#i should just seize the chance to leave this hell hole

[firesideme]

Chapter Seven

You can hardly bear to look at them as you follow them backstage. How can you possibly provide comfort? What words could you say to make this better?

“It’s worse than we thought,” Hongjoong says, eyes shining. 

San wraps his arms around himself. “It’s all falling apart too quickly. How are we supposed to fix this?”

“Mono, it all started with you,” Jongho says, fury and pain in his eyes, and you flinch back as he approaches. “You have to know something!”

“I’m sorry.”

“Anything! Just think.”

“Stop it,” Hongjoong says. “We need to keep calm.”

Wooyoung suddenly begins to march away, the others calling after him. “The only thing left to do is leave the city,” he explains. “My dad has a motorcycle. I’m going.”

“Wooyoung!” Hongjoong shouts.

“You have a better idea?”

“Take someone with you, idiot. We don’t know if it’s safe.”

Wooyoung looks at the group.

“You and me,” Yunho says, slapping his palm against Wooyoung’s. “I’m not going to sit around.”

You ask, “How long does it take to get to the city?” There’s a moment of silence before you understand why they don’t answer: they can’t remember.

“It doesn’t matter.” Wooyoung pulls Yunho along. “The second we see something different, we’ll come back.”

“We’ll wait for you at the factory,” Hongjoong says. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

It feels overwhelmingly like defeat to help them out of the uniforms you helped dress them in, having never had the chance to be used. Conversation is attempted, but every attempt falls flat. San sits on one of the armchairs, hugging his knees while Jongho picks at a hole in his shirt. Seonghwa bounces his knee, watching Hongjoong as he paces back and forth.

“I shouldn’t have let them go,” he mutters. “I should have gone with them or… agh!”

With your knees held tight to your chest, you sit beside Yeosang on the couch, going over and over the few clues you have in your notebook. You add to it:

The group’s memories are getting even worse. Don’t know how long they have left

Your tears blot the page. You can’t remember your past, but everything else is clear in your head; are you going to be the only one left in this world? More alone than you ever thought possible?

Why am I different?

You underline it over and over until Yeosang’s stops you, rubbing his thumb over your skin. 

The hourglass on the table mocks you. What else could you do with it other than turn it? What else is it for?

As the others start to drift off, exhausted from the stress, you stare at the blue-tinged glass and the sand inside. Should you break it open? Scatter the sand to the wind?

“Mono!”

You jump, searching for the voice and coming to meet Yeosang’s eyes. “Who was that?” he asks. The others blink awake.

“Mono!”

Your head snaps to find the source, seizing the small radio. “Hello? Who are you?”

“There isn’t any time.” The voice crackles as if you aren’t tuned into the right frequency, but you don’t dare turn the dials for fear of losing it. 

Jongho tries to take it from you. “What the hell is-”

You snatch it out of his reach. “Quiet!”

“What’s going on? Why aren’t you back yet?”

“What? Who are you?”

“Shit…” There’s a pause. It’s too garbled to make out, but you think you hear others talking in the background. “This is why I wanted you to wait, Mono.”

“Just tell me what I have to do!”

“Are all eight of them with you?”

“No?”

“Then get them. Do you see the eight rings on the base of the hourglass?”

You glance at it, and a quick count proves there are in fact eight of them. “Yes.”

“All of them have to be touching them for it to work.”

You want to scream. “That’s what I had to do? Why- what will happen once we do?”

The man on the other end is quiet again. You’re about to shout at him when he says, “Oh, Mono, what happened to you? Look, you don’t have any time. If you stay in that place, you’ll be erased from existence. Find the others and turn the hourglass. I’ll find a way to help you afterward.”

“Did he say ‘erased from existence’?” Jongho says quietly, staring at the radio like it had grown a head. 

You shake it again. “Tell me what turning the hourglass will do!”

“It’ll take you where you all need to be. Please, trust me. And Mono, know that I believe in you. Always. And I’m with you, even if we’re not together.”

Radio static replaces his voice, and for a moment, all anyone can do is stare at it.

“Who the hell was that?” San finally says. 

“Wasn’t it…” Hongjoong swallows. “Wasn’t that my voice?”

You scoff at the absurdity, but… hadn’t you thought the voice was familiar?

San laughs without humor. “No way. There’s no way.”

“There’s two of me,” you argue.

“We don’t know that for sure.”

Hongjoong takes a breath. “Right now, I think we should do what he says."

“What if we can’t trust him?” Seonghwa says. 

“Can we afford not to? We have to find the others.”

“They could be miles away by now!” Jongho says.

“Are we really going to be erased from existence?”

“How is that even possible?”

“What if Yunho and Wooyoung have forgotten what they need to do?”

“Enough!” Hongjoong slams his fit on the table, making the hourglass lose balance and topple. You and Yeosang catch it each with one hand, your heart in your throat. Hongjoong doesn’t lose his momentum. “There’s only one road leading out of town. We’ll leave a note for them here, and we’re going to follow that road until we find them.”

“And then what?” Jongho says.

“Mono is going to turn that hourglass.”

Reluctantly, you stand, packing your notebook, the radio, and the hourglass safely wrapped in your jumper into your bag. The group travels quickly on their feet, forcing you to almost run to keep up.

“He sounded like he knew you, like you were close,” Yeosang says. “More than that, he made it sound like you really are from somewhere else.”

You don’t know what to say, having no memory of it, so you just nod. 

“I don’t trust him.”

“It’s like Hongjoong said, we don’t have a choice.”

It goes unsaid as you get close to the outskirts of town: strange things are happening. You walk and walk, but never seem to get anywhere. The clouds in the distance stay in the same place, never moving. There’s no wind, no birdsong, even the sun has frozen in sunset. 

“Wait!”

The group skids to a halt, looking back. Jongho is pulling on Seonghwa’s arm several meters behind. 

“He just stopped!” Jongho says. 

“Seonghwa!” Hongjoong barely stops himself from tackling his friend in his rush to reach him. “Are you okay? What’s going on?”

“Hongjoong? What are we doing here?”

Jongho drops his arm, but their leader shakes Seonghwa’s shoulders. “We’re finding Yunho and Wooyoung and we don’t have time to waste. Come on.”

“That’s right… How did I forget?”

“It doesn't matter. Come on.”

But barely a minute passes before another question stops the group. “Where’s Wooyoung?” Mingi says. “And Yunho? Why are we…?”

You grip Yeosang’s hand as if it will tether his memory to you. “It’s getting so much worse… We have to find them.”

You look to Hongjoong for support, but his face has crumpled with confusion. A sob escapes your lips, the only sound in a world that has become deathly silent, until the rumble of a motorcycle vibrates through the air. 

Wooyoung, Yunho sitting behind him, appears from a side road, almost crashing into Seonghwa before he leaps out of the way. At the sudden stop, the bike loses balance and Yunho and Wooyoung spill out over the street, getting covered in dust, clouds of it getting in your eyes and mouth. 

You help them up, making sure they aren’t injured, but Wooyoung draws away with unnecessary force. 

“What are you doing here?” Yunho asks, brushing the dust from his clothes. “Never mind. We- we…”

“It’s all over,” Wooyoung says and kicks the wheels of the bike. 

“What did you find?” 

“Ah, we- we-” Yunho looks down at his hand and you see he’s written: Find the others. The world is falling apart. “Ah! Just let me remember!” He hits his head in frustration and speaks quickly, a deep line between his brows as he struggles to keep his thoughts straight. “We followed the road out of town but there was this, this thing! It was like a mirage or something, I don’t know how to explain it, but it was getting closer so we headed right back into town.”

You’ll be erased from existence.

“How far away?” you ask.

Yunho and Wooyoung look at each other. “I can’t remember!” Wooyoung moans, holding his head. 

You tear the hourglass from your bag, ripping away the jumper it’s wrapped in. “Come on!”

No one responds. You let out another sob, hopelessness crushing your chest.

Yeosang squeezes your hand. “The hourglass, what was it for..?”

Looking at their faces again, it’s obvious none of them can remember either. You doubt they can even recall why they’re standing in the lane. How can you make them do what you ask?

As you kneel in the soil, you hear a sharp intake of breath. 

“Guys. look.”

You raise your head and follow Jongho’s gaze. He’s looking over the landscape. The sky shifts and roils, clouds twitching like dying animals. What should be trees and hedgerows undulate and twist, the houses and other buildings are nothing but color and shape. No matter what you focus on, the second you blink, it’s changed into something unrecognizable. It reminds you of the way heat rises off the ground when it's hot enough, blurring the air. Only a small area around the nine of you remains untouched.

“Falling apart.” Wooyoung stands frozen, the whites of his eyes catching the static light of the afternoon sun. “We’re going to disappear.”

You rush to Hongjoong, hoping his influence as their leader will have some effect, and shake him. “Tell everyone to come to me.”

He blinks. “Why?”

“Hongjoong, please!”

“What’s wrong, Mono?” 

You whip your head around. Yeosang cocks his head as if he’s concerned about you. He remembered me, you realize. He’s still there.

“We need to try the hourglass.”

“Right…” he shakes his head. “Right… But why?”

“Yeah, why?” Wooyoung asks, prodding the glass. “What’s so special about it?”

You stand in the center of the group, unable to stop the tears. “Because I’m asking you. Please. Please!” You hold it out in front of you. “Everyone, take one of the rings on the base and hold on.”

Yeosang, hesitantly, comes forward. Then, as if remembering a fond memory as he looks at you, he smiles. “If it’s important to you, I’ll do it.”

The world around you crumbles. Your ears pop from a sudden change in pressure. Inches from your feet, the ground swirls like water. 

The others haven’t moved.

“You said you wouldn’t forget even if the world falls apart!” you shout at Hongjoong. “We promised that we wouldn’t let anyone forget us? Was that all a lie?”

“The hourglass,” he says dreamily, coming forward. 

“Hongjoong!”

His gaze focuses when his finger curls around one of the metal rings. “The hourglass! Everyone, come here!”

Your first instinct was right; Hongjoong’s voice commands the others forward, even if they can’t remember why they feel the need to listen to him. 

“That’s right! Everyone, the rings!”

They each touch the hourglass and you cry out in relief. There’s a dragging feeling against your entire body, as if you’re being pulled into a whirlpool.

You put your hand on the top of the hourglass, tears flowing down your cheeks. “You remembered me, Yeosang,” you say, and kiss his cheek. “Thank you.”

You turn the hourglass-

[lover-of-skellies]

Marked

So uhh, this isn’t off the prompt list thing and literally no one asked for it, but I decided to go back and edit a super old thing I wrote. It’s supposed to be part of something a lot bigger, but for now, the whole thing’s been discontinued

Essentially, this is an OC insert kinda thing with my girl Adrienne. She’s been trapped in Horrortale for a little while, and since Sans decided to be merciful, she’s been allowed to live in a spare room in his and Pap’s house. She has free roam of the house and can do pretty much whatever the hell she wants (as long as it doesn’t involve getting into the pantry and digging into their reserves), and in exchange for all of that and being allowed to live, he and Papyrus have some super basic rules they expect her to follow

Rule number 1 is that she is to be helpful, and try to maintain the house while they’re away. Rule number two is that she’s not to leave the house without covering her face and hands. Rule number three is that she’s never to leave the house alone, without one or both of them nearby

Out of boredom and hunger, she leaves the house one day, following the smell of food. This doesn’t seem like it’d be anything huge, but it’s a major no-no, and it doesn’t go unpunished

Papyrus is also surprisingly good at giving advice, too. He might not have much experience with dating, but he knows exactly what he's talking about

If you make it to the end, I have to give you kudos because this is a complete cringe-fest ^^"

((Gonna add some potential trigger warnings for: angst, slight violence, and public humiliation))

Pain.

Searing pain.

The once blue-nette had been exploring the town, much to her guardians’ displeasure. She’d known it wasn’t a good idea, and for what reasons, she was well aware, but she had to do something. Staying holed away in the house every moment of every day was a completely new level of boring, one that she hadn’t even known existed. Her guardian had made it very clear that she was to never leave the house unless he or his brother were to accompany her, but today… well. His brother was away, probably at the capital getting physically and verbally abused by their queen, and he himself? She wasn’t sure what he did while he was away, but she’d learned not to ask too many questions. The first few times she tried asking, he’d been quick to change the subject or dodge her questions entirely, or he’d simply laugh and make a joke which he deemed hilarious when in reality, it wasn’t. Once he got tired of her asking, his humor quickly dissipated and was replaced by anger. He didn’t even have to look at her for her to know he was upset; all it took was a few short, clipped responses, and how she could practically hear him frown when he spoke. That’s beside the point though.

At the moment, she was suspended in mid air by her throat, her legs flailing as she began clawing at her assailant’s arm, her teeth bared as she struggled to free herself. The slightly withered fire monster shrugged off her attempts to attack him as if they were nothing at all; even though his strength had been diminished and was now only half of what it used to be, he was still far tougher than she could ever hope to be. Having smelled food, she made the mistake of slipping into the bar he owned, her hood tugged as far over her face as possible. She had glanced around the establishment, taken note of the other monsters nearby, and made another mental note of where all the exits were, should she need to run. After very cautiously crossing the bar and taking a seat at the old, worn counter, the flamesman had wordlessly poured a glass of water. He nudged it in her direction, and she’d eagerly accepted it, being mindful of how much of her face was concealed as she sipped the cold beverage.

For a moment, she was relaxed, and she nearly forgot the very real danger she was in. She was snapped out of her brief feeling of serenity as the Grillby fully shifted his attention to her. He made a soft, questioning sound, and she kept her head low, speaking just barely loud enough for him to hear, “What’re ya serving, Grillby?” He grunted, well prepared to offer her a short, yet simple answer, but was cut off by another monster who seated himself beside the girl, “I don’t think I’ve seen you around these parts before, friend… where are you from?” The teen lowered her gaze to the countertop, catching a glimpse of what looked to be faded blue fur. She didn’t know what monster could possibly want to talk to her, but she remained as calm and casual as possible in hope of not drawing any more attention to herself, “The ruins.”

With their interest now fully piqued, the monster beside her hummed incredulously, “The ruins, huh?... I take it you’ve met our former queen then. Toriel.” Upon hearing the familiar goat monster’s name, the teen saw images flicker in her mind; memories of her time in the ruins before she managed to escape. How Toriel had guided her through all the traps and puzzles that laid in waiting. How she held her close and allowed her to sob into her shoulder. How she’d convinced Adrienne to go back to her house, where there’d be a warm bed, food, and all the love and care she could ever want. Toriel had baked a cinnamon and butterscotch pie, very excited to share it with her, but not long after the teen had eaten a small slice, she’d felt her stomach turn. Her world went black, and when she awoke, she was tucked into a bed in a dimly lit room, which looked as though it had once belonged to a child. She felt incredibly ill and had almost no strength, and she could barely stand without feeling light headed. To her surprise, however, her willing ally, Flowey, had made a surprise return. Adrienne had seen Toriel had burn him alive, so she didn’t understand how he was even still alive.

Flowey had been through this exact same situation too many times to count, as it turned out, and he’d revealed Toriel’s true intentions: make the teen weak enough to require constant care and attention, and make her stay in the ruins forever. Or at the very least, until she died. Taking advantage of a distraction provided by Flowey, she’d waited for the goat monster to disappear to another part of the house. She’d then made her way to the kitchen and began to search around the floorboards. According to Flowey, there was a panel that could be removed, and underneath it, she’d find the remedy she needed to regain her health. She’d found the vial and downed it without question, only to look up and see the crazed goat monster staring at her from the doorway. The look on her face was one that still occasionally haunted Adrienne's dreams, and she’d been trying to go as long as possible without thinking about it. It appeared as though she’d be getting no such luck today, though.

Clearing her throat and trying to force down her growing anxiety, she nodded, keeping her head down, “Yeah, I have. I’ve met her.” The blue furred stranger watched her with an unnerving amount of intensity and she fought the urge to squirm and lean away from them. As they spoke again, their voice held a curious edge, “Huh. I can only imagine how that went.” Nodding silently, the teen returned to her glass of water, more than ready for the stranger to go away. She knew what would happen if she was discovered, and she wanted no part of that whatsoever.

The monster leaned closer to her and sniffed the air, letting out a pleased sigh before mumbling, “Friend… you don’t exactly smell like one of us. Monsters have their own natural and unique scents... But you, however,” A fuzzy paw-like hand seized her arm with a vice-like grip, and the stranger's voice shifted from a mumble to what was more like a hiss, “you smell like you belong on the grill.” Adrienne began attempting to yank her arm back out of the monster’s grasp and they laughed, simply using their free hand to tug her hood down, revealing her identity to Grillby and the other bar patrons that surrounded them. Her faded grey eyes widened in fear as the monsters began to shout at the flamesman, excitedly demanding that he cook her for them. Despite how the teen shook her head in protest, the mass of living fire moved closer to her, rapidly snatching her up by the throat. She was lifted off of the ground, and he ignored her pained screams as the heat from his hand began to scorch the skin of her neck.

With adrenaline now coursing through her veins, she let out a string of expletives and pulled both of her legs up until her knees touched her chest. The flamesman took a single step toward his kitchen, and then froze as both of her deceptively weak legs shot toward him, delivering a sharp kick to the space just below his chest. She didn’t expect her little stunt to actually work, but to her pleasant surprise, he’d released his grip on her out of shock, gingerly touching the now injured part of himself. Adrienne dropped to the floor and quickly regained her balance, paying no attention to the few monsters who rushed to Grillby’s side. She proceeded to climb over the counter and sprint toward the door, the footsteps behind her a clear indicator that she was being pursued now. Not that she could blame them for any though; food was insanely hard to come by, so if you had a chance to eat but the food got up and ran, wouldn’t you go after it too?

Reaching out with a clawed hand, some unseen monster snagged a fistful of her hair and harshly pulled, causing her to yelp and almost tumble to the floor. She glanced around, surveying her surroundings and checking the exits again. Part of what looked to be a dog’s muzzle could be seen in her peripheral vision and she winced, struggling to free herself from the creature's grip. She only received an amused cackle from the monster in question, followed by him instructing some of the others to grab her and haul her back to the kitchen for Grillby. Looking around again and seeing them approaching her, she stuffed her hand into one of her pockets and fished around, searching through the various items inside for a moment before revealing a pocket knife. Unsure of what she might do, some of the monsters around her stepped back, but the one still pulling her hair only growled. Though she felt the hair on the back of her neck raise at the sound, she lifted an arm and made one single, fluid slicing motion with her hand, the blade of the pocket knife slicing through her hair. While she hated having to cut her hair and knew it’d take forever to grow back, she bared her teeth at the large dog monster, her lips curling into a smug grin as she noticed the look of surprise on his face.

Taking advantage of the moment, she darted to the nearest door, fully prepared to run out into the freezing streets and make a mad dash back to her protector’s house. Freedom and safety were so close and within her reach now, but as she whipped the door open and scrambled to get outside, she slammed face first into yet another monster. Letting out a frustrated and startled screech, she began trying to squeeze past them. They simply chuckled, wrapping an arm around her nearly size-zero waist and pulling her flush against themselves. Hearing the chuckle, realization dawned on her; this was her protector. She would be safe now.

She stole a glance up at his face and his scarlet iris flickered briefly down to her, his amused grin shifting into a taut line. Oh, she knew that expression all too well by now.

From that look alone, she knew someone would be hurt today.

Though his arm was almost uncomfortably tight around her, she said nothing, only turning her body slightly and burying her face in the front of his heavily blood stained shirt. The teen whimpered, wordlessly admitting just how scared she really was at the moment. He shifted his focus entirely to the other monsters that were now staring at both of them, and sensing their gaze, the teen whined faintly, her guardian lightly squeezing her in an effort to reassure her.

Thoroughly confused as to why she wasn’t dead yet, someone called out to her protector, “Perfect timing, Sans. Now how about you kill her so we can all eat already?” The skeleton’s normally rough voice held a bitter edge and he practically growled, “She ain’t free game, pal. I’m sorry ta say it, but I won’t be hackin’ this one ta bits for ya.” A crowd was beginning to form now and Adrienne tried to press as close to her friend as she could, wishing everyone would hurry up and leave. She already hated crowds on their own, and knowing that this particular crowd all wanted to see her get roasted alive didn’t exactly make her feel any better. Clearly taken aback, the same monster that’d addressed Sans spoke up again, “Oh really? And why’s that? You never helped the humans that fell before her, so what makes her so special?”

Curiosity piqued, she glanced up at the skeleton again, though he didn’t return the gaze. He just continued staring the other monster down, his iris nearly glowing now from the extent of his agitation, “Because she’s mine. Ya hear me? This little slab a’ meat belongs ta me.” A tiny burst of heat rushed to her face upon hearing his response; was he really claiming her right now? Claiming that she was his, and using his power over the others to coerce them into sparing her? Unbelievable.

Another monster decided to interject, countering Sans’ statement with, “Then how come you haven’t marked her yet?”

Oh boy. Of course someone would ask. Why wouldn’t they? She had no idea what she was expecting, but it clearly wasn’t that. With an annoyed huff, the skeleton spun her around, making sure everyone could see her face as he fired back with another sharp retort, “Heh, funny you should ask. I was on my way home with the intention of doin’ just that, but I guess we won’t have the privacy now. Oh well. All you fuckwits better be watchin’, because I’m only gonna do this once.”

Wait, he was going to mark her? Here? In front of everyone?

Face burning with embarrassment, she dropped her gaze to the floor, letting out a soft squeak as he grabbed the collar of her shirt and jacket and pulled them aside to reveal her shoulder. Not bothering to give any indication of what he was about to do, a faintly glowing blue tongue snaked out of his maw and traced over a very specific patch of her skin. The feeling of his tongue - which consisted solely of highly concentrated magic - on her skin was like nothing she’d experienced before. There was some warmth to it that was followed by a tingle, which was likely caused by the magic itself, and another involuntary whimper slipped past her lips. Her face grew hotter at hearing herself make that sound again, which to her horror, Sans had also heard. It earned a soft chuckle from him and his mandible shifted into a pleased grin.

And then he sunk his teeth into her shoulder.

It happened so fast that she didn’t even have time to register what happened, but at the lack of the expected pain, she unconsciously fidgeted. Wasn’t this supposed to hurt?... What was preventing her from being in pain right now? She felt his tongue trace over her skin again, accompanied by more tingling and… numbness? Had he intentionally numbed her shoulder before biting her?

Seeing that he had been true to his word and had in fact marked her, the other monsters quickly grew bored, the vast majority of them also visibly disappointed as they returned to their prior activities. A sense of relief washed over her and she sighed, stealing a quick glance at her friend as he slowly released her. His tongue lingered behind momentarily and lapped up the blood that seeped from the injury, and his voice took a husky tone as he purred, “Ya taste good, kiddo. I think I could get used ta this.” Her already flushed face became a much brighter shade of red than before and she scoffed, refusing to look at him, “Don’t count on it, mister.” “Awe, c’mon Addy. Help me out here… it’s not my fault that ya taste as good as ya look.” Growling softly, Adrienne scrunched her face up into a look of annoyance in hopes of masking her embarrassment as she rolled her eyes, “Pervert.” “No idea what you’re talkin’ about.” “Uh huh, right. I definitely believe that.” He lightly jabbed her side with the tip of a phalange and she squirmed, yelping in surprise. She tried to twist her small frame away from him and he laughed softly, “Whatever. How about we ditch this place and head home now? This bar is no place for a little lady like ya.” Looking back at him over her shoulder, she flicked her tongue at him.

They’d left the bar and began to walk home in uncomfortable silence. The moment they made it back to his house and he’d set her down, she found herself being roughly shoved against the closed front door with one of his large hands catching her wrists and pinning them above her head. Her eyes widened in shock and she squirmed, “H-Hey, what the hell are you-” Meeting her gaze, the look he wore was enough to silence her, his completely dilated red iris both captivating and terrifying her all at once.

Then he spoke, his gruff voice low, “You disobeyed me, Adrienne.”

Forcing her voice out and reaching nothing louder than a whisper, she frowned, “I… I know I did. I’m really sorry, Sans. I won’t do it again, I swear.” “Do you have any idea what would’ve happened if I didn’t get ta you in time?” “Yes, I do! Really!” “If you knew the risks, then why’d you do it?” Feeling much smaller than before as he continued staring her down, Adrienne sheepishly looked away from him, “There’s just.... Not a lot to do here when you and Paps are gone, and I was bored. I did a bunch of cleaning and reorganizing, and I even tried to fix the TV. I dug through the hallway closet and looked through the games, but do you have any idea how hard it is to actually play a game by yourself and have fun at the same time?”

With his free hand, the skeleton cupped his face, letting a deep sigh, “You risked your life… you risked dying, because you were bored? Am I hearin’ that right?” Feeling guilty, she slowly nodded, choosing to keep her mouth shut this time. Catching her completely by surprise, what sounded like a giggle could be heard, and though it took a moment to fully register, she had a realization that made her blood run cold; the giggle came from Sans.

Nervously lifting her gaze again to look up at him, the only thing that began to pulse within her was regret. Regret that she’d disobeyed him, regret that she went against his wishes, regret that she’d upset him so badly, regret that she even opened her mouth at all to speak to him, and most of all, regret that she’d decided to look at him.

He leaned back the smallest bit, one hand still firmly pinning her wrists above her head. Her eyes widened in complete terror as his giggling began to escalate, growing louder and louder until he was roaring with laughter as blue tinted tears pricked at the rims of his sockets. Not bothering to wipe away the tears, he placed his free hand on his face. His open palm rested on his cheek as he curled his fingers, the first two settling inside his empty socket; judging by the slight movement his arm made, he’d begun lightly tugging on the rim of it. That was never a good sign. Yes, she loved it when he relaxed enough to laugh with her from time to time, but this display right now? This was the stuff of nightmares.

Then almost as quickly as it’d started, his laughter came to an abrupt halt and his wide grin vanished, leaving only a resentful scowl behind in its place. As his focus shifted back to the teen, her heart began to race. She honestly had no idea what he planned to do now. He then began to slowly tighten his grip on her wrists, a soft growl rumbling from within his chest. Paying no attention to the grimace of pain she wore as his phalanges began digging into her skin, he leaned down, the space between them reduced to almost nothing as he hissed, “You’re an idiot. Get out of my goddamn sight, human.” Adrienne opened her mouth to force an apology out but was quickly cut off, crying out in surprise and pain as the skeleton dug his phalanges even further into her wrists and began to break skin. Rolling his single eye light, he scoffed, stepping back and suddenly yanking her to the side, releasing his grip on her wrists in time to make her small body become airborne. With the sound of something cracking and collapsing beneath her, she knew she’d landed at least partially on the coffee table.

