#ever ever under any circumstances come out of his mouth of his own volition

[skrunksthatwunk]

some yyh textposts (pt 2, pt 3, pt 4, pt 5, pt 6, pt 7, pt 8, pt 9)

[likesunsetorange]

from what i have outlined, this would be from the first chapter, it's a little long (~2.5k words) but i wanted to include the whole scene, so hope y'all enjoy! (also unedited so don't fight me if there's any typos lol)

anyways, happy new year's and i'm super excited to share this au with y'all this year!

cw: mentions of drugging a person (mostly just the benadryl thing lol)

Eren hated the club. 

Strobe lights irritated his eyes because they always caused him migraines; the pungent aroma of alcohol and the sensation of sweat clinging to his body always made him feel disgusted; and the excess amount of people, bodies crammed against one another, was enough to make his eye twitch with rage. 

Eren shouldn’t be here. He hated the club. He would never be here out of his own volition. Especially after 3 AM, when he should be fast asleep, sinking into the four hundred thread count sheets of Mikasa’s guest room bed, Caro tucked beside him taking up half the bed like she was a human and not a dog. 

But here he was shoving through crowds of drunken bodies, his head pounding, his vision blurry, and he was almost certain he was borderline hallucinating all because of her.

Eren tried to give Mikasa the benefit of the doubt—he pitied her situation, how could he not? A life that consisted of people constantly controlling your each and every move, and here comes yet another person that your family is forcing to do just that onto you. He tried to give Mikasa her space—he only made polite small talk in passing, accompanied her to her destinations of choice from an appropriate distance, and didn’t bother her whenever it wasn’t necessary. But despite his best efforts at trying to maintain the peace, her disdain for him was evident, she didn’t bother to hide it—from the constant scowls, her constantly exasperated demeanor, and the frequent insults she threw his away under her breath (Re: Jersey trash)—but at the very least, he hoped that she could to tolerate him eventually seeing as though Eren would be living with her for the foreseeable future, and it would both of their lives easier coexisting harmoniously. 

But hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, and Mikasa had made it abundantly clear that she felt she had been slighted. And even if Eren was only a pawn in her family’s doing, she wouldn’t partake in any of their little games, and if that meant Eren became collateral in the process, then so be it. 

Eren was partially to blame, he should have known better, Levi had warned him beforehand that Mikasa was not one to be trifled with, and he should’ve seen it coming from the shift from a mere displeasure by his presence to a sudden interest in his overall wellbeing.

Eren had been easily fooled by the way her usually razor-sharp steel eyes had finally looked at him with a softness he had yet to witness from her, leaving him in a little bit of a daze. The way her perfectly plush lips mouthed his name, different than anyone else ever had—the N at the end soft, almost as if she was omitting it all together. And how could he not feel the tiniest pang in his heart when her light grey eyes looked up at him with so much tenderness when she asked: “Eren, are you feeling okay?” 

Mikasa claimed she noticed his energy beginning to run low and she heard his sniffles increase over the last few days, the adjustment to the New York City air probably weighing heavy on his body—assuming it would only be a matter of days before he drew ill. And Mikasa seemed so sweet, so intensely saccharine, when she told him she’d cancel all her plans for the rest of the day, not wanting to force him out the house. 

Mikasa went the whole nine yards— ordered takeout for the two of them, even making conversation with him that was more than their usual small talk, seeming genuinely interested in Eren for once. He couldn’t help but admire her newfound amicability, hoping that at the very least they could be cordial despite her overall displeasure with the circumstances. He even found himself enjoying her presence, finally getting to take her in outside of the few glances he ever got in passing. Mikasa truly was something like no other—even in her cute pink silken pajamas, he couldn’t deny she had to be one of the prettiest girls he’d ever seen. But she was technically his boss, so he'd tuck those thoughts away and at least be thankful that God had taken his time to make someone like her.

Eventually, after a bit of arguing on her part, Mikasa sent him to bed with a handful of pills Eren didn’t bother to ask about the contents of, insisting he take medicine before he got any worse, even if he did feel okay. She bid him a good night and well wishes, placing a gentle caress to his arm, a soft look on her face before she even offered him an apology for how bad she had treated him over the last week. It seemed like things were finally looking up for the two of them, so Eren returned her kind looks and thanked her for all her help, going to sleep with the faintest hint of a smile on his face, lulled quickly to sleep by a medicine-induced haze despite it only being 8.

And so Eren couldn’t even be that mad—she had truly put on a class act—Mikasa had played him, and she had played him well. His mom always told him he was so easily flattered—a sucker for pretty women who bat their pretty lashes, gave him sweet smiles, and made him feel good—and Mikasa Ackerman had done so little for him to melt like putty into her hands. 

He found himself waking up in the middle of the night, almost incoherent, his vision plagued by small black spots and drenched in sweat. Eren struggled to maintain his balance as he stumbled through the house, Mikasa nowhere to be found, locating a box of Benadryl Extra Strength tucked away in one of the cabinets of Mikasa’s kitchen. Three tablets were missing, contrary to the recommended one tablet dosage, and Eren was certain that Mikasa had all the hopes those three little pills would have knocked him out for the remainder of the night.

It took all the concentration in Eren’s body, fighting against the exhaustion that plagued his body from all the medications coursing through his veins (how he managed to wake up he was still unsure) and the small black dots that danced across his vision, to try and figure out where Mikasa was. He somehow managed to log into her MacBook (her password thankfully being her birthday) and managed to track her phone to some club in SoHo. 

The anger began bubbling up within him as Hannes drove him to where Mikasa was, enraged at the fact that not only did she try and drug him, but she had put on a front, pretending to be nice, for the sole fact that she wanted to go out and party. Eren regret giving her the benefit of the doubt—Mikasa was exactly who he she showed herself to be, a spoiled rich girl who would do anything to get what she wanted.

So as Eren threaded through the crowd of people, scanning the masses for her. It was only a matter of time before he caught wind of her signature ribbon at the bar, the strobe lights making it gleam different shades of the rainbow. She turned around shortly after, his eyes meeting her gaze, her lips turning up in smugness at the sight of him before taking another sip of whatever pink concoction she had in her perfectly manicured hands, as if she was almost taunting him. Years of attending Catholic school lead Eren to have a preconceived notion that the devil was this depiction of all things evil—something that was worth cowering in fear at the sight of. After years of seeing depictions on and portrayals on TV and all the stories from myths and legends, Eren always believed the devil would be vicious and scary, but no, the devil isn’t some demon, or succubus alike.

No, the devil is 5’6”, wears shiny satin ribbons in her hair, drinks fruity pink cocktails, and sports a smile that’s so sickeningly sweet it could convince a man to do anything. And if Eren hadn’t been seething with anger, through vision that was clouded with Benadryl-induced hallucinations and scarlet colored anger, hell, he’d even say she was cute.

Eren was in front of her before he knew it, his larger figure caging her in between the bar, Mikasa looking up at him innocently, feigning on the side of ignorance to the situation.

“Hi, Eren,” she quipped, her lips still upturned, the pink of her lips sparkling under the strobe lights from whatever gloss she happened to be wearing. “Didn’t expect to see you here,” she added innocently, stirring her drink as if Eren’s presence was taking away from her fun.

Eren could feel his eye twitch, it had been so long since he had felt so angry, but it seemed as if in the week since she had met him, Mikasa had become an expert of just exactly how to get under his skin. He took a deep breath before he spoke, his jaw clenching through every word, wasting no time for her silly games. “We’re leaving, Mikasa.”

“You’re no fun, don’t you wanna stay a while? C’mon, Eren, loosen up a bit. I think you could use a break,” her free hand running along the slope of his arm. Eren could feel the chills run down his spine, but this wasn’t the time—he was angry, and he needed to focus.

“First you spend the entire week insulting me and treating me like absolute shit, then you pretend to be nice to me even bothering to give me a sorry ass apology, and then you drug me? And you couldn’t even bother to use something useful? Benadryl? Your parents are drowning in money, and you decide to knock me out with over-the-counter drugs?” His words coming out more in disbelief than in anger, his voice growing louder as he tried to speak over the music blaring through the speakers.

All Mikasa did was roll her eyes, setting her drink on the counter behind her, apparently growing bored of all her little games. “Sorry for being considerate and not drugging you with actual drugs, Eren. Next time I’ll remember to go for the hard stuff—don’t worry.”

“Glad you’re so sweet, Mikasa. I should be so thankful I have a boss as considerate as you,” he glared. “Now let’s go.”

“No,” she responded, crossing her arms, her eyes returning to the signature glare Eren had grown accustomed to over the past week.

Eren could feel the migraine settling in, the noises and lights being the starting point, and Mikasa’s failure to comply being the cherry on top. He closed his eyes and took one last breath, trying to prevent the anger from getting the best of him. Eren took one step forward, putting only a few inches in between him and Mikasa, forcing her back against the bar counter. His face was anything but amused, but Mikasa seemed to not be relenting.

“We can do this the easy way or the hard way, Mikasa, your choice. Now let’s go,” he repeated, but Mikasa only doubled down at his words, standing firm in her place, steel eyes locking with green, her mouth pinched into a scowl.

Eren shook his head, upset about the circumstances as a whole, but also that it had come to this. With a swift movement, Eren had his arms wrapped around Mikasa’s waist, lifting her up onto her shoulder. His arms moved to secure her legs in place, her head and arms hanging behind him.

Mikasa let out a shriek as Eren made his way towards the exit a string of expletives coming out of her mouth. Bystanders watched in confusion, unsure whether or not to interfere in the pair’s altercation. Eren simply waved off their concerned looks, mouthing She’s drunk, to which most people nodded in understanding and resumed their drinking and dancing.

“You fucking jackass—let me go!” Mikasa yelled from above him, squirming in his tight grip as he approached the club exit. “Plus I need my fucking coat it’s fucking freezing outside!” 

“Should’ve thought about that before you fucking drugged me. And tough shit, you have daddy’s credit card, just buy yourself a new one, princess.”

Eren readjusted her on his shoulder, his grip only tightening through Mikasa’s attempted escapes. He gave the bouncer a nod as he walked out, the man apparently unphased by Mikasa’s antics. “I swear to God, Eren. Put—” Hit. “Me—” Hit. “Down—” A final blow. 

He winced in pain as Mikasa’s small hands threw punch after punch against his back, her hits stronger than he could have anticipated. But Eren could see the car, only fifty feet away, and he wasn’t willing to let her win, at least not this round.

“What did we learn today? We don’t do what? C’mon Mikasa, enlighten me. Please,” he replied, ignoring her requests, and pretending she wasn’t leaving palm shaped welts along the length of his back. He took her silence as a means for him to continue, “We don’t sneak out of the fucking house when there are active hits against our family members, and we don’t drug our body guards, just so we can get drunk at the fucking club. Hope this could help.”

“You’re a sick bastard, go back where the fuck you came fro—” her words cut off by Eren roughly placing her back onto the ground. She stumbled as she tried to regain her footing on her heeled boots, her hands instantly going to shield herself from the cold New York air. Eren lugged off his jacket, roughly placing it on her, not wanting to hear anything else come out of her mouth.

“Are you done with all the insults, or do you wanna stand in the cold and keep yelling at me?”

“Fuck you, Eren.”

“You’re not really my type, princess.”

Mikasa scowled before releasing a pained huff, throwing his jacket onto the floor. She stomped the few feet to the car door Eren held open for her, sending one last glare his way before she slammed the door in his face. 

The entire drive home, he could hear her muttering how much she hated her family, how she was pissed off at the fact they hired him, and how much she hated the pathetic excuse of a mall cop they hired from sorry ass Jersey to be her bodyguard. And rather than take offense to any of her insults, all Eren could think about was how much that feeling of hatred was beginning to feel extremely mutual.

[get-shiggy-with-it]

Scream Therapy

Pairing: Tomura Shigaraki x gender neutral!reader

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: extremely vague allusions to mental illness, metaphors about wounds, angst with a relieving ending, let me know if i’ve missed something

AO3 mirror

So you know those tiktoks where people go out into the woods and scream? Just like expel all the shit that’s been holding them down into an open field and let the earth reclaim all their dark, restless energy? Reveal the burdens that have been creaking in their joints and trapped in the prison of their ribs for the trees to swallow?

I’ve been thinking about that and Shigaraki a lot. 

Like the rest of the league too, but mostly Shigs. 

Just imagine: 

It’s late, it always is when shit is going down at the hideout. The League of Villains is practically nocturnal at this point. Shigaraki’s mind is a loud place—lot’s of rabid, train tearing down the track lines of thought that clatter and roar and gush toxic coal smoke.

So as annoyed as he makes himself out to be, he doesn’t actually mind the din of the bar all that much. Twice and Toga chattering in the corner, random bits of too loud laughter and the clink of Kurogiri polishing glasses as he tells off Dabi for the umpteenth time about smoking inside—hell, even Compress rambling about the health benefits of high quality wine to nobody in particular is somewhat...comforting?

That’s not quite the right word, but their noise settles around him a bit like a thick quilt and dampens the rampage inside his head for a while.

He thinks about a lot of things.

Some good, most bad, all obsessive. He’ll get stuck in these loops sometimes, small questions evolve into bigger, more complicated webs, and suddenly it’s been four hours and he’s done nothing but stare at the same spot on the wall just left of his desktop monitor.

Sleep is a terrifying venture for much the same reason. Once he gets caught in that cycling it’s so hard to break out, and that’s when he’ll stumble down the stairs and sequester himself away at the end of the bar.

There he will sit and listen to the incessant white noise of his team—which is frustrating too but infinitely better than whatever anxiety coated sludge his brain will come up with if left to its own devices, so he bears it.

And then there’s you.

Who you are isn’t entirely important.

Maybe you’re just another member of the League, dedicated to helping your boss spread villainy across the city. Maybe you’re a morally ambiguous civilian who just stumbled in much like a stray cat into a depressed college student’s apartment and simply never left.

Whatever the circumstances, where you came from doesn’t matter.

To him, your contributions to the din are just another layer of insulation against the storm. He couldn’t really care less what you do, or where you go when you weren’t there. As long as your voice could offer a different type of grating against his ears than the silent throbbing of his head when he is alone, then your presence is justified.

Shigaraki only takes notice of you when you leave, when your voice is no longer adding to the uproar drowning out whatever new thought spiral he was trying to claw his way out of.

It’s very late then. That odd, in between time when it’s closer to the sunrise than to it’s setting but somehow also the darkest portion of the night. Of course, it’s never totally dark—not with all the light pollution laying an ever present, glowing haze across the horizon—but it’s as close as it gets out here to pitch black.

He catches the tail end of your coat, a glimpse of your shoe soles as you slip up the stairs and climb the wrought iron ladder that leads to the roof. Shigaraki often catches himself wondering how you figured out exactly how to avoid each board that creaked. He thinks sometimes it’s because you like going unnoticed, that too much attention makes you feel just as shaky as he gets when he’s been inside his head too long. Or possibly you just don’t want to wake anyone up in the rare moments that some League members are actually asleep.

Regardless, he watches you go and feels strangely...compelled to follow and because he rarely feels compelled to do anything unless it’s furthering the downfall of hero society, he does.

He takes an unsteady step, then another until the brisk, cusp-of-summer air is washing over him. It bites through his thin black top and the worn holes in his jeans, but the sting feel likes something.

And since he almost always feels nothing at all, it’s good.

You’re stood a few feet from the edge of the building, where the ledge has begun to crumble away from age and poor maintenance. The wind is strong enough that it makes your limp arms sway by your sides. Shigaraki is so thin now, he’s almost afraid for a moment it might blow him away. He’s found himself feeling so insubstantial as of late, it’s shocking when his feet don’t lift off from the roof entirely. He crosses the distance towards you slowly. 

If you hear him approaching, you don’t show it.

Normally he wouldn’t start a conversation of his own volition but he did follow you up here and the silence is getting a bit deafening, even with the breeze.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

It’s simple, but it’s all he can think to say. Funny, with how many words that run through his head, he can never find the right ones when he wants them.

You turn then, and your face is...well it’s a face. He tends not to look at people’s faces much—doesn’t want to see their expressions when they look at him, but from what he can tell you aren’t upset that he’s here at least.

“I love the city at night.”

That’s all you offer in response and he knows somehow that you’ll keep talking even if he doesn’t answer. That you know how much he hates the quiet but can’t ever fill it himself.

“When you’re up high enough, you can pretend the streetlights are stars,” you divulge, as if it’s some sort of great, long kept secret.

Maybe it is.

Maybe you have a lot of secrets. You seem to him like the type of person who would. Who keeps life changing truths tucked under your tongue to drop suddenly over convenience store dinners and cheap beer.

He thinks that maybe he’d like to know them.

“It’s always so alive during the day, the streets I mean,” you continue, eyes trained out on the buildings below, tracing constellations from block to block. “But I can’t shake the feeling that it’s rotting too like….”

You trail off and don’t finish the thought, but you don’t have to. He knows what you mean: like the city is a wound that’s festering. That all the people and the heroes that corral them like cattle are just an infection waiting to spread.

“What are you doing here?” he asks again, because he hasn’t been able to come up with anything else.

Your gaze flits over his face this time, and Shigaraki almost misses the small smile that plays at your lips. He’s close enough now that you could touch him, and you almost do, shoulders just inches away from brushing. But you don’t close the gap.

You touch the others, a lot actually, though he gets the sense you’re the type to ask first. And with his mind running on overdrive every waking second, he gets overstimulated easily. He should probably be thankful you aren’t as familiar with him. That you bother to notice the distance he keeps even when he rarely pays you any mind.

Maybe you’re thankful for that too.

“You know, scream therapy is a very effective and cheap alternative to professional intervention,” you say matter of factly in response.

He waits for you to continue and you do.

“There’s no one out this late but heroes on patrols and they won’t come to help us, so this is a perfect opportunity to give it a try.”

He can feel his brow knitting together and you raise your hand for a second as if to smooth your thumb over the wrinkled skin. Shigaraki doesn’t move, but watches your fingers pause in mid motion and drop back down.

There’s a strange charge in the air between you—a spark he distantly wishes would ignite if only so he could stop churning in his gut.

“How do you do it?”

He’s never asked so many questions of anyone in his life. But he finds he truly wants to know.

And you’re the one that can show him.

You breathe deeply beside him, letting your eyes drift shut and taking a step towards the ledge. With hands balled into righteous little fists, you bend a bit at the waist and you...scream.

Shigaraki isn’t quite sure what he’d expected, but for some reason it wasn’t that.

He’s heard shouts before, cries for help or out of fear, but nothing like this. The sound seems to bubble up from some deep, dank pit inside you and bursts forth from your mouth like a geyser spewing boiling water from the earth. It’s long and low and loudloudloud. It isn’t a sound he could ever imagine you making, but it rumbles in his chest as if it’s his own.

Just watching has a weight lifting from his shoulders.

