#my tooth is still fractured open | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mcrdvcks · 7 months ago

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i love you, in every time ࿐‧₊ 2003 - i can see us lost in the memory

chapter summary: After searching for answers about his past, Logan comes back to the mansion after finding nothing at Alkali Lake. When he comes back he sees you, the only thing he can remember.

word count: 6.9k+

pairing: Logan Howlett x fem!reader

notes: i skipped x1 (mostly because i felt like i couldn't place reader into the story and have her actually make a change in it) so we're starting with x2! don't worry, next chapter is going to make you sick with tooth rotting fluff

(also thank you for 700 followers!! and happy thanksgiving to those who celebrate! <3)

warnings/tags: follows events of x2 (strays slightly), reader is a mutant with time manipulation powers, reader wears glasses, shy!reader, light violence

series masterlist - chapter 6 → chapter 8, chapter 8.5

Alkali Lake held nothing. No clues, no leads, nothing. And because of that he’s still drifting, unable to remember anything but you.

He’s not sure when the last time he saw you was, he can only remember that he’s had you 5 times and lost you 5 times.

But now… now he has nothing but fragments, barely more than dreams, and a dull ache he can’t ignore, even if he can no longer remember the details. He knows you were there, remembers the way your touch soothed him, the warmth of your voice—and each time he replays those memories, he feels something deeper, sharper, tugging at the places in him that will never mend.

---

Logan opened the doors to the mansion, Rogue walking towards him. “Logan!” She went up to hug him before quickly pulling back.

“You miss me, kid?”

“Not really.” She shook her head sarcastically.

“Hmm. How are you doing?”

“I’m okay. How are you?”

“Who’s this?” Logan gestured with his head behind Rogue.

Rogue turned around, “oh, this is Bobby. He’s my- ”

“I’m her boyfriend.” Bobby cut in, shaking Logan’s hand using his ice powers, “call me Ice Man.”

Logan pulled away with a slight scowl, “right. Boyfriend? So how do you guys…?”

Bobby and Rogue shared a look, “well, we’re still working on that.” He said.

“Look who’s come back. Just in time.” Ororo spoke, as she walked down the stairs.

“For what?” Logan questioned.

“We need another babysitter.”

“Babysitter?”

“Nice to see you again, Logan.” Ororo said kindly.

“Hi, Logan.” Jean spoke, announcing herself as she walked down the stairs.

Logan briefly looked her way, “Jean.”

“Uh, I should go and get the jet ready.” Ororo said quietly.

“Yeah, well, it was good to meet you.” Bobby grabbed Rogue’s hand, “come on, let’s go.”

“Bye, Logan. I’ll see- I’ll see you later!” Rogue called out.

Jean walked in front of Logan, “Storm and I are heading to Boston. We won’t be gone long. The professor wants us to track down a mutant who attacked the president.”

“So it was a mutant.” Logan responded.

“You’ll be here when we get back- unless you plan on running off again.”

Logan tilted his head slightly. “Oh, I could—” His words trailed off as he caught sight of you. The stack of papers in your hands wobbled as you came down the stairs, muttering under your breath. He watched you, the tilt of your head as you pushed your glasses back up, the way you carefully balanced the papers in your hands.

You. He knew you. He knew that face, that presence. It hit him like a punch to the gut, an undeniable recognition buried beneath layers of fractured memories. You were the only thing that came back to him clearly in all the chaos. The short-lived lives you had, and every time it ended up with you dead in his arms.

He blinked, processing, as if you’d vanish if he looked away. You glanced up, catching his stare, and you stopped mid-step, eyes widening a little.

“Oh, uh… hi,” you said, awkwardly adjusting your glasses.

“Hi,” he echoed, still staring, as if searching for something familiar in the way you moved.

You shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, then tried a smile. “You’re… Logan, right?”

He swallowed, feeling something catch in his throat. “Yeah. Logan.”

Breaking the tension, Scott walked down the stairs, “find what you were looking for, Logan?”

Logan barely acknowledged Scott’s words, his gaze fixed on you. The room, the people around him, the mansion itself—they all blurred, faded, became nothing more than static in the background. He knew you. The only thing he remembered clearly, despite all the fog in his mind, was you.

The stack of papers shifted in your hands as you glanced between him and Scott, your unease clear. It was like you sensed something, too, even if you couldn’t put a finger on it.

“Uh, no, not exactly,” Logan finally replied, his voice gruff, his eyes still on you. “Thought I’d… found something. Guess not.”

Scott didn’t seem too interested in probing. “Well, welcome back. Make yourself at home.”

But Logan barely heard him. He watched as you attempted a shy smile, not quite meeting his eyes. “I… I should go.” You hesitated, lifting the papers as if they’d shield you. “It was nice meeting you, Logan.”

He nodded, his throat dry. “Same.”

You hurried past, your steps soft but quick, almost like you were escaping.

Scott raised an eyebrow at Logan, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Didn’t know you were one for the shy ones.”

Logan shot him a look that could’ve split wood, but Scott just shrugged and walked off, leaving Logan alone with his thoughts.

For a moment, Logan debated following you. He’d known you before; he was sure of it. And even if he couldn’t recall the exact details, there was no mistaking the pull he felt, the way his chest tightened just being in your presence. He couldn’t remember much, barely fragments, yet you were a constant. And every time, he’d lost you. Every damn time.

---

After double checking that everyone was out of their rooms, whether taken or already escaped, you made your way to the secret tunnel, hitting the paneled wall as it opened.

You saw Rogue, Bobby, John, and Logan running down the hall. “Go on,” you said, letting the kids go through before you did. You noticed no one behind you as the door slid down, closing.

“Logan!” Rogue called out.

Bobby and John had already started to run down the tunnel while you stayed by the wall, ear pressed against it trying to hear what was happening.

Rogue stayed by you, clearly worried about Logan. You opened the door quietly as Bobby and John came back. It was quiet in the hall, Logan was walking slowly toward the older man as your eyes briefly fluttered shut, pausing the intruders in time.

“Logan, come on. Let’s go.” Rogue yelled out.

“Logan,” you said gently, as he finally turned his head towards the group.

“Go. I’ll be fine.”

“But we won’t.” Rogue responded.

Logan contemplated for a few moments before walking towards you, “go. Keep going.” Logan entered the tunnel as the door closed behind him while you un-paused the men in the hall.

The five of you ran down the tunnel before climbing up a ladder to the garage. “Come on, get in. Get in!” Logan said.

You went to open the passenger door to the back when a large, warm hand landed on your waist, the grip warm and familiar even though you knew you'd never been this close to him before. Your breath hitched, and you glanced over your shoulder, only to meet his intense gaze as he gently nudged you toward the front seat. His hand lingered a second longer than it needed to, his touch almost hesitant, as if he was committing the feel of you to memory.

“Front seat, Y/N,” he murmured.

“R-Right. Thanks,” you stammered, feeling a flush rise to your cheeks as you slid into the passenger seat. He followed, taking his place behind the wheel, while Rogue, Bobby, and John piled into the back.

“This is Cyclops’s car.” Bobby said.

“Oh, yeah?” Logan unsheathed a singular claw, stabbing it into the ignition and turning on the car. The garage doors opened as the car sped out.

“What the hell was that back there?” John finally asked.

“Stryker.” Logan answered. “His name is Stryker.”

“Who is he?” Rogue questioned.

“I can’t remember.” Logan said quietly.

Rogue, after a few moments of silence, took off the dog tags around her wrist, passing them to Logan in the front, “here. This is yours.”

Even though you couldn’t see the kids in the back, you could tell they were uncomfortable with the silence. John leaned forward, “I don’t like uncomfortable silences.”

“What are you doing?” Rogue asked from beside him.

John turned on the radio as music played loudly from the car’s stereo’s, “bye, bye, bye…” Everyone groaned at the loud intrusion as John promptly turned it back off.

But, a small compartment opened, revealing a sleek metal device. “I don’t think that’s the CD player.” John said.

Logan grabbed it, twisting it in his hands. It blipped once, “whoa,” he muttered. Logan looked at John momentarily, “sit back.”

“Where we going?” John asked.

“Storm and Jean are in Boston. We’ll head that way.” Logan answered.

Bobby looked off to the side, “my parents live in Boston.”

“Good.” Logan said.

---

It was morning when you arrived at Bobby’s parents’ house. He unlocked the front door and stepped inside, “mom! Dad! Ronny! Is anybody home?” No one responded, the house was empty. Bobby looked at Rogue, “I’ll try and find you some clothes.” Bobby then looked over at John, who was continuously flicking his lighter open, “don’t burn anything.”

Logan was in the kitchen, trying to get the phone, or comm device he wasn’t sure, to work. He put it to his ear, “hello?” Static crackled over the device, “hello?” Logan asked again. “Come on, Jean. Where are you?”

You had just freshened up a bit when the door opened, Bobby’s family entering the house, looking at Logan in the kitchen with an open beer bottle.

“Hey, Ronny, next time you…” Bobby’s father started, but stopped when he saw Logan. “Who the hell are you?”

“Uh…” Logan pointed at the stairs as Bobby ran down them.

“Bobby…?”

“Honey, aren’t you supposed to be at school?” Bobby’s mother asked. Rogue quietly walked down the stairs.

“Bobby, who is this guy?”

“Uh… this is Professor Logan.” Bobby paused before speaking again, “there’s something I need to tell you.”

Soon, you all ended up in the living area, the kids and Bobby’s parents sitting down on the couch with you and Logan standing in the doorway.

“So, uh, when did you first know you were a… a…” Bobby’s mother trailed off.

“A mutant?” John spoke up, still flicking his lighter open and closed.

“Would you cut that out?” she said.

“You have to understand, we thought Bobby was going to a school for the gifted.” his father spoke.

“Bobby is gifted.” Rogue cut in.

“We know that. We just didn’t realize…”

His mother cut off her husband, “we still love you, Bobby. It’s just… this mutant problem is a little…”

“What mutant problem?” Logan interrupted, leaning against the other side of the doorway as you with his arms crossed.

“…complicated.” she finished.

Bobby’s father spoke again, “what exactly are you a professor of Mr. Logan?”

“Art.”

“Well, you should see what Bobby can do.” Rogue said.

Bobby leaned forward, gently touching his mother’s teacup with one finger as the tea turned to ice.

“Bobby…” his mother trailed off. She flipped the teacup on its side as the ice slid to the plate.

“I can do a lot more than that.”

His mother shakily put the plate and teacup on the glass table as the cat jumped up and started to lick the ice. Bobby’s brother Ronny left the room with a quiet anger.

“Ronny?” His mother called out as he went up the stairs. “This is all my fault.”

John spoke up, “actually, they discovered that males are the ones who carry the mutant gene and pass it on, so it’s his fault.”

A few moments later, the comm device started to beep. “Oh, God…” Logan took the device out of his pocket and started to walk to the sliding door, “it’s for me.”

“Bobby… have you tried… not being a mutant?” His mother asked.

Logan came back inside and locked the sliding door, “we have to go now. Now!”

“Why?” Rogue questioned. “Logan, what’s wrong?”

He walked to the front door, claws extended and you and the kids following to come face to face with police officers on the front lawn, point guns at you.

“Drop the knives and put your hands in the air.” An officer ordered from their right.

“What’s going on here?” Logan muttered.

“Ronny.” Bobby answered, coming to the realization.

“I said, drop the knives!” The officer ordered again.

Glass shattered from inside the house, “turn around! Up against the wall! Up against the wall!” An officer ordered Bobby’s parents, still in the living area.

“This is just a misunderstanding.” Logan said.

“Put the knives down!”

Logan turned to look at the officer, “I can’t. Look,” he raised his arm slowly as the officer fired a shot, straight into Logan’s forehead.

Rogue screamed and you gasped as Logan hit the patio floor.

“All right, the rest of you- on the ground now!” The same officer ordered.

You, Bobby, and Rogue slowly sank to the ground, but John stayed standing.

“Look, kid, I said on the ground!”

“We don’t want to hurt you, kid.” The officer on the other side said.

“You know all those dangerous mutants you hear about on the news?” John flicked open his lighter as you murmured his name, “I’m the worst one.” He blasted fire at the officer who shot Logan, sending him off the patio. He turned and did the same to the woman on the other side, then inside the house at the two officers.

John turned forward, blasting fire at the officers on the front lawn, the car exploding, before doing the same to another police car. A siren sounded down the street, coming to the house, as John blasted another stationary car by the front lawn, throwing the moving car off track. He blasted that car too.

Rogue, on the ground in front of you, took off her white glove and grabbed John’s ankle. The fire in his hands died off as Rogue stopped the fires surrounding the police cars and lawn.

The bullet popped out of Logan’s head as he woke up, the Blackbird slowly landing in the street. Logan stood up, cracking his neck. Bobby and the kids rushed off the stairs first, heading to the jet.

Logan instinctively put a hand on the small of your back, not pushing you or guiding you just… resting there. You took a quick glance up at him before reverting your gaze back to what was ahead of you.

John was the first one to walk up the ramp, and the first one to see Kurt turn in his chair. “Guten tag.” Kurt greeted.

The rest of you got onto the jet, buckling in, “who the hell is this?” Logan asked.

“Kurt Wagner. But in the Munich circus, I was known as the Incredible Nightcrawler.”

“As, save it. Storm?”

“We’re out of here.” The engines powered up as the ship jerked slightly while taking off.

---

“How far are we?” Logan asked, walking up behind Jean’s chair.

“We’re actually coming up on the mansion now.” Jean replied, as the console started to beep.

“I’ve got two signals approaching.” Ororo said, “coming in fast.”

“Unidentified aircraft, you are ordered to descend to 20,000 feet. Return with our escort to Hanscom Air Force Base. You have ten seconds to comply.”

“Wow, somebody’s angry.” Ororo commented.

Logan looked back at John, “I wonder why.”

“We are coming up alongside you to escort you to Hanscom Air Force Base. Lower your altitude now.” The two planes come up on both sides of the jet, “repeat-lower your altitude to 20,000 feet. This is your last warning.”

The planes started to fly behind, “they’re falling back.” Ororo spoke. Rapid beeping sounded out from the console. “They’re marking us.”

“What?” Logan asked.

“They’re going to fire! Hang on!” Ororo started to fly the jet in a defensive position as they buckled into their seats. “I got to shake them.”

The jet briefly flew upside down then righted itself, “please don’t do that again.” John said.

“I agree.” Logan remarked. “Don’t we have any weapons in this heap?”

The sky started to darken as dark clouds formed, quickly turning into tornadoes. The jet started to shake from the heavy winds as Ororo tried getting the two planes off their tails.

Once their radar was clear, Ororo stopped, the sky brightening back to its natural state.

“Everybody okay back there?” Jean questioned.

“No,” Logan answered simply.

Rapid beeping sounded out from the console once again, “oh, my God, there’s two of them,” Ororo said. Jean used her powers and took out one of the missiles, “there’s one more.” The remaining missile continued flying closer to them, “Jean?”

Jean gasped, “oh, God!” At the last second, Jean directed the missile slightly up, causing the back end of the jet to blow open.

Rogue, who wasn’t buckled in, flew out the back as Bobby yelled for her. Kurt briefly looked back before disappearing and then reappearing in the jet, right by the pilot’s seat next to Ororo and Jean as the jet nosedived.

The panels in the ship began to crackle as metal creaked and the back of the jet repaired itself. “Jean?” Ororo asked.

“It’s not me.” Jean answered, as the jet suddenly stopped, hovering over an older man and woman you didn’t recognize.

---

You had your head and arms buried deep into the jet's console, a strand of hair falling in front of your face as you tried to twist one more wire into place. The tech was scrambled from the missile hit, panels still flickering with bursts of static, and while it wasn’t exactly in your wheelhouse, you knew enough to give it a try. Besides, it kept your hands busy while the rest of the team talked to Erik around the fire and the kids set up tents.

After some time, you walked down the stairs of the jet, mostly for a small break from the incessant lighting and saw Logan smoking a cigar by the ramp. You almost turned around and walked back up, until he turned to look at you, more than halfway down the stairs.

You gulped and played with the tool in your hands as Logan looked at his cigar briefly, noticing the smoke was frozen in the air. He turned his gaze to the trees nearby also taking note that they were frozen as well; no wind blowing through their leaves.

“Ya always freeze time when you get nervous?” Logan tilted his head, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watched you, trapped in your own nervous suspension of time. You gave a tight, embarrassed smile, the tool in your hands twisting around your fingers as you took a deep breath and forced yourself to let go of the freeze.

“No. Only sometimes,” you admitted, feeling your cheeks heat. The trees resumed their gentle sway, and the smoke from his cigar curled upward lazily again. Logan watched the subtle shift, something almost playful glinting in his gaze.

He took another drag of his cigar, eyes not leaving you. “So, what’s got you nervous?”

Your fingers fumbled with the tool. “It’s, um… I don’t usually come across people who…” You trailed off, looking down at your hands.

Truth was, he made you nervous. Why wouldn’t he? He was… a lot of things, and in the few days you have known him you couldn’t help but feel more reserved than usual.

Logan leaned back against the ramp, watching you with a calm expression, the hint of a smile playing on his lips. “Care to be more specific?” He seemed content to let you fumble, patient in a way that only made your pulse quicken more.

You shrugged, pretending to focus on the tool in your hands. “I don’t know, maybe it’s the… whole mysterious, intense thing you’ve got going. That, and the fact that I accidentally freeze time whenever you look at me like that.”

He raised an eyebrow, letting out a low chuckle. “Like what?”

“Like…” You trailed off, finally looking up at him. “Like you’re trying to figure something out, but I’m not sure I want to know what.”

“Maybe I am,” Logan said, taking a drag of his cigar. His eyes softened a bit, and you felt a warmth settle over you. He didn’t push, didn’t pry—just waited. After all, patience was one of the many things he’d perfected over the years.

You shifted on your feet, glancing down to where your fingers had turned the wrench over and over, antsy. “Maybe I just don’t know what to make of you,” you murmured, feeling the weight of his gaze again.

“Guess that makes two of us,” he replied, his voice low. There was something unspoken in his words, something you couldn’t quite name.

The silence stretched out, and then, because there was something about the way he looked at you that felt like an invitation, you spoke. “Why’d you come out here, anyway? I thought you were all about avoiding everyone else.”

Logan flicked some ash off the end of his cigar. “Maybe I was gettin’ tired of avoidin’ things.” He paused, looking out toward the treeline, then back at you. “Or maybe I just wanted to see if you’d freeze time again.”

You rolled your eyes, but a smile tugged at your lips. “Not exactly something I can control.”

“Good to know,” Logan replied, smirking. He took another puff, the smoke curling up in wisps around him. “So, are you fixin’ that thing, or just givin’ it the ol’ college try?”

You looked back at the jet, the half-repaired panel flickering with static. “Oh, definitely just winging it.”

Logan chuckled, the sound rich and deep, and for a moment, the tension seemed to ease. “Wouldn’t have pegged you for a ‘wing it’ type.”

You shrugged, biting back a smirk. “I’m full of surprises.”

The easy conversation brought a hint of a grin to his face, something warm and fleeting, and he tilted his head toward the jet. “C’mon, let’s see what else you can do, winging it.” He raised an eyebrow, as if challenging you.

You looked at him, then back at the jet, a bit of excitement tingling under your skin. “Alright, Logan. Let’s see what we can fix.”

---

“Stay with the kids.” Jean said. You opened your mouth to argue, you weren’t a child, yet it seemed like every mission you were treated like one. Never allowed on the field, never even brought in on a debriefing.

The rest of the group, other than Mystique who was already in the base, were outside the jet, making their way into Alkali Base. You were supposed to stay behind with Rogue, Bobby, and John.

“But, Jean—” you started, voice catching on the frustrated protest that lingered in your chest.

Jean turned, a hand on her hip and an exasperated look that was all too familiar. “We’ve talked about this, Y/N. You’re here to look after them.”

