#the fear of getting too damaged to continue overhead like a heavy cloud

[weepylucifer]

whyyyy do i keep listening to the chemical workers song when i Know it just ignites in me an overpowering desire to go hug my dad for reasons i could not possibly explain to him

[thirsty-albedo-main]

As the Seasons Come and Go

Kazuha x Reader

Word count: 4000

Tags: Fiends to lovers, GN!Reader, Kazuha tops, Tears, Penetrative sex, Mutual Masturbation, One sided romance, Porn with plot, Porn with feelings

 Kazuha has come and gone from your teapot multiple times now. For years you have developed your feelings from strangers to the closest of friends. Now you have become completely smitten with him. But he only arrives in the peak of summer and winter, when the sun and wind are at their harshest. [Movie trailer voice] And this summer, you’ll gather up the courage to ask “Will you lay with me for the night?”

 O h god this is 4000 words long u m porn with plot and feelings I guess??? Please forgive me yall.

Time and time again you find yourself watching him leave the small abode you have offered to be his sanctuary in times of hardship. Like the changing of seasons, he comes and goes from the teapot you call home, searching and wandering the landscape in hopes of finding a way to stir the masterless vision he carries from it’s deep slumber. He is inherently mysterious in his eloquence and fleeting in his presence, the act of talking with him always leaving you feeling as if a fresh breeze had come to bring your mind to attention. A wandering samurai who you happened to bump paths with on a dreary summers night has embraced your heart with both gentle winds and words. His smile is euphoric, his sadness earth shattering, and his lingering touches on your shoulders or hands before he bids you farewell yet again like fire starters in your mind and body.

“You have to go already?” you gently asked as he began putting his humble array of belongings into the small pack he carried. “Yes. The scorching sun has calmed its burning gaze for now. Since it is beginning to cool, I must travel while I still can.” His face and hair are brightened in their shade by the light of the sun as you gaze upon his form slowly peeling itself from the grassy bed he was laying in. “Can I expect a visit sooner rather than later? It IS getting pretty hot out there.” You smiled lazily as you always did while napping beside him, concealing the hope woven into your question with the playful tone you reserved for your best friend. “We’ll have to see how merciful this whimsical summer will be. I find myself in cooler nights as of late, so at least there is solace in fall coming soon.” The smile he gave you was not unlike the warm one would feel when stretching out on a sun kissed rock.

“I’ll prepare a bed and some food for you when that time comes then” You replied as your closed your eyes. You pretended to still be sleepy, but in truth, you couldn’t bear to see his back retreating from your sight.

“Thank you. Surely we will cross paths again.” was the hope he voiced.

Those words burned a hole in your heart with the same intensity as the summer heat you found yourself traveling in. Your entire being had ached at the thought of seeing him arrive in the abode you had called home again. You know that someone such as Kazuha couldn’t be restrained from the desire to roam that laid heavy in his soul. It would be wrong of you to commit the sin of tying him down when he had the desire to see new people, experience new things, and further his understanding of the beautiful world he has found himself in.

Yet the way his words held your attention, the way his voice brought solace to you, the way his body would bring you lust, all of it made you hope for more of him and his presence, his being. You would sometimes, under the influence of intense lust and unbearable longing, find yourself running your hands along your body in an effort to satiate your growing need. You mimicked his mannerisms with your hands, how he would run a palm along the small of your back while you stumbled in your climbing, the gentle curl of his fingers as he would run a hand through your hair while you would bare to him your feelings and thoughts, and how his grip felt when he held your hand for a tad longer than necessary while bidding your farewell. With the knowledge of what he does to you potent and heavy in your mind, you finally brought about the resolve needed to tell him how you felt. All of your feelings for him would come to light the next time he allowed himself to enter your domain. This was a promise you made for yourself, as selfish as it may be, you’re ready to accept whatever answer he will give.

- - -

The rain was beating heavily on your form as you wandered down the muddy path that stretched on for miles. The rain was comforting when you found yourself in the safety of a home, far from any of the damaging effects of excessive cold or water, but when you were caught out in the rain like this it only became a source of discomfort. You have forced yourself to continue on through the stormy night until you could find a suitable place to camp, that would be the only way you got proper sleep tonight you decided.. The clouds hung heavy overhead and visibility was proving difficult due to the combination of darkness and rain, yet after squinting into the distance for awhile, you finally discovered some hope for your situation. A light beaming in the darkness. A light from a home? A traveler’s camp? Anything would be fine so long as you were released from the sticky grip of the heavy rain.

Your mind was filled with conflicting thoughts as you saw where the light had come from. The rain was heavy and dreary, yet your heart felt light upon seeing a familiar samurai squatting near a small oil lamp, trying his best to put together a makeshift shelter with local branches and foliage. “Kazuha!” you called out despite the rain attempting to overpower your voice. He raised his head to look in your direction, his keep hearing coming in handy during the onslaught of noise, and he smiled when his eyes had met with yours. For a moment you had felt your face warm up despite it being cold mere moments ago. “You look drenched!” He replies to your call with mirth in his voice “The tempest has forgo its’ kindness for the both of us I see. Here, let me find a secluded spot for us, if you don’t mind me asking for shelter in return that is.”

You didn’t mind at all.

- - -

You two finally found a spot safe enough for you to bring out your teapot. With no hesitation, you found yourself welcoming Kazhua inside to dry off and relax for the rest of the night with you. The rain followed into your teapot of course, but it was a kinder rendition of the noisy forest and harsh clouds that you had just escaped. A small drizzle lingered in the air to cool landscape and the skin, its’ presence heavenly in comparison to beating rain and howling winds. Your abode was a small one. A modest bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen was all that a traveler like you needed. It was simple and having a place of your own to weather out the harsh conditions was more than enough to satisfy your basic needs. Kazuha came in by your side and the two of you laughed lightly at the urgency you two had shown previously, rain sticking wet hair to your faces and necks as reminders of what has passed. “Go ahead into the bathroom and get those wet clothes off” you stated to your travel companion as you shrugged off your cloak and hung it up on the porch. “I’ll get the fireplace ready.” Kazuha took a moment to smile with a distant glimmer in his eye at you, not moving from the spot he was in in favor of keeping an eye on you. “What?” you goaded with a smile.

“It just reminds me of when we first met. You said that to me then too, all those seasons ago.” And feeling happy with his statement, he finally wandered his way into your bathroom to change, leaving you stunned.

Archons you felt as if your heart was going to burst.

Clothes were now hanging on the backs of chairs, placed in proximity of the fireplace and it’s warmth, enough to dry but not enough to catch fire. Plates were on a small drying rack after a meal for two was prepared, the light dripping of water from their forms akin to the rain seeping off you and your companion when you entered earlier this evening. Warm and soft clothes encompass your form in a reassuring manner, reminding you that you were safe and sound, that you were home. It also reminded you that a piece of the outside world was here with you in the form of your friend Kazuha. He stretched out next to you on your floor near the fireplace, undoing his ever crooked ponytail as if to reinforce your point. It was almost like this was meant to happen, that he was meant to lay here. With you.. You had to suck in a breath of air as you realized how domestic all of this was.

Kazuha looks to you for a moment with soothing worry and slight curiosity in his eyes at your sudden intake of breath. “Something wrong? You didn’t get hurt in the rain did you?” The way his eyes light up in concern reminds you of your own fears regarding the situation you two are in, that all of this will end soon. Summer is reaching its’ ending and winter seems so impossibly out of your reach, an unrealistic time to wait before you see him again. He reaches a cruel hand to your face and takes your cheek into his palm with a tenderness that makes the burning in your skin unbearable. “What ails you, my friend? I hear your heart beating so much harder than normal.” The thread of self restraint snaps and curls its’ fibers within your being as you reach out to take his face in your hands. Your nose brushes against his own as you shift closer to him. As you slowly and carefully take his lips with your own. It is a chaste kiss that leaves as many feelings you can manifest on the corner of his lips. His eyes are wide with shock as you pull away, your face coming back into his vision red and shameful as you voice your desires.

“You’re going to be leaving soon. All of the leaves of fall will be behind us, rotting under layers of snow by the time that you and I get to meet again. Please.” You fist your hands into his cotton shirt, your vain attempt of keeping yourself composed now that the words are spilling out. “Lay with me at least once before you go-” His lips coming to take yours interrupts the pleading request you had for him. Euphoria washes over your body at the returned contact, your skin aches at the way his hands come to hold your face, how he lingers there as if he were searching for the warmth of your emotions with his fingertips alone. The kiss between the two of you rising like summers heat as you loop an arm around his shoulders, deepening this bliss by closing the proximity. His tongue comes to lick the inside of your mouth and he explores the feeling of kissing you with the vigor you could only imagine in the small fantasies you would have of him on lonesome nights.

The feeling is gone much too soon for your liking when he speaks up, breaking the kiss to do so. “I’ve waited so long, withstood so many seasons, in the hopes of kissing you with such passion one day.” He puffs out the words with a warm and blissful smile on his face, breathless from the intense kissing you two were partaking in. Your mind lags behind, caught up in the beauty he held when his eyes would crinkle with mirth, and it takes you a moment before the weight of his words  come bearing down on you. “You.. you did-?” Is all you’re able to mumble out in your dumbstruck state before his mouth is on yours again, his passion encompassing your form in heated touches. The pleasure and goosebumps running over your skin leaves you with such a burning desire in not only your heart but your core as well. Knowing that if nothing else, he too wants you like this, is a revelation that leaves your mind feeling like the fog that lingers over a still pond and your body as sensitive as its’ rippling surface. Hands are running up your sides with fingernails barely scraping, causing the hairs on your body to raise in attention. Your fingers are laced in his hair and tugging softly at the strands, wringing out soft moans for you to devour with fervor. One of his legs finds itself slotted between your thighs, tempting you with its slow yet sweet pressure against your groin as it rocks back and forth.

Your hands squeeze his thighs firmly, your grip delectable and exciting to Kazuha apparently, because his hips give a small jerk forward in reply.

Archons you’ve both wanted this for far too long, haven’t you?

 You’ve both become unsatisfied in your restrictive clothing, quickly doing your beth to be rid of the offending clothing in favor of feeling each other’s skin.You smooth your hands out against his back as he comes to lean over you, slotting himself in between your thighs as his trained arms come to support himself above you. “I love your being, your soul.” you hear him confess as he comes down to mouth at your ear, the words and movements sensual enough to cause you to shudder. “And I certainly love hearing every stuttering gasp and repressed moan you have given me” You mentally curse his sensitive hearing as his breath fans over your neck. “This peaceful melody you’ve given me… I hope this means I have been performing to your liking?” He mumbles into your skin before nipping it, soothing it with careful kisses in return. “Of course you’re performing well.” you mutter as you raise your hips to grind your sex against his erection, eliciting a small moan from him as revenge for his teasing words. “Or else I wouldn’t be looking like this.”

He stops his ministrations on your neck to sit up and admire your form. “And what a sight it is.” He smiles at you with genuine love in his eyes, passion and lust ever lingering, but taking a back seat to the pure admiration he holds for you. It’s enough to make your heart constrict with longing, the shutter running though your body causing you both to let out a small gasp at the stimulation on your groins. This teasing and aching are more than enough, you decide with a small huff of frustration. “Kazuha, I have some aloe vera in the bedside table, please.” You keen as you begin shuffling off your underwear. He understands your request and is quick to follow your plea as you toss the undergarment to the side. He gives a small lustful glance to you as he returns with the bottle, already ridding himself of his bottoms as he gazes upon your form.

He settles between your legs once more as he uncaps the bottle and allows the slick aloe vera to coat his fingers, running the liquid over his joints so as to warm it up before slathering it against your entrance. He puts the bottle to the side for a moment to focus his hands on the task of spreading you out, one careful finger slipping into you with trepidation. The feeling for you could only be described as erotic as you watched him begin working you, almost causing your hands to drop the bottle as you pour some aloe vera over your own fingers.  He gives a small hiss in pleasure when your slicked hand wraps around him but he makes no effort to stop you from pumping his erection and coating it in your makeshift lube, causing you to smirk in content. You’ve given him this pleasure, his red and weeping head proof of your work, precum beading at the tip with every pump and his wimpers in delight every time you thumb the slit crowned on top. Taking your hand a little further, you reach to grab at his base, pressing your thumb into a particular vein when pleasure strikes up your spine and shocks you into stopping your movements. Ah, he’s scissoring you open with his fingers now. You weren’t even paying attention to him putting a second finger in with how preoccupied you were with jacking him off, but he certainly has your attention now. A small smirk lingers on his lips as you let out a shaky moan of desire. “Yes, please, Just like that..” You order as your hips coming up to voluntarily fuck yourself onto his fingers in shallow thrusts.

“Beautiful.” He coos as he slips his fingers out from your hole, the small amount of drag in the way he does so leaving your head spinning and your lower half longing for more. He gently drags your hips closer, propping your legs up on his hips while he presses the tip of his length against your hole, experimentally grinding the head against your aching entrance in hopes of testing the waters. You gently bat his arm in frustration glaring up at him with no heat to your gaze. “I’ve been longing for you, yet you still take the moment to relish in teasing me?” He chuckles and with his face sweetly red, he gives you a caste kiss on your lips. “I won’t be denying you any longer. I was just taking a moment to admire the sounds of slicked skin and the smell of heavy lust.” Of course his poetic tendencies come to light right when you are this close to having him in you. Though his head coming to stretch your hole is all that was needed for your forgiveness to be found, your steadying your breathing in an effort to make his entrance smoother.

He comes to lean over you as he slowly penetrates you, his arms on either side of your head now as his erection fills you out, the sensation leaving you shaking in his lap with goosebumps. Kazuha is not unaffected by this either if the small twitches from his erection and the shaky whines escaping his throat are anything to go by. Your slicked skin comes to meet his as you wrap your arms around his neck, readying yourself as he finally bottoms out and slots his thighs against your ass. “The pace?” He mumbles the question into your hair as he comes to hold you against him, one hand smoothing out over the back of your head while the other gently grasps your hips. “Quick.” you whine to his shoulder in desperation. “Hard so I will feel it for awhile.” So you have something to linger on while he is gone, your mind reminds you.  You almost feel tears welling up as he begins thrusting into you at just the pace you asked, the pleasure taking over your body with electric shocks of arousal and need. His balls coming to smack against your ass, the heavier breathing combined with sweet moans coming from Kazuha, finally having your fantasy of your best friend sleeping with you brought to reality, it is almost too much. You rake your nails down his back in an attempt to gather more purchase, your mind blank now that you’re being pleasured like this.

He shifts his position to hit you deeper, allowing you to writhe in the euphoria of his length stretching and filling you. Your thoughts dim and your words turn to much. “Please! please, Kah-” You slur out as he keeps his intense pace. He holds you so gently, and his words are filled with praise and love as he brings you closer and closer to the edge, the fall looking so tempting as it leers ever closer. He bites into your shoulder lightly as his hips begin to stutter in their pace, rocking and grinding into you as he loses his precision. You, in your worry to make sure he’s alright, lean back just enough to get a glance of his face and the sight of him makes you clench around the wanderer. Kazuha’s face is completely a wreck, red and flushed, speckled in sweat slicked hair and, the most shocking of all, tears.

The sight of him sends you over the edge with a harsh push. Your eyes screw shut and legs spasm as you cling to him tighter, hoping he will help you weather out the intense storm that is your orgasm as it ravages your body. Your orgasm causes waves to ripple though your body, and it sends Kazuha off the edge as well after a few lagging thrusts. Your body begins to loosen its’ hold on the samurai as his cum pulses into your hole, filling you further and adding to the pleasure you feel when it begins oozing out from between your thighs. The heavy breathing and sighs of comfort linger in the air for awhile as you both take a moment to cool off from your activities. Archons, you traveled on foot all day and here you were having vigorous sex in the evening. The combination of things made you feel so, so incredibly tired while you two caught your breath.You are so spaced out from your orgasm, your body weary from never experiencing something so emotionally and physically charged as this whole evening was before.

Your eyes are barely able to stay open as Kazuha begins untangling himself from you some unknown amount of time later, his words like muffled distant conversation as you try to keep yourself awake and aware. He’s lifting you and moving you to your bedroom, you feel a cool cloth brush over your face and thighs, you feel some cool water down your throat, but all of it feels so disheartening and cruel knowing he won’t be coming back for awhile after this. You just wanted to lay with him for one night and then put the flames of this desire out for good, or at least that is what you told yourself. Sleeping the pain off seemed leagues easier than dealing with the sorrow you’ll feel if you let him pamper you, is what your mind rationalizes before you drift off to sleep.

That is to say, you were not prepared at all for what awaited you when you woke up the next morning. Despite Kazuha always getting up early and mentioning just the night before that he planned to leave, you find him cooking something in your kitchen, working hard to make something for you both to eat. When he welcomes you to the table with the warmest of smiles, you can’t help but feel gobsmacked by the fact that he is still here. With some assistance of course, he leads you to the table to eat.

“Wait you really thought I would just leave the morning after a confession and love making session like that?” He looks shocked at the explanation you shared with him over breakfast (lunch?). The sunlight drifting in through the window making you shrink in on yourself a tad, as if nature itself was putting the spotlight on you for scrutiny. “I thought…that you would head out by morning. You know the whole ‘the world and my mind will both grow dull lest I travel’ stuff and what not.” Your face red as you take another small helping of rice into your mouth in embarrassment. Kazuha gives a small smile your way as he stands up. You think he’s going to pull one of his old friendly gestures and bat you on the head for saying such things, but instead the most tender and chaste kiss is left on the corner of your mouth. You eyes look at him with shock as he pulls back to gaze at you lovingly.

“Instead of worrying about the idea of holding me back…” He takes your hands in his and runs his thumb along the back of it. “Of course. Only if you desire it. But how about we try wandering through this life together? You and I are both travelers after all-.”

You’re already hugging him, your heart elated and your soul as warm as hot summer.

[autumnslance]

FFXIV Write 2021 #15: Thunderous

((A longer one. Violence, blood, and fire. Not safe for heretics or dragoons as we step back to last week and the aftermath of “Heady”...))

“There they are!” X’rhun exclaimed. “Thank the gods!”

Alberic only puffed a breath in agreement as they ran across and down the ravine to where Aeryn was tending to an ashen-faced Heustienne.

“The cavalry has arrived,” the injured dragoon said dryly, her damaged chainmail removed to allow Aeryn access to the wound. Not the worst Heustienne had ever taken, but more than bad enough.

“Thank Halone you’re safe,” Alberic said as X’rhun dropped to his knees next to the women to lend his own aid if needed. “We heard from Kal Myhk you’d tangled with a group of heretics—”

“They took us to Avengret,” Aeryn’s voice cut him off; quiet, too steady, too calm.

For a moment the world paused, until X’rhun’s tail lashed as he turned to look up at Alberic.

Aeryn wasn’t looking at him, her hands resting on her knees now, feet tucked under her. Heustienne’s gaze flicked between Aeryn and Alberic, her own questions barely held back.

“Let’s get Heustienne upright,” X’rhun said gently. “And then get back to—”

“Anyx Trine?” Aeryn interrupted. “Will they tell me the truth if I ask? They must know. If what she said is true.” She turned her head slightly toward Alberic without raising her face, looking at his boots. “She said I should ask you.”

“Aeryn…” His mouth was dry.

She looked up finally, lips parting to say more, but instead she drew in a sharp breath, eyes wide and shining silver, not seeing Alberic or anything else around her now.

He groaned, whether in fear or agony or relief, he wasn’t certain.

——

Alberic followed Corran Striker into the house. It was a pleasant little place, clean and airy. The edges of the walls were lined with brightly painted flower and vine designs, and small pieces of colored glass bordered the custom-framed windows to allow some of the light to also reflect rainbows into the rooms--that couldn’t have been cheap, Alberic thought.

“Please, leave your helm and lance by the door. I think my wife will forgive the boots this time.”

“I keep the lance close to hand, you understand,” Alberic replied as he at least set down his helm on the table by the door.

There was evidence of children; their house slippers by the door, a doll on a chair, a set of tin knights cluttering the low table in the sitting room. His heart ached. “What a lovely home,” he said. “Will the missus and children be joining us?”

Corran shook his head. “Emelia’s running some of her crafts all the way to Fallgourd in the Shroud, and took Zaine and Aeryn with her for the fun. They’ve been cooped up too long, she thought.” He smiled fondly. “It’s a way she deals with her homesickness, and shares that part of herself with our children; she grew up traveling part of the year selling wares as a girl in Thavnair.”

Relief, but also renewed wariness prickled along Alberic’s spine as he followed Corran to the kitchen, leaning his lance on the wall right behind his chair as he took the offered seat at the dining table. “Thavnair? That’s a ways away. Explains the colors though.”

“I got rather lucky,” Corran replied, his tone warm and genuine. “She misses it, but is somehow willing to stay with me.”

“Ever think of visiting?” Alberic asked casually as Corran went about the motions of preparing the lunch he had offered the tired dragoon when they had accidentally met in the treacherous priest’s chapel. Corran had seemed surprised to learn of Comfraire’s heresy, but had offered hospitality despite his own shaken state.

“If there wasn’t always so much work to do, perhaps someday we could,” Corran said quietly.

“I think I’d take the chance, perhaps even move permanently, were I a common man with a family. Get the children far from the war, among the wife’s people.”

“I won’t lie; the thought has occurred to me,” Corran said. “Though I’m surprised, Ser Azure; I’d think one like you would want to keep promising future soldiers for the war in Ishgard.”

Alberic shrugged. “As I said; were I a common man, with a foreign wife who misses her home and children with futures to think of.”

The chronometer in the hall ticked steadily as Corran worked. “Perhaps. Though much as she misses Thavnair, I’d miss Coerthas. I love my home, Ser Azure. There’s little I wouldn't do to see our homeland prosper.”

Alberic did not reply, not trusting his tongue to respond to the man’s gall.

As Corran came to the table with sandwiches and a decent-looking ale, Alberic smiled. “Then perhaps you can aid me in protecting our homeland,” he said. He hoped he was wrong about Corran. “I am tracking a dangerous creature I believe the false priest Comfraire was working with, coordinating an imminent attack from the Horde.”

Corran raised an eyebrow. “I’m but a simple farmer, Ser. I don’t know what help I could be.” He glanced down at his plate.

The chronometer in the hall continued to tick.

“Know you of anyone Comfraire spent time with, when not pretending to holy duties? Places the priest liked to go when not tending the church? I hear you were among those who escorted the fellow on his daily walks.”

“A duty many of us in the community shared,” Corran replied, tone growing strident. “Do you accuse me of heresy merely for minding an old man on his daily constitutional?”

“No of course not,” Alberic answered. He pulled the correspondence he had found in Comfraire’s hidden desk drawer from his pack. “These letters however do indicate guilt.”

“Well that is another story, isn’t it?” Corran asked, leaning back in his chair. The humble farmer demeanor fell away as he crossed his arms. “Why play along?”

“I wanted to be wrong. You seemed like a decent man with a family you love.”

“I do love them,” Corran replied, voice low and cold. “You’re very unlucky you came this day.”

“She doesn’t know what you really do, does she?”

“And once we’re rid of you, she never will,” Corran said bluntly. “Our war doesn’t concern her.”

“And the children?”

Corran’s grey eyes clouded like thunderstorms, his lips drawn into a snarl. “You’ll never touch them.”

They both leapt, chairs clattering to the ground. Alberic reached for his lance while Corran moved with preternatural speed to the sideboard, pulling a hidden blade he managed to raise in time to block Alberic’s swing.

The house was torn and broken as they fought, Alberic barely able to acknowledge the damage as they threw each other against walls and through furnishings. Corran had an advantage with his shorter blade in the cramped space, but Alberic was a far more practiced fighter. If he could get hold of a sword--or better disarm Corran of his--then the heretic would soon be at his mercy.

He finally saw his moment, spinning his lance to baffle Corran’s blade before using his more heavily armored frame to knock the taller man through a door and into what had to be the master bedroom.

The sword went sliding the opposite way down the hall, and Corran laughed bitterly.

“Give it up, Striker,” Alberic said, pointing his lance. He could see Corran’s waist and legs, but the broken door obscured his head. “Tell me about the coming attack!”

Corran's laugh only continued, growing deeper and more growling. Alberic’s eyes widened as he saw Corran’s body jerk, bones cracking and skin tearing, swelling as scales overtook skin.

He swung to drive his lance down through the man as a roar shook the windows, and through the back wall an aevis tore its way inside, the colorfully bordered window panes shattering across the bedding. The dragon leapt at Alberic, and he swung up, barely blocking the creature’s jaws from clamping onto his still helm-less head as they skid down the hall from the momentum of its impact.

Alberic managed to roll out of the way as the aevis let loose a gout of flame, the fire catching on broken furniture. It came for him again but he had made it to his feet, dashing back toward the kitchen for room to move. The aevis lunged at him as Alberic braced himself, a heel against the base of the sink.

His lance caught the beast’s chest and with a roar of his own from his Inner Dragon surging forth, he used the dragon’s momentum to pierce it deeper, throwing it over his shoulder and halfway through the large window, more bright glass breaking as the thing flailed, screaming flames across the yard as it bled out around the lance through it.

Alberic had no time to retrieve his weapon as Corran came for him, tearing apart the walls to fit his new bulk through them to get to the dragoon. He was larger than most transformations Alberic had seen, a heavy red wyvern, powerful and burning, his eyes filled with the same intelligence they had held as a man.

Alberic swore and dove out of the way of claws longer than his own hands. He managed to duck and roll under and past Corran and back into the hallway, needing the smaller space to disadvantage the dragon. Assuming said dragon didn’t just shoulder the walls out of his way, his fiery head rearing back to blast Alberic.

He barely managed to dodge, the heat unbearable as the walls with their pretty flower paint warped, melted, and crisped in the heat, flames now filling the house. He couldn’t last in here much longer, but also couldn’t let this fight further endanger the rest of the village, the commotion surely drawing attention, though any other knights would be too far away while Corran likely had more allies nearby.

His feet hit more metal that clattered, and he remembered Corran’s sword. As the beast came for him again, Alberic ducked to retrieve it, rolling in low as Corran leaped at him. With another shout, Alberic swung up, sliding along the floor on his knees as Corran passed overhead, the sword slicing down the wyvern’s side.

Corran screeched, landing heavily against the door in a tangle, blood flowing freely, wings and talons unable to get purchase in the too small space.

Alberic breathed heavily as he stood and hurried into the kitchen. The aevis was still jerking through its death throes, making a pathetic, pained cry as he yanked his lance from it, more blood pumping onto the sink and floor.

Alberic returned to the hall. Corran watched him, panting himself, lifesblood pooling around him as smoke filled the air.

