#if i believe the leaks he should be coming back in the next patch

[killjoy-prince]

RATIO GET BACK HERE THERE'S A BOMB

[idontknowreallywhy]

Resurface 28 - Rend

Story so far

I’ll be honest - this next section has fought me because while it’s easy enough for me to say “Noo the puppy pile makes us feel better but isn’t going to Fix them, they need to Talk like Grown Ups”, it’s been tricky to drag them into a place where they are ready /willing to do it, big bros especially.

Thus it seemed possible the motivation that might be most effective might come from a littler bro-who-must-be-protected actually needing that talk. Hence Alan needed to be broken first.

Except then Gordon had a bit of an internal breakdown himself (because I couldn’t just make Alan cry, nooo I had to make him bleed didn’t I? 😏) so this next part is a bit of a scene set for that / catch up on all their mental states from the POV of a certain squid who could challenge big bro for his racing inner monologue crown…

Apologies if it’s kind of slow / doesn’t seem to go anywhere. I promise I’ve written the end and I think it’ll be worth it when we get there.

💚💛❤️💙🧡💚💛❤️💙🧡💚💛❤️💙🧡

Gordon leant heavily against the kitchen sink and dabbed ineffectively at his damp hands with an even damper towel.

They looked clean now.

They weren’t.

Something about a brother’s blood lingered, invisibly, and when he closed his eyes to catch his breath he could still feel the warm slickness of it. Somehow oily, it made his fingers unnaturally frictionless as they moved against each other and his stomach churned at the sensation.

Once lowered, his eyelids felt heavy, itchy. Swollen. Realistically at least one of them was going to end up blackened by the dizzying impact between his face and a fury-fuelled elbow. He’d not seen that coming…

Leaden as they were, his eyes shot open again in surprise as something tickled his big toe. The cleaning bot having finished its consumption of the broken glass was nudging at his foot. The googly eyes he and Alan had superglued to it on a carefree whim so many months ago were jiggling away and it looked for all the word like a sentient being trying to reassure him.

It wasn’t of course, but he suspected there was one behind its behaviour and glanced instinctively up at the ceiling.

The bot butted him more sharply and he redirected his attention to the rest of his family. Apparently unaware that the glass threat had passed, they were huddled on a pool float island in a kitchen floor sea. It would be comical if there weren’t so many things wrong with the picture.

The first one was obviously that his only little brother had been leaking blood all over the place from several nasty slices to his hands and fingers. It was nothing short of a miracle none of the tendons were compromised and - he knew they should be thankful - but it was hard to focus on that right now. Not in these circumstances… when the injuries were… recklessly… bizarrely… self-inflicted. Where a frenzied Alan had tried to force the tumbler back into its proper shape with his bare hands, as if he believed he could fuse glass with sheer willpower. And when he failed Alan had actually fought Gordon rather than allow him to help prevent the cuts getting any worse.

That had been... well. Very Wrong.

Scott and John were nearly as pale as the little guy was. This wasn’t unexpected, he supposed - there was something about Alan being hurt, even relatively trivially, that really messed with all of them on a kind of primal level.

Another big problem with the picture was that the person doing the patching up wasn’t Virgil. It was always Virgil, unless it was Virgil doing the bleeding then… well, it was usually Gordon actually. They were all highly trained first responders and perfectly competent, and Gordon in particular had worked hard under his wingman’s eagle eye to become nearly as proficient. However, it was an unwritten Tracy law that when ol’ Steady-Hands Virg was present, he did this stuff.

But he wasn’t. He was there, sure, holding Alan on his lap, but no more than that. Not advising, not encouraging or doing any of the other Virgilly things he should be doing. Just… watching, not entirely present, like he was stuck behind some bloody curtain.

And obviously nor was it Gordon armed with the suture needle, which was just as well because he wasn’t feeling so steady-handed himself right now. Which was not unrelated to how Done he was with that curtain. And the fact Alan’s grip on things had shattered more violently even than the glass he’d sideswiped with a wildly gesticulating arm… Gordon was a split second too late seeing crunch coming. He hasn’t seen the result coming.

He should have seen it coming. Of course he hasn’t been as fine as he’d pretended. Alan had pulled a Scott on him and no mistake.

Grandma would have been the obvious next candidate for first aid administration but had backed away quietly at the high-intensity-blue-lasered command even she knew it was best to heed without argument.

It was Scott. Scott who snatched up the tweezers to painstakingly remove the remaining shards from shredded flesh, Scott who now wielded the needle. Because for some reason Scott wouldn’t contemplate anyone else doing it. Gordon suspected that the chance to fix anything… to do one practical thing to help was something his biggest brother desperately needed before he fractured too. Gordon was a little concerned someone would have to stitch the Commander’s bottom lip up next, such was the abuse it was undergoing. John was watching Scott’s every move with the mind of calm, neutral expression that failed to conceal, from Gordon at least, a few fault lines of his own.

The only one missing was Kayo. And Kayo was likely burning out Shadow’s engines somewhere over the Pacific Ocean as she hurtled back towards the Island. Nobody hurt Alan on her watch, not even Alan.

Hell they were a mess.

A sudden release of breath and Scott presented Alan’s hands for Grandma’s approval. Then there were bandages gently applied, baby brother knuckles kissed twice by the only real father figure the kid really remembered and then a pause while everyone avoided everyone else’s eyes and wondered what on earth to say next.

In the end Scott took the blunt approach:

“Why, Allie?”

“I had to fix it. It was for Virgil and I had to fix it.”

“Fix… your glass?”

“The mess… I had to… You don’t… you wouldn’t understand!!!”

Scott’s face was evidence enough of that but his voice was far calmer than the turmoil Gordon could see in his eyes

“No… I really don’t but I need to, what’s got into you Allie?”

“It was all my fault I’m sosorryVirgil. I’m so sorry, I’m always so damn cl-clumsy.”

The only one not looking baffled by now was Virgil but Gordon couldn’t be sure if that was because he was still a bit out of it and hadn’t been following. Alan huddled in his lap, Virgil had wrapped his arms around his little brother and his chin rested on the top of his head. He looked tired…

No. Not just tired… Virgil looked… resigned?

Gordon knew his eyes had widened as the realisation hit - Virgil knew. He knew what was going on. What on Earth had happened between the two of them that nobody else had noticed?

“Allie, talk to us. What is your fault? Whatever it is, Virgil isn’t holding it against you, right Virgil?”

Virgil just pressed his lips into Alan’s hair and closed his eyes.

Alan himself took a breath and appeared to steel himself.

“It’s my fault Virgil got sick.”

[ranchracoon]

"To Be The One"

Ch. 2 Changes

Master Post

Chapter 1

Faekah can't catch her breath, she stumbles backward until her back hits something sturdy and she slides down to the floor. She's gasping and clutching her chest as she can't seem to calm herself down. Her skin prickles and fluctuates between skin, fur, scales, and feathers as she closes her eyes and curls herself into a ball. Count. Count. Count. She gasps loudly and looks around her; lamp, couch, chair, TV, kitchen. Good. She can feel the hardwood floor underneath her, the cool wall she's leaning against, the weight of her jacket, the bunching of her pants. Cars honk outside, someone down the hall is listening to music a little too loud, her water cooler gurgles with a stray air bubble. The apartment still smells like coffee and her fresh berry air freshener. Her tongue prickles and waters with the rising need to vomit, but she swallows it back and slows her breathing. 

With a clear head she goes over all the possibilities; none of her coworkers know her secret as far as she's aware, and no one has a key to her apartment. Maybe Cooper isn't crazy this time after all. Logically speaking, she has a file in her apartment with information about her shortly after a leak. If someone was able to break into Umbrella undetected then her apartment might as well have had a huge neon sign saying 'door's unlocked. Welcome.' Her other worry is what is she infected with? Does this have something to do with the outbreak in Racoon City? Or because she's not human they think she's infected with something entirely different? Who else had their files stolen? There is one person who might know...

That next morning she makes a pitstop to her 'old' office building with a fresh batch of Streusel Jam Bars for her favorite security guard. She looks around for him but there's no sign of him anywhere so she goes to the front security desk. The man looks up at her and she tilts her head, realizing she doesn't recognize him but she recognizes the B.S.A.A patch on his shoulder. The man stands abruptly, looking her over and narrowing his eyes slightly in suspicion. 

"Can I help you?" He asks. 

"Yes I'm looking for Francis Stovack. He's usually assigned the nightshift."

"Mr. Stovack has been released from his duty."

"What? Why? Where is he?"

"I'm not a liberty to give out that information. If you have further questions you may set up a meeting with my superior officers."

"No-that's fine."

Faekah backs away from the front desk before turning on her heels and exiting through the front doors. Think positive. Maybe he was working when the leak happened and he got injured? He's probably recovering. That's it. Or he got fired because they think he's responsible for the leak. She needs answers. Why does Umbrella have this file in the first place? How long have they known? She feels restless and itchy, she wants so badly to run away from all this just for a moment. She pulls out her phone and calls Cooper, lying and telling him that she's sick which is painfully believable considering she never calls out. That should buy her the day, probably more if she really needed it. 

She takes the bus to the outer city limits, there's not much like home where she could run for miles on nature trails and forests. Mostly flat, vast farmland with sparse bundles of trees here and there. However, she did hear about one waterfall trail roughly an hour outside the city, about an hour and a half by bus. The second the bus doors open she hops out and instantly goes towards the hiking trail, sticking out like a sore thumb amongst water packs, hiking boots, trail poles, and vests. She carefully walks the trail until she comes to a bridge where the waterfall is visible, she looks around quickly to see if anyone is within eyeshot of her. What would be the least concerning thing to see? A wolf or bear would spark panic, it's too early for a bat, oh!

With a final look around she lets herself unleash her pent up stress and anxieties as her body molds and shifts into the form of a red fox. It's small, fast, and won't spark too much concern if spotted by another set of eyes. She slips under the bridge guard and jumps down onto the rocky embankment then dives into the cool water. Faekah feels closest to home when she's in another form, that itchiness no longer pains her and she can forget everything even if only for a moment. That moment turned into a few hours, and before she knew it, it was nightfall and she had no idea how to get back to the main trail. That's fine. The fox then leaps up and shifts into a bat, one of her favorite animals, and sores through the sky until she sees the lights of the lodge, and the flashing of the final bus to the city. She finds an opening behind the lodge where she transforms back, and rushes to catch the bus before the doors shut. 

However, the closer she gets back home, the more the stress and anxiety returns. She doesn't want to go home, it feels unsafe, tainted. Last night she wound up sleeping on the floor out of pure exhaustion. She goes home to grab the essentials, and since work is no longer an option, she spends the night in a hotel instead. The next morning she returns to work, refreshed, alert, and ready to act like nothing has happened. She's cautious around the armed guards, she keeps her badge displayed at all times, and makes sure she's wearing anything and everything with a logo or name tag on it. 

"Welcome back! Glad to see you're feeling better" Cooper proclaims. 

"Huh? Oh right, yeah."

Faekah says very little to Cooper, he might be apart of it. Great, now she's starting to sound like him. It's not a far fetched hypothesis though; they both started around the same time, he's basically been assigned to everything she has whether directly or indirectly, he very reasonably could be connected. While studying more slides of this mysterious mold specimen, her curiosity gets the best of her and she turns away to prep some slides of her blood. If she's infected with something, her blood would show it no? She looks through the lens, it wouldn't be the first time she's looked at her blood through a microscope, only this time she's looking for something. 

All looks normal, at least, her normal. Her blood still shows her mutation, and she's not seeing anything that would resemble increased signs of infection. Unless she's been infected for so long that it's infiltrated her blood stream, how would she know what to even look for? First she starts by studying how her blood reacts to different stimuli and compares it to the mold sample. Something inside her tells her that this mold plays a bigger role than previously thought. She becomes so absorbed into this new line of tracking, she hardly notices the commotion outside the thick, bullet proof glass. 

"Fae!"

She shoots her head up and looks over at Cooper who points toward the glass, she looks over to see the two armed guards being gunned down. She abruptly stands, spilling her current specimen. Her military brain tells her to hide and find a weapon, her scientist brain tells her to secure the specimen and get into decon. The glass cracks and creaks from the sheer amount of stray bullets hitting it, she's thankful for that, it buys her time. Cooper is standing frozen, unsure of what to do, so she grabs him by the arm and shoves him behind one of the desks, then she finds anything heavy. She grabs the leg of one of the metal desks and pulls, no time to worry about what Cooper will see or think. The leg snaps and breaks off with ease, she looks up to see a group of masked soldiers placing a bomb on the glass. 

Shit. 

Just in time she ducks behind the nearest desk as the explosion rings out, sending shards of glass flying. Feakah covers her head to avoid glass getting in her eyes, her ears bleed from the noise and sudden shift of pressure. There's only a loud ringing and muffled noises. There's clouds of dust in the air, making her cough and bring up part of her shirt to cover her nose and mouth. 

"Get the girl. We need her alive" the voice is muffled and sounds watery under all the ringing.

She freezes, a chill of panic sets up her spine and leaves only instinct. As one of the masked intruders rounds behind the desk, she leaps up, slamming the metal table leg across the stomach hard enough there's a watery cracking sound. The intruder drops, griping their rib area and dropping their gun. Feakah kneels and picks it up, shooting in the direction of the others. As soon as they start shooting back she hides behind the desk again, the ringing only amplifies from the loud rounds coming from the guns. 

"Hold your fire! We need her alive!" One of them shouts. 

"She shot first!"

"I don't care. Non-lethal obtainment!"

While they bicker she crawls to the other side of the lab where there's rows of riling cabinets, many of them fell from the blast and she can use those for coverage. She peaks out from behind, seeing three in total, at least in the room with her. All three are hiding behind something, and in the corner she sees Cooper.

"What about him?" One of them asks. 

"Shoot anyone but her."

She ducks down in time to hear another round go off, gasping and covering her mouth. Not this again. She can't. She must. Faekah gets back up and shoots, causing the three soldiers to duck once more into their own hiding. She has to get out of here, and the blast through the glass is right beside her. She stands, continuing to shoot and makes a run for it, not taking into consideration that there may be more on the other side. As she turns to make her exit, she comes face to face with the butt end of a gun hitting her square in the forehead. She groans loudly, falling back onto the shattered glass while gripping her head, watching as the lights slowly dim. 

Chapter 3

[shadeswift99]

The Way Back

Characters: Etho, Bdubs

Tags: Hurt/comfort (both ways), aftermath/between scenes, happy ending, platonic intended (don’t really care if you read it otherwise but please don’t tag as ship)

Words: 1357

Description: If a former Boogyman and a former Red Life forgive each other in the woods, does it still make a sound?

Just a whole lot of Etho and Bdubs talking it out after the deal with Scar because I still absolutely cannot stop thinking about them. plenty of banter, bit of yelling, definitely no crying nope none at all - all good stuff :)

Read it on Ao3

Part 2: Déjà Vu

"Now that was stupid."

Etho flipped around to face Bdubs, walking backwards for a few steps as the pair continued their trudge back to base. "Stupid? I must have misheard, I think you meant 'thanks for the gift, Etho', 'thank you so much for saving my life, Etho', 'oh Etho thank you so very much for selling your soul for me, you're too kind' -"

"I - hey! You sold MY soul for me!" Bdubs sputtered. He almost wished he was back on red so he could wipe that smartass grin off Etho's face. (And yes he could tell through the mask, he could always sense it through the mask.) "You just showed up here with a contract for me to sign and a freakin' wizard in tow!"

"Hey, I signed that contract too." Etho laid a hand over his heart in mock offense. "I sold both our souls to save your life."

"Yeah, well -"

Bdubs bit back his next words. There were some things even he wasn't quite angry enough to let Etho hear.

Being a yellow life had given him back some of his restraint, he’d found. He no longer felt the burning need deep inside him to make constant plans for destruction. He no longer felt the pull to get people to join him, the frantic energy that used to race through his veins when he imagined death, how easy it would be for any of these peaceful and unsuspecting prey to share in his new power from as little as a fire, a blade...an unexpected drop.... He was more cautious, now. The new life had tamed his fire. And apparently, that new sense of judgement extended to conversation, too.

He supposed he should be grateful for that.

"Well?" Etho raised an eyebrow.

He wasn't, really. Screw it.

"Well - well maybe I didn't need saving!"

Bdubs locked his eyes on the ground, pretending to navigate a tricky patch of tree roots. He scowled. His swollen eye watered. Without the adrenaline of red-hood, it hurt to be angry.

Etho stopped walking. "Seemed like it to me. You sure weren't going to going to save yourself."

His head snapped up. Turns out he might have a little fire left after all.

"Of all the nerve - can you hear yourself right now! I said I didn't need saving!" Bdubs grabbed Etho by the shoulder, surprising himself with how forcefully he yanked him around to face him. He couldn’t believe that after all this time and all this drama, all his begging, this blockhead of a best friend of his still couldn’t seem to understand -

"I was fine as a red name, and you could have been too! We could have burned this whole place down from our castle and had the whole world to ourselves afterwards if you would have just listened to me..." He angrily swiped at his eye. He wished the damn thing would stop watering so much. Felt like the other one was starting up, too.

"...Bdubs." Etho reached out a hand, brushing briefly over the healing wounds on his face and coming to rest on his shoulder. Bdubs froze at the touch, before slowly allowing his shoulders to slump. The sudden pity infused in the voice as it said his name made all the rage leak away, leaving behind only simple, sad exhaustion.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean it."

"You did." Etho sighed.

"Is that okay?"

"Yeah."

A long moment of silence passed, just the two former fighters looking at each other in the cool, sharp air beneath the swaying spruce trees.

Finally, Bdubs laughed, low and sad.

"I lied. To myself, that is. I knew it would never have lasted."

"I almost did it."

Bdubs turned and started walking again, doing his best to ignore the bittersweet pit those words opened in his chest. "Then this'll be the second time today I call you stupid. Come on, let's just head back. It's getting dark, and after all this there's no way I'm going red again from a creeper."

He was grateful, really. He was grateful. And angry. And regretful, and angry again, and wondering exactly how close Etho had been to joining him rather than getting him that contract. He wondered how long Etho had negotiated with Scar. He wondered long he had stood on the edge of the wall, looking down, before he had decided to choose that path.

Bdubs didn't know what to feel. All he could do was stare at his ally’s unreadable back as they walked one in front of the other, and curse him for being so...Etho.

"Woah - hey!" Bdubs was so lost in thought, he almost bumped into Etho when he stumbled against a tree. "Are you alright?"

"Fine, fine." Etho gripped the tree and pushed himself back upright, dusting off his vest. "Just took a wrong step. Tired."

"Yeah, I can see that." Bdubs took a closer look at his friend’s face. He remembered all too clearly the way the Boogyman curse felt: how his heartrate wouldn't come down, how his muscles all tensed up even when there was no action, how the adrenaline never faded until after he'd killed Grian.... And Etho had held onto the curse for so long - almost the entire week. Although he was standing upright now, Bdubs didn't miss the unfocused film of dizziness in his eyes. He must be exhausted.

He'd waited so long to kill. All because he'd set himself another goal first.

"Are you sure you're okay? You look like hell." Bdubs shook himself out of his thoughts and dressed his worry in an insult.

"Hey, speak for yourself." Etho started walking again, barely catching another stumble but continuing on, picking up the pace. "You're the one who got your face rearranged by the netherrack."

"Eh, I'll be fine - " Bdubs subtly switched tracks, sensing an opportunity.

"Yeah, actually, now that you mention it... I'm not feeling too good. Could you slow down a bit? Maybe even come back here so I can lean on your arm?" He let out a pathetic cough, wincing and bringing a hand to his battered face to cover up a grin.

Etho barely hesitated. "Of course."

They carried on towards the Team BEST fortress, now traversing moonlit grass and snow. The longer they walked, the more weight Etho let slump onto Bdubs' shoulder, until it was more than obvious who was really supporting who - but Bdubs said nothing. The time for mocking and friendly rivalry was over. Tonight, they were just two people, tired to the bone in a world where rest was quickly becoming a thing of the past. Words could wait for the sunrise. For now, all they had to do was breathe, and be thankful that the both of them were still doing so.

At last, the white walls came into view. Bdubs shifted Etho's arm across his back so he could reach for a shovel to dig a makeshift entrance from the wall. The prospect of pressing the snowballs back into blocks and replacing them sounded simply exhausting, so he just kept one to press against his eye and maneuvered himself and his cargo inside. He kicked a fence post out of the way - no need for that old line anymore - and stumbled into their storage room, letting Etho fall with a springy thump onto the bed in the corner.

"You could have warned me," he muffled through the pillow.

"You could have caught yourself." Bdubs perched on the edge of a storage chest and turned the snowball over to a new side. "Be happy I didn't dump you on the floor, you poor delicate flower."

"I wasn't going to catch myself." Etho rolled over onto his back, hazily opening one eye to regard Bdubs. His face was deeply worn, but his gaze was clear.

"Thank you for looking after me when I couldn't."

The snowball broke. Bdubs caught the two fractured pieces in his hand. He sighed, looking down at them. Slowly, firmly, he pressed the two parts back together into one whole.

"No. Thank you."

[fvrxdrm]

5 Times

Pairing: Damnation!Leon Kennedy x Reader

Warning(s): None

*****

4 times Leon didn't confess his love and 1 time he did.

One

It was the giggles that sailed upon your boat, the laughter, the smiles. You both saw the funny in everything and that was your bond. You could be serious too; you loved deeply of others more than what was generally accepted. So you guessed the humor was how you let out the tension that kind of love brings. In those silly moments you were perfect, and they were the sweetness you needed in rough times. That's what friends do, right? It's the love that makes doors in emotional brick walls, the love that makes everything possible.

That's what Leon always thought. It was so cordial and unique in a way that he felt like what he valued so much was somehow outlandish and alien. He couldn't distinguish what comes out of him whenever you were with him and every tingle that raises hills on his skin was a puzzle he was unable to solve.

"I'll see you around," you mumbled against his chest.

"Yep." Leon unwrapped his arms around you albeit slowly, reluctant for some reason, and smiled through his pursed lips. "I'll see you around."

He watched as you wended your way from his house and into your home, a teasing tug pulling his lips at the ghost of your own against his cheek.

Two

Under the dim lights and the colorful ornamentations, your raiment sparkled against the gleam, catching the eye of many guests, predominantly Leon. You looked like a princess wearing a headband that imitated a crown, a top and a pair of pants embellished with a winking glint that could be mistaken as diamonds from afar, and heeled leather boots that comically made you look tall. Your hair was in a loose and messy braid with a few strands hanging just beside your face and a light chain that twisted along your H/L H/C locks.

Leon was in awe, no doubt. His focus was glued to your appearance. Even when his friends were making random conversations with him, he found it unbearably hard to keep his icy blues away from you.

"You should just ask her out, you know. You've been staring at her with heart eyes the entire night," Chris spoke as he followed the trail of Leon's gaze towards you.

