#i have been sobbing or alternatively holding back tears through sheer force of will for 13 hours

[theragamuffininitiative]

.

[vanderlustwords]

What if Steve leaves and she finds out she’s pregnant? I really love your alternate ending where he leaves for Peggy and wondering if you could write more about it. Doesn’t have to be him leaving a child behind that was just a question that popped into my head

Pairing: (past) Steve Rogers x Reader, Bucky Barnes x Reader

Please do not repost/translate anywhere. Reblogs/Comments are much welcomed ♥

Continuation of: This Dress is Karma || Alternate Ending

Warnings: unbeta'd. Angst ending for Steeb.

Note: I don't know how you roped me into writing a 2.3k continuation but here I am LOL

Count: ~2.3k

⊶⊶⊶⊶⊶✞⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷

You shut the door with a soft click, waiting until you hear the quiet footsteps fade away. The lump in your throat gets harder to swallow as you turn around, leaning back against the door and let out a shaky sigh.

You can't help but think those were some brave words you said to Steve. You desperately wanted them to be true. You did want to be so happy that it would physically pain Steve if he were to ever witness it.

You wanted it to be true that you were never going to see him again because he had hurt you so much, and he needed to stay away from you.

But when you lift your trembling hand to your stomach, you wonder if everything you said had been nothing more than a brave front.

"You alright?"

You immediately look up and see Bucky stepping out of the guest room, fully dressed with towel-dried hair.

You swallow and force a smile as you drop your hand.

"Yeah, you ready to head out?" You ask him as you stand up straight.

Bucky nods with a grumble before he grabs a strand of his hair. "I need a haircut first, though. Do you think we could find a barber first?"

"Sure," you say, turning around and opening the door with Bucky following you behind.

"You sure everything is okay?" Bucky asks you again.

The way your throat feels raw, the hysterical words that want to escape your mouth make you feel dizzy. You want to put your hand against your stomach again as if to see if you could suddenly feel a bump.

But you refrain because Bucky would get suspicious. Well, he'd probably think you had a stomachache first, but if you didn't stop acting strange, he would pry.

"Everything's fine," you mumble.

⊶⊶⊶⊶⊶✞⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷

As the weeks pass, more and more things begin to slip from you.

There is a layer of never-ending panic that sits right beneath your skin, crawling and setting your nerves on fire.

When you began to get morning sickness and threw up into the toilet, you began to shake.

The reality of your situation began to hit you.

You were pregnant.

With Steve's child.

Steve, who had abandoned you and was grey and old and probably would pass away soon.

The notion of it all had you throwing up in the toilet again.

You were alone, and you were scared.

What were you going to do? You couldn't rely on Steve anymore.

You looked down at your relatively flat stomach still, placing your hand against it.

There was a life growing inside you. What were you going to do?

⊶⊶⊶⊶⊶✞⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷

It was harder to hide when Bucky came over almost every other day, even though he didn't live with you. He had stayed for a week after the confrontation with Steve but quickly found his own place.

Initially, that had made you feel more alone, like everyone couldn't wait to escape from you. But it had worked out when you needed alone time.

Bucky was currently in your kitchen, cooking up steaks for lunch for the two of you.

The smell of it made you deathly pale.

"What's going on with you?" Bucky asked with a frown as he set the steaks aside to rest.

You had to swallow hard before you could answer. "Nothing," you said weakly. "I'm—I'm sorry. I know you came all the way here to cook but I'm not really hungry."

"You've been saying that for days now, doll," Bucky pursed his lip. "I feel like I haven't seen you eat a proper meal lately. What's going on? I know things have been...hard. Especially since you last saw Steve, but this isn't okay. I need you to eat something in front of me that isn't pretzels, bananas, or bread."

The idea of sliding a piece of steak basted in butter had your stomach knot itself painfully.

You shook your head, but when Bucky insisted, slicing the steak and you watched the juices run, you couldn't hold it in anymore.

You took off to the bathroom in haste.

"Hey—" Bucky called out and took off after you, but you were quick to shut the door before you fell to your knees over the toilet and hurled.

"What's wrong?" Bucky yelled through the door, trying to jiggle it open but found you had locked it. "Open the door, doll. I just want to make sure you're okay."

"I'm fine," you said shakily as you grabbed some toilet paper and wiped your mouth, eyes hot with tears. "I just—I just haven't been feeling well."

The silence on the other side of the door only lingered for a moment before Bucky used his metal arm to turn the doorknob so hard, it broke open.

He found you sitting on the floor, over the toilets, eyes rimmed red and your face pale.

Bucky carefully walks in and kneels slowly before you.

He thinks back the couple of weeks and how you've been going to the bathroom a lot more, and how you don't like going to restaurants to eat. You've been eating at home and the strangest things and wearing more flowy shirts.

He looks at your face, and the way you're trying to hold back your tears makes Bucky feel dread.

"Doll..." he calls you softly. "Are you—Are you pregnant?"

You let out a choked sob in response, face dropping as you close your eyes.

Bucky's quick to hold you in his arms as he strokes your back, his heart dropping.

There was only one person who could've gotten you pregnant.

There had been some dumb shit Steve's done the entire time Bucky's known him. Always getting into scraps he couldn't finish, always prideful when Bucky wanted to help him.

But it had been the first time Bucky's ever been so fucking pissed at Steve. It was the first time Bucky couldn't defend or make an excuse for his friend.

"Bucky, what am I going to do?" You trembled in his arms. "I can't—Steve isn't—I want to keep it but I'm alone."

Bucky swallowed so hard it was painful.

There was no fucking way he was ready to be a dad or step up in any kind of way—that is, if you even let him.

Fuck, you two didn't even have feelings for each other or anything. There was something, maybe, Bucky thought for the future. But now?

"You're not alone," Bucky reassured, keeping his voice still for your sake. "I'm here. I'm here all the way and I'm not gonna leave you, doll. Ever."

⊶⊶⊶⊶⊶✞⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷

You manage to keep the fact that you're pregnant under the wraps easily. It helps that since saving the world, no one really meets up anymore. A part of you worries because you can't find Wanda anywhere, but you know she can find you if she wanted to.

Sam might be the only other person who knows, and Bucky was begrudging when accepting his help.

Months pass, and you're surprised how dedicated Bucky is. You're pretty sure you're on the verge of a mental breakdown constantly. A part of you worries Steve will show up, but Bucky reassures you that there's nothing Steve could do even if he did show up.

"Fuck..." you swore as Bucky was in the middle of figuring out how to build the crib the two of you got from Ikea. He looks up at you alarmingly. "I think my water just broke."

"Oh, shit, okay, okay!" Bucky jumps up right away and starts running around to grab the prepared bag as he helps you out into the car. "Don't panic!"

"Bucky, I'm literally about to push a baby out of my body. I'm going to fucking panic if I want to," you snap, and Bucky bites his lip to refrain from speaking as he zips through traffic.

"Oh, god," you say under your breath. You were having a baby. You were actually going to have a baby.

⊶⊶⊶⊶⊶✞⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷

"Bucky, you can't just carry her everywhere," you grumbled as you pushed the stroller through the park. "You're spoiling her."

"Yes, I can. She wants me to carry her and whatever my princess wants, she gets." Bucky declared indignantly at you while sticking his tongue out.

You sighed with a smile.

You couldn't believe a year has passed. Despite the time passing, you never really felt fully prepared as a mother. You were scared you were fucking it up all the time if you're honest.

Bucky holds your hand, and you give him a shy smile. That was new too. Slow and steady, as Bucky has always been, and you think you were falling for him because of that.

When you look up, your heart stops.

"Oh," Steve blinked.

Another year has passed, but you find Steve doesn't look too different. A little more tired perhaps, but still...Steve.

You feel panic creep up in your chest that threatens to become a panic attack before Bucky squeezes your hand.

"Breathe, doll," he whispers encouragingly to you, but it's loud enough for Steve to catch.

You do as he says, taking a few calming breaths. You want to keep walking, but it seems Steve can't stop staring at the child in Bucky's arms.

"Why don't you take Hazel to the pond? She really likes looking at the ducks," you tell Bucky, and he nods, warily looking at you and Steve. He sends Steve a curt nod before he takes the stroller with him and walks off.

Steve's eyes trail after Bucky.

You know then that he knows. It's not hard after all. Hazel looks like a spitting image of Steve, something that had been hard for you to deal with at first. Her blonde hair and blue eyes—the blue eyes were easier since Bucky's eyes were blue too, even if a darker shade.

But Hazel was so lovely; you loved her so easily.

"When did you know?" Steve asked.

You shrugged. "The day before we all saved the world."

"Why didn't you say anything?" Steve's voice was pained and betrayed, and you cocked your brow at him.

"Why? So you would stay?"

"Yes, I would have!" Steve insisted.

The sheer stupidity of the situation had you give a humourless laugh.

"The last thing I want is for you to stay because of a baby, Steve. You wanted to leave, despite everything, you chose to leave. We would only hate each other in the long run."

"That's not true," Steve denied. "When I made that choice, it wasn't because I didn't love you anymore."

"No, you just didn't love me enough."

The words rang clear, almost throwing Steve off-kilter.

The silence fell, and the two of you could hear Hazel laughing with Bucky in the distance as she shrieked.

"Don't you think I deserved to know about her?" Steve asked with his lips pursed.

"No," you answered honestly. "What do you, a 90 something-year-old man, have to offer her? You certainly can't step up and be her father. Your time keeps running out and the last thing I need is for Hazel to have instability. Did you want to be her grandfather? She's already met mine, so do you want to pretend to be Bucky's?"

"So, you're just gonna lie to her and let her think Bucky is her dad?"

Your eyes flash angrily.

"Bucky is her dad. He's the only dad that counts in every way. Do you know how hard it was for me? I was scared shitless, Steve. You can delude yourself into thinking otherwise, but you're unreliable. I couldn't come to you for help," you snap at him. "Do you know who was there every time I was puking my guts out, crying or screaming, or wanted pickles with peanut butter at 2AM? Who do you think was there for every appointment. Who bought fifty parenting and baby books to study religiously? It was Bucky. Even though I knew he was scared too, he was there. So, don't fucking try to make me and Bucky look like the bad guy. You have NOTHING to offer to Hazel."

Steve stood there wide-eyed, guilt crowding over his eyes. Steve doesn't want to say he regrets going back because that would mean a lifetime of regrets he can't get back.

"You're right," Steve said slowly, trying to appease your anger. "I'm sorry. You didn't deserve that. It's not my place to say anything."

Even though Steve says it, he looks over to the little girl squealing in Bucky's arms. He looks at her blonde hair that she clearly got from him and your nose.

He and Peggy had children—children he loved more than anything.

But...the idea of his child with you...that was another reality he missed.

It seems to be that way always for him, Steve thought somberly. He was always missing something. Maybe you had been right about him.

Steve listens as you take a deep breath in and exhale.

"Do you want to meet her?" You offer, and Steve can tell it's difficult for you to say those words.

"If you're okay with it," Steve said slowly.

You nod stiffly. "It's fine as long as you respect my wishes and refrain from telling her you're her bio dad. I want to save that conversation for when she's older and able to understand it more."

You don't say it, but Steve is already thinking how he'll most likely be gone by then.

The two of you begin to walk towards Bucky and Hazel.

"What will you tell her?" Steve asked.

"The truth," you shrug. "That you were the world's greatest hero and you loved her and would've loved to get to know her if you stayed, but you didn't and it wasn't her fault."

"Right, it was mine," Steve felt a sting in the back of his throat.

"I don't think it was anyone's fault," you tell him. "It's just karma, Steve. I wasn't enough for you and now you're not enough for Hazel."

Right, Steve thought somberly as he looked at you in your summer dress. It was different from the sexy red one that used to drive him insane.

It was a calm peace, a show of your motherhood and graceful maturity.

This dress is karma, too.

[cursestothemoon]

I’m so excited your requests are open!!! Can I request a blurb of rough sex with Charlie where he throws around and manhandles his girlfriend (it’s all safe and consensual). I just know he’s a bit burly dude who would have no problem picking up his girlfriend with one arm

Watch Your Mouth

C.W. x FEM!READER

17+ IF YOU ARE TAGGED AND DON’T WANT TO BE TAGGED IN SMUT PLEASE LET ME KNOW

warnings: smut, oral (female receiving), vaginal penetration, manhandling, size kink, tummy bulge, praise kink, sub!reader/dom!Charlie, mentions of edging, spanking, overstimulation, UNPROTECTED SEX (wrap it before you tap it), kind of subspace (nothing too intense), also unedited because i am lazy ✋🏻😔

“But it hurts.” You whined into your boyfriend's ear.

Subtlety was fading fast in your act, after Charlie spent all night last night teasing you with the idea of an orgasm but never actually letting you get there you were far past the point of just horny.

Charlie placed a warning hand on your thigh, fingers gripping the flesh tight enough to have you squirming, “Eat your food and behave.”

His tone was husky, whispers harsh as he tried to keep you at bay in front of his family. Perhaps dinner at the Weasley’s- a usual Friday event- wasn’t the best place to start acting up but really it was Charlie’s fault. He had to have known his teasing would result in something of this sort.

You also knew his hand could be heavy when he wanted it to be, spanks from Charlie always left a mark that could be felt for days following. So you listened to him, quietly picking at your roast as your mind wandered to what might be in store for you once you two got home.

“Yeah, better get going, it’s getting rather late.” Charlie announced as he stood up from the couch, your hand in his.

You had to restrain from vibrating with excitement as you stood up next to Charlie, your head barely reaching his broad shoulders.

Everyone bid farewell to you two, a longer exchange than you would’ve liked but you managed. Finally Charlie pulled you into his side, tucking you under his arm as he appareled you two to your flat- after the war he wanted to move closer to his family and you had no complaints.

Leaning on the hardwood floor of your living room, you stumbled a bit only to be grabbed by Charlie. His arm wrapping around your waist to lift you up and off your feet, carrying you to the bedroom. He grunted through the doorframe, making sure he wasn’t going to hit your head on the wall as he passed through before tossing you onto the bed. Upon hitting the mattress your body bounced roughly, only adding fuel to the fire of your excitement.

Charlie pulled his boots off hastily, hands moving to unbutton his shirt and fling it somewhere in the room to be retrieved later for you to wear. In just a pair of tight black boxer briefs and a single silver chain dangling between his pecs, a dragon tooth at the end.

You watched him with wide eyes, breath hitching as he grabbed your hips and flipped you over with ease. His palm, open and heavy, rested on your plump backside. You panicked, trying to turn around to face him, because you knew what that meant but you thought you had been a good girl.

“But I was good.” You whined trying to move your butt away from him.

He tutted, pulling your hips back to where they were, “You were good...after I had to tell you to behave, and now you’re questioning me.”

“Because I was good. If you hadn’t been mean, not letting me cum, then I wouldn’t have been so needy. S’your fault.”

The silence was deafening and you realized you should’ve kept your mouth shut.

“My fault?” Charlie questioned, his voice unnervingly calm.

You shook your head quickly, trying to back track as best you could, “No, no no, I didn’t- I’m sorry, I’m your good girl, I’m sorry.”

He shook his head, “My good girl wouldn’t blame me for her being a horny slag. My good girl wouldn’t question my authority. My good girl would take her punishment, but no. You just had to open your mouth, didn’t you?”

Charlie didn’t give you a chance to respond, instead grabbing the material of your tights and quite literally tearing them apart, exposing your g-string and soaking cunt. He continued to rip and tear your tights until whatever was left didn’t have enough structure to stay on, he picked up the pieces and tossed them to the floor before roughly tugging your shirt and bra off. 

There was a moment of silence again, as Charlie adjusted the rings on his fingers. You barely allowed yourself to calm down before he was sitting on the edge of the bed, grabbing you by the waist to roughly pull you across his lap. The action made you squeal, your legs kicking up in an attempt to stall the punishment that was coming. He wasn’t having it, forcing your legs under his thick thigh to keep them out of the way before playing with the thin string that made up the back of your thong. You let out a muffled whine as he pulled on it, lifting it up and making the front of your panties rub against your throbbing clit then letting it go, snapping it against your skin.

“Only thing I wanna hear out of your mouth are apologies after every swat. Understood?” He asked, hand running across the globes of your ass.

You nodded, not wanting to anger him further.

“So you do know how to watch your fucking mouth, good.”

You had little time to prepare before his hand came down onto your backside with a painful sting sending pools of arousal straight to your core.

“I’m sorry, Charlie.”

Another swat hit your warm flesh, then another, and another. With each slap apologies fell passed your lips along with muffled cries, fat tears rolling down your cheeks.

Forty spanks later your butt was beet red and practically numb, his ring clad hand massaging the raw skin making you whimper. He dipped his hand down to your core, running two fingers up your slit collecting your juices before teasing your entrance making you jolt. His other arm came down to keep you still as his fingers entered you, making your walls clench. You bit your lip, trying to suppress the moans as he started to thrust his fingers in and out of you at a steady pace, alternating between fast thrusts and massaging the spongey spot that made your vision go fuzzy.

You gripped his calf tightly as your orgasm neared, your legs started shaking and you could only hope he’d let you finally get off. Only you weren’t so lucky, Charlie pulled his hand away quickly watching as you writhed around in his lap.

“You wanna cum? I’ll make you cum until you’re begging me to stop.”

His hand dove back in between your legs, this time with an unbelievably fast pace making you let out loud, wanton cries. Charlie’s arm pressed down on your hips firmly, giving you no wiggle room as your toes curled and eyes screwed shut, orgasm hitting you like a ton of bricks.

You were shoved onto the bed as you heaved, Charlie having no trouble moving your from place to place without your cooperation. He got down on his knees, eye level with your pussy clenching pathetically around nothing.

Making sure you were still sensitive from your first climax, he was quick to dive into your weeping cunt. Tongue lapping at your glistening folds and nose nudging your clit, your twitching was uncontrollable as he was relentless with his mouth. Your hands tangled themselves in his deliciously wavy red mane as his copper beard rubbed the insides of your thighs raw.

You were unable to form coherent sentences, choked cries, waterlogged moans, and desperate pleas were the only things leaving your lips. Charlie gripped your thighs tightly, keeping them open after they had started to close around his head. You came again, loud sobs sounding through the room as he continued his torturous lapping at your cunt only to pull away seconds after your second orgasm hit you to aggressively rub at your clit.

“Go on, cum, you were begging for this.”

The back and forth motion only got faster as you tried to close your thighs and push his hand away, a third orgasm washing over you before you could even realize. Charlie pulled his hand away after giving your clit a harsh slap making you cry out again. 

Charlie took his time peeling off his briefs, his prick taut against his abdomen with precum leaking from the mouth watering tip. He had always had a rather gorgeous cock, the lively red of the spongey head contrasting the creamy beige of the shaft had you clenching your legs in need. You’d never say no to that no matter how worn out or sensitive you were, he was just far too beautiful. But the sheer size alone had excited nerves mixing in your belly, regardless of how often you’ve seen him nude. His tip was dangerously close to his navel, and not only was he gifted with length but his veiny cock was girthy- never failing to stretch your aching pussy out just how you liked it. 

You watched as his hand gave a few languid strokes to himself before your eyes traveled over the expanse of his torso. His skin was dappled with countless freckles and a few scars scattered here and there from misbehaving dragons or rowdy brothers, most of the time his sheer size as a human had your walls convulsing. Charlie was big, he was tall but by no means lanky, his thighs were deliciously thick along with his biceps, his entire being painted in the likeness of Norse mythology’s Thor. 

“How cute, my little girl is staring.” Charlie teased, hand abandoning his cock and coming closer to you on the bed again. 

He gripped your hips with his large hands, pulling you up onto your knees with your ass in the air. You were too tired to hold your head up, opting to rest it on the mattress instead as you watched Charlie - as best you could from this position- as he paced a hand on the still raw skin of your backside. You didn’t need a mirror to know that a few visible handprints would be left on the skin for a while. The cool feeling of his hand on the skin made you jolt forward, but Charlie hunched over carefully and placed a handful of feathery kisses on the tender skin- you could’ve sworn the pain started to subside immediately at the contact. 

