#now... to work up the momentum to return to the next part

[voidhope]

The Other Woman

(Part 2 FINALE)

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Synopsis: Miguel had left Y/N for another version of his old wife in hopes of getting his old life back. To only realize the mistakes he’s made.

Link to Part 1

Pair: Miguel O’Hara x Spider!reader

Warnings: very heavy mental health, ANGST LIKE A LOT OF ANGST, ALL OF THIS IS ANGST, mentions of death/almost dying, long term establish relationship, cheating, swearing, therapy, physical fight, blood, feral protective miguel?

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A/N: hello again! this one is more heartbreaking and longer than the first part oof… Very low dialog up until closer towards the end! wanted to just get through telling the story itself and the emotions. It’s just a very heavy storyline!! I want to say thank you so so much for showing so much support for part 1 i had no idea it would receive that much attention :O !! i wrote this out kinda fast as i didn’t want to loose the momentum of the idea. so apologies for any mistakes! all feedback is greatly appreciated ~

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You used to make Miguel coffee everyday, with one cream two sugars, and he would nag about how he hated the taste. It was to your liking, not his. As you would sneakily take sips out of his mug while working next to him. Why didn’t you just get your own coffee? You claimed you could never finish it and just wanted a taste out of his. Miguel would roll his eyes at you every time he caught you but he adored it. He had secretly grown to love the way you made it and had become his only way of making coffee after meeting you.

Now as this version of his older wife made it the way he is suppose to like coffee, bland and straight, he found himself bothered by it. Going as far to correct her even though this was what he had been claiming to have missed so much. He was now seeing himself teaching someone else how to love him like you did…

He was only a shell of the man he was when he had Gabriella. Even though the copy of his old wife has her same personality, the relationship couldn’t be exactly how it was before because he had changed so much. You had helped him become whole again. His tastes and likings had all switched to everything about you. The charm he found in his old wife doesn’t hold a light to you now and he was getting frustrated. He had wanted this so badly. He felt like those babies who whine and cry wanting to eat a lemon and once they get their way they realize the sour truth.

Miguel never truly realized what it was like to loose you until three weeks after he told you the truth. Over the years the idea of losing you terrified him but he only ever thought of it being in death. He never considered separation when everything was perfect for both of you then. There were times he believed that you were made just for him and he treated you like his queen. Which you truly were to him in his spider society. Why would he ever throw that away? Look at what he did.

He gave himself every excuse in the book before you knew he was cheating on you. ‘This is only for research.’ he would think every time he found himself back in that universe. As everyone knew he was so serious about his work, obviously this is just him getting to know more about certain universes and canons. Lyla was the only one seeing straight through him knowing where he was actually going. Things kept tumbling and the more he found out about the place and spent time with her the more his grief and yearning returned. It was all just there, so reachable.

There was a time his mind tried to snap him back out of it while cheating on you and made him realize the guilt. The first time he kissed this woman you were there in his mind. He came home right after and held you without saying a word. You never questioned him, just showed him comfort as much as you could. Lightly stroking his back, you never over stepped or pushed him when he was vulnerable with you. He only closed his eyes and held onto you tighter processing how you were always too good for him. He was converting to living two different lives; his old self during the day and then coming home to you. He didn’t want to let go of either at the time.

Once he found out he could safely have Gabriella again was when he became distant with you. The shame of using you for research made him become stoic. He didn’t want to admit how wrong he was treating you. All while you were always being so loyal and trusting towards him. Things were slowly slipping through the cracks and he knew he couldn’t up keep it. He wished he could have had that conversation with you so much differently but it was over. Now he had his old life back, a dream he had his mind set on.

He ignored the shakiness in his hands when he returned to her after letting you go. ‘It’s all for the best.’ is what he would repeat in his mind as a mantra. His new girlfriend truly had no idea who he really was or what his background was. Miguel continued to feed her lies to the point where he even started believing them himself getting too lost in avoiding what he’s done. He believed he was happy as he spent time with her.

When she got too close to finding the truth after finding his wedding ring in one of his pockets, he set her off course from it by revealing his spider identity and taking her to HQ. This was the day that everything felt like it was crashing around him. Being reminded of his marriage, having to face his friends with his new lover, sharing his personal spider life, his work with someone who wasn’t you. He excused himself rushing to an unused office room while his chest was tightening. Pupils dilating as he realized it was his first time having a panic attack.

Nevertheless he continued to push it all aside and act completely normal with his girlfriend. He was feeling your absence the most while working. You had became an extension of him. He had trained you from scratch and you helped him build this society he has now. You knew the ins and outs of everything and fought perfectly alongside him. Now that he was on his own he let his girlfriend be there for him when he got stressed, but there always was a knot in his stomach he never could get rid of.

The more his mental health ate at him late at night the more he considered searching out for you. There was no closure between both of you and he never got to listen to how you feel. What was your opinion on all that happened? Do you hate him?

He wanted to speak with someone so badly but he dug himself in a hole too deep. You were gone, he was lying through his teeth to this poor woman he’s kept for some fantasy, he felt too ashamed to say anything to his friends, he would rather die if all his workers found out how big of a piece of shit he is. Anytime Lyla tried peeping a word that wasn’t work related he would snap. He had pushed everyone away and now he just felt alone.

Regardless he would wake up in the morning and swallow all his dark feelings. He would remember his grief of when he lost his family and it would put him back in the moment. He has another chance. He was happy with the direction he was going in now.

Right?

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The day he found out you were at HQ he felt his heart stop. He was mid mission trying to call for Lyla but she wouldn’t answer. Frustrated he tried looking into what was happening only to see her busy having a conversation with you. It felt like something took over him when he opened a portal in less than a second. Without thinking nor wasting a heartbeat he rushed back. Just a glimpse of you, maybe just to hear a word out of your mouth. The feeling of having you back in HQ was making him ignore all his insecurities. How he would coward at the thought of trying to reach out to you before. You were in his home, your home, and the thought drove him wild.

You were already long gone though. Lyla stared at him not saying a word. The quietness in the room making his ears ring but his thoughts were screaming in his head. He stood there frozen still trying to recollect himself. He was the one that left you, what is wrong with him?

Again he went back and forth in his own head trying to convince himself ‘You wanted this.’ but if he did why is he feeling like someone just killed a puppy in front of him? Why is he here fighting with his self if this is really his dream? Why did he try chasing after you? The wounds of his past grief were too deep. He never took the time to properly heal and now look at what he’s become.

“Miguel, what’s this?” He was startled turning around seeing his girlfriend holidng your watch and skimming through the divorce paperwork addressed to him.

There was no more hiding, no more lying. He swallowed hard even though his throat was dry. He let everything he had kept away rise to surface. It hurt him to see the beautiful face his old wife shared contort into such anger and pain while finding the truth.

She didn’t stay, but for some reason he wasn’t upset. Though he longed for his daughter, he knew it would have never been the same now. He finally closed the door on his past. His heart had made the choice this time but it’s too late. Now grasping onto the divorce papers left by you, emptiness spread through his soul.

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You on the other hand did not find yourself crying by yourself on a rooftop for long. The shift in the air from your arrival alerted the local spider-man immediately.

“It didn’t work out, did it?” He crouched down next to you as he noticed your watch gone and your missing wedding band.

Peter Parker knew both you and Miguel. Your husband had come to do many rounds of research in this universe when he took you. Eventually offering this Peter a spot in the society, which he politely declined due to just being busy enough here. You both never spoke much but always had an appreciation for each other.

“Do you need a place to crash at?” He continued while trying to get you to look at him. Reaching his hand towards you.

You had absolutely no one and you had been gone so long you couldn’t even go back to the little you had. When you met Miguel you didn’t hesitate to never look back and now it filled you with regret. How naive were you to put all your trust and reliance on him.

You took Peter’s hand. You were ready to start your own life and be your own person now.

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Peter Parker was nice enough to let you stay with him as long as you needed it. You both had became ‘besties!’ as he would love to poke at you. The first month with him you were a disaster really but he showed you how he liked to cope using his spider abilities.

The first thing he helped you with was getting a new suit. Your old one resembled too much to Miguel’s and you felt suffocated every time you put it on. Peter had taught you to use your current emotional pain on whichever sad little villain was making trouble out in Brooklyn that night.

“Come on, we got multiverse spider-woman helping me keep these streets clean now!” He would taunt at the men while watching you easily take them out a little bit too aggressively. His feet kicking up and down while he sat on the side of a building watching you. The crime rate did go down a bit once word got around how strong your punch was. Peter’s just happy he can now spend some nights to himself.

You got yourself a job at the mart on the corner to help cover bills for Peter and save up. You were grateful enough the owners never batted an eye when you would disappear during a shift to either suddenly go cry uncontrollably or beat the shit out of someone at a nearby robbery. Next thing you were enrolling yourself back in university, wanting to finish that degree you never did.

It wasn’t too long that some of your older spider friends would stop by to check in on you. Seeing them was difficult sometimes, you were internally itching to ask about Miguel. Things were going okay for you on a very slow path of breathing step by step. You never wanted to feel that hurt again and so you very well pretend like Miguel didn’t exist if you could.

You couldn’t ignore the hurt resurfacing when you passed couples on the street. Or when you found yourself going to fidget with your wedding ring just to remember it’s gone. You can’t just move on from a relationship that was so deeply apart of you and lasted so long. You gave everything to him and it will take you much time to get yourself to build trust again.

After two semesters, you finally had your graduation. All the things you learned while in Earth-928 paid off as you barley had to study. Passing top of the class, you immediately got an offer for an internship opportunity with Alchemax and was able to get an introduction tour of the building beforehand.

What you hadn’t realized was that Alchemax had been looking for that girl who snuck into their offices a couple years ago. Who made another dimension’s spider appear and then went missing herself soon after. They had kept as close tabs on you as they could and how foolish you were to think your little break in wouldn’t come back to bite you. The moment you stepped foot back in their building, it was over for you.

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Miguel had spent a whole year in much deserving therapy. Nothing could stop the embarrassment he felt when Peter B signed him up with HQ’s best spider-therapist after 3 months of constant out bursts. No one could come near the man when he felt like he had lost everything. Those first initial months were difficult for everyone around him.

Therapy did help, he hates to admit it, but it was a very rough ride. He finally was able to understand his deep inner term oil and heal his issues but moving on from you? No, he could never.

You were the only one who had sincerely stood by his side, always rooting for him. He never fell out of love with you despite of everything that he did. He just pushed everything down too deep and was blinded by obsession. Till now he could never deny that he still loves you. Maybe if he just would have went to therapy years ago instead of acting out on unsolved grief none of this would have happened. The guilt always making him toss and turn at night.

He would have big temper tantrums when he would find his coworkers going to visit you time to time and not sharing any details. He needed to know if you’re okay. Did you already move on? He longed to find you and speak with you but he knew he wasn’t ready yet. He was so self destructive and this was what he deserved.

Everyone avoided him completely when he overheard someone saying you were living with Peter Parker. Fighting crime with him and having a cute little home life. Peter followed you around now like a puppy. Miguel did not take the news well at all. Let’s just say, the large bill replacement for his monitor screens was what snapped him out of that rage.

He also wanted to strangle Hobie Brown every time he saw a glint in his eye when your name was mentioned around. Yet Miguel couldn’t hate the kid either, as Hobie was one of the people to try help repair the damage he did to you. How badly he just wanted to hold you and shield you in his arms from any other people taking you from him as if he wasn’t the idiot to let you go in the first place.

Everyone’s big, powerful, scary boss was really just a grumpy, wallowing-in-self-pity, sensitive, lonely man now. Mention your name too much to him and watch him start crying or take it out on whatever he could find nearest to him. He would some nights scroll through your wedding photos while listening to your last tracked log with Lyla. Your words cutting through him deep like long sharp knives. How he urged to go tell you it was all wrong and how guilty he was for making you feel like this.

Despite it all, he still believed in being the best of the best. He used his work to distract himself from his sorrows, to become numb. Even though his divorce paperwork were set next to him on his desk to remind him the pain. He never signed it.

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“We can’t tell him!” Jessica gritted through her teeth. Small group of spider-people were hovered around Lyla taking in the new found information.

“Her canon events have always been uncertain, we can’t just stop and fix this one?” Gwen Stacy suggested in hopes.

“We have never prevented a canon event of hers or the people involved in it. It could be even more dangerous than a regular canon.” Peter B spoke grimly.

“When ‘as danger ever stopped us?” Hobie spoke up.

“Everyone get your gear.” Lyla added to the stress of the situation.

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You couldn’t open your eyes properly with a strong blinding light being held above you. Arms and legs secured on top of a metal surgical table. You could feel the warmth of blood scattered on certain parts of your body, slowly starting to dry. It was a mix of yours and the people you had tried fighting through to get out of here when you realize the trap you were reeled into. Different people in lab coats poked and pried all around you while you were tied. Your mask was thrown on another table and your suit had large gashes across it.

Soon you also could feel the presence of Peter Parker being brought to the room, thrown slumped in the corner breathing heavily. They had gotten you too good. They knew everything and had planned this so detailed.

“Now you’re going to help me open the multiverse.” Kingpin loomed around you. All you could feel was searing pain as a laser aimed right at your chest.

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Miguel was already staring out the window to the glowing night lights of Nueva York when he saw a big hole appear in sight of the skyline. His eyebrows furrowed while he was trying to process what he was looking at. It wasn’t a second later when all alarms started going off in his office.

“Qué carajos?” He exclaimed seeing the alerts of a possible universe collapse. “Lyla! Why wasn’t this being taken care of already?”

“I already sent people.”

“Then what are they doing?” He yelled. His confusion and anger only furthered when he saw a red alarm for a canon event.

“Canon event?” He whispered to himself. He always knew when these were happening, there were none scheduled for today. There was no way he would let one passed him, it’s not like this could magically appear? His jaw dropped in realization… a new canon event.

“Lyla, tell me the truth. Why wasn’t this reported to me?” He made the atmosphere turn cold. She knew he already figured it out.

“A new canon event was received this morning being given to Peter Parker. Of Y/N L/N’s death.” The words from Lyla made Miguel’s body go still. His eyes raced side to side while he processed it.

“No!” He roared, a fist slamming into the nearby desk. His massive strength breaking it in half.

“Boss, you can’t go on this mission only using your emotions.” Lyla warned. However Miguel was already half way stepping through a portal to find you.

He appeared, watching his team struggle to shut down the machine causing the collapse. Outnumbered by the amount of Alchemax puppets. A different kind of rage filled him as he saw you, for the first time in a year, suffering. Miguel was never one to act reckless while on missions but he had no plan here and just ran off the pure adrenaline the fight or flight had hit him with.

His claws tore into the backs of his enemies as he jumped beast-like across the room. Not hesitating spilling blood across the wall while he took everyone down as fast as he could. His team could only watch wide eye with an unsettling fear as they saw Miguel lose himself to his spider sense. While he fought they took the opportunity to take apart the machine.

Miguel was panting heavily, pupils blown wide glowing red, and fangs dripping with venom as the room slowly silenced. Kingpin laid on the floor slowly trying to drag himself after being beaten to a pulp. It was over. Peter B stopped him from doing anything further. Knowing Miguel would kill the man, Peter B let the team finish up to give Kingpin to authorities. Miguel turned frantically to look at you seeing the other spiders step away. Peter Parker was hunched over you in tears. Miguel fought the urge to snap at Peter and grab his hands off of you.

Your vision was too blurry and everything felt like it was burning. A shape that seemed too familiar came into your peripheral vision and you tried to push yourself up.

“Miguel?” Was the last thing you croaked before slumping back passing out. Miguel catching you in his arms before you could hurt yourself further.

“It’s her time.” Jessica spoke behind him. Yet he was refusing to let go. He had never defied the way the timeline worked since he created his society. He would never break the rules and you both had promised each other before not to. If there was a situation like this you both agreed to save the universe first. How stupid was he to think he would listen to that now facing it in-front of him.

He never got to tell you what happened. He never got to apologize. He never got to tell you one more time that he loved you. Even if you in result just spat in his face, at least he was able to talk to you one more time. You were never a placeholder or someone to fill a hole in his heart. His whole heart belonged to you and he couldn’t let you go thinking you didn’t mean anything to him. No matter the consequences, he needed to tell you.

“Call all the teams to control the damage of a possible universe collapse.” He turned to Jess with Y/N tightly in his arms. The spider-people watched speechless as he opened a portal and disappeared.

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Two weeks you laid motionless in the HQ’s medbay.

The clean up after breaking the canon was a little intense. They were able to get it under control as the event started to fade from your timeline once you were returned and starting to heal in Earth-928.

The spider society would remain silent near the medbay. The lights always being dimmed and hushed whispers between staff to not bother the distressed O’Hara. He refused to leave.

Your Peter Parker had now joined the team, much to Miguel’s dismay. Everyday your friends would come in and check to see how you were. Some telling stories about their day or any gossip updates you missed, in hopes that it would get you to wake up. They would ignore the gloomy Miguel who was basically glued to the seat next to you not saying a word to anyone.

At night Miguel would play with your fingers and softly stroke your hair all while pleading “Please don’t leave me, please don’t leave me. Por favor mi alma.” He knew it wasn’t his place to beg this after what he did, but he didn’t mind the words falling on deaf ears.

Miguel hadn’t eaten in days, he felt too nauseous from anxiety to even try anything. Pavitr had done the favor to bring you and Miguel’s favorite empanadas from a small street vendor downtown. Hoping to get Miguel to at least try the food before he ended up in a hospital bed next to you due to starvation.

You started to blink open your eyes, spots surrounding your vision. You could hear a soft breathing to your right side and you slowly felt your sense come back one by one. It felt like you just had a really rough nap.

“Oh my god that smells so good.” You moaned, sitting yourself up to try to look at where the smell of food was coming from.

You were met with a wide eyed Miguel holding a box of empanadas. His jaw slacked open acting as if he’s seen a ghost looking at you. Confusion hit you first for a second and then you start to panic.

Why was he here? Why was your ex-husband sitting right here? You started to push away from him and Miguel caught on to your panic.

“No, no, no mi amor stop.” He tried calming you. “You’re hurt, you’re going to open your stitches.”

You suddenly remembered everything that happened right before you blacked out. At that moment you forgot the hurt you had towards your ex-lover. Gathering yourself you just stared at him. “I’m suppose to be dead.”

Tears rimmed your eyes. Why did it feel like life just hated you so much?

Miguel engulfed you in his arms as you started to cry. You didn’t care right now. You had ached for this feeling again, so alone, with the comfort Miguel used to bring you. Just for a moment you could pretend like how it was before.

“We can’t do this Miguel.”

He knew what you were thinking. He didn’t want to let you leave his arms yet, as he let his self hold harder and push your head closer into his the crook of his shoulder. The tickle of your breath on his neck, he just wanted this forever.

“She left. Almost a year ago.” He let out to you. A big weight coming off of his chest. You pulled back from him and looked up into his eyes while you watched him avoid your gaze. You felt bad to say you could feel a bit of satisfaction bubbling in you.

“Good, she deserved better.”

“So did you.” Miguel sighed playing with his hands. Your eyes widened when you saw the ring still on his finger. He let you stare. “I-I could never. I couldn’t.” The emotions struggle to come out of his mouth. You understood him though. You always did. Placing your hand on top of his you just nodded.

“Please stay here.” He whispered.

Miguel had broken you in so many ways. Yet he almost ruined another universe just to keep you alive. You both needed time to talk and coming out a coma right now isn’t good timing.

“I finally became my own person when I went back in my universe. I enjoyed my independence.” The words pelleted at him. He could only hold his breath as he waited for you to continue. “I’ll stay… but not for you.”

It wounded him deeply; but he deserved it. This place will always be a home for you even if he wasn’t apart of it. Before he can tear his gaze and turn away, you reached out to hold his face close to yours. Your fingers gently rubbing on his cheeks as you slowly look at him properly after so long. You let your thumb smooth over his frown lines and he leaned into your touch closing his eyes.

“Let’s give us time.” Was the words you blessed that opened every door of hope he could find. He would take it, he would absolutely take it. He has to fight for you, he has to prove to you. He would do anything but for now he’ll be on his best patiently waiting for you.

Both of you sat comfortably without speaking, only the faint background beeps of the hospital monitor making up for the silence, while passing small glances. For once both of you felt a missing warmth you didn’t realize you needed. Sharing empanadas with each other, just maybe it will be alright…

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The end!!! Thank you so so much for your time in reading my story. i really really was so happy with all the comments and feedback on pt 1 it really meant a lot!!!

i hope this was ok ~ i apologize for how long it was i was thinking of doing another part but just wanted to finish this up. I was in such a conflict how to end this. i hope it wasn’t too cliche or anything i’m just a sucker for very wanty needy dramatic stories. It’s a hopeful ending tho~ i couldn’t pick with just happy or sad.

So many of you had tons of amazing suggestions which I appreciated so much. I was such a mess trying to figure it all out. Many of you wanted to see Y/N move on with another person but I ended up going this route. I used Peter Parker as an obv character in y/n’s universe but it’s not tied to any specific one and you guy can think of him more to your liking if you want to!

If any of you would like a small drabble or imagine of another route of this story or just anything angsty/possessive and rarwrarwbarkbark miguel. I’d be glad to help lol!! My request box is wide open~ i had so much fun writing this!

