#this is. again. almost entirely projection on my part with my own ptsd

[butchbenrey]

"the science team is all one big happy family post-canon" is cute and all but it's overrated. let's talk about gordie's crushing fear of being alone from her ptsd in the aftermath of all of it.

everything in her fucking life got morphed and changed into something she can no longer recognize, so she feels like she needs to cling on to the science team for some sense of normalcy, some sense of familiarity. who could she even begin to relate to but them? who else went through anything similar to what she did? who else could she talk to about all of it without sounding insane? they provide some feeling of being heard but of course, they could never understand exactly what she went through. nobody else got their arm cut off, in fact, two of them were the ones who did that to her in the first place. she thinks it helps to be around them, she thinks it's some weird kind of exposure therapy and that the discomfort she feels around them will go away if she just keeps ignoring it, but it doesn't.

she wants it to go away, not just so that she'll have friends she can talk to, and a feeling of having conquered it together and making it out the other side (like she assumes these sorts of things are supposed to go), but also because she's wracked with guilt. she feels so deeply and unalterably guilty for all of it— she was the one who caused the resonance cascade, after all, and she was the de-facto leader of the group, so she feels responsible for all of it. she can recognize that she was treated unfairly at certain points (like, y'know, the whole forced amputation thing), but in retrospect she feels like she had it coming, like it was her responsibility to foresee those events and stop them before they happened. sure, nearly all of them attacked her at some point, but they were all under stress too, it was understandable. if you really think about it, bubby and benrey were right to cut off her arm, i mean, they were scared! <- (gordie inner monologue). so if she left them after all of it, that would make her a horrible, awful, cruel person, in her own eyes. so she has to go to all the stupid little outings and parties, she has to excuse herself to have meltdowns... she has to look in the eyes of the people who hurt her so profoundly and she has to sit through the flashbacks and the emotional turmoil because if she doesn't, she'd be worse than them, in her trauma-addled brain.

it feels like atonement, to her. necessary atonement for the shit she thinks was entirely her own fault. and if she ever feels the nagging desire to cut them off, a voice reminds her that she'll forever be known as some cruel son of a bitch who almost ended the world and then abandoned the people who carried her through it. and then she'll be alone. because who would want to be friends with someone so spiteful and miserable.

in my heart of hearts i do believe one day she comes to her senses and realizes she does not have to be friends with that random old man and the guy who tried to kill her and that she will become more outwardly friendly and positive with hard work and therapy. but please imagine the absolute state of this poor girl in the meantime with me

[backpackingspace]

Fandom brain: that if we watch hannibal again that's a great show I love that show it's been ages

Logic adult brain: girlie pop we can't do that. Remember that we projected our fucked up getting psychological tortured by that therapist experience onto this 'the cannibal therapist psychologically tortures his patients for funsies' show well get flashbacks

[cor-ardens-archive]

I can’t remember if we’ve talked about this before, but have you read the idiot? this conversation about ptsd vs bpd is making me wonder what your thoughts on nastasya filipovna are... shes such a fascinating character to me, I would love to know how you feel about her

I don't think we have, but she's one of my favorite Dostoevsky characters, which is probably predictable — and a little frustrating to me, as I would've preferred her to be more of a subject in her own right than she actually was. But I understand that's not the story the book set out to tell, it's simply where my personal interests lie.

I'm very drawn to characters who are soaked in shame and believe the worst of themselves. I read The Idiot some time ago, so the details are hazy, but I remember how she revolted at Myshkin's compassion and belief in her purity. It's not just shame either, I think there was also a layer of pride and self-respect in her repulsion. She thinks she can ruin Myshkin and others because she is tainted, but I believe she also understands that his compassion is somewhat cheap, because he refuses to see her in all her complexity. The insistence that she is innocent is not incorrect, she isn't to blame for what was done to her, but her sense of personal responsibility and wretchedness is continually invalidated by how he speaks of her experiences. I don't know if what I'm saying is accurate because, like I said, I read this book some good years ago, and I don't know how much I projected onto her character at the time, but to me she seemed to be in a space where many victims find themselves — afraid of corrupting good people, and also feeling misunderstood by them, because they refuse to see the parts of herself that are not innocent and pure, or don't feel that way, the parts of herself that want to acknowledge feelings and thoughts that are not altogether "pure"; and then feeling that the only people who can see, understand and even accept the uglier parts of you are the very people who would hurt you. It's complex — of course she was a victim, but the compassion Myshkin could afford so often seemed condescending to me. I think the book is inclined that way as well, as Myshkin fails to fit the role of the hero who would save the fallen heroine. There's a lot of interesting stuff there about Christian notions of salvation, and I think I should revisit the book because I would be able to think more deeply about it now. (And, again, I might be saying a lot of inaccurate things, my memory of it isn't great.)

But yeah, Nastasya was a fascinating character, and I remember especially the sense that her life was dictated so entirely by her past, by her memories, and whether she would be able to move on from that. It's interesting to me because I don't think one can or should "transcend" their past, which is what Myshkin seemed to think would save her.

And I guess I'm ranting about something not entirely related to your ask, because I guess you wanted to know any thoughts I might have on her erratic and self-destructive behavior. She's clearly dealing with trauma (and presents a lot of symptoms that were then taken as "hysteria"), and what got to me is how absolutely misunderstood she was, how completely alone. All these different characters had different perspectives of her, and none of them seemed able to truly get to know her, or even attempt to understand her experiences and the pain she was in. Even Myshkin, what did he offer but platitudes?

Anyway, sorry if this isn't a very satisfactory answer, I'm trying to remember my impressions from like almost a decade ago, and they might all be dumb. I should definitely reread it, it was one of my favorites of Dostoevsky despite my frustration at some of its choices.

[lackyghost]

LOCAL ONSEN EMPLOYEE, MINETA MINORU, FOUND DEAD, NUMEROUS SUSPECTS BEING INVESTIGATED

—

Seated alone in his living room, lying across his faded black sofa, watching an overhyped and entirely lackluster horror movie is one Bakugou Katsuki.

His pale blonde hair is almost white against the dark of the sofa, flaring out around his head and face like an explosion of natural spikes.

His usually scowling face is neutral as he watches the woman on screen get brutally mauled by a chainsaw.

The blood is too bright, closer to the scarlet of Katsuki’s eyes than the deep crimson of actual blood. Just another mistake that makes Katsuki want to just shut it off and go to sleep.

Thoughts of moving to his bed are cut off by his phone buzzing on the coffee table. Katsuki lazily swipes for it and frowns at the unknown number. He ignores the call and drops his phone back down.

Almost as soon as his phone goes still again, it vibrates with another call from the same unknown number. Katsuki scowls as he grabs his phone, angrily swipes the answer button, and slaps the device to the side of his face.

“What the fuck d’you want?” Katsuki growls out, his usual deep, gruff voice even harsher than usual.

“Oh, so angry,” a deep, smooth voice says with a chuckle. “I’ve heard some interesting things about you, Bakugou Katsuki.”

“Big fucking deal,” Katsuki grouses. He’s certainly been in the news often enough, not in a few years though, but there is one type of person who still occasionally tracks down his phone number. “I’m not gonna give you a fucking interview, asshole.”

“An interview?” The voice asks, amused. “You’d want to confess your crimes to me?”

Katsuki groans loudly. “So, you’re one of those assholes, hah? You with Chisaki and his band of fuckwads? He didn’t get my goddamned message last time?”

Katsuki absentmindedly rubs his free hand over the old, faded scars hidden beneath his shirt, trying not to let his mind wander back to his time in the Yakuza’s ‘recruitment camp.’

The man on the other end of the line hums thoughtfully.

“No, I’m not part of his band of fuckwads,” the man finally says. “But you’re on my list.”

“Whoop-de-fucking-do,” Katsuki says dryly.

“It’s lots of fun, yes,” the man says, and lets out another deep, rumbling chuckle. “Don’t you want to know what list?”

Katsuki snorts derisively. “I don’t give a single fuck, asshole. I’ve been on shit lists for fucking years now, and you’re no fucking different from any of those other dumbfuck extras who start spewing shit without even knowing what they’re talking about.”

The man makes a curious huffing sound. “I think I—”

“What?” Katsuki snaps. He sits up angrily and shuts his television off. “Think you know how I refused to join the Shie Hassaikai? Think you know how even after that bastard Chisaki nearly killed me, I still fucking spat in his face and refused again? You think I give a single fuck about you and your goddamned list? News flash, dumbass, I fucking don’t! Pieces of shit like you have been adding me to lists like that for a long fucking time, and the answer will always be no! I’m not fucking interested in beating people up for money or kidnapping or what-the-fuck-ever. So, good-fucking-bye.”

Katsuki hangs up angrily. His chest is heaving with furious pants as he storms across his small one-bedroom apartment. He turns his phone off and plugs it in on his nightstand, and then he opts to take a long, hot shower to soothe his freshly tensed body.

—

‘TOUGH LOVE’ TEACHER TORINO SORAHIKO FOUND DEAD IN HIS APARTMENT

—

One thing many people don’t know about Katsuki is that he spends every Sunday deep-cleaning his apartment. Every nook and cranny, every item of clothing, every blanket and even his goddamn shoes get cleaned.

It’s a habit that started initially as part of his therapy when he’d been diagnosed with PTSD after his Yakuza incident back when he was a teenager. He finds it soothing now, and gets jittery any time he can’t complete his full regimen.

He loses himself easily in the ministrations, listening to music playing in his little Bluetooth speaker that he carries from room to room as he goes.

It’s been a week and a half since the strange phone call incident, and Katsuki has honestly forgotten about it. It wasn’t the first time he’s received a phone call from an assumed journalist, and he doubts it’ll be the last.

He gathers his full trash bag and leaves his apartment with just his keys in his pocket and the smelly bag carried at his side. He doesn’t bother locking his unit door, knowing he’ll be in and out.

It’s a bit chilly out, but summer is definitely approaching so he doesn’t whine too much about it as he takes the stairs down from the fourth floor to the sidewalk below.

He walks around the side of the building toward the dumpster and cocks a brow at the man standing there; tall and broad with black pants and a black hoodie that’s zipped up all the way and pulled over to hide his face in the shadow of the material.

The guy makes a soft, startled sound and jumps away from the apartment’s fire escape, but Katsuki just rolls his eyes and throws his bag in the dumpster. He’s about to turn around when he spots something unusual behind the man.

Katsuki starts walking forward and the guy holds his hand up, gesturing for him to stop. The blonde easily ignores him and walks past, squatting down in front of a little cardboard box. He frowns at the tiny orange kitten inside, shivering and looking absolutely pathetic.

“Hey, there,” Katsuki says gently as he lifts the tiny thing up. “Shit, you’re freezing.”

He cradles the kitten to his chest and wraps his unzipped hoodie around it securely. He stalks right back past the hooded figure, not really giving a shit what the guy is doing.

Once he’s back inside his apartment, he grabs a small bowl of water and sets it on the floor. He sets the kitten down next to it and tries to coax it to drink. After a few minutes, it finally does and Katsuki sighs in relief. The poor thing can’t be more than eight weeks old.

Katsuki gets back up and riffles through his cabinets for a can of unseasoned tuna in water. He always keeps some around, it's easier to season it himself and therefore more versatile.

He opens the can and dumps some of it into another little dish before setting it down next to the kitten. He squats down and strokes the tiny fluffball as it sniffs the food curiously. When it finally starts eating, he jogs to his room for his cellphone to look up the closest veterinarian.

—

CEO OF AFO CORPORATION MURDERED, STEP-SON IS TOP SUSPECT

—

Katsuki has owned ‘Dynamight Bowls & Curry’ for six years. He bought the food truck back when he was eighteen and spent two years working full time in a restaurant as an assistant chef while he attended culinary school. He also used that time to fix up the truck and save up for business startup costs.

He quit his job at the restaurant and started working on his truck full time when he was twenty years old, and he has never regretted it.

He works Monday through Saturday from 11am to 7pm, rotating on a set schedule of plaza venues that gets regularly updated on his social media.

Dynamight’s serves bowl meals, different choices of protein with various types of marinades and seasonings, sautéed vegetables, served over a bed of rice and sometimes pickled vegetables as well. All with their best matched added flavors and textures, extra sauces, and garnishes.

He also offers beef and chicken curry, served with a vegetable croquette and a side of rice, garnished with cilantro and pickled daikon.

His food is damn good, and he fucking knows it.

—

Katsuki has his apron tied tight around him, snug on his trim waist. He’s got several things cooking at once thanks to the lunch rush. He’s got a bit of a unique method of running his truck. People order using a digital touch screen outside and scan to pay for their meals, then the order shows up on a screen in front of him once it’s paid, and he gets to work. It’s unusual, but necessary since he runs the truck by himself.

“Grilled Salmon with Yuzu and Ponzu for Ashido!” Katsuki shouts as he pushes a steaming, covered to-go bowl onto the serving counter. Once it’s taken, he shoves another up and yells again. “Yakiniku Beef for Kaminari!”

“Thanks, Blasty!” Ashido and Kaminari say as they wave at him. Katsuki flips them off and they laugh at his antics.

“Teriyaki Chicken with extra soy sauce for Sero! Yakiniku Beef with extra meet for Kirishima!” Katsuki calls out as he pushes another two bowls to the edge.

“You’re the best, bro!” Kirishima says cheerfully.

“Yeah, thanks, man!” Sero says as he and Kirishima take their dishes and rush off to catch up with Ashido and Kaminari.

Those four have been religiously eating at Dynamight’s for over two years now, every single Friday they spend their hour lunch break at his truck. They’re not the first group to become regulars like that, but they are the first group who actually seem to like his prickly attitude and sometimes come by before he closes on Saturdays to hang out while he meticulously cleans and organizes his truck.

—

After the lunch shift has died down, Katsuki lets out a breath of relief at the short break. He turns away from the order screens and the open window so he can wash his knives and utensils quickly.

“Hey, I’m gonna try the ‘Death by Curry,’” a deep voice drawls from behind Katsuki, nearly making him drop his supplies.

Katsuki looks over his shoulder and takes in the man outside his truck. He’s tall and pale, nearly every inch of visible skin covered in black and deep purple tattoos, a face full of piercings, and almond shaped eyes that house vibrant turquoise irises.

His hair is snow white, spiky and untamed as it fans out around his head. He’s wearing a white t-shirt that clings to his broad shoulders and firm chest, the black leather jacket atop it only further accentuating the look.

Katsuki cocks a brow and moves to set his things in the drying rack before wiping his hands on his apron. He crosses his arms and steps over to the serving window. He leans his folded arms on the little serving platform and stares down at the man, who’s nearly at eye level even with Katsuki having the truck’s height at his advantage, putting him around 200cm, a full head taller than Katsuki.

Katsuki smirks at the guy. “You think you can handle it?”

The white-haired man returns the cocky expression. “I’m pretty sure I can handle some spicy food, doll.”

“Sure,” Katsuki says, too amused to even be bothered by the nickname. “Beef or chicken?”

“Beef,” the guy says.

Katsuki chuckles darkly as he pulls out the ingredients. No one has ever passed the ‘Death by Curry’ challenge. It’s Katsuki’s personal favorite; perfectly seasoned and spiced to levels that could arguably be considered lethal.

The white-haired man watches through the window curiously as Katsuki cooks his meal. When it’s done, the blonde dumps the contents into the take-out bowl and adds his usual garnishes. He snags a water bottle from the fridge and hands it to the guy.

“Good fucking luck,” Katsuki purrs as he hands the bowl over.

The tattooed man chuckles. “Don’t worry about me, doll, I can handle the heat.”

He heads over to one of the little tables of the plaza and Katsuki drops his elbow on the ledge and perches his chin on his open palm as he watches the white-haired man open the container and scoop up a good portion. He holds eye contact with the blonde as he blows on the spoonful and brings it to his mouth.

First, he looks pleased by the flavors.

And then Katsuki’s smirk widens into a grin as the man’s face flushes red and his eyes go glassy. The white-haired man gives him an incredulous look and cracks open the water bottle so he can chug half of it in one go.

“What the hell!” The man groans. “There’s no way anyone can eat that!”

Katsuki cracks up laughing. He pushes away from the window and shoves open the door of his truck. He locks it behind himself just to be extra safe, and stalks over to the table. He plucks the spoon from the guy’s bowl, scoops up a big serving, and pops it into his mouth. He hums appreciatively as he chews, thoroughly enjoying the mix of flavors and textures.

“You gonna finish it? Or is this my dinner now?” Katsuki grouses after swallowing his mouthful.

The tattooed man gawks at him for a moment and then pushes the bowl closer to Katsuki, who nods and picks it up. He chomps away at the meal, getting halfway through it before the white-haired man finds the ability to speak again.

“Damn, doll, you’re one hell of a spitfire,” the man says, sounding both impressed and mildly amused.

Katsuki cocks a brow and swallows. He holds his hand out for the water bottle still in the guy’s hands, and the man slowly hands it over. Katsuki takes a small sip before sighing and handing it back.

“It’s my favorite,” Katsuki says with a shrug. “Ain’t my fault no one else can handle my shit.”

The white-haired man gives Katsuki a once-over. “I think I could handle you.”

Katsuki snorts. “Sure, Patchwork.”

He turns away from the man, bowl in hand, and eats as he makes his way back to his food truck. When he gets back inside, he turns and finds the white-haired man already at the truck again, putting in an order on the digital pad. Katsuki chuckles and throws the now empty bowl away and drinks some water before checking the screen.

“Yakiniku Beef with spicy barbecue sauce?” Katsuki asks as he gives the white-haired man a skeptical look.

“Gotta work my way up to the ‘Death by Curry,’ I think,” the man says.

He winks at Katsuki, and the blonde rolls his eyes and turns to scrub his hands before getting to work on the man’s food.

—

EX-COP TAKAMI KEIGO CHARGED WITH MURDER OF BUBAIGAWARA JIN; FOUND DEAD IN CELL HOURS LATER

—

Katsuki doesn’t go out very often, it’s maybe once a month that he decides to head over to the nearby bar just to get tipsy and let off some steam.

He’s not interested in getting hit on, so he simply pulls on some loose jeans and an old black t-shirt with a white skull on the front. It’s tighter than it used to be and now hugs his muscles, but he pulls a black hoodie on over top and zips it half way up so he looks properly lazy.

The walk to the bar takes about fifteen minutes, but the night is decently warm. He kind of regrets bringing the hoodie already, but he’s not interested in turning around just to bring it back to his apartment, so he trudges his way into the bar.

It’s busy and half the patrons are already drunk, but he ignores them and stalks up to the counter. He plants himself on a stool and gestures for the bartender’s attention.

“Suntory Toki,” Katsuki says, and the bartender nods and reaches for the whiskey.

Katsuki sets the cash down and nods his thanks to the purple-haired man as he slides the glass over.

Katsuki is blissfully zoned out after two glasses of whiskey, just watching the boxing match on the television angled at the end of the bar, when someone taps on his shoulder.

With an agitated grunt, Katsuki looks up to see a tall man with black hair and brown eyes. Katsuki glares at him, already ready to refuse to get up from the bar.

“Wanna dance?” The man asks.

“The fuck,” Katsuki says. “No.”

He turns away from the man with a scoff and goes back to sipping his glass of water. It’s one of his drinking rules; one glass of water for each glass of alcohol.

Heat fans across his back as the man leans over his shoulder to whisper in his ear. “Come on, pretty boy. I’ll give you a night you won’t forget.”

Katsuki responds by slamming his elbow back into the man’s gut. The guy wheezes and stumbles back. Katsuki glares over his shoulder at the man for a long moment before going back to his water.

“You’re pretty feisty,” the man says, still breathless from the hit.

“And you’re pretty fucking stupid,” Katsuki grouses, still not looking back at the guy.

The man chuckles and walks back up to the blonde. He runs a hand down Katsuki’s arm as he speaks lowly. “Can’t wait to break that bad attitude.”

Katsuki sets his glass down with a sigh. He looks to the bartender, who is glowering at the black-haired man and looking absolutely done with his shit.

Katsuki clicks his tongue and turns around quickly, startling the man behind him. The guy smirks and opens his mouth to say something else, but he’s cut off by Katsuki punching him in the jaw. The man falls flat on his back and gapes up at Katsuki.

“Consent is key, asshole,” Katsuki growls out as he steps over the man’s prone body and stalks out the side door into the alley. His mind is fuzzy and he feels light, but he’s not stumbling, so he figures its safe to walk home.

He doesn’t even get halfway down the side alley before the bar door is slammed open and three furious men step out, all glaring at Katsuki.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” One of the men demands.

“How dare you punch Shindou like that!” The second yells.

“All you had to do was go with him and have some fun,” the third says as he cracks his knuckles. “But now ya gotta deal with us instead.”

Katsuki scoffs and crosses his arms as he turns to fully face the men. “You seriously think you assholes can take me?”

“Oh, we’ll take you down,” one says darkly.

“And then we’ll take you home so you can be Shindou’s new plaything,” another adds.

“Yeah, just keep repeating your boss’ name,” Katsuki says dryly. “Really fucking smart.”

All three men laugh and step closer to him. Two draw knives and then one retrieves a pair of glistening brass knuckledusters from his pocket. Katsuki scoffs derisively as he moves into a fighting stance.

“Cute,” one of the men says sarcastically.

“You assholes have no idea who you’re fucking talking to,” Katsuki snarls.

“Wait,” one says, squinting at Katsuki. He licks his lips nervously. “You’re not… you’re not that Bakugou guy, right? The Beast of UA?”

Katsuki’s lips turn up in a malicious smirk. “Oh good, you’ve heard of me.”

“Doesn’t matter who you are!” The knuckleduster man roars. “We’re going to fuck you up and drag you away so the boss can fuck you up!”

The back door slams open again, and all eyes shoot to the large, white-haired, tattooed man. He launches himself forward and Katsuki watches, fascinated, as the man knocks the largest man out with a single hit to the face. He then spins around with incredible speed and sweeps the feet out from under the second man, who’s head hits the ground with a sickening crack that renders him unconscious.

The third man rushes for Katsuki in a desperate attempt, clearly believing he’s the lesser of two fights. Unfortunately for him, Katsuki didn’t gain his title of ‘Beast’ by being the gentlest MMA fighter in his University.

Katsuki slams his hand down on the man’s wrist, spins around, and kicks his knee out of place. The man yelps in pain and Katsuki smashes him face first to the ground before karate-chopping the side of his neck in the perfect spot to knock him out. Katsuki straightens up and looks at the white-haired man, who is once again gaping at him.

“I fucking had that, Patches,” Katsuki grouses. “I ain’t some damsel in distress.”

“I see that, doll,” the man says, and then he grins broadly. “You’re really something, aren’t you, spitfire?”

“Fucking obviously,” Katsuki says with a scoff.

He can feel his face heating up, but he blames it on the alcohol and not on the obscenely attractive and obviously incredibly strong and well trained man in front of him.

“You heading home?” The white-haired man asks.

“That was the fucking plan,” Katsuki says with a shrug.

“Want to get something to eat first?” The man asks.

“No,” Katsuki says dryly.

The tattooed man pouts, and tilts his head in the most out-of-character puppy dog expression the blonde has ever seen.

It’s stupid—the guy is huge, and the back light in the alley shines off of his piercings and casts an ominous shadow across his tattooed skin, making him look like a demon.

Even his turquoise eyes seem to be glowing. He does not look like a cute, innocent little puppy and Katsuki absolutely should not give in.

But fuck if he doesn’t do just that.

Katsuki lets out a long sigh. “Fucking fine. But you’re buying.”

“Fuck yeah!” The man says cheerfully, a lopsided grin on his lips. He walks up to Katsuki and gestures for the blonde to walk with him. “There’s this ramen place close by. Not as good as your food, but they’ve got an extra spicy tonkatsu that you’d probably like.”

“Fair enough,” Katsuki says with a shrug.

“I’m Todoroki Touya, by the way,” the white-haired man says.

“Bakugou Katsuki,” the blonde says.

Touya chuckles. “I know who you are. I’ve watched your old matches. Guess you quit to focus on the food truck, huh?”

Katsuki shrugs. “Cooking’s better. I still go to the gym daily and train several times a week. Ain’t no chance of some fucking extras taking me on.”

“I believe you,” Touya says, looking pointedly to his shoulders. “What gym do you go to?”

Katsuki squints at the taller man. “Why? You stalking me?”

Touya scoffs loudly and waves his hand nonchalantly. “Wouldn’t dream of it, doll.”

“Fucking weird ass, patchwork fucker,” Katsuki grumbles. Touya laughs and Katsuki cocks a brow at the unexpected response to being outright insulted.

“I like you, Bakugou,” Touya says with a grin. “I think we’ll be really good friends.”

Katsuki rolls his eyes. “Whatever, Patches.”

—

DOCTOR UJIKO DARUMA FOUND DEAD IN HIS OFFICE, NO BIRTH RECORDS CAN BE LOCATED; WAS HE A FRAUD?

—

Katsuki opens his apartment door, fully intending to go down to the mailboxes.

He blinks in surprise at the massive box waiting just outside his door. With a furrowed brow, he reads the address on the label, and cocks a brow when he finds his name there.

He knows it isn’t from his parents, they haven’t contacted him since he moved out at eighteen and he prefers it that way.

It could possibly be from Deku, that asshole sends Katsuki random things for his birthday, but it’s June and his birthday was in April, so scratch that.

Katsuki shrugs and lifts the box up. It’s incredibly heavy and awkward to lift, but he manages to get it through his door with only one tiny scratch to the frame that he will easily pretend he doesn’t notice.

He sets the box down in his entryway and shuts and locks his front door before heading to the kitchen for a knife. He carefully cuts the box open and then sets the knife on the kitchen counter.

He pulls the box open and at the top is a piece of heavy cardstock paper with a border lined in various animals. It’s got a printed message on the front and Katsuki lifts the paper to read it curiously.

Doll, I volunteer at Kouda’s Veterinary Clinic, and when I saw that you have a kitten set for an appointment next week and read the note attached saying you rescued little ‘Queen Murder Mittens,’ I couldn’t help myself. – Patchwork PS, here’s my phone number, spitfire (xx-xxx-xxxx)

“Huh,” Katsuki says, for lack of a better response. He sets the note aside and starts pulling out the items.

There’s a five-pound bag of high-quality dry kitten food, a 24 pack of the same brand in different canned flavors, treats that claim to be good for dental health, a twenty-pound bag of cat litter, various cat toys, a scratching post, and a huge five-tiered cat tree.

Katsuki gapes at it all in absolute shock for a long minute before whipping out his phone and punching in Touya’s number.

Katsuki: What the fuck? Why’d you send me so much shit?

He’s barely pocketed his phone again before a response comes through, forcing him to pull the device right back out.

Patchwork: It’s not for you! It’s for Queen Murder Mittens!

Katsuki: …fuck.

Patchwork: Yeah, don’t argue, Spitfire. Just let me know if she likes it.

Katsuki sighs and puts his phone away. Queenie, as he calls the kitten for short, is already sniffing curiously at the new items.

Katsuki gets to work building the cat tree, and he only messes up once, thank-you-very-much. He sets the thing up by his large living room window, so the little hammock thing near the top will get plenty of sunlight.

He opens up the other toys, some are just loose mice and balls with bells and rattles inside, while others are sticks with a dangling toy and a suction cup on the end. He could easily stick them to windows so she could still play when he’s at work. It’s weirdly touching to know that the white-haired man’s gift is so considerate.

By the time he’s done getting things put up and the food stored away, Queenie has found her way up the cat tree and is snoozing away in the hammock. Katsuki kisses her head and strokes her back before snapping a picture to send off to Touya.

Katsuki: [Image attached.] She says thanks.

Patchwork: Adorable. She is very welcome. I haven’t even met her, and I would kill for her.

Katsuki snorts aloud and accidentally startles the poor kitten. He whispers an apology and kisses her head again before walking to his bedroom so he can get ready for work.

Katsuki: Riot Gym. I go every morning at 6am.

—

SMALL TIME GANGSTER SHINDOU YOU FOUND DEAD ALONG WITH THREE OF HIS MEN

—

Katsuki is only a little anxious about meeting Touya at the gym for the first time. The more he gets to know about the man, the more he likes him.