You whimpered as you felt him start to prod at your entrance, he chuckled at the way you wiggled your butt back into him hoping for more. Giving you what you wanted, he pushed in all the way, careful to go slow keeping in mind that he was rather large. 

“Look at you, taking m’cock so well.” He grunted, bottoming out. 

Cries emitted from your parted lips as you nodded into the sheets, words and sentences long gone as he started to thrust. You knew what was in store, and it only made your moans and chants of Charlie that much louder. It was no secret he had stamina, a product of his insatiable libido was usually you getting to cum twice before Charlie even thought of filling you up himself. Seeing as tonight you had already trembled through two, four and five seemed a bit daunting- but you need it. 

He quickened his pace, eagerly thrusting into your tight cunt as his voice started to crack with each grunt and groan before looping an arm around your midsection and pulling your back flush against his chest. The new position had your head lulling back, pornographic moans crooning from your mouth and into his neck. Your hand came up to make its way the back of Charlie’s head, fingers carding through the copper curls at the nape of his neck as his hips snapped up into you at a hellish pace. His hand, the one not occupied with holding you up, moved to rest on your lower belly wanting to feel the way your tummy bulged with each of his thrusts. You were so tiny compared to him, so dainty, and it made his thrusts get that much harder.

His breath fanned over your ear and neck as he spoke huskily, “Such a tight little cunt f’me, can feel my cock in your belly.”

You hummed in response, his hand pulling yours down to rest where his was just moments before. The outline of his dick, each time he thrusted, running up the inside of your palm making you clench around him. 

“S’like I’m gonna slit you in two, you’d like that wouldn’t you?”

With pathetic cries and nods you answered, “Yes, want you t’split me in two, need it.”

Orgasm number four hit you before you could even register what was happening but Charlie didn’t slow his thrusts, instead dropping a hand to your pulsing clit to rub rough circles and the engorged nub. His other hand, still holding you up, shifted so he could grab a handful of your breast, pinching and pulling at your erect nipples as best he could while he kept you upright. The overstimulation had you seeing stars, orgasm number five was already knocking on your door ready to come barreling in. At some point, your not sure when seeing as your mind was foggy from your fast approaching orgasm, Charlie had doubled over with your body firmly held in his arms as his hips continued to thrust into your weeping pussy at lightning speed, your back still held tightly against his chest only now your chin was hitting the mattress with each rough thrust. 

You could register the stuttering of his thrusts meaning he was nearing his own release and you could finally let go for a fifth time. The weight of his body on top of yours mixed in with his forearm pressing into your abdomen and fingers massaging your clit while his balls were slapping against your glistening and used pussy had your body trembling uncontrollably in his grasp. Charlie gave a choked moan of your name as he finished deep inside you, your body spasming along with the walls of your cunt as you came with him. 

Charlie held you to his chest still, but shifted so he was now on his side and you were no longer taking any of his weight. Slowly he went to pull out of you, making you whimper at the feeling, your over used cunt far too sensitive for the movement.

“Shh, you’re ok,” He cooed, gentling running a palm down the side of your face and through your hair. “Gotta get you cleaned up, yeah? Then I want my best girl’s cuddles, ok?”

His voice was gently, coaxing you to open your eyes and look at him as you answered with a feeble nod, “Ok, then cuddles...” you murmured.

tags:

@amourtentiaa

@vsawyer1989​

@lifeofkaze

@siriusement

@erinblack003

@maybesandohnos

[spinachgarden]

I’m sorry I left you all with a cliffhanger for the angst fill on fleur de louve month 

Here’s a continuation of Week 2 Day 2: Angst

Prompt: Visiting a Graveyard - 940 words

PS - there’s an alternative ending coming that’s a little less angsty

Warnings: major character death 

The graveyard is quiet at this hour, empty except for another family visiting a loved one three rows over. Sarah gives them a soft smile and a wave, then kneels at the headstone she’s here to see.

It’s small, tasteful, just a simple marble cross in the ground, unlike the one in Arlington. His body is buried here, at her request, laid to rest at home rather than in DC. It’s what he would’ve wanted, she tells herself. It’s not selfish to want her husband close to home.

“Hey, B,” she says, resting the small bouquet of sunflowers at the base of his headstone. “I missed you. The boys are having a hard time, but they’re back at school now. Their teachers understand, thank god.”

Despite herself, she sniffles. It’s still hard to come here, but it’s harder to stay away. Hell, she’s here every day, leaving flowers and bringing Sam or the boys with her, trying desperately to keep her family together despite the monumental loss hanging over their heads. This is the first time she’s come alone since he died.

“Sam isn’t doing so good,” she tells him. “He blames himself. I wish you were here to pull his head out of his ass. It’s not his fault. I know you’d know that. Every time he looks at me, all I see in his eyes is guilt. He kept apologizing to me. I know it’s not his fault. I know there’s nothing he could’ve done. Hell, I knew what I was signing up for when we got married.”

She did know, is the thing. They’d talked about it at length, in fact. He’d been scared to be with her for this exact reason.

If she could do it all over again, she’d do it the exact same way.

“I hope you’re peaceful,” she says, “wherever you are. I worry about you still. Sometimes I make dinner and I put a plate in your spot out of habit.”

Another sniffle. The first tear falls down her cheek, warm and salty. The flowers she left here yesterday are still alive, sunflowers, always sunflowers.

“It’s so hard,” she says, and the dam breaks. An honest-to-god sob wracks her chest, then another, until she’s shaking with it. “It’s not fair, B. I miss you. I miss you so fucking much I feel like I can’t breathe.”

This is the first time she’s really broken down since hearing the news. When she closes her eyes, she can still hear Sam’s first sob as he stuttered out the words he’s dead. Numbness had overtaken her - she’d told the boys, held them until their tears ran out, then flew to DC to identify his body.

From there, it’d been a whirlwind of planning a funeral and fighting the government to bury his body in Delacroix rather than DC, then writing a speech for his state funeral, then writing a eulogy for his funeral at home, then hosting a wake and trying to hold herself together through sheer force of will.

Now, it’s just her and Bucky. Finally, finally, she can let the tears fall.

“How am I supposed to do this alone?” she whimpers. “I got used to having you there, B. For five years, I didn’t have to do it alone anymore. You were there. I had you to lean on. And now you’re gone, and I have to do it alone again, and I don’t know if I’m strong enough. The boys have been through so much - AJ barely made it to school this morning, and I didn’t know what to do. I don’t know how I’m supposed to keep going.”

The confession brings on another round of sobbing, ugly and unrestrained, and she thanks god for her good sense to bring a pack of tissues with her.

“You promised you’d come home,” she says, half-hysterical. “And I knew that one day you wouldn’t, I knew that, but I really hoped we’d have longer. I wanted to love you for longer.”

From behind her, she hears soft footsteps in the grass. She doesn’t turn - she knows Sam’s gait when she hears it. Instead, she allows him to wrap an arm around her shoulders, pulling her to his chest like she’s a little girl again, and she lets it all out.

He holds her until the tears stop, until she’s cried herself dry.

When she finally lifts her head, there’s another bouquet of flowers at Bucky’s grave - purple hyacinths, the ones Sam always leaves. If they mean something, she hasn’t bothered to look it up.

He’s crying too, she realizes, just a few tears streaming down his cheeks.

“It’s not your fault,” she tells him. It might be the hundredth time, or the thousandth, but she’ll tell him a thousand more if that’s what it takes. “He knew that this might happen. He knew what job he was taking on.”

Sam looks away and shuts his eyes for a moment.

“He told me to tell you he loved you,” Sam says. “Before he died. Said he wanted you to know that you were the best thing that ever happened to him.”

She smiles softly and caresses the cold marble of his headstone.

“I miss him,” she says.

“I miss him too,” Sam whispers. He keeps one arm around her shoulders as he pulls her to her feet, then rests a quarter on his headstone. “Let’s go pick AJ and Cass up from school and get ice cream.”

Sarah smiles softly. “It’s what he would’ve wanted.”

James Buchanan Barnes

1917 - 2030

Our hero

@fleurdelouvemonth @fleurdelouve

[huilian]

Are you here to take me in?”

“You know perfectly well that’s not what I’m doing, Damian,” Stephanie answers.

“Why not? Drake would want you to.”

Stephanie sighs. She crouches down and nudges at Damian, trying to get some space in the corner he had crammed himself in. He doesn’t budge. He’s heavy enough now that Stephanie is unable to simply push him aside. Besides, he doesn’t want to be disturbed. That’s the whole point of cramming himself in this corner.

“Damian,” she says, poking his stomach. “Come on, kiddo, move over a bit.”

“No.”

“Come on. I haven’t seen you in months, and that’s how you’re going to greet me?”

“You didn’t have to come to see me.” And then, even though he knows better, he mumbles out, “I’m surprised Drake even lets you.”

The slap that lands on his head don’t come as a surprise. He supposes he’s earned that. Timothy would say that he’s earned even more than that.

Damian is inclined to agree.

“Damian,” Stephanie says in a tone that brooks no argument. “Look at me.”

He doesn’t want to. He knows what Stephanie would say, and he does not want to hear it. But he has been losing these kinds of battles against Stephanie for years, and months away from Gotham does not provide him with any more resistance towards the sheer power of Stephanie’s conviction than it had before.

He looks up. He wishes he hadn’t.

Stephanie looks at him with understanding and compassion that he does not deserve. “You know that I love you still, yeah?” she asks. “We all do.”

“Timothy doesn’t.”

Stephanie slaps him in the head again. Gently, this time. Then, she pokes him in the stomach again, continuing her crusade in forcing him to give her space.

This time, Damian shifts and lets her try to arrange her limbs in the small corner they’re in. What’s the point in resisting? He’s lost the battle anyway.

Stephanie settles in next to him, and when Damian moves as far away from her as the space around them allows him to, she clicks her tongue and pulls him into a hug. He makes an attempt to free himself from her arms, but they both know that the attempt is half-hearted at best.

“He’ll come around,” Stephanie says, once Damian has stopped resisting. “You know that, right?”

What Damian knows is that he deserves every single ounce of hatred Timothy sent his way, but still, he can’t stop himself from asking, “What if he doesn’t?”

“He will.” Stephanie lifts her hand as if to stroke Damian’s hair, but stops when she sees him recoil from it. She places her hand on his shoulder instead. “It’s just that he’s the one who tracked Dick down. The one who planned the mission. He was the one who was going to go and save him, but then he broke his leg.” She pauses, giving Damian’s shoulder a squeeze. “I think he blames himself for that.”

“Are you sure about that?” Damian lets out a laugh that has no humour in it at all, because the alternative was crying, and he had cried enough these past few days. “It seems like he blames me just fine.”

And for good reason, too. It was Damian’s hands on the knife. It was Damian’s arms who held Dick down until he no longer breathed. The blame is on Damian. Timothy is right to blame him.

“He’s still working through it. You know how slow he can be,” Stephanie teases.

“He shouldn’t,” Damian says. “Blame himself, that is. It is my fault.”

“Kiddo,” Stephanie squeezes his shoulder again, “you know it’s not your fault either, right? Cass told us what happened.”

“Cassandra doesn’t know everything.”

“She knows enough,” Stephanie retorts back. “It’s not your fault, Damian.”

“I did it! I killed him!” Damian yells. “Ra’s wanted him to suffer before he died, so I tortured him too! As if killing him wasn’t enough!” He pushes Stephanie’s hand away from his shoulders, and continues, “I tortured him for a whole day before I finally stabbed him! Do you know how it feels like to have every inch of your body sliced open and then doused with salt? Because that’s what I did to him!”

He collapses on himself after that, having stood up in the midst of his yelling. Stephanie didn’t back away; she didn’t even flinch. She’s just there, a steady presence next to him, comforting him even when he doesn’t deserve it.

“He never once made a sound,” Damian whispers out, in between the tears he didn’t even realize are falling down from his eyes. He’s kneeling there, holding himself with his arms, because he’s afraid if he doesn’t do that, he is going to disintegrate. “I think he doesn’t want me to know how much pain I’m giving him, but I know. I know exactly how much pain I gave him.”

Damian gasps in a breath, and then another one, all the while watching as his tears come splashing down the grey floor of the Bunker, one by one. So much for not crying anymore.

“He told me he loves me,” Damian sobs out. “Right before I plunge the knife to his heart, he told me he loves me.” Damian looks up at Stephanie, and asks, “How can he say that?”

“Because he does, Damian,” Stephanie says. She has moved to sit in front of him, stroking his hair gently, the same way Dick did the night before Damian killed him. This time, Damian allows it. “He does,” she says again.

[servingkarmalikecake]

Motorcyle Drive By

“Alec, Alec please Listen to—“

“No.”

“Please Alec, it—“

“No.”

“Alexander—“

“NO!”

This is how it starts—the day that changed everything.

Magnus’ shoulders sag as he chases after Alec—always chasing after this stupid, beautiful man, he thinks, with a weary smile that never quite reaches his eyes.

The hallowed walls of the former New York Institute stretch up on either side of him, still impressive and imposing, despite the ruin they now stood within. It had been foolish of them to think that they could have won, that they could have even survived…after everything they’d lost? This world belonged to Sebastian now; there was really no sense in denying it at this point. They may have outrun it for a time, seeking refuge here in New York for a little while but really, hadn’t they just been avoiding the inevitable?

Foolish, indeed.

Magnus’ hurried steps echo off cracked stonewalls as he follows after Alec, who was purposely putting distance between them—making the Warlock work for it. He wants to be indignant about it—after all, he was the one slowly turning into a monster, not Alec—but he couldn’t…he wouldn’t.  

He finds Alec standing in the library, which is now just a shell of its former self. Tall book stacks now stand barren, save for a thick layer of soot and ash and the occasional torn page that hadn’t been burned in the fire. The fall of the institute had felt like the very last of their hopes finally being snuffed out and although Alec would never say it, Magnus knew that he was mourning, for what once was and perhaps what could have been.

Now there was nothing except fire and blood and death…so much death.

Magnus is silent as he carefully navigates through the debris that litters the floor. He’s making his way towards Alec, who has his back to him and is staring down at a large piano that was lying in two halves, as if someone had sliced right through its middle. It’s a grim sight to behold, even amidst the ruins that crumbled all around it. Magnus knew why Alec was so fixated on the piano. He knew it and it broke his heart.

“Alexander…” He starts slow, gentle, as if he could somehow coax Alec into seeing things from his point of view with a whisper and a smile. Ah, if only it were still so easy..

Magnus stills behind him and reaches up to place a gentle hand on Alec’s stiffened shoulder, ignoring the way his veins sing with pain under his skin with even the subtlest of movements. He knows that Alec is thinking about Jace and he wishes, more than anything that they had the luxury of time to dwell on such things…but they don’t. They’re already living on borrowed time; Magnus can feel it inside of him. Demon blood that was once his source of existence, of power, had been twisted and deformed by blight and soon, he would be gone. Too soon.

His resolve steels when he is met with only silence and he continues, because he has to. “I know this isn’t what you want to hear but—“ Alec whips around to face him so fast that is shocks him, fury and hurt and tears burning in his enormous eyes. Magnus’ resolve crumbles and his words die on his lips, which quiver with an unspoken agony that mirrors in his eyes.  

“You think this is easy for me?”  Alec asks, and his tone is so cool that is chills Magnus, all the way to his bones. “There is no reality that you are ever a burden to me.”  

Alec’s words are sharp and they cut Magnus down to his core because they were stupid, foolish words that he himself had uttered to Alec once—back before the world had fallen apart and they still thought they had a fighting chance. It felt like someone else’s life now; distorted, like a faded picture that was hard to make out.

Magnus’ chest heaves with a sob that he was desperately trying to keep inside. He needed Alec to understand, before it was too late. “But I won’t be me anymore, Alec…” He whispers brokenly, ignoring the agony that radiated beneath his skin where Alec’s hand gripped him firmly.

Magnus had seen the effect that the blight had on the Warlocks. It had started with the very oldest of them first, their very own demon blood burning away their humanity until there was nothing left but a mindless demon on a tight leash—that Sebastian wielded. He knew it was coming, he’d been feeling it for weeks, the subtle simmer that slowly turned into boil as his veins began to blacken beneath skin that felt cracked and curled and raw, like wallpaper catching fire. They couldn’t outrun it, no matter how much they tried, and Magnus was so tired of running.

His gaze lifted tentatively, seeking the comfort in Alec’s eyes that had always been there before now. Now they just looked haunted. Magnus hated himself for asking Alec what he was asking, but he couldn’t bear the alternative—he just couldn’t.

“It has to be you, Alec, I’m not strong enough…” His voice hitches dryly, even as the words force themselves out of his throat, as if desperately trying to remain unsaid. Alec looks stricken, as if Magnus’ words had slapped him, hard and Magnus thinks for a moment that he is going to deny him.

Alec is already pulling away, taking a step back and forcing that distance again. Ever determined. Magnus loved him for it, even if it was all so very…pointless. “Please, Alec,” Magnus sniffled then, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. He could feel the tears pushing up against the walls he had built to keep in all the emotions that he could no longer process in this world. It was taking every ounce of energy and sheer willpower for Magnus to retain control of himself for as long as he had already managed, he couldn’t afford to lose control—not now, when they were so close to the end.

“It has to be on my terms Alec…please…please…I need you to do this for me…please.”  Magnus had never begged for anything in his life but here he was, dropping to his knees and clinging to Alec’s legs, begging for the unthinkable. It was agony, in every sense.

Alec seemed frozen in place, his eyes tired and hollow as he gazed down at Magnus like he was a stranger crumpled at his feet. Agony.  

Silent tears leaked from the corners of his eyes and Magnus sniffled again and choked on another sob, struggling to retain some semblance of dignity. Whatever for, he did not know.

Something seemed to switch on behind Alec’s gaze and he jerked suddenly, like he’d just woken from a nightmare and needed to clear his thoughts. He said nothing, just held up a hand in front of him and shook his head, and then he was gone. Turning on his heel and stalking out of the room, broken glass and splintered bits of wood crunching beneath his boots as he left Magnus alone—a crumpled, broken mess.

For a long while, Magnus remained where he was, his shoulders shaking with dry sobs that bounced off the hollow walls. He felt hopeless and helpless and so many other things that twisted into a massive ball inside of him that was impossible to control anymore. Alec had asked him once, what scared him and it was this. Right here.

Magnus cried then. He cried for what they had sacrificed and what they had lost—what they had to lose still and it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.

Eventually, like most days, Magnus finally managed to get himself back to his feet, wincing openly because there wasn’t anyone left to hide it from. The pain that simmered inside of him was constant and torturous and soon, it would be too much to bear at all, Magnus knew it was only a matter of time.

When he stepped back outside, the sun, which had already started to disappear behind the haze, was hanging duly in the sky, casting sickly shadows on everything around him. His gaze fell on Alec then, who was perched atop a motorcycle at the bottom of the steps, gazing off in the distance like a goddamn postcard. It was breathtaking and Magnus’ chest seized sharply, a fresh crop of tears already threatening to make their escape.

He didn’t know what to say. Alec looked like a natural sitting on the sleek machine and it stirred something in him, something that he feared was already beginning to burn away. Magnus wanted to ask him where he’d snagged the thing but found that he didn’t really care.

“Get on.” Alec says, just like that, without even looking at him.

Magnus blinked, his gaze flicking between Alec and the bike. He trusted Alec; would follow him anywhere in this entire fucked up world, but they didn’t have time for this. They just didn’t have the time. “Alec—“ It was the only word he managed to get out before Alec’s head snapped around so quick it was a blur and instantly killed any retort he thought he would like to make.

Alec’s gaze was fixed on him so intently that it commanded compliance and Magnus was helpless against it. He always had been, after all.  “Magnus.”  Alec said, simply, with just a hint of impatience that instantly softened his expression. It was just a simple thing, but Magnus understood it. He understood Alec and so he gave in.

