#she wasn’t even allowed her grief or anger or anything at all

[uncertain-tay]

Keep it together.

[elfwoodfae]

“No sin, no sinners”.

Bane x reader

NSFW MDNI

When Alfred leaves there’s not enough prayers for how much you ask him to take you with him. Of course he couldn’t do it, and Bruce would never allow it. Even if he had no right over it, over you. A brother who was gone the majority of your life and only when he came back to play villains and hero’s to recluse himself for the better of seven years in a grief. Leaving you once again alone, as lonely as one can get with a living dead under your roof.

There’s no tears left by the time Alfred is gone. No more sorrows as Bruce decides is better to simply go face Bane alone, believing the word of Selena, the words of a woman who would trade him like he meant nothing for the safety of a false promise; and Bruce, in his anger his bitterness had accepted it, gone and left you, left you alone, his ego and cockiness probing to be fatal when he was taken down, when he leaves you behind, alone in the manor. No doubt Talia had already given Bane and his men the location of the house, the location of where you were.

It comes as no surprise when they break into the house. His men rough and menacing, grabbing you as they find you, no time to hide, no time to react as they grab you. One hand on your arm the other on your head as one of them, a man with blue eyes and a stubble, grabs you, pushing your head on the nearest table. A grunt of protest escaping your lips as you try to kick back in vain, the man lifts his radio to his mouth, a quick “we got her” is all he says before it all goes dark.

Most of his life had proven to be mistake after mistake brought on by a life of high egos and hard heads. Mistakes that he came to recognize now, as Bane holds him over his body, his knee about to collide with his back as his last words finally sink in. “Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of your sister.”

Your head is fuzzy, throbbing, all around you is dark, the room is hot, and as much as you try to make sense barely anything seems familiar. The man standing by your feet looks down at you as you move, turning around as he speaks. “She is awake boss” he says, your eyes following the trace of his as they land on the figure crouching down on the floor. His back is the first thing you notice, big, wide, and imposing. A scar that looks deep runs from his neck to under the seam of his pants. He needs no introduction, you are more than sure of who he is. Bane. Bruce had rambled on about him, he had taken his strength for granted and it had costed him everything.

“I told Mr. Wayne you would be my most honored guest. And I intend to keep in my word.” He says, his index finger pointing at me, the tone of his voice, it borderlines in sarcasm and the resonance of it due to the mask only amplifies the figure he presents. He knows who Batman is, that much is clear, as to what he will do with you is still a mystery, a game he will play until he becomes bore and goes to find a new toy.

Your eyes look up and down his body, his mask, your breathes coming in harsh puffs of air. “You are not scare of me” he states, although it sounds more like a question but you both know there’s no questions when it comes to him. “Good, it will make this all the more easier” He says, tilting his head and joining his hands together before he crouches down in front of you, his hand moving to your face, low in your jaw and for a brief of a second you are sure this is how you die. But nothing comes, he just takes a good look at you before telling one of his goons to lock you in one of the rooms down there and keep an eye on you at all times. In a sense it could be so much easier to hate him if he wasn’t such a different character. He had kept good on his promise, none of his men had so much as to lay a finger on you, they kept you fed, they kept you clean and with enough dignity to not try to throw yourself off one of the multiple bridges in here.

Bane didn’t show up often, you ever barely saw him, barely ever heard of him. This men as brave and cuntless as they claimed to be were still as brute as they came when it came to basic things. Basic things like hygiene, like cooking, like healing wounds. Their organization system down here was a mess, and food came only when they remembered to eat.

It doesn’t take long for chaos to begin, there’s always someone, always a loose end you need to dispose of. All it took was one mistake. Getting out of the room you were locked in to go to the bathroom, the only one around, Bane had made sure out of the kindness of his heart that none of his men would go near you while you cleaned yourself. But there’s always one, one that doesn’t listen, one that tries to play it. The man approached you, he had been the one in charge of watching over you for the day, his eyes raking over your body, his hands lingering on your arm as he guided you towards the bathroom. It didn’t take long for him to try something, to try to grab you. A kick to his groin he didn’t expect bought you enough time to run, to run as fast you could until another of the goons stopped you, taking you directly to Bane, your disobedience wouldn’t go unpunished.

“Why are you here?” Bane asks, turning his head around slightly, his eyes on you. “Answer little bitch” the man barks, his foot pushing onto your back, a grunt escaping your lips as your body jerks forward. “I wasn’t asking her” Bane tells him, his tone ice cold, gripping the man by his neck before he speaks.

“Boss” he begins to say before the forceful push of fingers against his skin makes him go quiet.

“Why were you running Miss Wayne?” Bane asks, the tittle mocking on his tone. You don’t reply, your eyes cast towards the floor, looking at his booth, suddenly too interested in the shade of black they are.

“I asked you a question little one… did the cat got your tongue or should I get it myself?” He asks, the cracking of his voice through the mask feels like thunder in the air. Swallowing before finally looking up at him, meeting his eyes before you speak, a part of you sure he will have your tongue either way.

“One of the man tried to grope me.” His eyes don’t change expression at your words but his head nods along, as if he was really interested in your opinion. “Which one?” Is all he says, his hand still around the goons neck, it doesn’t seem to even cost him a breath to hold a man up in the air.

“I don’t know… he was at my door this morning.” You say, trying to recall anything to give away his identity. But Bane knows who, dropping the man on the floor and grabbing your arm to lift you up, dragging you along with him as he walks back to the hall where the rest of his mercenaries are, awaiting for what they think will be punishment for you.

“Brothers” the crackling noise of his voice breaks through the noise, his hands intertwining in front of him as he speaks. “This is my guest, we wouldn’t want her to think of us as savages now” he says, turning to you as he speaks, there’s a tension in the air, his words may seem measured and calm but there’s the underline of a promise there. “Come forward boy, let me see the hands she complained about” he says, the man who had tried to touch you moving up front, a slight fear in his eyes as he looks up at Bane. “You will be the perfect example. Now since you are so eager to be noticed.” Bane speaks, looking at the man, his eyes twisting slightly, a rage inside that seems to always be brewing.

“cut off his hands, let it be a lesson for all of you.” He says, turning around, the man protest, tries to plea but you find yourself looking away, the sound of a blade through skin and bone making your ears ring, your blood rushing cold. They knew now, not to touch you, not to look your way, you were Bane’s property, for whatever use that may had been it was common knowledge for everyone but you.

“There was no need..” you begin to say when he halts to a stop, your body almost colliding with the impossible expand of his back as he turns around, a head or two taller than you. “Would you rather I let them all touch you then?” He asks, there’s a borderline note of sarcasm in his words, the edge of a joke that never comes out but only a fool would know better than to ever disobey what he says.

Your eyes cast down, looking at the floor, he is right, he always is, in way, in this madness, he is the boss, the alpha, and if there’s one thing you know for certain is that no one here will touch what’s his. It isn’t much of a choice really. Bruce is gone, he left you, and as much of grief you want to give him there’s simply no more left, not when he has left you one too many times before, when you have already grieved him one too many times before. Seems in the end he was always the fastest of you both.

“What will you do with me?” You ask, words that leave you before you can measure the repercussions of asking him. The beat of your heart too loud in your ears. You need to know, need to find out what he has plan for you before you loose what’s left of your sanity, and if there’s no use for you, then you must make one, find one before he decides to throw you like a bone for his dogs to eat. The choices are few but they are clear, Bruce left you to his mercy, but maybe it will be what saves you in the end.

He simply looks at you, his head turning to side eye you, there’s in reality no use to your existence other than of torturing what was left of the Batman, you have nothing to offer him, nothing he can think of, but maybe that is the problem, he can’t think of anything, because his mind has been clouded lately, has been on the edge of a knife. He knows, he knows how Talia thinks, how she acts, he knows by now she didn’t take any consideration into his feelings when she accepted Wayne’s offer, when she so smoothly leaned into his bed. Her point had been to hurt Wayne but in the end, the betrayal had tasted bitter in his tongue, she was all he had for certain, all he had ever needed. But that was the funny thing of love. It was only him loving her, feeding himself off the promise of her touch for far too long, a touch she gave to keep him in control, a wild animal on a cage is still just as wild, if only ever more dangerous.

Bane leans down on his desk, one of his hands lift to signal something and one of his man comes to move you, get you out of his sight. It wouldn’t do you good to irritate him. The walk to the room is quiet, but you notice none of the man even lift his eyes to look your way. The lesson was taught.

A sigh escapes your lips as the door behind you closes, the room feels slightly cold, it smells of humidity, but all in all it could be worse. There’s a bed with enough blankets to not be cold, and at least there’s light. It’s better than sleeping in between all the mercenaries as you have seen them do. It’s torturous, maddening, to be locked in this place with nothing to do, no hope to even escape with how tight he runs this place. And certainly no hero to come rescue you, perhaps this time there won’t be salvation, but if you must live in this hell you will make sure is the devil who protects you, there weren’t virgins in hell for a reason, they all needed to give up something to be saved.

The closest to freedom you will ever get will come from how far he lets off your leash, and Bane doesn’t seem the kind to let his animals run wild. You only need a chance, a moment, let him find the use in you, let him find a purpose to keep you here. He is a man after all, and there’s only one thing that can make a man grow weak, even if none will admit it.

Opportunities don’t arise in a place like this, and so you must create them yourself. Opening the door to your room the guard informs you is time to bathe, grabbing the one towel you have been given you make your way to the common bathroom. It’s disgusting, dirty and beyond repugnant but it’s better than nothing. You have been wearing the same clothes for days, weeks even; turning around before you enter the bathroom your head turns to the man, fingers crossed and a silent prayer that this action will set in motion a bigger way for you.

“could you ask Bane for clothes? I cannot keep wearing the same ones over and over”

“You are always free to walk around naked sweetheart” the man smirks, clearly not taking you seriously. “Maybe we should ask Bane what he thinks of the idea, I know he will be thrilled to know what his men are suggesting” you speak, a calm victory when the man’s smirk drops off his face, if the hand incident had taught them anything it was not to mess with what Bane was keeping safe. “Will you ask him or would you rather I walk to his office, naked, as you suggested and see what he thinks about it?” You ask, a condescending tone to your voice.

You aren’t sure what you would prefer, if the clothes or the nakedness, the second one would make this all the more easier.

The man speaks on the radio, his voice echoing to Bane my request, and you know you have won when he rolls his eyes as he speaks “Boss says to take you to his office, let’s go” he begins walking, making sure you are moving in front of him, the end of his gun always within reach of your back.

Two knocks come from the man before he is told to come in, pushing you in slightly as he stays outside, sending you into the mouth of the wolf.

“I hear the little bird is complaining” His metallic voice reaches your ears, his hands on the table as he looks over some papers.

“I can’t keep wearing this same clothes over again” you say, the tone of your voice slightly shaking until you find your footing. How bad could it be, how bad of a person would it make you, desperation was a funny thing when your life hanged by a threat.

His eyes move to you, and before he can speak your words cut through him, “I could always parade myself naked around, I don’t think your men would mind although some of them may loose more hands.” There’s a confidence in your voice that only fear can bring out. His eyes move to your face, staying there as he studies you. He is well aware you aren’t bluffing, he sits back down on his chair, his hands resting on his desk, fingers intertwined. “I didn’t think the little bird had it in her to make demands, not that she is in a position to place them” he speaks, calm, collected.

Your hands are sweating, your heart has either stopped beating or is beating so hard you can no longer feel it.

He gets up, walking around his desk, heavy footsteps resonating in the room, the hand at the front of his desk moving to grip your chin, gripping it tight, forcing your face to look up at him. “There’s no free entrance at this circus little one, you have to find a way to pay or you are out” He says, and you know in his words he means that even if he has you alive for a reason, he could easily throw you aside, find a darker future for you. Your eyes remain fixed on his, there’s a burning hatred festering behind them, a festering need to hurt that you can’t seem to place or hold. His hand moves, from your chin, slightly making their way over your jaw, resting on your cheek, his thumb settling under your bottom lip. He is testing, seeing how far you will allow, even when you both know he has all the power here.

Is this truly what you have come to be? What has come to be of you? The whore of a criminal, but who was anyone to judge you, if it meant staying alive, if it meant keeping some of the sanity you were slowly loosing.

When you don’t move, don’t flinch away or avert your eyes from him, he takes it as his sign, the sign to see just how much advantage he can have, how deep could the wound he wants to inflict be. An eye for an eye. Bruce had Talia, now he would have you. The way he could taste the sweet pain it would cause you. His hand moves softly, the feel of his callous fingers on your cheeks make something akin to tears gather in your eyes that he gracefully ignores. His hand moves to the side of your face, a perfect placement between your neck and the bottom of your head, and he pushes down, his other hand moving to the belt of his pants. You aren’t stupid, you know what he wants, what he is asking of you, and you know there’s a way out, refuse him and he will leave you alone, lock in that room where you won’t see another day. He pushes you lower until your knees hit the floor, his hand unbuttoning his pants, pulling himself out of his underwear, leaving it resting against the black cargo pants he is wearing as his hand moves to the opposite side of your head, both of his hands engulfing your head, a silent thread, that if you so much as to try anything he will undoubtedly break your neck. And you don’t doubt it, you don’t doubt he wouldn’t even consider it twice before snapping you in two.

Your eyes move to his, not out of obedience but out of silent permission to take him in your hand, he looks at you, expectantly, guiding your head slowly, his thumb moving under your bottom lip to feel as you open your mouth. Your hand moves to grip him, semi hard, the foreskin hiding the bead of precum already at the tip, thicker than you thought but what could you expect for a man his size. You are terrified, terrified of not liking it, of gagging, of not being able to handle the taste. God knows when he took a shower last.

It comes as a surprise when you finally wrap him around your hand and put your lips to him, it’s not exactly flowers and candy but it isn’t as displeasing as you thought it would be. Slightly salty, a little tart as you push with your hand his foreskin slightly back to push your tongue under him, cushioning him as you took him further into your mouth, the cracking sound of his breathing coming through the mask, the rhythm of it changed. His eyes don’t leave yours, his chest rises and falls as you look up at him, shifting on your knees slightly to get more comfortable. He urges your head forward when he decides you are taking too long to do it yourself, pushing all the way in until his head hits the back of your throat, a grunt escaping him as he throws his head back slightly. You can feel him growing in your mouth, stretching your lips around him as he pushes further down, and it takes all of you not to gag, your hand moving to his thigh, the muscle taunt.

You move your head back, letting the tip come to your lips before continuing down until all of him is sheltered in your throat, tears and gag be damned, everything be damned when his neck looks so big and his veins pop so deliciously. You can feel the pulse of his cock, the underside of it protuberant with veins, now that he is fully hard you can feel the way it curves to the side, pushing into your cheek. His stomach heaves with every breath he takes, a visible vein traveling from the low cut of his hips to the inside of his vest. Your mouth keeps moving, taking every detail of him you can. There’s a low growing sensation rising from your core, a wetness forming between your legs, and it’s not precisely out of want but out of the power trip it gives you to have such a powerful man rocking his hips into your mouth, the soft hairs at the base of his crotch caressing your nose.

Your hands move higher on his legs, moving to his hips, exposed by his pants, your nails softly tickling his skin and a broken grunt escapes him through the mask, his hands squeezing agonizingly hard at your head, pushing you to move faster, he can feel himself growing hotter, the tingling sensation in his lower back warning him, the tightening of his balls as he grunts, sloppily guiding your head now, controlling how much and how deep you drag him as he grunts, beginning to come inside of your mouth, pushing your head all the way until you feel his pelvis at your nose as he keeps pushing, making sure you take all of it, you swallow all of him. His fingers involuntarily had started to knead at your scalp, stopping and pulling you off of him roughly by your hair. He can see the shine of saliva and his cum in your lips as you stare at him, waiting, expecting to know if you passed the imaginary test.

He moves his hands from you, slight out of breath to he speaks, putting himself back into his pants.

“Clean yourself, you will have some clothes tomorrow.”

Somehow the dynamic changes, your meals get delivered in better timing, your showers are slightly longer, and from time to time one of his goons come to get you, to take you to his office where you spend the next couple of minutes praying on your knees. Never getting anything in return, not physical at least but you are okay with that, or so you tell yourself; until you find it hard, hard to focus, to concentrate, every time you shower your mind starts to slip, to think of him, of his callous hands. Your mind plays tricks on you, everytime he is inside your mouth wondering if maybe today is the day he will give something in return, that perhaps if you do it extra nice he will reward you. How indeed the roles have twisted. It must be the weeks piling up in solitude down here.

You don’t see him for nearly a week, a week where you eat, shower, sleep and repeat. Not so much of a word from the goon at your door, not that you would ask him anyways, but you have to wonder if it’s that he found another entertainment or that he simply lost interest. It’s neither or, he is simply too busy, the expansion of his plan moving forward, his men hard at work, Gotham is slowly falling into his hands, into despair. So it comes as a surprise to you when you are awaken in the middle of the night. One of his men opening the door, barging in to get you. Hauling you off the bed before making you walk barefoot through the hallways, shirt you use to sleep in hanging off your shoulder, sleep in clear in your face as you make your way to a place you have never been before, a door that you know for a fact isn’t his office. Two knocks rasp against the door before his voice comes through, the metallic sound of it sending chills down your spine as the man opens the door and pushes you in.

It’s his room you realize, looking around, it’s cold, dark and empty. Only a bed, big enough to fit him, a desk and a chair. A door is adjacent to it, a bathroom you presume, but what catches your attention is the man sitting at the foot of the bed. His pants the only thing on his body beside his mask. He is looking down onto the floor, his knees parted and his hands on each of them, waiting for your place in between them. It’s a silent transaction this time, he doesn’t speak, barely breathes as you kneel down, waiting for the permission his eyes give you before opening his pants. He is too quiet, so calm that something must be very wrong. He doesn’t usually call for you at night, even less in the middle of it and you know better than to ask him. Swallowing softly as you begin to work, to lick him, suck him, anything to take the frown off his face. But he doesn’t even seem to be enjoying it. His hand moves to your hair, pulling you off of him, your eyebrows kneading together in a silent question, but he doesn’t say anything, simply pulling you to him, your body in between his legs, one of his hands in your lower back, a sight that sounds too tired leaving his mask. “Lay down” is all he says, and a small fear settles in your bones, this isn’t how you want him to do it, this isn’t what you thought about.

But you know better than to ask, simply laying down on the bed, watching as he puts himself back into his pants, moving over to the door that leads to the bathroom. He returns not long after, mask still on his face, his pants still on, but he removes his boots, laying down on the bed, next to you, he doesn’t touch you, doesn’t even look your way but you understand, to a certain level that maybe this is the closest to affection he has ever received, even if he has to force it out of you. Turning to your side you close your eyes, it feels tense, the air slightly charged of an unknown feeling you don’t feel ready to disclose, words you want to speak but your mouth refuses to ask. Sleep soon claims you, taking you down as he looks at you, looks over your sleeping form, taking the details on your face. You would never know this, not that you would ask and he certainly wouldn’t tell you, but that night, along with what’s left of his humanity, he had lost part of the sanity he had left; she was never going to take him with her, she was ready to let him die, to leave him behind when the bomb detonated, Talia never meant to take him, it had all been a game she played, of soft words and night shared, she only needed him to build this empire of chaos for her, never planing to allow him to live it by her.

He falls asleep to festering thoughts of murder and chaos, of hurt and betrayal. But the dreams do not appear that night, the nightmares, the pit, the woman and the child, those ghosts of the past don’t visit him tonight. The only thing he can feel his the soft way you breathe, the way you smell, the warmth of your body, it makes him wish you were to never leave his bed, to never leave his room. He wants to lock you in, to keep you here where you can never betray him, where no matter what he knows he will always have you. A simple dream, an innocent one that men like him won’t ever be allowed. He wants to touch you, he craves it every time your body is between his legs, down on your knees, but he doesn’t deserve it, you didn’t belong to the darkness, you didn’t belong to the pain he knew his world brought, but still, he is selfish, selfish enough to keep you, but the one thing he won’t allow himself is to touch you, to erase Talia’s touch out of his body, even if to her he was simply a means to an end. But he knows deep down, somewhere on what’s left of his sanity, of his heart, there shouldn’t be sinners in a house of God, the way his hands shouldn’t be allowed to worship your body.

Awakening in his bed had been confusing, it smelled of him, sweat and aftershave. Looking around you sit up, noticing that he is gone, the room is empty, but there’s a tray of food in the desk and you can see your things around his room, your shoes, the few items of clothes you had, all located somewhere within this room.

Moving out of the bed you slowly make your way to the bathroom, cleaner than the common one, few items of clothing thrown around the floor, a few personal objects around the sink. There’s an extra toothbrush, and soap, frowning you realize is the one you had back in your room, the one he had given you when he brought you down here.

There’s a slight tremor to your movements as you open the door, peaking your head outside to find one of his men there, “Why… why are my things in here?” You ask, as if he would know the answer, but he simply shakes his head, asking through the radio something before answering you. “You are moving to this room.” He says matter of factly, moving to Banes room with him you assume, because otherwise it wouldn’t make any sense. Nodding your head you move back inside the room, looking around, he has few books, barely any but one of them calls your attention, enough to distract you, it was better than the nothingness you had before.

Bane doesn’t go to the room during the day, until very late at night. You don’t actually see him and not that you would complain, but there’s a certain warmth, a certain feeling that wraps around your body when the occasion occurs, when you wake up so late into the night the sunrise could be close by and you feel him, next to you, his arm next to your body, almost touching you, but the clear weight of his body on the bed is present next to you. The feel of him, warm, his breathing soft and for those seconds some resemblance of safety, of normality comes over you.

Strangely enough he hasn’t asked for you anymore, either too busy with his plans or simply not needing it, or receiving it from someone else, your mind tells you, unlikely but always a possibility. It makes a slow bitter taste simmer deep in your stomach, he isn’t yours by any means, and is not as if you want him to be, but the idea of someone else seeing him as you did brings festering feelings you don’t want to dwell on. It must be the entrapment, the claustrophobic nature of being in the same place for weeks on end, what is making your sanity escape out the door, what is making you miss him, crave the affection even as slim as it was. His threatening touches feeling like a feast when you have been starved of affection for so long.

The soft sound of water awakes you, the room dark except for the soft caress of yellow coming off the semi open bathroom door. Then you hear it, water running from the faucet most likely, and the sound of someone spitting reaches your ears. Spitting. Spitting. Spitting off their mouth. Bane can’t spit, unless….

Unless his mask was off, his mask, he had taken it off. It’s a realization that shouldn’t make your stomach burn in nerves and your toes go numb. Trying to regulate your breathing as to not give away you have awaken but in the end is unlike you will fall back asleep now. It smells slightly of soap, of water, a humidity in the air that gives away he must have taken a shower. And it makes all kind of thoughts run through your head. His footsteps approach the bed as he turns off the light in the bathroom, your cue to close your eyes again.

“I know you are awake little birdie.” He says, his voice sounds soft, unfiltered, his words slightly slurred, slightly mingled.

Swallowing you open your eyes, the room is so dark it makes no difference. Turning around you try to figure out where he is standing but it’s in vain; “does it hurt?” You ask him softly, your voice heavy with sleep. “To have it off I mean” you clarify, but he knows exactly what you had meant.

“It does,” he says, calm, softly, it’s the most the two of you have talked in weeks. Moving around in the bed, feeling your way around with your hand to try and find the edge, you kneel, getting up to try and reach his height.

“You are quiet tonight.” It’s the closest attempt to a joke you can make, out of place, with no humor but this is the first time you have seen him in weeks and you don’t want to let him slip through your fingers for god knows how long again.

“Is the lack of entertainment a complain you want to place?” He asks, the note of sarcasm his mask provides is gone, the electric feeling he gives disappears, leaving behind the dry air of his words. You shake your head, aware that he can’t see you but it felt almost natural to do so. “A man could think that you miss him.” He says, and you can feel his eyes looking at you, searching your face, the darkness will never be an impediment for him.

“Can I touch you?” Your words are soft, your breath warm agains his chest, your hand already half way in the air, moving slow enough to give him time to stop you if he wants. But he doesn’t move, doesn’t even flinch when your hand makes contact with his face, touching his cheek, your fingers slotting perfectly around his jaw. The skin feels rough, bumpy, like ragged scars that never fully healed. Your thumb moves, moving to his chin, finding soft broken lips, full and lumpy, and he swallows when the pad of your finger finds his bottom lip, caressing the marred flesh, the nerves under his skin crying in protest.

“Careful” he barks out, not loud enough to startle you but enough to give you a warning.

“Go back to sleep little bird.” He commands, grabbing your wrist, removing your hand from his face, turning around to get his mask and once again securing it over his face, the hum of his breathing audible in the air.

He begins to move towards the bed, and you move away, moving to your side of it, laying on your side, the bed dipping slightly when he lays down on it. He stays quiet, you don’t know if he is awake but you won’t check either, but as for you, you remain alert, all through the night, your fingers itch and your mind won’t quiet down. All of your thoughts are consumed by him.

