#forcing you to interact with them and being in danger at their slightest movements

[dravidious]

You're more amazing than :O

You're more amazing than an EX Drilltusk Tetsucabra corpse.

Also I had another dream where I was menaced by the passive presence of a giant monster. This time it was Shara Ishvalda rising out of some hole in the ground and staring at me.

For context, this is what Shara Ishvalda looks like:

[pastshadows]

Shadows of the Past

Chapter 21: Scars Shine White in the Light

Summary: After a year of blissful cohabitation, Astarion disappears without a trace, leaving behind a heartfelt letter explaining his departure. Determined to find him, you traverse Faerûn in search of your lost love, only to realize that some absences are meant to be permanent.

Returning to Waterdeep, you find solace in the company of Gale as you come to terms with Astarion's absence. But just as you begin to heal, Astarion reappears, begging for a second chance at love.

The question looms: can you forgive his abandonment and trust him once more? As you grapple with your emotions and trauma, a sinister force lurks in the shadows, targeting you for unknown reasons.

With danger closing in, you must navigate the treacherous waters of trust, love, and betrayal to uncover the truth behind the mysterious entity's motives. Will you be able to reunite with Astarion while facing the demons of your past? Can you unravel the secrets that threaten your very existence?

Setting: Post End-Game. Mostly canon compliant.

Word Count: 7K

Content: Explicit 18+ - intended for mature audiences.

Warnings: [Additional tags will be added, but expect mature content / read at your own risk.]

Spoilers. Mentions of in-game missable content. Violence. Sexual Assault [Implied/attempted sexual assault: Chapter 7]. Past Trauma. Murder. Death. Longing. Sexual themes. Smut. Blood drinking. Angst. Innuendos. High use of sarcasm. Completely fabricated camp interactions. Panic attacks. Anxiety.

Unlike before, time seems to fast forward, seemingly leaping ahead with every blink as Aldous approaches. The dagger quakes in your grip, and chastise your body for being so wimpish.

A golden beam of light splits the tenebrosity, akin to the sun crowning over the horizon at the break of dawn, and you reflexively throw yourself over Astarion to shield him from it. The sheer brightness makes your eyes clamp closed.

When you open them again, darkness shrouds you like a thick cloak, but this darkness is not natural. It’s teeming with the vitality of the Weave. Somewhere, you can hear the metallic clashing of blades. Your fingers curl into Astarion’s armour, terrified that if you let go, you will lose him in this rayless depth.

Your ears twitch as you catch the quick patter of footsteps, and you bring the dagger back up. It’s difficult to discern which direction the sounds are coming from, and your eyes dart around in an attempt to catch any movement.

The slightest flicker of light is all the forewarning you get before a figure breaks through the fog. The dagger is poised and ready to strike when the icy blue aura of healing magic scintillates within the penumbra, and Shadowheart drops down on one knee beside you.

Her hand nearly touches you before you drop the dagger, catch her wrist, and plant her hand on Astarion. The magic bathes him, flowing over his skin like a wave stroking the beach and fading out as it sinks into him.

Shadowheart’s hand searches through the gloom, finding your forearm. She fumbles around, shuffling on her feet until she can see you more clearly, and wraps her arms around you in a gentle, quick hug.

“Is he?” She gestures toward Astarion, trying once more to heal him. 

“I don’t know.”

The spell is dismissed and diminishes within a split second to reveal Gale and Hecat. Gale breathes heavily, his eyes still glowing with the Weave, and Hecat’s sword is still poised in a defensive position. A thick river of blood drips from a wound in her bicep, off her elbow, and to the ground. You scan the area, but Aldous is nowhere to be seen.

“He’s gone, my friend.” Gale confirms with more spite in his voice than you can recall he ever had, even when he was talking about Mystra. “His master must have tugged his leash.”

Gale and Hecat’s eyes sink to Astarion’s body, which still lies at rest in your arms, and you follow their line of sight with your head hung low over him.

“I tried,” you mutter. “He can’t be. He can’t… He…” You trail off, unable to even think of the word, or you’re positive that you will fall apart and never get up.

Hecat’s sword slumps down, the tip burying itself in the ground, and it strikes you that the woman is crying.

“We should go,” Gale says, kneeling and placing his hand on your shoulder gently. “There is no telling when he might return with greater forces.”

“I won’t leave him here,” you choke out between sobs. “I won’t.”

“Nor will I.” Hecat adds with a sombre intonation, her voice shaking.

Her stalwart loyalty to someone she doesn’t truly know strikes you as strange, but in this moment, you’re thankful for it.

“Of course we won’t leave him.” Shadowheart assures, wrapping her arms around you once more.

“He was our friend, too,” Gale weeps, rubbing the tears that are starting to form in the corners of his eyes.

Was our friend.

Was.

“Was your friend?” Astarion coughs hard, his eyes cracking open slightly. “So lovely to know what you’ve written me off already, my friends,” he groans satirically.

Your arms wrap around him, and for whatever reason, you cry harder with the overwhelming relief. Shadowheart’s arms encircle him as well, her tears leaving tracks down her rosy cheeks. Then Gale and Hecat join.

Astarion bemoans it. You worry it’s making him uncomfortable, but when your eyes meet his, there’s a small smile on his face. You think he’s finally realizing that he has people who truly care about him — much more than he thought.

“Let’s get you two back to camp,” Gale says, hooking his arm around Astarion and helping him to his feet. “Dinner should be ready when we return.”

You groan out loud even though you didn’t mean to, and Shadowheart stifles her giggling. “Kamena is quite injured,” she offers as an excuse to Gale.

“Yes, I’m sure that was it.” Gale scoffs.

“Good Gods,” Astarion barks. “Is no one going to tell him?”

“Tell me what?” Gale asks, brows arched curiously.

Astarion, ever truthful, ignores all of your frantically shaking heads and states the truth that everyone else is too nice to say. “They all hate your cooking, Gale.”

Gale shakes his head with a genial laugh and a Cheshire smile. “Oh, I’ve known that for quite some time. Yet they continue to eat it without complaint, too afraid to hurt my feelings. I wanted to see how long it would go on.”

“So, you’ve been feeding us food we don’t like on purpose?” Shadowheart’s eyes are wide, and her expression is stunned.

“Oh-yes,” Gale chuckles.

You lay with Astarion in the tent, but once he’s deep in his trance, you sneak away to sit by the fire. You’re exhausted, but your mind refuses to oblige your command to trance. It seems the others are in the same predicament, and one by one, Shadowheart comes to join you, then Hecat, and then Gale.

The three of you sit around the fire in silence for a while, each of you contesting with your own inward thoughts on the days events.

“How did you know to come?” You finally ask, staring at your fingers.

“It was Hecat, actually,” Shadowheart answers, and there is a lilt of surprise in her voice. “She said that you had been gone too long, and she was going to look for you.”

“Naturally, we couldn’t leave her to do it on her own,” Gale adds. “So, we joined.”

“And it was a godsdamned good thing we did!” Shadowheart’s voice borders on scolding. “You nearly got yourself killed, Kamena! What the Hells happened?!”

“Aldous happened.” You don’t have the energy to recite the entire story right now.

Hecat? She is the one who prompted them to come to look for you and possibly saved both of you and Astarion’s lives. Guilt sinks into your bones. You have not treated the woman very well. When you glance at her, she shrugs and offers you a warm smile.

Getting up, you awkwardly make your way over to where she sits and wrap your arms around her. “Thank you, Hecat. By the Gods. Thank you.”

“Don’t sweat it, Kamena!” She says warmly. “Did you find what you’re looking for or just trouble?”

“Just trouble.” You sigh and drop back onto the ground, rubbing your tired eyes.

“You seem to be a magnet for it,” Hecat assesses.

“She is.” Shadowheart and Gale confirm unanimously.

They snicker, and you narrow your eyes at the pair. “It was your great misfortunate that I ended up in your prison cell.”

“I would say the opposite.” Hecat retorts, her flame-filled eyes cast to the ground. “I’ve been an outcast most of my life, and friends were a foreign concept to me until I met all of you. I know you don’t like me much, but you still have my gratitude, even if being here has put my life in mortal danger.”

“I…” You trail off while the guilt makes your heart squeeze in your chest. “It’s not that I don’t like you…”

Hecat waves her hand flippantly with a small, sad smile. “You don’t have to lie. I know I say stupid things. I’m aware that I have a hard time filtering my thoughts before speaking and only realize I shouldn’t have said something or worded it differently when it’s much too late.”

You’re usually a master with responses. You can twist letters and syllables into a tidy little package to persuade, intimidate, deceive, or placate at your whim, but your silver tongue stalls, and you cannot think of a response to save your life.

Shadowheart clasps your shoulder, interjecting to rescue you. “You should get some rest.”

You swallow hard, eyes pouring over the little camp. “Aldous might return—”

“Shadowheart and I will stay up to keep watch.” Hecat reassures, grabbing her sword and laying it across her lap to polish. “You look worse than I did when I escaped the Hells. Get some sleep, or whatever you elves do.”

You look to Gale in hopes that he might come to your aid and tell the others that you don’t need babysitting, but his bourbon brown eyes gaze at you with a hint of melancholy you were not expecting to see.

“They are correct, my friend. You require rest. We can regroup after and determine what our next move will be,” he says cajolingly, as if he were trying to persuade a rebellious child.

Being spoken to in such a way makes you cringe, and the voices in your head chant, broken, broken, broken. Much like a wilful youth, your first reaction is to be obstinate, to berate them for treating you in such a way that makes you feel small, but their intentions are good and they are not wrong.

You offer them a curt nod, not trusting your tongue to keep its remarks to itself, and shuffle toward the tent. Once you’re safely inside, you nearly collapse onto the furs and bring your knees to your chest while resting your head on them. How could you possibly sleep when every time you close your eyes you hear the clattering of boots, see the flash of chrome, and hear Astarion tell you he would have liked to marry you?

“So, you fly now?” Astarion’s groggy timbre surprises you, and your head jerks up to see flashes of crimson eyes peeking from behind thick lashes. “You have wings? Literal wings? I am not easily impressed by people, but you are quite a good person to know should I be thrown from a building... again.”

Before you can think better of it, you’re an ungainly mess of arms tangling around his neck with your hands twisting into his hair and grabbing handfuls of the silver-spun silk.

Astarion wraps his arms around you, pressing you into himself with an almost bruising strength. “I’m okay,” he soothes, his fingers stroking your hair. “I’m here.”

“You should be resting,” you murmur, still angling your body so that every part of you is pressed against some part of him.

“I can rest when I’m dead.”

You jerk upwards and glare at him with narrow eyes. “Not. Funny,” you scold in a sotto voice.

He smiles, brushing your hair back and taking your face in his hands. “Come now. It’s a little funny.”

You try to wrangle enough residual anger to chastise him for his ill-timed jokes, but as you just learned, time is a precious commodity. You never know when the last tick of a second marks the end, and you will not spend such a priceless asset on anger.

“You’re insufferable.” It’s a struggle to keep your expression serious.

“Aren’t I just?” He snickers, using his thumbs to pull your lips up in the smile they wish to curl into anyway. It breaks your composure, and you smile, silly and girlish. “There’s my girl.”

He pulls you back down to lay on his chest, curling his fingers into your hair. It’s quiet for a spell as you revel in the embrace you nearly lost.

“When did you learn that?” He asks in a low rumbling voice.

“Learn what?”

He pulls away only a little to arch a brow at you as if you’ve asked an immensely stupid question. “To fly?”

“When I jumped off the tower, I felt a weird feeling, like instinct, and—”

“I’m sorry, but hold that thought for just a moment. What?!” He cuts you off with a snap of cold in his voice. “You didn’t know you could do that before you jumped off the damn tower?”

“Well, no, but—“

“Have you lost your godsdamned mind, Kamena?” You can’t quite make out if it’s anger you hear in his voice, chastisement, or astonishment. Perhaps it’s an amalgamation of all three. “What in the Hells were you thinking? Jumping off like that! What a bloody stupid thing to do!”

His anger is similar to that of when you accidentally dropped a building on him, and although you probably shouldn’t, you’ve always found it humorous.

“Stop giggling!” Astarion scolds with a huff. “Can you not see that I’m angry with you?”

You cover your mouth to try and stifle your ill-timed laughter. “I’m sorry,” you manage to choke out. Clearing your throat, you steel yourself back into some semblance of poise, though you cannot wipe the smile from your face. “Sorry. Of course, I can see you’re angry.”

Astarion’s brows furrow while he searches your face. He rolls his eyes exasperatedly. “You still want to giggle like a merry school girl, don't you?”

You curl your lips inward, pressing them together, and nod.

“Hells below,” Astarion groans, racking a hand over his face. “You’re terrible. You know that?”

You nod again, not trusting your mouth to open lest you continue your undignified and improper laughter.

“Well, what are you waiting for, darling? Astarion tosses the furs back. “Get in here before I drag you in here.”

The red gash and dark bruising around it stand out garishly against the rest of Astarion’s pristine alabaster skin, and you suck in a sharp breath, poising your hands over the wound as if you might be able to heal it through sheer willpower alone.

“I’m fine, love.” He coos, slipping his fingers under your chin and guiding your eyes to his. “I’m fine, thanks to you.”

“You should feed,” you murmur, already pulling your hair away from your neck.

“As much as I do appreciate the offer,” he pokes your bruised forehead to bring attention to the fact that you are wounded as well, making you mouth “ouch” to him silently. “I will have to decline for tonight.”

“Fine,” you concede with a pout. “Tomorrow then. You know you always heal faster when you’re full.”

“Remember that, do you?” Astarion muses with a canted head, wrapping an arm around you as you sidle up next to him. “I’m not sure how much I liked this being known thing. It takes away from my intriguing mysteriousness.”

“Pardon me,” you quip, gesturing to yourself as if scandalized. “Allow me a moment to forget all things vampire so you can continue to bewitch me with your enigmatic charms.”

Astarion shakes his head, smiling boyishly, but it transforms into something more sombre and serious. “You could have died today, Kamena. If you hadn’t been able to fly...” he trails off, shaking his head. “Gods. I dare not think about it. Do not throw your life away so readily for me.”

“Don’t jump off any more buildings, and I won’t have to.”

“Kamena,” he starts with a sigh.

“No!” You shout a little louder than you had meant to, cutting him off and glaring at him with enough intensity to make him swallow thickly. “No.” You repeat more hushed. “I don’t need you to tell me what to do with my life, Astarion. It’s my choice. Do not take that from me. Please.”

Astarion nods, though you can tell he’s a little vexed, and you’ve likely not heard the last of his objections.

“I would also like to point out that I did not jump; I fell.” Astarion huffs dramatically in an attempt to ease the overbearing tension.

You lean in close to him and press a lingering kiss to his cheek. When your lips ghost his ear, Astarion shudders with a breathy whimper, and you whisper, “If I were you, I would go with the jumping story. Falling off a building is incredibly embarrassing, don’t you think?”

“Bloody Hells, darling,” Astarion groans, twisting his head to catch your lips. “Get some rest.”

Astarion wakes to a familiar smell, though not one he wishes to be reminded of, and a discordance of gruff voices that are trying to stay hushed. He glances at Kamena, who is still pressed up against him with her eyes closed, seemingly deep in her trance. An amalgamation of purple, blue, and yellow bruises extends down her forehead around a laceration that glares at him like he’s the guilty party.

He shifts Kamena slowly and carefully until she lays on the pillow and pulls the fur blankets up around her. She murmurs in her sleep, hands incoherently grasping for him, but soon settles. He tugs on his clothes, grabs his weapons, and marches out of the tent, prepared to see Aldous invading their camp.

When his eyes fall onto Aurelia and Leon, he nearly drops his dagger in numbed shock. Leon, he spent countless years with. The man was always striving to be Cazador’s favourite, and oh, how Astarion loathed it. Looking at Leon now, he pities the poor foul. He appears emaciated, hungry, and covered in filth from head to toe.

Aurelia is in much the same condition. Her clothes are darkly stained from sleeping in the dirt, her red skin appears sallow and wan from hunger, and one of her horns is broken off near her skull.

It’s clear that the Underdark has not been kind to his siblings, but anything is better than living in Cazador’s primitive hell.

Gale, Shadowheart, and Hecat are already speaking to them in low tones, but as soon as Astarion is visible, all eyes snap to him.

“Astarion?” Leon says. “Is it truly you, brother?”

Astarion nearly cringes at being called “brother,” but schools his expression into one of near indifference.

“Leon, Aurelia,” Astarion says levelly. “A pleasure.”

“You have siblings, Astarion?” Hecat asks, and he only nods his affirmation.

“You’re… alive.” Aurelia says almost as if confused. “They haven’t caught you yet.”

“Are you truly surprised, sister?” Leon remarks. “He always was the wiliest out of all of us, to his own determinant. It’s the reason Cazador favoured his pain over ours.”

“Cazador preferred my screams because they were far more becoming than all of your croaking,” Astarion quips to hide his discomfort at the mention of his old master’s preoccupation with him.

His siblings do not know the truth, of course. He may have given up trying to escape, but he instigated Cazador to save the rest of them from his torments. Well, that and because it was dreadful fun to piss him off even if it did get him flayed.

“Why have you come, brother?” Aurelia asks.

“We came looking for you.” He states indifferently. “It seems you may have landed yourself in a spot of trouble.”

“That’s an understatement.” Leon says, glancing at Aurelia. “Someone has been hunting us and the spawn you released. We know not who they are—”

Astarion puts a hand up and shakes his head. “Yes, we are aware of the situation. It appears another vampire lord has caught wind of the Black Mass. They need our scars to complete the contract.”

“Can another vampire lord do that?” Aurelia asks, fear permeating her eyes. “Complete the rite?”

“It makes sense,” Leon sighs, coasting his fingers through his dirty hair. “They’ve been rounding up the feral spawn and our brother’s and sisters.”

“And Cazador was not exactly subtle,” Astarion adds quickly. “When Kamena and I were there, we found correspondence between him and other lords boasting about the power he was about to acquire.”

Leon and Aurelia sigh at the same time, obviously bone-weary and at their wits end. Astarion holds little love for his “siblings.” Cazador called them a family but did not refrain from pitting them against each other to create animosity between their ranks. It’s far safer to pit the spawn against each other over who gets to stay in the lavish, preferred spawn quarters, then run the risk of them conspiring against their master.

Astarion had caught onto that little plan straight away, but his siblings were too embroiled in their competition against one another to give a damn what he said.

Imbeciles.

“Where are the other spawn?” Shadowheart asks. “The feral ones.”

“Gone,” Leon answers immediately. “Those of them that were not killed by the dangers lurking in the Underdark were swiftly rounded up.”

“I told you to take care of them,” Astarion nearly snarls, but he manages to keep most of the animosity from his tone.

“We tried, Astarion!” Aurelia fumes with her fists balling up at her sides. “They were too far gone. Many of them had been starved and rotting down there for centuries!”

A flush of guilt labours through him. He had feared as much when he saw them, but he thought they deserved a chance like he had.

Then again, they did not have someone like Kamena at their side to love them through their bloodlust, pain, and misery.

“I should have killed them,” Astarion states with his eyes cast down at his shoes. “Selfishly, I did not want anymore blood on my hands than I was already drowning in.”

“You couldn’t have known, my friend.” Gale reassured quickly, his expressions sullen.

A placation, at best. Astarion had known. He had been lucky to come back from the year he spent in solitude, starved and alone with only silence and darkness as his company. When he had been released, he had long abandoned the abilities for speech and reason. If it had not been for Cazador’s compulsion, he would have tore through Baldur's Gate like a rabid animal.

“None of us did.” Leon acknowledges and offers Astarion a small smile. “What you did was admirable. It is a shame it turned out this way.”

“So, do you have a plan? Aurelia’s voice is high with anxiety, and her eyes run amok over the land.

Astarion observes her demeanour. She had never been the most courageous of the bunch of them, but this level of restlessness was rare even when Cazador was hunting her through the hallways.

“Find the vampire. Stop the vampire. Kill the vampire.” Astarion drawls in a devil-may-care fashion. “We are workshopping the details as we go.”

“They won’t stop, Astarion.” Aurelia sputters. “We’ve just spent Gods know how long hiding with fish.”

Astarion nearly chuckles. “Ah, the Kuo-Toa, yes? Fascinating creatures, are they not?”

“You could say that,” Leon groans. “So another vampire lord is looking to complete the Black Mass. Where does that leave us?”

“Targets obviously,” Astarion concludes briskly.

“Yes, we get that, Astarion. Thank you.” Leon remarks vexed. It makes Astarion smirk that he’s still able to get under their skin. “But where do we go from here?”

“We’ll take you to our home.” Kamena’s voice is flat, weighed down by the lingering traces of her trance.

All eyes jerk to her as she rubs her eyes and yawns. Kamena winces, and her fingers prod the bruises and cut on her forehead, testing the tenderness. She moves stiffly toward them, and though she manages to hide it well, he can tell she’s still in pain.

How could she not be? She leapt off a fucking building.

For him.

Him.

Try as Astarion might, he cannot fathom why anyone would put themselves in harm's way for him.

“It’s nice to see you again, Kamena.” Leon says with an awkward smile. “I’m happy to see you recovered.”

Kamena smiles politely, but it does not reach her eyes, and she refuses to look at him. He’s still not quite sure what happened down here. All his attempts to get her to open up are met with reluctance. He is trying, in the only way he knows how, and he knows he shouldn’t resent her for the problems he caused partially, but a small part of him does all the same.

She just has it so easy. Kamena can pick and choose when and what to open up about at her whim, but it’s clear that she doesn’t fully trust him. He will admit, he’s made mistakes—more than a few at that, but he has been trying, hasn’t he? He forces himself to open up to her even when it feels like he’s tearing apart his ribs to show her his heart and stitching himself back up.

But his openness is met with reserve, and it hurts him—a constant, blunt ache in his chest where his heart should beat.

In spite of the pain, Astarion sweeps the festering wounds to the wayside once more. What is pain to him anyway? After centuries under Cazador, pain is an old friend, although this pain is new to him.

Physical pain he can handle. It is known. It is predictable. This pain, though, he’s not quite sure how to traverse.

He can see that she is trying. He just wishes it was faster, so that they can luxuriate in the warmth of it for as long as possible before Kamena leaves him alone to forget how to love once again.

“What do you mean, take us to your house?” Aurelia asks uncertainly.

“It’s somewhere you will be safe.” Kamena morphs her tenor into something resembling a summer breeze — soft, warm, and welcome. She must have recognized his sister's unease. “You don’t have to go. The choice remains yours. If you want to stay with the Kuo-Toa, you’re welcome to.”

Astarion is still not very delighted with the idea of having his siblings in his home, using their bed, hunting in his woods, but leaving them here is a worse option.

“Does it have things to eat?” Leon asks hopefully, the pang of starvation in his tone.

He watches his brother and sister carefully. They should be nearly as practiced at controlling their bloodlust as he is, but he would be a fool to trust them completely. That kind of hunger can drive even the sanest souls mad.

“Animals,” Astarion confirms, and gives them both a pointed look. “Only animals. Is that clear?”

Both the spawn nod their acknowledgment.

“Lovely,” Astarion exclaims with terribly mimicked mirth. “Now, do any of you know Prestidigitation by any chance? They smell rank.”

Astarion and Kamena jog toward the Elfsong, with dawn threatening the horizon. Escorting his siblings to his house had taken longer than they had estimated, and staying the night there was out of the godsdamned question.

“Hurry up, Astarion!” Kamena urges him, placing her hands on his back and pushing him to run quicker. Panic infects her voice like a pathogen. “You can run much quicker than me. Go. I’ll catch up.”

He glances at the sky. They are pushing it close, but there is a little room to be had. Astarion has to choke back a scant chuckle. Kamena is more terrified of the sun touching him than he is, and it baffles him. She has seen the sun touch him on several occasions. It hurts like a bitch, but it’s not a death sentence.

“We’re fine, love.” He tries to reassure, but it’s of little use to calm her. “We’re nearly there.”

Kamena gives him a firm swat on the ass, but her face is adorned with the most ambrosial, angelic smile. “I wasn’t asking, Astarion. Get this very charming ass moving!”

“Well, when you put it that way,” he purrs carnally, and then switches his demeanour on a dime. “It’s still a no, I’m afraid.”

"Corellon, grant me patience,” Kamena groans.

Kamena darts into the Elfsong, pushing the sweaty strands of her hair behind her ears, and placing a bag of coin on the counter. “We need a room for two nights.”

The barkeep meanders over slowly, and Kamena shifts on her feet, her eyes darting to the windows that are beginning to brighten. He remains unconcerned about the sun. His concern is for her. Fear has a musky, sour aroma that numbs his tongue. Then there is terror, and it smells like absinthal, burning metals that numb his entire body.

Kamena smells like terror.

“Sure thing,” The man dumps the bag of coins out onto the counter to count them.

“You can have the whole bag if you tell me the room number right now,” Kamena blurts out.

Astarion’s eyes bulge. That pouch held far more coin than what was necessary for a room. He takes a deep breath to calm himself. No matter. He will just steal it back for her later.

“Room three,” the man says, cupping his hand at the counter's lip and sweeping the excess coin into it.

She grabs him by the wrist and tugs him upstairs. Unfortunately for him, the upper-floor windows are not shielded from the sun by the other buildings, and he has to dodge through it quickly to get across the hallway. A hiss of pain whispers through his lips when the rays dawdle over his arm.

Kamena bursts into the room, pulling all the drapery closed in a rush while he stands off to the side in a shaded corner until the room is cloaked in darkness. She snaps her fingers, and he watches little orbs, like infant suns, float through the air and land on the candle wicks.

She rushes over to him, grabbing his arm gently to get a look at the burn. “Are you okay?”

Astarion glances at the small patch of cracked, matte skin. “It’s a piddling injury, darling.”

Her brows pinch, and her eyes squeeze closed as she takes a deep breath. Astarion cocks his head, trying to read her. Sometimes he finds that he actually misses the worms in their heads that allowed them to link minds.

“Okay. If you’re sure.”

“I am,” he reassures, his hands finding her upper arms and squeezing while his thumbs gently rub. “A little sun is not going to be my end.”

“I know. It’s just…” She trails off, looking askance.

Astarion’s heart feels like it leaps, even though he knows it remains gripped by death. Is she finally going to open up to him? Is she finally going to let him in?

“Nevermind,” she sighs, and his heart stings with yet another dismissal.

They are both tired, dirty, and wounded. Astarion knows this conversation needs to be had, but he cannot bring himself to inflict any further pain right now.

“You forgot the fire, sweetheart.”

Kamena’s fingers snap once more, and the fire crackles and pops, flames gnawing at the kindling. They settle in, each having a bath and shedding the Underdark’s grime.

Kamena towels off and runs a comb through her hair. “Are you tired?”

“No,” he admits. “The last couple of days have been a lot.”

“Good. I’m going to go downstairs and fetch us some wine.” Kamena rummages through their bag, finding a pair of clean trousers and a shirt to toss on. “Any particular vintage I should ask for, snob?”

“Snob!” Astarion huffs false indignation, puffing his chest out. “It is not my fault you lack a refined palate.”

“Says the vampire,” she smirks. “I’ll ask them for their most expensive bottles.”

“It’ll likely still be plonk.”

“Probably, but not to worry. You can make merry with my vintage wine later,” she winks.

Just before she’s about to shut the door, he calls out to her. “Do make sure to get yourself some food as well.”

Kamena pokes her head back in to shoot him a pointed look and sticks her tongue out at him petulantly, shutting the door behind her.

Astarion settles in front of the fire and gets lost in the dance of the leaping flames. What will it take for her to start unwrapping the fragile, broken parts of her and trust that he will hold even the smallest slivers with care? Vulnerability does not come to him easily; not after emotions had been systematically squeezed out of him, but he swallowed his pride, fear, and bitterness for her.

It hadn’t been easy. Giving her access to his heart and having to trust that she would hold it gently had been the most difficult thing he’s ever done. Day after day, he’s placing his heart in her hands, but she’s unable or unwilling to put that same trust in him.

She loves him; he has no doubts about that, but he still feels like he’s swimming in a lake, and she’s standing on the sidelines, picking and choosing when to dip her toes in. Is that what their relationship has been reduced to?

He was her sanctuary once, where she ran to find peace when the pandemonium of their tribulation got a little too loud. Now she retreats. Less often these days, but still often enough for it to pain him.

