#seven ashen steps

[bubbles-for-all-of-us]

Mystery of love

Previously / Next chapter

a/n I’m sorry for the wait, I hope that people who wanted to see this will see this. 🤍

summary: when two lost souls meet at their mutual friend’s party sparks fly, the question is if whatever they feel can actually bloom into something more? But that’s the mystery of love.

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“What are you looking at, Dolores?”, you hitched the box full of books higher as you walked by the elderly lady who had been staring through the shop window for a handful of minutes, making it hard for you to miss. “There’s a car,” she mused, pointing ever so slightly. “Across the street. Been there for—”, she glanced down at her watch, “Two hours, twenty-seven… eight minutes.”

“Maybe it’s one of your book club members,” you shrugged, huffing as you pushed on the double-decked boxes with your hip. “Sure,” she let out a low chuckle, “the boy looks your age. I doubt he’s interested in us old farts.” You quickly turned back, eyes searching for the car Dolores was referring to. And as always, it was with a blink of an eye that you saw him. The window was down, and he was on his phone. “I’ll be right back,” you muttered beneath your breath. “And don’t lift anything,” you warned her, pointing a finger at her before slipping into the chilly autumn breeze.

You crossed the street carelessly, jogging toward the familiar black car. “We had a deal,” you tapped against the side frame, making Noah jolt slightly. “To my defense, I didn’t set foot in the bookstore, and that was the main rule you had,” Noah smiled at you, leaning back into his seat.“Do I need a restraining order against you?”, you crossed your arms over your chest, watching him for a moment. The dark circles beneath his eyes had not been this visible the last time you saw each other. He looked ashen and drained.

“Technically, this is public property, and my rights are being violated. I can’t pursue reading,” Noah cut into your train of thought, making you roll your eyes. You glanced back toward the shop, snickering slightly at the sight of Dolores with her face practically pressed to the window, watching you two. “Well, are you up for an eventful evening?”, you turned back to Noah, who was already ushering you to stand aside so he could step out. “Do I need to be scared?”, he asked, throwing you that innocent smile of his. “Nope,” you chirped, pulling out the ‘o’ into a light song before flashing him a daring look.

That’s how Noah found himself lining up chairs and moving around boxes. A handful of elderly women offered him food and fussed over how skinny he was. “You don’t feed him enough, Y/n,” one of the book club members, at least that’s what Noah had gathered, said, shaking her head as she glanced at you. “He’s a big boy; he can feed himself, Mrs. Radler,” you chirped over your shoulder with a smile. Yet there was a sense of ease here. The pace of the place seemed slower.

“Do you mind?”, Noah quickly turned to the side, seeing Dolores, who had been over the moon excited to greet him, turning a jar of peanut butter in her slightly trembling hands. “Not one bit,” swiftly undoing the lid, Noah set it on the little side counter. “And knives?”, Dolores simply pointed toward the drawer, and he knew she was watching him, assessing him in her way.

“She’s good, you know, our Y/n,” Dolores started, letting her gaze drift towards the main shop floor, where you fussed over everyone with equal amounts of love and care. It was fascinating. Not to mention the first time Noah saw you smile for real. Not that slight forced smile out of obligation, but a genuine, full-hearted smile.

“I don’t doubt it one bit, ma’am,” Noah smiled, moving to spread peanut butter on yet another piece of toast. “She’s all prickly on the outside, but you give her time,” Dolores mused, spooning jam onto the half-made sandwiches. “You look like you need a bit of Y/n in your life, son.” Noah chuckled, “I doubt she wants to…”, “Oh, she does. You might just be what she’s been looking for too,” Dolores cut in, tapping Noah on the back. “Bring these out for me; don’t trust these hands one bit,” she pointed to the tray before reaching for her cane.

You watched him, handing out sandwiches before the reading began. A polite smile on his face, hair pulled up in a messy bun. His cheeks grew slightly pink at the scandalized looks on some of the women’s faces when they noticed his tattoos. But he stayed. Not a single complaint. Not a single frown. He could have turned on his heel and gone. Nothing was holding him here. But no, Noah was here, making you wonder how a person you barely knew could find ways to get involved in things you loved while your ex could not. “So, let’s not forget to take our blood pressure pills, ladies,” you clapped softly. Glancing over the room one more time to make sure that everything was in the right order, you added, “The girl on the evening shift will close up after you, so don’t worry about anything. Just enjoy yourselves.”

Noah watched you cross the street toward him for the second time tonight. However, this time, he knew he wasn’t going to get scolded. You quickly slipped into the passenger seat with a sigh. While he could tell that you enjoyed your job, it no doubt took a toll on you.

“So, are we thinking unhealthy food, or do you want to risk food poisoning if I cook?” Noah threw you a look, making you chuckle slightly. “Takeout, my place. I have a pie for dessert we could eat,” you glanced at him, glad to see that flicker of excitement. One that hadn’t been there this morning. “Cheeky you, inviting me over the second time around,” Noah mused. “Yep, nope,” you moved for the door, but Noah quickly locked it. A slight silence fell before you turned towards him once more. “Why did you stay?”, you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. Noah looked straight ahead, the streetlights glistening in his eyes. There was something in the way he thought of his answer, the way he was picking the words in his head, that frightened you.

“No, changed my mind. Don’t answer that,” you waved your hand in front of you. Noah’s eyes fell on you then, a light smile on his face. “You’re scared my answer might make your heart skip a beat?” he nodded your way, making you cross your arms over your chest. But this time, you didn’t find it in you to deflect. “Maybe,” you admitted. You could feel the slight surprise radiating off him before a slight smug smile spread across his face as he started the car.

“He’s cool,” Noah said, running his fingers through Marsh’s fur, making the blind cat nudge against his palm. Empty plates littered the table, ones Noah had offered to wash up, but you had simply waved him off. “He also hates people, but it seems that you are the exception,” you mused, your head resting in your palm as you watched them. Once again, you found yourself enjoying the feeling of having someone around. Of having Noah around.

“Now that’s a compliment,” Noah blew out a breath, scratching behind Marsh’s ear, sending the cat into a purring fit. “We have quite a few pets in the house,” Noah pointed out, pulling the cat onto his lap. “So, a professional pet whisperer,” you hummed, making Noah snicker, “Something like that.” And then there he would go. One minute a smile, the next empty eyes as he stared at the pet in front of him. You told yourself you didn’t care. It wasn’t your business. But it haunted you, a strange need to comfort him.

“Emmy said that the upcoming months will be hard for you all,” you muttered, making Noah snap his head toward you. The expression on his face was almost panicked, making you quickly add, “Well, she mostly cried about Matt leaving but…” Noah frowned slightly. “Yeah… I guess,” he muttered. “We don’t have to talk about it if you…” you started, only to be met by Noah shaking his head. “No, no, it’s just… I haven’t voiced it out loud but…” He let out a deep sigh. “I’m thinking about canceling the rest of the tour.” Now it was your turn to stare, and as stupid as it was, all you could muster was a quiet, “Oh…”

Noah let out an almost bitter laugh as he dragged his palms over his face. “Good job on not giving away that you knew us,” he grunted between his fingers. “I didn’t, and I don’t,” you clipped in, sitting up. “I haven’t googled any of you. I don’t care. I’m sorry if that’s upsetting,” you shrugged. He turned to you slowly, his head resting on the headrest of the sofa. “You’re probably used to girls falling on their knees for that fact alone,” it was a bitter blow on your part, and from the way Noah clenched his jaw, you knew that you had been wrong. “Doesn’t mean that I like it,” Noah sighed, looking down at Marsh again.

You felt guilty in a way. It seemed like all your interactions with him always ended with you pulling claws. “Thank you for helping today,” you muttered, hoping to get him talking again. “I liked it. It was fun,” Noah admitted. “Different from… well, from my weeks as of late,” and the light scowl spoke volumes. “Well, if you enjoyed it, you can pop by anytime,” the words slipped the words slipped past your lips before you even thought them over. “Dolores will be delighted to see the handsome boy in black,” you glanced back at him.“Never take granny's love for granted,” Noah nodded before glancing at his watch. “I should probably go.”

“Stay, it’s late,” you breathed, a hint of panic in your voice as you reached for him. “Better not,” and there it was—the same slashing disappointment as his words hit you, making you pull back. It was the disappointment in your eyes that did it. “I would love to, but I don’t sleep that well,” Noah muttered, reaching for your hand, fingers trying to carefully intertwine with yours.“What do you mean?”, Your words were barely a whisper as you laid your hand on the sofa, both of you facing each other.

“Just… hard to explain,” Noah whispered, his tired eyes soaking you in. It terrified you, the idea of him driving now, in his current state. “Okay, well I also sleep poorly, so we can watch old movies and just, I don’t know…” you offered, hoping he would cave in. There was a war zone in his head, you could feel it, yet he still nodded ever so slightly. “Okay?” you asked just to make sure.“Yeah,” Noah muttered, finally fully settling his palm against yours and giving your hand a slight squeeze.

[atalldrinkofcaprisun]

Don’t Wait For Me After I’m Gone (pt. 1)

silco x gn!reader - he didn’t die AU - tw: canon compliant violence, drug use - 18+

sooo what’s up!!! I’m reworking this fic. again. so keep your eyes out if you like it lmao

also on ao3 xx masterlist

You burst into the old blown out factory, lungs heaving to try and provide oxygen to your muscles and heart, sprinting across the underground city had been a feat of adrenaline. The streak of blue that had cut across the blood colored, smoke tinted moon had filled you with dread. It had started in your chest, a pile of rough cut stones, falling down to your stomach and resting there.

The edges of your vision were dark as you rested your hands on your knees, trying to steady yourself, “Jinx!” Your voice echoed deep into the factory’s carcass, “Jinx! Are you here?”

Silence. Of course she wouldn’t respond. Even if she was still here, she was morbidly melodramatic. Since the bridge a few nights past, you had only heard whispers of the girl you had grown to love like your own.

Silco had been worried sick, and desperately trying to hide it. You hadn’t seen him either since he left to meet with the Piltover golden boy. That was almost seven hours ago. You fixed your posture and decided to take in the dimly lit surroundings.

The walls of rubble cast deep and jagged shadows across the wreckage. Jagged rusted beams jutted upwards, as vegetation stretched across wire and debris. The moonlight cloaking it all in a crimson. There was a clearing created beneath a segment of the cannery that was still relatively intact. A table sat in the center, surrounded by wreckage and scars from old chaos. It was set with candles, place settings and chairs. The smell of gunsmoke still hovered in the air, faded and cut with the tang of blood and smoke. There were four chairs, one on each end of the table and one next to the others on opposite sides. Various nicknacks and guns were strewn on it.

That’s when your eyes fell on the only other person left in the room.

Your heart stopped, you knew that profile. The landscape of features you’d painstakingly memorized, hidden by the shadow of his office chair. His body was slack and hanging as if he had simply once again fallen asleep at his desk upon first glance. A twinge in your gut told you something was very wrong. Silco would have responded to your voice. He always did.

You took one step forward, and another, “Silco?” your voice felt far away. With more cautious steps you were able to stand in front of him. You immediately noticed the ashen tone settling in his face, the trickle of drying red coming from his mouth. Your heartbeat surged in your ears as the world around you began to shake, or was that you?

He wasn’t breathing, “Silco, can you hear me?” Your hand reached out instinctually, trying to push back the strands of hair that had fallen into his face. He always hated it when his hair was mussed in anywhere but your private rooms at the Last Drop. He was getting so cold! You could feel the lump forming in your throat, “Sil… Silco please,” you bent, crouching so your hands could cup his face.

His eyes, a part of him that was so expressive and alive, looked empty, dull. Even his glowing eye that had made darkness always seem less menacing was lifeless. His ember eye was looking at the abyss, the familiar glow faded away. The reality was before you, straight from some nightmare. But you weren’t asleep. This was real. He was- You felt the rawness of your throat before you realized you were the one screaming. Pain rippled through your body as you cradled your heart in your hands.

You let the tears fall, cascading down your cheeks, you heaved in air but it wasn’t enough, you still couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t be dead. He couldn’t. Not now. Not when he had just begun to see that there are more goals than simply war and glory. You looked at his torso, unable to see his face so slack and aimless for a second longer. Bullet wounds were slashed into his clothing, blood dripping into his fine fabrics and leathers, cooling and tinted just the slightest glimmer of purple.

“I- I didn’t mean too…” the voice cut through the sobbing, causing you to gasp and turn. Somehow Jinx had gotten behind you, just as she always did. A hyper-pigmented shadow. You looked up at her with ruddy cheeks.

Her eyes burned a violent pink in the half light and her arms were wrapped tightly around her midsection. Her entire body was shivering. Her bangs had fallen in her face, matted and dirty, long braids trailing haphazardly behind her. Her lips were pouted and tear tracks of dried shimmer lay crusted on her freckled cheeks, “It was… a mistake… I didn’t know what I was doing. I needed it to stop! They were shouting! I’m- I’m so sorry,”

You looked at the girl who you had helped raise from an orphaned urchin. For the first time in a long time you were looking directly at that little girl again. Your head was spinning trying to comprehend everything as Silco’s body continued to cool. What she was saying, “Jinx… you did this?”

“No-no it was an accident. There were too many voices and I saw a gun-“ She stepped further into the light. Now you could see, the large shark-like rocket launcher slung behind her back. She dropped heavily to her knees, crumbling to the stone floor, “I fired it. Like he wanted. Fishbone worked. He-He told me to show them all.” Her voice was clipped and irregular.

You shook your head, “That’s not important right now. How long has he been here?”

Jinx rubbed away her tears and sniffled, “I d-don’t know.”

“Okay,” you felt your resolve settling back in your chest. A hand moved from Silco’s face to reach into your travel pouch, and pulled out a magenta tube full of Shimmer and the injector you kept on hand just in case, “If you can do it, Jinx, so can he.”

You took a deep breath and slid the tube into its slot, priming the needle and looking at the blue-haired girl, “It’s going to be okay, I promise.” You said it more for yourself than anything, before plunging the needle loaded with serum into his chest, just right of his heart.

The injector hissed as the Shimmer emptied itself into his bloodstream. You watched the drug vanish, making sure the vial was empty before you backed away. Silco was tied up still but you had seen many people react very badly to the substance before. He had a certain level of immunity after years of having it be the sole medication that worked on his condition, but better safe than sorry. You opened your arms for the blue haired girl to come to your side. She obliged, throwing her weight into you. Your arms wrapped around her and you waited with bated breath.

For a moment nothing happened, Silco remained lifeless and still. You could feel the little spark of hope fading away once again. It had been too long. You’d been too late, or hadn’t had enough.

His shoulder twitched, just a small amount. Barely noticeable if not for the rustle of his shirt. Your breath hitched and you felt Jinx tense in your arms, “Did… did it-“

All at once, Silco’s head snapped backwards as purple light erupted along his veins, up his neck and face, sliding down his arm and supposedly the rest of his body. He inhaled sharply, his teeth clenched as the spasms began. You could almost feel the drug searing through his veins as if it was in your own. His muscles spasmed and his body seemed to flex and strain at the influx of shimmer. His head remained tilted upwards and the wooden chair he was bound to creaked as he shuddered. The whimpers and gurgles became grunts of pain and those turned into shouts, “No- Please- She’s my daughter! I need her! I won’t give her up! No!”

Silco’s long fingers gripped the arms of the chair, knuckles turning white. He growled and gagged as his body thrashed. Jinx tucked herself closer and closer into you, watching with wrapped horror.

“Sil? Sil can you hear me?” You called, hoping your voice could cut through whatever hallucinations he was seeing.

“No! Not them! Please, my-Mrph my family- Ah!” He howled as his eyes began to shine like his veins, light pouring out and upwards. He sobbed your name, begging. You couldn’t keep away. Jinx willingly slipped from your arms as you leapt to his side. You placed your hands on his hollow cheekbones again. Responding to your touch he looked at you, but he didn’t seem able to see you, “Don’t hurt them, don’t hurt them,” he begged over and over, his voice breaking.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, Silco, it’s me!” Your voice trembled when you spoke.

His good eye seemed to finally come into focus, seeing your face, relief washing into him as the effects of the Shimmer dosage began to be more manageable. You were grateful you had been carrying his particular dilution of the substance. You ran a hand through his hair, “Breathe, it’ll be over soon, then we can take you to Singed, he’ll be able to patch you up, just like new. Just breathe, darling.”

“You-You’re here? Th-This is real?” His voice was more of a slurring than actual speech.

You smiled and pressed a kiss to his forehead, “Yes, Sil. It’s gonna be alright. You’re going to survive. Don't you dare ditch me in this mess.”

You looked behind yourself to see Jinx staring at the pair of you, eyes wide with worry and guilt, but you sniffed and shook your head as if to say, ‘Don’t worry about it now.’

“I’ll go get the doc. I’m the fastest… you can cut him loose when the purple is gone. He’ll bleed out if he moves now.” And like the darkness in a room when you turned on a light, she was gone. Fishbones laying in the dust as the only evidence she had been there.

You didn’t have time to worry about Jinx however, that would be something to deal with when Silco was stabilized. You refocused your attention, as another wave of pain seemed to overcome him and he hissed, hands once again gripping the chair arms with white knuckles.

“Hold on, Sil. Help is on the way, we’re going to survive this. All of us.” You settled in for the wait.

[talesofadragon]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐲𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐇𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐨𝐧 𝐄𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐧 𝐀𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐮𝐞

Synopsis: Steve Rogers was looking forward to Halloween. Not because of the costumes, the tricking and the treating, or Tony’s meticulous party planning—he was looking forward to spending some quality time with his Y/N. But a cozy night in with pumpkin spice lattes and that Halloween Town movie he needed to catch up on was soon abandoned when the mysterious house on Easton Avenue called for his attention.

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Civilian!Reader

Genre: SMUT | Fluff | Some scary stuff

Warnings: Unprotected sex, P in the V, oral sex, temperature play, sex toys, kegel balls, blindfolds, bondage, pussy slapping, object insertion, deepthroating, shoe humping, degradation, dacryphilia, sex tapes, mirror sex, breast fucking, orgasm denial, edging, squirting, overstimulation, should I go on? It’s shameful sex, basically.

Word Count: 12K

A/N: HAPPY HALLOWEEN, FOLKS! This is my very first time doing a kinktober special, but I really wanted to submit an entry to @jtargaryen18's Halloween Special! So, I hope you all like this. And forgive me, because I just finished it, and didn't triple-check for typos. Enjoy 🧡🎃

All Masterlists | Steve Rogers Masterlist

𝐀𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐑𝐘 𝐆𝐔𝐒𝐓 of red surged from within the fifth house on Easton Avenue, sending a chaotic ripple across the entire neighborhood. At least, that’s how you pictured it in your head. That house had a vicious and ominous aura, topped with a polarizing effect that both dared you to come closer and urged you to stay away. 

Something about that house wasn’t right ever since its residents claimed it a week ago. It had been a solid year since you moved to Brooklyn to live with Steve, and as far as you knew, that old and frail house had been vacant for the better half of seven years. Yet now, all so suddenly, someone decided it was the most miraculous idea in the world to step through the broken fence and make do with whatever crumbs the beaten structure had to offer—with little regard or effort at fixing it. 

“What in the name of God are you doing?” 

Lost in the abstract aura of your neighbor’s house, Steve had crept up on you, and you were none the wiser. You whipped your head to the back, hands firmly clutching the binoculars. It was not a sound decision on your behalf because Steve’s majestic blue-green eyes were now tenfold bigger, almost as if they were about to devour you whole.

You shrieked, fingers still gripping the binoculars for reasons unknown. Your startled expression made Steve stiffen and look around.

“Why are you screaming?” he asked, taking the binoculars away from your face. His eyebrows furrowed slightly when he caught the letter “A” engraved on the side. “Did you take these from my mission bag, Y/N?” 

You sheepishly gazed up at him, giving him your best pout. Steve didn’t particularly mind if you rummaged through his things, but the reason you lived on Easton Avenue and not at the Avengers Compound was that he tried to keep you away from his “alter ego,” as you liked to call it. So, snooping through his mission bag might have contradicted the boundaries you had previously set.

“I was birdwatching,” you blurted out without a second thought. 

Steve regarded you skeptically. “Birdwatching,” he repeated, his tone heavy with doubt. 

“Yes. This time of the year brings very colorful birds.” 

He didn’t respond, only subtly arching an eyebrow. Placing the binoculars on the nearby couch, his slender and long fingers pushed the curtain aside—enough for him to peek out the window. And because Steven Grant Rogers was God’s perfect human creation, he didn’t need even a monocle to catch sight of the fifth townhouse down your street. 

“Yeah, you’re right. That ashen plumage does splendidly reflect the beauty of this season.” 

“At least you are a gentleman enough to feign belief,” you remarked, indignantly rolling your eyes. 

Knowing what was going to follow, you picked up the binoculars and headed to your shared bedroom. But Steve was right behind you with the same retort he used when he caught you so much as thinking about that house. “Dove, you need to stop investing so much energy into that house. There’s nothing wrong about it.”

“Everything is wrong about it, Steve!” you defended, picking up his bag from the closet and putting the binoculars back. “It’s creepy and morbid, and I can’t believe anyone would willingly choose to settle in it.” 

“It’s a nice house. I’m sure, with some attention, anyone would want to settle in it.” 

“Well, that’s the thing! Why aren’t the new owners doing anything about it? It’s sitting there like the Shrieking Shack in Hogsmeade. The only missing part is the werewolf.” 

Steve looked somewhat perplexed and unconvinced. His lips parted then closed until he was ready to speak again. “Werewolves don’t exist.” Of course, he’d focus on that part. “And, maybe the owners haven’t had the chance to refurbish the house yet.” 

“That’s a great suggestion, Stevie! Why don’t we go and lend a hand.” 

It was not, in fact, a great suggestion at all. What it was though is a ruse.

You didn’t give him the time to answer, immediately bolting outside the room. You knew you had him in a corner because Steve Rogers might’ve been a master strategist, a renowned captain, and a fearless leader, but you could always uncover the cracks in his façade, and you were certain something about this house didn’t sit right with him either. He just didn’t want to admit it out loud.

“Uhm, maybe you should sit this one out, dove. You’ve never been good with a paintbrush.” 

“Maybe so,” you replied with your back still to him. You didn’t need heightened senses to catch the shy curse that left his mouth. “But I’m good at baking. I can offer the new neighbors some pumpkin pie while you help them with the paint. You’re the artist, after all, baby.” 

Steve caught your wrist before you could open the fridge to “search” for the ingredients for your pie. 

“You mean like right now?” 

“Yes! We may not be able to do much, but maybe enough to not have the trick-and-treaters scurry away at the sight of that house.” 

Releasing your wrist from his grasp, you reached for the fridge. Steve’s veiny hand collided with the metal door, forcing it to close. With his hands on your hips, he spun you around and placed your body against the fridge. 

“Y/N.” The coldness of the fridge’s metal door against your fingertips did little to appease the flames burning in your soul. God damn Steve Rogers and the effect he had on you. “Don’t make me say it.” 

“Say what?” 

“…I hate that house.” 

“The nice house down our street?” 

“The morbid one that looks like Azkaban.” 

“Aha!” You joiced, finger digging into Steve’s chest. “I knew I wasn’t the only one who found that creepy old building ominous.” 

“Of course not. I’ve been pestering Tony for over a week, trying to find out who bought that place and see if they’re a security threat,” Steve admitted. 

You tilted your head to the side, lips pursing in thought. “I mean, I don’t like the house. But is it a security threat?”

Sensing the shift in your voice, Steve’s hand found purchase in your hair, twirling a strand in his index finger. It was a familiar habit he had developed since you’d gotten together. Partly comforting and partly grounding—for both of you. 

“According to Tony, it isn’t. But, you know me. Your safety is always at the forefront of my mind. And I don’t like how that house is so close to us.” 

“Me neither,” you replied, now playing with Steve’s hands. You traced the veins protruding from his skin, marveling at the difference between his large hands and your petite ones. “But with you here, I don’t care about a silly old house.” 

“So, can we forget about your little stakeout missions and go back to planning our private party this evening?” Steve smirked, tugging you closer by your waist. 

“It was one time!” 

“For five days.” 

“Shut up,” you said with feigned indignation. “Or else no private party. I’ll force you to attend Tony’s.” 

Steve’s eyes widened at the mention of Tony’s infamous party. This year, the theme was something along the lines of "Halloween of Doom." And since Steve wasn't a fan of the usual wild parties Tony would throw every chance he got,  he wasn't looking forward to the Halloween shenanigans.

Just as you took his hand in yours and pulled him toward the hall, a sharp tap against your window sounded across the room. Bemused, you turned to Steve. He immediately stepped in front of you, keeping an ear out to identify the source of the sound.

Incessant in its pursuit of attention, the sound boomed louder. Steve motioned for you to stay where you were while he investigated. Five seconds later, he called your name, albeit hesitantly. 

“Y/N,” he said, gaze unwavering ahead. “I think all that birdwatching you did called the attention of an angry bird.”

“Is that an owl?” You hadn’t realized how loud your voice was until the owl in question shrieked behind the glass window. What the hell was an owl doing at your house?

“It looks like it,” Steve answered. 

Neither of you tried to open the window, which agitated the owl. It ruffled its feathers and tapped the glass, clearly demanding entry. You studied the nocturnal creature, which obviously lacked a sense of orientation since you were nowhere near the evening. Something on its leg caught your eye. You gasped, pointing at it. “There’s a rolled-up letter attached to its leg!”

The moment Steve noticed the letter, he rushed to open the window. The owl flew in, forcing you to step a couple of feet back—you were a sane person who didn’t go out of their way to look for owls, let alone ones that appeared in broad daylight.

Steve plucked the letter from its leg and opened it. “It’s an invitation.”

“For what?”

“A Halloween feast,” he said, eyeing the letter suspiciously. “At House 5 on Easton Avenue.” It was the same morbid house you two had been discussing. 

You carefully approached Steve, mindful of the owl on your coffee table. You took the letter in your hands, reading it aloud. 

We’ve Caught Your Unblinking Eye Through the Ashen Veil We Know You Are Curious. We Feel It in Our Veins.

To Uncover the Macabre Truths Shrouded by Our Shadows  Join the Halloween Feast Tonight 

And Embrace a Chilling Night at Doom’s Manor House 5 - Easton Avenue - 9:00 PM

“This is worse than our phones when they display targeted ads because of whatever they heard us talking about,” you exclaimed, hands tightly clutching the piece of paper.

Steve’s eyes widened significantly, pure horror crossing his features. “Our phones do that?” 

"Yeah," you replied with a matter-of-fact tone. You've most likely added one more item to Steve Rogers' “X Things I Hate About the Twenty-First Century” list. "They pick up on our search history too. So, maybe they'll know why that owl still hasn't left yet because it's starting to give me the creeps."

The owl with brown feathers and round yellow eyes hooted, hopping on the table and looking between you and Steve. It definitely did not like you.

“Maybe it wants something?” Steve guessed.

