#to be a tiny spark in the palm of her graceful hand

[ecosyncrasy]

Ever since dedicating this deck to Her 💗, the readings i’ve been getting are absolutely crystal and pointed. But pulling this card after asking “how do you see me?” Made me tear up.

[yandere-wishes]

˖ ࣪⊹𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐅𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐞/𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐈𝐜𝐞 ⊹ ࣪ ˖

⸸ Yandere! Capitano x reader

༒︎ Summary: He's the ice bearer, the monster sent to snuff out the flames of your homeland. But isn't that just love? To kill with such passion. Wouldn't anything else just be a lie?

🗡Warnings: Yandere behavior, blood, and gore, reader has a pyro vision and wields a claymore

�� author's note: I made some Girlypop Capitano edits to sorta fit the vibe: One & Two

๋࣭ ⭑𓆩✧𓆪⭑ ๋࣭

Do you love me? Or do you love how I make you feel?

๋࣭ ⭑𓆩✧𓆪⭑ ๋࣭

Kachina is lost

She does not emerge from the scared flame

Nor does her ancient name echo across the skies.

Life stills, death looms.

light wanes, darkness reaches.

The glow of the sacred flame burns your eyes.

It's ambers whispering grime truths.

"I volunteer to go, too. You'll need all the help you can get."

Mavuika's flame mane rasps across her shoulders as she shakes her head. Lips taut in thought, sepia brows furled in eccentric fret. You've yet to see this shade of worry painted across your archon's face.

"I can't afford to excuse you, especially now that I fear my powers are dwindling. I need someone to have my back. Besides I'm sure the champians can handle it."

Duty first, that's the oath of the Princesses of Flame. Guard the archon with your life, protect her through any means necessary.

You force your head into a sharp nod.

The chill in the stadium air sends a nervous tang rippling through your spine. You've heard the Wayob speak of this sort of frost before. This all encompassing thing.

His boots grace the stadium floor with all the grace of falling stars. Ethereal armor glows in the soft roar of dancing flames. Icicles in dawn's first light.

The tall figure tilts his armor-clad head up at the archon's perch, with impertinence. You almost swear you hear a chuckle of mockery chime from the inside of his helmet.

"Pyro Archon" he speaks, voice distant and distorted, ice on ice through hail storms. The chill glides across your body again, how can one man be so cold? Shouldn't the cold be a sweet thing? Relief from harsh suns and harsher fires?

"Since the oath made five centuries ago remains unfulfilled, what use is the gnosis in your hands?"

He is all ice. But not the sugar-laced ice cubes that float leisurely in spiced cacao milk. No. He is the harsh verglas only spoken of in hushed tones around grisly campfires. The ice that leaves plains frozen and destroyed. It kills all things warm, all things that breathe.

There is a chill in the air.

It penetrates the skin and nests between the bones.

subconsciously you run your fingers across your neck.

"I challenge you for the gnosis, for the right over Natlan's rules" He shrugs off the heavy cape, the multilayered garment with too much wool and heat.

Strange, strange thing.

It amazes you how he hasn't melted from wearing such stout apparel in such smoldering climate. He tosses it to the side careful to never ripe the precious fabric.

"Fight, or summon your champion"

Your hand rests heavily on Mavuika's shoulder. Eyes transfixed in a silent plea.

The people need their Archon.

Natlan needs its Archon.

Besides this is your duty.

Mavuika nods.

Red eyes never once straying from the intruder.

Vicious sparks flicker across your palm. Like sparking a match across dried bark. You feel the inforno's kiss licking past your skin, weaving into the bone, as your weapon materializes. Your fingers ring across the worn, burnt handle of your loyal armament.

"I shall fight you fatui, for the honor and glory of Natlan and the Pyro Archon."

He watches you through the mask, through the ebony darkness that shields his mysterious visage. He reminds you of how Saurians watch their prey. Weighing each tiny breath, tasting each heartbeat through the air. He looks nothing less than regally monstrous.

Like death, doom, and despair.

You've tasted this before, engraved the bitterness upon your tongue, and honed your body to fight it. He will not take Natlan, he will not condemn your home to his cold.

The weight of your claymore pulls you down. Plunging into hard rock. You watch as he bats the dust with his hand. Gloved and armoured. What is he hiding? You wonder. What man truly needs so many layers? Armor, ice, frost, steel, wool. You long to peel them away, desperate to find something human underneath. Something squishy and worm. You want to feel his heartbeath between your teeth. Drink from his warm blood and relish in the sweet aftertaste. A testament to how you conquered the cold.

You've never seen someone so eager to be hidden in layers up layers.

Snow on ice.

Ice on iron.

"You're awfully young to take on such a big responsibility little girl"

his voice makes you shiver, you can almost taste his ice on your tongue.

Bitter, like barbwire and salt.

"Don't mock me Fatui" You warn, molding your body into a battle stance, knees folded almost kissing the stadium floor, weapon clasped with both hands. Eyes on the target.

Just like Mavuika taught you.

Just like you taught Kachina.

You can feel the heat from your vision coursing through your body, cracking your bones and mingling with marrow. You wait, just one more breath. You use the pyro blessing to project yourself through the air, like an arrow aimed straight for the man made of ice and lies. Swinging your claymore, ready to dent his helmet - and hopefully his head inside-  but he blocks it with his glacier sword. Just a thin dainty thing, capable of quelling your inferno-laced colossus.

Capitano advances, with a flick of his sword he pushes you back. Your heart hammers wildly, someone so skilled so strong, it's almost a shame he can never compete in the pilgrimage. That he can never be on your side.

You use the momentum of his push to frontflip through the foggy air. You land squarely on his wide shoulders, digging your foot into his trapezius muscle, while your knee scrapes his other shoulder for balance. You swing your claymore once more, trying to strike his head off. But to your shock, he parries it with the back of his rime gauntlets.

You keep pushing trying to slice through ice, armor, flesh, anything. Yet everything about this man seems to be made of inviolable steel adorned with everlasting cyro. For a second the metal of his helmet kisses the inside of your thighs. There is no shame in battle, no flirting with the opponent. There are only two bodies entwined until death and defeat. Until one rises and one falls. Still, there's something about the way his black face, regards yours that has a shy blush creeping on the hollows of your cheeks. The man, no this formidable monster is far too close, it's almost as if he's longing for a kiss. You leap back, whispering patronymic blessing to the Archon when your feet meet solid rock once more.

"You fight well little girl, but your attacks are careless, loose. You can not defeat opponents if you can not penetrate their defenses."

He dashes, so quickly you almost think he's flickering between the ground and air. You feel his familiar cold before, you feel the hilt of his sword nestle into your abdomen. He leans forward, helmet sending frostbite through the side of your head "You smell so sweet, like the roses of Snezhnaya". Capitan thrusts his sword with raw force sending you soaring into the stadium walls, the rocks crumple around you, as you struggle to lift yourself up once more.

Your eyes try to carve sight through dust and debris. The air is thick, hot and cold. You blink twice desperate for your eyes to focus. There are silhouettes dancing towards you twirling through the air like Yumkasaurus.

Capitano's ice projectiles glide through the air, they're almost beautiful if you could doubt their lethality. He commands them with flickers of his wrist, and it's only when their frost kisses your body that you fully remember this is a battle, not a dance. They lounge themselves between your ribs, underneath your heart, in the plump of your thigh, the bullseye of your shoulder. Pretty icicles cut open your flesh burying themselves deeply inside you, you'd almost dub it romantic, with how the icicles intonate to your erratic heartbeat.

The frost begins to infiltrate your vascular flow, cauterizing you from the inside. Spreading through the outside, you hiccup out a low moan. Capitano laughs, in a tone that feigns mockery. "I see my ice is to your liking". You bite your lip holding back another moan, it's so wholly painful yet so satisfying. You were right the cold does offer such a delicious relief from the blazing inferno all around.

Your opponent stalks closer, kneeling by your freezing body. You doubt Muarvirka can see through the grey air permutating the stadium. Maybe that's why, away from all prying eyes. The captain lifts his helmet revealing smirking lips. He grazes the side of your mouth with a faux kiss. savoring your warmth before, parting your lips, and deepening the kiss. Even his lips are utterly frozen, he sucks you flames from your mouth extinguishing your fires, with blood-deep frost. He runs a cold iron-clad claw across her cheek, scrapping up the skin, creating a rivulet of red. Before licking it lovingly with his icy tongue. "Why are you so cold?" you shutter, "Why so frostbitten? Has no one ever taught you the joys of the flame?"

He laughs, really really laughs this time. And while you still can't see his eyes, you swear they soften. "I've been burnt too many times, trust me the cold has its merits. But one must be willing to surrender to them."

Capitano plucks your body from the ground. He cradles you roughly in his arms.

He has no warmth to offer.

No heat.

He is only ice.

The fog yields, as you look up. Mavuika screams, her anger palpable. "I'll accept her as my prize for now archon" Capitano spits. "But next time I shall challenge you and know that I will take the gnosis too."

The flames in the stadium roar, trying to melt away the frost plaguing your body. Trying to replenish your spark. You begin to flail and kick, desperate to be liberated from Capitano's iron and frost-clad grasp.

You need to break free, to return to your archon's side, to be there when the others return with Kachina. You can not let this monster pilfer you away from your home, your people, your archone.

"Let me go!" you scream, your last attempt at a battle cry.

"Shhh, war trophies have no right to refuse."

⋆⋆⋆༺𓆩⸸𓆪༻⋆⋆⋆

Super tempted to draw the reader's outfit!!