“Finish me,” the dragon rumbled, in something resembling Corran’s voice. “But I want a promise first.”

“A promise?” Alberic asked. “Why should I pledge aught to a heretic?”

A weary claw gestured, holding a limp, blood-covered ragdoll. Alberic went cold. “For...them. They’re innocent. But we both know...Inquisitors….”

Alberic coughed as he shivered. They wouldn’t care that the children were only children. They wouldn’t care if Mistress Striker was Thavnairian--if anything, that would make it worse for her, no matter if she truly was unaware of her husband’s sins.

“Maybe...she’ll take them home,” Corran said. “She misses it. They could have…Not this.” His eyes met Alberic’s.

They were the grey eyes of a man.

Alberic nodded. “I promise,” he answered, as he pushed his lance through the wyvern’s heart. “Your family won’t pay for your sins.”

When he opened his smoke-stung eyes again, the dragon was gone, Corran Striker’s lifeless form before him, eyes colorless glass, smiling in relief.

Alberic considered for a moment, then drug Corran’s body toward the heaviest flames devouring the house, throwing him into the fire. With luck it would be so burned as to obscure how he had truly died, if Alberic was to keep his reckless promise.

The aevis in the kitchen was dead finally. Alberic retrieved the correspondence knocked to the floor during the scuffle, and gritting his teeth, threw all but one sheet into the flame as well; there was mention of a tower. If nothing else he could salvage something from this mess.

The heat and smoke were too much now, and people outside were shouting and trying to put out the flames, a woman screaming as she glimpsed the dragon half-hanging from the kitchen.

Alberic stumbled outside, battered and bloodied, and fell unconscious at the feet of the Strikers’ neighbors.

—————

It took only a few eye blinks before Aeryn’s groan echoed Alberic’s from a moment before. X’rhun tried to call to her, but she was on her feet in the next eye blink. She whirled in Alberic’s direction, braid whipping so quickly the end came back around to strike her cheek, unnoticed. Her eyes were a storm, lightning crackling in them.

Alberic did not move. He distantly realized that there was nothing any of the three of them could do to stop her of all people.

She flung herself forward and he took the weight of her body slamming into his, her hands gripping at his coat.

That was all.

Alberic didn’t dare move as she trembled against him, head down. X’rhun and Heustienne watched, breath held. Perhaps they had realized the same thing he had.

"I'd forgotten the windows,” Aeryn said hoarsely. “They were almost new; a Starlight gift from him, for Mama."

Alberic said nothing. What could he say?

“You didn’t tell me.”

He sighed. It took a moment to make sound. “By the time I’d realized who you were, why you were so familiar...Well, we had that mess with Estinien and neither of us were in any shape for more terrible revelations. Not the easiest thing to tell a girl you’re the man that killed her father, regardless of the why. And...If the Inquisition, the Ward, if any of them had found out…”

“I’d have handled them,” she said. Neutral, a matter of fact. She wasn’t one to boast.

“Perhaps,” he said. “I thought...Your mother took you to Thavnair. You would have a life there, away from the war. I never expected you to return. To be...this.”

“You should have told me.”

“I know. And you know I’m a sentimental, craven fool.”

She laughed, a wild, bitter noise, finally looking up. Her eyes locked with his, and he thought for as much as she looked like her mother, her eyes were too much like her father’s.

“X’rhun, can you make sure Heustienne gets back to Anyx Trine?” She said, not breaking her gaze with Alberic. The storm still rumbled in her eyes, but all he could see was old smoke.

“Of course,” the Seeker answered. “Aeryn—”

“I’m going home,” she said, shoving Alberic away. He staggered, barely managing to keep his footing. She was stronger than she looked. “I need time to think and rest.”

“You mean Revenant’s Toll, yes?” X’rhun demanded, tail still lashing.

Aeryn only nodded once as she retrieved her pack from next to Heustienne.

“Call me via ‘pearl when you arrive,” X’rhun insisted.

She paused for a moment, then nodded again, shouldering her pack and walking away.

“What the seven hells am I missing?” Heustienne asked after they watched Aeryn’s red coat vanish among the hills. “What did she see? What did you do?”

“Later,” X’rhun said, helping her to her feet. “Let’s get back to something resembling civilization first; Avengret’s heretics may still be on the trail.”

Alberic said nothing, simply following along as they made their way across the wilderness.

[ayamturd]

promises│nihachu

summary: in any given situation or matter, promises are sacred in any relationship one should hold. 

prompt: “Promise you won’t let go?” “I promise.”

warnings: fluff and major angst, death and warfare descriptions, slight dsmp spoilers

pairing: in-game romantic!nihachu

a/n: this is my entry for @quackisinnit’s 1k writing event!! huge congratulatory once again for their achievement and amazing writing (go read their stuff, it’s incredible) <3

wc: (1.6k) - m.list

“Y/n! Slow down, will you!” 

You giggled to Niki’s panic and only sped through the tall grass faster. The world was a blur as you pulled her through the empty, dry field. Every branch of wheat tickled your face as they grazed your sides, yet you could care less as you both ran with little care in the world. 

“But how will we get there faster then?” You glanced back at her with an assured smirk without breaking your pace. Her eyes, while wide with concern, opposed her careless smile. She chuckled loudly at your words, the beautiful sound of her laugher prompting your own as you began climbing a small hill. 

“Only a little further, come on.” Your hand gripped her own gently, and she only squeezed your palm in response. 

As you reached the high ground, you both paused briefly to gather your breaths before you began pulling her again. “I hope this will be worth all the anticipation. You still haven’t told me what you wanted to show me.” 

The line of trees became more evident as you approached them. Entering the forest cautiously, the overhead branches shielded the bright sunlight, only speckles of light breaking through the leaves as they casted over you. 

“Well it wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you, now would it.” Niki let out a small whine of your name, jogging slightly to meet your footing. 

The forest became evidently thicker with every stride, the overgrown roots of the trees tripping up Niki’s feet as she couldn’t see as clearly. She began to slow significantly in fear of the unfamiliar environment, the dark trunks, all of various sizes, almost taunting her with the possibility of something jumping out at her. 

While your presence was comforting, she couldn’t hide how naturally scared she was to continue forward. 

Noting her anxiety, you stopped completely to check on her, though her eyes were anywhere but your own; she was surveying the surrounding and the inability to see anything beyond a certain distance.

With a tender touch, you called her name more softly and pulled her face to your own. “We can head back if you’re uncomfortable love, but it’s just past this grove, I swear.” 

Niki relished in your touch and leaned into your hold, the warmth of your palm compelling and inviting against her cheek. She nodded ever so briefly, but you did not want to push her past what she was comfortable with due to your own excitement. 

“Speak with me now, love. I won’t force you if you don’t want to, it’s nothing of greater importance to your feelings.” 

Head still bowed down, Niki opened her eyes while lifting your still clasped hands to her lips. She kissed your knuckles endearingly before raising her head more confidently, your concern for her well being driving her emotionally.

“I’ll be alright, darling, thank you.” You leaned closer to exchange a kiss, a light feathery peck to her plush lips, and rested your forehead against her’s. 

Eyes closed, you merely whispered into her skin, “are you certain? You know I could never fault you if so.” 

Niki pulled away, causing your eyes to open at the lack of contact, and gave you a beautiful grin as reassurance. “I am, y/n, I promise.” 

While you smiled brightly, she paused before turning away, almost embarrassed to ask her next question. “Just… just promise you won’t let go?” 

Your airy chuckle made her head snap up to you, afraid of the connotations it held; however, she instead was met with your brilliant, crinkled eyes. They were intense, full of love and adoration that could make her blush widely from the simple gaze, and spoke more words than you could ever relay. 

Moving your hand to the back of her neck, you slowly bent down to kiss her again. It was more intense than before, the passion you displayed shared as Niki grabbed the wrist you held with while her other hand cupped your cheek securely. 

Eventually, you needed air and forced your lips off her hesitantly. Heavy breaths pervaded the forest landscape, and you both panted from the impenetrable emotions you carried. You held a lopsided grin from the kiss, the tired pull of your lips matching her own. 

“I promise, darling. I’ll always have you.”

“Y/n!” 

The sky was dark, fire raging from below and engulfing the space completely. Destruction rained down in the aftermath of the battle, ash and debris scattered everywhere. The smoke was blinding, the stinging film it produced bringing tears to the eyes of all while tainting the air, making it hard to breath or move within the encapsulated scenery. 

It was ringing. The silence was almost deafening after the deathly explosions and sounds that imploded moments before. One could barely hear themself think from the loud buzz or harsh stillness, the contrast more painful to the noise when originally casted in face of what was left to scrape and reforge. 

“Y/n, hold on!” 

Those injured or lost were left casted amongst the destruction of the once beautiful, vast land. Nothing could be said to the devastation that laid waste around them, yet the heartache most suffered was excruciating to the failure of a promise their home once carried. 

While some had fled or currently carried themselves strong against the opposing, ‘god-like’ force that demanded for blood, two loves were still fighting for the purpose of staying together. 

“Y/n! I have you, I have you, ju一 just hang on!” 

Niki’s face was stained with dirt and grime, yet it did nothing to hide the pain she held in her eyes. She was crying, the smoke in her eyes, while harsh and searing, incomparable to the agony she felt while holding you. 

“Niki, I’m so scared.” 

You were hanging over a massive crater, your feet danglingly helplessly in the open air as the wind pulled at your weight. Niki gripped your arm with her entire being, the wounds she had meaning nothing to the turmoil of emotions that raged at the sight of seeing you scared beyond admission. 

Her expression was determined, despite the tear stains that marked her face so vastly to the filth that stained her cheeks. She grunted, loosing her footing momentarily before pulling you slightly up again. In spite of all her efforts, she was too weak and exhausted from the fighting beforehand, body unable to carry the same passion she emulated in thought. 

“Niki.” Her eyes were tight from her current endeavor, and she shook her head at your voice. 

“It’ll be okay, it’ll be okay, we’re going to be okay.” Her hands were shaking from your weight, yet she refused to break her grip.

“Niki, please look at me.” Blinking roughly to rid the salty tears, Niki let out a sob from meeting your own tears as well. You were in immense pain, and the fear that overtook was numbing to the point that you couldn’t put up a front any longer. 

“I love you, Niki. I love you so much.” With a shake of her head, more tears ran down her face from the revelation. She pulled harder on your arm. 

“Don’t do that, don’t say it like that.” You tried to smile and bring her comfort from the situation, but in truth you were too drained; the smile you tried for was only an empty shell to the joy it once held. 

“Niki, it’s alright, its o一”

Suddenly, more explosions shattered the still landscape once more. The war was not over and the crack of the already broken terrain collapse further beneath itself. 

Dust clouded your vision and the panic was overwhelming, causing you to speak without thought relative to the reality you both faced.

“Niki, don’t let go, please, promise you won’t let go!” Your words were rushed and incomprehensible. Eyes wild in terror and dread, the cries that escaped you were strained and smothered over the erupting ground around you. 

Niki yelled as loud as she could against the explosions trapping you both, anguished by the matter of fact. “Yes! Yes, Y/n! I have you, I pro一“

Before the vow in vain could be voiced, a new rain of explosions were set barely a few feet behind Niki, and the earth shook violently from impact. She yelped from the unexpected attack and lost her concentration and stability, thrown back, hard, into a sunken ditch. 

Explosion after explosion followed, and she was forced to hold her head in instinct until the silence rang out once more. With a gasp, she struggled to her feet and pathetically climbed her way over the small hill, the littered waste and scrap metal tripping her in her moment of desperation. 

She fell against the edge of the hollow shaft, a look of shock in disbelief before the horror sunk in. “No…”

“No, no, no no no…” She began to mumble to herself until her words became louder. Sinking to her knees at the realization, she released a broken and cracked cry. While sound was muffled to the damage within her ears and her sight was obscured by her teary eyes, the pain and heartbreak she felt was everything and the only thing she recognized then and there.

She cried and she cried, and no matter how much it hurt, she could never stop from the pain that would consume her without her new found sorrow.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Slowly, she laid her head against the ground and clenched her eyes shut, gripping her fists close into herself for she no longer had someone to hold her safe. 

“I’m so sorry.”

[thegirlwhobrokeintothetardis]

The Golden Oriole (Geralt x Reader)

Word Count: 2,769

Pairing: Geralt x Reader

Summary: You have been traveling with the Witcher, Geralt of Rivia, for over a year now. You started to have feelings for him but tried pushing them away thinking there was no way he would reciprocate them. But what happens when you're poisoned on a hunt, and it looks like time is running out?

Warnings: Angst, some violence, some fluffy bits :)

A/N: So this ihas been in my drafts for so long guys, and I finally was able to finally finish it!!! There is some angst, some fluff, and some SOFT!GERALT!!!

The fog around you wasn’t that thick, but it still made you feel like you were headed into the unknown. 

You walked next to Geralt who was riding Roach, the quiet of the forest still deafening to you. You have been traveling with Geralt for over a year, meeting in a small village outside Kaedwen where you ended up helping him on a quest to stop the killings of people in the village, which ended up being a Latawiec, a devil-like creature that can seduce nearly any kind of person (men, women, even said to lure children), who was serving a sorcerer who was killing these people. Geralt was almost seduced and lead away when you saw what was happening and wounded it with your bow and arrow. It escaped, but it ended up breaking its trance with the Witcher and leading the two of you to the sorcerer to blame. 

After that, you convinced Geralt to let you join him on his journeys. Right now you were going through a forest on the outskirts of southern Temeria after finishing with a job. Geralt was being stoic as ever and without that bard Jaskier to sing songs and talk excessively, it was just silent as you two traveled on. 

All of a sudden, a loud screech sounded from the distance. It echoed off the trees, making you turn in all different directions to see what could have made the noise. Geralt also turned his head, pulling on Roach’s reins to make her stop.

“What was that?” You asked, still looking for anything to catch your eye as you pulled your bow off your back. The two of you waited for another sound, but nothing came. 

“Just keep your ears open.” Geralt said, looking around the wooded area one more time before letting Roach continue on. After about an hour, you reached the end of the forest, and it opened up into a large field with more trees in the distance. The sun was covered by some heavy clouds, making everything seem gray and dense. Just as the two of you made it into the field, the screeching sound from before sounded from overhead. Geralt looked around before getting off Roach and tying her reigns to the nearest tree before pulling out one of his swords. 

You pulled an arrow out of your hip quiver and nocked it, pulling the string back and scanning the perimeter. “See anything?” 

Geralt looked around and before you could move, Geralt quickly moved and slashed at the air. That's when you saw the red-winged beast with vicious teeth and a trident-like tail. As it flew up a bit more to dodge Geralt’s attack, you let go of the string as it flew in that creature’s direction. The arrow nicked the thing’s wing, and it let out another screech. 

“What the hell is that?!” You yelled, pulling out another arrow. Geralt eyed the thing, strengthening his stance and becoming the Witcher so many fear right in front of your eyes.

“Its a wyvern.” Geralt said back. “Be careful. They’re poisonous.”

The wyvern screeched again before diving towards you and Geralt; Geralt holding his stance but you having to dive out of the way, rolling away before getting back on your feet. You pulled your string back with the arrow nocked and fired at the creature, catching it in its lower torso with a thwap! as it tried to fly back into the sky.

Before you could pull another arrow out of your quiver, the wyvern turned its attention to you and flew straight at you. “Look out!” Geralt yelled, trying to intercept the wyvern. 

But it was too late. 

The wyvern’s tail lashed at you, landing a hit in your side and forcing you to fall to the ground. The air was knocked out of you, you lungs trying to regain breath while the wyvern hovered over you, getting ready to deal another strike. Just as you were going to try and grab an arrow, there was a slashing sound above you, and the pained cry of the creature as it fell to the ground a few feet from you. You could still see some movement in your periphery but there was stilled by some slashing sound and one last monstrous cry.

Even with it being a couple minutes since you fell, you knew that your breathing should be back to normal, but you noticed that it started getting more labored. Pants of air came out in clouds of condensation as your shaky hand reached to your side and came back dripping blood. “G-Geralt..”

Quickened footsteps came closer to you until Geralt was in your field of vision, looking over your weakened state. He moved to touch your side, you flinching as he gently examined your injury. “Fuck. Did it get you with its tail?”

“I-I think so.” You said. Your vision started to swim as black started to frame your eyesight. You could feel a burning traveling through your body like fire chasing line of gunpowder, your hands shaking more erratically as you started to loose control. “What’s going t-to h-happen to me-e?”

“Nothing, you are going to be okay.” Geralt grumbled as moved above you, your vision making it hard to determine exactly what he was doing. 

Suddenly everything became quiet around you, your vision getting worse as the tremors racked through your limbs. Geralt leaned over you again, and you could barely make out his mouth moving, trying to tell you something but it fell on deaf ears. Your eyelids felt like heavy iron and fluttered shut as it got hard to even think. You tried to reopen your eyes, really struggling to as you felt your body giving up on you. You opened your eyes just enough to see Geralt’s worried expression before your eyes closed again, and everything went black.

                                                        ----

Warm.

Something was making you really warm.

Your eyes fluttered open to a darkened room, the walls and ceilings stone while also being covered with wall ornaments; maps, gilded candlesticks, and even what looked like a tapestry but was torn in half. You turn your head and catch the flickering of a fire in a fireplace, and that’s when you realize you are on an actual bed after weeks of traversing the wild wood. Slowly, you start to sit up, the blanket and animal fur that was covering you falls in a heap in your lap. You try to get your bearings when you look down and catch something.

This is not your shirt.

Instead of your normal traveling clothes and leather armor, you are dressed in a dark gray fabric shirt, the V semi-open with the strings loose. And no bottoms aside from your undergarments. You can feel bandages tied around your torso and hindering any real further movement, and before you can do anything else, the large wooden door on the other side of the room opens and Geralt walks in, catching eyes with you and your awakened state. For a brief second, you think your eyes are playing tricks on you as you see Geralt’s body untense in what could resemble relief before returning back to his normal self.

“You’re awake,” Geralt said, closing the door behind him and walking over to your bedside. He grabbed a chair that was against the wall and placed it near your side, sitting down before looking back at you, “that’s good.”

“Where are we?” You asked, looking around the room more and trying to place if you knew it.

“Temeria.”

“King Foltest let you back? I thought he ordered you never to return to Temeria.”

“This was extenuating circumstances. I needed the help of Triss, his sorceress, to help heal you.” Geralt explained. “Once you are able to travel, we have to leave.”

You looked down at your hands, now still and not shaking like before, before looking back at Geralt. “What exactly happened to me?”

“The wyvern cut you on your side with the end of its tail, where they keep their poison. After I killed the creature, then tried to help you as best I could. You lost consciousness soon after so I got you up on Roach and traveled to Triss’s workplace in the castle. She was able to use her magic and some potion she made to help the poison leave your body.” Geralt said, his eyes lowering down to his lap partway through his story, something not quite right with how he told it.

Before you could ask about it, Geralt looked back at you, his body tensing up more than usual. He gets up and moves the chair back against the wall, avoiding your eyes. “I will tell Triss that you woke up. She said she would need to examine you to make sure their was no side affects from the poison.” He started walking towards the door when you spoke up again.

“Geralt-”

He stopped at the door, hand on the handle, before opening it and leaving you alone once again. Shortly after, a dark skinned woman with bushy brown hair in a bright red dress came into the room with a tray of bottles and a bowl in her hands. You assumed that this was the sorceress, Triss. “Ah, you are awake. Fantastic.” She said, settling her tray on the bedside table and grabbing the chair Geralt had used to sit by your bedside.

“Yes, I just woke up a little while ago.” You explained. The woman smiled at you as she put her hand on your forehead before coming back glowing slightly, looking down at it like it was a piece of parchment. 

“How’s you’re eyesight? Having any trouble stringing together words?”

“No, should I?” You asked, worried now that there could be something more wrong that you can’t feel.

“Well, with what Geralt did, plus the poison from the wyvern, I was worried about brain damage.” Triss explained, quickly examining your wound sight before turning to her tray.

You’re eyes followed Triss as she started measuring different liquids from the vials and pouring them into the bowl, seeming to mix something together for you, “What do you mean ‘with what Geralt did’? What did he do?”

Triss looked up from her tray to cast a confusing look at you, “He didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“Geralt told me he used one of his witcher potions on you to subdue the poison long enough to travel here and ask for my help.”

You were shocked, Geralt used one of his potions on you? Whenever you had asked about them in the past, he would avoid talking about them and either switch subjects or ignore your question all together. Triss caught the surprised look on your face and smiled before turning back to her tray.

“He told me that humans are not supposed to be have any potions made for a witcher, that it can sometimes lead to liver or even brain damage. I have never seen him so upfront about his concern for another person, he would stay by your side for long intervals during your stupefied state.” Triss explained. 

“How long was I unconscious?” You asked.

“Almost a week,” You quickly turned more in Triss’s direction, hissing when you pulled on your stitches. “Be careful, don’t ruin my work.”

Triss lowered herself to the side of your bed and handed you the bowl of ingredients she had been fiddling with this whole time, different shades of green mixed together to almost resemble a lush forest. You quickly drank the concoction and handed the bowl back to the sorceress, a bitter taste of earth in your mouth. After, the two of you sat in silence as Triss unraveled your dressings to check your wound. She worked quickly, putting some honey on the wound before rewrapping it in new gauze. As she was preparing to leave, she turned back to you and made sure you kept eye contact as she spoke.

“You have gained the trust and affections of a witcher, very few if not any can say that. I hope you keep that blessing for as long as you can, for if you loose it it will be lost forever.” And with that, she left the room. 

Your mind drifted as her words sunk in, of course you were always thankful that Geralt hadn’t dropped you off at some village or demanded you stop traveling together. And you thought that there was some relationship between you, like warriors or combatants working together. But trust? Affection? There was always rumors that witchers were incapable of emotions, but you never put too much worth into it, but saw how guarded the man was. So when you realized you had feelings for Geralt of Rivia, you did not fall into it like you would have if you were younger and more carefree. No, you pushed down any romantic notions of Geralt and continued on as is, even when he would leave you to have sexual exploits with a lady of the night. 

You were so deep in thought that you didn’t hear the door open and shut until footsteps got closer to your bed. You looked up to see Geralt back in your room, standing above you and watching you closely, like he was trying to read your thoughts. “You’re back.”

“Triss said that in a few days you should be well to travel again.”

“That’s good.”

It was quiet as Geralt grabbed that chair from the wall again and sat at your bedside. Your thoughts were still running mad, so when you opened your mouth, you were surprised with what actually came out.

“Triss said you used a witcher potion on me.”

Geralt tensed up, more that usual, and then let out a breath. “I did.”

“Why? If you knew that it was harmful to humans, why risk it?” You asked, trying to get Geralt to look at you, but he kept his gaze on his boots while clenching his fists. He started mumbling something, his voice so low and gravely that you had trouble hearing what exactly he said, “Geralt?”

“It was the only chance you had to possibly survive.” He said, louder than before as hey eyes finally found their way to yours. The pools of molten gold burned into your very soul as you finally saw emotion through his strong exterior. It looks like he is in pain. “I knew that it could lead to severe consequences for you, but you were dying right in front of me, the poison was working fast through your body and I knew that if I left on Roach at that very moment doing nothing, you would have died in my arms.”

“Geralt.”

“Believe me, I was blaming myself throughout the whole ordeal, even now that you have woken up.” 

You scooted closer to the end of your bed, trying to get closer to Geralt, “ Triss said you seemed very worried.”

“What? Are you surprised that I, a witcher, can actually feel?” He asked, his body language telling you that it getting more uncomfortable to talk about this.

“No, I know you Geralt.” His eyes widened at that, “You seem to just hide your emotions better than the rest of us. It must be tiresome to hear that from people you don’t even know.”

At this, he slowly unclenched his fists, his shoulders releasing tension, and reached out to the hands that were resting on your lap. They felt rough and calloused after decades of fighting monsters, but also like a tunic you have worn too often that it has gone soft. “I am glad that you are okay, Y/N.”

You smile, and sandwiched his hand between yours and give a reassuring squeeze, “Thank you for making sure I was okay, Geralt.” 

After a few more seconds, your hands clasped around his, you brought up another question you had had earlier, “Geralt, which potion did you use for me?”

Geralt looked amused at you before looking back at your hands, “A healing potion, named the Golden Oriole.”

“After the bird?”

“Yes, there were many that would come around Kaer Morhen during the warmer seasons.” He explained. You smiled and slowly started rubbing your thumb over the top of Geralt’s hand.

“I would love to see one one day. They sound beautiful.”

For the first time in a year since you met Geralt, he smiled the warmest smile you have ever seen. You could almost feel it like it was the sun on a spring day.

“Then I will take you to see them. One day.”

TAGS: @l4life​ @ithoughtiwasflying​

[marveldc-imagines-hub]

Subtitles: Episode 8, Previously On

Subtitles Masterlist

Summary: As they seek out Vision a Westview that doesn’t seem to want them to find him, more memories from [Y/N]’s past begin to appear. They almost seem drawn out of the dark depths of their mind by some unseen force but it’s hard to tell whether it’s friend or foe. Who is forcing [Y/N]’s memories to the forefront of their mind--Wanda or someone else?--and is it tied to the suddenly hostile Westview blocking them from finding Vision? Who is trying to keep them distracted?

Word count: 6,584

Warnings: Cursing, descriptions of death and declining mental health. Mostly angst, tbh.