Magnus nodded, once, firmly, as he walked over to where Alec sat, offering him a small, defeated smile as he climbed up onto the bike and tucked himself in right behind. Alec’s back was firm against his front and Magnus allowed himself to dissolve into that warmth that felt like home. He sucked in a deep breath and dropped his head down on Alec’s shoulder, arms snaking around his middle and holding on so tight he might never let go.

Alec kick started the bike with a confidence that made the very corners of Magnus’ mouth curl with the fondest smile. Alec was nothing if not determined.  The motorcycle roared to life beneath them and Magnus’ eyes fluttered shut, surrendering it all to Alec and this moment.

It didn’t take him very long to figure out the mechanical aspect of the bike and soon enough they were roaring along down one street after another. The wind was warm and sharp and it whipped painfully at Magnus’ skin and tangled his hair. Alec was like a steady, comforting warmth against him and Magnus sucked in another, deep, cleansing breath, burying his nose right between Alec’s shoulder blades. He smelled like leather and smoke and so many other things that Magnus didn’t want to think about.

Once upon a time things could have been so different and Magnus feels bitter and cheated that this had become their fate. It wasn’t fair, he thought, petulantly, as if he still had the freedom to be so childish. Those days were gone, along with all of their friends. There was nothing left for them here, not anymore.

Magnus feels Alec’s muscles tense against him as he removes his arms from where they were anchored around his middle and he smiles, leaning in close enough to press a small kiss to the back of his neck. Just a small assurance. Everything is fine, or, as fine as it can be, anyways. He smiles as he raises his arms up, stretching them out on either side of him as they zoomed down the street like they were the only two people in the world.  

Magnus knows what Alec is doing and he loves him for it, he always has. Alec was stubborn but he wasn’t stupid. He knew that there was no other way; Magnus had seen it in his eyes, even when he was denying it with his mouth.

When he tires of the wind’s relentless torrent his arms return, sliding back around Alec and locking him in place, as if he could freeze them right here in this very moment.  Magnus would never say it aloud but he was tired. Tired of running and tired of fighting and tired of pretending that he wasn’t going to die.

There was never a reality in which leaving Alec wasn’t absolute torment, but that didn’t mean it still didn’t have to happen. Magnus knew it, and he knew that Alec did too, deep down, in the dark places.

By the time Alec parks the bike back at the bottom of the Institute steps, the red sun had nearly sunk into the depths of a black horizon that would devour Thule with all the ugly things that crept around in the darkness. A small shiver shook him as he slid off the bike, his legs stiff and sore and crackling with a pain that made his fingers shake. Magnus glanced up at the darkening sky and frowned, his brows knitting together as he followed Alec up the steps and back inside the ruined Institute. He didn’t need to say it, Alec was just aware that they were running out of time as Magnus was.  He wanted to scream. Just scream and scream until his throat was hoarse and his lungs gave out but he said nothing instead, just stuffed down the agony and forged on—it was the least he could do.

Later still, the pain will become too much for Magnus to hide and he really will scream and the sound of it—the pure agony that resonated at its core—would break Alec. Break him right in half, like that stupid fucking piano. He will realize that he couldn’t ever really fix anything at all and it will consume him, much like the blight, that had turned all of love’s veins demon-black.  

In the end, it is blackness and it is red-hot pain and then it is nothing. Just sleep.

[skywillsometimeswrite]

Don’t Talk About It

Read it on AO3

Grif and Simmons went through a lot together. Some of that, you just didn't talk about. Even when there was nothing else you could do.

Season 15 Alternate Ending

It felt like Simmons has dreaming. Dammit, he hoped he was dreaming. There was a dizzying feeling in his head and if it weren’t made of cybernetic material he was sure his heart would have been rapidly beating from sheer panic. Grif was gone. He was… actually gone. For real this time. No second chances, no movie cliches where they were just hanging off the edge. He was gone. K.I.A. Dead .

Bile was crawling up his throat as he stared down at the blood oozing from the orange helmet, the visor destroyed from the bullet that had sliced through it easily at a point-blank range. Simmons would kill Temple. He would kill him for taking his best friend away from him right when he got him back. He would kill him for him away before he ever got the chance to even tell him how he felt.

“Grif? Come, come on! Grif!” He was shaking the body hopelessly. He wanted to wake up. Or wake Grif up. He knew it was impossible but he was too angry and heartbroken and in shock to even comprehend what had completely happened yet. At least, that’s what he was telling himself. Even though he knew. He just didn’t want to believe it. “Dex?” Hope was draining. Emotion rising.

He didn’t try to hold back the tears as they came or try to hide the rising sobs in his throat. He wasn’t frozen like the rest of his team and he wasn’t even bothering to help them but god dammit Grif was dead and here he was being useless and it was probably all his fault-

He heard another gunshot behind him, barely able to glance away from Grif to see another body laying, bleeding out on the ground. Blue. Caboose? No. There was another blue figure right next to it, and that shine of blue visor confirmed it. That was Loco. This cocksucker had shot his own teammate. Simmons was furious for multiple reasons now.

“Simmons! Get out of the way!” Tucker yelled right after he heard the click of a pistol getting prepared to shoot again. His head swiveled to look at Temple again, looking down directly at the barrel of his gun.

“I’ll give you the same offer. Join the circle, or suffer the same fate as your idiot friend.” His voice was shaking.

Simmons felt something like a flame rush through his veins, his hands clenched into fists. He knew the psychopath couldn’t see him, but he felt like he could glare a hole right through the gun and into his very head. He shouted, jumping up and tackling Temple to the ground. The pistol and the remote for the armor lock slid across the ground. Andrews scooped it up quickly and unfroze everyone. Feet clunk around the room, several finding their way behind him.

Simmons didn’t pay attention to any of them. He was seeing red, which he imagined his commander officer saw on a daily basis. His body was taking over his mind, even the cyborg part. He was pinning Temple against the ground, punching his visor mercilessly.

“What do you want Grif? We have to get back or else Sarge will-” Simmons was frozen at what he was seeing. In front of him was an entire old school movie theater set up in front of him complete with a projector.  “What… the hell…”

“What do you think? Took me ages to find all the parts for the projector, and don’t even get me started on the speakers. But hey, at least we finally got a kick-ass man cave we can hang out now. And we can restart  our sci-fi movie watching routine.”

“You… set this all up? For us?” Simmons was speechless. Why would Grif-? Did he really care this much? Or was he just trying to get out of work again? Either way, with a nod and the brightest grin he had possibly ever seen from Grif, he walked in slowly. It was a normal cave with two old, beat up couches on either side of a small half-decayed wooden end table refurbished to the best of the lazy soldier's ability and the projector that didn’t look half bad on top of it. In front of it was a cooler with a few beers sticking out, and on either side of the other cave wall, two black speakers faced the small set up. Simmons couldn’t help but pick up the projector in awe, turning over in his hands. “You fixed these?”

“Eh, maybe.” Grif shrugged, but by the obvious pride in his voice and expression, it was clear he did. “Had to bug Lopez for the parts but otherwise it was pretty straight forward.”

“I never took you for the tinkering type.”

“I guess I’m full of surprises today.”

He never asked him about why he set it up, simply enjoyed the company. It wasn’t something that they needed to talk about.

Cracks were visible now on the blue visor, spider webbing. Simmons had no idea if Temple was even still conscious anymore.  There was yelling behind his ringing ears, his sobs clouding his vision. Some blood was stained on the helmet, filling the cracks. He could see his helmet in the reflection. Just like a mirror.

“Simmons?”

He was curled up on the bathroom floor, holding his organic hand with his metal one, tears and blood dripping on the floor. He barely recognized Grif’s voice and he looked up to see the orange soldier in the doorway, his expression shocked and… was that concern? In front of him was shattered glass and blood littered on the floor, wall, and sink.

“G-Grif? I-I-”

“Shut the fuck up.” Grif said sternly, now on the ground next to him. He had moved swiftly, grabbing the bandages from the medicine cabinet that was now clearly visible behind broken glass. He was plucking out the shards from Simmons’ knuckles and rinsing them off with a wet rag that had once been hanging up on the wall. Simmons was silent the entire time, watching Grif  bandage his self-inflicted injury. When he was done he just sat there, cradling Simmons’ hand and staring at it. It was silent for what felt like way too long.

“I’m sorry-”

“I said shut the fuck up.” Grif repeated to Simmons’ strained apology.

So he did. And they sat there. Silent. Grif never asked him why Simmons did it. Simmons never told. A few similar situations happened afterwards but they never talked about. You don’t talk about it.

“Simmons.” His blind rage was stopped by a strong teal hand. “He’s already out.”

Tucker’s somber voice was more than unnerving. Simmons stared down at the helmet, cracked, blood staining it the blue tinted visor. Simmons didn’t even realize he was shaking until Tucker pulled him away and let him fall on the floor behind Temple and looked down at his hands. There was still a layer of drying blood barely visible on the black gloves and Simmons suddenly felt like he was suffocating. He fumbled with his helmet, attempting to shove it off his head unsuccessfully.

Simmons was thrashing in the water. He should have known that swimming on a fucking moon would have extremely strong currents. He had never been a strong swimmer, and his armor felt like it was weighing him down. And apparently this incredibly heavy armor didn’t keep out all the water because he felt a splash against his face from the bottom of his helmet. The helmet clasps must be failing. Which meant his helmet would come off. Simmons was going to drown if he didn’t short circuit first. Panic only grew and he was trying to tread water even more frantically.

Why had he let Griif have to go swimming today? Why did he have to be such a weak swimmer? Why did he have to care so much about his fucking useless teammate? Why did he --

His thoughts were cut off as his back hit something hard in the water, presumably a large boulder. The air left his artificial lungs and he swear he heard a wire snap as he lost his ability  to keep thrashing. He let the waves carry him, letting the water slosh around in his helmet, feeling it loose on his neck. It was quiet. Almost peaceful. Maybe if he fell asleep he wouldn’t even register drowning?

Something caught his attention though, something strong wrapping around his waist as he was now dragged in the water with a sort of purpose. His HUD light had long since broke and he was staring into darkness, but he could sense that it was another person dragging him to shore. He didn’t think moons had lifeguards.

Before long Simmons felt something more solid brush against the lower half of his body, and he could almost make out the sounds of the waves again. Waves getting farther away. He wasn’t in the middle of them anymore. He was dropped roughly on the ground and he was too out of it to even bother trying to move. He still wasn’t sure he could. He could make out the faint sounds of someone yelling at him and he tried to strain the stronger side of his hearing to listen, but alas he couldn’t even make out whose voice it was.

Suddenly, there was bright light right down at him. His helmet was off of him now, and he was blurrily staring up at the blue sky. Except, the sun looked a lot closer than what he was used to. He felt a pressure on his chest and before he knew it water was coming up his throat. He didn’t even realize he had swallowed any -- that couldn’t be good for cyborg insides. He forced his organic arm to move, pushing him over so he didn’t swallow his own vomit and let it fall onto the sand instead. His red hair flopped down into his eyes and he shook under his own weight trying to push himself up. He coughed up whatever water was left in his system before shakily sitting up, trying to decipher what had just happened.

And the first thing he saw was Grif. Half-naked with only swim trunks to cover himself, his curly black hair wet and framing his head in an almost majestic way, drop of water reflecting the last bits of the sun’s rays on the tan side of his skin, sparkling on the pale side. His expression betrayed how worried he was for his friend, his hands hovering over the cyborg as if he would collapse at any moment. And, honestly, Simmons wasn’t convinced he wouldn’t.

His helmet was off to the side along with his chestplate. Slowly, the pieces clicked together. Simmons was drowning and because Grif was a strong swimmer and pulled him to shore then gave him CPR which managed to work despite his insides being metal. Grif must be really good at CPR if he can save two people with it when it should be impossible. Maybe he should consider being a medic. Simmons would have to remember to mention that when he woke up -- along with a thanks -- because right now Simmons was face planting into the sand hearing nothing but a distressed “Simmons!” before darkness engulfed him. They never talked about it.

He finally got a grip and ripped his helmet off along with his chestplate, trying to get his breathing to return to normal. Maybe that wire had never been fixed because his artificial lungs shouldn’t be malfunctioning like this. He held his head in his hands for two seconds before remembering the blood and pulling away with a yelp, backpedalling until he was against the wall as if he could run away from the suit he was wearing. He scanned the room desperately, looking for an exit of some sort so he could breathe because he still felt like he was suffocating and the room felt far too small.

And then he spotted Grif again.

Doc by his side.

His helmet off.

Blood dripping.

Dark hole in his forehead.

Broken glass.

Glazed over eyes.

Staring right at Simmons.

A choked sound escaped Simmons and his body lurched forward, and before he knew it a new tidal wave of tears were streaming from his remaining eye. The eye that matched Grif’s. The eye that was just staring back him so lifeless.

“Grif, Grif, Grif no -- I, Grif -- Please you can’t -- Please! I just, I just got, no, no, no, no…” He dissolved into a ball right there, sobbing loudly as the realization finally settled on him.

There were shaking breaths from both of them, them visible in the air in front of them. The were both silent as they just watched the snowflakes fall. Simmons was surprised that the Hawaiian even decided to take his helmet off, considering he hasn’t been able to stop bitching about the cold since they got to sidewinder. But perhaps the adrenaline was still swimming around in his system. Maybe that’s why he was shaking. Simmons knew that’s why he was.

Almost falling off a cliff could do that to a person.

Grif pulled out a cigarette and struggled to light it for a few seconds before he visibly seemed to relax with the first drag. Simmons didn’t argue and Grif seemed to notice by the way he glanced over at the cyborg.

“You feeling okay, Simmons? I’m ruining your lungs right in front of you and you haven’t so much as sent a disapproving look.” He asked after blowing another puff of smoke into the air, it nicely contradicting the white overlay the rest of the place had.

“I, well,” Simmons struggled to find the words. Grif had nearly died right in front of him. And if he hadn’t grabbed the brute shot from the Meta then he would have followed right over the edge and it would be all his fault because he had decided to try to grab him with his right-fucking-arm. “I just think you deserve it. It’s been a long day.”

“...yeah. Yeah it has.” Grif left it at that, taking another long drag and leaning his head back to blow up the smoke. They let the silence wash over them. They didn’t need the words to know that they didn’t need to talk about it.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fucking fair. They had survived so much together. So much. A tank, the surgery, a bomb, freelancers, the Meta, a cliff, a civil war, mercenaries, Carolina, Chruch, Sarge for crying out loud! Simmons never thought a bullet -- a fucking bullet of all things -- split them up for good. It had always been Grif and Simmons. Simmons and Grif. They were a team. They were partners. They were… them . Simmons had gotten used that. That was how things were, you didn’t mess with the fucking status quo . But Temple just had to fuck with everything, didn’t he? If Grif had just stayed on that stupid fucking moon then, then…

They had been together for so long. Been through so much. How could it end just like that?

It all felt like a nightmare even as he was dragged out of the lair and into the transport ship to take them all home. He slightly registered Sister’s voice, her screams and others following after her. His team tried to ask if he was okay but gave up when he didn’t answer.

Simmons wasn’t okay. He had a feeling he might never be okay. But as the ship landed, the story was published, the funeral was held, and they retired for good this time, no one mentioned the name. Especially not around Simmons.

There were somethings you just didn’t talk about.

[grim-faux]

6 - Criminally Sane

The ache in my arms forced me to action, either I’d learn where the twins had hidden themselves or I’d fall to my death.  If I could locate them from a distance away, I’d have the time to between us to run.  I pretended to believe this, I couldn’t dangle here any longer.

I pulled my body over the frame as much as I could, then edged my knee up and pushed myself in.  I let my body recover from the exertion, while keeping attention on the empty hall.  The sound of burnt sparks and hitching caught my attention, but I wanted to make certain the room they had been standing beside previously wasn’t occupied.  I couldn’t recall if the window near me was shattered, though I never picked up the distinct sound of a forced entry.  I even doubted if they could break the plexi windows.

It felt safe, and was empty aside from another body slumped in a chair seated at the terminal.  Another security room offering much of the same, but no lockers to hide in should my fan club return.  I wouldn’t get the chance anyway, I was cornered here.

I looked over some of the filing cabinets checking for patient files, what I did find dealt primarily with diagnosis and progress reports, little of interest.  Some of the drawers were locked, and probably these few held more files on Murkoff’s work and Project Walrider.  A few desks lined the wall at the back of the room near the locked Security door, in them were personal items and memos to the staff.  One had a battery, a find much more worthwhile than a wallet filled with twenties.

I might’ve taken them anyway.

A view window separated the room from a decontamination chamber, before it sat the terminal and computers.  The monitors had slipped to screensaver mode displaying relaxing ripples, and liquid bubbles.  Among the mess of papers was another file, though it was enlightening if not building on the confusion that choked my thoughts.

MURKOFF CORP. P.G.  MAINTENANCE MEMO

  Proper Purge Gate maintenance is crucial to PROJECT WALRIDER security.  Please refer to Murkoff Corp. Maintenance Manual MMPSMM180286 or seek guidance from a supervisor with the proper security clearance.

This struck me as odd.  Purge gates, installed specifically for Project Walrider?  All along I had this delusion it was to keep microbes and other pathogens from cross contaminating the patients involved in the varied experimentations.  These were unique to Murkoff’s research, this I knew.  But what was Murkoff’s intent on purging?  And was it contagious? The doctors and staff didn’t seem concerned with this, and I had seen no micro protective suits anywhere.

I checked the hall before climbing from the ruined window.  It felt like the solid cement walls around me vibrated from some incomprehensible force, the air itself echoed with an ancient power.  Or was it my nerves picking up a distant threat?  The broken catch and clicking was coming from further down the corridor I walked along, from a malfunctioning purge gate. The door was jammed and jerked in its slot, while sparks spat from the mechanism.  Beyond the dark portal, a short hall led to door with a plate beside that read Showers.  Beneath the door, the red stains had been brushed on the floor guiding me on the path I needed to follow.

Call me crazy.

The door was locked and needed another key card.  Well, fuck.  It would be some sort of fucking catastrophe if it was around here, wouldn’t it?   The world would just fucking end if I didn’t go hunt it down.

I proceeded forward into the shadows of the hall and located another of the doctors, bloody and beaten till his uniform was black and tinged with puss.  It looked like he had tried to reach something on the other side of the gate, maybe a key.  Or someone had snagged him and tried to tear him through the tiny bars. 

I returned to the malfunctioning doors as my best lead and inched through, activating the night feed careful of what might be left discarded on the dark floor.  A tremor rolled up my spine as I thought of people, scattered in the library.  The echo of panicked shrieks clattered around the caged corridor I was nearing, beyond thick bars encircled the walkway of the upper floor.  Floor upon floor of cell blocks were visible in the remnants of forgotten lamps, enough visibility I could click off the nightvision.  I actually hurried my steps around the cement corner (hardcore reporter instincts right there) to locate the origin of the sobs and shrieks.  Below, someone was pleading, and I breezed through the metal gates in time to see a large, hulking shape.  One I was not pleased to discover here.

He was holding a man, and literally ripped the body AWAY from his head.  Not the other way around, I mean, he pulled this man’s torso out from under his head!  I stood in utter shocked, listening to him mutter to himself as he wandered away, completely abandoning the other patients darting about in their panic.

“We have to contain it.”

I waited before a set of bars blocking off another room, the pale light spilled over my shoulders from somewhere in that room.  At any moment, I expected the big fucker to grab me from behind and tear my body in two.  What had he said?

“I can’t shake Chris Walker, the big ugly fucker who likes ripping off peoples’ heads. I hear him muttering about security protocols, containment. What if he’s not the problem? What if he’s trying to fix it?”

I wrote down the time from my camera and sat in the light escaping through the bars.  Patients were still screaming below in the prison block, one of them was running around trying to climb out of that place.  I didn’t blame him.

“He’ll kill us all for being sick.”  Did he mean their mental deficiencies?  Or what Murkoff had done to them?  It was becoming obscure between where they had been committed, and where Murkoff took over.  Chris wasn’t exactly a daisy himself.  But the containment chambers, Murkoff had been quartering something off.  Project Walrider?  Was that what had happened to this place?