🪐 @definitely-asexual-volcano @eth3realc0rps3  @numberonefanfury  @madara3437 @crystalkat6747 @m00nlight-mexican @dilucragnvindr-my-beloved @orcasandtea @tecchoukisserr

[sunlighthroughthe-ashes]

"why is it so hard to live an ordinary life?"

seokryu's 'appa' asks a simple question — but this is what i adore most about love next door: it keeps its story & characters grounded. why IS it so hard to just be alive — why does it take so much strength to live through a regular day, (with its regular disappointments); just like everyone else? why do your dreams — small and self-effacing as they may be in the palms of your hands — require so much courage to create in real life?

love next door is an ode to the everyday — the quiet trials and treaures that a normal life holds within it. just because something is mundane doesn't make it any less magic — any less important. seok-ryu's 'appa' just wants to look after his family — be a valued member of it. seokryu herself isn't extravagant in what she wants out of life — her dream is simple too: she just wants to cook.

but just because a dream is prosaic, does it make it any less precious? any less full of longing?

love next door brings so much compassion and subtle grace to the silent experiences of a completely normal life — falling in love with your best friend and not knowing what to do about it. joining a cooking class in your thirties after years of meaningless work because finding your own passion is a miracle at any age. thinking you know a person inside out because you've witnessed every step they've taken since childhood — and then finding out that they can still take you by surprise with the complex intricacies of their behavior.

there's a gentle reverence in the way love next door handles its subject matter — as if the show itself truly believes that simplicity is sacred. that a commonplace life is worth contemplation — deep exploration; empathy, understanding.

the ordinary world is where most of us live. and that's what makes its documentation — the description of its tiny heartbreaks; the daily cuts and bruises of every-day life, the small sparks of joy, connection, sustenance — so beautiful. so necessary.

this is what love next door does so well, and with such infinite tenderness. 🤍

[heavenbloom]

🇵🇸 BEFORE YOU READ: donate, daily click, boycott tlou

🥀 — the melody haunts my reverie | e.w.

synopsis: drunk and witnessing the first snowfall of the year, ellie can’t help calling her ex-lover.

content: mdni. angst upon angst, profanity, mentions of alcohol consumption, probably ooc, not proofread

a/n: entirely inspired by stardust by nat king cole. yeah idk what this is 🤷

This yawning stretch of emptiness… it was a hollow that she felt from the gullet to the pit of her gut. It was an absence, an insistent and burning nothingness that clung to her like a wet woollen sweater. She had grown accustomed to it, a poltergeist that no exorcism could rid.

What she wasn’t used to was the need to alleviate its bone-gnawing presence. She let it be for over a year now, let its cavernous depths linger untouched and fester. 

Why, all of a sudden? 

Why did her heartbreak morph into a dagger, and carve out what little was left of herself?

These questions were needless. She knew why.

She sat next to the frosted window of her tiny apartment, staring up at the starless sky. She watched as snowflakes floated down to the earth with the grace of miniature angels. They spun as the wind kissed them before they plummeted to the earth. Sweet, subtle, soundless.

Her chest was taut as a bowstring. It was snowy and silent that night as well, but the bleak weather had held off this year, a moment of mercy, a period of grace. But now that it was here… 

The alcohol slithering through her veins soured, sinking into the depths of her aching heart and sparking something coal-hot and foolish. All her inhibitions were abandoned the moment her hand grazed against the cool glass of her phone screen. 

The movement of her fingers was automatic. There was a tug at her gut as she typed in the familiar number. She had deleted it last winter, but it was seared in the very back of her memory. Everything was.

There was a flicker of hesitation as her finger hovered over the call button. Ellie knew that you wouldn’t want to talk to her, but she was too close now to the sweet release that would finally satiate the thing inside her that begged and whined for scraps.

Your voice. The one that caressed her gently into the melting sugar of a moonlit night. The one that shattered upon its vocal chords when it spoke of a dying love. The one so melodious even if it had quieted down to a mere whisper in the haze of her memories.

She sucked in a breath as she pressed the button. The ring trilled into the dead-quiet of her apartment. One, two, three… a pause. Her lips parted, heart scrambling, as she went to speak, but your own words poured from the speaker before she could. 

It went to voicemail. Of course it fucking did, but she didn’t have it in her to feel disappointment. Not when your syrupy voice filled the stillness like honey and mellowed her from the inside. She had always teased you for such a polite voicemail greeting, but now she felt her gratefulness for it, the proximity of a stranger, wracking through her very soul.

Her eyes fluttered closed for a few meagre seconds until the sound of your speaking was sliced to silence by a singular, piercing beep.

She gazed at the snowflakes once more. Spinning and blurring, breaking her heart all over again. Faint crackling came from her phone, like the old fireplace in your little home. Were you sitting by it now? Were you bundled in another’s arms with the same fireside-tangled hair and drowsy eyes? 

She exhaled and slipped her phone onto her lap, staring as the seconds counted upwards. She had come this far and pretending she didn’t intend to call you would make the entire situation worse. Everything within her wrestled for the opportunity to tell you how she felt. You understood, at least, the shape of her heart, even if you wanted never to hold it in your palms again. That was enough, she thought. It would have to be. 

“Hey…” The word came out as apprehensive and shaky. God, she sounded pathetic to her own ears. What would you think? Would you even bother to listen?

Her breath came out in little puffs and fogged the windowpane just an inch from her lips. She focused on this instead of the hummingbird-like fist of a hear punching against her ribs.

“It’s the first snowfall of the year. Took a while to come, huh…?” She despised this, the casualness in which she spoke. This distance was living and beating. She could feel its presence in the lump in her throat and in the clamminess of her palms. It loomed and threatened to crush her under its careening weight. 

She looked up at the blank, peeling white of her ceiling, the static of the void buzzing in her ears as she blinked back hot tears. You weren’t there, but this was a sort of closeness. It was the only closeness she was granted.

She at least owed you honesty. You knew one another better than this, not so long ago. Souls that mingled. Surely you left a piece of yourself within her and vice versa. If she were her own being, if she belonged only to herself, it wouldn’t hurt this much. There wouldn't be something inside of her that reached it scrabbling fingers out toward you, that longed for you.

“Fuck, all I can remember right now is… that night,” she said, her voice as raw and ragged as tearing cloth. “I don’t know if you’d remember this but you wrapped your scarf around my neck a minute before you ended things. You saw that I was cold... shivering– you fucking hated me in that moment, I know you did, and you… you still decided to love me."

A sob ripped past Ellie’s throat before she could reel it back and she had to cover her mouth with a quivering hand. Her auburn hair curtained her blurry eyesight as she curled further into herself, choking on purgatorial tears. This wasn’t fair.

“I’m not asking for second chances or shit like that. I’m not asking for anything from you, I just…”

The phone gave another beep, but this one felt more apologetic. Remorseful. Your time is almost up.

She sniffled, the rush of her tears seeping into her sweater. Into the scarf hung loosely around her neck. Each salty drip tainted the near non-existent smell of you. Caramel coffee, synthetic lavender. Washed away in the twining river of her heartbreak.

She gulped in air, raked her auburn hair back. 

“I miss–” The call ended abruptly, her phone screen fading to black.

The flurry outside continued, tenderness rendered physical. She was alone again. The wool slipped from her neck and limply into her hands and she gathered it to her chest, a wail sailing out of her throbbing chest.

– You. I miss you.

[waitingandwishing]

(Cross posted on Wattpad)

Prev - Next Chapter

Y/N sat cross-legged in her room, the soft hum of the night surrounding her as she settled into her meditation. Her hands rested on her knees, palms upturned, revealing the intricate runes carved into her skin.

The marks shimmered faintly, a soft pulsating light that seemed to shift and ripple with her every heartbeat. It was a connection to a power she could barely begin to comprehend. A power that could speak to her.

She tightened her fists, feeling the slight sting where the fresh carvings were still healing. It was a sharp but familiar sensation, a reminder of the sacrifices she’d made. The pain was a small price to pay for power, a price she’d learned to live with.

Every line, every curve of the runes was a trial to the desperate hunger that had driven her to this point. She had chosen this path, and now there was no turning back.

Her eyes flickered to the small sapling in front of her, the one she had pulled from the earth just hours earlier. It was still fragile, its thin trunk barely reaching above the surface of the soil, its tiny roots just beginning to spread beneath the earth.

She reached out, her fingertips brushing the rough bark, a spark of energy traveling from her hands into the tree.

“Magic doesn’t choose the faint of heart. It chooses the desperate,” She whispered under her breath, remembering the words that the stones had told her. And desperate she was. Desperate for control, desperate to prove to herself. She needed to do this.

The runes on her hands flared brighter, a soft glow illuminating her face as the air around her seemed to vibrate with power.

A deep hum filled the space, echoing in her chest, her heartbeat syncing with the pulse of the magic she commanded.

Slowly, the roots of the sapling trembled, and with a tremor of power, the tiny tree began to grow.

Its branches stretched upward like skeletal fingers, leaves unfurling with their green hue that deepened into a rich, vibrant shade under the influence of her magic.

Y/N opened her eyes, watching with a mix of awe and determination. She smiled faintly, but the expression quickly faded as dizziness hit her like a wave. Her head swam, the world around her blurring for a moment.

The tree wilted suddenly, crumpling into a pile of dust on her bed. Y/N frowned, brushing the dust off of her bed with a scoff. It didn’t work… But she couldn’t stop. She’d get better. She had to. There was no turning back.

‘1, 2, 3, 4…’ She thought to herself, her breathing steadying as she focused on grounding herself.

But then, as if mocking her concentration, a soft tune began to play in her mind. She didn’t know if she was hallucinating or if the magic itself had conjured the melody, but it was unmistakable. A song she knew.

‘Dancing bears, painted wings. Things I almost remember, and a song someone sings. Once upon a December…’

Y/N froze, the familiar tune piercing through her thoughts, the words crashing into her heart. The pain was immediate, sharp, and overwhelming. She had always wanted to be a dancer, back when she still believed that kind of life was possible. But what had happened to that dream?

What had happened to her?