Tag list: @madamevirgo @ravennight41 @multifandomgirl16 @cyanide-mustard @badasspolygenderfriend @austynparksandpizza @sophster1881 @haileyybird​ @maceidelic​ @alexpress @angelvinella

Ko-Fi Shoppe

~~~

You were too busy trying to calm the anxious gnawing in your stomach to notice Westview subtly changing around you. It wasn’t until a vine wrapped tightly around your ankle and made you almost trip and fall face-first into a fire hydrant that you looked around with a frown.

    The vine itself—thick, spiky, and definitely not native to the suburbs of New Jersey—had sprouted from cracks in the sidewalk, which spread and opened further as other vines crept after it. After tearing the one holding you off and stepping out of its reach, you noticed the fences of houses reaching far past their yards to create maze-like paths that covered the sidewalks and street ahead of you. The houses that these fences belonged to were also warped in a way that made them look like you were viewing them through funhouse mirrors, stretching far into the sky and bending overhead in your direction like they meant to block you from leaving in that direction—or meant to block you from being seen by anyone flying overhead.

    Your eyebrows arched so far up on your forehead that you weren’t sure that they were still there. “What the fuck is going on?”

    You weren’t as concerned about the magic happening itself—if some random civilian walked by, they’d barely react at all and the maze and houses weren’t causing any actual damage, just being incredibly annoying—as you were by the fact that you couldn’t tell who was doing it. Your first thought was Wanda, naturally, but it made no sense that she’d be trying to keep you from finding Vision when she was the one who’d originally sent you to go get him; not to mention that she’s never created such a bizarre display of magic, at least intentionally. You considered yourself next, as you’ve known yourself to cause random transmutations when you get too antsy, but this wasn’t the type of power that you controlled and when you tried to reach out to interact with the energy, you received opposition instead of energy bending to your will. It was somewhat difficult to pick out because it seemed to hide away under the blanket of Wanda’s magic that reached across everything in Westview, but the aura of the twisted architecture surrounding you was dark and hostile.

    You first attempted to humor whatever magic was at play and made your way through the maze but as you did so, the fences shifted around you to extend their white picket prison. You stopped and sighed. “The end is nigh… and I am not going to spend it dealing with this shit.”

    A little voice in the back of your head told you that you could probably set fire to the whole magic mirror setup and be done with it but you ultimately decided against it; Wanda would probably find out and definitely wouldn’t be happy when she did. Instead, you placed your hands on the fence and as you did so, posts morphed into gates that you could easily pass through. You continued through the maze via this method and were surprised to feel the opposing magic back away from you after your pushback.

    “Oh, thank god,” you grumbled under your breath as you made it through the last of the maze. 

Unfortunately, you celebrated too early as the cement underneath your feet suddenly began to melt back into its liquid form. It would have been fairly easy to use your powers to reharden the cement but exhausting yourself fighting with the opposing force until the sidewalks of Westview shifted into grassy fields on its outskirts seemed like a bad idea in the long run, especially with the twins’ disappearance, Wanda dealing with Agnes’s strange behavior, Monica’s return, and the warning churn of your stomach telling you to stay alert. So, you settled for trudging along through wet cement until the magic decided to back off again.

Not so much trying to cause damage as it’s trying to mildly inconvenience me, is it? you thought.

Just as before, once the magic trying to keep you distracted was rivaled by your own, it receded and you were soon walking on the regular, hard sidewalk once more. You cleaned your pants and shoes up by turning the wet cement still clinging to them into something much more manageable—water—and continued on your way. Sorting through the mix of concern, nips of mild hunger, and the energy-seeking compass in the center of your now twisting in every which direction, you managed to eventually focus back into the feeling of Vision somewhere in the distance. It got stronger as you walked, so you began to pick up the pace.

Then your unseen opponent returned, stronger and now in the mental realm instead of the physical. At first, you thought the kickback was just Westview’s borders—the Hex, Monica had called it—trying to right the wrongs of someone within it having memories of the outside world, something you’d experienced before. However, you felt the menace rippling underneath the surface of the haze and when you tried to fight back this time, you were met with an angry strength. The fog making your head feel heavy seemed to spread through your bloodstream and take home in your bones, weighing your body down until you stood still and lame in the middle of a random neighborhood. You were a prisoner in your own body; you couldn’t move even if you wanted to, but you didn’t even know if you did because your brain was so full of dark storm clouds that you couldn’t think straight. You knew that you stared slack-jawed into space but it felt more like you were sitting in a dark room inside your skull and watching the outside world from a TV screen. As you watched on, the fog that took over your mind and body took your eyesight too.

===

===

===

The first few memories were fleeting. 

You were a few years old and holding your mother’s hand. It was much less boney and knotted than you remembered your mother’s hand being, as was the rest of her. She was younger and stronger, standing next to you in a worn nurse uniform and overcoat and staring ahead with a scowl, concealing whatever emotions she was feeling otherwise. You were in a bedroom that was only vaguely familiar to you and the two of you watched an old man that was barely more than a skeleton slept under a heap of fraying blankets. As you stared on through the wide eyes of your child self, your grandfather heaved a final breath before falling into a deep, eternal slumber.

A couple of years older, you were in the old but cozy, sunny yellow kitchen that your mom love to cook in. You sat at the dining room table, kicking your legs and picking at the splitting wood as your mother and a stranger argued in the other room. You had never heard your mother raise her voice to such an extent before but at the time, you were much more concerned about what kind of sandwich you were going to help her make for lunch. You never saw the stranger aside from a flash of [H/C] as he left and he was never seen or heard of again.

You were still in the kitchen but its appearance had changed ever so slightly. Yours did too, as you were a teenager now, and now your mother sat across from you at the table. Though she was still healthy now, her overall haggard appearance would be one that she carried on for years to come. She was telling you about her doctor’s appointment but you were only somewhat listening as you were stressed about high school drama and final assignments to be turned in before summer break. You heard words like “dementia” and “Alzheimer’s” but the meanings were lost on you in that moment.

Then you were in a nursing home. You could feel the harsh lighting, hear the TV from the lounge behind you. The smell of cleaning supplies burned your nostrils but the smell of your mother’s stale perfume soothed it. Unfortunately, nothing could soothe the ache that made your heart feel like it was going to shrivel up and die when you came to tell her that you changed your major in college so you would be better equipped to help her, only for her unable to recall having a child at all.

You were pinned against a wall in a Sokovian HYDRA base, although you didn’t know the organization that you were studying with was HYDRA at the time. Shivers of equal parts fear and exhilaration made your entire body quiver and the clipboard you’d been holding clattered to the ground. While a large group of Sokovian war protestors had to hunch together to fit in the cramped and cold holding room, Wanda seemed to take up the majority of the space just from her spot of holding you into place. Her hair was a mess and her face and clothes were dirty but her eyes were full of more life than you’d experienced during your entire time working in the base. She was angry and determined and powerful and gorgeous, and she told you that if you ever ran into her again that she’d kill you—and you were surprised with how okay you were about the idea, as long as you got to see her again. When she let you go and you apologized, she told you what she and the others were doing here; this was the catalyst that sent you investigating into HYDRA and finding out about their much more sinister nature, as well as the pain you’d helped cause.

Finally, the slide show of memories slowed and instead of being confined to your brain, you were back in your own body—or so you thought until you looked around and found yourself staring at a younger copy of yourself. Instead of Westview, you were in a HYDRA testing room, and instead of simply re-experiencing, you were quite literally watching a memory unfold around you as if you were an unwanted audience member standing around the active set of a TV show. Or a ghost, you decided, as the younger you walked through you as if you were nothing but air.

Your younger self was dressed in an all-black work uniform and lab attire, with an identification card clipped to your chest that granted you high-level clearance. You’d worked immensely hard playing HYDRA’s game to get to where you were now, which was standing in the control room with two other agents and preparing to analyze the test about to unfold on the other side of a large glass window. In the test chamber, a door slowly slid open and Wanda, unkempt and spacey, entered.

You wanted to break her out. Judging by the way your younger self tensed up—not enough to be noticed by your superiors; you’d mastered your mother’s emotional lockdown of a scowl at this point—your feelings weren’t far off from the initial experience. 

Wanda made her way farther into the room, closer to a scepter with a glowing blue stone that was being held on a pedestal. As she did so, the younger you readied their clipboard and pen to take notes and one of the two agents spoke, “For our notes, Miss Maximoff, can you please state your name and confirm your status?”

The younger copy of your current partner did as she was told. “Wanda Maximoff. Volunteer.”

“Begin experimentation,” the other agent—a doctor and one of your immediate superiors—stated.

“Doctor,” the first man said, “with respect, not one subject has survived direct contac—”

He was broken off as the doctor flicked on the intercom to speak to Wanda again. “Touch the sample.”

Wanda made her way forward but before she could do much, the stone suspended in the scepter—the mind stone, you knew now—detached itself and floated towards her. As it got closer, its glow grew brighter and bright blue magic wafted over Wanda as she stared before reaching out to touch it. While you remembered this situation thus far, what happened next was completely new to you. The mind stone shattered before Wanda’s eyes, revealing yellow golden yellow magic that poured from the remains. There was an explosion of light and within it was a flash of a shadow. From where you were standing, you couldn’t quite make out the shape.

Then the light died and Wanda collapsed, and the rest of the memory ran as you remembered. The scientist and doctor ran out to check that Wanda was still alive, while your younger self recollected themselves enough to take pictures of notes and research reports from the control desk with an old school digital camera that they’d managed to sneak in.

“Well,” a familiar, incredibly out-of-place voice sounded from behind you, “that’s a surprise. I had no idea you and [Y/N] went so far back.”

You spun around to see Agnes and a modern Wanda standing just behind you. Agnes watched your echo with mild curiosity as they carefully rifled through the control desk and gathered as much information as they could to examine at a later time. The dark energy that radiated off the woman was the same that you’d sensed earlier, hiding just underneath Wanda’s own. Being this close to the unhidden source now, the magic felt sharp and acidic and tasted like bile on the back of your tongue. The anxiety that had been gnawing at your stomach increased tenfold as your guts twisted around themselves. It had been Agnes all along.

Past you finished their investigation as they were called in to take Wanda to solitary by one of the other HYDRA agents. When they rushed out of the control room, they passed through Wanda and Agnes, confirming that the women were in a similar state of being to you.

Surprisingly, Agnes was completely unaware of current you’s presence. She walked casually over to the desk and attempted to make sense of younger you’s rummaging before making a face and shrugging.

Wanda, on the other hand, was staring directly at you. To anyone else, it could be said that she was simply looking through you who the commotion happening in the test chamber, but when you met her gaze, the slightest of jaw clenches told you otherwise. While it was Agnes—Not Agnes, a ghost of a whisper in sounded in your head—whose magic had been toying with you, it seemed that it was Wanda’s doing, at least to some extent, that brought you to watch this scene with them. 

“You know,” the ravenette said, “I really did like them for a while. They were fun to string along for entertainment, and they were a hoot at events and to run errands with. Such an awkward little thing. I could see their crush from a mile away whenever you three were around each other. I just thought they’d be the out-of-place, pining neighbor whose love was unrequited, a comedic plot device of sorts. I didn’t think you would actually return their feelings, let alone both you and your husband, you naughty dogs. I should have known sooner that something was up.”

You and me both, sister, you thought with a soundless snort.

“Oh well,” Agnes—question mark?—said with another shrug, “our friendship was fun while it lasted. Let me know if you ever get bored with them. We did often flirt a bit, [Y/N] and I.”

“What do they have to do with any of this?” Wanda asked, throwing a mild glower in the other woman’s direction.

“Why don’t you tell me?” Agnes responded with a sickly sweet smile, then walked past Wanda and out of the testing room. “Come along, dear! We’ve got much more digging to do.”

Wanda glanced at you one last time before following. After a moment, you trailed after them.

===

===

===

Past Wanda was sitting and watching sitcoms via the one amenity she had the dungeon-like room she was held in when your past self walked in.

“Wanda,” past you gasped and moved to rush to her side before freezing and throwing a glance towards a security camera in one corner of the room. The faintest blue-black light danced appeared to dance around your echo’s fingers as the lens of the camera warped and changed into a round silver disc, then the light disappeared and you watched yourself hurry to younger Wanda’s side. 

She didn’t acknowledge you until you placed a gentle hand on her back. She jumped a bit and turned her glassy-eyed, hollow-cheeked face towards you; in the same instant, the TV turned off. 

Past Wanda offered past you a wobbly smile that you returned. You reached into your pocket and pulled out a candy wrapped in colored foil that looked neon in comparison to the dull coloring of the rest of the environment.

“Hey, look, Wanda,” you tried, offering the candy to her, “I brought you something. Remember these? You told me once that they’re your favorite.”

Wanda stared blankly at your gift. After a moment, she took it and began picking at the foil.

Past you gave past Wanda another strained smile. Your furrowed brows caused deep lines to be etched into your forehead, showing no lack of concern, but you tried to stay positive. Gingerly running your hand up and down Wanda’s back, you carefully looked over as she freed the chocolate-covered candy from its wrapper. “You look good. You’re doing much better than you were when we brought you back.”

Wanda’s eyes lazily traced the pattern of the room’s stone walls as she brought her treat to her lips and carefully nibbled at it. When she found it free of tampering, she relaxed a bit and popped it into her mouth.

You watched as your past self rested their chin on her shoulder and squeezed her eyes shut. “I’m going to get you out of here, Wanda. I promise that I’m going to save you. I just… wish you’d let me help you more.”

Well, young me, you thought, you certainly broke that promise, then went off and murdered a bunch of people. Nice job.

Wanda’s past self finally fully acknowledged yours; she rested her head on top of yours and her thin fingers brushed brushed over the knuckles of one of your hands. She shook her head and mumbled, “I have to do this. For my people.”

Your echo sighed. The two of you sat like that together for a few moments longer before you separated yourself from her and headed out of the room. As you walked out of the room, the silver that blocked the security camera transformed back into a lens. Wanda looked back to the TV and blinked, and the television turned back on.

“Huh,” Agnes piped up to Wanda again, “they were just as piney here as they are in Westview then. Weird. I thought they had a reputation as a crazy psycho killer outside? Hoo boy, did you see any of the work that they did after Sokovia? I looked into it when I figured out that they weren’t just another ordinary townee. The Alchemist? Wished I’d managed to keep them on my side; I’d love to sit down and talk about all the ways they tore up those agents.”

You grimaced. You never regretted going on a HYDRA manhunt but it wasn’t exactly one of your most redeeming qualities.

Wanda frowned. “Trying to cope with all they had done while working with HYDRA was too much and they had to do it alone. I told [Y/N] I would return but then I never did. They thought it was their only solution.”

You were surprised to hear her empathize with you, let alone know about your revenge spree at all. You hadn’t realized how much it felt like a secret that you had been keeping from her until a weight was lifted off your shoulders when she talked about it.

“Still,” Agnes said nonchalantly, “turning an alive former HYDRA agent into a very much not alive scarecrow and leaving posting him up in his own field? Genius and I love the creativity. And the way they turned the guy who shot them into a bloody bag of bones? Delicious.

“But anyway,” she went on, the glee in her voice shifting to something more pensive, “little orphan Wanda got up close and personal with an Infinity Stone that amplified what otherwise would’ve died on the vine. The broken pieces of you are adding up, buttercup. I have a theory, but I need more.”

With a wave of her hand, a dark wood door appeared in the room’s far wall. Wanda’s eyes widened slightly with recognition and she immediately walked forward and through it. Agnes trailed cheerfully after her.

You made a move to follow them but you didn’t make it before Agnes shut the door behind her. You jiggled the doorknob but the door wouldn’t budge, and then it melted back into the wall and vanished altogether. While you were relieved to be away from Agnes’s acrid magic, panic rose in the back of your throat at the idea of Wanda being alone with Agnes and you being trapped in a bizarre memory realm with no idea of how to get out. You ran your hands along the wall in hopes of finding the door’s outline once more, to no avail. You spun around to search for another route—

—and you were suddenly standing on a street in Westview. 

This wasn’t Westview as you currently knew it but Westview before Wanda had turned it into her special little safe haven. Instead of watching this memory like a movie, you were now involuntarily reliving it as a prisoner of your head again as your body and mouth move on its own accord.

You were paused mid-walk across the street and staring at a breathtakingly gleeful Vision for the very first time. He was standing out in the open without a human disguise of any kind, wearing a very attractive form-fitting turtleneck and looking over an empty plot of land. He must have felt you staring because he turned his warm, earth-shaking gaze towards you.

“Hello there!” he hollered with a friendly wave and a smile that made you wonder if one look from a stranger could make you weep over how attractive they were. He stepped from the dirt plot to the sidewalk, then made his way to the curb. He held a slightly crumpled piece of paper in one hand and you could see a red heart in its center out of the corner of your eye.

For whatever reason—maybe because of the fact that there was a very inhuman-looking man, who was causing your body to have all sorts of reactions, walking towards you—you felt compelled to walk over and meet him. 

“Excuse me,” Vision said as you got closer and pointed to the lot behind him, “I’m looking to buy this spot here. Do you live around here?”

Temporarily, while I try to look for a cure for my dumb-bitch memory disease, you thought. Instead of saying this aloud, though, you said something much more stupid. “Are you aware that you’re red?”

Vision blinked. He looked at his hands if he was in fact just now realizing this, then looked back at you with wide eyes. One hand moved to touch the golden gem embedded in his forehead, which you now connected to the mind stone on the previous memory that you had experienced—Wanda’s memory. 

“Oh, goodness,” Vision said, “yes I am. I’m sorry, I hope my appearance doesn’t make you uncomfortable. If it does, I could make a more appealing one—”

You felt yourself break into a grin and one of your hands waved itself dismissively at him. “Not sure there’s a way to make yourself any more appealing than you already are. It’s just unusual is all.”

Vision chewed on one side of his bottom lip before smiling sheepishly at you. If only you’d been able to tell when this interaction had actually happened that he was “blushing” in the only way his synzethoid body allowed over you complimenting him; you would have had a field day with making him flustered.

Then his eyes drifted slightly above your eyeline and the hand touching his forehead gem fluttered slightly to the right—his left. Without thinking of how it might come off, he said, “You’re unusual-looking yourself.”

Luckily, you weren’t too easily offended. You briefly touched the gunshot scar on your forehead with one hand, the exit wound scar on your neck with the other, before dropping them both and shrugging. “Got shot in the head once. Operation gone wrong.”

“A soldier?” 

Unfortunately, the version of you in this memory was already struggling to recall memories. Instead of telling the pretty stranger that, though, you said, “Something like that.”

Vision nodded and awkwardly fiddled with the paper in his hands. His gaze flitted around before settling on you again, “Well, I think you’re appealing too.”

You felt your cheeks grow warm but you hid your embarrassment with a snicker. “Thanks.”

The man cleared his throat. “Yes, well, that’s good then, isn’t it? That we both like each other’s looks just fine. Not�� that I want you to find my visuals appealing. Not— not that that’s a bad thing to be doing so either! It’s just that—” he paused to collect himself. “I have a partner. A girlfriend of sorts.”

“Of sorts?”

“It hasn’t really been discussed,” he clarified, “but we are deep in the throughs of our relationship.”

“Congrats? Also yeah.”

Vision blinked. “I’m sorry?”

You pointed over your shoulder. “I live around here. In a hotel more often than a home but I’m considering getting a rental a couple houses over.”

Because if I don’t find who I’m looking for—a doctor? Scientist maybe?—I’ll be stuck here until I remember where I came from.

    You were brought out of your grumbling thoughts by the childish excitement that erupted from Vision’s shining smile and spread throughout his body until he was practically vibrating. He quickly scrambled the rest of the way over and flashed the paper he held at you, then almost immediately folded it up before you could actually see anything other than a flash of red on white. He told you how wonderful it was to be meeting someone from the neighborhood and before you open your mouth to say anything in response, a billion questions seemed to pour one after the other from his mouth. You caught a few—did you know why the plot he was looking at was open, if there was a nefarious reason behind it lacking any home already? Was the neighboorhood safe, did you like it there?—but you soon found yourself distracted by the way the gear-like patterns in his blue irises swirled faster as Vision became increasingly giddy.

    Then one word came flying out of his rambling mouth and you felt like you had been hit in the gut with a sack of bricks. You actually had to stop yourself from choking on a gasping breath and steel yourself in preparation in case he said her name again. Luckily, Vision seemed too deep in his his own thoughts that he didn’t notice you blanching from the kickback of yours.

    Wanda? It couldn’t be. It wasn’t like there weren’t any other Wandas in the world. Then again, you’d never met another Wanda since your Wanda and there was something about her name coming from his mouth that assured you that his Wanda was yours too.

    Is that why you had come to Westview? Was Wanda the one you were looking for?

    You placed a hand on Vision’s shoulder, both as a way of grounding yourself and grabbing the man’s attention. It worked and Vision’s bumbling died off as he looked at you with wide eyes.

    “I’m so sorry,” he said, and lifted his free hand to scratch at the side of his neck, “I got quite carried away there, didn’t I?”

    This past version of you wanted so desperately ask about the Wanda he spoke of, to confirm that she was the Wanda that you’d known in what seemed to be a past life at this point. You wanted to know if she was safe, happy, and if he was taking care of her in the way that she so needed after everything she had been through. When you looked at Vision, though, and the plot plans in his hand and the place of his and her future home, you bit your tongue. Something told you that it wasn’t your time to ask nor was it your right to do so. It had been so long since you’d tried to help the Sokovian woman escape a dingy HYDRA base and failed, and wherever she was now, she was probably better off without you intruding.

    You put on a mask of a friendly smile to hide the way your heart was being picked to pieces by a thousand imaginary needles and gave Vision’s shoulder an equally friendly pat. “No worries. I do have to stop you, though, have an appointment to get to. I’m really not the person to ask about future home life—like I said, usually a hotel—but if I have anything to tell you, it’s that this is a good place to settle.”

    Vision beamed. “Really?”

    You dropped your arm and stepped away from the robotic stranger to take your leave. “This place is easy to turn into a home. You’ll love it here.”

    Vision heaved a sigh a relief and he waved to you and you gave a parting nod and began walking. “Thank you! Oh, and it was nice meeting you, neighbor! Hope to see you again soon!”

    Something deep in your heart told you that you wouldn’t be seeing the British gentleman again, or maybe you were finally coming to terms with the fact that your brain would drop yoru memory of him before the day was over. You cast one last glance over your shoulder, trying to commit every detail of Vision to memory the best that you could, before heading back across the street.

    “Looking forward to it!”

===

===

===

    One minute you were walking and the next you couldn’t feel any part of your body that was below your waistline. The scene had shifted again and you now found yourself staring spacily off ahead. You were outside and you felt the familiar presence of a large facility behind you but you couldn’t place what the building was for or why you were there. In fact, try as you might, you couldn’t place much meaning to anything. Your brain was blank aside from several questions that you had no answers to.

    Why were you in a wheelchair? What had happened to your legs? Why were you outside? Why were there old people and people in scrub uniforms milling around you and talking to you in passing as if you had any idea who they were? Where was your mom? You had classes to attend and needed a ride.

    You took a sighing breath and felt a tanginess of citrus on your tongue that sent shockwaves throughout your body—or what left of it that you could feel. Your eyes shot open wide and you swung your head around, looking for the source of the taste of candied citrus, the feeling of thin fingers carefully brushing across your knuckles. There was a memory there, clawing just under the surface of thought-killing fungus that seemed to have taken over your head over… however long it had been now. You just had to remember—

    Before you could could remember, you saw her appear before your very eyes. She was walking down the street past you with only a green yard and strip of sidewalk separating the two of you. She wore a dark outfit and her hair cascaded behind her in the breeze, fluttering like flames. You couldn’t see her face well because of the distance you could feel the deep, powerful sadness radiating off her in waves; it was almost strong enough to force you into tears. Still, she walked with purpose and she held a piece of paper in her hand that she glanced at every other second. She happened to turn her head to toss a stray chunk of her back over her shoulder and for a brief moment you thought that her dark eyes met yours.

    You screamed her name and attempted to chase after her. However, in that moment, you forgot that you were paralyzed from the waist down and stuck in a wheelchair, so when you lurched forward to stand, you were quickly greeted by hard earth knocking the wind out of you. You hissed in pain but the impact didn’t stop you, nor did your lack of working legs. You shoved the wheelchair away in a fit of irritation, then began crawling your way across the public yard, following a trail of a very specific shade of red as you dragged your body along.

    You didn’t make it very far before you felt strong hands grasp your shoulders. You flailed around, prepared to fight whoever was trying to disrupt your mission, only for you stop struggling altogether when a flash of reddish hair appeared in the corner of your vision. You looked up at and stared at the only face that held solidity in your mind with eyes the size of dinner plates as she knelt next to you and helped you into a decent sitting position. Once you were settled, her hands moved from your arms to cradling your face and when you could see the heartbreak in her eyes this time, you actually did feel a few tears wet your cheeks.

    Your eyes fluttered shut as her gentle hands caressed your face, brushed away the tears that were now flowing like a waterfall. Your own hands found their way to her waist and you held on for dear life. With a wobbly voice that was barely above a whisper, you gasped her name again, “Wanda…”

    You felt the warm touch of her forehead pressing against yours, her nose ungracefully bumping against your cheek as she held you. “[Y/N]?”

    Hearing your name on her tongue sent you into a fit of sobbing laughter, though you weren’t sure why. Goosebumps erupted across your skin and you felt the stuttering of a billion bird’s wings in your stomach, pounding against your ribcage. You had so many things you wanted to say and yet you could remember a single word, so you merely fell into a bumbling chant of “My Wanda, my Wanda, my Wanda, my Wanda…” Your eyes stayed squeezed shut for fear that if you opened them, she would no longer be there. 

    Wanda’s lips brushed against your eyelids and then your cheeks, not quite leaving kisses but a warm, tingly feeling nonetheless. A smile was there, you could feel the curve of it as her mouth traveled from your temple to your hairline, but it was one of the same sadness that you’d seen in her eyes. She mumbled against your scarred forehead, “Oh, [Y/N], what happened to you…?”