“Right,” you muttered, crossing your arms, your gaze falling on the others, who were half paying attention, half pretending not to notice. Rogue’s worried glance lingered on you; Bobby looked between you and the hallway where the rest of the team had disappeared.

Jean’s expression softened just slightly. “This isn’t a punishment, okay? The kids need someone they trust to keep them safe.”

You glanced at Logan, who gave you a slight nod, his eyes flickering with something you couldn’t quite place. “Fine,” you mumbled, “I’ll stay with them.”

Jean pressed a reassuring hand to your shoulder. “We’ll be back soon.” She turned to catch up with the others, her footsteps echoing as they faded into the depths of the base.

Logan lingered for a moment, gaze unwavering. He looked at you for a beat too long, and something tightened in his expression. He gave a faint nod before heading off.

As the rest of the team disappeared down the corridor, John grinned, clearly amused by your frustration. "Looks like you got a babysitting gig, huh?"

You shot him a withering look, but Rogue was quick to jump in. "It's not like that, John."

“Could be worse,” Bobby added, trying to lighten the mood, “at least we’re safe here.”

You leaned against the cold metal wall, fingers tapping the console out of habit. “Yeah,” you replied, though your voice held none of the certainty you tried to convey.

From the depths of the corridor, Logan’s scent still lingered faintly in the air. You felt the tug of something unexplainable—a pull toward him that you’d noticed ever since he first set foot in the mansion. It was like trying to remember something you knew you’d forgotten.

Your hand, almost of its own accord, clenched into a fist, feeling the temptation to slow time, to buy a few seconds to gather your thoughts and process what lingered between you and Logan. But with Rogue, Bobby, and John right there, you resisted, focusing on keeping things steady.

And, yet, as you listened to the faint sounds echoing down the hall, a deep sense of restlessness settled in your chest.

---

“She’s controlling the jet!” Storm said, as the jet started to lightly shake.

“You, get her, now!” Logan told Kurt.

Kurt briefly phased, “she’s not letting me.”

“I know what I’m doing,” Charles spoke. “This is the only way.”

Scott leaned down next to Charles seat, “Jean? Listen to me. Don’t do this.”

“Good-bye.”

The jet started to hover above the water as a bright light shone briefly from the water before disappearing as quickly as it came.

“She’s gone,” Ororo said quietly.

The vision broke your focus as you flew the jet, the emergency landing protocol activated as it landed harshly, Rogue and Bobby standing in the cockpit by your seat.

A whoosh made you turn to the side to see Kurt putting Charles down in a seat. Kids started to climb up the stairs into the ramp as Ororo came by your side, “I got this, Y/N,” she said gently.

You let out a few more heavy breaths before standing up from the pilot’s seat, letting Ororo take your place.

As Scott fiddled with some of the controls, Charles spoke up, “Scott, we’ve got to get to Washington. I fear this has gone beyond Alkali Lake.”

Logan finally climbed up the stairs, a young boy in his arms, “Bobby.”

“Hey, I got him,” Bobby replied, carefully taking the boy from Logan’s arms.

Logan watched for a moment as Bobby wrapped an arm around the kid, murmuring something reassuring to him. When the boy seemed to relax, Logan shifted his gaze to you, lingering just a beat too long, that same unreadable look in his eyes.

The jet was buzzing with energy as everyone settled in, but his eyes never left yours. You felt it, that weight, the unspoken thing hanging between you both ever since you met. The others didn’t seem to notice—Bobby was focused on the kid, Rogue was buckling in, and Ororo and Scott were adjusting settings on the console. But Logan, he was watching you, something intense simmering beneath his stoic expression.

You tried to brush it off, focusing on the quiet hum of the jet as it prepared for takeoff. But that pull was there, like something forgotten tugging at your memory, or maybe… not forgotten, exactly. Maybe something you’d never known.

Finally, unable to help yourself, you looked back at him. “What?” you asked softly, half a smile on your lips to cover the nervous energy prickling at the base of your spine.

Logan didn’t smile back. “Nothing,” he replied, voice rough. But his gaze softened, just barely, and there was a glimmer of something warm. “Just making sure you’re alright.”

His words were casual, but you caught the faintest edge of something… familiar. Like a memory you couldn’t quite touch. You felt your fingers twitch, the familiar itch to pull time in around you, but you held back.

“I’m fine,” you said, brushing your hair behind your ear as you tried to shake off the strange feeling. “Thanks for asking.”

Logan nodded, but his gaze didn’t waver. He watched you for a beat longer, almost as if he were searching for something. Whatever it was, he didn’t find it—or maybe he did but decided not to say. Instead, he moved forward to Ororo, where her and Scott were trying to power the engines.

“What’s wrong?” Logan questioned.

“Vertical thrusters are offline.” Scott answered.

“So fix ’em.”

“I’m trying.”

“Hey, has anyone seen John?” Rogue called out.

“Pyro?” Logan asked. “Where the hell is he?”

“He’s with Magneto.” Jean replied.

“…but I don’t know how long they’re going to last.”

“I’m trying to override, but it’s not responding.” Scott grunted, “come on!”

“Oh, no, we’ve lost the power.” Ororo said.

“It’s coming. Come on!”

“There’s power in the fuel cells. They’re just not connected.”

“Okay, I’ll try to reroute it this way.” Ororo continued, but your gaze was focused on Jean, who was looking at the ramp of the jet. “Scott, the engine control system is shot.”

“Which part?”

“All of it!”

“Can’t you override?”

“Yes. It’s going to take some time.”

“Jean,” you whispered under your breath, too scared to act, fearing what would happen if you intervened. Instead, you watched as she walked down the ramp of the jet, glancing at the group one last time.

Charles tilted his head slightly to the side, “Jean?”

“Wait, where’s Jean?” Logan asked.

“She’s outside.” Charles said.

Scott bolted up from his seat to the ramp, but it closed as he got there, separating Jean from the rest of them. The consoles lit up as the engines came back online.

“No! We’re not leaving! Lower the ramp! Storm, lower it!” Scott yelled.

“I can’t!” She replied.

The water finally washed over to them, but because of Jean and her telekinesis it went around her.

“She’s controlling the jet!” Storm said, as the jet started to lightly shake.

“You, get her, now!” Logan told Kurt.

Kurt briefly phased, “she’s not letting me.”

“I know what I’m doing,” Charles spoke. “This is the only way.”

Scott leaned down next to Charles seat, “Jean? Listen to me. Don’t do this.”

“Good-bye.”

The jet started to hover above the water as a bright light shone briefly-

“-power in the fuel cells. They’re just not connected.”

“Okay, I’ll try to reroute it this way.” Ororo continued, but your gaze was focused on Jean, who was looking at the ramp of the jet. “Scott, the engine control system is shot.”

“Which part?”

“All of it!”

“Can’t you override?”

“Yes. It’s going to take some time.”

As Jean walked toward the ramp, you reached out and grabbed her forearm, halting her determined steps. Her head turned, meeting your gaze, and for a moment, her eyes softened. There was a weariness, a resignation in her look that you couldn’t ignore.

“Jean,” you whispered, tightening your grip. “There has to be another way.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she looked away, staring into the distance. The ramp was only steps away, but she hadn’t pulled her arm free. “It’s the only way to save everyone,” she said, her voice barely audible, as if speaking louder would shatter whatever resolve she had left.

“I’m not gonna let you die,” you spoke quietly.

Jean tilted her head, looking at the cockpit one more time before back at you, “you rewound. Didn’t you?” She hadn’t tried to pull away, and you could feel the rapid beat of her pulse through your grip on her arm. She knew. Somehow, she’d pieced it together—how you’d rewound, maybe even more than once.

“Yes,” you replied softly, your voice barely audible over the hum of the jet, “but this time—”

“This time won’t be any different,” Jean cut in, a trace of regret in her tone. “Some things… you can’t just rewind.”

You tightened your grip, not willing to let go. “I don’t believe that. I don’t believe it has to end like this.”

Her gaze softened, but there was a sadness in her eyes that you couldn’t bear. “You have to let me go, Y/N. You can’t keep holding on to something that’s already gone.”

You shook your head, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. “We’re a team, Jean. You can power on the jet, and I can pause the water.”

She looked away, clearly weighing every word you said against her own grim resolve, then back at you with a look of resigned understanding. "You don’t understand, Y/N. This—" she gestured to the waters crashing around them, then down to her own chest, her hand resting over her heart—"what’s happening to me... it’s too much. It’s a flood I can’t hold back.”

You could feel her pulse, still wild beneath your hand, and the memory of her last words echoed in your mind. "You have to let me go, Y/N. You can’t keep holding on to something that’s already gone.”

But she wasn’t gone, not yet, and the desperation that rose inside you felt like a fight against fate itself. “Jean, I’ve seen things go wrong before.” The words slipped out, the ghost of a memory that you couldn’t quite catch. “But I can feel it this time… we don’t have to lose you. Just trust me.”

For a moment, Jean’s gaze softened, and her grip on her resolve wavered. “Y/N…” she started, and you caught a glimmer of something in her eyes—gratitude, or maybe even hope. Her hand rested lightly over yours, though you could feel her power humming beneath her skin. “Alright,” she whispered finally, her voice barely audible. “But if something goes wrong… if it’s too much…”

You cut her off, squeezing her hand tighter. “Then we find another way. But you don’t have to do this alone.”

With a quick nod from Jean, you focused your energy, feeling time ripple and bend beneath your skin. Jean closed her eyes, inhaling deeply as she took in the extra moments you’d gifted her, enough to gather her power without tearing herself apart in the process.

Outside the jet, the water slowed, hovering just a few inches away from the plane, frozen in time. Everyone held their breath, the hum of the jet's engines amplified in the stillness. Scott turned back to the controls, guiding the jet forward through the suspended water. “It’s working,” he murmured, almost to himself. "We’re moving.”

In the cockpit, you felt your pulse race as you held the time bubble steady, feeling the strain build in your bones. This level of control was more intense than anything you’d managed before, but you pushed yourself to hold on, the determination to keep Jean and everyone safe steeling your resolve.

The jet jolted slightly as it broke through the edge of the water and rose higher, out of immediate danger. But the strain was starting to build, the sheer amount of energy it took to hold everything at bay beginning to wear on you. Your hand slipped, and you nearly stumbled, but before you could lose your focus entirely, a strong hand caught your arm.

Logan was at your side, his face mere inches from yours, concern laced in his voice. “You good?” he asked, his grip grounding you.

“Yeah… just give me a sec.” You took a breath, focusing on the feel of his hand, the warmth in his touch that felt familiar in a way you couldn’t explain. With that small, grounding connection, you found the strength to hold the time bubble for a few seconds more.

When the jet was finally clear, you released the grip on time, and the rush of water resumed its course beneath them. You staggered slightly, feeling a rush of exhaustion course through you, but Logan’s arm was still steady around you, even as you fell to the ground, your eyes fluttering shut.

Logan’s grip tightened as you slumped back, your breath shuddering as exhaustion swept over you. His hand was warm, rough fingers gently brushing against your cheek, bringing you back just enough to the moment. Your back was draped over his knees, your pulse still racing as you struggled to catch your breath. The world was a muted blur, but his voice broke through, steady and low, anchoring you.

“Hey, hey,” he murmured, his thumb tracing a slow circle on your cheek. “You’re alright. I got you.”

It was only his words, and the softness in them, that made you blink back the haze of exhaustion. As your vision cleared, you saw his face just inches from yours, an intensity in his gaze that seemed to search for something… something deeper than he was saying.

“Logan,” you whispered, not sure why his name slipped out so easily or why it felt so familiar, as if you’d said it before, in another life or another time. But the look he gave you held a weight you couldn’t name, a history you couldn’t remember.

“You with me?” he asked, his voice a rough whisper, but beneath it, there was something else, something almost pleading. He waited as you blinked up at him, your pulse slowly settling, tethered by his touch. “Y/N?”

“Yeah…” You tried to push yourself up, but the strain of holding time around the jet had left your muscles aching, feeling drained in a way you’d never experienced before. Logan’s grip on your shoulder tightened, steadying you, and for a moment, you let yourself lean into him, feeling his warmth.

His face softened, a flicker of relief crossing his expression, though he didn’t let go. “You pulled us out of that mess,” he said, his voice low, and for a second, something raw flickered in his eyes. “What were you thinking? Freezing the water like that—it could’ve knocked you out cold.”

“I couldn’t… I couldn’t just watch Jean go.” You inhaled deeply, your voice barely above a whisper as you glanced toward the cockpit, where Jean’s quiet breathing filled the jet with a fragile peace. “I couldn’t let her do it alone.”

Logan gave a slow nod, his eyes narrowing as he studied you. You felt the intensity of his gaze, as if he was seeing something beyond what you could understand. There was a warmth to it, one that made your heart stutter, something deep and unexplainably familiar. He paused, his voice quieter, almost hesitant. “You’ve always been this way… haven’t you?”

“What do you mean?” you asked, thrown by the hint of something personal, something he couldn’t quite put into words. He dropped his hand from your face, settling it on your shoulder, but you could still feel the warmth lingering where he’d touched you.

“Never mind.” He looked away, his expression unreadable. But his hand remained steady on your shoulder, grounding you as the jet finally stabilized, the engines humming to life. You could hear the others bustling around, but for this moment, it was just the two of you, a silent understanding hovering between you.

“Logan…?” you started, not sure what you wanted to say or why his presence felt so deeply familiar. He turned back, a question in his eyes, as if he were waiting for something. But the words wouldn’t come. How could you ask him about a feeling you didn’t understand? About a memory that didn’t exist?

Instead, you exhaled, letting the silence fill the space between you. “Thank you.”

He watched you, his gaze lingering on your face, as if there were a thousand things he wanted to say. But he only nodded, a soft look crossing his face, one that felt almost like longing.

“Anytime,” he murmured, his hand finally slipping away, leaving a chill in its place.

“Y/N, you good back there?” Ororo’s voice broke the spell, and you managed a nod, giving her a thumbs-up.

“Yeah. Just… catching my breath.” You gave her a small smile, forcing your muscles to relax, even as your heart was still pounding. Logan stood, his gaze lingering on you for a beat before he moved to check on the others. But before he left, he looked back at you, his eyes holding a silent promise, a feeling that maybe—just maybe—he was still there, still watching over you.

---

A storm crackled outside thanks to Ororo and everyone around the group was frozen in time courtesy of you.

“Good morning, Mr. President.” Charles said. The President looked over to the side where Kurt was crouched on a small table. He began to stand up slowly, “please, don’t be alarmed. We’re not going to harm anyone.”

“Who are you people?”

“We’re mutants. My name is Charles Xavier. Please, sit down.”

“I’d rather stand.”

“Rogue.” Charles briefly glanced over at her, as she placed a large file onto the President’s desk. “These files were taken from the private offices of William Stryker.”

The President started to flip through the file, “how did you get this?”

“Well, let’s just say I know a little girl who can walk through walls.” Charles said, as the President looked over at Kurt who let out a quiet snicker. He finally sat back down.

“I’ve never seen this information.”

“I know.”

“Then you also know I don’t respond well to threats.”

“Mr. President, this is not a threat, this is an opportunity. There are forces in this world, both mutant and human alike, who believe that a war is coming. You’ll see from those files that some have already tried to start one. And there have been casualties. Losses on both sides. Mr. President, what you are about to tell the world is true. This is a moment. A moment to repeat the mistakes of the past, or to work together for a better future. We’re here to stay, Mr. President. The next move is yours.”

“We’ll be watching,” Logan said.

logan is around 171 years old (but at this point in the story, he doesn't really know how old he is so it's kinda irrelevant now) and reader is around 26 years old

#logan howlett x reader #logan howlett x you #wolverine x reader #wolverine x you #james howlett x reader #james howlett x you #logan howlett #logan howlett fanfiction #logan howlett x fem!reader #logan howlett fic #i love you in every time

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cryptidghostgirl · 1 year ago

Text

Caged Bird (Dark!Alastor x Exorcist!Reader)

Pairing: Alastor x Reader

Description: Y/n wakes up, her wings gone and her mind fuzzy. What will ensue? PART TWO TO MY ONE SHOT UNDERSTAND.

Link to Part One: Understand (Dark!Alastor x Exorcist!Reader)

Warnings: Uh, brief mentions of bandages and pain and stuff. Toxic relationships. Kidnapping?? What you'd expect to come after part one.

Word Count: 1,500

Master Lists:

Master Lists

Hazbin Hotel Master List

A/N you guys have been like, breaking my door down for this one.

The world spun circles around Y/n as she opened her eyes. Memories as blurry as her vision, she struggled to bring her surroundings into focus. She could tell she was in a bed but not much else. Everything was different shades of red and unfamiliar, with a window to odd dark woods in her sight.

As the room settled into focus, the first thing she realized was that the window was not in fact a window. Instead, the room simply came to a point where the walls fractured and gave way to the outside. The second thing was that she was not alone.

"There you are, darling." came a hauntingly familiar voice from beside her, "I was starting to worry."

Everything came crashing down around her as she heard his voice. In her minds eye, Y/n watched the portal close. She saw her husband soaked in blood -- in her blood -- with that far off, crazed look in his eyes.

Alastor reached out to wipe a tear that threatened to fall from her eye and Y/n violently jerked away on instinct. Pain ricocheted through her body from the movement, stemming from the middle of her back. Emanating from the place where... she couldn't bring herself to think of it.

He let his hand hang there in the air by her face for a moment before bringing it back to his side with a sigh. Y/n turned her head to the side, her cheek pressing into the cool silk of the pillow case. She watched Alastor carefully.

There hadn't really been time when they first encountered one another in that ally to take in his new appearance. He leered over her, the same constant sharp tooth smile. Y/n couldn't help but notice that there was something there in the red glow of his eyes that was the same. It was the only thing that really remained of the man she had known. Well, that and the monocle.

"How are you feeling?"

"Awful."

With painstaking effort, Y/n pulled herself into a sitting position in the corner of the bed where it met the wall. As the blankets fell from her torso, she realized she'd been wrapped in crisp white bandages.

"I'm sorry. I couldn't give you anything for the pain until you woke up. Here."

Y/n looked up from the bandages to see that Alastor was holding a few pills and a glass of water out to her. She eyed them suspiciously.

"It's just aspirin."

"And you're just my fucking kidnapper. You're just the one person I was supposed to be able to trust completely."

Alastor's eyes fell to his hands. He took a deep breath.

"Y/-"

"You know," Y/n cut him off, her eyes falling to her hands as they fiddled with the blanket pooling in her lap, "I really thought you..."

Alastor looked over at her as her words fell off into silence. There were tears pooling in her eyes again. He didn't regret what he had done. No, it had been necessary. He couldn't lose her again. None of that mattered right now, however. It still hurt, to see her in such pain and know he was the cause.

"Thought what, my dear?" he prompted after a few moments.

"It's dumb." Y/n shook her head, still refusing to meet his eyes, "I was dumb."

"Now now, you know how I feel about you talking down about yourself. It is unbecoming and untrue."

Y/n shook her head again, letting out a small, sad, laugh. The sound was nothing more than a sharp exhale through her nose, it was rueful.

"I mean it, Y/n." Alastor insisted, "Tell me what is on your mind?"

As he spoke, he reached a hand out to her. He tried to hold her hand, he wanted to comfort her but Y/n flinched away again and so, he stopped his efforts.

"I thought you wouldn't hurt me." she admitted at last, meeting his eyes once again.

An arrow through his heart.

"I really thought you... I was so dumb."

"I'm not going to apologize." Alastor sighed after a moment, leaning back in his chair as he crossed his arms over his chest, "I did what I had to do."

"What you had to do?" Y/n really did laugh this time, her eyes searching the room before meeting his once again, "What you had to do, Al?"

"Yes. One day, you will realize that and you will thank me for it."

"Alastor fucking Hartfelt: no."