Despite the pain that shot through her with even the smallest movement, the cold stare she was receiving from the skeleton was enough to make get back up, her head hung low as her eyes began to water up. Not wanting to show him this weaker, more vulnerable side of herself, she darted up the stairs, her feet padding across the slightly creaky wooden floor for only a brief moment. She then took refuge in the upstairs bathroom, slamming the door shut behind herself and flipping the latch, locking out the world. Trying to force down the very minute amount of guilt that began to bubble up within him, Sans let out an annoyed huff and glanced at the now completely busted coffee table. He was going to have a hell of a time explaining that to Papyrus later.

~~~

What seemed like a century had passed before the youngest of the two skeletons finally returned home, the sight of the smashed coffee table still lying on the floor enough to induce a sense of dread within him. Normally when he came home, his elder brother would greet him, or at the very least, be lazing about on the couch and offer him a half hearted wave that was usually followed by some sort of pun or terrible joke.

But no. Nothing. Sans was nowhere in sight, and neither was Adrienne. This only made Papyrus’ concern grow; he hoped beyond all hope that his brother hadn’t done anything to her.

The tall skeleton let out a soft sigh and crossed the living room. The exhaustion from the long day began to set in as he ascended the stairs, eager to take a shower and change into something more comfortable. He loved his battle body immensely, but sometimes his sore, tired bones made the item feel as though it weighed a thousand pounds. He wished he could simply change his clothes and climb into bed so he could go to sleep, but life wasn’t that simple for him; before he was allowed to relax, he needed to shower and make dinner for his brother and Adrienne, then the teen was to help him clean up the dishes once the three of them had finished eating. After all that, he was to take Adrienne to the backyard to test prototypes for new puzzles and traps. She was kind enough to help him make sure they worked correctly, so he was always vigilant, always watching to make sure she was never injured on any of them. Aside from being a puzzle and trap tester, his rather small human friend also delighted in helping him think of new puzzles, and she even designed some of her own. She seemed to enjoy partaking in games of pretend when they messed around with the action figures he’d collected over the years, and when Sans wasn’t around or flat out refused to do it, she didn’t mind reading to him before he fell asleep each night, either. They’d grown very close, and he cared for her almost as much as he cared for Sans. It was for all those reasons why he promised to protect her; he had to protect her. He’d become used to her presence and had grown to appreciate their friendship very much, and having her as his friend helped fill the void in his soul that was once occupied by the queen herself. He still considered Undyne a close friend, but the way she spoke and treated him now was… Execrable.

As he twisted the knob and nudged his bedroom door open, the scent of blood hit his nasal cavity and he felt his body tense. Gently pushing the door shut behind his massive frame once he’d crossed the threshold, he made his way to his desk and flicked on the small lamp that resided on its far left corner, the light illuminating his multitude of action figures and an old map.

The faint sound of movement caught Papyrus’ attention and he looked down toward the source, almost unable to believe what he was seeing; the human was in his bed, lying on her side and wrapped in his old blankets. An open first aid kit sat on the floor next to the bed, and cloth bandages were wrapped loosely around her slender neck. Her hair, which was once nearly long enough to reach her lower back, was now much shorter; it looked as though it was cut hastily by some sort of blade. While her arms were mostly concealed by the blankets, he could see that her wrists had also been wrapped in bandages, a familiar crimson threatening to seep through the material. As she shifted again in her slumber, her shirt began to slip down her shoulder and revealed another large bandage, more crimson staining the fabric. His brow bones furrowed as he took note of how the crimson staining it formed a half circle… as if the injury was because of a bite.

In his consternation, Papyrus reached out, a single gloved hand settling on her uninjured shoulder. He leaned down, his spine already aching from the awkward angle as he lowered his voice and did his best not to startle her, “Human?... Adrienne? Please, I Need You To Wake Up. Come On Human, Please.” As she slowly began to stir, he fought the urge to scoop her up into his arms and shelter her from whatever had left her in her current condition.

As her eyes fluttered open and she took notice of the skeleton towering over her, all traces of exhaustion vanished and her eyes widened, a sound of surprise slipping past her lips. In her momentary panic, she’d sat up and tried to move away from him, her chest heaving as she drew in one deep breath after another. Papyrus gently shushed her, offering her a weak, apologetic smile, “Hey, Hey, It’s Alright. It’s Just Me, Adrienne. I Didn’t Mean To Startle You, I Swear. I’m So Sorry For Scaring You.”

Registering who was with her, the teen released a deep sigh of relief. She gave Papyrus no time to prepare himself before she practically threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around whatever she could reach before clinging to his battle body. Though he was visibly caught off guard, he delicately encircled her with his arms, one hand finding her uninjured shoulder again before he lightly squeezed, his voice laced with concern, “Adrienne?... What’s Wrong? What Happened To You?”

The only response he received from the girl in his arms was a muffled sob and he frowned, moving his hand from her shoulder to her face. He used his index finger to tilt her head back, allowing him to see her tear stained face, and as her bottom lip twitched and another tear rolled down her cheek, he frowned; normally she was such a strong, upbeat person. To see her this way was heartbreaking.

The skeleton lowered his voice even further, reducing it to a whisper, “Adrienne, Please… Tell Me What Happened. I Want To Help You.” Her lip twitched again and she sniffled, reaching up to wipe her tears away with her sleeve, “I just… Papy… I just wanted to go outside... I just wanted some fresh air… I didn’t mean for this to happen.” Still frowning, Papyrus gently ran his fingers through her hair and tilted his head, his voice remaining low, “What Do You Mean?... Did Sans Do This To You?” Upon hearing the name of the older skeleton brother, Adrienne tightened her grip on Papyrus, her voice beginning to waver as more tears rolled down her face, gathering at her jaw and dripping down onto her shirt, “Papy… I was so stupid. I made him mad at me. I upset Sans.”

Papyrus’ frown deepened; he knew how his brother could be whenever he had one of his episodes, and never in a million years would he wish for anyone to become the recipient of Sans' delirium. The skeleton sighed as he gently stroked the teen’s hair, “It’ll Be Ok, I Promise. You May Stay Here Tonight If You’d Like, And I’ll Be Sure To Speak With Him About This. Do You Think You Could Tell Me Everything, Though? I Can’t Be Of Any Help To You If I Don’t Know All The Details.” With a heavy heart, she slowly nodded and looked up, meeting his gaze, “I… I went outside today... by myself. I went into town, and I went to Grillby’s. It smelled like food in there, and I was so hungry… I thought I’d find something to eat. I kept myself as covered as possible, but I was caught and got grabbed by Grillby,” she paused, visibly ashamed as she gestured to her neck, “…I got burned.”

The skeleton made a soft sound in understanding and nodded, silently asking her to continue, which she did, “Someone else grabbed my hair and I had to cut it to get away from them. Then when I opened the door and went to run outside, I ran face first into Sans. He told everyone there not to mess with me, that I wasn’t free game because I belonged to him. Then he marked me. Right there, with everyone watching. He was a little flirty afterward and he seemed happy enough, so I thought everything was ok, but when we got here, he… he had an episode.”

Papyrus didn’t know what to make of everything he’d just been told; on one hand, she suffered numerous injuries and nearly died, and on the other hand, she was marked by Sans.

Normally whenever a monster marked someone, it meant that they saw that person as their mate and that they wanted to claim them as their own. That they loved that person with every fiber of their body and soul. Being marked also served as a way to protect someone from other monsters, but there had been cases of a mark not being enough to guarantee the safety of a monster's mate.

Being marked was not only a big deal, but it was also something that every self respecting monster knew should be done in private. The fact that Sans marked her in the first place was absolutely astounding, but the fact that he had the absolute nerve to take something that was meant to be special, shared between mates and no one else, and turned it into some obscene gesture that he performed in front of a crowd, undoubtedly humiliating Adrienne in the process… It was unacceptable.

He needed to speak to Sans, and he needed to do it now.

Releasing a deep sigh, Papyrus lifted a hand to idly rub the back of his neck, “I See… I Cannot Apologize Enough On My Brother’s Behalf. I’ll See If I Can Get Anything Out Of Him That Would Explain Why He’d Behave This Way. Hopefully… Hopefully He Doesn’t Clam Up, Like He Seems To Always End Up Doing. Will You Be Alright Here While I’m Away? I Don’t Want To Leave You Alone If You’re Still Feeling A Little Too Overwhelmed And Freaked Out By Everything.” The teen sniffled, absentmindedly wiping her face with her sleeve again as she nodded, “Uh huh… I think so.” Catching the slight uncertainty in her voice, he offered her a reassuring smile, “I’ll Try To Be Back As Soon As Possible, Alright? How About You Pick Out Some Puzzles For Us To Work On When I Return? A Few Good Puzzles Always Help Me Feel Better Whenever I’m A Bit Rattled, So I’m Confident They’ll Do The Same For You, Too!” Adrienne couldn’t help the small smile that curled her lips upward at how eager he was to help her, and she nodded again, “Ok, Pap… that sounds good to me. When you get back, do you think maybe you could help me fix my bandages a little? Some of them are still too loose and I dunno if I missed any little spots anywhere.” Perking up at the request, Papyrus beamed, gently unwrapping his arms from around her and ruffling her hair, “Yes, Of Course! The Great Papyrus Would Be Happy To Assist You, Adrienne!” Letting go of the skeleton, Adrienne smiled up at him; he was such a sweet guy, and despite their circumstances, he was always so optimistic. He still maintained a sense of morality as well, unlike the other monsters. She honestly wasn’t sure what she’d do without him at times.

Reluctantly parting from his small human friend, Papyrus slipped out of the room, carefully closing the door behind himself. Once he was gone, Adrienne sighed, climbing out of his bed and making her way over to a shelf. As she looked over the various boxes and puzzle books, she came to the conclusion that it probably didn’t matter which one she chose; as long as it’d keep her and that goofball busy for a while, it was good enough for her. As she reached out to grab a thick puzzle book, she winced. Her free hand moved to gingerly touch the bandage on her shoulder; at the twinge of pain, her mind drifted to Sans. After earlier, she should’ve learned her lesson and given up on disobeying the very specific rules that her friends had established. She was a curious being by nature though, and she’d be damned if she had to go on without receiving any answers.

Her curiosity and desire to know why Sans would mark her grew even stronger. She grabbed the puzzle book and dropped it on Papyrus’ bed, before peeking out of the room and glancing around the hall. Against her better judgement, she began to search for the pair of brothers. The most logical place Sans would be at this time of night would be in his room, or downstairs on the living room sofa. If those two places weren’t it, then she’d have to check the basement. No biggie. As she tiptoed down the empty hallway, she briefly paused to look over the railing and down into the living room, and found that Sans was nowhere in sight. On her way toward the stairs, she caught the sound of a mumbled conversation through Sans’ closed bedroom door and froze; she knew better than to go into his room without knocking, so she opted to stay in the hall and eavesdrop, rather than barge in on whatever he and Papyrus were talking about at the moment.

Inside the closed off room, Sans rolled his eye light, trying his best to brush off the lecture he was receiving from his younger brother. It’s not like he did anything to Papyrus personally, so he didn’t understand why Pap thought he needed to get involved. Not in the slightest. Completely exasperated with Sans’ stubbornness, Papyrus pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a deep sigh, “Sans, Honestly. You Didn’t Have To Take It That Far. The Poor Girl’s Probably Traumatized And Too Ashamed To Ever Want To Leave The House Again.” Sans grunted, flopping down onto his back on his old, worn mattress, “Remind me how that’s a bad thing again, Pap. So far, I’m not seein’ any problems with it.” The taller of the two inhaled deeply, briefly closing his sockets as he tried to gather his thoughts, “Sans… Brother. I Love You, But What You Did Today Wasn’t Ok. I Don’t Understand Why You’re So Calm And Casual About It.” Gaining a very clearly agitated edge, Sans practically growled, “It’s really fuckin’ simple. If she’s too ashamed ta leave the house, then good! At least she’ll stay put then and save me a lot a’ trouble in the future.”

Not even remotely threatened by his older brother’s tone of voice, Papyrus snapped, suddenly shouting, “LANGUAGE, SANS. MAYBE SHE DIDN’T LISTEN TO YOU, BUT THAT’S NO REASON TO TREAT HER THIS WAY. IT IS MOST CERTAINLY NOT A VALID REASON TO GO AND PUBLICLY HUMILIATE HER, THEN COME HOME AND SCARE HER HALF TO DEATH, EITHER. YOU ALSO BROKE THE COFFEE TABLE, SANS. SOME OF US HAVE TO PAY FOR THINGS LIKE THAT, YOU KNOW!”

From her spot in the hallway, Adrienne flinched, her eyes widening. Not once had she ever seen Papyrus so upset that he shouted like this. This was a whole new experience, and she could already say that it was both surprising and terrifying all at once.

The shorter of the two let out an exaggerated groan, beginning to absentmindedly tap the tips of his phalanges on the bed as he stared up at the ceiling, “As far as the table goes, I’ll replace the damn thing if it really means that much ta you. What am I supposed ta do about the kid though? If I really scared her as much as you’re sayin’ I did, then she won’t want anythin’ ta do with me. It’s not like I can just walk up to her and go, ‘hey, you know that day when I got mad at you? I’m sorry and I won’t do it again.’” Papyrus hummed, crossing his arms over his chest, “Well… A Sincere Apology Is Only Half Of What I Think You Owe Her.” “Yeah? And what’s the other half?” “To Be Completely Blunt About It, She Knows What It Means To Be Marked.”

The older skeleton brother nearly choked on air, his cheekbones dusting a soft shade of blue, “What the hell?… Ok, then… What about it? Everyone probably knows what it means.” “What I’m Saying Is That She Knows Monsters Wouldn’t Mark Anyone Unless That Person Was Tremendously Important To Them, And Unless They Saw Them As Their Mate. Not Only Is There That, But She Told Me That You Were Somewhat Flirtatious Toward Her After The Incident Today At Grillby’s. You’re Sending Some Incredibly Mixed Signals, Sans. She More Than Likely Was Under The Impression That You Have Some Very Strong Feelings For Her, But Then You Came Home And Basically Told Her To Get Lost Before Throwing Her At The Coffee Table. She Has No Idea Where She Stands Right Now. The Other Half Of What You Need To Do Is Be Honest With Her. Tell Her If You Feel Something For Her, Or Tell Her If You Don’t. Just Make It Clear To Her So She Knows What She Is To You.”

Bolting upright into a sitting position, Sans stared up at his younger brother in disbelief, “So you’re suggestin’ that I go confess my love ta her or somethin’? Is that what you’re tryna tell me right now, Papyrus?” “If You Love Her, Then Yes, That Is Exactly What I’m Trying To Tell You.” Pressing his index and middle finger to one of his temples, the older of the two narrowed his sockets, grumbling under his breath, “Ya gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me… this is so stupid…” Taking a seat on the edge of the bed beside Sans, Papyrus arched a brow bone and tilted his head, “Language, Brother… All Of This Might Seem Stupid To You, Maybe, But It’s A Big Deal And It Needs To Be Addressed. If You Really See Her As Your Mate, She Needs To Know. And Hey, It’s Alright To Feel Embarrassed About This Sort Of Thing. It’s Completely Natural. For Starters, Maybe You Could Try To Help Me Better Understand Your Reasons For Marking Her? I’m All Ears! In A... Manner Of Speaking.”

Sans snuck an uncertain glance up at him and let out a deep sigh, leaning forward to cover both eyes with his hands, “...Don’t make me talk about this right now, Pap. Please. I can’t do it. I just can’t, what if I-” Papyrus was quick to wrap his arms around his older brother, lightly squeezing his shoulder, “Sans, No. Stop. You’re Overthinking Again. Take A Deep Breath And Try To Relax. It’s Just Me Here, And If You Preferred That I Don’t Tell Her What You Say, Then I Won’t. You Have My Word. Just Trust Me… That’s All I’m Asking Of You Right Now. Please, Just Trust Me.”

[anayaahwrites]

KOT Ficlet #5 (Momoya Natsu/ Yoshinaga Atsumu)

When the lights start flashing like a photo booth (And the stars exploding, we'll be fireproof.)

Warning: Themes of underage drinking and implied sexual content.

Natsu roughly based on this art by @sasukeslove

A small AU on MomoYoshi's first meeting:

...

Natsu is six when he learns about Angels.

He’s perched on mama’s lap, carrying a new storybook with tiny hands and slowly pronouncing all the words. Her proud smile encourages him to read the larger words too, the ones he’d avoid out of embarrassment—something about a pro-fe-cky and a pro-mice that He exists up there somewhere, over the pillowy clouds watching down on them.

Mama tucks him in that night and tells Natsu to close his eyes and pray because Angels only come to good boys.

He’s ten when it all sounds like bullshit to him.

Over the years, Mom’s rosy smile had withered into a fatigued sigh, a cry for help to the God that never answers no matter how much they pray. Dad was more a guest than a resident. He came around once in a while to eat lunch—with a taut smile plastered eerily over his smooth features—and swiftly vanish to not return in that week .

They’ve stopped waiting for him and Natsu stops asking questions.

He’s thirteen when he meets Sei, a child around his age, except so much more charming and calm and composed for someone that carried half the same set of genes Natsu had. He learns of his father’s betrayal and is honestly shocked at his own lack of surprise. Still, he questions his God and why why why would He let mom’s heart shatter like that?

Sei is quick to laugh and tell him that God doesn’t exist and mom is just a victim to their monster of a father.

So he goes home that day to his outraged mother, hair coloured like glittery Christmas tinsel and sapphire lenses replacing his usual shade of honey brown. She snaps at the sight, yelling at him till her throat closes up, till nothing but a harsh sob escapes her and he lets her. They both had to cope somehow.

By the fall of his fourteenth year, he gets pierced four times and stops talking to his mother almost completely.

To hell with dad. To hell with God.

Natsu is fifteen, and he doesn’t care about anything anymore.

He’s fifteen and quickly realising from his daily job as a guitarist in the club that girls aren't attractive no matter how much they flock around him. He still humours them sometimes, a touch here, a kiss there since the pay is good enough for him to add some extra service on his part.

Mom plies herself with work as often as possible, to douse her misery in the decayed scent of piled papers and clunking keyboards. She leaves Natsu to deal with everything else on his own like the obedient son he is, letting him go like dad left her.

Natsu is alright, though. He’s done this far longer than she knows.

He stops reaching out to her, stops talking to someone up in the skies, settling instead to live a tranquil life in the shadows, under the dependable shade of music. He hates people. He hates the world.

Natsu is basking in the warmth of another uneventful day in the club, when in walks a boy out of fucking nowhere and his entire world tips on its axis.

The boy takes shaky, wary steps as if he were balancing on a trapeze. Dark black bangs like thick black rain spill over the side of his face, half covering wide brown eyes. Splotches of pink and porcelain white stick out where his sweater ends and skin begins. He’s small and delicate and beautiful, Natsu’s heart skips a beat. Or two. Or maybe three.

And why should he lie? Natsu has seen beautiful, quite a few varieties of it too. But this…this was different. This was unreal.

The boy looks around nervously before he catches something and there’s a spark in those hazel eyes, sharp and electric, a smile tugging at his lips.

Natsu follows his gaze. On the stage lies his own guitar—a pre-performance habit for people to know he was next. He took great pride because this itself garnered more clusters than anyone in the entire house.

Natsu smiles. So he was a fan.

He downs the customary shot of vodka, waving at the people before hopping on stage and wrapping the sling around his neck. He scours the audience for a familiar face and it doesn’t take a lot, to spot a splatter of ink black in the crowd, batting eager eyelids at him. The smaller boy realises the attention on him and glances behind to confirm his suspicion.

By the time he swings around, eyes blown wide in a stare, Natsu plays the first chord.

In an instant, his expression shifts to a mix of awe and interest, a silent worship and a loud cheer compiled in one small, thin body. He claps more than anyone else in the room, beaming like a floodlight by the time Natsu finishes.

It was nothing strange. He played among cheers every day but none felt as satisfying with this voice hooting and clearly standing out from his regular gang of squealing girls. He throws his head back laughing back stage when no one is there to see.

By the time Natsu gets out on the floor again, a little more thrilled for the night and dressed in something less flashy, he’s gone. He screws his lips in displeasure and asks his friend to make him something stronger than the usual.

This happens more nights than not, and it was frustrating him.

The moment Angel boy—as he’s dubbed him, steps in through the door, Natsu traces his every move and quickly registers a pattern. He only comes around on days the club was the busiest—specifically during Natsu’s performance, talks to no one and leaves before he has the chance to even ask a name.

Not that Natsu was interested in him or anything. He was just curious, is all—why this boy looked like a starved pet every time he saw him on stage and if he really smelled like soft winter blankets and warm fireplaces, all angelic and pure.

Okay, so maybe he was a little interested.

Months pass like that.

The mid-November chill comes with its blistering snowstorms and the club is jam packed—winters were some of their busiest months—and Natsu’s up to perform. Instead of preparing, he watches the door resolutely from the bar, tapping impatiently at the table.

As routine, it barely opens a crack, and he sees a sliver of ebony snaking it’s way through the crowd. The boy stands on his tippy-toes which don’t give him much of a view, so he does these tiny jumps—that are so adorable, for a second Natsu forgets his own name—and scowls when he notices no guitar on stage.

He checks the time, the stage and then scans the crowd. The anticipation throbs through Natsu as he follows his eyes cross the room in slow motion, dragging dragging until they eventually land on him. Everything stills—the thundering music, the singing and all he can hear is the low thump of veins against his skin.

It’s over in a flash.

“That your Angel boy?” The bartender gestures at the figure turning tail and running, drying the pad on his prized work station. He skillfully pours two coloured liquids into an oddly shaped glass and passes it over the counter to him.

Natsu hums, swirling the absinthe stained drink in hand, eyeing the smaller boy gasp as a couple slams against the door, clearly piss drunk with her suspended over his thighs and gyrating her hips into the man.

“Hey, chief.”

“Hm?”

“You think I can get off early tonight?”

The man raises an eyebrow. “Like when?”

“Like now.” Natsu answers, never letting his gaze falter from the head full of black hair slowly receding through the crowd, horrified.

The man guffaws, lifting a glass of water—since he can’t drink on duty—and clinking it with Natsu’s.

“Must be fuckin’ Christmas if you’re taking interest in anyone, so I’ll let this one pass. Don’t scare him off now. He already looks like a trembling lamb.”

Natsu knocks back the contents, swallowing the liquid till it numbs his entire mouth and smirks.

“I’ll try.”

So he follows the boy. Hands are immediately all over him from faces he recognises in passing—a girl he once kissed, someone that made him cake, but he pushes them off.

His boy of interest forces the hood of his shirt up all the way, and glances behind him once before increasing his pace. Maybe the lights are really getting to him and maybe Natsu is a little tipsy when he reaches out to grab his hand.

The boy flips around to lock eyes frantically, as if a ghost had seized him.

“Hey.” Natsu musters his sweetest smile.

“Hi..” The boy replies.

And oh, his voice. It’s sugary sweet and so so soft like—like actual rolls of smooth and silky cotton had woven them. He blushes fiercely under Natsu’s relentless gaze and stares where their hands were connected in a tight grip as if it burned holes through him.

Natsu frowns. “Don’t run.”

The boy’s gaze shoots up, and he’s pulling away.

“I-I’m sorry I really h-have to go—”

“It’s my birthday.” Goddamn, he must be really wasted to admit that. Now that he thinks about it, what did he just drink?

Twentieth November, the day he was born and incidentally also the day he found his father’s tongue down another woman’s throat, holding a child over his shoulder.

“Oh,” The boy stops, pursing his lips and letting the hood go all the way down before flashing easily one of the most ethereal smiles Natsu has ever seen.

“Happy birthday.”

“Thanks,” he replies awkwardly. “It’s not going really well.”

“No?”

Natsu nods. “It’s nothing different.”

“You want it to be special?”

The buzz in his nerves practically screamed a yes to that—he wanted something to remember, to bury the horrible memories he associated with this day, for the days he wished he was never born in the first place. He wanted to fit it all in this one boy in one night, this angel he didn’t even know, to free him from himself.

Natsu tightens his grip. “Dance with me?”

Oh boy, the alcohol was talking.

Angel boy looks at Natsu with wide doe eyes, peers back at their hands and gulps. Natsu frowns and releases his hold. He was drunk, probably a little more than he’d admit to, but he didn’t want to pressurize anyone—not when this boy already looked so out of his element, a beige hoodie and skinny jeans in a club full of scantily clad folk.

But he reverses the roles, grabbing Natsu by the fingers so delicately, he releases a soft hum of satisfaction. He rubs fingers between his own, feeling the brush of calloused fingertips on them. It reminds him of mom’s soft chest rising and falling when she slept beside him because he was her ‘perfect little angel’ and made him feel safe.

He misses it. Misses being safe. Misses being loved.

“Okay,” the boy mumbles, peering from under his natural hood of hair with a light smile. “Okay. Let’s dance.”

Natsu doesn’t really know what he’s doing anymore. The lights blink and they’re suddenly in stop motion. It tricks his brain into thinking of them as pictures trapped some place in his brain forever. So he stares and stares and captures the blush spreading like wildfire across the boy’s face, a smile widening in tandem with the soft beats.

They’re two faces among a thousand on a random winter night. The music isn’t his type nor is his attire anything to be proud of. But this boy. Holy heavens, if he isn’t the prettiest thing ever then the stars should be ashamed because damn, he’d beat them even on a bad day.

His hair sways—a steady swing of left right left right and a pleasant smile sits snug on his features like that’s where they belonged, that’s where they had always belonged and Natsu closes his eyes when their hands meet again.

This is perfect.

It’s when the music stills that they transition to a slower lull of movement, and the blaze of liquor in his blood emboldens him into yanking the boy a little closer. He lets him fall with a small plop on his chest and laughs when he rubs his nose, scowling.

“Why do you never wait back?” He asks, exhaling at the warmth the boy’s presence brings. Natsu puts his hand around his waist and he swears, it was like he wasn’t human, like someone had sculpted him out of clay, moulded to near perfection. And maybe he’s treading into dangerous waters, but his mouth had a mind of its own and there’s nothing he could do to stop it.

“I always look for you after I’m done but you’re never here.”

Pair of hazelnut eyes sheepishly peer at him.

“I’m sorry. I’m just.… not good at socializing.”

“So you say,” Natsu laughs, “But you’re doing better than me.”

“No way!”

“Yes way.”

“You have to be kidding me you’re so cool—and and so beautiful I really cannot—since the beginning I haven’t been able to take my eyes off—”

He squeaks when he's dragged closer by the small of his back. Their eyes meet. Natsu sees flashes of every happy moment of his life mirrored in them; His first recital, mom’s naturally loud laugh, the first time he played the guitar. They reach into Natsu’s soul and drag out his joy like the reel of a kite.

“I thought you were an angel,” he chuckles so close, he feels the boy shiver against his cheek. “I still do. Everyone here calls you Angel boy. Score a drink from them with that name sometime. I’m sure they’ll oblige you.”

“Angel? I—” He breathes a giggle, twisting silver strands with his fingers. “If there’s any angel here, it’s you.”

But this is fake, he wants to say. It’s fake, artificial, made of desperation because he never wants to look into the mirror and see his father’s face staring back at him. He won’t be him. He won’t.

“Atsumu,” he says. “My name is Atsumu.”

“Atsumu.” Natsu repeats in his head till it rolls naturally over his tongue. Like Atsu meaning heat and summer and everything bright and cheery.

Natsu purposefully lingers near his ear, to breathe his name in the air, smiling, content.

“ ‘Tsumu. It’s cute,” he hums. “You’re cute.”

“Are you drunk?”

“Definitely.” He chuckles.

Atsumu whispers, low and uneasy. “C-can I ask you something?”

“Mhmm.” At this point, his voice gave him a greater high than the drink he had downed fifteen minutes ago. Or was it an hour? He couldn’t really tell and decided very quickly he didn’t care, anyway.

“Why don’t you.. come to school?”

Natsu’s eyes open a crack to glimpse at the boy who trembles softly under him, as if he were admitting to a crime.

“I—” he continues in alarm, “I swear I’m not a stalker I just—Oh my god please don’t misunderstand me—”

“Calm down.” Natsu shushes, smiling apologetically at the few people around him that had been torn out of their aggressive make-out session as if they weren’t the ones that needed a room. God, if he sees another dick hanging out, he’ll have to bust out the chainsaw in the basement and go wild.

“So,” he leads them to a quieter corner with very few people and lesser eyes their way. “School,” he waves a hand dismissively, “It’s boring. Lots of people. Annoying questions. You know the drill.”

“Right,” he gulps. “Right so, I’m uhh—in your class I don’t think you noticed and I’m from an instrument club and someone asked us a question. Something about erotic sounds—wait that sounds bad—not erotic erotic but.…Ah, I’m bad at explaining.”

Natsu doesn’t keep back the dreamy giggle that leaves him, swaying lightly to the music. He’s exactly as he imagined—hell, even his name was spot on—all warm and giggly and fluttery.

“I’m still listening,” Natsu smiles. “Go on.”

Atsumu scrunches his nose and continues. “So one of my club seniors—he comes of a little rough but he’s really nice—went to one of my other seniors house who I think he really likes, and her mother told him it’s—I’m sorry am I too confusing?”

“I think I can manage.”

“Okay, so basically, her mother says it’s the pause in between his words and actions. The space that is just…there. And so I was writing about it—because I write everything—and Oka-kun saw my book.”

Natsu scowls. “Oka is annoying like that.”

The boy giggles this time. “Funny. He said you’d say that.”

“It’d be nice if he attempted to change it, then.”

“And so he told me you play music, where you work and that maybe you could do something good for once—I didn’t say that he did—So…” He moves his hand vaguely around them. “Here I am.”

Natsu hums against his head, bringing him to a slower pace as the song changes.

“I’ll have to thank him for that.”

“You’re not..angry?” He says through furrowed brows. “Oka-kun said you would be if you found out.”

He’s certain if Oka showed up here uninvited, Natsu would promptly kick him out. Because Oka is annoying. Atsumu however….

“So? Did you get your answer?” He asks instead.

The smaller boy makes a face, pulling all his features in to make his button nose stand out more than it already does and pout.

Natsu laughs. He’s been doing a lot of that today. Laughing.

“I’ll take that as a no.”