    You finally opened your eyes—luckily, she didn’t vanish into thin air once you did—and finally met her gaze again. You moved your hands to cover hers that still held your face and pressed them harder against your cheeks, as if you could imprint her fingerprints into your skin.

    After a moment of just silently basking in her presence, you sighed softly and replied, “I don’t know.”

    Pain further etched itself into the lines of Wanda’s face; you quickly reached out to smooth them out with your fingertips.

    “You don’t remember anything?”

    “Not much,” you replied. Then you smiled. “I know you. All I know for sure is you.”

    Wanda looked like she was on the verge of bursting into tears herself but she swallowed her sobs instead. She adjusted her position and sat back slightly, scrubbed her hands over her eyes and looked around at your surroundings. She glanced at the paper she’d once been holding but now sat in the grass next to her before her gaze settled back on you. Sadness shifted into determination as she took your face her hands once more.

    “I’m going to get you out of here, [Y/N],” she said, “I promise I’m going to save you.”

    You went to nod but the sound of something flying overhead caught your attention, then a flash of yellow light over Wanda’s shoulder.

    A powerful jerk in your stomach seemed to control your entire body, forcing your head and body upward. Then you were standing on the sidewalk on the outskirts of a neighborhood with a maze of twisted houses and picket fences behind you. You were no longer trapped inside your own head, watching or reliving memories, but standing mid-step in the Westview that was bubbled by a Hex of modern Wanda’s own creation.

    Vision was flying through the air nearby and approaching fast.

    Your powers seemed to move one step ahead of your mind; before you finished the thought, one of the fun mirror houses was turned into a staircase that led to nowhere in the sky. As you turned and began racing up them, you waved your arms in Vision’s direction and hollered, “Hey! Toaster oven!”

    Vision was clearly on a mission home but you managed to catch his attention before he flew too far past you. He rounded back around and met you at the top of your stairs. He quickly surveyed your immediate surroundings, taking in the bizarre scenery before casting a concerned look your way. “What in the world is going on here?”

    “Uh, well,” you paused and took a glance around yourself, then rambled off, “I just spent a nondescript amount of time trapped in a mental live-action remake of my past and I’m pretty sure Agnes is not Agnes but some unpleasant, magic-y person who kidnapped our kids and now is trying to get… something, I’m not sure what, from Wanda. Also, I think she might have a crush on me and I’m pretty sure she caused the carnival set-up next to us.”

    Vision blinked. “Well, that’s… a lot.”

    You hummed your agreement and nodded. Then you held out your arms to him. “Shall we?”

    Vision eyed you from your place on a freshly mutated staircase then snorted softly as he gathered you into his arms, bridal style. “Surely there must be a way for you to travel with those powers of yours.”

    “There is,” you affirmed, “but this is probably faster and I should probably keep my strength to save our kids and your wife. Oh, by the way.”

    Vision gave you a questioning him as he prepared for flight. You wrapped your hands around his neck and brought your lips to his in an quick kiss. When you pulled away, you met his curious gaze and said, “I’m so happy to have met you.”

    Vision’s expression grew warmer and returned your kiss with a softer one of his own. He briefly nuzzled his forehead against yours before pulling away.

    “I’m glad to have met you too,” he said softly. Then he shifted his gaze to look past you, towards home, and he said, “Now, let’s go get our family.”

[flames-bring-a-ton-of-ash]

Suit Up

Summary: Tony wearing the suit just really does it for ya...and he’s noticed.

Characters: Tony Stark x female reader

Words: 3,154

Author’s Note: Yea, that’s right, I fell down the Marvel hole. I tried to avoid it as long as I could, but in the end, I had to admit defeat.

Warnings: explicit smut, explicit language, uh...is suit porn a warning?

The coffee machine gurgled as you stood at the mansion’s vast kitchen counter, eyes glued on the wall-mounted TV screen. The newscaster was debriefing viewers on Iron Man’s latest victory, how he had saved dozens from an armed-robbery hostage situation at one of the largest banks in the city. Everyone had gotten out safely, the bad guys were all in cuffs, and the news outlets had a breaking story to keep them busy for the day. Adoring fans took turns gushing into the journalist’s mic about the famed superhero, making the side of your lips quirk up a bit in pride. 

The moment was then ruined by a high-pitched whooshing sound overhead, signaling Tony’s return. You winced at the chaotic bang of him crashing through walls and falling down into the lab, followed by muffled yelling and cursing. 

“Every single time,” you muttered with a shake of your head, not even wanting to know what expensive piece of equipment he had probably just destroyed with his graceful landing.

Grabbing two mugs out of the cupboard, you took your time filling them with the freshly brewed coffee and adding the appropriate amounts of cream and sugar to each one. Taking a deep breath, you picked up the cups and reluctantly headed downstairs to assess the damage. 

Sure enough, the debris was still settling, clouds of freshly-startled dust particles floating through the air as you descended the steps. Tony was currently out of view, but you could hear the heavy metal footsteps of the suit as he strode around while barking orders to FRIDAY. 

You and Tony had been dating for a while now, and the past few months had found you spending more nights here with him, rather than at your own apartment. No one had been more shocked by the relationship than you, especially since your initial assessment of the older and richer man was that he was well-aware of, and confident in, his place in the world. A man who knew his own worth and...oh, to heck with sugar coating it. You had initially thought he was a prime asshole, with a capital A. 

It wasn’t until your social circles kept throwing you into each other’s paths that you started to learn about the man beyond the narcissistic exterior. Sure, he was eccentric and an arrogant jerk at times, but he was also attentive and caring when he wanted to be. Once he realized you weren’t sticking around for his money or to grace his bed for a night or two, he showcased a loving side of himself behind closed doors that the rest of the world wouldn’t guess existed. 

And the sex. Dear god, the sex! Your breath sped up a bit just thinking about last night’s escapades, at how he had edged you until you were a begging, writhing mess beneath him, before sending you over the cliff and making you come again and again...and again. 

He had quickly awakened a side of you that had previously lain dormant, making it his personal mission to discover all your secret fantasies and make them a glorious reality. Tony was a kinky motherfucker, and as it turned out, so were you. And yet, there was still one fantasy that you had hidden from him, one you tried to keep buried way down deep and struggled not to let show. 

At the bottom of the stairs, you passed through his extensive security measures and stepped into the gigantic lab, rounding a corner towards the sound of grumbling. Tony turned around at the sound of your approach, still fully encased in the suit. The coffee cups almost fell out of your hand when the aforementioned hidden fantasy locked glowing eyes on you from across the room. Legs now quivering, you continued into the lab and shakily set the mugs down onto a nearby workstation. 

Oh, had you forgotten to mention? Yea, the suit was your fantasy. 

More precisely, Tony in the suit was your fantasy. You weren’t sure when exactly this kink had started, but you had been strangely attracted to him wearing the Iron Man suit for a while now, and didn’t know how to make it go away. 

Part of the appeal was the psychological symbol of all it stood for: peace and safety for those who hadn’t previously known such luxuries. There was so much power in that symbol, not to mention the physical prowess Tony had while wearing it. The virtually-indestructible superhero strength alone was enough to make your panties wet. 

Then there was the design of the suit itself. Sleek, strong lines of metal that were shaped into the form of a man, yet also...it was just not human enough to make you shiver in a way that had utterly shocked you the first time it happened. The robotic mask with its stern-set mouth and glowing eyes sent a tingle of fear down your spine whenever they focused in your direction, but the fact that you knew it was Tony under there also gave that fear and intimidation an edge of desire. And it wasn’t just the aesthetic of the suit that attracted you, but how Tony acted when buried within its grasp. He strode with arrogant claim into whatever arena he wore it, the power and confidence he exuded plain for all to see. And whether from the suit itself or the result of the authority he claimed while wearing it, the glistening gold mask also projected a slightly deeper, grittier version of his typical voice, one that could have you flat on your back and begging within seconds.

That same voice was now speaking in your direction, causing sweat to form on the back of your neck...and was followed by the snap of metal fingers inches from your face, jolting you out of the daydream you had been slipping into. Shit! You realized that he had been trying to get your attention for God knows how long, while you stood there practically drooling on yourself while fantasizing about him. 

Real smooth, you have the ‘keep this fantasy to yourself’ routine down so well, you internally admonished. 

Clearing your throat and wiping sweaty palms down denim-clad hips, you asked, “I’m sorry, what did you say?” Trying to act unaffected, you gave Tony what was hopefully a calm smile.

“I asked if that was coffee,” he said, the suit staring at you so intensely that it almost made your brain go offline again. 

“Yep, sure is!” you responded with an unnecessary amount of exuberance, mentally kicking your ass all over the lab for acting like a fool. 

He stalked over to the workstation to pick up a mug, and you couldn’t prevent the loud inhale, body frozen to attention, as he strode closer until he was well within your personal space. The mask fell away long enough for him to lift the coffee cup and take a sip, and in that moment, he locked eyes onto you with a knowing gleam, before the mask closed back up and he returned the mug to the table.

He knew.

Needing to get out of there, to get far enough away to calm your racing heart and panting breaths, you turned and started speed walking towards the staircase. You barely made it two steps before an unyielding metal hand wrapped around your bicep and twirled you back into the suit’s massive form. Pushing your free hand against the sleek chest of alloy was futile, as Tony herded you backwards until your lower back bumped up against the workstation. 

Goosebumps broke out along your arms when he leaned down, that glowing gaze inches from your face. Unable to stand their intensity, you closed your own eyes tight, a whimper escaping parted lips when a thick metal thigh pushed between your legs, effectively pinning you in place. Then that voice came from right above you, offering the choice of ecstasy or escape.

“Do you want me to stop?”

The logical part of your brain screamed at you to say yes, to get the hell out of there before this went too far down a path from which you couldn’t retreat. But the other part...the one that had touched yourself to the fantasy of this very scenario more times than you cared to admit...that part was begging you to give in.

Suddenly, strong fingers gripped your chin and jerked it upwards, startling your eyes into flying open and locking onto that captivating gaze. 

“I asked a question, sweetheart. Now, use your words and give me an answer.”

Licking dry lips, you stared up at him in fascinated arousal and whispered, “No.”

Head tilting slightly to the side, the grip on your chin didn’t let up. “Sorry, I don’t think I heard you properly. Try again.” 

“N-no,” you said, voice louder but still shaky. “Don’t stop.”

As if that was all he needed to let loose, the hand at your chin fell down to join the other at your hips, fingers bunching into the hem of your shirt and jerking it up over your head. He didn’t even bother to unhook your bra, just used the suit’s strength to rip it right down the front and toss it to the side. You moaned at the sensation of your nipples pebbling into tight points against the smooth red and gold chest, his unyielding thigh still pressing up against the crotch of your jeans. 

You yelped in surprise when one of his large arms swept out behind you, knocking both the coffee cups and assorted bits of lab equipment off the workstation. You barely registered the sound of breaking glass, head spinning when he lifted you up on the edge of the flat surface as if you weighed less than a feather. Leaning back onto slightly unsteady hands, you watched as he flicked the button of your jeans open and jerked them down your thighs, followed quickly by your panties being torn off, leaving you naked before him.

There were so many unique sensations, coupled with the knowledge that one of your wettest fantasies was about to come true, that your body felt overloaded to the point where you were already squirming restlessly and on the verge of begging. He groaned at the sight, powerful fingers gliding down your waist and suddenly squeezing into your hip so tightly that you gasped at the pain. “Careful,” you whispered.

The fingers lessened, but only by a hair. “I wouldn’t hurt you, sweetheart. At least-” He cocked his head consideringly, “-not more than you’d enjoy.” 

At that, the cool metal fingers drifted down so that both hands grabbed your ass roughly, making you groan and jolt forward as he stepped fully between your thighs and pulled you in against him. The length of him towered above you, both overwhelming and arousing in its reminder of how helpless you were against him...of how much you wanted to be taken.

The fingers of one hand glided up the front of your stomach, their surface so smooth compared to Tony’s rough, work-calloused hands. They circled your breast lovingly for a few moments before changing pace and pinching your nipple hard enough to make you whine. The entire time those slitted, glowing eyes fixed intently on your face, measuring your reaction to each touch.

A sudden cry broke from your throat at the shocking feel of cool metal between your thighs, his other hand palming your cunt before dipping a finger inside and giving a few experimental strokes. Your head fell back between your shoulders at the deliciously taboo feel of him adding a second thick finger, thighs widening and hips arching upwards with invitation. He fucked you steadily, obscene noises emerging from both your mouth and cunt as his fingers scissored to stretch you out in preparation for his cock.

You groaned in disappointment when the fingers slipped away just as your orgasm was building to a peak. Your head lifted to voice a protest that quickly died, eyes widening when you caught sight of the large metal erection that was now hanging between the suit’s legs. Licking suddenly dry lips, you stared at the thick appendage in awe and said, “I don’t remember that being a feature of the suit.” 

He pulled you down the table until your ass hung off the edge, supported only by his hands. “It’s a new edition I added, just for you.”

Your face must’ve showcased your thoughts, because he gave a dark chuckle that caused an answering pulse in your cunt. “Oh honey, did you really think I haven’t noticed how wet you get for Iron Man?”

You should’ve felt embarrassed, should’ve given some sassy retort. Instead, you gave an undignified whimper and arched instinctively into him when the stiff tip of his metal cock bumped into your clit before lining up at your dripping entrance. 

Your mesmerized gaze was transfixed on the sight of him entering you, hands coming up to grip at the unyielding shoulders for stability as he opened you up with slow, steady thrusts. Gasping at the initial contrast of cool metal invading wet heat, your flesh quickly warmed him up and adjusted to the unyielding shape. He was buried so deep that you almost couldn’t breathe, making you feel utterly dominated by his large form. 

Clenching your hip with one hand, he braced the other one flat on the table before drawing his hips back, cock sliding slowly out before a quick snap of his hips slammed it back in. The movement was unexpectedly intense, Tony having underestimated the suit’s thrusting power, and you cried out at the burst of pain-edged pleasure. He immediately froze, so attuned to your body after months of learning what each noise and response meant to know that he had pushed a bit close to your limits.

“Shit, sorry,” he whispered huskily. 

It took a few seconds to catch your breath, but then you let out a breathy giggle to let him know it was okay. 

“Guess there’s a learning curve to fucking in this thing,” you teased, rolling your hips to let him know it was okay to continue.

“Guess it’s a good thing that I’m a genius,” he grunted with another thrust on the last word, this one less harsh but still deep enough to make you hiss and dig your nails against the inflexible crimson shoulders. 

He continued that way for a few minutes, driving into you with just enough force to tinge the building pleasure with a tiny bite of pain. You reveled in it, in the way it made you feel claimed and his. 

He suddenly straightened to his full height, causing your hands to slip back to the table for balance. His hands slid up to grab your ankles, anchoring your weight on them and spreading your thighs wide as he powered his hips in a deep, steady rhythm. That stern face stared down at you, and his strong grip left you powerless to do anything other than lay there and accept his unrelenting thrusts. Looking down, you gave a guttural moan at the sight of your juicing glistening along his metal cock, at how your pussy wrapped around his girth and accepted him over and over. 

“You love this, don’t you?” he taunted. “Next time you see Iron Man on TV saving someone, all you’re gonna be able to think about is how it feels to fuck him.”

The words ramped up your pleasure, sweat dripping down your temples as you lowered to your back on the workstation and moaned underneath that glowing gaze. And just when you didn’t think the situation could get more intense, another little attachment popped out of an unidentified portion of the suit. It was a small, smooth cylinder, and you watched with curiosity as it drifted down between your legs and...landed directly on your clit...and started vibrating. Hard. 

Keening at the sudden stimulation, you unsuccessfully tried to squirm away from the intense vibrations of the device. But the hands at your ankles and cock in your cunt kept you locked in place, forcing you to accept the overwhelming sensations. The pressure between your legs became almost unbearable, warmth suffusing your body as muscles tightened with impending climax.

“Yes, that’s it. Come all over this cock. It was made for you, now use that pretty pussy to make it yours.”

That was the final push you needed, the combination of the powerful thrusts, vibrations, and filthy words igniting the match of your orgasm, and the sparks crackled out from between your legs to engulf your entire body in flames. 

He didn’t stop, riding you through the pleasure until your legs were shaking so hard it was a wonder he didn’t lose his grip. Nails clawed at the smooth surface of the workstation as you cried out his name over and over, until the orgasm died down to simmering embers and your voice lowered to a whimper. 

Only then did he slow his movements, decreasing the pace until he came to a stop deep inside you, the clit vibe retreating into the suit as your walls continued to clench with aftershocks around the thick metal cock. When your thighs had stopped quivering and your eyes went from glazed to able to focus on him, he slowly pulled out, drawing one last full-body shudder out of you, as if your body couldn’t help but protest the loss.

He pushed you up the table so that your hips could rest on the edge, legs dangling lifelessly over the side as you laid there panting, unable to summon the energy to move. Leaning over you, the front part of the mask parted and Tony’s face came into view for the first time since he’d taken that single sip of coffee. His pupils were dilated and mouth slightly parted with his heavy breathing. When he leaned down to kiss you, your arms found the strength to lift and wrap around his neck, a spark of renewed desire igniting in your belly at the hungry way he laid claim to your mouth using lips, teeth, and tongue. 

You gave a little squeal of surprise when you were suddenly lifted off the table and into the suit’s arms. Striding through the lab, he beelined for the staircase. You looked up at him in question, and he curled up the sides of his lips in that trademark Stark smirk. 

“Iron Man had his turn fucking you in the lab. Now, it’s my turn to fuck you in our bed.” 

Suddenly losing patience with the boringly human method of walking, he used the suit to lift off the ground and fly up the stairs to the bedroom. When there, he proceeded to remind you that, while the suit was a fantastic sexual fantasy, it could never compare to the love of the man who wore it.

~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~

Forever tag list (if y’all want off just let me know): 

@hannibalssweaters @strangersangel9 @bamby0304 @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan  @wheresthekillswitch @ericuhlorain @foofyschmoofer @magpiegirl80 @efeysa @peachtickler69 @supernaturally-lucky @favs-imagines @multireality @twdncgan @jarpadandjensenaremyheroes @yuuki1000may-blog @crzcorgi @sunriserose1023 @breakfast-of-a-teenage-killer @winchesterswoonathon @is-this-you-manning-up-sammy @vizhi0n @kellyn1604 @embracetheapocalypsewithme @backseat-negan @opheliadawnwalker3 @superprincesspea @beltz2016 @amethyst-dreams-and-candy-canes @letsby @jobean12-blog @readsalot73 @reclusive-cat-lady @girlwiththepapatattoo @nerdstackular @thatprettymvthafvcka @sarcasm-is-my-native-tounge 

Others who showed interest in this: @opheliadawnwalker3 @risingphoenix761 @megmeg-chan @eleanor-gillespie @retroxvailles @trinittyy​

[girl-next-door-writes]

Control

Characters: Sam Winchester

Summary: Sam has fought and killed more demons than he can count, but what if he isn’t strong enough to slay his inner demons?

Word Count: 2231 words

A/N: This is for the amazingly wonderful @idreamofplaid​ , the winner of my Monthly Reblog Draw. She sent me this song, and this is what happened.

It was the same every time, but that didn’t make it any easier. The darkness seemed to swirl around him, and icy fog rose from the ground as shadows began to form the now familiar setting that struck terror into the heart of the young Winchester. Moving on autopilot, the soft crunch of the frosted grass beneath his feet seemed to echo in the unnatural silence. A shaft of moonlight escaped from behind a cloud, illuminating the ramshackle wooden structure that once would have been a home filled with love and laughter, now nothing more than a decaying memory. The dead-eyed stare of the pitch-black windows sent a shudder through him, his heart rate picking up with each reluctant step. Everything within him was screaming at him to run and yet his feet took him forward, closer and closer to the decomposing building.  

The creak of the wooden steps up to the porch were ominous, as if warning they would crumble under more weight. They never did. Each time he had returned here they made their protest and yet stayed strong enough for him to reach his destination. The front door slowly swung open, revealing the velvety darkness within. Sam felt like a tiny mouse walking into the open jaws of a cat, but he couldn’t stop himself. Brushing off the cobwebs that hung down from the beams overhead, he swallowed thickly as he crossed the threshold.

The stench of damp interlaced with burnt wood clung to his nostrils. The blackened, fire damaged walls bowed, creating sinister shapes in the shadows. The house felt alive, awake in some way as it digested Sam, tasting his fear as if it were a rare delicacy. The staircase stretched out in front of him in an endless ascent, the handrail warped and frail. From somewhere nearby, Sam could hear a steady drip, drip, drip and each stair groaned in protest as he made his way up before disintegrating to dust once he was securely on the next step. It didn’t matter though; he knew he wasn’t coming back down. Clenching his fists, he continued upwards, a thin sheen of sweat coating his forehead. As he climbed, a deep, rumbling whisper caressed his ears. “Poor Sammy. All alone. You’ve always been alone though, really. So different from your father and your brother. So odd. You never fit in anywhere. Never fit in with anyone. Too dark and broken. Come home, Sammy. You belong here.”

Closing his eyes, Sam paused at the top of the stairs. This wasn’t real. This was all in his head. He could get out at any time. Taking a deep, stuttering breath, he raised his head, taking in the elongated hallway lined with dark doors. The low hum of electricity ran in the air as the dim wall lights occasionally flickered. Each step felt like a punch in the gut, his feet heavy, his lungs screaming for air. The floor seemed to undulate beneath him, the sensation of almost falling ever present. As he passed each doorway their handles rattled, the cries of people he had failed to save washed over him, wave after wave of pleas and blame. A rhythmic thumping in his head, his heartbeat, seemed to press him onwards towards the black door at the end of the hallway. The icy grip of fear constricted his heart and he felt like a small child, tears rolling down his face. He knew what was beyond that door, what awaited, what called to him. His hand reached out, fingers wrapping around the door handle, turning it…

 Sitting bolt upright, his breath labored panting, it took him a few moments to remember where he was. The scent of alcohol hung in the air, the bleak surroundings, the creak of the bed all brought him back to his heartbreaking reality. He was so tired, exhausted both physically and mentally. Sam had no idea how much longer he could hold out. Hugging his knees to his chest, he closed his eyes. “I am Sam Winchester. My brother is Dean Winchester. My parents were John and Mary Winchester.” He repeated this over and over, anchoring himself. These were the things he was certain of, no matter how diseased his mind became. These were the things he was sure of.

Each day he could feel his grip growing weaker. The act he was putting on for his brother was beginning to crack. Inside he felt so hollow, walking through the world on empty. He wasn’t sleeping at all now, not if he could help it. Each time he had the nightmare he felt as if a part of him had been left behind in that house, as if it were feeding off him in some way.

“I am Sam Winchester.” He would say to himself. Sam Winchester was strong; he was meaner than these demons. “My brother is Dean Winchester.” He could do this for Dean, he needed to get his shit together so he could protect him. “My parents were John and Mary Winchester”. They had given their lives for their boys and to give up now would be throwing that in their faces. He could do this. He would do this. There were times he honestly believed that, and then he caught his reflection out of the corner of his eye. Only it wasn’t always his reflection, it was ‘him’ grinning, as if biding his time before pouncing. The demon was toying with him, could make him crack at any moment but wanted to lull Sam into a false sense of security before doing so. He must always be on his guard. Must keep him locked inside.

 The staircase of uneven steps taunted him, knowing he would journey upwards whether he wanted to or not. The house creaked around him, not the sound of a building settling but more like a shifting or rearranging. His hand gripped the blackened stair rail, it felt like charcoal under his touch. The soft hiss of each step turning to dust behind him mingled with the steady dripping to create an off-beat percussion, unpredictable and unsettling. The ascent seemed never ending and his legs ached, yet his body plunged on. The whispers began, mocking his deepest fears, laying his worst thoughts out bare and telling him that they were true. He was alone, truly alone, and nobody could help him.

Pausing at the top of the staircase, he saw the dingy hallway lined with peeling wallpaper and old-fashioned glass sconces. The lighting did little more than create darker shadows and in each of these was a doorway. Sam hated this part. Hated it more than the fear, more than the whispers. This hallway stretched out as a reminder of his failure; of all the people he had let down because he wasn’t good enough. Fighting his own body, it took him forward, stumbling along the hallway as he brought his hands up to his ears in an attempt to block out the noise. It was a futile gesture, the cries surrounded him and echoed through his very being. Still, he pressed on, the black door at the end of the corridor calling out to him, welcoming him like an old friend. Sam’s hands shook as he reached for the handle. He knew what was behind that door and he wanted to lock it, to throw away the key and never return. His fingers wrapped around the door handle, turning it…

 “Hello. Knew you couldn’t keep me away.” The familiar voice made every muscle in Sam’s body tense. Fight or flight was trying to kick in and he knew neither would be effective. This villain lived in his head, was part of him, he couldn’t run or fight.

Closing his eyes, he turned his back to the voice. It was all in his head. Lucifer was not there; this was nothing more than a trick and Sam was not going to fall for it.

“No need to be like that. You really think I’m a figment? That’s hurtful.” Lucifer pouted, sitting on the end of the bed, and smirking at Sam. “I know you’ve missed me.”

“I am Sam Winchester…” Sam began to mumble to himself, eyes still clenched tight shut.

“Yeah, you are. Vessel of Lucifer, demon blood addict, boy king.”

“Dean Winchester is my brother…”

“Oh please, you haven’t even told him about me. You really think your big brother is going to swoop in to save your ass yet again? How many times, Sam? How many times must he sacrifice himself for you? Admit it, you like the darkness. You feel at home there.” Lucifer lay back on the bed now, staring up at the ceiling with amusement dancing in his eyes.

Sam took a large, stuttering breath, his jaw clenching. It was all lies, but if they were lies then why did his words feel like they had a hint of truth in them? The darkness, it was easier and that was something he could never admit to anyone. The desire to lean into it was so strong. Maybe he could use it for good before it totally consumed him. He was tired, so fucking tired.

“Embrace it, Sam. Embrace who you really are.” The voice was so close now it felt as if it came from inside his head.

“I am Sam Winchester. My brother is Dean Winchester. My parents were John and Mary Winchester.” Sam muttered to himself, his fist clenched.

“Boring.” Lucifer sighed, sitting up once more. “You know this is inevitable. There is only so long you can stay awake for and then you’re mine. I’ll be seeing you real soon.”

  The sound of his footsteps was somewhat muffled by the carpet that lined the hallway. Its pattern seemed to shift and twist like a nest of snakes rolling over one another. The air here was stale and as he passed yet another door his heart lurched. Jess’s voice was always one of the first he heard. It was his fault she was dead. His fault she had her future stolen away in a painful, horrific death. Fingernails scratched at the doors, pitiful whines, desperate screams, angry rants, all aimed at him, telling him how pathetic he was, how useless. The mighty Sam Winchester was nothing more than a failure, just look at the body count. The rhythmic thumping of his heartbeat pressed him onwards towards the black door at the end of the hallway. The guilt now turned to fear as his eyes remained fixed on his destination. He knew what was beyond that door, what awaited, what called to him. His hand reached out, fingers wrapping around the door handle, turning it…