My facts were scattered.  Whatever Murkoff had been trying to do, it got out of hand and killed everyone here.  Chris was a threat, but…I was afraid to admit this - he wasn’t the enemy I should be running from.

I put my notepad away and made the remainder of the trip to the end of the corridor.  Another dead end, but the trip wasn’t a waste.  A guard had fallen in the corner with a magnet card pinned to his breast pocket.

As I passed by the bars on my return, a patient dove down from a hole in the floor above.  “See the egress…get flushed with the rest of us shits.”  He hoped off out of sight, following a path opposite of the blood stains I was directed on by my ‘benefactor.’

I stopped to strain and see where it was he had gone, looked like stairs going down.  Was that the one I hadn’t shut the door on?  How’d he get over there?  By the bloody marks, it seemed soon my path would lead to that side regardless.

This meant the patients had alternate ways of getting around, and some had access to the segregation gates.  Of course, who took over the jail when all the wardens had been murdered?  The meek would inherit the world.

  Maybe it was better I was not on the exact same route, I did not want to run into these people at every corner.  To cross paths was inevitable, but any shred of opportunity to avoid a meeting I would snatch up.  Too many close calls already, eventually I would foul up.  Death stained the walls and it was following me.  Or I was following it.

I hastened through the broken doors, not feeling better that this brief obstacle was overcome.  Progress was progress at this point, gradual and frustrating, but as long as I was on my feet (and clothed) I shouldn’t be complaining.

The magnet door gave me some trouble, because it was the path I was directed on and that’s the only reason I could see for it to malfunction at this one point in time.  I gave the panel a smack with my fist, and regretted that, but it seemed to knock the reader into functioning order.  See, I could fight back.

As I stepped into the black room, a loud crack filled the air causing me to jump backwards.  I took a breath and stretched a bit to loosen the knots in my muscles.  Just thunder, that storm I had beaten to this place had finally arrived.  Wouldn’t help matters, couldn’t hurt them either.  I took a deep breath and coughed at the smell, I was getting used to it by this point, though I didn’t want to admit that.  I couldn’t remember what the fresh outside air smelled like.

My camera had fallen to a fourth of its battery life, but it’d hold.  As long as the recording functions and everything were going, I was good.

Lockers and boxes.  Not lockers I could camp in, just small cubbies to store the stuff mentally unstable people should not have access to.  Like small pieces that could be easily swallowed.

I was caged in by wire mesh that extended up a distance I was certain I could climb with ease, however, the main concern was the other side.  The fence ended at a sheer drop, some distance above a tiled floor. Shrieking was coming from that lower area, what looked like a filthy shower covered in gravel or dirt, I couldn’t discern through the camera, it didn’t matter either way.  More patients hurrying to a hole torn out in the concrete floor.

This was where the ‘Father’ wanted me to go, I think.  How the hell would I get over there?  And why were the patients in such a frantic state to reach it as well?  From their voices they sounded panicked, as though a great urgency had arrived to escape through that hole.  Was someone chasing them?  I had twenties stacked on the big fucker.

At any rate we were all herded in the same direction, by Father Martin.  No mystery they believed what he was on about.  Didn’t mean I was, I needed a way out of here that didn’t involve the sweet release of death.

Damn it, I wouldn’t die after coming this far.

There was no safe way down there over the mesh, no footholds or wrecked openings that I could make out.  Just a drop that would leave at least one leg broken or sprained, the point being I didn’t need to risk it if there was a way around.  The patients had a way to get down there, I couldn’t make out from where exactly, just a hall that led out of the shadows.  I must have been on the right track, though it felt far out of the way and redundant.  At least I was alone.

Lightening flashed, and I thought I saw something.  Something that frightened me.  I eased around the fence corner and listened, but heard nothing.  Maybe my nerves were frayed, there was a curtain blowing in the breeze, some windows along this level had been shattered but I doubted that I would survive a fall from this height.

I remained wary and stepped out, creeping along the shadowed side of the fence.  Night vision, that would settle things.  I looked through the visor and saw a large, sinew shape stalking towards me.

Just before I could turn and flee his path, the soft pads of bare feet caught me before the roar of thunder clattered, and light filled the hall.  I didn’t dare drop my eyes from the black veil that retook the open space, if I turned to acknowledge the figure at my back that would be the moment death ripped through me.  My worst fears were realized, as though all this time they had mingled among my restive thoughts.  I was cornered. 

It felt like time had ground still at that precise moment, the droplets running down windows ran up backwards.  I might die here in this instant, my corpse gutted and I would turn into another nameless sap.  Another victim to this morbid hospital.  Devoured alive by nightmares tearing into reality.

I threw myself out the open window.

  “My god, he vanished.”

“Vanished without a trace.”  The other sounded lazy or amused.

I clung by one hand, the cold winter rain seeped through the fibers of my coat and streams of water from the wall slipped down my sleeve.  My other hand clutched the camera to my chest as I trembled against a sharp gale of wind.  I would not let it go, I refused to lose that camera!  Quickly I shoved it into the pack and made sure it was secure and covered by my coat before slapping my hand up to the soaked ledge, and inched to the right.  Don’t slip, for gods sake don’t lose your grip Miles.

“I detect sarcasm.”

“It was,” he paused, probably to smirk, “my intention.”

“He thinks we’re assholes.”  Yep.

“Or stupid.”  Nope.  Truthfully, nope.  Just assholes.

“Let’s pull him in and slit his belly open.”  Holy shit move, I gotta get out of here!

“Wait.  Just a moment.”

I shuffled along the ledge, my legs dangling in open air and soaked.  When I awoke in Martin’s cell my pants had nearly completely dried, and now I was fully soaked on this little detour.  Not the highlight of my concerns for the moment – focus, focus, focus.

The ledge ended at some distance, but an open window was available if I could get enough leverage to pull myself up.  I scrapped my toes into the slick brick and hauled my soggy body up, until I was over the sill enough to see the hall.  In the dark I couldn’t make out where the twins had gone, but I heard nothing over the drum of rain on glass.  Without a second thought I heaved into the safety of shadows and kept low, hurrying into my original route.  I slicked my hands dry against the lining of my coat and brought up the camera in my damp fingers, only checking through the visor when the light was abandoned.  It was total black, my gaze lost on the floor in my haste to get away.  I happened upon a door and flung it open, not nearly thankful enough that it wasn’t locked.  I shut it softly and spun around, about ready to fall as my body quivered in the cold and my waterlogged shoes met the gritty tile.

Halls.  Just halls.  Janitorial bucket, a mop (poor sort of weapon).  No indication of where to go from here, no sound of life, a minimal amount of safety by first appearance.  I didn’t feel like I was missing much.

The hall to my right was dark, but my battery was still holding out on power.  On the other hand, it looked like the lamps still worked if I continued forward to the next corner.

I decided to check the dark hall, given circumstances I was safer sitting in a shadow than in the open light fully exposed to potential dangers.  The path led through a gate, I crossed the wide stretch to check and confirm another gate was locked on one end, before I turned to address a light source that had been on my left.  It was more or less what I expected.

Some sort of disciplinary room, I gauged, not sure though.  I took as much from the chair to the side, a makeshift toilet and electric chair though there were no visible cords hooked to it, only the restraints for the neck and wrists.  It could’ve been used for shock therapy, though that was outlawed forever ago.  Trust Murkoff to bring back the classics.

More decay, on the other side of the chair an assortment of limbs had been abandoned, blue and black, the skin and muscle barely clinging to the bones and flies swarming.  I buried my nose in my wet sleeve and turned my sight toward one of the holding cells, where a guard lay folded in half.  Backwards.  Looked like someone tried to drag him into the edge of the floor.

On the desk at the other side was another privy folder, which I was glad to open and go through.  I read through it three times until my mind had focused and I was picking up the actual words on the file, rather the flashes and burn of fetid flesh clawing at my back.

Please find attached a copy of the DEATH CERTIFICATE for RUDOLF G. WERNICKE, Murkoff Psychiatric Systems subcontractor no. 148616.

  No surviving family.

    STATE OF COLORADO hold to light to view watermark

File No. 8732

  Place: Colorado

  Town or City: Mount Massive Preserve

  Full Name: Rudolf Gustav Wernicke

  Length of residence in city or town where death occurred: 0 Years, 7 months 

  How long in U.S., if of foreign birth: 55 years

  Sex: Male

  Color or Race: White

  Single, Married, Widowed, or Divorced (write the word): Single.

  Date of Birth: October 20, 1918

  Birthplace: Germany

  Date of Death: February 28, 2009

  I hereby certify: that I attended deceased from June 4, 2003 to February 28, 2009 that I saw him alive on February 27, 2009, that death occurred on the date stated above at 4:11 AM.

  The principal cause of death and related causes of importance were as follows:

“Heart failure due to advanced age.”

  THIS IS TO CERTIFY THAT THIS IS A TRUE AND CORRECT COPY OF THE OFFICIAL RECORD

  The file included some images of him prior to death, and some earlier in his life, but most of it was medical data and some interviews a week before he had passed.  No images of his body post death were included.

Rudolf Wernicke was one of few men apart of Project Paperclip, and he had been contracted by Murkoff for his mathematical and scientific advancements, but he had never made it to that day.  What a shame.  But there were contradictions to this file, and certain facts.  I knew it before reading this.  One file stated he had overseen experiments done on Chris Walker, and I recall reading an article two years prior glorifying his research.  A stupid sick document of how he was one of the greatest minds of his era, and how the world of science missed his contributions.  And in this particular report it stated that he had died around three years ago.

The inaccuracies involved with all the information relevant to Dr. Rudolf Wernicke was atrocious.  What was going on here?  He had no surviving family.

I shut the file and slipped it under a box before leaving that room and shutting the door behind me.  The distant howl of a sick soul reached my ears and I paused to dwell on it, as I did the files I had compiled thus far.  I toggled through the functions of my camera as easily as one might clench their fist, I read through the file tacking down that it was authentic.  I was putting off the inevitable.

No other option but the lit hall.  I returned, poking around the corner and listening for footfalls, muttering, anything that screamed death.  Aside from a distant shriek, it was calm.  My attention was drawn to the left where dark hand prints streaked up and down a wall, beside the doors of a purge chamber.  By the looks of it the door had no power.  For now I let it go and walked along the wall and glanced out the dark windows to my right, I couldn’t see but I didn’t bother to bring up the NV either.  Looked like another cell block but the glass was filthy with dirt and steam, it could have as easily been an outdoor courtyard.  I was too fucking lost to come up with anything more creative.

I began to wonder what it was like for the doctors to work in this place, once Murkoff Corp had taken over.  Some voiced concerns for the conditions of their patients and probably were genuinely unaware of Murkoff’s true intentions, or they didn’t want to know.  They had to realize something was wrong, I couldn’t believe these people spent hours with their patients and never saw a change in their behavior.  Given, Murkoff was using hypnosis to alter their ideals and memories, maybe the patients themselves had no idea what was going on, despite how shattered their minds were to begin with.  But someone was aware.  They contacted me.

I had my doubts that the whistleblower made it out of this, even before things went bad.  Murkoff either didn’t care that someone was contacted, or they were too busy dying.

I passed through another segregation gate, and continued all the way to the end of the hall and discovered the most creative death by far.  The poor fool had gotten his head stuck in a purge chamber, and presumably his head was still on the other side.

A chilling thought came to me.  What if he intended to die this way?

I turned away and noted those familiar shoe prints leading from the doctors body, towards a Security room.  I half expected the door to be locked and another diversion to follow where I would need to locate a key on a dead guard, or perhaps a boss fight with some mutant monster.  It was almost disappointing.

The room was lightly furnished, in disarray from the shit storm, but the furniture was still in order.  A tall shelf with boxes filled with files stood in my path, a few filing cabinets, desks and computers lined the walls.  And what purge station wouldn’t be complete, without a bloody guard slumped over the terminal?  I pulled his chair back and examined the guy.

Murkoff security.  What sort of work was he doing before he was caught up in this mess?  Was he unemployed?  Perhaps he was a good guy, sending money to his family.  It was more likely he was in some sort of trouble, and Murkoff might’ve used its influence to clear his record.  Lot of good it did him.

There was a button in the center of the terminal.  Looked like he had been reaching for it before his sudden death.  The man was covered in blood, with his skin torn outwards, but no footprints.

What had killed him?

I checked the monitors, revealing areas I had already explored, nothing interesting aside from the few patients that invaded these areas and wallowed about lost and confused.  I reevaluated the room, there was a door at the wall that hadn’t been opened, but outside was the hall I had just come through.  This place was disorientating.  I shut it and returned to the terminal.

Activate this, follow the blood.  What was I doing with my life?

I gave the dial a pat, reactivating the chamber beyond the glass.  The doors open with their sharp rasp and I froze.

Chris Walker slipped his large girth into the chamber.  When he saw me, he immediately swung around and began smashing against the plexiglass.  Twice, the glass cracked in large stars under each blow, the chains wrapped over his wrists amplified his ferocity.  My vision flickered as I felt my heart pick up pace.  He couldn’t get through.  That glass was shatter proof!

But I had already spun away.

When Chris began wrecking the view window, the emergency system locked down the room and the chamber.  He couldn’t get out of there, so he would come into here.  I couldn’t get out of here so….

The fuckin doors were locked tight.  I feared the only one that could get them open was the big fucker, but he wasn’t doing me favors.  I darted around the desk by the tall book shelf as he crashed into the room, snorting and huffing, his gaze dead set on me.

Dead.  Oh god, I was so dead.  I had no way out, in no time he’d catch me.  I couldn’t run around this room forever.  Hopeless.  There were no options, no escape! 

No!  Not here!  There had to be a way out.  I had to make a way out, but how?  I shuffled around the desk and bookshelf while scanning the floors and wall, a sliver of my attention locked on the big fucker as he snorted and mirrored my movements.  I imagined a clock in the back of my mind, as the room filled with smoke.  It was ticking down the seconds I had left to live.  There was a way out, just a little more time.  Please.

The clock ticked down the seconds to an image of a skull.

He shoved aside the desk separating us, nearly smashing me had I not leapt aside toward the terminal, away from the only thing standing between him and I.  “I just wanna help.”  The desk hit the wall with such force the screws in vent above popped out, revealing my liberation.

But the big fucker still stood in the way, blocking my path with his large arms outstretched and his murky eyes puncturing my soul.  He took a step, then another, gradually picking up speed as I staggered backwards to the shattered terminal, and the fire thrashing in the shattered window.  One chance.  One stupid, flimsy, irrational chance to take if I wanted to escape with my skin still on my bones.

At the last instant I stooped down scrambling on my feet and hands as he swung out, trying to take my head off.  I was up and dashing to the book case, scrambling up the dusty shelves.  “We’re not done here.”  My hands slipped and I sprang up catching the vent with my fingers.  I was too focused clawing my way in I didn’t see Chris approach from below.  He snared my ankle, but I kicked throwing his grip off and tore the pants leg as I pulled myself the rest of the way into the vent.

Safe.  For the moment.  I crashed and bumped through the flue, before I brought out the camera to see exactly where I was headed.  Those doors would hold him for no more than a minute, already I could feel the vibrations as he went to work.

I kicked out the vent above the hall and dropped down, the sounds were too close, just around the corner.  As I twisted away the door cracked off the frame and skid into the wall.  I ran.

Due to my habit of shutting doors behind me, the metal grate in the hall was left shut. I glanced back as I dragged the door open and saw Chris right behind me, I tried to slam it between us but my hand slipped and I just kept going.  I could feel his breath at my neck as I ran….

Towards a wall of fire.

I nearly staggered to a halt when I saw the flames, if I moved fast enough I could get through it.  Wasn’t that where the purge gate was?  It didn’t matter, I was safer in the fire.

I pulled my collar up to protect my eyes and tucked the camera against my chest.  The fire might dissuade Chris, but nothing so far had been able to slow him down.

A sudden explosion and I was screaming as I flew.  The gas in the purge chamber, I don’t know…I was falling.  Again.  I saw the orange wisps contrasted against the black surroundings before I hit, I was mostly coherent, a thunderous ringing pulsed in my head as dots flashed along my peripheral.  Above, the suspended light swung illuminating the cold gray walls, and bars of another cell block.  Oh, it was another cell block.  For a moment I was too stunned to move, I watched small shapes contrasted by the fierce light whirl overhead.  Buzzing.  Insects?

I couldn’t get a gasp in as I waited to evaluate whether the fall had shattered my bones or not.  Sudden panic streaked through me.  Was I paralyzed?  Had that done it?  But already I was pulling myself up and taking a tight breath, my landing hadn’t been as painful as I thought it would be.

And I soon found why.

The smell hit me before the realization.  Bodies.  Ravaged and in pieces, guts spewing out of backsides, spinal cords ripped out of chests, a pool of dark blood soaking into the concrete.  Flies swarmed everywhere, some crawling on my forehead and neck.  I gagged and whimpered, picking up my hands from the miasma of rotten swill, my palms black with blood.  It looked awful, almost painful.  Groaning, I managed to get on my feet as my shoes sunk in the rotted mess, quickly I backed away staring at the mass nearly as high as my thighs.

My camera!

Hesitantly, I moved forward and lifted it off of what looked like liver, or something else decayed into black mush.  I quickly backed away, breathing out of my mouth in gasps and tasting the sweet pungent meat.  That had hurt, I needed to sit down, I needed…I needed just a moment.

The light flickered and went out.  The safety of the dark enveloped me, but my senses still penetrated, still warned me of the dangers.  I was nearly fooled that the decomposing bodies were no longer there, but the flies bombarded my face in their search for their kitchen.  I backed away pulling up the night vision, and moved to the opposite side of the cell block near a bloodied bed.  It was odd, but my nerves were so badly frayed I was seeing odd shadows.  A shape above, behind the gate, there and gone when I blinked.  I’m sure it was ‘Father’ Martin, but the explanation felt like a lie that made my flesh crawl.

I just about collapsed over the hard bed, resting one arm on the side for support.  I’m not sure if I rested my elbow in the blood or not, I couldn’t feel it.  I closed my eyes and sat there trying to think, to remember what I was doing.  Everything was out of control, was I still on the same mission when I first arrived here?

Nothing had changed, I reminded.  Nothing.  I needed to survive, I had to get out of here.  Someone had to expose this hell.  I would find a way to make Murkoff pay for all of this, they went too fucking far.  Had to keep my sanity intact.

It felt like inch by inch I was losing focus.  Losing control over my life.  The longer I stayed, the more unhinged I became.  I would either die here, or wish I was dead.

Crackling filled the dark, and I felt the floor quake.  Turning my camera up I viewed the NV feed to confirm what I already knew.

Chris Walker was here.  

[master-sass-blast]

Planning Pains

Whoooo boy. Gonna have to slap a big ol’ trigger warning on this one.

Summary: You attempt to start planning your upcoming wedding with Piotr --and run into a major emotional wall instead.

Rating: T for adult language, past child abuse, mentions of abuse, trauma from said abuse, and just a lot of anger, angst, and emotional pain.

Set after ‘Questions and Answers’ and before ‘The Literal Crack Fic.’

Also

TRIGGER WARNING: If you’ve got any hang ups on your ability to be loved or be in a relationship (which I absolutely understand and am not judging anyone for because I went through the same stuff as a teenager), this may not be the fic for you! This fic deals extensively with being led to believe that you (as the character of the Reader, not you irl obvs) weren’t worthy of being loved and the trauma that extended from that, and even if you haven’t suffered the abuse and gaslighting that I’ve detailed for the CHC, it’s heavy.

Obviously, y’all are fully capable of making your own grown-ass decisions, but I wanted to put it out there. Just in case.

Taglist:  @marvel-is-perfection, @chromecutie, @super-darkcloudstudent, @girl-obsessed-with-things, @starman-thorsus-canos-jock

(Want to be added to the taglist? Send me a DM! Seriously, DM me, I don’t trust Tumblr’s ask box system or reblog notification system to catch everything lol.)