“Like what? Dollar bills or a treat in exchange for its postal services?” you scoffed. The owl wasn’t privy to your cynicism, but you still crept closer to Steve in fear of it deciding to attack you or something. 

“A confirmation, maybe?” The owl hooted, seemingly agreeing with Steve. You quickly grabbed his arm, giving it a tight squeeze. “Dove, I don’t think it’s taking ‘no’ for an answer.”

As if on the same page, the owl moved away from you both and flew to the outside of the house. You and Steve just stared at the open window, House 5 right there, teasingly close.

Steve was on high alert. His fingers dug into the edges of the wooden window as he fixed his eyes on the mysterious house down Easton Avenue. You’d think that there would be bustling activity considering the owners had only recently moved in, but he never saw anyone walk in or out of that house. He didn’t even recall catching sight of anyone by the window. 

And although the Halloween feast was barely ten minutes away from starting, no one had approached the house yet. 

“Dove,” Steve called, pushing away from the window and adjusting his suit. “I’m gonna head out now. I know that Tony and the others overlooked the invite and didn’t want to interfere, but to be on the safe side—”

He was about to tell you to activate your security system and connect to the emergency line of the Avengers Initiative if he didn’t update you within twenty minutes of entering that house. But his words were stuck on the tip of his tongue when you walked into view.

“Why are you wearing your stealth suit?” you asked, almost glumly. Steve just blinked, looking completely flabbergasted, like a deer caught in headlights.

“I can ask you the same thing.” He pointed at your outfit, his tongue poking out and wetting his lips. “Why do you have a stealth suit on? Where did you even get one?” 

The saccharine surprise in Steve’s tone fueled your heart with desire. You chewed on your lower lip, twirling a strand of your hair to draw Steve’s attention to your ponytail. His breath hitched, his eyes running a marathon across the expanse of your neck. You relished the lust that crossed over his features when you swayed your hips and sauntered to his side. 

“Do you like it?” came your ardent whisper. Steve’s hands circled your hips, fingers burying in the leather of your suit, squeezing your side in affirmation.

You loved Halloween, making it your October resolution to find the best costume. But it was always hard to find one, considering there were so many options to choose from, and you were as decisive as a Gemini. After some time, an Avengers stealth suit popped up during your search, one which sinfully complimented your ass and curves. So you knew, right away, that getting your hands on it was a must if it would drive Steve crazy. 

“Why are you wearing it, dove?” Steve asked once more.

Innocently batting your eyelashes at him, you answered, “Because we’re going to the Halloween feast.” 

“Absolutely not.” And there it was. “I told you, I’m going in to check it. Alone. It’s a mission, Y/N. And you stray away from those.” 

“It’s not an official mission if Tony didn’t approve it.” 

“I’m the Head of the Avengers.” 

“You’re Head Strategist, yes. But we both know that if Tony and Fury don’t give the green light, you can’t treat whatever this is as a mission.” 

You had him there, and you knew it. While Steve Rogers had a knack for defending any argument and finding a way to assert his stance, this time he faltered for an answer, and only managed to say, “You’re still not going.” 

“Don’t you think it’s going to look a tad bit suspicious if you walk into that house alone? And with your suit on?” 

“No,” Steve shrugged. “Besides, that’s why I’m leaving my shield here.” 

“And your common sense.” If his glare was any indication, he didn’t appreciate your commentary. “If I go with you, it would look like we’re genuinely interested in their stupid feast. You can snoop around while I stick to the activities.” 

“That’s too dangerous.” 

“So, why do you assume I’d let you go there on your own?” 

“Because I’m enhanced, Y/N.” 

“And I’m a SHIELD agent for the night, Steve.” 

“And you judge me about my common sense?” 

“Steve,” you stressed, catching his attention. “If that house is not as safe as the Avengers claim, I am not letting you go there by yourself. You can either go against me and leave me here, alone, well aware that our loony neighbors are watching. Or, you take me with you. It’s your call.”

It’s been yours since the beginning, and you’re not the least bit surprised when Steve mumbled something incoherent before he ushered you out of the house. 

The neighboring houses, much like your own, were modestly decorated for the occasion. The Barbers, your neighbors from across the street, had a couple of skeleton bodies strewn across the yard and fake bats hanging from the large tree in their backyard. The Adlers went with carved pumpkins and flickering lanterns, which created a warm, inviting ambiance. Meanwhile, the Hansens had embraced the theme with scattered tombstones and heinous, life-sized witches tending to their boiling cauldrons.

Although the fifth house on Easton Avenue was barren and devoid of even a string light, it stood as the most intimidating and menacing of them all. The sinister atmosphere grew more palpable when you and Steve approached. The wind carried an unsettling chill, and the ancient trees lining the path creaked like ghostly sentinels. It was as if the house was an isle of malevolence adrift in a sea of darkness.

“Why is it the only house with fog surrounding it?” Steve noted. You both stood by a withered fence, the imposing structure casting long, foreboding shadows.

“I don’t know,” you replied, glancing around nervously. “Maybe it’s just a fog machine, but this place is terrifying enough as it is. It doesn’t need any more decorations.”

With a heavy breath, Steve stepped forward, the fog swirling around his boots. You watched in apprehension as the entrance loomed ahead. Steve paused for a moment, turning back to you. His eyes, usually full of determination, now held a flicker of doubt. “I have a bad feeling about this, Y/N.”

The atmosphere turned even more chilling when, suddenly, a low, dissonant hum echoed from the depths of the house, making your hair stand on end. It was as if the very walls themselves held their breath in anticipation.

Without breaking his gaze from the looming house, Steve extended his hand toward you. You clasped onto it, anchoring yourself to this distorted reality. He spared a glance your way, one that was brief in time yet abundant in intensity, and you responded with a nod, your nerves on edge. With a deep breath, Steve raised his clenched fist to knock on the door, but before he could make contact, it swung open on its own.

You both cautiously crossed the threshold, never releasing each other's hands. You were met with a dimly lit room, paintings strewn across its walls, each with a calculating pair of eyes narrowing on you.

"Welcome, Steve Rogers and Y/N Y/L/N," a commanding voice boomed, rattling the portraits on the wall. You jumped in your shoes, trying to catch a glimpse of the source. You were left bewildered, staring at the void that surrounded you. "Welcome to a chilling night at Doom's Manor!"

You didn’t have time to ask questions—you barely had a chance to think before the front door swung shut and the blinds closed, engulfing the sinister house in even more darkness. 

“What the hell?” you cried as an oppressive silence descended. It was like you were sucked into a black hole with only Steve’s touch tethering you to earth. “Steve! Turn on your flashlight.” 

“I don’t have a flashlight, Y/N,” Steve tersely replied. 

“You have a phone, which has a built-in flashlight. Turn it on,” you urged, your voice tinged with desperation. “Then we can discuss why you brought a gun and no flashlight to this place!”

You heard him groan in frustration, palms smacking against the leather of his suit as he fished out his phone. He pressed it, fingers less than graceful when it came to touchscreens. For a moment, you thought he had forgotten how to unlock the device. Until he said, “My battery’s dead.” 

“Our brilliant Head Strategist venturing on a mission without the means to communicate! What kind of expert overlooks that?” you chastised, fishing out your own phone. You tapped it repeatedly, but the screen remained blank. A sinking feeling washed over you as you pressed the side button, yet it refused to light up. “I swear it was charged,” you whispered in disbelief.

“I’m afraid that your phones won’t work here,” the same disorienting voice said. 

Unexpectedly, a blinding white radiance cut through the darkness, forcing both you and Steve to shield your eyes. As the light faded, it started to flicker intermittently, weaving through the walls and mingling with the torchlights.

Despite all the courage you tried to manifest, your voice brokenly whispered, “Steve, is this a bad time to tell you that I was never fond of haunted houses as a kid?” 

The lights were still flickering when Steve ripped his hand from your firm grasp. Your breath hitched, thinking the worst. But he was still there next to you, eyeing the door. “No one is, dove. And I’m not forcing you to like ‘em now.” 

With all the super soldier strength coursing through his veins, Steve lunged at the door, attempting to force it open. It broke your heart to see it stubbornly clenching its hinges no matter how many times Steve flung himself against it.

The mysterious voice tutted, inundating your being with fear. You held your breath, praying that Steve would get you both out of here fast.

“You should learn to treat even inanimate objects kindly, Captain Rogers. Or does all that strength chip away at your humanity?” 

Ignoring the voice, Steve continued his assault on the door. What he didn’t expect was an incorporeal force that lunged at him without warning. The unadulterated strength in its grip sent him hurling through the air until he crashed to the ground with a loud groan. 

“Steve!” you called apprehensively. 

“Should I have warned you not to do that? Thought it was self-explanatory?” the same voice commented. 

You heard your heels clicking against the tiles before you could even think about moving. Steve was rubbing at his temple, eyes forcibly closed after the fall. You were almost by his side when you felt a hand grab your hair and fling you into the air. 

You shrieked, the quiver in your voice igniting Steve’s anger. He raced forward, arms stretched out. But unlike the pale, ghastly form that manhandled you, tangible vines stemmed from the recesses of the house’s tiles and walls, aiming at Steve. 

“Get off him!” you commanded as you kicked your feet and threw a punch. Your forceful gestures vaporized into the thin air, torpid against the vice grip of the spirit before you. You gasped hard when the misty form wrapped itself around your neck—constricting the air around and molding you and the wall as one. 

“Y/N!” Steve grunted, desperately trying to pry himself out of the vines’ steel grip. “Hold on. I-I’ll get it o-off.” 

The morbid atmosphere was getting worse as dark spots clung to your vision’s periphery. The incorporeal assault remained relentless, slamming you once more against the wall. As you forced your eyes to meander, searching for a solution, you focused on antique torches, each with a blue flame in its grasp. 

The same torch hung from the wall you were trapped against. With a growl and a hell lot of hope that Ghostbusters had taught you something useful, you snatched the torch and incinerated the elusive monster. 

One less than graceful descent later, you braced yourself against the floor with a thud. Steve was still struggling against Mother Nature’s prodigal offspring. He’d gotten a dagger out, but the more he cut through the vines, the more they multiplied. 

You staggered your way to him just as the plant lunged at his face. “Don’t even think about it!” you warned, attacking the plant with the iridescent flames. Steve inhaled sharply as the vines, which were wrapped around him, turned into ash. 

“Dove, I don’t know if I should be in awe or fear of what just happened,” Steve admitted as you helped him up. You were too busy inspecting his body for injuries to answer. 

“We need to get out of here,” you said in one breath. “This place isn’t safe.” 

Steve was about to answer when the eerie voice interjected, “Safe is boring.” 

You sneered, wanting so badly to punch whoever was callously commenting. Steve grabbed you tightly and maneuvered his way through the house. Luckily, nothing else attacked you two as you navigated the narrow corridors except for the thick dust and the cobwebs. 

Steve had found a door, which he immediately opened. As he stepped into the room, large and foreboding, a sense of apprehension gripped him. Shadows danced along the walls, playing tricks on his vision, while a musty scent of decay lingered in the air.

You both tried to find a way out, but to your utter horror, the same door you had opened to run into this room disappeared. 

“Are you seeing what I’m seeing?” Steve asked, bewildered. He ran his hands over the wall, fingers tracing the edges of the now-invisible door. “How is that even possible?” 

You shook your head in disbelief. “I don’t know. But the werewolf would have been better.” 

“Well, that could be arranged,” the mysterious voice announced. 

In hindsight, you should’ve thought twice before giving your two cents. But how were you supposed to know that the sentient house didn’t only manipulate nightmares but could also manifest them?

Steve turned toward you, distress visibly carved across his forehead. He reached out for his gun just as a violent wind attacked the isolated room. Your hair flailed, falling victim to the assault. 

You tightened your hold on the torch despite the wind’s ministrations. It was thrashing within the borders of the room, incessantly clawing at you and Steve. The bright azure flames wavered from where they were perched on your torch, despite all your attempts at keeping them tamed. They tumbled down and crashed into the ground. 

The moment the flames met the tiles, they burst into a fit of undiluted anger. The blue orbs separated, each tracing its brittle path and leaving destruction in its wake. The flames circled you and Steve in a dance of tantalizing grace—rising beyond the surface and falling back into the ground’s arms. 

You and Steve were each pushed to one side. You stood there, him with a fully loaded gun and you with an empty torch, silently watching as the translucent flames birthed a werewolf. 

“I don’t think the situation can get any worse,” you pointed out, taking care to not step into the line of fire. Literally. “So, is it too late to ask for a vampire instead? At least we have a stake.” 

Steve looked appalled by the suggestion. “This isn’t the Edmond-Jason debate, Y/N! Both options are worse for wear!” 

The werewolf wasn’t fond of Steve’s vernacular; at least, that’s why you assumed since it decided to lunge at him first. You slumped back just as Steve ducked his head and rolled to the side. The beast was relentless in its movement, clawing and growling at your soldier—canines salivating with excitement, eager to dip into flesh. 

“I know it’s not the time, but it’s Edward and Jacob! And what I meant is that we at least have a stake! A viable weapon against a vampire. What means of defense do we have against a translucent werewolf?!”

“The same thing we have against a translucent vampire,” Steve grunted, firing three consecutive shots at the luminous creature. All three of them pierced his hollow frame, leaving him unscathed. “Nothing!”  

Despite the fear that inundated your body, you still looked for a weapon to fight the beast with. Unfortunately for you, the room was desolate with nothing but mold and fractured walls holding it on their shoulders. Steve was actively trying to retain its attention, steering it clear from your path, but you knew he wouldn’t be able to last any longer. 

“Well, maybe the house can conjure a non-translucent vampire,” you thought aloud. Truthfully, you weren’t really thinking straight, but what other choices did you have at the moment?

Needless to say, Steve disagreed. “Vampires aren’t real!” 

“Well, what do you know?” you shrieked, all modicum of common sense out of the non-existent window. “There is a Spider-Man and an Ant-Man. Who's to say there is not a.. a Bat-Man that’s willing to make this situation a little less complicated!” The wolf finally caught your voice. It growled as if to show its dissatisfaction at having to hear you speak, craning its head and baring its teeth when its silver eyes landed on you. “Mysterious house, please!”

“Well, since you asked so nicely.” 

If you could take a wild guess, you’d say the werewolf wasn’t particularly fond of the creepy voice. That, or it was crestfallen at the idea of losing its chew toys. 

Its blue glow intensified, switching from deceitful calm to voracious hunger. Your heart hammered in your chest, assaulting your ribcage as it sensed the looming danger. You tried to step away, but the wolf spied on your meek attempt. It prowled, ferocious and murderous in its pursuit. 

Just as you raised your arms to shield yourself from him, Steve’s body collided with yours. “Y/N!” his scream ricocheted across the walls. 

Was it so vehemently loud? You wondered. Or were your ears easily susceptible to noise? 

As soon as Steve’s arms wrapped around you, you fell gracelessly into the void. The blue of the wolf fused with the paleness of the room, making a torpedo of vivid, interloping colors swirl before your eyes. The fall was like a dwindling spiral—long, endless, and tiring. And then you landed somewhere more stale; much more dark.

“Y/N!” Your name was the first thing you heard and the light that pulled you from darkness’ heavy lull. Hands roamed your body, gentle yet firm, unrelenting despite the groan that escaped your throat. “Y/N, please. I need to know you’re okay. Tell me that you weren’t hurt.” 

You lifted your head, now aware that you were lying on Steve’s chest. The perilous haze only barely dissipated once you opened your eyes. “I’m okay. Are you?” you asked, eyes raking over Steve’s figure to see if he had been hurt in that fight. Besides his frightened and concerned eyes, he looked alright. 

A long breath escaped his pink lips. His large hand cradled your face, magically bringing your pulse back to a languid pace. “As long as you’re alright, I’m fine. But I’ll be better once we get out of here.”

You stood up, holding your hand out to Steve, which he gratefully took. Lacing your fingers together, you carefully examined your surroundings, noting the hollow room you were in. Once again devoid of light, air, and a way out.

“How are we gonna get out?”

“Through that door.” By now, your senses had been attuned to the house’s tricks, so you weren’t jostled by the resounding echoes of the mysterious voice. True to its words, a large blue door materialized at the far end of the hallway. It rattled against its hinges, almost as if something was trying to break free on the other side. “Better hurry up, angel wings. Or else you’ll miss it.”

The voice dissolved softly like snowflakes giving away to the sun. And yet, its resolve bellowed across the room, the walls and ground shattering against its whispers. 

“Maybe the vampires weren’t such a bad idea after all,” Steve remarked. You knew his Captain's brain was on overdrive, actively searching for the best escape route. But you knew it was there, right in front of you. So, mustering up all the courage you had in you, you tugged Steve’s hand and bolted toward the blue door. 

The walls wailed, angered at your choice. They began to move, closing in on you at a menacing speed. Steve pulled you closer, almost molding both your bodies into one. He gained momentum, and your feet were about to give up from the unbridled force of his movements. 

The walls were at a measurable distance, and you couldn’t believe you’d made it unharmed this far. Steve reached out, trying to push the silver loop that would open the door. But you should’ve known better than to trust the mysterious house. Of course, it wasn’t going to make it easy. 

“Of course, I wasn’t going to make it easy,” the voice parrotted the words inside your head. 

“What do you want?” Steve seethed, looking over his shoulders as the walls picked up their pace. 

“O Captain! My Captain! To enter Doom’s lair, you must first answer my question.”

“What question?”

You heard someone clear their throat, and you could’ve sworn the bastard was smirking before it answered,

“Forged by fears and entangled in thoughts, 

Within the breadth of darkness, I reside. 

Devoid of soul, I grasp control,

In my distorted mist, your will subsides.

I am concealed within deceit and unseen with eyes, 

Tell me, soldier, who am I?"

“Son of a bitch!”

“Language, Captain. And that’s not the answer.”

Your feet quivered, bouncing in place. Steve had lost his patience, now alternating between throwing answers and attempting to knock the door down. He was spewing some more worthless answers while you stared at the walls. Barely 10 inches separated you from your ultimate demise, and nothing but a correct answer would save you from this situation. Despite your fears, you took a deep breath, knowing you needed to answer that question. Now.

“Nightmare!” you yelled. Steve had stopped the assault on the door, looking at you with a perplexed gaze. “The answer to the riddle is  a nightmare.”

A weighty silence gripped the helm of the foreboding atmosphere, lingering until the awaited response finally emerged. “That is correct.” 

The locks turned, the door creaking as it offered you the solace you’ve been so desperately seeking. Steve practically pushed you inside, following you soon after. The door closed shut behind you, ushering you into a misty room. The wind picked up once again, and before you, a cloaked figure emerged. Its head was down, edges of the onyx fabric it wore blowing with every single caress of the wind. 

“Welcome,” the figure said in the same gruff and deep voice that you’ve been hearing since you entered the house. “Welcome to a chilling night at Doom’s Manor!”

“Who the hell are you?” you inquired agitatedly just as Steve ordered the figure to lift its cloak. 

The cloaked figure revealed its pallid hands, previously concealed. With a tantalizing motion, the fingers encircled the edge of the hood, slowly lifting it. Your eyes widened, mind barely comprehending what you saw. And before you know it, you and Steve were saying the same thing in the same affronted tone. “Tony?”

“Oh, god. You should’ve seen your faces!” Tony clapped his hands together, the force of his laughs making him bend down and clutch his knees. 

As he did that, the creepy atmosphere eroded, mist evaporating to reveal the large room behind it. Contrary to the other areas within the establishment, the room was full of life and spacious, with neon lights and a large disco ball illuminating it. All of the Avengers were there, and you even spotted Peter Parker in an Iron Man costume tearing Bucky’s ear off with one of his stories. Judging from the number of waiters tending to the even bigger number of guests, you knew what you walked into. 

“Did you seriously rent out a spooky house just so that you can throw a secret party in its basement?” you asked, crossing your arms over your chest. 

“No,” Tony huffed, seemingly offended by the absurdity of your claim. “I bought it.”

Behind you, Steve was rolling his eyes while you raked your fingers through your loose ponytail. You were never going to understand billionaires and their logic. 

“I thought you were throwing a party at the Compound,” Steve finally spoke. And thank God he did before you ripped Tony a new one for the scare he’d just cost you. You were most certainly going to have him cover your health insurance for the next eon and the one after.

“I was. But then you bailed to play house with your girl—great costume, by the way, Y/N. We should talk to Fury about making you a SHIELD agent. And they say your boyfriend’s ass is America’s ass.”

“Tony!”

“What? Fine, don’t get jealous. You still are America’s ass but in a less sexy and more annoying way.”

“Would you just tell me what the hell was all this?”

“Man, if I knew all it would take me is Wanda’s freaky manipulation magic to get you to curse, I would’ve done that a long time ago.”

Feeling your headache on the verge of expanding, you put your hand on Steve’s arm and interceded, “It’s clear that you're high on mindlessness right now. So, once you’re down from the Tony Stark Clouds of Wonder, we’ll talk about you and your ridiculous behavior.”

“Geez Louise, you’re not dressed as a shield agent, but the female counterpart of Captain Stern over here.”

“At least I’m not one less nose away from looking like Voldemort,” you spat as you trudged toward the party, Steve a step behind you.

Tony scoffed, his voice softer compared to the blaring music. “I’m dressed as the Grim Reaper.”

“Yeah, well, your stick seems to have been lost somewhere up your ass!” 

When you and Steve joined the party, you headed immediately toward the bar. You weaved your way across the dance floor, giving Sonic-dressed Pietro a quick wave and catching the eye of a disinterested Bruce in an Ultron costume. 

Natasha was at the bar, dressed as a ballerina with a pink tutu and a lot of pearly pins in her hair. You shot her a questioning look, which quickly dissolved courtesy of the menacing glare in her eyes. ‘Don’t ask,’ she silently communicated, and you were content with sitting there on a surprisingly comfortable barstool instead of running away from a wolf. 

“I can’t believe Tony did all of this?” Steve voiced out, shoulders hunched and laced with tension. 

Natasha handed him a signature fix she’d just made, passing you your drink of choice. “It’s not just you two. He did it to plenty of people.”

“Like who?”

“Bucky and Sam,” Natasha replied to your question. “They couldn't answer the riddle, so they got stuck outside cursing at one another until Strange had enough of their arguing and portalled them in. They were pretty pissed. Thor made it out, thanks to Loki. He enjoyed it, though. Loki? Not so much. He turned into a snake and tried to bite Tony the moment he got to the other side of the door. Pepper and Happy are next.”

You shook your head at the thought. “She’s going to kill him.”

“Exactly. Which is why he has a surprise for her, under lock and key, somewhere around here.”

Dissatisfied by the piece of information, Steve snatched his drink and faced the other way. “Of course, he’d try to get out something without facing the repercussions.” His attention focused on Tony's exaggerated gestures as he iterated his previous morbid speech to the new guests. 

Your eyes narrowed at Tony, thoughts errant as they dug up a hundred ways you could get back at him. Honestly, a part of you was willing to get Snake Loki to bite him or convince Dr. Strange to send him halfway across the universe. But you wanted to hit him where it hurts. You wanted him to feel the fear he inflicted on you and Steve, even if it was for just a moment. But Tony Stark didn’t fear anything. Well, apart from Starbucks running out of his favorite coffee and Pepper ignoring him. 

“Pepper!” you shouted in glee. Steve and Natasha looked between you and the door, thinking that Pepper had already crossed all the obstacles and made it safely to the party. A crease lined up on their foreheads when they didn't find her there. “Nat, you don’t happen to have a key to that room, do you?"

At the drop of a hat, Natasha caught on to what you were saying. She shook her head but deviously smirked, green eyes flickering to the space behind you. “I don’t. But Wanda’s been regretting helping Stark on this. It shouldn’t be hard to convince her to help you get back at him.”

You jumped from your seat, adrenaline coursing through your veins. The intensity of your excitement and the tug on Steve’s arm made his drink fall and spill on the countertop. It took you a minute to find Wanda, who was sitting in the corner with downcast eyes, nursing a drink. She didn’t hesitate to help you, literally jumping at the chance. 

Moments later, she led you to a room down a few halls and flicked her wrist, materializing a key and unlocking the door. Her 30s-inspired dress swung as her figure retreated. You looked at Steve, took a deep breath, and entered the room. But where you expected to find shopping bags, jewelry, or even a giant Iron Man teddy bear, what you found was something entirely different. 

“Steve,” his name came out as a whisper. “Please don’t tell me I have to explain what I’m seeing. Because I don’t think I can.”

Your gaze was fixed on your surroundings, unable to be torn from anything else. You didn’t see Steve’s unblinking eyes or the tingles that danced across his fingers. It took him a while before he composed himself and answered you. “It’s okay. I already know.”

The room was red, a deep, rich shade of scarlet red. And if you had been careful enough to read the plaque by the room’s door, you would’ve figured it was Tony’s Halloween version of the red room. But what was beneath the mirrored ceiling, which quite frankly made you hyperventilate at the thought of the glass possibly falling on you while sleeping on that astonishingly spacious king-sized bed, was not a welcoming ballet class with metal bars and pink pointe shoes on the side. It was red walls with metal cuffs and chains attached to them and a widespread table with three silk blindfolds, floggers, ropes, and a whole lot of other things that made heat rise to your cheeks. 

“We can’t destroy anything,” you breathed out with a voice that was too airy to be your own. “We can’t even hide anything with that wide selection Tony has. He’s not going to miss a blindfold, and he’ll just ask for another bottle of champagne.” 

Steve didn’t answer, his mind preoccupied with something else. You couldn’t fault him; it was exceedingly hard to look at the room around you. And when you chanced a glance at the corners, you had to bite your lip at the sight of the cameras and lighting. Tony went all out, and to be honest, you didn’t know if this was his “genius-philanthropist” side, who was investing in a sexually healthy relationship with Pepper, or if it was his “billionaire-playboy” side, who decided there’s no shame in indulging in a variety of pleasures and give Pepper the liberty of choice.

You were so lost in thought, you were surprised to find Steve examining one of the cameras. He flicked on the lights and turned the camera to your side. Your brain finally registered his actions, and you were sure he didn’t know what he was doing since he barely even knew how to answer a video call. But before you could say anything, Steve beat you to it.

“Why destroy when we can take advantage?”

The camera turned on. You could tell from the twinkle of mischief in Steve’s irises that he caught the stagger in your pulse before you even did. He turned around, his sculpted and perfectly molded back replaced with the sight of his chiseled jaw. You gulped, blood rushing to your ears while shivers rushed down your spine.

You watched as Steve glided across the room, footsteps light and noiseless compared to the harsh speed of your heartbeats and the fray within your every vein. You wanted him. And he knew because with each step he took to get closer to you, you didn’t falter. You stood right where you were, waiting for him to devour you.

His cerulean eyes transformed, ebbing and flowing in a sea of blue and green. Until his waves crashed against your shore, and you met them somewhere in the middle.

“Steve.”