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[housecow]

i have a lot of cute ideas

my feeder travels a lot—he’s lucky enough to have a job that can take him all over the world. his cow, however, cannot really follow.

i outgrew a regular plane seat sometime after 300lbs. we discovered that after a particularly fruitful trip to spain; although eating our way through each city racked up a lot of steps, the funnel sessions and late night snacking really did me in. neither of us were really surprised that my hips just didn’t quite fit. rather, i could tell it was all he could think about the entire way back. his hand on my soft thigh, slightly clenched and almost possessive… the way his eyes flickered to mine and there was this look.

our trips together became rarer but neither of us minded. as i’d grown, a lot of what we used to do together faded. i couldn’t keep up on the hikes, biking was out of the question, and even the long walks we enjoyed wound up split by breaks so i could catch my breath.

throughout it all, however, my feeder just grew more enthusiastic. he’d tell me he was so proud after we made it back to the hotel each night. his hands would massage my softened shoulders, he’d hold the shake to my lips, and he’d coo into my ear, “it’s okay, i won’t make you do this again,” “there’s a buffet tomorrow morning,” or, “you can really feel how fat we’ve made you now, right?”

i’d melt with whatever he said and he’d fill me up, every way i needed. funnels and shakes, expansive platters of pastries… him inside me, i’m so full and he’s telling me how good i’m doing for him, my belly touching the bed while he’s breeding me…

neither of us minded when we had to do things separately. he’d be off on a trip, sending me photos of the views and the food (“wish i could be feeding you these!”), and i’d return the gesture. belly pics, selfies of my fatass planted on the couch working on the last bit of the gallon of ice cream that was supposed to last the week, meal ideas and articles and excitement about all he’s getting to experience.

the best part, however, is when he’d get back. over the longer trips i’d have settled in a bit too much. nothing was overly dirty, of course, but the fridge was overstocked with takeout. i’d finished almost everything and move on to whatever was next, absentmindedly leaving behind remnants of everything i’d made my way through. the trash would be full of boxes and candy wrappers, vegetable skins and soda cans, too. and he'd be able to see what it all did to me.

i was bigger every time he came back. it wasn’t too obvious, maybe just a pound or two, but it was enough to excite him. he’d admire the way i had to focus and gather momentum to heave myself out of the car, how my belly hang hit my thighs just enough to make a sound when i tried to move quickly, and how he could always count on me to gorge myself while i missed him.

he never made a comment though. but every time before he left the pantry would be replenished—zebra cakes, brownies, chips, pasta, sauce, boxed mac n cheese, everything he could think of would be left there for me.

he once said, “i won’t let a moment pass where you can’t reach for something to eat,” and it was true. a candy bowl mysteriously appeared on the coffee table one day, each time i reached the bottom it’d be refilled. the mini fridge side table was “cute and functional,” he reasoned, as he showed me where the sodas and premade shakes were going. i’d thank him, a soft kiss and several grateful expressions, before admitting that i was relieved at having one less trip to the kitchen now when i was settled in.

and he’d just smile. enabling a cow like me is easy, he just has to set the food out. i know what to do.

[maladaptive-ninja-returns]

Warm and Cozy

Nanami Kento x F!Reader

Summary: Nanami Kento did not show up at Shoko's Infirmary after a mission for his usual checkup so she sent you to his place to check up on him.

Warnings: Smut. 18+ I am not responsible for any underaged baby reading this. Wrap that willy before doing the silly.

Word Count: Your girl got horny.

MASTERLIST in bio, darlings. Tags are open (check bio)

"Since when did you start doing house calls?"

"Since you stopped taking Shoko Senpai's calls and returned home instead."

Kento Nanami is still dressed in his blue shirt and tan blazer, holding the door with his hand and looking at you with zero emotions.

You can see the wretched dotted tie lying at the small dinner table behind him along with his glasses, not knowing why their site bothers you so much.

Nanami's free hand goes to his face to rub the incoming tiredness in his eyes. "Y/L/N, I'm fine. You should go back-"

"I've been threatened by senpai to heal you back to proper health or she'll fire me. So, if you don't mind, Nanami, I'd like to keep the job I finally love. Also, you are reeking of curses right now," you wring your nose in the end.

His brown eyes look at the resolution in your figure at his door before looking at the night sky behind you. He notices a moment in the corridor outside, his brows furrowing in some calculated thought.

The hand holding the door turns enough for Nanami to look at the time. And while he is contemplating something in his head, you cannot resist observing the six-foot-tall man; looking so different from what he was when you first met him.

He definitely worked out, your inner voice purrs inside your head, making you clench your office bag to resist any more stray thoughts.

"You are not going back alone at this time anyway," he murmured under his breath and stepped to the side.

"Oh!" you scoff, "I am pretty sure I can navigate my way around Tokyo at night just fine, sir. Or did you forget the time I-"

Nanami's senses are focused on the figure clad in a black hoodie coming from the other end of the corridor. The figure reached for something in the pocket of his hoodie and Nanami is quick to grab you by your arm- in the gentlest of way possible- and pull your surprised frame inside his humble abode.

You walk into the apartment and let your lungs inconspicuously breathe in the scent of Kento Nanami's safe space. And just as you expect, it smells of vanilla and beeswax.

Maybe it's the soap he uses?

The apartment is spotless. Everything has its place. Maybe the only thing out of place is you.

The entrance has you open to a cozy beige-clad living room. Walking a little further, you are standing in his open kitchen next to the kitchen island and looking at the table next to you where his tie and glasses lie.

Right opposite the kitchen is a space separated by a wooden structure made of hollow rectangular blocks housing plants, books on anatomy and humans, and a single empty space right in the middle.

The bed beyond that is covered in a grey duvet, astonishingly wrinkle-free.

Too clean, your nose wrinkles, it should have some-

Now what would make a bed that neat wrinkled and dirty, your inner voice whispers in your ear, spiking up your heartbeat.

"Would you like some tea?"

You jump at Nanami's voice, turning around towards the kitchen.

The man is already rolling his sleeves up and putting a kettle on.

"Yes, please," you plead softly, walking towards the kitchen island, and picking up his tie on the way.

"Did you meet the new kid yet?" you ask him as your hands and eyes get busy with the tie, wrapping it around your neck to try your hand at the few knots you learned in school.

Nanami opens up a drawer to take out two mugs- one purple and one grey- before turning towards the island.

There is this tiny second of a moment when he pauses to look at your fingers busy with the fabric that is practically a part of him. But he is quick to regain his usually stoic momentum even though his eyes keep going back to how carefully your fingers are running over his tie.

"Gojo's kid?"

You break into a chuckle, your eyes closing in the tiny flash of elation, never seeing how Nanami's eyes follow the moment of your head as it dips back and then tilts sideways.

"Well, you're not wrong in a way. His name is Yuuji. Yuuji Itadori. He's a really cute kid." You have finally made a passable knot and are trying to pass the other end through. "I was assigned to check him up yesterday and that boy made me laugh the entire time."

Nanami is just standing there with his arms folded when a whistle starts to form at the mouth of the kettle.

"And he is so pure, Nanami! He let me explain to him the culture samples in Senpai's lab and he looked at every single one of them with the same excitement as he did the first one."

The whistle goes harder on that kettle.

A fresh pack of Hojicha tea is opened. Nanami's rugged hands are careful with the bits they pick up to sprinkle in the earthen pot waiting for the brew time before the boiling water goes in.

"Oh, I love him! He's so precious." you declare in excitement.

You do not notice when Nanami comes to stand in front of you. You notice his hands first; when they come to take over the tie from your hands.

"I haven't washed it yet. It might still have some curse blood on it," Nanami slowly announces before delicately pulling the tie up your head.

"Oh...right. My bad."

Moving the tie away from your head, his hand unconsciously comes back to undo the mess he made in your hair, making you pause a breath.

Stop, you tell your insides, trying to shake away the gentle gestures as something more.

.

Your tools are neatly arranged on the dinner table. Nanami sits on a chair.

"See? Nothing to worry about," he declares in his usual nonchalant way as you are done examining his head and arms.

"Not so fast, love. I still have to scrutinise the rest of you," you warn him sweetly while you rub your palms together and walk behind the chair.

Nanami's head tilts a little in your direction.

"Okay....love."

Your hands freeze behind him. The word vibrates inside you with his voice.

Oh fu---haaa----Focus!

"I need to run the energy down your spine." You try your best to sound composed.

He undoes the first two buttons on his shirt and lifts away the collar, exposing his neck and shoulders to you.

"Tell me if it gets uncomfortable at any point," you announce softly before gently putting your hands on the back of his neck to observe for any anomalies.

What you don't get to see is the rugged hands of the Grade 1 sorcerer curling up into a fist at the first touch of your fingers on his exposed skin, or the goosebumps on his arms and back as your fingers do a little stroke at the nape to guide the energy down his spine.

"Oh, this is not good," you state, stepping away from him to look for something inside your bag.

"What?" Nanami almost blurts out, not really sure what the question was for- the 'not good' part or your hands- that seemed to bring him some much-needed relief- not touching him anymore.

Taking out a small maroon spherical crystal from your bag, you look Nanami straight in the eyes. "Take off your clothes. We're getting in the shower."

.

The shower head is fixed back into place by your fingers. "There," you exhale and come down from the stool to give one final look of satisfaction at your work.

Nanami is standing at his bathroom door, leaning on the doorframe, observing you. You are out of your overcoat, exposing your usual colourful self in a sweater, a skirt and skinny tights. This is the first time he has seen you wear a sweater in blue. It suits you, he thinks to himself, though it irks him to imagine if it ran up your waist like it is doing now- when you are adjusting the angle of the shower- when you travelled all the way from Jujutsu High to his place and if anyone else dared to see you like this.

"I've fixed the disinfectant in your shower head. Now just stand under the running water for about a minute or so and I'll take out the curse sample."

Nanami looks at the shower head and then at you. "How lethal is the infection?"

"Oh," you shake your head, "not lethal if we do this right now. Lethal if you let it sit overnight. I am going to take the sample back to Shoko Senpai for culture study and antidotes. It'll wash away in no time, don't worry about it."

"I'm not worried for me," he mumbles.

"Hm?" you furrow your brows in confusion, which melts away at the speed of light when the man unbuttons his shirt, taking it off and neatly stacking it in the laundry basket next to the sink.

It takes you some time to let the beauty of Kento Nanami's body seep into your mind. It also takes one long inhale to realise that Blazer had been hiding a sculpted Renaissance art underneath it.

But your brain goes to hell when he takes off his trousers and stands there in his black boxers, revealing some incredibly toned legs.

Oh, mother of curses!

Embarrassed for looking at him with budding sinful thoughts, you turn around in the shower temple to smack your head into the towel rack.

Cursing under your breath, you walk out of the tiny space with your gaze on the ground. "The infection is on your left shoulder blade...o-on the back."

"How bad is it?" Nanami tries to take a look at it in the wall-length mirror on the sink.

"I've handled worse. It's okay, you can trust me, Nanami." you shrug at his reflection in the mirror with a smile.

"I do, Y/L/N-" Nanami takes off his watch and places it beside the sink, leaving that sentence hanging, leaving you blinking at your own reflection for a moment.

Nanami steps into the shower temple, turning on the shower and letting his left arm and shoulder soak in the cold wetness of the water.

Soon enough the infection starts to wriggle and make screeching sounds as the energy in the water starts killing it.

Grabbing the container from your sample kit you step into the space. "I'm taking a sample now."

A few mud-coloured droplets that are still screeching are caught in the container while the rest of them are washed away in the water and down the drain, leaving Nanami's body healed to its original perfection.

"Feel better?"

Nanami does feel better. He can feel all the tiredness leaving his body with the water. He turns around to tell you the same.

You are looking at the container and about to walk out of the shower temple. "Let's get you back to the lab to Senp-"

Your words get stuck in your throat when your foot slips on the wet tile and your hands are grabbing at the air to break your fall.

The air does not break your fall. But Nanami does. His one hand is quick to cushion your head from hitting the wall while his other hand grabs your waist and pulls you to himself. Fearing not to make you fall for a second time, he backs into the wall behind him for support, bringing you both under the shower.

The container falls on the tiled floor as your hands grab onto his shoulders for support and your heart tries to get accustomed to the fear of the fall.

Neither of you move for a moment. Neither of you wants to in fear of doing something the other might now like in such close proximity to each other.

Close proximity? You both are grabbing onto each other as if your lives depend on it.

"Y/N? You okay?" Nanami finally whispers when he does not feel you move for a long while.

"Yes," you breathe, moving your face away from his shoulders- which are welcoming and hot- and facing him. "Sorry. I slipped."

Before Nanami can point out the futility of an apology that is not your fault, you smile and move your hands through his hair. "Aw shucks! I ruined your hair. It's wet now."

That does it for Kento Nanami. That one brush of your fingers in his hair reverberates through his whole body.

"Stop, Y/N," he refrains from growling.

Your hand immediately retreats from his head, pausing in the air and wondering with lost eyes if you did something wrong.

Ah, shit. He doesn't like his hair messed with.

"Stop giving me wrong ideas," he whispers, turning off the shower with his free hand.

"Wrong...what?" your voice barely rises above a whisper.

"Stop it."

"Stop what?" You try to wriggle out of his hold, a little hurt at the assumptions you are making in your head. "I'm sorry for messing your hair."

"My hair isn't the only thing you are messing with."

You scoff, feeling offended. "I'll fix it, okay! Your hair and whatever else I messed with."

Nanami runs his hands through his hair and you have to gulp back some things that rather not come to your lips.

"Are you sure, Y/N?" Nanami looks you in your eyes with a stare you have not seen him with. And you don't want to curl up or back down, so you match his gaze with yours.

"One hundred per cent."

"So, would you be okay if I kissed you?"

The question catches you off guard. But not in the way it is supposed to. "Why would I not be okay?" you scoff. Only after you have given the answer does your brain realise what the question was.

Nanami does not waste time. His lips are on yours within seconds. His arm wraps itself around your waist to bring you closer to him.

Your hands do not know what to do at that sudden kiss. It is when Nanami draws himself away to look at you do they find themselves caressing the dip of his jaw and welcoming him back for another kiss.

Your tongue licks his lips, inviting him. Nanami lets his tongue dance with yours, bringing out a guttering moan from your throat; a moan that heats up something inside the sorcerer forcing him to lift you up by your thighs, making you wrap your legs around his waist as he carries you out of the bathroom to his bedroom.

He is careful when putting you down on his bed.

Oh! The grey duvet.

But that duvet is the least of your concerns right now when the six-foot-tall man stands at the edge of his bed wiping the water off his face, breathing a little heavily and looking at you with...what was that emotion in his eyes?

"Tell me to stop if you don't want to..." he whispers.

"Don't," your voice cracks. You can visibly see him pause his breath for a second. "Don't stop."

The dim lighting in his bedroom is perfect for watching him as his shoulders relax.

He gets on the bed, one leg at a time, dipping the sheets around you with his weight, crawling to catch your lips with his.

Your hands are nervously working on your sweater's buttons under him. He moves away to help you with it, forcing out a tiny wince from you; getting a low chuckle out of him.

Your skirt's zipper is stuck, not budging when it should be sliding down like a seal on an iceberg. Nanami is being as gentle as possible with it but it's all going in vain.

That's when you feel him dig his fingers in over the edges of the fabric near the zipper, your skin heating up where his fingers are in contact with you.

"Y/N-" he looks up at you with embers of unflinching will in his brown eyes, "let me buy you another skirt tomorrow."

The sound of the rip registers after the fabric comes apart in your brain because your eyes are too busy studying how his shoulders tense up just to get you out of your clothes.

The tights are next. But they are taken off with the most delicate touch by the sorcerer. So is the underwear.

He starts by planting kisses on your thighs, moving slowly to the inside while making your nerves light up at every touch. And if that is not enough, his hands tease and massage them to relax you every time you tense up.

He inhales the smell of your core as if he is breathing in the fresh waterfalls in the forest, and then sits back up. Lifting you up by your waist, he rolls to the other side of the bed with him at the bottom and you at the top. He adjusts your thighs on either side of his waist before dragging you further up his torso.

You watch in confusion as he takes the support of the head of his bed and slides further down.

"Sit on me," he announces.

"....what?"

"Sit on my face," he does not stutter.

But you do. "N-Nanami."

He simply lifts your thighs up and brings your core closer to his face.

Do I weigh anything to you?

His hands push your thighs apart, letting him get better access to you. You are not putting your weight down and taking the support of the headboard instead, worried about suffocating him.

But the first flick of his tongue on your clit makes you jump up.

Nanami is quick to anchor your thighs with his hands, forcing you to put all your weight on him. He starts what seems like an incantation being written with his tongue inside you.

Sucking and licking, flicking and teasing, he is your very own roller coaster of pleasure tonight, making you writhe with pleasure under his touch.

And lo...you can feel the wetness gather around your walls.

"Nanami-" you are trying your best to breathe right- "I'm gonna-Nanami. Wait. I'm gonna pee. Ah!"

This man keeps touching all the right nerves again. And again. And again.

You are being driven to the edge. "Nanami stop!"

And he stops for a minuscule second, giving you a window to lift yourself up and flop on your back next to him, trying to bring your lungs back to normal.

"Did it hurt?"

Nanami's hand comes to move the stray strands of your hair away from your face glowing with sweat under the dim bedroom light.

He is looking over you, half up on his arm while his other hand is caressing your face. "Y/N, did it hurt?"

You shake your head. "No. No, I just felt I was about to pee and I didn't want...to do it...over you."

You can see his lips glisten with your juices. He closes his eyes and licks his lips before rolling to the other side, sitting up at the edge and eventually getting up.

The light coming from the bathroom perfectly draws out the cuts of the tensed muscles all over his body while his back is still towards you.

Wait...is it over?

You can see him curl his hands into fists before releasing them and finally walking the length of his bed to come to your side.

You rise up on your elbows.

It's over, isn't it? Your inner voice is smacking you left and right, blaming you for stopping the pleasure harp of a lifetime just as it was about to reach its crescendo.

He goes for the chest next to his bed, opens the top drawer and takes out a small packet that glistens under the scarce light.

"Next time-" he removes his shorts, freeing his already hard length, and gets up on the edge of the bed in front of you- "when you are on top of me-" he tears the packet with his teeth and takes out a condom, pumping his length with his free hand- "I have already played out the probabilities of me suffocating in between your thighs-" he puts the condom on his length and then rests his arms on your raised knees, finally looking into your eyes with a passion you have not seen in him before.

"Next time-" he bends a bit forward to lean in for a kiss and undo the hook of your bra- "waterboard me."

Your bra is on the floor. His hands cup your breasts perfectly, massaging them as his kisses grow intense with every passing second. Then he moves onto your neck, biting it in places before licking the heat away.

Parting from you, he takes one pillow and places it under your head, another between you and the headboard and the last one under your lower back.

Letting his cock gather the juices on your edges, he looks at you while taking his time to enter you.

Both of you feel your breaths cemented in your throats letting you get accustomed to each other. He leans closer to you, planting a kiss on one of your cheeks while caressing the other with his hand. "You okay?"

You nod, feeling your walls adapt to his length.

Nanami drives out before slowly driving himself back in, giving you time to adjust to the pace. Once he knows you are comfortable, he lifts up your legs in the air and brings them to rest on his shoulders.

This time when he drives himself into you, you can feel your core light up with a different brand of intensity, leaving you to gasp for air and letting a moan slip from your throat.

Nanami smirks to himself and plants a kiss on your ankle. He has found your spot. He increases the pace a bit, loving every second of your view; as your breasts bounce to his rhythm, as you try to hold onto his duvet and his pillow, as your eyes close and your head dips back when you feel the pleasure spots light up and your moans get louder. He is loving every moment of you because you are his pleasure.

"K-Kento!"

His name from your mouth feels like a prayer, making his core shudder.

"Yes, love," he sputters between his strokes.

"I'm-ah-"

You don't get to finish your sentence.

He can feel your walls tighten around his cock, undoing his restraints and making him grunt.

He fastens his pace, the squelching and clapping of your bodies growing wilder. Taking both your legs in the hold of one arm, he lets his other hand go down to your core. His fingers find your clit and rub it to let you have your release as he starts feeling his length swell up.

Soon enough, the damn you feel rising up breaks, leaving you with shuddering legs.

Nanami elongates your orgasm as he feels his length at the edge of the eruption. Soon enough, he finds his high with one guttering growl leaving his lungs.

Sweaty and breathless, the both of you.

Nanami is spent; lying on top of you.

You run your hands through his hair as he rests his head on the nape of your neck to catch his breath.

Getting up on his arms, he looks at you with concern. "Are you okay?"

You can't help but smile as the edge of your eyes water up. Cupping his face in your hands, you bring him closer for a kiss.

Nanami carefully gets his length out of you before going straight for the bathroom. You hear the tap run for a few seconds before he comes out with a wet towel to clean you up.

The condom is disposed and you are directed into the bathroom to take a shower. Nanami joins you a few minutes later, planting soft kisses on your back.

Layered up in his oversized black t-shirt and grey shorts, you come out to find the grey sheets gone and a purple duvet waiting to greet you.

Just as you are looking at the new sheets, a needle of anxiety pricks you in your chest.

Do I stay? Do I dress up and walk out? Is...this...was this a one-night...

The thought makes your heart sink.

"Get in," Nanami orders you as he comes out of the door in a white t-shirt and grey shorts, raising the duvet from the edge for you.

The sinking heart rises up a little from the depths of darkness.

