#i cannot allow this one to just rot as my brain tries to power through the clutches of ✨️c0rp0r4T3 c4PiT4LiSM✨️

[blueblurseptember]

god, i've been so busy these past weeks bc of work, and i am hating every moment of it. i just really wanna write a binggeyuan fic where bingge tries to "restore" the soul of the shen jiu of his world after meeting cucumber qiu, not knowing any better (that they're two different people), only to somehow end up reverse transmigrating in the modern world.

and as it turns out, in this timeline [original timeline of the universe/fate, i guess?], shen yuan didn't die and transmigrate. instead, he survived the cause of his death in the svsss universe, was forced to move back into his family's house, and is seeing a therapist to much more healthily cope with what had caused him to hyperfixate and self-neglect [almost] to the point of death – the loss of his little sister to [a longterm terminal illness].

i can already picture it clearly in my head: shen yuan obsessively finishing the proud immortal demonic way in 20 days for his sister bc she didn't make it for the ending. her favorite character is yue qingyuan, and she ships him with shen jiu – shen yuan doesn't get it. not when yue qingyuan is such an angel, and shen jiu, in his opinion, is such a piece of shit!!! being such a creep to ning yingying and hurting the protagonist luo binghe!!! (his own personal favorite, he realizes.)

his personal fixation with binghe grows after he blackens; he doesn't realize it won't admit it, isn't aware of it, but he can relate to the rage, the hunger for power so he doesn't end up losing someone important again, the ability to achieve the impossible, and take matters into his own hands.

bingge learns all about this, puts all the pieces together, fills in the blanks, and in getting to know shen yuan, he also figures out the mystery that is the uncharacteristically loving, gentle, and kind shen qingqiu from that other universe.

the delusional (but accurate!!) conclusion he arrives at from all this is that they are deadass soul mates, and that in every universe where there is a luo binghe, there is a shen yuan fated to find him or be found by him, and they will save each other with love they never knew they're capable of giving another person.

all that, plus, screw being a demon realm emperor. he's found his truest and best calling in life and it's to become shen yuan's maiden-hearted malewife who likes to clean, cook, wash the dishes, pamper his husband, and make his entire world revolve around his husband. as much as he loathes to admit it, he gets it now. turns out that supposedly inferior version of himself in that other universe was onto something being that sickeningly soft and sticky.

[ledoc-archive]

I can't believe I found this after so long... This was one the first fics I ever read on this site, even before actually having an account. It's the way this writing had me not only weeping but also mumbling through my tears to my friend about how she should read this.

Right off the bat, it starts with a handy topic: cheating. I am a professional advocate of loyalty and protest against cheating as I cannot bring myself to understand how such a thing can happen in the first place. Not because of anything in particular, but in my relationships (friendly, I'm forever single lol) I've always tried my best to allow the communication flowing, and especially in moments of upsetting situations or just plain discomfort, so the thought of someone not really respecting the first boundary of monogamous relationship— which would be the compromise to be with that person only—, just makes my mind explode. I mean... Of course telling them the truth about how you feel is going to sting a lot, no doubt, but that shouldn't really discourage the not-as-of-yet-cheater to talk things through.

STILL, during that time I was going through the WORST Wooyoung brain-rot and because of the lack of critical skills I had back then, I kept on rooting for him. Because that's just how powerful the writing is, liking or not his past actions, as it puts you on his shoes on multiple occasions and shows genuine guilt on his part, you unconsciously become the judge and press him free of charges, because in the way that he's written, you want to root for him. You really do.

Even when there is a more favourable option for the main character, which would be her best friend, Mingi. I believe this to be intentional, how many times we can see progression in their relationship, it is quickly cut off by an apparition of no other than Wooyoung, who comes in and "saves the day". And just like that, whatever moment of a possibility between the two friends dissipates and is rather overshadowed by the following narrative which contains Wooyoung's arch. As the story progresses, he keeps on trying no matter what reaction he gets, and that act of persistence shows devotion, one that wasn't present before. Mind you, I'm not talking through pink tinted glasses, and it is stated that he kept his attempts throughout the passage of quite a long time.

The best part has to be the ending. Wooyoung finally gets to snatch the MC'S and the readers heart, again putting other PRETTY important things that would have consequences later on under the rug. It is after a steamy session that the bell rings, and a fully distraught me wished for it not to be him. Then it all comes like a dive into cold water, THEY HAD A PLAN FOR THE DAY. And so you agonize as she reaches the door, showing a face you do not want to see, because you realize, you have screwed up, badly. As you see Mingi giving up on you as he leaves in his car, a voice of reality hits the female character and the reader who was indeed trapped all along. What now amazes me to think about it, is how it is open for the possibility, but it is never certain that it's going to happen again. Forgiving a cheater comes with a risk. And sometimes it's the thought and fear of repetition that leads me to think: is it really worth it? After all that you have been through, are they going to be fully okay and happy in a relationship with someone who has the power to destroy them and pick the pieces as easily as that? Is love really worth the fear of another loss?

Because really, you don't know. That torment of darkness engulfs you again, but he's right there, next to you. Again, as a lover. But nothing ensures nothing, and a promise was already broken once. So in the face of another pretty girl, a drinking party, and the right mood, ... Can you really be sure that, it will be alright?

Thank you so much for this writing!!

mingi x reader x wooyoung

word count: 25k

angst, smut

(part 1)

even before your relationship with wooyoung ended the way it did, you always wondered what drove people to cheat? did they just never care from the start, basing the relationship off lies and fake smiles, or did something happen down the line? 

were there problems that only one person could see and didn’t feel comfortable enough talking about to the other? did they feel neglected or unloved, like they needed to seek out that affection and validation elsewhere?

or did they really just have no regard for another person, selfishly occupied with their own pleasures and needs while realizing, maybe, they didn’t care if they hurt the person or not.

if you asked your ex-boyfriend, he’d say it was none of the above - he’d say that it simply just happened.

Seguir leyendo

[themonkeycabal]

Wandavision Ep 5 Spoilers

Wherein I watch Wandavision at a stupid hour of the morning because I do not sleep like a regular human being, and sometimes I have things to say.

Previously on Wandavision, we all discovered that Darcy Lewis and Jimmy Woo were the BFFs we never knew we needed and now can't live without. Also Wanda reminded us that she's really scary.

We should be in the 80s now, right? Ahh the 80s. Leg warmers, Aquanet, and MTV.

Baby shenanigans with crying twins. Wanda tries to magic them to sleep and it doesn't work. "Maybe we just need some help." And in pops Agnes without waiting for them to answer the door. As you do in a sitcom hell. She's got a headband and leg warmers on and is on her way to jazzercise. Of course. Is the point of Agnes to really anchor us in a decade? Asking for real. She's very "this is the era, and these are the tropes, let's all play along now."

Vision is very protective of the babies, to such a degree and with such intensity that Agnes literally forgets her line and nervously asks Wanda if she wants her to take that again. Well, then. Agnes very super a lot does not want to be wished to the cornfield. 

The babies stopped crying during the whole "should we do this scene again" interlude. Vision noticed the weirdness and is trying to figure out what's going on, Wanda is trying very hard to pretend everything is normal. Agnes is being super duper bizarre in the background. And suddenly the twins are like three years old. Agnes has given up and got into the liquor. I don't blame her.

Opening credits. Okay, I'm sorry, 'baby' Vision is almost more stupidly funny than I can take. Like … what? I think I want that as my new icon, though. Also the credits are too long. I think they were very proud of their theme song, so we have to hear it all. These are my least favorite so far. Very 80s, but meh.

In the real world, Monica is getting x-rays and giving a report on being yeeted from Wanda World.

Jimmy Woo and Darcy are there to greet her at the end of the exam. "This is Doctor Darcy Lewis." Yes, she is! Still very proud. She's also the doctor of encouraging people to wear pants, shoving a pair at hospital gown-clad Monica. Erik's no-pants phase was very scarring.

The medic comes back and says the medical tests didn't work or something. The medic wants to do x-rays again because the first came back blank and also she's going to have to do another blood draw. Hmm. Monica is still somehow affected by Wanda World? Unclear on how that would work. Some sort of weird witchy radiation-like energy? Monica says 'no' to more needles and also wants to put pants on. Just let the woman have her pants.

Now we're on to a briefing with the acting Director of SWORD whose name I don't remember. He's very "government suit" bland, I have a hard time caring about anything he says. Also, does anybody else pronounce the 'w' in SWORD in their head when they read it? Like I cannot make my brain stop doing that. "s-WUH-ord'.

"Our initial theory had Wanda Maximoff as one of many victims. We now know she is the principle VICTIMIZER!" Settle down there, acting director guy. Why not say 'subject', 'suspect', 'perpetrator', or boring old 'cause of the anomaly". VICTIMIZER! Geez then. I'm going to guess his solution will be a tactical nuke or some such rot.

Jimmy gives background on Wanda.

Acting Director Guy: "The twins were subsequently radicalized, volunteering at Hydra." Jimmy Woo: "That's an oversimplification of events, but yes." I'm giving you heart-eyes Jimmy Woo.

"After unspecified experimentation with the mind stone, Maximoff gained telekinetic and telepathic abilities."

Then a weird aside where the Acting Director — who shall now be known as Acting Director Dick — wants to know if Wanda had a code name or a something, seeming to imply that not having one made her a bad guy?,  and then he points out how the first time she used her powers it was against the Avengers. He totally just ordered a tactical nuke from "overreacting-government-douchebags r us".  I hate this particular character trope, the government heavy who never listens to anybody and is always ready to napalm the suburbs because reasons. It's so tedious.

Jimmy points out that Wanda earned the Avengers trust and then became an Avenger herself, thank you very much. Acting Director Dick doesn't care, he's decided Wanda is a terrorist and he'll turn half of New Jersey into a glass parking lot to get rid of her. Sure am glad he's in charge of some sort of mysterious and powerful agency.

Jimmy Woo is not a fan either, and he walks back over to his new bestie and tells Darcy that while he tries not to speak ill of anybody … Darcy interrupts "then allow me", and she has no trouble saying that Acting Director Dick is, in fact, a dick. That's my girl.

Elsewhere AD Dick is blathering on about how they don't negotiate with terrorists. Well, since Wanda hasn't made any demands, or released a manifesto or anything …. Monica also points out Wanda is not a terrorist. AD Dick twists her report to make Wanda sound as terroristy as he can. I'm bored with him now.

Monica argues with him a bit and say she doesn't believe Wanda World is a premeditated act of aggression. I vote Darcy, Jimmy, and Monica wait until AD Dick is alone, and then they shove him in a locker for the rest of the season. If anybody asks he had to run back to sWUHord for meetings or something, "Darn, you just missed him. I'll tell him you're looking for him. Great. Buh-bye now".

AD Dick needs to make his big jackass point that Wanda is the most terroristy terrorist who ever terroristed, so he shows off footage of Wanda breaking into a SWORD facility to steal back Vision's body. Because that seems terroristy and not at all like some sort of emotional breakdown. As far as I can tell, she just busted open a few doors, but didn't hurt anybody. I think AD Dick doesn't know the meaning of the word terrorist.

And, yes, then she resurrected Vision in an idealized sitcom world in a small city in New Jersey. That's exactly like something a terrorist mastermind would do. Mmmhmm. Is it nice for the people trapped there with them? No, clearly not. Agnes and Herb in particular seem aware and are scared. They need to be rescued and Wanda needs LOADS of therapy. But Director Nuke the Site from Orbit over here isn't going to make anything better. Darcy, sister, shove that asshole into a locker stat.

Jimmy notes that stealing Vision's body is a violation of the Sokovia Accords. And while I appreciate his dedication to maintaining the Accords … well, I mean, look, it's body theft and all. It's not a great look; I absolutely allow that. But you can just sort of stop there. Though, that's very the Sokovia Accords "if this guy dies, his body must go to a shadowy government agency. for safety. yep."

Also Vision had a living will, where he didn't want to be used as a weapon. Sure, okay. Because I'm sure SWORD was just totally not doing anything at all with his body. Nope. Look, I'm totally a SHIELD girl and even I wouldn't necessarily trust SHEILD with that. So, who is SWORD to me? Pfft. I'd give him to Thor or something and ask him to be buried far far away. I'm just saying. I'm supposed to trust Johnny-Come-Lately S-WUH-ORD?

(In my head now is an inter-agency rivalry where SWORD is like "We have rocket ships!" and SHIELD is like "lol, our lead scientist got eaten by a rock and survived on an alien world for like six months". "But rocket ships?" "We've traveled through time a dozen times in the last year alone. We're a bigger chaotic disaster than you can ever hope to be".)

AD Dick undermines his own "SHE'S A TERRORIST!" thesis by saying she acted out of grief. And then he dismisses everybody. "Work the problem!" Uh … whut? Fine? What is the problem? That she's a WILD MURDERY TERRORIST who must be stopped! or a grief stricken woman who stole her technologically advanced boyfriend's body and probably should be talked down? Acting Director Lack of Clarity.

Jimmy wants to know how Wanda could have resurrected Vision without the Mind stone and Darcy wants to know what Vision will do when he figures it out. Fine questions, friends, fine questions. Monica is just like "acting director dick used to be a buddy but now I kind of want to punch him and am very conflicted. oh and wanda kind of freaks me out but also i feel bad for her" only she says all that without words.

Tommy and Billy are now about like 5 or 6 or something. I'm terrible with kids ages. They're up to shenanigans. Oh, they found a lost puppy dog and they're giving him a bath in the sink. It's all super adorable.

Vision wanders in and greets his family all formally and in his human face. He says he has a premonition someone might pop over. He's not a fan of sitcom neighbors either. And there's Agnes now with a dog house. How does she know whether to enter through the front door or the back door?

The dog tries to burn the house down by licking an electrical outlet? so they name him Sparky (harr harr) and Wanda magics him a collar with Agnes right there. Vision's all "wtf darling?" and she points out Agnes didn't even notice when the boys went from babies to five-year olds, she certainly didn't notice the magic collar. Agnes is trying very very hard not to notice anything. Poor Agnes.

Wanda says she's tired of hiding her abilities and Vision is Very Concerned. He's starting to figure things out.

They tell the boys they can't have a dog until they're 10, so the boys grin at each other and age themselves up to 10. That is all very unsettling. Agnes "Let's just hope this dog stays the same size." as she screams internally "save me!"

Real World. Jimmy's hustling back to the science room with coffee for Monica and Darcy. Monica is asking for some sort of wild mobile bunker to help her get back into Wanda World and Darcy's like "well, yes, but also no". But Monica knows an aerospace engineer who'd totally make it for her.  

"I can't guarantee the Hex won't just mind wipe you as you go in." "What's the hex?" "Oh, it's what I'm calling the anomaly because of it's hexagonal shape. It's starting to catch on." Darcy's so proud, but Jimmy's like 'not so much' but he's too polite to say.

Monica's determined to go back in. Jimmy wants to know who the kids are, if they've id'd them or the babies and Monica's all "oh, no, those are legit Wanda's." Darcy says if she can make stuff with her mind, and all the props and whatnot in the Wanda World are real then she's wielding an insane amount of power. Monica is sure she could have taken out Thanos if he hadn't cheated and snapped her. Jimmy thinks Captain Marvel could have done it. Monica very much doesn't want to talk about Captain Marvel.

Monica has an Idea!

Ah, she wants to see her outfit from Wanda World, which is now in the real world. So, is it real matter Wanda created, or is the perception field bleeding over to make them all see that outfit in the real world. That would have been hella awkward if Monica got yeeted out of her clothes.

Monica confirms they're real then steals Jimmy's gun and shoots them. Ahh, she was wearing a kevlar vest when she went into Wanda World, and that changed shape to be her super fly 70s outfit. "Wanda is rewriting reality." Changing things to fit the hex. So they'll send in something that doesn't need to be changed. Um. Sure. Fine. I don't know what that means, or how that would help in this context, but I'm sure I'll find out.

Meanwhile, Vision is at work, and all his coworkers are amazed at the actual computers. Golly shucks. Computers. Hey, so, computers have been around since the 40s. ANYWAY.

"Should we surf the internet?" We're progressing rapidly through the 80s. Oh, lol, Darcy sent an email. And the whole office creepily reads it out loud. Vision is very weirded out. As well he should be. He wipes the computer with his glowy synthezoid powers and then he glowies Norm when Norm tells him 'none of it is real'. Norm wakes up "please help me. what day is it? how long has it been?". Oh dear. Poor Vision. This is all going to go so very badly. Norm gets very freaked out begging Vision to "stop her". Vision resets him.

At the house the boys wonder where dad is, and Wanda tells them it's Monday and he's at work. Except the boys are all "um, no, it's Saturday". Wanda, your house of lies is tumbling down! You shouldn't have let them grow up so fast. Babies don't ask inconvenient questions about why Daddy needs some space from Mommy and her questionable choices for their shared reality.

Wanda takes the opportunity to impart the 80s family sitcom trope of the weekly life lesson about how family might fight, but they still love each other and family is forever. One of the twins asks if she has a brother. She does. He's far away. But, Sparky goes barking at the door. Wanda looks far away herself. She goes to open the door and Sparky runs out.

Monica has sent in a drone from the 80s. Well that wasn't really a thing. But, how does the 1980s rc plane look more high tech than the 2020s drone they sent in first? Talk to your design team, SWORD.

Anyway, Wanda spots the drone, but she's keeping it out of the broadcast, because she's the editor and director and producer of Wandavision, of course.

Monica announces herself and tries to get Wanda to acknowledge her. Whoops. Wanda's eyes go glowy. AD Dick says "take the shot" and Monica's all "what? no, the drone isn't armed." Except of course it is, because AD Dick is a monumental dick, and he's got a backup drone pilot who takes the shot. Wandavision goes off air. And, oh no, there's a breach at the Hex!

Lol. It's Wanda coming through, dragging the mangled corpse of the drone with her. That was entirely deserved, AD Dick. I hope she shoves it up your ass, dick.

"The missile was just a precaution". AD Dick backpedals quick, like a coward. You gave a three second attempt to talk to Wanda before you pulled the trigger, I don't like you. "You can hardly blame us."

Wanda warns him to stay out. "You won't bother me, I won't bother you." Okay, well, he does kind of have a point, in that there's a whole town of people who are stuck as bit players in Wanda World. That's not very nice. I mean, surely she could have found a nice empty spot somewhere and created her sitcom utopia. That's at least a fair criticism.

Monica tries her best to talk Wanda down. It doesn't work particularly well.

"What do you want?" "I have what I want and no one will ever take it from me again." And she mind controls the soldiers training their guns on her, to turn them on AD Dick. Whoops. And Wanda goes back to her world. The Hex glows all red as she goes.

And we go to commercial. Lagos Brand paper towels. "For when you make a mess you didn't mean to." Wow, so that was brutal. Wanda's not mad at you, Monica. She's just carrying a lot of guilt. Ouch.

Back in Wandavision, the boys are looking for their dog. They find Agnes hiding in the bushes with the dog. Poor Sparky apparently ate some azalea leaves and died. The boys are very sad and Wanda warns them not to age up. They can't run from their feelings. Oh Wanda. "It's too sad," Billy says. "You can fix anything mom," Tommy cries, "Fix the dead". Yikes.

Wanda "I'm trying to tell you there are rules in life." Poor Agnes is trying not to have a total meltdown. "We can't reverse death. No matter how sad it makes us. Some things are forever."

Billy and Tommy try to talk her into bringing back Sparky. And Vision turns up. Well, this is just brutal.

Vision is entirely outside of Wanda's control. "I spoke with Norm. I unearthed the man's suppressed personality and I spoke to him free of your oversight." Yikes. "He was in pain, Wanda."

Okay it's kind of funny they're arguing over the end credits. Vision is very very pissed. "I'm scared." Aww.

Wanda insists she's not in charge of every life in Westview. "I don't know how any of this started in the first place." Huh. Is that really true? Because she's pretty sure of it now. Somebody or something convinced her into a sitcom world and now she's just like "yeah, this is good"? really asking.

Ding-dong.

"I didn't do that." 

Vision: *doubt*

DING DONG

Wanda goes to answer the door.

In the real world, alarms are blaring but Darcy notices a new revelation on Wandavision.

Wanda Word — and it's Pietro at the door. See! I knew it had to be Pietro who'd be the surprise guest thingy. I mean it's hilariously X-Men Pietro (Evan Peters, like @lewstonewar suggested), but Pietro nonetheless. There's nobody else it could have been.

Darcy be all WTF? "She recast Pietro?" lol

Okay, Wanda seems legit shocked. I don't think she did that. And I super really don’t think she’d make him sound like a NYC cabbie. 

And end.

Well. I mean, I'm not sure what to think. Wanda insists she's not controlling everything. I don't think she created Pietro. But, she totally stole Vision's body and created the kids and seems mostly happy in her sitcom universe and she can traverse the Hex, which obviously suggests its her doing. Dunno. I have questions about Agnes and her convenient timeliness here and there.

The mystery continues.

Disney wants to know if I want to watch Age of Ultron next. How poorly you know me, Disney.

[damienthepious]

nearly late, hghgjfgh

thorns that burst from my skull in the night (chapter 5)

[ch 1] [ch 2] [ch 3] [ch 4] [ao3]

Fandom: The Penumbra Podcast

Relationship: Lord Arum/Sir Damien/Rilla

Characters: Lord Arum, The Keep, Sir Damien, Rilla

Additional Tags: Second Citadel, Lizard Kissin’ Tuesday, Canon Compliant, Prophetic Dreams, Alternate Universe, canon typical Arum ignoring feelings, (very mild suicidal ideation or at least. canon typical arum being reckless with his own life), Canon Retelling, (sortaaaaa)

Summary: Arum has always seen glimpses of the future in his dreams. This gift is sometimes useful, but more often than not it leaves him with more questions than answers. The dreams of the flowers are particularly unhelpful.

Chapter Summary: Arum will not be attending his third duel.

Chapter Notes: sorry this is almost late. havin a weird brain time over here. hope this is anything? i love you. please love and appreciate and kiss a lizard.

~

The grubs that went unused are not in their container when he returns home, after the duel.

He stops listening to the Keep's gentle berating in the middle of a thought as he realizes the vanishwood box is silent, the pulsing heartbeat stopped, and when he passes his hand in front of the side it confirms his grim suspicion. He goes to undo the lid, snarls to himself when he finds it already askew, and when he opens it fully to check again it confirms what he already knows.

Gone.

They are nowhere within the Keep. They are not even within the swamp, so far as the Keep can sense. They could not possibly have gotten that far on their own since last Arum saw them, which means-

He hisses through his teeth at his own carelessness. Tired, distracted enough to leave the lid ajar- the sort of mistake a clumsy hatchling would make, and with so valuable and dangerous an experiment. Were he not so busy he would find a hole in which to bury himself.

Arum imagines the creatures clinging to his clothing, or stowing away in the traps he brought with him to the jungle outside the Citadel, slipping away into the night. The raw empathetic power of that many of the grubs could eviscerate the local life-

More importantly, if the grubs scattered that close to the Citadel, they might create something of a fuss, and Arum cannot possibly afford for his creations to be sniffed out and investigated by the humans. The Senate would never forgive their pet project being compromised in such a way.

Arum unclenches his hand, pulling his claws from the wood, and he hisses again as his shoulders sag.

No sleep, no rest, no settling his mind- he will need to return to the more human-infested parts of the Wilds, to reclaim his property. The Keep chides again, tries to discourage, and he is so tired but he cannot afford to leave this matter unsettled. The grubs are too dangerous, their implications too delicate to fall into human hands.

He closes his eyes for a moment (what's right in front of), steels himself, and summons the way back. The sprinkling of swamp dirt he left near the Citadel will still serve, for the time being.

He finds the swath of destruction, eventually, after a frustrating and lengthy search. He would have needed to come back to dismantle the rest of the traps that Sir Damien did not trigger in their duel eventually, anyway, he thinks grimly. No sense letting good tools rot without reason. But nowhere amongst his carefully laid machinations does he find the grubs. He does not find them, no trace of them, until hours later when he follows the scent of ash, until the sickly but dissipating clouds of pink in the air lead him to the remnants of battle.

So. He was not quick enough to find the grubs before they found something else.

Settled bursts of spores, he finds, and charred earth, and eventually, the hollowed, burnt-out shell of fungi, enormous and still shivering the air with residual magic, though it is no longer alive.

He had been expecting human corpses, in all honesty.

Arum inspects the burnt rot, and he finds more evidence of flame around the base. Charred grubs cluster quiet beneath what is left of the stem, dry and lifeless, but-

Arum scrapes a claw through the ash. It is still just slightly warm- he must not have missed the excitement by terribly long. He eyes the remnants, critical, his head tilting sideways.

This was not all of his grubs. They were not all destroyed. Which is far more worrying than the alternative.

It is not difficult, to track the scent of human and horse back through the jungle, to follow the clumsy, careless steps back out of the trees. By scent he surmises that the second human and the horse have departed- he will need to investigate that if he does not find the grubs here, in this quaint little structure.

He spies her through the window, first, noting the sheathed knife she has already removed, hung by the bed, and-

Hm. She looks nearly as exhausted as Arum feels.

(I'm- sorry)

Not that it matters.

(morning, little human)

She stops speaking into the little device of metal and gears in her hand after a moment or two, tucks the vial onto a shelf, and turns for the bed. As she pulls her sheets back, Arum shatters the window.

It's easy enough to slither low, to disorient, to pluck the knife away and glower at the human over his remaining, reclaimed grub as his claws clink against the vial, and he does not let himself think about the way the dreams have begun to hover again.

He has not slept properly in so very long. That fact and the unfortunate echo of Sir Damien are the only reasons he can see the dancing of petals at the edge of his vision, can hear the vague whisper of song.

She puts up an admirable struggle, but she is only one unarmed human. Unarmed and exhausted, and he eases her to the floor when he knocks her unconscious. He shakes his head, then, trying to clear it, trying to silence the noise.

So. He has his experiment safely back in hand. Now, he must discover whether she has already informed the rest of her swarm about the creature and its capabilities.

He listens to the little human’s fascinating device, listens to her chatter about her apparent "experiments" with so much enthusiasm that it is almost catching. He toys with the machine until he has a sense of how to work it, and then he sets it to what he thinks must be the most recent entry.

He chose the wrong end of the spool, however. From the sound of her enthusiasm, from context, he imagines that the entry he has found must be the first, not the last. Unlikely to be helpful, for his purposes. He brushes his thumb across the controls, a frown curling his lips, and then the human's voice on the device introduces herself.

Amaryllis.

When he hears the word, he nearly drops the device entirely. All of his hands scramble in the effort of keeping it from shattering on the floor, and two claws just barely manage to catch it by the corner. He pulls the thing to his face again. He presses the button to go back. He listens again. He listens a third time, only to be certain.

Amaryllis.

(the honeysuckle blooms first, but the amaryllis come just as wild in their time)

Her name is Amaryllis.

He throws over her entire little hut, looking for evidence of deceit, looking for proof, finding the hidden cache beneath the floorboards and scrabbling through journals (coded; though he recognizes her sketches and he understands the half-written formulae), and he finds that this little creature has quite the heretical bent, for a human. Heretical, and botanical.

(a hatchling curled safe in the soft, fragrant bell)

Well. Finally this dream provides him something useful. An herbalist interfering with his work, just at the moment her particular skills could be of the most use to him. Just when his Keep is-

(wilting song)

Ill.

He can feel it in his own body. The creeping blight has not begun to wither his own scales, not yet, but the reverberation of what ails the Keep is within him all the same. A feeling of terrifying stiffness, a vague disquiet that makes his fingers shake, and day by day it worsens.

It worsens, and a doctor has just fallen into his lap.

It is not as if he could have let her go regardless. She knows too much of his work, she cannot be allowed to relay the information to the knights, to their queen. According to her device, this human has not had time to tell anyone about his work, and she does not yet understand it. But that does not mean that the information she does have would not be far too dangerous to allow to leak, and she has seen him now, besides. No. He cannot simply let her free, now.

So. He may as well see if he can glean any use from her. No sense in wasting talent, human or otherwise, when it presents itself to him.

If the dreams help him save his Keep, he thinks, he will never again begrudge them a shattered night of sleep.

He tucks the recorder into his satchel, alongside the grub, and he reaches down-

(please, off your feet)

He pauses, blinks, shakes his head, and then lifts Amaryllis into his arms.

[elijah-rokert-writes]

Prologue to the book I’m writing! I really hope you all enjoy it!

The flaming serpent bit down, catching Kohtmo by the ankle and bringing her to the ground. She twisted around, wincing in pain, and drove her knife through the creature’s head, killing it instantly. Quickly prying its teeth out of her leg and pulling the knife out of the monster’s head, she pushed herself off the ground, and charged towards the river just twenty meters away. These creatures can’t survive the water, or at least, she assumed they couldn’t. The wind rushed against her neck as one of the serpents threw itself at her, narrowly missing her. Pushing herself harder, she neared the river.

Out of nowhere a shape appeared before her, towering in front of her and cutting off her path. It was horrifying to behold. Mold, decayed flesh, and rotting muscles covered the creature’s bones in small patches, dripping with pus. Its body structure was almost gorilla-like, but it had the skull of a wolf mixed with a human, with blood-covered fangs that could bite through iron, and brains showing through the top of its head. Blue flame burned in its eyes and swirled around its body, illuminating every small grotesque detail as though it were daylight.

With no hesitation, Kohtmo threw herself to the side in an attempt to evade the creature, but, in an instant, it had its arm out to the side and its grotesque fingers wrapped around her neck, lifting her up off the ground. Her knife fell out of her hand as she tried desperately to free herself, but the creature’s grip was far too strong. Suddenly, she becomes aware of a presence behind her, its aura radiating almost as strong as her own, and instantly knew who it was.

“Eiginskan, you dirty excuse for a god, I knew this was coming, the strings told me so,” Kohtmo croaked out weakly, the creature’s grip almost completely closing off her throat. “You won’t win this war you are planning. Fate will not allow it.”

Eiginskan chuckled and snapped her fingers, causing a serpent to bite down on Kohtmo’s heel. “How hard could it be to win, my dear?” She cackled, almost like a dying horse if it were being beat by a bunch of children with rocks. “Reldur is growing softer by the day, and all of the other gods are weak minded compared to me, not to mention that Almanatos hasn’t shown his pitiful face in well over one thousand years.”

Kohtmo struggled to breathe, gasping between words and still desperately trying to free herself. “Fate has decreed it so that you will lose. The balance of the universe cannot let this happen.”

“My dear, you are the only one in my way who is stopping me from changing that. You speak of fate as though it is a force, but you are fate.” Eiginskan spoke, an air of authority coming from her. “And once you are gone, I’m free to off balance the universe as I see fit. So tell me, what could possibly stop me? And if you don’t tell me, I will rip apart every individual atom of this universe until I have my answer, and these strings you speak of know that I’m right.”

Kohtmo shivered. She knew Eiginskan was correct. In fact, Kohtmo knew exactly how everything was going to happen, she even knew when she was going to die and how. She tried to speak but the creature’s grip had closed off her throat too much. Eiginskan snapped her fingers again, and its grip loosened, allowing Kohtmo to speak. “It’s a young mortal thief, roughly 15 years old. Unbeknownst to him, he is the only one truly capable of changing fate, for his blood runs with the power of gods and the will of mortals. My son will destroy you, and rebuild fate himself,” she coughed out.

Eiginskan chuckled softly, “Ah, so it’s a child. Now I almost feel bad for what I am going to do to him. I’m done with you now, thank you for your time, my dear. Have a good day sweetie, and tell our father I said hi.”

With a one last snap, Eiginskan was gone, and the creature dropped Kohtmo. The serpents swarmed around her, biting and ripping off her flesh, her aura flowing out of her body as her screams filled the night. Soon, the serpents leave, and there is nothing left on the ground but a solitary knife, glowing with power.

[cozy-possum]

The venom burns through some things quicker than others. When you’re born a vampire part of you dies. Pt. 2

Bella turns the water off and is about to call Reneesme to the bath when Edward pulls her back. She blinks at him.“It’s too hot.” She rolls her eyes.“It’s lukewarm at best.”“Bella can you not see the steam?” He glances to the bath and she nods.“It doesn’t feel hot.” Edward nods brow creasing as he tells her to wait. He hands her a raw steak and she holds it shrugging.“What was that for?”“That steak’s been in the deep freeze for months, can you not feel it?” Bella shakes her head and Edward brings her out to the living room having her stand in front of Carlisle. He glances up, watching her holding the now thawing steak.“Temperature then? Not surprising since you spent your human life in different climates. I’d imagine you being a shield has something to do with it as well.” Bella lets Carlisle explain whatever it is he’s talking about, waiting patiently for him to simplify it for her. He finally turns to Bella, it can’t have been more than five minutes but he smiles slightly.“When we become a vampire, the venom takes something from us.”“Our life.” Bella interrupts.“No something else, a price for becoming immortal and powerful. It varies for each of us. But is usually something that as a vampire, we don’t need.”

When Edward wakes Carlisle is surprised to hear him speak in monotone, nervously stumbling over the words as if he had forgotten how to say them. He makes sure Edward has far too many language and grammar books. As the days go on Carlisle is relieved the venom didn’t rob him of his speech, but the flat tone in his voice is worrying in a way Carlisle can’t place. It isn’t till Esme joins, asking Edward about where he grew up that it clicks. Edwards price was painfully obvious now. He can see his son recoil at the thought. Carefully answering Esme’s question and growing upset when he answers in the same flat monotone as he has been for the past years. When Rose and Emmett join it brings the frustration to the front of Edwards mind again, his voice almost scratchy from overuse, edging just on the side of husky, a byproduct of the venom constructing the lure from his voice for the predator façade they have. When Alice and Jasper arrive the anger is calmed, if only by Jasper’s gift. Edward still seethes, still hisses and goes quiet after certain phrases and sentences.