He didn’t reply. He inched closer even though there was no more room for his body to creep to, forcing his knee between your legs and giving you no other choice but to open them. You almost stumbled but quickly understood what he wanted.

It was like a dance. Every time Steve moved closer, you found yourself stepping back until your back hit the door, leaving nothing but locked gazes between you. With a bated breath, you studied Steve’s movements, whimpering as his left arm rose and nestled against your head. His palm was pressed against the cold door, whose color burned with desire. And somehow, Steve absorbed that hunger and set your entire body ablaze with it. Without a single touch.

“I can feel you,” he murmured on top of your lips, his velvety breath claiming rights to a first kiss. Steve leaned his body closer, almost engulfing you whole. His index and middle fingers made contact with your skin, and you swore you could’ve exploded. He traced the distance between your fingers and forearm, leisurely exploring the smooth surface that framed your veins. Involuntarily, your head craned, exposing your neck as he inched closer and closer, cheekily exhaling against your pulse point. “I can smell you,” he almost moaned, or maybe that was you. “You smell so tart, so fresh. So, deliriously scrumptious.”

“Steve,” this time, you did moan, implicitly begging him to touch you. You heard the lock on the door click, but you didn’t dare move your eyes.

In the next few seconds, Steve pulled the key out of the keyhole. You exhaled loudly, head banging against the wooden door when he moved the metal keys against your clothed heat. Sparks ignited in your soul as you began to take the fast lane to heaven, and Steve’s voice didn’t help the ache recede. It only fanned its flames.

“So wet.” He knew it without feeling it for himself. “So inviting.” He moved the key from your center to your navel and then to your sternum. You hadn’t realized how hot your body was until the keys touched your collarbone. It was a clash of hot and cold—an explosion of the senses with Steve’s breath hovering against your shoulders to add the final and delicious touch. With tantalizing grace, the key danced across your throat and chin, lifting your head to meet Steve’s breathless whisper, “So beautiful.”

Your eyes met, and you couldn't tell if his pupils were dilated or if his typically clear blue eyes were merely mirroring your own. He trapped your cheeks in his hold, applying the slightest bit of pressure on them. You couldn’t help but gaze at the camera that recorded the way Steve tapped the key against your lips, almost pushing it in.

Within the next second, his fingers loosened around the key, making it fall into the open space of your suit. You moaned aloud, the sound stretching over a minute when Steve stuffed his index and middle fingers in your mouth while bringing his prominent bulge closer to your heat. “My mistake, little dove.” He thrust forward, his clothed dick deliciously humping against your pussy. You whimpered around his fingers. “Be a pretty little girl, Y/N, and suck on my fingers while I get back that key.”

You nodded your head, vehemently following his order. Hollowing your cheeks, you sucked his fingers inside your throat—lost in the simple pleasures Steve Rogers was known to give.

He planted wet, demanding kisses on your neck and just below your ear, not too far from your earlobe but not close enough. His other hand caressed your cheek until it retreated and began to reach for the zipper on your suit. It was at the forefront, making it easy for Steve to find it and lower it down. His hips met yours just as you pushed his fingers away from your throat. You pulled them back in, keeping the rhythm going while your tongue swirled around his fingertips.

Your zipper lowered, slowly and placidly, yet there was nothing peaceful about the way Steve trailed his thumb across your exposed skin. A fire consumed you whole, a sinful moan escaping when he found the key and cupped your pussy, with it still in his hands. You could’ve cried then and there, and frankly, there were tears on the edge of your lashes. In your lustful delirium, you hadn’t noticed your hiked leg on Steve's waist, which was pushing him closer to your body. He massaged your heat, his fingers and the key playing with your clothed folds until he backed away completely to cup your cheeks.

“Are you going to be a good girl and listen to me, dove?” he asked in a sultry voice that made your core weep.

He took his fingers out of your mouth, keeping his eyes on parted lips. You wet your them eagerly, needing him to satiate your thirst. “Yes, Captain.”

Steve smirked, the key long forgotten but the desire ever-present. “When I sit down on the edge of that bed, you’re going to take off your clothes. I want you to keep that sinful bra, these terrible excuse for panties, and those high heels on. Nothing else, alright?”

“Yes, Captain,” you affirmed.

Steve leaned forward, his pink lips above yours. You chased them, greedily wanting a kiss. But the only thing you got was a smirk in return. He took a slight detour, heading toward the camera on the right to make sure it was on, too. His broad shoulders looked even more breathtaking in the softly lit space.

Then, he sat down on the large bed, legs open and inviting. You took it as your cue. Gracefully, you slipped the suit off your skin, sighing in exaggerated relief as the fabric released its hold. You were filled with a sense of accomplishment when Steve shifted in his seat, his throat bobbing. You grabbed at your sides, making sure your thong was at a perfect angle before lowering the rest of your suit down. Steve’s breath was caught in his throat, eyes examining you as you slipped off your shoes to peel the rest of your stealth suit off.

Remembering Tony’s previous remarks about the suit, you turned back, purposely bending over as you grabbed your shoes. You kept your back at the same lowered angle, giving Steve a front-row seat to your round ass, temptingly framed by the thin black thong you had on.

Despite your bubbling anticipation, you took your time. And you were not disappointed by the sight before you. Steve was already cupping his clothed erection, playing with himself because of your actions. You glanced at him, moving one heel in front of the other, but he put up his hand before you could move any closer.

“St—?”

“On your knees,” he ordered. You were surprised by his command but quickly composed yourself, setting yourself on your knees with your hands flat on your thighs obediently. “Crawl to me, little dove. Come and show me how good you can make a man feel.”

It was like you were moving on autopilot. All your brain could muster were thoughts of Steve. On top of you, underneath you, and facing you. Every single image was of him losing control and moaning your name without abandon. So, you crawled like the good girl you want to be—his good girl.

When you got to his side, you touched his ankles, hands skimming across his legs and fingers teasing the area behind his knees. Choked sounds escaped his parted lips, egging you on. Your lips landed on his clothed erection, and you stilled for a beat, then two. You could feel him twitch as a result of your gaze.

Hands on the inside of his thighs, you gave him a gentle squeeze. You puckered your lips and peppered kisses on his clothed erection, going as far as to whimper. There was soon pressure on your head once Steve carded his fingers in your hair. “Y/N,” he murmured. “Don’t tease.”

Your doe eyes met his in a luscious glance, his eyes never leaving yours. Not when you bit down on his belt, not when you untangled it with only your teeth, and certainly not when you helped him out of his suit, yanking down his boxers and sucking on his tip. “Yes, that’s it, dove. That’s it,” he said, head thrown back.

And you took the chance to make him crumble even more. His dick was large, exhilaratingly captivating. You felt dirty at the thought of wanting it inside of you—inside your mouth and your pussy. Hell, you even loved having it between your breasts. You just wanted Steve’s dick so bad, and you were not shying away from mentally admitting that Steve turned you from his little dove to his good little whore whenever his dick was involved.

You hollowed your cheek and took as much of his dick as you could in your mouth. You had been practicing, some nights trying to deepthroat him thrice to get every bit of him in you, tattooing your every essence on his cock. 

Steve moaned, loudly and pornographically, bucking inside your mouth. You accepted him, moving even further down across his shaft, the wet noises only spurring you on. Greedily, you used your hands to grip his base. When your mouth thrust deeper, your hands moved higher, creating a polarizing rhythm that left Steve throwing himself back against the bed. “Good God,” he practically screamed. “Take me. Take all of me in your little mouth and tiny hands, Y/N. Wet my dick with your mouth, baby girl. Make me cum just for you.”

You obliged, taking him even deeper and relishing his moans. Your lips moved lower, tongue circling around his balls before you sucked each of them in. His grip on you tightened, eliciting a slight pain in your head. But you didn't care. “Fucking good girl of mine,” he cried out breathlessly, fingers fisting your hair. “Fucking perfect mouth that’s made to take no one but me. To swallow no man’s cum but mine. To have its walls and roof painted white by my dick and my dick alone.”

Your pussy ached, and you found yourself desperately humping against the floor while you took his balls in your mouth, moaning like a fucking porn star. You were surprised your lustful sounds hadn’t attracted anyone yet, and you quickly realized that the room must’ve been soundproof. The realization made you rub your pussy harsher against the parquet floor, hands now gripping Steve’s thighs for dear life. 

In your peripheral vision, you saw Steve move his shoe-clad feet closer to your core. You whimpered, heart beating frantically against your ribcage. Steve was a gentleman, and while he could be feral in the bedroom, he could never find it in himself to humiliate or degrade. But he knew that when lust took over, you desperately wanted to be his slut. His whore. Nothing but a hole for him to abuse and fill at his leisure.

The first time you asked him to degrade you, he froze. And when he wasn’t comfortable with doing that, you didn’t ask again. But Steve would sometimes do something. A small gesture to appease the both of you. He’d reach out for the drawer and silently look at you with a soundless question: can I use toys? He’d put three fingers in your pussy and wait for you to ask for more before he fisted you.

And tonight, he was giving it to you. The chance to be degraded—to be his perfect little whore. And you took it, crying out loud, practically sobbing at the feel of your wetness coating his shoes. He didn’t move, but you did, swinging your hips back and forth while taking all of his dick in your mouth. You hadn’t noticed how utterly filthy and lewd you looked until you raised your eyes and met your reflection in the ceiling’s mirror. Steve was looking at you too. He watched the way you humped his shoes and took his cock in your mouth. He pushed you against his dick, and you choked. Your breathing became erratic the more you moved against his shoes, tears spilling down your eyes accompanied by the symphony of your satisfied sobs. And that did it for him. He exploded with a scream of your name, cum invading your mouth and taking over your entire senses.

He slowly shifted you back, freeing his shoe from your hold. You were a sight for sore eyes. Thong wet and askew, bra hanging low with pebbled nipples almost peeking out, eyes blown wide with desire. He devoured the painting in front of him, committing your disheveled hair and the cum dripping down the side of your red, swollen lips to memory.

“Captain.” Though he wasn’t too far off in his dreams—because they couldn’t rival this reality—Steve had to admit that he got lost in his thoughts. Your voice called out to him like a devious siren luring him to his demise. “Please. Take me.”

You gasped when his hands were suddenly on your ass, but you barely had the chance to think about it. In the next second, Steve placed you on the mattress with his lips perched above your own. They were like the forbidden fruit: enticing, delectable, and there. Just there, only slightly out of reach. He lightly caressed your lips, each time pulling back before you could reciprocate, repeating the motion until he finally yielded to you.

“Let me taste myself on your lips, little dove,” he breathed in your mouth huskily. “Prove to me I’m only appetizing on your tongue.” You obliged. Your lips captured his own in a violent assault, claiming his tongue as a hostage. Trapped within the walls of your mouth, it explored the edges and the roof, clashing against your own tongue.

You caressed his face, fingers grazing over the beginning of his stubble. A sigh escaped your lips, both from his seductive ministrations and the thought of his stubble against your wet pussy. The image dissolved as soon as his lips left your own. You yelped, finding Steve’s hands entrapping both of yours. “Stevie,” you whimpered, every syllable begging him for his attention. His other hand slithered down your body, gliding across your inner thigh. You thought this was it—he was finally giving you your heart’s desire. But instead of the moan you expected to flee from your throat’s confines, you heard yourself yelping. A sharp and blazing sensation overtook your core, forcing your head back.

“What do you want, dove? You gotta be specific for me, little one?”

“Your hands,” you moaned. It was quickly replaced by a sharp cry when Steve slapped your pussy again. “In me. Inside of me, please,” you begged, gasping when Steve landed another slap across your lower lips. Your clit ached, swollen and inflamed, showing Steve exactly where you needed him.

He slithered his fingers across your pussy lips, moving them up and down. You mewled, alternating between looking at your reflection in the mirror and looking at Steve. His fingers quickly found your entrance, and he put the tip of his fingers in. But the bane of mischief that Steve Rogers was in the bedroom, he took them out of you, replacing them with a harsh slap.

“Not yet,” he practically growled. Leaving you fighting for composure, Steve reached out to the table by his side. The first thing you saw was the handcuffs he diligently wrapped around your hands and secured against the bedframe. The second was the silver silk blindfolds, which he wrapped around your eyes.

You willingly slipped into the darkness, mesmerized by the sea of possibilities before you. Your senses amplified when Steve’s fingers traveled down the expanse of your body. You felt the bed dip, Steve’s bulky frame nestled on top of your stomach. And you melted in a pool of unbridled hunger when he tapped his index finger against your lips with a single command, “Don’t swallow.”

You half expected him to be jerking and ready to unload his load in your mouth. Or maybe he wanted you to take him once more down your throat. But you almost gagged at the feel of the cold liquid inundating your mouth—the taste of the bubbling champagne asserting its dominance.

Steve set the bottle down, leaving you unsure whether he had taken a sip or not. His earlier ministrations resumed, this time hands tugging at your bra. He cupped your breasts, weighing them in his hands. You wanted to moan so badly, but you didn’t want to defy his orders.

He reveled in the way you whimpered, sounds oppressed by the force of his command. He continued playing with your breasts, keeping your left one in his hand and drawing special attention to your right one. He peppered both of them with kisses, using his tongue to circle the area around your nipple and make your pussy clench around nothing but the air that surrounded you.

You bucked against his tongue, hands tugging at the restraints, but they refused to budge. Not that you expected them to. Breathing through your nose, you tried to reach for your impending release. You were no stranger to nipple orgasms, and Steve was trying to draw one out of you—you were sure. A fire built up inside of you, leaving your body temperature rising. You thrust your hips in the air. Sadly, nothing caught their movements.

Steve alternated between both nipples, giving each of them an equal amount of attention. You cried louder, trying to hold the champagne in. You were about to come when Steve pulled away.

A high-pitched whine reflected your displeasure, gaining you a slap to your pussy. “Patience,” Steve ordered, and you reluctantly obliged. Even though you ached to be ravaged by him, whether by his hands, tongue, or dick, you had to admit that you were enraptured by his movements and were always more than eager to lose yourself in his lustful tempest.

You let some fresh air fill your lungs, still breathing through your nose, while Steve adjusted himself on your body. Though blindfolded, your senses were elevated, and you could sense Steve’s body heat creeping closer to yours. True to your suspicion, he loomed over you. One of his hands slithered across your neck, trapping you in a chokehold. You embraced his untamed gestures, craning your head to hopefully meet his face. 

Without so much as a clue, Steve crashed his lips against yours with such fervor it left you reeling. You couldn’t keep the champagne in anymore, feeling Steve steal some of it from your mouth to his, letting the rest fall down across your chin and chest. Steve didn’t kiss you at that moment. He consumed you, engulfed you with his mouth, greedily taking in everything you had to offer. 

You were an instrument, and he was the musician, releasing one string to play with the other. With a loud pop, he let go of your mouth, licking a long stripe down your neck and nibbling at the shell of your ear. “Mine,” he roared, one of his hands moving to your center.

“Yours,” you confirmed, eyes misty with lust and heart lost in the haze of Steve’s ardor. “I’m yours,” you barely managed to whisper before you cut yourself off with a loud yell. Your head hit the pillow, your body forced down by the weight of Steve’s palm on your stomach. You felt something enter your drenched pussy, seething itself to one side. You breathed in deeper now that your mouth had been free of the champagne’s grasp. 

You winced, something else entering the right side of your pussy. Steve played with your clit, easing the discomfort. As the pain ebbed and passion rose, you quickly figured out what had Steve done: he’d put Ben Wa balls inside of you.

“You’re such a perfect little dove, Y/N. Letting me do anything and everything I want to do with you, knowing I’ll make you feel so good. Make you feel so perfect.”

“Yes,” you nodded vehemently, restraints rattling in harmony. “Yes, Captain. You make me feel so good.”

Steve smirked, and you just knew it from when he cupped your breasts and covered them with his mouth. “Just as you make me.”

He pulled your tits apart, and you hopped that meant he was going to fuck you. To fuck the brains out of you and the desire that’s nestled deep within your core. But of course, a super soldier like Steve wouldn’t be done yet. You didn’t know how much time had passed, whether it was an hour or an eon, but time always seemed inconspicuous when Steve was involved.

“Do this one little thing for me, baby doll. And I promise, I will let your pretty princess pussy milk my cock.”

“Anything,” you replied. Steve kissed you then, short but passionate. He pulled back and gave you one more peck before you felt him squeeze your tits once more, this time putting his dick between them. “Oh God. Oh God, Steve!”

“You like taking my cock any way you can, little dove,” he stated matter-of-factly, thrusting himself in the space between your tits and toying with your nipples at the same time. “You like having me as yours. Being the only woman in the world who can take my cock in a dozen different ways. The only woman who I can paint with my cum.”

“Steve,” you mewled loudly and sinfully. His movements, your thoughts, and the added pressure of the Ben Wa balls deep inside of you did so little to appease your heat. You cried and cried, moaning louder than any porn star in existence. And when you felt Steve grunt in pleasure, you gave it to him.

“Fucking hell, Y/N,” he cursed when you spat at his dick, drool dripping down your lips and mixing with precum. “You’re so shamelessly beautiful like this. My favorite piece of art.”

He thrust faster, lifting one breast and lowering the other to create an earth-shattering friction that left his dick twitching by your mouth. You knew what was coming, and you didn’t care whether Steve would allow your release or not. You opened your mouth, counting down his brisk breaths. He grunted twice, moaned once, and nestled his head in your neck to bite down on your shoulder. He was coming. So, you opened your mouth and took as much as you could while the rest of him mesmerizingly decorated your face and chest.

Steve released your tits, but the pressure in your core only barely subsided. He kissed your forearms, wet lips trailing your hands until he reached your wrists. Finally, after so much waiting, he released your hands and untied the blindfold. You squinted at the invasive light. Steve took this as a chance to kiss your eyelids, thumb caressing the curve of your mouth. “You’ve been so good to me, little dove. I think it’s time to get your reward. Would you lay on your stomach for me?”

You opened your eyes, seeking the warmth of his irises. “Uh-huh,” was all that you said before Steve helped you to the position he wanted. He unclipped your bra and slowly discarded your thong. Your pussy clenched, and he kissed your ass cheek when he noticed. “I’ll give you everything you need and more, my Y/N.”

Steve reached out for a pillow, placing it on your pelvis. “Stevie, please. I can’t wait anymore. Please, baby.”

“Don’t beg, little dove,” Steve told you while moving your hair to the side and positioning himself above you. “I’m here, Y/N. I’m yours. Take all of me.” 

You whimpered, teary eyes looking at him to relieve you of your ache. Steve immediately moved his tip along your folds to collect your essence. Yearning for you as much as you yearned for him, he began to slowly sheath himself inside of you. You cried out at the sheer size of him, hands fisting the sheets beneath you. 

Steve inserted himself slowly, bottoming out with a deep, guttural moan. “Fuck,” you breathed, grinding your hips against his—the friction amplifying his passion and yours. The Ben Wa balls intensified your lust, making you feel full and empty all at once. 

Slowly, he started to move. His thrusts were sharp and deep, reflecting his need for you. But the more you moaned, the more he faltered, digging his dick further inside you. “You feel so good,” he admitted, knowing this position was a favorite of yours. You both had quickly discovered that it made for the best sex—giving Steve a clear route to your g-spot and an earth-shattering orgasm.

“More,” you demanded, seeking out his unbridled hunger. “Please, more!” You wanted to feel him lose control inside of you. You adored feeling him lose control inside of you. Steve obliged, thrusting in and out of you at a maddening pace, deeply embedding himself within your heat. “Fuck, Steve. Fuck!” you cried, his balls hitting your skin, adding to the lewdness of the scene.

“Tell me I can go faster,” Steve almost begged. You tilted your head, finding him with eyes closed and brows furrowed in concentration. There was a thin layer of sweat on his face, and you sought his hand to interlace your fingers, finding ways to mold into each other further. “Tell me I can ravage you. Tell me that I can give you all of me, Y/N.”

You squeezed his hand, and he reciprocated your touch. His thrusts were on the precipice of control, as were his actions, this close to tipping over the edge. He had taken your neck hostage in his large veiny hands, thrusting his tongue inside your mouth in tandem with his dick inside your pussy. “Lose control,” you told him. “Lose yourself in me, Captain.”

And lose himself he did. His thrusts became irregular, and it was hard to tell where exactly his hands were on your skin. They were squeezing your breasts, roaming your stomach, tightly pressing against your ass. He was everywhere. You looked up at the ceiling, salivating and burying your face in the mattress at the beautiful portrait you and Steve painted together. You both moaned louder than ever before, the cameras eagerly commemorating your actions. 

“Steve, I’m so close,” you warned him when he kept on repeatedly hitting your g-spot. His response came in the form of short but sweet-sounding kisses planted from your collarbone to your neck. He nibbled on the shell of your ear, licking the skin there and sucking on it.

“Cum, little dove,” he said huskily. “Cream my cock.”

You moved faster against his dick, taking all of him in until you collapsed in on yourself, every part of you stealing Steve’s affection. You clenched hard against his dick, feeling yourself squirt and cream his cock. It didn’t take him seconds before he exploded inside of you, emptying his load for the third time with a scream of your name. He didn’t relent, though. His sporadic movements picked up again. At this point, you were far too lost in the haze of your unabashed engagements to notice. It didn’t take you long to feel another orgasm building up.

You were about to warn Steve when he flipped you over on your back, dick salaciously pounding into your pussy. Determination itched on his brows, and undiluted want lined his irises. He put his hand on your mouth, and you wailed, back arching, pussy squirting (again. How is this even possible?), and your entire surrounding collapsing on itself.

“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TWO DOING?” you heard a high-pitched scream. Too far gone in the throes of passion, you weren’t aware that Tony had opened the door, leading Pepper inside the room. But oh, Steve did. Judging by the smirk, he had heard them coming in.

“Do I really need to explain to you the birds and the bees, Tony?” he mocked, securing the sheets around you both and hiding you from view. His dick twitched inside of you, making it harder for you to breathe.

Tony looked furious. “What I need to you to explain, you ungrateful ass, is what are you doing in this room?

Steve arched an eyebrow. “Procreating,” he answered. You had to cover your mouth and hide behind him so as not to laugh. You could barely move from all the previous activities, and Steve’s dick inside of you, trapped between your overused pussy and the Ben Wa balls, wasn’t really helping the situation. “What are you doing here? Is that why you made comments about Y/N’s ass? Were you hoping to watch us or something?”

“OH MY GOD.”

“Pepper. No, I swe—”

“Is that your idea of making it up to me? Watching Y/N and Steve go at it. Tony—”

“Absolutely not! Do I look like I have a grandfather kink or something?”

“Then, why are we in this room?”

“Well, I was hoping we could engage in—”

“ENGAGE? With Steve and Y/N??”

“NO. I don’t even know what they’re doing here!”

“What every two consenting adults do,” you added with a raspy voice. Tony’s expression was almost as good as the sex you just had. He was utterly dumbfounded, desperately raking his brain to persuade Pepper that this wasn’t what she thought she was. “Nice costume, Pep. I’m sorry. We were told there was a surprise waiting for us for the emotional trauma caused by your genius playboy.”

“Yeah,” Pepper exhaled. She was dressed in what you assumed was an Asgardian dress, and you felt guilty to have ruined her night. “Well, it was a surprise for all of us. I’m sorry on behalf of the idiot playboy.”

Pepper glared at Tony, heels digging into his shoes. He cursed, his frustrations matching hers. “Pepper,” he begged breathlessly. But she was already gone. “I’m getting you two back for this. I swear.”

“No, Tony. We will not send you a copy of our sex tape,” you teased, purposely raising your voice. You swore Tony’s arc reactor was going to malfunction.

“I DIDN’T SAY ANYTHING. PEPPER, I SWEAR. SHE’S LYING!!”

And with that, he left, leaving you and Steve hysterically laughing. He kissed you breathlessly, hands holding your face like you were the most precious thing in his life. “Halloween wasn’t that bad.”

“No. I kind of like this house now, too.”

“Me too, dove. I love every place I make happy memories there with you.” And happy memories you continued to make with Tony and Pepper’s squabble long lost in the background.

I'm going to hell for this.

You can also find my work on AO3. 🤍

[mysticstarlightduck]

Seven Sentences Sunday! Writing Share Tag! <3

Thanks for the tag, @rickie-the-storyteller!!!! I know this is a 7 Sentence Tag but I am too lazy so I'm gonna treat it as a Writing Share tag lmao

I'll go with a snippet from Arrows of Nightfall for this one (:

Snow crunched underneath Asrius' worn out, heavy fur-lined boots, as he trudged through the frozen trail. The ground was covered in thick blankets of white, frost crawling up the treetrunks and tinging everything around him with cold. The trees were barren, their ashen branches creaking in the howling wind, their fallen leaves long since turned to wet mulch under the thick snow.

The familiar smell of burning wood from scattered campires was the only welcome he had as he neared the war camp once more. It would've been comforting, if it wasn't followed by the faint smell of roasted venison and the cheers of the older soldiers sharing their vast, filling portions in the main tent. None of that feast would ever make its way to him, or to his cousin.

That, the Commander had made damn well sure of.

All that Asrius had to keep him and Eirian from starving in these frozen wastes were small, dwindling stashes of dry meat and stale old bread, and whatever small critter - usually a hare or a phesant, though now, at this point in the winter, where the forests had turned into a deserted death trap, he wasn't above hunting for rats - he could manage to kill and smuggle into camp without being spotted by his so-called comrades. If he was lucky.

Today, he wasn't lucky.

His hunting escapade today had left him with nothing more than weary, frost-bitten bones and empty hands, his entire body protesting the unwanted effort after the grueling scouting missions the Commander had not-so-generously burdened him with. Nothing. He'd gotten nothing. And he knew what awaited him in their small, shared tent in the far edge of camp - Eirian, his cousin, barely eleven winters of age, and their tiny stash of supplies hidden under an old pack. Today it wouldn't be enough for half a meal for even one of them, let alone them both.

He'd have to take a risk. To steal from the more favored soldiers, the ones gathering around the main table. The ones who loved to beat him up, and whose cruel laughter seemed to be the backdrop of his life nowadays. He'd have to try. Maybe he could swipe a pastry or two from the feast the others shared, sneak it away under his cloak. He hoped they were drunken enough that such an act would go unnoticed.

Asrius tugged at his cloak so it wrapped more tightly around his shoulders, as if the rough hewn cloth could offer something akin to warmth in this weather, with the wind slashing at his skin like icy daggers. Each step he took closer to the main tent felt like a battle against his own instincts screaming at him to just stop. But he couldn't afford to stop. If he did, he and Eirian would be soon to become like those corpses that seemed to litter the edge of the roads, gaunt husks reaped by illness and hunger, drained of life.

He refused to let that be their fate.

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Ateez - Nauseous at Work Vignettes - 3/8 - Yunho

“Yunho!” Wooyoung called out as they ran their Django choreography in preparation for an upcoming performance. “You missed your cue!” It wasn’t unusual for somebody to miss a cue or drop a beat here and there, especially after several hours of grueling practice. What was unusual, however, was the way that Yunho stood against the wall, his back turned to the members, leaning his forehead against the mirror.