You get under the sheets and watch as he moves- first to the edge of the bed to keep something in the empty partition cubicle, and then- to the other side, switches off the lights and gets under the sheets.

You slide down the sheets while your heart rises a bit further.

You feel his arm looking for you under the sheets, finding your waist and pulling you closer to him.

He extends his arm to let you rest your head on it.

The light from the city outside is enough for him to watch your face glow and your eyes search for something in his. He moves your hair away from your face and caresses your cheeks.

"Nanami?" you whisper, still not taking your eyes off him.

"Hm?"

"Do you...like me?"

Silence.

The calm of the apartment is broken by Nanami's chuckle.

"Oh. Y/N-" the depth of his voice reverberates through his home as he exhales your name still titillates your core- "what will I do with you?!"

The maroon crystal rests on the once-empty space in the partition in Nanami Kento's home.

[dwtdog]

My work for Project: End Poem :D

i like this player / it played well / it did not give up

I like this player.

Dream’s shitty apartment is too small for pacing, but he does it anyway. Back and forth and back and forth over and over, the sounds of his footsteps drowned out by the buzz of his thoughts.

He’s felt out of balance for a while now- ever since he uploaded that first video. Before (before before before) everything was planning and studying and notes and calls with anyone he could get to agree to it. And then it had become filming and editing and that eternal moment before he pushed the button that would make the video public. A beginning. And an ending, of the before. 

Planning had felt real. He could scroll through the words upon words stored in documents, or even rifle through the notebook he kept on his desk, the pages soft and well-used in his hands, his writing jumbled and messy. But the numbers now- they feel like a dream, almost fittingly. Climbing impossibly higher every time he checks, far surpassing any expectation he’d had. 

But they can’t be real, because he can’t pay his rent this month.

His savings have run dry, exactly in the amount of time he’d predicted they would. It had been more than enough time. But he can’t pay rent.

His parent's words echo in his head- if you do this, you won’t be moving back in with us. That had certainly lit a fire under his ass- prove them wrong, prove everyone wrong. But the time is ticking down, and he can’t pay rent.

Oh, sure, the money’s on the way. His first check from YouTube, delayed by paperwork, is more than enough to cover this month’s and the next. But it’s not here. And the numbers keep going up, but Dream’s life is the same. Same shitty apartment, same 24 hours in a day.

His laptop sits open on his bed, and he’s doing his best to avoid looking at it. The looping screensaver plays on repeat, catching in the corner of his eye when he passes it, and he has half a mind to close the damn thing, end its taunting. Oh, you thought you could make something of yourself online? Think again. 

He freezes in the middle of the room so abruptly that he nearly falls forward with the momentum of it. 

And before he can talk himself out of it, he scoops the laptop up and enters his password, starting a Teamspeak call before all but running to his desk to grab headphones and returning to sit on his bed with the laptop balanced on his thighs, the call initiating. 

This is a familiar action- late night (early morning?) calls with friends. Dream has never been shy about asking his friends for input on ideas, or thoughts of their own, especially his friends who are well-established in the field he wants to play. It's them he has to thank for a large part of his motivation. And it's them he calls on now, when his mind spells doom and his circumstances feel suffocating.

“Dream?” a voice asks, marred by digital interference but comforting all the same.

Dream smiles at the screen. “Bad,” he says. “I might need your help.”

“New video idea?” Bad asks, and the quality of the call seems to settle, Bad’s voice far clearer. He yawns, and Dream makes a point of not looking at the time. 

“Not quite,” Dream mumbles.

“What was that?”

“It’s not a video idea. Or anything similar,” he swallows. As confident as Dream is in his friends, money is a different matter. Can ruin lives, friendships, and especially new YouTube channels if one isn’t careful.

Bad hums reassuringly. “Whatever it is, you can ask. I can’t guarantee that I can help but it never hurts to ask.”

“You’re so wise Bad,” Dream jokes. “And old.” He feels himself relaxing, and in tandem, his mind clears. 

“Aren’t you asking for my help? I could leave right now.”

“No, no! I’m sorry, You’re not old,” Dream says quickly, adding not that old to himself. 

“That’s what I thought,” Bad says smugly, and Dream can hear his chair squeaking and imagines him leaning back in it with his arms crossed, although, strangely, his minds eye seems to envision Bad as a the shape of a person with his Minecraft character overlaid, rather than the very real person Dream knows Bad to be, and has seen on video. He’s been spending too much time inside- it’d be good to get out once the rent issue is solved.

“Well,” Dream starts. “I told you about my problems getting money from YouTube, right?” 

“You did.”

Dream sighs, thinking of all the trouble it’d been so far just to get the first check. “Well, it’s still not here. And my rent is due in a few days, and if it doesn’t get here in time I’m- I’m out of luck. And money.”

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner? Dream, you muffinhead, how much do you need?”

And Dream giggles, the small smile on his face growing impossibly bigger as he tells Bad the amount, and as they go back and forth on whether Bad should just send the money right away (Dream argues that there’s still a chance the money could come in time, while Bad says he might as well just send it now- just in case).

In the end, they hang up the call a half hour later, Dream’s worries assuaged and with a promise to Bad that he’d tell him immediately if he’ll need the money.

And when Dream wakes up the next day to a check from YouTube deposited in his account, it’s not just Bad who joins a call to celebrate with him- George and Sapnap are there too, and finally, finally, everything feels real.

It played well

“That was perfect!” his instructor says, and Dream smiles before slouching against the wall, entirely out of breath.

No one ever told him dancing would be so hard.

Well, some had. His instructor, the nice lady who now hands him a water bottle and tells him to take a small break, had warned him plenty. But he’d foolishly thought she was only saying it as a courtesy, so he’d have an excuse if he struggled- and boy, did he. 

Maybe it was a consequence of being locked inside for years, or maybe it was just his natural affinity for clumsiness. 

Either way, he’d been preparing for his concert for a few weeks now, and it feels like he’s hardly improved. Between vocal coaching and dance lessons- ‘choreography’ he insists when George and Sapnap tease- it had been nonstop learning and working in LA. Away from his cat, and his house, and his friends. And content. 

But the smile doesn’t fade from his face even as he finishes off the water and steps away from the wall to stretch, arms over his head and legs extended until he’s balancing on his toes. And the burn of his muscles is so good. 

A physical reminder of his work, his improvement. Sure, he’s still not the best, but he’s gotten better. And his future spells more lessons, more growth, until finally, finally-

He steps on the stage in a mask.

Orlando. Home. Lights and screaming and music, counting down and counting in. And he’s more nervous than he’s ever been, because finally, finally, finally, the numbers are real.

It did not give up.

Code is swimming in front of Dream’s eyes like a school of fish, and his head is aching something dreadful, but he refuses to look away from his monitor.

He doesn’t know what the time is- sure that if he did check, he’d have some sort of crisis. Every other member of his (albeit small) team went to sleep hours ago, the project left in lines of unfinished code and an increasingly bizarre contraption sprouting from the gym floor.

But Dream, better than anyone, knows how close they are. 

Testing earlier had gone well- messing with particle mechanics and getting the shape so, so close. But something in the actual imaging kept going wrong, so they’d called it for the day. 

And Dream had tried to sleep, really. But every moment lying in bed felt like time he could be using to work, and sleep was elusive. So he’d ended up back at his computer. Alone in the dead of night.

The world fades away around him as he works, until he falls asleep at his desk- keyboard an unfortunate pillow. He wakes with the letters imprinted on his cheeks, and code he doesn’t remember writing. But it looks good. It looks complete and promising and so full of potential that Dream is out of his chair and heading across the house to the gym before the indents of his keycaps have faded from his skin.

George is in the kitchen.

“Dream?” he asks, setting a yogurt cup down. “You’re up early.”

A glance at the clock on the oven tells Dream it’s nearly three in the afternoon. “I want to try something,” he says. “You wanna come with?”

George nods, following him out of the house and to the gym, yawning several times as they go. 

“You’ve got something on your face by the way,” George giggles, but it quickly turns to a frown. “Did you sleep at your desk?”

“I didn’t mean to,” Dream grumbles, pushing the door to the gym open and flicking the lights on. George snorts.

They’re quiet as Dream fiddles with the mess of a contraption in the middle of the room. He’s careful with it, always so careful, and George watches from the sides. When everything is in place, Dream’s hands are shaking with excitement. There’s something in the air that tastes like success.

“Do you want to go in?” he asks, gesturing between the machine and George. George shrugs, then nods, careful as he ducks into the contraption. “Okay just- I think it’s going to work.”

“Really?” George asks, and for as much as he teases Dream about deadlines, for as often as Dream is wrong, it sounds like he believes it too.

Dream can’t speak in the moment, so he just nods.

They’ve got a PC set up in the gym, and he turns to it, loading into the server they use for all testing of FUSION. He’s alone in the world, for the moment, the rig George stands in waiting to be called on by a command.

Dream types it in, having to go back and re-enter the letters several times with his hands still unsteady. And when everything is ready, he pauses before hitting enter, looking up to meet George’s eyes.

“Ready?” he asks.

“Ready.” George responds, bouncing on his feet. “What do I say? Hello world?”

“You’re so dumb,” Dream snorts. He doesn’t look away from George as he presses the final key, watching the flickering lights of the machinery, scared to look at the screen and see if he’s done it. 

“Stop being an idiot.” George says after a beat, waving his arms and looking pointedly at the monitor. 

Dream takes a breath, releases it. Turns his head.

And there it is.

George, in stunning resolution for being projected into fucking Minecraft, waving at him.

He looks between the two. Looks again. 

“Holy shit,” he breathes. “We did it.”

[izvmimi]

All Roads Lead to Love? - Chapter II

cw: canon-typical violence. quirk use. oc characters are introduced. reader has a described quirk. Please see additional masterlist warnings! Masterlist

The remainder of the week passes without consequence. This new information about your life doesn’t change anything, because even if you can see the same man on every news channel, you have nothing to discuss and your lives don’t overlap. 

Sitting by a couple of teenage girls at a train station and hearing them speculate about Uravity and Deku on your way to work the next day adds particularly to this sentiment. Their longstanding will they won’t they is only part of the reason why you’ve never made your feelings known. Uravity is perfect for him in every way, after all. You just wish they would hurry up and go public, hopefully even get married, so you can stop addressing the niggling feeling that perhaps, just perhaps, all these years you’ve made a mistake.

When you find your way into the clinic, Junko is wide-eyed and excited to hear everything you learned overnight, and you conveniently leave the part where in at least five universes except yours, not only are you not single, you’re romantically involved with Mr. Number One Pro Hero Deku himself. 

“Who knocked the first one up? I have to know.”

You eye the Deku bobblehead on her work desk you’d desensitized yourself to, and shrug, pretending you don’t know.

“Any add-ons today?” you ask instead, and disappear into the back room before she can ask you more questions. At least you know what you’d look like if you were pregnant.

—

Sorry I can’t make it tonight. Please let me know if you or Iida need anything.

Izuku’s voice to speech has a tendency to make him sound excessively formal, but it’s better than typing in a hurry and having to correct ten individual typos, cursed by clumsy, large hands. He’s rushing to the third out of five meetings today - the unwelcome side effect of being One to Watch (although he wonders at one point he’s simply There given how long it’s been) - and then he’s set for a patrol in a particularly dangerous neighborhood for the evening. He wishes he could trade it, but considering the point of the patrol was less to fight a specific enemy but to show a strong Hero presence, specifically his presence, he’s aware that it must be him.

Ochaco will understand. After all, he’s been with Ochaco at Iida’s bedside most days this week in the evenings given a recent injury, and even if Ochaco won’t say it, perhaps the two do need some time alone. They’d both been reluctant to reveal their affections for each other, given Ochaco’s history with him, but a part of Izuku’s soul understands that this arrangement was probably for the better anyway. While he loved Ochaco dearly, he’d always had the sense something was wrong about them, like momentum having him hurtling in the wrong direction. But there’s not much you can do when one of your best friends proclaims their love for you where everyone can see, and you’re just a high schooler with the weight of the world on your shoulders and then some, and there’s even less you can do when the person you’d long hoped would return your feelings seemed to be preoccupied with someone else.

Either way, years have passed and there are no hard feelings between the trio of friends, and Izuku particularly has simmered down on the prospect of love. 

Somewhat. 

Just minutes later, a reporter asks him for the third time this month if he and Uravity have considered working as a pair, and he smiles and nods before politely redirecting the question to praising her talent profusely. He understands easily why she’s reluctant to go public with Iida, and wishes desperately he wasn’t in her way.

Perhaps in another universe, if they had ended up loving each other, this aspect of the job would be easier - the media circus would have died out by now; they’d both be able to focus on doing what they chose to do with their lives, which is be Heroes and help as many people as possible.

They’d be able to live quietly.

The reporter then asks if he’s still in contact with most of the people he went to school with. This question takes him aback, and he blinks for a moment as he watches the young woman before him resettle in her seat, eyes hungry for information.

He runs through the list of everyone he’s known. He’s 28 now, and it’s been a decade since he’s graduated from high school. Most of the people he’s known he interfaces with on at least a weekly to monthly basis, save for a select few like Shoto, Katsuki, Iida and Ochaco that he sees almost daily. He admits he hasn’t seen Koda in a while, now that he lives in the forest similar to the Wild Wild Pussycats, nor Jirou who dedicated more of her life to music these days, and then his thoughts settle on you.

He knows what you’re up to, but he hasn’t spoken to you in over a year, despite remembering your last conversation at UA’s 10 year reunion. Brief - you were already slightly tipsy, and you smiled at him, but seemed disinterested in whatever he had to say, almost like you wanted to leave as soon as possible. He’d asked you how your clinic was going, and you’d laughed, the warmth of alcohol deepening the complexion in your cheeks, and said noncommittally, “it’s going,” before turning back to your friends. You’d once been so excited to tell him every thought running through your head, and you’d bounce off ideas for hours, discussing everything from Quirks to biology to society to your hopes and dreams, and after just a few years apart, he received next to nothing.

Leave her alone, Midoriya, is all that ran through his head, after that, and he politely bowed and left. 

“Yes, we all help each other out when needed!” he replies. It isn’t a lie. For every one of his classmates, even you. If you called him, he would come to your rescue. Anytime.

When the interview ends, he wishes for a moment that he had the courage to call. 

—

The last person you could have expected to call you, calls you on a Thursday afternoon, as you make your way out of work, and from his voice, you can tell he’s surprised you actually sought to answer the phone. 

“I… uh… wow. Hey.”

“Hey.”

Your cheeks warm, but it’s not love, it’s the nostalgia of several years coming back, and the fact that your high school boyfriend seems flustered to speak to you despite years of lost contact.

“You never changed your number,” Akira says, and you laugh. You can envision him easily, after all social media makes it such that no one truly becomes a stranger, and you know that he’s crinkled he has the same goofy smile on his face that helped you forget all that you’d been through in the Hero course, reminded you that there was more to life than self-sacrifice.

“You didn’t change yours,” you’re quick to reply.

“Touché.”

You can tell he’s grinning now, and it makes your heart light. You’re walking towards the train station and it’s a spring afternoon; you can see lovers hold hands as they walk past you, and you can’t remember the last time you’ve been on a date. 

And as if he knows how you feel, he asks you on one.

“The truth is you’ve been on my mind a lot recently.”

“Are you newly single?” you ask. It’s meant to be a playful jab, but you can tell he’s stung when he replies, “Newly isn’t the word for it, but yes, I am single.”

You blow air through your nose, but Akira is harmless. He makes his way around women easily with a silly sort of charm, and being easy on the eyes, but he’s not the type to break a woman’s heart. If anything, you were the one who broke his by ending things when you decided to focus on graduate school.

“Remember how I really liked enka?” 

Evenings in the dorm rooms laid side by side with shared headphones come to mind. 

“Yeah. Are you famous now?” you tease. He tuts at you, but adds,

“Come to my open mic night on Friday. I’ll buy you sashimi afterwards and we can go drinking.”

You think for a moment that in 5 separate universes, you’re in love with Izuku and maybe you should figure out what that’s about, but in this one, Izuku is nowhere to be found and perhaps it’s more important for you to hear your ex-boyfriend belt ballads and loosen up over sake and sake don.

You think for a moment, and then say, “Sure.”

—

There’s probably a social crime involved in inviting your friends to a date, and you can tell Akira’s a bit annoyed about it from the slight scrunch of his eyebrows when he watches you walk into the bar with two of your closest friends flanking your sides. He’s at the front already, and waves at you enthusiastically, and he’s every bit the cute boy from the support class who helped you with your pageant routine (you didn’t win that year, but you placed thanks to him), just sharper in the face, and with longer wavy dark hair.

You wave back, and your friends push you to the front and take their seats in the back. They’d also both gone to UA, and one was in the hero class with you, while the other was a year ahead, in the support class, and recognizes Akira, even if she hadn’t particularly approved of him in the past. She hadn’t exactly disliked him, but you could tell she was less warm when it came to him. Your other friend doesn’t seem to recognize him immediately, turning immediately to order the two of you drinks.

You slip into the open seat beside Akira and he offers you a drink and a rose. It’s cheesy but it makes you smile.

“I’m going to wow you, just so you know,” he promises as he makes his way on stage. You raise your eyebrow, as if to say ‘prove it’ while he skips onto the stage.

And he’s a hit, all flashing teeth and low notes, and you can feel your face warm every time he sings in your direction. He’s always had a beautiful voice, and easily flustered, you look down at your drink, heart thumping. 

And then, in a stroke of misfortune (to you), he slips your name into the song, and when you look up at him, he’s reaching a hand out towards you, bidding you to come on stage.

The very idea feels like hell to you. The rest of the bar’s patrons watch you and cheer and you glance at your friends, both of whom are waving their hands to push you on stage. When you look back at Akira, he’s still smiling, but you can feel the tinge of anxiety at the idea of you rejecting him in public. You wouldn’t, would you?

You can’t.

You slowly rise to take his hand, as people clap around you, but before you can take another step, before you can embarrass yourself in front of a room full of people, there’s a deafening sound that comes from your right side that practically stuns you, and shortly after, a forceful blast of air and shattered concrete follows and nearly knocks you off your feet.

The ringing of your ears mutes the abounding screams in the room. Your fortifying Quirk kicked in just in time, so you weren’t thrown that far, but bodies are strewn across the room. You don’t see Akira, and the right side of the room is practically cleared with tables and chairs tossed haphazardly and people scrambling for cover or already unconscious.

Adrenaline rushes through your veins, but you act first. You are a Hero after all, even if you’ve been out of the fray for years. A quick glance lets you know that your friends are already in action, trying to recover a few people thrown over the bar, and you attempt to push rubble off of you and start rescues.

Your Quirk activates again to fortify yourself as you begin to move, but a second, louder explosion occurs, one that does actually knock you off your feet, destroying part of the foundation of the building. The ceiling starts to cave in just above you - you’ve always had the best luck - and you’re too slow to move before it all comes crashing down.

You put yourself into a protective huddle, hopeful for your Quirk to minimize your damage, but never feel the pain of falling wreckage. 

“... Hi.”

Says Izuku Midoriya, hovering over you and shielding your body from harm with a piece of the ceiling held carefully in his hands. 

The love of your life in at least five universes and your current savior.

Your eyes meet and hold firmly.

“Hi, I-Izu.. Deku.”

Time seems to slow to a stop for a moment, then comes back up to pace when you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, your lungs suddenly burning in demand of oxygen. Izuku watches you carefully for a moment, really takes you in, even if you’re quick to thank him before looking around for someone else to save. You’re okay, just shaken; you’ve noticed him for a fleeting moment and now your attention is gone. You turn and scream your friend’s name, and he throws the large block of concrete to the side, remembering his job has only begun.

He’s happy he could do something for you, despite it all. There are more people to save, you remind him with your quick movements, the activation of your quirk to stabilize the first injured man’s bleeding as you crouch around him. He springs back into action - after all, he was meant to chase the culprits of those blasts, and can’t be sidetracked.

But this time, he has resolved to say more to you when the dust clears.

—

“Rampage, are you hurt? You did a good job back there.”

You can hear your Hero friend, code name Rampage, chat politely with Izuku as they both approach to where you’re huddled in a makeshift rehabilitation corner, a couple of people with the more severe injuries laid out on the ground, rolled up table cloths beneath their heads. No one is gravely injured more than you can heal with your Quirk, but you’ve exhausted enough of your body’s reserves that your head is starting to swim. She’s saying something playful about how Deku stole her thunder, when you turn to both of them and give a report, as Heroes are wont to do naturally.

When he comes over, you remind yourself to remain cordial but businesslike, despite your heart pounding hard in your chest. Nothing happened. Nothing changed. No clones or any lingering delusions can change that.

”I think we’ve accounted for everyone, right? These two -“ you gesture over to the people you’ve slightly sedated to reset a couple of broken limbs, “probably need to get to the hospital just so they have follow-up but it’s not urgent.”

Rampage nods, and Izuku pauses before doing the same. You remember now - the last time you interacted in this capacity was during the earliest parts of the war before things had gotten far out of your realm of ability and you were more helpful taking care of the sick and wounded. It feels like so long ago you’ve been active as a traditional Hero. Rampage on the other hand has kept in contact with Deku cursorily due to her familiarity with other Heroes of a similar level, particularly the noisy one named Dynamight, and while she and Deku are not exactly best friends, they get along well. He glances at her for reassurance before stepping forward to you.

“Thank you for helping out,” Izuku says with a reassuring smile. You try not to look at him when you reply, “Of course.”