So, Katsuki devises a plan in his evil gremlin brain.

He pulls on his favorite compression outfit; black shorts with orange trim, and a black tank top with an orange ‘x’ across the front. It’s tight and hides absolutely nothing.

Katsuki secures his black sneakers and grabs his gym bag, swinging it over his shoulder before heading out. He’s got his clean clothes, water bottle, phone, and wallet shoved inside the bag along with his shower bag and towel.

He’s somewhat surprised to find Touya standing outside of Riot, scrolling aimlessly on his phone with his gym bag on the ground by his feet. Katsuki takes a moment to just look him over, clad in loose eggplant purple shorts and a low-cut black tank top with slits down the sides, giving a delightful view of the tattoos where they travel down his pecs and ribs.

“You ready for me to kick your ass?” Katsuki asks.

When Touya looks up, his eyes widen as he scans over the blonde’s body, which is as close to exposed as he can get without actually stripping down.

“Damn, doll,” Touya drawls. “You sure know how to taunt a guy.”

Katsuki snorts and scans his entry key, trying to hide his smug grin and light blush. “Whatever, Patchwork. We’re starting with stretches. You any good at yoga?”

Touya hums as he steps inside after the blonde. “I’ve never actually tried yoga.”

“S’ good shit,” Katsuki says. “Let’s put our shit away and I’ll show you some of the basics.”

“Lead the way, doll,” Touya says.

Katsuki just grunts his acknowledgment as they go to the locker rooms. He pulls his water bottle out before shoving the locker closed. He leads the white-haired man to the room usually reserved for instructor-led courses.

“Earliest class starts at eight, so we’re fine to just stretch in here,” Katsuki explains simply as he goes to the little shelf with mats and tugs two out. He hands one to Touya and leads the way to the center of the room. “Don’t hurt yourself trying to copy me.”

“Please, I’m limber enough for yoga,” Touya says with a scoff.

Katsuki smirks and starts in a basic standing pose before stretching up into upward hand. He holds it for a moment, ensuring that the white-haired man is watching, and then Katsuki folds forward into a perfect standing fold, arms curled around the backs of his calves as he bends completely in half. The man’s tattooed face flushes red, but he manages to grip his ankles.

Katsuki snickers and arches up into a half standing forward fold. Touya follows him, and Katsuki notes that he’s biting down hard on his tattooed lower lip, which contrasts heavily with his unblemished, pink upper lip.

Katsuki moves into a triangle pose, and holds before switching sides. He goes into a warrior A pose, then switches sides and repeats with warrior B pose. Then, deciding he’s given Touya enough of a break, he folds down into wide leg forward fold pose; hands flat on the ground and legs spread as his head brushes the ground.

Touya nearly falls over and Katsuki has to bite his inner cheek to hold in a laugh. While holding the pose, he stretches his arms out behind himself, and then moves into a half-bound lotus, holds, and then switches sides.

Then he adjusts himself into downward dog and holds before sliding into upward facing dog. He goes back up into downward dog and then sits back on his ass and grins at Touya as he extends his legs straight out and reaches forward to grip his toes, folded in half once again.

“You okay there, Patches?” Katsuki teases.

“You’re killing me here, doll,” Touya groans, face flushed as he does his best to copy the blonde. Katsuki cracks up laughing and Touya pulls his knees up as he looks at the ceiling, letting out a long breath. “It should be illegal to do that with shorts that tight.”

Katsuki snorts. “Glad you like ‘em.”

He stands up and walks to the wipes dispenser, grabbing two. He hands one to Touya before he wipes his mat clean. The tattooed man grumbles in mingled agitation and embarrassment as he wipes his mat down. Katsuki chuckles as he rolls his mat up and puts it back on the rack. Touya leans over his back as he puts his own mat away.

“I’m picking next,” the white-haired man says, voice deep and husky. The sound sends a shiver down Katsuki’s spine.

He looks over his shoulder at the man, nearly kissing him on accident from the unexpected closeness. He doesn’t back away, but he does let his breath fan over the man’s lips when he speaks lowly, “Whatever you want, Patches.”

“Fuck,” Touya groans as he pulls away. “Why are you so fucking hot? You’re playing dirty, Spitfire.”

Katsuki scoffs as he follows the white-haired man out. “You’re one to talk.”

Touya smirks mischievously back at him before looking around for his goal. With an ‘Aha!’ he leads the way to the bench press. He starts loading up plates and Katsuki cocks a brow when he only adds 90kg.

“Warm ups?” Katsuki guesses.

“Yup,” Touya confirms with a sharp nod. “We’re gonna see who can bench the most. You wanna go first?”

Katsuki shrugs and slides onto the bench and into position. He gets his grip and easily pushes out ten reps before racking it. He gives the other man a bored look, but Touya just shrugs and gestures for them to switch places.

They keep up the pattern, ten reps each, add 10kg, repeat.

Katsuki maxes out at 205kg, but the white-haired man just gives him a cocky smile and tells him to add more weight. Katsuki shrugs and adds ten more. Then ten more… and ten more…

When the bar has 230kg on it, Katsuki looks down uncertainly at the white-haired man. “You fuckin’ sure about this, Patchwork?”

“Aw, don’t worry about me, spitfire,” Touya says with a grin.

Katsuki clicks his tongue, but gets into spotting position as the other man finds his grip. He lifts the bar, and there’s definitely some straining, but he does ten slow reps. Katsuki quickly reaches in to help rack at after the tenth, and he just stares down at the smugly grinning white-haired man.

“What the fuck,” Katsuki says eloquently.

Touya laughs loudly and sits up. They work together to remove the weights, each taking one side so the bar doesn’t get upended. When they finish that, they move on to Katsuki’s next choice.

—

“I think we’re a good match, doll,” Touya says as they step out of the gym together, both freshly showered and in clean clothes. “You’ve got the flexibility and speed, and I’ve got strength.”

“You weren't the worst fucking person to work out with,” Katsuki says with a shrug. He’s really trying not to focus on how fucking hot the tattooed man is.

“We should do this more often,” Touya says. “I felt way more motivated today than I have in a long time.”

“Me too,” Katsuki admits.

“So, doll, you wanna go on a date with me?” Touya questions.

Katsuki looks up at him and blinks in surprise before his lips betray him with a small smile. “Yeah.”

“Hell yeah!” Touya says with a loud whoop. He beams down at Katsuki, smile wide and turquoise eyes glinting. “I’ll plan something for after seven, yeah? So it doesn’t mess with your work?”

Katsuki shrugs. “I can always take a day off. No boss to call in to, just have to update my social media.”

Touya gives him a surprised look. “You would take a day off… to spend it with me?”

“Fucking obviously,” Katsuki says with a scoff. He averts his eyes as heat rushes to his face. “I really fucking like you. ‘M not gonna bitch out of a date because of work.”

Heavy, hot hands land on his shoulders and Katsuki looks up in surprise at Touya, whose eyes are full of affection as he smiles down at the blonde.

“Next Saturday? We could start with dinner?” Touya suggests.

Katsuki nods. “Fine. But I’m cooking dinner. Use my stolen address to find your way.”

Touya huffs out a laugh and nods. “Absolutely.”

—

SHIE HASSAIKAI LEADER CHISAKI KAI FOUND DEAD AMONGST THE BODIES OF THE ‘EIGHT BULLETS’

—

Katsuki is going all out for his dinner date with Touya. They’d agreed on 6pm and Katsuki spent a good part of his afternoon grocery shopping for a killer meal.

He knows Touya likes meat and hates fish; something he’d learned over the past couple weeks of the guy going to Dynamight’s for lunch, which seems to happen more often than not since his first time there.

For tonight, Katsuki had settled on rice, clear soup, steamed vegetables, and pan-seared steaks cooked in his beloved cast iron pan.

He also has homemade strawberry mochi in the freezer, and he picked up two bottles of wine when he was out.

His little two-seater dining table is already set with plates and cutlery the way he was taught in culinary school, water glasses filled, wine glasses ready and one bottle of wine at the edge of the table. He even fan-folded the damn napkins, for fucks’ sake.

Okay, so he’s nervous.

He’s gotten to know the white-haired man pretty well over the past few weeks, especially after the damn bar fight, and more so after the unexpected gifts for Queenie.

They text every single day, and Katsuki is fairly certain that he’s falling for the bizarre tattooed man who sends funny pictures and sarcastic quips, flirts and snarks with equal ease. He’s kind, sarcastic, strong as fuck, and he finds Katsuki’s attitude endearing rather than something that should be kept away with a 50-foot pole.

A strange clatter from Katsuki’s bedroom makes him look up from the pan he’s heating up. Queenie is napping on the cat tree’s hammock, per usual. The blonde furrows his brow and walks to his bedroom.

Touya is climbing through his window from the fire escape, a single red rose held in his mouth.

Katsuki leans on the bedroom doorframe and watches him until the white-haired man suddenly freezes and looks up, one ankle still out the window. His turquoise eyes lock with Katsuki’s scarlet orbs, and they just stare at each other in stunned silence for several long moments.

“Go wash your hands before dinner,” Katsuki says and then turns, heading back into the kitchen.

Touya cheers loudly and the window slides shut. Katsuki snorts out a laugh and puts the first steak on the pan, swirling it to keep it coated with the butter and herbs.

He hears Touya walk to the bathroom and the man hums cheerfully as he scrubs his hands

Katsuki chuckles to himself as he flips the steak, just allowing himself to breathe and try to calm himself down.

Warm, thick arms wrap around his waist and a chin drops to his shoulder, totally enveloping Katsuki’s back in Touya’s broad, firm chest. The blonde finds himself leaning against the man without actively choosing to do so.

“That smells so good,” Touya says.

“It’ll taste even better,” Katsuki promises.

They stay like that, relaxed and warm as Katsuki transfers the first steak to a plate and covers it with foil to keep it hot as he cooks the second steak.

Touya inhales deeply, squeezing the blonde a little tighter, and Katsuki is definitely in love because he has never felt more content before in his entire goddamn life.

“So, tell me about your mortal enemies,” Touya says and Katsuki spurts out a laugh.

“Fuckin’ mortal enemies, seriously, Patches?” Katsuki questions, shaking his head lightly.

“Come on, tell me who you’ve secretly wished would just fuck off,” Touya says.

Katsuki hums thoughtfully. “Well, I’d say Chisaki, but seems like that fucker finally got what was coming to him.”

“Seems that way,” Touya says, hiding his pleased smirk in the man’s hair.

“Probably my old high school teacher,” Katsuki says after a minute.

“Oh?” Touya questions curiously.

“I won this competition in my first year, but it was a fuckin’ joke of a win and I didn’t wanna accept the award, so she fuckin’ chained me to the podium while the news broadcasted the fuckin’ thing live,” Katsuki says, sighing.

Touya’s grip tightens on him and he hums. “I’m sure karma will get her eventually.”

“Sure,” Katsuki says, snorting softly.

When Katsuki moves to place the first steak to a plate, he does his best to not dislodge Touya without being too obvious that’s what he’s doing. The rumbling chuckle through his spine suggests he’s not as coy as he’d hoped, but he just moves the second steak to the pan to repeat the process.

“You’d make such a nice house-husband,” Touya says teasingly.

“Fuck off,” Katsuki says, but the man just snickers. “I ain’t some fuckin’ bride to keep locked up in a damn tower.”

Touya hums what sounds like an agreement. “True, I would rather show off my pretty husband everywhere we go. Let everyone see what they can’t have.”

“Who the fuck says that shit on a first date?” Katsuki mumbles, and he can feel the shit-eating grin on the taller man’s face.

“Someone who knows what he wants,” Touya says, voice low and husky, hot breath fanning across Katsuki’s ear, and fuck, if it doesn’t have his cock swelling.

“Shut up and sit down,” Katsuki says, elbowing the man lightly.

“Fine, fine,” Touya says. He places a soft kiss to Katsuki’s neck before releasing him, leaving the blonde stunned and frozen for a moment.

He swallows thickly and plates the second steak, adding the rice and steamed vegetables to both before turning to carry them to the table. The red rose the man had carried inside is placed neatly at the center of the table, and Touya quickly picks it up.

Katsuki quirks a brow at him as he places the plates, but the man just moves the flower safely aside. Katsuki brings the miso soup over next, setting it at the middle of the table.

“Made with vegetable broth,” Katsuki says, and Touya grins.

“Aw, you remembered,” Touya says; his voice is teasing but his expression shows the genuine fondness he feels for the blonde.

“Shut up and eat,” Katsuki mutters as he grabs the bottle of wine.

Touya chuckles as he watches the man expertly spin the corkscrew and tug the cork out with a pop, dropping it to the table and swiftly filling both glasses with the red liquid.

Katsuki slices into his steak and Touya does the same. The blonde lifts the first bite to his lips and his eyes flick up to the tattooed man as his lips close around his own forkful.

His turquoise eyes flutter closed and a deep, satisfied groan comes from his chest. The sound has Katsuki’s cheeks pinkening and his pupils dilating.

“You’re perfect,” Touya says, eyes opening part way.

“Fuck off,” Katsuki says, scowling as he scoops up some of the steamed veggies.

Touya just hums; the sound is deep and delighted and it has Katsuki flushing darker without even looking at the man. He can feel the tattooed man’s gaze burning into him.

The rest of dinner is quiet, just the sounds of them eating, the scraping of utensils, and the occasional chirrup from Queenie whenever birds fly past the window.

The air is thick with tension between the two men; the kind that has their senses on overdrive.

Touya, finished with his meal, takes a sip of his wine and stands up, grabbing the red rose. He walks around the small table, placing one hand on the back of Katsuki’s chair, using the other to hold the delicate thing out for the blonde.

“The brightest I could find,” Touya explains, locking eyes with Katsuki when he finally raises his gaze. He slowly takes the flower, unsure of what to do with it.

“Thanks,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

Touya chuckles softly, leaning closer and licking his lips. His newly freed hand cups the blonde’s jaw and his whole face goes soft.

“Your eyes are a much more stunning shade of red,” Touya says.

Katsuki’s cheeks flush even as he narrows his gaze defiantly. Touya just grins at that, leaning closer and pressing his lips to Katsuki’s.

There is an immediate jolt through his entire system, and Katsuki drops the flower on the table so that he can bury both of his hands in the man’s silky white locks. Touya nips at his lower lip, then sucks on it, and Katsuki moans.

A feral growl rips from deep within Touya’s chest as a darker side of him breaks through the cracks in his self-control. He roughly wraps his arms around the blonde’s hips, shoving them down to his ass and lifting him up off the chair.

Katsuki gasps in surprise, but the show of strength is so fucking hot that he can’t even find it in himself to be angry. He lets out his own growl as he bites down on the side of the man’s neck, and Touya moans as he starts walking toward the blonde’s bedroom.

He falls onto the bed atop the blonde, making him grunt, but he refuses to move any further away than necessary as he crashes their lips together again.

Katsuki roughly grabs the hem of the man’s shirt and tugs on it, and Touya lets out a shaky chuckle as he pulls it off, then immediately rips Katsuki’s off as well.

Their mouths connect again as their hands roam down each other’s exposed flesh, both delighting in the muscles that move beneath their fingers. Katsuki reaches the man’s jeans and cups the obvious bulge, squeezing lightly and making Touya bite down on Katsuki’s lower lip.

The blonde moans again, squeezing his covered cock once more and making Touya snarl against his lips as he starts undoing the buttons for Katsuki’s pants, while the blonde does the same to his.

Their boxers go with the pants, shoved somewhere to the floor where neither of them gives a fuck.

Katsuki reaches over to his nightstand, growling when he has to move from Touya’s lips to rip the drawer open, making the few dildos inside clatter together. He shoves them aside, grasping the slick little bottle of lube.

Touya licks his lips as the blonde clicks the cap open and grabs Touya’s hand, drizzling the cool liquid over his fingers, some of it dripping down to his abdomen.

“You’d better fucking prep me well, your cock is fucking massive,” Katsuki snarls and Touya grins.

“And I’m sure you’ll scream so nicely on it,” Touya says, leaning in to kiss him as a distraction as he roughly shoves two of his long, thick fingers into the blonde’s hole.

Katsuki gasps and moans, precum leaking from his cock at the stinging from the stretch. He licks over Touya’s lips, shoving his tongue into the man’s mouth as soon as he opens up, dominating the kiss while the man thrusts his fingers in and out, scissoring and twisting them.

When Touya adds a third finger, he pulls back to pant for breath, both of their chests heaving, and he chuckles as he starts kissing and sucking down Katsuki’s neck.

“Fucking what?” Katsuki snaps, though he tilts his head for the man.

“Just didn’t think you’d be a pillow princess,” Touya says, snickering lightly. “Don’t worry, I don’t mind, Katsuki.”

The blonde just smirks, humming as the man continues kissing down him, knowing he’s going to surprise this fucker pretty goddamned soon.

“Condoms?” Touya questions.

“Nightstand,” Katsuki says.

Touya kisses his neck once more before leaning up, pulling his fingers free from Katsuki’s ass to lean over. He makes a curious sound when he spots the toys inside, but carefully tucks that information away for later and pulls out a large, heavily used box of condoms.

Jealousy soars through him and he rips one from the bundle. He grits his teeth as he rips it open, rolling it down his length before looming over the blonde.

“Get fucked often, doll?” Touya questions, obvious anger in his tone.

Katsuki smirks devilishly and leans up as he hooks a leg around the man’s hip, flipping their positions in a quick move that has Touya blinking in surprise and gripping the mans thighs.

“Hmm, jealous, hah?” Katsuki taunts, gripping Touya’s cock as he lines himself up.

“I don’t like to share,” Touya says, eyes locked on where the tip of his dick is kissing the blonde’s hole. He rolls his hips up, but the man doesn’t budge, and he growls.

“Good thing those condoms were for my dildos then, eh?” Katsuki says.

Touya’s jealousy simmers out and his eyes flick up to the blonde. “Wait, wha—fuck!”

His question is cut off by Katsuki dropping down, spearing himself on the man’s cock. The sudden envelopment of the tight heat around Touya’s dick has him moaning, fingers digging harshly into the blonde’s thick thighs.

“Ah, fuck, that’s good,” Katsuki says, leaning forward and planting his palms on the man’s tattooed pecs as he starts to rock slowly.

“God,” Touya groans, moving along with the man to smack their bodies together, feeling his cock move deeper with each thrust.

“Oh, fuck,” Katsuki moans as Touya’s cock drags along his prostate. He starts moving faster, grinding down harder. “Sh-shit, Touya.”

The man beneath him growls, flexing his grip on the man and waiting for the perfect moment to slam up, ramming his cock harshly up to meet his downward movement. Katsuki gasps, his own nails scraping along Touya’s chest as he fucks himself down.

Touya grits his teeth as he drills up into the man, making him bounce with each movement, but the grip on his thighs doesn’t let the man move far. He can feel the band of pleasure quickly approaching it’s peak and he pants as he forces his hips to move faster.

Katsuki reaches one hand down to grip his cock, stroking only a couple times before he cums with a keen, his ass clenching around Touya’s dick as his spend spills out over his hand.

Touya manages a few more thrusts up before he tugs the blonde down, burying himself as deep as possible as he fills the condom. His chest is heaving, but the pleasure is so fucking good that he just keeps rolling his hips, drawing it out, not stopping until the blonde flicks his nipple to gather his attention.

“Fuckin’ stop,” Katsuki says, his entire body shuddering.

Touya grunts, but complies, reaching up instead to grasp the back of the man’s neck, pulling him down for a kiss. The blonde kisses back, pressing his cum soaked hand to Touya’s abdomen as he pulls himself off the man’s dick.

He slumps down next to the man, too tired to move at the moment, and Touya lets out a breathless laugh as he wraps his arms around Katsuki, ignoring the sticky condom on his cock.

“I’m going to marry you someday,” Touya announces.

“Uh-huh,” Katsuki says with a snort.

“You wait, it’s gonna happen,” Touya says cheerfully, planting a smacking kiss to Katsuki’s temple.

“You’re a fucking sap after sex,” Katsuki mutters and the tattooed man laughs.

“You’d better get used to it,” Touya says, his eyes darkening as he leans his head against the blonde’s. “I’m not letting you go, Katsuki.”

—

UNFORTUNATE CAR CRASH CLAIMS THE LIFE OF NEMURI KAYAMA

[fenandfield]

Buried Beneath

Fic summary: Despite the tremors Phoenix felt a groan as the old courthouse shifted and creaked with the earth beneath it and he felt his face go pale. Realizing what was about to happen, he only had seconds to act as he rolled Edgeworth under the prosecutors bench, throwing himself on top of him just as the entire building fell in on itself, trapping the two attorneys inside its bowels.

The ground went still

Or

After a particularly devastating earthquake, the courthouse is in ruin. Phoenix and Edgeworth are trapped down below the wreckage until help arrives.

Word count: 4049

Chapters: 1/1

Story and link to read on ao3 are just below the cut, reblogs and comments are lovely :)

It came out of the blue - like earthquakes tended to do - fast and terrifying as usual.

Phoenix stood in front of the court, pressing Edgeworths witness with no remorse as Maya stood faithfully behind the defence bench, sneaking candies into her mouth when she thought no one was watching.

It was with Edgeworths faltered “Objection-“ that the ground had begun to tremble. And it trembled hard.

Phoenix stumbled to his knees as someone screamed “earthquake!” and panic settled over the courtroom. A TV fell off the wall behind him with a clatter and the presented case evidence slid off the desk as Phoenix shielded his head with his hands and ran for Maya where she stood frozen in fear.

The ground continued to shake.

“Evacuate, evacuate the building!”

Phoenix fought for his balance as he tugged on Mayas sleeve, “Come on, we have to get out of here!”

The spirit medium fell into his side with a stumble. “But, Nick! What about Mr. Edgeworth?!” She cried over the noise of shattering objects and frightened people.

Phoenix gasped, eyes going wide. Edgeworth. He turned. Miles hadn’t moved from his place behind the prosecutors bench, eyes forced shut and knuckles white where they gripped the wooden banister.

Without thinking he shoved Maya towards the exit, “I’ll get him out of here, you go!” She stared back with tear filled eyes, rooted to the quaking floor. “Go!” He barked, fixing her with a stern glare until she sniffled, turning on her heel and running for safety.

The ground continued to shake.

Phoenix spun around. He knew he only had a matter of moments before Edgeworth would spiral out of mental reach or worse, faint. But it was too late. Phoenix had taken his first step forward just as Miles’ eyes rolled back into his head and he collapsed onto the floor, forehead striking the desk rather harshly on the way down, impact eliciting a sickening crack.

“Miles!” He screamed as he staggered over to his slumped form, grabbing the man by his shoulders and slapping at his slack face. The man lying limp on the floor made no response. “Don’t do this, we have to get out of here!”

Despite the tremors Phoenix felt a groan as the old courthouse shifted and creaked with the earth beneath it and he felt his face go pale. Realizing what was about to happen, he only had seconds to act as he rolled Edgeworth under the prosecutors bench, throwing himself on top of him just as the entire building fell in on itself, trapping the two attorneys inside its bowels.

The ground went still.

Phoenix came around to the scent of blood and the sensation of a crushing weight resting on the lower part of his body, most specifically his right ankle. Swallowing blearily he lifted his head with a groan and opened his eyes.

What had happened?

Right. Earthquake. Edgeworth. The courthouse collapsing.

He coughed as he attempted to take a gulp of air, littered with dust and debris. His surroundings were cast in darkness though if he squinted he could still make out a dim light source coming from somewhere behind him.

So they were buried. Hopefully not too deeply if light and oxygen was still able to filter its way through the wreckage.

They were buried alive. Okay, Wright. Don’t panic don’t panic don’t fucking panic. It… it could be worse, right?

He could be dead.

As his vision adjusted to the minimal light source he could make out the silhouette of another persons head slanted to the side on the floor underneath his own body. Miles.

Phoenix felt a jolt of panic as he realized that the other man had yet to make any signs of life. Freeing a hand, he placed two fingers on the side of Miles’ exposed neck.

One beat. Two beat. Three beat. Four.

Phoenix let his head hang with a sigh of relief. Edgeworth was alive, simply out cold. The fact sent a small pang of worry through his system, albeit, a fact that he was slightly grateful for because the position they had ended up in was quite… undignified.

Phoenix lay on his front, arms that had previously been wrapped around Edgeworths shoulders now propping himself up. The exposed side of his body had been completely buried, forcing the two men taught against the far wall of the bench, and Edgeworth… Edgeworth lay tucked almost perfectly underneath Phoenix’s own self. Practically nose to nose on the floor.

Phoenix felt his ears go red with heat at the realization that there was nothing separating the two attorneys except for the clothes on their backs. Embarrassed, Phoenix attempted to roll off of his unconscious friend but met resistance in the form of searing pain in his ankle.

Stifling a cry of pain he held his breath and pulled at his leg as hard as he could muster. He tugged and tugged to no avail, cursing and panting.

Then something shifted. Something heavy. Shifting the opposite way that Phoenix needed it to go. He bit his lip hard as the pain grew tenfold, moaning in misery. Okay, so that was a bad idea.

He

Was

Stuck.

And with Edgeworth pinned underneath him, it didn’t seem like they’d be freeing themselves anytime soon. No, they’d have to wait for help to come to their aid, and pray that it would get there fast - if it came at all.

He tipped his head as far back as it could go, desperate to make their whereabouts known. “Hello!?” He shouted at the top of his lungs. “Can anyone hear me!?”

Only the sound of Edgeworths even breathing met his ears.

Phoenix had heard stories of victims in these types of burial situations. Some having to lie in wait for days on end before being uncovered and by then… it was too late. Asphyxiation, starvation, internal injuries. It took them all out.

Fear was like ice in his veins.

Hastily, he placed his fingers back against Edgeworths throat for reassurance. The prosecutor was still alive but unresponsive. Phoenix swallowed as he stared down at Edgeworths moppy bangs in the dark. He couldn’t panic now. Not when Miles surely would, thanks to his past trauma.

And wouldn’t this situation just make everything ten times worse for him. Phoenix chewed his bottom lip in sweltering anxiety. It would be more than a challenge to keep Miles calm when he woke up.

If he woke up…

Phoenix winced and would’ve smacked himself for that thought if he had the space to move. He couldn’t afford that sort of doubt, not now at all times.

He shifted again in an effort to find a more comfortable position for his ankle as it continued to throb but went still when he heard a faint voice.

“...please…” Miles breathed and Phoenix’s heart leapt into his throat. He was coming around.

“E-edgeworth?” He stuttered in a low voice, so not to startle the man beneath him.

Miles made no signs of recognition, eyes closed and head tipped to the side. “Please… don’t… don’t hurt my father…”

Phoenix’s bottom lip was starting to swell under his constant nipping. “Edgeworth… M-Miles, it’s me, it’s Phoenix…”

Miles finally lifted his head to reveal the other half of his face which was - much to Phoenix’s horror - slick with blood. Phoenix’s eyes flew wide and he pushed away from Edgeworth only for the back of his head to make contact with the underside of the desk with a dull ‘bonk’.

He rubbed at the sore spot as he vividly remembered Miles whacking his own head on the bench when he fainted. He better not be concussed. Phoenix didn’t know how to deal with head injuries very well.

“Ph… Phoenix..?” Miles eyelids fluttered for a moment before they shut again. “No...no… don’ hurt…” Edgeworth whimpered and Phoenix shushed him gently, uncomfortable and unsure of how to treat the situation. He had never seen the man so open and vulnerable before.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay Edgeworth.” He consoled as he tilted his head to try and get a better view of Edgeworths head wound. The poor lighting discoloured the crimson liquid, altering its shade to one of inky blackness. He couldn’t tell where it was coming from. “That looks bad, Miles.” Subtly, he maneuvered his arm and patted down his breast pocket, removing his tissue that he stored in there. With one hand he shook it until it unfolded and used it to dab at the blood that coated half of Miles’ face and hairline.

Edgeworth immediately pulled away with a grimace and a noise of pain. “No… no…” he gasped and tossed his head, limbs weakly beginning to shiver.

Phoenix braced himself as Miles’ tossing and turning put pressure on his wounded ankle. “Hey, it’s okay… it’s okay Miles.” He struggled to keep his voice light as pain flickered across his entire leg at the change in posture.