“Don’t get me wrong! Your performances are splendid and I really can’t get enough of them but the answer…I still haven’t reached a conclusion.”

Natsu plays with the fingers in his hand, shuffling to let them sink into the gap between his. Atsumu stares and responds by shyly tucking his fingers in.

“Want me to help you?” He whispers, tapping the side of Atsumu’s waist with his other hand.

“Can you?” He whispers back.

Can he? Yes. Should he? Probably not.

But what use is logic anyway, when a boy the embodiment of a sunny summer day amid a bitter winter stood enclosed in his arms?

Yeah. To hell with logic.

Natsu sways his hips, raking his free hand through Atsumu’s hair. He releases a pleased sigh when the tiny fingers between his tighten as if it were the only thing anchoring him to reality, which was good. Natsu felt the same, like his sanity was slowly slipping through open fingers.

“Spaces…exist everywhere. In words, in voices, in time…” He draws their joined hands to his mouth, dragging wet lips over porcelain skin. Atsumu shudders, breathing in sharp, shallow exhales.

“These hands..there’s a space in between them too if you look carefully. We’re so close,” fingers tighten around his shirt. “But still never close enough.

He runs a palm down the boy’s face that angles and angles till plush, red lips are within kissing distance. They part and blow warm clouds of air that taste mint and chocolate in his mouth. Natsu smiles. “Space is where there is distance. Space is where there is intimacy. Space is where there is friction. And this exciting gap that keeps us wanting to be closer till not even an atom could squeeze in—” he leans in closer, “—is erotic.”

He backs away while he has the physical capacity to do so, before the alcohol overrides every decision in his head and they end up a tangled mess of limbs in some random hotel room, but Atsumu having none of it.

He pulls Natsu to himself, clutching the pleats of his shirt and tugging him down to his lips. Teeth knock loudly against each other and Natsu hisses lightly, parting to lick the tingle in the tip of his incisor away.

“S-sorry!” Atsumu covers his embarrassment behind shaky hands. Natsu wraps thin fingers under his chin, reeling him in slow and steady and closes the distance. It’s soft, like a snowflake on a tree, virgin snow settling on frozen water and ironically, melts him. It boils and freezes, ignites his soul into a firework of bursting flames. He’s touching, feeling, pulling until every inhale feels like fire in his lungs.

“Closer,” Atsumu murmurs, throwing nimble hands over his shoulder and locking their lips together like puzzle pieces on a gameboard. “Make the space go away.”

It’s chaotic, and it’s magical. Like every star in the galaxy twinkled around them tonight, like every blossoming flower settled wherever Atsumu touched him. He’s drunk on vodka, drunk on happiness, drunk on love.

Closer. Natsu pushes a knee in between his thighs. His mouth hangs open in a silent moan, eyes slowly rolling into the back of his head.

Closer. The hands in his air pull him in for another searing kiss, pressing for entry, to delve deeper, deeper into themselves. Atsumu nibbles lightly on his lip and Natsu lets him bruise him for tonight. To wreck him, destroy him.

Closer.

They settle for a slower casual rhythm when they part to breathe. He keeps them moving on the floor, smiling against a pair of swollen lips.

“School suddenly sounds much more interesting.” He says.

Atsumu squints incredulously. “We can’t do this at school.”

“No?”

“No!”

Natsu shrugs, pecking the tip of the boy’s nose. “Shame.”

“Then you’ll come?” Atsumu bumps his forehead against Natsu’s. “I’ll really see you tomorrow?”

“If you can walk home straight after tonight, then sure.”

Atsumu gasps and slaps him across the back, blushing as they leave the club, hand in hand, away into the wintery night.

Natsu turns sixteen—a little drunk, a lot happy—but he’s sixteen and he can pinpoint this as the day he falls in love even years later.

And every other birthday is insignificant but so much better, spent at home, in the arms of the boy that saved him in just one night, all those years ago.

Mom only ever asks where he’s going and who he’s moving in with while he packs his bags to leave. She frowns when he answers with the widest smile on his face, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“An Angel.”

Ignore the sloppy writing haha. I'm writing this while travelling back home after a god awful six hour exam.

It felt too plotless to post on my ao3 kdkcd—

If you look at the colouring of Natsu I based it on (go give @sasukeslove all the real love), I imagine the art as the morning after when Oka's annoying Natsu and Atsumu walks in through the door (≧▽≦)

[cibeewastaken]

Hey can you write some fluff, it can be anything as long it features harry kissing dracos hands 😄💙💙💙💙

hello! this turned out more hurt/comfort, i hope you don’t mind. Huge thanks to @pineau-noir for the beta!

1581 words, eighth year to post Hogwarts, tentative friendship, getting together, warning for brief self-harm

Read on Ao3

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The robes felt too small for him, even though Harry had just gotten fitted for them at Madam Malkin’s a few months ago. Grown into such a handsome man, the tailor had said to him. Harry only felt old. 

The bell rang behind them, and Draco Malfoy had walked in, stopped at the sight of Harry, hesitantly looked at him, as though he didn’t know if he should turn back or not. Harry had stared back, wondering if it was a dream.

Madam Malkin had given Draco an encouraging smile and ushered him onto the other platform to wait. Harry had turned back to face the mirror, swallowing; it almost came as a shock when he didn’t see two 11-year-old boys reflecting back.

"Hello,” Harry had said, pins in his clothes, arms stretched out. 

Draco had cast him a quick glance, and let out a thin, shaky breath; no reply. He was still staring straight ahead when Harry left the shop.

They had to share a common room, and there really wasn’t a way for Draco to avoid Harry, not even hiding in his room. The expression on Draco’s face was almost devastating when he saw Harry, who had already claimed one of the two beds. Harry didn’t try to talk to him again even if he desperately wanted to know why Draco was wearing a T-shirt with holes in the armpit instead of silk pajamas like Harry always thought he did. And Harry didn’t talk to Draco even when he came back to his room to find Draco howling on his bed, squished between an also crying Parkinson and a wide-eyed Zabini. Draco’s left sleeve was soaked in blood. 

Harry only crouched in front of Draco and cleaned his wound up with what he remembered from the forest. Wrapped it up as Hermione would. Held onto Draco’s hands like a friend would.

Draco was the first to talk, and this time it was Harry who was crying. Harry wasn’t crying because he had a nightmare, or because he thought about Teddy, or because someone had thanked him for the war. Harry was crying because he couldn’t understand NEWT level Potions and the new professor was too starstruck to listen to Harry when he said he didn’t understand. Harry was crying because he didn’t want to ask Hermione when she was with Ron (which was always). Harry was crying because Potions was very confusing and he didn’t see himself ever figuring out since it didn’t involve killing Voldemort or sacrificing himself. 

Draco took Harry’s textbook from and made notes beside each paragraph, summarizing the welter of information into concise sentences, and drew arrows in green ink to link them all together. By this point Harry had wiped his face clean of tears and snot (on his sleeve) and was watching Draco through swollen eyes. When Draco finished, he turned the book back to Harry and explained the day’s lesson to Harry, reading everything from upside down and setting everything right.

And Harry passed his Potion NEWTs with higher scores than anyone but Draco could anticipate. And Harry celebrated it by looting the kitchen of food and drinks and surprised Draco with a feast by the lake. Though it didn’t take long for words to get out that there was food, and soon they were joined by everyone and more. Someone brought a Polaroid and Harry jumped at the chance. He grabbed Draco’s hand when posing for the photo, grinning at him with heat that felt wonderful in his cheeks. 

“Finally,” Harry said.

“What?” Draco said.

“We’re finally friends.”

Draco stared, unblinking. His hands tightened in Harry’s grip. And the flash went off.

They went into different fields after school. Harry went into Auror training as he’d planned. Draco didn’t know what he wanted now he was on his own. Hermione suggested tutoring in the meantime. I have no qualification, Draco said. Managing to help Harry Potter pass NEWTs Potions should be enough for anyone, Hermione replied.

It wasn’t, but Draco started out small. Teaching a few Muggleborn children that just got their Hogwarts letters some basic courses. Charms and Potions, navigating the wizarding world (which their muggle parents listened in on). Magical Theory. History—recent history.

He lost a few students after that, but Draco was adamant that it was taught.

Harry often went over to Draco’s flat late at night, because he knew Draco would be up scribbling away. Harry would sit by Draco and read his own textbooks, and when Draco inevitably put down the quill to shake his wrist out (the bones making cracking noises), Harry would take it in his hands and knead it. Would feel the bone under it shift. Would circle that wrist between his thumb and index finger, squeezing it, then down to Draco’s forearm, digging his knuckles into the sore muscles, then up once more, massage each finger meticulously. 

Draco would usually fall asleep on Harry’s shoulder around the ring finger, and Harry would press a kiss to his hand. 

It was a Thursday morning when the Auror Department got called to handle a Gringotts robbery. Harry seized up at the mention, mind blanking with fear because Draco always went to Gringotts on Thursday morning to deposit his weekly earnings. No one said anything when Harry tagged along, and no one stopped him when he burst in first (they probably all thought it was what he did), frantically looking through all the frightened faces. Harry didn’t see Draco.

“There were no casualties, thank Merlin,” Ester, one of the seniors Auror on site said. “One missing.”

Harry whirled around. Draco wasn’t in the crowd. “What do you mean, one missing?”

Ester looked at her notes, “One of them went after the robbers.”

According to the witnesses, the robber didn’t go for the vaults, instead they targeted the deposit line and Accio’d people’s valuables off of them. One witness said everything happened very fast, the robbers were in and out in less than a minute, and one of the customers went after them.

“Who?” Harry’s voice broke.

“Someone recognized it as the Malfoy kid.”

It was a sloppy crime. It didn’t take long for the Aurors to track them down at Knockturn. Draco was there, a purpling bruise on his face, locked in a struggle with one man. The Aurors Incarceroused the robbers and Draco fell on his bottom, hands tucked to his chest. 

Harry pushed past the crowd. When Draco saw him, his face broke into a relieved smile. A smile that shuttered when Harry starting yelling.

“What the hell were you doing!” Harry snapped at him. Draco reeled back on the ground, mouth agape. “Why would you chase them?! They were gone!”

“They took my stuff!” Draco said.

“Your stuff!” Harry screamed. “What could possibly be worth more than your safety! ” Windows around them rattled. Harry’s head was fuzzy with anger he wasn’t used to anymore. Everyone stopped talking at Harry’s outburst. Draco’s face turned bright red, and he made a startled noise when Harry snatched away whatever Draco was holding. Harry looked down and everything seemed to fall away. 

It was the photo of them, the words Harry wrote on it were faded (Finally friends!), but it was clear that someone had retraced it carefully, many times since. 

A hand snatched the picture back. Mouth hanging open, Harry looked up at Draco.

“You went after them for that?” he asked, voice cracking at the end.

Draco stared at him, face still red with humiliation, eyes wet. “Yes,” he said. “Fine, yes!” He pushed Harry. Harry stumbled, knees weak. “I don’t need you to tell me how pathetic I am, Potter, so just fuck off and go yell at someone else.” Then he turned around, beelining toward the entrance. 

“He can’t leave yet—” an Auror said, but Harry didn’t care about procedures. He ran up and caught Draco’s arm. Draco turned and shoved him, with little effect this time. Harry stood his ground. 

“God, Potter,” Draco said, every syllable shook violently. Tears streamed down Draco’s face. His whole face scrunched up miserably. “What do you want now? I don’t need you to tell me how worthless this is to you.”

“I didn’t—” Harry tried. “That’s not what I meant. You could’ve been killed.” 

Draco’s fingers clawed at Harry’s grip, trying to pry it off. “Shut up, shut up!”

Harry grabbed Draco’s scrambling hand and tugged, wrapped an arm around Draco’s waist and pressed his lips to Draco’s hand. Harry’s breath shuddered, “I could’ve lost you.”

Draco was trembling. The bruise on his face broke Harry’s heart.

Harry pressed a kiss to Draco’s palm. “I could’ve lost you,” Harry said, voice tight with tears held back. Harry tugged Draco in further, wrapping him in a suffocating hug, burying his face in the warm crook of Draco’s neck, breathing in the comforting citrus soap for a second before turning his face into Draco and kissed him.

“I,” Draco started when Harry pulled back. “I’m sorry.” He sounded confused.

“Don’t scare me like that again.”

“Okay.”

“We can always take more photos,” Harry said into Draco’s shoulder. “Let’s go buy a camera right now. And ten thousand rolls of film.”

“Do you expect me to be robbed ten thousand times?”

Harry snorted an ugly laugh and peeked up at Draco. Draco cocked his head, brought a hand up to cup Harry’s face. Harry turned into Draco’s palm.

Draco’s other hand found Harry’s. “Ten thousand rolls it is.”

[star-spangledstud]

Like You

Pairing: Steve Rogers x (Female) Reader.

Word Count: 2800-ish.

Summary: Steve has a really shitty way of saying goodbye. 

A/N: My friend sent me the prompt: “If I knew then what I know now.”. I decided to play around with it and then this happened. 

Warnings: Angst at its finest. Such brief mentions of sex you hardly notice them. Heartbreak. 

You didn’t understand why he didn’t come back to you like he was supposed to. 

It wasn’t like the two of you didn’t have a solid relationship. You complemented each other when you walked into the room, the perfect blend of two different people that had come together as one. You hardly argued, barely even disagreed on matters that concerned the both of you and you never got sick of each other’s company. You were complete, whole when you were with him and he was with you. 

You ate together, trained together, slept together in the same bed night after night. Even as the world burned after the big Snap, you stayed together, thankful every day for the fact that the both of you had made it out alive. You mourned the loss of friends together, tried to overcome the holes in your hearts together. It was an obstacle in the road that paved the way for your lives and you faced it together. When everyone was brought back, you couldn’t have been more grateful, because five years of learning how to rebuild everything had made the two of you stronger, more aware of how much you needed each other to survive. Most importantly, it made you aware of how all you needed to survive was each other. 

A power couple, that’s what they called you. Sun and moon, yin and yang. The perfect balance of work and play, of fun and professionalism. You kept each other moving, kept one another going with words of encouragement and wisdom, forced each other out of bed after half the world had literally vanished in the blink of an eye. It hadn’t been easy, but you expected the strain on your relationship to have been much worse. You got off easy compared to many other people. 

When the two of you first caught wind of the possibility to bring everybody back, of course, you jumped on the bandwagon. It was the opportunity of a lifetime, a chance to see your best friends again, for things to go back to the way they were. You knew it would be hard because people had moved on, started new relationships, new careers and had moved house, but you had faith that humanity could overcome it.

You still got chills when you thought of the orange portals that signaled everyone’s return. The distant memory of seeing the people you thought you’d never see again in the flesh for the first time in five years still brought prickly tears to the corners of your eyes, as did the knowledge that Natasha and Tony had given their lives to make it happen. They sacrificed their lives so you could have yours.

You hardly had time to notice the sudden change in Steve’s behavior. You were so busy trying to reintegrate half the population into the current day, that the two of you spent less and less time together. You were in charge of bringing back the positions of SHIELD agents that had vanished and offered your help to them both professionally as well as privately. Some of them had lost their families because they’d moved on and it was very hard on them to realize that five years of life had simply passed them by. 

Steve had been talking about retirement for years. You knew he wanted to finally lay down the shield once and for all and the two of you had been talking about it more and more as time progressed. Finally, he decided to bring the team back to its former glory, to rebuild the facility and to find new possible recruits, before he’d finally call it quits forever. 

Before that could be done, the Infinity Stones had to be returned to their respective timelines. Of course, he was the one to suggest to do it. You’d honestly be surprised if he didn’t offer to do it himself. You told him it was okay because you trusted him and trusted his judgment and if he felt like he could complete the mission successfully, you would stand behind him and support him because that’s what good girlfriends did. 

You remembered the way he gently kissed you before stepping onto that godforsaken platform all too well, the way his hand caressed the side of your face and hair, the squeeze in your shoulder. It was a kiss unlike any of the ones you’d ever shared before, not even the ones he gave you after Tony’s funeral, filled with grief, sadness and need. No, this one was different. You didn’t know it at the time, but you did know it when looking back. 

He was telling you goodbye.

“No,” you cried, “no, no, no!” 

Your arms and legs flailed miserably, chest heaving rapidly up and down in irregular motions. Bucky cringed with how horribly upset and distraught you were, unsure of what the hell he should do about you crying beneath him.

He was sitting on the edge of your bed, rubbing your back in soft, circular motions while you hugged your pillow tight to your chest. Your face was red, tip of your nose glowing and your cheeks were so puffy you looked almost like a clown. He didn’t say anything, he didn’t think words could suffice or make you feel any better. He was probably right. 

“Why?” You choked out, “Why did he leave me?” 

You could hardly breathe without Steve. 

Bucky could hardly understand what you were saying. Every word came out in hiccups, forced to the surface by the tension in your lungs and contracting chest. For a long moment, you stopped breathing. Bucky panicked immediately. His pulse quickened and grip on you tightened. Then, you took a deep, panicked breath of air with a high pitched cry.

All you could think of was Steve, how he glanced at you from his spot in the dead center of the platform. How his lips tightened into a sad line, how his brow creased and his eyes closed just before he disappeared on you forever. You should have fucking known, but how could you? He was everything you ever wanted and you thought you were the same to him. He never even gave you the indication that he was unhappy, that he didn’t love you. That he was going to leave you for her. 

“Shh,” Bucky cooed, “It’s gonna be okay.”

Sam showed up at the door, which stood slightly ajar. His head peaked in, eyes following your heaving body and Bucky’s slouched form before resting on his face. Bucky shook his head. Sam quietly left. There was nothing he could do to ease the pain one of his best friends had caused you.

“Get some sleep,” he told you quietly after your sobs had silenced.

“Don’t leave me,” you managed to whimper, grabbing hold of his flesh arm and pulling it down with you.

You needed human contact, couldn’t stand the thought of being alone after being left by the love of your life.  

“Of course,” he replied, biting the inside of his cheek, “I’m not going anywhere, sugar.” 

You slept with Bucky by your side that night, still dressed in the clothes you’d put on while Steve was still lounging in bed that morning. The make-up you’d put on while Steve was in the shower had mostly come off on your sheets and on Bucky’s left shoulder. You clutched his shirt while you dreamt of Steve in short bursts, the desperate need for comfort so dire that you refused to let the man leave when he tried. He was angry too, angry with his best friend for putting the woman he loved so much through such pain. 

You cried as soon as you woke up the next morning, hand sore from fisting Bucky’s shirt all night. Your head hurt terribly, a pressure had built up behind your eyes overnight and it worsened as the day continued. Bucky eventually managed to leave you alone so he could get changed and talked to Steve, who was now an old man instead of the man who’d taken you to Paris on your first anniversary. 

You became indifferent to the saying ‘time heals all wounds’, because it no matter how many days passed you by, it never seized to hurt. Every little thing that reminded you of Steve would send you in a downward spiral. People recognizing you on the street for once being the most beloved Avenger began to walk around you with a wide arch because even they could tell something was terribly wrong with you. Soon enough, they all knew what had happened.

You hardly slept, because images of Steve dancing with Peggy haunted you all night long. Images of him, telling you he’d chosen her instead of you would flood your mind, along with pictures of the two of you when you were happy. You began to question it, all of it and wondered often what would’ve happened if you had been the one to join Tony on his journey back to the 70s instead of him. You wondered if he’d still be here, sleeping soundly next to you with his arms engulfing you in warmth. Now, there was only cold. 

You didn’t have the energy to be productive anymore. Life without Steve was no life and the void of his existence had taken away the importance of everyday tasks for you. Literally, everything you came in contact with reminded you of him, from the cereal you used to eat together to the movies you would watch. You couldn’t go to your favorite coffee place anymore, because that’s where you went to get his morning cup on the weekends. You couldn’t even stand to look your fellow teammates in the eye. They’d become afraid to be around you, walking on eggshells when you ventured out of the depths of your room for food because they were scared of saying the wrong thing. It happened once when Bruce made a comment towards Sam’s shield. His shield. 

“Shit, shit, shit,” he said as he watched Bucky carry you back to your room, “I fucked up, didn’t I?”

“It’s not your fault,” Wanda assured him, “She’s in a lot of pain right now. It could’ve been any of us.”

“Can’t we do something?” Sam asked, hands on his head. 

Wanda shook her head, “We can support her, but she needs time to heal.”

You never knew heartbreak could cause physical pain, but the constant strain on your heart was exhausting. You went through entire boxes of Ibuprofen to ease the constantly looming headaches, but they did very little to ease the dull throbbing of the back of your head. Your eyes were red constantly and your skin didn’t glow anymore. Everything had dulled like Steve had taken your life light with him back to the past, engulfing you in complete darkness.

You’d never find someone like him again because nobody compared to him. 

You often reminisced the good times you experienced with him by your side. The fun you had while sparring in the gym room, climbing on his back as he tried to push you to the floor. You thought back to the many dates you had, fancy candlelit dinners inside of expensive restaurants that involved your favorite flowers at the beginning of the night and passionate sex at the end. You remembered holidays, Tony’s extravagant parties that were mostly just you and him eye-fucking each other in fancy clothing with champagne on your breaths until it was late enough for you to bail so you could fuck for real. 

It was holding his hand, kissing him hard and long on his beautiful mouth before he had to leave for missions that sometimes lasted far too long for both your liking. Placing fingers on his thigh while he was driving and toying with the soft fabric of his jeans higher and higher until he couldn’t take it anymore. It was walking on the beach early enough to see the sunrise and long drives back on the back of his motorcycle, safely hidden away from the world behind tinted helmets.

Now, there was nothing. No hand-holding, no joking around, no fucking each other in the storage closet because you couldn’t wait to get back to your room on the top floor. Nothing but emptiness, cold and dreadful and tiring like a weighted blanket made of snow that refused to thaw under your own body temperature. 

Even when you finally decided to become more active again did the emptiness not leave you. It followed you around like a ghost, always lingering in every corner of every room you entered. Bucky felt sympathy for you, but even he couldn’t help you. You had to pull yourself from the depths of the ocean by yourself, had to swim back to the surface without a life vest or oxygen tank strapped to your back and you constantly felt like you were going to drown. Maybe you already had and this was your purgatory. 

You couldn’t help but regret it sometimes. Getting together with him. It was when that looming darkness engulfed you that you allowed yourself to regret ever getting to meet him. You’d lay in bed at night and pray to the Gods to turn back time just once, allow yourself to make the choice that would’ve prevented you from getting to learn who Steve Rogers was because that choice ultimately led you to fall in love with him.  If only you knew then what you knew now.

You sat by the fireplace alone now, staring at the smoldering embers and the flames that licked slowly burning wood. You watched the trees move in the wind by yourself now, watched the rain drip against the window panes with your knees pulled up to your chest. How could loving Steve Rogers hurt so fucking bad?

“How you holding up, kiddo?” Bucky asked, taking a seat beside you on the couch that directly faced the window. 

“I’m alright,” you responded, voice raspy and dry. 

He offered you a glass of water, which you took gladly. At least someone cared about you despite your efforts to push everyone away.

“I talked to him this morning,” he said finally, “he misses you, I think. Might even regret his decision to leave.” 

Your eyes flicker to Bucky, then fall back on the fireplace, “I miss him too.”

“He asked how you were doing,” he said carefully.

“What did you say?”

Bucky exhaled, “I didn’t lie.”

A comfortable silence fell over you, allowing you to listen to the crackling of the fire and Bucky’s breathing beside you. Sometimes, no words needed to be said for them to be exchanged. You toyed with the shaggy blanket over your lap, twirling the fabric between your fingers. 

“I don’t think he has a lot of time left.” 

You scooted closer to him, allowing your head to rest on top of his torso. He patted your head and drew circles in your hair while you rested your eyes for a moment. You hardly slept the night before and were beginning to feel drowsy. You started napping frequently, finding sleep wherever and whenever you could because your bed was too empty and too large at night. 

“Will you come with me?” You asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“Of course I will,” he said, nodding although you couldn’t see it, “I’ll come with you.”

“When?” 

Bucky’s shoulders rose, “Whenever you’re ready. I’ll make time.” 

Maybe you should’ve known that he’d go back to her if the opportunity arose. You’d heard stories, of course, Bucky had told you enough. Steve didn’t talk about her much, except for after her funeral, which he attended alone without telling you. You should’ve known it then with how messed up he was after her death. Should have known that he’d never been able to really get over her. You couldn’t even really blame him, either. She’d been ripped from him when he went into the ice and was already on her deathbed by the time he woke up. For her, a lifetime had gone by. To him, it felt like seconds. It’s how Bucky must’ve felt when he came back after the Snap.

Sitting with him on the couch, you weren’t sure if you would’ve changed things. You had a lot of good times with Steve, they largely overshadowed the bad. He’d made you a stronger person, made you appreciate your talents and weaknesses for what they were and he never made you feel less than your worth. He was a good man, you knew it deep down, but accepting that you might not have been good enough for him was a wound that would never heal, not even as you took your last breath.

Still, a small shimmer of hope began to grow somewhere deep within your chest like a seed had been planted. Laying with Bucky in silence, watching the rain pitter-patter against the window, made you think one thought before sleep engulfed you properly for the first time in months.

Maybe things were the way they were meant to be. 

[handlewcaare]

Art credit: @kajuhz

Since the time he crawled out of his grave at the laboratory, isolation was the best company he could make. Anyone who approached him with well-meaning intentions were shot down. Mistakes were bound to happen, but he would have been a fool to make the same one twice.

Once he returned to the little hole in the wall that was his agency, he ensured to keep a gun wherever was accessible for a friendly genetist. Was it paranoia? He didn’t know, but he thought he was desensitized to it all. What one man’s fatal wounds were his blisters and mild annoyances.

That had been the exact reason as to why the Association wanted him.

Several years after he retired from being a lab rat, his agency ran slow. People would hire him for small investigative work, nothing that he usually did in the golden days. It was honest work, he wouldn’t complain, finding a stalker within the bushes and seizing him got his mind off it. However, with the rapid development of caped crusaders typically found in comic books, what good was an old gumshoe?

It wasn’t until a monster had destroyed his agency that he comprehended why people regarded them as a persistent menace.

The fault was his own for leaving his agency unlocked, but after seeing years of evidence for cold cases left in ashes, his regrets immediately flourished to rage. Furor was not a typical characteristic of his, but after seeing his furniture destroyed, the maps and photographs partially charred or shredded, the malicious being only grinned at how he set down his groceries by his feet and locked the door.

The aroma of burning flesh against the lashing tongue of a conflagration never bothered him. How his muscles and ligaments were shredded under the velocity of the being’s claws never hindered his own onslaught. How he had to pry his own intenstines out from his peritoneal cavity to prevent him from tripping over it never evoked a sense of horror. He would give credit when it was due, the doctor certainly enhanced his healing factor.

As it turned out, a Griffin-like being with a flaming head was harder to swat than he anticipated. From a bucket of water, to using the fire extinguisher before bashing it’s skull with the end of the empty canister, he didn’t know how long the fight lasted until it was a new record.

Seven days. Four hours. Twenty minutes.

As someone once said, “time flies when you’re in an adrenaline rush.”

Not even after he hobbled out of the destroyed agency with the singeing aroma of salt, copper, gasoline and rotting flesh, was he greeted with the cries reserved for the victor. Gasping and cheering onlookers could only watch in wide-eyed wonder and admiration at how he stood in grotesque triumph. Being in the limelight never gave him comfort, in fact, he nearly shuffled to escape the crowd as soon as possible.

“We could use someone like you,” a man in a well-tailored suit said, “I’m part of this association and—”

“No,” a harsh refutation, he knows, but he knew better than to hand out his trust like brochures.

In spite of his protest, the intern attempted to chase after him, “but, sir! That monster was a threat level—!” Demon? Dragon? Dog? Who knew. It wasn’t until his arm, the one hanging by a thread of rotting muscle, fell off his shoulder that he was finally left be. The suppressed disgust did not go unnoticed.

“I don’t care.”

Not initially. Had it been his choice, he wouldn’t have even dreamed of being regarded as a poster boy. Since being confined in a pseudo-cage match with just about every abomination Genus could conjure, joining a group of Boy Scouts would have heightened his sensitivity to something he encountered often.

He could barely stomach analyzing a pallid, frigid reflection of himself projected onto a stranger. To envision that scarlet thread lay limp between their finger and his own—a relationship he could best describe as acquaintances—only served as an irritant he couldn’t scratch out. Though, that might have been amplified by the constant attempts to recruit him.

At this point of his life, the private investigator would resume his work. He always did, even after spending a quarter of his immortal days chained to a wall with nothing but his thoughts and his weapons to keep him company.

His last case was what prompted him to apply.

He didn’t know who hired him, but he did know that someone managed to figure out the address to his homely apartment. When asked whether he knew who the handwriting belonged to, none of them would have matched the description of the writer.