In one universe, you have small children that look like some combination of the both of you. In this one, you can barely look each other in the eye.

There is a pause that lasts a little bit too long again, and you don’t notice the smile that forms on Rampage’s face as she steps backwards, hoping not to be noticed by either of you, but the moment dispels when Camilla, your Support friend, calls for all of your attention from across the destroyed hall. She looks absolutely ridiculous, enough that you stifle a laugh, with all manners of cutlery, jewelry, watches, phones, and anything metal, stuck to her from head to toe due to activation of her magnetic quirk.

”Anything you guys are missing?” She asks, stepping over rubble to meet you guys. You’re not sure how she can even see at this point with nearly every inch of her body covered. Close behind her is Akira, whose eyes widen once he spots you.

”You’re okay!” He exclaims running towards you. It’s almost theatrical, as if he hadn’t disappeared to preserve his own safety first, but he wraps you into a tight hug, as though you were long lost lovers. Next to you, Izuku stiffens for a split second, something Rampage and Camilla both notice, and Akira holds you at arms’ length, pretending he can’t see him.

Akira never liked Deku very much in high school.

”I’m so glad you’re okay, everything got so terrifying and…”

Your head is starting to pound, and Akira is gently pulling you away from the rest of the group, you notice, until Izuku speaks up.

”Hey, ___, you don’t look so good.” His voice is a little firmer, and he clears his throat. “Don’t move her so much, I think she needs to sit down.”

Akira flashes him a look that’s slightly poisonous, Camilla notices, then smiles to herself.

“Of course. I’ve just been agitated since our date got ruined, that’s all.” Akira stresses the word and Rampage rolls her eyes.

She never liked him either.

Izuku almost asks ‘what number?’ out loud then realizes it’s an insane question to ask of the thousands he could have reasonably asked. But he’s curious, you don’t seem like you’re particularly smitten enough by him as he tries to help lower you to a sitting position. 

The paramedics and other reinforcements are starting to fill in. Izuku keeps an eye on you as he coordinates with Rampage and the rest of the Heroes that now arrive to clean up wreckage and get everyone back in place. Akira’s rubbing your shoulders while you look dazed, too drained in the absence of your energy-conserving Hero suit to shrug him off, and it irks him. Somehow, in just seeing you again for this brief moment, he’s become a high schooler again, thinking of the right words to say, standing in front of your dorm room door before giving up and leaving. He’s seventeen again and watching you poorly conceal a bouquet of flowers he wishes he were the one to give you, avoiding cutting through the grass on the UA campus grounds even though it would get you back faster. He’s eighteen and wondering why even saving the world isn’t enough to make you look at him before you part ways into the adult world that opens before you, and admonishing himself for even having the selfish thought.

He’s shy little Izuku and he wishes you liked him back.

“Deku, do you have a moment to talk with us?” a cheery reporter says, thrusting a microphone in his face. They’re everywhere, he swears, prettier and more persistent every time. He’s polite again, flashing the practiced million-watt-smile.

And just like that he’s Deku, the hero once again.

—

Electrolyte water and rest does its magic, and as you make breakfast the next morning, you wonder if you should consider packing part of your suit with you, or at least perhaps just the gauntlets that you used back in high school. A modified version that is compact and can slip into your purse so that you never find yourself in a similar situation. You’re greeted the next morning by text by an apologetic Akira who promises you sushi another weekend, which you decide to reply to later, and texts from your friends who make sure that you’re okay, and an email notification for an incident report due in the next two weeks.

You sigh.

That’s why you don’t do Hero work.

Scooping eggs onto a slice of toast, you settle onto your couch, snuggling close with a body pillow and wishing your mind would stop racing for a moment. You don’t want to admit it, but all you can think about is Izuku and his stupid handsome face, and the way his mouth seemed to part every time you met each other's eyes, as if he has a million and one things to say to you but has to hold back. You wish he’d go make those cloying eyes at everyone lined up for his interest. There’s no real claim to him after all, at least not in this universe, regardless of what supposedly exists in the multiverse. You don’t even know if that’s real after all; it’s something that absolutely disrespects the laws of physics, but then again, you know many people whose Quirks do. Aizawa’s adopted daughter Eri is the first to come to mind. 

You should do some more research, you decide. 

After spending a couple hours on databases and online medical journals researching the existence of Quirks that can interact with the multiverse, you come up with nearly nothing, save for a case report of a person whose Quirk kept generating a wormhole for him that handed him whatever tool he needed (most often chopsticks for some reason). Groaning, you decide Kazuo is unique and either way you’ll see him again in 3 months, and reassess how he’s doing, possibly get a (better) case report out of it. You wonder if he’ll generate the same set of clones, or hopefully a new set of clones, ones who aren’t romantically entangled with Izuku Midoriya, ones more like you who never cared much for him at all, or at least knew, like you, to back off when they saw him standing on the edge of a cliff with the girl who was made for him.

Maybe if you look at the narratives your clones wrote to you, crumpled in a drawer in the corner of your desk, you’d find some flaws. Perhaps this was all a big trick the universe was playing on you, and feelings sitting in your subconscious, sleeping for practically a decade, are now flooding back with a vengeance. It must be the power of suggestion. You do not love him. You do not even particularly like or dislike him. You feel neutral. Neutral is good.

The narratives don’t help. What also doesn’t help is the fact that you’ve stored them in the same place as you keep all other sentimental material, including a diary you kept sparingly since you were a kid, in addition to letters from friends and family, and trinkets you’re afraid to lose. Curiosity has killed many cats and you, so you pore through it as well. Everything in that period of adolescence is amplified, and you went through war, so of course you remember a strong feeling of love that might not be real and should not be held on to.

The diary doesn’t help either. 

Of course, some entries are silly and whimsical like you’d expect from a young teen. Excerpts about friends, family, teachers that annoy you, celebrities you think are cute. You find remnants of an old crush on Suneater that must have been so short-lived you can’t remember it, and it surprises you. 

And then there’s your thoughts about Izuku, sparse but poignant. 

Oh yes, you were in love, and your entries end there. With war, with adulthood, with the life you have now.

[rhamrhanch]

Shepherd of Death, Don't Herd Me

Part Three: Water in the Desert

Rating: Mature

Pairing: Ramattra/Reader (gender-neutral pronouns)

Word Count: 3K

Warnings: canon-typical violence, hurt/comfort

Next Chapter // Masterlist

chapter under the cut ↓

---

The shadow of Ramattra’s cowl provided little respite from the Oasis sun.

His body was metal. It did not crisp and peel like wax under the sun's rays as the delicate skin of humans did. Still, he did not enjoy the heat. The radiating warmth forced his body to work twice as hard to maintain its temperature, and he was slightly more sluggish for it.

Ducking into a shaded alleyway, he pulled up a map of the area on his HUD. He was on his way to a rendezvous with Talon concerning the retrieval of his drowned ship. Enough time had passed since his attack on Gothenburg—he was eager to return to his work.

A loud blast suddenly shook the ground, dust falling from the brick walls of the alley. The map disappeared from his vision as he looked up. A plume of smoke billowed against the blue tarp of the sky, only a short distance from where he stood.

Curiosity drove him forward more than anything. As he walked closer to the scene of the explosion, a crowd of people began flooding into the alleyway. He felt something bump against him. It was a male human, young-looking. The momentum from the collision sent the boy flying, landing on his back on the ground.

"Hey! Watch where you're…" he trailed off, eyes slowly traveling up until they met the glowing red dots of the Ravager's face plate. Ramattra did not acknowledge his fear, his head turned in the direction of the smoke.

"Where did that come from?"

The young man's voice shook. "T-The un-university."

Ramattra nodded once, and the boy scrambled to his feet, his hurried footsteps echoing behind him. He began to walk against the sea of fleeing humans, who parted around him like water. It used to bother him, the way humans scurried out of his way wherever he went, but he had since grown to appreciate the convenience of it.

Soon, he found himself standing before the arching entrance of the university, its grandeur dampened by the debris littering the ground. Inside, it was as if time had frozen. Desks were left in a hurry, some with coffee cups still steaming. Whatever happened here was quite recent, possibly still ongoing.

A distant popping caught his attention. No matter how deep he smothered it, his programming would always recognize that sound—the sound of a firefight.

Ramattra walked briskly toward it, down a long corridor that led him to the central atrium of the university. There was a massive hole blown in the wall, through which he could see Talon troopers roaming, their guns raised. He slipped into the room next to the square, careful not to make any noise. Technically, Talon was his ally, but he felt no strong urge to help them right now. Their foot soldiers were woefully inept, and he was not in the mood for babysitting.

The sound of footsteps echoed behind him. He whirled around, his cowl flaring out behind him as he aimed his staff at the doorway, only to freeze just as quickly.

You had abandoned your mechanic's coveralls for an Overwatch uniform and your back was turned, but he recognized your profile instantly.

Holding his hand out, he prepared to raise his shield, waited for you to turn around—but you didn't. You continued walking backwards up the stairs until you passed the doorway, which you swiftly ducked behind. Your gun was raised in the direction you had just come from, blissfully unaware of the omnic standing a meter behind you.

Should he… say something? Alert you to the fact that you were not as alone as you thought?

He was still perplexed by how to proceed when you began speaking into your earpiece.

"No Talon presence detected at point B, standing by for backup."

Ramattra could not hear the reply, but there seemed to be a bit of a back and forth. It made you curse.

"Shit. Okay, I'll go by myself."

He watched you haphazardly look around, yet somehow still not behind you. How were you this clueless? No wonder you were an engineer and not a fighter.

Suddenly, a smattering of red-orange spots lit up his vision—his infrared sensors. Talon soldiers were approaching the atrium. You couldn't see them from your position, your view of the entrance blocked by the staircase. You straightened up, preparing to walk through the doorway.

He moved without thinking, hooking his staff around your waist and yanking you toward him, out of sight. Your mouth opened as if to yell, and he clamped his hand down over it, muffling what he assumed was a slew of curses. Your elbow reared back, preparing to hit him. Quickly, he slid his staff into the crook of his arm as his newly freed hand restrained you against him, pinning your arms to your sides. It was mostly for your own sake—elbowing his chest would hurt you a lot more than it would him and was ultimately useless.

You bucked fiercely against his hold, boots scuffing loudly on the ground as you tried to free yourself. At this point, Talon would catch the both of you if you continued in this manner.

"Quiet, or they will hear you!" he hissed. Your head jerked up at him, eyes wide in recognition.

---

This was truly not your day.

As soon as Overwatch received a tip that Talon planned to infiltrate the university in Oasis, you all but begged Winston to go. You were desperate to make up for your blunder a month ago, when you had groggily woken up to the sight of your coworkers standing over you, the leader of Null Sector nowhere to be seen.

Before you could explain yourself, give some meager excuse as to how Overwatch's most important prisoner had escaped, you were whisked away to the med bay by Mercy for treatment. As you recovered from your near asphyxiation, you feared what would happen next. Would Winston fire you? Would you be accused of conspiring with Ramattra and left to fend for yourself once again?

You couldn't do it. You would rather die than be found by Talon, a fate that was guaranteed without Overwatch's protection. For a whole day, you laid in bed, dreading the moment Winston would walk in and order you to pack your bags.

And eventually, he did come to you. But instead of the harsh reprimand you expected, he only apologized profusely—for putting you in danger, for not doing more to guarantee your safety.

The guilt in his voice had somehow felt worse than if he had just given you a fierce tongue-lashing.

Because you knew the truth. Everyone reassured you that it wasn't your fault—but it was. You could have stopped him. You had a gun, had even shot someone before. If you wanted to, you could have incapacitated him long enough to call for help. He was the leader of Null Sector—there should have been no doubt in your mind to pull the trigger.

But even as Ramattra held your throat in his hand, squeezing the life out of you, you hesitated.

Your hands were tied after that, having already made the promise to repair him. By that point, you were too invested in the process of it, the eagerness to work on an R-7000, that you forgot the mortal peril you were in. Getting sucked in to your work was always a bad habit of yours.

Only his reminder of the bounty on your head snapped you out of it, and by that point, it was too late. Even in his weakened state, he was fast, much faster than you. Your only way to defend yourself gone, you were left to his mercy.

You were determined not to make the same mistake again. And so your need to prove your usefulness had led you here, separated from your team and hiding from the Talon soldiers that swarmed the building.

This was meant to be a relatively casual mission, which was why you volunteered for it. All you had to do was secretly guard the university and ensure no Talon forces infiltrated the library. Easy enough; you weren't an exceptionally skilled fighter like Genji or Tracer, but you were scrappy enough that you could hold your own against one or two opponents.

Everything had gone smoothly until Talon caught wind of Overwatch's plan, all manner of subtlety then thrown out the window after they blew a damn hole in the building. In the ensuing fight, you were split from the rest of your team, but you still had a job to do. Under no circumstances could Talon be allowed to breach the library.

You hugged the wall, gun raised. Slowly approaching the wide arch of the entrance to the garden, you saw two Talon soldiers standing on the opposite side. Quickly, you ducked behind a hedge, weapon held close to your chest. Not hearing anything, you cautiously peeked over it again. They were posted in front of a door that stretched to the ceiling—the entrance to the atrium, which housed the only door to the library.

You needed to get past them somehow.

You reached down and silently picked up one of the stones lining the hedge. With as much speed as you could manage, you whipped your arm toward the opposite side of the garden. The stone landed in the bushes, rustling the leaves there. One of the guards perked up at the noise, leaving their post to investigate. Perfect. You weren't particularly worried about dealing with them if it came down to it—Talon soldiers weren't notorious for their fighting skills—but a one-on-one would be quieter.

Slowly, you slinked towards the left side of the garden until you reached the balcony. There was a staircase there that led to the atrium entrance. Once up the stairs, you crouched down and peered past the wall. The soldier still standing at the door seemed not to have noticed anything. It wouldn't be possible to get through to the atrium without him seeing you, and you couldn't fire your gun without risking the attention of the other.

You supposed that left you with only one option.

Your boots pounded against the tile as you sprinted toward him. The sound seemed to startle him, and he hastily raised his gun in panic. Before he could pull the trigger, your hand swung out, pistol-whipping his chin. His head recoiled to the side harshly as he collapsed to the ground, out cold.

Quickly, you sneaked into the atrium. There was no way the other grunt didn't hear that—you needed to find cover, fast. You flattened your back against the wall, pointing your gun at the doorway. Luckily, there was only empty air.

You backed away tentatively, walking further into the atrium. The back of your heel bumped against something, and you nearly toppled over, rebalancing with less grace than you wanted. You peeked backwards out of the corner of your eye; there was a short staircase leading into another room. Carefully putting one foot behind the other, you treaded carefully up the stairs until you were past the doorway.

Making as little noise as possible, you dove behind the wall, pistol clicking as you pointed it at… nothing. You exhaled heavily; you were safe, for now.

"No Talon presence detected at point B, standing by for backup," you said quietly into your comm. There was a long pause before it pinged in your ear again, gunshots ringing out from the other end.

"More Talon agents have arrived at our location." Genji's voice was hurried, and you heard the clash of steel. "Winston is handling them right now." Almost on cue, a loud roar and crash sounded behind him.

"Can you make it to my position?"

"No, there are too many here." He swore sharply, the gunfire now louder than before. "You said there is no Talon presence where you are?"

"Yes, that's right."

Genji made a sort of annoyed sound. Its robotic timbre reverberated in your ear. "Ah, it's no good then. You're the closest out of all of us."

"Shit." Your head spun rapidly as you tried to think. As long as Talon's reinforcements were confined to the entrance, you should be relatively safe to move. Yes, you could do this. "Okay, I'll go by myself."

The comm clicked off, and you steeled yourself briefly before moving to stand up. But just as your knees straightened, something pulled on your waist with what felt like the force of a freight train. Your back slammed against a rigid surface, knocking the wind out of you.

Damn it, not again. How did this keep happening to you?

A metal hand clamped down on your mouth. Instinctively, you thrashed against it, but your captor restrained you, rendering you immobile with the sturdy weight of their arm. Rising panic made you jerk wildly, doing anything you could in a desperate attempt to free yourself. You were kicking out in a frenzy when a harsh voice cut through the air.

"Quiet, or they will hear you!"

What?

Your head snapped up, eyes forced to squint at the familiar red glow glaring down at you. Before you could even begin to process what you were seeing, the sound of boots against tile reached your ear. You froze, instinctively crushing yourself against Ramattra's chest. The metal ribs of his armor dug into your back, but you hardly noticed as your heartbeat pounded in your ears.

The steps echoed louder, approaching closer and closer to the staircase. You were breathing rapidly—it felt like air was running away from you, but you couldn't stop.

His arm was an iron bar against your abdomen, and you tried to focus your thoughts on the pressure. A soft current of air brushed against the back of your neck—the quiet whir of his internal fans, a calming song that thrummed throughout your body.

After what felt like an eternity, the footsteps finally retreated.

Ramattra's arm relaxed, his hand sliding across your stomach. The touch made you shudder—no, no, now was not the time for this.

Swinging your legs forward, you kicked behind you with all your might. Your feet landed square on target, the omnic grunting as his knee buckled, releasing you to slam his staff against the ground. You whipped around to face him, cocking your gun with one hand. As he rose, so did the barrel, trained on his chest right where you knew his central processor sat.

His face plate was expressionless, but he seemed less angry and more annoyed, as if the gun pointed at his chest was no more than a mere inconvenience.

"What are you doing?" he growled.

"What am I doing? What the hell do you think you're doing?" you scoffed.

"I—" He stopped himself, fist clenching around his staff. He seemed to have no answer.

You stared at each other in a standoff, neither daring to break eye contact. A thousand questions ran through your mind.

Why was he here? Was Null Sector preparing an attack on Oasis? Was he working with Talon?

There were so many words clamoring against your skull that it paralyzed you into not speaking at all. After a full minute of silence, one question finally managed to slip past your lips.

"Why did you help me?"

That was what puzzled you most of all. Back in your workshop, he had spared your life despite your attempt to pull a gun on him. Now, he seemingly appeared out of thin air to save you from Talon soldiers? What was his game here?

"Believe me, it was not my intention," he replied snidely.

That… didn't make any sense. "Answer the question," you demanded, more forcefully this time.

"It matters little what I say. My answer will not satisfy you."

Another deflection. You were growing tired of this.

Ramattra's gaze followed you as you walked forward, all the image of a hitman that had met their mark. He didn't move, didn't even flinch when the barrel of your gun tapped against the center of his chest.

"Is that all you have to say?" you asked.

There was only the hum of his internal machinery, a sound you had grown to recognize. Even with your gun pointed directly at him, he was silent.

You let your hand fall with a sigh. You weren't going to get the answers you wanted this way. But he remained still, making no move to leave as his face plate stared down at you.

"Fine, then. I only have one thing to say to you."

You slipped your other hand out of your pocket, placing it on his chest. It was warm against your palm, warmer than you expected from a body made of metal. His chest rose slightly in reflex, as though taking in a breath. Everything about him was so alive—the sounds his machinery made as they moved inside him, the oscillating temperature of his chassis as it burned against your skin. The guilt coiled in your stomach sank even deeper.

"Thank you," you murmured, "and I'm sorry for this."

The Ravager tilted his head at you in silent question. But you only pulled away, a circular emitter left where your hand once was. He reacted lightning fast, his hand surging up to grasp it—but it never got there, halted in place as it started to twitch uncontrollably. He tried to speak, but all that came out was a scratchy, glitchy mess as he fell to his knees, his hands spasming against the ground, grasping nothing.

The sight was almost enough to make you forget what you were doing this for. Before you lost your nerve, you clicked the comm in your ear. Your hesitance may have gotten the better of you last time, but it was not going to happen again. He knew your name, face, and affiliation—letting him go was no longer an option.

"It's me. Talon has breached point B and is headed towards point C, requesting immediate assistance at my location."

[coldresolve]

Moneymakers, pt.xli // The Dealer

Previous / AO3 / Wattpad / Masterlist / Next

He runs every other morning. It’s the only time he actually turns off the notifications on his phone. Day and night, weekdays and weekends, holiday or not, people contact him, and he lets them – but that hour is his alone.

Seven and a half miles, starting from his apartment complex, a little route he has perfected over the years, carefully tailored to his own liking. It disbands from the concrete monotony of the city to wind through the walking trails and hills of a nearby dog park, nothing more than a dozen or so acres of deciduous woods surrounded by a chain link fence. There’s a small creek there, at roughly the four mile mark, and while he recognizes how foolish it is, he considers that creek his own little secret. He pretends to be the only person on earth who has seen it.

The visits are always brief, especially now that the seasons have turned. Keeping your pulse up is what saves you from hypothermia when it’s just you and your jogging clothes against the frigid mist. You’ll catch your death if you stop moving. Every runner knows that. No, he just notes how it’s doing in passing glances, as if checking in with an old friend. He notes whether the banks have fallen during summer droughts, or in winter, if the morning is cold enough for ice to have formed as thin sheets over the stiller parts of its bends. He needs to move. The creek needs to stay. They part ways. That’s how it goes.

He's so used to this route, so familiar with his body’s reaction to it, that he can predict when he has worked up enough of a sweat for it to start dripping. It usually happens right as he leaves the dog park, on those first hundred yards back on tarmac, when his heavy footfalls dislodge the black dirt from his running shoes. Every few minutes from then on, he has to wipe at his eyes with the long sleeve of his shirt. Tastes the salt on his upper lip. Feels the way the crisp wind rapidly cools down the damp parts of his clothes. On mornings like this, it’s a welcome reprieve from his usual habit of overanalysis. Keeping your body occupied is a form of meditation all on its own.

