#first magnitude spring

[ittybittyfanblog]

Error 404: (Self-Aware!AU, Sylus Edition) – Epilogue

Summary: A LADS self-aware!AU featuring Sylus and his lover :) That’s it, that’s the plot. Tags: player!reader x sylus, fem!reader x sylus, reader x lads, self-aware!au, suggestive language, finally some fluff lol A/N: I missed writing for Error!! God, deliver me from the shackles of schoolwork and capitalism pls (I wanted this, I wanted this....) Enjoy! <3

Pt. 1 - Pt. 2 - Pt. 3 - Pt. 4 - Pt. 5 - Pt. 6 - Pt. 7 - Pt. 8 - Pt. 9 - Pt. 10 - Epilogue (-> spin-off)

“When I look at you, I can't believe it's true You're all I ever dreamed of, and you love me (And you love me) And you love me.”

The two of you are holding hands as you make your way to the new café that just opened on 6th Avenue, near Darlington Square, your fingers woven into his like it’s the most natural thing in the world. 

You’ve heard great things about the place, and not just the usual noise from clickbait-y blogs desperate for engagement, but from people who actually know what they’re talking about. The hipster types—the new-age purist fucks who claim they can taste the "notes of apricot and the warmth of an abuela’s love" in a single origin Santuário Sul pour-over, brewed with beans ethically scoured from the mystical depths of Carmo de Minas or whatever.

You think they’re full of shit. But for all their unbearable pretentiousness, they’ve never steered you wrong. So.

It still feels… unreal sometimes. Sylus, here, beside you. Present, in a way he never could have been before. In a way you two could only think of as a passing pipedream, not so long ago.

He’s here. Solid, tangible. And so, so warm. 

His thumb traces soft circles against your knuckles, an absentminded caress that sends a shiver up your spine. He does that a lot—little touches here and there, like he’s committing the texture of your skin to memory. Like there’s still a part of him that can’t quite believe that you two exist in the same space now. In the same plane of existence. 

And maybe you’re just as bad; sneaking glances at him whenever you could, half-expecting him to flicker out like a glitch in the system. Like some cruel error will right itself and erase him from this reality at any given moment, when you least expect it.

He never does. 

He’s still with you. Always with you. 

And day by day, the knot in your chest loosens; not all at once, but in slow, steady increments. Like frost clinging to the soles of your boots, melting under the first touch of spring. Day by day, the small voice in your head—the one that whispers warnings of borrowed time, of happiness slipping through your fingers—slows to a mum. 

Not gone, not yet, but it's quieter. Fainter now. Sounding more and more like the lingering echoes of a bad dream.

(You hope that one day, when you look into Sylus’ fathomless grey eyes, the reflection staring back at you will be filled with certainty. Of this. Of him. Of what you have. Nothing else.)

And whenever reality hits you – and what a novel thing it is, that this is what you now consider reality – it steals the very breath from your lungs. 

It’s an exhilarating kind of happiness; the way it makes you feel as if your heart's too big for your ribs, too much for your mortal body to contain. It spills over, bright and absurd—almost to a ludicrous degree, honestly. 

You don’t think you’ll ever get used to it. The utter magnitude of your bliss. 

And he’s just as lost in this as you are—though you suspect he’s just a tad better at making it less obvious.

He never strays too far away from you. He stays close to your orbit, always within arm’s reach; his fingers brushing against yours when they can, as if he doesn’t quite trust himself to let go. Your personal shadow.

It’s more than just physical proximity. There’s a gravity to him now, almost on a molecular level, like he’s in the very air you breathe. Inescapable, even if you tried.

(Not that you’d ever want to.)

Sometimes you think you’re not even consciously doing it, but when he moves, you move with him. You lean into him as if by instinct, finding the curve of his body and the spaces in between as though it was made just for you. It’s a rhythm that feels both thrilling and comforting, the kind of closeness that makes your heart thump a little faster; your cheeks a little redder. 

“Sweetie.”

Sylus’ voice breaks through your thoughts. It settles over the buzzing noise in your mind, soothing as ever. As it always has.

Has it really been four months?

You still find yourself mesmerised by the way he’s easily integrated himself into your world. His world now, too. All six-foot-five (!) of him; impossibly tall, broad-shouldered, and so naturally magnetic. 

It’s in the way he carries himself—not unlike the way he’s always done, back when he was no more but your impossible, sentient character. That presence is still there, the one you always thought was larger than life. But it's slightly more subdued now, toned down into something less intimidating. Something less… exorbitant. 

Something just for you.

And then there’s also the fact that he’s stupidly, ridiculously handsome.

It’s unfair, really. As if it weren’t already enough of a miracle that he’s here, real, flesh and blood, he had to step into this world looking just as breathtaking as his video game counterpart. And hey, maybe you’re a little biased, but you think the changes that came with his mortality only made him all the more perfect in your eyes.

Sure, you miss the silver hair from time to time. And occasionally, your brain still expects the sharp contrast of crimson when his gaze cuts to yours—only to be met with a monochromatic grey, deep and electrifying as a thundercloud in mid-July.

But then there’s everything else. The way his chest rises and falls under your palm, the steady heartbeat that lulls you to sleep at night. The way his hair sticks up in all the wrong places in the mornings, no physics engine rendering it down to a smooth perfection. The scratch of stubble when he steals kisses from you throughout the day, because body hair is a thing now (thank god). 

The off-key singing when he’s taking a shower—

Oh. Nevermind. 

The little imperfections that weren’t designed to be attractive but somehow make him even more so.

He isn’t all clean-cut lines anymore, no longer a carefully-crafted fantasy meant to appeal to an audience. There’s a rawness to him now, something that’s inexplicably human. He’s just some… guy. 

Granted, an extremely hot guy, but still. 

Just himself. Just Sylus.

And maybe… maybe, that’s what makes this version of him the most beautiful of all.

Because he’s yours. Completely and wholly yours.

“Sweetheart, we’re here.”

There’s laughter in his voice. You blink up at him, only to find that look in his eyes—amused and endearingly fond. You realize, a beat too late, that you’ve been spacing out for the last couple of minutes. 

Sylus tips his chin toward the double doors a few metres away, and he feels the way you startle slightly. 

You give him a sheepish smile. He merely chuckles, squeezing your hand in response. 

He’s used to this, revels in this. The way your mind drifts so freely when your hand is in his. It’s not unlike the way you used to depend on him, back when his existence was confined to a screen. 

But now, in this corporeal form, he can be more than a voice in your ear—do more than just watch from the sidelines. 

He can pull you back when you get too close to the curb, for one. Tuck you into his side when the cold bites too sharply at your skin. He can prevent you from walking straight into oncoming traffic whenever you get too lost in your own head… because of course you would. Carefree thing that you are.

He likes seeing you at ease; so completely trusting of the man who, in the grand scheme of things, has only truly been here for a fraction of a year.

As if he’s always belonged by your side.

Oh, how he adores you.

He’d take care of you forever, if you let him. His little dove.

You two enter the café, and immediately, your eyes are drawn to the eclectic décor of the place. It’s almost like you’ve entered a fever dream—or what you can only describe as a frankensteined aquarium. 

Circular faux windows line the stone-clad walls, imitating a sort of subterranean oceanic sanctum, drowning the space with an atmospheric blue. There are hanging lamps reminiscent of jellyfish floating at sea, casting vivid hues of bioluminescent purples and pinks across the room; the mix of colours gives off the illusion of something sunken, almost psychedelic. An abundance of plants of varying sizes can also be seen at every corner, from the creeping ivies to the potted lilies, as if they’ve simply sprouted into existence.  

The main kicker, though, is that – aside from the predominantly nautical motif – the owner seems to have a strange fondness for… the cabaret? 

Framed photographs of harlequin girls wink from gilded edges, and there’s a signage in cabochon lettering that looks like it belongs outside a burlesque theater rather than in here. It spells out a cryptic phrase in a swirling font, in a language you don’t recognize.

You’re still trying to process the visuals of it all when you register the familiar notes of Paradise Circus filtering in through the speakers.

…They’re committed, you’ll give them that. 

"Woah," you can’t help but say, momentarily disoriented by the overwhelming interior of the unassuming—or at least, from the outside—café. "This is… definitely something."

Sylus glances around, his lips curling into a wry smile. "Well, I certainly wasn’t expecting a full immersion," he remarks dryly. "I was wondering what all the fuss was about. Glad to see they didn’t oversell it."

You snort. “I hope good coffee is part of the experience.”

You both amble toward the counter, third in line behind a girl with a bob cut who’s swaying to the music in a pair of silver bell-bottoms, and a shorter fellow wearing a flatcap and trench coat like he’s on the damned set of Peaky Blinders.

Clearing your throat, you quickly glance up at Sylus—just to see him watching you with a knowing look, an eyebrow arched.

You roll your eyes, pressing your lips to suppress a smile. Judgemental little shit. 

"It’s possible we missed a dress code somewhere," he says drolly. 

“Shh,” you hiss at him, trying to keep your voice low—or as low as you can manage—trying your hardest not to laugh. “You’re wearing leather pants. You don’t exactly have the fashion high ground here.” 

Sylus pinches your side in retaliation, and you swat his hand away. 

Tommy Shelb—rather, the cap wearing twenty-year-old-something dude—gives the two of you the stink eye, clearly unimpressed by your not-so-quiet banter. You can’t help but think that maybe he’s the type to take himself a little too seriously.

After a few minutes, you two are next in line.

You’re looking up at the hanging menu—an aged wooden board with elegant yet slightly smudged calligraphy, suspended by fibre twine that gives it a rustic feel without making it look too tacky. Your eyes skim past the more familiar offerings before landing on something called The Drowned Saint. 

It’s intriguing. You’re intrigued. 

Why not?

“Ready to order?” an easygoing voice asks, prompting you to tear your gaze away from the menu.

The barista in front of you is tall, with large, square glasses that sit slightly crooked on his nose, like they’ve been knocked askew one too many times. It gives him a friendly, bookish vibe, the kind of charm that might fool you into a sense of security… if not for the sly look in his eyes. 

Something that spells mischief. 

“Oh, hi—yeah, can I get The Drowned Saint? Just, uh, a regular.” You say, glancing down at the silver name tag pinned to his shirt.

… Red. Does everybody in this establishment need to have a certain degree of quirky to them...?

“–-and a strawberry muffin, too.” 

“And for you?” The dark-haired man seems to size Sylus up, his gaze sharpening with something you can’t put a name to. “Sir?”

There’s a pause. It makes you peek up at Sylus, and you’re surprised to see the same look of quiet consideration on his face.

You shift your weight awkwardly, glancing between the two men. Um.

Finally, Sylus lists his order in a measured tone. Red hums noncommittally, grabbing a paperboard cup from the stack behind the counter.

"Alrighty, and can I get a name for that?”

“... Silas.”

A snort; followed by a barely-restrained cough. 

Your brows lift. Okay. What’s this guy’s damage?

“Riiight, so do you spell that with an ‘I’?” There’s a deliberate smirk playing on Red’s lips. “Or maybe a ‘Y’? Sorry, still getting the hang of–” he makes a vague gesture with his fingers, “all this.” 

You squint, getting a little annoyed by the whole ‘cool guy’ act. Fucking hipsters, man. “Look, it’s not that complicated. It’s S-I-L–”

You feel the light press of Sylus’ palm at the small of your back—a silent reassurance while he cuts in, unperturbed. “It’s alright, sweetie,” he murmurs by your ear. 

Then, without looking away from the irritating barista, he languidly pulls out his wallet. There’s something almost amused in the way his brow lifts, the barest flicker of challenge. “Write it however you want.”

Red, looking unruffled for the most part, is already jotting something down on the cup. There’s no visible reaction; just that same ever-present ghost of a smile, which you’re starting to find… kind of weird, to be honest.   

After paying, both of you move to the side, settling into the wait. You narrow your eyes at the flamboyant man who's busy humming something upbeat under his breath as he moves effortlessly behind the counter. Steam rises in the air while he works the espresso machine like he’s done it a thousand times before. 

You wouldn’t be surprised if he started twirling a milk frothing pitcher mid-pour, like a performer in some kind of latte circus act. He seems like the type.

Finally, Red pings a tiny brass bell by the pick-up area, the tinkling chime almost mocking. “Order up,” he calls out, flashing the two of you a toothy grin. “Enjoy, lovebirds.”

Sylus scoffs, unimpressed. He doesn’t respond—just picks up the tray in one smooth motion, nudging you toward an empty table near the centre of the room, right below a floating indigo anemone. 

He pulls out a chair, and you drop into it with a huff. “The fuck was that guy’s deal?”

He takes his seat across from you, unbothered. To your surprise, instead of the ire you expected to be written on his face, he looks more fascinated than anything. 

He studies you, eyes flickering with something you can’t put your finger on. 

“Does he remind you of anyone?”

You frown. The question throws you. “Huh?” Your brows knit together, head cocking sideways in confusion. “Wait—you know him?”

He gives you an indulgent smile, but doesn’t say anything. He picks up his cup, gaze dropping briefly as he turns it in his hand.

Do you know him?

Sylus watches you, patient, the faintest curl of his mouth betraying nothing as you mull it over. It’s as if he’s waiting, trusting you’ll make the connection yourself without his help. But how would you know the owner of a newly-opened café—if he even is the owner? (He sure carries himself like he owns the place.)

You wrack your brain, trying to pin him down. Where else would you know a roughly six-foot-tall guy with dark, wavy hair and shifty-looking eyes the color of a dead aubergine? 

He’s certainly… a character. And he doesn’t pass off as local—maybe foreign, or at least mixed—so should be easily recognizable, right? 

Yet, for some damning reason, nothing’s clicking. 

It’s in the way he acts too, you think. The easy arrogance, the look of mirth lingering in his expression, as if he’s in on some inside joke you’re not privy to. It’s nagging at you, like an itch in the back of your brain. You’ve seen him before, right? 

You’re pretty sure you have… but for the life of you, you can’t figure out where.

“I mean, like, he does look kind of familia—” Wait.

Oceanic décor. Dark irises that glint into a near-violet hue under the dim, overhead lights. 

Red. 

Reddie.

The realisation hits you like a ton of bricks.

“Wha—no.” You spin your head around so fast it almost gives you whiplash. 

And as if he’s already expecting it, Rafayel meets your wide eyes. 

He gives you a wink. 

Holy fucking shit. 

“So he found a way out, as well,” Sylus muses, his large hand comically dwarfing the coffee that he’s back to examining. When he meets your stunned gaze, he casually flips the cup around, revealing the name scribbled on the sleeve.

‘Sylus’ 

And just right below: ‘still got here first lol ;)’

You let out a sharp exhale, the dots starting to connect in your head. “Did you know?” Your voice pitching higher than you intended, brows scrunched up as you look at the calm man in front of you—the nonchalance to your overreaction. “Is that why you wanted to come here?”

He picks up your strawberry muffin, tapping the excess crumbs off the edge of the plate. “I had my suspicions,” he admits, cupping a hand beneath the pastry, angling the muffin closer to your face. “Ahh, baby.” 

With no small amount of frustration, you take a bite, your eyebrows still furrowed as you chew. The flavors don’t even register on your tongue as you try to wrap your head around this… unexpected development. 

Of course, that’s putting it lightly—inside you’re freaking out. What does this mean? When did this happen? Two of them now?

Are you losing it? Again?? 

It’s too much to process in one go. You’ve just come to terms with your very own freak of nature, thank you very much. 

Sylus tuts gently, dabbing a napkin at the corner of your lips. "No need to stress over it, my love," he rubs his thumb on your lower lip to draw your focus back to him. The corners of his mouth curl into a small smirk when he sees you nibble on it absentmindedly. "Careful now."

Suddenly, your ears pick up a voice calling out, “Raf!” from behind, and you glance over your shoulder just in time to see someone step out from the small kitchenette. 

They’re wearing a navy blue apron over a glittery top, carrying a square pan of what looks to be a fresh batch of cinnamon rolls. 

On the taller side, standing only a couple of inches shorter than Rafayel, sporting a silver nose ring. Their hair is in a split-dye, parted down the middle, and styled into intricately braided space buns—likely a labor of love from the man himself. 

“Ah, that must be his partner,” Sylus notes idly.  

Rafayel reaches for the tray with all the confidence of someone who has absolutely no plan beyond offloading the weight from their lover’s hands. His partner, quicker and clearly wiser, snatches it away at the last second with a knowing look. "Cutie, I was about to get that," he whines in protest, lips forming a pout.

"And yet here I am, actually getting it," they reply dryly, maneuvering the steaming buns out of his reach.

Undeterred, he makes another attempt; only for them to sidestep, holding the tray higher like a seasoned veteran at dealing with his antics. 

Rafayel huffs but refuses to back down, making for another grab. This time, faster. 

He gets his fingers around the edge of the baking tray—only to hiss in pain and immediately jerk back. "Just let me– ow, fuck, hot!" 

His partner gives him a long, unimpressed stare. "You don’t say."

"You could’ve warned me," he accuses, shaking out his hand with all the theatrics of a man in peril. 

"I did. With common sense," they deadpan, but you detect a hint of laughter beneath the monotone.  

That earns a full-blown scowl, but it’s betrayed by the way his eyes soften—something unmistakably fond in the way he watches them, as if their amusement alone makes the now-forgotten burn worth it. 

You don’t miss the subtle shift in his posture; the way his shoulders loosens, the telltale twitch at the corner of his mouth like he’s biting back the urge to grin.

After a few more playful back-and-forths (one of which involves Rafayel attempting a truly ridiculous reach-around that gets his wrist lightly smacked in retaliation), they finally place the cinnamon rolls into the glass display, arranging them alongside the rest of the baked goods.

It’s the ease between them that sticks with you. The way he casually fixes the strap of their apron, how they don’t even flinch when he brushes a stray crumb from their cheek. 

It’s an old, familiar rhythm—one that speaks of something long-established. The kind of comfort built over time. Like it's already habit. 

It makes you smile. 

(In your periphery, you catch Sylus smiling, too.) 

You exhale a long sigh, sinking back into your chair, only now noticing the weight you’d been carrying—the one you hadn’t even realized was there—finally lifting off your chest.

Questions swirl in your mind, most of them aimed at the busy couple manning the counter. The hows and whens. The adjustment period. The hardships. 

And, honestly? Just the need to have someone to freak out with and scream say, Can you actually believe this? 

… But you suppose it can wait. There will be time for questions, for stories, for untangling the mysteries of it all.

For now, you’re just going to enjoy a normal weekend afternoon with your very normal boyfriend.

After all, they’re not going anywhere. Nor will the two of you.

- -

An errant thought pops into your head.

Before you can stop it, your mouth blurts out: “You think Xavier’s ever gonna come out of the game, too?”

A beat.

Sylus freezes for a split-second before his gaze locks onto you, wry and amused—like he’s debating whether he heard you right. 

You get the bad, bad feeling that you’ve made a mistake somewhere.

He lets out a throaty chuckle. “Xavier, huh?” he muses, almost patronizingly, eyes alight with an intensity that makes you squirm in your seat.

The nervous little action doesn’t escape his notice.

“Look at the time, kitten.” His voice drops an octave, deceptively calm and even, but there’s an undercurrent to it that has you squeezing your thighs together. “I think we’ve stayed here long enough. Don’t you?”

Uh-oh.

End A/N: Ok, so I’m a big, fat liar who lied about not including anything about the silly lil fishman ≽^-⩊¬^≼ I’m anal about spoilers if you haven’t noticed. 

Tagging: @xxfaithlynxx @beewilko @browneyedgirl22 @yournextdoorhousewitch @sunsethw4 @stxrrielle @mangooes @hrts4hanniehae @buggs-1 @michiluvddr @ssetsuka @imm0rtalbutterfly @the-golden-jhope @beomluvrr @bookfreakk @ally-the-artistic-turtle @sapphic-daze @sarahthemage @cchiiwinkle @madam8 @slownoise @raendarkfaerie @sylusdarling @luminaaaz @greeenbeean @vvhira @issamomma @blueberrysquire @lovely-hani @fiyori @peachystea @aeanya @sylus-crow @queen-serena88 @xthefuckerysquaredx @rayvensblog @poptrim @goldenbirdiee @amerti @angstylittleb1tch @reiofsuns2001 @j4mergy @touya-apologist @gladiolus-mamacitia @btszn @wrimaira @writingmyladsdelusions @borkunlimited

[clothedwthesun]

what i hate most about the dynamic aziraphale and crowley have is the way people somehow always seem to interpret it as crowley loving him more than aziraphale loves him back. and it's sooo frustrating because yes crowley is more open and honest about how he feels but aziraphale shows it, reeks of it. literally one of the things that fuel his internal conflict is that he cares for and trusts and loves crowley so much that for the first time something actually rivals his devotion to heaven, so much that he agrees to the fucking arrangement because he trusts crowley more, so much that he doesn't even know where to put it or what to do with it or how to admit to it

every single time he "chooses heaven" it's because he's allowed himself to sink too deeply into this love and that's what springs the catholic guilt into action. the final scene isn't even aziraphale choosing heaven over crowley, but him saying i can make heaven good enough for you, and he's so fucking happy because he thinks he's finally found a loophole, and when crowley says no he literally thinks he's the one being rejected. quite literally the entire show is aziraphale trying to find a way around it and explain it away and make excuses but my brother in christ he loves him so much he can't even bear to face the magnitude of it

[mocharyc]

Invincible variants x reader Pt. 9✩ ‧ ₊ ˚

Heated tensions turn raw...

✩ ‧ ₊ ˚ Fractures in the Multiverse‧ ₊ ˚

☆ WC: 6k+ [Part 9] ☆ TW: angst/fluff ☆ Author's Note: I'm so confused... I write stories and read other. Seeing chapters being more popular than others enrages me; authors are always changing important things or storylines just to appeal to consumption?! Ugh, burh I'm stupid and sad, so angst chap coming up.

–––––––––––––––––

The cave pulsed with an unnatural, emerald luminescence, the portal's sickly glow casting long, distorted shadows that danced across the damp, jagged walls like phantoms.

Moisture dripped from stalactites overhead, each droplet catching the eerie light before shattering against the stone floor, their rhythm a discordant counterpoint to the low hum of dimensional energy that vibrated through bone.

