#slowly chipping away at him and making him feel hollow like he thought space was endless that he could never reach a point of feeling finis | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

eyesofophelia · 4 years ago

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surrender || aizawa x reader || sloth

➼ chapter six of fern’s dante’s inferno collab: sloth ➼ masterlist for collab! ➼ banner credit: @sightoru ➼ word count: 5.3k even ➼ warnings: dark content, noncon, self doubt, death, guilt.

‘thou seest how sloth wastes the sluggish body, as water is corrupted unless it moves.’

struggling gears groaned against their rusted neighbors and rattled through the elevator shaft. you had thought that you would have been immune to the sound by now, but each screeching grind of metal pierced through your eardrums and sent shudders down the length of your spine. not only did you wrap your arms around yourself to quell your fearful tremors but to find some sort of warmth. the farther down you went, the colder and colder it became. the creaking elevator was beginning to seem more and more like your designated spot in the mortuary cabinet rather than your transport. at least you were not alone, although, you may as well be.

your companion was not ideal.

you couldn’t tell whether or not sir nighteye was a comforting presence or a chilling one. his tepid demeanor unsettled you while still bringing you some sense of relief.

so lost between the flashing images of your previous encounters and the fear of those that have yet to come, you hadn’t noticed the slowing of the elevator until it came to that familiar albeit jolting stop. it bounced for a moment, each vibration sent through you acting as an ominous countdown. dread bubbled deep within your core, threatening to release the bile just waiting to come up. what were you to expect? you were triumphant in the prior circles, but your ‘victories’ thus far felt hollow at best. while physically you had escaped each circle, you couldn’t help but feel that bits and pieces of your soul had been left behind along the way.

finally, the elevator’s motion slowed to a stop. you swallowed hard, balling your fingers into fists against your sweating palms. trying to center yourself, you forced your focus onto sir nighteye’s voice as he began to speak. “this,” a long, skinny finger gestured to the glowing red six above the elevator door, “is sloth. you must remain vigilant here. whatever you do, you must not give in.”

his words were almost as chilling as the shrill screech of the elevator doors parting ways.

“oh, and,” that ominous glower appeared in his eyes once more, “good luck.”

you turned over your shoulder some, feeling the resolve you had tried so desperately to build crumbling away now that the doors were open. with a deep breath in, you willed yourself to move forward into the darkness.

remain vigilant.

you scoffed internally at his words. easier said than done. the least he could do was give you some sort of help. he was the one that had gotten you into this mess in the first place, right? he should have just left you in those woods, you could have figured out--

you stopped dead in your tracks as you started to take notice of your surroundings. fluorescent lights hung from the ceiling, some of which were shattered while the rest flickered and buzzed. a wall of broken windows laid to your right with only a vast darkness behind them. it was abysmal. in the reflection of the shattered panes, you saw the image of yourself scattered within jagged pieces. for a moment, you could have sworn you saw someone standing behind you but found no one when you turned.

looking around once more, you continued on down the hallway, keeping an eye on the doors to see if there was anyone around. each door was marked with letters and numbers. you couldn’t help but be reminded of a school with each room that you passed. the further down the hall you went, the heavier the air felt. goosebumps infected your body and made every hair stand up on end. even your legs were beginning to feel weighted, as if they were starting to sink down into the floor with every step.

you must not give in. sir nighteye’s words pushed you to persevere against the gut instinct telling you to turn back. you had already come this far, you couldn’t stop now. to stop now would mean that every trial and tribulation you had faced already would be all for naught. you had to get to your mom. if she was somewhere in this place, past all these damned circles, you would find her and take her home.

your thoughts were halted by the sound of footsteps behind you. whipping around, your eyes searched frantically through the flickering lights to find whoever may have been following.

it was empty, save for the shattered glass and crumpled papers littering the floor. the pounding of your heart within your chest was deafening, but you tried to swallow it down with the lump in your throat. you just couldn’t shake the feeling that someone or something was watching you. a malevolent, foreboding presence. having to resist the instinct to call out for whoever--or whatever--was shadowing you, you started to turn before you heard more footsteps coming towards you down the hall. they sounded close, too close to not be able to see the source, but the hall still remained empty. panic gripped your core and forced you into flight. your eyes just barely caught the chipped, red markings on the wooden door as you pushed your way into the classroom closest to you.

1-A.

muttered curses spat past your lips as you practically flung yourself over a desk after barreling into the room. it slid across the linoleum with a jarring screech, causing you to wince both in pain and with fear that you had definitely given away your location. your body lay frozen, heaped over the desk in tense anticipation for the sound of the door opening. frantically your gaze tried to adjust to the dark, only having the light coming through the window in the door to illuminate the room.

it was definitely a classroom. desks were scattered all around in some sort of disarray. some of them were broken and laying in pieces while others were still assembled and in their rightful places. you slowly pushed yourself up from the almost toppled desk, subconsciously brushing the dust and dirt from your front. for now, you felt as though the danger had passed. no longer did you hear the phantom footsteps, only the familiar buzzing of the lights outside of the classroom. with a sigh, you turned to leave.

as you turned to step towards the door, you froze in place. a strange ruffling sound started from the corner of the room. cold sweat formed on your back as the sound just seemed to get louder. as you got the courage to turn around, your knees started to buckle. a tall, looming figure was slowly emerging from a yellow cocoon. a mass of inky dark hair shrouded his face from you. you squinted in the dark to make out whatever details you could, but jolted back when his gaze suddenly pierced through your own. it was glowering and red, baring down at you like the famished glare of a wolf. the thick locks of hair started to stand on end, giving him a much more malevolent appearance as he remained half hunched in the corner. a straight row of glimmering teeth were bared to you in a menacing smile, causing you to gasp and turn to make your way to the door. again, sir nighteye’s message rang through your mind:

remain vigilant.

a material that was both metallic and malleable shot forth from the darkness behind you, wrapping around your ankle and dragging you back. you cried out as you fell hard into one of the desk chairs, struggling to see what had pulled you down through the darkness. your eye finally caught something, trailing it back to the figure encroaching on you as he stepped fully from the yellow sack.

eyes like embers pierced through you, anchoring you to the spot. you hadn’t noticed it in the corner before, but you cursed yourself for not looking more carefully. as he stepped forward, you felt your breath hitch within your throat, fingernails biting down into the wooden desk surface. your mind screamed for your muscles to move. internally, it begged for you to run or hide away, but the closer he came, the more you sunk down into the chair.

you must not give in.

“so, you’re the one he sent.”

deep, gruff voice filled your ears and sent a shiver down your spine. it was flat and lifeless, but still holding the same baleful aura that radiated from him. it felt as though there was no effort behind his words, no emotion. just a cold, detached voice that glued you to the seat beneath you. as he stepped forward, you noticed his hands in his pockets. he was wearing some sort of dark jumpsuit that hung loosely around his form with a long, coiled material around his neck. it was stretched out on one end, leading down to your ankle.

he pulled me down with that? you thought, blinking up at him with parted lips. though you wished to speak, your throat was closed up in fear. he seemed familiar somehow, as if you had seen him before, but you were unable to place it. all you could do was stare at him, which only seemed to displease him further. the grip around your ankle tightened enough to make you wince, watching as he moved to stand just in front of you.

“why are you here?”

subtle disgust laced his tone, watching a very slight sneer form over his face. suddenly, the room came to life. a low buzzing hum started from above you both before the fluorescent lights flickered on. you squinted through it, blinking to try and adjust your vision to the sudden change. a hand raised instinctively to block your eyes, peering through the slits in your fingers to the man that had appeared from the once shadowy corner. now, you could make out the golden sleeping bag slumped against the walls, laying unzipped and deflated.

your attention was snapped back to him as he stepped directly into your line of vision. you could get a good look at him now, noting the way his long dark hair fell back down around his scruffy face. there was a scar beneath his eye, both of which were now just as dark as the vacant space outside of the windows in the hall. like a blackhole, you felt yourself getting sucked into the intensity of his stare. somehow, you finally managed to break away from his magnetism and force the words from your lips.

“i need...to find my mom.”

he noted your hesitation, something resembling disappointment reflecting in his eyes. for what felt like an eternity, he stared down at you, as if daring you to try and move. even if you wanted to, you weren’t sure that you could. the longer you held his gaze, the weaker your muscles felt. even willing a finger to move seemed to take more energy than you could expend. still, you tried to cling to what little strength sir nighteye’s words had given you before. you got through the other circles, you could get through this one…

....right?

“it’s too late for that.”

finally, his response came, and you couldn’t help the twinge of pain from within your heart. the devoid tone he held threatened to suck away the small sliver of resolve you had just made for yourself. you watched as he stepped around to one of the desks beside you, leaning back against the top much too nonchalantly. his movements were sluggish and tired, he too seemed bogged down by the energy of this place. it was a crushing weight that only seemed to grow more and more intense the longer you spent here.

and it didn’t look like you would be leaving anytime soon.

“your mother is in the ninth circle. you won’t make it past here.”

the matter of fact manner in which he spoke sparked annoyance within you. with furrowed brows, you spoke determinedly against the crushing weight. your eyes narrowed at him, forcing yourself to meet his bloodshot stare with this newfound façade of bravery.

“i’ve made it so far. who are you to say i won’t make it out of here?”

you couldn’t tell whether your words displeased him or surprised him, for his features remained flat and lifeless the entire time you spoke. it was only the slight twitch of his brows that gave you the sense that his own annoyance was brewing.

“you lack the conviction.”

his words took you back for a moment, lips parted and jaw slacked in the shock of his declaration. the...conviction…? did he think that you didn’t truly want to save your mom? your eyes remained narrowed slits as they stared at him, finding the strength to speak to him again.

“you don’t know me.”

“i know all who enter here. this is my domain.”

anxiety pooled in your stomach as he revealed himself. so, he was the one in charge of sloth? you had not expected to find him so quickly, but you also hadn’t expected someone quite so...gruff? was he supposed to be a teacher here? he looked...homeless. shaking the thought from your mind, you tried to focus on him again. for now, he was answering your questions, right? you might as well take advantage of that.

“your domain? so, you’re the one in charge here?”

instead of answering, he just stared at you with that empty gaze. he seemed tired and lethargic, but, every so often, you saw a glimmer of something within him. something chilling. you knew you should have been trying to make a break for it and run, or trying to figure out a way out of here, but you still couldn’t get yourself to move. all you could do was force yourself to speak and try and find some answers. figuring he wouldn’t answer that question, you spoke up again.

“what do you mean i lack the conviction?”

it seemed that was the right question to ask, as he kicked up from the desk and stepped forward until he was finally looming over you once more. again, your breath hitched in your throat, raising your chin so that your eyes could follow his own. despite his shaggy appearance, he was handsome. even more so than before, he seemed familiar to you, but you could not place him. all you could do was stare.

“you couldn’t do anything to save her before. what makes you think you can now?” his words took you aback, feeling the threat of tears building in your eyes. the omniscient way he spoke down to you was tearing away at your determination to make it through. how could he know anything about your mother? how could he even begin to understand what it was like to watch your rock in life waste away and having there be nothing you could do to help her? for your entire life, your mother was there for you. every hardship you came across, she was there to offer kindness, love, and worldly wisdom. if only she was here now…

“she was sick...there wasn’t anything i could do.”

your voice was barely a whimper, struggling to push past the emotion that had risen up your throat. countless times you had wondered whether or not there was something that you could have done differently. that somehow, some way, you could have managed some miracle to help her get better. realistically, you knew there was nothing you personally could have done, but the way he spoke down to you only rehashed those feelings of guilt and denial that you thought had long since been buried. “not anything?” his head fell to the side, tilting towards his shoulder and shifting long hair with it. “i've heard every excuse there is. regardless of your reasoning, you will end up here. they all do.”

at that, your head shot towards the door as you heard a wailing cry in the distance. more and more started to come forth, echoing down the long, vacant halls. they were just beyond the door, crying for someone to help them. for a moment, you thought you heard yourself among the cries.

your attention only snapped back when another end of the scarf he wore wrapped around your neck and forced you to look back to him. fire burned behind his gaze as he stared down at you, pulling at his scarf to yank you to your feet. instinctively, your hands gripped the cloth around your throat, struggling to pull it away enough to breathe. he wrapped it around his fist and pulled you even closer, almost gagging you with the scent of brimstone that seemed to radiate from him. you shuddered at his closeness, feeling your stomach twist into knots, but you couldn’t look away. again, the magnetic pull of his gaze forced you to look at him.

“do you hear them?”

meekly, you nodded, almost unable to hear him over the crescendo of wails coming from down the hall. you struggled to try and keep your head, desperate cries of agony drowning out logic and reason and replacing it with guilt.

you lacked the conviction.

“they’re just like you. try as they may, they will never succeed to free themselves. what good is a hero without the strength to do what must be done?”

a...hero?

realization hit you like a brick as you suddenly recognized the man before you. he was a teacher at ua high school. you had seen him on the news quite a few times trying to clear up the distrust for heroes that was growing in society. it always seemed that he was trying, so how did he end up here? the thought plagued your heart with dread.

if even a pro-hero could end up here, what would that mean for you? it was almost as if he could sense the dejection creeping in, the corner of his lips starting to twitch up into the ghost of a smirk. slowly, he started to circle around you, the part of his capture device around your ankle starting to coil itself up your leg as he did. your throat suddenly felt dry and hoarse, unable to even force yourself to speak. weakly, you tried to pull at the tightening cloth around your neck to no avail. was this how it would end? stuck in the sixth circle? you had barely been here for ten minutes, but it already felt as if you had been trying to escape for years.

“i was met with a choice once. i had a chance to help, but i didn’t have the confidence to do it, yet i still had the nerve to become a hero. i was a mockery, as they all are. as you are. your cowardice will bring your failure. there is nothing you can do to change it,” he stepped up behind you now, his voice low and sultry against your ear. it was the first time it had changed from its dull monotone, “so why even try?”

why try? you had to...it was the only way that you could get your mom back. it was the only way that you could survive everything that you had already been through. you had to try, but you couldn’t find the strength. your body felt heavy, like a sinking weight drifting into the depths of dark waters. sullenness was creeping in, nurturing the seeds of guilt he had sown within your mind and heart.

was there a point to fighting on? even if you could reach your mom, would you be able to bring her back? would bringing her back even be worth the struggle? he was right. you weren’t strong enough to do it before, what made you think you could do it now when the odds were stacked even higher against you? again, you cursed sir nighteye for dragging you into this mess.

your hands which still struggled to pull at the bind around your throat were starting to weaken in their fight against him. he pressed himself against your back, using the scarf to pull you flush to his torso. you could feel his hand at your hip, anchoring your backside upon his pelvis. a gasp betrayed you, your head falling back onto his shoulder.

“stay here. where else is there for you to go?”

the hand at your hip was shifting forward, slipping towards the hem of your skirt. you could feel the rough pads of his fingers just brushing the top of your thigh. the same goosebumps you got before infected your body like a plague once more, travelling down your spine with a little shiver. again, you found yourself at the mercy of inferno, becoming nothing more than a doll in the hands of a sinner. through the fog settling in your mind, you managed to pray for help. for someone to help release you.

“surrender to me.”

you were unable to fight against the pull of your leg by his scarf, parting your thighs for his hand that roamed you freely. it slipped between your legs, gripping the tender meat of your loin with the same hunger that had reflected within his eyes earlier. like a spider, he had laid his trap with ease and caught you swiftly in his tangled web. you struggled to move away from him, but your motions were half hearted and tainted with defeat.

what was the point?

you could feel his hand slipping up to your panties, pressing against the sensitive bundle of nerves between your legs. you wanted to cry out for help, but all you could manage was a meek moan, once again betraying yourself. no, no, no, you thought, eyes desperately searching the room for some way out, this can’t happen. i need to get out of here.

i need to find my mom.

“w-what are you doing?” you just barely choked out, peering at him from the corner of your eye.

“for satan finds some mischief still for idle hands to do.” again, his words took on that headiness he had lacked before, running his tongue up the expanse of your neck and to your ear. it disrupted your thoughts, bringing out a soft groan from you.

each time your mind found some sort of clarity, he dragged you away from it with more devilish touches. his fingers started to circle you, sending another chill down your spine and tremor through your legs. whenever he spoke, his lips brushed against the shell of your ear. his breath was warm on your skin, almost seeming comforting against the cool air. for a moment, you wondered how bad it would really be to just let it all go…

you must not give in.

again, those words plagued your mind and tried to force you away from the growing heat between your legs. he had warned you this time, tried to prepare you in some way for what was to come from this circle, but all you had done was complain. you cursed him for bringing you into this mess when you were the one who agreed to follow in the first place. again, you felt guilt twinging your heart. you were too much of a coward to do anything for your mom. you were a fool to believe you could have moved past this.

“surrender.” his voice in your ear was reeling you in like a siren’s song, dragging you further and further down into the depths. his touches made you feel like you were sinking almost into sleep. your legs gave out, the full weight of your body being supported by him. his attention turned to the silent tears that streamed down your cheeks as you stared absently up at the ceiling. you could barely register the feeling of his tongue sliding up your face to collect the salty trail that rolled down. with every touch, you felt more and more of your energy being siphoned from you. between this place and him, you were being drained of everything you had left.

i’m sorry, mom. i just couldn’t do it.

finally, your eyes closed. you couldn’t help but wonder how sir nighteye would feel about your failure. would he be disappointed? or would he remain indifferent?

what would happen to your mom if you stopped here?

it was that question that brought your eyes to open again. you tried to ignore the starved bites to your neck and the hands that continued to touch you. to find your focus through the fog in your mind was a struggle, but you somehow managed as you continued to think of your mom. memories of her came flooding in, a lot of which you had buried deep since her passing. they hurt too much to remember before, leaving you too afraid to relive them for fear of ripping open the wounds again. now, you didn’t care. you forced them to come to the surface. with every thought of her, you felt your strength starting to return. you know he could feel it too, as his opposite arm started to circle around your waist and keep you pressed against him. as if trying to erase the strength you were building, his hips moved along your own, rubbing his arousal against your backside.

the temptation to fall back again was great, but you forced yourself to break past it. with a shove, you pushed yourself away from him. you hit the cold linoleum with a hard smack, feeling blood starting to drip from where your forehead had smashed into the floor. the fabric of his capture device had pulled you down, but it was loosened now. bleary eyed as you tried to catch your breath from the impact, you looked over your shoulder to see where he was. his vacant stare was alight with burning embers once more, smoldering down at you with such great intensity. again, his hair rose around himself.

“you think you can run?”

you didn’t have time to answer before he was on top of you, trying to pin your arms down by your head. you screamed and twisted your body beneath him, crying out as he shoved his knee into your hip to pin you down. despite his strength, you still struggled and fought as much as you could. no matter how he touched you, or what words he said into your ear, you would not give up here.

“you think you can escape me?”

his lips collided within your own, violently claiming yours and invading your mouth with his tongue. the heat that had radiated from him before was nothing like it was now. it threatened to burn you as he forced himself upon you, a bruising grip on your wrists as he tried to keep you down.

you understood now that the bondage of guilt was self imposed, but you knew he was going to do anything to keep you beneath him. to keep you here in this place, stuck with all of the others who fell into laziness and apathy. those who lost their care to do what was right because they could not find the strength to surpass what they found to be too difficult.

again, you heard the wailing cries of the students outside of the classroom, begging for someone to release them, but that was just it. no one was going to come to release them.

they had to find the strength to release themselves.

with all of your might, you shifted on the ground and pushed up with your leg. your voice was found again, yelling out as you propelled yourself up and threw him off of you and into the podium at the front of the room. his head smacked against the metal, grunting in response. in that moment, you felt the cloth around your leg and neck fully release itself, and you scrambled up from the ground while pulling away the ties. without hesitation, you ran for the door and pushed yourself out into the hall.

the halls were no longer empty, but lined with students. they were battered and bruised, their training uniforms practically ripped to shreds. you gasped as you stepped out from the classroom and felt your foot starting to sink into the ground. looking down, you saw that the floor was no longer the solid linoleum it was before but had become mud. the students struggled against it, weakly lifting their legs to no avail and crying out as they couldn’t release themselves. they reached for you, gripping your shoulders and begging for you to save them.

panic was settling in your heart, fearing that it would beat out of your chest from how fast it was pumping. you turned over your shoulder to see the man in the classroom starting to stand up, the red in his gaze seeming even more intense than it had been as it found you in the doorway.

it was now or never.

you forced yourself again to use all of the strength that you could muster to push past the suffering students and move down the hall. your muscles were aching against the pull of the mud trying to keep you back, but you pushed yourself to keep going. you couldn’t stay here. not with them. not with him.

you couldn’t give up.

you knew he was behind you, moving through the thick mud with much more ease than you had, but you couldn’t turn back to face him. you kept your eyes ahead, shoving past those who were in your way. the hallway was starting to fade into darkness, the fluorescent lights going out one by one as you made your way beneath them. at the very end sat the elevator, illuminated only by the numbers that were counting up to six. sir nighteye was returning for you.

“you won’t be able to save her. you might as well stop here.”

the man’s voice called after you, trying to lure you back to him. the temptation was great, especially as you felt your body start to slow, struggling to fight the exhaustion that was settling into your bones. you were panting; your chest heaving as you tried to force air into your burning lungs. fire was ripping through your body, threatening to seize your muscles, but you still kept on. you kept playing those memories of your mom over and over in your mind to help push you farther and farther away from the man. you could hear him behind you starting to speed up, angrily yelling for you to just give in. it almost seemed as if he was desperate for you to stay.

the elevator doors started to open as you got closer, the familiar face of sir nighteye looking at you from the inside. in some ways, it almost looked as if he was pleasantly surprised. with a final bound, you lept inside of the elevator shaft, just barely missing the end of the man’s capture scarf as the door started to close behind you.

with your chest heaving, you pressed yourself against the wall and watched as the doors closed just before his reaching hands made it to them. relief flooded you as the elevator began to descend, never thinking that you would be so thankful to hear the chilling grind of its gears once more.

“i didn’t think you would make it.” you scoffed at the words from the man beside you, shooting him a glare as you tried to readjust your clothes.

“gee, thanks.”

your gaze turned up towards the numbers before turning to him again.

“what’s next?”

#aizawa x reader #aizawa x y/n #aizawa x you #shouta aizawa x you #shouta aizawa x reader #shouta aizawa x y/n #bnha aizawa #aizawa smut #mentioned #dante's inferno collab #dante's inferno #mha #bnha #collab #tw noncon

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forever-rogue · 4 years ago

Note

omggg so if I may ask for a request🥺 don’t feel pressured to do it! I have no idea of your requests are even open or not! Anywho, can I request Javier x female reader? You know how everyone has a thing for javiers neck and chest and how his shirts are always open exposing that? I was wondering if you do a smut or something where the reader marks his neck up and everything and it’s all hot cos she’s like so turned on by just his neck and the next day, he walks into work and Steve teases him for the hickies and all😂 you can choose whether he wears em proudly or if he becomes shy and flustered about it😌 just smutty/playful!✨

Javi and his glorious neck 🥺 this got soft but enjoy!

Javier Peña x Fem!Reader ; warnings: language, mentions of sex

Javier Masterlist

»»————-　♡　————-««

“I’ve missed you,” your whisper was hot and breathy in his ear as Javier worked to get you out of your dress, and you did the same to him, tugging on his tight black button up. You finally won the struggle to rid him of clothing first, hands moving sweetly to undo each button as he tried to kiss you, making it just that much harder, but you were both giggling nonetheless, “Javi!”

“Come on, Dulzura,” he whispered in between kisses, “we’ve been apart for a week. Need you now.”

“Are you forgetting that I was without you as well?” you managed to undo several of the buttons and just went ahead and ripped open his shirt before pulling it off his shoulders. It was quickly discarded onto the floor, along with your dress that he managed to pull over your head, “always miss you so much, Javier. Hate when you guys leave me behind.”

“It was too dangerous for you,” he insisted as he reached for the waistband of your panties, slowly pulling them down and trying to see how wet you were. Your efforts to keep them away were in vain, and a small moan escaped your lips at the gentle contact, “want to keep you safe.”

“I know,” you promised as you pulled his wandering hands away from your body, “still missed you like crazy.”

While it was normally Javier took control at this point, you decided it was your turn to do so. When he reached behind you to undo your bra, you grabbed his hand and shook your head, causing him to groan loudly, “you’re fucking killing me right now.”

“Good,” you grinned at him, a wicked, wonderful little thing. Running a hand through his dark locks, you pulled him close and brushed yours lips over his, “now take off your pants and get on the bed. No touching. It’s my turn to make you feel good.”

“Baby…” he practically moaned your name at this point, but did as you asked, eager to see what was in store. Quickly undoing his jeans and pulled them down his legs, you almost laughed in amusement when you realized he wasn’t wearing underwear, “what?”

“Jesus, Javi,” you gently pushed him onto the bed, grinning as he laid against the pillows, looking at you with nothing but love and adoration in his dark eyes, “aren’t you ever worried about your...you know what? Never mind. I’m just glad you’re home.”

“Me too baby,” he agreed as you crawled onto the bed and effortlessly straddled his waist. His hands found purchase on your hips as you tried to get some friction against him. The sound from the back of his throat was low and guttural, and you leaned down to kiss him, starting with his lips and then his jaw, before finding your way down to the glory that was his neck. His breath hitched in his throat as soon as you pressed that first kiss to the hollow of his throat, “shit.”

“You’re all mine, Javier,” you whispered against his delicious, golden skin, “and I’m going to make sure everyone knows it.”

“Fuck.”

»»————-　♡　————-««

"Oh my God," you grinned at the sound of his surprised voice filtering back to you from the bathroom. You were still in bed, bare and wrapped up in the big, soft duvet. While you worked together, you'd decided to hang back and let him get a head start and get into the office first, just so it wasn't totally obvious that you were together.

