#the orange one doesn’t count he’s just a collective nightmare

[billybutchersbloodyjacket]

Patti LuPone if you can hear us.

Please save us.

[goodlucktai]

a song to bring you home

one piece word count: 4k written for the its pirates server sake exchange ! my giftee was @portgas-d-aroace who wanted "anything asl" and gave me an excuse to write the most self indulgent fic of 2023

read on ao3

x

“Again?” Sabo whispers, trying to sound mad. Whether he sounds that way or not doesn’t actually matter, since he’s already lifting his blanket in silent invitation.

“Sorry, ‘Bo,” Luffy mumbles thickly. He wastes no time crawling onto Sabo’s thin mattress, and Sabo pulls the blanket back down around them both, tucking it tight to keep the chill away. 

Luffy attaches himself to Sabo’s side like a barnacle, tiny fists curled in his brother’s shirt as if he’s afraid something is going to swoop down and try to wrench them apart. Sabo huffs out a breath that fogs in the air and lets him. 

“Nightmare?” he asks after a moment. He keeps his voice quiet in case Ace is still asleep, even though his twin is the lightest sleeper on the planet. 

Luffy nods once, face buried against Sabo’s shoulder. He’s not trembling, but the way he’s holding himself completely still and silent is its own red flag. 

It’s easy to forget that Luffy is not actually as spoiled as he acts. He whines and cries and pouts like any other privileged little master, he’s bossy and clingy and demands to go where his brothers go even though they all know he won’t be able to keep up, and sometimes—oftentimes—it grates on Sabo’s very last nerve. 

But holding someone like Stelly up to someone like Luffy is like holding an orange up to the sun. There’s literally no comparison. 

If Ace were actually as annoyed by Luffy as he pretends to be, then he wouldn’t be the first one to roll his eyes and throw up his hands and stomp back to collect their youngest when he falls behind. If Sabo actually meant all the mean things he says when they have to waste precious daylight dealing with a stupid scrape on Luffy’s stupid knee, then he wouldn’t suggest the pilgrimage down to Makino’s bar because she has those colorful bandages that always make Luffy smile. 

Luffy is as much an orphan as Ace is—as Sabo pretends to be—and he was so desperate not to be alone that he was willing to die for their reluctant, backhanded friendship. He would run after them until his arms and legs gave out, and then at that point he would probably crawl, just so they don’t leave him behind. 

Stubborn, selfish, stupid Luffy. The unwanted little kid that Ace and Sabo have begun to shape all their days around. 

Something in Sabo’s chest hurts to know that Luffy is afraid. He tips his head and adjusts his arms so that the smaller boy is tucked more securely under his chin. Stars pinwheel slowly across the sky, winter constellations that Sabo will teach his brothers how to find once they manage to get their hands on a halfway decent telescope. There are clouds forming to the east, low and gray, that promise snow. 

“Sing,” Luffy mumbles petulantly. 

“You’re such a brat,” Sabo complains. But he doesn’t make Luffy go away, and it’s only another moment before he starts humming. 

Sabo doesn’t know a lot of music, having successfully dodged his piano tutor for the last two years straight, but there’s a song he overheard on the docks a few months ago that stuck. Some sailors were singing it while they worked. Sabo didn’t catch all the words, so he made up the rest.

He made the mistake of singing it within his little brother’s earshot only once, but once was enough. Now he may as well be a performing monkey, because for every birthday and campfire and boring afternoon and bad dream, Luffy requests the same thing. 

“Now you've got the chance to travel oceans,” Sabo half-says, half-sings, letting it settle somewhere between a story and a lullaby. “I hope the world’s as wide as you were hoping…” 

Luffy sighs, a slow, satisfied thing. The fear-frozen shape of him softens with every word. He’s asleep again within one verse. Sabo sings two more, just in case. 

—

Two weeks and five escape attempts after he nearly died at sea, Sabo is finally allowed out of the infirmary. It’s slow going, and the doctor isn’t thrilled with him, but stepping into the fresh air out on deck is worth the man’s grumbling and sidelong looks. 

The whole left side of Sabo’s body is pins and needles and every breath feels like it burns, like the fire that almost killed him is still ready to snatch him up if he’s not careful. 

But it’s worth it. It’s so worth it to see the open ocean, stretching out forever under a sky vivid orange and blue with dusk. There’s enough sunlight left in the early evening that it cascades across the surface of the water so brightly Sabo can’t look at it for very long. 

This is freedom. And it’s important, so important he’ll cling to it with tooth and nail. So important he would set out by himself in a barely-sea-worthy boat to claim it. He just doesn’t remember why . 

Sabo knows his name. He knows he left something horrible behind—he dreams of running desperately through a place that glittered and gleamed to hide the rot underneath, of begging cold, lofty faces for help that never comes. He knows that he should be happy to escape whatever left that impression on his brain. 

But there’s a pit in his chest. A gnawing emptiness where something important is supposed to live. Part of him is so desperate to go back to where he came from that he would swim there if he had to. 

With time, that feeling would fade. He would overlook it so often that it would become second nature to pretend it wasn’t there. Time and distance would soften the frantic edges, years stacking on top one after the other until that little voice wailing I want to go home! was too muffled for Sabo to hear. 

If it was important, he wouldn’t have forgotten in the first place, he would reason to himself. Right?

But today, Sabo wins the contest of wills with the doctor, and he steps out onto the deck, and there is someone by the bow humming a familiar song while they work, and the whole world stops. 

“Hey,” the doctor says, alarmed, and a bracing hand lands on his shoulder, and that’s about when Sabo realizes he’s crying. 

His damaged eye stings horribly, and he’s making a mess of the bandages on his face, and he can hardly get enough breath in his lungs to say, “Take me back where you found me. I have to go back.”

The concussion makes it difficult for him to form new memories right now—his brain was rattled pretty hard. So he thinks the faces that peer at him in confusion and concern are the same ones that have surrounded him since he woke up on this ship in the first place, but they all swim together. Names are impossible. He knows the doctor by the cross on his shirt, and he knows the broad, looming shape of the man who saved him, and he turns to those two in particular. 

“I know that song,” he babbles, hysterical. “I made up the lyrics so I could sing it to my brothers. What if Luffy has a nightmare while I’m gone? Ace doesn’t know the words. I have to go back. Take me back.”

They take him back. 

The air smells faintly of smoke and melted garbage and burned meat even as far out as the beach. It turns Sabo’s stomach. His brain is topsy-turvy and confused and he wobbles so badly that the doctor has a pinched, pissed-off look on his face that gets darker with every step Sabo takes. 

But his feet know where to go. They’ve walked this coastline a thousand times. The sand gives way to grass, and he has to use his hands to make it up to the top of the hill, but finally he spills out on his back where the earth beneath him and the sky above him are utterly familiar and takes deep gulping sobs of air. 

“I’m here,” he says nonsensically to the man who followed him. The man who stayed a step behind in case Sabo fell but otherwise let him fight his own way back to the place he needed to be. “I’m home.”

The man studies him without speaking, his tattooed face impossible to read. Sabo’s thoughts are all swimmy, but he hopes he remembers this guy. He hopes he can find him again someday. His vision greys a few times, and at some point the man isn’t there anymore, but there’s a strong wind blowing in from the sea—steady and unrelenting, just hard enough that the nearby tree boughs start to bend. 

Someone says, “My hat!” 

Someone else says, “You and your stupid fucking hat—hurry up, it flew this way!”

Sabo is humming to himself when they finally find him, and falls asleep somewhere in the middle of those voices shrieking his name. 

Now he’s home. 

—

“I can’t even look at him,” Ace grinds out, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes. “That reckless little asshole.”

“Mm-hmm,” Sabo replies mildly. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, carding one hand through his little brother’s hair. “I wonder who he takes after more.”

��Shut up, ‘Bo! You’re just as bad as him!”

“If you children can’t get along, I’ll separate you,” Luffy’s friend, the extremely unsettling Surgeon of Death, says in a tone that suggests that he has both the means to make good on his threat, and also the absence of any god-given good sense to try it. 

Sabo, ever the peacekeeper, smiles at Trafalgar without teeth. “We’ll be on our best behavior. Thank you again for being there for my brother.”

The supernova cuts a sharp glance at him, dark eyes unreadable. His gaze travels to Ace for a long moment, and then finally drops to Luffy in the bed between them. There is something in his face—something more than the spite-and-caffeine-fueled monster of a man he would like the rest of the world to believe he is—something not quite so old, not quite so burdened, that looks down at Sabo’s little brother and sees someone who deserved to be saved.

But all Trafalgar says is, “Would’ve been too boring to let him die now.” He leaves the room after that, the door shutting behind him solidly. 

“Didn’t Nami say that guy only met Luffy once?” Ace says, bewildered. “What the hell is he doing risking his neck for a stranger?”

“Sometimes that makes it easier,” Sabo says. “A stranger could be anyone.”

Ace wrinkles his brow, an uncomprehending twist to his mouth. He has come leaps and bounds from the hateful little boy he used to be, but he has always clutched his brothers closest and kept everyone else at arm’s length. 

Since forming the Spade pirates, that tight-knit circle in his heart has inched wider. Ace thinks the world of Deuce, even if he will literally attack anyone who implies as much like a rabid coyote. Masked Deuce, who has actually referred to his captain as a rabid coyote on more than one occasion, within his earshot and to his face, would kill for Ace indiscriminately. The rest of the Spades are equally as long-suffering and entirely devoted. 

Secretly, Sabo believes that Whitebeard is going to get through to him one of these days. The last time Marco and Thatch came around with a recruitment pitch, Ace only set them a little bit on fire. 

Maybe some people would call it selfish to put you and yours first, but Sabo doesn’t think so. As long as Ace wants to live for his brothers and his crew, he wants to live. He’ll endure prison with gritted teeth, he’ll fight the guards every step of the way to the execution scaffold, he’ll never, ever go gently. 

That’s all Sabo asks of him. Hang on for one more minute. Survive one second longer. 

It was no grand fleet or sprawling armada that spread across the horizon to retrieve Fire Fist Ace from the hands of the World Government, but the Revolutionary Army was hardly going to stand by on this one. Not when it was their Chief of Staff’s beloved twin brother at stake. And so the war began long before the battle had a chance to start. 

Half of the military forces meant to be stationed at Marineford never arrived, picked off ship by ship in the week leading up to the execution. All radio frequencies were jammed the day of, transmissions in and out of the island blocked universally, and the media blackout of what was promised to be a globally-televised event had people talking. 

The only thing available on every channel was music—the tone dial recording of a skeleton musician bowing a familiar song on his violin. Looping on every station, every monitor, every snailphone. It drowned any attempt the soldiers made at communication, and more importantly it irritated the hell out of them, but it had a secret third purpose as well; if Ace heard it, he would know exactly who was coming for him.

(Ace heard it. The morning he was slated to be killed, a harried guard ran from one end of the cell block to the other with a malfunctioning den-den in hand, and the music echoed off the stone walls like it was trying to make a point. 

It wasn’t his brother’s voice, but it was his song. Ace knew it like he knew his own name. Shackled as he was, he couldn’t reach his fire—but for the first time since he was captured, he didn’t feel cold.)

In another world, his execution was overseen by all three admirals and most of the warlords, the military rightly assuming that they would need to meet the full weight of Whitebeard’s infamous protection head-on. 

But in this one, Ace is a powerful pirate captain of a relatively small crew, rising in fame and bounty, but attached to no great superpower. Still the demon spawn of the Pirate King, still an example waiting to be made, but there was no way Sengoku could have anticipated the battlefield Marineford would become. 

The Spades, the Strawhats, the Revolutionaries and the handful of ships sailing in Whitebeard’s name to fight for that cocky young captain he was so fond of brought more than enough of a fight with them. The Red-Hair pirates’ fashionably late arrival was kind of an overkill. 

Sabo made sure to say so. 

“What, so I should just sit back and watch?” Shanks laughed as they made their retreat, one newly liberated prisoner folded safely into their ranks. “No way. I’d like to be able to look Roger and Rogue in the eye when I meet them in the afterlife, thanks.”

“Is there a reason you’re covering your eyes?” Ace asked hoarsely, sounding a little bit like he didn’t want to know the answer. 

“I’m not allowed to meet Luffy again until he’s become a great pirate,” the man replied cheerfully, jogging down to the wharf blindly with his hand clamped over his face. Deuce, glued to Ace’s side for the foreseeable future, traded a long-suffering look with Benn Beckman.

After the clusterfuck that was Sabaody, Kuma sent the Strawhats safely to Baltigo one by one. When an RA mole within the Marines brought news of Ace’s execution, half of Luffy’s monsters went back to retrieve their ship, and the other half forged ahead with the rescue mission. 

So it’s the Thousand Sunny they made their getaway with, the cheerful little lion ship an extra special fuck you to the Marines that made Sabo feel warm inside. 

The team has since scattered, the Revolutionaries and Red-Hair pirates breaking off to lead the Marines on a very merry goose chase. The Whitebeard pirates don’t go away without first passing Ace along yet another offer to join their ranks—to their credit, they seem amused by the whole thing, as if Ace spitting sparks in sheer annoyance and the Spades’ prickly, proprietary offense are all part of the game. The Polar Tang is nesting abeam the Thousand Sunny while the Heart’s captain consults with the Strawhat’s very young doctor, something that seems to put the little reindeer at ease. 

They’re in the aftermath. Sabo takes a deep breath for the first time in what feels like weeks. 

Luffy collapsed the second his feet hit the grassy deck of his ship, his body crumpling beneath him like a puppet with its strings all cut. It would have been horrifying, if he hadn’t been snoring loud enough for Sanji to hear it from the galley and come out to investigate. Zoro scooped him up and Nami held the door open to the room she and Robin share, what would have been the captain’s quarters on any other ship, and Luffy was deposited carefully in a soft bed. 

“He needs a bath,” Nami said, nose wrinkled in a way that did nothing to disguise her affection as she combed his dirty, sweaty hair away from his face with her fingers. 

“It’s laundry day anyway,” Usopp replied, coming through the door with his arms full of someone’s well-loved blanket. Sabo smiled to see his spoiled little brother tucked in by his friends. Some things never changed. 

“Glad you’re okay,” Sanji said to Ace, the last one to linger in the room, keeping the door propped open with his hip. “Ghost pepper chicken curry for dinner,” he added, which was Ace’s favorite food, and the final straw for Sabo’s twin brother. He sat there blinking wetly at his own hands, at the bruises the sea-stone manacles left on his wrists, finally letting himself feel the weight of what he had survived. 

And now Sabo pats the bed beside him. Ace glares at nothing for a moment longer, before he gets up to join his brothers. It’s inevitable, like an act of gravity. The mattress gives beneath him and Luffy mumbles crossly in his sleep, turning toward them without waking. 

“Brat,” Ace all but whispers. Then he says, just as quiet, “Thank you.” 

Sabo says, “Nothing exists in this world that could have kept us away from you.”

Ace puts his head on Sabo’s shoulder, this wild young thing who doesn’t know how to want to live for himself yet. It’s okay. He’s figuring it out. He’s getting closer and closer. Someday soon he’ll understand that his siblings and his crew—his family—wouldn’t go to the ends of the earth for someone who wasn’t worth all their love. He’ll realize how deserving he is of all that. Until then, Sabo will believe it for him. 

“I’m on your side and you can call me and just like that,” Sabo sings under his breath, “I’ll sing a song to bring you home.”

“Hey,” Ace protests when he stops, muffled against Sabo’s shoulder. “Keep going.” 

So he does. 

—

Sabo is twelve, almost but not quite thirteen, and he’s much too old to cry. 

He had been sneaking through the market, ceramic festival mask on his face and hooded cloak hiding his hair, pockets full of those hot cinnamon candies his brothers love so much, when he glimpsed them. 

His parents. They were strolling along the decorated streets, arm-in-arm. Stelly was walking at Outlook’s side, talking importantly and waving his hands. And on Didit’s side, holding her hand, was… 

Sabo had to run away before he did something awful, like show weakness where one of the rich monsters might see it. He ducked into a side street and started running the second he was out of sight. His heart didn't settle until he was weaving through the familiar dingy corners of Edge Town and picking his way over heaps of trash in the Terminal. 

Even when he makes it into the forest, and the trees shelter him on all sides and the owl monkeys make their racket in hello, even when he’s headed in a straight line toward the place he feels safest in the whole world, he still hurts. 

They replaced him. Again. With a little girl this time. She had blond hair and brown eyes, as if her whole little person was spun from gold. Her pinafore dress was cookie-cutter perfect. 

Sabo wonders which noble line they adopted her from. He wonders if they even told her Sabo’s name, or if Stelly is the only brother she’s aware of, or if she would care one way or the other. He wonders what kind of person she is—if she’ll fit in, or get eaten alive. 

He doesn’t care what his parents think of him. He doesn’t. He is certain in his heart that they’re the worst sort of noble—they’re selfish and shallow and don’t know the first thing about what it really means to be a human person on this planet. He knows all that. 

He was unbelievably lucky to fully escape his family, to be presumed dead in their eyes, and he’s never going back. An act of god couldn’t drag him back. 

But there’s this awful pressure behind Sabo’s eyes and nose, and his face feels hot and prickly, like there are needles poking at him. 

He doesn’t love them. 

It’s stupid, so stupid, that there’s a tiny part of him that still wants to be loved by them.  

Sabo climbs the ladder to the treehouse with numb hands, easing the trapdoor open carefully so the hinges don’t squeak. 

The ancient camping heater Makino gave them glows a steady orange in the corner, clanging occasionally as it works against the December night air. 

It’s early evening yet, but Ace has been pretty sick, and Luffy has subsequently been glued to his side. Even with the noisy fireworks down on the beach from the end of the year festival in Goa, they’re both sleeping soundly, curled up tight together like leopard cubs. 

There’s a pile of quilts folded messily on the other mattress, waiting for Sabo when he comes home. The sight of them causes a sharp pain in his chest that he can’t explain. 

He takes off the mask, climbs out of his boots and cloak, and drags the extra blankets over to his brothers. One by one he adds them to the nest, layering them neatly and tucking in the edges, and then worms his way in next to Luffy, because Ace doesn’t rest well if he feels stuck or boxed in. 

Sabo’s parents replaced him for the second time, two years after he was, to the best of their knowledge, blown apart at sea by their precious Celestial Dragons. Had the ink on his death certificate even dried before they brought their new daughter home?

Sabo’s brothers saved him blankets, the best ones without any holes, even though they could have used them. Should have used them. Even when he wasn’t here, they were thinking of him. They didn’t want him to be cold. 

The sob takes Sabo by surprise. He stuffs a hand over his mouth, squeezing his eyes shut against the tears. He sobs again, as quietly as he can.

He doesn’t notice when Luffy wakes up, but he feels it when clumsy fingers land in his hair, pawing through it as his baby brother hums a familiar tune. A well-meaning mimicry of every time Luffy’s older brothers have done this same thing for him. 

“So you can keep me somewhere out of reach but if you need me,” Luffy’s voice warbles like a sweet little bird, “just hum these memories and you can feel me. I’m always standing by.”

If Sabo opened his eyes, he would see that Ace is wide-awake, scowling up at the sky; their tiny family’s stalwart protector, standing guard even when he has a fever and he’s buried under a small mountain of quilts. 

And he would see Luffy’s sleepy, scarred face split in half by a smile, beaming like he was trying to put the sun out of a job. 

But Sabo keeps his eyes shut, and buries his face a little further for good measure, that tiny part of him that wants to be loved crying I am! They do! It’s such a big feeling he doesn’t know how to hold it. He wants to just sit with it for a bit longer. 

“Ace, sing,” Luffy breaks off to scold loudly. 

“Don’t even dream of bossing me around, Lulu,” Ace snaps back.

Ace’s voice sounds hoarse and sore, but he joins in anyway. Of course he does. Only Luffy gets some of the words wrong in every verse, and it sparks a scathing argument each time—the two of them alternating singing together and shouting over each other, putting their rowdy owl monkey neighbors to shame. 

It’s the best thing Sabo’s ever heard. He’s laughing too hard to cry anymore. 

[just-a-really-tall-girl-tbh]

Grounded

Summary: Y/n is kidnapped and forced to reveal secrets of the pack

Pairing: Derek X Reader

Warnings: Blood, torture, swearing

Word count: 2605

Original piece please don’t copy

The school bell rang for the final time that day, a collective sigh of gratitude echoed in the room, the teenagers grateful to be released from the maths teacher’s class. Gathering your books, you stacked them in a neat pile before exiting the room, offering a small smile to your defeated teacher. It wasn’t her fault maths sucked and no one enjoyed it, you did feel bad for her on some level but also who the hell would willingly dedicate their life to teaching numbers?

Entering the hallway, you made your way through the sea of teenagers, everyone desperate to go home for the weekend. Reaching your locker, you grabbed the couple books you needed, shoving them into your backpack, thinking about the homework you had due on Monday you sighed. The door to your locker slammed shut before you could close it.

“Hey, you ready?” Stiles smiled.

“I told you I can walk home.” You rolled your eyes, walking away from the boy. Surprised by your quick movement, Stiles jogged to catch up to you, throwing an arm lazily around your shoulders.

“I know you can walk home but why would you when you have me?”

Exiting the main doors of the high school, you welcomed the fresh warm air, the smell of angsty teens left behind you. Reaching the end of the pavement, you saw the jeep parked a few cars away.

“Stiles I want to walk.” You turned to face the boy.

“Y/n, you heard what Derek said okay? All these recent attacks? The break ins and thefts? He doesn’t want you alone.” Stiles tried to reason with you. Knowing the recent spike in criminal activity was less than likely to involve the supernatural, you felt safe walking the 20-minute trip home. In fact, you enjoyed the peace it brought you. Half of the walk was through the woods, a quiet haven from the busy high school, and being autumn, you relished in the yellow and orange leaves that swept through the small woodlands.

“Stiles. It’s 20 minutes. I’ll text you when I get home okay?” Stiles sighed.

“You know Derek is going to kill me if I let you, you know, that right? You like the idea of alive Stiles because I do! And I am not letting you be the reason I don’t make it to my 20’s okay?”

“Derek doesn’t have the balls to kill you.” You turned on the heel of your foot, headed towards the woods, leaving a defeated Stiles in your wake.

“I’m telling Derek you said he has no balls!” He called after you. You let out a small laugh, grabbing your headphones from your backpack, and your phone from your pocket, you scrolled through your playlist, deciding today was the perfect day for (Your current favourite song).

Entering the woods, you felt a rush of calm wash over you, the stressful week was pushed to the back of your mind, your thoughts centred on the surrounding woods. You stepped over exposed roots and around large bushes, glancing up at the sky you watched as the wind swept through the foliage, the ageing leaves dancing in the light breeze. The sun peaked through the cracks, determined to reach the forest floor, providing the perfect amount of light for your stroll. The floor of the woods had been coated in fallen leaves, leaving a blanket of red and orange below your feet. Taking a moment to stop and appreciate the tranquillity the forest provided you, you felt your phone buzz in you pocket.

Home yet? I’m this close to sending out a search party!

Rolling your eyes and shaking your head you began typing a response.

You need to…

Before you could finish you felt a knock to your head, your vision distorted, the soft sound of music playing through your headphones which were now next to you on the forest floor, was the only thing you could hear before everything went black.

***

Another blow straight to your stomach knocked the wind out of you. Coughing and spluttering you attempted to regain your breath, each inspiration hurting more than the last.

“Oh, you are so going to regret that.” You mumbled.

Leaning to the side of the chair you spat a mixture of saliva and blood to the ground, you couldn’t tell where the source of the blood was coming from, maybe your lip, or maybe the inside of your mouth. Too many lacerations to your face meant it all blended into one.

You raised your eyes to meet your rival, struggling to see through the blood you saw one man wiping his fists on an old rag, your blood coating his knuckles. He faced a woman to your left, who sat with one bent knee up on a bench. Her back leaning against the wall adjacent to you, a smug grin on her face.

You rotated your wrists which were bound behind you, the thick rope digging into your skin. Your ankles were bound too, tied to the legs of the wooden chair you sat on.

“You’re going to tell us what we want sweetie, its just a matter of how beat up that pretty face is going to be before you tell us.” The woman commented, as she played with her fingernails, pushing the cuticles back. If she was trying to look disinterested, she was doing a great job. But you were ready for this. You trained for this. You knew what was coming, and if it meant keeping your friends, the pack, safe, then you would gladly take whatever they threw at you.

The mans fist connected with your jaw once more, snapping you out of your daze. The room began to spin around you, and your vision blurred. Trying to recenter yourself you pulled at your wrists, the pain of the rope grinding into your skin giving you something to focus on.

“Alright careful there, big guy, we need her conscious if we’re going to get that information.” The woman stood from her seat, striding slowly over to you, before bending at the waist in front of you. She reached out to grab your face, but as soon as her fingers made contact with your skin you pulled away. A stern look, on your face made the woman let out a small laugh.

“You’re a tough one aren’t you.” She turned her head, almost admiring your battered body before her. “Too bad that doesn’t mean shit around here.” Grabbing your hair, she yanked your head back, exposing your neck to the room. Moving to stand behind you she held out her other hand, gesturing towards the man in front of you. Without a word exchanged, the man grabbed a knife from a nearby table, its blade glinting in the moonlight the small window above you allowed.

“Sweetheart, you have no idea who you are dealing with do you?” The woman whispered in your ear, her grip on your hair only tightening as she neared the knife to your throat. You felt the cold edge, lightly cross your neck, not enough to pierce the skin, but enough for you to avoid swallowing.

Taking a deep breath in you closed your eyes. Grounding yourself was apart of your training, something that was drilled into you from the beginning. Breathing in again, you picked up on the different smells the room produced, sweat from the man in front of you, poorly masked by his cheap cologne. The sweet smell of the woman’s hair from behind, her locks dangling beside your face. The overwhelming metallic smell of blood being the most potent. You changed your focus to your heartbeat. Feeling it pounding against your chest begging to be released you pictured your heart slowing, its contractions reducing with every breath you took. Steadying your breathing was next. Cautious of the blade still connected to your neck you breathed in through your nose, holding in for a few seconds before releasing softly through your mouth. Repeating those steps, you were able to regain some stability. You were still in the same crappy scenario but at least now you were calmer. A panicking person is an interrogators wet dream. A calm person, their nightmare.

Sensing your self-control increase, the woman let go of your hair, moving the knife from your neck to the table beside the man. Standing before you once more, she knelt in front of you, keeping one knee up for balance, she waited for your eyes to open once more. Regaining the control, you almost lost, you felt strong enough to open your eyes once more. Staring at you the woman barely moved, she was searching your eyes for something, her expression a mixture of shock and impressed.

“You’re not afraid.” Her words barely above a whisper. Your only response was a return glare. A small smile creeping on to the face of your kidnapper. “They trained you well.”

Standing, she turned to the man behind her, whispering something in his ear before turning back to face you, her arms crossed against her chest. The man dropped the rag he was still holding and left the room, the sound of the door locking behind him.

“Let’s cut the bullshit honey. You have information I need. And I know I’m not going to break you, not by torturing you anyways. So, let’s try something else, shall we?” The woman began to pace back and forth in front of you, the small room only allowing her a few steps before being forced to turn around again. Your eyes followed her, left and right, before she stopped in front of you once more, still facing forward.

Taking in a sharp breath, she spoke. “How’s your sister doing?” She turned to face you. Refusing to let her know she was finally making some progress with you, you remained staring at her. Resuming her pacing she continued speaking.

“She’s what 5 now? Gosh so young. But you know what they say right? They grow up so fast.” Your eyes tracked the woman, more intently than before. This woman knew your family. Something that was always off limits when the pack was involved. Your attempts at shielding them from the supernatural had been successful, keeping that part of your life private even from Derek. And here this woman stood, threatening them. Threating to take away your motivation to make the world safer. Unfazed by your lack of reaction the woman carried on.

“Soon enough she’ll be going to high school, making friends, maybe even realising who her sister really is.” She stopped before you once more, bending at the waist she placed her hands on the arms of the chair you were bound to. “You didn’t think you could protect them, forever did you?” Tears threatened to fall from your eyes. No amount of calm breathing could ground you now. “Aw babe.” Her hand raised to your cheek, ready to wipe away the falling tear. You only pulled away from her once more, hating the way her skin on yours felt. “Don’t tell me I hit a nerve, did I? Sucks doesn’t it. Well, there is one way of ensuring your little family stay naïve to the world around them.” She stood tall once more, her voice now deeper, more sinister than before. “Tell me what I want to know.”

You had no choice, right? She threatened your family, your sister. You protected them from so long, only for you to be the reason they are in danger. Looking down at your lap, tears hit your thighs unable to control them you simply let them fall. Taking a deep breath, you looked up at the woman before you, a smirk present on her face which made it so much harder to say what you were about to. But the images of your sister raced through your mind. The way her hair shone in the autumn sun, the way her smile reached her eyes when she was really, truly happy, the way she greeted you after school every day by running down the front path directly into your arms. That was the highlight of your day, finishing school and-

Wait

You never responded to Stiles.

You never texted him back, and the kidnappers were kind enough to bring your phone into the room with you – hoping to get some information.

Your eyes moved to the door behind the woman, a loud crash followed by a heavy grunt sounded from behind the entranceway. The woman whipped her head around, only to be met by silence. She slowly approached the doorway.

“Adrian…?”

Silence

The woman turned back to you, unsure of herself. You only had a small smirk as a response. Before she could question you, the door busted open, barely remaining on its hinges, a rush of dust filled the room. Watching ahead as the dust clouds engulfed the woman, you heard a deafening roar followed by a petrified scream. Small thuds followed, as the dust reached your eyes you began coughing, the sudden pain in your ribs swiftly returning.

Two hands were placed on your shoulders, looking up you were met by two green eyes.

“Hey, you okay?” A worried Derek scanned your face, concern riddled him as he saw the multiple cuts and bruising before him. You could only nod, the dust denying you the ability to speak.

Moving behind you, he effortlessly cut the ties that bound your hands, then your legs. Using the arms of the chair to stable yourself, you attempted to stand, wincing when the pain became too much. Derek moved to your side, wrapping your arm over his shoulder. Carefully placing his arm around you, resting his hand on your hip he accepted most of your weight, attempting to make standing and walking easier. As you took a few steps forward, the dust cleared from your eyes and you were able to regain focus. Looking forward you saw the woman who threatened you, her back against the same wall the door was, her skin now covered in blood, her chest still rising and falling rapidly. Scott stood before her, looking down at the defeated woman, his eyes still red and his claws still present.

Clearing your throat, you stopped walking, causing Derek to pause and look over to you. You peered down at the woman, no longer in a position of power, she looked smaller, more gaunt than before. Her eyes showed she was petrified, providing some comfort to you after what she did.

“Sucks doesn’t it?” a whisper of a smirk present on your lips.

Proceeding to step forward through the doorway you were met by a panting Stiles, his arms stretched out in front of him, you couldn’t tell him to stop before his body connected with yours. You inhaled sharply, grimacing as pain rang throughout your body.

Derek used his free hand to grab Stiles by the shoulder, pulling him away from you, a small growl forming in his chest.

“Oh, shit sorry of course you’re hurt shit sorry.” The boy stumbled over his words, his eyes finally taking in the battered sight before him. He moved to the side of you not occupied by Derek, his help was welcomed by you, suddenly feeling lightheaded from standing.

The three of you began walking forward towards the exit of the building.

“Is now a good time to tell Derek, you think he has no balls?” Stiles piped up earning a death glare from Derek. “No? Okay we can come back to that.” You used whatever energy you had left to shake your head.

[smells-like-mettaton]

Tali’s Alphys-Centric Fic Rec List

I’ve been meaning to make this for a while!! All fics are oneshots unless marked as a series or with a chapter count.  Thanks to everyone who recced several of these to me on my 12am begging-for-alphys-fics post dfdksdl. These aren’t in any particular order. The “notes” section is my commentary about each fic. No fics are based on full AUs (ex. underswap, horrortale, etc). The only endgame Alphys ship included is Alphyne, though most of the fics listed are gen. Hope you can find something you enjoy here!

Extra Credit by FriedCatfish

Rating: G // Word count: 1,206 Summary: Undyne loses track of time watching anime. Set before the events of the game. Notes: Cute Alphyne oneshot! Short and sweet, very nice characterization

world comes pouring through by feralpheonix

Rating: G // Word count: 1,655 Summary: Alphys reunites with some old friends on the way home from taking care of business. Notes: 2nd person Alphys pov but it surprisingly works? A small moment with Alphys, Bratty, and Catty, which I literally NEVER see content for so it was really refreshing!! Takes place at/near the end of the pacifist route.

white lies to the dead by MiniNephthys

Rating: T // Word Count: 580 Summary: Alphys walks through Waterfall, talking to someone who's not there. Notes: Queen Alphys ending; Alphys “talks” to Undyne after she’s been killed. Hits me right in all the emotions ;;

Found Soul by LibraLibrary

Rating: T // Word Count: 1,331 Summary: Self-worth is a slippery, fleeting little devil, and the bastard flower that killed you isn't helping. Takes place during the final fight of the True Pacifist run, following Alphys from one purgatory to the next. Notes: Very angsty, definitely make sure you’re ready to handle Alphys’s suicidal thoughts, but a very good read! I love seeing the Lost Soul battle from her POV.