“Yunho-ah, what’s going on?” Hongjoong called as the seven remaining members continued to dance. His breath was coming heavily but the concern in his voice was still evident. “Yunho? Yunho are you alright?”

With that Yunho turned around to face the rest of the members, his face ashen in a way that it hadn’t been just moments prior.

“Cut the music” Hongjoong said loudly to nobody in particular as he locked eyes with Yunho, whose eyes were wide with panic.

“Hyung, I don’t feel well” Yunho mumbled quietly, seeming to sway dangerously on his feet. San and Seonghwa were quick to step in, helping him take a seat on the floor.

“What’s wrong, jagi?” Hongjoong asked as he knelt down in front of Yunho.

“I think I just need to sit down for a second. I feel kind of…” Yunho started before being interrupted by a hiccup. It only took a moment for a waste paper bin to be shoved under his chin by Yeosang, who had grabbed it from across the room as soon as he saw how pale Yunho looked.

“It’s okay,” Seonghwa cooed, rubbing Yunho’s back as he doubled over the bin. Hongjoong stepped back to give them space, silently ushering the rest of the members out of the studio. His mind raced, trying to pinpoint what could have made Yunho suddenly so sick to his stomach. But he realized immediately as he picked up his dongsaeng’s water bottle.

Within a few minutes Yunho weakly pushed the waste basket away, indicating that he was done for the time being. Hongjoong handed him his nearly full water bottle right away, earning a groan from Yunho, who wanted nothing more than to lie down on the dance studio floor until this uncomfortable, sick feeling relented. “Small sips, Yunho” Hongjoong said, helping Yunho steady his hand enough to take in some water. He got a few mouthfuls down with some encouragement from his hyungs before handing the bottle back to Hongjoong and sinking heavily into Seonghwa’s shoulder, muttering a groggy “sorry.”

Hongjoong shook his head, cupping Yunho’s cheek in his hand. “It’s okay, no need to apologize. I think you’re just a little dehydrated.”

Seonghwa’s eyes snapped up at that as Hongjoong continued.

“You haven’t had much to drink today, hmm? Your bottle was almost full just now. You feel a bit warm but I think that’s just from practicing. I’ll take your temp when I get you home though, just to be sure.” Hongjoong could see the wheels spinning behind Yunho’s eyes now that he was regaining some colour in his face, trying to piece together exactly what had happened.

“I…I didn’t…no I don’t feel...yeah I think I forgot to drink today…I guess.” Yunho stuttered, closing his eyes and taking a few deep breaths. “I’ll be ready to start again soon though, I just need a second…for the nausea…” His voice drifted as he turned his focus back to his body with a furrow of his brow.

Seonghwa piped in this time, rolling his eyes at Yunho’s comment. “Are you sure you’re not running a fever, Yunho-ah? Because you’d have to be delirious to think that we’d let you keep practicing after nearly passing out on us” he said, playfully touching the back of his hand to Yunho’s forehead. Yunho chuckled in response, a good indication that he was starting to feel a little bit more like himself again. “Take a few more sips of water, please. We’ll get your things packed up. Just relax and Hongjoong will take you home as long as you don’t have any trouble keeping that water down for the next few minutes.”

Yunho sighed as he reached out for his water bottle again, slowly swallowing a couple more mouthfuls before his eyes grew heavy. He slumped against the mirror, just about ready to doze off, when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“You poor thing” Seonghwa said softly, glancing at Yunho’s water bottle, satisfied that his dongsaeng had drank enough to be able to get to his feet again safely. “Let’s get you home and to bed before you fall asleep, yeah?” Yunho nodded as Seonghwa helped him stand. “And, please, Yunho-ah” he added quickly, pushing Yunho’s water bottle into his hand deliberately. “Let’s try not to forget about this again today.”

[emeritusemeritus]

Vulnera Sanentur [Weasley Twins x Reader]

Part 8

Part 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14

Title: Vulnera Sanentur

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Reader x George Weasley {established relationship}

Timeline: DH1&2- Initially set during the battle of the seven potters. Canon and certain plot points have been altered for the needs of the story.

Summary: The battle of the seven Potters throws your world into chaos when one of your boyfriend’s is cursed. As Snape’s ex-potions assistant and previous protégée, you recognise the inflicted curse immediately and demand answers from your mentor.

Warnings: Angst, mentions of war and Voldy, descriptions of injury and blood, descriptive smut, p in v sex, shower sex, tension. Outside sex. Semi public sex. None sexual nudity. Crying. Snape has a soft spot for reader. Arguments. Probably some cursing. Mentions of nightmares. Reader is part of the Order of the Phoenix. Mentions of death. Snakes. Mentions of Tonks’ pregnancy. Oh it got a angsty. So much angst I can’t tag it all. Not spellchecked nor beta read, we die like Madeye.

"It seems, despite your exhaustive defensive strategies, you have a bit of a security problem, Headmaster."

The doors to the Great Hall open before you and each Order member steps forward in formation, a beacon of strength as you all stand resolute, prepared to fight. You stand in front of Fred and George, beside Bill, finally feeling safe and secure despite facing your opponents head on.

Snape stares in stunned disbelief as he looks upon the Order, his gaze flicking through the formation of people before landing on you. He does an undeniable eye twitch as he looks into your harsh gaze and for a moment you forget that you are on opposing sides of this fight as you catch each other's eye.

"And I'm afraid it's quite extensive."

The students move back instinctively, stood in strong lines and divided by their houses. Snape turns back to Harry with one last lingering gaze at you, still mute and looking stunned.

The Carrows, who had been stood behind Snape, move to stand a little further apart, no longer blocked by their headmaster, though they look at him for guidance, unsure of how to proceed.

Harry's eyes narrow with malice as he stares at Snape, allowing the rage inside of him to overwhelm him as he spouts his next line.

"How dare you stand where he stood! Tell them how it was that night. Tell then how you looked him in the eye, a man who trusted you... and killed him. Tell them!"

Snape's eyes convey nothing, his face a mask. He moves with an ambiguous flare that suggests he is reaching for his wand. Professor Mcgonagall, who had stood to the side with an ashen face all this time lunges forward with her wand outstretched, shoving Harry aside as the two professors stand off. You instantly withdraw your own wand, followed by the other order members who stand with rapt attention, ready for the singular catalyst. The students shuffle back further in fear and Snape momentarily lowers his wand, his resolve slipping briefly in a move that suggests he had not anticipated McGonagall's bravery nor her intention to protect Harry.

Suddenly, a volcanic blast erupts from Mcgonagall's wand that momentarily causes him to lose balance as he deflects the spell just in time. It's clear to you that it was a warning spell, a taster of what he would face should he enter a duel with her, her loyalty and devotion to protecting Harry and the rest of the school was not to be understated. Severus looks at her with wide eyes, the realisation that whatever cordial bond had been formed during their years of teaching was to be broken within seconds. She doesn't give him time to recover and sends another, more harsher, spell in his direction which she repeats over and over, slowly advancing with a stone cold look in her eyes. He manages to deflect the spells with a few near misses, sending the spell richocheting around the room as the students watch on with a mixture of fear and disbelief. His deflection hits the Carrows' standing behind him straight on, their bodies falling to the floor in two resounding thuds, their lives merely collateral damage in the chaos.

There's a singular moment when everything pauses, Snape having deflected the last of the blasts as he stands panting at the epicentre of the room, his eyes briefly meeting yours. It's brief but meaningful and no sooner had you registered his glance before he waves his wand in a circular motion in the air, the sweeping motion reducing the flames in the wall-fixed torches as a black smoke clouds surround him.

There's a whooshing noise as you watch Severus' body twist and formulate into a bat-like form of black smoke that flies with forceful velocity upwards and straight through the glass window as the figure escapes, flying out of the castle and into the night. 

Cheers erupt from the students and staff alike as Professor Mcgonagall lifts her wand once more and lights the torches once again to their full capacity, brightness illuminating the room once again.

You and the Order members move forward to shield the students, with you, Bill, Fred and George spreading out around the students at the back, Harry still stood in the middle.

In start contrast to the celebration around you, the feeling of impending doom slowly trickles in to your subconscious mind and quickly takes over your entire body like a venom spreading through your veins. Coldness spreads under your skin, the hairs at the back of your neck standing up as your insides mix with a cold, ominous feeling. And then, the pain starts.

A burning sensation fills your shoulder, a pain so hot that it feels ice cold, striking your raw shoulder, shooting up your neck and into your head. It's overwhelming and you feel yourself sway with dizziness, hardly able to breath as the pain strangles your senses. In your peripheral vision, you see Harry wincing and stumbling over and for just a second your eyes meet, drawn to each other, both of you realising that you were feeling the same thing. The pain in your shoulder only increases, your skin feeling like it was ripping open and someone was pouring acid into the wound, your hand and fingers tingling with pin sharp pricks with the intensity of the pain. The back of your head throbs, white hot pain searing through your skull and constricting around your temples; you can no longer pretend to be fine as your legs give out, your body not able to keep you upright any longer.

You clutch your shoulder trying anything to rid yourself of the agony, your eyes scrunching tight as the pain intensifies again both in your head and your shoulder. You don't notice that the lights have once again extinguished in the hall until you open your eyes, the pain in your mind suddenly stopping though your ears have begun ringing, the base of your ears already sore.

You see Fred and George panic as you collapse, desperately trying to reach out for you but they are stopped when the ceiling of the hall immediately clouds over with a worrying black cloud, thunder rumbling quietly as the room continues to darken.

You and Harry, both on the floor, share another look though this is pure fear, realising that you had both been targeted by something that had quickly disappeared, leaving you to question what was going to happen next.

A girl's scream rips your gaze away as you struggle to your feet, helped by George who scrambles to reach out for you and pull you up. You turn to look for the girl screaming but you can't see anything. Harry has gone to investigate the noise that seems to stop only moments later, when another girl screams from just behind you. You rush over to her through a sea of horrified students, stumping on shaky legs and find one of the Patil sisters clutching their head, hands over their ears with tears running down their face.

Suddenly you freeze as a snake like voice whispers in your ear, goosebumps raising onto your skin as the familiar pain blasts through your shoulder once again making you breathless. You look around for Harry to see if he was hearing this too but to your surprise, you instead see the people around you all with the same stricken and horrified expression, some with their hands over their ears and trying to shake their head. You realise then, that everyone was hearing the same thing, Voldemort entering each and every individuals mind.

"I know that many of you will want to fight. Some of you may even think this wise. But this is folly.

Give me Harry Potter. Do this and none shall be harmed. Give me Harry Potter and I shall leave Hogwarts untouched. Give me Harry Potter and you will be rewarded. You have one hour."

The whisper recedes and you can slowly feel the blinding discomfort in your shoulder subside, your body beginning to tremble from the intensity of the torturous pain. It slips away from you in a slow moving wave and you try and take deep breaths as you regain control over yourself, your shoulder now aching and sore.

The clouds in the ceiling begin to disperse and return to normal, torches lighting once again as you look around once more, seeing everyone's focus on Harry, except for George and Fred who look worriedly are you.

There's a tension in the air as Voldemort's words resound in your mind, replaying like an evil haunting loop.

"What are you waiting for? Someone grab him!" Pansy Parkinson says from the Slytherin block, pointing her finger at him with wide eyes, clearly having been swayed by Voldemort's threats.

Instinctively, you step towards Harry at the very same time that Ginny does, blocking him from view. You stumble over to him, still weak and dizzy though you persevere as George reaches out for you as you leave his side, wordlessly protesting but you know what is right and what needs to be done. Your wand is in your hand ready but not aimed.

Hermione moves only a few seconds behind you, as does Ron. The members of Dumbledore's Army all flank you and surround Harry, as do some of the closer Order members, showing a fear of defiance. Fred and George keep you firmly between them.

Just as the tension builds, ready for a stand-off against the Slytherins, Filch bursts through the open doors holding Mrs Norris and runs through the centre of the hall, limping and bobbing as he runs.

"Students out of bed! Students in the corridors!"

You couldn't help but laugh, seeing that maybe not everything had changed at this school. The tension is broken immediately and you can't help but turn your head to see Fred also looking amused.

"They're supposed to be out of bed, you blithering idiot!" Mcgonagall says.

"Oh. Sorry, ma'am," Filch says dejectedly, keeping a firm hold on Mrs Norris, shrinking a little as he moves to turn back.

"As it turns out, Mr. Filch, your arrival is most opportune," Mcgonagall says as she briskly walks down the podium stairs towards Mr Filch, who eagerly awaits orders. "If you would, I'd like you to lead Miss Parkinson and the rest of Slytherin House from the Hall."

There's a disgruntled murmur from the Slytherin house which falls silent with one murderous look from Professor Mcgonagall.

"Right away," he says with a nod, beginning to turn before pausing, "Er, exactly where is it I'd be leadin' em to, ma'am?"

"The dungeons should do," Mcgonagall says coldly, though her eyes shine with a sort of victorious amusement as cheers erupt in the hall.

The Slytherin students are marched out of the hall towards the dungeons, leaving all the students remaining to be pro-Harry.

"Baby what happened?" George says quickly, reaching out for your arm, searching your face with wide, worried eyes.

"What was that princess? Are you okay?" Both of them look horrified but you put on a fake smile, trying to ignore their looks of concern.

"Just heard him first that's all," you lied, looking to find Harry in the sea of people.

"But your arm, you-."

"I need to get to Harry," you drag them along with their hands, hoping for them to follow you towards the Order members and fortunately enough, Remus intercepts once again, flagging them down to join the circle, thus giving you time to find Hermione.

The tone suddenly shifts once again and it's now time to raise the defences, to be prepared for the oncoming attack. You had to find the diadem. Students begin fleeing and the Order members gather once again, the plan falling into place. Harry, you and Hermione start off towards Ron who stands with the Order listening in to their plans. You can feel Fred looking at you but you wait for Harry, trying to think of your own best course of action.

"Potter," Mcgonagall says, stopping Harry. "It's good to see you." Her face flicks between Harry and you, a small smile tugging at her lips.

"You, too, Professor."

"Harry we need a plan!" Hermione says, trying to catch his attention.

"Our plans don't work Hermione, how many times do we have to prove that?" He says, rushing out to join you all. In the background you hear and feel giant thudding and see the statues and suits of armour coming to life from their plinths, dropping down with a resounding thud as they thunder past towards the viaduct, blocking off any entrance to the school.

Bill walks over to you and gives you one look that shows he knows exactly what the frown on your face is for, his eyes flicking to your shoulder having seen your pain only minutes ago.

"It's fine," you say quietly, trying to focus on the grouping, neither of you looking at the other but quietly whispering between yourselves as if you'd be reprimanded like a child in class hiding from the teacher.

"Okay tough girl," he says quietly with a smirk, "you know where I'll be if you need it numbing," he adds, turning away and focusing on Kingsley who addresses and delegates.

"Bridge is being destroyed as we speak, the teachers are casting defensive charms, Arthur you will lead the troops, Fred, George, you are on defence duty of the passageways," Kingsley instructs. "Madame Pomfrey is setting up a makeshift infirmity in the great hall."

"Is that wise?" You say, your words coming out before you could register them as the rest of the group turns to you. "Setting up medical relief in the atrium of the school? If the death eaters get past the defences it's the first place they'll attack, the most damage to inflict."

"Then we ensure they don't get past the defences," Kingsley says, but you don't agree with him in the slightest, knowing it was risky. You sigh but keep silent, turning to look at Hermione who looks zoned out completely, no doubt already setting a plan for what your group needs to do. "We meet in the battlements once our jobs are completed."

"Angel, come on," George ushers you to move with him and Fred but you don't move, casting a glance at Harry who watches on with a sorrowful look on his face, knowing that you must make your choice.

"I, can't," you say, diverting your eyes from George's insistent pleads. Fred protests, trying to reach for you but you stay put, knowing you can't go with them.

"No, we just got you back," Fred says, reaching for your hand.

"We can't lose you again," George adds, his eyes more pained than you'd ever seen them.

"You won't lose me, I just can't give up now, there's something I have to do first," you say, finding strength and trying to ignore their confused and pained eyes at your words. "As soon as I'm done I'll find you."

They protest but eventually relent as they see the determination in your eyes, first with Fred launching forward to press a strong and passionate kiss to your lips before hovering over you and pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead.

"I love you, be safe."

George mimics Fred's actions though his hands paw at your waist and for a moment you wonder if he'll actually let go.

"I love you," George says, his hands loosening but not quite pulling away.

"I love you both, so much. I'll be back with you soon."

"Don't keep us waiting Mrs Weasley," Fred says, bumping his brothers arm as he uses your words from before against you. Tears fill your eyes but you don't let them see, watching as they run out of the hall and towards the staircases. You feel lost again, the pain and loneliness from the months away slipping right back into you as they leave your side, but you don't have time to cry. You walk over to Hermione and Ron and run to catch up with Harry, finding him amongst the chaos of students running around.

"Harry, Y/n, Hermione and I have been thinking. It doesn't really matter if we find the Horcrux."

"What're you saying?" Harry says, frowning you at Ron.

"Unless we can destroy it," he explains. "So we were thinking."

"You were thinking. It's Ron's idea. And it's completely brilliant."

"You destroyed Tom Riddle's Diary with a Basilisk fang, right? Well, we know where we might find one, don't we?"

Harry ponders this for a moment before nodding, "okay." turning to you, "you with me?"

"Common room," you say with a nod of your head, and immediately turning up the stairs.

"West side, top of the spiral staircase!" You shouted down to Harry who had never even been near the Ravenclaw common room. You approached the eagle shaped knocker in the centre of the door and waited for it to speak, explaining that you must answer the riddle to get through.

"Glittering points that downward thrust, sparkling spears that never rust. What are they?" The knocker asks mysteriously, prompting you to think of the answer.

"Icicles!" You say quickly and you sigh a breath of relief when the door creaks open, allowing you entry.

Harry looks at you with raised eyebrows and your shrug with a smirk, "should have been a ravenclaw."

You find the Grey Lady eventually with Luna's help after finding nothing in the common room of any intellectual value and Harry speaks to her privately as you and Luna watch from the windows to see the protection spells forming and creating an orb like glow around the school. It's ominous and threatening though you can't deny there's a strange beauty to it and your thoughts drift to George and Fred, hoping that wherever they were, that they were okay.

"If you have to ask, you will never know, if you know, you need only ask," Harry mutters, walking out of the space he'd occupied with Helena. "Ravenclaws and riddles!" He mutters with a frown, seemingly not understanding what she was saying.

"Harry!" You call, chasing after him. "The room of requirement."

You and Harry run towards the room of requirement on the seventh floor, trying desperately to cut through the ever more frantic crowds.

Suddenly, from all around there was a giant bang, followed by multiple others and your stomach dropped in realisation that the defences had broken. Death eaters were inside the school.

You bolted with everything in you, trying to keep in line with Harry as you twisted and turned until you reached the seventh floor corridor, the bricks tumbling with explosions as the structure collapsed around you.

"Y/n!" Harry screams as you fall behind, tripping over the rubble underfoot and only a moment later do you manage to exit the dust and rubble, having stopped the debris falling with your wand at the last second. It was a close call, much too close for your liking and you heaved as you approached the blank wall to join Harry, entering the room of requirement as the door magically appeared.

You step inside and see the wall to wall treasures piled up. Almost immediately your shoulder begins to tingle, making you wince and attempt to roll your shoulder to alleviate the ache. Harry notices immediately and turns to you.

"You can feel it too can't you?" He states, though his eyes are questioning. You nod, looking away, in complete denial that you'd been somehow inflicted, cursed by the bite.

After facing Draco, Blaise and Goyle with the help of Ron and Hermione and narrowly avoiding death by fiendfyre you all managed to escape the room of requirement with the Horcrux. The diadem was promptly stabbed by Harry and kicked into the fire by Ron, destroying the Horcrux completely.

As soon as the basilisk fang pierced the diadem, your shoulder burned with an excruciating pain that made you fall to your knees, tears welling at your eyes. Hermione dropped down with you in concern as Harry looked on, his own exhaustion and pain overwhelming him as he looked at you, realising that something was wrong with your connection to the snake.

"She's a Horcrux," you bit out, the pain ebbing away just slightly, your voice strangled and breathy. "The snake, it's a Horcrux isn't it," you asked, turning to Harry. He gives a solemn nod, having seen that exactly information during his momentary connection to Voldemort as the now broken Horcrux killed off another piece of his fragmented soul.

"The last one," Harry confirms, his breathing laboured. You'd feared that very information since the moment you had woken after removing the venom from your arm, remembering the snarky remark you'd made about the snake being a Horcrux then, only now it was decidedly not funny anymore.

"So we need to find the Snake," Ron says, looking just as defeated as Hermione did at the revelation, knowing that Voldemort would keep an even closer eye on the snake now he was vulnerable, which meant either trying to pry the snake away or having to take on both of them together, a daunting thought which would inevitably be fatal.

As you rose up from the floor, you noticed that Ron and Hermione were holding hands and you found your smile, happy for them. Hermione blushed slightly as she noticed you looking and you looked between them with happy smiles, thankful for something good to come out of this hell.

"So where do we start?" Ron asks, keeping up with you, Hermione and Harry as you walk down the staircases, trying to sort your next plan of action.

"Hold up! We've forgotten someone!" Ron says suddenly, causing you all to come to a quick halt, looking around to see no one you hadn't anticipated to be with you.

"Who?" Asked hermione.

"The house elves! They'll all be down in the kitchen won't they?" He says, making Hermione freeze before pulling him by the jacket into a kiss, her arms flinging around him. It occurred to you then that Dobby had been working in the kitchens for a while, would the other house elves be able to decode Dobby's cryptic last words to you?

"Yes, let's go to the kitchens," you say with determination, already turning and setting off down towards the kitchens in the basement. The sea of frantic Hufflepuffs were hard to navigate as you descended the last of the stairs and rounded the corner leading to the brightly lit corridor lined with broad stone, multiple torches and vivid paintings of food. You walked with purpose towards the fruit bowl painting half way through the corridor and reached out to tickle the pear, as you had so many times before. The green door handle appeared almost instantly as the pear giggled, which you opened and stepped through, guiding the trio behind you. You were immediately met with nearly 100 hours elves still working away by the four replica tables from the great hall, some huddled around the huge fireplace on one side and some linked together to reach for the pans over their heads.

"Master," a gravelly, familiar voice says, causing you to turn in their direction.

"Kreacher," Harry says in surprise, looking at the house elf adorned in frayed, black clothing. It was a surprise to see him here, though you supposed that he found his way here after you didn't return to Grimmauld Place. "We've come to get you out, the war's starting, anyone who doesn't want to be here should go to safety now."

Kreacher looks around at his elf companions and mutters under his breath, taking one look at Harry before turning away. The truth was, you'd never been a fan of Kreacher, found him inordinately rude and untrustworthy. The comments he made about Fred and George being 'unnatural little beasts' some time ago had always stuck in your mind and calling Fred a 'nasty little breat of a blood traitor' didn't do him any favours in your eyes either.

You looked around, hoping to see one specific house elf that you favoured and squinted through the bustling bodies, trying to find the elf that was like finding a needle in a haystack. But then you spotted her, praying as you made your way over to her that she wasn't drunk on Butterbeer.

"Winky!"

"Miss y/n, how may I serve you? Is good for winky to see you miss y/n," she replies, face lighting up at seeing you walking towards her.

"Winky, I'm sorry I don't have much time," you explained, crouching down so that you were at similar heights, not ever watching to talk down to the hard working house elf. "I'm afraid I don't have good news, Dobby was killed by Bellatrix Lestrange." There was no easy way to break it to her and you couldn't let her carry on without knowing what had happened to her greatest friend. As predicted she immediately erupted with sobs, tears flowing down her little cheeks at the news.

"Winky, Winky, I'm sorry, I know how close you were. If I had more time," you veer off, reaching into your pocket to feel for the Lebetum. "Before he died, Dobby said that his boss had sent him, that he knew Harry and his friends were in danger, do you know anything about that?"

Trying to calm a house elf was exceedingly difficult and you could just about hear your words over her dramatic but warranted sobs. Surprisingly only a few moments later, she let la out a loud and nausea-inducing sniffle to clear her nose and nods gently, looking up into your face with the saddest little eyes you'd ever seen.

"The boss sent for Dobby, said he needed him to find you, that Harry was in danger, that you were in danger. Winky couldn't sleep that night, much worry for you," she hiccups, trying to hold back more tears.

"Winky," you say softly, trying to comfort her as you rest your hand on her bony little shoulder. "Winky who is the boss?"

She sniffles again, toying with the skirt of her makeshift dress, "the headmaster of course."

You freeze, her words slowly sinking in and you realise now how foolish you'd been. Dobby worked at Hogwarts and had been given an allowance for his work by Dumbledore, of course he would then see Severus as his boss, being the new headmaster.

"Winky, thank you so much. I'm very sorry about Dobby. Look, there's a war going on and I want you to be safe, you must get out of Hogwarts and go to safety. One day when this is all over, I'll take you to Dobby's grave if you'd like that."

Winky begins to cry again but it's not just sad tears any longer as she flings herself around you. You hold her sobbing form and try to console her for a moment but you know that you need to go, that time was against you.

"Will you help the others get out safely for me?" You ask, just as she begins to peel herself away from you. She nods and wipes her eyes with her arm.

"I have to go, be safe," you say, casting a glance at the trio who you can sense are watching you. You stand slowly and hold her shoulder one last time before turning away, feeling awful for leaving her but it was all you could do at this moment in time.

"It was Snape," you say, walking back to the group, seeing that Kreacher had now left. They look at you with confused faces and you realise that you'd left out some rather critical information. "The doe, it was Snape. Snape sent Dobby to Malfoy's murder mansion."

Harry begins to protest, his mouth opening but you shake your head, pulling out the Lebetum.

"I tried to summon the doe remember? That night outside the tent, I summoned the doe and it led us to the sword and then in the dungeons, I tried to summon the doe to help us get out but it never came out of the Lebetum, it disappeared from the glass. Then Dobby turned up and saved us, he said that his boss had sent him, remember?"

"Snape was helping us?" Hermione says with a disgruntled face, frown lines plucking at her forehead.

"Yeah he really helped George when he cursed his ear off," Ron says pointedly and you sigh.

"He didn't mean to, it was a misfire," you say, your eyebrows shooting up when you realise that you had just given away your secret as they all look at you with wide eyes. "I went after him that night, I screamed at him, he explained. There's something more to him, I don't believe he just turned his back on Dumbledore and the Order."

"Still, he's a deatheater," Ron argued, spitting the word out in indignation, ignoring your explanation entirely which you were thankful for.

"A deatheater that's saved our lives twice," you countered, crossing your arms over your chest, wincing a little from the movement which agitated your shoulder. "All I'm saying is that he might be able to help us now, maybe if we find him he could use his standing with Voldemort to distract him whilst we get the snake? Then it's just him."