Sinister Mark's laughter—deep, guttural, and triumphant—echoed through the cavern, bouncing off wet stone surfaces until it seemed to come from everywhere at once.

He stood with defiant arrogance, holding Y/N possessively against his chest, his powerful arms wrapped around her like living restraints.

The tattered remnants of his yellow and black suit hung from his muscular frame in strategic shreds, barely preserving modesty while flaunting evidence of what had transpired. Where fabric had been torn away, glimpses of Y/N's flushed skin beneath told a story more damning than words.

"Too late, boys~" he purred, each syllable dripping with venomous satisfaction. His black eyes gleamed predatory and victorious.

"As you can see, she's made her choice."

Y/N's heart hammered violently against her ribcage, the sound deafening in her own ears. Heat spread across her cheeks and down her neck in crimson waves, a visceral mixture of lingering passion and crushing humiliation.

She couldn't bear to meet the eyes of the variants who had searched for her—couldn't face their judgment, their hurt, their rage. Instead, she buried her face against Sinister's neck, inhaling his scent of leather, blood, and something uniquely him.

Mohawk Mark was the first to break the suffocating silence. His entire body convulsed with barely contained fury—veins bulging at his temples like blue ropes beneath his skin, the distinctive blue and black of his suit seeming to vibrate with his rage.

His mohawk bristled as though electrified, adding inches to his already imposing height. When he moved, it was with explosive violence, muscles coiling beneath his suit like springs wound too tight.

"YOU FUCKING BASTARD!" The words tore from his throat with such force that spittle flew from his lips, glistening in the emerald light.

His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, knuckles white beneath his gloves. "We agreed! We fucking agreed she wasn't going to be—" The words choked off, as if the magnitude of Sinister's betrayal had physically strangled him.

Behind him, the other variants formed a semicircle of frozen fury and shock, each face—so similar yet distinctly different—displaying its own shade of devastation and rage.

Omni Mark stepped forward, his movement smooth and controlled, a stark contrast to Mohawk's explosive anger. His red and gray suit absorbed the portal's light, making him appear like a shadow given form. Unlike the others, his face remained eerily composed, but a muscle twitched almost imperceptibly at his jaw—the only outward sign of the calculated violence brewing beneath his calm exterior. His eyes, partially hidden behind dark lenses, assessed the situation with precision.

"Put. Her. Down." Each word fell from his lips like a shard of ice, precise and deadly. Though his voice was quiet, it cut through the tension with razor-sharpness that made even Sinister's smile falter for a fraction of a second.

Viltrumite Mark stood slightly apart from the others, his pristine white suit gleaming unnaturally in the portal's glow. The imperial symbol on his chest seemed to pulse with its own light, casting strange patterns across his face.

Out of all the variants now, he appeared the most composed, but his eyes—cold and commanding—burned with a mixture of concern and barely contained fury.

"Y/N," he called, his voice gentler than the others, though no less intense. "Are you harmed? Did he force you?" The question hung in the air, loaded with implications that made Y/N's stomach twist into knots.

Sinister chuckled darkly, the sound vibrating through his chest and into Y/N's body where they remained intimately joined. The subtle movement drew a small, involuntary gasp from her lips—a sound that seemed to echo through the cavern, condemning her more effectively than any confession.

"Force her?" Sinister's mouth curved into a predatory smile, teeth gleaming white against his shadowed face. "Why don't you ask her yourself? Tell them, dove. Tell them how you begged for it."

Y/N's head snapped up, mortification washing over her in a scalding wave. "I—I didn't—" she stammered, her voice small and fragile in the vast, echoing space. But the words died on her lips as she met the hurt and fury warring across the variants' faces.

Phantom Mark moved forward, his fully masked face hiding his expression, but his body language spoke volumes. His shoulders hunched as if bearing a physical weight, hands trembling slightly at his sides. "Y/N," he said, his voice raw with emotion even through the mask's filter. "We searched for you. We tortured Angstrom until he opened the portal. We thought you were in danger."

Each word struck Y/N like a physical blow. Behind Phantom, she could see Emperor Mark's regal bearing, his posture rigid with disdain as he assessed the scene. Beside him, No-Mask Mark's unmasked face displayed every emotion with painful clarity—hurt, betrayal, disappointment cycling across features so familiar yet uniquely his own.

From the back of the group, Prisoner Mark gave a harsh bark of laughter, the sound grating against the stone walls. The scarred tissue of his burned face caught the light in strange ways, making his sneer appear even more grotesque. "Should've known," he muttered, his voice like gravel. "Always the same, no matter the universe. Never faithful, never true."

Y/N flinched as if slapped. "That's not—I'm not—" she tried to defend herself, but what could she say? What explanation could possibly justify being caught in such an intimate embrace with Sinister while the others had fought and bled to find her?

"ENOUGH!" Mohawk Mark's voice cracked like thunder, cutting through her stammered defense. Blue energy crackled around his clenched fists, casting his rage-contorted face in eerie azure light. "Get your filthy hands off her, Sinister, or I swear I'll—"

"You'll what?" Sinister's voice was silk over steel, deadly in its softness. He shifted Y/N slightly in his arms, causing her to gasp again as she felt him still inside her. Heat flooded her cheeks anew as she realized the others could see—could hear—the evidence of their coupling. "Attack me while I'm holding her? Risk harming the very woman you claim to care so much about?"

The cave fell silent again, the air thick with unspoken threats and barely contained violence. Y/N could feel Sinister's heart beating against her chest, steady and strong, while her own thrummed like a hummingbird's wings. Every sense seemed heightened by adrenaline and shame—the musky scent of their coupling hanging in the damp air, the heat of his skin against hers, the metallic taste of fear on her tongue.

Omni Mark hadn't moved, hadn't raised his voice, but something in his stillness was more terrifying than Mohawk's explosive rage. His gaze hadn't left Y/N's face, those familiar-yet-strange eyes boring into her as if trying to read her very soul. When he spoke again, her name was a gentle command on his lips.

"Y/N," he said softly. "Come here."

Sinister's arms tightened possessively around her, powerful muscles flexing beneath torn fabric. "She's not going anywhere," he growled, all traces of playfulness gone from his voice. His tone dropped to something darker, more primal. "She's mine now."

"She belongs to no one," Viltrumite Mark interjected, his authoritative tone echoing off the stone walls. He took another step forward, white suit gleaming like a beacon in the darkness. "Least of all you, Sinister."

Y/N found her voice at last, forcing herself to meet the gazes of the men who had, in their own ways, fought to find her. "Please," she whispered, the single word cracking with emotion. "Just... give me a moment."

To her surprise, she felt Sinister's grip loosen slightly. She placed her palms against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beneath her fingertips. "Let me down," she requested quietly, her eyes meeting his. Something flickered across his face—an emotion too complex to name, too brief to analyze.

"Don't do this, sweetheart," he murmured, low enough that only she could hear. There was something in his voice she'd never heard before—a vulnerability that cut through his usual arrogance. "You know what's happening between us is real. You felt it too."

The unexpected softness in his tone sent a pang through her chest. She needed to stand on her own, to face this impossible situation with whatever dignity she could salvage.

"Please," she repeated, more firmly this time.

With a barely audible sigh, Sinister slowly, almost reluctantly, lifted her off his length, the wet muscle sliding against her entrance until finally he pulled free, his softened length thumping softly against his thigh. The wet sound of their bodies separating seemed deafening in the tense silence of the cave, drawing a visible wince from several of the variants.

He then lowered her to the ground. As their bodies separated, Y/N had to bite back a gasp at the sudden emptiness, the evidence of their passion trickling down her inner thighs. She quickly pulled the remnants of her suit together, trying to cover herself as best she could. Sinister kept his cape around her, tightening it around her shoulders to keep her covered.

The moment her feet touched the cold stone floor, Mohawk Mark lunged forward again, only to be restrained by Viltrumite Mark's iron grip on his shoulder.

"Not now," Viltrumite Mark hissed, his white-gloved hand a stark contrast against the blue and black of Mohawk's suit. "Not here."

Y/N stood on shaky legs, acutely aware of every pair of eyes fixed upon her. The weight of their collective gaze was almost crushing—some filled with hurt, others with rage, one with possessive triumph, all with a hunger that made her skin prickle with awareness. She felt exposed in a way that had nothing to do with her tattered clothing—laid bare emotionally, every vulnerability on display.

"I..." she began, but what could she possibly say? How could she explain something she barely understood herself? The intensity, the connection she'd felt with Sinister in those desperate moments—was it real, or merely a product of adrenaline and fear and need?

Phantom Mark stepped forward, his masked face tilted slightly as if in concern. "Are you hurt?" The simple question held layers of meaning, and Y/N felt a rush of gratitude for his understated compassion.

"No," she answered truthfully, finding her voice at last. "I'm not hurt."

"Then it's true?" Mohawk Mark's voice was raw, scraped thin by emotion. "You wanted this? Wanted him?" He spat the last word like poison, his gaze darting to Sinister with naked hatred.

Sinister remained unnaturally still, his yellow and black suit torn but his posture defiant, almost regal in its arrogance. He watched the exchange with hooded eyes, his satisfaction at the discord he'd sown evident in the slight curl of his lips.

Y/N took a deep breath, steadying herself. "What happened between us was... complicated." She chose her words carefully, acutely aware of the thin ice she was treading. "I was confused, scared... alone." 

"You weren't alone!" Mohawk Mark exploded, breaking free of Viltrumite Mark's restraining grip. "We were coming for you! We tore Angstrom apart to find you!"

"I didn't know that!" Y/N shot back, surprise at her own vehemence momentarily overriding her embarrassment. "I thought I was stranded here! I thought—" She broke off, the enormity of the situation crashing down on her anew.

The silence that followed was deafening. Y/N wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly cold despite the lingering heat of passion still thrumming through her veins. She felt torn between worlds—between the variants who had searched for her, who had worried for her, and the one who had claimed her so thoroughly.

Omni Mark's voice broke the silence, calm and measured but with an underlying current of steel. "We're leaving. All of us." His gaze swept over the assembled variants, lingering significantly on Sinister. "We have unfinished business with Angstrom."

Sinister's lip curled into a sneer. "By all means," he drawled, gesturing toward the portal with mock courtesy. "Don't let me keep you."

"You're coming too," Viltrumite Mark stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Unless you want to be trapped in this dimension forever."

A flicker of calculation passed over Sinister's face before his features settled back into smug confidence. "As entertaining as this little pocket dimension has been," he said, his gaze sliding meaningfully to Y/N, "I suppose all good things must come to an end."

Y/N felt heat rise to her cheeks again, but before she could respond, Omni Mark was beside her. With surprisingly gentle hands, he wrapped his cape around her shoulders, covering her torn suit. His touch was light, almost tender—a stark contrast to the cold fury still evident in the rigid set of his shoulders.

"Let's go," he said softly, his eyes holding hers for a moment before he glanced back at the others. "The portal won't stay stable forever."

As if on cue, the edges of the swirling vortex flickered, casting jagged shadows across the cave walls. The emerald light pulsed once, twice, a warning of its impending collapse.

Y/N stepped toward it, but a hand on her arm stopped her. She turned to find Sinister Mark standing close—too close—his eyes burning with an intensity that made her breath catch.

"This isn't over," he murmured, his voice for her ears alone. "What we shared? That was real, Y/N. More real than anything these pale imitations could offer you." His gaze flicked dismissively toward the other variants before returning to her face. "Remember that when they try to make you forget."

Before she could respond, Mohawk Mark was there, physically inserting himself between them. "Back off," he snarled, nose to nose with Sinister. "You've done enough damage."

Sinister's laugh was soft and knowing. "Have I?" he asked, eyes still locked on Y/N over Mohawk's shoulder. "Or have I merely shown her what she truly wants?"

Mohawk's fist shot out with blinding speed, but Sinister was faster, catching it mid-swing with casual ease. The impact created a small shockwave that stirred the dust around them. "Careful now," he warned, voice dropping to a dangerous purr. "You wouldn't want to embarrass yourself in front of her, would you?"

The tension between them was a living thing, coiling and snapping in the space between their bodies. Y/N could almost taste the violence brewing, metallic and sharp on her tongue.

"Stop it," she said, her voice stronger than she felt. "Both of you. This isn't helping."

To her surprise, Mohawk immediately backed down, though his eyes still burned with barely contained rage. Sinister released his fist with a mocking little pat.

"After you," Sinister gestured toward the portal, his smile all teeth and challenge.

One by one, they stepped through the swirling vortex—Phantom Mark first, then Emperor and No-Mask Mark, followed by Prisoner Mark with his perpetual scowl. Viltrumite Mark hesitated, looking back at Y/N with an unreadable expression before disappearing into the emerald light.

Omni Mark guided Y/N forward with a gentle hand at the small of her back. The contact was minimal yet somehow anchoring, his presence steady and reassuring amid the chaos. As they approached the portal, Y/N felt a strange reluctance, as if crossing this threshold would force her to face realities she wasn't ready to confront.

"It'll be alright," Omni Mark murmured, seeming to sense her hesitation. His red and gray suit gleamed in the pulsing light, his expression unexpectedly gentle. "We'll figure this out. Together."

Y/N nodded, gathering her courage. She stepped into the portal, feeling the strange, electric sensation wash over her skin. The last thing she saw before the alien world dissolved around her was Mohawk Mark and Sinister Mark locked in a silent battle of wills, neither willing to turn their back on the other.

Then the world twisted, stretched, compressed, and she was falling through emerald infinity, Omni Mark's solid presence beside her the only anchor in the void.

As the portal whisked them back to the Main Universe, Y/N couldn't help but wonder: What would happen now? What would she return to? And more importantly—how could she face eight variations of the same man, all of whom now looked at her differently—some with hurt, others with betrayal, one with possessive triumph, and all with a hunger that threatened to consume her whole?

The multiverse had fractured around her, and she was caught in the cracks—pulled in too many directions at once. And somewhere deep inside, past the confusion and shame and uncertainty, a tiny voice whispered a truth she wasn't ready to acknowledge: she had enjoyed every moment of her time with Sinister Mark, and part of her—a wild, reckless part she barely recognized—longed for more.(Greedy ahh🧟‍♀️)

As the emerald light engulfed her completely, she closed her eyes against that dangerous truth and surrendered to the portal's pull, letting it carry her back to face whatever waited on the other side.

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The portal spat them out into Angstrom's laboratory with a violent surge of emerald energy, scorching the air with the acrid scent of dimensional displacement. Y/N stumbled forward, her vision swimming with ghostly afterimages, the world tilting dangerously beneath her feet. Where the alien cave had been primal and raw, Angstrom's base assaulted her senses with clinical sterility—recycled air that tasted like metal shavings against her tongue, harsh lights that burned her retinas after the dim cavern.

Lensless Mark stood frozen at the control panel, his fingers suspended over bloodied keys. Crimson droplets fell with rhythmic precision onto the console below, each one leaving a perfect circle of accusation. The mask that framed his face without the characteristic goggles made his expression more visible—his eyes widened fractionally as the group materialized, pupils contracting to pinpoints when they locked onto Y/N's disheveled form.

"Fuck, you actually found her," he said, a smile tugging his lips despite the brutality evident in his surroundings.

Around him lay the aftermath of systematic destruction—security drones dismantled with surgical precision, their components arranged in almost artistic patterns across the floor. Circuitry still occasionally sparked with dying electricity, brief flashes that illuminated the darker corners of the chamber.

The reinforced interrogation chair at the center stood as testament to their methods—metal warped from superhuman force, restraints torn clean from their moorings, trailing like severed arteries. Dark splatter patterns decorated the walls and floor. Angstrom's recent suffering painted in biological abstracts that would make a forensic analyst weep.

Mohawk Mark shouldered his way through the group, a rolling wave of barely contained violence. His face transformed with each step—veins pulsing beneath his skin like living things seeking escape, jaw muscles bulging as if trying to crack through bone, eyes so bloodshot they appeared to be bleeding from within.

"You fucking piece of—" The words dissolved into something primal, something that predated language altogether, as he lunged toward Sinister Mark who just walked through.

Viltrumite Mark's arm shot out with precision, catching Mohawk across the chest before he could complete his charge. "Not here," he commanded, his voice carrying the weight of imperial decree.

The pristine white of his suit remained untouched by the surrounding carnage, as if blood itself feared to stain such perfection. A single muscle twitched beneath his left eye—the only betrayal of the emotions raging beneath his composed exterior.

Y/N couldn't tear her gaze from Sinister as he materialized last, walking through peacefully despite Mohawk's comment, the portal closing behind him with a sound like reality tearing.

His yellow and black suit hung from his powerful frame in calculated shreds, the fabric somehow enhancing rather than diminishing his presence. He'd recovered his signature black lenses from somewhere, the opaque darkness hiding his eyes while doing nothing to mask the triumphant curl of his lips. Most jarring was the deliberate display of his exposed manhood—a trophy of conquest, a calculated provocation that sent fresh heat rushing to Y/N's cheeks.

Her body's traitorous response was immediate—memory flooding her with sense impressions of his skin against hers, his weight, his scent, the way he had filled her so completely.

She clutched Omni Mark's cape tighter around herself, suddenly hyperaware of how the fabric caught against the tender places where Sinister's passion had marked her.

Omni Mark's arm remained steady around her waist, his calm presence a stark contrast to the chaos erupting around them. Unlike the others, his face remained a mask of perfect composure, only his eyes behind those dark lenses betraying the storm within—possessive rage tempered by genuine concern, calculating intelligence shadowed by something deeper, something almost tender when his gaze fell on her.

"You need to rest," he murmured, his breath warm against her ear, sending an involuntary shiver down her spine. His fingers tightened slightly at her waist, steadying her when her legs threatened to give way.

Phantom Mark stepped toward Sinister, movements fluid and deliberate. He tore a piece of fabric from a fallen drone's banner and thrust it toward him. "Cover yourself," he ordered, voice distorted through his mask yet vibrating with barely contained violence. "Or I remove it permanently."

Sinister's laugh echoed off the metal walls, a sound like broken glass being ground underfoot. "Jealous?" he taunted, making no move to cover himself. "Or afraid she'll make comparisons none of you will survive?"

Mohawk Mark's control shattered like thin ice beneath a hammer blow. He broke free of Viltrumite's restraint with an explosive surge of strength, launching himself across the room with a bestial roar that seemed to vibrate the very molecules of the air. His body collided with Sinister's with force enough to dent the reinforced metal wall. The impact knocked Sinister's head back with a crack that should have been fatal to any normal being, blood spraying in a fine crimson mist from his split lip.

Yet even as rivulets of scarlet traveled down his chin, staining the yellow of his suit dark orange, Sinister's smile only widened, revealing teeth smeared red.

"There he is," Sinister purred, voice thick with blood yet somehow more alive because of it. "The animal hiding behind the hero. Show her what you really are, Mohawk. Show her the monster that got your Y/N killed."

The words struck with precision, finding Mohawk's deepest wound and twisting. His fist connected with Sinister's jaw—not in blind rage but with calculated force meant to shatter bone. The sound reverberated through the chamber like a gunshot. Sinister's head snapped sideways, but instead of breaking, he absorbed the blow with unnatural resilience, his equal strength matching Mohawk's fury.

"ENOUGH!" Viltrumite Mark's voice cracked like thunder, the air itself seeming to compress under the sound. He moved with impossible speed, one hand clamping around Mohawk's throat while the other seized Sinister's shoulder with force that would have pulverized normal bone. "One more word," he hissed at Sinister, his composed façade finally fracturing to reveal something ancient and terrible beneath, "and I tear out your tongue."

Sinister's only response was to spit a mouthful of blood directly at Viltrumite's immaculate white suit. The scarlet droplets bloomed like grotesque flowers against the pristine fabric, each one a declaration of war.

Y/N's legs finally surrendered beneath the weight of exhaustion and trauma. She swayed dangerously, the sterile room spinning around her in nauseating circles. Omni Mark's grip tightened instantly, his support unwavering.

Unlike the others whose emotions exploded outward in violence, Omni's rage burned cold and precise. His face remained eerily composed, but his eyes behind those black lenses contained universes of complex emotion—calculating intelligence overlaying a possessive fury that bordered on madness, genuine concern that seemed almost foreign on features so similar to Sinister's, and beneath it all, a depth of feeling that made her breath catch.

"You need to clean up and rest," he murmured again, his voice a velvet rumble against her ear. The gentleness of his touch contrasted so starkly with the violence saturating the air that it nearly broke her.

Y/N nodded weakly, suddenly desperate to escape the suffocating testosterone, the metallic tang of blood mingling with the lingering musk of sex still clinging to her skin. "I need to shower," she whispered, the simple request utterly inadequate against the magnitude of what had happened.

Lensless Mark jerked his blood-spattered chin toward a corridor branching from the main chamber. "Quarters down there. Showers too." His voice carried a strange duality—childlike enthusiasm wrapped around sadistic knowledge, his eyes never leaving her face as if memorizing her dishevelment. Unlike when they'd first met, when he'd tried to kill her seeing only a ghost of his lost love, now his gaze held something more complex—a reluctant recognition of her as someone distinct, someone real.

Phantom Mark stepped forward, his masked form interposing itself between Y/N and the others. "I'll show her," he said, the modulator in his mask unable to disguise the protective edge in his voice. His shoulders formed a living barrier, his stance a silent promise of violence should anyone object.

Emperor Mark, who had been observing the unfolding drama with regal detachment, finally spoke. His imperial sigil caught the harsh light as he moved, casting knife-edged shadows across his face. "And leave her alone with another variant?" His lip curled with aristocratic disdain. "Haven't we learned that lesson already?"

Phantom's hands curled into fists at his sides, tension radiating from him in almost visible waves. "Unlike some," he replied, cold fury evident even through the mask's filter, "I remember what honor means."

Before the situation could escalate further, Prisoner Mark spat on the floor with deliberate aim, the glob landing with perfect precision near Sinister's bare foot. The scarred tissue of his face pulled tight across his skull as he sneered, burn tissue twisting into a grotesque parody of expression. His eyes, set deep in pockets of scar tissue, gleamed with malevolent intelligence.