Lollipops?

The private investigator couldn’t help but be a bit dubious, but it was better than getting harassment calls and emails from interns. He read somewhere that people ate sweets to stimulate their thinking, but he just assumed it was a quick way to get a sweet tooth.

What the hell, he needed to get some coffee anyway.

As instructed, he took the public transit to Y-City. Folks were more kinder, a bit pompous, but it could have been due to the fact that he was a walking carcass that made headlines already—save for the idol hero, Anal Mask or whatever the hell his name is—but college kids were quick to point out where Doctor Hajime’s lab was. “He teaches my robotics class,” was the usual answer.

By the time he encountered the front door, he counted how many seconds he would have to escape. Chances were there was gonna be a cyborg or a robot to try and pin him down, inject him with something to make him black out. He had his machetes tucked under the collar of his shirt, his dessert Eagles were holstered at his hips and he had a handsome fire axe within the bag of lollipops and candy apples. He had time to escape, he would ensure that he would, least he opt to shove himself into the nearby wood chipper to finally do himself in.

What he anticipated from the opening door was an older gentleman, someone with a bow tie and unruly and snowy hair. His countenance would have been cobwebbed with age, his shoulders hunched to pronounce a spinal compression. Yet, he would offer a smile as dulcet and as mannerly as any other kind old man.

Instead, the private investigator was greeted with a boy with vibrant tawny eyes and a little auburn curl at the top of his crown. He had to be no older than nine years old. He couldn’t have been any taller than the door knob.

In an instant, he snuffed out his cigarette against the masonry and knelt down to the kid’s height. An instinctual response from someone who was once an uncle—father?—in a family who had long forgotten about him. “Hey kiddo,” the investigator began, “you seen where your dad went off to?”

As incredulous as the kid was, the investigator nearly assumed he went to the wrong place. That was until the boy spoke, “Considering I haven’t seen my father in nearly four years, I’m afraid not,” he paused as he offered a small, wistful smile, “but trust me, you’re not the first person to ask me that.”

Safe to assume that the child genius was much more hospitable than the private investigator was accustomed to. Then again, as he presented a lollipop to the child, those tawny eyes flourished as he hastily accepted the treat from the detective’s grasp. “Thank you, sir!”

“Don’t mention it,” whether or not he was aware of it, there was a smile that aligned.

As the two of them enjoyed their sweets, Hajime elucidated further about the technological black market. What routes they typically took and how he managed to figure out their patterns. The kid truly did have a good head on his shoulders.

“I have a hypothesis that these robots that are being trafficked underneath City W, X, Y and Z aren’t really used for security.”

“And why do you think so?”

“Well, Z-City has a lot of manifestations of monsters. If basic security-Trons were sent off to handle the threats, it would be a waste of resources. I mean, it’s carbon and bismuth—it’s elementary stuff.”

The boy paused as he used his watch as a hologram to present the blueprint of one of the robots. The private eye wasn’t exactly ‘technologically savvy,’ but Hajime called it ‘basic’ so he would just have to take his word for it.

“But that’s not what caught my attention,” he elucidated, as the boy extended his fingertips, the robot’s physique separated by segments of its parts. When he pointed toward a certain adapter, the private investigator couldn’t help but furrow his brows a bit.

“That’s a cranial nerve implant.”

Hajime paused, as if he had fully prepared an exasperative and long-winded statement, “you’ve encountered them before?”

When implored, he suppressed the urge to visibly quake under the phantasmic impulses of electricity that had once trailed down the expense of his brain stem. It was a way to analyze how fast he developed increased intracranial pressure, he remembered Genus saying.

“Friend was a doc,” a decent lie that Hajime seemingly overlooked, though the private investigator felt an acrimonious taste in his mouth. “She said something about how it’d use electricity to wake up dead nerves.”

His russet glare narrowed as he brought a hand to caress his own chin, “thought they’d still be in development...”

“That’s exactly what I was thinking!” For a moment, the boy’s joviality made him appear exactly his age.

Ah- now it’s starting to make sense.

“From what I know, Z-City has monsters just about every corner,” the investigator began. His baritone suddenly lost it’s intrigue once he mentally assembled the puzzle pieces the best he could. “With monsters, people tend to be more scared than they should be. What do you think being scared means?”

The boy’s eyebrows raised, “they’re paranoid?”

“And—?”

“They...” while it was easy to assemble a mechanical enigma to guard civilians, it was harder to provide a baseline to something as fluctuating as human response. Hajime eventually restored to shrugging his shoulders, “...they’re desperate?”

With that, the private investigator pressed a finger to the tip of his nose before he pointed at Hajime. “Desperate people tend to do stupid. If I’m a single father living in Z-City, you think turning into the terminator wouldn’t be my go-to?”

Such analysis didn’t seem to satisfy the boy. Whether or not it was a challenging diatribe, it was enough of a refutation to make the investigator think a bit, “but you know it’s permanent right? I mean, the cranial nerves aren’t exactly something you want to tamper with, especially if those implants can get into your cerebrum and alter you entirely.”

“Well, you—the kid genius—might know that,” he deflected easily, “but what about me? I’m a single father with a degree in underwater basket weaving. Do you think they taught me about cranial nerves while I was trying to make a basket?”

One could hear a pin drop until the boy piped up, “I mean- if you’re scuba diving and you’re weaving the basket—”

“Just finish your lollipop, kiddo.”

Several weeks had passed when they finally traced a call to one of the robotic manufacturers. It was certainly much more handy than to thread scarlet yarn along what tabs had pinned photographs. Then again, doing things the old fashioned way made old habits die hard.

Needless to say, the private eye could understand the boy’s fascination with his toy-like projects. From a giant action figure he kept buried within the depths of the earth to the robot dogs that served as a pseudo-trump card, it was like assembling legos for him. As the two of them took the public transit to Z-City, the two of them settled into a comfortable silence, save for Hajime’s need to tamper with a Rubik’s cube.

Unlike the other Alphabet cities, the ambiance around Z-City felt calloused and empty. It was but the abyss that stared upon them once they left the transit and it gave the private eye an eery sensation that crept along his vertebrae. It must have been that paternal instinct.

“Stay close to me,” he cautioned, though he should have known better that Hajime didn’t like to be talked down to.

“I can take care of myself.”

“—and if I can’t take care of myself?”

Reverse psychology seemed to do wonders, as Hajime’s vanity subsided for the need to have his partner’s back. Should anyone ask, the detective wouldn’t admit the presence of his little smile.

The call had declared that the deal would be set in the alley nestled next to a udon stand and an apartment complex. It was an easy hole in a wall and, considering how the civilian was late, he and Hajime had to play their part. Between himself and no one in particular, he preferred it that way. The last thing he wanted was for someone to die in front of the boy.

“Oi,” the thuggish chirp resounded from the maw of a strange man who looked mechanically modified. His brows were too close to his eyes, accenting a crueler look. The detective fought every urge to usher Hajime behind him. “You Hammerhead?”

He silently reprimanded himself for not bringing a hammer.

“Yeah,” the detective’s response was nonchalant, a lethargic drawl that could have remained hidden within a thick penumbra of nicotine.

“Who’s the brat?”

“Mine,” short and concise, though he let his russet gaze nearly puncture into the dealer, “you want the money or should I show you my wedding photos?” He went in too eager, though that was exactly the point with desperate people. Fortunately, the dealer turned out to simply comply at the mention of money.

“Seven thousand yen.”

It was agreed upon with a shaky baritone by the real customer prior. However, it was a game that the detective often played prior to meeting Dr. Genus. Once he began to thumb his fingers along the bills in his pocket, the dealer swiftly interjected the detective’s counting.

“I-I meant Seventy thousand!”

“Oh?”

Seventy thousand it was that was instantly slapped into the dealer’s hand. However, there was hardly a moment when the dealer abruptly seized the detective’s arm and held him hostage at gunpoint.

Needless to say, one should never underestimate the strength of a man who wanted to make civilians into cyborgs. With an irritated sigh, the immortal felt his head jerk to the side as a bullet pierced through his temporal lobe. Albeit, the moment his body should have sprawled limp was the instant he seized his machete and took a blind swipe. What astonishment and pure horror from the mechanical marvel only wrought a hand to catch the blade.

Fortunately, the fist that veered to deck the detective never came to deliver. Rather, a tendril that emerged from Hajime’s backpack seized the mechanical marvel’s appendage into a tight lock. It was but a split second when the detective retrieved the machete’s twin and severed the appendage.

“Shit—!” The hydra hydrolauics swiftly seized ahold of the being and attempted to suspend him in the air. Hajime’s hands braced tight to his backpack’s straps, though the dealer proved to be a formidable foe, as he laconically wrapped his free arm around a tendril to toss the brat.

Safe to say that the detective prioritized catching the kid than the dealer. Both had landed with a harsh grunt against the asphalt before the detective hastily retrieved his desert Eagle and fired. Once again, it was a null chance, given how he was abruptly seized by his throat and tossed through the brick masonry of the neglected library.

What sanguine from the brunt trauma coagulated and the flesh wounds he sustained, he could only instinctively block the blow from the mechanical marvel. Regular fisticuffs was a fond favorite of his, typically because of how seldom he did it. What reciprocating strike had been enough to swivel his head evoked him to land a brutal bite of his axe into where his opponent should have been.

“Mr. Detective!”

It was but a moment that the private eye peered over to see Hajime with a snapped tendril, it’s cobwebs of electricity was a big enough hint for him. The instant he distanced himself, the dealer had not a moment to abstain when his back arched under the brutal conduction of carbon and lightning. His howl was guttural, ripping through the empty ambiance before he collapsed at their feet.

What should have been a victorious high-five was but a dreadful beat of anticipation. Hajime could only stare down at the beaten villain, “did I kill him...?” His murmur was rather hushed, as monsters were not the same as modified humans.

For the sake of the boy’s anxiety, the detective brought the tip of his shoe to budge the dealer. The somnolent twitch of his countenance wrought a sense of relief to weigh into the boy’s sigh.

The private investigator offered a high-five for the boy to make. The gesture was slow, as if cautious, but the kid genius managed to reciprocate it. “You did good,” he didn’t know it then, but it was a compliment that Hajime would hold to his heart later.

On taking the transit back to City-Y, the detective opted to intervene the silence. An odd thing for him to do, but it was just them and a few others coming home late.

“So, your parents—” it might have been too sensitive of a subject, but he opted to continue, “—did they uh...” it would have been easy to assume they did die. After all, it was how every hero was sculpted.

Hajime only shook his head, “no,” he said before he retrieved a little Rubik’s cube from his backpack. His fingers fidgeted the slots as his hazel gaze lingered toward the trinket, “I mean, they’re overseas. They send me birthday cards sometimes.”

“Sometimes?” The private investigator couldn’t help but raise a brow at that.

“When they remember.”

Had the private investigator known about Hajime’s profession outside of being a teacher then, he would have been more than happy to demand what the hell was more important than their own kid. Did they know he was handled by suits who depended on currency than their own workers? Even if one of them—two if he counted Badd later—was a child?

Even if he didn’t know it, his furor was quiet enough to make him try to huff out a sigh. His jaw clenched along the curses he would have hissed under his breath when no one was around. Fortunately, Hajime was a quick study.

“What about you?” He must have thought it was a witty comeback, considering how his nose wrinkled a bit, “where’d your parents go?”

“Can’t say I remember,” he knew he had them, but he didn’t know what he did with them. Were they around when he died the first time? Longer? All he could afford to do was wander aimlessly as a phantom without a shell. “Been around since the A.D’s.”

“The A.D.’s??”

As it turned out, Hajime was fascinated with history. The boy’s queries seemed to be rapid fire initially, such as whether or not Shakespeare was a real person (he was), how far has technology gone (far enough), or if the crusades were as brutal as written (it was, but he never had the pleasure in fighting in the wars). The boy’s excitement seemed to tucker him out quickly unfortunately.

Just as the private investigator began to describe what Feudal Japan was like, Hajime nodded off and slumped against the detective’s shoulder. Their stop only prompted him to gingerly scoop the boy up into one arm and carry his—surprisingly dense—backpack with the other. Fortune came in technological wonders, as the lab seemed to unlock its hinges at the presence of their creator’s facial recognition.

The time was late when he finally tucked the boy into bed. Hajime’s backpack slumped against the masonry. There was a strange and phantasmic ache at the base of the detective’s chest, something he hadn’t really felt since he last died.

Prior, he often wondered if it was better to be alone or to try and have a family. He was told he was good with kids by their parents who would hire him to find them. To imagine himself as a father was frightening nowadays, as he could envision that bastard trying to pick up his kids for experimentation.

With Hajime safely in bed, the detective’s thoughts drifted to the newspaper that detailed the triumphs of S-Class Hero Child Emperor against the dreadful turnip monster that interrupted his robotics cla—

...They seriously named the kid “Child Emperor” huh?

The detective contemplated on the transit home just as hard as he was contemplating it back home. His glare lingered toward the shredded up business card. It took every increment of his pride to collect the pieces, but the heroes association weren’t exactly child-friendly.

Did that mean he couldn’t try to do better? For the first time, he felt a sense of balance when handling the dealer. His agency was going to go nowhere and he needed the money, that wasn’t including the fact that Hajime would have ended up, perhaps, the only sensible person there.

he hated being right at times.

He needed to do better, not for the sake of spiting Genus, but to be better for himself.

After he called the intern’s number, he waited until there was a ‘hello?” At the other end of the line.

“Hi,” he says, “I’d like to file a hero application. Do you mind walking me through the process?”

[michael-langdon-appreciation]

Apocalypse After (Part 11)

Pairing: Michael Langdon x fem!reader

Summary: There was never any hope of saving Michael Langdon, never a chance to stop the apocalypse. The Antichrist was already too intertwined with his destiny when the reader met him all those years ago. But Mallory can go back and make things right and when the reader travels with her, an opportunity sparks to try and make things right after all.

Words: 2.4K

Warning: Character!Death, violence, the afterlife, religious references 

A/N: Time for another long awaited update! We’re getting into some BACKSTORY here and I hope everything is still making sense. We get some drama in this chapter hons, so I hope you are READY!  

(The Apocalypse After masterlist is up to date, so if you are new you can read the whole series there!) 

Descending is peaceful. It’s pretty much dying, except you get a sliver of hope that somehow you might return. Your body goes completely weightless, as if you’re gliding through water as you materialise inside your own hell. 

Metal pokes at me, glass rains down on my face.

I will myself to be calm.

It isn’t real. Not this time. 

The car engine whirs something horrid as I try and inch myself out of the wreck, but I’m stuck. My leg has been crushed in the fray and no matter how I scream I can’t get free and no one is coming to save me. 

Fear floods me, the claustrophobia and the knowledge that my pursuers are also dead in the backseats. Blood coats the driver’s headrest, the body-shaped hole in the glass is my biggest indicator that whoever was driving crashed. 

‘HELP!’ I shove my body weight against the steering wheel, gripping on as I try and ease myself free.

I can’t move my leg. 

The goons, sent to get me.

Fiona.

‘HELP ME!’ I scream louder, begging for anyone to come. 

I don’t know how long I try and work myself free, it could be seconds or hours. 

I could be dead again and never know. 

My magic is useless.

‘MICHAEL!’ 

‘Now this is interesting.’ A face looms in at me, through the cracked windshield. The cracked visage, those coal-red eyes that can see into your very depths. ‘Of all the people I thought would come for a visit, you are not one I thought would be back.’ 

‘Papa,’ My breath leaves me, mystified as the Loa reaches a hand through the hole and cups my chin. ‘Did…who sent you?’

‘Despite your death occurring once before, you have tried again knowing that your fate will be the same.’ He purrs, ‘Suicide? After all I did for you?’ 

‘This is not suicide.’ I say, unable to look away from those penetrating eyes.

Understanding dawns and then settles, twinkling in those eyes, ‘The boy. You follow on his command?’ 

‘I didn’t have a choice.’ 

‘You said the spell yourself.’ He warns, ‘You do not have to be here, living the worst time of your life over and over.’

I swallow, wishing I could wrench myself from his cold touch, ‘He’ll come find me.’

‘You trust him?’ Papa’s head tilts to the side, ‘He is the Antichrist, no?’

I hesitate, ‘Not anymore.’

‘No.’ Papa’s yellowed teeth appear as his lips stretch into a smile, ‘You corrected that part of him. Despite my very clear warning.’

‘I didn’t break our contract.’ I insist, ’The deal was you’d give me another life so long as I never interfere with a soul that belongs to you. Michael never belonged to you.’

‘Not to me.’ Papa withdraws his hand, ‘But to another, far more powerful than I.’ 

I hadn’t thought it through. 

In trying to keep Michael safe, I’d delivered both of us right to someone far more sinister than Mallory. 

’They want to see you,’ Papa elaborates, his hand rising. The car and our surroundings dissolve, leaving us in a white box. 

I’m paralysed, incapable of getting up despite my freed leg. ‘Where is Michael?’

‘He’s back in the land of the living.’ Papa breezes past me, towards a door I hadn’t seen before. He takes out a key ring with more keys than seem possible, glowing a spectrum of colours. He inserts a distinct white key into the door and with a clack, it opens. ‘He did ask after you, but I have orders and thanks to you, the boy is no longer in a management position.’ 

There goes my window of opportunity. 

The escape I’d been banking on. 

‘Come, now.’ There’s no arguing or fighting Papa Legba. I follow him out into corridors of polished black marble, gloomy after such stark whiteness. We walk for an indeterminable amount of time, past doors upon doors upon doors. There are no numbers, but as we travel along occasionally Papa will insert a key, open a door and peer inside. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that doors with a dark coloured key a someone’s personal hell. The screams of terror of confirmation enough. Every so often, Papa will produce a pastel key, open a door to which there is silence.

Those doors unnerve me even more.

What could make a person be completely silent in hell? 

‘We have seen the work you have been doing,’ Papa comments after closing another of these doors. He keeps the key ring in hand as we continue walking, ‘Freeing the souls of the damned.’ 

‘No one should be stuck in eternal torment.’ 

‘You no longer have voice in those matters.’ 

‘I still have my power.’ My voice stings with defensiveness, I can barely control my shakes. ‘So long as I have it I’ll defy them.’ 

We emerge into a foyer, more elaborate than the endless corridor and turn left, down a side hallway. ‘Between you and I’ Papa says, ‘I have rather enjoyed your efforts.’ That takes me by surprise as a deep chuckle emerges from the Loa, ‘It has been a long time since I saw them so…rattled.’

He raps once on a door and then sets back down the corridor, ‘I hope to see you again, Y/N. Under better circumstances.’ 

The door opens and I suck in a breath. 

                                              Manicured nails drum against a desk. I slip into the office, trying to compose myself before they turn around. They consult a whiteboard, head tilting in observation before connecting a line in red marker to another. ‘Close the door.’

I do as I’m told, but stay close enough to try and get some semblance of a head start if I need to. The marker clatters to the floor, a feminine giggle rising between us, ‘Running, you’re better than that.’ 

I haven’t seen them adopt this form in years, but we all know she remains one of their preferred physical forms. The simple black dress, the habit that hides blonde hair and the infamous, tell-tale lipstick sitting on the desk. Blue flashes orange as finally, they turn round with a face full of glee. ‘You’ve come home to us, finally.’ 

‘A pleasure.’ I say, still not moving. 

‘Tea?’ They cast a hand over the desk, where a teapot, sugar sachets, creamer and a spoon appear, ‘Or coffee?’ 

A Starbucks Frappuccino materialises and I’m almost surprised, still I walk over and start sucking on it. ‘A new acquisition?’ 

‘Took long enough didn’t it?’ Satan is pleased with themselves, perching on the desk. ‘Such a corrupt corporation, such capitalism and they only just pledge themselves to me. It will never fail to impress me how much people are influenced by greed.’ 

I know what they’re getting at. 

‘I wasn’t greedy.’ I say, ‘I love him.’ 

’Still greed.’ They counter, spinning a finger at me. ‘You could not resist meddling. My son was doing well enough on his own.’

‘I thought after four days, if you weren’t going to bother…’

Satan re-applies a fresh coat of scarlet, ‘I was teaching him to not be so fucking soft. Pathetic, piss-dribble of a boy couldn’t even tie his own shoe laces without applause.’ They take in a breath, a tight smile back in place, ‘Nevertheless, we are here.’

‘I really got under your skin, didn’t I?’ I say it as it dawns on me, Satan’s barely just restraining themselves from lashing out at me. Their grip is too tight on the lipstick, their smile so far removed from a genuine humane smile. Even my Starbucks has gone acrid, sour and makes me want to vomit. 

‘Tell me why I shouldn’t slit that little throat, set you alight and use your blood for my next bath?’ 

‘I don’t work for you anymore.’ I say, trying to remain brave despite how my voice tremors. Satan’s pushed themselves right up in my face, Starbucks shoved to the side and splattered on the chair meant for me. ‘My deal with Papa exonerated from you.’ 

‘All the fallen work for me.’ Satan snarls, ‘As it has always been.’ 

‘You’ll try again.’ I’m working towards an angle, ‘You always try again. If you’re anything it’s committed. Regardless of me, Michael would still be dead. You’d still have no Antichrist.’ 

I’ve got them there. Satan stalks back to their desk and throws themselves in the chair, those blue eyes are now a permanent orange. I can see the whiteboard now, behind which is a very detailed plan, written in cursive red marker. I follow the lines to a set of names with a black ring around them. ‘It’s happening,’ I murmur. ‘You’ve already done it.’ 

‘It will take time.’ Satan never takes their eyes off me, ‘2020 is the next prime year.’ 

‘But you still face the same problem Michael had.’ I counter, feeling a little more confident. I inspect the work laid out, following a black tangent that connects to a name I’m all too familiar with, ‘You’ll never succeed until you end the witches entirely. Especially, the Supreme.’ 

‘I am aware.’ 

‘Then do it yourself.’ I say, ‘Stop making your children do you work for you. You have the capability.’

‘Always more fun to entice men and women to their own dirty deeds.’ Satan echoes, a smile back on their face. ‘All are corruptible, even you.’ 

‘Your efforts are pointless until you finally get off your ass and do it yourself.’ I head for the door, ‘You’ve told me what I need to know, Michael is no longer the Antichrist. He’s free of you and all this.’ 

‘But you are not.’ 

The voice is a whisper in my ear. When I turn round Satan is right behind me. They seize my shoulders, lifting me a couple centimetres off the ground as if I were a feather. ‘My son is as dispensable as a fly, but you-

‘I don’t belong to you anymore.’ I hiss, feet dangling. ‘Your father saw to that himself.’ 

‘You will kill them.’ Satan murmurs. The echo of my hiss manifests, till there is nothing but hissing all around me. The floor has turned to snakes, writhing with their mouths open, fangs bared to snap at me. ‘The witches. The Supremes, all of them.’ 

‘No.’

‘And if you refuse me,’ Satan sings, ‘I will drag that fucked up, useless brat of mine beyond the veil where not even your God could find his mangled carcass.’ 

The office door bangs open. Both Satan and my head snaps towards the figure standing in the door. 

Mallory seizes my wrist, dragging me out of the room, ‘We need to go, now.’

‘You…’ My brain can’t catch up, as Mallory drags me further away from Satan. The devil does nothing but offer a simple wave, before returning to their calculations. ‘The snakes?’

‘No snakes.’ Mallory says, ‘Just magic, Y/N run.’ 

My feet start running, the two of us racing back into the foyer and down the endless corridor of torment. No one follows us, but the voices inside every room are louder, their screams and pleas for sanctuary right on our heels as we run for our lives. ‘You shouldn’t have come back for me.’ I tell her.

‘And let you die?’ She shoots back, ‘Baby Alpha is already crying, you think I want to live with that?’ 

‘Baby what?’

I collide with something so hard, we all go sprawling on the floor.

‘OW!’

‘Michael?’ I breathe, shoving my hair out of my eyes to see the Boy Wonder rubbing the back of his head. 

‘You didn’t come back.’ He’s a mess, eyes bloodshot with fresh tear tracks running down his cheeks. ‘Why did you do it!’

‘I wanted to protect you.’

‘From me?’ Mallory picks herself up off the floor, ‘I just saved your life.’ 

‘Well it’s not exactly in your character, is it?’ I snap back at her, ’Have you lost your penchant for four-wheel drives?’

Her face distorts into a snarl as Michael puts himself between the two of us. I catch my breath as Michael studies Mallory, ‘You, tried to kill me.’

Mallory puts her hands up, ‘I had to.’

Michael’s eyes blaze, but I yank him back, using his arm to clamber back to my feet, ‘Don’t.’

‘Why shouldn’t I?’ He growls, ‘I never did anything to you.’

Mallory’s eyes dart to me, ‘You will.’ 

‘No he won’t.’ I say firmly, ‘He isn’t…that’s not part of him anymore.’ 

Michael turns to eye me, ‘Did she try and hurt you?’

My silence is a fraction too long. Michael’s eyes gleam with vengeance as Mallory’s chant dies, her throat clasped firmly in Michael’s grasp. ‘MICHAEL.’ I press forwards, trying to push him off her but Michael sends me flying back against the wall. He squeezes hard, but to her credit Mallory lets out no sound. I fight against Michael’s magic as her eyes bulge, bullfrog like. Colour seeps out of her, lips turn blue.

Neither of us spot the flash of silver till after Mallory’s struck. Blood seeps from Michael’s throat and he staggers back, releasing her. I move on pure instinct, seizing the knife as it falls between Mallory and Michael. I drive it into her so hard I’m sure it must be sticking out the other side. Blood sputters from her lips as I shove her back against one of the doors to hell. I clamp my hand over Michael’s throat, failing to stem the gushing flow of blood as Mallory takes a final breath. 

There’s laughter all around, shrill and deep and manic and full of such much mirth. 

Papa peers over Mallory’s body, his eyes meeting mine once more. He holds up a finger - my final chance. 

My body convulses, trying to cram air back into my lungs as I surge upwards. Faces peer at me and I push them away and wheel round. Michael too has risen, clutching at his throat as he gargles and screams. The Warlocks are all over him, trying to calm the boy down. We lock eyes, equal terror reflected back in the other. 

Cordelia’s scream is petrifying, she sinks to her knees as Mallory’s body disintegrates.

Just like Misty Day, all those years ago. 

The Supreme quakes as Zoe tends to her, wrapping her up in a tight hug. 

Myrtle remains as stoic as ever, fixing a crease in her gloves as she casts her eyes over each of us ‘Now, that’s a sorrowful turn of events.’ 

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[swaps55]

5 Favorites

5 favorite snippets from 5 reasonably recent stories. Or whatever. Rules are mere suggestions. 

Tagged by @nug-juggler. Thank you! I love sharing snippets. 

Tagging @pigeontheoneandonly, @shadoedseptmbr, @forlornmelody, @nightmarestudio606 and anyone who’s interested, no obligations!

1. From Cantata, Chapter 3 – Welcome to the Fire:

Shepard halts, pivots, corona blazing forth once more. He says something Kaidan doesn’t understand, but the mercenary pauses, then chortles and breaks into a sprint.

Anyone in their right mind would have quailed at the sight of a charging krogan. Shepard grins.

It’s feral.

Confident.

And utterly unafraid.

His fists curl. The gravity well somersaults as Shepard channels a maelstrom of dark energy. Kaidan sucks in a sharp breath, the sheer force of it enough to make him dizzy.

The krogan’s shotgun blares. Every hair on Kaidan’s arms stands on end as Shepard forms a wall of shearing mass effect fields and slams it into the krogan, shoulder jerking as his kinetic barriers absorb the full brunt of the shotgun blast.

The krogan bellows as the shearing fields chew through him. The shotgun drops from rigid fingers and clatters to the ground. Shepard races forward, own shotgun booming as fast as he can pull the trigger. When it overheats he casts it aside, and to Kaidan’s sheer horror, attacks the krogan with his bare hands.

He lands one hit, then two, using his smaller size and quickness to his advantage in ways Kaidan had only dreamed of when he and Shepard had their impromptu sparring session a week ago. Still, the krogan nearly makes it back to his feet before Shepard seizes the barrel of the massive shotgun, jerks it up into the krogan’s throat, then flips it around and fires point blank into the krogan’s uncovered head. Blood, grey matter and bone spray outward. The recoil kicks hard into Shepard’s shoulder, the same one that had already bled off the shotgun pellets.

Holy fuck.

2. From “The Words That Change Us”

Kaidan falls silent. Fuck his implant. Fuck the faulty wiring in his head. Fuck not remembering to bring his own damn meds. If only Anderson could see this. Keep Shepard on his feet my ass. Can’t even keep myself on my feet.

“Anderson thanked me today,” Kaidan says, cracking an eye open. Every ship in the Alliance is practically a darkroom. Why the hell is Arcturus so bright? He sucks air in through his teeth. “Can’t figure out why.”

Shepard gives him a bemused look. “No wonder you have a migraine.”

“Stop trying to be funny,” Kaidan grunts. “It gives me a migraine.”

“I’m delightfully funny,” Shepard informs him, “which you might notice if you weren’t so busy thinking yourself into a migraine.”

Kaidan tries to laugh, but immediately regrets it. Shepard tightens his grip on Kaidan’s arm.

“See? Funny.”

“You’re deflecting.”

“Quit noticing."

“Shepard.” It comes out as a mumble, and the way Shepard’s fingers dig into his forearm before relaxing suggests he’s listening now. “He said I keep you on your feet. Why would he say that?”

Shepard’s brow furrows. Instead of answer, he gets to his feet and pulls Kaidan back to his. “How about we get the icepick out of your head, and then talk about this.”

“No. If we talk about it now you’ll take pity and actually give me an answer.”

Shepard huffs, grips Kaidan’s arm and resumes course, footsteps slow and steady.

“I didn’t do anything to help you earn this,” Kaidan persists. “Why does he think I did?”

More silence. More steps. Each footfall ricochets off the deckplates, pricking at the base of Kaidan’s skull. Where the fuck is the airlock? It feels like they’ve been walking for hours.

“You’re stable ground,” Shepard says at last.

Stable ground. Maybe if his head wasn’t throbbing so hard he could figure out what the hell that means.

“You don’t…want anything from me,” Shepard continues. His voice is small, uncertain, as though now that he’s voiced the thought aloud he might find out it isn’t true.

It isn’t true.

You. I want you.

3. From Sonata, Chapter 10 - Unsteady

There are more well-dressed people in this one room than Joker has seen in his entire lifetime. It should be his worst nightmare, but he’s actually having fun. Turns out Tali has an exceptional gift for making unbearable social occasions bearable.