You keep going even when he knows you should have run out of air. But you aren’t really making the noise, you’re just letting it escape. He’s not sure how he knows that but he does.

Your voice cracks and snaps and rages forth and you scream in a way he feels in his very bones. The garbled, awful sound is so clearly understandable despite the wind that carries it away.

It says: I am free and young and can feel none of it.

And then it’s words. Words that tumble from you in a torrent.

About your family, about what’s been done to you, what you’ve done to yourself.

About the lies and the injustice of it all.

You’re heaving by the end, deflated as though all the screams had left behind an empty space—an abscess drained and ready to heal over or fill back up.

“It’s your turn.”

Shigaraki stares at you, silhouetted by the dull, silver glow of the city and panting. You both look at each other for a moment, reveling in the odd connection that sometimes forms between strangers who know far too much about each other.

He doesn’t think he could top that, but the energy you’ve created is invigorating and he’s determined to ride the wave while he has it.

Taking a step, he joins you by the ledge again, and you back up as if allowing him into the spotlight. The wind will swallow whatever he says, it will eat the words like a starving behemoth and he finds himself ready to feed the beast.

He has to dig deep, scratch at old sores to make them bleed again, tear at scabs so he can let the contaminating thoughts leak out. Once he feels like he’s breached far enough, Shigaraki takes a breath.

And he screams.

His body doubles over with the strength of it, foot slamming down onto the roofing and four fingers fisted in the hem of his shirt.

It hurts coming out, rips at his vocal chords and has his throat raw to bleeding after just the first few seconds but he pushes past it.

He wonders if this is what a runner's high feels like, when you’ve pushed beyond the side stitches and knee aches and your blood finally rushes with all those elusive feel good chemicals he never has enough of.

Whatever it is, the feeling is addicting.

Shigaraki is dimly aware of you in his peripheral, encouraging the tsunami thoughts in his head to be thrust out into the uncaring arms of the city skyline.

Surprisingly, he doesn’t have to search for the words. They simply come. All his frustrations, some he wasn’t even conscious of, spill fresh and steaming like blood. Physically, his body remains but somewhere in the depths of his mind he is younger and hurt and alone and trying desperately to scream.

“I destroy everything I touch!” he roars at the apathetic, grey sidewalk below.

After the last word leaves him, he feels the same weightlessness he’d seen in the sag of your shoulders. The same snapping of the coil slack in his spine.

And suddenly, with this glorious, awful sense of revelation, Shigaraki realizes that everything in his head has gone quiet.

He’s over taken by a silence that requires no filling, a peace that he’d imagined only existed at the bottom of abandoned wells, far away from any chubby child’s hands that may toss foolish wishes down them.

He thinks about kissing you then.

And he knows now that this thought has always been there, but it was drowned like a subway rat in the aftermath of the hurricane brewing in his brainstem. He has always noticed you no matter how hard you try to blend into the background. Your voice has always been a bit better at shutting out the unending, worthless choir in his head.

He wouldn’t have followed anyone else up here—not Dabi, not Spinner, not Compress or even Kurogiri.

He can see that now. In this new enlightened state, everything is so much clearer. Though he is quickly thrust back into the present, into his body once again, as another kind of soft weight settles on his shoulders. Your coat is skin warmed and smells like you and everything he’s ever loved in his own screwy little way. He realizes then that you’ve been trying to talk to him this whole time.

“Shigs,” you call again and tuck the coat tighter around his shoulders, “you were shaking.”

Shigaraki nods, feeling relief from the cold he hadn’t quite been aware of till now. He’s not sure if you’ve ever addressed him so informally before, but he decides he likes the nickname.

It feels a bit like a gift.

“Better, yeah?”

He’s not really sure if it’s better, but it is different and it’s been impossibly long since anything has been different, so he thinks it must be good.

“Yes,” he says.

It’s a general yes, both to your question and to you, whatever that might mean. He doesn’t say anything more because he’s done enough talking and you nod like you understand.

Neither of you moves to leave the roof, but you do inch closer to him this time, closing the gap and tucking him into your side. Your arm is slung gently across his shoulders and he finds the weight of it relieving.

That seems like it shouldn’t make since but it does—a paradox of sorts, weight being a comfort.

Then the sun begins to rise and it’s as if he’s seeing you in a new light.

Your profile outlined by the stark daybreak rays, so horribly strong despite the scream he knows is forming again under the surface.

And Shigaraki wonders if you see him that way too.

[persephone-andromeda]

Three Words (ii)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Word count: 1.4k

Summary:  Three words shatters the potential for a relationship but will it be able to recover?

Warnings: Angst, reader calls Bucky ‘James’, fluff at the end, reader cleans his arm????

A/N: ANYWAYS GUESS WHO FORGOT TO UPDATE THIS FIC....Me. Lmao here’s part two and the final of this two parter. Enjoy!

He’s gone before you work up the courage to face him. You made progress yesterday by being in the same room with him but by the time you opened your mouth to speak, he left the room. You don’t blame him. You hurt him and you deserve it. Wanda doesn’t agree but while she can see everything that’s happened, she can’t understand, not really.

That’s why you don’t bother telling anyone. Why would you when no one can truly understand what you’ve been through? James can’t but you don’t want him to. He isn’t the only one.

So you wait and stare at your phone with fingers hovering over the keys as you try to type out what you could possibly say to him that would make it better.

Me: Hi. I wanted to apologize to you.

You sigh but it is a start. It’s not like he’s going to go out of his way to talk.

Me: I know you’re busy with the mission but maybe after you come back, we could talk? If you want to because I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to hate me forever.

You can practically hear Wanda’s voice chastising you for typing that out. You’re glad she isn’t here to give you a lecture on it. No guilt tripping. That won’t make anything better. You backtrack.

Me: I know you’re busy with the mission but maybe after you come back, we could talk? I owe you an explanation.

It feels too intimate, even though it’s simple and to the point. It shouldn’t all just be in one conversation either… You backtrack again.

Me: I know you’re busy with the mission but maybe after you come back…

You huff and toss your phone down on the bed. There was no using overthinking it. You’d look at it again tomorrow. You look at the clock in your room, 9:12 pm, and you sigh again. You switch off the lamp and decide to try to sleep.

But you wish that Wanda was here to help. 5 days without her soothing presence has been watching a papercut bleed out and you’re too tired to put a Band-Aid on to try to stop it. You’re too tired for anything these days, even before she left. But that night on the roof stargazing was the first time you felt okay. You laughed, smiled and were content in the silence. You never should have left.

You jump when you hear the voices coming from the hallway and it takes you a moment to realize that you had fallen asleep. You sit up and look at the time, 2:43 am. At least you got some. You sit up and once you get to the door, you realize that you didn’t even feel for the safety of the knife under your pillow. You swallow and sit with that realization for a moment before you open the door.

The voices are quieter now, but you can hear Wanda from the living room so that’s where you head. But you stop once you see that she isn’t alone. Sam is arguing with Steve while Wanda is attempting to calm them down.

“This isn’t helping!” She practically shouts. “We need to remind him that-”

She stops as she senses you lingering. She nudges Same and Steve towards your figure and you cast your eyes around the room before you land on James in the corner. Even from your place, you can tell that something has happened. He’s being too meticulous in cleaning his arm. Before you know it, you’re there with him.

“Let me do it. You’ll get cotton fibers stuck again.” You almost demand, knowing that he will.

He looks up at you and even in the dim lighting, the shattered pieces of his soul stare back at you. It’s been a long time since you’ve seen that. He hands it to you and you turn on the lamp between you as you start to clean.

You still hear the other three bickering, but their voices are quieter than before. There isn’t a lot to clean but you’re still careful to avoid getting anything stuck in his arm.

“They knew me,” he says quietly.

You pause for a moment but then start cleaning again.

“HYDRA agents?”

“Yes. They weren’t supposed to be there.”

While you don’t know the full details of the mission, you know that there have been whispers of a few remaining small cells of HYDRA operatives lingering and operating. They must have been investigating one or another operation in close proximity.

“Did you have to turn?”

The plates tighten a bit and you’re glad you moved the cloth away in time. That means yes. Once the plates loosen again, you go back in.

“It isn’t you fault, you know,” you start, and you know he’s going to interrupt so you look up at him. “James, let me finish.”

He shuts his mouth ad you go back down to clean the last remaining spots.

“It will never be your fault. Choice was taken from you, as it was from me. We were both made into something monstrous. It isn’t our faults, even though we try to justify it.” You hold his metal arm up to the light to see if there’s anywhere else you missed. “I don’t hate you. I hate my circumstances and how I feel.”

You gently let his metal arm rest on the arm of the seat as you drape the cloth on the table. You turn to see that the three have left so you turn back to him.

“I hate myself so much and sometimes I think that I won’t ever stop feeling that way. I’ve hurt so many people and some days I can’t find the strength to get out of bed.” You swallow, feeling it all start to spill out. “You’re not the only one and you’re not alone.” You sniffle.

You then start to fiddle with the locket for something to occupy your shaking hands.

“This locket is the only proof I have that I was normal, that I had a family. It is my greatest treasure, and I don’t ever want to forget this again because then they’ll win.”

You look away from him because you know he’s looking at you. You wipe your eyes and clear your throat. You try to shove the emotions back down into their cage, but everything is out there now. He knows. He might still hate you at the end, but your explanation is there. It’s up to him now.

The warmth of his flesh hand is against your wrist, but you cannot look back at him just yet.

“That is why you wanted me to ask,” he says. “You never got a choice.”

You nod.

“I know it sounds silly, but I never had a real first kiss. I wanted it to be of my own volition.”

He retracts his arm and then once you feel that you have composed yourself, you look at him.

“I understand, (Y/N).”

A weight is lifted off of your chest and just three words mean everything. So simple yet exactly what you needed. You feel the tears come again but you have to turn away to wipe them off of your face.

“I should have told you, but I was scared,” you explain as your voice wavers from emotion. “I don’t like to talk about it because no one can truly understand, not even Wanda.”

He’s quiet for a moment and you turn back to him once you can.

“She can only help so much too.”

“Yeah,” you say softly. “Any progress is progress, no matter how small.”

You can’t help but chuckle at that.

“I swear she got that off of a motivational poster or something.”

You snort and use a tissue to blow your nose.

“Maybe.” You sniffle again but you feel better. Your heart hasn’t entirely healed but it a step. Progress is progress, no matter how small. “I listen to ocean sounds sometimes to help me sleep. Maybe it’ll help you.”

He nods and then he stands with the cloth.

“I need to go clean up and sleep but…thank you.”

You look up at him and the shattered pieces are staring to come back together.

“You’re welcome, Bucky.”

You hear his footsteps depart and you look at the lamp’s light for a few moments before you hear him again.

“(Y/N)?”

You turn to find him slightly lingering in the shadows.

“Yes?”

He’s fiddling with the fraying ends of the cloth before he speaks.

“Would you like to go out sometime?”

A choice and it’s yours to take. You smile.

“Of course. I’d like that.”

His grin makes it worth it. Maybe you could say another three words in the future, better ones.

[fanficflaneuse]

Let Me See It

A/N: So this is my very first Harry Potter imagine ever (it is, in fact, my very first fanfic ever). I’ve got a few things to say before we start. First, if anyone read the very long rant I wrote the other day (my first Tumblr post ever lol), I haven’t read all the books yet and I haven’t watched all the movies either. I’m currently on the third book. Why would I write a sixth year Draco imagine when I have virtually no canon idea about it? Well, my friends, I’ve read a lot of fanfiction and imagines about it so I kind of have all the main plot points and I wanted to give it a go. It’s absolutely self indulgent. Hopefully once I’ve finished all of the books my writing gets better. Also, English is not my first language, so if you find any mistakes, please tell me and I’ll correct it :) I hope it’s not too bad and I really hope you like it. 

Details: 

Draco Malfoy x Reader (She/her pronouns...If this goes right I’ll try my best to write gender neutral as well). 

Word count: 1529 

Summary: The reader is Harry’s friend and in a secret sort of relationship with Draco. She is the one who’s hit by the sectumsempra spell and wakes up in the hospital wing to an angsty/fluffy situation. 

Warnings: my terrible writing, some angst, some fluff, perhaps a lot of wordiness, sectumsempra, soft Draco. 

When (Y/N) woke up, she felt as though she had been drowning and could finally take a breath. Her whole body ached and her chest felt tender in the worst of ways, open even. Engrossed in the sensations, she didn’t pay much attention to her surroundings at first. Then she felt the raspy fabric of the infirmary’s bed and it all came back to her. The commotion in the bathroom, spells casted and dodged, the water gushing from the broken sinks, Moaning Myrtle’s shrieks…even remembering it gave her a headache. 

When Harry had rushed to the girl’s bathroom, (Y/N) had been quick to follow him. When she got there, her best friend was already casting spells towards the boy she fancied. Draco seemed distraught. He was dishevelled and unkempt. He had grown thin and he was so pale that the bags under his eyes stood out. Shaking as he held his wand, he looked as though he was in the midst of a panic attack.

(Y/N) had noticed all of this, of course. Whenever they met he’d brush it off by telling her he was going through something rough. She had an idea of what it might have been, she had discussed it countless times with Harry (Ron and Hermione would usually dismiss them when they brought the topic up). So, when they had their secret rendezvous in the Astronomy Tower, she’d hold him as he cried. They’d talk about dreams and interests. They’d imagine different futures together. Sometimes they’d snog. Shyly or passionately, it’d feel wonderful until he’d tell her how it was dangerous for her, how he carried baggage she didn’t deserve. They weren’t a couple, but they certainly were past the “friends” category.

Seeing him standing there, standing helplessly against a sink, (Y/N) felt her heart shatter. She had to do something. Fast.

Draco wasn’t even thinking at the moment, casting spells left and right and making sure none of Potter’s hit him. Conjuring the first thing that came to mind, he was about to cast an unforgivable when he saw her, his beautiful (Y/N), standing wide eyed just a few steps away from Potter. He was about to tell her to leave when the scene unfolded in front of his eyes as if in slow motion. He saw (Y/N) running towards him, pushing him out of the way as Potter casted a spell he had never heard of. He heard her name leave Potter’s lips in a sob when she was hit. He saw her fall, lifeless, as her blood poured from her chest. He saw him running towards her, taking her in his arms. It all seemed unreal.

Then he heard Potter sobbing, babbling, begging her to wake up: “(Y/N/N), (Y/N/N) please, open your eyes. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry”.

He held her to his chest. And Draco, enraged and panicked, ran towards both of them.

“What did you do, Potter? Fix it, fix it I am begging you,” he pleaded as he tried to take (Y/N) from his arms.  She was growing paler by the minute, her uniform soaked in so much blood it made Draco sick.

“Don’t touch her, death eater,” he spat as he rocked her back and forth in his chest and sobbed.

“Fix it!” he barked.

“I…I don’t know how,” babbled Harry, holding even tighter to his best friend.

They both looked at her helplessly, hoping for a miracle. Guilt-ridden, Draco started sobbing as well. He fancied her. Merlin, he could even swear he loved her. She saw the good in him when nobody else had bothered to even try. She overlooked how nasty he had been to her friends and even to her in the past. She showed him the meaning of true friendship, opened her heart to him to give him nothing but love and care. By her side, he started considering different ways of conceiving the world. She believed in him as he evolved into a person who hated everything the mark under on his left forearm meant. In the last year and a half, (Y/N) had become the person he probably cared for the most (apart from his parents, if the Dark Mark was a testament to something). Now she was there, bleeding on the cold, wet floor of Myrtle’s bathroom as the two boys and the ghostly girl sobbed for her.

After what seemed like hours, the miracle did come…in the form of Professor Snape. He quickly chanted a counter spell he had never heard of either. Draco concluded his aunt Bellatrix wasn’t a very good teacher as she was the one who taught him every Dark spell he knew. With one icy glare, Snape got Harry to let go of (Y/N) and took her to the hospital wing. Both boys followed behind him, their bloodied clothes alarming the whole school.

Three days later, both of them were still there, glaring at each other, waiting for (Y/N) to wake up. There were times when Draco thought she’d stay in her stupor forever. He buried his face in his hands, feeling empty and guilty, until he heard a gasp. She had woken up.

Draco rushed from his seat and took her hand. Harry had done just the same. As she squeezed both their hands, Draco and Harry shared a sigh.

“I am so sorry, (Y/N/N). I didn’t – “

“Don’t even start, Harry. I’ll scold you later,” (Y/N) interrupted. Even though she felt tired, (Y/N)’s voice had a bit of playfulness in it, which humoured Harry and brought warmth into Draco’s heart. (Y/N) gave Harry a meaningful look; her way of telling him she needed to talk to the Slytherin in private. He gave her a curt nod, not very convinced, but still let go of her hand.

“I’ll come later with Ron and ‘Mione,” he said.

Draco gave him a thankful nod as Harry closed the curtain around them. His heart was pounding hard as silence engulfed them again. Their eyes met. He felt relieved that she was with him, but also uneasy and guilty. (Y/N)’s eyes travelled to his left arm. She swallowed hard.

“Let me see it,” she said, her voice devoid of emotion.

Draco held his breath. His eyebrows furrowed in sorrow. He didn’t put up a fight when (Y/N) took his arm and gently pushed his sleeve up. (Y/N) knew what she would probably find under the sleeve. She thought she was prepared. And, of course, she wasn’t. She gasped loudly as she saw the black snake protruding from a skull’s mouth. She looked at the blond Slytherin, feeling the pain and disappointment seeping from her gaze, as well as a couple of tears. He didn’t meet her eyes. He was ashamed. The guilt, the pain, and the self-hatred were eating him up.

(Y/N) saw a few tears silently slipping from his eyes and her heart broke again. Draco sobbed. He was certain he had lost her now.

“I am so sorry, (Y/N/N). They made me do it. I had no choice…He’s going to kill my parents and I can’t –,” his pathetic little apology was cut short by his sobs. He was certain he was a bad person, but having to hold himself accountable in front of the one person that truly saw him for who he was felt unbearable.

He felt (Y/N)’s fingers gently caressing the dreadful mark. He mustered all of his courage to look at her and found a sympathetic expression that made him feel better. She pulled him to her and he gave her a hug. Draco started crying again.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. This is all my fault,” he cried, bringing her closer to his chest as though she could disappear any minute.

She pushed him just a little, enough to allow her hands to travel to his face and clean his tears with her thumbs.

“Shh, Dray. Don’t cry. I know that mark isn’t you. I trust it isn’t you. I know you wouldn’t join them on your own volition,” she soothed.

(Y/N) made room for him on her bed and he slither in, careful not to hurt her in any way. He buried his face on (Y/N)’s neck as she whispered sweet nothings in his ear. She caressed his hair gently as Draco sniffled. He was still heavyhearted, but she felt like home and it made his heart swell.

“Dray”

“Yes?”

She thought about making him promise to make it right, to fight by her side. But she felt tired. Her body still ached. And, regardless of the circumstances, snuggling up to him felt wonderful. So, she closed her eyes and blurted out the first thing that came to her mind.