Although after today, it might have been painfully obvious. Just as you had intended.

You laid back, folding your hands behind your head as you waited for him to rush back in. Trying to keep the victorious little smirk off your face was proving to be a challenge.

"What's wrong, Javi?" you called out before you heard a heavy sigh as he trudged back into the bedroom. And what a glorious sight it was to behold. He was wearing nothing but a pair of tight jeans, and an exasperated look on his face as pointed at his neck and chest, "mhmm...a good look. What's the problem, baby?"

"You," he waggled his finger at you, attempting to put on a serious face, but you could still see the amusement hidden underneath, "you are a menace! You did this one purpose!"

Sliding out of the bed, you flounced over to him, moving to stand behind him and wrapping him up in your arms. Despite his best efforts, a small sigh escaped his lips as you steered him towards the mirror. You let your hands roam his body as you pressed gentle kisses along his shoulder. He relaxed against you, closed his eyes as he hummed in content.

"I love you so much, Javier," you whispered softly. Trailing your hand up his body, you gently touched some of the love bites that were liberally sprinkled all over him. There was definitely no mistaking what they were, and you were proud of the job you had done, "so, so much, Javier. I don't care who knows, I don't want to hide it anymore."

"Do you have any idea how incredible you are?" he slowly opened his eyes as you pressed a kiss to his cheek, his hands moving to cover yours, "I love you, Dulzura. You know that if people find out things might have to change."

"I know," you promised, "but I don't care. I just want to be able to love you openly and freely. Nothing else matters."

"Yeah?" he asked as he slowly turned around and grabbed your face delicately in his hands as you nodded, "alright. Let's do this then. I love you too."

»»————-　♡　————-««

Javier strolled into the office, wearing his bright pink button up, making it a point to leave the top buttons open to expose his chest.

You walked in a few moments after, holding coffee for yourself and your partners. Setting your own on your desk, going over to Steve and setting his cup down before doing the same to Javi.

Steve greeted you with a small hello and a smile. He looked over at Javi, opening his mouth to say something but instantly stopping and staring at him.

"Umm," he stood up and came around to sit on his desk. Remaining silent, you walked to your own space and sank into your chair, curious to see what would go down. Javier raised an eyebrow at his partner, calmly sipping his coffee, "what the hell happened to you? Good night?"

"Yeah," Javier leaned back in his seat and set up his legs on the desk. He caught your eye and gave you a cheeky wink, "you could say that."

"Where'd you go?" Steve shook his head with laughter, assuming it was the same old Javi he had always known, "one of your favorites?"

"Yeah," he answered with a knowing little smirk, "she's a favorite of mine."

"Where's she from? A new girl?" you almost snorted with laughter as Javier shrugged lightly, unsure of how much you wanted to tell Steve then and there, "she must like you!"

"She does," you said suddenly, taking the two of them by surprise as you stood up and walked over to Javier’s desk, "she's a big fan, and I think she might even be in love with him."

"Oh...do you know her too?" Steve still wasn't putting two and two together, his brows knitted together in confusion, "or…"

"Yeah," you hopped on Javi's desk and sat down, offering him a small smile, "I know her."

"Oh...oh?" his mind was reeling as he watched you lean down and gently kiss Javi. Javi made it a point to lean up and deepen the kiss, standing you up and holding your face his hands before grinning at you, "wait...what the fuck?"

"I was with my favorite girl last night," Javi turned to Steve and it seemed like everything suddenly clicked as his bright eyes widened, "in our bed, in the apartment we've been sharing for a while."

"You mean…" a small grin spread on his features as you nodded, "you're together?"

"Mhmm," you admitted, "I just didn't feel like hiding it any longer. Now let the chips fall where they may."

"I knew it!" he practically shouted as he jumped and headed to the door, "Rogers owes me a hundred bucks!"

"Wait!" you shouted as Javier just broke into laughter, "you guys bet on us?!"

"Of course," Steve said with a smirk, "it was always going to happen wasn’t it? You two were inevitable!"

Without another word he ran out of the shared office space, leaving just the two of you there. Turning back to Javi, you threw your hands up as if to say what the hell?

"I guess that went better than expected," he offered as you shrugged lightly before going back over to him and sitting in front of him on the desk, "now we don't have to worry about it. None of them are going to do anything about it."

"Apparently we're inevitable," you laughed as he scooted his chair closer and put his hands on your waist, "cherish the thought. Would you have ever thought that?"

"That we would end up together?" he asked as you nodded, "hell no."

"Wow, Javier Peña! Really making me feel loved here!"

"I knew you were much too good for me the moment I met you," he admitted, "right from when I asked you to get me coffee and you told me to fuck off."

"In my defense," you held up a finger, "I was brand new and you treated me like a personal assistant and I was not having it. I couldn't let you get away with it!"

"And good thing you didn't," he whispered, "stubborn and bullheaded to the death. I didn't think you'd ever give me the time of the day."

"I'm glad I did," you beamed before giving him a saccharine kiss, "I love you, Javier."

"I love you too, Dulzura," he whispered, "inevitably and undeniably."

»»————-　♡　————-««

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eldrai · 3 years ago

Text

Like Father, Like Son

Whumptober 2021 - day 2 - prompt: garrotte

Character: Hotch

Warnings: implied/referenced domestic abuse, implied/referenced child abuse, strangulation

Word Count: 1.5k

Summary: Vincent Perrotta is violent. He is dedicated. He is brutal and efficient. His potential pool of victims includes a handful of asphyxiation deaths.

He has nothing to lose.

ao3 link / masterpost

In cases of domestic violence, strangulation is one of the strongest predictors for homicide: a nonfatal strangulation incident makes the victim seven times more likely to be killed by that partner.

Of everything he’s learnt on the job, this stays with him.

Strangulation requires the physical strength to do so, as well as the intent. It’s much more personal than something like poisoning or even shooting and therefore more difficult to carry out. The same principle stands for any homicide. It indicates a deeply violent, deeply dedicated unsub.

(Is it inaccurate to say he learnt on the job? The exact statistics were new to him but he’d known how violent hands around a neck are. How it was never limited to just that.

He’d had a lot of ‘sore throats’ as a kid.)

Vincent Perrotta is violent. He is dedicated. He is brutal and efficient. His potential pool of victims includes a handful of asphyxiation deaths.

He has nothing to lose.

The junkyard is cluttered and their line of sight fragmented by the heaps of trash jutting out every which way; the impaired visibility has them spread out to cover the most ground. With backup waiting on their signal, everything is in place for Perrotta’s arrival.

It is a concentrated quiet: there isn’t much to do other than keep an eye out for their unsub or wait for the comms to crackle to life as someone else finds him. Aaron steps into place behind the rusted shell of a car; enough cover it isn’t immediately obvious he is there, but he’s got a good shot if Perrotta turns up.

His bet is on the man hopping the fence on the west, too clever to waltz through the front gate but arrogant enough to assume he’d outwit them. Morgan is positioned over there ready to intercept, and Reid and Greenaway take the small building at the opposite end of the yard.

“Anyone got anything?” Morgan��s voice comes through strong.

“Nothing on our end.” That’s Greenaway.

“He’ll be here,” Aaron says.

He settles back into position, both hands on his gun, carefully still. Wrappers rustle as the wind agitates them, whips dirt around on the chipped concrete. The chain-link fence rattles.

No movement.

He waits. Time slips by interminably slowly, as it tends to do on sting operations, with no distraction but nothing to be distracted from.

A rattling, tinny sort of noise to his left stops just as suddenly as it had started. Gun drawn, he picks his way through the junk. The silence settles in once again. Likely something blown loose in the breeze, a can rolling down the pile, any number of mundane things which shouldn’t register at all.

It’s a rat. In the corner of his eye, a blur of brownish-grey fur streaks past and he catches a glimpse of the tail before it vanishes under (into?) a different heap.

Jesus. He must really be bored if something so commonplace has him actually investigating it.

Gravel crunches and Aaron glances over his shoulder. Gideon must’ve heard it too. His main interest is his birds but he doesn’t doubt the man probably has a soft spot for other small creatures. They say rats are fairly intelligent – or is it mice? – after all.

His head jerks backwards.

Stumbling to maintain his balance, it is a dizzying moment before the pain sets in: a sharp pressure curving around his throat.

It throws him for a loop. He’s used to hands.

Aaron crashes into someone behind him and they stagger sideways. The impact knocks the air out of him. The pressure pulls taut.

He can’t breathe.

Shoes scuff against the ground. The sour smell of sweat. Heavy breathing.

(is this gonna be the time it goes too far is it feels like it)

The wire is thin and twice as effective as human hands. Instead of whittling away his ability to breathe, pressing in more and more and more, it disappears in an instant.

Hands are breakable. They are skin and muscle and bone. Push a finger back until the muscles twitch; jam a thumb into the wrist’s bony hollows; a thumb at the base of the neck hurts like hell.

Easy to read intent in someone who stands right in front of him. Someone whose eyes spark with malice right before he clamps down harder. The telltale twitch in their cheek in the moment they step forwards. To guess whether they’re going to let up or not.

Behind, Aaron has no idea. His best guess might be entirely wrong.

(go for the eyes that works he won’t let go but he’ll get weaker)

Gasping for oxygen and drowning in carbon dioxide, his chest burns even as he strains to breathe. His eyes water. Aaron breathes in and in and in. Nothing happens. He’s just making rasping, croaky sounds at the back of his throat.

He almost loses his footing, his knees going weak and his ears ringing, a high-pitched shrill scream. Aaron can’t. He can’t leverage his weight on that. He’d never breathe again. Never get back up.

Perrotta grunts. Must not have expected this resistance.

(what if he never wakes up this time what if what if what if)

His gun clatters to the ground as his hands go to his throat. For something so painful, the wire is remarkably small, his fingers sliding over it. Perrotta draws the ends together. It cuts into the sides of his neck, bearing down on the arteries.

Aaron turns his head sharply and the momentary slack in the wire is enough to get his fingers hooked around it. Perrotta kicks out at his knee and he stumbles, resists the instinct to let go.

It’s not enough.

Having his hands between the wire and his skin does nothing if he can’t move them, if he can’t buy himself some space to breathe. Instead of the wire, his own hands press down on his throat. He pulls with all the strength he can muster. It cuts into his fingertips. Every muscle from his shoulders to his hands burns.

It’s not enough.

Dark spots blot his vision. He’s running out of time.

(if he dies they better notice adult-sized handprints better ask questions)

Aaron jerks his head back. Perrotta’s teeth clash and he lets out a muffled grunt.

The wire loosens.

Half a breath and Perrotta regains his composure. Cuts off his air before it reaches his lungs.

Tugging at the wire burns oxygen he can’t afford to waste. Doing nothing just guarantees he’ll pass out. His hearing fades out as the sensation in his hands and feet turns into vicious pins and needles.

Fear and adrenaline keep him standing, keep him fighting when oxygen deprivation turns his joints weak and head sluggish. Aaron hasn’t got much chance of wrestling it out of Perrotta’s hands.

He kicks everything he can reach. Metal jolts against metal; precariously balanced junk crashes down; his shoes drag in the gravel. Sound. Sound is what got him into this and if he’s loud enough, it’s going to draw their attention. With Perrotta outnumbered, he’ll run.

It’s hard to think.

The black spots compose most of his vision and he misses half of what he’s trying to hit. His pulse beats sickly against the wire. Having the chance at breathing stolen like that has strained something vital in his chest. Burning is too mild a word for the tearing pain.

(why doesn’t she stop it he’d let go if she said to)

Half-formed thoughts flit through his mind, too fast to catch, too fragmented to use. Aaron can’t see. Can’t breathe. He almost lets go of the wire, his hands aching and weak. The last vestiges of his strength go to keeping himself upright.

His knees hit the ground and sharp stones jab his legs. Something in his throat itches and spasms and he’s coughing and taking in great long breaths between and he’s breathing.

When the coughing fit passes, his heart slows its assault against his ribs and his vision clears up. Aaron steadies himself and waits for the dizziness to come to an end. He blinks once, twice, until his eyes aren’t watering.

His hearing kicks in all at once when the ringing ceases, and he twists around just as Gideon manages to wrestle Perrotta into handcuffs. Someone shouts in the distance. Back-up, or the rest of the team.

And Gideon’s in front of him, crouching down, telling him to take off his tie for once. Aaron nods, loosens it before he does, because the idea of hands near his throat – even his own – is dicey at best right now. He feels around the small indentation in his skin, feels the flat tenderness, and that’s going to bruise quite deeply.

“I’m—” Aaron swallows and a sharp pain lances across his throat. The motion aches, as if it’s been rubbed raw with sandpaper. Nonetheless his voice is much less raspy the second try. “I’m fine.”

Gideon hums a token agreement but doesn’t have time to press him on it as Morgan materialises behind them, and Greenaway and Reid a few moments later.

Perrotta snarls, his eyes wild with animalistic hatred.

(It is this, Aaron will realise, which reminds him so much of his father.)

#whumptober 2021 #no2 #garrotte #criminal minds #fanfic #eldrai does whumptober #cm fanfic #hotch #aaron hotchner #whump #angst

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meikuree · 3 years ago

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the centre cannot hold

Fandom: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Relationships: Hitch Dreyse & Annie Leonhart Characters: Annie Leonhart, Hitch Dreyse, Armin Arlert (mentioned) Additional Tags: Canon Compliant, Mild Psychological Horror

ao3 link

The days blend into a seamless fugue, dreamlike and out of reach.

(Or: a look at Annie's time in the crystal.)

The days blend into a seamless fugue, dreamlike and out of reach.

She can't place what time it is, inside. Time is meaningless. The interrogators who enter complain about the cold drafts puffing through the bricks; she can't feel any of it. Only the blunt sensation of the crystal’s cover, cool as iron is cool, running over her arms and torso and head, her entire body.

Hitch visits, many times. She comes to know her by the telltale skip of her boots on the floor. The way she always leaves the door ajar, as though she hadn’t intended to stay long. Her own eyes are closed now, all the time. It means her other senses become sharper. She hears mutters even through the thick slab of wood that passes for a door, and learns the smell of autumn filtering through the bars of her cell’s sole window, carried into the space in dead leaves stuck to the soles of soldiers' boots.

Those signs are what she begins to rely on to mark the passage of time. In the initial months, it’s an inexact science. Mere guesswork, in which she misestimates, on a few occasions, the correspondence between the oil-stench of polished boots and badges and the exact military festival being celebrated outside.

She listens to the chatter of the scouts who return daily to work out the mysteries surrounding her. How she breathes, what is keeping her alive. She knows the answers herself, of course. In this state she is tapped into the Paths realm; feeding on the otherworldly largesse of Ymir Fritz somehow, her lungs sustained by oxygen piped into her chest by means metaphysical and invisible. How long do you think she’ll last in there, they ask, and she wants to bark a laugh, say: I can stay here for the rest of my life. She starts a betting pool with herself about when they will meander towards or away from the answers, and also memorises some of their names—Anya, Nicolas, Louis—as a matter of personal amusement. Hange is the one who gets closest to piecing together anything about the truth, including the concept of an afterlife and/or higher realm.

Eventually they give up on her. With the Shiganshina basement breached, Hange’s purview as commander shifts to other horizons. The room hollows out as they clear the furniture, the echo that bounces off its walls widening into a sound vast enough to fill graveyards. A looming silence. Still as death. Only Hitch continues to come by, and Annie begins to yearn mentally for the stimulation of her conversations, like a plant straining towards the sun. Towards necessary sustenance.

She reminisces about her history lessons back in the Survey Corps, sometimes. It had been fascinating to see what counted for fact and narrative in a different land. She now wonders if she's become an artefact of history herself. Dead for all intents and purposes, preserved only in textbooks. Pragmatism brings her back to earth, when she remembers that nobody has ever been memorialised for lying in a coma.

Her sensory awareness only extends so far, after all that. It is deep, but not very broad. In the first year she keeps track of worldly happenings by the generosity and latitude of Hitch’s reports. Her passionate spiels, often preceded by a long indrawn breath and groans of despair that could have rivalled Eren’s, span an impressive set of topics ranging from Eren’s whereabouts, the Survey Corps’ movements, and military gossip, to more quotidian ills that ail her: a nail chipped while filing paperwork, her anguish over a sold-out bakery on the way home. The twenty letter-long saga she has going on with a romantic rival-turned-interest-turned-rival-again. Annie becomes the unwitting beneficiary of her ability to transform all ordinary occurrences into effusive theatre.

There are a few signs. The stunning perseverance with which Hitch comes. The verve and enthusiasm Hitch puts on full display before her, as though she is performing—and hoping that somewhere, she might be watching. The fond wonder and melancholy with which she speaks of their short-lived time in the Military Police. Hitch, Annie suspects, comes because she is nursing the remnants of a badly timed crush on her.

In this place, it’s a happy accident. It relieves the slight irritation she feels when Hitch confesses a touch too much detail about the minutiae of her morning routines and new interests. She’s grateful, in some deep unacknowledged part of herself, for the contact with another person from her old life, even if it’s one-sided and not very conversational on her end.

Every now and then she gets glimpses of the activities her erstwhile associates—Eren, Armin, Mikasa—are getting up to, in updates from Hitch spaced months apart. It is amusing, at first, to hear Hitch discuss them with distant respect and reverence as if at a remove, when she has firsthand knowledge of their individual quirks and neuroses, and can fill in the blanks within her iron silence much better than Hitch can. She saw long ago how they were some of the greatest breathing idiots to walk the earth; she briefly wishes she could tell it to Hitch too, puncture the aura of myth that has surrounded them like a bubble.

Eventually enough time passes that she has to recontextualise what she knows of them against the secondhand knowledge Hitch relays to her each time, adjusting her mental picture of who they are, the distance between memory and fact asserting itself. It grows apparent in those moments that they are becoming foreign to her too, changing while she remains fixed here, with outdated fragments of people, an insect trapped in scintillating amber.

Armin drops in to see her about four times in the first year. When he speaks he reaches a hand out to touch her crystal, and probably gazes at her the whole time; she can tell by the soft thud of his fingers upon her looking-glass cage. He tells her about Paradis’s defenselessness, their discoveries over the ocean. Pleads with her for a sign, any sign, that she is listening, and then sits with his knees drawn up, the stone floor vibrating imperceptibly with his motion. After his second call he begins to express his sympathy for her. The belief that he now understands why she had to betray them.

She wonders, idly, if he’s kept his nervous habit of biting at his cuticles. He has a grim edge to his voice now, a flute and gravel ruthlessness she hadn't recalled belonging to him before. Unlike Hitch, he doesn't say much. With him, she gets treated to dense silences interspersed with outbursts of conviction, or emotion. As though he speaks only when he has no choice, no other outlet.

She supposes his approach is one of delicacy, in opposition to Hitch’s: there is no evidence she is conscious, although she is alive, so talking is more or less a fanciful gamble; there’s no guarantee his words will reach a living being. She can’t fault him, on a technicality. She only laments that his idealism has given way to unimaginative realism too. Officially, he is devising a plan to establish contact with underground allies in Marley; unofficially, she wants to ask him if reaching the sea had truly made him happy, or only brought a new wave of troubles.

But her opportunities to have anything to think all these against are privileged and few. The visits are sparse, on the whole, so that she learns to conserve her responses and, most importantly, ration her thoughts—like a precious, corked wine, fit to be let through into her conscious refrain only in drips, a resource not to be exhausted too quickly. She has to remain here until there is certain guarantee she can complete her mission. In layman terms: she has to last through years of boredom.

She repeats it to herself, like an idle song or a blinkered reminder: she can endure it. She has to endure it.

After that she slows down her pace of thinking by necessity. Draws every internal argument that would have taken minutes out over the span of weeks. This dissolution makes her feel not so much like a primordial titan, moving according to vast, immense timespans, but a piece of rubber stretched to its limits, shrivelled and ready to burst.

Dreaming is the most direct analogue for her existence in this crystal shell. But it’s an incomplete description. It’s not like being asleep. She hasn’t relinquished consciousness, simply adopted a fickle and yet compulsory relationship with it. Some days, her mind is sharp and lucid like clear water. Others, she wakes up sluggish and nauseated, with the slow pressure of an anvil headache at her temples, a feverish chill bathing her bones. Like she’s slept far, far too much. Like she hasn’t woken up at all, but passed into a worse, second slumber. The effect is that of being drugged, of being sunk into an unnatural fatigue.

In these moments her choices are confined to the binary of staying awake and suffering, or returning to sleep and worsening it. Her muscles ache and scream for movement or stimulation; but she cannot move, and so has no recourse to relief. Only the sickening ache, the awareness of the uncomfortable fog, her arms trapped by her sides, always, like dumb logs.

Consciousness becomes the centrepoint her life revolves around. Sometimes, its presence is like a bullet aimed at her that she can’t catch: fleeting, painful, inescapable.

Back in the trainee bunkers she’d moved slowly. Pulled off the act of a sullen, indolent girl, better inclined towards a long nap than proper sparring. It’d shocked people that she was in fact a first-class prodigy in hand-to-hand combat. More than once she’d heard herself described by her peers as a concealed knife: inconspicuous at first, lethal once unleashed and in motion.

Those days are behind her now. A trite touch of fate, perhaps, that her languorousness now looks like it had been a rehearsal for this longer, extended sojourn in stillness. She can no longer summon movement; she has no defense against any assumptions people might concoct about her. She can only hope that people will remember the shadow her outsized figure cast as the Female Titan, even in the absence of continued proof.

As it turns out, what is most difficult is not the boredom, or time, or the trappings of her mind. Solitude suits her. She is not afraid of her thoughts. The symptoms of wakefulness frustrate her, but her mind has long been a well-controlled thing, smooth and cunning. She’d perfected the skill of disciplining it through the gruelling, unending hours of training with her father in her youth. Learning great focus, concentrating on the exercises that determined if she got to sleep, or eat, or drink. Disregarding all other excess, like the russet burn of sunset or sundown behind her in the courtyards. Your mind could not be suggestible, in this situation. Not even as an eight-year old.

No; what truly grates is the loss of sensation. Her capacity to interact with the world. Heading inside has severed her from her repertoire of fighting stances, uppercuts, movements. No longer can she understand her environment by the rhythms of her body attuned to it: the sunspots in her vision, the wind whipping her shins, the recoil of her fists against an enemy. She once knew the world by the blows and kicks it directed back at her; they were signals, an entire language of their own. She's been reduced to a lonely speck, disconnected from her single means of communication, her vernacular for parsing the world around her. The lonely, obsessive cycle of thoughts she can stand—but this? The dark, empty corridor of her body where she once had access to momentum, eruption, injury and the lightning burst of revelation in knowing her enemies by their punches, the scrapes and bruises left on them? It’s unbearable.

She resigns herself, but never quite crosses the hurdle. Many times she registers the itch of her limbs desiring to move, a furious bristle skittering upon her skin or on the edge of her brain. There is no outlet for them. Even the smallest movements are off-limits to her. She can’t flex her fingers, or tense her toes. The boundaries of her prison are absolute. These impulses, blossoming and then dead-ended, coil up and accumulate inside her like poison. Like a stricken scream with no release.

After a period of time she tentatively defines as three years, she hears Hitch entering and turning the key in the lock in her usual smooth motion. The tiny clink a struck bell in the gloom of mental oblivion. She perks up. Prepares to listen for any news.

“I know it’s been a while,” Hitch starts, “but we’ve been busy preparing for the Queen’s inauguration— like, god, how many ceremonies do these nobles need?— and I was detained by gift duty, can you believe, which meant I had to shop for the second-tier nincompoops over at the chambers—“

Annie’s blood, a gentle throbbing before, suddenly runs cold. Inauguration? But surely— Historia’s coronation, according to the silver measure of her careful timeline, had passed a long time ago. They should have moved far beyond by now.

“Anyway,” she hears Hitch saying now, a little morosely, “hard to believe it’ll be one-and-a-half years soon with you here. That you’re still in there.“

Annie chokes, a gutted sound in her head. She must have lost touch with her sense of time in the previous few weeks. It’s the one possible explanation.

If it’s only been one and a half years, she can only imagine what the next two, or three, or five, or seven years until her death will be like.

She feels the rug being pulled out beneath her feet. There’s panic now, a stab in her throat, the realisation she has to move back to the drawing board. Reassess everything she knows. She’d kept track well enough in the later half of the first year—what had changed?

Hitch leaves. She doesn’t register it.

Her sanity has so far hinged upon the single, fantastic, incredulous constant of Hitch’s visits to her. It’s a fragile coincidence—Hitch might one day get tired of her, reality outpacing her idealisation of her, and stop coming, too. She is beginning to feel the hours and days like an acrid trap, her thoughts a rapid torrent that her body—inverted in frozen stasis—will never keep up with. Suddenly every second is too slow, too long.

She wants to yell. Wants to rattle the bars of her mind-cage. But the only thing that answers her is drifting somnolence, like a hand passing sluggishly over her head, and then disappearing. The same smiling silence of her unresponsive body, indifferent to her will.

What life will this be, she thinks, what life will I be left with, and tries to plan, to consider the contingencies—but just as suddenly, nothing comes to mind, except the hollow echo of her voice referring across her insensate headscape, the strain of her thoughts thinned into pieces from disuse.

#i'm rusty with writing but! here's a thing #this is mostly about the horror of being stuck in a crystal for four years with your thoughts as your (almost) sole company #featuring very light and one-sided hitchani #i actually love the ship; annie just can't reciprocate because she's. y'know #snk #annie leonhart #hitch dreyse #hitchani #hitchannie #annie leonhardt #my fic #aot #armin arlert

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ao3theskyisblue · 4 years ago

Text

We are lost (and we’re falling)

Summary:

His words had come out cold, short, and he knew Carlos didn’t need to be a cop to hear the bite in his tone.