 The overhead lights were on constantly, each day bleeding into the next. The slats of the blinds kept the world outside away, his reality contained here in this one room. The pale yellow walls were meant to be soothing but they just felt stained, unclean, like him. Dean visited, of course. Cas even stopped by but mostly he was alone.

The temperature was kept at a constant muggy but his body rocked with shivers as he sat on the edge of his bed. The medication helped, mostly. His fingers ran over the blue plastic band that encased his wrist as he longed for rest. Dark circles outlined his bloodshot eyes, rough stubble poking through his pale skin as his greasy, unkempt hair fell into his face.

He was scared, terrified, all the time. This ball of anxiety sat in his chest making it hard to breathe. He could feel Lucifer watching him, observing in the shadows. He was alone navigating his way through this swirling jungle that was his own mind, knowing that this evil was lurking, just waiting.

“Damn right, you should be scared of me.” Grabbing the lamp from the cabinet beside his bed, Sam launched it across the room in the direction the voice had come from. With a gut wrenching scream, he tipped over his bed, scattering pillows and blankets over the floor. His arms swept anything not nailed down onto the floor, smashing against the walls. Somewhere an alarm sounded and the door to his room opened. Two orderlies and a doctor hurried in, restraining him on the floor before injecting him with a sedative.

The drugs took affect quickly and Sam felt himself pulled down, down into the darkness once again. “I- I- I am- I am Sam…”

  The black paint was flaking off the door almost like it was shedding its skin. It loomed large, dwarfing Sam. A soft glow peeked out underneath, a heat rolling from the wood that sent an icy chill through him. His cheeks were wet, stained with tears, but his vision was clear. His heart pounded so loud it was deafening and as much as he tried to resist, he couldn’t stop himself. His hand reached out, fingers wrapping around the door handle, turning it.

The bars of the cage pressed hard into his back as Lucifer leaned into him, his foul breath warm on Sam’s cheek. The predatorial glint in his eyes as he pressed a hand against Sam’s chest made him shiver with pure fear. Not here. Not this. Lucifer tilted his head, his forked tongue gently caressing Sam’s earlobe for a fraction of a second before he whispered,

“Welcome home, Sam.”

[harrysweasleys]

summer blues // s.f

Summary: Can you write a Seamus Finnigan imagine where he and his girlfriend spend the summer before 6th year together in Ireland discussing their future and the impending war? Especially since during 5th year they hit a rough patch when they broke up over their differing opinions on Voldemort’s return and believing Harry but got back together after he realized and they’re stronger than ever. More of a fluff request than angst please

Warnings: none

Word Count: 2.3k

A/N: so this is my first time writing for seamus! i hope you enjoy! gif isn’t mine, as usual. xx

“You’re telling me that you believe all that rubbish?” Seamus’ voice was angrier than you had ever heard it, and it was — to your displeasure — directed towards you.

“Course I do,” you argued back, “What good does Harry gain from lying about You Know Who’s return? Everyone’s ratting on him — including the Prophet, which you’ve so kindly decided to use as an example.”

You loved Seamus, you really did, but his ignorance was driving you through the goddamn roof. Ever since Cedric’s death the previous year, he had been blabbing on and on about how Harry was delusional, how he had been so damaged as a child that he looked everywhere he could for fame — even through the death of a fellow student.

You, on the other hand, had found his accusations rather ridiculous. Of course, no one knew what really happened the night Cedric Diggory had been killed in the final task of the Triwizard Tournament, but you could tell right away that something was wrong. So when Harry announced You Know Who was back, you believed him in a heartbeat.

“Don’t be stupid,” Seamus waved his arms in exhasperation, “Stop siding with Harry. Blimey, if you like him so much go date him.”

“No, you are not turning this into a contest,” you snapped, pointing a finger at him as the anger continued bubbling in your chest, “Just because you’re in denial does not mean you can bring down those around you.”

“I am not in denial,” he crossed his arms, approaching you, “You’re just insanely gullible.”

Your heart felt as if it was being constricted, “Seamus, please. Just come to your senses here. I can’t keep arguing the same stupid points with you anymore.”

Seamus straightened up, adjusting his sweater before giving you a cold look, “Fine. Then let’s stop.”

You let out a relieved sigh, thankful that the fight was coming to a close. You walked over to him, ready to call it a night and go to bed — now that you were exhausted from the fighting — but he stepped away from you and clenched his jaw.

“By stop, I meant stop dating,” he mumbled, avoiding your gaze completely by this point. Not that it mattered, his words had the same impact. Your heart shattered and all the air had been completely knocked out of your lungs. You gazed at him, mouth open like a fish out of water.

“What?” your voice was faint, distant, as if it wasn’t even coming from you.

He shuffled his feet across the floor, eyes looking everywhere but you, “I think we should break up.”

The boy’s dorm room had never felt smaller as you stood there, staring at Seamus with every ounce of you wanting to fight, to argue, to go down any other path. But you were silent. Your mind told you to leave. To walk out and not bother. So that’s exactly what you did.

You stormed out of the boy’s dorm, passing Dean and Neville on the way out, both of whom asked if you were alright, not gaining an answer from you. You rushed up the stairs to your own room, shutting the door violently behind you. Luckily, Ginny and Hermione were out for the day, along with Pavarti who was rarely around anyways.

You threw your body down on the bed, clutching a pillow to your chest, and began to cry silently, the heavy rain pounding against the window matching exactly how you were feeling.

And now, without Seamus by your side, and with the looming threat of an upcoming battle, you had never felt more alone.

— —

“I’m still sorry about that, ya know,” Seamus spoke softly, twirling a strand of your hair between his fingers, which were now calloused due to the amount of physical work he had been doing over the summer.

You nodded, gazing up at him with a faint smile, “I know, so am I.”

“I always want my girl by my side,” he pressed his lips to your forehead softly, causing a delighted shiver to go down your spine, goosebumps rising on your bare arms despite the sunlight beaming down.

The summer holidays were a bit of a drag this year as opposed to how exciting they usually were. After the ordeal at the Ministry and the death of Sirius Black, and of course, the rise of You Know Who, there was very little to enjoy or look forward to.

Your fifth year had been one of your most beneficial years yet, thanks to Harry and the secret army that he founded in the Room or Requirements. You had learned spells that you didn’t think you’d be able to do only in your fifth year. Your life changed drastically, and no matter how much you were dreading the eventual return to school, you were prepared this time.

Seamus, after coming around and realizing that Harry was right all along, had turned out to be one of the best wizards in Dumbledore’s Army. Even you were surprised by how talented he was, considering you had been watching him blow up potions for five years.

— —

“I uh — I reckon you’re right.”

You gazed up from the breakfast you had been munching on and met Seamus’ eyes. His hands were fidgeting and his hair looked disheveled, as if he hadn’t slept the night before. You, on the other hand, had taken the opportunity to not sulk. Yes, he had broken your heart mere weeks before, but with the help of your friends and Dumbledore’s Army, you still found yourself feeling... good.

“Right about what?” you raised an eyebrow, placing your fork down. You hadn’t actually spoken to him since your breakup, but you had seen him in every class. It was quite frustrating, if you were being honest. You missed him like hell and he was always just a few seats away from you. You often found yourself wanting to apologize, but why? He was in the wrong. And he was the one who broke up with you.

“About Harry. About You Know Who,” he mumbled, sitting across from you to avoid looking like he was making a scene. He continued to fidget with his fingers nervously.

You pursed your lips, nodding your head slowly, “And what, may I ask, made you change your mind?”

He peered up at you, running a hand through his hair, “I — uh — I was speaking to me mum the other day and we both agree that the Prophet articles don’t really match up. The Ministry is clearly making stuff up.”

You nodded, raising your eyebrows and clearing your throat, “Clearly? I thought it was clear when I told you Harry was telling the truth. Was my word not enough?” You were glad Seamus had finally come to his senses, but there was still a part of you that was angry he didn’t believe you in the first place.

“That’s not what I’m saying,” he sighed, running his hands down his face, “I’m sorry I didn’t side with you. I guess the thought of You Know Who returning to power was too much.”

You let out a small chuckle, “It’s okay, Seamus. I’m messing with you. I’m glad you’ve come around and realized the truth.” Reaching across the table, you grabbed his hand and linked it with yours. It was sweaty, clammy, but the familiarity of his fingers laced with yours was enough for you to pull your mind away from all the other things.

“I’m sorry about everything I said to you too,” he admitted softly, his eyes showing every ounce of his apology, “I really do love you. I feel horrible about what I said.”

“I love you too, you idiot,” you grinned, lifting your hand to poke him in the cheek, causing his smile to appear. Already, as if a weight had been taken off his shoulders, his eyes looked livelier and more awake.

You finally had him back.

— —

“I may be an idiot but I’m a lucky idiot because you took me back,” Seamus’ voice was still soft, his hands pulling away from your hair to pluck at a dandelion that had been sitting in the grass, placing it gently behind your ear.

You leaned up, resting your elbows in the patchy dirt, “I’m too smitten to not take you back, you big goof.”

He grinned down at you, leaning back and laying in the grass next to you, placing his hands behind his head and gazing up at the clouds passing overhead. The view from Seamus’ yard was quite spectacular. The rolling hills could be seen in the distance, the never ending fields of gorgeous grass and flowers surrounding the cozy house, and the garden that his mother used to grow her food was unlike any other. You really loved it here.

“I don’t think our next year is going to be as calm as the rest,” Seamus looked lost in thought as he spoke, eyes still glued to the clouds.

“You thought our previous years were calm?” you scoffed jokingly, “Professor Quirrel was crazy, then we had the Chamber of Secrets, then we had Sirius Black — which if I recall correctly, you were terrified of — then the tournament—,”

“Ok, I get it,” Seamus chuckled, waving his hand to cut you off, “It hasn’t been... uneventful, I guess.”

“But,” you spoke up once your laughter had died down, “I reckon you’re right. I think things are going to change.”

After the ordeal at the Ministry made headlines, captioning the fact that the one wizard everyone had feared to their very core had returned, you doubted your sixth year would be anything like the rest. Both you and Seamus had already received Owls from both Hogwarts and the Ministry saying that security at Hogwarts was bound to be at an all-time high. Not that you minded, safety was important, but that was bound to change things.

“What if things take a turn for the worst?” Seamus leaned over and gazed at you, resting his head in his hand and lifting his other one to wrap around your waist and pull you closer, your loose hair tangling in the grass as you moved towards him.

You leaned up, sending him a gentle smile, “Well, we may not know what’s to come, but I think you and I will be alright.”

“You think?” he raised an eyebrow, a questioning look on his face.

You nodded, “I do. And I also think that now since everything is surfacing, we’re bound to be taught everything we need to know.”

He seemed to agree with your words, “You’re right there. The professors ought to know we need to protect ourselves. Especially being classmates with The Chosen One and all.”

You giggled, leaning down and shoving his shoulder, knocking him onto his back. You took the opportunity to rest your head on his shoulder, raising one of your hands to run your fingers through his short hair, causing him to shiver under your touch.

“You’ll stay by me, right?” he asked softly, running his fingers up and down your other arm, which was draped around his abdomen.

You lifted your head to press a kiss to his cheek, “Course I will. Wouldn’t want to stick by anyone else.”

He chuckled, squeezing you closer to him — if that was even possible at this point. You could feel the warmth leaving his body, the soothing thump of his heartbeat, and the smell of grass and soil. All in all, despite the oncoming darkness, you felt at peace.

You guys sat in the warm sunshine for quite some time after that, unfortunately rushing indoors once heavy clouds rolled in and cold rain poured down, soaking you both to your core.

He pulled you inside by the hand, the two of you laughing and being careful not to drip all over Seamus’ family’s furniture, which happened to be a lot of antiques and handcrafted items that his mother loved to tell you the stories of.

“C’mon, let’s go dry off,” he was still slightly laughing as he made his way towards the linen closet, pulling out two towels for the two of you to dry off with.

After patting yourself down, you chucked your towel over his head and rubbed it on his hair, his laughter muffled through the cotton.

“Nice, real mature,” he threw it off of him and glared at you playfully, wrapping his arms tightly around your waist and beginning to tickle you. You let out a scream, smacking his shoulders and begging for him to stop.

“Seamus! Stop — I can’t —,” your words we’re struggling to come out through your laughter. You could feel your entire face heating up at the contact, hoping his parents weren’t going walk in.

He pulled his hands away from your waist, so you rushed to catch your breath in case he decided to once again resume his tickle attack. But, instead of doing so, he gently placed his hands on your waist and pulled you closer to him. He was still drenched, but his heat was soothing flushed up against your own body.

“I can’t get enough of you, y’know?” he brought one of his hands up to your cheek and cupped it lightly, leaning his head down to place his lips against yours. Your body felt ignited, the warmth spreading through you incredibly quickly as if hot water had been poured over you. His lips were cold, but they pressed against yours with enough passion for you to feel hot.

He had always been such a gentle kisser, taking in the moment and savouring then contact. This time was no different. You could feel every ounce of love he poured into the intimate gesture, sending your heart soaring and your fingers tingling.

He pulled away after a good moment, leaning his forehead up against yours, “Love you.”

You smiled, cheeks hurting from the giddiness you were feeling, “Love you too, you goof.”

-

[jarienn972]

La Sirena -  Chapter Five

Captain Swan Supernatural Summer

Apologies for the delay in getting out the latest chapter of my @cssns​ story. With my kids back to school, I'm finding a bit less time to write so updates are running a little behind. I am still working diligently to keep the updates coming though!  Thank you @kmomof4​ for helping me fix a couple of minor roadblocks that I had with this chapter!  And thanks again to @courtorderedcake​ for her incredible artwork!

After leaving off with the major turning point of Killian learning the secret that Emma had been concealing, this chapter will pick up in the aftermath. Will cooler heads prevail once Killian awakens or will their budding relationship be tarnished? And of course, there's still no where else for him to go...

Read from the beginning:  One  Two  Three  Four  Also on AO3 and FF.net

Putting the Pieces Back Together

A faint tickle of a breeze caught the torch flame behind Emma's back casting uneven shadows across the cavern walls and sending delicate tendrils of smoke into the already heavy air. She was kneeling in the sand with Killian's head resting atop her thighs, not daring to stray from his side as her slender fingers combed idly through his tousled dark hair. She watched the rise and fall of his chest as she patiently awaited his awakening.

She'd frightened him. That hadn't been her intent but that damage was done and she was dealing with a relatively new emotion: guilt. Perhaps she truly was little more than a monster at her core. All of these decades of trying to suppress her innate urges and desires may have been for naught. All of her years of self-isolation hadn't changed who - or what - she was. She was still a siren. Still a threat to mankind.

Perhaps Regina was right. She'd never be able to change her nature.

But if she really was nothing more than a coquettish, evil siren, why did she have such a strong desire to protect this human? It went against every element of her being, every native instinct she'd trained and developed before turning her back on her kind. She scarcely comprehended these feelings.

Siren emotions were already complicated enough. She knew anger and indignation. She also knew emptiness. She'd been living here in solitude for nearly two centuries, give or take a decade, yet she'd never really experienced loneliness. She'd just felt that something was missing from her meager existence. She'd just never allowed herself time to think about what that void might entail.

All of that had changed the moment she confessed her true nature to Killian and he'd rejected her. Now she was overwhelmed with a barrage of new emotions - guilt, fear and something else that she couldn't yet name. For a nanosecond, she contemplated leaving him there in the subterranean cavern, doubting that he'd ever be able to accept what she was. But then she heard it again - the same tiny voice inside her head that had compelled her to save him from drowning now also compelled her to stay.

He was an intelligent being. Her revelation had been too much of a shock for someone recovering from the trauma he'd suffered. When he'd had time to process the news, he would hear her out, wouldn't he? She took a glance back over her bare shoulder at the beam of light streaming through the crack in the earth above the spring. The midday sun would soon be directly overhead and the ambient light would fade quickly within the lava tube once the sun's rays crested over the ridge.

Regina's arrival had backed her into a corner. She didn't feel as though she could adequately protect him if he wasn't aware of the scope of the threat, but now she worried he wouldn't trust her. In hindsight, she knew she hadn't handled her reveal well. Even though he didn't really have anywhere to go, she feared he'd run and the thought of that stung worse than even the most toxic jellyfish she'd ever encountered.

When at last he stirred, her siren heart nearly leapt with anticipation - another entirely new sensation for her. With a deep inhale, he raised his right hand to massage his aching skull, making incidental contact with her knee in the process. He yanked his hand away as if he'd touched a flame, his eyelids popping open in surprise as he struggled to regain coherency.

At first, he saw nothing more than darting shadows cast by the flickering torches but as his sight adjusted to the relative darkness, images gradually came into focus, becoming clearer and familiar. And then his peripheral vision captured the contour of a woman's soft, rounded ivory-skinned thigh and instantly, he was fully awake, recoiling in terror as he pushed away from the woman he no longer believed was real.

"What manner of demon are you?" he demanded, his voice pitching higher as he scrambled to take cover behind one of the aging sea chests, squeezing his eyes closed for a moment as he dared not stare at this unknown creature's naked, feminine form. "Are you some malevolent trick of my mind? Here to drag me to the depths of hell?" He couldn't fight this monster if he couldn't see her though so he reluctantly opened his eyes, focusing intently on her lovely beguiling face. Was this how a siren killed a man?

"Killian, please… Do not be afraid. I have no intent to harm you." She made an attempt to shift closer to him, to try to assure him that she wasn't a threat, but she feared she may have already done too much damage. The terror and betrayal she saw reflected in his eyes cut straight to whatever soul she had left as he continued to shy away from her.

"Don't come near me, demon!" he cried as he fumbled for the sword at his hip, sliding the blade free of the scabbard and brandishing it with an instinctive flick of his wrist. "Stay back… or I'll…" Both his voice and hand trembled at the same timbre while he held the weapon directed at her throat.

This scared human wasn't even the slightest threat to her. She could overpower him barely lifting a pinky finger, yet she was awash with that lonely emotion and it took control, leading to an unplanned action.

"Do it," she dared him, leaning into the blade. "I am a monster. End me!"

A glint of torchlight flashed off of the polished steel, illuminating her face which was etched with determination and his resolve began to waver.

"Wait… What…?" He shook his head in disbelief at her unexpected demand. His gaze locked with hers as she pleaded for death and his tenuous grip on the cutlass' pommel loosened. "No… no…" He may have been bewildered and perhaps a tad angered, but he couldn't take her life. She'd saved him.

"I am a siren, Killian. I have lured countless men like you to their demise, but while this is what I was created to be, it is not what I desire to be. I deserve to die for what I have done in my past…"

"But you saved me…," he stated as he allowed the sword to slip from his hand onto the dark, sandy cavern floor. His tone was softer as he relaxed and exhaled a deep sigh. "Whatever you are, I owe you my life…" He plopped his weary body down to the ground and drew his knees to his chest while lowering his chin in defeat. "I've no expectation of what will become of me, but I'll not harm you. If you intend to leave me here to perish, then that shall be my fate…"

"I don't wish for anyone to perish," she replied. "That is what brought me here all those ages ago. I had no desire to harm those seafarers any longer."

"But if you are a siren as you say, are the myths not true? Does your song not lure men like me to certain death? How did I arrive here still breathing?"

"At one time, I did use my voice in that way. I watched many a human plunge into the sea, transfixed and bewitched by the hypnotic spell of my siren song, at least until I could bear it no longer. Until you arrived, I'd not even used my voice in eons."

"So a siren can have a conscience?" he asked quizzically, raising one eyebrow as he awaited her answer.

"Apparently some can - at least this one, as I've been told," she said with a faint smile curling the corners of her lips, although it didn't last long as she switched the direction of their exchange. "But Killian, if we are to survive, there is much you need to know. You need to hear more of my story just as I must learn more of yours."

"How so?" His eyes narrowed as he sought to make sense of the statement. Part of his brain still questioned the veracity of any of this nonsense, but the adventurer within him remained intrigued.

"Do you recall, before you struck your head, how I had mentioned that my sister came here because I had used magic?" The memory was vague and somewhat clouded by his own skepticism but he nodded anyway and allowed her to continue. "In using my powers, I unwittingly drew the scrutiny of the council, the governing band of the most powerful sirens - of which I used to be a part. I hadn't used magic in quite a long time so I never imagined that something so innocent would have far-reaching consequences."

"What magic do you possess?"

"Aside from the ability to change form, I have other powers. Those chests you're sitting amongst, they didn't wash up on these shores as I told you. I conjured them and their contents so that you would have the objects you desired. I wanted to give you those things that the cove could not provide. I had seen many similar chests float in and out with the tides over the years, but I never kept them. I used magic to create them and I didn't think about the potential ramifications."

Killian's jaw fell agape as he listened to her confession. No one - not even Liam - had ever offered such a generous gesture meant for him alone and he was at a loss for how to respond.

"Emma… you didn't need to do such a thing…"

"I wanted to," she grinned. "I had been alone for so long and after these past few days with you, I found myself desiring to do something good with my magic. I wanted to provide for you and now, that act of goodness has put you in far greater danger…" He quickly averted his sight as she pushed herself back to stand up before starting to pace nervously along the precipice of the hot spring. "I must ask this - when I found you, you were clinging to a slab of splintered timber. Were you in a shipwreck?"

Still concentrating on focusing his gaze on the bounce of her golden locks rather than her feminine physique, Killian was taken aback. Of course, he'd been in a shipwreck…

"Aye," he replied. "Not my own ship though. I'd been taken prisoner aboard a pirated vessel that inexplicably ran aground. By the time I was able to crawl out of the flooding brig and reach the safety of the top deck, those rapscallions had all debarked, likely to an island off the distant horizon. No one was left in sight and I scarcely escaped with my life as the vessel broke apart and sank into the depths."

"You saw no one at all? Was the vessel sinking that slowly?" Emma asked curiously, pausing her pacing as she awaited his answer.

"It seemed to be taking on water quite rapidly to me so I assumed they'd taken off in the skiffs, but to answer your question - no. I saw no other men, not even my fellow crew who'd also been imprisoned, although if I'm to be honest with myself, they were likely already dead by the time the ship went down. I was the ranking officer, thereby the most valuable prisoner."

"So that's it…," she mumbled as she hovered to his right, fixated on the sparkling surface of the spring. "That's how Regina knew they may have left a survivor… Killian, don't you see? You didn't see any others aboard the ship because they'd already succumbed to the song of the sirens. The ship ran aground because no one was helming it."

"How is that possible?" he queried as he raised his head in renewed curiosity. "I heard no singing, only the cracking of aging wood and the slap of the waves on the hull."

"You heard nothing? No song?" She spun around to face him, bewildered by his statement. "If the sirens attacked the ship, you would have heard their song."

"I swear to you, I heard nothing out of the ordinary, at least not until the vessel struck the rocks and began her unraveling. Are you certain that your kind assailed that vessel? It's highly likely that the pirates merely strayed off-course."

"No," she insisted, shaking her head. "Regina specifically mentioned that a ship had sailed into siren waters… In the condition I found you in, you could not have traveled far from the wreck so it must be the same vessel she spoke of. None of the sirens would have waited around to watch the vessel disintegrate but some of our ne'er do well fellow sea-dwellers reported rumors of a survivor in the wreck and those rumors reached the council. That's the reason they became suspicious of me when I utilized my magic… You must be that survivor."

Killian's head was suddenly spinning again and this time, it wasn't from the concussion. Sirens were a part of maritime history and mythology that he'd been educated in. He'd entertained countless yarns about ships that strayed into uncharted waters, never to be seen again. All manner of sea monsters had been attributed to these vanishing vessels but tales of sirens had always been particularly beguiling. Demons taking the form of beautiful women were said to lure unsuspecting sailors into the sea where they'd devour their unfaithful hearts.

But they were all only mythical… Until now…

"According to the legends I grew up hearing, sirens preyed upon lonely sailors far from home and family. The siren song was said to enchant the unfaithful amongst them, luring them into the depths of the sea where they'd be devoured. Is that how it really happens?"

"That isn't entirely true, but it is very close," Emma explained. "The song does lure the unsuspecting sailors, but only those deemed unworthy of passage through our realm by the gods. The unworthy are not allowed to travel through our seas and the song puts them into a trance. The men will then leap from their ships into the sea and sink to Triton's lair. I honestly do not know what becomes of them after they drown, what Triton desires of them. It never mattered to me, not then and I certainly did not dwell upon it after I departed the council."

"Until you found me?" he offered, shivering at the fate he'd narrowly avoided. "This may be a pointless query, but has any man ever been found worthy?"

"Well, long before my creation, there was a single human whom Poseidon deemed to be worthy to pass. That man went on to become a great leader of his land and for a while, there was peace between the realm of man and that of the gods. Unfortunately, that man's successors were nothing like him and the years of peace ended. Triton ordered all of the creatures in his command to defend our realm from the evil of mankind. Poseidon unleashed innumerable monsters including dozens more sirens, including myself and for many years, I followed the orders of the gods…"

"I've heard many tales of these legendary gods of the sea. Never in all my dreams did I imagine they were real and that they alone determined the worth of a man."

"I broke away from the council when I began to suspect that the gods harbored more of a vindictive grudge against these men of the sea. I could no longer be convinced that there weren't good men among those we had deceived. Not every man could be so evil."

"Indeed, there are men with good hearts out there but I shan't deny that there is evil in the world. I've encountered those who might barely be described as human, yet most folk are just going about their lives and wish no harm. It would seem that the same might be said of the legendary siren as there is at least one who possesses a good heart… But if we are to circle back to the pirate ship I escaped from, how did I come to survive? Was it because I was secreted away in a cranny of the cargo hold? Was I too far below deck to hear the songs?"

"No, it doesn't work like that. The siren song resonates through every inch of a vessel and carries for several leagues out to sea. It is intended to be heard by every human ear that ventures into our realm."

"That makes little sense to me then," Killian countered. "Why didn't I hear the siren voices? I hear you speaking to me just fine as I am not deaf and despite my injury when you rescued me from the water, I had been fully conscious just prior to the ship's grounding."

"I… I do not know," she stammered. This was another first for her and she had no response. She honestly did not have any inkling as to how he'd resisted.

"Do you still possess the ability to sing?" he asked her bluntly and she found herself ill-prepared to answer.