Her heart clenched as she wondered if she could remember the moves, if her body still held the grace and poise that had once come so naturally to her. Could she still dance? Could she still feel that connection to the music, to herself?

Y/N stood, her body moving almost automatically as she placed herself in first position, the familiar posture grounding her.

She stood at the edge of her room, fingers brushing against the wall, and she inhaled deeply, trying to calm down.

Her chest rose and fell with each breath, the familiar scent of the room mixing with the faint scent of the earth from the sapling still growing beside her.

Her eyes closed briefly as memories flooded back. The runes on her hands glowed brighter as she began to move, starting with a slow plié. The bend of her knees felt awkward at first, her balance unsure.

Her body wasn’t what it used to be, the magic coursing through her muscles, demanding a strength she had to learn to control again.

She adjusted her stance, grounding herself more firmly, and tried again. The second attempt was better— more fluid.

The magic followed her, lending her strength and grace. Her arms stretched upward, and the room seemed to come alive with the energy of her movement.

‘Someone holds me safe and warm. Horses prance through a silver storm, figures dancing gracefully. Across my memory…’

Muscle memory stirred like an old friend, a spark of the girl she used to be coming to life. She moved into a tendu, her leg extending outward, toes pointing as if they’d never stopped.

The runes on her hands pulsed with energy, following the rhythm of her body. The magic wrapped around her, growing stronger as she moved faster, letting the music play in her head.

Her heart quickened, the connection between her body and the magic growing more powerful. She could feel it, the faintest trace of who she used to be, the rhythm of movement, the joy of expression.

She pushed herself further, moving through a series of port de bras, her arms sweeping gracefully through the air as though carried by the melody that played only in her mind.

The magic responded, rippling outward from her, and for a moment, she felt invincible. The stiffness in her joints began to ease, replaced by a warmth that spread through her limbs, power flowing through her like a river.

She seemed different now. Less hesitant, more alive, as if a long-forgotten piece of her had woken up again.

‘Far away, long ago. Glowing dim as an ember. Things my heart used to know. Things it yearns to remember…’

Y/N attempted a pirouette, her body spinning effortlessly, her mind focusing solely on the movement. She spun once, twice, and then stumbled slightly on the landing, her feet slipping as the magic swirled around her.

But she corrected herself, her fingers flicked in the air, and delicate patterns of glowing energy traced the space around her, ethereal ribbons of light following her every move.

Raising her hands, she moved them gracefully through the air, and blue lights flickered across the ceiling like sparks of electricity crackling through the room.

Each step she took seemed to pull the magic with her, swirling and rippling in an invisible dance. A graceful leap sent a shower of stardust trailing in her wake, and the air hummed with the powerful energy she was harnessing.

Small orbs of light floated upward around her, following her every motion, as if the magic itself had become her partner in this wild, new dance.

And still, the music played, filling her head with its haunting chimes. ‘And a song someone sings… Once upon a December…’

Y/N’s breath caught as the last of the orbs of light flickered and faded. She stood there for a moment, trembling slightly, watching the energy dissipate around her.

The room was still now, save for the soft hum of her heart beating in time with the magic that lingered in the air.

"I did it," She whispered softly, her voice barely a breath, as she looked down at her hands. Why? Why after all these years have they finally worked? The runes on her hands still glowed faintly, a reminder of the power she had unlocked. "I can do magic."

_____________________________________________________

Y/N hummed softly to herself, the tune muffled under the quiet murmur of the streets. Bandages were snugly wrapped around her arm, starting just below her elbow and extending down to cover her wrist and hand to cover the runes on her hands.

The sight of her scarred skin wasn’t something she wanted anyone to notice, not unless their names were Silco or Jinx. Even then, it wasn’t easy to let them see it.

The olive-green cloak draped over her figure swayed with her movements, its fabric flowing gracefully down to her boots. The hood was pulled up, shrouding her face in shadows, a perfect shield from the prying eyes of passersby

“Excuse me,” A voice called out, interrupting her train of thought.

Y/N tensed slightly, her head turning just enough to acknowledge the speaker without fully facing them.

“Do you know someone named Y/N?” the man asked.

Her brow furrowed under the hood. Whoever knew her name was either an ally— or someone looking for trouble. Often, they were both. She slowly turned to face him, her sharp eyes narrowing as she studied the man.

“Why?” She asked coldly, her voice steady but laced with caution.

When her gaze settled fully on him, recognition hit her like a lightning strike. Her stomach twisted as her lips parted slightly in surprise. ‘Jason Talis? What the hell is he doing here? Why is he in the Undercity?’

Jason shifted nervously under her intense scrutiny. “A friend of mine,” He began, his voice hesitant, “He’s dying. I… He requested to see her. To see Y/N.”

She tilted her head, placing a finger on her chin as if deep in thought. “Jason Talis,” She stated bluntly, her voice dripping with dry amusement as she observed him.

“I-It’s Jayce,” He corrected, his voice faltering as she stepped closer. His body stiffened, and he instinctively took a step back.

“Well, I know Y/N,” she replied, her tone curious but nonchalant. “Who’s this friend of hers anyway?” Her mind raced as she asked. She didn’t have many people she could consider “friends.” Sevika? Maybe, if you squinted hard enough. Jinx? No, she was more of a sister, not just a friend.

“His name is… Viktor—”

The name stopped her cold. Her hand moved with a speed that startled even her, and suddenly, a dagger was at Jayce’s throat. Her heart hammered in her chest as her mind spiraled. ‘Viktor? Was… Dying?’

She stared at the man before her, her face unreadable but her grip unwavering. Questions flooded her mind. ‘Why was Viktor dying? What happened? Did the explosion Jinx set off kill him…?! No. She couldn’t have…’

“Viktor, huh?” She said finally, her voice low and controlled, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of panic. “Why is he dying exactly?”

Jayce’s eyes widened, and he raised his hands defensively. “Get off me!”

Her hand didn’t move. Instead, she leaned in slightly, her hood tilting forward to obscure her face further. “Why. Is. Viktor. Dying?” she repeated, her tone dark and measured, the edge of her dagger pressing just enough to keep him still.

Jayce’s voice cracked as he answered, “He’s sick! He’s getting weaker. He’s… He’s running out of time.” His words tumbled out in a frantic rush. “He wants to see Y/N before it’s too late.” Jayce was lying, she could tell. But she didn't know why he was lying about that.

Y/N’s eyes narrowed, her heart clenching at the mention of Viktor’s condition. She flipped the dagger skillfully in her hand, the blade disappearing into her cloak as she slipped it into her pocket.

“I’ll see what I can do, but tell your friend that I can’t make her do anything,” She said curtly, her voice tight. Without another word, she turned and strode away, her cloak billowing behind her as she moved.

Her thoughts spiraled as her boots echoed against the cobblestone streets. ‘Viktor is dying. But why? What’s happening to him? And why now?’ The idea of losing him clawed at her chest, but she forced herself to keep moving, her teeth gritted as if to hold her composure together.

The streets seemed louder now, every sound amplified by the turmoil in her mind. ‘This isn’t Jinx’s fault. Why would I ever assume that?!’ She frowned, shoving the thought away before it could fester. She couldn’t let herself spiral, not yet. She didn’t have all the answers.

But one thing was certain: whatever was happening, she couldn’t ignore it now. Not this time.

taglist: @night-fall-moon @cyberwears @g0ul666 (If you'd like to be added tell me in the comments!!!)

[steviebbboi]

🎃 - Ask a creator about a current project or WIP.

Can you post a snippet from the oldest WIP you have? 😄

Cate <3333 thanks for this ask 🥹

oh man, i had to dig into the archives for this one! This was written in 2016 - (dude what~). Tbh, im not sure that it'll ever get written but who knows! This was meant to be my first Steve x Goddess!Reader series fic starting from Thor's landing on Earth! This is so unfiltered/unedited omg lol -- anywho! Voila:

Untitled WIP (Steve Rogers x Goddess!Reader)

A distinctive, loud ‘boom’ echoed in the city of New Mexico. Citizens stopped to look around in wonder. After a few minutes, people began to dismiss the boisterous sound in amusement.

They shouldn’t have.

She was beautiful, naturally. The Goddess, Freyja, blessed her well. The woman was surrounded by a bright light, shaped to fit her and her only. She hovered above the sand covered ground before landing roughly, causing a loud thump to be heard across the city. The rings of light now gone, her position was of servitude. She had both hands curled in a fist, her knuckles pressing into the dirt. One knee touched the sandy surface, little specks of rocks pressing into her olive skin. 

The woman looked up, a smile gracing her face. Whines of police sirens were heard within earshot. She saw tiny forms of metal hit the ground around her, sparks flashing following a loud bang!  

“Peculiar…” She thought, suspecting their violent intent.

She cocked her head to the side and barely twitched her finger. After a few seconds, all the bullets stopped in mid-air as if they were stopped by an invisible force. The invisible veil no longer glimmered as the bullets fell to the ground.

“I thought the humans were supposed to be peaceful.” She voiced to the open sky, knowing the all knowing guard heard her.

Police cars and black sedans came to an abrupt stop in front of her. The men in uniform quickly stepped out of the vehicles before taking defensive positions behind their car doors. 

“Stay right there!” and “Freeze!” were heard as she took a step towards them. The woman fearlessly smiled before taking another step. Their guns cocked and fired at the woman. She quickly put her hands in front of her with her palms facing them. The shimmery barrier appeared again and disappeared as before. The smile wiped off her face and was replaced with a scowl.

“Enough.” She muttered with annoyance. The ground beneath them started to grumble and growl as the cars and sirens went off in a frenzy. It started to shake, everyone looking at the floor in a panicked awe. A loud crack could be heard as a crooked, jagged line started to appear on the dust covered Earth. 

The agents could only look amazed until a brave soul gathered some courageous sense to throw these crystal-like rocks surrounding her looming figure.

