re all in each other's embrace, the grip they hold tightening as the realization that this is it dawns on them.

I’m going to miss this. Warren doesn’t have to say it, and neither do Nathan or Lou. He can sense it the same way as if they did. They’d somehow managed to grow so close after such a short amount of time. The same could be said about Nathan and Warren, but it won’t be the same without Lou. And after everything, all of their work to get to this exact moment… a part of him doesn’t want to leave this behind.

They break apart and Warren clears his throat. “Well,” he focuses on Lou before sending a fist toward the sky. “Don’t you, dun dun dundundun, forget about me…” he sings off-key.

Lou, in return, looks between Warren and Nathan with vague concern and total lack of understanding of what she is witnessing. “Uh…”

“You know, Breakfast Club? Wait, is that not out yet?” He points the question at Nathan.

“Oh my God.” Nathan rubs a hand across his face, not even able to look at Warren as he angles himself away.

“Oh. Nevermind.” He cringes internally. And probably externally, his face scrunching up with embarrassment. “It’s a really good movie, though.”

“Okay, I’m going now,” Nathan begins to trek across campus in the direction of where they’d parked Warren’s car in the school lot. He may not have been able to handle the overbearing sentimentality, but Warren could swear he heard a sniffle escape him before he disappeared.

Lou, on the other hand, struggled to get back to unspooling the wire, her eyes glassy. “You can’t just make me cry and then leave…” she mumbled out, busying herself again.

By the time they spooled all the way to the campus’ edge and down to where the sidewalk meets the road, Nathan pulled up alongside them. The rain had picked up significantly, causing Lou to almost slip down some of the grass that’s grown muddy, Warren shooting out a hand to help stabilize her.

“We gotta get going!” Nathan calls over to them above the steady shower as he exits the car and slams the door, “a security guy was eyeing me when I left the parking lot and I think he’s headed this way!”

“Shit,” Lou curses, squinting from how the rain beats against the umbrella. “This isn’t as inconspicuous as I’d hoped and It’s going to be hard to explain exactly what we’re doing. I have a feeling ‘a science project for Mr. Wells’ class ’ isn't going to fly. I have an idea, but I’ll have to make a move right away–”

“–Wait, Wells as in Principal Wells?”

Lou falters, “Mr. Wells becomes principal?”

“Guys–”

“Right, not the point.” Warren rushes the words out. “What do you have in mind?”

“I’m going to cause a distraction in the dormitories, it should buy you two enough time!” She pushes aside the sleeve covering up her watch, “you have less than 15 minutes, it’ll be fine.” As reassuring as her tone is, she can’t hide the worry that flashes across her eyes when she meets them with Warrens.

And Warren recognizes that this is it. “But you won’t make it back again.”

Lou shakes her head solemnly. “No.”

“So this is goodbye, then.”

“For now,” her voice is soft, as is the smile she gives him. “I’m sure you’ll be seeing me very soon.”

Warren mirrors the expression. She’s right of course, it will be as if no time has passed. The same can not be said for her, though. Lou will have to wait 30 years before they’ll meet like this again.

“Thanks for–for everything,” Warren stutters out. “I don’t think we could have done this without you. You’re, uh, the coolest mom in the world. But you’re also a great friend. The best, really.”

Lou’s mouth, which is now pressed into a thin line, is set into a frown like she’s suppressing the urge to cry. She wrings her hands around the umbrella handle, fingers turning white with strain. “I’m… I’m really proud of the kind of person my future son has turned out to be.”

They hug again, this time properly and not as awkward as before. When they’re finished she hugs Nathan, too. “I’m glad you two have each other,” she says to him, causing him to look away. “Now I’m really going to go, before this somehow gets weirder.”

She waves over her shoulder at them as she darts away in the direction of the dormitories, angling the umbrella against the harsh wind and rain. The boys waste no time turning their attention to the car where Warren begins wrapping the wire around the antenna at the back while Nathan holds his varsity jacket above them to help shelter against the aggressively growing downfall of rain.

When Warren’s finished he wipes aside the hair that sticks to his brow, checking the watch that Lou lent him. “Okay we have 9 more minutes until impact, let’s get in the car!”

But as Warren straightens back up, the wire that had been pulled taut suddenly goes lax. The copper material seems to flicker, the reflection of the streetlight above catching the droplets that fall from it. Their attention snaps to one another as an understanding passes between them that the wire has come loose on the other end.

Before Warren can say anything, Nathan beats him to it, “I’ll go, you stay!” He yells as he’s already whipping the jacket around himself to pull his arms through.

“But–”

“There’s no time! Get in the car and start it,” Nathan flings the car keys Warren’s way, who instinctively encloses a fist around them in the air.

“I–I caught them!” Warren stares at the palm of his hand in disbelief.

“Proud of you, bud,” and then Nathan’s gone, swallowed by the sheet of rain as he sprints headfirst into it.

Warren has no choice but to dart around to the front of his Chevy and fling himself into the driver's side, forcing the keys into the ignition and starting the engine.

The precious few minutes they have left that creep by in Nathan’s absence are torturous. Warren waits apprehensively, fingers wrapped around the steering wheel in a vice and his free foot tapping with impatience. Come on, Nathan, come on. His eyes are glued to the passenger’s side window, barely able to make out anything from the rain that distorts the glass.

Warren chances a glance at his watch. 9:58. 6 minutes.  

With nothing else to occupy him, he tries to look through the sheets of torrential rain that aggressively roll over the car and make it almost impossible to hear anything else. He squints, his heart giving a jolt when he sees a flash of red before it’s gone again. A quick glance at the car's digital clock tells him 3 more minutes. The anticipation is killing Warren, making him instinctively reach across the passenger seat to yank open the side door. He doesn’t care when the inside of the car is instantly drenched, all he cares about is if Nathan will be back in time.

The downpour is deafening now, and visibility has barely improved after opening the door. “Nathan?” he tentatively calls out. There’s no response, until he hears a muffled sort of grunt somewhere in the distance. Before he can call out again, there’s a flash of lightning far off–not the one they’d been waiting for, but close enough to momentarily light up the setting Warren looks out to. And to Warren’s utter horror, the still image of Nathan grappling with someone on the ground instills itself into his vision. It’s as if he caught a momentary glimpse of a picture taken with flash to paint the scene in front of him.

Someone’s yelling, and though it’s hard to make out, Warren knows it’s not Nathan. “Did you really think I’d let you get away after what you fucking freaks did to me?! You’re dead! And your friend is next!”

The tips of Warren’s fingers go numb as he feels the blood drain from his face and hands, realizing who it is that has stopped Nathan from getting back, tackling him to the ground mere steps away. “Nathan!” Warren cries out, automatically beginning to crawl across the passenger seat.

“No!” He hears Nathan shout, “don’t! Don’t leave the car!”

Warren freezes, looking back out to where he can see the blurred mass that is Nathan and his father rolling across the soppy grass. A quick glance at the car's interface reads 10:03. One minute. “But I–I’m not leaving you–!”

“It’s fixed! It’s fixed, Warren–you can–ugh–” Nathan lets out another grunt and Warren knows he’s been hit again. There’s a scrambling that can be heard mixed with the downpour and for a brief moment Warren can make out Nathan’s form back on his feet again, booking it toward the car. Warren stares wide eyed, holding his breath when Nathan gets closer and–

He’s back on the ground, his father’s arms wrapped around his legs to take him down again, landing face first. But he’s so close that when he whips back his head Warren can see his face. His pupils are blown out and he looks terrified.