Leon broke away from his stupor and shook his head at the man's voice, his blood rushing towards his neck and face.

"What? No, no. You're mistaken. I-I don't like her like that."

"You sure? Last time we were drunk you were yelling about how much you love her right into my ear."

"We were drunk, Chris."

"And? What's that saying again? A drunk man's words are a sober man's thoughts?" Chris simpered as Leon's eyes widened in surprise.

"What? Th-that's not true!" He denied.

"Mhm, sure. Anyway, my girlfriend's probably looking for me now," the taller and bulkier man said. "At least ask her to dance."

As Chris' footsteps faded away into the beat of the music, Leon thought about what he had said.

Did he actually like her, or was it just something he was confusing himself with? Either way, you were still a treasured dear to him and whether or not his heart was romantically beating for you, he would still value you the same, although he would probably be a bit clingier if you did end up together.

For now, he'll just ask you for a dance, go with the flow, and see what happens.

Three

The night rode in on a horse of pure midnight velvet, beckoned by the stars under the glow of a full moon. As the colors of the day rested, perhaps dreamt of the morrow, the forest became its monochrome beauty, darkened greens and golds that made an ever-changing, ever-present puzzle, question and answer united.

Fire danced beside you as you and Leon laid against under the constellation of stars and talked the night away, smiling and laughing at every jest that was told.

It felt pleasant to be in his arms and he felt warmth as a wild heart beat in his bars.

"This one," you began, leading his fingers towards a raised and silvery part of your skin, "I got this when I was younger. I got stabbed by a pencil."

"A pencil?"

"Yeah. My friend and I got into a fight and it was buried, like, 3-fucking-inches inside of me. And holy shit, my teacher didn't fucking notice it while I was bleeding profusely. I was leaking hamburger helper!"

Leon busted a gut and pulled you towards him even more as he shook in laughter.

You went on and on about the most absurd things that had happen during your childhood until you lost all energy and eventually fell asleep in Leon's arms.

You looked peaceful, he thought. Your face was so serene as if nothing had really affected you in any way. The world was cruel, but you only sought for the brighter side and stood along it with your back turned to the hell it truly bore. Your lips were parted lightly, and hair just a tad bit messy from all the exaggerated movements you'd done while telling your stories and tossing your head back while laughing. A part of your skin was showing as your top rode up, and he couldn't the blush that crawled up to his face when realized his hand was rested on that patch of skin.

He smiled.

Maybe he did like you, or love you. If his admiration wasn't enough, then his heart reassured him.

Four

"Oh, fuck!"

You swam away from Leon as fast as your arms and legs could fight against the water as he chased you, muscles and quads aiding him. Compared to you, he was more skilled in this type of stuff while you had chicken legs with barely anything of assistance. So it was no surprise when he caught up to you with spider hands and wrapped his arms around your waist. He tickled your stomach, the bareness of it making the stimulation all the more patent and making you guffaw while squirming in his arms.

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry!" You cried in between laughter. You turned around to face him when you felt his hands making a stop against the side of torso and looked at the wonders of his eyes steadily and intensely.

You didn't notice it, but Leon's breath hitched at the proximity of your faces, the hot air that flew out of your nose hitting the droplets on his face. You were in a daze. Both of you. It felt so intimate and bona fide that for a second that was your only reality.

Your fingers trailed up his chest, neck, and finally his cheek, and for a moment, your hand was still on his face with only your thumb moving to stroke the scar that was stripped away from his hair. Leon furrowed his brows. The inside of your lip was lightly bitten as you thought about your next action for a moment. But decided that fuck it, life is short. If he felt the same way than congrats! But if he didn't, well, it's either he'll pull away or kiss back with no purpose. And hey, what's the matter with making out with your best friend?

And so, you drew a bit closer, albeit rather slowly in case Leon wanted to pull away. But seeing as he was copying your motions, you saw his intention and pressed your lips against his in a shy lip-lock.

Five

Leon tugged on his tie as he looked at the people dancing around inside of the venue, his heart doing a little dance of its own when he saw you smiling with the crowd.

He blew a sigh, the breeze intertwining with the air. He could see the party from the balcony: flashes of different color schemes, the swaying of dresses as the women moved, the chattering of people as they drank the glasses of champagne. He couldn't believe it. He couldn't believe this was all about you and him; two souls entwined by love.

"I see you didn't invite me," a sultry and velvety voice said from beside him. He knew who it was and it didn't faze him anymore to see her appearing uninvited as she always did.

"What are you doing here, Ada?"

"What, I can't go see two of my favorite people anymore?"

"Well, it always ended in a mess, anyway, so what's the point." Ada chuckled in response and leaned back against the railing, the smile her giggling left still ghosting on her face. It was all jokes, fun, and games to her for a moment until she turned serious and gazed at you from a distance where you couldn't notice.

"Take care of each other, Leon. You both are worth more than what you give yourselves credit for," she muttered. "I wish I could've given her the life you're giving to her now. But I can't, and I'll remain like this until I die."

In the depths of her mind, Ada reminisced on the time when she was in Leon's position. She gave the love you needed and wanted, and cared for you in so many ways. But she was a mercenary, a wanted one at that, and she knew that one day, everything would be thrown into a void or burned until it turned to ashes. So, she broke what you had off and handed you to Leon where he could give you a better life.

Leon couldn't say anything. It seemed rude and odd but he remembered when you knocked on his door, drenched in rain water and sobbing everything from your chest. It hurt to see you like that. And so, he promised. He promised to be the best husband he could ever be and shower you with everything he could give you.

"Leon!" Your voice rang out as you ran towards him with a wide smile on your face, startling the both of them.

Leon turned towards where Ada stood but saw that she was gone as if she was nothing but an apparition that was made by his mind.

He was befuddled for a moment, pondering about his encounter with the woman, but found his heart racing as you came closer to him.

What transpired was long forgotten and all the world could see how Leon mimicked the smile that defined the joy you brought to him. He was just happy to share such a beautiful moment with you and he optimistically wondered about what was ahead of you.

He pulled you towards him and spun you around as he battered your face with kisses, whispering 'I love you's and so many more sweet nothings against your cheeks while you laughed in his arms.

Hidden within the shadows was the raven-haired woman, imitating their smiles as she watched the intimacy from afar. She felt like her mission was done and although it hurt, she was thankful for what she'd done. Leon was going to give you the life you deserved and he was going to fill the holes she'd left.

*****

This was rushed. Lol. And I'm using my phone. How was it tho?

This was the outfit I had in mind. Feel free to change it though.

[causeiwanttoandican]

Harry, Meghan and me: my truth as a royal reporter

I've covered elections and extremism, but nothing compares to the vitriol I've received since I started writing about the Sussexes

By Camilla Tominey, Associate Editor27 March 2021 • 6:00am

It is probably worth mentioning from the outset that I never, ever, planned to become a royal reporter. I mean, who does? It’s one of those ridiculous jobs most people fall into completely by accident.

I certainly wasn’t coveting the position when I first found out how bonkers the beat could be after covering Charles and Camilla’s wedding in 2005. Desperate for ‘a line’ on what went on at the reception, journalists were reduced to flagging down passing cars in Windsor High Street and interrogating the likes of Stephen Fry about whether they’d had the salmon or the chicken.

Watergate, this wasn’t.

Yet when my former editor called me into his office shortly afterwards and offered me the royal job ‘because you’re called Camilla and you dress nicely’, who was I to refuse?

Having planned to get married myself that summer, and start a family soon afterwards, I looked to the likes of Jennie Bond and Penny Junor and figured it would be a good patch for a working mother as well as being one I could grow old with. Unlike show business, when celebrities are ‘in’ one minute and ‘out’ the next, the royals would stay the same, making it easier to build – and keep – contacts.

So if you’d told me that 16 years later, I would find myself at the centre of a media storm over a royal interview with Oprah Winfrey, I’d have probably laughed in your face. First of all, only royals like Fergie do interviews with Oprah. And since when did journalists become the story?

Yet as I have experienced since the arrival of Meghan Markle on the royal scene in 2016 – a move that roughly coincided with Twitter doubling its 140-character limitation to 280 – royal reporters like me now find themselves in the line of fire like never before.

We are used to the likes of Kate Adie coming under attack in the Middle East, but now it is the correspondents who write up events like Trooping the Colour and the Royal Windsor Horse Show having to take cover from the keyboard warriors supposedly defending the Duke and Duchess of Sussex’s ‘truth’.

Accusations of racism have long been levelled against anyone who has dared to write less than undiluted praise of Harry and Meghan. But even I have been taken aback by the vitriol on social media in the wake of the couple’s televised two-hour talk-a-thon, in which they branded both the Royal family and the British press racist while complaining about their ‘almost unsurvivable’ multimillionaire lives at the hands of the evil monarchy. And all while the rest of the UK were losing their loved ones and livelihoods in a global pandemic.

Having covered Brexit, general elections and stories about Islamic extremism, I’ve grown used to being sprayed with viral vomit on a fairly regular basis, but when you’ve got complete strangers trolling your best friend’s Instagram feed by association? That’s Britney Spears levels of toxic.

Having a hind thicker than a rhino’s, it wasn’t the repeated references to my being ‘a total c—’ that particularly bothered me, nor even the suggestion that I should have my three children put up for adoption. At one point someone even said it would be a good idea for me to drink myself to death like my mother, about whose chronic alcoholism I have written extensively.

No, what really got me was the appalling spelling and grammar. I mean, if you’re going to hurl insults, at least have the decency to get my name right.

Yet in order to understand just how it has come to pass that so-called #SussexSquaders think nothing of branding all royal correspondents ‘white supremacists’ regardless of who they write for, or sending hate mail to our email addresses, offices – and in some cases, even our homes – it’s worth briefly going to back to when I first broke the story that Prince Harry was dating an American actor in the Sunday Express on 31 October 2016. Headlined: ‘Royal world exclusive: Harry’s secret romance with TV star’, the splash revealed how the popular prince was ‘secretly dating a stunning US actress, model and human rights campaigner’.

Despite my now apparently being on a par with the Ku Klux Klan for failing to acknowledge Meghan as the next messiah, it was actually not until the fifteenth paragraph of that original article that the ‘confident and intelligent’ Northwestern University graduate was described as ‘the daughter of an African-American mother and a father of Dutch and Irish descent’.

Call me superficial, but I was genuinely far more interested in the fact that Harry ‘I-come-with-baggage’ Wales was dating a former ‘briefcase girl’ from the US version of Deal or No Deal than the colour of her skin. A ginger prince punching well above his weight? This was the stuff of tabloid dreams. Little did I know then that covering the trials and tribulations of these two lovebirds would turn into such a nightmare.

The online hostility began bubbling up about eight days after that first story, when Harry’s then communications secretary Jason Knauf issued an ‘unprecedented’ statement accusing the media of ‘crossing a line’.

‘His girlfriend, Meghan Markle, has been subject to a wave of abuse and harassment’, it read, referencing a ‘smear on the front page of a national newspaper; the racial undertones of comment pieces; and the outright sexism and racism of social media trolls and web article comments’. Meghan’s mother, Doria Ragland, had apparently been besieged by photographers, while bribes had been offered to Meghan’s ex-boyfriend along with ‘the bombardment of nearly every friend, coworker, and loved one in her life’.

Suffice to say, I did feel a bit guilty. Although I hadn’t written anything remotely racist or sexist, I had started the ball rolling for headlines like the MailOnline’s ‘(Almost) straight outta Compton’ (referencing a song by hip-hop group NWA about gang violence and Meghan’s upbringing in the nearby LA district of Crenshaw), along with her ‘exotic’ DNA (which I subsequently called out, including on This Morning in the wake of ‘Megxit’ in January last year).

Omid Scobie, co-author of Finding Freedom, a highly favourable account of the Sussexes’ departure from the Royal family, written with their cooperation last summer, would later insist that the couple knew the story of their relationship was coming out and were well prepared for it.

I can tell you categorically that they weren’t, since I did not even put a call into Kensington Palace before we went to press for fear of it being leaked. (I did later discuss this with Harry, when I covered his trip to the Caribbean in November 2016, and to be fair he was pretty philosophical, agreeing it would have come out sooner or later. But that was before the former Army Captain decided to well and truly shoot the messenger, latterly telling journalists covering the newly-weds’ tax-payer-funded October 2018 tour of Australia and the south Pacific: ‘Thanks for coming, even though you weren’t invited.’)

The royal press pack is the group of dedicated writers who cover all the official engagements and tours on a rota system, in exchange for not bothering the royals as they go about their private business. It was a shame this ragtag bunch, of which I am an associate member, was never personally introduced to Meghan when the couple got engaged in November 2017.

I still have fond memories of a then Kate Middleton, upon her engagement to Prince William in November 2010, showing me her huge sapphire and diamond ring following a press conference at St James’s Palace with the words, ‘It was William’s mother’s so it is very special.’

I replied that she might want to consider buying ‘one of those expanding accordion style file holders’ to organise all her wedding paperwork. (Reader, I had given birth to my second child less than four months earlier and was still lactating.)

Not meeting Meghan did not stop royal commentators like me writing reams about her being ‘a breath of fresh air’ and telling practically every TV show I appeared on that she was the ‘best thing to have happened to the Royal Family in years’.

As the world followed the joyous news of the Windsors’ resident strip billiards star having finally found ‘the one’, the couple enjoyed overwhelmingly positive press culminating in their fairy-tale wedding in May 2018, which we headlined ‘So in love’ above a picture of the bride and groom kissing. I tweeted the wedding front page, along with the original story breaking the news of their relationship with the words, ‘Job done’. Yet, as Meghan would later point out in a glossy Santa Barbara garden, that was by far the end of the story.

According to the Duchess’s testimony before a global audience of millions, the seeds for their royal departure were actually sown by an article I wrote in November 2018 suggesting she made Kate cry during a bridesmaid’s dress fitting for Princess Charlotte.

Claiming the ‘reverse happened’, the former Suits star railed, ‘A few days before the wedding she was upset about something, pertaining to, yes, the issue was correct, about flower-girl dresses, and it made me cry, and it really hurt my feelings.’

She then went on to criticise the palace for failing to correct the story – suggesting that royal aides had hung her out to dry to protect the Duchess of Cambridge.

All of which left me in a bit of a sticky situation. As I told Phillip Schofield on This Morning the following day, ‘I don’t write things I don’t believe to be true and that haven’t been really well sourced.’

Having seemingly been completely bowled over by Meghan’s version of events, Schofe then went for the jugular: ‘I have to say, though, that’s all addressed in that interview, isn’t it, because she [Meghan] couldn’t understand why nobody stood up for her?’

Yet someone had stood up for her, on that very same This Morning sofa: me.

As I told Phil and Holly on 14 January 2019, as more reports of ‘Duchess Difficult’ started to emerge, ‘I think she [Meghan] is doing really well, she looks amazing, she speaks well. She has played a blinder.’

So you’ll forgive me if I can’t quite understand why Meghan didn’t feel the need to correct this supposedly glaring error once she had her own dedicated head of communications from March 2019 – or indeed when she ‘collaborated’ with Scobie, who concluded in his bestselling hagiography that ‘no one cried’?

Moreover, how did the Duchess know a postnatal Kate wasn’t ‘left in tears’? And if she doesn’t know, what hope has the average troll observing events through the prism of their own deep-rooted insecurities?

It appears the actual truth ceases to matter once sides have been taken in the unedifying Team Meghan versus Team Kate battle that has divided the internet.

Make no mistake, there are abject morons at both extremes spewing the sort of bile that, ironically, makes most of the media coverage of Harry and Meghan look like a 1970s edition of Jackie magazine.

It perhaps didn’t help my case that the day before the interview was aired in the US, I had written a lengthy piece carefully weighing up the evidence behind allegations of ‘outrageous bullying’ that had been levelled against Meghan during what proved to be a miserable 20 months in the Royal family for all concerned.

The messages – to my Twitter feed, my email, my website and official Facebook page – ranged from the threatening, to the typical tropes about media ‘scum’ and the downright bizarre. Some accused me of being in cahoots with Carole Middleton, with whom I have never interacted, unless you count a last-minute Party Pieces purchase in a desperate moment of poor parental planning.

Another frequent barb was questioning why the press wasn’t writing about that ‘pedo’ [sic] Prince Andrew instead – seemingly oblivious to the fact that no one would know about the Duke of York’s links to Jeffrey Epstein if it wasn’t for the acres of coverage devoted to the story by us royal hacks over recent years.

It didn’t matter that I had repeatedly torn the Queen’s second, and, some say, favourite son to pieces for everything from his propensity to take his golf clubs on foreign tours to that disastrous Newsnight interview.

Contrary to the ‘invisible contract’ Harry claims the palace has with the press, royal coverage works roughly like this: good royal deeds = good publicity. Bad royal deeds = bad publicity. We effectively act as a critical friend, working on behalf of a public that rightly expects the royals to take the work – but not themselves – seriously.

So when a royal couple preaches about climate change before taking four private jets in 11 days, it is par for the course for a royal scribe to point out the inconsistency of that message. None of it is ever personal, as evidenced by the fact that practically every member of the monarchy has come in for flak over the years.

If Oprah wasn’t willing to point out the discrepancies in Harry and Meghan’s testimony, surely it is beholden on royal reporters to question how the Duchess had managed to undertake four foreign holidays in the six months after her wedding, in addition to official tours to Italy, Canada, and Amsterdam, as well as embarking on a lengthy honeymoon, if she had ‘turned over’ her passport?

While no one would wish to undermine the extent of her mental health problems, could it really be true that she only left the house twice in four months when she managed to cram in 73 days’ worth of engagements, according to the Court Circular, in the 17 months between her wedding and the couple’s departure to Canada?

And what of the ‘racist’ headlines flashed up during the interview purporting to be from the British press, when more than a third were actually taken from independent blogs and the foreign media? The UK media abides by the Independent Press Standards Organisation’s Code of Conduct ‘to avoid prejudicial or pejorative reference to an individual’s race’, as well as by rigorous defamation laws. And rightly so – the British press doesn’t always get it right. But social media is the Wild West by comparison, publishing vile slurs on a daily basis with impunity.

Some therefore find it strange that such a litigious couple would claim to have been ‘silenced’ when they have made so many complaints, including resorting to legal action, over stories they claim not to have even read. There is something similarly contradictory about a couple accusing the tabloids of lacking self-reflection while refusing to take any blame at all – for anything.

In any normal world, informed writing on such matters would be classed as fair comment, but not, seemingly, on Twitter where those completely lacking any objectivity whatsoever are only too willing to virtue signal and manoeuvre.

As the trolling reached fever pitch in the aftermath of the interview, veteran royal reporter Robert Jobson of the Evening Standard called me. ‘Don’t respond to these freaks,’ he advised. ‘It’s getting nasty out there. Watch your back!’

Yet despite my general sense of bewilderment at the menacing Megbots, I can’t say it didn’t appal me to discover a close friend had received online abuse, purely by dint of being my mate. After discussing the lengths the troll must have gone to to track her down, she asked me, ‘Do you ever worry someone might do something awful to you?’ Er, not until now, no.

Of course it’s upsetting, even for a cynical old-timer like me. Worse still are people who actually know me casting aspersions on my profession on social media. Often these are the same charlatans who would think nothing of sidling up to me for the latest gossip on the Royal family, while publicly pretending that reading any such coverage is completely beneath them.

Most pernicious of all though – not least after Piers Morgan’s departure from Good Morning Britain following a complaint to ITV and Ofcom from the Duchess – is the corrosive effect this whole hullabaloo is having on freedom of speech. When you’ve got a former actor effectively editing a British breakfast show from an £11 million Montecito mansion, what next?

I cannot help but think we are in danger of setting race relations back 30 years if people are seriously suggesting that any criticism of Meghan is racially motivated. It’s the hypocrisy that gets me. When Priti Patel was accused of bullying, the very same people who willingly hung the Home Secretary out to dry are now the ones defending Meghan against such claims, saying they have been levelled at her simply because she is ‘a strong woman of colour’.

Of course journalists should take responsibility for everything they report and be held to account for it – but Harry and Meghan do not have a monopoly on the truth simply because the close friend and neighbour who interviewed them in return for £7 million from CBS took what they said as gospel.

If she isn’t willing to probe the disparity between Meghan saying someone questioned the colour of Archie’s skin when she was pregnant, and Harry suggesting it happened before they were even married, then someone must. There’s a name for such scrutiny. It’s called journalism.

The public reserves the right to make up its own mind – with the help of the watchful eye of a free and fair press. But that press can never be free or fair if journalists do not feel they can report without fear or favour. I’m lucky that a lot of the criticism I face is more than balanced out by hugely supportive members of the public and online community who either agree – or respect the right to disagree. Along with the hate mail, I have had many thoughtful and eloquent missives, including those that good naturedly challenge what I have written in the paper or said on TV, which have genuinely given me pause for thought.

I am more than happy to enter into constructive discourse with these correspondents, who are frankly sometimes the only people who keep me on Twitter. I mean, let’s face it, I wouldn’t be anywhere near the bloody thing if this wasn’t my day job.

With the National Union of Journalists this month declaring that harassment and abuse had ‘become normalised’ within the industry, never have members of Britain’s press needed more courage. As Winston Churchill famously said, ‘You have enemies? Good. That means you’ve stood up for something, sometime in your life.’

Who would have thought that the preservation of the fundamental freedoms that we hold so dear should partially rest on the shoulders of those who follow around a 94-year-old woman and her family for a living?

If I’d known then what I know now, would I still have written the bridesmaid’s dress story?

Yes – doubtlessly reflecting sisterly sobs all round. But after two decades in this business, I am clear-eyed enough to know this for certain: whatever I had written, it would still have ended in tears.

[karlyanalora]

Number 8 for the Transformers prompts please

Prowl was about to strangle a saboteur.

His Amica was dancing around him, laughing, his much smaller frame nimbly ducking around Prowl’s attempts to grab him.

“Give me back my datapad you Pit forsaken glitch!” the Praxian growled.

Jazz just grinned. “Nope! I’ve arranged a double date for the two of us.”

“I have work-” Prowl began.

“-and you will until your deactivated.” Jazz replied. “So learn to live a little! We’re on leave, mech. Don’t make me get Prime to make it an order.”

Prowl rolled his optics. “Fine.”

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

Prowl was about to strangle a saboteur.

“Don’t you dare die on me you stubborn glitch,” he growled out as he desperately tried to patch Jazz’s meany leaking lines. He was loosing Energon fast and Prowl didn’t like how gray he looked. “Ratchet will be here soon. Just hold on, I can’t lose you too.”

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

Prowl was about to strangle a saboteur. “Do I even want to know how you escaped med bay?”

Jazz looked guilty and small. His chassis was still wrapped in temporary metal wraps and welds. He looked at the floor.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

Prowl softened and stepped out of his room. “Come on, lets get you back to med bay. I’ll stay with you, alright?”