His mood isn’t the best since the day started, and it for sure soured now that Talia walked in his makeshift office. His eyes drop at her presence, disdain and some measure of pain tantalizing his mind. But he knows, he knows deep down he could never lay a finger on her, not even if she threw him out the board like he meant nothing.

“I will be taking the girl with me, I have plans for her” she says, and he knows she means plans to make her an example, to display her corpse or worse, when he doesn’t reply right away, like a good dog on a leash her eyebrows frown in his direction. Suspicion crawling into her mind.

“I am afraid that is not happening.” His tone is cold, colder that she has ever heard him speak to her. It makes the nerves on her stomach twist, the cruel realization that she is loosing her grip on him settling in her bones.

“You are giving her to me, she is part of our plan, our fire, my love we need to destroy all the loose ends.” She tries, softening her words, her eyes soft, her hands moving to his over his desk, but his fingers don’t even flinch, they don’t grab hers to hold them as they used to. She is slowly but surely loosing him.

“You are not taking her. I have business to attend, you better take your leave.” It shocks her, makes her blood run cold. Her protector, her safety, leaving her behind, she has lost the ability to use him to her every whim and desire.

She leaves, anger coursing through her, a pain she hasn’t expected settles in her chest. She leaves the hideout, and she knows better than betray him, than to do anything stupid now, he is rabid, and pained, an unpredictable dog that could end up costing her everything.

He sits back on his chair, hands over his head, his fingers intertwined. A deep sigh leaving his mask, he has come to realize the pain of Talia’s betrayal has dulled to a calm numbing sensation. Your words from the other night coming back to his mind, your hands on his face. It’s been a long time since anyone has touched his bare face, since anyone has felt his skin. It sends a chill down his spine to think of you, to think of how you came to him, how slowly that fear you harbored for him has transformed into something else, into a feeling he doesn’t dare put even near close to caring. He would never deserve to touch you, to feel the softness of your body, the warmth it could provide him.

It makes him numb, it makes him worried, worried that your presence has become a testament of his sanity. If he were to ever loose control of your company, it would send him into a spiral he isn’t ready to discuss yet.

He returns to the room late at night, tired, his body aches and his head throbs. He removes his mask, he needs air, real air. Making his way to the bathroom he looks over at you. He knows you are awake as soon as he enters the room again, even in the darkness he can feel your breathing. You were waiting for him, a softness to your voice as you speak.

“Bane?” It’s the first time you have said his name, your voice soft, a whisper. He wants to pull away, to simply stop your hand from reaching him but it’s too late, the soft caress on his skin is like electrical shock through his system.

“Little bird…” he tries to warn you, his voice tired, rough, a pain in it only those who have had nothing can understand.

Your hand moves lower, tracing the shape of his neck, your fingers meeting the dip of his collarbones, your eyes never leaving his. His throat swells around a swallow, your hands tracing soft patterns over his chest, his shirt long forgotten. Your other hand settles on his cheek, your face moving towards his, slowly, giving him time to retract if he wants to, but he doesn’t, he allows your closeness, your nose caressing his and the soft breath that escapes him when your lips meet his bumpy ones is not lost to you. For such a powerful man he is sure as heavens falling apart in your arms.

His kiss is soft, shy almost, his lips unsure of how to move and it dwells on you that perhaps he hasn’t been kissed many times before. Your body presses against his, his hand moving painfully slow to your waist, fingers gripping the fabric of your shirt, like he is scare he will hurt you. Your lips open slightly, your tongue tracing his bottom one, waiting for him to allow you in; the hot soft muscle meets yours, his kiss is slow, sensual even, the way his tongue shyly pulls you into his mouth, like a trap in which at any moment he will snap his teeth and bite you. But it doesn’t happen, he simply kisses you, he kisses you like a man who has been starved of water for too long. He lets you undress him, he lets you feel him, he allows you to tear him open, skin to bone, taking all the slow pieces of him, destroying him until he is nothing in your hands, and only then, he feels at home.

When your hand move to the button of his pants a low growl escapes his lips. You pull him towards you, crawling backwards on the bed and bringing his body down with you. His arms cage in your face, your hands working to open his pants. It’s a silent exchange, words are not needed, not when his eyes speak so loud. His hands move under your shirt, feeling the skin of your stomach, finding their path forward towards your breast, squeezing the flesh, a groan escapes him, and he isn’t prepared for how delicious you would feel in his hands. Wiggling his hips to help you put his pants down, taking his underwear down with them. His lips find your neck, soft kisses and nips marking your skin, his hand moving to remove your shirt, the need to feel your skin against his overwhelming his senses. He moves away from you simply to remove his pants completely. Moving over you again, this time completely naked as his hands move over your thighs, gripping the edge of your underwear and pulling it down, his eyes trained on the treasure he finds there, his pupils dilating when he sees the shine of your wetness for him.

He moves over you again, his hands holding your leg, the muscles of your thigh burning as he makes space for his hips in between your legs. His thumb moves over the skin under your navel, before moving lower, the pad of it softly grazing over you, feeling how moist and hot it is. Your hand moves next to your face, your finger catching in between your lips as you look at his hand moving over you, your eyes half lidded as he teases your clit, tracing a line up and down over it with his finger.

A whimper escapes you, your eyes closing when his pointer finger enters you, a groan escaping his lips when he feels the tightness inside of you.

“This is what you do little bird, you rip open what’s left of my sanity.” He growls, his middle finger joining the other inside, opening them in a scissoring motion as your back arches slightly.

For how gentle he is being he is awfully impatient, the vein on his neck prominent as he moves over you better, his eyes moving to your face, he doesn’t want to miss any of your facial expressions as he grabs himself with his other hand, opening his fingers once again inside of you before he pushes them down, stretching you open, pushing himself inside of you at the same time that his fingers remain buried in your heat. A cry leaves your lips as he begins to settle in, the burn of the stretch is a maddening threat between pleasure and pain, your hand flying to his forearm as he keeps pushing in, only stopping when he is settled completely in. He loves the way your face breaks, how your eyebrows are furrowed. He moves his fingers out of you, leaning over you completely as his hand holds your face, the other moving over your head and his lips collide with yours as his hips begin to move, hard and deep, he takes himself all the way to the tip before slamming in again, and the weight of him over you feels suffocating, his hand moving down your back, until he finds the curve of your lower back, his hands gripping the skin there, drawing you to him, deepening himself as much as he can into you.

It’s a pleasure he hadn’t experienced before, the soft cries and quiet touches, how your face breaks and you put your hands over his shoulders, how he can basically feel himself so deep inside of you he swears he can feel your heartbeat every time he thrust deep into you. It’s nothing like he has done before, with Talia it had always been fast and hard movements, no soft touches, no kisses, no cries of pleasure. It makes him feel like he has missed the point of living until he stumbled upon you.

“Light in my eyes…” he murmurs as you writhe absolutely wrecked under him. His lips on your neck, on your cheek, on your mouth, claiming you in a possessive kiss that threatens to break you apart.

His hand moves down your stomach, his fingers trapping your clit between them as he pinches it, a cry escaping you as he massages it, playing with it, feeling how you squeeze him, how you tighten around him.

“D…don’t stop… gods don’t stop” you beg him, feeling the coiling sensation rising inside of you, the warmth threatening to spill and take you over the edge.

Bane’s eyes never leave your face, a growl adorning his lips as his fingers move, the muscles in his arm taunt and his hips relentlessly connect to yours. He feels it, how you squeeze him, how your body swallows him in and refuses to let him go, your back arching off the bed as you come apart in his arms.

His hips keep moving, his pace faster. He hides his face in your neck, his arms tightening around you as he moves, sloppier, his mouth opening in a silent cry when the feeling in his lower back snaps, the pleasure coursing through his veins as he begins to come, your hand reach for the back of his neck, holding him, afraid he may disappear; his hips slow down, his movements uneven as he comes back from the high of his orgasm.

He holds you, not moving at all from you, not even letting you get up, it’s like a new vice he discovered, a new drug he can’t let go of his system anymore. You are the venom that curses through his veins, that alleviates his pain, the only thing in this world he refuses to let go off now. It doesn’t matter what happens with Gotham or the future, wherever he goes he will take you with him, it doesn’t matter to him if he has to tear cities apart to keep you by his side, even if he has to threaten the whole world just so you stay. It’s a shame, a tragedy. The moment his eyes fly open and the realization dawns upon him, a fragment of his broken mind. A hope to have some light in the dark, and maybe, if life was to ever be kind to him, someday he will have you willingly giving yourself to him.

[shima-draws]

Okay so a few things about the ending to the DLC. Spoilers below obviously

-Really REALLY disappointed they didn’t go with the whole toxic possession arc thing with Kieran and the new mythical (Pecharunt?) TO BE FAIR that was more of a fan theory than anything but it was one that made a lot of sense and had a lot of evidence to back it up. I guess I got too attached to the idea and was inevitably let down when the game didn’t go in that direction. Still it would have made more sense to give that extra edge as to why Kieran’s treating everyone so awfully,, and having him finally break free of that control during the final fight VS Terapagos would have been SO sick. Either that or before we even get to Terapagos Carmine calls Kieran out and that’s when he finally fucking explodes and rages and vents about his inferiority complex—and THAT is what summons Pecharunt, those negative feelings that it probably feeds off of or smth idk. Then we’d get a split second of Kieran finally being back in control and begging for help. And then Carmine realizing her brother has been under the influence of this Pokemon the entire time and. Okay I’m getting off track into AU territory now lmao sorry moving on

-Switching back to the Terapagos fight, I really enjoyed it! It wasn’t too long of a fight to be drawn out, but it was just long enough that it didn’t feel anticlimactic (also the MUSIC? STELLAR. Pun intended). ALSO ARGHFHH the five stages of grief Kieran goes through in that fight to finally accepting that he’s been going about this the wrong way and has been an awful friend and the way the LIGHT COMES BACK INTO HIS EYES I ALMOST CRIED. This is 10000x more emotional and powerful if you choose to bring Ogerpon with you and fight with her bc that really just. Hammers in the fact that despite all the bad blood and bitterness, Kieran still chooses to fight alongside you and the Pokemon he coveted so much…AND he even processes things enough to fully let go of all his hatred and anger and allows you to catch Terapagos because he KNOWS you’ll take good care of it and after all this time he still trusts you even though he’d probably hate to admit it. #GOOD WRITING

-Something really scary I realized. Kieran brought a Master Ball with him to catch Terapagos. 1. Where did homie even get that. 2. The fact that he was READY and didn’t even give Terapagos a chance to react, that he was essentially catching it against its will (which probably led to its power going out of control), that he was enforcing his own twisted desires and beliefs onto it and not considering its feelings (sound familiar? Looks at Ogerpon). BOY. 3. We’ve only ever seen ONE other person use Master Balls in SV. The AI Professor. I don’t know if this is significant in any way but if the Pecharunt theory WAS true that would make them so so similar and that’s eerie to me. Two characters controlled by something greater than them that they can’t fight…can you imagine how INSANE the dynamics would be listen to me

-Another thing I was kinda disappointed about was Briar? I guess I was just picking up on the vibes that she was actually a villain and would try to steal Terapagos from the player, but I probably gave Nintendo too much credit on that one lol. I do like that she’s not inherently evil, she’s just too absorbed and obsessed with her research to really pay attention to what’s going on around her. BUT. They should have pushed that WAY further. Either commit and do the full villain arc where she snatches Terapagos from Kieran right after he catches it to use it for her own purposes, or pressure him into Terastallizing it so much that it makes him uncomfortable. I want to see Lusamine levels of unhinged obsession. What she had was just a little bit too excited about Area Zero, not a full blown unhealthy and dangerous thing that puts everyone around her in danger.

-Following up on that. Drayton. I kept expecting him to also go villain arc IDK LOL I guess I want everyone to be gay do crime in this DLC 😂 But I seriously kept thinking he was just using the player to knock Kieran off his throne so he could take it right back from us. But no he actually genuinely cared about Kieran and kept pressuring us to beat the Elite Four so WE could knock some sense into him since Drayton wasn’t strong enough to do it himself. Which is a very sweet sentiment, I think :’) But am I the only one who was like bro calm down right after the fight where he was getting up in Kieran’s face and calling him ex-champion…..either he’s way too honest and doesn’t realize he was being cruel OR he was doing it on purpose to be a silly goober (but everyone else was like DUDE. LOW blow.)

-I still have questions. HELLO. HELLO. The notes in Area Zero mentioned the professor meeting a child with a white(?) book? Is that the Scarlet/Violet book? We still don’t know how the whole time travel paradox happened and why Heath talked about meeting Paradox Pokemon DECADES before the professor even brought them to Area Zero through the time machine? What is with the weird ass crystal tree sitting in the middle of a lake in the depths? Is there any significance to the Crystal Pool in Kitakami being connected to terastallizing and Area Zero? I’M JUST. AGHHH. I’m fairly certain we’re getting more content, maybe an epilogue to the DLCs but I’m going CRAZY I NEED TO KNOW NOWWW

-Also isn’t Area Zero like. Top secret hush hush. Why did Geeta let Briar publish a whole ass book about the HIDDEN SECRET of Area Zero that was miles under a closed off SECRET lab. I thought they were denying Briar access to Area Zero for YEARS, probably because they didn’t want her blabbing to the public. Idk. Maybe my memory is fuzzy on that one. Just feels very contradictory fhhdd

-The small little subtleties of Kieran regaining his regular personality as we went down….I ADORED that. His little smiles and him unable to contain his childish excitement and Carmine smiling at him with a knowing look bc after all this time her brother is FINALLY acting more like himself. And Kieran trying to brush it off like “wh-whatever” like he’s some sort of edgy teenager pretending he doesn’t care. GAHHHH it was so cute I wanted to cry 😭

ALL IN ALL it didn’t QUITE meet my expectations but it was still really good, especially considering this was all DLC content. Nothing will ever EVER top the main story of SV but the entirety of TTM and TID came pretty darn close. Kieran my sweet baby boy my blorbo I’m so glad you got your redemption arc and that you finally came to terms with your perception of strength and how it affects others. Baller DLC Nintendo do it again 👏

[s-4pphics]

let the rain sing. 2 (a.a)

wc;cw: 4.1k, dadsbestfriend!abby, lawstudent!oc, large age gap (oc is 25, abby is mid 40s), abby is bi <3, SMUT MDNI, nipple play, eating out no bbq, strap ons, fingering, mating press😳, dirty talk, squirting, dumbification, slight dubcon, choking, mult. orgasms, abby’s so pussy drunk soo real, angst :(, mentions of grief and loss, dassit me finks

You were going to kill somebody. It’s been declared. 

Your latest lecture was, by far, the worst you’ve ever had, and you were feeling vengeful. On your instructor, your classmates, everyone.

You seethed in your seat, smoke nearly wafting off you and suffocating you in the tight space of your car. You prayed that you wouldn’t get a speeding ticket from how hard your foot pressed on the gas pedal. The familiar sluggishness that overtook your form was making you hunch over the steering wheel, your worn eyes burning from tears as you recollected the pure devastation you felt when you saw terms on the screen that you weren’t familiar with yet just an hour before.  

You’d brought the wrong notebook to your last class, making the lecture completely fucking useless because you had nothing to reference. There were so many systems listed that you hadn’t memorized, terminology you didn’t remember from your books. And you were going to fucking… kill somebody. 

You’d been so fucking embarrassed. Nobody around you even knew or cared about your slip up, but you still searched around the room, waiting for someone to ridicule you for fucking up this late in the game. You were about to graduate, and you still were behaving like a fucking rookie. A first year. Maybe you weren’t ready for your fucking degree. 

You’d scrambled to get as many notes down as you could without snapping your hand clean off your wrist, but it wasn’t enough to jog your memory. 

Your vehicle came to a halt when you reached the now all too familiar neighborhood, and you put your car in park in front of the residential mailbox. 

You hadn’t realized that you took the backwoods route that led to Abby’s neighborhood. You were parked right in front of her home, and you thanked god when you saw her car parked in the driveway. You never came to see her without warning, but you were so desperate for a distraction that you hadn’t bothered to text her. You need anything to ease the tension in your body from today, even just for a little bit. 

You exited and locked your car before booking it across the street and up the stairs to her porch, knocking on her front door with urgency; The pounding on the wood made your headache worse. 

It took only a minute for her door to pull open, and you were instantly swallowed up by the smell of flowers, her scent surrounding you and easing the tension in your shoulders. She looked so comfortable, only clad in sweats, a tank top, and slides, her soft hair framing her face. The tension in your shoulders eased a bit.

She smiled at the sight of you, the lines of her eyes creasing, but it dropped when she studied your expression, “Hi, you okay?” 

You shrugged. You don’t think you were. You weren’t sure anymore. 

Your breathing shuddered, your anger from earlier shifting into want when you saw her, “Um… sorry for coming without notice— “

She shook her head gently, “No, no, it’s alright. I was just reading, come in.”

She moved to the side and allowed you entry, shutting and locking the door behind you. 

Her angelic voice came from behind you as you threw your purse on her couch, “Would you like some tea? I just bought this new flavor! It’s mint and chamomile and it’s so good. I usually don’t drink mint things because my teeth are sensi— “

“Abby,” you cringed at the tone you used to cut her off. 

“Yes?”

You spun to look at her, “I don’t want tea.” 

“… Oh. Okay.” She looked around awkwardly, her eyes downcast. 

A moment of silence passed before she spoke, “Wanna go upstairs?” 

You're glad she understood. You nodded with persistence. 

“Please.” 

You trapped Abby against her bedroom door, slamming it shut as you shoved your tongue in her mouth. 

The kiss was eager and desperate, your hands grabbing everywhere they could on her body. You attacked her hair, tits, thighs, anywhere you could reach as you pressed up against her. Hers were on you just as much, but much more calculated, tightly grabbing at the plush on your hips, her nails digging through your sweater. She grabbed your ass through your jeans, spreading the cheeks as much as she could through the fabric. 

Your mouths were smacking together, spit coating the outside of your mouths as your teeth clanged together. It was wet and sloppy, and it made you drip in your underwear. Her strong arms came up to wrap around your hips, and she led you both over to her perfectly made bed. 

You detached your mouth from hers to yank her t-shirt off, her arms coming up so you could toss it somewhere. You eyed her bare chest before reconnecting your lips. You brought your hand up to her chest to squeeze her tits, tweaking her nipples with precision. She hummed in your mouth and kissed you deeper, her hands traveling to pull at the hem of your sweater. 

You raised your arms up so she could remove the fabric, but before you could pounce on her again, she pushed you onto her cloud-like mattress, looking down at your laid-out body from where she stood above you. 

But she didn’t move on you like she usually did; she just stared, her eyes wandering over your body. You watched her take in your bra-clad chest, wandering down to your stomach and belly button, only to come back up to eye your chest again. She was digesting you with such patience that it made you insecure, but you didn’t move from your position. Your heart matched the pounding pulse of your cunt. 

She brought her hands up to your torso, right under the hem of your bra, laying her palm flat against the bare skin. Your breath caught in your throat when her nails dug into you, and you arched into her touch; you needed her closer. Her hand slowly dragged down your body until she reached the button of your jeans. 

She didn’t undo them, dragging her hand back up your body until she reached your tits, grabbing at both with one hand before her other hand coming to join her massages. You watched her face shift as she touched you; her eyes were hungry but… fragile as her cheeks glowed in the dimly lit space. 

Her hands slipped under your bra, her fingers immediately playing with your nipples. Your core clenched with every pull she gave them, your body shuddering under her precise attacks. Your back arched into her touch as your eyes fluttered. 

And then you heard the ripping of fabric. 

You looked down in shock as she tore at your bra, completely ripping it to shreds and tossing the flimsy strands behind her and onto the floor. You couldn’t help the smirk that spread across your face at her desperation. She giggled when you shook your head at her. 

She leaned over you, her head ducking down to suck your nipples into her mouth; She moaned into the skin as her tongue swirled around you. You propped yourself up on your elbows to watch her lath at your chest, coating them in her spit as her tongue flicked on your buds.

Your hips twitched under her body, “Fuck me, Abby, please— “ 

“Needa get you wet first, baby,” she hummed around your nipple, her words shaking the sensitive skin. You jerked, your legs twitching next to her hips. 

“I’m so fuckin’ wet already, c’mon, gimme what I want— “

Your words were cut off by her soft lips as they molded against yours. You made a small noise, your eyes slowly fluttering shut at the feel of her pillowy mouth. She kissed you with so much care and affection, and it made you squirm, your thighs squeezing around her waist. 

You were pulled out of your trance when you felt her hand on your cheek, her thumb softly caressing your face. You instantly stiffened; She was so sweet, too fucking gentle, and it your heart pound at an alarming pace, anxiety suddenly swirling in your stomach as you cringed. 

You gently pushed at her shoulders and looked at her, her brows furrowed in confusion. 

“You alright?” She checked in softly. 

You nodded quickly, your pussy squeezing at her tone. “Um… yeah. Just— can we, like— “

She shuffled off you and stood at the side of bed, awkwardly grabbing at the back of her neck as she apologized, “Yeah! Um, I’m sorry. I kinda just— “

“Don’t apologize! I’m just in a,” Lie. Just fucking lie! You looked off to the side, “… kinda in a hurry.” 

You sounded like such an asshole. You had nowhere to fucking be, but you always felt terrible whenever you were forced to shut down her intimate gestures. You had no choice but to be stiff with her; She knew what this was between you two, and it could never go beyond that. 

You watched her back muscles flex as she rummaged through her drawer, pulling out her strap and some lube. She undressed quietly, only clad in her boy shorts as she stepped into and adjusted the thick dick on her waist, securing it before turning around to look at you, returning to her previous space between your legs. 

You shivered with want, moving to unbutton your jeans, but she slapped your hands away to do it herself. She moved hastily, ripping your pants and underwear down your legs, and tossing them to the floor.

Your bare pussy throbbed as you held your legs open so she could ease into your cunt, but she yanked you to the edge of the bed, your ass hanging off it and dropped to her knees. 

She shoved her tongue inside your pussy without warning, her wet muscle wiggling around, massaging your walls as your clit pulsed. Your head dropped onto her sheets as you sighed, her tongue swiping up from your entrance to your twitchy bud. She spat the wetness she collected from inside you onto your clit and you groaned. 

She sucked it into her mouth, and you cried out, your hands flying down to her soft hair to pull at it. 

She was licking into all of your spots with enthusiasm, and your hips bucked into her mouth as your orgasm quickly built in your stomach. She took time to learn your body in a way that no one else did and it always shocked you how fast she made you cum. You could already fucking feel it with every quick flick of her tongue on you. 

You bucked in shock when you felt two of her thick fingers slip past your entrance, curling up to hit that spot inside that made you see white. She was hitting it with obscene accuracy, your pussy practically melting around her fingers with every plunge into you. You were about to see god, she was going to make you squirt—

“Fuckin’—ah fuck!”

Your orgasm was going to be big; you felt it and it was so fucking close—

You need to cum, you need it you need it! “Abby, fuck, s’coming— “

Your hands shamelessly flew behind your knees to hold your legs up, your shouts of your orgasm increasing in pitch. You craned your neck and you forced your eyes open to look down at her, finding that she was already staring up at you, watching you lose it on her tongue. 

“Feels s’good, fuck— “

She grinned on your pussy, “Then cum in m’fucking mouth, baby, needa swallow it— “

Your eyes rolled into the back of your head as your walls crushed her fingers, your orgasm building and building and building—

You couldn’t even understand your loud babbles as her fingers dug into you, milking your spot and forcing your cum out of you and onto her tongue. Your eyes fell shut as your body wracked in pleasure. You shouted obscenities and her name and demands of fuck me harder! The splashes of your wetness coated your thighs and her blankets and her. 

You could hear her slurping at your cum as it poured out of you, her tongue shoving in alongside the grind of her fingers. She was moaning against your pussy like she was cumming, and it made you cum harder. 

You felt her pull away and out of you, the cap of a bottle opening and sloppy wet sounds filling your ears. You nearly screamed when her dick squeezed in between your still clenching walls. Pure pleasure and shock rushed through you, prolonging the last bits of your orgasm. 

You felt a soft hand grab your chin as she allowed you to recover, your eyes fluttering open to meet her serene ones. 

“Okay, honey?” She cooed at you. 

You blinked dazedly as your walls clenched harder on her, and she chuckled, slowly pushing deeper into you, “Yeah? Missed me, baby?”

Your pussy clenched in approval, and you nodded thoughtlessly. Her nails dug into your jaw as she grinded into you, “Missed this tight fucking pussy. Always thinkin’ about it.”

You brokenly moaned her name. She pulled out and fucked back into you harder, making you squeal. 

She released the soft grip she had on your face, tightly grasping the back of your knees, and pinning them to your chest. You gasped sharply as she slid deeper, hitting where you couldn’t reach, right where you needed her. You could already feel another orgasm building in your toes, your eyes watering from the quick snap of her hips. 

You couldn’t think or talk coherently as she used you, rendering you completely brainless every time her fat tip hit your g-spot. All you could do was grab at her hips, her thighs, her sheets, and wail at the top of your lungs how good it felt. The wet sounds of your pussy drenching her dick made your toes curl. 