“Give me your hand!” Warren calls out, thrusting his own toward Nathan. Nathan doesn’t hesitate when he complies and reaches up. They’re so close, and Warren stretches as far as he can, until it hurts, until his ribs feel like they might expand and break from the pressure, until the strain is almost unbearable. Their fingertips brush and Warren begins to wrap his hand around what he knows is Nathan’s own.

Please please please please…

But all sensation is lost when a blinding flash and boom takes up all of him. Squeezing his eyes shut, Warren clenches his jaw hard as he braces himself, the air on fire around him. And just as fast as it happens, it’s all over.

[waywardnewcomer]

The Eye of the Storm

So I haven't written in a long long time, and never for 9-1-1. Buuut in the wake of 6b airing tonight!!!!!! I decided to write a little 6b spec fic, because I'm traumatised by all of the promos and I cannot wait to watch it and torture myself. So in the last few hours of speculation, Enjoy.

Summary: "The roaring thunder, dreadful in its ire, Is water warring with aerial fire." OR a 6b spec fic about the lightning strike.

Warnings: Lightning, character death (kinda) emotional turmoil

Word Count: 1.1k

Pairings: 9-1-1 core team, buddie if you squint.

It was pouring. The thunder rumbling through the sky, almost as a continuous roar. The rain was bouncing off the sidewalk with such a feat it hurt their icy cold skin. The storm was worsening. In hindsight it was a warning: they were being swept up in the eye of the storm, and about to be thrown for a loop.

But they had a job to do. 

The fire was roaring despite the torrential downpour. They needed to vent the roof, and fast. There were people stuck in the building. Bobby’s face was full of unease, he had to send someone up there. On a metal conductor. He looked as his team, the dread evident in his voice. 

“The only way up is the aerial,” He sighed, “The storm is getting closer. I’m not going to force anyone to go up there. That thing will be a lightning rod.”

“I’ll go.” Buck says a little too quickly. The only thing swirling in his mind was picturing Eddie stuck in the well and him clawing at the mud desperate to save his best friend, his partner. He could not go through that again. 

The team’s heads snapped to look at him. Eddie’s eyes darted to meet his, a look of sadness swirling in his brown eyes. He brought a hand to his face as he breathed out slowly.

Buck couldn’t meet his eye, the conversation of expendability playing on a loop in his mind. But this was different. He was doing this to save Eddie. 

“I want you harnessed and clipped to the ladder at all times. If it does get struck we do not want you falling 20 foot in the air.” Bobby looked to Buck in concern, it had been a while since he had done something reckless, but this was necessary: the roof needed venting. He had no other option.

“Got it Cap.” Buck nodded, moving to get harnessed up at the bottom of the ladder. Hen’s eyes followed him, a look of apprehension flashing over her features. She wasn’t even surprised when Eddie moved towards Buck.

“Buck are you sure about this? I can go with you.” Eddie spoke earnestly, he had a bad feeling about this. His stomach was falling to his knees. He moved to help Buck tie the rope to his harness, an action he had done a million times before but this time felt much more pertinent. As if the knot would snap if he didn’t check it multiple times.

“Christopher needs his dad. You all have kids, if I get struck no one will need me.” Buck spoke, not looking into Eddie’s crestfallen face. He didn’t notice the exasperated look on Eddie’s face as he climbed onto the top of the truck. Or maybe he didn’t want to. 

“Be careful up there Buckaroo.” Chim commented, watching his brother climb the ladder.

Bobby held his breath, it was oddly quiet as Buck climbed the aerial. The thunder having taken a pause, and the rain hitting the pavement with force being the only noise apart from the roaring blood rushing in his head. He looked up at the sky. Something was wrong.

The sky let out a deafening roar ripping through the city, almost inside their ears as it passes. 

“What the hell was that?” Buck pauses at the top of the ladder, looking at the sky. 

He doesn’t see the zap of lightning. He doesn’t see the white light pulsate through the sky and hit the ladder, or the sparks that flew from the impact; but he felt the force of being thrown downwards. He felt the searing pain as he tried to grapple to grab the harness, to break the fall. Grasping at any piece of rope he could get his hand on.

“BUCK!” Eddie’s voice screamed through the thunder. 

His blood rushed to his head, not hearing anything around him but knowing he had to get to his partner. His best friend could not die. Eddie practically threw himself on top of the truck, grasping to the ladder to reach his Buck, all while screaming his name. 

“Eddie it’s not safe! You need a harness!” Bobby’s voice didn’t register. His mind was on Buck and only Buck. He had to get his Buck.

Lightning isn’t supposed to strike twice; but it did that day. 

Eddie was taken by surprise as his body was thrown backwards. He tried to grasp anything he could, desperate to get to Buck. He needed to save Evan. He turned his head towards him and saw his lifeless body swinging back and forth with the force of the strike; before he hit the asphalt and his world turned to black. 

“Shit!” Bobby was trying to think rationally. The storm roaring in the background jumbling all of his thoughts. “Chim, work the aerial get Buck down. Hen you’re with Eddie!” He barked, looking towards his pseudo Son’s lifeless body.

As Chim slowly lowered the aerial to the ground, Bobby held his hands in the air desperate to feel his skin grace his fingertips. When he finally grasped onto his turnout he held his arms in a cradle as other firefighters rushed to get the gurney underneath him. Bobby held his breath as he places his fingers to Buck’s neck, crying out when he feels nothing. Buck is dead. He rips the turnout open and starts CPR.

“CHIM!” He shouts in despair, “Come back to me Son.” He pleads, tears dripping down his face as he pushes onto his flail chest. 

Hen looks over to the scene and holds a baited breath as she watches Bobby do compressions. She shakes her head and the tears away and looks back to Eddie, who is very much alive. 

“Eddie, I need you to wake up.” She sniffs and rubs his sternum with a knuckle, breathing out as he opens his eyes.

“Buck,” He mumbles trying to get off the ground. Hen tries to push him back down, but knew she didn’t have the strength once Eddie saw Bobby doing compressions. “Buck?” He questions in disbelief as he scrambles to his feet and refuses to acknowledge his clearly broken leg and arm. He could deal with the pain, but Buck was dying. He was dead. It was too late. He was too late.

Hen runs over to help Chim, all but forcing Bobby to take a break from compressions. Bobby steps back, the anguish clear on his face. Eddie watches in horror as they attach him to the monitor and sees the flat line and continuous beep. Eddie prayed to anyone who would listen, Buck could not die.

He didn’t even feel himself move forwards, until he felt himself take Buck’s cold, limp hand into his. “Evan, please.” He cried and squeezed onto his hand as if it would squeeze life back into his body. 

He holds his breath as Bobby comes behind him, hand on his shoulder with tears freely flowing down his face. Everything goes silent once again, the storm moving away. Until there’s a noise making Eddie’s head snap towards Buck’s face. 

A heartbeat. He was alive.

[asirensrambles]

The Timing of the Inevitable

Flufftober Day 3: Pen/female builder "Wait you love me?" - "I always have"

My extremely angsty take on this fluff prompt.

Delaney hadn't been to Atara since taking a family trip back in elementary school. If it weren't for the conference on desert building, she never would have come back. Especially knowing Pen was being held there. After the Battle of Sandrock and his betrayal, she tried hard as Darkness to avoid conversations about him whenever and wherever possible. Unfortunately, she'd still managed to overhear where he was going to be held. Delaney knew herself well enough to know that if she ever ended up in the same city as Pen again, she'd go see him. Ever since he'd been taken away by Avery and his cohort, she'd avoided Atara like the plague. Yet here she was, in the same city as him. At the visitor's office of the facility he was being detained in.