“And what about her?” Joker asks, pointing to a woman who looks like a canary covered in taffeta.

Tali leans against the table beside him and tilts her head, the purple and black sequined scarf that Mrs. Alenko had given her for the evening catching in the bright lights of the ballroom. 

“Hmmm. A widower. Discovered her husband of more than thirty years had gambled away their entire fortune, leaving her penniless. She is here to mourn—not him, but his brother. The man she was truly in love with. She thought he did not love her back, but the truth is that he was too afraid to tell her. After his brother’s death, he swore he would, but he went down with the Cairo before he had the chance.”

“Damn, Tali, that’s dark,” Joker says with a chuckle. “You got a happy one? How about that guy?” He points to a random stranger who’s sipping a glass of wine and laughing too hard.

She swirls the liquid in her glass. Forget the geth. This is where she really shines.

“He professed his love to…” she scans the room. Eventually she points at another well-dressed man, who looks absolutely no different from any of the rest as far as Joker is concerned. “That man over there. They are desperately in love, but he,” she points again at the new guy, “is afraid of his feelings. He has a dark past, and doesn’t want to drag his true love down with his demons.”

“Happy, Tali. I was looking for happy.”

She raises her glass. “A few spins on the dancefloor and he’s going to realize that pushing him away will only snap them back together. Like quarks.”

Joker clinks his glass against hers. “That’s my girl.”

4. From Fugue, Chapter 4 – This Hole You Left

But while most of the galaxy is preparing to mourn Commander Shepard, the soldier standing next to him might be the only person he knows who’s grieving for Sam. Anderson swirls the remaining liquid in his glass.

“He was the most reckless SOB I’ve ever met,” Anderson says, watching a hanar drift along one of the intact pathways below them. “I’m pretty sure half the shit he pulled over the years was just to piss me off.”

Alenko raises an eyebrow ever so slightly in surprise, but doesn’t turn his head. “He’s always at his best when the plan goes to hell.”

“Since he was a kid,” Anderson agrees, not missing the fact that Alenko had referred to him in the present tense. “First time I ever laid eyes on him he was four. He’d wandered away from Daniel on Arcturus and he called in the cavalry to look for him. You know where I found him?”

Alenko shakes his head.

“In a fountain, playing with a model ship. I asked him what the hell his spaceship was doing in the water. He said, ‘I’m about to find out.’”

Alenko’s mouth curves in a brittle smile. “I didn’t know you knew him that young.”

“I doubt he remembered,” Anderson says. “His father and I were good friends. I dropped in on occasion while he was growing up.” Before Shepard was a soldier. Before he was the Butcher of Torfan or the Savior of the Citadel. Back when he was still Sam, all knees and elbows, so desperate to please he couldn’t sit still.

Anderson still misses that kid.

5. From “The Way Back”

“You have a gun, Shepard, and it shoots mass-accelerated projectiles a hell of a lot more efficiently than you can shoot yourself. That was a titanic amount of energy you put out. How in the hell do you justify the cost of that on your own body?”

“Because it saved your life,” he snaps, dropping the barrel extension onto the bench with a clatter. “She had your head in her crosshairs, and I put her the fuck down. So yeah, it was worth the cost.”

Kaidan falls silent.

Shepard shoots him a reproachful look. “You know, I didn’t miss your fucking lectures.”

Kaidan holds his gaze, retort right on the tip of his tongue. Shepard shouldn’t need a lecture to know that fucking with his own mass as a combat tactic was reckless, stupid, and above all, unnecessary. But he did need one. And someone willing to get in his way long enough to do it.

Wasn’t that part of what had always made them so good together? Shepard charging into a china shop like a bull, with Kaidan standing at the door waving his arms? Shepard would run through him as often as he stopped or swerved, but no matter how it ended Kaidan was there to help him pick up the pieces.

He softens. “Yeah, well, I did miss what a complete idiot you are sometimes. You could have, just, I don’t know. Knocked me to the ground. Or knocked her to the ground. Using her own mass.”

Shepard’s brow furrows and he opens his mouth to protest before he sighs in defeat. “Yeah. Ok. That probably would have worked, too.”

Kaidan’s smile deepens. “You always did prefer theatrics out in the field.”

“Me?” Shepard huffs and pokes at the pieces of the Carnifex, chin low to hide his own smile. “Okay, maybe I occasionally enjoy a small flair for the dramatic.”

“Small. You call turning yourself into the most impractical mass-accelerated weapon I could conceive of small.”

Shepard’s smile turns into a smirk. “Say whatever you want. But just imagine being that sniper getting an eyeful of me coming right at her. That’s the kind of fear of god she’s not going to forget anytime soon.”

“You put a shotgun round point blank into her head. She forgot it pretty quick.”

[my-soul-sings]

just my luck: chapter 8

Fandom: Wannabe Challenge Characters: Taehee x Reader

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 (pt. 1) | Chapter 4 (pt. 2) | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 (AO3) 

***

Chapter 8 (full)

***

It was love and first sight when he met her back then.

He had been out hunting in the woods to practise his archery, and a flash of movement in the distance had caught his eye. Thinking it was a deer, he swiftly drew his bow and aimed his arrow at the moving target and released it.

However, instead of a deer’s cry, he heard something more human; something like a woman’s scream.

Panic had seized him and he’d tapped the sides of his horse with his feet, snapping the reins in his hands to beckon it to go faster towards the source of that sound.

It didn’t take long to find the owner of the voice: a young woman dressed in a blue hanbok. She was lying on her side next to an overturned basket with collected herbs spilling out of it onto the ground. The stray arrow he had shot lay just a few inches away from her, but it didn’t look like she had been hit by it. Taehee was relieved that she was uninjured, until he noticed that she was clutching at her ankle and wincing in pain.

He had apologised profusely to her, although she hadn’t taken as kindly to nearly being killed while collecting herbs in the woods. She had probably been scared, so he didn’t blame her when she started to scold him for being so careless, or when she asked him to pick up the spilled herbs for her. In fact, it was refreshing in a way. He was used to people being wary and walking on eggshells around him. As the eldest son in the family, people often feared that a single misstep would incur his wrath, even though he had never abused his power as other nobles often did.

Her words, on the other hand, were sharp. She would have been considered rude by any nobleman’s standards. But for some reason it comforted him. She was just a commoner, yet she treated him as an equal. They were simply two people who had met by chance in the woods. Here, he wasn’t the man with an entire family’s expectations weighing on his shoulders; he was simply him.

Maybe that was what made him fall for her that day. Taehee hadn’t even realised he was smiling to himself until she started yelling at him for finding the situation even remotely humorous.

Even in her next life, she was the same: strong-willed, stubborn, independent.

And even now, he loved her.

Although, it seemed that she couldn’t believe it for some reason. And here he thought the most difficult thing to convince her of was that he could see the future. He supposed the upside of it was that maybe she wouldn’t have such a hard time digesting the fact that he and his friends were goblins too. That was another headache he would have to worry about later...

“What’s so crazy about it?” he asked her while he parked the car. Her stare was boring two large holes in his head.

“There’s no such thing as love at first sight.” She said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Come on, tell me the real reason you’re helping me. Please?”

The car finally rolled to a stop, and Taehee switched off the engine. “I’m not lying to you.”

“Then, you were mistaken.”

“I’m not.”

She huffed, folding her arms across her chest. This was a lot harder than Taehee thought it would be.

“The first time I met you, I’d literally just rolled out of bed and I looked like hell because I was sick. How could you fall in love with that?”

A smile tugged at his lips when he remembered that day—the day he finally found her again. He wanted to say she was beautiful even then, but she might think he was just bluffing and being glib.

It was hard to pick the right word to describe that first meeting. The regret and shame he had felt for the past three hundred years had melded together all at once. But more than that, there was happiness and joy knowing that he now had a second chance to be with her and make her happy like he had promised a long time ago.

“Seeing you that day was a miracle.” There was no other way to put it.

Her strong front began to falter, but Taehee could still see the disbelief in her eyes. Well, he expected as much. It was sort of like this back then too; in her previous life, she had been just as doubtful of his intentions every time he made up a flimsy excuse to meet her again.

“You know what, I prefer it when you’re cryptic,” she finally said, a sigh escaping her. “It’s better than the cheesy lines. You probably flirt with a lot of other girls like this.”

Her fingers curled around the car door, ready to open it, but he placed a hand over hers to stop her from leaving. “I don’t flirt with other women, I promise,” he told her. “I’m serious about you. You might not believe it now, but I’ll prove myself with time.”

She raised an eyebrow at that. “With time? It’s not like we’re going to spend that much time together.”

He smiled then. “I was going to bring this up later, but... Stay at my place for the time being, until you manage to sort things out. There’s a free room here anyway, so it’s a perfect arrangement.”

***

“We don’t have a ‘free room’ ! Where is she going to sleep?” Hansol hissed. Taehee smacked the blond on the arm, glancing over his shoulder at the closed door in case they were heard.

The three roommates were currently huddled together in Hansol’s room, while they had left the confused woman at the dining table to eat the breakfast that Taehee had prepared earlier. The older man had planned to discuss this matter with them beforehand, but with everything that happened in the morning he hadn’t gotten a chance to do it. As a result, his roommates were understandably unprepared when she asked whether there was really an available room for her to use for the time being.

Hansol had completely failed to hide the shock on his face, until he received a sharp jab to the side, courtesy of Taehee’s elbow. His attempt to play along was commendable, but still it didn’t stop him from announcing that the three men had something to discuss, before dragging Taehee and Biho down the hallway by brute force into his room for an emergency meeting.

“What were you thinking?” Hansol continued, when Taehee returned his attention to them.

“I was thinking… she could take my room. Then I could share with either you or Biho,” he said sheepishly. “Just for the time being until she has to leave.”

Both of his roommates narrowed their eyes at him. “I don’t think you’re going to let her leave,” Biho pointed out.

“I...” Taehee couldn’t refute it—of course he would try as much as possible to convince her to stay with him. The best case scenario would be if they could live together for the rest of their lives. Just the thought of staying in the same house as her, waking up to see her every morning and going to sleep after making sure she was warmly tucked in bed was enough to make him grin like a lovestruck idiot.

It earned him a hard squeeze on the shoulder by Hansol. That brat was misusing his strength now for things like this?

“Hyung, is this funny to you?” Hansol asked, prompting Taehee to immediately drop his smile and smoothen his facial expression into something more neutral. He cleared his throat. “No, not at all. Sorry.”

“I’m agreeable to letting her stay here,” Biho chimed in then. “She doesn’t have anywhere else to go, right?”

Thank the heavens for Biho’s soft heart. It was coming in handy now. Taehee nodded. “Her wrist is fractured too. There’ll be a lot of things she can’t do on her own, so it’ll be good if she stays with us.”

“I’m on the same page as you guys, but we need to figure out the sleeping arrangements,” Hansol replied with a frustrated sigh, running a hand through his hair and messing it up slightly. “Why did you even tell her we have a free room?”

Taehee looked away sheepishly. “Because… she would have refused to stay here otherwise. She’s a bit stubborn, and she doesn’t like depending too much on other people for help.”

“You do realise she can count the number of rooms we have in this house and figure it out on her own, right?”

“Yeah, well...” Taehee trailed off, racking his brains for any reasonable excuse, but he couldn’t. Why did his roommates have to be right about everything? In any case— “That doesn’t matter. We should just quickly decide on the sleeping arrangement.”

“Why can’t she stay in the same room as you? Your bed is the biggest— Ow.” Hansol smacked Biho upside the head for that suggestion. “That’s indecent!”

Taehee took offense at the insinuation that he would have tried anything inappropriate even if she slept in the same bed as him. With warming cheeks, he butted in, “I would never do anything inappropriate to her. But anyway,” he cleared his throat, “she’s definitely not going to accept that even if I did.”

Hansol cocked an eyebrow at that. “So you would sleep in the same bed as her if she said ‘yes’?” With exaggerated shock, he smacked his hands on both cheeks as his mouth formed an ‘o’. “Hyung, I’m seeing a different side of you today.”

“Stop that.” Taehee rolled his eyes, suppressing the urge to smack Hansol. He would only receive a harder one in return, no thanks to the younger goblin’s superior strength.

“Then, one of us has to share a room with you?” Biho asked, looking grim all of a sudden. Taehee watched realisation sink into Hansol’s expression, and he swore the blond’s face paled slightly. What was that all about?

“Why do you guys look like that?”

“You’ll get offended if I say it,” Biho said bluntly, while Hansol quietly nodded. “Maybe Hansol and I can share a room instead. You can take one of ours.”

Taehee frowned. He was already starting to get offended and it was even more frustrating because he didn’t understand why they were so reluctant to share a room with him. “What’s so bad about rooming with me?”

The duo exchanged nervous glances, and at Hansol’s nod, Biho sucked in a sharp breath and turned back to face Taehee. “Well… you’re a clean freak. You already nag at us every weekend, I don’t want it to become an everyday thing.”

“Yeah,” Hansol chimed in before Taehee could get a word of protest out. “Sorry Taehee, you know we love you, but the nagging…”

Taehee didn’t know if he should be happy or offended that he would get a room to himself despite being the one to suggest this arrangement. He didn’t have the chance to decide, because all three of them were startled by knocks on the door that came in rapid succession.

“I’m coming in,” he heard her say, and then the door opened. She stepped in, surveying the surprise on their faces before releasing a sigh.

“I heard everything. Look, I can just take the couch or an inflatable mattress if you have one. I’m fine with sleeping in the living room. I feel bad enough for imposing; I don’t want to trouble you guys further by making you switch rooms.”

“You’re not troubling us—”

“Taehee, I know you’re just being nice, but it’s really fine. I already appreciate all the help so far. And,” her eyes came to rest on Hansol and then Biho, “sorry to impose for this period of time. I’ll try to find a new place as soon as possible.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Biho said with a reassuring smile. “You’re injured, it’s not good for you to live alone for now. At least with us around we can help you when you need it.”

“Yeah, and you’re not imposing on us at all,” Hansol added cheerily. “We really don’t mind. You can take one of our rooms, it’s no big deal.”

“No, please. I can’t. I want to sleep on the couch.” Her eyes turned to Taehee, and he recognised the pleading look. She wasn’t going to change her mind, and he suspected if they continued to insist on her taking a room, she would simply walk out the door. She was too stubborn for her own good sometimes.

“Alright,” he said finally, “the couch it is.”

She brightened immediately, sending him an appreciative smile. “Thanks. I really mean it.”

“Looks like you gained some likability points with her,” Hansol whispered teasingly in Taehee’s ear. The older man flushed in embarrassment and stepped on Hansol’s foot to get him to shut up. Unfortunately he must have applied too much force, for the younger man shrieked and hopped away, cradling his sore foot.

“Sorry, there was a bug there,” was Taehee’s flimsy excuse. Then he hurried out of the room with the excuse of looking for a spare blanket and pillows for her.

He didn’t miss the amused look on her face as she observed the exchange.

[dirthavarens]

And Now He is My Last [Bookerbeth]

Fandom: Bioshock Infinite (Burial At Sea) Characters: Booker Dewitt, Elizabeth Comstock, Frank Fontaine Relationship: Booker/Elizabeth Rating: Mature Warnings: Character Death Word Count: 1533 Notes: Fuck your ending, Levine.

READ ON AO3

or read below;;

She felt...free. A normal woman with a normal pinkie finger being granted a normal death. Elizabeth had resigned to her fate, knowing that all she had done was for him, to grant revenge for the man whose life she took. Every subsequent life taken was for him, in his name, for him.

Or was it for her? 

Perhaps both. She glared up at Fontaine, knowing that her short life was fizzling out and coming to an end. The way he spun the wrench in his hand, his eyes fixed on her like a wolf devouring a fawn. 

“Well, love, if you ins--”

“Atlas! We have company,” a frantic voice scratched through the radio. A gunshot sounded and then the heavy click of shoes approaching the radio. “No, pl--”

The sickening crack of vertebrae. 

“Don’t just stand there,” Fontaine barked to his men, “Go see what the fuck is goin’ on!” 

The two men at his side nodded curtly and rushed off with guns raised. Fontaine seized Sally’s wrist so hard, she thought the poor girl’s bones might snap in his grip. 

If there was hope for her to get out of here...anything to get Sally to the surface...

“Looks like we got a visitor, darlin’. And I don’t know about you, but I don’t leaving a job ‘til it’s done.” He set the wrench down and pulled the pistol from his holster, setting it against the girl’s head as she struggled. “Now that we have the code, we have no use for you or the little sister.”

Two clear gunshots fell in succession behind her, followed by the sound of bodies dropping and the door opening. Whoever had made it this far had no idea the cruelty of Frank Fontaine, this self-proclaimed savior of Rapture. She had had enough prophets for two lifetimes, let alone one.

“Drop it, pal.” 

A voice. Clear. Familiar. So damnably familiar it set her soul on fire and she twisted her aching neck as far as she could to see...if maybe...just maybe...

“And just who the hell do you think you are, boyo?” Fontaine’s resolve in the face of what Elizabeth knew to be certain death showed a specific flaw that all “invincible” men held, misplaced moxie. 

Part of her thought she was hallucinating or already dead, but the man who stood behind her with his pistol raised and green eyes burning with rage...

It was him.

She didn’t need a tear to tell her that he was her Booker. 

“Booker...”

A bullet zipped by her head and she turned in time enough to see Fontaine’s limp body fall to the floor, a hole in his head. Sally scrambled to her feet and turned tail, fleeing from the scene before Elizabeth had time to call her name. 

He rushed to her, arms wrapped tightly around her, holding her, fingers nestling in her hair as she breathed in a scent she had thought was lost to her. Gunpowder and tobacco with but a hint of musk.

“You’re safe, Elizabeth.” Booker’s words rumbled in his chest when he spoke and she let a wash of calm rush over her for the first time since the Big Daddy killed her. “I’m here.” 

“But you...” Tears formed in her eyes as she nuzzled into his chest. She returned his embrace, fingers digging into his back as she started to sob. “But I killed you. Booker, how are you here?”

“Lived, lives, will live,” he repeated one of the Lutece’s mantras. “Those twins drive a hard bargain, but I’m used to the odds being stacked against me. All that matters is that you’re safe.”

Without her sight, without the ripples in time and space, Elizabeth felt powerless. What once felt so full of possibility was now abuzz with questions to which she had no answers. A blind woman stumbling in the darkness with but a man to hold onto. 

There was a familiar groan in the distance that forced her to pull away from Booker. The time for her questions would be delayed a bit longer. Her blue eyes searched his green and then grabbed at his hand to see if...Just one answer would be enough... She just needed...

There was a fresh scar splitting the initials on his hand.

It was her Booker. In all of the universes she had jumped through. All of the worlds she traveled, her reality didn’t hum with misinformation, with change, as it had around the Comstocks. 

“Come on, Elizabeth. We have to get outta here. I don’t know what the hell that thing is, but I ain’t stickin’ around long enough to find out.”

“Booker...” His name was a whisper on her lips and she slipped her hand into his before they took off. 

The journey to the bathyspheres was a hectic one but she felt an odd comfort in having what should be a ghost at her side. 

“Where’d you learn to shoot?” Booker asked once they were finally able to catch their breath. The seal of the bathysphere closed around them and they began their ascent.

“Spend years of watching war heroes shoot, you learn a thing or two,” she explained wryly, staring down at the heavy pistol in her hand. It felt heavier now that she didn’t have to use it. 

“You really did it, didn’t you? Killed Comstock...”

“A million million times.” Elizabeth collapsed onto the seat of the bathysphere and dropped the gun beside her. “But I couldn’t save one little girl. Booker, what have I done?”

She leaned against his weight when he took residence beside her. 

“You can’t save everyone, Elizabeth. Getting rid of that son of bitch Comstock saved more lives than you could know.” Booker adjusted himself to make her more comfortable and she brought a hand to rest on his thigh.

“All of those years I spent missing you, of wanting you to come back, of hating myself for what I did...where were you? When I died...I was in Paris.”

“I don’t know,” he started slowly then she felt him go rigid beneath her. “What do you mean, when you died?”

“I died, Booker. Rosalind and Robert Lutece gave me one last chance at life. Look,” she raised her little finger to him. “A normal pinkie. I’m entirely mortal now. No tears, no omnipotence, nothing. Just a normal girl trapped in 1960.” 

Booker grabbed her hand in his, bent her fingers, and placed a kiss at her knuckles. The years she had spent wanting to know him more, to feel him around her, to be able to tell him all of the things she had left unsaid at the river...

One last chance at redemption.

“I missed you,” he uttered against her fingers. “I don’t know where I was...but every moment I spent there, I wanted to get back to you.”

‘I think Booker would miss you...’

The echo of her own mind’s words brought the sting of liquid back to her eyes. She had spent years crying internally, wanting him to come back, twisting in on herself with guilt. 

But he was there.

“And you did.” 

She sat up and withdrew her hand from his, her eyes fixed on him as she felt the first tear fall to her cheek. 

“Hey, none of that,” he whispered and pulled her closer. Her legs set on either side of him as she took residence in his lap and her head found its place in the nape of his neck. “I’m here, okay? I’m not goin’ anywhere this time, you hear me?” 

Elizabeth swallowed and shifted back to take in the sight of him as though he’d disappear if she looked away. She brought a tentative hand to caress his stubbly cheek and traced his upper lip with her thumb. 

“You aren’t, are you?” She leaned in and rested her forehead against his, tasting the air that slipped from between his lips. Elizabeth’s mouth crept open and her lips wavered.

“Not a snowball’s chance in hell...”  

An unfamiliar fear nestled in her stomach as she inched closer to his lips with her own. He was her father... Would he really allow such a thing? 

“Can I kiss you, Booker?” The question came in a breath as she watched his eyes close, her nose tracing against his. 

He said nothing, but held her to him as he closed the gap between them. His chapped lips were warm against hers and she gladly accepted the muted passion in his movement. Elizabeth held to his cheek as she parted her lips to him and indulged in the way his tongue dipped slowly, experimentally, into her mouth.

Her free hand curled into the fabric on his shoulder as they kissed. Their mouths moved in a synchronicity that even the Lutece twins could not match, and it had Elizabeth’s mind erasing desired fantasies with concrete memory. She broke from him with a soft moan and felt like she was breathing for the first time.

Booker was there. He was holding her. She was kissing him. They were returning to the surface. They were alive. They were in another time.

But above all, they were reunited. 

[himbowelsh]

paralysis and baberoe for the injury/sickness meme please?

a little fall of meme can hardly hurt me now  ( accepting )

AN:  So, this spiraled a bit, and turned long...  you probably didn’t sign up for all of this, but whoop, here’s a fake snake species created just for the angst!!

It happens too quick to see — even in the aftermath, when they’re both blinking at each other in confusion and wondering exactly what the hell happened. This is what Babe knows for sure: he and Doc Roe are trudging through a wooded shortcut just discovered by Janovec this morning, because Babe wants to show Gene this really cool lake he found, because Gene seems like the sort of person who likes lakes… and Gene is a few steps ahead of him, moving fluidly through the woods, and he’s saying something Babe’s only half-listening to because the sunlight dappled through trees to hit Gene’s inky hair is something to see, okay, and then Gene must ask him a question he completely misses because Gene turns to him, and his eyes are smiling where his mouth isn’t, and he takes a step back…

Crack. Snap. “Shit!”

So, there are snakes in Austria. This would have been a nice thing to mention beforehand.

“Gene?” The word leaves Babe’s mouth like a foreign object. He can’t really process what he’s seeing, is the thing — and from the look on Gene’s face, neither can he. He's bent forward with one leg lifted lightly over the ground, hand clasped to his ankle. It takes a minute for Gene to look up at Babe again. When he does, his mouth is tight around the edges; all traces of that silent laughter are gone.

“This might be bad,” he declares, and lifts his hand to show blood.

“Jesus Christ!” 

Babe can’t help cringing, his entire body arcing into himself, like the two tiny punctures on Gene’s ankle are the goriest sight he’s ever seen. Far from it, really… but just the idea of some slimy thing digging its teeth in him stings, never mind actually looking at it. The wound on Gene’s ankle is bright red, leaking blood like twin bullet wounds. It’s not spurting out or anything, not like when Jackson got hit, but… Jesus, those are bites. Goddamn bites. Babe is so busy staring at the snake marks that he almost forgets Gene is staring at him.

“Don’t you pass out on me, Heffron,” Gene orders, voice sharp as steel. 

Babe snaps back to attention with army-honed quickness, a wheeze escaping him as he straightens up. “No… no way. It’s fine. Christ, it’s okay, Gene.”

“Actually, it’s poisoned,” Gene remarks mildly.

“What?”

“Two holes means venomous.” Gene’s hand hovers over the ankle, like even he’s uncertain what to do about it, and that scares Babe more than anything else. “Not to mention, it burns like hell.”

Suddenly, the simple act of standing feels like running through open fire. Babe turns his attention to the ground, hopping on his toes, like more snakes are about to slither in and eat him alive… but he only catches sight of movement on the ground not far from Gene. A sleek brown serpent slithers away into the bushes. Other than that, the forest floor is bare.

“Think I stepped on it,” Gene continues, voice tight and aggravated. “No wonder it bit me, but he sure blends in — hopping won’t help you, Heffron, cut that out.”

“Who decided not to mention snakes?”

“You didn’t listen when they mentioned snakes,” Gene corrects. His chest is kinda heaving, like drawing breath takes more effort, but that’s got to just be from adrenaline, right? Or could it be the snakes? Babe’s never seen a goddamn snake before, he lives in South fuckin’ Philly, he doesn’t know these things — “We got antivenom back at base, but ain’t had to use it before. Some of these fellas can be nasty customers.”

“No kidding.” Babe is still eyeing Gene’s bite like it’s about to bite him. Venom… if the bite’s poisoned, then why does it look so simple? Like any old cut his little sister could get from playing with Ma’s sewing needles, or what Babe’s been dumb enough to do to himself on old nails. Just… punctures. Not any weird colors, not leaking anything... except they were made with teeth, from a goddamn serpent, and that’s all the difference.

Not to mention, if that wound’s poisoned, doesn’t that mean...

Suddenly, the word venom clicks in his head, like he’s just translated it from a different language. People get sick from snake bites; they even die from them. Something in Babe’s stomach bottoms out, a new wave of panic gripping him. They’ve gotta get Gene back to town, and to that antivenom. Now.

“Alright, Gene. Up and at ‘em!” In the time Babe’s spent processing this, Gene sat down hard on the ground… which seems like the worst place to be for a fella who's already been a snake’s chew toy once today. Babe leans forward, holding out a hand, but Gene just blinks at it.

“Yeah,” he says slowly, like Babe’s just told a joke he doesn’t get. “Okay.”

“Okay, get up! Not — Gene, we’ve been over this already, for chrissakes —“ Babe seizes hold of his hand for him, and hauls him up in one fell swoop. It helps that Gene doesn’t weigh all that much — but even this weight is a lot, when his legs buckle as soon as he’s on his feet. Yelping, Babe scrambles to steady him, an arm locking around his ribcage. “What the hell, Gene?”

“Sorry, sorry…” Gene forces himself back upright, but has to brace too much of his weight against Babe for either of them to pretend it hadn’t happened at all. “Leg, uhh, feels weird. Getting all numb.”

“How fast does the venom spread?”

“Well, it depends on the snake, don’t it? Should have asked him how quick he wanted to kill me.” And, okay, Babe deserves the annoyed clip in his voice, but Gene talking about death so casually does nothing for his swelling panic. “Seems to work pretty fast. I’ve never seen this before, Heffron, so I don’t know.”

They don’t have any time to stand around bickering about this. Babe leads Gene forward, one step after another. This time, Gene manages to stay upright; even though he’s obviously favoring one leg over another, he matches Babe’s pace. “We ain’t got snakes back in Philly, so this is all new to me,” Babe declares, just to say something in his own defense. “Haven’t you got snakes down in Louisiana?”

“Sure. But in Bayou Chene, our reptiles’ve got a lot more teeth. Not to mention legs.” At Babe’s look of aghast horror, Gene just huffs. “You’ll figure it out, Heffron.”

“Don’t tell me the little fuckers can grow legs. Gene? You’re messing with me, right? He can’t run after us, can it? Jesus, Mary and—“

Gene stumbles again, so suddenly that Babe barely has the chance to catch him. One second he’s walking, and the next — 

“C’mon, Gene,” Babe huffs, propping the man back upright. “I know it hurts, but we aren’t too far. You gotta make it back.”

“I’m trying,” Gene snaps, with a ferocity that takes Babe aback. He’s never heard that growl in the old Doc’s voice, or seen such wire-taut frustration in his eyes. Gene’s hands clench into fists, one gripping his knee and the other steadied against Babe’s chest. It takes a moment before he’s willing to put weight on it again. The skin around the cut is already bright red and inflamed; as Babe watches, he swears he can see it swell up a bit more, like a goddamn balloon. It’s hell to look at, so he can’t imagine what Gene’s got to be feeling.

As soon as Gene tests his weight, the leg buckles. He falls to one knee, a sharp curse escaping him; a second later, in his struggle to scramble back up, he just manages to fall sideways and land on his ass.

Babe is left feeling profoundly helpless — eager to help, but certain of wounding Gene’s pride if he tries. “What — what’s wrong with it?” he asks instead, sounding too much like a frightened kid.

Gene’s hand hovers over the swollen ankle... but at the first touch he draws away with a hiss. Instead, he fondles up his calf, brows knit together and face paler than usual. “It…” he says, and pauses for a long moment. When he draws in a breath, it trembles. “It’s really burning. Burning bad, but it’s not… Heffron, I don’t know. Don’t think I can walk on it.”

“Why not?” Babe demands, desperate.

“Because it’s gone numb.” When Gene looks up, his eyes are black and piercing; they cut straight through Babe’s soul. “I can’t feel my leg, Babe. All the way up to the knee, and it’s moving fast.”

“What the hell’s it doing? Paralyzing you?”

He means it as a joke. Gene doesn’t laugh.