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

Prowl was about to strangle a saboteur. “Why would you agree to this?”

Jazz sighed. “Look, Mags needs someone to keep an eye on Sentinel. We can’t kick him out because his creators are to powerful, so I’m running damage control.”

“Have you no pride?” Prowl spat. “Pretending to be some mildly xenophobic rookie? Have you no honor? You’ll have to use Processor Over Matter to maintain your cover and pull the steel wool over Ratchet’s optics. You and Magnus are going to pretend to not believe Optimus!”

Jazz looked up at him sadly. “I know. But we’re hoping the Cons have given up and we can brush this all under the rug. The Cons have suffered enough and we don’t need another war if we can avoid it.”

“And if you can’t?” Prowl asked.

“Then I’ll stay assigned to Sentinel and keep running damage control.”

Prowl turned away. “So things are right back where they started.”

Jazz turned to leave. “Take care, Prowl. I’ll let you know when I’m on leave next.”

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

Prowl was about to strangle a saboteur. “Don’t you dare blame yourself for my son’s death.”

Jazz didn’t look up from where his helm was buried in his servos. “It should have been me.”

Prowl pulled Jazz closer. “You couldn’t have stopped him.”

“I should have brought him home to you.”

“And what, let Megatron know his hated ex-second in command’s son was on Earth? He would have hunted him down and slaughtered him. You were a friend to my son and you taught him all you knew. There is nothing else I could ask for.”

“You sent him away to protect him from this War,” Jazz said dejectedly. “But it found him anyway.”

Prowl looked up to gaze at the grave of his son.

Here lies Prowl, he who made the Allspark whole.

[wondernimbus]

play pretend — draco malfoy

pairing: draco malfoy x female!reader

prompt: in which two people are forced into marriage; reader falls in love. draco doesn’t. 

a/n: hi listen to the song dusk til dawn if you wanna get into ur feelings while reading this .. anyways enjoy!!! 

No matter how much Draco tried to deny it, part of her had always known that unwanted feelings lingered. Feelings from the past that should have been left there but weren’t—feelings that shone through during the most intimate moments; underneath bed covers, when Astoria’s name would slip past his lips instead of hers, or afternoons spent out by the garden when she would catch his eye and find him looking at her in a way that made it so painfully obvious that he was trying to find something in her that he could love.

The first time his and [Y/N]’s families had ever met, Narcissa Malfoy had pulled her away from the dining table to tell her in a voice of caution about a girl named Astoria Greengrass; the very same one Draco had fallen in love with during his time at Hogwarts. The girl came from a wealthy family, but one that was not wealthy enough—her blood was pure but her name not as well-respected as that of the Malfoys’ (word had leaked of an early ancestor having married a Muggle). Simply put, she was, though close to it, not good enough for Draco. The history of her family line and her insufficient wealth just couldn’t make the cut; Astoria Greengrass wasn’t good enough to wed into the Malfoy family—regardless of how much Draco claimed to have felt for her.

And so Astoria and Draco’s story ended with tragedy; with separation and arranged marriages to anyone but each other. Astoria wedded a man of her status; someone who could afford to marry her, and Draco to [Y/N], who had never known love until she met him—the very person who couldn't feel the same for her.

She'd wedded Draco fully aware that mutual feelings of affection were the last of any of their families' concerns. As long as no Muggle blood besmirched each others' family trees and the purity of blood was carried on further into newer generations, petty things like love hardly mattered.

Except somewhere along their forced time together in a lonely manor by the countryside—a dowry from her family to the Malfoys—[Y/N] began to look at Draco as less of the man who had been forced into marriage with her and more of a man she could learn to love. And so she did; she learned and loved and found a comfort in him that she had never been expecting to. It took time, yes, but once she took that courageous step and the floor gave out underneath her feet and she fell for Draco faster than she could even blink, she couldn't stop.

Because once you start to love someone, you are done for. You won't be able to pull yourself back out.

Maybe that's why Draco can't forget that one Astoria Greengrass. Maybe that's why he can't quite look at [Y/N] the way she wants him to. Maybe it's why, when [Y/N] foolishly tells him "I love you" in hopes that maybe this time he'll say it back, he doesn't.

[Y/N] wants to be angry. She wants to be able to grasp Draco’s shoulders, shake him to his senses and scream at him to forget Astoria, you can never have each other but you have me and I love you and I want you to be able to say the same for me so please just let go of her. But to set her pride aside and ask something like that of him takes plenty of courage—courage that [Y/N] isn’t entirely sure she has.

So she sits and pretends like everything is fine. Tells herself that the man she loves loves her back when she knows he doesn’t. And he knows it too.

Playing pretend—she’s gotten quite good at it over time.

—

When Draco holds her at midnight and presses himself close to her, it's like he's trying to imprint himself onto her very skin, trying to ingrain part of himself onto every inch of her body he can reach. And in a way, he does, in patches of faint red and purple and dark blues that mark her skin wherever his lips go.

They almost never talk at night. They're much too busy wrapped up in each other's arms and legs to bother with words. [Y/N] threads her fingers through his hair and pulls him in and Draco kisses her so hard it's like he's trying to make up for everything that he can't give her; kisses with passion that isn't quite driven by love but rather desperation for something—someone—he can't quite have.

And it hurts because [Y/N] knows that when Draco groans into her mouth and tightens his grip on her waist and glides his lips down her skin, it's not her face in his head. And it's not her name that leaves his lips, either, when the night progresses and they are drunk in one another's touch.

But [Y/N] is okay with it—or so she tells herself.

She has Draco. She's happy. She loves him, even though he doesn't. She is happy.

She has to be.

—

Jealousy.

That's what [Y/N] feels.

[Y/N] has never met Astoria Greengrass but she is pathetically jealous of her. She is jealous of everything about Astoria that Draco fell in love with, whatever that might be. And it's ridiculous because she doesn't even know what she looks like or how she is; all that [Y/N] knows about her is that she must truly be something else to have captured Draco Malfoy's heart and to still have it in her hands after all of this time.

An arranged marriage and a year forced apart—you'd think that that would be enough for Draco to move on.

They've been together for a while. Draco still looks at her like he's not really seeing her. He doesn't love her, and [Y/N] isn't exactly sure he ever will. Every day she wakes and hopes that by some miracle he has opened his eyes and has begun to finally see past the future she knows he still fantasizes about with Astoria, but that is yet to happen. For now [Y/N] is helplessly in love with a man who has his heart set on someone else.

And at some point she has become angry, but not at Draco nor the woman he loves—no, she is angry at herself. She catches sight of herself in the mirror and hates what is staring back at her. She goes up to her reflection and frowns and contemplates what it is she's missing. If the sight of her own face is revolting to herself, then it is no doubt that others feel the same way—including Draco—and is that why he can't love her? Because of how ugly she is? Or is it how she acts? How she speaks, how she laughs, how she smiles, how she is?

Whenever Draco disappears to "clear his head" and [Y/N] is left alone, she finds that the manor is too small to hold the vast amount of nothingness spilling out of her at the seams, so she goes out into the highest balcony that overlooks the sea and breathes in as much of the salty breeze as she can until the feeling in her chest doesn't quite feel as suffocating anymore.

It's not the marriage she'd been hoping for all of those years ago when she was a naive child who believed in fairy tales and happy endings. But at the very least, she loves. And she is grateful to Draco for allowing her to know what that feels like, even when he can't quite give it back to her.

—

But hearts are made of soft things, tissue and blood and muscle. Things that break and wound easy. Things that tend to scar instead of heal. There is only so much you can do until a human reaches breaking point and their heart gives away, and [Y/N] finds herself one Thursday evening with blood dripping down her knuckles and shards of glass scattered on the floor.

"What happened?" Draco's voice is soft, imploring, almost loving but not quite. It's always almost. Almost what [Y/N] wants. Almost how a husband should love his wife. Almost.

"Tripped," [Y/N] winces. Draco kneels down in front of her from where she's sitting on the toilet, hands gently caressing her own to inspect her blood-smattered knuckles. It's a terrible excuse; how do you trip and punch a mirror?

But Draco doesn't question it, and [Y/N] doesn't have to tell him that she'd looked into the mirror and despised what she saw so much that she'd been overcome by an irrational anger and began to beat her fists against her own reflection until the glass splintered and the skin of her wrists did so along with it.

Draco tells her to wait, so she does, sitting in the cold bathroom by herself with blood dripping down her knuckles onto the floor until Draco comes back with a cloth in one hand and a pouch of healing ointments in the other. Once he's cleaned up the mess on the floor, he kneels in front of her again and, quietly, gently, he begins to wipe the blood from her hands.

"Does it hurt?" Draco murmurs. His brows are drawn in the middle in a slight frown as he tries his hardest not to press too hard. He pauses and looks up at her, and his eyes are gentle, almost loving. Almost.

[Y/N] forces out a painful laugh. "Nothing I can't handle."

A smile tugs on the edges of Draco's lips. "As expected."

Then he quietly resumes nursing her wounds, and [Y/N] doesn't realize that she has started crying until she tastes the tears on her lips. Draco notices but doesn't say anything.

And because she is pathetically in love and she wants him to feel the same, when the cuts on her wrist have been bandaged and Draco is tucking away all of the tubes of ointment in his pouch, saying something about being more careful the next time (even though the both of them know fully well that her tripping was an excuse), [Y/N] tries again and says, "I love you."

Draco freezes for nothing more than a split-second, but [Y/N] notices—her gaze is fixed on him intently, helplessly trying to gauge a reaction that part of her knows won't come. But she wishes it would.

Her wishes are unheard. Draco nods, turns his head just a fraction of an inch to look at her out of the corner of his eye, and offers her a sad smile.

Almost.

—

"No, listen to me, Draco—I am TIRED!"

"And you don't think I am?"

"I know you love her—Merlin, of course I know, I see it every time you look at me—but I'm asking you to try to love m—"

"You say it like it's easy."

There is a sob rattling in the back of her throat. [Y/N] swallows it back down and turns away from Draco like he hasn't already seen the absolute mess of tears on her cheeks.

Draco stares out of the window, jaw taut and his fists clenched so tight at his sides his knuckles have gone a ghostly white.

"I knew we were getting married but I never expected much beyond a sealed contract and an agreement between our families—I never expected to fall in love with you but I did so here I am now asking you to do the same for me."

A beat of silence. "You're not her."

Another swallowed sob. A brand new fissure in her heart that joins the thousands of others. "I'm sorry."

More silence. Then: "I am too."

And then Draco leaves first, because he always does.

—

Their fights don't last long. Days follow and Draco and [Y/N] go about as they always do, pretending like the gaping void between them isn't there. Whenever night comes, Draco will roll over and press a quiet kiss to the back of [Y/N]'s shoulders, snake one hand around her waist, and whisper I'm sorry, and [Y/N] will turn and drag her lips against his until Draco captures them in his own and they are stuck in that endless loop of want again.

Draco kisses the breath out of her and she kisses him back. Kisses him enough to make up for those few terrible minutes of anger she'd accidentally let loose days ago. Kisses him with love, with passion—with everything Draco doesn't have.

When she gasps for air and Draco pulls away and trails his lips down her neck, leaving a trail of what feels like pure flame behind in his wake, she digs her nails into his shoulders and holds him in place. In a strained voice she says: "Look at me."

He doesn't. Draco kisses her throat and against her will she sucks in a desperate, shuddering breath, and the air sounds like Draco's name. "Look at me, Draco," she repeats, fingers pressing into his skin more insistently.

This time he stops and pries his lips away from her skin and hovers over her, eyes searching hers.

"When you're with me," she begins, eyes dark, breath coming quick, "I want to be the only one inside your head. I want you to look into my eyes and see only me."

His grip on her waist tightens; her hands twist unsteadily in his hair, gaze clearing just a tiny bit as she says, "Please."

And then he is dipping down to kiss her again, lips parted, breath rough. Somewhere in between their almost frantic kisses he whispers a response, and [Y/N] is much too lost in the feeling of his skin on hers but she thinks that Draco might be breathing words into her skin. They sound like apologies—sound like I'm sorry, sound like Astoria.

[Y/N] throws her head back as Draco brushes his lips over the curve of her collarbones and whispers something audible this time, and this time it sounds like I'll try. Feels like hope. Feels like a door opening to something.

Feels, for the first time, something more than almost.

[poesparakeet-fics]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Critical Role (Web Series) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Caduceus Clay/Caleb Widogast, Caduceus Clay & Caleb Widogast, The Poly Nein - Relationship Characters: Caleb Widogast, Caduceus Clay Additional Tags: Tickling, ler!Cad, Lee!Caleb, Punishment, Injury, Injury Recovery, Caleb Widogast Needs a Hug, Caleb Widogast is a Mess, Teasing, Queerplatonic Relationships, Pinned, Wrestling, Forced Self Love, And for once I don’t mean that in the sexy way., Safewords Series: Part 3 of The Poly Nein Summary:

Caduceus shows Caleb the consequences of dodging a healing spell around people who love you.

This one’s SFW, so please enjoy it here or on AO3!

This is what happens.

They came home battered, beaten and pissed besides. The others hung around for Jester’s prayer of healing, but Caleb slipped away, too full of old wounds and grey memories to give up his new wounds quite yet. His head ached and his side pulsed painfully while he climbed the stairs. He was nearing his door when a great, heavy hand fell on his shoulder.

“Here,” a warm voice hummed from behind him, “lemme get that for you.”

“Oh Herr Clay, it’s–”

 Caleb’s sentence was choked out by a sudden sucking feeling accompanied by a sharp sound  in his chest as Caduceus’ spell took hold. 

*POP*

Caleb froze, then swayed in his tracks. Perhaps the injury had been a little worse than he thought. He turned around to thank his friend, only to see thunder in the firbolg’s eyes and freeze. He had seen Caduceus upset, annoyed and disappointed, but he wasn’t sure he’d seen him furious before. Until now, that is.

“For real?” Cad’s voice was still it’s usual low, placid cadence. He closed his eyes and pinched the top of his nose.

“Wh-”

“That was a broken rib, Caleb.”

“I was just going to bed–”

“You didn’t take a lick of healing from Jester.” He paused while Caleb floundered under a wave of embarrassment, guilt and stubbornness. “Your rib would have been the first thing to heal, since it’s the most life threatening. Unless you had a dagger through your heart I didn’t know about.”

The lie that was ready on Caleb’s tongue died there.

“I… ah… I did not know it was broken.” He finished lamely.

“That is not…” Caduceus closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, “That’s not the point, you… dammit, OK. OK, We’re gonna deal with this.”

His hand closed around the back of Caleb’s coat, and the now-healthy wizard yipped as he was lifted effortlessly off his feet. As easy as it was to forget Caduceus’ quiet anger, it was easier to forget his rarely-used strength.

Caduceus pulled Caleb into his quarters.

“Caduceus, what–”

“It was one thing when you were still too broken to function or believe anyone could care for you. But that’s not what’s happening here, right? You know better than this now.”

Caleb felt a panicked little chill run up his spine as Caduceus carried him like a suitcase.

“Caduceus, just— wait, I didn’t know–”

“Of course you didn’t. That big, stabbing pain in the side of your body, next to all the vital organs? I can see why you weren’t concerned.” He set Caleb on the oversized bed, and used a stern look to him in place.  “Take off your shirt, I want to check your other ribs.”

“Caduceus, your spell worked fine…”

The firbolg regarded him with mild astonishment. “You really gonna fight me on this?”

Caleb swallowed, and pulled his coat off, then his holsters and shirt. He sat politely and quietly on the edge of the bed, eyes downcast. Caduceus sat next to him, tugging at his arms to manipulate his torso and peer carefully at him. Eventually he let out a breath.

“It looks like the spell healed all of the physical damage.”

Caleb was just starting to relax with slumped shoulders when one large hand caught him across his chest from behind and pulled his torso across Caduceus’ lap. That gave him a chance to catch the wicked twinkle in his friend’s eye and start fighting, but it was too late at that point. He was pinned with both wrists held over his head by Caduceus’ left hand, his torso stretched over the width of the firbolg’s lap while a heavy right elbow held his hips in place.

“Wh-what are you doing?” Caleb squeaked, legs kicking feebly against the mattress. 

“Making sure you remember what happens when you dodge heals from now on. I’m gonna check every one of your ribs, I’m gonna do it until it’s done, and you’re gonna take it because if you bamf away from me, I’m just gonna have to get other people involved.”

With that Cad started to gently trace Caleb’s short rib with a pinching finger and thumb, reaching across the wizard’s body so his arm could block Caleb’s attempts to curl up in a ball.

“Wait, I– Oh, noho!” 

Caleb threw his head back to laugh, every squirm just sending him deeper into Caduceus’ embrace. He could feel the firbolg’s mass shaking against his side, chuckling at his reactions.

“One. That first little one looks OK. Is it supposed to be that small? I should really learn more about human anatomy, huh? Two…” Caduceus moved up one rib, and Caleb’s laughter pitched up despite himself, “Hmm, yeah, that looks good too. So, did you think of what could have happened, if you went to bed?””

“Whahat?” Caleb gasped, unable to grasp the question under the onslaught he was suffering. 

Luckily Caduceus didn’t need him to. “It could have punctured your lung. -Whoops, there’s three.- It could have killed you in your sleep. Four.”

Caduceus was a good way up his ribcage now, and the precision attacks on every solitary bone under thin skin was escalating Caleb’s desperation pretty rapidly. Being stretched out over Cad’s lap made it feel like his breath was being chased out of his chest by long downy fingers.

“Please! I’m sohohory!” He squeaked, heels drumming against the bed. 

“Someone would have found you, cold and dead in the morning. Five. You know, we might have been able to bring you back, but that scar? From finding you? That’s a lot harder to heal.”

Caleb felt a sharp roll of guilt across his stomach. Not that he could express it. “Ahahaha- I-I’m sorry, pleaheeheese!”

“Hm. Are you sorry you did it or are you sorry I caught you? Six.”

“Both!” Caleb squealed, perhaps a bit too honestly.

Caduceus chuckled at him again. “Well, at least I know you’re not hiding things from me anymore. Hmm… where’s seven?”

Caduceus fingers dug around curiously, pretending he couldn’t find the rib he was currently torturing. Caleb thrashed with tears springing into his eyes, but he made no progress in escaping at all. It was like being tormented by a fuzzy mountain. 

Caduceus made a frustrated sound, stopping his torment for a second. Caleb sucked in a few deep breaths.

“You made me lose count,” Caduceus explained, voice full of patently false regret, “I’m gonna have to start over.”

“Nein!” Caleb yelped 

“You’d better hope you have more than nine ribs.” Caduceus teased, laughing when Caleb let out a frustrated growl.

Caduceus’ fingers returned to his lowest short-rib and started counting them out again, quicker than before. This time Caleb was crying by 3, trying desperately to stay still and expel all his ticklish agony without making Caduceus start over again. 

“OK, I found seven this time. Are you ready?”

Caleb sobbed and shook his head no, but Caduceus continued anyway, ignoring his squeal.

“Pleaheeheese! Please, I’m sohohorry!”

“Eight. I do believe you, now,” the firbolg answered, “but the only way you’re getting out of this is to use that special word.  And since you’re too stubborn to use that thing when Jester tortures you for fun, I’m guessing you’re not gonna use it now, when you know you deserve it. Not for little old me.”

Little old Caduceus was currently tickling a powerful mage to tears without so much as a bother, but Caleb didn’t have the breath to point it out. The first time Caduceus had seen the Nein really tickle Caleb to pieces, he had broken it up. Jester had to have a patient talk about safewords to convince him it was OK. Now he was wielding it against Caleb, and if he could, the wizard definitely would have pouted about it. 

As it was his face was forced into a bright smile that he tried to hide against one bicep, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes to roll past pink cheeks and red ears. His feet kicked helplessly at the air when Cad’s fingers moved again.

“There’s nine. So I think you’re just gonna have to take this, but if you’re cooperative and not stubborn, we’ll get through it quicker, OK?”

Caleb wanted to wail that he didn’t know what that meant but settled for just wailing instead. Caduceus was quickly getting to the ticklish spots that his holsters usually protected.

“Ten. So, are you gonna do it again?”

Caleb felt a flash of panicked confusion before he remembered what had gotten him into this mess.

“Nein!” he wheezed between fits.

“Good to hear. Eleven. Why aren’t you gonna do it again?”

“Bitte! Pleheeheese I can’t” Caleb choked, breathless.

“Oh, yeah you can. Come on, why aren’t you gonna do it again?”

He switched to one finger and a lighter touch, leaving Caleb in hysterical waves of giggles while also giving him a chance to catch his breath a little.

“Because- it would- ahaha- upset theheehee others!”

“Hm. Well, I’ll take that for now. Twelve! Now, what’s gonna happen if you do it again?”

Caduceus had to realize that the shrieking wizard had no way to answer, so he answered for him.

“This is what happens, right? We have a zero tolerance policy from now on.”

Caleb sobbed and nodded in understanding, his whole body bending to try and save the one patch of ticklish skin without any success. Then Caduceus’ hand started to wriggle and prod into his armpit and his whole body jerked like he was electrified. 

“AAHahahaha nahahahaha!” Caleb couldn’t get enough of a break to beg for mercy.

“Hmm. Looks like that’s it. Is twelve the right number?”

“Yahahahas!”

“Oh, well, good to know then.”

Caduceus released him, letting the teary-eyed wizard’s arms snap down to belatedly shield his ribcage, his face disappearing into his hands while his body shuddered with laughter.

“Shh,” he soothed as though he wasn’t the perpetrator of Caleb’s state, “ just breath.”

Caleb tried, rolling onto his side to breath into Caduceus’ linen shirt. Hysterical, pitchy laughter jerked out of him when the other man tried to pat his back and immediately stopped with a soft apology.

“You… just… please never do that again.”

“I think that’s up to you, based on the arrangement we just agreed to…”

“-under torture!-”

“… and I mean, it’s gonna happen again. At least one more time tonight.”

There was a moment of heavy, terrified silence.

“…What?” Caleb felt like a cup of ice water had been poured down his back. His eyes went perfectly round.

“I said I was gonna check all your ribs. I feel like if I don’t follow though I’ll set a bad precedent.”

Caleb immediately tried to scramble away from Caduceus, and he would have hit the floor if the firbolg hadn’t reached out to grab him around his middle and hoist the smaller man into his lap.

 “Mist! Nein! You can’t, please!”

Caduceus started the patient, gentle work of getting a grip on the wriggling wizard in his lap. He kept his right arm looped around Caleb’s middle, his other arm working to try and grab a flailing wrist. When he wasn’t quite quick enough he made a frustrated sound in Caleb’s ear, right before planting a raspberry between the smaller man’s shoulder blades.

“Hold still!”

Caleb let out a wordless peal of squealing laughter under the onslaught of soft lips, velveteen nose and wooly beard. It bolted down his spine and made his whole upper body collapse.