Truly, the Light was unrelenting.

"Delaney?"

The builder shot to her feet. "Yes?"

The officer raised an eyebrow before responding, "You can go in and see him now. Visiting time is limited to thirty minutes, if you need out or feel unsafe at all, just press the button and we'll come right in."

All Delaney could manage was a sharp jerk of her chin, not even able to form a proper nod.

Anxiety, dread, and anticipation curled in her gut like a desert hopper. It took all her courage to force leaden feet across the threshold into the visiting room. The door slammed shut, the lock clicking behind her. It barely registered as all Delaney's focus was currently channeled into keeping her knees from buckling, or vomiting. For the first time in years, she was face to face with Pen once again.

Imprisonment had changed him. Doing her best to ignore the chains and cuffs around his hands and ankles that went into a loop on the ground, Delaney took in the changes. Gone was the uniform she was so used to seeing him in. Now he wore the simple garb of a prisoner; a plain cotton shirt and pants. On anyone else, they would probably be loose fitting. Although Pen's muscles were nowhere near as sculpted as they had been in Sandrock, it was clear he was still incredibly strong. The dark hair Delaney was so used to seeing carefully coifed was unkempt and messy in a way she'd only ever seen when Pen first woke up. Finally mustering her nerve, she managed to meet his eyes. They were as piercing as always, but far more guarded that she'd ever seen.

Over the years, Delaney had imagined what she'd say to Pen if she ever saw him again. It had gone a hundred different directions in her head, but now confronted with the real thing, every single one of them flew out the window. Pen was the one who finally broke the silence.

"Well, well, fancy seeing you here."

Delaney's mouth was drier than Sandrock.

Pen crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow at her as the silence. "Well, what's this all about then?"

Try as she might, Delaney couldn't get find the words or bring herself to speak. She hadn't even moved from the door, still rooted to the spot. Pen frowned as time stretched on, still with no response. His frown slid into a sneer. "Come to gloat, then? Show off a shiny new engagement ring and tell me all about the upcoming wedding? Or maybe show me the wedding ring and pictures of your children? Tell me how happy you are now that-"

Every bottled up emotion, swallowed down sob, and wrench of her heart burst out of Delaney at the idea she was happy. With a feral scream, she lunged at him. The force of her momentum sent him crashing to the ground with a grunt of surprise. As soon as he hit the ground, Delaney sprung away, desperately ignoring the part of her brain registering touching him.

"How fucking dare you assume I'm happy," she snarled.

Pen struggled back to his feet, the previous aloof mask thoroughly shattered. Even so, Delaney couldn't even begin to decipher the emotions on his face, considering he'd been lying the whole time they'd been together. Still if she had to guess, he seemed almost pained. A split second later, the mask slid back into place. "Well excuse me for thinking one of the many men of Sandrock who were vying for your attention before me might have snatched you up."

Delaney's lip curled. "I never noticed them. Unlike you, being in a relationship meant something to me, as did this little concept called loyalty. Not that you'd know the definition of the fucking word."

"Don't you fucking dare. You have no idea what loyalty means to me." Pen's voice was sharper than a bloodstone blade. "You can't even begin to imagine what's it's cost me." Something else hedged in, roughening the edges of his words. Delaney glared at him, clenching her fists.

"I know what it cost me."

Pen flinched, almost imperceptibly. "I had no choice. It doesn't matter how much I love you-"

Whatever he said after that was drowned out by the roaring of Delaney's blood in her ears. Love. As in present tense, as in he still loved her.

The words nearly strangled her, but she forced them out. "Wait, you love me?"

Pen looked her in the eye. With utter sincerity, he replied, "I always have."

Delaney surged at the button, slamming it repeatedly. Distantly she was aware of Pen saying something, his tone pleading. His voice grew further and further away as her vision tunneled, focused solely on the door in front of her. As soon as it opened, she sprinted out and down the hall before collapsing as darkness overtook her vision.

[miswaken]

@tidalcove asked: she's been here before. when exactly? saga couldn't say - but the impatient shrill of the payphone rings all too familiar as she navigates through this desolate replica of new york city. the impending dread she's felt throughout her journey is still present with every step she takes but there's also a small blossom of hope that takes root the closer she gets to her destination. with a tired but determined sigh, saga answers the phone, ❛ who are you? ’ frustration is replaced with fatigue as her hand grips the reciever tightly, echoes of this exact conversation dancing along the edges of her memories yet still not tangile enough for her to make anything out of. why couldn't she remember? ❛ is this the dark place somehow fucking with me again? ’ ( hehe )

It's hard to know what direction they're spiraling in sometimes. Things don't always sync up as expected, leading to disjointed messages tossed like bottles into the sea. Sometimes they wash up on the shore in the right order, and sometimes they don't. She can always hear the frustration, the confusion, in Saga's voice over the phone. This isn't easy for her -- having come so far and with so much to lose. Alice doesn't want to be cryptic but it's easier this way, far less complicated than trying to piece together even half an explanation in these fragments where they align.

They've done all this before.

They might very well do it again.

Even if Alice wants to believe that it's different this time.

Her own name perches on her tongue, but she catches it between her teeth. She has no place in this story save for the one that she's carved out for herself, nestled safely in the margins where Alan won't be able to see her. And it's there that she needs to remain -- especially now, so close to the ending. Who she is doesn't matter. "Did you find the shoebox?" That's the only thing that does matter. The Clicker. The Bullet of Light. She tries not to think about where that bullet will end up, but with Alan's bloody, blown-apart face staring up at her from a dozen nearby photographs, it's difficult not to.

"Saga," she starts again, where she should have started in the first place, but the end always becomes the beginning anyway. God, she's tired of thinking in loops. When she gets out of here she's going to buy hundreds of those page-a-day calendars and derive a perverse amount of joy each time time marches forward and she can tear off the previous date. "You're close. I promise." This time, next time, the last time. One of them is going to be the last time. "You need the tools, and then you need the ending, and then it can be over."

[keefwho]

March 13 - 2024 Wednesday

10:51pm

5/10

This morning before cleaning I found out that the damn insurance that doesn't even cover me charged me again so I might have to cancel my card. I tried joining Bramble's server while cleaning but she left instantly because she was feeling sick. I put away my clothes, vacuumed, and took out the garbage. Breakfast was corned beef hash, an egg, and toast with a bunch of onions and bell peppers.

For work I lacked direction with warmups as usual. I want to refine what it is I'm actually trying to do with my warmups aside from loosening up my hand and mind. It used to be for studying so I could try that again. Also commission sketching but I should probably save that for commission time. I also finished that commission today. We couldn't watch Ed because of poor internet.

After work I used the bathroom and did my workout. Like last time I put on my workout playlist and jogged for every other song. I think I got unlucky and all the jog songs were longer than the walking ones. It meant I got those 4 miles in pretty quickly though. I was winded. I took my shower without my phone to get some mental peace. It's something I was afraid of but I don't want to be so thats why I did it. For lunch I made tuna stew using the nasty oil tuna. It turned out edible, but not great. 5/10. It filled me up at least. I watched Turkey play Minecraft with this guy while I cooked and ate. Then I drew today's request. I left while working on my animation because the call got kinda loud and she switched to Valorant. I drew on my own for awhile. When I was done I meant to work on Aether's avatar in call for him but he wasn't online yet and I wasn't feeling great both mentally and physically. I put a tiny bit of time into his avatar before stopping for the day. I was so tired at this point from my workout and work.