“Shit.” Babe presses a hand to his face, then runs it through his hair with earnest. “Shit, shit, shit. Will that kill you? It sounds like it can kill you.”

“Depends on how quick it gets to my lungs.” The amazing thing is how calm Gene sounds, in spite of it all. No one should sound that fucking calm while a deadly toxin’s blazing through their system. If anyone could, it’s Gene Roe — but all the panic he doesn’t have, Babe’s got in spades. For a moment, it’s paralyzing.

The thought clicks in his head too late; he goes still, and barks out a harsh, sudden laugh. Panic is paralyzing him while Gene’s literally being paralyzed.

Goddammit, Heffron, get your shit together.

“Okay,” he says — and finally, finally, he’s not two inches away from tumbling over the edge. Maybe he doesn’t know what’s happening, but he can at least sound like it. “You really think you can’t walk on it, huh?” When Gene shakes his head, eyes grin, Babe’s mouth goes tight. “Okay! We got two options here, Gene. We could sit and wait for your goddamn lungs to freeze up, or —“ Babe swallows hard, like forcing an entire egg down his throat, and straightens his shoulders. “Or, I gotta carry you the rest of the way.”

It’s not ideal. They both know it. Gene isn't that light, Babe isn’t that strong, and a fella has a certain amount of dignity even when he might be dying. The thing is — they don’t have any other options. Sitting and waiting is out of the question, so far out of the question that it ain’t a question at all. If they don’t move, Gene will just get worse... and no way in hell is Babe letting that happen.

Their eyes lock, and a ripple of unspoken communication passes between them. Something in Gene’s expression steels itself, while Babe forces a deep breath.

“Alright,” Gene says. “Let’s go.”

Babe hits the ground on one knee, and Gene’s arms wrap around his neck a second later. Credit where credit’s due, he’s not taking any chances; no way will Babe be able to drop him when Gene’s got a grip like a clingy toddler, locking around his neck like he’s half-set on strangling him. Babe chokes involuntarily, and Gene quickly eases up; a muttered “sorry” rumbles in his ear as the grip adjusts. 

When Gene finally feels steady, Babe hauls himself to his feet, dragging the other man up with him. Now, Gene’s full weight is really braced against him, and it hurts. Hastily, Babe scrambles to get a more solid grip, hunching forward to ease him up. After a moment, he feels Gene leave the ground, most of that weight settling on his shoulders and back.

“Jesus, Doc,” he mutters. “You been storin’ food through the winter? Bastogne’s over now, buddy, you can share the wealth!”

Gene cuffs him lightly on the side of the head. In spite of the situation, Babe laughs.

After that, it’s just… putting one foot in front of the other. A harder task than you’d think, because of Babe thought dragging him alone was tough, carrying a guy is even worse. Is this how Luz feels all the time, with his massive radio? Better yet, where’s Bull Randleman when you need him? If Babe was meant to haul fellas around like potato sacks, he wouldn’t have played the goddamn trumpet in high school. Despite the weight, he steels himself and pushes forward. Going is slower than he’d like, but at least they’re moving. Base isn’t that far away, and they’re still going faster than they would if Gene were walking on his own.

Gradually, Babe’s breathing grows more labored. His body working overtime to carry twice its weight, struggling to keep up. It takes him too long to realize he isn’t the only one. Gene’s body is working harder too; his breaths are gradually turning into pants, arms tightening around Babe’s shoulders as his legs slowly grow slack. Through their layers of clothing, Babe can feel Gene’s heartbeat against his back. It’s too damn fast.

“How you holdin’ in there, Gene?” he asks, after his grip on the other man’s ass nearly slips. Not much longer now — it can’t be long, can it?

“I’m — uhh —“ Gene takes too long to answer, and that scares Babe the most. His voice is hoarse, too low to be called anything but a murmur. “Been better.”

“Yeah, I bet.” And that tells Babe exactly nothing. “What are you feeling?”

“Uh,” says Gene.

“Okay, better question, what aren’t you feeling?”

“Well — my legs are still there, right?”

Jesus Christ. “Yeah, they’re still there.”

“All I need to know.”

Forcing the worry out of his mind, Babe charges forward. At last, the path is more road than wilderness, somewhere familiar. More sure of himself now, Babe leads the way, silently praying for a Jeep to pass. Anything that can get them there quicker will be a godsend; as it is, they’re fifteen minutes out from any help, and he’s really not sure Gene can last that long.

The burden on his back only grows heavier as Gene becomes more and more dead weight. He murmurs something about his fingers, and suddenly his hands have grown slack; Babe just tightens his grip, knowing that if Gene can no longer hang on, the situation’s going to get a whole lot harder. What other options does he have? Fireman’s hold? Bridal carry? Hell, he could try it —

“Babe,” Gene mutters, pressing the word into the side of his neck as his head lolls against Babe’s shoulder. “We almost there?”

“Yeah, buddy. Almost. Stay with me, okay?”

“‘Kay,” Gene agrees, and doesn’t try to speak again. Maybe he doesn’t have the energy; maybe he just can’t get the words together. It’s hard to tell which idea scares Babe the most.

He’s just readjusting his grip on Gene’s limp lower body when a distinctive rattle echoes from further down the path. Babe goes tense. A second later, the truck rounds the corner, in all its rattling glory. With a whoop, Babe charges straight for it, practically bouncing in the middle of the road.

“Hold it! Hey, stop the damn car!”

The driver is a stranger, a supply man who doesn’t look a bit happy about being halted on his route. “What’s goin’ on here?” he demands, looking Babe and his unusual cargo up and down.

Babe doesn’t even bother replying. Before the guy can protest, he slings Gene up into the truckbed and scrambles in after him, slamming on the hood for good measure. “Sorry, buddy, but you gotta turn around. Get us to the hospital now!”

“Hospital? What for?”

“For crissakes, I’ll tell ya as we drive, just go! It’s an emergency!”

The engine rumbles to life again. Babe hunches over Gene, eager to protect him from the dust and smog. Underneath him, Gene is tense and unmoving; each breath rattles in Babe’s ears, louder than the truck as it begins to gutter down the road. After a moment, it’s safe enough to pull back. Babe forces himself up on aching arms to regard Gene’s face, and nearly chokes on his own heart.

Gene’s face is colorless. Completely drained, a stark milky-grey like laundry water after Ma’s gotten through with it. His mouth hangs half-open, lips shuddering as he clings to every earnest breath. Black eyes, darker than ever in his ghostly face, peer blankly up at the sky. Desperate to rouse him, Babe presses a hand against his face, and finds that his skin is burning. 

“Shit, shit — Gene! Stay with me, buddy!”

It takes a minute for the life to stir back in his eyes. “Where’m I gonna go?” Gene finally demands, sounding affronted. God help them both, Babe can’t help barking out a hoarse laugh.

“Nowhere. Goddamn nowhere, cause I’m not gonna let you. We’re almost there, okay?” Babe presses down on his shoulders, like he can squeeze some feeling back into Gene’s rapidly-numbing body; no doubt the terror on his own face is obvious, but Gene’s so out of it that there’s a chance he can’t tell. That’s what Babe clings to, though the agonizing, rattling ride — he’s gotta be strong for Gene’s sake. He draws Gene close to his chest, gripping him tight, feet braced against the side of the truck to support them both. Each breath is precious; he charts the rhythm of Gene’s breathing, trying to steady it with his own. At some point, Gene tried to raise an arm, only for it to flop back down… but when Babe asks him if he’s getting any worse, he just shakes his head. Probably a lie, but Babe’ll take it.

“Gonna be alright, Gene,” he mutters as the town square finally rattles into view ahead. “Look. We’re here. Can you see that we’re here?”

“Can’t lift my head,” is all Gene mutters. 

Babe lifts it for him. Something in Gene’s cloudy expression clears at the sight of familiar surroundings — and the tiny group of Easy men, clustered on the street corner, smoking and smirking at each other. Babe doesn’t pause to explain anything, even to their poor driver. As soon as the truck jutters to a stop, he springs out, waving his friends over. “Thank god — Hashey, find a medic, will ya? Or a surgeon, get a goddamn surgeon, tell him there’s a snake bite — the two of you, come on, help me lift him. Doc’s in bad shape.”

This is a familiar song and dance by now. They’ve done this before, after sneak attacks and harebrained patrols, scrambling into action to aid a wounded friend. Only thing different now is that the war’s over, and it’s Doc on the table. Luckily, no one needs to be told twice. Hashey sprints off like the devil’s on his heels, while Ramirez and Alley quickly join Babe’s cause; together, they’re able to slide Gene’s body towards the edge of the truck, laying him out flat. From there, no one’s really certain what to do. Babe stands near Gene’s head, practically cradling him, while the other men exchange bewildered, rattled glances.

“A snake, Babe?” Alley demands.

“A fucking snake,” Babe confirms.

Everything’s a blur from there. Hashey returns, a surgeon on his heels; he’s got a needle the size of Babe’s whole arm, and that’s the point things get real hazy. Babe has to shut his eyes past a wave of dizziness, but he hears Gene gasp in pain, the surgeon mutter something, and the shuffle of men moving a limp body. By the time Gene’s steady on a cot, being hauled into the building, his eyes are shut, head killing back.

And Babe’s left… standing. Useless, alone, and wondering if he was any help at all.

“Jesus Christ, Babe,” Alley hisses, dragging a hand through his hair. Hashey whistles, staring at the ground. Ramirez looks like he’s just chugged three week old stew.

Babe slumps back against the bed of the truck, exhausted. His heart stutters in his chest; his throat feels tight. After a minute, he slumps forward like his strings have been cut, hands coming up to cradle his head.

“Hey, everything alright?” a voice from the front of the truck calls. After a minute, the driver leans his head out, just enough to look at Babe and his friends. “Private, is your friend going to be okay?”

“I don’t know,” Babe mutters — and then, for the guy’s benefit, “Can’t say yet. They’ve gotta… work on him, or some shit.”

“You did a hell of a job getting him here,” is all the driver says — and, when Babe looks back in surprise, just shrugs. “Like a man possessed. I couldn’t have kept driving if I wanted to. Never seen anybody look like that.”

Babe huffs a sigh. It rattles in his chest, hurting as it comes out, but he manages to summon a smile. “Th- thanks, pal.” Giving the truck an affectionate pat, he pushes himself off, and offers the driver a wave.

The driver waves back. With a guttural roar, the engine starts back up again; after a minute, the truck and it’s cargo rattle off down the street, out of sight.

Babe tucks his hands in his pants and sighs. His head turns up to the sky, as if drawn there.

“Okay,” he says to his friends. “Who’s got some damn cigarettes?”

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

“You saved my life.”

He can’t bring himself to meet Gene’s eyes. Babe stares at the blanket instead — the crisp, clean, certified hospital blanket, the kind you’d only find in a town that hasn’t been bombed to hell. Jesus, what they wouldn’t have killed for a set-up like this in Bastogne; a roof over their heads, a warm bed, blankets, even pillows. Fluffy ones, stuffed with actual feathers.

“Who knew all you gotta do to live it up ‘round here is almost die?” Babe quipped when he walked in — a stupid crack, but it brought a tiny smile to Gene’s washed out face, so damn him if it wasn’t a victory.

Now, though… he can’t quite do it. Even though Gene’s okay — and there’s no question of that anymore, now that the anti-venom’s done its work and the fever’s cleared up — it’s all too fresh, too raw to dwell on. Babe’s gotten good at shoving the awful things aside, smothering them under heaps of snow until he can only feel the weight of them, not the sting. Seeing Gene like that… god, it hurt, Hurt he hadn’t felt since Julian, since Jackson, since watching friends choke and die while being able to do nothing for them. That helplessness has become familiar as an aching scar; Babe knows he’ll never forget it, for as long as he lives, but feeling it with this man in his arms was something else.

“You scared the hell out of me, Gene,” he finally manages, still staring at the blanket. “Wasn’t your fault, but… Christ. I never wanna see that again. Never wanna feel that damn scared. Never wanna feel like… like I might lose you too.” Finally, he drags his gaze up, to meet Gene’s impossibly dark eyes. “Please don’t do that again.”

Gene stares at him for a long moment, unmoving. It’s like he’s paralyzed all over again; Babe can barely stand it.

Finally, a flash of movement draws Babe’s gaze down again. There, inching across the blanket — Gene’s hand, fingers flexing, reaching towards home

“Hey, you’re not supposed to try and move ‘til that stuff’s out of you completely —“

“I’m alright.” Gene’s voice is soft, like something fragile. When his hand finds Babe’s, though, he’s strong; he grips Babe like a promise, the sort neither of them are bold enough to break. They’re both alive, both here, and neither one is going anywhere. That’s enough for now.

“Thank you, Babe,” Gene murmurs, and Babe’s heart stutters in his chest.

“Yeah…  any time, Doc.”

[honestsycrets]

Wretched Little Angels: Aethelwulf’s Choice

❛ pairing | ragnarssons x reader

❛ type | multi

❛ summary | ivar takes over the reins, and everyone else is just along for the ride. 

❛  warnings | dark!fic, graphic non-con and violence, ivar being a dick, ivar planning, hostage situation, heavy angst. do not read if any of those will trigger you

They already knew what the possibility was.

“It’s possible that she may not even be alive,” Alfred spoke from the table.

It was a cold night, and his scarf was fixed around his neck, staring between his brother and his father. Aethelwulf paced from one side of the room to the other before coming to the table where they sat with full plates that neither had eaten.

“What if she is?” Aethelred returns. “She is a woman. They could be hurting her.”

By hurting her, all the men in the room knew what he meant.

“It is likely,” Alfred answers.

The question seems to really be what price they were willing to pay. For Aethelwulf, this was one in a line of disrespectful actions. It was the top of his list, no doubt, but it was not something he could so easily let go. Aethelwulf sets his hands on the chair, squaring his shoulders back.

“I’ll call him.”

“At what cost?”

The cost, he knows better than his sons. Aethelwulf runs his hands through his short black hair. His fist beats down on the table, effectively silencing his youngest son with his shrill that caused Alfred to scoot back in his seat.

“I want my daughter back.”

You should have stabbed Ubbe with that knife.

But you didn’t.

Hvitserk left you feeling burning raw and now, Ivar-- Ivar was something else entirely. His arm is thrown over your shoulder, dragging his nails over your empty stomach up toward your breasts. Your chest heaves under his fingertips. Your father is heavy on your mind. He is the sort of man to think he knows best and go through with it. Unless it was the words of grandfather, that was. He could always… do best.

Now that Aethelwulf was the one to deal with, well, there was no telling what he would do. You were sure of one thing. It would be reckless. When you glance over to Ivar, you know that this boy-- is more than he can handle.

“What are you going to do to them?”

“To your father?” he slides a lock of your hair from your ear. “That depends on him.”

“Please don’t kill them.”

This man, the Boneless, runs a chill down your back. You don’t know why. You only know that when he looks at you, he sees something little more then the daughter of a police chief. Ivar seizes your nape with his large hand.

“Oh? Well, I don’t really want you, so I don’t even need you,” Ivar whispers corroded words. A jangle of his belt reflects that he is loosening his pants. You don’t have to guess by now what he is about to do. “So let’s get down to business.”

It was fine. You’ve been put through worse. Ubbe was worse. Ivar less so. The grip on your neck tightens into bruised the size of the pads of his fingers. When you take him into his mouth, Ivar settles into petting your hair— almost like a good dog.

“Where is she?”

A warm voice asks, bursting with hot energy and frayed at the edges with his concern. You seize up under his hand, tightening your fist around his floppy cock. Ivar bucks his hips, and his cock responds in turn, swelling under your fingers.

“Nothing to worry about,” Ivar insists in a mouthy groan. “I am taking good care of her.”

You, as well as your father, know how much of a lie that is.

“If you lay a hand on my“--

“My brothers have done more than that,” Ivar answers, reaching down to stroke your hair. So close, but so far away, Ivar almost muses. “But if you want her back, you know what to do.”

With a click, Ivar drops the phone, cock throbbing and pulsing in your hand. A threat of moisture spurts from his tip and you take it with heavy-lidded eyes pressed together tightly that you refuse to let yourself cry. Whatever it was, you think, it wasn’t going to end well.

“You are going to hurt him, aren’t you?” Your voice teams with tension and fear.

“Well, he makes a shitty puppet.” Ivar laughs, tugging you up by a fistful of your hair. The burn of the cool air causes you to release his cock, which bobs excitedly when you whimper face to face with him. “But maybe you can level with me. Sit on my dick.”

You’re tired of it. The constant wear and tear of Ragnar’s sons tearing into your body. You let your knees fall apart under his prodding hand. Ivar’s lip twitches, somewhere between appreciation and annoyance that you could not follow a simple order.

“It’s not that hard to listen,” Ivar reprimands. He brings your hips down to him, slipping his hand underneath to guide his way into the hole that his brothers had all had. Pleasure thrums through him when he actually does slip in, and he shifts his hands around to grasp your shoulders to force you down onto him.

“You’re all used up,” Ivar says. “You don’t even have it in you to fight me.”

A succession of quick and shallow lines are pricked by one slow, deep one that Ivar made sure to know you felt. You know he tells the truth. Being used by the Ragnarssons almost becomes routine. If you ran, like with Ubbe, they would only make it worse.

“I suppose I’ll have to settle with this to send to your soft brother,” Ivar grasps a fist full of your hair again, dragging you against his chest. Ivar’s teeth catch your neck, rocked by a stuttering thrust of his hips. It’s no more than a hike in his breathing that marks that Ivar is cumming, deep when he drags you down against his hips.

His warm breath against your neck marks the release of his hot breath from your neck. He throws you off of his dick onto the leather seat of the truck. You catch the siding of the truck to stop you from knocking your head. But maybe it would be preferable if you didn’t have to be with these fuckers and knocked yourself out.

“You should sleep.” It’s almost with care that he says it. Though, from the events before, you question how a man like him could ever care about anything. “It might be a better option than being awake.”

The car door slams behind him. You jolt up minutes later when the coast is clear darting to the car door. The handle is locked when you try to open it. But of course, it could not be that easy. Sitting there, you find a certain green-eyed boy. “You’re like one’a them pastries,” Hvitserk says. “Always fuckin’ cream-filled.”

It would have been less painful to be with Ivar.

Your eyes relax from their wide, clear surprise at his presence. With another chance gone, you settle back down, pulling the small throw over your cold body and settling into a flat pillow that had seen better days. “Why are you here?”

Hvitserk holds up his gun, twisting it at you. “Sure as hell ain’t here for the pussy.”

You sit up, eyes rimmed by exhaustion, tugging your feet to your chest. It’s hard to sleep when someone like Hvitserk is there, teasing you outright for something that he knew you had no way of getting out of. Before long, the tears are spilling down your cheeks and you hate that-- that moment of desperation and overflowing emotion that leaves you a physical damsel in distress. Hvitserk stops, slipping the gun back on his belt and turning over the front of the truck to you.

“Why are you--”

“Why do you think?!” you lurch over, punching the head of his chair. You wish that you had hit him, but as quick as the mouseish thing was, Hvitserk moved to the side. “I hate you! I hate you and your stupid brothers!”

Hvitserk leans over the middle of the truck seats, letting a punch land on his jaw. He massages the area after the fact, not at all unfamiliar with the feeling of you spitting on him. It’s probably something he did deserve if he were to be honest, and he doesn’t hold it against you. If he were a woman…

“I’m not that bad,” Hvitserk says-- sounding if he’s trying to convince himself of that bit of knowledge. Your eyes well up with tears all over again when you come back to that pillow, squeezing it for emphasis.

“You’re the worst one!”

“Worst? Fuck man,” Hvitserk begins. “I’ve been nice! I didn’ do any of the shit my brother did, remember?”

“You were the first one. Time after time!” you state. An accusation, a sobbing accusation of that first time he caught you, mocked you with helping your father. Yeah, he remembers that. Hvitserk doesn’t know why he feels a flash of pity-- but when he feels it, he feels soft. He crawls over the seat.

“Hey,”

You scoot to the most impossible edge of that seat.

“Okay, except the wax.” He recounts wanting breakfast. That was a damn good breakfast after all that he did. You bring your blanket high to avoid looking at him. He debates reaching out, to peel the blanket down like he stubbornly would.

Except, this time, something holds him back.

“Thank you for your service!” says the barista. She hands him a steaming hot coffee which he takes, thwapping a packet of sugar against the cup. His phone begins to trill, and Bjorn shifts to his leather black belt.

Chief Aethelwulf, his work phone says.

“Hey chief,” Bjorn grins, pushing open the door for an older woman. She bobs in as he continues down the way to his car. Aethelwulf’s voice booms, shrilling about some fucker, ie. Ivar, with his daughter. “You found her? With the Ragnarssons?”

“A video? Never would’ve thought…”

He sets his cup down on the roof of his car and pops open the door. Ivar, what would he ever do with his baby brother, who regularly got himself into this sort of trouble. He would probably have a much easier time in negotiations. But no, of course not, things could not go so easily.

“Of course I’ll go with you.”

@tephi101​ @alicedopey​​ @supernaturalvikingwhore​ @tootie-fruity​ @titty-teetee​ @queen-see-ya-in-valhalla​ @ethereallysimple​ @deathbyarabbit​ @deathbyarabbit​ @readsalot73​ @natalie-rdr​ @lol-haha-joke​​ @lisinfleur​​ @hissouthernprincess​ @marvelousse​ @dangerous-like-a-loaded-pistol​ @vikingsmania​ @wish-i-was-a-mermaid​ @lif3snotouttogetyou​ @gruffle1​ @cris101071​ @gold-dragon-slayer​ @babypink224221​ @wonderwoman292​ @naaladareia​ @beyond-the-ashes​ @generic-fangirl​ @chinduda​ @laketaj24, @peaceisadirtyword, @ly–canthrope​ @cris101071 @daughterofthenight117​ @unassumingviking​ @ladyofsoa, @inforapound​ @winchesterwife27​ @feyrearcheron44@readsalot73 @squirrelacorngliterfarts @gold-dragon-slayer @medievalfangirl @sallydelys​  @bluearchersstuff​ @affectionrabbitt​ @whatamood13​ @notyouraveragegirl17 @igetcarriedawaywithyou​ @unacceptabletatertots​ @ivarandersen​ @stra-vage​

[stilinskishit]

Too Long (A Stiles Stilinski Fanfic) - Chapter 13

**First couple of posts have a different title but I changed it because I didn’t like it :)**

Summary: Teen Wolf with a female main character alongside Scott and Stiles? Here it is. Ramie McCall is Scott’s twin sister and best friends with both her twin and Stiles. The trio’s friendship means the world to all three of them, so what happens when there are more than friend type of feelings present?

Tags: @multi-madison​​ @purple286 @multifandxm353​ @bralessandflawless @5secondsofmoxley

A/N: Before reading this, please take the time to utilize the link below and sign some petitions and donate if you can! It’ll only take a few minutes :) Also, I start working full time again this week, so it will be harder for me to find time to write, but I will do my best! Had to add in snapback Stiles for this chapter because I just love him in a hat so much. 

https://blacklivesmatters.carrd.co/

MASTERLIST

Chapter 13 - Snapback

Season 2, Episode 6, 7 + 8

When Stiles and Ramie made it back to the woods to take their shift watching Jackson that night, they only found a sleeping Scott and Allison, and an empty prison van. Stiles was pissed, but Ramie couldn’t help but giggle at the fact that they found Scott and Allison naked together. However, with Jackson gone, Stiles decided he needed to tell his Dad the truth about everything, so they could make sure Jackson didn’t kill anymore people. However, when Scott and Stiles went to tell Noah the truth, they were only met with Jackson being at the police station, with his parents.

This led to Jackson filing a restraining order against Scott and Stiles. Ramie wasn’t sure why he left her out of the kidnapping story, but she was thankful she wasn’t in trouble with the police like her brother and best friend. Melissa was extremely mad at Scott, but Scott played if off like he was upset about their Dad never being around, so he got out of her angry wrath pretty easily. The next day at school Allison and Ramie met Scott and Stiles in the library to let them know what Lydia had translated for them from the beastiary. Ramie and Allison hid on one side of a library stack while Scott and Stiles stood on the other side, Allison handing the tablet through and empty space with no books.

Stiles and Ramie hadn’t talked about their fight the night before. However, things definitely weren’t normal between the two of them. Ramie was still upset about what Stiles had said and Stiles seemed like he wanted to say something to her, but kept quiet instead.

“What’d you tell her?” Scott asked Allison when she mentioned Lydia being confused about what she was translating.

“I told her we were part of an online gaming community that battles mythical creatures,” Allison said, not looking towards Scott and Stiles and pretending to be talking to just Ramie, who let out a snicker.

“I am part of an online gaming community that battles mythical creatures,” Stiles’ voice came from the other side of the shelf.

“Oh… great,” Allison said, sending Ramie a smirk. Stiles smiled at first then it faded when he realized everyone was holding back a laugh. Ramie rolled her eyes. Of course Allison knew about her previous crush on Stiles, but she was with Isaac now, so she wasn’t sure why Allison was still giving her looks like that.

“So does this say how to find out who’s controlling him?” Scott changed the subject.

“No, not really. But Stiles was right about the murders,” Ramie said, giving Stiles a quick glance. He exclaimed a small “yes” and clenched his fist. “It calls the kanima a weapon of vengeance. There’s a story about a South American priest who uses the kanima to execute murders in his village.”

“See? Maybe it’s not that bad,” Stiles said.

“Until the bond grew strong enough that it killed whoever he wanted it to,” Allison finished Ramie’s story from before.

“All bad, all very very bad,” Stiles shook his head. Ramie let out a small breath of air, almost a laugh and Stiles’ eyes shot to hers. He looked like he might smile for a second, but she looked away before he got the chance.

“The thing is, the kanima is actually supposed to be,” Allison paused, a teacher returning a book at the end of the stack they were in. Ramie nodded slightly when she was gone, letting Allison know it was okay to continue. “A werewolf. But it can’t be-“

“Until it resolves that in its past that manifest it,” Scott finished, reading from the tablet.

“Okay if that means Jackson could use a few thousand hours of therapy I could’ve told you that myself,” Stiles deadpanned.

“You got that right,” Ramie agreed. “Maybe it has something to do with his parents, his real parents.”

“Yeah, does anyone know what actually happened to them?” Scott asked.

“Lydia might,” Stiles said instantly, and Ramie fought the urge to roll her eyes.

“But what if she doesn’t,” Scott looked at Stiles.

“Well he doesn’t have a restraining order against me so I’ll ask him myself,” Allison said, putting the book she was pretending to look at back on the shelf.

“What should I do?” Scott asked.

“You have a makeup exam,” Ramie told him, sounding a lot like their mother. Scott looked at Stiles, who tilted his head, agreeing with Ramie.

“Promise me you���ll go,” Allison said, grabbing Scott’s hand through the stacks. Ramie watched as Stiles looked away awkwardly.

“If he does anything you run as fast as you can away from him,” Scott said protectively.

“I know how to take care of myself,” Allison told him.

“Allison if you get hurt while I’m taking care of some stupid test someone’s going to have to take care of me,” Scott said quickly. Ramie made eye contact with Stiles and pointed at him. Stiles pointed to himself and shook his head, pointing back at her. Allison snickered at them and Scott glared. “If he does anything weird, bizarre, anything-“

“Anything evil,” Stiles said suddenly, sticking his head through the hole in the stacks. Ramie put a hand on his face, shoving him back as he groaned. He flailed and nearly dropped the book he was holding, looking around to see if anyone saw him.

“She’ll be fine,” Ramie told the two boys.

…

Ramie didn’t have any classes with Scott, Stiles or Allison for the rest of the day, but Allison texted her towards the end of the day saying that she couldn’t bring her home anymore because somehow they had all gotten detention. Allison said it was a long story that she would explain later. Ramie was waiting outside for Lydia to get a ride with instead, when she saw Derek pull up to get Isaac. After thinking on it for a minute, Ramie walked over to his car, leaning in the window.

“I still need to be trained,” she told him. He raised his eyebrows. “I thought you hated me,” he asked, smirk clear on his face.

“I do,” Ramie sighed. “But now we have hunters and werewolves and kanimas and who knows what else, I need to be able to protect myself."

“Get in,” Derek said simply. Ramie huffed, just as Isaac made it to the car.

“Ramie, what are you-“

“Just get in you two, before an Argent or your brother sees,” Derek said, and the two teens listened.

Ramie spent the afternoon training with Isaac and Derek. Derek went much harder with Isaac, obviously, trying to get him better at fighting and controlling his shift. He continued hand to hand stuff with Ramie, and definitely forgot she was completely human a few times, leaving her with some intense scrapes and bruises. Derek was in the middle of telling her for the third time that they should take a break when they heard yelling from a distance.

“Derek!” Ramie recognized the voice as her brother. She looked around for something to wipe off her bloody fists, but Scott, Stiles and Erica came into view too soon. Scott was running and carrying Erica, who looked like she was seizing, and Stiles was following close behind. Ramie watched as Stiles and Scott exchanged a glance when they noticed her there. Derek ran forward, grabbing Erica from Scott’s arms.

“What the hell happened?” he asked, placing Erica on the ground.

“Jackson,” Scott said, stepping behind Erica to hold her up.

“Is she dying?” Isaac asked, moving closer.

“She might,” Derek said grabbing her arm. “Which is why this is gonna hurt.”

Derek grabbed Erica’s arm, breaking it to trigger the healing process. He then sunk his claws into her arm, to get the kanima venom out. Erica screamed and Ramie stepped back, clinging to Isaac’s arm. After a minute, Erica passed out. Derek said she was okay, just exhausted from what her body went through. He laid her on the couch and told Isaac to keep an eye on her. Scott, Stiles and Ramie followed Derek into a corner away from the other two.

“So you know who it is,” Scott said to Derek.

“Jackson.”

“I’m gonna help you stop him, as part of your pack.” Scott said. “If you want me in, fine, but we’re doing this my way. He won’t die. We’ll catch him, not kill him.”

“Fine,” Derek sighed. Scott was quiet for a minute, then spoke up again.

“And whatever it is you’re doing here with my sister, stop.” Ramie went to speak but Derek cut her off.

“You’re her brother, not her father.”

“Yeah well their father is a piece of shit so,” Stiles butted in, stepping closer to Derek.

“Both of you relax,” Ramie said, glaring at Scott and Stiles. “Derek has been helping me for months now, since you got turned Scott. He’s been teaching me how to fight, how to defend myself. I can’t be caught in the middle of all of this completely helpless. I came to him and asked for help. And Isaac has nowhere else to be, so if I want to see him I have to come here anyways.”

Scott and Stiles started talking at the same time.

“I’m not letting you try to fight against anyone.”

“You’re still dating him?” Ramie held up a hand to silence them both.

“You can’t always protect me Scott, there are going to be times where I need to be able to fend for myself. And I’d rather know how to defend myself so I can at least have a fighting chance,” she said, arms crossed over her chest. She pointed at Stiles “And you need to relax about Isaac. If Scott can sit here and tell Derek he’ll be part of his pack then I can date Issac. I don’t know why it matters so much to you anyways. Go worry about Lydia.”

Ramie turned and walked back over to Issac before anyone could say anything more.

…