Ever so slowly Edgeworths stirring ceased, and his only movements became the incoherent muttering of his lips and soft trembles of his body. Hesitantly, Phoenix wiped the blood from his cheek, smearing it slightly up the bridge of his nose as he went.

It was obvious that Miles was not faring well and it terrified him.

Phoenix didn’t know if it were the blow to the head or the PTSD that was making Edgeworth act so different - so <em>wrong</em> - but he figured it was likely a healthy combination of both factors.

Miles kept muttering incoherencies under his breath in a broken voice of a whisper as Phoenix cautiously cleaned his wound to the best of his ability. When he located the source of the blood he winced with Edgeworth as he felt it out with his fingers. A gash, roughly two inches long sat on top of a tough lump of swollen flesh that rested just underneath Miles’ hairline.

Ouch.

Phoenix knew headwounds bled quite a bit, but he was not expecting his handkerchief to become soiled with the substance as fast as it had. His fingers were sticky and red, stained almost as much as the fabric in his hands and yet the cut kept oozing. Not knowing what else to do, Phoenix refolded the tissue and settled it on top of the injury before pressing down. You were supposed to put pressure on wounds, right?

Miles moaned underneath him and Phoenix patted his chest with his free hand in an awkward attempt at comfort before remembering that he was probably smearing blood all over the expensive suit.

He retracted his hand with a meek chuckle. “Yeah, we’re in a bit of a squeeze, aren’t we Miles?” Tentatively, he lifted the corner of the handkerchief to check for clotting but had to press back down when more blood instantly welled up. “You know… you’re supposed to keep this red stuff inside your body.”

He kept up the pressure as Edgeworth continued to shiver as if he’d been left in the polar circle - most likely had something to do with blood loss and shock - Phoenix assumed. He hated the silence but hated the echo of his own voice even more, so he opted to stay quiet, kept sane only by the sounds of Edgeworths faint mumbles and exhales.

He didn’t know how long it had been since the quake had struck, but it felt like days. Phoenix rubbed at his nose. It had probably only been a few hours at max and yet there had been no sight nor sound of rescue.

Phoenix swallowed dryly, if anything he’d be dying of thirst before sun set. With a sigh, he doubled his pressure on Miles’ brow and mentally settled into the never ending silence.

But then.

Miles woke up.

With a gasp the prosecutors eyes flew open and he jackknifed halfway before whacking his forehead off of Phoenix’s and collapsing back onto the floor.

Phoenix clasped a hand to his head with a shout of surprise. “Miles!”

Edgeworth blinked and even in the dark setting, Phoenix could plainly see one pupil larger than the other.

Not good.

“F-father…” Edgeworth croaked.

Phoenix shook his head, “No, no, it’s me Phoenix, Phoenix Wright.”

Miles sucked in a breath through his nose, crinkling it on the exhale. “Wr...Wright?” The hint of confusion in his voice was strong. Yeah, he was definitely concussed, Phoenix decided.

“Yeah, it’s me… how do you feel?” He asked lightly, not expecting his next words to be a holler of pain and surprise when Edgeworth started moving again.

Miles pushed at him weakly, “Ge’ off…” he slurred as he writhed.

Phoenix grabbed at miles wrists and pinned them easily to the floor. “Stop, stop. Don’t move, please stop moving.” He hissed through his teeth at the agonizing sensation of the weight increasing pressure on his injured limb. “We’re stuck, okay? Now please, stop moving.”

Something Phoenix said must've managed to worm its way through Edgeworths swollen skull because immediately, Miles went still again. There was a beat before either one of them made another sound.

“St-stuck?” Miles’ voice was high with terror. “No… no…”

Shit, wrong thing to say… “Well, yeah! But it’s not that bad really. Well, I mean it’s a little snug...”

“No no… not… happening…” Miles coughed and spluttered as he attempted to twist out of Phoenix’s hold. “Have to… no air… st-stop stop stop…”. The prosecutor's breaths swiftly turned into panicked pants, settled on the cusp of hyperventilation.

Phoenix didn’t know what to do or say to qualm his friends fears. “Mi-Miles, breathe- you’re…we’re gonna get out of here, okay?” Edgeworths chest heaved and in the gleam of the light, Phoenix caught the trails of something wet on Miles’ face. Tears.

Edgeworth was crying.

Phoenix’s heart broke at the sight.

“I… We’re going to get out of here, Miles. I promise.” Phoenix let his head dip close enough to Edgeworths that their foreheads brushed briefly. “I promise you.”

All too suddenly Miles went totally still and Phoenix pulled away, worry contorting his features. Did he just pass out again? Phoenix didn’t know if he could handle being alone in the dark again.

God, he felt like a little kid.

“Miles... You still here?” He cried, voice shaking with poorly restrained emotion. No response from the man lying trapped underneath him. “Miles, wake up!” He barked, shaking the silent man by his wrists.

“Do… shut up…” Miles moaned when Phoenix began relentlessly chanting his name, poking his cheekbone with every syllable.

Phoenix laughed at the sound of his voice, now that sounded like the Edgeworth he knew. “Oh thank goodness, I was so worried!”

“Wrigh’ is that… you?” Miles’ voice was hardly louder than a mere whisper but it was still music to Phoenix’s ears.

“He-hey, Edgeworth… yeah, it’s me.” He sighed in relief at the coherency he could hear in his colleagues tone.

Miles squinted up at him. “You… you’re lying on top of me…”

Phoenix felt his smile falter, pressing his lips together as his thoughts spiralled. Hadn’t they already gone over this? “Yeah, I kinda am… sorry about that.” He confirmed. Miles simply blinked.

So Edgeworth still wasn’t… all there.

They gazed into each other’s eyes for a long number of seconds before Edgeworth whined. “Get off… you big… oaf…” He made to lift his wrists again but gave up against Phoenix’s heavy grip.

“Sorry, sorry, no can do.” The words ‘<em>we’re stuck</em>’ were on the tip of his tongue before he bit it back. He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. “How’s your head?” He tried instead.

Edgeworth swallowed hard. “Hurts…” he admitted without interrogation - another red flag revealing what state he was in. Edgeworth wasn’t the type to tell the truth when it came to personal feelings.

“Yeah, yeah I bet it does.” Phoenix started slowly, unsure of what words would trigger Miles' psyche into another panic attack.

Miles coughed, harsh and wet sounding, “...why?”

“Why? Uh, why what…” Phoenix frowned momentarily before realization struck. “Oh, well you took a good hit. Whacked it real good.”

Miles made a sound somewhere between a hum and a groan. “W-where?”

Phoenix paused. How was he supposed to answer that in truth without igniting another freak out? Easy.

Lie.

“We’re, uh, in bed…?” Phoenix grimaced as soon as the words were out - what kind of excuse was that?

“...Oh.” Miles sounded slightly surprised, but he made no grunts of disapproval, which is what Phoenix had been expecting without a doubt in his mind. “T-together?”

Phoenix squeaked. “Yep! Don’t you remember, we’re uh-“ <em>he was really digging out his own grave here</em>, “- We’re dating.” He choked out.

Miles frowned. “Don’ remember…”

“Well I’m not surprised, you hit your head pretty hard.” Phoenix chuckled awkwardly, mixed emotions washing over him at the continuation of the charade. “How do you feel, Miles?”

Edgeworth sighed and turned his neck, eyes fluttering closed. “T’red… Head hurts…”

Alarms blared in Phoenix’s mind as Miles relaxed in his hold. There was something he had read about concussions and sleeping. “Oh wait wait, Edgeworth you can’t sleep right now!”

Miles growled. “But… bed?”

“Yeah, yeah we are in bed but Miles, you’re hurt.” Phoenix pleaded but Miles kept his eyes closed. “Come on, you have to stay awake… you could- you could die... an-and I don’t want to be alone…” His voice dimmed exponentially on the last part, admitting the fact more so to himself than Edgeworth.

“Alone… is not… head… hurts…”

Phoenix shushed him as Miles shifted minutely as he whimpered, brushing back his shaggy bangs with a blood stained hand.

“Make… it stop… Phoenix…”

Phoenix felt his breath catch in his throat. There was… there was nothing more he could do to help.

“I’m sorry.” He croaked, tears stinging at his eyes. “I’m sorry, Miles.”

“Please don’... don’t hurt my… don’t… father…”

Phoenix tucked his head into his chest, fighting back tears. He couldn’t deal with this, he needed out and he needed out now.

Miles went utterly limp and a lump formed in Phoenix’s throat, swollen and hard and nearly impossible to form words around. “Miles?” He choked, no longer comforted by the sound of Edgeworths breathing. What was once steady and even was now shallow and breathless.

No response.

His hope grew dim as the light source faded.

Night had come and what was once warm was now pale and cold.

He was shaking from the chill, clutching to Miles’ body heat like a moth to flame. The man underneath him had stopped shivering long ago.

It had been hours since Miles had passed out and he had yet to move of his own accords. Phoenix was scared for his life. If Edgeworth died in here… it would be all his fault. To make matters worse, Phoenix had accidentally reopened his cut when he had peeled off the crusty handkerchief and the wound was now bleeding freely again.

A trail of blood escaped the hold of the fabric clutched to Miles’ face and it streaked down his temple like a dark red tear.

Phoenix clenched his jaw at the sight. What he was doing wasn’t helping, <em>he</em> wasn’t helping, he was useless and they were both going to die because of his incompetence.

His eyes burned with malice, and his mouth contorted with the verge of tears. What happened to staying calm? Stay calm Wright, stay calm…

”Phoenix.”

Stop imagining things and relax…

”Phoenix…” A woman’s voice, calm and cool rang echoelessly inside his mind. ”You’re not imagining things.”

Phoenix froze, holding his breath.

That voice… could it really be..?

“M-Mia?” He gasped as hot tears spilt over his cheeks. Maya must be channeling her late sisters thoughts somehow, meaning… the medium had to be close by.

Mia’s huff of laughter was the best thing Phoenix had ever heard. ”Hold on just a little bit longer, Phoenix. They’re close, they’re so, so close.”

Phoenix had never cried so hard in his life. Rescue was coming, they were going to make it.

He patted Edgeworth on the shoulder, “Did you hear that, Miles? We’re gonna make it, we’re gonna get out of here, just like I promised!”

Only… Miles…

He wasn’t breathing.

Phoenix’s world came crashing down in a sick mockery of the courthouse walls as adrenaline rushed through his bloodstream and he <em>yanked</em> his ankle free of the rubble with a sickening crunch. He would’ve screamed if he had felt the pain.

But his mind was solely focused on Miles laying stiff on the floor.

“No!” His throat was raw with emotion as he placed his ear against Edgeworths still chest, barely feeling any relief when the delayed beat of his heart registered in his mind. “No, no, please god, no!”

Frantically he hovered his hands over Miles’ chest and head, scanning the ground for any sort of clue as to what to do next.

“What do I do, Mia, what do I do?!” He screamed into the darkness but the woman had vanished back into the realm of the dead. “Oh god Miles, not now, please!”

Miles' features were peaceful, creases and worry lines gone into the night and Phoenix punched his chest with a newfound hatred for the man.

“Don’t you do this to me, don’t you leave me now after everything we’ve been through!” Phoenix screamed as he shook Edgeworths shoulders, watching his head turn bonelessly from side to side.

Phoenix settled a bloody hand on the side of Miles’ face as he steadied himself and realized what he needed to do.

With one final deep inhale, Phoenix steeled his mind and pressed his lips to Miles.

The kiss of life.

Plugging Edgeworths nose and transferring his air into the prosecutor's lungs, Phoenix pulled back to breathe again before diving back down.

“Come on you stupid idiot, breathe!”

Again and again he forced his oxygen into Miles’ unresponsive body, crying and panting and begging and dizzy with exhaustion until

Someone

Grabbed

His

Shoulder.

“Sir, sir! Can you hear me sir?” A man hollered from above.

Phoenix whipped around, mouth agape with shock. “Ye-yes! I’m here, we’re down here!”

“Okay sir, just hang on a minute, we’re gonna get you out in a jiffy.” The man retracted his hand with a “Hey tell that weird girl she was right, there are people trapped under the prosecutors bench!”

Phoenix sobbed openly as he rocked Edgeworth in his arms. “They’re here, they’re going to help us, Miles… everything is going to be okay.”

But everything wasn’t okay.

Miles still wasn’t breathing.

The rubble cleared above and gentle hands reached inside and began to pull him free from the wreckage.

“No, no!” He cried, delirious from pain and terror as he was broken free of his temporary prison, “help him, help him please…”

The hands laid him down on a stretcher that was set on the floor. He went willingly as someone jumped into the hole in his absence.

“Hey we need a medic over here! This ones not breathing!”

Phoenix closed his eyes, tears still flowing freely. Edgeworth was going to die and it was all his fault. He couldn’t save him, he couldn’t save anybody.

Slender fingers entwined with his own. “Nick?” Someone asked, hesitant.

Phoenix opened his eyes.

Maya.

“Ed- Edgeworth…” He opened his mouth to speak but she quieted him with a finger to his lips.

“Mia wanted me to tell you that Mr. Edgeworth will be okay. He’s hurt bad, but he’s gonna make it...” She paused for a moment as a medic bustled over and fastened an oxygen mask over Phoenix's face. “His spirit is strongly tethered to this plane. He won’t die. Not today.”

Phoenix choked on a sob as he clutched Mayas hand in his own. He couldn’t remember a time when he’d ever been so emotional but then again, he’d never been buried alive before.

Over Mayas shoulder he could see Edgeworth being fastened to a stretcher identical to his own and he let his eyes flutter close as Gumshoe appeared at his side and they wheeled him away.

He trusted Mia with all his soul.

Phoenix’s own stretcher was lifted and began to roll and Maya kept pace beside him as he was loaded into the back of an ambulance. “You did good, Nick, you did good.” She whispered consolations to him as the air in his mask turned sweet.

“Everything’s gonna be okay…”

The world began to turn circles around him and Phoenix felt his body relax into the cushions underneath him.

“You can rest now.”

And rest he did.

[neeterloveschenford]

THOUGHTS ON RNM 3x08

Wow! What an amazing episode!!! I think I have watched it 5 times now.ed And watched all the Malex scenes on youtube repeatedly. Stopped and stared at every gifset I’ve run across. It’s just been an amazing feeling knowing that we won people!!! Malex is back and I honestly don’t think they will be going back. It’s really, finally their time. But I’m going to save them til last because there will be so much flailing! So I’m going to start with the only thing that I had a real problem with in this episode. Why does no one care about Kyle? I’m positive that they know about him. Alex wouldn’t drop everything he dropped in this episode without letting them know where Kyle is. And there is a very bad habit with this show of telling instead of showing. And I totally get why Maria is the priority at the moment. Kyle is presumably stable and being taken care of by Eduardo, while Maria was deteriorating while she was “possessed” by Jones. But still, a little “Hey Alex, how’s my brother?” from Rosa would not have been remiss. But, I guess I just have to take a step back and remember that this is RNM and old habits are hard to break with them apparently.

Now. Let’s move on to the things I loved. I know there was so much hate and salt thrown Maria’s way because she’s rarely written the way she should be. And of course there was all of last season that made a lot of people loathe and despise her. I’ve had my moments where I never wanted to see her on my screen again, but then I took a step back and realized I was putting all of my hatred and upset onto a fictional character. Maria is not the person who wrote such a crappy story for her last season. I think we can all agree that Maria was Carina’s self-insert character. But I decided that I was going to move past my anger and try and embrace her this season. Admittedly, it’s been up and down. I think there have been times when she has definitely been used too much, and times when she was never fleshed out. But this episode her story revolved around what I have always thought was the most interesting part about her. Her heritage. I’ve always been interested in Patricia and what happened to her at Caulfield. To see how she worked with Nora to build the Lockhart machine was great! And then to find out how she was injected with the alien chemicals after Lockhart figured out she was actually helping the people she was supposed to be injecting, that was awesome. I’m glad Maria got to find out more about her family’s past. Now I’m left wondering if Arturo has a past interaction with aliens or a connection to Caulfield. So far we’ve learned about the Valentis, the DeLuca’s and the Manes families. Now we need to find out about the Ortecho’s.

Next I would like to talk about all of the wonderful interactions between the women. I was feeling so much girl power emanating from my tv screen! I don’t care what anyone says, I love the friendships between Liz and Isobel, Isobel and Rosa, Rosa and Maria, Isobel and Maria, and Liz and Maria. They were amazing. I can’t wait to see more of their interactions. I think all of the women (frankly, all of the characters) have grown so much this season. I love the bonds of sisterhood that have formed between our ladies! They were all so supportive and caring with each other. It’s like Maria said, she wasn’t alone, she had her sisters with her! And when Liz said the three women I love, I wanted to cry. They have all come so far this season. Is everything perfect? No. But it’s so much better than it has been. I just want more, more, more.

Liz got to be her badass science self again. I loved the fact that she talked to the horse the entire episode. Sometimes we just have to bounce ideas off of somebody. Why not a horse? And the way she figured out how to disconnect Jones from Maria using Rosa’s new powers was perfection. She really got to see a new side to Rosa this time. I’m so glad that we are getting these wonderful Ortecho sister moments!

Isobel is a bamf! She took on Jones without a moments hesitation and totally kicked his ass! I love her so much! She has grown so confident in her abilities. And the fact that the one moment of doubt she had was when Rosa swooped in with pod Yoda wisdom was exactly what she needed. They are one of my favorite friendships on the show.

And my last thing before I fall down the Malex rabbit hole. My dudes. Get over the hug already! It has been canon the entire time that Alex still thinks of Maria as one of his best friends. As much as y’all want her to have her reckoning for 2x06, it’s not going to happen. If it bothers you so much that all you can do after so much wonderfulness, is complain about Maria, then you need to really think about whether or not this is the show for you. She is not going anywhere anytime soon. Yes, she still annoys me sometimes, but I can put that aside and love the show despite her. I don’t mean to be harsh, but there is just too much negativity out there.

So now for the good stuff. (Rubs hands together.) OMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMG!!!!!!!

I cannot believe that we won! We’ve lost so many times. But now WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS MY FRIENDS! We were given a feast with this episode. I mean in the first five minutes we have Alex coming clean to Michael about joining Deep Sky. And instead of blowing up and walking away, Michael actually listened. And what Alex said about making a world where Michael didn’t have to live in fear for the both of them? I nearly died then and there. I seriously could have just had that moment and been happy. The eyebrow flirting was so cute. Then we get it again when they are trying to figure out where Jones was. The heart eyes coming from Michael was glorious. He was so proud of his man and his hacking skills. And we got dorky eyebrow flirting again! Then we have that scene where we learn why Alex is the way he is. I know there has been a lot said about him having a white saviour complex with the story of Omar, but I’ve heard similar stories from actual vets. We tend to let our own feelings about the military cloud our feelings for the men and women who serve. I’m glad that they finally showed Alex’s PTSD. He holds himself away from people because he knows what it’s like to lose people. And Michael rubbing his cheek like that. I almost died again. I just love them so much. And then we get the scene where Alex stops Michael from trying to take the sword from Jones. Him grabbing Michael’s hand like that was downright sexual. I need to fan myself. That’s chemistry folks! And then we get Alex hitting Jones with the truck! What a great parallel with Michael hitting Jesse with his cane. Those boys will do anything to protect each other.

And then we have that scene. SO MUCH GOODNESS! Alex telling Michael about the Lockhart machine. Michael admitting that he knows that he probably won’t get clearance to work on the project. Alex saying he will tell him everything anyway. Our boys have grown so much this season! And the way Michael took off his hat to kiss Alex. I just felt so much in that moment. That kiss was so soft and sweet. When they pulled away, the way Alex looked up at Michael with so much longing was just uh! And Michael’s little exhale and smile. He knows exactly how to put Alex at ease. And then the hug. I am ready to cry right now just thinking about it. I know many people think it was too much too soon, but I beg to differ. This is how I’ve always seen things happening. Once they were both on the same page, it was bound to go down exactly like this. They have so much history and passion between them. And now they can finally admit to each other and themselves that there is no one else in the universe for each other. Their love is so strong. Why shouldn’t they acknowledge their feelings while growing closer. In the end I think it will only make them stronger.

So that’s my story and I’m sticking to it. I can’t wait til we get worried boyfriend Michael in the next episode. It’s going to be awesome! Till next time my friends!

[free-falling-grenade]

first off, i LOVE your analysis series. may i give you some raya angst, because i just think the fandom needs more?

how long do you think it takes for raya to relax around people, to be able to talk and have people RESPOND?? this girl spent her entire teenage years, when you're just trying to figure yourself out and survive, alone and in a broken world. SIX YEARS. no wonder her gay realization of namaari's crush on her hasn't set in yet, she's been so determined to find sisu.

how long do you think it takes for raya to stop jumping up in the middle of the night, to keep herself from wanting to whip out her sword whenever she hears a sound? how many times do you think she's almost puled her sword on her ba?

how much sensory overload do you think she gets? it's been six years of only talking to tuk tuk, only being around one other living being. and sure, she's seen and interacted with others during the time gap, but just barely.

now, from what we've seen of her before world broke, she was fairly outgoing and social, but also wary of people. how much do you think that has changed? like, no wonder that she's always written to be attached to namaari. that's her only real semblance of human interaction through the six years, and the only thing that stayed. other than tuk tuk, namaari has probably interacted with raya the most in those six years.

but think of the bonding that they'll have. they're so connected now. raya knows nobody else. any of the friends she might have had would have been turned to stone, and therefore would be six years younger than her. and of course she has boun and tong and noi and sisu, but it's not the same as having someone her age, someone who shares the same guilt and weight.

anways, this is all over the place but i just have so many feelings. sorry to bother you with this mess but hhh i want more people to explore her trauma and give her a damn hug.

SHEEESH. Ok, this has been sitting in my inbox but its time to answer. I do love some Raya angst (or is it just me projecting my own feelings) how long do you think it takes for raya to relax around people, to be able to talk and have people RESPOND?? I'd like to think a while. Six years is a very long time. She has learned to be independent and has found so much comfort in her solitude that I can see it becoming purely instinct to be on edge around people or simply have people actually approach her. Coz as we've seen Raya is the type who used to talk to herself or Tuktuk most of the time so I'm sure its weird for her to hear OTHER people's responses. In fact, it may even cause her a little trouble hearing their opinions that might trigger her in a way since all those years no one was physically there to challenge or question her own thoughts and actions. Being hyperaware is definitely a kind of PTSD. I'm not expert but Raya is definitely traumatized lmao. So the answer for that part is a very long time till she stops physically reacting. Though, I feel like she'll still be on edge but learns how to restrain herself without pulling a sword or a fighting stance towards anyone who doesn't mean to sneak up on her. In terms of sensory overload, I'm pretty sure ya girl had numerous mini panic attacks to full blown ones she tries her best to suppress and fails most of the time. As someone who is highly sensitive to sound, taste and smell to point where I get crazy overwhelmed, I gotta tell you its not easy. Shit drives you nuts and its soo frustrating and you kinda wish you were alone. So Raya probably has thoughts like that going back to her time being alone without the need to exert herself. Also, I think Raya is actually a major introvert with an extrovert personality (again this is me projecting 👀) She seems social but its mostly a front. I think Raya has been alone/independent for such a long time so being an inconvenience to people is not something she wants so she makes sure everyone knows she's okay. But obviously, its exhausting putting up a front, i think everyone knows that. It's why in fanfics, people write her to always slip away from social events after a bit coz everything is too loud or she's interacted enough. She has always used her energy for herself, so using it for others is overwhelmingly exhausting and it takes a lot for her to exert herself like that especially to things and people who are unfamiliar. That's also why I believe she leans closer to Namaari, coz she is familiar. They've both literally seen the worst of each other. Now, post Druuns, they have the chance to explore the things that doesnt involve killing each other. They've seen the ugly parts so what's left are all the best parts 👀.

[titaniasfics]

How about Wanda having a flashback and Vision helping her through it.

Loved this prompt! 

Given all that Wanda has already been through, I couldn’t bear to make her suffer over much. So this is a mild instance of her PTSD coming to complicate things. Plus, I love over-protective Wanda.

Takes place between Age of Ultron and Captain America: Civil Wars

Tune-up

Vision lies on the table connected via a data cable through an almost indecipherable port on the back of his neck to Dr. Cho’s station. Vision was unperturbed when he invited Wanda to join him so they could save time on their walk in the woods afterward. He even went so far as to describe it as a tune-up, which had provoked a laugh from her.

Therefore, Wanda isn’t prepared for the way she feels when she sees him splayed out this way – vulnerable and so fragile, he looks like he might break.

The lab, the table, the blinking cable – all of a sudden, she’s back at the Hydra Research Base, but it’s not just her and Pietro. Now Vision is strapped down on the examination table, scepter waiting dangerously close by. Her hands grow clammy and her breath comes in short. She’s awash in terror and yanks herself back before she can fall head-first into her nightmare.

“What will she do to you?” Wanda asks, eyeing Dr. Cho with mistrust.

Vision, who is studying the monitor above him, turns his head to look at Wanda instead. “It is part of a longitudinal project I have agreed to. Dr. Cho scans my neural network, documenting the adaptations and interdependence of my neural network with the Mind Stone at defined intervals over a period of time to create a record of my evolving systems.”

“A kind of mind map?” Wanda suggests, hoping the dry details will calm her racing heart.

“Exactly,” Dr. Cho interjects and Wanda shoots her a withering look. What right does she have to expose him this way? Who is she to endanger him with her science experiments? But she quells her mounting panic at the clear evidence that Vision is a willing participant in this process. Wanda probes the doctor’s mind, revealing that her intentions are purely scientific. She also notes the almost maternal care with which she approaches her task with Vision, a revelation that calms Wanda’s anxieties somewhat.

It has only been a few months since the Battle of Sokovia, and in that time, Wanda has not only struggled with the loss of her twin brother and the destruction of Novi Grad, but she’s also had to learn to adapt to a new country and function among a group of strangers whose only commonality with her is their membership with the Avengers. While she has come to appreciate her fellow teammates, it hasn’t been an easy transition.

The only relationship that extends beyond mere teamwork is the one she shares with Vision, who has shown her kindness and understanding beyond any expectations, but especially from what she would expect from a synthezoid. The idea that he might submit himself to something that can harm him sends her to a dangerous place.

“What does it do?” Wanda asks, pointing at the port.

Dr. Cho glances at Vision, who gives her a slight nod. “The data cable allows me to access his network non-invasively.”

“Are there any risks involved?”

A smile flits across Dr. Cho’s face as she answers, “None at all. We’ve done this twice already. He’s a very cooperative patient.”

“Thank you for answering her questions,” Vision responds. Wanda frowns and, much as she’d like to object to all this, there’s no reason, and furthermore, it’s not her place.

“It’s not a problem. She’s worried about you,” Dr. Cho answers, returning to her monitoring station.

Vision’s hand comes to rest on Wanda’s. “Wanda, I sense your anxiety. Are you concerned?”

Wanda captures his hand, squeezing it. She debates on whether to share her worries but decides it’s unfair to burden him with that as well. It’s her past. Her problem. She already leans on him for so much.

“No. Doctors just make me nervous. But Dr. Cho seems well-meaning and under control. I’ll get out of the way and let you both work.”

She makes to pull away but he doesn’t release her hand. “I promise, everything will be fine. It is a routine scan. Nothing more.”

“I know,” She nods quickly and turns away before her tears betray her.

The entire procedure lasts less than fifteen minutes. Wanda waits in an observation area separated by a glass partition. She sits on a soft leather chair with a frictionless spin she’d enjoy if she weren’t perched on its edge, biting her nails the entire time. Vision is so still, so quiet, that he looks asleep, or even…

A hiss accompanies the detachment of the data cable and she is on her feet and through the door before she’s been called. She reaches Vision’s side as he sits up, long legs swinging over the edge of the bed. She helps him off the bed, though he hardly needs it, and clings to his arm.

“How do you feel?” she asks.

Vision smiles, though his face is confused. “I’m perfectly fine, Wanda.” He tilts his head in that peculiar mannerism only he possesses. “Are you okay?”

She does a quick scan of his emotions, checking for signs of distress or anxiety but all she finds is that calm, methodical presence that always manages to still her own internal turmoil. Her rock in the middle of a storm.