You should be able to do this. You’re smart. You’re capable. You help herd around a bunch of malcontent mutant teenagers and take down various groups of mutant criminals or groups planning to enact crimes against mutants –and the former is arguably more dangerous than either of the latter. You can make pancakes without burning down the kitchen –and have an edible product by the end of it (though the overall “pancake” appearance is largely questionable)!

You can fucking fly, for fuck’s sake. Know how many people can do that? A significantly small number, and they need planes or fancy equipment to do it, the chumps.

(Alright, that last point may be a little moot due to your mutation set, but still.)

Point stands: you are a confident, competent, capable adult, who is capable of accomplishing many different things with varying but usually large amounts of success.

So, why is it you can’t plan your own wedding?

You’re staring down at one of the tables in the library; you’d opted to set up in there for the sake of space, so you could spread everything out and get a good look at all of it, but now you’re thinking that was a mistake because the sheer amount of everything only makes it that much clearer that you don’t know what you’re doing.

Venues. Catering options. Invitations. Cake. Flowers. Wedding dress. Bridesmaids dresses. More cake. Music. Groom’s suit and groomsmen’s suits. Cake again. Rings, vows, honeymoon reservations, wedding party details, finding a minister, finding a house, or maybe an apartment, legal name changes—

It’s all too much. Even something simple, like picking what flowers you like, is impossible because…

Because you never even thought someone would want to marry you. For nearly your entire life, you were told that you were a monster, whole-heartedly undesirable, and because of that you never even dreamed about what a wedding for you might look like. Not even once.

And, as a result, you’ve got absolutely nothing in mind for what you might even want.

And it’s making you furious.

Because you should’ve been able to dream about your wedding –or even if in some alternate timeline, you never wanted one, you shouldn’t have been so beaten down that you couldn’t even fathom someone finding you desirable, let alone worthy of committing to.

You’re shaking in your seat, hands trembling as rage courses through you. The longer you stare at everything in front of you, the more helpless you feel, and the angrier you get.

Fuck your parents. Fuck them, fuck them, fuck them, fuck them fuck them fuck themfuckthemfuckthem—

“Hey, Y/N.” Russell grabs your shoulder gently. “Are you okay?”

You realize that you’re basically angry-sobbing in your seat, glaring at all the wedding planning materials while you tremble all over.

Yukio materializes on your other side and hugs you gently. “It’s okay. Everything’s okay.”

“No, it isn’t!” Russell protests. “She’s crying over a picture of shoes!”

“A lot of women do that.”

“Should we get Piotr?” Ellie asks, ever the voice of reason.

You nod, largely beyond words at this point as you try to wipe off your face and reign yourself in a little now that there are people in the room with you.

Ellie and Yukio head off to track down your fiancé, but Russell stays behind, sitting next to you and gently holding your hand while you –unsuccessfully—try to calm down.

“It’s okay,” he says softly. “It’s gonna be okay. Colossus’ll be here soon.”

You nod, trying to soothe him more than you are yourself at this point, because –honestly—you’re just so angry. It’s like a wound you never realized you had is now ripping open, deeper and deeper, tearing through you until you can’t breathe and all you can do is bleed and rage—

How dare they.

Betrayal. Pure and simple. Betrayed by your parents, betrayed by the town you grew up in, betrayed by the members of the church you were dragged to every Sunday and Wednesday…

Week after week, a community of adults bore witness –to the anti-mutant sermons you were forced to listen to, to the times were the kids in the middle school and high school youth groups would bully you even though you were barely out of first grade yet, to the growing fear with which you reacted to your parents, to the times where you were dragged back to your home by men toting rifles after you’d tried to run away, to the bruises that covered your arms from your father’s abuse, to the bags under your eyes from constantly being afraid and upset, to how you retreated further and further inside yourself as your parents bore down harder and harder on you…

And they did nothing. No one, not once, ever looked at you and decided that you deserved protecting because you were just a kid and couldn’t control your genetic make-up.

How fucking dare they.

You didn’t deserve to hate yourself, you didn’t deserve to feel worthless, you didn’t deserve to believe that you were so unlovable that you’re completely lost at sea in the face of planning your own fucking wedding—

And then Piotr’s kneeling next to you and drawing you into his arms. He’s in his uniform and armored up –he must’ve been overseeing training sessions, and now you feel bad for having inadvertently interrupted him.

“Tische, myshka.” He gently lifts you into his arms, then says something to Ellie before carrying you out of the library.

You wind your arms around his neck and bury your face in the shoulder piece of his uniform. You’re still shaking, borderline hyperventilating as you try to cope with the sheer level of wrath coursing through you. How dare they, how fucking dare they; I was a kid!

And then you’re in the bedroom you share with Piotr.

You’re vaguely aware that the teens have followed you and that they’re setting the wedding stuff on the desks, and then they’re leaving and closing the door behind them—

And then it’s just you and Piotr.

“What’s wrong, myshka?” Piotr murmurs. He armors down before sitting on the bed, carefully settling you in his lap so he can nestle you in his arms. “What has you upset?”

What you want to say is that you’re upset and enraged over the mistreatment you suffered as a child, and that it still extends so far into your life that you’re finding yourself unable to help plan your own wedding because you literally have zero ideas on what you want due to being abused for so long.

What comes out, however…

“I hate them,” you seethe as you sit back. “I hate them so fucking much. I was just a kid, I didn’t fucking deserve to be their punching bag—”

Fortunately, Piotr knows you well enough –and the tragic story of your upbringing—that he can decipher from your rambling that you’re upset about your family. He frowns, sad and concerned, and tucks a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “I am so sorry, moya dusha.”

“I didn’t deserve it,” you insist, almost frantically, as tears sting your eyes. “I didn’t deserve it, I didn’t deserve it, I didn’t fucking deserve it—”

“Konecho net. Never.” He draws you back into his arms, kissing the top of your head and rubbing your back and generally doing whatever he can to soothe you. “You never deserved how they treated you. You never could, and you never will.”

You sob brokenly against your fiancé’s chest. “I can’t even plan my own wedding, Piotr! I don’t even know what I want it to look like!”

And then it all comes pouring out –the panic you’d felt in the library, how it’d morphed into fury as you realized what was causing your utter lack of ideas for your upcoming wedding, how the teens had found you in there, borderline hyperventilating as you’d stared at all the wedding stuff.

Piotr, for his part, just holds you and kisses the top of your head over and over again. “I am so sorry, moya lyubov’. Had I known you would have felt this kind of distress, I would have not left you to work on our wedding details alone.”

“But aren’t most brides supposed to plan the wedding?” you ask as you sniff inelegantly.

“I do not think ‘supposed to’ is right word. I think most brides wind up planning weddings because they have more aesthetic preferences,” Piotr explains. “However, I think it might be better if we work together for most of it. If only so you do not have to deal with your pain alone.”

“But you’ve got job stuff to do,” you whine. “And X-Men stuff, and teacher stuff, and this is gonna take a lot of time—”

“And you are my fiancée and love of my life and future wife and we will find way to make this work,” he insists as he presses his lips against your forehead. “Your well-being is more important than easy schedule.”

You let out a shaky breath. “I just don’t want you to wind up hating me by all the end of this.”

Piotr just holds you tighter and kisses your temple. “Impossible.”

It’s not going to be easy. Even the thought of trying to work on wedding stuff makes your stomach churn with anxiety and unreleased rage.

Nothing in life comes easy, though. And with Piotr by your side –and your friends and newfound family—you know you’ll get through it just fine.

[lailaliquorice]

where stillness was the only sound

so technically its not meant to work this way round but here’s my birthday present to you all: some aralyn angst!! I really enjoyed writing this because I love exploring aragon’s vulnerable side, she has so much lingering anxiety from how she was treated in her old life and I love seeing the other queens being there to support her for a change

so much love to my wonderful gay sibling @jarneiarichardnxel for always talking about angsty headcanons with me and for being one of the nicest people ever, ily and i hope you like this <3

tw for panic attacks and implied self harm c:

Being ‘the first queen’ gave Catherine of Aragon a reputation she felt she had to uphold. To their audience she was the cool and collected one; always sure of herself, always knowing her place and fighting to keep it whatever it took. Even among the other queens she was the one with the greatest amount of dignity left (because after all the shenanigans they’d seen each other through none of them had much dignity remaining with each other), the calm head in a crisis when even Jane lost her composure, the one they could always count on to keep them together in the face of criticism.

And that weighed heavily on her. She could feel the physical burden of their trust in her at the end of a weary day, in the pulsing headaches and tense shoulders she was often plagued by. It felt as though she was living a lie, that she didn’t deserve to have that trust placed in her because they didn’t know how she felt on the inside. How the walls of her exterior were kept up by the thinnest of foundations, how the cracks in her mask were hidden so well that no-one would ever notice them.

Because she couldn’t let anyone notice them. Couldn’t let even her sisters know that she, Catherine of Aragon, was really the weakest of them all. Because then they’d realise if she couldn’t be who they needed her to be then she had no worth to them anymore, and she’d be left alone again.

She never looked forward to the nights where she had a random show off, because then she was left sat at home knowing that her queens were doing just fine without her being there. She would always try to keep herself busy and her mind occupied by any means she possibly could; watching several episodes of an engaging TV show in a row, cooking a complicated meal for the queens before they returned, attempting to clean the entire house from top to bottom, pulling every single weed out of the garden flowerbed. Anything that distracted her mind from spiralling without anyone there to save her.

But sometimes, sometimes, it still wasn’t enough.

The first sign was always that disconnected feeling in her chest, as if she was floating outside her spaceship and her lifeline had just snapped. Then the weightless feeling in her limbs that always accompanied it, the trembling of her hands and shakiness of her knees that persisted even as she tried to force her way through it. Her tunnel vision as her peripheral blurred just slightly, making her feel as if she was falling helplessly through space and couldn’t grab onto anything to save her.

She gritted her teeth and forced herself to focus on cutting vegetables for the curry she was making. “You’re not doing this now,” she told herself through gritted teeth as her slices became less uniform and more jagged with how her hand shook holding the knife.

Stern words to herself made no difference, and neither did her insistence that the tears streaming down her face were caused by cutting onions rather than the mess inside her head. She was forced to drop the knife and step away from the counter when her eyes became so blurred with panicked tears that she couldn’t see her hands anymore, jumping with a yelp when the knife grazed the tip of her thumb. She let out a shallow breath as she stumbled away from the counter, hands fluttering around her head as her shoulders hunched forwards.

It was only now that she’d completely given up on her distraction that the worst of her thoughts all came rushing in like a tide breaking the dam; what was she doing pretending she belonged? The other queens didn’t need her, they were getting on better without her and probably thinking about how much better the show was with one of the alternates playing her part. They didn’t need her.

And if they saw her like this then they’d finally realise that.

A sob ripped from her throat, and as she sunk to her knees she clamped her hands over her mouth to stifle it even though there was no-one there to hear her. She had no right to be upset, it was just what she deserved. She’d come off lightly compared to some of the other queens, she had no right to stand beside them and tell her story when they had suffered so much more than she had. She had no right to be with Anne when Catherine had had exactly what she’d been robbed of; a peaceful escape from her marriage and time with her daughter. Hot shame coiled in her stomach as she wondered how Anne could bear to even look at her.

Her hands shook violently now that she had nothing in her hands to curb her trembling. Without the physical contact of anything except the ground beneath her she felt even more untethered than before, and she dragged her nails down her forearms in a desperate attempt to ground herself again.

When it didn’t work she dug them harder into her skin, only dimly registering the pain at the back of her panicked mind but seizing the feeling as something to focus on through her dissociative haze. Black spots danced across her vision as her breathing became harsher and shallower, lungs screaming for air, but she couldn’t slow the heaving of her chest to draw in enough oxygen.

True fear flitted across her mind as she realised she really couldn’t breathe.