And I Feel Fine by Masu_Trout

Rating: T // Word Count: 1,685 Summary: The fallen human is human is fast approaching The Core, and Mettaton is ready to finally take the stage. Now, if only Alphys would stop worrying so much. Notes: Alphys & Mettaton friendship in the no mercy route, but manages to be surprisingly not depressing. Mettaton POV but definitely still deserves to be here. This fic does a great job of characterizing them both and it’s always great to see Alphys working in her element.

Experimentation by pickledragon

Rating: G // Word Count: 1,531 Summary: Alphys is, above all, a scientist. She may watch anime with religious fervor and make horrible Undernet shitposts in her free time, but she is good at her job. She knows what they say about her, behind her back. But when she stands there, time open before her, she resolves to collect data. Each experiment, intentional or not, brings new opportunities to change certain variables and observe others. Alphys is a scientist, after all. Notes: THIS FIC. it’s technically part of a series but it stands on its own (it’s the only one i’ve read by this author). EXCELLENT alphys characterization and writing style. Some Sans & Alphys friendship too which is always stellar. If you didn’t gather from the summary, it’s an alphys starts to remember resets fic.

Memory by Ash_yeet

Rating: T // Word Count: 19,962 // Chapters: 5/20 Summary: It's been two years since monsterkind have joined the humans on the surface, and Alphys is happier than she's ever been. But things can't stay great forever. She starts having nightmares, lapses in memory, flashbacks to things that have never happened. She hopes it will pass... sans is doing his best to adjust to life. When Alphys reaches out to him about her nightmares, he doesn't expect much. He quickly changes his tune. Someone is trying to come back. And they aren't what they used to be.sans and Alphys are trying to move on. But there's one thing they forgot: No matter how hard you try, you can't run from your past. Notes: I’ve only read chapter one so far, but it’s been really good! Looks like it’s going to involve Gaster in some way. Says it’s on short hiatus but was updated in April so doesn’t look abandoned.

Hot and Cold Blooded (Alphyne series) by perniciousLizard

Rating: varies by fic, usually G but a few T and one E // Word count: 36,516 // Works: 18/18 Summary: This series is a place to put all my Alphys/Undyne stories that aren't part of another series. Notes: this series has something for everyone; you can pick and choose which works to read. Most are feel-good fluff and humor, some hurt/comfort too. Some connect to the author’s Sansby series (which i also can’t recommend enough)

When Life Hands You Enantiomers by Kaesa

Rating: T // Word Count: 2,739 Summary: Alphys has a half-finished tile maze puzzle, reams of useless data, and a bunch of piranhas that can't tell the difference between lemon and orange scent. Sans has donuts. Notes: ONE OF MY VERY FAVORITES. Fun puns, science, alphys & sans friendship, piranhas, the opportunity to actually understand organic chemistry references,, it’s so good and fun

Friendshipping by AyuOhseki

Rating: G // Word Count: 4,564 Summary: Sans finds Alphys's secret Sans/Grillby RPF. This won't get weird or awkward or anything, we're sure. Notes: Hilarious Alphys narration, great characterization, it’s just so silly and warms my heart. I love terrible fanfic writer Alphys

social links by simplycarryon

Rating: G // Word Count: 2,525 Summary: Friendship's pretty neat, or so your video games and anime dictate. But you are not an anime protagonist, and you're not sure you know what friendship is any more. Notes: more solid sans & alphys friendship :D

See You Another Time by decamarks

Rating: T // Word Count: 18,500 // Chapters: 1/14 Summary: “Have you ever thought of a world where everything is exactly the same... Except you don’t exist? Everything functions perfectly without you.” Alphys spent a lot of time thinking about what it’d be like to start over. It wasn’t fair for someone like her to escape consequences. She knew that, yet the thought never left her mind—the thought that maybe, just maybe, she could get another chance; that she could abandon her life, her failures—everything—and start anew. But that would never happen. Sometimes, Alphys wondered. Would the world be better off without her? When unexplainable anomalies appear and begin to warp the world around her, Alphys discovers something she was never meant to know: the identity of the former Royal Scientist, and how he met his demise. Doctor W.D. Gaster vanished without a trace; he was erased from reality after an experiment ended in disgrace. Forgotten by the world, shattered across time and space—it’s like he never existed in the first place.And Alphys can’t imagine a better fate. Notes: This is a monster of a first chapter but definitely worth the read!! So much good stuff happening already. I’m a total wuss but I still love the cosmic/existential horror bits going on so far. Great Sans & alphys friendship and Undyne & alphys friendship so far.  All the amalgamates also feel incredibly well written. Can’t wait to see more of this one

(And here are a few of my own Alphys-centric fics as well)

Seventh Time’s the Charm by Taliax

Rating: G // Word Count: 1,519 // Chapters: 1/7 Summary: Six bad "dates" Alphys has been on, plus one that is actually pretty good. Notes: Alphys is my favorite and I love giving her a bad time. First chapter is a “date” she has with Sans. Next chapter which I have in progress is going to be Papyrus. (Alphyne is still endgame of course.) Set mostly before the events tof the game. Get ready for lots of second-hand embarrassment sdlfkjds

Support Character by Taliax

Rating: T // Word Count: 1,814 Summary: If Sans is determined to fight the human, Alphys is going to make sure he's prepared. Notes: Sans & Alphys no mercy route friendship, based on the headcanon that Alphys was the one to give Sans the powers/magic he uses to fight the human.

it's your best life (if it's the life that you're living right now) by Taliax

Rating: T // Word Count: 4,046 Summary: Through messages saved to Sans's phone, Queen Alphys gets a glimpse at lives that might have been.  With so many possibilities... how did this timeline go so wrong? Notes: Sans & Alphys friendship, Queen Alphys ending, mostly angst/hurt/comfort. I’m really proud of this one and it uses my main headcanon for how Sans knows about resets.

The Trans-Underground Alphys-Carrying, Match-Making Road Trip by Taliax

Rating: G // Word Count: 5,713 Summary: From her secret security camera, Alphys gets too invested in Sans's relationship with the voice behind the door.  This wouldn't be a problem if Mettaton didn't decide to take her ship into his own hands. Trying to catch up with a battery-powered robot is hard work, but telling the truth is even harder. Notes: This is a really silly fic with some hurt/comfort sprinkled in. Has some Soriel and Papyton in the background. Has some Alphys & Papyrus friendship as well which is always underrated in my opinion.

[nincompoopydoo]

DEBRIS AND MISERY

WELCOME BACK, AGENT ; PART 4 / ?

PAIRING: Loki Laufeyson x Female!Reader WORD COUNT: 2.5k SUMMARY: You're back at your desk job at the TVA, suffering the consequences of your mistakes that led to your crash on Sakaar. However, Mobius has a better job for you than doing just paperwork. A/N: I feel like this one has more platonic mobius x reader than loki x reader lol but you know, this loki is meeting her for the first time again. please leave comments, criticism or love, whatever, I love to hear from you guys who are reading this. enjoy xo gif by @alligatorlokis from this gifset WARNINGS: Swearing. Paperwork. support my writing through ko-fi💖 MASTERPOST ; MASTERLIST

The sweet musky smell almost lulls you to sleep as you skim through the case file of a Loki variant, pictures and text of monochrome glaring under the unforgiving fluorescent office lighting. It’s a harsh reminder of your mishap; a simple overlook during a mission that sent you crashing onto the wasteland of Sakaar. According to the reports as you stood on the pedestal, pleading your innocence to the judge, you were there for an estimated 600 years. Maybe more.

The thought of spending six centuries stranded on a planet sends a wave of pain through your skull—it’s overwhelming information but unsurprising. You do feel like you’ve spent 600 years on that God-forsaken planet.

Now, your once fugitive days have been replaced with the return of being trapped behind a desk and having to recount every event that took place during your time there. Word for word. You despise the TVA’s love of paperwork—it’s a fucking nightmare.

The collar of your shirt feels itchy against the back of your neck, bringing your nails to graze it furiously.

You decide to ignore Miss Minutes' cheery voice despite your agitation, your name rolling off her southern accent. It hints at her chagrin towards your disregarding nature.

"Are you even listenin' to me?"

Her voice lacks all sense of her once constant sunny disposition. You spare the projection a glance, watching her rubber-hose-like arms curve to her where you assume her hips would be. She looks at you with an expectant raised brow. You don’t say anything, keeping eye contact as you snatch an empty event report template, spinning in your swivel chair and away from the glowing tangerine clock.

With pursed lips, you swipe the scatter of mess away, revealing an orange typewriter that sits idly within the expense of your stacks of case files and your collection of vintage Earth cassettes. You hear Miss Minutes' sigh as she strides to the other end of your desk, perching on top of a dusty stack of pending paperwork.

“C’mon, it’s just a test,” the animated clock says. You spare her another look as you feed the report template into the roller forcefully. Bing! The return bar dings unceremoniously as it nearly startles Miss Minutes off the stack.

“That is exactly why I’m refusing to listen to you,” you mutter with annoyance, fingers already flying across the keyboard, punching letters onto the event summary section. The loud clickety-clack of the keys makes it impossible to hear over it. “I don’t get why I need to take a test when I clearly know everything I need to know.”

“Well, you were gone for a very long time and we just wanna test your memory on policies and procedures here at the TVA—”

“Then, why didn’t they come and get me earlier? From the moment I stepped foot on Sakaar, I did everything I could to create a Nexus event or even just a spike and you only came when? When I met Loki.”

Your eyes are now on her startled figure, clicks and clacks coming to an abrupt end. You’re upset over your arrest, the whole hoo-ha at the courtroom, and everything before that. Your behavior is nearly childish but understandable to those who express empathy. You feel like you were being used, prioritizing the capture of the Loki variant that has been causing a ruckus to the timeline. But, it is your job to protect the TVA and the sacred timeline. Although you feel that the TVA should be protecting its employees as well.

“Look, I am not taking that test and that’s my final word. Everyone knows I am capable of handling myself. Plus, I do have tons of paperwork to refresh my memory on policies and procedures if that’s what you’re worried about.”

The cartoon clock nods but with hesitation. However, you do make a fair point. Thus, with a swish and a blip, Miss Minutes disappears into thin air, and you’re left to your own devices once more.

Finally some goddamn peace.

As if the universe doesn’t loathe you enough, someone calls your name, approaching from behind you. A groan escapes from your lips, scowling at the glaring keys of the typewriter.

“What?” you spat. In a swift motion, you swivel in your seat and turn to look over your shoulder.

It’s Mobius, approaching you with sudden caution. You let your shoulder sag with relief, happy to see a familiar friendly face.

“Glad to see you’re back and still feisty.” Mobius hesitantly taps your shoulder, flashing you a small consoling smile. Your expression, however, remains unchanged. “Well, you guys did find me after all.” He spots the glimmer of melancholy in your eyes; they avert back to face the typewriter, hands resting on the keys. Mobius shoves his hand into the pockets of his brown slacks, shifting to lean against the edge of your desk. He knows to tread lightly around you after what happened. You’ve changed with wrinkles of age and crinkles of exhaustion. Sakaar must have not been kind to you.

Yet, you’re here, at your desk; alive and well.

“Hey, what’s got you all wound up?”

It’s a stupid question, really but it’s a question to show he still cares. You have every right to be upset. However, you have every right to be thankful. You would have been pruned. Desk cleared and cassettes discarded—it would be as if you never existed. Renslayer would have never given you any mercy after the act you pulled. Disobeying orders and recklessly throwing yourself into danger with the risk of bringing the whole TVA down. You’re impulsive on missions, but it’s your unrelenting determination that drives you to be one of the greatest analysts Mobius has ever seen.

You’re also a friend. A great one. And he isn’t planning on losing one.

“Please prune me, Mobius.”

Your statement comes off as intentionally sarcastic rather than truly meaningful.

“What? I always thought you adored paperwork.” Mobius hears you groan, burying your face in your hands, elbows propped up on the desk. “My back is already hurting, and I have a migraine just thinking about typing out reports of my time on Sakaar. I think it’s quite clear I adore paperwork.” Your muffled voice tinges sarcasm heavily.

Laughter erupts in his chest. He's glad that your sense of humor never changed. Then, the moment quickly passes and he senses a sudden change in the air. You turn up to look at him.

“What was my Nexus event?”

It’s abrupt, almost arbitrary but leads him to even more confusion. Mobius finds himself frowning. “You don’t know?”

You blink. “That’s the one thing they never told me.”

He shifts in his seat on the edge of your desk, blinking up to the ceiling in thought. “Well, from what I heard...it was because Loki willingly helped you. And it wasn’t for his own advantage.”

It’s your turn to frown. “Wouldn’t that be Loki's fault?”

“Apparently not. It was all you.”

You laugh in response; it comes out like a puff of air. “Well, then. That’s a first. I guess I can finally add manipulation to my list of skills. Plus, pick-pocketing weird cosmic fruits.”

Mobius laughs and taps your shoulder again.

“C’mon, take a walk with me. I’ve got a new case that I need your help with.” You shoot him a quizzical look, eyes catching sight of a thick case file in hand—must be important. “I thought I was supposed to be on desk duty.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to sit behind the desk the whole time,” he shoots back a clever answer with a raised eyebrow, beckoning you to accept his offer. Your laugh comes off as more of a snort. It’s the first one in a while. You stand on your feet, stretching your limbs as you shrug on your coat that was hung over the back of your chair.

“Plus, you’re under my supervision,” he says before turning on his heel, heading for the exit. You watch him raise a hand, his back to you, gesturing for you to follow as he pushes through the wooden door. You hum with amusement, trailing behind him.

-

The winding hallways feel hollow, mundane walls lacking any color of brightness the TVA tries to bring to the space when in all fairness, orange isn’t much of a fun color now that everywhere you look, there’s a tinge of tangerine somewhere. The posters that adorn the walls are your least favorite parts of the headquarters’ decorative choice. You pass one that says 'Always Watching' in big bold letters, ominously glaring at you. The words are far from comforting, almost inhumane—a jarring reminder of where you are and where you stand in the hierarchy of this bureaucratic organization.

Mobius clears his throat from beside you, pulling you out from your thoughts. In a weirdly discreet manner, he hands you the case file with an outstretched hand. You take it, eyeing him and his odd behavior, there’s an unexpected shift in the air.

Then, you glance down, reading the scrawled words on the file that reads: Variant L1130, Loki Laufeyson.

Your strides come to an abrupt end, whipping your head up to see Mobius’ sheepish smile. Your eyes are wide, and you’re shaking your head in utmost objection.

“No, no, no. No. Absolutely no—”

“C’mon, it’s just—”

“No, Mobius. Nuh-uh. I swear, if I have to deal with another Loki, I will prune myself. I literally will.”

You're shoving the file to him, as he attempts to suck it up to you like the optimistic idiot he is although he very well knows once you’ve made up your mind, you cannot be swayed. You’re stubborn, rebellious—it’s what makes you dangerous. Yet, the TVA are pessimists. It’s Mobius who truly recognizes your accompanying positive characteristics that make dealing with your spontaneous character worthwhile.

Then, coincidently emerging from the door of the locker room is Loki himself, dressed in a dress shirt, tie, and slacks—clothes and color schemes accustomed to the TVA’s dress code. Mobius can practically see the wires in your brain short-circuiting as soon as you lay eyes on the God. Your eye twitches and from that, he knows you’re about to go mayhem. It’s the mayhem that’s going to break out on him like a hurricane devouring everything and anything in its way.

“You hired him?! You hired a Loki?!”

Your voice is loud, startling Mobius and Loki as passersby stare at the commotion you’re causing. You find yourself hunching in response, shoulders sagging as if it’s supposed to help with averting the attention away from you. Still, your expression doesn’t falter, and you’re staring at Mobius like he’s nuts.

Your voice comes off as a whisper, tone still harsher than before. “Mobius, are you insane?—”

“Just, let me explain,” he cuts you off with a raised palm to you. You purse your lips, sparing a glance to Loki who seems amused by the looks of the conversation that’s turning to more of an argument because you’re directly questioning your colleague’s sanity in public. Nevertheless, you decide to hear him out.

You watch Mobius sigh at the sight of your raised brow. “We have a variant. A Loki variant that’s been killing our Minutemen and I believe it’s the same one that threw you to Sakaar. So, to hunt down a Loki, what better way than to source the help of another?”

Silence. You’re giving him that deafening silent treatment once more. You’re thinking, he can see the mechanics in your brain running like a steam engine. He observes the way your eyes flicker between him, the file, and Loki who attempts to hide his confusion of you and the whole situation.

You’re not his superior, not even close, but he’s hopeful for your approval of his plan.

You cross your arms, shifting in your stance. “Which Loki is this?” You gesture to Loki with a tilt of your head. Mobius heaves a sigh, a hand to his hip and the other waving in the air.

“He’s, uh, he’s from 2012—”

And you’re back to causing mayhem.

“2012?! Mobius! That’s the worst one yet!”

“Now, hang on just a minute—” Loki interrupts, voice tinged with bewilderment and resentment but with two sharp looks directed his way, he instantly shuts his mouth.

You and Mobius are now back to your whispered debate.

“Look, as much as I hate to admit it, the TVA’s survival all depends on catching this variant and that means our survival. He has potential for change, so much of it...You just have to trust me on this.”

Mobius makes an excellent point but you can't help but feel the queasiness rising from your stomach. It feels like bile. You begin to feel the weight of the case file in your grasp becoming heavier and heavier. It’s the thought of risky business, and you’re almost upset as to why Mobius thinks it’s such a brilliant idea to pull you into this case after the stunt you pulled.

“Care to explain why I'm involved in this? You do know I’m being scrutinized for every move I make, right?”

Following your question, he glances at Loki who seems to be growing impatient, eyes wandering around the hallway. He leans forward and lowers his voice though his pitch raises, like when he's excited about a breakthrough.

“Because I know you’re capable of getting Loki to trust you. It happened once, there’s a high chance it’ll happen again and that’s good enough for me.” He watches you blink once. Then, twice. He continues, “And you’re being scrutinized by me. So, does it really matter?”

You’re silent again but in deep thought and not out of spite. Your troubled eyes find Loki’s. He’s already staring at you and for a moment, you see an unknown glimmer in his eye, expression nearly vulnerable but in an instant, he seals it away from you and averts his gaze, busying himself with straightening his pecan brown tie. It’s a small sign that he must have heard what Mobius said to you quietly. Nothing more.

Your gaze returns to your colleague and you pull yourself together, heaving a deep sigh. “Fine, but I still think you’re insane.”

Mobius beams down at you in an almost proud manner. “Welcome back, agent.” And with a turn of a heel, he waves for Loki to follow as the three of you head down the hallway. Loki quickly catches up beside you, much to your dismay. “So, what’s your story?” he leans into you with a curious smirk. You keep your face forward, shoulder back, and chin up as you reply with a monotonous tone. “None of your business, daddy long legs.”

In your peripheral vision, you note how the God retracts in response to your reply, brows now furrowed as he glances down to his legs in an almost sheepish and innocent way.

You struggle to fight down a growing smirk.

Mobius looks over his shoulder for a moment and catches sight of you and Loki’s expression after your exchange.

It looks like the two of you would get along just fine.

TAGLIST:

@lareinedususpense

@poubxlle

@mystoragehatesme

[asweetprologue]

me lámh le do lámh - Part X (epilogue)

First | Previous | Masterpost

“Do you think,” Jaskier said, “that Yennefer is going to be really, truly unbearable about this?”

Geralt turned to look at him. They were on the Path back to Kaer Morhen, probably a few more days out, by his mark. Roach was meandering ahead, so used to the trek that she probably could have made it without him. The air held a sharp bite to it that promised colder days ahead, but for now the sun still shone merrily above them, keeping the frosts at bay. They had begun heading north well before the chill had truly begun to set in, both ready for the comfort of warm lodgings and old friends. Geralt smiled, thinking about seeing Ciri again soon.

Triss had no doubt told Yennefer that Geralt planned to marry the bard to grant him greater longevity, but they’d not yet told anyone that they were actually married now. Geralt could feel his own golden ring bumping against his chest, nestled next to his medallion. Jaskier’s was hidden under layers of fur and leather, Geralt having bullied him into wearing gloves now that they were in cooler climes.

He thought about Jaskier’s question for a moment. “Yes,” he finally settled on. “But she’ll be pleased, too.”

Jaskier knocked their shoulders together as they walked, reaching out to take Geralt’s hand in his bulky gloved one. He had begun doing that a lot lately—just holding Geralt’s hand, or sitting against his side when they stopped to rest. Always touching, even more so than before. It never failed to make a slow, pleased warmth spread through Geralt’s chest. It was a good thing he couldn’t blush, or this winter would be a nightmare of teasing.

As if it wasn’t going to be already.

“I admit I’m a bit worried she’ll turn me into an eel or something.” Jaskier pulled them to a stop as they rounded a bend on the mountain path. The valley spread out below them, the golden fields and dense reds and oranges of the forest winking up at them. “I’ve never been up when there were still leaves on the trees,” Jaskier said, gripping Geralt’s hand tighter. “It’s beautiful.”

Geralt kept his eyes on Jaskier, smiling fondly. “Hmm,” he said by way of agreement.

Jaskier glanced at him, and then rolled his eyes, though he was smiling as a blush spilled across his cheeks. “Oh, stop. You’re incorrigible.”

Geralt shifted closer, until he was smiling into Jaskier’s flushed skin. “Mm. I have it on good authority that you don’t mind.” He nosed at Jaskier’s hair. It was deep brown again, no grey in sight, and the skin around his eyes was unmarred by wrinkles. They might return one day, Geralt knew, but no time soon. His own wrinkles had grown a bit deeper, his bad knee a little more twingy, his reflexes a bit slower. Jaskier had been concerned the first week, as Geralt adjusted to the sudden onset of more human physiology.

It was worth it. Jaskier was here with him, and Geralt couldn’t regret a little stiffness in his joints if it meant he got to have this.

Jaskier turned his head until he could press their lips together briefly, pulling away with another smile, cheeks still flaming. “We should keep going,” he said. “Roach is starting to lose us.”

It was true; Roach had continued on heedless of their pause, clearly disinterested in her master’s preoccupation. Geralt laughed, feeling lighter than he had since he’d first laid eyes on Ciri in those woods. “Wouldn’t want to get shown up by a horse,” he agreed, turning back towards the path. Jaskier stayed close to his side the rest of the day.

*

Yennefer, as it turned out, was not the one they needed to be concerned about.

“I knew it!” Ciri crowed, clinging to Geralt’s shoulders. As soon as they’d walked through the front gates she’d launched herself into his arms. “You were so mopey when he wasn’t around.”

Jaskier snickered beside him. Their good mood was infectious, and Geralt found himself smiling as he lowered Ciri back to the ground. “Don’t say it,” he warned Ciri in good humor. “He doesn’t need the ego boost.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Jaskier drawled, giving Ciri a wink. “You’ve already told me you loved me six times since this morning. A fellow might start to get ideas.”

Geralt squinted at him. “Have you been counting?”

“Yuck,” Ciri said with relish. Behind them, Yennefer made a shockingly childish gagging sound.

Jaskier flushed up to his hairline, though he still seemed pleased with himself. Geralt watched the color progress with interest.

“Well, I’m glad neither of you died in this frankly suicidal endeavour.” Yennefer stepped forward to join their small circle. She was as stunning as ever, her dark hair pinned away from her face to expose the long line of her neck. “The others were taking bets.”

Geralt sighed, wishing he could be more surprised. “So they all know?”

“Triss won the pot,” Yennefer informed him gleefully. “Though they don’t know that yet. The rest of us were less confident in your collective capacity for forthright communication.”

“Are you going to have a real wedding?” Ciri demanded, hands coming up to rest on her hips. “It’s not fair that we all had to miss it. I didn’t even get to make your crowns!”

“We didn’t wear any,” Geralt assured her. Jaskier had turned to look at him, radiating excitement. Geralt avoided his gaze. “We’ll think about it,” he hedged, and felt Jaskier’s hand reach out to squeeze his briefly.

Ciri hissed in victory regardless. She snagged Jaskier’s free hand in her own, tugging lightly. “You have to tell me everything.”

Jaskier grinned at her, and the warmth that filled Geralt’s chest at the sight of the two of them threatened to overwhelm him. “Well you know our witcher of few words will do it no justice,” Jaskier agreed, and Geralt’s huff was lost under the sound of their laughter.

*

Later, after they’d received wry congratulations from Vesemir, after Jaskier had regaled the others with a hilarious retelling of their strange coming together, after they’d sent Ciri off to bed and retired to their own room—just one now—Jaskier spoke.

“We don’t have to,” he murmured, pressing the words into Geralt’s neck. They weren’t really trying to sleep, but they were both too tired for anything more strenuous. Instead they lay tangled together under the quilts, skin to skin. Jaskier’s head was tucked under Geralt’s jaw, and he amused himself by drawing ambling patterns along Jaskier’s back. It had become his favorite way to pass the time. He felt drunk off of it every time, hazy with comfort and affection.

He hummed, taking a moment to process Jaskier’s words. The soft kiss Jaskier pressed to his shoulder didn’t help. “What do you mean?” he rumbled, enjoying the way it made Jaskier shiver against him.

“The whole wedding thing,” Jaskier said. “I know Ciri seemed excited, but—I don’t know if you would want to reenact all that in front of everyone. We don’t need to.” He brought his free hand up to trace a finger along the ring that rested in the hollow of Geralt’s throat. “This is enough for me.”

“I know,” Geralt smiled, shifting slightly so he could meet Jaskier’s eyes. ���But you want to.”

Jaskier wriggled uncomfortably, flushing. He did that a lot nowadays; Geralt was hopelessly enamored with it. With him. “You know me,” Jaskier shrugged, half explanation, half apology.

“Hey,” Geralt said, capturing Jaskier’s chin so that he could press a chaste kiss to his lips. The tension melted out of him immediately, gratifying. “Anything you want, remember? I don’t mind. I’ll marry you as many times as you want me to.”

Jaskier beamed then, and their next kiss was sloppy with it. Geralt couldn’t remember being so happy in his entire life. “Don’t say that,” Jaskier warned with a grin, joy bubbling up underneath his words. “We’ve got decades and decades now. I’m probably going to want you to marry me a lot. Any way I can think of.”

They had time. He would propose to Jaskier in a hundred different ways, court him with gifts and sweet words, bind him with foreign phrases and silver rings and anything else he could think of. It didn’t matter; they were already one heart. But he wanted it, wanted to see Jaskier’s surprise and joy over and over. “Let’s start with this one,” he said thickly, brushing Jaskier’s hair away from his face tenderly. “I love you. Will you marry me?”

Jaskier laughed as he answered, “Yes, I love you too, yes,” and Geralt knew it was only the beginning.

~

and that’s a wrap! thank you so much to everyone who followed along and everyone who helped me finish this thing. if you missed them before, @herostag and @silvertonguelover created the art for this series, so go check them out! i hope you all enjoyed reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it!

tags: @whereismymonsterlover

[swan-of-sunrise]

The Winter Soldier (Chapter Five)

Summary: (Y/N) and Sam are visited by Steve Rogers and Natasha Romanoff, and the novelist makes a life-altering decision.

Pairing: Steve Rogers X Reader

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings/Disclaimers: Brief discussion of PTSD

A/N: Hope you all enjoy!

Chapter Five (Previous Chapter)

Yawning loudly into her hand, (Y/N) poured some milk into her bowl of chocolate Cheerios, grabbed a spoon and sat on a stool at the kitchen counter. She turned on her laptop and began reading through the day’s top news headlines while she ate her breakfast; thankfully, it appeared that the manhunt for Captain America was still going on, which meant that S.H.I.E.L.D. hadn’t yet apprehended him.

The backdoor of the house opened and Sam entered, breathing heavily and covered in a layer of perspiration; a smile brightened his face once he noticed her presence. “’Morning, Booksmart!”

“Hey Sam, you have a good run today?”

“Yeah, it was okay.” Sam wiped his brow with his sleeve, his expression suddenly sheepish. “Um…thanks again for last night, (Y/N). It really meant a lot to me.”

The night before, Sam had another intense nightmare about the last Air Force mission he’d flown with his partner, Riley. (Y/N) was woken up by his loud moaning and thrashing from the room across the hall, so she quickly threw on her bathrobe and went to him. As she’d done countless times over the past year, she’d carefully wrapped her arms around him and spoke soothing words until his eyes had eventually fluttered open, and as his face filled with pain, Sam flung his arms around her and they fell asleep in each other’s embrace. It hadn’t been the first time she’d helped him through one of his nightmares, and she doubted that it would be the last.

“I’m your best friend, Birdbrain, it’s in my job description. That, and annoying you whenever I think you deserve some annoying.” Her soft smile turned into a frown as Sam opened the refrigerator and pulled out the carton of orange juice. “I swear to God, Sam, if you drink straight from that carton I’m gonna have to kill you. That’s disgusting!”

Sam’s loud laugh was cut short by a knock on the backdoor. They exchanged matching looks of confusion before Sam headed for the door, (Y/N) following closely behind. He raised the blinds and opened the door to reveal Steve Rogers and Black Widow standing on their back porch, both covered head-to-toe in grime and looking completely worn-out. “…Hey, man.”

Steve’s weary eyes glanced between the two of them. “I’m sorry about this. We need a place to lay low.”

Black Widow’s smile was apologetic as she elaborated, “Everyone we know is trying to kill us.”

(Y/N) and Sam exchanged a look before he opened the door wider and said, “Not everyone.” With looks of gratitude, the pair hurried into the house and Sam closed the door behind them, careful to close the blinds and lock the deadbolt.

“We haven’t been properly introduced; I’m Natasha Romanoff.”

(Y/N) smiled politely and shook Natasha’s outstretched hand. “(Y/N) (Y/L/N).” After Sam introduced himself to her, (Y/N) gestured to the hallway and continued. “You guys are welcome to use our shower if you wanted to clean up a little; I think I may even have some spare clothes somewhere…”

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

After showing Steve and Natasha the bathroom down the hall and letting them use Sam’s bedroom for some extra privacy, (Y/N) dug through her closet until she found the clothes that her brother and girlfriend had accidentally left when they’d visited last; she’d been meaning to send them back, but it would seem that the two fugitives they were harboring had more use for them. Pausing a moment in front of the closed bedroom door, she placed the box on the floor and hurried back to her room to get dressed before going back to the kitchen. When she got there, Sam was in the middle of scrambling eggs so she quietly began buttering some toast.

“They didn’t look too good, Sam. What do you think happened to them out there?”

“Not sure, but it must’ve been pretty serious for them to come here of all places for help. You mind finishing up the eggs while I go change out of these workout clothes and tell them the food’s ready?”

(Y/N) gave him a small smile and took the spatula from him. “’Course not.” Sam patted her shoulder and left the kitchen, and to distract herself from her worries, she began absentmindedly humming to herself while she finished scrambling the eggs.

“Hey, a tune I actually recognize.” (Y/N) glanced away from the stove to see Steve standing near the refrigerator. “You really enjoy music, don’t you?” When she tilted her head in confusion, he elaborated, “I took a wrong turn in the hall and caught a glimpse of your room. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many records and CD’s in my life.”

(Y/N) shrugged noncommittally. “Yeah, I guess I do. There’s something comforting about music to me…it makes me feel like no matter what happens in my life, good or bad, music will always be there for me.” She cringed at how cheesy her words sounded out loud and quickly added, “That probably doesn’t make much sense, though, just forget it…”

Steve’s mouth curved into a small smile. “I think I understand a little…thanks for the clothes, by the way.”

Switching off the burner, (Y/N) took the pan of scrambled eggs and began dishing the food onto two plates. “They fit all right? My brother and his girlfriend visited a while back and forgot some of their things here, they’re about your guys’ size…”

“Yeah, they fit great.” He adjusted the hem of his dark grey shirt before glancing back up at her. “So, were you humming ‘Pistol Packin’ Mama’ just now ‘cause something good’s happening or something bad?”

(Y/N) thought for a moment before answering. “Both, I guess. You guys are both safe, which is obviously good, but something’s going on. Something that must be pretty bad for you to come to the two of us for help.”