“I’m fine now,” she says, giving him a quick hug that catches them both by surprise. He’s barely wrapped his arms around her before she steps back. Just behind him is Dr. Cho, watching them with a soft smile.

“We’ll see you back here in a month,” she says.

“We will be here. If you would like to accompany me again,” he adds softly, directing his words to Wanda.

Wanda will hate every minute of it, but she’ll do it because he asks. “If it’s okay with the doctor.”

“Oh, I don’t see any problems,” she says, chuckling to herself.

“Thank you, doctor,” Vision says, his face still a mask of disorientation. Wanda can’t explain it herself. All she knows is that she’s relieved and so happy, she might levitate.

“Come on. You owe me a hike,” she says, tugging on his arm. He obliges, as he always does. Despite her misplaced worries, Wanda is eager to get the hell out of here.

One-shot masterlist on tumblr

ScarletVision Collection on AO3

[banashee]

It's midnight where I am, which means it's technically the 21st already 😁 Hi Folks, welcome to my fourth fic for the Archival Pride 2021 project! Look at their tumblr for more info :)

@archivalpride

   Archival Pride 2021, Week four (June 21-28) Prompts: comfort, childhood, research, missing scene, statement

   The key words I've used here are comfort, research (and arguably missing scene depending how you look at it)

So, this wasn't supposed to get nearly as long as it ended up being. But I enjoyed wirting this a ridiculous amount, and I hope you can find a bit of joy, comfort or anything else you're seeking as well.

-

Please mind the tags and content warnings for this one! It’s quite a bit heavier than my other entries for the Archival Pride 2021.

Content warnings: - Trauma, Grief - PTSD / Panic attacks - violent canon death of a sibling - coping - Nightmares - Canon-typical violence - Canon-typical Clowns / The Stranger - Death of a loved one - Canon-typical violence and thoughts of violence - Past underage kissing between consenting teenagers (nothing graphic and very PG) - breif internalized Bi-Phobia in the past - brief mention of past Ace-Phobia - strong language - TMA season 3 spoilers, even though this story is set pre-canon.

-

 Whispers in the Dark

 The first time Tim meets Jonathan Sims is when he sets down a small cardboard box and a stack of files onto a desk. More precisely, his own new place at the desk he just got assigned.

 Tim just started out with his new job and he smiles, even though he is barely holding himself together at this point. He hopes no one will ask too many questions - it’s not like he plans on telling anyone what made him seek out the institute in the first place. It’s way too personal, and way too much to handle.

 So he’d lied in the job interview, spun some story about wanting a new challenge. Mr. Bouchard didn’t question it, and Tim would like to think that is because his CV and education are rather high quality, which he isn’t shy about. Not at all - he is proud of his achievements, and rightfully so. But Tim can’t shake the feeling that his new employer had looked at him oddly, like he knows something that no one else does. It had been deeply unsettling, and if Tim thinks too much about it, it causes the hairs on the back of his neck to stand up straight.

 Despite his gut feeling telling him something else, Tim decides to chalk it up to nerves and his… Current situation, so to say. He is more jumpy, more paranoid than he used to be, which isn’t surprising. He has seen things, lived through things that he wouldn’t know how to explain if anyone asked. But overthinking it won’t get him anywhere.

 So, he puts on a bit of the show, something that looks like his usual happy-go-lucky personality. Loud, brash, flirty and wicked smart, just like he always has been. It feels incredibly fake to him, but then again, no one here knows him. No one has ever met him before… Before. They don’t know.      They don’t know    . None of them ever sees him when the mask falls, home alone, in a house that feels too big and too empty with Dany gone and - no.

     “Don’t go there, Stoker, just don’t. Get through the day, see what you can find out and go home. Get back tomorrow, rinse and repeat. You can do this.”     he tells himself and plasters on a smile that almost hurts.

 As he sets down the box and his files, he greets his new coworker and desk-neighbor.

 “Hi, I’m Tim, nice to meet you!” (      “be happy, sound happy, god dammit”     he thinks, then reminds himself that this guy won’t know the difference.)

 The man on the desk opposite of him looks up from his computer which he’d previously looked at with intense concentration. It seems to take him a moment to catch up, then he nods and there is the hint of a very small smile on his face.

 “Oh, erm, hi. Welcome.” he says, like someone who isn’t used to interacting with too many people. And maybe he isn’t - Tim wouldn’t know. He almost moves on and accepts that he won’t get a name from his new desk neighbor, but then he hears him say,

 “Jonathan. Jon is fine, too.”

 And then, as if he never said anything, he focuses back onto the screen in front of him and starts typing furiously.

 “Thanks!” Tim says, probably just a tad too loud and too enthusiastically, but he doesn’t get a response this time. Okay, awkward. He isn’t sure if Jon is ignoring him or if he just doesn’t realize that he is being talked to - judging from the very brief, first impression of him that Tim got, both options might be entirely possible.

 As the days go by, they don’t interact a lot besides basic politeness and the occasional question or comment about something work related.

 The first time Tim ever really talks to Jon, is when he witnesses the man climb a bookshelf in the library like a fucking tree. No kidding. Tim blinks, and for the first time in a long while, he feels a real, genuine laugh bubble up in his chest. What the hell? He steps closer, next to the large, antique bookshelf that his coworker is currently clinging to, pulling books from a shelf that is over his head still.

 “Jon, hi.” Tim says, watching the scene in front of him unfold. This is not something he expected, least of all from the coworker who never seems to say or do anything mildly interesting. So much for the first impression - the second impression is something entirely different, and it is this very moment that Tim decides that he likes the guy.

 The sound of Tim’s voice addressing him directly makes Jon turn his head.

 “Hi. Can I help you?” he asks, brusk and matter of fact, as if there wasn’t anything odd about this situation.

 “...I was going to ask you the same?” Tim offers, mildly amused as he finds himself kind of impressed when Jon manages to shrug with his hands full like that. While clinging to the shelf, because what even?

 “No. Why? I’ve already got what I need.” Jon jumps down from the wooden board he’d been standing on, and it is only now that Tim realizes they’d been on eye level before. Now… Not so much. They never stood next to each other up until this moment, he realizes.

 He’s only been here for about a week, but whenever Tim arrives at the office, Jon is already there, at his desk and working. He never gets up for lunch, only ever seems to leave the room to pick up or drop off books from the library, and by the time everyone else has left, Jon remains seated at his desk. If he wasn’t changing out his clothes, Tim would have been convinced that Jonatahn Sims simply plugs himself into a wall socket to recharge for the next day. Or maybe sleeps under his desk or something.

 “Just… You know what, nevermind.” Tim has come to the very correct conclusion that he better just accept this as it is. It seems easier. Much, much easier than arguing with someone over nothing, even though Tim feels like punching a wall or two some days. But that is not his coworkers fault, and he doesn’t want to mess up the chance to get to know him because he is cute.

 Tim doesn’t even question this train of thought anymore.

 At some point in between meeting the man for the very first time and… well, this, he must have filed away the odd combination of grandfather cardigans, chipped dark nailpolish and neatly tied up hair, combined with that deep warm voice and decided that yes, this person is attractive.

 To be fair, it doesn’t take Tim long to fall for people - it never has. He just didn’t expect to spend any time really      looking     at someone, now that his life has gone sideways in so many horrible ways.

 Turns out he’d been wrong.

 Finding something attractive about a person, no matter their gender or any physical attributes, is the easiest thing in the world to Tim. Ever since he can remember, he has enjoyed looking at people. Tim likes soft curves just as well as sharp angles, and has spent many many hours of his life getting lost in people's eyes. Sometimes, he’d caught himself staring when talking to a friend, losing himself in the depth of warm brown eyes with specks of gold, watery blue, light grey or green with specs of hazel and anything in between.

 Tim vividly remembers a game of spin the bottle when he was a teenager and sat on the floor with a group of friends and classmates. Of course, there had been many dares to kiss someone, and he had happily taken them whenever possible.

 At the time, Tim wasn’t sure about himself at all, because he’d only known that he finds people attractive, but all everyone around him had talked about was if you were gay or straight, if the question was even asked. Mostly, they just assumed whatever seemed convenient at the time.

 No one tells Tim about the meaning of the word “Bisexual”, or even about the word itself until he is in college. But he knows how he feels, even though he is lacking the word for it for many years

 Once he finds out, Danny is the first person he tells about it. Tim calls him that same night, sitting in a quiet corner of the dorm as he excitedly tells his little brother that he found a word to relate to himself and his feelings for other people.

 “There are other people who feel that way, Danny. There is nothing wrong with me and there is a word for it!” he tells him in a hushed but excited voice, fumbling on a loose thread in a hole of his jeans. Those trousers have long been frayed into shreds but Tim refuses to part with them.

 His voice is shaking with excitement, and he may or may not be holding back happy tears. This is a big moment for him, and because Danny is literally the best - not just because he answered his phone at fuck-o-clock in the morning when his brother called - he reacts with nothing but support.

 “I might have a few questions, but I love you. No matter what. I’m happy for you.” he tells him, and in that moment, Tim couldn’t be happier or prouder of his younger brother.

 The game of spin the bottle a few years earlier was the one of the first things that taught Tim that he finds many many things to be interested in and attracted to. It taught him that he is attracted to the many different ways people feel, and it hasn’t changed ever since.

 Over the years, Tim finds himself falling in love quick and hard with a number of people, and none of them are ever the same. Each and every person is unique, in their looks and size and voice and feelings - and every single one is loveable just as they are.

     “You        do         have a thing for certain types of voices though.”    Tim thinks, and maybe that is the culprit here, now that he is standing in the library of the Magnus Institute and faced with Jonathan Sims, who looks up at him with one raised eyebrow. Oh shit, has he been staring the entire time?

 Before Tim can think too much about it, or god forbid, overthink it, he hears his mouth blurt out without his brains permission,

 “So do you want to come to lunch later? There is a café not far from here that I’ve never been to.”

 Jon stares back for a moment, like this isn’t something he expected. Truth be told, he didn’t. But just when Tim starts thinking that he’ll decline, Jon nods slowly.

 “Yes, I suppose. Just… Let me know before you’re going. I tend to, well, I tend to get lost a bit when I’m working and chances are I won’t notice how much time has passed.” he explains, and this is probably the first time he said anything personal besides his name.

 “Sure, no problem. I’ll just put a giant sticky note on your monitor.” Tim offers him with a grin and wink, and as he turns around, he could swear that he catches a real smile on Jon’s face.

 Tim actually does put a note on Jon’s screen though. As he was warned, all attempts to verbally get his attention have failed, so Tim scribbles a quick note for Jon.

 The sticky piece of paper is bright pink and obnoxious, and all that Tim has written on it is “Lunch time!” in big bold letters, accompanied by a smiley face. He manages to walk up behind Jon, stick it right in the middle of his computer monitor and get back around to his own desk to gather his jacket and wallet before Jon squints at it through slim, rectangular glasses and blinks a few times before he remembers the conversation from earlier. Then, there is a small hint of a smile on his face, very similar to the one Tim caught in the library earlier.

 He gathers his things and leaves the office with Tim, and the two of them walk next to each other comfortably as they make their way to the café.

 Surprisingly, the lunch break together isn’t nearly as awkward as it could be, or should have been, really. Jon doesn’t talk much at first, and Tim has a feeling he himself is talking way too much without actually saying anything, just so his brain doesn’t drift off into the wrong direction. But then, it’s like the air has left his lungs and there is a minute or two of slightly awkward silence.

 Then, Jon clears his throat and asks,

 “So, did you know that snails can sleep for three years at a time?”

 When Tim, surprised by the question, shakes his head, Jon starts talking about the topic in great detail as he fiddles with the edge of his napkin the whole time. Somehow, this of all things breaks the ice, and Tim finds himself to be able to breathe a little bit easier.

 Even more so, he is enjoying this. He isn’t sure what he expected when he asked Jon to join him for lunch. Maybe it was just the urge for human interaction and to not be alone, which he supposes is fair enough. But he certainly didn’t expect random information about nature phenomenons. All Tim knows is that he feels better after their first break together, and after that, spending the break together becomes A Thing.

 What he learns pretty fast is this: Jon is an info dumper when he feels comfortable enough to do so. As it turns out, Jon isn’t very picky with his topics, either. They range from science phenomena to weird, interesting nature facts and anything else that catches his interest.

 Tim also learns that, if he is in the right company and being asked the right questions, he can hold monologues that could last for hours. He figures that one out when Jon drops a fun fact about 19th century architecture, and without thinking, picks up the loose end of the sentence and continues,

 “Oh, yes, did you know that…” and thus, without even realizing it, Tim spends the entire lunch break talking about it - he is passionate about the topic, but he leaves out the details about the Covent Garden Theatre. It just hurts too much to think about, but other than that, Tim is excited about the topic. He gets so carried away and rambles on and on and on, he only stops when Jon and him get back to the institute. It takes even longer for Tim to catch up and realize that Jon just paid for both lunches while he went off on a monologue about Robert Smirke architecture. But when he tries to pay him back, Jon just waves him off.

 “Don’t worry about it. Besides, your lecture was very interesting, I didn’t want to interrupt.”

 From anyone else, this might have been a dig - but coming from Jon, Tim knows by now, it is a genuine statement that makes him way happier than it should.

 So, their lunch breaks together quickly turn into a tradition,

 Tim isn’t entirely sure what is more surprising; the fact that he manages to get Jon to actually leave his desk for human needs like food and social interaction, or that the two of them are enjoying it so much.

 Sometimes, they go to cafés or restaurants, trying out places that neither of them has been to before. It turns into them picking favourites, and then they become regulars at a small handful of places. Sometimes they simply go on a quick walk to pick up some food, other times they sit down and enjoy being out of the office for a little bit.

  One day, Tim arrives in the office early, and he brings lunch from home for Jon and himself for the first time.

 Tim has spent the previous night wide awake, unable to rest after a nightmare startled him out of a deep sleep. It takes a long time to get his breathing back under control, and very late at night, or very early in the morning, depending how you look at it, Tim gives up on sleep. After hours of useless tossing and turning, he won’t be able to rest, he knows from experience.

 Cursing under his breath, he pulls aside the covers and takes a few deep, shuddering breaths. Exhausted, both in a physical and emotional sense, he scrubs a hand over his face.

 The memories linger, and Tim feels like his whole chest is pulled together with anxiety and grief. Seven months. That’s how long it has been since he found Danny sitting in his dark living room in the middle of the night, crying silent tears as he had no idea what to do besides be there for him and offer comfort. Seven months since he followed his younger brother to the Royal Opera House Covent Garden and had to watch him being torn apart.

 Carefully, Tim forces himself to keep breathing as evenly as possible. In - hold - out - hold - in - rinse and repeat. His hands are shaking, and he tries to force them into stillness as he grips hard at the rumpled bed sheets.

 Attempting to go back to sleep is useless, he knows from experience, and so he makes his way down into the kitchen.

 This house feels too big, too empty without the presence of his little brother. He left a hole in his life, and even though it’s been months since Danny died, Tim hasn’t moved a single one of his possessions. Not yet - it hurts too much.

 Despite having been alone for a while now, Tim is still careful to leave the lights  out in the hallway, walking as quietly as he can in the middle of the night as if there was still someone around he could wake up with his movements. It’s a long standing habit, and he isn’t sure he’ll ever shake it off.

 It’s only when he arrives in the kitchen that Tim switches on the overhead light. It flickers to life, slowly, and the small kitchen is tinted into a warm light. Warm and homely, like this house once was. Now, it just feels painfully empty.

 With a long sigh, Tim makes his way to the sink and fills up a glass with water - his hands are still shaking and he spills a bit onto himself, but he doesn’t care. Caring about it is too much right now, so he focuses on draining the glass empty before refilling it again. He feels dehydrated, but given the night he’s had so far, it isn’t surprising.

 “I need a distraction.” he mumbles, and soon enough, he’s raided the pantry and his refrigerator. Tim pulls  out some pots and pans from the cupboard, scattering everything throughout his kitchen where it’ll be most convenient. The repetitive tasks of cooking have always had a relaxing effect on him, and soon enough, the room is filled with scents and aromas that make his mouth water. Even now, while he is absolutely miserable.

 The casserole ends up being huge. It’s way too much for one person, even one with an appetite. But cooking for one after being used to there being someone else is hard - kind of useless, while you’re already at it.

 Tim has had that problem ever since he’s been cooking on his own, but knowing that Danny will be back to join him again, freshly back from some cave diving or urban exploration or whatever other strange new hobby he’d found at the time.

 Now, Tim is all on his own. He sighs unhappily. Cooking was a good distraction, up until he is painfully reminded that no one is there anymore to share it with. Not here, at least.

 He allows himself a few minutes of quiet greif, seated at the kitchen table with his head in his hands and a lukewarm cup of tea, sitting on the table by his side, almost forgotten.

 By the time the sun is starting to rise, Tim is up and moving again. He has put the casserole in several plastic boxes and packs two of them into his work bag.

 When he arrives at the office, way earlier than he usually does, because what is the point of staying home doing nothing, Tim places one of the boxes at the edge of Jon’s desk.

 Jon seems to be mildly surprised by the early company, and even more so by the plastic box.

 “Oh, Good morning... What is this?” he asks then, mildly curious.

 “Lunch. I was cooking last night and it was way too much. Thought I’d bring some in to share.” Tim forces a smile along with the half-lie, if only to cover how tired he is. He needs coffee.

 The “Thank you” Tim gets in response is equally surprised and genuine, and he tries very carefully to not interpret too much into it. Especially because their shared meal feels a lot more homely and strangely intimate that day. Getting takeout together or sitting somewhere is one thing, but sharing a home-cooked meal is something entirely different, he finds. He also finds that he doesn’t mind it.

 Only a few days later, conveniently when every last bit of the casserole is gone, Tim finds a plastic box that isn’t one of his own sitting on his desk. Curiously, he opens it and finds it filled to the brim with homemade curry, rice and veggies. Even cold, it smells heavenly and makes his mouth water. Tim looks over to the desk opposite of him, where Jon is already typing away like he usually does, but when he looks up and finds Tim smiling brightly at him, he smiles back.

 Something in his chest feels incredibly warm and fluttering.

 One evening, when the two of them get out of the office equally late - Jon because he always does, and Tim because he may or may not have waited for him - they walk to the tube together.

 In a spontanous fit of bravery and “Oh well, fuck it”, Tim carefully rechaes out until his own fingers gently brush against Jon’s as they walk. It’s dark outside, only illuminated by the countless lights that illuminate the shops and pubs and the sides of the street they’re walking along. Tim does so casually and carefully enough to be ignored or taken as a coincidence if needed be, just in case. But then his heart almost stops for a second when after a moment of stiffness, Jon accepts the offer and closes his own fingers around Tim’s.

 His touch is light at first, but then his grip tightens a bit, warm and comfortably so, and it is clear that his heart is in it. Of course it is - the two of them have gotten close in the last few weeks and months. There might have been some wishful thinking on Tim’s end involved - Jon is not always great at picking up social cues, especially romantic ones.

 “That’s fine though” he tells him later, “You’re a huge enough flirt to make it up for the both of us.”

 Jon squeezes his hand, and Tim happily squeezes back as he keeps walking beside him, just a little bit closer than before.

 He can’t help but smile. Something like happiness blooms in his chest, and even though they don’t talk about it the entire way, even though they keep holding hands when they sit next to each other in the tube, they remain this close all the way until their ways separate and they have to get onto a different line each. It feels right, and the sudden loss of touch as their ways separate makes Tim wish it could last - but turning back and running after the other train seems kind of silly now, especially since he’ll see Jon again the very next day.

 This becomes A Thing as well. Touching, that is.

 Holding hands, brushing along each other when they reach for folders or mugs or books in the library. Speaking of which, Tim has learned very quickly that there is      no     way to stop Jon from literally climbing high spaces to reach whatever he needs. As of now, he is long used to watching him scale a bookshelf or kitchen counter, much to his own amusement.

 “Hold on tight, little monkey.” he tells him as he walks past, grinning from ear to ear, knowing full well that he can’t expect more than a scoff and,

 “Oh, shut up.” as a response.

 Tim keeps it up though - because it’s fun and he knows he’s allowed to get away with it. Which can’t be said for anyone else in the institute, not like anyone would have tried as far as he knows. But he is ridiculously proud of it nonetheless. Tim is still cackling to himself when he wraps an arm around the other man’s shoulders and keeps chatting away to him all the way back into the research offices.

 He has always been very openly affectionate, with family, friends and romantic partners or those he’d fancied. It’s part of who he is, and if he is honest with himself, it feels good to have some part of him back that’s always been there. It helps a bit, and even more so since Jon not only happily lets him, he also leans back into the touch. Jon’s attempts at seeking out touch are a lot more subtle than Tim’s, at least at first, but he knows and recognizes it for the sign of trust and comfort that it is.

 That afternoon, there isn’t much time to chat at their desks, but about an hour before they’re supposed to get off, a balled up piece of paper hits Tim’s hand, clearly coming from Jon, but the sneaky bastard isn’t giving indication that he stopped reading at all.

 With a small smile, Tim opens the note. It’s not like Mr.   Workaholic to pass notes on the clock, but then again, he has to give Jon credit for loosening up significantly since the day they met. Or, maybe warmed up to human company is more like it. (He very carefully tries not to think, or more like hope, that it's him in particular Jon has warmed up to so much. But then again, Tim has heard some of their coworkers whisper in astonishment that it’s completely unheard of that Jonathan Sims leaves his desk for breaks or in time in the evenings, let alone interacting with other human beings more than absolutely necessary. Tim also caught the rumors about the two of them being a couple - he’d almost laughed then. He fucking      wishes    .)

 Tim unfolds the note and reads;

     “I have a lot of leftover curry I made last night. Would you like to come over for dinner after work? - J.”  

 This has become A Thing, too. Sharing meals after work and sometimes on the weekends. It alternates where they go, but especially lately, they have preferred to go to either Tim’s house or Jon’s apartment instead of a restaurant. For one, going out to eat on a regular basis is expensive, but also, cooking together or eating the leftovers from a late night cooking binge is a lot more comfortable and homely.

 Sharing a meal and oftentimes a couch with someone fills at least part of the void that Tim finds inside of himself. He is struggling still, but having another human being in his personal space, warm and alive and happy to be there, means the world to him. He’s feeling something again, something that isn’t constant fear or everlasting sadness.

 They watch movies sometimes - it’s not exactly easy to find something that both of them       like    . Their tastes in movies are widely different from each other, so instead, they opt to choose obscure sci-fi movies or anything they can pick apart and make fun of. No horror - they haven’t talked about it, but this is one of the few movie-related things they are in silent agreement over.

 Truth be told, poking fun at bad movies together is much more entertaining than watching anything the normal way.

 They are stuffing their faces with snacks and complain at the protagonists for making very unwise or straight up unrealistic decisions, even in-universe illogical ones. They pick apart plot-points and anything that doesn’t add up  while they share space on the couch, either holding hands or leaning against one another.

 “Oh, of course, give me a break!” Jon grouses as he shakes his hand that is currently holding a few crisps at the TV, annoyed to no end, it seems. In truth, he is      enjoying     this. He enjoys this an awful lot, and so does Tim.

 He laughs out loud and pulls Jon a little closer to his side.

 “Yes, you tell the creepy alien why it’s mere existence even in this fictional universe doesn’t make sense, Love!” He eggs him on, and only realizes the pet name has slipped out of his mouth by the time he notices the deep blush creeping on Jon’s face. Oh shit.

     “Now don’t say anything to fuck this up, for once in you life, just shut up!”    Tim thinks to himself, carefully trying to remain as calm as he can. They’ve been holding hands for ages and they keep cuddling up on the couch - this isn’t anything unexpected, for heaven’s sake. Hell, if Jon were anyone different, they might have ended up in bed already, but Tim is aware that this probably isn’t going to happen anytime soon - or at all, if he isn’t entirely mistaken, based on  the hints and observations. First and foremost the slow and careful way in which their relationship to each other is changing and developing, but then again, he knows what the simple black ring on the middle finger on a person’s right hand usually means.

 Tim doesn’t ask though - he figures that if Jon wants to talk about it, he will do so eventually and at his own pace.

 So, Tim doesn’t push anything and carefully waits for a response. But there isn’t one, or at least nothing verbal. Instead of saying anything, neither to Tim or about the movie, Jon simply scoots a little bit closer to him, leaning against him and doesn’t let go of his hand. Tim takes this as a win and leans his head against the tuft of long black hair that tickles his cheek.

 Both of them relax in an instant, and if they end up falling asleep on the couch, legs a tangled mess and with the TV still on, well, the next morning isn’t nearly as awkward as it might have been once upon a time.

 It takes Tim, way longer than it should to realize that, for the first time in a long while, he didn’t startle awake screaming that night. Company helps. It helps a lot. Just knowing that there is someone else, that he isn’t alone and doesn’t have to wake up to an eerily empty house anymore helps.

 Tim doesn’t fool himself into thinking that everything will magically resolve itself - he knows it won't, especially because his research about the circus isn’t going anywhere yet.

 Sometimes, he feels guilty. Guilty for not spending every waking minute searching for hints, searching for answers to the things that have taken his brother and traumatized him for life. The calmer, logical part of his brain is aware that it doesn’t work like that - he needs a break sometimes, needs the time to himself and spend it with other people…. And goddammit, he deserves to be happy.

 Danny would have kicked his arse if he could hear him think this, would have told him to get a grip and do something that makes him happy. Because this is what scares him sometimes - the happiness, the times where he doesn’t think of the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden or circuses and… Skin. Just the thought alone makes him shudder, but he can’t stop thinking about those memories sometimes.

 “...Are you alright?”

 Tim blinks, not having realized that he must have zoned out. He’s still on the couch, slowly waking up and with Jon tucked somewhere next to him. He doesn’t sound very awake yet, but there is concern in his voice as he fixes Tim with a very direct look.

 “I- yes, just. Zoned out a bit there.” Tim shoots him his best bright smile, hoping he’ll be able to chase away the ghosts. At least for now. He sighs, and happily leans into the touch and hugs back when he can feel a pair of slim arms snaking around his waist. Jon doesn’t say anything, but he seems to pick up that something is bothering Tim. And much like him in emotional situations, Jon doesn’t know what to say. So he remains close and thankfully, this is exactly what Tim needs right now. Just being close to someone he cares a whole lot about, feeling their heartbeat near his own. Being held for a bit. He squeezes Jon in silent gratitude for being there, and hopes he can get across what he can’t say.

 It is Saturday and they have a whole weekend in front of them. After they peel themselves off of the couch, they stumble off to the bathroom after one another and then to the kitchen in an attempt to fuel themselves with tea and breakfast. It’s painfully, beautifully domestic.

 While he is keeping an eye on several pans on the propane stove, Tim is chatting away about something - he isn’t exactly sure himself, except it is something pointless that distracts him from his earlier train of thought. Jon and him are laughing and joking while they drink tea and prepare breakfast together. But after a while it looks like Jon wants to say something, stops himself, and then more of the same all over again.

 Eventually, Tim can’t watch him struggle over it anymore and straight out asks,

 “Hey. What’s going on in that fuzzy head of your’s?”

 It’s true - both of them still have a severe case of bed-heads, and Jon huffs at the question and tries to smooth down a few of the stubborn flyaways around his face. Only very mildly successful.

 “I… Was going to ask something.”

 “Alright? Shoot.” Tim very, very carefully swallows the joke he was about to make in the end - if this is going where he hopes it might, he doesn’t want one god awful pun to be part of the memory of it. So he waits.  

 Jon seems to be bracing himself, and then he turns around to face Tim.

 “I would like to kiss you. Is that okay?” he asks. A simple question, and yet - it means so much. Tim smiles at him, heart beating out of his chest as he steps closer to Jon.

 “Yes, I’d love that.”

 There are only mere inches separating them. Both Jon and Tim cross the last of the distance at once, hands searching for each other. Their fingers are interlacing tightly as soon as they touch, and just a split second later, their lips meet for the first time. There is no rush, nothing in this world that would get them to hurry anything up at this moment. Slowly, they kiss again and again, tasting faintly of the tea they had earlier, but even more so, it feels like comfort. Maybe even a little bit like home.