What else can he do?

The creak of the door breaks him from his rumination, and he blinks, his eyes dry from staring off into the void of his mind. Kamena uncorks a bottle and sits with him. To his great delight, she carries a plate of food, which she nibbles on slowly. They speak idly about nothing in particular, passing the wine back and forth between them. A permanent blush stains her cheeks pink from the wine, and Astarion drinks in sight of her with a tipsy grin.

“Do you remember...” Astarion stops, trying to recall the name, and takes another sip of wine. “Gods. What was his name? Ah, yes! Kar’niss.”

Kamena visibly shudders. “The Drider? Gods. Why would you bring that up, Astarion?” She giggles unreserved. “I still have nightmares about him.”

“You threw the Lyre at him as soon as he popped up from the shadows, and do you remember what you did, darling?”

Kamena snorts out a small laugh. “I ran behind you. You make a very good shield.”

“Ran? Darling,” Astarion chuckles, shaking his head, “you yelped, scrambled behind me all flailing limbs, and forced me to talk to the damn abomination!”

She shrugs. “It was time you started pulling your damn weight!”

“All the locks I picked and traps I stopped you from barrelling into were not enough? You would have blown yourself up in that godsdamned ruined temple had I not been there to stop you from pressing buttons and walking over pressure plates.”

“My morally questionable, very pale hero!” She simpers and giggles delightfully.

“Don’t forget beautiful,” he quips.

Kamena places her wine down and approaches him. He grabs her waist and pulls her into his lap to straddle him.

“My morally questionable, very pale, devastatingly beautiful hero,” she amends, kissing his face between every word. He gathers her hair, sweeping it away from her neck to press unhurried kisses down the column. His fingers ruck up the hem of her shirt, and she takes it off, throwing it off to the side unceremoniously. Astarion takes a moment to take her in, his hand cradling her face and his thumb stroking her cheek. He dips his head to catch her lips. Astarion groans with the heat of her breath in his mouth, and he allows himself to get lost in his love for her.

Kamena undoes the buttons of his chemise with clumsy fingers. Once it’s undone, she smooths her hands with her palms slightly heated from her magic up his abdomen and chest, leaving a trail of heat in their wake, almost as if the sun’s rays were warming him.

His cock is already throbbing. “I want to lead,” he says huskily. “Like we used to.”

If he can get her to trust him in this, maybe, just maybe, she can start to trust him outside of intimacy. She requested he stop being so gentle with her, and maybe that is part of the problem. He’s too gentle, too affable, too meek, scared that one wrong move will send her spiralling — running.

It’s a long shot, but he’s running out of ideas. It does idly cross his mind if this is a manipulation tactic, but he doesn’t mean it to be so. He just needs to gain her trust, and this is as good a place as any to start.

There’s a small flicker of uncertainty before she nods. “Okay. You lead.”

“Do you remember what word you use if you need to stop?”

“…Astarion,” she says warily.

“I shan’t push too far, my love.” He comforts, lowering his voice into warmed honey so that its timbre sticks to her skin. “And you have only but to say the word if you want to stop.”

The look of wariness slowly ebbs and is replaced with determination. “Orchid.”

“Correct. Good girl.” Astarion pats her leg, picking at her trousers. “Stand and take these off.”

While she does that, he slips out of his pants, his cock finally relieved of that too tight hug of his leather trousers. He settles back on the chair, legs spread wide, and grabs her hips.

“Come.” He turns her around. “Sit. Yes. Like that.”

Kamena settles herself on his lap, her back pressed against his chest. His cock is stiff and yearning against her heated sex, and it takes him considerable effort to thwart the temptation to sink into her.

Astarion draws her in close, wrapping his arm around her waist and kissing down the back of her neck to the base of her spine. He settles his chin on her shoulder, making sure to position himself in a way that he can see down her body, and his breath fans her ear.

He trails the backs of his fingers down, lightly brushing them against the hardened peaks of her nipples, and she sucks in a sharp breath at the stimulation. He proceeds and feels her tremble in anticipation, but he stops short and traces his fingertips featherlight around her belly.

“Tell me what you want me to do,” he whispers into her ear. “Tell me exactly what you want, when you want it, how you want it. Where. Harder. Faster. Slower. Tell me everything.”

Kamena leans back into him. “I thought you wanted to lead?”

“I am. Just not in the way you were expecting.” He grins mischievously. “I await my instructions, my dear.”

“Touch me,” she mutters under her breath.

“Where?” Astarion plays stupid, bringing his finger to rest on the tip of her nose. “Here?”

She laughs, grabbing his hand and placing it exactly where she wants it. Her clit pulses against his fingertips.

“Okay, now what?” He asks.

“Play with my clit, gently at first.” Kamena’s legs jitter when he starts swirling circles around the border, and to his delight, she gets a little more brazen. “Faster with more pressure.”

Her cheek presses into him, her back arching, and she whimpers. Astarion slides his fingers down, parting her folds, spreading her open for him to admire.

“So wet for me, aren’t you, my sweet?” He nips her ear, a graze of his fang along it, and then he sucks gently. Kamena whimpers, and her fingers grasp any part of him available as her hips buck. “So needy.”

“Fuck.” She groans. “Fuck me with your fingers.”

A low, delighted growl rumbles in Astarion’s chest. There is his Kamena, unashamed to tell him exactly what she wants from him. His fingers skate around her entrance, veiling them in her silky desire, before he pushes his cock to the side slightly and slips them in. He starts slow, dipping in and out in the smallest increments to tease out her pleasure.

“Open your eyes, love.” Astarion instructs smooth as velvet. “Watch me fuck your pretty little pussy. You look positively divine with my fingers inside you.”

He smirks when he sees her face flush red, with an amalgamation of desire and embarrassment. Though she likes it, Kamena does not have much experience with vulgar dirty talk, despite the fact that he’s heard some downright obscene things drop off her tongue.

With his fingers sliding against his shaft on every pump, groans escape him unbidden. Kamena clenches around his fingers at the sound, answering him with whimpers. The fact that Kamena is aroused further by the sound of his need exhilarates him.

“My clit,” she pants with her eyes anchored on his fingers. “You can do both at the same damn time. Don’t be so lazy.”

He growls into her ear approvingly. “As you wish.”

His thumb presses against her clit, sweeping across in a regular rhythm, and her hips jerk and roll thoughtlessly. He increases his pace, driving his fingers deep and fast, curling them up with every pass. Kamena’s fingernails dig into the meat of his thighs as she gasps and jerks, sweat starting to coat both of their bodies.

Precum dribbles from his cock, and his hips start to buck involuntarily as it begs him for the attention he so desperately craves.

“A- Gods! Astarion,” she sputters. “Fuck me. Please. Fuck me.”

He would have liked to make her cum like this, but he cannot deny that he much prefers to feel her walls spasming around his cock, begging him to fill her with his spend.

“Lean in me,” he barks, and she relaxes into him straight away. He hooks his forearms under her knees, spreading her wider for him. “A hand, if you would be so kind, love.”

Kamena grasps his cock, swirling her thumb over his precum soaked tip and giving it a slow stroke before she aligns him at her entrance.

“Hard or soft tonight?”

“Bite me and fuck me hard,” she growls at him, sweeping her hair to the side and exposing her neck.

A shot of pure, unmitigated desire shoots straight through him at the words, and he buries himself to the hilt with one smooth snap of his hips. His eyes fall shut, revelling in the sensation of being sheathed in her — so tight, so wet, so warm, so perfect.

Astarion opens his eyes, watching himself pull out almost all the way and slamming back into her again and again.

He kisses her neck, moaning against her. “Gods above. You look magnificent on my cock. Do you like to watch me fuck you, Kamena?”

A desperate whine comes from her. “Gods, yes.”

“Good girl,” he purrs. “Play with your clit.”

Kamena’s hand reaches down shakily, skimming across her tender flesh. Astarion moans once more at the divine sight before he bites, quick and accurate, knowing exactly where and how to illicit the correct response. His fangs sink into her tender flesh, and her blood surges into his mouth.

His eyes roll back as the sanguine nectar skips across his tongue. If heaven has a taste, he’s positive that this is it. Astarion centres his attention on the push and pull of her walls, the ridges dragging against his hard length.

He can feel every squeeze of that slick, warm grip sending him reeling into mind-numbing pleasure. Kamena’s hips undulate in time to meet his hard thrusts, her fingers working her clit at a frantic pace.

Astarion drives into her, harder and deeper, making her take all of him with every thrust. Kamena whimpers and moans his name in an almost prayer-like chant, and every time it sends another wave of affection coursing through him.

She cries out, her cunt spasming and clamping down on him. The tightness, the way her walls squeeze him, makes it too hard for him to stave off his orgasm. He has to withdraw his fangs from her neck when he comes, the pleasure so intense that his toes curl and a sonorous whine erupts from his throat.

Astarion’s fingers dig into the meat of her thighs, holding on for dear life. His hips stutter, dipping his cock into her again and again and again, coaxing out every bit of his release and flooding her. His being narrows down into nothing but an impossibly compressed point of white-hot bliss as his hips buck, riding out his own shockwaves until they finally abate.

Kamena sags into him once he unhooks his arms from her legs and lets them relax. He presses a kiss to her temple, burying his nose in her hair with his own satisfied sigh.

“We might have ruined this chair.” Kamena shifts to look down at the evidence of their enjoyment. “We definitely ruined this chair.”

Astarion barks out an abrupt laugh in response. “Possibly,” he concurs with a rakish grin. “To Hells with them. You gave them enough bloody coin to furnish this room twice over.”

She turns to face him, draping herself over him with her arms around his neck. “You’re just going to steal it back for me anyhow.”

He grins at that, his chest feeling lighter. It feels good to be seen, known. “You know me too well.”

Kamena rests her head in the crook of his neck, her eyelashes fluttering against his skin as her eyes fall shut. “That was... fun. We haven’t done that in a while. You are okay?”

A typical question after they make love, but he finds it hard to answer this time. It’s not the physical intimacy that troubles him, but her lack of emotional intimacy is another matter entirely.

“Yes, my love,” he purrs. There will be a time and place for that discussion, but this isn’t it. “I’m fine. I would tell you if I wasn’t. Shall we clean up and go to bed? We have a long night ahead of us.”

She leans back, quirking her brow at him. “A long night?”

“Oh yes,” he smiles cunningly. “I believe I owe you a hot date, and I intend to deliver before we leave the city.”

Thank you to all those who read/like/comment/follow/reblog/etc. I'm forever thankful for the support. I love reading your comments ❤️

Chapters Master List - Shadows of the Past

AO3: Crossposted

If you're interested, I also write fanfic for Ascended Astarion x Spawn Tav - Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Small Notes:

😮‍💨 Some complicated feelings going on for poor Astarion.

Date night is nigh!

🥵 (this is all I've got)

[lunarsorcerer]

i dont really *know* anything about schizophrenia, and the concepts that i do associate with it are obviously harmful stereotypes, like thats so easy to see. so i guess my question is why do you think schizophrenia is still so stigmatized while other mental illnesses are getting far more publicity and understanding then ever before? And how do you deal with having a taboo like that hanging over your head?

all of this is with a genuine intrest in learning how i can support people with schizophrenia better, so please point out anything that i said thats inaccurate or could be offenive. ty!

so it's actually a very real problem that bothers me a lot that schizophrenia is being left behind in the mental health awareness movement. the reality is like you pointed out that people only know the stigma and nothing else. they see a homeless person yelling at nothing having a mental health crisis and think "that person has schizophrenia and they're dangerous" rather than just thinking hey maybe this person needs some help from a professional (a cop is not a professional) and the system has failed them by making mental healthcare inaccessible for them and forcing them onto the street because our society does not take care of our disabled. they're not thinking maybe if they were getting the help and support they need then they wouldn't be going through this, they think "how can i get away from this as fast as possible so i can stop thinking about it and feeling afraid and move on with my day". and something i want to emphasise when it comes to psychotic episodes is that they are a lot scarier for the person going through them than those around them. oh they're yelling and acting erratic? okay i'll admit that's unpleasant to be around. however, what would your reaction be if you truly believed something like aliens were currently laying eggs inside your brain and taking over you from the inside (a real example from my life). and i don't mean you are thinking "what if this happened" i mean that in that moment you truly believe that that is what is happening to you and you are trying to think of anything to make it stop. a psychotic episode is not a failure of character, it is when we are at our most vulnerable and when it is so visible it is a cry for help. it is terrifying and truamatising for us going through it but people see that happening and think "that makes me uncomfortable" as they walk by and make themselves the victim in the situation, ignoring the humanity of the person having a psychotic episode.

essentially the thing about schizophrenia that makes the stigma stick around so hard is because this is people's only interaction with schizophrenics and they don't see the humanity and they see us as a nuisance and a bother and something to be feared because we dare have a problem that affected them in the slightest. generally, things like depression and anxiety are very internal and do not affect those people around them in such an "incredibly negative" way that people view their interactions with schizophrenics. anxiety and depression are something to be pittied because the person going through them is suffering. people don't see schizophrenics as suffering they see us as dangerous. and if you actually educate yourself and look at the real world statistics, schizophrenics are more likely to be the victims of violence than the general public, especially at the hands of the police during such criseses. did you know that if you call 911 and report that someone is having a psychotic episode then in the majority of places (well in the us) a cop with a gun is required to be dispatched either with other cops, or if the schizophrenic is lucky in where they are, then with social workers trained in deescalation. no matter what, a cop with a gun will be there and i assume the people on this site are at least educated enough to understand the dangers a cop with a gun are to a person seen as less than human. the stigma out there is all skewed and warped in a way to diminish empathy and raise animosity towards schizophrenics.

schizophrenia can often be an incredibly disabling illness (it is for me) and society already does not care about disabled people and then on top of that schizophrenic people are an incredibly vulnerable population that people so often mistreat and you add that on top of each other and you think about how stress and anxiety can lead to more and worse psychotic episodes and it just confounds factor upon factor against schizophrenic people. we are so often put into the worst situations such as poverty and homelessness that antagonise our symptoms and make our psychotic episodes more visible and then also makes people's desire to help us all the less. it is a true tragedy.

and the language so often used just in general everyday conversation furthers the stigma. how often every day do you hear someone describe someone they don't like as "psychotic" or "schizophrenic". it is deeply ingrained in our culture that schizophrenia = bad and ableism against it is incredibly normalised.

it is a horrible burden to carry this stigma and see how it affects not only me but my fellow schizophrenics and know that there is so little i can do about it. i educate my friends and when i confide in them how much the stigma hurts and how i hate being viewed as scary i am time and time again met with the same reassurance from my friends and that is "you are one of the least scary people i've ever met". and they say this because they know me deeper than my illness, and honestly i've dealt with this stigma so much of my life and i know what it is like to be feared so i absolutely overcompensate myself to be less threatening. but they can see past the surface of what society has painted me as, but so many schizophrenics are not so lucky. i am privileged enough to have a life full of love and empathy from the people surrounding me, but i hurt for my siblings who only know the pain and loneliness that often comes with this illness.

so my advice to you when it comes to supporting people with schizophrenia is this: advocate for our care, emphasise the human behind the illness, and show love to those you may meet who have to live this life. we are people just like you, please treat us as such. society may paint us as monsters, but remember that inside all of us is a soul.

sorry this is a wall of text and maybe not the most coherent but it is something i am very passionate about because it affects me every single day. if you have any further questions or clarifications please feel free to send another ask and i'll do my best to explain

[willowbleedsonpaper]

Winter In The Shade VI

Part VI

Sirius Black x Ravenclaw Reader

W.C. : 2492

Requested by @amourtentiaa : It is Sirius’ fifth year at Hogwarts, the same year he ran away from home and to the Potter’s. Soon, he discovers the unfamiliar sight of his brother Regulus smiling and looking truly happy, next to him a Ravenclaw girl who immediately captures his interest. What will happen when the Black family gets involved in their sons lives and the ones they hold close to their hearts?

Warnings: None

A/N: I didn't proof read so I apologize for any mistakes.

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Masterlist | Series Masterlist

The distant chatter in the common room was nothing but a melody that accompanied your soft humming, moving around the room as you got ready. You found yourself alone in your dorm, your roommates long gone by then. You danced around your bed, your feet softly moving to the rhythm or the song stuck in your head as you laid your outfit for the night over the bed, a smile appearing on your face with an approving look. It wasn’t nothing that would make you stand out, but by no means it was something you would wear on a normal day around the Castle. You put it on gently, walking to the mirror as your smile brightened, you looked beautiful. Something you felt confident in, comfortable to wear for the night. You fell to the chair in front of the mirror, getting the silver necklace that would finish off the look for the night.

One more look at your reflection and you stood, standing straight “You’ll have fun.” you said to yourself through the reflection “You’ll have fun and make memories.” Your smile fell, the knot in your stomach tightening as you said. “You’ll find Sirius, dance and forget all this ever happened.” But did you truly want to forget?

You couldn’t deny that Sirius’ request had filled you with excitement when you forced yourself to stop pretending you were upset. You weren’t upset in the slightest, quite the opposite, actually. You were angry at yourself for feeling the way you did, for liking the interactions with Sirius even after you had asked him to stop. You had rolled your eyes when he flashed you with smiles from across the hall, glared at him when he sent dangerous winks in your direction while standing next to Regulus, you had turned on him and walked away when he crossed your path and even yanked your hand from your side as he brushed his hand against yours while walking through the halls. But there was no denying the butterflies waking up in your stomach when he smiled at you, the skip in your heart beat when you found him looking at you or the way your hand wanted to reach for the warmth of his. You were a confusing mess filled with guilt, what kind of friend will that make you?

You shook the thought from your head, looking at you one last time in the mirror before you left for the stairs of your common room. This is exactly why you’re doing this, you reminded yourself, you’re being a good friend. You repeated in your head as you descended to the common room, stopping in your steps “Reg?” you asked with a laugh, your voice high as he turned at the sound of your voice “What are you doing here?” you asked, hoping he didn’t see your mind crashing inside your head.

“I thought I’ll come here and walk you to the party like a proper date.” he said, standing from the chair “Memories, remember?” he said, his features completely relaxed.

He wasn’t supposed to be there.

You smiled at him “You didn’t have to.” you said, awkwardly placing your hands over his shoulders “You had something to do, didn’t you?” you reminded him “A class or something.”

He shook his head, the corner of his mouth lifting ever so slightly “ I’ll have time for that later, I only have today with you.”

You tilted your head, looking up at him with a soft smile “Oh, Regulus.” you whispered, lowering your hands as you wrapped your arms around his waist, his arms instantly holding you against him “You really didn’t have to.” you muttered.

“I think my best friend is more important than my tasks.” he said.

You frowned “Tasks?” you asked, moving to look back at him.

“Nothing important,” he told you “Shall we?” he moved to offer you his arm, one you gladly took as he led you outside. Walking in silence for a couple of minutes before you turned to him “Who let you inside my common room?” you asked, squinting at him.

He raised his eyebrows with a shrug “Myself,” he said simply “Answering a riddle, really? No wonder everyone is in and out of that common room.”

“Regulus!” you said with a squeal “Not everyone can answer those. It takes skill.”

He scoffed, both of you standing at the doors of the Great Hall, his eyes lowering to look at you “It takes a brain and common sense.” he replied, glancing between you and the party inside; a smile drawing itself over his lips as he watched the glint in your eyes, the excitement shining through. “Ready?” he asked, giving your hand a soft squeeze.

You turned to him, the glistening in your eyes never faltering as your smile only grew, reaching your eyes “Let’s make memories, Reg.”

*******

“Would you calm down?” said James, his body leaning against one of the pillars of the Great hall, his hand lazily holding a drink as he took a sip from it, his eyes looking over the cup and towards Sirius and his incessant pacing “Y/N doesn’t struck me as one to promise things lightly.” he said, Sirius soft scoff making him roll his eyes with a smile “She’ll show up.”

James patted Sirius on the back, the motion breaking Sirius’ gaze from the entrance, a scoff leaving his lips as he let the weight of his body fall against the wall “You don’t know that.” he said, fingers fidgeting with the rings carefully placed on his fingers “What am I doing, Prongs?” he asked, a look of disbelief taking over his grey orbs.

James laughed, throwing his head back in the air as he went to stand next to Sirius “Quoting the same words you told me years ago,” he said, placing a hand on Sirius’ shoulder as “You are screwed.” he said, repeating the same words Sirius once told James when he first starting liking certain redhead girl.

Sirius covered his face, his words muffled by his hands “Save me.” he cried playfully, the laughs of the two best friends only increasing in the corner of the Great Hall they had taken for themselves.

“Nah.” said James with a bright smile “I don’t think I’ve seen you this happy in a while. Better take advantage of it.”

Sirius bit his lower lip, shaking his head as he let out a breathy laugh. The words he had on his lips dying right there with the commotion of Peter running straight to them, Remus standing by the door making wide signs with his arms to gather Sirius’s attention.

“She 's here.” Peter breathed out, doubling over himself as he rested both hands over his knees, trying to his breathing back. James took hold of his friend's arm, leading him to the side “You ran all over the Castle, didn't you…” But James’ voice faded in the distance, as everything that surrounded Sirius once he saw you entering the Great Hall.

You took slow steps towards the party, your gaze staying on the ceiling since the first moment you crossed the big wooden doors. Even with great distance separating the two of you he could see the way your eyes shone with excitement, your smile the brightest he had ever seen on your face, he made sure to save that exact picture of you in his head. Always bright, always you.

It wasn’t until you broke out of your trance that he turned to the person walking with you, to the person whose arm you clutched to like your life depended on it. He had forgotten, you had a date. It didn’t surprise him when his eyes found the face of his brother looking at you with that smile that seemed so unknown to him, so distant. Your face remained the same, an almost childlike excitement to your features as you started to point out things, letting go of his arm to take both Regulus’ hands in yours, making small movements in the air to the rhythm of the music.

He expected his brother to shake his head, let your hands fall from the air and cross his arms, only to hear the small chuckle that left his chest, his hand motioning to you to lead the way as you jumped slightly in your place.

As you turned your body, your eyes caught sight of the older Black sibling, your features falling into softer ones while taking a firm hold of Regulus hand, a smile was drawn over your lips, one only Sirius could see as you walked an disappeared into the crowd

“What are you doing?” Remus snapped his fingers in front of Sirius, his face turning with a haze in his eyes “You were supposed to do something!” said Remus, his hands pointing wildly to the spot you stood a fraction of a second before.

Sirius nodded his head slowly, his eyes focusing on his friend “The party had just begun, Moony.” he said confidently “The night’s still young.”

*******

You led Regulus through the crowd, your feet moving to the rhythm of the music as you reached a more secluded place. It still had some students there enjoying the party but it was nothing like the main Hall where all the crowd was gathered.

“You promised me something long ago.” you said, lowering your head to meet his eyes.

“Did I?” he asked playfully, but still you could see the gears inside his head working to remember what he had promised, his silence a confirmation he had reached to nothing.

“You promised you would teach me how to dance.” you said.

His eyes opened wide, turning back to the ongoing party “You want me to show you how to dance right now?” He asked “During the party?”

“Yes!”

He took one hesitant look back at the party, the safe place where you two stood now almost making him refuse your request but one look at you it’s all it took for him to give in.

He offered his hand and you took it with a squeal, making him chuckle “It’s not even the right music, you know?”

“Does it matter?” you asked him.

A grin was plastered on his face, placing himself in front of you “It has never stopped me before.”

You smiled up at him, placing one hand over his shoulder as he took your free hand, his other hand firmly placed over your waist. “Ready?” he asked.

“Ready.” you said with a nod.

To say you learned how to dance would be a complete lie. He spent probably five minutes teaching how to dance before you both got distracted. In the end you ended up dancing to however your body felt the music, swinging your arms together in the air as he made you twirl, most of the time making you a dizzy chuckling mess. The Great Hall was left behind at some point, leaving the party and the crowd to be on its own as you and Regulus escaped to your own world. Laughter and quick footsteps echoed through the halls of Hogwarts, running as you chased each other around until you both could no longer breath properly.

Your bodies rested against the cold stone walls, letting it fall to the floor with your chest heaving at a rapid pace.

“That was fun.” Regulus said.

You chuckled, turning to him with a smile that in no way could compare to the one he had on his own face. He had his head thrown back, resting comfortably against the wall, he had his eyes closed and a smile adorning his lips. He looked peaceful.

“It was.” you whispered.

“Regulus.”

You snapped your eyes up, meeting a bored look in the boy in front of you He never stopped to acknowledge your presence, his eyes lingering on your friend as he jumped to his feet. You copied his movements, but he moved to stand in front of you, covering your body with his.

“Severus.” Regulus said back, his calm voice a contradiction to his reaction.

The boy paid you no mind, blinking slowly at Regulus “We’ve been looking for you.” he said, his voice low. “We didn’t see you tonight.”

“I was busy.” Regulus said with no further explanation. You tried to move away from behind his body, his arm stopping you before you could move.

Severus glanced at you briefly, his face remaining the same “I can see that,” he said “Still, I will advise you to sort out your priorities.”

Regulus face turned, his fists clenched at his sides “They’re sorted out, I can assure you.” he said through gritted teeth.

Again, you tried to move out from the small space Regulus had you in, looking over his shoulder to see Severus turned and walk away, not once looking back.

“What in Merlin’s name was that?” you asked in disbelief, letting out the breath you had been holding as you turned to meet Regulus’ gaze “Reg?” you asked when he stared into the distance, his eyes following the path Severus went.

“Nothing.” he said, putting on a smile.

“What was that?” you asked again, your eyes filled with worry.

“They were helping me before, nothing important.”

You turned, blinking rapidly at him “Not important?” you asked with a string of voice “He seemed ready to drag you with him.”

“He did.” he muttered, looking back “Y/N, do you think... “ he said, his words trailing off as you tilted your head, getting what he was asking.

“Oh,” you said, watching as he scrunched his eyebrows in worry “No, it’s fine. You go. It’s already late, I should go to bed anyway.” you smiled at him, a reassuring look on your face.

“Are you sure?” he asked again “I can walk you to your dorm…”

“No!” you said, your smile tightening as his frown deepened “I can go there myself. You should go before they send someone scarier.” you laughed.

He took your hand and gave it a squeeze “I’ll see you tomorrow before I leave, alright?”

You nodded, holding onto his hand as he started to walk away, his face turning back to you “Thank you for tonight, Reg.” you said, pulling his body to you as you hugged him.

His arms snaked around you, holding you close to him as he placed a soft kiss at the crown of your head “See you tomorrow.” he whispered.

Your hand stretched holding onto his until the distance made your hand fall, your eyes following him before he disappeared in the distance. You stood there for a couple of minutes, your mind racing over the last couple of minutes and the heaviness that had settled on your heart. You shook your head of all the worry, taking a deep breath before you turned back, starting your way back to the Great Hall.

You owed Sirius a dance.

TAGS

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Winter in the Shade

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Marauders

@destourtereaux

[heavenbarnes]

if i could reach for the stars, i’d give them all to you

The Mandalorian x Female Reader

Warnings/Contains: mentions of masturbation, impure thoughts, implied voyeurism, dirty talk, clothed!mando and naked!reader, fingering, finger sucking, handjob, unprotected sex (this is fiction but yours is not, wrap it), coming inside, very light canon-typical violence

Word Count: 6.5k

everyone’s favourite bounty hunter, in a piece that seemingly came out of the blue! (my apologies if there is any new-zealand-english in this, i started it on my phone) x

If you could count the days that Mando had been dragging you from planet to planet in search of this quarry, then maybe you’d be able to sleep at night.

Time moves different, you think, the hours go slow but the days go quick. Or maybe it’s the other way around? Or maybe time just doesn’t move at all, maybe you’re suspended in this limbo the same way the Razor Crest is suspended in the stars.

At least it feels that way, you’re starting to lose the ability to differentiate between the ship moving and standing completely stagnant.

That’s how long you’d been on this hunt for.

It wasn’t even your hunt, you had your duties, but they certainly weren’t wrangling no-gooders. Yours were more house keeping, the occasional wound cleaning, baby sitting was also on that list somewhere.

And as if he could hear your thoughts (you were still indeterminate on whether or not he could, there was a running bet between yourself and the bounty hunter), the gentlest of gurgles and coos were making their way closer to where you lay.