Steve stared at her with curious eyes for a few seconds before giving her a brief nod and accepting the plate of food she handed him.

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

“So, Hydra’s been infiltrating S.H.I.E.L.D. this whole time…” Sam said, his eyes trained on his clasped hands. After they had eaten, Steve and Natasha had explained everything that had happened, from their mission on the Lemurian Star to the missile strike at Camp Lehigh where they discovered that the terrorist organization had been growing and thriving within S.H.I.E.L.D. for seventy years. “And they’ve been using this Winter Soldier guy to silence anyone unlucky enough to uncover their existence…”

“And they’re planning something big so they can try to take control of the world. Again.” (Y/N) finished, glancing away from Sam and across the table at Steve, who nodded mutely.

Natasha paced beside the table with her arms crossed over her chest. “So, the question is: who in S.H.I.E.L.D. could launch a domestic missile strike?”

“Pierce.”

“Who happens to be sitting on the top of the most secure building in the world,” (Y/N) pointed out, rubbing her forehead as a headache began to form and wishing that she could play some of her music to calm herself down.

Steve frowned, and she could practically see the wheels turning in his head. “But he’s not working alone, Zola’s algorithm was on the Lemurian Star.”

“So was Jasper Sitwell.”

Natasha’s comment made Steve sigh. “So, the real question is: how do the two most wanted people in Washington kidnap a S.H.I.E.L.D. officer in broad daylight?”

“The answer is: you don’t.” (Y/N) hadn’t noticed that Sam had stood until he dropped a familiar file onto the table in front of Steve. When the super-soldier picked up the file and shot him a questioning glance, Sam added, “Call it a resume.”

“Sam…” (Y/N) jumped to her feet and stood in front of her friend as Steve and Natasha glanced through the file. “Are you sure?”

Sam gave her a comforting smile and nod as Natasha spoke. “Is this Bakhmala? The Khandil Khandil mission, that was you?” She glanced at Steve with an impressed smile. “You didn’t say he was para-rescue.”

“Is this Riley?”

(Y/N) gently took Sam’s hand as he nodded, knowing how difficult his decision was for him. He wouldn’t be getting back into all this if he didn’t believe that it was the right thing to do, she thought grimly, his hand tightening slightly around hers as the others continued to read over the file.

Natasha flicked through the pages of the file, looking up at Sam with a furrowed brow. “I heard they couldn’t bring in the choppers because of the RPG’s. What did you use, a stealth chute?”

“I’d check the next page if I were you.” (Y/N) couldn’t help but smile, remembering when Sam had told her about his military service and shown her the pictures of the EXO-7 Falcon pack. That’s when she began calling him ‘Birdbrain’ in retaliation to his awful nickname for her, but her plan backfired when he ended up taking the insult as a term of endearment.

Steve and Natasha flipped the pages of the file and the super-soldier’s eyebrows raised in surprise as he looked up at them. “I thought you said you were a pilot.”

“I never said pilot.” Despite the serious situation, Sam couldn’t keep the smirk off his face as he spoke and (Y/N) rolled her eyes in amusement.

“I can’t ask you to do this, Sam. You got out for a good reason-”

Sam cut off Steve with a wave of his hand. “Dude, Captain America needs my help. There’s no better reason to get back in.”

“…Where can we get our hands on one of these things?”

“The last one’s at Fort Meade, behind three guard gates and a twelve-inch steel wall.”

Natasha shrugged when Steve glanced at her. “Shouldn’t be a problem.”

(Y/N) frowned as the three of them began collecting the files and standing, suddenly getting the feeling that they were preparing to leave without her. In that moment, she knew that she had a decision to make; if she stayed, then her life and career would continue normally as long as all three of them managed to stop Hydra, but she knew she’d feel guilt for not doing her part to help and if they couldn’t stop Hydra, then the organization would succeed in taking over the world and countless lives would be destroyed. But if she left with them, she would become a target; her life, her family, her career…it would all be at risk if Hydra put out a warrant for her arrest; if it meant helping save the world and everyone in it, though, then there was really only one right answer…

“I’m coming with you guys.”

“Um…” All three of them stopped and looked at her, and Natasha was the first to break the silence as she glanced over at Steve. “I thought you said she was a writer.”

“Yes, I am a writer, but I’m still coming with you.”

Steve shook his head, his jaw set with determination. “(Y/N), it’s bad enough that Sam’s being dragged into all this but at least he knows what we’re up against. You’d be putting your life at risk by coming, not to mention your career.”

“You’re right, Steve.” (Y/N) squared her shoulders and stared down the super-soldier, her back straight and her arms crossed. “I’m not a soldier, or a spy or even a goddamn Avenger, I’m just a civilian who wants to help save the world that I live in. You three are about to risk everything to stop Hydra, and I’ve got no right to do any less than you, no matter what my occupation is. It’s true that the price of freedom’s a high one, but it’s a price I’m willing to pay. Besides,” She couldn’t keep the smug tone out of her voice as she spoke. “I already know how to abduct Sitwell in broad daylight without alerting Hydra.”

Steve kept his eyes on hers for a moment before turning to Natasha, who had an impressed look on her face as she shrugged. “I like her, and we could always use another person on our side, Steve.”

“I’ve known (Y/N) for over a year now; if she says she can help, then she can help.” Sam gave her a small wink, and (Y/N) felt a rush of gratitude for her best friend. “I’ll keep an eye on her, make sure she doesn’t get into trouble.”

Steve sighed and turned back to her; she only raised her eyebrows in expectation as she waited for his response. After a moment, he finally gave her a nod, the corner of his mouth lifting into a small smile. “You’re in. Now, you said you had an idea about getting Sitwell…?”

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

A/N: Thank you so much for reading! I’ve created a Spotify playlist inspired by this series, and I’ll be updating it every time I upload a new chapter. Enjoy! 

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4BenknAqQQnOWY8NmSa23V

Tagging: @mrs-obrien @lahoete @awkward117 @cminr @momc95 @awkwardnesshabitat @marinettepotterandplagg @khuang3 @supersouthy @benakenalove @brooke0297 @hufflepeople @becausewelie @outoftheregular @supreme-tantrum​

Chapter Six

“The Winter Soldier” Masterlist

[silverstarlightwrites]

weird au premise

it’s knocking about in my brain and it’s a clumsy son of a bitch

It’s quiet, when they wake. Quiet and dark and stuffy, the air dry and stale. He’s not the first one to speak, but he thinks he’s the first to adjust to the lack of light, sitting up and taking in his surroundings. There’s something surprisingly soft under his fingers, a blanket that’s been tucked in over his legs - though let loose across his torso, allowing him to move freely. He seems to be in some kind of... cubby? The nook is small, only barely bigger than he is, and sunk into what must be a wall. To his left there’s a thin screen; he can’t see it in the gloom, but when he reaches out his hand sinks against it, straining but not breaking under his strength.

The claustrophobia sinks in a little, kitten teeth in his nape, as Kakashi realises that he’s trapped.

“H-hello?” calls a voice, feminine and shaking and afraid. She’s somewhere above Kakashi, he thinks, if the barrier keeping him in the nook den, something whispers in his mind-- If it’s not messing with sound too badly, then she’s probably at least two more dens’ worth of distance above him.

“Hello?” calls back another voice in the dark, putting up a better front of bravery but no less shaky than the first. “Who’s that?”

After that it takes several minutes of agonising noise for the voices to die down. Kakashi tries to count them, tries to give his mind something to focus on and quantify through the flood of sound. By the time someone else take command, Kakashi has counted at least sixteen other people; there could be more blended into the cacophony, too similar to another, but he’s at least certain of that many distinct timbres.

“Everybody, be quiet!”

Loud and authoritative, and familiar in a way many of the others aren’t, and miraculously, everybody listens. The frantic voices go quiet, like a wave in reverse, and then the familiar one speaks again, and--

Oh.

Kakashi sucks in a harsh breath. “Minato-sensei?!” he ventures, as loud as he dares. Hope is a choking cloud in his own chest. Why does Sensei’s voice make him feel like he’s about to die?

“Kakashi!” comes the response, and Kakashi can’t even get a reply through his teeth, the way it makes him shake and gasp. “Okay, good.” It’s Minato-sensei, it’s really him, and whatever it is is that makes Kakashi’s vision flicker with something red and snarling when he hears Minato’s voice, he has no interest in--

Red chakra and tails and blood. Mayhem as Kakashi stood passive with his peers, locked off behind a barrier meant to protect them - and meant to cage them. So that they can’t help - so that if Minato fails, if everyone else fails, Konoha will have strength still to rely on.

What?

But that doesn’t make any sense. He’s-- Gods, he’s right here like always. Mask on, his body intact from the brief inspection he’s done. Except he remembers all of that, remembers the years in between and ever since. He remembers the funeral. He remembers his kids. He remembers...

Gods, maybe he doesn’t. It’s all... fuzzy. Strange and echoey around the edges, like a dream. It can’t be real, because Minato-sensei is here, and he’s not an adult, not scarred down the left side of his face, so how could--

“Kakashi-sensei?” The voice is small, but sure of itself, and bright green eyes flash in Kakashi’s mind, the lively excitement of a girl who doesn’t yet know what she’s gotten herself into.

She knows, now. “Sakura?” he calls back, the name bursting from his throat from somewhere deep in the dream-memories he can’t figure out how to parse, and that can’t be right, but--

But she replies. “Sensei! Where are we?”

“Hey, hey, easy,” interrupts Minato-sensei, and it finally dawns on Kakashi that there’s something wrong with his voice. Not as smooth or deep as Kakashi’s used to - an unfamiliar strain that crawls down Kakashi’s back with needled claws. “We need to know who’s here and how many of us there are.” And a murmuring goes through the-- however many of them are here. Some meet the proclamation with terse and uneasy silence, but others quietly agree. If Kakashi is generous with his own abilities, it sounds like the older ones agree.

“Yes, Hokage-sama.”

So the collective begins to sound off, one at a time. Sensei begins.

“Namikaze Minato.”

“Hatake Kakashi.”

“Sarutobi Hiruzen.” Oh. Thankfully nobody is disputing Minato’s claim to authority yet, but... suddenly, Kakashi wonders what they’re going to do if the Hokages disagree.

Aren’t they dead? Aren’t they both supposed to be dead?

“Tsunade.”

“Uchiha Fugaku.”

“Uchiha Itachi.”

“Uchiha Sasuke.”

This is wrong. It’s wrong. They’re all supposed to be dead. It’s all blood and chaos and grief, and everyone is supposed to be dead.

“Uzumaki Kushina.”

“U--! Uzumaki Naruto!!”

“Hyuuga Hiashi.”

“Hyuuga Hizashi.”

“H... Hyuuga Neji...”

“Hyuuga Hinata.”

“Hatake Sakumo.”

Kakashi can’t help the noise that breaks out of him, or the way he throws himself against the barrier caging him in. It doesn’t give, holding fast no matter how far he pushes against it, and every moment feels like he might just be about to get through it but the freedom never comes. Nobody else says anything, just as nobody’s said anything about all the others.

Maybe they’re all dead, in the end. It’s far more likely, isn’t it? Than everybody who’s ever mattered suddenly being alive again?

“Uchiha Obito.”

“Jiraiya.”

“Orochimaru.” He speaks quietly, too high-pitched, lacking the arrogance Kakashi associates with him. A hiss of dislike floods the room-- the... cavern. Place. Whatever this is.

“H-Haruno Sakura.”

“Nohara Rin.”

Oh gods. She speaks so softly. Kakashi can’t tell which aches more; his hands or his chest.

“Yakushi Kabuto.”

“Yuhi Kurenai.”

“Sarutobi Asuma.”

“Maito Gai.” There’s a flutter that flares out under Kakashi’s skin, his whole body, and it feels unfathomably like relief.

“Y-Yamanaki Ino.”

“Yamanaka Inoichi.”

“Nara Shikaku.”

“Nara Shikamaru.”

“Ak-kimichi Choji...”

A flash of silence. Is... Is Choza not here?

“... Aburame Shino.”

“Abur-rame Ayaki.”

“Kuromizu Keisuke.”

“Kuromizu Kaoru.”

“Kuromizu Kyoki.”

“Uchiha Mikoto.”

“Uchiha Shisui.”

There’s a noise from somewhere in the darkness, and Kakashi recognises Itachi’s voice within it. Nobody acknowledges it.

“Senju Hashirama.”

“T... Tenzo.”

“Inuzuka Tsume.”

“Inuzuka Hana.”

“Uhm... S-Sarutobi Konoha-hamaru.” Oh gods. He sounds young. Even younger than the rest-- And that’s what’s wrong with everyone’s voice, Kakashi realises, eyes widening. Everyone sounds like a child.

“Umino Iruka.”

“Tsubaki Raiden.” Kakashi’s chest lurched.

“Tsubaki Nioko.”

“Akiyama Kaida.” Again.

“Sarutobi Nami.”

“Shiranui Genma.” And again.

“Hyuuga H-Heideki.”

“Iseya Kaede.”

And then, finally, there’s silence. Too much of it, like he’s drowning in it, except Kakashi is counting the times his heart slams against his ribcage, and the number is far too low for the silence to last as long as it feels like it does. It takes everything he has not to shout out - his father is here, Rin, Obito. Itachi. Oh gods, Sasuke. Sakumo.

It’s not fair. Whatever this is, whatever hell or nightmare or sick twisted lie, it’s not fair.

“Alright,” Minato says, and Kakashi can feel everyone listening. “Is everyone in a-- den?” So... he feels that nag too, the little itch that insists that these alcoves - these cells - are called ‘dens’. There’s a round of affirmations, and Kakashi doesn’t add his own but he offers no dissent, and that’s good enough for the crowd of shinobi trapped on all sides.

Someone breaks. Thank gods, any and all that are listening, that it’s not Kakashi.

“What the hell is this?!” It sounds... Kakashi isn’t certain who it is, if he’s honest. They sound like a child. But one hand on his own chest betrays the thinness of it, that he’s also somehow a child. “You’re-- Half of you are dead! This isn’t real...” Kakashi thinks it might be one of the younger children. One of the Aburames, maybe? “This can’t be real.”

Laughter cuts any reply that Minato (or any of the others) might have given. It’s cold and cruel and disappointed. “It’s only too real. Now stop your snivelling; you’re Konoha shinobi. Act like it.”

And this voice, too, Kakashi recognises, but it’s... He can’t quite put a name to it. The memories (dreams?) are like slurry on the inside of his skull, and it’s getting harder and harder to grasp them. It sounds... older. An adult.

“No need to worry, Konoha-nin. You’re here because you’ve failed, but I’m merciful. You’ll have the chance to try again.”

The darkness hasn’t lightened even slightly in all this time, a night so absolute that Kakashi’s eyes can’t adjust to it even if he brightens them with chakra. Subtly, almost blinding even with how slowly it grows, a dim orange light comes on above Kakashi’s head. It pulsates slightly, like a heartbeat, as if the light is a living thing. He hears the ripple of noise that goes through the assembled shinobi, and he can only assume that they’re all getting lights of their own, because he can’t see anything beyond the stretchy barrier.

It’s... a membrane, now that he gets a look at it. Somewhere between black and fleshy pink, and it’s completely opaque but he can still see the blood vessels where they weave through it. Acid rises in his throat.

The den is warm, and Kakashi notes with desperate relief that the rest of the walls don’t seem so alive. They feel like smooth rock, and now he can see them they’re a mottled white-grey that reminds him of marble. Above his head, the orange light itself, is a shallow depression, lined with delicate fur. Kakashi looks into the light, and the light looks back.

Oh gods. It’s an eye.

“Quiet,” snarls the adult voice as a faint stirring of horror sweeps once more through the shinobi. The ‘blanket’ that Kakashi is tucked into-- It’s fur, the soft warmth, and it could almost be welcome if it didn’t run so smoothly into the walls of the den. He’s half-tucked in, still, but it’s not a blanket. It’s a pouch. “Don’t bother with your memories,” he continues, sounding almost amicable again. “You won’t be here too long. You didn’t remember the last time either. And please, for your own sakes, don’t fight it. You’ll note several... notable absences in your roster.”

There’s a soft noise, a whisper on all sides, and Kakashi smells something overpoweringly sweet.

“Please do better, this time. The mess you’ve made of this attempt...” He tuts, and his voice starts to become distant. The sweet smell is too much, saturating everything, and Kakashi claws down his mask as he gags. Nothing comes up, but the ache is sharp and he struggles to remind himself that he can breathe just fine. What...? Oh gods. He can hear the gasps and choked sounds from the others, too. “And for gods’ sake, try not to kill each other. We do actually need the Uchiha clan, and all the others. If any of you manage to remember anything, just remember not to do that.”

The walls are melting. Aren’t they...? No, they’re... they’re leaking. The sweet smell is coming from the viscous fluid oozing from the walls, and they’re not marble, oh gods they’re not marble, but Kakashi can’t rightly guess what they are. Cries of fear go up around him, even as he sucks in a breath riddled with saccharine scents and tastes honey.

Someone calls out his name. Is it Minato-sensei? Is it his father? Gods forbid-- is it one of his own kids? His genin must be terrified.

“Alright, hush now. It hurts less if you stop fighting. I’ll probably see you again next time, Konoha. Toodle-loo!”

The eye-light blinks, and the oozing turns to a cascade. No longer slowly, but all at once, the dens fill entirely and it doesn’t feel as much like drowning as Kakashi expects it to. He can’t breathe, not exactly, but he doesn’t feel like he’s asphyxiating, either. He doesn’t feel like he’s dying.

He reaches up, every sound muted and wrong through the sugary ooze filling his ears - and his nose and mouth and lungs and everywhere - and the eye-light winces when he touches the fur encircling it. Meets his gaze.

There’s a flash - not light, nothing so tangible, but it feels like connection, like a rope being knotted around his soul - and then the eye-light closes and everything goes, once more, completely dark.

[chipper9906]

Heal The Cracks Within My Heart - Chapter 6: No More Tricks

<- - - Previous Chapter

WARNING: SPOILERS FOR LOKI SEASON 1 EPISODE 6 ‘FOR ALL TIME. ALWAYS.’

Pairings: Loki/Sylvie

Rating: General Audiences

Chapter Word Count: 8,958

Overall Word Count: 57,236

Status: Multi Chapter Fic - In Progress (6/?)

Chapter Preview:

“Good to meet y’all,” Miss Minutes said with that unnerving smile, walking – but not really – across Mobius’s desk and over to Loki and Sylvie. “I’m sure you can’t wait to get to work protecting the sacred timeline!”

“Oh, simply ecstatic,” Loki said with as much sarcasm as he could fit into one sentence. “Something to finally give my pathetic life some meaning. How about you, Sylvie?”

“Like a dream come true…” Sylvie drawled.

“Great to hear!” This Miss Minutes was, apparently, incapable of picking up sarcasm.

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One of the (few) good things about the sprawling size of the TVA was that there were often parts of it with no one in sight. It was on one of these floors, where the files hadn’t been disturbed for so long that they were collecting dust, that the Gods of Fate had smiled upon them and opened up the Time-Door into. 

Mobius’s head was the first to peek through the Time-Door, looking both left and right down the miniature hallway. Once he had confirmed there was no one that had seen the Time-Door manifesting from nowhere, he waved both Loki and Sylvie through, before stepping fully back into his place of work. 

“This feels so wrong,” Sylvie complains as they walk, tugging at the restricting dress shirt around her neck. Loki regards her from the corner of his eye, scanning up and down her body as he takes in her new uniform. 

“It is a little weird seeing you without your armor.” Loki reaches out to tug at the lapels of her TVA blazer, grinning unabashedly when she smacks his hand away with a weak glare. “–But for the record, I think you look stunning whatever you choose to wear.”

“Oh dear God,” Mobius groaned dramatically in front of them, forcing Loki and Sylvie’s gaze away from each other and over to him. “Is your plan to just constantly flirt with each other to get me to find these files faster? Coz I’ve gotta say, it’s working.”

“It almost sounds like you’re eager to be rid of us,” Loki said, sounding almost offended. Almost. 

“You’re both probably bearable on your own, but the two of you together?” Mobius shook his head. “Nightmares, the both of you. An insane amount of people exist out there in the Universe – now made even bigger with this whole mess you’ve made – countless amounts of variants you could have run into, but no, you had to go and find versions of yourself and hook up with them!”

“First of all, are you telling me you aren't a little bit curious to know what another variant of yourself would be like?” Sylvie asked, bringing Mobius to a grinding halt and turning to face them.

“No, actually. I'm not,” Mobius said in disbelief at her question. “I could have happily gone on with the rest of my life without ever thinking that, thank you. And now I know I won’t be able to stop thinking about it.”

“Give it a try,” Sylvie said, throwing a wink in Loki’s direction that nearly made Mobius groan out loud again. “And secondly… no one understands you better than yourself. We have our similarities – a few Loki traits that seem to stick no matter what form we take – but… we’ve both walked different paths. Genetically different, souls the same; but whilst they were formed the same, they’ve been molded by our experiences. So, whilst we may not see things the same way sometimes, at the end of the day, we just…”

“Understand each other,” Loki finishes for Sylvie with a tender smile. 

“God, it really is like puppy love,” Mobius mumbled as he turned back around and continued onwards. “Feels like I’m watching a couple of teens trying to figure out how feelings work…”

“That’s… an apt comparison, actually,” Loki admitted as they both picked up the pace to keep up with Mobius, not wanting to get lost in the maze of TVA corridors. It was only occasionally that they walked through a section with a worker milling about the place, or saw an occasional Minute-Men either patrolling the area or simply passing through to wherever it is they had been ordered to go to. 

“Things seem calmer than last time,” Loki noted. He wasn’t sure whether it was good or bad that the TVA wasn’t still freaking out about the whole multi-versal situation they had on their hands. Every now and then, as they passed through different corridors, Loki would see a flash of that horrific statue proudly displaying 'Him' as he stood over all his subjects. At least they knew now that Sylvie’s guess of being able to select a previously opened Time-Door and return them to the same TVA was correct…

“Things seem empty,” Mobius corrected him. “This place is usually bustling with activity -- and now it’s a ghost town. If we’ve dispatched most of our workers out into the field, then…” Mobius sighed deeply. “Things can’t be doing too well…”

Mobius came to a sudden stop as they rounded a corner, nearly walking straight into a TVA worker who had also been rounding the corner. The man blinked in surprise at Mobius, not even registering Loki or Sylvie behind him. The man pushed his glasses back up his nose, frowning at Mobius before looking somewhere behind him. 

“Mobius? Where have you been? They’ve been looking everywhere for you, man. Judge Whittle’s about to blow a fuse if you don’t get down to his office stat.”

“Forgot I need to grab these guys,” Mobius lied smoothly, gesturing with a flick of his head back to Sylvie and Loki behind him. “They have some, uh… some research I asked them to collect for me that I think could be of some use.”

The man finally looked over to them, thankfully not looking too suspicious of them as his eyes darted between them both. “Right… Well, you better not keep Judge Whittle waiting. What with everything going on, I think he’s trying to hold onto some sense of time, and being late again might just snap his last thread.”

“That’s why I’m headed there now,” Mobius assured the man with a pat on his shoulder and a friendly smile. The man returned the smile, giving all three a respectful nod before walking past them and disappearing out of sight around another corridor. Mobius released a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding, fixing his already tidy tie as a force of habit. 

“I have to say, you’re an excellent liar,” Loki commended Mobius. “Are you sure you’re not a variant of us, too?”

“God, I hope not,” Mobius retorted, continuing to lead them forward once more. 

“Wait, hang on-,” Sylvie said, tugging at Mobius’s arm. “Did he say Judge Whittle?”

Mobius looked back to Sylvie with a confused frown. “…Yes?”

“What about Judge Renslayer? What happened to her?”

Mobius stopped outside of a stereotypical-looking office door, pausing with his hand on the door handle. “Judge who?”

Both Sylvie and Loki shared a look of surprise, strangely unsettled by the idea that Renslayer apparently didn't exist in this timeline. Or, at least, hadn't been taken from her life to work in the TVA. What other changes would they have to expect to come across in this timeline? And how much of an effect would each small change have?

"Doesn't matter," Sylvie told Mobius. "Just... someone we know from another timeline."

"And by 'know', do you mean 'have killed', or...?"

"Us personally? No," Loki answered. "But last we saw you — the other you — you were headed back to the TVA to give Renslayer our regards, so... we don't actually know what happened to her."

“Given my fighting skills? Nothing, probably,” Mobius guessed, yanking down on the handle and swinging the door open. It was only once Mobius had stepped inside and out of the way of the door that Loki noticed the little golden plaque attached under the little window, the name ‘M. Mobius’ etched into the metal. 

“Come on. I don’t know how much time we have,” Mobius called them into the office. “Considering I’m expected in Whittle’s office, we probably don’t have long until someone comes to fetch me.”

“You have an office?” Loki said in surprise, stepping into the room with Sylvie close behind. 

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I?”

“The you I know never took me to his office,” Loki replied, glancing around the small space that had been allocated to Mobius. It looked… well, like everything else in the TVA, really: neat and organized, drab and boring; painted with soul-sucking colors that, at this point, reminded him of a prison. 

“Maybe he didn’t have one.” Mobius dropped down onto a squeaky office chair, fiddling around with the buttons on one of those ridiculously bulky-looking computer monitors until it whirred to life. “I can’t imagine every variant of myself is good enough at their job for—” 

“He was just fine at doing his job, actually,” Loki was quick to defend Mobius. Which was quite strange, as he was defending Mobius to… Mobius. “Managed to out-lie me a few times, which I can assure you is a tricky thing to do.”

“He was the only one of your bumbling workforce that was able to keep hot on my tail,” Sylvie joined Loki in defending Mobius, much to Loki’s surprise and… a little bit herself, if she was being honest. “I was able to stay one step ahead of him until he roped this idiot in—” Sylvie jabbed a thumb in Loki's direction. “—And he led you right to me.”

“To try and recruit you.” Loki now had to defend himself. “I wasn’t exactly a volunteer worker; it was work with them or be reset.”

“And here comes the old couple bickering…” Mobius mumbled under his breath. Before either Loki or Sylvie could point out that, whilst technically over a thousand years old, they were still considered young by Asgardian standards, Mobius had opened up some sort of application that brought up some virtual files in a holographic display.

Much to both Sylvie and Loki’s displeasure, these files were also accompanied by the cheery bright orange face of Miss Minutes. Sylvie barely restrained herself from unsheathing her sword hidden beneath her blazer and slicing the southern-speaking mascot in half like she desperately wanted to do back in the Citadel. 

“Well, hey there!” Miss Minutes greeted them, sounding as chipper as ever. “Ooo, new faces! Do we have some new recruits, Mobius?”

“You could say that…” Mobius answered, brow pinched in concentration as he swiped through the seemingly endless amount of files in the TVA’s database. 

“Good to meet y’all,” Miss Minutes said with that unnerving smile, walking – but not really – across Mobius’s desk and over to Loki and Sylvie. “I’m sure you can’t wait to get to work protecting the sacred timeline!”

“Oh, simply ecstatic,” Loki said with as much sarcasm as he could fit into one sentence. “Something to finally give my pathetic life some meaning. How about you, Sylvie?”

“Like a dream come true…” Sylvie drawled. 

“Great to hear!” This Miss Minutes was, apparently, incapable of picking up sarcasm. “Is there something you needed my help with, Mobius?”

“Yeah, actually.” Mobius scratched across his upper lip, disheveling his neatly combed mustache. “I’m, uh… getting out new recruits up to speed with what they need to know about… about ‘Him’.”

“Have they had the talk yet?”

Loki wasn’t entirely sure why, but something about that question made him want to shiver off this layer of discomfort that seemed to coat him. At the same time, the last time someone had ‘the talk’ with him, he was unable to look his mother in the eyes for a good few days. 

Mobius’s eyes flickered up from the monitor to Miss Minutes. “Yeah, they’ve had the talk; they know why they’re here.”

“Well okay then!” Miss Minutes chirped, crossing her arms behind her back with a gleaming smile. “Anything in specific you need me to find?”

“Yeah, any files we have on His TemPad,” Mobius said, wheeling himself back a bit from the desk and yanking open one of the drawers. 

“Bit of an odd request,” Miss Minutes commented as she began flipping through the holographic files in front of them. Mobius continued digging through his desk, searching through different folders with a look of concentration. For a moment, Mobius’s hands stilled over something, but Miss Minutes' overexcited voice stole away their attention. 

“Alright, here we go!” Miss Minutes flicked the holographic file through the air, and both Loki and Sylvie wore matching frowns as it disappeared from sight. The question of where it had gone was answered as Mobius pulled his TemPad out from his desk drawer with an “Ah-Ha!” of success, proudly waving the TemPad in their direction. 

“Anything else you need me to do for you?” Miss Minutes asked, sounding both polite and… terrifying. 

“Uh, no -- this’ll do.” Mobius returned Miss Minute's politeness with a smile of his own – even if it did appear quite forced and strained. “Thank you.”

“You’re more than welcome!” Miss Minutes said before disappearing in a weird move where she seemed to fold into herself, all three in the room thankful for her absence. 

“I never thought a cartoon clock mascot would make me fear for my life,” Loki said, still staring suspiciously at the space where Miss Minutes had vanished from.

“Okay, let’s see what we’ve got here…” Mobius muttered, fingers dancing across the TemPad as he brought up the files Miss Minutes had just sent him. His eyes scanned rapidly across the screen, skipping to what seemed to be the most important segments of information. 

“Interesting…” Mobius leaned forward against his desk, resting his head on his hand and tapping his index finger against his upper lip.

“What’s interesting?” Sylvie asked, not appreciating that she couldn’t see the information she needed, whilst knowing that it was right there in someone else’s hands. 

“Oh, just how vastly superior that thing on your hand is to this,” Mobius answered, waving his TemPad around like it was now useless. “For one, the efficiency on that thing? From what I’m seeing, it’s probably… four or five times more so than ours?”

“So, you’re saying that this TemPad can do more before it runs out of battery?” Loki asks, pointing to Sylvie’s hand. 

“Not that you even have to worry about that,” Mobius said with a disbelieving chuckle. “You noticed how that thing doesn’t have a port to charge it?”

Sylvie shot Mobius an annoyed look, crossing her arms across her chest. “Just how oblivious do you think I am?”

“Man, you guys really do find a way to turn people’s words into an insult against you,” Mobius noted, sounding almost amused by the revelation. “Is that a self-conscious thing, or…?”

Sylvie, on the other hand, did not look amused. “I’m good on the therapy session, thanks. You were saying about charging it?”

“Oh, au contraire -- I think therapy would be an excellent choice for you guys,” Mobius teased with a grin, which he quickly wiped off his face at the death stares he got in return. “Alright, alright. The thing about charging this TemPad is… well, that you don’t need to.”

“Come again?” Loki asked. 

“From the looks of things, His version of the TemPad kind of… recharges itself?” Mobius struggled to find the best way to explain what he had just read. “Well, not entirely from itself. The TemPad makes a connection, if you will, with its owner. Or… master, I think would be a better word.”

Sylvie raised her hand up closer to her face, peering down at the TemPad. Almost on cue did its surface come to life, emitting a soothing hum as power ran through its complicated circuits. 

“And… what does the connection do?” Sylvie asked, looking away from the TemPad back to Mobius. 

“It uses you as its batteries,” Mobius answers. “It recharges through you. Your life force, your energy, whatever you wanna call it.”

“Uh, should we be worried about that?” Loki asked, just barely resisting the urge to yank the TemPad off Sylvie’s hand and throw it as far as he could at the thought of it draining away her life. 

“Considering ‘He’ is still alive after eons of using it? No, I don’t think so,” Mobius assured them – although just barely. “At the end of the day, ‘He’ is human, just like us -- uh, well, me, anyway. Taking into account the fact that you guys are both demigods with access to magical powers, I’m pretty sure the TemPad will barely scratch the surface of your energy.”

“Then… how did it not affect ‘He Who Remains?’” Loki asked. “Something that needs that much energy… it has to take its toll.”

“Maybe you can ask him before you kill him,” Mobius suggests. “My best guess? ‘He’ probably needs to ‘recharge’ himself. You know: sleeping, eating; all that boring mortal stuff?”

“You say that like we don’t need to eat and sleep, too.” Sylvie retorts.

“Uh-huh. Still doesn’t change the fact that you’re gods. I mean, how old are you guys again?”

“Point taken,” Loki conceded on both their behalf. “How long does the TemPad take to charge, then?”

“Depends on how drained it is,” Mobius says, turning his attention back to the displayed file. “It’s charging all the time, so as long as you’re not opening up Time-Doors left, right, and center, it usually has enough power that you don’t even have to think about it. If you somehow do drain the power enough that it’s nearly empty then… from ‘His’ experiments, it seems it takes a day or so to get it back to full power.”