Later that night, Ramie found herself tagging along with Scott to go see Deaton’s to try and figure out how they were going to trap Jackson without killing him. Stiles had called Scott and told them that his Dad had figured out that all of the kanima’s victims were the same age and all in Harris’ class when they were in high school. He couldn’t yet figure out where Isaac’s dad came into the mix, but they did find out that Isaac’s brother, who had died in combat, would’ve been the same age as the rest of the victims if he was still alive. But they still couldn’t figure out who was controlling Jackson.

“What’s he doing here?” Scott nodded his head towards Isaac as Derek walked through the front door of the vet clinic. Isaac rolled his eyes and grabbed Ramie’s waist, placing a kiss on the top of her head.

“I need him,” Derek said, walking past Scott.

“I don’t trust him,” Scott said plainly. Ramie glared at her brother.

“Yeah well, he doesn’t trust you either,” Isaac said, playing off the fact that Scott was acting like he wasn’t right there.

“You know what, Derek doesn’t care,” Derek looked between the two boys. Ramie scoffed and leaned onto Isaac’s side, who had sat down on Deaton’s desk, an arm wrapping lazily around her waist. “Now where’s the vet, is he going to help us or not?”

“That depends,” Deaton said from the doorway. “Jackson, are we going to kill him, or save him?”

“Kill him,”  Derek said, at the same time Scott said, “Save him.”

“Save him,” Scott said again, glaring at Derek. Derek rolled his eyes, following Deaton further into the clinic. Scott, Ramie and Isaac followed, gathering around the examination table as Deaton placed a wooden box on top of it, filled with small jars with various symbols on the lids. Isaac reached his hand out to grab at one of them, but Derek grabbed his wrist before he had the chance.

“Watch what you touch,” Derek told him, giving the younger boy an annoyed look. Scott scoffed next to Ramie and she elbowed him in the ribs.

“So,” Isaac leaned down, putting his elbows on the table and looking up a Deaton. “What are you, some kind of witch?”

“No, I’m a veterinarian,” Deaton said simply. Isaac nodded curtly and stepped back. Ramie sat herself up on the counter behind the table and Isaac leaned next to her, his arm resting on her thigh as Deaton continued. “I don’t see anything here that’s going to be an effective defense against a paralytic toxin.”

“We’re open to suggestions,” Derek said.

“What about an effective offense,” Isaac suggested, but Derek cut him off quickly, not looking back towards his beta.

“We already tried, I nearly took his head off, and Argent emptied an entire clip into it. This thing just gets back up.”

“Has it shown any weaknesses?” Deaton asked.

“It can’t swim,” Ramie said, remembering what Stiles had told her about he and Derek’s incident in the pool with the kanima. “But Jackson is the captain of the swim team.”

“Essentially you’re trying to catch two people,” Deaton said. “A puppet, and a puppeteer. One killed the husband, but the other had to take care of the wife, do we know why?”

“I don’t think Jackson could do it,” Scott said after a second of silence. “His mother died pregnant too. I think he couldn’t let the same thing happen to someone else.”

“How do you know it’s not part of the rules,” Isaac asked, looking up from his hand, which had been absentmindedly drawing shapes on Ramie’s thigh. “The kanima kills murders. If Jackson killed the wife the baby would’ve died too.”

“Does that mean your father was a murder?” Scott asked, turning back to look at Isaac, who shrugged.

“Wouldn’t surprise me if he was.”

“Hold on, the book says they’re bonded, right?” Deaton cut in. “What if the fear of water doesn’t come from Jackson, but comes from whoever is controlling him? What if something that affects the kanima also affects it’s master?”

“Meaning what,” Isaac deadpanned.

“Meaning we can catch them,” Ramie said, and Deaton nodded. “Both of them.”

…

Deaton helped them come up with a plan that night, which they relayed to everyone else involved by the next day. They planned on using ketamine to take out Jackson at the rave that everyone was going to. Stiles and Ramie, being the only humans in the group, were to spread mountain ash around the whole club that the rave was at, so that not only would Jackson be trapped inside, but they would also trap whoever was controlling it.

“How did you even get tickets to this thing,” Ramie asked as she, Scott and Stiles pulled into the rave the next night.

“Your psychotic boyfriend beat some kids up for them,” Stiles mumbled. He was unusually quiet the whole ride there.

“Not very nice of you to call him psychotic when he got the tickets for you,” Ramie shot back. She heard Stiles huff from the front seat before getting out of the car. Scott suddenly took off into the club, saying something about Allison, leaving Stiles and Ramie alone.

“This plan sucks,” Stiles sighed, throwing the bags of mountain ash at the ground angrily.  Ramie was quiet for a minute, leaning against the jeep.

“Are you okay?” she asked, looking towards Stiles, who pulled the snapback off his head, rubbing a hand over his buzzcut before placing it back on, backwards like before. Ramie thought about how if she still had a crush on Stiles, the snapback would’ve been extremely attractive. She also thought that her acknowledging that it was extremely attractive could be a slight problem. She shook her head, trying to clear her mind.

“I’m fine,” Stiles huffed, picking up the bags off the ground. “Let’s just do this.”

Ramie walked next to Stiles as he let the mountain ash out of his hand slowly, making a trail behind them. He still hadn’t said another word since she asked him if he was okay.

“Sti, come on,” Ramie said, not being able to take his silence any longer. “Most of the time I have to beg you to stop talking and now I feel like I have to beg you to say anything. What’s going on?”

Stiles let out a sigh, and Ramie continued.

“You’re my best friend Stiles, you can tell me.” Stiles glanced up at her, his golden brown eyes meeting hers. She could see sadness in his eyes.

“My Dad got fired,” he said after a second. Ramie’s eyes widened.

“Wh- why? Stiles, why didn’t you say anything?” Ramie stammered, taken aback.

“Doesn’t look good for the Sheriff’s son to have a restraining order against him. And there’s too much is going on, I didn’t want to burden anyone right now,” he shrugged, not looking at her. She stopped walking and grabbed his arm so he would stop as well.

“Mieczyslaw Stilinski look at me right now,” Ramie said sternly. Stiles stopped, looking at her after a second. “You are never a burden to me. I always want to hear what you have to say.”

Stiles’ eyes softened. Ramie could swear it almost looked like he was about to cry. He looked away, looking down at the mountain ash in his hand.

“Raim,” he said quietly. “We have a problem.”

Ramie looked down at the mountain ash in his hand, and the distance they had left. There was no way they could make it.

“Remember what Deaton told us?” Ramie said after a minute.  “When he gave us the mountain ash he said we have to believe it was going to work.”

“It’s not going to work, there’s not enough,” Stiles stammered, his hands beginning to shake.

“Hey, Stiles,” Ramie grabbed his hands, holding them steady. His eyes met hers. “You can do this. You always make things work, Sti. You can do this.”

Stiles nodded, shakily, not taking his eyes off hers. She slowly dropped his hands, realizing she was still holding them.

“Just look at me,” she said, beginning to walk again. “I know you can do this. You’re the smartest person I know Stiles. You’ll make this work.”

She looked down for a second, and Stiles did too. They had made it back to where they started, the mountain ash making a full circle around the club.

“I did it,” Stiles said slowly, looking up at Ramie.

“You did it!” She yelled. Stiles jumped forward, wrapping his arms around her in a hug.

“We did it!” He said, spinning her around in a circle. They both laughed, and Stiles set her down slowly, his arms still wrapped around her.

“We should uh,” Stiles stuttered, dropping his arms. “Go check on things inside.”

Ramie nodded and followed after the boy in the flannel, her cheeks feeling hot.

…

Ramie followed Stiles though the back entrance to the club, down a hall to the room where Isaac and Erica were supposed to be keeping Jackson. Stiles pushed opened the door and Erica lunged towards them, Stiles jumping back and nearly taking out Ramie.

“Woah woah woah, it’s just us!” Stiles put his hands up, and Erica took a step back. “Freaks.” Stiles mumbled as they entered the room and Ramie followed, closing the door behind them. Jackson was sitting on a chair in the middle of the room, looking like he was out cold.

“Is he okay?” Ramie asked as Isaac stepped towards Jackson.

“Well, let’s find out,” Isaac held up his hand, putting out his claws. He reached towards him, but before he could get close Jackson, eyes still closed, grabbed Isaac’s arm, twisting it in a way that definitely caused something to break. Ramie moved forward to grab him but Stiles grabbed her wrist, pulling her back. Isaac yanked his arm away from Jackson, groaning and leaning against the wall, holding his wrist. Ramie went over to him, wincing at the sight of his mangled arm.

“Alright, no one does anything like that again,” Stiles pointed at Erica and Isaac as the latter snapped his own arm back into place, groaning as it healed.

“The ketamine was supposed to put him out,” Isaac groaned as Ramie rubbed his back.

“Yeah well apparently this is all we’re going to get,” Stiles pointed towards Jackson.

“So let’s just hope whoever is controlling him showed up tonight,” Ramie added. Stiles looked over at her with Isaac, looking slightly concerned for a second. Before anyone could say anything else, a voice came from Jackson. It wasn’t his normal voice, it sounded almost robotic.

“I’m here,” he said, his eyes now open. “I’m right here with you.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes at Jackson, then looked at everyone else, who was just as lost as he was. He slowly stepped forward, squatting down in front of him.

“Stiles, be careful,” Ramie said, stepping behind him. Stiles held up a hand, cutting her off.

“Jackson is that you?”

“Us, we’re all here,” Jackson said simply. Stiles turned, looking at Ramie, who shrugged, at a loss.

“Are you the one killing people?” Stiles asked.

“We are the ones killing murderers,” Jackson said back.

“So all the people you’ve killed so far,” Ramie started.

“They deserved it,” Jackson cut her off.

“We’ve got a little rule book that says you only go after murderers,” Stiles said.

“Anything can break if enough pressure’s applied,” Jackson deadpanned.

“A fucking riddle?” Isaac said from behind them. Ramie and Stiles shushed him at the same time, and he held his hands up defensively.

“So all the people you killed are murderers,” Ramie clarified.

“All,” Jackson’s robotic voice said. “Each. Every. One.”

“Who did they murder?” Stiles asked.

“Me, they murdered me,” Jackson said, his hand slowly moving. Ramie noticed immediately.

“Stiles,” she grabbed his shoulder, pulling him back, away from Jackson.

“Okay, alright more ketamine, the man needs ketamine, come on,” Stiles stammered.

“We don’t have any more,” Isaac said, holding up the empty vial. Stiles eyes closed slowly, hanging his head.

“You used the whole bottle?” He turned his head to Isaac, who raised his shoulders sheepishly. Ramie hit both of them on the arms, as Jackson stood up slowly, then screeched at them.

“Okay, out, everybody out,” Stiles pushed Ramie towards the door, all of them running out it. Isaac slammed it shut, leaning against it with Stiles and Erica. “Find something to put in front of the door.”

Ramie turned to look for something, but it was too late. Jackson, or kanima Jackson burst straight through the wall, running away from them. Stiles took off after him, Ramie close behind. They lost him somewhere along the way as he jumped up into the ceiling, but Stiles continued to run outside, to see if he had made it out there somehow. As they made it out there Derek ran up, meeting them on the other side of the mountain ash.

“Hey, so we kind of lost Jackson but,” Stiles stopped as Isaac and Erica walked out of the club, unable to pass the line of mountain ash. “Ohmygod it’s working! We did it!”

Ramie grinned at Stiles for a second, until Derek grabbed his arm.

“Scott,” Derek murmured.

“Nope, I’m Stiles,” Stiles grinned.

“Break it,” Derek pointed to the mountain ash, ignoring Stiles’ joke.

“What, no!” Stiles exclaimed.

“Scotts dying!” Derek nearly yelled.

“What? How do you know that?” Ramie asked, stepping towards Derek.

“Ohmygod, Ramie, I just know, break it,” Derek yelled. Stiles reached down, brushing a section of the mountain ash away and Derek took off into the club, leaving Ramie and Stiles confused on the sidewalk.

[erintoknow]

everything breaks in me

Spiraling - A Fallen Hero: Rebirth Fan-fiction

Well, you know what they say; no plan survives contact with the enemy intact. [Wolf] Originally: [Everything Breaks In Me]

[Read on AO3]

You breathe a sigh of relief as Herald shuts the break room door behind him. He’s not that young, but just the air he has around him makes you feel decrepit by comparison. To say nothing of the stars in his eyes, plain to see in every two sentence exchange with the kid. Try not to think about the limp in his gait, his preference to hover over walking, the night at the Gala.

Damnit. How are you going to take them down for good if a broken leg is enough to make you feel like shit? These people aren’t your friends or allies. They’ll turn on you the second they know the truth. That was true before Puppetmaster hit the papers, and it’s only become more true now that Ghost is making regular headlines.

Something like you can’t have allies, never mind friends.

You can’t afford to forget that.

Never again.

You won’t go back.

Glance around the break room, no point trying to raid the fridge while you wait for Ortega. You need time to figure out how you’ll approach that conversation. Things have been… strange for months. Just thinking about her is enough to bring on the nausea. How can she not see you for what you are? How is she not repulsed?

You run your hands through your hair. Maybe you can help yourself to some hot chocolate. Get your hands something to do before you dig a hole in your skin. You drift over to the coffee collection, flip a finger through the bags looking for the cocoa.

It would be easier if you could just cut contact with Ortega completely. Just fucking ghost the fuck out of Julia. But, one, that would just get Ortega hounding your heels and two, would lose you access to the Rangers. Maybe if you hadn’t kissed her in the hospital? The two of you have never actually discussed that night, despite your promise. You’re terrified to bring it up. A moment of weakness you couldn’t afford.

You’ve been having a lot of those lately.

Well, you know what they say; no plan survives contact with the enemy intact.

You’ve just finished pouring yourself a mug of hot water and cocoa powder when the door opens. “So.” Chen announces as he steps into the break room, leaving the door open behind him. “You’re back.”

You settle against the window pane, cross your legs at the knee as you lean back. Make it clear you’re not about to leave. “I th–thought we already got past this part, Chen.” You hold the mug tight to your chest, one hand spinning the little red stirrer stick round and round.

You pick up a burst of frustration, but Chen’s face betrays none of it. “You were very insistent on being retired. And yet,” Chen stoops down to search through the refrigerator. “And yet, here you are again.”

You take a sip, ignoring the burn on your tongue. “Free country, Chen,” you lie. “You’re the – the Marshal, if really you want me out you could just have me barred from the building.” Maybe you’re playing your hand a little strong here but you can’t keep having this conversation with Chen. It’s exhausting.

He pulls out a squeeze bottle and shuts the fridge door as he stands up. “I could,” Chen concedes, and for a moment your heartbeat quickens. Is he seriously going to call your bluff and have you tossed out? Chen sighs, rubbing his nose. “But I won’t. You aren’t a threat.”

You blink. “I uh – I think that might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Chen’s mouth twitches in the ghost of a smile. “You aren’t a threat yet.”

“There we go.”

“You haven’t tried to ‘improve’ the coffee machine, for example.”

You close your eyes and rest your head back against the glass. “Jesus Christ. Are you all still holding that against me?”

You hear Chen sigh, he sounds exhausted with you. “Is that really what you think this is about?”

You narrow your eyes at him, staring down from across the room. “Then explain to me, Chen. What is this about then?”

Chen meets your glare head-on and you have to will yourself not to break eye-contact. “I meant what I said before. I’m glad you aren’t dead.”

There’s a ‘but’ in there somewhere...

“But–”

Yeah, there we go.

“It doesn’t change the reality, that for the rest of us, you did die. You were dead for seven years Becker. And now you think you can just, what?” Chen’s frown deepens. “Come back like nothing happened?”

Something between nausea and fury bubbles up in your throat and it is all you can do not to throw your mug across the room at him. “You have no fucking idea what I went through Chen! So back the fuck off!”

The silence stretches into seconds, then a minute, then “It was that bad, huh?”

Fucking hell piss goddamnit the bastard got you again.

“I’m not fucking tell you anything.” You clench your jaw, don’t look at him. Don’t look at his stupid face. Don’t peek at his stupid trap thoughts.

“You should tell somebody.”

You glare into your mug of hot chocolate. “Why do you even give a damn Chen.” If you had heat vision, the cup would be boiling.

“The way I see it, Becker, I’m wondering the same thing about you. Ever since you started coming by again you keep fixing little things, giving Ortega advice...,” Chen takes a pull from his squeeze bottle. “You act like you hate it, but no one’s forcing you to give Herald lessons. Argent’s the only person you’ve really avoided.”

“I just–” you hiss, frustrated to be on the back-foot once again. “If – if Ortega’s going to–to–to keep calling me over, I might as well make myself useful.”

Chen is staring straight at you and you have to hold your mug with both hands to keep them from shaking. “You asked me before, about choosing between two futures. If you want to retire Ariadne, then retire. Don’t let Ortega drag you into a half-life. That’s not fair to either of you.”

You tighten your grip on the mug, grind your teeth. “But why do you care?”

“You mean besides Ortega being my friend?” Chen’s voice drops as he talks. “Because I don’t understand why you do.”

“I–I–I just…” Are you sick? Mad? Both? What is Chen’s fucking deal? You need to go on the offensive again before he drives you from the building. “Look.” You raise a hand towards him, still not looking in his direction. “It’s obvious you guys are in trouble. I… I don’t want the Rangers to fall apart.”

Is that the truth or a lie? You’re not sure.

“Kind of you.” Chen’s voice is deadpan. “I think I know more about teamwork than you do.”

“Just – I might not have joined but – but that doesn’t mean we didn’t all make a good team.”

A wave of want and nostalgia seizes your heart.

If you could only go back to how things were before. Anathema and you pranking Steel, giving Sentinel a thumbs up. Talking with Sunstream about her garden. The nights with Ortega, her watching you at Derby games, the celebratory dinners or the consolatory milkshakes. Making sure Ortega got home safe after a hard fight. Fixing her hair for her. Helping to stitch her back up until the medics could come. Being her sounding board as she butted heads with PR and city officials. So many other little things you’re sure you’ve forgotten…

It’s all gone now. You’ll never get it back.

A lie. A dream.

And when you woke up–

“I wish you would have.” Chen says, pulling you out of your reverie.

Wait.

“What? J-joined?” Seriously?

“Yes, I wish you had.” When you look at Chen, he’s no longer staring you down, instead looking past you, out the window.

“I… I wouldn’t do a background check, you know that.”

He looks back to you and now it’s your turn to look out the window. “And you wonder why I didn’t trust you.”

“Not – not everyone is tight with the U.S. Government, you know.” You have to take a breath, scratch your fingers against the sides of the mug. “That doesn’t mean they’re bad.”

“The chances increase.”

You bite your lip a little too hard and wince at the pain. From the very beginning Chen has been trying to push you out. Reminding you that you don’t belong. Can’t belong. But… Chen has always been something of an outsider, like you. Why can’t he understand? “But they… they might have enemies.”

Chen takes a long drink from his squeeze bottle. Finally, he says “I’m sorry.”

You look up from your mug. “You’re… you’re sorry?” You choke back a laugh. “For what?”

There’s a… you can’t read the expression on his face. Something you don’t think you’ve seen before on his face. Regret? “For a lot of things,” He says. “I…”

“W-what?”

“I went looking for you.”

You manage to put the mug down on the table before you can drop it. He can’t – He can’t really mean? But? Why? What did he? But then? You cough, run a hand down your leg, pressing familiar patterns. “Didn’t they tell you I was dead?”

“Yes.” Steel nods. “I had a bad feeling. Something didn’t add up.” He shakes his head. You don’t think you’ve seen him this tense, this nervous in a long, long time. “They tried to tell me it was trauma from whatever the hell Heartbreak was.”

“An experiment, or…” you pull your arms tight against yourself. This is dangerous territory. “That’s my guess anyway.”

Steel doesn’t look directly at you, but his frown intensifies, eyebrows dip down. “You think someone… did that on purpose?”

“Uh – maybe not on… purpose.” You hug yourself tight, fall back against the wall again. “But they… they had been kept somewhere. There was…” You have to swallow down the bile. “Still equipment attached. Med-medical.”

“Huh. Interesting.” If Steel notices that you’re literally trying to hold yourself together, he doesn’t comment.

You furrow your brows, clinging to the twinge of irritation at being ignored. Better that then– “What? It’s interesting there’s something more than just a screwed up boost?”

Steel finally looks back at you. His frown doesn’t let up. “There’s always something more to everything in this city. You know that. It’s just not smiled on to look into it.”

“You did anyway.”

“I needed answers.”

“You’ve always been nosey.”

“Your words, not mine.”

You take a breath. “Well? Did you find any?” It’s like peering over the edge of a window. Testing the air.

“I… didn’t find you.” He glances away from your face, towards the break room door.

“So you found something then.”

“Bits and pieces.” He admits and your heart freezes. “Who’s Chelsea?” Steel watches you, and you have to struggle to keep your face blank. Swallow down the burst of panic. The sudden urge to run, to jump.

“Nobody important,” you lie. Even as the words leave your mouth you can tell he doesn’t believe you. That he knows that you know he doesn’t believe you. You close your eyes. “Was that really it? The best you could do? Some old ghost?”

“There was more, a lot of dead ends.” Chen shakes his head. “Enough that I stopped looking.”

That gets you to look at him again and he won’t meet your eyes. “What? Why?” A bitter twinge in your stomach churns at your throat. “I thought you didn’t like mysteries?”

“I don’t. But… I needed to put the team first.”

You can feel the frustration bubbling again. The team first. The team you weren’t a part of because of a stupid piece of paper. The team he just told you he wished you joined. “Fuck that noise.” You hiss. “What aren’t you saying?”

“Plenty.” Steel steps away from the table, back towards the door. “Maybe you should ask yourself why.”

“Hún dàn.”

Chen’s eyebrows shoot straight up, and then his mouth quirks to the side in amusement. “Your pronunciation could use some work.”

“Fuck you.”

“If you want to know so badly, Becker, just read it from my mind.” He only breaks eye contact with you to put his drink back in the fridge.

“I’ve told you it doesn’t work like that.”

“And I’ve told you, I don’t believe you.”

“Fuck you, Steel.” Pick up your mug again and take a sip. You make a face and curse. It’s gone cold.

He gives you one last look back as he leaves the room. Chen’s face is a careful blank. “If I see Ortega I’ll be sure to tell her you’re here.”

You don’t have to wait long before Ortega shows her face. Sauntering through the door, cool as anything just as you’re pulling your mug out of the microwave. “So. I won’t even ask what you two talked about.”

“It’s just Chen. Being an asshole.” You huff, staring her down, clutching your cocoa to your shawl.

“Sure. Chen was the problem.” There’s a quiet, knowing smile on her face and it makes your heart hurt. She knows this song and dance just as well as you do. “I’m sure that’s it.”

“W–whatever. Believe me or don’t.”

“Hey, I’m pretty much done for today so…” She jerks her thumb to the door. “What do you say we get out of here?”

You groan. “God, yes.”

–––

The Los Diablos beach is more stone than sand. One of the many lasting scars of the disaster that killed Los Angeles, a city you’ve only seen in photographs and old movies. When you first came here over a decade ago, the bay still had the metal skeletons of ruined buildings rising out of the sea. It looks like they’ve finally cleared them all out now.

“Are you okay?” It’s Ortega’s fault you’re out here. You don’t know what to make of that. The ocean carries a cool salt breeze. In the fall air, it’s almost cold.

You don’t understand, don’t understand your own body’s reaction to her. How all your higher reasoning seems to go out the window around her. Is what is was like before? Were you always this bad around Ortega or is this a new development? So many frayed, half-forgotten memories, and which ones are even real rather than desperate dreams?

You can’t afford to be like this, can’t afford to lose control.

You lost control and broke Herald’s leg. Lost control and didn’t properly finish Charge off. Lost control and got shown up by Argent. You’re going to fall prey to the same problems you’ve watched countless other villains fall to. At this rate you won’t even last long enough to register as a blip in the steamroller the Directive has poised to flattened all dissenters

Fuck.

“Ari!” Ortega snaps her fingers and the sound makes you jerk your head towards her, startled out of your brooding. “Are you okay?” She’s watching you, brows knit in worry, and you feel sick.

You wince, “I’m fine,” shoot a glance in her direction, “really.”

“Uh-huh. Liar.” She shifts position, leaning against the guard rail, moves a little closer to you. “What are you thinking about so hard?” The sun’s right in her face, lighting her up. Is she frowning or squinting, you’re not sure.

You pull your head away from her, stare out across the water. “I don’t know.” You run your hands up your arms, even under all the fabric you can make out the little bumps and divots from the scars.

“You don’t know?” Ortega taps you on the shoulder with the back of her hand. A fleeting touch but it makes your heart jump.

“W-would you rather I lied?” You stretch your face into a smile.

Ortega doesn’t have an answer for that. Stares out over the water. You follow her gaze. The way the waves crest and break against the rocks. It wasn’t that long ago you were out there. Water filling through a puncture in your suit. Air supply compromised. Could have drowned then. You didn’t.

But you could have.

“It’s okay.” Ortega’s hand presses into your shoulder and you freeze up. “It’s over. We’re still here.”

“What?” You breathe out.

“The Nano-surge?” Ortega points across the bay with her other hand. The crest of land, still oddly clear of anything but grass and shrubs. “Ten years this year. We just passed the anniversary. It’s been in the news a lot.”

You blink, try to relax. “Oh.” Swallow down the tightness in your throat.

Truthfully, you haven’t paid much attention unless it concerns you or a future target. It takes less effort than you’d like to get sucked back there. To hear Elysie screaming. The shifting of the ground under everyone’s feet as it literally dissolved into a silver dust. And now you carry a piece of it with you. A sword to point at your enemies, at the entire world.

“Oh…” You try to clear your throat, “Can you believe it?”

That gets a laugh from her. She takes her hand from your shoulder and rubs the sleeve of her arm, the one you know must still have patches of mismatched skin where the grafts didn’t take correctly. “I really thought that was it for me…”

Something in your chest twists and you have to rub at your eye. “I’m glad I saved you back then.” You say, and to your surprise find it’s still true.

“Yeah, me too.”

“I still get nosebleeds sometimes.” You admit, surprising yourself. “Not as often… but ever since then.”

“Yeah?” Ortega moves closer to you, shoulders touching. So close. Too close. “Have you ever thought to see a doctor about it?”

“Ortega, please,” you arch an eyebrow, the smile on your face turning genuine. “Have you met me?”

“Ah-hah, the real reason you retired: fear of doctors.”

You laugh. “You’ve found me out.” Without really thinking about it you press your shoulder back against hers. Enjoy the warmth of the falling sun against the cool of the salt air. “You ought to think about it too.”

“What? Retire?”

“There’s plenty of other people that could save the world, you know.” You bite your lip. “It doesn’t have to be you.” You wish she’d stop. Let it go. Don’t.. don’t put herself in danger like that again.

“Hah. Well.” Ortega straightens up, pulling away from you. “I think saving the entire world might be beyond my pay grade…” She steals a glance at you from the corner of her eye. “I’ll be happy if I can just save people.”

You turn away from her, shift down on the railing. “What about stopping them?” You can feel the railing shift as she turns to you but you don’t look back.

“You know there’s only one I care about.”

“Really.”

“Well, alright.” She sighs. “There’s Hollow Ground and then there’s Ghost.”

“Banshee.” You correct her.

She blinks. “They changed their name again?”

Oh.

Shit.

You shrug, try to play it off like it was nothing and steal a glance at her. “That’s what the paper said this morning.” You force a laugh, smiling at the ocean. Have to play this cool. “Ghost was kind of stupid name anyway, wasn’t it?”

“Whatever they go by,” You can feel Ortega’s eyes on the side of your face. “They need to be stopped.”

“But–” you swallow the words in your throat, try again, “but why does it need to be you?”

Ortega’s gaze is still boring a hole through you. “They made it personal.”

You close your eyes, try not to think about her looking at you. “It doesn’t – it doesn’t have to be. There’s other heroes, and – and – and it didn’t go well for you the last time.” You grip the railing tight, rub your hands against the metal. “I worry about you.”

“You don’t need to.” You open your eyes and she’s smiling at you, confident, and there’s something about her eyes, wrinkles casting a shadow in the sun. Whatever seven years might have done to Ortega, it hasn’t damaged her ability to look stunning in the spotlight.

You collapse against the railing, chin on metal. “I keep trying to… to tell myself, and it hasn’t helped.”

“You don’t have to protect me,” she laughs. “When did you get to be such a mom?”

You groan, a sound that turns into more an anguished noise than you had intended. “You don’t – you don’t get it.”

Everything she’s ever worked for: a lie. A lie you need to destroy, burn down to the ground. Yourself included. What would she do if you came clean right now? Right here? Zap you and turn you back in? Kill you? If you really believed she’d actually kill you, maybe you’d tell her. Let her do the thing you keep chickening out of. Take the choice out of your hands.

“You keep saying I don’t get it, Ari.” Ortega’s voice dips, hurt? Serious? “So, explain. Talk to me. Make me get it. Please.” Ortega’s voice by your ear is too much. You’ve got to… you’ve got to move. Get out. If only it was as simple as running away.

You test the railing in your hand. “W-why don’t we, uh, why don’t we walk?” You glance behind you, then up and down the promenade. No obvious witnesses you can detect. You vault over the railing and pick your way down across the rocks of the jetty. Behind you, the sounds of Ortega scrabbling over the railing after you.

“Not planning on a swim, I hope.” Ortega picks her way from stone to stone after you.

You shake your head, glance back while you let her catch up. “I don’t swim,” not in this body, “I– I just wanted privacy.”

Ortega looks at you, not quite smiling, not quite frowning. The wind pulls at your hair, clothes. “Not much more private than this, ‘less you count the seagulls.”

You take a breath, try to steady yourself. “Look Ortega, I – I…”

You wilt, look away. This isn’t the time. Sooner or later you’ll have to give up this delusion but you can’t bring yourself to jump just yet. Just… Just a little longer. One more day even. “I have my reasons. I’m sorry. I– I can’t talk about it.”

Ortega watches as you carefully balance yourself from one rock to the next, the wind blowing your shawl around your body in waves that mimic the sea. “Not ever?”

You wince. “N-n-not yet.”

“So… someday then?”

You grit your teeth, hop rocks, teeter for a second. “D-don’t push your luck, Ortega.”

She hops to a rock next to you, flashes you a smile. “And why not?”

“One day you’ll…” You pause to pull your shawl tighter against yourself. “You’ll get more than you can handle.”

“You’d have to start talking to me first.” Ortega sounds tired as she says it, and something in your heart or your gut or both twists at the tone of her voice.

“I’m– I’m talking.” You hold your shawl shut tight, wrapped around you.

She catches your eye, tries on a smile. “It’s a start.” She holds out a hand towards you. “Well. Since we’re here, and we’re talking, I suppose I should tell you…”

You look at her hand, then up at her face, the smug smile slowly starting to grow there. “What?”

“I’d really like to kiss you.”

You blink. “Oh.”

“What?” She raises an eyebrow. “Am I not sexy enough without 36 stitches and having lost a pint of blood first?”