She looked down at the opaque crystals in alarm as they formed into a wide triangle-- the sediments glistened under the sun’s rays until a bright beam shined from within to exert a power she has never felt before.

The woman visibly winced as a loud, high pitched ringing noise pierced her eardrums, effectively, creating a psychic chaos in her mind. She twitched her fingers, visibly this time, towards the crystals but found that they didn’t even budge. 

She started to growl, teeth bared and banged against this static force field, violently, only for the noise to amplify the more that she hit the inner walls of the shimmering prism. She clutched her head with a pained groan and proceeded to knock on the barrier until blood spouted from her nose and ears. Eventually, causing her to black out with a defeated air.

AN: Unfortunately, no Steve in this lil snippet but would anyone be interested in reading this pairing?? 👀

Main Masterlist

Captain America/Steve Rogers Masterlist

Join My Tag List: *if you would like to receive updates on my fics*

Tag(s): @patzammit @inlovewiththefictionalcharacters @stellar-solar-flare @mercurial-chuckles

@caplanbuckybarnes @autumnrose40 @innorogers @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory

@rogersbarber @blushingrn @alexxavicry

[idliketobeatree]

prompt: mindreading

pairing: crystal/niko (heavily implied, but can be read as one-sided pining if that's your jam), ficlet, 700~ words, T

———

"Wait, you want me to read your mind? You're not scared of someone taking a peek into that brain of yours?"

Maybe it's because of her own peculiar experiences with... not exactly unwanted, but genuinely huge mistakes of wanted guests in her head. But Crystal cannot fathom the idea to voluntarily make anyone privy to your thoughts, on a whim. She's done it enough for other people, sure; usually under the disguise of a case and protected by the motives, but she still had a preference of simply talking to people, hoping for the best that they would disclose the necessary information. Her budding empathy clashes somewhat with her psychic powers. There was a time she vaguely remembers, where she wouldn't bat an eye at using them for her advantage, even if it meant stepping on a few heads. Well. Not anymore.

It made something in her chest feel noble; a sensation she was not used to.

With great power comes great responsibility, et cetera, right?

Nevertheless, the casual allowance of Niko to make herself comfy in her brain, with no specific time slot seems intimate down to a T. Something you would allow under very specific circumstances, preferably after thorough discussion with the subject. A life or death situation, perhaps. It would be reserved for the closest bunch of people, unless your poor judgement decided to omit the jarring red flags and said, you know what, my scarlet matches your ruby.

There are choices you cannot go back from, as she is painfully aware.

In her lap, Niko brushes two fingers along Crystal's knuckles, from where she is cradling her palm. It feels strangely precious, encased in the softness of the other girl's hand. Crystal's gaze glides over to the intricate rings matching the long, beautiful pastel nails, decorated with small pearls and tiny ribbons. The touch brings dual sensations: there are the pads, soft like a cat's and similar to it, the sharper points of the nails leave blunt dents on the top of her palm. She belately realises, I wouldn't mind if you pressed harder. Make me feel it.

Crystal's gaze snaps back upwards, guiltily. She almost regrets it. The way Nico's face twists into a shy smile, Crystal feels the touch spark through her hand and race towards the chest like a livewire, a pulsing need. "I have nothing to hide from you."

"That's not true. Everyone has secrets they want to keep," she protests weakly.

"I promise to keep it G-rated," Niko laughs, and Crystal is lightheaded from it, glad she is already sitting down, because hey, did she just—

"Crystal. You need to see the bird."

Before she can cut it short, Niko lifts the hand she so generously cradled up to her forehead— in a mimicry of the main guy from— uh, was it the X-Men movies? Like she believed touching the temples while mindreading was essential to the process. Crystal's powerless against the flutter of her eyelashes when she's trying to focus and relax at once, the slightest of frowns gracing her forehead.

Her fingers are being gripped harder, determined. She wants to keep her there.

Crystal debates on whether it would work anyway, because how could she think about some stupid bird, when Niko is right there? An open, well-loved paperback, ready to fill you with strange images of her own design.

She gets hit with a memory like a pop-up ad, but without the surge of overwhelm and annoyance, the part where she's prying open inside smoother than anticipated.

The sight comes with a filter of pure admiration and some childlike wonder. The edges of the vision are swimming in bright, peak summer hues, teal sky and rich green bushes with pinkish yellow sparkling in the heat. Niko must have watched the scene from a sidewalk, and she had to be pretty close to see so clearly. The crow inside the memory drops a walnut from its beak right before a car drives over it, cracking open the hard shell, and the bird dives precisely half a second later, catching the remains of the nut in mid-air. Show off, Crystal snickers to herself. Surprisingly, she finds a familiar, amused chuckle reverbating around her temple. It's strange enough that Crystal gets thrown out of the vision far too quickly. She pushes the need to stay, down.

Niko cracks open one eye, apparently much too excited to keep going. "Did you see that? Did you see?"

"Uh. Yeah. I did." It's a tiny shock, to come out of the vision. "That was..."

Unexpected. Amazing. If I saw the world through your eyes, I wouldn't think it's genuine shit all the time.

"...nice."

[annoyed-galaxy]

Fictober 2024 ~ 25

"it consumes me"

Fanfiction: DAI Honestly, this went in a different direction than I was planning, but I pulled an all-nighter and am sleep deprived. Trying so desperately to beat Inquisition before Veilguard comes out and I don't know if I'm going to make it in time lol Can also be found on Ao3

Willow stared into her cup full of dark liquor. This was her third? She wasn’t feeling drunk, maybe only slightly tipsy. The others around her were speaking, laughing, and chatting. She looked away from her cup and smiled at her friends. 

Times like these were nice. A moment of peace in the middle of a war was always welcomed. She had declined joining the game of Wicked Grace for the night, but she watched with an amused look on her face. Cullen was losing horribly. She peeked at his cards and just shook her head slowly as she heard him obviously bluff. He leaned back in his chair, a confident grin on his face. His arm slung across the back of her chair and subconsciously wrapped around her shoulders and pulled her in. She smiled and leaned into it. 

No one commented on their relationship anymore, though Dorian did throw a knowing smile at her. Varric called Cullen on his bet and Willow noticed Cullen’s jaw tense just slightly. She took a drink. Iron Bull called the bet as well. He definitely would have caught the subtle movement of Cullen’s face. 

“Alright Curly, show ‘em,” Varric motioned to his cards. 

Cullen removed his arm from Willow’s shoulder and looked at his cards. His face fell and he laid the cards out. “I got nothing,” he sighed in defeat. 

“I knew it,” Bull announced, laughing and taking a large swig from his own cup. 

“Now now, Tiny, we still need to see who wins: me or you,” Varric said. 

Bull scoffed and revealed his cards. “Beat that.”

Varric smiled gleefully and laid his cards out. He did, in fact, beat Bull’s hand—barely. 

“Oh come on!” Bull cried out. The table burst out into laughter as Varric took the pot, chuckling as he did so. 

“Can’t beat the master,” he bragged. 

Willow watched as they set up another round. She took another sip of her drink, but suddenly, pain shot up her arm. She cried out and the cup fell from her hand as the green light of the Anchor sparked to life. Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked at her in concern as she held her hand close to her chest, hissing as the pain subsided. 

“You okay?” Varric was the first to ask. Cullen had put his hands on her shoulder, worry flooding his face.

Willow nodded and then took a deep breath. She shook her hand and grunted. “It does that sometimes,” she explained. 

“Is it bad?” Bull asked, his eyes serious and showing his care for her. 

“Just a bit surprising most of the time.” She rubbed her palm. “Sometimes, the pain gets so bad it consumes me entirely. Falling to the ground and just laying there until it passes.” 

“Maybe have Chuckles look at it again and see if he can figure something out to alleviate the pain?” Varric suggested. 

Willow shrugged. “It’s fine for now. I think whenever I go a long time not closing rifts, it gets antsy.” She let out a dry chuckle. “It’s like I need to use it otherwise it’ll just start hurting.” 

“Are you going to be okay?” Cullen asked her, his face soft with overwhelming love and concern. 

She smiled and patted his cheek. “I’ll be fine, Curly,” she replied. “Not the worst thing to happen to me…just the weirdest.” 

“Oh?” Dorian piped up. “Not the traveling through time?” 

She snapped her fingers and pointed. “Yeah, nevermind, that was the weirdest thing.” There was a round of chuckles. Willow picked her cup off the floor and only then did she realize that the rest of her alcohol had actually fell on her lap. The pain had numbed the feeling of her wet clothes. “Ah dammit,” she groaned, standing up and wiping, unsuccessfully, at the liquid. 

“Someone needs a wardrobe change,” Dorian smirked. 

She chuckled. “I think that’s my cue to go to bed. It is getting late.” 

“Aww come on, boss, we’re about to beat your boyfriend’s ass again,” Bull joked. 

“Yeah right,” Cullen retorted, but there was a slight flush on his face. He was horrible at Wicked Grace. 

Willow chuckled and just leaned down and gave Cullen a kiss on the cheek. “Well try not to kick it too much. I still need him.” The boys roared with laughter. She ruffled Cullen’s hair. “Good night guys. Have fun.” 

They waved her out as she walked out, Cullen watching her go, sadly, but admiring the sway of her hips. 

“Hey, Commander, focus,” Varric snapped his fingers. 

Cullen shook his head and cleared his throat whipping his head back to the table. “I-I am!” 

“The Inquisitor’s ass is not the game,” Bull smirked, knowingly. Cullen just sighed and let his head fall, failing to hide the blush rising on his face. 

“Don’t worry, dear Cullen, I’ll appreciate it for you,” Dorian joked. That made another roar of laughter rise around the table. 

Cullen just groaned. “Let’s get this next round going. I am not losing this time.” 

He lost. 