One big, soft palm gripped his now-limp wrist and heaved it upward, exposing his currently un-tormented right side. Caduceus looped his right arm under Caleb’s captured one, bracing his palm on the back of the smaller man’s head. Caleb’s left arm was pinned against his chest as Caduceus’ other arm wrapped around him to keep him in his seat and hover downy fingers over Caleb’s exposed ribcage.

“Pleaheeheese you’ll kill meeeheehee!” Caleb whimpered through anticipatory laughter, eyes glued on Caduceus’ hovering hand. 

“Sssh.” The firbolg soothed into the back of Caleb’s head. “I’m not gonna kill you. We’re just gonna take it really easy, OK?”

His left hand started to rub Caleb’s side in smooth circles, each one climbing higher than that last

“Nooohoohoho!” Caleb whined, eyes squeezing shut as the firbolg’s fingers found his short rib. 

“One.”

“Bitte!” Caleb squealed through gritted teeth.

“I want you to repeat after me, OK?”

Caleb tried to turn and look at him, teary eyes astonished, as though Caduceus had asked him to move the moon.

“I -yeeheehee!- I can’t! Please!

“You can, I promise. We’re gonna start off really easy. How about “I deserve to live.”

“Whahahahaat? I can’t–”

“Two.”

“-Aaah! Nohoho! OK, ok, please!”

Caduceus only gave him a moment to take a breath before it spilled out “Ideservetolive!”

“Very good!” The hand holding Caleb in a half-nelson patted his head. “How about ‘I don’t deserve pain.’ for number three?”

“Ahahaa! Says the one torturing meheeheehe!”

“Ha! Are your ribs hurting? It’s a good thing I’m checking on them. Four.”

“Aaahaaa! I don’t deserve pain!”

“See, you’re doing great,” Caduceus praised, “we’ll be done in no time. I know this one’s going to be a little tough for you, are you ready? Five. I want you to say ‘I’m loved and I deserve that love.’”

 For the first time that night, Caduceus’ request made Caleb’s jaw lock up. 

“Nein— no, aah! I can’t!” He managed to whine through his teeth and the increasingly hysterical laughter that Caduceus was pulling out from deep in his chest.

“You have my permission not to believe all of these for now, but I want you to say every one. Six.” “AhahaHA! Nein, habt Mitleid! Mehehercy!”

Caduceus snorted. “On your ribs or on your low self-esteem? Actually, don’t waste your breath. I already know the answer. Seven.”

“Aaaaii! Please! I c- I can’t remember whahahat I’m supposed to sahahay!” Caleb sobbed, body starting to go limp with exhaustion in Caduceus’ arms.

The firbolg laughed, letting up for a moment to use his sleeve to wipe the tears off his captive’s cheeks. 

“I’m loved…”

“I’m… loved…” Caleb panted, his unpinned hand holding on to Caduceus’ currently-stilled tickling hand for dear life, as if it might save him.

“And I deserve that love.

Even breathless and exhausted, Caleb winced like the sentence left a bad taste in his mouth. “I… deserve that… love.”

“Hey, good job. That was one of the hard ones.”

The sound that started to flow out of Caleb was somewhere between a panicked giggle and an exhausted sob. One of the hard ones.

“For this one I’m gonna need the whole phrase. ‘My name is Caleb Widogast, and I am a good man’ Are you ready?”

“No! Please have mercy!”

“Aw, sorry buddy. Not this time. Eight…”

“NIEN, can’t– s'too m-muhuch pleaheese–”

“Nine indeed!” Caduceus chuckled, fingers jolting upward to take advantage of the joke. “It’s not too much. I know you can do it.”

“I c-c- NO PLEASE I can’t while you–  CAN’T! BITTE!" 

Caduceus chuckled, fingers jumping up to tweak the next rib and yank a short little scream out of Caleb before he stopped moving his fingers and froze, still and menacing.

"That’s ten. Come on. I can’t make you believe it but I’m gonna make you say it.”

Caleb’s weight was leaning into Caduceus’ chest, his head leaning back against one solid shoulder with his eyes closed as he gulped in breaths.

“I'm… a good man.”

“And what’s your name?”

“Caleb Widogast… is a good man.”

“Aw, very good.” Caduceus praised, squeezing Caleb in a small hug. “Ready? Almost finished. Eleven.”

Caleb didn’t even plead this time, he just started to laugh again with his head still thrown back against Caduceus’ shoulder. 

“Last one, I promise. I want you to say "I am going to take care of myself for the people who love me, or Caduceus is going to tickle me until I scream. Every time.”

“I CA- I CA- nohohoho! Too lohohong!”

“Twelve.”

Caleb’s back arched and his feet kicked while he shrieked, unable to get even the first part of the sentence out. Caduceus did have a little mercy, then, pausing to let Caleb suck in the breath he needed.

“I'mgoingtotakecare *pant* of myself *hic* forthepeople *hic* who love me or… *hic* this is what happens…”

“Every time.” Caduceus reminded him, tapping his fingers on Caleb’s top rib.

“Every time! Every time! Pleaheeheese!”

Finally, Caduceus let him go, angling himself so the wizard could flop over onto his bedspread. Caleb curled up on his side, face in his hands as the residual laughter started to slowly die down and the shuddering feeling in his bones faded.

“Do you wanna stay here tonight? Least I could do.”

Caleb unfurled with a heavy sigh. “Ja, please." 

"Hey Caleb? What time is it?”

“Ah… *hic* probably between 10 and midnight, why?”

“Oh. No reason." 

Caleb could see the firbolg’s smug little smile, but was entirely too tired to do anything about it. 

Caduceus started to shrug off his outer layers and lowered the lamp while Caleb tucked himself in up against the wall.

"So just to be clear, this is what happens when you dodge a healing spell–”

“Yes! Yes *hic* you’ve made your point!”

“-But it’s going to get worse every time.”

Caleb just whimpered into the pillow. 

“I mean,” Cad continued, “getting Jester involved is obviously the last resort. She is the ultimate escalation. And Molly’s not far behind. Maybe Beau first?”

“Nien!” Caleb jerked himself up in the bed in a panic. “Not Beau! She’s right under Molly. Not Beau.”

Caduceus chuckled, sliding himself into the big warm bed next to Caleb. 

“So that leaves Yasha, Fjord and Veth. Wanna fill out the ranking?”

Caleb chuckled a little along with him, then whined. 

“Nooo. I feel like I’m being made to dig my own grave.”

“If it makes you feel better, you’ve definitely already done that. I saw that reaction to the raspberry. That’s how I’m counting next time.”

Caleb groaned in the back of his throat. The threats felt like they were melting him.

“Mein gotten, to think I used to believe you were the nice one.”

Caduceus chuckled again. He slung one arm over the Caleb ball next to him and pulled the wizard in for a cuddle, rubbing his back soothingly when the other man tensed up. 

“Hey, I’m done. For now. Seriously though, who’s most dangerous after Beau.”

Caleb gave a defeated sigh as he relaxed into Caduceus’ soft, solid embrace. The softly lit room took on a golden haze. Caduceus smelled like spices, cardamom and rosemary. Caleb hid his face in one wolly shoulder, his breathing evening out.

“Fjord because he teases, then Yasha because she bites.”

“Heh. So Veth’s the first level of escalation? Good to know. She seems more likely to keep this between us anyway… Caleb?" 

The only answer was a snore.

[robinsdearest]

Ketchup Packets

Tim Drake x Reader

Peanut Butter and Oreos (Part 1) They’ll be okay (Part 2) Bobby pin (Part 3) Ketchup Packets (Part 4)

Tim threw another piece of notebook paper into the trash. It hit the other balls of wadded up notes and bounced away. How long has he been hunched over his desk? Tim glanced up to look at the clock. A couple days, maybe. A couple hours since the last cup of coffee, definitely. He groaned and slid a hand across his face. Stubble scratched his fingertips.

Jason’s voice almost scared him. Almost. “Timmy, my dude, you have to stop working.” He kept scribbling as Jason walked over to lean against the wall adjacent to the crumbling despair that was Tim. Jason poked his face. “I didn’t even know you could grow facial hair.” Tim slapped his brother’s hand away and continued to write his notes down. 

It had been three months since your plane went down. Three months since your parents had died. Three months since you slipped through Tim’s fingers. He dove into work to try and figure out what happened the morning of your plane crash. He hasn’t stopped working to find you in three whole months.

Parts of your plane sat scattered around the BatCave. Background checks for everyone at the airport that day, the days before and after laid loosely on the ground by Jason’s feet. Everything and everyone was clean. The owner of the plane your group borrowed publicly stated there was a fuse shortage in the engine causing it to explode, and subsequently, sent your plane barreling down into the ocean. News reporters claimed everyone from that flight deceased- the five supposed survivors not even missing anymore, all reported to be lost at sea. But Tim knew better- he knew you were alive. He knew it, had this gut feeling. Bruce always told him to trust his gut. Or did Superman say that? No, it was definitely the main bat. Or was it Diana…

Jason whacked the back of Tim’s head. Tim finally looked up at the Red Hood, scowling. Jason had to bite back a laugh: he knew how much pain Tim was still experiencing. Hell, he was dead for a while and no one bothered to search for him like Tim was doing for Y/N. “Come on man, let’s go get some grub. You look like you haven’t eaten in weeks.”

“Only a day.” Tim corrected. Another whack to the back of the head.

With the drive from the mansion into Gotham City and eventually to some burger joint, Tim couldn’t believe he was wasting time when he should be out searching for you. Even after three whole months of investigating, Tim was still coming up short. Every lead finished with a dead end. Every tangent lead to a backwash story that was publicized to explain the crash. Tim stared down at his tray of fries as Jason flirted with the cashier. Tim sorted through the files of his brain as he continued to work each angle of the investigation. Everything fit together but nothing made sense. Jason flung packets onto the table stirring Tim out of his trance. Jason was flaunting how he got a phone number from the cashier and waved around the receipt where it was written. Tim stared down at the packets on the table. Ten- what an odd number to grab. Tim counted five mustard packets and five ketchup packets. Tim reached for a ketchup packet, grimacing when he picked up the one that was busted open leaking on to the table. Of course he would grab the one that…

Tim immediately shot up and grabbed Jason by the collar. Jason choked on his bite of food as he dropped the rest of his burger. “Oi, dunce face, what in the hell do you think you’re doing?” Jason fumbled into the passenger seat of the car as Tim shoved him forward, sprinted around to the driver side, and then started the car. Tim started rambling. Jason had a hard time keeping up.

“Why didn’t I think of that?” “Think of what? How you ruined my burger?” “Of course I wouldn’t have looked into the victims.” “Me. I’m a victim, you burger murderer.” “All of those doctors, all seemingly connected in one way or another.” “Doctors?” “Doctors, Jason! God, I’m an idiot. The one that wasn’t connect has got to be the leak. The leak that doesn’t fit but allows everything to make sense.” “Alright, I’m calling Alfred. Timmy, we need to get you checked out.”

Tim slammed on the breaks at the red light. The two brothers stared at each other, neither one moving. The light turned green, but Tim didn’t accelerate.

“Jason I’m talking about Y/N.” Jason’s face turned into a serious frown, and Tim continued. “I never looked into the doctors that were supposed to go on the mission trip. How could they be considered suspects when we see them as victims?” Tim held up the leaking ketchup packet. “One of them is the leak, the cause of the problem.”  Jason’s lips turned into a snarky grin. He nodded his head towards the direction of the mansion, and Tim turned his eyes back to the road.

He finally figured it out. He was going to find you. His brain went into overdrive back at the cave. Jason called Damien and Dick down to help sort things out as Tim furiously worked into the rest of the night. The other boys made calls and printed papers as Tim searched through all ten people on your flight. 

Tim had to narrow down who he couldn’t verify. Nine doctors and one medical school student. Seven doctors, excluding both your parents. Five, excluding the other doctors he knew personally. Four, excluding the doctor Bruce dated a while back- the Russian one, he thinks as he scans over her name. Three left. Damien drops a stack of files next to Tim. The youngest brother briefly puts a hand on Tim’s shoulder before quickly withdrawing and returning to Dick’s side. A quick scan of the discarded stack reveals two of the last three doctors had confirmed deaths, dental records verifying their respective bodies at the site of the plane crash. One left.

Tim stopped typing. Bruce walked down the stairs and stood next to the oversized computer; the main bat was dressed in the suit, cowl pulled off, ready to go on patrol. He glanced around the room to his birdies, and lastly his eyes fell on Tim. Red Robin stared at the screen as the last doctor stared back at him. Tim found his ketchup packet.

Shawn Ramirez. A plastic surgeon from Metropolis- invited to the mission by Mr. Y/L/N. Ramirez was born in Washington and had only lived in the big city for four years: most recent addresses put him in Texas, and before that California. Before California, he moved internationally to practice medicine in Africa. More specifically, Ethiopia. Where the mission was planned to go. Where Y/N was supposed to be. 

Ramirez had worked for the Ethiopian military; a surgeon who traveled the continent looking to heal. At some point in time, Ramirez had visited Europe with the military. No less than a week later, Ramirez was back in the states working as a plastic surgeon. What happened in Europe?

Dick handed Bruce a stack of files. Looking through them, Bruce’s frown turned ever so slightly down. Bruce then handed the files to Tim, who spared a quick glance at Batman before turning his attention down to the file. Flipping through the papers, Tim froze at the known associate. Part of the League of Assassins known to the world only as Abadi- an elitist who weaseled through militaries and governments for fame and fortune in the name of Ra’s al Ghul. Abadi was a known villain amongst the bat and birds as Bruce is the one that nearly took the man’s eye out, leaving a gashing scar from eyebrow to chin, forcing the villain to wear an eye-patch. Abadi’s last known location was a small island off of Cape Verde, just a couple hundred miles from the plane’s crash landing.

Tim turned the chair around to see the rest of the family dressed in their suits: Bruce, Dick, Jason, Cass, Damien, and even Alfred. Alfred held out Tim’s Red Robin costume. “Master Tim.” Alfred was the first one to speak in hours since Tim and Jason returned home from the burger shop. “Please bring them home.” Tim reached for the suit, but was met by Alfred’s hand. The butler squeezed his fingers, and Tim simply nodded in understanding. The group hustled to the Bat Plane; inside, Batman ordered the birds for flight paths, site takeover analysis, and rescue plan. Tim sat at the back of the plane while the others worked. Tim was going to go save you, he was finally going to be able to tell you. And then, like a light switch, everything turned bright.

[steves-on-a-plane]

Keeping the Monsters At Bay

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader Warnings: Anxiety Attacks, mentions of nightmares, mentions of broken bones Word Count: 2137 Square Filled: @star-spangled-bingo​ Free Space & @buckybarnesbingo​ U5 *Picture Square* Summary: Reader forgot to replenish the medical supplies after a previous mission and it’s almost time for the team to leave for the next one. The pressure triggers an anxiety attack for Reader, which is when Bucky comes upon them. With Bucky’s help, Reader is able to manage the attack. The next night Reader is able to return the favor when they’re awoken by screaming. Bucky is having nightmares again so Reader helps him get through the night. 

“Shit!” You hissed out the word as you slammed the storage compartment closed. You looked over your shoulder to see if anyone else had overheard your outburst. Dr. Banner was the only on the quinjet with you. He politely pretended not to have heard you. The other’s would be arriving soon and expect you to be ready to go. You opened another compartment only to discover it too was empty.

“Everything all right, [Y/N}?” Bruce asked after you loudly closed a third compartment.

“Yes, I think so.” You sighed. “I’ll be right back.”

You stormed out of the quintet mumbling every curse word you could think of. On the last mission Steve had asked you to rotate the medical supplies. Apparently you’d remembered to empty all the medical compartments, but never refilled the supplies. As soon as you were sure that you were out of Bruce’s sight you began running through the corridors. There was a sinking feeling in your stomach when you thought of how you could be a reason for the mission to be delayed. You didn’t have much time together everything you needed, but you’d have to do your best. The last thing you wanted was to be in the field and not have something you needed.

“[Y/N]!” Tony called out to you as you almost collided with him. “You’re going the wrong way.”

“Sorry Tony, I’ve just got to grab something quick.” You told him without stopping.

“Wheels up in ten minutes!” He shouted after you. “That’s with or without you!” He hadn’t meant anything by it. You knew he didn’t because half of everything Tony said wasn’t serious. You also knew there was no way Steve would let him leave you behind, but you couldn’t rationalize with anxiety.

You really wished you could turn this part of you off. There was never a convenient time for an anxiety attack, but a mission was one of the worst times. You were already experiencing a stomach pain so intense it felt the way a towel looks when it’s being wrung out. You knew what would happen next, the worrying and overthinking. You’d worry so much about making sure to pack everything that you were bound to forget something. You felt the pain in your chest as you rounded the next corner.

“Almost there.” You whispered as you forced yourself from a run to a walking pace. You were starting to have troubling breathing. You tried to tell yourself it was from the running and the worrying. It would go away once you had all the supplies. That did nothing to sooth the burning feeling in your lungs.

“[Y/N]?” You’d been so inside of your own head, you hadn’t seen Bucky at the other end of the hall. Gasping for breaths now, you allowed yourself to lean against the wall and waited for him to come to you. “Are you okay?” He asked you quietly.

You nodded “Yes” Unable to answer him verbally. He seemed unhappy with that answer.

“You wanna try that again?” He asked. His tone was gentle, inventing. It lacked the usual sarcastic whipping you were used to from him.

“I’m…fine.” You managed between gasps. You closed your eyes and tried to focus on your breathing. It was no use. A part of you was still acutely aware of the time crunch you were under. You didn’t have time for an anxiety attack, which was only making it worse.

“You can lie to me if you want to, but it’s not going to fix the situation.” Bucky said. You opened your mouth to tell him again that you were fine and instead you began to cry. You confessed to Bucky the reason that you were so upset.

“The medical supplies? [Y/N] you didn’t forget to refill those after the last mission. Tony was doing something to the jet a few weeks ago and there was a hydraulic fuel leak. A bunch of the stuff in the jet was ruined. Steve and Tony forgot they’d thrown it all away. That’s what I’m doing here.” He removed the backpack he was wearing and opened it. You could see the bag was filled with supplies.

“We have to go.” You gasped. Instead of feeling better, you felt worse. You’d wasted time coming all the way here you were making everyone else late.

“They’ll wait for us.” Bucky said with certainty. “Do you have water with you?”

“I’m not thirsty.” You told him.

“You’ll feel better if you drink water.” He produced a water bottle from his backpack and forced it into your shaking hands. You tried to sip slowly from the bottle, it did seem to loosen the horrible feeling in your gut a little. “Would it be okay if I hugged you?” He asked. “Sometimes it helps to regulate the breathing.”

You nodded. Bucky wrapped his arms around you. It was like magic how he held you just enough to feel secure but not too tight that you felt trapped.

“We’re going to take big deep breaths and let them out together, okay?” You nodded again, nestling close to him. The act felt a little childish, but it was helping you. After a minute of breathing together and sipping from your water, you were calming down. You were already feeling the post-anxiety attack drain on your system. You felt like you could sleep for a week.

“Okay.” He smiled. “Ready to go? We can take another minute if you need…”

“We should go. We’ve already kept them waiting.” You started to jog away.

“[Y/N], wait.” Bucky caught your hand and you stopped. “We can walk. The extra two minutes won’t make a difference. You continued down the hall together, with Bucky still holding your hand. You decided you should say something before you joined the others.

“Thanks for that back there.” You mumbled.

“Anytime.” He vowed. “Attacks like that can be hard to pull your own way out of. It helps to have someone who can help.”

“I hate asking for help.” You confessed.

“I’ve noticed.” He nodded. “But we’ve got your back. That’s what being on a team means.”

“I haven’t had an attack like that in a long time.” You explained. “I thought I’d grown out of it.”

“You don’t outgrow anxiety [Y/N].” He said. You didn’t know what to say. You were coming up on the quinjet and could tell everyone else had boarded. Tony was standing outside waiting for you both.

“Barnes, [Y/L/N] is this mission an inconvenience to you?” You felt your cheeks flush with embarrassment and the panic rising in your chest again. Bucky gave your hand a gentle squeeze.

“Honestly, yeah, it’s put a damper on my plans for sure.” Bucky called back. “Especially since I had to go all the way to medical to refresh the supplies you ruined.”

“Well, thank you ever so kindly for your contribution Sargent Barnes.” Tony said with a salute. “Thanks for collecting him [Y/N].” Tony winked at you. “He’d probably still be down there gathering bandages without you.”

You and Bucky walked past Tony and continued onto the jet. Bucky dropped your hand and went over to the compartments designated for medical supplies. He began organizing everything While Tony and Steve prepped the jet for take-off.

“Did you find what you needed, [Y/N]?” Bruce asked.

“Hmm? Yeah, I think so.” You nodded. “What did I miss in the briefing?” You changed the subject.

The mission you’d been sent on was, all things considered, a brief one. You were all back by dinner time the following night. The most severe injury had been your own. You sustained a broken fibia when you failed to stick what should have been an easy landing for you. Clint had patched you up in the field and you’d gotten yourself to the team doctor as soon as you got back.

The team lapsed into their post mission routines. For most that meant well deserved naps in their dorms. Steve always liked to work in his debriefings right away and Tony had a new piece of alien tech he wanted to play with.

Your usual post mission routine consisted of pacing around the building until your body and mind were too tired to do anything but sleep. With a broken ankle you couldn’t exactly do that, but you still had no interest in spending the night in the infirmary. As soon as your leg was wrapped in a cast and you received the okay from the doctor, you hobbled out of the medical wing on crutches. Your dorm wasn’t too far away and you were confident you could make it all the way there without assistance.

You were already wearing a plain pair of grey sweatpants an Avengers logo tshirt that had been given to you in medical, so you didn’t bother changing once you reached your dorm. You didn’t bother turning on the lights either. You just placed your crutches by the door and hopped on one foot over to the bed. You feel asleep as soon as your head touched the pillow.

Screaming. You were awakened with a start to the sound of screams. You opened your eyes and tried to listen to where the screaming was coming from. It sounded like one of the dorms. Not wanting to waste any time, and crutches be damned, you raced from your room. The screaming had stopped, which only concerned you more. The lights were off in every dorm in the hall except one, Bucky’s.

With a sliver of light visible under his door, you knocked. When he answered Bucky was covered in sweat. His hair was sticking to his face and he was panting harder than if he’d just run a marathon.

“[Y/N], everything okay?” He asked like you’d been the one screaming your head off just know.

“You tell me, Buck.” You answered. “Either you’re having a hell of a good time in here by yourself or…” you indicated your disheveled appearance.

“Nothing to worry about.” He told you. You didn’t believe him.

“Are you really going to try to ice me out?” You raised your eyebrows at him. “I was honestly with you yesterday when…”

“It’s nothing to worry about, [Y/N].” He repeated. “I’m sorry if I woke you. Shouldn’t you be resting your leg?” He pointed to your cast.