"She does have a point," Hermione says, though you could tell the others were largely unconvinced, their perception and history with the Professor tainting their view now. "Maybe if we knew where the snake was?"

"Can you look mate, see inside of him? Maybe that would show us?" Ron asks, turning to Harry. Harry looks conflicted, not liking the idea of bridging the connection to Voldemort, even in this situation but he reluctantly agrees, shoulders sagging as he takes a deep breath, closes his eyes and tries to focus.

"I can't see the snake," Harry says a minute later, his eyes dark and weary as he opens them, the strength of connection to Voldemort's mind had exhausted him. You all sighed, feeling a little defeated. You saw Harry look at you and you turned your head to face him, wordlessly conversing.

"No, not a chance," you said strongly, rejecting the idea completely that you could see Harry was trying to convey.

"You might have a link to the snake, a link he doesn't know about."

"What?" Hermione says, looking at you with wide eyes.

"Her shoulder, where she was attacked, every time Voldemort tries to connect to me it hurts her, doesn't it? When we destroyed the diadem you felt it too didn't you," Harry presses. You look away, nodding gently as your fears are brought to life, knowing that somehow you'd been cursed by the snake.

"It's okay," Harry says, trying to comfort you. "Just try to picture the snake, see if you can see anything."

You looked at the faces of your friends and briefly thought of your boyfriend that were somewhere on the castle, hopefully unharmed. If you could do this and slay the snake, you'd be back with them as soon as possible. You closed your eyes and took a deep breath to calm yourself and empty your mind, allowing the darkness behind your eyelids to remain so. You pictured the snake, your shoulder and the night in Bathilda's house, the night your connection had been made. And suddenly, like an old muffle cinema screen, the darkness behind your eyes changed until you were slithering along the wet ground, grass moving along with your body until you happened upon wet, creaky goodness floorboards. You were in the body of the snake, slithering along the ground, the thoughts of the snake translating into your kind as it thought of returning to it's master, having heard the call to return. Panes of glass passed your peripheral vision and you caught sight of your body, the green hue and uniform blotched lighter patches across the main stump of body.

You opened your eyes and gasped, a cough choking your throat as you panicked, eyes blurry and unable to focus.

"It's okay, y/n, we're here, you're safe," Harry says, kneeling down beside you. It takes your eyes a moment to focus but they do eventually, though you were left panting and breathless, you're whole body fighting the urge to let out a shuddering sob.

"The boathouse, she's going to the boathouse."

You tried jumping to your feet but your legs were weak and you stumbled a little, a cold sensation still covering your body that you couldn't fight off, the feeling of being the snake was all over you.

"Do we have anything to kill it with?" You asked, turning to look at them. "Not even a basilisk fang?"

Hermione looks sheepish as Ron looks down at his feet.

"We sort of lost them in the skirmish, only managed to save the one we used to destroy the tiara thingy," Ron says, speaking for Hermione as he rubs the back of his head. 

"Griphook had the sword," Harry says, relaying the deal he'd made for information.

"Griphook is dead master, had you not heard? Goblins were massacred after they informed Voldemort that Miss Lestrange's vault had been broken into."

You felt awful, your stomach sinking as you realised that your actions had caused this massacre.

"That means the sword is no longer in his possession," Hermione whispers to Harry.

Suddenly, the Lebetum in your pocket begins shaking, a new feature you hadn't been come across yet. You pulled it out and looked at the glass, seeing the doe already at the glass window, without any need to think of a pleasant memory nor recite the words. In that moment, you knew something was very wrong, Severus was in danger.

Next

Taglist:

@missryerye @football1921@rk-ceres @weasleywheezer @lotusloisstuff @c0comichi @xthatpottahfanx @aigowen @fandom-taylor @weasleyluver85 @mariamkhaled87 @jewelsrules @ledger-kaos @bucksdonkey @clara-carpenter-morgan @jinxxangel13 @darkrozesblog @slytherin4536

[eyelessjacksfleshlight]

ʟᴜᴄɪᴅ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍ

╭── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──╮

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐣𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝, 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐦 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐞, 𝐝𝐮𝐛𝐜𝐨𝐧

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 𝟕𝟓𝟐

ʜᴇᴀᴅᴄᴀɴɴᴏɴ . ʙʟᴜʀʙ . ꜰᴜʟʟ ʟᴇɴɢᴛʜ . ᴀᴏ3

╰── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──╯

Nothing could have prepared you for the strong metallic scent of blood wafting through the desolate cabin. Your breathing constricted with each step, slowly rounding the cracked plaster corner of the hallway only to lay your eyes on a heaving seven-foot-tall man. He stands in the middle of what should be the living room, staring at nothing, fists clenching and unclenching. Your eyes trail to his messy brown hair; dirt, debris, and dried blood clump the wavy strands together. The indent of a black strap nestles nicely within the tangles of his hair, the band connecting to the deep blue mask that is all too familiar.

What catches your eye next is just how bloody he is. The gray button-up shirt seems to stick to his muscular upper body, the blood being the glue that holds it together. Crimson liquid drips from his dark gray forearms to the scuffed wooden floor, leaving stains that will never come out. You couldn’t help but notice how his khaki pants fit so nicely around his thick thighs and ass, but the thoughts didn’t linger long as the next thing your poor human brain comprehends is his dark and gravelly toned voice.

“Come here,” he states, leaving no room for argument. Your body feels numb, buzzing with anticipation and fear. It is hard to ignore the lump in your throat that prevents you from speaking, so you take nervous steps toward the man instead–if that is even what you could call him. The way his ashen gray skin fades into black asphalt from his forearms to his fingertips says otherwise. You try not to think about it too much, as indifference is the key to survival.

So you approach him, head craning up to look into the abyss of his eye sockets that lead like tunnels into hell, presumably where he came from. Goosebumps rise on your skin. The mixture of the cold cabin air hitting your exposed legs and arms and the intensity of his stare makes it challenging to stand normally.

Your eyes break his gaze and your hands come up to rub your upper arms to try to create some semblance of warmth. Hard nipples poke through the thin cotton material of your tiny tank top. A small rose in the middle of the collar compliments the pale blue fabric nicely. It has a vintage vibe that makes you wonder just how old it is. You didn't have many options, this being the few articles of clothing that was left in the two-bedroom cabin. The top fitting in the first place is a miracle since the shorts you wore did not. They're too big and flared for your liking–the only saving grace being the drawstrings on the band. You had asked him for your clothes back from that first day, but he had shaken his head, saying something along the lines of, “They’re stained. You don’t want them.”

“Closer,” he whispered, voice breaking up your clouded brain. You didn’t want to come closer because if you did, your bare feet would be standing in the pool of blood that continues to drip from him. Your mind ran a thousand thoughts per second, scared of what would happen if you refused, and terrified of what would come of you if you listened.

“Do I need to repeat myself?” He questioned, cocking his head to the left, that horrible blue mask still concealing his face. You knew enough about him to understand that he is very matter-of-fact, not one to sugarcoat or beat around the bush. At times it frustrated you, it made him sound robotic and inhumane, and you guess it makes sense because nothing about the figure towering in front of you said ‘human.’ Other times, it helps because you know theres nothing he would be hiding.

Letting out a shaky exhale, you shake your head no, relying on your body to communicate rather than your wavering voice. Cold enveloped your feet; it was thicker than water and felt horrible against the pads of your feet. You gasped at the sensation, hands coming up to grip his half-buttoned shirt, which you immediately regretted because it felt the same as the floor–cold, hard, and wet.

“What do you want?” You try to keep your voice from sounding frightened, but you doubt it helps. His large hand came up to cup your cheeks, thumb spreading more of that sickly red liquid under your right eye, which squeezed shut at the feeling.

“You.”

- - ┈┈∘┈˃̶༒˂̶┈∘┈┈ - -

ɴᴏᴛᴇꜱ: edit: its out now! so this was just a little blurb of a smut thats currently in the works! its all the way done, lookin at about 6k words but it just needs to get edited! the full thing will be published on ao3 cause the contents are too much for tumblr to handle lol but ill make another post for that with the link when its done!

[stareiiez]

𝑭𝒍𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒓 𝑷𝒆𝒕𝒂𝒍𝒔 & 𝑩𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒅

-- seven

Leonard Church ( Epsilon) x Reader

Lavernius Tucker x Reader

note: GETUP RVB FANS I'm here to serve something that's been sitting here for two years. Who's ready for restoration??

content: angst. slow burn relationships. love triangle. potential character death. smut in later chapters. pining. hanahaki disease. blood. bodily fluids. female reader. dark topics are used here a lot. 2.1k words.

The once steady thump- thump- thump- of your heart shattered at the image of Church standing in front of you. His presence, short but broad nearly blended into the lilac-altering shades that were painted on Doc's walls. You blink, once, twice, thrice, four or five times until the burning of your lungs quells your brain to force oxygen to filter into your nose and down your esophagus.

Your lungs fill, expanding in your brittle ribcage that tickles against the lung sacs. The carbon monoxide you exhale sounds shaky as it flows out of parted, chapped lips. You can't help it, not one sense of you, for the most part, is stable in this situation. You can nearly see the small, rusty wheel cogs turning in his brain as his helmeted head flows from your ashen face to the flower sitting calmly in Doc's hand. The smell doesn't hit him, it can't hit him because he's an A.I.; well .... 'ghost' for the most part. Your stomach turns as his head tilts back to you once his vision is glued to the wilting flower. Its petals were curling inwards like the oxygen surrounding it was lethal and would only kill it the more exposure it got to it. 

"Well?" after a beat of silence, he speaks up again. His voice nearly makes you flinch, but with Doc by your side, you can't do much but slowly press your weight into his forearm armor. "What's with the flower? Actually, fuck that, what are you two talking about?"

His feet, soundless against the hard steel floor, take three steps to the two of you. His head tilts back and forth between the plant to yours, slowly turning, ashen face. You can only blink, sometimes you don't even dare to break the shocked eye contact you have with the pale gold visor of Church's helmet. "I'm waiting." His voice drips in sarcasm, and the heady impatience in the underlying tone of his words are only magnified when his hands are planted on his hips. 

Doc clears his throat, his hand instantly curling around the flower in his bare palm. His nose wrinkles at the feel of the velvety soft petals crumbling and growing damp and squishy in his fist. "She was just showing me the first real flower that she managed to grow out here. Who knew stale old cave water could grow marvelous things! "

Church turns his scrutinizing gaze away from you just long enough to have his pale eyes look Doc up and down slowly. So slow in a way like he's trying to read out every single cell in the medic's body. "I didn't know you were into flowers, Doc."

The latter throws Church a smile, one that looks so nervous and not genuine, but he's trying his damn best to get all eyes off you and your borderline panic attack. "Sure! Botonology was going to be my new major if I didn't get immediately accepted into med school and shipped out here. Donut even offered to help me run my little flower shop when we get back home after this cruddy war." Doc stutters nervously, his cheeks flushing at the vain attempt to lie his way smoothly towards Church.   

If you were in any right mind, you would have had a mark of your palm in the middle of your forehead from how hard you would have facepalmed. Instead, you can only breathe, count to ten in your whirring head, and try to come back to reality as fast as humanly possible. Your head tilts and catches the glint of light that bounces off Church's visor. He hadn't even been listening to whatever bullshit Doc spewed out of his mouth. He was busy watching you, studying, trying to figure out why you looked so tense and why your chest hadn't moved since the first moment he had even appeared in the room. 

"Can I talk to you for a moment--" Church reaches for you, his fingers don't even have the chance to grasp at you because you're moving your arm away from his transparent touch. "Alone."

"Are you kicking me out of my room? You can't do that! I'll tell Sarge and he will . . . he'll come to yell at you and ---"

"It's fine, Doc." Your voice breaks the nearly growing ramble that leaves Doc's mouth, his cheeks are red and his glasses are growing just a tad hazy from how much he speaks. "It'll be fine."

Doc blinks, mouth snapping shut with the loudest clack of his molars striking against each other in abrupt shock. He blinks twice or three more times until he scurries out of the room. Your eyes faintly trail after the back of Doc's head. He doesn't have time to even turn back to you and offer some silent look of support before the sliding doors have closed and locked behind him. Church's part, how he hasn't grown aware he can hack into the ' mainframe ' of Red Base and manipulate objects by his will is a shock. The idiot has grown smarter. Your head tilts. The corner of your mouth lits in a soft curve upwards, shoulders shrug and you silently have one moment of smug to yourself. Shocker.

However, that feeling goes away when Church swims into your vision and his visor is locked onto your eyes. You knew his own were trained on you. The light color of his irises would be trying to drink your expression in. Figuring out emotions and trying his fucking best to start up a conversation. If he wasn't dead he would have approached you like some fucking feral animal that was backed into a corner, fear in its eyes and ready to pounce on whoever was there to help it. 

You probably look like that feral animal. You haven't bathed in a couple of days ever since your coughing fits have turned into full-on vomit moments of colorful flowers. You couldn't sleep. Nightmares of drowning on dry land while blood and flower vines would seep from your nose and open mouth, your eyes would roll back and be poked out by sharp rose thorns that would rapidly creep from your body. 

It was like hell on earth, and for some reason, Church was your Lucifer. 

"Are you starting some kind of garden with Doc in the caves? You know they're used for Tucker to masturbate in right?" Church quips, his voice breaking the short moment of silence between you two.

"Do you think I care what Tucker does on his own?" More importantly, do you care about what he sexually does on his own? No. No, you don't. 

"More importantly did you just decide to pop up because of my little 'garden adventures' with Doc, or is there something else you needed." Your voice sounds snappy. The longer he is here, standing around like he's the second dumbest person on the fucking planet. The more you start to ache. 

Nausea smacks you around nearly as fast as the rate Church's hand tries to reach for your own. To hold and caress in that soft little way he used to do. For someone that was such a bitch boy. Who whined, complained, and threw temper tantrums if things didn't go his way or his team brought him to temperamental suicidal thoughts. He could always melt some of you into his open palm like putty.  

Some part of you yearns for that feel of warm skin on your skin. Nerves fizzle, your skin twitches and you swear you nearly close your eyes just when you're about to picture a smooth palm grace your fingers. Hell, you would even take his hand to your cheek. A soft hand, fingers brushing against your cheekbone. Those same fingers tangling into your hair or brushing a strand away from your features. Your nose twitches briefly and you nearly hallucinate the smell of gunpowder, metal, and faint cologne. It smells like Tucker. 

Your eyes blink the unfocused look you have in your colored orbs. The temporary daydream you have about the one fucking man who touched you, and not managed to have flowers sprout in your lungs, has ended. What you could have pictured as smooth and soft pale-colored skin was replaced and shifted back to the see-through baby blue of Church. 

It's disappointing. Not only disappointing but it's weird how desperate the human body is when they crave physical contact or warmth. Your own body has you craving Tucker rather than the man who's trying to figure out what in the hell is wrong with you. It seemed like if you could close your eyes once again, really squeeze them shut, and pretend like Church didn't even exist in front of you, you could imagine the rich and earthy tones of Lavernius Tucker. 

What the fuck. 

Instead, Church is standing in front of you, concern etched in his eyes behind the visor of his helmet, and it's only growing more in the zeros and ones that make up his pupils. A sharp inhale leaves your lungs. You wish you could crumble the same way as the way the flower folded so easily against Doc's palm. You wanted to be ended rather than deal with the sharp questioning eyes of your situation. 

"I'm concerned about you, and I never get concerned about anyone. You should be lucky." You couldn't help the scoff that leaves your bleeding lungs. Well, soon to be bleeding lungs.

"Except for Texas, glad I share the same area of concern with an old flame." Church flinches, his digital frame laps in the way those fuzzy vertical lines ran over an old TV screen. Nostalgia.

"It's different with you. You don't infest my brain. You also don't beat the shit out of me whenever I breathe too loud next to you." A smile would crack behind his visor if he could muster it. It's forced at best, just to try and ease the scowl you have on your face. " Just---- . . are you, healing? Feeling better? We can call someone if Doc isn't help-" 

"NO." You bark. The thought of involving more people in your disease is the nightmare you wish not to experience. The UNSC would take you under the knife and scalpel. They'd treat you like some freakish science experiment and run tests before they ever attempt to find some cure for you. They'd make you worse before they decided to be humane enough to make you feel better.

"No, I'm okay. Besides it's only been a couple of days at least, I'll heal. Besides you get worse before you get better, right?" Your voice softens around the edges. It's a sign that has Church exhaling heavily like he, himself, was in your shoes and stressed behind compare. His frame wanders closer, golden visor tilting to look closer at you. 

"Right. Well enough of asking about you, aren't you going to give a fuck about me and my travels as being a full-on ghost?" The tension between you two drastically shifts, it's a lot lighter now that the subject changed. It's accepted quickly, you don't have it in you to be mad he's back to his old selfish self once again. Your mouth tilts up into a small smile. 

Lungs wetly rattle with a chuckle you grant him. If 'ghosts' could experience warmth from somewhere in their cores; Church would feel it. He'd give anything to feel the small flutter in his heart again whenever he witnessed the soft crinkles in your eyes and nose when you laughed because of him. Tex never laughed around him like you did. It was always rough and demeaning when she laughed at him. Your laugh was a drink of water for a man who didn't know he was dying of thirst. Something something, poetic bullshit. He just liked it when you lit up in amusement around his presence. That's all. 

"Let me hear it. Tell me all about where you've been and if you've scared the shit out of anyone that deserves it." Your eyes soften in the corners as you focus your gaze on his armor. The walls that were surrounding you have lowered enough to let your shoulders lower from around your ears. The knots that have formed in your neck and back ache less now when you two settle into your banter back and forth like you used to when Church prattles on about his adventures in his 'haunts' around Blood Gulch. 

It feels perfectly normal for the first time in what feels like forever. 

[liviavanrouge]

Snapped

Livia: *Stares with wide eyes* NO!! STOP!!

Leona: *Crushes the stone, his eyes narrowed*

Livia: *Screams, rushing over and falling to her knees, trying to gather the pieces* NO!! NO! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!!!

Vil: Livia, we know this is the wrong way to go about it but we have been hearing you crying in the depths beneath the school, Rook recognized your voice

Kalim: Liv, c-come on...you don't have to hide everything from us you know-

Livia: NO!! *Turns to them, getting close to hysterical* YOU ALL DON'T UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU'VE DONE!!!

Livia: I NEEDED THIS STONE!!! I NEEDED IT TO SAVE GRIM! I NEEDED IT!!

Jamil: Save him from what exactly?

Livia: FROM HIMSELF!!! THIS WAS PART OF HER PLAN!!

Azul: ...her plan..? Who's plan, Livia!? Who put you up to this?!

Woman A: She's not the God of Nature?

Woman C: If she were she'd be able to fix the Purity Stone, not get hysterical about it..

Man B: She lied to us?! She's not our God! She's a fraud, a fake!

Livia: NO!!! EVERYONE PLEASE! I AM THE GOD, RUKALI! MISTRESS OF NATURE!!!!

Jamil: Livia! What in sevens name are you talking about!?

Livia: *Looks desperately around* PLEASE!! ANYONE! SOMEBODY!! BELIEVE ME I AM BEGGING YOU, DO NOT DO THIS! PLEASE!!!!!

Livia: I AM THE GOD OF NATURE!!! PLEASE MY PEOPLE!!

Leona: Livia-

Livia: *Turns away, looking desperate, her eyes wide* ASHEN!! YOU BELIEVE ME, RIGHT!! I AM RUKALI!!!

Ashen: *Looks away, his eyes narrowed*

Livia: ASHEN!! ASHEN PLEASE!!! BELIEVE ME! I AM THE MISTRESS!!

Ashen: *Looks at her* No...you're not Rukali, Goddess of Nature, you are a fraud that tried to take her place

Livia: *Freezes, her eyes wide as she stepped back*

Livia: *Falls over, slipping on the Purity Stone* Ah...no...this can't be happening...

Kalim: Liv...

Livia: *Screams as tears fell down her cheeks, gripping her hair*

Livia: *Looks up, an insane smile on her face* NONONONONONO!! THIS CAN'T BE HAPPENING HAHAHA! THIS IS JUST A DREAM!! HAHHAHAHHA

Livia: I WORKED SO HARD!!! HAHAHA!

Vil: *Stares in shock alarmed* Livia!?

Riddle: Wh-What's with her!?

Leona: ......Little Hunter..is this how your mental state really is..I knew something was wrong.....DAMN IT!!

Livia: *Laughs hysterically, gripping her hair then looks down her eyes dulling as the laughter died down* ....I don't feel anything, five years of pure suffering...

Livia: *Takes the hair clip out of her hair* All of that for nothing......sorry Ruakli, I tried...

@queen-of-twisted @yukii0nna @zexal-club @soulfungai @writing-heiress @abyssthing198 @fair-night-starry-tears

[authurials]

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐫 . decisions, decisions

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 . link

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬 . talks of violence, strong language, abuse of power

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 . finally finished chapter four--enjoy! as always this chapter has also been cross-posted over ao3, so if you prefer to read over there you can.

𝐀𝐒 𝐀 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐆 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋, Keeley had had a penchant for chasing the stray cats of Lorath, herding them towards the heart of the city where the bustle of the market could be found. She had found it humorous–the way the felines would visit each and every stall as if they were interested patrons with coins to spare, and not simply starving animals begging for a scrap; and if they were lucky, both cat and girl would be given a spare piece of stale bread from the day before, with perhaps a piece of meat or fish to go alongside it. Then, once they had finished with their meal, with greasy fingers and the taste of salt on her tongue, Keeley would resume her pursuit of her friends until her mother would call her home just as the sun began to disappear behind the sea line. Those moments had been the fondest of her childhood memories–

Until the incident.

It was on one of these occasions that Keeley had wandered further than she ever had from the familiar cobbled paths that led to and from the market stalls, on the tail of a particularly stubborn tom cat that she had never seen before until that day. He had been a skinny little thing, ribs defined under his patchy gray fur, teeth chipped and yellow as he bared them in a hiss at the young girl; it had only taken one step in his direction for him to turn tail and run down an alleyway with Keeley not far behind. She could not have been older than seven at the time, a waif of a thing with a dirty face and scabbed knees and palms from her many falls; one in particular had occurred earlier that day, leaving her shin a bloodied mess, scarlet flowing once more freely against her ashen skin as she disturbed the shallow wound with her running.

She had gotten distracted by the chase, trying her best to keep the tomcat within sight as she followed his every twist and turn down the back alleys of the city until she no longer recognized her surroundings; deeper and deeper he had taken her, darting over and around obstacles while her clumsy, short legs struggled to keep up. She remembered the ache of her bones, masked under the thrill of the chase and the beating of her heart–the way it had slammed against her chest….

The cat had once more turned a corner, warning yowl sounding off as Keeley watched the gray blur of its body dash out of sight. She had ran faster, not wanting to lose him, the sound of her laughter echoing off the stone walls that flanked them on either side–

Cut off by another yowl.

Keeley remembered stopping, confused and out of breath as she hesitated to continue, listening to the scuffle occurring out of sight. Foolishly, she had stepped forward after a moment, slowly and quietly approaching the corner of the alleyway until she could peer around its edge discreetly; holding in a gasp, the little girl had taken in the scene before her, remaining still and quiet–

Watching as a rabid mutt devoured the dead tomcat.

Its fur had been matted, ribs jutting out, sharp edges under thin skin–a testament to its hunger, same as the way it had desperately tore at the fresh carcass beneath it. The dog had been frothing at the mouth, grunting and growling as it ripped off piece after piece, wolfing it down and licking its bloodied muzzle.

And the tomcat–

It had laid there uselessly, gone from the world, its rib cage torn asunder and the viscera of its organs spilled out across cobbled stone like one of the beautifully vibrant paintings her father peddled at his stall in the market; all the while its murderer gnawed at its bones–sucking off every last bit of meat.

Keeley had not meant to gasp, she could remember that part clearly–that and the blackness of the hunter’s eyes as they looked up and finally acknowledged the young girl’s presence. Body tensed, the rabid mutt had gnashed at her with scarlet stained canines, ready to pounce–

In quite the same fashion, King Aemond now looked at a grown Keeley, who tried her best not to let her cowardice show as she squared her shoulders and uncomfortably cleared her throat, “I was not expecting you, my king.”

“I do not make a habit of asking my servants for permission to see my son,” Aemond replies cooly, his gaze flicking briefly to the gurgling infant in his arms before locking back on Keeley.

“O-Of course, your grace,” the woman stuttered, feeling warmth spread across her face and down to her neck and shoulders. “I simply meant that I would have better prepared the prince for your visit, had I known.”

“That’s of little importance,” the king hummed, his eye flicking over to Ser Draven, who was busy assessing the obvious tension between the wet nurse and his grace. “Ser Draven, I would hear Keeley’s report of my son’s progress–alone. Leave us.”

Alone–a singular word that held the promise of many. There was no telling what the king’s true intention was in sending his son’s sworn protector from the room; though it was quite apparent that it did not bode well for the woman that stood there, stock still, the sound of her name on King Aemond’s lips ringing in her ears as her friend bowed his head tensely:

“As you wish, my king.”

Ser Draven turned to leave, but not before throwing a look of concern in Keeley’s direction, she returned it with a shaky smile of her own, hoping it conveyed some semblance of reassurance as the knight strode out of the room. As the doors to the chamber closed once more, the woman looked down at her hands, clasped in front of her, the skin on her knuckles pulled taunt and white from the force of her grip. She did not look up as she heard the king’s footsteps, fading slightly as he walked a few feet away, speaking quietly to the infant in his arms; Keeley could make out the words well enough to know that they were in a different language, the dialect was smooth and rolled off the Targaryen’s tongue with ease, suggesting years of practice.

Keeley raised her gaze high enough to see the king place the babe gently back into his crib, an unreadable expression on an otherwise trained face as he looked down at his son. For a moment, silence stretched out before the pair, uncomfortable yet welcome, at least for the woman–

She did not know what to say to this man. 

She did not know what he would say to her.

“I had every intention of having my guards drag you back to my chambers last night,” his grace finally spoke, his words like a cascade of icy rain washing over Keeley.

“Your grace?” She frowned, bowing her head once more to look at her hands; she could once more feel his penetrating gaze, and had no desire to meet it. Her heart was like a battering ram, slamming hard and rhythmically against the wall of her chest, she swore that if she only listened close enough she would hear it beating.

“It was bold of you to run,” he continues, a hint of amusement and something else in the tone of his voice. “Foolish but bold.”

“My king, I am-”

Her only defense would be to sow for mercy, however likely it was to come, apparent in the way the king cut her off with his next words:

“Enough–I did not give you leave to speak.”

His words were even and firm, leaving no space for objection as she once more heard his footsteps make their way across the floor–only this time they were towards her. She bid herself not to flinch and cower as his shadow fell over her, his torso came into view, the details of his black leather doublet clear from proximity; from this close up Keeley could make out the finely carved out lines and subtle green tone of the fabric, she could also pick up the faint scent of sandalwood and smoke. The smell tickled her nose pleasingly, and under different circumstances she might find some comfort in it, but it was all too overwhelming as she wilted under the king’s piercing stare.