You were going to sleep so fucking good. 

“You’re so fucking sexy, holy fuck— “

Your stomach was in tight knots as her skin slapped against yours. 

“Can’t think with this dick inside you? Huh?” She sounded so cocky with every sneer she sent you, your eyes shut tightly. It’s right there, right there right there—

“This is all you want from me? Need me t’take care of this nasty fucking cunt?” She spat at you. 

You hated it when she said things like that aloud, when she made your indifference towards her known; It crushed your heart, but how could you express your grievances when she was this deep in your guts? You were awful and selfish, and she didn’t deserve to be used like this, but you needed it. Needed her to do this for you. It made you feel sane, every thought in your head silenced and replaced with her her her—

You babbled nonsense warnings of how hard you were about to cum, and you felt her large hand clutch your throat. You wheezed out begs, pleading her to keep fucking you there, make you cry. Please, please, please, I need to sleep, Abby, please!

“Shhh, I gotchu, baby. Such a good girl.” 

Your orgasm shocked you and her. You couldn’t hold back the scream you let out when your eyes shut, —even with her choking you out—your brain rattling in your head as your body attempted to jerk away from the intense pleasure she gave you. 

But she held your legs down, keeping you still as she fucked you through it. You heard her moaning over your sobs and keens, only making out so fuckin’ hot and gonna make me cum so fucking good, and it threw you right into another orgasm. 

Your walls squeezed around her with such constriction that she could barely move, but she managed to pull out and you almost cried at the emptiness, your orgasm slowly dying. She grabbed your hips and eased you higher up the bed before climbing up, pressing against and looming over you. 

She hooked your knees into the crevice of her elbow, popping her tip into you with no hands, slowly pushing in so you could feel her. The details of her dick were catching on your walls and the feeling was making you tear up. She eventually sat fully inside you, grinding her entire length in so her tip nudged your spot, and you were about to fucking cum—

You were completely limp under her, relishing the kisses and sucks she gave your neck. She slid out slowly until just her tip was in you before dropping her hips, fucking her cock back into you. You thought you screamed but no noise left you as she pounded your cunt. She was hitting you so good, rotating between moving with her dick fully lodged in your guts and thrusting as pretty moans filled your ear. 

You came so fucking hard, only having strength to pull at her sheets and sob, squealing her name and trembling as she sent you to space. She was somehow louder than you were, and you knew she was cumming. You had no energy to move, to stop her, to do anything. You just laid there and took what she gave as your body melted into the memory foam, relaxing completely as she rode out her pleasure inside you. 

Your walls were still contracting around her dick, hugging like they never wanted her to leave, wanted to cling onto her forever. Her movements eventually came to a stop as she whined in satisfaction into your neck. She plopped against you, your sweaty, heaving chests pressed together. 

The last thing you remember before knocking out was her soft kisses on your skin. 

You woke up to blinding sunshine. You forgot to shut the fucking blinds again. 

You squeezed your eyes shut, shoving your face into the plush pillow under you. You inhaled deeply and immediately stiffened. 

Flowers. Fucking flowers, what the fuck—

You never left Abby’s last night. 

You quickly sat up as your head rushed, looking over to see the vacant, mussed spot on her bed. You could hear the shower running and quiet hums coming from the master bathroom, and it made your heart race. 

You threw the covers off you and stood quickly, walking over to where your clothes were neatly folded on her dresser. You saw the remaining strands of your bra balled up near her mirror. You hated how your pussy clenched.

You grabbed your clothes and dressed in urgency, nearly tripping over your stubborn pant leg. 

The clattering of your phone falling from your pocket shook you. You bent down to grab it, the bright screen reading 12:34 and showing six missed calls from your parents. Fuck, fuck, fuck—

The running water shut off and you tensed. 

You shoved your phone in your back pocket as your flight senses tingled. You would feel awful if you left her place without warning, and she would probably never talk to you again if you did. You were guarded around her enough as it is, and the last thing you were going to do was embarrass her further. 

You stood by the dresser, awkwardly playing with your fingers until the bathroom door opened.

A dripping Abby walked out, clad in a towel, her wet hair wrapped in another as steam left the bathroom. 

She shut the door gently before turning to face you. She looked bright, but it dimmed when she took in your frazzled appearance. You needed to leave. Now, now, now—

“H-Hey, um… are you leaving?” 

You nodded stiffly, voice monotone, “Yeah. I didn’t wanna leave without telling you, though.” 

Her hand on the doorknob dropped to her side as she sighed in exasperation. She scoffed, “That’s surprising. I thought you would’ve taken any opportunity to leave.”

Your eyes squinted at her suddenly snarky tone. You two never argued: there may be tension or words left unsaid after you leave her, but you never fought about your relationship, “What the hell are you talking about?” 

She looked at you in shock, “Really? You’ve been acting like being around me is a chore this entire time! We… We don’t even speak— “

“What is there to talk about?” Your voice rose to match hers, your arms flailing around. “We both know what we agreed to when we started this!”

“I know we did! But you…” she looked so hurt and her voice was cracking, and it was making you uncomfortable. “You just treat me like I’m— “

You didn’t want to hear this anymore. You interrupted her harshly, “I'm not treating you like anything! We’re behaving exactly how we’re supposed to be! If anyone were to find out about what we’re doing, we’re fucked! That’s… that’s just how it is now!” 

She took her bottom lip between her teeth and sniffled. She nodded and looked down at her bare feet before meeting your eyes again. Hers were teary, and it sent a painful jolt from your chest to your head, your heart filling with remorse. You needed to lay the fuck down. 

Her voice shook as she spoke, but it was stern. 

“Fine. You… you can let yourself out.” 

Your shoulders dropped and your tone softened, “Abby— “

She shook her head, hers spiteful. “You know where the key is. Enjoy the rest of your day.” 

You couldn’t get your apologies out before she pried the bathroom door open, walking inside and slamming it shut behind her. You flinched as it echoed in your skull. 

The ringing of your phone blared through her four walls. You resigned, leaving her bedroom and gently shutting the door. You walked over to her staircase, pulling your device out to answer your mother’s call. 

“Hey,” You leaned against the stair railing, trying to ignore Abby’s quiet sobs coming from her room. Your eyes shut, guiltily picking at the skin on your lip. 

Your mom’s angered tone blasted through the speakers, “What the hell do you mean hey! Where have you been!” 

You descended the stairs, sighing when you reached the bottom, “I… was at my friend's house! We got caught up, my bad.” 

“Yeah, well, when you get caught up, you better tell m— “ 

Your mom’s voice was suddenly cut off by your father’s distant laughter. You heard her shout gimme my phone before your dad’s cheery tone rang through the line. 

“Heyyy, sweetheart. Ignore your mom, when are you comin’ home?” 

You couldn’t help the tears that jerked in your eyes at his voice. 

What the fuck were you doing. 

You cleared your throat before speaking, “I’m, uh… I’m leaving my friend's place now. I’ll be there soon.” 

“Okay, baby! Take your time,” You heard your mom yell out don’t tell her that!

“I love y’all,” You did, you loved them so much. 

“We love you so much more. Drive safe,” You heard your mom’s shout and your father’s laughter, and more tears jerked in your eyes. 

When the line went dead, you propped yourself over the back of Abby’s couch and cried in silence. You tried to keep your small breakdown short; You still had so much editing to do for your thesis. But you couldn’t stop your flowing tears. 

The drops slid down your face and onto her soft lounge pillows. You never cared enough to inspect her living space since she invited you in the first time, but you couldn’t help your wandering eyes as you digested her living room. The area was quaint and serene: there was a small fountain propped on a small table in the corner of the room, crème and black walls littered with framed artwork, decorative tables holding vases filled with fresh roses, her coffee table that still held the half filled, rose-littered mug with a tea bag string hanging out of it, her reading glasses. A framed photo of a smiling Abby carrying her just as happy baby girl on her back in front of a lake. 

And a marked book titled Working Through Grief right next to it. 

It forced a loud sob out of you, your hand flying over your mouth to hush any noise you might’ve made.

You fucked up. You fucked up so bad, and you still had the audacity to be in her safe space. You needed to go; you couldn’t fucking breathe. 

You snatched your purse off the couch and booked it for the front door, almost forgetting to retrieve the key to lock it behind you. You secured it and hid the key in its designated spot before rushing across the street to your car. 

You grabbed your keys from your purse and unlocked it, pulling the driver's door open before flinging yourself inside. You slammed the door and your heavy head dropped onto the steering wheel. You took some deep breaths, trying to calm the nausea that hit you out of nowhere. Sobs wracked through you as you shook in your seat. 

You were so fucking selfish. 

daaaamn wassup y’all 

writers block tried to get me omg y’all seen that shit😳😳 I FOUGHT BACK THO 

taglist y’all know wassup omg love y’all @saturnsellie @ohlawdthebirds @fibrogirlie @unangelic-thoughts @chrry1ovr @uraesthete @gravygranules @digit4lslut @machetegirl109 @letsreadsomesins-shallwe @macaroni676 @sillygooselit

kissies mwwwwAHHHHH

prologue. part one. part three. interlude. part four.

[welcome-back-to-hoimycraf]

SO EXCITED TO BE POSTING THIS EEEEEEEEEE

this is my gift for @bigb-enthusiast for the @mcyt-yaoi-exchange! i know there's not enough skizzb in the world so i decided to deliver >:) based on my friend's fic, the boogey!! it's SO good, go check it out, but doesn't have to be read to read this fic! (it helps and gives context, but other than that this can totally be standalone!) thank you to rain @deityoftherain, kai @kaihuntrr, and kai @Kaije224 from the yaoi event server for betaing! ALSO. I FUCKING GOT HIT BY THE AO3 WRITER'S CURSE. A FUCKING ONCE IN A LIFETIME HURRICANE DEVASTATED MY STATE WHILE WRITING THIS????? EVEN AS I'M WRITING THIS AUTHOR'S NOTE, I DON'T HAVE ELECTRICITY OR AC LMAOOOO BUT WE STAY SILLY!!!!! THE YAOI GRIND STOPS FOR NOTHING, NOT EVEN A HISTORICALLY DAMAGING HURRICANE

BigB sat at his desk, numbly staring at the unmoving red dot on his computer- the dot that represented Skizz. 

Skizz had sacrificed himself- gotten attacked by that thing that had been downing heroes left and right. It wasn’t safe to be patrolling right now, not with the Boogey on the loose. The thing, that mass of purple goop that’d been causing so many missing people and infection cases, was still roaming the city. No one knew what it was, where it came from, or what it could do. He’d told Skizz not to go on this mission! He slammed his fist down on the table, ripping off the headset that still had Phoenix's panicked voice coming through. It was of no use to him anymore. Skizz was unconscious. Skizz had tranquilized himself…. 

And now there was no telling what would happen to his husband. 

B slumped back into his uncomfortable swivel chair, rubbing his hands too harshly into his eyes to stop the tears from spilling. Vague, muffled shouting leaked from the headphone’s speakers that BigB couldn’t exactly make out. He knew Phoenix was trying to talk to him, to get him to help, but the words were all jumbled together. Everything felt floaty. B could barely think through the fog plaguing his mind.   

This wasn’t real.

It couldn’t be real. 

…What was he supposed to do now?

—----

BigB had rushed to the hospital as soon as he was told where Skizz had been admitted. The nurse at the front desk had notified him of Skizz’s condition. Her words still echoed in his mind.

“Comatose,” she’d said. Medically induced. It was the best way to deal with the Boogey’s infected patients that had been admitted, she explained. There was no cure. B had known that long before this. Something in him had still hoped that fact would have changed in the half-hour drive to the hospital. He still felt the numbness washing over him as he was informed.

On top of that, he wasn’t even allowed to see his husband. The nurse had told him that no one was to enter infected patients’ rooms besides permitted staff. That the risk of contagion was too great for visitors. That didn’t make him want to bust down the door to Skizz’s room any less. 

The best solution he could come up with was throwing himself into his work. At least working at the Traffic City Hero Agency gave him a way to actually help Skizz. He couldn’t imagine being a civilian who’d lost a loved one to the infection, unable to do anything useful- or even know what happened to them. B was never more grateful to be privy to top secret information than he was now.  

His workload was mentally exhausting, but that was preferred. Anything to keep his thoughts from straying to Skizz…. 

It mostly consisted of desperate research. Double and triple-checking databases of wanted criminals, missing persons’ reports, and infection cases. Something had to lead him to the Boogey. If not… he wasn’t sure what he would do with himself. 

The smaller portion of his work was helping Lizzie. 

Her and Joel had recently lost their spouse, Etho, to the Boogey as well- which B could grimly relate to. Joel channeled his grief into anger, taking any excuse he could find for field work. Any excuse to get his fists dirty and feel something- even if that usually translated into the sting of wounds and the metallic taste of blood on his tongue. While his methods seemed extreme, it was clear that Lizzie was taking the loss harder. 

Etho had been defending her when they were downed. They’d lost themself to the infection for her. B remembered the aftermath, when she had returned from the mission essentially hysterical. He couldn’t blame her.

Etho’s spouses didn’t even have the comfort of knowing they were safe in a hospital bed, asleep and blissfully unaware. They were still out there, somewhere. No one knew if they were hurt- or hurting someone through the influence of the Boogey.

Skizz was out of B’s expertise, but Etho was out of his grasp completely. It wasn’t like he- or the agency, even- could do much to help them. Even if they did somehow find and incapacitate them, what was the point? It’d prevent further harm, yes, but they’d still be infected. B couldn’t do anything to save either of them.

BigB did his best to lighten the burden on Lizzie’s shoulders, but there was only so much he could do. He didn’t do field work like her, which only left the half of her job she did at the agency- and even then, she didn’t let him take on too much. 

Lizzie insisted he was working himself to the bone, that Skizz would want him to take breaks. 

BigB told her she should worry more about her bloodied and battered husband and her missing spouse than her overburdened coworker. He only half regretted it. 

—----

Life was hard, without Skizz. 

BigB wasn’t aware of how much Skizz’s ever-cheerful energy truly got him through each and every day. Each evening when he arrived home, the house felt… cold. Empty. There was no life behind the front door. Not anymore. 

Everything felt broken. 

B fell into the familiar motions of making dinner. Pasta. Skizz’s favorite. He always loved alfredo- loves alfredo. 

He made enough for the both of them, purely on instinct. He used to make them at least one meal every day. 

The familiarity was nice. 

Skizz would always mention loving coming home to the smell of something delicious cooking, and B was happy to give him that. Cooking was a big thing in his family, a show of love and care for those closest to you, and he’d always be more than glad that Skizz loved what he made. The man did his fair share, though, chopping vegetables and washing dishes with nothing but a content smile.

He didn’t realize when his tears sizzled into the pan where the garlic was sauteing. 

Skizz’s arms never wrap around his waist. Skizz’s cheek never rubs up against BigB’s neck to tease him with his stubble. Skizz’s mischievous fingers never pluck a noodle straight from the pot for “testing”. 

BigB’s dinner tasted rancid on his tongue.

—----

Two weeks in, B had given up breaks. 

B’s eyes burned from both the restless nights of sleep and the too-bright screen of the laptop he’d been staring at for far too long. The all-too-familiar ache in his back had returned with a fierce passion because of his near-constant hunch over his keyboard. The dull pain was a welcome change from the numbness.

He couldn’t remember Lizzie coming in, but the sandwich sitting on his desk proved his memory wrong. A turkey club. From his favorite café. B didn’t have to wonder how she knew that information for long- it was the last thing he’d eaten with Skizz.

His husband had barged into the meeting room with a dopey smile on his face, holding a paper bag above his head triumphantly. Skizz’s expression had quickly transformed from accomplished to sheepish when he noticed the debriefing he’d clearly interrupted. Lizzie had giggled at Skizz’s attempt at a peace offering, which consisted of handing BigB one of the contents from the bag.

They had ended up pausing the meeting for a lunch break. Skizz chatted with Lizzie and Zomblaze about their favorite restaurants. B could still see the way Skizz’s eyes lit up when given the opportunity to talk about his husband’s interests. He still remembered the feeling of Skizz’s lips pressed to his temple as he said his goodbyes.  

And he still remembered Skizz wearing his hero outfit when he left the conference room- a nasty gash on the pleasant memory, reminding BigB of what would happen next.

The sandwich still sat on his desk, untouched. It had long gone stale at this point. He wasn’t hungry, anyway. He hadn’t been for days.

—----

Lizzie asked him, unprompted , if he was alright when he entered the agency that morning, stopping him in his tracks. It took B a moment to process her question, and even longer to notice her furrowed brow. He followed her gaze to the long scratch along his bicep, dried blood flaking across his skin and closing the wound. B had completely forgotten about it.

He couldn’t remember how he’d gotten it exactly. His memory from last night was hazy, blurry. All he could remember was the scarlet running down his arm and dripping onto the white tiles of the bathroom floor. A clumsy injury while cleaning, perhaps?

He had never ended up bandaging it, too tired to even give it a second glance. 

Lizzie snapped BigB out of his thoughts as she took his hand, gently turning his arm over for a better look and taking in the streaks running down it. There were dried drips on his pants. He supposed he hadn’t bothered to change before heading to bed last night- or leaving the house that morning. 

“This isn’t healthy , B,” she whispered out. He could hear the way her voice trembled. 

He didn't have the strength to meet her eyes. 

“...What’s new?” He couldn’t help but scoff. 

B was glad they were alone in the small breakroom, he did not want to have this conversation in front of their coworkers. 

Lizzie’s pinched expression quickly transformed from worried to determined. “You can’t work in this state, BigB,” she sighed. “I’m taking you home to patch you up, and then you’re resting- whether you like it or not!”

The man barely had time to open his mouth in protest before being literally dragged back out the door. His objections fell on deaf ears, though he didn’t know what else he expected. He knew Lizzie well enough to know that once she was set on a goal, she’d never stop until it was achieved. 

Her and her spouses’ home wasn’t far, it was much closer than his and Skizz’s. B vaguely remembered overhearing a conversation in the break room a few years ago- something about when the Honeybees were buying their first home together. It’d been not long after the three got married, if he recalled correctly. They’d picked the house for its proximity to the Agency, apparently. 

…He couldn’t remember where he was going with that.

Their house was almost as suffocatingly empty as his, now, though. Lizzie had lost Joel as well, almost a week after B had lost Skizz, and about two weeks after Etho. Heroes were dropping like flies all around the city due to the Boogey. No progress had been made to find them. 

He felt bad, of course, but it wasn’t like there was much he could even do. He didn’t do field work, and Lizzie’s spouses’ trackers had been destroyed soon after they’d gotten infected. They’d left little to no evidence as to their current location.

He couldn’t help them- just like how he couldn’t help Skizz...

Lizzie led BigB up the stairs, mentioning something about a med kit. He didn’t hear it over the anger bubbling in his ears. 

He couldn’t save any of them.

Of course he couldn’t.

"I don't need your help, Lizzie," he couldn't keep from sneering out, ripping his hand from her grasp. Latent rage boiled in his chest. He was a grown man, he could handle himself! He didn’t need Lizzie to take him home and clean him up like she was his mother!

She gripped the bannister, turning to face him with the same stubborn expression he'd seen on her countless times in front of her spouses. "Yes, you do need my help, BigB." He could feel her eyes falling to the long cut along his arm. He quickly moved to cover it. "We both need help. We need all the help we can get." 

B suddenly found the stairs beneath his feet extremely interesting. 

Lizzie sighed, her tone softening. "...Listen," she stepped down to his level, gently taking his hands in hers. He still couldn’t meet her eye. He didn’t want to. "We're both going through a hard time right now. It’s not good for us to push people away in our states- especially each other.” B’s heart broke slightly at the small crack in her usually strong, if a little uncertain, voice.

He surprised himself when a watery laugh escaped his lips. "You may be right, but that doesn't mean I like to admit it." 

“I’m usually right.” 

B could hear the weak grin in her tone.

The rest of the walk to the bathroom was draped in a slightly awkward silence, neither one able to look the other in the face. B couldn’t think of anything to say. What exactly would he say? ‘Yeah, sorry about your spouses possibly being gone forever- my husband is, too!’

That didn’t seem like a good conversation starter, did it?

“...Do you want to talk about it?” Lizzie asked quietly as she bandaged his wound. He couldn’t remember sitting on the toilet lid, nor his coworker pulling out the medical supplies. The world had started to blur out a long, long time ago. 

“No.” Even though BigB knew she would understand, he couldn't. He couldn't talk about it without breaking down. He had a mask to hold up, even if she'd already seen it crack. 

He wasn’t sure he’d be able to put it back up if it came down. 

She seemed to let the subject drop. 

Lizzie ended up leading him to her room and forcing him to sit on her bed once he was all bandaged up, demanding he finally get some sleep. He was too mentally weak to protest. 

She turned to leave the room when given no response, but was stopped by a hand grabbing her arm. She struggled to slip out, but B’s grip on her elbow didn't waver, though he did loosen it so as to not hurt. "If I’ve gotta take a sick day, you do too," he grumbled, and Lizzie could already see his eyes drooping. 

Her eyebrows furrowed together. He’d seen that too many times today. "No, B, I can't. I've got to make progress on this case, I-" Before she could let out another half-baked, hypocritical excuse, Lizzie was dragged forward onto her own sheets. 

"Nope!" 

She sat up quickly, her fists balled into the honeybee-embroidered blankets. “If I find this monster, I can bring our spouses back-“ 

BigB finally sighed, looking her in the eye for the first time since that morning. Her rambling, uncontrolled train of thought was way too similar to his own. He’d spent days convincing himself that he should give up his needs in favor of doing anything he could to help Skizz, but he knew it wasn’t good for him. He knew, yet he couldn’t gather the courage to stop. At least, not on his own. “We can’t help them if we’re exhausted… no matter how much I don't like to admit it... we've gotta take breaks, Liz." 

She giggled wetly after a moment, relaxing back into the pillows. "Are we gonna ignore this advice and go right back to the unhealthy habits once we wake up?" 

BigB's smile was strained as he responded. "I expect nothing less."

—----

B jumped at the loud bang sounding throughout the empty conference room. His head shot up to find Lizzie standing across the large table from him. She’d dropped a large stack of papers on the wood, looking pretty proud of herself. 

It was pretty weird that he hadn’t noticed her come in- he must’ve been caught up in his work. Where the heck did she come from?

“This is all the info I’ve found on the Boogey so far,” she explained, rolling a chair back and plopping down. The hero kicked her feet up on the table confidently, which put a slight smile on B’s face. He didn’t realize how much he missed Lizzie’s big ego. 

“Seems like a good place to start,” he hummed, leaning over to drag the pile to his side. “Though, most of this will probably be stuff I’ve already looked over- no offense,” he sighed, twirling the end of his pen between his teeth in concentration.

Lizzie shrugged. “None taken. You’re probably the nicest supervisor I’ve ever had,” she snickered. 

BigB let out a bit of a half-laugh to let her know he’d heard her quip, though most of his attention was absorbed by the information he’d been given. He was right about it being a good chunk of stuff he’d already seen, either from looking over other people’s research or from doing his own. One did catch his eye, though.

“There’s been more sightings?” B raised an eyebrow at the police report detailing some civilian’s story about purple sludge and a suspicious figure. Seemed to be in some part of town that had been abandoned a long time ago. If he remembered correctly, it had been evacuated due to a gas leak and never fully recovered. Most of the buildings had been left to rot.

Lizzie nodded vigorously. “I’ve been triangulating sightings to try and pin down a possible headquarters of the Boogey- or wherever it may have come from. If it’s a lab experiment like some are theorizing, it could be returning to where it was made after its prowls!” 

B’s eyebrows raised. “I… never thought of doing it that way before….” Gears were already turning in his head, half-formed ideas of how to use this information surfacing in his mind. He tapped his pen against the table rapidly with his success. “Lizzie, you’re a genius!”

The hero grinned with a faux confidence, though he found a hint of genuine pride in herself at his words. “You know me- genius of the agency!” She giggled. 

He stood up quickly, shutting his laptop and grabbing the documents he needed. “Do you mind if I take some of these?” He looked back up to his coworker, holding up a few of the papers he planned on snatching. 

Lizzie shook her head, though her eyes were slightly wide. “Take all you need.”

“Thanks-” B barely got the word out between his racing thoughts. He gathered all of his items and headed out the door, making a beeline straight to his office. This could be a breakthrough.  

—----

He woke up in the hero agency. 

It was way too warm in the small, cramped room he was given years ago. Something about a "promotion" that gave him no better pay and a shit load more to add to his plate. Light streamed in between the closed blinds from the sole, tiny window at just the right angle to hit his eyes. 

B didn't remember falling asleep. 

His laptop had been closed at some point, which he assumed was done by someone else. His suspicions were confirmed when he spotted a water bottle left on his desk. The sticky note on it read, ‘Hydrate or Diedrate! -Z’ 

B wiped a bit of drool from the corner of his mouth, a smile creeping across his lips. Zomblaze must’ve stopped by after he’d fallen asleep. She didn’t like to admit it, but she cared about the people at the agency- Well, some people at the agency. BigB supposed he’d been added to their list. 