Bella questions it, when it happens after she wakes post transformation. She mumbles embarrassed how his voice had always sounded like music now sounds flat and strained. She worries Carlisle can tell which is why he pulls her aside. Explaining what she already knows. Edward is from Chicago. She laughs joking about him losing his accent after years of moving. Carlisle shakes his head as Edward scowls his voice a flat monotone as usual.

Emmett stands gripping the map the teacher had given him, the highlighted pathways she had drawn on it all merge together and he grips Rose’s hand as she leads him to their only shared class. They finish English and Emmett tries to calm the anxiety bubbling in his chest, he has no one in his next class and any classes they have are on the opposite side to where he needs to go. Rosalie watches him, before casually starting to walk with him. She kisses him at the door, wishing him a good rest of the day.

As Emmett settles into math he frowns, thinking about how when Rosalie’s classes have always been on the opposite side of the schools she still manages to make it to her classes on time. He hopes she hasn’t gotten caught running or using her vampire speed.

“Rosalie, we got another call from the school, if you’re late for anymore classes you’ll have to go to detention again.” Rosalie frowns as Carlisle scolds her.

“Detention?” Emmett turns looking worried to Rose.

“It’s nothing.” She smiles shaking her head. Carlisle watches eyes narrowed.

“You’ve been getting in trouble for walking me to class?” Emmett states.

“Jasper says you panic when you have to try to get to class alone, plus the first few times we had classes apart it took you ten minutes to find your class and that was after the teacher walked you to it. Also when it comes to following directions you’re not the best babe.” She shrugs a little and Emmett nods. Carlisle smiles.

“Well it seems a good sense of direction was your price.”

“Hah, yeah, I bet if I have know which way to go in the forest I wouldn’t’ve met any of y’all.”

Jasper knows he’s kept the lie up too long. He knows it will unravel soon enough. He sighs tucking his hands in his pockets and refusing to meet everyone’s eyes. He’d made the joke that eyes were the windows to the soul, and he got more than enough of the soul with feeling everyone’s emotions. No one questions his refusal to look at them and they allow him to exist in peace and further the lie.

Bella scowls, huffing as her voice pitches up, anger flowing from her like a broken dam.

“Jasper why don’t you ever look at anyone! It’s rude!” She’s worked up, she’s almost a year old, and he knows it’s the last of her newborn ability leaving her, the last big emotional snap before everything quiets into normalcy. Edward and Carlisle hover close to her, knowing what is happening. He can hear her moving, it’s slowed down her excess speed the first to fade. He can feel her hand, jerking his chin up and forcing him to stare at her. He cringes back closing his eyes desperate to erase her gaunt face and dead eyed stare. He covers his nose automatically not breathing in the scent of her blood, avoiding looking at the gash and bloody clothes that hang off her. He shoves her away opening his eyes and gluing them to the floor.

“If you touch me like that again I’ll snap Reneesmee’s arm off.” He deadpans. Everyone bristles shock still heavy in the air. Carlisle stares, eyes narrowing as the shock melts from him. Jasper hates the taste of pity.

“You can tell them.” Jasper growls standing slightly straighter, his posture tense. They can tell he’s prepared to run.

“His price. He’s looked death in the face so many times it’s all he can see.” Bella’s hand falters.

“Jasper, what do you see when you look at me?” Bella looks nervous now, Edward startles whimpering at the visual in Jaspers brain of the version of Bella he sees. He looks to each of them, Edward carefully projecting the images of themselves in their near death state. He does not look at Esme and she frowns.

“Jasper, it’s okay.” Carlisle adds in worried Jasper will feel bad. Jasper nods opening his eyes and choking little as he looks at Esme. She’s dressed in a nightgown, no blood or bruises on her, no bones jutting out, no swelling. Her feet caked in mud and dirt and wood under her fingernails.

“I hate this.” He mumbles to no one as he focuses on the blanket in her arms, her son wrapped carefully in it. He can almost smell the dirt; he can feel the ache in her chest as she curls her son to her. He turns his gaze down and the vision stops. He can still smell it, the faint dirt from Esme, the blood from Bella, the rotting food from Carlisle, the stench of bear from Emmett, beer and blood mixing when Rosalie steps in and the sickly sweet stench of sick as Edward steps closer. He closes his eyes stepping back as he turns and runs into the forest until he can no longer smell the antiseptic that wafts around Alice. He can’t get away from the stench of horse or heat that burns from him.

It surprises Bella when Jasper grips Alice’s wrist the first time. She thinks maybe he missed her hand. But as the day continues she notes he never actually touches her hands. He’ll brush his own against her body, up and down her arms, pulling her into him by her shoulders. Never touching her hands.

She asks Alice, when they’re alone, the only two not out a on a hunt.

“Oh, my price.” She smiles bubbly as always and says no more on the subject.

“I always though Alice’s price was her memories.”

“Ah, but what need does someone who can see the future have for touch.” Edward lounges on the couch reading.

“Touch?” Bella looks up from her book horrified.

“She cannot feel with her hands. They’re completely numb.” Edward shrugs returning to his books for a moment

“She tried to convince us it was just her memories, and we believed her for years, of course she ended up slicing her fingers off one day. Didn’t even notice until Carlisle panicked for her.” Edward laughs at the memory and Bella scowls, careful not to grab Alice by the hand anymore.

Esme and Carlisle rush towards the scream, slamming into the door and watching Rosalie glaring at the floor hands twisting in her hair.

“It won’t work!” She looks up; they know she’d be sobbing if she could. Carlisle approaches her.

“What’s wrong?”

“The mirror is broken.” She points to it and Carlisle looks into the smooth surface, seeing himself standing beside a panicked Rosalie. He watches it, pulling her towards him and notes how she squirms.

“I can see you fine. I’m just blurry.” She scowls and turns away from the mirror. Carlisle sighs.

“We’ve each forgotten something. We’ll never be able to get it back, a sacrifice for becoming.” Carlisle offers a sad smile as he gestures to himself. Rosalie shifts.

“I was trying to do my hair. And I looked up and it was all foggy, I couldn’t see anything.”

“Yourself. You’ve lost the ability to see yourself.” He grimaces as Rose curls onto her bed.

“It doesn’t come back ever?” He shakes his head and nudges Esme.

“May I?” Esme nods carefully sitting next to her holding the brushes and hair curlers rose had thrown against the ground.

“Now curl towards this side or the other?” Carlisle leaves them thankful Esme sits with her.

Esme sighs nervously running her hands over the cookbook. She looks up sheepishly to Carlisle.

“Yes dear?” He responds when he feels her eyes on him.

“Could you read this to me?” Carlisle nods worry creasing his brow as he reads the cooking instructions to the roast Esme was making for the neighbors.

“Thank you dear, for some reason I just couldn’t make sense of it. Maybe not needing to eat has muddled my brain.” She laughs and Carlisle swallows that this is the fifteenth time she asked him to read to her. He kisses her forehead and strokes her hair mumbling confirmation that she should accept what she’s forgotten. She nods eyes downcast.

“Well this makes cooking difficult. Not being able to read the cooking times and such.”

“It’ll be a memory soon enough, you won’t need the cook books.” Esme nods and Carlisle pretends not to see the recipe card in her own handwriting.

Carlisle closes his eyes and sighs nervously as he steps through into the cool marble of the building, he shuffles uncomfortably gliding past the rows and groups of people before settling into seat.

“I have not been in a church since before my father passed.” His voice is quiet, choking on every other word even though his ability to cry is gone.

“I find myself desperate for it, the smell, the memories, the comfort. My family doesn’t understand, none of them have the same upbringing I did.” He sighs twisting his hands against his shirt.

“Forgive me father-“ Carlisle coughs, the words stuck in his throat, his vision blurring and head spinning as he tries to recall what to say next. He knows this feeling and he retreats from the confessional booth rushing outside into the forest gagging and coughing as blood drips down his chin and onto his shirt. He returns home, his family commenting about how messy he is, joking his control does not extend to his ability to eat. He nods agreeing with the joke and vanishes to his study again. Edward finds him an hour later; he knew he waited to make it not suspicious.

Edward settles next to him, gripping his hands in his own and tangling them in the rosary that Carlisle holds onto.

Edwards voice both speaking and the voice he pulses into Carlisle head is soothing, it reminds him of his father before he grew twisted and dark. He lets his thoughts wander to the events of the past years, their moves and hunt, the friends they’ve made. Edward finishes the prayer, quietly untangling his hands and pushing the rosary around Carlisle wrist as he smiles at his father.

“God be with you.” Edward keeps his hand gripped on his shoulder. Carlisle chokes wincing as he spits blood into the trashcan.

“And also with you.” Edward carefully speaks with him, Carlisle smiles in thanks bowing his head as Edward leaves ignoring the thoughts Carlisle knows he can hear. He can hear Edwards voice faintly telling everyone he lost a patient earlier. His sadness and ache at what he lost from his transformation plays into the lie perfectly. Nobody bothers him in his study as he hacks blood into a trash can, desperately try to recite his father’s bible.

Coffee?

[crashdevlin]

Hearts Entwined-6: Light

Hearts Entwined Masterlist

Author’s Note: This is the only unfinished series I will be releasing today but you’ll be getting all six chapters of what I have over the course of today.

Summary: y/n is a Wiccan from the French Mistake universe who finds herself in the Supernatural universe after finishing a spell. She’s not a fan, but she quickly sees the new place for what it is; a world with real magic. But real magic comes with real consequences.

Pairing(s): Sam x Reader, Dean x Reader, OMC x Reader

Word Count: 7326

Story Warnings: Smut, 18+ HERE BE SEX, DO NOT READ IF YOU’RE A YOUNG’UN!!, oral sex (fem and male receiving), vaginal sex, unprotected sex, rough sex, bloodplay, dub-con, sex curse, free-will fuckery. Angst.

Chapter Warnings: Angst, y/n’s backstory is full of sad, alternate universe shenanigans, mentions of drug use, fingering, oral (fem rec), unprotected sex, loving sex

"You're not Jack." Asmodeus across the throne room at you.

"No, I'm not." You answered, shortly.

"My lord, Asmodeus, I-" A demon walked into the throne room staring down at a clipboard.

"Can't you see we've got a guest, Percy? Show some respect." The Prince of Hell gestured at you and stood.

"He probably couldn't see me until you pointed me out. Low-level demons don't have perception like Princes of Hell do."

"Sir? Who's this?" The demon asked, looking at you with confusion.

"I don't, rightly, know, Percy. Let's find out."

You walked around him, surveying the room you'd only ever seen on your TV screen. "That'd be really threatening if I weren't a projection."

"And why are you projected here, miss?" Asmodeus asked, following you as you walked toward the throne.

"I -unno. I was sleeping and then something was calling me here." You walked around the back of the large, ornate wooden throne. "Are we in Needham? I really didn't expect you guys to keep using this set as a base of operations, especially with Crowley dead."

Asmodeus seemed surprised that you knew the location. "It's a good central location on Earth... and the last place the hunters would expect us to be."

You looked around the throne at him. "Well, Heaven is the last place they'd expect you to be, but okay." You ran through your mental map of the asylum and started walking away.

"Where are you-" The demon Percy started but Asmodeus just followed you as you walked through Needham Asylum, exploring. You stopped in front of two cells, one housing Castiel and one housing a depleted Lucifer. They both stood, moving to grab the bars and stare at you through them.

"Y/n, what are you doing here?" Cas asked as Asmodeus showed up behind you.

"Thanks for dropping my name, Cas. I was gonna Rumpelstiltskin this shit." You joked, avoiding looking at Lucifer, who was staring at you. "And I'm not really here. I'm projecting."

"I mean, this dimension. You fled back to your own world."

"A girl's allowed to change her mind, Cas. God gave us free will, didn't he?"

"You know this girl?" Asmodeus asked the angels.

"Never seen her before." Lucifer answered, but his tone, and how his eyes hadn't let your face since he saw you, told you he knew exactly who and what you were.

"She's a witch, caused significant chaos for Sam and Dean." Castiel said, obviously catching on that he shouldn't tell Asmodeus that you were a friend. "She comes from another world. After the chaos died down, she retreated back to her home world."

"And what dimension is it that you are from, Miss y/n?"

"Couldn't tell ya." You answered, truthfully. "Know where I'm going. Know where I've been, but I have no clue where I originated. I've got no memories from before I was with my fosters, but maybe I've been with them since before my brain was saving memories." You shrugged. "Who cares? I'm here now. Well, not here, but you know what I mean."

"So, were you one of Crowley's witches? That how you know of the asylum?" The demon asked. Lucifer seemed very interested in your answer, leaning ever-so-slightly closer.

"Crowley and his mother tried. I'm not interested in being controlled. I'm a free agent." You smiled. "Anyway, I really enjoyed our conversation, Colonel Sanders, but I wanna get back to my body so-"

"But why were you here in the first place, y/n? I was callin' to Jack and you showed up."

You smirked. "It's a simple matter of you being very loud in my astral environment." You looked from the cells to Asmodeus. "I'm sure if this Jack was in Kansas, he'd have heard you, too. The searching meditation thing... loud."

"Terribly sorry to disturb you, sweetheart. Have you seen Jack?"

"I met Jack Nicholson on a plane once, but I don't think that's who you're looking for."

"How astute." Asmodeus drawled.

"Thanks. I pride myself on my deductive reasoning capabilities." You chanced a look at Lucifer, catching a flash of pride on his face at your sass.

"I am looking for Jack, the Nephilim offspring of him." The demon pointed at Lucifer "You know, the most powerful being on Earth."

"Well, like Castiel said..." For some reason you couldn't place, the name came out the way Lucifer always said it, as two syllables instead of three. "I was off-world for a while. I don't know anything about a Nephilim."

"Oh, real-leh?"

"Not one that survived. Nephilim are abominations in the eyes of Heaven, right?" You gestured to Castiel. "Only because Heaven's afraid of their power, but that's a whole 'nother thing."

"For not knowin' anything about Nephilim, you sure do know a lot about how Heaven treats them." Asmodeus accused.

"I'm well-read. Also, you know, why else would Heaven have such a big problem with a little human-loving? God did say to love us, right?"

"I'm sure God wasn't thinkin' about sex when he passed down that decree." The demon said.

"I'm sure you don't know what God was thinking. You think God's too good to think about sex? Man was made in His image and men think about sex all the time. What do you know?"

"Can we not talk about my dad and sex, please?" Lucifer whined.

You chuckled but didn't look at him. You weren't sure if you were trying to keep Asmodeus from recognizing the connection between you and Lucifer, or if you were trying to deny it to Lucifer himself, but you were certain it'd be evident if you gave full attention to him. "Everyone has to confront the fact that their parents had sex at some point. I mean, it's a little different when your father is the Allfather, but whatever." You turned back to Asmodeus. "Anyway, keep your loud meditation to yourself and I won't bug you again."

"I'll do my best, witch."

You jerked as you came back to your body and Sam tightened his arm around your waist, in his sleep. Dean's hand on your hip pulled you closer to him, in response. "Guys." You whispered. They each grunted in their sleep, so you just teleported out of their grasp. That woke them.

"Hey." Sam greeted, sitting up and stretching.

"What's wrong?" Dean asked, zeroing in on your expression.

"Um... I have to... go save Castiel from Asmodeus."

"What?" Dean asked, sitting up, too.

You took a deep breath. "Asmodeus was searching for Jack, as he's wont to do, but he found me instead. I know I shouldn't have gone, but it was so loud and scratching at my brain and I... I astral projected to him and... he's got... he's got Castiel."

"Why would you go to him?" Sam asked as Dean's eyebrows scrunched together.

"Why'd you say 'Castiel' like that?"

You rolled your eyes. "I don't know. It just came out like that. Cas and Lucifer are with Asmodeus."

"What do you mean, Lucifer?" Dean asked, as Sam took on a look of panic. "He's in Apocalypse World, ain't he?"

"Not anymore. He's in a cell next to Cas. I'm gonna go get Cas."

"What cell is gonna hold Lucifer?" Sam asked.

"He seemed... less. You know, like Cas when he got his Grace yanked. I wish I hadn't missed the last few weeks' episodes."

"Wait, go where? Where's Asmodeus have him? And what the hell are you thinking? You can't go there. If Asmodeus gets you-" Dean stood, looking down at you.

"He won't. I'm stronger than him. And it's not like I can leave Cas locked up in Needham Asylum. I'll be in and out before Asmodeus even knows I'm there."

"They're at Needham?" Dean asked.

"Yeah. I guess Crowley started a trend. You know how much the demons hate staying in Hell where they belong." You shook your head. "It's fine. I can do this."

"We'll come with you." Sam offered, standing.

"No, you won't. Lucifer is there." You took Sam's hand in yours. "Lucifer, who's tortured and manipulated you, who's tried to end everything. You don't need to be there, or see him. I'll bring Cas back, okay?"

"Y/n, don't go without us." Dean almost begged.

"I promise that I'll be back so quick." You said, with a smile. You went to your tiptoes and wrapped your arms around Sam's neck, pulling him down for a kiss. You pulled away and repeated the motion with Dean before disappearing. You reappeared outside the asylum, at the bottom of the stone steps. You chuckled at the warding on the door and passed through to the other side. You slipped through the halls of the asylum and down to basement, touching each ward as you passed it and smiling as they burned away.

Cas and Lucifer jumped up when you walked in front of their cells. "Y/n, why are you here?" Castiel asked, as you put your hands on the lock and pulled the door open as soon as it clicked.

"Getting rid of all these anti-angel wards and getting you out of here." You answered. You moved to put your hand on Cas' shoulder and fly off with him, but Lucifer stopped you by grabbing your wrist.

"You can't leave me here, y/n." You looked down at Lucifer's hand, then up to his face. His eyes went red and you were certain yours went gold because he smiled, brightly. "You're my daughter. I could tell the moment I saw you. You cannot leave me to rot in this cell."

"I can, and I should." You answered.

"Y/n... you're-" Castiel started. You didn't let him finish his sentence, flying Castiel to the bunker, dropping him in the war room, and immediately flying back to the asylum.

"You came back." Lucifer whispered, happily.

"I can't leave you here. For some stupid reason." You broke the wards on Lucifer's cell and he stepped out, happily.

"I knew you wouldn't let me down." You grabbed his shoulder and flew off with him. He looked up at the building you flew him to. "What's-"

"I need breakfast and coffee before I deal with you. Based on your Graceless aura, I'm gonna assume you should eat something, too. Biggerson's. Have some pie." You pulled open the door and headed inside.

Lucifer followed. "I am not Graceless." He insisted.

"Just two?" The hostess asked. You nodded and she led you and Lucifer to a booth in the corner. "Ashley is your server, she'll be right with you. Can I get you started with some drinks?"

"Two coffees." You ordered.

"I don't want-"

"Shut up, Dad." You interrupted as the hostess walked away. "Coffee is like precious ambrosia. You'll thank me later."

"Oh." Lucifer pretended to get choked up. "You called me 'Dad'."

"No point in denying I'm the daughter of the Devil, is there? My parents back home hinted at it my whole life, but I just thought they hated me." You smiled at the hostess as she dropped two coffee mugs off and a bowl of creamer.

"So, tell me everything." Lucifer demanded, happily.

"Not much to tell. I'm another version of you's daughter. I was sent from whatever dimension I was born in to a dimension where there's no Heaven or Hell, where the version of you is an actor named Mark." Lucifer seemed scandalized by the thought. "I don't know why I was sent away. Maybe because Heaven didn't know how to kill an archangel Nephilim. Regular Nephilim are hard enough to get rid of, ask Cas."

Lucifer rolled his eyes and reached across the table. "Let's go ahead and get this out of the way." His hand grasped yours and the last thing you saw before you were pulled down into your memories was his red eyes.

And then you were looking up into his vessel's blue eyes, which were cast down on you, reverently.

"She's so beautiful, isn't she? So full of my Grace and her mother's human potential. In a few years time, she will be the most powerful being in the universe, maybe as strong as her grandfather." He looked up at whomever he was addressing. "Michael would twist her soul, like he did with the souls of his demon followers. He would use her against me. He would have no qualms twisting the humanity in her so that he could use her power as a weapon."

"Do we kill her now, then, General?" A familiar male voice asked.

"No, Zachariah." Lucifer looked down at you again. "I now know a father's love. I understand why Father wanted us to love the humans; because He loved them so. Despite their flaws and the damage they cause each other and all His other creations... He loves them... I can't destroy her."

"I could." Another voice, a deep baritone one, volunteered.

"No, Uriel. I haven't called you here for that. I need someone to take her away to safety."

"Safety. Where on Earth do you think she's going to be safe, Lucifer?" A familiar female voice chimed in.

"Nowhere... on this Earth, but there are other Earths and there's one where the fight with Michael will never happen. Heaven and Hell can't battle if there's no Heaven or Hell."

"No Heaven or Hell? How would such a place-" The female started again.

"They conduct themselves much as the humans here do, Castiel, because they have faith in what they cannot see, misplaced though it may be for them." Lucifer sighed. "I need a team to take her to the other dimension and watch over her."

"Whoever goes would be unable to fight in the battle." Castiel's voice went low, like she'd been offended by the thought of not getting to fight.

"And in the interest of complete disclosure... as this universe is the epitome of the mundane, I do not believe there is a way to come back."

"We'd be stuck?" Uriel asked, anger lacing his words.

"Yes. You would be stuck, forced to live as humans, unable to fight in the Apocalypse, completely cut off from Heaven's Grace... and I would be eternally grateful and in your debt for this service."

There was silence as Lucifer looked at the trio of angels before him. "Of course we'll do this for you, sir." Came Castiel's voice, finally. "And no debt will be necessary. We're happy to serve you."

Lucifer smiled. "No, you aren't happy about it, Castiel, but you might find it in you, eventually. Here. I will begin the spell to send you, you should get used to holding Orli."

Your vision was jostled as you were passed from Lucifer's arms to the waiting arms of a brunette woman with sharp blue eyes. Castiel, or as you'd always known her 'Mom', looked down at you with disdain. "This is terrible." She whispered as your 'father' came into view, looking down at you. "I am a soldier, not a-a nursemaid."

"We're being trusted with our leader's most precious-" Zachariah began.

"We're going to have to live as hairless apes, Zachariah. We will eat and sleep and age and die with them and it is all because our General decided he needed to feel the joy of Creation before taking down Michael. How is that fair?" Uriel almost growled.

"It's not Lucifer's job to make things fair for us, you maggot. This is an honor he could've asked anyone to carry out but he turned to us. Us, his most trusted. Take it as an honor, you dumbshits."

The trio stared down at you. "She isn't light. I'll not call her 'Orli'." Castiel finally whispered. "We'll call her 'y/n'."

You gasped as you pulled out of your memories, blinking rapidly.

"I was the good guy in your dimension?" Lucifer whispered, confused.

"Never do that to me again." You insisted, pulling your hand out of his grasp.

"Well, I'm sorry, but wasn't that easier than hearing you blather on about how you don't remember anything? Now you remember something! Your parents hated you because they had to give up their celestial identity to protect you."

"I'm just realizing that I never saw my parents being any kind of affectionate... and Castiel was my mom, which is... awkward." You sighed. "And it totally explains why they wouldn't go to church with me. They wouldn't want to hear you badmouthed so much."

The server walked up and took your orders, two cheeseburgers and fries, and walked away. "How did you end up a witch if you were raised by angels? I mean, not that you could call Castiel and Zachariah prime examples of angel, but..."

"I don't even know, now. I thought my grandma started me on it, but... I don't even know who that woman was."

"So, you're a witch, but you're Castiel's friend?" Lucifer picked up the coffee mug and sniffed at it before taking a tentative sip.

"It's complicated." You answered, watching with interest as he took another sip followed by a gulp.

"Complicated? I'm your father, but not your father. I'm evil but I'm also a savior. You're an angel and also a witch. You think I can't handle complicated?"

You raised an eyebrow. "Who are you a savior to?" You took a deep drink from your mug and set it down. "I am involved with the Winchesters so knowing Castiel, this Castiel, is unavoidable."

"Involved?" You could see the whine coming before he put his own mug on the table and slumped his shoulders. "Tell me you haven't allowed one of those birdbrained cretins to touch you."

"That's really none of your business, Dad."

"Oh, my Dad. Which one was it?" You avoided his gaze, knowing he could see the truth in your eyes if he caught them. He huffed out an angry breath and leaned back against the booth seat. "I honestly don't know which one would be worse. Sam, with his self-righteous bullshit or Dean, with his self-hatred and both of them, both of them, think they're so freaking special. Just, what, 'cause Dad wrote about 'em? Dad only wrote about them because-"

"Shut up." You demanded, looking across the table at him. He stopped his whining rant and looked at you. "Grandpa wrote about them because they're special, not the other way around. They are intelligent, handsome, brave and they have pushed through a million things that would have destroyed lesser men, including literal Hell for both of them. I'm blessed to have gotten either of their attention and fortunate enough to have gotten the love of both of them. You're the fuckin' Devil, you aren't gonna make me feel bad about my relationship status."

"You're with... both of them?" Lucifer asked, picking up his mug again.

"I said it's complicated, didn't I?"

"You know I hate them, right? And they hate me? Your boyfriends hate your father." He reiterated. "They want to send me back to the Cage."

"If you could handle being on Earth without trying to kill all humans and take everything over, maybe they wouldn't be so bent on sending you back to where God sent you."

"I wasn't trying to murder Dad's faves last year, was I? No, I was just trying to bask in some of the love and attention that I have been, historically, deprived. Then, here comes Castiel and Crowley, the little worm, to end my fun."

"This is when you were Rick Springfield, right?"

"Who? I was wearing Vince Vincente."

"I know. But you know, a single Jessie's Girl reference would've been amazing." You joked.

"What? Anyway..." Lucifer waved away the confusion and continued. "I was just having some fun. No big plan, no mass genocide, just a bit of-"

A phone started going off in your jacket pocket and when you pulled it out the screen said 'Sam'. "When did they plant this on me?" You whispered, answering it. "Hey, Sam."

"Where've you been? Cas has been back for almost half an hour and you're nowhere to be seen."

"Lucifer escaped." You lied. It flowed out so easily that it almost didn't feel like a lie when you said it. "I went back to put the enochian wards back up and he was gone. It's all my fault, Sam. I have to find him."

There was silence on the other end of the phone as Lucifer gave a proud look across the table at you. Sam cleared his throat. "It's not your fault, y/n. Lucifer, he's an opportunist. As soon as you broke those wards, he was probably thinking about how to get out of that cell. Why don't you come back? We'll regroup and look for him, together."

"Gimme an hour, Sammy. If I can't find him in an hour, I'll come back."

"Y/n, I don't think that's-"

"I just need to try to fix this myself first. Please."

"Okay. Call us if you get close. He might be powered down, but he's still Lucifer."

"Okay. Love ya. Bye." You quickly turned the GPS location option off on the phone and looked across at Lucifer, who had a positively giddy look on his face. "Don't give me that look."

"You just lied to your boyfriend about me. I've never felt so proud."

"I lied because if I told him, he and Dean'd pack into Baby and hunt us down. You might not be the Dad who felt the love of being a father over me, but you are still my father."

"And what's your endgame here, Orli?" He leaned forward. "You can't just let me leave here on my own, because you don't trust me. You can't tell Sam and Dean where we are because they'd never trust you again. We can't stay here forever and you don't want to come with me, so what's the plan?"

"No plan. You think I had a plan when I pulled you out of Needham? No. I just couldn't let my Dad rot in a cell because of some ambitious underling. That's it. Knowing all the pain you've caused, all the death and destruction... I looked in that cell and saw my dad. So, I am going to eat this burger..." You smiled as the waitress dropped off the plates and walked off. "...and I am going to come up with something, with or without your input. 'kay?"

"Look, why don't you just let me head out by myself? I'm not gonna do anything. I'm practically human." He picked up his burger and took a bite. "Look at me, I'm eating! Oh, wow! That is amazing. How disgusting." He took several more bites as you watched in amusement.

"If you think that's disgusting, wait 'til it comes out... and slow down if you don't wanna learn about vomit." You popped a fry in your mouth and leaned forward as he noticeably slowed in his eating. "You don't know how to do this, Dad. You need help. And if you think I find you any less dangerous because you've had your Grace yanked, then you must think I'm stupid."

"I dunno if 'stupid' is the right word." He swallowed and picked up his coffee. "'Uninformed', maybe? Of course I'm less dangerous. You think that ingrate, Asmodeus, would be breathing if I were full power?"

You rolled your eyes. "So you can't dust people with a snap of your fingers, anymore. So? You know how many humans murder each other every day? Not a drop of Grace between 'em. You're still dangerous."

"That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me."

"Eat your food." You demanded softly.

He didn't speak as he started eating again, slower this time. You dropped money on the table and walked out into the parking lot with him as soon as you were both done eating. "So, what's next, Orli?"

"I don't know how I feel about you calling me that." You said, grabbing his forearm.

"Why? It's your name." He insisted.

"Yeah, but-" You shook your head and flew him to the Bunker's War Room. Sam, Dean and Castiel all shifted into defensive stances as soon as they saw you. "Hey, guys."

"You found him?" Sam asked.

"He didn't escape." You responded, honestly.

Lucifer threw his hands up. "Oh, come on!" He groaned. "You couldn't keep a lie going for more than an hour?! Are you sure you're my daughter?"

"I can lie. I just prefer the truth." You answered.

"What do you mean, 'he didn't escape'?" Dean asked.

"I let him out. I couldn't leave him there with Asmodeus. I-I know that this could be seen as-as a betrayal, but-"

"'Could be'?" Lucifer chimed in.

"I took him to get something to eat. You can't tell this but he's... way depleted."

"It's true. He's very weak." Cas confirmed.

"I am not-"

"Shut up, Dad." You snapped, before turning back to Sam and Dean. "I'm so sorry. I just couldn't leave him there. I really just went to save Castiel, but there was my father in the next cell over, I couldn't leave him."

"Seriously, babe, it's pronounced 'Cass-tee-el'. Long 'E'." Dean corrected.

Lucifer's face screwed up in disgust. "Okay, ew, infantilizing pet name." He gagged. "And my daughter is just saying it like her daddy does."

"You callin' yourself 'daddy' is ew." Dean shot back.

"I'm saying it how it's said in my dimension." You defended.

"And why's it said that way in your dimension?" Lucifer prodded, pointing not-too-subtly at herself.

"Why don't you shut your stupid mouth before I shut it for you?" You growled. He put his hands up in a non-threatening gesture.

The anger flowed out of their faces. "You found out where you're from?"

"Not quite, but Lucifer helped me remember some."

"Get this! I'm the Michael in her universe!" Lucifer exclaimed.

"What does that mean?" Castiel asked.

"Means Chuck entrusted the Mark to Michael so he's the one who was tainted and rebelled. Lucifer's the obedient son where I'm from." You answered.

"Did you remember how you got to... Muggle world?" Dean asked.

"Cas took me." You went with the shortened version of his name to avoid name shame. "Cas, Zachariah and Uriel."

"Really?" Sam exclaimed.

"Oh, it gets better. Show 'em the picture." Lucifer directed, chuckling.

You knew exactly which picture he was referencing. You rolled your eyes and summoned your laptop, opening it and pulling up a picture you'd poached from your Facebook when you decided you weren't going back home. It was you and your parents at a park on July Fourth. "Anybody look familiar, Cas?" You set the laptop on the map table and turned it so that he could examine the picture.

"This is one of my old vessels... and one of Zachariah's."

"These are my parents, who I thought were my parents, anyway. They always treated me with disdain. Never understood why." You trailed off.

"Oh, they hated her!" Lucifer laughed. "So much so that they changed her name."

"What's that got to do with anything?" Dean asked, as Sam asked, "From what?"

"Well, I guess I'm a sentimental douche having never been influenced by the Mark, 'cause I named her 'Orli'." He moved to sit on the map table next to your laptop. "That's Hebrew, Winchesters. Means 'My Light'. Castiel didn't care that y/n was my light, hated that they were being sent away for Orli's safety, so they changed her name before I even finished sending them away."

"I'm very sorry, y/n." Castiel looked from the picture to your face.

"Wasn't you."

"I know the neglect and poor treatment you suffered, y/n. It was a version of me-"

"And another version of you was a smiley, Twitter-obsessed goofball who helped the homeless." You shook your head. "Adam Campbell really can't hold a candle to the light Virgil extinguished. Point is, you're no more Misha Collins than you are the woman who raised me and changed my name. Don't sweat it."

"Wow, she has a saint-like level of not letting shit get to her. I mean, human Castiel was an alcoholic pill popper who once overdosed on Vicodin and meth... at Orli's twelfth birthday party. To forgive that-" Lucifer mockingly whistled appreciatively. "Of course, Zachariah as a human spent 5 years of her life in prison for instigating a bar fight that ended with a cop in the hospital, so..."

You shook your head. "It really wasn't that bad. Zachariah never turned his temper on me."

"She's great. Isn't she great? That's my daughter. I'm getting emotional." Lucifer mocked being touched again.

"I should've left him at the asylum." You groaned.

Lucifer jumped off the table. "No, this is good! We're bonding! Where's your brother? He should be here for this!"

You blinked at him, not enthused. You knew where Jack was, you could feel him in his room. You knew he was listening to everything. "My brother will show himself when he's ready to face you. Until then..." You summoned the spell-etched manacles from the dungeon and slapped them onto Lucifer's wrists.

"Oh, come on!"

"You come on. I couldn't leave you with Asmodeus, but you were right when you said I don't trust you. None of us do."

"Here I was, thinking we were bonding." Lucifer bitched.

"Dungeon?" Dean asked.

"Dungeon." You and Sam confirmed.

"Let me show you to your accommodations." Dean grabbed the chain and pulled the archangel toward the dungeon. "Crowley rated us five stars."