I decided like yesterday that I'd try to get in VRchat and socialize to keep myself from spiraling. It didn't work very well this time. I had trouble maintaining perspective, partly because I was so focused on how NOT to talk about my problems/headspace. Also there were some VERY annoying people clogging up the conversations I was trying to have. This one person actually would not stop talking about their life, no one was able to get a word in. Boodle joined who I was excited to try and talk to but I couldn't with this person around. This person and their friend both stuck around the whole time until Boodle left and then I left because I couldn't put up with them anymore, as much as I wanted company. I figured with how I felt that maybe I needed some quiet time, at least until Daisy got on.

When she got on we watched the next Monster High which was good as usual. Then a Chris Chan reading but unfortunately this was the last issue of Sonichu. In bed we did puzzles and Kingdom Hearts. I tried joining Boodle after Daisy fell asleep just to say hi but she must be busy. Other than that I've sat here trying not to think so much and enjoy the silence.

~~~

Today I had a bad case of feeling like everything is stagnant. There was a time loop situation in the Monster High episode today and I realized thats kinda how I feel in my day to day life. I had that same sort of dread of being unable to move forward and everything losing meaning because of it. Tomorrow, I don't know how but I wanna try to start reconnecting with why I even draw. The other thing I've been thinking about is my values and what I live for. All I know right now is that I want to be a good friend which has helped me stay focused the past few days. Hopefully I can find another intrinsic motivation to pull from and guide my life forward.

3 things I liked about today:

Finishing my workout.

Minecraft with Turkey.

Kingdom Hearts with Daisy.

[sapientiiae]

Without so much as another word, Zelda allowed herself to be led to the table, enjoying the feel of Sheik’s hand within her own while it lasted. Soon, however, his hand is swapped out for the basket he’d already prepared, passing it over for her to hold while he collected the last of his items so he could work on teleporting them to the Shadow Temple. 

“Trust me, I will,” she reassured, knowing she likely didn’t want to wander too far into the Shadow Temple anyway, based off the stories she’d heard. She especially didn’t want to attempt it without the Lens of Truth — she doubted her light magic would keep her fully protected, and she wasn’t about to risk her life for curiosity’s sake.

With his arm looped through her own, she grips tighter onto the basket out of fear of somehow losing it during the quick travel. Nestled in close against him, she tried to maintain a steady breath as the notes rang out and they were soon swept up in a gust. That was the simplest way she could attempt to describe warping, something she still wasn’t quite used to even if this wasn’t the first time she’d traveled by warp song with Sheik. 

The light, warmth, openness, and familiarity of Impa’s House is replaced as her head spins a bit, the damp and chilly air of the Shadow Temple overtaking her senses as her eyes attempt to adjust to the lack of light. By no means was it pitch black and impossible to see, but even the entrance to the Shadow Temple lacked the light that both the castle and the house in Kakariko offered. 

Now released from the Sheikah’s grasp, Zelda trembled slightly as she felt the chill crawl along her spine like some unseen icy insect. All she could do was draw the cloak she wore tighter to her body, taking only a few steps towards Sheik to maintain proximity as he reached for the broom that someone (him, she assumed) had left. 

Pointed ears perk as he begins to tell her a bit more about his past — the pieces she hadn’t been privy to despite practically being raised with him. She always enjoyed when he unraveled these details for her, like glimpses into some secret story. Unfortunately, this particular story was one of the more somber tales, once again drawing attention to the loss of an entire race. After all those years, Impa had still made it a point to light incense in their remembrance; when she hadn’t, Sheik had carried the torch. “This…may not mean much to you, but, for what it is worth, I think it is good that you continued to light the incense and still do.” 

She would leave it at that, simply to avoid a repeat of their earlier conversation. This conversation felt a bit fragile, and she was doing her best to not cross a line again. 

She watches in silence as he works to tidy up the makeshift shrine, feeling only a brief sense of dread as he moved away to discard the withered flowers outside. Once he is back and returns the vase, Zelda silently extends the basket out to him.

   He wouldn’t agree that Zelda started the fight, she had asked a simple enough question and it derailed from there. It was simply the topic of conversation that hadn't been ideal to pick. He wouldn’t say either that she simply shouldn’t have not asked. He knows that she’s always curious about the Sheikah themselves and the traditions that his tribe used to uphold. The way they differ from the Hylians, the things that have been lost that… she clearly wishes Sheik would still uphold in some way. 

   She has a right to ask whatever she wants, it’s just when they connect back to Impa that it ends poorly for them both.

   When the conversation doesn’t revolve around his mother he would gladly explain whatever it was she actually wanted to know, as much as he actually can. For all that Sheik does know, there is still a large amount he doesn’t. Books can only teach someone so much of their own heritage, and even he still wishes he could learn more. That Impa could have taught him. But he understands where her priorities fell. She didn’t have the time, and sometimes he believed not even the energy, to teach him. 

   It was just the two of them and now he had what was undoubtedly the same mindset she had. All that was left was him, what was the point? Who would he be trying so hard for? 

   He feels her hands wrap around his own and Sheik nodded to her words, giving a small hum in reply. He already knew she would, she tended very carefully to the few items he has given her, that she never rotates out with all the other royal jewelry that she has. He’s very aware that the servants have tried to convince her to, it’s a very failed effort. No longer is the jewelry chosen to match the outfit, instead the outfit is chosen around the clip in her hair. 

   Not bothering to free his hand yet, he guided the Princess over toward the table and picked the basket up. He traded his hand for that, having Zelda hold it while he picked his harp and mask up from the table. The mask is placed in the basket, since he would have to walk back through Kakariko Village to return to the house. 

   “Stand close.” She knows this part well, but the prompt comes easily and Sheik carefully loops his right arm through her left to keep a hold on her and play at the same time. Once Zelda was safely tucked at his side, Sheik plucked the familiar notes of the Nocturne of Shadows to take them from the house to the middle of the Shadow Temple. The warmth of the house in Kakariko Village was traded for the chilling air of the Shadow Temple entrance and Sheik released the Princess the moment they were inside. 

   The harp is returned to his back, tucked inside the holder once more and Sheik moved to grab the broom he stashed in the corner of the temple. 

   There’s a little spot against the wall where he’d left the things he’s brought. A vase with now dead flowers, an empty plate that usually held the food and a burner for the incense. It wasn’t anything grand or interesting, the wild animals usually take the food and flowers die quickly. He can’t explain why he does it, just that it makes him feel better to do it. 

   “When I was little, she would have us light incense once a year around the time the tribe was killed. When she remembered. When she didn’t, I did it for the both of us.” Whether she actually forgot or simply didn’t want to was something he’d never actually know. Sheik believes some years were harder than others and the closer it got to Zelda’s premonition, the harder it was for her. But Impa had tried and that loss of the tribe, of her entire family, Sheik is certain it hit her harder than any of them actually knew. 

   And why wouldn’t it? 