 A quiet happiness settles deep into them, and something seems to click into place. They are happy, and there is nowhere they’d rather be than anywhere, as long as they can be together.

 After a little while, their hands let go of each other, but only so they can pull one another closer. One of Tim’s hands is cupped around Jon’s cheek, thumb gently stroking over the soft stubble while his other arm remains wrapped around him, hand resting at the small of his back. Jon on the other hand, has to angle his head up a bit due to their height difference, but he doesn’t mind that at all. Both of his arms are wrapped around Tim’s torso, and if it was possible, he would like to remain like this forever.

 Unfortunately for the two of them, life has other plans.

 When the smell of something burning registers with the two of them, they regretfully break apart cursing and laughing as they quickly remove the pans from the heat.

 “That was - good lord, why now of all times?” Breathlessly and more than a little high from happy brain chemicals, they try to get a grip on themselves and on the situation.

 “Just like our luck, isn’t it?” Tim is joking, of course, but still. The timing couldn’t have been worse.

 “This       better     not become a habit.” Jon glares at the charred eggs and smoking pans as if they personally insulted him. He’d been having a good time, but of course something had to happen. Oh well.

 “We’ll just have to make up for it.” Tim winks at him, grinning widely. He doesn’t mean much by it, and he only realizes how that might have come across when Jon awkwardly clears his throat and says,

 “The kissing? Yes, absolutely. Other things… Well, most other things, actually… Not so much. I erm, I should have said that before now, I suppose. But, I’m Asexual.” he chooses his words slowly and deliberately, like he is trying to say them exactly right.

 Tim looks into his eyes, bright green and shining with happiness, but now, there is something else creeping into them. Self-doubt, insecurities - Tim isn’t sure, but he wants to do his best to make the doubts disappear - and apologize for his big mouth.

 “That’s absolutely fine. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that - I wasn’t implying anything else, I promise.”

 Slowly, Jon nods, visibly relaxed now. He asks,

 “So… We’re good?”

 “We are. More than good actually, if you ask me.” Tim finds himself smiling again, which is something he’s been doing so much more lately. Then he tucks away a strand of hair from Jon’s face and kisses him again, just as gentle as before. He is happy to find that he returns the kiss in an instant, pushing close until the two of them end up pressed up against the kitchen table. After they break apart again, they remain standing in an embrace.

 “I like you, Jon. I like you a lot. I love being around you and with you, just for who you are. Yes, I enjoy sex, but I don’t need it. So if you don’t want to, that is okay and it doesn’t make a difference to me. It doesn’t change how I feel about you.”

 He nearly says, “I love you” but that might be a little early - saying it too early has ruined his relationships in the past, and although what Jon and he have is something different, Tim doesn’t want to risk it.

 But as it turns out, he said the right thing. Jon looks a lot more relaxed than before, and he keeps a loose hold around Tim’s hips.

 “Thank you, Tim, that’s… Very reassuring actually. I’ve been with people who reacted quite a bit differently to this, so” Jon shrugs, but it is clear that this isn’t a happy memory.

 “I appreciate you.” He adds, and Tim pulls him a little bit closer.

 “I’m sorry. These people fucking suck.”

 “That’s one way to put it, yes.” Jon smiles, and pulls Tim down for another, longer kiss. It feels just as intoxicating as before. Then he tells him,

 “And, just for the record. I like you a lot, and spending time with you makes me very happy.

 The giddy happiness stays with them - being freshly in love and being freshly together is exciting. It is a feeling Tim will never get tired of. The thing is, being together with Jon doesn’t change a whole lot - they are still on opposite desks from each other at work, they still spend their lunch breaks together and Tim actually manages to get Jon to leave the office at 5pm these days,  instead of late at night like he did for the longest time. They still have dinner together most days and they often spend their weekends together. All of these are things they did before, but now, it still feels… Different.

 Then of course, there are the casually affectionate touches throughout the day. They’d like to think that they’re being more discreet here, but then again, at least Tim has never been shy about throwing arms around people or bumping shoulders or anything like that. In fact, people would probably get concerned and suspicious if he stopped doing any of it.

 The point is: they keep it down to normal levels at work, but they seem to be glued together whenever they’re off the clock. Whether they hold hands, hug, kiss, bump shoulders, hips, arms or hands, or sometimes simply nap stacked on top of each other, they are always touching in some way. Both of them soak up the contact like sponges, and they know without having even talked about it in detail that they spent quite a bit of time lonely and touch starved before… This. Their relationship.

 Waking up with one another in the mornings is probably Tim’s favourite part of all. Holding onto each other with their legs tangled together, hands searching for warm skin to rest on and heads pillowed on each other's shoulder or chest. Sharing breaths of air - all of this feels wonderful and intimate in it’s own way, and he can’t get enough of it.

 Waking up in the morning is a peaceful thing. But some nights, unfortunately, are not. Both of them have nightmares on a regular basis. They find that they generally sleep better when they are not alone, and having someone to hold close or bury into when the lingering horrors hit, helps significantly.

 Some nights, it’s Jon who startles awake in the middle of the night, eyes wide and chest heaving as he frantically looks around himself until he realizes where he is, or until Tim wakes up and mumbles quiet reassurances into his hair as he holds him close until the tremors have calmed down.

 If they’re lucky, they manage to fall back asleep after a while, but if not, they simply stay awake, cuddled up under soft blankets and they just talk. Their topics of conversation vary widely, ranging from silly, lighthearted distractions to things they did or experienced in their past, as well as heartfelt conversations that are about much more than just that.

 Tim himself has his fair share of nightmares as well, ever since he lost Danny. And even though having Jon close by and being held at night helps to keep them at bay sometimes, there are still nights where he startles awake either screaming or crying or both.

 The first time it happens, Tim wakes up terrified and tangled in the sheets. His shirt clings to the cold sweat that is running down his back and his breath comes out in irregular, shaky bursts.

     A dimly lit circus arena, old and dusty with centuries of dirt. Tim can’t move. It’s like he is rooted to the spot, and yet, his legs won’t stop shaking. He is shivering from the cold - no surprise, since he ran out in nothing but his pyjamas earlier, and this place is surprisingly freezing for a hot August night. Tim can feel the cold, but more so than anything, he is absolutely terrified.  

     He wants to scream, to run, do anything but stand here - but it’s impossible. The crumpled form of his brother - or the        Thing         that pretends to be Danny - sits motionless and hunched over, no matter how much Tim tries to call out for him. Not a single word leaves his throat, even though his vocal cords hurt from the strain he’s been putting on them. But Danny doesn’t hear him - can’t hear him.  

     From out of the shadows, Tim can see… Something. It looks like a clown, but it’s wrong. Too long, too folded up to be human. It drags itself across the floor slowly and grotesquely, like a creature from a horror movie, up until it stops. Unlike a movie creature though, this is very much reality.  

     Breathing is hard, and Tim wants to force his body to move, but still, there is nothing he can do. Part of him wants to believe that this… Place, this        Thing         is influencing his ability to move somehow, but then again, he might just as well be paralyzed by fear.  

     The clown moves forward, right towards Danny. As it unfurls itself, it is clear that there are smears of blood all over its face, red and bold and dripping wet.  

     “Shall I?” it asks, with a voice that is playful in the worst possible way. Too happy, and way too sinister. Tim can’t even answer, still unable to talk or move or do anything, but he can feel the bile rise in his throat. He wants to grab Danny and run, but knows he can’t. He wants to scream, cry or throw up, anything but watch the scene unfolding in front of him.  

     None of this happens though.  

     Instead, Tim is forced to stand motionless and helpless, watching in agony and horror as the clown moves much more quickly than he could have anticipated. It’s not as much that he can actually see the movement, but Tim can feel it. He can feel the breeze of air on his face, and just a split second later, it has removed the entirety of Danny’s skin. His limp, bloody and bare form slumps forward, and it is only then that Tim actually starts screaming.  

         He is screaming his head off,  loud, desperate and terrified. Tim is shaking like a leaf. Breathing is impossible, and it takes him way too long to realize that in order to breathe, he needs to calm down for just a second. It takes even longer for him to realize that he is at home, safely in bed and long out of this situation. But Danny… Danny is just as dead.

 Between ragged, forced breaths, Tim is curling in on himself, unable to register that Jon has woken up and is talking to him in a low, concerned voice. He tries to get his partner to calm down at least a bit, afraid he’ll end up hyperventilating from panic.

 Tim doesn’t register any of it. He can’t make out Jon’s gentle voice trying to bring him back, doesn’t register the light, careful touch on his arm in an attempt to soothe without scaring him further. Tim curls himself into a tight, shaking ball without noticing any of it.

 After the first initial panic, there is a brief moment of silence, but after that, he breaks. Ragged breath turns into uncontrollable, hiccuping sobs and it is only then that Tim realizes the familiar pair of arms slipping around him in a protective embrace. He uncurls just enough to be able to hug back and let Jon slip closer to him, which he does as soon as humanly possible. Tim clings onto him for dear life as Jon curls himself around him in what must be an uncomfortable or at least awkward position, but this is the last thing on his mind.  All Jon cares about right now is making sure that Tim is okay, or at least, as okay as he can be.

 Their bodies are pressed flush together, tightly enough for them to feel each other's rapidly beating hearts hammering out of their chests. Tim tries to focus on that, tries to focus on the carefully even rhythm of breath that Jon attempts to get him to follow.

 His presence is constant, warm and comforting. Tim can feel his weight on top of himself, the hold of his arms around him. Strands of hair and warm breath on his neck are a familiar sensation as well, something he’s been getting used to lately. Even more so, it is something that Tim loves and associates with home by now. And while the fear and pain caused by his nightmare are still very much lingering, he is able to relax in order to calm down eventually. Slowly but surely, a little bit over the course of - he doesn’t even know how long.

 Time has lost all meaning at this point. It might take him minutes or hours to breathe normally again, and at some point, Tim realizes that the steady stream of talking, besides the quiet attempts to comfort and assure him, are actually bits and pieces of random information. Anything to keep talking and keep up a steady presence, Tim supposes, but he is eternally grateful for it. He shifts a bit, arms still wrapped tightly around Jon, although he’s stopped clinging as much by now. He stretches out a little bit without letting go of their embrace - everything hurts from holding himself so tense for so long. Then Tim pulls the both of them onto their side so they can cuddle properly.

 Gentle hands keep running through his messy mop of purple hair, blunt nails scratching against his scalp. Tim leans into it, soaking up the touch like a sponge. He’s stopped shaking now, he notices, and he registers a lot more sensations than he did before.

 Little sounds around the house, wind outside, the occasional car. Most of all, he registers all the different little touches from Jon, and the way he keeps talking to him even now.

 After a while, he leans in to kiss Tim’s forehead, thumbs wiping away a few stray tears. It seems like the worst of the storm is over by now, but Jon stays close. He’s never seen Tim in such a state, and it worries him to no end. At least it looks like he isn’t in severe panic anymore.

 “Do you want to talk?” Jon asks quietly, but all Tim can manage is shake his head. It's not like he      could    talk right now if he tried. He doesn't trust his voice, knowing it will break, which is probably going to set him off again and he's not ready to face that.

 Maybe, a part of him wants to talk about what happened. Sure, it is going to hurt regardless, whenever he decides he is ready for it, but there is no doubt that it will help to get it off of his chest. But Tim doesn’t know how he is supposed to talk about the horrors he's witnessed. Where would he even start? How does he explain all of it without sounding - well.

 “That’s alright.” Jon tightens his hold around Tim as he shifts a little bit, without letting go, so he can rest his head on top of Tim’s. There is a quiet, almost suffocating sadness radiating off of him, and even though he doesn’t know what happened that got him into this state, Jon offers him all the support he can, in any way he knows how. Physical touch seems to help a lot, thankfully. That, he can do forever.

 “I’m here for you. Whatever it is you need, I’m here.”

 The sun is starting to rise on the horizon, but Tim and Jon remain in bed, wrapped up around each other just like before. Birds are starting to sing outside, even before the first rays of the morning sun tint the room into a low light.

 “I love you. I’m here for you, and I love you.”

                             Notes:

[wickedmilo]

HYPOTHETICALLY | MILO & MORGAN

PLACE: Outside White Crest University TIMING: 10:05 PM SUMMARY: Milo approaches his old professor to ask her some suspiciously specific but definitely ‘hypothetical’ questions WRITING PARTNER: @mor-beck-more-problems CONTENT WARNINGS: Drug mentions, addiction mentions, mild references to PTSD

Milo felt a little ridiculous. It was beyond stupid to assume any professor had knowledge of the supernatural beyond what was taught on the curriculum, but he had been spending a lot of time around the university building due to his newfound friendship with Orion. And so many memories were resurfacing, memories of lectures on vampires, and discussions on werewolves. Presentations on witches, and how their representation in mainstream media was problematic. It was highly unlikely this focus meant anything more than Professor Beck had a secret love of Twilight. Honestly, absolutely nothing would surprise him at this point. But he had to try, he needed to try. Every day his control was growing stronger, albeit in incredibly small increments. But the work had to count for something, and settling into his new life was leaving him with far too much time to think. He still couldn’t remember very much of his death, and certainly no incriminating details that might lead him to discover the identity of his killer. But he did know the club had been crowded, he did know the nightlife was often frequented by students.  

It had been burning at the back of his mind, leaving him restless, and uncomfortable. With no culprit, with no sire to name, he couldn’t blame anybody but himself for his situation. Maybe if he could look into the eyes of the person who had taken his life, if he could ask them why they had decided to turn him, he could lift the weight from his shoulders, he could finally stop feeling responsible in some twisted, and soul destroying way. Sure, he had made a dumb, and reckless decision. His entire life had been composed of them for years. But that didn’t mean he deserved to die. That didn’t mean he deserved to be broken, and abandoned. Left to figure things out on his own. Night had only just fallen, and he didn’t trust himself to slip into the school building unnoticed when there were still so many people around. So he waited outside like some crazy stalker. He probably counted as one, who was he kidding? He had looked up the schedule for Beck’s classes online in the hope of catching her on her way to the parking lot. She had technically finished her final lecture but part of him was worried she might end up working overtime. Wasn’t that something professors liked to do? The last thing he wanted was to stand for hours, staring at the patch of grass where Dani had last attacked him.  

But for the first time in a long time, something seemed to go right. Dropping his cigarette to the floor, he recognised Beck as she hurried down the stone steps, and immediately began to make his way towards her. He wasn’t sure whether she would recognise him from her classes. He had graduated a year ago, and even then his attendance had been unreliable. When he did decide to make an appearance it was always smelling of pot, or coming down from the previous night’s substance of choice. “Professor Beck!” He called. “Uh, Morgan Beck?” Could he call her that? It felt weird, even though he was no longer one of her students. “Hey- I’m sorry, it’s- it’s Milo… Summers. You probably don’t remember me, but I was in your class a while back and I was wondering if I could maybe ask you some questions?”  

Morgan didn’t like to stay late on campus anymore. She thanked the mother of earth for longer days, but time still got away from her now and then. When Morgan noticed the darkening sky this time, she thought she heard the hunter child stepping out of a room, knife raised. Quickly, she threw her things into her bag and started hurrying out the building. She couldn’t figure out if she would be safer going down the service stairs or trying to chase some straggler students to walk with for safety and so zig zagged through each. As she came out on the main floor, she saw a group of boys outside the big lecture hall. They looked like they were about to leave, and maybe she could walk close enough behind them but it would only be safe if they really were just students. Hunters didn’t go in packs on campus, did they? If she found any like that, would she even stand a chance? How far would she get before they pinned her down? How loud would she have to scream for anyone to come running? Morgan tripped on the stone steps out the building as she rushed past them.  

She was moving so fast she didn’t see the other boy loitering nearby and when he called her name she screamed, backing away. But she knew this face. “M-milo,” she wheezed, trying to force air back into her lungs. “You startled me. I’m sorry.” She winced. “It’s good to see you again. I thought you graduated, though?” That wasn’t relevant. Morgan waved away the rest with her hand. “What is it that I can help you with, exactly? I’m heading home right now, to my family. They’re already expecting me. So, we can walk and talk, huh?” She looked briefly at the walkways that cut through the arts quad and set her sights on the one crowded with the most people. Not closest to the parking lot, but she could worry about that part later. “Scenic route sound good?” 

Milo flinched, almost stumbling backwards at the sheer force of the sound. Morgan’s scream seemed to echo in his ears and for a moment he took the time to curse his new heightened senses. “Fuck-” He breathed, staring at his old professor with a look of shock of his face. If he still needed oxygen he knew he would be catching his breath right about now. He shouldn’t judge really, there could be any number of reasons she was so easily scared. But it was the last reaction he had been expecting from her, and therefore the last reaction he had been prepared for. “No shit, I startled you.” He laughed, calming down after such a jarring response to his presence. In a way, it almost worked out. The distraction was making it far too easy not to dwell on why he was here, on what he was about to ask. “Yeah, last year.” He agreed, weirdly flattered that she remembered him although he doubted she didn’t have fond memories.  

At the mention of her family, he felt an unexpected pang of guilt. Maybe it wasn’t fair to approach her after work. If there had been any other way to do this, he liked to think he would have made the effort to find it. “I’m sorry,” he insisted. “We can walk and talk, it won’t take long.” He wasn’t sure why he was promising that when he couldn’t possibly know, but it felt like the right thing to say. “Uh…” A frown creased his brow as he eyed the route she was choosing to the parking lot. Something was definitely bothering her, but it wasn’t exactly his place to try and figure out what. “Sure?” He said, unable to hide the fact that he was a little confused by her behaviour. Brushing off any concern, he pushed down every part of himself not entirely convinced this was a good idea. He needed to find who had done this to him. Letting it go simply wasn’t an option, and Morgan Beck was his first lead. “I have some questions about- well, about the supernatural.”  

Morgan tried to cover her fright with a knowing laugh. This is fine! I’m definitely not freshly traumatized! The important thing was that Milo had agreed to walk with her along a nice, busy, public route with lots of witnesses. She made a point of waving to a faculty member as they walked. She didn’t know the woman, but she waved back awkwardly, trying to place Morgan in her head, and would therefore maybe remember her and who she was last seen with. She was so busy looking for someone else to spot her, someone she actually knew who might care a little bit, she almost missed Milo’s question. “The--supernatural? Like, um, one of the texts we studied? Or a project you’re doing on your own? Or--” Or the real thing. Including who and what she was. “Maybe if you could, uh, be more specific, I’ll know if I can help.” 

Unable to tear his gaze away from Morgan, her odd behaviour was becoming increasingly obvious to Milo. But he wasn’t sure pushing her to explain what was wrong would help either of them. If anything, it would probably result in her running from him, and he was so desperate for answers to his questions he couldn’t bring himself to risk it. If she continued to look so genuinely frightened, he would ask her before he left. Until then, he decided he would do his best to ignore the waves, the long routes, and the stumbling over her words. “Uh, no… not really.” He admitted, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. “More like… whether you believe in it?” He mentally prepared himself for any number of reactions, namely laughter, or claims of his insanity. If there was a more subtle way of asking, one that didn’t make him sound like a conspiracy theorist, he would jump on it. But as far as he could tell, this was the only real way of being direct. “Look, I know it sounds…” Crazy, ridiculous, insane, like a terrible fucking joke. “I know it does- I’m only curious. You focused on it a lot in your lectures, you know?” 

He didn’t sound like he was goading her, Morgan had to admit. If he was a hunter, he sounded a lot more nervous than he had any reason to be. At last she slowed and turned to look at him beside her. She had killed too many people to believe she could tell what a murderer looked like. But he didn’t look like he was cutting her open in his mind. He looked sad, maybe even desperate. 

“I did, yeah,” she admitted quietly. “I believe in a lot of things most people don’t. Including a lot of the things I talked about in class. Not in the way, exactly, they’re portrayed in books. But those...ideas, those figures, those people…” She looked sidelong at Milo again. “I know of a lot more resources than novels written by humans. What is it that you’re afraid of telling me, Milo?”

Slowing to Morgan’s pace, Milo continued to watch her, almost analysing her to determine what was causing her so much stress. It was impossible to know, not without her telling him, but this town had thrown an impossible amount of shit his way, and he was beginning to realise he wasn’t the only person to fall victim to the Weird of White Crest. Was Morgan Beck stressed? Or had she seen something? Maybe something she wasn’t supposed to see? Surprised by her sudden shift in demeanour, her voice was quiet when she spoke again, and it forced him to focus. The panic of before seemed to fade away, replaced by a genuine softness that he remembered from her lectures. He hadn’t been expecting an immediate yes, and he couldn’t hide the fact that it had taken him by surprise, but he was immensely relieved to realise they might be on the same page... sort of. “Wait- you do?” He echoed, as though he needed confirmation before being able to accept what he was hearing. “You believe in the supernatural? You’re not fucking with me?” If he had been unsure of this meeting before, he was finally convinced he had approached the right person. She clearly wasn’t going to judge him, and she was willing to answer him honestly. That was good.

People. The word was emphasised in a way that only furthered his suspicion. It almost sounded as though she had argued with others in the past, debated whether supernatural creatures counted as people, or whether they should be written off as monsters. Nearly getting lost in thought, it took him a few seconds to register Morgan’s own question, and he came to a sudden halt, eyes wide as he was hit by the implications of what she was asking him. How did she know there was more to this conversation? How did she know there was more to who he was now? Reaching absentmindedly to rub at the base of his neck, the scars there were incredibly faint, barely noticeable to anybody who wouldn’t be able to recognise them for what they were. They were evidence of his struggle, of his change, a reminder of everything he had lost. Feeling them beneath his fingertips encouraged him to stay. If he left then he wasn’t going to learn anything, and he would be no closer to finding the person responsible for taking his life. “Nothing.” He insisted, a breathless laugh escaping him as he did everything he could to sound casual. “I mean- I just wanted to ask, you know? It doesn’t- it doesn’t mean anything. I don’t have anything to hide- I mean, I’m not hiding anything. This is all… strictly hypothetical.” 

Morgan didn’t miss the way Milo changed as soon as he heard her answer. She winced with guilt, remembering how upset Bex had been when she’d tried to deny the whole zombie regeneration thing. “I...do. Yes. I’m not fucking with you.” In a fairer world, this wouldn’t have to be such a fraught conversation, or a secret one. She wouldn’t have to wonder if one of her students was about to hurt her, or if she was walking into some sort of normie joke, or something else equally dangerous and stupid. 

Milo must have been making the same calculations in his head, because no sooner did she do that than did he backpedal away from her follow up questions. 

“I appreciate the whole ‘hypothetical’ thing, Milo, I do. But if you know something or saw something, if something happened to you…” She let out a long, stiff breath. “I’m not going to give you any shit if it happens to be something I’ve never heard of before. But I’ve had a year into the weird side of this town, so I’m pretty hard to surprise. Actually, you know what, I dare you to surprise me, hypothetically or not.”

Milo fell silent, too curious to know what his old professor wanted to say, but also too anxious to trust himself to speak without taking any time to filter his thoughts. It was uncomfortable, navigating such a strange conversation. He felt a little like he was walking on a tightrope. If he fell too far one way, he might never get the answer he was looking for. If he fell too far the other way, he might out himself as a vampire and potentially put himself in danger. A smile tugging at his lips, despite everything, he couldn’t help feeling amused by hearing a member of staff swear so openly. The humour very rapidly faded though, when he was reminded of why they were talking. If something happened to you… He wanted to ask whether something had happened to her, but he couldn’t seem to form the words. That wasn’t why he was here. He didn’t want to talk about what he was, he didn’t want to be asked about what he was. “Nothing happened to me.” He insisted, sounding more confident in the statement than he previously had, but answering too quickly to be convincing. “I told you, it’s hypothetical.” 

He wasn’t sure his company was going to believe him, but so long as he didn’t prove anything, so long as he didn’t outright admit anything to Morgan, then he was safe, right? She would write him off as weird, or overly curious, and nothing more. At least, that’s what he told himself in order to force out what he really wanted to discuss. “Okay… hypothetically,” he started, his voice slow as he attempted to gauge her reaction to his words. “Do you think there might be vampires at this college, and hypothetically, do you think these vampires maybe sometimes go to the bars and clubs downtown?”

Whatever lingering fears Morgan had about Milo being a hunter or hunter-adjacent fell away as he stumbled through his question. When he finally came out with it, she had to stop herself from smirking with how banal it turned out to be. “Hypothetically, yes,” she said. “Easily. I would be more surprised if there weren’t any, with how reckless and vulnerable undergrads are. And, hypothetically, vampires would just be people with an unfortunately limited appetite and sunlight aversion, so of course they’d do all the normal things people do. Maybe even be a part of night life even more. I mean, unless, you know, they hypothetically popped out of the grave as grr-argh spawn-y times. Because that’s, you know...possibly a thing.” Stars above, she hated this. 

At last Morgan stopped and turned to face Milo head on. “Milo, are you trying to say you maybe met a vampire at a club? Because if you met a vampire at a club and you like them and want to keep talking to them, there’s nothing wrong with that, you just need to have really clear communication and honesty to make you’re being careful with each other.”

The sense of satisfaction Milo felt when Morgan said yes was short lived. He had somebody who was telling him it was very possible the vampire who attacked him was attending the uni, or otherwise, might be an alumni. But he had been so focused on this step, he wasn’t sure how to move forward. What did he do with this now? Where did he go from here? Spawn-y. Huh. It wasn’t a term he had stumbled across and he was itching to ask what she meant, but sounding too eager would be counterproductive. He made a mental note to ask Harsh instead, adding it to the list already forming in his head. He really should start writing down his questions. No doubt the older vampire wouldn’t mind taking the time to answer them. Glancing up at the stars too, he frowned, unable to help himself. ‘Normal people’ because he was no longer normal. Because being supernatural wasn’t normal. 

It was only when she spoke again that he was pulled back out of his thoughts, and he turned to look at Morgan with outright disbelief. She was being so casual, she didn’t seem worried about sounding insane, or obsessed like some desperate Twilight fangirl. She was talking about vampires like she knew they existed, like they were unquestionably real, a part of every day life, and it was just that simple. She seemed to be relaxing somewhat, which was why he allowed a laugh to escape him. Jeez, how much easier would his life be right now if she was right? If his biggest problem was knowing a vampire... “Why do you talk like that?” He asked finally, unable to help himself. “Like you’re so sure it all exists? I haven’t met a vampire, because they aren’t real… right? Like, nobody has met a vampire.” She wasn’t going to agree with him after so readily admitting she believed in their existence, but he was trying to avoid any further suspicion. “I’m just… I just wanted to know what you thought. So, hypothetically… and not for- not for like, malicious reasons, if somebody wanted to find a vampire, do you know how would they go about doing that?” 

Morgan looked at Milo, unimpressed with his two steps forward, one step back pace. “You asked me what I thought and I told you I believe in a lot of weird shit. Why are you so surprised when I follow up with the truth? And I know it’s a struggle, working through your pride and your fear on one side and how much you want this information on the other side. Because people are rude and awful and having what you know about the world turned upside down is one heck of a process. But I don’t like talking about this stuff in detail until I know what it’s for. Or if, you know, hypothetically, it’s someone’s elaborate attempt to get something for their Tiktok feed. But, hypothetically, continuing from the premise that vampires are like people but dead and with blood and sun problems, finding one would probably depend on the vampire, wouldn’t it?” She looked at him archly, daring him to come clean.

Milo frowned, realising his bullshit was apparently transparent. He had never been a terrible liar, usually his lack of sobriety depended on being able to lie. But maybe things were different now, maybe too much was riding on this particular conversation. “I don’t have any pride.” He countered. “Or fear.” He added hurriedly, not wanting Morgan to assume he might be afraid. He wasn’t afraid, he refused to be afraid. As far as he was concerned, the person he was trying to find had already done their worst. Setting his jaw, he listened to her assurances, too frustrated by the fact that she was onto him to really appreciate her words. 

“Why would you care what it’s for?” He asked, wondering whether she knew more than he had first assumed. For a while, he had been under the impression she had seen something. Something to make her suspect, something to make her believe. Nothing more than that. But what if it was more than that? What if she knew someone? Or what if she wasn’t human herself? He had so many burning questions, but he knew it would be stupid to ask them. “Can we hypothetically say it’s for a book I’m writing?”