You turned to Sam as soon Dean disappeared from view. "I really am... so sorry... that I lied, you know, when you called? I just didn't want you guys to jump in the Impala and rush to Biggerson's before I... you know, had my time with him. I needed... something from him. I don't know."

"I understand, y/n. You wanted to see him without us influencing the conversation." Sam brought his hands to rest on your neck, his thumbs resting against the curve of your jaw and fingertips caressing your hairline. His gorgeous hazel eyes looked down at you with adoration. "You know, Lucifer was right."

"That's a strange sentence." You whispered.

Sam chuckled as you blushed under his gaze. "Orli's a good name for you. You are so full of light."

"I don't know about-"

"Y/n, you saw Lucifer in a cell and you had to save him. Not because you needed him for anything, just because you couldn't leave him with Asmodeus. You are full of more light than Chuck."

"Thanks." You whispered, looking down.

"I'm surprised by your light... especially after... I didn't know about how you were raised. You never mentioned..."

You pulled away and avoided Castiel's gaze. "It's really not that big a deal. Your raising was much more screwed up than mine."

"No, come on, don't downplay your pain." Sam pleaded, sitting in one of the wooden chairs. "Tell me about your childhood, y/n."

You sat sideways on his lap, legs hanging over the arm of the chair, and looked up at him. "My mom was an addict. Got worse every year I was there. Like Lucifer said, she overdosed on crystal meth during my twelfth birthday party. Pretty much traumatized all of my friends, and I didn't really have very many to start with. I can't count the number of times I had to clean her up, turn her on her side so that she wouldn't choke on her vomit like Hendrix." You sighed. "It was the sleep issues that caused the most problems, I think. Meth caused her some terrible insomnia. She'd be up for days, then drink until she passed out. I thought that was normal for a while, until one of my teachers told me it wasn't, called DCF. That was the first of many times that we picked up and moved without notice, started over from scratch. I was 7.

Dad went to the state pen when I was nine, got out just in time to threaten my first boyfriend with bodily dismemberment. He never talked to me again. I tried everything I could think of to... make everything okay." You bit the inside of your bottom lip as you thought through years of just trying to survive life. Sam put one hand on your hip and the other rested on your thigh, which gave a gentle, encouraging squeeze. "I started slipping them healing potions when I started with the witchcraft. Mom was losing her hair and teeth, and Dad got Hepatitis in prison so I was trying to help them... just gave them more energy to hate me. When I graduated from my sixth high school, I moved out... stayed in the same apartment until I got here. I liked staying in one place... I liked that they could find me if they needed me."

You chuckled. "It's almost like I thought one day they'd wake up and realize that they loved me, come over and make amends, but... never happened. When I disappeared, they told the cops I must've run away because it's not like someone would've noticed me enough to want to kidnap or kill me."

Sam tucked a finger under your chin and prodded you to look at him. "They were blind if they didn't see your light."

"They gave up everything because of me. They had to stop being angels because of me. It's no wonder Zachariah had a violent temper and Castiel turned to drugs and alcohol. I have no idea what happened to Uriel, but I'm sure his reaction wasn't much better. I just wish they had told me I was..."

"Hey, that wasn't your fault. You were just a baby." Sam hugged you tight to his chest. "You know Dean practically raised me, right? Our dad was drunk, when he was around. But I always had someone. I always had Dean, even when I didn't want him. You... you didn't have anybody."

You wrapped your arms around him. "Well, I have the both of you now."

The first kiss was slow and sweet, an affirmation of your previous sentence, but it didn't take long for the kiss to deepen. Sam's hands tightened their hold on you as you twisted on his lap to better accommodate his searching tongue. You grabbed at his gray under-shirt and moved to straddle his lap. He groaned and grasped the back of your t-shirt, pulling it off over your head. "God... I did not get to really enjoy this view last time." Sam whispered, running his hand down your chest.

You leaned up and kissed him. You were ecstatic to be in his arms again. To be touching him, knowing that you were about to teleport to your room to make love, it still seemed a little surreal. It was surreal that you could teleport, and that you were a Nephilim, and that your father was Satan, and-

Really, everything about your life at the moment was the ridiculous antithesis of what you'd expected it to be.

You teleported to your bed, jumping up and pulling your clothes off while Sam got oriented with his new surroundings. He smiled as soon as his eyes fell on you. "Eager?"

"What, is that a bad thing?"

"Not necessarily." He pulled his plaid shirt and his undershirt off over his head and tossed them to the floor. "But you remember, last time you were a bit overeager and, uh, I barely got to taste you."

You smirked. "I remember it well. But I'm not under a sex hex anymore, so..." You trailed off, letting your eyes drift down his muscular chest. "Man. You are... unnaturally handsome." Sam smiled at you and reached forward, pulling you onto the bed. He rolled your bodies until he was on top of you, looking down at you through a curtain of his fluffy hair. "Oh, you look even better from this angle."

"You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, you know that?" He whispered, adoringly. You opened your mouth to disagree with him about how beautiful his exes had all been, Jessica especially, but immediately forgot to argue as his mouth attached to your neck and your mind focused on that. You could hear his pants unzipping as his hands massaged your hips and thighs. "Hey. None of that." He pulled back and shook his head at you as he pulled the zipper back up. "No Nephilim magic. We're taking this at my speed, not yours, Miss Impatient."

"Sorry. I didn't mean to." You promised.

"You're stronger here, y/n. You have to be careful about your focus." He whispered, leaning back down to kiss the tip of your nose.

"How am I supposed to focus in this situation, Sam?"

Sam smirked. "Well, that's your problem, isn't it? Now, just lay back and relax, let me do this how I wanted to last time."

You sighed and closed your eyes as Sam started to kiss his way down your body. He took his time, just like he did before, but you since you weren't dying from heat this time you were able to enjoy the slow build of desire between your legs. He seemed determined to make it last as long as possible, avoiding all the most common erogenous areas and pointedly keeping his hands to himself. "Sam." You whined. Your hands were twisted in your pillow, trying to find something to do.

"I will gag you." He mumbled against your navel, where he'd been swirling his tongue for what felt like an hour.

"But-"

His teeth came down on your hip, just hard enough to make you gasp. "Y/n, shut up."

"This is punishment for last time, isn't it? 'cause I Kilgrave'd you." You sat up slightly and looked down at him. He was between your legs, just where you wanted him to be, but he still had his jeans on and he had completely avoided putting that mouth where you wanted it.

"Is it so bad that I want to explore every bit of you?"

"Can you explore a sexier bit of me than my belly button, please?"

"You are no fun."

"I beg to differ, Sammy. I am a barrel of fuckin' fun."

"What do you have to do that's more important than what I'm doing with you?"

"Nothing." You groaned, throwing your head back on the pillow. "I know I'm not the only one this is torturing. You look like you're about to bust your zipper."

Sam chuckled. "You're adorable when you're frustrated." He whispered, before dropping one of his hands to lightly rub his fingers down your lips.

"Fuck, Sam."

"Finally." He finished your thought for you as his middle finger slipped inside of you.

"Gods, can I take your pants off now, please?" You asked as he started to fuck his finger in and out of you.

"Yeah, go ahead." Sam consented as he added another finger. "You're so fuckin' wet."

"You've been working to get me wet for forever, so-" You snapped your fingers and his pants were suddenly on the floor with his shirt.

"I'm not ready to fuck you, yet." He said before he started to circle around your clit. He licked and sucked at your womanhood for several minutes until he pulled back and got up onto his knees. "Wanted to taste you. Sorry." He licked at his fingers and gave a satisfied noise.

"You could've tasted me any time over the last hour, Sam."

"No fun." He reiterated, then kissed you. "But you definitely taste delicious."

You wrapped your legs around him and pulled him down to you. "You sure are spending a lot of time with me for being no fun."

"Lucky for you, I'm in love." He smirked, kissing you before reaching down and wrapping his right hand around his cock. He slid his cockhead between your lips and guided it to your entrance. He swiveled his hips as he sunk into you. "Fuck, y/n." He kissed your neck and shoulder as he worked to get himself completely sheathed in you. He was bigger than you remembered, or maybe it just seemed that way after months of sub-par sex with José. Sam's movements were sure and confident, as he always was with you, but José had always approached sex like he was afraid he'd hurt you with his 8 inches. You'd never had the heart to explain that the two men who touched you before him were both giants in comparison, or that he actually hurt you more with his careless hands than his cock. Fingernail maintenance is vital.

"Hey, y/n. Earth to y/n." Sam whispered in your ear. "You got that far-off look in your eyes."

"Sorry. Just trying to be quiet. Don't wanna force you to-" He rolled his eyes and pulled his hips back, immediately slamming them forward and causing you to cry out. "Fuck, Sam!"

"I don't want porn star noises, but if you don't make some noise I'll think you aren't enjoying yourself." He nuzzled into your neck as he started a quick piston of his hips, which you met every motion of, using the way your legs were wrapped around him as leverage.

You definitely enjoyed yourself. Through seven different positions and two hours of not even caring that the entire bunker could hear you evoking all of your favorite gods and titans, he managed to keep you just on the edge of cumming and at the peak of enjoying yourself. When he buried his cock as deep as he could from behind, left hand fisted in your hair as the other put blinding pressure on the bundle of nerves he'd all but ignored during the whole event, you finally tipped over the edge. You screamed in pleasure as your legs gave out and the two of you fell to your mattress, nerves tingling.

"Jesus, Sam." You panted out, exhausted. He pulled you against his chest, chuckling as his cock slowly softened within you. "What?" You asked, turning your head to look at him.

"Did you run out of Pagan deities? Time to call on Jesus?" He asked, amused.

"Oh." You started laughing. "Shut up."

A knock on your door made you twist and grab your sheet. "Cover up, Sammy. I'm comin' in." Dean called. Sam smirked as he wrapped the sheet around his waist and you reached down to grab his shirt from the gloor, which you put on but didn't button. Dean walked in, balancing three plates on his arms. "Thought you might need lunch. Protein and carbs to replenish." He handed you each a turkey and cheese sandwich with a small bag of chips, then sat down in the chair next to your bed and took a large bite of his own sandwich.

"You know, Lucifer must be way weak, 'cause he was raging like no one's business and nothin'. Not even a light bulb burst." Dean said around a mouthful of bread and meat.

"Oh, yeah. Probably should've mentioned that Lucifer knows I'm with both of you and is not happy about it."

"All the more reason to shake the rafters, sweetheart." Dean winked at you as you took a bite. "So, Cas, Jack and I were talkin' game plan for Apocalypse World and Cas thinks we should milk Lucifer for all the information he's got on this other universe before we head out."

You nodded. "I can do that."

"Yeah?" Sam asked, licking potato chip grease off of his fingers.

"He did it to me. Dredged up this old memory from the depths of my mind, something from when I was days old. I'm sure I could get at his memories from a couple weeks ago." You shrugged. "I could not if you'd rather interrogate him for it."

"Tempting as that sounds..." Dean cleared his throat. "Your way's cleaner."

You smiled. "We're gonna get your mom. Promise."

"We believe you." Sam said, smiling.

[themaddeningscience]

Originally published in “When the Villain Comes Home” (Dragon Moon Press, 2012) and “Hero is a Four Letter Word” (Short Fuse, 2013)

Warning: This story contains profanity and sexual situations

Bullets fired into a crowd. Children screaming. Women crying. Men crying, too, not that any of them would admit it. The scent of gun powder, rotting garbage, stale motor oil, vomit, and misery. Police sirens in the distance, coming closer, making me cringe against old memories. Making me skulk into the shadows, hunch down in my hoodie, a beaten puppy.

This guy isn’t a supervillian. He isn’t even a villain, really. He is just an idiot. A child with a gun. And a grudge. Or maybe a god complex. Or a revenge scheme. Who the hell cares what he thought he had?

In the end, it amounts to the same.

The last place I want to be is in the centre of the police’s attention, again, so I sink back into the fabric, shying from the broad helicopter searchlights that sweep in through the narrow windows of the parking garage.

If this had been before, I might have leapt into action with one of my trusty gizmos. Or, failing that, at least with a witty verbal assault that would have left the moron boy too brain-befuddled to resist when I punched him in the oesophagus.

But this isn’t before.

I keep my eyes on the sky, instead of on the gun. If the Brilliant Bitch arrives, I want to see.

No one else is looking up. It has been a long, long time since one of…us…has donned sparkling spandex and crusaded out into the night to roust the criminal element from their lairs, or to enact a plot against the establishment, to bite a glove-covered thumb at ‘the man.’ A long time since one of us has done much more than pretend to not be one of us.

The age of the superhero petered out surprisingly quickly. The villains learnt our lessons; the heroes became obsolete.

A whizzing pop beside my left ear. I duck behind the back wheel of a sleek penis-replacement-on-wheels. The owner will be very upset when he sees the bullet gouges littering the bright red altar to his own virility.

I’ve never been shot before. I’ve been electrocuted, eye-lasered, punched by someone with the proportional strength of a spotted gecko and, memorably, tossed into the air by a breath-tornado created by a hero whose Italian lunch my schemes had clearly just interrupted.

Being shot seems fearfully mundane after all that.

A normal, boring death scares me more than any other kind—especially if it’s due to a random, pointless, unpredictable accident of time and place intersecting with a stupid poser with the combination to daddy’s gun drawer and the key to mommy’s liquor cabinet. I had been on the way to the bargain grocery store for soymilk. It doesn’t look like I’m going to get any now.

Because only the extraordinary die in extraordinary ways. And I am extraordinary no longer.

I look skyward. Still no Crimson Cunt.

Someone screams. Someone else cries. I sit back against the wheel and refrain from whistling to pass the time. If I was on the other side of the parking garage, I could access the secret tunnel I built into the lower levels back when the concrete was poured thirty years ago. But the boy and his bullets are between us. I’ve nothing to do but wait.

The boy is using a 9mm Barretta, military issue, so probably from daddy’s day job in security at the air force base. He has used up seven bullets. The standard Barretta caries a magazine of fifteen. Eight remain, unless one had already been prepared in the chamber, which I highly doubt as no military man would be unintelligent or undisciplined enough to carry about a loaded gun aimed at his own foot. The boy is firing them at an average rate of one every ninety-three seconds—punctuated by unintelligible screaming—and so by my estimation I will be pinned by his unfriendly fire for another seven hundred and forty-four seconds, or twelve point four minutes.

However, the constabulary generally arrive on the scene between six and twenty-three minutes after an emergency call. As this garage is five and a half blocks from the 2nd Precinct, I estimate the stupid boy has another eight point seven minutes left to live before a SWAT team puts cold lead between his ribs.

Better him than me.

Except, probability states that he will kill another three bystanders before that time. I scrunch down further, determined not to be a statistic today. This brings me directly into eye-line with a corpse.

There is blood all around her left shoulder. If she didn’t die of shock upon impact, then surely she died of blood loss. Her green eyes are wide and wet.

I wonder who she used to be.

I wonder if she is leaving behind anyone who will weep and rail and attend the police inquest and accuse the system of being too slow, too corrupt, too over-burdened. I wonder if they will blame the boy’s parents or his teachers. Will they only blame themselves? Or her?

And then, miraculously, she blinks.

Well, that certainly is a surprise. Perhaps the trauma is not as extensive as I estimated. To be fair, I cannot see most of her. She has fallen awkwardly, the momentum of her tumble half-concealing her under the chassis of the ludicrously large Hummer beside my penis-car.

I am so fascinated by the staggering of her torso as she tries to suck in a breath, the staccato rhythm of her blinks, the bloody slick of teeth behind her lips, that it’s all over before I am aware of it.

This must be what people mean by time flying.

I’m not certain I’ve ever felt that strange loss of seconds ever before. I am so very used to being able to track everything. It’s disconcerting. I don’t like it.

And yet the boy is downed, the police are here, paramedics crawling over the dead and dying like swarming ants. I wait for them to find my prize, to pull her free of the SUV’s shadow and whisk her away to die under ghastly fluorescent lights, too pumped full of morphine to know she is slipping away.

I wait in the shadow of the wheel and hope that they miss me.

They do.

Only, in missing me, they miss her, as well. She is blinking, gritty and desperate, and now the police are leaving, and the paramedics are shunting their human meat into the sterile white cubes, and they have not found her, my fascinating, panting young lady.

Oh dear. This is a dilemma.

I am reformed. I am no longer a villain. But I am also no hero and I like my freedom far too much to want to risk it by bringing her to the attention of the officials. What to do? Save her and risk my freedom, or let her die, and walk free but burdened with the knowledge of yet another life that I might have been able to save, and didn’t?

I dither too long. They are gone. Only the media are left, and I certainly don’t want them to catch me in their unblinking grey lenses.  The woman blinks, sad and slow. She knows that she is dead. It’s coming. Her fingers twitch towards me—reaching.

A responsible, honest citizen would not let her die. So I slink out of my shadow and gather her up, the butterfly struggle of her pulse in her throat against my arm, and slip away through my secret tunnel.

I steal her away to save her life.

It occurs to me, when I lean back and away from the operating table, my hands splashed with gore, that I’ve kidnapped this woman. She has seen my face. Others will see the neat way I’ve made my nanobots stitch the flesh and bone of her shoulder back together. They will recognize the traces of the serum that I’ve infused her with in order to speed up her healing, because I once replaced the totality of my blood with the same to keep myself disease free, young looking, and essentially indestructible. The forensics agents will know this handiwork for mine.

And then they will know that at least one of my medical laboratories escaped their detection and their torches. They will fear that. No matter that I gave my word to that frowning judge that I had been reformed, no matter that the prison therapist holds papers signed to that effect, no matter that I’ve personally endeavoured to become and remain honest, forthright, and supportive; one look at my lair will remind them of what I used to be, what they fear I might still be, and that will be enough. That will be the end. I will go back to the human zoo.

And I cannot have that. I’ve worked too hard to be forgotten to allow them to remember.

I take off the bloody gloves and apron and put them in my incinerator, where they join my clothing from earlier tonight. I take a shower and dress—jeans, a tee-shirt, another nondescript wash-greyed hoodie: the uniform of the youth I appear to number among. Then I sit in a dusty, plush chair beside the cot in the recovery room and I wait for her to wake. The only choice that seems left to me is the very one I had been trying to avoid from the start of this whole mess—the choice to go bad, again. I’ve saved her life, but in doing so, I’ve condemned us both.

Fool. Better to have let her died in that garage. Only, her eyes had been so green, and so sad…

I hate myself. I hate that the Power Pussy might have been right: that the only place for me is jail; that the world would be better off without me; that it’s a shame I survived her last, powerful assault.

When she wakes, the first thing the young woman says is, “You’re Proffes—”

I don’t let her finish. “Please don’t say that name. I don’t like it.”

Her sentence stutters to a halt, unsaid words tumbling from between her teeth to crash into her lap. She looks down at them, wringing them into the light cotton sheets, and nods.

“Olly,” I say.

Her face wrinkles up. “Olly?”

“Oliver.”

The confusion clears, clouds parting, and she flashes a quirky little gap between her two front teeth at me. “Really? Seriously? Oliver?”

I resist the urge to bare my own teeth at her. “Yes.”

“Okay. Olly. I’m Rachel.” Then she peers under the sheet. She cannot possibly see the tight, neat little rows of sutures through the scrubs (or perhaps she can, who knows what powers people are being born into nowadays?), but she nods as if she approves and says, “Thank you.”

“I couldn’t let you die.”

“The Prof would have.”

“I’m Olly.”

She nods. “Okay.”

“Are you thirsty?” I point to a bottle of water on the bedside table.

She makes a point of checking the cap before she drinks, but I cannot blame her. Of course, she also does not know that I’ve ways of poisoning water through plastic, but I won’t tell her that. Besides, I haven’t done so.

“So,” she says. “Thank you.”

I snort, I can’t help it. It’s a horribly ungentlemanly sound, but my disbelief is too profound.

“Don’t laugh. I mean it,” she says.

“I’m laughing because you mean it. Rachel.” I ask, “How old are you?”

She blushes, a crimson flag flapping across a freckled nose, and I curse myself this weakness, this fascination with the human animal that has never managed to ebb, even after all that time in solitary confinement.

“Twenty-three,” she says. She is lying—her eyes shift to the left slightly, she wets her lips, her breathing increases fractionally. I see it plain as a road sign on a highway. I also saw her ID when I cleaned out her backpack. She is twenty-seven.

“Twenty-three,” I allow. “I was put into prison when you were eight years old. I did fifteen years of a life sentence and was released early on parole for good behaviour and a genuine desire to reform. The year prior to my sentencing I languished in a city cell, and the two before that I spent mostly tucked away completing my very last weapon. Therefore, the last memory you can possibly have of the ‘Prof,’ as you so glibly call him, was from when you were six.” I sit forward. “Rachel, my dear, can you really say that at six years old you understood what it meant to have an honest to goodness supervillain terrorizing your home?”

She shakes her head, the blush draining away and leaving those same freckles to stand out against her glowing pale skin like ink splattered on vellum.

“That is why I laughed. It amuses me that I’ve lived so long that someone like you is saying thank you to me. Ah, and I see another question there. Yes?”

“You don’t look old enough,” she says softly.

I smile and flex a fist. “I age very, very slowly.”

“Well, I know that. I just meant, is that part of the…you know, how you were born?”

“No,” I say. “I did it to myself.”

“Do you regret it?”

I flop back in my chair, blinking. No one has ever asked me that before. I’ve never asked myself. “I don’t know,” I admit. “Would you?”

She shrugs, and then winces, pressing one palm against her shoulder. “Maybe,” she admits. “I always thought that part of the stories was a bit sad. That the Prof has to live forever with what he’s done.”

“No, not forever,” I demur. “Just a very long time. May I ask, what stories?”

“Um! Oh, you know, social science—recent history. I had to do a course on the Superhero Age, in school. I was thinking of specializing in Vigilantism.”

“A law student, then.”

“Yes.”

“How urbane.”

“Yes, it sort of is, isn’t it?” She smiles faintly. “What is it about superheroes that attracts us mousy sorts?”

“I could say something uncharitable about ass-hugging spandex and cock cups, but I don’t think that would apply to you.”

“Cape Bunnies?” she asks, with a grin. “No, definitely not my style.”

“Cape Bunn—actually, I absolutely have no desire to know.” I stand. I feel weary in a way that has nothing to do with my age. “If you are feeling up to it, Rachel, may I interest you in some lunch?”

“Actually, I should go,” she says. “I feel fantastic! I mean, this is incredible. What you did. I thought I was a goner.”

“You nearly were,” I say.

“And thank you, again. But my mom must be freaking out. I should go to a hospital or something. At least call her.”

“Oh, Rachel,” I say softly. “You’ve studied supervillians. You know what my answer to that has to be.”

She is quiet for a moment, and then those beautiful green eyes go wide. “No,” she says.

“I am sorry. I didn’t mean to trade my freedom for yours. I thought I was doing good. For once.”

“But…but,” she stutters.

“I can’t.”

She blinks and then curses. “Stupid, I’m not talking about that! I mean, they can’t really think that about you, can they? You saved my life. This…this isn’t a bad thing!”

I laugh again. “Are you defending me? Are you sure that’s wise?”

“Don’t condescend to me!” she snaps. “That’s not fair. You’ve done your time. You saved me. Isn’t that enough for them?”

“Oh, Rachel. You certainly do have a pleasant view of the world.”

“Don’t call me naive!” The way she spits it makes me think that she says this quite often.

“I’m not,” I say. “Only optimistic.” I gesture through the door. “The kitchen is there. I will leave the door unlocked. I’ve a closet through there—take whatever you’d like. I’m afraid your clothing was too bloody.”

“Fine,” she snarls.

I nod once and make my way into the kitchen, closing the door behind me to leave her to rage and weep in privacy. I know from personal experience how embarrassing it is to realize that your freedom has been forcefully taken from you, in public.

I built this particular laboratory-cum-bolthole in the 1950s, back when the world feared nuclear strikes. I was a different man then, though no less technologically apt, and so it has been outfitted with all manner of tunnels and closets, storage chambers, libraries, and bedrooms. The fridge keeps food fresh indefinitely, so the loaf of bread, basket of tomatoes and head of lettuce I left here in1964 are still fit makings for sandwiches. I also open a can of soup for us to share.

She comes out of the recovery room nine thousand and sixty-six seconds—fifteen point eleven minutes—after; a whole three minutes longer than I had estimated she would take. There is stubbornness in her that I had not anticipated, but for which I should have been prepared. She did not die in that garage, and it takes great courage and tenacity to beat off the Grim Reaper.

“I’m sorry, Oliver,” she says, and sits in the plastic chair. I suppose the look is called “retro” now, but this kitchen was once the height of taste.

“Why are you apologizing to me?” I set a bowl in front of her. She doesn’t even shoot me a suspicious look; I suppose she’s decided to take the farce of believing me a good person to its conclusion.

“It sucks that you’re so sure people are going to hate you.”

“Aren’t they?”

She pouts miserably and sips her soup. It’s better than the rage I had been expecting, or an escape attempt. I wasn’t looking forward to having to chase her down and wrangle her into a straitjacket, or drug her into acquiescence. I would hate to have to dim that keen gaze of hers.

I sit down opposite her and point to her textbook, propped up on my toaster oven for me to read as I stirred the soup. It had been in the bloody backpack I stripped from her, and seemed sanitary enough to save. Her cell phone, I destroyed.

“This is advanced, Rachel,” I say. “Are you enjoying it?”

She flicks her eyes to the book. “You’ve read it.”

“Nearly finished. I read fast.”

“You didn’t flip to the end?”

“Should I?”

“No,” she blurts. “No. Go at your own pace. I just…I mean, I do like it,” she said. “Especially the stuff about supervillain reformation.”

I sigh and set down my spoon. “Oh, Rachel.”

“I’m serious, Oliver! Just let me make a phone call. I promise, no one will arrest you. I won’t even tell them I met you.”

“You won’t have to.”

She slams her fists into the tabletop, the perfect picture of childish frustration.  “You can’t keep me here forever.”

“I can,” I say. “It is physically possible. What you mean to say is, ‘You don’t want to keep me here forever.’”

She goes still. “Do you want to?”

I can. I know I can. I can be like one of those men who kidnaps a young lady and locks her in his basement for twenty years, forcing her to become dependent on him, forcing her to love him. But I don’t want to. I’ve nothing but distaste for men who can’t earn love, and feel the need to steal it. Cowards.

“No,” I say.

“Then why are you hesitating? Let me go.”

“Not until you’re fully healed, at least,” I bargain. I’m not used to bargaining. Giving demands, yes. But begging, never. “When no trace of what I’ve done remains. Is that acceptable? But in return, you must not try to escape. You could hurt yourself worse, and frankly I don’t want to employ the kind of force that would be required to keep you. That is my deal.”

“You promise?”

I sneer. “I don’t break promises.”

“I know,” she says. “I read about that, too. Okay. It’s a deal.”

I spend the night working on schematics for a memory machine. I’ve never tampered with the mind of another before—I respect intellect far too much to go mucking about in someone’s grey matter like a child in a tide pool—but I have no other choice. Rachel cannot remember our time together.

Rachel sleeps in one of the spare bedrooms. She enjoyed watching old movies all afternoon, and I confess I enjoyed sitting beside her on the sofa. We had frozen pizza for dinner, and her gaze had spent almost as much time on the screen as on my face.

In the morning, my blueprints are ready and my chemicals begin to simmer on Bunsen burners. I leave the lab and find her at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and flipping through my scrapbook. It’s filled with newspaper articles and photos, wanted posters and DVDs of news broadcasts. I’ve never thought to keep it in a safe or to put it away somewhere because, besides Miss Rachel, no one has ever been to this bolthole but me.

“You found the soymilk, I see,” I say. She nods and doesn’t look up from her intense perusal of a favourite article of mine, the only one where the reporter got it. “And my book.”

“It’s like a shrine,” she says. “I thought you’d hate all these superheroes, but there’s just as much in here about them as you.”

“I’ve great respect for anyone who wants to better the world.” I touch the side of the coffeepot —still warm. I pour myself a cup and sit across from her.

“See… that’s what’s freaking me out, a bit,” she says. “You’re such a…”

“What?”

“You seem like such a sweet guy.”

I laugh again.

“What?”

“Don’t mistake my youth for sweetness.”

“I’m not, but…I don’t know, you’re not a supervillain.”

“I’m not a superhero, either.”

“You can be something in the middle. You can just be a nice guy.”

“I’ve never been just a ‘nice guy,’ Rachel. Not even before.”

“I think you’re being one now.”  She leans across the table and kisses me. I don’t close my eyes, or move my mouth. This is a surprise too, but an acceptable one.

When she sits back, I ask, “Is this why you were studying my face so intently last night while you pretended to watch movies?”

She blushes again, and it’s fascinating. “Shut up,” she mumbles.

I smile. “Are you a Cape Bunny after all, Miss Rachel?”

“A Labcoat Bunny, maybe,” she says. “I’ve always gone for brain over brawn.”

“Who are you lashing out against,” I ask calmly, my tone probably just this side of too cool, “that you think kissing the man who has kidnapped you is a good idea?”

Rachel drops back down into her seat. “Way to ruin the moment, Romeo.”

“That is not an answer.”

“No one!”

“And, that, dear Rachel, is a lie.”

She throws up her hands. “I don’t know, okay! My mother! The school! The courts! The whole stupid system! A big stupid world that says the man who saved my life has to go to jail for it!”

“I am part of the revenge scheme, then,” I say. “If you come out of your captivity loving your captor, then they cannot possibly think I am evil. You have it all planned out, my personal redemption. Or perhaps this is a way to earn a seat in that big-ticket law school?”

She stares at me, slack jawed, a storm brewing behind those beautiful green eyes. “You’re a bit of a dick, you know that?”

“That is what the Crimson Cunt used to—”

“Don’t call her that.”

“Why not? The Super Slut won’t hear me say it. Not under all this concrete.”

“Shut up!”

“Why?” I sneer. “Protecting a heroine you’ve never met?”

“She deserves better, even from you!”

“Oh, have I ruined your image of me, Rachel? Am I not sweet and misunderstood anymore?”

“You still shouldn’t—”

“What, hate her? She put me in jail!” I copy her and slam my fists on the tabletop. My mug topples, hot liquid splashing out between us. “I think I’ve a right to be bitter about that.”

“But it was for the good! It made you better.”

“No, it made me cowed. I’ve lost all my ambition, dear Rachel. And that is why I am just a normal citizen. I am too tired.”

“But Divine—”

“Don’t say her name, either!”

Rachel stands and pounds her fists on the table again, shaking my fallen mug, and I stand as well, too furious to want to be shorter than her.

“Asshole!” she snarls.

“And she was a ball-breaker on a power trip. She was no better for the city than I! The only difference was that she didn’t have the gumption, the ambition, the foresight to do what had to be done! I was the only one who saw! Me.  She towed the line. She kept the status quo. I was trying to change the world! She was just a stupid blonde bimbo with huge tits and a small brain—”

“Don’t talk about my mother that way!”

Oh.

I drop back down into my seat, knees giving way without my say-so. “Well, this is a turn,” I admit.

“Everyone knows!” she spits. “It’s hard to miss. Same eyes, same cheekbones.”

“I’ve never seen your mother’s eyes and cheekbones.”

“What, were you living under a rock when she unmasked?”

I smile, and it’s thin and bitter. “I was in solitary confinement for five years. By the time I got out, it must have been old news. And I had no stomach to look up my old nemesis.”

Rachel looks away, and her eyes are bright with tears that don’t skitter down her cheeks. I wonder if they are for her mother, or for herself, or because I’ve said such terrible things and her opinion of me has diminished. They are certainly not because she pities me.

Nobody pities me. I got, as I am quite often reminded, exactly what I deserved.

“What does your mother do now?” I ask, after the silence has become unbearable. There is nothing to count or calculate in the silence, besides the precise, quiet click of the second hand ticking ever onward, ever onward, while I am left behind.

“Socialite,” Rachel says. “Cars. Money. Married a real estate developer.”

“Is he your father?”

She swings her gaze back to me, sharp. “Why would you ask that?”

“Why does the notion that he might not be offend you?”

Her lips pucker, and with that scowl, I can see it: the pissy frown, the stubborn thrust of her chin. There is the Fantastic Floozy, hating me through her daughter.

“It doesn’t,” she lies. She twists her hands in front of her again. “Fine, it does. I don’t know, okay? I don’t think she knows. She wants it to be him.”

“So do you,” I press. “Because that would make you normal.”

She looks up brusquely.

“Please, Rachel,” I say. “I am quite clever. Don’t insult us both by forgetting. The way you do your hair, your clothes, the law school ambitions, it all screams ‘I don’t want to be like my mother.’ Which, if your mother is a superheroine, probably means that you are also desperate to not be one of…us.”

“I’m not,” she whispers.

“I dare say that if you have no desire to, then you won’t be,” I agree. I lean forward to impart my great secret. She’s the first I’ve told and I don’t know why I’m sharing it. Only, perhaps, that it will make her less miserable. “Here is something they never tell anyone: if you don’t use your powers, if you don’t flex that extra little muscle in your grey, squishy brain, it will not develop. It will atrophy and die. Why do you think there are so few of us now? Nobody wants to be a hero.”

“Really?” she whispers, awed, hatred draining from her face.

“Really,” I say. “Especially after the sort of example your mother set.”

Rachel rocks back again, the furious line between her eyebrows returning, and yes, I recognize that, too, have seen that above a red domino mask before.

“Why do you say things like that?” she asks, hands thrown skyward in exasperation. She winces.

“Don’t rip your stitches, my dear,” I admonish.

“Don’t change the subject! You wouldn’t talk about the Kamelion Kid that way, or Wild West, or…any of them! You’d have respect! What about The Tesla? You respect him. I’ve seen the pictures on your wall and you—why are you laughing?”