The cold is starting to bite when he reaches his apartment complex. He lets his momentum carry him the last few yards along the short walking path to the rear entryway, panting as he chips himself in, takes a deep breath, and rushes the stairs two at a time despite the ache in his thighs – he considers these four flights the final stretch of the run. Feels the satisfied reprieve when he finally reaches the platform of his own front door.

Keys jiggling in front of him, body buzzing, he unlocks it.

Melon starts yelling at him immediately. Like always, it makes him smile; the way she paces back and forth, head on a swivel, mouth wide open, eyes desperately searching for his attention. She aggressively rubs her face against his hands as he’s untying his shoes, and he has to relent and do it one-handed, just so he can scratch behind her ears with the other. “You’re such a brat,” he coos. Her orange fur sticks to the sweat on his fingers, and he rubs it off in his shirt.

Beyond the entryway, from the windowsill in the living room, Zorro watches, bright green eyes in a black void, seemingly unbothered. Lazarus gives him a respectful nod. It just feels appropriate.

There are tricks to avoiding that post-workout soreness. Half of it lies in cooling down as slowly as possible; the other half lies in a good stretching routine. He stands for the quadriceps and the calves, squats low for the hamstring stretch, lies flat on his back for the glutes, the muscles in his lower back, his sides. Five seconds on the inhale, five seconds of holding, seven seconds on the exhale, five seconds of holding. Six cycles for each exercise. Steadily, his heartrate returns to normal, and his extremities warm up to the ambient temperature of the room. The sweat dries on his skin, leaving faint trails of salt. Melon watches him curiously for the first few minutes, then gets bored and leaves for his bedroom.

Lazarus is still lying there on the thin rug by his front door, one leg crossed over the other, pulling at the muscles on the side of his thigh, when his thoughts begin to drift again. They’ve gone in circles over the last few days, always returning to the same man. Always the same bewilderment, the same burning questions.  

He was the acquaintance of another client. It usually spreads like that, via word of mouth. Hushed questions, do you know anyone… And in the northern part of town, among the rejected, people tend to know.

 He was homeless then, had been for a good few months, he said. Fresh off mandatory probation through a halfway home, following a fight that he supposedly didn’t start, although Lazarus still has his doubts about that. His whole life was stuffed into a backpack. Rips in a bomber jacket that looked to have been expensive at some point. Always bruised or cut up somehow. He talked about getting kicked out of shelters, about turned-down job applications, and fights he got into with his then-girlfriend. Talked about killing his dad, in a tone seeping with more contempt than the usual crass humor. He’d built up a decent dependence, fought tooth and nail to ward off the brunt of withdrawals. All his money went to pills.

To Lazarus.

Truth be told, Renee fit the mold of an outcast so well, Lazarus didn’t pay much mind to him at first. You see it all the time. People get sucked into the jaws of the machine, chewed up and spit out the other side, where they’re expected to seamlessly reintegrate into the very society that left them in the cold to begin with, often with no support network, no plan of action, no real prospects. They’re set up for failure so often, Lazarus sometimes wonders if the powers-that-be do it intentionally. He wouldn’t be surprised. All the faces on that wall start to blend together after a while.

It wasn’t until about two months in that something changed. Renee was sitting in the passenger seat of Lazarus’ car, picking at the product through a zip-lock bag as Lazarus counted the bills, and he got quiet. You don’t have to have known the guy for very long to realize how uncharacteristic that quietness was. Lazarus pressed on intuition, and Renee admitted he was considering going cold turkey. Said he finally realized he had zero control of his intake.

Ask Natalie to watch you.

Renee let out a bitter laugh. Nah, that’s been dead for a while. She hates my guts now.

Well, there’s gotta be someone else you can—

There’s really not. And he swallowed, looking away. Managed to compose a somewhat stoic demeanor. I’ll squat somewhere, lock myself in a bathroom or something. It’s just gonna suck for a while, that’s it.

Twenty-five years old.

Lazarus pushes himself off the floor, relishing in the familiar fatigue in his body as he makes his way to the kitchenette. Washes his hands thoroughly. As he fishes a small pot out of one of the low cabinets, Melon predictably returns, slows to a halt in the middle of the hallway, and sits down, paws kneading the rug. Wide yellow eyes watch the pot curiously, ears perched in his direction.

“You’re not getting anything,” Lazarus tells her with a low chuckle. “Fat fuck.”

He scoops half a cup of rolled oats and pours cold water on eye measurement. Spices it up with cinnamon and cardamom and nutmeg, a pinch of salt flakes from the jar on the counter. Lights up the stovetop, and stirs as he waits for it to warm up.

Did he make a mistake when he invited Renee back to his place? Most definitely. But the thought of just allowing the man curl up alone on the gross tiles of some public bathroom for a week straight left a sour taste in Lazarus’ mouth. Not to mention that benzos are up there among the worst things you can withdraw from, save for maybe alcohol or opioids. Renee didn’t know it – he still doesn’t – but he would’ve cracked on his own.

Shoes off.

Renee stepped on the heels of his worn down sneakers, one after the other. He eyed Melon awkwardly as she rubbed against his leg. Cats usually don’t like me, he muttered.

Lazarus smiled. You’re in luck, then. Melon is a terrible judge of character.

He had Renee shower almost immediately, while the guy still had the wherewithal to do so. Started hunkering down, preparing for the ride. Every blanket Lazarus owned, he laid on the armrest of the couch; he placed a thermos flask and packets of tea ready on the counter next to the kettle. Saline crackers, plenty of water in the fridge. That evening, when he cooked up tikka masala for them both, he went a little heavy on the salt in Renee’s portion.

Lazarus remembers sitting across from him, setting sun pouring in from the window. It made his eyes look almost golden. Renee was already getting noticeably restless then, chatting up and down the wall about every small thing that crossed his mind. The conversation was mostly one-sided, but neither of them really seemed to mind. Nineteen hours clean. The calm before the storm.

Do you have a girlfriend?

Nope.

Why not? Not to be weird, but you’re pretty good-looking, y’know.

Chuckling, Lazarus shook his head. I’m gay.

Fork hovering over his plate, Renee looked up then, through the strands of damp dark hair falling over his eyes, and the corner of his mouth tugged up. Lazarus was half preparing for a snide remark, but that’s not what Renee was going for. Do you have a problem with bi guys?

Lazarus snorted. Why would I?

Renee went back to stabbing at his food. Some guys get grossed out if they know you’ve touched a pussy. Scooping up a mouthful, he caught Lazarus’ gaze again, shrugging a shoulder as he chewed.

Yeah, that’s just stupid.

Lazarus eats his oatmeal by that same table, although he has since moved it to a spot farther back in the apartment, where the sun doesn’t blind his guests in summer. He turns on his phone again, and isn’t surprised to see a dozen missed calls and a handful of texts. One call is from a new supplier he’s heard positive things about – someone who, like him, stays as far removed from fent as humanly possible. The rest are all from the same client, Delilah. Forties, thin brown hair, gorgeous blue eyes. Something about an ongoing divorce, a custody dispute that isn’t going in her favor. She got hooked on opioids following a knee surgery, and, unlike the majority of his clients, hasn’t learned to stop making last-minute deals.

He threads his fingers to stretch his arms high above his head. An hour and a half won’t kill her, he decides, in fact it might serve as a wake-up call. Someone is always desperate, and Lazarus, too, has his own life to manage. Sighing, he lets his arms fall, and sends her a text for a time and place.

Her affirmative response comes less than five seconds later.

In the windowsill, Zorro has found a more comfortable position to sleep in. One that evidently involves sticking his hind leg out over the ledge, while his head rests on his front paws. Unbothered by the tumultuous mess of the world he lives in.

Lazarus leaves the empty bowl in the sink next to the pot before he makes his way to the bathroom, where he finally rids himself of the jogging clothes, stepping into the shower. It takes a moment before the water is comfortably warm, and Lazarus’s first shiver at being naked is replaced by satisfaction, as the dried sweat is washed from his skin.

Despite a reported sleepless night, the second day was alright, all things considered. Renee was feverish and spent the majority of the day huddled on the couch, buried in blankets. Left every so often to puke in the bathroom, but his trips slowly decreased in frequency when he had nothing left to expulse. His hands shook a little too much to hold a game controller, so he spent his time watching TV, or briefly sleeping whenever his restlessness gave him the opportunity.

But that night was rough on the both of them. Lazarus stayed up, listened to ramblings that slowly but surely lost any semblance of thought or coherence, interspersed with long stretches of silence. Some hours, he could see the flickering pain clearly in Renee’s features, the constant shifting against physical discomfort that rarely seemed to ease. He tried to pace a few times, and at first, Lazarus tried to help him, lent his shoulder for support. As the night went on, though, even walking seemed to do more harm than good. Not that Renee was ever clear-headed enough to recognize that he shouldn’t try. Lazarus’ attempts to keep him on the couch were met with hostility more than once, but despite his size, he was weak enough from fever for Lazarus to hold him down if he needed to. Renee would forget why they were fighting after a while, he would calm down. If Lazarus was lucky, the man would pass out from exhaustion for a quarter or two, which let him tend to his own physical needs – taking a piss, drinking some water, getting something to eat. Lazarus was not lucky often.

On the third day, he went on an errand run, just thirty odd minutes to pick up a delivery and buy some basic necessities. Renee had been asleep for about an hour then, and Lazarus thought he’d be able to get away with it. That was his fuck-up. He should’ve known better.

He came home to find the coffee table overturned, tissue papers and shards of glass strewn about the floor of the living room, along with crumbs of stearin from the candles that cracked in the fall. Zorro and Melon both hid wide-eyed behind the TV stand. The mirror in the bathroom was cracked, like a cobweb blooming from its center. From there, a trail of blood zigzagged its way across the hallway, into his dimly lit bedroom.

In the far corner, he found Renee curled up behind the nightstand, almost pressing himself against the walls. That a man of his size could take up so little space was a mystery in and of itself. Pale as a sheet, eyes shut tight, trembling violently. A cut spanned the skin over one knuckle, not bad enough to warrant medical attention, but it must’ve nicked a small blood vessel, because it looked like Renee’s entire hand was drenched in red.

Lazarus crouched down at a safe distance. Kept his voice as low and gentle as he could. What’s going on, bud?

No change, at first. Just the constant trembling, hands clenched tight around his shins, quick, ragged breaths. There’s something wrong with my shadow, he managed to stammer out eventually, barely intelligible through clattering teeth. And he hit a closed fist against the wall next to him, and again, before Lazarus had rushed forward to grab hold of his wrist so he couldn’t hurt himself further.

And Renee tried to fight again. Tried to pry himself out of Lazarus’ grip, tried to gain enough leverage to kick him away. But when he finally realized Lazarus wasn’t budging, he broke down completely. Sobbing inconsolably, hoarse cries of anguish. His whole body was shaking with it, unbearably warm against Lazarus’ own. Hands no longer pushing away, but clawing at his arms and clothes, as if desperate for stability.

It's still only time Lazarus has ever seen him cry.

They talked about it afterwards. Anything after the second night, right up until he woke up on the fourth day, only left fragments behind, bits and pieces Renee struggled to string together. Despite the part of him that still feels like these moments are better left forgotten, Lazarus did his best to fill him in. It’s not like he doesn’t know the important part that clarity plays in closure.

Shadow…?

I think that’s what you said, yeah.

That’s… some Peter Pan shit. Man, I was out of it, huh?

Yeah.

Two weeks later, Renee met up with him for ten grams of coke. Lazarus is relatively sure he just used the drugs as an excuse to get close enough to try to initiate sex.

A wiser man would’ve declined both.

Wiping fog off the mirror he replaced, Lazarus spends the better part of ten minutes on skincare. Exfoliator, shaving, serum, eye cream, moisturizer. He runs a little bit of wax through still-damp hair, just to get that slight edge to how it looks. The steam still lingering in the bathroom keeps him warm, but he feels his hairs rise as he crosses the hallway to his bedroom for a fresh set of clothes.

A wiser man would’ve kept it to a one-time hook-up. A wiser man would’ve distanced himself each time Renee showed up bruised again, each time his mood flashed black-and-white for months on end, each time he brazenly failed to learn from experience. A wiser man would’ve heeded the constant stream of red flags.

But something about Renee is compelling. Not just his over-the-top confidence, his spontaneity, his odd charm. Renee is a contradiction. A sociable loner. He’s self-aware and oblivious, simultaneously. Optimistic and cynical, blunt and secretive, easygoing and abrasive, every high and every low.

And it feels good to be in his eye.

Until it doesn’t.

The light though the curtains put the bruised half of his face in shadow. He sat naked on the edge of the bed, fingers hooked in the belt loops of Lazarus’ jeans, pulling him closer by the hips. His eyes were dark, insistent. You can do anything to me. Anything you want.

It’s awful again, in some vague way Lazarus can’t fully grasp, much less explain in a way that wouldn’t draw ire or diminish agency. Renee broke the mirror on the third day. Delirious, barely able to string a sentence together. Of all the other things he could’ve broken, he snapped at the sight of his own reflection.

And it hurts to think of this devotion as another way for Renee to tear away at his own personhood, but giving your heart to someone else isn’t love if you only do it to rid yourself of it.

Sometimes it feels like you’re not fully there, Lazarus said quietly. It’s the closest thing he got to the truth in that motel room. Like you’re so caught up in an idea that you lose yourself for a while. It feels like a breach of your trust to indulge it. You’re getting bad again.

And Renee, who never shies from conflict, was silent for a while, before he changed the subject entirely.

If someone is determined to run their life into the ground, there’s really not a whole lot you can do as a bystander. Lazarus knows that better than anyone, but it still keeps him up at night sometimes. Still bears on his conscience, that helpless uncertainty, the gnawing feeling that he’s missing something vital. A piece of the puzzle that, once found, would make the whole picture clearer. A crack in the walls of the labyrinth, a feasible way out he could point towards.

He drinks a full glass of water by the sink, and then fills up another. Sits down by a laptop, dispassionately scrolling through his social media, the latest happenings on forums and blogs he follows. Checks the local news, but apart from a fatal crash a few towns over, and some parade arrangements gone awry, nothing piques his interest. It's not until he checks a nationwide news site that the name comes up again. All the major sites have sort of unanimously decided to start each headline the same.

DeWitt Case.

Lazarus stops scrolling. Just sits there and looks at the name, chin resting on his hand. He’s known about it for a while, obviously, just like everyone else. He’s seen the memes, the quotes people have pulled from the videos. He’s heard of the theories, lackluster armchair investigations, speculation and rumors. Entire forums dedicated. Headlines of Clearnet hosts desperately scrubbing the footage from their sites to appease advertisers, and how it still manages to circulate. Weeding out anything on the internet would’ve been an uphill battle even if it wasn’t such a publicly discussed topic. Some people are obsessed with it.

Renee brought it up too, didn’t he? Just before he…

Lazarus clicks on the headline. He has barely oriented himself with the article’s layout before a newsletter pop-up blocks the screen, closely followed by a banner ad scrolling along the bottom of the browser window. Letting out a disgruntled sound, he closes both.

More than a week has passed since the last broadcast or communication, leading many to worry that…

There’s really no new information. Nothing Lazarus hasn’t picked up in passing or from skimming headlines through the weeks. They don’t seem closer to catching the host – at least the FBI keeps info about the investigation close at hand. And DeWitt’s condition, from what they’ve been able to discern from the streams, is on a steady decline. Lazarus doesn’t even want to consider how it ends for the poor guy. What an awful way to go.

Is that what caused the panic attack? Does Renee identify with DeWitt? Does he view DeWitt’s situation as somehow analogous to his own? Why? What on earth could the two have in common?

Lazarus is leaning back in his chair, fingers absentmindedly tapping over linoleum, when a thought crosses through his mind. He snorts, shakes his head. And the smile fades, slowly.

What if DeWitt isn’t the one Renee identifies with?

Lazarus hesitates. Opens a new tab, and his hands hover above the keyboard, undecided. It feels somewhat foolish to follow this trail of thought, but now that it’s there, he knows it won’t leave him. Not unless he’s sure it’s a dead end.

dewitt case “host” what do we know

He finds a forum – one of many – where users have attempted to collectively profile the perpetrator. Amid a myriad of links to news articles and transcripts of the streams themselves, Lazarus finds a list. And it starts out inconspicuous enough. The information is sparse, the descriptions removed, almost clinical.

Male, anywhere from twenty to late thirties. Estimated height, 6’1”, estimated weight, 180-205 pounds, lean build. Brown eyes, light skin. Western accent, whereas DeWitt speaks with Midland/Northern.

It’s when he reads about the guy’s behavior that a sense of unease begins to dawn, almost unnoticeable at first, like a subtle change in the temperature of the room.  

He swears frequently and makes quips which are often mocking, dehumanizing, or demeaning. Highly impulsive, and at times reckless. Sometimes disregards not only the safety of DeWitt, but his own as well (see the transcript of 10/11). Control-seeking sadist. Has sudden violent outbursts, sometimes with no direct provocation. Not overtly grandiose, but he displays arrogance at the very least.

Body language wise, the host uses exaggerated gestures, and has a lax, “confident” posture and gait. Very energetic, often restless. Like many have already pointed out, in a majority of streams, he exhibits an increased breathing rate, dilated pupils, excitability, rapid mood swings, and other signs of stimulant use.

A shiver runs down Lazarus’ spine at the last descriptor. Not that he’s oblivious to how common amphetamine users are, but a picture is forming in his mind, piece by piece. From the implicit, the tendency. Something uncanny, filtered through nauseating dread.

Something familiar.

He sits silent for a while, gaze drifting out the window, where the rush hour is in full swing. His living room overlooks an intersection, about half a block away, where cars line up at least hundred yards in each direction, disappearing behind the neighboring building. He watches as the closest light turns from red to green, to red, to green, to red.

conrad dewitt kidnapped from

Cleveland, Ohio.

Lazarus swallows. Green to red to green. He can barely get his fingers to type out the words. Each letter appears slowly on the screen, one after the other. Two words on the sting.

dewitt livestream

The sites he finds, buried under mounds of headlines, are questionable at best. Some make the promise but require payment, some are obvious scams harping on morbid curiosity. It takes him a while to find the real thing, linked in a comment deep in a forum thread. A nearly empty-looking site that seems to have been created for the purpose. There are six thumbnails in a three-by-two grid, all marked with the same white triangle. He’s so sure it’ll be another fake when he clicks it, it shocks him a little when a video player appears.

Lazarus grits his teeth, cursor lingering over the inevitable.

He hits play.

Previous / Masterlist / Next

[randomfoggytiger]

Mulder's Alien Baby Baby Trauma In-Depth (Part VI): Bonds Once Forged Are Not Easily Broken

Now, we come to first meetings and (second?) reunions-- and part of that will be focused on Mulder and Doggett's throwdown.

On the one hand, Doggett's poured literal blood and sweat into finding and retrieving this man-- first as a job, then as a friend. Allegations of a crush for Scully (which I don’t buy) aside, he’s a good man that's done good work. 

On the other hand, Mulder has primed himself for battle: seething with vengeance for three months of torment and three months of death, and with nowhere to direct this hatred, Doggett has become an easy target. From Mulder’s perspective, sudden helping hands were always revealed to be turncoats; and the newest recruit just so happening to weasel in under everyone's nose at the most opportune (or inopportune) time and being completely "above reproach"? Unlikely.

In short, it’s not going to be a pleasant meeting for the X-Files' newest agent. 

Introducing the Buddy Cop

We must devote a short amount of word space to Doggett, since he will morph into a pivotal player in Mulder’s post-abduction shenanigans from here on out. 

After his “capture” by Absalom and “rescue” by the FBI, he sits, disturbed, in Skinner’s office while the latter man debriefs him. Both are candid and unguarded with each other-- a dynamic he, Skinner, and Scully developed in Mulder’s absence-- not hiding the fact they're mutually bothered and skeptical over Absalom's claims and needless despite (though for different reasons.)

“It may not be the best way, but it is certainly one way to catch an escaped convict-- I’ll give you that, Agent Doggett,” Skinner remarks, nose still buried in his agent’s report.

“I’d just as soon stick to the old fashioned way, Sir. That shot was a little too close for comfort.” 

“You said this man claimed the US Census Bureau had data, information that he was after that connects to this man that was shot on the White House lawn.”  

“'Proof', he said,” Doggett nods, adding, “that ‘they were here among us’.” Then, turning away and scowling contemplatively, he adds, “Whoever they are.” 

Before Skinner can voice his next thought, the door snaps open and in walks Mulder. 

A few interesting first thoughts: 

Mulder’s shirt is at least a size (if not two) too large, adding to his disheveled, harried integration back into a normal life. And, yes, Skinner’s shirt is also oversized… but not that oversized. It makes me wonder if the clothing department created the illusion of Mulder’s weight loss and trauma by sizing up his wardrobe; and if so, clever touch. (Will have to keep an eye on the rest of the men’s wear this season to compare and contrast... if I remember.)

His face is very grim and very serious; his posture is rigid; and his eyes remain fixated on Doggett's, even during his cursory “Sir” to Skinner as he closes the door. 

Doggett senses his animosity immediately, turning grim as well-- but doesn’t think to take a defensive stance, likely chalking up Mulder’s standoffishness to natural aloofness exacerbated by his inexplicable return.   