You turned your head, shuffling your body to try in earnest to get somewhat comfortable on the steel bunk, bringing yourself face to face with your greenest wee friend. By the time three little fingers were reaching onto the edge of your bed, you were hooking you arm down to crane him up.

He lay chest to chest on you, barely weighing more than a bag of root vegetables, quietly chirping to himself. Wrapping both arms around him, you lay in quiet, trying to listen out for telling signs that something might’ve been going well in the cockpit.

“What has your dad got us into now, huh?” The question was nearly rhetorical with the nonsensical babbles you got back from the little guy.

It was a fair question though, one you’d never have the guts to ask the pilot currently sitting somewhere above your head. That was kind of the deal, he doesn’t ask you what you do, and you don’t ask him what he does.

You weren’t sure if it was entirely a fair deal, considering your answer would almost always be “feeding the baby” or “tidying up the mess you left.” His would be somewhere in the range of “extortion” or “racketeering”, which is generally the one you’d be more fervent to know about.

Hearing a familiar noise and change in pressure, you took it for the landing of the ship. You’d landed somewhere, which probably meant Mando knew the guy was close, which could really mean that he’d get the fucker and you’d get to stay somewhere comfortable for more than a night.

The sound of him coming down the ladder and into the shared space pricked your ears up, causing you to hold the baby close to your chest as you sat up to ensure he didn’t fall from your grasp. You were met with the dark visor and the inability to tell what would come next.

He stood there before you, taking up a hell of a lot of space. He always did, this unspeakable way of being very much present, wherever he was. There was never any doubt that he had arrived, and maybe that’s what made him so good at what he did. There was many a quality of him that you pondered when you had silence to yourself, which was nearly all the time.

Hard to believe but the Mandalorian wasn’t a chatterbox.

His right hand brushed over the blaster on his thigh, naturally commanding your eyes to follow the motion, you didn’t know when this conditioning had started. Your cheeks heated at the thought of it, how has you become so responsive to his motions.

Maybe it was that lack of verbal communication, maybe your subconscious had forced you into registering just about every movement his body made. That way you’d have even the slightest idea as to what he might’ve been doing, or better yet, thinking.

“I’ve got to go on foot, I should be back before dark.” He finally spoke, his head hadn’t shifted but there was a possibility his gaze had moved across you and his son.

“Sounds good, I was just thinking of getting us some more supplies.” You threw out, nonchalantly as you brushed your hand along the kid’s back.

Mando cleared his throat before shifting on his feet, like he was wanting to leave before he said his next words. He decided against it and spoke briskly before turning towards the hatch.

“Then don’t go too far,” With his back to you he briefly tilted his helmet over his shoulder. “Please.”

And just like that he was off the ship and out into the open, off to do maker knows what to maker knows who. You placed the kid on the floor as you rose to your feet, looking around for what needed your attention first.

What you took away from Mando’s comment of “before dark” was that it was currently somewhere near morning, maybe midday. What you also took away from the whole interaction was that you were to stay close, and he’d even used his manners.

You needed to start cleaning before you over thought the sentiment. Very easy to do when the man spoke to you possibly three times a day and almost everything he said set your heart alight.

How he managed to do it was beyond you, you thought whilst you folded back the sheets on the bunk parallel to yours, Mando’s bunk. Was it the nature of the man contrasted with the way he interacted with you? Most likely.

You’d seen him haul ass straight up that ramp and strike fear into men triple the size of you. You’ve seen him silence a cantina by walking through the door. You knew the sounds he could draw out of the toughest of people, through fear alone.

Yet when he was behind the walls of this ship? He asked you if your food was too hot and if you needed an extra blanket at night. This man knows how to kill yet he turns his head towards you when you sing quietly to the little green guy.

Sweeping away the dirt that his boots had left in their wake, the smallest smile crept across your face at the thought. That was until, well you couldn’t help it, those thoughts always followed afterwards. He was very kind to you, but it wasn’t only kindness he’d shown you.

Your mouth went dry and there was an uncontrollable flutter in the pit of your stomach as your mind conjured up memories on its own accord.

You could see that moment you’d been returning to the Razor Crest with Mando, well after dark. He was walking slower than you were, no words were being exchanged, it was understandable they’d think you were alone. It was however, incredibly idiotic to grab you by the elbow at that moment.

“Let go of her, now.” The voice had seemingly come from nowhere, but you’d always known it was close behind.

“And why would I do that?” Silly man, you cannot catch up at this point.

The sound of a blaster being drawn made itself known, the man’s grip on you loosening as the barrel was pressed to his temple.

“Because she’s mine and I don’t share.”

You stopped sweeping to catch your breath, a thin sheen of sweat arising on your forehead at the mere thought of what he’d do for you. Maker, he once stepped in front of you when he thought there was danger and that was enough to have you your hand between your legs that night.

How unforgiving, to secretly bury your fingers between your thighs, your other hand across your mouth to suppress any sounds. The same man that was on your mind sleeping directly to your left, less than three feet away from you. Well you were sure he was sleeping, it was hard to tell with the helmet but he never said anything.

Pushing the thoughts to the back of your head, you finished sorting the living area of the ship, leaving the cockpit to him. That was the one place you didn’t interfere with, he’d never told you to keep out, but you didn’t really trust yourself in there without him. It seemed strange being in there without him, it was one area that was so very, him?

You came back to your things, rifling through to find another one of your fabric wrap tops, sitting down with it you pulled the little green baby into your lap. Re-purposing your spare shirt, you weaved the fabric around the both of you until he was safely secured to your front. You smiled down at his big eyes as you grabbed your bag to head out.

These jaunts into the village, they weren’t bad, they were just better with the Mandalorian. The bounty hunter, the pretty care-taker, and their big-eared green child. An unconventional family, but a family none the less. It felt nicer when you were together, but you knew you enjoyed these new places because of the work Mando did.

How else would you be visiting these new planets, new villages, new people? As you felt the soft breeze on your cheeks and heard the soft giggles against your chest, you were acutely aware you had a lot to be grateful for. Using a squinted smile as a universal thanks, you took the bag of mixed fruits from the elderly lady at the stall.

You passed tiny berries to the kid on your front, watching him devour them happily as you walked amongst the people, happily blending into their backgrounds. There was something serene in anonymity, being observant rather than observed for once. This was almost restful in a sense.

That wasn’t to say you couldn’t find thrill in the way all eyes fell on you as you accompanied your- the Mandalorian somewhere. You knew people whispered about you as you walked with his hand on the small of your back. Gazes drifted in your direction as he bought you drinks and instinctively turned towards you in protection.

There was most certainly a particular kind of feeling in that, one it didn’t pay to dwell on when you were in public.

A few medical supplies in the bag, food stuffs for the three of you, it was about time you made it back to the ship. You smiled to yourself as you walked, silently praising your listen abilities as you hadn’t strayed too far. It wasn’t hard not to, especially after Mando had thrown a please on the end there.

You wondered if his eyes softened when he said it? Did his lip jut out and his brow furrow as he spoke? Another thing you really couldn’t think of when you were out in the open, the more you tried to think of what he could look like, the more you felt the heat prick your skin. Just from the tone of his voice, the size of his build, and the way that he walked you knew he’d have you on your knees.

Maker, even with all that armor on you were ready to do for him whatever he asked, no doubt about it. Sometimes you thought maybe the armor added to it, the way it made him look like a mountain of a man, added to his power and elusiveness? That helmet never allowed his features to betray him and give away what he was thinking, bestowed with the upper hand in every situation.

As much as you’d like to see his face, to feel his lips, you’d be lying if you said the armor had nothing to do with the way you felt about him.

This planet’s suns were already starting to move in the sky as the Razor Crest came into view across the field, from what you remembered of Mando’s lessons about telling the time through the sky, you’d say it’d be dark soon. That’d mean, he would be home soon.

That would mean you’d hear the hiss of the hatch open and you’d watch him trudge into the small space, deep breaths through the modulator and dirt on your once tidy floors. His return back was your favorite part of the day, the sense of safety that blanketed you was never taken for granted.

You wouldn’t say he came home soon, but then again, it was hard to tell how much time had passed when you spent the most of it trying to put the baby to sleep. The moment you were successful, you were closing the latch on his crib and immediately heading for your bunk, relieved to be done with your 33rd lullaby of the evening. You’d just lay back when that familiar sound had you rising up on an elbow.

From your bunks, you had a clear view of all incoming visitors, so laying back here you had your sights locked on the unfolding scene in front of you. Mando’s boots dragged along the tracked flooring of the ramp as he pulled something along behind him. He lent back, before he threw his cargo out in front of him, nudging him towards the one place he certainly didn’t want to be right now.

You silently observed, still propped up on your elbow as the bounty hunter wrestled him into carbon, that bit you averted your eyes for. After the commotion had died down, you turned in time to see Mando walking towards where you lay, perching on the edge of the bunk across from you. Your eyes ran over his appearance, noticing a few scuffs on his armor, but overall, another job well done.

Unsure of what came over you, your eyes came to a stop right at the large black “T” of his visor, right where you guessed his eyes should be. If they were there, you weren’t sure where they were looking but the helmet was focused in your direction. The silence was somewhat comfortable until one of you had to break it.

Someone always had to go first. You knew this. You always went first.

“The kid and I picked up something that looks like dinner, if you’re interested.” You spoke with a smile, fingers fiddling absentmindedly.

He nodded, shifting around on the bunk, something you didn’t blame him for as these threadbare mattresses were rather offensive to say the least.

“Before I do, could you help me with something?” He asked you with a break-even tone.

It was so calm and collected that you simply nodded, it gave away no hint as to what you were about to see. You watched as he busied his hands with his armor, before lifting his undershirt and exposing to you a helluva hit on the left side of his torso.

“Maker forbid! Stay there!” You panicked, racing up to get your medical supplies.

You could’ve sworn you heard him make a joke, something along the lines of “I’ll be where you left me” but you were moving too quick to really pick it up. By the time you were back, and you’d got a closer look at it, you really couldn’t believe how smoothly he’d played this one off.

“We really are not cut from the same cloth,” You filled the space as you reached for the bacta spray. “This is nothing to you yet I stub my toe on a ladder once and I really thought you’d have to go on without me.”

It might’ve just been a delay from the modulator of his helmet, but you almost thought that could’ve been a huffed laugh that came from him. It was followed closely by a sharp inhale in pain, so it was looking more and more likely.

“You and I aren’t so different, I’ve just got the helmet to hide it.”

Suppressing your reactions was tough, but you didn’t want to scare him into his usual silence by making some kind of face. This was just, unusual, beautifully unsure.

As you sprayed the affected area, you allowed yourself that one little glimpse of him you got, the only one you got every time you bandaged him up. The beautiful soft tan skin that resides under his armor, something you’d never get enough of.

“You mean to tell me there might be some tears under there?” You finished applying it, your hand still gently resting against his skin.

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

As you went to move your hand away from him, you felt his own gloved hand shoot out and grasp yours, holding it against him for a moment. You prayed to Maker that his helmet didn’t have some truly enhanced hearing that gave away the fact your heart was near beating out your chest.

He didn’t speak, just kept your fingertips pressed against him for a few more moments. You weren’t going to argue, the physical contact being the first you’d had in a very long time, this was hardly cause for concern. You did feel a sense of loss when he finally moved you away, reapplying his armor as you tidied up.

As you put your bag away, you felt like you were being watched, and your assumptions proved correct when you turned to find him looking at you from the ladder to the cockpit.

“Thank you for that, and thank you for the food.” Unfortunately, very normal again.

You lent him a kind smile, reassuring him it was no problem, before he made his way up to eat his food on his own. Resigning to your bunk, you strained as hard as you could to listen for that sound, and soon you were met with it.

A gentle hiss, before metal on metal as he placed the helmet on the floor. A spoon against a bowl and then, a quiet hum in appreciation for that first bite of food. You lay with a smile on your face knowing that only a floor away from you, the Mandalorian was helmet-less and he was enjoying food, your food.

You hadn’t realised you had fallen asleep, or that you were tired, until you heard Mando coming into your shared space. He unknowingly woke you up, but you didn’t open your eyes, you listened to the sounds of him navigating the area until the sounds of his boots stopped. You gently opened your eyes and felt your heart jump inside your chest, but not out of fear.

He was standing beside your bunk, helmet directed towards you, so your eyes did what they always did and went for the black strip of visor. There was a moment of quiet between you, and for the first time, Mando went first.

“How do you always do that?”

“Do what?” You didn’t know why you were whispering, he wasn’t, but he made you feel like you needed to.

“Look directly into my eyes, you always know where they are.”

Your mouth was going dry, the blood was rushing so quick in your ears that you couldn’t hear your own thoughts. All you could offer him was a pathetic shrug as you shuffled up your bed. Apparently, this was an open invitation for him to sit beside you on it.

Now, you hadn’t thought of it before but it was suddenly made aware to you that there is something entirely intimate about someone sitting on your bed. The fact it was him, in all his glory, well that was just entirely intimate in and of its own.

It dawned on you how quiet it had become, only the sounds of your breathing in this tiny space could be heard, but it wasn’t essentially bad. This was just one of those moments, where nobody really had anything to say. Rather than speak, Mando moved in a way that told you more than anything he could say ever would.

He reached into your lap, where your fingers were tugging at the woolen blanket, and took your hand between his. He gently rested it on the armor of his thigh as he slowly slipped his two gloves off, a new sound coming to light of the leather being dropped on the floor.

Your tongue was suddenly too big for your mouth as his bare hands wrapped around your one. They felt rougher, certainly had seen more harm than yours had, but that didn’t mean they weren’t kind to the touch. His fingers moved against yours, folding down until they were entwined.

He cleared his throat, the noise coming in clear across his modulator and nearly making you jump. What really stopped your heart was his question.

“Do you look at me when you touch yourself because you’re thinking of me, or because you’re trying to make sure I don’t notice?”

If Maker could’ve struck you down where you sat, that wouldn’t have been the worst thing to happen. Your whole body was overcome by a horrendous heat, and yes, you’d be a bold faced liar if you said part of it wasn’t arousal.

“You’ve been awake all those times?” Your voice was so quiet but you just needed to know.

“Sometimes I’ve been so tired that I’ve fallen asleep against my will, but most of the time, yes.”

Second time this day he’s been cool as ice about something that’s got you seeing stars. How is this something so calm to him when you’ve got lightning inside of you? What does he mean against-

“Against your will?”

“As in, I would’ve liked to keep listening but I fell asleep before I could stop myself.”

How strange to be able to pin point a moment where everything was going to change, never be the same again. You willed yourself to look at his helmet, and if what he said was true, you’re locked eyes with him in that moment.

“You listen and you like-“

“I listen and I rub myself through my pants, because I feel I’ve heard you say my name.”

Any less restraint on yourself and that moan sitting on the tip of your tongue would have fallen straight out. Is it possible that every filthy thought you’ve had is suddenly materializing in front of you.

“But I don’t hear you or-“

“I can turn off the vocalizer in this,” One of his hands rises to tap against the helmet. “And you’d never hear a word.”

The image of Mando palming himself in the bed beside you as the tiniest cries of his name sound from you, flashes past your mind and you can’t stop yourself before your thighs clamp together. You know he saw, he knows you know. 

Unsure of where you found the courage for your next words, you’re just thankful you did.

“A little of both, mainly because I’m thinking about you.”

You hear what has to be a growl, omitted straight from his chest at your words. His helmet tilts to watch as you remove your hand from his, but slowly trails up your body as you’re shifting from your spot beside him. You turn towards him, parting your knees so you’re situated right in his lap.

Large hands come to hold your waist as your hands come to rest on his pauldrons. He slowly drifts his touch up to your shirt, fingers playing with the large knot that keeps the whole thing together. One tug on the intricate draping and everything he’s ever thought of is in front of him.

“Take it off me, Mando.”

Before he moves, he tilts his gaze up, probably looking you dead in the eye with out any hesitations. You hear a low hum of breath through the vocalizer.

“You’re prepared to let me do to you what I want, and you don’t even know my name, what I look like?”

Drifting your hands along his collarbones, your fingers gripped the edge of his under shirt, just and only displaying to you the soft skin that resided there. You kept your eyes on his as your touch left shivers in their wake.

“Always have been, always will be.”

In a matter of seconds, you felt him pull at the back of your shirt and soon it was all unraveling, leaving your chest bare to the bounty hunter beneath you. It wasn’t hard to catch the gasp that fell from him at the sight, everything he’d ever wanted was so very much in his grasp.

The rough pads of his fingers moved along your belly and to your chest, palms rolling over your breasts and catching your nipples. It was a known fact that you’d be the softest thing he was ever allowed to hold onto, he knew this was something to take his time with. The Mandalorian was never a fool, he knew when to draw slow.

Arching your back into his touch, a natural sigh sounded from within you. It had been some time since you were touched like this, this kind of intimacy didn’t come easy when you were constantly on the move with a man like Mando. Understandable that nobody would try get close when the armored man would break an arm before he let them touch you.

And understandable that you’d be less than inviting when all you wanted was this, from him and only him.

“Please touch me, Mando.” You couldn’t help but whine, he already had a way of building arousal within you, this was borderline torture now.

“What do you think I’m doing? Or is this not enough, do you still need more?”

You caught your lip between his teeth, he couldn’t be talking to you like this without expecting it to be doing a number on you. Rolling your hips into his, you had it there in that moment. The Mandalorian was pitching a tent in his pants and it was a credit to you.

“I want your hands on my pussy, sir.” 

You hadn’t called him that in maker knows how long, you had when you first joined him on the ship but it ended all very abruptly. It ended when he turned to you one day and in a strained voice had said “Please, for the love of it all, just call me Mando.”

Now it all made sense to you in this moment, one hand gripped your bottom lip between two fingers, whilst the other slipped down the front of your trousers and cupped your cunt firmly. It all happened so quickly there was no way of stopping the girlish whimper that erupted. 

“Greedy little girl, is this what it’s going to come to? You’re not satisfied until I’ve got my hands on you?” The gruff edge to his voice had you moving your hips in his hand.

He welcomed it as you did, lifting his fingers to slip them between the slit of your heat. There was no doubt he could feel just how wet he’d gotten you with his words and his touch on you. No room for embarrassment, you bared down on him, hoping he’d find it within him to slip his fingers inside you.

“If it means I get spoken to, get touched like this? Then that’s exactly what it’ll come to.”

He moved his hand on your mouth, angling two of his fingers straight in and against your tongue. He muttered a “suck” which you heard loud and clear, wrapping your lips around the thick digits, treating them just how you would the head of his cock.

His other hand moved deeper against you, threatening to move all the way inside you. The way you rolled your cunt against him, you thought he knew it was less a threat than a borderline need at this stage. He ever so graciously sunk them in till the knuckle, before gently stretching them out.

You moaned around his fingers, one hand coming to wrap around his wrist and the other going for his lap, trying to get a grip around whatever you could. Suddenly, the hardening you felt before and the way your fingers seemed to graze against his length, all made sense. Somewhere between leaving you for dinner and coming back down, he’d removed his codpiece.

There had to be a sense of knowing somewhere in there.

The time to tease him over it came and went as his fingers within you flinched when you gripped him through his pants. You rolled your palm over the impressive size, feeling him becoming even harder beneath you. He dragged his fingers forward in time with your movements, forcing you into a steady roll against his body.

Sliding his fingers from your mouth, you licked up the length of them and aimed for eye contact.

“Does it feel better when I do it? Do you think you’ll ever be able to go back to touching yourself and listening?”

He pulled his fingers inside you forward, hitting the softest spot and releasing a pathetic cry from your chest.

“If you don’t watch your mouth I’ll sit over there stroking myself and all you’ll be able to do is watch and listen.”

Now, the thought of that shouldn’t have turned you on as much as it did, but what is a girl to do. What can she do when he’s throwing things like that out into the open and watching her catch them like a dog with a bone.

His helmet briefly tipped down to where his hands rested in your pants, before shooting back up to your face. There was no doubt he felt the small flood that released at what he’d just said. There was also no doubt he was going to have you for that.

“Oh you’re incredible, does that sound good to you? Want to see me fucking myself, hear me get myself off?”

It truly wasn’t fair, there was no control you had over the way you seemed to get wetter at every word. In your defense, Mando was hardening just as quickly under your palm. The answer to his question was obvious, the thought of watching him fuck his fist? That was high up on your list of things that keep you up at night.

Rather than wait for a verbal response, he was drawing his fingers from you, much to your dismay that you made known with a whine. Strong arms wrapped around you and was standing, placing you in the spot he’d just sat. He was quick to draw your trousers and underwear down your legs, leaving you incredibly bare to the bounty hunter.

His hands gripped your shins, pushing your knees back into your chest and exposing you some more. He stepped back, fully taking in the sight of the way your pussy glistened for him. His gaze came back up to your face, and the look in your eyes was familiar to him, a pure look of want.

It took him back to when he met you, you were one of the first people whose first reaction to the Mandalorian wasn’t one of fear. You looked him up and down and when you focused on his helmet (getting eye contact on the first try), he’d seen a look he wasn’t used to. Now he could pin point it as lust, you looked at him like you weren’t meant to spend another day without him.

Releasing one of your legs, he brought his hand down to free himself from his pants. The moment he stood before you with his cock in his hand, you knew that there would never be another like this. It was going to be impossible, should you ever have to, to replicate a feeling like the one he inspired within you.

He stroked himself as he loomed over you, and you took it upon yourself to reach your hand between your legs. To drew your fingers over your pussy, rubbing your clit gently as his helmet dipped ever so slightly to catch the motions.

“Looks like a normal night for us, huh?” 

There was an exhale from the helmet, still intently watching as you collected some wetness and brought your hand out to wrap around his length. He was hot and heavy, throbbing in your grasp as you twisted around it. You brought your touch up and over the head, feeling the way the pre-come had already started to appear.

Mando bucked his hips into your hand for a moment, his hand still grasping your shin as he rubbed it gently, enjoying the feeling of your skin beneath his bare touch. He took the base of his cock in hand and drew back for a moment, before stepping forward and dropping it against the meeting of your thighs.

You gasped at the sensation, the feeling hitting your clit and sending its way through your entire body. There was now no second thought to be had, he had been worth the wait and you were grateful for your displays of patience. He rubbed the head along you, picking up more slick as he got ever closer to your entrance.

Lining up with you, he put his other hand back on your shin and braced you open, slowly inching his hips forward as he began to fill you to the hilt. Your eyes rolled back and you felt tears pricking at the corner of them as he well and truly stretched you. Fuck, if it wasn’t apparent it had been a long time before, getting right back into it with someone as big as him was going to be one of your greatest missions.

Mando was good to you, allowing you a moment to release all the breath held in your body, before the slowest thrusts of his hips became apparent. The patch of coarse hair that resided at the base of his cock was flush against your clit at the end of each thrust. Just about everything he did to you was a sensory overload, the way his skin felt on you, the sounds that were falling from him, he was going to do you over.

He slid one foot back, leaning forward until his chest was flush with yours, his hands left your legs and braced under your arms against the bunk. Your head tipped back, candied moans floated into the air as he sped up his pace, the unmatched heat only he could bring began to rise throughout your body.

His helmet rested heavy in the crook of your neck, moving your head to the side you accommodated him there. The timbre of your moans becoming more all-consuming with your proximity.

“You look so sweet getting fucked out like this, such a good little girl but you’re letting me stretch this pussy till it’s only fit for me.”

There wasn’t a word in all your learned languages that could’ve encapsulated the way that sentence moved through you. Your body responded for you, cunt tightening even more around him as, and he felt it too. He stuttered a moment, a short but sharp moan slipping out into your ear as he did.  

You’d spent your whole time on the Razor Crest complaining about how uncomfortable these bunks were, but in this moment with Mando’s weight on top of you, there wasn’t anywhere else you’d rather be. One of his arms left the bunk, wrapping around your waist and pulling you tighter against him and letting him quicken the pace.

The bind of moans that were steadily leaving your lips were stuttered by the incredible feeling of his hips rolling against yours. The amounting pleasure was getting too much, like a fever that was ready to break, you slipped your hand between the two of you and rubbed your clit. You tried hardest to keep your time but it was hard enough to keep a level head when he had you like this.

You could just and only hear his breathing changing beneath the helmet, you knew you needed more. You hadn’t spent nights awake imagining what this man sounded like when you were wrapped around him, all for him to keep it from you.

Turning towards him, your lips ghosted against the beskar helmet, a fog of your breath being left in its wake.

“I want to hear you, let me know how good I feel.”

That ripped the most guttural groan from deep within his chest, it almost sounded pained, the way it tapered off into a cry towards the end. He knew he didn’t need to hide with you, to be reserved, so when he finally let it out there was nothing to stop it. The dam walls had broken and the sound was intoxicating, your legs kicking out and wrapping around his hips.

He took his other hand from the bunk and tucked it under your thigh, still holding you tight around your waist, he picked you up and hoisted you around him. His thrusts never still, bouncing you down against him as he continued to tell you all the good in the world you were doing, right against your ear. Well, against the helmet and then against your ear.

“This sweet little cunt was made for me, you never need to get yourself off again, you just ask me and I’ll do whatever you want.”

A feeling of lightheaded rushing began to take over you, you never thought you’d hear an admission like that from the Mandalorian but it was gratefully met. Your whole body began to tighten, legs locking and muscles tensing around him. Over your own cries and whimpers, you could hear direct orders from him.

“Come for me, be a good girl for me.”

And how could you deny him like that?

Wrapping your arms around his shoulders, you pulled his head further into your neck, hands splaying against his upper back as a raw cry clawed its way out of your throat. Mando fucked you through it, the white light that shot across your closed eyes telling you that he was hitting every spot maker gave you.

He pulled you down against his cock again, before his pace began to slow in quakes of his body. He brought you back to the bunk, laying you back against it as he dragged himself through you. He pulled right out to the tip before slamming in again, your cries still filling the small space. 

Pushing right back into the hip, he doubled over you, filling you fully as he came with the purest moan of your name. You’d never heard him say it like that, your instinct was to wrap your arms around him, something told you that you needed to hold onto him in that moment.

As he pulled out, he pressed a palm against your belly, making your whole body shudder at the feeling. A gruff exhale could be heard through the modulator, before Mando quickly tucked himself into his pants, heading to the fresher for a wash cloth.

The feeling of the damp fabric against the sensitive meeting of your thighs had you jumping, but he was quick to calm you with another gentle touch of his hand. His helmet came up to look at you, take you in for yet another time that night.

“I’ve got this, let me take care of you for once.” 

[thalys-artcorner]

A Cause to be Bothered By.

A oneshot in which Homelander actually gived a damn with the charity event assigned.  Canon divergent that allowed to write...wait for...actual fluff. Bet you didn’t see that coming.

*Note: I don’t wanna say @kayemagistro​ made me do it, but she did provide the initiative xD Based on this post.

She wasn’t sure how much of a good idea it might be to bring Homelander along, but the powers from above had insisted, and there was only so many strings she could pull before they put her back in her place. It was a miracle already that she had managed to pick her own charity work.

But having Homelander with her? For starters, he loathed charity work. It was a waste of his precious time, devoting attention to causes he did not care for nor did he even bother to look up. He hated the idea of taking care of others, he hated the cameras following, the million questions hurting his senses, and above all, he hated weakness. And wasn’t charity all about weakness? Of helping those not strong enough to make it out on their own?

If that wasn’t enough reason, he was in one of his moods that day. One fo those unstable, volatile, violent moods in which he might even turn around and bite his own leash off just to take it out on those around him, hate them and hurt them so he wouldn’t have to face the consequences of his own emotions. He’d even lashed out at her, not caring in the slightest for the fact that she loved him, forgetting that he loved back. Then again, she had been genetically manipulated so that his powers had no effect on her, just as her own had no effect on him. Not that any of that had ever stopped them from trying in the past.

But the media loved them together, probably because they got to see so little of their relationship. That was another of her personal little triumphs. She’d managed to keep Vought’s media team out of her own relationship after showing them that the public responded better to couples who weren’t flaunting their feelings about every single day. It made them more believable. What little the public got to see of Homelander as a boyfriend humanized him in their eyes (which she knew he hated, and it had taken a whole lot of convincing, fighting and angry sex to finally get it through his thick skull that they had to feed something to the masses). Hence, him coming along to the animal shelter with her, with that cold, shiny fake smile he’d been trained to put on his face like makeup whenever the cameras flashed in their direction.