“I love you,” she said almost inaudibly. Draco was so close he heard alright. He couldn’t believe she had actually said those three words for the first time under the circumstances. He didn’t hesitate to answer back.

“I love you too, (Y/N/N)”.

When Madam Pomfrey came around and opened the curtain, she found both (Y/N) and Draco fast asleep. Draco’s face was very close to (Y/N)’s neck. One of her hands was still buried in his platinum hair. And they looked so peaceful, the healer could only close the curtain and let them rest.

[thelonewolf48]

Listen... I wrote this right after season 1 ended. I was so sad for not finding any posts in here about the series and I saved this piece for when I felt like posting it.And, finally, Tumblr is catching up!! And I feel like I must give you all this!

All grammar and punctuation errors are mine! Hope you like it!

-------

Mariana doesn't remember how she got to the hospital. Her brain didn't register beyond Ceci's words.

“They took mom to the hospital.”

She feels the phone slip from her hand, doesn't heart it hit the floor. Pablo approaches her, and everything becomes a blur. Flashes of reality are the only thing that moves Mariana. She grabs her purse, takes a cab, and tells the driver the hospital's name. Arrives at the reception and almost shouts 'Ana Servín' to the nurse.

Everything stops when the nurse asks her, 'are you a relative?'

A yes is ready in Mariana’s lips. But in this circumstance, is she a relative?

A friend?

After living for months at Ana's house. Caring for each other, the babies, and their families. After assuring Ana that neither the babies nor the children would be alone. That Mariana would be attentive and would take care of them as if they were her own.

After everything, they've been through. What were they?

Of course, love is there.

Mariana loves everything about Ana. From her controlling temperament to her obsession with appearances. It’s inevitable not to love someone like Ana. A successful and beautiful woman. Ready to give her everything for her family and job. Ana seems cold and snob, but once you get close and gain her trust, she gives her heart without second guesses.

In the end, Mariana suppresses the desire to say yes, we are family. The thought of lying crosses her mind. She could even say Ana was her mother. But that's not fair to Ana. Much less to her family. It's still not fair to anyone.

Once in the waiting room, she calls Ceci. Knowing how scared the girl must feel while trying to assure Ro that everything would be fine. Ceci's cries break Mariana's heart.

"Ceci. Ceci, I need you to calm down." Mariana wants to sound kind, but she also needs her calm. "Have you talked to your dad yet?"

“No,” Ceci’s voice cracks, “I thought of you when they were taking her away an-and…”

"I understand, Ceci." Mariana chokes back a sob, "but now I need you to be brave. For Ro, Regina, and Valentina. Alright?"

Ceci answers with a sound of affirmation, which sounds more like a sob.

"Call your dad. Tell him what happened and tell him I'm waiting for him here. They only allow her relatives in."

“But, you’re part of the family too.”

The sentence warms Mariana’s heart.

"I know. But our situation is hard to explain." Mariana wants to hug Ceci. "Talk to your dad. I'll wait here, and if anything happens, I'll call you. Don't worry. Your mom will be fine. Do you think Ana Servín is going to let them keep her in this place?”

The little giggle Ceci gives her soothes Mariana's anxiety a little. Yet, the worry won't pass until she sees and makes sure that Ana is okay. Until she talks to the doctor who treats her.

Juan Carlos arrives about an hour later, and Mariana doesn't know what to feel or say. He approaches her with fast and long steps. Mariana repeats what the nurses told her after she made a fuss at the front desk.

'Mrs. Servín is stable and out of danger.’

As Ana’s husband the nurses attend him immediately.

With a glance, he apologizes to Mariana before following a nurse.

While he is with Ana, Mariana ruins her nails with her teeth. She tries to distract herself. Calls Pablo and asks him to take Valentina to Ana's house. Asks him to stay with the children for a day. He replies that he already has Regina's bag ready and texted Elena about the incident. Sometimes Mariana forgets that Pablo is reliable.

Wonders if she should call Tere too.

Would that be inappropriate? She decides to send her a text. After all, Altagracia is with the kids, and Pablo would be there too. Her message is short and direct. Only to inform her mother that Regina and Pablo will be at Ana's house. That she and Juan Carlos are in the hospital because Ana had a little accident.

“She’s still asleep.” Juan Carlos sighs as he plops down next to Mariana. “The doctor said it was most likely stress. He asked me if she had been eating and sleeping well.” He rubs both hands over his face. “It's my fault.”

Mariana places her hand on Juan Carlos' shoulder as a sign of support and understanding. He gives her a sad smile.

“I’ll ask the nurse to let you in.” He holds her hand. “thank you for being here.”

He walks a few steps before turning around.

"She loves you, Mariana. She's just hurt." Mariana bites her lower lip. "If she didn't love you, she wouldn't have reacted the way she did." She tries to understand the meaning behind his words. He shoves his hands on his pants pockets.

"She needs you more than she could ever need me," he adds without looking up from the floor.

 Seeing Ana in the hospital bed feels familiar and strange at the same time.

Familiar because that's how they met. In a small hospital. Ana looking as elegant and powerful as always. And if not because her round stomach, Mariana wouldn't have known Ana was about to have a baby too.

Strange because, now, Ana looks older than she is. She looks as if she had aged ten years in few days. Dark circles under her eyes and pale skin. Her short hair unkempt.

That was the consequence of the lies three people in Ana's life kept from her.

‘It’s my fault.’ Juan Carlos words repeated in her head.

It was all their fault.

Taking Ana’s hand, Mariana leans and kisses the corner of Ana’s lips.

 Ana feels worse than she did when she accompanied Mariana to Elena’s gig. The day when her life started to go to hell.

That must be where she is now. Hell. Her punishment was to make her feel like this. It's a reasonable punishment, she thinks. Not only did she sleep with her ex-boyfriend, but she also had feelings. Feelings. For a woman much, much younger than herself.

For God’s sake!

The voice of her mother, berating her for all her mistakes, didn’t help at all.

That's when she noticed it, the weight in her right hand. Covering her eyes with her left hand. She tries to get used to the light, the dizziness, and the headache.

Once her focus on the wall didn’t make her feel sick, she turns to her right.

The machine monitoring her heart captures the exact moment when her heart skips a beat and quicken. Mariana is sitting next to her, her face propped up on the bed, one hand holding her own hand. Ana blames the painkillers for clouding her mind. For making the first coherent thought be how beautiful Mariana looked while sleeping. With a loose ponytail and bare face.

Ana moves a lock of hair away from Mariana’s face, her thumb moves of its own volition and caresses the girl’s cheek.

Tears fall like raindrops.

Ana missed Mariana.

 At first, Mariana thinks the little sobs are coming from Valentina. It takes her a whole minute to remember where she is and why. She sees Ana trying to suppress her crying.

"Ana." Mariana sits up. "Are you alright?" Her voice sounds hoarse, the product of waking up and the air cooling the room.

Ana tries to calm down, Mariana sees the pain and desperation in her eyes when she fails. Her crying increases when Mariana caress Ana's cheek. Ana pushes the hand away, tries to punch or slap Mariana in the shoulder and arm as hard and as many times as she can.

The entire floor hears their combined screams of 'I don't want to see you here' and 'Ana, calm down, please.' The screaming makes the nurses call security. And by the time they arrive, it seems like a tornado formed inside the room. Ana throws everything within her reach. Mariana tries to cover and avoid all the projectiles.

Everyone in the room rushes to help Ana when they see her body falling against the bed.

The security men leave the room, moments later, as Mariana apologizes.

"She needs to rest." The nurse emphasizes before leaving too. As if blaming Mariana, who can only reply with a guilty smile.

"I want you to leave too," Ana says as she massages her temples.

"Please, Ana." Mariana begs. "Someone has to stay with you."

Ana looks at her with so much anger that Mariana feels it pierce her soul.

"You already made me look terrible to the staff of this hospital." Ana's mouth tightens into a pout that indicates anger and indignation. "What more do you want? Your mother takes money from my husband, you live in my house for months. You even won my children's affection. Changed my life. What else do you want from me? Do you want my money too?"

"Don't be unfair, Ana. You proposed me to stay at your house until Valentina stopped breastfeeding." Mariana approaches the bed with a firm step.

Both women look at each other, challenging the other, as they have always done since they met.

"I love you, Ana," Mariana whispers after a while, averting her gaze.

"Please." Ana snorts.

It's the frustration that drives Mariana to lean into Ana's personal space. To press their lips together. She finds resistance, and Ana struggles, trying to push Mariana away. But Mariana continues kissing Ana. And when she nibbles the edge of Ana's lower lip, Ana stops struggling.

Cradling Ana’s face the kiss turns desperate.

Wild.

Mariana wants to convey all her love and admiration for Ana with each kiss. With each nibble, she wants to promise Ana that she would never make the same mistake.

“Ana.” Mariana sighs between kisses.

Once the desperation passes, the kisses slow down until they're little peaks. Both know that they would have time to talk about how their feelings change everything. Mariana knows this is the right time to give some explanations – while Ana is silent, for once.

 When Mariana starts to walk from one side of the room to the other, Ana's brain shuts down for a moment. She dedicates herself only to look at Mariana. Regina and Valentina's mother. To remember all the moments they spent together. Their fights, their talks. The times Mariana made her understand that one couldn't control life sometimes. To live in the moment. No rules, no pretensions.

Mariana cries while trying to explain her side of the story.

"Ana," Mariana takes her hand and kisses it, "please. Forgive me." She presses their foreheads together and squeezes Ana's hand.

The weight she felt on her chest disappears. Ana feels whole again.

In control.

"I already did." She sighs. "I can't live without you anymore." Ana chuckles.

In those lonely days, Ana realized that the anger passed from Juan Carlos to Tere and, finally, to Mariana. It was then that the anger turned into sadness and then regret. She regretted not having Mariana and Valentina by her side.

The disappointment when Mariana confessed knowing everything and didn't tell her was still there. But to a lesser extent. Ana knew it was not going to be easy. Ana was not one of those people who forgave fast. She knew that.

But for Mariana, she would push that part of herself and try.

"I love you too, Mariana."

 The sound of Marian’s phone interrupts the comfortable silence they created.

"It's Ceci."

Ana snatches the device. Talks to her daughter, instructing her to pack a bag with a few clothes, her phone and tablet. And when she finishes, she dials Cynthia's phone next. It makes Mariana roll her eyes. Of course, Ana acts like she owns the phone.

“You do know we still need to have a very serious conversation, right?”

Mariana smiles and nods. “Later,” Mariana holds Ana’s hand again, “right now you need to recover.”

Ana smiles.

They will talk. Scream at each other.

But Mariana trusts they will find a way to move on.

After all, Regina and Valentina need both their mothers.

[drowningbydegrees]

TITLE: Even in the Dark I Know You (Part 2 of 3) SHIP (if applicable): Geraskier PROMPT DAY: Five - Loneliness MEDIUM (Netflix, Books, Games, Hexer): Netflix WARNINGS: No archive warnings apply, but canon typical violence SUMMARY:

The thing is, he’s seen Geralt in a bad way. Even the witcher can’t always avoid injury in his line of work, and so Jaskier has plenty of practice patching him up. But this is new, and it makes something awful and anxious twist in Jaskier’s stomach.

A contract goes wrong leaving Geralt captive and stripped of most of his senses by the time Jaskier gets to him.

WORD COUNT: 3,219 (5,361 total) AUTHOR’S NOTES: Written for @geraltwhumpweek Part one covered Day four. This one covers the prompt for day five and part three  will be for day six. Ultimately, it’s hurt/comfort. The comfort part is a little bit this part, but mostly the next. 

Part 1 on Tumblr | AO3 Link

Geralt recognizes that Jaskier’s insistence on assisting isn’t new. He’ll concede that sometimes it’s even genuinely helpful. Only, he’s never been quite so conscious any of those times, and everything is cast in a different light - or lack thereof - being able to move of his own volition and still managing to be so utterly lost. Their exit is far too peaceful to be much of a secret which almost guarantees they have an audience that Geralt cannot see or shy away from. What shred of dignity remains bitterly wishes Jaskier had just left him instead of leading him out of this place like some wayward pet. 

There is no hazy light at the top of the stairs this time, only Jaskier's free hand coming to rest on his arm in a steadying gesture when their trajectory takes them upward. It isn’t necessary. He isn’t helpless. Geralt opens his mouth to say as much, but his body picks just then to betray him, the toe of his boot catching on a stair. He doesn’t fall, not really, but the forward lurch leaves Geralt chastened enough not to jerk out of Jaskier’s grip the way he wants to. 

He’s been pushing against this spell for days, but nothingness still sprawls in every direction. No matter how hard Geralt strains to hear, silence is all that greets him. What information he can glean with his remaining senses is woefully inadequate for anything more strenuous than existing. Under his shoes, he can feel when they cross the threshold from the marbled palace floors to the cobbled pathway outside. There’s a very slight give later when stone is traded for damp, muddy streets. 

They’re walking through town probably, but Geralt can't smell people or animals or even the aftermath of rain he knows must be lingering in the air from the way it settles on his skin. They might be surrounded by villagers or stumbling through the dead of night, and much to Geralt's horror, he realizes he wouldn't recognize the difference. Jaskier is probably prattling away about something the way he always does, and Geralt notes with a distant sort of sorrow that he misses even that.  

His only anchor is Jaskier's hand in his, their palms flush, the bard’s fingers slid neatly between his. It's the closest Geralt has to a lighthouse in the storm he's trapped in. How do you know it's even Jaskier? Some fretting thing in him whispers its doubt because he’s never had to recognize someone with so little to go on, but that, at least, is fleeting. Jaskier often rubs the pads of his thumb and forefinger together when he's anxious. It's the same cadence of Jaskier's thumb sliding back and forth over Geralt's knuckles. 

"Jaskier," he says, or thinks he does. He can feel the vibration of his vocal cords anyway, though he cannot hear himself speak. He must given the immediate response it earns him. The bard’s hand squeezes his, and there’s a hand patting his forearm through the fabric of his shirt in the way Jaskier tends to in the rare, awkward instances where he’s trying to be… comforting or something, and can’t find the words to do so.  

Geralt allows himself to be convinced because what else is there? Suspicion set aside, Geralt trades out pointless caution for a more ambient sort of misery.. 

---

It’s easy, even for Jaskier, to get stuck on the fact that Geralt isn’t very talkative and leave it at that. The truth is more complex, the bard comes to realize as they trudge back to the inn. Instinctively, he’s adapted to the ways Geralt does communicate, leaving room for a noncommittal ‘hmm’ here, glancing over in anticipation of a raised eyebrow there. All this time they’ve had a language of their own, written so deeply into the way they exist in each other’s space that even Jaskier doesn’t really notice until it’s lost. No longer is Geralt’s silence long suffering or irritated or maybe a little bit reluctantly fond. It’s just silence and Jaskier has no idea how to coax him out of it. 

Jaskier knows that ego or stubbornness would have Geralt licking his wounds in peace under any other circumstances. It’s only the fact that he has no way of orienting himself that keeps his hand in Jaskier’s. Somehow, even knowing, it still aches when they finally reach the room, and barely get the door closed before Geralt pulls out of his grip. It’s a safe place to start, and Jaskier is glad he left the witcher’s things where he’d found them earlier if it means Geralt finds his way any more easily. 

Though speaking up wouldn’t make any difference, Jaskier watches in silence as Geralt feels out the edges of the cramped sleeping room. The witcher’s fingers brush along the top of the dresser, the windowsill beside it. There’s a tub in the corner, full of clean water from a bath Geralt must have called for and never returned to indulge in. It’s long since gone frigid judging by the way Geralt’s nose scrunches when his hand skims the surface. 

The bed is like most beds in most inns in most towns they pass through. It’s passable, big enough for two if they don’t mind close quarters. The blankets are ragged and sort of threadbare, but at least they look clean. There is a brief moment where Jaskier wonders if he ought to break with their usual habit and get a room of his own, to spare Geralt in whatever way he can, but it’s an idea almost immediately discarded. Geralt circles the bed and returns to Jaskier, hands outstretched until they find the loose fabric of Jaskier’s chemise sleeve. He does not so much as twitch when Jaskier says his name, and there’s no ignoring in that moment that this wouldn’t just be leaving his friend to fumble through his routine without anyone to witness the challenge of it. He’d be leaving Geralt with no idea that he was just down the hall. 

“You’re going to grouch about this, I’m sure,” Jaskier offers up conversationally, though Geralt can’t possibly hear him to reply. When Geralt lets him go in favor of feeling his way back towards the tub, Jaskier flops down on the bed. “The things we do for love.”

---

At least igni doesn’t fail him. He’s heated up water a thousand times, and even without his senses to guide him, Geralt manages fine. The victory is tiny and largely insignificant, but desperately needed. It’s still a death sentence in his line of work, to be hampered like this, but that’s a concern he shelves long enough to shed his torn, dirty clothes and sink into the almost too hot water. Though it stings at wounds he’d nearly forgotten even having, drawing a quiet, pained hiss through his teeth, settling in the tub is otherwise heavenly. 

Not quietly enough, Geralt realizes with a start. If he’d at least had his sense of smell, he’d have expected Jaskier at his back, but instead, the gentle pressure of the bard’s hand around his shoulder is an unpleasant shock. He snarls and pulls away, unable to hear the placating explanation Jaskier is inevitably offering up. Whatever the words may be, they’re accompanied by a bottle being pressed into his hand that he recognizes the shape of, though he’s rarely touched it himself. It’s a question, an offer, drawing Geralt’s focus enough that the tension slowly bleeds back out. 

With a resigned sigh, Geralt allows a single, terse nod and settles against the side of the tub once more. They’ve done this often enough that he can believe Jaskier’s fingers burrowing into the knotted mess of his hair are driven by something other than pity. He doesn’t really know what does motivate the bard, mind you, but this isn’t such a new thing as to set Geralt on edge. 

And it’s pleasant, in a manner Geralt won’t allow himself to need, but takes refuge in just this once. It doesn’t matter that he’s been stripped of his vision when his eyes are closed to the world anyway. The lavender oil Jaskier is currently using to detangle his hair is familiar enough that Geralt doesn’t need to be able to smell it. It’s enough that he can recognize the slickness of it. The unwelcome silence he’s drowning in is more easily ignored with Jaskier rubbing soothingly at his scalp. If he misses anything, it’s the soft, aimless tunes Jaskier tends to hum in moments like these. He thinks he might hear an echo of it, but it’s only his imagination, wishful thinking as he lets Jaskier’s fingertips trace circles at his temples and card through his hair. Geralt drifts without really meaning to, coaxed ever so briefly into something other than an overwhelming sense of affliction.  

---

Foolishly, Jaskier lets himself believe things are looking up. They sleep the way they always do, side by side, and in the dark Jaskier can almost pretend it’s all normal. Only Geralt’s fingers splaying over Jaskier’s heart suggest anything is amiss, and Jaskier pretends not to notice. He turns away to smile, though Geralt can’t see it anyway. With any luck, things will be back to normal in the morning. 