“Experiments?” Sylvie picked up on the word. “What kind of experiments?”

“Well, ‘He’ didn’t always spend his time behind a desk organizing the strands of time. Before he created us, it was just him out there -- jumping from timeline to timeline, trying to bring some semblance of peace and order to the chaos.”

“About that–,” Loki interjected. “–The whole ‘jumping from timeline to timeline’ thing... Did ‘He’ jump between those timelines randomly?”

“Uh…” Mobius turned back to his TemPad, scrolling through the block of information it displayed. “Seems like it, for the most part.”

“So there’s no way to select a specific timeline?” Loki asked, casting Sylvie a down-trodden look. “No way to find a specific timeline?”

“We weren’t exactly designed for that,” Mobius replied, flicking away the information on his TemPad. With a few more presses of his fingers, the screen of his TemPad displayed a diagram of the sacred timeline -- if it could even be called that anymore. What he showed them more closely resembled a plate of spaghetti than the single straight line of the timeline. “See this right here? This is exactly what we were supposed to stop. We weren’t meant to travel between timelines, because the very existence of another timeline outside ours means we failed at our jobs.”

“But that’s what it was like before the TVA was created,” Sylvie pointed out. “Somewhere in there is the timeline we came from. We just need to find it again and travel back to it.”

“What for?” Mobius asks. “Why’s your timeline so important?”

“It’s the sacred timeline,” Sylvie answered, quickly continuing when Mobius opened his mouth to argue. “Yeah, I know, your timeline was also the sacred timeline, but it wasn’t until me killing ‘Him’ created all these different timelines.”

“Okay, sure-,” Mobius said with a nod. “That still doesn’t explain why you want to go back to that timeline. You killed that version of ‘Him’ in that timeline, didn’t you? Why else do you need to go back?”

“Because that timeline contains a few people that could be useful in defeating the other versions of ‘Him’,” Loki answers. 

“And… how do you know that?”

“Because they were the only versions of themselves that were able to kill another mad ruler,” Sylvie says, glancing at Loki with her face softened in pity. “The only being who was destined – and able – to kill us…”

“Oh…” Mobius cleared his throat awkwardly, unsure whether to continue scrolling through his TemPad or keep talking. “Uh… I don’t know if this is inconsiderate of me to say, but… maybe it would be worth getting that guy to join your team? Since he was able to kill you, maybe they could-,”

“No.” Loki didn’t even need to give a reason why he was against that idea. The tone behind that one word said more than any explanation he could give. 

“Fair enough, scratch that idea-,” Mobius made the smart move and returned his attention to his TemPad. “Selecting certain timelines, selecting certain timelines… Ah, here we go! Seems it’s… huh.”

“What? What’s huh?” Sylvie asked. 

“There is a way to select a specific timeline. Kind of,” Mobius answered, standing from his chair and making his way around his desk to them. “Could you hold up the TemPad for me?”

Sylvie did as Mobius asked, holding out her arm in front of her so the TemPad was on display. 

“You remember what I said about the TemPad making a connection with the user?” Mobius asked, getting nods from them in return. “Well, the connection goes deeper than that. So much so that… only the person who has been designated as the leader of the TVA can use it.”

“What?” Sylvie splutters. “I’m not the leader of the TVA-,”

“Tell that to the TemPad,” Mobius returned. 

“Sylvie… I think he might be right,” Loki said, getting Sylvie to snap her head towards him. “He wanted us to rule the TVA, remember? Someone to take over his job. He offered us the position, took off the TemPad, and then-,”

“But I didn’t accept it!” Sylvie argued, looking more and more horrified with every passing second. “I just-”

“Took the TemPad,” Loki cut her off, filling in what she was about to say. 

“Far as the TemPad is concerned, you’re the leader now,” Mobius told her. “You see those gold lines running across the surface?” 

“Yes, but what’s that got do with anythi—”

“They’re not just for design,” Mobius answered before Sylvie could finish. “Those lines? They’re actually timelines.”

Sylvie blinked in surprise, glancing first over to Loki, then down to the TemPad. 

“You see, ‘He Who Remains’ wanted to make sure he could return to his timeline whenever he needed to,” Mobius continued, nodding to the TemPad. “Mostly to make sure none of the other variants of him were wreaking havoc on his timeline, but also… just to return home, I guess. Do me a favor and run your hand along its surface, would you?”

Sylvie shot Mobius a curious look, but did as he asked anyway. The surface of the TemPad shifted, the squiggly lines running along its surface passing by in a blur of movement. Then, it seemed to settle on a certain design, displaying the usual bright gold line with branches coming off of it. 

“That right there?” Mobius began, looking between the two of them, and then down to the TemPad. “That’s your timeline, Sylvie.”

Sylvie’s head shot up at that, feeling her heart clench at his words. It was… it was impossible. Her timeline didn’t exist anymore. Judge Renslayer and her Minute-Men had made sure of that. 

“Now see, if I try and select a timeline-,” 

Mobius’s hand moved towards the TemPad, and almost on instinct did Sylvie pull it away from him, holding it protectively to her body. Mobius let out an exasperated sigh at the defensive action, dropping his hands back to his sides and shoving them into his pockets. “Really? Isn’t trust supposed to be a two-way system?”

“From what I’ve heard,” Sylvie said as Loki unconsciously tried to move closer to her. He had done this a few times before, and this time, she found herself moving closer to him, too. “Not sure your argument works when you clearly don’t trust us, either.”

“Can you blame me?” Mobius asked, getting you a genuine huff of laughter from Sylvie. 

“No. If anything, I respect you for it,” Sylvie said. 

“Good form of self-preservation, really,” Loki added. 

“Fine. I won’t touch it.” Mobius turned around on the spot, strolling back over to his side of the desk. “Guess you’ll just have to take my word for it.”

“What would have happened?” Even if Sylvie didn’t want Mobius to touch it, that wasn’t to say that she wasn’t curious as to what he was trying to show her. 

“Nothing,” Mobius answered with a shrug of his shoulders. “It wouldn’t have responded to me -- because I’m not its owner.”

“But… why would He have just given it up like that?” Sylvie asked. “I hadn’t agreed to anything yet.”

“‘What’s the worst that could happen,’“ Loki mimicked He Who Remains’s words. “Either we took over, or an infinite amount of Him manifests into existence and fights to get back to where He was. No matter what option came to be, he no longer needed that TemPad.”

“Still seems strange to me that he just… gave you the TemPad,” Mobius thought out loud, placing his hands on the desk and resting his weight on it. “That is what I saw, right? He just… took it off and slid it across the desk to you.”

“Yeah… He did,” Sylvie’s face pinched into a frown, slowly looking up to Loki. “Loki, did you ever notice how… he seemed almost excited at the idea of me killing him?”

Loki mirrors her frown, thinking back to what felt like a lifetime ago now. “In what way?” 

“He was looking at you guys kinda funny during your big fight,” Mobius said, drumming his fingers across the desk. 

“Was he?” Loki asks. “I was a little too distracted at the time to notice.”

“He even looked strangely invested when you guys, uh…” Mobius trailed off awkwardly, hoping they would fill in the blanks for themselves. When Loki and Sylvie only stared blankly back at him, he hung his head with a dejected sigh. “Oh, for the love of… When you kissed, for god's sake…”

“Oh…” Loki was surprised to feel the flush of heat to his face. “Again, a little distracted -- which, I think was your plan.” Loki cast Sylvie an annoyed look at that last part.

“Already said I’m sorry–”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah -- how about we move on from that.” Mobius hurried them past the miniature bickering session that was likely to start. “Or… no wait, let’s go back to that.”

Loki and Sylvie looked to each other at the same time, like they were somehow able to communicate through eye contact alone. “Let’s go back to… us arguing?” Sylvie wanted to clarify. 

“Yes! But, no, don’t actually argue—” Mobius somehow made this all the more confusing. “What was it that He said to you guys? Something about trust, or… being unable to trust—”

“He asked me if I could trust Loki.” Sylvie, of course, remembered this. She knew she’d never forget. “And… if I could trust anyone at all."

Mobius nodded to himself, staring down at his feet as he thought. “Why would he say that? If he wanted you to work together, to lead the TVA together, then… why would he plant those doubts in your head?”

“It almost seems like he was trying to get us to fight,” Loki said to Sylvie. “Maybe… he never really wanted us to take over.”

“You think he wanted to die?”

“I think he wanted to be reborn,” Loki corrected Sylvie. “I don’t think he was just tired; I think he was bored. After countless years of writing everyone’s stories – himself included – I think… I think he wanted you to open up the multiverse, to live an infinite amount of lives outside of his own script.”

Sylvie shook her head with a bitter laugh, her lip curling in disgust as she looked down to His former TemPad. “My whole life, I only had the thought of watching His life drain away to get me through the day… And now, it turns out I did what he always wanted, anyway.”

Sylvie reached out a hand towards the TemPad, the glow of its timelines reflecting in her shining eyes. She ran a finger softly across the timeline – her timeline – watching as the TemPad slowly moves with her finger, displaying the different branches that come off of her timeline. 

“Is this really my timeline?” Sylvie doesn’t look away from the TemPad. 

“It’s what the files say,” Mobius tells her. 

“How is that possible?” Sylvie tears her eyes away, looking up to Mobius. “My timeline was pruned.”

“Exactly. It was pruned,” Mobius says. “But now we have this whole mess of branches, forming into a whole mess of timelines.”

“So?”

“So, somewhere out there is a timeline where you were never picked up by us,” said Mobius, looking pointedly to Sylvie’s TemPad. “Oh, right -- it’s that timeline right there.”

“A timeline where the TVA never interfered…” Loki says in wonderment, turning wide eyes towards Sylvie. “Your timeline never would have been pruned…”

“My family…” Sylvie whispers, finding herself frozen in shock. “My home… my life…”

“So… we’re on Sylvie’s timeline now?” Loki asks Mobius. “How would that work when we, apparently, don’t exist…?”

“This isn’t Sylvie’s timeline,” Mobius said, scooping up the TemPad he left laying on his desk and tucking it into his jacket. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out. When you grabbed the TemPad and opened a door here, it should have opened up into a TVA on your timeline. But… it didn’t.” 

Mobius took a seat on the edge of his desk – despite the perfectly fine chair right there in front of him – crossing his arms against his chest with his back partly turned to them. “What were you doing whilst you were opening the Time-Door? Was there any interference?”

“Oh, um…” Sylvie glanced awkwardly to Loki, whose raised questioning eyebrow quickly dropped into a look of realization at her pointed look. 

“Ah…” Loki drawled out slowly, scratching at the back of his head. “Would us, uh… touching be classified as ‘interference?’” 

“Oh, you were–” Mobius cut himself off with a burst of laughter, slapping at his knee. “You opened up that Time-Door whilst you were kissing, didn’t you? That explains it…”

“Does it? Feel free to pass on that explanation to us -- you know, if you feel like it.” Sylvie didn’t appreciate being the recipient of Mobius’s ridicule. 

“The TemPad was trying to open up the Time-Door to your specific timeline. Problem is… it didn’t know which one of you to focus on. Can’t open one door into two separate timelines, so, it had to compromise. Instead of opening up a Time-Door into either one of your timelines…”

“It opened up into one where we don’t exist.” Loki guessed correctly. 

“You both canceled each other out,” Mobius tacked on. 

“And what about the others?” Sylvie asked.

“The other… what’s?”

“The Apocalypses we jumped to,” Sylvie clarified. “Were they… were they my timeline?”

“If it was just you touching the TemPad? Then yeah, it would have been your timeline.”

“That must have been why it was different,” Loki said in realization. “Those attackers… they came earlier than they were supposed to, didn’t they?”

“One small change can lead to a whole ton of butterfly effects.” Mobius slowly made his way to the side of the desk, sliding the drawer closed as he went. “Some of those changes can be small, like… like someone speaking one word on one day differently. And then the other changes…”

“Can breed a multi-verse ending conqueror,” Loki finished grimly, getting a shrug of agreement from Mobius. 

“So… we know we can get to my timeline. Is that the only way we can select a specific timeline?”

“Right, the uh, the other sacred timeline,” Mobius mumbled, scratching at the back of his head as he thought. “Well… you came from that one, right? You made a connection between that timeline to this timeline when you shoved Loki through that Time-Door.”

“But we’ve moved on since then,” Loki pointed out. “If Sylvie touches the TemPad, it’ll display her timeline, won’t it?”

“If that’s the one you select, sure. But–”

“But the TemPad saves previously opened Time-Doors.” Sylvie already knew where Mobius was going with this. “That’s how we got here in the first place. I opened up a Time-Door I had already opened before, back in the Citadel.”

“Which is the timeline currently on display,” Mobius said. “All you’ve gotta do is follow that timeline back… and it’ll connect to the timeline you came from.”

“Hang on…” Loki turned his attention back to Sylvie, his brow furrowing in thought. “What about my timeline? Would… would that have been re-created too?”

Sylvie placed a comforting hand on his arm, giving his bicep a kind squeeze with an understanding smile. “Guess there’s only one way to find out.”

Loki looked genuinely taken aback as she unwound the TemPad from her hand. For a moment, she simply stood and held this greatly powerful device in her hands. She kept her eyes locked with his, a note of understanding passing between them as she slowly held out the TemPad for him to take. 

Loki didn’t take it. Not right away. “It might not work. Not just because my timeline might still remain erased, but… what if the TemPad can’t have two owners?”

“’He Who Remains’ made it clear he wanted both of us to rule.” Sylvie pushed the TemPad into his chest. She grabbed hold of his hand, pulling it up to the TemPad and curling his fingers around it. “Besides… we might be two separate beings, but our souls exist as one and the same. If it works for me? Then I know it’ll work for you, too.”

“You are very confident,” Loki noted with a small smile, his weak grip on the TemPad strengthening as he finally took the TemPad from her. 

Loki couldn’t bring himself to look at the TemPad as he slid it onto his hand, experimentally flexing his fingers to get used to the feeling of the cylindrical object sat atop his hand. Sylvie nodded at him in encouragement when his eyes landed on her, letting her hand slip away from his arm to make sure they were no longer touching. 

Loki finally dropped his eyes down to the TemPad. Sylvie’s timeline continued to blink up at him, just waiting for its new owner to press his touch into its surface. Loki let his hand hover over the TemPad, a moment of shaky hesitation passing before he swiped his finger across the flat surface of the TemPad. 

In the blink of an eye, the surface began to change. Billions upon billions of timelines flashed before his eyes as the TemPad searched for his timeline, and for one heart-stopping moment, Loki wondered if it would simply be searching forever, his timeline removed from all of existence. 

And then it stopped. It stopped, and Loki and Sylvie could only stand and stare at the brilliantly gold streak of lightning that stared back at them. Right there was Loki’s timeline. Right there was a universe where none of this had ever happened -- an unlimited expanse of possibilities his life could have taken.

And that’s when Mobius held the pruning stick to Sylvie’s neck. 

Loki knew it was foolish of him to let his guard down, even if in the presence of – who he supposed – was a friend. But it wasn’t his friend. This Mobius might have been witness to the events that led to their friendship, but he didn’t experience them. And that was made all the difference, it seemed. 

One second, Sylvie was right there next to him, looking at the TemPad just as he was. The next, she was just… gone. Loki’s head snapped up in a daze, taking in the sight of Sylvie struggling vehemently as Mobius wrapped an arm around her neck, keeping her pinned to him as he held the glowing end of the pruning stick much too close to Sylvie for either of their comfort. 

Sylvie looked more pissed at herself than she did at Mobius. Just like Loki, she had made the foolish mistake of letting her guard down. The entire time she had been here, she had every possible guard up and alert, just waiting for the moment this all went to shit. And then… and then Mobius had told her that somewhere out there is the family she knows, the family she never got to grow up with, and she had stupidly returned back to the state of that little princess of Asgard who had no reason not to trust anyone. 

“Don’t struggle.” Mobius’s words did not come out as a command. Not that he wanted them to sound like it. It was more a word of advice than anything. “I don’t want to accidentally catch you with this thing.”

“Then why are you holding it to my neck?” Sylvie forced out through gritted teeth, continuing to struggle despite Mobius’s warning. She kept her gaze focused on the pruning stick Mobius had snuck out of his desk drawer, her hands dug into the arm around her neck, tugging uselessly at them to get his hold to loosen. Except, every defiant pull to his arm only resulted in the pressure against her neck tightening, coming dangerously close to cutting off her air supply. 

“Mobius, what are you doing?” Loki spluttered out, yanking out his dagger from his jacket pocket in a flash of metal. 

“What I have to.” Mobius took a cautious step back away from Loki, dragging a very uncooperative Sylvie with him. “And don’t you think about going for that sword, Sylvie. The moment I feel your arms move anywhere down, I’ll prune you before you can even come close to touching it.”

Sylvie laughed mockingly at that. Loki stood in a battle-ready stance, looking very much not amused by Mobius’s words as Sylvie had. “You’re not used to the whole ‘threatening demeanor’ thing, are you?” Sylvie goaded him. 

“I’ll admit it’s not my forte.” Mobius carefully maneuvered himself back around the desk, placing it between him and Loki. Loki slowly moved forward with him, coming to a stop just in front of the desk. “Especially when I don’t want to be doing this.”

“Then why are you doing this?” Loki hoped his pleading tone would get through to Mobius in some sort of way. 

“Because it’s my job,” Mobius forced out the words with as much authority as he could muster. 

“You’ve seen the truth!” Sylvie grunted, still fighting against Mobius’s hold. “You know what He did to you! To all of us!”

“That doesn’t change the importance of my work.” Mobius’s words make the weight in Loki’s chest sink heavier. “Or the importance of His work. I agree with you that this whole thing ends with Him; I just don’t agree with your method. I think… I know that the strands of time are only safe in His hands. Only He can untangle and sort out those strands and ensure the timeline runs through to the end without any problems.”

“Mobius, no–” Loki desperately hoped he could get through to him. “If that was the case, then we wouldn’t be right here, would we? You wouldn’t have existed if that was the case. Sylvie and I wouldn’t exist. But that’s what's happened, whether by His deciding or not. If we just sit back and let him rise to power once more… what’s to stop this from happening all over again?”

“And what if your version of Him isn’t the one that comes out on top?” Sylvie asks Mobius, lessening her struggles now that Mobius held the pruning stick even closer, buzzing away mere inches from her face. “Somewhere out there is a variant of him that isn’t interested in pruning the other timelines. Instead, he only wants to rule over them all.”

“It’s up to Him to decide what we’ll do about that,” Mobius replied, much to Loki’s dismay. 

Mobius sighed lightly, ducking his head with his eyes clenched shut. “Please, just… do as I say. I meant it when I said I don’t want to be doing this. I think… I think you guys could be of some help to us–”

“Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me,” Sylvie groaned. “You’re trying to recruit us now?”

“Not right now,” Mobius corrected her. “I know you won't right now in this moment. But… you’ll see. You’ll see that this is the only way. Now, please, if you’d just… hand over the TemPad. I promise we won’t reset you, or put you in a time-loop -- nothing like that.”

“Mobius–” Loki tried again, only to be cut off by the man in question.

“It won't be long before someone comes into this office. I can’t guarantee they won't do something drastic if they come in and see you like that with your weapons. But if you come cooperatively–”

“We’ll be slaves to the TVA, just as you are?” Sylvie asks, voice soaked in disgust. “No thanks -- I’d rather take my chances with the pruning stick.”

“Yeah… yeah, that’s a good point,” Mobius mumbled, much to Loki and Sylvie’s confusion. “You… you voluntarily pruned yourself, didn’t you? The both of you were pruned, and you made it out…”

“We did,” Loki confirmed, taking a single step closer, feeling the wooden panel of Mobius’s desk pressing into his knees. “And we both took down the creature He himself tamed and weaponized to devour timelines whole.”

“In other words… do it,” Sylvie spat at Mobius, giving one last attempt at breaking free that yields no results. “You know as well as we do that that’s not a threat to us. Not really.”

“No, I suppose you’re right,” Mobius agreed. Seeing Mobius deactivate the pruning stick briefly filled Loki with a surge of hope, wondering if maybe, just maybe, they had found a way to deescalate the situation. That hope prompted surged out of him, however, as Mobius flipped the pruning stick around in his hand, now holding the pointed, sharp spear end of the stick against Sylvie’s neck. “You might be able to escape pruning… but can you come back from a blade in your throat?”

No. No, they could not. 

“Mobius, please,” Loki begged one more time, holding out a dagger in front of him. “Stop this. You’ve seen reason, I know you have. I don’t want to do this as much as you don’t–”

“Then just hand over the TemPad,” Mobius said like it was a no-brainer decision. Loki felt his muscles coil in anticipation as the very tip of the spear pierced Sylvie’s flesh, clenching his jaw hard when he saw the small trickle of blood slip down her neck. He had to make a decision–

“You know your magic doesn’t work here,” Mobius reminded him with an almost pitiful expression. “This is it, Loki. No more tricks from the trickster.”

Loki decided. 

“No. There’s no magic,” Loki agreed, holding out his dagger like he was about to drop it in surrender. 

Loki dropped his hand down in a flash, connecting with the surface of the TemPad, just as he had seen He Who Remains do back in the Citadel. Mobius blinked, and then Loki was gone. He startled, not even having time to ponder over what had happened before Loki blinked back into existence behind him – not that he could see – and slid the dagger he held in his hand right in the small of his back. Mobius jolted at the searing pain that erupted from his back, barely able to get out a gasp of pain as his body locked up. 

“–But I still have your technology,” Loki completed the rest of his sentence before yanking the dagger out from Mobius’s back. 

Sylvie took advantage of the slackening of Mobius’s grip, forcing an elbow back hard into the side of his ribs. Mobius had completely let go at this point, but she still spun around on the spot, bringing up her leg and kicking Mobius hard in the chest. Mobius went down without much resistance, slamming into the wall behind him with a pained grunt. He slid down to the floor, leaving behind a trail of red against the wall as he went.

“Huh…” Mobius’s eyes were unfocused, staring blankly to the ground in front of him. “You know, I… I could have sworn I heard you said to that other me that… that you were done stabbing people in the back.”

Mobius dredged up just enough energy to raise his eyes up, meeting Loki’s agonized ones. There was… nothing in his eyes. No blame, no hatred, no fear. But… there was nothing good there, either. No forgiveness, no kindness he’s seen from Mobius plenty of times before. It was just… blank. He was blank. 

One second, Loki's staring at a man whose heart was still pumping, whose blood still circulated around his body. Then, he was actually able to see the moment the life drained away from him, like a candle being blown out. Any semblance of the man he knows disappears from Mobius’s eyes, his head dropping down to his chest before he slowly slumps down to the ground, staring without seeing. 

The weight of the dagger in Loki’s hands had never felt as heavy as it had before. His shaking hands lift the dagger up, the buzzing fluorescent lights of Mobius’s office reflecting off the shining surface of the blade. The dagger had served its purpose, had done what it was designed to do. And yet, as Loki stared down at the offending item and took in the sight of Mobius’s blood coating the once perfectly clean metal, he wanted nothing more than to cast it into the eternal flame and watch it melt into nothing.

How many times had he done exactly this? He was far from inexperienced in battle, and far from inexperienced in hurting those he cares about for his own gain. So why, this time, did he feel the burn of bile in the back of his throat? Why, this time, did his hands shake so hard that he let his trusted weapons drop to the ground? Why, this time, did he find himself stumbling down to the ground, breaths coming short and fast as he stared at the corpse of the only friend he’s truly ever known?

“Loki…” Sylvie’s voice sounded far away and muted, as if they were underwater. In the back of his mind, he registers that she’s moved in front of him, blocking him from seeing Mobius’s corpse. Her concerned face fills his vision, blurry as if his eyes were filled with tears. Wait… were they? It would certainly explain the stinging sensation he felt in them, and the wetness he could feel rolling down his face. 

Her hands cup his face, desperately trying to bring him back to himself. Just like Mobius, his eyes had gone scarily blank. “Loki, it’s not your fault. It’s not, okay? That’s… that wasn’t him. That wasn’t Mobius -- not really.”

Something flickers back to life in his eyes. They shift around, searching across her face as if he was finally seeing her here, still with him, sat right in front of him. He swallows hard, his gaze drifting to where he knows Mobius’s corpse lies behind her. 

“I know.” Simply hearing Loki speak out loud helped to lessen some of the fear that had been constricting her chest. “But… it also is.”

Sylvie didn’t even know what she could say right now that would be of any comfort to him. She had never really had to comfort someone before, or had someone comfort her. Except… well, she supposed that Loki had attempted to comfort her a few times: back on Lamentis when it seemed like the end of the line; or in ‘The Time-Keeper’s chambers when they realized the Time Keepers weren’t real. But then, even if she did know how to go about comforting him, this certainly wasn’t the place to do it. Not with Mobius’s body sat right there behind her, and not in a place where they could be locked up at any moment. 

Sylvie turns her head towards the office door, just waiting for the sounds of rushing footsteps to echo down the hall. A part of her thinks it would almost be better than the silence they found themselves in -- apart from the repetitive tick of the clock hung in the top middle section of the wall Mobius was slumped by.

She needed to get Loki out of here. She didn’t care where, or what timeline it was, it just had to be not here. Sylvie brushed her thumb tenderly across Loki’s cheek, wiping away a stubborn tear that clung to his skin. She dropped her hands away from his face, turning to Mobius’s body with a grimace. Avoiding looking the corpse in the eye, she reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the TemPad he had stored in there, trying her best not to disturb his body too much. 

“Sorry, Mobius,” Sylvie whispers as she moves away from his body, casting him one last regretful look before straightening herself into a stand. The TemPad in her hands was at least familiar, and yet… it felt wrong to use, now. Shaking her head, she flipped open the screen to the TemPad, letting out a breath of relief that it was fully charged. She entered in the information for the Time-Door without much of a thought, its manifestation enough to force Loki’s gaze away from Mobius’s body. 

“We need to go,” Sylvie reaches out a hand towards Loki, grateful that his eyes follow the movement of her hand instead of settling back on Mobius. Loki nods, hesitating for a moment before he picks his dagger back up from the ground. His TemPad clad hand clasps onto Sylvie’s, taking her offered help as she pulls him up to his feet. She doesn’t let go of his hand, even when he’s stood back on his feet, and when Loki squeezes her hand in thanks, she knows she's made the right decision. 

“Don’t look.” Sylvie moves in front of him, forcing his eyes onto her. Loki does as she asks, forcing everything in his vision apart from her to go blurry and out of focus. Sylvie slowly starts walking back towards the Time-Door, pulling Loki with her as she goes. 

What Loki and Sylvie didn’t know was that, after they stepped through that Time-Door, someone did come into Mobius’s office. But it wasn’t just a group of Minute-Men. Nor was it Judge Whittle. 

Deep purple robes brushed against the floor as the figure stepped into the room, calculated dark eyes scanning across the room before falling on Mobius. The man sighed, more in irritation at not having caught the intruders red-handed than in the sadness he should have felt for having lost such a devoted worker. 

“They found their way in,” The man calls out to the security detail stood post next to the door. “Get someone to retrieve this body once I’ve looked over it. We need to check for any cross-contamination.”

The man waited until one of the security detail had hurried off to carry out his orders before stepping further into the room. He strode over to Mobius’s body, crouching down onto one knee with his head tilted to the side as he looked him up and down. He reached out, grabbing Mobius’s arm and rolling him over onto his stomach. Immediately, he took sight of the dark patch of red soaked into the back of Mobius’s jacket. With careful hands, he pried the jacket off of the body, followed shortly by the now stained white button-up shirt. 

The man clicked his tongue, resting an arm on his knee as he looked to the open wound that had been carved into the center of Mobius’s back. There’s a tentative knock to the office door he had closed behind him, looking over to it as it swings open. The Minute-Men he had requested filed into the room, standing at attention and ready for orders. 

“You—” He points to one of the Minute Men in line, who somehow manages to stand straighter now he had been singled out. “—Come here.”

Obediently, the Minute Man hurries over to the man, nervous eyes fixed dead-ahead as he waits for further orders. 

“I want you… to take a look at the wound,” The man instructs him, folding his hands behind his back and nodding his head towards Mobius’s body. “Look at the shape of it… the size of it. Do you recognize the weapon that inflicted it?”

“Um….” The Minute Man stammers out, voice trembling with nerves as he kneels down by Mobius’s body to take a closer look at the wound. “It… it seems like a small blade, Sir.”

“Hmm… I’d have to agree with you on that one.” The man places a hand on the Minute Man’s shoulder in what should have been a comforting gesture, but was far from it. “A small blade, expertly wielded, by someone who is… intimately familiar with the weapon in question. And… considering the placement of the wound, I’d have to say familiar with this analyst, wouldn’t you?”

“I… I suppose so, Sir.”

“You suppose? Okay, well, I’ll give you my final theory.” The man’s grip on his shoulder tightens, feeling the trembling of the Minute-Man underneath his hands. “I think… the damage done here was by a dagger. Do you know what that means?”

The Minute Man remained frozen under his hands, wisely letting the man monologue away instead of actually answering. 

“It means it’s them. It means that they’re finally starting to make a move… It means that what I saw, and what I heard, was true. It means… it won't be long before they start hunting down me.”

Next Chapter - - - >

[bubble-tea-bunny]

before you go

[sidon x reader]

author’s note: i swear this story wasn’t even meant to be like, that long, but i just kept adding scenes. hope you enjoyyy

word count: 16,475

PROLOGUE

Millennia have passed since the day the ruins were swallowed up by darkness, but the witch in those woods remembers it well. She sees it vividly in her mind’s eye like yesterday: thick trunks of towering trees, whose roots cling deep in the earth, extending their branches with their lush green leaves, growing closer and closer and closer until the last sliver of sunlight disappears, no longer welcomed on the forest floor.

The light isn’t missed. What creatures lay in hiding here thrive without it, nocturnal animals left to roam all hours of the day, surrounded by perpetual night. Torches scattered throughout the maze of this forest, hanging on sconces of crumbling stone walls and statues, are ignited by the daring adventurer trying to find their way to the center. But they never get far, turning around and using their trail markers to direct their way back out, and with the passing hours, the flames flicker and whither, dying down to embers.

No one has found the witch. Her hut rests deep in the woods, in a shadowy corner that most have failed to reach. The lack of disturbances means she can work without interruption. She tends to a small garden whose herbs grow beneath the dim light of a lantern strung up on a nearby branch. When they’re fully grown, she harvests then organizes them on a shelf, where they sit ready to be mixed into her newest elixir.

They work well for a good portion of the concoctions she creates: healing tonics, draughts of strength, sleeping potions for the restless and nightmare-riddled. She keeps them in tinted glass bottles with cork stoppers and knows exactly which elixir is stored where. The magic she practices is hardly sinister, and she’s content to keep this peace. The magic she practices is innocent, until one day, it isn’t.

She finds the recipe in an old leather-bound tome covered in dust. The language is old but she understands it (well, what still remains that hadn’t faded with time, that is). The book is vague about what the potion grants, but all she knows is that given what it asks for, it must be powerful. To create it would be crossing over into more harmful forms of magic, yet she can’t find it within herself to push away the biting curiosity to delve more into what she has discovered. The aged volume seems to pulse with life in her aged hands, exuding a power of its own that prevents her from putting it down and forgetting what she was seen.

Gathering the ingredients would be a difficult and lengthy process, but she’s learned to be patient. She wouldn’t be going out to collect them; they would come to her. And they do, steadily, in the form of the rare travelers with the intelligence and determination to venture further into the forest, closer to the middle, and closer to the witch’s hut.

She doesn’t hurt them. She won’t hurt them. And she says that to them quietly even though they can’t hear her, having passed out due to her sleeping potion. She only needs one thing, one little thing, if they would be so kind as to hand it over…

By the time the traveler wakes up, they’re back on the path illuminated by their own hand, and they can’t remember ever happening upon the witch. There are other bits too, other recollections they won’t be able to recall, though when (if) they finally realize that, they’ll be far from this place, and thoroughly at a loss as to what happened to that one corner of their brain where memories are hazy, like staring through fogged glass, aching to see what lies on the other side clearly, but unable to do so.

Those stolen memories stay with the witch now, radiant essences in purples and yellows and blues, floating and curling in their bottles. They’re pretty to watch. She lines them up, checks off the list of ingredients one by one in the tome: anger, empathy, happiness, innocence… All taken from the unfortunate souls who come into the dark woods. They don’t anticipate losing anything other than time in the day, and as far as they’ll be able to tell, that is the only thing they lose while exploring here. It’s a small mercy, the witch reckons, that they won’t notice.