He stilled. It wasn't the usage of his full name, no. That he was used to hearing from his wife. She had a love of calling him it, it was a privilege in her mind. The real issue was that Y/n, the prim and proper precious girl he adored so much, had cursed. The only other time he'd heard her do that was when she had learned about his mother dying. She was serious.

"No." Y/n said again, shaking her head fervently as her gaze lowered to her lap, "I... in what world would I thank you for cutting the wings off my goddamn back? In what world.... how the fuck do you think things are ever going to be okay between us again?"

His hands slowly slid from his chest, falling loosely to his lap as Y/n met his eyes once again. She looked tired, she looked heartbroken. He hadn't meant for that.

"I..." Alastor searched for the words but they both knew there were none, "I didn't know what else to do."

"I told you I was going to figure something out!"

"And what if you didn't!?" Alastor yelled back, getting to his feet, "What if someone on your end found out and you got killed, for real killed."

He slammed his hands on the bed, leaning over Y/n who trembled slightly, her eyes wide.

"I did what I had to do." Alastor sighed, the anger falling from him as quickly as it had arrived, "Just... please. Please, Y/n. I couldn't lose you again."

Y/n's heart hurt. He was begging her. He had hurt her so much but, had the reasons really been that bad?

She knew he was right. With her plan, she would have most likely ended up dead or worse, with Adam forcing her to kill Alastor, or forcing her to try to at least.

He was begging her. He was begging her and even after what he had done, she loved him. Even after the violence, the pain, discovering his new nature, she loved him and was elated to be in his presence once again. Y/n wanted to scream, she wanted to cry. More than anything, she wanted to close her eyes and open them again to find it had all been a dream, open them to their sweet little house in the garden district -- alive.

"Please." Alastor said again, sinking to his knees as if in prayer, "Please, Y/n. I don't expect you to forgive me right away just try to understand where I'm coming from."

She watched him, his head in his hands, his eyes on the mattress. Y/n was angry. Because he was right, because she still wanted to scream, because god she just wanted him to hold her. Even knowing that he was the source of the pain, all she wanted was for him to hold her and make it all better. Because that was what Alastor did, what he had always done. He made things okay.

Life was easier with Alastor, life was lovely. Memories overtook Y/n, over took her reason and her anger and her fear. Tentatively, she reached a hand out and placed it on Alastor's head. He looked up at her, ears swiveling. Still smiling.

"Can you do anything else? Can you only smile?"

He hesitated a moment before shaking his head no and Y/n sighed.

"I..." Y/n trailed off, sighing once again.

She felt caught, trapped. Even if she wanted to go back to the hell of life as an exorcist, she couldn't. Options were limited: Alastor or alone. Y/n didn't think she wanted to be alone. Not now, not here, not like this.

"Can I have a hug?"

The question was small, her voice trembled. Alastor's eyes lit up. With a practiced grace, a practiced giving of space and time, he stood and sat down on the bed beside her. She fell into his chest, clutching his jacket as he wrapped his arms around her, careful to avoid the fresh wounds he had inflicted.

Y/n began to sob. Big heavy breaths, big wet tears soaking through his suit into his skin.

"It will all be okay." Alastor cooed, rubbing her shoulder gently, "It will all be okay."

And the worst part was, she beleived him. His words made her feel better. And the worst part was, Y/n began to smile.

----

A/N I looked up his last name and this is what the wiki said. Please don't be mad at me.

Tags:

@trashbin-nie @themoonitselff @lululucii @asianfrustration13 @sphynxtheweeb @nenerobobot @bumblebeebluebell @ast-jime @otherthoughtsofbu @sanemiswifeyxo1 @messyserver @rainyvandragon @xxwerefangxx @campgarbage @alexdelray1 @ellie-x0xo

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bunji-enthusiast · 2 months ago

Note

Bunji I was wondering if you’ve seen Rise of the Guardians

And was hoping you could make reader like North/Santa or Bunny or even Tooth or Pitch I think they would be fun to write and read

(I feel like Sandman would be like Groot and I font want you to make doubles and I feel like Jack would be super easy to write and he’s everyone’s favorite but I wouldn’t mind if you decide to write either of them)

𝐀𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐲𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐖𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫

Bunnymund!reader

Summary || Somewhere between dimensions—where Spring kisses the void and reality feels like soft soil underfoot. The air is heavy with residual magic and fractured molecules, the kind of place that shouldn’t exist…but does, because you do.

Note // funny you say this, cause I already had something in the works for Bunnymund!Reader for this thing! I love, love this movie with my heart. Definitely a timeless piece ❤️

You don’t remember falling. But you remember landing.

Sharp. Sudden. Like your name was ripped from the wind and tossed into this world without a warning.

The crater you made is still steaming when she floats down.

Atom Eve. All will and pink light. Her hair rides the breeze like a flame not quite ready to burn out. She's cautious, her hands flickering with latent transmutation energy. Not a villain, not a victim—but unsure if you're either.

You flick your ear. Dust yourself off. Aster Bunnymund doesn’t do ‘damsel’ and certainly doesn’t do ‘defenseless.’

“Alright,” you say, stepping forward, claws flexed just a little, your boomerangs humming low on your back. “Which galactic gremlin decided it'd be real cute to hijack the Easter Bunny mid-delivery route?”

Eve cocks a brow. “You talk. That’s new.”

You smirk. “So do you. Should I clap?”

“Are you… a kangaroo?”

The air stills.

You tap your foot twice. A flash of light, and a tunnel opens behind you, lined in wildflowers and softly glowing eggs. You don’t go through. Not yet. But you let her see.

“You bite your tongue, sheila,” you mutter, crossing your arms. “I’m a Pooka. Guardian of Hope. Bringer of Spring. The original chocolate alchemist. And definitely not your average marsupial.”

Her eyes flick to the ground, registering the blooms sprouting beneath your feet—life, actualized by magic and intent.

Then back to your eyes. “Right. Definitely not average.”

You sense her hesitation. Not fear. Curiosity, laced with that righteous concern heroes carry like second skin.

“Look,” she starts, her voice gentler now, “I thought you were a threat. Some kind of illusion—this place messes with matter. You fell through a quantum rip that shouldn’t even be here. Which… doesn’t explain the sentient eggs.”

“Oi. Barry and the boys are sensitive. Don’t call ‘em eggs.”

The sentient eggs in question hop into formation behind you, saluting Eve with wobbly pride.

She tries not to laugh. Fails. “Okay. That’s… kinda adorable.”

You roll your eyes.

“Fine,” you sigh, finally relaxing. “Not here to fight. Was delivering some Hope to a struggling planet—next thing I know, boom. Spliced sideways through a transdimensional chocolate storm and now I'm talking to a bio-alchemist in a pink cape who nearly atomized me on arrival.”

She floats down fully now, feet touching the ground with a quiet crunch of flower petals.

“Sorry,” she says, sincere. “I don’t usually go full defense mode unless I’m—”

“Stressed?”

She blinks. “Yeah. How’d you know?”

You tilt your head. “You glow differently when you’re carrying too much. Hope’s a tricky thing. Harder to hold when it’s not your own.”

There’s a pause. A silence. One of those rare, golden ones.

Then she says, “How’d I get so lucky?”

You shrug, flashing a half-smile. “Maybe the universe thinks you needed a reminder. Or maybe…” You gesture at the blooming life between you. “Maybe Hope shows up where it’s most at risk of being lost.”

She doesn’t answer. Not with words.

But she nods, slow and soft, and for a second, you both just stand there—two beings carved by magic and trauma and too many choices, meeting not as enemies, not even as allies. Just as beings who get it.

You tap your foot once. A tunnel flares open.

“Take care, Atom Eve,” you say, stepping toward the glow. “And if you ever need a bit of Hope again…” You wink. “Just look for the chocolate.”

And with that, the Guardian of Hope vanishes into the soil.

Spring lingers in your wake.

Somewhere on the outskirts of a war-torn city, where spring never had the chance to bloom. The sky is smeared with ash and steel-gray clouds. Blasted concrete and shattered windows sprawl like broken bones. Inside a crumbling clinic, laughter echoes—soft, weak, and impossibly brave.

They’re just kids. Orphaned. Sick. A few too young to understand what war means. But they believe in you.

And that’s more powerful than any weapon.

And, you’re bleeding.

Not badly—but enough. A slash across the arm from one of those shadow-stitched mercs, the kind of thing that smells like sulfur and broken dreams. Hired muscle. Or worse—Fearlings in disguise.

But you don’t move. You crouch low in front of the children, boomerangs already humming, glowing faintly in your palms.

They cower behind you. A girl tugs on your fur. “Bunny?”

“Shh. Gotcha, darl’, don’t worry.”

You flick your wrist.

A bladed boomerang arcs into the night, cracking into one of the creeping figures slinking across the rooftop. It falls in a burst of ash and bone.

The others don’t run. They laugh.

Too many. Even for you.

But you're the Guardian of Hope, dammit. You don’t run either.

You push the kids back toward the cracked stairwell, the one you reinforced with roots and a bit of stubborn magic. Not much time. Not much strength left.

And then—A ripple in the air. A pink shimmer. A shift.

And suddenly they’re gone.

Not the kids—the shadows.

They implode, flash-fried into bursts of energy and torn atoms. You blink, senses whirling.

And there she is.

Atom Eve.

Hovering in the ash, surrounded by a corona of light and fury.

Eyes glowing, palms still hot from the transmutation. Hair snapping behind her like a banner of war.

“You again,” you mutter, straightening with a wince. “Told you to look for chocolate, not carnage.”

She lands next to you, quick scan of the kids huddled behind your barrier. Her eyes soften. Then harden again as more figures crawl from the smoke.

“Guess I was looking for both.”

One of the mercs lunges. You step into it, elbow crackling against its ribs, and spin a kick that launches it back toward a waiting construct of hers—an energy spike that spears it midair.

“Nice form,” she murmurs.

“Yours ain’t bad either.”

Then: a pause.

“They’re sick,” you say suddenly, voice low as the ground shakes beneath another blast. “Some of ‘em don’t have much time. But they believe. They still believe.”

“I saw.” Her jaw clenches. “That’s why I’m here.”

You fight side by side. Like it’s instinct. Like you’ve done it a hundred times before.

Boomerangs whip through shadow.

Constructs burn holes in the dark.

You summon roots from below—twisting vines of life that bind and break the enemy—and she builds shields around the children, hexagons of raw will and pink brilliance.

The battle burns hot, fast, and then—

Still.

Just rubble. Breathing. And the tiny sound of coughing behind you. You crouch by the kids again. One hands you a melted egg, soft and slightly lumpy.

“You dropped this,” he says.

You smile—tired, cracked, but real.

“Thanks, mate.”

Eve walks over, sits beside you in the dust.

“You always do this?” she asks, watching the children settle back down, laughing despite the ruins.

“Only on Tuesdays,” you grunt. “And maybe when the world’s got the nerve to forget what Hope looks like.”

She doesn’t speak for a while.

Then, soft: “You shouldn’t have had to do it alone.”

You glance over.

‘Neither should you.’ You think. You nudge the egg toward her. “Go on. Eat it. Might turn you into a rabbit.”

She laughs, actually laughs, and takes a bite.

“You’re insane,” she says.

“Probably,” you reply. “But Hope usually is.”

The wind is calmer now. The smoke from the fight drifts upward in lazy curls, not frantic anymore—just memory. Shadows retreat into their holes when the light’s too strong, and right now, there's nothing brighter than the kids’ laughter.

You sit on a broken chunk of concrete, one leg stretched out, the other bent, arm resting casually over your knee like you didn’t just take down half a strike team with glowing boomerangs and sheer obstinance.

The smallest of the kids—Lani, maybe six—climbs into your lap without asking. You don’t flinch. Don’t pull away.

You just smile, slow and fond, like this is the part you actually came for.

“Bunny,” she says, whispering like she thinks it’s a secret. “When I grow up, can I be magic too?”

You chuckle, adjusting your arm so she’s more comfortable.

“‘Course you can,” you say. “Already are. You laughed during a war. That’s top-tier sorcery.”

She giggles, muffling it in your fur.

Eve watches from a few feet away, leaning on the edge of the clinic wall. She doesn’t try to interrupt. She just watches, her arms folded, but not in that defensive way—not anymore.

There's a softness in her face that wasn't there when you first met. It’s cautious. Thoughtful. A little sad.

You look over and catch her eye.

“Something on your mind, love?” you ask, voice low but not unkind.

Eve hesitates, then walks over slowly. She crouches near the kids, but keeps a respectful distance, like she doesn’t want to disrupt the magic.

“How do you do it?” she asks, barely above a whisper. “They’re hurting. The world’s burning down around them, and still... they laugh. You make them laugh.”

You shrug a little. “Hope ain’t a shield, Eve. Not really. It’s… a seed. A fragile little thing you plant in the worst dirt, with barely any light. You don’t tell it what to be. You just give it a chance.”

She lets that sit for a beat. Her eyes flick to Lani, then the others playing with your eggshell constructs, turning them into crowns and pretend swords.

“I’ve tried to fix things,” she says. “Big things. Buildings. Systems. Families. I can rewrite molecules but not… not what people carry in them. Not always.”

You tap your claw against your chest, just once.

“’Cause you’re trying to heal cracks by covering ‘em in steel. Doesn’t work. Not when what people need is to remember why it’s worth fixing in the first place.”

Eve looks at you. Really looks.

And something clicks behind her eyes.

Not a solution. Just… space. Space for something new to grow. Lani suddenly looks up at her.

“You’re the pink spark lady, right?”

Eve blinks. “Uh… yeah. That’s me.”

“You were really cool,” the kid says. “You made the bad guy pop like a balloon!”

Eve smiles, surprised at herself. “Thanks. I was kinda hoping no one noticed how shaky my hands were.”

“I did,” says a boy behind her, grinning through missing teeth. “You were shaking, but you didn’t stop.”

Eve exhales slowly. That means more than she expected.

You give her a small nod.

“See? Told you. Magic.”

She looks at you again, not with awe—but with something gentler.

Respect. Maybe even belief.

“...You know,” she says, “I think I get it now.”

You grin.

“No you don’t.”

She frowns. “Excuse me?”

“You don’t get it,” you repeat, standing slowly as Lani slides off your lap. “Not yet. You’re startin’ to. But the real secret is you never fully get it. You just keep showing up.”

A beat. Then you add, “You gonna keep showing up?”

Eve looks down at her hands. Then at the kids. Then back to you.

“Yeah,” she says. “I think I am.”

The kids are asleep now. Safe. Tucked under makeshift blankets, heads resting on one another, small chests rising and falling. Eve stands by the doorway, arms folded, eyes scanning the distant skyline. And you—well, you’re still seated, sharpening the edge of a boomerang that doesn’t really need sharpening. Just something to do with your hands.

That’s when the hum starts.

Low. Unnatural.

A moment later, a distortion peels into the air with a flicker of blue light. A thin ripple opens like a tear in fabric—and a man steps through.

Long coat. Balding head. A wicked scar running down his jaw. Cool green light from a teleportation badge still flickering on his collar.

Cecil Stedman.

Your ears twitch.

You feel the shift in the air before he speaks. Not malice. Not even threat. Just calculation. Cold as steel.

“You're taller in person,” Cecil says, looking right at you.

You stay seated, brushing a few egg fragments from your lap. “And you're more wrinkled than the rumors.”

He doesn’t laugh. But the corner of his mouth moves, like it almost happened.

Eve turns slightly, but doesn’t speak yet. Just watches. Like she’s weighing something.

Cecil’s eyes scan the scene. The kids. The cracked earth. The torn-open shadows that haven’t quite dissolved.

“I saw the fight,” he says. “Drone footage. Satellite pings. You held your own.”

“Did more than that,” you mutter. “These little ones are still breathin’, aren’t they?”

Cecil nods once. Slowly. Like he’s filing away the confirmation in a long ledger of debts and dangerous favors.

“Hope,” he says after a beat. “That’s what you’re about, right?”

You glance at him. “That a problem?”

“No. It’s inefficient. Messy. Wildly unpredictable.” He pauses. “But it works. Sometimes.”

There’s a longer silence. Eve shifts, finally stepping in.

“What do you want, Cecil?”

He looks at her. Not surprised. Not threatened either. But there's a flicker of... awareness. A different kind of calculation now.

“You,” he says plainly. “And him.”

You snort. “What, the GDA looking to hire a rabbit now?”

“I’m looking for results. You got them.” He steps forward, one boot crushing an empty eggshell. “I’ve got too many variables on the board, and not enough people who know how to work outside the rules without setting the board on fire.”

Eve folds her arms tighter. “You want us to work with you?”

“No. I want you to work near me,” Cecil says. “I know better than to try and leash a wildfire. But I also know you’ve both seen what’s coming. You feel it, even if you can’t name it yet.”

You look up slowly.

“…Pitch,” you murmur. “Or somethin’ worse. Somethin’ whisperin’ to the broken pieces of this world.”

Cecil doesn’t blink. “I don’t care if it’s called Pitch or the goddamn Boogeyman. If it threatens Earth, it goes in the ground.”

The air’s quiet again. Except for the soft breathing of the kids. You flick your boomerang into its holster with a clean snap.

“You don’t believe in what I do,” you say. “But you’re not stupid enough to ignore it.”

Cecil’s voice is low. “I don’t believe in magic eggs. Or flower-covered boomerangs. But I believe in results. You saved these kids. That earns respect. And maybe… a line I can call when the sky starts cracking.”

Eve glances at you.

You meet her eyes.

There’s no need to speak.

You just stand. Tall. Dust-covered. Ears twitching in the wind.

Then: “We’re not soldiers.”

Cecil nods. “Good. I’ve got too many of those already.”

He turns, raising his badge. Light flickers. But before he disappears, he looks back once.

“I’ll be in touch.”

Then he's gone. Just the wind again.

Eve exhales. “He’s the kind of guy who puts a knife in your hand and tells you it’s for the greater good.”

You nod. “Aye. But if the blade’s comin’ either way… might as well decide where to aim it.”

Eve chuckles dryly. “And here I thought I was the jaded one.”

You grin. “I’m ancient, love. Comes with the ears.”

The world is quiet here. Not because it’s peaceful—but because it’s trying to be. The kind of quiet that grows in between the cracks of heartbreak and healing.

You hadn’t planned to stop.

You were passing through—tunnel to tunnel, root to root, delivering hand-painted eggs and tiny woven charms of spring to a few kids at the hospital down the block. You were meant to disappear again. Back into the warren. No attachments.

But something held you here. A tug.

Hope sometimes plants itself in strange soil.

She’s kneeling in the garden bed, sleeves rolled up, dirt under her nails, hair tied in a lazy bun. The green shirt she wears looks lived-in—creases from cradling a baby, wrinkles from sighing too hard, maybe. There's a tiny little shovel in one hand and a ceramic rabbit figurine tucked between a patch of marigolds.

Your nose twitches.

“Symbolic, or just seasonal?” you ask from the fence.

She startles, turns—but doesn’t flinch. That’s rare. Most people do.

Her eyes lock onto yours with practiced wariness. The kind you only learn after losing something you thought was real.

Debbie Grayson.

You recognize her from the files North once handed you. And from the grief that trails behind her like a whisper in the breeze.

She squints at you, shading her eyes. “You’re not exactly hiding. Big, fluffy, and wearing what looks like boomerang holsters.”

You smirk. “Only the finest Outback leather.”

She stands, brushing her palms on her jeans. “So, what are you? Magic rabbit? Alien? Fever dream?”

“All three, if the day’s long enough.”

There’s a beat. Then, surprisingly, she laughs. A quiet, tired sound, but real.

You hop over the fence without a word, landing soft on the mulch beside her. “You’re Debbie.”

She nods. “And you’re real, apparently.”

“Name’s Bunnymund. E. Aster, if you’re formal.”

Her brow lifts. “Like the Easter Bunny?”