Nothing is back to normal in the morning, not that Jaskier knows that. Geralt is still fast asleep when Jaskier wakes, and as far as the bard is concerned, that’s the best thing for everyone. Melitlele knows the man needs it after the state Jaskier found him in. 

There’s no real need to be quiet, but Jaskier holds his breath out of some ingrained habit. Jaskier risks a careful caress, sweeping Geralt’s hair from his face, and leaves the witcher to sleep. With any luck, he’ll come back with breakfast and Geralt will be back to his usual, taciturn self, and they’ll waste little time in putting this town far behind them. 

As it turns out, the letter the lord sent him back to the inn with has secured them a surprisingly obliging innkeeper. So, his efforts to acquire breakfast go well. They might be the only thing that goes well. 

The bed is empty when Jaskier returns, and Geralt is packing. Trying to, anyway. It’s less of a wreck than Jaskier would expect from anyone else in this predicament, but for someone as terrifyingly competent as Geralt, it still breaks his heart to see. Thinking only of the need to somehow comfort his friend, Jaskier sets the tray he’d been carrying aside and reaches out. He does realize his mistake, but only when Geralt startles and pushes him away like some sort of threat. Funny, he’d always thought it would be entertaining to finally get the drop on Geralt. It is, in fact, not entertaining at all. 

Geralt takes a wary step closer, and for a second Jaskier thinks he’s severely miscalculated. Only, there’s no violence in Geralt’s body language when he reaches out. Instead, his fingers carefully trace the outline of Jaskier’s face the way he’d done in the dungeon. Finally, finally, he relaxes, apparently satisfied with whatever he’s found. Jaskier swallows against the unanticipated intimacy and wonders if Geralt can feel the way his cheeks heat up a little, but if the witcher notices, he doesn’t say so. Not that he says much on a good day, and this is… not a good day.

It’ll pass Jaskier reminds himself as they muddle through breakfast and then everything that comes after to varying degrees of success. Geralt might be even less well equipped for idleness than Jaskier is, bristling like a particularly affronted house cat at what the bard can only assume are imagined provocations, because it’s not as if he’s said anything. It’ll pass. Jaskier believes that. He just very much wishes he knew when. 

---

They’re still at the inn. Geralt is aware of that much, for all the good it does him. The days have started to bleed together, and they’re still at this blasted inn, and Geralt doesn’t know why. Jaskier seems rather insistent on delaying the inevitable future where they have to contend with reality, and the worst part of it is that even if Geralt bothers to ask, he couldn’t possibly hear the bard’s explanation. 

Unless, maybe, he’s just waiting for Geralt to find his footing. It seems like the sort of foolishly compassionate thing Jaskier would do. That isn’t fair, Geralt knows, when the thought crosses his mind, but Jaskier’s endless optimism is more than he can handle being the recipient of just now. 

Said endlessly optimistic bard has curled in against Geralt in sleep. His breath comes in soft puffs against the witcher’s throat, his presence soothing as much as Geralt doesn’t want it to be. He’s trapped Geralt’s hand between his own and the broad expanse of his chest, a steady heartbeat thumping against the witcher’s palm, announcing his continued existence. It’s proof of life, and Geralt despises that when he pulls his hand out from under Jaskier’s, it feels like losing a desperately needed tether. Blind, deaf, or otherwise, Geralt cannot need this to get by.

So instead, he sets about finding his footing. It’s likely night if Jaskier’s presence in bed is anything to judge by, so hopefully that means he can try this without an audience. At the very least, Jaskier isn’t awake to try and stop him. Gritting his teeth in frustration at the time it takes, he searches out his clothes and boots. There’s no certainty he hasn’t woken Jaskier with his efforts, but there’s no telltale hand on his back when he sits to tug his boots on, no one grasping at his hand when he gets to his feet.  

One hand outstretched, Geralt finds his way. One, two, three steps to the door, where the handle is cool under his palm and turns with ease. He remembers enough of the inn to know there’s a window to the right and a hall to the left, so he braces against the wall, feeling out door frames and counting steps until he reaches the empty gap telling him he’s found the staircase. 

He stumbles on the first, but the rest are easier, evenly spaced and simple enough to descend. The bottom floor is heralded by the end of the stair railing, and much to Geralt’s relief, he catches himself before tipping forward too precariously. If only the rest could be so easy. 

Because he remembers the room, sort of. He remembers that there are tables. That there is a bar at the far end. That the exit is horribly far away from the staircase and that it’s all too much empty space to serve as a guide. None of that stops Geralt from trying, slowly picking his way across the floor and hoping to whatever deity might listen to faithless witchers that he’s at least alone in his fumbling. 

The trek to the door is embarrassingly arduous. He grits his teeth when his knee knocks against a bench. He sucks in a sharp breath when he’s tripped up by what he thinks might be a fallen tankard. The whole thing might as well be an eternity, and Geralt isn’t sure what the point is if the rest of his - probably very short life - is going to be like this. But he does reach the door. 

The cool breeze that meets him bolsters Geralt’s resolve. There was a point to all this. It’s probably cheating to try and do this in a place he mostly remembers, but he has to start somewhere, and checking on Roach seems as worthwhile a place to start as any. There won’t be any walls to guide him, but Geralt thinks he knows the way more or less, and if he counts the steps, maybe not every time will have to be such a damned event. 

Geralt does not, more or less, know the way. He finds his footing, picks out a path clear enough that walking feels almost normal, in a direction that should end with the doors to a stable. It doesn’t. It doesn’t end with doors to anything, and by the time Geralt recognizes the error, there’s soft grass squelching under his boots. The inn was near the edge of town. Geralt remembers that much at least. So it follows that he’s simply gone the wrong direction. 

“Fuck,” Geralt mutters under his breath, and again more emphatically as the breadth of his trouble sinks in. He’d turned around, reaching a few steps to one side in search for a stable that clearly doesn’t exist, and there’s no telling what direction he’s even facing now. It should be a simple thing to turn around and go back, but now there’s no telling if a given step will take him back to civilization or risk him being hopelessly lost.

And then there’s the rain. He would have smelled it. He would have heard the distant rumble of thunder that must come with a downpour like this. He would have seen the gathering shadows overhead that have all opted to pour their sorrows out on him. If the mage had left him with anything at all, he could have at least avoided this. 

But the only thing she left him with was the chill of a harsh downpour that saturates his clothes, and the knowledge that a deluge like this will keep villagers indoors and away from wherever he’s accidentally wandered off to. Aimlessly, he reaches out and while the tree he eventually finds his way to is hardly a refuge, it’s the best he’s likely to get. 

Exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with lack of sleep, Geralt sits at the base of the tree. The ground has already gone muddy under the grass, but he can’t bring himself to care. Mud is the least of his problems when he’s fallen so far as to have to wait for help to walk back to a rented room at an inn he doesn’t even know how Jaskier is paying for where he will continue to lose track of time… and everything else. 

Geralt has been captured, chained up, jailed, but he’s never been trapped like this, alone in his own head. He cannot listen for approaching footsteps or strain to hear a familiar melody. He cannot scent the air for the presence of some other life nearby. Even the fuzzy outlines he’d briefly grasped onto the first time the mage did this have failed him now. He thinks back to Jaskier’s hand leading him through town, to the bard’s fingers threading through his hair, to the steady heartbeat he’s memorized the shape of under his palm. Even these lifelines are no more than individual points of contact, always one gesture away from being lost to him entirely. 

Geralt thinks he understands loneliness. He knows what it is to be alone, and usually professes to prefer it, even if he lets Jaskier chase after him. But here, in the confines of his own head, Geralt learns what it is to be well and truly isolated, knowing the only possible respite is someone else’s mercy offering a momentary connection. Laid this low, Geralt can only sit with his head bowed beneath the pouring rain.

[iamalivenow]

You've been fishing for the better half of the last day.

It's been pouring for the last four.

Typically you don't mind spending time in the woods, The Shroud is familiar in a way few places really are, and ever since you've gotten back from the First, since everyone else got back too, you've been clinging to that familiarity. You've flung yourself into a new hobby, to take your mind off things, but lucky for you, fishing can happen pretty much anywhere, which is why you've been doing it here.

When you fish, and you do fish for hours, your mind just goes blank and empty. It's astonishingly mind numbing, and makes an astonishing amount of money, and aside from the worried glances the other Scions give you when you see them after days at a time, there's really no downside to speak off.

You get so caught in the moment to moment of waiting for your rod to bob that you don't even notice the cold and the wet for the most part. It's the perfect activity for someone who definitely isn't extremely sad and tired all the time. Because that can't be you, right, you're the hero! Your friends are all back and safe and sound! And you definitely didn't murder a child, maybe! Or realize that some ancient version of you summoned a god into existence and actively caused all the harm and suffering in every reality. You didn't. Definitely didn't do that. And definitely don't continue to do that.

So anyway, fishing is good. If you had to think of a complaint, your tackle box is getting pretty heavy lately, so maybe you could clean that out sometime, but other than that.

It's been great.

When did the sun set?

You send a blip of aether to the end of your rod and it glows a gentle green across the surface of the lake you're standing at. You feel a tug, finally, and start reeling in, gripping the rod and tugging every few seconds- whatever it is feels big so you dig your heels in. The rain beats down as hard as it does, masking the movement of your line so you let yourself pull harder.

You can almost feel it break the surface as something pushes down on the back of your neck, hard enough to break your concentration for just long enough that the fish gets too much give and rips the rod clean out of your hands.

You spin around, already swinging at thin air.

“Who the fuck-” No one is around, probably not for miles, and certainly not at this time of night, not in this weather.

“Oh come now. You almost sound unhappy to see to me, hero.”

You're used to people monologuing at you, dramatic and from the shadows. And you'd be fine with that, any excuse to beat up the fucker that made you lose your expensive rod to the lake. You've need a good fight for a while now, maybe.

Except you're the one who said that.

Your mouth opened, and those words came out, and sure you've been standing out in the rain in the dark for hours and who knows when you've last eaten (or slept) but you've never hit this degree of-

“You think so quickly for how little you talk.” You say again- or rather someone- “Even in your more animated moods, I would never have assumed you do so much thinking.”

You've been possessed, it seems.

“Yes.” Your voice says, gentler, and you feel your hand lift up and someone else spread your fingers before clenching them tightly. “How did I never notice how nice your hands are?” There's really only one ascian who's ever been this familiar with you and his name catches in your throat. You laugh at yourself, turning to look around as if this is just a normal thing that happens. “It's alright, you can say it, I promise I'll hardly be offended.”

“You're dead.”

“Yes.”

“I killed you.”

“Yes.” It comes slower this time, and something clenches in the center of your chest.

“Have I finally lost it?”

“No. Well.” He makes you look down at yourself, and then lifts your face up to the rain. “Arguably.”

“How are you-”

“The veil is thinner here, someone had opened the lifestream in these woods before.” You think about Y'shtola for a moment, her body slipping back into reality, and you laugh again. “Twice? She's quite the abnormality, isn't she-”

“How are you-” You ask again and your hand comes up to your mouth, muffling yourself.

“Possession is easy.” You're whispering now, against your palm. “I only had to find you. And it's easier now. Though I must say, I expected you to be better taken care off.”

“Why?” Why now, why here, why not at any moment before-

“Well.” Your shoulders sag, and all of a sudden you start to feel the exhaustion you probably should have been feeling for a long time. “I would hardly want you too keel over because of your agonies.”

You feel the cold now, the wet, sinking into you and causing you to shiver. Or maybe your hands are trembling because you've not eaten in how ever long.

“What have you done with yourself- mm?” Your hands lift up again, pressing to your face. “I can hardly let you waste away for your own neglect. You're much too important.”

“I'm sorry.” You say because you've wanted to tell Emet-Selch that for a long time. “For-”

“You can be sad when you're warm. I'm rather fond of being sad in furs. Or in a warm bed. Love being miserable in a good bed.” Your legs start moving- you stumble for the first step, “Out of practice-” he says, but it's a smooth walk all the way back to The Roost.

He orders you a room, with a tub of hot water to be brought in, and a full dinner an hour later.

“Hades-” You say and your mouth shuts itself with out even the aid of your hands this time.

You're let into your usual room, and the tub is steam in the corner.

“Hades-” You try again when you're alone and you feel your head shake.

“I'm taking care of you.” He says, and it's not like you can argue. He smiles for you and starts tugging at the wet fabric of your clothes. “Has anyone ever taken care of you before?”

Your life flashes before your eyes, like he's looking through your memories, trying to find instances of kindness. Your can barely breath as you both come to a realization that no, not since you were a child, and isn't that pathetic. He forces you too sigh, to breath and lets you lean forward against the rim of the tub.

The warmth feels good- You haven't had a hot bath since The First- everything else has been dunking yourself in rushing rivers because it's faster.

“I'm sorry.” You say again, quietly and he sighs, exasperated. You can feel it-

“These dramatics hardly suite you.” Your fingers unbutton your clothes, and you forget to feel any kind of way about it other than sad. He nudges you- and it does feel almost external, like someone prodding a finger against your shoulder, and you get into the hot water. “Isn't this better?”

You lay there in silence and he seems content to lay with you. You wish you could see him- that he was really here, that you hadn't killed him. That just once diplomacy could actually have worked.

“Did you use to do this for me?” You don't know why you're asking. The me in that sentence isn't even really you. Or the other way around rather, because Azem was more parts of you than you are of them.

“Ha- You'd go to Hythlodaeus more often than me. On more than one occasion I would get mad because I thought you were-” Your hand waves in the air and it's so him you're almost shocked your wrist can actually bend like that. “Well. You weren't stepping out.”

“Was it because I didn't want to worry you?”

“That does sound like you, doesn't it? All your heroics.” And then he forces you to take a deep breath and dunks your body under the water. You sit until your lungs start burning and then you're allowed to come up for air. “I only ever insisted once.”

And then you're fed a memory, overlaid one of yours, of two figures, laid a top one another in a long pool. The figure the other was leaned on covered the other's face, and they were laughing about something- Nabriales, it sounds like.  

“You had left for a year, and when you finally came back the you had said the trip hadn't gone as well as you hoped. I can hardly recall a time I've seen you made more miserable.”

Azem seemed happy beside him.

“I'm sorry.” You say again and now you roll your eyes.

“Bit late for it now.” There's a knock at the door and you get up to let your dinner in. The robe the inn had was soft though not soft enough to keep Emet-Selch from commenting- and then you were sat slowly eating.

“Hey.”

“Go ahead.”

“Were you watching me the entire time?”

“After you got back.” He swallows. “It's been astonishingly dull.”

“It's felt dull.” You take bread in your hands and rip it aimlessly. He lets you, even if he thinks its a waste of time. It's easy to imagine a life with him, somehow, and you can't tell if it's Azem in the room with you or your own gut feeling. “I keep hoping your great grandson will come threaten to kill someone again.”

You huff a laugh and your hands drop the utensils with a clatter.

The confusion doesn't last long when you make to hold your own hand. You right hand, which has been heavy and out of your control loosens for a moment. He squeezes your hand and when you squeeze back its of your own volition.

You sit like that for a long time, in the quiet of the room. Someone comes by eventually to take the food and the tub out of the room, so you're left to sit on the bed in silence. It's comfortable, despite the absurdity of the situation. You can't help but wonder if Lahabrea and Thancred had any moments like this, which sends Hades into a fit of laughter. When he calms down, the smile that stays on your face is yours.

“Will you still be here tomorrow?”

“I think you'll be quite busy, tomorrow. You won't need me.”

“Even without knowing the circumstances of what tomorrow may bring, I disagree.” Because it's you, you think.

“Well.” You fall back on the bed, still holding your own hand. “If you come wasting your time with fish in the Twelveswood, maybe I'll ensure another fish steels your fishing rod.”

“It cost me a good deal of gil-”

“What a travesty.” As dry as ever, but you're both smiling. He closes your eyes for you, and you feel him try and slip away a few minutes later, the same pressure at the back of your neck. “Take better care of yourself.”

“Mm-” You say very intelligently as he plunges you into a full nights sleep.

The morning is busy and hectic, just like he said it would be.

It's easier to carry yourself than it has been a while.

[shieldedbythunder]

Thundershield Viking AU where preserum Steve is a pretty omega whose village was raised by Vikings led by the fearsome and notorious Thor Odinson. Thor claims Steve as his and Steve returns to Thor's village with him (though with no small amount of resistance). Despite that, Thor treats him better than most people in Steve's village did. He hasn't made any move to and to touch Steve without permission and he treats Steve with respect. To his frustration, Steve begins to fall for the alpha.

Ooooooh, this is such a fantastic idea, I LOVE it!

Steve was raised in a monastery after being orphaned at a young age, so all he’s ever heard of Vikings is that they’re bloodthirsty bandits, pillaging and raping wherever they go, dragging terrified omegas back to their freezing home country to be their broodmares. Better that he forget about those savages and focus on developing attractive omega qualities to make up for his sickly appearance, the monks tell him dismissively, even as he constantly sneaks out of the abbey and comes to blows with the local alpha bullies.

So naturally, when Steve is woken one night by the sounds of raiders breaking down the abbey doors and finds he’s been forgotten in all the confusion, he grabs an ornamental shield off the nearest wall and runs to help out. Just as he reaches the wreckage of the gate, he encounters an alpha Viking roaring commands to the others. Tall and broad as a mountain, braids in his hair and beard, and wielding a fearsome battle hammer - Steve’s blood runs cold when he realises he’s standing before Thor Odinson himself, leader of a particularly notorious Viking clan. Nevertheless, when the alpha dismisses him as a non-threat and moves to leave, Steve gathers his courage and goes to charge, getting in a few hits before he’s disarmed and hoisted up by the front of his shirt. The alpha looks at him carefully now, eyes full of frank curiosity that borders on admiration, and before Steve knows what’s happening, he’s slung over Thor’s shoulder and being carried back to the raiders’ ship, fighting like a wildcat every step of the way.

The trip back to the north is a blur of fear and despair at first, but gradually, Steve realises that for a crew of supposed bloodthirsty rapists, none of the Vikings seem all that interested in the unclaimed virgin omega in their midst. The only one who pays him any attention is Thor, keeping him company and making sure he’s well fed and clothed as they sail into the cold of the north. Despite the respectful distance Thor keeps, the kindly manner he shows, Steve’s worst suspicions are confirmed when they land in the Viking’s home village, and the announcement is made that Thor will take Steve as his mate. He’s set up in Thor’s cabin that night, where he waits by the fire for Thor to return, full of dread and anger for what’s to come, ready to fight Thor off if needs be. But when Thor gets back, all that happens is a brief scenting, slow and hesitant. After that, he takes a few furs for himself, tells Steve to keep the bed, and settles himself by the fire for the night. And though Steve doesn’t sleep a wink that night, or the next few, he finally accepts that Thor really doesn’t intend to force himself on him. So, what now?