At least, so far, he looked only irritated, which was a welcome cry far from the usual expression that looked like he was wondering whether if snapping some snotty brat’s arm “by accident” might wriggle him out of the event. Probably because he was not being pestered. She hadn’t chosen an animal shelter charity thinking that he would come along, but because she loved animals. Yet it was turning out to be a smart move. “At least you won’t have anyone asking you for autographs and pictures” she’d pointed out just before coming. She’d received a bad-tempered grunt in response, which was better than some snappy remark.

After the usual tedious talk with the owners of the shelter and the promise of a considerable donation and all those annoying displays that involved actual human contact and during which she was really fearing he might break the glass of water he was holding and throw a tantrum, there came the actual interaction with the actual animals. They were brought to a wide backyard in the center of the kennels, in which they were greeted by a hoard of enthusiastic puppies of all sizes and colors, that demanded pats and kisses and belly rubs. She immediately dropped to her knees and opened her arms wide, letting them jump all over her and whimper and place lots of sloppy, wet kisses on her face. She could almost here Homelander saying “I’m not coming anywhere near you covered in dog slobber”.

She looked around for him and noticed him closer to the kennels, his back leaning against one of the cages and his bad mood strong enough for the puppies to sense it and steer clear away from him, even if the humans did not. Suddenly, his nostrils flared, and he turned around, peering inside the kennel he had been leaning against moments before. She caught sight of a figure lurking on a far corner in the back, it’s beady eyes sad and resentful. She could the white of its teeth as its upper lip curled slightly in a snarl.

“Why is this one locked up?”

Homelander surprised everyone when he spoke up after being unusually quiet during the entire event. One of the caretakers of the shelter stepped forward at a prudent distance and cleared her throat “Oh, that’s one of the newbies, sir. He arrived some time ago, after they found him in a compound that raised puppies to become dog fighters in the pit. He’s been abused pretty roughly for one so young, and he’s very aggressive. We have to keep him locked for the moment, for his own safety and those of the other puppies. Sir”.

“It’s not his fault though, is it?”

“What was that, sir?”

Homelander made a gesture with his hand, brushing off the comment “Nothing”.

She hadn’t missed the whole exchange, but as it seemed he wasn’t going to add anything or elaborate, she returned her attention back to the puppies, smiling and asking questions about them, their stories, their health to the various caretakers, while the cameras buzzed around capturing the best moments of her interaction with them so that later, thousand upon thousands of celebrity sites and talk shows would replay them over and over again, sighing over the shadow heroine who took time off fighting crime to think about the well-being of the innocent creatures nobody else bothered to think about.

She was in the middle of answering a question about the animals she had had back in the farm, when there was a sudden exclamation of alarm from one of the caretakers.

“Sir, please, you can’t open that cage!”

Homelander, without anyone really noticing, had opened the door to the aggressive puppy’s cage, and was kneeling by threshold, looking inside at the snarling animal. She could see his lips moving, all though he was murmuring too softly for anyone else to hear. One of the caretakers stepped forward, and the hero immediately raised a hand in the air to stop her.

“Stay back” he ordered through gritted teeth, his jaw set, a small muscle twitching.

“But-”

“I told you to stay back”. His voice was hard and authoritarian. And it had that dangerous edge it had been carrying all day. Yet after a moment, his jaw relaxed ever so slightly, and he started murmuring to the dog inside the kennel again.

It was time to intervene.

She rose to her feet and crossed her arms over her chest “Everybody leave us for a moment, please. Take these little fellows too, if you would be so kind”.

For a second, nobody moved. She glared at the owner director of the shelter pointedly, a stare that allowed no argument and that she usually reserved for criminals. It worked, and everyone, including the camera crew, were soon hurrying out, picking up the puppies with them, until the backyard was completely clear, except for her, Homelander, and the puppy inside the kennel. Slowly, she approached them, until she was able to crouch beside him and gently rest a hand on his shoulder.

“John?” she called out now that they were alone.

He didn’t reply, still focused on the dog in front of them. It had stopped snarling, and was now standing a few steps away from them, its belly pressed to the ground as he slowly, warily, crawled towards Homelander’s extended gloved hand. Its black lips twitched from time to time, and its hair was standing on end, but he nonetheless drew closer, until his nose was only a few centimeters away from Homelander’s hand.

“Make way for him” the man whispered, as he too took a step to the side, clearing the doorway for the dog. It hesitated. And then, finally, stepped out onto the grass with unsure footsteps.

For a long moment, the puppy simply stood there, as if it could not quite believe it was outside, free, and nobody was stopping him or forcing him back to his cage. It looked like a mixed breed, something halfway between a Pitbull and a Rottweiler. How stereotypical. It blinked under the sunlight, and then, finally, sat on its hunches first, and then extended out his front legs, and laid down in the sun.

Then Homelander reached out to him. The animal immediately snapped and revealed its fangs once more, growling. Homelander pulled his hands back, an obviously outraged frown on his face. And for a moment, she feared he might cut it in half. But his expression eventually softened. He peeled off his glove, and reached out again, this time ever so slowly, making sure the puppy was catching every one of his movements and not taken by surprise. The puppy didn’t growl but stared at him warningly. Finally, it allowed the superhero to rest his hand on its back and pet him. The hair along his back stopped raising, and suddenly, its eyes weren’t glazed with anger anymore.

She released the breath that until then, she hadn’t realized she had been holding, still not quite sure what it was that she was seeing. He’d actually taken the time to coax the puppy out of its cage, and instead of lashing out when it had rejected his initial approach, changed his strategy to suit the animal’s needs. She had never seen him go to such effort for someone else, not in a long, long time; except perhaps for her.

Slowly, mimicking his actions, she reached out to the puppy, whispering soothing words to it. It allowed her to pet him too, and while Homelander scratched it behind the ears, she ran her hand along its back.

And then, as if the entire situation wasn’t already unexpected enough, the little fellow flopped onto his back and exposed is dark brown belly to them, demanding belly rubs. Belly rubs!

“John” she called at him again “What the hell are you doing exactly?”

“Aggressive my ass” he finally said, his eyes never leaving the puppy as it started to twitch one of its hind legs “He’s just tired of being locked up in a fucking cage, with people ordering him about and calling him out”.

Suddenly, everything made sense. Her eyes opened in realization, and she breathed out softly “Does he sound familiar to you?”

Homelander finally lifted his face to look at her. His blue eyes were soft, showing genuine emotion for the first time that day. It seemed like his anger had finally subdued. In his gaze, she actually saw the implicit apology for his behavior towards her earlier that day. Homelander never apologized, but she knew how to look for that feeling in his eyes. They could be almost naively transparent when he wasn’t thinking.

“Someone should have bothered to ask him what he wanted. Maybe if they stopped treating him like a potential killing machine, he wouldn’t be all growls and snaps” he shrugged.

The puppy emitted a playful yelp. It sat back up, and stepped closer to Homelander, until it rested its snout on top of his knees and looked up to him. Grateful. Trusting. Every so slightly, its short tail wiggled.

And then, without any explanation, Homelander scooped him up and rose to his feet. She rose with him, still not quite believing her eyes. “I know that look. What exactly are you planning?” she knew that determined set on his jaw when he set his mind on something.

“I think he’s seen enough of kennels to last a lifetime. I’m taking him with us. If these people won’t bother to actually treat him according to his needs, then…” suddenly he stopped, as if he had just realized what he had been about to say. His expression was almost comical as he cleared his throat “Well…he shouldn’t be here anyways”.

She cracked a grin, and took a step closed to rub the puppy’s head. It had started to doze off in Homelander’s arms. The hero, after a moment, reached out and wrapped his free arm around her waist.

“You do realize they’re going to lose their shit back at the tower with a dog running about, right?”

Homelander looked at her, his face serious. He didn’t care. He’d do as he damn well pleased. She knew that look. It said mine. Suddenly, he grinned at her, before looking down at the dozing pup in his arms. “I’d be disappointed if they didn’t. How about you, buddy?”

[whump-town]

It’s A Wonderful Life

Part one. Part two. Part three. Part four. Part five.

I’m actually pretty proud that I finished a multi-chapter for once...

There is something stirred deep within Derek Morgan by this shattered knife-like mosaic disaster. He thinks in spirals about his father. Mostly of little Jack and how Morgan wasn’t much older than him when his own father died. He thinks about the events that took place in his life without a father there to guide him, of the trespasses beseeched upon him for being a foolish lost little boy. Nightmares stir up and Carl Buford makes his hold on Morgan’s life known once again. And yet, stead-fast curiously planted, Jack remains and Morgan promises to never let anyone hurt this boy. Not like he was hurt and not like Hotch was hurt.

Never. So long as there is breathe in his lungs.

He sees the dust the other’s kick up, as well. The ease with which Emily takes on caring for Jack. Seemingly never blinking as the boy bounces from needs-- frantically pulling at his shirts, kicking his shoes off, hitting his head, or ears. She breathes and soothes him until he can find her calm in himself and together they cut tags out of pants or she carries him so he doesn’t have to wear his shoes or finds the soundproof earmuffs in the bag so he can’t hear all the sounds. Sometimes she just lets him scream until he feels better because she wants to fucking scream too. And on more than one occasion he’s caught them both doing just that.

They’ve all taken to their new little mindless tasks. Eat breakfast. Sit with Hotch. Having lunch together half after one. Mind Jack. Have Dinner. Routine, each with their own, drilled into their bones until they feel less like profilers and more like grievers. The unbalance of one of their tasks is detrimental.

Two days after the accident, Hotch has surgery. Metal rods set to stabilize his ribs, to fix his flail chest, and the promise of his return burns like smoke in their lungs. But there is no magic moment like they’d hope for. To hear his voice or see him through a moment of clarity. There is no gradual getting there.

The first memory: the hospital. He hates the smell and the lights and the tube down his throat. He’s been intubated so many times throughout his life that he considered there should be an eventual immunity to the swollen, tightness-- he thought they’d at least have figured out how to make it so this doesn’t hurt so much. Overwhelmingly, he feels the itch to find some sort of grounding from his surroundings. But hospitals have this silence that is so loud. A crawl on spider legs that creeps its way up way until it’s staring you right in the eyes. There is nothing here and as he feels his heartbeat start to chip at his chest, he lets go.

The second, third, maybe even fourth, fifth, and sixth memories are snapshots. The briefest moments between the intense agony on his chest and their muted comforts. Dave’s palm on his face, suddenly making him too aware of the machine pulling and pushing air into his lungs. It’s too fast, he can’t keep up. Emily’s thumb rubbing up and down his knuckles, he sees her face for only a moment. She smiles, stiff and unnatural. Morgan sleeping. He’d pulled a chair to at the end of Hotch’s bed, moved it so they’re facing one another.

The next solid memory is a water bottle. He feels the plastic label scratching against the sensitive skin on his forearm, a water bottle wedged between his arm and his hip. He turns his head, a tiny movement, and sees JJ in the visitor’s chair. Her feet are kicked up on the edge of the bed and mindlessly pressing a Twizzler to her mouth. Eyes wide as she reads the book in her lap. There are very few moments in his life so natural, so calm. For a moment, there is no ache, no pain. Just Jennifer Jareau and the transfixing beauty of shock smacked across her face.

She’s pretty, he doesn’t think anyone really tells her that.

Days, hours, minutes-- time passes and he has but loses strands to hold onto.

Cough. The head of the bed is raised, his ribs ache, and pulse within his chest. Shifting. He gags painfully around the tube, squeezing the bedsheet beneath him with all his might, as the tube scraps up the back of his throat. Cough. He can not remember being prepared for the extraction, just the end. The people around him pushing and pulling at him. The end of the tube comes free and he realizes they’ve been guiding him along. Easy, easy. Someone pulls a mask up over his face, the strap pulling at a scab near his ear. It doesn’t hurt-- his lungs feel like magma.

He doesn’t speak. He’s not sure if he can but even if he could he would not speak the words threatening to come spilling out. It’s all he’s ever wanted, never once does he have to ask for touch. It comes bountifully but still, he craves more, resisting the urge to ask for more. On dangerously baited breathes he waits for it, the immense relief that he gets is enough to allow him to sleep deeply for hours. Never a nightmare in a sight. They touch like they are afraid he will pour like water from their cupped hands and he is grateful for the reclaiming of his body. He’s uncertain he is really there until they touch him. Until a knuckle brushes his cheek or a hand squeezes his fingers.

He is here. Despite the way death clings to his tired bones, he can feel the will-full breathes he draws in. The heart in his chest. The hurt. Decisive pain. Living pain.

Reid is curled up in one of the waiting room chairs, a blanket pulled up and around him-- even over his head. Hotch watches him silently for several minutes. Soothed by Reid’s soft, thoughtless rocking as he reads. The only solid, real noise the brush of his fingers over the old softened pages of his book.

He can’t escape the pain and he shifts, jaw clenched to refrain from making a noise. It’s intense, the deep stabbing pain along his ribs and sternum. Enough to make his breathing stutter, holding it to prevent his chest from moving and incurring the pain.

“You have to breathe.”

Hotch turns his head, quick laborious breathes to try and stifle the pain.

Reid struggles for a moment to decide what to do but he knows what Emily or Dave would do and so he takes Hotch’s right hand. He holds it tight, applying deep pressure. “Hotch, you had a pneumothorax and a thoracic surgery--” that’s probably not helpful. He doesn’t know what to say. “I know it hurts,” Reid offers. “Can I-- Is there-- Let me get a nurse.”

Reid tries to turn away but Hotch chokes on a panicked exhale, squeezing Reid’s hand. Hotch shakes his head. “No, no,” he’s wheezing, struggling to breathe, and needs a nurse but Reid can’t bring himself to move away. “I’m okay.” Hotch pinches his eyes shut, focusing all his attention on slowing his breathing back down. “I’m okay.”

“Emily’s going to kill me.”

The pain has not ebbed away in the slightest but with some control, with Reid’s hand still tightly gripping his own, the cloud of haze melts away. Forcing his eyes back open, willing his body to ease and stop tensing in the hopes that the pain might go with it. “Emily?” he asks. His mouth fumbles with her name and he slurs but Reid nods.

Out of all of them, Reid has been at the hospital the least. He hates them. The noises, the cold chill, the desperation… So, yes. Reid knows that Emily is probably going to kill him because just as she’d walked out for the evening, and he’d come in she’d commented that Hotch seemed more reactive. And that if Hotch woke up while Reid was thereafter she’d spent hours and days with him, she was going to be livid.

In the same way, Dave is going to be frustrated. Not mad at Reid just… put off. Exasperated for the ability to make contact with him after all this time. They’re all itching to have him back.

“Yeah,” Reid finally answers. “She--” he looks down the tile, a flush of heated warmth spiking up his face. “We,” he corrects. “We missed you.”

Hotch, breathes shallow but calm, is trying to fight the gallons of warmth being dumped into his arm. It stings but he can not fight it. “I missed you too,” he whispers.

Reid stands right there, afraid to move, and shattered the calm falling over Hotch. Even long after he knows Hotch has fallen asleep. He does not tell anyone about this interaction. He keeps it for himself and hopes Hotch doesn’t remember. It’s likely he won’t.

He doesn’t wake the next day, at all. Not even a little bit of a stir. He was really, really out of it and that’s saying something because Derek came and about an hour into his stay he got up to go to the bathroom and kicked the bed. Hard. His explosive “fuck” echoed but Hotch didn’t budge an inch.

Visiting hours are coming to a close when he does wake up the next day. Numb-- to the point that his body feels removed and it’s not until Dave sets a hand on his leg that he feels rooted, here. His tongue is thick, hard to maneuver, but with Dave’s attention on the puzzle book in his hands, he has the time needed to speak.

“Where’s Jack?”

Dave doesn’t look up from his puzzle, just raises an eyebrow to communicate Hotch has been heard. After a moment, Dave hums and circles a word he’s found. “Hmm,” he shuts his book and turns to Hotch. Overjoyed, truly, to hear the other man’s voice after all this time but hesitant to communicate that. He doesn’t want to overwhelm him. “Jack is with Derek tonight but Jessica in the morning.”

Hotch nods, already feeling the weight settle back over his chest.

“You feeling okay?” Dave asks, reaching over and putting his hand on Hotch’s knee. He’s paled and Dave can see the pain lines breaking out over his forehead. His lips parting as he fogs the oxygen mask over his face. In the end, he hasn’t the control to verbally confirm that he’s okay. So he just nods. Dave isn’t stupid. “Tell me what’s wrong,” Dave stands.

His hand moves from Hotch’s knee to the side of his head, the palm of his hand meeting the edges of Hotch’s sweat-soaked hair. Even in his sleep, Hotch can’t escape the pain. It kills Dave to be brought so helplessly to his knees.

“I’m cold.”

Dave pulls the one small blanket they’ve allowed him up to his shoulders but does nothing for his pale arms bare and broken out in painful goosebumps. “I know,” Dave whispers. “I know.”

Dave stands there for a long while, holding Hotch as close as he can. Watching Hotch fall back asleep, whimpering just slightly as he falls back under and loses his control.

The next day, Dave comes in finds Emily. He should have known it was only a matter of time before she and Hotch get back into their normal transactions. He’s still not certain if he prefers when they get along (and wreak havoc) or when they sit at each other’s throats. For now, he can just watch them from afar.

Emily is sitting on the bed, the head of which is raised. She’s sitting facing Hotch, both her legs pulled up so they’re tucked against her chest as the two talk. “I’m not saying you’re wrong,” she defends. “You just… certainly aren’t right.”

His eyebrows furrow, the paleness of his face highlighting the cuts and scrapes still trying to heal along his skin. “That’s saying I’m wrong,” he rasps.

She shrugs, “I’m trying to be nice to you, okay? You have a brain injury. Just… don’t get used to it.”

Dave leans against the doorway. This is the most interactive Dave’s seen Hotch in days. Even if he’s sunk down into the bed, watching more than interacting with Emily from behind tired eyes. She doesn’t seem to mind and it’s hard to imagine being bothered with his lack of participation with the weeks they’ve faced.

“Oh,” Hotch hums. “Emily Prentiss being nice, that’s new.” Then he frowns, having properly comprehended what she said. “I don’t have a brain injury, Emily.”

She rolls her eyes. “I am nice to other people, you know? People who don’t annoy me.” That’s the humor, the part Dave loves most about watching the two of them interact (well, when they’re not annoying the shit out of him with the constant arguing-- he never had children but he imagines that the two of them at their worst are exactly what it’s like to have two children). Emily says that Hotch annoys her, she messes with him, she plucks his nerves, and here she sits with his hand in her own. Holding on because she’s afraid to let go.

“And maybe you don’t have a brain injury right now but I’m certain someone dropped you as a baby.” She shakes her head, “that’s saying you were held.”

Hotch doesn’t react and if he or she were different people that comment would sting but she knows his history and he just squints his eyes at her. “You talk a lot of smack for someone whose senior prom date stood her up for her ex.” His head is starting to pound, right on his left temple. He doesn’t want to stop talking though. Doesn’t want Emily to leave and have the room sink back into the cold loneliness of before. He’s afraid of it.

“Hotch!” Emily chides. “I told you that while I was drunk! I was being vulnerable.”

Dave enters the room on that note, frowning in faux betrayal. “You two drink without me?”

They both turn in surprise to see Dave, neither look guilty nor even like they feel bad. Emily nods, “you left for three weeks while you dated that attorney, Dave. You think we just… stopped doing things because you weren’t there?” She raises an eyebrow but Dave’s face says it all. Yeah, obviously. “Dave, Hotch wouldn’t leave his house if I didn’t drag him out.” And, frankly, they’re her closest friends. She loves girl’s nights with JJ and Garcia but there is just so much talking.

With Dave and Hotch there is no need. Dave will do 95% of the talking leaving her to lean against one of them and sit in the comfort. You have to have a balance. That being said, neither Dave nor Hotch has ever helped her pick out a face mask and taught her how to curl her bangs away from her face so…

“It wasn’t my idea,” Hotch offers.

Emily glares at him.

“Of course it wasn’t,” Dave mumbles.

The visit, as fun as it is, comes to an end far sooner than he wants it to. But they can see he’s in pain. Emily climbs off the bed but he doesn’t let go of her hand. She stops for a moment, looking desperately at Dave. She bends back over the bed, resting her forehead against his. “Get some rest,” she says, carding her fingers through his messy hair.

Hotch hates being like this. The constant in and out. The complete lack of autonomy and most of that being at his own fault-- his own inability to do anything. To tell them that he hates being alone. That he can suffer some more just please don’t leave but the nurses come again and Emily forces their hands apart.

And he’s left to sink back into the drugs, wondering when he’ll escape this hell.

Derek Morgan conspires a plan-- Connect Four. It was his favorite game to play with his sisters and now he’s going to teach Jack.

“I’m going to beat your ass,” Emily informs him as soon as she sees the box. She had overnight duty with Jack and the trade-off still isn’t for another two hours but Morgan thought she could do with a distraction. Jack’s an angel, a little loud at times but mostly wiped out. All this movement is overwhelming. Still, it’s hard to do any of this alone and it gives them a new appreciation for what Hotch and Jessica must do every day.

Morgan doesn’t respond to her, just squats down beside the chair she’s sitting in to see Jack. The kid is sleeping against her chest, legs pulled into her lap. He has a hat pulled down over his ears and soft little green overalls. No shoes but he imagines those are just kicked off somewhere in the room. “How are they?” he asks.

Emily sighs, shaking her head and giving a minimal shrug to not wake Jack. “Poor baby didn’t sleep at all last night,” she informs him sadly. The thought distresses her and she stops a moment to rub Jack’s back, comforting herself with the weight of him settled against her. “He was crying for Hotch…”

Morgan nods his head, so that’s why she’s here. They had all more or less agree to keep Jack away from the hospital. It’s got potential sensory issues written all over it-- deprived walls, the beeping, the yelling… So, when he sent her a text to ask who’s house she had ended up staying at last night (her own, Dave’s, or maybe Hotch’s) so he could drop by he’d been taken by surprise at her answer to being here.

She’d been worried, at first, by this decision as well. Jack had sobbed all night, screamed his throat raw. She could do nothing but offer him things in place of the father he obviously wanted. So, as soon as she could she took him back. Jack had been a little taken aback by the sight of his father laid out like that but after a stiff moment, the small boy sniffled and hummed to himself. And that seemed to settle it.

He was gentle and listened when Emily told him “stay away from Daddy’s chest, Jack. He’s hurt, okay?”. With a yawn he tucked his face into Hotch’s stomach, half his body over Hotch’s right hip-- Emily only let him settle down once she was sure there were no open wounds or other injuries she could recall to that leg. And he was out like a light.

Hotch is still rather in and out, too unaware to really rely on him to wake up. They try not to hold it against him but it does sting a little when he’s alert to talk to some of them but not all of them. Neither Garcia nor Derek have spoken to him yet. That does bother them because it’s hard to believe he’s okay if they never see that themselves.

Connect Four is a hit.

“Allow me to consult my second chair.” Emily crouches down beside Jack, cracking a bit in her playful seriousness when Jack giggles as she takes his shoulders in her hands. “What do we do?” she asks him. She plays into looking hopeless, really searching for an answer from him. “Jack, please, I need you!”

Lifting him up into her arms she watches him look their board over with all the seriousness someone of his age can muster. He clicks his tongue happily as he does so, squinting his little eyes as he really thinks. He looks just like Hotch for a moment, that focused frown.

“Here,” Emily gives Jack the yellow game piece. The room falls silent as Jack tries to figure out where to put the piece. Then, with a smile, he plops the yellow piece down and blocks Derek’s red pieces move to connect. “Yay!” Emily high-fives Jack, both cheering as Derek pretends to be utterly defeated.

As he sinks down in his chair Derek leans his head back, looking up at the ceiling and for some reason, he sneaks a glance over at Hotch. He snaps up, “Hotch.”

Hotch smiles, still a little groggy having just woken up, “you suck at Connect Four.” Hearing the sound of his father’s voice, gravely and strained but still his, Jack looks up too. “Hey, buddy.”

As afraid as Morgan is to overwhelm Hotch, he can’t help but crowd in as Emily lowers Jack to the bed. All three gently reminding the overcited boy to be careful. Jack flusters for a moment, clicking his tongue, and drawing his hands up to his chest. But Hotch moves his hand to Jack’s lap, unable to really raise it but he gets it just close enough to get the message across. Jack takes his father’s hand, rocking himself on the bed with an even brighter smile.

“Did you beat Uncle Derek at Connect Four?” Hotch asks, glancing at Morgan as he asks.

Jack looks at Morgan too and nods, a mischievous little grin.

“Twice,” Morgan mumbles, reaching over and pushing Jack’s head. “Cheater.”

Hotch pats Jack’s stomach, smiling when Jack curls into his hand, leaning into him until his head rests on Hotch’s stomach. Hotch moves his hand to Jack’s head, gently brushing the hair back. He smiles content, despite the pain, for the first time since he woke up.

“He’s probably ready for a nap,” Emily informs him, rubbing at Jacks’ back when he heaves a big yawn. “Didn’t sleep much last night.”

Hotch nods, Jack’s never been a good sleeper. Jack just looks up at him, silent and still. “Are you sleepy?” Hotch asks, cupping Jack’s cheek. Jack turns, pressing his face into Hotch’s stomach rather than answering which is typically a yes. “Come here,” he whispers.

“Hotch--”

“He’ll be fine,” Hotch assures them. He motions Jack up and sitting up, Jack listens. Yawning as he crawls up the side of the bed and settles close. Worming under his father’s instruction against his side, head just below Hotch’s clavicle. It does hurt. His arms aren’t very mobile and Jack is putting just the right amount of pressure on his side but… he hasn’t held his son in weeks.

Jack falls right to sleep.

“Leave him,” Hotch whispers, after a while. “Go get some lunch, take a walk. We’ll be fine.” He turns his head to Jack, calmed by the familiar comfort of his son.

Morgan is adamant but Emily pulls a blanket up over them both, removing it from the conversation. “We’ll bring you both back something,” Emily tells him. She kisses Jack’s head and messes with Hotch’s hair before righting herself. She stops for just a moment, watching the two of them-- Jack clutching Hotch’s gown and Hotch obviously fighting sleep until the two of them leave.

“Morgan?”

Derek steps close to the bed, taking Hotch’s free hand.

“Thank you.”

His mouth dries and he nods, “of course, man. We all did our part.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Morgan shakes his head, “no. No, we did. That’s what you do for family.” Morgan clears his throat, and squeezes Hotch’s hand before letting it go and stepping back. “Get some sleep man. When that kid wakes up, it’s your ass he’s beating in Connect Four.”

Hotch can’t wait.

[cocoarchives]

Sleeping Deities

Phil gets a visit from twin gods of Love and War, propelling him onto a path he cannot turn back from.

The first time he met them, it was on a beach.

It was not after his first death, and it was not before his last, either. It was after iterations of failure, of learning, of finally understanding the limits of each reality he was sent to, the rules that plagued each one and the punishment that came with them.

It was after at least a few centuries had passed in his life, forced to survive in different circumstances with nothing but the landscape provided before him. It was after he’d begun to lose count of the number of times he’d died. It was after he’d forgotten to keep track of time.

It was the black fin breaking the surface of the sea that signaled their arrival to him. A song he’d begun to forget piercing the air, a cry from an animal that would soon become a thing of myth to these people who’ve not seen one before.

It was the sudden ferocity of the hogs in the village by the sea that told him they were close. For even though he had never met them, he had met those like them. And he knew that they could be as cruel as they were kind, and that if anything, he should keep distance between them —  he and the village —  for the village people are not yet ready to meet their makers.

Not yet.

And so, as he felt the water run over his sandals and the grains of sand rush in the gaps between his toes, he waited.

Waited to be smited.

Waited to be pushed down further into his despair, into his inescapable pit of the infinite.

Waited to be punished further than he already had before.

So the introduction of a language so familiar… That —  he found —  was not the most unexpected thing.

“D’you think that’s him, Techno?”

It was these voices...

“I think so. Or else we have two mortals of the same description, forced to live in an eternity of our making.”

They were ones that the man had never heard of before.

They were not the rumble of an earthquake, of a foreboding danger fast approaching. They were not the clashes of waves in a storm as one sits in a dingy boat, being tossed and turned with no end in sight. It did not leave behind the deafening silence that came with agony, and it brought to him anything but a horrible sense of dread.

Cautiously, he tore his eyes away from the flaming horizon and slowly turned his head.