[idiotwithanipad]

Stolen (part 5)

(Set in my Gore Au. Shortly after @shebeafancyflapjack's A Slip Through Wolrds series. Ft her OC Silver)

Another day had passed by agonisingly slow, still no sign of being discovered by Mary or Humphrey. The creature was still sitting at the entrance of the cave, his eyes scanning through the bushes and brambles, keeping a tight vigil. Silver had challenged herself to a spinning contest; the goal, to see how long it took to spin so fast that her nose started bleeding from both nostrils.

Amy would've laughed if it wasn't for the dire situation that her dizzy friend, luckily, couldn't see. Amy's time was spent tucked away in the corner, gnawing anxiously on her nails, a bad habit. She would've polished off a box of Mayfair Sky Blue no problem - if she had any. On two occasions now, she absentmindedly nibbled against the damaged cuticles, only for the creature to prowl over to her and tug her hand away from her mouth. He'd signed to her 'cub...no...hurt...self'.

He'd heard Silver's hyper spinning and tugged her to the ground to get her to stop, writing on her arm, also telling her to stop for the same reason. Less of the usual annoyance he took to them before, more stern and paternal. A terrifying thought. The girls could play amongst themselves no problem, as long as Silver kept her voice down and Amy didn't clap to loudly, so the basic children's game of Pat-a-cake was quickly out of the question.

Silver had been fussy and dejected at first, but the creature quickly drew her attention elsewhere with ease, which mostly involved scittering his claws along the cave floor to get her attention. When she tried to reach the noise, he put his furred boot in her reach. The blind witchling had quickly mistaken the fur of the creature's boot for a live animal and began petting and fussing at it in awe.

Hours and hours passed in boredom, misery and homesickness. Amy tried to ground herself by twiddling with her hair, something that's always helped her when scared or stressed, but that just cause her to become fidgety, and soon after she began picking at her hangnails again.

"Aww, I hope Mummy let's me keep this cute little guy. Think she will, Ames?" Silver smiled, stroking her fingers along the foot of the creature's boot, still unaware. Amy didn't reply, she couldn't; she was too far away to reach Silver's arm, and any attempt to get closer to her and write was met with a glare from the creature. He didn't trust her not to break the illusion. She's already let slip too much, good thing the happy cub was easily distracted and swayed.

--

Mary difted along through the trees, embers and ash falling slowly from her skeletal hands which hung limp at her sides. She left a scortched trail behind her as she walked, but the leaves and trees didn't burst into flames, only blackened and shriveled to crackling ash. She had no more tears to shed, all her grief was now channelled through her palms, which crackled and expelled sparks and bursts of smoke hotter than lava.

She neared a patch of colour on the ground, prompting her to stop in her tracks. A beautiful little patch of grass with fresh buds, where the snowdrops grew. Her scalding heart pinched, memories flooding back.

"Mummy, look! Look! They're tiny little ballerina fairies! Aren't they beautiful?"

"So's they are! My my, little'en, for a blind little wench thou hath the eyes of a hawk for spotting such diddy little wood-folk"

"Rude! Haha, I wish I could dance like them, don't think I'd be as good. Especially in these boots"

"Oh tush and flops! Thou art a grand danceress, darling girl! Any soul who spews otherwise be nought more than a jealous old sour bones! And thou cans tell them thats from me!"

"Haha. But- I'm not a fairy, Mummy... I'll never be as pretty as them. They have wings and golden hair and sparkly skirts"

"Who's to say you is not a fairy, my little darlin'? Thou hath the grace of the spring breeze, the voice of the merfolk, the smiles of the shiniest stars. And as for wings, thou doth hath wings, darling girl"

"Wait, really?! Where? Where's my wings, Mummy? Are they big? Are they pretty?"

"'Tis up to you, little'en. Close thy eyes, darling girl. Breathe deeps, focus on thy wings. Feel them flutter in the winds, hear them flap. Are they feathered? Are they of t'flesh? Mayhaps they is made of pretty shiney glass? Do they twinkle so? Whatever does come into thy mind's eye be the right answer, little'en. No soul can change them, they is all yours, darling girl"

Mary couldn't bring herself to look at the patch of barely blooming flowers any longer. She turned from them and held her scalded apron to her mouth. To think she used to be an obiding Catholic woman, set straight on her beliefs, only to have it all snatched away. Then to become a haunting wraith of flame and agony, with one little glimmer of love left, only for her to be taken away also.

A twig snapped nearby and Mary froze. Turning her skull to face the noise, she held her breath with a wheeze. Maybe? Could it be? Was ally mistaken? Unable to properly track due to exhaustion and pain?

"Darling girl?... Be that you?"

She stepped closer to the sound, dropping her apron, her hands outstretched, ready to embrace the girl she was picturing skipping from the bush ahead.

"Hath thou finally returned to Mummy?"

The bush trembled, and through the branches, a fox scattered. It's green eyes shot up to Mary and it stilled, it's bushy tail flicking behind it.

Oh

Such a foolish old woman. To think she'd disbelieve her ally, the one spirit which had been on the land since before many of these passing livings were even born. Before their hundredth great grandparents before them were born. The little canine tucked it's tail away and sped past Mary, disappearing into the undergrowth, just as quickly as her daughter had.

Smoke rose from beneath her scorched feet, the leaves beneath catching aflame and shriveling. The damp soil hissed and poured vapour, mixing into a toxic cloud with the smoke. Mary wailed, dropping to her knees in the leaves. Embers billowed from beneath her rags and floated upwards in a thunderous whirlwind.

--

He returned to the house alone. He walked Mary back to the woods, it was the least he could do; remember his chivalry and then he can grieve. The two exchanged very few words after the devastating news had been revealed by the creature. Their eyes dazed downward towards the dirt, their dead hearts snapped in two. He was barely able to give a soft apology to the witch, if she could even hear him over the sound of her own heartbreak.

The house was dark, cold, damp, empty, the way it usually is. Yet, it felt truly devoid, a lapse between the real and the imaginary, like a place you only visit in nightmares. You see it once and that's enough to prompt you to never wish to see it again. The other dead residents must've overheard the frantic commotion caused by himself and the witch throughout the days, as they'd huddle away and lower their heads as he passed. He didn't care if any of them approached, be them a guard or otherwise; he wouldn't resist arrest now, he had no reason to be here anymore. All he cared about was gone.

Back in the room where he'd gotten to meet her for the first time, the one that foolish female guard had hussled her into that fateful day. The vacant bed looked just as horrific as the note left behind by one of Sophie's acquaintances, the one who set them up, caused all this chaos and tore their lives apart. The whole room felt stark bare without her here, like she breathed a second life into the foundations, given the irony.

"You okay, Poppet? You still worried about Mum?... Yeah, I know, Poppet, it's hard for you without her. Must be weird to go from spending each day with her to- well, none at all. And then to be stuck with me of all people, I'm not exactly a picnic, am I? Heh."

"Oh Christ! Oh dear, Poppet, you really are sick, ain't you? Lean forward, don't let yourself choke on all that bile. That's it. Catch your breath. I- oh! Jeez- umm, okay there's no need to cry, Poppet, but- would you mind, umm- popping your eye back in. Saying this lovingly, but- it's kind of making dad feel sick.. "

"Don't be scared, Poppet. Whenever me and- body me are separated, all you have to do is stomp your foot as hard as you can, he'll come to you. He and I might be two sides of the same coin, but we both love you more than the world, Poppet. Come 'ere, wrap yourself up, keep warm. Don't want you catching a fever along with- everything else"

His whole world. All he had left. Gone without a trace. Like she never existed. He slowly sunk down onto the edge of the bed, his eyes blankly stared at the floorboards beneath his feet. What reason did he have to hide anymore? All he'd need now was to hear the crunching of the gravel outside beneath horse shoes and he'd give himself up. He'd falsely confess in a heartbeat, accept a death sentence. A rope around the neck would feel like a invitation right now.

He remembered the last time he told her he loved her before she went missing, she'd shrugged, an awkward crease in her brow; must've been weird for her to hear that, but it was true. He meant it. He only hoped she knew he meant it, she isn't here to be reminded. His arm reached to the side, his palm absentmindedly ran across the spot where she'd curl up to go to sleep. Was the room always this cold and quiet?

He'd almost forgotten what it felt like to be lonely, but it flooded back to him in an instant. Wherever you are, Poppet, I hope you and your friend are in a better place than this.

[inafieldofdaisies]

💭💭 one for each deputy if you'd like, also not sure if you're still doing them 😂💕

Okay, so your snippet on Grace's surveillance of Calahan totally inspired me to do a POV from him. I so loved the tense undertones to their interaction. <3

Calahan took a deep breath as he searched for his lighter, desperately needing a smoke after another "talk" about his methods with Whitehorse. "For fuck's sake.", he muttered, cigarette hanging from his lips while the zippo was nowhere to be found, then a hand appeared and lit it for him. He took a hungry drag of nicotine before raising his eyes to the good samaritan that had helped him and the "Thank you" he had lined up died in his throat. "You're welcome.", came from the dark haired girl in front of him, the words paired with a sweet smile that chilled his bones. Something ain't right. Hartley wasn't keen on making any type of conversation with anyone with last name Seed, no matter how innocent they presented themselves to be. He knew how deceiving that family could get, how they stopped at nothing for Joseph. He exhaled a cloud of smoke, hoping it would be enough to chase Grace away, but she remained glued to the spot next to him. "Is something wrong, Deputy?" Calahan watched her from the corner of his eye for a beat, gaze trained at the building ahead when he muttered a stern "No." Where usually cold demeanor and curt words used to warn people to back off and leave him in peace in the rare moments where he didn't feel like socializing, here that approach seemed to encourage Grace to push further. To his displeasure, she leaned in closer. Just lovely. Joseph sending me a honeypot now? He wanted to laugh at the idea, but he knew the tactics the bastard used, how he tricked people into joining Eden's Gate. "Fall's End is such a lovely place, so many nice people! I do always enjoy coming here.", she continued, ignoring his silence, not taking any of his hints. He doubted if he waved a flag with "Go away", she'd comply. Two can play this game, sweetheart. He smirked, "Yeah, nice places tend to attract all kinds of folks. At least that makes the troublesome ones more easy to find. They tend to stand out against the rest." And one is right next to me now, no matter how friendly you want to appear. Grace giggled at his comment and he pushed down the urge to roll his eyes, feeling no need to give away he wasn't buying her little act. "Oh, you are so right, Deputy Hartley. Luckily we have keen eyed individuals such as yourself helping to show us the difference.", the smile that followed from her side felt rehearsed and loaded with intent, the sight sparked his anger.