"Honor? With these animals?" He gestured at Sinister with contempt, flakes of dead skin drifting from his movement like macabre confetti. "We ripped Angstrom apart piece by fucking piece to find her, and he was busy ripping apart something else entirely."

The crude comment sent another wave of shame washing over Y/N. She pulled away from Omni Mark's supportive arm, drawing whatever shreds of dignity remained around her like armor. The cape felt suddenly heavy, burdened with too many implications.

"I don't need an escort," she stated, voice stronger than she felt. "Just tell me where to go."

No-Mask Mark stepped forward, his exposed face—so like Mark's yet hollowed from within by grief—meeting her gaze directly. Where the others wore variations of masks with lenses to hide themselves, his naked features revealed everything—the raw pain, the longing for something irretrievably lost, the flicker of hope her existence had rekindled.

"Third door on the left," he said quietly, his voice carrying the weight of understanding. "The facilities are basic, but private."

Gratitude washed through her. "Thank you," she whispered, the simple courtesy a lifeline amid the chaos.

As she turned to leave, Sinister's voice slithered after her, wet with blood yet still dripping with smug satisfaction. "Running away so soon, dove? Don't you want to tell them how good it felt?" He finally reached for the scrap of fabric Phantom had offered, wrapping it around his exposed member with deliberate slowness, his movements a mockery of modesty.

"How you screamed my name when you came?"

The silence that followed was absolute, heavy with the promise of violence. Y/N couldn't bear to turn around, couldn't face the expressions that would be carved into faces so similar yet so different. Instead, she moved forward on unsteady legs, clutching Omni Mark's cape around her like a shield.

Behind her, she heard a sickening crunch followed by a wet gurgle. She didn't look back to see which variant had landed the blow, didn't pause to witness the fresh spray of crimson. She simply kept walking, one foot in front of the other, until the corridor swallowed her and the sounds of conflict faded into muted echoes.

The hallway stretched before her, utilitarian and cold. Overhead lights buzzed with intermittent electricity, casting her shadow in broken fragments against the metal floor. Each step sent painful reminders through her body—muscles used in ways both violent and intimate, skin still bearing the ghost of Sinister's grip, the core of her aching with a confusion of shame and lingering pleasure.

The door marked 'Q-3' slid open at her approach with a pneumatic hiss that reminded her of a predator's exhalation. Inside, a spartan room greeted her—narrow bed with military corners, metal desk bolted to the floor, a single chair that would offer no comfort. A doorway to the side revealed glimpses of a compact bathroom. It wasn't luxury, but it was sanctuary—a momentary respite from the storm of masculine rage and desire swirling outside.

Y/N let Omni Mark's cape fall to the floor, the heavy fabric pooling around her feet like spilled blood. She stared down at herself—at the tattered remnants of her suit, at the purpling marks forming on her skin where Sinister's fingers had dug into her flesh, at the dried evidence of their coupling still visible on her inner thighs. The sight sent fresh waves of conflicting emotion crashing through her—shame and lingering arousal battling for dominance, confusion and a terrible clarity warring in her mind.

She moved to the bathroom on unsteady legs, unable to bear her own skin a moment longer. The light flickered on automatically, harsh and unforgiving, revealing her reflection in the small mirror above the sink. A stranger stared back—hair wild and tangled, eyes huge and haunted in her pale face, lips swollen from brutal kisses. Whisker burn reddened her neck and chest, mapping the trail of Sinister's mouth across her body like a crimson road map of their shared depravity.

Y/N turned away from her reflection, unable to face the evidence of what she'd become—or perhaps, more terrifyingly, what she'd always been beneath the surface. The shower sputtered to life with reluctant obedience, lukewarm water at best, but she stepped under the spray without complaint. She watched as the physical reminders of Sinister washed away, swirling down the drain in pale rivulets tinged with pink where his rough handling had broken skin.

As steam rose around her, Y/N finally surrendered to the storm inside her. A sob tore from her throat, the sound bouncing off the tile walls before being swallowed by the running water. It was followed by another, and another, until she was on her knees in the shower stall, arms wrapped around herself as if she might physically hold the broken pieces together.

Outside in the corridor, Phantom Mark had followed and stood silent sentinel, his masked face betraying nothing of the anguish within. He heard each sob through the thin walls, each one cutting deeper than any physical wound. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, the only outward sign of his inner turmoil. He had failed her—they all had. But while the others fought over her like wolves over prey, he would stand guard, offering what little protection he could in a world gone mad.

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Chaos had erupted. Mohawk Mark had Sinister pinned against the wall, one hand at his throat while the other formed a fist streaming with his own blood—evidence of knuckles split open from repeated impact against Sinister's unyielding form. Despite the ferocity of the assault, Sinister remained largely intact, his enhanced durability matching Mohawk's rage. His face showed signs of the battle—split lip, darkening bruise along his jaw, a trickle of blood from his nostril—but his smile remained, a deliberate provocation.

"Is this..." Sinister taunted, voice thick with contempt despite Mohawk's crushing grip on his throat, "...the best...you can do?"

Mohawk screamed—a primal sound of pure rage—and slammed his fist into Sinister's face again. Though the blow would have collapsed the skull of a normal human, Sinister merely took it, his head snapping back before returning to position, that infuriating smile still in place.

"I'LL KILL YOU!" Mohawk roared, spittle flying from his lips as he drew back for another blow. "I'LL FUCKING TEAR YOU APART!"

Viltrumite Mark moved with blinding speed, wrapping his arms around Mohawk from behind in a restraining bear hug. "Enough!" he commanded, muscles straining as he struggled to contain Mohawk's berserk strength. "This solves nothing!"

"LET ME GO!" Mohawk thrashed in Viltrumite's grip, head thrown back in animal fury. "HE TOUCHED HER! HE PUT HIS FUCKING HANDS ON HER!"

"And killing him will change that?" Emperor Mark asked coldly from where he stood, arms crossed over his chest, eyes calculating. "Will it erase what happened? Will it make her choose you instead?"

Mohawk's struggles slowed, his breathing ragged as Emperor's words penetrated his rage. "She was mine," he whispered, voice breaking. "In my world, she was always mine."

"She's not your Y/N," No-Mask Mark said quietly, his unmasked features twisted with a pain that echoed Mohawk's own. "None of them were ever ours. Not really."

Prisoner Mark laughed bitterly, the sound scraping like metal on stone. He ran a hand over his burned scalp, flakes of dead skin drifting to the floor. "Keep telling yourself that," he muttered. "Keep pretending we're not all just trying to replace what we've lost."

Sinister, still pinned to the wall but no longer being actively beaten, managed to grin through blood-stained teeth. "At least I'm honest," he said, voice rich with satisfaction. "I wanted her. I took her. No pretending she's someone else."

Omni Mark, who had been eerily silent throughout the exchange, finally moved. With deliberate slowness, he approached Sinister, his steps measured, his face a mask of calm that didn't reach his eyes. Those eyes—they burned with something ancient and terrible, a controlled fury that made even Mohawk's berserker rage seem childish in comparison.

"Do you love her?" Omni asked, voice so quiet it forced everyone to still their breathing to hear him.

Sinister stared back, his eyes narrowing slightly behind his cracked lenses. Blood touched the corner of his mouth as he tried to speak, then thought better of it, settling for a mocking half-shrug instead.

Omni nodded as if the non-answer confirmed something. "I thought not."

Without warning, his hand shot out, fingers wrapping around Sinister's throat where Mohawk's had been moments before. With surgical precision, he began to squeeze, watching dispassionately as Sinister's breathing became labored.

"You took something precious," Omni continued conversationally as if they were discussing the weather rather than committing murder. "Something irreplaceable. Not from us—from her." His fingers tightened incrementally, the tendons in his forearm standing out like cables beneath his skin. "Her trust. Her sense of safety. Her ability to choose freely."

For the first time, Sinister's smugness faltered. His hands gripped Omni's wrist, genuine effort showing as he fought against the only variant whose strength truly matched his own. Behind his cracked lenses, something flashed in his eyes—not fear, exactly, but perhaps the first glimmer of respect.

"I should kill you for that alone," Omni mused, his voice still terrifyingly calm. "But death would be too merciful." With a soft grunt he released his grip, stepping back as Sinister sagged slightly, his breathing harsh but controlled.

"We need him," Lensless Mark pointed out. Blood spattered his face in an almost artistic pattern, his eyes wide and gleaming with dangerous curiosity. "At least until we figure out how to navigate the multiverse without Angstrom."

"Speaking of," Viltrumite Mark interjected, finally releasing his hold on Mohawk, who stood trembling with suppressed rage but no longer actively violent. "We have unfinished business with our portal-creating friend."

Emperor Mark's lip curled with disdain as he gazed down at Sinister's somewhat disheveled form. "Get him cleaned up," he ordered, as if commanding royal servants rather than dangerous interdimensional variants of himself. "And for god's sake, find him pants that stay closed."

No-Mask Mark moved reluctantly to help Sinister to his feet, his unmasked face a study in conflicted disgust. "Come on," he muttered, hauling Sinister's arm over his shoulder. "Let's get you patched up before we deal with Angstrom."

Sinister's laugh was dark and knowing as he allowed himself to be supported. "Such... gentlemen," he mocked, wiping blood from his chin with the back of his hand. "No wonder... she preferred... a real man."

Mohawk lunged forward again with a snarl, but Viltrumite was faster, stepping between them with arms outstretched. "Enough," he commanded, voice laced with deadly promise. "Save your strength for what matters."

"And what exactly matters?" Prisoner Mark asked bitterly, his scarred face contorted in a sneer. "Getting home to worlds we've already destroyed? Finding new dimensions to ruin? Fighting over a woman who isn't ours to claim?"

The question hung in the air, heavy with implications none of them wanted to face. They stood frozen in tableau—bloody and broken and lost, versions of the same man twisted by grief and rage and power, united only by their shared obsession with a woman who carried the face of their greatest loss.

Omni Mark broke the tension, his voice cutting through the weighted silence. "What matters is what comes next," he stated simply, his natural authority drawing all eyes to him. "And to determine that, we need information only Angstrom has."

Emperor Mark nodded in agreement, his regal bearing reasserting itself as he moved toward the corridor leading to Angstrom's holding cell. "To Angstrom, then," he declared.

"And afterward..." His gaze swept over the assembled variants, lingering on each face. "Afterward, we decide what we truly want—and what we're willing to sacrifice to get it."

As they moved toward Angstrom's cell, the air between them vibrated with unspoken threats and fragile alliances.

They walked like warlords entering enemy territory—cautious, alert, bound by circumstance rather than trust. But the true battlefield wasn't against Angstrom or any external force. It was the emotional chasm between them, charged with jealousy, possession, grief, and desire. And at the center of that battlefield stood Y/N—catalyst, prize, and potential destroyer of their fragile equilibrium.

In her shower, as lukewarm water washed away the physical evidence of her encounter with Sinister, Y/N finally stopped crying. She rose to her feet, legs still trembling but stronger now, and turned off the water with a decisive twist. Her reflection in the small mirror was clearer now—still battered, still haunted, but somehow more her own.

She was no longer just a human experimented on by the GDA, no longer just manufactured Viltrumite muscle and bone. She was a woman with choices—terrible, difficult choices, perhaps, but hers to make nonetheless. And as she toweled her body dry, wincing at the tender spots where Sinister's passion had left its mark, Y/N made her first real choice since being thrust into this interdimensional nightmare.

She would not be their prize. She would not be their redemption. She would not be the ghost of women long dead, wearing her face and carrying her name.

She would be Y/N—survivor, fighter, and architect of her own fate.

With newfound resolve hardening inside her like crystal, she began to prepare herself to face the variants again. In Angstrom's holding cell, revelations awaited that would shatter everything she thought she knew about herself, about the variants, and about the precarious threads binding the multiverse together.

The game was changing. The players were wounded, dangerous, and desperate.

And Y/N was no longer just a piece on the board—she was a player with her own moves to make.

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Dang, I'm tired... (っ- ‸ - ς)

Hope yall are getting 8 hours of sleep, every night <3

The next chapter is going to be heavy fluff and lots of kissing.

Final: Part 10!!

[fishenjoyer1]

Fish of the Day

The fish of the day today is the devils hole pupfish!

The devils hole pupfish, scientific name Cyprinodon diabolis, is an endangered fish known to live in exactly one spot, Devils hole. Devils hole is a limestone cavern with a geothermal pool found in Nye county of Nevada, and a disconnected section of Death Valley National Park. The geothermal pool keeps the water at a consistent 33 degrees Celsius all seasons, and has low dissolved oxygen amounts. The surface of water at the cave is only 72ft by 12ft, but below that the cave descends deep into the earth. Below the surface pool there is a larger cavern descending to 150 meters at its deepest before branching into a smaller tube at the bottom, the depth of which is currently unknown.1965 two teenagers went diving in the hole with scuba gear, and were never seen again,  rescue divers sent after them found a dropped flashlight, and other scuba gear but the bodies were never found. One rescue diver dropped a weighted plate that fell a full 932ft without contacting a bottom to the chamber, describing the water below him as an "infinity chamber". Later scans of the cave revealed it is at least as deep as 1,247ft, although to this day the depth is still unknown. Another well known aspect of the cave is that it can be used to determine when there are earthquakes all over the world. The water surges and has displayed unique patterns during the 2022 Mexico 7.6 magnitude earthquake, along with other strong earthquakes further from the hole. Such as: the 2012 6.2 magnitude earthquake in Papua New Guinea, or the 2018 7.4 magnitude earthquake in Indonesia. Devils hole pupfish are known to live only in the first 80ft of the cave.

Devils hole pupfish are unique in appearance, getting only as large as an inch, and being one of few species that have no pelvic fins, however when raised in colder conditions these pupfish will regrow these appendages. As juveniles these fish are an off white color, and females retain some of this coloring in adulthood. This species has only ever been recorded with as many as 500 wild fish at its highest, hitting an all time low point of 42 fish in 2007. The more recent numbers are looking up however, and there were 263 pupfish observed in spring of 2022. The survival from egg to adulthood is small, but the likelihood with human effort that this fish will survive the test of time is high. Described as possibly the most isolated wild vertebrate species in the world. These fish live only 10-14 months, reaching sexual maturity at 8-10 weeks old and spawn year round with peaks in mid February-May, and a smaller peak in July-September. Due to the unique oxygen levels of devils hole, these fish have adapted to enter a state of tupor, similar to hibernation, where they can live anaerobically. This allows them to go without breathing for up to 2 hours, however they produce ethanol as a byproduct.

Most of the devils hole pupfish life is on the rocky outcrops of the surface waters of the cave system. Breeding, egg laying, diet, resting, and schedules surrounding the placement of the sun all depend on these rocky outcroppings of stone near the surface of the water. The diet of these fish is dependent on the rock outcroppings of the cave, as they eat anything they can find in the cave system. This includes: small freshwater crustaceans, beetles, flatworms, freshwater snails, inorganic matter made of small sections of the caves limestone, along with spirogyra and diatom algae, which grows on the rocks themselves and makes up most of the pupfish's diet. Due to their diet being mostly algae types, pupfish are incredibly susceptible to the seismic activity in the devils' hole, as it creates small tsunamis along surface water and washes away algae on the rocks, leaving them without a majority of their food source until it regrows. When these earthquakes happen the pupfish are known to flee into the deer waters of the cave until the water has stilled, and are thought to perhaps feel earthquakes before they happen, although not much research has been done on this yet.

Have a good Wednesday, everyone!

[butterflydm]

Fractures in the Aes Sedai (WoT 3x01 cold open)

How incredibly heartbreaking all this is for Siuan.

I'm going to focus in this post on the reactions from our Aes Sedai and Warders, and just what a tragedy this day ends up being for Siuan, who thought that she was ahead of the game (I really see why they named this episode "To Race the Shadow").

This is show-focused and I am going to avoid anything that hasn't been revealed in the show, at least in this specific post, though I am going to talk a bit about some backstory that was brought up back in s1.

It's clear from the way that this was arranged that Siuan didn't think any of the Sitters were Black Ajah (any of the non-Red Sitters). I think that she's been thinking of the Black Ajah as a Red Ajah problem, and probably has been leaning in that direction that for a few years, or however long ago it was that she first heard whispers that the Red Ajah were gentling men without trials.

Because that's a Dragon Reborn hunt.

This is something that was revealed to us back in the first season - the audience has it confirmed for us on-screen -- that Liandrin and other Red Sisters were hunting down men and gentling them without bringing them back to the White Tower for trial. They did it to Thom's nephew, as he told Mat and Rand, and Moiraine and Lan watched them do it to another poor man while they were on their way to the Two Rivers.

And I think that Siuan's belief that the Black Ajah was centered in the Red Ajah has driven some of the factionalism that has been developing over the past few years (and that the Black Ajah surely encouraged). She's been thinking like a Blue, not like the Amyrlin. Because she was never actually Amyrlin because she believed in the job and duty -- she was Amyrlin as part of her plan with Moiraine, to guide the Tower to work with the Dragon instead of trying to cage him. She was an Amyrlin in service to her cause, not in service to her daughters and the White Tower.

We don't know how long this plan to catch Liandrin has been in the making (it's been one month since Falme) -- we walk in on the last few moments before the trap springs. What's made clear is that Siuan was briefed on the important events, about Liandrin and the Black Ajah (as much as Moiraine & co knew), about the Seanchan, and about Rand. I'm guessing this information was transmitted via Nynaeve, who probably volunteered, since she knew the most about Liandrin and to save Egwene & Elayne from needing to be witnesses in Liandrin's trial.

Siuan brought in other sisters that she was likely told by Nynaeve that Moiraine had said they could trust -- Verin and Alanna -- and also entrusted Leane with the plan.

They keep the Red Ajah Sitters out of the Hall, but want the rest of the Sitters there to see Liandrin exposed. Alanna, Leane, and Siuan were prepared for something of a fight, but the magnitude of the Black Ajah infiltration into their Halls was something they were deeply unprepared for. They weren't just facing Liandrin, but several other Sisters, from every single Ajah (including Blue).

I've seen some book-reader youtube reactors wonder why Ihvon and Maksim thought they would be of any use in an Aes Sedai vs Aes Sedai fight but... no one in the White Tower is used to AS vs AS fights! It doesn't happen! The one group of people who do go out and regularly fight other people who can channel are the Reds, and they're usually facing people who have only recently come into their power and can't do much. Against the sort of dangers that Alanna normally faces, Ihvon and Maksim can be helpful. They're there to watch her back while she channels.

And that goes for the non-Black Ajah Sisters as well - they are not prepared to use the Power against other Sisters (and they're limited by the Oaths as well). It takes them time to react once they realize what's actually going on because this is so far out of the sphere of what they're expecting.

It's a brand new world for all of the Aes Sedai now.

Okay, taking a step back and starting from the top. We start with the springing of the trap for Liandrin - Moiraine and Lan wait and watch on the outside, while Leane lets Siuan know that things are ready. The robe that Siuan is wearing here is gorgeous btw (all the clothes are SO gorgeous).

Our first dynamic is the three Reds, assuming that Liandrin is being unfairly targeted by the Amyrlin, and who assure Liandrin that they are on her side "no matter the charges". Given that all three of these Aes Sedai are confirmed NOT Black Ajah by the events that follow, this would not have actually been true, but it tells us the general vibe of the Red Ajah in the Tower. Now, something that I'm wondering is if any of these Red Ajah Sisters are aware that Liandrin has been gentling men without bringing them in for trial -- would they see that as extreme but necessary or would they disapprove?

At the same time as this, Verin and Adelas are traveling with Nyomi to unlock the 13th Depository -- now it seems that both Verin and Adelas are aware of their destination, with it being Nyomi's first visit (she thought it was a myth -- or so she claims here, but we do find out later that she was lying and this was her goal today). Verin and Adelas were both in semi-retirement and have been around for a long time. Is that how they know about the 13th Depository? The secret must get passed down -- maybe between the highest levels of the Brown Ajah?

Now Alanna heads towards the Hall and she is walking with purpose (to battle). She is one of the few people who knows what Siuan will be revealing today. Maksim worries that others are working with Liandrin and maybe she needs more backup but she tells him & Ihvon that they need to stay outside -- no men unless authorized. We see the three Yellow Sitters enter in a clump and see the White Ajah Sitters talking to some other White Ajah Sisters. Alanna assures them that Siuan "has a plan" -- which appears to be not letting the rest of the Red Ajah Sitters in with Liandrin. Again, going back to Siuan having the assumption that the Red Ajah is the source of the problem.

You can understand why -- at this point, Siuan only has confirmation that there is a single Darkfriend among the Aes Sedai, and she has a history of the Red Ajah acting beyond the bounds of their authority. She is deeply and painfully wrong, but I understand why she made the assumptions that she did.

"Only eleven Sitters are required by tradition" - that's the reasoning that Leane gives for excluding the Red Sitters from the Hall right now. That is a deep insult to give to the Red Sitters, who get shut away from the action just the same as the non-Sitters and the Warders, which had to sting.

On a rewatch, I notice that the camera makes sure to let us see each of the eventually-revealed Black Ajah Sitters as they enter the Hall.

The smug grin that Alanna gives Liandrin as they all walk in hurts on a rewatch. They were so certain that they had a handle on the situation and that they were about to nip this problem in the bud before it became unmanageable. Not knowing that it is all too late.

Once again, I really love the variety in the costuming of the Aes Sedai! There are just so many amazing outfits of all different kinds!

Both Alanna and Leane look towards Siuan as Liandrin lays out her case against Siuan -- neither of them look surprised, but they are keeping an eye on the situation and waiting for Siuan's cue. We cut to various short snippets of the Sitters gossiping about this, with the Black Ajah Sisters right in the mix of the gossip and doing a great job looking "concerned" over the "revelations".

Siuan lets us know here that if Liandrin had been able to prove her accusations -- that Siuan let a male channeler (one who has now declared himself the Dragon Reborn) walk free -- then she could face censure from the Hall, and possibly be deposed. This is something that Moiraine and Siuan also talked about back in s1 -- about how if the White Tower found out about their secret plans to find the Dragon Reborn but disobey Tower law when it came to handling him, that they would be stilled. In this instance, Siuan is able to swat the accusations away by declaring Liandrin a Darkfriend who is capable of breaking the Three Oaths, but she doesn't actually deny the accusations. She avoids them.