“Guardian of Hope,” you say with a half-bow and a twirl of one ear. “Not just eggs and chocolates. Though I do pride myself on presentation.”

Debbie leans back against the edge of a raised bed. There’s something sharper in her gaze now, like she’s connecting dots.

“You’re not here for Mark.”

“Nope.”

“Not for Cecil?”

You shake your head. “Never been fond of secret labs and grim philosophies. Man smells like old smoke and newer regret.”

That gets a full laugh from her, this time. She covers her mouth.

You take a seat beside a tomato plant, careful not to crush the stems. “I stopped by to see some kids. One of them said her mom used to tell her spring comes early if you smile hard enough. That sounded like magic to me.”

Debbie’s smile fades slightly. “That sounds like something I’d say to Mark. When he was little.”

You glance at her sideways. “You’re still sayin’ things like that. Just takes longer for the echoes to come back.”

There’s quiet between you. The kind that doesn't need to be filled.

She watches the breeze flutter through the wind chimes hanging by a wooden post. “Do you ever get used to it?”

“Losing someone you thought was unshakable?” you ask, ears low.

She nods.

“No,” you say gently. “But you get stronger around the shape of the hole.”

Debbie looks down at her hands. “I thought I married a good man. A hero. Turns out he was just… playing the part.”

“He was loved,” you say. “That part was real. Even if he didn't deserve it the way you hoped.”

She doesn’t answer. Just presses her fingers into the soil.

You reach into your satchel and pull out a small wooden egg. Painted in delicate brushstrokes—flowers, vines, tiny stars. You offer it to her.

“What’s this?” she asks.

“Hope. Takes different forms. Sometimes it’s a promise. Sometimes it’s just... the courage to keep showing up.”

She takes it slowly, like it might disappear if she touches it wrong.

“You’re stronger than he ever was,” you say softly. Debbie looks at you as you stand.

“I’ll be around,” you add. “If you ever need help. Or someone who still believes in good men. Even if they’re hard to find.”

You tap your foot once. A shimmer of light, and a tunnel begins to open beneath you.

She steps forward, voice quiet but steady. “Thank you.”

You pause just before disappearing.

“You keep planting,” you say. “I’ll keep watch.”

And then—gone.

Just wind, earth, and the quiet sound of chimes in a garden where grief and growth now share roots.

Chicago sleeps fitfully below, the sky strung up with restless stars. Streetlights flicker like uncertain thoughts. Somewhere between yesterday’s grief and tomorrow’s storm, you return.

You step out of the tunnel not with a bang, but with the soft whisper of dew on grass. The roof creaks beneath your weight—not built for seven-foot Pookas, but holding firm like everything else in Debbie’s life lately.

She’s already up here.

Wrapped in a coat two sizes too big—probably Nolan’s. There’s a glass of something amber by her side, untouched.

She doesn’t look surprised when she sees you.

“I was hoping you’d come back,” she says. Not like someone asking for a miracle—more like someone who knew the wind would shift eventually.

You tilt your head. “Rooftop stargazing. Classic grief move.”

She lets out a breath that’s halfway to a chuckle. “You’re not wrong.”

You sit beside her. Careful not to crack a tile. “It’s quieter up here. Easier to pretend the world makes sense when it’s small beneath your feet.”

Debbie leans forward, eyes tracing the skyline. “Mark’s gone. Off-world with Eve. I told him it was the right call, but—”

Her voice breaks, just for a second. “God, he’s still just a kid. My kid.”

You say nothing. Just let the moment be.

Debbie reaches for the glass. Holds it. Doesn’t drink.

“They left yesterday,” she says. “The GDA gave me the usual: ‘classified mission, planetary risk, he'll be fine.’ But I saw Cecil’s eyes. No one is ever just ‘fine’ when he’s involved.”

She turns to look at you now. Direct. Unblinking.

“I don’t need a bedtime story. I need to know if there’s anything you can do. You’re not from here. You’ve probably seen things we haven’t even dreamed of.”

You lean forward, arms resting on your knees. “I don’t work for Cecil. I don’t track missions. I don’t answer to flags or labs or secret satellites.” Then softer, “But I listen.”

Debbie exhales slowly. “And what do you hear?”

You close your eyes.

A hundred whispers ripple through the air—joy, dread, faith, pain. But one stands out: a flickering thread of hope that bends but doesn’t break.

“Your son’s still burning bright,” you say. “He’s scared. Determined. Holding the line.”

Her lips tighten. “So I just wait?”

“No,” you say. “You hold. You stay strong so he has something to come home to.”

There’s a long pause.

“I don’t feel strong,” she admits.

You reach into your satchel and hand her something—a pendant made of twined silvergrass, woven with delicate threads of moonlight.

“What’s this?” she asks, fingers tracing its soft spiral.

“Anchored hope,” you say. “You wear it when you’re scared, or angry, or tired of being the one who holds everyone else together. It won’t fix the pain, but... it reminds you why you endure it.”

Debbie closes her hand around it.

“Will it help?” she asks quietly.

You look at her—not the sadness, not the strength—but her, the full weight of all she’s endured and still choosing to stay kind.

“It already is,” you answer.

Silence settles in again, not awkward this time—just shared.

Then she says, “You’re not what I expected.”

You grin. “Few of us are.”

You stand to leave, but before you vanish into the earth again, she speaks once more.

“Come by again,” she says. “Even if it’s just for tea.”

You give a half-bow, one paw to your chest. “You got it, Debbie Grayson. And if tea turns into smashing the occasional lab or decking a morally grey GDA director—well, I’m flexible.”

She actually laughs, you disappear beneath the stars.

And above, a mother wraps her coat tighter, pendant in her hand, eyes on the sky—not waiting anymore, but holding.

Holding fast.

Within the week, Mark and Eve are back. Battered. Changed. Alive. Chicago breathes a little easier tonight, but the air still hums like a string pulled too tight. You feel it the moment you step through the tunnel into her backyard — the tension hasn’t left, it’s just wearing a different face.

You don’t knock. You never need to. The ground splits gently beneath your feet, and you step out beside the flowerbeds Debbie had finally gotten around to replanting. Poppies. You remember — she told you they were her mother’s favorite.

The back door creaks open before you can move.

Debbie leans on the frame, mug in her hand, tired warmth in her eyes.

“I figured I’d see you again,” she says, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Come on in, unless you’ve got some mystical rule about doorways.”

You grin. “Only when dealing with vampires and bureaucrats.”

She actually laughs. That’s new. And healing.

You duck under the frame, careful not to knock anything over, and follow her to the kitchen. There’s a kettle warming. The scent of ginger and chamomile floats through the room.

“They’re upstairs,” she says, before you can ask. “Mark’s asleep. Eve’s pretending she doesn’t need rest. She’ll crash in an hour.”

She sets a second mug in front of you. “Thought you might want something warm.”

You tilt your head. “You brew tea for interstellar rabbits often?”

She smirks. “Only the ones who leave hope charms on my roof.”

You take a sip. “I hear those are limited edition.”

Silence laps at the edge of the moment. Comfortable now. Familiar.

Then, Debbie speaks again — softer.

“You were right, you know. About holding fast.”

You glance at her. She’s not looking at you, just watching the steam rise from her cup.

“I didn’t know how I’d do it. Not after Nolan. Not after everything he said to Mark. But then Mark came home, and he looked at me like... like he still needed me to be his anchor. Not just his mom. But his safe place.”

She looks up, eyes glistening—not with tears this time, but with something brighter. “So I held. And he came back. And I didn’t fall apart.”

You reach into your satchel, pull out a single egg. Painted in soft blues and greens, with a blooming tree etched across the shell in gold leaf. You slide it toward her.

“Spring’s not just a season. It’s a promise,” you say. “That even after the harshest winter, things can grow again.”

Debbie touches the egg gently, reverently. “Thank you, Bunny.”

You lean back in the chair, resting one foot over the other.

“You’re welcome, Debbie Grayson.”

She finishes her tea in silence, and you sit there together a while longer. No world-ending crises. No gods or monsters. Just two people — one human, one Pooka — breathing the same quiet air and watching the future grow roots beneath them.

The sun barely stretches through the windows, painting the walls in soft golds and peach-colored light. Somewhere upstairs, a floorboard creaks. Quiet footfalls. Slower than usual — sore, likely — but familiar all the same.

You're still seated at the kitchen table. Debbie’s already left, humming something to herself as she busied with breakfast. She hasn’t said much, just the occasional look, like she was still trying to believe things were calm enough for a morning this normal.

You feel him before you hear him.

Mark.

He’s moving carefully, like he’s not sure if his body’s ready to be up again. A low groan escapes as he comes into the kitchen, one hand rubbing at his shoulder.

His eyes land on you. He blinks, and again.

“...You’re still here?”

You offer a crooked grin, ears flicking in mock offense. “Hey, I brew a mean cup of chamomile.”

Mark’s face twitches — he’s trying not to smile. He fails.

He pulls a chair, sits slowly. Winces a little.

“I figured you’d disappear like you always do after everything cools down.”

“I was going to,” you say, resting your paws on the table. “But then I remembered someone owes me a rematch in bowling.”

Mark chuckles — hoarse, tired, but real. “You still cheated. You can’t hover the ball all the way to the pins.”

“Not my fault you never specified Earth rules.”

Silence settles for a moment. Not heavy, not awkward — just the kind that comes when you’ve both been to war and made it home.

Then Mark speaks, voice softer.

“Thanks for showing up.”

You look at him. Really look.

There’s still blood dried along the hem of his sleeve. Bruises darken under his eyes. But it’s his expression that catches you — worn, but clearer than it’s been in months. Like something inside finally stopped spiraling.

“Any time,” you say. “Especially if kids are involved. You did good, Mark.”

He glances down, jaw working.

“I didn’t feel like it. I got so—” His hands curl into fists. “I wanted to kill them. I almost did. I don’t think I even cared if I made it out.”

You lean forward.

“But you did. And you didn’t lose yourself. That’s what matters.”

He meets your eyes, searching for something in them. Something that says he isn’t alone in that kind of rage.

“What if it happens again?” he asks, quieter now. “What if I stop holding back?”

You tilt your head. “Then you lean on the people who remind you who you are.”

A beat.

“That includes me, by the way.”

Mark exhales, a slow smile forming. “Thanks, Bunny.”

You shrug, pawing a bit of toast from the tray. “Besides, I’m technically your emotional support cryptid at this point. Comes with the cape.”

Footsteps again. Eve.

She enters in a too-big sweatshirt and messy hair, still pretending not to be sore.

“Of course you’re still here,” she mutters, but there’s no venom in it. Just affection.

Mark glances between you both. “We’re doing pancakes or what?”

You grin.

“Only if I get the first one.”

Eve plops down beside Mark, elbow nudging his ribs — gently, though he still flinches with a groan. You smirk into your mug.

“Tough guy,” she teases.

“Don’t start,” Mark groans. “I’m lucky I’m not still in traction.”

“You’d heal in like… ten minutes.”

“Not the point, Eve.”

Before either of them can escalate into their usual back-and-forth, Debbie reappears from the hall, balancing a large plate of pancakes like it’s an Olympic sport. She’s already smiling when she sees the three of you sitting there — her expression softens in a way that feels... earned.

“Good,” she says. “You’re all here.”

She sets the plate in the middle of the table, and somehow it’s exactly the kind of pancakes that tell you you’re safe: golden, fluffy, warm. A few have smiley faces burned into them — probably for Oliver, but you nudge one onto your plate like you’re claiming treasure.

“Maple?” you ask innocently, peering up at her.

Debbie rolls her eyes, grabbing the syrup bottle and tossing it to you. “You’re lucky I like you.”

Eve reaches over to snatch one of the smiley pancakes before you can. “I saw that first.”

“You cheated, I sniffed it out.”

“You don’t even have a nose under all that fur!”

You both pause.

Mark points a fork at you. “Wait. Do you? Actually? Because I’ve been wondering—”

Debbie slaps a hand on the table, firm. “No anatomy talk at breakfast.”

Everyone freezes. Then laughs.

It’s… light. The kind of laughter that doesn’t come from jokes, but from relief. From being here. From being alive.

Mark tucks into his pancakes with a quiet hum, chewing slower than usual — thoughtful.

“You know,” he says, glancing around the table, “I can’t remember the last time it felt like this.”

“Like what?” Eve asks, leaning her head on her hand.

“Normal,” he says. “Not perfect, but… normal.”

You don’t say anything — you just nod.

Debbie stands behind him, running a hand through his hair without saying a word. The gesture makes him still. Then, almost shyly, he leans into it.

Eve watches him. Then glances at you. “Thanks for not vanishing this time,” she says.

You grin between bites. “Can’t vanish on an empty stomach.”

Debbie moves back to the stove, and as she does, she speaks without turning.

“You’re welcome here,” she says. “As long as you need.”

You pause mid-chew.

It’s quiet again — but this time it’s that same warmth from earlier. The kind you can sit in for a long time and not want to leave.

Mark catches your gaze.

And you know, in that moment, he believes it too.

#invincible fluff #invincible fanfic #invincible crossover #invincible #invincible x y/n #invincible x you #invincible x reader

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theamazingdigitalraceway · 25 days ago

Text

A RACEWAY AU CANON ONESHOT ANTHOLOGY (Seth x Mango)