He thought back to his argument with Whitehorse, how his inaction allowed the Seeds to spread their poisonous ideas around the County. Naive old man. How are we going to ever fix this? When Hartley didn't grace her (ha) with an answer, she straightened out her skirt and stepped in front of him in final attempt to lure him in, "Well then, I'll be seeing you, Deputy." She walked away with that and he finally felt like he could breathe, that he could enjoy his cigarette without a Seed's presence clouding his afternoon. He watched Grace until she disappeared out of view, at that moment he heard a familiar giggle, one that was as genuine as it could get and just as contagious. "Uncle Cal!", Savannah called out as Sabrina led her towards him and the little one held herself back from rushing over to him. Their arrival made him put out his cigarette hastily. "Well, if this isn't the person I missed the most.", he kneeled down and Savannah barreled into his embrace, her arms wrapping around his neck. "I made you a bracelet.", she announced proudly and backed away, pulling out something from her jacket's pocket. Savannah opened her palm, presenting him with a word bracelet while a huge grin took over her freckled face. "I love it, Tiny. Thank you." "She was so excited, she insisted we come right away, kid.", Sabrina explained as she leaned against the wall of the Spread Eagle, then she lowered her voice, "I saw you talking with Grace Seed…" Calahan shook his head, letting Savannah tie the bracelet around his wrist. "Nothing to report, Gray.", he assured Sabrina while small fingers worked gingerly on making a knot. He looked down at Savannah's creation, another reminder of what needed protecting. What Joseph should never get his claws into. The innocents he could easily fool. "I have a bad feeling about this, Cal." "You and me both."

Prompt: Send 💭 to hear my OCs most recent thought about your OC.

[rumbelleshowdown]

Author: Home Alone

Prompts: Dancing in the rain. “You could have died.” Gossips.

Group: A

-

Believing in Monsters

The vivid scent of damp greenery lingers in the air, as the Dark One’s eyes stay transfixed on the dancing beauty before him.

The rain grows stronger flattening the green dress against the slim length of her form. He smiles as she tilts her head up towards the heavens, twirling around with her arms wide open. He watches the bittersweet journey of the rain drops as they fall from her face, caressing down the silky pale skin of her neck and onto her bosom.  His lust for her thrums deep in his chest like a heartbeat.

His clawed fingers itch to wrap around her tiny waist and pull her flush against him allowing their bodies to sway together under the moon’s tears. For 300 years he has roamed these lands, with a constant accounting of every deal, of every desperate soul he has encountered, and yet in this moment with her, his ever-surging mind goes still.

He swallows back the dryness in his throat, as her expressive blue eyes lay upon him.

“I love the rain. You know the clerics say that rain not only cleanses the land but our very soul.”

 “Clerics are nothing but foolish tyrants that hide behind a mask of holy righteousness,” he mutters, instantly regretting his loose tongue. If there was any mercy left in this world her long overdue rejection of him would be quick. Closing his eyes, he awaits her scorn, but it never comes. Opening his eyes, he is surprised to find her now sitting before him, her delicate fingers reaching out to tuck a strand of his all too curly wet hair behind his ear.

“And what do you believe in Rumpelstiltskin?”

Her eyes hold no judgement, only a genuine spark of curiosity.

After so many centuries of witnessing humanity’s wars and greed there is only one belief that has ever held true.

“Cause and consequence,” he whispers.

He is amazed at the look of understanding staring back at him, as he tries hard to quell the urge to taste the rain on her lips. He pretends not to see her look of disappointment as he pulls back suggesting she should return to the dryness of the castle.

An anguished cry rings out into the air as she reaches for her shoes. His startled arms bolt around her, his eyes scurry over her frame, landing on two small puncture wounds gracing her right hand.  His frenzied eyes search for the culprit, landing upon a small black and orange band slithering out of her shoe. With a snap of his fingers the snake is no more.

“Rumple,” the distress in her voice sends a terrifying shiver deep into his bones.

 He will not let this be the sunset of her existence. Pulling out the dagger from his boot, he quickly slits his palm top to bottom, placing it on top of her wound. The magic crackles inside him, as his body absorbs every drop of toxin, before his world goes black.

X

It has taken every bit of her strength to coax Rumpelstiltskin to his feet as he clings to her steadying force. She’s grateful that Avonlea had not yet torn down the dilapidated barn on the northern realm, as it is the nearest shelter they can stumble to. The weight of him sinks heavier into her side, as she practically drags his body the last few yards placing him against the rotting structure out of the rain.

She protectively sits by his side, wishing she had some way to ease his discomfort but knows that she must wait for the magic that exists somewhere deep inside of him to act. His slumber is restless, and she is unsure if it’s the price of his magic or some older buried secrets that lay far beneath the surface.

A murmur of voices startles her, as she scrambles to her feet, peering out a small hole in the wall.  No one should be out here, and yet two guards cackle in the distance.

“No, no I swear,” the larger guard boasts his face red with laughter. “Gaston just pulled it out and relieved himself right there on the beggar’s boots.”

The shorter guard snorts in amusement taking a swig from a shared flask.

The gossip of Gaston’s cruelty comes as no surprise to Belle. Reading in secluded corners of the castle, her ears often stumble upon whispers of Gaston’s exploits. Her nails dig into the wood beam as the guards continue their drunken chatter. It was infuriating that her father viewed Rumpelstiltskin as a monster and Gaston a paragon of virtue, when nothing was further from the truth.

Eventually the flask as well as their conversation runs dry, and she lets out a sigh of relief as they leave, none the wiser to her presence.    

Another hour of worry passes before Rumpelstiltskin bolts upright gasping for air stolen from his dreams. She reaches out immediately wrapping her arms around him as his breath grows steady. He pulls back from her, his eyes filled with uncertainty.

“Belle? Are you alright, are you okay?”

“Yes,” she nods, grasping for him. “Are you?”

The corner of his mouth twitches as he pulls his hand from her touch.

“Of course, I am dearie,” he rises uncomfortably to his feet, his eyes darting everywhere but her. “Immortality and all.”

His clipped tone strikes a raw nerve within her, as she glares at him in silence.

“Well today has been interesting, but I have more pressing matters to attend to,” his arms rise in a flourish to leave.

“Wait,” she cries her mind racing for some concrete reason for his harsh change of demeanor.

He stops abruptly, his pose rigid, but as his eyes finally meet her own his features fall into utter devastation.

“You could have died!” he shouts in anguish as every hint of color drains from his face. “You should never have been out there with me. It was a sign, Belle. Darkness follows me everywhere.” He shakes his head unsteadily. “I will not let you bear the consequence for a monster’s love. You are better off without me; you must believe that.”

Looking at him, she does not see a vessel of darkness, but the dark gentle eyes of a man, a scared man. He was pulling away, willing to halt this relationship to protect her from himself. How could she convince him that he was saving her from the mundane life planned for her since birth?

“Do you know what I believe in Rumpelstiltskin?”

 He gazes at her for several agonizing moments, before exhaling a quivering sigh. “What do you believe Belle?”

She straightens her spine in bravery, taking a step forward.

“I believe that when you find something worth fighting for you never give up.”

His eyes glisten with unshed tears as she stands before him.

“And I believe you are worth the fight.”

 Mustering the last of her courage she voices the words that both excite and terrify her.  

“And I believe that I love you Rumpelstiltskin.”

She brings her lips to his in a soft gentle kiss, which he deepens causing a searing fire to stir in her belly. All too soon the kiss ends as he pulls her into his arms clinging to her not just as a lover but as his savior, confessing his undying love and devotion.

She knows others will not comprehend their love, but she feels no regret. If loving this monster is a sin, she will seek no atonement. 

-

[proxylynn]

just thinking of Jack Horner making out with Little Lynn 😵‍💫

He’d be the most meanest bf ever and keep teasing her bc of how messy and sloppy her being but she dont care because all she need is his tongue in her mouth rn!!!!

[I still enjoy how I did this scene in chapter 4. Fuck it! Let's enjoy it together.]

How?

How did it end up like this?

They were sitting in relative silence and drinking one moment. The next, they were cracking jokes and telling stories. Then the stories went from tales of wondrous adventures to personal events. Things that were kept secret slipped out. Vulnerability shown. One thing led to another and, without sound judgment or clear concern for what the consequences could be, they cave to the lack of inhibitions.

Whom so ever made the first move is quickly lost to memory. But what came next at least was chaste...For a moment anyway.

She is over his lap, held to his chest in his arms, both leaning in to get their rose-tinted faces close to one another. His eyes searched her half-lidded ones for signs of hesitation or reluctance. When he was sure there was none, he continues to draw near till his lips press against her forehead, brushing them delicately against her soft skin and sending shivers through her that made her whole body tremble. At that, he vaguely expects a small remark or word of protest. But no such things come from her. So, he keeps going, experimenting with what he can get away with. His mouth traces along the frame of her face, like following the path drawn out on a map. His lips grace the hollow of her temple, then the warmth of her cheek, and peppering along her jawline. Each instance of tenderness is accompanied by the sound of her soft sighs and the quickening of her breathing. It was so much. Too much. Like he was dumping kerosene on a small flame. This was something that set a tiny spark into becoming a roaring inferno.