And his instincts seem to pay off: Mulder collectedly walks up to him, softly asking, “Is this John Doggett?” with an upward head tilt thrown in. All signs point to the returnee being tense but friendly; and the newcomer stands with a hand outstretched to welcome the other man home. 

And then, the push. 

Mulder barrels past Doggett’s handshake, not breaking form as he immediately shoves the other man back into his chair-- a very pathetic smack, really, despite the force that could have been exerted from his forward momentum (another little tell that Mulder is not physically up to snuff, yet.) 

Doggett, collapses, stunned; and Skinner rushes into to grab his former agent as he launches into rapid fire accusations. 

“I hope you’re not commending him as a hero for what he did in this thing because he is not,” Mulder insists, maintaining burning eye contact with his adversary while ignoring and talking over Skinner’s commands to back off. 

“I’m not about to referee a boxing match,” Skinner warns (hey, an S.R. 819 reference!)

Doggett’s scowl deepens as reality sinks in, his emotions vacillating from utter befuddlement to insulted awe while rewinding the last few seconds. He attempts to recapture the friendly mood; but it fits falsely on his face, making him look even more like a stilted, Consortium double agent. 

“Just what’s the problem here?” 

Mulder is not convinced-- no one in his shoes probably would be-- and he spells it out for everyone in the room. 

“The problem? You occupy an office that used to be devoted to finding the truth and now you’re busy burying it, that's the problem.” 

Doggett tries again, a little more animosity seeping out through his voice, shifting posture, and wagging finger: friends he will be, but not punching bag. “Whoa, you musta got your wires crossed somewhere, Agent Mulder.” 

“You got that man killed,” Mulder snaps.

Incredulously raising his eyebrows, Doggett snarkily repeats, “I got him killed?”  

“Because of what he knew, of what he could expose,” Mulder continues, pushing closer against the boundary of Skinner’s shoulder (who, it seems, is destined to referee Mulder’s fights with or without his say so.) 

“You see this, Agent Mulder?” Doggett snipes, pointing at the deep cut across his cheek.

Undeterred, he responds, “I see you sitting there, Agent Doggett.”

After a weighty pause, Mulder ends the interrogation with, “It’s good enough for me”, another haunted pause, a last look at Skinner, and a swift trudge back out the door.

Skinner waits until he leaves before lowering his guard, pinching the bridge of his nose and trying to drum up an explanation for Doggett. Slowly turning, he begins, “You gotta understand what he’s been through, I mean, now he’s back and you’re--”

But Doggett is nodding dismissively and leaping out of his chair to the other door before Skinner can finish, unwilling to hear out a string of weak excuses for Mulder's appalling behavior.

More interesting thoughts:

Even though Mulder is biased against Doggett, the latter does seem paint-by-the-numbers guilty, an exact specimen the Syndicate used to dig up and dance around with impunity. Doggett gives very little away, doesn’t justify his position, and uses survivable wounds as "evidence" of his innocence-- all of which have been used at sundry times throughout the show.  

Mulder is obviously not in a state to clearly weigh evidence in Doggett’s favor, running blindly around to stop the aliens from abducting anyone else ever again (alluded to in this post.)

Although Mulder is furious for Absalom during this conversation, he is really demanding justice for himself. Every line spoken to Doggett points right back in his direction; and he is conscious of that, trying to avoid his experience and safeguard against it permanently simultaneously. 

Skinner is aware of this on some level, excusing Mulder’s bad behavior to Doggett’s face while also understanding Doggett's righteous anger at boss in turn. 

But the conflict doesn’t end there. 

Doggett has struggled all Season 8 to support, befriend, and be an ally to Scully. He advocated for her, saved her life, and kept her from danger over and over again; yet she didn’t open up to or confide in him unless absolutely forced. Despite that, he still helped safe guard her secret, find her partner, and support her after Mulder’s death-- and all this while battling imposter syndrome in himself. 

Doggett never tried to compete with or measure up to Mulder (that was Scully’s struggle); but from day one, he felt isolated and rejected, doing his best to build good relationships with Scully and Skinner. By proving his stripes, he thought it would earn him equal consideration as a partner and a person. However, his insecurity-- that the others would sideline him the minute Mulder came back-- is proven true (and would continue to be proven true the rest of Season 8.) He suspected Mulder curated a type of jealous loyalty, and he was right: even Skinner, whom he formed the closest friendship with, takes Mulder’s side over his own. 

Skinner is left alone in the office, pondering how best to tackle both agents’ issues. 

Friends in This Life and After (and This Life Again) 

Mulder hops over to Scully’s apartment where he is surprised by Frohike opening the door (tilting his head and immediately pulling up his cheeks in a smile.) 

It’s a beautiful moment: the man in Scully’s kitchen six years ago is here now to greet and invite him in, rushing over to it before the others could. Not only that, but Frohike is also the first person to make a genuine joke at Mulder’s expense, one so cheery and hearty that it redirects Mulder's sarcasm into sincerity.

“You know, it’s really not fair. You’ve been dead for six months and you’re still better looking than me.” 

An interesting note: something strange and morbid begins to happen here as well: Mulder uncharacteristically sticks his hand out for a shake, standing on formalities with a friend who’s been through thick and thin with him. 

And while it’s bad enough to view this as an insecure attempt on Mulder’s part to become "reacquainted" with his former friend, another-- and worse-- parallel could plausibly be drawn: his father’s distant overtures in Colony: a way to keep loved ones at a distance so they don't see flaws and scars up close, perhaps.

Frohike ignores the handshake entirely, finishing his joke and latching onto Mulder with a fierce, all-encompassing hug. 

And Mulder is euphorically happy: that someone saw him instead of his traumas, that he’s been recognized as “normal” despite his experiences, that his experiences don’t define him in at least one person’s eyes.

Frohike’s lack of reserve and whole-hearted affection frees a part of himself still under lock and key; and he laughs unreservedly, returning the unexpected hug with affectionate back pats and thrilled cooing noises after the former somberly concludes, “Though not by much.” 

There is no expectation or agenda or fear or worry between the two, allowing the undead to relax into the moment and fully feel for the first time: he picks up on Frohike’s pain, soothes it by letting the hug last longer than usual, and even settles into the moment with him-- “Melvin…”-- before keeping their dignity intact with a well-timed joke.  

Abashed that he might have lingered too long-- but not ashamed--, Frohike steps back, assessing his friend’s mood with a completely serious “Sorry”; then, after Mulder nods good-humoredly and walks off, reaches over to close the door. 

An interesting speculation: why would Mulder cut the moment short?

Obviously there’s discomfort he’s still navigating post resurrection, but he was never the huggy, touchy guy with his friends to begin with. Frohike’s hug, while welcome, is more unnatural than normal.

And, personally, I like to think the eagle-eyed staring from the rest of the group is the real reason. (The cut-to is hilarious if you aren’t expecting it, by the way.)  

Byers advances with a welcoming “I think it goes without saying that we’re all, uh… tremendously relieved,” too overjoyed to notice Mulder’s polite, tight smile.

Langly’s greeting is tremendously less subtle: “And not just because we had big questions about your involvement in a certain blessed event.”

This next interaction is the second huge make-or-break for this episode: like the first scene back in Mulder’s apartment, this, too, can be easily misconstrued; and is entirely dependent on context.

Caught off guard, he raises his head, freezing his face and darting his eyes over to Scully. He and Scully have not yet discussed the baby, but he knows it’s his (posts here and here.) Are Langly's implications a result of her indirect interference or a natural result of his normal impetuosity? Furthermore, what has Scully told his friends about the baby? Has she told them about the baby? Has Scully rustled up an opportunity to press for more, he wonders.

Mulder knows Scully is not above premeditation, especially about big events in her life (her father’s death, her cancer, her adopted daughter, her distrust of Diana, etc.), and this incident harkens back to another four-against-one scenario in the not-so-distant past (her confrontation at TLG's in One Son.) He and Scully just resynced yesterday, post here; but this comment out of the blue immediately activates his conspiracy radar.

One look at her face, however, dispels that notion (for now): Scully didn’t know this was coming, eyes pivoting sharply from Langly’s direction to Mulder's. Having nothing to hide, she doesn't look down or away; and even betrays a sense of humor in the tilt of her head and tuck of her chin. Her relaxed face invites Mulder to see the absurdity of this strange moment rather than be bowled over by it.  

The camera pans back to Mulder right before everything registers-- showing his downfallen face and penetrating gaze--

and captures the split-second of reassurance and quick snap back to good humor. Catching Scully's comedic undertone, he reciprocates with a mock suspicious face-- the same used later in Empedocles-- complete with squinting, glinty eyes, head tilt, and imperceptibly opened mouth.

Scully-- relieved he’s gotten her point, amused at his antics, and intuiting his unreadiness to broach the baby topic-- deadpans, “So much for playing a hunch, Mulder,” while raising her eyebrows and shifting her head level-- a tease back, and a transition to more serious discussions. 

“The, uh, Gunmen were able to decrypt the data you found on Howard Salt’s hard drive.” 

Frohike joins them in time for Mulder’s roundtable “thank you” nod; and, all together now, the men give their full attention to Scully's synopsis of their findings.

CONCLUSION

Doggett has been shoved, his friends have embraced him, and he and Scully have reengaged their unspoken effectively-- all good things for Mulder. Firing on all cylinders in the company of those that love him helps resurrected man feel back in action, feel alive, feel like himself.

Of course, this is a small bandaid for the bigger, gaping wound of his abduction trauma… and, of course, that problem isn't helped by the confirmation of Scully's (well-meaning) premeditation during the course of the next five minutes.

Thank you for reading~

Enjoy!

[thatsdemko]

revenge - t.bordeleau

masterlist

requested: n

pairing: Thomas bordeleau x fem!reader

warnings: swearing + angst + nsfw + not intended for minors

a/n: had this idea in my head for a minute

there was just something about him that crawled under your skin and made you wanna crawl underneath him. his presence was nothing like any of the other hockey players you’d ever met. he knew just the right ways to make you silently beg, and just the right ways to piss you off. he was a master of turning you on and he knew it. he picked up on how your eyes looked at him and how you watched him across the room. anything he did, it was all for you.

thomas found himself enjoying how easy you were to please, he could show just enough skin or dress the right way and he knew your panties were always going to be on the floor for him.

that evening you had just the right idea for a taste of his own medicine. you never felt the need to control the game, but you had enough. you wanted to floor him once and for all, and you had the perfect idea.

the boys were away at michigan state and would be returning that evening. you waited up all night in his bed with just two things on. all that winning had to have gotten to his head and you wanted tease him a bit. you weren’t going to outright give it to him. he had to work for it.

you heard the sound of the door unlatch and close. you knew he was home and the moment was finally yours. you could hear his feet padding quickly up the stairs and the butterflies in your stomach erupted. there was no time to back out now.

he stood at his door watching the candle lights flicker through the cracks and hinges of the bedroom door. he couldn’t believe just how lucky he was. he had been waiting anxiously for the moment you finally noticed his acts of sexual service to you.

the door handle twisted and there stood Thomas looking you up and down absolutely flabbergasted with just how much he was seeing of you. he couldn’t stop taking mental pictures of you in barely anything.

“welcome home, I figured you’d want to celebrate.” you smirked, getting up off the bed you pulled him by his shirt collar throwing him on to his bed. you hovered over him inhaling his cologne. you watched as a big smile spread across his face. god, you loved watching him think he was winning.

“I need to start winning games more often.” he breathed out pushing his lips against yours. his hands slipped down your back pulling on the red lacy thong attempting to remove it as fast as he could. he didn’t care the price of the undergarment, he just knew he wanted to fuck you bad.

you giggled at how excited and fast he was moving. it was too bad it was all going to be over before he even knew it. this was the best part of revenge. you knew it’d leave him wanting more the next time. you could feel how hard he was in his jeans for you. it just made this even more fun now to know how down bad he was for it.

you were on top of him, panties around your knees, and his shirt hanging around his neck. there wasn’t enough time to break away between the grinding of your bodies for him to throw the shirt off. he was too into the momentum to care. you could feel his hand around your ass grow tighter pulling you as close as he possibly could get to you with clothes on.

you broke away from the kissing to straddling his body now, your long, freshly done, red nail trailed down his bare chest until you got to the zipper of his jeans. you teased him a bit adjusting yourself on top of him. you watched his head tilt backwards and his eyes roll. “say what you want.” you whispered, “tell me what it is.”

“I want you to fuck me.” he moaned, and with just one swift motion(and a lucky worn down zipper) you pulled his jeans down leaving him just in his boxers. a sight you were mentally taking pictures of as well.

“enough talk, more sex.” Thomas grabbed your body throwing you down onto his bed so he was on top now. his hands were glued to your wrists pinning you down and his chain was dangling over your face. for that brief moment you knew he got you. the chain was your weakness. but you weren’t giving in. no matter how bad you wanted to feel him inside of you, this was to teach him a lesson.

“you really think you’re getting something tonight? after everything you’ve put me through?” you smirked, feeling his grip tighten around your wrists. you loved seeing him this way. seeing him want something so bad that he just couldn’t have.

“you’re going to make me finish this myself aren’t you?” he let go of your wrists figuring there was no way you were changing your mind. he knew what he had done to you many times that left you having to find ways to finish. he had to come up with his own.

“bottom drawer, under your pile of pants. there’s a picture in there that might help you.” you smirked, sitting up to nibble on his neck leaving him a hickey or two before collecting your pride and things.

he sighed running his hands through his hair frustrated. he flipped onto his back watching you slip on the tiny red lacy thong back on. just two seconds ago it was just an item lost in the sheets, and now it’s back on you like he had made all that work for nothing. how stupid could he have been to think you actually wanted to have sex with him tonight? he should’ve known better that it was all just a part of a game, “you’re an ass, y/n.”

“yeah well maybe you’ll get a piece of it sometime.”

[honeybeezgobzzzzz]

⚡ Birds of a Feather: Flock Together

Flock Together: Vanessa Hunter, part human and part hawk, has felt love and hurt, friendship and hatred, and had sworn off all men since the one time she allowed her heart to get stolen resulted in said man running off with it and never returning. She is now cold, calculating, and every bit of a bird of prey as the one she fused with. With her wings now fully matured, Ness is a force to be reckoned with, and God help anyone that she sets her sights on.

Warnings: Language, Fighting Sequence, Gore.

To Note: Eobard Thawne x NAMED!Reader.

Word Count: ~5.0k

Previous | Masterlist

“I’m sorry, what part of ‘let me handle it’, did you not understand?” You questioned in your radio as you stood on top of Central City's tallest building, one foot up on the ledge of the roof. Cisco and Barry stammered over the radio while Caitlin started laughing at their expense.

“But Ness, I’ve dealt with them before, what’s so different about dealing with them this time!?” Barry whined at you while you rolled your eyes so hard you could have sworn you caught a glimpse of your brain.

“Remember what happened last time you tried to take them on?” You queried. “Pretty sure that involved a broken leg…”

While Barry floundered for an answer, your eyes caught sight of the movement you were waiting for, a getaway van in the middle of a bank heist headed your way. Several cop cars were in pursuit behind it as it swerved through the city.

“Getaway car is headed your way,” Harry’s gruff voice said over the squabbling and laughter of your friends. “You have eyes on it?”

“Yep,” you replied, focusing your sights on the swerving car. “Intercepting in ten.”

“This puts you ahead by eighteen, I guess that means Allen and Ramon are going to owe you even more Big Belly Burgers.” Now that put a smirk on your face, even after working with those two for a few years, they still bet against you. At this point, you would have thought that they would have learned by now you were always going to come out on top.

“Well, I’m not complaining,” you returned, your smirk growing as you shifted your weight onto the leg that was on the edge of the rooftop and propelled your body into the air. Falling through the air at high velocity as the van got closer and closer, you snapped your wings out at the last minute, softening your landing as your feet hit the hood of the van, and your body weight and momentum had the car screeching to a stop.

Crouching on the now very ruined hood of the van, you stared at the driver of the van who was clutching his bloody face from slamming into the steering column. Standing up as the back doors opened and armed robbers tumbled out in various disarray, you stepped off the van and landed on the balls of your feet.

Guns went up and they started firing at you, your wings snapped forwards blocking out the gunfire with the air of Cisco’s shield tech. Flattened bullets tinkered to the ground for a few seconds before you were moving. Grabbing the shirt of the first robber, you threw him hard into the side of the van, denting the car and making him grunt in pain before flopping to the ground.

He made the terrible mistake of getting back to his feet. Your nails elongated into talons as you shot forwards, sinking them into his shirt and tearing the material. This time you slammed him up against the van and went full on hawk in his face. He let out a scream as you brought your talons back and slammed them into the paint job of the van, tearing into metal and dragging them down.

“That will be you if you so much as move,” you hissed at him, his eyes were wide as he nodded quickly and your ears picked up on the sound of him pissing himself. Giving him one last shove and twirled around.

Dropping into a low spin, you swiped your leg out to catch the next robber's ankles and knock him off his feet. While he was on the ground, you grabbed his arm and flipped him onto his stomach, twisting his arm around until he cried out in pain. Snatching his other wrist, you jerked them together before slapping a set of cuffs on him.

“Stay put,” you ordered the moaning man before rising and looking for the last robber. He was currently booking it down the street. Flaring your wings out, you leaped into the air, gaining about twenty feet before diving for the runner. You were on him in seconds, sending him crashing to the asphalt face first. While he was groaning in pain, you slapped your last pair of handcuffs on his wrists.

“Don’t you know running from a bird of prey does little good?” you questioned him as you hauled him to his feet. Police cars finally came screeching around the corner and surrounded the ruined van. Dragging the struggling robber over to the police officer, you passed him off before assessing the damage done.

The van was totaled by you jumping on it and crushing the engine, but other than that, there was not property damage, and no civilians had been injured. While the police officers locked the robbers in the backs of the police cruisers, you went to the back of the van to take stock of what had been stolen.

It was the usual bank heist items, money, jewels, a few bars of gold, and a few watches from the civilians unlucky enough to get caught up in the heist.

“Well get those watches returned to their owners and see that the bank gets this back,” A cop said as he walked up next to you and took a peek into the van.

“Please do,” you responded shortly before turning away and walking so you had space to take off without hitting anyone with your wings. “Heading back, CCPD taking control.”

“Good, maybe you can get these two to shut up,” Harry huffed back at you while you tolled your eyes. “And we’ve got company, not the good kind.”

“What has Barry gotten us into this time,” you growled out before taking flight, startling a few police officers at your sudden exit. Fast tracking your way to the lab, you closed your wings a few feet from the ground, dropping the rest of the way down. Your boots hit concrete and bouncing up, you strode into the lab, noticing a strange humming sound echoing in the night air. It was probably related to whatever company you had.

Feeling the air condition your neck and blow the hair that had slipped from your tight bun, you stalked your way towards the cortex, your senses already picking up on a change in the air. Your bird senses were shrieking that someone was in your nest who shouldn’t be.

Slipping your hand under the high collar of your suit, you rub your hand across the prickled hairs on your neck. It had been years since you had felt this on edge, the day when you found out that your boyfriend, with whom you shared several intimate moments, wasn’t who he said he was. You had felt betrayed, angry, hurt, but nothing hurt more than when it felt like he had run off with your heart when he was erased from existence.

You were over it, you had to be. It wasn’t that hard to do; you let the bird in you go free, and she ripped through meta like they were cheese until you both had fully matured into a fully grown Cooper’s hawk. Gone were your speckled and striped brown wings, replaced with steel blue-grey wings and red-striped under feathers.

With maturity came coldness, calculation, and an innate ability to observe and strike long before your presence was even known. You knew that your friends found it off-putting at how hawkish you seemed at points, but sometimes it paid not to feel rather than shrivel from the sting of a broken heart. Then again, sometimes you felt like you didn’t have one… Eobard, for all intents and purposes, had run off with it. Coming to a silent stop just outside the cortex, you could already pick up on the presence of several people you didn’t know.

“…and I’m telling you, she is going to tear your throat out if you so much as piss her off,” Harry grunted smugly at someone. Your lips ached to twitch into a smirk, but keeping them pressed into a flat line, you stepped out of the shadows.

“Anyone I know?” you enquired, your eyes quickly scanning the group of people, noting those you didn’t know, before looking at Team Flash, and how defensive they seemed.

“Good, you’re here,” Cisco sighed out in relief before pointing at you. “This is Nike, she is the most badass woman on this planet, and as Harry explained, piss her off and she’ll rip your throat out before eating you.”

Who knows what was going on, but you found this interesting so you decided to play along.

“Hmm, I prefer to start with the kidneys rather than the throat,” you draw out with an air of haughtiness and give them a predatory smile, your tongue swiping across your teeth in a sensuous yet hungry act. “Fresh is best after all.”

Cisco blanched at your words while Barry actually went white. Caitlin looked uncomfortable with your words, and Harry had a small smirk on his lips, he too was enjoying this. Moving your eyes to scan the group that had your friends so uptight, your eyebrow shot up.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” you muse, putting a hand on your hip and scanning each man with your gold eyes.

You knew Leonard; you had met him before when you were still a fledgling, and he was gawking at you, his eyes telling you he liked what he saw. Moving on, the next man, wearing a full suit, Malcolm Merlyn of Star City, Oliver’s enemy. Intense light blue eyes met yours with cool curiosity; you sensed something about him, he was no ordinary man. Lastly, your eyes flickered over the leather jacket-wearing blond man your bird was shrieking in your head at.