The sound of the front door closing echoed loudly in the silence that followed, and he knew Carlos saw what he was looking at the second he heard a sharp inhale.

A sound of a bag dropping to the floor. Keys being returned to their rightful spot. Slow footsteps moving closer, but TK didn’t take his eyes off the offending piece of paper, glaring holes through the thin material holding insurmountable value.

“TK-”

“When.”

Written for Day 1 of @911lonestarangstweek : Emotional whump + “How do we fix this?”

Read on AO3

“When were you going to tell me?”

TK didn’t get up from his spot on the couch, stock still since he found a certain piece of paper reciting words he wasn’t sure he had read correctly for the 10th time that night. So, he sat, staring blankly at the muddled words on paper, waiting for his husband to come home to get the answers to his innumerable questions.

His words had come out cold, short, and he knew Carlos didn’t need to be a cop to hear the bite in his tone.

The sound of the front door closing echoed loudly in the silence that followed, and he knew Carlos saw what he was looking at the second he heard a sharp inhale.

“TK-”

“When.”

TK looked up sharply, and felt his chest tighten at the way Carlos stepped back slightly. But they were going to have this conversation, because he had gone through the various stages of shock, disbelief, fear, anger, and now…nothing.

He wanted to understand.

“A few days before our one-year anniversary.” Carlos said quietly, and TK clenched his jaw, lifting a hand to run through his hair roughly.

“Our one-year anniversary when we were dating, or when we got married?” TK knew the answer to that when he saw Carlos tense, letting out a hollow laugh.

“Were you just never planning on telling me? Until what, I find out myself eventually? When it would already be too late?” TK bit down on his lower lip, hard, tasting the bitter tang of blood as his teeth broke skin. It wasn’t nearly enough to distract him from all this. He could see from the corner of his eyes as Carlos slowly took a seat on the ottoman in front of him, but still keeping a semblance of distance.

“I promise, I was going to tell you,” Carlos’ voice was still quiet, as if he knew the moment one of them raised their voices, it would only further escalate the conversation. “I just never found the right time.”

The right time.

TK couldn’t help a scoff at that, standing up sharply from his spot on the couch to pace the wooden floors of their living room, his steps arrhythmic.

“Tyler-”

TK let out an ugly sound, shooting Carlos a glare that could cut through glass.

“Don’t you dare. I am not in the mood to hear my name right now, especially when you decided to put it in a place where I absolutely object to.” He tore his gaze away from the coffee table, hands clenched tightly by his sides.

“How do we fix this?”

“Oh, so now it’s we?”

“TK-”

“No. I can’t–I can’t do this right now.” TK abruptly stopped his pacing only to violently slam his palms down on the kitchen counter, the skin of his palms stinging with a certain pain he couldn’t feel over the bleeding wounds of his heart. He could feel the tears burning like acid in his eyes, knowing that they could spill at any fueling word.

“Sweetheart,”

Clenching his fingers inwards towards his palms, he felt his nails digging against the soft skin, no doubt leaving deep crescent indentations in their wake.

“TK, look at me.”

The sound that ripped out of his throat was immediately covered with his hand, and TK furiously blinked back the onslaught of tears. He felt a gentle hand on his bicep, and forced himself to take in a few shuddering breaths before turning around, facing his husband. Carlos’ own eyes were red-rimmed, but he still had a small, albeit sad smile on his lips.

“Talk to me.” Carlos’ grip on his arm tightened, and TK swallowed back the sob that wanted to break free, instead taking in another deep breath and closing his eyes.

He could feel the anguish filling up the room in suffocating waves, but he had already found it hard to breathe the second he had accidentally found the will. His name was printed neatly underneath a paragraph of writing, taunting him.

TK stares at the space between them, knowing that there was a hand on his arm, but not quite feeling it.

He couldn’t really name anything he was feeling right now.

“You have no idea what you’re asking.”

The words came out quiet, subdued, and TK wasn’t sure if Carlos even heard him. But then there was a warm hand trailing up his arm, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze.

“You’re my partner. My better half, the love of my life,” Carlos stresses, as if that would somehow alleviate the pain currently tearing him to shreds. “There is no one else I trust with this more than you.”

A hot wave of fury washed over him. TK stepped back from the gentle hold to level a glare at the man standing before him, who looked stricken. TK hardly ever pulled away from Carlos’ touches, feeling a pit growing in his stomach at the hurt in his husband’s gaze.

“You-you have no idea-”

“I trust you-”

“I don’t trust myself, Carlos!”

TK felt the man in front of him reel back at that, but still refused to lift his gaze. He knew what he would see – concern, confusion, but what he couldn’t bear to see was the ever-present softness that never disappeared no matter how bad their arguments got.

Swallowing thickly, TK twisted the gold wedding band around his finger. Ever since the day they promised each other forever, the ring had become one of his grounding sources. Not stopping his administrations, TK tried for a smile which only turned into a grimace.

“You are asking me to be the bridge between your life and death,” He started, clenching his jaw at the last part. “A single word, a signature, and I have the power to take your life. Don’t you dare make it seem like this is an easy decision for me, you don’t get to do that.” TK waved a hand towards the papers scattered on the coffee table, hearing Carlos suck in a sharp breath.

The ticking of the kitchen clock sounded louder than he remembered, and he tried to focus on the rhythmic ticking to try and calm his racing heartbeat.

It wasn’t working.

Carlos didn’t move closer, but his next words hit him like a bucket of ice water.

“You think I don’t know you put my name down for yours?”

The words weren’t accusing, nor were they harsh. Instead, they were stated as a fact, something TK couldn’t deny.

That didn’t mean it was the same thing.

“That’s different.” He says icily, but Carlos didn’t so much as flinch. His gaze never wavered.

“How so? From where I’m standing, you and I seem to be thinking the same thing.” One thing he’s found to be a little frustrating and also endearing was how logical Carlos was with his arguments. TK didn’t know whether it was something that came from working in law enforcement, but he found it hard to argue with reason.

They didn’t fight often, but when they did, it was a brief fuel to the fire, something that both of them knew that would be worked out in the end and that at the end of the day, they were just two men who fiercely loved each other.

“Because you-” TK trailed off, the sudden heaviness of his thoughts weighing him down like lead. Carlos frowned.

“Because I’m…?”

There were a few beats where they just stared at each other. TK could see that Carlos was itching to reach out towards him, but he knew that he had to be the first one to close the distance between them.

He wasn’t ready.

“When people leave, they take pieces.”

His dad took the first piece. It had been a small piece, but a piece, nonetheless. Something he couldn’t grasp – just watching from a distance as it slipped through his fingers.

His mom took the next piece, and a 7-year-old’s memories were surprisingly vivid. He still remembered the colour of the moving truck parked outside their house, the sound of the spluttering engine as it came to life, the look on his neighbours’ faces as they not-so-subtly watched through the window as his parents argued.

The pieces kept chipping away as the years went by. His stepmom. Enzo. Every new friend he made and grew to never speak to again, his first overdose, the dinner with Alex.

All those pieces left scars that he learned to bear better with time, but they never fully healed. He would never completely get those pieces back, but building himself to always strive for a better life created new ones he could nurture and protect.

And the person who carried the biggest piece of all, was the man standing right in front of him.

TK closed his eyes, knowing that Carlos could see the tremble of his lips as he tried to swallow down the lump in his throat. “You have all of me. If I have to watch you-if I’m the reason you leave this world-” A single tear slipped down his cheeks, and he quickly lifted a hand to wipe it away roughly. “I won’t be able to let you go Carlos, don’t ask me to.”

Carlos remained silent. TK didn’t know how long they had been standing in the little area between the living room and the kitchen, but from the way one of his knees had locked, the dull ache pulsating through his leg in waves, it must have been a while.

He still couldn’t bring himself to sit down.

“You think it’s easy for me to think about letting you go?”

There was a sharp intake of breath, and TK warily lifted his gaze from the floor to Carlos’ eyes, which were filled with ripples of love and pain. He took a small step forward, but nothing more than that.

“Because let me tell you, it would be the single hardest decision in my entire life.” He says shakily, and TK feels his heart shatter at the tears that broke free. This wasn’t the first time, nor would it be the last that he would see Carlos cry, but it never changed the fact that every time he did, something in him died a little with every tear that slipped down his cheeks.

He hadn’t realized his hands were trembling until he lifted them to gently cup Carlos’ face, thumbs slowly moving to delicately wipe the tears away. Two warm hands covered his own, and TK leaned up to press his lips gently to Carlos’ forehead. The hands covering his tightened when he leaned back.

“I thought the single hardest decision were those adoption papers we filed a few months ago.” TK says lightly, feeling the first genuine smile grace his lips since the start of all this when Carlos let out a wet chuckle.

No matter how many years have passed, TK feels himself melting all over again at the signature warmth in Carlos’ gaze that was surely mirrored in his own as they looked at each other.

“They’re on different meters.” Carlos responds, and TK’s eyes crinkle at the sides. His hands move to his hips, pulling him in closer.

“We can’t see the future,” Carlos says softly, and TK’s smile dims. “There will be many more uncertainties down the road, obstacles we’ll face. But I’m sure, with every fiber of my being, that I want to face them with you– to be the one to hold your hand until the end.”

TK forcefully swallows past the bitter tang in his throat.

The words wash over him in a dizzying warmth. Death was inescapable, and a constant presence in both their lines of work. It was one of the reasons they treasured every minute they got with each other, never knowing when their clocks would abruptly stop. And although the mere thought of the possibility of Carlos leaving his world tore him raw and hung him dry, he knew that if it truly came to that, he would want the exact same thing.

For better or for worse.

Lifting a hand to run through Carlos’ curls fondly, his other hand drifted to his pulse point, feeling the rhythmic pulsing against his fingers.

“I love you.” TK says instead, pulling Carlos into a tight hug that was returned with equal fervor without hesitation.

“I know. And I love you.” Carlos murmured, tightening his arms around him. TK closed his eyes, pressing his face into the slightly rough material of his husband’s uniform, absently remembering that he hadn’t gotten a chance to change when he got home.

Pressing a kiss to Carlos’ shoulder, TK looked up to see brown eyes already looking at him affectionately. He slowly trails a hand down his husband’s arm, smiling at the trail of goosebumps left behind in their wake.

“I’m never letting go of your hand,” TK whispers, his hand having travelled down to intertwine with Carlos’, lifting it up to press a lingering kiss to the back of it. He stares at the ridges and scars with teary eyes, every indentation – every mark ingrained into his mind.

“I’m going to hold onto you for a long, long time.”

#Tarlos #Tarlos fic #911lsangstweek

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nonbinarychaoticstupid · 4 years ago

Note

c or e (maybe both?) for the ask game

>:) (also he/they/she catra because i'm having too much fun with this hc)

this kinda fits the angst more than the fluff but i hope u like it nonetheless! (also. ending properly? who's that?)

Everything hurts.

Everything hurts, and he can't stop crying -

(Catra knows they're asleep, or dreaming, or dead, because there's no way any of this is real, there's no way Adora is real and Adora came back for her and there's no way Adora could possible be here right now and -)

"I'm going to take you home," she says, distantly, and if she could hear past the humming of the hive mind in her ears she might be able to -

Prime's voice howls in their ears, and it hurts, and Catra grits their teeth and forces out a choked whimper that somehow, somehow ends in "P-promise?" and oh, he's going to pay for fighting back like that, and the thought isn't their own - Adora -

"I promise," Adora says - no, sobs - and he wonders, somewhere in the closed-off portion of his mind Prime seems to have relinquished, if he'd be allowed to reach across the fragile space between them and fall into Adora's arms like he wants to, if the mind pressing hard against his own would allow him that small reprieve.

(They wonder if Adora would hold them back, if she'd let them sink into their arms like they've wanted to for years and never let go. They wonder if she'd - if she'd recoil at their touch - if -)

Something inside her lurches free of Prime's grip, that instinct that keeps her clutching at her arms and trembling and sobbing out here on this lonely platform jutting out into empty space, and Catra - stars, she just wants to be home again - Catra reaches out and chokes out a broken, soft, "Adora-" and -

It happens so quickly they barely have time to register it - pain lances up their body, they cry out, because it's - it's so much worse, it's so much more than when Prime drowned them in the pool, and then the world is white and blank and gone and they're floating in silence, in nothingness, devoid of thought and emotion and everything except vague, passive knowledge of the world trembling around them. And it's quiet, and Catra - and Catra -

When the world comes back to him, it's framed in harsh, blinding black-and-white-and-green light, in tears spilling from the eyes of the blue-eyed girl standing, frozen in terror, at the other end of the universe, in green-edged lightning and in the kind of pain he'd grown used to feeling almost every day of his life.

When the world comes back to Catra, they are screaming.

(And they could fill pages and pages of the notebooks they used to hide under Adora's mattress with every fragment of this pain, with every inch of their body being burned and turned into ash and electrified by the chip in the back of their neck. They could spend hours trying to pin down every heartbeat of it, magnified and so, so much more intense than what they grew up with.

But before Catra can form that thought properly, pushing at the barriers in her mind, before she can do anything except catch a fleeting glimpse of the cry pulling at Adora's lips through white-hot nothing, the brief flashes of the world she has been allowed to see vanish and she topples backward into nothing -

He topples backward into nothing, and he feels what fragile hold on consciousness he hand slip away, and he feels the breath rattle out of his lungs and thinks, desperately, echoing in the vast empty hollow of his mind Prime must have vacated, ADORA - )

Catra is dead.

She knows this with unbreakable certainty, knows this the heartbeat she pulls her broken, bleeding body against her and feels her breath stalling and shaking and shattering out of her body. And it tears something deep inside her apart.

She's trembling with the force of it, fumbling for the back of the head of the body in her arms, feeling the new ends of the hair she must have fought so hard to try and keep and the chip embedded in the back of her neck.

Catra is dead, and Adora is clinging to all that's left of her in the bottom of an impossibly vast spaceship, and in all her life she's never felt as alone, as - as desperately empty as she does right now, and -

And the pit of despair and the hole in her heart shatter wide open.

And Adora moulds that rage, that grief, into something - more.

It's beyond anything he's ever known. It's colder and brighter and darker and softer than anything he's ever known, and it's coursing through his veins and tugging at the fraying edges of his mind and -

Catra takes her first breath in what could have been forever and knows, instinctively, that she was dead.

She was dead, and the thing pulling at their mind and their soul and their body is what brought them back.

And said thing is holding them right now, cradling their head in her rough, familiar hands and - and crying -

Catra takes another breath, one that turns into something like a cough, and opens his eyes - and - and there she is, glowing and crying quietly and playing gently with the newly-cut ends of his hair , and it's been so long since they've been this close and smiled at each other like this and he opens his mouth and mumbles "H-hey, Adora," and she sobs and pulls them into her arms -

Stars.

They - they didn't think they'd ever be held like this again. They didn't think it was possible for someone to want to hold them like this. But Adora - Adora, who wasn't supposed to come for her, who saved her, who literally just brought her back from death - is pulling Catra against her like she's never held her before and she can't bring herself to do anything but wrap her arms around her and bury her face in her shoulder and let out a small, broken noise that turns into purring.

Purring.

Adora is holding them for the first time in years and crying into Prime's weird plastic-y shirt and Catra is purring.

You came back for me.

When Catra wakes up, Adora is in his bed. And his mind, for the first time in what feels like years, is completely and utterly silent. And - and there's a mess of scar tissue where the chip was, and he's warmer than he's been in a long time. (Not hot - warm, warm like falling asleep in a beam of sunlight, warm like being tangled up in Adora's arms again, warm like - warm like being home again.)

He opens an eye. Shuts it again, because Adora is staring directly at them. Mumbles, "You shouldn't have come for me, you know."

(And it's then that they realise that she's practically draped over them, head nestled in the curve of their collarbone, arms looped around their waist like they're 12 again and Adora is the centre of the world and she's holding Catra like she's her moon and -)

"I know."

She opens an eye again. It's dark in here, darker than she expected it to be, and Adora's expression is hopeful and stupid and she glows in the dark like she was when she healed her yesterday and oh-

"... Why did you?"

"Hm?"

Catra breathes out, long and slow, and shuts his eyes again. And just like that, the glow and Adora's weird bright expression and everything else is gone. And he can practically hear her thinking next to him, hand looping up to stroke his hair like they're kids again. "Why did you come back for me?"

"Oh." Adora pauses, swallows. "Well, I guess it's because I still -"

He laughs, feeling hollow. "Still care about me? After I, I don't know, tried to kill you multiple times? Almost destroyed reality?"

"Yes," she says, firmly, and rolls onto her back. Catra would mourn the loss of her warmth if their head wasn't spinning. "I told you. Yesterday. I never hated you. I never stopped caring about you."

She's lying. She's lying. She's-

"I know you think I'm lying," Adora murmurs. Catra tenses. "I know you think you're not worth being saved. I know you think I'd never come back for you, because you don't think you deserve it."

"I don't," he mumbles. "I hurt people. You aren't supposed to want me around. You - you weren't supposed to come back."

"But I did," she says, slowly, and takes his hand.

(Catra tenses again, and it strains muscles he didn't know could hurt like that, and he bites down hard on his lip and tries not to make a noise because - because then Adora would think of him as - as weak -)

"Does it hurt?"

The question - well, it sort of startles them into opening their eyes and glancing in Adora's direction, and then they have to squeeze them shut again, because she's staring at them with such a hopeful, wide-eyed expression that they -

"Huh?"

"Your neck, I mean." She lets go of their hand, hesitantly, and reaches up to the scars crawling up their shoulder blades. And, oddly, Catra doesn't flinch away when she touches them.

(Because - oh - it's been years since she was touched like that and she's almost forgotten what it felt like and -)

"Um. Kinda," she gets out, and Adora nods, like that makes sense. "Everything hurts, to be honest. Just - everything."

A moment passes, and then Adora lets out a small sigh and breathes, "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"I'm sorry you're in pain," she mumbles. "I'm sorry I can't do anything to fix it."

Well, there's no nice way they can respond to that.

Catra shifts onto their side, gritting their teeth as pain bites at the base of their tail. Adora is still watching them, eyes half-closed, lying on her back on the mattress and biting her lip like she's - nervous.

Hm. Shit.

It takes them a moment, but - but they -

"Adora?"

"Yeah?"

She breathes in. Out. "Can you - um -"

"Go?" she fills in gently. "Stay? Do you need me to - to get off the bed or get you some food or water? Do you -"

"Stars, Adora, I was just gonna ask if you could hold me. You know, like you were when we - when we fell asleep? I - I mean, it's okay if you don't want to, it's not like -"

He's cut off by a pair of strong arms wrapping around his waist, a head settling on his shoulder, and Adora's soft laughter against his collarbone.

Oh.

Okay.

A heartbeat, and then she whispers, "Is this okay?"

"Yeah. This is fine."

#sep texxt #ask #sep's writing #moanla #tw death #tw death mention #tw scars

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tendertenebrosity · 4 years ago

Text

Aedan, Part Who Even Knows

So, I did say you likely wouldn’t see any more of these guys, but I was rereading my draft and this bit is polished enough for me to feel comfortable sharing. Here is some birdperson comfort! New followers, you can find more about Aedan in his tag.

Shae approached the fire. If she’d been trying to sneak up on it, she thought wryly as she climbed over a dead branch and landed on another with a loud crunch, she would have been very disappointed.

So it was that when she rounded the bole of the big tree and found herself face to face with the fire, Aedan was already on his feet and staring in her direction.

She came to a graceless stop, stumbling the last few steps as her dress hem caught on a tree root. “Aedan,” she exclaimed, her voice trembling with gladness and relief. Then it seemed to stop, as if everything else she had to say was bottled up behind a stone in her throat.

He was scarcely recognisable. His big brown eyes blinked at her, familiar features in an otherwise drastically different face, wan and smudged with dirt. Deep shadows under his eyes and yellow-brown bruising and swelling painting his throat, his fine cheekbone, the hollow of one of his eyes. He looked tiny, smaller even that she was accustomed to him looking, fragile and sodden with a blanket draped over his wings and clutched at his throat with tight-clenched fingers. His hair was dark with water and twisted into rats’ tails.

He looked like he was ready to flee at the sight of her.

She had to say something. Something, before he took off into the woods and she never ever saw him again.

“Oh my God, Aedan, I’m so sorry,” she said. “Please - Aedan - don’t run away. I’ve come to find you.”

The fire crackled between them, sadly, flickering low around the branches Aedan had stacked to keep it burning. Aedan stared at her like he didn’t understand what she was saying.

“Aedan - you look awful - let me help you,” she said. “It’s okay. I’ve come to get you.”

She took a step towards him, without thinking, and he took a step backwards, clutching the blanket tighter.

“Don’t,” he said jerkily. “Just - don’t.” His eyes darted, up and down, behind her, behind him as if wondering if he could get away.

Her heart plummeted, to see him so small and hurt, and frightened of her. She spread her hands, very carefully, and eased herself back a step.

“Where’s - everybody else?” he asked, eyes glancing behind her again.

“Just me, Aedan,” she whispered. “Just me. I came to bring you - home. I came to try and fix it.”

He shook his head. Water dripped from the leaves and branches around them, a quiet patter to fill the silence. Thunder rolled gently in the distance.

“Is… is Lucas… dead?” he asked, his voice hollow.

Shae’s heart twisted. “No,” she said, her voice small and thin. “No, he isn’t. He’s hurt. But they don’t think he’s going to die.”

Aedan didn’t move for a long second, and his eyes seemed to be fixed on something in the distance past Shae’s face. “Oh,” he whispered. “I’m… I’m glad.” He took a deep breath, and she could see his chest rising and falling.

He was silent for another long moment.

“Aedan…” Shae said. “Can I… look, I have dry clothes and blankets and things back in my saddlebags. And food. Why don’t I go and get them, and we can build your fire up a bit, and… and I can help you, okay?”

His mouth twisted and he looked upset. “Help me?” he echoed. “Shae, I’ve been - the last three days have been… you locked me up! I thought I was safe, I thought we were family, but things changed like that and - and - ” He tried to snap his fingers, fumbled and lost hold of the blanket, let it slither to the mud. His voice was starting to rise, cracking and falling over itself. “Lucas broke - he said - he was going to kill me. He would have killed me. Why should - why are you -” He gestured wildly, one of his wings coming out at last to join in the gesture. “What are you even doing out here by yourself?”

Shae stared at his wings, misery sitting in her stomach like cold mud. His wings. One of them was bound to his back with filthy bandaging, the cloth mussing up and fraying the feathers where it held them tight against his body. The other was open, but dark with moisture like his hair, and so bedraggled she could see strips of the forest floor through the gaps between feathers. It hurt her heart to see them like that, beautiful things he’d taken such care of, part of him in a way that clothes and hair weren’t, unkempt and immobile.

“I came to find you,” she said, faltering. “I - I thought - ”

“Why would you want to help me?” he asked. She could see his mouth twisting for a moment, and then he was crying, tears mingling with the water running down his face from his hairline. “Aren’t I just… just some bargaining chip to you? Just a token of, of an alliance that it turns out isn’t even worth the paper it’s written on?” He rubbed his eye with the heel of one hand. “I-if the treaty’s worthless what’s that make me? Aren’t I j-j-just another wingfolk, your enemy, barbarians, vermin? Lucas called us v-vermin, why are you out h-here tramping th-through the woods for some creature if I’m n-not even useful for making my family do what you want...”

“Aedan!” Shae begged. “No!” She wrung her hands in front of her, wanting to go to him, wanting to touch his wings, wanting to bundle him up into her arms, stroke his hair the way she knew he liked. She had never wanted to touch anybody as much as she wanted to touch Aedan now, with a force that startled her.

He stared at the ground, tears dripping from his chin. His arms were folded, hugging himself, thin shoulders shivering. “I don’t know if I’d be able to stop you dragging me back to the castle anyway,” he said bitterly. “Wouldn’t get very far if I tried to run, would I?”

“I’m not going to drag you anywhere!”

“Really? So if I told you to turn around and go back without me, you would?”

“I - ” Shae swallowed. She buried her hands in the hair at her temples, stared up at the rain-soaked canopy for a long moment while she thought. “Yes,” she said. “I don’t - please don’t do that, though. You won’t make it through the forest and out the other side by yourself.”

“Made it this far,” he mumbled, staring at the ground. “Must be halfway, right?”

“I don’t… know,” Shae said uncomfortably. “Look… since I’m here, can I go and get my stuff? You look freezing. And you must be hungry.” She coughed suddenly, trying to clear the wobbles that kept trying to creep into her voice. “At least let me feed you before you leave, if you’re going to.”

“I…” He rubbed absently at one shoulder, and shrugged. He didn’t meet her eyes, didn’t even look up, but he nodded at the ground. “Yeah. Okay. I guess.”

Shae exhaled shakily in relief. “Great!” she said quickly. She backed up a few steps, held her hands up like Aedan was a wild animal that might startle at sudden movement. “I’ll be back soon, all right? Don’t go anywhere!”

When Shae returned, leading the horse very carefully across the uneven ground, Aedan had pulled some dead branches close to the fire to dry out. He was sitting on the thick, coiled root that was protruding from the ground, sodden stringy tail feathers out behind him, hunched up and staring into the fire.

“Hey,” Shae said, out of breath, her saddlebag over one shoulder. The root was long enough to seat a couple of people side by side, and she pointed to the space beside him. “Can I sit there, Aedan?”

His eyes flicked up to her. He shook his head slowly. “You can sit over there,” he said, pointing to a rotten log at least a metre and a half away, at a right-angle with him and the fire.

Shae nodded, a lump in her throat. “Sure,” she agreed.