She has only one ingredient left, but there has been no one to collect it from. It’s as though the universe understands that’s she is so close to being done, and has delayed the moment when she should find what she is searching for, building the tension, the suspense. For all the patience she has practiced for the centuries she has lived, she’s never felt antsier than this instant, the days passing like years. The lighting of torches signals the presence of another lone wanderer, but she doesn’t see those spots of orange flames.

Her frustration is palpable. and she sighs heavily. She can do nothing but wait.

———

I.

The roar of the waterfall is a comforting white noise to Sidon, and it gently pulls him into the waking world at the break of dawn. His eyes crack open, serving witness to the rising sun washing over the water and painting the town in golden light. He’s always sluggish in the mornings, in no rush to push away the grogginess beckoning him back to sleep for a couple more minutes, or several, or maybe another hour if there’s nothing of note to attend to.

This morning, he nearly rolls over to continue sleeping, but his gaze passes over the folded parchment on the nightstand, and as if he’d been shocked, he sits up straight, fully alert. Reaching over to grab the letter, he opens it to reread it for—well, actually, he’s lost count of how many times he’s read it. He skims it, looks for the date mentioned to confirm that yes, that’s today.

It’s still early for most of the other Zora to be up, but those who are greet Sidon with a quiet good morning. He smiles and returns them all without stopping his stride. No one tries to get him to pause a moment for conversation, and he’s certain they all know where he’s going for his walking to be so purposeful. This has happened many times before, and when Sidon is set on something, he thinks little of anything else. Kayden especially understands this, for he grins as Sidon approaches the steps to the inn, already knowing why he’s there.

Kayden needn’t speak, only nudging his head to the side, in the direction of the beds. Sidon nods in thanks and quietly searches for his goal, footfalls silent so as not to disturb those slumbering. He finds it on the far end, separated from the others who have checked in for the evening, and he feels a large smile creeping onto his face, unable to be contained.

He sits on the edge of your bed, reaching out to brush your hair away from your face. Your nose scrunches as the silky strands pass over the sensitive skin of your cheeks. Then your face relaxes again, and he thinks you’ve continued to sleep. He wouldn’t mind if that’s the case. He just wanted to see you, to feel you and know that you’re here again. And it would be enough to hold him over until you finally woke, and he would be graced with the sound of your voice.

It turns out he doesn’t have to wait, for you groan quietly and your eyes are brilliant even if only half-open with fatigue. You hum and it’s as if you’re trying to say his name, to question if it’s him, but you don’t have the energy to enunciate it properly. He understands perfectly anyway and says yes, it’s him, and he’s so happy you’re back.

He sets a hand on your face, being careful of his claws as he strokes your cheek. He’s considerably larger than you are, and the size of his hand emphasizes this fact more. You lay your own over his and hum again. It’s not another attempt to say his name or any other words. Rather, it’s one of contentment, almost a purr, and Sidon’s chest tightens and he can’t believe how much he can miss someone. You murmur that you’re happy your back too because home is where the heart is and you’d buried yours here a long time ago.

You yawn and stretch your arms, and he gives you time to wake up more fully. Once you’ve blinked away the last of the sleepiness, he stands and offers you his hand, asking if you would like to regale your adventures to him over breakfast. You grin and nod, accepting his hand to help you up.

Sidon won’t deny that he worries for you when you’re exploring. He knows you can fight, can take of yourself, but Hyrule is vast and there are dark corners with monsters even someone of your ability will struggle against. He says to spare no details of your journey so you don’t, recounting the close calls (of which there are more than he would like, though he would prefer none at all), and he calms himself down by assuring himself that you sitting across from him isn’t some figment of his imagination. You’re real. Though if that’s not enough, and he needs more proof to keep him grounded, he reaches across to feel your soft skin beneath his fingers.

It’s like he’s being told a bedtime story with the sense of epic your retellings contain, filled with obstacles and triumph, and he thinks he’ll dream of it tonight, dream of you being front and center, the hero trekking through the land on a quest. Not that he hasn’t already dreamed of you. Sometimes, when his heart is especially heavy and he’s laden with gloom to be so far from you, he dreams of calm waters and of you sitting at its shore, the low tide lapping at your feet and your toes curled in the cold dirt. Then you see him watching you and smile, beckoning him over, and he’s overcome with a sensation that it’s actually you he’s observing there, that you’ve stepped into his dream from wherever you are in Hyrule, reminding him no distance is too great to feel you are ever truly apart.

Of course, it’s all fanciful speculation with no bearing in reality, inspired by a love that makes him wax lyrical like he’s a natural born poet with one muse in mind (but he has no desire for any other because you’re the only one he needs). You don’t actually have the power to traverse through dreams, but it does feel like you when he sees you and interacts with you and Sidon figures that’s because his soul knows yours so well.

Being higher up in the mountains, the weather in Lanayru is more temperate, and you like to bask in the breeze and the sunlight from outside the town, away from the noise. Sidon joins you, and he admits to you that every now and then he comes out here while you’re away, but it doesn’t feel the same.

“This beauty is difficult to enjoy with no one to appreciate it with,” he remarks softly.

You smile and lean your head on his shoulder. “I saw the most incredible statues in Gerudo and thought the same thing.”

The two of you are perched on the edge of a small cliff overlooking the Zora River, where you aren’t going to be interrupted anytime soon considering it’s sizable distance from town. There were plenty of other wonderful areas from which to survey the strong current of water as it flows downstream, towards the wetlands, that are closer to Ruto Lake, but you like to come here because the air at the Bank of Wishes feels different somehow, in a way Sidon can’t delineate with words but he sees it in the sparkle of your eye when the sun shines over you just right.

Stepping onto this small section of leveled ground is to cross the threshold into a realm where things are not as they seem, and you’re privy to the revelation that this is where the strings of the world are tinkered with and manipulated. It pulls the sun and the moon across the sky, pulls the strings of a soul like a harp and the ensuing breathy sigh of a fondness newly discovered is the song. It pulls you and Sidon with threads wrapped around your fingers, guiding you here, and then towards each other. And Sidon loves nothing more than to hear you sing.

He’d stumbled across you once, having arrived at the bank before he did, and he nearly called your name but remained quiet once he realized you were preoccupied with a red container. The stems of blue nightshades are looped through the small ring on the thick golden band wrapped around the cylindrical vessel, which you’re taking extra care with securing. You continue to kneel next to it even after ensuring the flowers won’t slip out, and he can’t hear what you’re saying but he thinks he knows what words you whisper.

Then you push the container into the water, and it lands with a small splash. You stare as the current takes it around the bend, and when it’s out of sight, Sidon comes out from his hiding place. You turn around, eyes wide in surprise to be caught off guard, but you relax at the sight of him and Hylia’s blessing rests in the curve of your lips and he could live there forever. He understands the glow of those flowers was a piece of yourself and you’d wished for it to seek out the one you wanted to give it to, and the water fairy is constantly listening because he stands before you now, and his heart warms at your knocking of the front door, and he knows pretty blue nightshades wait on the other side for him to welcome home.

You point out a school of fish near the surface of the water that’s passing by, and Sidon watches them with you as he takes hold of your free hand resting in your lap, anchoring himself to the moment. He’d happily live out his existence here with you.

He promises one day you’ll travel through Hyrule together. He can’t easily leave Zora’s Domain because of his obligations as prince, and you understand, you do, and in return he wants to give you better, he wants to give you everything. But your soft smile lets him know that he is more than enough for you. This universe could fall away around you both and he’s not sure you’d notice.

“I’ll have my darling prince to protect me then,” you state teasingly.

“You will,” Sidon responds, equally playful, but then the tone shifts and the jest fades and as he gently strokes the back of your hand with his thumb, he assures you that he’d always keep you safe. He would gladly be your knight.

While he would like to spend every hour in your presence, that simply isn’t possible, and he reluctantly leaves you to your own devices as he attends to his duties. You have no issue filling that time with conversing casually with the other Zora and with travelers about where they plan to go next. It’s from conversations with the latter that you tend to draw inspiration for deciding your next point of interest.

A fellow Hylian shares the rumors of skeleton horses in the Tabantha tundra which show up in the middle of the night, their red undead eyes like omens of ill fate. It sounds scary, she says, but apparently they’re gone by morning. Not even bones are left. She’s intent to witness these creatures herself, and she’s stocking up well here in Zora’s Domain since it’s a far journey. The idea of skeleton horses certainly grabs your attention, but you don’t think you’re as intent to travel so far, since you’d just arrived from Gerudo.

The Goron in Coral Reef mentions that he had just visited Lurelin Village, the small fishing town on the southern coast. The weather’s a little warmer, a little more humid, but that could easily be alleviated by dipping into the ocean for a swim. He paints the picture easily for you, of the turquoise waves and white sand beaches. He exclaims that the seafood paella is like nothing you’ve ever eaten before, and your mouth waters merely thinking of what it would be like to taste. You’d heard of it before, but never had the opportunity to try it.

He laughs at the glazed look in your eyes, your thoughts on Lurelin Village’s famed dish. “I’m tellin’ ya, ya gotta go down there and order yourself some!”

You nod in agreement and yeah, you do need to go down there to try the seafood paella! The Goron guffaws again and pats you on the back—That’s what I like to hear!—but he’s strong and even the light clap between the shoulder blades nearly makes you tumble to the ground.  

With your mind made up, you settle down in a quiet corner to take out your map and plot a route to the seaside town. It’s still in Necluda, which means the actual travel time to get there and back won’t be long at all. You could make the Dueling Peaks stable your halfway point and cut through the forests, heading east for a short duration until the trails begin leading further south. You wouldn’t be gone as long as you were last time, and perhaps you could learn to make the paella and buy the proper ingredients to recreate here for Sidon to try too. Yes, this is perfect!

You sit back and review what you’ve drawn out on the map and the notes you’ve written on the sides. This map had been a recent purchase, considering your old one had been torn to shreds after a run-in with bokoblins. As such, it lacks the messiness of your original copy, which contained multiple lines representing the routes you’ve taken on your travels, as well as even more notes scribbled on the sides with tips or reminders. While this new map is certainly easier to read due to the lack of pencil marks all over the place, it’s missing the charm. But you suppose that’s hardly going to be a problem as you continue to move around Hyrule and figure out new paths to take in order to see as much of the land as possible. Just so long as another monster doesn’t sink their teeth into it…

The clean state of this map also makes it simple for you to spot a section of the map you had marked with a circle and a question mark. Your brows furrow as you stare down at it, attempting to recall when you had done that. You could vaguely remember being told stories about ruins there when you’d been at one of the stables. It starts coming back to you then.

The stable master had brought it up when it had been late and you were half-asleep, prepared to head inside to sleep. He’d spoken of a patch of trees in northern Hyrule, past the Great Hyrule Forest, and it had no name. Only the ruins hidden within did. Thyphlo Ruins.

It’s dark in those woods, he warned. Really dark. Other travelers who had stopped to rest at the stable had shared their experiences of attempting to reach the center, to see what might be there, but none of them had succeeded. They say the dark does strange things to the mind, the stable master explains. And the shadows… You think you see things that aren’t actually there. Not many have the mental fortitude to withstand the strain of being surrounded by pitch black for as long as is required to arrive at the middle of the labyrinth. You’d never heard of anyone that had gotten that far, so who’s to say there was anything to find there?

But… there had to be, right? It would make sense to if not assume, then at least hope something did, indeed, lie at the center, because for all the trouble one has to go through, a prize at the end, be it a treasure chest or a priceless artifact or some such valuable object, would be adequate recompense, especially if it came at the cost of near insanity. The world would show itself to be awfully cruel if the ruins had no reward to proffer, and while you consider yourself to be optimistic, you also understand that the world can be awfully cruel and you can’t rule out the possibility that a successful journey to the innermost parts of that forest may leave you empty-handed.

The more risk-averse would turn away from the prospect of exploring that mysterious patch of tightly packed trees, but you’ve the drive and determination to dive into it, to push through what might hide behind large trunks and mossy stone columns, and reach the end. You wouldn’t be satisfied with mere stories of others’ experiences. You want to have one of your own.

It’s early afternoon when Sidon is dismissed, leaving him with the rest of the day to spend with you. You’re sitting by the cooking pot at the inn, and the smell of baked apples reaches his nose the closer he gets. You don’t notice him because you’re preoccupied with what he registers is a map, which you hold in one hand, a slice of apple in the other. His mouth opens to announce his arrival, but his feet coming into your periphery causes you to glance up. A spark flickers behind your eyes and you could illuminate the whole of Zora’s Domain and that flash of love which steals his breath away because that’s for him, all for him are the dots of light in the corners of his vision whenever he should gaze at the sun.

He sits down next to you and points at the map. Planning your next adventure?

You smile and nod enthusiastically, showing him the route you’ve outlined for yourself. He’s first drawn to the lines leading south, towards the coast, but you pull his attention to the one trailing north instead, and his own smile begins to falter as he traces it back to the smaller but still dense cluster of trees above Great Hyrule Forest.

Though he’s not an adventurer like you, he’s heard his fair share of stories regarding the woods surrounding Thyphlo Ruins. The curiosity evident in the voices of those with a biting curiosity to travel within that mystifying landmark he fails to understand, for he feels no such pull, no such urge. The way he looks at it, if there is anything hiding there in the darkness, chances are, they don’t want to be found. And he’s perfectly content to not go looking.

But he is not you, and that is not how you look at it. You sound excited to have finally settled upon your next destination, and he feels bad that he can’t join you in your elation, not when his mind festers with concern for your wellbeing. He forces the smile back onto his face and does his best to support you in any other way that he can, finding it in the delight you exude at the prospect of continuing your exploration of the vast land of Hyrule. He’s glad that you’re doing something which you truly enjoy, and he tries to focus on that instead of where your passion is bringing you now.

Even for all of that, you know something is bothering him. He shouldn’t be surprised. You know what he is thinking, what he is feeling, by the small changes in his expression, by his nervous swallowing, and most of all by his slight hesitation to meet your eyes right away when you turn to him. He can’t shake the shame that creeps up on him that he can’t be as excited as you are, a notion that can’t be alleviated by the fact that you would never fault him for anything like that. He sees it in your small sympathetic smile and feels it in the warmth of your hand as you reach over to set it atop his.

“I promise I’ll stay safe,” you say, but you can only promise so much because to go somewhere that dangerous, there’s no guarantee of complete safety. Perhaps instead you voice it as a form of comfort, a reminder that Sidon needs every now and again that you’re being careful, and how could you not be when in the days spent traveling from place to place, your mind is filled with thoughts of returning here, to him, to home?

“I wish I could go with you.” He might not understand that yearning to explore the unknown, but he would venture into that forest without delay if it meant he could protect you, watching your back and the shadows outside your line of sight. He hates the idea of you being in there alone.

You squeeze his hand once in a gesture of reassurance. It mirrors how his heart squeezes as you look upon him so lovingly.

“I do too,” you remark quietly. "But we’ll have our own adventures one of these days. I’ll even let you mark them out on the map.”

Sidon smiles more genuinely now, beginning to relax. You’re trying to steer the conversation away from anything harrowing and he understands and appreciates that you are. It would do neither of you well to linger on any of the what-ifs. And he trusts you, truly, to be vigilant. You have been this long, and you’ve always come back to him.

As you outline your plans to him, he feels more at ease with the caution and preparation you’re clearly practicing. By the time the day of your departure rolls around, there’s only a small inkling of worry left in him (though that would always be there regardless of where you traveled).

Your evening spent at the inn isn’t a typical occurrence. You’d only done it because it was late when you’d arrived, and you didn’t want to disturb Sidon, no matter how many times he told you he wouldn’t mind. After that first night, you’d stayed with him in his own quarters, and it’s here that he laments how quickly the days have passed that you should already be leaving him.

Once you’ve checked that you have everything you’ll need for your travels, you close your bag and set it down on the table in the corner. Sidon is watching you from where he sits on the edge of his bed, and you walk over to him, taking the hand he holds out so he can pull you closer gently. His arms wrap around you as you stand between his legs, and you rest your own around this neck. You don’t look down at him and he doesn’t look up, for given that he towers above you when standing, in this position, both of you are eye to eye.

The world turns so slowly without you, he bemoans. I wish I could hold it in my hand to speed it up and bring you back to me sooner. You have wished for the same and smile wistfully at those sentiments he seems to have plucked from your brain. How must your days have felt before you met me? you tease, not really expecting an answer, but he gives one. Like eternity, he confesses.

He walks you to the very edge of town, and you linger at the end of the bridge, the walkway beneath your feet a soft blue accented by the glow of the luminous stones set in the pillars and arches. You stare at the trail leading away from Zora’s Domain and back towards the mainland, and Sidon’s staring down at you, and he doesn’t miss the pause in your stance, like you’re about to put one foot in front of the other and begin your journey but can’t find it within you to actually move.

“Hey.” He’s gentle as he draws your attention to him. “Are you okay?”

You purse your lips and he thinks for a moment you’re going to shake your head, but then you take him by surprise as you lunge towards him and hug him tightly. He’s quick to reciprocate, bringing an arm around your shoulders to hold you near. You murmur that you’ll miss him and your words are sunshine because he melts more and more with every syllable. Now it’s his turn to reassure you—he’s going to be here when you get back, and no stretch of land or water would ever be enough to separate you. Just think of me when you lay down to sleep, he says, and I’ll never feel too far away. If you had changed your mind and decided to stay here with him, he would welcome you gladly, of course. But he knows you won’t do that. It’s not in your nature. You hear the calls of the wild and yearn to follow them. Now go have a new adventure.

He stands there until you’re out of sight, and his walk back across the bridge is unhurried. You had wanted an early start, and by this point, the sun hasn’t quite yet revealed itself fully from behind the horizon. The fog above the water, which had been thick in the cold hours of the night, is starting to dissipate due to the growing warmth. Sidon lifts his gaze to the sky. It will be a nice day today, judging by the weather.

The duties he has to attend to as prince of the domain aren’t sufficient to make the time pass faster. He sits in meetings with his father and Muzu and occasionally the head of the guard, head leaning in his hand. His mind is elsewhere, and he stares out at the town like he might see you down there, waiting for him to be dismissed so he can join you.

“Sidon.” Muzu calls him sternly, the tone behind it slightly scolding.

Sidon blinks and reels his thoughts back in to the discussion, taking a deep breath and sitting up straighter in an effort to become more alert. His lazy movements betray how close he had been to falling asleep as well as any lack of guilt to be caught daydreaming. Muzu huffs and shakes his head but doesn’t bother to address his inattention. This isn’t the first instance this has happened, and the one solution would simply be to move on. Sidon’s thoughts would inevitably slip away to something (someone) else, and no number of reminders to stay focused would change that.

It’s also why King Dorephan isn’t irritated with Sidon’s behavior. While it’s part of Sidon’s disposition to be chipper, that attitude only persists during meetings (which even Dorephan will admit can be boring) if you’re in town. You give him something to look forward to when they finally adjourn, and he’d be energized for the entire duration. But the story is different when you’re gone, and though Sidon is happy to spend time with his friends, he’d enjoy it more with you around.

He understands what Sidon feels for you, and he knows there would be no stopping the drifting of his mind in your direction as he no doubt wonders where in Hyrule you are currently. As if on cue, he notices Sidon’s attention shifting again, eyes apparently staring at the wall but Dorephan has a suspicion Sidon isn’t admiring the architecture.

“I think we can stop here for today,” Dorephan speaks up.

Muzu trails off, confused and missing the look shared between the king and prince. Dorephan nods at Muzu, a motion of finality, and the advisor stands, bowing before making his leave.

“I’m sorry,” Sidon apologizes, and there is some guilt laced with it.

Dorephan grins and shakes his head. “Don’t apologize. You can’t help where your heart pulls you. The mind invariably follows.”

Sidon smiles slightly too, thankful that his father is sympathetic. He’d always been less strict than Muzu. Sidon stands and bows, about to follow Muzu out, but Dorephan halts his departure as he asks if you’ll be back soon. Sidon shrugs, for you hadn’t specified how long you’d be away (you tend not to, since even you don’t know how long your trips would be). He sighs instead and it’s rife with longing. She could return tomorrow and that wouldn’t be soon enough.

The days are merely the rising and setting of the sun, and the nights a constant reminder of you. The crescent moon is your smile and it guides Sidon across the threshold from the waking world to that of dreams. He wonders if you’ve followed his advice, to think of him as you fall asleep, and when he dreams of you, he’s sure that you have.

He receives no correspondence from you, and while odd at first, he isn’t bothered by it. You’re busy traversing Hyrule, and once you find an inn to settle down at for the evening, you’re probably too tired to write. He understands. Usually when you do send a letter, it’s with the date of your return, which is never too far off from the day that a courier hands Sidon the folded piece of paper. So that’s what he looks forward to, what he uses as a way of surmising that you would be coming to Zora’s Domain. If the courier is in town, he is watching closely, stomach buzzing with anticipation, only to be left disappointed when the messenger leaves, and he is empty-handed.  

But he repeats to himself that as the days crawl along, the absence of letters isn’t worth fretting over. Sometimes, you don’t send one at all, and he isn’t aware of your presence here until the morning or night of, when he spots you walking around town, asking other Zora if they have seen him. He supposes he’s just grown used to the messages, for you had been sending them during your travels with increasing regularity. To receive none now is a disruption to the routine, but it was nothing more than that.

And it works for a while, convincing himself that you’re preoccupied with your exploration and perhaps have decided to take the long route back to Zora’s Domain. Though if this turns out to be the case, he does wish you would have sent something, at least to let him know you’re okay. Not that he doesn’t doubt you’d be careful, but he’d always worry about you in some capacity, a small inkling in the back of his mind that wouldn’t disappear until you were here with him again.

The morning that his concerns come to a head, and he actually starts to fear something has happened to you, is, coincidentally, the day you return. Muzu is the one to inform him, having seen you walk into Coral Reef the moment it opened. Sidon is quick to descend to the lower levels of town, every rushed step synchronized with the beating of his heart and he can barely contain his zeal, his happiness, his relief that you are back and you are safe. Because he won’t deny that this particular journey had gone on long enough without communication to warrant serious distress.

All the emotions welling up within him come out in a breath of near disbelief to find you right where Muzu had said you would be. Any tension he had felt uncoils and a sense of calm permeates his being from the top of his head down to his toes. His chest tightens because he’s missed you so much and you are back and the clocks tick at their normal pace once more.

You descend the steps of the general shop and as you come nearer, Sidon sighs your name and he has missed the way it felt upon his tongue. He waits for you to return it, to gaze up at him with that charming grin and whisper his name or shout it because you’re so excited but it wouldn’t matter either way because all he cares about is that he gets to hear you utter it.

But you don’t. You don’t run into his arms, don’t light up at the sight of him. Rather, you walk up to him at a leisurely pace, seeming to stop in front of him less because you’re elated to see him and more because he’s merely blocking your path. You tilt your head back to look up at him but you have no reaction to the toothy smile on his face. For reasons Sidon can’t explain, his expression refuses to fall, though deep down he knows something is off. The smile remains, however, the last vestiges of a hope that he’s just imagining those things and nothing is wrong. Nothing is wrong.

“Um…” Your voice is tentative, like you’re choosing words carefully, like you’re not sure of what to say. He catches the brief drop of your eyes to his grin before you lift them again to meet his own gaze, and you shake your head as if to tell him that if he’s looking for someone, it’s not you. It can’t be you. “I’m sorry, but… do I know you?”

———

II.

Sidon’s smile dims, caught off guard by the question. You continue to stand there, expecting a response, and after a few seconds of silence, you raise a brow. But then he flashes another smile and lets out a small chuckle.

“That’s funny, [Name].”

You’re only joking, surely, pretending to not know who he is. His mind refuses to consider anything but, despite the fact your face isn’t breaking out into a grin, unable to keep up the charade any longer. When you hear him say your name, you don’t look comforted by it, you look confused. With brows drawn together, you shake your head again.

“Have we met before?”

Any semblance of joy on his face finally ebbs to nothingness, and his confusion matches yours. His heartbeat quickens but not in a good way, as realization dawns on him that you aren’t messing with him. You are entirely genuine, treating him like a stranger and thoroughly apologetic that he seems to recognize you and you can’t remember where you might have seen him in the past.

“It’s me…” he starts quietly, as if those are the key words and a section of your brain will light up in recognition. “It’s Sidon.”

You still watch him blankly, your demeanor unchanging, not picking up anything special to hear the name. But then your expression does change, your eyes widening after a few moments, and he inhales sharply, prepared for you to acknowledge him and maybe this time, drop the act and the joke and the two of you will spend the rest of the day catching up, enjoying the presence of the other. And he waits with bated breath for you to thrust yourself into his arms and for the strength of impact to steal that breath away as you express how much you missed him.

You don’t do any of that.

“Prince Sidon?” you exclaim. Sidon doesn’t nod to confirm it but you bow anyway, bent at the hips and staring down at the ground for a second then standing back up straight. “I-I’m sorry I don’t remember us meeting. Please forgive my forgetfulness, your highness.”

You wring your hands nervously and Sidon doesn’t want any apologies because you shouldn’t have to offer any. The bated breath leaves him in a silent and shaky exhale as the reality of the situation sets in. This isn’t a joke. The way you’re acting is authentic. You’re staring at him with no ounce of familiarity, and the look in your eyes reminds him of any other traveler who passes through Zora’s Domain and finds themselves anxious and unprepared to be in the presence of the prince. And it shouldn’t be like this. You aren’t just any other traveler, not to him. Though how could he expect you to know that now?

You’re still waiting for him to speak, hoping that he won’t be annoyed. But he isn’t. He could never be. Not with you. So he shakes his head, forcing himself to smile just a little, a polite one to put you at ease. “There’s nothing to apologize for. We all forget things sometimes.”

You visibly relax, shoulders drooping after being tensed those several long beats. Sidon doesn’t say anything more, and you have nothing else to add either, so you clear your throat, a failed attempt to break the awkward air hanging between you.

“Er… well… if I may excuse myself, then…” Your request for dismissal is shy and Sidon’s heart is twisting because this is how you acted the first time he’d ever met you, and the memories are fond but that’s how they should have stayed. Just memories.

“Of course.” He stands to the side to give you room to walk past him, and you bow again, though not as deep as the first, before skirting around him.

He stares at your retreating form, understands that it’s you who’s walking away yet at the same time, it doesn’t feel like it is. The one he has conversed with might have your eyes and your hair but perhaps it wasn’t actually you. It made no sense for it to be. Delight fills your gaze when you see him and it’s complemented by a wide smile as he brings you close and threads his fingers through the soft strands of your hair. But who he has just spoken with held no such delight in their eyes, and there was no big grin to behold, and they never came closer than a respectful arm’s length, clearly not sharing in the expectation that Sidon would hold them near and tangle his fingers in their hair.

No matter how many ways he tries to rationalize that he’d been mistaken, that it wasn’t you he’d spotted exiting Coral Reef, he won’t ever be able to deny the way his chest had tightened when he saw you, when he heard you speak though you used the words of a stranger. And he still feels the tug to follow after you, to get you to admit you have been joking and while it gave him a scare, he admires your commitment but now, life can go on as normal.

However, that’s not what would happen. Your reactions couldn’t be faked. He could implore you all he wants, to remember. He could beg you to dig around and uncover that corner of yourself, the place where he resides and where you understand how much you love him. He wants you to know he’s not just a prince, he’s your prince, and you mean the world to him. He wants you to remember it all, and there’s a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach to know that you don’t. You can’t.

He’s at a loss as to how to handle these circumstances. Never has he been faced with something like this. The biggest question on his mind is how this happened. It’s not as though he could simply ask you. As far as you were concerned, you aren’t missing any memories to begin with. This was the work of some form of magic, surely. But it was none that Sidon had ever heard of. He’s in dire need of answers, but the only one who might know anything, as well as the only one he trusts enough to help him figure it out, isn’t in the domain currently. Sidon doesn’t know when he will be, but until the day his friend crosses that bridge into town, he is left waiting.

You stick around for a few more days, and Sidon finds himself falling back into the habit of searching for you. Before, he’d approach you the moment he spotted you, maybe even sneak up and surprise you if he felt particularly playful. But now when he notices you speaking to other travelers or having your weapons repaired at the blacksmith’s workshop, he keeps his distance. He stays far enough away that you can’t tell he’s staring intently in your direction, observing your sweet smile and straining his ears to listen to your laugh. All the while, he misses the time he’d been able to elicit those reactions from you, and his chest would swell with pride whenever he was successful. He wore your love for him like a badge, a reward of the highest honor. It’s practically impossible for him now to comprehend that he has been set aside to the margins, a thought far from your mind, because you have never left the center of his own and would never leave it.

It dawns on him one mid-morning that despite the hand fate has dealt, he’s not being prevented from doing those things which he had carried out with great pleasure when you looked upon him with so much love. He could try to make you smile, make you laugh, and perhaps the embers of forgotten flames might flicker to life.

You’re settled down by the cooking pot, drawing and scribbling on your map. Sidon approaches quietly to avoid startling you, but you don’t notice him. He ponders what he should say to you, what might make for polite and casual conversation. He has to treat you like a stranger, and it hurts him to do because as he watches you, he sees his whole life sitting there. And he could never be angry with you when you finally slide your eyes over to him and the fondness isn’t returned because you can’t know that he’d witnessed that all slip away the moment your memories were stolen. But he doesn’t know what to be angry at so he’s angry with himself, and he swallows the lump in his throat and tells himself it’s time to focus on you, just you, because you’re what matters.

He points to the map you hold. “You’re a traveler?”

You nod in lieu of replying verbally. He can surmise you’re nervous. So he smiles gently as he asks if he can join you.

“O-Oh, yes, of course!” You scoot over to make room for his much larger frame and he inserts himself into the spot rather easily. It all starts to feel familiar for him.

He glances over your shoulder at the map with its pronounced creases from being folded and unfolded. There are additional marks which have been added since you’d last been here, but he knows it’s the same copy because of the line drawn from the domain towards the south, to Lurelin Village. He addresses said route, inquiring if you’ve visited or planned to soon.

This pulls back the floodgates and with a few extra questions from Sidon to steer the conversation, you’re gushing to him about your interest in exploring Hyrule. You tell him of where you’ve gone and where you’d like to go, and he listens attentively, nodding and humming intermittently to show he’s following along. He can’t contain his little grin as he senses the passion in your voice and he already knows these things, your love for exploration and the vastness of the land. He knows all these places you have been to and the stories associated with each one. But he hangs on every word anyway like he’s heard none of this before and you’re so eloquent and heartfelt and he has missed the closeness of it all, as you open up to him.  

Then your string of tales wanes. I’ve told you all the exciting parts, you reason. And you laugh nervously, apologizing for rambling as long as you had and not allowing much space for Sidon to talk. But he laughs with you and says it’s okay, he doesn’t mind. He prefers to listen. He’s so genuine as he looks at you that you have to look away for a second, cheeks warming.

With a plaintive sigh, you lift your head to survey what parts of the town you can see from the inn. The sun is setting and the sky is shifting from dark blue to orange.

“I don’t know why,” you begin, eyes narrowed as you stare into the distance, at the gleam of luminous stones set within the pillars as night falls, “but I always find myself coming back here after my journeys. It’s a special attachment that I can’t really explain.”

Sidon’s eyes are glassy but luckily you fail to notice because you’re not facing him. A heavy weight drops into his stomach and he wants to tell you he loves you and that there had been a point where you loved him too and that’s why. That’s why you feel the tug deep down to end every expedition here, why a part of you has made it instinct to call this place your starting point, your base, your home. Everything leads back to him and you’re so close but not close enough. You could always be closer.

You glance at him, and you’re none the wiser to the tears he has willed away, and your soft smile makes his chest tighten. For a second he might believe that things are normal, the way they were, and you’ll suggest the two of you watch the sun disappear from the outskirts of the domain where there isn’t as much light to interfere with the view. But he knows things are not normal and those won’t be the words to leave your mouth next so he tells himself you’ll be his view this evening, as the setting sun illuminates your features, painting your skin with orange hues and swirling in the depths of your eyes where it slumbers until the next day when you should wake, and the world will follow on your heels.

Sidon is alone in his bedchamber tonight, and the idea is uncomfortable, that you aren’t with him despite being in the domain. Suddenly his room feels even lonelier.

The moon hangs high in the sky and bathes the cold stone floor in light as well as kisses the expanse of Sidon’s scales as he remains near the window to stare out at the blackened waters below. He’s too preoccupied contemplating the events of today to try going to sleep. What rest he may manage to obtain will surely be restless, and he doesn’t consider that any better than not sleeping at all. Sometimes you liked to stay up to admire the moon, and he wonders if you’re doing that now.