   Sheik can’t imagine what she went through and he doesn’t want to. The story Impa would weave, distancing herself as much as she can from it to tell it, was horrifying enough. The pain of actually having to live it was something else. Which was why he always made sure to light the incense for her when she couldn’t, and perhaps that was part of the reason why he continued to do this. Because it felt important, even if his mother didn’t care at all. 

   So he sweeps the temple, to keep it clean and collect the flower vase from the ground beside the empty plate. He tosses the dead flowers onto the ground outside the temple, brings it back in and sets it back beside the plate. 

[tmpestuous]

moth to a flame - 1

series masterlist

summary: bucky barnes was the love of your life, and you were his. there was no denying it. but after two years of dating, you found yourselves on different paths and decided it was best to go your separate ways. the only problem was how drawn you’d always be to him.

pairing: college!bucky x reader

word count: 3.8k

warnings: angst, slight jealousy, self-loathing, bucky is down bad, reader is also down bad, male oc

a/n: first chapter! i hate this a little bit but it’s okay. some development with a bit of introduction. i hope you enjoy!

“but does he know you call me when he sleeps?”

Bucky Barnes was no easy man to get over. 

You had never felt so much dread over a breakup in years. You actually don’t even remember if this much dread ever consumed you after a breakup, but you tried your best to pretend like it was any other end to a relationship you’ve had in the past.

It clearly wasn’t. It never helped that you saw Bucky often and wanted nothing more than to just give in and get back with him. You held your own, however, trying everything to move on and not dwell on what could’ve been between you two. It took a few months, but it eventually worked. You were seeing someone new and things were going great for you.

Bucky, on the other hand, was still stuck. 

He had no real interest in trying to move on from you because he was more than positive you’d make your way back to him. He never told anyone that because he didn’t want to seem or even be possessive; Bucky simply wasn’t interested in anyone but you. Your relationship ending amicably only made it all the more difficult to think he could ever be with someone else, or see you with someone else. 

But to his unfortunate demise, he’d have to.

Bucky entered his apartment after his back-to-back classes, wanting nothing more than to sleep for the entirety of his three-day weekend given the incessant exhaustion he’d been experiencing lately. But his apartment was more chaotic than usual as he arrived. Sam, Steve, Natasha, Wanda, Pietro, and Thor were all in the livingroom, playing just about any board game they found within the living space. 

It wasn’t unusual for everyone to spend time together at the end of the week, but they were never so enthusiastic about anything on a Thursday. They also rarely ever got together without you, which Bucky noticed right away as everyone greeted him.

“How was class, Buck?” Nat said almost concerned, her tone throwing Bucky off right away. 

Their friendship was almost always playful banter, a serious conversation rarely happening out of the confines of a room with only them two in it. Natasha had heard most of both yours and Bucky’s feelings before, during, and after your breakup. It had been about 5 months since then, but Natasha’s worrying look on her face along with your absence only made him wonder what could’ve happened. 

“Class was fine…” he trailed off, looking around at everyone staring at him. “Where’s Y/n?”

Everyone shrugged and made up their own excuses.

Haven’t seen her since this morning. 

Only saw her in class today.

I haven’t talked to her in a while.

Bucky scoffed, knowing something was being hidden from him, which he hated. He never enjoyed being left out of the loop, especially when it came to you. Knowing it was most likely something he wouldn’t be fond of only made him feel worse, not appreciating being treated like a fragile object because of his history with you.

“Who’s gonna actually tell me why Y/n isn’t here?” Bucky asked, everyone getting quiet. He noticed Thor itching to say something, Natasha giving him a pointed look. Bucky looked over at him, “Thor?”

“What? No, I know nothing,” he spoke quickly, Natasha rubbing her temples at the horrible attempt to lie. “I mean—I don’t know, she just—”

“She just what?” Bucky interrupted him, knowing she was probably the only one who’d crack under pressure to say something. 

“Buck, it’s fine—”

“No, Steve,” Bucky interrupted his lifelong friend. “I understand you all somehow think I’m this fragile puppy who begs and calls at Y/n’s mercy but she’s still part of our friend group and I wanna know why she isn’t he—”

“She’s with her boyfriend,” Natasha interrupted, her tone a lot more stern and pointed. “Y/n’s with her new boyfriend. That’s why she isn’t here, Bucky. Happy?”

He honestly wasn’t happy, rather speechless and a bit shocked. You moving on might’ve been inevitable, he had convinced himself of that over the last few months. However, Bucky never anticipated it happening so soon. Five months was indeed an extensive period of time, but he hadn’t even so much looked at a girl, let alone try to move on. 

He was still more than hung up on you, and you had a new boyfriend. That wasn’t him.

Bucky sighed. “Oh. Okay.”

“Bucky—” 

“No, it’s okay, Nat,” he cut her off, immediately not wanting to be the center of a pity party. He had enough of those throughout his lifetime. “Thanks for letting me know. I’m just gonna go sleep for a bit.”

Ignoring everyone’s calls for him to say which turned to defeated goodbyes as he ignored them and made his way to his room at the end of the hall, Bucky felt even more exhausted. He hadn’t seen you in about two days, and you hadn’t mentioned once that you were seeing someone, let alone about to date them. The weight on his chest only grew heavier as he continued to think about it, laying in his bed under the covers and staring at the ceiling for what felt like forever until he finally fell asleep.

Until there was a knock on the door.

“Buck? It’s me,” he heard your soft voice on the other end of the room, peeling one of his eyes open to see you peeking your head inside of his doorway, but not entering yet. “Are you awake? Can I come in?”

Bucky lifted his head up to look at you clearly, nodding before you entered, closing the door behind you.

You were anxious. Bucky noticed you fiddling with your fingers like you always did when you were nervous about something, and he also noticed you wearing the same jacket he bought you for Christmas. The same one you wore when you had broken up. 

Neither of you said a word, and you both found it impossible to make out what the other person was thinking. 

Now that you were aware Bucky knew of your relationship, you’d assumed he’d either be accepting or completely broken. Which one? You weren’t too sure, but you’d hoped it wouldn’t be the latter. The dread you’d felt for so long wasn’t easy to pull yourself out of, and never in a million years did you ever think you would even move on from him. You were convinced he was the love of your life, but sometimes the universe has different plans for anyone. Maybe Bucky wasn’t the love of your life, or you just weren’t meant to be with each other right now. 

Bucky was hurt, yes, but he remembered he promised himself to never hurt you. The care he had for you trumped any of his feelings, which might catch him in the wrong place in the long run, but he never cared. You were his world, and he never wanted to watch it crumble. 

“I—“

“I just—“

You both had a habit of talking at the same time during conversations like these. Bucky scratched the back of his neck and gave you a half-smile.

“You go first,” he said softly, his voice no louder than a hard whisper.

Rocking back and forth on your heels, you avoided his gaze.

“I know you heard about me and Atlas and I don’t want you to think that I’m trying to hurt you or make you jealous or anything like that,” you rambled a bit. Thoughts weren’t seeming to formulate properly in your head at the moment which only frustrated you even more. Bucky never interrupted, though. He simply listened. “I care about you and I love you so much and the last thing I’d want to do is to hurt your feelings or not take them into consideration. I know I didn’t tell you I was seeing anyone but I didn’t tell anyone out of fear of judgment, along with the fact that I didn’t even know if things would get this far. I’m really sorry.”

You finally looked up at Bucky and couldn’t make out his thoughts. He was looking at you and he more than definitely had listened. Nonetheless, his expression was unreadable, which was a first for you.