She knelt and began to spread the contents of the pack out, keeping them as dry and clean as she could, relieved to find that the waterproof material of the packs had kept everything dry. She shook out the set of Aedan’s shirt and what passed for pants for him out. “I brought you these, Aedan, do you want to get out of your wet things? In the meantime I’ll start boiling water and we can have tea. I brought this, um, travel cake, I don’t know if you’d have tried it before but it has dried fruit and honey so I think you’ll like it….”

Aedan tipped his head slowly. “You brought a set of my clothes?”

“Well - yeah,” she said. “I figured, if you were only dressed for hanging around at home reading, you would still be in those…” She squinted across the distance at his shirt. It didn’t seem to be done up right - the tie around his neck was done, but she realised that the part that was supposed to fasten around the small of his back had to be left loose because the bandaged wing was in the way.

He didn’t make any move to come over to get the clothing, so Shae stood up, stepped around the fire, and draped it over the end of his root along with one of her blankets. He watched her wordlessly as she approached, and as she retreated.

He looked exhausted. He looked sore. She found herself looking at the livid bruises around his throat and feeling a black tide of anger against Lucas rising up in her chest.

Lucas might not get better. Lucas could have died. So it felt in some way disloyal for Shae to be this furiously angry at him, to want to shake him and ask him what was wrong with him, to want to never speak to him again so that maybe he’d understand what an awful thing he’d done.

She started to busy her hands with the little pan, pouring her bottle of water into it and fishing for the store of tea leaves she had brought.

“Did you tell Lucas I would be on the roof?”

She started, nearly spilling the tea leaves. “Um,” she said, thoughts racing, staring at her hands. “When do you…”

His voice was low and angry. “When? Stop it, Shae, you know what I meant. Lucas told me that you didn’t care about what happened to me, and he knew exactly where I’d be, out reading on the roof like I always am in the mornings when I’m not in the library. I trusted you. I trusted you, and he said you told him where to find me!”

“I guess I did,” Shae said, wincing. “But it’s not like that, Aedan, I didn’t mean for - I didn’t know he was going to hurt you.”

She gathered her courage and looked up, over at him where he sat on the root.

He was looking back at her with wild, hurt eyes. “He’s your brother. Don’t you know him best? What did you think he was going to do? Didn’t he say?”

“No!” she protested. “He just said – he just said that they needed to find you, in case – I don’t know, in case you were in on the attack. He didn’t say he was going to hurt you. I just thought we’d lock you in a room or something until we knew what was going on!”

He let out a disbelieving breath. “Oh, just that, then,” he said, and his tone was very unlike Aedan, bitten off and sarcastic, tight with hurt. “Not to worry! Just going to lock me up!”

“I’m sorry,” Shae said, closing her eyes, wanting to shrivel up with shame. “I shouldn’t have…”

“Did you really think I had anything to do with killing the King?” he asked. “Why would I do that? Did you think, what? That I was a spy, that I was going to hurt you? I wouldn’t have! I liked the King, he was never anything but kind to me, and even if he hadn’t been, I wouldn’t have hurt him!”

“I know!” Shae said, lifting her hands to her head. “I know that now! Now that I think about it. But at the time, I just… we just didn’t know if we could trust you! And Dad was missing, we didn’t know - everything was so confusing, and I didn’t know I felt about you when I thought about it, and I just - thought - there was so much I needed to do and I thought I could figure out what I felt later!”

She put the tea down, sat back in the dirt, wrapped her arms around her knees. Everything was a tangled mess inside her chest. Dad. I miss you. You’re never coming back.

Aedan was silent, over on the other side of the fire. When she looked over at him, blinking back tears, she saw that he had his hands over his face.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, his voice thin and muffled. “About your dad. I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened but it was wrong, it’s not fair, I’m so sorry. He was… he was a good man, he was a good king.”

She nodded, her throat tight. “Yeah,” she whispered. “He was. Thank you.” She wiped her eyes.

They fell into awkward silence again. The fire crackled. The little pan of water was starting to boil, and Shae moved it off the fire, for something to do with her hands.

Aedan’s hands crept out and took the clothing she’d put on his seat. “Look, thanks for - thanks for thinking to bring these,” he mumbled. “And everything else, too. I know you don’t want to hurt me, not really. And Robb didn’t, either. It’s just… it’s all so complicated, Shae.”

She latched onto that gratefully. “Yes,” she said. “It is.”

“I’m going to - go put these on,” he said nervously. “Don’t, um, look over I guess.” He stepped up onto the root and over, walking a few steps away.

Shae stifled a rueful little smile, as if Shae catching sight of Aedan minus his pants was really something that needed to worry them both at this point. She kept her gaze carefully on the fire.

He returned, and when she looked cautiously over at him he was toweling his hair dry with one of the blankets.

He paused, looked at her, looked at the fire. Then he ignored the root he’d been sitting on, took the extra few steps around the fire, and settled carefully on the end of Shae’s log, leaving a space between where he was and where she would sit when she came back from the fire.

She held out one of the thin metal traveling cups to him, giving off fragrant steam. His eyes flickered, and he gave her a hesitant, tremulous beginning of a smile. He put the blanket aside, leaving his hair a birds-nest of braids and knots and tangles, and reached out to take the cup from her. Their fingers brushed, his cold and soft, and she shifted her grip away from them as she handed it to him.

Then she eased herself backwards and up onto the log, leaving a few hands-widths between them. He had his hands wrapped around the tea and his shoulders hunched over it, pressed against his chest. Shae took her own cup and sipped it, more for companionship than because she really wanted tea. The taste was soothing, though.

“You need to eat,” she said, firmly, unwrapping the waxed paper from her travel cake. “When did you eat last? You look horrible.”

He gave another, stronger smile. “Um. I found a few things,” he said. “I do know some woodcraft, you know. Unfortunately a lot of the plants here are different so it wasn’t as helpful as I was hoping it was.”

He took the cake from her hand, and didn’t speak at all for the next minute or so as he ate it, every crumb, silent and intently focused on it in a way that made it clear just how hungry he’d been.

“Shae…”

She looked up and over, her heart skipping. “Yes?”

He was staring into the flames. It was getting darker, and the leaping shadows made the bruising less obvious. “I would have liked it if you had trusted me,” he said slowly. “I trusted you.” He put the empty cup down, and crossed his arms, gripping his elbows. “I thought that we were, you know… I liked you, and I thought maybe you were coming around to thinking better of me. And I trusted your family, Robb and Lucas. And I trusted Wizard Tamsin when she said I’d be safe here. I trusted my family.” He hunched forward, hugging his arms to his body. His voice was a whisper. “I guess I’m just an idiot, aren’t I? Because it turns out I shouldn’t have trusted any of those people.”

Shae bit her lip. “Aedan… no,” she said. “You’re not - an idiot. You just want people to be good, you think the best of people. That’s a good thing. It’s something that I like a lot about you. You should have been safe to trust people.”

Aedan hummed wordlessly. He had his arms wrapped around himself tightly, like he needed to feel them, like he would fall apart otherwise. She could see the shivers wracking his frame, and the urge from before resurfaced harder than ever, to wrap her arms around him.

“I’m really sorry, Aedan,” she said softly. “It’s complicated, you’re right, but I should have done better by you.”

He nodded, shivering still. “Okay,” he said. “Okay.”

She hesitated. She didn’t want to reach out, not if he didn’t want her to. She settled for leaning back and opening her posture slightly, leaving a space that he could fit if he wanted to. She opened her arm, hesitantly, slightly, trying to make it obvious to him but at the same time not obvious so that if he wanted to ignore it she could put her arm back down and they could both pretend that she had never done it.

His eyes slid over towards her, and for a moment they were unreadable. Then he unfolded his arms, sat up a little straighter, and edged over, inch by inch, until his side with the broken wing was pressing into the space she had left for him.

Shae drew in a slow, shaking breath, and let her arm come around to lie across his shoulders. He was ungainly under her arm, all shivering and wet feathers and joints that she didn’t want to jostle.

“Is - oh, your wing - I’m not hurting it, am I?”

He shook his head. “No. No, it’s fine.”

He pressed closer as her arm closed around him, and then suddenly with a choked noise he turned in the circle of her arm and let himself fall forward against her chest, face buried in her shoulder.

Shae felt, very definitely, as though she did not deserve this. But she put her other arm around him, too, snugged him closer against her hip, and leaned her head down on his. His hands and arms were caught between them, pressing against her front, and she could feel the water from his wings and hair soaking into her dress.

It wasn’t comfortable. It wasn’t even all that warm. But they sat there, as darkness deepened around them and Shae realised they really ought to be caring for the horse and setting up more of a camp, since they wouldn’t be heading out until morning. Aedan’s shivering slowed, and stopped, and he stopped pressing his face into her neck quite so desperately.

His left wing had relaxed and was drooping in front of them, half-open, the feathers drying out to a more familiar and comfortable cream and brown. Shae shifted position, reached out and gently ran her finger and thumb down the vane of the first primary that came to hand.

Aedan at first tensed, looked up. When he saw that her hand was what had touched his wing, he relaxed a little further into the embrace and sighed. She could feel his breath stir the air close to her neck.

“You know,” Shae said, and her hand continued picking and stroking gently amongst his feathers. ��I brought some stuff for your wing, from Martin. Clean bandages, something for pain. Want me to get them out? ”

“Yes,” he said, into her shoulder. “Please.”

#Aedan Windblade #winged whumpee #throwback to 2019!#the beforetimes #comfort drabble #broken bones tw #reconciliation/forgiveness #fantasy whump

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missmensis · 4 years ago

Text

no gods, no masters, iii.

Pairing: Benny x F!Courier

read ch. 1 here, read ch. 2 here. read ch. 3 on ao3.

They were all feeling a bit beaten-up after fending off the Legion; the victory was just that, but it felt hollow. They'd be sending assassins after Ava until there were none of them left or she kicked the bucket. The latter was unlikely. She was being quiet as usual, but this quiet felt different. She wouldn't stop looking over her shoulder, a vacant stare in her eye as she did so, and her pace had slowed down considerably compared to the last few days.

The ambush had taken more of their time and energy than they'd planned, and they decided to stop at the 188 Trading Post for the night. There were a handful of NCR soldiers occupying the spot, so it'd be safer than just stopping on the side of the road or off the trail. There were no free beds to spare, but all they needed was a relatively safe place where they wouldn't have to sleep with one eye open; nobody was new to the occasional necessity of sleeping on the ground.

Once they found their own little area to hold up for the evening, the Courier sat down to rest and make a fire. They gave her some space. Boone pulled Benny aside, far enough so that Ava wouldn't hear.

"Right, so," Benny stuck his wrists out in front of Boone, "Gonna leash me back up, huh?"

Boone shook his head, "Actually, no. At least... not now, anyway. That's up to her. About today-"

"Oh, yeah," Benny chewed his lip, taking the gun out of his waistband, "Here you go."

He held it out for the other man to take, but Boone waved his hand, "Keep it. For here. Just in case."

Benny gave him a funny look, "You sure, cat?"

"Yeah," He nodded, glancing behind Benny in Ava's direction, "Just... watch her, alright? She's hurting."

"I will-" Benny moved to stick the pistol back in his pants, but not before Boone grabbed his arm.

"Take advantage, or try anything and I swear to god," Boone said, lowering his shades to look Benny straight in the eye, "I'm not far away. I will be watching, and I will put a bullet in you."

"You're gonna have to come up with a new threat," Benny replied with ire, "That one's getting stale, dig?"

"Be less of an asshole and then maybe I won't have to threaten you." Boone rolled his eyes and turned to walk away. He whistled for Rex, who trotted to the sniper's side and followed along obediently to keep watch.

Boone's 10mm in hand, Benny made his way back to check on Ava. He stashed the gun in the back of his waistband again, hoping he wouldn't need to use it. At least, not tonight, anyway.

Ava was sitting in front of the small campfire she'd made, her legs splayed out in front of her, the toes of her boots tapping together to some beat only she could hear. There was a bottle of whiskey in her lap, and it looked like she was making solid headway on it.

"Hey, hey," Benny crouched down next to her, "What's shakin'?"

"Benny," She turned to him, a dazed smile on her face, "I’m trying to get drunk. Shakin' with you?"

"Ah, nothin' much," He settled down, stretching his legs out next to hers, "Gettin' smashed, huh? Can I get some of that?"

"Mmmmmhm," She hummed, handing him the bottle and watching as he took a deep swig, "It's good shit."

"It's... not bad," Benny swished it around a bit before swallowing, "Got better shit at the Tops, though."

"Yeah, yeah, you're so high and mighty at the Tops, aren't you," Ava poked him hard in the side with her finger, her eyes hazy, "'Benny's gonna show you the Tops', hah."

"Shut up," He snickered, "I did, though. The dent in that mattress was permanent."

She looked over at him, the light from the fire dancing on her features, "I remember."

It was astonishing how terrifyingly stunning she was. That handful of months ago now, when she'd been kneeling on the ground in front of him, her life flashing before her eyes, she'd just looked like a kid, nothing more than a clueless girl who had no idea what kind of package she was carrying.

How had that not been enough in itself to make him reconsider what he’d been doing at the time? He hadn't even thought twice; once he had that chip between his fingers, it was a done deal. He could've let her go, she probably wouldn't have come looking. Even the Great Khans had reservations about the whole thing, but it hadn't stopped him. Shit. He was a piece of shit, an untrustworthy fink, and he knew it. She knew it. Everyone knew it.

Benny looked over at her out of the corner of his eye, "Can I ask you something?"

"You just did."

Benny rolled his eyes, "Good goddamn lord, woman."

"I'm fucking with you," Ava mused, "Go ahead."

"Last night in Novac. And... earlier today," Benny started carefully, "You, uh, kinda freaked. You looked really messed up."

Ava looked down at her hands, averting her gaze, "Yeah."

"What happened?"

"Ah.... yeah... so, my head does that every now and then," She answered with tight lips, "Ever since... y'know, I got a bullet to the brain from this checkered bastard I know."

"Right," He said guiltily, "Shit."

What could he say that wouldn't sound stupid or disingenuous? He'd shot her in the fucking head and now she was living with the consequences. God, there was a lot he wanted to tell her, but none of it would come out the way he wanted it to.

He sat next to her, quietly cursing himself when she spoke up again, "I get these like... migraines mixed with small bursts of panic attacks. I don't understand them. I've even asked a doc and he doesn't know. I have dreams all the time about people that I don’t recognize. I see their faces and it’s like I’m supposed to know them and I just don’t," She sighed, the heaviness of the conversation beginning to sober her, “And even when I’m awake, sometimes, I see them, too. In the back corner of a mirror, in the desert heat, they're just watching me. Like I'm riding on Daytripper in a bad way, but I'm stone-cold sober. I'm living with ghosts, Benny. People I'm supposed to know, to feel something for, but all they do is confuse me and make my head spin."

Benny frowned, "You don't remember them. Not at all?"

"No. Don't even know if they're dead or alive. It's not like anybody's come looking for me," Ava shook her head, taking a small yellow and green box out of her pocket that said MENTATS on it in rusted red lettering, "The way I see it, everyone from my past is dead, or I'm dead to them. Or I'm just not someone worth searching for."

She said it with bitterness, her brows furrowed and eyes glued to the horizon as she popped a Mentat on her tongue.

"Do they help?" Benny asked, gesturing to the box of chems as Ava rubbed her thumb across the letters.

"Kinda? I mean, everything from before Goodsprings is a blank. I haven't forgotten anybody I've met since then, but I get these, like, little flashes of moments that seem like they're mine, but they're not. At least, not mine anymore. That's when it hurts. When it turns into something like what happened today. I saw somewhere else, like here, but worse. More desolate, if you can believe that. It was like the whole place was in pain, screaming at me. Kinda think it's better that I don't remember."

She shoved the Mentats back into her pocket and inhaled deeply, closing her eyes as she filled herself with the dry Mojave air, "Everything before Goodsprings doesn't matter anymore, not really. Who I was before is gone. I just want to make sure I remember who I am now."

There was a beat of silence, the two of them just sitting and staring at the fire as the wind began to pick up around them. Ava tucked her knees up and rested her chin on them as she stared at the sun slowly making its way towards the edge of the world.

"I'll make sure you don't forget," Benny said quietly, "Been a goddamn fink to you so... I owe you that much. I'll never stop being sorry. I mean that."

Ava turned her head to look over at him, her brows slightly raised in disbelief at his words.

"And for what it's worth, if anything at all," He continued, "I think you're someone worth searching for."

Her eyes softened; he'd never seen her look at him that way before. It was something like... fondness? Appreciation? A lapse in judgment from the whisky and chems? Whatever it was, it pulled at the corners of his mouth. Ava smiled back, the first real one he'd ever seen from her, and it was infectious. Her cheeks dimpled, and she looked almost a little nervous before she settled into it, which made Benny wonder just how many reasons she'd even have to smile these days. A gust of wind blew through their camp, and Ava visibly shivered. Wordlessly, Benny shrugged his jacket off and put it over her shoulders.

"I'm still really fuckin' mad at you," She whispered, "But thank you, Benny."

She didn't wait for him to reply before she scooted closer to him so that their sides were touching. Ava reached for his arm and gently slung it over her shoulders as she rested her head against his chest. He was stiff for a moment, not quite sure if this was a sick joke or not, but when she didn't do anything else besides lean into him, he finally relaxed.

The girl knew what she wanted and wasn't afraid to take it; he dug that.

They sat for a while, neither of them saying a word, as the sky grew darker and darker. Vegas glowed like a lantern off in the distance, a stark contrast to the rest of the Mojave bathed in black. With how brightly the skyline shone, the stars had a hard time competing, even though the sky was littered with them. It wasn't often that Benny spent a night out in the dust - that was now more a thing relegated to a former life - and though he wasn't one to live in the past, he couldn't help but feel a pang of nostalgia as he stared up at the constellations. Years of his life spent as a nomad walking the Mojave with the Boot Riders, countless nights just like this, and how quickly he'd tossed it all aside for caps and comfort. He'd have done all that again, he knew, but as he felt Ava relax fully against him, he had more than one regret in the back of his mind. Benny was careful as he glanced down at her, her eyes closed and mouth slightly open as she slept soundly on his shoulder, and gently moved some of the hair away from her face. As he did, his eyes caught the edge of the scar from the bullet.

Yeah, sure-as-shit, more than one regret.

#should I keep posting this here or just updating on ao3 #I don't know #anyway *throws it into the void*#benny x courier #benny gecko #courier six #oc: ava #oc: ava decker #*my writing #otp: born to die

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timextoxhajima · 4 years ago

Audio

Playlist Feels: SHORT SERIES PART 1

Member: stripper LEE JUYEON

Genre: angst, smut, exes to lovers because why the fuck not lmao and it fits the song anyw

A/N: at the point of writing this I WAS TIRED AND SLIGHTLY DRUNK BUT LETS GO. also, NOT part of the GEN Z series, i have racer juyeon in stall for you in gen z ;) also i told V that i was never going to write a stripper au for jy until he goes shirtless or grinds on a prop like kim kai did in artificial love... but when i saw this video, i thought of nothing BUT kim jongin. their styles are pretty similar... not to mention kai had an undercut phase too... conclusion: dana is in a mess and she’s drunk

“i know it hurts to smile but you try to.”

what is a story?

a story has a start, an arc, an ending.

is it pages of cream colored sheets stacked atop one another, word after word after word printed in ink?

is it the lyrics that your neighbour sings in the shower because he associates the beauty of the lyrics with some heartbreak he’s been through, regardless of when he experienced it?

is it the way someone walks in the room and steals everybody’s attention with the sheer amount of confidence and intimidation he was radiating?

so, what is a story?

ups-and-downs. friendship. love. heartbreak. faults.

‘it was my fault, and it always will be.’

god wouldn’t have allowed you to forget that face even if you were dead, even if you had your skull cracked open and your brain was being eaten out in bits like Hannibal Lecter savouring the flesh of his victim.

it feels like a witch’s long, untamed nails were being dragged across your skin, and she was breathing down your ear, whispering secrets of potions and words to curses like they were part of a song.

he who is inked in your heart made of stone will never be removed.

blood that runs thick in the color of love forbids a stake foretold.

bones crumble to dust like fine sand in the wind,

for you will never forget that you have sinned.

the scars on your heart slowly tears apart like a wound that never healed, and every step he makes on the space makes you wish that he was stepping on your soul instead.

not because you were sexually frustrated, but because you deserved it.

“y/n, lighten up! we’re here to have fun, not watch your mopey ass sulk!”

“yeah, you’ve been so stressed lately, don’t you think it’s time to loosen up?”

“for the record,” the music starts to thump in your stomach and the lights dim into a dark shade of red. “i didn’t want to come to a strip club.”

blood has covered the light, for his soul cries over your misdoings.

“ugh, you’re such a party pooper,” she huffs, visibly frustrated when her forehead creases into lines under her makeup.

the memory of you aggressively avoiding being dragged to a strip club rings in your ears like a fire alarm. sometimes, you would’ve loved nothing more besides throw a chair when she acts like that; making it seem like you wanted to do something when you’ve clearly stated you didn’t.

unfortunately, you were used to her shitty little habit.

coercion sprints itself across your arm when she suddenly grabs it, violently shaking you when the music starts.

dread washes over you like wildfire when he starts to move, and he suddenly becomes one with the music.

the whiteness of his skin grabs you by the neck and sticks an ice-cold popsicle down your throat. you could still taste the sourness of the lemon flavoured one he would always give you, even though he liked it too.

the shiny, glittery, loose clothes hanging around his physical existence freezes your muscles the way medusa could turn people into stone. the hairs on your arms stand when you remember how small you looked in his clothes.

and his eyes. they hold a dagger at your heart, tip already sinking into the skin on your chest.

black, sticky, dense tears flood out every hole of your soul’s mouth.

it takes a massive amount of effort to keep every dollop of excruciatingly painful memories to yourself, for you would’ve thrown up your dinner if you didn’t invest that kind of effort.

in your head, you were a demon coated in tears and smudged ink.

stuck in time like a statue, your eyes were hollow and your voice was no longer.

red, the color of blood mixed with poison was spewing out every hole from your face, your knees hitting the ground where the a bed of thorns were laid out carelessly.

the same way you laid out the bed of roses for him, only to become his thorns.

the start of the story began when you first locked eyes with him first in the neighbourhood library near your school.

you never really liked studying in school, not when there were always noisy kids tossing a ball around or someone loudly crunching on chips next to you.

it doesn’t take long for you to notice that he’s been watching you, resulting in you warily turning around to look behind you to see if he was looking at someone else.

a soft chime in the hall pulls your attention to the old clock hanging above the entrance of the library, and an announcement rings through the PA system.

“dear visitors, the time now is 11pm. kindly exit the library and dispose of any litter you may have with you. we hope you’ve enjoyed your time here and we hope to see you soon.”

it was exactly because it was so late, that there was nobody left in the library.

carefully, you return your attention back to him, music still playing softly in your earpieces.

his eyes were glued to his books as he clears them off the table, and you remain seated, taking your time to pack your things as well.

you were hoping he doesn’t come over, so naturally, you panic when he does.

feigning the mindless scrolling on your phone doesn’t do much when he presses his palm flat on to the surface of the table, robbing you of an option to ignore him.

well, you could, but you recognise him.

how could anybody not recognise him?

his eyes meet yours and intimidation fills you like you were drowning, but he suddenly squats with the support of his hand gripping onto the edge of the table, eyes darting away.

a frown finds itself on your face and you watch cautiously when he stands up again, placing a pen and a candy wrapper on the table before you.

“planning on hiding in the bathroom and staying overnight?”

“i... uh-- no...”

“okay,” releasing the edge of the table, he grips the two straps over his shoulders by the sides of his chest and nods towards the exit. “time to go then.”

lee juyeon had always been a rather mysterious character in school. he was two years your senior but it wasn’t surprising to know that he was friends with three of your classmates, one of them being your closest friends.

when he wasn’t smiling, he looked like he could kill someone; drive a knife through their faces and not feel a pinch of guilt.

but when he does, it’s like setting off a billion firecrackers at once.

and by firecrackers, you mean the girls in school swooning over him.

if you had to choose a word to describe the way you looked at him, it had to be ‘indifferent’. you couldn’t deny that he was a great painting to look at and pretend ‘ugliness’ wasn’t a thing, but you’ve never really bothered to invest your emotions on anybody you deemed too far to reach.

so when he offers to walk you back to your place because of how late it was, it surprises you.

“why do you study in the community library and not the school library? i thought i’d see you with sunwoo or eric or hyunjun in school.”

“uh... i stay for awhile just to watch them mess around until they lose their stamina... the school library is filled with idiots who eat and make a fool of themselves which make it not-conducive... so i thought the community library is a better idea. besides, the school library closes at 7pm.”

“ah,” he laughs, and you could hear the swooning in the back of your head. “why am i not surprised?”

silence.

the awkward atmosphere was killing you, and it was difficult to swallow the fact that you could not think of anything to say.

luckily, you stay just about a ten minute walk from the library, so juyeon walks right past your residence without noticing you’ve stopped.

“uh-- juyeon...”

“huh? oh,” he halts in his tracks and turns around, sheepishly taking large steps back to you.

“thank you for walking me back.”

“it’s alright.”

silence, again.

“...goodnight.”

“goodnight, y/n.”

you purse your lips and offer him a polite smile, slightly surprised that he knows your name.

then again, he knows three of your classmates, and you were good friends with hyunjun.

he doesn’t leave until the lift takes you away from the lobby, the view of him waving to you with his unwaxed, tousled hair makes you smile to yourself once out of sight.

the arc of the story comes when you start to find candy under your desk a few weeks later.

you had stopped visiting the library because you were cooped up at home working on projects you needing your laptop for.

the sugar left on your desk seemed to be some kind of coaxing to get you to go back to the library.

the candy on the desk was the same one that you ate at the library, the one with the wrapper that juyeon picked up--

“hyunjun,” you call out to the boy who was passed out on the table, walking towards him.