He hadn’t talked with you for long, but it had really, genuinely felt good to hear your voice because he had missed you, during those few weeks apart. It lifts his spirits to see you walking around town. Your presence is the only thing that can pull him out of his slumps, its absence what put him there in the first place. He likes being around you because you make him want to sprout wings and fly, and you would always have that power over him, with your memories or no. He feels like he’s falling in love with you again (not that he’d ever stopped). Maybe you’ll fall in love with him again too.

You’ve set your sights on Lurelin Village, and you’re the one to instigate the conversation as you trot up to Sidon, noticeably more relaxed now, and excitedly tell him of your plans to go to the coastal town next. He mirrors your zeal as he envisions the bright blue waters and the warm sand. He’d like to swim there one day, he confesses to you. But since he can’t right now, he asks that you have fun for him.

Sidon has trouble masking emotions, and sometimes the strongest ones can slip through. That’s the only explanation he has for why you become bashful during an otherwise casual chat. Because he can’t hide his gaze of admiration and love for you no matter how hard he tries and maybe you’ve picked up on that. He ponders if you see glimpses of another life reflected back in his eyes where you aren’t merely guessing if he means to stare at you in that way because you are why that affection fills his being as he observes you.

You have already left Zora’s Domain for Lurelin Village when Link saunters into town on a gloomy afternoon. A week separates your departure and his arrival. Sidon greets him at the bridge and they make lighthearted banter over lunch. It’s not until they’re full, unable to eat another bite of their wildberry crepes, that Sidon finally brings up more serious topics. Namely, the situation with you.

Link listens closely as Sidon talks, eyes narrowed in concentration because there’s a problem to be solved and Sidon can’t solve it by himself. But Link is at a similar loss as to how this could have happened. He shrugs helplessly and sits back and says if this is some form of magic, he hasn’t ever heard of it before. I’ve never known there to be magic that could manipulate the mind.

Sidon is disappointed that he’s still stuck at square one, but he isn’t mad. They are out of their depths here. They have no idea how to combat that which is unknown to begin with. He speculates perhaps you had sustained a head injury, but that hypothesis doesn’t find any footing given that if that were correct, you should’ve lost more than just your memories of him. Link nods silently along, giving Sidon the space to think out loud.

With a heavy sigh, Sidon slides his eyes over to the Veiled Falls visible through the large windows and shakes his head, and he’s quiet as he divulges that he feels burdened by failure. He hadn’t been there for you like he promised. And you might have come back to him as you have always come back to him, but this time you didn’t come back to him whole. He should’ve gone with you. Then maybe whatever had happened wouldn’t have, and he wouldn’t be having this conversation, heavy with regret and melancholy hindsight.

Link hates to see his friend like this. The picture of the Zora prince before him is far from the Sidon he knows. Sidon’s the one to pick others up when they’re down but Link understands that the tables are turned now, and he is in need for the favor to be returned. Link has met you several times, when your stays in the domain have overlapped. It’s abundantly clear to him how much you mean to Sidon, and he almost feels as though he is sharing in the distress no doubt settling in Sidon’s entire being.

She wouldn’t blame you, Link asserts. Sidon’s movements are sluggish as he blinks and turns towards him. Neither of you could’ve predicted this.

Sidon agrees, silently, that that is true. But it does little to make him feel better, though he appreciates Link’s efforts.

At failing to garner a response from Sidon, Link purses his lips and picks at what remains of the crepe on his plate, pushing around a wildberry with his fork. He looks from his food to Sidon and back again, his mind a flurry as he racks it for some sort of solution. Granted, there couldn’t be many. Whatever had affected you had to be powerful, and there would only be so many methods to counteract it. The odds seem insurmountable but Link isn’t willing to give up because he doubts Sidon isn’t willing either. When it comes to you, Sidon is willing to do whatever it takes to make sure you’re okay. Whatever it takes…

Slowly, Link halts his poking and prodding of his food, eventually abandoning the fork entirely and leaving it stuck upright in the thickest part of the crepe. He reaches out to the glass of water to his left to take a sip and sneaks a glance up at Sidon, who isn’t looking directly at him, still staring beyond Link to the windows. Even without meeting his gaze directly, Link senses the misery. Sidon’s desperate.

But desperate enough to…?

Yes. The answer is yes because Link knows Sidon would lay down his life for you if it came to that, and so the idea Link is hesitating to share despite the fact it must be the only solution would be a small price to pay for your wellbeing. And what kind of friend would Link be to withhold anything that might help?

So he tells Sidon there might be a way to fix this, and he knows there’s no turning back when Sidon finally faces him and there’s the slightest light in his gaze, the flash of hope kept tempered in case the proposed solution goes nowhere and he be left even more disappointed than before. But Sidon would hold onto it tight because you’re the gleam of sunshine in the center of his eye and he would never let go of you.

There’s this statue… Link begins. There’s a statue in Hateno Village with magic of its own. It’s strong, and no one is sure how it works or where the magic comes from. But if one makes a request to the statue, the wish is granted, regardless of what it is. If you want the water to turn green, it’ll happen. No one’s tried to ask for anything so ridiculous, of course, not that there was any need. Those aware of the statue’s existence are aware of its power and do well not to make absurd requests for the sake of witnessing just how powerful the statue is said to be.

Link ends the explanation with the remark that this is what could give you your memories back, could make you remember Sidon. But he tacks onto that one final statement, more quietly: I think it might be the only way.

Sidon keeps silent as he mulls over what he’s learned. Whatever magic was involved with that statue, it must be dark, and while he might initially be opposed to dabbling in dark magic, the circumstances are too dire for him to be immediately reluctant. As it stands, he is giving it serious thought. Link had sounded confident that going to the statue would work, and that’s good enough for Sidon to agree that this would be worth looking into. However, Link’s quiet admission that this was the only solution spoke for consequences less than favorable, and while Sidon knows to expect as much considering the forces they’re reckoning with, Link’s tone had been dismal, as if to warn Sidon to be very, very careful.

Link is watching him closely now, and he takes a deep breath, feeling like he’s about to break a hundred years of silence when it’s only been around a few minutes.

“What does the statue ask for in return?”

The question was going to come up inevitably, but Link still delays answering. His hesitation to reply already speaks volumes. It takes a piece of your soul. It wants a slice of your mortality. He forces the words out, though it pains him to voice the suggestion. He wouldn’t ever want Sidon to surrender those things, whether it was just a piece or the whole. That was to surrender a literal part of himself, and he could never get it back. But ultimately, it was Sidon’s decision what to do, and as Link sits there, lets his words ruminate in the prince’s mind, he knows what Sidon will decide. Like he’d said prior, all of it, in the wider scope, is a small price to pay for you.

Sidon nods. He’ll go before the statue.

With his mind made up, the next course of action is figuring out when he can leave town to make the trip to Hateno. He would do it overnight and do his best to return to the domain as soon as possible the following day. He would try to make the journey there and back without stopping for rest but he knows that wouldn’t be possible because while he could swim via the Zora River, the distance from there to Hateno is still too large to cover at once. He would sleep enough to ensure he wouldn’t fall over and pass out from exhaustion, but nothing more. He couldn’t be gone for long.

The tail end of Link’s visit nearly overlaps with yours, but he misses you by hours. He leaves in the morning, and you arrive at noon. Sidon spots you at the inn, where you’re sitting on one of the beds, observing the hilly expanse of Upland Zorana and the Veiled Falls. The town is elevated high enough that the spray of water at the waterfall’s base can’t reach, but if it did, Sidon’s sure it would feel refreshing.

He calls your name gently and you look over once you hear it, giving him a curt smile before returning your attention to the scenery. He sits on the edge of the bed, giving you your space, and gently so as not to jostle you. The water beds are quite squishy.

“How was Lurelin Village?” he asks, and he’s smiling, prepared for the excited ramblings of your most recent escapade.

But he doesn’t get that. All he gets is a noncommittal shrug, and this leaves him rather bewildered. He might’ve been less so had you followed it up even with some simple and vague remarks as It was good or I had fun. It’s the complete silence that is out of the ordinary. He continues with another question, attempting to start a conversation. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

When he asks this, you shrug again, but you must sense that he doesn’t consider that a good enough answer at all (especially after the first shrug) so you elaborate. “I did.”

Sidon’s brows furrow but you don’t notice. Are you mad at him? He has no idea why you would be. You were in perfectly good spirits around him before you’d left Zora’s Domain, and he hadn’t seen you until you came back today. There was no opportunity for him to do anything that might arouse that resentment in you, not that he would ever try to do that. He can’t recall ever acting in a way that angered you. Instead, he owes it to the fact you may just be tired from the traveling. Once he considers this a possibility, he starts to feel a little guilty that he may have just interrupted you as you were about to take a nap.

You exhibit no signs of wanting to talk, staying silent and facing forward. With a quiet sigh, Sidon says he’ll let you get some rest because you must’ve had a long journey. He stands and walks back to the front steps of the inn and you make no move to stop him.

Sidon plays the interaction between you two over and over in his head that night. Sure, it really could have been that you were exhausted and that’s why you acted like you did. But he’s also sure that if that were true, he wouldn’t feel that nagging feeling in his chest that something is different. He knows you incredibly well, firstly. Secondly, this scenario reminds him of the worry he’d felt when you were away from the domain for longer than usual, and your return had quelled it up until he learned you had forgotten who he was, proving his concern had merit. Now he knows to give the benefit of the doubt to his instinct, because though his brain might reason nothing strange is afoot, his gut is pointing him elsewhere.

The following morning he finds you in the same spot, but you’re now sitting on the end of the bed, head resting atop your knees, which you’ve drawn to your chest. Sidon hesitates to go to you, not wanting to upset you again if it turns out that you truly had been tired, but he can’t prolong talking to you. He has to figure out whether it had been your lack of rest that made you abnormally wordless or if there was something more going on.

Good morning. He greets you in a hushed tone for your sake, not wanting to scare you. There was no one else in the inn he had to take care not to wake up.

To respond with a shrug is, evidently, too much energy for you now. Your eyes flicker to the side to glance at him just for a second, before they slide back to watch the waterfall. He sits on the bed next to yours, settling down at the end. For a few minutes, you observe the water together and the silence is almost comfortable. Sidon pretends the day is like any other, the two of you watching the current flow, winding its way between high cliffs. If you were closer to the river, you’d spot fish.

The moment of mere pretend is swept away by the wind that blows through the inn. Sidon turns his head to stare at you on the other bed, where you’ve not appeared to move an inch. This cathartic nature is wholly uncharacteristic for you, and he could hardly believe that who he’s seeing now is you, who have always been so energetic.

“How was your adventure at the beaches down south?” Sidon has accepted that he will need to be the one to carry the discussion along.

“It was fine.”

This is a verbal reply at least. But it leaned neither towards a positive connotation nor a negative and Sidon doesn’t know what to make of it. He’s even inclined to say that you sound apathetic. His suspicions begin to grow.

“Well… Have you started planning where you’d like to visit next?” There’s another bout of silence. He’s unsure if that means you’re thinking on his question, wondering where you want to go after your period of rest here, or if you’re ignoring it. Both were possible give how you’re acting and how little you move or speak.

You inhale deeply and stretch your legs out, hands braced on the mattress. Sidon perks up, thinking maybe he was wrong, maybe you’re okay and you were just tired, so you’ll be a little slow talking about your next destination and he won’t mind that one bit. You exhale in a heavy sigh, and it comes across as burdened and very tired.

“I haven’t thought about it, no…” You trail off, attention dropping to your lap. You pick at the loose thread on your pants. “I haven’t thought about much lately.”

The admission raises alarm in Sidon. It signals to him that something strange is going on, laying itself on top of the already bizarre occurrence of losing your memories of him. Were the two phenomena connected? He assumes them to be immediately, but you might have also run into trouble again on your trip to Lurelin Village. The cogs are spinning in his head as he tries to make sense of the situation, of what could be happening to you.

Gradually, he starts to make connections, just hypotheticals with no grounding. His confirmation could only come from you directly. So when thinks he might have found the string connecting both your loss of memories and your sudden lethargy, he asks you another question.

“[Name],” he says your name softly, “do you feel any urges to travel?”

You don’t stop to consider the question, and when you look at him, you seem nonplussed by it. The look in your eyes makes it seem as if you don’t even understand why you should be getting excited about something like that. You almost look bored.

“I don’t care much for it.” You shake your head.

And then Sidon knows, and he wouldn’t have if he didn’t know you so well. Whatever you had run into that stole your memories of him, it had stolen more than that. It had taken an entire emotion away. Now, not only do you not love him, you can’t love at all. The magic which has affected you must work gradually, and that’s why you were still passionate about your exploration up until this most recent visit of yours to the domain.

The sudden loss of your enthusiasm to travel across Hyrule is to have lost parts of your very being, and that’s how Sidon knows this isn’t just a change of heart or fatigue. You have never had a change of heart about your travels or come close to it. Your desire to roam the wilderness and discover what is out there is core to who you are, and you would’ve gladly done it for the rest of your life. But now you suddenly have no interest, and what’s more, you don’t even realize that anything is unusual about the fact you have no interest. The problem arising from what magic had struck you runs much deeper than simply forgetting him.

He wants to apologize. He wants to say it over and over until you’re sick of it. But of course you would never know why he was so apologetic, and there’s an ugly twisting in the pit of his stomach because he wants you to get mad at him too. For saying sorry too much or for letting you get into this mess in the first place because it’s his fault. He deserves your anger but you don’t even have any to express. As it stands, you understand yourself to have no resentment for him. He wishes he could lament to you his failure to protect you and maybe still you wouldn’t be mad and you’d say that you don’t blame him like Link said you wouldn’t, but Sidon needs to hear it from you and he just wants you back.

He doesn’t know who stares back at him as you look over, having started to think that the silence had stretched too long. You tilt your head, prepared to ask if something is bothering him, but he stands up before you can.

“I’ll give you time to wake up more fully. It’s early. I’m sorry I intruded.” He flashes a brief smile in farewell, then turns quickly, the smile dropping once he does. He’ll never know if you tried to stop him in that moment, hand held out as if to get him to pause, before the words die in your throat, and you let him go.

Technically, it isn’t that early in the morning—the shops are all open—but he had to get away before he broke down in front of you. You, so unaware, left feeling detached by no choice of your own, at the center of the whole affair without even realizing. You’re beginning to drift farther and it hurts the most when you're sitting next to him, and he’s forced to bear witness. And he can’t believe how much he can miss someone.

———

III.

Link returns three days later and they make preparations to leave for Hateno that same afternoon, just as the sun begins to set. The golden hour might be better to enjoy in a happier context, but it’s the glare in Sidon’s eyes today when he glances west.

He’d told Link of what had transpired with you and Link frowns as he listens. The circumstances of your memory loss keep getting stranger and stranger. As they’re riding out of Zora’s Domain, Link wonders aloud if this might mean you could get worse if they didn’t do something to fix it. Sidon says he doesn’t want to think about what might happen, but deep down he can’t help but entertain the thought, wracked with paranoia as he has been these past weeks.

Would you continue to lose more of yourself? Perhaps your inability to feel love is only the beginning. Perhaps as the days wore on, you’d gradually become unable to feel much else, until you were just a shell. But who would do such a thing? Sidon fails to wrap his head around what might drive someone to do something so cruel and to someone so sweet. You have plenty more to lose if Link’s speculation is true, and Sidon’s inclined to say that the process is already underway, because how could he ever hope to see your smile again if there’s nothing that makes your heart burn with passion, to a degree so high you can’t contain and it pulls the corners of your lips up and crinkles the corner of your twinkling eyes?

The more of you that fades, the more Sidon perceives himself following suit. You’re a big part of his life and he can’t imagine it without you. He doesn’t want to. Without you, he’s just a prince, and the title pales in comparison to what he means to you. The honor of one day taking over as ruler of Zora’s Domain doesn’t mean much if he’s alone.

It’s the middle of the night when they arrive in Hateno Village. They had been diligent in their travel, taking as few breaks as they could manage. The main road of the town is empty, everyone having gone to bed earlier, and all that lights their paths are the torches in the wall sconces and the lamps hanging above locked storefronts. Said lamps sway gently with the cold breeze, the flames flickering to near ember before the gust stops, and they roar back to life.

Link comments that he’d never made the trip from Zora’s Domain down to Hateno so quickly before, and it’s meant to be a small joke, to brighten the mood. Sidon humors him with a small chuckle, but is unable to muster anymore than that. But Link understands, and quiets down as he leads him to their goal.

Sidon’s chest is heavy as he realizes what he is about to do. The notion of approaching the statue had seemed so faraway in the days leading up to this trip and while on the journey to Hateno, like a dream, but now he’s here and this is real. These last few minutes are his last chance to back out, but he won’t. He doesn’t even consider it. The consequences sound harrowing, to trade part of his mortality, part of his soul, but he knows it’ll be worth it. If you got to be whole again, he could live contentedly in a fractured state. Maybe he won’t even feel any different, so long as he could see you be happy.

Link walks through Hateno as though to go to his house, but instead of ascending the hill, he takes a path leading farther down, between two rock faces, their heights blocking the moonlight from reaching the grass. They’re cast in shadow and with no light source in this area, they can barely spot the statue on the other side of the large boulder, positioned like it’s in hiding.

This statue is larger than the goddess statue in town, its horns protruding menacingly, the points dulled down with age; and its wings are spread, adding height to the already imposing figure. It’s clear that this statue receives no care or maintenance. The stone is dark from dirt and moss, riddled with cracks and flattened in corners where the tips have crumbled, forced to withstand the elements and unsuccessful in its efforts.

No one comes to maintain this statue, Link says. He and Sidon stand before it, staring at its state of disrepair. They say a dark energy looms here.

Sidon nods. He’d had a sense of foreboding once they stepped into the presence of the horned statue, the power of it weighing on him, like it knows that he’s here to strike a deal, and it’s pressing in on him, forcing out the words and the commitment. Vaguely, he wonders when the last time anyone had approached the statue was. What it asks for is serious, and only the most grave of situations could lead someone here, in their most desperate hour. The statue is a last resort, and a chill runs down Sidon’s spine as he becomes aware of the power it must have. Dark magic does exist, its tendrils snaking through Hyrule, ominous and dangerous and unbelievably strong. Perhaps it was the work of Hylia herself that such strength is so hard to find, to accidentally stumble upon. Dark magic plays no games with fools.

The overgrown grass blows with another gust of wind and sifts as Link adjusts his stance, resting his weight on one foot. He glances up at Sidon. Are you sure? he asks. There’s a second part untacked to his question, but Sidon understands it fine—this is his final opportunity to turn around.

Link would never judge him for backing out. Dealing with dark forces is hazardous, and not everyone is capable of standing before the statue, shoulders squared and confident, ready to trade with it, a fractioned section of their soul and mortality for the granting of their one wish, their chief desire. Even Link doesn’t think he could do that, and for Sidon to be here only makes him respect the Zora prince more. But if in this moment Sidon were to turn away, Link would understand. The deep discomfort, of the air squeezing too tightly the longer you’re here, digging in like claws, is the ultimate trial, to test one’s resolution and commitment. Not all can bear it.

However, Sidon hardly looks bothered. His eyes are aflame with determination, and it reminds Link of why he respects Sidon so much in the first place. The resolution pumping through his veins has been there since the beginning. He doesn’t back down from challenge or adversity, and in matters concerning you, he only fights harder. That’s why when Link had given Sidon one last chance, one last out, he already knew the answer.

Sidon nods. He’s sure. His mind had been set the moment he’d learned of this statue.

Link leaves Sidon alone, mentioning that he’d be at his house, back in the direction they came from. I’ll get a fire going, he says. For when you get there. As Sidon takes the last few steps to stand right in front of the statue, Link starts walking back up the hill, throwing a somber good luck over his shoulder.

For a few moments, Sidon stares at the statue, unsure how to begin. Does he approach this as though he were at a statue of Hylia? Should he kneel? A breeze blows through, the two hills where the statue sits between forming a wind tunnel which makes the gusts strong. The chilly air seeps through his scales and he feels heavy, like there are weights in his stomach and attached to his ankles so that he’s unable to move from this spot. And then he hears a whisper, in the back of his head.

Shall we strike a bargain?

The sinister spirits looming within the statue have made themselves known, but Sidon doesn’t yet know how to form the words, to string them together and communicate his wish. He would have to phrase it carefully to avoid being misunderstood, and in attempting to phrase his request, he realizes he is at an impasse.

Whether or not he would come before the horned statue to make a deal had never been a question nor a doubt in his mind. It had seemed simple to him: he would make the trade in return for your memories. It was clearcut, precise. But now things are hazier and the line is blurred because the recent developments concerning your missing emotion had made it less so. This was not as easy to navigate, and your wellbeing hung in the balance.

If he were to ask for your memories back, for you to love him again, he’d get that. The statue would honor any demands made, as long as the price is paid. But that’s all he would get. And while he’d be over the moon to feel that once more, what it was like to be loved by you, it isn’t enough. It’s what Sidon wants but it isn’t what you need.

No, what you need is to feel love again at all. If the statue granted the wish for you to remember and love him, your love would only stretch that far. Sidon knows the phrasing of the request is of utmost importance, because though the statue accepts and carries it out, dark magic takes delight in skewing the words until the result scarcely resembles what was asked for. He just gets one wish, and to ask for you to remember him and to love again are two.

His chest tightens and it hurts and this twisting isn’t the work of the horned statue. The internal conflict is nearly too much to handle but in the incomprehensible flurry he knows what he must do. He knows what he wants for you, because from the very start, this was about you and it would always be about you because he loves you. He loves you so much his heart is cracking down the middle and he is preparing himself to let you go.

That’s what they say, isn’t it? If you love something, let it go. Sidon’s made tough decisions before but this is by far the toughest. The reason for it is due to his difficulty in coming to terms with what will happen from here, after he voices his wish. He already knows he wants what’s best for you, and he knows that’s what he will ask for, but he’d spent so long clutching to you tightly, he doesn’t want to see you carried away, the wind scooping you gently from his embrace. But for you to be your old self again, in its entirety—capable of love for the sunrises and sunsets, for the flowing water of the rivers, for exploring the full breadth of Hyrule and sharing your adventures with any willing ear—is more important. He cares more that you can love, even if it means you wouldn’t love him.

You won’t remember him the way you knew him before, won’t know how much you loved him or how much he loves you, but he would show it as best he could. And though he hates to consider it, you might fall in love with someone else anyway. He can’t see the future but if it came to that, he would have to be ready. In these several seconds he mentally steels himself for the possibility, and it doesn’t make the weight of his decision any lighter, but he basks in the small comfort that he will see you full of love, and he would be happy with that, even if you gave it away to another. You falling in love with him would just be a bonus, and if you don’t, he’ll still love you, and he hopes somewhere deep in your subconscious you will understand just how much.

A heart so big shouldn’t go empty. This final thought pushes Sidon over the edge, and he makes known his wish to the statue.

Link looks up from stoking the fire when the front door creaks open. Sidon peeks his head through then steps fully across the threshold, quietly shutting the door behind him. The air is solemn and at first, Link hesitates to say anything, but he figures maybe Sidon would appreciate it, as something to ground him, bring him back to earth after the ominous atmosphere he’d been immersed in. How did it go?

Sidon doesn’t respond immediately, but Link is patient. He stares into the orange flames, then inhales deeply, chest expanding, then steadily exhales. Link surmises it isn’t a breath of burden. It almost sounds light, a sigh of relief. But Sidon wears no smile to complement it.

“I made the deal,” Sidon states. He isn’t particularly wordy, deep in thought of what has occurred.

Link doesn’t push him to elaborate. What had happened was a private matter, and if Sidon didn’t want him to be privy of details, he wouldn’t ask about them. Instead, he nods, then returns to his original task of gathering ingredients to cook a simple meal for both of them. As he throws everything into the pot, he suggests they leave for Zora’s Domain before the sun rises. That would give them a few hours of rest. If they’re just as diligent as they had been on the way to Hateno Village, they should make it back by noon.

They eat in silence, the only noise the crackling of the fire and their spoons clacking against the bowls. Link’s attention is on his food, and he doesn’t notice Sidon’s contemplative gaze.

“It’s interesting,” Sidon remarks suddenly, and Link turns to him. “Considering what I’ve traded, I don’t feel any different.”

Link hums, and he smiles a little. It’s a small form of pity, he guesses, that one feels the same with a fractured or a whole soul. The horned statue has some sympathy, it seems. Upon this comment, Sidon chuckles, the tension leaving his shoulders and the air relaxing into something more comfortable. By the time they ride out of Hateno, it’s normal once more, and they’re chatting casually, as if the events from a few hours ago hadn’t happened, or occurred too far in the past to remember or linger on.

You aren’t in Zora’s Domain when they arrive, and you still don’t return in the few days that follow. Link says he’d like to stay and wait for you, to see for himself what has come of the bargain Sidon made, but he has his own business to attend to elsewhere. Sidon is understanding, and tells him it’s okay, but Link still parts regretfully. He parts with Sidon with hopes that you’re doing well. It certainly has been a while since he’d seen you. Maybe some day soon your visits here will intersect.

Sidon waits for you anxiously, and he’s antsy during meetings with his father and Muzu. He resumes his usual practice of gazing out the window in search for you, and for multiple mornings, it’s fruitless. He doesn’t see you out there, and his shoulders sag in disappointment with every day that passes. He falls asleep at night pondering the nuances of the wish he made, if the results were immediate or if they were gradual. If it was the latter, surely by the time you finally walk into town, he’ll witness what came of his journey to the horned statue. He knows his desire was fulfilled, the statue true to its word, but he can’t help the small inkling of doubt that nothing had changed.

Finally, finally, he spots you crossing the bridge on an early morning, the soft glow of the luminous stones encasing your figure as you walk, and the only assurance he isn’t dreaming is the jump in his chest of his heart skipping a beat.

He runs down to greet you and you prove to him that something had changed, everything had changed and it changed for the better because when you see him, you smile so widely and exclaim that you need to tell him of your latest adventures to the cold planes of Hebra. And you’re so beautiful Sidon might cry. He’s missed you. He voices that to you, how it felt like you’d been away for so long, and you laugh, wondering aloud It couldn’t have been that long, surely? and you’re still grinning at him as you continue jokingly Are you that lost without me around?

Sidon chuckles. His own smile is fond and maybe you detect that, or maybe you don’t. “You have no idea.”

He spends the rest of the day with you, listening intently to your stories. His reactions might be a little overdone, but you don’t appear bothered, instead seeming rather appreciative of his rapt attention. It feels good to hear you ramble. The passion is tangible.

This continues to be the state of things from then on. You venture out to a new location, and he waits for you, eagerly awaiting your tales. You’re always eager to share them. A warmth floods him on the day he spots you sitting by the cooking pot at the inn, map in hand as you scribble notes on it and trace out new routes. You’d had to replace the map again, and you’re embarrassed as you admit it had flown out of your grip on a windy day and got stuck in a tree, too high for you to climb up to retrieve.

“At least last time it was because of a fight with bokoblins, and that sounds much more exciting,” you lament, but you can’t pretend to be sad for long as you break into giggles at the silliness of it. “But maybe one day the wind will knock it free and carry it to someone who needs to find their way home.” You shrug nonchalantly at the casual hypothetical.

Sidon’s mouth twitches, a grin fighting its way to the surface. You are so kind, and do you realize that, he wonders? Do you realize the extent of the compassion you feel? He’d like a heart like yours, with enough room to welcome anyone who requires shelter.

You notice his silence and glance over, head tilted as you ask if he’s okay. He’s fine, he promises you. More than fine. He’s doing wonderful. You seem to doubt him briefly, watching him closely for a few beats until you concede. Your lips curl into a smile, satisfied that he’s being truthful. Good, you say. Sidon smiles softly at the straightforward response, curt but relaying perfectly how much you care.

The two of you lapse into a quiet again but it’s comfortable. You sit there together, and a kaleidoscope of butterflies runs loose in Sidon’s stomach. He might grow those wings any second now and take flight. If he does, he’ll be sure to hold his hand out for you to grab onto, if you want to tag along. He hopes you do. You’ll never know the things he did to turn you back to your normal self, but that matters little to him. What he’d traded was worth it, and he would do it all again.

Besides, he’s too busy marveling at that greatly missed warmth in your gaze to feel like any part of his soul had ever gone missing.

———

EPILOGUE

You have a tendency to wake up at dawn.

It’s a habit you figure has been instilled from the constant traveling. You prefer to start the day before the sun rises, in order to take advantage of the crisp morning air. Sometimes the afternoon heat is harsh enough you have to stop more often to rest, hiding in the shade of a large tree just off the trail. Such instances typically delay your journey and set you behind, and it irritates you only until you remind yourself that the journey to your destination was just as important as reaching the destination itself. The whole purpose is to explore to Hyrule, to bask in what it has to offer, and perhaps the silver lining of the hotter days when you’re forced to stop earlier than planned is that you’re allotted more time to slow down and admire the scenery.

The rays of the rising sun shine through patches of clouds dotting the sky as you walk along the dirt path, and your cheeks flush at the cold wind prickling at your skin. It had been dark when you left the inn, but the sun will have fully risen when you get to your goal. This would’ve gone much faster if you weren’t carrying a wooden container. It requires the use of both your hands, for it’s heavy, and you move slowly, occasionally setting it down to take a break. In the few minutes you use to rest, you like to study the water down below, and the way it glitters in the early morning. The steady current is a quaint white noise to keep you company on your trek.

Once you finally arrive at the small section of leveled land overlooking the river, you set the cylindrical vessel down and heave a sigh of relief. Your arms will probably be aching from how far you’ve had to bring it. You might feel it by lunchtime, but you won’t mind.

You’re facing east, lone audience to the sunrise, and settle down at the edge of the cliff, legs crossed, and open up the container to take out the parchment and pencil you’d placed there before you set off.

Where you sit currently has been named the Bank of Wishes. Finley had told you about it once. At this place, the river gladly receives the confessions of the heart and carries them away, and the subsequent days are spent hoping they might find their way to the one they’re meant for. It sounds fantastical, like make-believe, but perhaps that’s the point. There’s a magic here that makes the impossible possible, if only you’re willing to believe. And you are.

You think you can feel the difference in the air, the hospitality of the breeze swirling around you, still cold but not at all unpleasant. There are a few fireflies fluttering about like little fairies, blinking silently, still brilliant against an orange sky. The nocturnal creatures would retreat shortly, but for now, they take interest in the container at your side, and as they come close, you hear the faint flicker of their wings.

Your heart does the thinking while you draft your letter and your mind merely follows, and maybe it’s the hum of the lightning bugs’ wings or maybe it’s something else that resounds in your head, murmurs of welcome, as though whatever roams here unseen is glad that you have stopped by. You’re glad you’ve stopped by too, and the lightness that fills you as you take a deep breath is simultaneously the work of the crisp, gentle breeze and the mystical presence curling around you, goading the words out, the admission, the feelings you have for the one who means a lot to you, means the most.

Once you’ve signed the letter, you read it over. There are some spots you’ve had to scratch out a spelling error but even for those flaws you think it’s perfectly written. It says everything you need to give voice to. You nod to yourself, satisfied with what you wrote, then fold the parchment and reach back inside the red container for the third object you had placed within, the last piece in the process.

The pale blue nightshades seem to glow, as you hold the stems in one hand and cradle the petals in the palm of the other. Carefully you tie them to the golden band wrapped around the vessel, bending the stems appropriately but never pulling too hard for them to snap. They’ll be a small beacon, lighting the way for your letter as it floats along the water.

After that’s done, you set the letter inside then close the lid, checking that it’s secure. When you’re satisfied that it won’t pop back open, you reposition yourself to sit on your knees. You aren’t quite sure what you should say, if there were any traditions or methods of opening the conversation with… well, with whatever wanders here, waiting for another confession to guide downstream. But any worry of starting it wrong is nonexistent, and you keep it simple.

Your heart’s in that container, you think, for you feel no need to speak aloud. Whatever is here would know your thoughts. You heart’s in that container and you’d like for it to be kept safe. It may have far to travel but your heart’s already used to that. You’ve journeyed through this land, from end to end, and what more could the space between you and the one you love be? If it were wide as Hyrule or even wider, you would close the distance gladly. A hundred miles is a hundred steps to you, to reach who your soul yearns for.

Now all that’s left was to send away the vessel. You turn it onto its side, then give it a firm push. It rolls off the edge and drops down into the water with a small splash. You watch it float farther and farther, a school of fish trailing just behind. Perhaps they’re drawn to the small spot of light that are the nightshades, just as you are, as you continue to to sit there, until finally the container curves around the bend, and you can no longer see it. You still don’t move after it’s disappeared, rooted to the spot for several seconds as you take in the moment, memorizing how bright the sun is this morning, how cool the grass is, how contented you are to have done what you did. Life feels a little different now—a little brighter, a little more full of love.