I am fascinated by the Yellow Sitter who laughs after Siuan declares that Liandrin is a Darkfriend and who seems to think all of this is a game, because she's not one of those who gets revealed as Black Ajah. Does she survive? I'm going to try to keep an eye out. (update: I think I see her on the ground after the initial attack, so she might be dead; she's definitely not the Yellow who healed Liandrin or the one who healed Siuan)

Once Nynaeve shows up and Liandrin realizes that Nynaeve was able to escape from the Seanchan, she knows that the game is up (we actually see her take a couple of steps back as Nynaeve enters the room). There's no point. If Nynaeve's account gets doubted, she can just take the Oath against lying and say it again. Nynaeve no longer being a prisoner of the Seanchan means that Liandrin's goose is cooked and it's time to change tactics.

Now the shredding begins.

When Liandrin initially tries to attack, Alanna is right there with a counter, since she was prepared for an attack. But their attention is 100% on Liandrin, who they believe is the only threat.

Given that Nyomi was working on finding a way into the 13th Depository (confirmed at the ending of the scene), Liandrin was definitely planning to flee at some point in the near future (probably with Jeaine and Chesmal), but maybe not with any Sitters, as having Black Ajah Sitters in the Hall would be a useful thing. But once Siuan threatens to still Liandrin and find out from her all the rest of the Black Ajah, their own covers are threatened, and they exchange glances and spring into action when Liandrin asks for aid.

There are four Sitters who stand up to defend Liandrin -- Yellow, White, Gray (Joiya), and Blue. We do have semi-confirmed names for the Blue Sitter, but it hasn't been said on-screen yet, so I won't say. But Joiya was one of the sisters who was in Cairhien last season.

When Liandrin calls out "Join me", you can see the shock on Siuan's face. She 100% believed that all of the non-Red Sitters were trustworthy. This is not just a Red Ajah problem.

Yellow-Black Sitter and White-Black Sitter immediately stand up and attack, and Leane moves to defend Siuan. Blue-Black and Gray-Black (Joiya) are the next to stand up to attack and now Alanna must shift her focus away from Liandrin and towards the new threats. So Siuan is now the only person focusing on holding Liandrin's shield.

The rest of the Sitters are pretty fucking stunned, as you would imagine. Nothing like this has ever happened before, so they are slow to react, as the Black Ajah Sitters now turn and attack their fellow Sitters.

One attack leaves one of the White Ajah Sitters covered in blood. One of the Brown Sitters is cut in half. Nynaeve tries to channel but can't get past her block. And the Blue-Black Sitter brings down part of the wall (it looks like she's trying to get Nynaeve).

So the rest of the Sisters who were previously out in the hallways in front of the Hall have left, but the Warders were still hanging around and are now trying to get inside. The three Red Ajah sisters from earlier try to get past them to get inside the Hall but Maksim and Ihvon are still assuming that the danger of the Black Ajah is entwined with the Red Ajah, and refuse them entry. And this is a place where the Red Ajah not having any kind of relationship with the Warders makes it so much harder for these two groups to find the common ground to help each other.

Joiya is able to get Siuan to drop her shield on Liandrin by using the Power to just chuck a huge-ass piece of rock at her. That's one way to do it! And both Liandrin and Siuan fall to the ground injured, and we get a neat moment where we see both of them getting healed by a Yellow Sitter.

Jeaine (and her two Warders) and Chesmal show up. Green and Yellow. Maksim recognizes them and greets them as allies but is soon disabused of the belief, and the two of them have gone mask off and aren't pretending anymore. They are ready to get out of here. Jeaine kills one of the Red Sisters, then her two Warders are killed and we see her disturbing reaction to feeling their deaths, and Maksim and Ihvon realize that it's Jeaine and Chesmal who are the Black Ajah Sisters.

At the end of this part of the scene, we do still have one Red Ajah sister standing against Jeaine and Chesmal.

Inside the 13th Depository, Nyomi reveals herself as Black Ajah and attacked Verin and Adelas with something that appears targeted at their minds -- Verin does seem to do something that helps counter it, but Adelas takes the full brunt and it appears to affect her memory (she doesn't recognize her sister). Then Nyomi loots the 13th Depository, taking several of the ter'angreal.

Leane takes down the White-Black sister, caving her head in with her staff, pretty brutally. Joiya gets knocked down by Alanna but is able to get back up.

After being healed by their respective Yellow sisters, Siuan and Liandrin face each other again, and Liandrin links with her three surviving Black Ajah sisters and creates a boom in the hall to open themselves an exit, while Leane and Alanna act to protect Siuan.

Liandrin's crew then all heads towards the docks. They meet up with Nyomi, who confirms that she got a specific thing they were looking for and "anything else I could carry".

I do think it's possible that at least one of the Red Sisters survived here, since we know that Maksim and Ihvon both survived and they were also in the hallway when it blew, but we will see! Yes, we see their bodies but, you know, they could be unconscious! Live in hope!

A very traumatic day for all involved, and it isn't over yet! We don't get a final death count in this video, but several of the Sitters are still alive and moving at the end.

Looking at the line-up of Black Ajah that we have at the end... Joiya is missing but so is the Yellow Sitter who stood up to defend Liandrin (there's a Yellow there, but she's Chesmal, who arrived with Jeaine). So Joiya and the Yellow-Black Sitter are doing something else. What are those two up to?

[eff4freddie]

Touch | Epilogue

Joel makes good on his promise to date you, at least once.

Words: 4k

Warnings: Just a slutty lil farewell to our resident Jackson masseuse and her grumpy-arse maybe sorta boyfriend, smut, vaginal fingering, sexy times, stockings that are far too thin for early Spring. Minors DNI

A/N: Another thank you for your support of this little story that ended up being a bit bigger and more complex than I expected. I went there because of your encouragement. Thank you, always.

Part Eight | Series Masterlist

The season was turning, but there was still a chill of a nighttime. It had been six weeks since Joel returned to Jackson, the medical supplies he and the second expedition managing to find and defend ensuring a healthy and safe Jackson for at least another two winters. The whole energy of the place, the optimism, was back in the community, and you had thrived in it, started to bloom alongside the wildflowers dotting the pathways into town.

You’d spent the time working, teaching Ellie, occasionally hanging around Joel’s place while he convalesced, first in his bed, then on the new-ish couch Tommy had found and dragged in through the back door. It wasn’t leather like his old one, and the springs stuck out in the centre so that you had to be very careful where you sat, but it was better than the rocking chair, and it was enough for him to sit still in for at least a few weeks.

He kept promising that he was going to date you, at least once if you’d let him, and each time you’d fobbed him off, telling him he had to get better first, that he was no good to you limping, that you wanted him marginally less grumpy if he could manage it. You weren’t sure why you were stalling, other than that you felt you were toes to the edge of a precipice.

When you were little your little family of four had driven out to the Grand Canyon, and you’d stood on the edge of the red dirt and been totally overwhelmed by the size of it, of all the negative space, the absence. You’d found yourself, aged eight and a half, ready to cry and even now, thirty years later, you remembered the howling wind, the echo of it.

You thought about the beauty of it, now. Now that you had seen so much worse, so much more, you reminded yourself that people used to travel entire countries to see the Grand Canyon. In your mind’s eye you entered your memories and stood beside yourself, your child self, and took her hand. You pointed to the sky, drew her eyes up and away from the ground beneath. Felt her pulse race under your touch as you showed her that the magnitude of it was the beauty in it, was the point of it all.

You accepted Joel’s invitation for the next Friday night. Then you ran to Maria’s to find something to wear.

--

You were supposed to meet at 8, a respectable time after dinner so as not to feel like you needed to have a meal; a more casual time, a more intimate time, when you could drink and chat and only stay an hour if you found it wasn’t working. It was both an in and an out.

Except that you were late, your last client having not only stored muscle tension in his fascia but emotional tension as well, and as soon as you had pushed into the glute he had unleashed years of mourning, of loss, of fears. You had stopped, wrapped him in a towel and pulled him upright, stood back and let him shake with the force of it. It wasn’t new, that people would come with muscle aches and discover trauma aches instead, but you lost track of time trying to put him back together again, trying to assure him of his safety. Tommy was right; sometimes it doesn’t come out until you feel safe enough to let it.

But it meant by the time you were pulling your door open you were about forty minutes late. Your cheeks burned with the shame of it, your timekeeping one of your strengths in the before-times, in the times when you had no other responsibilities other than the hell of being 15.

Joel was coming up your path and you stopped, nearly dropping the jacket you were still trying to pull over your shoulders. You couldn’t read his expression in the dark but his eyes were on you, and he was coming up, fast.

‘Joel, I’m so sorry,’ you started, as he strode towards you and up your porch. ‘I got caught up with a client, I couldn’t leave until they were…’ his hands were on you then, gripping you to him, your jaw resting in his warm palm.

‘You OK?’ he asked you, his eyes searching yours.

‘I’m fine, of course I am,’ you said, flustered, under the intensity of his inspection. ‘I just couldn’t…he was so sad, Joel. I had to stay.’

He nods at this, his jaw ticking. You resisted the urge to reach up and sink your fingertips into the masseter. ‘Were you worried about me, Joel?’ you asked, and he narrowed his eyes at you, then, suddenly freezing up.

‘Thought you weren’t coming, or that you were…thought maybe something had happened,’ he said, and you felt yourself soften.

‘I’m fine. And I would never stand you up,’ you said, moving to hold him around his waist, to circle him in your arms, only able to reach halfway around him, broad as he was. He avoided your eyes, the worry etched deep into his brow.

You still hadn’t kissed him. All of the things he had done to you, the way he had pulled you apart under his hands, his mouth, spread around his cock, nothing so intimate as a kiss.

‘I’m sorry,’ you said again, low and velvet in your throat. ‘I really like you, Joel,’ you went on, and he finally met your gaze, again. The naked vulnerability in it making you pause. You wondered how many people had ever seen this side of him. You suspected he could count them on one paw.

‘It’s late,’ he said, and started to pull away from you. ‘Maybe we should try again some other time.’ To your dismay he had nearly turned his back to you, and without thinking you grabbed him around the middle and tried to turn him back.

‘Wait,’ you said, and he hissed then, his muscles seizing. You let go of him, horrified.

‘M’ok,’ he muttered, raising his hand to stop you from rushing toward him. ‘Just…still gettin’ there, is all.’

‘Come in, please,’ you said, not touching him, not moving towards him, hoping your voice would be enough to get him to stay. ‘It’s cold, I have a bottle of whiskey Tommy slipped me when you were in the hospital, I can…’

‘You needed whiskey, baby?’ he said, and he had that lopsided grin on his face again, and you wanted to lick it off him. ‘Were you worried about little ole me?’

Never mind, you wanted to slap it off.

‘Oh for fucks sake,’ you said, rolling your eyes and turning back to your door. ‘Don’t get all cute just because I got scared when you nearly died,’ you said, and you heard him chuckle. You entered your house and turned to him, one hand on the door. ‘In or out?’ you asked, and you knew that you were talking to the both of you, knew that he wasn’t the only one facing the indecision, knew that you palming the responsibility off onto him, that you would accept his decision even if it meant never talking to him again. He hesitated, but only for a moment.

--

He was back in your kitchen, on the same chair from a more recent before-time, from before he’d found a place for himself somewhere under your skin. You were both sipping your whiskey, listening to the crackling fire in the other room, letting the silence seep out and blanket you. He was still enormous, still took up nearly half the space, and you ceded all of it to him.

‘Ellie speaks the world of you,’ he said, after a while, and you knew that this was important to him, that first and foremost he was her dad, her keeper and her protector.

‘She’s a lovely kid,’ you said, and then corrected yourself. ‘Not a kid. She’d fucking kill me if she knew I said that.’

He chucked into his glass. ‘Won’t tell her,’ he promised.

‘How’s that healing?’ you asked, gesturing to his wrist. It wasn’t in a splint anymore but it was still tightly bandaged.

‘S’just weak, aches in the cold,’ he said, and you nodded. You reached out and pulled it towards you, lay it on the kitchen table between you. You slipped the bandage away, watched the blood rush back in and pink up the flesh underneath it.

‘You need to stretch it, keep it strong,’ you said. ‘Bones probably healed but now the muscles’ll be lazy.’

‘Yes, doctor,’ he said, and you glanced up at him, at the crinkles in his skin and the warmth in his eyes as he teased you.

‘I mean it,’ you said, pretending to be offended, using it as an excuse to slip your hands around his wrist, his forearm. You felt the chords of the muscles there, the sinew and the veins. You rubbed your thumbs in firm circles, like you had shown him to do on your knee, all those weeks ago. You blushed at the thought of it, at the echo of the pleasure he had wrung from you not ten paces away.

He grunted a little, shifted in his seat, and you pulled his arm up at a right angle, so that his elbow was resting on the table. ‘Here, do this,’ you said, and you slipped your fingers between his, rested your forearm against his, leant in a little to ease your combined weight onto the joint.

‘I’m going to try and push your hand backwards, you push back,’ you said.

‘We arm wrestlin’?’ he asked, smiling again.

‘We will if you don’t behave yourself,’ you shot back, and he grinned.

‘Tell me when,’ he said, and you nodded your head. He grimaced at the strain through the joint, but you felt it stretch, felt it working under the force you were applying to it.

‘That’s good,’ you said, without thinking, ‘doing real well.’ He sucked a shy little breath in through his teeth. You stopped pushing, looking up into his pink cheeks. You continued to hold his hand, your eyes fixed to his.

‘Say it again,’ he said, and your mouth went dry.

‘Doing real well, Joel,’ you said, and watched as he blinked slowly, drinking it in. ‘Doing so good.’

He pulled you then, by the arm, out of your chair and into his lap, his mouth finding your neck and suckling, hard, as you struggled for purchase on his thighs. You could feel how hard he was through his jeans, the pulse of it pushing into your cunt as you settled yourself down on him, your thin little stockings under Maria’s borrowed dress doing absolutely nothing to provide a barrier against his throbbing for you.

He gasped, looked up at you as you perched above him. His pupils, blown wide with want, mirroring the ache you felt between your legs and in your heart for him. He tasted like peppermint toothpaste and you wondered idly if he’d brushed his teeth before heading to the Bison, if he’d hoped this would be the end result of the night or if it was just habit. You smelt the leather of his worn jacket. You reached up and let his salt and pepper beard scratch at the skin on your fingertips.

‘So good to us, Joel,’ you said, and you heard the gentlest whimper catch in his throat. ‘Looking after the town. Keeping us safe.’

‘Want to keep you, baby,’ he whispered, his eyes dropping to examine your lips. ‘Keep you tucked up all warm and safe, keep you under my roof where I know you’re protected.’ You shivered, at the heat of it, at the sincerity in it. ‘Be the one to shield you. All sweet and soft in your little kitchen. Wanting me, waiting f’me.’ He finished, biting his bottom lip.

‘I want you,’ you said, simply, feeling his cock jump underneath you.

‘Yeah?’ he asked, and you nodded.

‘Been waiting,’ you bit out, realising for the first time that it was true.

‘M’sorry baby,’ he said, playfully goading you. ‘Where did ya want me?’ he whispered, tucking his head under your chin and licking a stripe up your neck, chewing idly on your earlobe. You shivered again, a shuddering little thing that also came with a whimper. You took his hand from your waist and dropped it to your pussy, pushed his fingers to cup you there, gasping when he ran a fingertip along your seam.

‘Everywhere,’ you whispered, and he grunted, shifting his weight. With one warm hand splayed across your shoulder blades he leant you back, his eyes running up and down your body, devouring you. He kept his hand on your cunt, idly running a finger up and down where you ached the most for him, and you worried for a moment that he would feel how wet he’d made you just with his gaze.  

His breath was warm across your cheeks when he exhaled. He took the hand from between your legs and cupped your breast, rolled the nipple through your dress, made you whimper.

‘Joel,’ you whispered, and you watched as his eyes lit up, as the sparks caught on kindling and turned into a forest fire, as he swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing from the strain. You wanted to run your tongue over his bottom lip, nip at it.

‘Sssh, baby, I know,’ he said, pulling you up off his lap to stand in front of him, your knees shaking. His arms bracketed your hips, gripping the table behind you, so you were surrounded by him. He remained seated, watching you from under heavy eyelids.

‘Take it off,’ he said, and you felt your pulse in your neck, thunderous.

‘Which?’ you asked.

‘Maria’s dress you don’t think I recognise, those silly little stockings that ain’t doing nothin’ to keep out the cold.’

He leant back on the chair again, kicked his legs out so that you were standing between his ankles now, leant his arm on the back of the chair and scratched at his beard. ‘Well, go on,’ he said, and you felt so exposed to him then, vulnerable in the heat of his stare.

‘Help me,’ you said, feigning not being able to get to the zipper, just for the excuse of turning away from him, from his eyes that were taking you apart atom by atom, from his hands resting on his thigh, from his thick fingers you wanted to slip into your mouth, let him push down on your tongue and suckle at him.

You felt his hands on your back, the zip coming down, the way he slipped the dress from you like he was unwrapping a present on Christmas morning. You leant over a little, trying to slip your stockings off and you heard him moan, felt his hands on you again, his warm paw on your lower back pushing you into a deeper bend, the other pulling on your hips to bring you closer to him, his hands gripping you, positioning you. You heard his sharp inhale when you slipped the stockings over your bottom, felt your cheeks blaze when he reached up and slipped your panties off along with them, bent over and completely exposed to him, wet and glistening in the light of the kitchen, the sound of your gasped little whimpers mixing with the ever-present whir of your forty-year-old fridge.

‘Oh, my girl,’ he said, and you wanted to launch yourself at him, seat yourself back on his lap and bury your head in his neck but he was running his hands up and down the back of your thighs, edging himself closer on the chair, pushing you forward so that your breasts rested on the kitchen table, your cheek flush to the cold wood.

He bent his head and placed a single kiss at the base of your spine and you worried your knees would buckle, worried you would collapse onto the kitchen tile. As you gasped he brought his hands up to cup your bottom, spreading your cheeks enough to slip a thumb into your cunt, probe the warmth and feel the wet collecting on his fingertip. You startled, trying to buck away, trying to buck towards him, circling your hips to capture him inside you, and you heard him chuckle, felt his lips dip lower to your tailbone as he twisted his hands, his thumb still inside as his fingers came around to cup and rub at your slit, your poor little aching clit caught between his fingertips.

‘Jesus,’ you cried, finding religion despite never having set foot in a church.

‘Want to keep you full of me,’ he muttered, sitting back down on the chair again and pulling you with him, spreading your legs over his so you were open wide, obscene and dripping in his lap, pulling your legs apart with his and whispering filth in your ear, cupping your breast with one hand and the other sliding into your heat.

‘Want to keep you here, my pretty girl all safe and warm in my arms, full of my cock and my fingers, crying out for me when I’m not there.’ You were gasping, your vision narrowing, barely able to concentrate on anything except for his words, for his fingers stretching you, his legs pulling you impossibly wide. ‘Won’t let nothin’ hurt ya, baby girl,’ he grit out, and you felt a sob rip through your throat, the pleasure he was drawing out of you mixing with the comfort, with the intoxicating allure of him protecting you, of him standing between you and so many terrors.

In your right mind you wouldn’t have believed him. Would have known there were things out there even the great Joel Miller couldn’t topple, that there were threats known and unknown, seen and unseen, things out there wanting to spill your blood, the blood of the people you cared the most for. But Joel was inside you, in your cunt and in your ear, and his words were chipping away at your resistance, sliding under the door long ago locked tight. You were far from your right mind. You surrendered to the seduction of it, of the intoxication of it, of the myth this man was peddling that you would buy again and again and again.

‘There she is,’ he said, as you came on his fingers, your cunt gripping him and your hips rolling, his face pressed hard into your neck as you twisted into the agony of it, your mouth open and gasping, your face turned to the Gods.

You felt his fingers underneath you, one hand wrapped tight around your torso to hold you steady as he released himself from his jeans, and you felt him then, pressed against the back of your thigh, the velvet heat of his length, the thundering throb of it. You had barely caught your breath, had yet to fully come back to yourself, before he was pushing himself into you, pulling you onto him, your neck caught in his teeth as he bit down on the nape, tried to stifle the groan blooming in his chest.

He felt bigger this way, the stretch even sharper despite his best attempts to prepare you, and your walls fluttered, fought to accept him. You shuddered, the sudden sting slamming you back into your body, and you gripped his hands to stop him, to pause. He stilled immediately, his breath hot and gasping.

‘Give me a minute,’ you gritted out, leaning back onto his shoulder and burying your nose in his jaw, panting, placing a placid little kiss to the salt and pepper patches there.

You felt him reach around you, his finger finding your clit and gently circling it, collecting your slick and pushing it over the nub to rid you of any friction. You groaned, arching your back against him, your hands digging into the meat of his thighs underneath you.

‘So beautiful like this,’ he whispered into your ear as you felt the pleasure overtake you, the throb in your cunt synchronised to your thundering pulse. ‘Can feel you gripping me,’ he went on. ‘Stuffed fulla me, baby.’

‘Stop,’ you gasped, the moment suddenly too intense, a fear gripping you then that if he kept talking you would give him anything; the shirt off your back, the blood in your veins. He chuckled, watching you struggle to take the pleasure he was pushing into you, through you.

It was wrong but you couldn’t figure out why, because it still felt so fucking good, and you wanted more but couldn’t figure out how it was possible, not sated by him seated fully inside you, not close enough to him as you pressed your body entirely against yours. You huffed, frustrated, standing before he could stop you and pivoting to face him, straddling him again in the chair and sinking yourself down on him in one swift motion, so that he gasped and then groaned when the heat of you enveloped him, joined you in a harsh cry when your clit met his hipbone and you settled there, shifted your hips to press into the nub.

‘S’better,’ you said, and you watched his lopsided grin emerge.

‘My girl miss seeing me?’ he asked, and you rolled your hips to shut him up, watched any semblance of cogent thought leave him when you gripped him there.

‘Say it again, Joel,’ you said, sliding your hips forward and back in a way that you knew wasn’t enough for him, but was making your clit throb when it grazed over his skin. He grunted, suddenly finding it hard to think clearly, and his brows saddled.