“go away, i want to sleep--”

“you’ll sleep in class anyway,” grabbing his shoulders, it takes you some effort to peel him off the desk and make him sit upright. “you know who left this and i want to know who.”

hyunjun looks at you with bloodshot eyes, brows furrowing as he messes up his own hair.

“you sound like you already know who, so why do i need to bother telling you?”

the plastic of the candy wrapper crinkles in your hold as hyunjun’s head meets the table again.

again, it doesn’t take long for you to find out that juyeon might have a crush on you, and neither does it take long for you to reciprocate.

being with juyeon was like sitting on a car and going on a long road trip.

not many bumps, not many surprises, frankly, you were more than happy he was such an easy man to be with.

when juyeon graduates, he gets admitted into a performing arts academy in another city, leaving you in school where you still had to wear school uniform and wake up even before the sun rose.

but he makes an effort to come back to visit you, knowing that he was the older one with more freedom.

this long road trip, however, turns into a rollercoaster without warning, without your realisation.

the institute you enroll yourself into after graduation was located further away from the academy than your old school, but juyeon promises that he’d be with you whenever you could, and you promised the same.

distance becomes the first problem, when you realise how taxing it is to spend two hours travelling across the country to see him, and spend more time sitting on a bus or a train than actually being with him.

it starts to wear you away at the edges, fire burning the corners of ivory sheets with mandarin colored flames and leaving ashes the shade of coal on the floor.

then when juyeon was in his final year and you were halfway through your four year course, it was almost like he vanishes off the face of earth.

it worried you at first, that it felt like he was treating this four year relationship like he mattress he could fall back on anytime he wanted to.

you didn’t blame him, but it stings in the wounds that draw on your heart after a considerable amount of time.

was this what a long-distance-relationship encapsulated? how do couples who don’t even stay in the same country get through it?

you miss his scent, his arms around you, the way he smiles at you whenever you say something stupid or when he doesn’t get a joke and you had to explain it to him.

it feels like he has forgotten you, and it rips you apart that you knew why, that you understand he has his own responsibilities as a student in a prestigious performing arts academy.

but you can’t help but to think: if i could find time that i wanted to provide him, then why couldn’t he?

there was an expectation, and he didn’t meet it. naturally, it becomes a parasite in your love for juyeon. not only had you not seen him in months, his replies begin to spread out across days.

he doesn’t reply until more than 24 hours later, and even when he does, they are short. they are dry.

you start to wonder why he was being so irresponsible with a relationship, especially one that he initiated four years ago. your thoughts start to run wild in your head, and you worry if he had just been playing with you the entire time, and now he was probably kissing someone else in some dance studio in another city.

no, juyeon would never.

then the day came that he appears on social media after a long time. the light that filled you was so intense that you smiled just by noticing he’s finally not dead.

yet, you would’ve much preferred death over seeing another girl on his social media.

he didn’t have the time to respond to you, but he has the time to go out with another girl?

you leave him a text, trying to keep your cool and convince yourself that she was just a friend, and that he’d reply you as soon as possible if he knew you were feeling upset about him spending time with another girl.

hurt converts itself into something physical when he doesn’t reply.

one day passes, then two.

and soon, the whole week flies past.

calls don’t get through, much less messages.

just what was he doing?

you worry and wonder that he no longer loved you and he was merely running from you in hopes you’d leave him alone.

where had you gone wrong? were you a bad partner?

your grades started to take a toll, and memories of juyeon started to clog up in your head as if you weren’t already trying to tear your heart out of your chest.

juyeon no longer loves you.

he’s just having the time of his life in another city, with another girl, probably kissing her in the dance studio and running his hands all over her.

the mere thought kills you, so being able to actually imagine it in your head peels your skin off your body, leaving you in a wrecked mess on the floor with tissues used to wipe your tears.

then, sangyeon came along.

the fresh graduate was flustered when he sees a second-year student fallen apart in a tutorial room on his trips back to the university. but he recognises you from a branching out event you attended a month ago.

it lasted two weeks, and sangyeon was your teammate as a senior, so he was more than aware of your life and existence.

sang yeon stays a safe distance away from you while you try with way too much effort to calm your sobs down.

it’s not a surprise when it fails though, and you break down even harder with the force of someone beating you up

sangyeon doesn’t hesitate to scoot over to your side and pull you into his arms.

it was tricky, trying to recall what exactly you told him. your eyes were swollen and your face must’ve looked like a plum while your tears stained his shirt.

having someone’s shoulder to cry on was so comforting. it fills a gaping hole in your chest that shouldn’t be there in the first place.

sangyeon’s voice runs through your head like honey, honey that soothes the scalding burns juyeon left on your skin.

you knew it was dangerous, and there was a thin line to cross if you chose to let sangyeon through the doors of your heart.

most your friends weren’t truly aware of the status of the relationship, thus telling sangyeon everything at one go combusts you even further.

the urge to have someone’s skin pressed against yours, promising you that you were safe whenever they were around becomes painful to reject.

you will never forget the look in sangyeon’s eyes when you kiss him mid-sentence.

sangyeon tastes exactly his voice sounded, sweet and soft. his eyes were wide open the second you ram your lips into his.

his reluctance slips across your arm, feeling a small amount of force being applies to your elbow when he realises what was happening.

but that pressure softens, and he lets you treat him like juyeon, in attempt to cure your own broken heart.

you will make the biggest mistake you will ever make in your life that night, and that was letting yourself pretend sangyeon was juyeon.

not only were you the one who initiated the kiss in attempt to redeem the lack of affection you were none but craving, you chose to pretend juyeon was the one who spent the night leaving fluttering kisses all over your skin. to whisper words of comfort into your ears and kiss your tears away.

when you wake up and see a pair of eyes that shouldn’t be in such close proximity to yours, it feels like a sword has been driven through your stomach.

then you hear hell knocking on your door, but he sounds like love and missing.

it is a crack, then a rip and a complete separation of your body into two when juyeon realises the door of your dorm room is not locked, and he has that bright smile on his face when he walks into the room, thinking you were asleep.

everything happens under a minute, and sangyeon wasn’t even fully awake by the time juyeon was in the room, seeing you in bed with another man.

the memory of a fight the magnitude of tremendous proportions etches itself in your brain like a parasite.

juyeon literally hurls sangyeon out the door, the only piece of clothing on him being his underwear.

there was an effort to stop juyeon, because you knew it for yourself that it was not sangyeon’s fault.

it was yours, and it always will be.

juyeon has the man’s clothes thrown out the door and he slams it shut in his face before you could say anything to sangyeon, locking both himself and you in the room.

have you ever seen the eyes of someone who has absolutely no clue what he did wrong?

they are broken, confused, hurt, angry. juyeon’s were coveted with a layer of tears just seconds away from billowing over his lower lids when he sees that your face was reddening from shame as well.

there was a heavy silence that could’ve killed you, and you wished it did.

“are you waiting for me to ask--”

“no.”

“so what’s your explanation?”

you dump yourself on the edge of your bed, fingers pressing into your temples. if you pressed hard enough, maybe you could drill your fingers into your skull and rip out your brain.

“y/n.”

why did your own name sound so threatening when it comes from his lips?

“why did you do it? the fact that we were saving it so we could be each other’s first after marriage but you go ahead and do it with someone else--”

“oh, is that the only thing you care about? sex?”

“no, that’s not what i meant--”

“i thought you’d be pissed off over the fact that i have another guy in the picture regardless of our relationship--”

“which is exactly what i’m asking right now!”

the skin on your forehead gets pulled back when your palms hold back your hair. being interrogated by juyeon in just a bra and home shorts felt so humiliating, so degrading, but you can’t help but to have that pang of hatred for juyeon.

he was the one who incited this. all you did was react in a way disproportionate to your feelings.

“why’d you do it, y/n?”

his voice is shaky, and you were terrified to look up at him because you knew he was already crying.

it shatters your heart; you were angry.

with him.

with yourself.

his feet shuffles against the floor and he kneels before you, eyes desperately searching yours for any sign of remorse. his hands wrap around yours but you pull away with resentment, and you can’t help but to feel like he was guilt tripping you into apologising.

it was my fault, but he incited it.

“y/n--”

“stop, don’t touch me--”

“tell me what’s wrong, we’ll figure i--”

“tell you ‘what’s wrong’?” it takes alot of courage to shove him off and you lose sight of what was fuelling your emotions. “i’ll tell you what’s wrong, lee juyeon.”

he is shocked and you could almost hear something crack when he hears his name come off your tongue like you were regurgitating poison.

“you disappear off the face of earth for god knows how long and then when you finally show up again, it’s with another girl?”

it takes you awhile to notice you were now standing, and he was leaning back with his palms flat on the floor behind him.

tears were streaming down the corners of his eyes and you know it was solely from the fact that he’s caught you red-handed but you weren’t showing signs of regret or remorse.

it eats you that he thinks this is not his fault.

“look me in the eye and tell me confidently that you’ve been a responsible partner.”

gut-wrenching surprise writes itself across his face when the demand leaves your lips like venom.

your eyes finally give in, hiccups starting to form in the back of your throat when the still silence gives you some kind of hint that this relationship was as good as gone.

“i wait for you to reply for three days, sometimes more, and all you do is say ‘okay’ or ‘alright’ or ‘nah’-- how am i supposed to be convinced you are invested in this relationship? i haven’t seen you in like, what? four months?! not a proper text, no proper calls, you don’t bother to visit me though you know i can’t because of my work--”

the breathlessness in your chest is a cage with loosened screws and nails, an angry, uncontrollable beast inside waiting to lash out and give juyeon a tight slap across the face.

“ask yourself, lee juyeon,” the sobs become one with the hiccups, and droplets of agonising reality falls off the point of your chin. “who was that girl and why did you not bother to text me back? call me?”

his face falls as if he wasn’t already in a million pieces. the silence feels like a dozen paper cuts on your fingers and your lips cracking in the cold. it sounds like a the car on a roadtrip screeching to a violent stop, and it hurls both of you through the windshield.

your soul is bleeding when you see a muscle in his face twitch, because you now know he is as guilty as you are, even if he didn’t sleep with her.

heartbreak forms a hand on the crown of your head and pushes you to nod. the tears along your jawline get wiped away with the back of your hand, the mucus running down your philtrum is a mess on your bare chest and your face is not recovered from the excessive crying in the last twelve hours.

juyeon is quiet, but screaming in pain through his eyes.

the weight of how broken the both of you were slams down on both your shoulders without warning, and you find enough energy to gulp and clear your throat.

“get out.”

the scene looks like a freeze-frame, and you shake your head at the sight of his unwillingness.

“get out, juyeon.”

it feels like a knife is being dragged across your throat when you say the last words you thought you’d ever say to him.

“we are through.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

PART 2

#lee juyeon #juyeon #the boyz #the boyz juyeon #juyeon smut #juyeon fanfic #the boyz smut #the boyz fanfic #the boyz angst #angst

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ufuckingpastry · 3 years ago

Text

What Remained in Pandora’s Box

AO3 Link

Previous Chapter || First Chapter

Chapter 6: Giving Lime

Technoblade smiled warmly at him, and Ranboo was startled by how hopeful he looked. Hopeful that this would help, that they weren’t too late before the worse came to pass. After a beat of silence, Techno jumped and grabbed something from his inventory.

“Also, you’ll want these,” he said, pushing a bag into Ranboo’s hands. “It’s ghast blubber chips. Yes, I know how that sounds, but trust me. The kid’s gonna love them. Nice, fatty pieces of… snack.” Behind them, Phil snickered. Ranboo offered a small laugh as well, born more from relief than getting whatever joke just happened.

"I think," Ranboo started, looking around at his friends, a strange little joy blooming inside his chest. "I think I better take these to Michael." With that said, Ranboo ducked out the door.

And then he ran.

Ranboo jumped down the steps, vaulted over the fence, and sprinted all the way to the portal. He caught himself on the obsidian, then swung through. He took the fastest path through the nether, the fastest route he could to the community portal. As he barreled out of it, he nearly ran into Tommy and a little, blue sheep.

“Whoa! Hey, Ranboo!”

“Hey Tommy!” Ranboo called as he jumped around him and Friend, holding out his hand in a wave. A thought caught on the edge of his brain and his hand caught on the edge of the fence post. His momentum carried him back around to Tommy. “Are you going to Snowchester today?”

“Uh, I didn’t plan to? Why?”

“I talked to Techno! And he gave me these!” Ranboo pulled out the heat charms to show off to Tommy. Absolutely nothing passed over his face and he glanced up at the enderman bouncing on his heels.

“Friendship bracelets?” he guessed.

“Techno called them heat charms. I don’t know how they work, but I’m bringing them to Tubbo! You should come too!”

“I…” Tommy glanced down at Friend and frowned. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea. I was going home to take care of Friend today. I don't want to risk it dying again." Ranboo nodded, understanding the risks that came with getting a sheep from one place to another. "Besides," Tommy spoke up again. "I promised Tubbo I'd make more of those sweaters for Michael. It seemed like they helped out, at least a little."

"Oh! That's a good idea," he agreed and nodded. While he was here with Tommy though… "Hey, Techno mentioned that he wanted to meet Michael. I know Tubbo's a little… weird with Techno after the Butcher Army stuff, but I was going to ask him what time he'd like to come and vis--"

"No."

"No?"

"No, that's a terrible idea," Tommy said, shaking his head. Ranboo pressed his lips together, then continued anyways.

"Why? Techno doesn't blame him for it, anyways! I explained that it was always more Quackity's id--"

"Ranboo, no, you don't get it. It's not the Butcher Army stuff that he's still upset over. It's," Tommy breathed in, like the next words were going to be too hard to say on little breath. “Ranboo, Techno executed Tubbo. B-back when Wilbur and I were part of Pogtopia, he—It was at a festival. Schlatt caught Tubbo spying and he ordered Techno to execute Tubbo in front of e-everyone! And he just… did it.”

“What?” came Ranboo’s voice, hollow and echoing. His gaze almost fell on Tommy’s face. Instead, it dropped on his hunching shoulders. He could feel Tommy’s gaze lifting back to him, only to have it dart away as he spoke.

“I… I shouldn’t have said anything,” he muttered, wrapping his arms around himself. Guilt appeared on his face briefly, an expression Ranboo had seen on him far too many times. “Tubbo didn’t want me to talk about it, but—” He cut off. His hands dropped from his arms and squeezed them so tight they shook. Ranboo stepped forward, worry knotting in his stomach for Tommy’s nails biting too far into his palms (he’d seen the scars before), but Tommy released them with a huff. “You’re his starfate too.” He looked up then, catching the enderman’s eyes before remembering to look away. “You deserve to know.”

Ranboo stuttered to a stop, tripped up by the eye contact. As Tommy’s words sunk in, he tried to breathe through the horror building in his chest. He searched the air before him, the ground at his feet, the grass block suddenly in his hands for anything to help ground him. Anything to bring him back down to earth, back down to world, back down to the realization of the source of the scars on Tubbo’s face. The reason Tubbo jumped at loud noises, the reason Tubbo always kept an exit at his back, the reason he couldn’t stand small spaces (he was the one who asked for the mansion to be big and wide open).

“All this time?” came Ranboo’s voice, wavering, shaking, shivering. His breath came faster, his claws burying into the grass block in his hands. There was a soft drone to his voice, building as he searched his memories, searched for a time that he had been told…

And, when he came back up empty, when he came back up

Tommy was there, a hand on his arm and a sheep at his side. They locked eyes for a moment before Ranboo stumbled back, the drone heavy in his voice as he tried to brush it off.

“Oh, uh,” he said, breathing far too fast still. Speaking far too fast still. “I’ll—uh, thanks? I—Thanks, for, um, telling me, I guess.” He shuffled on his feet, not looking at Tommy, not looking at the sheep, not looking at the abandoned grass block at his feet. With fumbling hands, he turned away.

Something landed on his wrist and tugged, hard. Ranboo stopped dead in his tracks, turning back a touch to see… Tommy. And Tommy’s hand tight on his wrist like a vice.

“Ranboo, I—!” Tommy said, his voice catching in his throat as he gazed at him, stared at him with such intensity that Ranboo felt like it was him pinned in place by Tommy’s eyes. As he struggled for his words, Ranboo felt the fur on his body raise, enderman instincts kicking in. But instead of fear or anger or the sudden urge to kick his attacker’s teeth in, he felt…

Seen.

And warm.

And as abruptly as it began, Tommy’s grip and gaze fell away. His hand rested on Friend’s head, rubbing into the deep blue of its wool.

“I… I’m gonna charge you five diamonds each sweater, you know.”

And Ranboo breathed out, slowly. Okay. They were… He was okay. He dropped to his knees next to Friend and buried his face in its side. Just for a moment. Because Tommy once told Tubbo it helped him calm down. And… he guessed he could see why. Sheep were warm. Sheep were quiet. Sheep didn’t care if maybe some tears soaked into their fur. It was better than burning, he guessed. And when he pulled back and sat back on his haunches, he lifted his gaze up, just enough to rest on Tommy’s chin.

“Make it ten,” he said with a smile. Tommy’s expression broke. All his guilt and worry broke before Ranboo and a smile cracked across his face. Giggles burst from him as he bent nearly in half in his relief.

“Can I argue for twenty?” he asked, still laughing.

“No,” Ranboo said, unable able to help a small laugh of his own. He pulled out his memory book and jotted a quick note into it. He wanted to remember this. His hand stuttered as he wrote out the thing about Tubbo, but he had to remember that for sure. But he also wrote in the sound of Tommy’s laugh and the warmth it brought. And Tommy… Tommy didn’t really try to hover over him as he wrote, didn’t try to snatch the book away or read it over his shoulder. He just sat with him and pet Friend and waited until he was done. It was nice. Ranboo snapped his memory book shut and pushed to his feet.

“Okay,” Tommy said, getting up with him. “I’m going to take Friend back home. If I have time, I’ll come and visit you and Tubbo.”

“Thanks,” Ranboo said. He even meant it this time. He and Tommy waved goodbye. With a little less excitement in his step, but still determined, Ranboo rushed towards Snowchester.

---

Ranboo rested on the floor of Michael’s room, long legs kicked out as his breath pushed his chest against the floor. He watched Michael run around, the heat charms dangling from his wrists and ankles glowing lightly. Michael had his sweater pushed up his arms, still like that when Ranboo put the charms on. And he was still running around, but he was making all these little squeaky, happy noises. The piglin sometimes darted in to Ranboo, grunting hopefully. At those times, Ranboo offered him some more of the ghast blubber chips. Still to his surprise, Michael devoured them immediately, then ran around the room some more in his excitement.

Well, this time he mostly took them to his bed to nibble on them. Ranboo sighed happily and rested his chin on his folded arms. Tubbo was watching Michael too, relief and happiness clear on his face, and Ranboo took that to mean that he had done some good tonight at least.

There was still… one small problem.

Tommy’s voice rattled around in Ranboo’s brain: “Techno executed Tubbo.” He squeezed his arms, frowning at the floor. He didn’t know how to feel about that. He didn’t know how to feel about that at all. And he didn’t know how to feel about it being Tommy to tell him that. Sure, obviously Tubbo had told Tommy about it, or they both experienced it and knew what happened. But why hadn’t Tubbo told him? Why did it have to be Tommy? He didn’t think it was a thing where Tubbo had distressed him first and then told him. That happened sometimes, but… those memories always felt weird. He had memories of them, but they were fuzzy and hazy and…

Ranboo breathed out a long sigh. He didn’t want to ask Tubbo about it, especially since Tommy admitted that Tubbo hadn’t wanted him to talk about it. He didn’t want Tommy to take any heat for telling him, but…

Was he not trustworthy enough? Did Tubbo think it didn’t matter that Ranboo didn’t know? Or was he hiding it for a reason? Maybe because Ranboo and Technoblade were close and Tubbo didn’t want to ruin Ranboo’s image of him? The enderman pressed his forehead to his arms and heaved another long sigh.

“Hey, Ranboo?” Tubbo called.

“Yeah, Tubbo?” Ranboo said, his face still pointed at the floor.

“Did you know that Technoblade executed me?”

Ranboo looked up from the floor, his gaze on his starfate. Tubbo wasn’t looking at him and, by the stillness of his head, he wasn’t watching Michael run around either. Ranboo waited, surprise taking his words away. Not surprise from what Tubbo said; Tommy already brought that up today so it was no longer news to him. His surprise stemmed from Tubbo talking on it. Just completely… unprompted.

“Back when I was a spy for Pogtopia, Schlatt found me out. It happened at the Red Festival and,” Tubbo paused, exhaling a heavy breath. “Schlatt ordered Technoblade to kill me. In front of everyone. And. It.” Another deep breath in and out. When Tubbo spoke again, it was with the tone he used a lot when he talked about his trauma, about the things that upset him. And Ranboo paid attention. Of course he did!

Though he may have spaced briefly when he realized that Tubbo hadn’t tried to distress him first. He must want him to remember this.

“It took me a while to, uh, process my feelings about it, I guess is the right phrasing. Back when it happened, I was in such shock from dying. From having it happen. Wilbur told me that Technoblade was on our side! We believed it!” Tubbo glanced down, rubbing a hand over one of his scars. “That’s when I stopped believing in Wilbur. I mean, sure, there were other times where my faith in Wilbur, in the things he said, was shaken, but that was the last straw, you know?

“And it took me a while to understand it. To understand it all from Techno’s perspective. And, I have to thank you for that, Ranboo. Because you and Phil are friends, he and I… talked for a while. Not all at once. You know, I’m still mad at him. Him and Techno, and Dream, for blowing up L’Manberg. And he knows this and he knows I don’t forgive him for it. I might never forgive him for it.

“And I said this, back in Pogtopia, after Tommy and I got back. After Wilbur and Niki and Technoblade and us all came back that day. I was still in shock, but I. I meant what I said then and I… I still mean it today. I forgive Technoblade for killing me.”

Ranboo scooted closer to Tubbo. After some silent prompting, Tubbo climbed into Ranboo’s lap and leaned back against his chest. Michael ran over, curious, and crawled into Tubbo’s lap. Ranboo caught side of the small smile on Tubbo’s face before he rested his head in between his starfate’s horns. They sat like that for a while before Tubbo continued on.

“I do. Forgive him, that is. He and I were in the same situation. Both of us acting as spies for Pogtopia. I was just unlucky enough to get caught. And Technoblade tried to stop it. He did, actually, try. He did what he does best and he stalled. He joked about it and, it didn’t soften it. It didn’t set me at ease. But… he tried.” Tubbo hunched over and his tone dropped from a genuine honesty to a bitter certainty. “Wilbur could’ve helped. Tommy wanted to help. Techno tried to help. And I died for it. I still… I still remember it. I remember dying. It hurts, Ranboo.”

Ranboo’s arms wrapped tight around his husband, droning softly. He desperately wanted to take away all of Tubbo’s pain. If he could take it on himself, he… he might. Honestly. He’d take all of Tubbo’s suffering and fears and feelings of helplessness and hopelessness, if only it meant that Tubbo could smile freely again.

“It hurts so bad, Ranboo. I still see it, in my dreams and when I’m awake. I still see the fireworks and the explosions and the fire—” Tubbo sniffled, his gaze straight ahead as he relived it in Ranboo’s arms. His droning increased, wanting to comfort him, wanting to help, to make it better. And Ranboo…

Ranboo felt something shift in him. A want, a desire, a need. A need to protect his loved ones, his friends, his Tubbo. He felt something in his head shift and there was a faint voice—no, a feeling. A faint feeling of rightness. Like some part of him slotting into place that was just a touch crooked before.

“I’m sorry,” Ranboo whispered, hugging Tubbo against him.

“Hey, hey, don’t, don’t do that. You weren’t there. It wasn’t your fault that it—”

“You shouldn’t have gone through that,” Ranboo interrupted. Tubbo fell silent, save for a small, surprised hiccup. “You didn’t deserve that. You never deserved to hurt like that. To keep hurting like that. And I know this doesn’t make up for it. And I know this won’t stop you from hurting. But,” Ranboo breathed in, his breath all shaky in his lungs.

“It’s not your fault that it happened. You didn’t deserve it and I am sorry that you were forced to experience that. Thank you for telling me.”

And Tubbo…

Tubbo cried.

---

Ranboo waited after that to ask Tubbo if he wanted to visit Technoblade. He waited about… half a day? He waited until Tubbo asked about if Technoblade had anything more to say. And Ranboo told him what he knew, what Technoblade had said about being part of Michael’s sounder, then he explained what a sounder was. At least three times. And Tubbo asked for time to think.

Ranboo would give him all the time in the world.

And while Tubbo thought, Ranboo went back to his home, back to Phil and Techno and Wilbur and Dreaming. And he talked to Techno about Tubbo’s execution. It wasn’t a fun conversation for either of them, but Ranboo had to know. He had to know Techno’s side of things.

“If I could have stopped it,” Technoblade had replied, his shoulders slumped and regret crossing his face under his mask. “I would have. But like with Tommy, no one was on my side. Schlatt didn’t know that I was helping Pogtopia and I couldn’t risk both of our lives. I tried to stop it, I tried to give Wilbur and Tommy time to stop it, to come to our aid.” The piglin had looked up, his gaze trained not on Ranboo, but on the person behind him who had stepped through the door. Ranboo turned, stiffening at the look on Wilbur’s face. Technoblade said his next line like he was holding in a growl: “And they didn’t.”

“Techno,” Wilbur started, guilt eating at his voice. “I felt the same as you. I didn’t want to risk Tommy’s life, I didn’t want to risk losing anymore people. Techno, I’m sor—” Technoblade had cut him off with a hand. He lowered the hand and straightened to his full height, almost as tall as Ranboo.