“I was, until someone’s screaming woke me up.” You pointed out.

“Oh. Sorry about that.” He apologized awkwardly. “I’m good now.”

“Why were you screaming? Were you having nightmares again?” You asked.

“They’ll go away on their own.” He told you.

“Aren’t you the same person who told me that my anxiety wouldn’t go away on its own and that it’s okay to ask for help?” You reminded him. “I’m here, let me help.”

“It’s not that easy [Y/N].” He frowned.

“Bucky your room is across the hall from mine, so I know you don’t get nightmares every night. You haven’t found anything that helps stop them?” You questioned.

“Well,” He hesitated. There was one thing that seemed to help keep the nightmares away, but he hadn’t exactly tested his theory. He’d only noticed that while he was away on missions, if he had someone sleeping close by him, he would sleep through the night. Steve was the only person he’d felt comfortable sharing this information with so far.

“Let me help you.” You insisted, reaching out and taking his hand. Bucky explained his dilemma to you. “Oh, that’s all?” You smiled at him. “I could stay in here with you. I’m supposed to be resting my leg anyway so would be a win-win. My leg gets to rest, and we both get some sleep.”

“What if someone were to find out you were sleeping in here?” He worried.

“We don’t have tell them why.” You promised. “It’s none of their business. C’mon, help me in the bed.” You put an arm around his neck and leaned against him, relieving the weight on your bad leg.

“You’re sure this is okay with you?” He put an arm around your waist and helped you over to the bed.

“I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t.” You promised as you sat on the bed.

“Are you okay with the lights on?” he asked, sitting down next to you.

“Whatever helps Bucky.”  You nodded. He laid down and you snuggled up next to him. You hadn’t imagined how soft his muscular chest would be, it was the best pillow you’d ever had. When he wrapped an arm around you to hold you close, you were immediately enveloped in warmth.

“This okay?” He questioned.

“Mm-hmm.”  You hummed happily while he drew the bedcovers over both of you.

“Good night [Y/N].” He whispered as your eyes fluttered closed.

“Good night, Buck.” You yawned before drifting off to sleep.  

[chispas-and-broken-bindings]

I really wanted to get the next chapter of Nothing Sacred, All Things Wild up this week, but work was crazy and I also got caught up in another story (I can’t control my muse)...so instead I’m offering up a long snippet of the dystopian/space colonist fic I started off a prompt I got a while ago for an “Arranged Marriage + a/b/o” request I got from an anon.

A/B/O is not my cup of tea, so I twisted it into an arranged marriage by an artificial intelligence instead: 

He wakes up angry, sweat soaking through his pillow, heart racing, stomach cramped. The alarm is buzzing from somewhere beneath the bed, where he must have knocked it. 

“Turn it off,” Ygritte mutters into his shoulder, before rolling away with the rest of their thin blanket.

He complies, letting the shock of the cold floor against his feet spur him into full wakefulness. “I take the test today.” It’s raining. He watches the drops splatter against the small window near the ceiling, and he wonders if Ygritte remembered to check the bucket beneath the leak before she crawled into bed the night before. 

Their garden apartment doesn’t do well in the rain. Jon still doesn’t understand why it’s even called a garden...there’s nothing green about their cramped basement residence, besides the mold growing beneath the sink.  

“Oh yeah. Happy birthday...we’ll get drinks when you come home.” 

“If I come home.”  He could be part of the one percent, after all. That is the Institution's promise. Everyone is SOMEONE. Anyone can be part of the 1%. Are YOU?

Jon knows it’s unlikely. How could he, an orphan from Mole’s Town, have the magic combination of pheno-, geno-, and personality type to be chosen for the Colony? No...he’s just another loser of the 99% who will waste his twenty-first birthday behind the Brutalist concrete walls of the Institution’s testing center, playing lab rat for the day, until the examiners come to the inevitable conclusion that he’s just another nobody. 

They’ll spit him back out on the street, leaving him free to carve out a pathetic existence on a slowly dying planet. 

He doesn’t bother washing. It’d be a waste of precious water when he knows full well they’ll scrub him down at the testing center. Instead he spends his last moments at home drinking a pot of weak coffee, trying to remember anything he was taught in the schools he barely attended. His energy would be better spent bracing for the coming indignity of having every part of his body and mind exposed and dissected. 

“Is the area of a circle, two pi times the radius? Or is that the circumference?” 

“It doesn’t matter,” Ygritte lights a cigarette at the stove before joining him at the table. “It’s not that kind of test.”

He knows that. It’s another Institution promise. The Test doesn’t ask WHAT you know. It asks who YOU are. Are YOU the 1%

How the fuck would Jon know? It’s easier for him to remember that the area of a circle is actually pi times the radius squared, than it is for him to explain who he is. He has no idea. That’s kind of what being an orphan is all about. 

Ygritte could at least throw him a bone and tell him what the test is like. She took it two years ago, though she won’t talk. Most people won’t. There are no rules against it, but The Test is treated like dysentery. Unless you live behind the gates, you’re going to get it at least once in your life, but that doesn’t mean you’re gonna go around describing your diarrhea to the world.  

Grenn went to White Harbor for the test a month ago, and though Jon had to buy him six beers and two shots of whiskey before Grenn would shut up about his first-ever train ride, he did give Jon a few insights into the rest of the experience. 

Not that the train isn’t worth the excitement, especially when the ride is paid for (another Institution promise. No matter your means. No matter the distance. EVERYONE makes it to the Test. Are YOU the 1%?) Technically, Jon has taken it once before, from Winterfell to Mole’s Town as a baby, but he doesn’t remember.  

Now he can’t believe anything that moves so fast could feel so smooth. He’s topped out at ninety miles per hour on the best snowmobile Donal Noye patched together, but that left his teeth rattling and his ears buzzing for hours afterward. The train is moving at double the speed, but he could be in the godswood, for how quiet the near-empty economy cabin is. He shares it with a twitchy young man who never looks up from a cheap tablet, and a black raven perched in a large cage who spends the entire ride staring at Jon with one eerie black eye. 

The testing center is located just across from the train station, in an intimidating building that used to have a name. Jon has a vague memory that it was a prison before the Institution took it over. Before that it was something else. 

He doesn’t balk when a masked orderly leads him to a small room, tells him to strip, and then takes off with his clothes. He knows they’ll be returned at the end of the day. Of more pressing concern is the man and woman who enter talking too quietly to make out at the other end of the room, while a nurse rolls in with a small cart covered in collection tubes, gauze strips, and butterfly needles. 

Everyone wears surgical masks, latex gloves, long white coats, and black clogs. 

Jon remains naked beneath a small paper covering. 

He has given blood before, and the messy, life-saving transfusion Mance performed to save Tormund three years ago was far scarier than the rapid, methodical draw that's taken from him now. Still, it’s disconcerting to think of the secrets the Institution will glean from his blood. He’s uncomfortably aware that they’ll know who his parents are before the day is over, even as he’ll continue living in total ignorance. 

Another Institution promise. The Institution values EVERYONE’S right to privacy. YOU control the right to tell the world who you are. Are YOU the 1%?

Before he’s finished the recitation in his head, five tubes are full, and the nurse pats a cotton ball and a band-aid over his arm. She tosses a granola bar on his lap before rolling out of the room with her cart of samples. 

Next comes a physical exam, where the other two examiners speak only to each other as they record his height, weight, blood pressure, and note his every blemish and scar in flat affect. 

“Post-burn contractures across the palmar and dorsal aspect of the left hand, adduction and extension in the metacarpophalangeal joint of thumb fall outside normal range of movement.”

“Keloid scarring along the right gastrocnemius muscle, five point three centimeters in diameter.”

“Slightly hypertrophic scarring beginning at left brow and running medially down across the left orbital cavity to the cheek. No ptosis noted. No apparent damage to the eye.”

He should feel worse beneath the weight of each fault. Instead he relaxes. He was nervous for nothing. Failure was always inevitable. The Institution would never invest in a malnourished kid with a burned hand and a badly healed leg wound. They are famously secretive about their selection process, but some reasons for failure are common knowledge. As the crows like to say, no cripples, bastards, or broken things. 

So, he chews his granola bar slowly and even closes his eyes for a bit, letting the examiners move his limp limbs as necessary for their measurements. He imagines himself a cadaver during the early stages of an autopsy. 

As long as they don’t cut me open….

When an white-haired man enters and lays out what look to be a series of tiny torture devices, Jon wonders if he stopped caring too soon. He white-knuckles it through an excruciating dental exam that ends with his first real exchange of the day. 

“Have you ever been to a dentist, kid?” 

There is still a tube in his mouth, sucking up his spit and a hook pressing at his gums, so Jon just shakes his head. There are no dentists in Mole’s Town. Just Chett, who used to work at a slaughterhouse down south and will pull a rotten tooth for the price of a bottle of whiskey. Jon wouldn’t give the creep the lint in his pocket, and he sure as hell wouldn’t let him near his mouth. Instead he brushes his teeth so hard his toothbrush regularly snaps in half, and prays something else kills him before gum disease has a chance.

“You’ve got better teeth than I see behind the gates, boy,” he pulls the hook from Jon’s mouth to dictate into a small microphone hanging from his mobile workstation. “Review DEFB1 on ID 17630343BA. At some point the focus will need to expand beyond the holy 22 and get back to the basics. Who is going to care about neuron growth if every fourth planter is born with anodontia?” 

Jon understands little of what the man is saying, but he’s heard enough to know he’s at least got as good of teeth or better than some of the rich tossers who live within the heavily guarded gated communities where the Colonists are actually culled from. Behind their high walls, wealthy sons and daughters of the only one percent that really matters, spend their youths preparing for the Test in homes and classrooms pumped with filtered air, where the water runs clear, and no one ever goes to sleep with their bellies cramped from hunger or disease. 

The Institution promises that ANYONE can be the 1%, but EVERYONE knows that's a lie. 

---

The physical exam ends at last, after several more rounds of sterile humiliation. Jon isn’t sure which was worse; having to lie within a noisy cylinder while a disembodied voice reminded him not to move, or being asked to run naked on a treadmill, wired with electrodes. 

When it’s over, the last examiner provides him with a sweatsuit that is softer and better-made than anything he owns, and he wonders if there is any way he can smuggle it out with him at the end of the day. Another orderly comes in with a waxy crisp apple that hardly seems real even as a spray of tartly sweet juice hits the back of his tongue. He’s given a pill as well that he swallows down with a cup of water so clear and so cold, it’s an act of incredible will-power not to ask for more. 

It’s only after, when he’s led to a small room with two chairs, a table, and a pulsing white orb in it’s center that he thinks to ask what it’s for. 

“This will make the answers come more naturally during your interviews,” the man explains before leaving him alone. “We want you to answer as truthfully as possibly, but we understand that can be difficult under the stress of the Test.”

He supposes people lie all the time on the Test, trying to game the system, though Jon doesn’t have the first idea how he’d go about doing that, nor does he have any reason to try. He’s not going to the Colony. This is all just a spectacular waste of time, and it’s a race day, which means he’ll have to pull extra shifts at the Rookery to make up for what he would have made beyond the Wall. 

By the time a petite woman with a neat low bun, and cracking, grey scar across half her face and neck enters, Jon is reckless with anger. 

“I’d like to go home.”

“Hello, Jon,” she smiles as she sits across from him, and she’s the first person he’s seen since he entered the building who isn’t wearing a mask. She’s also the first person to call him by his name. “My name is Shireen.”

“Where’s your mask?”

Her smile dims slightly, but she maintains her gentle tone. “I’m here to facilitate the interview portion of your Test today. Before we begin, is there anything you need to feel more comfortable? Something to eat, drink, a bathroom break? Should the temperature be adjusted?”

He’s sour with anger so he takes everything she offers, suddenly eager to make everything as inconvenient as possible for the Institution. Shireen takes his requests with an easy smile, however, escorting him to the restroom herself. When they return to the room, there is a bowl of hearty soup with a chunk of bread that is soft and airy beneath it’s golden-brown crust. Beside it is a tall glass of water and a smaller cup of green liquid that Jon eyes suspiciously. 

“What’s this then?”

“I thought you might like some juice. It’s mostly apple, with some kale, cucumber and celery in it as well, I suspect.”

It’s the best thing Jon has ever tasted, and while part of him wants to fling the rest of it at her frustratingly serene face, it’d be a horrible waste, and he’d be the biggest loser. So, he takes his time, savoring each bite and sip, rolling the bright flavors across his delighted tongue. 

“Feeling better?” she asks after the tray is cleared. 

“Is that an official Test question?”

“No.”

“Let’s get on with it then. I can’t afford to miss the train home.”

“As you may know, it is not individuals who decide the 1%. Our artificial intelligence algorithm, The Seven, determines who is the best fit for the Colony. That is how the institution guarantees objectivity in its selection process,” she taps the pulsing orb on the table. “Though we find people are more comfortable responding to another person, so I will be facilitating our discussion as The Seven records and analyzes your responses. Are you ready to begin?”

He shrugs. 

“I’ll start with a series of statements. After each, please say a number to indicate the degree to which you agree with that statement, wherein one equals strongly disagree and five equals strongly agree. Three indicates you neither agree nor disagree. Do you understand?”

“Five.”

“Okay. Statement Number one: At social events, you rarely try to introduce yourself to new people and mostly talk to the ones you already know.”

Jon knows everyone in Mole’s Town, and he doesn’t want to socialize with most of them. 

“Two.”

This goes on for a while, each statement absurdly divorced from anything relating to Jon’s life, but the numbers spring easily from his lips as he relaxes under Shireen’s soothing voice, and kind face, and the lovely feeling of a full belly and soft, warm clothes. 

It’s when the format shifts, that he begins to feel strange. Shireen starts with questions that are easy to answer. Where were you born? How many years of education have you completed? What was your favorite class and why?  What do you do for work? Describe your strengths. When are you most satisfied in your job?  Do you live alone or with others? How many others do you live with? What is your relationship to the person you live with? 

At this point, the questions grow more invasive; more personal. A voice tells Jon that the Institution doesn’t need to know how many times he and Ygritte fuck a week...but the answer escapes all the same. 

“Four or five times a week.”

“Do you use contraception methods?”

“No.”

“Do you intend to have children with your partner?”

“No.”

“Given your age and your partner’s, without contraception, given your regular intercourse the odds of conception are--”

“She’s sterile.” 

“How do you know that?”

“Most everyone in Mole’s Town is. It’s something in the water, or the air, or our weak genes. It doesn’t really matter the cause. If it’s not the one; it’s the other. She’s been fucking since she was fifteen, and nothing’s ever caught.”

“How do you know that you aren’t the sterile one?”

He shrugs. “I probably am too, but I’m not her first partner as you say. I’m not her second or third either.”

“How does that make you feel?” 

He glares, and Shireen clarifies. 

“Your partner’s sterility?”

“How do you think it makes me feel?” he pushes back from the table, letting his chair lean back on two legs. 

Shireen only gives him a minute shake of her head, and waits for him to answer the question. 

“Angry. I feel fucking furious about it.”

“So, you would like to be a father?”

“I’d like the freedom to choose. I’d like Ygritte to have that freedom.”

“What is your least favorite thing about humanity?”

She can’t be serious with that question. It’s like asking him to name all the stars. He takes a deep breath. Shireen waits. He stands up and paces. Shireen waits. He finishes his water and asks for another. Shireen calls for a refill. He drinks that too. Shireen waits. 

“My least favorite thing? That we’ve given up. We let this machine,” he points at the orb, “decide who doesn’t have to. It’s like….it’s like the men in Mole’s Town who wander into the snows when winter grows too cold, and there’s not enough food or warmth to go around. Grown-ass men who could be fixing furnaces and braving the cold to find the resources their families so desperately need. Most of the time they don’t even have the fucking guts to tell anyone  what they’re off to do. They just wander away one day, and winter takes them. 

That’s what the fucking Institution is. We’re all those men in Mole’s Town who’ve just given up, despite the blood still pumping through our veins. We’re sitting around, waiting for winter to kill us, so that a few can live. And there’s no one left to be mad about it either, because it’s a fucking machine that decides our fate. It’s like being mad at the wind. What’s the fucking point? But just because there is no one to be angry with, that doesn’t mean the rage goes away...and winter isn’t killing us fast enough."

“So you want to live?”

“I want humanity to want to live. I want humanity to want most of humanity to live. I want us to care about more than the one percent.”

It feels radical, saying it here; behind the walls of the Institution. It feels like he’s put the last nail in his own coffin. Shireen watches him as he cracks his knuckles, one at a time, waiting for her to say the interview is over; it’s time to go home. 

Instead she asks an even crazier question. 

“Do you think there is an essential connection between the morality of an action and the morality of the intentions behind it?”

[buglife]

Quirrel finally snaps. Royalty au. (He deserves it)

In Which Quirrel Has Enough :O

The morning started off just like any other. Waking up next to Ghost was always wonderful for Quirrel, especially in the big comfy nest gifted from Deepnest. It was like sinking into softness itself, something he and his spouse both appreciated, and there was plenty of room for cuddles. He yawned, stretching a little and turning to nuzzle his spouse to wake them.

“Morning, love.” He whispered, trying to gently wake them.

Usually they would be awake instantly and nuzzling back. Quirrel wasn’t sure if they actually slept now, having taken over the aspect of dreams. Even if they didn’t, they still made sure to be in bed every night to be with Quirrel, and stayed there until morning.

But today...they blearily blinked awake and didn’t nuzzle back right away. He instantly knew something was the matter.

“Dear, what is the matter? Are you alright?” He touched the side of their head and rubbed it in an effort to comfort them.

“Tired….” Came the soft quiet voice in the back of his head. Ghost had a measure of telepathy, but it was something they only did with friends and family. They tended to use sign language everywhere else, afraid of frightening their subjects. The Pale King had it as well, but used his to intimidate and issue orders. Ghost was doing everything in their power to be the complete opposite of their sire, even if it meant limiting their communication. Quirrel was trying his best to convince them otherwise, that their subjects loved them, but it’s taking a while to actually make Ghost believe it.

“You look tired. What where you doing last night?”

Ghost’s mental voice dissolved into a murmur of numbers and figures and laws hundreds of years old. The feeling Quirrel got along with it was an even measure of frustration, bafflement, and an extreme sense of mind numbing exhaustion.  

“You were trying to rewrite the tax code last night, weren’t you?”

Ghost sank further into the pillows with a wheeze.

“You know I could have helped you, you silly thing.”

They sank further and didn’t look him in the eyes. He sighed and patted them gently, thinking about the situation to himself. For a long time, Ghost pretty much did everything, leaving Quirrel with the task of planning the rebuilding efforts once they took the throne officially. Ghost was the sole ruler, and the weight and pressure of that all had started to weigh down on them. Sure, they had their friends and allies to help them, but some things you just have to do yourself. Now that he was a king himself (something he still had trouble believing some days until he looks at the ring on his finger), he felt like he needed to do more to help his partner.

“Today, you are going to take the day off.”

They turned their head to look at Quirrel, a look of mild panic on their blank mask. Before they could ‘say’ anything, Quirrel beat them to the punch.

“Look at yourself dear. You are beyond exhausted. You haven’t had anytime for yourself in so long, you need a break. I’m your spouse, your equal now, let me help you take some of the load off yourself, please?”

“But...court? The new code…” They were too tired to properly argue, but Quirrel could feel their worry leak through their words.

“I can do them for once. It can’t be harder than what I usually do.” He thought of his duties, how much traveling he does to other parts of the kingdom to keep up good relations with their neighbors. Some ambassadors were pricks, to be frank. They seemed to enjoy trying to get a rise out of the Scholar King, but Quirrel used his wit to go toe to toe with them. It was fencing, but with words, a subtle dance where each tried to pick out weaknesses and use them to their advantage. Talking to the actual rulers though, was a lot more pleasant. In fact, he’s due to have a meeting with Herrah soon. Hornet would demand he spar with her, but she at least was completely honest with her desires. He thinks Herrah gets a kick out of watching her daughter beat the hell out of a King. She was at least kind enough afterwards to patch up his wounds.

Surely, sitting in a building and talking to the public won’t be that harder than having to actually fight someone every-time he needs to do his job.

Ghost gave them an incredulous look, and then sighed and nodded.

“Excellent, shall I make a pillow fort for you?”

They nodded excitedly, and Quirrel took all the extra pillows from the cabinets to add to the pile. After some time stacking and slinging blankets around, he had made a pillow fort that passed his personal inspection. Ghost retreated inside, and then promptly fell asleep, which vindicated his feeling that Ghost was too damn tired to do anything today. He made sure to put a note on the door for people not to disturb them and made his way through the palace.

It was not the White Palace, that one never came back from the realm of dreams. Ghost had told him that it was for the best, as no sane ruler would have that many buzzsaws. Quirrel inclined to believe them and not ask further questions. Instead, a new one was built, and it couldn’t quite consider it a ‘palace’. It was more of a government building and a place to house the knights of the kingdom. It was a hell of a lot more modest than the White Palace, but it was still nice. The citizens insisted after all and Ghost did not say no to them.

Quirrel would have to admit that the top floor where they both lived was really nice. Their friends and family had gotten their own rooms too, for them to live in or just stay in when visiting. Once Ghost had gotten their deserved family, they refused to be apart from them and was more than happy to have visitors around.

Quirrel made his way down to the ground floor, where court was held. It was just a simple room, decorated in shell wood and tapestries to give it a more calm feeling. A part of the room was dedicated to chairs and benches where petitioners could sit and wait their turn. There was a section where the workers would sit, such as the recorder and paperwork keeper, and next to that, was the thrones, sitting a bit higher than everyone else. Quirrel wasn’t too sure if it was required or not to have the thrones elevated, but just shrugged and went along with it.

Usually Ghost held court with at least two of the new knights of Hallownest keeping guard. In reality, Ghost really didn’t need guarding, but they appreciated some wranglers to deal with the public and the emotional support. It seemed today it was Tiso and Cloth.

“Heya Quirrel.” Tiso gave Quirrel a funny look. “Where’s the Squib?”

“I made them take a day off. They are in their pillow fort at the moment, resting.” He internally snickered. Tiso never stopped calling Ghost ‘Squib’, which would cause nobles to have a conniption whenever they heard it. If they complained, Tiso invoked ‘big brother rights’ and that was that.

“Good, they work too hard.” Cloth adjusted her club over her shoulder. “So you’re holding court today? By yourself?”

Quirrel nodded. “It shouldn’t be too hard. I mean, I will have to do it sooner or later. Why not now?”

Tiso and Cloth shared a look. They looked...apprehensive.

“Just be prepared, you get a mixed bag of people. Some are rather um…”

“Super fucking stupid. And spoiled.” Tiso finished for Cloth, gesturing to the still closed doors.