Morgan’s eyes narrowed. “Because the right information in the wrong hands can get people killed,” she replied evenly. “And no, a book isn’t good enough. I’m sorry. I get that you’re not ready to trust me. You weren’t exactly up in my office hours all the time. But I can’t talk about something like this in detail on a hypothetical that vague and tired. I’ve even used that one before.” She came close and squeezed his shoulder gently, softening again. “When you’re ready to talk, know I’m going to probably believe you, or at least listen attentively in good faith to what you have to say.” She winced, another obvious idea coming to her. “Unless you really are writing a book. In which case I fully support your writing endeavours, but I can’t ethically disclose certain information for your research. But I’ll read your drafts or whatever else you might want my help with!” She looked into his eyes, searching. She had no idea what was wrong with this kid, why he was so worked up about this that he’d come back to campus to find her, but she had a feeling it wasn’t anything nice or happy. “Are you taking good care of yourself, this stuff aside?”

Realistically, Milo knew he should appreciate Morgan’s discretion. In withholding the information, she was stopping people from getting to it who might genuinely be trying to harm vampires, to seek them out and hurt them. She was essentially protecting him, although hopefully she didn’t know that. Still, all he could feel was annoyance, and anger. He was so close to somebody who might be able to help him, who probably could help him, but he couldn’t tell her what he was. It didn’t feel right to be so outwardly open. The few people who knew had found out through means of their own. They were supernatural themselves, or they were Hunters, and Slayers. He had yet to volunteer the information, and doing so with somebody he barely knew felt like a ridiculous risk to take. It went against everything Harsh had told him about how to stay out of trouble. Glaring at her when she rested a hand on his shoulder, he begrudgingly took a breath so that she wouldn’t be able to feel the unnatural stillness of his chest. 

“I know you’re going to believe me, that’s the fucking problem.” He muttered, shrugging off her contact. “Fuck the ethics.” He continued, growing more frustrated with each passing second. “I already told you this isn’t malicious, what more do you want from me? It isn’t like I’m asking for a step by step guide on how to kill vampires, that isn’t why I’m here.” A bitter laugh escaping him when she asked him if he was taking care of himself, he wasn’t sure why it mattered. She wasn’t willing to help him, why should she give a shit about his wellbeing? “No.” He admitted, a petulant edge to his voice. “Self care isn’t really my thing.” 

“The fucking ethics are how we survive!” Morgan hissed. Then, realizing what she’d done, she added quickly, “All of us. Normie, not-normie, living, undead, everyone. And other people’s lives aren’t fodder for morbid fascination, just because they’re undead. There’s lots of ways to hurt people, Milo. I’d rather have the truth. I’ll take some proof that you aren’t being reckless, with yourself or this vampire person you’re looking for.” And Milo’s admission of not doing self care wasn’t helping her worry. Stars above, was this kid looking to get turned? On purpose?

“That’s not really encouraging, Milo,” she said softly. “This world you’re asking about isn’t Teen Wolf and Vampire Diaries bullshit. It’s not a game. Where are you staying right now, do you need a ride home?” 

Milo stared at Morgan, stunned into silence by her words before she hurriedly corrected herself, adding to her statement in an attempt to alter the meaning. Surely, he was being paranoid. Surely, he was imagining things. It didn’t make any sense. “Uh huh…” He said, his voice slow, and deliberate. Making it clear he didn’t believe she was saying what she really meant. She had done the very same thing to him. If they were going to incessantly dance around the subject, he was going to make her work equally as hard. “Sure.” He continued to glare, his annoyance incredibly evident in his expression. I’d rather have the truth. He wanted to bite back, to tell her she hadn’t earned it, he wasn’t going to give it away quite so easily. But he forced himself to hold his tongue. “Reckless how?” He demanded. “Honestly, look at me.” He gestured to his slim frame, knowing his body appeared far weaker than it actually was. “What do you think I’m going to do? Go on some mad vampire killing spree? I don’t get it, I’m not exactly asking for sensitive information.” He didn’t care about how to kill, or how to trap. He only wanted to find someone. That felt innocent enough. 

He let a bitter laugh escape him, feigning derision at the mention of the two CW shows. “I don’t know whether to be more offended by the fact that you think I watch those shows, or the fact that you think I take them as fucking truth.” He snapped. Half being serious as he realised she clearly did think he believed those shows were accurate representations of supernatural life. Jeez, he must have given a really bad impression during the time he spent in her classes. “Don’t pretend you care.” He let out a huff of breath, pushing his hair back away from his face. He was already desperate for another cigarette, for a way to dispel the anger settling in his chest. “If you gave a shit you’d help me, I don’t need a ride home.” 

“There are lots of ways to be reckless, Milo!” Morgan said. “If you really think vampire-murder is the only stupid thing you could try to do, you are way too human for what you are looking into. The fact that you think there’s some generic catch-all method for finding one, that you don’t see how telling you how to stalk them without any context--” She shook her head, baffled, then took a breath. Milo was in over his head. He didn’t know what he was doing, and he had to be horribly, painfully desperate to be going after something like this so hard.

After a slow exhale, she said more softly, “I do give a shit. Many, actually. But I am not going to help you destroy yourself. Whatever is really making you this miserable and desperate, yes, I will help you with, however I can. But there is nothing good down this road. I can promise you that much. I know this isn’t what you were hoping for, and I’m sorry for that. I’m sorry it hurts. I know it has to hurt so badly right now, but going after this isn’t the way.” She reached into her bag and wrote her number and social media info on a post-it. “Will you take this, please? I really do want to help, Milo. Just not in a way that will make things worse for you later.”

Milo allowed a bitter laugh to escape him, unable to believe he was being called too human. He played off his amusement, directing it towards the former half of Morgan’s statement. “I’ve been plenty stupid in the past, and I’m still here.” He countered. “I don’t think there’s some generic method, that’s literally why I’m asking you for help. But whatever- it’s pretty clear I’m not about to get any.” Continuing to glare at his old professor, raising his eyebrows to show her he didn’t believe a word she was telling him, he crossed his arms over his chest. It felt good to put a barrier between them both, as though he could protect himself from the hurt and frustration of getting absolutely nowhere. But it also allowed him to hide his clenched fists, hide just how angry he actually was. “Why does everybody think I’m out to destroy myself?” He demanded, although he already knew the answer. It was painfully obvious, after all. He had given people so many reasons to be concerned for his well being, obviously they were going to take notice. 

Setting his jaw as Morgan attempted to assure him, the speech was dangerously close to the one his mom used to give him when she found him curled up on the bathroom floor, or shivering in his bed after a difficult comedown. The sentiment hadn’t worked back then, and it wasn’t about to work now. “You don’t know shit.” He snapped, annoyed she was presuming to understand what he was going through. “But thanks,” he snatched the number, resisting the urge to tear it to shreds. It might be useful in the future, he had no way of knowing, and he didn’t want to take that kind of risk. “I guess I’ll call you if I ever need someone to make me feel like an idiot.” He muttered, crumpling the paper, forcing it into the pocket of his hoodie. “Have a good night- or don’t. I’m not going to pretend to care.” Turning on his heel before Morgan could comment, he found a spiteful sense of satisfaction in leaving her alone when she was so obviously feeling nervous. Maybe later that satisfaction would turn to guilt, but for now he allowed himself to revel in it. He was going to find this vampire, with or without her help. And if he got himself into trouble doing so, well, she would just have to deal with being partially responsible.

[kryptsune]

🌼Hello everyone. I am here to talk to you about the state of this blog as well as myself. I will be placing more sensitive information/ topics below the cut so if that bothers you then you don’t have to look at it.

The truth of the matter is... I have not been doing well and I haven’t honestly for years. It is only now that I am finally working to get the help I need. I love what I do and sometimes that doesn’t come off as much as I would like it to. I mean I am at 2.8 K on here. That many people like my stuff! That is super cool. I have been treating social media in an extremely unhealthy way along with other things in my life. I love creating things but... lately, it’s felt like a chore and not fun.  

If you want my honesty, I want to be known, I want people to share the stuff I am so proud of and when that doesn’t happen I get down on myself. I create all of this for free and I put so much time and effort into things. I just wish they were loved a little more and... I don’t see anything wrong with that. At the same time. It’s hard to want to do more when you feel it amounts to nothing. That is just me being honest with how I feel. 

I will keep posting but I want to be healthier about it. I love Undertale and I still want to be a part of this fandom and I am a little exhausted. I feel bad that things are hanging, raffles, updates, images, AU. All of it. I need something for me right now even if people don’t connect with it as much. I hope you all understand. I don’t know how else to say that your support helps me so much. It is a huge motivator that said I need to learn to love myself and my work without others' approval. So this is my New Years Resolution. I hope you all understand.  I am NOT dropping the AU projects just need a little break where I can enjoy them again, like the Contract stuff that I posted the other day. This blog will still run. I will still be here to answer questions and interact. I just am not going to worry about upload schedules or character lineups and things anymore.

Here is the truth. Yesterday was the lowest point in my entire life. I almost gave up on life itself. I wanted to go to sleep and never wake up again. Everything felt hopeless. I felt like a failure and that something was wrong with me. Being a creative is hard on that front since art is so ingrained in my being. I don’t know who I would be without it.

My friends and family pulled me out of it but even as I sit here able to think more clearly... I worry. I shouldn’t have to suffer chronic depression or paranoia, or PTSD all the time. That’s why I am getting help. I am even cutting out my university until the following Fall to focus on my own well being. I’m sorry if this scares anyone, if you relate to this, or if it makes your day a little gloomy. That’s not my intention. I just want everyone to know what is going on. I am ok. I will get better. Until then though, things might be a little different.

I have the best support group in the world and regardless of how low I got my friends were still there and I wish I could name all of them because they are so near and dear to me and have helped me with the feeling of not having to be a perfect little angel around everyone because that’s not me.  I love you all. I hope this doesn’t make you think any less of me or no longer support this blog. It’s still very important to me but I am not going to let it consume me any longer.  -Kit   

[jaskiers-sweetkiss]

Out of Time

Pairings: Avengers!Reader x Daniel Sousa, Steve x Bucky (briefly mentioned)

Summary: Just when you were starting to enjoy your time in 1949 everything falls apart. SEQUEL TO Not So Bad

Word Count: 2.6K

Warnings: some swearing, panic attack, mention of ptsd and war, some angst

A/N: @bookish-bucky @drinkerofcoffeewriterofwords and @mydoctorwho13 asked for a part 2 to Not So Bad so here it is! (I hope y’all don’t mind that I tagged you/lmk if you want me to untag you/idk why it didn’t let me tag all of you). More notes at the bottom!

___

The cat was out of the bag. 

Well, really just one cat was out of its bag. 

Basically your secret was out and it was entirely your fault. 

You were at Howard’s lab for the third time for even more tests. All of the previous tests had been inconclusive, though that came as no surprise to you. You had engineered them to be that way, pretending to suddenly and uncontrollably levitate in response to random tests, doing your best to ensure that Howard would be unable to make any connections. 

But today you were a bit distracted. 

You couldn’t help it, you were only human after all. And when Daniel Sousa is flashing an award-winning grin while Howard tried his most bizarre test ever (repeatedly trying to scare you in hopes it would spark a levitation reaction), well, any woman in your position would’ve done the same.

You jumped. No, you did more than just jump. 

Howard Stark snuck up behind you and yelled while shaking your shoulders and you flew. Shot straight up in the air like a rocket, feeling entirely like your teenage self with absolutely no control of your abilities. 

And then, to make matters worse, you disappeared. 

You assumed it must’ve been the embarrassment of smacking your head on the ceiling that caused the sudden invisibility though the ‘why’ didn’t really matter anymore. What mattered was you were invisible and Daniel and Howard were shouting your name. 

Except, no, that didn’t matter right now either. All you could focus on was the sudden tightening in your chest and the fact that you were finding it harder to breathe. The shouting faded to the background as you began to feel trapped in your own skin. 

I have to get out of here. 

So you ran. 

You didn’t even think as you flew out of Howard’s lab, racing down the hall. You didn’t stop until you were in the bathroom, door locked behind you. You slid down to the floor, knees pulled tight against your chest as you leaned against the door.

Briefly, you noticed that you were still invisible, though the thought left as soon as it came. You also vaguely noticed the tears streaming down your face, though you were unaware of when they had begun. Your thoughts zipped back to the lab and the concern lacing Daniel and Howard’s voices as they called out to you and for a moment you felt bad for running away but that too was pulled away in the hurricane of your mind. Your whole body felt abuzz and you couldn’t think or breathe as a feeling of utter helplessness settled into your bones. 

You tried to remember what Tony had told you to do- something about box breathing exercises and the five senses- but you weren’t sure that you were in control of your mind anymore. 

“Y/N, if you can hear me name four street names from where you grew up.” Daniel’s voice rang through the bathroom door. Before you could even consider how he had found you or why he needed to know you answered,

“Main Street, Birch Street, Higgins Drive, Cobalt Lane.” The words were stuttered and separated by harsh inhales and exhales. 

“Name your five favorite movies.”

“La La Land, Ferris Bueller, Beauty and the Beast, Spirited Away, Inception.” The words were smoother this time, though tears still streamed down your face and your bones still felt heavy and your skin restrictive. 

“Okay, name ten presidents.”

“Uh, Ellis, Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln, FDR… Teddy Roosevelt, Eisenhower… Reagan, Nixon… Kennedy.” Your voice was steady as you spoke, your chest no longer heaving with sobs and shaking breaths. 

“Good. Now name seven state capitals.” 

“Albany, Trenton, Tallahassee, Nashville, Lansing, Richmond, Raleigh.” When you opened your eyes you noticed you were visible again, though when it had happened you weren’t sure. 

“Are you okay?” Daniel’s voice came through the door, soothing you more than you realized. 

“Yeah.” You answered quietly, your voice raw. 

“If you’re comfortable with it, will you open the door?”

Your soul turned to mush at his words, Daniel Sousa- ever the gentleman. You felt an immense amount of comfort in the man despite only knowing him a few days but you were scared. You had just fully exposed your powers and had a panic attack, you hadn’t been this vulnerable to another person in years. 

“It’s okay if you don’t want to, I just want to make sure you’re okay,” Daniel spoke again, no judgment lacing his voice, only kindness, compassion, and caring. 

You stood slowly, your muscles aching as you stretched them from their tensed position, and unlocked the door, opening it to reveal Daniel. Your eyes immediately jumped to his face, his expression almost pained though it changed as soon as he saw you, morphing into relief and something else you couldn’t quite place. 

“How did you know how to do that?” You blurted out, though you had really wanted the first thing you said to him to be “thank you” or “I’m sorry.”

Instead, apparently your brain was preoccupied with how the man before you had walked you through your panic attack. 

“Oh, uh…” He rubbed the back of his neck nervously. “Well after the war… ptsd and all, I’m no stranger to panic attacks.”

You softened at his confession, forgetting, despite his limp and his cane, that the man before you had gone through a war and had not come out unscathed. Before you even knew what you were doing you were hugging him. He let out a small “oof” as you wrapped your arms around his middle, squeezing slightly. 

Tentatively, he wrapped his arms around you in return. 

“Thank you,” you finally mumbled into his suit jacket. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing?” Daniel asked, confusion etched into his features as he pulled away from your embrace. 

“I-I disappeared and I ran and I panicked and you had to come get me and deal with all that.” You gestured wildly as you spoke, words fumbling together in your rush to get it all out. 

“Y/N, helping you isn’t a burden to me,” Daniel spoke softly, tilting your chin up so you could see the sincerity in his eyes. “And what you just went through- what you’ve been going through with these... strange abilities, your reaction was completely justified.” 

Your heart clenched at his words. He was speaking to you with such honesty and openness but you were lying to him. You sighed, taking a step back, his arms falling away from your waist and you suddenly felt cold without the heat of his embrace. 

“I-” You faltered, needing to take a breath before you could continue. “I need to tell you and Howard something.” 

 ___

“What exactly were you hoping to accomplish with this lie, Miss Y/L/N?” You winced at the use of your last name. Daniel hadn’t used it since that first night in his house. 

You tried to shrink into yourself, considering going invisible once again to escape the look of betrayal Daniel was fixing you with. 

“Are you a spy?” He was angry and betrayed and you could see him trying to reason this out to himself, but you knew he’d never even fathom the truth. “Was this an attempt to infiltrate SHIELD? Who do you work for?”

“Daniel,” you whispered, and the stern look you were fixed with told you everything you needed to know. The only way out of this was the full truth, timeline be damned. 

“I work with a team of powered people called The Avengers.” You sighed. “About two weeks ago, two of our members stole the Tesseract from Camp Lehigh in order to save the world from an alien who wiped out fifty percent of the universe. After we succeeded, I was tasked with returning the Tesseract but due to a malfunction I’m stuck here.” 

“I’m pretty sure we would’ve noticed the Tesseract being stolen and the destruction of half of the world,” Daniel said crossly, clearly not believing you though you didn’t blame him. 

“You wouldn’t have because for you none of that has happened yet and I returned the Tesseract immediately after it was taken.” 

“You mean this happened in the future?” Howard finally spoke, looking at you with a newfound curiosity.

You nodded. “In the year 2023.” 

Howard let out a low whistle at the date but there was a gleam in his eyes like a kid in a candy store. 

“I have so many questions.”

You smiled sadly, “Surely you understand that I can’t tell you what happens without destroying the timeline.” 

“No, we don’t understand.” Daniel snapped, “Because time travel doesn’t exist.” 

“Daniel I can’t make you believe me, I literally have no way to prove this to you,” you sighed, not wanting to argue with the man. “I didn’t even mean to drag you into this, I came here for Howard’s help fixing my device so I could go back.” 

“If it makes you feel any better, if I was a spy, I’d have absolutely nothing to report. I didn’t get anywhere near SHIELD or any of Howard’s projects.” You tried to smile, though you felt like crying. “You’re a good agent and a good leader, Daniel Sousa, but most importantly you’re a good man and I am not deserving of your help or your trust.” 

Daniel’s eyes softened at your words, though he still held a defensive stance. The lab remained silent for a few minutes but your eyes never left Daniel’s face, observing the flurry of emotions that resided there. 

“Time travel would explain those movies and presidents I’ve never heard of.”

You cringed slightly, not realizing you had potentially blown the timeline during your panic attack.

“Yeah, those won’t come out for another few decades,” you rubbed the back of your neck embarrassedly, “And I suppose I ruined a few elections for you.” 

“I’ll live,” Daniel responded with a shrug before his eyes widened in realization, “I will live right?” 

“Honestly? I have no idea what your life looks like. I didn’t pay a lot of attention in school.” You answered sheepishly, a small smile gracing your features at the forgiveness, however small, that came with Daniel’s statement. 

“I’m not even going to ask because I already know that I must be remembered for my genius because you came to me for help,” Howard smirked cockily, “Now, let’s get your time machine fixed and get you home.” 

“Oh hell, you did not need that ego boost,” you groaned. 

Howard had the audacity to wink. 

___

The next week was difficult. You were still staying with Daniel but the dynamic between the two of you had changed entirely. There were no more soft, shared glances, or meaningful looks, or chats over coffee in the morning. In fact, Daniel seemed to be avoiding looking at you at all, only doing so when absolutely necessary. He had thrown all his energy into getting you back to your time. 

It broke your heart a bit, though you’d never admit it. You’d known the man for a little over a week, you couldn’t be getting all teary-eyed because he wasn’t looking at you anymore. Plus, wasn’t he doing exactly what you wanted by helping you get back? Still, it felt a little as though he was trying to get rid of you. 

That week had felt like torture. A constant turmoil of indecipherable emotions swirling inside you and you had no idea what to do with it all. So you pushed on. Pushed all the way to the day Howard fixed your time travel watch. 

“I think I’ve finally got it!” He exclaimed, gleefully. “I’ve invented time travel!”

“Not so fast, Stark.” You chided, “My team invented time travel, you’ve just fixed it.” 

Howard merely rolled his eyes, muttering something about “no fun” and brought you the device. Daniel was standing off to the side, eyes refusing to meet yours, consistent with the past week. You sighed, accepting the watch and sliding it onto your wrist. 

“Well, we’ve only got one shot,” you may have been stalling, though you wouldn’t admit it to yourself. “Are you sure it’s right, Howard?”

“Honestly? No. But I’m sure that I have no other solutions than what I’ve already done.”

“Is this a good idea?” You asked aloud, to no one in particular. 

“Y/N, you need to get back.” Daniel sighed, lifting his eyes to meet yours and you thought you saw grief in them. “Your team is probably worried about you.” 

“If this works how it’s supposed to, I’ll be back just seconds after I left,” you shook your head sadly, “Just in time for retirement cake.” 

“Retirement?” His head was cocked to the side like a confused puppy and your heart leapt into your throat at the first unprofessional conversation you’ve shared in a week.

You nodded, “One of my teammates is stepping away to settle down with his boyfriend.” 

“His boyfriend?” Daniel questioned skeptically and you forgot what time you had been stuck in. You knew from Steve and Bucky’s stories that the 30s and 40s were not a good time to be lgbt but you could tell by the way that he had spoken that Daniel didn’t hold any of those biases. It was just one more thing about the future to be confused about.  

“You’d love them,” you whispered honestly. 

He probably would, the three of them have so much in common between the war and SHIELD and Peggy Carter and Howard Stark. For a moment you let yourself imagine a world in which you had been born in this era, in which Bucky had never been captured and Steve never frozen. A world where you could fall in love with Daniel Sousa and live happily ever after surrounded by friends. 

You shook yourself out of it. There was no future for you here and there was a team waiting for you in the future. You sighed, punching the date and time into your watch. You were out of time. 

“What if I didn’t go?” You blurted out, unable to contain the question any longer. 

“Y/N, your team-” Daniel started. 

“Doesn’t need me. They all have lives and happiness and fulfillment and-“ you shuddered as you released this word vomit of feelings you didn’t even realize you had before you whispered, “And maybe I deserve some of that myself.” 

Daniel Sousa made you feel cared for and appreciated in a way nobody ever had in the 21st century and you’d be damned if you gave that up without a fight. 

“What about the timeline?”

“Fuck the timeline!” You exclaimed and Howard giggled and your cursing. 

“Daniel,” you sighed. “You make me feel things I’ve never felt before and I don’t wanna put too much pressure on this, but I think meeting you might be the best thing that’s ever happened to me. But if you don’t feel the same way tell me now and I’ll go back.”

You were standing right in front of him now, having closed the distance during your speech. 

“Y/N,” he sighed, his eyes swimming with emotions you couldn’t read though he looked at you with such tenderness that you thought you might melt right there as he reached up a hand to cup your cheek.

You weren’t entirely sure, but you thought you might’ve muttered “kiss me” before his lips were on yours, soft and warm and you felt like fireworks were erupting in your stomach. It was a short kiss, no more than a few seconds, but it confirmed a number of things for you. The most significant thing being that you were never going back to 2023. 

___

A/N: A few things: 1. the street names listed while Y/N is having a panic attack are actually copied directly from Jessica Jones. 2. The listing miscellaneous things (street names, movies, presidents, etc.) is something my friend has had me do when I’ve had panic attacks. Idk if that works for everyone, but it certainly has helped me in the past and I can really only write from my own experiences. 3. I lowkey wanna write a oneshot for the fantasy Y/N has towards the end where she’s born during the same time period as Stucky, Peggy, Howard, and Sousa and she probably joins SHIELD which is how she meets Sousa (Edit: this exists now and you can find it here!). Idk, let me know what you think! 

[starr-fall-knight-rise]

Humans are Space Orcs, “Recruits, Regulation″

Recruits Kimber, Alvarez, Han, and McCaster sat mostly slack jawed in the little conference room on the command deck of the UNSC Harbinger. The little alien doctor they had called ‘Krill’ was standing at the front of the room, and in general military fashion, he had a powerpoint holographically projected over the far wall. 

On the projection currently was a diagram of a human body, the kind you would see in high school health textbook.

The little alien was pointing vigorously towards the diagram, “And here, right here this little opening that leads into the bladder is called the urethra, and if you STICK things in it, it gets grossly infected and causes horrible urinary tract infections.” The group of recruits simple sat there in shock, “This, this is the anus, this muscle was designed to push things out not take things in. In fact, if you try, the negative pressure created by your adventure can pull things INSIDE your colon and up your large intestine. The procedure for getting that out might include surgery, but could just involve someone like me reaching up there to grab it out.” 

Mouths gaped in astonishment.

They couldn’t be living through this, could they.

“This, this machine right here is the mechanism used to close the airlock doors. If the airlock doors get jammed, do NOT stick your hand inside to try and fish them out, because this may cause something called degloving…. If you don’t know what that means, its when all the skin peels off your hand like a banana and-”

The door at the far end of the room hissed open, and they turned to see the commander, of course the man didn’t just walk into the room like any normal person. He glided in on his ‘heelies, hands clasped behind his back like he was standing at parade rest. It was such a strange sight, considering the man was wearing an officer's uniform and a captain’s cap having ditched the sunglasses from earlier in favor of the eye patch, which did not, in fact, seem to be a joke, but was definitely part of his everyday wardrobe. 

He came gliding to a halt next to them, “You made a powerpoint?” He asked in mild amusement.

“Of course I made a powerpoint.”

“Hmm,” The man shrugged, “Guess it makes sense.”

“Can you let me finish.”

The man grinned, “Afraid not. We are about to launch, and I have it on good authority these four have been invited to the bridge to see the spectacle.”

The little doctor sighed, “So human by way of his exasperation that it was hard to tell he was even alien, “Alright go then, but when one of them ends up in my infirmary with some stupid injury, I am going to blame you.”

“You blame me anyway.”

“That's because I am convinced you are the amalgamation of human stupidity and recklessness.” The recruits looked nervously back and forth between the two. Its not everyday you watched an officer get insulted to his face, but the man just smiled and laughed blowing the entire thing off.

“Well I’ve never gotten anything stuck in my colon, so I guess I’m not a good representative, anyway.” He pointed to the four of them, “Come on. I think you’ll want to see this.” 

Nervously the group of them stood and followed the Commander through the open doors walking along behind his gliding form.

He had…. Not been what they expected. They had seen the movie trailers, heard about his exploits, watched flight demonstration videos, in certain cases, and even received lectures about intergalactic relations based on transcripts from his conversations, and or interactions. He was a legend at the academy, at the forefront of human/alien relations. All the books were written based on what he had done or what people in his crew had done. He had been the first man to SEE sentient nonhuman life.

And there he was, wearing an eyepatch and heeleing down the hall like a botched middle school costume party. Not to mention, when they had heard of him, they had immediately assumed it would be someone older and more experienced, someone graying at the temples who had seen more life than he knew what to do with, but this…. This guy wasn’t much older than them. Young enough to be their older brother, or their older brother’s weird ass friend.

Then there was that smile, like he didn’t have a serious bone in his body, and they were expected to follow this guy?

How could they take him seriously?

“Um… Sir, I don’t mean to sound…. accusatory , but.” He glanced over his shoulder back at them, green eye sparking with some unknown emotion.

Recruit  Kimber pointed down at his shoes, “Um, are those regulation…. With the uniform or…”

He grinned again and turned away, “Uniform regulation Gama on the proper maintenance of footwear when wearing uniform. Footwear must be classified as a dress shoe and come in Mat black or grey, no laces.” he pointed downwards at his feet, “These are slip ons, and in the online description they were described as a ‘dress shoe” maybe it was on a technicality but I took a screenshot just in case anyone asks.”

They stared at him. 

“Um…. sir…. I hate to sound like an….ur well…. But you arent exactly…”

“What you expected?” The man finished, coming to a stop and turning to face them.

“Well.” Alvarez rubbed the back of his head, “Yeah, I mean you…. Well weve read about you in military science and tactics, and we sort of just assumed that you’d be more ...”

The conversation died away as the young recruits shifted awkwardly.

He smirked, “you thought id be some old stuffy officer with years of military experience. Some regulation stickler with a metal rod shoved up my ass, yes sir, no sir, you say jump, I say how high, that kind of person?”

They shuffled their feet awkwardly, but didn’t answer.