He ran his fingers along the fabric falling from his sides. That was new. 

A blanket had been draped over his shoulders while he slept. It was covered in embroidered honeybees.

—----

BigB’s heart was beating out of his chest.

His leg bounced up and down furiously with his pent up anxiety. Lizzie, Zomblaze, and that vigilante, Phoenix, they’d recruited had just left the conference room- leaving him with the biggest breakthrough of his career.

They’d identified the Boogey. A young girl named Gem, the profile had said. She was, quite possibly- very possibly, his way of getting Skizz cured. 

The idea seemed too good to be true. 

Zomblaze and Lizzie had gone out to track down Gem’s brother, Scott, and get any information they could about helping her. From what the trio had recounted, it sounded like she had been infected herself rather than being the cause of the infection. 

B’s mind was racing with possibilities.

Having Skizz back might be closer than he thought. 

—----

Zomblaze had burst into the conference room, making BigB shoot up from his chair. “Do you have any information?” He couldn’t help but shout. Volume control was the last thing on his mind at this point. 

She nodded quickly. “I have terms for a compromise.”

B’s memories blurred after that. 

He’d agreed to Scott’s terms with barely a second thought. They seemed reasonable enough, and he was desperate- anything to see Skizz again- hell, he’d probably risk his own life if that meant Skizz would be safe. His thoughts were racing. He hadn’t been this close to having his husband back in weeks- he’d begun to lose hope. 

Hours of paperwork, discussions, and frantic texts with Zomblaze turned into one big blend of moments BigB had already started to forget while he was experiencing them. Only one thing remained a constant in his thoughts. 

Skizz.

He drove to the hospital Gem had been admitted to the next day (Was it the next day? He wasn’t sure anymore). B was sure that driving in his weird, trance-like state definitely wasn’t safe, but he ignored it. Skizz was so, so close- He couldn’t give up now. 

Flashes of front desk nurses and sterile, white walls swam through his head before finally becoming a clear image of the door to the room Skizz was being kept in. His hand trembled slightly as he reached for the handle, hesitating for a brief moment as it hovered over the doorknob. Why was he nervous? Scratch that- he knew exactly why he was nervous. 

What if they couldn’t cure him?

What if they couldn’t save him?

What if he–

Gem being admitted to help with the infection came with no guarantee that any of her victims could be saved. That any of them could survive. There was always the possibility that attempting to cure them could just as well kill them. It was all up in the air. 

B took a deep breath, the nurse’s gaze on his back burning into his very being, and opened the door. 

The room was dim, barely any light besides the faint blinking and screens of machinery. The distinct rumble of a ventilator filled the room, accompanied by the rhythmic beeping of a heart monitor. 

And there, in the middle of it all, laid his husband. 

It was hard to recognize him beneath the large amount of purple goop pulsing over his skin, but it was definitely Skizz. BigB could recognize that tousled hair and unkempt beard anywhere. The familiarity almost buckled his knees, but he held strong. He had to be strong. 

He wasn’t sure what else he could be.

—----

It had taken a few hours for news to arrive, but B had never been more relieved.

Gem had been brought to a stable enough condition to start ridding patients of infection. The nurse had said that they were prioritizing healing heroes first, and B almost cried with the weight that lifted itself from his chest. 

Skizz would be okay. Just a bit longer. 

BigB got his first look at Gem besides her outdated profile when she entered the room. She looked awful, which he couldn’t blame her for. Being the main infected for so long had practically turned her into a walking corpse. Her cheeks were pale and sullen, and her orange hair was so brittle it looked like it could be snapped in half. B’s heart went out to the poor girl. 

Skizz’s healing process was… horrific. But when it was over… there he was. His husband, conscious and breathing and alive, sat right in front of him. It took everything in B’s power to keep himself from trembling with relief in front of the love of his life. 

He was able to keep his mask intact when Skizz panicked over the IV, his fear of needles kicking in as strong as ever- even after almost dying. He was able to keep his mask intact when the two were left to reunite and just be together after so long. He was able to keep his mask intact when they picked up their usual banter on the way to the parking lot only an hour and a half later, thanks to Skizz’s inhumanly-fast immune system. 

He had to stay strong for Skizz. 

Skizz was the one who had gone through this, not him. If anyone should break down, it would be his husband. He had to be there to support him if needed. 

They kept up idle conversation on the drive home, B catching Skizz up on all he missed while hospitalized. It was so familiar, yet so unfamiliar all the same. Skizz’s crooked smile, the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed, even the stupid, loveable way he talked- it was all too much. The moment didn’t seem real. The casual domesticity he’d missed so much had just been… returned to him so nonchalantly. 

He almost expected the universe to be pulling a trick on him- that he’d look to his right and find Skizz gone again. 

But he was right there with him the whole drive home.

—----

Skizz was still there when he woke up in the morning. 

Having him back was... weird. 

BigB hated to admit to himself how used to living without his second half he’d gotten. Waking up every day to an empty bed and a cold home became his new normal, after a while. 

Skizz did his best to hide how he felt, but BigB could always see right through him. Skizz felt guilty. Guilty for leaving his husband behind to pick up the pieces. Guilty for not being there when B needed him most. He'd always put too much on himself, his heart too big for his own good. 

B could tell that Skizz was still tired, despite what he said about his powers making it better. He'd been home for a few days, and his recovery was still in the early stages. He couldn’t walk long distances, and manual labor was out of the question. Skizz insisted he was fine, but the deep eyebags he fostered said otherwise. 

B didn’t blame him for being practically bed-ridden, but something in him was… resentful. He longed for normalcy. He wasn’t bitter at Skizz, gods no, just at their situation. He prayed for his husband to have a fast recovery.

—----

The sweet, chocolatey scent of BigB’s favorite cookies, a fragrance he could always pinpoint, was a nice surprise when he walked in the door after a long day at the agency. Something seemed… off about it, though. Almost… sour? He quickly shrugged his shoes off by the door, padding over to the kitchen to peak inside.

Skizz sat on a bar stool in front of the counter, facing away from the doorway. He was hunched over something B couldn’t quite make out, muttering to himself. Both he and the kitchen were dusted in a thin layer of debris from what BigB assumed was a baking fiasco. A tray of misshapen, over-cooked “cookies” sat on a tray atop the oven, still steaming (or smoking, rather).

“Skizz?” B asked softly.

The man in question jumped, swearing in shock, and turned to face his husband. “B- Boppers! When’d you get here? I didn’t hear you come in,” Skizz rambled out, frozen like a deer in headlights. It was obvious he’d been trying to surprise B with his favorite cookies, but it hadn’t worked out. He found it strange, though. Skizz had perfected that recipe years ago, hadn’t he?

BigB made his way over, placing a hand on Skizz’s shoulder to rub circles into the skin there. “Just got home,” he hummed, twitching the corners of his lips up into a soft, if not tired, smile. “Whatcha makin’?”

At his question, Skizz visibly deflated. “Well, I tried to do something nice for you and make your favorite cookies,” he nodded toward the open cookbook he’d been scanning. “Thought I couldn’t screw it up,” he sighed, rubbing a hand across his face, “but it all fell through,” Skizz admitted in a mutter, hanging his head. “Had to resort to pulling out the recipe book to remember how to do it right. Turns out I just made you charcoal!” 

B got a good chuckle out of that remark, at least. “I don’t mind, hun,” he promised, running his fingers through Skizz’s untamed, wild mess of hair. “We can just make more- together this time.” 

“Back hurts,” his husband whined, pressing his head into BigB’s chest. 

B’s eyebrows furrowed. “When did that start?” This was new- part of Skizz’s recovery journey after being comatose for so long. It was concerning to say the least, considering Skizz’s powers, but neither of them had yet to bring up their worries. 

“After I’d been in here cooking for an hour,” Skizz mumbled, letting out a mirthless chuckle. “M’ back and feet still hurt, even after I sat down.”

“That's okay, baby, the thought was enough.” BigB leaned down to press a kiss against Skizz’s crown, smoothing out his flyaway hairs. “How about we just get cleaned up, yeah? I’ll deal with the kitchen, you go take a shower.”

Skizz hesitated for a moment. “I-....” He paused, sighing. “I took my ring off to bake, but I can’t find it anymore,” he admitted. It sounded like he was almost worried, as if BigB would be mad at him for losing his ring. 

That was concerning. 

B hummed to himself for a moment. “That’s alright- wanna look for it while I start cleaning up?”

With Skizz’s nod as confirmation, the two split to do their parts. BigB took to dumping the unsalvageable lumps of borderline ash that were supposed to be cookies. He was tempted to make a joke about the state of them, but decided now wasn’t the time. Skizz was obviously upset, and there was no need to make it worse. 

He’d just started to get the water going for doing the dishes when Skizz’s frustrated muttering emanated from the other side of the kitchen. B glanced over to his husband. “You alright?”

The man groaned in annoyance. “I can’t find this stupid thing!” He stood up from his hunched position where he’d been checking under the counters, throwing his hands up in the air in exasperation. 

B set the dirty mixing bowl in the sink, turning off the water. “Want me to help look for it? You can go-”

“I don't need help- I can do this myself, I'm not an idiot!" Skizz snapped, his hands splayed against his face in the way that told BigB that the situation had really upset him. 

Almost as soon as the words had come out of his mouth, his husband was already apologizing. “...I’m sorry, B, I didn’t mean to yell at you.” Through his shame, Skizz made his way over so he could wrap his arms around his partner’s waist and bury his head into the nape of B’s neck. 

BigB squeezed Skizz tight around the shoulders, making sure not to touch him with his hands, still dirty from the dishes, and rest his chin atop Skizz’s head. “It’s alright, baby, you’re frustrated. You’ve been upset with your recovery, you’re not used to it. I understand.”

Skizz took a deep breath, pulling back to look BigB in the eye, even through the tears he was trying to blink away. “I…” His words faltered for a moment before he took a deep breath and picked back up where he’d left off. “I felt bad for not even being able to do something simple for my husband after all you’d done for me. I know this recipe is important to you, and I wanted to make it as… as an apology for being gone.” 

A silence settled over the kitchen with the admittance. If B’s heart hadn’t shattered before, it definitely had now. 

BigB blinked away tears of his own. He cupped Skizz’s face, ignoring his dirty, wet hands, and pulled the man into a fierce kiss he hoped conveyed all the reassurances he could muster. It was sweet and chaste, and when he pulled back he ran his thumb along Skizz’s cheekbone. “You’re too sweet,” B whispered, a watery laugh escaping his lips. “Now, let’s go start that bath, ‘kay?”

—----

Their bed had never been more comfortable. Something about not noticing things until they were gone, something BigB was far too bad at poetry to explain. He didn’t need poetry to simply bask in the love spilling from every part of his being, though. 

He and Skizz were sat up beneath the covers, B rubbing his husband’s shoulders. Skizz had mentioned something about them being sore from his cooking earlier as they crawled into bed, and BigB happily suggested to help. Skizz had always said he gave the best massages, anyway. 

“...I missed this,” he murmured, half asleep, into the back of Skizz’s neck. He hadn’t even realized he’d started talking before the words came out of his mouth. 

Skizz was silent for a moment, probably expecting that B would continue, but decided that wasn’t the case. “Wanna elaborate, hun?” He asked, and BigB could hear the smile in his tone. 

B hummed to himself for a second, trying to form his words in his foggy, sleep-clouded brain. “I… I missed just this- this domesticity,” he sighed, struggling to come up with the right phrasing. “Something simple, like this quiet night where we’re just… together.”

Skizz shifted to face him, taking BigB’s hands from his shoulders to hold in his own. “Aw, I missed you too, sweetheart,” he cooed, cupping B’s face and pressing their foreheads together. His tone was light, yet his words brought a heaviness to the air that hadn’t been present before. A heaviness that held all the unspoken apologies, explanations, and conversations too hard to bring up between them. 

Now that the topic had been broached, BigB was urged to keep going. There was an opening he could finally fill.  "I-I missed hearing your voice... it would get so lonely hearing nothing but my own lungs-" His voice wavered, and he could feel Skizz’s arms moving to embrace him in one of his signature bone-crushing hugs. “You weren’t there to- to pick me up after bad days, or make me smile. Everything was so empty without you- Just- gods, I missed you so much, Skizz.” B surged forward, wrapping Skizz as tight as he could around his middle, almost as if he was scared of losing him again. He couldn’t lose him again- he couldn’t, he couldn't, he couldn’t- 

A moment of heavy silence passed between them before Skizz spoke again, "...I may have been the one infected, sweetheart, but you were the one who had to live with it. Your suffering isn’t negated because I'm struggling too.” 

Something in BigB broke at that, the tears finally flowing freely. Years worth of effort to build up a perfect mask of calm collectedness, broken with just a few kind phrases. Was it unfair, or had it been a long time coming?

“This isn’t my battle to fight, Skizz,” he choked out in reply, pulling back and taking in the man’s concerned expression. “You were the one who was injured, not me. You were the one affected by this. You still are.”

Skizz reached a hand up to wipe away some of the wetness from B’s face, blinking rapidly himself. “That’s not true.” His usually strong voice came out a whisper. “I was asleep the whole time, for goodness sake. If anyone’s taken this hard, it’s been you, B. I may be dealing with the after-effects, but you had to deal with the grief.”

B couldn’t even respond, his ability for speech taken over by heavy sobs. Skizz was right, though, wasn’t he? BigB had been denying himself the ability to grieve through his belief of not deserving it- all of his pent up emotions finally breaking through his carefully crafted dam. 

Skizz took his heaving as an acceptance, running a careful hand through BigB’s hair. “It'll be difficult, Boppers, I know it is, but I love you and I’m here for you. We can heal from this trauma together, okay love?" 

Together. 

They were together.

After all this time, maybe, maybe things would be alright. 

They had to be alright, after all.

They had each other.

And that’s all they needed.

[ronwestbreeze]

TO YOU , WORLDS AWAY : PART TWO : CHAPTER THIRTEEN

pairing: jake sully x fem!reader

summary: in which tinkers is alive

word count: 2.8k

author's note: i think the psa i posted is enough for an a/n note but if you didn't see it, just remember for future chapters going forward, please don't tell me how to write my story. i write it the way i want it and you can choose to enjoy it or not. and if you don't that's completely fine, just don't be mean about it. okay? okay.

AO3 | prev | next

He thought of the dead, far too often than he’d like to admit.

It wasn’t always a bad thing though, at least that’s what Jake thought. Out of all of them, he had learned the most, he had grown, and he had become the man he was today because of them.

He equally thanked them as much as he grieved them. And to be honest, it took him a long time for him to get to that point. It used to anger him, used to pain him, used to numb him…now Jake only felt, well, he really couldn’t define that yet. It wasn’t denial. It definitely wasn’t acceptance. Just something in the middle, something gray, something nobody could put a name to.

There were different levels to his pain when he remembered those he had lost.

Jake thought of his brother, Tom, from time to time. It was a lot easier than the others as he began to come to terms with his sudden death. They weren’t really close but it was still his brother, you know? Still his other half. And no matter how close or how far apart they were, it still felt as if he had lost another half of himself. A half that he was never going to get back, that would never be replaced because it would always belong to him. And that was okay.

Then there was Tsu’tey. Often he’d find himself doubting his role as the Olo’eyktan and wondered why he was even chosen to lead these people. But the last person he would’ve expected to believe in him, chose him. That had to say something right? That had to be worth something.

He thought of Grace because of course he did. Grace probably had one of the biggest impacts on his life, introduced him to the world of Pandora, gave him a chance even when he definitely didn’t deserve it in the beginning. Perhaps he still didn’t deserve the compassion she gave him. Still to this day, he wasn’t so sure why she believed in him despite everything. It hurt thinking about her, knowing that she would’ve loved to live among the Na’vi like him. Knowing she would’ve loved to meet her daughter…

Jake just hoped that he could do right by her by raising Kiri as his own.

But when thinking of Grace, he couldn’t help but think of…

There was just too much there.

Sometimes he’d feel guilty. Sometimes he wished that Neytiri, whom he had come to love and cherish over the years, wouldn’t see just how much it still hurt him. And he didn’t know why, but this kind of hurt…it was unlike anything he had ever felt before. This kind of hurt scared him, so much that he had to force himself to numb it down in the beginning—still to this day sometimes—because he knew that if he allowed himself to feel this pain, if he allowed himself the luxury of this grief, he’d fall apart.

But Neytiri saw it. She always did.

She knelt down in front of him one day, after finding him sulking silently on a rock one night, and he told her in a broken whisper:

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I…I’m sorry.” It was all he could say, it was all that could escape his lips when he faced her, when he saw the look of knowing in her eyes, when she gave him a sad smile. It was just guilt and grief weighing him down, keeping him heavy and stuck to the ground.

Neytiri smiled sadly, “Oh, Ma’Jake.” She’d place a hand against his cheek and say, “Not even the strongest warrior could ever forget their lost mate.” Jake remembered staring at her in both confusion and shock. “Ma tsmuke, she was your first mate. She was always meant to be a part of this family. It is okay to be sad, Ma’Jake. I am sad sometimes too. I miss her too.”

That day just made him realize it would always still hurt. It didn’t stop it. But at least now he knew why.

It even hurt sometimes when Neytiri would say things like, “I pray to the Mother every day for tsmuke.”

“Why?” He found himself asking. “Wouldn’t it be better to just accept it…that she’s gone?”

Neytiri shook her head, “It is not the same as Tsu’tey or ma sempul. No. I do not believe a warrior like that is just gone. Not like this.”

Jake would frown but not say anything to discourage it. Perhaps it was just her training with the Tsahik, perhaps she was just becoming more spiritual each day she trained with her mother. Either way, he couldn’t find it within himself to tell her that you might’ve been gone.

They never found your human body. Your avatar was under Norm and Dr. Max Patel’s care.

It was just better to assume. Better to let it go now.

You were alive! You were alive! You were alive!

Okay, you supposed that was true. But you also felt like shit so you really didn’t know that being alive was the best revelation right now.

When you opened your eyes, there wasn’t a bright light waiting for you anymore. Only what looked like a wooden ceiling or was it made out of sticks? You really couldn’t tell. What you did know was that everything in your body felt weak and terribly sore. But this time you felt like you were able to move.

Well, at least you thought so at first.

It was a slow process, sitting up and finally taking in your surroundings. From what you could see, it appeared like you were in some sort of hut. The walls were made of wood and the ceiling, as it turned out, was made of long grass. There was a door across from where you had been lying and two smaller holes similar to windows. And judging from the windows, it looked as if it were the late afternoon. At least.

Once you were sitting up, your senses were beginning to kick in. A mask was on your face. Sight was already covered so the smell came next. It was grass and fish that hit your nose first. The grass bit made sense but you had no clue where the fish smell was coming from. Then sound. There were voices, speaking in Na’vi, farther away—no it sounded like it was coming from beneath you. Touch. Something was covering—no, wrapped around your hands and fingers preventing you from fully feeling the rough hammock that you lied on.

Your mind was still foggy, still confused at where exactly you were. Of course, the last thing you remembered was crashing the Samson into the other one that had been shooting at you. You remembered one of its blasts caught your wing and had been one of the reasons why you went down. You remembered fire. You remembered your mask had been broken.

And then it wasn’t. Which, now that you thought about it, didn’t make much sense. Maybe your mask never broke and the smoke from the fire made you delusional.

But then there was another issue and you were quickly reminded of it when you tried moving one of your arms, only to feel a sharp pain at your side.

That crash should’ve killed you. Maybe not on impact but after, there should've been no way you survived.

So how…?

Deciding you weren’t going to get any answers by just sitting, you threw the misshapen blanket—which was made of leaves—off your body and moved to stand.

Only you stopped suddenly when you saw…

Both your legs were wrapped in what looked like leaves and through those leaves, you could see the burns and barely healed scars riddled all over your legs. It was bad enough you could barely keep yourself upright but now you realized you could barely move your injured legs. You had no strength left in you to do so.

It didn’t feel real. For a moment you were sure this was some type of nightmare, that you were still asleep. Or maybe you were dead and left in some horrid hell. But once your bandaged hand grazed one of your legs, barely touched it, everything came crashing down. Everything became real.

You were alive. You were alive. You were alive….

“Dr. L/N?”

The new voice startled you, mostly because you hadn’t heard anyone come into the hut. When you looked up you were met with a Na’vi—no, an avatar—standing before you with a kind yet cautious smile. Cautious as if she were approaching an animal.

You didn’t reply. Mostly because you were waiting for the stranger to introduce herself first since clearly she knew who you were. The avatar cleared her throat, “I’m Dr. Chloe Parker. You may not know me but I was one of the volunteers for Dr. Augustine’s Avatar Program…”

The name wasn’t familiar or maybe it was, you really couldn’t think about it right now. There was too much going on. Your entire body, the recent revelation that you were in fact not dead—hell you didn’t even know where the hell you were.

“I imagine you have a lot of questions—”

“Where am I?”

Dr. Chloe nodded understandingly, “We are currently with the Olangi Clan who have been gracious hosts to us for the past few months.” She chuckled nervously, “But to be completely honest, I think they’re mostly tolerating us at this point…”

The Olangi Clan? The name wasn’t unfamiliar but you also weren’t sure what and where it was. That’s when you remembered what had been going on before your ship had crashed. That’s when you realized why everything felt strange. The reason why you were so tense and on guard…

“What happened with the battle? With the Sky People?” Your stomach twisted in on itself. “Are the Omatikaya clan…are the People…are they alive?”

God, if you were the only survivor, if you happened to be the sole person to survive all of it—

“No, no, no, they’re fine!” Dr. Chloe quickly reassured, kneeling down. When she did, you noticed the pit where a bonfire most likely would be lit at the center of the hut. “Our side one—the Na’vi, I mean! The RDA were exiled and some of us were allowed to stay afterwards and sort of live on Pandora.”

They won? They defeated the Sky People? There was a great relief that fell onto your shoulders, but it didn’t overshadow the tenseness, the exhaustion, and the grief. Just looking down at your injured legs, your entire body, it made it all the more heavier, all the more overwhelming. You were happy, you were angry, you were resentful. And you were sad. You were just really, really, sad.

Dr. Chloe noticed the way you looked down at your bandaged legs and frowned, “…It was an Olangi warrior that found you after your crash. Said Eywa pointed him toward you—or whatever that means…” Your brows furrowed at this but you didn’t stop her from continuing. “He brought you back here, to the plains, and it was mostly the healers keeping you alive for a while. Then my research team arrived and they showed us to you. One of the healers said that you weren’t getting any better and that’s where we stepped in…” She gestured toward you. “At first we tried healing you ourselves but you kept crashing. The wounds were too severe and…well your heart stopped a few times…”

Unshed tears clouded your eyes. Even if they fell you couldn’t wipe them away. You should’ve been grateful, thankful that you were alive now. That you were lucky to have even survived this war.

You were alive. You were alive. You were alive.

Dr. Chloe continued, “We realized at some point that we didn’t have the equipment to manage it…so we put you in cryosleep.”

You closed your eyes. The hut was quiet. You felt Dr. Chloe watch you, feeling her hesitation to keep going.

“How long?”

“Pardon?” She cleared her throat.

You looked up at her, “How long was I in cryosleep?”

Her hesitation already gave you some idea of an answer.

“Five years.”

It was quiet again. You couldn’t say anything. Nothing could have prepared you for this. You had been in cryosleep before and that was when you arrived at Pandora for the first time. Since then, you never thought you’d be placed back under in any circumstance. 

You never thought you’d miss five years of your life just to be half alive.

Five years. Five years just like that. Gone. Suddenly, it didn’t matter how much you contributed to the battle, the relief in knowing your side had won, that Grace’s death wasn’t in vain. None of that mattered when you had spent five years of your life asleep. Missing everything.

Your mind wandered and thought of Jake.

“Dr. L/N?” Dr. Chloe spoke again after a while. “I don’t know if you’ve realized but this is pretty groundbreaking stuff. We were able to save you and keep you alive with our newer machines—think of ECMO machines but better! We’re literally keeping you alive right now because of it.” As she said that, you noticed the tubes attached to your arms and the machines next to your hammock. “You’re a scientist, right? Think of the amazing breakthroughs we could have! It could give us more time, more time to heal patients before their body takes over and kills them! Like for you, for example. Your body could have been unsalvageable if not for our life support machines. Without them…well you could be dead, but that’s why we’re working with the Na’vi to heal you more.”

You didn’t know why, but her growing grin was pissing you off. And it certainly didn’t help keep the tears at bay.

“What’re you thinking, Doc?”

You didn’t even hesitate with your words. “I’m an engineer. Not a scientist.” Your gaze then fell toward the ground. “And I’m thinking you should’ve let me die.”

Again, the hut went silent. Your eyes remained locked on the floor. Dr. Chloe didn’t say anything else and you were glad. All you wanted right now was to be alone. Just alone. Except she wasn’t leaving.

Before you could snap at her, shout at her to leave, someone else entered the room. Instead of another avatar, it was a Na’vi woman. And by the looks of her clothes and accessories, she looked like a healer.