‘Keep you safe?’ he said, uncertain but meaning it anyway, and you shook your head.

‘Keep who safe?’ he asked.

‘You,’ he answered, still not following, and you planted your feet on the floor, raised yourself up just to bounce back down again.

‘Who am I, Joel?’ you asked, nearly breathless, and finally, finally he understood, his little huffed out laugh sending a thrill through you as he reached down between your bodies, felt where you were joined.

‘My girl,’ he said, finding your clit and edging his fingertips across it, sending fireworks up your spine. ‘My beautiful girl, so tight and wet, so needy for me, cryin’ out for me in her kitchen.’

You groaned, feeling him grip you around the middle with one arm, lifting you up and down on his cock, rocking into you and always, always, always watching your face, nibbling at your chin when you leant back to gasp for air.

You were going to come. It was too fast. You still had so many other things you wanted to say to him, wanted him with every atom of you, with every fibre, the neurons in your brain lighting up just for him. Wanting to live in the torrent of pleasure he brought out in you, wanted to twist and writhe in it. You felt, again, on the edge of tears, but not for wanting, this time. Not for the losses.

For the having. Of Jackson, of the wildflowers on the paths pushing past the cold. Of the little family you had eked out at the end of the world, of Ellie, of Tommy and Maria and Robin. Of this man under your body and on your kitchen chair, calling you his and promising to keep you safe. Of this man, pushing you closer and closer to the edge of oblivion and clinging to him, willingly readying yourself to cascade over it.

‘Want you right here, always,’ he grunted, and you keened, felt it then, that you were wanted, that you belonged.

You didn’t have the words for it, vowed in that moment that you would spend the rest of your life trying to find them. For right now you did the only thing you could think of, leaning over and gripping his jaw, angling his face to you as you landed your lips on him, kissed him as you felt a tear streak across your cheek and onto his skin, as you shuddered and felt your cunt milking him, as he spilled into you and you joined him, the ecstasy and the pleasure and the warmth of it. In your little house in Jackson, behind enormous walls, to hold you.

Taglist:

@orcasoul

@archofimagine

@hiroikegawa

@ilovejoel-andjavi

@giggly-otter

@harrysrosetatto

@Hjzghi-blog

@daddy-dins-girl

@kathaaaaaaa

@anoverwhelmingdin

@pedropascalsbbg

[superbbirdofparadise]

Are y'all ready for a mildly unhinged character comparison?

(It makes sense when you think about it, trust me)

William Afton and Doctor Morocco. One is an undead serial killer from a mascot horror game. The other is a villain from a cartoon targeted to preschool-age children who doesn't even have a body count (at least, not one that's mentioned on-screen). On the surface, all they have in common are their British accents and general disregard for public welfare. But, these two are actually far more similar than you might think.

First, they are both inventors, and experts in robotics. While it is unclear exactly how many animatronics Afton himself built, we know from Sister Location that he designed the Funtimes by himself, and he worked very closely with Henry Emily for earlier animatronics (not even gonna try researching specific numbers because FNAF). Morocco is shown working on many projects, from submarines to a machine that controls ants, but his most famous invention is the MorBot, a non-sentient transforming robot.

Early in their careers, they both met fellow genius inventors; Afton with Henry Emily, and Morocco with Jules Verne. They became best friends, and began working together on projects. Unfortunately, both of these friendships were more one-sided than they seemed.

Admiration of Emily and Verne soon turned to jealousy, leading Afton and Morocco to betray them. Afton, either grieving the loss of his own child(ren), or just at his breaking point depending on what timeline you use, killed Henry's daughter, Charlie. After being gifted a prototype Verne device, Morocco disagreed with Verne on how the technology should be used, and disappeared to develop inventions which fulfilled his own selfish desires. Although they are not equal in magnitude, both betrayals hurt the recipients deeply.

At some point, both became obsessed with the pursuit of eternal life. This led Afton to continue killing children to harvest remnant from them, even creating the S.C.U.P., better known as the Scooper, to aid remnant extraction. Morocco used his Verne device prototype to create his Chamber of Youth, a glass pod with anti-aging properties. (Picture of Burntrap's charging pod included for comparison with the Chamber of Youth, and because I couldn't find a better place to put it.)

However, time waits for no man. Although Afton "survives" injuries that should be fatal, and Morocco barely looks a day over 40 at 200, neither of their situations are perfect. What's left of Afton is trapped inside an old Spring Bonnie suit, and Morocco must make frequent trips to his Chamber of Youth to avoid aging rapidly and dying.

Eventually, Emily and Verne decide to end their former best friends' reigns of terror. Emily builds a fake pizzeria to trap Afton, and all of the haunted and/or sentient animatronics, and burns them to the ground. Verne takes a (relatively) pacifist approach, erasing Morocco's memories of being evil and bringing him to future Paris, where he will hopefully live out the rest of his days in peace. So goes the ends of two great villains…

…until SOMEONE decides that the characters are too popular to die, so they're brought back, but it's not really them, it's just viruses that look and talk and act and think like them that were created by the real Afton and Morocco at an undisclosed point in time because why wouldn't they do that? These viruses appear in experimental VR games, Glitchtrap in the Freddy Fazbear Virtual Experience, and the Morocco virus in Griffin Rock Element Quest 2.0. They both have the ability to alter the games they originated in, Glitchtrap adding the tapes and Bonnie plush, and Morocco virus creating entirely new levels. They also have the ability to control other machines, and even humans, under the right circumstances.

Both viruses manage to transfer themselves into physical bodies, and continue to cause chaos. (For this example, we are assuming that Burntrap is the Mimic infected with the Glitchtrap virus and pretending to be William Afton, NOT Afton himself.)

Vanessa and Gregory trap the Mimic in an even lower level of the basement, and the rescue team traps Morocco virus in a block of ice. After they are captured and imprisoned, they decide that they should update their character designs at the earliest convenience to be more easily distinguishable from their human designers, sell more merch, and, in Morocco virus' case at least, grow more powerful. Mimic basically just stops cosplaying as Ourple Guy (and starts cosplaying as a circus creature amalgam depending on the ending), but Morocco upgrades to a MorBot, rivaling the Rescue Bots in every physical aspect.

It is unknown whether or not either of these viruses, or their creators, will be threats in the future. With the Morocco virus stuck at the bottom of the ocean, and the doctor himself nowhere to be seen in Rescue Bots Academy, the reign of Morocco has likely come to an end. It seems as though William Afton has finally died, too, being replaced by the Mimic as FNAF's main antagonist. To know the Mimic's fate, we'll have to wait until Secret of the Mimic, or maybe even a game farther in the future.

Aaaaand I think that's it! There are a few smaller details that I didn't mention (i.e. Morocco's shirt button/brooch thing is ourple?!?😱😱😱), but these are all of the big connections between these guys that I saw. I haven't seen anyone else make this comparison (for good reason lol), so I thought it would be nice to share my thoughts. Let me know what y'all think, and feel free to mention things that I missed, or let me know your own mildly unhinged character comparisons. So, uh… yeah. Thanks for coming to my TED Talk.

Edit: I fixed the typo in the image description for the picture of Morocco and Verne meeting.

[mogitz]

Don't think about Lucien Vanserra witnessing the unspeakable: his world crumbling as the love of his life is ripped away from him and murdered right before his eyes. Don't picture his brothers holding him back, making him watch it all - every excruciating detail - as he's powerless to stop it.

Forget the image of him, broken and bleeding, dragging himself to the sanctuary of the Spring Court boundary, barely making it over the line before his knees give out beneath him. Don’t think about the emptiness that surely follows, nor the weight of his grief so heavy it's a wonder he could even stand to make it to safety in the first place. Don’t think about all the times on his journey he just wanted to give up altogether, but pushed on so that Jesminda’s death was not in vain.

Don't think about him having to turn against two of his own brothers, killing them in a twisted act of vengeance that feels nothing like the justice he sought. Resist the thought of him taking weeks, months, (years??) to mourn in solitude because Tamlin, though knowing loss to this magnitude as well, could not possibly navigate the depths of Lucien's grief. Thus, Lucien was left to weather his storm of sorrow and loss the same way Tamlin had weathered his own - alone - hiding away from a world that had taken everything from him

Don’t picture him upon the dawn-kissed roof of the Spring manor, where the dance of pinks and oranges and blues in the sky only seems to deepen his yearning for an Autumn forever lost to him. And don’t think about how in the Spring Court he has found some kind of solace... but never peace. How despite finding a home there, his soul remains restless, wandering, always running from the shadows of his past. Running from his future. Running from himself.

And please don’t think about how Lucien's gratefulness to Tamlin for giving him something close to a family results in a loyalty so profound that he'd walk into hell for him. Which he does - right into Amarantha’s clutches - only to come back less than whole, another piece of him stolen away.

That beauty he was known for? Gone.

Just like everything else.

Don’t imagine Lucien slowly piecing himself back together - inch by painstaking inch. Forget about the way he masters the art of sarcasm and humor, how he wields his wit like a shield to keep others at bay, to convince them, and maybe himself, that he's not hurting as much as he is. That beneath the quips and the easy smiles lies a well of pain and self-doubt so deep it's become part of who he is. That this levity he brings into every room is, in truth, the heaviest thing he carries.

And hey. Don't think about Lucien giving up any hope of being wanted, of being loved again. That his chance at having a mate, a true partner, was as dead as his former lover.

Or how, in a twist that must have amused fate itself, the Cauldron surprises him with a mate in Elain Archeron: his undeniable yet unwilling counterpart. How from nowhere, a bond snaps into place, redefining his destiny and sealing a connection that he'd long since given up on.

And don't think about how when Lucien's eyes meet Elain’s, somewhere beneath all the layers of loss and hurt and betrayal….  a spark of hope dares to ignite once more.

And then absolutely don't let your thoughts wander to his heart being trampled on, again, when he realizes that Elain - like everyone else - doesn’t want him. But at this point he’s not even surprised. It’s just another sharp sting in a lifetime's collection of disappointments and cruel irony. Don't dwell on how he's gotten so used to the taste of rejection and the feeling of being unworthy that he doesn't even think about trying to change her mind about him. Because, what's the point, right? Why bother when history has shown him, time and time again, that even just hoping seems to lead him to more pain?

Don’t think about how despite this, he still seeks her out just enough to show he’s willing to give it a shot if she is. How against his every instinct to protect himself, he keeps himself open to the slightest possibility of her, knowing it just leaves the door open to be hurt. And don't think about how every time Elain shies away from him, every time she looks through him or chooses to keep her distance, it just reinforces  his walls, makes him retreat a little more behind his carefully constructed façade. Because facing that rejection head-on, acknowledging it, would mean admitting to himself that he's still holding onto a sliver of hope that maybe, just maybe, she could see past the surface. That she could want him, not despite of all he's been through, but because of it. That she could be the one to see him, really see him, and not turn away.

So, yeah, don’t go there. It's easier to laugh it off, to pretend it doesn't matter, than to face the possibility of another door closing in his face. Easier to keep up the act, to be the Lucien everyone expects - charming, sarcastic, unbothered - than to risk showing just how much Elain's avoidance cuts him to the core.

But don’t think about it. 

Because acknowledging that Lucien's humor and charm are just his way of coping? That means seeing the depth of his loneliness, the real Lucien who's been hiding in plain sight, waiting for someone to care enough to look closer. And understanding that? It's realizing that beneath the façade, Lucien's just waiting for someone to prove him wrong, to show him he's worth the risk, worth the love he's convinced himself he doesn't deserve.

And Elain, with her quiet strength and her own hidden depths, might just be the one to see the real Lucien. To challenge the walls he's built around himself, if only he could believe, one more time, that he's worthy of being chosen, of being loved.

But perhaps Mor is right - they aren’t ready. And Lucien’s not sure he’s ready to gamble his heart on hope again. Not yet, anyway.

So, really, don’t think about it—unless you’re ready to root for them, to believe in the kind of love that could be their light at the end of a very dark tunnel. Because Lucien and Elain? They could be something epic, a testament to the power of second chances and the strength of a love that comes when you least expect it but most need it. That their path isn’t just about two people finding love in an unfair world that has taken the things they both hold dear; it’s a journey of coming back to life after being lost in the dark for far too long.

So yeah, just don’t. It’s a lot.

[warmcoals]

when i stepped into the light it burned. at first. but i started to notice a bunch of other things besides the pain. the fragrances flowers and bushes and trees and grass and dirt and asphalt release when warm wind blows through. the joyful chorus of the birds, even heart-deep in the city, when the sun rises properly. the gratitude in my skin and bones and brain at my choice to expose myself to the waking world; "vitamin d", petty science calls it, but i know magic when i feel it.

i lost a lot of things, stepping out of the dark. magnitudes of loss you might not imagine. friends, family, lives, opportunities, hopes and dreams innumerable. for ten years ive tasted every known flavor of indignity. i have begged and run and clung and scraped and hissed and pushed to survive. i have locked myself out of worlds. in the light it is indeed impossible to hide.

but as an assassin by nature i quickly realized "concealment" was a crutch. a sleight of hand id picked up in the trade of living without understanding the base principles of my own profession. i had neglected the skills of collaboration, flirtation, offering, patience, confrontation, reinforcement, and love. to reach the heart of the world, and thus anyone inside it, you need innately to become a part of the world. to provide for those dearest to me i attend a job and perform for the cis to spread my time and resources right back to my own. to protect the ideals i love i maintain my strength and my appearance and my motions to ensure i can always dance through any situation exactly as i intend. to create a world where it is safe for trannies like me to move freely and beautifully as they like thru day or night i see them where they live and work and perform and hide and i speak untrained with emblems on display to say yes, yes im out here too, you and i are not alone, and there is no greater safety we could wish for than each other.

i cannot hide, now, a decade in. 99 times out of 100 if i enter a room and open my mouth, blameless or not, i am Detected by every pair of eyes. no garment could hide the curves of my body, no styling could mask my faggy demeanor, no love but a tranny's could ever stir my heart to beat again. and im so glad. here i stand now, in the awakening spring sun, skin stinging from the burns im sure to wear in a week. the air smells sweet and the knife in my hand is sharp and perfect and the beads on my wrist promise anyone watching exactly the show they wish for. the cissies will stare and seethe with jealousy, the eggs will realize the certainty of their yearning, and the girls will stand beside me, run ahead of me, hold my hand and smile at me and kiss me, climb over my corpse when im done fighting (though i hope that's not just yet). and i wont ever wish to hide again.

[makeitmingi]

The Cat and Dog Game [Chapter 20]

Genre: Romance, Fluff, Comedy

Pairing: Yunho x Reader (y/n)

Characters: Chef!Reader, RestaurantOwner!Yunho, MaitreD!Hongjoong, Waiter!Yeosang, Waiter!San, Waiter!Mingi, SousChef!Seonghwa, SousChef!Wooyoung, PrepChef!Jongho

Summary: Yunho's dream was to open and run his own restaurant. But he doesn't know anything when it comes to cooking. Until you came along and accepted the job, bringing with you a small crew. How will the black cat tame the energetic golden retriever?

Word count: 3.4K

"Say hi to your parents for me." You smiled, leaning against the door. You were still wrapped up in the blanket you dragged from your bed to walk Seonghwa out.

"You can come with me, you know? They did ask you to tag along." Seonghwa chuckled.

"I know, your parents have always loved me more. But you barely spend any time with your parents now, Hwa. I'm sure they miss you. Just go and... be their son. Don't worry about me." You giggled. Seonghwa rolled his eyes.

"I am still their son, I've never denied it." He scoffed.

"I know that. Tell them I'll be there next time." You said. Seonghwa nodded, reaching to to kiss your forehead and hug you before he left your apartment.

Mr and Mrs Park were there for you through it all. They were there for you after your mum passed away, they looked after you like their own daughter whenever you left home because of your stepmother.

"Oh, my soup!" You ditched the blanket by the doorway and went to the kitchen to check on your soup.

"Just what I need." You took home some seolleongtang from yesterday, wanting to add sliced beef and rice cakes for your lunch.

'Psst. Is your bodyguard gone yet? - Woo'

'You know I can't actually hear you through text, right Woo? And if you're referring to Seonghwa, yes. He just left to meet his parents not too long ago. - (y/n)'

'Perfect! I'll be there in 30 minutes, I'm going to buy some snacks first. - Woo'

You laughed, shaking your head as you put your phone aside. Reaching into your fridge, you took out more stock to prepare a portion of food for Wooyoung too. Wooyoung and Jongho both dropped by on their own from time to time to hang out with you, just like Seonghwa did.

"I'm here, jagiya!" Wooyoung announced loudly. You turned around to see him folding the blanket you left at the doorway earlier, draping it over his arm.

"Hi, Woo. And thanks." You smiled softly. He nodded and went to return the blanket to your room.

"What are you making?" He came, peering over your shoulder.

"Yesterday's seolleongtang. I just added some meat, rice cake and napa." You said, stirring the pot. He tugged you to him to hug you tightly, his arms circling your waist and chin on your shoulder.

"My jagi~" He giggled, giving you a loud kiss on the cheek before pulling away.

"You always do that to make Seonghwa angry." You snorted, turning the flame down for the soup to let it simmer.

"No. He's just jealous he can't do it." He rolled his eyes. When the soup was done, Wooyoung portioned the food out and you both sat at your counter to eat together. You topped your soup with red pepper flakes and spring onions.

"Bowl of comfort right here." He pointed at the bowl with his spoon as he chewed his food.

"That's what you say about post-Christmas split pea and ham soup." You laughed. After Christmas ham was eaten, you usually kept the bone to make pea and ham soup. It was practically a tradition.

"There are a lot of things that can bring you comfort, (y/n)." He pinched your cheek, making you wince.

"These fritters are good." You said, eating on a gimmari that Wooyoung bought.

"It's from the market near my place. A new stall run by an older couple but the food is always good. Crisp and fresh." He informed. You nodded, taking a vegetable fritter to eat.

"So, what did you think about yesterday?" Wooyoung casually asked.

"It went well. It was nice cooking at such a magnitude again, you know, cooking fancier dishes and stuff. With our small team, I don't think I can do it every night along with the morning bakes. But maybe we should do themed nights then. I'll suggest it to Yunho." You said as you leaned on one hand.

"That's nice and all. But I meant more... meeting the families." Wooyoung threaded lightly.

"I'm fine, Woo. I'm not gonna start spiralling just because I saw happy families. Was I envious? Yes, I'll admit that I was. But that's just how it is, nothing I can do about it." You shrugged.

"Okay, I just want to make sure you're okay. I am here for you." He slid his hand over yours.

"You know, I told Hwa that before we left, Yunho's mother hugged me. It... felt nice... In a familiar sort of way." You laughed bitterly.

"How so?"

"It's different from the hugs your mother, Mrs Park and Mrs Choi gives me. I may be going crazy but it just reminded me of my mother." You sighed.

"No, you're not going crazy, jagi. I understand. Like how my mother's hugs will always feel and be different. I get it." He giggled.

After the meal, you and Wooyoung did the dishes and cleaned up before sitting on the couch together. There was a random show playing on the television but it was mostly background sounds used to fill the space.

"Tell me something." Wooyoung started, taking a handful of popcorn and eating it from his hand. You hummed, fiddling with a stray string on your shared blanket.

"The dish you made yesterday. You chose galbi jjim because it's Yunho's favourite, right?" He asked. You remained silent.

"What's up with that? You and Yunho." He probed further.

"I... I don't know..." You shrugged with a soft sigh. Wooyoung was someone who was very in touch with his emotions while you were not. Maybe he could help you make sense of things.

"I need you to pick my brain." You confessed a little too honestly. Wooyoung's eyes widened.

"Jagi, I hope you don't mean that literally. Because you know I love you but brains..." He laughed.

"Be serious! I need you to help me understand things." You groaned and kicked his thigh, which was next to your food. He yelped and pouted at you.

"Try me. Tell me everything." Wooyoung encouraged. You took a while to try and form your thoughts into coherant sentences. He was patient though, Wooyoung always was, never rushing you or sarcastically commenting. You sifted through all your feelings in each situation you've been in with Yunho.

"How do you know if you like someone? Romantically. Rather than just, enjoying their company as a friend." You asked.

"Hmm. Well, what else do you feel when you're in that person's company? Yes, enjoying their company is one thing. Do you feel anything else?" He asked back.

"I like it, I don't want our time to end. But don't you feel that way with friends too?"

"Let's put it this way. When you are with Yunho, do you feel it's different than when you're with us?" He explained.

"Yeah. I feel like a different person entirely, more at peace. Like I want to get to know more about him and at the same time, I want to share more about myself. Which is rare." You said.

"There you go." Wooyoung nodded.

"I always thought it was just because you guys are noisy and chaotic, that's why Yunho brings me peace." You blinked.

"Yah." Wooyoung flicked a popcorn at you. You snickered, picking up the popcorn to pop into your mouth. Wooyoung's words sunk in, did you like Yunho? Romantically? It almost scared you at the thought of loving someone.

"Hey. Don't get lost in there." Wooyoung's hand slipped over yours, breaking your internal spiralling. You looked up and he sent you a gentle smile. He just knew you too well, all the boys did.

"What should I do? I'm scared of feeling this way, Woo." You asked in a whisper.

"What do you want to do? Do you want to tell him?" He asked.

"And then what?"

"Silly girl. If he likes you back, then you can try going on dates together. You don't have to get into a relationship right away. Try spending more time together." He chuckled.

"I know with everything you've been through, you are scared of your feelings. But I see how you are with him. He makes you happy." He smiled.

"I'm broken, you know? Yunho doesn't even know anything about my past. It feels wrong to hide it from him. But I'm afraid that he finds out and it scares him. He looks at life so beautifully while I can barely put myself together." You forced a bitter smile as tears started to form. Wooyoung leaned forward, cupping your cheeks.

"Hey, hey. Don't you say that about yourself. You're not broken, jagi. You're the toughest person I know. Life put you through the wringer and yet, here you are." His thumbs stroked your cheeks.

"It's all because of Hwa... And you... And Jongho." You shook your head, tears streaming down your face.

"No. It's because of you. You pulled yourself out of there. I'm sure Yunho can see what a beautiful person you are. Inside and out." Wooyoung said firmly.

"I love you, jagi." Wooyoung hugged you to his chest.