Over the next few months, Steve slowly acquaints himself with his new home and its people. Far from the mindless savages people back in his home country used to describe, Thor’s clan seem very forward-thinking compared to the people he grew up with. They raid other villages, yes; sometimes out of need, sometimes for war, and sometimes for sheer plunder and battle-lust. But they’re always open for their reasons, and contrary to what Steve always heard, they always leave the omegas well enough alone. And the more Steve observes, the clearer it becomes that Viking clans hold their omegas in very high esteem. When Thor brings him to clan meetings, the omega voices hold just as much authority as the alphas, and Steve often finds his opinion being called on as their leader’s mate. Where Steve was always taught that omegas must look pretty and keep quiet while they bear their alpha’s pups, here they fight in battle, own land, earn their own keep, all of which Thor encourages him to pursue if he so wishes. For Steve, always derided as unwanted goods for getting into fights with alphas who mistreated other omegas, it’s like a different world entirely.

And then, of course, there’s Thor. His alpha, a phrase he never thought he’d use, let alone under these circumstances. For all that Steve remains suspicious and wary, he slowly finds himself falling in love. Yes, Thor can be hot-headed and blunt, and they have their share of arguments, both big and small. But Steve is always made to feel like his alpha’s equal, both in leadership of the village and in their personal bond, and it’s clear that Thor has the utmost respect for him. There are moments when his gentler side comes through, too, that Steve loves to watch: the quiet gravitas he assumes at clan meetings; his smile as he lets himself be pulled into games with the village pups; his touch, gentle, reassuring, but no less firm as he corrects Steve’s stance when they train together. It’s in moments like when they take supper together and talk about their day, laughing as they spar, that quiet fondness in Thor’s voice as he bids Steve goodnight before settling by the fire, that Steve finds himself feeling so happy, and yet aching for more. They’ve been living as mates for nearly a year, they scent each other more often now, and yet their relationship remains chaste, Thor always going off to hunt if he’s in rut or Steve’s in heat. It’s clear that Thor still feels uncomfortable with taking advantage of Steve after the way their bond began, and eventually Steve decides to take matters into his own hands.

He takes his chance one evening as Thor’s undressing for bed, feeling Thor freeze beneath his hands as he comes up from behind and wraps his arms around his chest, mapping out the planes of muscle. Thor hardly dares move as Steve comes around in front of him, pulling him in for a kiss, but he starts to let himself go when he sees the look in Steve’s eyes, hoisting him up to carry him to their bed. Even with his alpha instincts and a year’s worth of pent-up lust screaming in his mind, he keeps his movements slow and gentle as he undresses them both; growing up in the monastery, Steve never learned a lot about sex and mating, so Thor takes the time to teach him and pleasure him the way he deserves, worshipping Steve with his hands and mouth while getting him ready to take his knot. Even after all their preparation, Steve’s vision nearly whites out as Thor presses into him, leaving him feeling impossibly full, like he can’t possibly take it all.

But they both know he can; Thor saw that strength in him the first night they met, and he holds Steve close, whispering sweetly about how well he’s doing, how beautiful he is, how proud Thor is of him. For Steve, the sensation of being completely surrounded by Thor, all around and inside him, is completely intoxicating, and the look of wonder and love in his alpha’s eyes almost undoes him entirely. It isn’t long before his hips begin to move of their own volition, taking Thor deeper and deeper as their kisses grow hungrier, their touches more needy. At the height of it all, they claim each another’s mating glands, finally cementing their bond as Steve takes Thor’s knot. The two of them lie there, trembling in each other’s arms as they spiral down, glowing in their new bond while Thor murmurs his gratitude of being let into Steve’s heart against his forehead, again and again. As they lie there and wait for the knot to go down, trading soft and sleepy kisses, Steve thinks of how much life has changed for him; from a sheltered, sickly, and sullen orphan whelp that nobody would have, to the proud omega of a Viking alpha chieftain who both holds him in his heart as a precious treasure and respects him as an equal, the co-leader of a mighty clan. For a moment, he idly wonders what the people from his old life would make of it all. But as he turns his face up to bask in Thor’s soft smile and press another kiss to his lips, he finds he really doesn’t give a damn.

[reddieandgoodnight]

Overhearing they have feelings for you with reddie?¿

Here you go, anon! Hope you like it! :)

Eddie Kaspbrak sat on his hotel bed in an old t-shirt and lounge pants, feet tucked up under him in a decidedly childish pose. But then, maybe that was fitting — returning to childhood and all that. Wasn’t that what this was? Coming back to Derry to face the terrors of his youth?

He supposed so.

But the fear…that terrible, terrible fear…it had seemed worth it when he slipped into the Jade of the Orient restaurant earlier that evening to see Mike Hanlon and Bill Denbrough waiting for him. They had stared at each other for a split second before shouting the same way young boys do, rushing into a hug that felt so familiar, Eddie could have cried. Maybe he did.

Mike had seemed so worn, weary, with far too many of lines of wisdom etched into his face, but his eyes had been bright, crinkling with that same welcoming kindness Eddie remembered.

And Bill, so effortless in his movements as he gazed at Eddie with the brightest blue eyes, had exuded that same sense of thoughtful calmness Eddie had seen standing in front of the Neibolt house all those years ago, when Bill hadn’t stuttered once.

Several minutes later, Ben Hanscom and Beverly Marsh had walked in, faces drawn and unsure but softening as their eyes came to rest on Eddie, Mike, and Bill. Bev had clutched tightly at her purse, hair like spun fire under the subdued lights, ready to fight as she always was. And Ben had apparently transformed into a model-esque man who could have been on the cover of GQ, hands in his pockets and nodding in shy sweetness.

Okay. This is okay, Eddie had thought. Things will be okay.

But then the last of them stepped inside, and Eddie had promptly forgotten how to breathe — but this time, no aspirator could have helped. Tall with broad shoulders, tousled dark hair, and soft brown eyes magnified by thick glasses resting against freckled cheeks, Richie Tozier was just like Eddie remembered — loud laugh, tights hugs, and all.

And from deep within the locked recesses of Eddie’s mind, more memories had come flooding back — summers down at the Barrens, jumping into the lake, flying down Main Street on their bikes, sitting under the stars on warm nights, whispering secrets in each other’s ears, giggling at stupid jokes.

But most of all, Eddie had remembered Richie Trashmouth Tozier, and all the strange feelings Richie had awoken inside him, up until he was sixteen and Eddie’s mother had moved them out of Derry and everything was forgotten.

The boy Eddie had loved was forgotten.

It hurt. It fucking hurt.

Richie had seemed nervous as he called “the official meeting of the Losers Club” to order, covering it up with crude jokes as he always did. But when his eyes had turned to Eddie, Richie had gone oddly quiet, though his eyes were soft.

Eddie had sat between Richie and Bill during dinner while the Losers Club reminisced and caught up with each other in turns. They had smiled, laughed, cried, and mourned over the loss of Stan, who had been one of the dearest of them all.

He’d joined in, of course, but Eddie found that for much of it, his eyes kept silently returning to Richie, of their own volition it seemed. And a few times, he’d caught Richie looking back, with a gaze that pulled at something deep and scorching inside him.

And now, perched on this lumpy hotel bed in a room that smelled of household cleaning products mixed with old dust, he wished he and Richie were meeting again under vastly different circumstances.

Eddie glanced at the phone sitting on the bedside table. He wondered for a moment if he should call Myra, but he swiftly brushed the thought aside.

He’d had thoughts of divorce for…a while now. Eddie didn’t need a shrink to tell him that he’d married his mother — Myra and Mrs. Kaspbrak may as well have been twins, in both personality and looks. Agreeing to marry Myra had just been easier, no matter how much he despised himself for it.

But no matter how he had tried to devote himself to her, to love her the way a wife should be loved…he couldn’t. He never had. And over their years of marriage, the truth hiding inside him had slowly wormed its way to the surface. It had been smothered once, shoved down when Eddie had lost the memories of his childhood, but it was not to be deterred, rising with a little more determination every time Myra kissed him, slept with him, or even just touched his hand, all of which he came to realize he hated.

Because the truth of the matter was, Eddie Kaspbrak was gay. And hiding behind Myra was never going to change that, no matter how many times he wished it would.

He could still hear the memory of her wailing as she had watched Eddie packing his suitcase, shoving all manner of pill bottles into his bag, as though a plague like Captain Tripps itself would be making an appearance, all without remembering his aspirator sitting on the table downstairs.

“I don’t understand!” Myra had cried, wringing her sausage-like fingers. “Where are you going? What’s this about?”

“I’m sorry,” Eddie had said, pulling his bag behind him as he made his way downstairs to call a cab. “I can’t tell you. But I made a promise, and I have to keep it.”

“A promise?” she’d repeated. “What kind of promise? What is this about, Eddie?”

He’d shaken his head. No matter how much he disliked his wife, he refused to expose her to what was pulling him back to Derry.

“When will you be back?” Myra had asked then, tears steadily dripping down her pasty white, meaty face — her strongest manipulation tactic, the same one his mother had been fond of whenever Eddie was getting a little too out of hand, slipping out from under the heavy press of Mrs. Kaspbrak’s thumb.

But it wasn’t working, not this time. Because this time, Eddie’s memories of his youth were beginning to return — only in bits and pieces and flashes of color, at first, but it was enough. As Eddie watched the twin trails of tears sliding down Myra’s face, he remembered standing up to his mother in the summer of 1989.

(They’re gazebos! They’re bullshit!)

Looking at Myra had shifted into seeing Sonia Kaspbrak, that same distraught look on her face at being unable to control him.

And in that moment, Eddie had realized he’d rather die than let Myra rule his life for any longer.

“Myra…I’m not coming back,” Eddie had said, and then braced himself. And it was a good thing because it had only taken Myra a few seconds of utterly bewildered shock before she’d started shrieking. He’d yelled back — he wasn’t proud of it, but he had. He didn’t know what else to do.

“No, Eddie!” Myra had sobbed. “You can’t leave me! You can’t! Who will take care of you?”

“I’ll take care of me,” Eddie had murmured, quieting. “I need to. I have to, or I’ll die. I don’t expect you to understand—”

“I don’t!”

“—but maybe someday, you will.” He’d taken a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Myra. I…I really am. But I can’t live like this anymore. I won’t do it.”

“But—!”

“…I’ll have our attorney draft up divorce papers when I can. After this is over.”

If it ever is.

And the screaming had started all over again. The cab came at that moment, and Eddie had never been so grateful.

Eddie sighed, standing up from the bed. He could use a drink, between leaving his wife and seeing Richie Tozier again in the space of twenty-four hours. But he supposed a bottle of Perrier would have to do. He just needed some ice.

He grabbed the ice bucket off the side table and headed into the hall after sliding into a pair of slippers. He knew the other Losers save for Mike were all holed up here as well, and he vaguely wondered where their rooms were as he headed toward the open room at the end of the hall that stored the ice machine. 

A couple feet away from the room, Eddie realized there were already two people in there getting ice. And based on the voices he’d heard only an hour ago, they were Ben Hanscom and Richie Tozier, speaking in hushed tones.

Eddie didn’t know quite what possessed him, but he paused, leaning against the wall. He knew eavesdropping was rude, but he just…wanted to hear Richie’s voice without having to think about any implications. Just for a few minutes.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Richie was saying. “I just… I wasn’t expecting this.”

“I don’t think anyone was expecting this,” Ben murmured. “I mean, Jesus, I wouldn’t have even known you a couple of days ago.” A pause. “Have you tried talking to him?”

“What would I say? ‘Hey, I know we forgot about each other for thirty years, but I still think you’re hot. Wanna bang?’ Think he’d tell me to go beep fucking beep myself.” Richie’s voice was low, much sadder than his words.

“I don’t think he would, Richie. Did you see how he was looking at you at dinner?”

“…yeah. Made me want to kiss him. How pathetic do I sound right now? Be honest, Haystack.”

Ben chuckled, that warm sound Eddie remembered so well. “As pathetic as someone sounds when they’re in love and don’t know what to do about it.”

“Am I?” Richie asked. “In love? Does it still count as love when I didn’t even remember Eddie Kaspbrak existed for this long?”

Eddie felt his body stiffen, eyes widening in shock. He’d had an inkling of what this conversation was about,

(a conversation he was not supposed to be hearing)

but Richie…

Richie…loves me?

He felt like screaming in elation and crying all at once. He slapped a hand over his mouth to keep any inadvertent sounds from escaping him, biting down on the warmth of overwhelming feeling rushing through him.

“It counts,” Ben said earnestly.

“…Bev? Still?”

“…yeah.”

“Hang tough, buddy.”

Realizing he was about to be caught, Eddie made to step back, but before he made it more than a few inches, Richie walked into the hallway.

And immediately froze, eyes wide as he gawked at Eddie.

Ben stepped out, took one look at what was happening, and went the other way, hiding a smile behind his hand.

“Eds,” Richie said, voice strangled. “I…uh, you —”

“I’m sorry,” Eddie blurted, cutting Richie off. “I…” His voice faded.

They stared at each other.

“Do you want to…uh, come back to my room? With me?” Eddie asked in a rush, feeling more than a little insane. “To talk,” he added hurriedly, face flushing.

Richie blinked at him, then smiled. That same wide, easy grin Eddie had loved so much as a child.

He found he loved it just the same now. Maybe even more.

“Yeah, okay,” Richie said. “Lead the way.”

Eddie nodded, turning around and heading back the way he’d come from. Richie walked beside him, close enough that Eddie could feel the warmth of Richie’s arm hovering next to his. A strange giddiness rushed through him just from having Richie Tozier at his elbow.

“This is me,” Eddie said, gesturing to Room 609.

They stepped inside, and Eddie watched Richie glance over Eddie’s belongings, lingering on the bottle of Perrier on the nightstand.

Eddie gazed at Richie, at the way the room lights seemed to illuminate his freckles, the same shade of brown as Richie’s eyes. A small dusting of pink spread across Richie’s face when he looked back at Eddie, lips rising in a tentative smile.

And Eddie realized that, although it had been so long since he’d seen Richie, it didn’t matter. Because he still knew this man standing in front of him, simply an older version of the boy Eddie’s heart had sung for without him realizing every time a handsome man passed him on the street or Myra pressed against him or anything at all.

“Did you…did you mean it?” Eddie asked, hesitant.

Richie sighed, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Yes,” he said after a moment. “Eds…Eddie —” He took a deep breath. “I didn’t remember you until yesterday, but when Mike called me…and then when I saw you at dinner —”

“I know,” Eddie whispered, sinking down beside Richie. “It’s…it’s the same for me.”

“It is?” Richie asked, voice hoarse as he looked up at Eddie.

“It always has been,” Eddie admitted. “I just…never knew how to tell you. Before.” He waved his hand, seemingly gesturing toward their hazy past.

Eddie remembered all the times he’d watched Richie when he thought Richie wouldn’t notice — the long column of Richie’s throat, sunlight in Richie’s hair. But then he’d shake his head at his own strange thoughts, pushing them away.

When he got a little older, he realized he didn’t want to stop the thoughts anymore. But by then it had been too late. The Kaspbraks had left Derry as little more than a cloud of dust in the rearview mirror — and Eddie had forgotten everything.

“Eddie?” Richie murmured.

“…yeah?”

“I’m so glad I remembered you.”

Eddie smiled, quivering as Richie leaned toward him. “Me, too.”

When their lips finally met, it was as though something fated had fallen into place, the hole cracked in Eddie’s heart finally beginning to fill, touching a piece of him Myra had never even gotten close to.

Eddie’s arms slowly wrapped around Richie’s neck as Richie’s arms encircled his waist, tugging him against Richie’s warm chest. Their lips moved, shyly at first, testing, and then more firmly. Eddie sighed, happiness bubbling up inside him in gentle waves, trembling at the feeling of Richie’s tongue sliding against his.

They broke apart, breathing heavily as they looked at one another, wonder shimmering in their eyes.

And then they kissed again. And again. And again.

And despite the horrors that awaited them, it seemed that the darkness of the night pulled back just enough for the love of two boys, now men, to glow.

[ourcollectivefantasy]

Honkin' OC Asks: #3 for A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H, I, J, and L!

A3. Do they have any emotional or psychological conditions? Are they aware of it? Do they try to treat it? 

Iloam is a pandora’s box of issues. Boy is broken to the max! He’s got PTSD from childhood trauma (all 3 types), multiple rape scenarios as a young adult, and at least two instances of being captured/held prisoner and suffering Stockholm Syndrome. He’s developed OCD as an anxiety disorder that feeds into his Anorexia-Nervosa, which appeared in his teens and hasn’t gone away. He has body dysmorphia pretty bad and is vaguely on the spectrum of gender questioning. He has mild synesthesia and trouble processing and vocalizing his emotions - mainly because he’s been sociopathic since birth. Most of that is invisible, but that’s VERY visible to the outside world is his struggles with addiction and substance dependence (mainly hard drugs and alcohol). He’s also wrestled with an “addiction” to killing but has been in remission for a little over a decade.

B3. Under what situations would they get angry at servers, staff, customer service, et cetera?

Pressuring him to eat or questioning why he’s not eating and making a big deal out of it would be a pretty big hot button for him. He might try to deflect originally but if the person continues to circle back to it or insist, he can snap and get rude real fast. 

C3. Is it important for them to be with people (socially, intimately, whatever) whose major ideological tenets align with their own?

Yes. Iloam doesn’t voice them in public, but he does have strong opinions about social stratas, sexuality, religion, child rearing, etc. He’s not strongly political - but is strongly neutral and believes the factions should be disassembled. It can really grate on his nerves to be around people who loudly voice different opinions, as he prefers to bite his tongue. But for long periods that’s difficult. So he surrounds himself with people of similar views so it’s less stressful. 

D3. How comfortable are they with the idea of death?

Surprisingly, not very anymore! Iloam has actually died four times and been resurrected. Once was by his mother’s doing, twice he was murdered (by the same person, lol), and last time was for a strategy. At this point he’s well experienced with death and knows exactly where he’s going when he finally dies. He has said more than once now that the next time he dies, if the Spirit Healer asks him, he does not want to return. This is an on-going argument with him and Aelberyn, as she has equally stated she will not let that happen and will resurrect him.

E3. How many languages do they speak?

Five. He speaks his native tongue (Gypsy), Common, Dwarven, Thalassian, and Orcish Common.

F3. Could they ever live in a “tiny home”?

Iloam spent his childhood living in a vardo wagon, a lot of his teens/early adulthood homeless, and then 200 years on a tall ship. He can live anywhere if he absolutely has to. He would not choose a tiny home, though. He’s very tall and it would certainly be uncomfortable.

G3. Does your OC find their family supportive? If not, what would be an example why not?