“What are you doing in here?!” The woman snapped in Na’vi. Dr. Chloe scurried to her feet. And you realized, tiredly that you were the smallest person in the room next to the two. “She is supposed to be resting! You should not be here!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Dr. Chloe backed away so the Na’vi woman could walk toward you with a wooden bowl in her hands. The doctor’s Na’vi sounded rough but well enough for you to understand her. Dr. Chloe nodded to you before finally leaving the hut. You barely acknowledged her though as the Na’vi woman began checking the bandages around your arms and fingers.

You realized then you were still in a hospital gown. She poked your arm with a needle and you flinched.

“Don’t move.” The healer snapped. You mumbled out an apology. “Your body is weak, you shouldn’t move too much.”

Quietly, you watched her observe your bandages and injuries. Some of them you caught a glance of the worser burns and it made your stomach twist violently. It made you realize how badly wounded you had been, how hard both the humans and the Na’vi seemed to work on keeping your body healing despite the severe ones. Really, you weren’t sure if it was worth the hassle.

While trying not to flinch at another needle poke, you ask the woman quietly, “What’s your name?”

“Ìtxata.” The healer looked at you curiously before focusing back on your left leg.

You winced when you tried scooting closer off the hammock, “When will my body…when will it not be so weak?”

Ìtxata didn’t respond right away. It wasn’t out of hesitation but mostly out of thought as you saw the crease appear between her brows. “It is hard to say….” She glared at the machines around you. “But the Sky People think they’re way can prevent death…nothing can prevent death…no matter the machine.” She then placed a gentle hand on your knee while examining it. “Your body is weak. And it will continue to get weaker until you die. This is only slowing the process.”

It was hard at that point. To hold back the tears. But your body eventually became to worn to remain upright and Ìtxata sensed this right away as she guided your body back to lying down in the hammock. The mask didn’t hide the tears or the restrained sobs but thankfully Ìtxata didn’t bring attention to them.

Instead she continued observing your wounds while you cried, and cried, and cried.

You were alive…You were alive…You were alive…

Coming out of her dreams, Kiri felt dried tears on her cheeks…

taglist: @luvvfromme @sully-stick-together @jakesullylvr @s-u-t @ssc7514 @cheari @tojigirl @nyotamalfoy @perfectprofessorloverapricot @naityelen @dumb-fawkin-bitch @raggedyoldwitch @nhemmingsf @biooiuygjjgfsrb @thatsenoughformelol @thotd-f1 @beaniebeensbaby201 @theoriginalwife000 @3leni @23victoria @lovesickollie @atxara @im-in-a-pansexual-panikk @ladylovegood-69 @punchyprincess23 @lovekeeho @lilithmoon14512 @n7cje @fyfy-world @cleverzonkwombatsludge @goddesslilithmoriarty @itszzmoon @eternallyvenus @bajadotcom

[greensaplinggrace]

Alina didn’t choose to have her powers taken from her and she didn’t intend for them to be lost. You can’t say Alina chose her ending when the ending was deliberately forced on her without her consent, and she is actively upset by this.

It has been said before and I will say it again:

Alina explicitly wants her power in the books. She has conflicting feelings on it, which is normal, but does on multiple occasions admit to herself as well as others that she likes the power, that she wants it, and that she does not wish to lose it.

This is not due to a lack of conceptualizing Alina liking her powers and Alina’s greed for power as separate things. This has nothing to do with Alina’s greed. Outside of Alina’s greed for power, she comes to love this part of herself she neglected all her life because she was raised by people who could not understand her and who taught her to be wary of her own people and culture, so much so that she subconsciously avoided dealing with who she actually was.

Equating Alina’s power with her greed is exactly what those oppressing grisha do in justification for their hate crimes. You are using the same logic as a cast of people set on genocide and oppression. Not to mention the direct connection between grisha being based on jewish persecution and how the thing that defines grisha is equated with greed, which is a highly common antisemitic depiction of jewish people.

Alina is the ethnic jew raised by goyim. She is the repressed queer child of homophobic parents. She is everybody who only got to realize and express themselves after finding and connecting with their community late in life.

A story about a persecuted minority hunted because of what makes them different ending with your main character, who is a part of that minority, losing that piece of themselves and being forced to assimilate, is incredibly problematic. And anybody who makes this criticism about “Alina choosing” forgets that Alina is a character who’s only choices are those made for her by the person who wrote her.

Another thing that people constantly misrepresent is that Alina is not happy to be stripped of her powers at the end, and explicitly expresses sadness, grief, rage, and anger about the loss of her powers. This is separate from her finding happiness despite her grief, but the grief never goes away. Which means that anybody saying she was happy to lose her powers or chose to do so is factually incorrect. Her agency is stripped from her in the end.

She doesn’t get to choose the peaceful life because the peaceful life is chosen for her. This is not a natural ending to a meaningful character arc of self realization. This is the regressive and brutal shafting of a character who’s arc was abused at every turn, and who’s actual development was walked backwards. Not because of her powers but because she is prevented from ever finding peace with her powers by the narrative.

She doesn’t have to fight a war ‘because of her powers’. She has to fight a war because her people are fucking oppressed. Laying the blame on what makes her different instead of the people who have singled her out because she is different indicates a severe lack of understanding in regards to racism, persecution, and oppression.

Her powers didn’t become so corrupt that they failed her in the end. She didn’t see the consequences and choose peace to avoid them because she wasn’t allowed to see anything at all. Her path was decided for her before she could even look down the other.

People focus on Alina and her powers because that is the story. It is a story about realizing something crucial about yourself that has been kept from you and repressed your whole life. It is an incredibly important story to tell. It is a coming of age story about self realization and self actualization and finding agency after a life where you realize you had none.

Blaming Alina being grisha for why she is stripped of her grishaness is fundamentally flawed argument. If the greed for power was what was supposed to be punished, then she would only have lost that which she sought in her greed. And if a balance needed to be reached, then there would be just as many sun summoners as shadow summoners in the world. Because she lost more than that and because of the discordance in thematic symbolism, the message becomes a punishment not for “greed” (which shouldn’t have even been the message in the first place for a plot and setting like this), but for something else. It becomes a punishment for her being grisha and coming to love and accept herself for it. It becomes a punishment of reveling in one’s difference. It becomes a statement about living outside of the boxes society tries to place people in. It becomes a message about oppression and assimilation on the side of oppression and assimilation.

The most important criticism about the ending will always be about the framing of Alina losing her powers. Alina choosing peace and love over power as a message would only have been able to work if Alina had been able to choose it. And to do so she would have had to choose it when she still had her powers. That is the only progression her developmental arc of “choosing peace and love” could have taken if it didn’t want to become regressive and strip her completely of her agency.

[galebrainrot2024]

Gale x Tav Enemies to Lovers Part 11

Next part of the enemies to lovers fic, enjoy!

Tav POV

Content Warning: Parental Death

She came to in Shadowhearts lap. Her body twitched and she inhaled as if she had been holding her breath. 

Tav jolted up, seeing Shadowhearts startled face. “Good evening to you, too.” Tav felt the gentle grip on her shoulder and the cool moss of the Underdark, “How are you feeling?” 

Tav wasn’t sure. She couldn’t find a single word, a single sensation. She felt empty. “I don’t know.” 

“I wasn’t sure if I should stick around, but I wanted to make sure you were okay.” Tav heard Karlach’s sheepish voice. It struck a nerve, allowing the memory to return. Her emotions remained steadied and Tav furrowed her brow, detecting Shadwoheart’s spell. 

Ah. 

Without the fuss and intensity of anger and grief, Tav was able to wipe the fog and see more clearly. She felt ashamed of herself, knowing she was blinded by pain that wasn’t even Gale’s doing nor Karlach’s. Tav gritted her teeth and groaned. He’d want another apology. 

“No, I’m sorry. I.. it’s my own fault.” Tav brought her knees to her chest and rested her cheek on them. “I didn’t tell you what it was. You weren’t to know.” A heavy sigh shook her and Shadowheart rubbed her back in small circles. It made her feel like a child again and she shut her eyes, a quiet, fat tear falling from them. 

“You don’t have to share anything you don’t want to,” Shadowheart cooed.

Karlach piped in, trying to lift the cloak of somberness: “Or, do.”

Tav opened her eyes and saw Gale by the fire. This time, his body was turned to fully face her. As if he’d been watching, waiting for her to wake. Her eyes trailed up his legs and flicked for a moment where they shouldn’t’ve. A blush spread across her cheeks and rose her eyes. They were met with his. 

In them, before he was able to register that she was awake she saw pain. Shame. And… 

She wasn’t sure how long she sat staring at him. His eyes were like black corridors, and he did not look away. It felt as if she’d been shocked, as if he’d cast chain lightning - a spell far too advanced for either in their current state. 

That was maddening, too, on top of it all. To have been ripped of ability and forced to start anew all because they were on the receiving end of a very unpleasant insertion in the ocular region. 

She started when Shadowheart tapped her lightly to remind her where she was. “Oh gods..” Tav gasped and she watched Gale look away. His face was flushed. She watched as he pulled off his sweater, revealing a very loose, white linen shirt beneath. The orb was more visible, the shirt lower - more open. It made Tav’s breath slow and she felt a rush of blood. “Sorry, you startled me. Um..” she turned her face back to the two and felt her cheeks burn. “It was my father’s. A keepsake. I don’t really talk about him so I wouldn’t expect-“

“Oh hells if I had known!” Karlach exclaimed, distraught. 

“It’s okay!” Tav insisted and stood, brushing herself off. “It’s okay. You didn’t know. And, you were doing a far more noble thing. If it weren’t for you, who knows what might have happened. You did what you thought was best and the ring wouldn’t have brought my father back.” She fingered the amulet on her neck, pushing back the tears that threatened to come. “It’s just a thing.” She murmured the last words, a lesson instilled in her early. The value was in people and beautiful moments with them. Things would always come and go; time with friends was never guaranteed. “I’m sorry. But you’re not the only one I owe an apology to I’m afraid…” Tav shut her eyes and rolled her shoulders back, tilting her neck side to side. She took a deep breath and walked towards the fire. 

*** 

“Come to yell at me some more?” Gale’s words stung and he was hard at work, preparing another meal for the otherwise unhelpful companions. Although Gale did always shoo them away, insisting it was easier to do it himself. Tav was a terrible cook, even with a full kitchen. It was something she admired about him, although she hadn’t told him so. The way Gale made food was like to an artist taking brush to canvas. Even with pitiful rations. “Or to blame me for things outside of my control?” Although his voice was cool there was a playful edge to it and a flutter swept through her. 

Tav knew she had earned his callousness, especially after how she’d treated him. She held so little regard for his condition, how that must have felt to be cast aside while that thing fed on him from the inside out. She shuddered, consumed by the guilt - so blinded by her own ego to see. 

He was knelt over the fire, bringing the stew to a boil and wiped a bit of sweat from his brow. Despite the Underdark being a touch cooler than the surface, Gale seemed to be warm. He hadn’t taken off his purple over shirt in their travels thus far so to see him in a more revealing shirt was… a little thrilling. Tav tried to avert her eyes from the way his shirt cut down his chest, exposing the tendrils of the orb and more she cleared her throat, meeting his gaze warily and felt her mouth water.  

“Ah, you’re here for an apology. Twice in less than a ten-day! I don’t know if I should be flattered, concerned, or a little frightened.” Gale’s lips hooked into a crooked grin and he brushed his bottom lip with his thumb, eyeing her curiously. It was as if the world stilled again. This desperate, inexplicable pull she felt towards him would be her undoing. Despite the agitation, the distaste, there was something more potent that stirred between the two. 

“Perhaps all three,” Tav said, biting her lip. “I am.. I am sorry. I shouldn’t have reacted like that.” 

“Oh, well,” Gale rose and walked towards her. He towered over her for a moment, the two locked on one another, “I didn’t take it entirely to heart.” The air between them seemed to spark. Tav was unable to look away and as if by divine force took a step closer. “Apology accepted,” Gale said and leaned in a way Tav thought he was about to kiss her but he brought his fingers to her cheek, brushing something away. “Just a bit of dirt. Sorry,” he mumbled and broke the moment, turning from her. 

“It’s a nice night,” Tav said, looking to make amends beyond a simple apology. She sat beside him as he worked. Their knees brushed against each other and she felt her stomach churn and warmth rush through her. 

 “Oh, it’s quite beautiful.” He sighed, a soft smile on his lips, “Nothing like a frequent brushes with danger to make one appreciate the majesty of the celestial canvas.” Gale seemed to press his leg against hers although neither moved. “She preferred it when we were alone, curled up before a crackling hearth with some ancient, esoteric tome between us, ink glinting in the firelight… ” he trailed off and Tav coughed up a laugh. 

“I’m sorry, who? Mystra?” Tav scoffed, rolling her eyes. 

“Gods no! I’m talking about Tara, my Tressyum.” 

“Oh, right,” Tav smirked as the memory unfurled before her, “It was always Tara this, Tara that.” 

“Well, if you knew her perhaps you’d understand why. She’s brilliant. Formidable personality - reminds me of you, really.” Although Gale’s tone was mocking, Tav could sense it was in jest. It felt more playful, more alive. Tav edged closer to him, her arm brushing against his. It felt like the fire of the nine hells coursed through her. 

“Was Tara.. all you had for company? You must have been lonely…” It was a feeling Tav was intimately familiar with herself. After her father passed she was left to make her way through the world alone, with not even a Tressyum for company.  

“After I was afflicted with the orb, I locked myself in my tower for an entire year. I was inconsolable, wallowing in my self-inflicted tragedy. Sometimes it was lonely. But I imposed it upon myself, after all.” Gale gazed at her, his pupils wide in the dim purple light. He looked down at her lips and then away, “I set up enough wards to keep an army at bay, never mind the few colleagues who sought to inquire about my welfare. Tara did her best to keep my spirits up of course, but there’s only so much one tressyum can make up for one’s entire social circle. And she was often gone, seeking items to treat my condition. You’re the first people I’ve spent a significant amount of  time with in a year or more. I realize I may have left behind the greater part of my wit and sensitivity in my tower.” Gale sighed and Tav felt herself ache for him, to comfort him. 

She placed a hand on his upper arm and felt his body tense beneath her touch. It made her want more.  “No one came to visit?”

Gale took a moment to answer before speaking in a murmur, his face so close to hers. She could smell the wine on his breath. It was a little intoxicating and made her dizzy. “No... unfortunately not.” Gale said, standing - as she sat on the log, looking up at him in the firelight she felt her breath quicken. “I won’t continue to pain you with my ineloquent tongue and poor company.” 

“If it’s alright with you, I’d.. I’d like to stay. To watch.” Gale’s eyes flashed for a moment and he shrugged before coming his hand through his hair. 

“Suit yourself. Care to help instead of just watch?” He shot her another crooked grin and it made her feel weak. 

“I… don’t actually know how.” She blushed, ashamed at herself and laughed. 

Gale blanched, “You can’t be serious?” He waited a moment before chuckling, his voice raising a bit teasingly. “Oh, you are serious. Well, hopefully you can gain something by watching my poor excuse for meal preparation with what I have here. The one thing this merry band seems to hate -“ Gale rummaged through his bag, pulling out a few miscellaneous glass bottles. “Spices. Any time I’ve added them I’ve heard nothing but complaints. I say we add some tonight... maybe you have a more subtle touch.” 

[midnightsun-if]

How would the ROs react to getting amnesia when they and the MC are together, and the MC is telling them that they are (were, maybe, if the amnesia negates it) in a relationship?

Ohhh… That’s interesting! Especially given some of the dynamics that MC would have with the ROs before ever getting into a relationship.

Koda: He’d be surprised, but he’d probably be the one that’s most accepting of it. Would look to his family to make sure that he wasn’t being duped in any sort of way, but he’d be willing to listen and actively try to ask questions to get to know you and your relationship with him once more. Never knowing that he’s staring at you in the same wonder he always does.

Scarlett: This is going to hurt… Scarlett wouldn’t believe it. If you think you’ve seen her act cold… You haven’t seen anything yet. She’d want you out of her sight immediately, wouldn’t want to hear anything you might say, before shutting down completely. Her being in love? Allowing herself to feel that emotion after what happened? It’s completely improbable. Especially if she fell in love with you. Her mind wouldn’t be able to wrap itself around the idea, even as her heart cries out in agony the moment you turn away. Something that may push her even further into denial. It’d take Scarlett a long time to be in the right headspace to speak with you— even when some part of herself wants nothing more than to have you near the entire time.

Cyrus/Cyra: They’d be alarmed quite frankly. Not fully because they don’t believe you, but they’d be thinking of all the things that must have happened if what you said is true. What happened to Ash? Did their parents call off the engagement? Were their parents okay with them finding a new partner? What’s the state of House Aurelia currently? It’d honestly just send them spiraling into their head, but they’d their best to listen to you throughout it all.

Quinn: They’d listen to what their wolf is telling them. Even if their human side forgot, their wolf wouldn’t. If their wolf recognized you as their mate (or potential one) then they weren’t going to argue. It’d still take them time to figure everything out, to wrap their head around what’s happened, about how much they’ve clearly forgotten, but they’d settle knowing that they’d have you by their side.

Caden: Forgetting isn’t new to them. Being forgotten even less so. But knowing that they’ve forgotten someone so clearly important to them? It’d fill them with grief that they don’t even fully understand— like a part of them is already mourning something that the rest isn’t even aware is gone. Caden would try their best to listen to you, to be an active participant, but you’d see a far-off expression in their gaze more often than not.

Sloane: All of their previous progress with reconnecting them with their wolf? Everything that they’ve strived to achieve? Would be completely undone. Sloane would refuse to listen to their wolf, its led them astray before, and knowing that their wolf is backing you? It would not endear you to them in the slightest. They wouldn’t want to speak to you, reverting back to anger to try and push you away, because they couldn’t handle all of this right now. All of their jumbled thoughts and feelings alongside their lupine forms own agonized feelings at their human side pushing their mate away.

Blake: They’d be so confused. Not understanding at all what you’re talking about. “We’re best friends, angel. What do you mean?” They wouldn’t believe that they’d push that line with you, something that they’ve never done for anyone— despite how much they care for you to begin with. You’d probably see Blake more in their thoughts after hearing the news, as they trust you too much to question you, or to think that you’re lying, but it’d still fill them with a wave of various emotions (some of them unsettling). It’d be even stranger to feel the swell of emotion that bubbles up within them every time they look at you now— something they’re used to, but it has a different edge to it (which is something they’re not).

Reginald/Regina: Would think that they’re being pranked or something. Would look for either Ashton Kutcher or a film crew. Come on, really? A vampire falling in love with them? The producers couldn’t think of another trope to use, or another potential joke? After they’ve settled down, and you’re able to prove that what you’re saying is true, at least to the point that this isn’t a prank, they’d just be shocked. Not believing that they’ve somehow entered a relationship with a vampire and didn’t even remember it. How unfair is that? You’d be getting so many questions sent your way once some of their shock wears off.

[vampyrial]

A World For Her Alone | Things lost, things beloved

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8

cw (chapter specific): murder, misogyny, infidelity, forced marriage, suicide

pairing: claude x fem!reader

summary: The aftermath of loss takes its toll and with the walls closing in, reader is left with one choice. Whether she knows it or not.

author's note: Felix is reader's knight! How fun! Boy, I sure hope nothing bad happens in this one!

The sunlight was blinding as soon as your eyes opened yet again and you were hit with a horrid feeling of loss. Seconds ago you were hearing your child’s cries, just moments ago. You had lost them. The realization of that sunk in slowly, as slow as the seconds had gone while you had given birth. You were stumbling before you knew it and the world turned on its side before you caught yourself on the table.

“What’s the matter?” Claude said, looking at you with those weary eyes and that wry smile you were all too familiar with.

“Where are they?” You muttered.

“Sister?” Diana looked at you with her wide eyes full of unease. 

“Where is my child?” You could have screamed if only you were strong enough.

Upon seeing your sweet sister’s guileless face, you were seized with a grief bigger than any you had ever known. You grasped her shoulders tightly, squeezing her and looking deeply into those eyes which did not rebuke you nor show guilt.

“You took them from me, didn’t you? It wasn’t enough for you to have him, you wanted the only thing…” You didn’t even finish your ranting before Claude had pulled you off, gripping your arm harshly enough to bruise.

“You don’t have a child yet. No one has taken anything from you,” He uselessly explained, in a disgruntled voice suppressing anger.

You wilted under his grip immediately, tears springing to your eyes as you pulled away. “Please, help me…I–” Your mouth could not find the words to accurately relay the pain you were in. No matter how wanted, no matter how loved, that child would be lost to you forever. And you did not even see their face, all you had to hold onto was the golden hair of a man who looked down at you now with contempt.

You teetered away from the table, nearly falling before Felix, your knight, caught you.

“I’m afraid my lady isn’t feeling well, I’ll see her to her room,” He said simply. His speech was lacking the proper consideration for Claude’s status but he didn’t seem to be concerned. Before Claude or Diana could respond, he was walking off with you.

“You left me, Felix. I was alone.”

“Never, my lady. It is my duty to be at your side” He refuted quietly.

“I never held them...Who did they give my child to? Claude wasn’t there. You weren’t there.”

“I will always be there to protect you, my lady. I have sworn it so.” You had no idea why he was even entertaining your delusions, but he patiently responded as if he didn’t consider you insane although you knew it was just to placate you. In consideration of your feelings.

“Why would you give me your hand in those moments if you knew you wouldn’t be there when I needed it the most?”

“My lady, I promise that I will be there whenever you need.” 

“But you cannot. You cannot save me.”

That quieted him. There was worry in his eyes, something rarely seen. Although you refuted his attempts to calm you, the kindness still brought tears to your eyes when you were alone. A bit of comfort could feel like heaven. A drop of clean water while you had waited in your cell could have tasted like the nectar of the gods then. You would have wept then, too, if only there had been such mercy as you were receiving now.

Your father barred your window. No matter your attempts to assure him that you hadn’t gone insane, he refused to believe them. You were not allowed to leave your room save for going to the library and even so, your knight was to stand inside at all times instead of at the door. All the while, Claude was still visiting the manor. Only this time, exclusively to see Diana.

“My lady, Lord Claude is with Lady Diana again.” Felix brought the information to you with a restless tone as if displeased.

“Ah yes, he’s keeping her company…” You murmured emotionlessly.

“He does so quite frequently without even seeing my lady, will you not say anything to Lady Diana?” He was almost pleading.

“It can’t be helped even if I say something. He is the one who goes to her, mother and father abide the visits as well,” You said, resigned. It couldn't be helped, you told yourself again and again. It seemed like the truth, no matter what feelings bloomed whether yours or Claude's, the path to marriage would remain imminent. What cause was there for your parents to care? Especially if it made Diana happy. “Do you know why it is that my father put bars on my bedroom windows and has you stand at my side constantly now?”

Felix did not answer. “It isn’t because he thinks I’ll hurt myself. It’s because he’s afraid that I will escape.”

“My lady…” He frowned, his brow furrowing.

That much was the truth. Your father wouldn’t be concerned for something as insignificant as your life. It was about making sure that you completed your duties. You wondered, in your past life, had he cared that you died? Most likely not, since you had already given Claude his precious heir and no honor or expense had been lost to the family.

In stillness and quiet, you could still hear your child’s cries. It was so miserable a sound you wanted to claw at the walls and the ground as if it would open up and let you see them again. But your eyes caught Felix’s and remembered the feeling of comfort yet again. You could have drowned in those eyes, you wanted to lose yourself to them and feel nothing. You did. For a time.

It was raining the night you ran away from home. You had asked Felix to take you away. Hand in hand you went into that miserable night and disappeared, relieved to finally be entirely unseen. There was no way the two of you could return to your lives, the two of you would bear each other as long as you were on the run. No longer noble, no longer a knight, the two of you still remain liege and vassal. Felix, until the end, protected you.

But the matter of a missing noble bride to be was a massive affair, it was the loss of many hardwon assets. One that prompted the use of knights scouting their whereabouts. And a house as influential as Claude’s had no shortage of help. Knights spread throughout the country and truly it was only a matter of time before you were found. In the end, it hadn’t been more than a few weeks.

Felix, a knight who dishonored himself with the crime of stealing away the bride of a noble house, was killed on sight. Without comrades, a single sword against many, he was done in quickly. Not without blood which splattered lightly on your dress and leaked onto the ground in a pool that ran from the downpour. Over without a flinch from the hand holding the sword.

You yourself were brought back, despite the enormous scandal. When the knights who apprehended you brought you to Claude’s manor, you sat before his mother.

“Everyone has unavoidable duties, every occupation has its purpose. That knight fulfilled his, I suppose, dying for his master.” She laughed lightly as if it were only a foolish thing he’d done.

“It’s true that you were the one learning the skills necessary for your station,” She continued. “But our house was always the one who bore the burden of your education. Did you think these things meant nothing? The tutors, the books, the tools, they were worth money — money that our house invested on the condition of your marriage.”