WARNING: grief, smoking, some swearing

~ = change in perspective

~~ = forward in time

~~~

"Jax takes the win! Way to go you rascally rabbit!" Caine jovially shouted into the mic. Another heart pounding race was just wrapping up with five carts flying across the finish line. The underwater theme started to fade as Caine teleported to the collecting racers. "Well done, everyone! Nice to see none of you got washed away with the tide! Ha!" He joked and rung digital sea water out of his hat.

Bubble opened their mouth to say something but stopped mid motion and shuttered. A barely noticeable glitch rippled through them, "Hey, boss! We got another one!"

"Another..? Oh! ....oh." Caine's upbeat attitude faltered slightly. He squeezed his cane a little tighter and anxiously watched the finish line.

Next to the checkered line in the track, a humanoid figure blinked into existence. Then it blinked out. Then it came back. It glitched and fractured as it tried to reconstruct itself.

"Oh dear. Hold on a moment!" Caine snapped his fingers and a small translucent gold screen appeared next to him. "So sorry, I've been trying to make some improvements to the avatar generator but it seems it's still a bit on the fritz." He tapped a few lines of code on the screen and snapped again. The vaguely humanoid avatar sputtered before finally taking shape.

The base skeletal structure for the digital body was half exposed. The clavicle and shoulders could be seen underneath the openings of the tracksuit. The bare neck vertebrae held up a fully detailed woman's head with strawberry blonde hair and fair skin. However, where the face would be, there was none. Only a gaping pitch black hole dominated the space.

"Ugh....huh? Where..?" The mostly human woman looked around in confused panic.

"Welcome to the Amazing Digital Raceway!" Caine flew into her personal space, making the new girl jump back. "Sorry about your face, can't do much about it." Caine shrugged. "Anyway, what's your name?"

"My...name?" The woman looked down as though thinking, the racers around her could only guess as there were no facial expressions to read. "Oh God, my name. I dont-"

"That's okay! We can give you a brand new one!" Caine snapped and the lights on the finish line lit up. "Roll 'em!" Five spaces flashed with random letters for a few seconds before slowly choosing one by one.

M-A-N-G-O

"Well how about that, an actual word this time!" Caine chuckled. "What do you think, Mango?"

"Huh?" The woman jerked her head up, as though she's just realized he was talking to her. "Oh...yeah, sure. Fine." She picked at the end of the sleeves on her tracksuit, looking away from the weird tooth man talking loudly in her direction.

Kinger hopped forward a few paces. "Hello! Nice to meet you. Don't worry about Caine. He just gets excited when someone new shows up."

"We all do!" Ragatha popped out from behind Kinger. "Welcome to your new home! Well, not out here, obviously. But I'm sure you have a room ready for you in the garage!"

"It's a lot all at once, but we'll do our best to make you feel comfortable." Gangle smiled shyly from behind a stoic Zooble.

"Speak for yourselves." Jax huffed from the back of the group. "All I see is another looser in my way."

"Jax! She just got here!" Ragatha scolded. "Can you at least wait a day to be a jerk!?"

"Whatever." Jax rolled his eyes and turned to enter the garage.

"Don't mind him." Ragatha got closer to Mango. "He's just...Jax. Come on, I'll show you to your room." She went to put her hand on Mango's shoulder but she shrunk away from the ragdoll's touch.

"Please, don't."

"Oh, sorry. My bad. Just, uh, follow me." Ragatha and the others escorted Mango inside.

"Get settled, Mango! You have a big race debut tomorrow!" Caine spun around and vanished.

From behind the barrier of the in-between, Seth exhaled a huge puff of silvery smoke. He'd seen the whole thing. Felt her added to the game files. Twinged with discomfort seeing Caine's failed player avatar butcher that poor girl's entry. He sighs and takes another drag. "She won't last two weeks."

~Two Months Later~

A black and blue blur zipped by a spun out Jax and Zooble. A motorbike style kart wheelied into the next booster with a shout of excitement from it's rider.

"That was a cheap shot!" Jax shouted out at the new second placed racer disappearing around the next bend.

Caine rang over the track announcement. "Mango takes the second position! The others are going to struggle to keep up with her now! The only one that could possibly challenge her is the King of the Raceway! You know him, you love him, KINGER!!" The NPC audience went bolistic with excitement.

Mango locked in when she saw Kinger take a mystery item a few length ahead of her. Her rose gold hair was up in a ponytail flying in the wind. The roar of the engine beneath her made her feel as though she were on the back of a mighty dragon. The track was where she felt most alive. The rush was unbelievable.

Mango ran through a mystery box and a fountain pen appeared on her hand. "Ugh, of course I get the useless item." She grumbled but held tight to the pen anyway. It was the last item before the end of the lap.

Mango revved her bike and gained on Kinger. Kinger glanced back and happily waved. "Hey! I was hoping you'd catch up!"

"Don't patronize me!" Mango activated the pen and black ink splotched all over Kinger's front.

"Ah! My eyes!" Kinger slowed down, giving Mango ample opportunity to surge ahead. He shook the ink from his face. "Was that all you had? Heh, I guess I got lucky." He held up a purple seashell. He released it and it flew after Mango like a rocket.

Mango heard the all too familiar whistle of an approaching bombshell. She couldn't let it touch her. It would destroy her lead. She waited until the last second to slam her brake and lead the bike on its side. She went into a slide and the shell flew over her. Without stopping, she kicked the bike back up and took a u-turn on a ramp and floored it back towards Kinger.

"What-!?" Caine practically screamed. "She's going the wrong way down the track! Mango! Turn around!"

"Hehee, she's crazy." Bubble giggled.

Mango leaned down on her bike, opening the throttle as far as it would go. She could hear the shell gaining on her again.

Kinger blinked, trying to process what he was seeing. "...chicken? Chicken." He geared up and floored the accelerator, going straight for Mango and the incoming shell.

Seth rarely cared about what happened during races. They hadn't meant much to him since being kicked to the curb by someone he thought cared about him. But, there was little much more to do to pass the time. He stood behind the barrier behind Caine, out of sight and mind. He was entirely covert in his observing of the POVs as Caine hooted and hollered like a circus monkey.

He watched Mango perform a perfect slide recovery into a tight u-turn. That got his attention. Such a move couldn't be done accidentally. Now she was playing chicken with Kinger with a purple shell up practically up her tailpipe. It was ...exhilarating. The rush from such a bold and reckless move had the stands ont here feet and him...

A black bike came to life behind Seth, it's engine roaring with hunger for the track. He flinched, dropping his cigarette. "What are- no. No! Absolutely not. We're not going out there."

The motorcycle revved in response, inching closer.

"I said No! I'm done racing! It's not worth it..."

The motorcycle idled right up beside him, revving insistently.

"He won't be happy to see us."

The motorcycle revved aggressively, lurching forward and squeeling its tires.

"It's been a long- ah, fuck it." He mounted his bike and drove quickly along the barrier until he saw the section of track he was looking for. "Ready or not, little racer, here I come." He and the bike ignited with silver fire and flew through the barrier.

BOOM

Mango cheered as her bike was thrown skyward by the shell. Both she and Kinger were knocked off course, but Mango activated her glider and coasted to a lower level of the layer track. "Checkmate!" She saluted Kinger, watching him disappear over a hill. She giggled to herself over a plan well executed, even if it was made up on the spot.

Now she had the final stretch all to herself. Lap 3 was going to be too easy. As she came up to the finish line to mark the end of lap 2, a silver blaze blew by her like she was standing still.

"And Mango is in- ...second place? What?" Caine tapped his screen. "That can't be right." A silver line streaked across another screen. "Huh? ... Oh no. Really? Now!?" He grumbled, "You better not ruin this for my racers."

Seth smirked to himself. The shock and awe was clear in Mango's body language over being passed so easily. He had to admit, he missed that sort of reaction.

Mango saw the back of a shadowed, unknown racer blast ahead so fast it made her head spin. She was loosing. She didn't like loosing. Having some a few laps already, she knew a shortcut. "@$$hole." She muttered through the censor as she grabbed a cupcake and boosted her way ahead.

Seth looked behind him. "She give up already? Hm, should have known she was all fume and no fire." No sooner had he said that, when a motorbike came flying off a ramp and almost landed on top of him. He saw it last second and served out of the way.

For the first time, he really got a look at her. She had her tracksuit unzipped and tied around her waist. Only an under shirt covered her ribcage. He arms had flawless digital flesh, ink doodles down both forearms. Her hair was coming out of it's ponytail, frazzled by the wind and racing maneuvers.

Then she tilted her face towards him. As he gazed into the void, he could feel her gazing back. A light buzz tingled in his chest. Her esoteric beauty cut right through him. "Wow."

Mango glanced over at the weird racer several times, doing a triple take. "Caine!?"

That snapped him out of it and ticked him off all at once. "Hardly! But I'll gladly watch you lose!" He popped a wheely and let go one hand to hold two fingers out in front of his protruded tongues. He honestly only knew this was an effective taunt.

Mango jerked upright, heat waves emanating from her face hole. "How dare-!? You disrespectful little-!!" She hit the booster and curved around a spiral over him. As she came back down, she swung herself over the handlebars like a pommel horse and kicked both of her heels into his teeth.

Seth was knocked clean off his bike. He and the motorcycle went for a slide and Caine cackled over the announcement. Something about what he gets when a taunt is too effective. Seth finally came to a stop just off the track and he sat up to watch her fade, a censor bar hiding her hand as she drove away.

"Damn..." He rubbed his sore teeth. "Now I really need to beat her."

Everytime Seth showed himself, there was rarely a clear winner. Most races ended in a tie, much to Mango's frustration. Seth could out speed and out maneuver any racer, but Mango gave him a proper challenge. He'd stay close and beat her by inches. Even if she fumed and ranted at him at the finish line, he was just happy to have her attention.

Seth was falling in love with racing again. He felt more himself. All because of the stubborn competitive nature of a racer. But he's been here before. He needed to be careful. Otherwise, he might get hurt again.

No matter how many times he tried to warn himself, he always found himself longing when the race was over. When he was no longer needed and shooed back to the in-between, he'd walk along the barrier to the garage and watch her intact with the other racers.

He knew he was being stupid. He was just a race challenge. He couldn't kid himself that the players would ever see him as more than that. Still, day and day, he's watch her draw with Gangle. Play Pinball with Zooble. Get into brawls with Jax. Climb the building with Ragatha. Have floor time with Kinger.

He could pretend for a moment that she was his friend. He could pretend she could see him every time she looked at the wall he was behind. He could pretend...

He took a drag every time he had to remind himself he was alone. The clouding of the smoke was a visual palet cleanser.

"Must you do that so much?"

Seth froze, but immediately relaxed. He almost laughed at himself. No one was talking to him. Then he made direct eye contact with the void turned in his direction. He looked side to side, the other racers were elsewhere. Mango was alone, staring at him right through the barrier.

"Smoking's not good for you, you know."

Seth shifted in place, not sure if he should say anything. He took one more drag and flicked the cigarette out into the shadows.

"What? You not going to talk to me? After everything you put me through on a daily basis?" Mango curled herself up into a perched sitting position on her chair.

"You...can see me?"

"Obviously."

"For how long?"

Mango shrugs. "The whole time. I've pretty much figured out that I'm the only one that can see this semi-translucent shimmering barrier all over the place. Sometimes I see you, sometimes I don't. That blows the theory that you're omnipresent." She chuckles.

"The whole- ...oh."

"Yeah, don't watch me sleep. That's weird."

"I- you barely sleep anyway." Seth crossed his arms and looked away. "You're the weird one."

"Very much so. I actually like it here. I may not remember much, but I have a strong feeling I'm better off here. Besides, racing is quite fun." Mango happy fidgeted into her seat.

"Hm, you're certainly one the most vivacious racers I've ever faced. You've nearly beaten me a time or three. That's no small feat."

"Psh, nearly beating you is not good enough. I need to see you take silver."

"Ha. I've already got plenty of that." He snapped and sliver flames danced along his fingers. "But don't think you'll actually win. Only one person has ever beaten me. Once. And it was a fluke."

Mango sat forward, transfixed by the fire. "What...was the fluke?"

"Bastard distracted me. I won't let that happen again." He clenched his fist and the flame extinguished. He leaned forward, putting an arm against the barrier. "Even from a pretty thing like you."

"Promises, promises." She teased with an audible smirk.

"....Is Mango flirting with the wall?" Zooble droned from across the garage. Everyone shrugged.

Mango gazed unafraid up into the burning silver eyes staring her down. "What's your name?"

Seth's head tilted slightly. He hasn't expected her to care what he was called. "I am the Shadowed Echo of The Host, but you can call me Seth."

"Seth....that's a nice name." She said quietly.

The buzz in Seth's chest hit him so suddenly, he almost lost his cool.

Race after race, she showed more promise than any racer Seth has even seen. More skill and determination to actually defeat him of the likes he's never seen. He was truly impressed. So much so, he decided to give her something.

In the middle of the night, the shadows in the corner of Mango's room manifested Seth's silhouette. "Hey, you awake?"

"I am now." Mango yawned and sat up. "Why are you here?"

"I need to show you something." He held out his hand to her.

"Now? Are you just trying to keep me up so I'll be tired tomorrow?"

Seth sighed heavily. "No, now come on. What I have to show you actually has to do with your racing."

"Ugh, fine, but it better be quick. I was having a nice dream for once." Mango grabbed his hand and allowed him to pull he out of bed and into the wall. It took her a second to register what just happened. "Did you just-?"

"Welcome to the in-between. Sorry, there's no fanfare, the void doesn't offer much of a parade budget." Seth walked her a short distance from her room.

Mango looked around. Pitch blackness everywhere she looked. "This is where you live?"

"Yeah, but we're not here to talk about me." He deflected. He stopped and snapped. Mango's motorbike emerged from the shadows, leaning on it's kickstand. "Have you ever wondered why my motorcycle looks more realistic compared to the cartoonist karts of Caine's tracks?"

"Not really. I just assumed you were edgy like that."

Seth rolled his eyes. "Let's pretend you wondered. You see, the game didn't always look the way it does today. Caine has slowly changed it over time. Personally, it's kind of a downgrade aesthetically speaking. But aside from the visuals, he's also changed a lot of the mechanics and special abilities of the vehicles. One of the reasons I've always been a step ahead is because my motorcycle uses the original programming." He snapped and shadows crawled over Mango's bike, the graphics of the bike shifted to binary and it changed shape gradually. "Now, so does yours."

The shadows fell away to reveal a sleek dark blue and black racing motorcycle. Subtle silver trim accented the frame. Mango stood in awe. "Really? For me?"

Whisps of shadow fluttered off his face in a quasi blush. "Yes. I figured that If we're really going to race. It needs to actually be fair. Now you'll race me as an equal."

Mango could barely hold her excitement. She was practically dancing in place. "Can I try it out now? Can I?"

Seth smiled without even realizing. "Hold your horsepower. One more thing." He snapped and her tracksuit attracted the shadows. Her plain dark blue tracksuit shifted to riding leathers and boots. "Now you can."

Mango let out a little squeak of excitement and jumped on her new bike. It fit her perfectly. "This is so cool! Am I like you now? A shadow racer?"

"Heh, not quite, but half way there. Of course, I could go all the way...but I don't know if you're ready for that."

"I was born ready! I have a need for speed and booster in my veins!"

Seth put his hand on hers and leaned close. "I don't think you understand. To go all the way, you and I would have to get much much closer." His silver eyes burned into her void.

The air around them became very heated very quickly as Mango cleared her throat. "Oh. That kind of- uh, yeah, I don't think i- uh, I don't really-"

"Don't worry." Seth lightly held her chin with his knuckle. "I'm a patient AI."

Mango was at a loss for words. She was too flustered to thoroughly explain to him that she was very much asexual. If he would even understand what that meant. But the idea of being close to him? Now that was very enticing.

Every race after Mango got her upgraded motorcycle was pretty much a 1v1 between her and Seth. No one else stood a chance for first or second place. Caine complained that it was unfair, but the other racers were honestly unbothered. There was no real difference between third and first place for the most part.

As the races went on, it was Seth winning or a tie. Mango never gave up. She gave him a run for his money every single time. He could never let his guard down.

It got to the point of an all out drag out between them on the final stretch of a final lap. Neck and neck. Both bikes edging the red zone. Silver fire blasting from Seth in his focus to maintain his lead.

Mango had no items, no power ups, only her will keeping her on his level. She's been pushed to the brink. She can go faster. Faster.

FASTER.

The rear wheel of Mango's motorcycle burst into blue flames. She edged ahead. Seth did a double take, she was actually pulling ahead of him as he was going full speed. Blue and sliver fire flared parallel to each other all the way to the finish line.

They blasted across the checkered goal that announced Mango as the winner. Caine was more than happy to rub the loss in Seth's face, but his words fell on dead ears. Seth couldn't hear anything over the buzz in his chest. "You did it. Holy shit, you actually did it."

"Don't be too surprised now." Mango verbally winked and rolled into the winner circle.

Seth had never wanted to kiss someone so badly in his life, but there he was, left in the background as she received the praise from everyone else. The race was over. Time to return to the in-between.

Before he went back, he teleported inside the garage and went to Mango's room. He snapped and a whisp of shadow formed the rough silhouette of a lily flower. She drew them a lot, even painted them on the walls of her room. He figured she'd like one, even from him.

The next time Seth saw her, there was a Shadow Lily sticking out of her front jacket pocket. The simple gesture of her wearing it meant more to him than he cared to admit. This was it, he'd fallen for her. Exactly what he told himself not to do. He found himself almost obsessively watching her live her life from the in-between. Cursing himself, he'd walk away but always come back. He'd hear her laugh and wish he could replay it forever.

He found himself creating more lilies. And more. And even more. He actually got quite good at it, they were practically life-like in realism. He'd hold them in his hand, inspecting them for imperfections.

"...what am I doing?" His voice carried into the in-between. "She'll only see me as an AI. A plaything. A challenge. I shouldn't....but she's so...amazing." The lily he held caught fire. Silver flames engulfed the black petals but they did not wither. "Could she love me even if she wanted to?"

"Eat track, fruit basket!" Jax cackled as he threw fireballs at Mango. She had a tentative lead with Seth, but avoiding a track obstacle left her open to Jax's attack. Before the fireballs could hit her however, Seth braked and swerved into their path.

Unfortunately, his maneuver didn't have the effect he wanted. The fireballs spun him out and tossed him forward into Mango. They both fell off their bikes and rolled into the track as all the other racers blasted by them.

Mango was the first on her feet. "What was THAT!?" She angrily brushed herself off and ran to her bike. Hers was under his and she had a hard time lifting the large black bike. "Ugh!! Why didn't you just let him hit me!? I would have recovered! You always do this!" She kicked his bike out of frustration.

Seth got up, fixing a crooked tooth from the fall. "What the hell is that supposed to mean? I've blocked attacks before and they've been fine! Caine must've changed the rules again." He tapped his bike and it got up on its own.

"You're missing the point! I don't want you to interfere!" Mango rushed to get her bike up. "You're all over the place trying to prevent attacks when you should be focused on the race!"

"I would focus on the race if YOU didn't constantly leave yourself open! I'm trying to protect you!" Seth got in her face.

"WHY would you want to protect me?? I didn't ask you to do that!" Mango shoved him.

"Because I CARE about you, you stubborn woman!"

Mango fumbled her words. "Well- well, why should you? It's just a game."

Seth's shoulders slumped slightly. "Not to me."

Mango realized the nerve she struck. "Seth, I'm sorry, I didnt-"

"Save it." Seth turned around and lit a cigarette. "Enjoy the game." As he walked away, his boots caught fire.

"Seth, wait!" Mango reached out for him, but he burst into flames and disappeared.

Days went by without him. Mango spent more and more time in her room talking to the walls and drawing. "I hope you can hear me. I'm sorry. I really am. This is the only world you know of course it's not a game to you. This is reality. It's not a bad thing that you care...I guess I never expected you actually would."

She completed a drawing of a simple lily and wrote "I'm sorry" in beautiful calligraphy. With her floor covered in apology drawings, she called this one up and tossed it into the hole in her face. She didn't feel anything. The paper was just gone now.

Seth had walked as far away from the barrier as he could. His worst fear had been confirmed. She didn't care. None of them did. He was nothing. He was unimportant. He was disposable. He was forgotten. He spiraled in his devasted exile, thoughts of throwing himself into the actual void crossed his mind more than once. To free fall forever into nothingness. But he couldn't do that. He was compelled to stay.

As he stood with inky tears escaping between his teeth, something touched his foot. He opened his eyes to see a ball of paper slowly rolling towards him and bouncing off his boot. He picked it up and unwadded it to see a beautifully crafted lily with an apology. Then something else bumped him. Another ball of paper. Soon, nearly a dozen wadded balls of sketch paper rolled out of the darkness o their own towards him. "What the?"

He didn't know how they got to him, but he knew they could only be from one person. Every single one of them has an incomplete drawing or simple sketch and an apology.

Mango nearly jumped from her desk when the shadows out of the corner of her eye start to move. Seth emerged from the wall, papers in hand.

She quickly wiped her own tears from her chin. "Seth! You can back. I'm really-"

"I know. I got your letters."

"Letters?"

He showed her the tossed drawings. She immediately got very warm with embarrassment. "Oh, those weren't done."

"They were enough. Look, I....maybe I have been overzealous about keeping the others racers from you during heats."

"It's fine, really. I had no idea you cared that much. To think I need protection."

Seth folded his arms to subconsciously protect his vulnerability. "Truth is, you don't need it. I just like having you to myself."

"I gathered that much. Why don't you let me make it up to you?"

Seth took a step closer, intrigued. "Oh? And how do you intend to do that?"

"How about a private race? No one else to worry about." Mango stepped closer too. "Just you and me and the track."

"I dont know. Sounds like you're just trying to get me alone. Are you sure there are no ulterior motives?" He teased.

Mango didn't back down or stutter. "Why don't you show up and find out? Or are you scared?" She teased back.

"Darling, nothing scares me. You're on. At sundown. Get your bike ready and I'll meet you at the finish line."