“Were I a less merciful king, I would have you stripped and hung up by your wrists,” he hummed coldly, stepping around her as he assessed her figure–gaze critical, looking for any sign of faltering weakness; still she kept her gaze from him, practically holding her breath as she waited for him to continue. “I would have you at my mercy, taking your punishment out on your flesh….”

He reached a hand out, fingers reaching under her chin so he could manipulate her head up, maneuvering her eyes slowly to meet his own singular one; he held her there, unblinking, as he spoke once more, “I would have you bleeding and begging–were I a crueler king.”

Keeley shook visibly in his hold, eyes wide and feeling slightly watery as she forced herself to remain as calm as possible, resisting the urge to spurn his touch and once more flee from his presence. Her eyes flicked away from his and over his shoulder, locking on the crib where she could hear the soft noises of her charge, she sucked in a shuddery breath as she willed herself to remain still.

“Instead, I would have your penance in the form of your company,” the Targaryen man smoothed a gloved thumb over the soft arch of her jaw,  once more bringing her back to look at him with surprising gentleness. A small frown curves downward the corner of Keeley’s lips as she looks at him, confused; the man raises his eyebrow expectantly in question, awaiting her response.

“I….I do not understand, your grace,” the wet nurse began, attempting to turn and pull her face away from his touch, he maintains his hold, adding additional pressure to keep her from moving any further; she winces, not from pain but from the nerves, unable to meet his gaze as she awaits his reply.

“Dinner, tonight,” the king hums simply, “you will be there.”

Keeley’s eyes shoot back to his face, widening as she opens her mouth to respond, but he cuts her off before she can utter a sound:

“Or you can take the lashing instead.”

The threat hung in the air between them for several moments, posed as a choice left up to Keeley herself but what choice did she really have? She could of course endure the beating and be done with this whole thing, but something she could not name told her to accept the invitation to break bread with the king, to see where it took her.

“Very well,” she cleared her throat, “if my king commands-”

“He does,” he once more interjected, a pleased smirk curving his bowed lips, gesturing for her to continue.

Blushing, she licked her lips, “then I shall be there–tonight–your grace.”

“Very good,” the pale-haired man hummed in approval. “I shall send someone to collect you when the time comes, for now carry out your duties as you usually would.”

“Your grace,” Keeley bowed, hoping that would be the end of the conversation for now–if only so she could breathe once more.

Yet, the Targaryen man lingered for a moment longer, eyes straying over to the crib where the soft sleeping breaths of his son could be heard before he looked back at Keeley. He hummed, sharp smile on his face as he turned and strided from the room without another word; and it was as the door slammed close once more that Keeley finally released the air from her burning lungs, gasping for proper breath as she pressed a hand to her quivering stomach, panic rising from deep within her–

What was she to do now?

---------- ☾ ----------

𝐃𝐑𝐈𝐅𝐓𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐊

“𝐒𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑, 𝐀 𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑 has arrived for you,” Rhaena Targaryen greeted her twin as she was let into the Lady of Driftmark’s private solar.

Baela Targaryen stood by the table, looking over some documents and maps from the Velaryon fleet's latest voyage out to sea; they had charted some new territory, thinned out the ranks of a particularly troublesome band of pirates, and now there was treasure to divide and reports to finish. Usually such duties would be that of the seated lord, but with Alyn’s new placement as Hand of the King his presence was needed in King’s Landing while all the other responsibilities as the head of House Velaryon fell to his wife. Not that Baela had ever resented her lot in life since marrying Alyn, she much preferred their arrangement to any of the other suitors that had been pressed upon her–at least Alyn had been her choice, whether their story was one of love was completely inconsequential.

“Who is it from?” Baela hummed, not looking up from the mountain of paperwork as she sorted through it.

“My good brother,” Rhaena smiled and stopped by her sister’s side, laying the letter atop a dreary summary about the ocean’s wave patterns–opened.

“Rhaena,” Baela sighed, picking up the tampered letter as she threw a scolding yet light-hearted look at her twin, stepping away from her work finally as she unfolded the letter.

For a moment there was quiet between the women as Baela read the letter, her sister beside her as she looked in disinterest at the figures and numbers–she could never make any sense of them like her sister could. Rhaena looked over as Baela let out another sigh, this one more tense than the faux exasperated one shared between siblings moments before.

“I knew he would never go for it,” Rhaena hummed, resisting the urge for a more apparent way of saying ‘I told you so.’

“I hoped he would not,” Baela confessed, “but to refuse our request to bring Aegon home–”

“We will bring him back, Baela,” her sister said with certainty, taking the woman’s hand in her own and giving it a reassuring squeeze. “The gods shone upon us when they brought Viserys back, when we had feared the worst, and they will do the same by bringing Aegon back from the North.”

During his time being sojourned and all but banished from the kingdom, Alyn had happened upon information that suggested that the youngest son of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen was very much alive; he had sailed straight to House Rogare of Lys and negotiated for the young boy’s release. When they had been reunited in King’s Landing with their youngest brother it had been a bittersweet moment for the twin sisters; at that time, Aegon had already been exiled to the North under Aemond’s orders, so he was not there to see his little brother finally return home. And their reunion would be cut short by questions of what to exactly do with Viserys Targaryen.

Most of the king’s council wanted him sent away, just like his brother, but others expressed concern about having so many of Rhaenyra’s ilk spread out across the Seven Kingdoms, fearing it would make it harder to maintain control over the situation. There were even a few whisperings of having the boy sent to the Wall or put to the sword so that they may wash their hands of the trouble; those suggestions were quickly thwarted however by Aemond of all people much to the surprise of Baela and Rhaena, who had been prepared to rally against anyone who dared lay a finger on their brother–or even suggested it. The king had refused to even consider having the boy killed, stating diplomatically that there had been enough bloodshed, and that it was time to heal–no matter how impossible healing felt at that point.

In an even more surprising turn of events, Aemond had handed responsibility of Viserys over to Alyn and in turn, Baela as well; he stated they could foster the boy, raise him in whatever fashion they saw fit, but that if they so much as made move to displace him from his throne so that his late sister’s blood may sit upon it he would see them repaid in fire and blood–same as he promised Cregan Stark when he entrusted Aegon into his care. It had only served as a final slight that the king also ordered that there be no attempt to reunite Viserys and Aegon, and that no correspondence be shared between the pair for a period of time until Aemond saw fit to permit them. It was almost as if he feared that if the last remaining blood of his sister were to once more come together it would jeopardize the already fragile state of his rule–and he was not completely wrong to fear such conspiracy.

There had been talks–in the beginning–talks of rebellion, of usurpation, of reclaiming the throne that Rhaenyra Targaryen, Queen of the Blacks, had died for along with so many others. But that is all it had ever amounted to–talking–and then it was almost as if everyone had forgotten, or at least was trying their best to move on and make do with what they had. Even Rhaena and Baela had come to accept that the Greens had won, that they had no means to continue a dance neither one really had any desire to participate in anymore.

They had lost their grandmother, Baela had lost Jace and Moondancer, and Rhaena had lost Luke and though she now had Morning, the dragon was still relatively small and would most likely not get much bigger; no matter how big she got though, Rhana had no intention of ever flying into battle and risking one of the few remaining dragons in the world’s life for a fight that had already been lost. They had nearly lost their entire family, and had only their own lives to show for that, all they could do now is ensure the memories of those who had passed lived on through them and their bloodline.

“I am glad I have you here to be so optimistic,” Baela chuckled lightly, breaking the silence that had stretched out between them, looking down at their entwined hands, “at least for now.”

“What do you mean by that?” Rhaena hummed lightly.

“You read the letter, Rhaena,” her sister threw the papers with her husband’s signature down on the table, “he has given you leave to marry Ser Corbray.”

Rhaena watched as her sister crossed the solar and went over to the drink cart, pouring herself a glass of something strong no doubt; she sighed internally, folding her twitching hands in front of her as she cleared her throat:

“That does not mean I will accept his proposal.”

“Do not jest right now, sister,” Baela snorted, lifting her glass to her lips but stopping when she saw the look on the other woman’s face. She frowned, “you cannot seriously be considering turning Corwyn away….Rhaena, you’re crazy about the man.”

“I know, I know,” Rhaena sighed, “but that does not mean I desire to leave Driftmark–to leave you.”

“You cannot base a decision such as this on me or Driftmark,” Baela set her glass down, holding the skirt of her dress as she walked back over to her sister. “We will be fine….I will be fine; it is not as if there is a whole world between us–just a sea-”

Rhaena snorted at that and Baela smiled, taking one of her hands in her own:

“I know that it is scary to think of us being parted again,” she continued, “but I could not stomach the thought of you never living your life because you are afraid to leave my side.”

“But if I leave you will be all alone here,” Rhaena hums, “I do not want you to be alone.”

“I will not be alone,” Baela smiled, “Alyn visits when he can, and I have my lady’s in waiting, and of course there is Laena–though she’s not much for conversation currently but I am sure she will get there eventually.”

The pair shared a good laugh at her words, leaning on each other as they shared in a brief moment of mirth, only for it to fade all too quickly as they grew solemn once more.

“I will have Alyn write to Corwyn,” Baela hummed, squeezing her sister’s hand, “and ask him to come to Driftmark, and we will begin talks of your betrothal.”

Rhaena was quiet, looking at their joined hands as she gave her sister a simple nod in agreement and a quiet, “thank you.”

Baela pulled her sister closely, pressing a kiss to her forehead as they stood in each other’s quiet embrace–no more words were needed, for now that was enough.

[bladesmercy]

sefikura week 2024

day 1: surrender.

At his companion’s urging, Cloud had finally sat down and grimly gone over those ashen events of five years ago, reliving the final few days of his boyhood innocence.

He had left some details out.

day 2: cage.

Sephiroth returns from the mission in Rhadore to his steel-plated birdcage in Midgar. A stranger breaks down the door.

day 3: revival.

There is only one word in the world truly worth remembering.

day 4: longing.

“Sing to them. It helps them grow.”

He remembers Aerith telling him that once, about flowers. It must be the same for herbs too, or at least he hopes so for the sake of his withering basil. He doesn’t know how he knows Aerith, or who she was to him. He knows that he loved her, and he knows that she’s dead.

[It’s the year ‘01, and the Wutai War has just ended. Cloud tends to his garden.]

day 5: otherworldly.

Seek paleblood, the note said, in familiar handwriting. Cloud can’t help giving an irritated sigh at the brevity of his former self, and wishes he had been a little more specific.

The moonlit city of Yharnam stretches out before him, all gloomy spires and darkened roads. With only a handwritten note and a handful of memories to guide him, he steps forward.

day 6: void.

Ultimately, Gaia drowns in ichor and in refuse. They tilt their head back to the countless stars, affixing sky-blue eyes to the heavens, and wonder if it will be the same on the next planet.

day 7: ephemeral.

With seven seconds left, Cloud takes the hand offered to him.

[phantomguild]

Chapter 3: Nil

The Porygon2 slowly woke from their unintended slumber, staring at the Azurill smiling over them, while a Deerling was looking over a stack of papers. Taking brief look around the room, they quickly figured out that it was an infirmary of some sort.

"Oh hey! You're finally awake!" Clover said cheerfully to the half-conscious Pokemon. Silas looked over her shoulder at them as well. "You had us worried when you came through and just fell unconscious! Are you alright?"

They vaguely remembered it, the events leading up to now playing back in their mind. Stowing away, the Magi retreat, Mint showing off, meeting her friends, coming through the portal and... oh.

"Yes... yes." They answered, shaking their head. "I'm alright. I wasn't expecting my body to be disrupted by that." They hopped off the infirmary bed and focused. A rainbow light consumed their body, engulfing the room in white before it faded, their Vulpix form recreated. They stepped forward and stumbled on their way to the door, Silas and Clover moving to support them.

"Hey, take it easy!" Silas spoke up, helping to hold them on their paws. "You just woke up after being out for a few months. You need time to recover!"

"I'll be fine. I just need a bit of fresh air." The pair of Pokemon nodded and helped them up a flight of stairs and to a ladder. Silas used Grass Knot to create a few of extra footholds for the Vulpix, and to grab onto them when they nearly fell back down. Leaving out the back door of the Phantom Guild's base, they looked around, seeing the six trapezoid-shaped mini biomes that surrounded the base, forming a hexagonal shaped perimeter both inside and out.

Mint and Ashen stood across from each other in one of the six biomes that surrounded the perimeter of the stronghold, specifically one that looked most like a forest. Either one was idly stretching, before they both took a battle stance. The foliage around the two of them gently swayed in the breeze, the pair of yellow hyacinth near Mint's paws gently brushing against her.

"Guess they're sparring again. Clover, can you pull up the barrier? We don't need their battle destroying any of the walls of the base again." The Azurill ran off, towards a metal wall, hidden in a corner, decorated with seven levers. Clover leapt up, wrapping her tail around a lever, on the control panel, hopping on it to push it down. A series of blue hexagonal plates manifested around the perimeter of the forest, gently glowing as they reached into the sky, isolating the biome. And with the barrier raised, the pair could cut loose and go all out.

The two dashed at each other, with Mint swinging her tail around, a green glow covering it, while Ashen's claw coated itself in a toxin. Their attacks collided, Mint's Dragon Tail attack countered with a strong Poison Jab, launching her backwards. A solid start for either one, with both sustaining some damage in countering each others initial attacks.

She used her momentum to enter the treetops, dashing around randomly in an attempt to throw Ashen off. Though he kept his defenses up, already knowing this trick. As if on cue, he whirled around just as Mint dashed at him with her fangs bared, and sent her hurtling to the ground with a Dragon Claw.

"Come on Mint!" Ashen taunted, tightening his bandana over his brow as he approached. The hybrid on the ground growled, glaring up at him. Though she couldn't hide the playful smirk on her face, already cooking up a different strategy. "You can't rely on cheap tricks to go up against the master of underhanded tactics!"

A series of blue flames surrounded her body as she used Embers of Life on herself. She couldn't hide the sudden wave of exhaustion as she engulfed herself in the healing inferno, as was the price for using this move. The whirlwind restored her wound and obscured her from sight, and when it vanished, so had she. Ashen kept his guard up, knowing she had something planned. He heard the grass and foliage move as she dashed around the biome, bouncing from wall to wall, tree to tree, gradually increasing in speed.

When she dashed at him, he swiped at her with a Dragon Claw again, only for her to dodge with a midair twirl. There was a flash in her eyes, and the draconic energy faded, with Ashen's access to the move being completely disabled. He looked at her, as she smiled and hopped up to balance on his outstretched claw. She briefly danced on one paw, twirling and slapping him with a Dragon Tail, and while he fell to the ground, she hopped off his arm, landing back in front of him with a grin.

Though it did give her a considerable advantage, the trick also wiped out a good bit of her stamina, especially using Embers of Life to the extent she did.

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

The horrific Fool Me Once-style nanny-cam footage that exposed an abusive wife: Secret camera footage shows battered husband threatened with a knife, beaten and cowering in a foetal position during wife's 20-year reign of terror

By: Stewart Carr and Kevin Donald

Published: Mar 15, 2024 

Sheree Spencer, 45, terrorised husband Richard at their East Yorks home

C5 documentary 'My Wife, My Abuser: The Secret Footage' airs Monday

Chilling never-before-seen footage from a nanny cam has revealed the moment a battered husband cowered on the floor while his wife hurled abuse at him and brandished a knife in their home during her 20-year reign of terror.

Damning videos of Sheree Spencer's attacks on husband Richard at their seven-bedroom home in Bubwith, East Yorkshire, were captured on cameras the couple had installed to monitor their children.

And explosive clips from police interviews show Sheree casually lying about her husband being the abuser, only for her face to turn ashen when confronted with the footage. 

On one occasion she defecated on the floor and forced him to clean it up, and on another she beat him with a wine bottle so hard it permanently disfigured his ear. 

Sheree, 45, was jailed for four years at Hull Crown Court in March 2023 by Judge Kate Rayfield, who told her: 'This is the worst case of controlling and coercive behaviour I have seen.'

Now, Mr Spencer is sharing his story in vivid detail in Channel 5 documentary My Wife, My Abuser: The Secret Footage, which airs on Monday.

And today, MailOnline can reveal Sheree went to desperate lengths through the courts in a bid to stop the documentary being broadcast. 

[ Damning clips of Sheree Spencer's attacks on husband Richard at their seven-bedroom home in Bubwith, East Yorkshire, were captured on cameras the couple installed to monitor their children ]

[ The hidden nanny cam gave a vital way out for battered husband Mr Spencer after he endured years of physical and verbal abuse from his wife, that sometimes left him 'broken' in a foetal position ]

[ Sheree's reign of domestic terror finally ended in June 2021 when the police were called to their family home by a concerned welfare worker ]

[ Footage showed furious wine-fuelled tirades, in which Sheree would call her husband 'fat boy,' 'a pussy' and 'dumb dumb' and inflict bruises and scratches ]

The footage, obtained from the nanny-cam, gives a chilling real-life echo of Harlan Coben's Netflix adaptation Fool Me Once, starring Michelle Keegan. In it, Keegan plays a woman who installs the small camera to keep watch over her young daughter, only to recognise an eerie figure from her past creeping into her home.

Mr Spencer felt his harrowing experiences should be seen to raise awareness of the type of abuse men can suffer in their daily lives at the hands of violent partners but Sheree tried to block it.

He told Mailonline: 'Sheree tried to stop the documentary being broadcast in the crown court but failed, then she applied for a prohibited steps order through the family court, which luckily was rejected and thrown out at the first hearing.

'The broadcast has been delayed due to the legal challenges for about six months, but now it is finally going to be shown.

'I'm hopeful that the film will be well received and will make a difference.'

The hidden nanny cam gave a vital way out for battered husband Mr Spencer after he endured years of physical and verbal abuse from his wife, that left him 'broken' on the floor in a foetal position.

Mr Spencer had met his wife in a nightclub in 2000, and the pair married on a Thai beach in 2009.

After they welcomed the eldest of their three daughters in 2015, Mr Spencer installed the nanny cam so they could keep watch over her.

Instead, footage showed furious wine-fuelled tirades, in which Sheree would call her husband 'fat boy,' 'a p**sy' and 'dumb dumb' and inflict bruises and scratches that he would need to cover with make-up before going outside. 

Mr Spencer told The Sun: 'We had two [cameras] — one in the playroom and one in the bedroom. They were there for reassurance, to keep an eye out because it's a big house.

'It was on something like a 28-day roll, where if something new came in it would delete the old footage.'

When police finally became involved, Mr Spencer handed over 43 images of his bruised face, taken on different dates following savage assaults he had suffered. 

[ Equally explosive clips from police interviews show Sheree casually lying about her husband being the abuser, only for her face to turn ashen when confronted with the clips ]

[ Mr Spencer, now happily settled with a new partner, decided to take part in the Channel 5 documentary to help other abused men speak out ]

[ Mr Spencer handed police 36 photographs he took of himself, showing cuts and bruises to his face and body ]

[ Sheree Spencer, 45, was jailed for four years for making her husband Richard's life a living hell with daily beatings and verbal attacks that left him cowering on the floor in the foetal position ]

[ Richard Spencer, pictured, secretly recorded video and audio of his wife's attacks on him for years. When police became involved he handed over 43 images of his bruised face and body ]

A police officer tells the documentary: 'This has been going on for such a long time, that this is who he is. Withdrawn and broken.'

Mr Spencer says: 'I just wanted the abuse to stop. I was in a situation and there was no way out.'

Hull Crown Court heard that mother-of-three Sheree had carried out most of the attacks on her husband in the family home.

Sheree worked at the highest levels for HM Prison and Probation Service and bragged to friends that she had the ear of former Prime Minister Boris Johnson.

She was a project manager in the department's directorate of strategy and performance.

A former friend said: 'She would brag about being only two down from the Prime Minister in her field and had meetings with Boris Johnson, who she spoke of as though he were a friend.

'She was bragging about her high flying career while subjecting her poor husband, a lovely man, to daily abuse, degradation and humiliation.'

It was described as 'a great irony' that Spencer had done so much work aimed at investigating the effect of custodial sentences on the family.

Within months of becoming a couple in 2000, Richard Spencer endured her violent rages, which happened whether she was drunk or sober.

The worst of the assaults on him happened in April 2021 when his wife attacked him with the empty wine bottle.

Mr Spencer, who stands at 5ft 10in, told the court that although he was bigger and physically stronger than his petite wife, he did not fight back when she began to attack him.

He said he became almost immune to the physical abuse she meted out, even though she would cause him immense pain by sinking her teeth into him.

But he said the mental scars left by 16 years of her hate-filled attacks were what would leave the most lasting effect.

Sheree's reign of domestic terror finally ended in June 2021 when the police were called to their family home by a concerned welfare worker.

Her arrest that day on suspicion of assaulting her husband opened a door into the hell he had kept private for his entire married life.  

Mr Spencer said: 'In trying to block the footage being shown, she continued trying to exert control even from jail, but fortunately justice prevailed.

'It’s astonishing to me that she’s living a relatively easy life in prison, having been moved to an open jail after six months of her sentence.

'The judge in her case described it as the worst case or coercive control she had ever seen, so why she was considered for open prison so early is beyond me.

'She is due for release next February but she is able to go out for family and friend meetings and has been working in a cafe.

'It doesn’t seem a just sentence for someone who committed such serious offences.'

Since his ex-wife's imprisonment, Mr Spencer has joined a campaign called ManKind Initiative, which supports male victims of domestic abuse.

He has also found love again and told media he is happily settled with his new partner. 

Speaking to media after Sheree was jailed last year, he said: 'I have become resigned to the fact that I will never fully recover from her abuse and that it will have a permanent damaging impact on mine and my family's life.

'Sheree's abuse towards me evolved and escalated over time, she used repeated acts of physical assault, threats, verbal abuse, and humiliation to punish and exercise control over me.

'The abuse was hidden from the outside world, including friends and family. Sheree manipulated me into believing that I was a responsible and willing participant in the abuse. She remorselessly proclaimed that I deserved to be punished, and that it was a justifiable consequence of me disappointing her in some way.

'Little by little, I lost my independence and willpower and just accepted that was how my life was going to be. I complied with Sheree's demands, and she controlled most aspects of my everyday life, including things like what activities I could participate in and when, which room I could sleep in, and even which toilet I could use.

'Gradually I became isolated from family and friends and was left deep in debt causing me to feel trapped.'

'After a while, I learnt to cover my face with my hands and curl up into a foetal position to try and avoid sustaining any visible facial injuries, so that I could still take the children to school and nursery.'

==

Abstract

Objectives. We sought to examine the prevalence of reciprocal (i.e., perpetrated by both partners) and nonreciprocal intimate partner violence and to determine whether reciprocity is related to violence frequency and injury.

Methods. We analyzed data on young US adults aged 18 to 28 years from the 2001 National Longitudinal Study of Adolescent Health, which contained information about partner violence and injury reported by 11 370 respondents on 18761 heterosexual relationships.

Results. Almost 24% of all relationships had some violence, and half (49.7%) of those were reciprocally violent. In nonreciprocally violent relationships, women were the perpetrators in more than 70% of the cases. Reciprocity was associated with more frequent violence among women (adjusted odds ratio [AOR]=2.3; 95% confidence interval [CI]=1.9, 2.8), but not men (AOR=1.26; 95% CI=0.9, 1.7). Regarding injury, men were more likely to inflict injury than were women (AOR=1.3; 95% CI=1.1, 1.5), and reciprocal intimate partner violence was associated with greater injury than was nonreciprocal intimate partner violence regardless of the gender of the perpetrator (AOR=4.4; 95% CI=3.6, 5.5).

Conclusions. The context of the violence (reciprocal vs nonreciprocal) is a strong predictor of reported injury. Prevention approaches that address the escalation of partner violence may be needed to address reciprocal violence.

Abstract

This annotated bibliography describes 343 scholarly investigations (270 empirical studies and 73 reviews) demonstrating that women are as physically aggressive as men (or more) in their relationships with their spouses or opposite-sex partners. The aggregate sample size in the reviewed studies exceeds 440,850 people.

Abstract and Figures

The first part of this article summarizes results from more than 200 studies that have found gender symmetry in perpetration and in risk factors and motives for physical violence in martial and dating relationships. It also summarizes research that has found that most partner violence is mutual and that self-defense explains only a small percentage of partner violence by either men or women. The second part of the article documents seven methods that have been used to deny, conceal, and distort the evidence on gender symmetry. The third part of the article suggests explanations for the denial of an overwhelming body of evidence by reputable scholars. The concluding section argues that ignoring the overwhelming evidence of gender symmetry has crippled prevention and treatment programs. It suggests ways in which prevention and treatment efforts might be improved by changing ideologically based programs to programs based on the evidence from the past 30 years of research

[originemesis]

@bored2deathiswear xxx

Man is simple really- a fact the one who'd poisoned humanity is likely all too aware of given his accomodations so far. At every mortal core, the hard wiring of creature comforts serves a typical infrastructure to man, a blueprint for any that desired to contain it, and had since the very start of creation. Shut off from the world in a gilded cage where any place within was a suitable shelter to sleep unhindered, and where any concept of hunger couldn't exist with the abundance of food anywhere the eye fell, and where getting one's fervish flights of 'frustrations' out was as unassuming as a scent.

That was what the clown thought he'd created here- wasn't it? Like the structure that contained his terrible secret wasn't just some house in hell. It definitely was no Eden, that was for sure- no matter how closely its 'merciful' creator tried to replicate it. And for what? To prove something? That somehow he hadn't been wrong some seven thousand years ago? Or more believably, had always thought himself the owner of the beings that dwelled within the garden's simulation? Adam had been content there once, never considering the gaps in the gate like he did now when formulating the amount of voltage he'd have to endure to get just one step beyond the forcefield that trapped him in the guest room with everything he could ever want and yet... didn't. How fucking ironic. And Lucifer had no one to blame for it but himself. Because of his meddling, humans would always want what they didn't have, and what he didn't have in a room closed off from even heaven's all seeing capability of tracking their angels was- a concept now mounted above the devil's mantle, as if he weren't the one to propose freedom from one's confinement in the first place.

Well, he certainly wasn't the one who proposed an eye for an eye mentality, old or testament through they were...or in this case- a pie for a pie. The sound of its sugar crystal crust first cracking around Lucifer's face and cutting off the coax of his gaze in the process is almost as cathartic as his choking. And as he wriggles and writhes to find even a sliver of air in the pie from the struggle, Adam makes sure he doesn't get to enjoy it by wrenching the grip on his neck to keep anything going in from going down as if he hoped the other would finally just vomit out of desperation so he could grind that into his face next until- until...he felt better? Could he even do that anymore?