“They can’t be that stupid!” Quirrel took his seat on his throne (which is still completely unbelievable to him). There were two, the other was for Ghost, built side by side. There used to be just one, but well, now there was a need for two. At least they were comfy. For a moment he did want Ghost to be here by his side, but he was firm in the believe that his poor spouse was in dire need of a break. So, he will endure.

“They can and they are. Don’t get me wrong, most folks that come in are really nice, but you get a few every-time that cause trouble. We’ll be here to help you out, no worry.” Cloth gently patted Quirrel on the head. Cloth the Strong was the title given to her after she was knighted, and he was glad to have her here.

“Yeah if you want us to throw them out the windows, just say so.” Tiso of course, didn’t give too fucks. They couldn’t call him Tiso the Ant Who Doesn’t Give Two Fucks, so instead he became Tiso the Daring.

“Thanks guys.” Quirrel felt a little emboldened by the support of his friends. “Go ahead and open the doors, we’ll get set up and I think we can start court for the day.” Tiso flashed a thumbs up, opening the doors to let the various workers of the court come in to take their positions. Once settled, he nodded, and the first petitioner was called in. Quirrel sat up straight, making himself as approachable as he possibly could. He was a pillbug after all, they are usually considered cute, so it wasn’t like he had to try hard.

He smiled at the beetle who walked in and stood before him.

“Hello there, my friend, what can the court do for you today?”

The beetle took a breath before speaking. “I’m petitioning the court to ban nails entirely.”

Quirrel boggled as his brain ground to a halt, did he really hear what he just heard? It took him a moment for him to be able to speak properly.

“Ma’am, we use nails to protect the people and for individuals to defend themselves. Why in the world do you want to ban nails?”

She tutted “Well my little Perler keeps trying to pick up other people’s nails and he could get hurt! It’s dangerous to have those around anyone, let alone children!”

“Well then, if we do ban nails, how else would you expect the royal guard to defend you from threats? How do you expect travelers to protect themselves when alone? How do you expect the average citizen to defend themselves should they be attacked?” Quirrel tried to use logic, but to no avail.

She looked Quirrel straight in the eyes. “That’s for you to figure out, right?”

Quirrel sighed.

---

It was official, he wanted to be anywhere but here. He kept glancing at the ornamental hourglass in the hall, watching the grains of sand fall one single piece at a time. It was like the sand wasn’t draining at all, that he was trapped in this one moment forever. This was officially torture.

Sure, a few legitimate bugs came in with reasonable requests. Asking for information to form a legal town militia? Sure go down the hall and to the left and there’s a bug to help you with that. Asking for funds to renovate an empty building for printmaking? That’s reasonable, we need all the books we can get. Asking for a possible sliding scale tax model for citizens based on income? Thank you for that idea, we will look into it when we can. Hell, some little kid somehow managed to make their way inside and asked Quirrel if he could make it illegal to deny dessert. He said he’d discuss it with his spouse but most likely they’d agree to make it a law. The kid left, skipping in glee and Quirrel felt himself smiling. He mused a bit of a possible ‘kids only’ court session just so they all can hear whatever these kids could come up with. It would be a welcome break, maybe a holiday? He’ll talk to Ghost later about it.

However, for every reasonable bug, came three that was dumber than a bag of hammers.

“I propose a tax cut for my business because making gold plated luxury monocles are essential to society.”

“Those Deepnest beast-folk are poisoning our society and corrupting our children! I request that they be deported entirely!”

“I’d like to propose a debate on lowering the age of consent.” (Quirrel had that one hauled off by the guard for questioning).

“I want this book banned because the author argued against the noble class and it hurt my feelings.”

On and on, it steadily got worse as the more opulent members of society came out to air their ‘concerns’. He had started to just dismiss them when they came at him with ridiculous requests, only prompting them to start whining. And boy, could they whine. He could feel his antenna vibrate under his hood with the shrill pitch of entitlement. He did his best to be polite, to gently let these people down. But they just kept coming, and coming.

When the next noble asked for him to tear down the local children’s playground because he wanted to build a second business there, Quirrel snapped.

“ENOUGH!”

He stood up from his throne, staring down at the weevil before him.

“No, I will not tear down a source of enrichment and enjoyment for our citizen’s children to satisfy your selfish desires!”  Quirrel’s words were tense as he hissed them through clenched mandibles.

The weevil, that before was so bold, now cowered. Quirrel was someone who was rare to anger, that had a sense of calm and warmth that made most folks comfortable. But here, he had a dangerous aura about him, eyes glinting with chaos and the sense that he probably caused some destruction on purpose before. Here was a scientist, raised by Monomon the Teacher, a being known for her inability to take shit and being able to dish it back twice as bad. That was a terrible mix indeed.

Tiso and Cloth looked at each other, and then stepped back. Quirrel will let them know if he needs them, and they want to see what goes down.

“I want everyone, who’s court petition would only benefit themselves, to leave. This is not a place to fulfill your want for power and riches. This is a place to hear the concerns to the citizen and to help them with said concerns. This is a place for anyone, rich or poor, big or small, to bring awareness to how we, the court, can care for them.”

He glanced down at the weevil who was still cowering, and narrowed his eyes.

The weevil, had a smidgen of bravery to comment. “Okay, my liege, we can just come back later and ask Sov-”

“You will NOT, bother my spouse with your wretched and idiotic statements!” Oh, he was angry now. Children being told no asks another parent for a different answer, but not an adult. He could scarcely believe it. He has seen selfishness before, but not to this degree. “ESPECIALLY since you think you are above the happiness and joy of all the children in the city! And let me tell you, if you asked my spouse that question, you’d earn yourself a stint in the dungeon to rethink your priorities. They love children a hell of a lot more than arrogant pricks like you. Now get the hell out of my sight!”

The weevil booked it, a sizable portion of nobles scurrying after. It didn’t take long for the room to nearly clear out completely, leaving only a handful of bugs. As Quirrel took a deep breath to calm down, a spike of fear shot through his heart. He had lost his cool, here, in front of his subjects. Were they going to be afraid of him? Would they be afraid to come to court now and bring up legitimate problems?

He took a second look to see that most of them were in various fits of laughter.

He sighed in relief and slumped back in his throne.

Tiso leaned down to whisper “Nice one, nerd, I think you scared them off for a while.”

“Here’s hoping.” Quirrel sighed in return and rubbed his eyes. Once composed, he sat up again, and called the next petitioner to him with a smile.

“How can I help you, my friend?”

“Yeah um.” The ladybug looked back at the door where the group of nobles had fled. He recognized her to actually be one of the nobles that had stayed. “I propose a request to strip nobles of their titles should they prove that they do not have the best interests of the citizens in mind.”

Quirrel grinned. “You know what, that is a fine idea!”

---

Being a king was exhausting. Quirrel barely dragged himself up to his bedroom, the day had turned to night and finally, all the work was done. All he wanted to do was not have to think at all for the rest of the night. How the hell did Ghost manage this every day? Especially before when it was just them doing most of everything? Quirrel now had a better appreciation for what his spouse does, and is still determined to lighten their load and share the burden equally.

He barely made it in the room before he was snatched up by Ghost, who was instantly purring and nuzzling his face. “Ah! Ghost!” He couldn’t help but laugh, feeling a little better as the love of his spouse seeped into him. It was wonderful. “Hello to you too, my darling.”

Ghost chuffed and gave one last head bonk, and carried him to the still stable pillow fort. They crawled inside, dragging them within where a few lumaflies fluttered about to provide light. It was warm and cozy, and Quirrel sank into their arms with a sigh. Ghost snuggled up, making them comfortable in their little nest. “Today was...interesting.”

Ghost touched their mask to his and felt the quiet voice in the back of his head. “Yes. Tiso told me when his shift ended.”

Quirrel groaned. “Did he now?”

Ghost nuzzled him affectionately. “He told me you handled court splendidly.”

“I don’t know, I lost my cool. I should have been able to deal with it all like an adult, not by loosing my temper like a child.”

“Sometimes you have to fight fire with fire.” Ghost leaned back, pulling Quirrel down with them so they can sink into the various pillows. “I am also sure you have just endeared yourself to our subjects doing that.”

“Are they always that bad?” He asked, sighing. He snuggled up to Ghost, who rested their head on his. “The nobles?”

“Yes. But that just gives us some...amusement.”

“Amusement? I felt like someone was digging into my brain with a pickaxe!”

“Think about it. The opportunity for pranks. Like how father and your mother took them out during the coronation ball. It was splendid.” They chirped softly in laughter. Quirrel couldn't help but smile at that. Indeed, that was absolutely hilarious. Especially when Oro punted those stuck nobles out of the door and sent them flying. He could deal with a bit of a headache here and there to see that sort of thing again.

“You know what?” He said, grabbing a blanket and pulling it up around the both of them. Ghost sighed sleepily and Quirrel knew he won’t be far behind.

“What?”

“I could get used to this.”

Ghost was both delighted, and terrified.

[gretavanfanfic]

Noisy Neighbor

Pairing: Josh Kiszka x (F) Reader

Warnings: Smut! 18+ only

Word Count: 5000ish

Summary: The walls in your apartment are a bit thin and Neighbor!Josh likes to make noise.

You can’t deny that you have a bit of a crush on your neighbor, Josh. From the day he moved into the apartment next to yours, you were immediately attracted to his looks. And then, a few weeks later, he introduced himself to you in the hallway and you found out that he’s actually the sweetest person in the world. Your attraction intensified tenfold. Now, every time you enter or leave your apartment, you can’t stop yourself from hoping that you’ll run into him in the halls.

Though you’ve only spoken to Josh on a handful of occasions, you feel as though you know him on an intimate level due to the paper thin walls of your home. You’ve concluded that your living rooms must share a wall, because you can hear absolutely everything Josh does in the main room of your suite. You weren’t surprised when you discovered this though, considering the low price you pay for rent each month. What did surprise you was that you found it didn’t annoy you in the slightest. Josh makes quite a bit of noise, but honestly, you very much enjoy the chaos that regularly flows out of his apartment. 

You hate to admit it, because you know it’s creepy, but sometimes you intentionally eavesdrop on the goings-on in Josh’s apartment. A lot of the time, it’s more entertaining than anything you could watch on TV. Josh has 3 friends (or maybe brothers, they look like they may be related) that visit so often, you frequently wonder why they all didn’t just move in together. When they’re over, the shouting and laughter is constant, and you get a major kick out of listening to their stories and antics. And then there’s Josh’s singing. Whenever he’s home alone, you can hear his angelic voice belting out song after song, some that you recognize and others that you don’t. His voice is so gorgeous, you’re sure he could sing the phone book and make it sound amazing. Why would you listen to music on your speakers when you have a front row seat to Josh’s beautiful live performances? You feel a bit guilty for your snooping, but you figure it’s harmless. If Josh didn’t want anyone to hear him, he’d quiet down.

This particular evening, though, your eavesdropping doesn’t seem quite as harmless as usual. You’re not deliberately spying on Josh. At first. You’re just settling in for a night of Chinese takeout and Netflix when a noise through the wall catches your attention. A...sexy noise. It isn’t loud, definitely more quiet than most of the sounds coming from Josh’s unit, but you hear it nonetheless. Curious, you turn the volume on the TV down and lean closer to the wall behind your couch, waiting to hear if it happens again.

A few moments later and there it is once more, an unmistakable moan. Just that small sound makes your entire body feel hot, and you press your ear even closer to the wall. Is he doing what I think he’s doing? You can’t hear anything else that would give you any more hints, but why else would he be letting out little moans here and there? The image of Josh touching himself causes wetness to build between your thighs. 

Then you’re struck by another thought, one that lessens your desire slightly. What if he’s with someone? If you’re being honest with yourself, you would probably be devastated if that was the case. Though you wouldn’t even really consider Josh a friend, you’ve held out on the hope that maybe something would happen between the two of you someday. You never thought that he may have a girlfriend, or even about him sleeping with other girls.

You begin to feel dejected, until you realize that you’re getting ahead of yourself. You’ve been home for hours, and not once did you hear Josh’s front door open or close. You also hadn’t heard him talk to anyone during the day. He had been singing for a bit earlier, and his TV was on briefly, but that was it. If a girl had been there, you’re sure you would have heard her at some point. And so, you allow yourself to believe that Josh is in his apartment alone, scratching his own itch.

Another low groan sounds a few moments later, and you squirm in your seat, getting wetter and wetter by the second. Invested now, you mute the TV altogether so you can hear Josh without any background static. Voyeurism is not something you engage in on a regular basis, so you can’t help feeling a little dirty listening in on his “personal time.” But you can’t make yourself turn a blind eye and resume your show on Netflix either. All you can focus on is Josh and the arousal he’s brought on.

Josh’s moans are becoming louder and more frequent now. Some are small grunts, whereas others are drawn out and higher in pitch, almost whiny. You’ve never heard anything hotter in your life, and before long, you’re practically aching for him. You want to see his body, which you’re certain is toned but not overly muscular, and run your fingertips over every inch of his skin. You yearn for him to kiss you, so you can glide your tongue over his luscious lips and feel the vibration of his groans in your mouth. More than anything, you want to fuck him. Feel the pleasant stretch as he thrusts into you over and over, filling you up and satisfying your needs.

Unable to stop yourself, your right hand travels past the waistband of your leggings and into your underwear. Using your middle finger, you gather some of your wetness and drag it up to your clit, rubbing slow circles over the sensitive nerve. Your eyes fall shut at the feeling it elicits. 

This isn’t the first time you’ve thought of Josh while getting yourself off. He’s been a staple in your fantasies ever since the day he introduced himself. Pretending it’s Josh and not your vibrator working you to orgasm makes the whole process go much more quickly. The toy has seen a significant increase in action since he moved in.

Listening to Josh masturbating on just the other side of the wall has you hot enough that you don’t even need your favorite toy right now. You’ve just barely started stimulating your clit and you’re already ridiculously close to orgasm. You can feel your heartbeat in your ears and a light sweat has broken out across the back of your neck. You’re so wet, you can feel it leaking out of you and into your underwear. Only a few more circles and you know you’ll be cumming harder than you have in a long time.

And then it happens. From the other side of the wall, you hear Josh’s husky voice whine, “Oh fuck, Y/N!” 

Your hand stills in your pants and your jaw drops open in disbelief. Did he just say my name? You had to have heard wrong. Or maybe you were just so horny and caught up in the moment that you imagined it. 

But then, there it is again.

“Y/N! Fuck, oh my god,” followed by a much louder and lower groan. 

This time, there is no mistaking it. Josh Kiszka just moaned your name while he came. 

Your body is absolutely rigid, with the exception of your legs, which are visibly shaking. Being so close to the edge and then abruptly stopping stimulation will do that to you. 

Inhaling deeply, you attempt to center yourself and process what you just heard. Which is impossible; you’re too turned on to even have a chance of thinking rationally. The only thing going on in your mind is: Josh! Josh! Josh!

As badly as you want to just shove your hand back down your pants and finish yourself off right now, Josh’s utterance of your name has brought out a carnal desire in you that you’re positive can only be fulfilled by actual physical contact with him. And you can’t wait for it. You need it now.

So with a stroke of courage like you’ve never experienced before, you quickly get up and wash your hands in the kitchen sink, then march toward your front door and swing it open. Foregoing shoes, you walk swiftly toward the door to Josh’s apartment and rap your knuckles against the dark green wood emblazoned with the number 201.

There’s no response at first, and you’re not really surprised considering you’re calling on him right after he finished jerking himself off. So you knock again, and this time you hear him shout, “Just a second!”

As you stand outside his door, waiting for him to appear, you begin to feel butterflies in your stomach. The worries that should have popped into your head earlier are now showing themselves, and there’s a lot of them. What if he really is with a girl? What if I’m not the Y/N he’s thinking about? Why did I not change before coming over here? Is my hair a mess? Did I even put on deodorant today? What if he’s not interested?

And then the door clicks open and there stands a pink-cheeked Josh, shirtless with a pair of black sweatpants riding low on his slim hips. You can tell you’ve caught him off-guard because his eyes widen significantly when they land on you. Unable to exercise any form of self-control, you allow yourself to examine his bare torso, eyes dancing from his pecs, past his toned abdomen, to the wispy happy trail that disappears under his low-slung pants. On your way up, you ogle his muscular arms. He catches you staring, and you see the blush spread down to his chest, small red patches cropping up as he takes you in.

Clearing his throat, he says, “Y/N! Hi! Sorry, I- uh, I wasn’t expecting any visitors.”

“Yeah, that’s my bad. Sorry,” you apologize, bouncing from foot to foot. “Are- are you busy?” 

You figure this is a safe way to start the conversation. Not being too straightforward, but also making it clear that you’re here for a reason and it may take up some of his time.

Josh looks even more surprised and you can hear the shock in his voice when he too loudly exclaims, “No! No, come on in.” He moves backward and opens up the door wider, allowing you to step through the frame. 

The door shuts behind you, and you and Josh stand awkwardly in his entryway for a moment. Taking the opportunity to see how Josh lives, you glance around the living area and note that it looks exactly like you expected it to. With a layout identical to yours, it is messy, but not overly so, and cozy, with personal touches like photos and knick knacks spread throughout the room. Every inch is reminiscent of Josh. Then you catch sight of Josh’s phone, lying upside down on the sofa, like it was thrown down quickly when he got up to answer the door, and a dark green t-shirt crumpled into a ball on the floor.

The shirt reminds you of Josh’s current state of undress, and your eyes flick back to his half-naked frame. His body is more gorgeous than you imagined, and you long to put your hands on him. You feel almost predatory as you gawk at him and lick your lips.

Breaking the silence, Josh asks, “So what can I do for you, neighbor? Need to borrow a cup of sugar?” He grins at you, making eye contact for a moment, then glances away and rubs his palm along the back of his neck. 

You let out a nervous giggle at the cliche and greedily take in the sight of his newly exposed underarm. He’s so pretty, you think to yourself. 

Shaking your head, you answer, “No, um, actually I had a question for you.” 

Before you make your move, you need to be absolutely certain that Josh doesn’t have a girlfriend. You would never forgive yourself for unknowingly moving in on someone else’s significant other.

“Okay,” Josh shrugs his shoulders. “Shoot,” he says, sticking his hands in his pockets. 

You know you’re being forward, and you know this could end up being a very uncomfortable situation, but you force yourself to question, “Are you single?”

It’s not what Josh is expecting to hear. His back straightens and his eyebrows shoot up, shock evident. He hastily recovers, however, and begins to nod rapidly. “Yeah, I am. Why do you ask?” Once the words leave his mouth, you watch as he bites his bottom lip, then soothes where he bit with his tongue. The action makes your clit throb with want.

What do you say now? “That’s great, because I want to fuck you?” Definitely not. You scour your brain for a way to casually bring up your attraction to him, beginning to lose the burst of confidence that brought you here in the first place. But then, you look up to Josh’s face to see that his eyes are black, pupils fully dilated despite being in a well-lit room. Really, the only explanation for it that you can think of is desire. And you’re sure if you were to look in a mirror right now, your pupils would be dilated as well.

At last, your hunger for him overtakes your nerves and you state, “You know, the walls here are pretty thin…”

Josh’s eyes practically bulge out of his head and you watch him nervously run a hand through his hair. He doesn’t make eye contact when he finally breathes out, “Oh.”

Feeling bold, you walk a few steps forward so that you’re almost toe to toe with Josh. He audibly sucks in a breath, taken aback by your close proximity. His eyes search your face for an explanation for your closeness, while yours eagerly examine his impeccable features. You allow yourself a moment to study his nicely shaped eyebrows, rich, chocolate eyes, nose that is perfectly sized for his face, plump, pink lips, and his skin, dotted with a small number of acne scars, but glowing nevertheless. You’re dying to reach out and touch him.

Instead, you admit, “I heard you a few minutes ago...it sounded an awful lot like you were moaning my name.”

Looking up at him from under your eyelashes, you see Josh’s cheeks flush bright red. He doesn’t reply right away, just darts his eyes around the room with noticeable tension in his jaw. His hand rises up again to run through his hair, then falls to his chest where he uses his short nails to scratch across the skin there. His palm stays splayed across his chest as he focuses his stare on his feet and confesses, “Listen, I’m sorry. I know it’s weird, but I didn’t realize I was being that loud. I really hope you don’t think I’m some disgusting creep. I just- I find you really attractive and my thoughts just sort of naturally land on you when I’m je- when I’m doing that.”

Truthfully, you were not expecting Josh to readily confirm your suspicions, but you’re definitely pleased that he did not hold back. A thrill runs through your body at his words, and again, you feel a rush of wetness between your legs. Fidgeting back and forth on your feet, you unconsciously rub your thighs together.

You know that Josh witnesses the motion because he openly gawks at you and the hand on his chest abruptly falls to his side. Your eyes follow his arm, and on their way down, you notice a sizable bulge has formed in his sweatpants. A shiver runs down your spine and your heart flutters knowing he’s just as turned on as you are right now.

Ready to relieve yourself of the tension you’ve been feeling for at least 20 minutes now, you close the distance between your bodies and firmly set your palms on Josh’s chest. Not allowing him time to question your closeness, you divulge, “Actually, I thought it was pretty hot. I, uh, I wish I was able to witness it with my eyes and not just my ears. But it kind of looks like you’re ready to go again, and I know I cou-”

Josh doesn’t let you finish your sentence, placing both hands on either side of your face and crashing his lips to yours. You respond readily, tracing his full lower lip with your tongue until it parts from his top lip and allows you entrance. Busying your tongue with his, you both relax into the kiss, and he combs some hair out of your face with his fingers. Driven by pure lust, you slide your right hand down his chest, fingertips combing through the happy trail that quite frankly, makes your mouth water, then break the kiss. In a whisper, you ask, “Can I?” and gesture towards his prominent bulge. He answers with a quick nod, and you cup the tent in his pants in your palm.

Groaning into your mouth (like you hoped he would), Josh grips your ass and tugs you forward so there is no space between your bodies. Your hand is sandwiched between both of your groins, but you do your best to stroke his dick through his pants, and revel in the small sounds he emits. 

Pulling away from your mouth, Josh kisses a trail over your jaw and down your throat, lightly sucking your pulse point, then soothes the area with his tongue. Meanwhile, his right hand snakes under your shirt and lingers on the skin of your waist for just a moment, before venturing higher and cupping your breast through your thin bralette. The pad of his thumb locates your nipple through the fabric and begins rubbing slow circles, causing you to inadvertently let out a small squeal. 

Josh chuckles against your neck at the noise, but the laugh turns strained as you increase the pressure your hand is applying to his very hard member. In retaliation, his left hand finds its way under your top and lightly pinches your other nipple, both of them now achingly stiff and sensitive. Each time his fingertips make contact, you feel the pleasure shoot straight down to your pussy. 

Craving more skin to skin contact, you suddenly take a step back and yank your shirt over your head, followed directly by your flimsy bra. Josh hungrily inspects your exposed breasts for just a minute, then drags you back into him so your naked torsos are flush against each other. Pressing his lips back to yours, your tongues again battle for dominance. 