The man didn’t break his expression, “Well this is the reality.  When I was a kid I used to set up my telescope out on the lawn, hoping I would see a UFO I trained for over five years in aviation to get my ass on board the Enterprise, because I wanted nothing more than to go to space.. My first trip to space was in an F-90 darkfire, and I nearly died. I was on the forerunner team that stepped foot on Proxima b and then when we receive incoming radio signals from an unknown source,I accompanied them as well. There I was the first person to see extraterrestrial life, not only that but I helped to establish linguistic contact between the two races. When the Drev war happened, I was deployed when I never should have been, lost my leg become a part of operation steel eye fought through withdrawals and PTSD before crawling back to the UNSC only to learn that the GA Knew me and trusted me enough to want me as the human representative to the rest of the galaxy.” He paused for a second looking them over, “All of that, was just one big accident. I was in the right place at the right time, and aside from training as hard as I did to be a good pilot, I have stumbled and crashed my way to success by the grace of my own luck.”

The group remained silent.

He looked at them with a critical eye, “Do you want to know what I learned through all of that?”

They remained silent but nodded nervously.

He took a breath, “I learned first and foremost to never stop loving what you do, With the army it is easy to take all the rules and regulations, and hate all the political loopholes you have to jump through. It’s easy to make a routine to grow bored. But boredom leads to burnout, and every day I wake up on MY ship living my childhood dream and determine I have no right to feel that way, so if that means wearing heelis on the command deck, Playing songs older than dirt on the bridge, and making myself look like a fool, than I’ll do it, just as long as I remember to contain it when it most matters.”

He turned away and began gliding down the hall again, “Ever wonder why my ship, despite being the most dangerous, is the most sought after in the fleet… It's because Morale. I make sure to keep my people entertained and happy. Morale has the happy side effect of making people work harder, they try more, and they are more loyal. Everything I do, I do for the crew, and for myself.”

He came to a halt at the bottom of the steps and led them upwards onto the bridge. 

The small blue Drev, Sunny, was waiting for them, “Rousing lecture, I almost peed myself a little.”

He snorted and shoved her aside with a shoulder, “You know you love me.”

The drev lifted her head slightly, “Do I?”

“Yes, you do.”

The recruits followed nervously after him glancing towards the Drev female and her bright gold eyes. She snapped her beak at them and they stepped back nervously. She made some sort of humming sound deep in her chest. The the base of her throat they watched as two large holes opened and closed in time with her breathing.

Creepy.

“Begin preflight sequence.” The commander had taken a seat in the captain's chair, and as he was sitting there giving orders and taking command of the ship, you could almost forget that he was wearing an eyepatch and a pair of heelies.

By order form one of the bridge men, they strapped themselves into their seats as the countdown sequence began, “Crew of the harbinger this is your Commander speaking. Please follow all takeoff protocols for we are beginning preflight at this time. Please make sure to strap down all objects that would be lethal flying towards you head, and keep your hands and and feet inside the vehicle for the duration of the ride, thank you for flying with the UNSC.”

He flipped some controls on the chair as the countdown began, and it wasn’t moments before they were being lifted into the sky. Everyone braced themselves against their seats clutching the harnesses as they were thrust upwards into the sky, hands clasped onto harasses, and then they were airborne.

Despite the sudden and violent takeoff, the ride was relatively smooth, and they watched out the windows as earth receded behind them.

It was an amazing sight, more than any of them had ever before imagined, “Charge warp drive!” The commander ordered.”

“Charging warp drive, engage on your command, sir.”

“Diagnostic report on the coolant system?”

“100% operations functional, sir!”

“Engage warp drive in three ...two…. One.” 

And then they were gone, off into the vastness of space at the forefront of space exploration.

At the forefront of danger.

***

The forefront of danger was not what they had been expecting, they certainly had not expected the aggressive prank war that occured on April first, a prank war that covered McCaster in Green paint, and resulted in Han having lost all of his left shoes. 

They didn’t expect the mess hall to burst into a sing along when the commander began playing outdated rock music, they hadn’t expected to get cleaned out in a game of poker by an alien nearly twice their size, or chased out of the shower by a very grumpy looking spider hybrid.

All through this, the commander appeared and disappeared at random wheeling past or riding on the back of the electric blue Drev, only to prance down the hall out of sight leaving a trail of…. Something dumb, bubbles or confett, behind him. 

How he managed to requisition any of the things he got his hands on was a mystery to them.

And though this was the strangest experience they had ever had, he hadn’t been wrong about burnout, boredom, or monotony. They never knew what was coming next, and there was always something interesting going on.

If you walked in on the commander, one moment he was trying to teach the spiderlings how to shake, and the next moment he was on a conference call with the president of the UN brass of the UNSC and the galactic Assembly giving tactical advice with the same mouth that had earlier proclaimed the hypothesis that , why don’t we just do all our laundry in space seeing as the inhospitable vacuum would kill all the bacteria, not entirely sure if he was joking or not.

During meal times he spent a good portion of it rotating around the tables and eating with a new group every day. Generally his big blue friend, Sunny came with him, and more often than not, the doctor as well. Seemed odd how close he was with them, but no one would give a straight answer when questions came up about the nature of the relationship.

It was on just such a day when the commander made his way over to their table and took a seat followed by the blue Drev who was carrying a large salad in a mixing bowl. 

The drev could really put down food, but that made sense.

“Morning gentlemen.”

“Morning, sir.” 

He tilted his head, “Don’t look so thrilled, you might have an accident with all that enthusiasm.”

Alvarez clutched his mug, “Sorry not a morning person.” He muttered 

“And you commander.” 

“Any time is a good time to be alive.”

“And there is the optimist.” Han muttered with a sigh rubbing groggily at his eyes before pausing “What are you wearing?”

The commander grinned leaning back to show off his shirt, “Star Wars T, its vintage, do you like?.... Don’t give me that look, it’s casual friday.”

They just shook their heads in slight amusement as he leaned an elbow on the table, “I was meaning to ask you guys something.”

They nodded, and he was about to open his mouth to speak when, alarms started going off all around the ship.

Suddenly, the geek was gone and the commander stood in his place demeanor no more marred by his clothing than a speck of dust in a beam of sunlight.

“EVERYONE TO YOUR STATIONS, NOW!”

“What’s going on!”

He tilted his head to the side listening, probably to a report over his implants.

“The GA is under attack. “

[n7inky-fanfics]

One Day at a Time

The destruction of the Reapers did not mean galactic peace. While the treaties Shepard had brokered during the war remain mostly intact, there is no shortage of pirates, criminals, gangs, and terroristic organizations bent on creating chaos and destruction. The Council began directing their Spectres towards overseeing and protecting reconstruction efforts and maintaining peace. Now that scientists are close to unlocking the key to repairing the mass relays, the galaxy has settled into unease. No one knows if crime will get better or worse with the relays back online. All factions are getting agitated, and more fighting is breaking out.

Sometimes, Kaidan pities the poor soul on the wrong end of Shepard's gun. More than once, he has heard all sorts of people shout something along the lines of "Oh shit, it's Shepard!" as they realized they were about to die. Shepard is a skilled soldier who dominates the battlefield with equal parts strength and grace. Fighting alongside her can be almost beautiful in an odd and violent sort of way, especially when she used her biotics. It took her almost a year of practice fighting on her military grade prosthetic leg, but she has now found that grace on the battlefield again. In the end, her skills and her career could not be taken by the Reaper War. The galaxy kept its greatest protector.

Today, they are both back on Mars, of all places, fighting a remnant of Cerberus that is attempting to steal more data from the archives. If intel is correct, their goal is to find weapons they can use "for the betterment of humanity", which is their way of saying anti-alien terrorism. Kaidan does have to admit that some part of him enjoys taking down pieces of Cerberus. After all the horrible things he's seen them do, including all that they have put Shepard through, he's glad to eliminate every last cell in the galaxy. It's a worthy career goal.

As the smoke clears, Shepard begins checking the bodies for data pads, hoping to find anything to indicate how many of them are at the archives and what their exact plans are. After all, if this was just an outdoor lookout team, there's bound to be more already inside. She freezes as she reads one of the data pads. Kaidan can barely see her face through her helmet, but her reaction to the data pad can't be good. "Shepard, what is it?"

She clears her throat and says calmly "It's not pertinent to the mission. Let's move on." She drops the data pad and continues towards the entrance. Kaidan trusts Shepard, but curiosity gets the better of him and he glances down at the data pad as he passes by. It currently displays the owner's profile. He can see an image that he guesses matches the body they found it on and a name. "Andrew Mason".

As they enter the archive, they happily find a distinct lack of civilian and scientist casualties. This time, intel learned of the plan early and decided to evacuate the scientists and ship in more soldiers. Unfortunately, Cerberus still puts up a good fight and many of the Alliance soldiers were injured or killed before the Spectres arrived (travel between systems takes more time now that the relays are gone). Shepard hops on to the nearest terminal and accesses the system logs. "Ah, here it is. Someone opened an archive five minutes ago. We can take the tram there."

"Perfect. Maybe this time we'll make it through without getting shot at." Immediately after making the joke, Kaidan winces at the realization that bringing up their last mission on Mars might not be a good idea. Sure, they've worked everything out, but it still could be a touchy subject. He was pretty cruel to her last time, before he almost died in front of her.

"Doubtful." Shepard laughs lightly as they board the tram.

They ride quietly for a moment before Kaidan asks "So, will I get to know who Andrew Mason is?"

"Maybe later. Now's not the time."

"Fair." Kaidan says. He smiles at her, hoping she can see it through the helmet. His is much more open and visually blocks less of the face. Shepard's preferred gear usually allows less visibility, but it also has fewer structural weak points. He noticed a change in her treatment of her armor not too long after he got back on the Normandy, but he's never said anything. Without asking, he already knows why Shepard chooses armor with the most reinforced environment system, and why she carefully and almost obsessively maintains it. He would, too, in her shoes.

He refocuses himself on the task at hand as they begin approaching their destination. They've almost made it when a Cerberus soldier begins firing at the car. They both take cover behind the wall and the dance begins yet again. As the car docks, Shepard throws up a barrier and runs out, shooting at several men in a row as she charges to cover. Kaidan focuses on the heavy trooper slowly approaching from a distance and Reaves. Together, they feed off each other's energy. The can move in sync, watching each other's sixes and supporting each other throughout the entire battle. Before long, the docking zone falls silent as the battle ends.

They take turns clearing doors until they finally get to the archive. They take cover on either side of the door. He opens it carefully, and Shepard immediately swings around to cover him with her pistol. The immediate entryway is surprisingly empty. Shepard gestures for him to follow, then slowly and quietly moves inside the room until they reach a sharp turn. She takes cover against the wall and peers around the corner, gun at the ready. As soon as she does, she is thrown backwards by a large biotic force. Her gun fires before she even hits the wall. Kaidan swings around and unleashes a singularity that pulls the target into the air. Shepard fires again, making several headshots that eventually pierce the armor and hit their mark.

"Thanks for the cover, Alenko." She says, her smile coming through in the sound of her voice. She pats him on the back and pushes further into the room, where the target had been collecting data onto a drive. She plugs the data into her omnitool and runs it through analysis softwares. Liara would be able to tell them more, but it appears that intel was correct. They had been here for advanced weapons blueprints. Shepard begins forwarding the information back to the Normandy, then turns to head back to the LZ. Kaidan follows her.

Getting back to the Normandy and conferencing with Admiral Hackett is no big deal. After the verbal debriefing, they retire to her cabin to write their mission reports. Kaidan's ship, the SSV London (named for the Battle of London that ended the Reaper War), is still getting it's final touches before he'll be able to take it out on a shakedown run, so he rode along with Shepard for this mission and their last several. As they settle into the couch with their tea and data pads, he can't help but smile. This is a good life, one he hadn't expected to attain. Every day, sometimes several times a day, he still finds himself thankful that they had found Shepard after the Crucible. When the Alliance had formally declared her missing in action, with the caveat that she was most likely dead, Kaidan refused to lay down and wait for them to declare her death. He contacted Hackett with an emergency QEC on the Normandy and told him that until they found a body, Shepard was to be considered alive and in need of assistance. They all owed that to her. Seeing her here and now, living her life with him, is something he is grateful for every day.

As Kaidan is putting the final touches on his report, Shepard sets her data pad on the table and walks to her shower, stripping off articles of clothing as she goes. He fumbles over the keyboard, leaving a line of text that reads "ghdhshgdg" as he watches her go. Knowing that he's watching, she calls "finish your report first, and then you can join me." He deletes the line of typos, hurriedly wraps up the report, and follows her for an enjoyable interlude.

Their activities eventually end with them cuddling in her bed. She lay with her head resting gently on his chest, her hand absentmindedly rubbing circles on through his chest hair. He has one arm around her back and gently brushing strokes down her upper arm. He can feel her back subtly rise and fall with her breath. They lay this way for a while before he feels a slight dampness on his chest, where her head is. "Hazel, are you okay?" he asks, looking down at her. Her face is buried in him. She stifles a sob, and he feels the shift in her breathing as she forces herself to cry silently. He wraps his arms around her tighter. "Sweetheart, whatever it is, I've got you." Slowly, she pulls herself back and looks at him. He reaches up to her and gently wipes the tears from her cheeks. She pulls herself into a sitting position against the headboard, and he follows so that they are sitting side by side.

She leans her head on his shoulder and quietly says "You asked about Andrew Mason?"

"Yeah. Do you want to talk about it?"

"I knew him... from before the Alliance." she ends the sentence at barely a whisper. Her shoulders tense and she looks down at the floor. "He was one of the younger kids in the Reds before I left." He gently reaches for her hand and takes it in his as she continues. "I heard he'd gotten out, that he'd joined the Alliance some time after my death. I had hoped he'd do well and go far, but it didn't work that way. I checked his records when we got back to the ship. His team got ambushed by some pirates about seven months before the Reapers invaded. He was discharged honorably for medical reasons, for PTSD. I guess that's when Cerberus got to him."

"Hazel, I'm so sorry." he says.

"The hell of it is that I can see myself in that kid. In what he came from, in his escape. What if I somehow influenced his decision to leave like that? How many kids joined after hearing fantastical stories about my life, only to be swooped up by Cerberus when the Alliance didn't live up to their expectations or to die in battle before they got the chance to reconsider?"

"Hey, stop that. It's not your fault, Hazel."

"How many people died because of me? Will continue to die because of me? Because I failed?" Her voice cracks and she lets out a shuddering breath.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Backup. Failed at what?"

"I couldn't save them all. I can never save them all."

"Hazel, stop. Look at me." He gently places his hand under her chin and guides her to look at him. "You are not responsible for every person in the galaxy. You've spent far too much of your life fighting galactic wars practically on your own. Enough is enough. We stopped the Reapers. Now, we just do what we can to make things a little better. One day at a time, okay?"

She nods and he pulls her into a tight embrace. "One day at a time." She sniffles.

[thelordofdarkreunion]

Magnificent Scoundrels- On the Great Journey

Another faction intro, this time from Halo.  It should probably be noted that, obviously, I do not own Halo.

A note on timelines: This takes place in 2552, in between Halo 1 and 2.  This is after the destruction of Instillation 04, and before Regret’s invasion of Earth.  

Halo Galaxy

Earth, Capital World of the UNSC

The room was much like any typical human conference room throughout almost any galaxy.  Plain.  Utilitarian.  Very, very grey.  The table, too, was a sleek grey, matching the walls, and the chairs strung around it were typical of almost any high-class office building.  Black, comfortable enough, and with wheels.  Many an alien had and still has noted with some amusement the human fascination for chairs with wheels on them.  Even the most hardened of generals and politicians always seemed to choose them over regular chairs.  Most curious.  But none of the aliens of this galaxy had ever noticed the subtleties of humanity.  No.  Here, there was only war between humanity and the theocratic alien empire known simply as the Covenant.  This war was the reason for the meeting in this seemingly plain conference room.

Master Chief John-117 sat silently in a chair suitably enlarged for his massive frame.  If one were not aware that there was a man beneath his heavy green armor, they might have mistaken him for a statue.  He had been sitting like this, back perfectly straight, for exactly one hour, one minute, and forty one… forty two seconds now.  He had arrived first to the meeting, as a good soldier should.  The rest of the participants trickled in between then and half an hour ago.  

He was currently playing a game in his head, one that he had come up with a long time ago.  The nature of this game was simple: who is everyone at the meeting?  What, or whom, do they represent?  What do they want?  For despite the fact that Master Chief had not moved in one hour, two minutes, and ten seconds, his mind was always alert.  Always searching for threats.  

The man at the head of the table was the easiest to know.  An old face, wrinkled but still incredibly sharp, coupled with a crisp, white dress uniform and rows upon rows of medals made him a soldier.  If one was more familiar with the current state of the UEG and UNSC, one would also instantly put a name with the face.  Fleet Admiral Lord Terrance Hood, chief of naval operations and the de facto leader of the war effort, and thus humanity as a whole.  John liked Lord Hood.  Helpful.  Practical.  A soldier through and through.  

The next was another old face, wearing the white uniform of an admiral.  However, this woman did not have the reassuring eyes of Lord Hood.  These eyes were old, cold, hard, and incredibly calculating.  While Hood might have been in charge, Admiral Margaret Parangosky was probably the most dangerous person in the room.  She was the head of ONI, the Office of Naval Intelligence.  Master manipulator, master spy.  She probably had enough information to destroy anyone else in the room.  Cold, calculating, and ruthless, she was nevertheless a curt and professional leader.  

The next, and the last one the Chief recognized, was another older woman.  Greying hair framed a wrinkled face and pure blue eyes, still glowing with intelligence.  Doctor Catherine Halsey, creator of the Spartan-II’s.  Creator of Cortana.  Scientist extraordinaire.  The only thing even close to a mother figure he ever had.  Yes, she was the one who kidnapped him from an unknown family and turned him into a living weapon… but she was still a mother figure, in a way.  Master Chief suspected he had Stockholm syndrome.  It didn’t really concern him.  It was just one more problem on a list of many.  Anxiety, depression, sociopathy, paranoia, violent PTSD.  He had it all.  He ignored it.  The only thing that mattered was the mission.  

All of the other members of the meeting could fit into three groups: the soldiers, the politicians, and the spies.  

The soldiers were the easiest to understand.  Either Army or Navy, they were no nonsense (for the most part) and practical.  Soldiers.  People he understood.  They had a duty, and they did it.  

Spies were, as they probably should be, the hardest to understand.  They were all from ONI, and were, by far, the least trustworthy in the room.  Hated and feared, they were the ones who oversaw much of the UNSC’s secret projects.  It was their agents who had kidnapped him as a baby for the Spartan program.  Lord Hood didn’t trust them.  Dr. Halsey didn’t trust them.  Master Chief didn’t trust them either.  Too concerned with power plays and secrets.  It was in their nature to be untrustworthy, just as it was in Master Chief’s nature to be blunt.  

The third group were the politicians.  While they might normally be the most problem faction, these were extraordinary times.  The United Earth Governments had no power.  The United Nations Space Command had taken full control under material law to repel the Covenant.  The politicians technically had no say-so, but they were still kept in the loop so as not to cause any problems.  No one wanted a rogue politician talking too much, and here Admirals Hood and Parangosky could keep an eye on them.  

None except Hood, several of the diplomats, and Parangosky were actually required.  Most, from Dr. Hasley, to the ONI spies, to the politicians were here either as precautions, in case something came up that would require their expertise, or so that they wouldn’t cause any problems.  Hood and Parangosky were crafty enough to realize that snubbing people was probably not the best idea for fostering a united war effort.  

“And now, Master Chief John-117, please present your finds,” asked Parangosky.  Oh, shit.  This was the part he had been dreading.  He absolutely despised talking to people, but this time he really didn’t have a choice.  

“Yes, ma’am.”  His gravelly voice rang clearly through the room as everyone went silent.  “I met with the group you told me to.  Their dossiers are in my report.  They seem nice enough.”  He wasn’t quite sure if he was doing this right.  He didn’t have much practice talking to other humans.  Parangosky looked at him with an annoyed expression, but Hood held up a hand to forestall any comments.  

“I know you don’t particularly like to do this, Chief.  However, we need to know where everyone in these new galaxies stand.”  The politicians and various lower ranked officers gave sycophantic nods.  

“Yes, sir.”  A holoprojector sprang to life, displaying the various symbols of different inter-galactic powers.  “Most are either peaceful inter-species coalitions or human-supremacist empires.  From what Cortana has told me, the more human-supremacist and militaristic, the more likely they are to stand with us.”  The table broke out with murmuring.  

“Now what?” asked one of the Admirals.  “Who exactly is going to help us?  Can we actually trust them?”  

“The people I’ve seen are trustworthy,” responded the Chief.  If slightly bizarre, and, on several instances, slightly insane.  “Whether or not we can trust their governments is another problem.”  Thankfully, not my problem.  

“What about their weapons?” questioned an ONI agent.  

“Everything I’ve learned about their weapons is in my report.”  Honestly, what was the point of writing reports if no one was going to read them?

“Can we get any of these weapons?” pressed the agent.  Why are ONI agents so annoying?

“While the individuals I’ve met want to keep their own weapons, at least one is willing to sell them,” replied the Chief gruffly.  He hadn’t, and wouldn’t, tell them about Drake’s gift.  They would want to get their hands all over it, disassemble it, and he’d never get it back.  It was put to much better use in his hands.  At least it was in his opinion.  Although, Drake would probably be perfectly willing to sell anything from laser weapons to WMDs if the price was right.  The ONI agent began whining again.

“All the “militaristic” powers are fighting other things!  All the peaceful ones wouldn’t want to get involved in the Covenant War, and all the other ones would probably want to screw us over.”  Like you wouldn’t do the same thing if you were in their place, Master Chief wanted to say.  Bloody ONI.  

The Chief looked appealingly over to Hood, the question evident in his eyes.  Hood gave Master Chief a nod.

“Thank you, Chief.  You can sit down now,” he said.  Thank God.  John slumped into his seat.  He would much rather take on entire platoons of Covenant soldiers instead of doing even the most miniscule of talking, especially to these types of people.  Oh, well.  Sometimes being the greatest soldier in history had its drawbacks.  

High Charity

Capital and Holy City of the Covenant

High Charity was an utterly massive, near planetoid-sized space station, and the floating capital of the alien empire known as the Covenant.  Hundreds of kilometers in diameter, and home to billions of individuals, it was the Covenant’s religious center and practical homeworld.  High Charity was larger than moons, and more impressive than most planets, including most of those ruled by the UNSC.  It was here that, just like many a government, the leaders of the Covenant sat to discuss the current situation.  

The room itself was rectangular, and looked largely like some gladiator pit made of stainless steel.  In the “stands” were the members of the High Council, the legislative body of the Covenant.  Made up of only Sangheli and San’Shyuum, the two most respected species of the Covenant, it was their job to pass laws and rule the empire as a whole.  Lower down, at the edge of the “pit”, was an elevated dias, on which were three chairs.  The true rulers of the Covenant, the Hierarchs, sat here, in magnificent gravity thrones.  They were the High Prophets of Truth, Mercy, and Regret.  The religious leaders, and, due to its nature as a theocratic empire, the political leaders of the Covenant, it was their duty to guide the various races along the Great Journey.  Now, it was their duty to guide the Covenant into these new galaxies, to the ultimate goal of ascendance.  At the present moment, it was all they could do to keep the Council in order.

“What of the trial of Thel ‘Vadam?” shouted members from the stands.  The entire room was in an uproar, yelling at each other, yelling at the Prophets, yelling at the guards, yelling at anyone that would listen.  In fact, several of them were yelling just to yell, certain that no one really cared, but determined to add their weight to the conversation.  If, of course, the orgy of disorder could actually be called a conversation.  

“Yes!  What of the trial?” cried another.  

“Nay!  The trial is of limited importance now!  What of these new places?  What happens there?  We must know!”

“Indeed!  This is a pressing concern!  We must discuss this new development!  The trial can wait!” shouted someone else.

“No!  The trial is of immediate importance!  It must happen now!” called another Council member.

“What of the humans?  How are they affected by this?  Does the Covenant exist in these new galaxies?  Does humanity?  Do the Forerunners?”

“Enough!  There will be order in these chambers!” the shrill and somewhat warbling voice of the Prophet of Mercy called from his gravity throne.  

“Indeed!  I am ashamed of this behavior!” added the Prophet of Truth.  The voices died down to barely audibly muttering, then vanished completely as the Prophets looked around the room.  

“Good.  Now, on to the business of this session.  The High Council has convened for a special session.  While originally supposed to be for the trial of Thel ‘Vadam, it now takes a new purpose: we must discuss these new places and what exactly they mean for our future,” said Truth.  The Prophets of Mercy and Regret nodded along with him.  The voices swelled once again, murmuring, then threatening to break out in a crescendo of noise.  

“Order!” yelled Regret over the din.  The babble died down once more.  Despite the Prophets being San'Shyuum, a species that looked largely like bipedal worms with oversized craniums and were about as physically threatening as the description suggests, they were the religious leaders of the Covenant, and so their word was law.  Though the Council could technically oppose them, it rarely did so.  Those who called for the trial to take place immediately were gradually silenced, and the chamber came to order.  

“As it should be,” muttered Mercy crossly.

“Now, on to business.”  The ‘again’ in that sentence remained unsaid.  “Due to still unknown reasons, several other galaxies have appeared beyond the borders of ours.  We know not what they are.  We know not what they want.”  The Council started to murmur again.  

“Therefore, to make certain no one interferes, it is our duty to start down the Great Journey as soon as possible.  Thel ‘Vadam and his fleet, while unable to prevent its destruction, found one of the Sacred Rings.  It is but a short time when we find another.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Regret.  “We have located a Sacred Icon, needed for the firing of the Rings, on a human world.”  The Council broke out in shouting once more.

“We must retrieve it immediately!”

“Yes!  The Heretics have no right to hold such an artifact!”  

“Silence!” roared Truth once more.  He looked around at the assemblage, then continued.  “We shall retrieve this Icon as soon as possible.  The trial of Thel ‘Vadam shall happen, a fleet shall be prepared, the icon retrieved, and the Rings fired.”  The murmurings became positive.  

“Good.  Onwards, on the Great Journey, for the glory of the Covenant!”

And there we are.  As always, if you have any comments, questions, concerns, criticisms, or requests, feel free to ask!

[heartofsnark]

This Is Love (Chapter Five):Heart Like A Wildflower

Notes: Soooooo we get some Joseph POV for the first time but certainly not the last. Capturing his voice and energy is not an easy feat for me, but I hope this comes across alright. Also this chapter is a bit short for me; so, hopefully that’s still chill because I’m still very proud of it in many aspects. 

Word Count: 6253

Chapter Warnings: Joseph being a crazy motherfucker, PTSD  Faith Nips (sometimes white dresses are very sheer, don’t kill my vibe), Body Horror

For chapter one and the warnings about this fics overarching themes, please click here!

For the previous chapter; click here!

“We’re moving closer and closer to the edge; with every passing day we grow closer to the moment we’ve been preparing for. When the first seal breaks, when we will begin to reap the land for all we need to survive the collapse; to show our strength and our resilience and march through Eden’s Gate as a family. For I am your Father and you are my children…” 

“Praise be to you,” his congregation speaks to him unison, their voices echoing into cacophony in the small church.  Despite his growing flock, the church remains small and humble. Joseph much prefers it that way, despite the land and resources to expand, he never wishes to stray from their modest roots.

There’s a catch in his throat as the sermon ends; he means what he says, he always does. But, there is a new gravity to his words. The collapse is close. He knows it. There is a tension rising, the electricity in the air before the storm comes crashing down. The seal has yet to open, but it’s only a matter of time and that time is quickly running out. 

His flock stands from the pews, people of varying gender, race, experience, all united under his message. One woman comes to stand before him, a shake in her hands, Layla a young follower who works under Faith’s guidance for the project. 

It’s not uncommon for members of the flock to come speak to him following service, asking questions and needing his guidance. He knows every member by name; knows their struggles as intimately as he knows his own. So, it is no surprise to see her coming to him for counsel or comfort. Her attire is more surprising, he knows her typical manner of dress, the black leather jacket on her clashing against the vibrancy of her clothes. Behind her, Theodore, a chosen who works under John, lingers behind her. 