Throughout your entire friendship and relationship, you could read Bucky like a menu at a restaurant. Somehow, you were aware of how he was feeling; he’d even ask you how you were so good at reading people, but in reality, it was just him. There was always a strong intuition with him, but for the first time in years, you couldn’t gauge what he was thinking.

“I still love you,” he finally spoke. “I love you so much and it did hurt, more than anything, when I was the last one to know you were even seeing someone. But I can’t hold that against you. Or anyone,” he shifted to face you better. “I want you to be happy, prinţesă. I would never feel like you were intentionally hurting me by doing what’s best for you. If he’s good for you, then I’m happy for you.”

“Thank you, Bucky,” you said, blinking some of your tears away. The last thing you wanted to do was cry in front of him again, knowing he hated when you cried, but there would always be a part of you that held so much love for him. You had appreciated that he was putting his friendship with you and your happiness above anything else. 

You had felt the sincerity of Bucky’s words, feeling a lot more relieved now. Unbeknownst to you, however, Bucky was only telling the half truth. 

He did want you to be happy, that much was always true. He just wished he could be the one to make that happen. He wished he could convince you to stay somehow. He wished you would come back to him. An immature version of him might have tried to convince you, a version of him he no longer recognized. 

Bucky was kind of a flirt prior to getting involved with you. He never messed with anyone’s feelings or made the effort to sleep around, but anyone would fawn over James Bucky Barnes. He had enjoyed that attention. He knew he could have any girl he wanted, and he might have taken slight advantage of that to keep himself busy.

But when he had first heard about you, he knew he had to have you. You were everything Bucky had dreamed of in a partner. You were so gorgeous, Bucky had tripped over his foot staring at you from afar. You were intelligent, currently top of your class and cruising with a solid 4.0 GPA. You had a nice sense of humor, knew just about anyone and everyone, and they all loved you. Not to mention you had already known some of his closest friends. You were roommates with Natasha, you were close with Wanda and Pietro, and you had a few classes with Sam since you had the same major and thus, took the same requirements. 

He did everything he could to get you. He had asked Natasha and Wanda about you whenever he saw them, watching them get extremely excited that he had an actual crush on someone. He’d talk to you more often when he saw you, eventually becoming one of your close friends and having you become part of his circle with the rest of the gang. 

He had fallen in love with you so fast. He memorized your scent, your laugh, your voice, your favorite movies, shows, foods, even your favorite type of clothing to wear. He bought you a similar jacket to his because you mentioned you really liked it once. He traveled all the way back to his hometown in Brooklyn to pick up donuts from a shop he thought you would love. He memorized your schedule so he knew when it was best to see you.

Bucky loved you. He still did, and boy, did he think he could never get over that fact. 

If he were slightly more immature, he’d beg you to stay. He’d tell you he was the one for you. But that wasn’t him anymore. He wasn’t trying to wrap you around his finger. He wanted you to remain the same you that he always adored. With or without him. 

After that conversation, you and Bucky were still a bit distant, but you remained cordial. You had even decided to bring your boyfriend to the next group hangout. Upon seeing him, he seemed too familiar to Bucky. 

He was a nice, tall, attractive guy, one who seemed to be in constant awe of you and everything you said. He made the effort to lean into your ear when he laughed at a joke, and wrap his arm around your shoulder, letting it relax there for a bit.  

Atlas D’Angelo. That was his name. He was a frat guy, wearing his letters on the jacket he was sporting. Maybe that’s what was familiar about him; Bucky might have seen him at a party before. Or some event where the Greek Orgs were in attendance. 

Bucky had zoned out trying to figure out where he might’ve known him from, Steve having to snap in front of his face to grab his attention in the diner you were all seated in.

“Earth to Bucky…?” Natasha teased, Bucky diverting his attention away from the reflection of the light on the table that seemed so entertaining during his battle with his thoughts. 

“Sorry,” he said. “What happened?”

“Atlas was asking what everyone’s majoring in,” you answered monotonously. “It’s your turn to answer, Buck.”

“Oh,” Bucky said, his eyes not leaving your face as he answered. “Business.” He looked over to Atlas. “Someone’s gotta take over the family business.”

Atlas smiled, though it came off more as a grimace. The tension in the air was a bit extreme, though Bucky didn’t think it was that serious.

“So, Atlas,” Steve cut the silence. “You play basketball? Got the height for it.”

“A bit,” Atlas responded, his hand grazing over yours on top of the table, which Bucky didn’t fail to notice. “I wanted to join the club team but I have no idea when tryouts are.”

“Oh, Bucky’s the captain!” Natasha said enthusiastically, Bucky shooting her a quick glance before smiling as friendly as possible to Atlas. “And Steve’s co-captain, they should know if there’s a spot left, right?”

“Yeah, I think there’s space,” Steve answered, recognizing the stiffness in his best friend’s shoulders. “I can ask Coach Fury to hold a tryout for you if you’re still interested.”

Steve took over the discussion about the team, even though it was clear Natasha made the point to emphasize that Bucky was Captain on purpose. 

Steve and Natasha were the main witnesses of Bucky’s feelings after finding out about your relationship with Atlas, Natasha trying not too hard to say anything to you out of respect for him. But Bucky obviously felt more comfortable talking to Steve about it, childhood friendship and all.

He also knew just how close you were with Natasha, and didn’t want to have her accidentally slip something up that he didn’t want you to know or feel bad about. Steve was aware of that. His relationship with Natasha never came before his best friend’s feelings, even when she had asked him how Bucky was doing. He never spilled too much, and he knew just how much Bucky was affected by everything currently going on. He wouldn’t want to put him in an uncomfortable position by making him talk to your boyfriend. 

“I’ll definitely be at your Friday practice then,” Bucky overheard Atlas say, his attention behind the booth somewhere. You had caught glances at him all night, feeling that he was a bit uncomfortable, but trying to hide it. “Is that okay with you, James?”

Bucky snapped his head over at the sound of his name. “Yeah, that’s cool. And just Bucky is fine. No one calls me James.”

Atlas nodded. “Good to know, Bucky.”

The rest of the dinner seemed to go respectfully. Bucky actually engaged in conversation with you (and your boyfriend) without looking like he might pass out. There was hope inside of you that Bucky and Atlas might end up getting along somehow, but you didn’t push anything. 

“So are you guys into parties or no?” Atlas said, popping one of your fries into his mouth. “I know I’ve seen Barnes at a few.”

“Have you?” You questioned, looking at him. “Bucky’s not really the party type.”

“I used to be,” Bucky admitted. “But that was before you and I met. More freshman and early sophomore year.” He looked over at you, and you could see he felt a bit flustered. 

“How about you guys slide to our bash this Saturday? I know my baby’s gonna be there,” he said, pressing a kiss on your cheek. 

Bucky shifted in his seat. He knew you’d been to a few parties, but never a frat party. Those weren’t your thing. Assuming you were just supporting Atlas, Bucky shoved his thoughts aside. 

“Yeah, we can go,” Sam answered, looking at Steve, Bucky, and Pietro. “You guys down?”

The three of them nodded in agreement, confirming their attendance, to which Natasha and Wanda sounded off as well. 

“Guess I’ll be seeing you guys Friday and Saturday.”

After paying the check and saying goodbye to everyone, you made your way to Atlas’s car, quickly getting inside to get away from the cold. You could tell something was a bit off as he got inside after you.

“Is everything okay?” You asked as he started the car, sighing to himself.