“Wilbur. I don’t want an apology from you. I’ve heard far too many apologies that ended up as empty promises. What I want is for you to do better. To be better than you were. When you’ve done that, you can come back to me with an apology.”

And, with thoughts swirling around in his own brain, Tubbo finally got back to Ranboo about a day later. And then, a full day after that, Ranboo, Tubbo, and Michael walked down the nether path towards Techno and Phil’s home.

“Okay, so again,” Tubbo said, covering Michael’s body with his own as Ranboo batted the fireball right back at the ghast. It died with a shriek and Tubbo dropped into a squat to check over Michael. Ranboo glanced back at them, something warm blooming in him to see his starfate gift resting on Tubbo’s horn. The nether quartz band gleamed in the dim light from the glowstone and the lava. It was a simple gift, but one that brought utter delight to Tubbo’s face when he received it. Tubbo stimmed on Tommy’s own starfate gift, a woven band that never left Tubbo’s wrist. Seemingly satisfied, Tubbo pushed back to his feet and watched Michael run around nearby. The kid wasn’t very fast, not like Ranboo or Tubbo were, so they weren’t too worried about him running off. They both kept their eyes on him though. “What’s a sounder?”

“It’s like a community, or a village,” Ranboo replied. “Techno said that zul’ma are nomadic and wander around a lot. Because of that, they don’t usually keep a lot of gold and stuff on them to trade with. But they take a lot of pride in their sounders stretching across a lot of blocks.”

“So, if Michael’s sounder stretches across two oceans, then… that’s important?”

“Sounded like it.”

The two of them startled at a loud squeal. Michael darted back to Tubbo’s legs, hiding behind him. Tubbo dropped down to pick up his son, bleating at him softly and bumping heads to help calm him down. Ranboo saw the piglin—er, zul’ma running up to them. She stopped, seeing Ranboo raise up his axe. She looked between their small group, then spoke at them in Ekesh.

“What’s it saying?” Tubbo asked. Ranboo pressed his lips together and gave an uncertain shrug. Technoblade had taught him a few phrases in Ekesh, in case something like this happened. In case a random zul’ma saw Michael and thought maaaaaaaaybe they had actually kidnapped him. Ranboo lowered his axe and waved to get the zul’ma’s attention. He repeated one of the phrases Technoblade had taught him, one that basically meant ‘We are the child’s sounder’. Technoblade had warned him to only attack a zul’ma if they attacked first. And even then, their best bet was to run. Because an injured zul’ma alerted the whole sounder and piglins from hundreds of blocks would hunt them down. Thankfully, the zul’ma seemed to calm down at hearing Ranboo’s attempt at Ekesh. She pointed and smiled at Michael, inching closer.

That was, until Tubbo decided she got too close.

“Back off!” he shouted. The zul’ma jumped back, her hands raised in surrender. She said something in Ekesh again to Ranboo, but he gestured, trying to tell her that he couldn’t understand her. She hummed, rocked back on her feet, then reached into a hoglin hide bag at her side. She pulled out a jar with some kind of cyan paste in it. She gestured at the growth around her eye and winced as if she were in pain. Then she reached in, scooped up some paste, and spread it around on the growth. Her eyes fell shut and she sighed, as if relieved. Then, she offered the jar to Ranboo.

Well, offered might have been a poor choice of words, since she more or less shoved the jar into Ranboo’s hands.

“Uh, okay?”

The zul’ma nodded and smiled and Ranboo, suddenly remembering what Techno told him about trading with zul’ma, reached into his inventory and pulled out a bag of ghast blubber chips. It was their extras, and with Techno teaching him about how to better care for Michael, he guessed they probably wouldn’t need that many. He gestured at the jar, then offered the bag to her. She took it, cracked it open, and squealed in utter delight! With the trade seemingly satisfied, she waved (from a distance) goodbye.

“Any idea what that is?” Tubbo asked, eyeing the jar.

“Kind of. I think we can ask Techno when we get there.”

---

Wilbur rested his elbows on the window sill, gazing out at the group below. Tubbo had come by, at Ranboo’s encouragement, with Michael. The baby zombie pig—sorry, zul’ma (gods, what a weird word) sat in a furry winter coat Phil had spent all night putting together, resting in Tubbo’s arms as he and Techno chatted almost amicably. Michael reached for Techno’s braids with both hands, very obviously excited to see someone at least somewhat like him. Whenever the kid would glance Phil’s way, he’d wave and make silly faces at him. Wilbur could hear laughter drifting on the wind. And Wilbur… well…

It was just that they looked so happy out there, chatting together. Without him.

Sure, Tubbo knew that Wilbur was alive and that he was just inside, but Wilbur heard the conversation drifting up from below when Tubbo first stopped by. Tubbo had taken one look at the house at the mention of Wilbur and promptly said that he was only there to introduce Michael to Technoblade. The tone of his words made Wilbur pause and step back from the door. This was not the Tubbo he knew from when he was alive.

Instead of being just another one of Tommy’s followers, just another pawn on the chessboard, Tubbo had established himself. Sure, the conversation from last week had told him that Tubbo changed. Ranboo insisted on it and even Phil agreed. Phil, who had been put under house arrest and forced to watch his starfate be executed and unable to help. Wilbur huffed and rolled his eyes. If his dad insisted, then it must be true.

If he really wanted to, Wilbur could leave. He could go downstairs, go into Technoblade’s house, go down the ladder, and visit Dreaming and they wouldn’t suspect a thing. They might hear the door close, but who cared about that? Not him, definitely not him. For sure. Tubbo didn’t know about Dreaming. They had talked about it before the visit was planned. They decided that it would probably be best that Tubbo not know yet. The less people who knew, the better. Especially since Ranboo wasn’t sure if Tubbo would be able to keep Dreaming’s secret from Tommy.

As if right on cue, there was a creak on the ladder. Wilbur turned his head back towards it just in time to see Dreaming pop his head in. He brightened when he saw Wilbur, which was… comforting. Reassuring, actually. That there was someone who still wanted his company. And… perhaps he could pretend that Dreaming actually preferred his company over the group outside, rather than just because he was lonely and couldn’t go and see the rest of the group.

“Hey,” Wilbur greeted with a wave.

“One of the Murder told me you were up here,” Dreaming explained as he settled himself on the edge of Wilbur’s bed. “Thought it didn’t say why you were up here rather than with everyone else. So I thought I’d ask myself?”

“Oh, that, I…” Wilbur trailed off, his shoulders slumping slowly. He considered saying something along the lines of ‘Tubbo wasn’t deserving of my presence’ or imply that he had a million other things to do besides hanging longingly out of a window and watching his father and his father’s friends talk to someone who was once his friend. Someone who wasn’t his friend anymore, due to… you know, his deteriorated mental state and shitty actions. But… that didn’t feel fair, not to Dreaming.

“I…” Wilbur tried again. His gaze shifted from Dreaming to the window, where Tubbo and Ranboo were laughing and now in a boat together. Michael sat on Techno’s shoulders and Phil was talking at one of his Murder. Wilbur found he couldn’t drag his gaze away from the scene. His chest ached, not unlike how it felt when his father stabbed him through the heart.

Better than through the back, right?

“Wilbur?” Dreaming called. Wilbur heard the bed creak as Dreaming pushed off it. Wilbur heard the gentle footsteps as the ghost padded to his spot by the window. Dreaming glanced out at the scene playing out before him, then back at Wilbur.

Wilbur knew what kind of expression was resting on his face. It was open, vulnerable, sincere in a way he wasn’t used to showing. And he knew Dreaming recognized the expression by the way he stiffened.

“Oh,” Dreaming whispered. Wilbur’s hand tightened on the railing. He didn’t want to look away. He couldn’t look away. He couldn’t bear to see whatever expression rested on Dreaming’s face as Wilbur stood there, his heart on his sleeve, open and beating and bleeding to the world. It hurt.

“I… hurt Tubbo. I realized that when I was in limbo. Tommy told me as much, if you could believe it, when he was in there with me. I used Tubbo to further my own goals, my own plans. I used a lot of people for the same reason, but…” Wilbur sighed and stepped away from the window. “Tubbo deserves to be angry with me. He deserves to be upset with me. I wanted to apologize, but he… he didn’t come to see me.”

“You should tell him that,” Dreaming said. When Wilbur stared down at him, he looked up with understanding in his bright eyes. “Apologize to him. And if he’s still upset? And if he still doesn’t want anything to do with you? You let him. You should apologize to him, but he doesn’t have to forgive you.”

“That’s very wise of you, but,” Wilbur started as he moved away from the window. He sat on his bed, looking down at his hands. “I don’t know if I can, you know? You wouldn’t know it looking at me, looking at how I used to be, but I… I’m a coward, Dreaming. Really. I am. I’m surprised people haven’t caught onto it yet.” The bed dipped next to him. Dreaming’s hand fell onto his thigh and rested, squeezing it in what felt like a comforting manner. It was something Phil used to do, when he was a kid. Reassuring him that it was okay, that it would all turn out okay.

It only made the ache in his chest hurt worse.

The two sat in silence for a while. Wilbur stared at his hands, opening and closing them as he thought and overthought again and again about his mistakes. About what he would change if he could go back. He had told Phil that killing him was the best thing for history, but was it really the best thing? If he had stayed alive, would… would it have been different? Or was he too much of an irredeemable villain that finally got what he deserved?

“Hey,” Dreaming’s voice, accompanied by a full body nudge, pushed Wilbur out of his spiraling enough to acknowledge that the ghost was still in the room. He hummed, nonverbally encouraging him to continue his thought. Instead, Dreaming lifted his cupped hands towards Wilbur. “Here,” he said with a gentle smile. “Have some Lime.”

Wilbur looked down into Dreaming’s hands, his eyes widening at the sight of the lime dye staining his hands. It… it reminded him of Ghostbur briefly, and his insistence in giving everyone he met Blue. Wilbur softened and took the lime dye gently. He expected his sadness to melt away and happiness replace it. That’s what Ghostbur always believed happened when he gave Blue to his loved ones.

But the lime didn’t replace his sorrow. It warmed his hands, warmed his heart, and left his soul aching. Yearning. Wanting, not only to be wanted, but to show his wanting to his own loved ones. It burned, almost, like train smoke caught in a tunnel. But it didn’t poison or devour. It sat with him, in his loneliest nights like a friend with their arms wrapped around him. It felt like his father’s laugh or Techno playfully threatening him. It felt like laughing at Tommy getting stuck in a mechanism of his own making and of Tubbo almost drowning him for the hell of it.

It felt like the ache in his chest, not like being stabbed with a sword, but like the ache one felt before sobbing in their loved ones’ arms. Like the ache one felt when seeing those they cared for deeply after so long away.

It felt like family.

Wilbur blinked as his vision suddenly blurred. Something broke within him, somewhere deep in his chest. Tears dripped down his cheeks, dropping into the dye resting in his shaking hands. His tears diluted the dye and caused it to run through his fingers. It stained his pants and the covers of his bed and he couldn’t find it in himself to care. A hand came down on his arm, tugging his attention away. Dreaming gazed at him, worried, and reached out with his other hand. The hand hesitated, and Wilbur hesitated with it. But he relaxed first and the hand came down to rest on his cheek. Dreaming thumbed away the tears as Wilbur hiccupped.

“Hey,” Dreaming breathed. His hand came up to the other cheek and Wilbur leaned into the touch like a touch-starved child. He felt like one, desperate for approval and praise. Desperate to be seen and wanted and it hurt. “Come here.” Dreaming guided him down onto the bed. Rather than Dreaming clinging to him after a terrible nightmare, his throat hoarse from crying or screaming, Wilbur’s cheek rested on Dreaming’s chest. Wilbur closed his eyes, still crying softly. Dreaming encouraged his hands around him, encouraged him to cling and sob and… Wilbur let himself break apart in Dreaming’s arms.

The last thing he remembered before he fell asleep was how his eyes stung and Dreaming’s hands combing through his hair.

Dreaming braided strands of Wilbur's hair, letting himself get lost in the movements. He hadn't meant to make Wilbur cry, but, with the way he relaxed and laid heavy on his body… He probably needed that cry. So it was good, probably. Lime, in Necraona, was a powerful thing. Family, bonds, attachments. The feeling of belonging somewhere and the overwhelming need to protect that to the ends of the universe. To the end of life itself, if necessary. Or past that end, even. He had only meant to comfort Wilbur and the Necraona racing over old wounds that never quite scarred over. And it was that Necraona that marched its way into his hands. First clear, then shifting in color like the sun's light peeking over the horizon, until it was Lime that remained in his hands.

A creak on the ladder brought Dreaming out of his thoughts, though his hands continued braiding. He looked over his shoulder to see Phil watching them. He pulled himself the rest of the way into the room and settled down in a chair next to the bed.

"Hi mate," he greeted, soft. His hand rested on Wilbur's hair, thumbing the braids weaved into it. The weight settled Dreaming's own hands.

"Hey Phil. Did Tubbo go home?" He asked, realizing now that he couldn't hear anything but the breeze out the window.

"He and Ranboo went back to Snowchester, yes. Did you keep Wil company?"

Dreaming looked down at Wilbur's sleeping form. Wilbur’s cheek rested on his chest, barely moving in his sleep, except to snuggle in closer. It was warm under Wilbur, almost like being in his arms. Only now he got the full weight of the man on top of him. Wilbur covered him like a particularly heavy blanket, clinging to his sides as if he had been tucked in around him. Positioned as they were, he didn't feel so small compared to the other man.

“I think I did, yeah,” he replied softly. Dreaming felt Phil’s eyes on him, watching him carefully. Dreaming didn’t blame Phil for it. Wilbur was his son. His son who he had lost for so long, only to finally have him back. Of course he would keep his watchful gaze on him, lest Wilbur slip away from him again. “Though, I think I upset him.” Dreaming rubbed a thumb over Wilbur’s cheek, wiping at the tear stains.

“Why do you think that?”

“Did Ghostbur ever give you Blue?” Dreaming asked instead of answering right away.

“He did. I have that and Friend’s first coat in my enderchest.” Phil moved his hand off Wilbur’s hair and Dreaming risked a glance at him. There was nothing but kindness on his face, though there was a hint of weariness to his expression. It was the crow’s feet around his eyes, the gentle wrinkles in his face that suggested equal amounts of sorrow and joy throughout his long, long life. It was in this face Dreaming found comfort in. Phil had been the first person to really accept him, the first one to accept him into their home. Sure, Ranboo found him and brought him here, but Phil had insisted he stay that first night. Had given him a bed even though it wasn’t necessary.

The first one to give him Lime, even if he didn’t know what it meant.

“Did you give Wilbur blue?” Phil continued when Dreaming fell silent.

“Sort of. I gave him Lime.”

“Lime?”

“It’s like, the feeling of belonging somewhere, of attachments and…” Dreaming bit his lip, his nerves coming to a head with the continued attention of Phil. The man seemed to notice Dreaming’s hesitance and held out a hand instead.

“Would you like to give me Lime, Dreaming?”

Dreaming’s breath hitched. He… he would, he realized. As thanks for giving him Lime first, or an acceptance of that first time, or…

or…

Or just because he asked.

The ghost nodded and closed his eyes. He let himself feel Lime. He let himself feel the Necraona wrap around his fingers, and bury itself into his palms. There wasn’t anything big that happened while he made the dye and, when he opened his eyes again, the dye rested in his hands as if it always belonged there.

Wilbur groaned in his sleep as Dreaming shifted underneath him. Phil rubbed his back, coaxing him back to sleep with a coo. His lapis gaze flicked back to Dreaming who felt caught in the stare. Almost shyly, he offered Phil Lime.

Phil took the dye with a soft thank you and… sat back. Dreaming watched, looking for the same expressions Wilbur had when he first touched the color, but…

It wasn’t there.

Phil sat back in his chair, his gaze focusing on something in the distance. His body softened, relaxed in a way Dreaming had never seen. A warm, gentle, almost… sad smile rested on his face. The only time it changed was when a small moment of realization danced across his features.

“Oh. I see,” he breathed. From his inventory, he dropped an enderchest. He frowned, then picked out a couple of diamonds and set the dye into a place in the enderchest. Right next to some blue dye and some blue wool. “Was this what you felt when I gave you that lime bed the first night?”

When Dreaming nodded, Phil let out a breathy little chuckle.

“That makes sense. I’m glad that I could be the person who made you feel welcomed, Dreaming.” Now, the change in his expression came. The one dripping of regret and pain. “I just wish we had helped sooner. I don’t know how Dream died and I don’t know if we’ll ever find out, but…” He reached out and cupped Dreaming’s cheek. The ghost leaned into it, feeling a strange, melting wetness in his eyes. Phil gave him the warmest smile he had ever seen as he wiped away the tears before they managed to damage him. “You deserve happiness, Dreaming. Just for existing, you deserve happiness.”

Dreaming sniffled as he leaned into the touch, aware of the parallels between him and Wilbur when he did the same thing earlier. His eyes fell shut at one point, just… letting himself be in that moment.

“Dreaming,” Phil called after a while. Dreaming blinked awake, his gaze meeting Phil’s. He blinked again at what he saw there: a concerned intensity, something he expected to see from a parent who had just found out about the self-harm their child inflicted upon themself. “Can I ask something?”

“S-sure?” he replied, feeling himself mentally backing up. And… physically backing away, just a touch. Just enough to not disturb Wilbur. Phil saw the movement. Dreaming could tell by the flicker in his eyes, and was eternally grateful that he didn’t mention it as he continued speaking.

“Are you okay? Technoblade and I were… talking the other day. And it’s me asking this because he… still doesn’t know how to approach you yet. But, I.” Phil breathed in and he breathed out and Dreaming waited for where this was leading to. “Techno isn’t the lightest sleeper, we all know this. And. Don’t think I haven’t noticed Wilbur not sleeping in his bed as much anymore, but... Dreaming. He’s woken to you screaming at night. Screaming bloody murder or crying and… He wants to help, but he… we… I just. Want to know, Dreaming. Are you okay?”

Oh.

Oh no.

“I,” Dreaming breathed, his gaze dropping to the floor. He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to know that he was causing problems, making others suffer because of his mistakes and his own issues. But there was Phil’s hand covering his again. There was his thumb, rubbing comfortingly over his knuckles. Dreaming tried again, and actually managed to keep going.

“I dream at night. I’ve only just realized what it is, but I don’t know what I can do about it. It’s, I see myself, standing just outside a scene. An outsider, but still part of the scene. And it’s Dream. It’s always Dream and someone else. It’s his memories, I know now. And they play out like memories, but it’s… It’s Dream in the someone else. It’s him reliving other’s memories of him and I see both him and what he used to be and what he becomes and it’s…”

Dreaming was shaking.

It took him a moment to realize, to realize that his words were speeding up and he was shaking and he cut off when Phil wrapped his arms around him and pulled him into a hug until all he could feel was Phil and feathers and the gentle pecks of the Murder surrounding him.

“Shh,” Phil cooed, petting his back. “You’re safe here, Dreaming. You’re safe.” Dreaming buried himself in Phil’s arms until his shaking subsided. And when it did, Phil pulled back. He checked to make sure Dreaming wouldn’t break apart outside of the embrace, then settled back into his chair. “Dreaming? Do you… or did Dream, I guess… Do you have someone you’re pale for?”

Dreaming looked down at his hands, down at Wilbur still somehow sleeping through all this. He felt a ping in his chest, of warmth blooming inside him at the sight of Wilbur so soft and open like he was when he wasn’t conscious.

But.

It wasn’t the same.

“Not anymore.”

Phil hummed, then tapped Dreaming’s thigh. “If you need anyone to talk to, I’m here. Ranboo’s a good listener too. And Wilbur too, if you give him the same attention back. We,” Phil started, then stopped. His gaze drifted down and Dreaming saw it again. Saw that old weariness that lived inside his chest, just under the heart emblem. “It’s hard, to live without someone to talk to. Love comes in all forms, but I feel like… Living without a starfate, or even just a pale crush, it’s… It’s the hardest thing to experience. I can tell just by looking at you,” Phil said as he lifted his gaze back to the ghost’s face. “So much happened to you. I can tell. So much happened to Dream for him to—for you to be like this.”

Dreaming hunched back, his hands shaking as he focused on braiding Wilbur’s hair. He didn’t want to hear those things from Phil. He didn’t want to hear that he was traumatized by someone who wasn’t even—! His fingers clenched tightly, likely pulling on Wilbur’s hair, but unable to help himself. He could feel Phil still staring at him. He…

He wanted his mask. He wanted to hide behind his mask.

The mask he…

Where was his mask?

Shuffling to the side of him pulled his stuttering thoughts away and he released his fingers. They were still shaking and he dropped his head, hoping to hide his face behind his hair.

"... I'm sorry," Phil said, his voice soft and careful. Dreaming kept his face hidden behind his hair, trying desperately to calm his shaking fingers, though he knew it was ultimately useless. There was a groan, then a creak, and Dreaming imagined Philza standing from the chair. He walked away, towards the ladder. He paused at it and heaved a sigh.

"You can stay here tonight," Phil said, his voice louder. It was probably pointed in his direction, but Dreaming hunched further away from the attention. "I'll spend the night with Techno." And then he was gone.

Dreaming let the torches burn out, let the fire run low as he curled up underneath Wilbur. If he heard the sounds of talking on the wind, or the faint drift of a forge working late into the night, it never woke him.

For he was falling

falling….

---

“Hey,” came a voice from the void and Dreaming blinked. The world shifted

Then the world slotted into place. Dreaming’s feet found solid floor, wooden and slightly worn from the feet passing over it. A bed, dyed with soft colors that Dreaming knew he wouldn’t remember when he woke up again, creaked as the bodies settled in it. He waited for the horrors to begin, the monsters he saw whenever he slept, but there were no monsters here.

Before him, he saw Sapnap. His arms wrapped around the familiar body, hugging him close, a soft smile gracing his face. Sapnap brushed aside the long hair covering a mask like a face. Dream tilted his head towards his friend. Even hidden as he was, the feelings of warmth and safety and a love as pale as stars twinkling above permeated the room.

“Hey,” Sapnap whispered, lifting Dream’s face up with his chin. “Can I see you tonight?”

And Dream, exactly as remembered, nodded.

“You can take it off,” he breathed, almost reverent. Sapnap’s breath hitched and his gaze rested on the buckles. With shaking fingers, he undid the buckles. The clicks of the buckles unclasping echoed around the otherwise silent room, deafening to Dreaming’s ears. He could do nothing but watch as Sapnap removed Dream’s mask, careful as worship.

And Dreaming remembered.

He remembered the feeling of seeing Sapnap’s joy and awe at the first time he revealed his face to him. Sapnap reached forward and cupped his face with a hand, his thumb gently caressing his cheek.

“You’re gorgeous, Dream,” he whispered. Dream laughed softly, though the sound died away when Sapnap spoke again. “Will you be my starfate, Dream?”

And then the world shifted.

And Dreaming was falling

falling…

f a l l i n g . . .

And when he landed again, his feet landed on obsidian. Lava popped around him, echoing, deafening in his ears. Dreaming looked up, fear and anxiety drifting around him like smoke, and froze when he saw it.

Not a monster, not this time.

But it felt like he was staring into the maw of one as he saw Sapnap standing still and tall and distant. And Dream, silent and trying desperately to look at anything other than the commanding presence of his starfate.

“I don’t think it’s going to be Tommy,” came Sapnap’s voice. Dreaming held his head and closed his eyes. He didn’t want to see it! He didn’t want to see it! But he couldn’t. He had to. It felt like claws hooked into his skull and forced him to watch. “It’s not going to be Techno, Dream,” Sapnap said. Even now, his voice wavered, his will wavered, but still he pushed forward. “If you break out of this prison, it’s going to be me who takes your final life.”

---

Wilbur woke hours later, feeling tears dripping down on his face. He blinked and tilted his head up. He was resting on Dreaming instead of the other way around. And, based on the ceiling above them, they weren’t in the cave. And they were on his bed instead of Dreaming’s.

But Dreaming was crying again. Which, while the most familiar, was still concerning. Wilbur reached up to wipe at the ghost’s eyes, worried about the tears damaging him.

He…

Dreaming was asleep too. Crying while he slept. Wilbur hoped whatever dream he was stuck in that it would end soon. He hoped that he wouldn’t wake up screaming. He hoped… His thumb caressed Dreaming’s cheek, caught by how open and vulnerable he looked like this. Phil always kept lanterns lit during the night, even if they were dimmed low. The faint light rested soft on Dreaming’s face as he slept, giving him a gentle glow.

Seeing him now, seeing him like this… Wilbur felt warmth bloom in his chest like he hadn’t felt in years. Maybe even… ever. And it was different than the Lime Dreaming shared with him earlier. Different than the way he had felt for any of his friends, any of the people he knew. It was…

Hope.

Hope, that he could be better. Hope, that maybe this bitch of an earth held a place for him still. A place he could be happy.

Wilbur breathed in, shaky. And he hugged his hope and Dreaming close to his heart.

#dream smp #dsmp fic #dsmp #fanfic #ranboo #tubbo #philza #technoblade #wilbur #dream #tommy #hi it's turning into a redemption arc/healing arc for a BUNCH of people #mystuff #feedback and comments are greatly appreciated #pb fic

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commonwealthoccurences · 4 years ago

Text

Stuck

CW: Claustrophobia, hints of a panic attack description

Word Count: 2,043 Prompt: Elevatorfic Day: 15/27 Sole reflected on their willingness to clear out Nuka World, almost singlehandedly, as blatantly stupid. Sure, they had encountered a lot during their time in the Commonwealth, and the raiders not protesting at them volunteering wasn’t suspicious at all, considering how lazy they could be despite their greed. However, Sole was regretting everything they had volunteered to do for the ungrateful bastards about the time the elevator screeched to a halt and what lighting they had shattered on the floor next to their boots.