And that was her last thought before her vision blurred, pitching over sideways as the lack of air became too much and she passed out.

~~~

She didn’t hear the other queens coming through the door a few minutes later, or Kat’s scream when she was the first to see Catherine collapsed on the kitchen floor. She didn’t hear Cathy’s shaking voice as she stared at her godmother and asked if she should call an ambulance. She didn’t hear Anne calling her name as she crouched down beside her, asking the other queens to give them space as she tried to bring her round first.

The first sensation she became aware of was the gentle fingers on her forehead, brushing a few errant curls from her sweat-slicked skin. Then the hand gripping onto hers tightly as if someone was trying to physically drag her back into consciousness.

“Catalina? Catalina, love, can you hear me?”

Catherine let out a tiny groan as she opened one eye a fraction to see Anne’s worried face leaning over her.

“You’re ok Catalina, I’m here and you’re ok. Just breathe for me sweetheart, that’s all that matters.”

For a minute or two Catherine just complied with her request, letting her aching chest rise and fall slowly as she became more aware of her surroundings. The hard kitchen floor beneath her, the gentle touch of Anne’s hand on her stomach, the stinging pain down her arms. At that realisation she turned her head a little and noticed the long red marks stretching down both forearms from where she’d scratched her skin raw.

When the remnants of her previous panic came flooding back she closed her eyes and attempted to curl in on herself again from her sprawled position, hating how weak she felt in front of her girlfriend and trying to make herself as small as possible. A light tap on her cheekbone stopped her though as Anne’s voice said “Nuh-uh, no sleeping again you. You’ve got to stay awake or Cathy’s gonna call an ambulance.”

Her dislike of that idea overrode her crushing anxiety for a moment, and she forced herself to nod as she pushed herself up with one arm. Anne’s hands moved to help her sit up slowly, murmuring a quiet “You alright?” when Catherine winced just slightly as her head spun. She almost slumped over again when she realised she had no energy left to support herself alone, but Anne quickly wrapped an arm around her shoulders to guide her into her side when she noticed Catherine’s eyelids fluttering again.

“Sorry,” Catherine croaked out, tears pooling in her eyes.

Anne shushed her gently, taking her hand again and squeezing lightly. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry about babes, all I care about is that you’re ok.”

Catherine shook her head frantically, breath hitching as she began to cry again. “But I’m so pathetic,” she whispered, “you all look up to me so much but I’m not strong like you think I am, I’m just weak and pathetic. And now you’ve seen that everyone’s just going to leave me again and- and-“

“Catherine stop,” Anne interrupted her firmly, grabbing Catherine’s hands from where she’d started scratching at her wrists again without even realising it. “This doesn’t make you weak at all. You’ve got so many demons but you’re still so confident and amazing and you don’t let them get to you. That doesn’t mean you’re weak, it means you’re stronger than ever.”

“I’m not,” she insisted in a fragile voice, her tears falling faster in the face of Anne’s protests. Her body was too exhausted for the shuddering sobs she could feel building, but her shoulders still shook as she started to hyperventilate again.

Anne adjusted Catherine slightly so she was leaning with her head against Anne’s chest, and Catherine hiccupped in a desperate attempt to calm her racing breaths as Anne wrapped one arm around her shoulders and buried the other hand in her hair. “I’ve got you babes,” Anne said softly, gently massaging where she knew Catherine’s tension headache would be bothering her, and the sheer lack of judgement in her voice was enough for Catherine to give up on trying to pull her mask back on and cry openly into Anne’s chest. “I love you so much and I don’t care that you’re not perfect. You don’t have to keep hiding away, you can talk to me about what you’re feeling.”

Catherine’s face crumpled as fresh tears spilled down her cheeks, giving a tiny shake of her head as she sniffed. “I can’t,” she whimpered.

“You can,” Anne insisted. “We’re not gonna hold it against you or anything. We’re not gonna be annoyed at you if you’re having an off day, and we’re not gonna abandon you if you make a mistake. I know it’s scary but we’d rather you be honest than perfect.”

She watched Anne through wide eyes as she cupped Catherine’s cheek and finished with “Because that’s the you who we love.”

Smiling shallowly, Catherine’s eyes slipped shut as she leaned her head into Anne’s palm. “Thank you,” she breathed out quietly, hoping that Anne knew how gratitude she was really conveying in those two short words.

“It’s what I’m here for,” Anne replied, and Catherine felt the rest of the tension leave her spine as Anne gently kissed her forehead. “D’you wanna go upstairs and rest for a bit?” she asked.

Catherine considered for a moment. Her limbs felt like lead and with the post-panic exhaustion tugging at her mind she knew that she wasn’t going to last long before she fell asleep. But Anne’s words continued to ring in her mind, and for possibly the first time she didn’t think she wanted to be alone in her vulnerable state at that moment. She shook her head, hesitating a moment longer before she mumbled “I want to stay with everyone.”

As Anne kissed her brow again Catherine could physically feel the beaming smile on her face. “I think everyone’d love that,” she said with so much love in her voice, hugging Catherine closer for a moment before calling out “Jane, can you come in here for a mo?” towards the kitchen door.

The sound of footsteps approaching them made Catherine tense a little, but she managed to look up into Jane’s concerned eyes rather than just hide in Anne’s embrace. “Hello love, how are you feeling? You had us all worried for a minute there,” Jane said with a gentle smile, reaching out to stroke Catherine’s hair.

“I’m ok now,” Catherine said with as much conviction as she could manage, which was very little since her voice still sounded terribly quiet and fragile.

Anne gave her a proud grin which made Catherine smile in return, before looking up at Jane and asking “Can you help me get her into the living room? I don’t think I can take her weight by myself.”

“Course I can, love.”

Between the two of them, Anne and Jane managed to get Catherine up onto her feet with her weight almost completely shared between the two of them. Catherine’s knees threatened to buckle when she tried to stand unsupported so she was happy to let her friends lend her their strength, too drained from her anxiety attack and blackout to do anything else. With slow steps they managed to make their way into the living room where Cathy, Anna, and Kat were waiting for them, all of them wearing relieved smiles when Catherine managed to reassure them she was ok.

Catherine didn’t say a lot as she curled back into Anne’s side on the sofa, watching through tired eyes as Jane and Cathy finished the dinner while Anna and Kat distracted her with meaningless chatter. Her stomach was too unsettled to eat much but she managed to eat a few bites with Anne’s encouragement, and she smiled tearfully at Jane’s praise that she’d done really well. When Jane brought in the first aid kit she and Kat took an arm each and rubbed antiseptic cream into the scratches down her arms, no hint of judgement in their faces when Catherine managed look up at them.

It was a feeling she was unaccustomed to, being the one looked after for once when she usually looked out for them all, but she was tired enough to not only accept it willingly but admit it was nice.

It wasn’t long later before her eyelids started to flutter closed again as her exhaustion became too much for her. But this time she had her girlfriend’s warm body beneath her head rather than the cold unforgiving floor, and her friends surrounding her rather than a lonely kitchen. Their voices became muffled and the warm lighting dimmed into darkness as she fell asleep in Anne’s arms.

Anne glanced down from her conversation with Anna when she felt Catherine’s head slump onto her chest again, adjusting her arms a little to hold her as she slept. Even though they still had a long way to go, it was a comfort to know that Catherine could let her walls down and sleep soundly with the knowledge that she had a support network around her this time round. And they would always stand by her side when she wobbled and catch her when she fell.

[zodiacal-dust-and-curls]

It’s Late (Ch 1)

A/N: This is a work of fiction! It takes place in an altered universe where certain member's partners don’t exist. Should line up with the Sheer Heart Attack tour. No one requested this. @rogers-wristbands was kind enough to proof read for me (thank you, love). I’ve been told that I’m no longer allowed to come for anyone’s whole life just because I’m sad (bc I definitely did. I came for my own favorite.) Enjoy!

Warnings: Angst (like you wouldn’t believe), Cheating (very bad. I do not condone this), Pregnancy (Unplanned), Mention of Abortion, Swearing

Word Count: 1.6k

The boys had been on tour for about a month now. It felt much longer than that thanks to waking up to a routinely empty bed. You’d had phone calls nightly, but a disembodied voice did nothing to soothe the ache that was beginning to burn through your soul.

Brian usually called you at the same time every night. Just before you went to bed, which was before the show started but after soundcheck. Tonight, the call was running late. John had managed to sneak a call in to check on his favorite un-biological sibling. Yes, he really insisted on using that term, just to get under your skin and drive you a little crazy. After years of pretending to hate it, you’d grown quite fond of it and missed hearing it while he was away.

“What do you mean he hasn’t called?” You’d swear you could see his eyebrows furrowing through the line, his mouth managing to flatten and pout at the same time. “He left 30 minutes ago to go back to his room and change before the show. He’s had plenty of time.”

“I guess I’ll just have to be the one to call tonight.” You said a little wistfully, Something wasn’t sitting right with you. “Can I have the number for your hotel?”

“Sure. Ask for room 615.”

“Dr. M’s room. How can I help you?” It came through the line too giggly, too feminine, and absolutely wrong.

“If you could put Mr. May on, I’d appreciate it.” You managed to hide the venom in your voice surprisingly well, but you were sure your facial expression told a very different story. Thank the powers that be for telephones not having a video option.

“Briiii ~ phone for you.” The mystery woman called out.

“Who is it Junie?” You heard call back.

“They didn’t say, but they did ask for you by name.” She must have forgotten to cover the receiver because the amount of giggling you heard next was enough to make you forget all the coolness you had purposefully injected into your tone.

“Hello?” This voice you knew. You’d heard it every night for the last 12 months either in person or over the phone.

“Hello, Bri.” The malice in your voice was clear. You could hear the blood draining from his face over the line. “Lose my number and don’t bother coming to see me when you get back. Tell Junie I said hello.” The last thing he heard was a click then a dial tone.

The show that night was a disaster. John had told you as much the next morning when he called to chew you out for messing with the guitarist’s head. The conversation quickly turned around when you told him what had happened.

You still got nightly phone calls, but now it was your oldest friend and confidant instead of the man you thought you loved.

About 2 weeks after the switch, you noticed you were feeling sick all the time. You’d mentioned it to John and promised to see a doctor if it stayed that way for more than a week.

“Johnnie,” you breathed out in a sigh of relief when the phone rang that night. True to your word, you’d gone to the doctor after feeling like crap for a week. “I’m so happy to hear your voice right now.” It was starting to come out in sobs, all your forced composure slipping from your grip.

“Hey, hey, Y/N. Breathe.” He whispered to you and hoped that his words would provide the comfort that his arms could not. “What happened? What did the doctor say?”

“John . . . I’m pregnant.”

The silence that followed was not what you were hoping for, but you knew it was a distinct possibility. John quietly followed it with death threats to the only person he knew could be the father and promises to support you with any decision you made.

The band would be home in 2 weeks for a short break. Brian seemed to have lost your number and you had no intention of looking up one for him to tell him this news. You told John that you still had time to make your decisions and wanted to see him in person before making anything real.

The day had finally come. You were estimated to be about 8 weeks pregnant. John had promised to come see you before running off to Veronica’s. As a man of his word, he knocked on your door early that afternoon and scooped you into a hug. You weren’t ready for that hug to send you spiraling into a mass of tears, but it did. Having John back meant decisions had to be made, people had to be told, things had to be done.

The one thing you knew for sure was that ‘having some sort of an accident’ was completely out of the question. The little bean growing inside you was partly you. They had been your most constant companion through all the heartbreak and anger you’d endured. Your little bean was going to live, you just weren’t sure you were the best option for a parent.

John once again kept his promises and supported your decision. He hadn’t told a single soul of your situation, but now it wouldn’t be a secret for much longer. The break was only for a week to regroup with loved ones before continuing the tour. If you were going to keep bean, there was someone you’d have to tell and a signature you’d have to collect.

“Are you sure this is what you want?” You had heard those words too often in the last few weeks. First from John, then your parents, and now from Brian.

“And what would you propose as an alternative, Mr. May?” You had said his name with such contempt that it would be difficult for a passerby to believe you’d been in a loving relationship at any point in time.

Brian just looked at you sadly. He’d never gotten the chance to apologize and it looked like he wasn’t going to. You had come over, accompanied by John, to inform him of your new situation and get him to sign away his parental rights. If you were going to have your little bean, Brian would have no say in the matter.

“It’s just that this is my child too, Y/N,” he had always wanted to be a dad one day. It broke his heart that his eldest child wouldn’t get to know him.

“Are you joking?” Something about your quickly shifting hormones pushed you to anger quite often. At this moment you could feel it pulsing through your veins and pooling in your stomach, as if to make a protective cover for your little bean that was growing there. “You wouldn’t even know if I didn’t need you to sign this. As far as I’m concerned, you lost all privileges to have a say in how I conduct my life the moment that woman entered your room.”  

Brian wanted to bite back at you. He wanted to be angry, but the only person he could find at fault was himself. He slowly signed the document and passed it to you.

John had been characteristically quiet throughout the whole exchange. He just watched for the moment things went to far and he would need to intervene, but it never came.

“Good bye, Mr. May, and good luck with your future endeavors.” You removed some of the anger from your voice as you said your good-bye, opting for a cool if almost business like tone. You could feel John watching you, waiting for the next outburst.

“Good bye, Y/N. John.” Brian let you leave without trying to convince you of anything further.

You were lucky to make it through the majority of your pregnancy with minimal complications. Morning sickness was a bitch, but it ended early in your second trimester. John delivered a bit of good news the same day your morning sickness ended.

Veronica was pregnant, too. You had someone to formally bond with while you made it through your journey. Also, your little bean would have a lifelong friend, just like you did.

With the band wrapping up a tour and planning to record every day, you and Veronica grew very close. So much so that John started to feel like he was being replaced by his own wife. You reassured him of his importance in your life by asking the two of them to be godparents. They gladly accepted.

Days came and went as time passed you by. You’d been so busy preparing for the little one to finally make their appearance, that you were almost shocked when your water broke. Luckily, a phone call to the Deacon residence (and to your parents) gathered all the necessary people to meet you at the hospital.

Several hours later, you were greeted by two smiling faces holding a small white bundle. Labor for you had been intense and after the initial skin contact, you more or less passed out.

“Good morning, mumma.” You heard Ronnie’s sweet voice greet you as you turned your head to look at her.

“Good morning.” You smiled gently, still extremely tired from delivery, but absolutely delighted that John and Veronica had waited to see you.

“I hope you don’t mind, darling, but we couldn’t stop ourselves from seeing our godchild.” John spoke this time. He only called you darling when he really wanted something from you, or when he was feeling extremely vulnerable.

“Of course not.” You smiled at the pair of them, feeling something loosen in your chest. In just a few short weeks, you’d be back for their little nugget’s delivery. “However, I do think that it’s breakfast time for the two of us.”

“Quite right, Y/N.” Veronica passed you the bundle she’d been holding.

Looking at your little girl made you so incredibly happy. Thank heavens you had decided to keep her, your little bean. She made everything worth it.

A/N: I hope you enjoyed this and I’m sorry. Leave me some feedback! I’d love to come for someone else’s fave. 

Ch 2 - Ch 3

[silver-lily-louise]

Raven Feathers - a Critical Role fanfic (Vox Machina campaign)

Alternative series of events for the end of Episode 44, ‘The Sunken Tomb’.

~oOo~

She doesn’t have time to shout a warning, Percy’s already reaching for the armour -

A dull boom, and she feels herself blown backwards. There’s icy pain, but it’s fading fast and the darkness is already swallowing her vision, obscuring her sight of Trinket as he rolls across the ground. Careful, darling, she thinks.

The darkness overtakes her entirely and the feeling of falling slows to a halt. It’s several seconds before she realises this time is different to all the other times she’s been knocked out - a normally instantaneous moment of darkness is stretching on far too long. Worry grips her. Perhaps she isn’t unconscious, just blinded and deafened to those around her. ‘Percy?’ she calls. ‘Zahra? Keyleth?’ Each name a little more frantic. None which get her a response.

A pale spot blinks into existence, shining through the darkness. It’s too hard to tell what it is from this distance, but she’s hesitant to get any closer. Don’t go into the light, she hears. The joking voice in her head sounds like Scanlan. But another voice comes then, much louder and seemingly directionless. ‘Come, Vex’ahlia. We have much to discuss.’ The surface beneath her feet ignites in gentle light, carving her a footpath through the void. After a brief moment of hesitation, she follows it. I can always turn back, she thinks. She hopes that’s true. 

The pale dot grows in size as she approaches, and she can see now the faint outline of static human features. A porcelain mask, floating at head height, seemingly staring straight at her. ‘Hello?’ She calls. ‘What is this? What’s going on?’ What’s going on? She swears she hears a slightly deeper echo up ahead, but the porcelain face does not answer. She keeps walking.

The path stops about ten feet in front of the figure - at first. As Vex reaches the end, there’s a whoosh and two more paths appear before her; one curving slightly to the left, one turning more sharply to the right. The all-surrounding voice comes again. ‘Vex’ahlia. I have waited long for this moment, this opportunity.’ In the light of the new paths, the rest of the figure is now clear - a tall woman, dressed in a dark cloak. Black feathers strewn at her feet. Raven feathers. The penny drops. ‘You’re the Raven Queen.’ ‘Yes.’ ‘I’m dead. Your trap killed me.’ It comes out accusatory, and a warning flashes in the back of her mind. Literally the goddess of death, Vex. Maybe you shouldn’t piss her off. But the voice stays indifferent. ‘Yes. I had to protect my champion from those we stood against, those who would defile him with undeath.’ A bitterness enters her tone, but only for a moment. ‘But enough talk of the past. You have a decision to make, as do all who stand at a fork in the road.’ 

She gestures slowly to the left path. ‘Your life was fated to end in that tomb, Vex’ahlia. Drawn into danger by your greed, extinguished by a moment of carelessness. This was your path - and were you still to take it, you would find yourself at peace, far from the material plane. But already, your friends try to bring you back to their side.’

Voices begin to echo from the right-hand path. Vax’s voice, then Keyleth’s: What happened? I was only down there for thirty seconds-! ‘Revivify’, do ‘revivify’! The Raven Queen raises a hand, and the voices fade to a murmur. There’s more of them now, and Vex can almost see them all gathering around, trying desperately to fix her. She swallows hard, feeling the tears streak down her face. ‘Can I go to them? Please.’

‘You can, if you so choose. To bend so sharply from your destiny is not unheard of - especially for one such as you. It is complicated, however, and so I would ask something in return for such a rearrangement.’ Anything, she thinks. Thankfully, her bargaining instinct runs deep enough to stop her saying that out loud.

The voices continue to echo quietly. Whatever the fuck you’re going to do, do it! She could destroy everything- Do it. What do you mean, she could destroy? What do you mean?

She tears her attention away. ‘What would you ask of me?’ The mask remains expressionless, but there’s a smile in the voice that replies. ‘Your service. The forces of undeath move in far darker shadows than I, gathering strength. In the coming struggle, I will once again need greater influence on the material plane. A new champion. I have seen your strength, the will to fight that drives you through fear and darkness... Do this for me, Vex’ahlia, and you may walk amongst your friends once more.’ A silence stretches between them as she takes in the offer. She can feel the longing to return to them, and it all but drags her down the right-hand path. But to live beholden to such an entity?

We need one more offering, Kash says. Scanlan pipes up. I could- No. I’ll do it. Vax’s voice again, darker and angrier than she’s ever heard. Take me instead, you raven bitch. ‘No,’ she whispers, her voice catching on the panic that swells within her. But the Raven Queen merely chuckles. ‘Foolish boy. That is not his path to take... What is yours, Vex’ahlia? Make your choice.’

Vex hesitates for a moment longer - then begins to walk down the path to her right.

***

‘Take me instead, you raven bitch,’ he says. He can hear Keyleth gasp behind him, but any moment of regret for her sake is far overshadowed by his grief and desperation.

Seconds pass in silence. No-one dares move. Then there’s a sound like a rush of wind, and the light fades from Kash’s arm, his eyes blinking back to normal. Zahra’s moonstone grows dim. Vex doesn’t wake up.

‘...What happened? Why did it stop?’ Keyleth asks. Kash sighs. ‘It didn’t work. I’m sorry.’ Vax gets the feeling that last part was directed at him, but he can’t answer. He just holds his sister tight in shaking arms, feeling the tears get faster and his breath become ragged as he leans down, closing his eyes as his forehead comes to rest against hers.

He can hear movement and murmurs start up around him. Zahra and Keyleth start to quietly sob, and are comforted by Kash and Kima respectively. Percy’s voice is barely audible, saying one thing over and over: ‘Oh gods. Oh gods, oh gods.’ There’s a quiet clanking sound, and Vex’s weight shifts as Trinket wanders over and gently nudges her. He wouldn’t have thought it possible, but Vax’s heart breaks a little further. She’s gone, buddy. We’ve lost her.

Then there’s an exclamation of surprise around the room, and Vax’s head whips up to see a dark figure standing before the sarcophagus. His heart begins to race with both hope and fear as he realises who it is, and he steels himself to make good on his offer. But the figure ignores him entirely, instead bending down over Vex. Trinket growls, but doesn’t make a move to stop her as she reaches out one spectral hand, caressing Vex’s cheek - then vanishes.

Vex opens her eyes. 

***

She blinks the room into focus. Percy’s still kneeling by the sarcophagus, Scanlan’s hand on his shoulder. Trinket’s looming just to her left. And Vax is holding her, looking down at her, his cheeks stained with tears. All of them are staring at her in sheer bewilderment.

She nods. ‘I’m alright.’ 

There’s a beat of silence, which is broken a moment later as everyone suddenly crowds around her. Trinket licks her face, and she laughs quietly, pushing him away. The rest of the room fills with questions. ‘Wait, is she-‘ ‘Vex!’ ‘But the ritual failed-‘ ‘Are you alright, darling?’ ‘What happened?’ She raises a hand, a little overwhelmed, trying to stave off the bombardment of conversation. ‘I can explain, alright? But can we get out of here first?’

Vax, who’s been quiet up until this point, nods. ‘Okay.’ He and Zahra help Vex to her feet, keeping one of her arms slung over his shoulders. Her legs are weak, and she’s happy to lean on him for a while. 

While Grog and Percy get to work collecting the contents of the sarcophagus, Keyleth walks over and clasps Vex’s hand. ‘I’m glad you’re alright.’ Her eyes are red from crying, and her voice is croaky, but she gives Vex a smile. The group process slowly and quietly from the tomb. Vex does her best to ignore how cold she feels, how often Vax’s eyes dart in her direction, and the growing sense of unease as she realises the scale of the deal she’s made. 