“Does Bucky still have feelings for you? He just seemed uncomfortable at first and I don’t want your friends to hate me,” he said with no hesitation.

If you were being honest, you weren’t completely sure how to answer. You didn’t know if Bucky still had feelings or how strong they were if he did. You just knew he accepted your decision to move on with no hesitation.

“I- I don’t know,” you responded truthfully. “Bucky and I were together for a really long time, it’s not something that one can get over really quickly—”

“Are you completely over it?” He interrupted you. “It doesn’t seem like he is, but now I need to know if you are.”

“I will always love Bucky, Atlas,” you countered. “Nothing is gonna change that; he’s still one of my best friends. But he knows you and I are together and was accepting and supportive of it. There’s nothing to worry about.”

Atlas hummed. “Okay, Y/n. I trust you.”

Deciding against saying anything for the rest of the night, you kept your thoughts to yourself. The tension was undeniable, and even as you decided to stay over at his dorm, you stayed awake with your thoughts. You weren’t second guessing anything, that was certain, but did Bucky still have feelings for you? 

No, no. He couldn’t. He didn’t give the impression that he did. 

Looking behind you to see Atlas sound asleep, you got out of his bed, grabbed your phone, and made your way out to the kitchen. Scrolling through your messages with Bucky as you poured yourself a glass of water, your finger hovered over the call button. Looking back to see Atlas’s bedroom door shut, you looked back at your phone and pressed the button before bringing the phone up to your ear.

It rang three times before he picked up.

“Hello?” Bucky responded, the grogginess in his tone letting you know he was asleep. His voice still sounded soothing when he woke up. “Y/n? Is everything okay?”

Shaking your thoughts away, you responded. “Hey, yeah, everything’s fine. I just wanted to talk to you.”

“At…” He paused for a second. “2AM?”

“Yeah, sorry,” you facepalmed. “I didn’t see the time, I just haven’t been able to sleep.”

“What do you wanna talk about?” he moved the conversation back to its original topic, his usual effort of not wanting you to lose your train of thought. You could hear him shuffling, probably sitting up in bed or moving to lay on his back.

You could picture him in your mind, with his disheveled hair, rubbing his eyes as he usually did when he was woken up abruptly, trying his best to stay awake though he almost always ended up falling asleep again subconsciously. 

“I just… wanted to ask you something.”

“Where are you right now?”

“I’m at Atlas’s dorm, but he’s sleeping right now,”

“Hm,” he hummed instantly, but he was also probably drifting off to his slumber again. “What’s your question, prinţesă?”

He knew you loved when he called you that.

“Um, well,” you started, shifting in your brain to see how best to phrase what you wanted to ask. “Atlas had asked me earlier if you still had feelings for me and I hadn’t really thought about it but, of course, I want you two to get along. I mean— I want him to get along with all of you, but especially you since you mean a lot to me and I know that we have history, so… I guess I just wanted to ask if there were still any feelings there. I was just wondering, I think.”

Silence.

But you could make out Bucky’s soft breathing, meaning he fell asleep with his phone in his hand, probably next to his head on his pillow like he would set it up when you’d sleep on the phone together when too far apart from each other.

“Buck? Did you fall asleep?”

“Hm?” he hummed softly again. “What was your question, prinţesă?” 

His words were a little slurred, filled with drowsiness.

“It’s okay, Bucky, I can just ask you tomorrow. Before the SGA meeting?”

“Mhm,” he whispered. “That sounds good, sweetheart.”

Biting down on your lip at his sudden boldness with the pet names, ones he hadn’t called you so often lately, you sighed to yourself. 

“Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow then,” you said as he hummed again. “Goodnight, Bucky.”

“Goodnight, prinţesă. I love you.”

“I love you too,” you said with no hesitation, though you didn’t think much of it. 

Hanging up the phone, you finished the rest of your water before heading back to bed. Atlas was still asleep, and you figured you weren’t going to get much of it tonight. Part of you wished Bucky was the one laid up next to you, but that was the part of you that you were trying to ignore for the past few weeks. 

You and Bucky weren���t together anymore. And that was it.

You just hoped he wouldn’t remember your impulsive call in the morning.

-

tags: @jessybarnes @cjand10 @blulemonades @sebsgirl71479 @eclecticpatrolroadlawyer @a-serene-place-to-be @paulasocean @rebloggingmyrecs @sarapolare

[siderealscribblings]

“I am ninety-nine percent sure I know who Chat Noir is.”

It was a heck of a thing to drop out of the blue, but since Marinette revealed her identity to Ladybug, Marinette had gotten used to Alya texting or calling at odd hours with sudden revelations.

(“THAT’S how you knew Lila was lying?!”)

(“So when you skipped on our hangout sess a few months ago, was it because-”)

(“I’m just saying, I know I guy who might be able to doxx Hawk Moth.”)

Unlike her usual stunning revelations though, this one was not one Marinette already knew.

“Okay,” Marinette said, blinking to keep her eyes from completely bugging out of their sockets. “How do you-”

“I just felt like I should be honest, you know?” Alya chuckled. “Since...you know-”

“Yeah, no...thanks,” Marinette said, slightly dazed. “I...um...how do you know?”

“Well...let’s just say I noticed a pattern,” Alya said, chewing on the corner of her lip. “Do you want to know who-”

“No,” Marinett said, before quickly adding. “I mean...it would be better to keep things between us secret for now.”

Alya opened her mouth, an argument on the tip of her tongue, but seemed to swallow it with a nod. “Okay...yeah, sure, I get it.”

“It’s not that I don’t trust him,” Marinette said quickly, maybe more for her own benefit than Alya’s. “I do! I swear! I just-”

“You don’t have to explain anything to me,” Alya said quickly.

“And he’s wanted to reveal ourselves to each other for a long time,” Marinette muttered, ignoring Alya’s easy-out. “I was the one who insisted we keep our identities secret and I’m just...really, really not looking forward to the conversation where I tell him I was the one to break our no-sharing rule...you think he’ll be mad?”

“You tell me ,” Alya said, throwing her hands up. “He’s your partner-”

“He’s going to be mad ,” Marinette moaned, burying her face in her hands. “And hurt and-”

“And...so what?” Alya asked.

“So he’s my partner and we already have this...trust...thing between us,” Marinette sighed. “Long story short the last Guardian wasn’t a very good teacher to him and he’s had to deal with being locked out of the loop before...I just worry that I keep asking him to trust me while constantly keeping secrets from him.”

“And he’s keeping one from you,” Alya said gently. “Kind of a crappy situation all around but...well, let’s just say I think he’s a really understanding guy.”

“I don’t want to be in a relationship with someone who constantly has to just understand me though,” Marinette said with a wince. “Sorry, I don’t mean to keep dumping all my Ladybaggage on you.”

“I’ll tell you if I’ve had enough,” Alya said firmly, squeezing Marinette’s wrist. “I don’t mind; really.”

If she lived another hundred years, she would never stop trying to return the kindness and understanding Alya had displayed to her since revealing her identity.

“Thanks,” Marinette said,, the movie on the screen forgotten as she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “So...n-not that I’m prying for details but...this guy you think is Chat Noir-”

“Sounds like you’re prying for details,” Alya snickered. “Don’t tell me you’re curious about him.”

“Of course I am!” Marinette huffed. “Wouldn’t you be?”

“I don’t need to be curious; I figured out my boyfriend’s identity by myself,” Alya said smugly. “You want covert deets?”

Marinette weighed her words carefully before speaking. “Is he...out of costume...when he goes home...is he happy?”

Alya’s expression was unreadable for a long moment. “Do you want the truth or...do you want me to say something that will make you feel good?”

“Well that tells me the truth probably sucks, doesn’t it?” Marinette sighed, rubbing her eyes. “He’s got...he’s got a lot of friends, right?”

“He has a...few really good ones,” Alya reasoned.

“And his family?” Marinette asked.