“Father Joseph…” She begins tentatively, unsure of herself. 

“Layla, The Father has greater concerns than what you’ve drugged in.” 

“What is it, my child?” 

“I’ve brought someone-”

“A police officer,” Theodore cuts her off, “who arrested brother Nathaniel and I.” 

“A wayward soul worthy of salvation, I don’t know how to explain it, but she saved me, and I knew I had to bring her here, if you’re able to speak with her…” 

“All are worthy of salvation, so long as they open their hearts to us and join our family,” he tells her, casting a glance at Theodore who avoids his gaze, guilt coloring his features. He is a valuable worker, perhaps one of few who can work closely with John and withstand the youngest Seed brother’s more…dramatic inclinations, but he struggles with Pride and Wrath as many do. 

“Please, Father, I don’t know if I can reach her…would you speak with her?” 

“Of course, my child.” Joseph lays a hand on her shoulder, hoping to ease some of the young woman’s nerves.

Layla and Theodore fall in step behind him as he makes his way to the door of the church; his brothers and sister are near the exit. Jacob’s scarred forearms are crossed over his chest, John fiddling with the sleeves of his coat, and Faith leaning against a pew. 

“There’s a cop outside,” Jacob tells him in warning. 

“She’s harmless, I promise.” 

Layla words do nothing to ease the tension in the eldest Seed’s body language, prepared to fight for his family and the project whenever necessary.  Joseph squeezes his older brother’s shoulder as he passes, hoping the contact can do something to ease the tension within him. 

The day has already been a stressful one for the Seed family; John spending earlier hours a mess over someone sharing a video of him online only for him to be ridiculed, something easily sending the younger brother into hysterics. Which, while that certainly hasn’t been a priority for anyone else, John has a way of making sure his concerns become everyone else’s concerns. 

Night air chills his fevered skin, wet with sweat from his sermon in the small candle lit church. Members of his flock talking amongst themselves following the service; the only sign of unrest the occasional wary glance towards the side of the church. 

“Layla, are you almost fuckin’ done? I’m freezing my tits off out here and I can’t afford to lose much more.” 

The crude statement comes from a young woman, sitting in front of the church chin perched on a motorcycle helmet. And all at once Joseph’s breath catches in his throat, pain throbbing in his temples as the hair on the back of his neck stands at end. All at once he’s struck with it, the burden of his prophetic stature, stuck with a simple fact. 

He knows. 

He knows it as well as he knows his own name. As intimately as he knows his own heartbeat. Knows it as certainly as he knows the collapse will come. Knows it as deeply as he knows the Voice. He knows it as well as he knows his own word; the prophecy and truths that he speaks. 

He knows. 

She is the Lamb.

The one who will open the first seal, the harbinger of doom, the beginning of the end. Unwittingly or not, in rebellion or in ignorance, she will be the one to bring forth the collapse. He’s felt it, the tension, the build, creeping towards the edge with every passing moment and it’s because the Lamb has arrived. They’re truly nearing the end. 

From between the ears of her helmet, her dark eyes watch everyone with intensity, flickering like a cat prepared to run or fight should anyone draw too close. Her gaze lands on him and his family; a dark brow raising, as if to question their presence on their property standing before their church. 

It has been said that over time, one stops seeing new people, seeing instead patchwork of those they’ve met before. Traits and details becoming echoes of the first person to show them. And as the Lamb stands before him; Joseph finds himself piecing her together through comparisons. 

The way her short dark hair falls across half her face only to be pushed back, reminds him of a love he lost long ago. There’s something in the eyes, as she meets his gaze, head held straight. Memories of a young Jacob standing up for him; the unbreakable will and fire always burnishing behind his eyes, an unspoken strength. She holds that same strength, but much like Faith it hides behind a soft face and a short build, just shy of being the height of his shoulder. When her gaze lands on Layla, the way the side of her mouth quirks up, the raise of her eyebrow; mischief and confidence radiating off of the expression, brings back memories of John using his silver tongue to get them out of trouble.  He knows people, can read their hearts; she’s a soldier, a survivor. Someone needing a purpose, not yet aware that she already has one. 

It is easy to blame the Lamb for their role, for opening the seals and beginning the end. But the Lamb works in the place of the Lord, whether they know it or not, they’re the hands through which he acts.  Setting forth the Collapse is not an act of malice on the part of their Creator. That first seal must be opened and someone must do it; it’s what must happen for those chosen to reach New Eden. Whether she will do it aligned with them and understanding of her role or not remains to be seen. She is chosen as well, a special soul given the gift of  purpose, what she does with her gift is another matter entirely. 

“I’m done waiting, Layla, jacket,” The Lamb speaks, holding her hand out to Layla. The out of place leather jacket clearly meant to drape across her shoulders instead of the flock member’s. He watches the muscles beneath her shirt  shift, pulling tighter over her biceps as she impatiently waits.

“You should have come inside, the time would have flown by,” Layla tells her. 

“Nah, in my experience sermons last even longer when you actually have to listen to ‘em,” her deep brown eyes flicker to Joseph, “no offense.”

“None taken, I’m Joseph Seed,” he extends his hand to her and she slowly takes it, as if he may strike her, her hand is scarred and calloused, a rough burn across her palm. 

“Nice to meet ya, I, uh, recognize you from the giant fuckin’ statue.” 

“Isn’t it lovely, you can feel his love spreading across the land,” Faith speaks up, the statue her doing, “it’s nice to see you again.” 

For the first time, The Lamb drops her gaze, red flushing across her tawny cheeks. 

“You know her, Faith?” 

“We saw each other briefly, a week or so ago, she reached out for me.” 

“Uh, yeah, I’m like real fuckin’ sorry about that,” she scratches the back of her head, “I, uh, thought you were someone else…” 

“Is that so?” 

“Yeah…” She stares at her feet, fiddling with her uniform shirt, a lie. 

“Well, I’m not sure who you thought I was, but I’m Faith.” 

“Nice to meet ya, for real. And…sorry again.” 

“While we're making introductions, it’s a pleasure to meet you, I’m John Seed,” the youngest Seed brother steals her attention, sticking a hand out for her to shake. His lawyer smile bright and wide, more Duncan than Seed in the moment. 

“Uh,” she reluctantly shakes his hand, “likewise I guess…” 

“We’re always happy to meet one of this county’s finest.” 

Jacob scoffs and rolls his eyes, the least tolerant of John’s chameleon-like behavior, knowing full well that just a week ago John was complaining about the police force for arresting Theodore and Nathaniel. This exact officer doing so, according to the former.

“’preciate it, but uh, if the introductions are done,” she tells him as she drops his hand, she’s not phased or charmed, refocusing on Layla again, “I’m actually kinda in a hurry, so if I could just get my jacket back, I’d appreciate it.” 

“Layla, are you holding her jacket hostage?” He casts a soft gaze towards Layla, no malice, it’s nothing significant and despite The Lamb’s insistence on getting it back. She doesn’t appear angry, just…on edge.  Layla shrinks, like a scolded child. 

“Maybe…I just wanted her to meet you.” 

“A noble cause, my child,” he squeezes her shoulder, “but we’ve inconvenienced her enough.” 

“You’re right, I’m sorry.”  

Layla pulls the leather jacket from her shoulders and hands it to Joseph, head ducked down. He offers it back to The Lamb with a gentle smile, a gesture she returns with hesitance, the expression not quite reaching her eyes as she takes her jacket from him.

“Thanks…” She pulls it on, despite being a little large on the small woman, it suits her. 

“This Friday, we’re having a barbecue following our service, it’s open to everyone, if you’d like to come.” 

“While I definitely, totally, would if I could, but I work Fridays so….,” she shrugs her shoulders, “I’ll just get out of your hair, now.” 

And she’s off, a quick hand wave as she rushes out of the gates, eager to get away from them and the church. Hopefully, his words will reach her and she’ll find the path before it’s too late. Her role as Lamb has marked her worth, her importance, the significance of her salvation. 

Dahlia slams her trailer door shut behind her, scrubbing her hands over her face. She feels dirty, gross and vile. Religious people do that to her, make her feel like something is wrong with her. They’re pure and she’s filthy. Meeting them, The Seeds was even more off putting than she expected. They’re not bad people; at least she can’t make that sort of judgment off of a five minute interaction. But, they’re off. From John’s businessman smile that didn’t meet his eyes to Joseph’s intense gaze that cut through to her soul. They hardly felt human. Though, if they weren’t off, she can’t say she’d feel any different, given her hatred of religion. 

She hasn’t ventured to step foot in the church in Falls End and hasn’t talked to the pastor there either; a streak she plans to maintain. Unless they need her out there as a cop, she’s not spending casual time there. Even free food isn’t enough to tempt her into spending time at church. She takes a shower, watches tv with a lackluster microwave meal as dinner and tries not to think about that family for the rest of the night. 

The Seeds are already close to a distant memory as she works the next day; stuck as a desk jockey to her misery. Filling out paperwork for hunting violations; that and traffic violations are the biggest crimes of Hope County. She understands the importance of protecting the environment and the animals but does the paperwork for it feels like fucking overkill. Her hands are cramping from typing and signing shit, all because a bunch of idiots decided to go hunting bucks out of season. 

Something pings off her skull, a crumpled piece of paper falling to her desk after hitting her. She glares at Pratt who’s smirking like the little shit he is. She throws it right back, pelting his cheek when he turns away. He rips another piece of paper from a notebook, crumpling it up into a ball and throwing it at her face only for her to bat it back at him. Then she rips a piece of paper out of her own notebook and throws it at Pratt’s dumb face. 

She hits Pratt in the nose with one; it falls and adds to the pile of paper balls that’s built around them, when the door opens. Nancy, the dispatcher and secretary for all intents and purposes, popping her head in. 

“Deputy Hale,” she speaks softly to catch her attention, “there’s someone here to see you.” 

“Me?” 

Dahlia looks over to Pratt as if he knows something but he just shrugs. She clambers up from her chair, double checking that her uniform is in order for utmost professionalism as she leaves the bullpen office; Pratt following in tow whether from curiosity or boredom she’s not sure. 

In the lobby is Layla from the other night, flashing a bright smile Dahlia’s way when she emerges. She’s holding a Tupperware container and the young deputy can’t help raising an eyebrow; what is going on here?

“Deputy Hale!” 

“Hey, is something wrong?” 

“Oh, no, no, no,” Layla shakes her head emphatically, “I thought I’d bring you something to eat.” 

She thrusts the Tupperware container out at Dahlia who reluctantly takes it, brushing across Layla’s hands and feeling the warmth of the food. 

“Why?” 

Pratt elbows her in the ribs when she asks the questions mouthing the words ‘don’t be rude’ at her when she looks at him incredulously. It’s a genuine question, why the fuck would Layla bring her food? Not that she’s complaining, it’s just weird.

“Well, you don’t cook right?” she notes Dahlia’s confusion, “your grocery bags last night were full of microwave meals or packaged crap, I figured you could use some decent food. As thanks, for helping me.” 

“Uh, yeah cooking isn’t…a huge priority for me.” 

“Her lunches are usually energy drinks and zingers,” Pratt cuts in, literally no one needs that information, so she elbows him in the ribs right back. 

“That’s not good, Deputy, you should take care of yourself…eating garbage, smoking, you should be more concerned with your health.” 

“I appreciate your concern, but if your meals come with lecture, I’m gonna pass,” Dahlia tries to push the container of food back into Layla’s hands. 

“I’m sorry, I’m just worried about you…I think you should really reconsider coming to our barbecue Friday.” 

“Not happening.” 

“I’m sure, if you gave our church a chance-”

“Layla, I said no and I meant it.” 

“But-“ 

“No buts,” Dahlia puts the food down on the counter, “I know you mean well, but you need to back off.” 

With that Dahlia marches back into the office; heat simmering beneath her skin. It stings at the back of her eyes, claws and burns it’s way up her throat. She runs her hand down her face, raking her nails down the skin harder than necessary as if she could carve out her anger as if the red lines could free that feeling, release it from her body. 

Stripes for the backs of fools, they are to the soul what healing blood is to a wound, for the Lord disciplines the one he loves. 

She kicks her desk, the voice reverberating in her skull isn’t her own and she wishes nothing more than to carve her own head open, to cut his voice and memory out like a cancer. 

“The fuck was that about?” Pratt asks as he comes into the office, nearly making Dahlia jump out of her skin. He’s carrying the Tupperware container of food, raising an eyebrow at her as if she’s grown a second head. 

“I helped her out last night, some dude was harassing her, I had to wait outside a church for hours and now they’re trying to drag me to some fuckin’ barbecue.” 

“And you reacted like a lunatic, because?” 

“’Cause I don’t like being harassed into religious shit.” 

“Eden’s Gate invites everyone to their little barbecues,” Pratt shrugs, “it's not a big deal, just some free food.” 

“If I say no the first time, no the second time, no the third time; don’t ask me a fourth time. It’s not that fuckin’ complicated.” 

Dahlia plops herself down in her chair, kicking at her desk again as she does so, as if it’s to blame for the mess in her head. 

“Eh,” Pratt shrugs, “they don’t mean anything by it, not really.”

“I don’t like it,” she says again with a groan, pinching the bridge of her nose, why can’t people just accept she doesn’t like this. Why is she in the wrong for not wanting to be badgered?

“You’re...surprisingly sensitive, you know that?”

“Piss off, I’m not sensitive.”

“You kinda sorta are. Bail on the F.A.N.G Center ‘cause it’s too noisy, avoid bars, avoid barbecues, hate church. Do you even like being around people at all?”

“Sometimes, it just depends….like what’s going on, how many sounds there are... and stuff.”

“So, you’re sensitive.”

“Well, doesn’t it bug you! It’s manipulation, food and barbecues to trick you into a false sense of security, then bam, you’re dealing with an eight hour lecture on how god ruins your life ‘cause he loves you or some shit.”

“And...we give people coffee before interrogations and then bam, they’re in a cell. We’re not any better.  Everyone is at least a little manipulative, it’s just life, why is it any worse when christians do it?”

“It’s not, I just, I just don’t like church, okay? Can we drop this?”

“Okay, okay, but if you don’t want the food…”

“Keep it, my appetites gone, just give some to Petunia.”

He rolls his eyes but, when he thinks she’s not looking he goes out back. Pratt can say what he wants but he has just a big soft spot for that opossum.  The day continues with desk work; Whitehorse scolding them for the paper mess when he sees it. Hudson calls them children and honestly, they kind of are. She’s not sure why Pratt brings out that immature gremlin part of her, but at least it’s fun.

“You know, this is your fault,” Dahlia tells Pratt as she’s picking up crumpled paper and tossing it in the trash can. Whitehorse said their better not be any paper on the floor by the time they clock out. It’s getting very close to that time; Dahlia having procrastinated the clean up and, well, Pratt is still leaning back in his chair like he hasn’t got a care.

“According to you, everything’s my fault.”

“I mean, yeah, but it’s true.”

“How you figure?”

“You threw the first paperwad at me.”

“You didn’t have to throw one back.”

“You didn’t have to throw one in the first place!”

“That’s besides the point.”

“It’s literally the entire point.”

Another crumpled piece of paper rattles off her skull, plopping down to the pile. She glares up at Pratt who’s smirking like he’s the funniest person in the world. Everyone keeps telling her how Whitehorse is soft and easy on her, which may be true, she has no doubt that being sent their way by Lloyd has made the sheriff more fond of her. But, she can’t expect that to keep her safe from reprimand. She’s still on probationary hire and has to try to be on her best behavior at least some of the time.

“Pratt, you’re in more danger of getting your ass reamed than her, so you should probably watch it,” Hudson pipes up, checking her phone as they get closer to quitting time.

“No ones getting reamed, it’s paper, for fucks sake.”

“Doesn’t mean he won’t make you stay back to clean it up.”

“Eh, sounds like a job for a probie,” Pratt tells Hudson, before throwing a paper ball at Dahlia’s head. She chews her lip and adds to it; that’s a thought, Pratt getting stuck behind on clean up. She may be short, but she’s fast… Dahlia watches the time as she keeps throwing paper balls into the otherwise empty trash can.

“You’re just being an ass now,” Hudson tells him as they near the final minute of their shift. Dahlia standing up with a now filled trash can.

“Hey, Pratt,” Dahlia catches his attention, “got ya a hat.”

She promptly plops the trashcan on his head , paper falling down on him and slaps the side of it for equal measure.

“Fuckin’ hell!” He yells as she darts off, his problem now.

“Bye Hudson!” She calls out behind her as she rushes to clock out and leave the station, hyena cackling as she goes. The image of him with that trash can on his head, god she hoped Hudson managed to take a photo for her.

Her cheeks hurt from smiling, her stomach from laughing as she jumps onto her motorcycle. A peaceful ride back to the trailer park, the wind whipping past her and music rattling inside of her helmet.

Then she sees her.

Faith looks so completely out of place in front of the rundown trailer park, long white dress fluttering in the breeze as she balances on a rock near the entrance. Un-fucking-relentless. Her green eyes spark alight when she sees Dahlia pulling up on her motorcycle, waving her direction. Dahlia rides right past her, if she pretends she didn’t see her, it’s fine. She locks up her bike and makes a beeline for her trailer door.

Just as she’s closed it behind her, intent on avoiding the pushy little church mouse, a knock rings out. She can’t exactly say she’s not home, can she? The young deputy opens the door a crack, Faith standing on her porch as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, smiling when she sees Dahlia’s face poking through.

“Deputy.”

“I already told Layla off for this pushy crap, I ain’t in the mood for preaching.”

“I just wanted to chat, is that so wrong?” Faith asks as Dahlia pushes the door open just a hair more.

“Does this chat involve trying to get me into church?”

“I don’t know, we haven’t had it yet.”

“I appreciate the honesty, but,” she glances down seeing Faith’s bare feet, “are you not wearing shoes?”

“Uh...no.”

“Are you stupid?” Dahlia asks, finally opening the door fully.

“That’s rude.”

“There are needles on the ground, dumbass, needles.”

“So, walk with me and make sure I don’t get hurt.”

“Y’all really like taking advantage of my kindness, don’t you?”

“So, you don’t want to walk with me?”  She pouts and bats her eyelashes up at Dahlia.

“Come on,” Dahlia tells her as she leaves, “let's get this over with.”

“Are you always so negative?”

“Life tends to do that.”

Faith walks alongside Dahlia as they leave the trailer park; watching carefully as the woman walks, to ensure she doesn’t step on anything dangerous. Not that the church mouse seems to have any concern about the issue, nearly floating along as if she’s meant to be there.

“It does, your life has worn on you a lot, hasn’t it?”

“No more than anyone else.”

“I doubt that.”

“Do you?”

“I expected to be waiting on you for longer…”

“Why?” Dahlia raises an eyebrow as Faith balances across stones in the field around the trailer park.  

The white clad woman starts to wobble, sticking her arms out to balance herself from the misstep, and Dahlia instinctively sticks her own hand out to catch her. Their hands catch each other, skin brushing together. Dahlia bristles and tries to pull away, the warmth of someone else’s skin jolting her, but Faith intertwines their fingers before she can avoid the touch. 

Faith’s hand is slimmer than her own, but the fingers slightly longer, more elegant. The skin softer and nicer than Dahlia’s too, smooth without calluses or scars.

“Everyone knows the deputies go to the bar after work; the one in Falls End, I assumed you’d be with them.”

“I can’t drink, legally, yet.”

“So, you can’t be there without drinking? Don’t they invite you?”

“No one wants to take a teetotaler to a bar.”

“That sounds lonely, do you have friends in the trailer park?”

The sky's alight with stars, dotting the black blanket of night. A chill in the air hangs through as the night settles in, goosebumps prickling up at the places her skin shows. She wanders how Faith stands it, in her thin white dress. Her eyes cast down at the woman and she realizes how truly thin the dress is; the soft pink of nipples just showing through. Someone should buy Faith a coat…and shoes…

“Not really a cop friendly place, pretty sure they’d rather hang me than be my friend,” Dahlia looks back to the sky, ignoring her discovery to try and find Andromeda.

“Do you have family nearby? You’re not from around here, are you?”

“I’m not close with my family and uh, from Louisiana.” That’s all the information she offers, not comfortable spilling her life story to some stranger, even a soft handed stranger with pretty eyes.

“So, you’re all alone.”

“Thank you for the observation.”

“Layla said she was worried about you, you’re alone and don’t even take care of yourself.”

“Yeah, uh, I think you all worry a bit too much about me.”

“It can be hard, accepting kindness when you’re so used to cruelty,” Faith pivots to face Dahlia and captures her other hand, intertwining the fingers there as well, “we become accustomed to the pain, thinking it’s what we deserve. So, when we are shown love, it feels wrong, unnatural, it scares us so we avoid it.”

“Are we done with this conversation? I wanna be done with this conversation.”

Dahlia yanks her hands from Faith’s, the intensity of her words and her gaze eating away at the deputy. But Faith yelps, the sudden move knocking off her balance from the little stone ledge she’s been walking along. Dahlia jumps up the ledge and recaptures one of Faith’s hands and wraps an arm around the woman’s waist, to catch her further. 

They stare at each other for a moment, soft green eyes looking up at her, they’re pressed close together in this position. The warmth of the youngest Seed’s siblings body pressing against her, nearly every inch of their bodies together. Faith feels so delicate, lithe and fragile in her arms. Breath fanning across each other’s faces, the tiniest of spaces having stopped them from an accidental kiss. Any passerby might think they were dancing and Dahlia had dipped Faith. 

A little...awkward, but at least Faith didn’t go tumbling back onto rocks.  Pink colors the apples of Faith’s cheeks, faint across her delicate cheeks.

“You okay?” Dahlia asks, maybe the cold is stinging Faith’s skin or she was flustered from the slip?

“Just fine, thank you,” Faith says as Dahlia steps back, gently guiding Faith off the little ledge, back safely on the ground.  The deputy’s eyes find the expanses of Faith’s arms, scars catching the moonlight. A chemical formula seemingly carved into one arm; each covered in track marks. Faith fiddles with a dirty blond lock of hair, focusing her gaze on the ground. 

“Are we done, now?”

“I know you’re busy and I know you’re reluctant, but even if it seems like there’s no place for you anywhere, there’s always a place for you with us.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“I’ll leave you for now, then. I hope to see you soon.”

“Good night, Church Mouse, be safe.”

They part ways, Dahlia making her way back to the trailer park. She has no true desire to deal with Faith or Eden’s Gate, but she seemed less pushy at the very least. Though the conversation wasn’t anymore fun. Layla’s conversation left her nearly foaming at the mouth. Faith’s has left her wanting to find the nearest hole and bury herself in it. Yes, Dahlia is a lonely piece of shit, thank you so much for pointing it out church mouse.

She closes her trailer door behind her, more aware than ever that her trailer is empty. No one to greet her, no one to talk to. No friends to spend her nights with, no family to call or do anything with. Lloyd and Caroline are people she cares about, certainly, but she’s not their kid. She was a two-year charity case.

After a shower, Dahlia lands on the couch, watching tv again. When she thinks of it, she hasn’t slept much in her bed since moving in here. Spending most of her free time in the trailer on the couch; falling asleep watching tv, listening to music, or reading horror manga on her phone. 

Dahlia tried the first night, the large bed the trailer came with clearly meant to accommodate a potential couple. She’s not sure how to distinguish bed sizes; if it’s a double, a king, a queen, whatever. But she knows every bed she’s ever slept in before, aside from a few early childhood nights of crawling into her mother and dad’s bed, she’s been in one meant for just a single person. Her childhood bed, her bed at Lloyd and Caroline’s, or she’s been without a bed entirely. Sleeping in her share of closets, on benches, on the floor, etc. She can sleep on a park bench or in the bayou muck, but not in too large of a bed.  It makes absolutely no sense, but she’s use to being a cluster fuck of a human being. 

She smokes a cigarette, easing her nerves, trying not to think about her conversation with Faith. The loneliness that keeps seeping into her chest and following her wherever she goes. She’s long ago accepted that it’s a part of her life now, a part of her, and no one else is to blame. There’s no place or group of people that will erase. 

People, groups, like Eden’s Gate like to tell people they have the cure. That panacea to fix every trouble someone may have. They give pretty smiles and tell people that with a little bit of faith they’ll find a place where they belong. That following their ways eases that ache, makes everything okay. 

But, it’s not true. Not for her at least. God never made her feel more at ease, more at peace, there’s no god strong enough to ease the ache of loneliness. Nothing on the outside can fix what’s wrong with her inside. She can sing hymns and praise the man in the sky until she’s blue in the face, but it will never make her happy. 

If anything, the idea of god just pisses her off more. 

Someone who is supposed to hold all the power, who knows each of his creations intimately, yet doesn’t give enough of a shit to save them. This supposed god watched and knew her suffering, knew everyone’s suffering, and didn’t care. Hell, even the bible makes it clear god is a dick.  

Why the fuck should she praise him? 

If he were real, she’d punch him. 

Eden’s Gate likely means well; she knows that. They think they’re doing the right thing, saving her soul. All strong religious types think that way; they tell you you’re going to burn in hell as a helpful warning like letting you know your shoe is untied, they just don’t want you to get hurt. 

If hell is real…eternal damnation is worth it to piss off god. 

She staggers up and out of bed, the bed she doesn’t sleep in,  something itches at the back of her throat. Dahlia doesn’t question it, she moves, something is climbing up her esophagus. Rough and tearing up the tender flesh. Metallic taste of blood clings to her taste buds, cloying and noxious as she runs down the hallway towards her bathroom. The fluorescent light of it is like a beacon in the twilight hours. She doesn’t remember her hallways being this long, but with the urgency of something tearing her throat open from the inside, she doesn’t question it.

Dahlia reaches her bathroom and grabs the sides of the sink, nails digging into white porcelain, the strength of her hold is the only thing keeping her grounded. She coughs and gags, spattering blood across it, staining the white. Her breath staggers and stalls unable to break past what’s clogging her throat, ripping it apart. Blood and bile coating her tongue as she tries to get it out.

She coughs and hacks to no avail, only more blood for her troubles as it carves away at her throat. Dahlia shoves her fingers into her mouth, pushing further into her throat, trying to get a hold of whatever it is, to pry it out.

Then she gags and it all comes out; full white blossoms tinged pink with her blood fall into the sink. She spits out soft stained petals and dark green leaves. The flowers from the field by the trailer park, that were outside the church, that she saw when she first saw visions of Faith. She thinks she’s free, the flowers free from her throat. When her stomach churns again, gagging and coughing as fresh blossoms burst forwards from her throat. Each one cutting off her air for a nauseating moment before she can force it out. Again and again, blood stained flowers fall from her mouth. Her vision swims as white flowers float in a puddle of blood within her sink.

Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong.  Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong.

She falls to her knees, clutching at the base of her throat as she vomits again, blood and flowers splattering on her thighs. Dahlia gasps and takes in a desperate breath, throat raw and aching. Blood coating her teeth and tongue, syrupy and metallic, a petal stuck to her lips as she gasps. A soft sputtering cough sends blood spittle into her hands.

Is it over?

A tickle itches at the back of her raw and stinging throat, her stomach feels bloated with expanding and blossoming flowers ready to climb up her tender airway. She retches into her hand, bloody petals coating and clinging to her hand as she struggles to puke the rest up, blood dripping down her wrist in heavy drops.

Somewhere a woman laughs, the sound echoing in the bathroom, surrounding her. Mocking her pain or celebrating it; she can’t be certain. 

Dahlia wakes up with a jolt, a cold sweat clinging to her skin as she gags and coughs, the phantom sensation of flowers in her throat. She sits on the edge of the catch, sputtering to catch her breath. Nothing is in her throat, the dream was ridiculous, vomiting flowers. But it felt real and her throat aches deeply. She rubs at the back of her neck, waiting for her heart to stop rabbiting in her chest, for the tension in her muscles to fade. 

She stands from the couch and takes the short walk to her bathroom, legs wobbling as she moves. The pure clear white of her sink is a stark contrast to the red stained one, filled with flowers, in her nightmare. There’s still a tickle in her throat, a faint metallic tang of blood on her tongue; echoes of her nightmare. The faint sound of laughter still resonates in her skull as she scrubs water over her face, as if she could wash the nightmare from her mind.