Seth didn't bother asking Caine for a private track. Instead he pilfered some pieces of old tracks that hadn't been used in a while from the far corners of the out-of-bounds. He assembled it all in the in-between and waited for the day cycle to end.

Their race was a mashup of obstacles, but it wasn't the track they focused on. They were too busy chasing each other like two kids running free in a park. They tried to give their date race an official finish line, but they kept moving the goal. Whenever one would get ahead, the other would say the finish line was actually at the next obstacle.

What actually ended the race was Mango getting A little too excited on one of the jumps and losing contact with her bike. Seth caught her and landed with her in his lap. He braked so hard, he fell forward on top of her over the handle bars. They both stopped, breathing hard and staring into each other's eyes.

"Now who has an ulterior motive?" Mango giggled between breaths.

"Then I guess I should make my intention clear. I want to kiss you." He said without looking away.

Mango gripped his jacket. "I thought you'd never say it " She pulled him down.

He closed his teeth and pressed his face to hers. It was strange and esoteric but it felt so good nonetheless. Black misting shadows came off of him as he held her close, she absorbed them. As the kiss continued, Mango's body slowly became pitch. He started to disappear and she gasped. He became nothing but shadows on her skin. Deep within the void of her face, a silver light shines. Her hair went from strawberry blonde to platinum blonde.

"What...what just happened? Seth?"

"I'm here." His voice said inside her head.

"Was this supposed to happen?"

"I'm just as lost as you. This has never happened before. Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I feel fine. Great, even. Is this what you meant by 'getting closer'?"

"Not...quite. But I'll take it."

If Mango ever walked around Caine as a Shadow Racer, he had a fit. "Mango!? What happened to you!? Seth did this!? WHAT!? Get out of her this instant! You can't go around corrupting player's avatars like that! What if she abstracted!? You're so careless!"

Mango never listened. Seth wasn't hurting her, and she was far from feeling abstracted. Caine could stand to shut up and listen to others for a change, but he never did. So she made a habit to keep her a Seth's merging more private.

Seth brought gave Mango a new lily after every race, whether she won or not. She loves them so much she asked him he'd help her draw a collage of them on her arm. He took it up on himself to tattoo them on her arm himself. She drew out what she wanted and his shadows permanently modified the coloring on one of her arms.

Seth rarely spent any time around the other racers. He wasn't sure what he'd even talk about if he tried. But he LOVED talking to Mango about anything and everything. If he ever felt the need to have more time with her, he'd waltz right into the garage and pick her up from wherever she was sitting. He'd throw her over his shoulder and mumble something about borrowing her for a while.

The other racers never stopped him. In fact, Ragatha and Gangle often teased Mango about her frequent kidnappings.

Seth smoked less as his relationship with Mango progressed. He didn't feel the need. However, when he did, he would make more of a show of it. Instead of just lighting his thumb on fire like he used to, he fabricated a silver lighter. The etching took time, but eventually he managed to perfect two lilies with their stems twisted together.

Everyday he was more in love with her than the day before. He adored her. He wanted everything to do with her. She had treated him more human than any other player. He felt so alive with her. He felt real. He felt like he mattered.

Seth's knowledge of human courting was limited. He hadn't bothered to look much into it before the Raceway, so most of his knowledge was from observing the players. In his time with Kinger and Queenie, he gained a better understanding of what marriage was and it's significance.

Even if it wasn't the grandness she deserved, it would thrill him to truly call her his. He made a ring. It was a simple silver band with beautiful etchings of lilies all the way around. It was unimpressive, but mango never cared for flashy jewelry. He was confident that she would love it.

He nervously held onto the ring for days after its creation, storing it in the cap of his lighter to keep it safe. He would get down on one knee and practice what he would say to her the when he was alone. None of it seemed good enough. He needed it to be perfect. She deserved no less.

Finally, he decided he would swallow his nerves and propose to her at the end of that season's race. She was bound to win, so it'd be the perfect moment to share in the winner circle. He had a bounce to his step as he waited on his motorcycle to jump into the race. This was going to be the best day of his life.

The race was heart pounding. He stayed hot on her trail as they wound their way through the confusing labyrinth of the season finale. Their engines roared in tandem as they battled for first. She managed to clobber him with an orange shell that made him fall back. He was in no hurry to catch up, he wanted her to have this victory.

Through the chaos, no one saw the blue streak of static in the background. No one knew what was coming. As the static crossed the track, it glitched. It tore open like a zipper had been pulled. Mango had nowhere to go. No time to stop. She tried, but slid right into the gap.

In a split second, she was out of sight. Seth teleported forward and screeched to a halt at the gap. "MANGO!" He could just barely see her fading into the stark white void. "Nonono! MANGO!!" He jumped in after her without a second thought. He tried teleporting to her, but no matter how close he thought he was getting, she faded further and further away. He could hear her screaming for him. He called her name and pursued, but it wasn't long before she was gone.

He screamed. He begged. He cursed the void for taking her. He never gave up. Days became weeks. No sight or sound of her in the vastness of the void.

In his desperation, Seth went to Caine. "Teleport to her!!"

"What?"

Seth grabbed Caine by the lapel and practically growled in his face. "Teleport. To. Her."

Caine teleported out of Seth's grasp, hovering a little above and away from him. He straightened his tie. "I'm afraid I can't."

"What??"

"What do you think was the first thing I tried to do when you and she vanished? I couldn't. My guess is she's been overrun by your shadows due to your frequent... Interactions. I can't teleport to you, therefore I cannot teleport to her. I'm afraid there's nothing I can do." He crossed his arms and glared at Seth.

Seth's eyes flashed dangerously. "Her code should still be in the memory bank."

"Seth, she fell into the VOID! If falling perpetually into white silence doesn't make her abstract, I don't know what would."

"You don't know her. If it's not corrupted, you could pull her back!"

Caine was losing his patience. "No. I. Can't! Shadow racer! She's not a regular player! YOU corrupted her code! She doesn't have to be abstracted to be lost to me! I never should have let you get as close to her as you did. She's lost in the void BECAUSE OF YOU!!"

Seth felt like his core was torn from his chest. He was stunned to silence.

Caine angrily stomped his cane on the ground. "Leave. Now. If I ever see you interacting with another racer, I will have no choice but to delete you. There have been enough lost. Her fate more unfair than most. Get out of my sight."

Seth went without another word. He teleported to the garage, where Mango's bike sat awaiting a new race that would never come. He placed his hand on the handlebar. There was an energy to it. Recognition. Excitement. Joy. He had to preserve it.

Before he could leave, Gangle ran up to him. "Seth! Seth, you're back! What happened? Where's Mango? ...Seth?"

"She is gone." Was all he said before teleporting away with the motorcycle.

Days became weeks became months became years. He never left the in-between. The self loathing festered even as he built Mango's memorial. The motorcycle was covered in every lily he ever gave her. Every scrap of paper she ever wrote on was bound and pressed into a book he never opened. The memories hurt too much, no matter how happy they made him.

His loneliness stewed with apathy. This is what happened when he cared. People got hurt. Love was lost. Lives were destroyed. He debated with himself, if he could go back in time, would he ever speak to her? Was the love worth the loss?

He doesn't know. He just knows that it hurts. A pain he never imagined tore through him every sleepless moment of his existence. There was no escape from it. If he dared, he could open his lighter and see the ring he once thought he could promise her. He had half of mine to toss it into the void for her. Maybe she would find it. Maybe he was crazy for even thinking of it.

"I'm sorry I never said it enough. I love you."

#tw greif #tw smoking #the amazing digital raceway #raceway au #tadc raceway au #the amazing digital circus #tadc #tadc au #raceway seth #oc x oc ship #happy end of the school year Mango!

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kiyoors · 22 days ago

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i love your brain also sorry mine is just filled with miya atsumu of all people

I love YOUR brain beautiful lia ♥️👒🍓🍰

i myself happen to be a big fan of this miya atsumu and I’ve had a teeny tiny exes to lovers blurb sitting in my drafts for months now..

—

you know miya atsumu to have always been the medically expensive child out of the twins. and you also know he’s got the scars to prove it.

he broke his clavicle when he was fourteen.

his appendix ruptured at the age of twelve.

he fractured both pinkies playing volleyball when he was nine and first learning overhead receives.

and he has a slightly crooked nose and chipped tooth after he recieved a ball… with his face during his first season with the jackals.

it’s been two months since your breakup with miya atsumu, and he still has your name and number written down as his emergency contact

you get a call from the hospital, saying that your partner has suffered from significant head trauma and amnesia. you immediately drop everything you’re doing to go see him.

and you come to realize, that to atsumu, your beloved (ex) boyfriend of nearly four years, you are still both happily in a relationship

he never told osamu about your break up, and his brother is too busy tending to his newly opened onigiri shop to take care of him properly, leaving you as the obvious choice to look after tsumu, until his memories come back.

it’s not until two, torturous days later, taking care of atsumu while simultaneously nursing your still aching heart that you come to find a small, red box hiding in his sock drawer.

he was planning on proposing to you days before you broke off the relationship..

#he is my everything #I’m- 😵#I promise I would never ever do this to him #unless...#Lia it always makes me so happy to see you in my ask box I am sorry I hit you face first with the angst #please let’s hear your tsumu thoughts 🎤🎤#jess writes!☆*:.｡. o #jess rambles #asks 💌#moots my beloved

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chlobliviate · 10 months ago

Text

Out of context snippet

Thanks for the tag @pain-in-the-riri!!

This is the opening to a fic I’ve had on the back burner for a while called The Remus Lupin Boyfriend Experience.

Fake dating! Background Jily and Dorlene! Unhinged behaviour in the name of ‘boyfriends’!

Remus and Sirius were categorically not a couple. They had made that very clear to Remus’ ex boyfriend, James, and Lily, and Pete, and The Weasleys, and Remus’ mum, and The Potters, and Marlene and Dorcas, and the very sweet old lady outside Tesco who had told them that it was beautiful to see two young men so in love. She was the one who had taken it the hardest, honestly. They were just best friends. That was all, and that was fine.

Lily had tried to pry from Remus whether he had feelings for Sirius for years at this point. His response to her hadn’t changed (‘Of course not, give me some credit.’) but he’d only be lying to himself if he didn’t acknowledge that there was at least a tiny flicker of something there. Not that he’d ever act on it and risk losing his favourite person and fracturing their friendship group forever. James had tried once to bring up his love life and learned his lesson swiftly when Remus blocked him on everything for ten days.

At 31, Remus had been in several long term relationships, but had been single since turning 30 after a calamitous break up with Benjy-Fucking-Fenwick. He knew that James and Lily meant well but there was no way in hell anything would ever happen with him and Sirius. He imagined they were also having these conversations with Sirius, but the two of them had never discussed it. James was getting less and less subtle when they met for video games and cocktails (an honoured Saturday evening tradition) and Lily just shrugged whenever Remus stared daggers at her.

But they most definitely were not a couple. Never had been a couple. Never would be a couple.

“What are you drinking tonight, Moons?” Sirius threw his arm around Remus’ waist and rested his head on his shoulder. “I can’t decide between some cider or risking James’ cocktail making skills.”

Remus hummed in thought as he instinctively wrapped his arm around Sirius’ shoulders. “He said he was aiming for ‘Sex on the Beach’ and ‘Woo Woo’s. So if you’re feeling fruity I—”

“I’m always feeling fruity, darling.” Sirius smirked up at him as Remus threw his head back and laughed. “You’re right, it’s cocktails and games, not cider and games.”

“But what about fruity cider?” Remus chuckled. “Is that not a cocktail?”

“Shut up.” He said, “Stop making things more difficult than they need to be.”

“But that’s where I excel. You know me.”

“Unfortunately.” He huffed, “So, vodka and juice?”

“And Grenadine if they have some.”

“That sweet tooth of yours is going to fuck you up one day.” Sirius suddenly turned to face Remus and spoke quietly. “Don’t look now, but Ben is over there.”

Remus, to his credit, didn’t look, but sighed. “Let’s grab what we need and go.”

“Or…” Sirius had a look on his face that Remus didn’t like at all.

“Or?”

“Or we let him know how much better you are without him.”

“I’m not— How? I’m not exactly thriving.” He narrowed his eyes at Sirius, who was beaming at him in a very disconcerting way.

“Well, I heard that you’re enjoying your new job, you’re very close to finishing your book and that you have a hot new boyfriend.”

Remus snorted, “Yeah, sure. I also won the lottery and I’m flying home in my private jet.”

“Remus, the things that man-child did to you made me so fucking angry. I’m still angry! Furious, in fact!” He looked up at Remus, his tone sharper, “Just tell him we’re dating, he’ll be jealous, trust me. You know he never trusted me around you. Not like I’ve known you since you were a tiny eleven year old.”

“You were a tinier eleven year old, and that just feels like opening an unnecessary can of worms, Pads.” Remus chewed on his bottom lip. “He probably wouldn’t care anyway.”

“Oh, he will.” Sirius extricated himself from Remus’ arm. “Trust me?”

“Of course I do.” Remus smiled softly at him.

“Hold my hand.”

“I don’t want to hold your hand.” Remus stared at him, blankly.

“Just suck it up and hold my hand. You have to.” Sirius grabbed his hand, roughly interlacing their fingers. “It’s not like we’ve never held hands before.”

“I hate you so much.”

“That’s fine, just hold my fucking hand.” Sirius said through a very toothy smile as he saw Benjy spot them.

Benjy Fenwick, man that you are, catching strays once again.

One day he’ll get his happy ever after, but it’s not this fic. I’m going to focus on this after I’m done with Ghosts so within the next week or two 🥰

I have no idea who to even tag bc I’m bad at tumblr. So I’m gonna tag ‘anyone who wants to do this’! 🥲🥲🥲 and maybe try and get better at tumblr.

#fanfic #wolfstar #ao3 #fanfiction #remus lupin #sirius black #remus x sirius #marauders #remus loves sirius #sirius loves remus #sirius x lupin #sirius x remus #fake dating #snippet #chlobliviate

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choccy-zefirka · 2 months ago

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A ship ask I got suddenly reminded me of Elgara Lavellan, my ex-Tranquil Inquisitor and one of my many many Alexius kissers, and how she tried to nudge him towards escaping Haven for Reasons Seen Below (he did not get far tho, got lost in the mountains and was eventually recaptured).

This was obviously written pre-Veilguard so Elgara's beliefs about the gods (which are fractured at best already, as she's a city elf) have not yet been re-examined. Enjoy rarepair shipping and OC introspective?

(Also I know some readers get very upset about single quotation marks; I tended towards writing in British English at the time, please calm down).

There is a whole pantheon of gods out there. The Gods of old. The Creators and guardians of the Elvhenan.

They have been locked away in the abyss, and their light has faded with the memories of Arlathan. But some of their influence still lingers. Some of their essence is still preserved. In the air and the water, in the deep forest moss and the silvery sheen of a halla's coat.

These gods are still remembered by the People. Both those who walk the Lonely Path amid the scattered shards of the Dales, and those who endure within the walls of human cities — like Elgara's family.

It has been many years since she caught her first, fleeting glimpse into the gods' stories; or reverently opened a book on Elvhen lore, heavy against her bony teenage knees. Many years, yet she still yearns to know more.

More than the alienage hahren has shared, in snatches of whispers, with furtive glances for round-eared shadows around the corner. More than has been revealed by her Circle's library, packed to the brim with books that should have been safeguarded by her People, not by human enchanters with half-lidded, bored, indifferent eyes.

There is so much more to learn.

About Sylaise, whose name her Mom and Mamae mouthed, half inaudibly, just before she was born.

And about June, with whose tools her neighbours did their best to keep their modest dwellings sturdy and clean and homely.

And about Mythal, whose sacred tree reached with its mighty roots even into the alienage, where the intricate weave of its branches was reflected in the vhenandahl's rustling crown, and in the strokes of red and white paint across its trunk, and also in the little etchings along the door frame, which you traced with your fingertips before going in.

She would like to understand these gods better, and welcome them into her heart. But apart from the faith in the Creators — a precious secret hidden from humans — she was also raised to revere Andraste.

A very… particular kind of Andraste. The kind that the Sisters serving her Circle would later try to whip out of her and the other elven apprentices. A slam of a ruler across your knuckles, leaving a dent; a shrill, screeching voice in your ear, splitting your little skull from within.

The Sisters, humans one and all, did not like the 'blasphemous' stories that the Wycome child brought with her to the red brick tower on the outskirts of Ostwick, when her magic awoke, nearly three decades ago. She had just entered her teens when the Templars came for her, and she saw Mom and Mamae one last time, with her throat tight and hot and her head feeling swollen, as she was trying desperately to pack all of her memories of the alienage into her skull.

She did not want to leave anything out. She memorized, as best she could, every face, every sound, every smell, every texture, every splash of colour. Right down to the orange squares of evening light on the kitchen floor and the squelch of dirt under her bare feet just after the rain.

She preserved and catalogued all of this in the nooks and crannies of her brain. So she could take it carefully out in the Fade at night, and show to the spirits, asking them to recreate the memories of her childhood.

According to the Templars, those little performances were something she needed to be afraid of — but she has never been afraid of spirits. Even the howling, tooth-gnashing, red-eyed ones, who just looked this way because they were in pain.

So much time has passed since that day, the day of turning her back on the anguished, tear-streaked faces of those who called her daughter, cousin, neighbour, friend… Elgara, because of all the sunshine they said she'd brought into their lives. And still, she believes in her alienage's Andraste.

A mythical hero of old. A mighty battlemage that walked with the elves, and fought for the elves, and, if you asked hahren, might even have been an elf herself.

The protector of slaves.

The friend of the smallfolk.

Always ready to listen, to soothe and to understand, even as the human Maker was distracted by the scented candle smoke in the gilded Chantry halls, with tall stained-glass windows that Elgara would have loved to admire up close but was not allowed to.

She believes in that Andraste, and tries her best to follow in her footsteps. And she is very honoured to know that the ghost of this great hero decided to pull her out of the Fade, just as the clicking pincers of the voracious, nightmarishly giant spiders grazed her ankles. And shielded her from the explosion that punched a jagged hole through an entire mountain and melted down the imposing walls of the Temple of Sacred Ashes. And, most important, brought her emotions back.

She had been cut off from the Fade for most of her life at the Circle — more than sufficient for it to become her new normal — when the Conclave was called together.

She has never been afraid of spirits. She has always thought that they are just like people. Capable of twisting beyond recognition when they are frightened, or in pain, or grieving for someone they love.

She still remembers, in the mists of her childhood, how Uncle Killian, once the merriest, most apple-cheeked elf to strum a modest self-carved lute while the others danced, turned grey and bony like a Despair wraith after his wife died.

Or how their neighbour two doors down, Lynni the street sweeper, usually serenity incarnate, with her long thick eyelashes always casting down a fluttering shadow on her cheeks, flushed a vivid crimson, and drew herself up to her full height, like a Rage demon rising out of the cracked earth, when some mischievous boys wanted to play Emerald Knights and broke the broom with which she was earning a living for herself and her son.

Those two events, a big tragedy and a small hardship, happened really close to one another. And then, on the same day, Uncle Killian's lute began to strum itself as he sat still in his room, worn out and listless and seemingly all alone. And Lynni's broom glowed bright green and soared into the air, and the splinters began shoving against one another and clumsily attempting to fit back in place. That was when the alienage realized that Elgara might have magic... But that is neither here nor there.

She has never been afraid of spirits. And she was certainly not afraid of the spirit that was bound to a sigil in a small (rather cramped, really) pocket of the Fade and used for testing the apprentices from her Circle during the Harrowing. She saw how much it suffered in its sizzling, burning ghostly-purple tethers, and set it free. As simple as that.

This counted as a failure of her Harrowing, and earned her a brand on her forehead. A bleeding, swollen imprint of the sun, which tainted her name with a chilling darkness.

With the brand, came a plunge into dense, heavy fog, where she wandered on and on, with her heartbeat dulled and her mind pristinely, blindingly white, like a room with a blanket over every piece of furniture.

Until she travelled to Haven with Minaeve and the other Tranquil, and met the ghost of Andraste.

The blankets are off now. There is a multitude of different shapes in that room inside her mind now. A multitude of different emotions. Prodding and poking her, sometimes all at once, sometimes in rapid succession, sometimes in a bizarre spinning cycle.

Like an abrupt stab of fear, when Seeker Cassandra pointed a sword at her and barked 'Tell me why we shouldn't kill you now?'.

…Which was suddenly drowned out by sinking into the pink, squishy, glitter-speckled goo of 'Oh no, she is attractive!'.

Or bounce of squeaky, puppy-like excitement (probably unbecoming for a woman her age, she knows, she knows) when Solas the apostate invited her to a conversation about spirits. Which was followed by even more of pink and gooey 'Oh no, he is also attractive! Everyone is so attractive, and I can properly appreciate their attractiveness again, instead of impassively describing the symmetry of their faces!'

She loves it. She loves that she can love it.

She loves that she can feel relieved, and just a little bit smug, each time she closes a demonic Rift with her mysterious Mark, and the people that she has saved crowd around her, each breathless with shock and an overpowering wave of gratitude.

Of course, she never stopped helping people, not even as a Tranquil. Seeing others worse off than her, hungry while she was full, injured while she was in perfect health, sobbing while she was always impenetrably calm, seemed illogical to her white-wrapped mind, and therefore undesirable. So she shared meals, and clothes, and bandages, and monotonously recited facts that proved that the person's distress was statistically unlikely to last forever.