Most of the time. There are some topics he doesn’t bring up, though. Example: He doesn’t talk about his anorexia or his body dysmorphia, as he doesn’t feel they understand where he’s coming from and try to force him to eat. He still tries to hide this from them or deflect the topic.

H3. Does your OC believe there’s only one ideal partner (or multiple ideal if not monogamous) for everyone, or that there are many people who could be right?

I’m not sure what the difference between “multiple ideal” and “many people who could be right” is. Sounds like the same thing. And that is what he’d say. Iloam is deeply in love with several people and doesn’t view love as a limited resource.

I3. Are they vegan/vegetarian (if their overall culture/species generally aren’t)? If so, why? Do they think animal products are wrong in all circumstances?

No, he is not. He would actually say he’s a big fan of venison and fish.

J3. How politically active are they?

By his own volition, not at all. In the past, he’s been hired for many political or politically motivated assassinations.

K3. Does your OC have any friends who know about their PA? Any enemies? 

Most of his found-family know about his stealth ability. Only Kharris, Aelberyn & Jericho have a hard-confirmation (i.e. from his own mouth) about his past and skills as an assassin. It’s something he keeps very, very close to the chest. He will often say he spent 200 years in pirating, but seems to always leave off the 180 “missing” years after that ;)

L3. Did you create the character to be like yourself, did they end up being like yourself, or are they very different from you?

I created Iloam to be wildly outside my wheelhouse (a villain) and very unlike me. I wanted to explore dark themes and some really “problematic” personality types that I wasn’t seeing a lot of (serial killer, sociopath, abusive, hot headed). At the time, I felt like most people were RPing heroes, nice people, and “tea party RP” was reeeeeeally popular. As he grew, I used him to explore some topics close to me that I was only comfortable writing about, but not voicing/talking about in my real life. 

Since his early days, Iloam has changed A LOT. He’s practically not even a villain anymore. I’d say he’s more chaotic neutral and attempting to be lawful neutral for the good of his loved ones. 

We are very different. I am definitely lawful good, strictly monogamous, and kindness to everyone is very important to me. That said I’m also a huge doormat, oversensitive, and suffer depression and anxiety. Iloam is none of those things. He doesn’t care what people who aren’t his loved ones think of him and he’s confident in himself.

Phew! Thanks @twosidedsana

[gothamundernightlight]

Okay, so most of us know about the deleted scene from Avengers: Endgame now, that surfaced yesterday, and I need to talk about it. Like, it's a physical need, y'all, I gotta. If you haven't seen it, here's a link:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m0H6GZxve2o

First up, this scene is PERFECTION! Yes, it's heart-wrenching, depressing, and just straight up reminds us of what was lost in the film. We lost Tony Stark. But that is exactly what he deserved. The reactions, the human-ness of it, was relevant, and I think that Marvel did a disservice to quite a lot of these characters by deleting this scene.

Starting off with Pepper, our very first Marvel lady. The badass, sassy, ineffable Pepper Potts, who put up with Tony's shit enough to marry the lucky bastard. They have a daughter together, and the man that she loves just died in her arms. Her partner, her husband, the father of her child is gone, and at that moment, she doesn't care if she looks weak, she will mourn. She will mourn now, and so she just sobs.

Next we see Cap and Thor. I think we were all praying somewhat that Pepper would tell them that he's okay, but seeing Pepper cry just confirmed to everyone in that moment that Tony is dead, and we are getting a raw reaction from both of them. The horror, the grief, it's prevalent on their faces, and Cap's mouth just hangs open in shock. He doesn't know what to say.

Thor has been through enough, he's emotionally strained, having lost his security, most of his self-confidence, and now two of his teammates. We've seen Thor cry in this film, and now he's about to do it again, and he's within his rights to.

Then the music swells and we cut to Clint. Clint was done dirty by Marvel ever since Age of Ultron, and cutting this scene was just another example. Over the years, Clint Barton has been through hell. He deserved a happy life JUST AS MUCH as Tony, and he got it. He had his wife, his kids, his freedom. And yeah, he was bitter in Civil War, reminding Tony of Rhodey's injury, but if a friend had been responsible for putting you behind bars, you'd feel a little bitter too. The last time Clint saw Tony? Tony was shielding him in case Bruce blew something up with the gauntlet. They worked as a team to save the world, and relied on each other, seamlessly. They'd lost Nat, they mourned her together, and while there is a risk in every battle, Clint didn't think he'd lose another teammate...no, another friend so soon. He kneels, and bows his head. He hides his face, but the action is clear. The respect is clear.

Then the camera pulls out, revealing T'Challa and Carol. Clint's motion catches the king's eye, and when he realizes what the archer is doing, he immediately looks back at Tony. And then he too, kneels. This man just gave his life to save everyone, he damn well earned the respect that the motion carries. Carol kneels next. She sees T'Challa kneel, but culturally, she gets it. I would assume that Carol has remembered a lot about her time on Earth, her life, and certain traditions that come with it. The whole bowing to a fallen comrade may be Arthurian in nature, but the tradition is widely recognized in American football. A player is hurt = Everyone kneels. Everyone in the stadium, everyone watching. It's a visible mark of respect, and it's why Colin Kaepernick knelt in protest of racial inequality and police brutality rather than standing in solemnity. Carol might remember the tradition of kneeling from her youth, and so, she pays due.

Next we see Peter Quill, Valkyrie, and Nebula. Peter kneels. He too remembers the tradition (he’s from Missouri, he watched football, fight me) He fought next to the man, and while he didn't know him well, Peter might've enjoyed his company under different circumstances. Valkyrie has no clue what's going on, but she recognizes the situation. She knows what it's like to lose someone in battle, and she respects the tradition. She kneels.

Nebula technically kneels before Valkyrie, but her posture is different. Her back is straight, and her head is angled up. Nebula is a proud individual, and knows that his sacrifice was necessary, so she will mourn privately. She got to know Tony a little during their little space venture, and might've considered him a friend. She definitely respected him enough to stay, and kneel, because she knows the man earned it.

Next we see Scott kneeling, and it’s probably one of my favorite views of a person’s face during this scene. Scott’s an empathetic person, family-oriented, and tries to get along with people. But he didn’t exactly get along with Tony. He held Tony’s original refusal about the time-heist against him, and was so sure it would work, that he didn’t really consider the consequences. But seeing Tony’s widow mourn him now, Scott gets it. He regrets his actions a little, and so he will pay this man, this man he didn’t even like that much, some respect.

Cap comes into frame at that moment, and he doesn’t hesitate. He just falls, and he wobbles going down. He hits the ground hard, like the world has just been pulled out from under his feet. Who can blame him. Steve Rodgers felt very responsible for his team, and he feels that everything that happens to them for the most part is on him to fix. It’s on him to defend them, and we’re thrown back to that conversation. “We got a shot at getting these stones, but I got to tell you, my priority. Bring back what we lost? I hope, yes. Keep what I found? I have to, at all costs. And maybe not die trying would be nice.” Tony was able to move on past the Snap, he did what Steve struggled to do, after waking up in the 21st century, and after the Snap. He moved on, got married, started a family. Steve couldn’t move on, and somehow, he’s the one still standing while Tony is now gone. I think that’s the moment when Steve knew he would do whatever it took to get that life that Tony talked about, because he couldn’t be the one to fall in battle for him.

Strange is next in line, and we see him kneel, and his hair is still waving like someone is following him with a weak hairdryer. But his expression…whew, that’s solid. That’s the look that would’ve been on his face when losing a patient on the table, and having to inform the family. He knew this was coming. Five years ago, he saw that coming. He was prepared for it, but that didn’t make it hurt any less seeing it actually happen. His eyes don’t move until he’s fully on the ground, he refuses to take his eyes off Tony even at the risk of falling flat on his face. But he bows and in that moment you can see the regret and grief and the wonder if maybe there had been another way. His eyes shut, and his breath hitches a little.

Then, we get a change of pace. Gamora from 2014. Unlike everyone else, I don’t think she’s actually looking at Tony. Whatever she’s looking at, is eye-level. I think she’s watching everyone else, making sure that none of them are looking at her. She doesn’t know this man, but she is not surprised he is dead. She knows the power of the Infinity Stones, it’s been ingrained into her, and what’s more is that she knows what happens to people who go up against Thanos. She may appreciate that her father is dead because of this man, but she can’t stay and thank him. So she leaves. As she should. Maybe she finds a Chitauri transport vessel in the wreckage and makes her escape, but she spared him a moment, which from her…was enough.

In the next shot, none of the people are original Avengers. Mantis and Drax stand in the back, Shuri and Bucky in the front, and Sam, Wanda, and Okoye are to the side. Bucky, Sam and Wanda are already kneeling in this moment, and Shuri and Okoye quickly kneel as well. (Also, is Shuri wearing pristine NIKE sneakers in that moment, so QUEEN!) Neither check to look at T’Challa, so they do it of their own volition.

None of them knew Tony well, some even not at all. But what I find interesting, is that out of all the people kneeling in that shot, only Bucky is looking at Tony. The last time the two of them interacted was in Siberia, and a lot has changed since then. Tony changed, and Bucky definitely got the help he needed. Perhaps, had there been time, amends would have been made, apologies been exchanged, and even a camaraderie might have formed between the two. That will never happen now.

Then Drax kneels. The man is a peculiarity when it comes to things, and boundaries are clearly in different positions when it comes to social interactions. But he’s a fighter, and he’s been in Pepper’s shoes. He had a family and lost them, his wife and daughter, and then the Guardians. He can sympathize, and so he kneels. Mantis is looking at Drax. Unsure of what to do in this situation, she seeks out something familiar. She’s isolated, can’t touch anyone to glean context, so she copies him. She kneels. It might not be out of respect, but she does it anyways because it feels appropriate.

As the camera pulls back out, we see Pepper once more, and then Rhodes comes into view, and there’s even a slight glimpse of Peter. Rhodey is turned away. He can’t watch this. He physically can’t. Over the years, his best friend has done a lot of dumb shit. Like, A LOT! There were probably times Rhodey imagined waking up to find out that Tony OD’ed in college. Or died in Afghanistan. Got himself killed as Iron Man. Not this. He can’t watch this. Yes, his best friend was a superhero, but he didn’t imagine that Tony would die being one. Tony was supposed to die a civilian, not like a soldier.

Peter isn’t kneeling. It’s hard to see, but his posture indicated that he’s pulled away, sat back, curled into himself. His head is in his hands, and he’s trying to process what’s just happened. He just lost another person, another father figure, and he’s grieving only inches away from the body. He’s not moving, he can’t look up, not without seeing Tony’s face, and he can’t help but remember moments ago when Tony was standing there, giving him a hug. How can someone so important be gone so fast?

Pulling out some more, more people are revealed. Thor is now kneeling, as is Wong and Hope. Then there’s Bruce. Bruce is turned away, like Rhodey, but he’s kneeling on both knees, like he’s about to throw up and is looking at the sling around his arm. He’s made the connection, on what Tony did. He felt the pain of what the stone’s power is like, and he can only imagine what kind of pain Tony was in in his last moments. He wouldn’t wish that on anyone, and would rather have risked snapping his fingers with those stones again than losing Tony. But it’s too late.

As the screen fades to black, the camera continues to pull out, like there could’ve been more people revealed to mourn the Iron Man, and I think it would have been appropriate to segue into the message that Tony left to Morgan, had that scene not been cut from the film. We got to watch them say goodbye to Tony, and it would’ve been nice to see Tony say goodbye next. But at the same time, I think if this scene had been kept, the funeral itself wouldn’t have had much point narratively.

The only reason the funeral happened was to see all of the people pay tribute, while also explaining the extra people there who weren’t in the battle. Hank Pym, Queen Ramonda, Nick Fury, and Harley Keener. Morgan.

If I was in charge of editing this, I would’ve kept the kneeling scene in, as that was emotionally significant to the characters, and would’ve had a greater impact on the audience. Fade to black, and then show the message, before seeing Pepper and Morgan lay down the wreath on the lake. Made the funeral more ambiguous, for both Tony and Natasha (she deserved a funeral too y’all) Make the other faces visible as they approach, and then cut to Morgan’s cheeseburger line.

But either way, as is, I am grateful that this particular moment was filmed, and then released. I loved it, and if y’all will excuse me, I’m going to cry some more.

[andthentimestops]

“to love something that cannot love in return” [Captain Allen X Android!Reader] (part 8)

A/N: OOF sorry this took so long!!  — Tags: @gespirida @blu42nj @sternenreigen @sethrine-imagines @yallgotkik @doot-doot-doottt @catwoo @nikkidawnlight @captain-winter-wolf-aehs @deviantprescott @sadmine @aeryntheofficial @wayablack @lionhearted-soldier  @qtmeryr @heartsarecompatible @connorshero @ev3e @liveloveandbekind

@omi-writings @dreaming-of-illusory-flowers — You wanted to like Sierra Thompson. You really did. But she made it incredibly difficult to do so. To put it simply, her only redeeming quality was how conventionally attractive she was.

Even before the both of you even had time to respond to her shouting out Captain Allen’s name, she’d already ripped you away from his side and filled the spot. She clung onto his arm like she was a woman dying of dehydration while he was a large glass of cold water.

“David! It’s been so long! How’ve you been?” Sierra asked as she fluttered her eyelashes while gazing up at him in a loving manner.

“I... um...” Captain Allen’s eyes flickered over to you.

He seemed nervous.

So were you.

You don’t seem to want her here... so why aren’t you telling her to leave? You thought as you cursed the fact that you couldn’t wirelessly speak to him, to ask him why he was allowing that woman to basically grind against his arm. You wanted nothing more than to tear her away from Captain Allen since he didn’t seem to be doing anything. 

Sierra turned to look at you and you swore you saw a scowl flash across her unfortunately very attractive face. She released your soulmate’s arm from her clutches and faced you before smiling widely.

“Hi, there! You must be David’s friend—“ She froze, her eyes widened as her mouth formed an exaggerated ‘O’ shape. “Oh! No, wait, you can’t be, though...” Sierra mumbled to herself, though you weren’t sure if she meant for it to be subtle since her voice barely softened at all. She whipped around to face David Allen once again.

You looked at him as well. His eyes were glued to his feet.

Why aren’t you doing anything?

“You got yourself an android?!” The woman laughed shrilly before she wiped away a tear you were very sure didn’t exist. “I thought you fucking hated those overrated robots?”

Captain Allen’s head shot up and for a second you felt a tinge of hope. You waited for him to defend you and your people; to tell Sierra to fuck off; to grab your hand and drag you back him, leaving her in the dust like in some of those romance movies Connor made you watch with him.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he remained silent. His lack of a response was all Sierra needed to confirm her suspicions.

You glared at him as you ground your teeth. You were _feeling_ so much you weren’t sure your body could take it. You could hear the loud whirring of your LED in your head as it undoubtedly blared a bright yellow. You felt angry and frustrated but worst of all, you felt... betrayed.

“Oh, David,” she cooed and pouted as she ran her hand down his arm. “I never knew you could stoop so low.” She shot you a look of distaste over her shoulder, clearly not having to worry about showing how much she disliked you and hurting your feelings anymore since you were just an android. “Is it a sex android? I hear those are really popular nowadays,” Sierra scoffed.

“Sierra—“ Captain Allen started. His jaw had tightened as he clenched his fists. It was obvious that he wasn’t very pleased with what she said but yet he allowed himself to be interrupted.

“Y’know if you’re really that lonely, you could’ve given me a call,” Sierra said casually as one hand reached for another. Without breaking eye contact with your soulmate, she removed a silver band from her ring finger. “The hubby won’t know,” she added in a whisper.

“Sierra. Stop—” Captain Allen warned, his voice was firmer and his shoulders were tense now but still, he didn’t try to stop her when she interrupted him for the second time.

Why are you so afraid? I thought you were brave.

“It’s getting warm out here,” she fanned herself with her hand. “Let’s go back to your place, shall we?”

Once again, he said nothing which was all the affirmation Sierra needed to begin walking towards his home. Before she sashayed far enough though, she turned back to you and held her handbag out.

“Hold this.”

You bit your tongue, every synthetic cell in your body was telling you to grab the stupid overpriced designer product and shove it down her oesophagus. But before you could execute your plan, your mind wandered back to the man standing behind you. Something told you Captain Allen wouldn’t hesitate to incapacitate you if you assaulted Sierra in front of him.

Thus, you simply glared at the woman. She shook the bag as if trying to emphasise her instructions and huffed when you refused to take it.

“You should really buy a new one, David,” she commented snarkily before turning her back to you. “This one seems faulty.”

You watched as she walked down the sidewalk towards his home. The sound of her heels clicking against the concrete ground felt like your audio processors were being torn out of your head.

“(Y/N)...” Captain Allen finally acknowledged your presence. Under any under circumstances you would’ve happily turned around and jumped straight into his arms but your heart felt too heavy. You couldn’t even move.

“(Y/N).” He repeated and this time you felt his hands grab your shoulders gently. In any other scenario, his touch would’ve made your heart skip a beat. Although your heart was indeed pounding in your chest wildly, it wasn’t from excitement or any form of happiness. You were enraged.

Before he could turn you around himself, you whipped around on your own volition. Your eyes met his instantly. They looked pained and sad; so much so that you almost felt sympathetic. Almost.

“Don’t just stare at me like that, (Y/N),” he begged as he gazed pitifully at you while you glared back at him. “Say something… please.”

Part of you wanted to give him a piece of your mind. To yell and scream and punch his stupid face in a fit of rage and betrayal. Another part of you just wanted to say nothing and leave; to just walk away and never see him again; to quit working at the DPD and move to another country or something.

A small part of you wanted to hug him; to go home with him and just endure Sierra’s bullshit before returning back to your normal lives as though nothing ever happened; your normal lives which had been nicely intertwined up until this moment when he betrayed your trust.

No. You thought. I won’t be able to live with myself if I let this go so easily.

“I just thought... we had something,” was what you ended up saying. Your voice was calm and steady but also softer than usual; it was a stark contrast to the pure rage Captain Allen could see burning behind your eyes. To be honest, it was slightly terrifying to him.

“We do have something,” the man before you replied with no hesitation.

A humourless chuckle slipped past your lips. “You say that just like that—“ you snapped your fingers “— why couldn’t you defend me that quickly when Sierra was being such a… such a…”

“I wanted to,” your soulmate’s hands darted out to grab yours but you were quicker and took a step backwards, repulsed by the idea of being touched by the man. A wave of satisfaction flows over you when you noticed a hurt expression flash across his face.

That’s how it felt, David. That’s how it fucking felt.

“You wanted to defend me? That’s hilarious,” you hissed. “Why didn’t you, Captain Allen?” You asked a question you already knew the answer to.

He didn’t respond; didn’t even look at you. Instead, his eyes trailed down to his feet as he stared at the ground, speechless. It was hard for you to believe that this was David Allen in front of you. The man who just half an hour ago stormed into his own boss’s office to threaten your harasser was now standing before you like a child who’d just been caught shoplifting.