“His family...exists,” Alya said as diplomatically as she could. “Look, we’re treading on major spoiler territory here; can you tell me what you want to know so I can pull it out from all the other information?”

Marinette stared down at her hands thoughtfully for a moment. “...being the Guardian by myself has been one of the loneliest times in my life. I have you now; I had Master Fu for a lot longer than he did. It would make me feel better if I knew Chat Noir was...okay outside the suit. But I think you just answered my question.”

“Look, I can’t tell you how he feels,” Alya said, rubbing Marinette’s shoulder gently. “I can’t read minds, Mari...but-”

“You think I should tell him about me?” Marinette asked hesitantly.

“I think that’s your call,” Alya said. “Do you want my advice?”

“You think I should talk to him,” Marinette said, deflating a little.

“If he finds out from someone who isn’t you, it’s not gonna do wonders for the whole Trust thing you got going on,” Alya said. “And...look, I think it’s great you reached out to me. And I think whatever you want to do with your identity is your business...but I think he deserves the same opportunity to confide in someone. In fact...I think he really needs it.”

“But how do I know he’ll pick the right person?” Marinette blurted out. “What if he picks someone who Hawk Moth compromises and-”

“Didn’t you just say you trusted him?” Alya asked, stopping Marinette’s catastrophizing in her tracks.

“I do...I promise I do...but-”

“You either do or you don’t,” Alya said softly. “And telling him that you broke your rules and he can’t is not going to convince him you trust him. Saying you trust someone is like saying you’re going to work out; you don’t get the results unless you actually do it.”

“I could pick someone for him,” Marinette muttered, looking up at Alya. “Someone trustworthy.”

“Someone you trust,” Alya said. “This has to be someone he trusts. Or else what’s the point?”

“You already know though!” Marinette said.

“ Hey Chat Noir, I completely trust you with my life but also, I’m going to make the choice of who you can and can’t talk to about your personal business,” Alya said, watching Marinette’s nose wrinkle in irritation. “Tell me how that chat is going to go.”

“You know ignoring your advice is getting harder now that you know about me,” Marinette grumbled, crossing her arms.

“Ignore it if you want; just don’t be surprised if this pushes you apart,” Alya shrugged.

“It won’t, he’ll…” Marinette trailed off. “He wouldn’t stop being my partner over this, right?”

“And if he did?” Alya probed. “Just pick a new Chat Noir.”

“I don’t-” Marinette swallowed, shaking her head. “No...I don’t want another Chat Noir.”

“Then you’re going to have to keep this one,” Alya said, squeezing her shoulder. “That means being honest and fair with your partner; if not about your identity, then about his .”

Marinette nodded mutely, turning her gaze back to the movie as Alya stood up. “Want something from the kitchen?”

“I’m good,” Marinette said, fidgeting with her bracelet as she tried not to dread the conversation she knew she had to have.

---

To his credit, the storm of accusations she imagined would come out of Chat Noir’s mouth did not come; Ladybug might have felt better if they did.

Instead, her partner looked dazed, blinking and nodding as his gaze turned away from her. “...okay-”

“I swear this is not about you,” Ladybug said quickly, tugging on Chat Noir’s arm as he turned away from her. “And it doesn’t mean I don’t trust you! I swear I do.”

“No I...I understand,” Chat Noir said, the cheer in his voice becoming more and more forced. “Um...you know, I-I have a lot of homework to do tonight-”

“Chat...please look at me,” Ladybug said, tilting her partner’s face towards hers. Of course she had made him cry, but she tried to push down her guilt. This wasn’t about what she did; given the same choice, she would have picked Alya again, even if it meant hurting Chat Noir in the process.

“I know I don’t have a lot of opportunities to display how much I trust you,” Ladybug said, licking her lips. “So it probably feels like I just tossed aside a huge chance to show how much you mean to me...but this was about me doing what I needed-”

“You don’t need to...you’re the Guardian-”

“That doesn't make me your master !” Ladybug said emphatically, startling Chat Noir out of his daze. “That doesn’t mean I can control who you talk to and who you confide in! I still...I still think we’re too close and rely on each other too much to jeopardize our working relationship...but if there’s someone in your life you trust, I...I want you to have the same opportunity. To confide in someone you trust.”

“Not you though,” Chat Noir muttered.

“There has to be someone else,” Ladybug said almost desperately. “Tell me I’m not the only person in your life you can rely on…”

Alya had been such a positive force in her life since she had told her; she thought back to all the times they had stayed up late talking, all the times Alya had listened to her vent about akuma, all the nights she held her hand because she had watched Chat Noir die to save her yet again.

Was there no one Chat Noir could turn to when he was alone?

Chat Noir seemed to chew it over for a long moment, blinking back tears still as he tried to grapple with the fact his relationship with Ladybug had shifted out from underneath him yet again. “...do I have to tell you who it is?”

“I think it’s better if you don’t,” Ladybug said softly. “Sorry...if I knew who you trusted, I might be able to figure out who you are. This way...I’m not the only one keeping secrets-”

“I don’t want to keep secrets,” Chat Noir grumbled.

“I know,” Ladybug sighed. “And I promise, I swear, the minute Hawk Moth is gone, there will be no more secrets between us! This... mess of half-truths and half-lies will end and we can just be-”

The idea of being something to Chat Noir outside the mask was something not even Alya knew; a secret all her own that might never come to light.

“This is just for now,” Ladybug said firmly. “Not forever.”

Chat Noir nodded, once again resigned to a fate someone else had picked for him. “I get it...I do.”

“Are you mad at me?” Ladybug asked.

Chat Noir weighed the answer for a long moment. “...no,” Chat Noir said with a shrug. “Just...can we pick this up some other time? I wasn’t kidding about the homework.”

For the first time there was a real wall between her and Chat Noir and Ladybug was shocked by how much she detested it.

“I understand,” Ladybug said quietly. “But I meant what I said when I said you should find someone to turn to. I wish I could help you with everything, but-”

“For now...you can’t,” Chat Noir nodded, putting on a brave face. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Ladybug let Chat Noir slip out of her fingertips, momentarily reaching out to pull him back before thinking better of herself. She didn’t expect him to be sunshine and rainbows after telling him, but as firm as she was in her convictions, it still sucked to see him in pain.

Just deal with it yourself like he has to, Ladybug thought as she watched Chat Noir turn and dive off the roof of the building. Alya’s had enough on her plate...you don’t need to bother her with-

Her resolve lasted until she transformed, blinking back tears as she pulled her phone out of her pocket.

---

“Did I do the right thing?”

Alya said nothing, running her hands through Ladybug’s hair as she laid her head on her lap.

“Sometimes...doing the right thing hurts people as a result,” Alya said carefully. “It’s just a sucky part of life.”

“I hate it,” Ladybug sniffed, wiping her eyes with another tissue. “I think he thinks I love keeping secrets from him but...I really hate it. It makes me feel so alone...and I don’t want him to feel that way either.”

“And he can figure out how to feel less alone himself now,” Alya said soothingly. “This guy...I know he has at least one really great friend.”

“Like you?”

“...maybe a little better,” Alya said fondly. “I know he’d move earth to put a smile on Chat Noir’s face, so maybe let this problem fall in his lap instead of yours. You don’t have to do everything to make everyone happy all the time.”

“I want to,” Ladybug muttered.

“ Everybody includes you ,” Alya said firmly. “Take care of yourself first ; let Chat Noir take care of himself now.”

“I worry about him though,” Ladybug said quietly.

Alya glanced down at her phone, seeing a message from Nino flash on her screen.

Nino: hey babe

Nino: can’t make it tonight

Nino: adrien sounds really upset and said he wanted to talk to me about something

“Don’t." Alya smiled as she laid the phone on the bed beside her. “He’s in good hands.”

Ao3