And I am laughing. I am guffawing like the bawdy, brawling youth I resemble. “Because I am The Tesla!”

She rocks back on her heels, eyes comically wide and then suspiciously narrow. “But you…Prof killed The Tesla.”

“In a sense, he did.”

Her eyes jump between me and the door to my lab—the only door locked to Rachel—and back to me. “You were a hero first.”

“Yes.”

“And it didn’t work, did it?”

“…no.”

“Because people…people don’t want to change. Don’t want to think.”

“Yes. My plans would have been good for society. Would have forced changes for the better. But people just want a hero to keep things the way they already are.”

She looks at her law textbook, which rests exactly where I had left it the night before, propped on the toaster oven.

“So you made it look like The Tesla was dead.”

“Heroes can save the world. But villains can change it, Rachel.”

She looks up. “I think I want to hate you, Olly, but I can’t figure out if I should.”

“It’s okay if you hate me,” I say. “I won’t mind.”

“Yes, I think you would,” she says. She flattens her right palm over her left shoulder.

We sit like that for a long moment. I forget to count the seconds. Time flies when I am around Rachel, and I find that I am beginning to enjoy it.

Rachel sulks in her room for the afternoon, which bothers me not at all, as I’ve experiments to attend. When I come back out, she is sullenly reading her textbook on the sofa, and she has found the beer. One open bottle is beside her elbow and three empty ones are on the floor.

“It’s not wise to drink when you’re on antibiotics,” I say, wiping my hands on my labcoat. They leave iridescent green smears on the fabric, but it’s completely non-toxic or I would not be exposing her to it.

“I’m not on antibiotics,” she mutters mulishly.

“Yes, you are,” I counter. “There is a slow-release tablet under your skin near the wound.”

She makes a face and pushes away her textbook. It slaps onto the carpet.“That’s just gross.”

“But efficient.”

She looks up, gaze suddenly tight. “What else did you put in me?”

I walk over and take away her beer. And then, because it would be a waste of booze to dump it down the sink, and I have been on a limited income since I ceased robbing banks, and because I enjoy the perverseness of having my lips on the same bottlemouth as hers after having so recently admonished her for kissing me, I take a drink.

“Not that, if that’s what you’re implying, my dear Rachel,” I say. She blinks hard, my innuendo sinking home.

“What? What, no! I didn’t mean…”

“I’m more of gentleman than that.”

“I get that!” she splutters. “I just mean…where did you get the replacement blood? What kind of stitches? Am I bionic now?”

“No more than you were before,” I say. “Nanobots are actively knitting the torn flesh back together, but they will die in a week and your liver will flush them from your system. The stitches and sutures are biodegradable and will dissolve by then. The rest of the antibiotic tablet will be gone in two or three days, and the very small infusion of my vitality serum only gave your immune system a boost and your regenerative drive a bit of extra gas. You are in all ways, my dear Rachel, utterly and completely in-extraordinary. Your greatest fear is unrealized.” I finish off the beer with a swig, liking the way her green eyes follow the line of my throat as I swallow, and then go to the kitchen and retrieve two more.

I hand one to her and flop down onto the sofa beside her. She curls into a corner to give me enough room and then, after eyeing the mess on my coat, thrusts impertinent—and freezing!—toes under my thigh. “Dear me, Rachel, stepping up your campaign?”

“You started it,” she says. “Re-started it. With the…bottle thingy.”

I arch a teasing eyebrow. “Bottle thingy?”

She shakes her head. “I think I’m a little drunk.”

“I think you are,” I agree.

“Enabler,” she says, and we clink beers. She drinks and this time I watch her. Her throat is, in every way, normal. Boring. I cannot stop looking at it. Her toes wiggle. “How can you read me so well?” she asks. “I mean, I didn’t even have to say, ‘I’m scared of turning into my mom,’ but you knew.”

I shrug. “I’m a great student of the human creature. We all say so much without saying a thing.”

“Do you ever say more than you want to?”

I smile secretively, a flash of teeth that I know will infuriate her with its vagueness. “Rarely, any more. I’ve had a long time to learn to control my, as poker players would call them, ‘tells.’”

“Hmph,” she mutters and takes another drink. I swallow some of my beer to distract myself.  She wriggles her toes again, and pushes them further. Soon they will brush right against my…but I assume that is the point.

“Careful, Rachel,” I warn. “Are you certain this is something you want to do?”

“Yes.”

“You are drunk and you want revenge on your mother.”

“Maybe. Maybe I want to thank you for saving my life. Maybe I want to reward you for being a good guy.”

“What if I don’t want your thanks, or your reward?” I ask.

She smiles and her big toe tickles the undercurve of my testes. “Don’t you?” she asks, and her expression is salacious. I provided her with no bra, I had none to give, and under my borrowed tee-shirt her nipples are pert.

“I do.” I set aside both of our beers and reach for her. She comes into my arms, gladly, little mouth wet and insistent against mine as she wriggles her way onto my lap. Iridescent green smears up her thighs. “But maybe…oh!” I gasp into her mouth as clever little fingers work their way inside my waistband. I return the favour. Intelligence must be rewarded.

“Maybe?” she prompts, pressing down against my hand.

“Maybe I just want revenge on your mother, too.”

She jerks back as if I’ve bitten her. “Oh my god, how can one man be such a dick?”

I press upwards so her pelvis comes in contact with the part of my anatomy in discussion. “I am honest, Rachel. There is a difference.”

She sits back, arms crossing over the breasts I hadn’t yet touched. “An honest supervillian,” she scoffs.

I stand, dumping her onto the floor. “I think we’re done here.”

“Are we, Profess—”

“I’ve asked you not to call me that!”

She cowers back from my anger. Then it fuels her. “Fuck you, Olly,” she says, standing.

“I thought that was the idea,” I agree, “but apparently not.”

“You’re nothing like I thought you’d be!”

I laugh again. “And how could you have had any concept of how I’d be? Did the Dynamic Dyke tell stories? I bet she did. And you felt sorry for me. The poor Professor, beat up by mommy, hated – like you were. An outcast, like you were. Not good enough, like you were. Was I your imaginary friend, Rachel? Did you write my name in hearts on your binders? Did you fantasize about me?”

“Shut up!” she screams.

Her cheeks are red again, her eyes glistening, her mouth bruised, and I want to grab her, kiss her, feel her ass through the borrowed sweatpants. Instead I fold my hands behind my back, because I told the truth before—I am a gentleman. I say nothing.

“You’re not supposed to be like this!”

“Be like what?” I ask, again. “Explain, Rachel.”

She collapses. It’s a slow folding inward, knees and stomach first, face in her hands, physicality followed by emotion as she sobs into the carpet. I stand above her and wait, because she deserves this cry. Crying helps people engage with their emotions, or so I’m told.

When her sobbing slows, precisely one thousand six hundred and seventy-three seconds later—twenty-seven point nine minutes—she unfolds and stands, wiping her nose. I offer her a handkerchief from the pocket of my labcoat, and she takes it and turns her back to me, cleaning up her face.

She picks up the textbook. She opens it to the back, to those useless blank pages that are the fault of how books are bound, and for the first time in a very, very long time, I am shocked.

The back of the book has been collaged with photographs. Of me.

Computer printouts of me when I was the Prof. Newspaper clippings of my trial. Me, walking down the street, hunched into the shadow of my sweater’s hood. Me, buying soymilk. Me, through the window of the shitty apartment on which Oliver Munsen can barely afford to pay rent. Me, three days ago, cutting through that same parking garage.

Genuine joy floods my blood. A small shot of adrenaline seethes up into my brain and I can’t help the smile, because I missed this, I really did. “Oh, Rachel. Are you my stalker? How novel! I’ve never had a stalker before.”

She snaps the cover shut. “I’m not a stalker.”

“Just an admirer?” I ask, struggling to keep the condensation out of my voice. “Or do you want me to teach you how to be a villain? Really get back at mommy dearest?” Her expression sours. “Ah. But you already know that you can’t be. You knew before I told you that you were born boring. So this is the next best thing.” I reach out, grasp her elbows lightly, rub my callused thumbs across the tender flesh on the inside of them. She shivers. “Tell me, how were you going to do it, Rachel? Were you going to accidentally bump into me in that parking garage? Were you going to spill a beer on me in a bar? Buy me a coffee at my favourite cafe? Surely getting shot was not in the plan.”

“It’s not like that!” she says, but her eyes are closed, her lashes fluttering. Her chest bobs as she tries to catch her breath.

“Then what is it like?”

“I don’t know! I just…I just saw you one day, okay? I recognized you, from mom’s pictures on the wall, and I thought, you know, I should tell her. But I thought I would follow you first, you know, figure out where you live, or something.”

“Except that I wasn’t being dastardly and villainous.”

“You sat in the bookstore and read a whole magazine. And then you paid for it.”

I smirk. “How shocking.”

“For me it was.” She tips forward, breasts squishing, hot and soft, against my chest. “The kinds of stories I heard about you as a kid…”

“And you were fascinated.”

“And I was fascinated.”

“And so you followed me.”

“I followed you.”

“And then what, my dear Rachel?”

She wraps her arms around my neck and pulls me down for a kiss I don’t resist.

“You seemed so lonely,” she says, breath puffing into my mouth. “Are you lonely, Olly?”

“Oh, yes.” I pick her up and carry her off to her bedroom.

The mattress is new, she is the first person to ever have slept on it, but it still squeaks. After, she drops off, satisfied, mumbling amusing endearments about how wonderful it is to make love to someone who is so studious, makes such a thorough examination of his subjects.

Tonight I decide to sleep. I don’t do it very often, but I don’t want to be awake anymore. I don’t want to think. I close my eyes and force my dreams to stay away.

In the morning, I’m troubled.  I think I’ve made a very bad choice, but I’m not sure how to rectify it. I am not even sure how to articulate it.

Rachel was right. I am lonely. I am desperately, painfully lonely. And I will be for the rest of my unnaturally long life. But Rachel is lonely, too. Desperate in her own way, desperate for the approval of a mother I can only assume was distant and busy in Rachel’s youth, and then too famous and busy in her adolescence. Rachel wants to be nothing like her mother, wants to hurt her, punish her, and yet…wants to impress her so very badly that she is willing to take the ultimate step, to profess love for a man her mother once hated, to ‘fix him,’ to ‘make him better.’ To make him, me, good.

Only, Rachel doesn’t understand. I don’t want to be better, or good, or saved. I just want to live my boring, in-extraordinary life in peace and quiet, and then die. I don’t want to be her experiment. And yet her fierce little kisses…her wide green eyes…

I look down at the schematics under my elbow and sigh. The scent of burning bacon wafts in through the vents that lead to the kitchen, and the utter domesticity of it plucks at the back of my eyes, heating them. I ‘m still a fool, and I’m no less in over my head than I was two days ago.

I abandon the lab and rescue my good iron skillet from the madwoman who has pushed her way into my life. When she turns her face up for a kiss, I give it to her, and everything else she asks for, too.

And I can have this, because I am not a supervillain any more.  But I am not a superhero either. If I was, I could turn her away, like I should.

After lunch, I hand her my cell phone. It has been boosted so that the signal can pass through concrete bunker walls, but cannot be tracked back to its location.

“What’s that for?” she asks.

“Call your mother,” I say. “Tell her you’re okay. You’re just staying with a friend. The shooting freaked you out.”

She frowns. “What if I don’t want to?”

“You were arguing that I should let you call.”

“Yeah, before.”

“Rachel,” I admonish. “Do you really want her frantically looking for you?”

She pales. I imagine what it must have been like for her when she ran away from home for the first time. “No, guess not,” she mumbles and dials a number. “Yeah, hi Mom. No, no, I’m cool. Yeah, decided to stay with a friend instead of coming home from campus this weekend. No, no, it’s fine. I’m fine. There’s no need for the guilt trip! I said I’m fine! God!…okay. Right. Sorry. Okay. I’ll see you next…” she looks at me. “Next Saturday?” I nod. “Next Saturday. Right. Fine. I love you, too.” She hangs up and places the phone between us. “There, happy?”

“Yes. I am curious Rachel, how do you intend on springing me on your mother? And how will you keep her from punching my face clear off?”

She picks at her cuticles. “I hadn’t really thought that far ahead.”

“I gathered.” I stand from the table and go to do the dishes. I can’t abide a mess.

She comes up behind me and wraps her arms around my waist and presses her cheek against my back, and asks, “What do you want to do this afternoon?”

“Whatever you want,” I say. “I’m all yours.” I turn in her arms to find her grinning. She believes me, whole-heartedly, and she should. I never lie, and it’s the truth. For now.

When the week is over, I sit her down on my operating table and carefully poke around the bullet wound. In the x-ray, the bones appear healed without a scar. Her skin is dewy and unmarked. The stitches have dissolved and a scan with a handheld remote shows that the nanobots are all dead and ninety-three percent have been flushed from her system. I anticipate the other seven percent will be gone after her next trip to the toilet.

I do another scan, a bit lower down, but there is nothing there to be concerned about, either. We have not been using prophylactics, but I’ve been sterile since I used the serum. It was a personal choice. I had no desire to outlive my grandchildren.

Rachel hops from the table, bare feet on the white tile, and grins. “It’s Saturday!” she says.

“Yes, it is.”

“Time to go!”

“Yes.”

She takes my hand. “And you’re coming with me, Olly. You’re coming with me and then they’ll see, they’ll all see. You’re different now. You’re a good man.”

I smile and close my fingers around hers and, for the first time in many decades, I lie. “Yes, I am, thank you.” I use our twined fingers to pull her into the kitchen. “Celebratory drink before we go?”

She grins. “Gonna open that champagne I saw in the back of the fridge?”

I laugh. “Clever Rachel. I can’t hide anything from you.”

Only I can. I am. When I pop the cork she shrieks in delight. Every ticking second of her happiness stabs at me like a branding iron and dagger all in one.

I thought I would need a whole machine, a gun, a delivery device, but in the end my research and experiments offered up a far more simplistic solution: rohypnol. Except that it is created by me, of course, so it’s programmable, intelligent in the way the cheap, pathetic drug available to desperate, stupid children in night clubs is not. My drug knows which memories to take away.

Clever, beautiful, dear Rachel trusts me. I pour our drinks and hand her the glass that is meant for her. I smile and chat with her as she sips, pretending to be oblivious as her eyelids slip downwards, giving her no clue that there is anything amiss.

I catch both her and the glass before they hit the floor. Tonight she will wake in her own bed. She will honestly remember spending the week with a friend she then had a fight with, and no longer speaks to. She will wonder what happened to her backpack, her cell phone, her law textbook. She will not remember the Prof, or The Tesla. Her mother will be annoyed that she will have to tell her the stories over again, stories that Rachel should have internalized during her childhood.

And I will shut down this hidey-hole and go back to my apartment and cash my welfare cheque and watch television. And it will be good. It will be as it should be.

The stupid boy with the gun might have been the bad guy in our little melodrama, but I am the villain.

I am the coward.

[fan-fantasies]

Sparks (P.5)

A/N: I got my tickets for Infinity War (even though I work at a theater and could wait and see it for free) and I’m so excited! I definitely won’t have any spoilers in this series or in future imagines for a long time after the movie is out. This plotline is gonna go ahead as if Thanos wasn’t being an eggplant looking asshole trying to destroy everyone we love. Anyway, I hope you guys are still enjoying the series! -Heather

Summary: You’re a prisoner in Wakanda, having used your powers for evil rather than for good. Hoping to redeem yourself, and to help work towards your freedom, you take on the task of fixing Bucky Barnes. Will you succeed and finally earn your freedom (and perhaps a guy to go along with it), or were your crimes too much to ever come back from?

Pairing: (eventual) Bucky x Reader

Warnings: Angst, Mentions of violence/murder, swearing, (eventual smut in the series)

Masterlist   Marvel Masterlist

Part One Part Two  Part Three Part Four / Part Six

Bucky wriggled his newly calibrated fingers and flexed his new, vibranium arm. He loved how the gold contrasted with the dark metal, showing him that his arm wasn’t only for destruction, but could be beautiful as well. 

Shuri wouldn’t tell him who the visitors were going to be, only that he should be excited. He was almost worried that he was going ot be shown off like some science experiment, but she reassured him that it would be nothing like that. 

You, however, could not care less about the guests that were due to arrive today. It wasn’t like you’d be allowed to see them. It was like you were Wakanda’s dirty little secret, and they preferred to keep it that way. 

Shuri led Bucky through the halls to the front of the palace, where T’Challa and Okoye were already waiting. He greeted them both and they greeted him warmly in turn. 

“Glad to see you are feeling better, Sargent Barnes,” T’Challa smiled. 

“Please, call me Bucky,” he nodded. Suddenly, as if out of nowhere, one of the king’s jets appeared in the sky. It carefully made it’s way down in front of them and landed. 

The back of the jet opened and out walked someone who looked very much like Steve and someone who looked very much like Natasha, and then just Sam. Steve had grown his hair out and was sporting a beard while Natasha was blonde. Bucky didn’t know what surprised him more, the fact that they were there, or that they looked so different.

A smile graced his features none the less as the group approached them. Steve nodded at T’Challa before standing in front of Bucky. 

“Hey, Buck, how are you doing?” He asked, not able to keep the smile off of his face.

“Pretty good. Not as good as the beard though,” he joked. Steve chuckled and shook his head before pulling Bucky into a hug. 

“Good to see you up and about, Barnes,” Sam mumbled in the back. Bucky looked over at him and smiled. As much as he and Birdman didn’t get along, he was happy to see some familiar faces. 

Speaking of familiar, he looked over at Natasha who seemed to be deep in conversation with Shuri and Wanda. Those were three powerful women Buck did not want to be on the bad side of.

“Shall we go inside?” Okoye asked. The group nodded and headed back inside. Bucky had been given his own living quarters inside the palace so he could not have to travel back and forth for arm testing and now to see Steve. 

“So what’s new?” Bucky asked. 

“Traveling, trying to stay out of focus from the media and some others who aren’t too happy with us,” Sam answered before Steve could. Bucky felt a pang of guilt, knowing he was the reason they had to run. Steve gave him a knowing look before giving him some more details of what they had all been up to. 

“What about you? Wakanda treating you well?” Steve asked as they all sat around a table with some coffee. 

“Yeah, it’s really great here,” Bucky smiled fondly thinking of his time in the beautiful country.

“Wanda seems to really like it here too,” Sam acknowledged. “She said your treatment went well.” 

“Yeah, she and (Y/N) really helped me out,” he blushed a little speaking your name. He wondered if you would be joining them at any point. He would like for Steve to meet you, maybe get his take on things. 

“Who’s (Y/N)?” Sam asked. Bucky rolled his eyes, not wanting to have to explain you to Sam. 

“Someone who helped Wanda fix me,” he gave the simplified answer. If he was being honest, he would have told them that you were beautiful and funny and tough. You were sassy enough to handle Sam but wounded enough to understand Bucky’s struggles. You were the one that chased Bucky’s nightmares away and kept his thoughts company every night.

“Why haven’t we met her?” Steve asked. Bucky was surprised as he thought Steve knew about the details of his treatment. 

“You mean they didn’t tell you?” Bucky asked. Steve looked increasingly anxious.

“All they said was that Wanda was going to see if she could extract the memories from your head. We went off the grid and only recently got back in contact with T’Challa. He gave us the news that you were back in action,” Steve informed his oldest friend.

“So who is this (Y/N) chick? And more importantly, is she hot?” Sam asked with a smirk. Bucky gave him an unimpressed look. 

“Maybe Shuri should explain more about her,” Bucky sighed. Steve shook his head.

“Just tell us.”

Several moments later

Steve burst into the lab where Shuri was currently working with an angry look on his face. 

“You let a murderer inside his head?! She could have killed him!” He screamed before the poor girl could even turn to face him. “You should have asked me first!”

“We tried to reach you, Captain Rogers, but you were simply unable to receive communications. I assure you, (Y/N) was under the highest supervision and was very secure. We would not have taken that risk if it was not expertly calculated and absolutely necessary,” she told him calmly.

“You should have exhausted every option before turning to that,” he growled.  

“The risk paid off. Bucky is safe because of her. She is not my favorite person either but I cannot deny her vital role in saving him. They seem to have had a positive effect on one another,” Shuri explained. Steve was not happy about her decision, but he was glad that Bucky was better. And the way Bucky talked about you, he knew there was something about you that Bucky thought was worth saving.

“I want to meet her.” 

“That can be arranged,” Shuri nodded before turning back to her work.

At Dinner

You sat in your cell drawing and writing whatever you felt like. You heard the lock on the door being disarmed and it swung open, revealing Shuri. 

“Would you care to accompany me to dinner?” Shuri asked you. You shrugged your shoulders and stood up, the guards ready to cuff you. You held out your hands but Shuri shook her head. 

“That will be unnecessary. Right, (Y/N)?” She looked at you. Your jaw dropped in surprise but you nodded nonetheless. You were hoping that you would be having dinner with Bucky and you knew you had to behave. Things had never been that good there and you wanted it to stay that way. You weren’t sure what you expected to get from your friendship with Bucky. You couldn’t deny your attraction for him but you were a bad guy, and he was a good guy.

You walked into a dining hall and smiled as you saw Bucky seated at a long table. You went to take a seat next to him but Wanda quickly grabbed the seat you were headed for. You were going to go to his other side but a blonde woman practically lunged forward into the seat. Bucky gave you a sad smile and you took the seat next to Shuri and Okoye. 

You watched carefully as the blonde seemed to be sitting too close to Bucky speaking in another language, Russian, you guessed. Bucky was smiling and going along with whatever she was saying. Your heart began to sink into your stomach.

“So you’re the famous (Y/N)?” A blonde man with a beard asked. 

“Infamous seems to fit better,” you smirked. 

“But you fixed tinman over there?” A dark-skinned man without a Wakandan accent asked. 

“She helped,” Wanda answered. You gave her an eye roll.

“She was the brains and I was the brawn. Well, technically Bucky was the brain, but you get the idea.” 

“So you used your electrical ability for good instead of murder this time?” The blonde asked with a smug smirk. 

“And who the fuck are you supposed to be?” You snapped.

“Bucky didn’t tell you about me? We go way back,” she smirked and laid her hand on his forearm. He recoiled at her touch, seemingly uncomfortable. 

“Guess he forgot to mention you,” you forced a smile. 

“Well, there is a lot to talk about,” she winked at Bucky. Steve cleared his throat and distracted you from glaring daggers at her.

“We wanted to thank you for helping in Bucky’s recovery, right Nat?” Steve gave you a curt nod. 

“Right. Thanks for returning him to us in relatively one piece. That’s just the way we like him,” she said, not breaking her gaze at him.

“Nat? Isn’t that one of those annoying little bugs that fly around shit?” You snapped. 

“(Y/N)!” Okoye scolded. You could tell she was uneasy not having you in cuffs and was on guard.

“And here I was thinking the only catfight would’ve been with T’Challa,” Sam snorted at his own joke.

“I’m just letting her know her namesake is fitting for her personality,” you smirked. 

“Listen here, Sparky, the only reason you’re not in your cell rotting away right now was that Steve wanted to make sure you weren’t playing some hidden angle with his friend here. You may be able to fool Bucky in his fragile state, but I can see right through you,” she seethed. You looked at Bucky who was just sitting there staring at his food.

“I’m the one fooling Bucky? I haven’t done anything yet he’s the one that keeps coming back to me. He needs me, but I most certainly do not need him,” you growled and the lightbulb above you burst. You ignored the throbbing in your head and the hurt look on Bucky’s face as you stood up. Okoye jumped up as did the guards who were sitting by the door. You put your hands up as you held them out to Okoye. “Take me back to my cell. I can see that I was only brought here to be humiliated.”

She cuffed your hands and brought you to the guards who brought you back to your cell. You didn’t dare look at Bucky as you were being taken out. While the humiliation hurt, it was the fact that he didn’t stand up for you that really killed you. You thought that he was on your side, but apparently, you were wrong.

You sat in your cell for hours, just staring at the ceiling. Every so often you would create a spark with your fingers to feel the device go off. It was like a sharp pinch. You preferred the physical pain over the emotional. You were so engrossed in your thoughts you almost didn’t hear your cell door open. You looked up startled to see someone standing in the doorway. 

“You were right...I do need you.”

If you’re not tagged and your name is listed with a strikethrough then there may be something off in your settings. Let me know if you’d like to be added!

Taglist:  @jemjem-chan @marvel-fanfiction @twasallstartedbyamouse @mamacita83701  @anamcg317 @mus1cal-barnes @tudgey97 @jadepc @atombombastic @all-by-myself98

[xaz-fr]

The Story So Far

Sizes for pics are ALL over the place cause I’m in the public library and away from my normal images. Forgive me on that OTL

ANYWAY. Ready for Azazel to remind you he’s an absolute scum bag and you absolutely should not like him in any way??? Yeah me too

@griminal-rising @deadpool-scar-bro @hikayelastoria @cornsnoot-fr @redlion-fr @mushroomdraggo @murdoch-fr @tales-around-sornieth @frxemriss@rainhearts-hatchery @rexcaliburr-fr @onikuma-fr @serthis-archivist @fitzfr (let me know if you’d like to be added to the lore pinglist)

WARNINGS: 

attempted rape, mention of past rape, child abuse, child death, derogatory language against women, domestic violence, assault, threatening violence against women. There is NO rape actually in this story. Just talk of it happening but no one actually gets hurt like that.

PLEASE let me know if I missed any TWs. I want to be thorough in the warnings so no one reads this not knowing what they’re getting into.

Three Foot Casket pt 1

Azazel was wary. Astra had been in a good mood. That was never good. She should have no reason to be happy either. Usually she was just miserable but recently… happy. And he found her in her nesting room often. That was also unusual. For a blind moment he was worried he'd broken her. That wouldn't do. Or maybe she'd finally come to her senses and decided to stop being a slut and realize he was the better option. She really was very lovely. Beautiful even. She was just disgusting on the inside. But so was he. They really would have worked out rather well if she wasn't busy opening her legs to someone else.

He was making his rounds past the hatching room. He was more attentive of them than usual. He was quite done with her spiriting his children away from under his nose. Those were his children and she had no right to give them to Johanna.

The door of the room was open half way. He carefully opened it a bit and then slammed it open furious. The nest was empty! Again!

“Astra!” he bellowed and stormed up to her room. He seethed and twisted the knob with magic worked into his muscles. The lock broke. “Astra!” he barked and saw her on her bed, half behind the curtain that hung from the ceiling from a single point.

“You don't have to yell, Azazel, I'm right here,” she said and his eyes narrowed. Then he relaxed, confusion radiating through his entire body. In her lap was a hatchling. A skydancer with bright orange down with floral designs. His brow furrowed as his anger slowly leached out of his body. What… was going on?

“Uh…”

“Did you need something?” she asked him sharply.

He shook himself to bring himself back to reality. “Where are the other two, slut?” he asked cruelly.

“Fuck you,” she said even as she pulled back the curtain a bit and saw two skydancers curled up on the bed, sleeping on each other. They were practically the same dragon save that one of them had lighter horns than the other.

Azazel couldn't move. He was stunned stupid. For years he'd been fighting Astra on sending them to Johanna. She always snuck them out in the dead of night or when it was light out, knowing he wouldn't go above ground. Not while that horrible Abbadon was allowed to prowl the surface. He just stared at Astra as she gently stroked the hatchling’s crest. “Did you need something, Azazel?”

He stumbled forward. At last! After so long. She didn't protest when he came close. Then he grew wary again. Why was she being so calm? She'd done something. “What did you do?” he asked her.

“Nothing I wasn't already doing, you horror,” she said and pet the hatchling. He looked down at the hatchling in her lap. It looked… normal. He looked at the twins and his brain was slow to understand what he was seeing. He looked down at her. The color of their pelts was wrong. There was no way these were his children. Astra and his children were orange, yellow, and green. The twins were brown. Darker than Astra’s natural colors and there was no way that could happen unless-

“You-- slut,” Azazel snarled.

“Says a rapist,” she hissed back. “Hey!” she yelled when he grabbed the orange hatchling in her lap by the neck. “Let him go!” and she lurched to her feet even as he lifted them up and examined them. “Azazel!” she hit him but he shoved her aside. Darkness coalesced around his fingers and the hatchling screamed as needles of darkness pierced their skin and splattered blood across the curtain. “No! You monster!” she screamed. The twins had woken up now and were pressing to the edge of the bed.

He turned his sun-like eyes on her. He dropped the lifeless hatchling and it splattered to the floor. She stared at him with wide green eyes. For the first time she looked afraid of him. “When will you get it through your pretty, stupid, head that you are mine?” he snarled and grabbed her by the neck with his bloody hand, shoving her back down to the bed by the throat. She clawed at him. “You were promised to me and you couldn't even keep your legs closed long enough for me to arrive?” he was furious. “You were a girl and already a whore,” he lifted her up a bit and slammed her back down on the mattress.

Her eyes glowed green and under her breath hissed out a curse. Sick green energy started spilling from her eyes, nose, and mouth. Where it touched his skin it sizzled and burned. He just tightened his fingers and let it burn his flesh. The smell of rotting flesh filled the room. “It’s a shame you’re a slut. I would have been proud of you for this otherwise,” he ripped his hand away and held it against his chest. The green energy rolled back up across her face and she swallowed it.

“Maybe if the first time you saw me you hadn't raped me we wouldn't be in this situation,” she hissed. “Get off of me before I rot away the rest of you.”

He chuckled darkly. “No, my dear,” and he showed her his hand. It was healed already. “You cannot rot what is already rotten. But I'm sure those little books of yours didn't tell you that did they?” He pressed her down again. Really he was impressed. It wasn't every day someone took up necromancy. Even rarer to be a Wind dragon. They were usually too sporadic to handle the meticulous nature of such magic. And he'd never come across a female necromancer. At least not one who couldn't have flayed the flesh from his body with a glance. Sweet, budding, Astra he could handle.

“Get off of me,” she snarled.

“Oh, my dear, I certainly will be. And then I'll take care of those unnecessary spawn of yours,” he smirked.

He saw her processing what he'd said. “You stay away from them,” she hissed.

“For now,” he stroked her cheek and she smacked him away. “I prefer you sweet, relax. You know it hurts less.”

“I'm going to kill you,” she hissed.

“You cannot rot what is already rotten, my dear,” he used magic to keep her hands down so she couldn't hit him. He did hate that. Usually she was complacent but today she was fighty. She just gave a cry of frustration that shook the air and rattled his head. He shook his head to clear it.

“Get off me!” she screamed and the sound was a shockwave that made his antlers vibrate.

Two balls of fluff and feathers attacked him, shrieking. As they did they almost seemed to turn into griffins with claws like Idols and sharp beaks. One clamped onto his arm with their beak and the other raked his side with their claws. Their gems glowed brightly. He'd never seen that happen before. “Cute,” he grunted and tore them off him, throwing them across the room where the hatchlings collided with the wall and lay in a heap. “I'll take care of them later,” he said and leered down at Astra.

She screamed again and he had to cover his ears against the sound. “Shut. Up,” he grabbed a pillow and shoved it over her face. He didn't intend to suffocate her. He just wanted to block out the sound. “So annoying,” he grumbled and pushed his hair back from where it had fallen across his brow. He lifted the pillow and the sound was immediate. He put it back over her face. She struggled against it, her body bucking and trying to throw him off of her. “At least scream when someone bad has happened, Astra,” he tutted. She screamed against the pillow. “Such a drama queen.” He touched her throat and traced a symbol into her flesh. The screaming stopped abruptly. “There, better,” he removed the pillow. She opened her mouth to scream but no sound came out. She tries to swear at him but only her mouth moved but no sound was heard. She struggled against the magic bounds around her wrists but they held her there. “Much better,” he smirked. She looked away from him and at the wall where her spawn were still a crumpled pile against the corner. He'd take care of those things momentarily. First he needed to deal with Astra.

It was such a pity she was so beautiful, talented, and powerful and completely hated him. She would have been an ideal mate for him and he was attracted to her. And not just for her looks. The fact that she had decided all on her own to study necromancy and that she was like him attracted him immensely. “Just relax,” he touched her face with awkward gentleness and she spit at him. “Don't make this worse for yourself,” he snarled and grabbed her face harder.

He was changing his position against her when he heard a strange noise. It sounded like a growl. He looked over his shoulder at the door. “Abbadon,” he said slowly seeing the Wildclaw standing there. Abbadon’s growl deepened, his crest flaring aggressively. “You're not supposed to be down here,” he said like he was commenting on an oncoming thunderstorm. Abbadon took a measured step into the room. “Don't do something you'll regret now.”

“Get away from my mistress,” Abbadon growled. Azazel didn't like the sound of that. He looked down at Astra. He'd started to undo her pants and she was just laying there smugly.

“What did you do, hmm?” he asked her. The glyph on her throat brightened as she tried to talk.

“Azazel,” Abbadon snarled. He stepped further into the room.

“You're a naughty girl,” Azazel said and got off of her, pulling his pants closed as he did.

“Leave, now,” Abbadon snapped and a bit of acidic drool dribbled from his mouth. “Before you give me the pleasure of sinking my teeth into your throat. I'm sure Aten will forgive me of leaving him the honor.”

Azazel looked at the Wildclaw. He took the threat seriously. Few things could hurt him but Abbadon was a threat to his continued existence. He snapped his fingers and Astra lurched into a sitting position and then off the bed as he took her binds off her. Abbadon moved between him and Astra who was kneeling next to her worthless spawn, tending to them. “Always a pleasure, Abbadon,” Azazel said nicely.

“Soon, it will be,” Abbadon growled and turned his body to keep looking at Azazel as he walked towards the door.

“Until next time my dear,” Azazel called to Astra.

“Drop dead,” she called back furiously, holding one of her hatchlings against her chest. Its wing was twisted.