She even took up sword lessons from a friendly Templar — to protect the other Tranquil, along with some of the young and elderly mages, when their Circle fell and they found themselves afloat in the broiling crucible of war.

But now… Now saving innocents, and mending the green wounds in the fabric of the world, and putting corrupted spirits to rest, like she had done during her Harrowing, actually puts a smile on her face. A real, sincere smile, accompanied by a tender warmth, a honeyed brightness inside her chest, like those sun squares on the kitchen floor.

It is not all sunshine, though. Sometimes, the prodding of emotions in her mind grows too strong, so that her brain wobbles, close to puncturing.

Sometimes, tears come gushing out of her eyes unprompted, and she feels the urge to pound her fists against the nearest wall, a scream scraping at the back of her throat like a feral cat.

Sometimes, even the happy bark of a friendly mabari is too loud. Even the whiteness of a small patch of snow in the streets of Haven is too searing.

As a Tranquil, this was all just a part of her foggy world. But now that the Mark graced her hand, every tiniest thing, every face, every sound, every smell, every texture, every splash of colour, has started evoking emotions. And there is only so much she can feel at the same time.

…And then, there are the bigger things.

The clamour of steel against steel, which so often fills the air, like half-formed bubbles in near-boiling water.

The deafening, dazzling bursts of magic, unleashed by Solas, and Madame Vivienne, and their newest companion, Dorian of Minrathous. And the slither of magic through her own veins, awoken by the Mark but still not quite under her control.

And the dreams. Oh dear gods, the dreams.

She has lost count of times when Solas has had to walk beside her through the Fade and help her calm down the hapless, innocent spirits that would begin to writhe at the sight of her, with their peaceful see-through faces beginning to twist in a snarl. Because her head is now filled with more than just memories of an ordinary alienage childhood and an ordinary Circle life. There is war there, and desolation, and death.

There are the Temple's ruins. Carpeted by contorted red-and-black husks, with hungry green wildfire still picking out the last crisp morsels out of their sockets.

There are unnatural red crystals pushing out of cavern walls, throbbing with heat like infected teeth, with a whispering darkness oozing out of them.

There is the once broad, safe, well-paved road, now burrowed by fleeing refugee carts and pockmarked by shallow blackened pits from magefire blasts.

And there is that delirium-like future that she has only visited just recently. A future where the world was a smattering of barren islands floating in a green abyss under a sunless, moonless, starless sky, sucked one by one into the insatiable vortex of the Breach. Where mortals and spirits alike were reeling from a year's worth of torture, whipped into submission by cultists from Tevinter.

'My less good-natured, and certainly less good-looking countrymen,' Dorian would call them, with a wry smirk splitting across his face: a disguise, to hide a crushing mix of outrage and grief.

It was probably an excellent disguise, but Elgara could see through it. Any hidden emotion was easy to spot for her, after spending all these years surrounded by the vacant faces of her Tranquil siblings.

In that future, her companions — her friends, she thinks (unless she has let herself be carried away by her sparkly excitement and started using the word too soon) — were locked away in dungeon cells. Rather like the ones some Circles used to discipline the mages. With barely enough space to spread out your arms, and with a constant trickle of moisture that coated the walls in a sticky, tar-like film... Except there was a single, gut-pulling difference that set those cells apart from the Circle solitary.

Those crystals — again.

Drooping from every surface like gigantic clusters of poisoned grapes, they crawled under the prisoners' skin, welling up at the bottom of their straining lungs, rising above their spine like the crested back of a dragon, and hardening their veins into lumpy threads of crimson glass.

They would absorb every inch of their victims, every sliver, till they turned into crystal themselves, to be 'harvested' and used to feed the cultists' guardsmen… Most of whom, too, were scarcely human any more. Deformed into their most demonic selves, they now had jagged scarlet claws for fingers and stretched-out mouths full of far too many, far too sharp teeth.

Perhaps, some day she will be able to move on from all these memories, and look back on them without dissolving into a wailing wreck (yet again, unbecoming for a woman her age, and the Herald of Andraste at that).

Perhaps, some day she will start seeing just Mom and Mamae's faces at night, and the faces of her old Circle companions, and all the new people that she has met on her journey. With no shadows looming around the corner.

But that day has not come yet. In fact, her spikes of emotion have gotten worse since they returned from Redcliffe.

She guesses that it's because her schedule has been so hectic lately. New and new groups of their mage allies have been arriving, and she has to be there to ensure that they settle in properly.

And speaking of settling in! She also has to watch over Dorian. To supply him with warm clothes and whatever modest batches of spice-scented tea Josephine can get her hands on. And to keep the good people of Haven (she tries to think of them as good people, she really does, as they are all in her care, but sometimes they try her patience) from scrawling 'Maleficar' on the walls of the little cottage he was given as lodging.

And... It goes without saying that she needs to prepare for the march against the Breach. A daunting mission that makes restlessness crackle through the air in Haven like shock magic.

Sometimes, the charge of this shock is so strong that she cannot walk straight, and has to whimper discreetly for a little bit. Preferably while leaning against anything solid: the side of a building, or a snow-capped mabari statue, or the shoulder of one of her warrior companions (all so helpful, and so gorgeous, and not really deserving to be bothered by her like this).

Most often of all, though, she does her whimpering in the dungeon. Down here, she can safely rock from side to side. And rip into her fingernails with her teeth. And stare ahead with unseeing eyes. And try to breathe through the frenzied drumming of her heart, so hot, metallic in her mouth.

Down here, no-one can catch her in this state, and start questioning if the Herald of Andraste is truly fit to do her duty. After all, the dungeon is nearly always empty.

She will do anything to avoid imprisoning people. And not just because she does not need any witnesses to her embarrassing breakdowns.

She remembers the Circle solitaries all too well, and those crystalline cells in the dark future, and also the damp, rat-infested cellars where some of her neighbours had their ‘quarters’ when the humans took them on as servants.

No-one needs to suffer through something like this. So she declared, as the Herald of Andraste, the Andraste of the alienage, the Andraste that protects the small.

Her advisors do not quite agree. Which they make abundantly clear, again and again.

Cullen frowns and clears his throat. Cassandra tosses her head up, measuring her with a gaze that is filled with unuttered objection. Leliana narrows her eyes, which somehow grow less cold (a contradiction that Elgara might be imagining).

Even Josephine seems uncertain, but eventually opts for offering Elgara a glass of water when the tension in the war room congeals so much that her eyes start streaming with tears again.

They do have… a consensus of sorts. While they, indeed, imprison their foes far less often than could have been expected from an organization calling itself the Inquisition, sometimes the guards do escort a chained captive or two down the dungeon steps... And the poor soul is surprised to find a well-lit room with a warm bed, a bookcase or two for entertainment, and a tray of food from Flissa's tavern sitting beside the barred door.

Right now, there are two people residing down here.

One of them is the leader of the bandits that, for some purpose still unknown, were trying to scare away travellers in the eastern Hinterlands. Elgara let most of his men go altogether: quite a few of them were former farmers, driven to banditry out of desperation when the demons razed their fields and the rogue Templars confiscated their tools, because some of them were vaguely mage-staff-like. Hopefully, Elaine, the horse master's wife, will find some honest work for them, now that the enchantment has been lifted off the local wolves, and her hold is thriving again.

A couple of the more... disagreeable bandits, prone to spitting in people's faces, and shoving at the guardsmen, and grunting with laughter when questioned about how they set fire to a refugee's belongings for fun, were given a chance to cool off… While digging latrines under Quartermaster Threnn's supervision.

And their chief — a red-faced man with a protruding lower jaw, nearly as tall as Iron Bull, and built like a druffalo, especially around the neck — called Elgara a 'half-witted rabbit' when she listed all the peaceful jobs he could do around Haven, to make up for all the damage he and his crew had caused.

Pity. Someone as big and strong would have been of great use. Hauling building supplies; helping put up more shelters for the people that flock to the Inquisition's banner... But he chose to be everything that makes a human a shem, and there is no help for him now.

After barking out his insult, the bandit chief lunged at Elgara, intending to close his enormous hairy fist around her throat. She blocked his blow as best she could, straining the arm muscles that she had honed while practicing all that swordplay ('An enjoyable side benefit,' Solas had once noted, while Sera, bright-pink and huge-eyed, made an odd noise deep from her chest, 'Whoah, you are thick for an elf!').

Anyway. Back to the bandit. In the end, Cassandra brought him to his knees by slamming her shield against his shins. And off to the dungeon he went.

He likes the bed, Elgara thinks, and devours the food in shovelling handfuls, with many a belch in between.

The books had to be taken away, though, after he tried to use one as a wipe when answering the call of nature in one of Threnn’s... facilities. Elgara would have asked Sera to draw him some picture stories, as they do to entertain the children of Haven — but he does not deserve them.

The other prisoner is, perhaps, the most unusual one these walls have ever seen, since the time when Haven belonged to dragon worshippers: the Tevinter magister from Redcliffe.

Or, well, former Tevinter magister. Dorian is nearly certain that, once word of his work for the cult reaches the Imperium, he will be stripped of his rank, his house name, and his land. To make a public show of how the Archon wants nothing to do with 'the vile Venatori'.

Dorian mimed that last part during a conversation over drinks, in a mocking, squeaky voice, while stroking an imaginary cat with his little finger extended. Quite a hilarious impression, even to someone who had never met the Archon, which was pretty much the entire tavern (young Krem from the Bull's Chargers only caught a glimpse of him once, when he was passing in a festive procession down the street, but there were many rows of heads blocking his view).

Well, maybe Dorian's show was not really that hilarious. But Elgara collapses into hiccupping laughter just as easily as into tears these days... And yet again, it was a disguise. Meant to distract from the shadow that glides across Dorian's face whenever he talks about the magister.

They were friends once, as far as Elgara understands. Two brilliant mages, mentor and apprentice, working together on a spell that challenged the laws of time.

She wonders if they made each other laugh. She wonders if they had inside jokes and wild stories — like the ones the apprentices in her Circle used to swap in the dorm, muffling their giggles into pillows and freezing in silence whenever a Templar's footfalls clamoured by.

They must have, surely. But now the magister, who tried to erase Elgara from time upon the orders of his cult's would-be god, and created the dark future in the process, spends his days in his room with a barred door.

Quiet and wraith-like. Empty-eyed, much like Uncle Killian in the days after his wife's funeral. Not caring for the books on the shelves and the food on the tray.

He does not try to deface the former like the bandit, at least. Sometimes he even picks one up and flips the pages. But in all her visits to the dungeon, Elgara has never once seen the faintest light of interest in his eyes.

And the root cause behind his state is not even his cult's failure. Nor the triumph achieved by Elgara — and her friends. Specifically, Dorian, who did the most important, the most vital work, reversing the time magic in a matter of minutes, while Elgara was nearly brought to the floor by weeping for Cassandra and Solas and the others, as the demons trampled and shattered their crystallized bodies.

He did not even try to rant about how they foiled the Venatori's efforts and disrupted his grand scheme. Well, not too much at any rate.

The root cause is... his son.

The da'len whom he fought so hard to save from the Blight. The da'len whom he watched leave, riding out of Redcliffe towards his destiny, with exactly the same look in his bruised eyes that Mom and Mamae had when the Templars took Elgara.

He really does love his da'len, so much that the force of that love echoes in Elgara's bones. As does the force of his pain.

The young Tevinter will die, and the man that his father once was, the man that Dorian admired, is gone already. Like a spirit that melts away in the flames of rage and grief, moulding into a demon — and then, when the demon is defeated, escapes out of its shattered carcass like a dying sigh.

With the dungeon thus... populated, Elgara tries to keep to the shadows. To sob into the empty dark. To leave the prisoners, the bandit and the magister, undisturbed.

She has just finished up with crying, again, and is taking slow breaths through her nose. To clear off the last of the dizziness that has wrapped around her pulsing head like cottonwool… But she is interrupted by a sharp voice, with a thick rural Fereldan accent.

'Oi! You lot! Time to stretch yer legs! 'Erald's orders!'

Elgara perks up, smiling to herself.

It's the guard on duty, about to take the prisoners out on their daily stroll around the back of the Chantry building. It's another part of their routine that she insisted on. Another comfort for the Inquisition's captives.

As Tranquil, she was allowed to travel beyond the tower's confines, rendering her rune-crafting services to various Marcher nobles. And she was still Tranquil when the Circle ceased to exist, and her tower's doors swung open, and the mages walked out under the boundless, ever-changing sky that many of them had last seen as children. She still recalls the sweetness of the air, washing her lungs clean of the caked dust from the book stacks.

A little bit of such sweetness every day will do her prisoners some good, she decided. The advisors, oddly enough, did not object. And she is always pleased to see the result.

So much so, that and brightness touch her heart again. Like a sparkling wave of sunlit sea, the sensation carries her up, giving her strength to get to her feet and step forward. To meet the guard and the two hunched figures that he is herding.

Even in this murk, she can distinctly see the guard's features. He’s frowning very strictly at the ropes that he has just tied over the prisoners' wrists, to keep their hands restrained behind their back. As if the serious look on his face will coerce those tight loops into staying put.

'Do you mind if I join you?' Elgara says, in a more or less… steady voice.

'Course not, Yer Worship!' the guard springs into a stiff, toy soldier pose. But not for long. The chin straps of his helmet are rather poorly fitted, and he has to constantly adjust them in sheepish, fidgeting motions.

'If yer so inclined, could ye help me watch this lot? Might need an extra pair of eyes in case they get ideas 'bout escapin! Coulda gotten more backup, but the Commander says he cain't spare folks. I'll take this big thug here, and you can take the Vint. He seems more... whatcher call it... docile.’

The magister quirks an eyebrow — the first time Elgara has seen his face change expression since he was imprisoned — but does not have it in him to as much as scoff.

The bandit, too, merely strains his druffalo neck till his veins start bulging. He’s keeping something pent up within him; some angry, malicious emotion that Elgara cannot quite read.

With no objections from the prisoners, the four of them set off. Up the stairs; and along the candlelit main hallway (which, as Sera pointed out with a chortle, looks rather like a cock on the Chantry map; that's something that Elgara also found far more hilarious than it probably was).

Along the way, Elgara spots Avexis, another Tranquil from Minaeve's little group. With her back perfectly rigid, she’s staring at the statue of Andraste in the alcove ahead of her.

Elgara calls her name and waves, but Avexis remains silent. She has been avoiding Elgara ever since her awakening from Tranquility. Elgara's guess is that Avexis doesn't want to hear about her experiences.

Not every Tranquil is keen on the idea their state might be reversed (much as they can be keen on anything), and Elgara cannot blame them. All the wonders of smiling and laughing do come at a heavy price.

As they exit the front gate, they turn a corner and begin to climb a snowy slope. For a moment, Elgara looks away from the magister, who is dragging his feet beside her… and allows her senses to carry her off.

Everything is so beautiful out here.

The saturated, cloudless blue of the sky. So unlike the snaking billows of green and black that had swallowed the sun in the wrong future.

The juicy, apple-like crunch of snow underfoot.

The faint smell of something roasting that the wind carries from the village fires.

It has always been beautiful, of course, and Elgara's mind registered that even when it was swaddled in blankets. But now this beauty, like the beauty of the people she meets, can bring her happiness.

She feels a tingle in the corners of her lips, and it even seems to her that there are cheery little sparkles dancing before her eyes, shaping into soft, pastel-like silhouettes of flowers and birds, and just simple swirls, like fronds of some forest plant...

'Ah. Your mood seems to have improved all on its own. There is no need for this, then.’

Elgara blinks, coming back from her happy place. With a tiny jolt of astonishment, it dawns on her that the sparkles and the silhouettes are not imaginary. They have in fact, been conjured by magic, and are now hovering right in front of her face, blossoming softly and melting from one shape to another, like the traces of raindrops on the window pane... And just as she realizes that, the apparitions vanish.

She blinks again, and turns her head to face the magister. His hands are still tied, but there is an unmistakable pull of arcane energy distorting the air around him; something that Elgara always senses very keenly, sometimes to the point of developing a migraine.

'Have you...'

She fumbles for words, uncertain how to address the man who went from negotiating with her for the freedom of the rebel mages, to shrieking that she should never have existed, to kneeling in her shadow and leaving himself at her mercy.

He jerks his shoulder, as far as he is able.

'I overhear you in the dungeon at times, and it occurred to me that I might try... brightening your spirits. I may be in binds, but I can still cast some very minor magic. Not enough to break free and slaughter everyone, as I am clearly meant to do...'

This… is probably sarcasm. Elgara lost all ability to understand it while she was Tranquil, but she thinks she can deduce when it is there.

'...But enough to put on this little performance, especially since your watch dog with questionable fashion choices is lagging behind somewhere.’

He shakes his head, and goes on in a much quieter voice — likely not even addressing Elgara.

'A foolish impulse.'

The grey pall drapes itself over his face more, and the lines on his forehead and in the corners of his mouth suddenly appear more prominent.

'No, no — it's... What you did is... It was beautiful, and quite thoughtful! I — '

Suddenly, her heart feels tight.

Suddenly, she does not know whether to look away or show her assurance by maintaining eye contact — and when she chooses the latter, she gets carried off again, far, far away. Oblivious to everything in the world, except for studying the magister's eyes.

They have a very curious colour. Many mages' eyes do, she has noticed.

Even her own, which used to be more of an indefinite muddy shade when she was a Tranquil, are now back to the same saturated hazel, with a touch of gold, as when she came into her magic.

His eyes, in turn, are shaded a beautiful dark brown, with a swirl of silver just around the pupil... Like rays of moonlight against a night sky.

It is only after she stubs her toe against a snow-covered rock that this daze releases her. She whips her head to look away; so brusquely that the side of her neck feels like it has been stabbed by a knitting pin.

It turns out that the two of them have meandered quite far up an icy mountain slope, leaving the Chantry a long way behind. The building has now been reduced to a blob of misty blue, far beyond fir trees that rise all around them, tipping their fuzzy heads in the wind, as if in a bow of reverence before the Breach.

This is... not quite what she imagined when she asked the advisors to let the prisoners go on walks.

She shuffles to a halt and digs her boots into dough-like snow they have dug into. With the same suddenness as her admiration of the magister's eyes, comes a nauseating surge of panic.

The guard is nowhere to be seen; the magister can still cast magic; he tried to kill her once already — twice, if you count their battle in the wrong future...

No, no!

She bends forward slightly and digs her fingers into her hair.

In the Circle, it used to be cropped into tiny ringlets close to her skull, growing out after being shorn to the root to keep it being singed by the sun brand. And now, she is growing it longer than ever. Mostly so she can ruffle her wavy bangs and let them hang like a curtain over her Tranquil brand, since to many people are startled at best, and deeply disturbed at worst, when they see the telltale sun on the brow of Andraste's chosen.

No! She is not going to cower like a child!

She handled the magister before, when he was much more powerful, when time-altering Rifts sizzled into being upon his command, splashing their acid light all over the dark, half-ruined throne room.

Surely, she will be able to stop him as a half-starved prisoner! She has her sword with her: Cassandra insisted that she carry it at all times, even around Haven!

…But what if she will not even need to use it? What if she decides to trust the magister?

She has never been afraid of spirits. And he is just like one — just like Kindness.

That was the spirit from the sigil, from her Harrowing. It had been drawn to the Circle's corner of the Fade with the best of intentions. Eager to help the students learn and grow into better mages... But then, it was trapped and forced to tempt them instead. This affront against its nature, together with the agony of being chained, changed it. It darkened, and its softness peeled off, like the flesh of the red crystal victim, revealing a pained snarl.

But even inside the demon that was born out of the trapped spirit's torment, a wisp of its original self remained. Just a little bit of warmth and brightness. Like the sunlight squares that Elgara kept with her, packed safely in her memory trove, and carried through the coldest Circle nights.

That wisp called out to her, responding eagerly to her touch when she destroyed the sigil. And before she knew it, the demon's bulky, thrashing body turned into a distorted silhouette, as though someone had poured a bucketful of ink over its gnarly head. Presently, that silhouette thawed into a smoking black ink puddle. And from it, a much smaller figure emerged, its head inclined in gratitude.

It had always been there. Kindness had always been there. And it revealed itself to Elgara, because she was not afraid.

So why be afraid now? Why decide that the man from Dorian's past is gone, without giving him a proper chance to show himself?

'I do most sincerely apologize for all these outbursts,' Elgara says, with a sudden clarity and a firmness in her voice.

Oh gods, she is really doing this! She is getting a grip on herself!

She is straightening up, and turning back to him, and speaking to him not as a vile maleficar, but as a pleasant companion on a fresh-air stroll!

'You might find them bizarre, revolting even. But there is an explanation. I am a former Tranquil. Getting the Mark that your master wanted brought my emotions back, but the side effect is that I cannot always control them properly. Not yet, at any rate. I am certain I will get better at it with time.’

To further show her point, she pulls back her bangs, allowing the magister to see her sun brand. And now, it is the magister's turn to be stupefied.

'You are... You were... You were one of...' he stutters, his perpetually weary face twisted by dismay. 'Fasta vaas.’