"I am not entirely certain…," she told him, her voice trembling at the possible implications of the question. "It has been centuries… I believe I am still able to sing, but I cannot predict the outcome. There may be ramifications that you aren't ready for and it may hasten Regina and the council's return…"

He tried to avoid the darkening of her olivine eyes as she pleaded wordlessly for him to reconsider, but it was the only way he might discover how he'd managed to remain alive.

"Emma, you must," he pressed. "It's the only way I'll know… That we'll know. You would be able to tell right away if the song has the desired effect, correct?"

"Of course, I would know. I just cannot promise that I can stop it as I've never tried…"

"Then consider this your chance to find out," Killian stated bravely, although inside, his stomach was churning at the huge risk he was taking. "I must learn why I was spared, Love. Please, indulge my curiosity and desire to solve this one mystery…"

"Killian…" She didn't want to do this. She'd vowed to never sing again and she certainly didn't want to endanger this man she'd become so fond of. Could she deny him the answers he so desperately wanted? She'd know within a few notes but even if the song ended abruptly, would she be able to reverse its effects if he wasn't immune?

[grumpyhedgehogs]

Dreaming Pt. 3

AO3: Here, Pt.1: Here, Pt. 2: Here, Pt. 4: Here

Note: Blood and violence. Swearing. Trigger warnings apply. 

~

Virgil shivers the whole night through, swiping his hands across his shoulders over and over again. Try as he might, he can’t get rid of the phantom water running in rivulets down his spine.

The only good thing that comes from his terrible daydream is that Virgil is not at all inclined to fall asleep again. His heart races in his chest when he thinks about it now, and although he spends the next three days locked up in his bedroom, his blaring music and the stiffening of his spine when he thinks about closing his eyes are enough to keep him awake.

Patton tried to follow him upstairs when he ran. The moral side spent hours knocking, begging for Virgil to come out. He finally had to put on his headphones to drown him out. He has no idea if the other side is still there.

Not that Virgil would expect him to wait outside. He’s Anxiety, after all. No one really wants him around, least of all happy-go-lucky Patton.

Even as that thought curdles in his stomach, Virgil can’t help but remember how cold those soft eyes got when they looked at him from above the water.

Panic makes his heart stutter in his chest just thinking about it. He has to stop soon; any more of this and his emotions will leak over to Thomas. He can’t do that, not now. Not ever again.

It wasn’t Patton. Says a little hopeful voice in the back of his head.

But wasn’t it? When Virgil woke up Patton had known. Patton had seen what happened. It was like Patton had been there in his dream. That didn’t just happen to people- that wasn’t a thing.

But what else could it have been but Patton sharing his dream? It wasn’t real, after all. If it were, he’d be dead by now. Or at least soaked.

Virgil is dry as a bone.

It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real.

So what was it?

He falls asleep without realizing it while he argues with himself. He never hears the renewed knocking at his door.

This dream starts in a meadow.

The sun turns the long grass a golden hue and the air smells like growth and dark soil and morning dew. There’s a forest of evergreens a few yards away; their branches sway gently in the breeze. Daisies bob their heads in time with the trees, dotting the ground here and there in large, colorful patches.

Virgil is sitting on a checkered picnic blanket, his face tilted to the sky. He closes his eyes, breathes in the smell of spring, and feels his chest relax almost against his will. Birds are chirping somewhere beyond his sight.

“Anxiety!”

He’s never heard that voice sound quite so jovial when curling around his name. Virgil tips his head back down, blinking his eyes against the sunlight. After the spots have cleared from his vision, Virgil sees Creativity striding out of the treeline, headed straight for him. Against his will, his lips twitch upwards.

It’s hard not to like Roman at this moment, though, not when he looks so content. His shoulders are broad and thrown back and his clothes are pristine. He raises his hand in greeting, and his teeth gleam in the light of the sun. Virgil doesn’t wave back, but he does shift to the side, leaving a conspicuous space on the blanket.

Roman does not hesitate to fill it, sliding into place with his shoulder lined up to Virgil’s like he’s meant to be there. He stretches like a cat in the warmth of the sun’s rays, sighing and grinning at Virgil when the anxious side pulls himself up to sit cross-legged.

“It’s a nice day, isn’t it?”

Virgil shrugs, suddenly shy under the other's gaze. He never knows quite how to act around Roman, never sure what exactly will be the next thing Virgil says or does to set him off on a rant, and normally he wouldn’t worry about it but-

But right now, everything is perfect. The sun is shining, birds are singing, Virgil isn’t worried for once in his life and Roman… Roman looks happy to see him.

Roman would never smile at you like that.

“Oh, come on, Anxiety, even you have to be happy right now!”

“I am,” he says, in lieu of anything else. He has to drop his eyes when Roman’s grin softens at the edges and the creative side leans in to bump their shoulders together. He is a long line of comforting warmth against Virgil's side, warmer even than the sun. "It's nice out here. Quiet. I'm- I'm happy here. With you."

“And why wouldn’t you be?” Roman exclaims boisterously, waving a hand at their surroundings. Virgil follows the gesture, smiling at the flowers and the trees and the pervading calm of their surroundings. “After all, you’re not hurting anyone out here.”

This isn’t real, Virgil realizes just as ice floods him. This is just like last time.

Except last time Patton had been smiling at him as he plunged Virgil underwater. Except last time Virgil hadn’t had Roman looking at him with a smile that looks more like a baring of his teeth. Except last time, a sword wasn’t at his throat and Virgil wasn't falling back on his elbows in the dirt.

“Roman,” Virgil cautions, eyes darting about for a way out. Rain spatters down on his forehead, the tip of his nose. Clouds have begun to gather overhead and Virgil wonders distantly how he never noticed them on the horizon. He usually looks for stuff like that. Thomas could get sick if they get caught in a storm.

But the darkening sky only shrouds Roman in shadows. He looms over Virgil, still smiling that terrible smile and Virgil tries to scoot back but the blade at his throat prevents any true escape. Virgil swallows and feels a thin line of blood split open the skin under his Adam’s Apple.

“Out here,” Roman continues, tone horribly conversational as he bears down more weight, “you can’t hurt Thomas any more than you already have. Aren’t you happy about that, Anxiety?”

“No, no-”

“No?” Roman surges to his feet and his eyes are darker than Virgil has ever seen them. His hair is whipped about his head in a halo by the fierce gale that has picked up. The dirt under Virgil is turning to mud with rainwater and he slips, falling flat on his back as Creativity rises above him like an avenging angel, blade pressed tight to Virgil’s sternum. “No, you want to go back? Back to Thomas? Back to hurting Thomas like you do every day?”

“No! No, I never- never wanted to hurt -”

“But you did,” Roman interrupts. “And I am here to make sure you never will again.”

And he plunges the sword deep into Virgil’s stomach.

Virgil screams on instinct. The first thing he feels is simply heat; he’s not sure if it’s from the surprise, or his blood or something else, but the pain only comes after. It spikes in an ice cold contrast to the initial heat and Virgil raises his hands to clutch at the blade still embedded in his middle, unheeding of the slices that open on his palms when he does. The blade is rending him in two, it’s cleaving him apart the more he struggles to get it out-

It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real-

But it certainly feels real as Roman laughs above him in the dark.

The world is dark and confusing and his blood is too warm on his hands and there is something inside of him please take it out and Roman is laughing and laughing and then-

“Get away from him!”

That’s- that’s Roman’s voice, Virgil realizes distantly, but what does he mean? Virgil’s not anywhere near Thomas and it’s not like Roman needs protection from Virgil himself, not when he’s killing Virgil.

“You bastard, get away!”

The laughter has cut off now, and through the haze that has descended on him Virgil can hear the sounds of a scuffle; someone growls and there’s the thud of flesh on flesh.

His fingers finally find the strength to pull the blade from his belly just as the sound of a body hitting the ground reaches his ears. It hurts almost as much coming out as it did going in, but being free of the feeling of a foreign object inside of him is almost worth the gush of blood that flows over his white knuckled grip.

He lets the sword drop away from him as his hands go limp and he should really try to staunch the blood flow but everything is foggy and it hurts so much and his eyelids are so heavy.

Then deep brown eyes appear above him and Virgil recoils in shock. He ends up only flopping in the mud, and a small, animal sound of fear yanks it’s way from Virgil’s lungs.

Someone is talking to him, he realizes. That same someone is leaning over him, their hands pressed to his chest and oh that pressure hurts even more than he thought it would.

“You’re alright, you’re alright, you’re gonna be okay,” says a voice that’s getting fainter by the minute. Those eyes stare into his and they are so sad.

“Anxiety,” says the voice that has to be Roman’s but why does Roman sound like he’s about to cry when he’s the one who did this to Virgil in the first place? “Anxiety, you have to wake up, okay? You’re not going to die, you’re safe, please, you just have to wake up. I’ll keep you safe, I promise. You just have to wake-”

~

“-Up!”

Virgil shoots backward, flailing. He manages to smack away Creativity by shoving at his shoulders violently. Virgil scrambles up the bed, gasping and shaking.

Roman looks about as bad as Virgil feels; he’s pale and sickly, almost. He looks like he’s going to vomit at any second.

Instead, Roman opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. Finally he croaks, “Anxiety, I-” and reaches out tentatively. “I don’t know what just happened, but are you alright? You were hurt-”

Virgil pulls his leg away before the other side can lower his hand onto his vulnerable ankle. He tries not to admit to himself that he’s cowering against the headboard.

“Get out.”

Creativity pulls back, looking conflicted. Virgil can hardly see through the tears in his eyes but he catches the emotions that flit across Roman’s face; confusion, worry, anger.

That last one makes his chest constrict even more than it already was and he realizes distantly that he’s going to pass out again soon if he doesn’t get oxygen to his brain.

You could get brain damage. How would that affect Thomas do you think?

“Get out of my room,” Virgil says, louder than before.

“I- I was just trying to help,” Roman says and his voice breaks.

Virgil wants to sob. Instead he heaves himself up, glaring through his watery vision and shouts, “Get out!”

He only gives into his instinct to curl up and hold his face in his hands when he hears the door swing shut.

Virgil’s room is very quiet.

[spookyspaghettisundae]

Two Demons in a Documentary

Emily studied herself as she gazed into the mirror. Gently, she touched her own face with two fingers, investigating if this was real. If she was real. She gingerly touched her cheekbone. Ran the tip of her finger down her nose.

Like waking from a dream, she began to remember why she was here: to film part of the documentary on the Mancini “murder house” in northern California. She now stood in the ladies’ room of a gas station across the street from the location. She had to find the rest of her crew.

Like wandering through a dream, she began to wonder how she got here: but that part of her mind remained a foggy gray void. Her colleagues had been telling her to stop drinking so much. Emily knew they were right, because all of her memories were beginning to blur together.

Vicky? Gloria? Hal? None of them were here. Emily stood alone in some awful little bathroom. She heard no traffic from the road outside, no voices, no human life. Just the white noise of rain cascading down in a strong downpour.

All she knew was that something was horribly, horribly wrong.

This place was a dump. Graffiti all over the walls around the mirrors and across the stalls. For a moment, Emily wondered if she had wound up in the men’s room instead, but the absence of urinals said otherwise.

As she turned and steeled herself to exit the bathroom, a memory flashed back into her mind. In what must have been another bout of her drunken irritability, she had yelled at Hal and Gloria and hurled a string of profanities at them.

The sound of rain washed it all away, like the bad memory that it was. A bad memory she had created to overwrite a worse one. Exiting the door, she held a single hand out into the open and her black leather jacket’s sleeve developed a slick reflective sheen within seconds.

The rain soaking her hand felt almost unreal. The downpour clouded her vision so much that she could barely see across the road. Under other circumstances, Emily would have found it odd that not a single car traveled down the road and not a single person was out and about.

Checking her wristwatch, it read: 3:33 PM.

The rain obscured the world, draping it in a gray twilight, with no artificial lights anywhere to be seen, and neither sky nor horizon visible in any direction. As powerfully as the downpour continued to crash down, Emily expected the occasional crack of thunder to startle her, or a flash of lightning to shed some illumination to the world she could not see. But there was only rain. Comforting, soothing rain.

Like in a drunken haze, she wandered to the van their crew had been using on the trip up north and found every single one of its doors locked. She patted down her pockets to find them all empty, and it dawned on her that Gloria must have had the keys, because she had been driving them.

Less than a minute out here and the rain had fully drenched Emily, but it did not affect her at all. It did not reach her soul. Her spirit formed a warm beacon. Deep inside, warming her from the inside out. Like a searchlight in the fog, like a gentle hearth, an inviting and warm campfire that kept the cold and the wet outside.

The gas station’s shop. She turned to it to see if any of her crew were in there. Maybe Gloria had just refueled and was checking out. But no light burned inside. The windows separating the shop’s interior from the outside world were fogged up, even a bit dingy. Emily approached it to check inside anyway.

After only two steps, she froze. A portion of the shop's left window darkened. The silhouette of a man formed there, right by the window. Emily could not discern any features at first, but the figure was tall and imposing. His face was marked by a sinister inhuman grin—like that of the Cheshire cat, far too wide to be a human's, with teeth painted across the face, and eyes striped with bright arrows, reminiscent of a clown's makeup.

Some part of Emily knew this could not be real because it should have frightened her more. But the rest of her body screamed while her mouth stayed shut. Every fiber told her to turn and run.

And she listened.

With no concern of getting run over and no risk of it because the wide street stayed empty, she dashed across the asphalt to the opposite side. Towards the infamous “murder house.” Maybe the others were there. Maybe there was strength in numbers. Maybe she just had to warn them.

The world—the atmosphere itself—darkened around her. The mansion’s gigantic shape loomed over her, turning the soupy twilight of rain and fog into shadows of rust and rotting wood.

With only a single glance behind her to confirm that the grinning man followed, she ripped the front door open and entered the Mancini mansion. She slammed the door shut behind her and frantically looked around for something to help bar the entrance.

Perhaps things weren’t that surreal after all. Emily’s capability to control her dreams melted away. She could feel the thrum of her panic, pulsing to the rhythm of her pounding heart.

She grabbed a mildew-covered chair and jammed it right in under the doorknobs, then backed away from the entrance.

The sound of rain waned outside, melting away from what felt natural to her, and making way for a deafening silence as the rain died down. Footsteps echoed. Her pursuer crossed the street.

Not chasing her like a maniac, but a deliberate stride. With purpose. With the intent of murder weighing down every strike of heavy boots against concrete. Thumping against wood as the grinning man arrived on the veranda just outside the door.

THUD.

Emily gasped and nearly fell backwards but caught herself. Contrary to her expectations, the grinning man did no more. Her imagination would have painted him as continuing to strike at the door, bashing it and eventually tearing it down with brute force.

But the hyperreality sliced into this dreamlike state, reminding her that this was no mere dream.

She was not in control.

The grinning man’s footsteps carried him up and down the mansion’s veranda, looking for another way in.

The surreal experience melted away and Emily needed to find the others. But something held her back. Paralyzed her with fear.

The fingers of two black-gloved hands wiggled through a crack between the boards nailed over a window, worming their way inside. They stopped squirming and grasped and clutched. Then the grinning man started to tug and the wood ached and groaned under the stress he caused it. It began to splinter. It continued to crack. Each tug damaged the boards more.

The white noise returned, transforming into the crashing downpour once more. The rain picked up again in volume and intensity, and Emily knew that she could use it to get away. To hide from the grinning man.

She fled through the derelict old mansion, passing through rooms filled with empty bottles and syringes from the junkies who squatted here. Over human refuse, past walls covered in obscene graffiti and through frames where the doors had long rotted away.

This house? This house. The haze in her mind cleared, the dread of this place’s true nature closing in on her like the walls. The syndicate used this place to dispose of people. They’d bring them here and execute them in some dingy room with axes and knives. None of the squatters ever talked to the authorities—out of fear of being next. Even with constant surveillance, local law enforcement never caught anybody going in and out of the Mancini house—assuming they weren’t bought by the syndicate themselves.

In one of the wings of the sprawling mansion, Emily stumbled out into an open area. The ceiling had collapsed here, leaving it exposed to the rain. The downpour engulfed her, drowning out all the noise of the grinning man smashing his way through the front window and entering the murder house. It was like the grinning man was a million miles away, or hadn’t even gotten inside.

Hal stood in the adjacent room, staring back at Emily in confusion. He held the heavy video camera in his hands.

“Hal? I’m sorry about exploding at you,” she blurted out.

He just squinted at Emily and shrugged. She failed to read his reaction. Comfortable only with being in control by being able to read everybody like an open book, his strange non-reaction irritated her. That anger returned and she then said, “But I wouldn’t be a dick about it if you didn’t give a me reason to, asshole.”

“A typical Emily non-apology. You can stick it up your ass,” he finally replied.

He raised the camera and pointed it at her. The device’s little red light flared up, indicating he had started recording.

“How ‘bout a little test run? Show us how much of a ‘highly-functioning alcoholic’ you really are. Maybe we can get a non-slurred speech on the twelfth take, and maybe we can make some proper progress when you stop drinking your way into your own little world.”

The words cut deep because he was right. Emily stood there dumbfounded, mouth agape. All that came out was a heavy sigh, swept away in the sound of rain.

“Thought so,” he said.

The downpour died down into a faint drizzle within seconds, leaving only a foggy gray void overhead.

Hal turned with the camera and disappeared around the corner. The shadows of the murder house swallowed him whole. She wanted to apologize, but dreaded that darkness within. She wanted to warn him, but it didn’t seem to matter now.

The grinning man was right behind her.

Emily knew before she turned to see it for herself. In the doorway to the room with the collapsed ceiling, there he stood. Dark hair wet with rain, slicked back, dressed all in black like the grim reaper himself, a bloodied hunting knife in hand, and that awful visage painted onto his face.

The rain had caused the makeup on the grinning man’s face to run, giving the wide Cheshire cat smile a row of wicked sharp-looking teeth. The striped eyes now ran red like tears of blood. Underneath it all, the man’s expression was one of a detached, alien indifference.

He tilted his head as he looked Emily up and down, cradling the knife in his gloved hand.

Before she realized how her pulse exploded, she ran again. Reality caught up with her once more. She tripped over debris and fell and rolled and stumbled back up onto her feet, turning around the opposite corner around which Hal had disappeared, hoping the grinning man would go after her instead of him.

Even underneath all the panic and despair, something else lurked below, feeding the fire of anger and arrogance: her guilt.

Vicky had told her that investigating the Mancini house would end badly, but Emily refused to listen. She believed that exposing it might lead them to exposing the syndicate’s hit man behind all the killings and getting another scumbag behind bars. Vicky knew it might just paint a target on their backs.

The rainstorm brought no thunder with it, but the footsteps of the grinning man thundered behind her, never matching her pace. Emily ran in a panic, like a rat scampering through the maze. The grinning man walked with purpose, knowing well his hunting grounds, and knowing well that she could not escape.

Emily had proven Vicky right.

Through rays of twilight pouring in through the cracks in the decrepit walls and holes of this ruined edifice, the grinning man followed. He raised his awful knife to remind Emily what awaited her. The constant jingle of metal, of handcuffs dangling from his belt, accompanied his every step.

Through it all, the sounds of steel cutting into flesh—and twisting, and sawing, and tearing—it reached her. Sliced through the air of escape. The bubble and gurgle of a human being choking on their own blood.

She had to hide. Double back past the grinning man, get out through the window that he had gotten in by. She hoped he would chase her back outside so he could not get the others.

The miracle to her prayer came when the storm picked up in force again. The patter of rain outside the mansion’s walls rose to a deafening crescendo and Emily dove behind a wall. Her pulse still raced but she held her breath, biting her tongue just enough to focus.

Focus.

The thundering boots of the grinning man passed by her hiding place. He had lost her.

For now.

She waited longer, then allowed herself to breathe.

She needed to breathe. Regain some focus. Some calm.

Breathe. Breathe.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Vicky had whispered to Emily. The words reached her through this surreal haze, the memory of the drunken blur that she often woke up to and had to blink away for minutes of disorientation. Realities clashed, with this reminiscence choosing to surface at the most inconvenient time.

That morning, Vicky had tried to wake her up at the motel. Splashing Emily’s face with a glass of water was what it took to get her up. In an indignant rage, she spouted a string of vile profanities at Vicky and added a few racial slurs to make it sting. Vicky’s face was a stone mask, unimpressed.

“Y'know, maybe you’ll just end your career yourself by drinking your way into a fuckin’ grave before the Mancini killer can even get to know us,” she told Emily after hearing out her worthless tirade. “Get ready. We’re two hours behind schedule because you can’t haul your sorry drunk carcass outta bed.”

The two of them exchanged no more words for the rest of the day and the drive upstate remained a rather quiet one.

And now? Now they were at the mercy of this hit man working for the syndicate. This demon.

The grinning man.

She heard him no longer, so she snuck back, pausing every now and then, trying to retrace their steps. In the darkness of the house, she failed to notice an old crumpled up beer can until her shoe kicked it aside with a loud metallic clattering sound. Every joint in her body locked up, cold sweat erupted from her pores, and her heart skipped several beats.

The grinning man’s footsteps, now distant, stopped. Then they picked up again, returning to her.

She ran again, taking grim solace in the thought that him giving her chase meant the others were safe. What a wonderful delusion—a cloak to drape itself over the guilt.

Just when she made it to the window where the grinning man had climbed inside, the rain began to die down. The foggy darkness outside was not natural—it did not fit the time or the place. Still, there was no traffic outside, not a single soul. Nothing was as it was supposed to be.

Because her resolve began to crumble and her escape continued to prove futile, she glanced at her watch, still displaying 3:33 PM. Nothing fit in this world. None of it was real. Just an escape.

Just like she escaped from the grinning man, she was trying to escape from reality and was failing. Failing hard.

She squeezed through the boards used to seal the window. A searing hot pain exploded in her back where the grinning man stabbed her. He twisted the knife just a little bit—so it would stick—giving Emily cause to scream.

It was another Emily who screamed. The real Emily. The one who had vowed not to scream, not to give this psycho the satisfaction. In the face of this agony, though, all vows were blown away.

The real Emily was handcuffed to a curtain bar high up on the wall, with her shoulders aching from hanging there in painful suspension; with the soles of her shoes lightly scraping over the filthy floorboards. Whether the grinning man had deliberately saved her for last or not, his first stab into her back broke her out of the fake little bubble she had withdrawn into to escape the horrors of reality.

There was no rain outside to comfort her, just another sunny day. The traffic lazily passed by, regular people driving past this old decrepit building in broad daylight without knowing that a serial killer for hire had killed Gloria, Hal, and Vicky, in that order—and was now about to stab Emily to death.

The crew’s black van stood outside, across the road, by the gas station. The only abandoned piece of evidence of their whereabouts. The bodies of her colleagues lay in the same room, eviscerated. Vicky was not quite dead yet. She still gurgled and twitched, suffocating on her own blood.

The grinning man had stabbed Emily with surgical precision, teaching her a valuable lesson about his nature: he enjoyed this work. Took pride in it—made it hurt without immediately killing. The first stab would cause no fatal injury on its own if attended to. He withdrew the blade and a sticky warmth trickled down her backside, pumping out of her, matching the pulse of her own racing heart, soaking her pants.

The second stab would leave no lasting damage, either. Just a searing hot pain and a trauma that would fuel future nightmares. Emily could not even tell where the blade went in. Somewhere on the side of her back—it wasn’t like it mattered, for her entire lower back transformed into a fiery lake of pain.

Only with delay did Emily register the shouting. She heard the words, spoken in her native language, but it took all her strength to translate them through the haze of drunkenness and the fog of this terrible reality catching up with her.

The shuffling, the gunshots, the body of the grinning man collapsing onto the ground.

“Freeze! Put the weapon down!”

The police officers had shot and killed the grinning man.

They had saved Emily, but they were too late for Vicky, let alone Hal, or Gloria. The demon that had been the grinning man—he was no more. He would live on through the grim and harrowing documentary to follow. It would not be Emily’s to make, though she would be a subject in it; just another face talking into the camera.

The guilt over the deaths of Vicky, Hal, and Gloria—it never went away. She would always wonder if things would have been different, had she not dulled her senses with a constant stream of booze. Sometimes, when it rained, she would remember them. She would remember how she retreated into another world to escape the horrible reality. A shell of madness against the horrors of a mad world.

Keeping busy and turning into a workaholic kept her distracted. The horrors faded faster than she would have thought, as her research taught her what a terrible place the world was. The Mancini mansion incident joined a series of her ongoing trauma for her to use in sanding down almost every soft spot she used to have.

She never did quit drinking, though she found some sense in drinking less. Her career was better off for it. After her exposé on human trafficking got published, people stopped asking her about the story of that demon—the grinning man.

The other demon, the one sitting at the bottom of Emily’s glass, that one would stay with her for years to come. She could blame it on traumatic experiences, most of all this one, or on other things that jaded her in her life as an investigative reporter.

But that demon was her.

—Submitted by Wratts

[sopwithwhump]

The Storm

Another @badthingshappenbingo​ fic, which also introduces my new Character, Scott “Lucky” Keenan, a daring pilot. The trope for this one was “Concussion.” TW for plane crash, emeto, concussion, and stormy weather. Lucky gets caught in a storm and crashes his plane.

“I’m heading up to Abbotsford for the air show this weekend!” said Scott Keenan as he loaded his bag into his Cessna 172, “I’m excited. Didn’t get to go last year!”

           “Lucky, I don’t think you should be flying,” said his friend Will, “the weather said there would be rain over the mountains as you approach the lower mainland! Perhaps you should just stay home in Kelowna? Or drive? There’s still two full days before the event begins.”

           Lucky was Scott’s nickname, and he preferred that people called him that. “Oh, Will, I’ve flown in rain before. It’s a little like night flying, just wetter. You know I have that night rating.”

           “Yes, I’m fully aware…”

           “Then what is there to be worried about? You can trust the flying skills of ol’ Lucky. Plus, the weather says it’s just a chance of showers. Using my pilot’s judgement, I believe I can make this trip safely. Also, I’m prepared like a smart pilot. I’ve got a list of suitable aerodromes for landing along the route. Though I’m going to make it in a direct flight.”

           “Alright, Lucky. Fly safe. I’ll be there on Saturday,” said Will as Lucky brought his plane to the taxiway. He set his instruments and quickly looked at a map. After getting permission and waiting for a jet plane first, Lucky taxied to the end of the runway, and then took off. It was a beautiful clear day in Kelowna as he began to head west.

           As he continued to fly, he definitely saw the grey clouds, but it didn’t worry him too much. Lucky was quite the fearless pilot. So much so that he sometimes he did either daring or stupid things with his plane, but never ended up with any damage. A little bit of rain wasn’t going to bother him.