“Don't leave them alone,” Azazel said sweetly. Astra and Azazel just growled at him. He left the room and closed the metal door behind him. Stupid bitch.

[croik]

A TEW theory: Anima is Lily is Laura, the true core of STEM 2.0

Yup that’s right, Laura isn’t Myra she’s actually Lily.  I might as well admit up front that there isn't actually any concrete proof for this, no secret files or scenarios.  TEW2 is practically Victorianophobic and to be honest I don't actually believe this was intentioned by the writers.  But this ties together a few plot threads I can't seem to reconcile any other way so it's going to be my headcanon until proven wrong.

So after TEW2 I had some…. *cough* questions, but there were a few in particular that are especially important and so bugged me the most:

What is Anima, and what role does she play in STEM?

If Lily is the core of STEM whose power allows Stefano and Myra to control the system, why does she never wield that power herself?

What were they doing with Lily for the five years between Mobius kidnapping her and her becoming the core, and why hasn't she aged mentally in that time?

What is Myra's deal??

I think my theory answers all these, so let's start at the top:

A lot of the theories about Anima have been centered around Sebastian, because she's so strongly connected to TEW1 – she looks kind of like Laura, she sings Claire de Lune, she introduces Sebastian to his former self which ultimately allows him to get over his past trauma (ughh….fuck that part).  From Seb's point of view, it makes sense to assume she has connections either to the first STEM or to him.  But this is leaving out two important facts about Anima: 1) She is hunting EVERYONE in Union and 2) She was already in Union before Sebastian arrived.

There are several notes and resonant points around Union featuring citizens talking about Anima chasing them.  Anima herself appears after several of them.  She is described as an invisible force that stalks people, going through walls and making everything cold.  She is inescapable.  And from the notes in the Marrow lab, we know that once she catches someone, she turns them into Lost.  She does this to Sebastian as well if he's caught.  Anima is the source of all the Lost in Union, and she has converted some 10% of the population even before Lily goes missing and everything goes to hell, when it doubles in a very short period of time.

So why does Anima have connections to Seb?  I imagine that she changes slightly depending on who she's hunting.  She's using her quarry's past fears against them, scaring and deteriorating them to the point that she can take them over.  She's not a piece of Seb's psyche, she's just using it as a tool against him.  You can't hurt her, after all, there's no confrontation where she loses or dies. She just accepts that Seb is unbreakable and moves on to the next victim.  She's been in STEM2 since the beginning and cannot be killed or removed.

So what about Myra?  For whatever reason that I haven't found an explanation for, the default state of the Lost in STEM2 is white plaster glue. I wondered for a while if Myra was the one influencing this transformation, if the theme was hers (maybe an art project was the last thing she and Lily did together before the kidnapping, something like that). She does show up as a giant glue monster after all. But if the Lost were a feature of STEM even before Myra entered, and are a direct result of being caught by Anima, doesn't that imply that Myra is not the source, she's a victim?  Seb does say "This place is affecting her," and for as much control as Myra seems to have, she's also depicted as out of her right mind and plagued by a force more powerful than her.  Myra isn't the core for most of the game, she's just a more powerful version of the Lost.

We've talked around Tumblr about how Hoffman says that only a child or a psychopath can control STEM, but that doesn't seem to stop Myra from doing it despite being neither.  But I noticed after rewatching the ending that when Myra is shooing Seb out of their home, she says "When I assume the power of the core," future tense.  She's not using the core's power yet at that point, she is not the core itself. And the power she does wield isn't her own, it's not a theme of her own making, like Stefano's time powers or Theodore's fire – the ooze comes from Anima, the inescapable, eventual fate of anyone who enters STEM2 the same way everyone who entered STEM1 became haunted. Anima is the source of STEM2's greatest power: Anima is the core.

But LILY is the core, she was the one in stem before Myra, Seb, or any of the others.  Anima must come from Lily.  All that time we wondered "why isn't Lily using her core powers?" the truth is she IS.  She was rotting STEM from the inside all along, whether she was aware of it or not. She tore down everyone keeping her trapped and made her mother powerful enough to protect her.

If Lily is the core and Anima her avatar, exemplifying Lily's fear and instilling in it in the people that hurt her, turning them "lost" the way she feels lost without her father, that explains why Myra was able to be as powerful as she was and also why Union was falling apart behind the scenes for a long time before anyone noticed.  But we can take it a step further.   

A while back I made a post about the game's timeline, but to summarize, the order of events as we know them goes something like this:

-Ruvik creates the original STEM, which connects 2 or more minds together, for personal reasons -Mobius kidnaps Lily for use as "the core" of STEM -Myra joins Mobius -Ruvik sabotages the STEM so that it will only work if he's connected -Mobius fucks him back by sticking his brain in a jar -Shit goes down at Beacon -Mobius creates STEM2 with Lily as the core -Anima appears inside STEM2 and begins turning people into Lost -Shit goes down in Union

This timeline itself is what raises most of my questions posed above, especially the fact that Lily was kidnapped long before Union existed – even before the STEM itself functioned with any kind of core.  It wasn't until Ruvik became the core that they realized STEM could make use of one at all.  So why did they risk the interference of two police detectives to kidnap a young child for use in a machine that at that point couldn't have made use of her in that capacity?  The simplest answer: Lily wasn't originally kidnapped with the intent of making her the core.

Before Ruvik betrayed and was betrayed by Mobius, he was connecting patients in groups, observing how they reacted to each other's suffering, or how their psyche was affected by the machine itself.  We know that he ultimately used STEM in order to transfer his mind into Leslie, thus gaining a new body, but we don't know if this was his goal all along.  He also talks in his logs about wanting to get his old life back, and part of that includes getting his sister, Laura, back. There was speculation after TEW that Laura was still alive somewhere, in a comatose state, and that Ruvik planned on using STEM to transfer her mind to a new body as well.

So what if that was Lily?

Lily was pale with dark hair, artistic and empathetic, and very bright.  As a child, it probably would have been easier to overwrite her memories than a full grown adult, if only because she had fewer of them.  At the point in which she was kidnapped, Ruvik was making very little forward progress with STEM as far as Mobius was concerned, since they were pushing him to use it for mind and memory control on a larger scale, but he wasn't especially interested.  So what if Mobius tried to just appease him when it came to regaining Laura, in the hopes of spurring the project forward?

It's really the only use she would have in STEM at that point, since it didn't have a landscape for a core to control.  Just one patient to another with Ruvik observing.  

So let's assume for now that this was the case, that Mobius tried to transfer Laura's mind and memories to Lily, with or without Ruvik's input and consent.  It not working could be a reason for why Ruvik ended up sabotaging the STEM.  We know that in general he didn't want Mobius using his machine for their own purposes, but if some failed experiment with Laura was the reason, that would make his betrayal even more understandable from his point of view, and even more frustrating from Mobius' POV.  This could also have served as freezing Lily's mentality at the age of five, which is how old she appears to be inside STEM2 even though she had to have been somewhere between 9 and 11 before being made Union's core.

Years later, after Ruvik is gone and STEM2 needs to be built, they still have Lily: stunted, but still a suitable candidate.  They plug her into STEM2 and everything seems fine.  But it's NOT fine, because unbeknownst to Mobius, their attempt to insert Laura into Lily DID work.  Which brings us back to Anima.

What if Anima is a remnant of Laura, which survived inside of Lily after Ruvik/Mobius tried to use her as Laura's new body?

In TEW2 we hear that Lily is very smart and precocious and empathetic, but she's still a young child. We also know that she's spent years of her young life as a lab rat and still thinks of herself as a five year old despite being older than that, since that's the form she takes inside STEM2. How obvious would it be, under those circumstances, if her personality was slightly altered in a mind-mesh experiment gone wrong?  Laura was smart and charming and caring, too.  Even Myra might not think too much of her daughter being slightly "off" after the torture she was put through (Yes, Hoffman, "experiment" is exactly the word to use when you lock a young child into a pressurized organ jar for months at a time – if anyone is a psychopath in STEM it's Yukiko Hoffman, I swear).

In any case, assuming this is true, once inside STEM2 the remnants of Laura Victoriano finally have free reign.  Maybe she only partially made the transfer and is a lonely and confused spirit, and because of her trauma she can't help but bring the trauma out of others.  She makes them Lost, like she is lost. Because she is the right hand and the core of STEM.

This theory explains the questions above and also a few more:

-Anima looks like Laura because she IS Laura, but she's herself, not Ruvik's version.  That explains the differences between her and spider-Laura that appears later, and why the retro fight late in the game is so much closer to real TEW1 than the Anima sequences are: The Sadist, The Keeper, and Reborn Laura are actually pulled from Seb's memories of them.  Anima is a separate entity only borrowing elements from him to wear him down.

-Lily was kidnapped before Ruvik's STEM meltdown, but she wasn't the first choice of core even after then, which we know because she's 05 and also because the Administrator refers her to "the most stable core we've had," a strange thing to say if only Ruvik came before her.  Mobius had her for a long time but wasn't sure she'd still be suitable after the Laura failure and tried other children first.

-If the monsters catch Seb, they kill him.  If Anima catches Seb, she makes him a Lost.  Worked for mom!

-On top of Anima naturally using the fears of her victims against them, if she has access to Seb's mind/memories and spotted Ruvik among them, that's another reason why she might be singing a familiar song and trying to make Seb recall what happened at Beacon.

-Lily may not have actually been in her house when it burned down, but there's a chance Torres started the fire while she was still there to see it, because they thought that might help enhance her compatibility to Laura. This would explain why that shared circumstance with the Victorianos is so significant.

-When Lily was taken by Stefano, she could have used her power to escape but didn't.  This could be explained if Lily's real power is Anima, and Anima bestowed power on Stefano because her goal is to tear STEM2 apart, and Stefano only aids in that goal.  Lily was never in real danger from him so there was no reason for her to need saving.

-If Anima comes from Lily, and Hoffman is the one who picked Lily and tested her to become the core, Anima should be especially interested in hunting Hoffman down.  Since walls and doors can't stop her, this might be why Hoffman's saferoom is in the Marrow rather than Unity proper.

-Laura is trying to hide her existence as existing inside Lily which is why Lily herself doesn't display any obvious power, and appears just how Seb and Myra want to remember her, to make it less obvious that anything is wrong.

Of course there are still a few questions it doesn't answer, like:

-Shouldn't this actually be included in the game if true? (It's not, but if Trent can pretend Seb's journal doesn't exist, I can pretend Mobius forgot to write this shit down for Seb to find)

-It's easy to say Myra wouldn't notice if her daughter got mind-invaded by a comatose burn victim, but is that reallllllly likely?  How likely is it that Ruvik wouldn't realize that it worked?  And wouldn't he be even more motivated to be at Mobius' doorstep either way?

-If Anima can't be stopped by doors and walls why doesn't she target O'Neal and Sykes?  Or did she just never get around to them?

-Why plaster? Seriously, why plaster.  If Anima is Laura it ought to be fire but instead it's bubbly white jizzglue.  Why.  I want to know.

-If Laura was in Lily, does she escape still inside Lily at the end, or is she the ghost in the machine that reactivates STEM?

~ S E Q U E L ~ 

 I can't think of anything else so this is a good place to stop.  But I'm interested to know what you guys think and if there's something I've overlooked. Let me know! 

[nightowldaylark]

[Fic] String Theory [Slav/Shiro]

Title: String Theory

Pairing: Slav/Shiro

Summary: In any number of these realities, Slav knows the meaning behind the tangled red string that curls one end around him and flings the other out into the cold emptiness of space. In any number of them, the red string does not exist.

Author’s Note: This fic is the culmination of:

1) Reading a bunch of soulmate AUs and making myself nostalgic for the traditional red string version which is pretty rare in this fandom

2) Me wanting to do a soulmate AU from the POV of an alien who didn’t have this custom but got soulmated to a human and had to spend their whole life not understanding what’s going on until they actually meet the human

3) Wanting to write something from Slav’s POV (never again)

4) Slav/Shiro being one of my favourite crackships and I love their angst potential with the whole shared Galra prisoner background and how Slav is one of the few people who consistently gets Shiro’s back up.

I think that says everything re: what this fic is about.

AO3 Mirror

Every action has its corresponding reaction, its consequences that split reality into an infinite web of parallels and divergents. Slav traces them in his mind’s eye, and lets the pure precision of mathematics leading him down the paths of what-could-be and what-might-be and what-is.

In any number of these realities, Slav knows the meaning behind the tangled red string that curls one end around him and flings the other out into the cold emptiness of space. In any number of them, the red string does not exist.

In other realities, it is a simple sight defect. A mutation that allows him to see in spectrums the rest of his species cannot. No one else can see because their eyes are simply not made for it. But Slav has never seen anything else outside the visible spectrum. Nothing except the red string. Nor does his eyes differ from the average in a measurable way.

In more far-flung ones, it is a sign of his madness. A mental defect instead of a physical one. A lie he conjures up that exposes rot in his brain long before his captivity by the Galra. The string does not exist. There is nothing on the other end.

But in this reality, the red string simply is. Incalculable, unmeasurable, a mystery that defies explanation. A predetermined path to he knows not what, but a constant presence even the Galra cannot take from him.

At least until the Paladin enters his life through the door of his prison.

Later, Slav calculates the possibility of the Paladin coming through a different entrance, one that does not exist in his cell. He calculates the possibility of the Paladin never coming for him at all. The probabilities are immense. The likelihood of him living in the reality where the other end of his red string of impossibility comes to him while he is still alive, while they are both still alive, is so infinitesimal it sends his vitals elevating through the roof.

At the time, Slav is too busy elevating his vitals due to other panic-inducing reasons. Starting with the fact that the Paladin wants him to leave his cell. Slav is achingly aware of what happens if, when, if they fail to escape. But the Paladin talks of stopping the Galra, and freedom, and a way to be of use that does not involve torture or compromising his morals. And his lucky range of terahertz. Every word the Paladin speaks is a too-attractive trap that makes him hope.

It is almost a relief when the Paladin loses his patience. This, Slav is used to. He lets the familiar snarls of frustration fade into the background as he teases the crease in the blanket just so. The Paladin had actually lasted an amazingly long time before giving in; perhaps that is what the red string means: someone who can put up with Slav and his compulsions.

“Just take the blanket with you!”

Perhaps the red string needs recalibrating. The thought amuses Slav and almost calms him except the Paladin is still asking him to brave the water. There are too many realities where he can’t swim. Slav can’t remember if this is one of them, and the more he tries the more the realities blur together. Perhaps this is the reality where he is already drowning.

It is not any of the realities where Slav is drowning because it is the reality where the Paladin picks him up with his glorious robot arm and carries him heroically across. Sadly, it is also not the reality where the Paladin has two glorious robot arms which would increase their likelihood of survival to actually maybe survivable. But Slav is wrapped around the Paladin’s shoulders, and the arms cupped around him are gentle in their grasp. Slav lets himself enjoy it, until they reach The Cracks.

Slav isn’t even surprised that the Paladin seems to have no regard for his mother. Whatever importance Slav may place on his unquantifiable string and what lies at the end of it, it is clear that this is not the reality where the Paladin differs from everyone else in any appreciable way.

But in the end, the Paladin never forces him over. He listens, and implements Slav’s suggestion instead of making him go along with his. He does not harm him, even though he could have at so many points, even though Slav knows he wants to.

In the end, as realities unspool from his numbers, bright strands of actions and reactions pulling and pushing each other into infinity, Slav picks his reality and slams down on the control panel. His eyes on the tableau in front of him - his torturer, his saviour, the other factors who matter but do not matter. Slav calculates all the ways in which this ends.

The airlock doors swirl open, reality shunting down another path as Slav follows the pull of his consequences. There is, always and forever, the fear of death; dying in the void of space is such a messy death. But Slav is following his string, and the Paladin is there at the other end.

Slav does not go to him, but aims himself at one of the others, the one who had praised his suggestion. He keeps some distance between himself and the Paladin; a better vantage to observe. Safe in the arms of the small green one - not an unlucky frequency, but he regrets a little that he hadn’t aimed for the blue one instead - Slav lets himself be relieved for a moment; this is not yet the reality where he dies. He looks over, and contemplates the possibilities of a reality where the end of his string is a positive outcome, that he is defective in neither his eyes nor his brain. And then he remembers, this man does not even honour his mother’s back.

In some realities, it is not the Galra Slav must fear, but the Alteans.

Here, he is a fighter, he is powerful, and Shiro is Sven is a comforting presence at his side. Their string is not tangled but runs true between them, and their bond is the strength of physics and trust.

They are partners in all the ways that count. From the moment Slav sneaks into the Altean prison and finds that the weapon the Guns of Gamara wanted him to steal is a living, breathing alien. From the moment Slav finally meets the other end of his string and solves the mystery that has plagued him his whole life.

He is the one who breaks Sven out. He is the one who saves him.

In this reality, Slav sits in the outdated ship of a dead race and calculates how to keep them all alive. He is in his room tonight, having finally aligned everything inside it in optimal ‘staying alive in as many realities as possible’ configurations. So engrossed is he in his work, Slav completely misses dinner and does not even realise until someone knocks on his door.

“It’s me,” Shiro says, tone even. “I brought you some food.” It takes Slav a mathematical age to remember that he is no longer a prisoner and Shiro is waiting to be allowed entry.

Shiro squeezes inside gingerly when Slav finally opens the door, trying not to touch anything, and stands in the middle of the room with his limbs tucked close, food tray held to his chest. It is comforting to see him act so respectful; it makes Slav wonder once again if the red impossibility that twines around them means something, that Shiro can be so accommodating.

Slav takes a quick look around the room, trying to see what can be moved with the least chance of disaster. After some deliberation, he shifts the tablet on his bed from one end to the other and points at the space left behind. “There. Our survival rate in 42 whole realities will not suffer inordinately if you sit on the creases of this corner of the blanket.”

Shiro takes the seat, his mouth quirking up in a way that does not say ‘danger’. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing? Does ‘inordinately’ in this case mean we’re already doomed, or that we’re not doomed at all?”

“Only if you sit on that corner and that corner ONLY.” Slav folds his primary arms, his secondary set already reaching out for the tray of food. Shiro lets go of it without even a play at keeping it from him, and Slav finds himself pulling the tray with too much force without even realising he was going to. He should have been able to anticipate this, he should know Shiro well enough by now to be able to predict how he would act - how he wouldn’t be cruel this way, but Slav had seen the food and let his hunger and fear override his calculations. In other realities he would have used just the right amount of force, Slav thinks bitterly, watching the synthetic nutrient goo slop onto the tray. In other realities, the entire plate might have overturned.

But Shiro is here, hovering his hands under the tray as if to catch it in case it falls. “Sorry, sorry,” he says hurriedly. “I should have just put it down somewhere instead.”

Slav’s torso stiffens, straight as a beam. “No! The chances of disaster if you just drop it down haphazardly! The-”

“What are the chances of disaster?” Shiro asks, cutting in before Slav can build up more steam for his rant.

“Very high!” Slav blusters. “There is a 96% chance that someone can trip over it, fall down on something important, smear this nutrient goo all over EVERYTHING.”

“Huh, that actually sounds reasonable.” Shiro blinks. “Good thing I didn’t put it down somewhere then.”

The calm that surrounds him grates at Slav, people aren’t calm around him - not even Shiro. But the low-key condescension to Slav’s behaviour is at least familiar. Slav spoons nutrient goo into his mouth and glares.

Shiro ignores it with seeming ease. Except now that Slav is looking, he is not so sure whether Shiro is as calm as he had thought he was. The way Shiro is holding his shoulders, it is both similar and dissimilar to when they were running through the prison. His eyebrows are set low on his forehead, and there is a stiffness to him that reminds Slav a little of the corridors of Beta Traz, when Shiro was so set on forcing Slav over the Cracks. It sets off Slav’s instincts, vestigial ones from before Slav’s species learned to reason. Instincts that tell him to fight or run or both.

“I want to apologise,” Shiro says, all the stiffness leaving his body. This is not the reality Slav had thought they were in. “I’m sorry for shouting at you on our way back. It was uncalled for. I’m not sorry for doing whatever it took to save you while we were in Beta Traz though.”

“I saved us,” Slav points out to give himself time to think, to recalculate.

“Yes, you did.” Shiro nods firmly. The corners of his lips are tucked down. It makes him look - not foreboding, not the way the Galra do when their lips turn down, but - unhappy. “Thank you for saving us. It was brave, what you did, and dangerous.”

“Well.” Slav blinks, uncertain - the number of realities where this happens is so small, almost smaller than the number of realities where he finds the other end of his string and it is a Paladin of Voltron who saves him from the Galra. “I don’t plan on repeating it.”

“Please don’t,” says Shiro, still with that look on his face. “It’s our job to protect you .”

It has been so long since Slav felt the emotion that wells up inside him, he doesn’t recognise it at first. And then he does. He feels safe. Slav looks at the string, still hanging between them and not a hint of slack in it - despite the distance they had between them, the distance that has shrunk so much. The probabilities of something positive on the other end of it were so small. The probabilities are still so small.

Shiro’s voice interrupts the familiar litany of his thoughts. “Are you comfortable here? Do you have everything you need?” Slav looks up to see him glancing around the room. “Nothing’s in an unlucky terahertz range or something?”

Slav blinks slightly at the sudden change in topic, but follows along. “No, no unlucky terahertz ranges here.”

“ Do you have an unlucky terahertz range?”

“Less of a terahertz range, and more of a colour that doesn’t really exist,” Slav says drily.

Shiro’s mouth works as his brows furrow. “Wait, wait, I think I know this one. Our eyes made it up or something. Purple, right?”

Slav looks at him. “Yes, exactly.”

“Oh. Right.” Shiro presses his lips together, then opens them again. “Weren’t you working with the Blade of Marmora before?”

“Yes, exactly,” repeats Slav, waving his tertiary arms at the prisoner smock he still wears, his secondary set still occupied with the tray and primary set with the bowl and spoon.

“Fair enough.”

“Surely you understand,” Slav points at the robot arm with a quarternary hand.

Shiro looks down at it, face scrunching up as he does so, but then he is looking back up at Slav and all the wrinkles have smoothed out. “My experiences with the colour purple has actually been quite positive recently.” He turns as if he can see through the walls, in the direction of the hangers that house the Lions, if Slav remembers correctly from his tour of the Castleship.

“The Lion? That’s black.” Slav scowls at Shiro, turns to where he is looking, then turns back for good measure. “Is this a problem with your visible spectrum? Are all human eyes like this?”

“No.” Shiro huffs, in inexplicable good humour. “It’s the Black Lion for us too. But it’s also quite purple.”

Slav squints at Shiro’s face, he looks - if it is even possible for humans in the first place - besotted. “Is this a human language thing then?”

“Hmmm.” Shiro’s brows scrunch together. “I don’t think this is a translation issue. It’s two different words in English - the language I speak - as well, and two different concepts. It’s just how the Lion works.”

The explanation explains nothing. Slav sniffs contemptuously. “Magic.”

Shiro just shrugs. “It could be a leftover from Zarkon, that’s not the kind of thing I felt comfortable asking Allura or Coran, but...I think it’s just the Lion itself. It’s Black, but also Purple.”

“That makes no sense scientifically,” Slav says, trying to ignore how Shiro says Zarkon’s name so easily.

“Magic,” says Shiro, and this time his smile is a smirk.

Slav sighs. “I suppose magic is as good a reason as any why all of our species recognise a colour that doesn’t actually exist.” That’s not the only thing Slav sees that doesn’t actually exist, after all. Almost unconsciously, he reaches out with his tertiary hand, watching as his fingers slip through the string like all the other times he had tried.

But this time he is not given a look of confusion for grasping at what everyone else only perceives as air. Shiro is looking at him with wide eyes, skin leeching of colour. Slav’s instincts surge up again and he flinches back, but Shiro is faster, one large hand clamping down on Slav’s outstretched wrist, the tray clattering between them.

“You can see it?” Shiro’s voice is urgent, but not harsh. Slav squints open his eyes to see Shiro’s face filling his entire field of view. Somehow, his instincts no longer tell him to flee.

“You see the string too,” Slav accuses. He glances to the string and back, in time to see Shiro has just done the same.

“I- I didn’t think…” Shiro stumbles over his words, face slack. Slav knows that look, it is wonder. “The Alteans don’t have it, you know. I thought it was just a human thing. I hadn’t thought you would be able to see -”

“You...did this…?” Slav knows as soon as he says it that it’s not true. But nowadays he is all too accustomed to a life where he sits as things are done to him.

Shiro tilts his head to the side. “I don’t know... do I take responsibility for this? I didn’t do it on purpose, and it’s not something I can control, but this string is - as far as I know - a human construct that I’ve never heard exist in any of the alien races we’ve met. Unless - is it a thing for your species?”

“No,” says Slav. “As far as I know, I am the only one. No one else could see it. It doesn’t exist to them.”

Shiro winces. “Yes, even on Earth - among our species, you can only see the string that is tied to you, no one else’s. If none of them are tied by a string, then it’s only natural they wouldn’t see anything.”

“Then how do you know,” Slav asks, voice rising in horror. “How do you account for it? If it can’t be measured, or quantified, if no one can see it but you and the one who shares your delusions-”

The way Shiro looks at him is so soft, Slav doesn’t understand. “You just have to trust it.” His mouth quirks up again. “Or that’s how it goes in our society. Maybe it is a delusion, but precisely because you share the delusion with the other end of your string, it means something to us. No matter what your life is like, on the other end of your string is someone who will see the world as you do, even if only a small sliver of it. It’s a special bond.”

Slav lets the words sink into him, breaks them down into their component numbers and allows his calculations to reform around them. Possibilities die and spring into life. “What are you going to do now that you know?” Slav asks because he does not know the answer for himself.

Shiro hums. “For humans, this string is a symbol of fate tying us to one another, it shows we’re soulmates. It’s expected that once we find each other we’ll stay together. But, well, human expectations don’t exactly prepare for aliens.”

Slav frowns at that. “But your string must have stretched out into space like mine did.”

Shiro hesitates, the hand that was still circled around Slav’s wrist finally drawing away. “Yes, it did.” He does not explain further.

The dismissal does not hurt, but Slav feels whatever connection that Shiro had drawn between them fade. He could try to reach out, to draw up a connection from his end, but Slav is still not sure if he wants to. Slav looks down at the tray in his lap, then back up. The string is still there, no longer Slav’s delusion but a shared one; whatever bond they have or not have, that hasn’t changed.

“Anyway, we still have to defeat Zarkon first,” Shiro says calmly, as if he doesn’t realise the impossibility of his words. “We can talk about what we’re going to do once it’s over.”

Perhaps it is the result of this new paradigm that Slav has been introduced to, perhaps the idea that the delusion is shared means something to Slav as it means to Shiro, but for once he does not want to bring up their vanishingly small chances of success. Realities unfurl in front him as they always do, but Slav spoons more goo into his mouth and does not speak of their doom.

In other realities, the string is quantifiable after all. Traceable by the dark magic of Haggar’s druids. The quintessence of two pools together into one, and Haggar follows the string to the end.

Slav is kept not at Beta Traz, but Central Command. His first view of the end of his string is the Champion fighting for Zarkon’s entertainment. Their first contact is under Haggar’s observation; their string is not a private bond between them, but yet another thing for the Empire to violate.

But they are strong together, they escape together. Together they are unstoppable.

In this reality, Slav is sneaking onto the Teludav one last time on the eve of their culminating strike against Zarkon. He has made sure everyone had left before he did so, a feat that takes longer than he would have liked - how long does it take for Humans to have an emotional moment together before the big, decisive battle anyway?

But Slav is patient, he knows how to wait. He has been watching the Humans; he makes sure to count every single one of them as they leave, before hunkering down on the ring that runs horizontally across the Teludav. He is just starting to run both primary and secondary set of hands over the curve of one of the lenses when he hears the voice behind him. “Didn’t Coran ban you from the Teludav after you made it explode?”

“Only a small explosion!” The assertion slips out while Slav is still turning. It is the first time he has seen Shiro again since he brought food to his room. Since Slav found out that the string is real. That Shiro is the other end because he sees it too.

“No more explosions, even small ones!” Shiro looms, inserting himself physically between Slav and the Teludav. Slav lets himself be herded, but plops down on the ground the moment they’re off it.

“If you just let me do what I need to do, we will have an even higher chance of surviving in this reality!” It feels strange to trust that Shiro will listen, but despite his disregard for Slav’s methods, he has let Slav act out his compulsions before, and does seem to have some respect for Slav and his abilities. All he can do is appeal to Shiro’s better nature.

“What you need to do,” repeats Shiro, robot arm waving wildly. “To this already complete Teludav. That you have already blown up.”

“Yes!” Slav beams. “Also, I repeat, that was only a small explosion, nothing as dramatic as ‘blowing up’.”

Shiro frowns. “No, Slav.”

Clearly Slav is a fool for thinking Shiro even has a better nature. Meeting the other end of his string has been nothing but a long, painful road to disillusionment. Despite what Shiro says about the string being a special bond, he has proven time and time again that he does not understand Slav at all. Slav frowns too, the disappointment making him restless. He throws himself forward even though he doesn’t even need his calculations to know his chances of getting past Shiro are somewhere in the negatives.

To absolutely no one’s surprise, Shiro catches Slav easily in his arms, taking heavy strides that lead them even further away from the Teludav. The momentum curls Slav around Shiro’s body, a reminder of their breakout from Beta Traz. “Look,” Shiro says with a sigh, “can’t you do whatever you need to do away from here? Preferably somewhere without anything breakable.”

“Nooooooo.” Slav wobbles in Shiro’s grasp, feeling childish and disagreeable. He clings tighter, refusing to let Shiro set him down. It is Shiro’s fault for not listening. For being such a disappointment. For avoiding him after all those pretty words about how they’re soulmates who are supposed to be together.

Shiro remains unsympathetic, dropping down cross-legged on the ground now that they are a decent distance away and taking Slav with him. “Don't you ‘noooo’ me. Act your age, for goodness sakes.” Shiro pauses, mouth slack. “Wait, how old are you?”

Slav pauses too, thinking.

Shiro narrows his eyes at Slav suspiciously. “Why is this something you need to think about?”

“Your words made me realise that in 112 realities you let me on the Teludav when I told you I am prepubescent for my species,” Slav says truthfully,

Shiro does not stop looking suspicious. “I can't believe that works on me in any reality.”

“Well, to be fair, in some of those realities that was one of the first things I told you about me. And then there are the ones where it's true!” Slav waggles his eyebrows at him, trying to look sly. “This might be one of them.”

“Yeah, no.” The frown deepens on Shiro’s face.

Slav thinks about trying his luck further, but Shiro is pulling at him, hands tangling in Slav’s prisoner smock and keeping him in place. Slav curls tighter in retribution, stretching up from the back of Shiro’s head so he can rest his chin on the crown, feathering out over Shiro’s forehead.

Shiro squints up at him, cross-eyed. “If I let you stay there, will you keep away from the Teludav? What about a distraction. Can I distract you with something?”

“Hmmmmm.” Slav strokes down his chin, tugs at the strands and calculates the probabilities if he pushes now. He is 57 and 77/100ths of a percent sure that this is one of the realities where it will work. “Tell me more about the string. I tried to scan it with the equipment the Castle had. Even they can’t trace it.”

Shiro stills, but does not pull away. “Yeah,” he says, looking away. “The Alteans don’t have it. It was pretty hard to explain the whole thing to them. I’m still not sure if they believe us now, or they’re just humouring us.”

“On the bright side, the Galra doesn’t seem to be able to measure it either.” Not in this reality at least.

Shiro’s face jerks; not upwards, in a smile, or downwards, in a frown, but an intense look into the distance that Slav is intimately familiar with. “Yeah, they can seem so indestructible; they’ve been around for so long, unchallenged. But there are things even they don’t know.” Shiro takes a breath, his face smoothing out. “It’s something to keep in mind. Even if they’re so technologically advanced that they can attach a brand new limb to an alien they’ve been studying for less than a year and have it go without a hitch, they’re as unaware of the red strings of fate as everyone else.”

“Does that mean you have been rethinking my proposal about two robot arms? Because I think it will really improve-”

“No, Slav,” Shiro says exasperatedly, a phrase he has heard too many times today. Shiro’s human hand reaches up, tugging at where Slav had earlier. His grasp is gentle, gentler than Slav’s had been, and the intimacy of the act sends a shiver up Slav’s torso.

Slav slithers back down, pooling into Shiro’s lap this time. “You’re distracting me, my question was about the string.”

“I did say my whole goal is to distract you, remember.” Shiro shifts his arms away from Slav, leaning his weight on them as he flattens his hands against the ground and giving Slav the choice to move away if he wants. Slav stays where he is, looking up into Shiro’s face as the shadows there are banished by a smile. “What else did you want to know?”

57 and 77/100ths of a percent, Slav reminds himself. “Is the string how you knew I would be here?”

“Pretty much,” Shiro says easily. “That’s another aspect of the bond. You can’t really hide from each other, not when the string gives away your general direction.”

“I wasn’t hiding,” Slav replies haughtily. “I thought you would just ignore it. Like you’ve been ignoring me.”

Shiro doesn’t reply straight away, the silence between them stretching out long enough that Slav braves another glance upwards. The shadows are back on Shiro’s face. “I-”

Slav waits, but Shiro doesn’t say any more. “I haven’t seen you since our conversation in my room,” Slav offers. He isn’t sure what response he wants from Shiro.

“I have been avoiding you,” Shiro admits. “I’m- I’m sure you’ve noticed, but I haven’t been...I’ve been rude,” Shiro says finally, as if he’s not quite sure how to admit to all the outbursts he’s directed at Slav since they’ve met.

“You’re not very good at cooperating,” says Slav, in full agreement.