“You still have feelings for her, don’t you?” You said after it was clear he wasn’t going to say anything. You felt your heart ache like it had never done before but still, you continued to speak. “You couldn’t— can’t hurt her feelings because you still care about her so you stayed quiet and let her have her way."

The man remained silent; much like he did just moments ago when Sierra spoke about you as if you were dirt underneath her shoes.

The silence was loud; deafening, almost. You wanted so badly for him to deny your accusations but you knew he wouldn’t because if he did, he would be lying and Captain Allen was never one to lie.

You tapped his chin with your index finger, a silent plea for him to look at you. When his blue eyes met yours, you felt your sting in your aching heart. Your soulmate looked nervous and frightened; not of you, obviously, but rather of what you were most certainly going to say next.

“You have to choose eventually. You know that right?” You whispered with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. It reminded him of the way you smiled at him the morning after he’d broken your heart for the first time.

Yet again, he refused to speak.

“I don’t think I ever told you but,” you took another step backwards, “you have a nice voice. Use it when you give me a call to tell me the decision you make.”

You flashed him another smile before turning around but before you could do a full 180. Captain Allen did something you honestly weren’t expecting.

He spoke.

“You’re not coming home?”

“What’re you talking about, silly?” You replied without looking at him, instead you opted to turn around fully so that your back was facing him. "I’m heading back to Hank’s place. I am going home.” — Soon, everything turned dark with only a few streetlights to illuminate your way. You’d been walking for hours now, just mindlessly following the sidewalk to god-knows-where. You hoped that some idle strolling would provide you with some time to think, and it did, except all you thought about was your soulmate.

You wondered what he was doing. If Sierra was still in his home. If he’d ever invited her in in the first place. You recalled the incident over and over again for no apparent reason other than you felt like you had to. You imagined what you’d do if he chose her instead of you; if he called you the next morning just to tell you that he didn’t want you anymore, that your months of being together was worth nothing compared to what he had with Sierra.

You ran your fingers over your forearm repetitively without even realising. You couldn’t feel the words since they were in your skin but at the same time, you could feel every letter burn mercilessly. You felt like just digging your fingers into your chassis and ripping the synthetic skin right off your arm but decided against it, realising that it wasn’t worth losing a limb for someone who didn’t care.

Soon, your mindless walking turned into a purposeful one as you found yourself entering Hank’s neighbourhood. You hadn’t told anyone you were returning tonight so hopefully, either Hank or Connor was home to let you in. Briefly forgetting about Captain Allen, you wondered about the other men, and dog, in your life instead; you wondered how they were doing, if they missed you, if—

You felt a sharp tube get jabbed into your neck before a liquid was pumped into your thirium stream.

Gasping, you whipped around to take down your attacker but almost immediately, you felt your systems shutting down.

Connor! Help! I need1 HE  L P Z;AKT0 saV E M3

Then, you collapsed. — “There’s nothing I can do! We have to bring her to Kamski!”

“We don’t have that much time!”

“We will, trust me!”

The feeling of someone carrying you in their arms. You could feel their heartbeat pounding against their chest. It was Connor’s.

The sound of a car door slamming shut and the ignition being turned on. The sound of wheels against the road’s rough surface. It was Hank’s car.

Shaking.

Were you shaking? Or was it the car…?

“You’re going to be okay, (Y/N).”

His hand touched your forehead. It was comforting.

“Should we call Captain Allen?”

“No!” Funny… that wasn’t Connor’s voice… it was yours. “Don’t… please… don’t wanna see… him.”

Silence.

The sound of the city faded away. It was getting cold.

You shivered.

Cold.

Too cold.

The feeling of a hand on your stomach.

Warm.

“Follow me.” Chloe.

“This is… bizarre.” Kamski.

Then, nothing. — Your eyes shot open as your central processing unit whirled to life. You blinked rapidly as your mind struggled to comprehend what had happened and was happening. You scanned the room to find it completely foreign to you, you began to panic and was about to send out a distress signal when suddenly a hand gently touched your forehead.

“It’s okay, (Y/N), you’re safe.”

You didn’t even need to think before you realised whose voice had just spoken to you. It was the creator of androids himself.

“Connor and the Lieutenant brought you in after they realised you’d been attacked and injected with a dangerous fluid,” he continued, “of course, nobody knew how deadly the unknown substance actually was until we extracted it from your body to create a so-called cure so you’re very lucky they sent you here in time.”

“Where am I?” You asked, hands grabbing your own throat in shock when you heard how staticky your voice sounded.

“Don’t worry, it’s just a… side effect of your healing process.” Kamski gently removed your fingers from your neck. “You’re in my home where the Chloes and I have just purged your system of the substance. We gave you the cure I mentioned earlier but we’re not very sure if it’ll be 100% effective yet so we’ll need to keep you under close observation.”

You nodded slowly before you pushed yourself up into a sitting position. You were glad to notice you weren’t nude though you were in a new set of clothes that fit far better than…

Shaking your head, you pushed any thought of him to the back of your mind; instead, you glanced around the room, taking its pristine walls, furnishing and decor before your eyes landed on Kamski’s. He smiled.

“How are you feeling?”

“Not very good,” you replied, “though I’m not sure if it’s because of what happened or because of… something else.”

He chuckled as a smug look flashed across his face. “Just a guess but could it be... soulmate troubles?”

Your eyes widened as your lips parted, ready to ask how the hell he knew until you felt your forearm tingle.

Oh. He saw.

“It’s fascinating, isn’t it?” Kamski took a step towards you. “I was extremely surprised when I saw it,” he continued as he took your hand in one of his while the other caressed your forearm carefully. His fingers glossed over the words as his eyes scanned them over and over again. Then, he tore his eyes away from your skin to meet your own.

“Magnificent.” He smiled while he looked at you adoringly, his hand never letting go of yours. You felt your face heat up. “You are truly remarkable."

You knew you wanted to; to take out whatever anger and frustration you were feeling on the man who had an interest in you. You could. You definitely could. But…

“This isn’t right,” you whispered, the pounding if your heart was now loud in your ears. “Please, take a step back, Mr Kamski.”

“I can respect that,” the man replied without hesitation before he released your hand from his grasp and did as you told. “Call me Elijah, by the way. There’s no need for formalities here.”

“Alright, Elijah.” You paused, your butt now sitting on the edge of the cold table you’d previously been laying down on. “Where’re Hank and Connor?”

“Outside. I can call them in if you want.”

“I’d like that, thank you.”

You inched forward, your toes wiggling, ready to touch the ground; you felt the edge of the table slide against your bum towards your lower back when suddenly you felt a sharp sting in your head. The pain so unbearably overwhelming that your hands shot up to clench your head as your knees gave out beneath you. You fell forwards, expecting to hit the ground when you felt a pair of arms wrap around you instead. Though you were on the brink of malfunctioning from how severe your agony was, you could sense who was holding you and immediately, you ripped yourself out of his grasp.

“Don’t touch me!” You said, only to realise that you’d actually screamed the words when you noticed everyone in the room wince.

When did th ey co me  i n?

You stumbled against someone else and felt their arms lock around you. This time, you didn’t fight them off, because you didn’t care whoever it was, as long as they weren’t David Allen.

[accidentally-logince]

Guardian Angel - Chapter 3

Summary: Virgil, sick of always dying and being resurrected again, decides to finally work out a way to end it for good. The only problem- he left Patton alone and depressed. Virgil makes it his goal to keep Patton alive until the time comes for him to join Virgil in the land of the dead.

If you missed: Prologue, Chapter 1, Chapter 2

Warnings: Suicide mention, crying, minor mention of eating disorder

(If there any more, please tell me!)

Word Count: 1.8k

Pairings: Royality, eventual Moxiety

---

Virgil

---

The bus driver snitched.

Based on the evidence given—what the driver saw, the time, the circumstances—they figured out that it was suicide. They even looked for a note. There wasn't one, of course. But then, they started questioning my friends. Well, and Demitri.

The asshole himself sits uninterested in the office chair, one leg crossed over the other, his eyes wandering around as if he'd rather be anywhere else. I lean on the wall to listen; the information might be interesting. 

"Did you notice anything off about his behaviour in the weeks prior to his death?"

Demitri huffs. If you wanted, you could play it up just a little more, I think. "I don't know. I never really talked to him because I wanted to. He was just there. If we're being honest—" Oh, ha ha, Mister Deceit over here, "—he was kind of a wimp." My wings give an irritated flap at that, but because I'm used to it from him, it's easier to blow off. Doesn't make me hate him any less, though.

"So he wouldn't have told you anything about what he was planning?" 

"No. We hated each other. I really don't think I can make that more clear. He acted like he thought he was so much better than me." Oh, that's just gold. "Listen, can you just call in one of the others? I'm bored, and I have no information."

The officer sighs. "We can move on for now. But you must be prepared if you're questioned again in the future." She drags her pen down her notepad and then taps it. "Can you bring Logan Crofter in as you leave?"

"Yeah, sure," Dee says, pushing himself to his feet. A smile breaks out on his lips as he leaves. He just flicks Logan's glasses, saying, "you're up."

Logan fixes his now askew glasses and stands up. None of them had been told exactly why they'd been called. All they know is that they're being questioned. Until they walk in and sit down, they don't know what about. I don't know if I like that better or worse than just telling them outright before they came. Patton looks a little stressed, but not excessively upset, though, which is a bonus.

As he walks into the office, Logan is tucked into himself. Giving the officer a small nod, he sits down and awkwardly places his hands in his lap, gaze wandering to his curled fingers. He was never good at eye contact anyway. 

"Mr. Crofter," the officer says. Logan flinches, and his face falls just slightly more.

"Good afternoon, ma'am."

The officer goes about carefully explaining exactly why Logan is actually here. He actually lifts his eyes to meet hers, almost as if silently begging her to say she's lying. I can tell how hard he's trying to keep himself from crying. 

"I didn't realize that he was... going through that," Logan whispers. I can hear the quiver in his voice, even at the low volume. I step forward and place my hand on his shoulder. He moves up into my phantom touch. I don't know if I'm cold or warm, but just the distant contact seems to relax him just the littlest bit.

"So you hadn't noticed any significant changes in his behaviour?"

Logan bites his lip. "I didn't. He always acted so happy. It was always him who would cheer us up." Then, his eyes drop back to his shoes, and he lifts a hand to lay on his arm, right near where my hand sits on his shoulder. I shift so that my fingers overlap with his. He crumples when he tries to say something else. "I'm sorry, I-I... Can I come back another time?"

They definitely should have told them before they got here. I kneel in front of Logan, reaching up to wipe tears from his cheeks. He blinks at my touch, which I'm starting to understand has a sort of soothing effect to people in the overworld.

The officer nods, dismissing him. She's starting to understand her error too. "Send in the last two, okay?" she asks. As Logan turns to leave, she brings her fist to her mouth, thinking. I reach out and brush Logan's arms with one wing as he steps through the doorway. He tells the other to come inside, and then keeps walking with hardly a glance back.

---

Patton and Roman hadn't been questioned. The officer, learning from the error of her ways, only told them the news, leaving the questioning for a later date. Patton had reacted dismally, collapsing into himself and sobbing into Roman's chest as his boyfriend rubbed his back reassuringly. Roman looked more reserved, but I'm sure that was for Patton's sake, because his expression was strained the entire time they were there, and his reassuring smile was forced on the drive to Patton's house.

When he got home, Patton didn't wait before making a beeline straight for the stairs, looking drained as he crawled onto his bed. All his tears had already run out, and he just sat, tucked into himself as he shivered. I sat with him for awhile, until he finally went to sleep—without accepting his mom's offer for dinner. I hardly have time to worry if he's going to stop eating again when a little light shoots into the air above his head.

It doesn't do anything. Just hovers there, right over Patton. I lift a finger and poke at it, and when I connect with it, it expands ever so slightly, showing a grainy image of a grassy hill. I reach out and press it to my palm, and it grows bigger yet, until it's matched the height of my hand, heel to the tip of my middle finger.

I can see Patton inside when I squint. He's wandering through the field; the grass is up to his hips, and he runs his fingers through it as he walks, staring bewildered at the sky. Is this his dream? I lean forward to see better, and the light grows bigger again, this time to the size of my torso. I reach out, and my arm moves through it—no, inside it. 

After a few seconds of contemplation, I lift myself up into the air, and the dream portal grows to accommodate my size as I fly through. I have to shield my eyes for a few second because it's so much brighter now that I'm actually inside. The dream is warm, ignoring the continuity of the real world. I guess it doesn't have to make sense.

A run-down shed sits on top of the hill, and I soar down to land next to it. The wood is splintery and extremely dry when I press my fingers to it. If it weren't for the tall grass, I'd say it never rains around here. 

Okay, again, you're trying to analyze the logistics of a dream, I tell myself. 

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Patton turn around. Instinctively, I swiftly turn the corner. I don't know what compelled me to hide from him, but a growing feeling of dread keeps me from revealing myself. What would happen if he did see me in his dream? What would he think in the overworld? Would it make him feel better or worse? 

As if sensing my turmoil, the dream portal reappears as a tiny dot in front of me. I press my hand against it and fly through.

---

Patton

---

I could have sworn I saw a wing.

Maybe it was my eyes playing tricks on me, but it looked like there were feathers moving around the wood of the shed. I stare for a few seconds and nothing happens. No movement, no sound. My fingers move absentmindedly through the grass at my sides, enjoying the soft feeling.

This place makes me feel... happy. Distantly, I know its not real. But I decide to pretend, for now. An overwhelming calm has enveloped me, and I just want to bask in it for one more moment...

And then the moment is gone.

My alarm clock wakes me from my sleep. I don't even know why it was set, but I trudge across the room and turn it off. For good measure, I even tug the cord from the socket. I haven't been using the clock, it's not like I've been going to school. Tears force their way into my eyes, and I shove the heels of my hands into them, frustrated with myself. It was a dream. It was going to end anyways.

I just stand at my dresser for a few minutes, in a dazed state of half-sleep. I start to think that maybe I can slip back into the dream, but quickly will the thought away and lean down to open my drawer, pulling on a hoodie. The alarm had gone off at four am. I decide I'm not getting back to sleep and instead take a walk, hoping I can clear my head. 

It really has been dreadful the past couple weeks. By not going to school, I'm subjecting myself to hours and hours of time where I have nothing at all to do. My friends can't even visit, because they're actually going to school. I don't know how easily I could take it, especially after I just learned what happened to Virgil, but the aspect of another day spent on the couch, flicking through the channels to find something that I won't even watch—

I didn't know I was going to Roman's house. My feet brought me here by their own volition. An overwhelming urge to feel his arms around me has me moving to the door. He told me I could come in without knocking, especially if it's this early. I don't want to wake up his parents, so I press my spare key into the lock and open the door quietly.

The door to his room is cracked open, as usual, and I slide in, shutting it again when I'm inside. The single strand of light from the dimly lit hallway leads to the foot of his bed, and I follow it, carefully pressing my fingers onto Roman's forehead. 

His eyes flutter open, and he recognizes the pressure, shifting so that there's room on the bed for me. Wordlessly, we readjust ourselves until we're comfortable, his arms wrapped around me—just like I'd wanted—and my head pressed just under his chin. I curl my fingers in the fabric of his sleep shirt.

"I'm gonna try school again tomorrow." I don't know why that's the first thing that comes out of my mouth, but I can feel Roman smiling.

"That's wonderful," he whispers. "Because I missed you." He moves his head to press a soft kiss to my forehead, and I huddle closer into him. 

We don't say anything else. I find it much easier to fall asleep with him nearby.

I don't go back to my dream.

---

My Other Fics

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[delia-pavorum]

Happy Star Wars Day! Prompt 69. Smut? “You are driving me completely and utterly mad.” May the 4th be with you always~~

Too bad I can’t edit the part of this message that shows how long it’s taken me to respond to this 😂

Here you go, anon. ❤️ Some ex-tuh-remely smutty goodness for you to enjoy this evening, hopefully to make up for the length of time it took me to fill your prompt. I was listening to “Stay With Me” by Sam Smith when the inspiration hit for this one, so give it a listen while you read if you want to get into my state of mind. Or don’t. I’m not your boss. 

Enjoyyyyyy

P.S. I debated even mentioning this, but - there’s a lot going on in Rey’s mind through this. Please don’t consider any of it remotely non-con or even dub-con, because it’s not. Just the confused inner ramblings of a conflicted space gal. That said, if you want me to change the tags, let me know. 

She feels the shift in atmosphere, the rising of gooseflesh on her arms, the sudden absence of sound.

She turns in her cot and rather than turning towards an empty space, it’s him. There with her. As she knew he would be.

They don’t speak. Hands reach, lips join, she rolls onto her back, him on top of her.

So much clothing, always, but they make quick work of it. He unwraps arm bands and removes tunics, pulls down pants and drags his hot mouth down down down, through the fine hair of her stomach, the coarser hair below, the wet heat hidden underneath.

Before she can so much as squirm, he comes back up and helps her take off his own restrictive clothing - a cowl, a vest, a tunic. Now, a bare chest. She runs her hands over him, feels the calluses on her fingers as they snag on his soft skin and sparse body hair and the occasional mole or scar.

Further, further they go, to the button of his trousers. He turns and pulls off tall boots, undoes the button, sheds the pants. He’s on top of her again, bare, and she feels him hard and insistent pressed to the very heart of her.

She shifts to take him in - maybe she’s not entirely ready yet, but she will be and anyway maybe the discomfort at first is okay, a reminder that this is wrong, that she doesn’t want it, not really, shouldn’t want it—

“Wait,” he whispers against her lips, his hand gliding down between their bodies, his fingertips lightly searching, teasing. He parts the seam of her lower lips gently, strokes up and down, feather-light and worshipful. She feels him dip a finger — his middle, she thinks, as the tip of her own middle finger tingles slightly — into her, up until the first knuckle. She feels the ridges of that tip, the slightly scratch of a callus or a blunt nail. He strokes in and out, shallow, never going much deeper than just past the first bend of his finger. He withdraws and rubs the wetness he’s drawn out against the bud of her sex. The bottoms of her feet tingle and her legs start to tremble, just slightly.

“Shhh,” he soothes against her cheek, dipping the finger lower, lower, back into the entrance of her body, wetter now, and up again to slip up and down against her clit. Her breath catches and she can feel her nipples, already hard, now puckered and sharp. She turns her face into his, digging her nails into his forearm as she spreads her legs wider for him, ignoring the voices in her head that call her names. The names they have for women like her. Who sacrifice pride and honour and their beliefs for the feelings they get when a man puts his fingers and his tongue and his cock inside of them.

He pretends he doesn’t know what she’s thinking. She feels how he holds himself back from responding in the clench of his jaw as he buries his face in her neck, his fingers slipping freely in and out of her, one at first, now two, while his thumb continues working her clit. Her legs are shaking in earnest as she pants, her teeth gritted and nostrils flaring.