What greeted him were two strangers, who watched him with the same mixture of amusement and curiosity one has when one encounters something so foreign, whose caution and sense of danger kept them from coming closer, as if he were a wild animal yet to be tamed.

But the man knew that despite their looks, despite their fear and awe of him, that they held the power in this interaction, that they were more than they appeared to be.

“And who might you be?” He asked, and his words made them flinch in surprise, as if they did not expect to be talked back to, as if they didn’t expect to be seen .

“I—  We—  Uh— ”

The first to give a stammered semblance of a reply was the one who’s eyes widened more, who instinctively stepped further back behind the other, whose dark hair and darker eyes reminded the man of the earth, of the ground that he stood upon, the one constant in a life that existed with none.

The sound of his voice could be described as enchanting without magic, intoxicating without the poison that came afterwards. It was a voice that —  if the man were still unknowledgeable of such tricks —  would have easily persuaded him of anything the other desired.

“You can see us?” The second that asked with a tone of curiosity and a drop of worry, who crossed his arms in a manner that hid the fear that coated over him like a blanket, whose long bright hair swayed slightly despite the strong ocean wind, coloured with a vibrancy that couldn’t be obtained on any earth by any mundane means.

His voice was not one of power but one of violence, a role of leadership in the hands of one who’s seen enough, who knows more than he should. And if not for the man’s will and penchant for peace, he knew his hands would twitch towards his sword and relish the blood that would spill over the blade.

“Yes, of course.”

The man gave them a friendly smile as he studied them both.

Visually, their youthful appearance marked them as younger than him —  that was apparent. The strength one loses with age could clearly be seen in their posture rather than their muscles, and the energy that fueled their personalities bubbled up through the cracks of the tension between the two parties. And yet he knew intrinsically that they were more than that.

It was their eyes that gave it away —  twin gazes that seemingly dissected his entire being as if he were a creature newly born into the world and not someone who’s lived for much, much longer.

It was obvious what they were.

“My punishment has its upsides, it seems.” He chuckled. “However, you never answered my question.”

The two glanced at each other, a message passing through them. A millenia’s worth of conversations, spoken in silence in an instant through eye movements and the slightest tug of the corner of their mouth. A fraction of a pout. Relaxed eyelids.

The one who spoke first was the one with pink hair, who turned to the man with a sense of unease. As if conversations with mortals was a talent he was yet to master, spoken with a sense of care, as if the words themselves were landmines that sat in the spaces between them.

“I am the lord of battles well fought, and the master of the beaten roads.” He began. “I am the overseer of the strong and a guide to the weak. I observe only the most dangerous of man’s conflicts, and create paths of safety for those who desperately need it.”

Their eyes met, and the man could see his eyes were like amber. A honey that seemed to preserve all the things he’s ever seen.

“You may call me Techno, for that is the name my followers had provided for me.”

The god gestured a hand towards the other.

“And my brother…”

“I am the lord of sweet sounds, and master of sweeter charms.” The words came out as the rush of a river untamed, bundled nerves and unexpected surprise. “I am the director of universal melodies and the instigator of all worldly passions. I control all that is auditory and all that is adored.”

Though he faced the man with the power that came with his status, his refusal to look at him directly was almost all too obvious.

“Refer to me as Wilbur, as those are the prayers I answer to.”

The man regarded the two gods before him with more interest than awe, as they observed him back, waiting for a response.

Of course, he knew who they were. The twin gods of Love and War, the children of Pain and Victory. The tales were common enough, the story of their birth and the chaos their influence left behind rippling through universes to become simply a mere myth to retell and interpret in storybooks with wild differentiations between them.

But more importantly —  by the standards of the giants that wandered the earth unseen —  they were young. Inexperienced in the ways of their realms, and of the realms of others.

And perhaps, they had heard mere myths of him as well.

“It is an honour to meet you, my lords.” He replied, lifting his chin higher to refuse them the satisfaction provided by their status. “I am— ��

“Phil, the wanderer of eternal worlds.” Techno finished for him. “The betrayer who’s actions caused even Death to refuse him, whence he arrived at her door.”

“Phil, the one who even the gods themselves could not bear to see.” Wilbur added. “Out of both the anger he had caused and the fear he had invoked. The only mortal to ever do so.”

The man —  Phil —  smiled, amused.

“I wasn’t aware I was worthy enough for a title.” He mused. “Perhaps if I gain the opportunity again I may give it another try.”

He chuckled, a joke that only entertained himself, for the twins only looked at each other with worry.

“Do you regret it?” Wilbur asked, his slow words cautious. “If you returned back to that moment, and had the choice in your hands once more. Would you do it again?”

And the mortal looked up at the beings so beautiful in their human skins, so intelligent and wise beyond all that he could ever imagine. And the mortal gave a small laugh, with the slightest shake of his head, as if the gods did not know better than him, as if he were the one who held all the cards.

“Of course I would.”

Read the rest of the story here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28997916

[ohmy7hearts]

promises and dreams are just falsified hope

when the sky kisses the earth: 2

Summary: Familiar setting, different atmosphere. Your mind is filled with the death of your brother. So Eren imposed a dream into your heart.

Pairings: Eren Yeager x Fem!Reader

Warnings: None, for now.

A/N: I actually stuck to the once per week timeline thing. wow, good job me.

prev

Fist met your jaw. You flung backwards. Back skidding across the ground and eyes meeting the sky. 

Well isn't this my lucky day. 

The pain pulsating from your jaw rendered you frozen, sprawled on the ground with no intention to move. 

Not like you can. The next moment found you breathless and literally wheezing.

Eren groaned, trying to grasp onto the nearest surface to sit up. When his hands met something substantial but not entirely hard, he didn't think twice about it and immediately sat himself up to throw some remarks at Reiner. 

"Woah Eren, easy up on the touching. We're in public, you know?" Reiner smirked, his voice carrying over the training grounds and bored, tired gazes darted to Eren. 

Eren gave his trademark huh. His head was still trying to regain some semblance of normality - hand supporting his head in an attempt to ease the tension - but the crowd grew wild. People whistled and clamoured in approval. His head pounded more with the increasing attention and noise surrounding him. 

"Can you please get your hands off me?" You murmured. "It's getting painful."

At your voice, he whipped his head towards you, meeting your half-lidded eyes but showing no sign of emotions, as if you were asking him to pass you something out of reach. His head then whipped to the other side. 

His supporting hand was on your thigh. His eyes widened in disbelief. Too close. His ears burned. It was lodged in between your hips and thighs and he could feel the pelvic bone underneath. But with his considerably large hands, his thumb is dangerously close - 

Hands grabbed onto the front of his shirt. He had whiplash from how fast his point of view changed - now facing a pissed off Jean - and his legs dangled uselessly before he was shaken to reality by said boy. His feet sunk into the ground, facing Jean with an equally annoyed expression. 

"What the hell is your problem?" Eren snarked. 

"Huh?" Jean's face morphed into a sickly fake smile, scorning. "I should be asking you that!" He shook Eren vigorously - his head looking like it was almost dislocated from his neck - and chalking his headache up to 100 times worse. 

Anger fueling his dazed mind, he grabbed onto the hands, twisting it, before pushing Jean backwards. Jean fell on his ass from the sudden force. Similarly, Eren found himself in a similar - yet more compromising - position. 

The air in your body expelled so suddenly when his body slammed into you yet again. Pain bloomed from where most of Eren's weight laid. But it was gone as soon as it came. 

Landing much more softly than he anticipated, his mind reeled back to his earlier predicament. His face erupting in embarrassment. He scrambled to his feet. 

"Oh God, I'm so sorry. Are you okay?" Kneeling by your side, Eren wrapped one of his arms around your shoulders to support you into a sitting position. His eyes checking your face for a reply of sort or any fleeting emotion other than pain. 

He could hear the crowd busting in more cheers at his actions. But he tuned them out on instinct. Worry had him zeroing in on you, senses heightened to pick up even the slightest motion.

"Just fine," You winced. "Another day of training."

Before he could ask you further, an imposing voice interrupted them. "Jaeger, care to explain?"

Spine straightening as habit and eyes darting to the glare of his instructor, Eren gulped. Heart pounding in his chest and sweat collected under his bangs. This looks so wrong no matter how he tried to explain it. 

"Just a small accident sir. Eren landed on me when he too was thrown back by his partner." You answered. His eyes returning to yours which are closed with eyebrows furrowing. You shook your head, trying to shake off the pounding headache but it made it worse, then revealed the orbs underneath. Eyes meeting his. His breath hitched. 

Using the hand gently in yours, you pushed yourself up with Eren being your crutch. With that quick movement, a mind-numbing pain erupted from your midsection, buckling your knees and Eren quickly stood to ensure you didn't fall. His hands go to your waist, guiding you to lean your weight on him. 

"Jaeger, bring her to the infirmary. Dismissed." With a flurry, he turned, glaring at all the gawking cadets, prompting them to leap back into training with enthusiasm.

“Come on, it’ll be faster if I carry you instead.” Just like that, you found yourself in a familiar situation - a reflection of your predicament a few weeks ago. 

You sighed in disbelief, a smile tugging at your lips, and just like that day, you relented. Climbing over his back and wrapping your arms around him. “We should stop meeting like this.”

“Technically, we meet each other every day,” he chuckled and you landed a half-hearted hit on his shoulder. “But what’s wrong with us ending up like this?” 

You wound your body closer to him, voice dropping a few octaves while you breathed it into his ear, “I may start to depend on you a little too much.” A shudder ran through his body. Goosebumps appeared on his skin and the hands around your thighs tightened. You giggled, burying your nose into his neck. 

“You can’t just do that,” Eren’s voice was strained as if it was hard enough to think of those words much less to say them into existence. 

You gave a half-hearted hum as one of your hands crawled to the back of his head, playing with the ends of his hair, cheek planting onto his shoulder. It was silent as you both continued on your path to the infirmary. 

Your eyes roamed over his features. Those teal eyes were beautiful and the steely gaze which reflected his determination sharpened it to look like jewels - you’ve never seen them but with how people described them to be something otherworldly eye-catching and something even money can’t buy, you believe Eren’s eyes were a clear depiction of them. His drive intrigued you and lit a fire within you but when you found out the reason why he’s fighting to begin with, the story pulled on your heartstrings. It was like looking into a mirror whereby it would present the best version of yourself.

And you wondered if he feared anything.

“Hmm? My biggest fear?” Eren spoke. “Losing to the titans.”

“So death?” Hand still playing with his luscious locks.

“No.” The resolve in his voice hardened and your gaze flickered from your hands to his face. “Losing more to them. Like maybe having my friends die in their hands or more of them breaking down the walls, driving us to a corner like a herd of cows before slaughter.” Your heart skipped a beat, hands stopped playing with his hair and all your attention on the boy before you. “I don’t want to die before I kill all those titans. I refuse to.”

You frowned, heart dropping to your stomach and eyes burning with incoming tears, “That’s what my brother said as well. And he died. Some things are fated to happen, you know?”

Eren looked at you, as best as could in the position you both were in, trying to decipher and unravel all your thoughts and emotions because all he could see was a girl trying to keep everything in in the wake of a death of a family you longed to see. He never understood it much when people keep their emotions under wraps, he was always one to confront them head-on. So he cried when his heart was heavy, got angry when his blood boiled, laughed when his body felt light with mirth despite what people claimed he should do. But he wanted to understand. Especially if it meant helping you.

Eren set you down on the infirmary bed, eyes searching for the nurse stationed there but once he came out empty-handed, his gaze landed on you - hands trembling in your laps and eyes vacant, clearly swarmed with the thoughts in your head.

You snapped out of the war in your mind when warm hands enclosed both of yours. Eyes meeting teal. “You know, there’s a land made of ice somewhere beyond the walls.”

“Huh?”

“Even water filled with so much salt that the merchants can’t collect it. Imagine that!” Eren’s grin lifted his eyes to a close. “It was actually Armin’s dream but hearing him talk about it makes me want to see it for myself. The flaming water, snowy fields of sand and everything else that waits for us on the other side of the walls. Freedom!” His hold on you tightened, eyes hardening but smile bright as ever. It sent a jolt down your spine and your breath quickened. “You can come too! See the world with us. Be free.”

Your heart quickened, toes curling. “You want me to come with you? To live your dream? To see… this world? Together?”

He nodded, fingers now intertwining, his smile widening. You frowned, thoughts consuming you, blocking the words stuck in your throat.

“I can’t.” You saw him visibly deflate before your eyes were quick enough to fall to your hands. Hands which are much slacker and the wind passing between your fingers and his biting on the skin. “I can’t promise you that.”

“It’s not a promise.” His voice never wavered, hands now grasping your wrist, prompting you to look up at him. “It’s a dream; a goal. Something to work towards and you know, make life worth living.”

“What’s the difference?” You scoffed, tired and worn out and hollowed.

“Because it’s fate. Like you said, some things are fated to happen, right? Dreams are like fate, guiding us somewhere.” 

Your mind told you to run the other way and never interact with him anymore because he’s danger reincarnated. But your heart yearns for his warmth and to believe him so you did.

[shepherd-of-the-stars]

Artificial

My submission for @hetabang​ ! Hope you like it! 

Word count: 3,590

Summary: Novovol, Russia, the 36th century. The people of this new age have formed two distinct societies: those of the upper world, high in the sky in pearly cities, and those of the lower world, living on junkyard scraps and breathing polluted air. These societies, both run on fear and power, were meant to forever stay separate. But one night, an android fell from the sky and broke through the barrier that divided them. An android who has no memory, not even his own name, programmed to be a companion, but also a guard. His weapons system had been upgraded illegally, and without proper maintenance, could prove to be dangerous and unstable. Ivan, one of the best mechanics of the lower world, fixes him up and gives him a name; Alfred. Together, they go on an adventure, discovering things about their world, themselves, and their feelings.

Chapter summary: Ivan ventures into the junkyard to dig through the heaps for useful treasures, his almost nightly activity. One wild decision changes the course of his life. 

Warnings: brief mentions of death and bodies, hints at abuse(through scars)

Rating: T (to be changed)

Chapter 1: Hell’s Wasteland

The cold night air did wonders in smothering the noxious scents that blanketed the junkyard like a fog. While the sun’s heat cooked them and made them more powerful, nighttime forced them into hiding. The stench of death and rusted metal was enough to make a normal person retch, but Ivan frequented the location often enough that it was nothing but a minor nuisance. 

With his scarf pulled up to cover his nose and goggles to protect his eyes from the chemicals and dust, he weaved through the heaps of filth, looking for treasures hidden amongst the trash. His mechanical pack mule followed behind him dutifully with its heavy, steel feet making square indents in the hard dirt. The droid was bulky and large, similar to the size of its namesake, but its well oiled parts allowed it to move silently. The only noise that came from it was when the luggage it carried clashed into each other inside the bins on its back. 

This machine, that Ivan had built from scraps and named Buster, carried his maker's oddments so that Ivan could dig through the heaps freely. Every couple feet, the man stopped to poke through the collection of garbage and junk to pick out pieces that he could use for his work. There was a time when he'd jump at every eerie thing he found, but after years of coming here, those things only made his heart skip just a little. 

Spotting a human-like leg sticking out from a pile, Ivan scanned it with his device and waited. "Artificial, 20% damage," it said, allowing Ivan to release his breath and drag the limb out so he could toss it into his bins. He had learned the hard way that it was better to be safe than to drag out a corpse. 

It was one of the reasons the place was nicknamed "Hell's Wasteland." Broken androids tossed out here made it look like the place was littered with human bodies. The gangs saw that as an opportunity and began to dispose of their enemies here, hence the smell of decay. No one but vultures like Ivan went through here. No one would ever see. And even if someone did, the law would never listen to someone who only had 2 sets of clothes and ate crumbs for meals. 

What was once a scrap yard had now turned into a dumping ground. After the owners had disappeared, no one was left to take over. Local rumors said that the owners were still on the land, buried under rotten food and broken refrigerators. “If you listen closely, you can hear them crying,” they would say, “they’re waiting for someone to rescue them. But once you get close enough, they’ll snatch your body and use it as their own.”

But Ivan knew better than to listen to wild stories of ghosts and possession. He knew after many visits that it was the cries of cats. When they yowled in the night, it sounded like a child who had lost their guardian, or perhaps someone who was in pain. And since they ran away at the slightest sound, it was no surprise many people have never seen the source of the sound. 

Just then, that exact sound that people dreaded hearing pierced through the air and struck Ivan’s heart with chilling fear. He knew it was only a cat, but even the bravest of men would flinch at a shrill noise breaking silence. Head tilted towards the night sky, he listened, waiting for the sound to meet him again. 

When it came, he followed it with the stealth of an assassin. Even the slightest disturbance could send them running, and Ivan didn’t want to miss his chance of seeing a cute cat. 

With every step, he drew closer, which meant the cat had not discovered him yet. Maybe this time he would be able to catch it and bring it home. Then again, his budget could barely support his sisters and himself. To add another mouth to feed, that would leave them eating out of the dumpster. But one could dream. A small part of him hoped that the soft clanging of metal in Buster’s bins scared the cat away so he wouldn’t have false hope. 

But things never seemed to turn out his way. As he peeked out from behind an overturned car, he spotted the cat that had been yowling for attention and finally understood why it had not run. 

What he saw was an unfortunate black cat stuck in a discarded raccoon trap, its paw reaching out past the bars in an attempt to open the spring doors. Ivan approached it slowly, his large body hunched over in an attempt to make himself smaller for the cat. The mental image of himself looking like a crooked, old witch approaching their animal apprentice crossed his mind and made him smile. 

“Don’t scratch me, please,” he whispered after tugging down his scarf, “I’m just trying to help you.”

Back arched and hairs standing straight, the cat was not happy at all that such a big creature was so close while it was defenseless. It hissed and swatted at Ivan’s hands when he got too close, but eventually, the human proved to be trustworthy. 

He didn’t make any sudden movements, and for that, the small creature was thankful. Slowly, it relaxed, pressing itself against the corner of the cage instead of trying to shred Ivan’s helping hand. 

“You’re very beautiful. I will call you Novi. Do you like that?” He smiled down at the black cat that stared at him with wide, wary eyes. The cage jolted and clicked when it was finally opened and the cat took off with such speed, he could see bits of the ground scatter as her claws tore it up. 

Ivan let out a soft grunt of disappointment watching her disappear behind a pile of garbage bags. “What? No ‘thank you’? That’s a little bit rude.” He chuckled at his own silliness before walking back over to his droid. “Did you get that, Buster?” 

Those keywords made the droid open his sealed mouth with a click. Ivan reached between the spiked teeth to grab a cord to connect to his phone while Buster’s eyes flashed red to verify his identity. They turned blue when the iris scan passed the test, his tail wagging as his defense mode was disengaged. Only Ivan, his sisters, and people he approved had access to Buster’s security files. If anyone else had tried it, the jaws would clamp shut with enough force to take their hand clean off their body.  

With a few taps, he was able to see what his droid’s eyes had recorded. Crystal clear footage of Ivan interacting with the cat popped up on his screen. The quality was good enough that Ivan could pause and zoom in on it just to get a closer look. He took a screenshot and smiled.

“Send this image to Kat. Caption it, ‘rescued a cat from a raccoon cage. Named it Novi. Can I keep it?’ Message complete.” He continued to scrub through the video as he waited for the droid to do as he said. 

The droid went completely still for a few seconds then moved his head in a nodding motion once it was done. He spoke in a human-like voice with a slight mechanical buzz. “Message sent to Kat: Rescued a cat from a raccoon cage. Named it Novi. Can I keep it? Image attached.” 

“Good boy.” Ivan pat him on the head twice before disconnecting the cord and tapping his chin, making his steel jaws slam shut. Turning to the left, he began to return to his previous task but Buster stood firm. 

“Novi spotted.” 

Ivan stopped, turning back to the droid. “What?” 

“Novi spotted,” he repeated, looking straight ahead. 

He followed the eyes of his droid until he saw what his target was. There, standing on top of an old monitor, was Novi. Her tail swayed in the air playfully, as if waiting for Ivan to notice. “Are you back to thank me?” He asked the question as if he expected an answer.

Novi stared at him, completely still except her tail, then she blinked and hopped off the pile of scraps. Ivan had expected her to run a second time, but she turned back to look at him and waited. 

“Buster,” he said, his eyes not leaving the cat.

The droid chimed once. 

“Choice: Follow, or don’t follow.” 

The droid chimed twice. “Choice: Follow, or don’t follow. I choose follow.” 

Ivan hesitated. “Buster, what’s my luck today?” 

Two chimes again. “Your luck today is amazing! Who knows what will happen when you take a chance!” 

“Take a chance,” he repeated under his breath. Every fiber of his being was screaming to him that this was just like the start of a horror movie, but he took a deep breath and began walking towards the cat. “Maybe she will show me her kittens. Yes. This will be good. I have good luck today.” 

Even as he told himself this, his hands were cold and clammy from nervousness. A black cat on a full moon wanted to lead him somewhere. It didn’t seem like a good sign. Any rational person would ignore this stray animal. It could be a trap. Maybe demons. Or maybe Ivan was just being too superstitious. 

Several times, he had attempted to turn the other direction, thinking that following a cat was just too silly, but every time Ivan tried, Novi would walk back over to Ivan and stare. Waiting. Whatever it was Novi was trying to show him, it must be important. 

“Alright alright, I’m following,” he muttered after a fourth attempt to escape. 

They were nearing the center of the junkyard now. The piles here were stacked so high, even Ivan had to crane his neck to catch only a small glimpse of what was at the top. 

He tended to avoid this area. Located directly below the highway, it was a popular spot to toss things over the side. If one wasn’t careful, they could be crushed flat by someone tossing out their garbage. It was also very unstable. One misstep could cause the garbage to topple like an avalanche, and if one was alone, once they were buried, that would be the end. 

“I don’t think I can follow you further, Novi.” Ivan watched as the cat hopped gracefully on the pile, her light body barely making the objects move. But for Ivan, every step he took made garbage tumble down the sides. 

The foolish human had already come this far on his quest, and he didn't want to waste it by turning back. But one wrong step made his foot slip into the pile, a broken beer bottle cutting into his leg. It wasn't deep, but it was enough to make him hiss and stain his torn pants with blood. 

Maybe it was a sign that he should stop trying to climb this mountain of garbage. The wound on his leg was small, but if it wasn't treated, it could cause an infection. “I’m sorry but this is the end of our little adventure. My sister will be very angry if I die trying to follow a cat.” 

Of course, Novi gave no response. She only stared at him a while longer, looked at the highway above, then took off. At first, Ivan thought that perhaps she had run off because she knew Ivan would no longer follow, but the sound of a car door slamming shut told him otherwise. 

“Oh no.” He looked up at the highway, spotting two men approaching the side, working together to carry something heavy. Ivan shouted for them to stop as he scrambled to get to the bottom, but they couldn’t hear him. From the highway to the ground was a drop almost a hundred feet. His pleads would never reach them. And even if they did, they wouldn’t care. 

Ivan had only caught a glimpse of what looked like an old sofa being chucked over the edge  before the impact of it crashing down into the pile caused everything to topple over. Like a mudslide, everything on the top layer tumbled to the ground, Ivan included. 

He did what he could to protect himself as he fell; his limbs cut and bruised as he tried to shield his head. There was nothing he could hold on to. Nothing was stable. It only stopped when everything pooled on the ground, adding to the mountain’s size. 

Buster, who had stayed on the ground while Ivan chose to climb, ran over to the spot his maker was buried. He dug him out as fast as he could, then dragged Ivan to the side where he’d be able to avoid the damage of falling garbage. 

“Are you okay?” What Buster got wasn’t an answer to his question, but a smack on his metal head. “Ow.” 

“You liar. You said I have good luck!” He hissed as he stood up. His clothing was torn in several places and his body was covered in filth. 

Buster tilted his head to the side in confusion. “Luck readings are chosen randomly from choices you programmed into my system. If you are not satisfied with your reading, please ask ag-... Ow.” The droid was cut short when his maker smacked him again. 

“Maybe if I rebooted you, you won’t be so sassy.” 

“My personality is also programmed by you.” 

“Stop talking.” 

“Silent mode: On.” 

Ivan sighed when the droid went silent. He knew it was his own fault for following a cat into such dangerous territory. Now he had to go home and tell his sister that he needed to borrow money to buy a new set of clothes. At least his scarf was okay.

He wrapped the piece of cloth back to how it was when he started his hunt and tended to all the cuts with the first aid kit kept inside his droid. Then, pretending like nothing had happened, he went back to digging through the rubble. If he was going to ask Kat for money, the least he could do was sell a couple more of his projects to earn it back. And to do that, he needed the parts. 

The more he looked and the more he collected, he was beginning to believe that perhaps Buster’s reading was correct. While this area was dangerous and risky, it also held the freshest picks. He had collected so much scrap metal and spare parts that the bins grew full. 

Dozens of different projects zipped through his mind. He could make a small pet droid. Maybe a drone. Or maybe he could invent something brand new! He could be rich! 

A noise from the highway above only added to his excitement. He took a couple steps back from the pile, just to be safe, then watched to see what the people would toss over. “Come on. Give me something good.” 

All he could see were dark figures, but the mystery of it made his heart race. It all stopped when he saw the discarded object reveal itself in the moonlight as it fell. “No way…” 

Like before, the impact of the tossed object caused the pile to crumble. Anything on the surface was buried once again, but Ivan’s eyes were locked on the new addition. 

He waited until the trash had settled and the men above had left before dashing over to where the object was resting. It was buried under bags of garbage and electronic trash, but Ivan had found it. It was broken and damaged, but it was unmistakably an android. 

“What a beauty,” he said to himself as he admired the human-like machine. If it wasn’t for the broken skin revealing metal underneath, Ivan would have thought it was a human. 

The body was built to be male, a strong one too, and it had a head of long, blond hair with a firm but pretty face. The model wasn’t one Ivan has seen in the catalogs either, so it must be custom built. Which also meant it was an expensive model. The more expensive the model, the more he could sell it for. 

“Let’s see… Are you still active?” He waved a hand in front of the android’s lifeless face but gained no reaction. Snapping his fingers to try and wake it by sound did not work either. But when his hand made contact with its silicon skin, its eyes snapped open and locked on Ivan. 

Ivan jumped back quickly when blue eyes flashed red. “W-wait!” He snatched up whatever he could to protect himself. Unfortunately, his weapon of choice turned out to be a bent pole. “I’m friendly. I promise.” 

The android stared at him for a long time. Ivan could hear the whir of his engine as his system tried to determine whether or not Ivan was a threat. Several times, his eyes had gone dark only to flash back on again seconds later. 

“Battery failure,” he whispered as a mental note, “but reaction is good.” That brought a smile to his face. With a couple quick fixes, he could have this android good as new and sell him for thousands. So no matter how long it would take, he waited. 

He waited, with an eager smile, until the android relaxed his body, his eyes dimming down to a natural blue. “Identify yourself,” he spoke. His voice box was damaged, making his speech sound like he was speaking through a static tube. 

"My name is Ivan. I won't hurt you," he keeps his voice calm and quiet like he had with Novi. Now that the android had calmed, he lowered his weapon and came closer until he was within his arm’s reach. 

Ivan had opened his mouth to speak again, but the android’s arm shot forward and grabbed his scarf. He pulled the human down until Ivan was staring into flickering blue eyes. “Who… am I?” 

"I don't know. We've only just met. But I can find out." Dig through his memory files, erase them, reboot him, sell. 

"Are you ICON?" The android spoke the word as if he didn’t know the meaning. 

“ICON?” Ivan paused, his train of thought halting. "I'm Ivan, not ICON. What is ICON?"

He was silent and still for a while, making Ivan believe that it was another system malfunction. But since he had continued to blink, Ivan knew it was just his mind trying desperately to process an answer. "I... don't know. My limbs are damaged. I don't believe I can walk."

"I can take you to my home.” He took a step to the side, gesturing to Buster. “I can fix you. Would you like that?"

"I lack the currency required. At least... I believe I do..." His eyes moved sluggishly from Ivan to the droid, then back again. 

"I don’t require currency. Only your permission. Will you allow me to fix you?"

The android grew silent again, then slowly, he nodded. “Okay.” 

"I'm going to pick you up now. Is that alright?" 

"... I give you permission," he nodded again, "but become a threat and you're dead."