"You don't have to tell him everything at the moment. When your heart is ready." He stroked the back of your head.

"Thank you, Woo." You murmured, pressing your face into the material of his shirt.

"Whatever you decide to do, I'll always be here for you, jagiya. I just hate seeing you hurt." He promised, planting an affectionate kiss to the top of your head.

When Seonghwa came back from meeting his parents, he wasn't surprised to see Wooyoung's platform shoes there. Wooyoung and Jongho always dropped by to hang with you. He found the couch empty, only the blanket there.

"Sweetheart? Wooyoung?" Seonghwa called out but there was no reply. He sighed and folded the blanket, setting it aside.

"(y/n)?" He peeked into your room to see you and Wooyoung asleep. Your upper body was resting on Wooyoung's chest, the boy's arms wrapped around your shoulders.

With a soft smile, Seonghwa adjusted the blanket over you and Wooyoung before exiting the room.

"What should I cook?" He checked the time and went to the kitchen. He dug through your fridge to see what you had to cook for dinner.

*BZZZZ*

Seonghwa checked his phone and was surprised to see the message that popped up on his screen. After typing a quick reply, he put the ingredients back into the fridge and went to wear his shoes. Just like that, he walked out of the house again even though he had only been back for 15 minutes.

"Hey." Seonghwa greeted as he entered the cafe, seeing the person who sent him the text message sit at a corner booth.

"Hey, hyung. Thanks for meeting me so suddenly. It was probably surprising for you to receive my message out of the blue." The person said, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Not at all." Seonghwa cleared his throat before sitting on the opposite bench.

"Berry smoothie, please." He raised his hand to order with the waiter. Seonghwa glanced at the man, who kept his head lowered.

"Yunho, what's wrong?" Seonghwa tilted his head. Yunho cast his eyes upwards to look at Seonghwa, like a puppy that got caught doing something bad.

"I'm sorry, hyung. I... I don't know how to say this... I thought about it the whole night until this morning and I don't know how to go about doing this but my mind told me I should be apologising to you first but I didn't know how-"

"Woah, woah. Slow down. What are you talking about? Why are you apologising to me?" Seonghwa frowned.

"I... I like (y/n)." Yunho confessed.

"Okay... I think I could tell that you like her... But why are you apologising to me? It's not like she's my property or my daughter." Seonghwa was still confused.

"Isn't it against the bro code to go after your friend's girl?" Yunho asked with a wince.

"Is that what you thought? (y/n)'s not my girl... I am extremely protective of her but girlfriend? No." Seonghwa shook his head.

"Wait, you're n-not together? But I thought..." Yunho's eyes widened. Had he misunderstood the whole thing? This whole time, he assumed things and they turned out to be wrong.

"We're not dating. But like I said, I am extremely protective of her. (y/n)'s bubble is fragile and I protect it vigilantly."

"Did something happen?" Yunho asked.

"It's not my story to tell. I don't oppose of you wanting to start a relationship with her. Frankly, even if I did oppose it, I have no right. (y/n)'s her own person and she makes her own decisions. Just don't hurt her, Yunho. She puts her heart and soul into everything. If you can't do the same, leave her alone." Seonghwa warned.

"No, no. I promise I won't hurt her. I can't even fathom the thought of her being hurt." Yunho said earnestly. Every time Yunho was with you, he just wanted to hug you and take care of you.

"Do you think she likes me back?" Yunho asked. Seonghwa knew you best and spent the most time with you. He would know.

"Not for me to say. I don't want to get your hopes up or give you any expectations. That's a conversation you should have with her." Seonghwa replied.

"All I can say is, be patient with her." Seonghwa advised with a kind smile. Just then, his phone rang.

"Hey, Wooyoung... You're cooking alone?... Oh, she's still sleeping..." Yunho sipped his drink, assuming 'she' was you.

"I actually ran into Yunho... Mmm, we're just having drinks... I'll ask him." Yunho straightened up when he saw Seonghwa pulled the phone away from his ear.

"Would you like to join us for dinner?" Seonghwa asked.

"Oh but I wouldn't want to intrude-"

"Yeah, he'll be there. I'll come with him." The older said and hung up. Yunho's eyes widened, unable to say anything. Seonghwa chuckled and tucked his phone back as they finished their drinks. Yunho insisted on paying after asking Seonghwa out.

"Hyung, what if I can't act like myself around her? I don't want to be accidentally blurting things out. It already almost happened once." Yunho panicked slightly.

"You'll be fine. It's just dinner. Besides, Wooyoung and I will be there." He laughed, patting the taller on the shoulder.

"You know her address, right?" Seonghwa stood at his car door. Yunho nodded and the two split up to drive back to your house.

When the two entered the house, Yunho could immediately smell something delicious being cooked in the kitchen. Wooyoung hummed as he moved around the kitchen.

"Hey, you two." Wooyoung greeted.

"Hey." Seonghwa dropped his coat on the couch while Yunho bowed politely and draping his coat over the bar chair.

"She's still asleep, hyung." Wooyoung informed turning around to face the stove. Seonghwa nodded and moved down the hall to where Yunho presumed your room was.

"Don't stand around. Sit, sit. Make yourself at home. Want something to drink?" Wooyoung waved at Yunho. It was amazing how Wooyoung and Seonghwa, probably Jongho too, treated this house like their own house. They were so comfortable here, they knew where everything was.

"Ah!" Yunho jumped when he heard Seonghwa yell. Wooyoung didn't even flinch, cooking the food like it was normal.

"Is... everything okay?" Yunho asked.

"Oh yeah. (y/n)'s probably just trying to kill him for waking her up. Don't worry about it." Wooyoung shrugged. Seonghwa emerged from the room first.

"She's up." Seonghwa announced. Wooyoung opened his mouth to say something.

"Oh my god!" You yelped and the sound of your rapid footsteps were heard, followed by the sound of your room door slamming close.

"PARK SEONGHWA!" You shouted from your room. Yunho smiled to himself, he found you so adorable.

"I was just going to ask if you preempted her about Yunho being here... Guess not..." Wooyoung snickered. Seonghwa sighed and went back to the room.

"What is Yunho doing here?! Why didn't you tell me?" You hissed the moment Seonghwa came in. You were getting presentable clothes to change to considering you were wearing one of Jongho's shirts and really old, torn home shorts.

"I ran into him and invited him for dinner. I couldn't tell you because you were strangling me for waking you up." Seonghwa rolled his eyes.

"Oh my gosh." You slapped your forehead.

"What?" Seonghwa blinked. You shook your head with a sigh and went to your bathroom, making sure you brushed your teeth and looked presentable enough.

"Sorry about that. Hi, Yunho." You greeted as you came out. Yunho got off the bar stool.

"Hi, (y/n). Not need to apologise. Sorry for intruding." He smiled kindly. You tied your hair up into a bun and entered the kitchen area.

"Smells good, Woo. What are you making?" You asked Wooyoung, opening the fridge and pouring yourself a glass of cold brew coffee.

"Whatever you had in the fridge. So minced mushroom and cabbage stir fry, sweet and sour pork collar strips, bavette steak and side dishes." He informed. You nodded with a hum.

"I'll do the bavette." You said, putting your coffee aside and grabbing your apron. Seonghwa took whatever kale you had left to make a lemony kale salad with feta cheese and chopped cashews. Yunho volunteered to help Seonghwa with the salad since it seemed like the item he would screw up the least on.

"Sorry, it'll be scraps. We usually just eat whatever is in my fridge with rice." You apologised to Yunho as you stood next to him, seasoning the steak while he crumbled the feta.

"Not at all, it's fun. I look forward to see what dishes you come up with." Yunho laughed.

"You massage the kale like this to break it down. Makes it easier to chew and digest." Seonghwa explained to Yunho.

"Ooh, that's interesting. I never knew you could do that." Yunho said, amazed. Standing at the stove, you couldn't help but snicker at Yunho's pure amazement.

"Are you laughing at me?" Yunho turned around with a pout.

"Not at all." You shook your head innocently. You heated up the cast iron and cooked the steak. Yunho helped to cook the rice to have with the other dishes while Seonghwa and you took out all the side dishes from your fridge.

"Set a timer for 5 minutes." You said to your phone to set a timer, letting the bavette steak rest on the cutting board before you could cut into it.

"Help me stir the cabbage." Wooyoung requested. Seonghwa grabbed the cooking spoon to stir the cabbage as it wilted further.

"I'll slice the steak." You grabbed your knife to slice it. With Seonghwa and Wooyoung by the stove, Yunho stood by you, silently watching you slice the meat in a 'fancy, angled' way.

"Even this feels elaborate..." Yunho chuckled rubbing the back of his neck.

"Is it? We're just clearing the fridge. How do you clear your fridge then?" You laughed.

"Ramen?" He tilted his head. The two of you shared a laugh at your differences. When all the food was ready, the 4 of you grabbed a plate to scoop the food like cafeteria style before sitting in the living room together to eat. It was informal but not awkward with small conversations here and there.

"I'll bring the recycling down." You told Seonghwa and Wooyoung, who were drying the dishes Yunho just washed. Yunho grabbed his coat, ready to head down.

"Thank you for cooking." Yunho bid the two goodbye.

"See you tomorrow." They waved back. You and Yunho headed downstairs. Yunho followed you to put the recycling in the corner before you were to split ways.

"Thanks for having me." Yunho smiled softly.

"No need to thank. You can come over any time." You chuckled, a small smile on your face.

"Goodnight." He wished. You hummed to express the same sentiment. As you were about to turn back to head into the lift lobby, Yunho grabbed your wrist to stop you. You faced him in confusion.

"Yunho, what-"

"(y/n), I like you. And if you would give me a chance, I would like to take you out for dinner."

~

Series masterlist

[oncillaphoenix]

The sun is bright and warm on the hill outside the safehouse. It’s a late spring morning, and all the grunts who live there still are elsewhere–Rood had promised to keep them away for a while, so the Harmonia children won’t be interrupted.

The three of them stand loosely in a circle near the house. Zekrom stands back a little ways; Zorua sits primly next to N with his tail curled over his feet. Other pokémon chase each other through the park nearby, growling and scuffling cheerfully.

N sits down in the grass and lets Zorua climb into his lap. Concordia squeaks in mild alarm. “Oh–be careful not to stain your cloak…”

“Loosen up, Connie,” Anthea says. She stands under the house’s shadow, avoiding the direct sunlight. “It is not as if we’re ever going to use the thing again.”

“It’s a little beside the point, anyway,” N says. “Continue with the proceeding?”

Concordia glances at N, and then sits down as well. She flips to the next page of her clipboard of handwritten notes. “Lord Ghetsis Harmonia Gropius, First Sage of Team Plasma, steward of the kingdom and herald of the king…” She pauses and grimaces. “Must I read all his titles? ‘Most honored and holy’?”

N waves a hand. “Skip those.” 

“Thank you. Lord Ghetsis, et cetera, is seen in absentia by this council as guilty of the following primary charges: child abuse, pokémon abuse, pokémon cruelty, harm to and threats against the people of the kingdom, harm to and threats against the people of the region of Unova, murder, attempted murder, use of pokémon as a deadly weapon, treason, and high treason. Hm…was there anything else?”

“Tax fraud?” Anthea suggests.

“I…no, none of this council can bear personal witness to that crime. It would take further investigation to charge him with that, and it wouldn’t be against our kingdom anyway…” Concordia frowns down at her notes. “Anyway. These are the charges brought before our king.”

N nods. “As…personal witness to many of these crimes, I concur with the council’s accusation. Lord Ghetsis Harmonia is guilty as charged. There’s no established formula within this kingdom for a trial of crimes of this magnitude, so I, as the king, will dictate the terms of his punishment.” 

Zorua yips questioningly.

“Yes, what’s your suggestion?”

He barks.

“What? No, you can’t execute someone in absentia.”

“Sad,” Anthea notes.

N shakes his head in amusement. Then, he sits up straighter, twining his hands through Smoke’s fur. “For his crimes, Ghetsis will be stripped of all titles and banished from the kingdom permanently. Additionally…his name will be blotted from his lineage. Under the law of this kingdom, he is from this moment forth no longer recognized as a member of the house of Harmonia.” N takes a deep breath. “Any claim to the honors and obligations of the family is void from this day forth, and should any of us meet him again, he will be viewed as a stranger.”

Concordia’s hands shake a little as she scrawls down these words.

“Unless the council has any objections to this sentence?”

“No,” Anthea says, eyes shining. “No objection.”

Concordia nods. “This is just in the eyes of the Goddess of Peace.”

Zekrom lets out a rumble like distant thunder and bends down its head. N reaches up to pet it, gaze heavy with emotion. “Then it’s official, from this moment forth. I’ll have Rood announce it to the others when they return.”

Anthea exhales and sits down next to her siblings. Then she flops over backwards, spreading her arms wide in the grass. “We’re free, then. We’re really free.” 

They sit in silence, listening to each other’s shaky breathing and the wind in the grass and their pokémon friends playing nearby and the burbling of the cottonee that drift overhead. 

Anthea wipes her eyes and props her head up on her arms. “So…where do we go from here?”

N leans his head against Zekrom’s. “Anywhere we want.”

Concordia taps her pen against her clipboard. “Downtown. Hugh was telling me about a restaurant near the PWT with good accommodations for large pokémon.” She looks around at the rest of them. “I think this is worth celebrating, don’t you?”

“Good idea,” N says. “Let me put this crown away first, though… it’s terribly heavy.”

The only members of the Harmonia family help each other up from the grass and smile and laugh as they put away their ceremonial clothes for the last time. The sky is still bright and endless when they step outside, and the air smells like warmth and the sea, and for now, a child’s bedroom in an underground castle seems further away than the surface of the moon.

[vinjaryou]

🦷 🏜️ 🎨 for the fanfic ask game!!

tysm for the questions!!

🦷 ⇢ share some personal wisdom or a life hack you swear on

A writing one that I swear by is 'jot down every single idea/blurb that sticks with you.' Even if that means keeping a little notebook on your nightstand to write down a random idea that woke you at 3 AM (I have had entire fics spring forth from this), or jotting down a random line that pops in your head.

I have a Vincent-centric miniseries in the works that started off with thinking of the different ways and implications the phrase 'good night' can have, and notes for a potential one that started when I had a mental image of Aerith just losing it on someone while listening to In This Moment's 'Big Bad Wolf' and jotted down the visual I got from Maria Brink's scream.

Galian's notes app? Full of blurbs and outlines or one-off ideas that may or may not come to fruition~ (and yes, my phone is named Galian).

Write. Down. Everything. No matter how silly or ridiculous it sounds.

🏜️ ⇢ what’s your favourite type of comment to receive on your work?

I love any and all comments I get on my work ;; Especially ones that tell me specific lines they enjoyed, or how a particular character's actions made them feel. Commentary as they read is excellent, too - then it's like I'm sitting beside them, seeing their reactions in almost real-time.

Literally all comments warm my little heart, and I have actually cried at some. Writers love comments; even if some of us aren't the best at responding to them (I'm sorry!), know that they are loved and appreciated, and help keep us going.

🎨 ⇢ link your favourite piece of fanart and explain why you like it

Oh I have way too many - and artwork is also a big inspiration to me, too - so if it's okay, I'm going to pick a commission and a fanart and explain my feelings for them~

First is a fanart done by @bleaksqueak from waaaaaaaaaaaaaay back in the day (when I was following her on DA, no less! I hope you don't mind me tagging you here, lol)

Just... the sheer magnitude of this piece still gets to me, years and years later, that it remains one of my all-time favorite Vincent pieces. You can FEEL the tension as he's trying to hold himself back (note the human hand clutching his chest!), but that sheen in his eyes, his face already starting to change, the horns beginning to form, the ears... and yes, I spy that tail rising in the back. Whoever's spurred this Limit Break on is absolutely fucked, to put it extremely lightly, and the emerging (Galian) beast is not going to hold back. This is one of the biggest inspirations behind the way I write Vincent when he transforms into Galian even to this day, even with Rebirth's portrayal. This is the quieter yet no less visceral portrayal of the beast within Vincent Valentine beginning to emerge (and I didn't even go into her Chaos piece, which yes, is also a big inspiration).

--

For commission, this shouldn't come as too much of a surprise, but it's the Vincent/Reilena piece I commissioned @asheanon for, titled 'three little words,' which goes along with my short fic of the same name.

She captured the moment in the fic perfectly - the weight of those words, unsaid by him for years because he felt unworthy of saying them, despite knowing his feelings for her and her saying them to him numerous times, now lifted because he finally feels he can say them. That he can finally allow himself to live, to love and be loved, without fear or question. Their tender smiles, the way his claws gently caress her cheek as they gaze at each other, the hazy rainbow courtesy of the waterfall - yes, they are outside Lucrecia's cave - Cerberus' empty holster... the love they feel for each other here is practically tangible, and you can see them sharing that elated kiss in your mind already.

(and hey, if you wanna read the fic, here you go~!)

Thanks again for letting me ramble! ♥♥

[twilightmalachite]

Final Ceremony - Chapter 1

Characters: Nice, Hinata, Mitsuru, Mao, Izumi, Chiaki, Wataru, Leo, Sora, Hiyori, Jun, Hiiro

Translator: Mika Enstars

Proofreader: 310mc

❗️ This chapter was voice-acted live at the 4piece Final Ceremony Live Event! You can listen as you read along!

"…Now. Originally, this is where 4piece would have come to an end."

[Read on my blog for the best viewing experience with Oi~ssu ♪]

Season: Spring

Location: 4piece Final Ceremony Stage

Nice: “—Fufufu.”

“The time has come at last!”

“Even I cannot hide my utter excitement! Despite my age, I am getting excited like a child!”

“At the first venue, Prince Castle, everyone created the “best ball” from scratch.”

“At the second venue, Gourmet District, everyone managed a restaurant to satisfy gourmets and “maximize profits”!”

“At the third venue, Twin Rooster Pagoda, everyone paired up to showcase their versatility to satisfy the “largest audience”!”

“And at the fourth venue, The Arena, everyone faced their own limitations to become the “strongest gladiator”!”

“At last, this battle of conviction will finally reach a conclusion!”

“At each venue, each and every participant faced difficulties, shone brilliantly, and captivated the audience.”

“It was magnificent! Many times during this audition have I been confronted with such brilliance and glimmer!”

“And each evaluation has been given careful consideration for just who would make the most suitable members for the Nice Dream Unit.”

“Now, allow me to announce the top four in 4piece!”

Nice: “Fourth place, with 116 NICE—Harukawa Sora!”

Nice: “Third place, with 117 NICE—Isara Mao!”

Nice: “And second place, with 120 NICE—Sena Izumi!”

“Fufu, and the illustrious first place goes to…”

Nice: “With 121 NICE! Hibiki Wataru!”

“Congratulations! A big round of applause for them!”

“And now, allow me to post the scores of all the participants here.”

Nice: “While this might be the results for 4piece, everyone here sparkled nicely as idols, of course!”

“Let’s give a big round of applause to everyone!”

“…Now. Originally, this is where 4piece would have come to an end.”

Nice: “However, I thought to give things a quick change!”

“As I stood in front of such endless radiance, I felt the Nice Dream Unit of four members was far too small to contain it!”

“And so, I hereby announce that three Dream Units will be formed!”

“Fufu, now isn’t that a nice surprise?”

“Now, my friends! Pay close attention!”

“First, we have the Dance Dream Unit, MODE／D!”

Nice: “Who demonstrated his brilliance as if he was the protagonist of the ball, Isara Mao!”

Nice: “Who excels at bold and free dance that inspires the heart, Tsukinaga Leo!”

Nice: “Who has an outstanding sense of rhythm and a charm that makes the audience smile, Morisawa Chiaki!”

Nice: “Who is beautiful in each and every moment, from his fingertips to his toes, Tomoe Hiyori!”

“Next up, is the Vocal Dream Unit, TearS!”

Nice: “Who has a diverse range of expression, both uncompromising and delicate, Sena Izumi!”

Nice: “Whose emotions within his song are one-of-a-kind—Sazanami Jun!”

Nice: “Whose singing voice can reach straight to your heart at any given moment, Amagi Hiiro!”

“And last, the Performance Dream Unit, PIKAPIKA!”

Nice: “Who put his unparalleled and amazing quality as a star on full display, Hibiki Wataru!

Nice: “Who is always giving his entire heart and soul— A truly shining first magnitude star, Tenma Mitsuru!”

Nice: “An expressiveness that is freeing! Who can make any place into his stage, Harukawa Sora!”

Nice: “Who has the courage and ability to get anything done when the time comes! Aoi Hinata!”

“These are the “Three” Nice Dream Units!”

“And these units will have a song released under my production!”

“Now, let us spread our wings and fly across the world together!”

[ ☆ ]

story directory | next →

[zelinkcommunity]

Zelink Community is highlighting... @summonerluna!

"Hi, I'm Luna! I am new to the zelink fandom, though not new to LoZ as a franchise. Something about the botw/totk iteration just sucked me in and filled my head with stories that need to be told. I have two kids, a lot of cats, and earn my living as a photographer. I love the ocean and the mountains, drink far too much coffee, and have been writing fanfic long enough that my first fics could legally drink in the US if they wanted to."

Check out some of their work:

Tethered Link expects accompanying Zelda inside the spring of courage will be no different than the times he has stood outside as a knight of the royal guard. He is met with more than one surprise. [He knows, of course he knows, the daughters of the royal family are descended directly from the Goddess, but the magnitude of that truth has escaped him until today.] [Link, longing, and voices of the past. For the theme "ethereal."]

Vine & Tree Letters between Link and his sister, following the BotW memories. [Write me back okay? A REAL LETTER this time? Love, Aryll]

after all the dreaming (Rated Mature) One year ago, rumors spread of a great dragon emerging from the sky and chasing away the gloom. Zelda and Link return to Lookout Landing to mark the anniversary. [They aren’t scheduled to arrive until morning anyway, and maybe they left early because they both knew they would need this. Stolen moments, secreted away where they are not a Hero and not a Princess. Time to stop, and to doubt, before it once again becomes impossible to do either.] [Zelink, post-totk]

Find Them on Social Media:

@summonerluna can also be found on Instagram at @/summonerluna, and AO3 at SummonerLuna.