Then your brows furrow, your eyes lowering from the sky back to the river.  And it’s odd, you think, that all this feels vaguely familiar…

“[Name]!”

You twist around at the sound of your name. Sidon is standing just off the path, waving at you even though you’ve no need for that to notice him there. He’s tall, and his red scales stand out from the blue sky. His smile is big as he walks closer and asks what you’ve been up to.

You shake your head and stand, brushing off the dirt from your pants. Nothing, you say. Thankfully he doesn’t pry, and having sensed your desire to keep what has transpired a secret, he changes the subject. He invites you to breakfast, and you’re about to accept, but your stomach answers for you and growls. This prompts you to grin sheepishly.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Sidon remarks. Then he laughs, and it is truly wonderful to hear.

The day is already looking to be quite splendid, and there’s no one else you’d rather spend it with. Whenever you should finally gain the courage to tell Sidon you love him, you can only hope he feels the same.

[salenakingston]

A shorter one this time around, but an idea that came to my mind that I really wanted to write out. I’ll return to some more of the backstory I’ve been doing soon!

Prompt: None

Warnings: Blood, Body Horror, Suicide Mention

Timeline of Events: Whitegale Estate (Doctor’s Defeat)

Total Word Count: 2,739 words

The mind was truly a fascinating place. The basic layout of any person’s mind tended to follow the same pattern: hallways, doors, and locks for those certain doors that weren’t meant to be opened. From there, it was a matter of how an individual perceived the rest of that space.

When it came to his former host, the hallways that held his doors were methodical in nature. His own timeline of events had been laid out with few things locked away. In fact, most of his locks didn’t appear until after he started poking around in his host’s head, a futile attempt to keep him from having more to break him with. More telling was the way he had chosen to represent the entities present in his mind. For the longest time, it had just been the two of them, each form represented by a single color. Green was his host, and he was orange. They were the same colors as their representative eyes. These forms were usually free of any physical feature, save for the faces. Faded. Even with a certain color present, it was almost as if their forms were see-through.

Surely if he had been allowed to play more with his former host, then he would have completely faded when he took over.

But here he was now, wandering a hall of his new host. Where he would normally be annoyed for the turn of events that led him to this predicament, had rather been replaced by interest. There wasn’t much emotion to feed on presently, but the one lingering thing he could always cling to was his own gain. Even if he was forced to try and tackle someone else, it built upon his original experiment.

Her mind was very different.

Where Malceum’s was nearly a straight line, her’s seemed to contain many turns. The main hallway of her mind held snippets of surface level memories, ones that she didn’t seem to mind sharing. Each turn held a set collection, each catered to a certain event or theme. It was almost as if they were parts of her life she had tried to hide away. An impossible feat, but the best one could do without interference.

One corner of her mind had been molded into his own personal space. He hadn’t felt the need to do this with his former host, as he had far more control over his mind space than he did here. That annoyance came in the form of the crystal he was locked in. It was warded, but that didn’t keep him out of her head, so long as she was wearing the necklace his prison was attached to. It made tackling her a far greater challenge, but not impossible.

This space was cold, as if it really needed to be anything else. What could he possibly want for himself? What difference would it make once he assumed control of her mind? He’d have free reign to change everything into his image. He already knew the first thing he would do, and that was to put his host at the forefront of everything. She’d be able to watch as he tore everything apart, making her life his own.

Hands moved behind his back, orange gaze fixated on the sterile space around him. He came back here if he ever felt the need to retreat his presence back into the crystal, a tiny, green one floating at the very back of this room. A representation of that place, down to the most exact detail. It also gave him a place to stay when he wasn’t opening her doors, or she wasn’t even here to entertain him.

It would be hard for anyone to focus on the waking world as well as what was going on in their mind at the same time.

But he was patient.

Night was the best time for her to appear, at least when she wasn’t using those damn potions. Tiny bottles of green liquid had been the item that thwarted him without fail, but he had come to notice a flaw once his former host started getting his own shipments. One came every month, but were limited on the supply. If he didn’t destroy them outright, then it was a matter of spacing their use. She had explained once that the potions came from her world, and that materials were not cheap.

Which left for a limited batch. The same was true for her own supply, even if she made more than his former host did. He wondered why that was the case. What was the point of hanging onto money if they were the only thing she bought? She already had a home, and someone willing to supply her with what she needed to survive. Why work for a paycheck and not use what was being pooled in? Perhaps it simply made little sense to him as he would have no need for such things.

All that mattered was seeing his experiment through to the end. He already had every tool necessary to accomplish this.

It wasn’t hard to pinpoint the feeling of her presence when she finally appeared. Even from inside of her mind, he could monitor the passage of time. Night had fallen on them, and it seemed she was going to finally be sleeping without one of her precious ‘mercies in a bottle.’

He floated away from his space, faster than he probably should have. Was it excitement that drew him towards her? The chance to start bringing her to ruin? The nightmare he might be able to inflict on her? So many variables he would get to play around with.

He didn’t have to go far to find her, standing as if she were waiting for him.

Their projections in her mind were nothing like his former host. Where they could have been compared to ghosts before, they were solid in her mind. He kept just about every aspect of his physical form, or at least the one he had chosen to take. She was the one that was vastly different.

Her body was covered in patches of different colored fur, as if parts of other bodies had been taken to make her own. She was like her own Frankenstein's monster, the only difference being that he couldn’t see the stitch work that connected the pieces together. Her scars were still present here, just as they were on the outside. Her eyes appeared more tired than normal, no doubt due to his own tampering. Her hair was messier, not braided and decorated like she usually wore it.

He recalled the first time he had seen her like this. It had been on a mission while he was still within his former host. He had been sent out on a mission for medical assistance, the bitch tagging along as combat support. She had gotten overwhelmed, one of their attackers making the collar, or rather choker that he liked to refer to as nothing more than a glorified collar, had been torn off. All at once, her body seemed to flicker, making the appearance she held in her mind be the one that was before them. It was later explained to them that her collars held devices that changed the perception of her appearance to those around her. Clever girl, but that left the question of why.

Not even his former host knew that answer.

And it was one truth he had been keen to discover since being able to enter her mind. Her locks would take longer to break, but he just had to wait.

He finally found his smile, floating over to her. He hovered over her shoulders, letting his head rest to the side of her own, “Good evening dear. I see you are without your potion tonight.”

She said nothing, just letting her eyes follow his movements. Her arms hung at her side, gaze moving back forward when they couldn’t follow his movements behind her. He had noticed she tensed when he positioned himself above her back. Always her back. Another mystery to uncover.

He chuckled softly, “Come on dear. It’s no fun if you don’t talk to me.”

“There’s not much point in talking.”

How curious. Even his former host was fine to chat with him. Then again, it was more arguing than it was talking. Still, he had to follow up on her comment, “Oh? And why’s that?”

“You’ll do whatever you want when I fall asleep. Inevitably fall into one of your nightmares or my own.” Oh that’s right, she already had nightmares. It had been one of her reasons to prompt offering those potions to his former host in the first place.

“Perhaps, but that’s awfully boring.”

“What is it you want, Doctor?”

Straight to the point hmm? What a vague question. In all the time she spent stopping him from taking over his former host, what he wanted should have been obvious. Why bother asking that question then? She must have meant at the present moment then right? He found himself draping his arms over her shoulder, leaning his head against her fur, “Can’t a guy have a little chat with his roommate? I’d like to be able to get to know you.”

Roommate. How curious on his own part.

He could see that her gaze was finally turning on him, narrowing as frustration filled her. What a delicious emotion he would be able to flip back around on her. For a moment, he was sure that she was going to bite back at him with a sassy retort. She was really good at doing that.

Then it faded. She went back to that tired look, “It doesn’t matter if we talk in that regard Doctor. If I don’t talk, you’ll just go poking around my mind anyways. We’ve both seen the locks, and the only thing keeping you from breaking them with more ease than Malceum’s is the wards.”

Yes… that damned prison.

Still, he tried to keep playing along. She hadn’t drifted away, meaning that while her body was pushing her to sleep, her mind was still racing, “True, but telling me would be so much easier for the both of us. I don’t think you would enjoy me mentally breaking down all your walls now would you?”

He planned to do it anyways, otherwise how else would she be forced to bend to his will rather than her own?

That seemed to get her attention, but not in a way he expected. Where he expected to find more frustration, maybe even anger like his former host, he felt… nothing. This whole place felt so empty all of a sudden. In fact, he would even go so far as to say he felt drained.

Impossible. Beings are full of emotions. How?

His form fell down towards the ground, Salena taking a few steps away from him. 

When he looked back up at her, he could only see a hollow look in her eyes. It was like she had flipped a switch, then all her emotions vanished in thin air. That was unnerving enough, but the far more concerning matter was that she had a much more effective way of bringing him to his knees in a place where he felt he had control over the playing field. He knew more when it came to moving and manipulating the mind from the inside. How dare she do this to him.

She laughed, but it was so dry. It was devoid of anything that made it sound like it was in response to humor, “You want to know so badly?” Even her tone was hollow. Her voice was so monotone, yet hushed in a way. She stood over him now, her posture barely changed from how it was when he first came to meet her, “You want to know all my triggers so you can torment me like you did Malceum?”

He could see her form flickering. Her body has seemed to shift back to what it looked like with her perception devices on, save for now the scars were gone. In their place were a multitude of bloody wounds. He could tell that in some places, skin was peeled away… bones showing beneath the flesh. What just happened? He couldn’t take his eyes off her, “How about the torture I went through to get rid of my emotions?”

Before he could say anything back, finding it already difficult to do so when his own energy was being kept away from him, her body changed again. The wounds were gone, but now a large grin covered her muzzle. Her lips were almost ear to ear, teeth showing, “How about the monster I used to be?”

Another flicker, another change.

The grin faded, but now everything around them seemed to physically flicker. The gray pixels surrounding them looked like the static of a television that was no longer functioning. Her hands had moved up to her ears, “How about all the voices buzzing through my head?”

How many more times was she going to do this? He should be thrilled. He was getting exactly what he wanted. She was willingly telling him everything he needed to know. So then why did this feel so wrong? Everything changed again. One of her arms was missing, bone hanging out of the shoulder. There were multiple burns on her body, some breaking past the skin once enough of her fur had been charred away. There were tears flowing down her face, yet it still remained as blank as when she first started this strange cycling, “How about how I lost my father? His immense disappointment in me?”

Well that’s a bit of a new one. It did start to explain the reason for her patchwork pelt.

Just as he expected, another change came to follow. Her body was as it was before, the patches of color now there, but now there was blood on her again. It flowed along her neck and back, right in the spots where the carved flame scars were. He had seen them along her back when his former host was taking care of her, as well as the black, branded cross at the center, “How about the zealots that tortured me for their own amusement?”

Finally the cycle came to an end, her original mind form coming back. Her body knelt down in front of him, his burning gaze fixated on her. He tried to feed off any lingering emotion, but she was still empty. Was this what human starvation felt like? He hated it.

One hand reached out to take him by the chin, “Was that enough information for you?”

He didn’t understand it, “Why?”

“You mean to break me like you tried to do with Malceum, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Doctor… you can’t break what’s already broken. All you’ll do is push me to do it.”

He didn’t like how that sounded, and he could guess what she was going to say, “Do what?”

“Kill myself. Alexander and his little country don’t need me. Malceum can find someone else. But then again, if I kill myself, what future does that leave for you? Trapped alone in a crystal where no one will hear you. You won’t be able to get the jump on him twice. He’ll lock you away where no one will find you, and no doubt chain you down far more than I ever could. Who will you be left to ‘play’ with then?”

He hated her. He hated her logic. He hated feeling so weak. And he hated the shiver he felt down his non-existent spine.

He ripped his chin out of her grip. He could see her starting to fade in front of him. At long last she was falling asleep. He couldn’t bring himself to figure out where she was going to. If she was not staying here, she was probably falling into a nightmare of her own. It seemed she only rarely got a sleep that was without one when she wasn’t on a potion. He couldn’t describe the relief when she was gone. Despite this, he couldn’t push himself up from where he was on the floor, still feeling so empty without her emotions.

However, there was one thing he felt, something that frightened him.

Something he never thought he would feel from anyone else.

Threatened.

[cartwrights-old]

better* percabeth during the war

During the wake of the death of Silena Beauregard, the weather was perfect. The August evening was warm and grey skied, with small strokes of soft pink and fiery orange lining the skyline of Manhattan. Still, the remnants of today’s battle plagued the streets, rubble and rocks scattered across the roads, burning cars and sleeping mortals littering the sidewalks and gardens and basically all of the city. From the windows of the Empire State Building, Annabeth could see all the wreckage and death that the Titans had caused, it wasn’t exactly calming. She ran her fingers along the lining of the windows, as if hoping she could reach out and make things better, fix everything, fix the world. Annabeth exhaled, frustrated.

“Annabeth,” began Percy, from behind her, “what’s wrong with me?” Annabeth raised an eyebr. She met Percy’s eyes through the reflection of the glass, who was sitting on a leather office couch with his legs drawn up in front of his chest. Behind him, another leather chair and a shelving unit, storing books, a framed degree, and a collection of academic looking antiques and clutter, most likely the office of some rich New York executive. Despite the power radiating from him, the sheer anger and divine energy of the curse of Achilles, the hurricanes and floods that one could feel brewing inside him, slowly overflowing and begging to break out through his fingertips, Percy looked sad and overwhelmed and completely mortal. That was Percy, no matter how many times he saved the world or slaughtered an unbeatable monster, no matter how many girls fell for him or how many gods he earned the favour of, he was Percy, and would always be Percy. Laidback and wisecracking, and fatally self-conscious.

“Nothing’s wrong with you, Percy,” Annabeth said softly. She took a careful breath, “Why would you think that?” Percy broke her gaze, his eyes darting to the floor. He stretched his arms out, straight and resting across his knees.

“I don’t think I can do this, I mean.” He took a few seconds before continuing, “Everyone looks to me to help, to lead, and to strategize, and win,” he tugged at his dusty hair, his head in his hands. “I have the world- and lives on my shoulders, Annabeth. But I keep failing.” His voice was broken and warbly, Annabeth had always thought of his voice as clear, it flowed like water, just as smooth and refreshing as the ocean, it was rare to hear him sound like that.

Annabeth turned to face him, an arm limp at her side, her other hand gripping her elbow. She let out an exhale through her nose, and ground her jaw. “Listen, Percy,” she said, joining him on the couch, “Silena Beauregard wasn’t the first casualty, and she’s not going to be the last. The thing is, sometimes, being a hero doesn’t mean you can always save everyone. Most of the time, it means you work to make what comes after them better. Stronger. For the people who come after those who were lost. Silena’s death was awful, she didn’t deserve to die like that. But she chose to save us.” she took a moment to study his eyes, the dark hair that tumbled down his ears and his sweat-stained brow. He looked at her with unwavering respect, as if she harboured all the wisdom in the world. She felt her face soften, Annabeth shifted, leaning on a perfectly straight arm resting on the couch. “And you can’t beat yourself up over that.”

Percy rose from the leather couch to gaze at the window, his arms crossed over his chest, “I don’t feel like much of a hero right now.” It was growing dark out in the city, small squares of left on lights dotting the buildings and skyscrapers on the Manhattan horizon, the only sign of life in the notoriously lively and energetic New York. The golden yellow light framed his dark hair and jaw, his green eyes looked almost hazel while bathed in the fiery glow. He looked awfully beautiful like that, she couldn’t help but think.

Annabeth grinned, “Well now you’re just lying to yourself.” She lifted herself up from the couch and joined Percy at the window, a flush creeping up her face. “You’re a hero, Seaweed Brain,” her fingers swept a lock of dark hair behind his ear. His eyes widened, his back snapped straight and his leg kicked up lightly. The edge of Percy’s lips curved into a smile, his face cocked to the side, leaning into Annabeth’s hand. His eyes fluttered closed. “Percy…” her voice faltered. Annabeth swore silently, her little schoolgirl crush on him really chose the worst time to evolve into real love.

She raised herself up onto her toes and pulled him into a hug, one hand hanging off his shoulder, the other wrapped around his back. She felt Percy smile into her neck and lay a hand onto the curve of her hips. “I-” Percy took a pause before continuing, “I should get to bed,” he muttered. Annabeth broke the hug, one hand settled across his exposed clavicle. She grinned up at him, Percy’s eyebrows were raised slightly, his lips parted. A face that was surprised, but pleased too. That expression split into his trademark troublemaker smile. “Man, Chiron was not kidding when he said the whole Achilles thing would be exhausting.”

Annabeth exhaled, her eyes darted to the ground, grinning. “Then I guess you should get to bed, I think the Demeter Cabin set up cots in the 30th-floor lobby.”

Percy let out a light smile, “Goodnight, Wise Girl.” And so he turned to the door and headed out to the hallway, to what would no doubt be a restless sleep filled with nightmares. But she had made him smile- forget, for a moment, about the war and death, terror and pain that today had been infested with, and that had to count for something. She was starting to think that her friendship with her Percy was something different.

But Annabeth didn’t have the time or strength to dwell on emotions, she was the daughter of wisdom itself, she had to be driven by logic. She followed Percy out the dark wooden door and headed to sleep, ready for a new day, maybe one that would go better than the last.

[azwriting]

Sympathizers (Forget Me Not, Kylo Ren x Fem!Reader) - Chapter Two

Hi guys here's chapter two! Hope you enjoy and let me know If you want to be added to the taglist!  

Summary: Poe and (Y/N) go on their dangerous mission, to retrieve plans vital for the Resistance’s survival. But it seems wherever they go, trouble follows.

Warning(s): Mentions of death, wounds, bleeding, angst(s)

Word Count: 2131

“No (Y/N), I can’t lose you too!” (Y/N)’s eyes flew open and quickly scanned the dark room for the source of the baritone voice that haunted her dreams. Her room was empty, no one possibly being able to utter the words. The small clock perched on her bedside table indicated it was the early hours of the morning, but there was no use in trying to fall asleep… not for such a short period of time. (Y/N)’s eyes held onto the concrete ceiling, hoping to find a place of peace and comfort, but the girl had begun to doubt that such a thing existed for her anymore. 

She could not find the words to chronicle the distress of not knowing anything about herself. (Y/N) did not know her birthday, where she had received the large scar on her neck from, who her birth parents were, what they had been like, what her real last name was, if (Y/N) was even her real name. She had lost 18 years of memories, Stars, she was not even positive how old she was, the medical droids estimated her to be around the age of 18 when found 11 years ago.

 (Y/N) had no sense of identity, no true persona, no nothing, except a lousy nightmare that she was not even positive had occurred. The only indication of the possibility of it happening, was that she reeked of fire and was covered in black smoke when she came to that morning on the bench outside of Hosnian Prime. Now with Hosnian Prime being destroyed by StarKiller base, her adoptive parents perishing with, (Y/N) only had the Resistance. The girl slid out of bed quietly, the hole in her chest tightening from her disheartened thoughts. A piece of her always felt as if it was missing, just out of arm's reach.

“Look at you, you look like a real First Order sympathizer!” Poe joked approaching (Y/N) on the takeoff platform. The scarred girl was a silhouette of black, a red high neck sweater peeking out from beneath her black jacket, along with her purple crystal necklace she adorned everyday. Poe knew it was the only item she had from her former unknown life, besides the massive burn tissue on the right side of her neck.

 (Y/N) tore her attention away from the rising bright orange sun, warm vibrant shades painted across the sky. A soft shade of light purple still hanging onto the lower clouds as any traces of night began to fade away, the lovely shade making the girl faintly smile to herself. (Y/N) looked down to her approaching friend, dressed in everything black besides the faded white shirt underneath his jacket. “You could possibly pass for one too” she shrugged, Poe narrowing his eyes in response.

 “Thanks.” 

The wind picked up as the two headed towards one of the unmarked and untagged Resistance ships, their best chance of traveling undetected. The General greeted them at the ship, coming to see them off.

 “I also want to remind you that you will need to be extremely cautious. The First Order is relentless and will not express any sympathy to you two. So please I beg you both, be smart and careful and come home.” The two fighters before her nodded vigorously, stoic expressions on each of their faces. 

Leia and Poe hugged briefly before the woman turned to (Y/N). Poe cleared his throat, excusing himself to check over flight plans and to double check the ship, giving the two women a moment alone. 

Everyone knew there was a special bond between (Y/N) and the General, but no one truly understood why, not even (Y/N). The General would never admit as to the reason why, but she held the girl close in her heart. The two embraced tightly, resting their heads upon each other’s shoulders. Leia sighed heavily, a strong feeling overcoming her in the force: a warning, a sign of the times.

 “Just be careful.” She whispered pulling back to observe (Y/N), who nodded in response, her crystal necklace catching the early morning sun. 

Leia’s nimble fingers quickly plucked up the necklace, earning a questioning glance from (Y/N), and dropped it down the high neckline of her red sweater concealing it. Leia gently tugged the collar of the sweater higher and moved her loose (Y/H/C) hair over her shoulder, hiding her scar as well. “Don’t want anything to distinguish you.” She smiled softly before dismissing (Y/N). The General watched as she climbed into the back seat of the ship, Poe already positioned in the pilot seat, nerves making her heart race. Leia had a feeling something was about to occur, about to begin.

Landing down in a thick coverage of trees and moss on the outskirts of the First Order sympathizing planet, (Y/N) and Poe were greeted by a heavy downpour of cold rain. The First Order and their cold planets… Wiping the rain that slid off her hood and down onto her face, (Y/N) looked to an already shivering and soaking wet Poe, “So where do we find these plans?”

“A man named Nor Del, who lives on the other side of the village, in the forest” Poe stated, pushing his dripping hair from his eyes. 

“Ok well let’s go, try and get out of this freezing rain while we’re at it too.” Trudging through the cold brisk air and muddy remnants of snow, the two lingered on the edge of the village, still concealed by the towering trees. (Y/N) tugged her hood tighter around her face, trying to hide from the cold and ignore the feeling inside her. She felt an unusual sensation, like a tether being pulled inside her, a feeling that had her looking over shoulder every so often. This pulling tether attempted to inform her of a presence nearby, but there was no sign of anyone behind them following.

 (Y/N) tried to ignore it, knowing if she was not 100 percent focused on the mission at hand it could go sideways, but a cold sweat gathered at the back of her neck making her surrounding loose hair and clothing feel suffocating.

A run down log cabin emerged from the dense tree and rain coverage, positioned just far enough from the village. Poe climbed up the creaking dark wood stairs, while (Y/N) surveyed their surroundings, something did not feel right. 

Poe banged on the door as (Y/N) walked up besides him, “Something doesn’t seem right, Poe,'' she whispered. Poe simply nodded and before he could say anything, he was cut off by the front door creaking open. A gray haired man with many healed scars littering his sagging face, poked his head out of the cabin’s threshold. 

“Who are you?” he barked, voice rough and eyes menacing. 

“Friends of a friend of a friend.” Poe smirked leaning in a little as he recicitated the Resistance’s code, the man grinning slightly at his words. 

“Nor Del.” He shook each of their hands and opened the door wider, “Come in.” 

The cabin was small inside, everything located in the wide open room. The stiff smell of burning sage greeted them as well, the smoke emitting from a small stone black bowl, on a mat in the middle of the room. A fresh pot of tea, steam billowing out of it’s spicket was positioned carefully next to the sage. “You two are the Resistance fighters?” Nor confirmed in the safety of his dwelling.

 Poe nodded for them as (Y/N) continued to watch the odd Rebellion pilot man before her, Poe was always the talker. She was merely support, backup, and perhaps another pretty face to help negotiations along. (Y/N) recalled the time her and Poe went undercover in an illegal underground casino, where the two had infiltrated the weapons distribution table. Poe’s curious questions had started to become too much for the head boss, but luckily (Y/N) was able to distract him, her high slit dress had done the trick for the filthy rich man perhaps a little too well… Her hand was broken for over a month after that right hook. 

Nor bent down and retrieved a black harddrive from beneath the burnt sage, “This holds important information, a necessity if the Resistance is to truly survive and bring an end to the First Order.”

 Nor handed the hardware to Poe as he asked, “How did you retrieve these plans?” Nor Del is quiet for a moment, a flicker of something behind his eyes, before he told Poe of the people he knew aiding on the inside. His answer wavered a little, differentiating from his previous collected monotone words, as if it was not a part of his rehearsed lines. (Y/N)’s eyes widened as a flash of an image appeared in her mind, white masks and uniforms marching through the thick tree coverage. It was a trap! 

She quickly pushed Poe back and grabbed the loose fabric of Nor Del’s black tunic, hoisting him close, shocking both men. “Why? Why did you set us up?” She spat out angrily between her gritted teeth. 

“(Y/N)?” Poe questioned, confusion etched onto his olive toned face. 

“The plans are a fake, it was just a way to lure us here, to one of the most heavily guarded First Order planets.” Nor Del only smirked at the intelligent girl’s realization, Poe’s eyes widening as he chucked the useless hard-drive to the wooden floor. 

(Y/N) jostled the man again, “Why did you set us up?” 

Nor only sighed, a slight sense of humor written on his face, “The First Order carries a big stick.” The beat of rhythmic marching began to grow outside, echoing loudly through the cabin, (Y/N) dropping the man as the steps drew louder.

 “We need to go, like now!” Both eyed the small window on the back wall of the cabin, Poe racing forward and breaking the glass with the end of his blaster. He helped (Y/N) jump out first, quickly following after and into the wet forest, their boots sloshing through puddles of cold mud.

“They are escaping through the forest!” A muffled Stormtrooper voice shouted, making (Y/N) and Poe push faster and further into the woods. Red beams of light whizzed past them, the Stormtroopers attempting to slow them down. “Anytime Dameron!” (Y/N) shouted, dodging a blast on her left.

 “I’m working on it, Stryker!” Poe groaned diving behind a large tree to shoot back at the incoming enemy. They could do this, they had escaped the grasp of the First Order countless times before, this was just another tally to add to their list. (Y/N) raced ahead of Poe, a sudden scream ripping through her lips as she dropped onto the ground. 

A burning sensation originating from her torso had the girl crawling to move behind a tree. Poe halted his assault immediately and dove over to (Y/N)’s tree up ahead. The Stormtroopers continued to fire, Poe shooting the couple down and finally turning to face the discomfort filled face of (Y/N). She was propped up against the rough bark, hand clutching her side tightly. “What happened?” Poe exclaimed, lifting her black jacket to reveal her red sweater turning a darker shade above her right hip. It was not bad, yet.

“(Y/N) come on, we got to go.” She shook her head frantically, eyes squeezing shut at the movement that shook her whole body. 

“No you gotta leave me.” Poe ignored her, moving to lift her left arm over his shoulder.

“Like stars I am!” The sound of more incoming Troopers had (Y/N) protesting in Poe’s arms.

 “Poe you have to go, I’ll only slow you down.” Poe shook his head furiously, angered by their position and the betrayal of the former rebellion pilot. 

“I’m closing in on them!” A stormtrooper shouted from somewhere behind them. 

“Go, Poe!” (Y/N) moved her hand across Poe’s head, before pushing him roughly. A disgruntled sigh of defeat escaped through Poe’s pursed lips, the pounding boots growing closer. He gently set her back down, resting her back against the tree bark.

 “I’ll come back for you”, Poe whispered before disappearing into the woods. 

(Y/N) laid against the cold tree, hand pressed to her bleeding side, as five stormtroopers converged around her. “The other one must have abandoned her, us three will continue to search for him.” Instructed one of the masked troopers, as the other two hoisted (Y/N) up on her knees, twisting her arms behind her back. 

“And her?” the one holding her right arm questioned. The Stormtrooper mandating orders bent down before (Y/N) and she could almost sense the smirk plastered on his covered face. He nuzzled his blaster into her right side, (Y/N) biting back a scream as a muffled sob escaped through her lips.

“Bring her to him.”

[crqstalite]

"I'm so proud of you, you know that?" For a ship of your choice

not the happiest with this prompt to be completely honest, but i couldn’t think of where else to use it. will probably revise it in the future with proper shoker [that being citlali shepard/joker]. this one is mostly detailing citlali’s kidnapping by the collectors in the beginning, which is honestly kind of horrifying just from kelly chambers’ description of it. so of course, took it and ran with it. unsure what kind of content warning should be on here, so the typical blood + gore + canon typical violence.

word count: 2,650. pre-relationship citlali velasquez/jeff moreau. [platonic, sort of]

Wide green eyes, a mumbled shout. She forces the door closed behind her with a thud, even though he tells her to move, to follow him.

She doesn't, regardless they'd make it in there after him whether she went with him or not.  And regardless, she wasn't putting his life on the line if she didn't have to.

Buzzing.

Eyes. So many eyes. All focused on her, darting around but always returning. Focusing. Sizing her up.

They grow closer. Multiplying. A mess of skin and boils appears behind them, towering over her biotic shield with a gun that spills it's ammo against the mass effect field while she struggles, fear flooding her body with every second the biotics tingle against her skin. Licking her skin like flames while blood bubbles up and dribbles out her nose when she shoves the field backwards.

They come back.

They always come back.

Screaming. Her own. Theirs. Her vocal cords thrumming with a shriek she hopes he can't hear. They knock her off her feet.

Her hat falls when she's slammed to ground, nose broken and head swimming.

Then nothing.

Then all over again, only in more detail.

Then nothing.

Biotics flickering. Electrical pulses up and down her spine as she tries and tries and tries to keep the shield active.

She doesn't have enough eyes to keep one on everyone. They fall around her, some screaming, some silent. No blood, just bodies on the ground with beasts above them.

Then there's nothing.

She's cold. So cold, freezing. Ice like lead in her veins as she drops into unconsciousness.

Black. Subdued senses. A fall onto something, someone.

Her eyes open to nothing. To everything. Light. Tubes. A cavern she can't make sense of.

Shepard. The crew.

Mordin. An order to get back to the ship. A promise.

The Protheans -- no Collectors.

They get a shot in when she has her back turned. Her body feels like it's on fire, her shoulder the source of the flames, but it gives her enough of a jump in adrenaline to throw out a pulse and get them off their tail.

She knows it won't stop bleeding for hours. She doesn't even want to think about all the towels that would be needed to mop it all up.

Chakwas tells her that she'll look at it when they're back on the ship.

Her lungs are burning, trying to keep up with the last few members of the crew as Mordin helps them on. There's a few soldiers following them, nothing serious.

She pulls from the well of her implant to throw back a few.

Things get sharper. Brighter. More of them and all eight of their beady, yellow eyes. Time doesn't make sense, they keep coming and coming and coming and she doesn't know what to do. Shepard's depending on her to get every single member of the crew back aboard. So she holds the position, longer and longer and longer before she's sure it's a lost cause.

They get lucky in the moment that she depletes her shields long enough to turn around. Mordin's on board, but she feels a wet dribble start in the middle of her chest when the wind is knocked out of her. Her head swims, body throbbing as her mind screams. Red paints the ground underneath her, staining her hands crimson and soaking her white fatigues through.

Hands. Talons. So many of them, roughly pulling at her shoulders as she leaves behind a pool of blood. Her sight darkens, they grab her tighter, their talons digging into her skin. Then, they're trying to shove her into a pod. That inhuman buzzing again, it fills her ears, stuffing them with cotton. She screams and screams and screams until she can't. Blood gushes out around her like an ocean, drowning her while her heart drums on, faster and faster and faster until she's sure it's about to burst.

No one hears her when the top closes over her, a filmy yellow substance that she pounds against. It closes in around her, the strangled noises coming out of her raw throat resembling that of a trapped animal.

-

She gasps, a cry catching in her throat as she grabs out for something, anything solid. The beat of her heart strikes her eardrums in tandem while the blood rushes in her ears. Her eyes dart around, hands gripping the arm rests before she catches a glance of the stars twinkling back at her in a dizzying array. A white blanket around her shoulders, Cerberus emblem in the corner, but not stained red. The lights are turned low, the only source of light being the soft orange from the screens around her.

She drops her head into her hands, curtain of hair falling around her as she tries to calm herself, groaning audibly.

No hat on her head, no brim to knock off. It's still gone, somewhere in the ship.

It was still real, all of it was if the bandages around her shoulder were anything to go by. It aches when she shifts it, grimacing as she leans back in the chair. Chakwas would have her head if she pulled the stitches again, so she's more careful pushing it out of where it'd been painfully mashed against the back of the chair.

It takes her more than a moment to find her voice and whisper for the AI, throat dry and cracking, "EDI-"

"You've been asleep for approximately four and a half hours, Citlali," Her voice is soft enough not to throw her sensitive senses for a loop, and answers quick enough that she's sure the AI knew what she was going to ask, "Though it is more than you've received in the few days, from your reaction and vital signs, this session was not particularly pleasant either."