They’d already felt sick from the heat that pressed against their skin, bringing forth a layer of sweat that caused everything to stick to their skin. Gage wasn’t much better off, considering he felt the need to complain every two seconds about how he was sweating his balls off, despite the fact that he and Sole and just about everyone in Nuka World were in the same weather. They’d lost count of the amount of times they’d glared at him, trying to get him to shut up to no avail.

The realization that they had to travel down into the depths of one of the buildings to get a necessary chip had Sole begging the universe to grant them some sort of freedom from the heat. They would be underground, so it would be cooler there, right? They had to hold onto that hope, otherwise they were going to end up strangling Gage before he could get out another word.

That hope halted just as quickly as the elevator did, complete with the terribly bright sparks of metal on metal and jarring drop that nearly had Sole falling back into the wall behind them. A lantern they’d found and set up on a hook in the corner went crashing down as well, spraying the floor of the elevator with hot oil, causing Sole to suck in a whistling breath as they jumped out of the way. It cooled somewhat rapidly against the lukewarm metal floor. With no light and no escape from the heat, they were stuck.

Gage burst into another round of loud cursing, kicking at the doors that were quite content to remain tightly shut, sending Sole flying to wrench him away from the doors with a furious and exasperated, “Gage! It’s a fucking elevator, that’s not how it works!”

He yanked himself out of their grip and pushed them away, pressing a hand to his face as he began to pace in the limited area of the elevator. Sole wanted to feel bad but the heat had gotten them both riled up and irritated with everything that dared to move that day, and this was just another wrench in well set plans that would’ve had Nuka World up and running sooner rather than later.

With another kick to the walls of the elevator, Gage dropped down to sit on the floor, seemingly having already forgotten about the spilled oil. His head remained in his hands, braced against his knees as he attempted to shut out the area around him. Sole pried their fingers into the crack where the doors were clamped shut even though they knew how poorly that would go, and sighed in frustration when, exactly as they thought, nothing happened. With a shake of their head they turned away, back towards Gage, just barely able to see the outline of his form in the darkness.

The image of him curled in on himself with his arms braced on either side of his head like he was trying to protect himself from something was enough to have Sole tilting their head in confusion. Gage wasn’t exactly someone they’d say had a lot of fears, and whether that made him a little reckless, or he came across somewhat cocky because of it, Sole couldn’t say. What they did know was this was concerning and they had no idea what was causing it.

Internally cursing the heat that was beginning to build in the tiny space, Sole kneeled next to him, grimacing at the way their knee dipped into the pooling oil. For a second, they raised a hand to rest on his shoulder, but swiftly thought better of it when they remembered what his reflexes were like. Instead, they simply placed it on their thigh and muttered a quiet, “Gage, you okay?”

He heaved a breath and tilted his head back, looking at them with his jaw clenched and eyebrows creased. “The hell was it called before the War? Claustrophobic?” He tried to fake a laugh for fail of anything better, but failed, instead letting out a suppressed groan of discomfort.

Sole didn’t know how to help. That was the first thing they thought. He needed help and they didn’t know how to make things easier, to relieve some of the pressure that was inevitably crushing down on his chest. Even they were uncomfortable with how boxed in they were, sweating even more as the heat trickled in with no escape, amplified by their body heat. Sole dropped down to sit next to him, resigning them to accepting their fate in the oil, and leaned their back against the wall, looking over at Gage.

His eyes were now squeezed shut, his hands trembling where they rested on his knees, knuckles white from how hard he was gripping his legs in terror. Sole ground their teeth together, thinking. They had a direct line back to the camp, thank God, and someone would be over to help them out relatively soon once they made contact. Sure, no one really liked them and Gage, but things wouldn’t run smoothly without them. First they would make contact, then they could focus on Gage.

With that, they brought their Pip-Boy up to their face and tapped it to turn the light on, flinching as the green beacon filled the room. Despite the initial scare, it seemed to help Gage as he looked around, committing his surroundings to memory for fear that the light would vanish as soon as he got comfortable. Just a few more minutes and then they’d figure it out together. With a couple more taps, Sole navigated their way to the radio section and tuned into the raider frequency that allowed them to communicate. A familiar, grating voice came through just moments later. “What’s going on, Boss?”

Sole had to sigh at the situation. “Old elevator decided to fuck us over. Any chance you can get down to Kiddie Kingdom to get us out of this shitshow?”

“What’s in it for me?”

“Caps. And I won’t skin you alive when I inevitably get out of here.” They snapped back.

The voice over the radio let out a laugh. “Sure, Boss. We’ll get movin’.”

Thank God they hadn’t fucked one of the factions over when they were splitting things up. Gage didn’t care much about making people cranky, but they knew at the time it would’ve come back to bite them in the ass. Sole dropped the arm that held their pipboy and began unbuckling it with a resigned breath, ready to get the weight off their limb and get what little air they could filtering over their sweating skin.

The Pip-Boy settled against the elevator floor with a few clangs of metal, not in the puddle of oil, the green light cast across the space hauntingly. It rested at an angle that perfectly accentuated Gage’s gaunt cheekbones and his hollow, tense expression that made Sole worry for him for the first time that they could remember. His breaths were coming much faster and shorter than they had been. He was panicking, and Sole needed to stop it before he really worked himself up. “Gage.” They spoke softly, but he jumped anyway. “I’m gonna put my hand on your arm, okay?”

Whether or not he had nodded in response or there was a shift of the light was up in the air, but Sole took it as a cue to move forward with their plan. They reached over and placed a hand on his arm, letting him get used to that for a moment, before sliding it down to his hand. Carefully, they worked their hand under his, turning it to grip him firmly in an attempt to ground him. After a moment of processing he grabbed onto them quite hard, like they were the only thing anchoring him. His breaths were getting even shorter. “Gage, breath. We’re just fine. Help’s on the way, you heard them, yeah? We’re gonna be okay, but we gotta be patient and wait for them to get here.”

“Hate it.”

“Hmm?”

“I fucking hate it. Feels like it’s gonna collapse on us.” He held onto them even tighter.

The metal shifting periodically in the building probably wasn’t helping him fight his fears. “These buildings have stood here for hundreds of years, they’ll last far longer after we leave. The elevators are built to last, too, Gage. Don’t let your brain trick you, okay?”

With that he turned and looked at them finally. His eyes were shiny, bordering teary, his jaw clenched so hard Sole felt their teeth begin to hurt in sympathy. They smoothed their thumb over the back of his hand, smiling softly in hopes it would be somewhat reassuring. Gage’s breaths were still ragged, far too uneven to be comfortable. Sole made sure he was paying attention when they shifted closer and turned towards him, bringing his hand that they were cradling towards their chest.

Gage rolled his eyes. “Now’s not exactly the time, Boss.”

Sole fought the urge to smack him across the back of the head, telling themself that he was only trying to cope with humor. They rested his hand flat against their chest and he watched warily, eyes curious. “You need to breathe with me. If you hyperventilate it’ll only make things worse, so let’s avoid that.”

Gage, surprisingly, agreed readily and nodded in response, swallowing harshly as he tested the position by adjusting the pressure of his fingertips against Sole’s skin. It was hot, far too hot, and they could feel how his skin felt like boiling water against theirs, but they told themself they didn’t mind and drew in a slow, long, even breath. Gage’s breath in return was much more ragged and choppy, but it was progress, and they’d take it.

With that Gage slowly brought his breathing closer to normal and was able to fight the lightheadedness that was making nausea rise in him. Neon danced along the walls, reflecting off the pool of oil and glass shards that had been scattered across the other side of the elevator, resembling some sort of radioactive underwater show. Sole watched the refractions with careful eyes, mentally crossing their fingers that someone would be around to free them sometime soon. They’d done all the dirty work, even got trapped in an elevator for it. All the raiders had to do was get there and find the external emergency release. God knows they’d complain about that too.

Gage’s posture slumped down, a contrast to the previous live-wire tension that had been running up and down his frame. He sighed and brushed a hand over his forehead, wiping sweat off his brow in a swift motion. His head was still bowed towards his lap, his hand on their chest as they looked over his shoulder at the bright display. With an exhausted breath blown between chapped lips, Gage simply leaned forward and rested his forehead against their crossed legs, hand coming down to land on their knee. Accepting the situation rather quickly, Sole picked up his hand again and worked their fingers between his, knuckles bumping uncomfortably and palms sticky. He squeezed their hand for reassurance. Checking to make sure they were still there in case he needed them. They squeezed back.

The pair let the silence creep by, simply accepting that they were in a short waiting game, whether they were to be rescued by the raiders or to pry their way out kicking and screaming if they had to. After a few beats, Gage spoke up in realization. “Aw, fuck! Of course the lantern broke.” He swore, realizing what he was sitting in. Sole had to sigh and looked to the ceiling to summon their patience.

#Fallout 4 #Fo4 #Fo4f #Fallout 4 February #Oneshot #Imagine #Fluff #Comfortfic #Elevatorfic #Stuck in an elevator #Fanfiction #Gage #Fanfic #FF

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grim-faux · 3 years ago

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2 _ 27 _ Sad Little Shadow

First

The hallways sat empty, much as they always were when he snuck away to wander aimlessly. Endless open passages, winding and twisting. The staircases he stumbled upon only ever go down, some ladders too, only guided him deeper into the depths of thick shadows and teases of twilight. He only ever seemed to sink perpetually into this place, but never really went anywhere at all. He supposed that was lucky, given he might not ever find his way back up with how far he delved without supervision.

Shimmering screens and television boxes gifted to him offered reprieve, but why would he ever want to leave? The world was nothing, he learned that. An empty void, cruel and punishing, which offered bitter disappointment to those intent on seeking... more. And the despair, the reality of everything he was once so certain of. In the wake of his hardest lesson, he was promised a place. Somewhere, always waiting. If he wanted it. His needs were so basic, what else could he possibly want? Except for one, which could not be supplied….

“Hey!” he called, without concern or woe. Yelling through the empty corridors, receiving no sound back, not even the resonance of his own voice. “HOI!”

No one returned the cries. No one ever called back. No one searched for him. It wasn’t like the place was dangerous, at least… not when he was around. He made it safe. He was always very careful. Regardless, somewhere or another time, the kid would run off.

That wasn’t new at this point. Every time, he did try. He made an effort. Wanted them to stay close, keep in his sight. It wasn’t hard, if the doors stayed closed. None of them wanted to stay still for too long. No one wanted to stay with him. Eventually, each and every one.

Mono turned the corner, trying once more. “Hey! Don’t be afraid!” He lowered his arms to his sides and rocked back on his heels, frown deepening. He frowned a lot lately. “Here! Where you?”

Without fail, every time. The moment he turned his back or was flat out careless, he’d lose track. They left him. Eventually. That never changed. Still, he went on calling and carrying through the hallways. The light jammed around door panels glittering, as he rushed past. Coattail flashing, feet… barely hitting the solid, hard floor. Very much a floor, in an ambiguous hallway, anywhere, in any building. Nothing bizarre or frightening here. No matter where he searched, how far he ran. It was only and always a vague, obscure building somewhere.

Resigned that the other kid was… gone. He didn’t know where. He didn’t want to think about it. This time, he had been certain it would be all right. He was all right. He could protect them! They didn’t… no one wanted him. They didn’t understand. They hated him! Gone! Good riddance!

Cheeks flushed and eyes shimmering with hot tears, he bottled up the hurt. It wasn’t hard to find his way back to that one room, and the chair. Always waiting. Perpetually patient. Endlessly faithful. The one object he looked forward to confiding his pain in. The one thing that never left him, in this lonely place.

The door was always open, as it would always be. This was his place. This is where he kept himself, where it was most safe. Nothing could find him here.

Not even….

Patches of the slate walls rupture with rolling, foul ripples of bubbling tissue. A gargantuan orb sweeps beneath the wet shutter of its lids, blinking. The ceiling too, crumbled here and there as gooey rolls of flesh hung out. As he rushed to the chair, poised at the focal of the disturbing scene, the floor splint and creaked upward. A gnash of cackling voices filled the room, in the dark shadows within the sweaty hills, teeth grin.

“NO!” Mono barked. He clambered onto the chair and held the backside, curling his legs beneath his ever wonderous coat. “You don’t look at me! You can’t Ļ̶̉ò̷̠o̴̪̅k̵̨͗ ̶͖̀Ă̷̦ ̵̮͠M̷̫͘Ë̷̬́!̶̜̈́”

The Thin Man stole his chin from the cup of his palm and gaped at the dingy, cracked walls surrounding him, the furniture out of place but the only memorabilia of the departed occupants. To one side of the wall, a long desk with a sliding door; upon it sat the smashed record player. An empty bookshelf, the bulk of its knickknacks lay on the floor, along with half the shelves.

A perfectly drab, dusty room. No weeping orbs staring, no teeth a snapping. Natural decay of plaster and paper, not the decay of bones and tissue.

That dream haunt. He didn’t like it. All dream haunts were terrible, but some worse than others, some harder to shake out of.

In a deliberate heave, he pushed off his knees and stood slowly. This room had no window and was detached from another wing of the dwelling, along with the kitchen… he supposed, social gathering area? This side of the abode was more for personal entertainment and privacy.

He flashed through the dim hall, making his trip quickly to those gathering areas and the dining space. When he insured the kitchen was quiet and the transmission scarce, he entered. The counters and cupboards received a brief glimpse, he sized up the functioning but untouched refrigerator. Aside from the dull erosion of hospitality, nothing is out of place. No crumbs, packages, discarded spoiled foods. He can feel the few starved insects gaze up at him, pleading for a bit of something, anything.

With a crackly sigh, the Thin Man searched through the upper cabinets. He picked out a box of chewy meat sticks and departed the depressing, barren space.

The child was deep-deep asleep when he chanced upon this location, and he left the little bundle in a cupboard while he went off to do his patrols around the city. He doesn’t expect the child to be present when he roamed back to this area – honest, he doesn’t expect anything of that child – yet, Mono remained in the perfectly decayed but hospital apartment. The lack of foraging did put the Thin Man off, but he didn’t mull over that at first.

Usually, when he returned from his wandering, the boy would pop out of hiding and follow under foot, or in the least peer from a shadow while hidden, keeping his distance but observing. As if some other creature might have dragged on the hide of the Thin Man’s guise, and invaded through the front door.

He took full advantage of this change, and secluded away to another room for some reading and quiet; only periodically emerging to wander through the corridors, lost in thought. Nothing in the literature he acquired does anything to satisfy his questions, nothing addressed his interests. Empty books, vacant passages – like the empty corridors he wandered, while he was only a boy. Lost. Searching. Seeking the things that ripped out of his grasp.

Not once did he encounter the child, his younger-self, in the residence. The kitchen, as he certified moments before, remained untouched. What was he chewing on? Was he even eating?

Long ago the boy left the room he first deposited him, and scurried into another room. A gaping wound sat at the wall base, beyond the edge of a drawer set. This is where the transmission cued him in, it was strongest in this small chamber. The Thin Man does not know if the crack opening goes back further, but by focusing he can discern that the wall did open through behind a large pile of discarded clothing along the floor. The connection is strongest somewhere in there.

“Child,” he crooned. He leaned low to the wall and tapped at the chipped plaster. “You need to eat something. Something that is preferably food.” He grimaced at the thought.

Children could go some (un)healthy while without the need to eat, but still he is concerned. This boy can’t resist exploring through the abode, exploring the rooms until he’s on the verge of collapse. Particularly, while he-himself has settled in for some inactive time, the child and their shared transmission, occasionally blipped out as the boy took on distance. Got away from him for the childish need for space and separation, most likely.

Not a sound nor a flicker from the child. This all began to perturb him. A fresh prism of moods, he concluded. Some new event or another set Mono off, as was the case. He was helpless to intervene while without hint or grasp of the initial cause.

Within the boards, a scuffle of something moved about. The child could be hurt, for all he knew.

“Child,” he tried as before. “This food is very good. You’re hungry, are you not?” He took the meat stick and broken it out of its wrapping. He set the piece down, not directly by the crevice but near enough. “Won’t you come out?” He knelt and tilted over, enabling him to peer into the dark interior.

No sign of the child. He wasn’t even graced by a scratching this time.

“I’ll let you alone, then.” The Thin Man shifted back in a glitchy flash, a shadowy outline trailing. The one bulb in the ceiling dome sputtered, as he turned and departed the room.

It was tempting to drift around the dwelling and ponder through this issue, wait out the child. However, Mono seemed resistant of his presence, and for that it would be best to make himself scarce. Give the boy a breather and give him space to come around on his own.

When he stalled at the main entry door, hand on the doorhandle, he was despaired that the child didn’t reappear to confront him. For the briefest moment he held there, but only fleeting. In a glimmer he dissolved, as if he was never there.

The Pale City never dried out. The roads never saw sunlight, runoff trickled down the cement walls of the looming skyscrapers continually. Even when the downpour took time off to recharge, the rain founds it way into everything; dry hollows in the walls, the abandoned clothing, even the food buried in cabinets.

The Thin Man was unfocused as he idled through the shops and offices, browsing the usual books lined on the shelves or folders jammed into filing cabinets. He perused the covers and spines, the colors and thickness of the tomes – not seeing but searching. Endlessly. He tried to reign himself back on track, but questioned where his focus should align with. The Tower was the pivotal of his intent, but where to begin understanding that. He never thought of it much since evicting it from his haven, even when he acknowledged it was ever present. He forged the barrier to repel its grotesque presence, it used his powers to perpetuate the Signal and entrap the residents of the Pale City. He and They existed and cohabitated and held a symbiotic relationship. It promised safety, shelter.

It was a cold building that eternally hungered, and no amount – no grand banquet, no endless supply, absolutely nothing – would be enough to satisfy its empty, rotten core.

Perhaps if he was more prone to speculating about his place in the world, his eventual future, he would have grasped why the Tower was so lenient with its tethers. It knew everything and toyed with him for its own amusement. He was only a child.

This outing was going nowhere. He grabbed a few random pamphlets along with a discarded shirt, and left the office. He took a roundabout way on his return, flittering through other stores and browsing over salvageable merchandise that caught his fancy. The evidence of other children was apparent in several shops, as evident by the ravaged foods or imparted speek.

Children had basic needs. Food. Shelter. The little travelers settled when this criterion was met. They did marks on the walls, warned others of dangers, told their stories. The things they had seen, the other children they met. The pack they lost.

Sighing, the corners of his lips turned down. The Thin Man spun from the forlorn spot of the wall, only suspending his impulse to flicker out for a scarce instant to peer at the far end of the aisle. In the corner and a little hidden by an eroded, tilted metal rack, the branches extend from the hollowed clothing slumped to the tiled floor.

The feet have already regressed into the pant legs, the visible hands are an ashen shade. Nothing was left of the head, excluding the appendages stretching out of the shirt collar and high into the ceiling crease above. A distinct block shape formed, with a veiny network webbed across the surface.

In a glimmer he was gone, leaving those lonely messages to speek to open air and the vacant store aisles.

Returning to the skyrise was uneventful, as it was while he was alone. No delays or stutters, always moving and never stopping – not for anything. Far better now that he was fully restored, and scarcely could recall how much of a drag it was when he first departed the Factory. He didn’t care to think of that period….

The first area he checked post entering the residence, was the kitchen.

Nothing is out of place. The Thin Man set the sack of procured items on the dining table and went to the cupboards, opening one after the other to check if supplies had been tampered with. He knows damn well this is pointless, but he was driven to confirm this kitchen was left untouched.

He’ll give the boy the benefit of the doubt. Often Mono went off and ransacked some other kitchen. That did happen. However, the boy was always inclined to some pilfering of the shelter’s kitchen, before he went off exploring. Even now, the child was present in the abode. Had he not ventured out at all?

Enough of this. The lights in the kitchen dim as he flashed, tempering the crawl of time and moving through the corridors. He traced the source of the transmission, reaching the same room the child secluded to. Once he solidified in the room, the somber gleam returned to its normal radiance.

The food he deposited beside the wall’s break went untouched. This child! What the Tower? Was he still alive?

“Child! What are you mad about?”

Somewhere within the wall, muffled scratching and a thump. Good. He was alive.

“You come out this instant, or so help me. I’ll tear down this wall!” The bulb above flashed and crackled. “C̵͍͌H̴̪̔İ̷̭L̶̫͆D̸̹̆!̷̜̓” And like that the, the dome light in the ceiling burst sending shards of glass and cinder over his hat. The Thin Man took a step back and glanced up.

Reel it back a bit. This wasn’t helping.

“Mono.” He rubbed a hand to his face. “You have to come out. You must eat something. At least, let me know that you are alright, and then, I will go away. Child? Please.”

For a very long time he stands, waiting. The static hummed across the walls, pressing at his thoughts. It was time for him to go, then? That would be for the best. If he left—

Before he could flicker, movement pricked at the edge of the cranny. The paper bag inched out, but not entirely into view. He was granted the featureless backside of the paper mask, the wearer downcast.

“It never fails, I do something which agitates you,” he crackled. “Then you scurry off and hide in a little hole, with all your thoughts and doubts crammed into your head.” He shifted his weight and crossed his arms. “While that leaves me to puzzle through and figure out how to appease your… fit. You are… bewildering.” He reached into his pocket and produced one of the atrocious plushy toys. He stooped and set the insulting thing beside the untouched – insect riddled – meat foods. “You are quite content to isolate away, feeling morose. Nothing is ever good enough for you, is it? Hmm?” He braced an arm across his thigh and bowed low, the already shrouded crack pitched into a bleak veil of black.

“Hurt’u.” The word(s) was so faint and graveled, he almost missed the speek. The Thin Man dipped down further. “D’nt mean. S’not th’ght better. Was bad. Shu’dnt. Hurt'oo. Hurt.” The boy fiddled with the edge of his coat, while he stayed huddled, as if expecting a fierce reprimand.

What… was he talking about?

“Did you have a dream haunt?” he groused. “Is that what this is all about?” The paper bag swiveled.

“Mon’ser. Tri'd take. Aam’made worse. Was pro’tek. Made n’danger.” The little heap of coat swayed with a sigh, or gasp. “Was t’hurt. N’mon’ster. E’smashed. Break’u. D’nt… n’left. Ran’way. D’ran. Not right. Th's danger. M'hurt You. Was bad.”

At first the Thin Man hung there baffled by what the boy was trying to convey. Where to begin? How did this make him an exiled wreck? He worked to put together the words, and unthread the pattern. Monster. Hurt. Break. It comes together, what happened on the stairway some while back. That event lay far from his thoughts, the encounter so fleeting.

“Are you hurt?” The boy had been so spry following the stairway incident, he didn’t think to check him over.

Regardless, the paper bag shifted in an indolent no. “Y’hurt. Did th’t. S'gone. Made go. I... hurt.”

Two wires connected under his hat, and it clicked. “Me? Hurt?” The shape dipped back into the shroud of the crack.

“Child. Get out here and take a look at me.” When the boy did not emerge, the Thin Man reached to the cranny and tapped the floorboard with a finger. “Here. Right now. I won’t repeat myself.” It takes more coaxing, another tap of his finger. “G̷͜ě̴̬t̴̟̎ ̸̺̿O̴̘̚v̴͚͘e̵̛͜r̴̬̂ ̸̭̇H̴̝͌ȅ̵̩r̴̦̈́ë̴̬́.̷̱̿” It is impossible to do anything with this child.

Finally, the paper bag and the shoulders of its wearer brave the outside air. Only at the threshold of his hideaway. The child winced but didn’t struggle when the Thin Man snared his elbow, and hauled him closer to his knee.

“Look at me, Mono. Look at me. Do I look hurt?” The Thin Man had to fit a finger beneath the boys chin to break him from his personal raincloud. The vacant cutout holes of the paper mask gawked up at him, but the child uttered no response.

“Nothing in this world can harm me,” the Thin Man stated. “I have no fears, no enemy can touch me. I bow to no threat.” Great nor small, he credited, unspoken of course.

The Thin Man never cowered in the face of his younger-self, he simply accepted that… his fate was right. It was his time to rest, while the younger-one took on the role left empty and waiting. Given how it all turned out, it might’ve been the kindest act his own man in the hat left to him.

Never lied to him. Failed in stealing him away from his calamitous fate. Didn’t do… anything. Nothing could have been done to prepare him. The man in the hat merely surrendered, and let him discover himself. However bitter that turned out.

The child Mono gaped at him with that ridiculous paper bag, tilted. He reached his free hand over to the Thin Man’s grip, on his elbow, and petted his knuckle.

With a brisk inhale, the Thin Man stole the hand away to rub at his face. “You haven’t eaten. Let’s take care of that.” When he flickered into standing, the boy recoiled a step. “Cease that nonsense, child. I am not hurt. You can clearly see that.”

The child picked his way around the insects and pulled up the meat stick thing. He kept the blank stare of the paper bag fixed on the Thin Man, as he tore off a few chunks of the food item. “Y’r okay?”

“Yes,” he rustled. “The perils of the city are minor inconveniences to me. Trifles easy enough to ignore.” He observed, as Mono shuffled in closer and crouched down beside his shoe.

“S’coz tol.”

That was beside the point, but he wasn’t about to go off on a fresh tirade. The boy hiked the paper bag up to his nose and ate, while keeping that unwavering line of sight on him. It barely occurred to him the age of that food, sitting out of its packaging. Crawling with vermin.

He grimaced when, as expected, the child held up a chunk of the stale food. The face only partially hidden, held the most deliberate expression. With a diluted stutter, the Thin Man leaned down and took the offering. “I’ll try that later,” he muttered. “Now you. Let’s find something more palatable.” He slipped the bit of food into his breast pocket and began to move away. Barely two steps, and the child was grabbing at his ankles.

“Go? S’where?” he rasped. "Not n’stay. W'leave.”