Have something nice to say about Luna and/or their work? Drop a comment or send them an ask!

[h3rmess]

COLLAPSE

-> 1✰Geto Suguru

LASER LIGHTS ☆

"ignore it 'til I feel alright."

I'm not really sure when it started. It might have been when Satoru and I were sent out on yet another mission, the gravity of which being way too much for people of our age to handle.

Or, it may have been on an earlier occasion when I was promoted to special grade following my evaluation after the exchange event. The gravity of that title held a great responsibility within it : to help the weak.

Gravity. The force constantly acts upon us on a daily basis. The vector quantity that holds both direction and magnitude. The magnitude of the situations only seemed to grow, and I only seemed to be moving backwards, deeper and deeper into a pool of depression.

"Your job as Jujutsu sorcerers is to help the weak. Save those who can't save themselves."

So what happens when I need help? Who's going to save me? Do I rely on another sorcerer to put me out of my misery?

Being the strongest is nothing but a curse. Living every day knowing everyone is counting on you to help when no one else can. Being the first and last resort in all situations. Having responsibilities that, if given to any other human, would eat them alive and leave nothing but blood splatters on the floor.

Why me? Why did I have to be the strongest? I can't save everyone. I can't save anyone.

Satoru seemed to be doing a little better than me. By a little, I mean a lot. He had become the strongest. He was able to laugh and joke so casually about these topics. Meanwhile, they cause my stomach acid to burn my guts. Thank a sheltered childhood for that. Being the family's pride and joy must have been great for him. Not having to climb his way up must have been amazing. Being born the strongest, never once having to doubt his ability because it came so naturally and effortlessly. He must love his life.

He was being sent on more missions on his own. Naturally, this meant that I, too, had to be sent on more missions alone.

Every day was torture for me.

We were unsure of how it came about, but the frequent disaster of the last year probably played a role. Cursed spirits were springing up like maggots.

Exorcise, absorb. Over and over. Exorcise, absorb.

The more curses we killed, the more I had to absorb to remain the strongest. Once you're at the top, you can't back down. Do you know what it's like to absorb curses? It's like eating a rag that's been used to clean up vomit and shit. It makes me sick to my stomach.

Exorcise, absorb. Who am I doing this for?

Maybe it was the pressure of being strong. Or, it could have been the frequency of our missions. Before I knew it, dark circles were forming under my eyes. Sleep became a foreign concept to me. Something that i yearned for dearly. So many people had died.

Soon enough, my meals started to look unappetising too. Revolting clumps of farmed rubbish put together to be consumed. Curses. Revolting lumps of negative emotions put together to be consumed.

Nobody understands.

I kept it under wraps in front of the others, remaining inconspicuous at all costs. The strong can't help the strong.

It seemed to be getting better for a while. But then, Gojo was evolving. He was learning things I knew I could never do. His pace was immense. He picked it up so easily. I tried to keep up. I was losing my speed.

Satoru had it so easy. He never had to think about anything the way I did. His technique was spoon-fed to him, served on a golden platter. He was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. I had nothing. I was nothing. Amongst the entirety of Jujutsu society, not once would you hear anyone say, "Geto Suguru is so strong!" "He's the strongest!" It was always Satoru. Always him who would block my only hope at being the strongest. Always him who would block my chance at being a decent human being. Getting the recognition I deserve rather than being drenched in a boundless sea of tasks once one had been completed. I was never once thanked for my work. I thought I didn't need it. That was until he came and stole it all from me. I hated it. I hated being weak! I hated Gojo Satoru.

Or at least that was my justification for the events that occurred on that fateful day.

I had found myself at the lowest point in my life. I was heavily torn between being able to save one person or an entire population. It was a tough decision to make. Did I want to continue saving people indefinitely, or did I want to get it all done with in one go? To me, the more logical answer was the latter. Re-educating the entire country of Japan would be near impossible. What if there were people like Zenin who had no cursed energy? What, then? Would I be forced to save all the non-sorcerers again?

Then it hit me. The root of my problem. No matter how much I tried to stray from it, it was always right in front of me. The cause of all of my misery. The reason why I was so malnourished. The reason why I found myself in this position in the first place. Those non-sorcerers. The useless beings who couldn't do so much as defend themselves against curses that didn't even qualify for grade 4. The people with no cursed energy who lived their lives in ignorance, not knowing of the mental and physical torment some of us endured daily. Those damn monkeys. Those sub human creatures! They were the issue! The bane of my existence.

And so, my plan to rebuild the nation of Japan was put into action. I needed to wipe out all of the monkeys and build a new world ; a world of jujutsu sorcerers. That way, everyone could defend themselves. I would be putting the weak out of their misery. It would limit the number of deaths from cursed spirits. A small sacrifice like this in the grand scheme of things wouldn't hurt, right?

I killed an entire village. They all went up in flames. It felt amazing. Never once before in my life had I felt such joy, such untainted happiness. I knew that this was for the greater good, and that's what fueled me. That's what drove me to save two girls and build a family where we all shared one common goal - obliterate the monkeys and bring about a change.

Needless to say, I was expelled from Jujutsu Tech, and everyone was after my head. They really didn't get it, did they? They didn't see the bigger picture at all.

And that's when Satoru got involved. He had found out about my massacre and was not pleased, to say the least. Screaming at me on the streets like some uncivil beast. A savage dog spewing bullshit with every word he spoke.

"You know it would be impossible!" He screamed, and I stopped.

I had been blocking out what he was saying, but that combination of words was the straw that broke the camels back for me.

Impossible? He thinks it's impossible? Satoru Gojo, who, with his hollow purple, could wipe out the entirety of Japan. He thinks it's impossible?

Don't make me laugh.

That arrogant bastard. Saying that something is impossible even though he could do it with minimal effort?

How hypocritical.

It must be nice to be so sheltered that you have deluded yourself into completely disregarding your heritage and cursed technique when talking to others. To wholly be able to forget about being strong and try to make yourself appear as if you are anywhere near the level of ther jujutsu sorcerers.

It must be amazing.

He knows that he could do it, and yet he doesn't want to admit it.

Is this the power the strong have? All along, it wasn't about cursed energy or cursed technique, but your ability to manipulate those inferior to you.

Satoru was very crafty indeed.

But two could play at that game. If he thought he was the only one who could manipulate and alter someone thinking, he was dearly mistaken.

"Are you the strongest because you're Satoru Gojo? Or are you Satoru Gojo because you're the strongest?"

The words flowed from the deepest part of my heart, a feeling awakened by his ignorance to his own strength.

No, it wasn't ignorance. It was Satoru being pitiful towards the weak, sympathising with us as if he was anywhere near our level. We are merely lowly peasants compared to him.

He acted surprised at my words, telling me everything I needed to know. If I wanted to progress in my mission, I had to let go of my past self, strip myself down until I was nothing, and rebuild a better version of myself. Only then would I be able to achieve my goal. Only then would it be possible to wake up one day without feeling like the world could come crashing down at any second.

I left my best friend that day. The only one who understood me until that point. It had only been us.

I had to start anew, to build a world in which only sorcerers exist. That way, arrogant brats like Satoru wouldn't have free reign over the weak, and my mind would be at ease.

Just a little longer. Everything will fall into place.

m.list

navi☆

[say-hwaet]

If I Had to Do it All Again

Chapter 30: The End of Outlaws, Part I Next Chapter: Thirty-One Summary: A plan has been made. In the moment of clarity, Arthur and Eliza must begin to work together to make their dreams a reality. It is time to find a home. It is time for the end of outlaws. Warnings: Mature themes Word Count: ~7,800 A/N: Please stick around for the survey at the end!

“Annie…” someone whispers and pokes Annabelle in the shoulder. She refuses to open her eyes, hoping that they will leave her to go back to sleep. It is morning, and the light seeping through her bedroom window makes a golden red behind her eyelids, and she turns into her pillow to have darkness again. 

But the pestering persists, and the voice gets louder. “Aunt Annie…!”

The voice, soft but sharp, exudes worry and anxiety. This isn’t something that she can sleep through. She turns out of her pillow and opens her eyes, trying to focus on the human alarm in front of her. 

It’s Alice, and she looks frightened. 

Annabelle isn’t young anymore, but she tries her hardest to wake up. “What is it, hon?”

Alice holds onto her fox doll tighter for comfort, her brow pinched and blue eyes like an unsettled sea. “I can’t find Mama or Daddy.”

Annabelle lets the words sink in. “Your mother never came back in?”

Alice shakes her head. “No…!”

But Annabelle knows you wouldn’t be so foolish as to walk back if the storm was of that magnitude, and you’ve been on that path numerous times. You could find your way back blindfolded. No, you didn’t make the trip back to the house. In fact, you never left the safe house at all. 

Just like Annabelle had hoped. 

Annabelle smiles and lets her head sink back into her pillow. “Oh,” she sighs, relieved. 

But Alice is confused. How could she be happy about her mother’s disappearance? “But Aunt Annie, I—I think she got caught in the storm…!”

Annabelle brings her arm out from under the covers and gives Alice’s arm a gentle squeeze. “I can promise you, she didn’t. She’s safe with your Daddy.”

Alice blinks. “With Daddy?” 

Deciding not to elaborate, Annabelle rises to a sitting position. “How about we start on some breakfast? I’m sure they’ll be joining us in a little while.”

Alice opens her mouth to protest; she doesn’t want to change the subject, as she has a feeling that there’s something Annabelle isn’t telling her. But she is hungry, and eggs and flapjacks sound pretty good right about now. “Okay.”

Swinging her legs out of bed, Annabelle reaches for her robe that is hanging on her bedpost. As she stands up, she slips her arms into the sleeves and wraps it around herself, tying a knot with the rope. “How do eggs and flapjacks sound?”

Alice grins from ear to ear. Sometimes it is as though this woman can read minds. “Sounds great, Aunt Annie.”

***

The grass is covered in fresh dew, a special delicacy after a long winter. You stretch your long neck, going low to the ground and you use your front teeth to cut into your first taste. You exhale sharply, a vaporous puff into the cool air.

Your fawns, young and spritely, graze beside you. You’ve always made it a point to keep them close, ensuring that they never leave your sight.

You nudge your youngest fawn toward an untouched patch of grass, and she eats with a renewed fervor. It has been hard on your yearlings, and you’ve traveled far and wide to find something new to eat.

Interrupting your first meal of spring, you hear a soft rumble accompanied by clicking.

As the sound carries to your ears, you recognize the sound, and the whites of your eyes alert your fawns. 

It is a grunt. 

Despite the urgency, you lift your head calmly, careful not to spook your young, and now with your nose in the air, you pick up a scent inconsistent with the fragrance of dew and fresh flowers.

It is strong, completely standalone to the pines above and the grass below.

Then, turning your head, you see him.

The steam coming off his heated body.

The glint in his large antlers.

The shine in his eyes.

It is a buck. You had smelled him miles before. You hadn’t dared travel near the cluster of trees that were marked as his territory. You were too busy, too occupied to be concerned with his invitation.

He sees you and he grunts again, his primal instincts demanding, bidding him to find his mate.

It is a low grunt, his muscles shifting as he expels the sound from his throat and lungs. He is a strong buck, with a few scars exhibiting fights previously won. Clearly, his territory will only get larger and larger. His expanse will ward off other bucks, possibly even predators.

You eye his form carefully, as you remain frozen and unmoving. He looks well-fed. He must know of many places to graze. To feed your young.

For so long, you have been searching, hiding, running.

He exhales sharply, lifting his nose, and then he takes a deep breath. He smells his young, the two yearlings before him. He knows their scent like the back of his hoof and doesn't hesitate to make his presence known. Slowly, he approaches, his hooves making soft sounds against the wet earth.

You watch cautiously but with a growing sense of curiosity. There's something familiar about him—how he carries himself, the look in his eyes. The same rare blue that you see in your female fawn’s irises.

Yes, you know this male. The same male who has protected you from snake, vulture, and rat alike. The same male who has sired your offspring.

He huffs again, the vapor emitting from his nostrils like a cloud from heaven.

You find yourself moving your graceful legs toward him, your young lifting their heads momentarily to see you part from them.

You are worried no longer.

***

If it is cold, Arthur doesn’t know it. If the world is ending, he doesn’t care. If he is going to live a hundred more years, only this moment, right here, matters to him.

Morning is breaking, the warm light just starting to peak at the bottom of the windowsill. The storm is over, the sky cast in shadow, but the silhouettes of the trees can be seen now. And your body lies against him, the soft puffs of your breath cooling his skin. You’re tucked ever so neatly, resting just beneath his collarbone. Lying on your side, your left leg is draped across him, your arm on his abdomen, your hand on his chest. He can nearly map every freckle, every star on your skin by now, and he wants to keep learning you, to keep exploring you for the rest of his life.

It is morning. He knows that he needs to go back to camp, pack up his things before anyone notices, and come back to you. For good this time.

Though he knows he must, he doesn’t want to get up. But he also doesn’t want to slip away and leave you waking up to find him gone. He needs to wake you, so you can see him go and hear him promise to return.

Bringing his right hand up, he reaches to gently stroke your nose. “Darlin’,” he whispers, his voice soft and hoarse.

You don’t stir, still in a deep slumber. He chuckles softly. Since when were you the deep sleeper? Either you’re awake and are just refusing to get up, or your dream is too good to part from. His lips pull back into a smile. Are you dreaming of him, perhaps? 

He curls toward you and kisses your forehead, then taps your nose softly. “Darlin’…?”

It is then that you finally stir, your relaxed hand momentarily tensing. Your fingers scratch his chest once as you clench, a light scratching sound through his chest hair. “It’s morning, isn’t it?” you mumble, your cheek still pressed against him. 

He bends his arm underneath you, bringing his palm to the top of your head, and he begins to play with your hair. “Yeah, it is.”

You still don’t open your eyes, instead you clutch onto him tightly, even using your leg to hook into his body. “Why didn’t you wake me sooner?”

“What you mean?” he chortles. 

“I can enjoy you better when I’m awake,” you groan at the end of your sentence, arching your back a little to stretch. 

Arthur can’t help but smile. “But I like watchin’ you sleep.” When he brings his hand back to your head, he lets his fingers lightly massage your scalp. “You’re pretty when you sleep.”

You inhale deeply and attempt to hide your smile by turning into the junction of his shoulder. “Sure. Pretty messy.”

That’s when he turns his body toward you, letting his arms wrap around you and bring you into himself, legs intertwined with one another. “But’chure my mess.” He kisses the top of your head. “All mine.” A soft hum escapes your lips, content to hear those words. “My wife.”

“Not yet,” you remind him. “Got to get a preacher first.”

He can’t resist kissing your head again, smelling the soft scent of your hair as he breathes in. “Where can we get one?”

You shrug, still hiding in his embrace. “The pastor of the local church is nice enough. He could probably marry us real quick.”

He raises his brow. “Don’t want a nice weddin’?”

You come out of hiding, finally opening your eyes. As your vision adjusts to the morning light and gets past the blurriness that accompanies drowsiness, you see how content he looks. How well rested he is. The happiest you’ve seen him in a long while. “You’re not the only impatient one around here.”

He chuckles at your remark, bringing his finger to trace your lips softly. “But if you’ve waited this long…”

“Don’t start with that, Mr. Morgan,” you chide, your twitching lip belying your threat. 

He chuckles again, warm and resonating through your body as you lie in his arms. “Alright, alright, I won’t.” 

As you continue to wake up, your mind starts to turn its gears. You think about last night, how wonderful it was, how freeing it was. You feel renewed, rejuvenated, like you had been broken to pieces then put back together again. That’s what Arthur has done to you. That’s what love has done to you. 

And then you remember your conversation before you both got swept up into each other again. 

Your smile falls. “You have to go, don’t you?”

And his eyes soften, his thumb now caressing your cheek. “Yeah, darlin’, I do. If I’m gonna make it before the others see me. Before Dutch wakes up.”

“I know you’re coming back, but it still aches in my chest.”

Now he really doesn’t want to leave. 

“And that’s my fault,” he says after letting the silence fill the room, his eyes focused on the sun as it begins to rise. 

“As if my love for you didn’t play a part? I ached because I loved you. I have always loved you.”

He looks at you, tucking his chin. “How did I ever get to deserve a woman like you?” 

You smile and maneuver your arms to push behind him and wrap your arms around him. “By being the best man I’ve ever known.”

He clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “I know the company you kept for five years, the competition ain’t too fierce.”

“I will be the first to say you aren’t perfect, Arthur Morgan,” you say as you slowly rise to a sitting position, pulling your arms back from under him. His eyes can’t help but drift to your naked form, all star-crossed and rosy, but only for a moment, so he has your undivided attention. “But never once did you hurt me, cheat me, or steal from me. You’ve protected me more than you’ve made me afraid, and as I’ve said before, you’re a good father. I loved you because on that first day we met, I felt something other than worry or loneliness. Life was worth living.” You lean in to kiss him, letting your lips linger a moment longer. His hands find your waist, his fingers pushing into the soft curve of your hip dips as his hands travel downward. You part, not before leaving a series of small pecks behind. “You’re a good man, Arthur. Deep down, you always have been. And I can’t wait to see you live the life you were always meant to have.”

At your words, a warmth swells in his chest, and a lump forms in his throat. He didn’t expect to be the one crying, not that he’s looking forward to leaving you after just having the most memorable reunion of his life, but here he is. The tears sting at first, but once they pool up and fall, he feels a relief, a release. 

“Oh,” you sigh softly and take his face in your hands. “My love…”

“I’m alright, darlin’,” he sniffs, trying to reassure you. “I’ll be fine.”

You nod softly. “Yes, but don’t push those feelings down anymore, Arthur.” You lean in and kiss him again. “You’re only human.”

He nods softly, closing his eyes a moment to let the emotions run through him. His whole life is being called out in these small moments. Just a few hours and everything is changing. Everything he’s known, he’s putting it all behind him. No more gangs. No thieves. No killers. 

This is the end.

This is the beginning.

***

Arthur double-checks the cinch of his saddle one more time. The birds are starting to sing, and he knows he needs to hurry. But he can’t help but want to stall. 

Boadicea tosses her head impatiently, sidestepping into him as he works beside her. “I know, girl,” Arthur chuckles as he pats her barrel. “We’ll be goin’ soon.”

“Did you pack some of those canned goods?”

Hearing your voice, Arthur turns around, keeping his hand in his mare. Your hair is caught in the breeze, still unkempt from last night’s encounter. You wear his jacket, it slumping off your shoulders. He doesn’t mind. He doesn’t need it right now. 

“Yep,” he answers. “Got it all in the saddle bag. I’m glad you thought of that, ‘cause I woulda forgotten.”

You smile bittersweetly at that. “Are things really that bad?”

He lets his shoulders droop, sighing softly. “Provisions are the least of the gang’s worries right now, believe me.”

You don’t speak for a minute, but you wrap his coat tighter around you. “Try to get them to come.”

“I will.”

“And Hosea.”

“That cunnin’ fox? He’s probably got a plan of his own. He might even be too stubborn and stay for Dutch’s sake.”

You nod softly. You know Hosea well enough that it wouldn’t surprise you if he refused to leave. You know that would be Arthur at one point if he stays any longer. 

You’re glad he’s not. 

“Just…be careful,” you say softly, the weight of his departure sinking in, and your eyes begin to glisten. “I want you back safe and sound.”

He studies your pinched brow, your near white knuckles as you bunch up one of the cuffs of his jacket sleeve. The children and Annabelle won’t be up for a while yet, and he hopes not to keep them waiting for long. 

He steps away from Boadicea, who tosses her head again, and he goes to you. He rests his hands on your shoulders, using his thumbs to cradle your neck. “Darlin’, nothin’ will keep me from comin’ back to you.”

You exhale slowly, and when you close your eyes, the unshed tears stream down your face. He brings his left thumb to wipe them, and you chuckle at yourself, taking a step back and wiping your eyes with your palm. “It’s alright, I’m fine. I just—it still gets to me, you know?”

Your distance doesn’t deter him from returning to you, taking you by the shoulders and drawing you into his embrace. You resist the urge at first, but you give in and let your arms hold onto him tightly, squeezing with all your might as you bury your face in his chest, taking in his natural smell of peppery sweat, tobacco, and leather. 

“Come back to me,” you whisper. 

“I will.”

“What do I tell the children?”

That is a loaded question, if he ever did hear one. You could be asking about the implications of last night, his departure, your engagement, the pending move from Blackwater. He could answer it all, but there will be time for all of it.

He unfurls your arms, encouraging you to come out of his embrace so he can look at you face-to-face. “Tell ‘em…” he begins thoughtfully. “that I love ‘em and…that I’m leavin’ for the last time.”

You smile at that, and his heart feels lighter as he gazes into your brown eyes. “Okay, Arthur. I will.”

Guided by a knuckle under your chin, you tilt your head into a kiss. The touch is initially light, but it deepens, your jaw loosening to comply to his insistent mouth. There is a swell of emotions buried in his chest, as in yours, and they come to the surface, communing together as your mouths move in tandem with each other. His hands migrate downwards, slipping beneath the coat and palming your waist before letting his right hand slide down to your backside. He feels the curve of it before gripping it firmly, and you follow his pull, tilting your pelvis toward him as you take his face in your hands.

Oh, how he loves that you now wear trousers. 

“You need to go,” you breathe in the second your mouths part.

“I know,” he whispers hoarsely before returning to you.

It is only after a few more seconds do you bring your hands to his chest to push him gently away, and he reluctantly steps back, panting softly.

You follow suit, giving yourself space to avoid the temptation, and you nod towards Boadicea. “We’ll be right here when you get back.”

His eyes meet yours for a moment longer, the hesitancy in his movements apparent. He finally turns away, going to his horse and hoists himself on her back with a fluid motion. Grabbing the reins, Boadicea lifts her head, alert and ready, and he pivots her around in the direction of camp.

He looks at you over his shoulder. “You best find that preacher. I wanna call you Mrs. Morgan before sundown.”

You grin and bite your lip. “I’ll hold you to that, Arthur Morgan.” You watch as he offers a nod and a tip of his hat before urging Boadicea into a gallop, the sound of her hooves gradually fading as they disappear down the path.