Ivan gave the android a nod in return before he slowly moved the junk off of him. It wasn’t until all of it was cleared that he realized the reason the android couldn’t move. 

His left arm and both of the android’s legs were marked with plasma burns. The damage of it melted through the synthetic skin, past the metal plating, and scorched the circuits underneath. The pattern of the injury looked like it was done with a rope, or perhaps a whip, wrapped several times around each damaged limb. Thoughts of fixing and reselling the android quickly began to fade. Not even a machine deserved to be treated like this. The rich were truly inhumane. 

“Does it hurt?” 

"Of course it hurts," he gave him a puzzled look, "but that doesn't matter."

"It does matter. You shouldn't suffer. Do you want me to power you down? I promise I'll turn you on again when you're safe. It’s so you won't suffer any pain when I move you."

The android frowned, his face scrunched up in distrust. "How can I trust you?"

"I guess you'll just have to. But I won't force you to agree." 

The android had no reason to trust Ivan. They had only just met. If Ivan was a dishonest person, he could shut Alfred down, take him apart, and resell every piece for a good price. Both parties knew that. But Buster had predicted that today was Ivan's lucky day, and that prediction showed to be true. The android, who couldn’t even process his own memories, had decided to trust him. 

“Fine,” he said, his voice soft. “Turn… turn me off. But I’m trusting you.” 

"You're making the right decision. I'll speak to you again soon. I’m turning you off now." He reached forward slowly, praying that the android wouldn’t activate his defenses once again. His fingers felt around the back of his neck until he grazed across a circular dent. 

For a second, his fingers rested there as he stared into the android’s eyes. He recognized the fear, the panic and uncertainty, but if Ivan was going to move him without hurting him, he would need to be shut down. 

“You can trust me,” Ivan reassured him. 

Then slowly, the android’s eyes slipped shut. 

[katehuntington]

Title: Changes - part three Word count: ±3000 words Summary “Changes”: Huntress Zoë Sullivan (OFC) crosses paths and swords with the Winchesters, when the brothers stumble on a case she’s already working. When complications arise, they are forced to work as a team. Summary part three: Sam and Dean check out an abandoned house in search for the shapeshifter, but find something else. Episode warnings: Dark! NSFW, 18+ only! Angst, gore, violence, character death. Description of blood, injury and medical procedures. Demon possession, supernatural creatures/entities. Smut, swearing, alcohol use/addiction. Kidnapping, mentions of torture and murder, illegal/criminal practices. Mentions of nightmares and flashbacks.  Music: Hey Man, Nice Shot - Filter Author’s note: I couldn’t be more excited to share Supernatural: The Sullivan Series with you. There are quite a few people I want to thank. @coffee-obsessed-writer​, @soupornatural​ & @mrswhozeewhatsis​, who edited the early drafts, and my girls @girl-with-a-fandom-fettish​ & @winchest09​ who are deciphering the recent version; thank you for helping me with this story and for taking it to a higher level. Everyone who encouraged me to go for it, you are awesome!

Supernatural: The Sullivan Series Masterlist 01x01 “Changes” Masterlist

     "Just remind me, why the fuck are we here again, Sam?”

     A ’67 Chevrolet Impala comes to a complete stop at the end of a long driveway. It’s still dark, but the lingering thunderstorm casts a flash of light on the abandoned house, thunder crackling several seconds later. Hey Man, Nice Shot by Filter is playing in the cassette deck, as the driver in his mid-twenties glances over at the younger guy next to him. Apparently, he is not amused.      “Dean, let it go already. If we have a lead, we follow it. Even if it’s six o'clock in the morning,” the passenger responds, annoyed.      “We don’t have a lead, you have a hunch. That’s my point, Sam. Or should I start callin’ you Jennifer Love Hewitt now?” the driver argues.      “So we don’t have a lead, but that’s exactly why we should--” the passenger wants to continue his sentence, but Dean interrupts.      “You know what I should be doing? Sleeping. In a bed,” he deadpans.      “And you call me a whiny bitch?” Sam sasses back.      “With good reason. Staying up all night is making you cranky,” Dean comments. “We have an appointment with that Cliffer dude tomorrow, during normal daytime hours. We work from there, that’s what we agreed on.”

      Sam bites down on the frustration. He didn’t drag his brother all the way up here and listen to his complaints about working at ‘unethical hours’, as he called it, only to head back to town without giving the place a once over.      “We’re not even certain if he’s the next victim,” he reminds him. “If we find something here, we might actually know what we’re dealing with.”      “I thought you already knew what we’re dealing with?” the older sibling returns, confused.      “I’m ninety-nine percent sure. All we do know for a fact, is because of my research, so back off,” Sam returns harshly, opening his door to get out.      “Someone has to do the driving. If it was up to you we’d end up in fuckin’ Texas!” Dean exclaims, loud enough for his brother to hear as he walks off.

     Sam halts on the driveway and grunts. Why does Dean always have to be such a pain? He turns around and glares at his brother. The headlights of the Chevy are bright; he has to narrow his eyes to see the driver through the glass.      “We’re here already. We might as well check it out,” Sam persists, while raising his long arms to the side, letting them fall slack against his body again a second later.      He waits for Dean to react, but his brother continues to stare back, challenging him without saying a word. His arrogant expression says it all. Left hand on the wheel, the ‘don’t you dare walk any further and get your ass back in the car’ look on his face. Sam is planning to do the opposite, though. After all, he is the stubborn one.      “Whatever, Dean.” Unimpressed, he turns towards the house.      The older Winchester leans out the window of his car, watching his brother like a hawk. “Where are you going?”      “What does it look like?” Without looking back, Sam strolls on with his hands in his pockets.      “Sammy, get back here!” Dean commands with a stern voice.      “It’s Sam!” the young hunter corrects, ignoring the order as he follows the road to the house.      Dean waits for a little while, not wanting his younger sibling to win. But he can’t possibly let him enter the house all by himself; what if there is something inside? Dean won’t let him go in alone, his little brother probably knows that too.      “Stubborn bastard,” Dean curses, kills the engine and gets out of his car.

     Annoyed, he opens the trunk, takes out a duffel and loads an extra gun, which he puts away behind his waistband. He tosses the bag over his shoulder, locks the car and catches up.      “Walking into a possible hideout without a weapon,” he mocks, while handing his brother a gun. “And they call you the responsible one.”      Sam grins. “I knew you’d come around.”       “Wipe that smile off your face, smartass. We’ve got work to do,” Dean mutters, taking the lead up to the front porch.      The younger sibling checks his weapon.“Silver bullets?”      “Yep,” Dean confirms. “One of these to the heart and our Chameleon is dead.”      He grabs the knob and opens the door, which slowly opens with an eerie shriek. Dean pretends to shiver. “Shit just got scary.”       “Cut the crap and be serious for once,” Sam hisses, shaking his head, disapproving.

     The brothers check the living room, holding their flashlights over their guns. They move through the house like trained military, ready to strike if necessary, covering each other as they scan and clear each room. A thick layer of dust covers the tables, couches, and cabinets in the house. A few windows are broken, shattered glass scattered on the windowsills. Plaster has come off the moldy walls, tearing down strips of wallpaper with it. Water damage stains the ceiling, decay creaks the rotten floor; no one has been here for ages.      “Nothing here,” Sam concludes with a lowered voice, still cautious.      “See? Told ya,” Dean rubs in.      “I’ll check upstairs. See if you can find some clues down here,” Sam suggests, ignoring his brother’s comment.      “Fine,” he mutters, as he saunters to the other room, silently mocking his hunting partner.

     Dean rummages through some paperwork, but there’s nothing interesting here. He shakes his head; he can’t believe he let his brother convince him to come with. Hell, he could be fast asleep right now.      “I’m all clear, Sam.” Dean puts away his gun and strolls back to the hallway.      Sam looks down from the staircase, somewhat disappointed.      “Yeah, me too. Let’s get out of here before the--”      The younger Winchester doesn’t finish his sentence, distracted by a noise coming from somewhere inside the house. Dean draws his gun again, his eyes quickly darting to the end of the hall, then back into the room. That wasn’t a mouse or a bird, that much he knows. Seems like they are not alone after all.

     Silently, Sam comes down the stairs. His senses are on high alert, picking up every sound, every smell, even the slightest movement. The feeling they’re being watched settles in his chest, but besides the singular ‘thump’ they heard, the brothers can’t detect anything out of the ordinary.      Dean’s eyes seeks his brother, who looks back and nods. A short connection, eye contact for a fraction of a second. It’s all they need to understand each other perfectly. It crosses Dean’s mind that it’s the first non-verbal interaction between them, since Sam came back from Stanford three weeks ago. The current threat forces him to keep his mind on the job, though.      The hunter approaches the door to the pantry where the sound seemed to originate from, backed up by his sibling. Both have their weapon in hand and are ready to fire. Carefully, the oldest of the two lets his left hand slip from the grip and grabs the doorknob, when he hears the familiar click of the safety switch on a gun.      “What the--”

     A shot echoes through the house, the bullet ripping through his shoulder. Dean hits the wall, the intense white hot pain taking him down. In a light speed reaction, Sam fires his gun twice in the direction where the enemy fire came from, quick to pursue the shooter. When he finds the next room empty, he returns to his brother, who has collapsed against the wall.      “Dean!”      Worried, Sam kneels next to him and keeps him upright. Blood trickles from a hole in his jacket, drenching the navy blue fabric in no time. Dean almost passes out, but he manages to chase the black spots that cloud his vision away. With his jaws clamped shut he grunts in agony.      “That wasn’t rock salt, was it?” Sam assumes, the trace of panic evident in his voice.      “Pretty sure it wasn’t,” Dean groans, fighting the pain.      Suddenly, light illuminates the grim setting. Sam quickly lifts his weapon again, but before the hunter can get a good aim, a distinctive female voice stops him. 

     “Don’t fucking move.” 

     The bright ray blinds the boys, the plating of the weapon catches the light as it caresses the metal; they are looking straight in the barrel. The only thing they hear is their own respiration, Dean’s out of control and labored, Sam’s increased with adrenaline, but relatively calm in the face of danger. Heavy tension hangs in the air, suffocating smog that’s making it difficult to inhale. No one moves, the brothers held at gunpoint both aware a flinch could be the death of them.       “Drop your gun. Now.”      Sam does as told, slowly and calculated. When he straightens himself and leans back on his haunches, he shows his hands, beckoning the woman not to shoot him. What feels like minutes, but are mere seconds in reality, pass by. The beam from the flashlight glides over the men’s faces, as if the beholder tries to see something in their eyes. Then the gun lowers, the safety switch flipped.      “Damn it!”      “You can say that again,” Dean groans.      “What the hell are you doing here, sneaking around in an abandoned house, huh?” their ambusher snaps, irritated, shining the flashlight back on the boys’ faces. 

     When it captures Dean, she keeps the beam of light in place. Wait a minute, he looks familiar. Didn’t his partner just call him Dean?      “We could ask you the same thing.” Sam intends to get up but immediately looks into the barrel.       “Did I tell you you’re allowed to move?” she warns.      Pretending not to be impressed, Sam stays still nonetheless. “Who are you?”      “None of your fucking business,” the young woman counters rapidly and concentrates on Dean again. “I know you.”      Dean swallows, nervously. “I hope not.”       “One of your mad exes?” Sam assumes, the sound of his voice reduced to a whisper.      “Don’t know, but if you’d stop shining that damn light in my face, I could have a better look,” he comments, directing his gaze at their opponent, holding his hand above his eyes to shut out some of the brightness.

     She lowers the flashlight in order for Dean to see her face. Taking the female in, he smirks. Apparently, he likes what he sees.      “No, I have absolutely no idea who you are, unless… Aren’t you that chick from Seattle with the weird piercing?” he wonders.      “Take a better look, Dean Winchester.”      She throws him the flashlight, which he catches with one hand, flips, and aims at her. In front of him stands a young woman, probably in her mid-twenties, with brown hair and dark eyes, dressed in all leather.       “Nice, but that’s not really my kink,” he comments, nodding at her outfit.      Annoyed, she rolls her eyes, clearly not intimidated by the objectification. Dean cannot place her, however, and again he takes her in from head to toe. He can’t see much, only harsh white light and dark shades, but she’s right; he knows that face. The strong profile of her jaw, her nose small, slightly pointed. Her hair is a little shorter than it was back then, but those dark brown eyes, how could he forget?

     “Zoë?”       She looks back at him, a satisfied smile pulling dimples in her cheeks.      “Zoë Sullivan, I can’t believe it,” he gapes, but then clamps his hand around his bleeding shoulder, the slightest movement reminding him of what just happened. “You shot me!”       “Who?” Sam interrupts their intermezzo.      “Yeah, same question. Who is he?” Zoë nods at the tall guy with the surfer hair as she kneels down next to Dean, observing his injury.      “I’m his brother,” Sam elaborates.      “Ah. Sam, right? College boy,” she responds with a tone.      Sam cocks his head back, stunned, then turns to Dean.      “I can see how you two met,” he mocks.      “We weren’t an item if that’s what you mean,” Zoë immediately corrects.      “But we did look kinda cute, didn’t we?” Dean adds, a shit eating grin adorning his face.      The huntress frowns, amused and almost pitiful. Oh, sweetie, not in a million years.      “You never stood a chance, Dean.” 

     Without warning, she tears up Dean’s sleeve to have a better look at his shoulder.      “Hey!” Dean protests stunned.      “You can buy a new jacket with your scammed credit cards later. There was a hole in it anyway,” she dismisses. “Stop whining.”      “If you’re not one of his dates.” Sam gets up and watches the two. “Then how do you know each other?”      “Dean doesn’t date. Dean fucks everything that moves,” she amends again, dodging the question.      “I’m still in the room, y’know?” Dean interjects, but Zoë ignores him.

     Instead she takes off her black scarf, folds it into a bundle and presses it against the entry wound, earning a pained grunt from the injured man. It’s not sterile, but it will have to do for now.       “Keep pressure on that,” she orders, letting him take over with his good hand. “Get up.”      Sam gives his brother a hand and helps him on his feet. A little unsteady and in a bad mood, Dean heads outside.      “Let’s get the fuck out of here.” 

     Zoë holds the door as they exit the house. The thunderstorms have been coming in from the east all night, still lingering in the distance, trees obstructing the view. A faint moon has found a weak spot in the dense clouds above them, its light struggling to reach the earth. Miles from the big city, the scents of nature rise after the rain came down, the smell of pine and damp soil rising from the forest. It’s quiet outside, almost too quiet. She didn’t miss anything, did she?      The huntress glances over her shoulder and takes one last look at the abandoned place.       “Well, that didn’t get me any further,” she mutters to herself, apparently loud enough for Dean to hear.      “You got me shot,” he sneers.      “Oh, don’t be such a baby. It’s just your shoulder. I can aim,” she snaps, not even feeling sorry for the guy.

     “Don’t you check your target before you fire a bullet at it?” he growls, as they walk down the driveway.      “You were the one who told me to shoot first and ask questions later,” she answers smartly.      “That does sound like you,” Sam agrees, earning a death stare from his brother.      “Shut up. Did you book a motel?” Dean waits by the door on the passenger's side and reluctantly tosses his brother the keys. Driving with a bullet in his shoulder has proven to be difficult before, so he’ll leave it to Sam for once.      “What do I look like? A travel agency?” Sam returns smartly, as he unlocks the Impala.

     Dean turns to Zoë. “Where are you staying?”       “Motel 6,” she informs. “But forget the idea of sharing a room.”      “In that case, I hope your motel has more than one room,” he nags, already done with her attitude.      “You need a ride?” Sam offers, not seeing another car anywhere close.      Dean turns his head slowly and gazes over the top of the car. His face is twisted in shock, disbelief and disgust, expressing something along the line of ‘what the fuck, Sam!’       “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself,” Zoë banishes.      It triggers the hunters to raise their eyebrows at her, and from his peripheral vision, Sam notices the relief on Dean’s face.      “Where did you leave your car then?” he wonders.      “Who said anything about a car?”

     Zoë reappears from under the shading trees, pushing a black motorbike into motion, the chrome Harley Davidson emblem reflecting in the little light the night sky of Rochester offers. It’s clear neither of the boys were expecting this form of transportation, because both their jaws drop.      “You ride a motorcycle?” Sam utters, surprised.      “I don’t ride a motorcycle. I ride a Harley,” she corrects, while putting on her helmet. “You think the leather’s for fun?”      The older one of the brothers nods, approvingly. “Nice ride.”       “Thanks,” she returns, slightly beaming with pride.      “What do you think of mine?” Dean lays his hand on top of his ‘67 Chevy Impala, clearly proud of his baby, but Zoë doesn’t seem overly impressed.      “It’s a car,” she comments dully.

     Zoë starts her Harley, the headlight switching on as she does so. Without further notice, she rides off, leaving Dean, completely flabbergasted. Her tail light disappears as she turns around the corner, the signature Harley V-twin engine roaring when she accelerates.      Astounded, Dean glides into the passenger’s seat, staring blankly down the driveway. “Did she just shoot me and insult my car?”       Sam struggles to hide a smirk as he settles behind the wheel. “I think she did.”      “What a bitch!” Dean scolds, spitting out the final word.      “I don’t know,” his brother questions, shrugging. “I think she’s kind of fun.”       The older Winchester darts his eyes at the driver, his lip twitching, disapprovingly. “Shut up, College boy.” 

     Sam chuckles amused and starts the car. The mix tape in the cassette player automatically continues Hey Man, Nice Shot by Filter. Dean shakes his head, still bothered and frankly, quite insulted.      “Just a car, how could she say that?”      “Let it go, Dean,” Sam consults, as he turns on to 110th Ave NW.

     He follows the single red light in the distance and speeds up before he loses sight of the bright dot. Several thoughts cross his mind while driving to the motel, pondering about the gut feeling that pointed him in this direction in the first place. It bothers Sam that they didn’t make any progress, even though he was sure something was going on around the abandoned property. Oh well, at least they ran into Zoë Sullivan. His brother might not be happy about their encounter, but she clearly knows her stuff; she might have more information on this case. The sooner they finish this job, the sooner they can continue their search for their father. It might not be quite the night he expected, but he can’t deny it was exciting.

Thank you for reading. I appreciate every single one of you, but if you do want to give me some extra love, you are free to reblog my work or buy me coffee (Link in bio at the top of the page)

Read chapter four here!

[castielista]

Dreams of Electric Sheep

AU-gust: A Cherik Futuristic AU + Coffee Shop AU + Private Detective AU

Note: Well, I couldn’t let AU-gust end without writing something for it, right? rIGHT? Prompt 31 was to combine two AUs but things got out of hand and I combined three. So as a result I got this absolute mess of a fic that I really hope you enjoy. <3

Summary: Detective Charles is investigating a case where the murderers are two androids, and if there's something Charles hates, that's androids. However, with the EL7 working at his favourite coffee shop, things are a bit different. 

Words: 1925

Read on Ao3

The EL7 was graceful and efficient like no other.

The amount of coffee that his human coworker could prepare in thirty minutes, he did in ten. The kind of queue that could drive anyone mad, never caused the slightest sign of stress in him. Collected but always impeccably polite to customers, he moved across the counter with the poise and the care of a craftsman, virtually indistinguishable from humans in looks, but meticulously programmed to perfect his job like no one else could.

Every once in a while, Charles glanced at him.

Erik, said his nametag, in a smudged, childlike writing. 

Giving androids names was far from being common practice, let alone naming an EL7, a Level 1 android. They were simply addressed by their model and were considered, like every other android, a ‘species’ inferior to humans or mutants. Anthropomorphic servants that imitated life, but that had no soul. 

Charles had always believed that, too. 

Androids got on his nerves more often than not, and he tried to interact with them as little as possible. Perhaps it was because when he read their minds, he found nothing. Perhaps it was because, for him, they were more unpredictable than any human being. And he found it unbearable to know that there were toasters sophisticated enough to trick him into thinking they had feelings.

But some months ago, when he ordered at that coffee shop for the first time, Charles’ exact words were: “Thank you, Erik.” And he never knew why.  

At that moment, the EL7, taken by surprise, raised his eyes from the coffee and looked at Charles. “Thank you,” he said, smiled shyly, and then glanced down again.

After that thank you, Erik, there were more thank you, Eriks and hi, Erik and hi, Charles, and countless but brief conversations held while Charles ordered. By now it was a habit of his to go into the coffee shop when he needed to think about any case, which he needed fairly often. So, fairly often, Charles and Erik knew a bit more about each other.

Erik had a very reserved personality, but whenever Charles arrived at the counter, he seemed to light up. He talked about the books he had read, the music he had heard, and about how much he liked old cinema, specially from the 21st century. And when Charles spoke, he listened with veiled fascination.

Charles tried to reply with a certain skepticism, reminding himself over and over again that he was talking to a machine. While it was not the norm for an android of his level to have that many interests, it was not rare either, as their personalities were always developed to the last detail. 

However, Charles couldn't help but like their little interactions, and the timid but burning spark that crossed Erik's eyes whenever Charles called him by that name, which he did a bit more often lately. And no matter what he told himself, every day he looked forward to ordering his bloody coffee.

Lost in thought, Charles caught sight of the only physical detail that gave Erik away — the logo on the back of his neck. 

Shaw Systems.

Charles looked down. It was the same name that appeared on every page of the bunch of files he had on his table. They all contained the details of two seemingly unrelated murder cases committed by two androids, both of them — like Erik — property of Shaw Systems.

After a couple of minutes looking at the documents, Charles wanted to drown himself in his coffee. He had absolutely nothing. Some very basic information about the victims and the supposed murderers, and the rest, nonsensical theories written during some very dubious moments of clarity. 

It was not easy, he thought, when the entire universe seemed to be against him.

Emma Frost, head engineer of Shaw Systems, had refused to provide information, stating that the design of their androids was faultless. If they had malfunctioned, she said, it was the owner's responsibility. Besides, she added while showing Charles the way out, she owed no explanation to a third-rate investigator. And thus, Charles' official relationship with the company was sentenced to death.

To make things even worse, that morning, Logan, his colleague in this case, had decided to step down. “We better not mess with them, Charles,” he told him, sincerely worried. 

He was probably right. Hell, he was right. They were a small agency and Shaw Systems was a monstrous company, carrying on with the case would only lead to more problems. But Charles was already too obsessed with the investigation, too invested in those two murders. And though he could not put a finger on it, he knew that something else laid beneath the surface.

“Hello, Charles,” a soft voice spoke over his shoulder. 

Charles almost jumped on his seat, startled, and promptly, he hid the documents on the table. Then he glanced up to find Erik's eyes. The android giggled at his reaction. 

“Erik, I'm so sorry, I didn't realize you were here.” 

Why the hell did he insist on talking to him as if he was a human being?

 “Can I…” said Erik, pointing at the chair next to Charles'. He looked around, there were no customers at the moment. 

Charles nodded, and Erik sat down, cautious, like a child at an unknown place. Having him there, so close to him, Charles asked himself if it was really necessary to design an android to be as attractive as Erik. 

For a while, neither of them said a word. Charles' mind instinctively tried to reach out for Erik's, and as always, nothing came out of it. He could only rely on what he could see. 

Erik was acting a bit erratic, making quick movements, examining his surroundings, and looking at Charles like he intended to say something but couldn't find the way.

It was one of the android's gestures that drew Charles' attention to the synthetic skin on the side of his neck. Part of the tissue had been torn, exposing some of Erik's inner circuits, and there was a small gap that seemed to continue expanding towards his chest, as if someone had ripped something out of him. Charles had enough knowledge on robotics to identify the missing part— the device that connected androids to the Shaw Systems central.

“Are you... are you okay, Erik?” he asked, just a little concerned. 

That question was enough for the android to start talking. 

“You are Xavier. Charles Xavier,” he said, lowering his voice.

“That’s me," Charles frowned. He never told him his full name.

“Detective from the M Agency.”

Now Charles was fully alert. “How do you —

“They are following you.” 

Charles was more than used to those kinds of situations, but the concern in Erik's tone made it sound more disturbing. “W-who?” 

Erik gave a quick glance around the room and pointed to an ad on the wall. Then his eyes went back to Charles. "Shaw," he almost whispered.

Charles wanted to act as the investigator he was, but he was too confused to do so. Erik continued, “You are beginning to appear in the media. They fear you.” 

Fear. The greatest technological empire in the history of humankind and mutantkind was afraid of detective Charles. At any other circumstance, he would have burst into laughter. “This… this is a very minor case, I have no information at all, I'm positive I won't find out much more. I don't think —

“You are getting into something larger than you think,” the android interrupted him. “Those malfunctioning androids, they did not malfunction, they killed because they were told to do so.”

“What do you know about that?” Charles asked, bewildered but guided by his investigative instincts.

“Not much more, everything is wrapped in a veil of secrecy. But the maker is an ambitious man. Right now, he has control over every operative android, and I know him well enough to be certain that he wants to use that power. The company has always been untouchable, but now you’ve become a problem. You are making them very nervous, which means you are getting dangerously close to something." Erik moved one hand across the table and laid it a fraction of an inch away from Charles'. His voice trembled, “You have to be very careful, Charles."

Charles did not move. The electricity of Erik's body reached him too. He struggled to speak out loud. “Why do you know so much about this?”

Erik took a moment before answering. “Because I was commanded to kill you.” 

Charles almost fainted right there. 

Everything around him was spinning, and it took all his concentration to stay conscious. His best option was probably getting out of that place as quickly as possible and running away from the EL7. But he did not have the strength for that, and a part of him was dying to know more.

“Poisoning you. Getting rid of you as discreetly as possible.” resumed Erik, keeping an eye on Charles to make sure he was fine. “I tried everything, but my program forced me to obey.” He signaled the wounds on his neck. “So I disconnected myself from the central. Now some of my subsystems are malfunctioning, but I'm still working… and you are still alive. My next option was deactivation.”

Death. That meant deactivation for him. He was saying that he would have died to avoid killing him.

“However, I may be more useful for you alive,” he gave a hint of a smile. “When they realize I have not accomplished my mission, they will start looking for other ways to eliminate you… But you are very good at this, and I am now the only android that’s not under Shaw’s control, so if you trust me and you want to continue, maybe we can stop him.” 

After that, Erik went silent for a moment. If he was expecting a reply from Charles, he could wait forever. 

But he was not. 

“Whatever you decide, whether you trust me or not, I promise you no one will hurt you as long as I live.” 

Now Charles could barely breathe. 

It was impossible. Impossible for an android to go against a direct order from the central. Impossible that he had chosen to disobey, when an android could not choose, nor disobey. Impossible that he had done it because —

“Why?” Charles asked.

This time Erik did not answer. He simply stared into Charles’ eyes. 

It was not a robot's stare, it was just the stare of someone who didn’t know how much eye contact was common between humans. Charles saw himself in those eyes. Same hopes, same needs, same desires. And for the first time, he could almost read an android's mind. Erik didn’t fully understand why he had done what he did, he was confused, too. But he knew that there was, indeed, a reason. And it was a reason powerful enough to neutralize and counter the very purpose he had been designed for. 

“There’s a movie theater across the street, they show old movies,” Charles finally spoke. “If you...” 

Seeing he was unable to end the sentence, Erik smiled tenderly. And it was the most genuinely human reaction Charles had ever seen. “I love old movies.” 

At that moment, a couple of customers entered the shop, and Erik stood up immediately, going back to the counter to do his job as efficiently as always. And for the rest of his shift, they could no longer stop looking at each other.

Thank you so much for reading! <3

[jarienn972]

Bloodline

From the OUAT Winter Whump 2018 event

After being inspired by @wyntereyez​ live-blogging her rewatch of OUAT S7 last night and her post reblogs today, I was originally going to just reblog this story which was my re-imagining of Season 7 episode 19, Flower Child, but I decided to create a new post so that I could attach the art work that today’s birthday girl @cocohook38​ graciously surprised me with! 

This story does feature violent situations as it was created to fix the wasted potential of the episode for those of us who enjoy seeing a little bit of whump. Please Note: Gothel is the featured villain here so fair warning as there are some vague mentions of her history with Rogers.