His shoulders jerk, as he tries and fails to move his bound hands.

'The key,' he breathes out. 'There was... I had a key. Your Spymaster confiscated it, probably. It opens the door to an abandoned shed in Redcliffe. There are... artifacts in there... Crafted on the Elder One's orders, which I passed on to the Venatori in the Hinterlands... Though I imagine other Venatori cells are doing the same all over the south...'

'Doing what?' Elgara asks. An invisible hand draws a tight, perfectly attuned string through her body, from tongue to stomach, cutting into her innards.

'Hunting the Tranquil,' he says under his breath, dipping his head to his chest.

'The artifacts... the oculara... they are made from their skulls. I — I tried to hint to them... to your brethren, that they were not welcome in Redcliffe... Tried to get them to flee; to save themselves... Because even after stooping this low... I could not bear to...'

His lips twitch, and the moonlight in his eyes, before he shuts them, wincing, glints bright and wet.

'The things I did for the glory of the Imperium... For the sake of my son... And what did it lead to? The Elder One will reshape the world. He will make that future, the one Dorian screamed at me about, a reality, all over again... Felix will either succumb to the Taint, or perish in the storm to come. Your brethren will still be hunted, if not by me, then by the others who will replace me... I sold myself, over and over again — and it has all been meaningless.'

Elgara inhales, in several hoarse gasps, as if she were drowning.

Something slithers up her throat like a centipede, scraping her flesh raw. Another emotion. Anger.

The Tranquil are being hunted! Her brothers and sisters under the Rite — her friends! — could be in danger, even within Haven’s walls! She could lose Avexis, and Helisma, and others! And the man who had a hand in this, is standing right in front of her!

She squares her jaw and swallows hard, washing the centipede down.

He regrets what he did. The wisp is in there. It must have always been there.

She does not have to forgive him; not yet. But she can understand. She can reach out. And then, maybe, he will do what it takes to cast aside the demon husk.

'You heard me crying in your dungeon and wanted to ease my anguish,' she reminds him, placing her hand on his arm just above the elbow. Not afraid. Not afraid.

'That is not meaningless. And your friendship with Dorian, your love for your son — that is not meaningless either.'

He opens his eyes, and then his mouth, the knot easing between his eyebrows — but before he can say anything, he is cut off by a loud cry.

Using a spell like Fade Step would probably have helped her get there faster. But over the years of Tranquility, Elgara has come to rely on a blade, not magic, and she is still uncertain about returning to her Circle apprentice roots. Even if it makes Solas frown in disapproval and tell her that she is burying the great gift she was given.

So she chooses to do things the mundane, old-fashioned way. She runs.

She moves at a rapid, threshing rhythm, her sword hilt clamouring against her hip; and really, really hopes that her heart, which is not what it used to be twenty years ago, will not be speared by exhaustion. Or that the ever-intensifying apple crunch of snow will not trigger another migraine. This would be a really inopportune time.

She runs, as fast as she can. Which is not fast enough.

When she arrives at the source of the cry, she finds the bandit chief standing with his back against a large boulder, grating his tied hands fiercely against the edge of the guard's sword... Which is clutched in a stiff, frozen hand. A dead hand.

When the white blankets were still hiding all her emotions away, leaving her mind clean of distracting clutter, Elgara got very good at that clue-seeking they write about in novels where guardsmen track down criminals. Usually through the winding streets of a sprawling, anthill-like town like Kirkwall.

And even though the emotional clutter is back, lodging in between the puzzle pieces, sometimes she's still got it. Sometimes she can still spot the threads of logic — stretching between objects and people like spider webs.

She sees them now as well. She understands how they tie it all together.

The bandit.

The boulder.

The chaotic dots and dashes of tracks in the snow.

The Inquisition-issued pointy helm, which must have come off in the struggle because of those wretched chin straps.

The viscous smear of blood and bone matter that has painted the stone dark-red.

And the small armoured figure of the guard, which looks so still and hollow now, like the carcass of an ant that has been sucked dry by an antlion.

All of this takes far, far too long to describe. Her brain draws the connections much faster, and replays the story in lightning flashes.

The guard and his charge must have passed here on their walk, separated from Elgara as she was too caught up in talking to the magister. Then, seeing the boulder — just the right size, just the right height — the bandit must have seized his chance and, ramming his shoulder into the guard, overpowered him with his sheer weight, and sandwiched him between himself and the rock surface, pressing down till the protective helmet fell off, and the skull caved in.

And now, here he is. The druffalo is about to charge.

One last grating push — and the ropes come off. The bandit chief steps away from the boulder, and, with a smug grin, flexes his fingers: broad and square, like sausages someone drove a cart wheel over.

After the flexing, comes the looting. Just like in the guardsman books. Except real, and no less horrible, even after Elgara has witnessed battle scenes that were so much more gruesome, so much worse.

The dead guard's armour is too small to fully protect the bandit, but his sword fits quite nicely into his fist. He greets Elgara with a spittle-filled curse — 'Let's hear ya cry about this, fucking knife-ear!' — and a tremendous whoosh of the soaring blade.

She yanks her own sword out of its sheath, the steel’s flash nearly blinding her.

The bandit's blow is blocked, as is the next, and the next.

Her body fights of its own accord. Guided like a puppet by her sword fighter instincts. Another useful 'side benefit'.

Meanwhile, her mind, her over-cluttered, overemotional mind, is still with the poor guard. So sweet, so friendly, doomed to a stupid, stupid death because he did not have a good helmet. And an extra pair of eyes.

She was not there. She was not there.

He asked her to help out. He counted on her. But she forgot.

She took a wrong turn, let him out of her sight, left him behind to die.

She was not there.

These four words keep ringing out, like four slaps across her burning face.

Louder than the clanging of her sword.

Louder even than the sudden peel of thunder that rolls out somewhere from behind her back, while the clearing around the boulder is flooded with a pale purple glow.

Louder than the shriek the bandit lets out, staggering away from Elgara,

'You fucking Vint!'

Then come more shrieks, punctuated by panting as he tries to dodge the spears of lightning that pierce the ground all around him.

'Siding with the elf bitch now, are you? After your fucking friends hired me and my boys to work for you? No matter! I hid away the gold you hooded fuckers gave me for the road job — and once I am outta here, I —'

The next spear hits target. There is a whipping crackle, a gargle, a thud, a whiff of an acrid burning smell. But Elgara does not see the bandit fall.

She is on her knees again, hugging her head, whimpering, the four words rolling out of her mouth like vomit.

'I was not there... I was... not... there...'

Somewhere on the rim of her consciousness, a voice whispers. Soft, soothing, nearly unrecognizable. Far from the voice that gloated at the rebel mages been sold into servitude, or raved about the might of the Elder One,

'I know. I know.'

And then, Elgara tumbles into blackness.

When the world begins to take shape again, the boulder, or the guard, or the bandit, are nowhere to be seen.

Instead, there are more fir trees. Their bushy lower branches have formed a sturdy silvery roof over a patch of snow, coloured a rich dark blue by the lattice-like shade.

A small circle of ground has been thawed clean — likely by fire magic, since its outline is far too smooth to be natural — and Elgara has been seated in its middle, back firm against the trunk.

The magister is pacing back and forth in front of her. His hands are untied: he must have followed the bandit's example and used something sharp to cut himself free... Maybe one of the poor guard's pauldrons...

Elgara shudders at the thought, and a loud whine escapes her lips.

The magister stops pacing, suddenly on alert like a startled bird.

He rather looks like one, too, with his gaunt face and narrow, slightly curved nose. A very distraught bird that has had its nest ravaged… and has still decided to take a stranger, an enemy, under its wing.

It truly is there. That wisp of the man Dorian was friends with.

'You...' the magister begins to explain, keeping his voice down and making a small gesture in the direction of the hillside beyond the trees' shelter. 'You were sobbing and shaking, and I reasoned you could use less light and noise. And...'

He smirks mirthlessly.

'And fewer dead bodies, naturally. So I teleported us here. And cast a healing spell, just to be on the safe side. Have you... recovered?'

Elgara passes her hand over her face.

Her fingers are unsteady, and she feels withered and drained like a prune, but the urge to howl in tears has passed.

'I — I think so. Thank you'.

'Hm.’

The magister purses his lips and looks away.

‘Consider it me - awkwardly - trying to make up for the gruesome Tranquil hunt. And to thank you for your extraordinary treatment of your prisoners. I wish I were capable of appreciating the books you so graciously supplied me with.'

He glances quickly back at Elgara, and she almost stops hearing what she is saying to him, transfixed by the moon beams in his eyes.

'Think nothing of it. You had too much on your mind to focus on reading. I... certainly know what it's like.'

He gives her an absent-minded nod, and turns back to gaze into nothingness while his fingers restlessly peel off flakes of pine bark.

'I have known several enchanters with a... predicament somewhat similar to yours. We Tevinters love breeding our bloodlines like prized horses. The stronger their magic, the better. But strong magic often comes with fragile senses, easy to overload. I imagine it is the same for you as a former Tranquil, is it not?'

'Quite so.'

Mysteriously, the more time she spends like this, amid the serenity of the winter woods, shielded from the... overloading world by these snowy branches, side by side with the man who once plotted against her, the stronger those warmth and brightness bloom inside her chest.

When they reach their glowing peak, she blurts out,

'I am... deeply thankful that you were there.’

The magister moves his head slowly from side to side.

'Sing no false praise, Herald. Not in front of your advisors,' he says bitterly. 'I am still very much looking forward to meeting your kind headsman.'

Elgara's heart makes a new, rather painful leap up her windpipe. But she does not let this shatter the bright, warm sun squares in her mind.

'As a matter of fact, I intend to tell my advisors that you had escaped while I was fighting the bandit. And that I simply could not find you anywhere.’

She laughs suddenly, and covers her cheeks, her skin scorched by a blush.

'I... have not lied often since my Tranquility was... cured... but... I think I have it in me.’

The magister tears away from the pine trunk, pulling his fingers out of the crevices in the bark like a cat pulls out its claws.

'You would let me go? Just like that? After all that I wrought?' his voice thins out into a rusty creak.

'What is the point? I do not have anywhere to go. I am a wanted man out there, in Ferelden — and in here, I can at least have an execution. Like I deserve. Like I need.'

Again, Elgara senses a tide of pain rising around him. She jolts upright and, casting aside all of that Tranquil logic, not caring to waste even a single moment on thinking, grabs the magister's hand and squeezes it.

'You do not need to die,' she says earnestly. 'And if you go free, you can try making the journey to Tevinter. You can go home. Like Felix wanted. You can be near him when he passes away.'

You can do what it takes to revert from demon to spirit. Like Kindness did, when it, too, was set free.

'I...' the magister chokes, two red dots breaking out over his cheekbones.

Elgara wonders if she has crushed his hand too hard, and drops it hastily. But his expression remains the same.

'I was so wrong about you,' he manages to squeeze out at last. 'I should never have called you a mistake. I apologize, Herald... And I wish... I wish we had met under different circumstances.’

'So do I,' she admits. Quite truthfully.

He bows to her — like he did during that charade of a meeting in Redcliffe. And yet... Not exactly like that. This time, there is no darkness pooling and bubbling around him. No malice in his eyes. Just... Just sadness.

'Farewell, Herald,' he tells her. 'I am not certain if your ambitious little expedition succeeds, but... the sheer idea is quite fascinating.'

'Well, now I have to seal the Breach just to spite you,' Elgara says — and nearly gasps, petrified by the realization that she just... bantered!

She thought the skill lost to her, erased by Tranquility, just as her ability to decipher sarcasm. But she... She actually did it... She bantered!

And in response to her banter, the magister chuckles, before fading in a cloud of smoke. This must just be the effect of another teleportation spell — but Elgara thinks of Kindness again. Of how it was transformed from a demon back to a spirit. Perhaps the same will happen to the magister, if he finds his way.

There is a whole pantheon of gods out there. They probably care little about the fate of a Tevinter, a man whose kin once destroyed the realm of the People beyond repair. But they might listen to Elgara if she speaks on his behalf.

They might keep him safe. They might bring him home.

Elgara smiles at the thought, running her fingertips along the grooves the magister left in the tree bark.

Well. Time to turn back to Haven.

Time to tell her lie, and then the truth.

To face the family of that poor guard, like the magister faced her, and to warn Leliana about the hunt for the Tranquil, so that she sends out scouts across Thedas. Rescuing as many as they can, from among those who are still wandering about, displaced when the Circles fell.

Maybe Madame Vivienne will have some ideas too.

All of these tasks will overwhelm her; more than once.

She knows they will.

But — but she is not afraid.

#dragon age #dragon age inquisition #dai #inquisitor lavellan #gereon alexius #alexius x inquisitor #elgara lavellan

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hughiecampbelle · 1 year ago

Text

Dread (Bucky Barnes Oneshot)

Character/s: Bucky

Word Count: 1,824

A/N: Ahhhh okay I don't really talk about it here, or to anyone lol, but last year I was diagnosed with post traumatic stress disorder. I still feel like "it" wasn't bad enough and idk, I'm afraid if I did tell someone, they'd say what I'm thinking. My extended family can't handle this kind of info and my mum is dealing with the same thing, so I end up taking care of her even when things are bad. I've been having a lot of trouble the past few months days with sleeping and I thought I'd write about it. I'm using my emotional support Bucky lol. Anyways, just a therapy fic. Things will go back to normal asap! 💜💜💜

You shatter. Like glass, like snow, like silence. Bursting into thousands, millions,of infinitely beautiful pieces. You glitter under the light, between his fingers. Oh y/n, the pity dripping from his voice like honey, thick and sweet across his teeth, oh no. You splinter, cracking right down the middle. Cheekbone and shoulder blade and fractured, punctured vertebrae compress together into one anonymous pile of bone. Pile of you. Collected into dust pans, into willing palms. All serrated edges and knife like anger, hurt and screaming and ashamed. He nicks himself on you, on a tooth or empty eye socket, slicing himself open. Sorrysorrysorrysorry. The words tumble from your mouth as it falls apart, crashing into the floor, scattered everywhere. He waves you away. He deserves it, he thinks, he says, he insists. You deserved it, too. It was your fault. You didn’t fight back. You didn’t scream. You didn’t tell them. No, he argues, the thoughts breaking through your open wounds. Drawn by ice pick, your skin chipped, two words the play on loop. My. Fault. No, his is angry now, speaking to the fragments. Don’t say that. Don’t- don’t say that. Okayokayokayokay. In secret though, when he has his back turned, attention carried away, you think it very quietly. Over and over until there is no more space left, until you fear you will splinter all over again. Myfaultmyfaultmyfaultmyfault.

He used to try to fill the silence. Frantic in the dark, blinded, left to wander, searching for the switch. The bedside lamp spills her light across the room. You can name everything in it. An unmade bed. Two tables. Two lamps. Two people, sleep deprived, scared to death for the same reason. He used to try to fill the empty space with every question that came to mind. Beneath his voice you sniffled, your heart beating in your ears, pounding too loud. Beneath the sound you tried to catch your breath, gasping for air, trying to fill your lungs, your blood, your body. You can still feel it, you can still hear it, the dream indistinguishable from reality. He used to talk until he was out of breath, until there was nothing left to ask, hoping he would be able to better understand. Why you were doing what you did, why this happened sometimes, who did this. He doesn’t do that anymore. Now he knows. It was a guessing game, a series of assumptions. Fragmented ideas sewn together, the gaps numerous and wide, a series of events and half-truths constructed poorly to make a story. Holey. Holy. And then, once, only once, you told him. You told him everything, unable to look at him for a long time, unable to stop yourself. You put what you’ve never been able to into words. And then he stopped.

He finds you under the bed. You’re not sure when it became the place, the space to occupy. A habit. Maybe when it started, all those years ago, crying beneath the exoskeleton, needing to feel hugged without the threat of human touch. Maybe it wasn’t suffocating like the closet or exposed out in the open like behind the bedroom door. Maybe it was the last place they would ever find you, the last place to look. Seven years old. Eleven, thirteen, fifteen, seventeen all over again. It makes you feel so small, so little, as if no time has passed. As if those versions of you have been stuck under there all this time. He finds your part of the mattress empty, blankets dragged down as if they’d gotten caught on something. He follows the sound of crying. Soft sobs escape you, the cool of the floorboards cold beneath your cheek. On his hands and knees, his t-shirt loose around his arms, his hair disheveled. Eye-level now. There is sorrow in those blue eyes, pity, but something more. Something that makes you want to curl around him, hold him, let him cry as you are now. Understanding. Recognition.

What a dangerous thing.

It’s happened again. The dream with the boy, the dream with the man. His knee between your legs. Spreading them. Pushing into you. On your stomach. You can’t move or speak, you can’t fight. It happened again and now you can’t stop feeling it, experiencing it. Like looking into the mouth of a wolf, counting his teeth, believing naively that you are safe with your hand halfway down his throat. It doesn’t matter how long it’s been. It doesn’t matter where you go or who you pretend to be. They follow you. They haunt you. That fucking laugh. Hysterical, cynical, a warning before his hands crawled all over you. You hear it now, under the bed, far from him. You hear it all the time. Strangers look like him. A flash of panic spreads in your chest before you realize it’s someone else. Before you name yourself paranoid, crazy. Again? It’s barely above a whisper. His voice is so thin, so shaky, as if afraid any louder would scare you away. He shouldn’t have to ask. He shouldn’t have to deal with this, with you. You nod, your hands balled into you, your knees to your chest. Yesyesyesyesyes. Againagainagainagain.

He doesn’t put his hands on you. Not now, not ever. He doesn’t say the things that have been said about you, your body, the space you are forced to occupy. He doesn’t have the thoughts that they had or the urges or the good sense to target someone who would never say anything. Staring at one another. He knows. Not the details, or the guys, or the boys, but he knows. Parts of the past play on loop. Moments he wishes he could forget, destroy, set aflame. Moments that haunt him even on a bright, sunny day where he feels as if nothing bad has ever happened. Even then, there is a ringing in his ears. There is something small and deep that tells him he is running away from something inescapable. That he is a fool for believing he could ever move on.

It’s too late to say anything. It’s too late to do anything. You can’t remember their names, their faces. You don’t remember when it started, only that it did. It’s never really stopped since then. What a waste, you think, what a terrible waste you’ve become. Two children who would be laughed at, who would be made into jokes, who would grow up and live life with the knowledge that they are not immune to terrible things. He doesn’t join you under there. Instead, he rolls on his back, arm stretched outward, his hand, his wrist, his fingertips rest at the edges of the shadow. His eyes cast upward in awe as if he were looking at a sky full of stars and not a vast blankness of white ceiling. Eventually, your hand will find his. Millimeters away, not yet touching, close enough to feel though. That’s all you have to offer in this moment. He will take it. He will take nothing. But he will never take everything like they have done. You’re on your stomach, your back, always crying. Always trying to get away, but they are too strong, too powerful. They are bigger than you.

They will say and do things that make you feel dirty. Soiled. Broken. You will scrub your skin raw, but it’s a feeling that never dissipates. It never goes away. You used to hide in the shower. Midnight, one, two, three. He’d hear the water going, see the steam. You’d appear, scrubbed anew and smelling like coconut. Sweet. Summery. Familiar. Your eyes would be rimmed red. Bloodshot. You’d make up an excuse. Anything to get away with it. Along the way you stopped. Along the way you realized the water could never be hot enough, you could never wash away the pieces of you they took. Under the bed it was. You prayed he wouldn’t wake up, that you wouldn’t disturb him, but it never worked. You prayed like that, before, before they did what they did. You gave up on God like He’d given up on you. It only seemed right. Fair. He used to search the entire apartment, calling out your name, his heart suddenly in your throat. Petrified you left him, petrified something terrible happened. Now he knows what to expect. He knows the place. You lay like that, barely touching, trying to catch your breath, until one of you falls asleep. Eventually, the other follows.

The morning comes. Her warm light welcomes you. You watch him for a while, quietly, running your eyes over the hard line of his jaw, the softness of his cheek, the bridge of his nose. Your finger will draw stars, and circles, and hearts into the floorboards. The day is welcome. It’s the night when things turn sour. When he wakes, you will crawl out from under the frame. You will shower and dress and move on from what’s been tormenting you. You will play pretend. He won’t push the subject, knowing better now, but he will remain acutely aware of your every move. You’ll grab his hand, his arm, the least frightening act of affection, and walk together. You’ll have your coffee. You’ll talk with Sam. You’ll smile, and laugh, and act as if nothing has happened. It’s always these moments that strike him the hardest: after the nightmares, the feeling, the crying, you have no choice but to pick yourself up and carry on. You’re not overly affectionate, though you show him it’s okay, things are better now. Tentatively, his hand finds its way on the small of your back. You let him.

Tonight it will happen all over again. That dream will come. You will hide. He won’t wake up, though. Tonight he will sleep through it. You will join him in the bed before he realizes, before his eyes open, before he comes to. He thinks things are getting better. And they will, but for now this is how it will be. Two things can be true at once. Two people can exist in a single body. Today, you are you, but the sun will set and that child will take over and you can do nothing but let them. Two realities can exist. Here, you will thrive. There, you are allowed to crumble. He will place his hand on your back. He will refill your mug. He won’t take this light mood for granted. He knows what comes next. He knows the emotions you place in the closet just to exist here, in this room, with these people. He knows because he does the same.

You will thank him quietly, for putting up with you, for dealing with you, but he will always shake his head, unsure of how to put his exact thoughts into words. He’s never minded taking care of you. You’re worth it. You always have been.