Now you need to tidy up the safe house before returning to Annabelle and the children, you want last night to be just between you and Arthur.

You and your fiancé.

You never thought you’d get to even think those words.

Good thing you can’t predict the future.

***

Arthur arrives in camp just as the sun nears the top of the trees. Before the gang starts to get up and move. He dismounts Boadicea on the other side of camp, away from the other horses, lest Taima see her and get all excited.

From his position, he can tell that the camp isn’t busy. It is still, without the sounds of any conversation action. He doesn’t even see anyone guarding the camp.

Either things have really worsened, or people are shirking on their duties.

“Stay, girl,” he commands Boadicea, and he carefully, quietly, approaches the camp. 

It feels like walking for miles, the stretch of grass between where his feet fall and where the first tent is posted. He keeps his eyes moving, ready to freeze at any movement or sound that indicates someone is up and about.

But as strange as it is, there doesn’t even seem to be anyone here. It’s almost dead. But that can’t be, he was he only left camp twenty-four hours ago. Could that much have changed already?

He doesn’t even see John’s horse. Or Taima. 

Where is everyone? 

As he makes his way, Arthur’s heart hammers in his chest, a mix of anticipation and dread. He nears Dutch’s tent, careful not to get too close to the canvas where his shadow could give him away. His hand rests on the revolver holstered at his side, a reassuring metal should the need arise. After all, it was he who lowered his weapon first, not Dutch. 

He takes another look as he steps between Dutch’s tent and his wagon, making sure he still doesn’t see or hear anyone. There appears to be no one in sight. Letting himself exhale slowly, he sneaks over to his wagon.

As soon as he slips behind the canvas and lets it fall behind him, he relaxes a little more. He needs to be quick. Take only what he needs and go.

He sees the disarray from the last time he was here, his packing interrupted by Dutch’s interrogation. He goes to his knees before his footlocker, picking up his pack and shoving one more shirt and a pair of boots. He already has sentimental things, like pictures and treasures, all that he needs now is the money he had stashed away.

All five thousand dollars of it.

Years of saving and hiding will hopefully pay off. It may be enough to get him and his family off their feet. Enough to make you happy and not worry if he will take care of you.

As he rises to his feet and swings the pack on his shoulder, his eyes catch the photos that he had decided to leave behind when he was shoving essentials a couple of days ago.

The mugshot of his father, Lyle Morgan.

The portrait of the old guard. Himself, Hosea, and Dutch.

He almost hesitates to reach for it, but he knows that would only be bringing the past with him. That isn’t the point of any of this, not anymore.

He has decided what he is going to be, and it isn’t an outlaw anymore.

Not even offering a farewell, he grabs his rifle, slings it over his other shoulder, and slips out of the shelter.

To come face to face with Reverend Swanson.

Swanson, thankfully, doesn’t shout or exclaim anything. He nearly gasps softly, taken by surprise to see the rogue in camp. He studies Arthur, what he carries, the expression on his face, and even though he’s only been sober for eight months, he’s regained enough of his senses to read between the lines.

But why does the Reverend carry a carpetbag in his hand? His wide-brimmed clerical hat on his head?

Is he leaving, too?

Arthur is afraid to speak, lest he give himself and the reverend away. Taking a step back and pointing behind him, he motions for the reverend to talk somewhere less conspicuous. Thankfully understanding, Reverend Swanson nods and follows Arthur out of camp, taking a few seconds to look behind him to make sure they aren’t seen or followed.

Once at a safe enough distance, Arthur quickly whips back around, ready to question the cleric. “Where’s John and Hosea?”

The reverend blinks. He expected there would be questions, but not that one. “They left shortly after you did. Said they were going hunting.”

“And Charles? Abigail? Jack?”

“Charles left before the sun rose. Abigail and the child are waiting for John’s return. She’s frightened, I can see it in her eyes when she huddles by the fire. But like a devoted woman, she waits. She won’t…” Swanson sighs. He is far from capable of saving others, he is hardly getting around to saving himself. If he could, he would convince all to leave, as he is. But they have all turned away from each other, a miraculous feat in the last twenty-four hours. “Everyone is keeping to themselves. Things are…Things are not good here, Mr. Morgan.”

Arthur points to Swanson’s bag, hoping to deflect from himself. “That why you’re leavin’?”

Reverend Swanson stands taller, his face serene. “I could ask you the same question.” Then his expression softens. “But I…I wouldn’t blame you if you were.”

Arthur isn’t sure if he wants to confess. Swanson doesn’t seem the type of man who would rat him out, but people aren’t who they say they are anymore. “Why would you think I was leavin’?”

“You’re not as stupid as you want others to believe, Mr. Morgan. You already revealed the writing on the wall. Why would you subject yourself to it any further?” Swanson shakes his head softly. “If any time is the time, it is now.” He studies the weary outlaw and thinks about how he could have had a better life. A wife, children, but it has come down to this. But he seems to be at peace now, though alone. “I’d have you go with my blessing, if you were to leave.”

Arthur looks at the rising sun. “Our time is passed, reverend,” he says after a moment longer. “And I think it’s been for a long while.”

Swanson’s gaze drifts toward the horizon, his eyes clouded with uncertainty but underpinned by a resolute calm. “Perhaps it was, Mr. Morgan. Perhaps it was.” He adjusts the strap of his carpetbag, holding it close to his chest. “I’ll be headin’ to the nearest town. Maybe catch a stagecoach or a train.”

“Or boat,” Arthur suggests. “Blackwater has a ferry boat.” He licks his dry lips. It is a little risky bringing him to Blackwater, for the chance that Swanson will see you and Annabelle again, but if Swanson is willing to keep Arthur’s escape a secret… 

“I can give you a ride,” he says finally. “Sneak you outta here.”

Swanson regards Arthur with a thoughtful pause, as if weighing the risks and benefits of the proposal laid out before him. The quiet around them is punctuated only by the occasional chirp of a morning bird or the distant rustle of leaves. Finally, he nods, an almost imperceptible tilt of his head that signifies his acceptance. “If it won’t hinder you.”

Arthur shakes his head. “Ain’t no trouble.” He turns and points in the direction of where he left Boadicea. “Keep low and head that way. Boadicea should be grazin’ there. I gotta get one last thing before we go.”

The reverend nods softly. “I’ll go and wait for you, then.”

They split up, but treading quietly. Arthur turns right, around his wagon, and heads for the horses. They graze absentmindedly, either choosing to ignore him or don’t even bother to notice him at all. 

In the gaps of the legs and large bodies, he spots the striped hocks and tanned coat. He makes a soft, kissing noise with his mouth, and Sandstone’s head lifts, searching for the source of the noise. Turning her large head, she sees Arthur standing there. 

He repeats the noise, and chuffing gently, she pushes her way through the other grazing horses to reach him. She stops right beside him, and he pats her on the neck. “Gonna bring you to your new rider soon,” he whispers. “She’s anxious to meet’chu.” Then he chuckles. “And she don’t even know it, yet.”

Taking the loose rope around her neck, and fashioning it into a simple halter, he slips it over her head and leads her away from the herd. They don’t seem to care, thankfully, and Arthur walks straight out of camp before making his way to the reverend and Boadicea. He still keeps his eyes on the camp, half-expecting someone to jump out of their tent and call him out. 

But they don’t. 

Could it be really this easy? Is fate giving him a real chance this time? 

When he reaches the reverend and his horse, Arthur doesn’t waste time mounting up and pulling Swanson aboard. Still holding onto Sandstone’s lead, they make tracks, first trotting and once at a good distance, galloping toward the sunrise. 

***

“No!”

“Alice, you need to pack your clothes away!”

“Nooo!” Alice runs out of the bedroom, and you feel compelled to chase after her. You were trying to keep it a surprise, you and Arthur getting engaged, and the journey of finding a home together, but it is proving to be difficult.

“Alice, please! This doesn’t mean we’re running away again.”

“You said Daddy is coming back for good!” You spot her reaching for the door, and you quicken your steps. “So why are we packing?!”

And just before she pulls back on the door, you place your hand on its surface, forcing it shut. The slam echoes in the house, making it fall completely silent. Alice still struggles to twist and turn at the doorknob, willing herself to be stronger than you, but you remain firm.

You’re just glad she’s still a child. With her strength and resilience, she will be a force to be reckoned with.

Boy, are you glad that Arthur will be beside you for always, from now on.

You catch your breath, letting her question echo in your ears before speaking.

“Because, we're moving. That isn’t the same thing as running.”

Alice stops struggling and looks up at you with wide eyes. "Moving? Where to?" The confusion in her voice is palpable, mixed with a hint of curiosity.

You kneel down to her level, brushing a stray lock of hair from her forehead. "Somewhere safe, somewhere just for us. A place where Daddy can be with us all the time, where we can grow as a family. No more running, and we will stay there forever. It’s what we’ve always wanted.” You see a flicker of understanding in her eyes, but also a glint of excitement as the idea starts to settle in.

Her shoulders relax, and she seems less tense, more intrigued now. “Will Jack be there? And Hosea?”

You don’t know how successful Arthur has or hasn’t been. You don’t know if Dutch is trying to stop him, or if the gang is holding him there against his will. You want to be cautious, but you don’t want to live in fear anymore.

He said he would come back to you.

And you believe him.

You shake your head, finally answering your daughter’s question. “I don’t know, sweetheart. But he said that he was going to see if others would come back with him.”

Alice blinks softly, her shoulders drooped. “I hope they come. They have to.” She then brings her hands together in a gentle clasp, her fingers intertwining briefly before one hand slips free to scratch her right palm. You’ve observed this peculiar habit ever since you first arrived in Blackwater. It appears to be an anxious tic, her fingertips grazing the skin with a sort of restless urgency, as if trying to soothe an invisible itch or calm a quiet storm brewing within her.

You reach out to take her hands, hoping to steady her. “I know you want them to. We all do. But it isn’t up to us.”

Alice leans back against the door, tucking her chin as she looks at her hands enveloped in yours. Things are changing again, and she doesn’t like it. Not one bit. But this is still different. You aren’t frantic. You aren’t sweeping her away into the night.

And if there is a chance she can see those she’s loved her whole life, people she’s known since she can remember…maybe this change isn’t a bad thing.

She gently pulls her hands away. “I’ll go pack.”

You let her go, and she walks calmly back to her room, leaving you alone by the door. You breathe out a sigh of relief as you stand, feeling a weight lift off your shoulders at her acceptance. But now, there’s work to be done, and you can't let up now.

Annabelle had gone into town on your behalf, to give a letter of resignation to Mr. Wilson, wishing him well. You hope that Annabelle will be motivated to resign as well, and decide to accompany you and Arthur on the journey to find a new home. She’s done so much for you, it only makes sense to return the favor.

Once the children are finished packing, you plan to go into town and find the local preacher, hoping that he will be willing to marry you and Arthur on short notice.

But in reality, it couldn’t be more perfect timing.

To help pass the time and still be productive, you decide to pick some greens from your garden. It’s still early in the year, but you remember seeing some cabbage thriving before the rain. It had fallen pretty heavily, so you might as well salvage what remains. You turn to the basket resting on a small table by the door, pick it up, and head outside.

Stepping down the front porch, you cross the small yard and into the garden. The soil is damp beneath your heels, a testament to the recent downpour, but it feels comforting, grounding. You kneel down beside the bed of cabbages, their leaves lush and vibrant green from the storm’s nourishment. Gently, you begin to pull at the heads that seem ready, twisting them until they come free with a satisfying snap. You place each head into the basket, the crisp leaves rustling softly against each other.

As you work, your mind wanders back to Arthur. The thought of him out there, possibly facing dangers to bring a better life for you and the children—it sends a shiver down your spine despite the odd sensation that things will turn out fine. You just can’t seem to trust it. Things have never gone this smoothly. Can it really be as easy as saying you’ll leave, pack, and get gone?

Arthur has been gone all morning and into the afternoon. How far is their camp? Is he making his way back to you?

What’s the holdup?

You pull out another cabbage and set it in the basket. You then pick some oregano and coriander before rising to your feet and brushing your hands.

That’s when you hear the excited neighing of Rooster, and you quickly turn around, gasping softly.

It isn’t Arthur coming up the road. It is Annabelle in the wagon cart.

You relax your shoulders and tighten your grip on the basket’s handle as you make your way to the gate.

“Woo…!” Annabelle coaxes as she pulls back on the reins. Farm Boy comes to a slow halt, his old eyes blinking softly. He’s gotten so much older these past few months. While he gets more than adequate food, water, and rest, simple day trips seem to take their toll on him. Annabelle seems to notice this, for she wastes no time getting out of the wagon.

“Let him rest before you go into town,” she says as she steps down. “I think the rains make his bones ache.”

You nod your head. You remember your grandfather had complained of achy joints whenever it rained. You suppose that is applicable to horses, too.

Annabelle walks over, lifting her skirts slightly to avoid the mud as she reaches you at the gate. Her face is stern, but her eyes are bright with urgency. “I have news,” she says, almost breathless from the ride.

“What is it?” You ask, your heart starting to race. You hope she brings news that she has also quit her job, news that she will join you and the children.

“The preacher is preaching in Valentine,” she answers. “There’s some sort of camp meeting going on, the whole weekend. He won’t be able to marry you and Arthur.”

“What?” You feel your heart sink like a stone. You wanted to get married today. To not wait. You wanted to start your journey right. To embark on this new adventure with nothing held back. You want to call Arthur your husband, both before God and man. Legally and sentimentally. In every sense that it can be said. You may have been his woman, and always will be, but there’s something about the words, “Mrs. Morgan,” that means something. That makes your heart flutter like the wings of a hummingbird.

Your disappointment must be clear, because Annabelle reaches out to squeeze your shoulder. "I know it ain't what you wanted to hear," she says softly, "But that doesn’t mean you can’t get married when you make it to your new home. It can be just as meaningful and beautiful. Maybe you can delay your journey until—”

"No,” you insist. “We cannot wait. The sooner we leave, the more time we have before the rest of the gang comes looking for him. Dutch wouldn’t part with him so easily.”

Annabelle harrumphs at your words, removing her hand from your shoulder. “I wouldn’t be so sure…” Her hand goes to the latch to the gate and lifts it. “What else do you need to pack?”

You back away from the gate to let her in and watch her silently as she turns around to latch it again. Her question keeps lingering in your mind. 

What else do you need to pack?

But no mention of packing herself. 

You decide to approach this gently, with subtlety. You intertwine your fingers over the basket handle and walk beside Annabelle as she heads toward the house. “Well, I don’t have much. The children are finishing up with their things. Of course, I’ll have to double-check for them. And then it’s whatever you intend to pack.”

Her firm halt catches you off guard, and you have to whip around to look back at her. You watch as her emerald irises lift to meet yours, and you see the same expression you saw years ago. Back in that burning cabin. 

You slowly shake your head. “No, Annabelle, don’t tell me you’re—”

“I’m stayin’, Eliza.” Her tone is firm when she says it, that resiliency that’s gotten her this far in life coming through. “I was never planning on goin’ with you, if you ever decided to go.”

You exclaim softly, feeling a tightness in your chest. “But, Annabelle…! You’ll be left alone, and I can’t bear to think that—”

“Eliza, I like my life. No, I love my life. For the first time in years, I’ve been able to choose my happiness.” She exhales slowly, preparing herself as the memories come flooding in. “My husband. My baby. When they died, part of me died with them. I can never get that back. But I can live. I mean, really live. I may not be the same woman who lost her husband and child to disease, but I am still Annabelle. I am free.” Beneath her glistening eyes, there is a smile, and she gently places a palm over her heart. “I may be alone, but I’m never lonely.” 

You shake your head, still adamant that she will change her mind. “But it isn’t right that we run and leave you behind.”

She then suddenly takes you by the shoulders, looking intently into your eyes. “Don’t you get it? This is not my journey to make. I don’t need to run. I don’t need anything different.” Her words pierce through the fog of your worry, clear and sharp. "You have Arthur. You have your children. You're building something new, something good. That's your path." She softens her grip on your shoulders, her voice dropping to a tender murmur. "And I...I have my life here. I tried the family life once, and that door has closed.”

“It doesn’t have to,” you plead. “You can still come with us.”

She chuckles softly, shaking her head and letting her hands fall at her sides. “And you still insist Arthur is more stubborn than you.” She lets a few beats of silence fall between you before speaking again. “I have made my decision.” Annabelle's eyes soften as she looks at you, something wistful and fond in her gaze. "Eliza, you've been like a sister to me. More kindred than my own blood. And I've watched you build a life from nothing but guts and love. You have Arthur now, and those precious children. They need you and you need them. Live.” Her lips pull back into a bittersweet smile. “Do it. Do it for me.”

As Annabelle's words settle like the dust of a passing stagecoach, you feel a swell of emotion rising within you. Her strength, her resolve—it's something that has always inspired you, yet now it leaves you feeling paradoxically hollow and full. You take a deep breath, the air filling your lungs like the promise of a new beginning. A tear trickles down your cheek, but you manage a smile through it. “I will, Annabelle. For both of us.”

She nods, her own eyes misty now. "And who knows? Maybe our paths might cross again someday. You can’t predict the future."

You chuckle at that. “Yeah, I can’t.”

After a moment of letting silence fall between you, she gestures toward the house. “Now, let’s see if we can’t get you all ready for when Arthur comes back. We don’t want any more delays, do we?”

You nod, not feeling the need for words, and you both head back inside together.

***

Arthur can’t help but feel anxious. It isn’t the townsfolk, or the time of day, but where he waits for the reverend to finish up with his business.

He waits for Boadicea right beside the sheriff’s office. The ticket office for the ferry boat is adjacent to it, unfortunately, and while he hasn’t done anything to garner attention in Blackwater, the scattered bounty posters on the bulletin put him on edge.

He knows there are some of them out there. Somewhere. How much is his head worth? He can lie low for a while, stay on the other side of the law, but will his bounty ever go away?

He’s almost tempted to go inside the Sheriff’s office and ask himself, but he isn’t that stupid.

Instead, Arthur shifts in his saddle, eyes scanning the dusty street for any signs of trouble. The warmth of the late sun does little to ease the tightness in his chest. He needs to be careful, cautious with each step he takes.

A few townsfolk pass by, none giving him more than a cursory glance. But each glance gnaws at his nerves, sharpens his senses to the potential dangers lurking in everyday faces. Could one of them recognize him? Could one of them be the link that sends a posse thundering down on him?

Where could you go where he hasn’t committed a crime? While he isn’t going to back out of it, not ever, he hasn’t considered that reasonable thought. Where could he go that wouldn’t put you and the children in the line of the law searching for him? How could he make it go away?

His thoughts are interrupted by the reverberating sound of boot heels on wooden boards. Turning his head, he sees Reverend Swanson walking away from the kiosk, and he tucks some papers in his coat.

“You got what’chu wanted, Reverend?” Arthur asks, relieved to be closer to continuing on his way.

Reverend Swanson nods his head. “Yes. Unfortunately, the earliest ferry out of Blackwater isn’t for another couple of days. Looks like I’ll have to rent a room somewhere.” He looks up at Arthur, squinting for the brightness of the sun behind the rugged outlaw. “You know if there’s a hotel?”

Arthur nods, remembering the hotel he saw while looking for you. “There’s one around the corner and down the street.” He gestures to the mustang mare waiting next to him. “Mount up and I’ll take you there.”

Swanson hesitates for a moment, his gaze lingering on the sturdy mare, then nods in agreement. The preacher's movements are slightly stiff as he mounts Sandstone, an action that speaks to his unfamiliarity with riding or perhaps just the rustiness of a man long separated from such pursuits. He had hoped that he wouldn’t have to get on her back again, not that she was a terrible ride, but horses have always been something he's managed at a respectful distance. Yet here he is, astride a horse that would soon belong to another, his hands awkwardly gripping the saddle horn.

Arthur clicks his tongue and nudges Boadicea along, taking the lead to Sandstone’s halter again, and heads down the street toward the hotel. Reverend Swanson is a touch unsteady, his posture rigid against the gentle sway of Sandstone's gait. Arthur can't help but feel a pang of sympathy for the man; despite the hardships he’s faced and overcome, Swanson still carries himself with a kind of earnest vulnerability that a normally pious clergyman would have.

Perhaps that is what will separate him from the dogma and impressions that most may feel about people of his past profession. Perhaps, in some serene way, this is Swanson’s redemption path. Perhaps, if he can climb out of the mire, he can help others do the same.

As they approach the hotel, Arthur dismounts with practiced ease, helping Swanson down from Sandstone. The preacher thanks him with a nod, his eyes reflecting a mix of gratitude and the weight off his shoulders.

“I suppose this is where we part ways, Reverend,” Arthur says. “You shouldn’t have any trouble rentin’ a room.” He regards the simple carpet bag in the reverend’s hand. “You got enough money?”

The reverend brought all that he had. His Bible, some old clothes, and a few dollars. He knows that is very humble for a fresh start. “Well…” he stammers, ashamed to admit it.

Arthur, without a second thought, reaches into his satchel, pulls out twenty dollars, and offers it to the reverend. “Here.” 

Swanson looks at the money, then back at Arthur, his expression mixed with surprise and reluctance. “Arthur, I can’t—”

“Take it, Reverend,” Arthur insists firmly but with a warm smile. “Consider it a partin’ gift. Besides, I’m shoah you can find some honorable ways to spend it now, right?”

Swanson hesitates, then accepts the money with a slow nod. Months ago, he would have taken it and hurried to get the next fix. The next embrace from Morpheus. But he has found a renewed strength now. "Thank you, Mr. Morgan," he says earnestly. "I'll use it wisely, I promise you that."

Arthur tips his hat slightly. "I believe you will, Reverend." He takes a step back. “Take care now.” He watches as Swanson turns and walks into the hotel, his figure gradually disappearing behind the swinging doors. Once he’s sure the reverend is out of sight, Arthur mounts Boadicea again, giving Sandstone a gentle pat on the neck before leading her away from the hotel.

His mind is crowded with thoughts as he rides out of Blackwater, the streets becoming less populated as he reaches its edge. He’s making good on his promise now, he’s returning to you, and he can't help but feel that surge of anticipation mixed with a sense of accomplishment. He has managed to help Swanson, pulled off his own escape from the gang, and now all roads lead back to you.

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