“Not only did we invest our wealth, but our time. What has it been, 13 years to make you a marchioness? You must understand, my daughter-in-law, you cannot be replaced.”

Her words echoed in your mind. She was right, it was the only reason to accept a woman who’d run off with another man back into her position. A bride was too valuable an asset to lose, let alone one who had been readily imbued with the knowledge necessary. No. Of course they wouldn’t have let her be. And of course they couldn’t let Felix live, in fear that you’d already eloped with him and your very important marriage would be made invalid. From that standpoint, you understood. But you couldn’t stop seeing Felix’s body, trampled on and mangled, disregarded in the aftermath. As if he were nothing at all.

Soon after that, you had been permitted a visit from a girl about as young as you. She looked to be the daughter of a merchant from her clothing, too intricate to be simply commoner clothing and too modest to be noble. She was lovely, with blue eyes and brown hair, wearing what was not quite mourning garb. It looked to be a normal style of dress made black, without a veil or gloves. 

“I was Felix’s fiance,” She began, looking at you through hateful eyes. “We were going to get married once things had settled down with you. I told him that I’d wait, no matter how long it was, I was prepared to be his wife in time. Did you ever think he had someone?” This woman could not even wear proper mourning attire because they were not yet wed when Felix was killed. Their relationship did not fall under those worth mourning, because according to etiquette, they did not yet have one. They were two young people waiting to become part of each other’s lives officially.

You couldn’t offer useless sorries, your mouth would not form words.

“What a tragedy Felix was dealt, having you as his lady,” She spat, paying no mind to the tears rolling down her face as she wrung her handkerchief in anger. Why had you not considered that Felix had obligations of his own? A marriage must have surely been struck between his family and hers as was not uncommon in wealthier common and lesser noble families. You had taken Felix’s pity for something more than the loyalty that it was. He took your hand and helped you to escape because you were the lady he chose to obey. You had made him flout his duties with no consideration. 

You had wept as you walked down the aisle, the wedding had been moved up in light of the scandal. They did not want to give you even half a chance to run away again. Silent tears fell as you gazed with eyes as lifeless as a doll’s, at the altar.

“Why are you the one crying when I’m the one who was betrayed?” Claude had remarked sharply at your tears, certainly disgusted though he did not show it. The onlookers and witnesses of your wedding were there to gawk at the mess of a girl who tried to run away and cheat her fiance on her promise.

After the wedding, you had been left alone finally by Claude who reviled you and your in-laws who had been satisfied to see the wedding had gone through. You could not function as the marchioness, not with the guilt weighing on you on top of everything. Nothing had changed for the better, you had added new problems to the ones you already had. The image of blood being washed away by rain, mixing into mud, haunted you. It had rained the day of your wedding too. And had you simply imagined that it had every day since? The storm sounded like wailing, like that of a newborn.

You tore the sheets with your teeth and wove them into makeshift rope. 

tags: @kage-tobiuo @kreishin @rosephantomhive @yeahdrarry @splaterparty0-0 @dear-dairiess @qluvrv @hafsuhhh @eissaaaa @ayolk @doan-19 @fourcefulcupid @ariachaos @cerisearan @irisspade @yaesflorist @jcrml @xiaosprettygf @yevenly @amaris08atoshi012022 @obsessed-with-a-fictional-man softbummiee

Next

[burntsecrets]

favorite crime

Pairing: Galadriel x Halbrand x Sauron

Word Count: 1267

Prompt: I thought of this story idea while driving home and listening to “Favorite Crime” by Olivia Rodrigo.

Summary: Galadriel grapples with accepting Halbrand's true identity as Sauron and the fact that everything between them was a lie. Or was it? 

Warnings: SPOILERS FOR SEASON 2, betrayal, emotional manipulation, psychological trauma, self-blame, heartbreak, implied violence, fall from height, grief, identity deception, toxic relationships, existential crisis, power dynamics, introspection on trust and betrayal, disillusionment

The storm had not yet passed when Galadriel stood alone on the cliff's edge, her golden hair whipped by the winds that howled like wraiths. Below, the sea churned and frothed, dark and unforgiving as the memories that haunted her. She had once found solace in these waters, but now they only served as a reminder of what had been lost—and what had been betrayed.

Halbrand.

No—Sauron.

The name was a blade that cut deeper than any sword. She had known him under the guise of a king, a broken man seeking redemption, just as she had sought her own. Together, they had formed an unspoken bond, forged in the fires of battle and tempered in shared ambition. They had walked side by side, the weight of destiny heavy on their shoulders, and in those moments, Galadriel had allowed herself to hope—to believe that maybe, just maybe, there could be peace.

She had let herself hope—truly hope—for the first time in an age. He had seemed different, a kindred soul bound by loss and a desire to set the world right. He had been a warrior at her side, the strength she had leaned on when her own faltered. They had stood as equals—or so she had believed.

She remembers the moment after the battle when the dust had yet to settle, and the skies above were still blackened with smoke. Their victory had been hard-fought, their enemies defeated, and for one brief, fragile moment, she had allowed herself to feel something other than her endless drive for vengeance. 

Halbrand had looked at her then, his eyes searching hers with a kind of intensity that made her chest tighten. “What we did today,” he had said, his voice rough, ragged with the weariness of battle, but also something more. “Fighting side by side with you... I’ve never felt anything like it. I’ve never felt more alive.”

His words had struck something deep within her, something buried beneath layers of grief and anger. It was the same for her. In that moment, with him, she had felt alive too—more than she had in centuries. She had wanted to tell him then, to put words to the storm of emotions that had swirled between them. And she had. Against all her better judgment, she had whispered, “I felt it too.” And she had felt it too—the connection, the spark, the fire that had burned between them.

But that hope had been a lie. He had been a lie.

A lie he had wrapped around her, like chains forged from her own longing. He had let her believe they were fighting the same battle, for the same cause. He had let her believe that he was someone worth saving, someone who could be redeemed. 

But the man she had fought beside wasn’t real. He was a mask, a deception so carefully crafted that even she, with all her wisdom, had been fooled.

She closes her eyes against the stinging wind, but it cannot shield her from the memories. The feel of his hand gripping hers as they sailed to Númenor, the way he had stood at her side in council, his presence a quiet strength she had come to depend on. She had been a willing accomplice, trusted him with parts of herself she had sworn to keep hidden. She had let him into her heart, her mind—had let him believe that he could be something other than what he truly was. She had given him the power to hurt her, and he had done so without hesitation.

It had been foolish, a weakness she could not afford. And now, she paid the price.

Her heart pounds as the memory of their last confrontation resurfaces. The way his true nature had unfurled before her like a storm cloud on the horizon. His face—the last thing she saw before she fell— eyes wide, lips parted in shock. She had thought, for a fleeting moment, that he was reaching for her. But as the bitter truth sank in, she knew better. He wasn’t reaching for her. He was reaching for the ring clutched in her hand.

She remembers falling, the cold air biting at her skin, her body hurtling toward the churning sea below. The storm above her, the chaos in her mind, all of it blurred together as she clung to the one truth that shattered her: Halbrand was an illusion, and Sauron had been there all along.

And yet... she had let him in.

How could I have been so blind?

She hits the ground harder than she expected, her body shuddering on impact, but it’s the pain in her heart that sears the most. When her eyes flutter open, the storm still rages above, the wind howling, and yet, there is a moment of quiet within her—a cold, sinking realization. Sauron hadn’t been reaching for her. He was reaching for the power she held, the power that could tip the balance of Middle-earth into darkness. He had used her as he had used everyone.

She sits up, her fingers still gripping the ring, her breath coming in shallow gasps. The ache inside her chest is heavy, and yet, the betrayal has sharpened her, hardened her. She had fallen for his lies, for his false promises, for the man she thought he could be.

But now, all she feels is a hollow emptiness where hope once resided.

The sea roars beneath her, and she rises on trembling legs, her gaze locking on the horizon. She wonders, not for the first time if he had ever truly cared. If the betrayal was hers alone to bear. Did he regret it? Did he feel anything for her at all?

The answer comes to her with a cold clarity. No. Sauron felt nothing but the insatiable hunger for power, and she had been a pawn in his game. Her loyalty, her trust—he had used them against her, twisted them to his will, until she had crossed lines she swore she never would. She had defended him when she should have walked away, stood by his side when others saw the truth she had refused to see.

Her loyalty had been unwavering. And for what?

For this moment—standing at the edge of the world, the taste of betrayal bitter on her tongue and the knowledge that she had loved the lie he had spun so masterfully.

Even now, as the storm echoes around her, she cannot fully shake the connection they had shared. It lingers, like a shadow, whispering in the back of her mind—a bond built on lies, but real enough to hurt, real enough to scar. Despite everything, despite the betrayal that had cut so deep, she had loved him—loved the man she thought he was. And worse, part of her still does. 

“How foolish I have been,” she thinks, the wind tugging at her as if it wants to pull her into the sea. But she will not let it claim her. No, not yet. Sauron may have left her broken, but she would not remain that way.

She had fought for him once, fought for the man he had pretended to be. Now, she would fight against him. Because despite everything, despite the lies, she would undo the darkness he had left in his wake.

The storm rages on, and so does she.

But even now, as she walks away from the cliff’s edge, there’s a part of her that knows the truth—the cruelest truth of all.

She had been his favorite crime.

And worse still, he had been hers.

[ae-neon]

Idk if you like unsolicited opinions in your inbox but I desperately need to be heard, and I know you also have opinions on rewriting these books so here goes nothing (this is a ramble and also kinda long, so don’t come for my grammar thanks and my bad lol). If I were the author, I would have made this story (the first book at least) about love. Much like the original one is, but a different one.

Amarantha loved her sister dearly, and her sister loved a human. Then, her sister was killed by that human (if I’m remembering the facts correctly). And Amarantha, who loved no one and nothing but her sister, drowned in her grief. She sought revenge against Jurian, but that wasn’t enough. Just killing him wasn’t enough. She had to carve a hole in his heart, one that could match the one he had carved onto hers. So she sets her visions on the lands south of the wall. The human lands, which he so desperately had wanted to protect. Humans that, just like Jurian, can only ever lie and have never loved anything in their lives as much as she loved her sister. She feels justified in her anger towards the humans in this way.

BUT, the fae cannot lie (bcs they’re the fae) and their vows are binding. The humans and fae have an agreement: that the fae keep to the north of the wall and the humans to the south.

Amarantha knows she can’t just waltz into prythian and go over the wall, because she’s fae and the vow extends to her. She doesn’t have to uphold that agreement, but the high lords do, and they would never allow her to break their (and their predecessor’s) word.

So she tricks them. She’s a diplomat, an ambassador, until she reveals herself to be an enemy, but by then it’s too late and they are under her curse.

But tamlin, whose mother was a human who sang by the wall and enchanted his father, argues against amarantha’s reasons: he says humans can love truthfully, just like she loved her sister, and he is living proof of that.

So amarantha makes a deal. If he can prove her wrong, then the curse is broken. If a human, who has every reason to hate a fae, comes to love one, then he wins.

And things go in a similar way to the originals story, except towards the end.

Even if feyre had gone utm with tamlin and proclaimed her love for all to hear, amarantha would simply say she’s lying, because it is in a human’s nature to lie, and their words can never be trusted. But she extends a different challenge for feyre to prove herself.

And amarantha is smart. She’s a war general, she has lived for centuries, she has made every high lord bend to her will. She wouldn’t give a simple riddle to a human. At the very least, she would challenge her to a duel. Because there’s no way feyre’s scrawny ass can even lift a sword, much less fight a centuries-old general.

And they fight, and amarantha plays with and taunts feyre, because she enjoys being proven right.

But then, nesta and elain show up. They’ve come to save their sister, because despite it all, they still love each other, and nothing will change that (their relationship and the matters of helping around the house are also changed in this version so).

Amarantha is furious. Not because they showed up, but because she has been proven wrong. Because all it took for her to realize that humans can love truthfully is for the archeron sisters to show her. Because she sees in them the same love she held for her own sister.

And in her rage, she deals the final blow to feyre. But that does nothing, because she knows, deep in herself, even if she doesn’t speak it, that she was wrong, and humans can love truthfully and deeply, and the curse is broken.

She fights and fights, but in the end she dies, and there’s a sort of relief as she goes, because now there’s no more holding the weight of grieving wherever she goes. Now she can see her sister again.

Feyre is reborn and all that jazz.

But in the end, it was not her love for tamlin (or amarantha’s) that drove the story, but the love between sisters and their unbreakable bonds. It was not because or for a man, but because of sisters and other women.

(Riceman also doesn’t really pay a big part is this version, but then again his cannon self is insufferable. If he were to be here, he would be very different).

And maybe feyre doesn’t go back to the spring court to marry tamlin, and she doesn’t get dragged around by men so she can be a part of the plot. Maybe it’s her own determination to reverse the fae rebirth, to become human again and live as she lived with her sisters south of the wall, that drives the plot forward as she searches for a way (and stumbles upon tales of the cauldron and its powers and second book stuff).

Oh Anon you've hurt and healed me 💚

You and anyone who knows my blog, know I can go on and on about fixing this series and I love everything you just said

[In the still MIA rewrite, I have planned to have Amarantha working on bringing Clythia back, compounded with her unnatural immortality - she starts obsessing and losing her mind]

Also I am forever maintaining my Amarantha was the Queen of Hybern theory - I'm convinced Amarantha was the series original overarching antagonist and that Rhysand was originally the evil High King.

Because just like you said, it's about women and sisterly love. Feyre was supposed to be the hero and Amarantha was supposed to be the villain

Instead, for the sake of a bad romance, they get replaced by men and suddenly it's Rhysand Vs The King of Hybern

The nameless KoH had no reason to turn Nesta and Elain into Fae but Amarantha would if she were trying to prove a point. If she were trying to prove to even just herself that human hatred overruled their love, then turning the people Feyre loved most into Fae would make sense

Instead we get KoH creating two god level creatures to form a (fake) alliance with other humans...even though he wants to enslave humans... and then he immediately loses these two living nuclear weapons to the people he had no trouble incapacitating without even getting up from his chair... IT MAKES NO FUCKING SENSE

Even Jurian's resurrection is more tied to Amarantha and Feyre than it is to the King of Hybern and Rhysand.

[sushisocks]

since sean was the first to die(rip king😔), we never rly saw him deal w the death of the other members. how do you think a situation like that would go and who's death would impact him the most?

Oooh boy, what a great question!! 

So, I do think Sean would feel obligated to keep things light, but we also KNOW that he’s the one that likes to remember people and talk about the ones he cared for. I can 100% see him being the main push for letting people feel grief in a safe manner; Sean would be the one sitting at the campfire telling funny and heartwarming stories about the dead person, and encouraging other people to open up and share stories too.

At the same time, I 100% see him being weighed down HEAVY by certain deaths in private. If he survived past Arthur’s death, for example, that would absolutely rock his world. Same with Lenny’s death; if not from a shipping perspective, simply because Lenny is the youngest gun, is smart, and a friend of Sean’s. I think that would put some things in perspective for him real quick, and internally he’d be having a REAL bad time. Thing is, Sean isn’t really one to show a whole lot of negativity, so I don’t think this would be apparent to anyone who didn’t know how to look for it.

Additionally, I do genuinely think both Kieran and Molly’s deaths would hit him HARD. I’ve talked with several friends now about how Sean, Molly, and Kieran do all three have a connection with Ireland, and probably did feel a faint sense of kinship over it. Molly feeling unsafe and more alone after both Sean and Kieran dying right after one another makes a world of sense, even if she wasn’t really close to either of them, simply because of what they represent to one another. I can imagine her death hitting Sean in a similar way, and Kieran’s death would also absolutely sour certain things for him – ESPECIALLY since if you get all their possible interactions over the course of Horseshoe & Clemens Point, the two DO actually develop a repertoire between one another. 

Hosea’s death is a rough one, I think. Sean and Hosea’s relationship is of great interest to me, because there’s a LOT of conflict there, and Hosea is definitely among the– Less kind gang members, to Sean. Still though, Sean does clearly have some regard for Hosea as a wiser older man, as shown by him actually asking Hosea about their situation, clearly seeking advice and/or comfort regarding it. In large part I think Hosea’s death would be somewhat overshadowed by Lenny’s, to Sean at least, but there would very much be a sense of… Indignation, maybe? The context of this being one of the founding members of the gang, Dutch’s partner in crime, this voice of authority, now dead for what? 

Sean, at his core, is a people person. There’s no way any of the deaths wouldn’t leave an impression.

One thing I can then see happening is… A sort of disillusionment for Sean, when it comes to Dutch & the gang? Imagine all these rapid rate deaths of people you care about, and when you look to your leader he doesn’t really… Do or say anything? About it?? 

I think, similarly to my reasoning as to why I think Sean would’ve sided with Arthur in the end had he gotten that far, Sean isn’t as fully sold on every aspect of Dutch’s talk nor as fully invested as Arthur and John are (with their specific daddy issues lmfao). That WOULD allow Sean to grow more critical, and as more people die, I can imagine us actually getting to see Sean possibly become more– Well, for a lack of a better word, more Arthur-like. “He’s just a younger version of you” and all that, here’s Sean at around the same age Arthur was when he lost Eliza and Isaac, watching people that matter to him die through a failure of leadership, if you will. It makes sense to me that Sean would start harboring a similar sense of anger, that would probably start grounding him a bit more. 

This is all obviously assuming that Sean survives and everything happens the exact same way, which, as I’ve talked about before, I think is extremely unlikely! But it’s an interesting thought experiment for sure!!

Thank you so much for this question!! I enjoyed writing this a lot, and Sean’s potential journey in the story when surviving his scripted death has always been a point of deep fascination to me, so I LOVE getting to think abt stuff like this!!!

[dandelion-blues]

The Souls of Death

Intro:

Lord Death's soul fragment split in two. One was Death the Kid, and the other would become Percy Jackson after the twin fragment was taken from Death.

Death, though, won't rest until his other child is found. If only the fates didn't need a son of Poseidon to be born more powerful than just being a demigod would allow.

PJO x Soul Eater crossover fanfic

First - Next Chapter

Chapter 2: To Accept Death

Percy has always felt this itch in his skin like his body wasn't fully his.

It wasn't that he didn't like his body, that he minded being a boy or anything like that either. Though Percy wasn't sure if he would mind being a girl either. It was never really something he thought of, as such thoughts were repressed after all Gabe did to him.

Percy just barely even accepted that he liked both boys and girls. That his idolization of Luke when he was twelve was actually a crush. Of course that was long since burned to ashes when Luke tried to kill him. It hurt all the worse when the one he looked up to the most tried to throw him away like he was garbage!

Percy breathes in deeply, focus. He's thinking about how weird he feels in his body. Like there's something wrong.

Percy thought maybe it was just a demigod thing, that being close to divinity made their bodies feel too small, too miniscule, but apparently only Percy felt that way.

Even Thalia never expressed feeling in such a way. Sure Percy didn’t know Thalia that long, as it was another around half a year ago that she stopped being a pine tree, but Thalia and him become really close on the quest to save Artemis and Annabeth.

Still, Percy felt that he wouldn’t get the chance to ask again because the gods were voting to end his life. 

Percy sighs, he wished he would have been able to find out what made him feel so different, so wrong. But he guesses it’s too late for that.

Thankfully, Thalia was safe and even joined the Hunters of Artemis. And the prophecy about a half-blood of the eldest gods could wait for someone better and more needed to fulfill the prophecy.

At least in this, Percy could be relieved, for only his life was at risk. It was really for the best.

Percy knew the majority wouldn’t vote in his favor. Sure, his dad, Artemis, and maybe Hermes and Apollo would, but he couldn’t see anyone else really caring. Percy just wished he could tell his mom goodbye.

The dread grew in his heart, and his body felt heavy like he was carrying the weight of the sky once again. His body ached, his bones creaked, but his resolve remained strong. Percy’s been ready to die since he was young. After he let Bianca die on this quest, after he though his brother Tyson died, after he thought he failed all the people up on the Arch when he couldn’t kill the Chimera, after Gabe beat him itches from his life.

Percy didn’t want to see how the gods voted for his life, but he couldn’t find it in himself to look away. He saw the gods towering over him in their godly forms, sitting high and mighty as they voted to end his life. His father and Artemis instantly raised their hands to spare his life. Apollo and Hermes soon followed after.

The air held tension, for it wasn’t nearly enough to spare Percy’s life. 

Except, another god surprisingly raised their hand. One Percy would have never guessed, for all Percy’s antagonized him, Dionysus voted to save his life in the end.

However, it wasn’t enough, and Zeus smiled evilly. He was in a celebratory mood, and Zeus spread his hands, “And so the gods have voted. Percy Jackson shall die.”

“Brother-,” Hestia calls from her hearth.

“Silence!” Zeus thundered, and Hestia’s hearth became mere embers.

Percy gave her a small, thankful smile, but she just watched him with sad brown eyes, and so Percy prayed one last time to his father, tell my mom I love her.

Percy looked at his father, and just this once, the seas in his eyes didn’t hold untold emotions. They held a war of sadness, grief, anger, and pride. 

I will, Poseidon told his son, his voice a promise echoing in Percy’s mind so he could finally die in peace. 

Then, Percy looked at Thalia, Annabeth, and Grover one last time.

He saw them try to run to him, screaming his name. All Percy could do was smile, not watching as Zeus raised his master bolt and fired it at Percy.

It was supposed to be instant and all-encompassing. Lightning searing through his veins. His molecules vaporized, and then Percy would be no more.

At least that’s what it looked like when Zeus stuck and Percy was gone.

Poseidon was raging, the seas and storms never letting a moment of peace. Artemis and Apollo and Hermes were furious for the one they were seeing as a friend, for one who has already done untold good.

Hestia felt deep sadness, and the warmth in her heart was cold.

This was how they rewarded their heroes?!

Dionysus showed indifference, but his heart broke for the little boy that he didn’t get to see fully grow up, wishing more than ever he could drink to drown his sorrows again.

But none of the gods could hope to fight against the cruel voting, lest they wished to join Percy in his demise.

All they could hope was that he rightfully reached Elysium as he deserved and could finally be at peace.

The mortals, however, saw no bittersweet ending for Percy to finally rest. They felt all consuming sadness and bitterness and rage start to fill their hearts. 

Annabeth and Thalia were sobbing in each other’s arms. Grover collapsed on the ground in great sobs, not even realizing that the link between him and his best friend meant he should have been dead.

Then, as Zeus, Hera, Ares, and Athena were cheering in victory and the other gods were either indifferent or distraught, all the gods went unnaturally still as eerie laughter filled the throne room. The laughter seemed to echo from all around.

“Hahahahahah,” feminine voices laughed.

“Hahahahahah,” their laughter increased, coming closer and closer.

The gods prepared to fight as a bright searing light encompassed the throne room.

Finally, the gods paled, seeing who the laughter belonged to. The sisters of fate. The all-knowing. The weavers are all who live.

The fates laughed, their voices like the wails of dying men, “You just doomed all your chances to live.”

Zeus, especially, went pale, but then his face reddened in anger, “How dare you threaten me!”

Atropos smiled her toothless grin, her voice like a groan in the wind, “It’s not a threat, it’s your fate.”

“I am your King, so change my fate!” Zeus thundered.

“No,” the three sisters laughed, their laugh echoing around and sending shivers down everyone's spine.

“Perseus was the hero who would save your sorry asses, but now it’s time for this world and the gods to end.” Clotho said smiling, her dark eyes glinting with the promise of these awful gods finally dying. They were amusing for a while, but then their cruelty just became a never-ending cycle of annoying repetition. Never changing, never growing. It’s rather boring, really.

All the gods, except those who voted in Percy’s favor, lunged the fates, but chains made them kneel before the sisters.

How stupid are they?

The fates laughed, and the middle sister said one last thing to the gods postering at their heels. Lachesis' hands gripped Zeus’s chin, and whispered a promise in his ears, her voice making even the god's ears bleed, “When the King willingly kneels before mortals, will be when the world finally turns over.”

The fates laughed and laughed and commanded their chains to wrap around the gods’ neck, while the mortals and other gods still on their thrones just watched on indifferently and sadly or even happily as the other’s screamed in pain as the chains marked their skin red.

The gods passed out from pain, scars permanently on their necks. Poseidon, Artemis, Apollo, Hermes, and Dionysus left them there and took the mortals back to Camp Half-Blood. 

Hestia, though, still so kind and good, did her best to heal her broken family.

There was nothing anyone could do.

Poseidon swore to tell Sally their son’s last words. While Hermes would go to inform Hades of the terrible news and also ask to speed up Percy’s judgment into Elysium. The kid deserved at least that much after everything.

Hades, who was supposed to be there for the Winter Solstice, but finally gave up on their family, and Hermes understood more than he wished he did. He just gave up too. This injustice was the final thing that broke the camel’s back. Percy didn’t deserve to die, and now they've doomed all their chances to stay alive. To think that the gods were doomed to die.

While Percy has already saved them countless times. He was 14! He was too young, too good, and he was dead all the same as many demigods before him.

And so the gods started to do more as they pleased, not caring for the King’s orders. They were already going to die. They might as well spend it with their kids and loved ones before their world comes to an end.