Also on FF.net and AO3

So little had made sense for weeks now in the Heights and Detective Rogers’ inquisitive mind was in overdrive.  Every time he thought he’d guessed the next move correctly, he’d found himself face to face with his often condescending partner who was all-too-happy to remind him of his failures.  It wasn’t as though Weaver was giving him any answers either, just more cryptic questions and general annoyance. Granted, a fair portion of his frustration was his own damned fault.  Weaver had warned him not to pursue his search for Eloise Gardner, but obsession had gripped him, forcing him to investigate every clue to hunt her down - although they’d likely never know exactly how or why Victoria Belfrey had imprisoned her in the tower.  He’d managed to uncover bits and pieces of a story about how Eloise was evil and needed to be kept locked away from humanity, but he hadn’t really believed any of it.  Not until bodies started turning up all over the Heights - Belfrey’s included.

Maybe he should have listened to Weaver’s advice, but he just couldn’t help himself. He’d been so driven to find the girl who had haunted his memory for years, only to discover that maybe she wasn’t really the person he’d imagined her to be.  Maybe if he’d heeded his partner’s warning, he wouldn’t be in his current predicament, not that it would matter for much longer. He’d be able to hang on a little while…

Maybe, just maybe, someone would come searching for him or maybe Tilly would spring back to her senses?

But the reality was - who would be looking for him?

One hour earlier

She was mad.  Had to be.  How else could he explain it?

Maybe he was mad.  How had he allowed this woman to gain so much power over him?

He felt manipulated. Used.  Hell, part of him felt downright violated, but yet he was still inexplicably drawn to her.

Weaver had warned him that she was a powerful witch, but he honestly hadn’t believed in witchcraft - at least until now as the realization struck that she had pulled him right into her coven’s waiting trap.  He’d been so gullible, but it also struck him as odd that he had no idea why she’d sought to ensnare him.  All he had wanted to do was help Tilly, and then - there she was - Eloise Gardner and her coven of witches hidden behind dark, heavy, hooded cloaks.  He and Tilly had wandered straight into the witch’s wicked web and despite knowing that they were both in grave danger, a voice in the back of his head kept telling him to protect Tilly.

“Please, don’t hurt her,” he’d pleaded with the witches as one of them grabbed Tilly from behind, clamping a hand over her mouth as they led her away from him, disappeared down what must have been a staircase.  He was at the wrong angle to be certain, even as he strained against his captor, struggling to get a better view.  “Tilly’s an innocent here…please, don’t harm her…”

Eloise approached him, drawing close as her minions restrained him.  He continued to struggle, trying to free himself from their grasp but despite their diminutive appearance, the hooded figures were far stronger than he expected. The witch pressed her body uncomfortably close to him, an air of triumph in her icy gaze.  His own eyes clung to defiance, even as her hand raised up to meet his face, fingertips lightly tracing the shape of his jaw while she stared at him with a sickeningly sweet smile plastered on her lips - the way he would imagine a predator admiring its prey.

“You’ve got this all wrong, Captain,” she insisted, never breaking her evil grin as she spoke. “Tilly isn’t the one I intend to hurt.  I need her.  You, on the other hand, are far more expendable.”

He had no idea what she was plotting or why she’d called him Captain - and she wasn’t the first to do that either.  All of his senses were screaming at him.  There was no doubt he was in way over his head, but no matter how much he struggled, there was no breaking free.

“What do you want from us?” Rogers demanded.  Hell, if he was going to die here, he at least wanted to know why.

“Oh, you’ll prove useful to me yet again.  You’re going to help bring my creation to life,” Eloise purred cryptically as she pulled her hand away from his face. “But first, I need you to stop being so uncooperative…”  Her right hand unfurled once again before his eyes, this time, revealing a clump of what appeared to be sparkling pink dust resting in the curve of her palm.  With one quick puff of her breath, the colorful particles were swirling around him and somewhere within that cloud, Rogers lost his will to resist, his body dropping limp into the arms of his captors.

**********

As his senses gradually returned, Rogers immediately knew something wasn’t right, but he didn’t know yet just how precarious the situation actually was.  His head throbbed and his recollection of the events that got him here was a tad cloudy - a sensation he’d experienced far too many times when he’d lost control of his indulgences. Only this was no mere hangover.

His eyelids parted slowly, adjusting to the dim light of the surroundings, seemingly illuminated solely by flickering flames.  Ruddy hued rocks comprised both the floor and the walls of what must have been some sort of a cave but as his sight became clearer, he discovered that this cavern held far more sinister secrets than he could have imagined.  He’d also come to the realization that he was suspended in the center of said cavern, his upper body bound tightly with vines.  Vines? It certainly wasn’t rope that secured him and as he tried to wiggle himself out of his bindings, he learned - rather painfully - that the vines were covered in thorns. Dozens of thorns, sharp as needles, jabbed into his bare skin with even the slightest movement on his part. He’d clearly been impaled a few times already as he could feel the tickle from the little rivulets of blood making a path down his leg to drip off of his big toe.

What he couldn’t tell from his vantage point was that his nearly nude body hung directly above an intricate design carved into the stone below - one the same shape as the coven’s symbol he’d been seeing all over Hyperion Heights.  Surrounding him were the dark, caped figures, each standing at one of the eight points of the symbol softly chanting some unknown incantation.  One of those hooded beings broke from the circle to canter towards him, apparently having realized he’d regained consciousness. The figure raised her head as she neared, enough for him to recognize her face as his gaze locked with that of Eloise Gardner once again.

The expression on her face confused him falling somewhere between satisfaction and sublimation. If this was indeed the same girl he’d tasked himself to locate so many years ago, what had happened to her that led her down this path? To have become involved with such a devilishly evil cult that had obviously stripped her of the innocence he’d remembered?  Well, at least the innocence he thought he’d remembered… Had she been so offended by his failure to protect her as a child that she’d spent all of these years planning ways to make him pay for that failure?  Even after he’d rescued her from Belfrey’s prison?  Hadn’t getting shot and spending the better part of a decade searching in vain been penance enough?

“Captain…” Eloise purred into his ear, her lips so close to his skin that he could feel the warmth of her breath, sending his body into an involuntary, repulsed shudder. “Just what is going on inside that pretty head of yours?”

“Why are you doing this?” was the question that crossed his lips, although there were so many others demanding to be asked as well. “I tried… I tried to help you… I freed you…” he stammered, his mind conflicted by both a desire to fight his thorny restraints and a total lack of willpower to do so.

“Oh, Captain,” she said through that same salacious grin, “we’ve such a torrid history… Where would I even begin?”

“History?” He didn’t understand how their few interactions could be construed as history.  “Eloise, we barely know anything about each other aside from the fact that I spent years searching for you…and I did find you.  Why this?”

“It’s almost a pity that your memory didn’t return like some of the others, but maybe it’s for the better…” She stepped around to his back, her right hand trailing along the skin just above the waistband of his boxer briefs as she leaned in to address his left ear.  “How about I start by re-introducing myself?  My name is Mother Gothel, not Eloise, and we do indeed have some very interesting history.  It might even have been so much more… I could have helped you seal your revenge against Rumplestiltskin while we pillaged and plundered the realms, but no.  You surprised me.  You chose the brat over me…”

“Brat? What - Tilly?” His stuttered words barely made sense in his own head, but they seemed to increase her ire.

“If that’s what you want to call her,” she scoffed. “You gave her a different name back then, but nonetheless, it won’t matter for much longer.”

“You haven’t harmed her, have you?” he asked meekly, his voice cracking audibly at the thought as his eyes grew wide with fearful anticipation.

“No, I haven’t harmed Tilly.  As I said before, she isn’t the one I plan to harm.  I need her magic to help initiate my spell…”  She paused her statement as she ambled around to face him once again, the iciness of her stare prickling every hair on the back of his neck. “But I need something else from you first…” Her fingertips made contact with his thigh, the skin searing beneath her touch as he fought back a swell of nausea. If this was what she wanted, he wasn’t interested, but as her right hand slithered up toward his hip, she raised her left hand in front of her chest, making certain that he would witness her next move.  Out of thin air, what might only have been described as a giant thorn materialized from her palm.  It was at least the length of her forearm and his terrified eyes instantly focused on its razor sharp point - even more so as she ghosted that needle-like point across his chest, drawing tiny droplets of blood as she passed it through the course, dark hair almost indecently.

“Eloise…” His voice came out as a whimper as he tried his best to shrink away from her, but the brambles encircling him only seemed to squeeze tighter. “I can still help you…” The cop in him was still trying to reason with her, even if his efforts might be deemed futile.

“Yes, my dear Captain, you most certainly can help me,” she assured him as that devilish grin crossed her features yet again.  “I absolutely require your assistance to activate a portion of my spell. More specifically, I need your blood.” She refused to give him even a moment to process her statement before thrusting the pointed end of her oversized thorn into his abdomen, angling it upward, beneath his rib cage and into his vital organs, yet stopping short of his heart.  She drew her arm backward, retracing the blood stained thorn so that she could admire her handiwork for a split-second before repeating the stabbing motion twice more.

The coppery scent of his own blood filled his nostrils as his mind and body were both overwhelmed by the shock of the assault.  Blood mixed with his saliva as he coughed up a bubble that he couldn’t swallow back down.  Sanguine trails flowed from his torso to form a small puddle on the carved rocky ground below as his instinct to fight for his life finally kicked in and he gathered his remaining strength to try to free his arms so he could put pressure on the seeping wounds.

“Struggle all you want,” she taunted him as she dropped the bloody thorn to the ground as she cupped his jaw with both of her hands.  “My vines will only grow tighter, driving those thorns deeper into your flesh.  Since we’re going to be here for a while as your body is slowly drained of its blood, you may wish to spare yourself further anguish.  I need your heart to keep pumping as long as possible to keep that blood fresh and potent until the entire medallion beneath you is filled.  Then, I won’t need you anymore…”

His body shook from a combination of fear and pain-driven convulsions as his blood flowed from the trio of punctures in his gut, but even with the agony she’d already inflicted upon him, the witch wasn’t done with him quite yet.  New vines began to sprout from those encasing his upper body, spiraling lower to wrap the rest of his torso and both of his legs with the constricting brambles.  Every nerve ending in his body felt assaulted as dozens of newly formed thorns tore into his skin, drawing more blood.  Rogers couldn’t even remember if he’d screamed but a silent prayer kept reciting within his head that maybe someone would find him.  And that blissful unconsciousness would befall him soon…

**********

Rogers didn’t know what stirred him back to consciousness but the immediate wash of pain over his entire being reminded him that he was still alive.  The dead didn’t experience pain, did they?  He assumed he’d learn that answer soon  enough - as soon as his lifeblood drained from him, his heart would inevitably cease and his lungs would no longer need to draw breath.  He didn’t have the energy within him to fight against the tightening vines, still feeling their intrusions across his arms, chest and back, but scarcely able to feel his legs anymore.  He wanted to just go numb, to return to the peaceful, pain-free oblivion, but his mind apparently wanted him to be awake to bear witness to his own torture.

“I’m surprised to see you awake,” a voice rang out from his right. Or was it from the left? Clearly his head wasn’t thinking straight, the blood loss leaving him disoriented. “Perhaps you’re a tad more resilient than I’d thought…” The voice continued in a sickeningly sweet cadence that made him want to retch even before he sensed the warmth of fingers brushing against his blood-soaked thigh. “You still have so much more to give…” He wished he could pull his leg away as the sensation of fingernails drawing lazy circles through the dampness only increased his nausea.

“What do you want?” He knew he’d asked the question before, but in his weakened state, he didn’t remember the answer - certainly not the answer she was about to give.

“Oh, Captain, this goes back so far…,” she mused.  “Years ago, we met in a far away land, high in a tower where I needed you to provide the one thing that would allow me freedom from that prison - a new bloodline.  You were so, how should I say this? Eager? So willing to provide me what I needed, but then, you betrayed me…”

Tower? Betrayal? Her words were conjuring images that bombarded his psyche, but were they memories or hallucinations?  He didn’t know if he could trust his own brain right now.

“Eloise…”

“Not Eloise - Gothel,” she reminded him, her tone more annoyed than playful this time. “You really should try to remember me.” Her hand instantly snapped from caressing his thigh to clutching his throat, her thumb and forefinger pushing his head upward to meet her gaze.  “I want you to look at me while you hang there dying.  I want you to regret ever choosing that brat instead of me!”  She stabbed a manicured index finger towards one of the cloaked figures as he recognized Tilly’s profile beneath the hood.

“Tilly…” he whispered, not even certain if his voice was loud enough for her to hear.  

“She can’t hear you.  She’s caught in a trance that I placed upon her.  She’ll keep mindlessly repeating that incantation over and over until your blood fills the rest of the medallion here.  Then, as soon as she steps into the center, the mix of bloodlines will enact my spell and bring about the return of this land to its rightful ruler - Nature.”

“Why Tilly? If we have history, that’s between us,” he argued weakly, energy waning quickly, but still possessing a flicker of determination to protect his young friend from this madwoman. “She has nothing to do with this…”

“Oh, but you’re wrong there, Captain,” she laughed. “Tilly - or Alice, as you used to call her - has everything to do with this.  She’s our daughter - the blend of our bloodlines - possessing some of your spunk and some of my magic.  I need to draw that magic from her and it just so happens that her father’s blood is the perfect conduit to do so.”

“Wait - daughter?  Tilly… Alice… she’s my daughter?” he stammered, trembling as his already pain-wracked brain overloaded. “How can she be my daughter?  I’m not old enough…”

That statement brought an amused cackle from his captor. “Looks can be so deceiving, Captain, but then curses can certainly play such tricks with your mind… You really don’t look a day over two hundred.”

Images came to him once again in vivid flashes as his barely lucid mind struggled to make sense of them without any context.  A pirate ship.  A tall, isolated tower.  A small, blonde haired child.  Eloise, yet not Eloise…

A hook.

His sullen eyes drew downward, seeking out the prosthetic hand attached to the wrist of his stumped arm which suddenly didn’t feel right to him.  The weight, the fit - all wrong.

He’d lost that hand in a bad car accident, hadn’t he? He questioned his own recollection, no longer sure if anything he knew about himself was real. He was hanging here, slowly bleeding to death at the hand of a woman he’d thought he’d rescued and yet he felt as though he was right on the cusp of an epiphany.

His eyes squeezed shut as his body convulsed involuntarily.  Why hadn’t he told Weaver what he was doing? The only other person who knew he was here was Tilly and she was lost to some hypnotic trance. He didn’t dare think what this witch would do to her once she’d served her purpose.  He fought through the impending darkness to take in Tilly’s features for what he feared would be the last time.  Could she really be his daughter? He’d likely never know now as a single tear rolled across his cheekbone, its saline trail finding its way to the corner of his mouth just as his lips parted.

One single word rolled off his tongue as his body fell limp against the imposing vines.

Starfish.

His voice was scarcely a whisper yet that single utterance reverberated throughout the cavern, reaching the single pair of ears it was intended for.  It echoed into Tilly’s ear as a plea and her eyelids flew open, the chanting instantly ceased.  Her hands raised to her head, tossing the hood off of her blonde locks as she lifted her chin.

She’d only been vaguely aware of her surroundings, but now, her senses were overwhelmed.  The voices of the other hooded figures were all she could hear and she just wanted to drown them out.  She tried to focus on something else - the crackle of the flames from the candles and torches positioned around the circle.  Focus, Tilly, focus, she told herself.  She concentrated on those flames, inhaling the scent of the burning wood, but she could smell something else too.  Something faintly metallic…bloody…

Only then did she realize that there was another person in the center of the ring of caped figures - a person whose body was nearly obscured amongst a tangle of thorny vines.  There was a pale, dark-haired man bound by those vines and while she couldn’t make out the majority of his form, she could see that his legs were riddled with crimson trails and there was a pool of dark red liquid beneath his feet.  And she could see just enough of his face to recognize that man suspended lifeless before her: the man she’d known as Detective Rogers. But she also felt an awakening within her muddled mind which reminded her that she’d known him far longer - and by a different name.

“Papa?”

The moment she uttered that single word, the rock walls of the cavern began to shake as if from the rumbling of an earthquake, showering her with pebbles and dust that rained from above.  A newly defiant Tilly shrugged off the heavy dark robe, eyes wide as she frantically searched for the monster.

“Show yourself, Witch!” Tilly hollered, bolstered with newfound bravado.  If he was still among the living, she had to save him.  Had to save her Papa from this monster witch.  It was all up to her and this time, she was determined to listen to the little voices within her head that assured her that she possessed the power to defeat this witch.

“I’m right here, Tilly,” the witch replied as she took a step from behind her nearly lifeless prisoner.

“Let him go, you monster! You’re hurting him and I can’t allow that!” Tilly shouted. “You said that if I helped you, no one would get hurt but you lied!  You always lie!” Both of Tilly’s hands clenched into fists as Gothel continued to stare blankly back at her, entirely devoid of any human emotion.

“It’s entirely too late for that, little girl,” Gothel snapped back confidently. “As soon as his blood fills that medallion on the floor right there, my spell will begin and there’s no one powerful enough to stop it.  Not the Evil Queen nor the Wicked Witch.  Not even the Dark One himself.”

“Then I’ll stop you,” Tilly responded as she stood her ground with equal confidence. “You took my Papa away from me once.  You aren’t going to do it again.”  Her blue eyes reflected a fierce determination as Tilly set her jaw and racked her brain to recall how to harness her magic.

“Please…,” Gothel dismissed her with a haughty wave of her hand. “You aren’t any match for me.  Just get out of my way and do as you’re told…” With a faint flick of her wrist, another new growth of vines sprouted from the cluster binding Rogers and jettisoned toward Tilly.  With only a fraction of a second to react, Tilly threw up her hands defensively in front of her face and instantly, the brambles froze mere inches from her, the thorns separating from the vines and falling harmlessly to the floor while tiny, white four-petal blossoms took their place.  Tilly blinked a few times until the realization sunk in that she’d used magic to defend herself.  She wasn’t mad - well, at least not when it came to the existence of magic.

“Impressive, but you’ve still so much to learn,” the witch continued to taunt her as Tilly attempted to move from the carved coven symbol beneath her feet.  Gothel smirked as she watched the rock beneath Tilly’s feet dissolve into mud that the younger woman sank into it, only to have it harden back into stone around her shoes, entrapping her in her position on the outer ring. “It would be rather rude of you to leave before my big performance - and I’m not done with you yet…”

Unable to step away, Tilly’s eyes flittered wildly between the nearly inundated medallion on the ground before her and the pallid, expressionless face of her dying father whose head was drooped against his chest, body clearly only held upright by the witch’s enchanted vines.  She watched in seemingly slow-motion as a drop of blood fell from his toe and splashed into the sticky, crimson puddle.

“It’s nearly time,” Gothel announced with a giddy chuckle as a tiny evergreen tree pushed its way through the solid rock to emerge in front of one of the remaining cloaked figures.  As the tree grew in stature, the cape worn by the nearest coven member slumped to the floor and the person who’d been beneath it seconds earlier vanished in the blink of an eye. “Six more to go… Then you.”

“No,” Tilly sobbed, cursing herself for ever agreeing to help this monster in the first place, but now, the witch had to be stopped. “No - I won’t allow you to do this!”

“You won’t allow me?” Gothel laughed off Tilly’s cockiness.  Apparently the girl had more of her father’s personality than she’d believed. “Then stop me.”  

The challenge was issued as an insult, but Tilly didn’t take it as such. She was going to prove that she had the strength to defeat this horrid person.

“Stay with me, Papa,” she called out to him, still uncertain if he was alive or dead. “No matter what happens, I love you, Papa…”  Silent promises now made, Tilly squeezed her eyes closed as her outstretched hands began to tremble.  Another low rumble echoed throughout the cavern as flames flickered, billowed by some unseen wind that swirled dust and rubble around the young woman.

“What are you doing?” There was a faint hint of alarm in Gothel’s voice this time as she feared she may have underestimated her daughter.  She’d long known that her child possessed powers, but with no one to cultivate them, she’d doubted Tilly’s ability to harness magic.  But it was Gothel’s discounting of that untamed nature to Tilly’s magic which might prove far more dangerous.

“Love is always stronger than hate,” Tilly stated as she clasped her hands together sending out a blast of powerful energy towards the blood-drenched medallion.  The ground began to shake, mildly at first then growing in intensity as the rock began to crack, fissures zigzagging across the entire coven symbol until they reached the stone that encased Tilly’s feet.  The rock holding her crumbled away, allowing her to hop out of the circle and sever the connection necessary for Gothel’s spell to proceed.  The evergreen tree that had sprouted within the cavern withered away to ashes as the magic sustaining it evaporated.

“You insolent little brat!” the witch shouted, seething with anger. “How dare you?! Now you’ve ruined it!  I should have killed you years ago - both of you!” She took a step forward, hands extended and prepared to unleash some new horror against her beleaguered daughter.  But so blinded by her hatred of her own offspring, she failed to notice that the cracks beneath her feet were widening from the tremors, opening into a chasm that swallowed the witch, plunging her screaming into the void.  Tilly didn’t know what she should feel as the monster disappeared into the earth.  She just stood there frozen until another voice roused her attention.

“Tilly?” she heard the voice call out to her, but was it merely inside her head?  “Tilly?!” came the voice yet again as she blinked her eyes trying to figure out where the familiar voice originated. She recognized it now - Weaver - but she couldn’t reply yet.  Her fragile mind was still processing all that had just transpired.  Everything she’d just made happen… And oh, no - Papa!  She saw the familiar face of Detective Weaver - Rumplestiltskin - emerge from the entry passage, weapon and flashlight extended before him. “Tilly, are you alright?” he asked as he ventured deeper into the subterranean cavern.

Alright? Was she alright? She didn’t even know but there were more important things to attend to… “Yes, I am,” she responded frantically as she hurried toward the center of the room. “But he’s not…” Weaver stopped short of entering the circle as he spied the huge, gaping cracks that transected it.  His focus was drawn to the cluster of vines at the center of the ring where he now spotted his partner hanging motionless and entirely encircled by those same bloody vines which seemed to be withering away as Gothel’s magic faded. Despite the fissures crisscrossing the ground beneath him which had drained away most of the blood, there was still enough visible on the rock for Weaver to know his partner wouldn’t survive long with this amount of blood loss.

“We need to get him down from there somehow,” Weaver stated. “The vines are dying and won’t hold him for long…”

“I know,” she insisted, trying to locate that magical trigger within her one more time.  “I’m trying…”  She’d never been particularly good at concentrating - at least not lately.  She had to try and push all of her jumbled thoughts away to focus on her most important task - rescuing Papa.  As the brambles crumbled, an invisible force caught Rogers, his limp form suspended in mid-air but seemingly with nothing holding him aloft. The unseen hand carried him safely across the fractured floor placing him gently atop a boulder beside Weaver just before the vines completely disintegrated to a pile of dust.

Without the bindings in the way, Weaver could see that his partner’s body was riddled with puncture wounds, some of which were still oozing blood - a positive sign that his heart was still beating.  Satisfied that immediate danger was over, Weaver tucked away his weapon, shining the flashlight’s beam onto his partner’s unconscious form as he felt for a pulse.  “He’s alive. He still has a heartbeat.  I’ll get the paramedics down here…”

A small smile crept across Tilly’s face as her resolve finally broke, but that smile rapidly faded, her eyes welling with tears as yet another realization struck.  His heart. Without another word, she bolted past Weaver and darted out of the cave.

She couldn’t be here. She couldn’t cause him more suffering…

**********

The next few hours were tense ones.  While her father was barely clinging to life, Tilly had vanished, leaving Weaver to be the one holding vigil in the hospital waiting room.  Thankfully, the trip from Gothel’s hideout beneath the old theater to the hospital was a short ride. Weaver had followed the ambulance in his own vehicle with lights and siren blaring to keep up with the paramedics. By the time he reached the Emergency room, Rogers’ blood pressure had dropped to dangerously low levels and his breathing was erratic, but his most life threatening battle was against the uncontrollable bleeding.  Something in his system was preventing his blood from clotting properly - likely Gothel’s work as well.

But as far as the Emergency room personnel were concerned, Detective Rogers had been a victim of the Candy Killer, attacked while investigating the cave beneath the theater. He answered the barrage of questions as best he could, not even attempting to create a plausible explanation for the multitude of puncture wounds from the thorns.  He just told them his partner had multiple stab wounds and didn’t elaborate. There would be no mention of Eloise Gardner in Weaver’s report, even though he had actually found his way to the cavern just as the witch plunged into the chasm, presumably falling to her death although one could never be entirely certain when there was no body left behind as evidence.

After the first hour of waiting, he’d called Roni and Henry to see if either had seen Tilly and filled them in on his partner’s condition.  Neither knew where Tilly might be but both offered to help locate her.  Roni left the bar in Remy’s capable hands as she left a message for her niece, hoping Tilly would seek out Margot’s company and Henry set out to search some of Tilly’s usual haunts.  Only Roni, Kelly and Weaver knew the truth of Tilly and Rogers’ relationship and while they understood her reasons for running, she needed to be aware of what was happening with her father, lest her fragile hold on her sanity be lost.

He wasn’t overly surprised when he heard Roni’s voice in the corridor, asking a nurse where she’d find the Emergency waiting area.  He lifted his chin and nodded a greeting to her as she passed through the doorway, walking quickly across the crowded room to join him on a bench positioned against the far wall, away from prying ears.

“Have you heard anything yet?” Roni asked in a hushed whisper.

Weaver shook his head. “Not yet.”

“Gothel?”

“Hopefully gone, like most of the objects she conjured. She fell into a giant crack that opened up beneath her.”

“Did Tilly do that?” Roni wondered if battling her mother had contributed to the younger woman’s unease.

“Yes,” was Weaver’s unpretentious reply as he slumped back against the wall.  Roni mouthed a wow as she copied his posture, crossing her legs at the ankle.

“Margot thinks she knows where to find her,” she told him. “Henry’s taking a loop around the neighborhood too.  She’ll turn up.”

“She knows she’s Alice,” Weaver stated without preface.  “As soon as I said that his heart was still beating, I saw it in her eyes.  She panicked.”

“She remembered his poisoned heart…” Roni sighed. “That poor girl… She didn’t want to cause him more pain.  She must be devastated…”  Weaver didn’t answer; he already knew she was right.  Getting her memory back, watching her father suffering and then having to destroy her mother just might have short-circuited Tilly’s complicated mind.

But it was Roni who suddenly sat up straight, a quizzical arch to her eyebrow as she contemplated a thought that had leapt into the forefront of her mind.

“Did his heart stop?” she asked, almost a bit too loudly as it drew some unwanted attention from other people in the waiting room.

“What?” He’d heard the question, but wanted her to repeat it.

“Do you know if Rogers’ heart stopped beating at any time?” she inquired once again, this time keeping her voice low since their conversation was about to head in a direction that wouldn’t be easily explained to eavesdroppers.

“I couldn’t hear everything that was said when the paramedics brought him in, but I thought I overheard something about him coding in the ambulance.  Pretty sure that means his heart stopped, but he had a pulse when the ER took over.  What are you getting at?”

“Have you been out of the magic business too long, Rumple?” she asked, using his real name in public for the first time since they’d awakened from Gothel’s curse.  This was definitely Regina talking now, not her barmaid alter ego, Roni. “Gothel placed that poisoned heart curse on him a long time ago and we were never able to find a cure.  The only way to end the curse was death - his heart no longer beating.  Do you think there was a time limit as to how long his heart needed to be stopped before they brought him back?”

Weaver’s lips pursed in thought as he rubbed the hint of stubble sprouting on his chin.  He definitely needed a shave, but whiskers were merely a distraction as he tossed ideas around in his head.  “CPR isn’t exactly commonplace in the Enchanted Forest, nor are machines to shock a heart back into rhythm.  A curse such as that one should die along with its victim…”

“Then it’s possible that the poison died when his heart stopped beating the first time.  There’s no way a curse from our land would have a caveat built in for someone being brought back from essentially being dead.”

“There’s only one way to test that theory though…and Tilly is nowhere to be found,” Weaver reminded her.

“We’ll find Tilly and explain.  If your partner pulls through this, I’m pretty sure he won’t be going anywhere for a few days.  We’ve got some time.”

“There is still the matter of breaking the other curse,” he added.

“One curse at a time, please…”

Two days later

There was that pain again.  Maybe not as intense as before, but definitely still there.  Little pinpricks he could feel everywhere - annoying and even a little bit itchy but they were only the prelude to the dull, somewhat burning ache that radiated through his chest and abdomen. His head was still on the fuzzy side but he remembered someone stabbing him - Eloise.  No, not Eloise - Gothel.  The witch that Tilly had been correct to call a monster.