He had the same energy around him as Eobard; you guessed he was a speedster, a smug arrogance to him that also told you he was intelligent. Yes, you think you knew exactly who he was just by staring at him, but years of meditation and practicing control helped you keep all your emotions bottled up.

“Anyway, try to cross us and I’ll sic her on you, she’s got the talons to do what she said she’d do…” Cisco finished as you started walking over to Harry. As you passed him, you caught his eye, giving him a look that said ‘we need to talk’. Harry got the hint, and relaxing from his rigid, arms crossed position, he followed you out of the room.

“So, this is the shitstorm Barry got us caught up in?” you questioned, pulling down your scarf that covered your face up to your eyes. Harry let out an agitated huff.

“It would seem, it's bad enough to be stuck in a room with the man who pretended to be me,” he growled out before running his hands through his messy hair. “There’s a threat to the timeline again; it involves some immortal. They’ve come to ask if we’ll help them and the Legends.”

“And why aren’t the Legends asking us instead?” you questioned, raising your eyebrow. “You know, the actual good guys who we trust?”

He huffed at you once more.

“I asked the same thing; they’re busy setting things up in other cities, the Legion of Doom I think they're called. Snart, Merlyn, Darhk, and Thawne, Legion of idiots if you ask me… they came with some device that will act as an energy dampener to mitigate his power. We need to get it to the highest point in the city.”

“Hmm, that would be the weather array on top of the Merickson building,” you mused, thinking about all the places you liked to brood on.

“That’s what I was thinking,” Harry responded in agreement. “According to the schematics of the array, there will be an assembly box near the tip where several sensors are. You can attach the device there and use the electrical from the weather array to connect the data back to the lab.”

“Sounds like a plan,” you echoed before tapping your fingernails on your leg. Harry narrowed his eyes at you before spending a few moments studying you.

“You okay, Vanessa?” you chewed your lip before shaking your head.

“My bird is going to give me a migraine with how much screeching she is currently doing, and I feel like tearing someone's throat out with my teeth,” you explained dryly. “I’d really rather not talk about how I’m feeling when my ex is in the building.”

“Yeah, I figured you’d pick up on who he is,” Harry grunted before nodding his chin at you. “If you need to skip out, Jesse is always up for a visit from you.”

“Tempting,” you respond, your lips curving slightly. “But I don’t run from my problems, I tear them apart.”

“And as pleasurable as I would find that, I don’t think ripping him apart would do you any good.”

“Well, what else am I supposed to do about it?” you question, flinging a hand out. “Preen and pine like a love-sick bird? News flash, Wells, I’m a bird of prey, I don’t do sob stories.”

“I’m not saying that’s what you need to do, I’m just saying that you giving into your hawk DNA isn’t helping you. You’re losing yourself, and I may be a grumpy, cynical, conceited ass, but I don’t want to see you go down that road.”

“It may be already too late for that, Harry,” you answer honestly, your gold eyes flickering up to his. “Because it’s so much easier to give into my bird, than continue living knowing I poured everything I had into one man who wasn’t even real.”

“You know I do worry about you, Ness,” Harry says as you turn on your heel and start walking back towards the Cortex.

“I’m aware!” you toss over your shoulder. “And you shouldn’t, I’m not worth your time.”

Leaving Harry to grumble and stew about your noxious, self-destructing behavior, you enter the Cortex and march right up to the city map on one of the computer screens.

“You and Harry figure this out?” Cisco asks, bouncing over to you as you pull up the engineering schematics of the Merickson building.

“Yes,” you answer as you magnify the top of the weather array. “Our plan is to attach the device to the tip and connect it to the weather module; we can get access to the device through the building’s electricity.”

“Cool, cool,” Cisco responds as Caitlin walks over and peers at the screen.

“That’s the highest point in the city?”

“I should know,” you remind her before glancing up and looking at the four men. “I don’t suppose you had the brains to bring the device with you?”

Leonard snorts and gives you an eye roll as the one you deduced to be Damien Darhk pulls out a box in the shape of a hexagon, no bigger than a half gallon of milk.

“Hmm, maybe you aren’t all idiots after all,” you muse under your breath, making Cisco snort. Walking around the desk, you head for Darhk, taking the device from his gloved hand as you pass. “I’ll get to it then,”

Naturally, everyone starts following you out to the back entrance you had made your landing and take-off pad.

“If you don’t mind, Miss Nike, would you care to explain how you plan on getting that device to a building hundreds of feet into the air? Do you plan on growing a pair of wings?” While his words seem flippant, he does genuinely seem to wonder how you are planning on getting this device attached to a weather array over six hundred feet in the air.

Stepping out so you have room to stretch your wings, you glance over your shoulder while twisting your lips into a curved smirk.

“As a matter of fact, Mr. Darhk,” you reply, equally flippant with your answer as you pull up your scarf to cover your nose and mouth. Unfurling your wings, you watch in satisfaction as faces morph into surprise and awe. “I do.”

With one last teasing smirk, you turn around and give your blue wings one heavy beat, slingshotting yourself into the night sky. En route to the Merickson building, the radio in your ears crackles to life.

“That was awesome!” Cisco bursts out in glee. “Like a total mic drop moment, Ness!”

“Glad you approve, Cisco, I’ll be at the array in thirty, get Harry on the line and I’ll get my specs ready.”

“Copy that,” Flapping higher and higher, you finally get sight of the long array sticking off the Merickson building, and with careful percussion, you fly yourself straight for the tip, wrapping your legs around it so you are secure while you work.

“Ready?” Harry’s gruff voice crackles in your ear. Reaching for your belt, you pull out your special specs for when it rained, which also contained a camera Harry should use to see what you were doing, and slipped them over your eyes.

With Harry speaking in your ears, you manage to get the device attached in under half an hour, being careful not to cut or nick any existing wires, or mess with anything else for that matter. When Harry is finally satisfied with your wiring job and that the device is stable on the array, you push yourself from the tower and flap your wings, sending you up and out.

“You coming back to the lab?”

“No, I’m heading home for the night,” you respond. “Haven’t gotten my dark brooding in for the night.”

“Alright… just think about what I said, will you? You are one of the only people here that I actually like.” Harry sighs, and you can practically imagine him rubbing his forehead.

“Night, Harry,” you reply softly before ending the call and removing the specs from your face. Angling your wing, you swoop to the left, gliding lightly in the direction of your house. Two minutes later, you are dropping through the air, your feet touching down in your backyard.

Pulling your wings into your back, you head for the back sliding glass door while pulling out the key to unlock it. Stepping into your house, you pull your scarf down and run a hand over your hair with a heavy set sigh. Heading to your bedroom, you quickly strip yourself out of your Nike outfit and change into a tank top, sans bra since the things were uncomfortable, and a pair of comfortable shorts.

You fix yourself one of Caitlin's shakes that she had concocted for you to fulfill your bird nutritional requirements and sit at your dining table. Sipping on your shake, you turn your eyes to the book on bird genetics you had left open this morning. You spend a few minutes reading before your senses pick up on the fact that you are no longer alone.

“You have a lot of gall to show up here,” you murmur quietly, your hands slowly closing the book before you get to your feet.

“I’m aware,” His voice rings out as he steps out of the shadows. His blue eyes study your thin figure, and you can’t figure out exactly what he is thinking, but you know he is assessing you.

“Then why are you here? Because the urge to rip out your throat is one I’m feeling inclined to indulge in.” You coolly spit at him, your sharp eyes narrowing.

“Ness—“

“You lost the right to call me that,” you hiss, your eyes flashing brightly. “News flash, Eobard! I hate you! I hate you so much that I would gladly let my hawk rip your throat out and feast on your organs like some backwater Buzzard!”

“Vanessa,” Eobard corrects himself. “I know I hurt you, but I never wanted—“

“Hurt me?” You scoffed. “I loved you, I gave you everything I had and look what happened! It was nothing but lies and deceit! Well, I won’t ever make that mistake again.”

“This isn’t you, Vanessa, you are not vicious. Not like me, not like this,” you let out a cynical laugh and shook your head.

“You don’t know me, Eobard Thawne,” you told him darkly before shooting forward and sinking your talons into the front of his jacket. With a firm grip, you spun in a circle and threw him as hard as you could into the painting above your dining table. He crashed into the wall, shattering the glass and breaking some of the drywall.

He was on his feet in an instant, hands up in surrender.

“Vanessa, please, you are the most compassionate, caring person I have ever met, please—“ Your eyes blazed with fury and your blue wings extended from your back, crashing into furniture as they went.

“You don’t know me, Eobard Thawne,” you repeated in a voice not your own before shooting forwards once more, talons extended and ready to run through more than just fabric. He was moving too, trying to grapple your body. Twisting around, you punched him in the chest, sending him staggering back.

Going to kick him in the chest to really throw him back, Eobard caught your foot and pulled. You flared your wings out as far as they would stretch, not caring that you had sent a lamp crashing to the floor and broke it. With your right foot still in his grasp, you slammed your other foot into his face, catching him in the chin.

Eobard released your foot, allowing you to land back down on the floor, your wings beating behind you in anger. There was a red mark where you had kicked him, and that made you smirk in glee. Before you made your next move, he was rushing forwards, grabbing at your shoulders and trying to pin you against a wall.

Your back hit drywall and groaned in protest while you hissed at him. Reaching for his arm, you dug your talons into his flesh before jerking sideways, reversing your position and trying to get your hand around his neck. You were in full-on kill mode and a veil of red had fallen over your eyes, your bird would not be happy until you held his heart in your hand.

Your talons bit into his neck and left scratches that lightly bled, fueling your bloodthirst.

Eobard shoved you hard, making you fall backwards and slide on the floor, Broken wood dug into your shoulder and scraped it up while your skin took a beating. But you weren’t backing off. Using the momentum from his shove, you completed the backwards roll, tucking your wings close to your back before springing back to your feet.

“Vanessa, please, we need to talk about this, this bloodlust, it isn’t you,” Eobard said, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. “You are not a killer.”

By now, he was bleeding in multiple places from your talons, and your skin was scraped and turning a variety of colors from your proclivity to bruise, yet you felt a burning desire to continue, even if it meant death. So with a low, hawk-like screech, you grabbed the overturned leg of a side table and broke it off, twirling the splintered wood in your hand.

“Sorry, Vanessa hasn’t been home in quite some time,” you drawled out manically, your very being consumed with rage and a lust for blood.

Confliction in his eyes had your dark smirk widening as you started stalking forwards. Hesitation on his part would be your victory. Bringing your arm around, you threw the broken piece of wood right where his heart was. He zipped away before it could hit him, making the wood lodge into the wall behind where he had previously been standing.

Ducking into a low spin, you narrowly avoided his hands as he tried to grab you once more from behind. Clamping your talons into his wrist, you jumped up and twisted your body, catching his neck between your legs. Continuing your twist, you sent the both of you tumbling back to the floor, releasing his arm and trying sink your talons into his chest.

“You are not just your hawk!” Eobard yelled at you while his hands strained to keep your talons from puncturing his chest. He still wasn’t using his full power, most likely for fear of seriously injuring you, well, that would be his downfall. “You are still Vanessa Hunter.”

Snarling, you pushed harder, your talons scraping against the soft material of his shirt. Eobard let out a noise of frustration before zipping up to your feet and throwing you as hard as he could. You crashed into your bookshelf, one of the iron prongs on your deer antler bookend piercing through your shoulder.

Gasping out from the sharp pain in your left shoulder, you looked down at the pointed metal still just barely out of your skin. Your eyes flickered up to Eobard, who now had a horrified expression on his face.

“Ness, I—“

“Well, well, well,” you cooed out, your list twisting into a canary smile. You jerked your shoulder forwards, pulling yourself from the heavy metal bookend. “Look who finally decided to put up a fight, that’s the Eobard I know.”

Reaching back, you grabbed the bookend and lobbed it at his head as hard as you could. He dived out of the way, the antlers lodging themselves in the wall behind him. You pranced forwards, ignoring the sting in your shoulder and the blood that dripped down onto your spaghetti strap top and skin. Eobard let out a growl of irritation before zipping again.

Feeling his arms wrap around your body from behind, you tried to slam your elbows back into his gut, or at least claw at his body with your talons. His grip was strong, so you resorted to method two, your wings sprung from your back, separating your bodies.

Spinning around, you slashed at his throat with your extended nails, wanting more blood to be shed to sate the ever-present thirst. Your hand was batted away and Eobard lunged for you once more, only this time he didn’t go for your shoulders, but your wings.

You jerked backwards, trying to keep them out of reach, but he was faster. His hands clamped down on them with enough pressure to make you draw them in, and in seconds you found yourself pinned to the floor by your wings, your eyes flashing.

“Will you listen to me damn it!” He yelled into your face as you struggled beneath him.

“Go to hell Thawne!” You snarled in his face, trying to kick at his legs. He managed to pin those down with his own.

“I still love you, you obstinate, frustratingly beautiful woman!” Eobard bellowed in your face, your struggles paused as his words circulated in your brain. He sighed out and released your wings and arms, giving you the chance to rip away if you so chose. “I have never loved anything as much as I love you, and that is a fact that will always remain constant.”

The red haze clouding your judgment dissipated, leaving you feeling hollow from the emotions of rage and anger. That allowed the old emotions of pain, torment, and heartache to hit you like a tidal wave as your bird all but slipped from your body.

Your wings retracted as tears started running down your cheeks, and reaching up with your talonless fingers, you pressed the heel of palms into your eyes as you cried your heart out. The gut-wrenching feeling of loneliness was crippling and had you feeling exactly like how you had felt when your wings first came in.

Scared. Hurt. Alone.

“Ness…” Eobard’s soft voice only had your tears coming faster as your nails dug into your scalp and you sucked on every shuddering breath.

“I just want things to go back to how they were before I ever found out who you really were.” You sobbed, your throat feeling thick and your hands shaking. In less than a second, you found yourself standing in your ruined living room, your face buried in Eobard’s partially shredded shirt with his arm around your body as you sobbed.

Your fingers pressed against his chest, your human nails digging in this time while he ran a hand through your hair like he used to. His face pressed down on the crown of your hair while he repeated apologies, over and over. Gradually, your sobs turned to sniffles and your eyes had no more tears to shed.

“I tried so hard to hate you, but I can’t even do that,” you whispered as you lightened up your grip on his shirt. Slowly, Eobard slid his hands from your body to gently hold your cheeks, his thumbs brushing the wet tracks from your tears. Your red-rimmed eyes stared up into his unfamiliar face, yet familiar eyes.

“I have a feeling I will be apologizing for the rest of my life, and even then it won’t be enough,” Eobard said gently before pulling your head up and connecting your lips. It was almost too much to be kissing him again, you had spent so many nights wishing that you could just forget the way his lips felt against yours. It was in this moment that you realized how stupid you were to think that. Harrison Wells, Eobard Thawne, whatever he called himself, he was always going to be the tether that kept you connected to the ground, to your human side. Best friend, closest confidant, lover.

You know what they say about birds: Birds of a feather, flock together, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Date Published: No Idea

Last Edit: 4/29/24

Previous | Masterlist

[thiswaycomessomethingwicked]

14 20 26 28 31 for the writing ask, please! 😊

Hahaha annnnd here are my replies, two months late lol

14. Write and share the first sentence of a new fic. Just that.

There's something uncanny about becoming the prey animal when, for so long, a man is used to being the hunter.

20. Do you work on a single project or many at the same time? How does that work for you?

I definitly am a multi-project person. I'll cycle through them, depending on what I'm in the mood to write.

For example, at the moment I've got:

What Makes a King pt. 2 (Eomer/Grima; Grima/His Internal Desire to be Lady Macbeth)

The Magi (original story - but it's Ficini/Cavalcanti)

A Discworld fic that's a meditation on illness, disability, and politics (Downey/vetinari)

Shardlake fic (Shardlake/Barak)

Napolington rework of Pale Before the Fall (what it says on the tin)

Elegy for those still breathing (Hastings/Poirot)

poetry manuscript

Lucieta (original story - prequal to the Venetians/House of No Return)

Letters (Downey/Vetinari - a new fic I'm working on with a friend)

annnd I think that's all for now.

26. What would you describe as OOC?

For Grima I've answered that Here :D

28. Any writing advice that works for you and you feel like sharing?

I'm not the best at sharing advice because I find everyone is so different that it's really just about figuring out what works for you and your style and what the story needs.

Also, what I have to say is all stuff that's been said before:

Write everything out first then edit. Just, word vomit all over the page then go back with the scalpel to edit and adjust.

Outlines can be as detailed or as high level as you need them to be.

Sometimes you just have to kill your darlings, sadly

Step away from a piece when you're done before going in to edit. Give yourself a solid break from it - that will lend some perspective to the editing process.

Not every scene needs to be written. We don't need to see the characters do everything - we can just jump to the next important part.

Be self-indulgent when writing, especially the first draft, even if you do end up removing portions of the self indulgence later. It's important because it gives you pleasure, keeps you writing, and allows you time and space to get to know characters/the story/the world.

31. What was the most difficult fic for you to write (but in the end you made it)?

There were times when I was losing steam for the LOTR Trilogy rewrite. Definitely some hard moments there. But it's written! It's done!

Thus Always - I had to rewrite the entire thing I had stopped for so long lol

hmmm there are a few others that I remember being a challenge to write. Mostly it's about losing momentum - if I lose steam and interest it's hard to get back into it.

---

Thank you so much for the ask!!

[ask meme]

[asordinaryppl]

A3! Main Story: Part 4 - Act 13: Budding Spring - Episode 32: #FamilyGetTogetherPizzaParty

Izumi: Then, let’s toast to Itaru-san’s safe return & the success of the first day! Cheers!

Sakuya: Cheers!

Omi: The spring cabbage and bacon pizza is done.

Kumon: Looks delish!

Taichi: The sakura shrimp pizza over here is delicious too~!

Kazunari: Today’s a pizza party~

Citron: It’s time to teeth Itaru~

Chikage: Tease?

Masumi: Trip?

Itaru: No, no, you’re not doing either of that.

Sakuya: Treat, I think?

Tsumugi: It was hectic from beginning to end this time too.

Yuki: I was scared we'd have to jump in again. 

Muku: We had already started discussing what theme we’d use.

Misumi: I was raring to go~! 

Sakuya: Then, please try that next time!

Tasuku: I was wondering how it’d turn out, but it ended up being a pretty Spring Troupe-like performance.

Tenma: Yeah, it made me remember the time I saw their debut performance.

Kazunari: The audience is slowly posting their reviews on social media, and it seems the sequel is well received~

Tsuzuru: Thank God…

Sakyo: And with this, the Summer Troupe can safely inherit the idea to create a sequel to their debut performance.

Misumi: I can’t wait to play the Genie again~!

Muku: I should read the original story again.

Azami: So Autumn will be doing a sequel too… I wasn’t in charge of the makeup back then, so I’ll have to study the play and come up with a plan.

Juza: We can start preparing our roles before the script is done this time. 

Omi: It’s been a while since I last played an antagonist, I’m looking forward to it. I’d like to add a little more depth to him than I did during the debut.

Taichi: I wanna show my growth too, like the Spring Troupe did!

Tsumugi: Since we’ve known these roles for a long time, we're already familiar with them.

Tasuku: Unlike the other troupes, I can’t imagine what a sequel for the Winter Troupe’s debut performance would be like.

Azuma: With the last scene being what it is… I certainly wonder how it’ll turn out.

Homare: It will surely be different from the other troupes. In many ways, we’re looking forward to it, Tsuzuru-kun.

Tsuzuru: Uhhh… That’s too much pressure. But I’ll do my best.

Sakyo: That being said, what’s important is the ranking.

Sakyo: If the results aren’t good, we’ll have to revise our plans.

Izumi: That kinda hurts to think about…

Izumi: But, for now, all we can do is let the Spring Troupe keep up their momentum until the last day of performances.

Sakuya: We’ll do our best!

-

Hisoka: … Chikage, how did going to the place you didn’t wanna go work out for you?

Chikage: Let’s just say it went okay.

Hisoka: So you’re glad you took the plunge.

Chikage: … Pretty much.

Izumi: Everyone, we have a performance tomorrow, so don’t party too hard.

Sakyo: Let’s wrap this up soon.

Masumi: Us Spring Troupe must make sure to post on social media, too. We need a picture.

Banri: He’s really gotten the hang of promotions.

Sakyo: I’m just glad he’s taking the load off my hands.

Sakuya: Let’s gather and take the picture!

Izumi: I’ll take it, then. Okay, look over here–!

[Shutter sound]

Izumi: I’ll send it on LIME.

[Notification blip]

Masumi: Upload it immediately.

Citron: It’s hard with you checking every little thing~

Sakuya: “#AllOfSpringTroupeIsHere!”

Tsuzuru: “#FamilyGetTogetherPizzaParty”

Chikage: “#InACleanRoomForTheOccassion”

Izumi: (Their personalities are showing in their hashtags~)

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[pixel-percy]

☕ Matthew Murdock's favorite barista happens to be his next-door neighbor & is now his girlfriend. They just can't get enough of each other. ☕

Monday | Tuesday | Wednesday | Thursday | Friday | Saturday | Sunday

☕ Word Count: 1.3k ☕ Music Vibes: Seven by Jung Kook (feat. Latto) ☕ Warning(s): Smut (fingering) & incredibly minor injury ☕ A/N: Another hurt/comfort but not as serious and Matt loves to return the favor in a variety of ways. This was just his flavor today :)

Friday

The music from your chosen playlist played softly through the empty coffee shop, front shutter closed as you cleaned and readied for the next day. Sunday was typically the cleaning day for the shop but you planned on taking the full weekend off to spend some quality time with Matt—uninterrupted. Plus it’d give you some peace of mind knowing you set your employees up for success.