She reaches up and pulls him to her, rendering him stunned against her lips, but not for long. He kisses her back tenderly, his mouth smothering hers and leaving her breathless. Gone was the time to handle each other like fragile porcelain. Being gentle wasn't enough now, not after being deprived of such affection their whole lives. They were starved for so long and now, the hunger was unleashed and it demanded to be fed. She claws her fists into his shirt, pulling him hard against her, the need for contact is strong. He groans softly, low in his throat almost like a growl, and his arms tighten their grip on her. The tameness they began with had ended and the intensity that followed was embraced fully. The kiss grew in the wake of ignited passion. His tongue is forced inside her mouth, strong and demanding, it wrestles with her own. Every inch of her body feels as though it burns for him. Her hands journey upward, feeling their way over his broad shoulders and encircling his neckline, one clutching him for support while the other combs into his hair.

His hands aren't idle either, no longer content with merely holding her. His massive hands could easily palm her head like she could hold a ball, even one of his hands encompasses her waist with no issue. He was so much bigger than her. The size difference certainly made him enjoy this more. There is something so enjoyable about being able to handle her like she were a small toy to play with as he pleases. So he takes to exploring her figure with meticulous skill, roaming over each supple curve as though trying to commit her form to memory. One of his hands slides up into her hair, his fingers running through her fine locks before gripping hard and pulling her head back, eliciting a wimping gasp from her as they lock eyes. Her heart is racing and her breathing is heavy, her cheeks inflamed with blush, her head was swimming in intoxication as well as the effect of his actions. She was putty in his hands...and he knew it.

His eyes fall to the choker around her neck, the first proper thing he ever gifted her with and she seldom takes it off. Something about that stroked his pride. An idea form in his sauced-up mind and he grins mischievously. Still holding her head back, his other hand slowly makes its way up to her neck, his fingers brushing along the edge of the choker and making her squirm. Seems her prolonged wearing it had made her quite sensitive there. The reaction only fueled his idea. With his thumb, he nudges the choker up more to expose her nape then brings his mouth to it. His hot breath makes her shiver before he even does anything, her level of sensitivity is rather tantalizing. His lips pepper the smooth skin and then begin to nibble, her breathing getting shaky. His hand in her hair changes its grip to hold the side of her head, his thumb pressing over her lips. She eyes him in confusion till her breath hitches sharply, muffled by his thumb as his teeth bite into her neck. His thumb presses down more to signal her to keep quiet as his teeth dig lightly into her skin. She tries in vain to fight her whimpers and she clings to him, her nails digging into him as he sucks on the supple skin. After what feels like an eternity, he detaches from her nape with a sickening wet pop, lazily dragging his tongue across the faintly bleeding and already bruising wound making her shudder. He can't help but grin while admiring his work.

With his thumb still on her lips, he traces the outline of her mouth and then takes hold of her jaw. His eyes are glossy but bright. He motions to her and then toward where the guest room is. Her mind is too washed with booze and latent yearning to register what this implies, she merely nods like the good girl she is. With that, his grin widens and he stands up with her held close. No words are spoken as he effortlessly takes her to the room and locks the door behind them.

[be-ready-when-i-say-go]

Amor Fati: Chapter 12--Contusion

Paul and Maelyn have been trying to keep their relationship under wraps, but it all comes out. Caveat: Neither is their imprint. How long can smooth sailing go on?

Paul Lahote x Black!Fem!OC.

Series Masterlist

Complete Masterlist

There’s no lasting scars. Leah’s gentle as she helps Maelyn unwrap the bandages, rolling up the excess bandage as Maelyn peels away the gauze. All that’s left is Maelyn’s umber brown skin like the slashes on her chest never existed. “Damn, I was hoping for some sick scars,” Maelyn hums, running a hand down over the middle of her chest. She presses and pulls at the skin but there’s nothing, no scars, no skin discoloration. 

Maelyn’s still cautious as she stands, as a couple of her ribs were bruised but none of them broke, which is a saving grace. Carlisle insisted on the x-ray, and an MRI though Maelyn didn’t show signs of a concussion. She’d only agreed because if she didn’t she knew Paul’s deep rumble would find her. He’d carry her to the hospital himself--alliances, Treaties, and boundaries be damned. In the mirror, there’s only her and the shadow of Leah on the wall. Her skin looks like it always has. 

“Just tattoo them up there,” Leah suggests. “It’ll look badass, that’s for sure.”

“Maybe.” The gentle press at her ribs yields no pain, which is a good sign. She continues on, a two to three finger press around her left side--down at her waist up to her armpits and around to her back. There’s still no pain. Maelyn inhales, pressing air deep into her lungs. No sharp aches, no lightning strikes of pain. She’s fine. But she can see it, the slight bit of dullness behind her eyes. A spark burnt out. Some part of her, which is tiny in relative comparison, feels the hot flash of disappointment that she didn’t die. She’d been prepared. She’d waited until there would seemingly be no other choices other than to take the striking blow. 

Death wouldn’t have been the answer. Maelyn knows that. Yet, that doesn’t shake the fact that she’d considered it. That she willingly knocked at that door. Thankfully, death did not answer. Maelyn exhales, resting her weight onto the flat of her palms against the bathroom sink. She did not die. But if she doesn’t get out of this town, out of this fucking state fast enough, she will. 

“You okay?”

Leah’s voice is a welcomed distraction, but Maelyn can’t answer. All there is the squeezing of the tears at her chest. Her eyes sting as she shakes her head ‘no’ in response to the question. She’s got to get out. And she knows that the road may not be done here, that there may be more danger on the horizon now that Bella’s a vampire, and the baby is growing faster than any one of them can blink, but this place will kill her if she lets it. 

“Does anything hurt? Physically, I mean.”

Another head shake no. But the sobs now are pressing at her lungs, pushing up her throat. Leah’s quick to get a towel around Maelyn’s bare shoulders before pulling Maelyn into her. “You’re going to be okay. You’re alive. That’s all that matters now.”

You’re alive. But Maelyn almost wasn’t. Her sob breaks free from her mouth, an awful aching sound. It makes Maelyn choke. 

You’re alive. 

You’re alive. 

You’re alive. Maelyn chants it to herself because if she thinks it enough times, it’ll have to stick.

“It’d be my honor to help,” Carlisle states. His cold fingers ever so gently trace the path Maelyn’s did but with much more precision. “If you’d like it of course.”

“I just need the name of some good schools, some places to look into for medicine.” Her voice is still croaky, still full of the now dried up tears. Her episode in the bathroom is only an hour behind her, but it’s enough time to know she has to go. 

“Are you looking to stay here in Washington?”

“No,” Maelyn answers, pushing back up to sit on the examination table rather than her previous position of laying down. “Anywhere but Washington.”

“How far are you willing to go?”

She’d promised Paul that he could follow her. And if he meant it, then distance wouldn’t matter. But she wouldn’t want to be unfair in her request. “Continental US, but no Washington and no Oregon.”

Carlisle laughs, a soft sound. But he nods. “I’ll write you up a list. And if any place in particular strikes your interest, just let me know.”

Maelyn’s not asking for that kind of help. She could get into school on her own. But Carlise doesn’t need to know that so she nods anyway. “I appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome. Now in terms of your injuries, you’re in top shape. The skin’s healed well and I think by now we’d know if there were any extensive or serious head traumas.” 

Maelyn only nods—news she assumed was going to come. But the piercing gaze keeps Maelyn glued to the examination table. She stares back at Carlisle, unsure what it is in his frozen gaze. Her instinct tells her to stay alert, to not let her guard down. 

“Are you interested in somewhere warm? With lots of sun?” Carlisle asks. 

The question feels weighted. Like it’s asking something else underneath the question but Maelyn can’t figure out what it’s supposed to be. Weather wouldn’t bother her one bit. But she knows Carlisle would know that. She continues to stare and every so faintly she catches the quirk of his lips. With lots of sun. She’d only seen the Cullens in the sun once maybe twice and the sparkle shocked her. 

Maelyn laughs after the understanding dawns but nods. She’s sure vampires could and would be anywhere. But hopefully she could avoid vampires as much as possible. “Lots of sun is preferred.” 

“I have some perfect places in mind.” 

He finds a scrap piece of paper and Maelyn watches him scrawl down names. The pen scratched against the paper and it’s the only sound that echoes even as Maelyn pulls her shirt back over her head. When she pulls her hair out from the back, the strands are longer than normal considering she hadn’t been able to get to Emily’s to get the trim, Carlisle’s holding out the paper. His penmanship is neat even with how quickly he wrote the names. A list of ten schools and their corresponding states stares back at Maelyn. Promise and hope in black ink.

“Thanks, doc,” she teases, slipping off the table.  

“You’re beyond welcome.” 

Leah plucks the list from Maelyn’s fingers when she steps outside onto the deck. Her lips are pressed together as her eyes dart over them. “A lot of these are down south.”

“Sunnier,” Maelyn returns. 

“It’s a good thing I need to work on my tan. Or whatever it is they say.” She hands the lists back and settles onto the seat wood one step down from Maelyn. 

“I’ll be sure to scope out locations with beaches,” Maelyn hums, slipping her arms around Leah’s shoulders. Her cheek is pressed against the top of Leah’s head. “You could run away with me. I’ll need a roommate.”

“Save a spot for me. But I’ll be gone before you reunite with Paul. I’ve lived that saga enough once as is.”

Maelyn shoves Leah’s shoulder and straightens back up. “Shut up,” Maelyn laughs. 

Paul and Maelyn still need to iron out details. But the tides are ever changing and she wants to see if she could keep Paul around. Maybe it wouldn’t be exactly like before, but maybe it would. And the possibility is enough to actually see the crazy idea through. 