He was forced to halt, or he would tramper the boy. “Kitchen,” he hissed. “I’m going to the kitchen. That food is old.” He scooted the boy aside with his shoe and moved, unobstructed. The child was still grabbing at his ankle as he tried to walk; all he could do to mitigate this was glitch ahead, try and keep a few sprints beyond the boy.

For the longest time he couldn’t get this child out of a wall, now he can’t get that same boy away from his heels. This kid was driving him up a wall.

“Move. Mono. Shoo.” He began with checking the upper cabinets, since the child was so insistent on being right in the way of all the doors. Where were those biscuits? “Here. HereHereHere.” While unsupervised, Mono clambered onto the countertop and was hauling open cabinets. “Food. Take this. It’s right here.” A cacophony of dishware tumbled out of the cabinet when a stack of cups flipped off the shelf. The Thin Man glitched and sputtered.

Mono lunged off the counter and ducked into a cupboard.

Well, that didn’t last long.

The Thin Man dropped the food package on the counter and leaned back, knocking his hat askew as he settled against the cabinets. He looked over at the door of the cupboard, shut tight. This was hardwired, he had to remind himself. How long he would hide away this time? That, he didn’t know. He was a smidgen disappointed, but it was largely disheartening.

A murmur hissed from the cupboard as it edged open, and the paper bag peeked out. He watched the boy ‘sneak’ out and grab one of the cups off the floor. The selected cup was hefted up to the tall thin man.

In most of these buildings, the water lines remained in some functioning order. The city was perpetually operational, managed by aimless caretakers with little to no conscious thought to the tasks they sustained. Just as the electricity ran through the separate grids of the districts, not that the televisions needed electricity to fulfill their purpose.

After filling the cup with clean water, he returned it to the boy. Resolved to stay out of the way, the Thin Man clicked over to the table. He took a seat across from the provision sack left there and rummaged through his coat. The boy aligned with his most essential task, began poking through the cupboards and pulling out packages. The Thin Man tucked a cigarette between his lips and slouched on the tables surface.

From his patrol, he held a general idea of the course to take. The route was safest, but it might test the child’s aptitude with his powers. Unless the boy was suddenly receptive to assistance – exclude getting corralled in an imploding building – the child was uncooperative in all situations. Stubborn little thing….

A package of food smacked the tables surface.

He puffed smoke, observing as the boy hefted himself off the chair. The child just about tackled the wrapped food thing and shoved it across the tabletop, tearing at the waxy coating as he went. The Thin Man slipped the arm on the table away, while Mono scooted closer.

“I don’t have an interest in that,” he muttered. When he was forced to lean back due to proximity of the child, he reached over to the bag and shuffled through for one of the books. Mono merely watched him, paper bag perched precariously on his brow as he munched on whatever he finally picked out.

“Sure y’okay?” Mono mumbled, through food.

The Thin Man worked at peeling pages apart. The book was completely dry, but the sheets remained adhered like glue and difficult to work with. Some of the marks remained comprehensible, unless the damaged paper tore.

“Yes. I’ve told you this. Why do you persist to ravel that subject?” And now the child was sneaking to the edge of the table. Towards him.

“Wuz hit,” he whispered, as if he was answering himself. “Forg’t check.”

He raised a finger to Mono’s chest and pushed him back. Sort of. “No. You forget to take care of yourself. I have a not for those woes.” He set the book aside and rubbed at his eyes. This unyielding child.

Upon the moment of his inattention, the child evaded his hand and leapt onto his thigh. “Child! Get O̴̹̅f̵̢͒f̶̙͒ ̴̙͘M̵̻̆ê̵̞!̷͎͊” He latched onto the boy and nearly shot to his feet in a glitchy shadow, but restrained himself. Though he tugged and protested, the child more or less managed to get his arms snagged onto his suit. More or less. Sort of.

Mono yowled and held tighter to the thread. “How sure?” He wasn’t letting go. Somehow, he managed to get his toes locked in.

“Would you quit with that? Here. Eat something.” The Thin Man tried the tactic of releasing the boy in favor of grabbing a piece of the food. When he offered that to the child, it appeared to redirect his one-track mind. Mono accepted the morsel and plopped right down on his lap.

“B’t sure? How tell?” The child tipped his paper bag up his face and peered up at the Thin Man. He shoved the food to his face and gnawed at it.

“I took care of it. That’s how.” Scarcely, he did recall that the child should have the capability to mend his own injuries with minimal effort, but had yet to display that capacity. He had no more need for mending wounds. For the child he was tempted to try, yet he was not confident he wouldn’t… do more harm. As before.

“No more of this. You have more pressing concerns.” With the child preoccupied with eating, it was easy to pluck him up and set him back by his food. “You come first. You must eat and take better care of you. Otherwise… how will you be able to make sure I’m looked after?”

Mono drew his knees up as he ate his food, still watching. Maddening little doting hen. At last, the child appeared mollified and was fixed on his task. Once again, the Thin Man reached to the ratty makeshift sack and brought out a spare food container.

“When you have recuperated adequately, we do have a ways to go.” It was probably jam, or food paste. He didn’t bother reading labels, Mono ate anything. It was always important to make certain the items the child took interest in were edible. That was not so much of an issue, if Mono was kept fed.

The Thin Man exhaled smoke and took up the book he neglected. Before he settled in, he scooted a ways back from the table. Though realistically nothing would stop that boy, save for aimlessly wandering. He resumed picking at the pages, working to ignore the flat stare drilling into him.

At some point the Thin Man became lost in a daze, became detached from his surroundings; not quite reading but not expelled from the material. The literature didn’t provide substance, but he was not disconnected from absorbing sentence upon sentence into a blur of intangible conjectures and syllables. He missed the child drop off the table and scurrying over to him. Not until the little tugging worked up the side of his shin. He suppressed a sigh, but let it be. When Mono fell asleep, he could go… do some more investigating. When they began anew, he might chide himself for not exploring the constructed course more thoroughly.

The child climbed over his knee and scooted to his side, where he curled up and leaned against his coat. Mono just stared up, through the vacant cutouts of his paper mask. Just staring. The Thin Man did his best to ignore it and set a hand over the boy. It does surprise him that Mono doesn’t go ballistic and abandon completely… the child doesn’t react at all. That does unnerve him. Hopefully, this isn’t a new quirk; he could scarcely tolerate the faraway watchful eyes cloaked by patches of shades. He always suspected the child did that on P̶͓̅u̸͇͂r̵̲͆ṗ̸͔o̷͓͒ṡ̴̨e̴̜͋.̴͍̅

While the child was fed and pacified, he won’t bother. The Thin Man is content to leave Mono to recover in peace, he appeared to have torn himself up over this unfounded anxiety. Didn’t trust him, wouldn’t listen. It was no shock the child didn’t understand anything. He did not look forward to moving on, but it would be for the best. Mono didn’t appear to have the tenacity to keep this up.

#little nightmares #mono #the thin man #thin dad #little nightmares fanfic #little nightmares fanfiction #fanfic #fanfiction

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dearophelia · 4 years ago

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gonna set your flag on fire - chapter 9

chapter 09: the house don’t fall when the bones are good

operational security [read on AO3]

it’s been a hot minute with this one, whoops. eternal and forever thanks to @tarysande and @nightingaleseeking for their cheerleading through this.

“Olivia?” Garrus calls. The audible panic in his subvocals makes him wince.

“Bedroom!” comes the answer.

Garrus takes a moment to breathe. The Normandy won’t be here for hours yet and packing won’t take long. He can spend these thirty seconds to breathe now, before walking upstairs and seeing Olivia. He might not have them later.

Good air in, bad air out.

He allows himself to take a full minute in the silence of their home for a moment of calm and quiet. The hour since Olivia called him has been pure chaos: reschedule his week, call the Primarch, don’t forget the dinner party tonight for the new quarian economic delegation or tomorrow's breakfast with the forensic auditors from Irune Galactic, find suitably-important people to replace him at both events (and everything else this week), have someone pick up his gear, avoid looking panicked while doing any of this.

The silence is overwhelming and welcome. He closes his eyes and takes another breath before going upstairs.

He finds Olivia kneeling on the floor of their bedroom, packing.

Thirty years ago, chasing Saren across the galaxy, he’d watched in awe as his commanding officer stood firm and stoic in the face of utter mayhem. Nothing rattled her, nothing shook her steady posture. He’d never had a CO before who was that calm.

He knows her better now. The calm is how she gets through things. The calm is how she’s made through to the other side of trauma and crisis in one piece over and over again. Her voice doesn’t shake and neither does her resolve, but there’s a certain fragile steel in her spine that betrays the façade.

She may look calm to anyone else, but Garrus knows that Olivia is fucking terrified.

She’s thrown a sheet on the floor and laid her armor out on top of it. Shiny black and purple, with a scratch she never bothered to buff out on the left thigh. Her Black Widow and Avenger lay next to it.

“Vega’s letting you on the ground team?” It’s not the first thing he anticipated saying to her. He’d planned to say something idiotic, like are you okay. Of course she isn’t. He’s so far from okay that it doesn’t sound like a real word. Olivia can’t be closer.

She pauses, hand on her visor. “I’d like to see him try to stop me,” she says, slow and low and even.

Garrus would too, but Vega’s not that stupid. Olivia may not have seen any action outside the Arena in twenty years, but she has standing platinum matches three times a week; if he’s available or any of their friends are on the station and willing, she’ll pull them into it – otherwise, she goes solo. Last he checked, her stats were 7:1 extracting.

His are 6:1 and his assistant picked up his armor this afternoon. “He’ll have to go through both of us.”

She finally looks up at him.

He swallows. The expression on her face is identical to the one she wore while staring down a reaper. “I’m going.” Olivia isn't the only unstoppable force in their family. There are a million reasons he shouldn’t even be on the ship, let alone groundside, but not one of them stands up against Cerberus having control of his daughter. This mission is too important to leave solely in the hands of other people.

Olivia sits back on her heels and sighs. “Wasn’t gonna stop you, Garrus,” she says softly. “Vega's meeting us at Soyuz-Janiri tomorrow with whatever resources he can scrounge up.”

Garrus steps around her, letting his hand briefly brush against her shoulder. He ducks into the closet to change out of his robes. “Good.” That was the last part of the plan, the only piece she didn't have locked into stone when she called. He exchanges his council robes for a pair of comfortable loose pants and a tunic. “When does the Normandy arrive?” he asks, stepping out of the closet. She told him the rest of the specifics this afternoon, but everything is a dull roar after Cerberus has Nora, Garrus: they activated the chip. Some part of him thinks he should be upset that she waited to tell him last. Another part of him knows that he'd call her last, too.

“4:45 in the morning.” She closes and locks her armor trunk and then stands, gathering the sheet. She balls it up and drops it in their laundry basket. “So we have,” she checks the clock, “ten hours to kill.”

Garrus takes a step forward and draws Olivia close into the hug he’s needed to give her – and needed to get from her – since she called. He wraps his arms tight around her, flattening his hands across her back as she tucks herself against him. He feels her breath shake and her arms circle around him just as tight.

After a few moments, he bows his head and kisses the top of her head. “We’ll get her back,” he whispers into her hair. They have to. They’ll rescue Nora and her team from that facility. And then they’ll turn the chip off again, this time for good. There is no alternative.

“I know,” she says quietly.

Tugging her closer, Garrus hums softly, a low, gentle, calming rumble he knows she likes. He ghosts his hands over her, slowly rubbing her back in soothing circles.

After a few moments, Olivia briefly tightens her hug and then takes half a step back. Garrus looks at his wife, keeping his arms still loosely wrapped around her. His heart twists in his chest. The lines on Olivia’s face, earned from decades of smiles and laughter, now look hollow and haunted.

He remembers the night in their quarters after Thessia, when the light hit just right and he thought for the briefest of moments that she was becoming a ghost before his eyes. She’d shattered in his arms, wild and feral and desperate, in a way he’s so grateful he hasn’t seen since. But as Olivia looks up at him tonight, twenty-five years of motherhood in her spine, Garrus knows that the night after Thessia fell will pale in comparison to how both of them will shatter if this doesn’t work.

So it's going to work.

Leaning down to bump his forehead against hers, he lets his subvocals shift a little deeper into a tone that will settle them both. “Let’s get some food.” Ten hours is a long time to have nothing to do. Neither of them will spend any of it sleeping.

As if on cue, her stomach growls. She laughs softly at herself and steps away.

“Have you eaten since breakfast?” Garrus asks as they walk downstairs to the kitchen. Food is the first thing Olivia always forgets during a crisis, followed very quickly by sleep. He can’t change that about her, but he can encourage her to get both.

“I had coffee?” she says, half a question, as if the whipped cream on her afternoon frozen coffee might qualify as food.

“Coffee hasn’t counted as food in the thirty years I’ve known you, Liv,” he gently chides. “It’s not suddenly going to start counting now.”

Olivia ignores him and opens the refrigerator, only to stare blankly at the levo side. "Takeout," she decides. Neither of them are in the right headspace to make anything. She sits down on the middle stool at the counter and opens the delivery app on her omnitool. He sits beside her and does the same.

“Oh,” she says after a moment. “You should order for two.”

Garrus raises a brow plate.

“Nico’s coming.”

The plate rises higher. Nico’s been working at the bakery for the past eight years. He officially took over from Hannah two years ago when she and Zaeed moved to Earth. Out of their two sons, he is not who Garrus would guess if asked who was coming on this mission.

She sends her order off. “We need a decryption specialist and he’s the best one I know.”

Garrus can’t fault that logic; Nico’s knee kept him from an active combat position and his entire deployment was spent in intelligence programs so classified Garrus didn’t even know they existed until he became councilor. He quickly orders for himself and his youngest son and then looks back at Olivia. “He’s staying on the ship though, right?” While their other two children took to combat like it was in their blood, Nico counted down the days until basic was over and he could get away from gunfire.

Olivia nods with a smile. “That’s the first thing he asked me, too. Yes.”

“Good.” Worrying about one kid is enough; he’d rather not have to worry about two. Or three. He wonders if Quentus has somehow found out and is currently badgering Solana to divert their current mission to Zorya.

***

James blinks as the airlock door opens to reveal not only Liara, Miranda, and Wrex, but also Deck and her entire team. “Thought you were on the other side of the galaxy,” he says, stepping aside to let everyone past him.

“I cashed in a favor,” Deck says. “Incidentally, the Blue Suns have some pretty wicked experimental quantum drives.”

He holds up his hand before she can continue. “I don’t want to know,” he says. “Find a bunk downstairs. Briefing’s in thirty. We’ll debrief on your thing once this is over.”

“Roger,” she says and gestures for the other three to follow her through the CIC to the elevator.

Wrex nods as he passes, revealing Jack and Tali standing in the space behind him. James looks over at his wife. Liara shrugs and gives him a small smile. He’s not sure whether the extra reinforcements are a good thing, but he’ll never turn down help. Tali hugs him, Jack gives a curt nod, and then he’s finally alone with Liara.

“Hi,” he says, drawing her into a hug. He wraps his strong arms around her shoulders and kisses her forehead. Nora’s family to him, but so are the other five trapped in that base. He’s had to mount rescues before, but this keeps getting worse the more he learns about it.

Liara hugs him back, just as tight. “Hello,” she says, giving him a gentle squeeze before pulling away. “I thought you might need the extra backup; I did not realize you’d have Anubis back.”

“Neither did I,” he says, walking side-by-side with her through the CIC to the war room. “The more the merrier.” He nods at the crew they pass. Everyone looks so young. He supposes he’s gotten old.

James feels the Normandy shudder as the docking clamps release, followed by a brief wobbly moment before the inertial dampeners kick in. He gestures for Liara to go through the war room security checkpoint first. Three days. He takes a deep breath. He needs his guys to hang on for three more days.

“You’re the reason I have children,” Wrex is saying when James enters the room. “You think I’m not gonna come help you get your kid back?”

Shepard looks like she’s about to cry.

Jack crosses her arms and shifts her weight; the red holographic display casts angry shadows across her face. “Cerberus doesn’t get to fuck with kids as long as I’m alive.”

“You’re my friend,” Tali says. And then she shrugs. “Plus, I was already on the station.”

At that, Shepard laughs. “I’m glad you’re all here, thank you.” And then her eyes settle on Liara.

James doesn’t know what it is that Liara sees, but she lets out a soft, sad sigh before making her way down the stairs and over to Shepard.

Liara hugs Shepard tightly and doesn’t let go. Everyone talks around them, letting the two of them fade into the background and share their quiet little hug in the corner alone.

Out of the corner of his eye, James sees Garrus step into the room and stand beside him. He turns. Garrus is watching Shepard and Liara in much the same way he was.

“How’s she doing?” James asks. He wishes he could just ask as her friend. But Shepard's on the ground team and he needs to know.

“Not good,” Garrus says.

The understatement in Garrus’ voice is crystal clear and James looks up at him. “How are you doing?”

Garrus slowly turns and looks at him. “Not good,” he repeats, with the same clipped tone.

Exhaling, James nods. If their positions were reversed, not good would be an understatement for him, too.

***

“Why do I always have to be the one to do this?” Rachel asks with a sigh. It’s almost time for them to come collect the empty lunch trays. She’d actually enjoyed lunch today; there was an apple.

“Always?” Micah asks. “You mean this is not the first time you’ve done this?”

She shakes her head.

“It always has to be you because you look the least intimidating,” Jonah says.

“People underestimating me is largely how I've gotten this far,” Rachel says cheerily. The door opens and a single guard enters while another stands at the door. “I hate this part,” she murmurs to herself.

Rachel waits until he’s deactivating her forceshield and then bends over, her hair hiding her face from them. She dry heaves a few times and then makes herself throw up the remnants of lunch. She stands up straight, stumbles a little and pushes her hair back out of her face. “I don’t feel good,” she tells the guard.

“Sorry,” he says.

She gags again, making sure to aim in his direction. She wipes the back of her hand over her mouth when he looks up at her in disgust. “Told you.”

The other guard sighs. “We should take her in to medical. Turner says we need these guys alive for the time being.”

“Fine,” he says, gesturing for her to come out of the cell.

Keeping her hands up, showing that she has no intentions, Rachel follows the guards out.

“Hey!” Carlos shouts after them. “Send someone to clean this up! It’s gonna smell!”

Rachel counts guards and doorways and turns, making a mental map of the immediate area around the cells. They pass a stairway marked roof access, and there’s noise coming from the closet next to the stairs. It’s quiet, but definitely music. She listens as hard as she can without revealing herself.

Love beyond moons, love beyond stars!

They walk past the closet and take another turn to the left, but Rachel bites back a smile as the song fades. She’s found their gear.

***

Her caffeine load inevitably crashes and Olivia stumbles into bed beside Garrus. Though she’s exhausted, and even took a sleeping pill, sleep eludes her. Olivia rolls onto her side, then her stomach, then her back. She waits twenty minutes and then tries the whole cycle again. After three attempts, she gives up and stares at the ceiling while Garrus snores softly beside her. He's always been able to sleep anywhere, anytime, as long as he knows someone's keeping watch.

She could lie here in bed and get increasingly more annoyed about being awake, or she could do something useful. She brushes a kiss to Garrus’ forehead and then noiselessly slips out of bed.

Tugging a blue Alliance-branded sweatshirt over her head, Olivia stuffs her feet into her boots. Her black pajama pants get stuck in the cuffs and she pulls them out, wishing she’d had the foresight to bring sneakers. She really ought to change into BDUs since she’s going to be out of quarters, but she’s a civilian now and it’s the middle of the night.

She and Garrus are in a two-bunk officer’s quarters, sharing only with James and Liara. It’s small, but it isn’t sleeper pods and it isn’t the barracks-like atmosphere downstairs: with fifteen extra passengers, there aren't enough bunks for everyone and they've thrown every spare couch and chair and pillow into the lounges for impromptu sleeping space. Olivia tiptoes around the other bed, noting that James is the only one in it, and grabs her tablet before slipping out.

Yawning, Olivia steps onto the elevator and presses the control panel for Deck Four. If she’s not going to sleep, she’s going to need coffee. They still have two days; she’ll properly crash later. She runs her fingers through her hair and yawns again before the elevator doors open. The Normandy’s nighttime lights are dim and soft, and she’s in the galley with her hand on the coffeemaker before she notices the figure sitting at the table, hunched over a glowing tablet.

She starts a fresh pot and then walks over to him. “What are you still doing up?” she asks quietly, softly rubbing her son’s back.

Nico sighs and looks up at her. “Trying to break this. I think I’m close to the second decryption level.” He blinks. “Didn’t you and Dad go to bed?”

Olivia slides into a chair opposite him. “He did,” she sighs. “I gave up.”

He looks at her, then over at the coffeemaker burbling happily as it drips into a mug. “Going the Nora route of staying up until your body can’t take it anymore?” He lifts a browplate.

She shrugs and curls a little into her sweatshirt; she’s not proud to say Nora didn’t develop that habit in a vacuum. “Works every time." She reaches across the table and clasps his hand. “I’m sorry I pulled you away for this.” Nico chose a non-military life and it was for a reason. Desperately needing his decryption skills doesn’t change that she feels guilty pulling him away from his own life and back into one he left.

He smiles as she stands to get her coffee. “She’s my sister,” he says simply. “I have people who can handle the bakery for a few days and Lucien can feed my fish.”

Smiling, Olivia returns to her seat, steaming mug in hand. She takes a sip; Alliance coffee hasn't gotten much better in the years since she left, but it’s still tolerable. “Have you two found a place yet?”

“We have a few in mind,” Nico says. “But trying to find something that’s close to the bakery and his precinct and in our price range is harder than we thought.”

Olivia nods. “Apartment hunting sucks,” she commiserates. She does not miss it; designing their home from scratch was one of the best decisions she and Garrus ever made. “What are you going to do with the one above the bakery?”

His tablet beeps with a sad noise and he sighs. He types a few thing and then looks up at her. “I’m thinking about keeping it for when my brother needs to drink himself silly again.”

Olivia winces. “How’s he doing?” She’s had a few emails from Quentus since he left the Citadel. He’s excited about his new assignment, but rejection has always stung strong for her eldest.

Nico shrugs and pushes his tablet aside while the program runs. “He’s upset. But the new assignment’s helping. Solana has him leading a ground team and they have some crazy new tech he can’t tell me about.”

“It’s stealth,” Liara says around a wide yawn. She drops into the chair next to Olivia. “The Hierarchy’s working on no-discharge zero-emission stealth drives.” She picks up Olivia’s mug and takes a sip.

“Get your own,” Olivia says, sliding the mug out of Liara’s reach once she’s set it down. “What are you doing up?”

Liara yawns again. “Talking to vorcha.”

Olivia silently slides her mug back toward Liara. She gets up to pour herself another. “Anything useful?”

“Updated topographical maps, a weather report, and a headache.”

Nico’s tablet beeps, happy and successful this time. “Finally.” He looks up to find both his mother and Liara looking at him expectantly. “Updated base schematics, guard rotations, rolling door codes.”

“Nicely done,” Olivia says, leaning against the counter.

"The base is definitely central ops for Project Damocles, but I'm also finding something about a Project Gemini. No assets on base, just some bio metadata in cached email."

Olivia glances at Liara. "What are the chances that's not what I think it is?" Under normal circumstances, hearing about a Cerberus Project Gemini would cause her stomach to drop all the way through the ship and out into space. As it is, she's not sure her stomach has been inside her body since she got the call from Vega.

"Slim," her friend confirms.

Sighing, Olivia shakes her head at Nico's raised browplate. "Way above your clearance level," she tells him. "Forward all of it to Alliance Central Intelligence." Leave it to Cerberus to keep that particular project going. She never thought she'd label her clone a Tomorrow Problem, but a lot of things she never thought would happen have happened in the last 48 hours.

"And me," Liara says.

"And her."

The observation bay door opens, and loud, excitable indistinct conversation filters out before being silenced again as the door closes. Ashley walks into the mess and straight for the coffee. “We’ve officially given up on stealth,” she says, pouring herself some coffee and setting it to brew more. “Just rush the gates.”

“Blowing the door down has always worked well for us,” Olivia muses.

“That’s what I thought,” Ashley says, sitting down beside Liara. “They’re still working on a way past the AA guns that doesn’t involve a two-day hike through the jungle, though.” She looks at the clock and then back in the direction of the observation bay. “Were we ever that young?"

"No," Olivia says.

“Speak for yourselves, please,” Liara says with a grin.

Laughing, Ashley lightly shoves Liara’s shoulder.

“Uh, Captain?” Joker’s voice crackles over the comm.

Ashley sighs with a distinct tone of I don’t want to hear it. "Yeah?"

“We’ve got a ship on intercept course. Unknown configuration.”

“Keep us quiet,” she says. “I’m on my way.” She gestures for Olivia to follow her.

Olivia stands and takes one last sip of coffee. "Keep working on the AA guns," she tells Nico before following Ashley.

“What’s the likelihood this is just a coincidence?” Ashley asks once they’re both in the elevator and rising.

There’s math she could do to figure out the exact probability, but Olivia knows a rhetorical question when she hears it. “First time for everything,” she says.

“They’re hailing us,” Joker says when they walk into the cockpit. “Unknown frequency.” He turns in his seat and looks at Ashley. “What do you want me to do?”

"They shouldn't even be able to see us," Ashley says.

"And yet." Joker gestures to the communication panel and its blinking light.

Ashley waits a moment, shares a long look with Olivia, and then shrugs. “Here’s hoping no one’s dumb enough to fire on us,” she says. “And here’s hoping today isn’t the day that logic runs out. Answer it.”

The viewscreen flickers on. Olivia smiles.

“Heard you were on a rescue mission,” Solana says, Quentus standing behind her. “Anything we can do to help?”

#oh lord on high how was i tagging this #s:set your flag #i know that much???#anyway it's been a hot minute since this got updated so whoops here we are

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