The weight of the trash bags you’d accumulated weighed heavily on your fingers as you made your way out of the back door. Thankfully, the dumpster was close by and you quickly shuffled your way over to toss the black bags inside. The air was chilly like it had been for weeks, touching the part of your legs not covered by your pleated shirt. Matt’s deep red sweater that you’d borrowed—one of the only pieces of his wardrobe that wasn’t a suit—kept you warm until you were done with your task. The heel of your knee-high boots echoed a bit in the alley, quickly opening the door behind you and sliding into the backroom of your shop.

“You should be more careful with—”

Before you could even register the man’s voice from behind you, your hand swung. It was a full-force backhand, something completely fueled by the fear that coursed through you, that promptly missed its target. The confusion by the lack of contact was quickly replaced by a fleeting moment of realization that Matt—well, Daredevil—was before you… Just as your momentum sent you hurling toward a nearby steel cabinet.

Matt was fast enough to grab your wrist, his other hand stabilizing your body, but wasn’t able to stop your knuckles from still making contact with the material. A small sting of pain shot through your hand and traveled up your arm.

“SHIT!” you cried, pulling your hand back and out of Matt’s grip to shake it out. “Ow.”

“Are you okay? I’m so sorry.” Matt’s typically sturdy demeanor melted into one of concern and consolation. His hands turned you to him, sliding down your arms to your hand so he could investigate himself. You let him, tears forming in the corner of your eyes.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, still shocked.

“I wanted to surprise you,” he said. The tone of his voice was such a contrast to how imposing his suit made him, all soft and focused on your wellbeing. “Kinda backfired… I’m sorry. Come here, please.”

You allowed him to lead you to a fairly empty work table, pushing some stuff to the side before he promptly grabbed your hips to guide you up onto it. He moved toward the ice maker, grabbed some paper towels, and placed some of the ice chunks within it. When he came back he gently retrieved the injured hand you’d been holding and placed it in his palm so the ice pack could settle nicely on top of your knuckles.

“I appreciate the thought but, uh, maybe next time just call?” you said with a small laugh. The tension in Matt’s shoulders visibly released at the sound.

“Yeah, well, the good news is that you probably would have rung someone’s bell pretty good if you’d connected,” he assured, his knuckles gently touching your chin.

“I guess having superhuman reflexes worked in your favor then.”

“Definitely,” he said with a smile and took his helmet off, setting it on the workstation next to you. It was natural the way he settled between your legs, hands on either side of your thighs, and face close to yours.

“Is anything broken?” you asked softly.

“Not from what I could tell, just some bruising I think, but I can check again if you want,” he said.

“No, no, I trust you.”

“Can I make it up to you? For, the whole, you know, scaring you thing.”

You looked over his face, heat radiating from him. You’d been so distracted by the pain in your hand that you hadn’t been truly paying attention to his proximity and the way his head was leaning toward yours. Man was he a sight to see in his Daredevil getup. Tactical, practical, sexy, you name it. Seeing him in it would never get old, you were sure of that.

“What’d you have in mind?” you asked, surroundings completely lost on you.

You caught the tug of a smirk on his lips before they connected with yours, soft, delicious, and with a purpose you weren’t truly aware of. It wasn’t hard to lean into it, careful to not disturb the ice pack nestled on the back of your hand, and you hummed a little out of contentedness.

It felt as though this kiss was apology enough, but it was not the only thing Matt had had in mind. He pulled you to the edge of the metal table, slyly releasing his hands from his gloves and allowing them to plop onto the surface you’d previously been occupying. The scent of coffee filled your nostrils as you took a deep breath, a reaction to his fingers finding your folds and pressing against your clit.

“Matt,” you breathed.

He didn’t answer. Instead, the material separating him from you was tugged to the side and he dragged his middle finger from your entrance upwards—all the while his lips were still devouring your little gasps and whimpers.

It wasn’t hard for Matt to get you going, like he had a mental handbook he’d made for himself. The way he swirled his fingers around your clit and the way he so salaciously inserted one, two fingers inside of you without so much as a doubt. He alternated between his palm rubbing against you on the outside and eventually getting far enough inside to touch exactly where you needed to. It was like magic, something you’d never experienced before. One of the two was going to make you cum or, if you were lucky, both.

None of that mattered to you though, just being in Matt’s embrace was enough. You were going to be sore in more ways than one by the end of this week, you could feel it. Just like you could feel the way his fingers so expertly rubbed the most important parts of you.

“Shit,” you whined, good arm draping over his shoulder. Your hand found his hair, your comfortable position, and before long you said a mental ‘fuck it’ and allowed your other hand to join. The ice pack tumbled onto the workstation noisily but neither of you were concerned by it.

Objectively, you shouldn’t be fucking in the back room of your coffee shop, it probably violated a ridiculous amount of health codes. But here you were. The cameras weren’t the only thing that would need a wipe after this.

Matt kissed your neck softly, teeth nibbling ever so slightly as he focused on what his hands were doing. Like every other time you found yourselves pleasuring one another, time seemed to fade. Ten minutes, twenty, an hour, you didn’t know nor did you care. If eternity meant you could be in Matt’s hands, you’d drift away today.

All of the tension built within you released all at once, muscles flexing around his fingers, and your cry caught in the weave of his kevlar. Matt’s free hand rubbed your back, the other, unfortunately, leaving you. It was a few minutes of silence, blissed out from the surprise of it all, before you spoke again.

“I thought your apology was just going to be the kiss,” you said a bit breathlessly.

“That’d be like getting flowers after a fight.” Matt wiped his hand on a used towel. “Passable, but you could always do more.”

“Apology accepted. No notes.”

The both of you shared a laugh, pulling back enough to touch his nose with yours.

“Good,” he said and placed a quick kiss on your lips.

“Can I ask you for a favor, please?”

“Of course.” Matt nuzzled your nose a bit, a common thing that almost always made you feel good. Cute. Sweet.

“Since I’ve only got one usable hand, I’m going to need some help finishing up here,” you said and made a little show of your hand, pain simmering down to a sting. “ Especially disinfecting.”

Matt smiled, reapplied the ice to your hand, and patted your thighs affectionately.

“Leave it to me, angel.”

[ijustwantedtobeoneofthestrokesuk]

We Love Detroit Too!

Detroit

It turned out New York wasn’t the only city in the States reinventing rock ‘n’ roll and again, they broke it in the UK before their homeland…

Detroit’s musical heritage dates back for generations and each era gives birth to a new, diverse and unique sound thanks to a blend of cultures in the city.  From blues in 1920 to hip hop in the 1990’s, Detroit has heard it all (along with jazz, gospel and pop). Eminem was gaining momentum in the late nineties, as was Kid Rock but there was something special exploding across the city at the same time but nobody was talking about it.  

The Gold Dollar Bar, a 75 capacity-former strip club was where they all started, usually playing to just a handful of people (mostly the other bands on the lineup who would be supportive of one another). Once bands cut their teeth there, they would dream of playing The Magic Stick. The former bowling alley, which had been converted into a live music venue in the ‘90’s was the pinnacle for the scene. The White Stripes might be the biggest export from the era but Detroit was flooded with great music at the time, something Jack White would celebrate when he released the compilation album, Sympathetic Sounds of Detroit in 2001. 

The kind of story that came with the arrival of The White Stripes will never happen again as the 2-piece surrounded themselves in mystery. Having formed in 1997 they’d already released two albums before Jack and Meg White broke through with Hotel Yorba on White Blood Cells. The Detroit garage rock band was part of a scene that included The Von Bondies and they were unique in sound, style and relationship. Were they brother and sister, husband and wife, formerly a couple or was it all just a story? They kept us guessing! If this happened now they’d be an old Tweet or something online that would ruin their story. If you don’t want to know the ending you might want to skip the next sentence.  

They were… married. 

Aged 15, Jack White (real name John Anthony Gillis) was introduced to punk music when he was on an upholstery apprenticeship and formed a band with his manager, who played the drums, so Jack picked up the guitar. He loved music but, after his apprenticeship, he started his own business, Third Man Upholstery where the brand colours were yellow and black, something Jack would bring back with his record label, Third Man Records. Jack was skilled but lacked professionalism, writing bills with a crayon and putting poetry inside furniture wasn’t necessarily what people were looking for… 

He continued to play in bands around Detroit, he was the drummer in Goober & the Peas (his bandmates were the ones who nicknamed him Jack) before returning to the guitar. In 1996 Jack married Meg White and a year later they started playing together. ]

The White Stripes stood out, their sound was different. Jack, an amazing guitarist, Meg, a competent drummer (influenced by riot grrrl), no bassist, it was simple but it worked! What was most surprising was the fact that 1999’s self-titled debut and 2000’s De Stijl went unnoticed. Jack was heavily influenced by blues and garage rock but there was more to The White Stripes than their sound which made them timeless, their image. They only wore red, black and white, the same colour palette used for their artwork.  

From the very beginning, they said that they were siblings, they were young, white and played ‘black music’ but they cleverly used their relationship, their iconic colour pallete and the fact that they didn’t have a bass player as the novelty act. It was distraction tactics at their best, it would take marketing teams months to dream that up.  

In the early days the pair were inseparable. The first White Stripes gig took place at the Gold Dollar Bar in August ‘97 where they started to plant themselves in the local garage rock scene. Their early gigs weren’t great, Jack shone as a guitarist, leaving Meg behind, during one gig Jack asked if there were any drummers in the audience. Nobody would have predicted the success they would reach, they came across like a hobby, a side project for Jack. 

In June 1999 they released their self-titled debut album on legendary Californian-based record label Sympathy for the Record Industry which Jack produced himself. It was raw, well balanced and The White Stripes at their most authentic, birthing excitement into the Detroit scene. 

9 months later Jack and Meg got divorced, Jack presumed the band was over but Meg convinced him there was a future and a second album. De Stijl, came out a year after the debut and it saw the sound evolve. As the band started to gain momentum Meg gained confidence when performing live and the connection between the pair was on a different level. 

In April 2001 Sympathy Of The Record Industry released White Blood Cells, Jack and Meg’s breakthrough record but, like its predecessors, it was overlooked. The album was recorded in Memphis and to celebrate the release they headed back to The Gold Dollar Bar for a release party. John Peel started shouting about them on Radio 1 in the summer and the band recorded two iconic sessions with him. In August they played their first UK show at the 100 Club in London which could have been sold out several times over. Jack was in awe of the venue. Buzz started to happen around the band, then their Jools Holland performance in November gave them that extra bit of exposure while the mystery surrounding the 2-piece got the press talking and people listening, even the Daily Mirror hailed them as “the greatest band since the Sex Pistols”.  

All of the new excitement about the duo saw them re-release White Blood Cells after signing to V2. The backing of a big label helped them reach a new audience who were exposed to the charm and playful sounds of singles, Hotel Yorba and Fell In Love With A Girl. The success of White Blood Cells didn’t mark the start of luxury life for the band who continued to keep things organic. Jack produced the follow-up album and avoided the easy life of recording, using antiqued equipment instead. 

Detroit never left Jack, after the release of the Sympathetic Sounds of Detroit, a compilation of Detroit bands on his own label in 2001 he continued to support the scene as he appeared on Danger! High Voltage, the hit single from his mates Electric Six. At the time all parties denied his involvement, eventually, it was confirmed it was Jack on the record but he never received any money from it.

The White Stripes might have been the biggest export from Detroit, The Von Bondies, fronted by Jason Stollsteimer had success too, even if they didn’t start out as a Detroit band.

Jason “The Von Bondies formed from the (no wave) band The Baby Killers, after Don Blum joined.  Basically, The Baby Killers was a house party/basement show band with no structure to our songs.  After Don, The Von Bondies long-term drummer, joined it was obvious that something new emerged.  Both musically and chemistry-wise.  So, I renamed the band The Von Bondies. 

We were not originally a Detroit band, we were living in Ann Arbor/Ypsilanti. Keep in mind this is before the internet as we know it now.  So, I had no idea what was happening in the Detroit music scene.  We formed the Baby Killers in 1998 and I moved to Detroit around 2000/01.  I remembered that a lot of the bands I’d see did a ton of obscure covers.  And that mostly everyone was 5 to 15 years older than us.  So, we were children in age comparison.” 

It didn’t take long for the band to catch the eye of the Sympathy for the Record Industry label who put out their debut album, Lack Of Communication in 2001. The band hadn’t really thought about recording an album but Jack White (who was always at shows as The White Stripes were still relatively unknown at the time) and local producer Jim Diamond convinced them to.  

The line-up had only been together 6 months before going to the studio and they’d never rehearsed with a microphone or a proper PA so they didn’t exactly know how they sounded and were skeptical about going into the studio. The album was recorded and mixed in just 3 days, mostly recorded live so they can’t have been too bad! 

Jason “The NME mainlined a way for our non-polished sound to reach the masses.  John Peel was the most important UK fixture that pushed the Detroit sound, in my opinion. We were fortunate enough to play the BBC/John Peel show multiple times.  

I think that the timing was right for a gritty, no-shits-given sound.  This was years before bands like The Libertines, who were attitude-wise a ton like the Detroit scene. 

Labels played a role in doing the things I personally hated. IE marketing, promotions, crap that I find annoying.  Yet, I know that it’s important if you want to get your message/sound out to as many people as possible in the shortest amount of time. Looking back, I now realise that our countdown to the end was started the moment I sang into my first mic.” 

Both The White Stripes and The Von Bondies had become favourites in the UK but they were still relatively underground. Elephant, which was, in many eyes, The Whites Stripes’ second album was about to change it for Jack and Meg in 2003, without “selling out”. Elephant still sounded raw and low fi but it was executed better. The reviews were great but they didn’t make it easy, they only sent on promo copies on vinyl, Jack said he didn’t want the album to be reviewed by anyone who didn’t own a record player. 

Although it was an instant success, nobody would have predicted that Seven Nation Army would become arguably the most universally sung songs of all time as there’s no language barrier to sing that guitar line.  

The Von Bondies had an opportunity to “make it” too after signing with major label Sire (Warner Bros.) who released Pawn Shoppe Heart in March 2004. The album was produced by Jerry Harrison from Talking Heads/The Modern Lovers, the label signed off the album but asked them to write 4 more songs for b-sides in the UK. The rest of the band were away so Jason was stuck in a hotel on his own writing and recording for 2 days, in his mind the album was finished and these were just throw-away tracks. He returned the 4 songs, one of them being C’Mon C’Mon, the most poppy song he’d written and despite Jason’s protests, the label not only put it on the album but it was the lead single and their breakthrough song for the band.  

As the album was a success the label made sure they toured it as much as possible. When they eventually made it into the studio things didn’t go to plan for album number 3.  

Love, Hate and Then There's You didn’t get released until February 2009 as Sire made the band record it 10 times with different producers, in different studios as they didn’t hear a hit. After Jason’s patience wore thin he asked the guy at the label what he wanted to hear, which was emo music as My Chemical Romance were popular at the time. This pushed Jason too far, he called a lawyer that night to get the band off the label which took a year and all of his life's savings in lawyer fees to be free.  

The album was finally released on Majordomo Records but the songs were old and had been over-recorded and Jason had started to fall out of love with music. 

NEXT CHAPTER

[thewatercolours]

🤔🖍🛠❤️

🤔What’s a story you’d love to write but haven’t even started yet?

I had this idea once to write a theoretical Reboot Season Two arc of five chapters, but do it in the form of a "transcript" from an hour long Youtuber's review of it. (If such a thing existed, it would make sense for it to exclusively focus on Gwendolyn's adventures, but like the predictable sap I am, I wanted more Graham. I had this idea that the framing device would be all Gwendolyn and Gart adventurers, but still drawing on memories of Grandpa's stories to shape their paths - queue the main part of the game.) I still think it could be fun to write, though probably not soon. I was reminded of this concept not too long ago when I got a really kind and inventive comment on "Priorities" on ao3, where someone gave their thoughts on how it might continue if it were an actual game, and it was so cool, my mind returned to Reboot Season Two, thinking, "That could be one of the chapters." (Although honestly I really just want to be able to play it...)

🖍Post Any sentence from your WIP.

From Path of Kingship:

Abrupt as a cannon blast, Number One pounded on the ceiling and shouted forcefully, “Stop the carriage this instant!”

🛠Is there a scene or anything in the WIP you are struggling with right now?

Oh, they're all stalling a little. With Path of Kingship, I'm trying to plot out the next mini-arc. There are going to be three before monsoon season comes - Mannerly Stove was the first one. I know the root of the next problem I'm going to put Graham and Number One through, but the specifics of how it plays out need a bit more brainstorming. With Rippling Consequences, well, it's a matter of figuring the best way to get from point A to B - from something very emotional to something very plotty - in such a way that it feels natural. "Lilac Spell" (or whatever I end up calling it) needs momentum to just sit down and work on it. I have a few others, but there's a taste.

Thanks for the extra kudos! :-) 🥰

[mysticscrystalrevelation]

Game 10 Concentrated Thurs, June 6 7pm EDT Chicago @ Washington

Starting: WASH: Atkins, Dolson, Edwards, Samuelson, Vanloo (Sykes out with ankle injury, Austin injury rest?) CHI: DeShields, Evans, Mabrey, Reese, Williams

1st Quarter Always GREAT to see former Mystic Elizabeth Williams among a just plain excellent cast of characters for the Sky. Edwards makes good cuts, she's never stagnant. Three straight possessions we find her under the hoop for the easiest $2—forcing the Sky to huddle up and figure out a response. For the first time in quite a few games, the early energy among DC players is HYPE. Stef just twirled Shakira. The best part about home games is obviously the TOP two voices in sports: the legendary, always flawlessly attired Meghan McPeak and Christy Winters-Scott. <3 <3 JVL playing with a wrapped thumb tonight, doesn't appear to be slowing her down. Edwards' jumper gives her 8 after 3 mins, 100% of our scoring power. Karlie joins the fun with a corner 3 undeterred by a leaping Diamond DeShields. Sky with only 3 pts. A miss, a moving screen, and a lost ball from us and the Sky have made up the difference. Shatori, Yish, and Jade in. We're getting some steals and stops but a bit light on offense. Cardoso is fast at 6'7". Refs starting to get frisky with the whistles. Jade misses a free throw, gets her own and puts it right up to end the 1st 21-15.

2nd Quarter I've been thinking it all year and it's time to say it: Dana Evans is not playing around this season. Respectfully, she wasn't messing around last year either but it's a vector not a point, you know? Our bench struggling against good Sky defense to start the 2nd and they tie it up. It's not pretty right now, whistles, misses, no flow both ends. Shatori hypes the crowd up with a move and a jumper. Engstler with some first-half minutes today and gets a block. We find Aaliyah under the hoop next play and it's starting to look more like the first quarter. Eeeeeeverybody touches the ball and Earl downs the trey. Cardoso to Reese just playing above the heads of everyone—can't let that take off. Shatori jukes, pulls up, scores. Cardoso to Reese repeat and Eric calls time to solve it. Starting line returns. JVL is left alone -> layup. Chennedy with some tuff buckets here in the second. JVL finds Edwards, who drops it in and then gets a block on Reese the other way. Still Sky ball and she gets ANOTHER block on Cardoso this time. Ooh Chennedy heating up, getting what she wants. It's 41-35. Aaliyah is 7 of 7. Stef hits a three, closing the half 44-35.

3rd Quarter Patience continues to pay off on O as we eventually get someone lonely under the hoop. Elizabeth Williams out with knee injury (didn't see it) get better quick E! I was wondering about the extended minutes for Cardoso as she's coming back from injury herself. I'd love to see DiDi get in here. Go-go is rocking the house but the Sky get the D and a Mabrey 3. Some consecutive empty possessions and the lead shrinks to 3. We have let go too soon of what was working—slipping a player to the hoop. Aaliyah with a big block hopefully driving a momentum shift. Sky within 1. The hoop is not accepting shots on the DC end. Foul shots give Chicago the lead. A Capital P Painful 16-0 run. Myisha breaks the curse. Jade leaps and goes sliding off into the crowd "safe at third" according to Meghan lol. Edwards making a tough shot here and we're even at 54. Criminally underrated Izzy Harrison with 6 quick points. Turnover and Angel Reese and-1 and we need a timeout with just 50 seconds left in the quarter, dragging by 6 prior to the foul shot. Reese misses the extra but we turn it over right away. 54-60. Only 10 points in the quarter for DC.

4th Quarter Shatori doing all the scoring for us by drawing fouls. We are struggling to get stops the other way. 58-64. A couple Sky misses match ours and things aren't pretty right now. Ariel shows her toughness for 2 and then we get a defensive rebound, but turn it over on a push off. Earl gets the steal and will go to the line after her shot attempt. 61-64 with 5 minutes remaining. Chennedy gets another tough bucket and she has 19 for Chicago. Things are not pretty at all. Back-to-back turns and the Sky's 2-pt lead becomes 6. 2:22 to play. Ugly gets uglier—Earl misses both free throws, Chennedy gets a shot and then we turn it over. We can't seem to find the net. 71-79. We have lost all 10 games! Nothing to say about that at this point. Aaliyah Edwards with a double-double.