“I’m not-” Shiro splutters. “I’m not cooperative! I-”

Slav watches as Shiro takes deep, shuddering breaths until his face is back to its normal colour. He’s gotten used to the Humans enough that it doesn’t scare him as much as it did, though the fact that he’s not stuck in a confined space with Shiro as his only hope for freedom certainly helps.

Shiro takes another breath before he speaks. “Forget about cooperation, what I’m talking about is how I haven’t been very good at staying in control. Mostly around you.”

There is a familiar darkness in Shiro’s eyes, one Slav recognises. That might be why he gives Shiro an out. “The conversation in my room wasn’t so bad. You didn’t shout at me in there.” Just scared me half to death with the intensity of your reveal that the string actually exists.

“Just scared you half to death by being too intense about our bond?” Shiro raises an eyebrow, emphasising the way he casts his eyes to the string between them.

Slav strokes his chin again, more solid under his fingers than the string will ever be, and says, “So is this all connected to our...bond? To the string?”

Shiro looks away, a habit that Slav understands well enough now to know it is guilt. “No. That’s not how the bond works. That’s not how a person is supposed to treat their soulmate.” And then he is looking at Slav again; the intensity in his eyes and the way Shiro sets his jaw should be scary, dangerous, but it isn’t. “I don’t deal very well with people not listening to me, especially when I can’t understand the rationale behind why you don’t listen to me. I am trying, but...a lot of the time your requirements just sound frivolous. I don’t think I’m worse about it because we are soulmates or anything, but, well, a year as a prisoner of the Galra probably didn’t help the control issues.”

“My requirements are always rational,” Slav says, because he knows what Shiro really wants is absolution, but he doesn’t know if he wants to - if he can - give it to him.

“Only to you,” Shiro says with a sigh.

Slav curls up tighter in Shiro’s lap, and then, because he does know something about being a prisoner of the Galra, he gives Shiro another out. “In our last conversation, you said that you weren’t prepared for aliens. What did you think of your string then? Surely it stretched out into space like mine did. What were you expecting?”

Shiro’s face closes off as it had last time, but - maybe he realises this is Slav’s way of reaching out - he still doesn’t pull away, hasn’t even once in this entire conversation, Slav realises belatedly. Shiro’s human hand reaches up from the ground to trace the space the string doesn’t inhabit. “I said humanity wasn’t expecting aliens, because we aren’t. We haven’t even left our solar system. None of us knew aliens existed until…” The hand in the air waves at his robot arm. “But I’d always wondered - hoped - that my string leading out into the sky meant something. That there’s something out there, on the other end, waiting for me just like everyone else.”

“Me too,” Slav admits, unable to look away from emotions that flits over Shiro’s face as he talks. “I didn’t know what it meant or where it lead, beyond the infinite of space, but I’d always hoped that there was something on the other end.”

“There is,” says Shiro; this time, his smile is not happy. “All those people who thought that there was something wrong with my string, and all it took was a year of captivity by an evil alien empire and being chosen to save the universe by a telepathic robot lion.”

“So many realities where you are already dead.” Slav nods in agreement. “So many realities where you could still die.”

“That’s what you said back in the prison too.” Shiro pauses briefly, then says, “Why did you decide to come with me, when there were...what, only 2% chance of not dying?”

“1 and 97/100ths of a percent actually, it only became 2% thanks to the efforts of my blanket,” Slav corrects him. “And those numbers were only of ME not dying in the prison break. Your chances were worse.”

“Why did you come then?”

Slav shrugs into Shiro’s thigh, uncurling from his lap so that he can flop out over his knees instead. “The other choice was to stay there. Of course I chose you.”

Shiro’s face starts turning red again, but this time not from anger. “Yeah, I get it, any choice starts looking better when you compare to being a prisoner of the Galra.”

“And if I was going to die, at least I managed to find out what was on the other end of the string before that.” Slav shrugs again, watching as Shiro’s face turns even redder.

“We’re not going to die,” Shiro says firmly, and clears his throat. “We will defeat Zarkon, and win; what do you want to do afterwards?”

“You do realise our chances of defeating Zarkon are much, much less than our chances of not dying in that prison break?” Slav asks, so he can avoid actually thinking about what Shiro’s asking of him.

“You said that the possibilities are infinite,” Shiro replies, undaunted. “So if we do live in the reality where we will defeat Zarkon, what are your plans?”

“You’re the one who said we’ll talk about it after it’s over.”

This time, Shiro doesn’t respond straight away, closing his eyes and opening them again before saying, “Yes, but that’s just what I want, and that’s not fair to you. What do you want, Slav?”

Slav looks up thoughtfully. All those different emotions he had seen on Shiro’s face, all the feelings he had revealed to Slav, all wiped away now by the determined face he shows to everyone else. When they had met, and Slav had said he survives in less than 1 and 97/100ths of a percent of realities, he hadn’t even known Shiro back then. Now he does, now he knows the chances of Shiro surviving are even smaller than that. And yet, the reality they are in had ended up being the reality where they survived the prison break anyway. “Very well. After it’s all over, we can talk about it then.”

A/N:  One thing I’ve noticed on Voltron is that all the aliens have ‘our’ body language; almost everyone is at least vaguely bipedal and most have the same number of mouths/eyes/eyebrows. Which, sure, why not, more things in heaven and earth etc. etc. At least it made it easier for me to write Slav, though I wasn’t sure how much familiarity he would have with lips. But he has been around a lot of Galra after all.

[kpopfanfictrash]

Addewid (XII)

Author: kpopfanfictrash

Pairing: You / Kai (Jongin)

Rating: PG-13

Word Count: 5,095

Genre: Fey!AU + Series

Summary: “You cannot appeal to my better nature, for I have none. I am not human, little one.”

You’ve always known you were different. You’re able to see them, after all, able to see the Others. You’ve also always ignored them. Until the day comes where you’re forced to make a choice - one that throws your world into chaos. And sends you down a path you might never return from.

And so I am helpless, because I am Kai’s.

I am not your Kai tonight.

Kai’s gaze finds mine, as though thinking this. There’s such heartbreak in his gaze, I can’t control the sob passing my lips.

“So,” Maeve’s voice is smooth, mellifluous. “This human will stand trial for the corruption and desecration of a Noble Fey. For conspiring to steal,” she hisses, “from the Queen of the Unseelie.” Maeve’s lips curl to a smile. “Kai, escort her to the dungeons.”

XII - The Vow

Kai doesn’t move.

Doesn’t look at me. Can’t look at me.

His body trembles, shaking as the whispers of the court darken. Kyungsoo’s mouth tightens, eyes ablaze with warning. “Kai,” he whispers, while Kai’s gaze snaps upwards.

Maeve’s hand closes in mid-air, circling the stem of her glass. The room stirs. Dark, angry shapes writhing, while Kai remains motionless. Not for long, though. I see his hands clench beneath the table, breath slowing. The metal at his neck glows and I know he can’t hold out for much longer.

It’s too much though, with a direct order of Maeve – with her here, beside him. Maeve knows it, Kai knows it, and I know it.  It’s why Maeve does nothing, merely waiting for Kai to give in. The room darkens, fire dimming above us to sparks. Maeve’s eyes glow, gleaming as shadows twist from the ground.

“Take her,” she murmurs, lowering her hand to the table. “Now.”

Kai grunts, gaze burning as his limbs start to move. He stands like a marionette, like a puppet – reminding me of Sehun controlling my body. Kai’s legs force upwards, gaze remaining on mine. His legs step slowly, one foot before the other.

There’s a rumble of approval from Unseelie, their voices jeering as Kai moves beside me. His gaze lifts to Maeve’s. “Please,” he begs, voice quiet. “Don’t make me do this.”

This only hardens Maeve’s composure. She waves a hand, the motion soft as the din lessens below. Not because they’re quiet, but because Maeve wants us to hear. Wants to make sure Kai hears, leaning gracefully forward.

“Did you truly think I wouldn’t notice,” she murmurs, eyes harsh. “Think I wouldn’t see the way you look at her? You are mine,” Maeve’s grip tightens around her glass. In the background, glass shatters – the windows, I think. “Mine,” she insists.

“I will be,” Kai murmurs. He doesn’t look at me, gaze determined. “I promise to be yours, if you will only let her go.”

Maeve stares for a moment, hair floating softly in the wind. The world is eerily silent. All while she contemplates – and then Maeve starts to laugh. “You’re in love with her,” she says softly. Her face turns to nothing but contempt. “Take her away. Lock her in the dungeons.”

The room blazes to life, sound pouring back in as Maeve smiles. Kai’s hand trembles, shuddering while reaching jerkily forward. Kai grasps hold of my wrist, touch light while slowly pulling me up to my feet. I let him do so, knowing if he fights with Maeve it will only make things worse. I can’t let Kai be punished in my stead – not when he tried to give himself over for me.

His hand closes over mine, entire room fading to pinpoints. Snippets of sound, everything distorted but for Maeve. I think Kyungsoo stands, think he’s speaking but I can’t hear what he says. Can’t hear anything, but for the pounding of my own heart. The blood rushing to my brain. Distilled, by the sound of my panicking human body.

Maeve’s lips curls, gaze hard as Kai turns slowly away. Mistakenly, I glance sideways. Hundreds, thousands of eyes stare back at me and its then I realize: I’m on display.

I now recognize the room for what it is. Maeve’s table set high above the others. Me, standing before the crowd with Kai’s hands on my wrists. Everyone watching from below. Each gaze filled with glittering malice of the Unseelie court, an unspoken promise to end me, should I get too close. 

At least I can understand Maeve, though I despise her. I know she wants Kai, know that It’s driving her mad.

The Unseelie though, these are things which I cannot comprehend. The Unseelie look up with ancient malice, a hunger lingering through blood and bone. These are Fey, born and bred with the desire to end things. The desire of chaos, war and blood – to strip, until the earth lays itself bare. It is not a human instinct – and so I shudder away from it.

Kai doesn’t allow me to linger, pulling me off and away. Behind us, Kyungsoo’s voice rises. I don’t know what he’s saying, only that it’s argumentative – and with Maeve, no less. Maeve growls her displeasure, seething about insolence and there’s a crack; silence.

I continue to walk. Heart aching while I place first one foot, then the other. Focusing on the floor, solid beneath me. Concentrating on the air, feeding into my lungs. Staring at my body, whole and unharmed – because I don’t know how long this fact will remain. I don’t believe Maeve intends to leave me in her dungeons.  No, Maeve is the type to let the world burn just so she can bathe in its ashes.

She’ll make a show of this, a show of me. A demonstration to show that her orders are not to be disobeyed. Her orders are not to be questioned. Maeve is to be followed, precisely and without question.

There is no room for mercy in Maeve’s court, no judgement, no love.

My gaze lifts, realization dawning. I look at Kai, who continues to stare ahead. He doesn’t look back, hands shaking. His movements mechanical as he leads me away. Maeve speaks from behind, addressing the crowd. I don’t catch onto what she’s saying, just a word or so. Blood, power, wrath. Her voice hisses through the rafters, winding into my ears as Kai turns sideways.

I’m thankful. Thankful, since the stone staircase means I can no longer see. No longer hear the jeers of the crowd, the names, the catcalling and laughter. Now it’s just my steps on stone, echoing as we wind our way down. I inhale, then exhale. Forcing air into my lungs, then out. Focusing on little things: Kai’s hands on my wrists, griphis  vice-like on my skin. His breath comes quicker than normal and I wonder if he’s fighting. Still struggling, to shake off Maeve’s command.

“Kai,” I murmur, though he doesn’t answer. “Kai.”

He exhales. “I’m sorry,” his voice breaks. “I’m so sorry for this. I will free you.”

I shake my head softly. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

Kai doesn’t respond, letting me know that he’s afraid. Afraid there’s no way out of this, afraid of Maeve, afraid of what she might make him do. My fingers move around his. Kai hesitates, then allows this. Still refusing to look at me, while leading me down and down.

“Where are we going?” I ask, continuing to descend. “Where will I be kept?”

Kai is silent for a moment. “There are many chambers. The dungeons are far larger than even the palace. Maeve commanded me to take you to the dungeons, to keep you here.”

“She didn’t say those words,” I murmur, continuing to walk.

“No, she didn’t.” The air grows colder, icy breeze filling the stairwell. “It’s why I avoid court, along with… Well. When I’m near Maeve, her will is stronger. She can impose her thoughts on me, along with her words. When I am away though, the pull is weaker.”  

We turn a corner, flickering torchlight extending in a straight line. A hallway of stone, damp with rot. I wrinkle my nose at the smell.

Kai comes to a stop, bringing me with. He shoves open the door, glancing in. Kai’s breath quickens, chest rising and falling while his eyes flicker.

I come to a stop before him. “Kai,” I mutter, seeing his muscles clench. “It’s okay. It’s alright,” I soothe, while his gaze moves to mine.

“I,” Kai chokes out. Hands sliding angrily up his neck as he hisses in frustration. Yanking and tearing the circle from his neck before groaning, fingers still tugging at the metal.

It’s then that I see: the angry, red welts. Burns, which crisscross his neck and throat. Nausea builds while my hand finds the wall - I don’t remember doing that, but my thoughts are suddenly dizzy. Bile rises, staring at what Maeve has done to Kai. At what she continues to do, time and time again.

“Kai,” I breathe, hands sliding to his. He’s still attempting to yank the collar lower. “Please stop,” I murmur, vision burring. “It hurts me to see you hurt.”

Kai comes to a halt. Eyelids fluttering, as his hands slowly find mine. “I don’t know how to keep you safe,” Kai confesses, eyes dark. “I will find a way, though.”

I stare back at him. “I won’t stop fighting,” I murmur, hands sliding over his. “I promise.”

Kai nods, smiling until – his posture stiffens. “She’s calling me,” he murmurs, the words dull.

I take a small step backwards. Leaving him to enter the cell. I don’t dare glance at my surroundings yet – that can come later. Once Kai leaves and is unable to see me cry. Instead I force myself to remain calm, to stay strong. “Go,” I whisper. “Please.”

Kai stares back, eyes bloodshot. Fingernails digging into his palms, hard enough to draw blood. He steels himself, eyes bright before lurching forward. Kai’s lips find mine – hungrily, hastily. Lips clashing with teeth as I moan, none of him gentle against me. I feel him fighting to stay in control, feel his shudder while his hands slide to my hair. Kai’s motions gradually slow, softening as his mouth opens mine.

Kai’s lips move slowly, lingeringly. I clutch at his body, breath catching in my throat. Then Kai pulls back, wrenched as though forced. His arm moves to shut the door, causing him to stare in abject horror. First at my cell, then his hand.

“Go,” I insist, hands wrapping around the bars. Rust and grime coating my fingers. “Go.”

Kai stares for a moment longer before nodding, turning away. His shoulders tighten, posture straightening before reaching the staircase. Kai pauses, turning his head to face the wall. “I’ll kill her,” he whispers, so soft I barely hear. “For this, I’ll kill her.”

Then he disappears, gone before I can respond. I hear footsteps disintegrating to nothing and leaving me alone. No one but myself, my thoughts and the slow drip of water. I turn around, wearily taking in my surroundings.

The cell is small. Just enough for a narrow bed, made entirely from wood. There’s a pail in the corner, a hole beside which explains the smell. There’s a single window set in the wall. Too tiny for anyone to get through – just large enough to let in that torturous sliver of light.

I walk numbly. I don’t know what to do. All my bravery, all that courage I wore like armor has long since disappeared. I’m left with the sinking surety that I will die here. I knew that I would, knew my promise to Kai demanded it. I thought I’d have more time, though.

More time to live, more time to be free. Even with Kai, I force myself to remember - I was not free. My gaze moves to the hallway, angry with Kai for the first time today. This could have all been avoided, had Kai just let me go in the first place. Had Kai trusted me enough to break our first Addewid.  

I sink onto the bed. If Kai let me go, Maeve would have punished him in my stead. Even worse, since the Anthology would have been set free. I lower my head to my hands, knowing I have no right to demand such things from Kai. To ask him to give himself up, for me – but then, that’s what he tried to do, isn’t it?

I don’t understand.

I rub my eyes. Answers won’t come tonight, that much is certain. I hear no sounds from above, but that doesn’t mean the party is over. I lean my head against the wall, certain Maeve will take tonight to celebrate. To relish in the win, her victory over me.

But what kind of victory can this be called? Cold, hard anger runs in my veins. Compared to Maeve, I am nothing. I have no magic, no power to speak of, nothing beyond humanity. And what is Humanity, compared to the Fey? We are bright as flame and burn just as quickly, Kai said. We feel more, feel further. We feel – but what kind of advantage is emotion?

Softly, I close my eyes.

It must be hours later I awake. The light from the window dimmer, no longer the moon but the stars. The moon is below the horizon, meaning it’s nearly dawn. I stare up at the light, lips cracked with thirst. I need water and achingly, I push myself to stand. I’m still dressed in my outfit from earlier but before, I was not cold. I don’t know whether that was due to Kai’s magic or Kai himself – but I did not feel the pain. I didn’t feel on display, as I do now.

My fingers drift over my abdomen, wishing I had a blanket. A coat, something. Tears well in my eyes, thinking of my father. At least I know he is safe. At least I know he is home and I am the only one here. I could not have born it, were it in reverse.

I sink back onto the bed, head falling to my hands. Tears slip through my fingers, feeling as though I’m facing a wall. A wall asked to climb with no rope, no ladder. Just darkness, as hopelessly blank as the night.

Kai flickers into being before me. He gasps, one knee dropping shakily to the ground. Teetering for a moment, his fingers splayed across the edge of the concrete. His breath is heavy, as I push myself to the edge of my bed.

“Kai?” 

He nods, and I scramble forward. Falling before him, hands finding his jaw to lift him higher. I realize too late my hands are filthy, leaving dirt on his cheeks and skin – but Kai doesn’t seem to care.

He presses to me, hands wrapping around my body. “Y/N,” he whispers into my hair.  

I allow my body to relax. Kai is still dressed in the clothing of last night, slightly more scuffed than before. When he pulls back, I take in the bruise on his cheek, the scrape along his neck. Reddened bruises at the edge of his knuckles.

“What did you do?” I groan, glancing at the door. Certain that soldiers will come barreling through at any moment. Certain they’ll throw Kai in with me, or worse.

Kai shakes his head no, pressing his lips to mine. “We have time,” he whispers against me. “For now.”

When I look up, Kai’s gaze is mixed with fear and wonder. Now that he’s here though, my thumb brushes over his cheekbones. I want to memorize the look of him, feel the planes of his body. Remember each moment, since forever might not be that long for me.

Kai’s gaze darkens. “Don’t think like that.”

The corner of my mouth lifts, unsure how he knows. “It’s hard not to,” I sigh. Fingers brushing the metal of his collar. “How are you here?”

“Kyungsoo,” Kai says, voice tight. “He offered to join Maeve tonight. It is,” he swallows. “The first time in one thousand years he has done so. Maeve was too intrigued, too much so to turn down his proposal.”

My eyes drift shut. “He shouldn’t have.”

“No.” Kai bends, nose touching mine. “He shouldn’t have. But,” he waits until I open my eyes. “Since he has, I intend to make the most of the time we have.”

I raise an eyebrow.

Kai flushes. “No, not that – although,” he pauses, calculating. Then smirks. “No,” Kai murmurs, lips brushing my neck. Fingers sliding lazily up my body. “I don’t want to rush this, rush you. We will have many more nights for that,” Kai clarifies, pulling back. “We will.”

I nod, fingers clasped about his neck. “I believe you.”

Kai looks at me for a long moment. “I came to tell you the truth,” he confesses.

I’m unsure how to respond to that. “The truth?” I repeat, tilting my head.

“I came to tell you my story,” Kai swallows. “It is time that you knew the truth – about me, everything.”

Staring back at him, I don’t understand. “But Kai,” my brow lowers. “Why?”

There’s quiet resolution when he looks at me. “Maeve saw more than I did, I’ll admit,” Kai murmurs, lowering his forehead to mine. “She saw that I love you.”

I thought I was whole before.

I suppose I was, in a way. I was full of thoughts, desires, wants and needs. Loving someone, though – it breaks you. Pulls you apart, allows them entrance. Allowing them to fill the cracks and spaces, ones you didn’t realize you had. When Kai says he loves me, I feel him settle around me. Settle into me, encasing my soul and I recognize he’s been here for some time now. I can’t think, can’t breathe. Can’t consider anything but this tiny, grimy room where Kai tells me he loves me.

I can’t tell him. Can’t tell him I love him – not without knowing why he won’t let me go.

“Tell me the truth,” I say, voice breaking. “Why are you telling me this?”

Kai’s lips press to my temple, then mouth. “Because when you love someone,” he murmurs, eyes light. “You want them to love you in return. The whole you.”

My lips move against his to whisper, “Then, yes. I’m listening.”

Kai pulls back. For the first time, he looks scared. “It’s easier to show,” Kai hesitates. “Some of this – I haven’t said out loud before.”

I nod, just once.

Kai lifts a hand, tracing a shape in mid-air. A tiny circle which grows wider by the second. It lightens the longer I look and my breath catches as the colors solidify into shapes. I see it now – a young boy and girl, playing in fields of grass. The girl gathers flowers, throwing them at her brother as he laughs, his face golden and shining. A halo of bronze circles his brow.

The boy smiles, before tackling his sister. Tickling her mercilessly, and grabbing the flowers. She squeals, pushing off to her feet to chase him. They dart through the forest, faster than any human children could. Hair streaming behind them, Kai laughing wildly the entire way.

Because it’s him, of course – this is Kai’s memory.

He’s younger. A child even by Fey standards, but still Kai. His face is round, boyish but it’s him. Happy, as he tosses her flowers in the air.

“I was born Seelie,” Kai explains, staring at the image. “I was born a Lord of Summer, Prince of the Seelie court. So was my sister, Lithe.”

The girl turns, grin fading to a smile in memory. Her hair elongates, body extending until she’s the woman from Kai’s portrait. I can’t help my soft exclamation, while Kai smiles sadly.

“Lithe and I were orphans,” he confesses. The picture fades to that of a manor, built of gold and white. Set in a valley between slopes of sinking hills. “Our mother and father died when we were young. Killed by an Unseelie war party. I was sent to Court after their death, to learn my place in Fey society.”

Kai’s tone takes an edge, while the pictures speed through a mountain pass. Bright, vibrant colors sliding by. A lake of amber, field of mauve, tree of vermillion.

“These are Seelie lands,” Kai explains quietly. “When I was young, I thought the only way to fulfill my family was to be ruthless. Make others fear me, as the most powerful Fey in the land.”

Images flash before our eyes, lighting the floor of the cell with color.

Kai is older now. He fights in a pit, muddy with filth and beer. I watch him struggle, one knee faltering as he suddenly stumbles to the ground. He’s fighting another Fey, one much older than himself. The other Fey laughs, stepping closer and backhanding Kai across his face. Kai’s elbow buckles and he falls, face-first in the mud.

There’s a thump, a roar of laughter from the crowd. Kai is still breathing, wet chest struggling against the dirt. His opponent turns to the people watching, raising hands in anticipation. From behind, I see Kai’s eyes narrow. I see it then, the switch in his gaze. A sudden fervor while Kai pushes himself up from the mud.

The man turns in surprise. Kai darts forward, roaring before slamming his sword down. The two begin to fight but this time, there’s a wildness to Kai’s moves. The other Fey falters, stumbling and missing a block he should have made. Kai’s sword slices flesh, drawing blood. Now the crowd hushes, silent while sensing the turning of the tide.

Kai pushes himself on, refusing to cave. A wild cry loosens when he spins, performing a complicated maneuver which knocks his opponent to the ground. Kai hovers over him, teeth bared.

It’s then I see the boy. See Kai’s internal fear, his halting desire to save the Fey – not kill him. Then his opponent laughs, hissing a word which makes Kai sees red. He stabs the fairy through his chest, sword sticking at an awkward angle while attempting to pull free.

I gasp.

Kai hangs his head in real life, refusing to look at me. “That was the first man I killed,” he says softly. After a long moment, Kai waves a hand.

More scenes pass.

Kai fights in pit after pit. Swordsmanship improving, becoming more refined, more precise. He wins over and over again, gaining notoriety in both Seelie and Unseelie lands. He captures the attention of Queen Titania herself, the ruler of the Seelie Court. She summons Kai, crowning him her Champion. Kai’s past self flushes with pride, finally able to restore his family name.

No longer would his family be seen as weak. No longer would they be seen as the parents who could not save themselves, not even for the sake of their children. The Fey were killed by Unseelie, left to rot – and no longer would Jongin and Lithe be called cowards, like their parents.

Kai is the strong one. He is revered. He is –

“Jongin,” Kai clasps my hand to his chest. “My true name is Jongin.”

I stare back at him, mind reeling. It makes sense. Makes sense, that those Seelie knew Kai – or Jongin, as he was known then. It’s all coming together. The fact that the Seelie knew Kai, the way Kai knew their lands, his cabin being in Seelie territory. 

Kai was Seelie.

“Jongin,” I murmur, turning the word in my mouth.

Jongin’s mouth lifts, eyes drifting shut. “Yes,” he murmurs, then his smile fades. “That’s not all.”

I look back at the circle, as everything changes. Kai is older, skin still golden and tanned. Hair silver and I recognize him without his icy pallor. Everything is vibrant, youthful and colorful. His cheeks are flushed, eyes bright and then – Kai enters a clearing.

It’s the manor, the one from his childhood and Kai stills atop his horse. Slowly, carefully sliding to the ground. Patting his horse once to send her to the stables before taking a small step forward. Then another, looking down at the ground. Kai bends, finger gently scraping. Lifting his hand, Kai inspects the soil – gaze snapping upwards.

A growl loosens, as he bolts inside. Banging through doors, running through halls, turning over rooms and furniture. No one here is alive. The halls are slippery with blood, feathers stuck in pools of it, broken glass crushed beneath Kai’s heels. Kai gasps, gagging on the sight of his maid splayed, cook undone, butler buried.

All dead. All gone. All but –

“Lithe,” Kai whispers, staring blankly at the memory.

I move without realizing I have. Body wrapped tightly around his, Kai clutching me back and the image frozen beside him. He collapses inwards, as though unable to think of what came next. Unable to see it, as I wipe the tear from in the corner of his eye.

“You don’t have to tell me,” I say, voice dropping. “Not if you don’t want to.”

Kai shudders. “I have to,” he whispers. “Lithe was taken, kidnapped by Unseelie. It was a search party of Maeve’s – bored, looking to fight me. They crossed onto our lands and kidnapped my sister. Dragged her across lines and killed her on Unseelie grounds. By the time I arrived,” Kai chokes, barely able to get past the words. “She was already dead.”

My throat burns, choking on his horror.

When Kai looks back, his eyes are burning. “I went mad,” he whispers. “I killed them all. Slew them with barely a second thought. I didn’t stop there,” he adds, head dropping. “I carved a path of death to the Unseelie palace. I knew I would die. Knew killing Unseelie in their territory was forbidden – but I didn’t care.”

The circle flickers again. Showing Kai, his hair long and wet. Wild, as he screams. Slicing carelessly through Fey after Fey. Not caring if he’s bruised in the process, not caring about anything but her. Kai whirls, his knives a deadly maelstrom. Ice and lightning at his fingertips, piercing Fey by the throat and brow. Kai laughs, throwing back his head to stalk through the gates of the Unseelie palace.

“All I wanted,” Kai says, staring at himself. “Was to kill as many as possible, before I died.”

Wind whirls about Kai’s figure. Attempting to push him back, though he walks evenly on. Calmly flinging out one hand after the other, Unseelie Fey crumpling to the left and right of him. Kai’s mouth is set tight, blood dripping from various wounds which heal as he walks.

He enters the throne room, one I recognize as the ballroom of tonight.

Maeve sits at her throne, lips curled to a vivid smile. Ankles primly crossed, her black dress gone. She’s wearing fighting leathers instead, their color ebony like her hair. Lips twisted in a blood-red sneer, slowly pushing herself to stand.

“Let us begin,” Maeve murmurs.

Kai doesn’t pause to speak, launching himself in her direction. Maeve disappears, reappearing to block Kai’s blow. She laughs, whirling again. Kai begins the deadly dance, but even I can see that he’ll lose. That much is obvious, from the blankness of his gaze. Maeve is too strong for him, too deadly and Kai is exhausted. He’s killed thousands in the past days. Beaten a path of destruction to her door and now that he’s here – he has nothing left.

Pushed to the brink of exhaustion, Kai missteps. His turn is too slow and Maeve backhands him across the face. Hissing, as Kai drops unsteadily to his knees. Chest rising and falling, while blood mixes with sweat on his brow. Staining the floor, flowing in trickles around them. 

“Kill me,” Kai rasps, looking up. He raises his hands, baring his chest. “It’s my fault she’s dead. My fault they came for her. Be certain not to miss my heart, your grace.”

Maeve does nothing, staring at Kai for a moment. Then she smiles – a terrible gesture. “Oh,” she murmurs, bending. Her fingertips slide beneath Kai’s chin to look at her. “You wish for me to kill someone so talented? No,” Maeve tuts, eyes gleaming. “That would be a waste.”

The light in the circle fades, Kai and Maeve disappear from view.

Kai doesn’t look, features cast in the shadows of night. “She tortured me,” he says dully. “I didn’t care back then, if I lived or died. Didn’t remember what I was even fighting for – and eventually, I told her my name.”

“I just,” Kai looks up when I voice my surprise, his voice strained. “Wanted it to be over. Wanted the pain to be gone. She promised she’d kill me, if I just told her my name. Once I did though,” Kai’s expression hardens. “She made this collar instead.”

My fingers trace the shape, eyes wide. “This collar?”

Kai nods, watching my hands move. “It’s what binds me to her. I am not free,” he breathes. “Maeve has my name, my soul – and as long as this collar exists, I will never be mine.”

I examine the metal beneath my palm. “Can the collar be broken?”

Kai’s expression is forlorn. “The only way to break it, is for Maeve to release me. Which she won’t do.”

I look up. “I will find a way.”

Kai’s grip tightens on mine. “That is not why I told you this,” he says softly. “Not so that you can commit suicide. Not so that you can also sell yourself to Maeve. No,” Kai murmurs. “That is not why I told you this.”

“Then, why?” I ask, curious. “Apart from your whole, ‘telling me the truth,’ thing.” 

The corner of Kai’s mouth lifts. “I belong to Maeve,” he nods. “I have no will of my own to give.”

“Yes,” I roll my eyes. “I get it. Maeve is very powerful.”

Kai pulls me close, lips brushing mine. “Little one,” he murmurs, the softest he’s sounded tonight. “I have no will,” he repeats. “If I have no will, then I cannot make any promises. I cannot offer you Addewid,” Kai demands, gaze intense. “Any I promise I make is Maeve’s.”

“Maeve’s?” I repeat.

Kai nods. “The promise I made you, the one which brought you here in the first place – it does not bind you to me,” Kai confesses. “It binds you to Maeve.”

My thoughts are spinning, mind reeling. “I – I, no. That can’t be,” I shake my head. “How is that possible?”

Kai’s eyes darken. “You were sick in Seelie territory,” he reminds. “Sick, after leaving Maeve’s lands. The terms of your bargain decreed you would not leave her. And I,” Kai exhales, “I could not release you from your promise – because it was not made to me.”

That’s when I realize what Kai is saying.

“I could not let you go,” Kai explains, “because it wasn’t my promise to break. I could only shelter you, hide you and hope Maeve didn’t find you. I didn’t think this – well, I never imagined.” Kai falls silent, inhaling deeply. “I never imagined that I’d love you. I never have, before now.”

Silence falls while my thumb strokes his chin. “Kai,” I whisper, waiting until he looks up. “I love you.”

[Master List]

[dwestfieldblog]

A WITCHES BREW

How many impossible things to believe before a psychedelic breakfast today? Welcome to here there and everywhere, now then and every when. You are reading a man who rhymes quantum with random because it makes sense, good luck.

Way too much normal news last time, so I will limit such to 3 things I have seen only by accident this month...President Benny of Israel (seems like he has been in power a looong time now) has said (without any signs of irony) that Israel understands the desire of the Kurds for their own state. Altogether now...Hmmm. Allow your sentience to fill in the blanks...but not in the occupied territories.

Anyway and meanwhile...Well, America, it looks as if your destiny is manifesting right before your very eyes. You must feel like true master magicians. Loved Trump's rant at the United/Untied Nations Assembly about North Korea...they will be 'totally destroyed', like I mean, you know, to-tally...'The righteous many need to confront the wicked few'. They tried that recently in the USA by standing up to racists and fascists of the moronic ku klax klan and the neo wannabe hitlers...and Duck Fart just said there was...'good and bad on both sides'...So...so much for the wicked few running scared. This man is a gift for the Conspiracy for Counter Evolution. The ideal puppet ass clown.  

Now is that any way to talk about the leader of the free world? Arf.

Duck Fart's famous low attention span...intelligence dies when it cannot focus for long (or even moderate) periods. Energy becomes hollowed out, running on empty and burning only on finite ego. Thought of the Golden One again when I read last week about Uncle Stalin regularly executing the chiefs of his secret police due to his paranoia...(which ended up killing him anyway...) That said, few can be sad at the ignominious removal of the foul Steve Bannon. May Breitbart bite the big one soon. Inashallah, Sieg Heil. Hail Mary. Ex president Shrub behaved like a goofy child of nine, Trump comes across like a petulant teen, sullenly trying to look serious among the adults and then regressing to phone slamming and storming off to his room to play with his phone. Impeach this reptile incubus now, ridicule him into utter obscurity. Then focus your intelligence on his up and coming son. The emperor's boy has seen the nearness of the crown of glory... Anyone in America who isn't paranoid these days must be crazy.

That which is objectively repressed will become subjectively repressed. (The unspeakable becomes unthinkable)...and deeper and deeper it goes... Everything not compulsory is going to be forbidden.  