Ignoring the pinpricks of claws that manage to scrape at his gloved forearms in a panicked flail, he doubles down on his smothering method by forcing his weight down as if he can't decide if choking the other out or crushing him would feel best and so settles for something in between. "What- not so fun when I give it back to you, huh~?" Asked like the hellish shit had any means to respond other than writhing. "All you ever fucking do is take, so go on... TAKE it- I fucking dare you, you miserable waste of a cunt-"

Crunch. The wall cracks in spider veins around his back once he's suddenly launched from the devil below him, and gravity has little time to claim him in a downwards slide at the edge of the bed before the careless crack of seraphim wings becomes all too apparent. Or were they cherebim? Nobody in heaven willing to discuss the matter could decide, only agree that their owner clearly lacked the heart of both. The breath knocked free of him, Adam peeks through one gilded eye with his teeth grinding all the while, only to spot a fist flying in much too quick to block...though a flinch seems to divert it into the wall. When several flings of ashen knuckles bash the plaster on either side of his head enough times to create a cloud of debris dust, the man forces a forearm up as a makeshift barricade between his face and the dripping fury of Lucifer's ire once the arrival of infernal wings had helped pin the first man in place. Of course he fucking would bring those out - salt in his closed wounds with no way to wash them out lest he find a way to slice them back open.

And it's when the other starts to laugh as if the man had told a joke rather than attempt to wring his neck that Adam affixes the mounting mirth with a soured scowl. "Oh, sure- pull out all the wings to stop me. Fucking hilarious, bruh. You're a joke that writes itself." Seething as if his frazzled remarks do anything more than self soothe, he only falls quiet with the uncomfortable heat burning through his mask at the proximity that Lucifer issues when 'kindly' informing him of- yet another bad joke. About why the Exorcist commander's ceaseless struggle against settling in to his prisoner role is actually just proof that whether he submits to the other's demands or not, the devil always wins- one way or another, and the burning lump in his throat is enough of a reminder even before the fucker points it out like a legacy to be long lauded over the first man's head. It's a sobering enough strike without having even come to retaliatory blows that prompts him to screw the garrish yellows of his eyes shut and petulantly tip his face away from the burning Lucifer's caused at too close a range.

He hardly registers the new set of shackles as they bind his arms backwards, leaving him half curled up on the floor with nothing to look forward to except apparently hellfire fastened at his wrist if he wiggled the wrong way. Not that he had much wiggle left in him after the height of his earlier explosion had joined him on the floor, and the familiar exhaustion of a failed tantrum weighed down on him like the aftermath of a storm leaving soaked robes heavy and dragging. "An anti-chains advocate...unless they suit your agenda, course! How fucking typical-" He gripes, already prepared for the crick in his neck from however sleeping in this position was going to work out if he couldn't wobble himself up and over to bed. Though with all that shitty apple pie smeared on the sheets, the floor was actually looking preferable.

That prompting prod to his side where his rib cage lacked a bar earns a subtle jerk to accompany the squeaky toy of a sound it emits, but he sucks his teeth soon after in a poor attempt to disguise the discomfort at the reminder that anyone he's since used to fill the void left behind by Eve was not here. The connection between him and his flock would rot away eventually - and he can't help but think that was exactly what the fucker was counting on when he'd rendered him flightless. Eyes narrowing to follow Lucifer's feet towards the door, he's left grimacing at the parting shot of a...not so much a suggestion than a sentencing. And though he's inclined to disagree with a middle finger he couldn't flip the other with his arms bound to his back, his captor's prior premonitions start to fester at the edges of subconsciousness as the dark of the room eventually bleeds into dawn.

----

Breakfast appears on the table as normal- because of course it did. Since it's most likely a further jab from Lucifer knowing how he'd left the man bound and face planted to the floor, he ignores the drifting smell of pancakes in favor of facing the tedious task of finding his feet. Shit probably had apples on it anyway. After last night he doubts he's going to see anything edible without the fruit mixed in to it somewhere. That's how the bastard had operated so far...find a sticking point and then ram it until the man was inevitably forced to relent. It was annoying as it was cyclical.

With no immediate way to yank himself up, he resorts to the next best thing and inchworms across the room, albeit pausing often to collect his wits through a few rounds of breathless slurs. Once he'd made it to his intended target - being the window, he inches up the wall to hook his chin onto the ledge which he uses to help yank himself the rest of the way up after some struggle and numerous teeth gritting grunts.

He'd already spent enough time roosting in the window nook to know the view from inside looking out well enough. There's a small shrub like tree not unlike a camelia that takes its pruning neglect out on his window with each shift in the wind's direction. It's the only inhabitant of the carved out section of garden below that likely no one would stumble through given how the veil of the forcefield containing him in the room also extends to just below the window frame on its outside. And aside from misjudging how long it took broken wings to mend, his captor hadn't overlooked much in way of ways out when setting up the enclosure. Given his hulking size in comparison to the sliver of afforded garden, the trip to take a look down below didn't seem worth it considering there would be no room for him to even turn fully around on the ground level.

So when his half lidded gaze made its usual lazy sweep of the outside, it isn't with any motive other than fading out for the next few hours. Only instead, his gaze catches on something white and discarded lying beneath the boughs of the camelia. Head tipping to each side, he tries his best to identify the new object he'd yet to spot til now. Was that a...glove? One that resembled those he'd seen the clown pulling off when entering the room on some occasions. Brows furrow and his gaze narrows as he feels a slight twinge of a pull in his side towards the discarded garment. Perhaps he wanted a piece of the other to pull apart for his own amusement, or perhaps the unsettling urge to collect it off the ground stemmed from wanting to see if the twitch in his side would settle down once he had it. Either way, the window bursts outward in a spray of glass once he bashes the blunt side of his horns against it.

The heat that follows fastened around his wrists is - as Lucifer mentioned, more intense than a hot iron rammed up the ass, and it leaves him sucking his teeth hard around a half stifled yelp of "son of a whore!!" as he waits for the stinging to subside to clean the rest of the glass out of the frame with a sweep of his horns.

It's whenever Lucifer returns that the extent of Adam's attempt at venturing down shows. The man had managed to push himself halfway out of the window feet first only to become lodged in place once his stomach passed a point where even sucking in didn't allow it to squeeze through. Hanging rather limply with his head bowed as if he opted for a nap mid extraction, he lifts his gaze once he hears the telltale click of boots making a beeline for him.

"...don't you say shit." He warns, a firm wriggle in place- no more intimidating than a budgie cupped in a palm. "Seriously."

[rogueshadeaux]

Chapter Thirty-Seven — Consequences

We were there for what felt like forever. Long enough for Archie to try and take a drink of my hot chocolate, and Aunt Sia to grab both rats and return them to their cage in the living room. Long enough for Zeke to become restless and start pacing the five steps it took to span the entirety of the kitchen. Long enough for my hands to start shaking as I thought about everything.

9k words | 45min - 1 hour reading time | TRIGGER WARNINGS: Death mention, experimentation mention, illness, mass casualty, rats (?), fighting, threats, bullying.

⚠️AUTHOR'S NOTE: I cannot take credit for all of this chapter. My lovely @lobotomizedlemon wrote the beautiful speech in the end, like they knew what Jean needed to hear. Everyone needs an Aunt Sia in their life. Things move on from lore-heavy here, but Chi—thank you for trusting me with Sia. Thank you for letting me use her for something so deeply important to Erosion, and letting me hand her to Jean. She's exactly what was needed. I can't imagine this tale without her now.

Aunt Sia stood at the other end of the room, arms crossed, that cupboard full of mugs still hanging open. Brent and I were frozen mid-signage, both hands at the ready to argue further and yet absolutely no wind in our sails—mine especially. What did she mean she knew sign language? How long had she known that?!

Her arms stayed crossed as she stared at us like she caught us red-handed, Dad looking between her and us before asking, “What’s going on?”

Aunt Sia kept her gaze on us, unblinking even as I tried to shrink under her stare. “Brent,” she started, “What are you two talking about?”

Of course she’d go for Brent first. Take the weakest in the pack by the jugular, right? The man couldn’t lie, evident as Brent stumbled on his words for a moment before coming up with the best deflection ever:

“What do you mean?”

Dad suddenly became way more interested as Brent’s cheeks went red, his own eyebrows furrowed as he looked between the two of us. “Kids. What’s going on?”

Brent suddenly became very interested in the wood grain as my voice caught in my throat, eyes flitting between everyone as they all turned their attention towards me. God, why here? Why now? This was supposed to stay between me and Brent! I didn’t wanna explain everything to everyone. 

I took too long to respond. That’s what was the problem. I faltered, unable to find my voice, and prompted Aunt Sia to ask more pointedly, “What did Brent mean, ‘Tell Dad about Mom?’” she asked me directly. 

That got Dad going; his eyebrows shot up from their furrowed position, now zeroed in on me and cocking his head slightly, like a cat trying to get a reading on how far I was before it pounced. “Jean,” he said, warned, and I knew he expected nothing but the truth after saying my name. 

I swallowed thickly, trying to convince myself not to evaporate on the spot and run away while they all were confused. “I, uhm…” I drew off, voice crackling slightly. Jerry came over towards me and I grabbed the rat and held him close, using the little guy as a reason to not look up and meet anyone’s eyes. “When…before I woke up in the hospital, I…there was this thing wi-with Mom...”

And I was forced to recount it all to an audience. 

I couldn’t look up as I described it all; the long field of barley, the forest, the mines. How I followed wisps of neon thinking I was trying to find Dad. How I knew none of it made sense, but it wasn’t like a dream—I couldn’t escape no matter how hard I tried. The lack of a sun. My voice faltered when I came to the grove and I froze for so long that Jerry began biting holes in my jacket’s sleeve before I spoke of Mom. 

I could see Dad’s hand clench into a fist on the tabletop the moment I did. 

That was the reason I didn’t bring it up to him in the first place; not only did I not wanna sound like I was insane, but I wanted to keep from bringing up those memories that would turn his face ashen with pain. I couldn’t look at him as I described her. How we hugged, how she felt so real. If I did, I was sure we’d both have the same pained expression on our faces. 

When I ended my story with her using beams of neon to essentially throw me back into the real world, the room stayed tersely quiet for a moment. I hazarded a glance up; Dr. Sims was writing something down furiously on the back of one of Aunt Sia’s COLE papers, Aunt Sia was watching him as he wrote. Zeke stayed positioned by the wall, head down, not surprised but still avoiding my gaze, and Dad—

He was pissed. “And why didn’t you tell me this?” he demanded. “I thought we said no more keeping things from each other!”

“I know—” I started to defend, voice weak against his anger. That weak squeak that would have put Jerry’s noises to shame died off, though, when someone interrupted. 

“It’s my fault.”

Dad turned in his chair so he could glare at Zeke instead. “What?”

“I told Jean not to worry about the whole…deal so much,” Zeke continued, meeting Dad’s eyes without a flinch. Was he…covering for me? “When she came to me to ask if the same thing had happened to Cole and told me a bit about the…vision, I told her not to worry about it if it was the only time it’s happened. That Cole would get them if he touched tar too, and with her getting it in her bloodstream, well—’course she was in for a bad time.”

Dad seemed to have trouble processing this. “She told—” he spun his head around to look at me. “You told Zeke? But not me?”

“I didn’t want to upset you—” I started, Dad cutting me off. 

“Well, you didn’t do well, Regina.” he snapped. I flinched at how he growled my name and looked back down, throat tight. Of course he was mad! We promised each other we’d be truthful and honest and I lied to him within the same sentence. 

God, I messed up. Again. 

“You should have told us right away,” Dr. Sims chastised—not as passionately as Dad, but still disappointed. I could hear him turn slightly and he added, “You too, Zeke. If I’m going to make sure Jean’s okay, I need to know everything.”

I could hear Dad sigh hard, and my eyes followed his hands as they came up from the table and pressed against his eyes. “Okay, so what could this mean?” Dad demanded after a moment, blinking hard as he looked at Dr. Sims. “If Jean was seeing Abbs, could that have been a hallucination?”

“I’m not sure,” Dr. Sims muttered, looking down at the notes on his paper. “If Jean and Cole had hallucinations when interacting with the tar, I’d simply chalk it up to that and move on. But with the Vermaak’s history too, I’m not…not sure what to make of it.”  

“She’s not a forced conduit,” Aunt Sia interjected, finishing with the mugs she was messing with. She walked over, moving to lean between Dad and Dr. Sims and hand Brent and I cups of hot chocolate. It was funny—you could always find her in the kitchen when she was trying to think through something. A part of me was sure that’s why I loved sugary things so much. “The Vermaak went insane because their power was eating their neuroelectricity.”

“Yeah, but if she was injected with tar, could that have done something like the CRB solution the First Sons were using on the Vermaak?” Dad asked. 

“Retroviral integrase?” Dr. Sims asked before shaking his head. “No, can’t be. That would only work if she wasn’t activated.” 

Dad groaned slightly, the noise interrupted as Aunt Sia asked, “What about the power transfer device Cole MacGrath used? How was that different from the Vermaak?” 

“I couldn’t recover the files fully on that,” Dr. Sims admitted, clicking away, “But from what I can guess, the original power transfer device was used on a one-on-one basis, with a core of raythium to fuse properties of the donor’s protein to the other Conduit. It looks like some sort of process involving mutagenesis and particle acceleration? I can’t really make sense of it. Basically the original device damaged the part of the DNA that hosted the Conduit gene and then rewrote it with the second power integrated, so those abilities were a part of their normal powers.” He turned to look at Aunt Sia fully. “It doesn't use the same system the Vermaak’s does, and the DUP used CRISPR and gene editing. They’re all different.”

Aunt Sia crossed her arms, the hand of one going to town on the forearm of another, scratching away. “So there’s no correlation,” she hummed, glaring at the computer screens like it was their fault. “What about the DUP?” She asked. “Don’t you have files on their experimentation?”

Dr. Sims shook his head. “I have one, that only talks about injuries, heavily redacted with no info about what sort of experiments they were performing.”

Aunt Sia shook her head, Dad’s hand reaching out to stop her stretching and holding the hand in place. “Okay, w–what about tar?” He asked. “Or that woman that could use tar, what was her name—”

“Sasha,” Zeke cut in. 

The moment Zeke spoke, Dad’s jaw tensed, and he looked like he was 30 seconds away from picking up the man and throwing him out of the front door himself. He glanced at me with that same anger, and I just knew it was because I told Zeke about the hallucination but not him. “Right.” Dad said flatly. “Sasha.”

Dr. Sims got to searching, declaring—much to Dad’s absolute frustration—that there was nothing on tar. “But Sasha is mentioned in Wolfe’s notebook,” he hummed, scrolling through scans of the journal’s pages. 

“What for?” Aunt Sia asked, looking over Dr. Sims’ shoulder. 

“Apparently she was on Wolfe’s team when they were testing on Warner,” he hummed, scrolling just a tad to pull up more text. “She’s the one that determined all the properties of the…Warner’s Threshold…”

“That’s the evolution-to-mutation thing, right?” Brent asked. 

Aunt Sia nodded. “Absorbing RFE through a blast core, yeah.”

The way Dr. Sims drew off peeked Dad’s interest. “What’s up?” He asked, apprehensive. “Is…could the RFE be doing this to Jean?”

Dr. Sims didn’t answer immediately; whatever he was reading grabbed Aunt Sia’s interest, her hand pulling away from Dad’s hold to settle on Dr. Sims’ shoulder, squeezing once to get the man to look at her. They shared one of those looks, one of the ones Dad would reserve for talks within earshot of us when he felt there was some information that someone either didn’t know, or didn’t need to. 

But it didn’t stop Dr. Sims from speaking. “No, no, just…Can I ask you something?” He gave Dad his full attention, who just seemed absolutely confused on why his friends suddenly looked worried. “How many Core Relays do you think you’ve absorbed over the years?”

Dad blinked before chuckling, the sound a bit incredulous. “I don’t know? It’s been a while, Eugene.” After a moment, though—when Dr. Sims’ stare didn’t let up, he asked, “Wh–why does it matter?”

“I’ll spare you the math,” Dr. Sims said, turning back to the computer to begin to read from yet another section of the journal. “‘Absorbing the raw power from Blast Cores, a conduit's ability to harness energy reaches a precarious tipping point after accumulating between seven to nine cores. Beyond this threshold, the conduit's physiology undergoes a tumultuous shift. Initially marked by heightened abilities, this excessive energy absorption eventually sparks deleterious manifestations.’”

“Cole had to absorb seven to use the RFI,” Zeke threw in. 

My brow furrowed as I silently counted something off in my head, piecing thoughts together bit by bit. Seven to nine cores. Dad was scared the one he used on us was enough to mess me up, but he’d had far more than one, right? 

I glanced at Brent, who seemed to be coming to the same conclusion I did; Dad’s used way, way more than seven—probably just in this year alone.

“You’ve…it’s definitely more than nine, isn’t it Del?” Dr. Sims asked. “I gave you eight just for the twins and that’s not counting the five we found in Spokane after you were cornered by the Akurans, when you had Jean’s power.”

“You used six of those generator things at the construction site.” Brent realized, “When you got mine.”

“That’s eleven alone,” I murmured. 

“How many do you think you’ve used overall?” Aunt Sia interrupted. “If you had to guess, because this…it’s concerning, Delsin.”

“Didn’t I give you three or four when you were fighting Augustine in Seattle?” Dr. Sims added, looking off to the side as he tried to recount a memory I’m sure they all wanted to forget.

Dad nodded absentmindedly. “Yeah there…there were four when that happened. I think Abbs and I found four after I got her power too,” Hit brows knit so close that the lines on his forehead looked like waves. “And I know there were a lot after I got Hank’s power. Yours too.” Dad leaned back in the chair, eyes turning to look at the popcorn ceiling. “If I had to say, I think…I think I’m close to twenty? Maybe even over it.”

Everyone fell silent, looking between each other with the same tense silence like we all expected Dad to explode right in front of us or something. Even the warmth of the mug of hot chocolate wasn’t enough to warm my hands as I asked, “If you’ve absorbed…that many, then why aren’t you…”

Dead? A walking corpse? Some sort of monster? I wasn’t even sure what to say.

Dad’s head came down when I asked my question, eyes falling to the polaroid of Warner on the table. He picked it up tentatively, bringing it closer and looking at it with a mix of intrigue and pity. “I don’t know,” he said softly. “Maybe Wolfe was wrong. Or maybe there’s something different with the Ray Sphere and that’s why Warner looks like…that.” He set the polaroid face down, looking back at Dr. Sims. “Maybe the Core Relays are different. They aren’t exactly exploding bombs.”

“No, but they are miniature fission reactors,” Dr. Sims said, turning to his laptop to begin clicking away on it yet again, muttering to himself, “Fission, fission…” as he typed what I had to assume was that same word into the search database.

“Do we really need to worry about this right now?” Dad asked, exasperated. “I mean, we’ve always known I’ve been a bit weird when it came to Core Relays, really, it’s not—”

“We just wanna make sure there’s nothing wrong,” Aunt Sia cut Dad off, her other hand going to his shoulder. “There could be some sort of…radiation radius or something if you’ve absorbed that many Core Relays.” She smirked playfully, looking down at Dad. “Maybe you’re a biohazard.”

Dad rolled his eyes. “I’m being serious, Alessia. This is about Jean, not me—”

“It may have just became about Jean,” Dr. Sims interrupted. “Sasha LaRue was a part of the Ray Sphere project.”

Dad immediately snapped forward, leaning his elbows against the table like getting close to the computer was gonna help him read the words better. “I thought she was just some crazy lady in Empire City?” Aunt Sia asked, glancing back at Zeke. 

“We…she had ties in the First Sons, but Cole and I never figured out what sort.” Zeke said. “Just knew she and Kessler were a ‘late night booty call’ sorta couple.” 

I cringed. Oh god, I could have lived without that trivia fact. 

Dr. Sims stared at Zeke, processing that information for a moment before trying to etch-n-sketch the idea from his mind with a shake of his head, saying, “Anyways—yeah, she’s mentioned a few times in regards to the Ray Sphere. Turns out she was the lead engineer of the First Sons’ Empire City branch.”

“So she knew exactly how the Ray Sphere worked,” Dad hummed, glancing at Aunt Sia. “Probably knew all about Ray Field Energy too.”

Aunt Sia didn’t look convinced. “But…Ray Field Energy can’t be what’s making Jean sick…right?” She asked, unsure. “Every Conduit needs RFE. Could it be something genetic? Like an intolerance?”

Dad shook his head. “We checked already.”

Zeke clicked his tongue in thought. “Y’know, the gene ain’t the savior y’all make it out to be. People with the gene could still get the Plague.”

Dad rolled his eyes, not bothering to look at Zeke as he said, “Yeah, but people with the gene don’t just stop working.”

“They do if you mess with RFE. Why do you think most of ‘em died in 2011?” Zeke shot back. “We used the RFI.”

Dad chewed on the inside of his cheek as Zeke called, annoyance slowly dissipating as he thought through his logic. “Eugene,” he said, raising his head to look at the man. “See if you can pull up anything about Ray Field Energy being weird. Adverse reactions, whatever was wrong with Bertrand—the whole deal.”

“That’s not a lot to go by,” Dr. Sims muttered, bringing his hands to the keyboard anyways. 

“We need to know,” Dad said, glancing up at me.

We were there for what felt like forever. Long enough for Archie to try and take a drink of my hot chocolate, and Aunt Sia to grab both rats and return them to their cage in the living room. Long enough for Zeke to become restless and start pacing the five steps it took to span the entirety of the kitchen. Long enough for my hands to start shaking as I thought about everything. The hot chocolate was frothless and cold now, bringing nothing more than a chilly distaste to my mouth that could also be felt in the room. 

Eventually, Dr. Sims shook his head. “I’ve got nothing on RFE and Conduits,” he told Dad. “RFE and humans, sure, but not Conduits.”

Dad’s brow furrowed. “RFE and humans? Like the Plague?”

Dr. Sims shook his head. “No, that’s what’s weird—it’s about the Ray Sphere.”

Dr. Sims began scrolling back up as Zeke paused to listen, reminding him, “The Ray Sphere caused the Plague. ‘Course it’s mentioned.”

Dr. Sims, though, disagreed. “It’s talking about how they prevented the Plague.”

Everyone snapped to attention at that. 

“You can prevent the Plague?” Dad asked. A thousand emotions passed through his face—shock, confusion, doubt, anger. “So Kessler managed to fuck that up too? Great.”

Dad’s hand clenched until the knuckles of his fist turned stark white, barely acknowledging Aunt Sia’s reassuring hand on his shoulder. I couldn’t blame him for his anger; if I had found out that my parent’s deaths could have been prevented, but years after the fact?

I’d be fuming too. 

Dr. Sims, oblivious to the fact that Dad looked like he was a huff away from breathing fire, asked over his shoulder, “Hey, Zeke—the Ray Sphere only detonated once, right?”

Zeke, who was frozen dumbstruck in the middle of the kitchen, took a moment to nod. “Y-yeah, it only went off the one time.”

“And Cole was holding it?” Dr. Sims asked, the word holding stressed. 

Zeke blinked. “Yeah? At least I think so. I wasn’t there. He…he would talk about how it burned his hands when he was holding it, though.”

Aunt Sia, with one final squeeze on Dad’s shoulder before letting go, asking, “What did you find?”

“It’s—it’s sorta hard to understand,” Dr. Sims admitted, finally settling his scrolling to a segment of the journal, “But it reads like they had a lot of issues in the beginning of testing with illness, just like the Plague, but then figured out how to keep the fallout from its detonation from happening.”

The Plague was something I really didn’t understand. To be fair, I don’t think anyone really understood it fully; it ripped through victims way too fast for any solid science on it, and with it being completely eradicated from the world with the RFI, no one ever really tried replicating it. Most people didn’t even know how it happened—the Ray Sphere wasn’t public knowledge. Far as I knew, it was nothing more than an illness you’d occasionally see mocked up in conspiracy forums regarding chemical agents and aliens. 

What we did know about it was…weird. Contagious radiation poisoning. Contagious. No one really understood how that was even possible. 

Until now. 

Dr. Sims turned back towards his computer and began reading. “‘In the initial phases of our research, I harbored profound reservations regarding the implications of detonating the Ray Sphere—a device harnessing the raw power of nuclear fission. The prospect of manipulating such potent energy was both exhilarating and unnerving. I grappled with the uncertainty of its consequences, the unknown variables that could spiral out of control. It was already proving a terrible beast to control; those without the gene, when exposed to the energy output from the device, fell to an illness not unlike Acute Radiation Poisoning—only it battled with their neuroelectrical energy. Whatever it didn’t take to power the Ray Sphere, it sought to destroy. What was more alarming was how it seemed to spread to those outside of the vicinity of the detonation, as if the energy from the Ray Sphere jumped from person to person, seeking a genetically-positive person to attach to.’”

“Jeez,” Dad breathed when Dr. Sims paused. “So the fallout, what, seeks out the gene?”

“Seems like it,” Dr. Sims confirmed. I could see him highlight the section in the reflection of his glasses, and throw a copy of it into a note in the background, storing it away for himself later. This was probably a gold mine to him. He cleared his throat before continuing, “‘Despite my concerns, Kessler continuously reassured me, promising that as long as we found a suitable core, there would be no repercussions beyond the unfortunate souls sacrificed to the Ray Sphere for its initial phase. At first, I didn’t trust him. What if our actions unleashed catastrophic repercussions beyond our comprehension? But now, I see how wrong I was, and why Miss LaRue calls him her little oracle. After three failed attempts, Kessler insisted that I place someone with the gene directly beside the Ray Sphere, perhaps even holding it, for better results.

“‘Kessler was right. The Ray Sphere needs approximately eight hundred to a thousand microvolts from neuroelectrical energy to fully charge the Blast Core—about ten to twelve people. They all fall victim to sudden exposure to Ray Field Energy—including the genetic carrier in question. Who wouldn’t, when face to face with a miniature nuke with twice the concentrated energy? But where they fell, the carrier rose. Eleven test subjects turned to ash in an explosion greater than anything I’d seen before when activating the Ray Sphere, only for one to be birthed from the ashes. When the dust settled and we turned to our monitors for information on the fallout of the detonation, we found there was none. The scintillation counters were the only proof the Ray Sphere even detonated—well, that and the smell of burnt leather in the room when we deemed it safe to enter with hazmat. The test subject himself was in disarray and needed to be temporarily placed on a ventilator due to distress from direct exposure to radiation, but within the week, he was healed, no longer exhibiting symptoms of radiation poisoning and with the ability to manipulate flames. He had become a conduit for the raw, ionized energy, and came out of its blast anew, his proteins absorbing the radiation in full and preventing any fallout from occurring.’”

My mind was reeling. So the…the Conduit they used in their experiment basically sucked up all of the radiation? I glanced around the room to see Zeke’s back turned towards us all, nodding slowly. When we were out on the roof of that train car by his house, Zeke had said Cole went into a coma. “Took him a while to brush off what happened to him after the Blast,” he had said. 

Not because it was explosive, but because he was fighting radiation poisoning. 