Not even a minute later, Josh begins shuffling the two of you backwards, until you find yourself in his bedroom with your legs hitting the edge of his bed. There, he encourages you onto the navy blue comforter and you scoot up so you can lie back against the soft white pillows. You’re surprised to find that his bed is neatly made, and his room is free of clutter. You kind of expected it to be a pig-sty. 

Josh steals your attention again by crawling up your body and settling himself between your legs. Instead of kissing you, he attaches his lips to your collarbone, where he sucks for a second, then works his way down to the swell of your boob. His mouth closes around your nipple and sucks, causing you to breathe out a sigh of satisfaction.

You wrap your legs around his waist and buck up into him, hoping he’ll get the hint and return the favor by grinding down into you. He does, and you close your eyes and throw your head back against the pillow. 

Josh switches sides and begins lavishing your other nipple with his tongue, while you find the waistband of his pants and reach inside, quickly discovering that he decided against wearing underwear today. You’re not disappointed by the easy access he’s provided to his thick cock. 

Grasping it in your palm, you give his dick a few strokes, then run your thumb over the tip in circles. Josh appreciates this, as indicated by the slow, “Fuckkk,” he breathes out. You continue your motions, loving watching Josh react to your touch almost as much as the feel of his mouth on your bare skin. 

When he’s had enough of torturing your nipples, Josh’s mouth descends down your torso, kissing a circle around your belly button, and continues lower until he reaches the top of your leggings. He silently asks for permission with his eyes, and when you give it to him, he slips his fingers under the waistband and slides both the pants and your (very damp) underwear down your legs. The movement forces you to let go of his cock, and you mourn the loss of contact. 

You’re not upset for long, however, because, after Josh tosses your clothing to the ground, he positions himself on his stomach between your thighs, face lined up with your dripping heat. He lets out a deep groan at the sight of your exposed lower half. Teasing you, he attaches his lips to your inner thigh, kissing down it and toward your center before moving to the other side. This time, when he reaches the top of your inner thigh, he begins sucking on the skin, causing a gasp to escape your lips. He doesn’t let up until he’s left a dark purple bruise, which you’re certain will sting tomorrow and remind you of the fantasy come true that’s occurring right now. 

After he’s satisfied with the hickey, Josh pushes your thighs apart so you’re spread wide open in front of him. You see a small smirk form on his lips right before he leans forward and licks a slow stripe up your slit. As soon as his tongue touches your clit, your back arches off the mattress and a quiet whimper sounds from your mouth. He grins against you at your response and repeats the gesture multiple times in quick succession. When he adds his fingers to the mix, one gently probing your entrance while his tongue’s attention stays on your clit, your hands fly to his head and clutch his curls in bliss. 

He continues licking and sucking your bundle of nerves in perfect time with the thrust of his fingers until you’re panting and absolutely desperate for more. You know he’s also craving more, because he’s begun grinding his hips into the mattress in dire need of friction. 

Giving his curls a small tug, you watch as he lifts his head and darts his tongue out to lick your wetness off his lips. He stares back, waiting for a queue from you on what you want next.

Once you catch your breath, you pull him up for a kiss, tasting yourself on his lips, then practically beg, “Josh, I really, really need you to fuck me right now. Please.”

Not wasting a second, Josh scurries off the bed and speedily removes his pants, his rigid cock springing free from its confines. You shamelessly stare as he strolls over to his nightstand and retrieves a condom, then kneels next to your body on the mattress. 

It’s in this moment that it dawns on you that you’re about to sleep with the boy you’ve had a crush on for months now. The thought makes your stomach do a flip-flop in your abdomen. You allow yourself to hope that something else may bloom from this, that this isn’t the last time you’ll be naked in Josh Kiszka’s bed.

Once Josh has finished putting on the condom, he nudges his way back between your legs and leans forward so that your body is supporting most of his weight. You delight in the feel of his naked form crushing yours. Holding himself up with one hand on the mattress, he reconnects your lips and licks into your mouth, giving you the most sensual kiss yet. As he kisses you, he reaches down and grabs hold of himself, tapping your clit with the tip of his dick and making you let out a soft moan.

Lips breaking away from yours, Josh looks you directly in the eye and asks, “Are you sure?”

Appreciating his need for explicit consent, you smile at him and wind your arms around the back of his neck. Playing with the curls there, you reply, “Yes, definitely,” and pull him down so you can busy your lips on his neck. 

While you’re sucking your own hickey onto his skin, he lines himself up with your entrance and slowly pushes in until you can feel his balls against your ass. You mewl against his neck at the feeling of fullness and fist the comforter in your hands. He feels so good you could cry.

Once he’s fully seated in you, Josh blows out a shaky breath, eyes nearly rolling to the back of his head. He stays still for a moment, giving you some time to adjust to his length, before pulling out slightly and thrusting back into your heat. His rhythm is slow at first, but you don’t mind since it gives you some time to just feel him. And he appears to be enjoying himself, if his eyes being clamped shut and his mouth wide open is any indication.

When he does decide to pick up the pace, the noises your bodies make as he slips in and out of you amplify. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t find it hot. Looking down to where you are connected intensifies the experience even more, the sight of your slick all over his cock and in his pubic hair making you clench around him.

Josh groans at the sudden tightness and follows your line of sight. “Holy shit, you’re so wet. Oh my god,” he whimpers. Then, he drags the fingers of his right hand down your body, runs them through your wetness, and begins massaging your clit. 

You’re on cloud nine, and you never want to leave. You truly didn’t know sex could be this fantastic. Josh is attending to your every need like no one else has before, and you’re beyond happy that you made the decision to knock on his door.

His pace picks up even more and you lift your hips off the beds to meet his, thrust for thrust. Hoping to pull him in even closer, you dig your heels into his ass and use it as leverage for your thrusts. Doing this changes the angle just the smallest amount, but now there’s a delicious pressure being applied to the perfect place inside you every time Josh fills you up. This combination of his cock hitting your g-spot and his thumb on your clit has you quickly approaching climax, your face inadvertently scrunching up and your breathing becoming more labored.

Josh notices the changes in your facial expression and breathing and lowers himself to plant a kiss on your lips. Speeding up his motions on your clit, he kisses over to your ear and whispers, “That’s it, baby. Let me see what you look like when you cum.”

The words set something off inside you and you reach your peak, your hands gripping his shoulders tightly as a loud gasp leaves your lips. Eyes screwed shut, you moan out, “Josh! Fuck!” and feel yourself gush around him. Your orgasm is prolonged by Josh continuing his movements, making your legs shake and sweat bead at your forehead. The feeling is so intense, you have to swat at Josh’s hand to get him to stop petting your clit and overstimulating you.

Your orgasm has caused your pussy to clench around Josh, and you know he’s affected because his thrusts start to become more erratic. Even though you’re absolutely spent, you reach up to nibble on his ear and run your nails down his back, encouraging him to let go. He plunges into you just a few more times, and then he’s letting out a low grunt and calling out your name in a strained voice. 

Josh doesn’t pull out right away, remaining inside you while the both of you come down from your highs and catch your breath. He kisses you, slow and gentle this time, making you feel all sorts of things that it is definitely too soon for you to be feeling. When he finally pulls away, he smiles down at you, then pulls out and gets up to dispose of the condom. 

He’s back a second later, flopping beside you on his bed and tossing an arm over his forehead. Still grinning, he turns to you and says, “God, that was so hot. Definitely better than I imagined.”

A contented hum sounds from your lips. “Yeah? I’m glad. You can go ahead and add that to your spank bank.”

Josh chuckles at your joke, then extends his hand to play with your hair. Looking at him now, you know that you can’t allow this to be your last time together, and so, you decide to make a little confession of your own.

“I think about you, too, sometimes. When I- when I touch myself, I think about you, too.” 

Josh looks surprised for only a second, and then a light giggle leaves his mouth. 

“Do you happen to own a vibrator, Y/N?” he questions, a smirk etched on his face. 

Cheeks burning, you look away in embarrassment, but still confirm his suspicions with a small, “Yes.”

At your answer, Josh’s face lights up in a full blown grin and he drapes his body over you once more, lips hovering over yours. With a mischievous gleam in his eye, he playfully jests, “You know, thin walls go both ways. The sound of small appliances, say, vibrators, travels pretty easily. And it sounds like yours gets quite a bit of use.”

You know it’s stupid to feel embarrassed, since you’re naked in his bed, but you can’t help averting your eyes from his.

Now giggling at your awkwardness, Josh taps your nose with his to get you to look at him again. “Hey,” he laughs, “Next time you’re thinking of whipping that vibrator out, you can just come see me instead. I’ll take care of you.”

Laughing along with him, you jokingly whisper back, “I’ll keep that in mind,” and seal your lips to his, feeling unusually grateful that you were given such a noisy neighbor.

[hualianff]

Untethered III 《II》

Hold On – Park Yun Seo

White noise rings through Xie Lian’s ears, replacing the brutal assaults of battle until they fade away into the background. Beads of rain make contact with Xie Lian’s face, soaking his hairline and his clothes. But nothing else matters in this moment besides the ring Crimson Rain holds hostage, away from Xie Lian’s heart.

“It’s common courtesy to answer when someone asks a question, little Prince,” the pirate captain sings, pulling tighter on the ring until the chain feels like it’s going to snap.

“No!” Xie Lian gasps worriedly. His hands fly to grasp the ring, effectively unhooking it from Crimson Rain’s sword, but cutting his right hand in the process. Blood immediately oozes from the small wound, cleansed by the rain and sliding down to splash onto the deck.

Xie Lian grimaces while inspecting his hand. His other palm closes around the ring protectively, pressing the cool surface to his lips. The prince unconsciously closes his eyes, memories flooding his mind, letting through five year’s worth of forbidden euphoria.

He envisions the grungy tavern on the outskirts of the Kingdom of Xianle, where Shi Qingxuan had convinced him to sneak out to explore outside the palace walls. He can taste the muskiness in the air, hear the drunken pandemonium. Shi Qingxuan had eventually gone off to gamble–particularly well-versed in wagering despite being of nobility status–leaving Xie Lian sitting at the bar alone, unsure of what to order.

Xie Lian remembers a mysterious figure taking the seat to his left, draped in a red overcoat with an eyepatch covering his right eye. The stranger did not hesitate to call the bartender over, ordering two beverages with a slight lilt in his baritone voice. Xie Lian awkwardly fixed his gaze onto his glass of iced tap water, hoping his common robes, untied hair, and makeup-less face would go unrecognized.

That, and the fact that he had no experience ordering or drinking alcohol, even at twenty-years-old.

The bartender brought over the eye-patched man’s drinks, setting them down with a thunk! Xie Lian was content to watch for the stranger’s drinking partner from his peripheral vision, perhaps even pick up on how to drink in the proper manner. He would be damned if he didn’t learn one useful thing during this night of freedom.

However, Xie Lian was not prepared for the man to grab one glass and slide it in his direction. Xie Lian froze in his seat, sitting with his back ram-rod straight, hands neatly placed in his lap. Should he kindly refuse the offer? Unsupervised drinking was certainly risky. Or should he take a cautious sip? He would think that was the polite thing to do.

But before Xie Lian could react, the man casually angled his body towards him, leaning his elbow on the bar and propping his face with his palm.

His next words made Xie Lian’s heart come to a complete halt.

“Good evening, Your Highness.”

Xie Lian’s memories abruptly shift, and he is transported to the day when he first saw Ghost Ship. It appeared out of nowhere, easily twice the size of the traveling ship Xie Lian had taken to a neighboring kingdom. When the royal guards jumped to attack, Xie Lian simply held a hand up, stopping them in their tracks.

The prince walked to the side of his ship, assessing the Ghost Ship with keen eyes. Ghost Ship was traveling at a faster speed, quickly passing the royal ship by with no intention of initiating battle. When the better half of its length sailed beyond Xie Lian’s sight, the man steering the wheel came into view. As if in slow motion, Xie Lian locked eyes with the man, who donned familiar red and an eyepatch, and also wore a signature captain’s hat.

A captain. A pirate captain, Xie Lian remembers thinking, captivated by those broad shoulders, tattooed skin, and eccentric clothes. The same pirate captain circles in on him like a hungry shark, scimitar scraping along his arms and back, tearing the drenched fabric of his robes.

“Who knew the Prince of Xianle cares so much for a plain piece of metal?” Crimson Rain continues spitting his words like poison.

Xie Lian curls in on himself, trembling.

When pirates began uncharacteristically wreaking havoc on the docks of Xianle’s ports, Xie Lian often rushed to the scene to fend them off himself. Specifically, a pirate who could give Xie Lian a run for his money when it came to sword fighting, but always escaping with an evil smirk painted across his lips.

When Xie Lian had nearly drowned, those same lips had pressed against his own to breathe air into his lungs.

That had been his first kiss.

A few months later, Xie Lian had snuck out of the palace once again to the very same dock at the end of the port, where a certain pirate awaited him.

The images flitting through his mind now blur together, becoming unrecognizable except for the sensations imprinted on his body.

A warm body claiming him in a king-sized bed, among silken sheets and the pale glow of the moonlight streaming through the window. It was almost too dark to make out the man on top.

Almost.

One lust-filled eye bore down at Xie Lian.

“You like that, Your Highness?” the baritone voice growled into his ear.

Xie Lian hears his answering moan play inside his head and inhales sharply.

Between the secret meetings came secret letters specially addressed to the prince. They appeared with the changing winds, anonymously delivered under the pretense of confidential mail sent from other royalty. But no one could imitate that atrocious handwriting, nor invoke the same joy from Xie Lian when seeing his favorite red, butterfly seal.

Isabella’s Lullaby – Takahiro Obata

“It’s from someone special,” Xie Lian grits out, hanging his head low. The ring–presented to him with the most tender gaze and gentle hands–symbolizes hope. A promise of unconditional love.

“Trust me,” a low whisper ghosted against Xie Lian’s temple. “I’ll come back for you.”

And Xie Lian believed him.

That was one year ago. The spontaneous visits stopped, and so did the carefully crafted letters. With no one to confide in, Xie Lian spiraled down underneath everyone’s expectations and his own realized failure. He had been foolish. Blind. Naive.

Within that one-year period, Xie Lian lost faith.

Not in his love. Never in his love.

But in destiny. In free will. In god.

The one thing, one person, he needed most in this lifetime, was no longer within his reach.

Until now.

“Where will you run now, dear Prince?” Crimson Rain’s voice brings Xie Lian back to the present. His eye holds none of the familiar warmth it once did when he slipped the very same silver ring onto Xie Lian’s finger.

The rumbling and squeaking of footsteps make their way towards the pair, Xie Lian’s royal guards abandoning the protection of the ship to come to their prince’s aid instead. But even as Xie Lian gazes up at Crimson Rain’s, brandishing that strong jaw and classy smirk, the prominent eye patch, and the shimmering eye that radiates insanity, Xie Lian feels a certain sense of peace wash over him.

It’s finally time.

Xie Lian gives the pirate captain a hostile smirk of his own, taking out the white ribbon holding up his hair and letting the rain weigh down his brunet locks.

“Hua Cheng,” Xie Lian croons knowingly, widening his eyes in faux innocence. The instant look of surprise on Crimson Rain’s face is all Xie Lian needs before kicking the pirate’s sword to the side, scattering it a few meters away. Xie Lian dives for the exact sword, adjusting to the new weight and shape of the weapon. His palm throbs where the cut splits further open, blood staining the hilt.

Xie Lian swiftly points the sword at Hua Cheng’s jugular, their positions now switched.

Now, it is the pirates who are yelling chaotically, demanding their captain not let a rotten prince get the best of him. Hua Cheng simply clicks his tongue, signaling his men to retreat.

“Your Highness...” the pirate captain murmurs. Xie Lian digs the sword more insistently into Hua Cheng’s skin, forcing the pirate back. Xie Lian herds him onto the official plank, where traitors are typically executed, sentenced by the prince himself.

“Back. Up,” is all Xie Lian offers bitterly, his long hair curtaining his face, body still tense even though he has the upper hand. Hua Cheng holds his hands up in surrender, his hair drenched with rain, the long braid crooked where it cascades down his right shoulder.

“Xie Lian,” Hua Cheng addresses in a sweeter tone. “My dear Prince, if you could see yourself now.”

Xie Lian swallows thickly.

“You are a beautiful sight,” Hua Cheng rasps out, no more than a whisper. Yet, Xie Lian catches every word, and his heart clenches painfully.

Of course, Hua Cheng would think that.

Xie Lian’s sword wavers, but only because the pouring rain has stolen every bit of warmth as it washes down his body, making him shiver. The prince knows everyone’s attention is on them, the royal guards cheering their prince on in hopes that this conflict will end in their victory.

But they remain unaware of their biggest defeat.

The Prince of Xianle had fallen in love with a pirate.

With an unbearably heavy heart, Xie Lian draws his sword back. Tears leak out of his eyes and stream down his face, mixing in with the rain. In this very moment, Xie Lian feels the most suffocated he’s ever been, and wonders if this is truly what it feels like to be on the brink of death.

As if it happens in slow motion, Xie swings the sword with all the power he possesses. Hua Cheng’s arms stretch open in vulnerability, lips forming into a small, understanding smile.

“Gege.”

Something inside Xie Lian shatters. The familiar term of endearment is for Xie Lian’s ears only. His heart pounds against his rib cage with the ferocity of an imprisoned soul, screaming at Xie Lian to ask not what he would wish for in death, but what is he willing to live for?

The answer is right in front of him.

“I’m back.”

《Bonus I》

[after-avenging-hours]

Out of Time [7]: Steve x Reader

Series Masterlist with dates on chapter releases - tag list will not be used for this series

Summary:  After Steve gets injected with a mysterious substance during a mission gone wrong, you come to find out that the only thing that can save his life is a pure sample of Dr. Erskine’s Super Soldier Serum. Unwilling to let the love of your life die without a fighting chance, you travel through the quantum realm back to 1943. Equipped with little more than your knowledge of past events, you have to figure out just how exactly you’re going to get your hands on that serum. Not only that, but with the infinity stones no longer protecting the reality you’ve come from, there is now a chance that your presence in the past can change the future you’ll return to. Can you succeed without messing things up? And if things go wrong, can you fix it before it’s too late? Or will you run out of time…

Word Count: 6220

Warnings: Lots of feels

Steve manages to get a few short hours of sleep before his mind is pulled back to reality. As his eyes flicker open, he can see the sky is just beginning to lighten into morning. He feels the comforting weight of your head on his chest, your breaths are soft and even as it scatters across his skin. He watches over you for as long as possible, before the needs of his bladder become too great to ignore.

He’s gotten better at maneuvering out from underneath you without waking you in the process. He slips out of bed and pulls his pants back on before walking to the far end of the barracks where the door to the bathroom is. After completing his business, he makes his way back to you and smiles at the sight he sees.

You’re lying on your stomach, face buried into his pillow with your arms wrapped underneath. Your hair falls in disarray around your head and down your back. The blanket rides just below your hips, leaving the full expanse of your back open to his perusal. You look like a piece of art, which has Steve delving into his suitcase to pull out his sketchbook.

He takes a seat on the cot next to his and props the sketchbook on his knee, opening it to a new page. His charcoal pencil flies across the blank page, marking out your details in record speed. From the curve of your back to the pout of your lips; the arch of your brow to the peak of your knee from beneath the blanket. He leaves nothing out, not even the scar on your back from the wound he’d helped you patch up just two weeks ago.

He can barely believe that it’s already fully healed. He knows it has to have been that healing gel from your first aid kit. When you’d used it on the cuts on his back, he’d noticed that he was completely healed later that same night. He didn’t know how it was possible, but he’d been too preoccupied to track you down and ask.

He’s just putting the finishing touches to the sketch when you begin to stir. It starts with a change in your breathing before you slowly start to move. Your bent leg stretches back down, causing the bedsheet to ride just a little lower down your hips. Your hands slip out from beneath the pillow and you reach one back behind you, patting blindly at the empty space of the mattress. A cute little frown pulls at your lips before your eyes slowly blink open.

As your gaze comes into focus and settles on him, that frown flips up into a blissful smile. “G’ morning,” you mumble sleepily through that smile.

Steve chuckles through the huskiness of his own morning voice. “Good morning.”

“I didn’t kick you out of bed, did I?” you ask.

“No,” he shakes his head softly.

Your gaze drops to the book in his lap and you grin knowingly. “Are you sketching me in my sleep, Rogers?” you ask with a teasing lilt.

His face flushes, caught red-handed. “Y-yeah. Is that okay?” he hadn’t stopped to think if you would be comfortable with him doing that, he just knew that he needed to capture your beauty in that exact moment.

Your soft giggles help to ease his fears. “It’s okay as long as I get to see it.”

His heart leaps in embarrassed nervousness, but he pushes up from the cot to move closer. You sit up to make room for him as he turns to sit on the edge of the bed. He’s hyper-aware of your naked breasts against his back when you push in close to look at the sketch over his shoulder. You hum happily and wrap your arms around his torso. Your heat seeps into him everywhere your skin touches his and it feeds the fire burning in his soul.

Your fingers reach out to brush over the page, careful not to smudge any of the fresh charcoal. “I like the way you draw me,” you tell him sincerely. “So relaxed and carefree. Almost ethereal, even.”

Ethereal is a good way to put it. Any time Steve looks at you, he swears that he’s actually looking at a living, breathing goddess. You remain curled around him, soaking up your last few moments before looking at how bright it’s starting to get outside the window.

You release a soft sigh and press a kiss to the back of his shoulder. “I should head back to the officer quarters. Dr. Erskine wanted to head to the lab fairly early to prepare for the procedure.”

You shift away from him and move to stand. You’re about to bend over to collect your clothes when you feel a tug at your wrist. Turning around, you allow Steve to pull you closer until you’re standing between his legs. “Do you really have to go?” he asks, the vulnerability leaking from his voice as he looks up at you.

He’s not talking about right now. He’s talking about after the procedure. It makes your heart ache to see the despair in his eyes. “Yes,” you reply, just barely above a whisper. Any louder and you know your voice will crack.

His gaze drops as he leans forward to rest his forehead against your stomach, hands clutching at your waist. You let him have his moment, running your fingers soothingly through his hair. He nuzzles softly against your skin, trying to fill his head with your unique scent so that he won’t ever forget it.

When he lifts his head back up, his gaze flickers to the bullet scar on your abdomen. He leans forward once more and presses his lips to the area. A sense of déjà vu hits you at full force once again, as you suddenly remember all the times your Steve has touched you in that same spot. Even before you ever had a mark there.

The first time you’d decided to sleep together, you’d been standing in his room at the foot of his bed, unable to pull your lips away from his mouth. When your shirt had been discarded, Steve had promptly dropped to his knees and he pressed his lips to this exact spot. He then proceeded to spend a good several minutes driving you wild has he licked and sucked on the spot until a bruise had formed.