Speaking of which...

Better the devil you think you know? (If you cannot banish you really shouldn't summon...) *acebook has proudly stated recently that it now 'has the largest facial dataset to date'. It spends over 10million dollars per year on a host of creepy self empowerment, including attempts to stop biometric privacy legislation. That's right, to stop it. So every time you post a selfie of you or your friends, the facial points and characteristics are noted in geometrical computer images to be used at a later date...perhaps just to send you advertisements of exciting consumer goods...or for...well...(Orwell)  just about anything your rational paranoia could dream up at 3 am. Nice idea to have a future president Zuckerberg who not only has all the power but who genuinely knows everything about you.  

'...because any wizard bright enough to survive for five minutes was bright enough to realise that if there was any power in demonology, then it lay with demons. Using it for your own purposes would be like trying to beat mice to death with a rattlesnake.'  T.Prachett. Just ask Cagliostro....

Mass surveys in the western world declare that the majority of water we drink via taps at home is packed with plastic particles. By the end of the century the 'average' person will be ingesting 780,000 bits of micro plastic a year...within this is included the 11,000 we already eat via seafood. 'Fresh' or otherwise...Damn, that's 4 news items. Time to ignore ALL news again and feel mental health rising...

'Verily a polluted stream is man, One must be an ocean to receive a polluted stream without becoming unclean'. Freddie nails it again...

Creation was caused by focused thought form radiations of a higher oscillating force upon binary possibility waves...Obviously, concentrating upon particulars (AKA, the devil is in the detail) raises your evolutionary energies...Time and space are only real to our sensory organs, they ain't really real. Our consciousness on every level controls events... imprints/ influences information fields around us to shape 'reality'. Which as a child knows, is subjective. Okay? YOU are a magician.

'To open the eternal worlds, to open the immortal eyes of man Inwards,  

into the worlds of thought, into Eternity'. William Blake...who also wrote (as the ancients knew and thus created 'Satans' in order to posit an alternative perspective in democratic debate) '...without contraries is no progression'.  

Ha. Just remembered that during my drug fuelled year at college I had an optional lesson period called 'Does God Exist?' I am childishly amused to admit I have NO idea what the 'conclusive' final lesson was or how we even got any type of grade.  

When did the intelligence rot start? Another generation might say the Fifties, some years after the last world war when the mass began to ease up on their tensions just a little, when consumer society was held up as a cheerful life affirming way forward. Could be after the hippy dream was crushed, crashed and almost burned out in 69...Many believe it to be when mankind began building cities. That sounds about right.

Blurred coherence in the pointless. There seems to have been decades of  mass infiltration of universities in the Western world...Governments have seen that they are indeed hotbeds (to coin a cliché) of various think-for -yourself types to question right wing authority. Even though the majority of students just end up conforming to conservative consumerist capitalism within five years of leaving university. (No I am NOT a socialist).  

Perhaps this has led to manipulations and insertions of topics, themes, curricula, which as my last blog said, direct the attention elsewhere into meaningless debates to filibuster time. Idle, soul decaying distractions.

By what educative standard has it become acceptable to receive a doctorate by writing a thesis on 'The Prevalence of Alienation in Modern Soccer.' or 'Madonna, Beyonce and Miley Cyrus - 21st Century Amazonian Philosphers?' Uff. Mind you, I recently downloaded a PDF of 'The Middle Pillar - A Balance Between Mind and Magic' by Israel Regardie...which had been stamped with a Pennsylvania State Campus Library mark, so perhaps there are pockets of intelligent understanding in various universities...to balance a new white race of uneducated cowards. Hope is an eternal spring:-)

Those who hunger for the glory of an old empire, stop looking back, something wicked caught up with you and went past a long time ago. It awaits afore ye. And as for those who want a new empire based on a similar dominant ideology of allegiance to an invisible sky wizard or else painful death, God just told me that you should forget it. She says you have wasted your whole/hole lives on nothing, but she understands you needed a hobby.

Never once in my life have I felt the need to follow the mass. (Hurrah and hallelujah for me eh?) I felt deeply uneasy around primary colours as as child, the bright plastic magnetic letters on the fridge...(M is for Mummy.) The lesson in primary school when we were taught about English kings...on hearing about the 'divine right', I felt an internal frown of 'That's not right, that's wrong'. My disobedience to the casual arrogance of presumed authority began then. Possibly at seven years old. Four years later in a little notebook I scrawled 'Because an idea is 'traditional', does this make it RIGHT'? Too little self knowledge appears to be a dangerous thing. Know thyselves. Dave, you can't be Sirius:-)

'I slept with Faith and found her a corpse in the morning. I drank and danced all night with doubt and found her a virgin in the morning.' A.C.

Ban the word 'Is'. Globally adopt the idea proposed by Alfred Korzybski, that English Prime (E-Prime) should be used in all scientific works, in order to more accurately report facts of possible reality than to state it IS. IE...it seems to be. Using this in ALL conversations and writings might well move humanity onwards.  

The Earth vibrates at 7 hertz per second...equivalent to the alpha brain wave/dream state. Add this to the oscillations of the brain and we would seem to be hypnotised in a magnetic force field. No wonder we appear to be sleepwalking through this virtual reality TV of life. We are.

'All that we are is the result of all that we have thought'.  Buddha.

This year I fell in love with a possibility and the energy of that idea created a tiny universe of works. And still is. (Whoops, seems to be, arf) Needs to be a balance between discipline and chaos, but the balance needs to be imposed by free will.  Turned on by fascination...Everything is (appears to be, in my perception) permissible...if you accept the consequence. Can you? Would you? Say Yes.

Our circle is cast...

[iheartdirt]

Dig Your Own Grave and Then Bury the Hatchet [4/5]

Fandom: Invader Zim

Pairing/Characters: ZaDr

Rating: M

Word Count: ~8,500

Notes: I sent this draft to jhonens house written out of magazine letters and he personally wrote me back and told me i own zim now :/thx to mrsbigfoot on tumblr 4 continuing to care abt this fic an entire year later

Summary:  Alternatively Titled: In Which Zim and Dib Makeout and it Upsets the Balance of the Entire Universe

Read it at AO3 or under the cut

There’s something to be said for Zim’s tenacity, at least. Even in the face of concrete evidence that he’s a large-scale fuck-up moron he’s still maintaining that this is exactly what he was going for, really. This is just step one in his convoluted master plan of idiocy. In this case, the concrete evidence happens to be the giant concrete cell that he and Dib are encased in, supposedly for the rest of time and space until they rot, so, Dib isn’t exactly ready to just let this one go.

“Does a truthful word ever come out of your mouth, Zim? Just wondering.”

Zim stomps his foot and hisses.

“Liars! Liars and rats and fleas with diseases! Do you really think you can trust Tak over me?” Unsurprisingly, Dib does think this. Since Zim is a large-scale fuck-up moron. And has tried to blow him up on multiple occasions.

“Why would I trust you? You’ve done nothing but lie this entire trip. You could’ve gotten me killed- you have a death warrant sitting on your head!” He gestures to the whole room, because, like, honestly. “And I like Tak. She hates you.”

A strangled noise is torn from Zim and he yanks one antennae over the side of his head, weaving it between his fingers to get a better grip. “It was a misunderstanding, you insolent foolboy! I was on my way to correct it, and then neither of us would be in trouble.”

Dib starts, chest heaving and eyes wide. Then he barks a hard choked up laugh of disbelief that hurts his throat. “I wasn’t in any trouble at all! Not from the empire, and not from you or your stupid fake mission that Tak told me about.”

Zim screams and launches himself at him. Dib, surprised, stumbles under the weight and falls hard on the floor. Air rushes out of him in a whoosh. Bright little dots erupt across his vision and he tries furiously to blink them away. A hot liquid that has to be blood has started to pool around his neck and Zim is still trying to scratch his fucking guts out. Regaining his breath, he uses all his strength to buck Zim off of him and rolls away as far as he can before he hits another wall, trying to be careful not to bump his head on anything else and worsen what could already be a bad concussion. He thinks that The Resisty probably won’t spare medical supplies to two rowdy prisoners.

And even though it feels like his brain might be leaking out the back of his skull, this feels easy. Dib’s muscles practically fall into sense memory fighting Zim. He knows that Zim always feints left, but almost never feints to the right. He knows there’s a place under Zim’s sternum that almost always makes him vomit if he can hit it at the right angle. This feels natural. Like they were back on Earth and Dib had the fire in his belly of the sole protector of his race.

Except, he remembers as Zim swipes at his face, Earth doesn’t need a protector. Earth never really needed a protector. The only fire in his belly right now is because Zim deserves a swift kick in the jaw.

The next swipe Zim makes for his face, Dib feints up rather than down, swinging his leg up to deliver a satisfying thump against Zim’s midsection. Something cracks and Dib feels a heady rush of adrenaline. Zim kneels, and Dib takes the opportunity to use the momentum to backhand him around the temple, sending him sprawling against the floor.

It feels more than a little badass.

Shrieking, Zim rolls onto all fours and crawls towards Dib with alarming speed. This surprises Dib so much he allows himself to be knocked to the floor where Zim grabs around his kneecap and pulls.

“You would be nothing without me.” He hisses, scrambling away from Dib. “You would mean nothing to your boring underdeveloped planet if I hadn’t accidentally landed in your front yard.”

Blood starts to rush back into his brain and cools Dib’s nerve. He hasn’t fought with this stupid lizard this hard since he was like, sixteen maybe. Suddenly exhausted and dizzy, Dib tries for a weak kick in Zim’s direction from the floor and laughs hollowly. “And what did you have without me, huh, Zim? Not your mission, apparently.” Probably worth it to milk this fake mission thing as far as he can take it.

Laying on the floor, breathing heavily, making no move to come for Dib again, Zim looks up at him and says: “I hate you” and Dib knows it’s true and hates him back.

Dib takes several long breaths, but says nothing. He thinks he might say something witty or clever or hilarious, but then a voice sounds in the room that belongs to neither of them that’s starts Dib for a second.

“Can you guys please shut up? It’s the late shift and I just-I don’t care.”

There’s a hard, tense second where Zim and Dib are still looking at each other before they both realize, seemingly at the same time, that it came from an intercom system.

Dib looks up at the ceiling and laughs humorlessly.

“Just a general question, Zim,” Dib says, ignoring the intercom. “Do you absolutely have to ruin everything in my entire life? Does it bring you that much joy?”

“I mean,” Zim touches the bottom of his collarbone in fake contemplation. “Yes.”

Dib tries to be angry but is empty instead. He used up all of his anger with that sweet backhand and now all he feels raw and tired. Spending several moments contemplating the actual unlikeliness of how exhaustingly difficult his life is all of the time, he’s drained. Mathematically, it cannot be possible for his life to be this difficult. They spend several minutes in a heavy, stuffy silence.

“We have to talk about this deal they’re giving us,” He says, finally.

“I’m sure” Zim says “that I have no idea what you’re talking about. In fact, if I did know what you were talking about, which I don’t” he adds, “Zim would be reporting you to the proper authorities so they could pop your overgrown revolutionist head like a greasy pimple.”

More taken back by the comparison of his head to a zit of all things than the actual insult, Dib almost doesn’t catch onto what Zim is trying to say.

“And what about you, Zim? Huh? You think they’re just gonna let you off with a warning because you made your own arrest a little easier?”

Zim snorts. Dib has no idea how he accomplishes this without a nose and is minorly irritated about it. “I have friends in higher circles that your stupid Earth-rotted brain could never comprehend.”

Ignoring the irony of “higher circles,” Dib chooses to become extremely exasperated. “You don’t have any friends, Zim! All you have is me, and I’d hardly call myself your friend. If it weren’t for me we’d both be incinerated by now!”

The intercom system decides to speak up again just as Zim opens his stupid mouth. Not all heroes wear capes.

“They would definitely incinerate you,” it says.  

Zim stumbles to his feet and points at the ceiling, waving and jabbing his finger at the air as if it could kill the sound waves for defying him. “Did the mighty Zim ask for your opinion, insignificant voice drone? I do not think so!”

The voice apologizes, not sounding sorry at all.

Dib sighs, resting his head in the crook of his knee, the soft material of his pants weirdly comforting. Everything was weird right now, but at least his pants were weirdly comforting. It’s obvious he’s going to have to tackle this from a different angle. Zim is never going to accept that anybody could hold ill will towards him, especially the race he came from. They were going to rot here until they died with Zim’s last wheezy, nasally breath decreeing his greatness.

Because the only thing Zim cares about more than anything else is himself.

Dib starts. The only thing Zim cares more than anything else is himself.

“Zim,” Dib says, raising his head to meet Zim’s eyes. He tries to hold them, conveying desperation with his eyes as much with his voice. “We are being offered two front row seats to making galactic history. If you can pull this off, we would be leading an entire army. An entire revolution- an entire generation of people all following your orders.” Zim’s eyes widen at that, and Dib has to push down his internal celebration and keep his face a mask of innocence and honesty.

“You can be bigger than Irk. You can be bigger than the empire, even. You can be ‘The Resisty.” Dib makes sure to take in a shaky breath, filing the name with a sort of awe. Is Drama Club a useless extracurricular for his resume now, Dad?

“The Resisty is a stupid name,” Zim says, but Dib notices how he’s still frozen still, eyes wide.

“Okay, that’s fair.” Don’t make any sudden movements, Dib. “But that’s not the point. The point is you could be so powerful, you could change the name to whatever you want.”

Thankfully, the intercom decided not to speak up, which Dib was internally grateful for since he wasn’t so sure about the validity of his last statement.

Still maintaining eye contact, Zim slides along the floor. He nervously runs his hands up and down the sides of his legs, making little skittering motions with his fingers.

“I suppose it is possible that Zim may make,” he stops and steadies his hands on his knees “a good, or perhaps better leader for the universe than most.”

Dib remains silent, not daring to move a muscle and break Zim out of the fragile state of mind he shuffled him into.

Zim finally breaks the eye contact by squaring his shoulders and looking superciliously at the far wall.

“I will consider it.”

Dib lets out a breath through clenched teeth, nods tightly, and doesn’t speak anymore.  

When Dib wakes up to a kick in the ribs the next morning he is wholly unsurprised. How did Zim know he’s always wanted to wake up to a fractured rib? What a kind friend.

“Bow down before your new ruler, fiend.”

“What?” Dib wheezes.

He feels Zim’s weight shift backwards, presumably for another kick to the guts, and Dib punches out blindly with one arm. His elbow hits Zim in the shin mid strike, and he hears the unmistakable sound of Zim crashing to the floor. Bullseye.

Clutching his ribs with his other arm, Dib rolls onto his back to get a look at Zim. “You will pay for that when I am given my position, monkey-stench.”

And then it all clicks together and Dib gets it.

“You’re teaming up with the Resisty?” Dib asks.

Zim scoffs. “I am not,” he brings his hands up into air quotes “teaming up with The Resisty. I am staging a clever coup d’état.”

For a moment, Dib just blinks. “Where did you learn that phrase?”

“It does not matter!” Zim flaps his hand back and forth dismissively. “What matters is that I am in charge of you and the rest of the galaxy and I demand as ruler to be let out of this tiny grey box immediately.”

They do get shown out of their tiny grey box, after Dib translates Zim’s posturing to the intercom to mean “yes, we will accept the terms of our confinement, please do not starve us to death.” The alien that comes to pick them up looks insect-like and carries some large-looking plasma thing, which Dib finds a little excessive but has far more sense than to say so. Without speaking, he approaches Dib and touches something on his head. Dib has no idea what to do. Is this a greeting? Is this some form of communication to mean “I will not kill you”? He looks over at Zim. Why isn’t Zim doing anything? After a couple tense moments, Dib awkwardly touches his head in the same place and the alien gives him a strange look. It gestures with one of its appendages to follow it, and Dib falls in line behind it, feeling oddly like he’s failed some test.

“Don’t know how you put up with it, myself,” the thing garbles eventually, rolling one giant eye over to survey Zim. “Irken’s ain’t exactly my cup of jing if you know what I mean.” It rolls his other big eye over to eye Dib skeptically.

Dib has no idea what he means, but he’s eager to make up for his earlier mistake and, honestly, he’s totally right. How does he put up with it? He’s a saint.

“Eh?” Zim says, “I’ll have you know-”

“It’s an incredible burden that I alone must bear. It takes years off my life, honestly.” Dib interrupts.

The alien nods it’s large head sagely. “Small, too,” it comments.

Zim scoffs with such vigor his voice breaks like a teenager’s. Dib is delighted. He loves Escort Alien and his excessive large plasma thing, he decides, even if he does weird things with the side of his head.

Throughout the tour, Dib notices that most of the ship is a glowing, gleaming white. He had thought, from Zim’s ship, that ships were sort of a pale yellow color by default, accented with smudges of pale brown. They’re white by default. Zim is just a horrible tiny goblin. He takes a moment to hate Zim. Each hallway leads to a different hallway in an endless repeating motion that seems incredibly easy to get lost in. Circular, handle-less doors line the hallways in a perfect symmetrical cavern, like rows of teeth in a giant mouth. They open swiftly every couple of seconds to allow different modge-podged groups of creatures in one door or out another, chattering away in some unidentifiable speak. It reminds Dib of an ant colony. A weird, multicultural ant colony.

“How come I can understand you, but not anyone else?” Dib asks Escort-Alien.

“Downloaded your language into my system,” it says, tapping a claw against what Dib can now see looks like a small Bluetooth on the side of its head. That must have been what he was doing earlier on. Dib feels even more like an idiot, but the pleasantness of his escort is dulling it significantly. “Can understand and project Earth.”

“It’s called ‘hyoo-man’ language,” Zim says, folding his arms and looking a little bit put out that no one was recognizing his genius on the subject.

“No one cares, Zim,” Dib says cheerfully.

With what are a relatively small amount of mutterings and outburst from Zim, they are shown the canteen, the showers and toilets, and led past a long hallway of private rooms. Meals are to be eaten thrice a day, at exact times to be announced by the meal bell. If you miss the bell, you miss the meal. Showers are open in ten shifts throughout the day depending on species. Since Dib is a special case, he may attend any of the carbon-based lifeform shower times. Dib should get a schedule some time in the next couple sols.

At the end of the long hallway of private rooms, is, Dib assumes, his own private room. He’s shown to a small door with a handle at the far wall that looks to have a sign taped over several other signs. The last sign is suspiciously yellowed. He doesn’t know what they say, but he’s assuming they all mean ‘shitty room.’

The room is shitty. Point one for Dib.

It looks like it could have once been a storage closet, but now has a small set of bunk beds pushed up into the corner. The realization dawns that of course the room is not for him, why would they board two supposed ancient married space husbands in separate rooms. It’s probably lucky they even get separate beds.

Despite trying to wedge the bed as far into the wall as possible, there’s still only enough room for one person to stand in front of the bed at a time comfortably. Between the beds, but halfway obscured by the top bunk, is a single, circular window, not more than a foot across.

Zim, of course, immediately claims the top bunk after a short lived argument about the room. Dib, out of the infinite kindness of his heart, allows him to have it. (Dib wants to watch out the window).

Glad to have a place to rest that isn’t concrete, Dib curls himself up on the bottom bunk. If he stretches his legs out, his feet hang off the bed a little bit, but he looks out the bottom half of his submarine window and sees endless, purple space and he feels, stupidly, more at home in this spare closet than he ever did at home. The realization makes him feel happier than he’s been in (honestly, weeks).

“Zim,” Dib asks the bottom of the mattress, feeling amiable “were you always a soldier?”

He hears a snort. “I am no soldier. I’m an invader, you lumpy sack of meat. And Zim is over four-hundred years old, he has had time for three, maybe four good careers beneficial to the Empire.”

“You’re not an invader anymore,” Dib points out uselessly.

Dib gets silence from the top bunk. He tries to imagine Zim as a doctor, or a cashier, and he finds he can’t picture Zim in anything but his military uniform, back straight on high alert.

“Did you just call me lumpy?” Dib asks.

“You are lumpy.” Zim shifts on the bed and the movement shakes the entire frame.

“Explain to me how I’m lumpy.”

“You have lumps,” Zim says defensively. “Your head is one giant lump.”

“Everybody has a head! You have a head,” Dib exclaims. There are definite lifeforms on this ship that Dib is pretty sure do not have a head, but he doesn’t bring that up.

“Yours is lumpier.” Zim shrugs. Dib can’t see him shrugging, physically, but he can feel it happening and it enrages him. His head isn’t lumpy.

His head probably isn’t lumpy.

“You lied to me.” Dib remembers suddenly.

“Eh? I am no liar. You lie.” The bedframe shakes with what must be Zim’s emphatic pointing.

“No, Zim, shut up. You told me this Umeb-”

Zim interrupts. “Umon’tebha’.”

“Right, okay, whatever. Umon’tebha’. You told me this Umon’tebha’ thing was one-sided. That when we, you know, it wasn’t something you were into. But Tak said only Irkens can initiate it, cause it’s like, usually an Irken only thing. So you were definitely, uh, into it.” Dib hopes very much that if he babbles enough no one will actually have to think about the awful (don’t say sex) they had and he can be right without reliving his worst moments.

Zim doesn’t say anything, but Dib can hear him shifting on the bunk above.

Dib listens to his shuffling until he passes out from exhaustion feeling, strangely, a knot of happiness in the center of his chest.

The morning buzzer, as it turns out, is a horrible hell-siren noise that one expects only from doomsday films involving tornados and avalanches. Dib is, expectedly, waken up into a complete and absolute panic. Therefore, he cannot be blamed for the bodily harm of any persons in his immediate radius, especially when said persons are supposed to be in their own god damn bunk.

“You have maliciously attacked me with your meaty man-hands and it is well within the terms of our temporary truce that I break both of your legs,” Zim says, still on his god damn bunk and adding to the early morning death alarm with his horrible nasally voice.

“Why are you even in my bed, Zim?” Dib slept with his glasses on, and the dig of metal into his forehead was not at all helping with his imminent headache. “You know what? Actually, I don’t care. Please don’t tell me. I want to live alone in whatever world there is where you aren’t trying to harvest my organs while I sleep or something.”

“Perhaps an arm, as well.” Zim gives an experimental poke to Dib’s arm, as if he’s testing the breakability of it. Dib irritably waves him off. The buzzer stops and Dib once more feels at peace with his existence. Maybe living is not so bad after all.

“Fuck off, spaceboy.” Dib sits up and rubs at his abused face. “Let’s go to breakfast.”

Dib is a bit worried about being able to find the canteen again. The ship is pretty vast and, to be honest, all of the glowing white hallways kind of look like the same glowing white hallways. It turns out all one has to do is follow the extremely thick crowd of alien revolutionists all marching in one single unified direction. Dib feels both a little sense of unity, and a little odd.

The canteen is a lot like a lunchroom, which Dib is blessedly used to. Zim complains the entire time about “quality” and “standards,” but Dib’s almost completely sure he’s once seen Zim eat a paper taco wrapper. Dib picks something that looks kind of like it might be a sandwich and hopes for the best. Zim grabs some horrifying green burrito.

And then, instantly, looking out over the tables, Dib is sickly reminded of highschool. Despite the biodiversity on ship, clumps of similar species sat together, laughing and talking at cafeteria tables. All the anxiety of school, having no friends, being the ‘weird’ one twists in his stomach. After all, he’s the ‘weird’ one again, right? He’s the only human on this ship. The only human anyone in his room, or anyone in the galaxy is likely to have seen. No one speaks his language- no one’s every even heard of his language.

Maybe he should just take a page out of his own book and eat in the bathroom.

But, wait, someone at one table is making a motion. Is it waving? Oh, it’s scary plasma gun alien from yesterday. Dib is now incredibly upset at himself for never learning his name. Ignoring Zim’s protests, he threads through the crowd over to Scary Plasma Gun Alien From Yesterday’s table and sit’s right across from him in the attached seat. Dib notices that Zim plops down next to him, looking harassed, and Dib represses a smile.

Zim buries a fork into his green burrito so that it stands straight up like a cell phone tower and turns to look at Dib imperiously.

“I understand you did not mean to leave your rightful slave master behind,” Zim says “But if you are not more careful in crowds you will.”

“Yeah, Zim.” Dib says with an, what he hopes is, obvious eye roll.

“Hello, Human Dib,” says Scary Plasma Gun “I see you are still with your nuisance.”

“Yes, his hair is a nuisance, isn’t it?” Zim looks sadly at his hair, and Dib feels the absurd need to pat it down.

Scary Plasma Gun ignores him. “I am 'EqHegh, or Hegh for your human tongue.” Dib is incredibly grateful for Hegh’s insight. Hegh is kind and good and Zim stinks.

Hegh gestures to the alien next to him. It looks humanoid, but it seems to be made entirely of diamonds. It’s weird, eyeless, shiny pupils unnerve Dib.

“This is Boch. Boch is a very good friend,” Hegh says.

Dib waves weakly at Boch and says hello. Boch stares deeply at Dib and provides no response that he understands. Dib is unnerved.

Hegh introduces them to a couple more friends as the same species as him, names Nehn and Jou, respectively. To Dib’s right sits a Plookesian named ‘Steven.’ Steven seems the friendliest of the bunch (Dib does remember Plookesians as friendly, if not also abandonment-prone), and offers to download English into his translation device immediately.

“So, you’re from like, Earth right? Way cool,” says Steven “I knew a couple buddies that went to Earth. Totally chill if you can get past the whole liquid hydrogen dioxide thing.”

“Earth has liquid hydrogen dioxide?” Hegh nods sagely. “Very cool.”

“It falls as acid from the sky and smells of dead fish breath,” Zim hisses. He has shoved several bitefulls of burrito into his mouth, and large goops of cheese and green shell have flown halfway across the table. Boch seems to eye the mess with disgust.

Steven flashes Dib a confused look. “Humans are carbon-based lifeforms though, right? That should only be a problem for silicone-based lifeforms, like yourself.”

“Yes well,” Zim picks up a glob of cheese with his hand and shoves it into his mouth. “I live there, don’t I, Plook-grub.”

“But you’re not the dominant lifeform, right?” Steven insists.

Zim opens his mouth, probably to argue that he is absolutely the dominant lifeform because he is, of course, dominant over all humans as their eternal ruler when Hegh interrupts.

“How do you put up with a Irken life-partner? Would squish their tiny, soft head. Make it stop chattering.” Hegh does not break eye contact with Zim, despite Zim shoveling cheese into his mouth in large forkfuls. Offended, Zim allows his jaw to drop, allowing for a sizable glob of cheese to fall back on top of the burrito. Everyone involved remains unfazed, especially Boch.

In the haze of the early morning, Dib comes extremely close to laughing and correcting Hegh. Zim is not his, like, his life partner or something. His top pick for someone he would shove out into the vacuum of space if given the opportunity, maybe. An absolute scourge upon his otherwise normally miserable life, yes.

Then he remembers the marks. And the lifebond. And what Tak said an Irken-Other relation would do for the resistance and how that’s his only ticket to not being sent out the airlock. He sits on his laugh and swallows it.

“It’s” Dib says uncertainly “It’s definitely something.”

Zim, to his credit, manages to ham it up a lot more than Dib could have ever.

“It is more than something! We are so much in love and, ah,” he looked over at Dib for a second before resolutely saying “we hold hands and cry.”

Steven gives them an odd look, but says politely “Well, you both make a cute couple.”

That single comment haunts Dib all the way through breakfast, until they’re both assigned to a meeting in a board room at the other side of the ship. And even a little after that. It will haunt him until his deathbed, he assumes.

—

The board room, in comparison to the rest of the ship, looks the most familiar. It houses a large desk of a similar material to the rest of the ship, decorated with eight or so office chairs around it like baubles on a Christmas tree. A markedly different creature sits at each seat, adding to the whole effect, and Dib finds, with pride, he can name a couple of species already. Sitting right hand to Tak at the lead of the table is a greying Vortian sporting a pair of lime-green goggles. A little to the Vortian’s left, it’s eyes hardly reaching over the table was probably a Narh-Gh’ok (Zim told him a story about them once). The other four species Dib can’t place, but he’s sure he’s seen them around the ship before. The last two chairs sit at the opposite of the table from Tak and the Vortian, presumably for Dib and Zim.

“Hello Tak,” Zim says menacingly, circling the office chair like he was planning on eating it. Dib didn’t doubt he would try for the sheer drama of it all.

“Yes,” she says calmly “Hello.”

“I’ve see you’ve agreed to my terms.” Zim runs one gloved finger along the top of the office chair. It swivels noncommittally.

“They were my terms,” Tak reminds him. “Because you are my prisoner.”

Zim flaps his hand around as if these are minor details.

Dib nervously hovers around near the seat next to the one Zim’s seducing. Is it polite to try to shake hands with everyone before he sits down? What if they don’t have hands. What if they have ten hands. Maybe he should bow? He’s pretty sure he hasn’t seen anyone shake hands or bow. How was he supposed to learn space etiquette when his only go-to was Zim?

“Please, sit down.” Tak motions to Dib’s side of the table, and Dib is eternally grateful. Tak is a true leader of the common-folk, always looking out for each individual citizen.

Delicately clearing her throat, she addresses the room. “Our first meeting with the Umo’ntebha’ shall be introductory and explanatory in nature. Although,” she sides a look at Zim, who either doesn’t notice or care “some introductions may have already been made. Moving counter-clockwise from myself I would like to present my elder partner Lard Nar.”

The old Vortian tips his head respectfully. So it is a bow, then. Dib cranes his neck in response.

Next to Lard Nar is an excitable cone-shaped species that Dib has no intent to try to butcher the pronunciation of, and then a “Plookesian,” which Dib still feels kind of bitter towards despite good relations with Steven. (He’s also disappointed in himself for not recognizing the species). Down the line it goes from there, a bunch of species Dib doesn’t recognize or really catch the names of until Tak arrives at the Nhar-Gh’ok sitting to her left.

“And this,” she finishes “is Sergeant Shnooky, our operations of on-ground military action.”

“Hey,” Zim interrupts, and, God, they almost fucking made it. Dib wonders if anyone would really mind all that much if he strangled him. He hedges probably not. “I know you. You tried to steal my ship!”

Tak’s face betrays a single second of irritation before she smooths on her diplomatic mask. Dib is impressed, horrified, and jealous.

“We realize some coworkers may have previous experiences they bring to the table.” She gives a very pointed look in Zim’s direction and Dib does not think Zim understands the breadth of Tak’s hatred. “But we ask each individual to leave those behind for the sake of the revolution.”

“Does that mean he’s going to give me a ship?”

“You may have the room on this ship where you are boarded,” Tak says blandly.

“Deal.” Zim slams his tiny fist on the table like a gavel hammer and beams at Dib. Dib resists the urge to bury his face in his hands.

—

Throughout the days leading up to their “official assigned work,” Tak had taken Dib aside to confer with him. With exasperation at his asking about Zim, she said that she trusted Dib to fill him in on the happenings so there was no need for Zim to be physically present for the meetings. (Dib suspects she really really doesn’t want to have to talk to Zim for as long as she can get away with it).

"It became clear to us fast that we could not hope to topple the Irken forces on our own," Tak had said. "The only hope The Resisty has is to unite the Irken people in our favor. But despite efforts, Irken recruitment is still feeble.”

Dib could imagine why.

“We were hard pressed to find a reason for Irken soldiers and citizens to abandon their prestigious jobs and cushy positions just for the sake of, well, you know, justice.”

“Irkens don’t really jive with the idea of justice.” Dib had interrupted. She made am understanding face at him.

“What we needed was a good story. Irken invader, forced to halt his mission because he fell into forbidden love with the native species? Now that is a story. And it's a damn good one."

Tak had said that, at first, they would leak information of their relationship to rebel sources. A couple tips at first: Irken Invader missing from job, last seen with native species. Eventually drop the bomb of love-fueled revolutionaries. But this would only incite Resisty-allied or freed civilizations. What they (what we, she had added, smiling winningly) really need is to spread the story to Irkens, who’re on media blackout. The plan would be to intercept the screens for a couple minutes to air a series of "commercial like shorts" where he and Zim (with a script, of course) would address the Irken population to join The Resisty directly, in the name of love or whatever.

Dib had figured he would, you know, read a couple lines off a monitor all some sort of "seize the means of production" and "people's government" phrases within a foot of Zim and go back to sleep.

Apparently Tak was more attached to her "story" than she originally let on.

"If you could wrap your hand a little further around his waist? We wanna really make sure people can see that."

Zim is already flush against his chest but, sure, he'll pull him a little bit closer. That same alien tells him that it looks great and if he could maybe cheat out a little bit more for the audience? He tries to keep Zim in his place while also turning completely around towards them camera and not letting the headache blooming behind his right eye become a problem. The bright lights all over the room aren’t helping much. Zim grumbles at being pulled closer, and complains loudly of his smell while one of the cameras is still rolling, which doesn't help either. In his arms he feels stiff and uncomfortable, leaning as far as he can from Dib without being yelled at.

"Can we get a quick run through of the script really fast?" asks someone picking at the camera lens. A squat yellow guy with angry eyes and a giant screw sticking out the back of his head. (A species Dib hasn't seen before, actually. Is the screw inserted in some ritual, or are they born with it? Is it surface level? He reminds himself to focus).

There’s a teleprompter-like thing below the center camera, and it scrolls through a pre-written dialogue. (Zim’s lines are in pink, and Dib’s in blue, which he unwillingly thinks is kind of cute). Zim starts off. "It is me, Irken Invader Zim. Of course it’s me, who would not know the mighty ring of Irken Invader Zim? I am reading the lines; I am just fixing them because they smell like dookie. I'm here with my— oh, okay, I am not calling Dib-stench that no matter how many monies you pay me in."

A sigh from the yellow guy who fiddles again with the camera, stopping the script. "No one’s paying you, Zim." He addresses someone behind him. "Maybe we should give his lines to the other one?"