He struggled to force his eyelids open, his vision assaulted by the bright lights above him.  He remembered being in a dark cavern, completely bound by thorn-covered vines that were constricting him tighter and tighter until he’d blacked out.  Or maybe he’d blacked out from the blood loss…? Maybe both? But it was apparent that he wasn’t in that dank cave any longer.  He blinked a few times to allow his sight to adjust, turning his head slightly to get a look at a stark white wall that contained only a clock and a dry-erase whiteboard that was filled with incomprehensible scribbles.  

He started to become aware of additional sensations as he started putting the pieces together.  He wasn’t hanging from those vines anymore; he was laying down, presumably in a bed.  He could feel the softness of fabric beneath his fingers and thought he sensed something encircling his wrist, although not as painful as the witch’s brambles.  He raised his hand to a height he could see it without moving around too much and learned he’d been correct - some sort of rubber or plastic band was fastened around his wrist and there was some plastic tubing affixed to the back of his hand with tape that was irritating his skin.  An incessant beeping resounded in his ear, mixed in with other faint sounds he’d yet to make sense of, but it was enough for him to figure out his location.  

He was in a hospital - which meant he’d survived the witch’s attack.

And surprisingly, he discovered he wasn’t alone.

“It’s about damn time you woke up.”  He knew the voice instantly, recognition sending an involuntary shudder down his spine.  The demon masquerading as his partner.

“Crocodile?  Come to execute me while I’m vulnerable?” he asked his visitor.

“If I’d wanted to do that, I wouldn’t have waited until you awakened, Captain,” Weaver replied.  “I’m just Detective Weaver now.  I put the rest behind me to honor Belle’s wishes, although being caught up in Gothel’s curse hadn’t really been a part of my plan.  I’m just trying to do my best to help people so that someday, I’ll be able to join her - and that includes trying to help you and your wayward daughter…”

“Tilly - does she know?”

“She does.  It was her magic that defeated Gothel and her coven.  The witch was swallowed up by the earth she revered.  Alice is down the hall in the waiting room with Regina.”

“She’s here?  Alice is here?” Rogers asked, his voice growing agitated.  “But the curse…”

“Relax… She’s not close enough right now to disturb your poisoned heart, but Regina has a plausible theory that might mean you’re cured.”

“There’s no known cure for a poisoned heart,” Rogers scoffed, his eyes dropping with disappointment.

“That’s not necessarily true,” Weaver began. “Facilier was able to cure Henry’s heart with a bit of magic born from Lucy’s true belief and the remnants of Ella’s glass slipper.  While that same magic isn’t available for you, you may still have been cured in a much simpler manner - your death.”

“My death?  My head is muddled enough right now but clearly, I’m still alive - despite many valiant efforts…”

“Technically, you died twice,” Weaver stated. “Your heart stopped beating twice - once in the ambulance on the way here and once on the OR table while they were trying to stitch your insides back together.  From what we were told, you were technically dead for over a minute before they were able to resuscitate you.  Curses aren’t designed to survive death - even mine.  Generally, where we come from, if your heart stops beating, you’re dead.  They don’t try to bring you back.  The curse should have ended the moment your heartbeat ceased.”

“Should have?  That’s an awful stretch… What if you’re wrong?  It’ll only cause both of us more pain…”

“Then it’s a good thing to do it here in the hospital where they can treat you should we be wrong, but what if we’re right?  You can be with your daughter again.”

Rogers had to contemplate the possibility for a moment.  As much as he loathed trusting his long-time enemy, he also had the memories of being Detective Rogers and in this world, he actually trusted Weaver’s word.  He’d also become close with Regina, the reformed Evil Queen, whom he’d now entrust with his life.  What strange company he was keeping…

“What does Alice think?” This was going to affect his daughter as much as it would him so he wanted her to be involved in the decision.

“She’s frightened, naturally, but she’s also very curious.  She believes that Regina might be correct, but there’s only one way to find out…”  Weaver motioned toward the hallway beyond the room’s doorway as he stood up. “Should I go get her?”  Rogers swallowed back the lump in his throat, but nodded an affirmative.  Whatever would happen, he was prepared to face the consequences.

Seconds later, he smiled at the sight of his daughter’s unruly golden locks flashing past his window into the corridor before she bounded through the open door, although she stopped short of approaching her father’s bedside.  He suddenly felt horribly exposed, clad only in the thin gown the hospital had dressed him in, his truncated left arm bare, no hook or prosthetic to hide his deformity.

“Starfish,” he greeted her with her childhood nickname.

“Haven’t heard anyone call me that for a long time, Papa…,” she replied, her cheeks flushing with a mix of anxiety and embarrassment. This wasn’t how he would have wanted her to turn out, but she didn’t care anymore.  She wanted her Papa back more than anything.  “I’ve missed you so much.”

“And I’ve missed you, too, Love,” he insisted as he shifted nervously on the bed.  “There’s only one way for us to know if this curse is really gone…”

“You think…?” she asked timidly, taking one tentative step closer to the bed.  

“Come closer,” he instructed, bracing himself for the onslaught of pain as she made her way across the room at an almost agonizingly slow pace.  He felt a few twinges, but nothing was any worse than the discomfort from the stabbing.  “It’s okay, I’m fine.”  He offered his reassurance with a weak, timid smile.  He extended his hand to her, eyes begging her to grasp it, eager for even that tiny bit of contact.  

Alice squeezed her eyes closed as she reached for his hand, awaiting the burning sensation from the mark emblazoned into her wrist as their fingertips touched for the first time in many years.  Neither knew what would happen, but there was nothing.  No burning.  No aching.  No magic driving them apart - and there was absolutely nothing containing Alice’s ecstatic joy as she nearly threw herself into her papa’s arms to hug him as tightly as she could.

“It worked! Papa, it worked!” she exclaimed gleefully, excited that she could finally embrace him after such a long time - almost so excited that she missed his pained grunt beneath her, turning her head expecting to see his smiling face but instead seeing an uncomfortable grimace and the dampness of tears around his eyes.  “Oh, no…” her mood turned somber in a split-second. “ I spoke too soon…?” She backed away, ready to run, but he held tight to her wrist.

“It’s alright, Starfish.  My heart is fine.  It’s just my other injuries…”

“Oh, Papa, I’m so sorry!  I was so excited, I forgot what that monster did to you!  I hope I didn’t hurt you too much…”

“Nothing that won’t heal,” he chuckled as he gritted through the ache in his chest, drawing his arms in tighter as if trying to hold his guts in.  “I promise, it will all be fine…”  There were more tears flowing now but all were tears of joy.  

“I love you so much, Papa.”

“And I - you, my Starfish.”

[burnedbyshoto]

Secret Santa Fic

pairing: todoroki shouto x midoriya izuku x valentine ashley (oc)

word count: 1,0005

warnings: fluff

a/n: im happy to announce to @ashleycakegamin that I was your secret santa!!!!! sorry if you think this sucks, it was quite hard to navigate writing an oc through anon only! if you hate it, i’m willing to rewrite or a “iou” sorta thing LOL happy holidays and enjoy love

✩✶✩❇✩✶✩

Ashley took a deep breath before she entered the ice rink. 

The sound of the blades of her shoes gliding against the ice floor calmed her down as voice echoed behind her.

“Valentine-chan!” Uraraka shouted from behind her, “wait up! We’re not sure what we’re doing!”

“Don’t fucking lump me in with you dumbasses,” Bakugou growled as he quickly joined Ashley onto the rink. “You’re the idiots who can’t fucking— SHIT!”

Bakugou landed on his back. 

Ashley watched from the far end of the rink as everyone piled onto the rink. Numerous of her classmates seemed to have been able to work out the smaller details of gliding on the ice floor, such as herself. Some people, such as Bakugou, found themselves eating shit, namely Midoriya and Todoroki. 

Seeing that they were unable to do anything Ashley felt her heart squeeze. Ice skating was a dangerous sport for her, not because it was dangerous, but because she found the metaphorical ice that surrounded her melted most often here. But still, she couldn’t help herself from gliding over to the two boys who were unable to stand. 

Wordlessly, she extended her hands to them, both boys freezing as they stared up at her. 

“Do you want to keep falling?” She asks, her tone cold as they seem to stare at her frozen in place. It takes a few seconds and a silent conversation between the two friends before they moved. 

They take her hand and Ashley can feel her cheeks heat up at the feeling of their larger and warmer hands in hers, but she shakes it off deciding instead to skate off immediately. 

Midoriya yelps in shock as he struggles to keep his bucking knees steady. Todoroki keeps trying to walk awkwardly on the ice floor resulting in his tremoring legs to increase sporadically. 

“You’re really good at this,” Midoriya laughs as his eyes concentrating on her feet. His hand grips onto her tightly as he slowly copies her gliding movement with his feet. 

Typical Midoriya, using his analysis to convert other actions into his own. 

Ashley nods her head as she sighs, “I have been skating for a few years now.”

His eyes light up in joy, there wasn’t much that he knew about her, and Midoriya always memorized the tiniest of details about her. 

“Todoroki-kun, I thought you would be good at ice skating?” Midoriya asked as he noticed his friend was still very much struggling to keep up. 

“It’s a bit different than what I’m used to,” Todoroki grits as he struggles to keep a balanced pace. 

“Stop trying to walk,” Ashley points out, “you’re supposed to be gliding.”

A small smile picks up on her cheeks when Todoroki continues to do everything but glide. Nevertheless, Ashley continues on. Midoriya is now at her side, effortlessly moving with her as Todoroki is slowly getting a hang of the gliding.

The rink is loud with the distant clamor of their class, but Ashley could only focus on the two boys next to her. She wasn’t dense, she knew that both of them liked her. As a matter of fact, she was insistent on helping them out because of that fact. She felt that it was weird that they liked her, while she was never mean to them, she never felt like she was particularly nice to them. These last few weeks this silent competition between the two of them had increased for her attention.

Midoriya was much better at attaining her attention, after all whenever Todoroki sat with her it was mostly silent.

Ashley realized her attention drifted when Midoriya’s hand squeezed hers gently. She looked over at the green-haired boy who pointed to the left. Aoyama was meters in front of them demonstrating the different tricks and spins he had learned by watching YouTube videos. Yes, their blond classmate was quite the gem.

“Are you going home for break, Valentine?” Todoroki asks from her right, and Ashley looks over at the boy who seems to be sweating in his attempt to keep up.

“Yes,” she answers simply, her gaze adverting from his as soon as she could.

Holidays at home was always a weird event. Ever since the death of her sister, she felt a need to be home, but it wasn’t the same no matter how hard she tried.

“Are holidays hard for you too?” Todoroki asks and Ashley freezes at the assumption. She had prided herself on being someone who could be like a steel wall. Unbreakable and not transparent in the slightest.

“A little,” she nods curtly, her face burning slightly as she remained a few paces in front of them. At this moment she was grateful for the cooler environment that calmed her frantic heart, and so to relax she breathed deeply to calm herself.

“Family is a bit complicated and hard,” Midoriya speaks up, surprising her. She had always thought Midoirya had a pretty normal upbringing after all. “Holidays really bring out the worst memories and forced interactions, so I can understand why you’re not excited. But… we’re your family now too. All of us, the entire class are your family now, and we’re here for you. If you want to stay with any of us ever, I’m sure it wouldn’t be an issue.”

For the first time, Ashley turned in her glide. Her hands letting go of theirs as she stared at the two boys. Todoroki nodded his head, his fingers moving the hair that fell into his eyes as he scratched the back of his neck.

“You mean a lot to us.”

A warm smile overcame Ashley’s features as Midoriya’s words warmed her up.

No matter how it made her body tingle, no matter how it hurt to her body, she continued to smile as she skated in a pressed a soft kiss to both of the boy’s cheeks.

“Thank you.”

Valentine Ashley was not the only person melting on the inside that day, and the sudden explosion of heat from Todoroki only proved it.

[onlinetrustworld]

Professional for Upwork Freelancers

If I were a additional suspicious person, I’d marvel why a number of the foremost known school corporations within the America and their equally known leaders, area unit accidentally however actively encouraging their best talent to shift from regular employment to freelancer.

Four factors area unit at play:The plunge in extremely competent foreign employees is driving additional freelance work. Axios rumored on the results of movement the door on extremely competent foreign employees. in keeping with their reportage, “temporary visas for those with "extraordinary" ability (O visas), specialty job skills (H-1B, H-4, L visas) or UN agency area unit trade professionals or investors (E, TN, TD visas) fell considerably.” In Jan, 61,000 foreign consultants were granted visas, which range born to but five hundred in Apr because the pandemic set in and consulates closed. Axios primarily based its analysis on a study by the Migration Policy Institute. whereas the amount rose to over two,000 in Gregorian calendar month, and also the State Department recently supplementary exemptions in August, that’s still so much but five-hitter of the Jan numbers. 

Moreover, underneath different Trump policies, denial rates for the favored high-skilled H-1B visas tripled compared to the tip of the Obama administration at twenty ninth, the National Foundation for yankee Policy found. Remember, the work doesn’t stop as a result of visas aren’t granted. What’s the consequence? Well, unless there area unit America voters able to wrestle the work needed of our school corporations, the businesses area unit additional typically than not turning to freelancers within and outdoors the America. And in some high demand areas, like AI, the demand is considerably larger than current offer. Ironically, the school professionals compact most area unit those from India, UN agency were the most important beneficiaries of temporary knowledgeable visas. Guess what country provides the America with the best range of remote school freelancers? in keeping with one analysis, 2 thirds of active Indian school freelancers support corporations within the America or UK.Penalizing remote employees UN agency remote outside the Bay space. simply Bastille Day of staff trust CEOs or senior managers to steer the come back to figure, in keeping with Associate in Nursing Edelman survey. solely 0.5 believe their offices area unit safe, and lots of area unit seriously considering a move outside geographic area. In line with this trend, VMware became the most recent leader UN agency has, on the one hand, offered staff the chance to figure remotely and move to a less costly a part of the country than geographic area and, on the opposite hand, conceive to put in force a cut. VMware’s head of human resources, created the purpose that the corporate adjusts pay supported the “cost of labor” in numerous regional zones and benchmarks pay variations among companies competitive for its employees. He adds that, whereas some staff can see pay cuts, Lang same others might get a raise if they selected to maneuver to a bigger or dearer town. As Associate in Nursing example, staff deed Palo Alto and moving to capital of Colorado, should settle for Associate in Nursing eighteen pay reduction, and la or urban center means that relinquishing 8 May 1945 of their annual pay.

VMware isn’t the sole company aiming to penalise school and different employees members UN agency attempt to work remotely outside the bay space. Facebook and Twitter area unit considering similar pay policies. Facebook told staff in could that the corporate would presently transition additional for good to remote work, even when Covid-19 subsides. staff UN agency leave high-ticket areas like urban center or ny can ought to take a cut, however, betting on wherever they live as of Gregorian calendar month. 1, 2021. Chief military officer Mark Zuckerberg same he expects the maximum amount five hundredth of Facebook’s international personnel to be remote within the next 5 to ten years.

What’s the matter with this: the work isn’t completely different and that’s what the corporate ought to be paying for. What’s seemingly to happen? Well, in keeping with Upwork’s most up-to-date report: Freelancing in America, sixty fourth or nearly 2 thirds of respondents believe “professionals UN agency area unit the highest in their trade area unit more and more selecting to figure severally.” And, in keeping with Edelman’s Trust measuring device, worker trust in their company leadership typically is each low and steady therefore. Gallup finds the same lack of trust in leadership. the mix of actions – an absence of confidence in leaders, a distant work relocation policy that takes the maximum amount or over it offers, and also the confidence high staff have in their ability to succeed as freelancers - is probably going to push several of a company’s best school staff to contemplate the freelance various. you'll bet that where high school freelancers like better to live, their rate is unchanged. Employees area unit annoyed with however their company shows up around social values and priorities. Facebook’s Mark Zuckerberg and Sheryl Sandberg face a continuing backlash from staff unwilling to just 

accept poet Friedman’s picture defense of capitalism: “There is one and only 1 social responsibility of business – to use its resources and interact in activities designed to extend its profits see you later because it stays at intervals the foundations of the sport.” staff within the school sector area unit more and more in public criticizing their corporations for refusing to require action over contentious and incontrovertibly false and incendiary statements by President Trump, the deaths of George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, and different black and brown America voters, and permitting the publication of biased, intolerant and dangerous posts. Zuckerberg has defended Facebook’s position as — in his words — “an establishment committed to free expression.” But, people like mythical being nob, UN agency joined Facebook as a director of product management a year agone, pointed to a broader upsurge of worker policy within the corporate. “I work Facebook and that i am not happy with however we’re exposure,” he announce on Twitter. “The majority of associates I’ve spoken to feel an equivalent manner. we have a tendency to area unit creating our voice detected.” Saint Andrew Crow, head of style for Facebook’s Portal videoconferencing device, announce on Twitter: “Censoring info which may facilitate individuals see the entire image is wrong. however giving a platform to incite violence and unfold misinformation is unacceptable.”

Facebook isn’t alone. school staffers have protested at Google, Microsoft and Amazon over problems as well as work conditions, temperature change and military contracts. What’s the affiliation to freelancing? Here’s what Gallup says:“In our recent work with organizations across numerous industries, we have a tendency to discovered one thing very fascinating and somewhat unsettling: extremely proficient staff UN agency don't seem to be engaged were among people who had the very best turnover in every organization — on par with low talent, disengaged staff. In different words, once your best staff don't seem to be engaged, {they area unit|they're} as seemingly to depart your organization as your staff UN agency tend to own performance problems and are sad. “Why do they leave therefore quickly? we have a tendency to speculate that your most proficient staff area unit additional seemingly to own high expectations of their workplaces. they're additionally additional seemingly to own different opportunities out there to them. They hunt down higher opportunities wherever they'll grow and develop their skills. Or they'll simply wish to travel wherever their gifts area unit appreciated and rewarded additional typically.”Remember, several of your high school consultants area unit already half answer the door. we all know that staff area unit more and more resembling freelancers in their demand for larger flexibility and autonomy. As a recent article of mine in Forbes pointed out:“Millennial and Gen-Z employees area unit increasing treating jobs as gigs, not career destinations, and ever-changing jobs additional oftentimes than the other recent generation. These days, ninety one of Millennials arrange on staying in their current job for no over 2 years.

“The reason staff offer for job ever-changing is additional and additional “freelance-ish.” Freelancers generally purpose to four vital attractions of a freelancing career: be one’s own boss, additional selection and suppleness, and larger selection. the explanations staff offer for moving on area unit strikingly similar: a troublesome boss, work that doesn’t interest them or aid them in growing professionally and learning new skills, or Associate in Nursing structure culture that doesn’t offer flexibility.”

With high school professionals recognizing the expansion of chance in freelancing, this is often no time for company leaders to require the loyalty and engagement of their high technical talent without any consideration, or assume that they're simply replaced. neither is it a time to relinquish with one hand however take with the opposite. Retention of your best individuals is all regarding trust. So, it’s not in the slightest degree stunning that if trust is destroyed, the simplest school consultants in your organization could move to regular freelancing or to a different company whose values they respect. Upwork could be a trustworthy leader remodeling ancient staffing, and their new report could be a crucial trendsetter. The Freelance Forward Report providing insights from over half-dozen,000 U.S. workers, found that some fifty nine million Americans freelanced within the past twelve months, representing one year of the U.S. workforce.Nancy Van Brunt: produce an in depth and thorough profile. Be terribly specific regarding your space of experience to face out and create it easier for purchasers to seek out you. My second tip is to point out, don't tell. Build out a portfolio of your style work; keep it up so far, and ensure it emphasizes the kind of labor you are presently seeking. purchasers wish to examine what you've got accomplished — and what you'll do for them. Last however not least, assume long-run. In my expertise, the foremost undefeated freelancers read every job as a stepping stone towards repeat work. once Associate in Nursing enterprise consumer offers alittle job, ensure they are excited with the ultimate outcome to urge your foot within the door — ideally, it'll result in in progress comes. married woman Montañez: If somebody is stressed or on the verge of burnout, what is one issue to be aware of with freelancing? Nancy Van Brunt: whereas freelance work definitely has its advantages, as well as selecting your comes, dominant your rate and maintaining your own schedule, it isn't while not its challenges. it is simple to require on an excessive amount of work or get overpowered by work considering the terribly nature of freelancing is that the additional you're employed, the additional you earn. it is important to figure on a schedule and do not retreat from speech no to things that do not align along with your interests.If you follow my work, you recognize i am all regarding approaching our careers through a holistic lens. we have a tendency to can’t have effective career conversations while not concerning eudaemonia. Stress impacts however we have a tendency to weigh risks and rewards, and what you're feeling on the within comes get into however you approach your career. begin steering the ship and do not sleep on market trends – freelancing could be a massively positive one.

[mobius-prime]

200. Sonic the Hedgehog #132

Can you believe it? We've reached the two hundredth issue, everyone! It seems like not that long ago that we had only reached one hundred, yet here we are! Of course, the actual comic itself is nowhere near two hundred yet, but we're counting total volume of issues here. We're over halfway done with reading the preboot by now, but we still have over a hundred left to go in front of us, so we'd better dive right in!

Home (Part 3 of 4): A.D.A.M. and Evil

Writer: Karl Bollers Pencils: Dave Manak Colors: Jensen

Eggman can't believe what he's seeing as Tails and Sonic fly overhead, having been certain that Sonic could never be fast enough to reach him in time to stop the missile launch. Sonic leaps down from the Tornado with a pair of handcuffs to arrest Eggman with, but Eggman isn't worried, as he has M to protect him… and as Tails hacks into Eggman's database to stop the missile launch countdown, he finds he has another problem to worry about.

Well that's worrying… Meanwhile at Fort Acorn, as General D'Coolette gets the soldiers under his command ready for battle, Julie-Su argues with Knuckles inside the fort. Knuckles apparently wants to take point in the fight, but Julie-Su is adamant that he not put himself in such direct danger, as now without the power of the Chaos Emeralds, the only power he can rely on is his natural strength, which while formidable pales in comparison. She's doubly worried since last time he put himself in direct danger like this he literally died, but he still insists that he can handle it, pointing to his backup.

Uhh… looks like Amy has seriously powered up since last we saw her! Vector is in charge of heading off the swatbots' first advance, which he does by blasting his music loudly enough that it literally blows all the robots apart before they can reach the fort. While this is going on, Sally, her parents, and Uncle Chuck monitor the situation from the Technolo-Tree, as now that A.D.A.M. has taken control of the Tornado Tails is in serious danger. However, Chuck reasons that with A.D.A.M.'s attention split three ways, he may not be able to properly concentrate on controlling the plane, the missile countdown, and the robot army at Robotropolis effectively. A.D.A.M. forces the controls of Tails' plane down, intending to make him impact with the water of the ocean to kill him, and with M attacking Sonic in revenge for hurting her "father," things look bleak. However, Tails, thinking fast, decides to test A.D.A.M.'s skills with riddles, asking him "Why does the chicken cross…"

I think you've found A.D.A.M.'s weakness, Tails! As he keeps the virus distracted with some more puzzles, Vector laments the destruction of his stereo equipment due to the sheer volume of noise he just unleashed on the swatbots. However, that's only the first wave - and Amy Rose is ready to take on the second wave single-handedly. M starts viciously beating up Sonic while Eggman gleefully "introduces" her to him, noting that unlike A.D.A.M., she was an intentional creation to act as his personal enforcer. She flings Sonic into the water nearby, and Sally, watching from home, is horrified, as she knows Sonic can't swim.

This is kind of the beginning of the era where the comic started to clip Sally's wings. A year spent thinking her closest friend was gone has robbed her of some of her usual fire, and though many people call it out of character for her, while to some degree I agree, in other ways I kind of don't. Sonic is in many ways the opposite of Sally - he rushes into things, acts first and asks questions later, while Sally is much more calculating and prefers to have a plan before jumping into action. With the wild attitude of Sonic gone from her life, she's had her parents in her ears for the past year, once again pushing her to act like a princess and not get involved the way she used to. Instead of being the general, the leader of the rebellion that she's always been, she's being pulled back, reined in, told that she must only direct her troops' movements from the safety of her home. While certainly Sally isn't the type to meekly listen to whatever her parents tell her to do, I think the trauma she's faced has affected her in more ways than even she's aware of, and she's not nearly as certain of herself anymore, leaving her more open to manipulation from her parents than she once would have been.

At Fort Knothole, Amy is only half-conscious after the battle due to exhaustion, but perks up when she's told that she managed to wipe out half the attacking swatbots… on her own. If there's one thing I love about the comics, it's that they never downplay Amy's immense strength. She's a one-woman army in her own right, as long as she has her hammer in hand, and ultimately the comics give her a lot of chances to shine as the badass she is. Everyone prepares to fight the rest of the bots, but a shadow above alerts them to the arrival of the special GUN team from Station Square, heralded by Rouge the Bat. In Old Megaopolis, Eggman tells M that he won't believe Sonic is dead until he sees a body, so she dives into the water, just as Sonic manages to pull himself from the water after finding a lucky ladder close by.

M's eyes begin to glow, glaring at Sonic as she prepares to attack…

Mobius 25 Years Later: The Unveiling

Writer: Ken Penders Pencils: Steven Butler Colors: Jensen

There isn't much teen interaction in this second installment of Mobius 25 Years Later, so there isn't as much to complain about compared to last issue, but there are still a few things to cover. For one, we get our first introduction to Kenders' weird attempts to include some diversity of sexual orientation in his work! We open at Lara-Su's Unveiling, as Julie-Su proudly watches her dance with her father in the middle of the festivities. An echidna named "Mace" arrives, and from his dialogue we can gather that he's Knuckles' half-brother, the one whom Lara-Le was pregnant with before Sonic's space adventures. Julie-Su questions his friendship with a friend of his, Demi-Na, but he insists that the two of them are just friends and it's "nothing serious." She then warns him away from flirting with any of the other people present, as they're all already married. Apparently, Kenders' intention here was to indicate that Mace is in fact gay - that he's not interested in Demi-Na because he's not into women, and that Julie-Su never specified the gender of the people he shouldn't be flirting with. However, there's not even the slightest hint of any of this in the dialogue - y'all know how online fandoms will grasp onto any tiny hint of two same-gender individuals being cordial to one another as being true love and ship them accordingly, but I doubt even the gayest of fans would look at the dialogue surrounding Mace and think "Oh, he's definitely A Fellow Gay!" I do get that at the time this comic was released, acceptance of LGBT individuals wasn't nearly as widespread as it is now, which would actually make Kenders a bit ahead of the curve of society as a whole in terms of acceptance, but this is still a really, really weak attempt at including a gay character in his work - and it's not even the weirdest example yet.

See, even here, something that could have been an opportunity for gentle ribbing from father to daughter is instead used as an excuse to essentially pull a "well, other people have it worse" on Lara-Su. The dress really doesn't suit her personality-wise, making me wonder who even decided that was what she should wear in the first place. Meanwhile, we finally get to meet Cobar, Rotor's old friend, as the two meet up and discuss a very serious matter.

Okay, this is definitely the most interesting thing we've seen so far in this world. This is a problem much more reminiscent of the types of conflicts we see in the main storyline of the comic. However, we're already facing another weird "LGBT inclusion" scenario! Go ahead and take a look at the way Rotor and Cobar interact with one another. Seem shippable to you guys? Well, despite the fact that they seem no closer to each other than two ordinary scientists with a polite working relationship, Cobar is basically supposed to be Rotor's husband! That's right, Kenders apparently always saw Rotor as gay, and while I'm 1000% on board with that interpretation… well first of all Cobar looks like he has one foot in the grave while Rotor would barely be like forty-something in this timeline, but also, again, there is no noticeable hint they they're even slightly into each other, let alone in a long-term relationship. Frankly, Rotor deserves better if we're looking to set him up with a nice man.

Meanwhile, back at the Unveiling, Vector and his son Argyle arrive fashionably late to the party, and Vector and Knuckles step aside to have a chat while Argyle moves in to dance with Lara-Su. Vector frets, thinking that Argyle essentially isn't cool enough to know how to charm a lady, but his fears are totally unfounded.

Hmm, seems serious, Knuckles… I'm sure this interesting part of the plot isn't going to get sidetracked by trite teenage drama and a bunch of adults yakking at each other about Adult Stuff, right?