The new Champion of the Raven Queen stumbles out into the daylight, two black feathers tucked into her hair.

[warcats-cat]

False Idol (Good Omens Fanfic)

Hello again friendos! I hope you enjoyed chapter 1! (I would read that first if you haven’t yet and you’re interested!) As always, this chapter can also be found on ao3. Please feel free to scream at me!! 

Chapter warnings: Major Character death, violence, yelling.

Chapter 2: A Lesson Learned

“I told you to leave things alone.” Gabriel’s voice echoed around the bookshop, but the archangel himself remained invisible among the shelves. “I told you there would be consequences if you and your little boyfriend interfered.” 

“I didn’t…. I didn’t do anything.” Aziraphale stuttered out, both terrified of not being able to see his attacker and terrified of seeing Gabriel’s wrath. He was also significantly confused; He and Crowley had avoided leaving the shop all day. Crowley had only left a few hours ago. “I was here in my shop all day. But… I take it the battle went poorly?”

A shelf tipped over just in front of the angel. He startled, and involuntarily felt his wings flex up, ready to fly away as quickly as possible. 

“Don’t mock me.” Gabriel boomed. “You meddled again where you didn't belong. You and your demon sabotaged weaponry and the battleground itself!” 

“What?” Aziraphale flinched at the all-encompassing anger that was surrounding him. “I was here, all day. I swear!” 

“LIAR!” Screamed the archangel. Pure fury shook the building, pounding into Aziraphale hard enough to knock his breath out for a moment. “Your sigils were everywhere. No demon could have written them! None of our fleet could touch the ground or reach Hell’s armies! And they had the same inability on their own side of the battlefield!” 

“W-well, not to state the obvious, but why not simply move the battlefield?” Aziraphale offered timidly. And with that question, every light in the shop went out. 

In the dark, a figure appeared; blocking Aziraphale’s path. “I have had enough of your games. I have had enough of you. And since I apparently can't kill you, I’ll have to do the next best thing.” Gabriel’s shadow threw another shadowy heap onto the floor in front of him, and moved to place one foot on top of the figure. Aziraphale’s heart sank into the floor long before the lights flickered dimly back on. 

Poor Crowley looked utterly sick; sleek jacket torn and sunglasses gone all together. His hair was missing in patches, dripping the black ooze of demon’s blood down his hairline. His eyes were fully golden, but appeared out of focus. His fangs were out, something that Crowley had only allowed once; back in ancient Mesopotamia, when he needed to seriously intimidate a large crowd of people for a reason that now escaped the angel entirely. 

But Aziraphale had seen him just hours ago. He couldn’t have done anything wrong! How the other could have come into this state was a terrifying mystery that the angel was quickly trying to piece together. 

“For someone who can change into a snake, he walked pretty easily into a rat trap.” Gabriel answered the unspoken question. Now Aziraphale felt truly sick. Not only had he done nothing to actually protect the earth from this foolish war, now his dear friend was being hurt, and quite terribly as well.

“Gabriel, please. Your fight isn’t with him.” It was a desperate plea, and ultimately futile. 

“My fight is with both of you. Lessons were clearly not learned the first time. And while holy water may not affect this thing,” he took a moment to add pressure to Crowley’s spine, earning a grunt from the so-far silent demon, “my sword just might.”

Aziraphale lost all sense of composure at that moment. Begging for Crowley’s life wasn’t something he had ever expected to have to do again, and it certainly seemed that their trick a few months previous had been a little too successful. 

Gabriel pushed the tow of his shoe harder into Crowley’s back, until finally the demons wings popped out of hiding from the sheer pressure. When Aziraphale moved to push Gabriel off, hoping for a moment of distraction, the Archangel waved his hand in a way that froze Aziraphale in his place; a barrier that prevented him from doing anything but watch.

“Demons, of course, are masters of torture. We angels, being divine creatures bathed in the light of Heaven, are above such practices. But,” Gabriel reached down and took one of Crowley’s wings, stretching it to full length while the demon squirmed under him. “That doesn’t mean we refuse to use alternative methods of convincing when the need arises.” Crowley’s right wing fluttered, and suddenly flapped hard, trying to knock Gabriel off balance. The demon was beginning to look a little less mentally fogged. However, his actions earned him a sharp kick to his ribs while Gabriel held tight to his wing. Crowley coughed and shook his head. 

“Gabriel please, just let him go. We weren’t the ones who interfered. I’ll work for Heaven again. I’ll come back. I’ll do anything, just please let him go!” Crowley made an upset noise at these offerings; Aziraphale realized something was making it quite hard for the poor dear to think, no wonder he was barely fighting back.

“I don’t want anything from you. I want you to suffer for making a mockery of me.” Gabriel spat back at him.

Aziraphale watched as the archangel bent Crowley's left wing; slowly, deliberately pushing the bones and muscles in a way that would strain them. He twisted the joint hard, and the angel could see the great strain of both parties working against each other; Gabriel's knuckles turning white from the tightness of his grip and Crowley grimacing, trying to flex the wing and force his attacker off. Finally, there was the sound of a great snap, and a long moan of pain bled out of the snake under Gabriel's boot. Yellow eyes stared out into space, completely unseeing. One long, black wing hung limp in Gabriel's fist, bent at a horrible angle and shedding a few feathers onto the floor from between the archangel's fingers.

“Stop this! This is senseless! Angels don’t commit acts of violence for no reason!” Aziraphale screamed, straining against the hold of the superior angel that kept him from running to Crowley’s side. Gabriel waited a few minutes, staring with disgust at the demon panting under his foot, and ripped an extra handful of silky black feathers from the edge of the wing before releasing it. The battered appendage flopped next to Crowley on the floor, limp and useless, before Gabriel lifted the right.

Desperately, Aziraphale hollered the first thing that came to his mind, “Stop this! Anything you would do to him you can do to me. This is enough of a lesson. Just stop!”

Gabriel’s plastic smile returned to his face as he eyed Aziraphale like a human child pulling legs off a spider. “Yes, I could. But you wouldn’t learn the lesson if you were dead.” 

And with those words, the archangel released Crowley’s wings completely. He unsheathed a sword seemingly from thin air, and plunged the blade into Crowley’s spine, just above the back of his hips. The serpentine demon hissed and spit, and tried to work himself free, only to find that he was pinned totally to the floor. After this final act of horror, Gabriel spread pearly white wings and took flight; his pants and shoes covered in blackened ichor.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The moment Gabriel was gone, his spell was broken. Aziraphale slumped for just a moment, almost losing his balance before collapsing on his knees next to Crowley. Whatever spell he had been under was broken as well, and he panted from the pain of the sword in his back. Aziraphale’s hands fluttered nervously around the sword, knowing that Crowley would bleed out much faster if it was removed, but also that the demon would be in less pain. And when he tried to heal Crowley, he found that his access to miracles had been denied. It probably wouldn’t have made a difference anyway.

Aziraphale planted a soft kiss in Crowley’s hair before yanking the angelic sword free.

Crowley screamed.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Oh…” Aziraphale found himself apologizing over and over, trying to gently pull Crowley into his arms and hold him, as the demon had held him the night before. 

“Don’t.” Crowley bit out through pain; finally able to speak. “Don’t do that angel. Don't do that to yourself.” Weakly, one of Crowley's hands reached for Aziraphale’s, loosely gripping his fingers; but Aziraphale knew that Crowley was holding onto him for dear life. 

“I love you.” Aziraphale blurted out. “I love you and I never told you and I was scared I would get in trouble and it’s all so silly now isn’t it?” With his free hand, the angel pawed at his eyes, trying desperately to stop the flow of tears.

The demon smiled, more inky blood leaking out from the corner of his mouth and staining his otherwise perfect teeth. “You… you’re not silly. You’re perfect.” he panted. “You’ve always been perfect. Best of the lot.” 

“Don’t go.” Aziraphale begged, and began to sob fully. Crowley stared past him at the ceiling. 

“I won’t. I’ll be right here angel.” he whispered, as his corporeal form sighed and his demonic soul evaporated from the effects of a blessed blade.

Chapter 3 Here!

[flame-cat]

All That Matters (alternate ending)

@teekss gave me permission to post the alternate ending i wrote for their fic! please please PLEASE read the original fic and give it some love too, its super good! as a fellow pinehead i couldnt resist making my own version of the events

[ao3 link]

Oscar felt like just collapsing in the snow and never getting up. He didn’t think the others would care if he did, so he was seriously considering doing it. The boy shuddered, gripping onto his backpack tighter. After everything that Jinn had showed them, after everything they’d been through… Ozpin just… bounced. He left. He could hardly feel the man’s presence anymore. Oscar tried to take in a gulp of air without letting anyone notice that he was slowly entering a panic attack. He could feel it crawling up from his chest into his throat. He tried to swallow the panic down, but it kept on crawling its way up and up and up- “Guys. Be quiet.” Ruby’s voice snapped him back reality. Sure enough, there was a squeaking noise, and soon, they were standing outside Brunswick Farms, and Oscar almost laughed at the sheer irony. His cheek throbbed, his heart ached, his head hurt, and he just wanted to disappear. Even though he wasn’t Ozpin right now, everyone was wary and aggressive towards him - well, except for Ruby and Miss Maria, but that’s not the point. No one would notice if you disappeared, his mind said. Oscar stopped in front of the gate that Qrow was holding, his breath hitching. The panic began to creep back as he forced himself to move, looking anywhere but at Qrow. He heard the gate close behind him, and the huntsman lightly shoved past Oscar, causing the child to stumble to the side slightly. Oscar bit his lower lip to keep the tears welling in his eyes from spilling over. What if he went to sleep tonight and when he woke up, no one was there? Oscar felt like he was just punched in the gut (well, he was punched, but not in the gut.). The possibility of that happening was… high. Way too high. He could practically feel himself hyperventilating at his point. He needed to get out of here he needed some space he needed to be alone he needed- Before his mind could catch up to what he was doing, he jumped over the fence on the side of the farm and ran. If Qrow didn’t hesitate to punch him - and yeah, he was mad, Oscar got it, but that was his body - who knows what the rest would do to him. He was so afraid of what they would do to him. The freckled boy didn’t know how long he was running for. But for now, he had to concentrate on talking himself out of having the panic attack of the century. He leaned against the tree and gasped for air, clutching at his shirt. It’s okay, he told himself, It’s okay. But it wasn’t okay. He didn’t think it would be okay for a while. That panic rose up and up and up until he forced itself out of his mouth. And then he screamed. It was a loud scream, and even though it felt good to get it out, it did little to quell his panic. Oscar was hit with a dizzy spell, and he slowly sank to the ground, not caring that the snow stung. Everything was going so horrible at the moment and he would never be able to erase the image of Salem stabbing herself and the fact that Ozpin lied, and he would never be able to forget all Ozpin’s past lives dying and all the death and blood and- He couldn’t breathe he couldn’t breathe he couldn’t breathe he couldn’t breathe he couldn’t breathe- He let out a sob, curling up into a ball and shaking like a leaf in the wind. He couldn’t even think straight - he couldn’t grasp onto a single thought. There was nothing and no one to ground him, and there wasn’t anything or anyone to comfort him. The truth slammed into him full force, making him sob even harder - he was all alone. He would be all alone until the others learned to trust him again, and that wouldn’t be for a while. Oscar gripped at his hair, every sob seeming like a heavier weight on his chest. If he were to stay here, would they even care? Would they even go look for him? Would they leave him? He hoped they wouldn’t leave him, but that seemed like a big possibility. How would he survive out here? Alone? With just a cane and a useless wizard who locked himself away? He wouldn’t. He would die out here he would die he would die he would die out here and no one would care. Oscar felt as if he were slowly dying. Black spots danced in his vision and his chest felt like it was getting crushed slowly. He was drowning. He was drowning and he didn't know how to swim, didn't know which way the surface was, didn't have anyone to pull him up even for the tiniest breath of air. The air was cold and thin, it tasted like pain, tearing through his lungs like knives so sharp he was amazed he wasn't coughing up blood. He didn't know how to get back. And would it matter if he did? He couldn't hear. Couldn't see. Couldn't feel. Couldn't think. Couldn't breathe. -- Oscar's entire being felt like static. Everything was prickly, fuzzy, indistinct and sharp. All of these sensations, yet he was brought no new information from it. He felt as if he'd been asleep for days. Where was he? What happened? The first thing Oscar noticed was that he was very, very cold. His extremities were numb and the rest of his body felt like it was not far behind. He was heavy, yet he couldn't stop shivering, could hardly move from how tightly coiled into himself he was. Next, when he opened his eyes, his vision was blurry but able to make out that everything was very white. Very white and very alone. This didn't change much when it cleared. Finally, the ringing in his ears faded and he could hear the cold breeze and shifting evergreens around him, muffled by the stifling silence surrounding it. Then Oscar remembered. It was like a fresh punch to the face (he couldn't feel it much anymore, but it was still there, faintly). He felt with new bitterness the empty chasm in his mind, the presence so small but not gone. He found himself hoping, foolishly, that Ozpin- Ozma?- might have taken some notice of the panic that strangled him earlier (whenever that was). Apparently, this was not the case. Oscar was alone. He should go back to them. Get up, try and get a sense of direction, maybe climb a tree. ... He should... ... Any second now... He wasn't getting up. What would that accomplish, anyway? He didn't know where he was, it was a fat chance he would be able to see very far with this snow, and he was so tired... Besides, no one had come after him yet. He didn't know how long it had been, but maybe long enough for someone to look for him if they cared to. Guess they didn't. Maybe this was for the best. After all, it wasn't like Oscar would be able to have his old life back. He was stuck here, stuck with no purpose other than to become someone else's body to perpetuate a futile cycle of life and death of which he was only a small and inconsequential part. Ozma would just go to a different body. Oscar would die without having to live a life that wasn't his. And maybe that would be better. So Oscar shut his eyes against the blinding light and let himself sink back into darkness, tears freezing on his cheeks. -- Something was different. Someone... someone was... saying something. Yelling. Calling for someone... calling for him? He tried to open his eyes, but they were so heavy... were they glued shut? No, stupid, the glue would freeze before setting, it was way too cold. He tried again, and managed to open them a little. He saw... figures. Red. White. Someone running, getting closer... then he felt warm hands on his shoulders- oh, dust, they were so warm, they were burning- shaking him slightly, panicking in a rough low voice- "... ank dust you're okay, holy shit, c'mon kiddo, say something..." He knew that voice. "... Qrow...?" His own voice was so soft he barely heard it, but he must've said it because Qrow immediately clutched him close to his chest, heart hammering against Oscar's ear and surrounding him with warmth. Qrow's breath stuttered as he drew in a deep sigh and let it out, hand carding through Oscar's hair and muttering something. Oscar couldn't tell what he was saying, but it was oddly soothing, and he soon found himself drifting again... -- "... idn't even think he was alive, thank the gods we found him when we did." "But he's okay, right?" "He will be. Just needs some rest, and a whole lot of blankets." "Why do you think he... ran off like that?" "He was scared." ... "That's my guess, anyway. I mean, he's just a kid- he probably didn't ask for any of this." "Blake, you're all just kids too." "And I've done the same thing. I'm not proud of it, but it's true." "... Do you think... maybe when Qrow punched Ozpin..." "... It was still technically Oscar's body..." "... Shit... this is my fault..." "Uncle Qrow... you were mad, you weren't thinking straight, and it was still technically Ozpin at the time-" "That's no excuse, is it?" "Weiss?" "I'm not trying to say he did it intentionally, or that he's a bad person for it, but he should still be held responsible for his actions." ... "That being said... don't beat yourself up about it. I certainly don't blame you, but it was still a bad move. As long as you know that, then I think it's fine." "Ruby... what do you think?" "... I think this has affected everyone in a lot of different ways, and its caused us to hurt each other. No matter how we feel about Ozpin's... Ozma's... past, we can't let that tear us apart. No one is to blame here. We need to focus on helping each other and staying together."

[imaginemexo]

Josh Washington x Reader - No-one’s Coming

Request: Could I get a Josh x Reader where the reader disappears with Hannah and Beth, but manages to survive in the mines

DISCLAIMER: Some events in this are different to the actual game, but only slightly, you probably won’t even notice.

Words: 3,512

I waited. For a sound. For anybody.

Day three-hundred-and-sixty-six. It's been one year.  

No-one's coming for me.

The transition was slow at first.  

No-one will ever believe me. No-one will ever believe what I saw.

Her skin slowly turned to the colour of ash. Her brown eyes drained from colour; they became cloudy. She grew taller by the day; lost weight rapidly. And then all of a sudden, it wasn't Hannah stood in front of me. It was someone else.  

She wasn't even human anymore.  

The first few months were the hardest; I'm used to it now, of course.

Beth died at the impact of our fall. Hannah and I somehow survived.  

Days soon turned darker than I ever had expected.  

It's my fault. It's my fault Hannah is this way. I turned her into that being. It was sheer selfishness that caused her to no longer be Hannah. It was the sheer selfishness that turned her into that thing.

I went exploring. I found a mere, small food supply. It could have lasted me for years if I really wanted it to. Just small amounts every other day, and I would be okay. I would survive.  

I never spoke to Hannah about it. I never dared to hint at the fact that food might be somewhere close; closer than we'd ever expected.  

I've found handfuls of evidence that people have been down here before. Photographs, helmets, diary entries. It seems plausible that this mine has been inhabited before, thus explaining the vast amount of food.  

It was nothing special; nothing gourmet. No meats, no caviar, no cans of coke. It was bottles of water (the plastic covered in grime, dust and dirt), shabby cans of plain beans and cans of fruit cocktail for nutrition. I eat every other day, sometimes less frequent than that to preserve.  

I wear two layers of clothes; the clothes I was wearing on that night, and Beth's clothes. There is a suffocating amount of guilt within me. I left her undignified; I took away her pride by leaving her lifeless body half-naked.  

When Hannah proposed that we turn to alternative methods for survival, I was shocked. There was a dilemma. It was either reveal the truth about the stash, or let my best friend engage in cannibalism against her own blood. I don't know why I let her do it.  

I think it was just the greediness; the fear and knowing that our supply would be dramatically shortened with two people feasting. Then, all of a sudden, far too soon, Hannah was no longer Hannah. And it was sheer luck that I made it out alive.  

Every night before I go to sleep, wrapped up in a thermal blanket I found with the supply of food, I pray. I pray for a blinding white noise; anything to get my mind off of how life is now. I pray I'll be found; I pray I will be reunited with my family and friends one day soon.

I can only hope I won't die before then.

SIXTEEN HOURS UNTIL DAWN

I prepare myself breakfast; fruit cocktail swimming in its own juices and chilled water. It's nothing different from usual, but if I pretend it is, there's some form of satisfaction in it.  

After breakfast, like a routine day, it's time to go exploring once more. I go exploring for a way out. I go exploring for a way out; a way home; a way back to the cabin; a way back to my family; a way back to my friends; a way back to my old life I left behind.  

I've looked everywhere. All routes, all methods, all secret passage ways and there's nothing. Just dead-ends. Though, there must be an exit somewhere or I could have never got down here. That’s the only thing that keeps me going; the fact that there must be a way out.  

Josh’s POV

FOUR HOURS UNTIL DAWN

It was a joke.  

It wasn't supposed to be this way.  

I was teaching them a lesson. It wasn't supposed to be malicious.  

It was to remind them. To remind them who caused them to leave me.  

My sisters. My best friend. I lost them all.  

There's no way I will ever see them again.  

Frère Jacques. Frère Jacques.

On repeat. Inside of my head on a loop.

Dolls. China dolls.  

Rocking back and forth, singing, chanting, taunting me.  

You killed us! You killed us, Josh!

Everything seems to crumble around me. My whole entire world I created. A lie I am living.

They're screaming at me, as if they actually believe I am the person in the wrong. Their eyes judge me harshly, and for a moment, I believe it. I believe that I am the person who did them wrong; I am the person to blame.  

Dr. Hill, an all too familiar face, a critical and disapproving being, wanders out from the shadows. His eyes are the colour of coal, cheeks stained with blood. My heartrate elevates to a point that for a second, I wonder if my heart will explode.

"Josh, Josh," he says, voice unable to hide the disappointment. "Look what you've done, Josh. You've ruined everything."

I have.

"Do you really think they'll forgive you for this?"

"I don't care," I lie, words spilling from my lips so easily. "I don't care!"

What is there to lose? None of it matters anyway.

Before I even realise it, the world becomes too heavy. The fear, the panic becoming too much to bare. I collapse to my knees, the repeated French childhood song getting louder and louder with each verse. Their voices becoming deeper and deeper, lower and lower with each word.  

I curl up into a ball, tucking my head into my chest.  

I feel so small; so vulnerable.

"Joshie," a voice so calm and close calls out. "Open your eyes."  

I shake my head violently. "Go away! You're not real!"

"Josh, it's me," Her voice still plush and soft like silk. "I'm real. I'm here."  

I take a stab in the dark. I hope and pray that this time it is for real, and it's not just my head playing tricks on me.  

I open my eyes.  

Before me, I find my best friend.

EIGHT HOURS UNTIL DAWN

The sky has fallen to the colour of nothing; no stars in sight; not even a big white ball that would be considered as the moon. For all three-hundred-and-sixty-six days I have been gone from my family, each night, the sky has been empty. No moon, no stars. Nothing. Just empty. Just darkness.  

By now, I would have turned back and returned to my camp. Although, there is an unsettling feeling in the pit of my stomach. A gnawing, a convincing belief that things will be okay; that tonight is the night.  

I've passed familiar spots, and I know I've been here before because I've marked my territory with objects and carvings to remind myself that this is not somewhere new. Although, there have been new discoveries. Places I have never found, locations I have not yet seen.  

My hands have grown hot, sweaty and shaky. I am holding a torch; the light source being a blazing ball of scorching fire.  

I cautiously walk through a chasm; damp and silent. The walls are grey, made from stone, and with any amount of pressure or force, it will seemingly collapse. I can hear drops of pure water drip and drop; each sound echoing throughout the cave.

My heart is in my stomach. The fear and terror is agonising. It is suffocating.

"Come on," I tell myself. "Just a little further."  

Out of the blue, a deep cackle disguised as a cry emits followed by a deafening sound of something bursting. My heart drops even lower, and I cannot breathe for a mere moment.

Ahead, a bigger, brighter light source draws closer. A hot, red, orange fire.  

I freeze.

I'm frozen.

"Help me!" A feminine voice cries.  

I don't move a muscle.  

Metres in front of me, a short, beefy man approaches, yet doesn't seem to notice my presence. He is carrying a large, intimidating contraption. Fire seems to shoot out of the end of it, coming out in thick bursts of flames.

My body is soon overwhelmed with the horror and distress. I don't know what to do.