“You,” she whispers into his tousled hair right under her nose, “are driving me completely and utterly mad.” She doesn’t only mean right now, in this moment, with his fingers on her and in her, and he knows it and she knows it.

She regrets the words immediately. They say too much and now she needs him to say something pithy in return. Something Han Solo or Poe Dameron would say. She waits, prays, for the tagline of a silver-tongued charmer, its insincerity putting their arrangement into perspective. This is nothing, it has to say. This means nothing.

Instead, he stills. Lifts his head to search her eyes with his soft, reverent gaze, looking for all the galaxy like Ben Solo.

Not Kylo Ren.

Not anyone’s Supreme Leader.

But the Ben she has known since he mourned with her in a rock hut on a planet in the furthest regions of space and touched the tips of his fingers to hers to reassure her, bodily, that she had his companionship and his loyalty and whatever else she was willing to take from him.

His look undoes her, as it always does.

“Rey,” the word escapes his lips on an exhale and she can feel her eyes fill. She looks up and away to avoid his searching gaze, her body thrumming with unfulfilled desire.

He kisses her cheek and starts moving his fingers again, bringing his body lower and lower until his head is between her legs. His fingers still moving, he replaces his thumb on her clit with his tongue, sucking the swollen bud into his mouth, dragging his teeth on it lightly. His technique has improved. (She can vouch for the amount of practise he’s had.)

She digs her fingers into the bedsheets, arching her back. A noise comes through her clenched teeth, a half-feral cry. He places his other hand under her navel, holding her still, using his thumb to pull the skin under his mouth taut and open to his ministrations. She can hear the slip and slide of his fingers moving in the entrance of her body, while his tongue and teeth work the bundle of nerves just above it. He has her almost pinned and her legs shake and shake and she’s coming, she’s coming—

She covers her mouth with her hand as she keens under her palm. Two tears streak down her temples into her hairline.

Ben is moving up, his hand cupping her down below, soothing her as she comes down from her orgasm. He kisses her on the collarbone, then on the neck, and places a hand on either side of her head, looking down to slot himself into her wetness, still pulsing with the aftershocks of her climax.

Gathering her wits, with a mixture of her own strength and the ability to use the Force to her advantage, she flips their positions so that she’s on top with him underneath. He looks stunned for a minute, then swallows heavily as he takes her in — flushed from the neck up, messy hair, bare breasts rosy-tipped and freckled. His hands move up almost of their own volition to cup them, weighting them in his palms, rubbing his thumbs lightly over stiff nipples.

For all the times that the bond has opened for them since the day on Crait when she looked down at him and he looked up at her and she told him with her eyes that she needed more—

And for all the times since their first messy kiss, teeth clacking and tongues dueling—

And for all the times since he first entered her with a gasp that reverberated through her body and the Force and probably the entire galaxy—

They have never done it like this.

It’s so much easier to pretend, when she’s under him. It feels like sacrificing her autonomy, a little bit like coercion – almost like she’s could be at his mercy if he so chooses (she refuses to acknowledge the absurdity of this thought – how he has been the hesitant one, the cautious one, the one who will stop at the first sign of her discomfort, the one who works to ensure she is more than ready before even approaching the thought of entering her—)

Being on top means control. It means intent.

She wants to give him this.

She adjusts her position so that she elevates slightly on her knees, reaching between them and gently pulling his painfully stiff cock away from his stomach. She fits it between her legs, finding the wet give of her body, before slowly sinking down.

He’s biting his lip hard enough to draw blood – she feels the pressure on her own bottom lip – fingers clenched into her hips as he watches her body take him all in. White flashes behind her eyes and her nipples spike and she knows she’s feeling the strength of his desire in this moment.

It makes her lightheaded, how much he wants her.

Slowly, she starts to move up and down, back and forth, taking a minute to find her rhythm. Ben is still white knuckled at her upper thighs, allowing her to take control, his head thrown back as low moans escape his parted lips. She feels his climax approaching and she places her hands flat on his stomach, feeling the muscles ripple beneath her palms, stroking upwards towards his chest, pressing into his collarbone, coming up to his neck. She loosely brings her hands together, thumbs touching lightly on his Adam’s apple.

He tilts his head down and looks at her then, pupils dilated, eyes cloudy with desire. Not even the barest hint of concern crosses his features. Not because he thinks her incapable, but because he doesn’t care. If she were to draw all her strength into her fingers and all the strength of the Force and crush his windpipe with the merest thought, he would die – she knows this as well as she knows her own self – he would die with a smile on his face and her name on his lips.

How did she ever think, for even a second, that she was the one surrendering control in these circumstances?

She moves her hands from his neck to grasp his hands at her hips and links her fingers through his, bringing both their hands to lie on either side of his head. They hold hands as she tilts her hips forward and the slide of their bodies hits just the right spot outside and inside and she feels him losing control, which expedites her own pleasure, and there, there—

She clenches around him at the same time that she feels his warm, messy release inside of her, prolonging the pulsations of her inner walls against his lingering hardness. They both come with a loud cry, Rey grinding down as Ben jerks up. He forces her to release his hands so he can wrap his arms around her back and draw her close, pulling her flush against his body.

They lay pressed together like that, hearts pounding in unison, as they breathe heavily into the recycled air of Rey’s small room. She closes her eyes and buries her face deeper into his neck, his hair tickling her nose. She breathes in his scent, so familiar and suddenly so necessary.

Stay? she thinks at him, knowing he can hear her. Knowing he understands why she can’t – won’t – ever say it out loud, even tonight (especially tonight, when too much has already been said and yet they’ve barely spoken). 

His response is to tighten his arms around her. Anything else would be a lie. 

[chaoticquips]

The Other Wally West

I heard you weren’t feeling too good @linklyshow !! Also it sucks to hear your tablet died (This is based from that Coraline AU I was talking about a while ago!)

It’s strangely warm on the roof. 

He likes to come out here when he’s at home- at home-home, but... Well. He’s sort of trapped at the moment and he isn’t sure how he feels about it yet. 

“Always a catch, huh?” He thumbs the head of the buttoned-eyed ferret from his bedroom and it wiggles a bit in his hands. It doesn’t move after that, as still and lifeless as it looks. A sigh pulls his face into a frown.

The buttons unnerve him. Just... Wally’s always liked his eyes. His mother (his real mother) told them they were his best feature (despite the many science awards proudly lining his bedroom shelves). They were the first thing people commented on other than his flaming hair, they were what made him... Wally, almost. 

He’s stared into too many mirrors with puffed, red eyes surrounding that patented West green that it almost feels like cheating to just get rid of them. To just forget the past and the present and the pain so easily. And the way They looked, so eager and hungry after dinner for him to say yes, it... 

It unnerved him just a little too much. He went to bed earlier than he ever had before (and without dinner, of all things!) and woke up stiff, unsettled, and still here. 

So he climbed onto the roof in the dead of night. It should have been cold enough to warrant his sweater but instead the entire world was warm and foggy. Just humid enough that it felt as if he reached out to grab it, it would melt through his fingers like ice cream on a hot sidewalk. Or maybe it was just his nerves making his fingers feel a little jittery, his palms a little sweaty. 

He puts the ferret down, where it waits still as a board at his side, as he chucks off the stifling pajama shirt he was wearing. He barely feels a difference. Running a hand through his sweaty hair, he figures he should cut it soon.

A sharp, sweet wolf whistle flies through the air. Wally whips around to see the Other Neighbor Boy, who he’d dubbed Robin. The real version of the boy decided against telling Wally his name at all, always diverting the question or laughing it off like it was some sort of big joke. Whatever. He whistled and twittered like a robin in this world anyway, so it seemed fitting enough. 

“Need something?” Robin grinned like a feline and worked his way nimbly to the other boy from the other side of the roof. He plopped down next to him, button eyes glinting slightly in the moonlight. 

“...Yes?” Robin simply reached over with one of his fucking weird noiseless giggles and dragged a finger across Wally’s pectoral, only to flinch back like he’d been burned with a coy smile on his face. Wally flushed, neck turning red along with his face. 

“Oh, hah hah, very funny.” Wally reached to pull his shirt back on only to find it missing. Turning back showed Robin dangling it in his fingers over the roof edge. “...Um. Dude, can I have my shirt back?” 

Robin drops it off the roof. Wally doesn’t even want to think about weird, magical doll people right now, let alone have one blatantly hit on him while it looks like that kinda cute neighbor boy. 

On the other hand, there is the implication that, hypothetically, it’s acting off base personality and its doing what the other boy, hypothetically, would do under the same circumstances, but-

“Jokes on you, I hated it anyway.” But based off their earlier interactions, he’s not so sure. This world was apparently made to his tastes, maybe he just wants someone to be interested in him. Maybe this isn’t really... anything at all. It’s just what he wants from him. 

Robin sits close to him, letting their thighs touch. He shoots him a frown and Robin tilts his head inquisitively.

“I came out here to be away from you all. Why don’t you just go already?” Wally’s blocking the window from where he’s sitting, as Robin literally points out to him. 

“Well, figure something else out! You’re supposed to be smart, right? Why don’t you, I don’t know, jump off the roof or something?” Robin shrugs, standing up and perching on the edge of the roof. In the brief second he has, Wally panics.

“Wait! I didn’t mean literally-!” But Robin is already flipping off with a wide mouth open in a grin. He’d probably be whooping and hollering if he had a voice to do so with. Wally scrambles to look over the edge and is met face to face with shiny black buttons. “Gah!”

He reels back as a single, illuminated daisy is thrust into his chest, falling on his butt. He lets out a groan and flops over the rest of the way so he can look up at the night sky. He’d forgotten there was a tree right underneath his room with big, gnarly branches that could easily break someone’s fall.

Oh, and that this whole world is a fabricated mess of magic. Nobody is really supposed to die here, considering it’s supposed to be his happy place. Duh. 

He lifts his head up to look at Robin, who’s watching him, hand to his mouth, and shaking with silent giggles from the roof ledge.

“Is this a joke to you?” He drops his head without bothering to look at the other boy’s- doll’s- reaction and sighs again. “Does it even matter, anyway?” He mumbles.The flower’s stem feels odd as he rolls it in his fingers. He closes his eyes and listens to the rustles of clothing, of Robin moving to lay down next to him. He feels a body, but no warmth. 

It’s quiet. Wally never did well with quiet for very long. So he turns his head to the side and sees Robin laying half a foot away, petting his ferret almost absently on his chest. 

“...Did it hurt?” Wally whispers. It almost feels taboo to ask, like he isn’t supposed to really question the inner workings of this world, but Wally is a scientist through and through. He can’t help it. Robin only looks at him curiously again. “Your voice. You never answered me earlier, did it... did it hurt you, when they took out your voice?” 

Robin stares at him. 

“Did... does anything here matter at all? I mean, why should I go back home?” And there he goes, set off by one question he’s thought too much about that brings up the others. “It’s not like my parents really care that, you know, that I’m even here at all!” He sits up, suddenly angry. 

“Hell, they didn’t even try to listen to me about this place, they thought it was such a joke. Like I was-! ...Maybe I should just sew buttons into my eyes and be done with people who don’t even care about what I do.” There’s nothing to stop him, so he keeps going. Robin sits up and lets the ferret run off him. 

“Would anybody even care if I just dropped off the face of the planet to live the rest of my life in a magical doll house?! Would, would it even matter if, I just-” He pulls his knees to his chest and hides his face. 

“I’m just... I’m just stupid ol’ Wally West. I’m not nearly special enough to warrant this kind of attention, I just-” He chokes back a sniffle but can’t help the tears that start to fall down his face. “I just, I... I want to say yes so badly. But I can’t! I can’t because there’s something wrong and something is always wrong, but I just can’t let it go this time because,” He sniffs, “Because it feels really wrong and I, I’m so fucking scared, why am I scared-?” He stops before his voice starts to turn into that embarrassing whine he slips into when he’s truly upset and lets himself shut down for a minute. Sobbing quietly into his arms, he feels Robin shift closer. A hand on his back.

“God,” A rough whisper,  “I don’t even know why I’m telling you this! You can’t answer me, you can’t even talk-” He pulls at his hair and whips around to face the other boy and grip his shoulders. “I don’t even know your real name!” 

Robin stares at him. Wally stares back and feels something shift in his stomach. It...feels different this time, the way Robin’s looking at him. He looks more like the neighbor boy in the real world in this moment than the silly, playful doll that was supposed to be Wally’s cute escort around this world. Such a serious expression on him has Wally trying to swallow his snot and ask, “What?”

A gloved hand reaches out to wipe away tears before taking both of his cheeks in his hands. Wally sighs and closes his eyes, letting more tears fall out when he realizes its just... trying to complete its overall objective. Be some sort of pseudo boyfriend and make him feel good. It doesn’t act on its own volition. why would it? 

“Are you even real? Or are you just another figment of my imagination or something. Another cry for help that... that no one will ever hear.” He lets out a little huff of a laugh and looks to the side. “Hell, am I even real anymore? Am I dreaming? If I said yes... if I said yes, would anyone even remember me? Or would I just... disappear like I was never there at all?” He doesn’t know why he’s bothering. Its cold, button eyes just reflect bits of Wally’s face back to him. He can’t tell if there’s any sort of recognition at all. He looks dead to Wally. 

Robin moves a hand to his thigh, still staring at him. Wally lets out a sudden snarl of frustration and shakes the other boy- doll’s- shoulders again. 

“Say something! Just say something already! I want you to talk! Please! Just... Just be normal for a few minutes, ok? Stop trying to-” He feels Robin wiggling his fingers across his leg and he stifles a yelp when he goes into his pant’s pocket before pulling out-

“Hey! Give that back!” His polaroid of him and Uncle Barry at the STAR Labs Tech Museum, two birthdays ago. It very well could be the most valuable thing he owns. 

“Would you just, stop it!” He makes a lunge for it, only to hit Robin’s body with his own chest when the doll doesn’t move. He acts like such a solid deadweight that it winds Wally slightly. Robin is keeping his arm back, holding the photo away from Wally, precariously dangling between two fingers. 

“Why... why cant you just... stop being so fucking weird for a minute?!” He yells at him. Wally freezes. 

“I... oh god, I didn’t mean that. I’m so sorry.” There’s almost a sad look on Robin’s face as he pushes Wally to sit back. He pulls Wally’s hand out and places the photo in it, facing Wally, before pointing to Barry. 

“That’s Uncle Barry.” Wally mumbles, still embarrassed about yelling. “What about him?”

Robin points to it again, being careful that his gloves don’t scratch it, before leaning forward and putting his hand right where Wally’s heart was. It takes Wally a second. 

“...Oh.” Of course Uncle Barry would miss him. Of course he- they would. Wally never felt anything less than pure elation when he got to spend a weekend at Aunt Iris’s house. They would notice and... Wally loves that about them. They care. They’d probably believe him if he told them about this world, but not in the way an adult cares about a little kid’s imaginary friend. They really would.

“Oh.” He whispers again, a fresh new batch of tears coming out of his eyes. If I had buttons, I don’t even think I’d be able to cry, he thinks to himself. He takes one last look at the wild, happy grins they have in the photo before looking back up to Robin who’s got his head tilted again with that stupidly cute smile that the real one has. “I think I understand what you mean, now. I’m, uh, I’m sorry I thought you were, uh-” 

He’s cut off when Robin suddenly leans forward and presses a small peck to his cheek. He feels a flush on his neck again when he watches Robin look away shyly. He’d probably be blushing if he could, too. “Was that...?” There’s no answer, the other boy pointedly looking away from Wally and fiddling his hands with what has to be the cutest pout Wally has seen on anything before.

He puts the picture of Uncle Barry back into his pocket and is hit with the realization that even if he did want to go back home now, he has no idea how to get there because he woke up still here. He tells Robin so. 

Robin stares at him. 

Wally stares back, then lets a small little smile out. “Well, at least I’m stuck here with you. You’re not so bad, actually. I could get used to the whole not talking thing, I think, but maybe they could fix it so you could-” 

Suddenly Robin’s face warps into a painful expression and he vigorously shakes his head no, ripping himself away from Wally to hide his face in his hands. 

“Robin? What’s wrong?” He pulls Robin’s hands away from his face only to see the most distraught, warped look he’s seen on the doll before. He gasps softly and Robin pulls Wally’s hand to lay over his chest where his heart should be. 

Right. Right, there’s something horribly wrong with this world and... and Robin was sent to look after and take care of him while he was here, after all. He would tell Wally if there was something wrong... wouldn’t he? 

Unless he couldn’t. 

“Robin?” 

The boy pulls off his glove, shaking in strange, jerky manners like he was crying. He lets the sand and dust fall from his sleeve until the only thing left sticking out of his wrist is half a black key. He sniffs while Wally takes a closer look.

“The key! How did you get that from her? Wait, what am I saying, you’re such a sneaky little snitch I bet it wasn’t even a problem, huh?” The awful look on his face is replaced with a tiny, sad smile as he pushes his arm forward to Wally, who plucks the key from him. A bit of sand flicks out and scatters on the roof. 

“I... Thank you. You didn’t have to do this, but... something’s not right here, isn’t it? If I stay... If I stay, something bad will happen to me, huh?” 

Robin nods. He stands and shoves his glove back on his hand so the sand stops leaking out, but it looks mildly deformed now that its half full. He pulls Wally up and leads him back into the house, carefully creeping in the hallways and takes him to the tiny door that sits innocently in the sitting room. 

They kneel in front of it. Robin reaches forward to open the door but Wally stops him by grabbing his wrist. 

“Come with me. They... they’ll hurt you again.” Robin looks at him, eerily still before removing Wally’s hand. He unlocks the door and the draft that blows back into their faces has Wally shivering, wishing he had his shirt. 

Footsteps on the ceiling makes them jump. 

“Wally? It’s late, what are you doing, sweetie?” The voice comes from upstairs. Wally feels a cold shiver travel down his spine. They need to go, now. 

“Come on!” He tugs at Robin but the boy stubbornly refuses to go. Robin sighs sadly, leaning forward to press one last kiss to Wally’s cheek. Wally takes the opportunity to hug him, and when he pulls away Robin roughly shoves him through the door. He takes off his deformed hand and tosses it over to Wally while sand rapidly escapes his arm. 

“No, please-!” The last thing he sees is Robin’s sad smile before the door is slammed in his face. He can still hear the footsteps of his Other Mother coming, so he books it to the other side of the dark tunnel. 

When he crawls back into his house in the middle of the night, he pulls on Robin’s glove that just barely fits his hand and takes a deep breath. His skin prickles. 

It’s strangely cold in his house.

When Wally crawls back into the tunnel- fed, rested and prepared for war, you parent stealing bastards- he comes across a small pile of sand that has seeped in from underneath the door. Stomach sinking, he trails a finger through it and feels his breath hitch. When he opens up the door, there’s two things on the ground in front of him.

One empty, crumbled glove and two heeled feet. 

“Welcome home, dear.”