Any time you’d run through combat training with him, if you were only wearing a sports bra then once he had you pinned down, he’d send you that cheekily little grin of his before placing a kiss to this spot on your belly and then he’d help you up to keep training.

During group movie nights, while the two of you huddled close with his arm wrapped around your waist, sometimes his hand would slip beneath the hem of your shirt and he’d absentmindedly rub his fingers over the same area.

Your mind is still reeling when Steve pulls back and gently pushes at your hips to make room for him to stand and step around you. “I’m going to shower,” he mumbles quietly.

Your heart is racing just as fast as your mind as you try to pull your focus back to this present and turn to watch him walk pasts the rows of beds to the back of the barracks. He doesn’t look back as he disappears behind the door to the shared bathroom.

With one hand pressed to your drumming heart, you reach down with the other to grab your nightgown from the floor and pull it back on. The silk robe comes next. You pull the sheets on his bed back into place after that. You’re not sure why you’re dilly-dallying. You really need to go, but you’re desperately trying to soak in every last possible second of him. With nothing else left to do, your fingers brush over the items in his open suitcase. It’s just clothes and books, but it’s still a part of him.

With one last look to the door at the back of the barracks, you release a sad sigh and turn to leave.

“Were you out all night?” Peggy asks immediately as you enter the room. She’s sitting at her desk already dressed and in the middle of applying her makeup.

You wince slightly, having semi-forgotten that you had a roommate. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Something wrong?” she asks, noticing the strange inflection in your voice.

You mentally curse her for being so perceptive. “Just nervous about the procedure,” you make up as you step further into the room and move to your side. You grab a towel knowing that you need to grab a quick shower to wash the scent of sex from your skin.

“Don’t you think we picked the correct person?” she wonders, not understanding your nerves.

“Oh, I know we did. Just… there’s a lot that can go wrong today.” There’s a lot that will go wrong today. The thought is enough to make you sick.

“Everything will turn out,” Peggy assures you. “You just need to have faith.”

You scoff at the word, the irony not lost on you upon the realization that it’s the same word you used to inspire Dr. Erskine. “I guess we’ll see,” you mutter, passing back behind her to duck into the bathroom for your shower.

Once you’re clean and properly dressed, you begin to pack your things. A strange feeling washes over you as you do so. You’re not just packing up to leave the camp… you’re packing up to leave for good. Peggy is already gone by the time you step out of the shower, so you no longer have to hide your feelings behind cleverly crafted lies.

You have a complete breakdown in the middle of the room as your heart breaks in two. You don’t just feel torn, you feel absolutely shredded. Steve is already in a vulnerable state of mind and you know you’ve only made things worse for him. Will he be able to make it through the procedure now with his mind unfocused?

To make matters worse, the guilt has been eating away at your soul ever since you’d come to the conclusion that you can’t do anything to save Dr. Erskine’s life. He was the sweetest man and you’d come to see him as a friend over these last two weeks, but all the confusion that stems from the Hydra attack is your best chance of getting the serum without anyone interfering. This is your only chance. You can’t mess it up.

When you feel like you have no more tears left to give, you clean yourself up and apply a slightly thicker amount of makeup to help conceal your tear swollen features. You pack your toiletry bag into your suitcase and then pull out the pistol. You look it over and feel the weight of it in your hands. With a resigned breath, you click the magazine into place, ensure that the safety is locked, and then you tuck the weapon into your thigh holster.

You pull out the case of particle discs and shrink your suitcase back down to its miniaturized version. It slips into your pouch, along with the disc case, before you tuck the pouch into a pocket on the inside of your dress coat. With your holster now holding the gun, there’s not enough room for both items without pulling someone’s attention to the area.

You take one last glance around the room to make sure you’ve left nothing behind. With a nod of your head, you step out to meet with Dr. Erskine.

The entire ride from Camp Lehigh to the lab, he’s flipping through a notebook, muttering to himself and jotting things down.

“I thought you said the formula was ready,” you state, breaking him from his train of thought.

He pauses and looks over at you. “It is. I am just running through the calculations to ensure I make enough for the six vials.”

Your heart skips a beat when you hear the number that falls from his mouth. “Six? Why not seven?”

He gives you a strange look. “The machine only takes six.”

You swallow thickly and try to act natural. “I know, but don’t you think there should be at least one extra? What if one of the nurses drops one or they don’t insert it correctly and they break the tip of the vial? It’s better to have a contingency, right? A backup.” You try to persuade him. “We can destroy it after the procedure, but you said it yourself, the components will degrade on their own, so there’s not much risk in just making one more vial…”

You hold your breath as he thinks it over. “Okay. I guess that makes sense. But now I have to re-do all my calculations,” he frowns before smiling teasingly at you.

You release your held breath with a light laugh. A laugh that you don’t really feel, because in just a few hours, this wonderful man will be dead, and you can’t do anything to stop it.

The laboratory is a beehive of activity as everyone prepares for the procedure. Several doctors, scientists, and nurses occupy the main space, checking the machinery and prepping several stations of medical equipment. Upon arrival, Dr. Erskine quickly steps into a sterile backroom to put the formula together and leaves you with instructions to oversee everyone else. Luckily, Howard Stark is too busy checking the levels on his machine, that he doesn't pay you much attention.

You greet Senator Brandt and his associates upon their arrival, directing them to the observation booth to await the procedure. You try to act unaffected when you’re introduced to the man you know is the Hydra agent. Unable to stand his presence, you step out of the observation room and stand at the railing of the top deck, looking down at the others working. You grip the metal railing tight, needing to hold onto something to stop yourself from charging back in there to rip that man apart.

The sound of the double doors getting pulled open draws your attention and you look over your shoulder as Peggy and Steve step into the room. He meets your gaze as he steps forward to stand next to you before he looks down into the lab. His hands brush the side of yours when he grips the rail himself. You feel your breath hitch when his pinky deliberately glides over yours.

His gaze lifts back up to meet yours and you can tell that he’s nervous. “You can do this, Steve,” you whisper so only he can hear.

His eyes roam all over your face before he nods once and turns to follow Peggy down the metal staircase and over to Dr. Erskine. You remain rooted in place, your hands gripping the rail so tight that they ache.

Steve is instructed to remove his uniform shirt before moving into the Vita-Ray machine. He takes a seat and situates himself in the center, looking up and meeting your gaze one last time before lying back. He and Dr. Erskine share a few words that you can’t hear.

You feel Peggy briefly pat your shoulder as a comforting gesture when she walks past you to get to the observation booth. You give her a small smile of gratitude, but stay where you are. Erskine grabs a microphone and gives it a few test flicks before talking to the observers up in the booth. While he talks, the nurses and doctors get Steve prepared for the procedure, bringing the injection plates down over his chest and setting six of the seven serum vials into their chambers. 

“We begin with a series of micro-injections into the subject’s major muscle groups,” Erskine explains. “The serum infusion will cause immediate cellular change. And then, to stimulate growth, the subject will be saturated with Vita-Rays.” Erskine sets the microphone down and moves back to Steve’s side. “Serum infusion in 5, 4, 3…”

Your heartbeat seems to pound harder and faster with each number that falls from the Doctor’s mouth. Even from where you’re standing, you can see that Steve’s breaths have intensified. Erskine places a gentle hand of comfort on Steve’s shoulder.

“2… 1.” Dr. Erskine gives one of the scientists a nod of approval and the man flips the levers to tell the machinery to inject the liquid into Steve’s veins.

His whole body tenses, jaw clenched and eyes squeezed tight before they snap open from the intensity of the cellular change happening instantly as the serum mixes into his bloodstream.

“Now, Mr. Stark,” Erskine advises.

Howard flips the lever that moves the Vita pod into an upward position and locks Steve inside. Erskine knocks on the outside of the pod to check on Steve before announcing that they will proceed.

Everyone pulls out their own set of tinted visors or glasses and Howard prepares the machine for Vita-Ray output. “That’s 10 percent,” he announces as he slowly turns the wheel to increase its output level. When he reaches 40%, one of the other doctors confirms that Steve's vital signs are normal. That only gives you temporary relief, when at 70% output, Steve begins to scream in pain.

It’s not just a quick yelp; it’s a long, agonizing, guttural cry. Panicking, Dr. Erskine rushes to the pod. “Steven!” he calls out, banging against the metal. Steve doesn’t respond, he just continues to scream. "Steven!"

Your heart beats frantically against your rib cage as Peggy moves out of the observation room to stand next to you at the railing. “Shut it down!” she orders urgently.

Dr. Erskine turns away from the pod, “Kill the reactor, Mr. Stark!”

Howard moves to do as instructed when Steve shouts once again, “No! Don’t! I can do this!”

The two men share a look before Howard moves back to the output wheel. “80… 90… That’s 100 percent!”

The light emanating from the Vita-Ray pod becomes blinding and you can practically feel the energy getting forced into the machine. Several of the consoles around the room begin to spark under the electrical strain. You’re not even sure how much time has passed when the reaction finally completes and the machine begins to power down. Everyone in the room seems to hold their breaths collectively. “Mr. Stark!” Erskine instructs.

The doors to the pod open with a hiss and wafts of steam come pouring out. Steve’s body, which had formerly been a fraction of the size of the pod, can now barely be contained within it. Sweat slicks over the muscles you’re all too familiar with. The pectoral muscles you’ve spent several nights snuggled against heave with each of his breaths. Arms that can rip apart tree trunks lay limp at his sides. Dr. Erskine helps him step out of the pod, and even on week knees, he still towers over the scientist.

He looks up and catches your gaze from where you still stand at the railing. You send him a shaky smile, hoping that you’re far enough that he can’t see the tears in your eyes. You press two fingers to your lips, unsure if he’ll understand that it’s a kiss goodbye before you turn away and blend into the crowd pouring out of the observation room. As they all make their way down into the lab area, you slip out the double doors and take the hallway back to the antique shop.

For your plan to work, you need to be one step ahead of the Hydra agent. Luckily, you know exactly where he’s going to go. Walking out of the shop, you move briskly to the driver that brought you and Dr. Erskine here. He’s leaning casually against the side of the car, talking with a few disguised agents in civilian clothing.

“I need your car keys. It’s urgent,” you tell him, walking straight up to him with your hand held out.

“Ma’am?” he questions, looking at you with confusion.

“Now!” you order, leaving no room for argument.

He pulls the keys out of his pocket and hands them over. You quickly duck into the driver’s seat, glancing at the rearview mirror, you see the men a few cars back eyeing you warily. You know that they are more Hydra agents, but they’re not supposed to act until they get their signal.

That signal comes in the form of the explosion that can be heard from inside the building, right as you pull out onto the road. You slam on the gas pedal and weave in and out of traffic. These old-timey cars don’t quite react the way you’re used to. It’s sluggish to accelerate and can barely turn worth a damn. You park the car right at the entrance to the Brooklyn Pier 13 and hurry out, not even caring that you’ve left the keys inside the vehicle. You make your way to the ship dock where you know the Hydra agent has hidden his submarine. Tucking yourself behind one of the cement pillars, all that’s left to do is sit tight and wait. You reach for the gun stashed in your holster and hold it close to your chest.

You don’t have to wait long before you hear the sound of gunfire and screaming. You slow your breaths in an attempt to keep your heartbeat steady. All your training as a SHIELD agent and an Avenger have brought you to this moment. You’re not about to mess it up now.

Hearing the man’s hurried steps approach, you dart out from your hiding place and attack with the speed of a coiled snake. Your arm swings out, jamming the butt of your gun into his temple and knocking him out in one single move. The forward momentum of his running combines with the force of your blow, causing him to spin and collapse to the ground on his back.

It’s not exactly a Black Widow move, but it’s sure as hell effective. You step over his prone body and crouch down to dig into his pockets until you find the vial in a hidden spot inside his jacket.

“Vic? Where… What are you…? How did you know he would be here?” Steve approaches, staring at you with confusion.

“It doesn’t matter,” you brush him off, your heart pounding now that you finally have the serum. “I have to go.” You stand and step back from the unconscious agent.

“Wait!” Steve darts forward using his newfound agility and grips your wrist. You wince under the pressure of his hold, his strength uncontrolled. He eases up but keeps your arm firmly locked in his grasp. “Where are you taking that?” he questions, indicating to the vial you hold. “You’re not going back to the SSR, are you?”

“Steve…”

His grip begins to tighten uncomfortably once again. “Is this that reassignment  you were talking about? Are you another spy? Like him?” He glares at the man lying unconscious on the floor.

“No!” you protest. “But Steve, you have to let me go!” You try to tug yourself out of his grip, but it’s like tugging against an iron shackle.

“If you’re not a spy, then we can take it back together.”

“No, you don’t understand. I need it-”

“Need it for what?” You watch as anger and betrayal cloud his eyes. “You’ve been lying to me from the start, haven’t you? Why are you really here? Who are you working for? Answer me!”

“Steve, stop! You’re hurting me!” He doesn’t ease up on his grip this time, despite your whimper of pain. “You can’t take it back! That vial isn’t even supposed to exist! He was meant to drop it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Please, just let me go. I need you to trust me!”

“I did trust you! I let you into my home! Into my life! Into my-” The look of betrayal increases tenfold before it turns into a look of disgust. “You used me. Is this why Erskine picked me? Were you pulling the strings in the background, so that I’d let you get away with the serum? I saw the look in your eyes before you walked out of the lab. You left right before the attack! You knew what was going to happen, didn’t you?! Dr. Erskine is dead now! Do you feel any remorse?”

Tears begin to prick your eyes. You’ve never seen him direct this amount of anger and rage toward you. “Steve, I’m not a spy. I swear.”

He grabs the top of the vial with his free hand and twists your arm until you’re forced to release it to him. “I can’t let you take this.”

“No!” You protest and reach to try to get it back. You freeze instantly when he holds his arm out and high.

“You said it was supposed to get dropped, then I’ll drop it.” He threatens.

“Steve, I am begging you. Please don’t!” You make to reach for it again, but he grips your shoulder with his other hand.

“Then tell me who you’re working for!”

“No one! I swear!” Your heart pounds in your ears and the tears begin to fall as you watch the one hope you have beginning to slip through your fingers.

“I’ll give you to the count of three. One.”

“Steve, no! You have to listen to me-”

“Two.”

You struggle against his hold, screaming at him to stop.

“Thre-”

“You’re dying!” You cry out, openly sobbing now.

The devastation in your voice rips through him and gives him pause.

“Where I come from…” you choke on your words, knowing that this is the final nail in the coffin that seals away your reality as you know it. You’ve changed too much already. You know that this is the last straw. But you can’t let him destroy that serum. “When I come from… you’re sick. And that serum is the only thing that can save you.”

His arm slowly lowers and he releases the grip on your shoulder.

“I’m not a spy, Steve. I’m from the future. If I don’t make it back with that serum, you will die, and I-” your voice cracks. You cup your hands over your face and crumple to your knees. “I can’t lose you!”

You continue to sob into your hands until you feel a gentle touch trying to coax them away from your face. You look through tear-blurred eyes to find Steve crouching in front of you. He no longer looks angry, but his eyes flicker between yours, searching for the truth within them. “Yes, I knew what was going to happen to Dr. Erskine… and I feel horrible about it, but I couldn’t risk changing anything more than I already have! I couldn’t bear to watch it happen, so that’s why I left early and came here to intercept you and get the serum. I am terrified that I’ve messed things up and changed the future that I need to go back to. But I’m more terrified of going back without the serum. I’m not a spy, I promise. I’m just trying to save your life.” You hiccup when his hand reaches out to cradle your face, his thumb swipes over your cheek to dry your tears. “I know it sounds crazy, but you have to believe me,” you beg.

You watch his Adam’s apple bob when he swallows thickly. “Why do you think you’ve messed up the future?”

His question takes you off guard. It’s not the one you’re expecting him to ask. “Because we were never supposed to meet,” you confess. “I was only supposed to come for the serum, but when I got hurt and you took me in, I… I couldn’t stay away.”

“In the future, you and me… we’re…?”

Your gaze softens as you look back at him. “You’re the love of my life.”

Your breath catches in your throat when in the next instant, he’s tugging your body into his chest and wrapping his arms around your shoulders. You release a stunted gasp, the familiarity of his muscular form tucked against your body feels like a dream. Your arms curl around his strong torso as you bury your face into his neck and your hands clench at the fabric of his t-shirt.

“Does this mean… Do you believe me?” you ask, the hope that had once been cracking and chipping away inside you begins to bloom.

“I do,” he admits.

You collapse against him as you release a cry of relief. “H-How? Why?” you find yourself asking. Honestly, it’s pretty stupid that you do, when you should just accept his belief and run with it. But the fact that he fully believes that you’re from the future is nearly as crazy as the fact that you are.

He releases a breathless laugh before moving back enough to meet your gaze once more. “Because I don’t like sleeping by the window.” He smiles at your look of confusion. “And because I always need to use the bathroom as soon as I wake up.” His free hand reaches up to curl a strand of hair behind your ear as his gaze flickers between your eyes. “Because I loved potato soup as a child.” You think you’re beginning to understand where he’s going with this. “All these little things, and I couldn’t for the life of me figure out how you could possibly know them about me. You’d either have to be a damn good spy, or…”

“Or…?” you prompt, feeling dizzy.

You can nearly feel the caress of his gaze as it flits over your lips and up your cheek, before connecting with your eyes once more. “Or you’d have to be the woman I’m planning to spend the rest of my life with.”

“Oh, Steve!” You wrap your arms around his neck and bring his lips to yours. You put your entire body into the kiss, wanting to prove without a shadow of a doubt just how much he means to you. He kisses back eagerly, tugging your body closer until you’re sitting in his lap. You pull away with a wet gasp and drop your head to his shoulder, your whole body shaking.

“Vic, honey, why are you crying?” he asks softly.

“Because I don’t want to leave you!” you sob into his neck. “But I can’t stay. Dr. Erskine said the serum will start to breakdown. If I don’t take it back soon, this will all be for nothing, and you’ll die anyway.” When you lift your head back up, wet trails are traveling down your cheeks. “I’m running out of time!”

“Okay, okay,” he soothes, running a comforting hand up and down your back while he moves to hold the other between you. “Here,” he offers, opening his palm to reveal the serum vial.

Your hand shakes as you reach for it. Taking it back, you hold it close to your chest and look back up at him. “Thank you,” you whisper sincerely. He nods, trusting that it’s in good hands now. You peel back the front of your dress coat and slip the vial into the same internal pocket where your pouch is for safekeeping. You look back up and get lost in the blue of his eyes. “I wish I could tell you everything.”

He looks back, feeling your words fall to his gut. “I know.”

“I have to go,” your lips tremble as you speak.

The look of heartbreak on his face makes you weak. “I know,” he repeats. You move to push out of his hold, but he tightens his grip. “Just-” he spits out quick, to get your attention. “When will I see you again?”

The pain that enters your eyes is answer enough. “Not for a long time.”

His breath rushes out of him like a punch to the stomach.

You wince and place your hands over his cheeks. You hate seeing him so distraught. “Steve, listen to me. You are going to have some very difficult decisions to make. Don’t make your choices based on what you think will bring you back to me. Make the choice because you know it’s the right thing to do. I know that might not make much sense right now, but hopefully, when the time has come, you’ll remember these words and you’ll know what to do. Have faith and know that you’ll always carry me in your heart.”

It’s difficult to process your words, but he nods anyway. “Okay,” he agrees.

“I love you,” you whisper, pulling his head down until his forehead is pressed to yours.

“I’m really going to miss you,” he whispers back, his voice thick with emotion. You share one more second wrapped in the comfort of his arms before pulling back. The two of you climb to your feet. “Will you be okay?” he asks, unsure how dangerous time travel could be.

“Yes,” you assure him gently. You share one last look before your hand slips from his and you turn away.

“Vic, wait!” Steve reaches for your wrist once more, before dropping it quickly when you hiss in pain. Looking down, he gently cradles your arm to take a closer look at the bruise that has formed there. “Did I do that?” he frowns.

 “It’s okay,” you try to brush it off and comfort him when he looks at you doubtfully.

“I hurt you.” Shame fills his features. You put your other hand over his where it rests on your arm, and you entwine your fingers through his.

“You’re still getting used to your new strength. It was an accident.” He looks like he’s ready to argue with you, but you really don’t have enough time to get into it with him. “Steve, what were you trying to tell me?” you ask, trying to change his focus.

He gives you a look like he knows what you’re trying to do, but he lets it go. “When we see each other again… Will you remember any of this?”

You release a long breath. “No…” you admit. “No, I won’t.”

“Then…” he swallows thickly and looks down at where your hands are joined. “Do you have any tips on how to get you to fall in love with me? Because I honestly don’t have any idea how I managed to catch an amazing girl like you.”

You laugh sweetly and step up to place a kiss to his cheek. “Just be yourself. You can be pretty charming when you want to be.” You squeeze his fingers before pulling back. “Oh! But one thing… when you get a better handle on these new muscles of yours,” you grin cheekily and poke him in the bicep. “Don’t be afraid to show off in the bedroom. Your girl likes it a little rough.” You shoot him a saucy wink that makes his cheeks flare up.

“Um… okay,” he responds. That’s not exactly what he was going for, but at least it’s something. “And then, one last thing,” he requests. He knows you’re being patient with him, when every second matters, but he has to know. “You and me,” he starts, reaching for your left hand, and his thumb glides over your ring finger. “Are we married?”

You breathe out a quiet laugh and look up at him with that smile that reminds him of Spring. “You haven’t asked me, yet. But I hope you will soon.”

He smiles back and it warms you like feeling sunshine on your skin. “Even if this wasn’t supposed to happen, I’m glad that I met you. I can’t imagine how I would have gotten through any of this without you in my life.”

You reach out to press a hand to his chest. “I will always be with you, Steve.”

He places his hand over yours. “I will carry you in my heart,” he confirms. His hand drops from yours, along with his gaze. “You should go.”

Your eyes turn sad as you retract your hand, but you nod, knowing that he’s right. You take several steps back and lift your arm to look at your watch. After pressing a button on the side, your quantum suit seems to materialize out of nowhere. Steve jumps at the display of modern technology. If he hadn’t been fully convinced that you were from the future, this definitely would have changed his mind.

His breaths come in quicker when he realizes this is truly goodbye. “Good luck,” he speaks, feeling like he needs to say something.

Your lips curl into a small grin. “I don’t need luck. I’m Lady Victory.” You hold his gaze for one more second before you hit the button on your time watch to snap your helmet into place and then you’re shrinking out of his existence.

Steve stares at the place you were just standing, barely able to believe that you’re gone. His mind snaps back into focus when he hears a splash of water and some sort of strange mechanical whirring. When he looks back, he sees that the man he’d been chasing has disappeared. He dashes to the edge of the dock and catches sight of a one-manned submarine beginning to submerge. Without thought, he dives after it, straight into the water.

Epilogue