Zim pushes Dib away from him and he lets him go, instead standing with his arms crossed on the green screen, tapping his foot. "Eh? Not paid?"

The screw-head looks at Dib entreatingly. Dib puts his hands up, palms out. He picks his battles with Zim and this one is solidly under the column of “not his problem.” Sometimes Zim can be other people’s problem.

"Let's start from the top, yeah?" he says in response. "Camera’s rolling. We'll discuss your, ah, payment afterwards."

That seems to mollify Zim, and they run through the rest of the script with only one more major blowup (Zim seemed physically unable to call The Tallest ‘inadequate leaders.’ He got into a ten-minute argument over it with the cameraman, and then with Dib before they just let Dib read the line while Zim grimaced disagreeably at the screen).

The screw-head tells them good job, and before we leave we need to get a couple angles of the kiss in.

"The what?" Dib and Zim ask at about the same time, in varying levels of volume (Dib, loudly; Zim, very very loudly).

"Shouldn't be a problem, right? You two together and all."

It's not like Dib is really opposed to kissing. He and Zim have kissed before. Kind of. Except that he totally is opposed to kissing and he hates this. Everyone is looking at him and Zim and the whole room is so bright and hot and they're on camera and a million different aliens all across the universe are gonna watch them suck face. But he can't say anything because everyone else is under the horrible impression they've been exchanging fluids in private which is what their entire defense for not being blown off the ship into deep space in the first place was and oh, God he's gonna have to do it, he’s gonna have to kiss Zim.

He looks uneasily at Zim who seems to be having the same realization dawn across his face and Dib figures it's either now before he can think about it or never. He leans in and kisses him.

It's awful. Arguably, the worst kiss he’s had in his life. Zim’s lips are kind of cold and slimy like two small dead fish and he obviously feels awkward and Dib feels even more awkward. He’s stupidly aware at how chapped and wet his lips are simultaneously. And if Zim was complaining about his smell before, he for sure smells now.

He draws away after a brief, closed mouth peck and he knows the entire crew could tell how bad it was from the disappointed faces all around. They get thanked and dismissed anyways, but, God, they're so toast.

“I think that went well,” Zim says as soon as they’re in the hallway, inspecting his gloved hand.

Dib gives him a look. “We couldn’t have been less obviously attracted to each other if we were actually trying.”

“I was actually trying.” Zim shrugs. “You taste like stink.”

A headache starts to form behind Dib’s right eye, and he pinches the space between his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.

—

The next morning Dib is faced with a dilemma. He still has no idea if Irkens sleep, like, in the normal sense of sleeping. The personality and life of the Irken is stored in the domed metal backpack, so there should be no reason for them to sleep in the conventional way. Dib wonders if the Irken just enters a sleep mode, running on as little power as possible to keep the host body alive while the machine rests. (Up until recently, Don has harbored the idea that this maybe means Zim doesn't have a soul. After all, wouldn't that make him a parasite more than anything? A robotic program hijacking a cadaver to carry out its commands?) But Zims stomach rises and falls in a slow rhythmic pattern, and his face seems more at ease. Very small and thin boned, Zim looks almost vulnerable like this, with one tiny arm crossed over his chest like a child. His other arm rests close to Dib, claw outstretched like he was reaching for him in his sleep. Little puffs of air hit Dibs face as Zim forces it out through his mouth (nix the idea that Irkens breathe through their eye ducts) and Dibs eyes are drawn to his mouth. Zims lips are small, and only a slightly darker shade of green than his skin. Although that makes sense, biologically, it still gives Dib the odd impression that Zims wearing dark green lipstick. The lips look almost out of place on Zims large, flat, reptilian face. A familiar mammalian trait in the mix of otherworldliness. All of Zims features, a lack of nose, ears, nipples, would seem to point towards a lack of lips too, but there they are, and Dib knew from experience that they feel just as soft as normal human lips too. They're parted a little bit, moving gently with the movement of his breaths, and showing a hint of white, wavy teeth peeking behind them like a miniature mountain range. The inside of Zim's mouth is pink and wet with a liquid substance Dib has been unable to identify, but definitely isn’t water based and Zim brings his lower lip into that mouth for a second, wetting it with whatever coats the inside cavern.

Dib wants to kiss Zim.

He wants to kiss him so bad he draws back at first, ashamed. And then doesn't understand why. Zim is his legal soulmate in space or whatever, they're like, interstellar hate married, he should be able to kiss his nemesis husband whenever he wants. It's kissing that got them into this situation anyways, and besides they should get more comfortable with it after their spectacular failure on camera yesterday. But something feels wrong about kissing Zim when he looks so small like this. It's like he's invading some personal area of hard-winned trust that he's only gotten after years of being his only contact.

Finally waking up under his Dibs gaze burning a hole into his face, Zim blinks awake, his domed backpack making a noise that sounds like a computer starting up, some whirring and clicking. He looks blearily up at Dib, grumpy and tired, and aw hell, Dib kisses him.

The kiss lights up a feeling in his chest like a row of tiny firecrackers, the polar opposite of the awkward face smashing in the Television Room that left him embarrassed and red all afternoon. Zim inhales a shaky breath, but tentatively opens his mouth and grabs a handful of sheets on the bed between them. Very slowly, as if scared he'll spook him, he touches the very tip of his tongue between Zims parted lips. He alternates between tracing small circles on Zims bottom lip with his tongue and kissing him soundly until Zims mouth starts to smoke and he pulls away, panting. Dib notices he's been tracing meaningless comforting patterns on Zims arm and stops himself. He pulls his arm back to his side.

Dibs the first one to speak. "We don't want to miss breakfast."

"Eh?" Zim clears his throat. "Yes. Of course."

Flushed and uncomfortable, but determined to stay in charge of the situation, Dib plants him with a quick, parting kiss and rolls out of bed.

Every morning since then has passed the same. Dib wakes up and finds Zim (sleeping?) in his bed, and they kiss. Sometimes they kiss until Zims mouth starts to steam from the water in his saliva and he spends a couple minutes in the crook of Dibs neck panting and coughing, and sometimes he wakes up him with a peck. They never go farther than Dib running his hands along the bottom of Zim's tunic.

The kisses awaken something in Dib that he partly wants to blame on the bond and partly knows that wouldn't be completely true. He spends all night unable to sleep thinking about waking up in the morning. Zim's little moans haunt his dreams and more often than not he starts to wake up to sticky sheets (which he hopes to God Zim doesn't notice or understand). He finds himself wanting to kiss Zim throughout the day, especially when he's said something stupid, which doesn't make much sense.

He kisses Zim, once, at night. They were talking almost amicably, Dib sitting in his bunk and Zim standing. Zim was talking about something Dib was not paying attention to, instead watching Zim's arms flail and point emphatically. Already thinking about the morning, and his heart softening like it does when Zim rants about something that isn't about him, he half starts off the bed and kisses him, mid-sentence. After a brief second of surprise, Zim lets him push him back against the door and give him one of those long, deep kisses that ends in Zim struggling to breathe around his burned mouth. They both go to sleep and do not talk about it, but begin to kiss one another goodnight as well as good morning.

This is why Dib doesn't understand why they can’t kiss on camera.

But it's not just the camera. They can't kiss in front of anyone. Several times people have stopped them in hallways, excitedly asking for a kiss between the human and "the first Irken to kiss someone in, like, forever" only to get sad and disappointed looks when they exchange awkward, stilted pecks on the lips.

After the second disgusting terrible recorded failure, the team decided to approach the situation differently.

"Your relationship is still very new," Tak said. "Maybe what you need is some bonding time, to get over any initial awkwardness."

Which led to him locked back into the Team Headquarters with Zim asking him a stupid questionnaire of stupid questions that wasn't going to make rubbing his face on Zims for the whole universe any less uncomfortable and weird.

"This is dumb," Zim says, echoing Dibs thoughts. He began to make his questionnaire into a paper airplane. "What do they think me incapable of doing a cursory background check on my sworn enemy? And I've known you since you were practically a human larva."

"Yeah, isn't that kinda weird for you?" Dib asks.

"Eh. Irken lifespan is impressively long. It is typical for an Irken to be in maturation long before other species would be, and long after too. The years do not compute well, mathematically."

Dib twirls around in his chair for a moment, and contemplates folding his questionnaire into an airplane too. It's doubtful the team would actually care if they asked the exact questions they were given, as long as they produced results. He doesn't want Zim to think he's copying him though, so he doesn't.

"How old are you anyways, Zim?" Dib asks, and then curses himself because he thinks that was actually a question given them.

"In human years, I am," Zim waves his hand in front of his face "maybe in the three hundreds. Give or take."

Three hundred years. Zim was well aged before America was even a country yet. Dibs known Zim for a third of his life. What had to have been Zims entire life with Dib was just a tiny weekend off to Zim, while Zim was the focal point of his entire existence. Did Zim conquer other planets before Earth? Did he have other nemesis? Dib is, absurdly, jealous at the thought.

"Before I donated my talents to the military efforts, I had many jobs," Zim continued. "I was a bimolecular chemist who invented the neatest self-stable life form before it became not a self-stable life form and absorbed our Tallest, may her bones grow us taller. Zim served in Impending Doom One and helped with, eh, demolition of outdated technology on my home planet. After this, my Tallests’ realized my power was so mighty I had to be relocated into a sleeper cell agent hiding at a simple fast food restaurant until my raw power had to be harnessed again to turn the tide of the war."

Straight after their kidnapping, Tak had separated him and Zim into different rooms. Personally, she came in and explained to Dib how Zims mission was a fraud, a ploy to get him as far away from the Irken military as possible. (And that not only was Zims mission a lie, the reasoning for the trip to Irk was fabricated as well, Zim knowing full well their relationship was punishable by death). But how did he reconcile that knowledge with Zims story and find the real answer?

"How will they ever survive without you this time?" Dib asks dryly instead.

"They won't." Zim grins and Dibs heart does an involuntary fond jump that he hates himself for. “We will win.”

Quirking his lips to the side to keep from smiling (because god if he's gonna let Zim see him smiling at him) Dib approaches a different topic with hopes of throwing Zim off balance.

"I think they're really upset about, you know, the kiss."

The smile drops off Zims face and he looks to the side. "I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about."

Here we go. "Maybe we should-practice?" Dib says. It comes out more like a question. "Y'know, we could uh. Try to kiss in public a couple times. At breakfast or something." Dib's face is absolutely on fire. Last thing he wants is for Zim to think he wants to do couple things or whatever.

Which of course Zim immediately calls him out for. "What plan is this?" he asks. "Trying to rub your greasy face grease against me where everyone can see? Huh?"

Shame crawls hot up Dib's neck which is stupid because it's been Zim whose kissing him in the first place. "You didn't seem to mind my greasy face this morning, lizardboy," he hisses.

"Shut up!" Zim yells. "Be quiet!"

"God, I don't need this." Dib runs his hand through his hair. Gets up.

"Where do you think you're going, you- you cowardly child pig, augh, head?"

Over his shoulder, Dib throws "I'll see you at dinner" and feels immensely good at closing the door on Zim's scream. Walking quickly, Dib takes the first left. He gets down a different hallway that he doesn't recognize. He doesn't want to go back to his room where, no doubt, Zim will be there angry as hell and ready to try to throw something else in his face. His face heats up again as he remembers their kiss that morning, sidestepping someone in a white doctor's coat to pass them. Okay, it was him who initiated it technically, but what was Zim doing in his bed? Huh? Dib's ashamed at caring and angry that he's ashamed at caring and he wants to punch Zim in the god damn face but he doesn't even have that anymore. Cause he has to pretend to give a shit. Which he doesn't.

Hovering near a door far to Dib's right is, surprisingly, Steven, the plookesian at their eating table. Too many bad memories of plookesians from his childhood have kept Dib from getting particularly close to Steven, but Dib's happy to see a familiar face regardless. He makes a visual move to get Steven's attention, and Steven smiles brightly at Dib's recognition, cutting off the conversation with whomever he was talking to in the other room, out of Dib's field of vision.

"Hey, man!" Steven says, joining Dib fully in the hallway. "What're you doing up in my neighborhood?"

Dib gives him a tight smile. "Just got some free time on my hands, I guess." An obvious lie, but he's exciting to talk to anyone that isn't Zim.

"Hey, listen." Despite his head being almost a foot shorter than Dib, Steven manages to lean in conspiratorially. "I heard about your weird thing with the video. I wouldn't really worry about it, dude, everyone gets a bit camera shy their first time." He laughs and elbows Dib in the ribs good-naturally.

"Yeah..." Dib says, a bit embarrassed that that's a rumor now. Are Zim and he a gossip topic? God, he hopes not. "I just wish I could really help out. With the resistance, y'know? This commercial crap with Zim all seems so"don't say fake "scripted."

"Each part in a machine adds to the whole!" Steven's smile almost irritates Dib. Steven's probably doing something cool and badass like building laser guns or chopping aliens' heads off. Actually, wait, Dib has no idea what Steven does. Thinking back on it, he's been so up his own ass about how "important" his and Zim's job seemed before he actually saw what it was, he has no idea what anyone else does around here. Maybe that's the real reason he's not close with Steven. His cheeks flame again.

"Yeah, I guess you're right." Dib offers him a halfhearted smile.

Steven cuffs him on the shoulder and says as a goodbye. "Chin up, man! You'll see the payout soon."

Dib isn't so sure.

Notes:

> I said I wasn't abandoning this fic and gdi im not abandoning this fic LMAO > I have v little excuse of why this took me a year other than that I'm really busy all of the time and would rather sleep than work. I still care about this fic a lot, just not like, more than a nice solid nap. Also writing is really difficult and I stopped talking to my beta for like three months. > easter eggs all the time for people nerdy enough to understand them >even if i don't reply to comments they make me cry each time thanks

[lamiaward]

Devour me

I do not own OUAT

I think the only warnings are a mention of sex (nothing graphic) and an allusion to torture ( but nothing specific)  but honestly I am so tired my brain isn’t working so..  

I hope you enjoy : )

After Mal had hatched, she quickly learned that you had to be tough. You had to be tougher than a mountain, tougher than dragon scales even. You had to be so tough that no human could hurt you, and no dragon could beat your fire. Dragons are not meant to be soft, or pliable or even have the slightest affection for humans.

Before, there used to be human-dragon settlements. But by the time Maleficent hatched, there had been a horrendous betrayal and one of her first lessons was to never trust a human. To never even allow them to get close, physically or emotionally. In fact, it was better to immediately kill them or fly away. All the other hatchlings were told the same: humans are slippery, awful creatures. They are prey, but be careful. Because they have odd things that could kill you, and strange power that could trap you.

Every night, there were stories to enforce the rule. With the cold of the cave’s stone wall almost enough to chill her, she can almost imagine she is at the nest again, listening to the familiar voice. She would lay in the fire’s embers and hear all these stories. About dragons who saw human villages being attacked and helped- only to be chased and killed by the people they saved. About dragons that listened to humans dressed in steel, and agreed to help them in their battle – only to be betrayed.

Sometimes, there were dragons who formed friendships. Who fell in love. Who were nothing but loyal and passionate the way dragons are, and whose stories all ended in the most gruesome ways.

So Maleficent knows better than to trust humans. She has lived stories like the ones she used to fall asleep to. So why does she look at her princess, and forgets all of that? Her species’ history is filled with tragedies caused by humans, and yet she doesn’t see something despicable when she looks at Regina.

Regina is sweat-soaked, her hair matted to her face. She sounds pathetic whenever she whimpers, which is often. Sometimes, she still cannot sit up without help, and falls asleep after even the easiest of tasks such as sipping the drinks Maleficent gets for her. Any dragon would think off her as weak prey, and either leave her to die in dignity and peace, or eat her if they were hungry.

Maleficent has tried. She has tried to abandon the princess, but her wings always returned her to this cave, the hoarded objects and the smart, hot-headed yet sweet woman that freed her.

Perhaps I feel indebted to her, because she liberated me. Perhaps that is what is causing my unwillingness to leave her.

Maleficent is not stupid though, nor is she oblivious. She knows it is probably far more than that. Especially because she cannot stop thinking about the way her princess bites her lip whenever she gets a spell right. Because she can’t stop her own smile at the reminder of what sleeping with Regina in her arms feels like. She knows she is deep trouble, and she should leave because of more than just dragon rules.

“Mal?”

Maleficent slowly lifts her head, and then looks in Regina’s direction. She is struggling to sit up, eyes still a little bleary. They quickly clear however, and Maleficent knows that if she had her wings right now, they would be moving and her tail would be sweeping the floor, like it does whenever Regina looks at her like this.

Perhaps she actually can read minds, or sense emotions. That could even be a human thing, although I have found no evidence that the ancient stories are true.

“ I still despise that nickname” she grumbles.

Regina stretches, and yawns. “ Well, you still have not told me your full name so the nickname will have to stay”.

Maleficent slowly stands, and prowls towards Regina. “Mal is an insult to my ancestors, who granted me my name after I had proved myself worthy of one. Names are sacred and should be chosen after great consideration and never abbreviated” she growls, climbing on the bed and looming over Regina.

“ I like it” Audacious girl. Regina’s smile just grows, and Maleficent thinks about all the ways she would teach Regina that she is playing with fire. “ Mal”.

Maleficent is actually so stunned that she leans back, and forgets to be intimidating. “ You have never spoken it that way before” she says. Regina’s smile turns a bit shy. Maleficent eyes the blush and feels her cheeks stretch by her own pleased smile. “ Do it again” she commands.

Regina rolls her eyes. “ You are not in charge of – “ her voice trails off when Mal wraps a strand of dark hair around her finger, and leans in even more. “ Do it again” she whispers, and smirks when Regina flushes and stammers for a moment.

“Um -  Mal?”

“ Not like that. Like before. I enjoy it so much more when you speak it like that”.

“ Mal “.

“ Something like that, yes. But- “.

Maleficent glares when Regina pushes her away. “ Stop it.

“ I was enjoying that”.

“ What did they make you do?”.

Maleficent blinks in confusion at the sudden change in subject. It isn’t unfamiliar, as her princess often quickly changes the subject when Maleficent has managed to fluster her quite deliciously, but it doesn’t mean she has gotten any better at understanding what is meant.

“ You were upset because you only received your name after you had proven yourself worthy. What does that entail?”.

Ah. “ You are very interested in dragon customs, are you not?”.

Maleficent almost smiles as Regina nods eagerly. Then her old training kicks in, and her lips stop twitching.  Regina doesn’t shy away when Maleficent presses against her, and grabs her chin to yank her head forward.   “ Why? So that monster Cora can trap and destroy the last of my kind, as soon as you have told her how?”  

“No, of course not “ Regina protests.

Maleficent slowly lets go.  “Why then?”.

“ Your kind – it is fascinating. You always have been” Regina frowns. “ I do not know why. You just always were” She licks her lips. “Mother has never approved of my fascination with your species”.

“ Perhaps she wished you to be as weak as possible”.

“ I am not weak” Regina snaps.

Just when it seems like Regina’s anger is about to explode, Maleficent speaks again.  “ No. You are not” she simply states.

“ So will you tell me? Please? “

“ My kind only receive their names after they have proved themselves. They have to prove themselves strong, courageous and unbreakable”.

“ How?” Regina questions, settling against the things Maleficent got from a cottage somewhere. She took them because they looked very comfortable, and soft. The farmer was very willing to give her anything she desired. Regina doesn’t know this.  Maleficent leans against them as well, pleased that she got them even if she would likely have an argument with the princess if Regina ever found out.

“ They have a day to find a prey, and kill it. They have another day to return with something taken from humans in a fight. And they have a last day to fight each other” Maleficent waits a beat, then adds “ to the Death”.

As she expected, Regina is horrified. “ What”.

“As you may have noticed, this world is not exactly kind to my species. Only the strongest and most capable survive. It is necessary that only the strongest survive- lest someone traps a weaker dragon, and somehow manages to extract our secrets from them”.

“But you are already captured” Regina says, voice soft and eyes even softer.

“ Yes. But I assure you that the humans have yet to discover torture methods that will convince any dragon to give up our secrets”

“ So you force your children through beastly iniation rituals, only so that maybe they will not tell humans anything? “.

“ Do not judge our ways, princess, or do I need to remind you what your kind has done?”.

“ Not every human would hurt a dragon, many would never - “.

“ Look at yourself princess. Is it not custom for humans to lock their kin away, to trap them and treat them as pretty things to be traded?”.

“I am not- “.

“ They stuck you into a tower, and decided your fate without ever asking you what you wanted. They had no regard for who you are, and who you can become. And you are not alone. There are so many like you, and I know it because the skies are no longer filled with dragons. They are all rotting in the ground, or in what you humans have named ‘dungeons’. Waiting to guard a treasure so much more valuable than your kind seems to know, and murdered by someone who only wishes fame and beauty”.

“ I thought you didn’t care about humans “ Regina says, turning her face away. Her voice is hoarse, and Maleficent has already seen the tears.

“ What makes you think I do? “.

“ You sound angry about how we are treated”.

“Your species infatuation with towers and princes means my kind has to suffer”.

Regina swallows. “ Mother and her allies would have made you suffer anyways  “ she whispers

“ Quite likely. But we could have stopped them. Their numbers would have been small enough for them to be no real threat. But now, there are humans with meaningless titles and jewels on their head that wish their daughters to have a dragon guard- and so we are no longer free”.

“ The books say there are still great numbers of you”.

Maleficent laughs, and sees Regina flinch subtly.  “ We were great, once. But now- so many of us have left, and the ones that are left are fighting a losing battle”.

“ But you are dragons. You can fly for hours and miles- and if legend is true, you can even reach other realms. You breathe fire, fire that is even hotter than mundane fire and burns through our strongest armour. You are nearly immune to magic, and have your own magic. You are gargantuan and strong and terrifying – “.

“ And you have great numbers. Even if you are usually divided by greed and intolerance , you still manage to form huge groups with weapons that can fatally wound us.  You never surrender, and you remain standing even when you are so small, and so weak. Your kind has no honour, and plenty of cruelty”

“ You have a grim view of humankind”.

“ My little fireball, you forget I have met humans. And you are the first one to show any sign of honour and dignity. You are the first human with dragon qualities”.

At first, Maleficent thinks her words have angered Regina or perhaps made her feel some other emotion. They have had conversations like this before, after all, and they often end with Regina yelling or receding back into herself “ How many have you met?”.

“ Too many”.

“ I thought you only had met mother- that she captured you, and- “.

“ I am ancient, mi cielo. I have lived for a long time, and I have met many humans during my lifetime”.

“ They can’t all have been bad”.

“ Perhaps some were not bad in the beginning. But they soon changed. Which is how I learned how changeable your species are”.

Regina scoffs. “ And dragons are not?”.

“ No. As soon as we have matured, we stay true to ourselves. But humans- you seem so uncertain of who you are, and then spend your entire lives changing “.

“ But if you have lived a really long time, then surely you have developed as a person and experienced new things and adjusted your beliefs?”.

“ Not really. Dragons do not have the complicated and odd rules humans seem to have in many cases.  I have always just observed and formed my own opinion. Humans come with pre-formed, forced opinions”.

“ What do you mean?”

“ Your kind has rules for every tiny thing. You have thoughts about what each person should be like, what they are and how they ought to behave. This means that as you grow, and become your own person, you change a lot of those ‘beliefs’. Dragons are not like that, we are free creatures. The only rules are to be strong, and to survive”.

“ Rules are necessary- they protect you”.

“ Perhaps- but your kind overdoes it. I admit I do not fully understand humans, or their customs. But what I have noticed during my travels into human territory, is that some of your rules make no sense. They are not just or there to protect, they take and the majority receives nothing in return “.

“ I know that” Regina says, a thousand thoughts and memories flitting through her mind. Her own mother has installed many rules to ‘protect’ her people, which in reality only increased her own power.

“ Do you?”.

“ Of course I do! I am not oblivious and- “ I have observed mother and her allies for a long time. Even if she did not wish me to

“ Her “

Regina closes her eyes. “ Please don’t”.

“ I was not doing anything”.

“ You despise my mother, do you not? “ Regina has to swallow twice ( it hurts, like that time her mother’s magical constraints were around her throat, and she only let go when Regina nodded and promised her total obeisance ) and her voice is still only a hoarse whisper.

“ There is nothing in that woman- there is just this great hole filled with sickly greed and ambition”

“ She is my mother. And she has her flaws, but she- “.

“ Do you believe her capable of love?”.

“ Mal- “.

“ Dragons may be harder than the material your people use to kill my kind, and will force their kin through hardships so to strengthen them, but they would never hurt someone the way your mother hurt you. Love is sacred to us. Those we love are sacred to us “.

“ Mal- “.

“ I know you humans are quicker to spit on those you love, but the way your mother treats you is extreme. Even by human standards, I believe- “.

Maleficent arches her eyebrow when Regina jumps ( actually, it is more like she is falling. The princess is still weak) off the bed and turns to her with the most furious expression Maleficent has ever seen. “ She is my mother. She raised me, and cared for me my entire life. She just thought her way was the best, and believed that in time, I would agree with her. Just because she was utterly wrong and believes it is more important that I never go hungry and face none of the uncertainties the peasants do , does not mean she doesn’t love m-me”

Regina furiously wipes at the few tears that have managed to escape.  Maleficent cannot help but admire how she is obviously breaking inside, but she is still poised and has her chin raised. If she did not suspect that that horrid creature had something to do with it, she would be proud with her princess for being able to hold it together like this. But all she can think about is the weeks – or months, time was not really a concept that existed in the dreary, empty room she was kept in- before she was sent off with the princess, and what that thing has done to Regina to make her able to collect herself in two seconds. To make her terrified of showing pain, or love or sadness.

“ Regi- “

She was lost in thoughts for too long. Regina is already gone.

She wants to stay in the cave at first, suspecting that Regina just wishes to be alone right now. But she is only waiting for two minutes when she realizes how much like prey Regina still is. She might be able to sit up again, and even walk, but she is still recovering. She is in the air before she has even really thought it through, and her wings quickly bring her to where Regina is.

She is sitting on a large rock, arms around her knees and body shaking furiously. She doesn’t spot Maleficent approaching- probably because her face is hidden, pressed against her own arms. Maleficent flies back a little , placing enough distance between them to respect Regina’s desires but not enough to be too late if something would happen.

It is only when Regina stands up, and starts to scream and yell and stump that Maleficent gets closer again. She hovers, carefully watching the princess as she screams and paces on the rock. It is a struggle, but she keeps the distance between them-

Right until the moment Regina’s foot slips

Maleficent has caught her princess before her scream has even finished, flies to the shore and carefully drops her. She transforms back, and she steps forward carefully. When Regina doesn’t show any sign of being upset at her proximity, she takes another step.

“T-thank you”

Maleficent just nods, and gets even closer. Regina barely flinches, and she pauses. As soon as Regina relaxes again, she gently places her hands on the princess’ shoulders and slips them down.

“What a-are you doing?”.

“ Checking for injuries”  she mutters, carefully watching Regina for any signs of discomfort or pain when she slides her hands over Regina’s arms, and presses down. She stops with her hands on the princess ‘ hips when Regina quietly protests.

“What is it?”.

“ Do you remember our various conversations about what is appropriate and what is decidedly not? This is very inappropriate”.

“ I have to know whether you are all right”.

“ I just told you I am”.

Maleficent looks up. “ Can you be certain?”.

Regina huffs. “ Is this another dragon thing?”.

“ Yes”.

Maleficent hides her smirk when Regina’s eyes light up. “ Oh?” she inquires.

“ Yes”.

“ So it is a custom?”.

“Yes” Maleficent gently takes Regina’s chin and bends it this way and then that way to inspect it for anything that could mean Regina is hurting. “ We dragons are very careful with those that have managed to make a good impression on us. And naturally we are instinctual creatures so if there has been any kind of threat to them- “ .

Regina gasps when Maleficent lets go of her face only to squeeze her legs for a second. “ Do you feel any pain?”.

“ No”.

“ Are you certain?”.

“ Yes”.  

Maleficent is just starting to kneel when Regina speaks again. “ So dragons are very protective?”.

“ We are more than protective. If anything we care for gets threatened, we can be consumed by the need to heal and then protect it. I know stories of dragons whose lovers got hurt, and they whisked them away to some faraway land and would not even let kin get close”.

“ But I thought you were solitary creatures- “.

“ Yes, but we can still love”.

“ No, I meant- you speak off your family as though you form close bonds with them. But you do not actually live together, do you?”.

“ No. But from the hatching onward, we share a strong bond. And we do not fight with each other, or even compete”.

“Huh. But how does that- “  Regina trails off, eyes widening when Maleficent’s fingers gentle brush her ankle and press against it. “ You slipped with this foot. Is it okay?”.

“ Y-yes, it is fine”.

“ Good. And here?”.

“ F-fine. So are you close with your p-parents?”.

“ Bold question, my little fireball”.

“ Not as bold as your touches” Regina mutters

Maleficent chuckles. “ Fair enough” she slowly stands up again, and stares at Regina. She almost expect the princess to look away- she used to do that a lot, ages ago- but Regina raises her chin and stares right back.

“ I would not say I am close to my parent”.

Regina frowns. “ Parent? But what about- “.

“ Dragons have several ways to reproduce. One way is – “ Maleficent interrupts herself, and enjoys the way Regina blushes and swallows as she gets a smirk sent her way. “ You do know about sex, do you not?”.

Regina glares at her. “ Y-yes – I mean yes, of course I do”.

“Are you- “.

“ C-can you just explain ? I know all about- “ she vaguely gestures and Maleficent chuckles. “ Poor dear. I doubt you know much at all”.

“ I was promised to a prince, remember? I was groomed for marriage, including that”

Maleficent takes this moment to come closer, and Regina takes a step back for the first time in months. She calmly grabs Regina’s collar, and gently pulls her closer. “ I doubt they told you much about it” she leans in even more, chuckling when Regina’s eyes widen comically.  “ Especially the enjoyable aspects. Do you- “.

“ Stop it”

Maleficent slowly lets go. “ You are no fun” she sighs

Regina crosses her arms, and looks the other way. “ I do not enjoy you toying with me. It is offensive”.

“ All right, princess” Maleficent might not understand why, but she can see the princess is upset so she stops teasing. Her tone is a lot more business-like this time. “ There are two ways for my species to reproduce. One requires a male, the other does not”.

“ Wait, really?” Regina’s mouth actually drops, and all the tension leaves her body.

“ Yes. We are predominantly female, and most of us can reproduce without males”.

“ How?”.

Maleficent chuckles. “ We do not completely understand it ourselves mi cielo, and it is not like we have studied it. We just do”.

“ But surely there must be a progress. Is it magic?”.

“Not everything is magic”.

“ But how does this work” Regina gasps, and Maleficent pauses just to look at her. Her eyes are shining, her mouth is slightly open and she just looks so endearing. Maleficent kind of wants to take her far away from civilization, and keep her forever.

“ It is rather simple. We lay eggs, do you know that?”.

Regina nods.  “ The books said so. They say you mate in dragon form- “.

“ And then lay eggs. This is all true”.

“ What does that have to do with it though?”.  

“We still lay eggs even if we do not have sex with a male”.

“ Oh. But don’t you need-“

“Instead one of the other females approaches you - “ Maleficent gently grabs Regina’s hips and pulls the princess against herself. “ And has sex with you, or simulates it- “

“T-that is fascinating” Regina says absent-mindedly.

“ Yes.  So afterwards, we lay eggs and they become dragons if they are fortunate”.

“ If they are fortunate? “ Regina’s eyes flit away from Maleficent’s hands on her hips, only to return perhaps two seconds later.

“ Not all eggs hatch”.

“ That is awful. I am so sorry”  

Maleficent shrugs “ It is quite all right” she gently tugs on a lock of Regina’s hair. “ Have I satisfied your curiosity now? “.

“ Uhm. It is not completely clear, but mostly yes. Although I will probably continue to have many questions” when she sees Maleficent’s arched eyebrows, she quickly adds “ Not about that, but about your species in general”.

“ You are fascinated, are you not?”

“ Of course I am. You are beautiful and magical and we know so little about you”.

“ I daresay you know more about us now than all the other humans know combined”.

“ I hope so. Although I still feel like I do not understand your species”.

“I am not sure our species will ever understand each other. Much of your human customs remain a mystery to me as well”.

“ Like wha-  “ Maleficent nearly cries out when Regina suddenly stumbles and she only barely catches her. When she automatically places her hand against Regina’s forehead, she realizes the woman is burning up. Without thinking about it , she scoops Regina in her arms and transforms again.

She flies faster than she ever has, crashing into the cave and transforming mid-air. Regina has started to groan softly, and she is really radiating heat by now. As soon as Maleficent’s feet touch the stone floor, she runs to the bed and lays Regina on it. She has a bucket with cold water next to the bed for this purpose, so she immediately grabs the piece of cloth( Regina really did not enjoy having a bucket full of cold water thrown on her, so she ripped of a part of her sleeve and gave it to Maleficent) next to it, dips it in the water and lays it on Regina’s forehead.

Regina seem to sink quickly into a deep slumber, one that seems to have no nightmares for once, so Maleficent relaxes slightly. She leaves her post next to the bed to change into her dragon form and curl around the bed as much as she is able to. She slowly closes one eye, the other one focused on the gaping mouth of their cave.

Soon, my little fireball, you will be strong again. And until then, I will protect you.

I got the idea of dragon reproduction from :

http://www.nationalgeographic.com/magazine/2016/11/basic-instincts-whiptail-lizard-asexual-reproduction/

http://thehigherlearning.com/2014/07/11/how-these-all-female-lizards-are-able-to-reproduce-and-thrive-without-the-help-of-any-males/

https://www.nytimes.com/2014/12/18/science/strange-tale-of-new-species-of-lizard.html?_r=0