<><><>

Awareness came in incomplete patches. Darkness and light warring together in the mind.

Finally, he gasped, his eyes shooting open.

“W-what?” Percy whispered. Where was he?

Percy breathed. What? He could still breathe?

Percy stilled, and he felt his heart thudding in his chest. He was alive?

Okay, that’s… something.

Percy looks around. The sky is pink and purple with the moon? already in the sky, signaling that it’s dusk.

Percy does a double take at the moon and the setting sun. They seem to be breathing and have mouths! The moon even has blood dripping down its? grin.

Percy starts laughing hysterically. He’s gone crazy hasn’t he? Or maybe this is his eternal torture that’s been set up for him by Hades.

After Percy stops laughing, he plops down in the desert sand. Percy digs into the still warm sand to try and ground himself.

Deep breathes in…

Deep breathes out…

Okay, Percy looks up again and does his best to ignore the weird sun and moon, and he gasps as he sees in the distance that there appears to be glowing lights of a city.

Percy feels his heart racing with something akin to hope. Even as he has no idea where he is, hopefully he’ll be able to at least make it to the city and will get some answers.

Percy shakes off the sand from his still quest-ridden clothes.

Percy grimaces, he also really wants to take a shower. If he's alive he might as well have good hygiene. His mom taught him that much at least.

Mom, Percy chokes up. Hopefully she’ll be okay.

For now, though, all Percy has to do is make it to the city.

Hours pass. Hours! The sky is now dark, and a splattering of stars are in the sky. 

It’s beautiful, Percy thinks - aside from the creepy moon.

Finally, though, Percy has reached the edge of the town, but when he takes another step forward it’s like he’s passed through some kind of barrier.

It doesn't slow Percy down, nor is it visible to him, but it reminds Percy of the Camp Half-blood, sending a similar electric buzz down his spine.

Except before Percy can process that this barrier feels alive somehow, all Percy feels is pain.

It sears through his blood and nerves. He doesn't even notice that he is screaming and that his vision is beginning to darken.

Percy doesn't know how long he screams as he feels unimaginable pain. Everything hurts, and he feels like he’s bursting.

Finally, after so much pain, Percy begins falling unconscious, and the last thing Percy feels is someone catching him in their arms, and his pain starts to alleviate, and he somehow feels safe in their arms.

<><><>

Death looked up from his work. It was another long day again at the DWMA. Death makes a show of stretching his old bones like a human, and even gives an animated sigh of relief.

Death sighs, though, to himself in his death room. Death has felt lonely since Kid’s been gone. Death knows that Kid's just on a mission to Egypt and that he’ll be fine, but still Death worries (though he does not fear).

Death was about to retire to his mirror dimension for the night, when at the very barrier of his soul that encompasses his city, he felt someone enter.

Death normally wouldn’t think much of it unless it was a kishan or witch soul, but as soon as the soul entered, the soul started freaking out and was in pain.

Death instantly went through his mirror to travel vastly through the city and go closer to the soul.

Except Death recognizes this soul. He would always recognize it.

As Death's youngest child was in pain, a barrier was torn off their soul. Death never hurried as much as he did right now.

Just as he reached out from the mirror and into the shadows, he saw a young boy like Kid screaming in pain. His once pure black hair glowed now with three white lines of sanzo on the opposite side of Kid’s.

Death hurried towards his son, not having a moment to feel the pure joy of having his other child back. Fury in Death’s heart, how dare those hags seal his child’s very soul? His other son, who had once pure sea green eyes, now shot through with gold.

Death knew that the boy was in too much pain to see him, but still as he reached him and held him close, just as his son was collapsing from pain and into unconsciousness, Death hoped that he could give his child some a kind of comfort and reprieve from the pain, as he resonated their souls.

Here, Death held his other boy close, his son limb in his grasp, but his soul latching on to his father's to heal, as a child would that was still tethered to their mother.

Death still feels fury racing in his very being, but he also feels pure immense happiness as he finally has his son in his grasp.

Death takes them both into the mirror to heal and to stay safely alone. Of course Death doesn’t make the mistake again to let go of his child.

No, Death holds his other kiddo in his grasp, soothing him as he still whimpers and grabs from pain.

“Shush, it's alright my son. I've got you,” Death whispers aloud and in the resonance of their souls.

Death cradles his young son in his arms and in his soul, trying to ease his pain.

Death studies his youngest son immortalizing his face for the first time.

His youngest son is the same age as Kid, but his soul is just hours younger. His body looks so different from Kid's, but there is still a likeness they both share. For one, the pure black hair but with parallel white lines of sanzo, even as his youngest hair curls at his shoulders while Kid's is straight and is short. Also, Death may have only seen it briefly, but his youngest now has the same ring of gold on his outer eye while the inner is green.

Both Death’s sons are still so young and haven't reached their growth spurt for their mortal-like bodies. Both sons seem to hold a favor for more what society considered feminine features as well. Though his youngest seems to have a natural tan, while Kid has naturally pale skin.

Death doesn't know what those hags did to his youngest son or why they sealed his soul? Or why his son is back now? But Death still has revenge set in his very soul.

After all, Death saw the scars marking his skin. Scars that shouldn't exist on a shinigami's skin. He saw how bruised his son's body was and how torn and old his clothes were, as if he's just fought recently and a lot.

Death saw those grey strands on a portion of his son's hair. Grey hair on his fourteen year old's immortal son's head!

Death vowed that the hags would feel his fury, but for now, he needs to care for his youngest son and make sure there aren't any injuries or scars he's missed.

Notes:

Percy finally unsealed his soul!

Also, Death is furious! Things are going to go down!

First - Next Chapter

[redisaid]

Beneath the Blue Moon - Chapter 6

Quarter

Why did you, yes you, vote for the scenario that had so much fucking plot? Why are you so cruel to me and to poor Jaina? In spite of you, I got through the plot and using every goddamn Horde character known to man, and still made it funny to cope.

Please let me write about sad women kissing again soon. A new vote will be up within a few days, so spare a thought for poor, plot-ridden me.

8450 Words

Read it on Ao3!

Grief has made me blind, Cruel, quick, hungry. Who could blame? For I had held, The sunlight in my arms.

The captain’s cabin was richly appointed, small as it was, but Sylvanas had never spent much time there or intended to spend much time there. Certainly not an entire day.

The ship rocked and rocked, accompanied by a steady rhythm of creaks and groans and the whipping of ropes and fabric, accented by the drum of the boots on the aft deck. Though the latter was lessened now as the storm had worsened in the afternoon. All of Dazar’alor’s grand harbor had bunkered down, and Sylvanas, while she was grateful for her Forsaken flagship, thought that perhaps the fat, shallow-keeled barges of the Zandalari no doubt fared better in this storm than she did.

Though she would not be so welcome to hide in their cabins.

And it was just that, hiding. She’d told her rangers she would remain here and wait for word of the Alliance’s reaction. Her reasons for doing so were many. First, of course, was the excuse it gave her to get Clea off her back--that she was resting her injury. The hole in her shoulder was closed now, and no longer seeping black ichor, but the skin still bit tight around where the chain had pierced her when she moved. A not so subtle reminder of how close she had been to losing it all in her impulsive gamble.

Second, of course, was because what had happened was written plainly on her face for all to see. Sylvanas believed her Horde deserved an explanation, and she wished to deliver it to them with a ceasefire. A promise. An atonement. Blue eyes with a purpose.

Lastly, she needed time to think. She had done little of the thinking she’d wanted to do, though.

Mostly, her thoughts were cyclical. Her half-written notes for a speech lay on the desk that had been blessedly cleaned by Marrah upon her return with the requested coffee. Sylvanas had watched her do so with a strange appreciation. How many messes had she cleaned up after? How many had been more vile even than a corpse lain on a table?

That had started the thought that kept bringing her away from the speech--the reason it lay half-finished.

Even this very ship was a testament to loyalty she wasn’t sure she’d ever rightly earned, and certainly didn’t deserve to maintain. The sun tried its best to light up the green glass of the window at the aft of the ship again for her, but the storm had darkened the afternoon to the point where the craftsmanship of the window could hardly be appreciated in its full glory. Her Forsaken had built her a wonderful ship, which she didn’t care to be on or take time to appreciate, and for that, she had blighted their city in a spiteful rage. Her city. A city she had once fought so hard to allow them all to reclaim.

And yet, she knew the shambling survivors of that very city still sang her praises from ramshackle tents and the disused corners of Orgrimmar that they now were forced to inhabit. They still rasped out, “Dark Lady watch over you,” as if she had watched over anything lately.

Sylvanas decided that things had been much easier when she was not fully herself. When all she had was that raw anger, that undying rage that had been left to her, it was easier to be cold and callous and to justify the means to the end. Her soul, their souls, their freedom from death itself, were worth everything--every loss, every slight, every trail of fire left in her wake.

But she had not thought she would feel any differently once it was over. She had not thought she would feel much of anything. She supposed that she assumed it would be like Arthas’ demise, where she’d be made to watch from afar, and to know that justice was done by another’s hand, not hers. Such was the fate of a General, though it had always irked her. Instead of watching champions strike down a monster, though, she thought she would lead another monster toward rewriting creation itself with justice in mind.

Justice, Sylvanas knew now, was too subjective to be trusted. Justice was not written in the tight fittings of the floorboards of this cabin. It was not written in the rolls of fine maps stashed in a scroll cabinet. It would not be written in a half-finished speech, either. Justice did not exist, and would never. At least not for her, not for all she had done and had yet to do. And not for those who sought justice for her actions either. There would be no satisfaction. No mercy. No end.

Sylvanas knew now that this was the way of things, and knew with great certainty just how painful it was for all involved.

As if on cue to save her from further contemplation, the door to the cabin opened, letting in both wind and rain and a good portion of Velonara’s black cloak. She’d remained on guard all day, despite the storm, and turned away any that would seek an audience with the Warchief with a variety of excuses. But after those things, Nathanos’ broad frame filled the door as he muttered and shut it behind himself.

As much as she both dreaded and hoped dearly at what news he brought, Sylvanas mostly decided it was better that she wasn’t left alone any longer. In life, death, and whatever this was that came after, she had always been prone to brooding.

“Report, Ranger,” she offered.

He expected sternness and coolness from her. A part of her knew he worked best under such conditions, prone to mischief as any elf if his orders were left too open-ended. A part of her too, wanted to think of some way to thank him for staying with her. For his loyalty. For whatever it was that kept him tied to her even when she was so clearly broken.

But then again, death hadn’t been kind to Nathanos either. She supposed that they were all a little bit broken in their own ways. Him, maybe a bit more so than others.

Nathanos slicked the water off his coat with his hands, onto the fine floor made by finer men who showed their loyalty to her in how level and smooth it was. Nathanos showed it by tracking in mud.

“Dark Lady,” he offered with a bow. “I am pleased to inform you that the Alliance allowed me to leave intact.”

He spoke Thalassian as clearly and as haughtily as any elf. While many found him boorish and just plain difficult to be around, Sylvanas had always found his sarcasm amusing in a way.

It nearly made her smile. She suppressed the urge, unsure about what to do with it. The Dark Lady certainly did not smile while listening to reports.

“What did they have to say about our proposition?” Sylvanas asked flatly instead.

Nathanos reached into a deep pocket of his coat, and pulled a letter from within it. Just one, but dry and safely kept.

It passed with ease from his stubbed gloved fingers to her slender, ungloved ones, sliding between them as her upturned wrist exposed the glowing moon symbol with the action. But, disappointingly for her and that blue moon, the seal of the letter was bright blue wax, with the lion symbol of House Wrynn, and the neat handwriting of the young king.

Jaina, in her youth, had silly, loopy handwriting that Sylvanas found incredibly endearing. She couldn’t help but wonder if she still wrote that way, like a young girl who would hide hearts in the characters that spelled out the name of her beloved.

Sylvanas suppressed another smile. This was getting harder.

Thankfully, Nathanos decided to continue his report, “I’m afraid you won’t find much in the way of decisions in that letter, just to set your expectations. I am sure the boy king is asking you within it for time to discuss with his allies. The other delivery caused quite a stir.”

“I thought I instructed you to give the Lord Admiral her letter privately, if possible?” Sylvanas asked.

“I did,” Nathanos assured her. “And she still has no appreciation for good sleight of hand--some magician she is. It was the other delivery that caused the problem. Lady Katherine was present, and became quite emotional.”

“Ah,” was all Sylvanas could offer to that. She did not know Katherine Proudmoore, save for Jaina’s brief descriptions of her from their time together, and letters where she lamented how distant she’d grown from her family since coming to live in Lordaeron as a young girl.

Too young, Sylvanas had once felt. And with the intent for her to court a man who was clearly not her soulmate? Despicable. She understood that humans did not value those bonds as deeply as elves, feeling as though they had to make the best of the short time they had, as they did not have a near eternity to find the one they were meant to love. Still, it rang wrong to Sylvanas in a deep way that she could never have forgiven the woman for, even without knowing her.

So yes, she had not thought about what Katherine Proudmoore would think upon seeing the body of her son.

“Jaina took your letter, though. And the coffee. And afterwards made as swift an exit from the scene as was diplomatically possible,” Nathanos continued.

“You did not hear back from her then?” Sylvanas prodded.

“I stayed within range of Boralus for an hour or so, as you instructed. She could have found me if she wished. But she did not,” Nathanos offered with a shrug. “I suspect that she will answer you on her own terms, if she wishes to.”

“I suspect you are right about that,” Sylvanas said with a nod.

He was a surly dog of a man, not so pretty to look at, even after his restoration, and not so inviting to be around--but damn anyone who didn’t give him credit. Nathanos was smarter than he let on, and loyal to a fault. She was lucky to have him still, after all this time, after all these failures and follies.

“Nevertheless, I thank you for a highly entertaining morning,” Nathanos said with another nodding bow.

He was also a chaotic man, prone to laughing both in the face of danger and at the stupidity of just about anything or anyone else. If left to his own devices, he was prone to causing more havoc than harm, and delighted in vexing her other rangers with riddles and puzzles that they had very little patience to entertain.

A complex creature, that is for certain.

“And I thank you for your service, Champion,” Sylvanas offered in return, trying again to be the best impression of the passive, cold leader that he expected.

But again, that was no longer who she was. A smile did not threaten to tug at the Banshee Queen’s lips quite so often. Fond memories never lingered in the edges of her mind. And neither too, did the anxiety that buzzed at the back of her thoughts, mirroring her own, but unlike her own entirely.

What was making Jaina anxious this evening? Her letter? Her mother? Memories of her brother? The moon that no doubt glowed through a mirror image on the back of her hand? The fitful combination of restlessness and deep sleep that she had wrestled with the night before?

Many things, Sylvanas concluded. She had many things to be anxious about. And as much as it grieved her, she could not blame Jaina for failing to reply.

She knew this would take time. She knew that she could not be forgiven for all that she’d done. She knew that Jaina was least likely to forgive her, or to try to understand. But, all the same, the longing that Sylvanas felt for her was nigh unbearable.

Even before she had been restored, it had been there. At first, an empty wrongness that confronted her as part of her undeath--a curse among curses. Then, when she became aware of what she lacked, a nagging itch that demanded to be scratched. A hole to be filled. A hunger no sustenance could satisfy.

Now, knowing and understanding and feeling everything again--Sylvanas still could not have what she wanted. Nor would she force it. No. She wanted Jaina so badly, just to be near her again, but she would have to wait.

Nathanos was right. Jaina Proudmoore was never one to do anything outside of her own terms, and gods help anyone who tried to make her.

“Am I to understand that I’m dismissed then, Dark Lady?” Nathanos said as he came up from his bow.

“With new orders, yes,” Sylvanas said, shaking her thoughts away to more present concerns. She waved the letter at him. “I’ll read this and prepare to brief the Horde on what we plan to do about it. Hopefully they find the conditions amenable. Gather the leaders and have them attend me on the ship tonight at sunset. On the decks if the weather breaks. In this cabin if not.”

“On the decks?” Nathanos wondered. “With Marrah reporting she’s caught wind of Alliance spies watching the ship?”

“I mean to make those spies our allies,” Sylvanas reminded him. “Though your concern is noted and appreciated, I care not if they know what I say to the Horde.”

Nathanos grumbled. There was no more elegant word for it. The man was a grumbler. In many ways like a toddler refused a favorite snack. Even his face was no different, save the beard.

Sylvanas couldn’t help the puff of air that hit the back of her teeth as she looked up at him. A short, percussive laugh. A genuine laugh at his pouting.

She watched as Nathanos’ red eyes took her in, bushy brows furrowing in thought. He said nothing, but obviously contemplated the laugh--the break in a character she wasn’t sure she should bother trying to keep up anymore.

“You are dismissed, Champion,” Sylvanas told him. “Report back when you have informed the Horde, and tell me of their reactions.”

And with that, Nathanos grumbled off into the rain again, and Sylvanas smiled as soon as the door was closed behind him.

Anduin’s letter was brief and polite, as expected. Nathanos was indeed correct in that it asked for time to consider her proposition. It also promised to honor a ceasefire until any decisions were made and to withdraw any aggression from Horde territories or those belonging to the Zandalari until such decisions were reached. In a slightly more surprisingly bold and shrewd move, it invited her to share specifically with him, any information she might care to divulge on the larger threat at hand, so that he might better understand the need for cooperation between the factions on a personal level, rather than explaining to his Alliance that they must just trust in what she had to say.

His diplomacy reeked of Jaina, who no doubt had schooled him in this, and in his want for peace.

Sylvanas smiled again as she put his letter aside, in spite of herself, and in spite of the middling news it offered.

Not a moment later did the door open again, without so much as a knock or announcement, as Clea barged in with more strength and seeming rage than her small form should have offered.

“You let Nathanos in before me?” she demanded as she flipped back her hood, slicking the rain off of it onto Nathanos’ mud tracks as damning evidence.

“You didn’t seem to have any problem getting in,” Sylvanas noted as she gestured to the door that Velonara had been forced to shut back behind her.

“I’ve never been more offended in my life, death, or beyond,” Clea spat, making a grand show of removing her sodden cloak before hanging it on a peg by the door, and yet still managing to make less of a mess of the doorway than the man before her had.

“I love that we have to invent new phrases like that,” Sylvanas drolled back at her, feeling no need to keep character. Indeed, with her long-standing Rangers, she had always been a bit more playful, even at her most severe.

Perhaps it was the human in Nathanos that drove their communications to be more polite and formal. Elves were never really that way with one another. When one lived for thousands and thousands of years, one tended to lose patience for pleasantries pretty quickly.

“I can’t say I enjoy it,” Clea offered as she turned and stared Sylvanas down.

Those red eyes made her feel instantly exposed. And to Clea’s credit, she was. She’d kept her armor off after being stripped of it, and was dressed in new leathers, but nothing else. It had been quite some time since she’d spent this long out of armor. She’d left her arms exposed with a sleeveless top, mostly to allow Clea to come scold and tisk over her shoulder as she knew she would. She had discarded the bandage on it some time ago, seeing no need for the thing now that the wound had closed. Her state of relative undress had also left her wrist exposed for her to toy at tracing the outlines of the faintly glowing moon on her skin, but no one but her needed to know about that.

And while she had contemplated redonning her armor many times over the course of the day despite these things, that didn’t feel correct either. The skulls and spikes of the Banshee Queen no longer suited her. No, that would have to change somehow, as she had. Perhaps she could find something that fit how she felt--stuck in-between.

But there would be time enough for that later.

As expected, Clea’s gaze focused mostly on her shoulder, and narrowed in further as the Ranger approached.

“I have rested and am mostly healed,” Sylvanas assured her.

Clea offered no initial comment as she poked at Sylvanas’ shoulder, and made none further as she flinched slightly from the remaining tenderness of the wound.

“Mostly,” Sylvanas hissed.

Only then did Clea offer her opinion, “But not completely. Doctor’s orders are that you continue to refrain from exercise until dawn tomorrow, and also that you tell the fucking doctor what did this to you.”

“The doctor will hear all in due time,” Sylvanas noted, reaching out to gently push Clea’s hand away from her.

Clea sighed out her disappointment, but at least did not prod the wound again. “What is the point in all these secrets anymore?” she asked. “You’ve run from this dark master of yours. Or stole your soul back from him. Or what-the-fuck-ever is going on. You can at least tell us.”

“There will be no more secrets after tonight,” Sylvanas told her, gesturing down at her half-written speech. Clea didn’t need to know it wasn’t even written to the point of explaining Zovaal quite yet. “So I meant what I said. The doctor will hear all she wishes to hear soon enough.”

Clea’s gaze drifted between Sylvanas’ shoulder and her newly blue eyes before finally settling on the moon on her wrist. Only then did Clea seem to remember another purpose of her barging in.

“The remaining Rangers have all returned from their recall,” she reported. “None of our forces remain in Kul Tiras, save those maintaining the garrisons and outposts there.”

“Thank you,” Sylvanas said in reply. “No trouble with the extractions then?”

“We wouldn’t be your Rangers if there was trouble, well, except for Nathanos,” Clea offered.

This time the smile came easily to Sylvanas’ lips, and she let it. The Dark Lady, the Banshee Queen, the Warchief of the Horde may have occasionally allowed the bantering and subordination that her Rangers so loved, but never encouraged it. She had no time for games, after all.

But a part of Sylvanas has always treasured their little petty innerworkings and pranks and jabs. It was what made them people, after all. People she knew and loved and worried about, and not soldiers in a field, numbers in a ledger. Arrows in her quiver, even, as she remembered saying.

No, she reminded herself, these were her friends.

She could smile around them. Especially at Nathanos’ expense.

Clea, however, was busy looking elsewhere, and didn’t seem to notice, for all the thought that went into it. She stared out the green window at the storm beyond and asked, “You truly think then, that this lord of yours will come to take his vengeance?”

“I am not certain how he will do so, but yes,” Sylvanas answered honestly. “It is only a matter of time.”

“And is that why you ordered us to send some champions over to the Temple of Bwonswamdi?” Clea wondered.

“It is the place nearest to here that is associated with death, so yes,” Sylvanas told her. “I know far less than I wish to about how this works, how he might reach across the planes to exact some sort of revenge. However, I can tell you that I’m quite certain he was behind the Scourge.”

Clea hummed low and monotone. A pensive sound. What else could one do when faced with the prospect of another Scourge?

They both knew well enough what the Scourge had done, how the plague of undeath had rent both their bodies and their homeland and damaged them beyond comprehension. The place where they had fallen still remained a scar on the land--a strip of death and decay in a forest that was otherwise full of life and magic for as long as they had ever known it. Sylvanas had watched, on that same strip of blighted land, as Clea fell near her, finally overwhelmed by dozens and dozens of ghouls.

She’d never felt so powerless as she did in those final moments. Until then, she had felt there was a chance, however small, that she could stop the march of death itself upon Quel’thalas. That she could just try something new, fight longer, fight harder, outwit that foolish prince one more time, and it would be over. But the dead kept coming. He kept bringing more and more monsters to bear. And for all her cunning, all her fighting, all her trying, there were just too many of them and too few of her and her Rangers.

In the end, it had just been her left, cornered and alone. When Sylvanas had died on Frostmourne’s jagged blade, she only thought of Jaina. How terrible this must be for her. How awful it would be to know she was truly alone. Death, as terrible as it was when Sylvanas faced it, was nothing compared to living each day knowing that you’d never be with the one you were meant to be again. That you couldn’t. That your very soul was forever isolated from the thing that had made it whole again, made it shine and sing.

She wondered how Jaina felt when she discovered that this was still true, even though the woman she once loved still stalked the pine forests of Lordaeron, hunting down the living that dared to reclaim the land now haunted by the free undead.

Sylvanas shook her head. Now was not the time to remember those days.

“For that reason,” she continued on, “I think I am justified in my caution, and in my request that we cooperate with the Alliance to prepare.”

Clea had little to say to that, her normally barbed tongue going still. She stood sideways now, searching the stained glass of the window for answers. Sylvanas wanted to ensure her there were none there, as she’d already looked.

“Times are strange, and likely dire,” Sylvanas told her.

“They have been for fucking decades,” Clea finally lamented.

“Wouldn’t it be nice, then, if this was our last battle to fight for a while?” Sylvanas asked, more of fate itself than anything else. “If after this, we could settle with the Alliance. We could just be.”

“Your fancy new eyes are making you too optimistic. What happened to death to the living?” Clea asked.

“I never said that one,” Sylvanas told her. “Though I understand it was popular in the Undercity.”

“Not even about Garithos?”

Sylvanas smiled again. “Maybe a time or two about Garithos.”

This time, Clea caught the smile, then shared it and didn’t seem to know what to do about it. She blinked, red eyes peering into blue, and didn’t seem to be able to process what had just happened.

“I--Sorry. This is weird. You’re still you, but--” she tried to explain as she looked away again.

“I’m like I was before, but still willing to joke about wanting to murder that conceited fuck, and enjoying the fact that we did, in fact, murder him?” Sylvanas finished for her. “Believe me, I’ve been wrestling with it all day. If there were a manual for how to deal with having one’s soul returned to wholeness, I’d love to read it. But, I think that I’m once again a singular case.”