You can feel the heat in your face. “Th–th–that’s not it! I mean…” A jumble of words gets caught in your throat and for a moment you open your mouth and no sound comes out.

Ortega laughs, “You okay there, Ari?”

You take a breath, glare at her. “Don’t make me push you.”

She puts a hand to her chest in mock shock. “My Ari?” –You heart skips a beat– “Never.” She offers her hand, shaking it. “Well?”

A dozen different alarm bells are screaming in your head in all the ways this is even worse an idea than last time. “F-f-f-fine.” You take her hand, letting your shawl flap loose in the breeze again. And you’ve jumped the ledge. “M-maybe I’d.. I’d like that.”

Ortega laughs, “Ariadne!” You could cry at the way she says your name if you weren’t already straining to hold yourself together. “I’m not going to shoot you.” She hops onto your rock.

“Just. Shut up.” You hiss, face burning. You grab her shoulders as she pushes against you. To steady her or yourself? Both?

It’s a soft inhalation of breath and then warmth against you, every point of contact a spark demanding your attention. Hand on your back, neck, lips too close to yours. You cling to her as it gets harder to stand.

Swallow back panic. Swallow back memories of white. You are stronger than it now. You have to be. What was the point of all this otherwise? “If… If you drop me–”

She pulls you in, barely audible over the city and the waves. “I won’t. Never.”

[moonlightandlilacs]

A Little Puppet Dance - Ch. 2

A The Cabin in the Woods fanfiction.

Ch. 1 / Also on AO3

Dana and Marty are apart, but they're determined to find each other again. The zombies in the way are in for a surprise if they think the humans are going to be stopped.

OooOooOooOooO (After the Window: Dana)

Dana watched from her position on the floor, frozen in fear and shock, as her friend was hauled out the window.  She could hear him screaming outside, and there were some loud thuds, but still she couldn’t bring herself to move.  Images of the horrible monster that had been beyond the front door when she had opened it were fresh in her mind, and the phantom weight of Jules’s head in her hands nearly brought her to tears.  Moving just seemed like a route to more pieces of her soul being carved away as she watched her friends die at the hands of creatures that shouldn’t even exist in the real world.  It was the sound of her name echoing through the woods that finally broke her free of her terror-induced trance, and she quickly lunged to her feet.

“Marty!” She called, as though he would come popping back through yelling “sike!”  Of course, there was no response, and she geared herself up.  “This is incredibly dumb,” she mumbled in admonition, but there was way around it; she had to try to save Marty.  Looking around the room for an acceptable weapon, her eyes lit upon Marty’s heavy-duty travel mug.  Or rather, Marty’s extra-heavy-duty bong masquerading as a travel mug.

“Good enough,” she asserted, and she quickly snatched it up and hooked it to her belt.  Another glance out the shattered window into the abyss made her hesitate, but she gave herself a firm shake.  “This isn’t going to get any less dumb by talking to yourself, Dana.  Time to go.”  And with that, she backed up and then leapt out the window, hitting the ground and rolling forward with the impact before standing.

The yelling had stopped, and there was no blood trail to follow (she reminded herself to be deeply grateful for that, even if it made things harder now), so she wasn’t really sure where to go.  It was too dark to be sure, but she thought there might be a drag trail in the dirt and leaves.  Since she had no better clues to go on, she started off in that direction at a careful walk, eyes flicking rapidly between the faint trail and the trees around her.  Each step, she expected another zombie to come leaping out of the darkness at her, but there was too much at stake for Dana to let that stop her.

“Marty, you fucking better be alive when I find you.”  As if in answer, the ground abruptly rolled under her feet, throwing her to the ground in a heap of twisted limbs and swearing.  Her ankle throbbed in protest at the abuse, but she forced herself to her feet.  As she limped on, she noticed a mist beginning to rise, seemingly out of nowhere.  She slowed even further to listen, and she quickly identified a hissing noise, one that she remembered from those terrifying and confusing moments in Marty’s room.

‘Gas,’ she thought to herself.  ‘They’re still watching you, whoever they are.’  Thinking quickly, she stumbled to a halt as though affected, holding her breath as surreptitiously as possible, until she allowed herself to collapse.  She fell, landing as far away from the gas spouts as she could manage.  She pressed her face into the moss and breathed shallowly, using it to filter her air until she eventually heard the hissing stop.  ‘Bingo.’

Opting for caution, she waited a few more minutes before she got up, hoping against hope that the mysterious they had stopped watching her.  When the gas didn’t start up again, she headed off.  She had lost the faint trail, but she was more sure than ever that she was on the right track.  “Hold on, Marty.  I’m coming.”

OooOooOooOooO (After the Window: Marty)

Marty was not having a good day.  He’d been repeatedly dismissed in his theories, despite the fact that most of them had turned out to be relevant, which he would be more smug about if things weren’t going to shit quite so quickly.   His friend had been decapitated, and now there was some weird conspiracy with cameras, knockout gas, and subliminal messaging.  Oh, yeah, and he was being kidnapped by a zombie.  Not his best day ever.

As he managed to get his feet outside the window, he turned to run, only to smash to the ground again as he caught his foot on a root.  Before he could stand, or do anything besides grunt, the zombie had him by the ankles and was dragging him away.  No amount of shouting seemed to deter the brute, and his squirming and grasping at the dirt was no more effective.

In a last ditch effort as he lost sight of the cabin, he screamed for the friend he had left behind in his room, both hoping that she would come to rescue him and praying that she stayed safe and away.  He believed for a moment that he heard her cry his name in return, but he shoved that idea away as wishful thinking.  Instead, curses bubbled freely to his lips, at his captor, at whoever was behind the scenes controlling this horror show, and at himself for not paying enough attention.  ‘I knew I should have barricaded that window when I had the chance,’ he berated himself as he growled out a particularly vicious swear.

As he began to run out of air and creativity, he felt the ground slope down, and it broke him free of his thoughts.  The moment screamed ‘Last Chance’ like a neon sign on the side of the highway, and Marty didn’t intend to let it pass him by.  In a maneuver that Curt would have been proud of, he used his arms and abs to flip himself over, wrenching his legs out of the zombie’s hold in the process and knocking the creature over.  Without giving himself time to think and second guess, he seized the trowel from the ground and drove it hilt deep into the beast’s chest, releasing a spurt of blood.  He had hardly started to relax when the monster opened its eyes and began to thrash again, so Marty pulled the weapon out and drove it in again, over and over.

His numerous review sessions with Jules for her pre-med classes all flashed through his mind as he attempted to render the disturbing creature harmless.  Placement of vital organs, the amount of blood a human could lose without dying, the way to dearticulate joints: it all buzzed in his brain on autopilot.  His arms grew tired, but fear and adrenaline kept him moving long after he would have given up on a typical workout.  He could practically hear Curt urging him on, one more set, just another rep or two, from the times he had accompanied his friend to the gym.  These memories of his friends gave him the strength to keep cutting and slashing and stabbing, though his stomach wanted to rebel at the mess and the squelching noises that accompanied it.

By the time he stopped, the living corpse had been reduced to a twitching pile of viscera with only a few largely intact pieces to show what it had looked like before.  The head was making horrifying gasping sounds, but Marty couldn’t bring himself to find out what it would take to make it stop.  He sat, panting, for a few minutes before he could focus on anything other than catching his breath and triumphing over the urge to vomit.  One of the zombie’s hands was twitching itself toward his knee, but he just brushed it aside absentmindedly, quickly reaching his threshold for shock and disgust.   Besides, he had bigger worries as he climbed wearily to his feet and scrambled out of the hole he found himself in: “Dana!”

OooOooOooOooO (After the Gas: Dana)

Dana still wasn’t sure just what the hell was going on, but she did know that she needed to get to Marty.  They were in this together, and she wasn’t just going to abandon him without a fight.  She was pretty sure she had ditched whoever had been watching, since the gas hadn’t started up again or anything, but she had no way of knowing for sure.  That freaked her out almost as much as the idea that someone was watching and controlling them all in the first place.  She felt like Marty as conspiracy theories and questions ricocheted through her head with no solid answers to be found.

She was so lost in her own thoughts that she almost didn’t notice the groaning noise at first.  When it registered, she spun around, expecting to see Marty on the ground somewhere, injured and in terrible pain.  No such sight met her eyes, however, and her alarm nearly settled before the sound came again.  Her fear spiked sharply, and she quickly freed the bong from her belt.  Gripping it tightly, she began sneaking toward the moans with extreme caution.  As she made her way around a tree, a saw buried itself in the wood just in front of her nose, and Dana let out a loud scream.  She scrambled backward and nearly dropped the bong in her shock.

The redhead whipped her head around, searching frantically in the darkness for the source of this attack.  A slight glow out of the corner of her eye attracted her attention, and she turned to face her foe.  The light, she discovered queasily, emitted from the stomach of a zombie, and she was reminded again of the words she had read what seemed like ages ago.  ‘Cut her belly and stuffed the coals in…’ oh, God.  It really is the family from the diary.  The Buckners, like that creepy old man at the gas station talked about.’

As Dana reached this conclusion, the creature in question finally managed to free its saw from the tree, and it advanced again.  The young woman fumbled for a moment in terror before she remembered her own weapon, still clenched in her fist.  With a snap of her wrist, she extended the bong to its full length and brought it up in time to counter a swing of the zombified mother’s  rusty tool.  Dana levered down, forcing the saw toward the ground, and then she twisted and lunged forward, striking her foe in the neck with as much force as she could muster.  Mama Buckner crashed to the ground with a hiss, but it didn’t seem much inconvenienced as it started to rise.

Before the beast could stand fully again, Dana cocked the bong back like a bat and took a hefty swing.  Her old days on the softball team carried her through, and with a disturbing crack, Mama’s head went flying.  In spite of Dana’s expectations, however, the body didn’t stop moving.

“Well, fuck.  I guess not all of the horror movie rules apply, huh?”  With that quip, she swept the bong under the zombie’s feet, knocking it over once more.  The saw fell from its fingers, and Dana quickly kicked it behind her and out of reach.  The monster, meanwhile, had gotten onto its hands and knees and was crawling toward its severed head.  With a quick thought of thanks to Marty and his ingenuity in creating his disguisable paraphernalia, Dana brought the sturdy thing down on Mama’s back, flattening it and drawing a groan.

Hope flared in her briefly, but then the creature began to move once more in the direction of its missing limb.  She prepared to hit it again, but she was stopped as a voice rang through the trees.

“Dana!”

Relief surged through her at the sound of Marty’s voice, and her battle with the zombie was quickly forgotten as she sprinted in the direction of the call, noting passively that it was back the way she had come.  “Marty!”

As she dodged around a tree, she looked up just in time to see her friend before she catapulted into him and sent them both tumbling back into the hole he had just climbed out of.

OooOooOooOooO (Reunited)

Marty let out a groan as they hit the ground, his arms instinctively wrapping around her.  The bong clattered out of Dana’s hand, and it bounced to a halt with a wooden thump that stirred something in Marty’s mind.  But most of his attention was on his friend, who was somehow here and safe and...digging her bony elbow into his gut.  He groaned again, and she looked up, or down, maybe, at him.

“Marty!”

“Hi.”

“You’re okay!  I mean, are you hurt?  I was so worried!”  She scanned him for injuries as best she could, hampered by the fact that most of his body was covered by hers.

“Dana,” he managed.

“Yes?”

“Can’t breathe.”

“Oh, what’s wrong?  Did you get strangled or punched or cut or something?”  At this, he huffed out a laugh.

“You’re laying on my lungs.”

“Oh, shit, I’m so sorry.”  She quickly slid off of him, blushing both at her mistake and the implications of their position that she was just recognizing.  Marty waved off her apologies as he hauled himself into a sitting position, and they both took a moment to look each other over, verifying that the other was largely unhurt.

“What are you doing here?” Marty asked once he was certain she was alright.

“I wasn’t just going to let you get-” she choked on the word ‘killed’ and opted for something easier “-taken.”  As uneasy as she was, she still found space to be indignant at the thought that she would abandon him like that.  “I had to try to help.”

He nodded slowly at this and reached forward to brush a chunk of moss off of her cheek before standing.  She smiled shyly up at him as he offered her a hand and hauled her to her feet.

“But it looks like you had it handled.  How did you get away?”  Just then, she felt a touch on the top of her foot, and looked down to see a disembodied hand crawling on her; she let out a scream and staggered back.  A hollow sound echoed under her shoes, and she looked around in confusion as Marty caught her arm.

“It’s okay.  It can’t hurt you.”  He steadied her.  “Sorry about that.  That’s… uh… that’s how I got away.”  His gesture encompassed the corner of the small space, and through the gloom, she saw the mess that had once been a zombie.

“Oh.  Good work.”  She grimaced.  “You did better than I did; I could barely get the head off mine.”

Marty froze, and his grip on her arms tightened fractionally.

“Yours?  Wait, what happened to you?”

“Well, once I got away from the gas,” at his look, she backtracked, “I think whoever’s fucking with us was still watching me when I went to find you, and they tried to gas me again.  Thanks to you, I noticed, so I did what I thought you would do and kinda… played possum until it stopped.  It made me lose the drag trail, though, and I guess I went the wrong way after that.  I heard noises that I thought were you, but it was another zombie.  I think it was Mama Buckner from the diary; she had coals in her stomach.” Marty’s face scrunched at that, and then he seemed to get lost in thought as he considered the implications of that.  “Anyway, I had your bong with me, and I used that to knock her head off, but she wouldn’t stop.  I kept hitting her, but it didn’t seem to do much, and then I heard you calling, and well, here we are.”

Marty bent to pick up the weapon in question, and as he did, he noticed an odd pattern on the ground.  It reminded him of the familiar sounds the floor had made, and he rapped his knuckles on it.  Again, it sounded back hollow, and he motioned Dana back.  After a moment’s inspection, he spotted a ring set into the wood, and as he pulled, he discovered what looked like a storm cellar.

“Curiouser and curiouser, said Alice,” Dana mumbled beside him as they both stared down into the abyss.

[beyondtheglasswall]

;; [love] (4)

[1]       [2]       [3]       [4]

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       The banging of gunfire echoed over the fragmented city. 

       Its sole source, the silver-colored metal guardian, scanned the area methodically. Next to it stood Takuya, eyes shifting between his surroundings and the PDA he was holding. A defensive formation he’d cooked up--one in which he could watch his surroundings, while also being prepared for any sudden attack.

       A blur of pink suddenly darted at Takuya, Earthes quickly turning with a pistol drawn and firing at it--only for it it to change course, shooting back into the mismatched scenery as the shot zipped past it.

“Damn it...” 

       So far, his defense had been working. But that was the best he could manage. Up to this point, their fight had been a complete stalemate.

       It wasn’t like the other times he’d fought Arytha. She had fought him head-one in all of their other encounters, with little care given to strategy or tactics. Now, she had been attacking him carefully and methodically, seeming to back of whenever the advantage was lost.

       That wasn’t her style. And that worried him. 

“What’s with the hit-and-run tactics? You aren’t going to fight me like normal?”

       Takuya heard a chuckle from behind him. A rotation of his thumb and press of a button, and Earthes turned and fired at nothing. 

“Why should I do that? You’ve got a big glaring weakness right there.”

       ‘Glaring weakness’, huh?

“What are you talking about? Earthes is the same as always, and I was able to beat you with him last time.”

“--You’re not seriously this stupid, are you?”

       His hand moved quickly, and his gun fired again. An empty trash can, with a new hole in it, spun into the air and clattered against the floor.

       Damn it. Were she any other opponent, Interdimend’s native Oversight would be enough for him to keep up. But she also had Oversight, and she was clearly adjusting her movements to keep up with his search. And she would keep doing it, until she found a decisive opening.

       Despite her immature demeanor, Takuya felt like when it came to ‘games’, Arytha was probably unmatched.

       He cursed under his breath, looking down at his PDA. At this right, their fight would continue like this. Neither side would take an advantage, and once one of them tired out, that would be it. 

       He couldn’t guarantee that wouldn’t be him. Nor could he say for certain no one else would suddenly happen upon their fight--and that it wouldn’t be an enemy.

       If those were his options, then...

       A series of clicks and taps, and Earthes suddenly twirled his pistol--coming to a stop right at the ground. Takuya quickly covered his mouth. 

       And then, he’d fire. A cloud of dust shot up. He’d keep firing. More would cover the area. He’d fire everywhere he could feasibly reach, until the clouds began covering the entire block they were in. And then, he and Earthes started running. 

       ‘What are you even doing?’, he could hear her thinking. A simple cloud of dust wouldn’t do much against Oversight, especially the later levels of it. It would simply take her looking into the possibilities of his future actions, and finding out what he was doing and where he was doing. A simple dust cloud was too simple a distraction to cover that option. 

       But, as Arytha would soon realize, the terrain was also changing once again. The variables for change soon went from double digits to triple, and the more chaos he created, the more that number increased. 

       He wasn’t sure, but he thought he’d heard an irritated ‘tch’ amidst everything. Regardless, he needed to get moving. Darting through one pathway, through the newly forming buildings and roads that were solidifying all around him--he only had so much time before his chance was lost. 

       In order to force the fight to a straightforward one, he’d have to find an open space. Only there could he push his best strengths against Arytha. There, her range was limited to Song Magic and close-range attacks, whereas Earthes had enough varied firepower and defenses to keep her at bay while still defending Takuya himself.

       That seemed to be his plan, and he’d found his way to his goal: an open plaza not unlike the one in Felion, with a clear view peering over to the island below. It was perfect, and would have eventually guaranteed a victory for him. He just needed to get in the center, and get ready for Arytha to arrive.

       He thought that, until he heard something scream through the air behind him. His hands went to his PDA, as he quickly input a command--

       And then he felt a screaming, burning sensation impact against his back. 

       Takuya’s feet left the floor, and he felt his own forward momentum mixing with the blast that hit his back. His grip on his PDA was completely lost, and he felt it leave his hands. Where exactly it went, he couldn’t tell. He only had enough time to process he’d been flung forward--before he realized the edge was getting closer. Very close. Too close.

       Then he realized he’d gone over the edge. 

       Just before his heart could stop from the shock, something seized his leg. It wasn’t Earthes, obviously. His breathing staggered from the last few seconds, Takuya looked up to see a grin and head of pink hair looking down at him.

“You know, some people hate math, but I find it pretty fun. Physics and probability, especially.”

       --What the hell? Was Arytha implying she’d figured out where he was doing based on probability? And that the impact from the shot he’d just been hit with was an intentional physics calculation?

“I mean, I could’ve just blown you to bits, but this is funner.” 

       He heard her huff decisively, and then suddenly he was going up. Then over. Then he was back to being thrown--right up until he slammed into a vacant market stand.

       He wasn’t sure the crack he just heard was the broken wood or him.

“’F-Funner’ isn’t a real word...” 

“Oh hey, you aren’t broken yet!” A smirk. “And it totally is.”

       Crawling from the wooden wreckage, Takuya’s scanned his surroundings in a panic. He could see Earthes, inactive, standing at the center of the plaza. But his PDA...

“Over there~.”

       He noticed Arytha jutting a thumb to a spot slightly behind her--and spotted the silver, clamshell-design device sitting on the ground. It looked like it was still intact, the screen mostly unscathed.

“You wanna get to it, don’t you? Let’s make a game out of it!” 

       Takuya strained to get to his feet. Yeah, that crack was him. It hurt, but it didn’t hurt enough. He could still walk, and he could still run. Right at Arytha, a fist raised--

       Only for another, covered in a steel gauntlet, to fly right at him. He moved his other arm in the way of it; a panicked block--only to hear another crack as his feet left the ground again. He tumbled backwards, eventually coming to a stop on his back.

“Oof, I kinda felt that. Wanna try again?”

       Takuya struggled to his feet, and winced. His right arm--that was the one that had taken that blow. It hurt like hell when he tried to move it. There was no way he could use that arm in its current state. Despite that... Gritting his teeth, he clenched the fist on his remaining arm, and pushed himself forward, through all the hits he’d take.

“Ooh, c’mon, again!” Again. “Almost!” And again. “One more try!” And again.

       At this point, he could taste blood. He wasn’t sure if it was something internal, or if it was him biting his lip during one of the hits he’d taken. Either way, he struggled to his feet, his movement slower than the last attempt.

       Arytha, for her part, was starting to look bored. A sigh escaped her as she watched the haggard young man in front of her.

“Remember what I said about that ‘glaring weakness’? It’s standing right in front of me.”

       Takuya only glared silently. “What?”

“Why’d you come here in the first place?” 

“You said it yourself. Not much has changed since the last time we fought it out--there’s no doubt Earthes could still take me down in a straight fight. But instead, you came along. Piloting the big hunk of metal while standing right in the crossfire. Why?” The girl chuckled to herself, as if she’d already found the reason. “Are you trying to prove something? That you’re able to take some risk, or stick your neck out?”

“Or... Maybe you think you’re some big hero, rushing to the rescue like last time. But, that just raises the same questions as last time.” Her tone, once mirthful as she mocked him, yet again became cutting. “Why are you even bothering? The people you’re saving don’t have anything to do with you. Some of them don’t even deserve the time you’re putting in. You’re just wasting your energy.”

���You just don’t get it, do you?”

       Suddenly, Arytha got a glare to match Takuya’s “What’s that?” 

       Takuya didn’t falter against it.

“It’s not that I think I’m some kind of hero. I resent that idea, in fact.”

“Do I need some special reason to help someone? Some kind of title? If someone’s calling for help, and I can help them, do I just ignore them? If I can hear someone crying, do I pretend I didn’t hear anything and move on with my life?”

“You misunderstood my entire motive... I didn’t help the people on the Soreil because I was looking for some kind of reward. Just helping them was enough of a reward.”

       Suddenly, Arytha’s expression shifted from anger to confusion.

“What are you--”

“I’m sorry for what happened to your sister. And I’m sorry I wasn’t there sooner to help you both. I can’t help that. I can only do my best with what’s right in front of me.”

       This wasn’t any of what she was expecting. Where was that anger from earlier? Had he already calmed down? But no, even then--what the hell was he even on about?!

“Shut up already! Are you even listening to yourself? I’m trying to kill you, you moron!”

“You won’t.”

       That did it. Raising her hand, she spoke in a language none on the island would understand but those from Ra Ciela. A song--and as she sang, light began to collect in her hand. More. And more. Until a large orb of light was entirely in her hand.

       He didn’t react in the slightest. Her vision started going red.

“SAY THAT AFTER I’VE BLOWN YOU TO PIECES!”

       Screaming at the top of her lungs, Arytha threw herself at Takuya. Fast enough to be right in front of him in a second, her arm raised.

       Only for Takuya to suddenly duck down--faster than she thought he was able to move right now--

       Then she heard a gunshot as something hit her square in the stomach. Her arms went limp for a moment, and the orb of light that was supposed to kill him suddenly shot off into the sky.

“E-Earthes--?!” No, that didn’t come from the robot. It was still inactive on the side. The angle wasn’t right, either. It hit her exposed stomach, where Takuya had ducked to--which meant--

       Another, this time hitting her chin. 

       And yet, despite two shots hitting her head-on, there was no blood.

“(A Song Magic barrier...)”

       Arytha stumbled backwards, and a series of shots rang out, revealing a thin iridescent layer layer that was covering her body. They kept coming, and as more and more hit, the barrier began to crack. But not every single one hit their mark, a few of them angling slightly to her sides or above her. 

       Eventually the shock of it wore off, and she raised her gauntlets in defense, the shots refusing to relent.

“You really think that’s going to be enough...?!” 

       Peeking through her guard, she could see Takuya, grimacing, with a pistol in his hand. The very same model Earthes had. 

       It was at this point she realized Earthes had only been holding a single pistol in their earlier stalemate.

“Of course not!”

       The arm he was shooting with was shaking as he said that. Even studying Morgan’s examples, he still couldn’t quite compensate for the recoil. Right now, all he could do was point and shoot, praying that he wouldn’t end up with a stress fracture. 

       He just kept firing and firing, with Arytha being pushed back further and further. 

       Closer to the edge.

“Ah--” Arytha’s eyes widened with clarity. “Trying to push me off...? What a weak plan--”

       Pressing her legs into the ground, the hacker in the body of a tiny girl suddenly rushed forward, gauntlets formed to protect her from any shots coming her way.

“Game over, you--”

“Checkmate.”

       The single word cut through her train of thought. That was her line. Even with a pistol that hit as hard as Earthes’s, there was no way Takuya could defend against a direct hit from her at this point. Just one more would probably incapacitate him. 

       Then she heard the sound of metal moving, and machinery reactivating. She wouldn’t have enough time to turn and see the guardian revving up the giant laser rifle on its being.

       Out of the corner of her eye, screaming light consumed her entire body.

“YOU--”

       It’d been a plan the entire time. If Arytha could make out his PDA at that moment, she’d see that the screen had been processing a purposefully delayed input. She would see on the screen that Takuya had watched the fight carefully, observing right up until this possibility to have Earthes fire. Even his talking--even her talking--was something set up to match up for this timing, for this single opening.

       Because for all her talk of ‘glaring weaknesses’, she had her own. He’d seen it himself; in their fights on the Soreil, in he and Ritsuka’s fight against her, and even now. In her hands, she held a power that could oversee the world itself. And yet, she only ever used it when she needed to. When she thought she’d already won, it never came to mind. She’d happily beat on her opponent, fully confident her own talents and genius would lead her to victory.

       It wouldn’t even occur to her that a weaker opponent with the same power would be able to use it against her to any serious effect.

       The iridescent barrier chipped away, then shattered against the light. Her tiny body was slowly burned down by the blast, pushed back from the force of the cannon. Further and further, taking more and more damage--

“--!”

       And right off the ledge she went. She could see the entire city, moments before she would go plummeting down to her death.

       For a moment, she was angrier than she’d ever been. Beaten again. And for the same reasons as last time. 

       By that same piece of filth--

“Gaaah!!!” 

       But. Right as she started going below the island’s ground level, something snatched her arm. 

       Turning, she really couldn’t believe the idiocy she was seeing.

“You... What... what the fuck are you doing...?”

       He was holding onto her. Completely prone, it looked like he’d had to dive to catch her. Using his only other arm, he was only barely holding onto her. And judging by his struggling, he wouldn’t be able to pull her up any time soon.

“Just shut up already...” He felt like kicking himself--he must’ve guessed a number wrong when he tried calculating how far she’d be sent. “I need to figure out how to get you up here...”

       ... What the fuck was this guy?

“I just... tried to kill you... Hell, you’re one-foot-in-the-grave right now...”

“Again. Shut up.”

“Tell me why.”

       He’d either growled under his breath or groaned.

“Don’t get the wrong idea. I don’t know if... you’re actually in Prim’s body or not... Not gonna take the risk of taking Delta and Cass’s daughter from them.”

       ...

“And... I don’t know how your Interdimend works, but if that’s really you in that body, I’m not going to take Ulyliyha’s sister from her...”

       ...

“You...”

“Please...” He grunted, trying and failing to pull her up through his injuries. “Stop moving, I really don’t want to drop you...”

       --He’d never intended to kill her at the end of this. Even after it all, he was going to spare her life. For the sake of his friends, and for her sister’s sake. All the gunshots, all the talk, all the beatings he’d taken. The entire plan she realized he’d had from the very beginning--

       At the end of it all, he was still holding onto her, for the sake of other people.

       For the first time since their fight had started, Arytha didn’t have anything to say.

       Her anger at his obnoxious ‘love’ had just... tapped out.

“... ... ... I really don’t get you.”

       With what little strength she had, she raised her other hand up.

“I really don’t.”

       And yanked it back down.

“What?” Takuya couldn’t make out what she’d muttered to herself. “Listen, just sit tight, and let me--”

       He heard that same screaming sound as he did when he was running to the plaza. And right as he did, he felt something slam against his back. It was that same feeling as earlier, but weaker. His mind went to the blast Arytha had let go of, when she charged at him earlier.

       The pain from it caused his entire body to tense and spasm. 

       And in that moment, his grip released.

“--! No-!”

       He tried to reach his hand back out again, only to grab nothing. He only had enough time to look over the edge, and watch Prim’s tiny form descend onto the city. 

       Enough time to see Arytha’s expression... and not be able to read it.

       He couldn’t take his eyes away from the scene. Watching silently, motionlessly, as Arytha Tiryjha and Prim continued falling. Right until he could no longer see them. 

       Silence. The only things Takuya heard for the next few seconds were his own shaky breathing and the fighting still going on across Spirale.

       Eventually, with pained sounds, Takuya rolled back onto the island, wincing as his back made contact with the ground. He tried forcing himself back onto his feet, but couldn’t. He looked over to the side, seeing Earthes and his PDA a short distance from him? Could he crawl? Another forceful grunt--no, he couldn’t. 

       So, he was stuck here.

“... ... ... Damn it...”

       Only cursing to himself, all Takuya did, for as long as he could remain conscious, was stare into the sky above.