           Unfortunately, even the most precise of weather equipment could be wrong. Lucky gripped the controls as his plane was hit with a sudden updraft as the small plane flew through the rain. He was able to continue on after straightening out and making sure he was going west again. Then, out of nowhere, the flash of a lightning strike went off in the distance, followed by a loud thunderclap. “Dang it, Will was right,” he said, turning to his navigation system. The next aerodrome was a little ways away from where he was.

           Without warning, something made a noise against the aluminum of the plane, much like a pebble. These noises suddenly started to multiply. Lucky was flying right into a hailstorm. “Oh no…” he whimpered, wincing as the hailstones fell onto his plane, denting the delicate aluminum body, “we’re turning around… lemme get on the Merritt station…” He tried to stay calm, trying to execute a coordinated turn as best he could as his plane was bombarded with hail. As he started to turn the yoke, another updraft grabbed the wing. He yelped as he tried to straighten it out, but it was no use- the plane began to spiral downward. He quickly pressed the emergency transponder switch as he tried to recover from the spin. He finally did so, but at that point he was at the tree line. The plane’s wing hit the top of a tall pine tree, and Lucky and his poor plane plummeted to the ground, causing him to black out.

           When he came to his senses, all he could smell was smoke from the engine. He coughed and shook his head, trying to clear the double vision. How hard did he hit it? He quickly reached in the back and grabbed his things, then forced the bent-up door open and threw it out onto the ground, before realizing that yes, it was still stormy and wet out there. He then laid back as a wave of dizziness overcame him. His vision went blurry and there was a ringing in his ears. I hope my emergency transponder was heard, he said as he moved the mixture pull to starve the plane of fuel.

He closed his eyes, and suddenly the whole situation hit him. Here he was, in the middle of the mountains, injured with his plane beyond repair. Fear started to kick in, and he felt himself start to hyperventilate. No, no, he thought to himself, remember air cadets? Fear is one of the seven enemies of survival. Stay calm. Although it was hard to stay calm in a hailstorm in the forest.

He rolled out of the plane onto the ground, then felt a terrible wave of nausea and threw up. His head hurt. He brought his hand to his forehead, then pulled it away as he felt some pain. There was blood on his hand. Hit my head quite hard there…

The headache, nausea and dizziness, as well as the ringing in his ears was bothersome, but he tried to ignore that and figure out what to do. The heavy rain and hail chilled him as it quickly soaked through his light windbreaker and hoodie. He started to get really worried, quickly going back into the plane to see if his radio was still working. “Mayday, Mayday, Mayday,” he said, hoping someone could hear, “Skyhawk Charlie-Hotel-Echo-India, crashed and grounded in mountainous area between Kelowna and Abbotsford. 1 Soul onboard, navigation systems broken. Does anyone hear? Anyone?” His voice cracked with desperation near the end of the distress call. He listened. He played with the dial and repeated the message. Tears came to his eyes.

“Stupid piece of junk!” He shouted, throwing the headset and kicking the wrecked plane. Another wave of intense dizziness and nausea accompanied by blurry double vision then came over him. He stumbled over and sat down on the cold ground, trying to overcome it. He then threw up for a second time. “Where’s that first aid kit…” he groaned.

Opening the tough canvas bag that held his survival supplies, he got out his signalling mirror and looked at his forehead. Yep, there was a jagged gash on it. He quickly got out some gauze from his first aid kit and held it against the wound, then frantically started to dig through the survival bag, trying to find things that would help him. He found a foil blanket and wrapped himself in it, knowing that it would be nearly impossible to start a fire in this weather. Will was right… why is he always right? Lucky thought to himself as he shivered. The icky feelings in his head were terribly persistent.

Lucky sat there, defeated. The normally fearless pilot felt terribly afraid. He started to tear up, worried about if anyone knew where he was. Out here, freezing and wet, possibly suffering from a concussion. He laid on his stomach wrapped up in the blanket, taking deep breaths, shutting his eyes tightly as he started shivering. The storm had to be passing soon, that or someone would somehow come to his rescue.

An hour had passed as he laid there shivering, the headache pain and dizziness gradually intensifying, to the point where he didn’t want to move. He might have lost consciousness, it was hard to keep track as he laid there. After throwing up again, he now was worried about dehydration. But he was too tired to get water. In too much pain. Lucky wasn’t holding on very well. The hail had stopped, but the heavy rain, high winds, and thunder persisted.

Out in the distance, he heard a noise. The sound of a rotor. A helicopter rotor. Lucky rolled over onto his back, suddenly very awake, even though he felt absolutely awful. He was holding his signal mirror in his hands. Even though the sun wasn’t out, he held it to the sky, desperate to get the attention of whoever was flying. He smiled as he saw a big yellow whirlybird flying overhead.

The sound got closer. He felt too weak to move, but he wanted to crawl toward it. It got even louder. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the huge rescue helicopter land in a nearby clearing. The red stripe on it, the blue ring with a maple leaf inside, this was a Cormorant. They must have gotten the Air Force because of the storm. They have the skills.

“I’m over here!” He called, rather weakly, “Help! I’m here!” I can’t believe my transponder was heard… maybe even the distress call… I guess I live up to my nickname. A small team of rescuers in bright orange raincoats ran over to him. “Don’t worry,” said a young female rescue tech, kneeling beside him, “we’ve got you.”

“Thank God…” he whimpered softly, the relief flowing over him. Two rescuers gently moved him onto a stretcher and wrapped him in a soft blanket, while another quickly got his things from the plane and where they were scattered on the ground. He looked at the wreckage of his plane, and felt a terrible feeling in the pit of his stomach. His plane! It was gone! This forest was its grave… all because he decided he could fly in rain. Yes, no one saw the storm coming it seemed, but nevertheless he felt it was his fault.

As he was carried toward the big yellow helicopter, he could no longer hold in his emotions. He felt his lip quiver as he laid there, warm tears falling down his face. He silently cried as the rescue personnel put him on some monitors and tried to dry him off a bit.

“What’s your name?” One of them asked.

“Lucky,” he replied, whimpering. No one really called him Scott. Someone was taking care of the wound on his forehead, another was listening to his breathing. His headache pounded as the chopper took off. The dizziness and nausea came in in another wave. Suddenly, he felt it happen for the fourth time. “I’m gonna… I’m gonna puke…”

He threw up in a bucket. Lucky’s consciousnesses was fading… someone gave him an IV, another tried to reassure him. “Hey… we’re here. You’re in good hands. What’s bothering you?”

“I think I hit my head…” Lucky whimpered, “my head hurts bad… I’m so dizzy… and sick…”

Another rescuer got out his penlight and shined it in his eyes. “Possible concussion…”

“Lucky, how many fingers am I holding up?” said the female medic.

“Double vision… I know it’s three but I see six…” lucky replied, “I think I’m going to pass out… I feel so awful…”

“It’s okay, buddy. Just sleep. We’ll take care of you. Just relax, okay?” Her voice faded out as he closed his eyes.

The next time he woke up he was in an ambulance on the ground. Someone was shining a light in his eyes. “There you are…” said a young man’s voice, “it’s okay, we’ve got you. You’re being taken to a hospital in Abbotsford… don’t try to move.” The lights in the ambulance were blindingly bright and seemed to aggravate his headache. “The lights… they… I’m going to throw up…”

Lucky dry heaved but didn’t end up vomiting. The headache then overpowered him, and he let out a loud groan. “Help… my head…” he sputtered out. The lights were turned down, and he found himself drifting out of consciousness again.

Again, he found himself awake. But this time, the fatigue just remained. He winced at the brightness of the fluorescent lights, but as he woke up more he actually felt some comfort. He was nice and dry in a hospital gown, under some warm blankets, laying on a soft pillow. The IV was probably delivering some amazing painkillers.

“Hello? Can someone tell me where I am?” Lucky called out. A nurse spotted him, and he quickly came over.

“Scott, you’re awake,” he said, “you’re in a hospital in Abbotsford. Do you remember what happened?”

“I… crashed in the forest… it was awful. My poor Cessna… she’s toast,” said Lucky, tearing up again. He turned on his side. “There’s nothing I can do. By the way… did I hit my head too hard? I was so dizzy… my head still hurts. Just faintly. You obviously put me on something good.”

“Oh, yeah, definitely the morphine. You did suffer a concussion, but it was rather mild. You just need to rest, it’s ok if you do,” the nurse said, “that whole thing about slipping into a coma from sleeping with a concussion is a myth.”

“I sure am tired for some reason. Can I call my friend first?”

“Sure, your phone survived, actually.” Lucky was handed his phone, and he quickly called Will.

“Dude! You alright? I heard about the storm in the mountains and lower mainland, and then I thought of you… did you make it? You alright?”

“I could be better,” said Lucky, “I crashed my skyhawk in the mountains. CAF rescue found me over an hour later. I’m happy the emergency transponder worked… but my plane, man. That’s a loss and a half right there.”

“Hey, a pilot shouldn’t go down with his plane. Yes, it’s terrible that your 172 is no more. But… you’re alive. I mean.. planes are expensive. But… maybe we can figure something out. I can help you. I don’t know what insurance will do, but I will at least try to help. I’m gonna miss your old girl.”

“Yeah. Man, I was in sad shape. I puked like… five times, the headache and dizziness were phenomenal, it was not a good time. Hopefully this weather passes before the big show. Although I might have to miss it. Depends on what the doc says.”

“Alright. I’m still heading down. I’m glad you’re okay. So sorry about the plane.”

“Thanks Will. Oh, I think that’s the doctor. Gotta go,” he hung up as the woman in a white coat came over to him. “Hello… Scott? Is that right?”

“I prefer Lucky,” he replied.

“Well, you definitely are! I’m glad those rescuers were able to come to your aid!”

“Yeah, I guess so…” he said with a smile.

“I’m just going to look at your pupil response again… can you just look forward for me? Just going to shine this light in your eyes…” he sat still as she moved the light around.

“Well, the concussion isn’t too severe… you’ll just need to rest for a few days. No watching TV or anything like that.”

“I was planning on going to the air show…”

“Aw, I’m sorry, Lucky. But that wouldn’t be good.”

“Alright… thanks doc.” Lucky then rolled over, closed his eyes, and fell asleep again. When he was discharged, Will had made it to Abbotsford.

“Hey, buddy. Let’s go to the hotel. You can rest there. No air show?” said Will as Lucky dragged his stuff to the car.

“No air show,” Lucky sighed.

“Well, friend, I’ll stay at the hotel with you. I’m willing to sacrifice that.”

“Really? Aw, Will… you know, I only have to rest for about three days… I can be alone.”

“No, Lucky, I’m staying with you.” Once Will and Lucky got to the hotel, Lucky laid in bed and slept for twelve whole hours. The three days went by fast, and soon enough the headaches and dizziness were completely gone.

“Well, Lucky, you can always go for a joyride in my plane anytime,” said Will as he drove him home to Kelowna, “as long as you don’t take it out in the rain!”

“Aw, Will. I think I’ve learned my lesson.”

[the-blind-assassin-12]

I See You : Part 1

A/N: Billy’s awake... and he remembers everything. What’s his plan?

Word Count: 2,568

Warnings: graphic descriptions and foul AF language annnnnnnd M U R D E R. 😈

Six months. That’s how long it had been since he’d woken up in that dimly lit back room, cuffed with thick chains to the hard bed beneath him. The first few moments of consciousness were blurry as the exposed beams and overhead lights, the cracked and clouded windows and stained cement floor came into view, and his survival instincts kicked in telling him where he was. Warehouse. Breathing slowly through his nose to keep himself calm, he looked down at his right arm and saw that it was stuck full of needles and tubes. I.Vs. His eyes followed the clear tubing from the crook of his elbow to a makeshift stand, a nearly empty saline bag hanging from a bent hook, rundown, dated medical equipment beeping softly behind him. He swallowed, his throat bone dry and scratchy, as he tried to recall what had happened…how he’d ended up there. He tried to reach up to his face but the short metal restraints prevented him from doing so, clanging loudly and echoing in the cavernous room. So I didn’t come here on my own then… He scanned the room for any other clues, coming up empty until he spotted a non-descript black phone on a small side table. What the fu… He reached for it, wrapping his fingers around the cheap plastic before flipping it open only to find that it was completely devoid of any contact information. There had been no calls made and none received, but the battery had been fully charged. Billy set the phone back down, frustration growing by the second. Everything in him, all his training, his conditioning, all of it was telling him he was in trouble, sending him signals that he wasn’t supposed to be here, but there didn’t seem to be much he could do about it. He hated that feeling more than any other, that feeling of having no control, of being at someone else’s mercy.

He swallowed again, the sensation like sand paper on his esophagus. Fuck, I need water. He blinked his eyes a few times and realized that they felt dry, too. Jesus, how long was I out? He’d wanted answers but the longer he was awake, the more he looked around, the more questions he’d gotten instead. Unable to reach past the restraints that held both of his wrists in place, he looked down at his lap. Stretching the fingers of his left hand he gripped the threadbare sheet that had been draped over him and pulled it back. His eyes widened as they fell on the heavy bandages that covered his abdomen. Shit…I really… And then it hit him- he remembered. Everything. The fight on the carousel. The broken mirror. Frank’s face hovering over him, his gruff voice in his ear. Choking on his own blood, nearly drowning on it, the metallic taste of it coating his tongue. He remembered the last two words he uttered, and what he’d felt when he’d said them. “Kill me,” he’d implored his former friend, the man he’d called brother for years. “Kill me,” the two words he never expected to come from his own lips. It hadn’t all been vanity in that request, hadn’t all been about pain or suffering or consequences. There’d been some regret, some admission, some self-loathing in those words as well. He knew what he’d done to Frank’s family, and he knew Frank- knew that there was only one way that this all was going to end; with one of them dead at the hands of the other. Brothers.

The hum of the florescent lightbulbs, despite being 32 feet above him, seemed to grow to a deafening roar as the realizations struck him in waves. His breathing quickened through flared nostrils and the machine behind him increased its incessant beeping as a result of his heightened heartrate. He couldn’t reach his face, couldn’t know the extent of the damage there, but he remembered the sound of the glass shattering as Frank dragged his cheek along it. He remembered the inhuman screams from his own mouth, remembered Frank’s words “Dyin’s easy, Bill.” Yeah, Frankie, it is. And when I get outta here I’m gonna show you just how easy… Frank didn’t want him dead just yet? Fine. One at the hands of the other, right? He looked at his hands; at the cuffs clasped around his wrists, at the knobby bones protruding after the atrophy of however much time had passed and decided that these hands would serve him well for killing…just as they always had.

Sometime later, a pair of footsteps echoed from the hall to the right and Billy sat up as straight as he could, ready to face whomever those footsteps belonged to. He winced slightly as a searing pain shot through his abdomen, and he looked back at the bag hanging on the hook to see that it was empty. Putting two and two together he realized it must have contained some form of pain medication- something to numb the agony that he’d otherwise have been in. Good, I wanna feel it. He felt his lip curl as the footsteps grew nearer, a man’s form materializing in the darkened doorway. “You can stay right where you are, doc, until you start explaining,” he snarled as the man’s eyes widened upon finding his patient awake and alert.

“Didn’t expect to see you up,” the man said, scratching his chin. Billy felt an itch on his own chin that he couldn’t scratch and his anger grew.

“Well here I am, asshole,” he opened his hands. “So start talking.”

The man hesitated before taking a few more steps towards Billy. He squinted his tired-looking hazel eyes, dark puffy circles showing beneath them, and Billy guessed he was a doctor at a nearby clinic or hospital that was looking for a side hustle. The man’s eye’s flicked to the empty bag behind Billy and then back on the coal-black eyes burning holes through him. He nodded at the I.V. stand. “I could set you up again there.”

“Not interested in dope, doc. Talk.”

“Alright,” the man took another step. “You came in pretty messed up. What do you remember?”

“Everything.” Billy growled.

The doctor nodded again, pocketing his hands. “Guy that brought you in made me promise that you’d survive, told me to give you that,” he pointed to the phone on the side table. “That was about as much as I could get out of him.”

“Yeah,” Billy scoffed, “Frank’s not a big talker.” He felt a burning sensation crawl across his face as the nerve endings there woke up.

“You been here about a month,” Billy kept his stoic façade but that news socked him in the gut. A fucking month? In a fucking coma? The doctor continued. “Had to keep you sedated, keep you out of it so you could heal…he…I’m assuming it was the same guy who brought you here?” he paused and Billy nodded. “He did a number on that face of yours. Cheek flapping off the bone, ear nearly torn off. I’m good with a needle and thread but that” he gestured with two stubby fingers towards Billy’s face, “was a challenge.” He indicated Billy’s bandaged torso next. “Stab in the belly though, that’s the one that was really critical. That’s what I had to keep you sedated for- make sure you couldn’t move and rip out the internal sutures.”

“Well great job, doc, I’m alive,” Billy said sardonically. He’d have given the man a sarcastic round of applause if he could. “Now how about we get these cuffs off. I’ve got some business to finish.”

Something familiar flashed in the man’s eyes- something Billy had seen in dozens of eyes over the years- fear. “Sorry, can’t do that just yet.” The slight waver in his voice told Billy that he was right about the fear…but it wasn’t him the doctor was afraid of. It was Frank. He wasn’t going to deviate from whatever plan Frank had in mind. “You’ll still need supervision…you’ll need more medical attention…for a few more months before-“

“Months?!” Billy barked, the force of his question causing a pull in the wound in his abdomen.

The doctor nodded. “You have no idea…the shape you were in…the shape you’re still in…Hell, you sure you don’t want another round of morphine? You must be hurtin’…”

Billy just fumed silently in response as feeling started to come back all throughout his body. The pain would have made most men howl, would have made most pass back out utterly overwhelmed, every nerve in his body igniting with just the slightest movement- the flutter of an eyelash, clearing his throat, bending a finger. But Billy was not at all like most men. Instead the pain only made him angrier, only fueled the rage that caused his heart to keep on beating. “I’m good,” he refused the doctor again.

The doctor took a half step towards the I.V. stand. “You sure? I-“

“I said I’m good.” The definitive tone in his voice chopped through the air like a paper cutter and the doctor nodded quickly. “How long?” Billy inquired.

“Until you can-“

“Until I can leave. How. Long?” Each word dripped with venom- for the man in front of him, for Frank, for himself for getting into this situation at all.

The doctor ran a shaky hand through his hair and shrugged. “Two more months?” Billy’s eyes darkened and the man flinched. “Make sure there’s no infection…make sure you can walk without pain…without-“

“Make sure you follow Frank’s orders, you mean.” Billy fell back against the poor excuse for a mattress.

“Look, guy,” the man said, holding his hands up in front of him. “This Frank character? He means business. He shows up with you looking like minced meat, with his threats and his conditions…knows my name, knows my wife’s name…so yeah…I’m following his orders. Me and you…it’s not personal, but I’m not trying to get on his bad side like you must’ve.”

With that, the doctor checked Billy’s bandages, set up another I.V.- no painkillers, just fluids- and said he’d be back later with food. Billy watched him retreat down the same hallway he’d come from, and heard the distant sound of a door swinging on creaking hinges, scraping against concrete, before slamming shut with a heavy thud. As though the whole interaction was being screened, watched, the phone on the table next to him began to ring. Billy looked at it, eyes threatening to melt the piece of shit burner as he stretched his restraints to pick it back up. Flipping it open, he answered. “Frank.”

. . . . . . . .

He’d gotten out of that back alley hell two months later, like the unnamed doctor who now resided somewhere in a landfill with the contents of the dumpster Billy had left him in had said. Frank had called once a week every week, like he’d said. He never mentioned anything about keeping the doctor alive, and he either didn’t know or didn’t care that Billy had disposed of him. But he’d made it clear that his rules were to be followed- made it clear that he’d come after Billy if he got word that he’d stepped one foot outside the city limits of New York. He’d given Billy instruction on where to go, where to find work, where to live- all places that wouldn’t check backgrounds or credit or anything that would link the scarred, scruffy shell of William Russo to the remnants that Billy had become. Seeing no other option, and not having formed a bullet proof plan for revenge just yet, Billy had stuck to the script. Three months became four and four became six. Six months with just his own thoughts etching tally marks on the inside walls of his skull. Six months with just Frank’s weekly phone call, ensuring that he was still playing by the rules. But by the sixth month of his new life, the wheels of his old one began to turn and a plan had started to form.

He’d felt like a dog. On a leash. Beaten and abused. Rabid. Whipped. But you’re a dog too, Frankie, aren’t ya? You obey. You don’t defy. You snarl and you bite but you didn’t go for the kill. Well I’m breaking from the pack now. No more masters. No more leashes. No more squirming under someone’s thumb. He scratched absently at an itch near his nose, fingertips finding the jagged ridges and grooves of one of the many scars that made up his new face, lingering over the once smooth skin that was now rippled and taught, stretched and pulled. His top lip curled involuntarily at the constant reminder of what had been taken from him, what he’d built, what he’d lost, and how he’d be forced to live now that it was all gone.

Rules. Always someone else’s rules. Someone else calling the shots, someone else running the show and pulling the strings. His mother. The group home. Arthur. Rawlins. Frank. React. Endure and then react. That had always been how things had gone. He was tough enough. He could take it. Proud to handle it. But he was sick of it. There was always something to gain for being strong; had always been a reward for resiliency. Where was the reward now? There was no reward now, only a reminder. He dragged his hand down his chin where a rough layer of stubble grew in patches, before bringing it back up to the top of his head, scrubbing it over the bristly hair that had once been smooth and lustrous. Rubble. That’s what was left of William Russo, former Marine Special Forces operative and CEO of Anvil- the hollowed out remains, the crumbling edifice of a once proud structure, ravaged by firebombs. It was time to rise from the ashes.

Billy waited at the bus stop like he did every day, the hood of his white sweatshirt pulled up over his head despite the warm temperature. He checked the time. 2:42. The bus would be coming in three minutes, and so would Frank’s phone call. He turned the small rectangular phone over inside the pocket of his sweatshirt, waiting. As the minutes passed and more people gathered around the bus stop, he felt the phone vibrate and he pulled it out to answer, just as the hulking MTA bus rounded the corner. He stepped back to allow the other passengers to board before him, answering the phone as a lady and her young son made their way up the steps, smiling at the driver. “Hey, Frankie,” he answered, voice dripping with sarcasm.

It was the same call Frank always made. It was the same bus at the same time that Billy always took. But there were two things about that day that were different- two things that would change everything; one- Billy had a plan, and two- that plan went to shit when he heard a familiar voice address him once he’d ended his call with Frank.

“Billy Russo?” the voice was light and airy, female and sweet as honey. “Is that you?”

Billy froze in the middle of stowing the phone safely back in his pocket. Shit. Six months had passed and not one person had noticed him. Until he heard your voice. Shit, shit, shit.

@something-tofightfor @my-little-dumpster-fire @zaffrenotes

Let me know if you would like to be added or removed from the tags!!

[falseroar]

Dark Laughter Part 3: Mirror Images

((Here’s a link to Part 2: I’m Trying and a link to the beginning of the series, Part 1: What Dark Saw.))

Dark spent over an hour pacing the third floor of the house, examining every inch of the hall where he thought—where he knew he saw you earlier, allowing his aura to stretch and expand in search of something, anything, to prove that he was right.

But there was nothing, no sense of anything off or out of the ordinary.

In response to his anger, the lights overhead flickered and hummed, any illumination they provided already struggling to do any more than highlight the oppressive darkness that hung heavy in the air for several feet around him.

Dark closed his eyes and breathed out, allowing his aura to recede and the normal colors of the hallway to return.

This was pointless and getting him nowhere. He would get his answers eventually, but not like this. To start, he needed to get away from this area and clear his head.

Dark made his way down the stairs to the second floor, where bedroom doors lined the hall to either side. Most of the rooms were silent and dark at this hour of the night, although Ed Edgar’s snores could be heard long before Dark passed the ego’s room. Blue light came out from beneath a door plastered with stickers of various memes and brand names, Bing no doubt playing whatever battle royale game had caught his attention this week. Dark thought he heard sniffling from behind one of the doors that had yet to be decorated, but when he paused there the noise stopped.

Aside from these small things, the house was relatively quiet, and there was no one to stop Dark on his way to his office, or to interrupt him with some pointless question or remark. It was his own restless thoughts that made him pause at the door, one hand on the doorknob, before continuing on down the hall to the stairs at the other end. Downstairs, Dark saw a single light on in the infirmary and heard the doctor tapping away at his keyboard. In the living room he spotted an ego sprawled out on the couch, their face covered by a book but the suit and cape giving away Silver Shepherd’s identity. His mask lay on the cushion beside him, and Dark briefly considered it before deciding to give the opportunity a pass.

Instead, he made his way to the kitchen, where the only light came from the small bulb above the sink. Soft breathing came from the pantry door in the corner, where Chef Iplier was known to keep a cot despite the ample number of bedrooms upstairs. No one questioned him on that, or anything else the ego was known or suspected to do when left alone here in his domain.

Dark peered out the back window, but the distant forest line was just a suggestion at this time of night. Somewhere out there the King of the Squirrels kept a nest or a tree fort or some kind of hideaway that no one else had been able to find, where he spent most of his nights unless the weather became particularly bad. The last time that happened, Dr. Iplier had taken advantage of the opportunity to, with the combined effort of Google and some of the stronger egos such as Silver Shepherd, “convince” the King to take a rare bath. For their effort, they all earned several scratches and bites, and somehow despite the massive amounts of flea and tick shampoo, the King still came out smelling vaguely of peanuts.

Dark smiled to himself at the memory as he left the kitchen, feeling…more in control of his emotions, at least. Perhaps, and it dealt a severe blow to his pride to admit even in the privacy of his own mind, perhaps the Host and Google were right to dismiss his concerns. What he saw in the hall couldn’t have been real—you were safe and asleep miles away. He told himself that maybe it was a trick of memory or—

Something moved to Dark’s left and he spun around before realizing that he was looking at the wide mirror hanging on the wall. It was a replacement for the one you had broken when you “arrived” last year, but in a rare moment of self-interest, the Host had asked that it not be put back in the same place. He hadn’t explained why, and for several months after he had still gone out of his way to avoid that stretch of hall near the conference room.

Now it hung here on the ground floor, where it made this area a little lighter and provided the egos a chance to check themselves out and make any last-minute adjustments before leaving or joining the others for a meal.

In the relative darkness of the hallway, it took Dark a half second to realize just how wrong the reflection was. There was a door behind him, yes, but it did not have the same shape and make as the front door of the ego house. Black and white checkered tiles in the mirror did not match the flooring behind him, and there was certainly no staircase to his right twisting up and out of sight.

And, more importantly, it was not his own reflection that stared back out at him.

You stood opposite him, your reflection just as he had seen it at the end of the hall earlier: head tilted at a wrong angle, blood staining old clothes he hadn’t seen in over a year, but for a split second he could clearly see your face.

Until a bloodied hand slammed against the other side of the glass.

Dark cried out and backed away, but it was his own reflection looking back at him from the mirror, face pale as he let his outstretched hand drop to his side where it trembled until he gripped it with his other hand. His mirror image betrayed the horror that flashed through his eyes, but he did not see what it turned into when he spun around at the sound from down the hall.

“Who’s there?” Dark asked.

Silence met his question, and continued until he almost doubted what he had heard.

Almost.

Dark did not bother with the stairs, choosing instead to disappear into his aura.

In the empty hallway, something stirred in the mirror and, from a distance, the laugh Dark heard repeated itself, mocking now.