"Can say that again," She deadpans, rubbing a bleary eye with a hand. Erring on the side of caution, she shifts her hair to the right, rolling her shoulder again. She bites her lip, in pain. So she wasn't exactly on the mend yet. Citlali had knocked out right around eleven that evening if the clock on her dash was anything to go by, meaning at the latest it was only four in the morning. The wound hadn't bled through her fatigues yet, so she considers it a win, "Miss anything?"

"No notifications for you from anyone aboard the ship. I did have to answer Commander Shepard's query on whether you were okay or not two hours ago. I simply responded you had fallen asleep in the cockpit, and she seemed relieved by the notion." Citlali glances over at the blue sphere, a slight smile on her face. Sounded like Shepard, she'd be happy if she just blinked every once and a while.

She blinks the sleep out of her eyes, sweat cooling on her forehead, "Thanks EDI."

"Logging you out."

She eyes the blanket again, narrowing her eyes before pulling it off. She hadn't fallen asleep with the blanket on, that much she knew and she hated them because they made her hot. That, and she'd moved her's back to the crew quarters a while ago. Either her sister brought it for her, or-

"Are you..doing alright?" Joker. His voice snaps her out of her thoughts, and she swivels her head to look at him. A friendly face, at the very least.

"Yeah. I'm fine, little out of it." She pinches the bridge of nose. Guess the work day started a few hours earlier than usual, but she could work with this, as much as her hands are still shaking and she can't snap that terrified look in his eyes out of her head, "Could ask for more sleep and less, well, nightmares, but I'm okay. Why didn't you wake me up? You know these chairs aren't exactly the pinnacle of comfort."

"EDI says you haven't been sleeping, not since the mission," He responds, uneasiness creeping into his voice, "Figured you might as well get the rest where you could."

"Not exactly a lie, I'm not a fan of sleeping in here if that's what you're trying to say," She assures him, "As for being okay, I...well I'm fine. Still here. Still alive."

He pauses, maybe considering her words. Still not a lie, she never said she was actually alright, "You don't have to be okay after that. Nothing the Cerberus manuals that I found would say you had to be."

"Don't think many have been to the center of the universe to give them the passage either, to be completely honest," She scoffs, pulling up the diagnostics from the day before. All was looking well enough that she settles back into her normal routine of scanning them for any irregularity, "Besides. We saved the day, kicked some collective Collector ass, and we're still here to tell the tale. Plus, I think you owe me something really strong and preferably expensive when we get back to the Citadel."

"Just asking, already trying to pin drinks on me," He shakes his head as the sarcasm slips into his tone, though the smile dies a moment later, "...You sounded terrified."

"Anyone would in the middle of a horror show," She rebuffs, face flushing. Had she been screaming in her sleep? Whimpering even, that much she knows she's done before. For someone reason, she doesn't want to think about the fact Joker might've heard her working through her demons in the middle of the night. Damn her lack of sleep these days.

Better question is why he's still here, but she's learned better than to question the pilot. Plus, their shift would've been due to start in a few hours anyway, "Did Shepard bring the blanket? If she did, I'll blame her for the fact I'm hot right now."

"No. That's the one she makes me keep in here. Doesn't like me falling asleep in here, but brought it in a while ago. It does actually get cold in here when you're not a biotic."

"It's not all sunshine and rainbows with that hunk of metal installed either, I'll have you know," Well that explained the different smell, wasn't even her blanket. Citlali isn't sure whether she minds it or not. She ignores the comment, "Hm. Y'know you really should ask if Shepard's okay, not me. She's been through hell and back, and then back again. She's seen some shit."

He gives her a quizzical look when she raises an eyebrow in retaliation, "Makes it sound like you haven't either. I'd be pretty stupid to think whatever was outside that door when you sent me for the core didn't warrant a few bad dreams."

"Bad dreams, sure. Still, every technical matter, I failed the exercise. Lavius would give me that 'I'm not mad, just disappointed' face if he knew what happened," Her neck cracks when she tips it to the left, "Lucky enough Shepard pulled my ass out of the fire before I paid for it."

"And yet I'm pretty sure you just saved all our lives, and lived through that. Take a little credit."

"Not sure I deserve any amount of credit."

"Look at it this way," His chair swivels around slowly to face her's, "If you hadn't been there, I think we'd all be Reaper food right now. And definitely not the good kind."

"Is this your round about way of saying thank you, Joker?" She asks, her voice smaller as she's already feeling like she's trying to fold in on herself. Why would he try to thank her? She'd said she'd hold off what she could, and yet the entire ship still got kidnapped. Citlali hadn't done anything, had saved no one. The thank yous felt like an empty gratitude, "You already said it. Once. Plus, I didn't do anything other than get my ass handed to me long enough for you to work your magic. You and EDI were the ones who unshackled her and repaired the ship from what Shepard told me. You didn't need me."

There's a palatable beat of silence before he starts again, and she's feels a little bad. Not that she's wrong, of course, but that she'd offended him in some manner, "You held down the fort, foundation builds a house, right? Plus I heard you and Mordin brought everyone back, watched out the cameras when you blasted back the group that was following you."

"Had Jack or Samara or Miranda or-"

"But you're not them, and they weren't here," He interrupts her, "I saw what you did to the ones we came across on the ship. Made me feel a whole lot better that we're friends."

"Thanks." Citlali deadpans, looking down at her hands as she flexes her fingers. Whether he denies it or not, all of the other biotics on the team would've handled it better than her. Probably would've been able to save a small group of the crew before they purged the ship.

She can't get the sound of buzzing out of her head.

"You've come a long way from that uh, disagreement, you had with Jack a while back. That's an improvement," Joker shrugs, "Shepard's proud of you. Specifically said she was surprised as hell you managed to disintegrate so many on the way out of base."

"Damn. I think I'd feel better if she didn't tell me that every time I turned around, Joker." She responds, "It wasn't me anyway. Mordin and Shepard coordinated it, I was along for the ride."

Why are her hands so cold? Had they always been that way, or is she imagining they are?

"Would it change your mind if I said I was proud of you?" His voice cracks over the word, and she looks up as he offers her a lopsided smile. The chair turns back to it's original facing, "It was impressive watching you work. Beyond impressive, really. You got every crew member back with only a few scratches to report."

She opens her mouth to argue, or at least wants to, before she instead decides that caffeine is worth more than stretching this out for another five minutes. While the dream's adrenaline is starting to fade, the entire ordeal still has thrown her off course. And, well, maybe she doesn't want to think about the fact he'd really just said that, even though he'd been there to watch it all play out, "I am, by the way. Just in case you thought I was pulling your leg."

"Thanks for the pep talk, really," She murmurs after another moment, pushing herself up to open the cockpit's doors and tousling her hair with her good arm. He couldn't change her opinion that easily, it'd haunted her for days and she's pretty damn sure it's about to haunt her for about a thousand more before she'd accept anyone's opinion of the matter, "And the blanket."

"Any time," He nods, "Don't forget -- none of those heaps of sugar you Shepards like. Sickly sweet milk cups."

She rolls her eyes, a smile tugging up the corners of her lips. For that alone, she'd probably put enough in to taste, just to bother him. Sweet wasn't a word she'd use to describe him, but more introspective than expected. If making fun of squad members while they were off the ship was introspective at all. It amused her, kept her busy when she wasn't working. Made her feel less like the outcast that she had been at Grissom. Still, he's the closest thing she's got to a real friend, squad and crew included.

When she returns, two steaming cups in hand and yawning, their hands touch just a little longer that's necessary to hand it over. There's an 'I told you so' in that smile of his when she slides back into her chair, though he immediately groans when she takes a sip of her's, smirking over the lip of the cup.

"I offer you perfectly good advice, and this is how you repay me?"

Her hands are still cold, but at least the buzzing has subsided with the inclusion of someone else here, "You made fun of my coffee choice two weeks ago. I think it's your due calling."

[keanubot]

I Love You Like The Sun Came Out (Keanu Reeves/Reader) Chapter 4

o hello there. new chapter? new chapter.

warnings for this chapter: none

Carrying out your housekeeping duties at Keanu’s house certainly becomes much easier once you’ve settled in. You love being able to just wake up, walk down a hallway, and open the doors to the koi pond without even having to get dressed. It’s so quiet and peaceful in the house, cozy despite being so large, and you somehow feel as if you’re truly meant to be there.

Being a full-on guest in the house means you finally feel comfortable in all the rooms – except for his bedroom, which you’ve still only been in once – and it’s nice to be able to go anywhere you please. You don’t feel like you have to immediately leave the library after watering the bonsai tree – you can stay and settle on the couch with a good book. Same with the music room, you literally spent your entire Saturday going through his record collection and listening to every genre under the sun until suddenly it was 6pm and you realized you hadn’t eaten anything all day (and had barely gotten halfway through the collection).

Admittedly you’ve taken the Audi out for a few spins around the block, and of course on some Starbucks runs, but other than that it hasn’t gotten as much action as Keanu probably hoped it would. Growing up in New York City probably should have prepared you for LA drivers and traffic, but you never really drove when you lived there; you mainly took the subway to get everywhere you needed to go. So driving has never really been your thing, but you’re still incredibly grateful for Keanu’s thoughtfulness.

And the very best part of living in Keanu’s house?

Not having to talk to your roommates.

This is especially good for when you’re rehearsing, which has become quite often – there’s something about being in an actor’s house that really just brings the acting chops out of you, which you’re not complaining about. There’s a big mirror near the entrance of Keanu’s house, surrounded by bright green plants in the sitting area, and you’ve taken to standing in front of it to go over your lines.

Jay, the gardener, stops by at the beginning of your second week living in the house, and unfortunately happens to pass by the front window when you’re standing there talking to the mirror. You don’t see him until you notice some movement in the corner of your eye, and when you turn you see that he’s standing there with a giant pair of lawn cutters in his hand – grinning at you. He waves as soon as you make eye contact.

God, please don’t come in.

He comes in.

“So, how’s everything going?” he asks, resting the lawn cutters against the front door, “Bored to death yet?”

“Bored?”

He laughs, “Cooped up in this house all by yourself? It has to get a little boring.”

You shake your head, “No, I love it, actually. I like being alone.” You assert the last word but he doesn’t seem to notice, just nodding and smiling.

“Wish I was like that,” he says with another laugh, “I can’t go very long without talking to someone.”

Doesn’t surprise me. “Yeah, I don’t really mind it.” The conversation has only just started but you’re already trying to end it.

“What were you doing in the mirror, then?” he asks, pointing at it, “Could have sworn you were talking to yourself.”

You feel your cheeks warm in embarrassment – and a little bit of frustration, “Oh, no, I was rehearsing.”

“Rehearsing?”

“I’m an actress.”

His eyes widen, “An actress? What are you doing cleaning houses?”

You have absolutely no idea if Jay realizes how tactless he is but at this point you don’t really care; this is only the second time you’ve talked to him and he’s already annoying the hell out of you. Usually you’re pretty good at deflecting guys, but since you both work here you can’t really tell him to go away.

Instead, you count to three in your mind and calmly reply, “It’s a tough business. Gotta make money somehow, right?” you nod to his lawn cutters, “Housekeeping, gardening, whatever gets you there.”

He looks at the lawn cutters and then back to you, his face falling slightly, “I worded that completely wrong, didn’t I?”

Your lips tighten, “Little bit.”

He’s about to start apologizing – you can tell – but his phone suddenly goes off. He gives you an apologetic smile and brings it to his ear, “Hello? Oh hey, Candice, what’s up?”

Keanu’s assistant. You stand there awkwardly while he talks to her, his replies mostly consisting of “yeah”, “of course”, and “you got it”. That is until –

“She’s actually standing right in front of me,” he winks at you, “Hell of a girl.”

Hell of a girl? He barely even knows you and he’s already giving an opinion to Candice – it makes you uncomfortable. You wonder if Keanu knows how flirty this guy is – although probably not, seeing as Jay is probably the straightest dude you’ve ever encountered.

“Yeah, I’ll let her know,” he says, then hangs up, “Listen, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you or anything, I know it’s a tough business. I actually used to do commercials but I stopped because, well, commercials.”

Well that puts a bit of a crack into your ego, your forgiving smile faltering slightly. “Commercials?” you say with a false laugh, “Wow, yeah, uh, been there.”

“A nightmare,” he says, shaking his head, “I remember I did this one for Pepto Bismol and I never lived it down, it followed me everywhere for like six years. Pretty much the reason I quit.”

You nod slowly, pretending to empathize when in reality you’re having a bit of an internal breakdown, “Mm hm,” you nod, “A nightmare.”

After a few more apologies from Jay you manage to get him out the door and back to work. You sit on the couch in the living room for what feels like no time at all, just staring into space and calculating your life choices up until this point with Jay’s words echoing in your mind. Before you know it, an hour has passed and Jay is long gone.

It’s only then that you realize Jay had said “Yeah, I’ll let her know” to Candice, and that he hadn’t actually told you what she’d said.

Oh well, you shrug, if it’s important she’ll tell me herself.

-----

The next morning you drive to your audition in the Audi, feeling a little self conscious but also hoping someone might see you driving it and decide to take you more seriously. You know it’s superficial but that’s Hollywood for you.

There’s a bunch of the same people you see all the time sitting in the chairs outside the audition room, some of which you’ve actually gone out for drinks with before. You’d actually met your roommates in this fashion, but all three of them feel they’re better than commercials at this point. You wish you could relate.

“Y/N!” a girl named Aubrey who you’ve talked to a few times before waves you over, motioning for you to sit beside her. You sit down and she smiles at you excitedly, “Karen from casting said you’re doing the whole housekeeping thing too! Who do you have?”

You swallow, noticing that every girl in the room seems to suddenly be paying attention to you, “Um, I’d rather not say.”

Aubrey nods, looking empathetic, “An asshole, huh? That’s too bad. Hopefully you get something good soon and you won’t have to do it anymore.”

You’re a little curious as to who Aubrey works for but not enough to ask. Instead, you take out your script and start silently mouthing the words to yourself just as the audition room door opens and the first girl gets called.

After about ten minutes of rehearsing, your phone rings. You pull it out of your bag to see who’s calling and your eyes widen when you see Keanu’s name lit up on the screen. You quickly turn it off and shove it back in your purse, hoping no one saw.

“Keanu?” Aubrey says, excited all over again, “Oh my god, are you working for Keanu Reeves?”

All the heads turn toward you again, and you feel yourself turn bright red.

“Uh, yeah,” you say awkwardly, smoothing out the script in your lap, “But it’s really not a big deal.”

“How is that not a big deal?! It’s Keanu Reeves! He’s like, the nicest guy in Hollywood!”

You wish she’d stop saying his name like that. You wish everyone would stop saying his name like that. The more people talk about him the way they do, the more and more nervous you get to actually meet him in person, and you hate that.

“I haven’t even met him yet,” you reply, shaking your head, “He’s shooting a movie, I don’t even know him.”

“He knows you enough to call you,” Aubrey says, not deterred at all, “You have him as Keanu in your phone, that’s so cute.”

Your eyebrows scrunch, “That’s his name?”

“Yeah but just the first name, no last name. Very casual,” she winks, “So what did –”

She’s unable to finish her question because the audition room door opens and one of the girls comes out, looking quite happy with whatever performance she gave. The woman holding the door looks down at a piece of paper and says your name.

“I’ll see you later, Aubrey.” You’ve never been so relieved to be called into an audition in your life.

-----

The audition doesn’t go well. The conversation with Aubrey gave you a nervous energy that you couldn’t shake, and the first thing said to you when you entered the room was, “Hey, you’re the girl from the Tampax commercial aren’t you?” which just made it worse because all you could think about was Jay and his Pepto Bismol nightmare.

You’d left the room without even looking at Aubrey, trying not to let your emotions get the better of you as you exited the building and climbed into the expensive car that you certainly didn’t feel very worthy of driving.

As soon as you get back to Keanu’s house you settle in front of the koi pond with some lunch and try not to feel sorry for yourself. Instead, you watch Cosmo fight over his food with a white and orange fish that seems to be bigger than the rest.

“Calm down, Godzilla, there’s more than enough for everyone.” you grab some more fish treats and toss them into the water to make them disperse.

Great, now three of them have names. You worry for a moment if Keanu will be bothered by that, but who are you kidding? According to literally everyone Keanu is the nicest guy in Hollywood; you can’t imagine he’d care that you liked his fish enough to give them names.

You’re suddenly reminded of the phone call at the audition, and you take out your phone to call him back. After a few rings with no answer, his voice is suddenly in your ear – you’re unsure why the sound of it makes you so nervous.

“Hey, it’s Keanu. Leave a message.”

“Hi, Keanu, it’s Y/N. I’m just returning your call, sorry I missed it,” you bite your lip, wondering if you should share where you were – I mean, he did say he wanted to know about it, “I was, uh, at that audition we were talking about last week. Didn’t go that great but whatever,” you cringe, “I mean, obviously it’s not whatever, I just mean… you know, it’s out of my hands, I guess.” Stop talking. “Anyway, I’ll be home for the rest of the day so – I mean, I’ll be at your house for the rest of the day,” STOP TALKING. “So just call me back when you get a chance. Okay, bye.” Idiot.

You shake your head at yourself and tear off a piece of lettuce from your sandwich, tossing it into the water and watching Godzilla gobble it up.

-----

You spend your evening lying on the floor of Keanu’s music room, resuming where you’d left off in his music collection. He really has got a bit of everything, but you can tell his tastes lie with punk rock and – surprisingly – jazz music, which couldn’t be more different. He’s got a framed photo of John Coltrane hanging on the wall, and someone has written “THE MAN!” in bright green sharpie along the bottom.

In fact, there’s a number of items in the music room that have been vandalized by a green sharpie, and you wonder if it was done by Keanu himself or someone he knows.

After listening to a few albums on his incredible sound system – and drifting in and out of sleep towards the end – you turn everything off and head to the guest room to get in bed. Music can solve problems temporarily, but as soon as your head hits the pillow your mind is flooded with anxious thoughts about what Jay had said this morning. Do you really want your legacy to be commercials? You came to LA to be a serious actor, not a housekeeper who sells tampons.

And it’s not that you hate being a housekeeper – because surprisingly it’s probably the best job you’ve ever had – but living in this house is just a constant reminder of the success you still have yet to achieve.

But Keanu’s been working at this for over 30 years, you tell yourself, trying to calm your brain down, he didn’t get this house overnight.

You wish you could ask him for some advice, but he’s an ocean away – and besides, you barely know the man. Even the so-called nicest man in Hollywood can’t possibly be going around giving advice willy nilly to struggling actresses. He has more important things to do, like actually work.

Still, you can’t help but anticipate finally meeting him and getting to talk to him face to face. Maybe once he actually knows who you are he’ll be able to give you some words of wisdom.

Or maybe he’ll hate you.

You shove your pillow over your head.

-----

When you wake up the next morning, there’s something different. You’re initially not sure what it is because you’re so groggy, untangling yourself from the blankets and slowly sitting up in bed. You take a few deep breaths, eyes hooded and tired – you didn’t sleep very well, your thoughts keeping you up for most of the night. You reach over and unlock your phone, blinking down at the screen and staring at it for a few seconds: 5:13 AM.

Your eyebrows scrunch. 5:13? That’s almost an hour earlier than what your alarm was set for. Why the hell are you awake at 5:13?

And that’s when you hear it.

First, it’s just a faint shuffling sound, but it’s enough to make you freeze.

Then, a thud. Clear and distinct – definitely coming from another part of the house.

You’re suddenly wide awake, heart pounding in your chest as you spring up from the bed and stand still for a few moments, hand coming up to push your hair back as you stare at the floor and try and figure out what the fuck to do.

Maybe it’s someone he knows, you think to yourself, a friend who has a key. Or Jay, maybe it’s Jay.

Your mind is suddenly flooded with a news headline you remember reading when you’d done a bit of research a few weeks ago. You’d already known a lot about him, but you’d still done a quick google search to see if there was anything pressing you should know before taking the job. You remember it now, your stomach churning: Keanu Reeves’ Home Invaded Twice Within Three Days.

As far as you can recall it had been stalkers, and they hadn’t been violent. But they’d still broken into his house. The idea of some random person rifling through Keanu’s house at this very moment while you’re literally a room away makes your stomach turn.

You unlock your phone and bite your lip, deliberating on whether or not you should call the police. What if you’re wrong and it really is just someone he knows? What if it’s the grocery people again? The concept of having police come to Keanu’s house over something completely harmless already has you feeling embarrassed beyond belief.

You decide to quietly take a peek before you make any rash decisions. Tiptoeing to the door, you slowly open it and silently thank the universe that it doesn’t make any noise. You slide through the opening and walk slowly and precisely down the hall, your socked feet barely making a sound against the floor. As you get further down the hallway, the noises get closer, and you’re able to recognize that they’re coming from the kitchen.

The sun is already rising so luckily you can see where you’re walking, and once you reach the end of the hall you press yourself against the wall and take a steadying breath. It’s okay, just take a peek. Easy peasy.

You slowly peek your head out past the wall to look into the kitchen, unsure what exactly you’re expecting to see. The moment you do this, your eyes lock onto the person standing in front of the kitchen island. The person pouring milk into a bowl of cereal. The person with long dark hair and scruff covering half of his face.

The person whose deep brown eyes are suddenly locked onto yours.

-----

tag list: @johnsbleu @ibelielveinmusic @whistlingwillows @whovianayesha 

[canonicallyanxious]

we sure know how to run things

Druck | Matteo/David | 2.4k words

Or: David and Matteo go for a run.

Another installment of my Lorde-inspired post-canon series [though you don’t need to read the rest of it to understand this one!]. They’re getting longer and longer but that’s okay lol. This one is for Team. Hope you all enjoy!

-

The room is still dark when David opens his eyes, which means the sun hasn’t risen yet. And yet, though it must be preposterously early - or possibly preposterously late - he feels miserably, painfully awake. His throat is aching and his temples are pounding with the remnants of a nightmare he can’t remember, which is probably for the best but still discomfits him, this unshakeable feeling of missing - something. He doesn’t know what. Then again, it’s not like that’s anything new.

David tips his head back toward the ceiling as the world around him slowly fills itself back in. Each moment that passes, each piece that slides back into place loosens the tightness around his lungs just a little bit. Which is good, he thinks. A little bit at a time is better than nothing at all. It’s progress, isn’t it?

Next to him, Matteo’s breathing is slow, and soft. The sheer contrast to the jagged sharpness still lingering in his chest nearly hurts, in a tangible way.

He reaches for his phone and checks the time, strained eyes blinking blearily at the sudden brightness. It’s nearly half past five. God, what time did he go to bed? One in the morning? Maybe two? Does it matter? Counting the hours seems a pointless task when he can’t for the life of him remember the last time he slept for more than five of them in a row.

Careful not to make a noise - Matteo is a light sleeper - David drags a hand across his face. And then he gets up.

David doesn’t usually like to take long showers - it feels like a waste of time, mostly - but this morning he decides he’s feeling a little selfish, a little petulant at the universe, and maybe it isn’t a terrible thing to forego his normal routine every once in a while, maybe it’s good to fool himself into thinking he knows how to relax about something like this. He turns the water on as hot as he can bear it and lets it drum against his scalp, beating the life back into his skin and bones. He closes his eyes, blocks his ears. The sound of the water against his skull turns to thunder - drowns his loud thoughts out.

With just this one thing to focus on, right now, he feels as close to being safe as he ever will.

It’s six thirty by the time he leaves the bathroom, hair mostly dry though still dripping a bit on the fabric of the soft grey hoodie he picks up off the floor and pulls on. He approaches the nightstand to collect his phone, and his heart jolts in his throat when he realizes Matteo is awake, blinking up at him blearily from his cocoon of blankets.

“Time is it?” Matteo mumbles, voice hoarse with sleep.

David steps over to the side of the bed and runs a hand lightly through Matteo’s hair. If he’s letting himself be selfish today this only seems an appropriate course of action to take. “Too early for you,” he says.

“Hm.” Matteo squints up at him. “Where’re you going?”

“A run.”

“Oh.” There’s a long pause as Matteo looks him up and down. He reaches out slowly with one hand, tucking it into the pocket of the hoodie David is wearing. His fist clenches lightly around the fabric. “This is mine, isn’t it?”

“Guess so,” David says, as if he didn’t already know.

“Okay.” And then, astonishingly, Matteo pushes himself up until he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, arm still stuck in the pocket of David’s - Matteo’s - hoodie. “I’m coming with you.”

For a moment - a very brief moment - David is struck speechless. Then again, around Matteo, this is nothing new either.

He opens his mouth, meaning to question him in a teasing way - Matteo joining him on a morning run at all let alone one this early is so unprecedented David wants to know if he’s been replaced by a pod person - but Matteo hauls himself up and sleepily nuzzles his face against David’s cheek, arm nestled in the depths of the hoodie pinned between them, and in the end all that comes out of his throat is, “okay.”

He probably should have seen that one coming.

Still, he doesn’t exactly have high expectations, and sure enough about ten minutes into the run Matteo bends over and grasps his knees with his hands, too breathless to ask David to slow down.

David slows down anyway. “We can walk. We don’t have to run.”

Matteo looks up at him through the fringe of his hair hanging into his eyes. “I don’t want to hold you back.”

“You’re not,” David says, honestly.

Matteo searches his face, for a long moment. As if looking for truth.

David would give it all to him, if he could.

“We can walk to the park,” Matteo says finally. “And then you can run and I can sit on a bench and cheer you on.”

David laughs, despite himself. Matteo would make a terrible cheerleader. “You won’t get bored?”

“No,” Matteo says.

David’s turn, now, to decide if he believes him.

In the end, it’s not a hard choice to make.

So they walk to the park. Matteo shoves his hands into his pockets, his hood pulled up all the way over his head, and he kicks at David’s feet occasionally, an old game of theirs they’re both used to, but otherwise he doesn’t talk. Which is fine - more than fine. David likes taking in the quiet world around them. He likes taking it in with Matteo by his side. It sort of feels like he notices more than usual. The hazy orange glow at the brim of the horizon. The sound of the gravel under the rubber soles of their shoes. The number of birds that fly above their heads - three, four, five dark shapes against the sky. It’s like now that he has a reason to look up from his own feet, now that he has something to look at and pay attention to, he just - takes the opportunity to do so. Easy as that.

At the entrance of the park they find a bench for Matteo to sit on and he collapses on it, head lolling back toward the sky. He gives David a small wave and a smile as he sets off on the path. The glow in his chest after seeing something like that could singlehandedly keep him alive for miles, he’s certain.

As he walks along the trail, David digs his earbuds out of his pocket and presses play on his favorite running playlist. He’s used it a lot this past week and it’s probably in severe danger of being overplayed, but the first track he puts on is an old comfort - a slow, pulsing number by Lorde, great for a quick warm up - and the familiar beat of it seeps so effortlessly into his pulse, the rhythm of his breathing, he just can’t fight how perfect this feels. He walks, slowly at first, and then quickly, and then the song melts into something more upbeat and he picks up the pace, the shock of each step against the concrete a welcome feeling through his entire body. He tilts his head back, drinking in the newbon sun that caresses his cheeks so gently it nearly makes him smile, and breathes. This isn’t always true but today his lungs feel enormous in his chest, full to bursting with the crispness of the morning air. He feels like he could run forever, if he wanted to.

God. Maybe he does, a little.

And so David goes, one foot in front of the other, the most reliable and innate motion in the world. The ground is solid under his feet, the sky opening up endlessly above and around him. And it’s never felt easier to breathe - to be. It’s only when he’s running that his body finally feels like it could catch up with the speed of his tangled-up brain. He craves this feeling, sometimes, when he’s motionless. Because sometimes his mind goes so fucking fast, his thoughts running round and round in infinite circles, he can’t even begin to figure out what any of them are. Sometimes his head is the messiest place he can even imagine. And he hates messes.

The thing is, when he runs, it’s almost like he doesn’t care about that. It’s the best pretending he’s ever done.

And with his track record, that’s really saying something.

It takes him twenty-four songs before he circles back to the bench at the entrance of the park. His hoodie is plastered to his skin with sweat, and his temples are pounding with heat. He feels boneless. He feels alive. And Matteo is exactly where David left him, legs curled up under him and head resting on his arms. The rise and fall of his chest is a rhythm David would recognize anywhere. He’s sleeping.

If David’s heart wasn’t already threatening to burst he thinks it might come apart at the seams anyway to see this, how open and sweet Matteo’s face looks when his eyes are closed. David sits himself carefully next to Matteo and brushes the back of his hand against Matteo’s cheek. Matteo wakes like he always does - slowly, like ice melting from his limbs. Eyes fluttering gently open, eyelashes brushing his cheekbones, a tiny yawn escaping his lips. He wipes at his left eye.

“Shit,” he says. “I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s okay,” David says. “We all know how hard waking up before ten is for you.”

Matteo shoves at his shoulder, but he can’t hide his smile from David; he never can. “How was the run?”

David lets his head fall back until it hits the top of the bench. “Good. I feel good.”

“Good.” Warmth brushes against his shoulders, the back of his neck. Matteo’s arm, he thinks. “You deserve to feel good.”

David doesn’t say anything to that - he can’t. His eyes slip closed. And the silence between them, that old friend, envelopes him, swells in his chest until it almost feels like it belongs there.

This feeling, this impossible quiet. He feels it the most when he’s around Matteo.

He loves this feeling.

A thumb strokes against the side of his neck, catching at a drop of sweat sliding down his skin. David cracks his eyes open and turns his face to Matteo. There’s a question he can recognize in this touch. He sees it in his eyes, too.

“Why do you like to run?” Matteo says.

David considers this, for a bit. It’s not that he doesn’t have an answer to it - not that he’s never thought about it before. It’s that he’s never put it into words for someone else. Never had to. Or wanted to, before now.

“It’s not so much that I like it,” David says, although he does, he thinks. “It’s more like I need to.”

Matteo nods. “Why?”

“Because…” David lets out a slow breath. “Because I just don’t know how to stop.”

It sounds stupid. He knows it before he even says the words, knows how hopelessly inadequate they are. He says it anyway because he doesn’t have any other words to say. This feeling inside of him - the ceaseless motion - is so vast. So heavy it almost suffocates him some days. And he’s lived with it for so long he doesn’t know how to begin to describe it. It’s like trying to put into words what his own heart looks like. Like trying to draw it on paper.

But when he looks over at Matteo, he doesn’t seem confused. He meets his eyes, and David’s fingertips tingle. That thrill of being - what’s the right word? Seen. Somehow he doesn’t think this will ever get old.

“That sounds like it sucks,” Matteo says.

David swallows down a smile. “I guess.”

Matteo’s fingernails scratch gently at his hair. “Can I tell you a secret?”

“What’s that?”

Matteo leans in, close enough for their temples to brush and for his words to kiss the shell of David’s ear. “Stopping’s the easy part.”

A smile pries itself loose from somewhere inside David, and this time he can’t stop it from happening. This time he doesn’t want to. “Is it?”

“Yeah,” Matteo says with a decisive nod. “Here, I’ll show you.”

David straightens as he watches Matteo get up, stretch his arms above his head, drop them back down at his sides with a loud groan. And then he swings a leg over David’s lap and bends his knees so that they’re lined up with David’s hips, and he’s sitting back on David’s thighs. He wraps his arms around David’s back, and his face falls into the crook of David’s neck.

“Fuck,” David exhales, surprised at the sudden weight and warmth on his body, though he doesn’t know why he would be when this is a very Matteo thing to do. He doesn’t mean the word in a bad way - not at all. Honestly, in a different context he might. He doesn’t usually like the sensation of something pressing down on him. It makes him feel trapped, and if there’s anything he knows about himself it’s that he’s always, always looking for an escape route, even when he doesn’t mean to.

Right now, he doesn’t want to find an escape route. Right now he kind of just wants to let this moment unfold. It’s a foreign feeling. And yet kind of breathtakingly wonderful, at once.

“See,” Matteo breathes into his shoulder. “You’ve been stopped. Easy.”

“You should get off me. My legs are going to fall asleep.” His hands come up to rest between Matteo’s shoulder blades, as if he could press him closer to him if he tried, as if they weren’t already as close as they could possibly be.

Matteo’s hands clutch at the fabric of David’s hood, his knuckles skimming against the back of his neck. “Never.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

Matteo lifts his head up, and grins.

“We’re staying here forever,” he says.

David buries his hands in Matteo’s sweaty hair, letting them slide down the side of his face and the curve of his jaw until his palm is cradling the pulse at his neck. The feeling of it, the reliability of Matteo’s vitality, calms something inside him. Something small. But something meaningful, nonetheless.

“Okay,” he says.

He has no other words to say, no other words inside of him. For once, he’s glad for it.