“‘With no risk of radioactive fallout upon the use of the Ray Sphere, we’ve essentially secured funding from DARPA for any experimentation in the near future. As long as a gene carrier, a conduit for the Ray Field Energy, activates the Ray Sphere, the only damage to come to the world will be from the Conduit’s power as it becomes overloaded from so much RFE, and the poor souls that sacrifice themselves for the greater good.’” Dr. Sims finished before leaning back in his chair, closing out the translation pop-up. 

Dad looked furious. “So they knew.” He said. Not asked. “They knew it could go wrong, and they still set up everything to happen the way it did.”

“I don’t understand,” Aunt Sia murmured, moving to lean against the end of the table on my right. “Kessler didn’t care about the risk? Or did he want that to happen?”

Dr. Sims shook his head. “No. No, I don’t think Kessler would have wanted there to be a Plague. Wolfe said for the greater good. They were still working towards fighting the Beast and keeping humanity safe. Something happened.”

“Like what?” Dad demanded. “If the Ray Sphere detonated once, then how did it cause the Plague?”

Dr. Sims inhaled deeply, trying to brush off Dad’s anger. “There’s something here about proximity related to residual RFE post-activation,” he hummed, like it meant something. “They took everything into account.”

Wait—post what? I held up a hand half-heartedly like a student in class, not bothering to say anything until Aunt Sia hummed, “What is it, Jean?”

“Dr. Sims said post activation, right?” I said, looking between him and Dad. “And th–the notes said something about the Conduit’s power overloading. So did the Ray Sphere have to explode for the radiation to occur, or did it have to just be turned on?”

Dad and Dr. Sims stared at me for so long that I began to try to defend myself with, “Sorry, I don’t really get how this works—” before Dad held up a hand to silence me, staring at the wood grain as he worked something out. 

“It…It wouldn’t need to explode, would it?” He asked. “It’d just need to begin the fission process. That’d be enough.”

Dr. Sims slowly nodded, rubbing a hand against his chin in thought. “It would need to output that energy with or without the Conduit,” he hummed, “and Wolfe said something about the ‘overloading RFE’ and uh…an explosion bigger than what had happened before. That’s gotta mean there’s a version of the Ray Sphere being activated that doesn’t cause as big of a detonation.”

Dad nodded, his own more pronounced. “That means something could’ve happened when it was in someone else’s hands. Hey, Zeke, didn’t you say the Ray Sphere was taken by some gang back in—”

Dad faltered as he looked back to where Zeke had been standing only to see he was no longer there. Instead Zeke was by the sink, leaned over it like he was ill, gripping the edge of the counter with a grip usually saved for squeezing the life out of something. “Zeke?” Aunt Sia asked softly.

“A Conduit has to activate the Sphere?” Zeke asked, voice lower than I've ever heard it.

Dr. Sims glanced over at Dad, who looked just as bewildered. “I, uh...yes,” he confirmed hesitantly. “A Conduit has to be within…thirty-five centimeters of the Ray Sphere and holding it to act as a...well, a conduit for the RFE.“ He glanced back at the screen. ”Seems that's where Kessler got the name, in fact.”

Zeke's head shook as it fell, like he was refusing to believe what he was hearing. What was going on with him? He was acting like he was just diagnosed with the Plague himself. Brent looked over at me bewildered and all I could do was shrug.

Dad, though, didn't have as much tact. “What happened, Zeke?” he asked, eyes narrow as they bore through Zeke's back. “Do you know how the Plague started?”

Zeke breathed shakily, giving himself a few seconds to keep his head hung low as he collected himself. He reached up and pulled off his polarized glasses, running a hand across his face hard like he was trying to wipe away dirt. It's when he turned that I realized he was crying.

“I think I started it,” he whispered, refusing to meet anyone's eyes. “What did you just say?” Dad asked flatly, the hold on the back of his chair tightening.

Zeke kept his head low, eyes pointed at the ground but seeming to look far past it to some long-forgotten memory. “There was this...game of hot potato after the Blast as everyone fought to get ahold of the Ray Sphere. First John White pulled it from Cole's body after the Blast. Then the Dustmen got ahold'a it.”

“Dustmen?” I asked before I could stop myself. What kind of name was that?

“They were the old heir to the First Sons' gang.” Zeke informed me, only just glancing up. He saw how intensely everyone was looking at him, though, and his eyes fell once more. “He wanted the Ray Sphere back to eventually reclaim the throne from Kessler. He stuck it at the top of this huge tower he made with his powers, in some sorta charging cradle and had his men guarding it.

“We...Cole and I fought our way to the top of this tower and—you've gotta understand. There were Dustmen, there were First Sons, we were a good three hundred feet in the air and I had nothing but my pistol on me.” Zeke shook his head as he relived the memory. “And with everything else going on in Empire City...I was scared outta my mind. So when Cole was fighting Alden's men and I managed to get to the Ray Sphere and pull it outta that charging thing...”

His fist came down softly against the counter’s edge behind him, a beat far steadier than my own as I listened to his story. “I turned it on.” He admitted simply. 

It was almost instantaneous; Dad’s grip on the chair grew so strong that the wood backing splintered under his fingers, Aunt Sia’s protests unheard over Dad as he growled, “You what?”

“I was terrified,” he said, the admittance not really an excuse, but an explanation. He definitely didn’t seem to be defending his choice at all. “The world was going to hell in a handbasket and I barely had enough 9 millimeters to keep fighting against it. There were people who could suddenly make spiders outta scrap metal and tar that’d turn you into some zombie. My best friend was shooting lightning outta his hands and the most I could do to help him was hand him rubber gloves.” Zeke sighed hard, closing his eyes. “Kessler told me he…he knew why it didn’t work when it fizzled out. Why I didn’t get powers. And that he would show me what needed to be done if I just gave him the Ray Sphere. So…I did it. I gave him the damn thing. I was scared and thought that by getting myself some powers I’d live to see the next day. 'Cause then? That wasn't guaranteed.”

Guaranteed. 

“How long are you willing to fight for these Humans when they’re guaranteed to turn on you in the end?” Augustine’s voice rang in my ear. “Even the great Cole MacGrath was betrayed by his closest companion.” 

“You’re the one that turned on Cole,” I whispered, not realizing my eyes had fallen until I looked back up at Zeke, whose own were solemn. 

“You knew?” Brent demanded accusingly. 

“Kids.” Aunt Sia interjected sharply. 

“So you just set off the Ray Sphere because you were jealous?” Dad asked Zeke. 

“I was scared. Hell, we all were—”

“There was no one else close to the Ray Sphere?” Dr. Sims demanded, trying to click through some translation notes at rapid speed. 

Zeke shook his head. “Just me.” He began to pace back and forth in the three steps it took to get from the counter on one side of the kitchen to the oven on the other.

“There would have been no one gene-positive close enough to absorb the latent RFE. At least not in a way that mattered before the scattering of radioactive dust,” Dr. Sims informed the room.

Zeke stopped pacing, head falling into his hands. “Christ, did I cause the Plague?” he whispered aghast.

It was almost instantaneous; for a moment, Zeke looked like he was about to fall to his knees with how hard they were shaking, and then a second later he was flying back into the pantry door, Dad nothing but a plume of dust and concrete as he moved to beat on Zeke.

Whatever happened next was hell, and I was barely able to keep track of it all. There was a dogpile of limbs in the kitchen I was shoved away from. Brent emerged from it fully steel, holding Dad back and pushing him against the cracked pantry door as he fought to get out of Brent’s grip. Aunt Sia helped Zeke stand, trying to wipe away at his bloody nose with a random rag she pulled from the oven’s handle. Dr. Sims moved to intercept Dad's concrete-laden arm as it raised and aimed indiscriminately at Zeke, his face more furious than I've ever personally seen him.

“You killed them!” he screamed, loud enough that his voice echoed through the room. Brent pushed Dad against the wall and was trying to talk him down and I'm pretty sure the only thing that kept him from catching a right hook was the fact that he was Dad's son. “My parents died because of you!”

“I didn't know,” Zeke insisted, holding the white rag to his face that was steadily turning red. “I just...I was trying to protect myself—”

“You nearly killed the world because you were jealous,” Dad spat, face contorted in rage. “You gave Kessler back the Ray Sphere to get powers! You were a coward—”

“Delsin—” Dr. Sims tried to talk Dad down, though it was no use.

“I was.” Zeke agreed without hesitation. “You think I haven't regretted it every day of my life since? I’ve been trying to make up for my mistake ever since—”

“Regret isn't gonna bring back everyone you killed,“ Dad snarled.

“I know.” Zeke said solemnly. “One of those people that died was my best friend—”

Dad scoffed. “Save me the fucking sob story—you're the one that betrayed him! I'm supposed to give a shit about how sorry you feel when you turned on him willingly?” He shook his head, glancing at Dr. Sims, who was still holding his dominant hand. “Did you know about this?” he demanded.

Dr. Sims shook his head and opened his mouth to say something when Aunt Sia said, “I did.”

Dad's head snapped her way and he glowered, the stare enough to make my own spine chill despite being to the left and behind her. “You what?” he growled.

Aunt Sia didn't even flinch. “I knew what happened. Zeke told me years ago when we first started working on this together,” She motioned to the papers on the table.

“And you didn't think to tell me?” He looked beyond pissed. Betrayed, like Aunt Sia was the one to activate the Ray Sphere.

Aunt Sia raised an eyebrow. “Would you have understood?”

Dad blinked, his scowl just barely slipping off of his face. “What?”

“You're not human, Delsin. Not like Zeke, not like Reggie, and not like me.” Aunt Sia pointed to her own chest as Dad’s nostrils flared the moment she brought up his brother. “You don't get how...how scary and inadequate it can feel to be the person who can't do anything and to watch people you love put their lives on the line. You can—you can make a nonprofit to help or go undercover or sneak people out of the country but it's never enough.” Her hand fell. “I spent five years trying to help the Conduits and you were able to fix their issues in a week. Do you know how hard it is to feel like you're never doing enough when people you care about are in trouble? To be pushed aside and practically be told to let the Big Boys handle it?”

My eyes fell from looking at Aunt Sia to staring at the tile, her words settling on top of that weight in my chest that I couldn't seem to shake off anymore. Do you know how hard it is to feel like you're never doing enough when people you care about are in trouble? I could guess. I felt it in the pristine white of that First Sons base, watching Dad and Brent fight and having to run away like a coward. Helping Dad bandage chemical burns on his flesh that made the entire room smell like weirdly sweet bacon whenever the wrappings would come off. And I couldn't do anything to prevent that, even as a Conduit—or whatever I was now. Told to run away, asked to hide on the floorboard of a car, told that I 'didn't need to worry about it' when wanting to know more about everything.

And I guess that, even though I didn't really approve of handing over a miniature nuke to a crazy cult leader, I could understand why Zeke did what he did.

Dad, though, didn't. “That's different,” he insisted.

“Is it?” 

“You didn’t sell out Eugene to Augustine,” Dad said, before his eyes returned to Zeke and they immediately became darker. “He fucked over MacGrath.”

“And I’ve done everything I could to honor Cole and his sacrifice,” Zeke, surprisingly, snapped back. “You think I’m not haunted by what he had to do every goddamn day of my life?”

Dad shrugged off Dr. Sims’ hold. “He wouldn’t have had to sacrifice shit if it wasn’t for you.”

Aunt Sia sighed, exasperated. “Delsin, don’t act like you’ve never made a selfish mistake before.”

“I didn’t hand a goddamn bomb to Kessler!” Dad defended. 

“No, but you’ve done stupid shit plenty of times before.” Aunt Sia chastised. “Don’t act like you’ve never been blinded by your emotions.”

Dad glowered long after Brent let him go, not moving from his spot. He seemed to be debating on where to place his anger, and I saw his right hand twitch once without raising as his eyes shifted between Aunt Sia to Zeke and back again. The tight fist relaxed, but he still had enough anger in him to let them settle on Zeke and growl, “I’m only saying this once, Dunbar: You do anything to risk my family while we’re trying to figure out what’s wrong with my girl? I’ll kill you. You’re here because you’ve got good information, and nothing else.” 

The air itself felt thick as Dad stared down Zeke, waiting for some form of acknowledgement. “Alright,” Zeke relented, the first to break eye contact. 

Aunt Sia held up a hand, trying to force Dad and his cold glare to stand down. “We should stop there for today,” she said, voice suggesting she was leaving no room for arguments. “We’re getting nowhere like this, and I think everyone could do with a break right now, okay? So let’s stop.” 

Dad glowered our way a moment longer before storming off, making sure to give Zeke a shoulder check on his way past before he threw open the back door and disappeared into the backyard. 

It was hard to pretend like everything was normal for the rest of the day. 

The journal didn’t really get us anywhere, and when Dr. Sims declared he wanted to take me to a hospital tomorrow and run tests? I became nervous. “There’s a specialist there that can see her that might be able to help,” he told Aunt Sia. “And the endocrine unit and palliative care are on the same floor. That’s where the other prime Conduit experiencing strange symptoms is.”

Zeke disappeared soon after Dad retreated to the backyard, mumbling something about ‘giving space’ that he didn’t even let Aunt Sia try to retort to. She sighed hard as he closed the front door before turning to Brent and I, leaving Dr. Sims to mess around on his computer as she steered us to the living room, trying to use the allure of a movie to help us pretend like none of that just happened. 

She tried to make the resulting day fun. Tried being the keyword. Trips down memory lane where she reminded us of every young-age blunder she saw over the five years she watched us, equally embarrassing moments from Dad’s past before we were born.

“Met her soon after I met Eugene,” Dad said when he had returned from outside, anger somewhere dissipated. “She would locate the suspected conduits he was picking up, and Project Sanctuary would sneak them outta Seattle. Eventually had me doing the same thing.”

It was hard work, tearing suspected gene carriers out of jail cells and getting them out of the country, but they did it together with the network Aunt Sia had built over the years. “I started Project Sanctuary soon after I began volunteering at the Conduit Rights League,” she told us, “About a year after Eugene was taken from me.”

Dad and Aunt Sia really got to know each other in the after, though; those few months after Augustine’s crimes were shared but before the government was strong-armed into doing anything about them, Aunt Sia was there trying to help the Conduits that were trickle-released from Curdun before its doors closed. She was there to protest when they were opened again. “With the pandemic, and your mother’s condition, I didn’t visit her as much as I wanted for fear of getting her sick,” Aunt Sia admitted when we asked her why, since she knew Dad since we were born, there was no evidence of her existence. “And besides, you know me—addicted to my work. I had a lot cut out for me then,”

But everything she said, all she meant to be some sort of melancholic sharing of truth, was nothing more but another straw on the back of this burden that kept feeling like it was crushing my chest in. I knew so little. I was the cause of so much. I couldn’t stop thinking about everything that had happened in the last few weeks; the lies and the pain and the truths and the fights. 

I even made the mistake of going online at some point and was bombarded with new notifications; someone found my art blog online, and it spread, fast. There were so many messages, so many death threats, that I had to go hide in the bathroom and cry as I deactivated every source of me online. Not before seeing news updates about COLE, since my name was tied to them now. 

Protests, riots. More bomb threats than should have been allowed. COLE was officially defunded in 8 states, and forced to close by government order in 3 of those. CRON, the conduit registration bill, suddenly had enough signatures to pass the House, and was set to be voted on in the Senate. 

And this was all because of me, and what I did to Seattle.

I tucked my phone into the couch after that, ignoring every missed email and social media notification because I was so sure what they would be about that I figured it would be better to not even look at them. But I couldn’t stop thinking about them. God, I couldn’t—not during the movie Aunt Sia put on, not during dinner, and not even when she tossed me a pair of soft pajamas that I almost immediately dropped, declaring a girls night. “You all find a place to sleep,” she said, waving off Dr. Sims, Brent and Dad in a jokingly dismissive way. “Jean and I will be in my room.”

She ushered me into her bedroom and, after a brief moment where she helped Dr. Sims find comfort on her couch, returned, closing the door fully behind her and locking it for good measure before turning to face me, holding up my phone. “You forgot something,” she said, moving to the big king sized bed and handing it to me before crawling in. 

“Oh,” I smiled, trying my best to look grateful as I set down my hair brush and reached out to grab the phone, “Thanks.” I immediately put it on the nightstand beside the bed, face down. 

Aunt Sia sighed, “Alright, hon.” She raised an eyebrow when I looked at her. “You father isn’t in the room anymore. Out with it.”

I blinked, brow furrowing. “What do you mean?”

“I’m not blind, Jean.” Aunt Sia said softly, concern laden in her voice. “You’ve barely smiled since you’ve been here. I can hardly get any interaction out of you. What’s wrong?”

I looked away from her, shrugging and grabbing the hair brush again. “Just tired. I could barely sleep in that van.” 

Aunt Sia gently took the hair brush from me and began to go through my hair herself, working out the knots. “I don’t believe you,” she hummed. Non-accusingly but still all the worried. 

I sighed hard, and admittedly said a bit snappily, “I’m just tired,” trying to reinforce the lie to her. To myself. All it did was make me sound more guilty. 

“Jean.” 

I could feel her eyes boring into me from behind as she set the brush down and began to braid my hair, small hands moving expertly to make a french braid tighter and neater than anything I could ever do. I looked up at my reflection in the vanity mirror in front of her bed and sighed, hating how deep the eyebags looked. “I’m…I’m sorry.” I began. 

“It’s alright, I shouldn’t have pushed—”

“No not that—well, actually, yeah. That too.” My eyes traveled down to my cast, the same deep blue as those waves that devastated Seattle covering the ashen and yellowed bruises, the same shades as the remains of COLE in Portland. “I…a bunch of people found my blog and…they weren’t nice about it.”

Aunt Sia’s brow furrowed slightly. “How so?”

I didn’t answer, pushing Aunt Sia to pull her own phone out and go straight to the blog. Shit. Right. I gave her the link to that. She scrolled for a moment, seeing nothing innocuous until she got to the comments—and that’s where her anger flared. “Wh–” she cut off, scrolling further. Switching to reblogs. Her nostrils flared, gray eyes almost steeling like Brent’s and the hand holding my braid in place tightened. “Those assholes,” she hissed, dropping her phone and looking up and meeting my eyes in the reflection of the mirror. “Jean, how long have you known about this? We need to tell your father—”

“No!” I cut her off, a bit too loud. I screwed my eyes shut and inhaled deeply, forcing myself to be quieter. Involving Dad was the last thing I wanted to do, especially after everything today. “No, no–not Dad. Not now. Please.”

Aunt Sia, fury still in her eyes, let her face soften slightly. “Why not?”

It took me far too long to answer, instead glancing at the screen of her phone; she was on a picture I’d done of a beach. Pastels. That one had so many comments—not just of people saying how the art sucked, but saying I had planned this the whole time. That I wanted to flood Seattle, that I wanted to kill everyone I did, and this romanticizing of the tall waves was proof. “It…” I drew off, unsure of what to say. “He doesn’t need to worry about it right now.”

I could hear Aunt Sia sigh gently. “That’s not for you to decide.” 

A warmth of upset, of anger, lit in my chest. “I’ve already caused him enough issues, he doesn’t need to keep worrying about me—”

“Hey,” Aunt Sia cut me off, hushing me like one would some spooked animal. Her eyes met my reflection. “Now, Jeanie, listen to me. Everything that’s happened wasn't your fault. You hear me? It doesn't matter what anyone says, it wasn't your fault.”

I shook my head. “I killed one hundred and thirty seven people, Aunt Sia. People keep attacking COLE because of it. Dad’s cover was blown! All the people that were hurt and th-the politicians…” my voice cracked and I clammed up immediately, barely able to choke out after, “If I was more careful in the alley or the fight with Augustine—”

“Don’t you dare blame yourself for that, Jean,” Aunt Sia interrupted. “You’re a child.”

“Does that matter?” 

“Of course it matters.” The hairbrush came down, and she moved to look at me intensely through the mirror from over my shoulder. “You were dealt a bad hand and you did what you did out of desperation. Who could blame you?”

“Everyone,” I said softly, looking down at the printed quilt at the end of the bed. “Everyone does.” 

Aunt Sia sighed, silence hanging in the air for a few moments before she started. “I think…I think what matters most is knowing—and accepting—that, sometimes…you won’t be able to help.” The way she said it so matter-of-factly made me raise my head to look at her in the mirror. She wasn’t staring at my reflection anymore; her eyes were down, staring at the dresser the mirror was posted on and yet far past it, eyes traveled somewhere foreign. The look was familiar; that's how Dad would look when thinking about his past. About everything that still threatened to drag him down. “Sometimes all there really is is guilt and shame, and the feeling of your entire life being a burden to those around you. But what I learned throughout the years is that people will only start to treat you like an inconvenience if you present yourself as one.”

“I already am.” I interjected. “I know I had the healing thing for only, like, a week, but—”

The glaze in Aunt Sia’s mind seeped away and they snapped up to meet mine in the mirror. “You're a person who needs help, and you have so many people in your life who are willing to go above and beyond to provide you with that help. Not because they pity you, not because it gets you off their back, but because they love you.” After a moment Aunt Sia seemed to know the thoughts forming in my mind before the sentence was finished being built, adding, “Even if it might not always look like it—hell, I've known your Dad long enough to be aware of just how harsh he can be sometimes. But he does love you. We all do.”

I looked down at my hands, disagreement rising in the back of my throat like bile. “I just…I feel so useless right now,” I admitted. Why was that one sentence so hard to choke out? “I’m either not helping or when I do try to help I…drown half of Seattle. I couldn’t even protect them when we were in New Marais.”

“It's hard to come to terms with the fact that sometimes all we can do is rely on the kindness of others, and it's frustrating to feel like you're unable to ever return just a tiny bit of everything they did for you.” Aunt Sia sympathized. I’d never understand how it came to her so easily. “But there is one thing you're missing: You surviving, you making it through hard times with their help, you being able to smile again? That's the best way to give back to the loved ones that want nothing more but to be there for you.”

My brow furrowed as I processed her words. Was that really it? Was it that easy? It didn’t feel that easy. It definitely didn’t feel like someone else’s love would absolve me of my sins. “Those people in Seattle had loved ones.” I said simply, eyes glancing over to look at Aunt Sia’s knees. “That mom that lost her kid in the COLE bombing? There’s so many innocent people that’ve been hurt, and it’s because of me in some way.” I could feel the frustration and anger and self loathing bubble up in my chest. “I—Dad can’t even go back to work, Brent can’t see his girlfriend, you’re stuck watching COLE explode after everything you’ve done for it—”

I hadn’t noticed I began to tear up until Aunt Sia took my face in her hands, squishing my cheeks slightly as she forced me to look at her. “None of that is your fault,” She insisted, eyes searching mine. “None of that was intentional. You didn’t mean to hurt anyone, and that’s enough—even if you may have. You were trying, and that’s a lot more than anyone else can say. You think those politicians have ever done a thing in their life that benefited anyone but themselves?” She shook her head, answering her own question. Her hands fell from my face, but she stayed close. “The only thing I want you to worry about right now is your health. Everything else is for us to worry about, I don’t want you to feel guilty for us caring about you. You’re worth all of this stress. No one—no government, no human, and no conduit will ever be able to convince me of the opposite.” Her shoulders squared a bit. “And I'll beat the shit out of everyone that even dares to try and tell me that what happened was something you should be blamed for."

God, there she was—the Aunt Sia I knew. She managed to pull an amused huff outta me, my halfhearted smile bringing a brighter one on her own face. “Now stop this moping, I can’t handle it. Let’s have one night where we pretend nothing’s happening, okay? You need a night off, especially since tomorrow’s gonna be busy.”

With a swallow and a nod I agreed, trying to shove away the pain for now. I knew she was right; Dad had told me Dr. Sims was able to order some tests for tomorrow. “There’s a specialist there that can see you that might be able to help, and they work in the same hospital where the other prime Conduit experiencing strange symptoms is,” he said. We’d be leaving in the morning. 

I couldn’t see it from her point of view, I couldn’t understand how I deserved her understanding—but maybe it was easier to lie to myself anyways. And as Aunt Sia went to a folder titled ‘Jeanie’ Favs’ in her pirated movies, I figured maybe she was right about one thing; I could use a reason to forget about everything right now.

[nagdabbit]

we collide with shoulder and steel: chapter 6/25

words: 530

rating: t, just to be safe

danny sees yuta again after seven years

also on ao3

a few days early cuz i'm gonna be out of town. this is my favorite chapter and i'm so sorry about that :D

He was at the far back of the expansive garden, where the clearing began to rise back up into a mountainside again. Where the soft, gentle green faded back into ashen dirt and bare tree branches.

Danny found him knelt before a bush of delicate, blooming lilacs.

He looked older. Despite the years that had passed, Danny expected to find the same boy. That was who he'd pictured, in all their imagined reunions. The same clean-shaven cheeks, same shaggy hair, pulled back from his face. All soft, rounded edges and bright smiles. Instead, he found a man in his place. One with a scruffy beard, hair shorter than he ever remembered it being, yet still flopping gently over his forehead. The Yuta before him was made up of long lines and sharp angles.

Creeping thyme had sprouted up around Yuta's knees, blanketing the path in delicate pink blooms. The dry, medicinal scent of spice kicked up around Danny's feet as he slowly stepped closer. 

Yuta's corner of the garden was quiet, even in the stillness of the mountain. The miles and miles of echoing silence was muted by the blooming edelweiss and yarrow, a blanket against the sparse, empty expanse. Someone had taken great care to keep the beds there tidy, where the rest of the garden was lush and overgrown, pruning back the lilacs and tending to the rosemary. He could smell sweet pea and tarragon.

It was peaceful and beautiful, where Yuta's end wasn't.

His face was turned toward the sky, a mask of pain and fear, frozen forever in cold, smooth marble. 

He'd seen many gardens in his travels, thick and crowded with all manner of berries and fruiting trees. Passed many fields of wildflowers, verdant life as far as he could see. Plains of sweet corn and wild grains, mountainsides covered with every color of granny's bonnet he could've imagined. But it had always been the beauty of a well-tended burial plot that had drawn his eye. There was something about the ferocity of a wild, ancient rose bush, a nigh-forgotten gravestone, and the care of a mourning hand. Something beautiful in that tragedy.

A cluster of delicate lilac blooms brushed the smooth, cool stone of Yuta's cheek, bobbing on a breeze too gentle for him to even notice.

Danny felt a familiar fissure open up inside his chest, a cold, gaping wound that had never quite healed right. Seven, almost eight years on, and it still felt as though his ribcage would crack open at the slightest pressure. 

He had loved Yuta dearly, just as much as he hated him for leaving. They'd always planned to leave together, return triumphant—the way so many before had failed to do. They'd done everything together, been everything to each other. The boy who survived, and the boy who'd been left behind. The boy who stayed at Danny's side, held him through the cold loneliness, carried him when the weight of hunger brought him to his knees. The boy who walked into the woods, and didn't once look back.

Danny turned away from the cold, lonely statue of Wheeler Yuta, and picked his way back toward the ruined house.