---

The Host leaned close to the microphone, speaking low and soft in the complete confidence that it caught every word that flowed through him and swept up his listeners in their wake. And, for one very special listener, was more than just a story.

Tonight, it was his reality.

“—He fumbles with the handle, aware of the footsteps coming ever closer. If this key doesn’t work, there are no second chances for our dear Phillip. After all, we all know second chances are far too kind for what he has done. No, there is only the creature, the manifestation of his wrongs, drawn by the smell of fear that clouds his judgment, creeping ever nearer with every precious second he wastes praying that he chose correctly, it more than ready to—”

The Host paused, aware of the sudden change in the atmosphere of his recording studio. His smile of pleasure quickly turned into a thin-lipped frown, but he recovered quickly and continued, “No, the key fits, the door unlocks, and Phillip is stumbling out into the cold night air, free of the warehouse. He slams the door behind him, but nothing follows. Listeners, let’s leave Phillip alone to his thoughts, to consider what he’s learned this night. He will have more than enough time walking the long miles back into town, assuming he remembers the correct way to go. He is so given to ‘forgetting,’ after all. And I will leave you now, until next time. Good night, my dearest listeners.”

The Host smiled at those last words out of habit, but as he turned off the equipment and removed his headphones to be greeted by a terrible ringing sound, that expression soured.

“The Host is aware that his ‘On Air’ light is still on.”

“You left the door unlocked,” Dark answered.

“Because the Host is aware that Wilford planned to drop by, and he has grown tired of replacing the lock on that door. The Host is also aware that Darkiplier did not use the door, so the point is moot.”

“Then if you’re so aware of everything, you should know why I’m here.” Dark heard his ringing hit a new a pitch and tried to reign his aura in before it damaged the sensitive equipment that filled the studio. A courtesy he hardly thought the ego deserved, but one he attempted all the same.

“The Host is not omniscient,” he answered, but his lips moved briefly before he spoke up again. “Darkiplier saw something again?”

“I saw them, I saw Y/N,” Dark said. “In the mirror, downstairs, and just like before they were—something was wrong with them.”

“The Host has told Darkiplier, Y/N is at Mark’s house, there’s nothing wrong—”

“I know, I called, but that doesn’t change what I saw. I want you to look back, right now, and tell me what happened with your narration.”

“Darkiplier does not give the Host orders, not anymore.”

“I’m asking,” Dark said, baring his teeth at the word. “Host, this is for Y/N—”

“And since when has Darkiplier cared about Y/N?” Bitterness coursed through the Host’s words but it quickly turned to a quiet fury as he said, “Darkiplier has the audacity to be offended by the Host’s words, as if he has not constantly tried to use Y/N for his own benefit, from attempting to take advantage of their visions to nearly getting them destroyed in a vain attempt to save himself—”

“That was Anti—”

“Who you made a deal with in the first place just to get closer to Y/N! You possessed them to try and kill the Host!”

“Please. You and I both know you egos are harder to kill than that. You should know that more than anyone here, Author.”

The Host reached up, his fingertips brushing against the bandages around his eyes. “The Host is aware that just because we can survive something, it doesn’t mean there aren’t scars left behind. And he has seen so many of the scars that Darkiplier has left upon Y/N.”

“What are you talking about? I never—”

“How many years, trapped in that mirror?” The Host asked aloud. “How long left alone in that house? How many more, left as a splintered and broken echo of themselves? How many sleepless nights since then, how many nightmares? How many memories locked away because of the pain? How deep is the scar left by the face of a friend used to betray them, to take away their very body, only to have it happen again? Darkiplier, of all people, should know what that violation of Y/N’s person meant when he used them, and all just for a single act of spite.”

Dark’s aura was silent as it pressed in tight around him, leaving him almost monochromatic as he let those words sink in. His voice was low, controlled, and restrained as he said, “Do you feel proud of yourself, after that little speech? The righteous and put-upon Host, defending his little brothers, defending Y/N from the big bad Darkiplier? As if your hands are clean.”

Dark paced around the recording studio, taking in the equipment as he said, “Such a shame Y/N has never been able to catch your little show, isn’t it? I wonder how they would feel, knowing how you twist your words around your latest ‘characters’, hearing that love of control in your voice as you play with them for your dear listeners. You know it’s funny, that tone you have when you tell a story, from the very first book of the Author’s that I read, I always felt like there was more of me in you than Mark. You used to be my favorite, but I’m sure you knew that.”

“The Host is nothing like Darkiplier.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Dark said with a shrug as he played with one of the dials on a speaker. “But either way, I respect you, Host, and your abilities. That’s why I’ll ask again: what was that thing in the hallway, if it wasn’t Y/N?”

“Earlier, Darkiplier stood alone in the hallway, brooding over his loss of control over the egos.” The Host smirked and continued, “As he walked down the hallway, he looked up and saw…”

The Host frowned and tilted his head. “The Host cannot read what was there. Darkiplier saw something in the mirror later, but again the Host cannot read anything except that Dark was alone with his fear. He…was afraid. He is afraid.”

Dark grasped his hand with the other to still the tremors that ran up and down it as he said, “Your narration is failing you, Host. I wasn’t the only one there, it looked like Y/N, but—”

“But it couldn’t have been them,” the Host finished for him. “Darkiplier appears tired. How long has it been since he slept?”

Dark scowled. “I don’t see how that matters.”

“The Host might think it were Dark’s own guilt playing tricks on his mind, if he were capable of feeling such a thing.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Does Dark ask if the Host means he is incapable of feeling guilt, or expressing the belief that he should have nothing to feel remorse for?”

Dark would not have dignified that with an answer, if he hadn’t heard the small, humorless chuckle that came from the Host. He was laughing at him?

“I know what I’ve done, and I don’t regret a single thing. You never had a problem with it before, when I was the only one looking out for you and the other useless copies. How many of you wouldn’t even be here today if it weren’t for me, making sure his precious fans remembered you?”

“Because it gave Darkiplier pleasure, to be in control. To have so many ‘copies’ of the man he hated dependent on him, in fear of him. Now he cannot accept the fact that the egos no longer need him to survive. How does it feel, to be so powerless and alone, Darkiplier?”

“I am far from powerless,” Dark answered, allowing his aura to seep out from around him and wrap around the ego seated in his chair. Dull, distant creaks came from within as the recording studio became a distant echo of the dark reality stretching around them. “But I’d be more than happy to gag that mouth of yours and let you find out what true helplessness feels like.”

He tilted his head and with a crack of his neck the darkness retreated, leaving the normal studio in its wake. Dark leaned on the desk that separated him from the Host and smiled down at him, but there was no humor in his eyes as he said, “If only Wilford had shot you in the mouth instead.”

The Host rose to his feet, hands planted on the desk as he leaned forward, bandaged eyes meeting Dark’s own as his face twisted with fury.

“Darkiplier shuts his mouth, because the Host is sick and tired of listening to him.”

Dark tried to speak, but his lips refused to part.

“Whatever is haunting Darkiplier, the Host does not care but is sure that he deserves it. He has done enough to hurt the people of this house for his own selfish reasons, and no ego will help him relieve his own guilt and fear, not anymore. Darkiplier turns away from the Host’s desk and walks out of the studio. He does not return.”

Dark felt his body move without input from his brain, turning and walking out the door just as the Host narrated. The second the door shut behind him he felt the release of the Host’s power, only for it to be replaced by sheer rage.

Every sleeping ego in the house was startled into wakefulness by the terrible ringing and indistinguishable voices that escaped from Dark’s aura until he turned and walked into his own darkness. Once he disappeared, the noise gave way to an uneasy silence as the others waited to see if anything would follow.

((End of Part 3. Thank you for reading! And for the record, Phillip absolutely deserved it. Probably. Either way, hitchhiking in the middle of the night on a little-used back road is definitely not recommended for so many reasons, but he’ll figure that out for himself.

Here’s the link to the next part, Part 4: Be Good to Yourself!

Tagging: @silver-owl413  @skyewardlight @withjust-a-bite  @blackaquokat  @catgirlwarrior @neverisadork @luna1350  @oh-so-creepy @purpstraw @weirdfoxalley  @95fangirl  @lilalovesinternet-l @thepoolofthedead  @a-bit-dapper @randomartdudette  @geekymushroom @cactipresident @hotcocoachia @purple-anxiety-blog @shyinspiredartist @avispate ))

[jaxsteamblog]

Four Toasts

Zuko woke up to see Sokka looming over him. He normally woke quickly, but seeing his friend’s face so close to his own made the shot of adrenaline almost propel him out of bed. Feeling a weight on his chest, Zuko kept himself still, letting his thoughts collect and give him a proper reading of the situation.

He was in bed, but obviously not his own since Sokka was standing next to him and not the body lying on him. He was half dressed as he could feel the shared warmth of skin on skin. Sokka’s face was irritated and bemused.

“Hey, the lights are back on.” Zuko remarked. The air system was working properly now and blew a gentle heat into the room.

“Why are you sleeping with my sister?” Sokka asked. Zuko looked down and saw the tangled cloud of Katara’s wavy hair.

“Because I had the choice between you and her and I mean, can you blame me?” He replied.

“I don’t like that you’re dating her.”

“You’re going to make me marry her to spite you, and is that really how you want your sister to end up married?”

Sokka chuckled and Katara finally roused, lifting her head to glare at them both.

“Can you two put a sock in it? I was sleeping.” She stated.

“You were not. Your breathing changed the moment I spoke.” Zuko said. Katara muttered to herself before rolling back to her side, pulling the blanket up over her head.

Zuko eventually untangled himself from the snare of the sheet and blanket Katara had wound in her sleep. Sokka went downstairs for breakfast while Zuko went into their shared room to shower.

For all the inane rhetoric that had been drilled into his head by various firebending teachers, Zuko felt at peace in the shower. The water hit his skin with muffled paps that sounded like rain hitting the stone pavers in the gardens of the palace. Fat, warm, summer rain that came down heavy from lazy clouds that tottered overhead. As Zuko stood, his head bent to allow the spray to fall on his neck, he could almost imagine being soaked in a surprise storm.

His mother had been caught out in a such a storm before, and Zuko had watched her run shrieking toward a covered walkway. He had been inside, neglecting some lesson, and knelt at the window with his arms crossed on the sill. He had smiled at his mother’s beautiful face - a beauty that all mothers had to their children, but that apparently Ursa had naturally earned herself - and how her long, ink colored hair clung to her face and neck. Servants came running with the thick, fluffy towels she preferred, but paused as another figure approached from the other building. Zuko recalled his father’s face - also young, also beautiful but in a fearful sort of way - as he saw his wife, soaked and improperly laughing with the servants.

But Ursa’s beauty afforded her luxuries not available to many. To only her, really.

Ozai had taken hold on his mother’s face and gently pushed back her wet hair. Ursa trembled, from fear or from a chill, and Ozai only smiled at her.

It had stirred a sort of jealousy in Zuko then. That his father, who hated so many, still had the ability to lay hands on his beautiful mother and to make her afraid. To look at her as one does a rare orchid, or exotic pet.

Years later, after his grandfather had been cremated and Ursa had disappeared, Zuko stood out in a sudden rainstorm. He felt the impact of the drops but not their warmth. He was soaked, but had felt no absolution of the falling water.

The shower he could feel. The water was like Katara’s fingers, tapping against him in a moment of idle rest. He could breathe here, in the warm, wet air, with the steam curling around his face. With the water hitting the back of his scalp, and running down the lines of his cheeks and nose, he was able to breathe. It was an odd sensation, to take in air that seemed as wet as the rain. The first time he had experienced it, it had taken his breath away.

Zuko remembered when Katara had held back the rain.

He never wanted to explain to her how he found that more impressive than the bloodbending. To her, the bloodbending had been dark and weighty, made more important by the very fact that it was forbidden to speak of it. But bloodbending had seemed almost obvious when Katara had done it. How many poems had he read where shedding blood was likened to an ocean wave, or how lust was the moon that pulled on the tide of a body’s pulse?

Stopping the rain was something else entirely.

Determining the strength of the Bender usually equated to the same thing: how much could they control? That implied a sort of physical limitation to the art, and Earthbenders were assumed to be the proof. The most powerful Earthbenders were impressively muscled and could push against the earth’s rigid desire to stay in one piece, in one place.

Toph’s simple existence threw that out of the window as she had been outlifting people five times her size since she was twelve.

Billions had been poured into research over bending, to see what made it occur and how a Bender became powerful. If it was genetic, or tied to chakras, or a manipulation of chi. If it could be found and quantified, there may be a way to increase it.

Zuko had very quietly created a lab to try and answer those questions. He was ashamed of himself, knowing that he did it mostly to see if his own power could be enhanced.

Azula’s ability had made him feel small, or damaged. Katara made him feel like he was standing in the presence of a god.

He had looked up into the sky that day and it seemed like the rain had frozen for miles upward. It wasn’t until that moment that he felt fear, but a sublime kind of terror that occurs when one succumbs to the will of something greater.

Zuko knew he could never match her skill.

With a sigh, Zuko turned off the shower and stepped out for his towel. He steamed much of the moisture off of his body with his bending, but he too had a weakness for large, fluffy towels.

The table had been set with platters of food. Cut slices of toast were decimated and a small plate of butter had been hacked apart. Bacon and eggs were neatly parted on the same platter, with a spoon jutting haphazardly out of the yellow mound. A ceramic teapot sat next to a shiny metal coffee urn, looking like a tall stern husband with his squat cheerful wife. Cream, sugar, pots of jam stood like beehives, with tiny spoons and sticky pools littering the expanse. At the dining table, five seats were taken. Zuko felt a lump form in his throat.

“Hello. Zuko here.”

The embarrassment attached to this very specific fear came on quickly. As he worried about it, Suki looked up and waved him over.

“Good morning Zuko!” She greeted as he approached the table and dragged out a chair.

“He-y.” He faltered, switching the word mid-stride. Clearing his throat, Zuko tried, and failed, not to make eye contact with the two people that scared him the most in this situation.

“So, just to address the Tigerphant in the room, I do already know.” Aang said as he hefted his mug of coffee. Katara patted Zuko’s hand as he hung his head down and groaned.

“See? Just like ripping off a bandage.” Katara said. Zuko groaned louder and let his head fall onto the tabletop. The others laughed and Toph kicked him under the table.

“Cheer up Zuko, I’m pretty sure everyone at the table has had a crush on you at one point or another.” Toph said. Zuko lifted his head but kept his chin on the table.

“Really?” He asked.

“Not me.” Suki said. She smiled at him as Zuko rolled his head over to look at her. “No offense, you’re just not my type.”

“Look, no one cares about you or your relationships.” Sokka interjected. “Today is about Suki and me.”

Zuko snorted and sat up. Katara passed him a coffee and he lifted it toward Sokka and Suki.

“To two of the greatest people I have ever been blessed to know. May it finally be enough to keep Sokka out of my bed.” He said. The others, laughing, lifted their own mugs and cups.

“Here, here!” They shouted and began leaning over the table to clink their drinks.

“Oh by the way,” Katara said as Zuko sat back and started to drink his coffee. “Chang has said that in repayment of you breaking everything last night, you get to do the honors of clearing the snow.”

“Snow?” Zuko repeated.

“Oh yeah man, it dumped snow last night.” Sokka added. Zuko looked from Sokka back to Katara, trying to look as helpless as possible.

“But you’re a Waterbender.” He said.

“I didn’t explode twenty grand worth of electronics last night.” Katara replied in a saccharine tone.

Zuko sighed and rolled his head back on his neck, looking across the table at Aang.

“You are both a Fire- and Waterbender.” He said. Aang shrugged and took a loud slurp from his mug. After smacking his lips, he set down his mug and smiled back at Zuko.

“You’re dating my ex girlfriend.” He countered.

“Fine.” Zuko said, dragging the word out as he set his shoulders. “But can I at least eat first?”

Aang pushed over the platter of bacon and eggs, using his bending to reheat them enough for steam to start curling in the air. As Zuko started loading his plate, the table resumed their conversations and Katara casually reached over to steal his food.

It was normal, light-hearted, and just enough to almost distract Zuko from the more disturbing theories his mind was putting together about his family. It had been years since Ozai had been defeated and his sister carted off to Ba Sing Se, plenty of time for them to plot.

Zuko sat down with his food and swatted Katara’s hand away. She muttered before leaning over the table and using her fingertips to pull the platter closer to herself. Sokka, without pausing in his conversation with Toph and Aang, very leisurely yanked it back. Zuko smiled and bit into the bacon, making sure to lean away from the group as Katara used her bending to splash Sokka in the face with cold tea. Normal and light-hearted.

Reaching into his pocket, Zuko was momentarily paralyzed when he couldn’t find his phone. Remembering the events of last night, he just sighed and continued eating.

“So Zuko,” Aang started and Zuko looked up. “I hear you were wondering about the new king of Omashu.”

“Yeah,” Zuko paused to swallow and wipe his mouth. “Do you know him?”

“I do. He was in Jiangsu when I was there last year. He’s an interesting guy, name’s Li Jing.” Aang said.

“Who is he, though?” Zuko asked. Aang made a few faces as he thought before sucking air through his teeth and rubbing the back of his head.

“Minor nobility I think? Apparently, he’s like a distant cousin of Kuei’s.” Aang replied.

“So it was just a family favor thing?” Sokka questioned, having mopped all the tea off his face.

“So it’s assumed. The ministers haven’t been able to prove the lineage yet.” Aang answered and Zuko scowled. Katara patted his arm again and he sighed.

“Have you heard about him marrying Azula?” Katara asked.

“He’s doing what now?” Aang said immediately and now Katara sighed.

“So this is news to everyone then.” Toph added.

“It doesn’t make any sense. Azula is still a war criminal right? This would take international approval.” Suki said.

“Technically, the Earth Empire has the most skin in this situation you know?” Sokka replied.

“And the Empire and the Fire Nation are the only ones who can really kick up a proper fuss, if they made a decision between themselves, it’s not like the Water Tribes can do anything about it.” Toph said

“But that would….” Zuko drifted as he poked at his eggs.

“Did your uncle know about this Zuko?” Aang inquired.

“He must’ve. My father doesn’t have the power to do something like this on his own.” Zuko answered, staring down at his plate.

“It’s okay, maybe he thought-” Katara stopped when Zuko wrenched his arm away from her reaching hand.

“Thought what? That I was still tied to Mai and going to suffer through that just so my kid could be the next Fire Lord?” Zuko snapped, glaring at Katara. She, looking more shocked than hurt, only blinked at him.

“I’m going to go clear snow.” Zuko said darkly and pushed himself away from the table.

It had snowed a lot.

Zuko stood without his coat and shivered slightly as he surveyed the area. From the stoop, he could see that the main road had been cleared, but the lane from the bed and breakfast was very much not. A snow shovel was propped next to the door, where someone had cleared the snow off the porch steps by hand.

Using fire for this was actually not ideal. There would be the issue of residual water and the chance that he would burn whatever was hidden underneath, but he had been tasked with the job.

Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to just do the labor.

Rolling up his sleeves, Zuko took up the shovel and started his work.

It took twenty minutes for his muscles to start burning. The accumulated snow was almost a foot deep, and it was a heavy, wet snow. Zuko made a good dent into clearing the lane but took a break to use his firebending to clear the small patches that had turned to slush. Sweat pooled between his shoulders and were making small, tickling trails down his back. Exhaustion was starting to creep into his arms and Zuko shook his hands when he turned to walk back to the porch.

He smiled sheepishly as he took the mug Katara offered.

“I’m sorry.” He said and took a sip of the bitter black tea.

“I forgive you.” Katara said and started to walk down the steps, kissing his cheek as she passed him. Zuko sat down on the steps and watched as Katara, like a maestro at her stand, she raised her hand up. Bringing them back down in a sweep before throwing them to the side, the snow responded and was shoved into its banks. Zuko kept drinking as Katara walked down the lane, bending the snow back as she went. Walking back, Katara got to the snow on top of the porch and swept it off. The snow cascaded down the side in a rush, spraying Zuko with small crystals and scenting the air with an icy crispness.

“Zuko, I don’t know if there’s a plot or not, but we can think of something.” Katara said as she stepped up to sit next to him. Forever practical, no matter how much Zuko hated this one habit, Katara started to pull the sweat from Zuko’s skin and clothing. The act always made him feel weird and left a salty residue he had to wash off anyway.

“What are you talking about?” He said and shifted away from her. Rolling her eyes, Katara only pulled the sweat from his shirt.

“I’m saying that, you know, I’ve never been against having kids.” She replied.

“Kat, we only just started dating.” He said.

“We’ve known each other for years Zuko, it’s not like we’re in a preliminary get-to-know-me stage.” Katara countered.

“That doesn’t mean we need to treat this like it’s endgame.” He said. He finally slapped at Katara’s hands and she left him alone.

“Why not? You don’t assume every relationship is going to end do you?” Katara asked.

“For one thing, I’ve only had one relationship. So.” He swirled his tea and fed some heat into it. “For another, I don’t assume anything about relationships because doing so invariably results in disappointment.”

“What do you want to do then?” She questioned.

“I want,” Zuko bit off the rest of his sentence. He couldn’t drag Katara into his paranoia and risk her getting hurt.

“I do want to get to know you Katara. And I want you by my side for however this all goes down.” He finished.

“Every Agni Kai, I’ll go with you Zuko.” Katara said. Zuko lifted his tea.

“To new relationships.” He said.

“Rising from the ashes of an old one, how appropriate Firebender.” Katara remarked and took his cup to drink from it.

“Are we not still friends?” Zuko asked and took back the tea.

“Semantics.” Katara said and waved him away. “Now take another shower. You stink and the party is about to start.”

The wedding rehearsal was restricted to the actual wedding party. They all travelled together to the pavilion - after Zuko had a second shower - and stood by their cars as Aang and Katara cleared the snow. Other cars soon started to arrive and Zuko sank into his coat. He peered gloomily as Aang and Katara started laughing, throwing snow at each other. Aang always carried himself with what Iroh called a summer breeze. He was light and fun, and usually welcome in most instances. He moved through circumstances with an easy confidence and optimism. To put it simply, he was everything Zuko could never be.

Zuko leaned against a car, turning his head, but not really wanting to interact with anyone. Suki walked off as her Maid of Honor and the mayor, Biyu, emerged from a taxi. Sokka walked over to chat while he waited for another car, hopefully bringing his father and his other groomsman. Zuko had only met the other man once, a quiet fellow named Possum. Sokka had spent some time in the Swamp Tribe and Possum had apparently been an adventurous friend, though his timid disposition made Zuko doubt that.

“It’s a wedding Sparky, don’t look so gloomy.” Toph said as she approached.

“Don’t you have a wedding planner to intimidate?” Zuko replied and stepped away from the car. Toph laughed and crossed her arms over her chest.

“You know that both of us are going to miss things from time to time. We made certain choices that ensures that.” She said.

“This was big though Toph. I should have heard about this. From legitimate channels.”

“You mean through your uncle?”

“He had to have known. There’s no way he couldn’t.”

“No duh. Why do you think he didn’t tell you?”

“I have no idea.” Zuko fidgeted, snapping little flames down into the snow. Each one hit with an identical sizzle, leaving a small crater in the top of the snow. “It’s the only thing that makes me think this isn’t a plot. And that maybe Azula is…” He stopped himself and frowned, still shooting at the snow.

“Maybe that Azula is about to be yoked to some poor politically hungry sap?” Toph finished for him. Zuko sighed and kicked the snow over where he had been shooting.

“I just want her to be happy.” He said.

“Are we still talking about Azula?” Toph asked. Zuko looked over at her.

“Is Katara unhappy?” He questioned in response.

“It’s just weird that you have this soft spot for your sister after literally everything.” Toph said.

“No offense, but I don’t think you can understand. You didn’t have siblings, or even a pet.” Zuko replied.

“I had the badgermoles!” Toph said indignantly. She punched Zuko’s arm and then leaned back on the car, both of them turning to see that most of the wedding party was now engaged in a massive snowball fight.

“But, you know, you guys are my family now.” She said.

“That’s gross.” Zuko retorted and dodged as Toph turned to smack his arm. They both laughed and watched the snow flying for a moment.

“I get what you’re saying though. It’s definitely different considering the fluid swapping.” Zuko said and Toph snorted.

“To found family.” She said and held out a fist.

“To a bunch of weirdos who let me hang around.” Zuko said and bumped his fist against hers.

The rehearsal went smoothly. The wedding planner, whose confidence steps faltered around Toph, moved them all through the ceremony. Biyu walked Suki down the aisle, whispering something to keep Suki laughing. Sokka stood at the front, holding his hands together so tightly in an attempt to keep them from shaking. Zuko mimed handing over the rings, pretending to trip at the last moment. Sokka’s face went white and Zuko nearly burst something from laughter, while Sokka looked like he was about to throw him.

The wedding planner ended up in a chair with her head in her hands.

After the rehearsal ceremony came the rehearsal dinner. They had all gone back into Kyoshi where the central plaza had been swept clean. Temporary canvas pavilions were propped up with rows of long tables underneath. Tall braziers were standing in various places, the fire held inside looking like plasma. The Water Tribe party was already seated, drinking with some of the villagers.

The dinner started out fairly professional. The local cooks brought out small plates for the wedding party to try and approve. Once the menu had been finalized, and more people had shown up, the drinking really started. As the sun began to set, the musicians started playing. Katara took Zuko’s hands and led him to where the dance floor was going to be set. Other groups and couples joined them and they all started moving and laughing together.

Someone at some point let Hakoda in on the changes, and Zuko had caught the man’s eye at one point in the evening.

Hakoda had been an interesting man to interact with. Zuko recalled meeting him for the first time right after the war. He saw the man struggle with a lot of things. Zuko was representative of everything Hakoda had hated; he was Fire Nation, had chased after his children, had fought with them. He was the son of Ozai, the great-grandson of Sozin.

It had been hard, but Hakoda had accepted him as an ally, unable to truly hate him when Zuko wore the badge of his own father’s hate bare on his face. Over the years, the group had drifted, and Zuko hadn’t been much in contact with the leader of the South Pole. However, with the wedding looming and Zuko bankrolling a lot of it, Hakoda now had to deal with the feeling of shame that turned into projected anger.

And so Hakoda watched as his daughter, his heir, a piece of his late wife, laid her head on Zuko’s chest as they moved slowly on the dance floor.

Zuko didn’t know how to tell him that Katara’s love was both a weight around his neck and the only thing that made him feel free. Having her in his arms made him forget about Azula, about plots, and about the future in general. His entire existence was just in this moment, and he couldn’t gather together enough curiousity or desire to think about what would come next.

Hakoda, watching from his seat, lifted a glass of sparkling wine. Zuko gave a quick nod and saw Hakoda sigh, but the other man tossed back his drink and turned away. Zuko looked down at Katara and spun her out, watching her face light up with laughter as she twirled under his arm.

“So what about your destiny?” Zuko asked as he took Katara’s hand and put a hand on her hip.

“What do you mean?” She moved easily with his steps and kept her eyes locked on his.

“After you cure HIV and become the world waterbending champ, aren’t you going to rule the South Pole?” Zuko inquired and Katara chuckled.

“Who knows? The Swamp Tribe is probably going to be the new capital, considering the global market connections and political stability.” She answered.

“Would you be okay being the wife of the disgraced Fire Nation prince?”

“Are you asking?”

Zuko moved them both through a wide turn, dipping Katara and holding her there.

“Not yet.” He replied.

“Then you’ll never know.” She whispered. Zuko pulled her up and Katara took the step in, kissing him in full view of the gathered group.

Perhaps it was even more impressive that she could make his whole world come to a complete standstill.