When Clea looked at her again, a flash of sympathy made its way over her features. It was doubtless in the slight droop of her ears, the furrow of long brows, and the brewing concern beneath the red glow of her eyes. In life, Sylvanas remembered them glowing a vibrant blue, hinting at the warmth of gold in some ways--shining and brilliant like Quel’thalas had been.

Had been.

What would Lor’themar have to say to the notion that she still considered it less than restored?

Sylvanas decided that having her entire soul back was overall a very distracting experience.

“Either way, I will tell you what I know, after I’ve had a chance to tell the Horde in a formal sense. Let them have the long and short of it, and I will give you and the rest of my Rangers the entirety of what details I do know, and have Signe share what she knows as well. Perhaps the lot of you can make sense of things where I cannot,” Sylvanas offered.

In truth, the secret keeping of the last few years had worn on her. She did rely on her Rangers for their intelligence, and had done so throughout the course of her life and unlife. It had been difficult to have information she either felt she could not share with them, or that she could not begin to explain. But there was no use in that now. She needed all the help she could get.

All of Azeroth, it seemed, might need all the help she could muster, if she was right.

“I do love a good briefing,” Clea answered with a genuine grin. “And I have missed them.”

“A briefing you shall have, then,” Sylvanas stated. “After the speech. Find Nathanos and make sure he’s doing as I asked in the meantime.”

“Why am I on babysitting duty?” Clea asked with another long sigh.

“Because we both know someone has to be,” Sylvanas told her. “Or he’ll be off making friends with every dog in the city the second his task is done.”

“The Zandalari don’t have dogs,” Clea reported. “They have dinosaurs.”

“The last thing we need is for Nathanos to somehow obtain a dinosaur.”

“On that, I suppose we can agree,” Clea said, relenting and offering a Ranger salute as she turned to don her cloak and leave.

Just as Sylvanas found herself smiling at the image of Nathanos playing fetch with one of the Zandanalari’s great reptilian beasts.

---

The rain was gone by sunset, but left the deck Sylvanas stood upon still wet and smelling of sea and sky. The ship no longer rocked and rocked, and saw no deterioration from the storm. It was still a fine, fine ship, and still one she was happy to take leave of. Still one she was not sure she deserved to have built in her name.

She stood at the railing of the aft deck, looking below as the leaders of the Horde gathered around the lower deck, some not even daring to stray too far from the ramp back to the quay. Each of them had looked up at her with puzzled expressions as they came aboard, then gone to whispering to one another.

Saurfang, the stubborn old bastard of an orc, never took his eyes off her, though, and stared even then as Rokhan whispered something in his ear.

He had no reason to trust her. No reason to trust this change wasn’t another trick or feint. She didn’t blame him. She couldn’t. She couldn’t blame any of them.

Baine Bloodhoof shuffled his massive frame aboard, second to last to attend, and didn’t so much as gawk at her as he just took her in with those big, sorrowful eyes. He always seemed as if he was in mourning for something. Maybe his father. Maybe his friendship with the Alliance. Maybe peace itself.

Sylvanas looked back at him, wishing she could convey some sort of sincerity by just an expression alone. But she knew that he didn’t have that expectation of her either. He shouldn’t, at least.

None of them should.

It was finally the sound of raucous laughter and the exchanging of coins that distracted Baine as he lumbered across the deck, and straight into the back of Gallywix. The Trade Prince was already making bets, and Sylvanas supposed she should take that as a sign he was no worse for the wear after his brush with the Alliance. He didn’t seem to mind his brush with Baine’s hooves either, as he merely turned around, scolded him loudly enough for all to hear, then tried to get the chieftain in on whatever bet he had going with Gazlowe.

An unlikely gamble, but an admirable effort nonetheless.

Lor’themar, of course, was the last to arrive--fashionably late as always. He was flanked by a rather exhausted-looking Lady Liadrin and the perfectly quaffed black hair of Magister Rommath--no, Grand Magister Rommath, lest Sylvanas forget. It was always strange to deal with them now, these people whom she had considered friends in life, who now looked upon her as the others did, with caution and delicacy--the deserved reservation of those who questioned the motives of their leader.

Lor’themar had never looked at her that way when he’d been just another of her Ranger Lords. When he would limp into the infirmary to be scolded by Liadrin, still wearing her priestess robes and not a paladin’s heavy armor. When he’d try to excuse himself early from giving a report, while Rommath waited outside, and insisted that no, he was not late for a date. When he’d come to her office as she worked into the evenings, uniform coat unbuttoned, a bottle of her favorite mana wine in his hands, and remind her that she should, and could, relax once in a while too.

Sylvanas realized then that she missed him and his company with an incredible force that threatened to topple her from her perch on the aft deck. Lor’themar had been her friend. He was her comrade. Someone she trusted with her Rangers and her very life.

And even he gawked up at her with his one good eye like he expected her to drop a barrel of Blight on them. As if she would give up the lives of every critical member of the Horde without batting an eye, all for some scheme, some plan for vengeance that would never come.

And yet, Sylvanas couldn’t blame him.

Nor could she blame the hard scrutiny of Liadrin’s eyes--all holy gold peering from deep, dark bags below. What had her so busy? She had only recently returned from Arathi, and had been otherwise commanded to maintain a defense of Dazar’alor and the Horde forces stationed there in the event of an Alliance invasion. But that was cakewalk for Liadin, surely not enough to keep her up at night.

Or had she been crying?

Another question Sylvanas had no right to ask, and an odd feeling about wondering the answer to. She’d given up that right long ago.

Though the judgment Liadrin threatened had nothing on a much taller figure she ended up standing next to. The imposing Zandalari heiress, Talanji, stood nearly as tall as Baine, and stared harder than Saurfang ever could. She had been suspicious of Sylvanas from day one, and yet they had not yet met in-person. Sylvanas had trusted her advisors and representatives to handle Talanji, and knew better than to face her directly. Talanji was a woman of action and quick decisions, and would have not stood for any deception or vague promises in her dealings with the Horde.

So it was in Sylvanas’ best interest to let this first direct address be as truthful as possible.

Luckily for her, that was the plan. The plan. Right. Time to get to it.

She hadn’t been nervous about addressing a crowd in over a decade. Funny, how much harder some things were, full of tension and regret and unchecked emotions.

Or maybe that was just Jaina, still gnawing at the back of her skull with her own anxiety raging on and on. How Sylvanas wished she was projecting her constant stream of youthful optimism of old, as she so often did when last they were tied. Gods know she could use some of it.

Sylvanas adjusted her armor one last time, still feeling out of place in the skull motifs, but having no alternative. There were many reasons to feel out of place. The eyes on her. The fact that she was the Warchief of the Horde, somehow.

All of it, really.

But now was not the time.

She summoned up a facade that she once used long ago, not clouded by a passive, simmering rage, but projecting confidence she both did and did not have. The mask of the Ranger General, which she’d seen her mother wear long before she’d ever worn it, was both physical and not physical. It was a stance, a face, but also a projection of an image within. An image Sylvanas felt she didn’t deserve to embody, but at the same time, needed very badly to inhabit once again.

“Champions, leaders, valued members of the Horde, and our esteemed Zandalari hosts,” she began, using near the full power of her dual-toned voice to resound over both the ship and into the harbor beyond. “While I am certain you have been left wondering more often than not these days, and have wondered why I have called you all here, I can assure you that today, you will not leave this ship wondering anymore.”

The truth had been such a lonely place. Sylvanas was familiar with that loneliness. She felt it when she’d gone nearly two hundred years without finding her soulmate. She felt it when it had been Nathanos, and not Vereesa or Alleria, who had been the first to come to her after mother’s death. She felt it again when Vereesa sent her the letter after she’d botched their plans at Garrosh’s trial, and told her that she was too broken to mend, too dead to be worth living with. She felt it even before she understood her emptiness, when Jaina wouldn’t look at her in the throne room of the Undercity, even as Varian threatened to end her for all she had done, all he had seen in the supposed rescue the Alliance had come to provide.

“I am sure you have noticed that I am changed. How exactly, I am still attempting to understand. I will not lie to you, not anymore. I have been attempting to bring this about for many years. I have worked not in your interests, but in my own, in seeking what I wanted. I have no doubt you’ve found my recent actions extreme. I have no doubt that many of you disagree with the direction I have moved the Horde in over this last year. Well, I will tell you that I did so for myself, for my very soul.”

Her soul. A flighty thing, full of emotion and chief among those, regret. Regret that she didn’t attempt to snatch it away sooner. Regret that she had at all, for the doom it would now bring upon this world. Regret, too, that she did not understand the entire capacity of what that was, or what Zovaal might do to seek his vengeance against her.

But it was hers again. And it should never have been taken from her. In that, at least, Sylvanas could feel justified.

“I will brief you on the details of what I know later, but know this; I have been working at the behest of a lord of death. A keeper, it would seem, of hell itself, whom I met when I sought to end myself at Icecrown, and found out exactly what horrors await the dead. I have since found out that this lord holds hostage the souls of Forsaken such as I, who were slain directly by Frostmourne. Last night, I was able to free my soul from him, and stand before you made whole again.”

Whole, but dead. A soul in a body that still didn’t feel right. A ghost made manifest on will and rage and cunning, and ultimately, a desire for control. Sylvanas had all the control she could want now, and it hadn’t made anything better, only more complicated.

“I stand before you whole and full of regret. There is no better way to say it. There is no way to atone for what I have done to you, and ordered you to do to others who did not deserve it. I wish there were time for me to humble myself and explain, to beg you to understand and forgive. My actions warrant none of those things, but I also know that we don’t have time for them.”

Sylvanas looked down, watching the sea of faces below bound from confusion to outrage, then back again. She saw Saurfang’s lips working, as if he were about to accuse her of some trickery, and decided she couldn’t afford to pause again.

“I have asked the Alliance to entertain a ceasefire. What I did for myself, and hoped to do for the rest of my Forsaken, has no doubt caused the master I once served great anger. He will come for me, for Azeroth. His goal, as I understood it, was to gain the power to remake reality itself in the image of his choosing. He knows no mercy, and cares not for what he destroys or consumes in the wake of moving toward his intention, which I have now disrupted in my disobedience to him. No doubt this sounds familiar to you. I realize such a course was one I once shared. Well, not anymore.”

Sylvanas’ Orcish still wasn’t the best after all this time, but she appreciated the language for its directness. There were fewer flowery words or complex expressions to trip over. Ideal, honestly, for a speech she struggled to give. There was so much to say. So much to speculate on. But this was not the venue for uncertainties.

Sylvanas had to ask them directly for what she, and the rest of their world needed.

“I ask that you work with me, and work with the Alliance, to help fortify our world against this new threat. The armies of death itself will march upon us, perhaps not unlike they did in the Third War, or perhaps in new and terrifying ways. I know again that I do not deserve it, but I ask you for your understanding and your cooperation in these efforts. Please. For Azeroth.”

A din erupted below, but out of all of them, Lor’themar’s reaction was the first she heard.

“Fuck, a ceasefire?” he shouted back in Thalassian, half at her and half at the rest of his delegation. “Sun bless it. What is she saying?”

Somewhere below his hip, Gallywix and Gazlowe stood, coins in hand, not sure how to go about exchanging them. Clearly the result was unexpected, enough to make even the Trade Prince reconsider the legitimacy of his bets.

“Sylvanas, what is the meaning of this?” Lor’themar asked in Orcish for all in attendance to understand. “Are you saying that your eyes have changed, and obviously your mind, because you’ve regained your soul, that apparently you didn’t have?”

“To make a very long story short, yes,” Sylvanas answered.

“Pardon my language, but what the fuck?” Lor’themar shouted back. “Where has it been?”

“In hell,” Sylvanas answered, again, truthfully.

“What do you mean, hell? What trickery is this now?” Talanji was the one to ask this time.

“I can see there’s going to be a lot of questions. I will answer what I can. Let’s be orderly about this,” Sylvanas cautioned as more voices rose above the clamor.

“How can we believe you, you banshee witch!” Saurfang finally snorted through his tusks. “After all you’ve done, all you’ve killed and left to fester in your wake.”

Perhaps the speech wasn’t what she should have dreaded. “Nathanos,” Sylvanas said, calling him forth from where he stood guard behind her on the aft deck. “See if you can find some refreshments for our guests. I have a feeling it’s going to be a long evening.”

While what she said was meant only for Nathanos, Sylvanas doubted anyone could hear it anyway. At least not over the shouting, and the loud, thunderous sigh of relief that Baine Bloodhoof was letting out.

---

“I must say, though, sun above is it to good to have you back,” Lor’themar went on, despite the fact that Sylvanas had gently reminded him not once, but twice already that she was, not, in fact, back.

No, it was very clear that she was not who she once was in any aspect of her life before, or undeath after. Her eyes might glow a different color, her full spectrum of emotions and the judgment that came with them may have returned to her, as did her connection to the very souls of Azeroth and her inhabitants, but Sylvanas Windrunner was still very much the same woman who had burned Teldrassil and blighted the Undercity, and would not be easily forgiven for either, least of all by herself.

And while Lor’themar’s trust might have returned easily enough for him to linger in the captain’s cabin as he once had in her office in Silvermoon, the rest of the Horde had still been quite cautious of her, even after what seemed like hours and hours of questions she did her best to answer as wholly and truthfully as she could.

She’d even taken time to plan out the course of their ceasefire and cooperative efforts with the Alliance with the other leaders, should they accept. At the very least, the rest of the Horde were eager for the ceasefire, though remained a bit suspicious of one endorsed by her. It was only Gallywix and his war profiteering, who seemed at all disappointed by the prospect. He showed no signs of stopping in his quest to make money off of the war and Azerite, despite his recent brush with death.

Oh, and Talanji, who seemed quite annoyed that the Horde wanted to treat with Kul Tiras, rather than wipe them off the map in Zandalar’s name, as she had been promised.

She threatened that her father would not welcome this news, but Sylvanas felt the troll king would. He had a healthy fear of death about him, that much was certain. A war was a risk he did not take lightly, and he lacked his daughter’s bloodthirst for it.

All the same, Talanji seemed to see more reason after Sylvanas told her of her suspicions of Bwonswamdi. Of how she’d come to hold the title of Warchief, and how Zovaal had been so pleased with himself for the effort. Talanji went deadly silent after Sylvanas remarked that she cared little for who held the title at all, so long as they would listen and keep the peace.

It was all such a tangled mess--these last few years, so interconnected and rotten all the same.

Sylvanas didn’t feel she could swear by the sun anymore. Belore no longer answered her call, but still, she smiled up at Lor’themar from her desk genuinely. That would have to be enough.

“Take heart however you will. I am who I am and what I am,” Sylvanas finally answered. “But I am glad to have your help. You are content then, to deploy some regiments to watch the remainder of the old Scourge sites in Lordaeron?”

Lor’themar grinned to the point it bent the soulmark on his cheek, a glowing thing that he said represented a flaming arrow. Sylvanas always felt it was far more abstract in shape, but let him have his fun. Rommath wearing its opposite along the top of his ear was scandalous enough already.

“Of course!” he answered. “You said you believe the wall between worlds to be the weakest in places where death was settled before?”

“Or where it calls home now, yes,” Sylvanas offered. “I mean to send a contingent to Icecrown Citadel as well.”

“Smart,” Lor’themar concluded.

“You can stop grinning at me like a well-fed cat, you know,” Sylvanas reminded him.

“Sorry, it’s just--This feels like old times. Better times,” Lor’themar offered.

“I fear that ‘better’ is hardly a word I’d use to describe what we face,” Sylvanas said with some degree of certainty.

Only some, of course. She didn’t know how Zovaal would go about his revenge. What she did know was that he had reached into Azeroth before, and could do so again. Like she would with any enemy breaching walls, Sylvanas only knew it was a safe bet to watch the cracks.

It took far more time and conversation than she wanted to shoo him from the cabin, but Lor’themar did eventually see himself out. The door opening ahead of him revealed the great harbor had darkened into a clear, crisp veil of night. A blanket of stars shone overhead, absent a moon. It would be dark tonight, and newly reborn tomorrow.

A strange feeling that Sylvanas could sympathize with, surely.

Alone again for a fleeting moment, she wondered if the exhaustion she was beginning to feel was hers or Jaina’s. No doubt it was late for living things that needed to sleep.

It was stranger still, that Sylvanas found herself wishing the Lord Admiral of Kul Tiras would get a good night’s rest.

“Signe,” she said to nothing.

And from that, the val’kyr formed before her. Signe no longer traveled between the planes of life and death, but she also didn’t seem to be particularly bound by the rules of physics either. She was where she was needed, corporeal or incorporeal when it concerned her to be either, but always came when called.

“Yes, Dark Lady,” Signe answered, forming the wholeness of her spectral form, and nearly filling the small cabin with it.

“I have two tasks for you tonight,” Sylvanas told her. “But first a question. Are you able to get to Kul Tiras tonight?”

“It would not take me long,” Signe answered. “I will fly swift and true.”

“Are you able to do so unseen?” Sylvanas questioned further.

“If that is your will.”

Her will. She wanted nothing to be for her will anymore. Will was what had kept her going. It had kept her cruel and decisive. It had seen her defy and overcome.

But Sylvanas was tired of being willful.

“Carry this then,” she said as she offered up an envelope. “To Lord Admiral Jaina Proudmoore. You know her, yes? You know from me what she looks like, where she might be?”

Her connection to the val’kyr seemed to impart some of her knowledge to them. Sylvanas didn’t want to think what that might mean for those the Jailer had reclaimed. But for now, it was helpful not to have to brief yet one more person.

Signe nodded to this.

“Make sure you are not seen. By her as well, if it can be helped,” Sylvanas instructed.

“It will be done,” Signe assured her, reaching out for the letter.

The letter was perhaps a bit foolish. A bit awkward, certainly. Sylvanas merely wanted one thing, and that was a reply. Any sort of reply.

Even Anduin had told her to wait. She could take that from Jaina. She would wait.

But the lack of acknowledgement was grating on her. She needed to know. She needed to know if this was all worth it. If her soul could truly be whole again. If there was any chance.

So yes, she was sending her last remaining val’kyr to Jaina Proudmoore with what some might call a sappy love letter. And it was ridiculous and foolish and perhaps a waste of her time. And it was equally ridiculous that she might be using said val’kyr for this task, because she was certain any Ranger given the job would tell her exactly how foolish it was.

But Sylvanas had to know.

“Return safely from this, and then I will ask your next task of you. You will brief my Rangers on what you know of the realms of death, and of your former master’s plans,” Sylvanas ordered.

“I have shared what I know with you already, Dark Lady,” Signe replied.

“And I have no desire to keep it to myself, not anymore,” Sylvanas told her. “You will brief them all tonight, so we might rely on their counsel for the days to come.”

Signe nodded slowly to this. Perhaps it was an odd notion for her to accept, a ruler who asked and checked, rather than just imposing their will.

Sylvanas knew, after all, with both portions of deadly certainty and gnawing uncertainty, what awaited this world. But it was only her place to warn and prepare. Not impose.

She had a feeling that any who thought her mad would soon be proven wrong either way. She only hoped that somewhere, where Jaina was still stirring in this moonless night, still buzzing with anxiety, that she wouldn’t wait to find out. That she could believe, as Sylvanas herself was also struggling to believe, that some things could change for the better.

[imabeautifulbutterfly]

The Gym Membership - Part 19 (Crosshair)

Summary: Crosshair thinks back to the reason he visits the hospital.

A/N: Hello lovelies,

Another part to Crosshair's story. I always want to let you guys know I will begin uploading the second story to the Razor Crest Ranch at the end of the month, I know I said four weeks. But I'm sorry, things got a little hectic lately.

Love oo.

Italics - flashback

Warnings: Anger, angst, mentions of medical procedures, coma, blaming someone for another's injury, grief, crying, fear, mentions of being shot at, kidnapped and blown up, I think that's it, if I miss anything please let me know.

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“I thought you only came here Wednesdays and Sundays” Crosshair stated as he tried to ignore the woman beside him, when she didn’t answer his question. 

His voice grated on my nerves, I did my best to ignore him. Ever since he stepped into my sister’s life, he’d become an annoying presence. Having him sit beside me, with his ridiculous long legs stretched out in front of him, his lanky arms crossed and his breathing … ugh! How could a man be so infuriating? 

Crosshair shifted in his seat doing his best to ignore the woman beside him, he never liked her. She didn’t exactly leave the best impression, when he first met her. Granted, the situation was tenuous, their emotions were all over the place, and they both were extremely sensitive after the loss of sleep. Didn't help that he was already freaking out about Avery, the last thing he needed was her sister asking a million and one questions for which he didn't have answers. 

The noise on the tarmac, the orders being shouted out among the ground crew were all drowned out, as she walked up to Crosshair, anger clearly prevalent in her face at seeing him standing there.

“Your Crosshair?” She didn’t bother introducing herself, she just wanted answers. 

“Yes, ma’am”

Her fist clenched by her side, as she poked him in the chest, “Explain! Explain to me how you made it back under your own power? While my sister has to be carried out on a stretcher.” 

The woman whose face was tear stained, was standing her ground blocking his way as she stood watching the stretcher being loaded on to the ambulance from the aircraft. Cross wanted to say a whole lot, he wanted to tell her she wasn’t the only one in pain, that for now her sister was alive; but nothing came out of his mouth. He couldn’t even tell her why he was allowed to be by her sister’s side. No matter how hard he tried to open his mouth, it refused to listen to him. 

She wiped her face as she moved closer to the ambulance, her anger growing with each step she took. She turned to look at him, “Why are you even here? Just to make sure you can hand over your responsibility? Don’t worry, I’ve got her. You can go back and do whatever the hell you do.” She shook her head as she looked at him, “Avery would rave on and on about you, and I don’t understand…. I don’t understand how you … why are you here? Why isn’t she here standing where you are!”

Before Cross could answer, one of the medics walked over to the two of them, “Excuse me, Captain Crosshair, ma’am” he tipped his head towards the two of them, “Your wife is all set, Captain. They’ll be taking her straight to the Army Hospital, sir.”

“Thanks. We’ll be on our way.”

Her eyes widened as she looked back at him, “I’m sorry” she pointed to the medic “Did… did he just …” She took a deep shaky breath, “Did he just call her, your wife?”

Crosshair didn’t respond, Avery had wanted to tell her sister first, and he wasn’t going to rob her of that joy. Even if she was in a coma right now, when she woke up she was going to be excited to tell her sister everything. 

The anger and frustration building within her was clearly evident, it was like a volcano getting ready to erupt. She was done. Done with the lack of information she received from the Army. Done with the man who apparently had married her sister. She ran her hand through her hair letting out a frustrated choked sob.

“Fine. Don’t answer, but once Avery’s settled and we know what’s going on, you and I are going to sit and you’re going to tell me exactly what happened in detail, and once that’s done, you’re going to get the hell out of her life for good. Since you stepped into her life, she’s been shot at, kidnapped, and now she’s been blown up. She was a desk clerk! An analyst for … she NEVER went into the field before you came into her life!” 

Crosshair could still remember that moment as though it was yesterday, ever since that day they never really talked to each other. There was barely any acknowledgement of existence between the two of them, they just argued with each other whenever they did attempt to talk. The only time they agreed and were somewhat civil to each other was when it came to Avery’s medical procedures. 

His eyes focused on Avery’s face, all the tubes going in and coming out of her. The breathing tube that was currently keeping her alive. The various wires connected to her heart and brain, monitoring her every second. 

Once the doctors had been able to examine Avery, they were informed, the brain injury she sustained was severe. They needed to prepare themselves with the possibility that the chances of her waking up were slim.

In fact, the only thing keeping her going for the last year was the ventilator she was currently on. He wanted to let her go the moment they put her on it, he wanted to let her be at rest, but Avery’s sister, Layla, was not willing to let her go. He understood what she was feeling, but the truth was there wasn’t a chance she could wake up now. And even if, by some miracle she did, she’d never recover. She’d never be the same Avery, he got to know and love. Looking at her sleeping form, coming here week after week knowing there was nothing he could do for his wife was torturous. He had to admit however, he admired Layla’s determination and having faith Avery would wake up and come back to them. 

“Do you think she’ll ever wake up?”

Cross looked over to Layla, shocked by the fact she was actually speaking to him, but for the first time in years, there was doubt in her voice. Yet, he couldn’t actually acknowledge her question outright, “Oh, you’re speaking to me now?”

I put my book down on my lap, resisting the biggest eye roll I wanted to give him. How could he just irritate me so easily? I let out a sigh, as I turned and looked at him.

“Crosshair, could you please just answer the question, do you honestly think she’ll ever wake up?”

Crosshair turned in his chair, focusing on Layla’s face, he hadn’t noticed before, mainly because he avoided looking at her. But now that he was, he observed how puffy and slightly red her eyes were, the tip of her nose was flushed as well, like she’d been crying for a while. His eyes narrowed as he took in her form, her hand was clenched against her knee. Her face looked paler than usual. 

“Layla, what happened?”

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