Out of nowhere, I feel a strong grasp on my wrist. My entire body jolts, and I am no longer in sight of the stranger, but in an enclosed space.  

There's a figure resisting me, and I push them away from me with my spare hand. I shine the torch into their face, and I am immediately overridden with shock and fierce joy and relief.

"Is it really you?" I ask, jaw slightly ajar.

Emily looks at me passively, eyes cold. "Am I supposed to know who you are?"

My eyes are brimming with tears. "Em, it's me. It's Y/N."  

That's when the realisation kicks in. "Oh my god," she whispers, attacking me with a hug. "I can't believe you're still alive."  

I start to cry. "I know. I tried so hard to get back to you."  

She finally pulls away, frowning. "We all thought you were dead," She wipes away her tears. "How are you still alive?"

I look away, face scrunched up with pain and trauma. "Selfishness is why I'm here," I tell her. "It cost someone else's life to keep me alive."  

Emily let out a small sob. I think it's the panic. "What do you mean?"

I hear the man with the fire contraption draw closer, his feet slamming against the metal grate bridge. I feel myself feel tense; I feel the urge to run away and hide, but I want to embrace the moment while we rejoice.

"Hannah and Beth are dead, Em."  

She wiped away her tears with the sleeve of her leather jacket. "I never thought that they would be the ones to survive."  

I ask a hot question that is playing on my mind. "Why are you down here? How did you find me?"

Em presses her hand firmly against the stone wall, trying to steady herself. Whatever she has seen, whatever she has felt, it has resonated with her. It has hurt her, and it is going to kill her. "Matt is dead," She says. "There's a psycho on the mountain."

I open my mouth to respond with meaningless words, but I am quickly interrupted.  

"There is no psycho on this mountain," A deep, scratchy voice replies. We jump in unison, letting out a squeal of fright. "The thing that is terrorising your friends is the one who owns this mountain. And that is the Wendigo."  

I take a step back, just one step further and I stand behind Emily.  

Rather her than me; I've worked so hard to get home.

"The Wendi-what?"

The stranger grumbles under his breath, revealing a set of milky eyes and rotten teeth. "The Wendigo," he answers. "You girls better get back, because if the Wendigo finds you, that's it. The Wendigo has you now."  

Em makes a sound of helplessness and vulnerability. She puts her hand behind her back and latches onto my hand. She squeezes it hard for reassurance.

"We don't know how to get back."

A piercing, shrill cry is heard. It seems distant.

"Up the cave, don't take any turns. Just keep moving forward and you'll find your way back, I promise."

TWO HOURS UNTIL DAWN

Josh’s POV

She lays down beside me, her soft hair covered in white specs of dust and snow. She looks exhausted; her skin is pale, the colour of ash. She closes her eyes, and presses her gentle hand against my face.

The music has stopped. The world has gone silent.

"Where have you been?" I ask in a voice that almost doesn't sound like mine.

"I've been waiting for you. I've been waiting for you to come back to me."  

I gulp down, and look at her more attentively. She's wearing a decaying crown on her head. It is made out of lilac and dusty pink roses, the petals brown and gooey with rot.  

"I never left you," I tell her. "You and my sisters lived in my heart every day since."  

She shuffles closer without opening her eyes. She lays a soft kiss upon my forehead, cradling me like a baby. "I know. You never left mine either."  

I frown, my head pressed against her collarbone. I breathe heavily, feeling my warm breath bounce from her skin and back onto my face. "Will we make it out alive?"  

Her fingers comb through my hair. "I don't know, Joshie," She whispers. "I cannot predict the future. I'm not sure about me – I don't think I'll ever be able to leave this mountain, but I know you can."  

I shake my head. "I can't. I'm stuck here. I can't ever leave this place knowing that I can't have you and my sisters back."  

She fires back with a response almost instantaneously. "Life is about moving on; life is about accepting the hard truths and forgiving the way life works. Life is about understanding and acceptance."  

I let her cradle me tighter. "If I'm going, you're coming too."  

I can feel the sadness deep inside of her chest. "No, Josh. I have to stay here. I can't leave."

THREE HOURS UNTIL DAWN

Despite everything, despite the dread, despite the anxiety, I am excited. The idea of going home is pulsating inside of me. The concept of going home to find my family, and find my friends, and return to school, and return to a real, balanced diet is beyond anything I could have ever wanted. No matter what is awaiting us on the mountain, I will make it out alive. I will do anything, everything, to leave this mountain in one piece.

I walk with a spring to my step. I walk with a sense of invincibility.  

"I don't understand how you're so happy," Emily says. "We could die tonight."

I shake my head violently. "No, we won't. I have waited one year, one painful, lonely, terrifying year to go home. I have waited so long to find you, I have tried everything in my power to find a way out. John fuckin' Cena could be up there, and I would fight and fight until there is nothing left in me if that meant I could go home. I am not giving up for anyone."

Do you know what I'm most excited for?

Well, that's just it. I don't know what I'm most excited for.  

I'm excited for it all.  

I'm excited for a real meal; something unhealthy. Maybe some chicken nuggets, ice-cream with crushed Oreos sprinkled over the top (even though I despise Oreos). Just anything that could cause me a heart attack if eaten in excessive amounts.  

I'm excited to return home and find my mother and father. To have them feel a sense of relief that I'm home; the fact that they'll never take my presence for granted. A sense of thankfulness that I am home and safe.  

I'm excited to see the rest of my friends; see how they're different. I wonder how things will be different. Will they even want me in their lives? What if we're all so different that we can't stand each other?

I'm excited to go back to school. I never thought I'd say that. When you're gone for a year, your mind begins to fry. It loses all important knowledge. I have trouble remembering basic things, like birthdays, because I couldn't exercise my brain out here.  

Life is good. Life is kind.

Eventually, we find an area that felt familiar in my heart. Trees, trees and trees for miles on end. And in the distance, a cabin lays solo illuminated with yellow lights.  

I'm home.  

I made it.

I throw my torch down onto the snow. The fire extinguishes, sizzling out lifelessly. I sprint ahead, leaving Emily behind, approaching the cabin frantically. I am delirious with zest.  

My heart is pounding; it's about to shatter my ribcage.  

I fly up the porch stairs, barging open the front door without even knocking. It was not locked, which is surprising, because in a time of uncertainty like this, I would have bolted it shut.  

My abrupt arrival seems to shock my group of friends. They turn towards me, and they seem...horrified to see me. Horrified to see me alive and healthy, alive and breathing.  

They don't say anything. They seem slightly happy amidst of everything else going on.

I scan the group. Sam. Ashley. Chris. Mike.  

A lot of them seem to be missing; Jess, Matt (who I now remember is supposedly gone), Emily who is trailing behind, and most importantly, Josh.  

Josh is not here.

That's the only thing I can bring myself to even mention: "Where is Josh?"

Mike scratches at his bloody forehead, "We lost him."  

SEVEN MONTHS LATER

I wake up to the same bland ceiling, to the same bland bedroom. Each morning I wake up, there is a sense of gratefulness. My room is still decorated the way it was when I found it; you know, when I came home after being missing for a year. Decorated in sparkly welcome home banners, humongous teddy bears stuffed into the corners of my room.  

I toss onto my side, and find a tray upon my bedside table. A glass of orange juice with the pulp floating on the surface, just the way I like it, a side bowl full of scrambled eggs coated in salt and black pepper, and a wad of fluffy, buttermilk pancakes, bathing in maple syrup – just the way I like it.

Needless to say, while I've been home, I've gained all of the weight that I lost while I was missing. 

Though, it seems to be that my father has forgotten the most important thing: cutlery.  

I flip off the covers from my body, and waddle downstairs. I take it slow, like I do most mornings, admiring everything in my life once more. I never did that enough while I was safe and sound, but now, that's all I ever do...admire and thank.  

I watch all of the framed photographs.  

One from seven months ago, where I stood with my friends, all of us wrapped up in khaki blankets under police custody. The day I came home, the day I was found.  

And the rest consist of group family photos at special events, like weddings, christenings and birthdays, etcetera. However, the last one, hanging by the first step of the staircase, is a childhood photo of Josh and I. I was wearing a cute, little baby blue dress covered in polka-dots, and my feet enveloped in embarrassing, clashing trainers. Josh was mid-giggle; he looked happy. For a small period of his life, Josh Washington was actually happy.

I wonder if he's still out there. I wonder if he's alive.  

My eyes attach to the front door, and I find a bunch of letters scattered on the floor.  

I bend down and search through them; all addressed to my mother and father. All except for one. A brown envelope. Addressed to me.

I snatch it up from the ground, steal a knife and fork from the kitchen, and race back upstairs.  

I crawl back into bed, kicking the blankets underneath myself.  

I rip open the envelope, and unfold a piece of plain white paper, to find a handwritten letter.  

Y/N,

We have taken the time to write you this letter to tell you that we have found Josh. He was suffering with a severe virus in the mines of our mountain. He's been in the hospital for a few weeks, but he eventually passed away a few nights ago. The virus killed him.

We want to thank you for the unconditional love and respect you showed our son in his time of need. Years before this incident before us, you looked after our son and never wanted to hurt him. You did everything in his best interest.  

As his parents, we feel that it is our duty to tell you how much our son loved you. We'll never be sure in what way he loved you; whether it was platonic or romantic, but we know that he wanted you in his life for ever and ever.  

When you disappeared with our daughters, it affected Josh deeply. He underwent mass treatments in psychiatric hospitals to no avail, and he always believed that you would make it out alive. He had a constant gut feeling.  

Just know our son is looking down on you, sending you love and light always.  

We wish you well in your future endeavours, and we will ensure this with a gift from our son.

Yours faithfully,

Bob and Melinda Washington

And attached with the letter lays a cheque with a vast amount of money prescribed, because Josh Washington always knew how much my family needed it.

[aspidities]

Blood Royal

 Chapter 15

(A Korrasami A/B/O series.)

Hey folks! Apologies for the long wait for this update. I got all happy and lustfully distracted and had to remind myself to write again. Shout out to @loosesushi for cracking the whip on me. 😘

The wildfire of Korra’s touch detonated within Asami’s mind, and she was sure she was howling, screaming, as she climaxed instantly without anything touching her. Her body was slick and feverish, thighs shaking, and she clung to Korra’s strong, lean form only by some miracle as her mind went slack and primal. Instinct filled her and she forced her eyes open, seeing only Korra’s tanned, corded neck above her, and the beacon of her pulse shone bright through her skin, and it was calling to her.

She answered it, and bit down.

Korra shuddered hard against her, hands pressing against her spine, her ass, and Asami wept into the mouthful of flesh her teeth had claimed, tasting time and cosmic, celestial energy as well as the leaping, sun-on-the-glaciers feeling that made up Korra’s essence. She tasted thousands of years and gods of men and monsters, ageless beings that floated inexorably through oceans, carrying the weight of eternity on their backs. She tasted the laughter of Korra’s childhood, the chubby fists of her determination, the windswept blizzard in which she found Naga. She tasted the first time Korra mastered a new element, the first time she stepped out into Republic City, the first time she’d met Asami. She tasted singsong-sweet dreams, and freedom, and gorgeous, aching love that thudded into her tongue; honey-thick and consuming.

Korra was growling and weeping all in one into her neck, her teeth a sharp, perfect anchor amid the madness and elegance of it all. She could feel that the alpha was iron-hard, swelled to instant firmness against her thigh, and the erection couldn’t have been anything but painful, as thick as it was, but Korra made no move to ease herself or soothe it with rubbing. Instead, the Avatar was locked into Asami’s pulse, moaning and weeping as she drank in every ounce of essence. She had a brief moment to wonder if Korra could taste her memories in the same way that she could taste the alpha’s, but then another pulsing wave of pleasure overtook her and they rocked as one. Asami could feel herself curling around Korra’s aura, blending their gauzy colors into a brilliant red-blue-gold-white.

This is right, she kept thinking, in a slow, hazy realization. This feels so right. Why didn’t I know? Oh Korra, I’ve been so blind…

The Avatar was moving her to the bed, shifting her, insistently pressing her down, and she was eager to assist, sinking back and reclining, but she hung on to her mate, unwilling to release the irresistible pull of the mark and her teeth. Korra growled frustratedly into her hold as she met the resistance of Asami’s clothes, her hands sweeping restlessly over her body, and the omega had a second of awareness before the Avatar shredded them, destroying fine Fire Nation linens and the best of Republic City’s tailoring in one savage stroke of fire that danced along her skin without burning her. She was naked then, gloriously and deliciously, and she rubbed herself wanton against the smooth bunching muscles of her mate’s body as Korra distractedly shrugged free of her robe. Every second that they weren’t touching in skin-to-skin contact felt like agony, and the relief of having Korra press every inch of her warmth along the omega’s inflamed skin made her mind self-destruct.

Finally, unbearably soon, they had to wrench their mouths away, breathing heavily as one, foreheads pressed together. The mark throbbed and pulsed, and Asami’s whole body felt like it was connected to that circle where Korra’s teeth had left their deep, rusty imprint. Korra was breathing raggedly, and she was crying, soft silvery tears that dropped onto Asami’s face.

“I love you. So much.” She whispered, and Asami surged up to kiss her, to drink from the salt staining her lips. She pulled at Korra’s hips, insensately. She didn’t want to hear words of love, she wanted to feel it. The alpha wasn’t inside her and that was a crime, a vicious, horrible crime every second that it was perpetrated longer. She rocked under Korra, tilting her pelvis, and the alpha’s significant length dragged against her slick folds, making them both moan.

Her mate finally caught the plot, and she stilled Asami with an instinctive, growling nip to the mark on her throat, while her shaking hands guided the pulsating heat of her shaft to press against the omega’s anxiously grasping entrance. Asami almost lost consciousness at the anticipatory pleasure of it, the way the wide, flared head caught against her inner muscles. She moaned, low and deep, and pulled her alpha into her with a shuddering, jarring thrust. They both cried out.

“Damn it, damn it,” Asami wept. She didn’t know why she was cursing, or why she was crying, but she was helpless to stop either impulse. “I wanted you for so long, wanted to be yours…” Her words rolled into another moan as Korra buried the last few inches, bottoming out against her swollen cervix.

“You’re mine.” Korra promised hotly, words panting against the throbbing flesh of the mark on Asami’s neck. She worried the bite again, sending a shiver through their joined bodies. “Mine, all mine.” She groaned, again. “My mate, ohhhh…. my Asami.”

The motion began then, and swallowed both of their words. Irresistible, feverish motion. Korra was pumping, and her cock was wet, and the slapping noise of it was driving Asami wild at the sheer eroticism, the primal shamelessness of how she felt. Her body welcomed her chosen alpha, welcomed her slamming, driving thrusts, opening wide for more intrusion into her sensitive depths. Her heels dug into Korra’s finely muscled ass, and the spurring only encouraged the alpha’s instincts, which in turn brought the base of her shaft bumping against Asami’s receptive, aching clit.

The sheets below them tangled into sweaty bunches, and the blankets tumbled to the floor, but the pair wasn’t distracted. Korra had resumed her hold, as if she couldn’t bear to leave the mark alone, and Asami would’ve liked to do the same, but she was held down by the force of the Avatar’s body, her rampant thrusting, and her insides sang with the possessive dominance of it. She didn’t need to reinforce the bite anyway; she could see from the reddened flesh on Korra’s sweat-streaked neck that her mark was throbbing right along with the one Korra had made, driving the alpha on. Every jarring, rocketing movement of her alpha’s body connecting with her flesh made her clit sob at the pressure, and she couldn’t focus on anything but the sweet roughness of it, the brutality of Korra’s love. She clawed at the alpha’s back, leaving red slashing marks in her lust.

The bed rocked and swayed, as Korra alternated between long, deep slides and quick, jabbing jerks, bringing the head of her thick, rippling cock against the swelling ridge on the front wall of Asami’s overstimulated pussy, and it was steadily driving the omega insane. She was sobbing, grasping, whimpering at the pressure and the stretch, and the wet scandalous slaps of Korra’s base against her clit, and her noises seemed to egg the Avatar into a frenzy, like a shark scenting blood. Her alpha was grunting, growling, snorting like a beast in response to sweet omega submission, and it only agitated both of them more, bodies drawn inexorably toward their joining.

Asami clung to Korra with her legs around her waist and her nails buried in the silken-strong muscles of her back. The Avatar was holding them both up by the strength of her hands, flat on the bed, and her ass was clenched with effort as she thudded into Asami like a freight train. Musky-sweet rivers of the omega’s arousal ran down between their joined bodies, and mingled with the copious streams of pre-come pumping from the alpha’s straining tip. Their thighs were slick with it, and the bed below them was gaining a sizable puddle, but Asami only wanted more. She wanted to be filled, and she clutched desperately, rocking her hips without being able to give voice to her need.

Against her entrance, she felt a swelling, pulsating feeling that she hadn’t felt since her heat, and her body instinctively began to flutter open even before she realized what was happening. Korra was knotting, somehow, even without a heat or a rut to trigger it. She was wide-eyed in wonder below her alpha, and, as the bulge rubbed against her, Korra’s eyes met hers in equal surprise. She’d heard of alphas knotting during a mating bite out of heat, but since so many couples tended to exchange bites during the passionate throes heat or a rut, the actuality of it was rare. Some took it is a sign of true love, true bond…deeper than the bites exchanged in a hormonal surge could signify. Asami didn’t believe those stories, nominally, but in this instance….with Korra panting down at her, blue eyes soft and round, neck ragged from her mark, knot throbbing firmly against her entrance…she felt she could believe them now. She threaded the fingers of one hand through Korra’s soft brown hair, and let it tumble free from the ponytails.

“Please,” she whispered, and her fingers stroked against Korra’s neck. She didn’t need to say more, but she did. “I love you, Korra.”

The woman she loved closed her eyes and pulled her fingers to her mouth to kiss them. When she opened them again, Korra’s blue eyes were dark with tears. She leaned down, and pressed her forehead against Asami’s, and they each released a sigh as the motion began the process of sinking Korra’s knot inside. The omega gave a needy whine and her hips jarred forward, allowing the swelling ridges to nuzzle inside of her willing body, and soon, with a sucking pop, they were joined fully.

Korra couldn’t hold back, and Asami didn’t want her too. She dug in her heels and her nails in encouragement as her alpha howled and slammed the knot inside her walls, rocking it back and forth as she rutted mindlessly, lost in her normally-dormant instincts. The drag of the engorged base inside of her was too much for Asami, and she began to quake, shuddering with slips of heat every time Korra’s chiseled granite abs slapped against her clit or the knot rolled against her swollen spot inside.

“Korra, oh Korra, I’m-“ She wailed, arching as her inner walls began their inexorable grasping.

“Come with me.” Korra peppered her lips with kisses and snuck one hand between their bodies, swiping her fingers over Asami’s reddened, aching clit one final time, and that did it. She came, screaming her release into the night air of the open window as Korra stiffened above her and gave one final savage thrust of her hips, emptying inside of her omega with hot, spurting jets.

The orgasm was shared between them like a gasping breath of air, and it went on and on like a tidal wave. Korra’s knot kept their shared essence from splashing out to join the dampness on the sheets, but it was a near thing. Her cock was jerking, erupting an ocean of come into Asami, who strained and quivered and gasped to take it all, feeling her belly tent with the potent force of it. The unexpected knot and the passion of the mating bite had increased the normal volume of her ejaculate to at least tenfold, and the omega groaned below her alpha, shaking as Korra continued to release, her own climax continuing in an endless loop provoked by the alpha’s swirling pheromones and the warm pulses of her come.

The room was filled with the hazy, sublime scent of sex, and the fragrant blend lulled Asami into a stupor. It was a long, long time before she could gather herself, moaning slowly as she stretched what little movement she could under the weight of Korra’s body. The tie kept her firmly locked at the waist, but that was fine, she didn’t want to move. She ran her mouth possessively over the mark on Korra’s neck and sighed. Her doubts, her fears, her worries had evaporated with the mating bite and the subsequent knotting. Korra was hers now, damn the consequences, and she was Korra’s. Whatever came, they would face it together or not at all.

As if in response, Korra’s hands tightened protectively around her waist and her body crouched over Asami’s, letting out a low growl. “Mine.” She promised, again, and her voice was crackling with alpha instinct. “I’ll never let him hurt you again.”

Asami ignored that. Her father could and would hurt her, again and again, and that didn’t matter. What mattered was protecting Korra from seeing it, or being caught in the crossfire. She palmed her lover’s sweat-soaked hair, soothing. “I’m safe, I’m right here. It’s okay.”

But Korra wasn’t mollified. She only clutched Asami tighter. “I won’t let him take you.”

“Korra, no one is taking me anywhere.” Asami shushed her, increasing her stroking with both hands. “I’m right here.”

“I had dreams.” Korra confessed into her neck, breath hot against her skin. “While I was unconscious. Bad dreams. He took you from me.”

The words sent a shiver through Asami’s body. She didn’t know if Avatars had prophetic dreams, but it seemed probable. She continued her gentle ministrations to Korra’s back and sides, considering the possibilities. She didn’t have long though, because Korra was rolling her hips again, jarring the firmness of the knot inside her, and her possessive alpha was growling as if she didn’t know how to stop. Her eyes were blue-black and glazed, searing with natural instinct and the cock inside of Asami was burning hot and throbbing like molten rock.

“He can’t have you.” Each growl was punctuated with a fierce worrying of the bite, making the omega’s insides sing in savage, primal response. “He can’t hurt you. I’d die before I let that happen…I’d see the world burn to the ground before I gave you up. Not an inch of you. You’re mine. Mine.”

“Korra-“ Asami tried to gently protest but a wave of pheromones stiffened her and she gasped, her pupils blown, and her hips shifted back instinctively. “Ohhhh…I’m…. I’m yours. I’m all yours, Korra.”

“Yess…” The Avatar hissed encouragement, drawing the omega’s pale, pliant legs back up in a bent-bow position to allow her to sink ever-deeper, impossibly stretching Asami in ways that she was sure she would never stop feeling, even when Korra eventually withdrew. But that wasn’t happening any time soon and she didn’t want it, couldn’t want it. She grabbed at Korra, pulling her closer, and moaned heartily as the knot rocked inside her walls.

The night around them sang with jasmine flowers expanding and the harvest moon hung low and full as a promise, even as the Equalists planned and Hiroshi raged. But for this golden, star-blessed moment, in the silence and the sweetness of a warm autumn night, the world stilled to allow this. The keening of Asami’s wails and the answering cries of Korra’s passion made the night pause, and the world felt the shuddering, glorious pulse of the Avatar’s pleasure. All around the city, old couples turned to each other in warmth, some for the first time in decades, and new couples found themselves inflamed, chasing the rampant anxiety of desire. The countryside rocked and moaned, thick with love and lust, and for long hours there was no crime, no violence at all for miles around Republic City, as the air pulsed and quivered like a heart.

The Avatar had found her mate, at long last, and for one star-fallen night, the world rejoiced with her.