“You’ll still call, right? And write letters? And send postcards?” Seth questions. The fear darkens his face. A boy still too young for some of the things that have already happened in his life. Yet, he lived them. Yet, they all lived through horrors of distinct kinds. 

“Of course I will,” Maely returns, waving him to her. 

Seth settles, between her legs, big eyes peering up at her. “You have to promise.”

Maelyn holds her pinky out. When Seth wraps his around, she grins, “I promise I will. Cross my heart and hope to die if I don’t.” 

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” Seth returns. “No death is needed. But if that’s what it takes, then that’s what it takes.” 

The second Jake tells them they’re allowed back onto the rez, Maelyn’s first trip is back home. She studied and studied the list Carlisle put together. It’s a shorter list now, after much deliberation on what places to eliminate. Florida, Tennessee, California, and South Carolina were discounted given Maelyn’s worry of being stuck in a college town surrounded by small towns and the prying eyes that come with it and too big big cities, where it felt like she might get swallowed up into the cracking asphalt. Thought it was tough to eliminate Florida or California considering Leah’s joking desire for a beach. Maleyn still has Georgia, Texas, and Virginia to consider. Georgia teetered the line on too big of a city but eliminating Altanta feels wrong so it persists. She needs enough city to explore but enough space that she can maintain her phasing. A practice she wouldn’t give up just yet. And all the while, as she crosses schools off, and works for a plan towards a better tomorrow, she knows that she can’t leave home in a hurry. She can’t leave without saying goodbye. 

Her father meets her on the porch, arms opening before he even pushes up from the rocking chair. “You’re home, pumpkin,” he laughs. He kisses the top of her head, the both of them swaying side to side in the hug.

“I’m still alive too,” she laughs. But her dad probably knows. He squeezes tighter. Maelyn holds tighter too. She is alive and she’s not going to waste the opportunity. 

Inside is still the same but as they settle onto the couch, Maelyn feels the weight of Carlisle’s list in her back pocket. She has got to get away from here. Her dad passes her a can of Coke, pulling trays from the fridge of food. The oven warms the house and Maelyn can only watch him as he smiles over his shoulder at her. 

“I’m going to apply to some schools.” Application windows weren’t closed but it would be a tight turn around. Part of her anticipates that she might not get in this round, but even if she didn’t, she’d find a way to use her time wisely until the next application cycle.  

“Good. As you should,” her dad returns. 

“They’re out of state.”

“That’s okay. Go wherever is best.” 

“I wouldn’t be able to drive home on the weekends.” Maelyn prays he understands what she’s saying. That she may be going far. 

Her dad pauses at the pot of collard greens she can smell reheating. He faces her completely, nodding his head for her to come closer. The shuffle from couch to the kitchen is short and Maelyn knows she should feel small but she does as she stares at her father. “Pumpkin, I think you’re destined to go far, see places and do things your mother and I could only dream of. Because if not, you’d be dead already. I know about what happened with Sam and Paul. And I know you care about your old man. But I’m not buying another casket in my lifetime. I’ve bought plenty.” 

“Promise to visit me?” Maelyn asks. She doesn’t know if he knows about her agreement with Paul but she does know she won’t be coming back to the rez unless she absolutely has to. 

“Of course, I will.” 

 The late lunch is hearty--ribs, collard greens, fried apples, cornbread, and mac’n’cheese. A meal that Maelyn’s not sure how or why her dad had prepared, but she’s glad for it. They sit on the couch, nearly elbow to elbow and laugh over the photo albums. That missing hole is filled now even with the red spot on the corner. Her and her mother on the couch returned to its rightful spot. 

As Maelyn scrubs the last of the dishes, her father snores behind her. A sound makes her feel like she’s not missed weeks at a time as it is. It rights her, orients her in a way that makes Maelyn feel something like hope for the future. It would take time for her to actually move. There would be plenty of logistics to worry about, but for now, all Maelyn needs to do is take the first step. 

In the early evenings, Leah walks in through the front door with more boxes under her arms for Maelyn to use to sort through the things that Maelyn would keep and the things that she’d get rid of. Sitting in front of her open suitcase, Maelyn worries about how little of her closet seems to resemble anyone normal--too many tank tops, and jean shorts. But buying more clothes is the least of her concerns so she folds up the shirts and tosses a few pairs of shorts into the donation pile. 

“So I hate to be that guy,” Leah starts and then pauses. “No, I love to be that guy. But what’s the plan for this?” Leah holds out the black rectangular box.

 Maelyn hears the gem sliding around in it. She’d thrown out the foam insert months ago, but kept the box it came in. Maelyn reaches up to take it from Leah. Leah agreed to be moral support, but undoubtedly with the efforts and the dwindling possessions somethings would become much more apparent. Like the box holding the gemstone Paul gave her, and the photos tucked up into a white envelope still on the vanity. 

It feels wrong to throw it out and Maelyn didn’t want to throw it out. Not yet anyway. Paul said he didn’t want it back either. “I’ll figure something out,” Maelyn answers, holding it back up to Leah. The box remains unopened in their exchange but there would be something she could do with it—Maelyn is sure of it. 

“Not that I’m counting, but there’s only two weeks left, so I hope you figure it out fast.”

“I so appreciate your vote of confidence,” Maelyn huffs. “But since you’re dying to snoop, do you mind going through my makeup and looking for anything expired or just crusty and old and tossing it. It’ll probably be half the damn bag, but that’s fine.”

“With honor,” Leah returns. Silence settles around them again until the zipper breaks the sound barrier first. “This whole thing of you moving has got me thinking,” Leah starts. 

“About?” Maelyn pries, dragging out the box of her mother’s old clothes. Part of her is hoping aside from the sweatshirts, there’s some halfway decent blouses that Maelyn can fit into or at bottoms so that way she’s not starting over from scratch in the professional clothing department. 

“That I might have to take you up on that offer of being your roommate. I want to get out too. Jacob’s pack lets me get away from Sam, which is nice. But I kind of want to see what else is out there too.”

“You should,” Maelyn encourages. 

“I’ll see if you fail first though,” Leah snorts. The trashcan clunks with the eyeliner that Leah tosses into it. “Besides, I’m going to wait for Seth to finish school first. Then I think I could leave.”

“That’s another what? Year and a half?”

“About,” Leah agrees, pulling out a bottle of foundation. There’s still the plastic wrapping around the lid so it goes back into the bag without a look at the shelflife. 

“Take my spot at Shannon’s. It’s decent money. I could put in a good word for you.”

“I’d rather die than work food service,” Leah laughs. A bottle of mascara goes into the trash after the wand comes out clumpy. “But I’ll keep it in mind. Thanks.”

Food service isn’t glamorous, even Maelyn would attest to that in a heartbeat, but it is a paying job. It’s a door that shouldn’t be fully closed, even if it’s only cracked open two inches. “Just let me know if you change your mind.”

By the time Leah leaves, the majority of Maelyn’s clothes are packed. The vanity is all mostly clear except the essentials, the gemstone and pictures. Two weeks isn’t a lot of time. And the time wouldn’t slow down either. It would only fall away faster from her. 

With only a week from her deadline, Maelyn’s room starts to feel like a shell of itself in the best way possible. It feels like a clean slate, like something new to come as the horizon brings the new dawn closer. There on her vanity is the manilla envelope she’d slipped the gem into, still boxed up, but now wrapped in an additional layer with her handwritten letter inside too. Paul’s name is printed neatly on the outside in Sharpie, a blaring signal to her that time was truly winding down. 

“I’ll be back before dinner,” she calls out to her dad. 

He nods from the loveseat. “Be careful out.”

“Will do.”

Her keys clack against the manilla envelope as she carries out the door. It’s a little reckless, Maelyn knows, doing this alone. But she’d waste more time waiting than just facing it head on. The blue truck’s in the driveway, but that wouldn’t mean much. He could be anywhere. Yet before she can get the steps, the door creaks open. Mr. Lahote slinks out of the house, cigarettes in hand and freezes when their gazes lock. 

“Mae,” he greets, not fully slurred, but the word falls slowly from his lips and tongue. 

“Mr. Lahote,” Maelyn returns. 

“He’s around back. Garage.”

Maelyn nods and then starts off to the left of the house to take the well worn path to the back of the house. Just as she approaches the railing, Mr. Lahote slides over, voice lowering into a whisper as he calls out for her attention again. “Hey,” he starts. 

Maelyn looks up but says nothing. He doesn’t look all that drunk. Though, given the alcohol she can catch in subtle wafts off him, she knows he’s not sober by any stretch of the imagination. Which means he could say or do anything at this point. Behind the slight glaze in his eyes though, there’s something alert, something like worry. She nods for him to continue on with whatever it is that he has to say. 

“I know you can’t promise anything and I know things were rough there for a few months. But please don’t go breaking my boy’s heart. He’s a good guy, sensitive even if he don’t show it all the time.”

Maelyn can’t go making any promises. But she’s always known that Paul’s the type to wear his heart on his sleeve when given the space for such vulnerabilities. She figured anyone that spent more than half an hour with Paul could see it. The nicotine filled paper is shaky in his hand as Mr. Lahote works the stick out from the carton. It doesn’t shock her that Paul hadn’t fully explained what happened with Rachel to his father. After the last time he spoke about her, it seems more likely that some amount of the truth was omitted. Maelyn would bet money Mr. Lahote did not want another run in with Paul. 

“I don’t have plans to,” Maelyn returns. She gives it cautiously, but knows that just because she doesn’t have plans doesn’t mean plans couldn’t change, even if she didn't want them too. 

“Just-just give him another shot. He’s a romantic like his mother. And I think I’ve made him bitter. But he ain’t all rotten. Just another shot, yeah?”

The question is shaky like the cigarette and Maelyn can see, even the glimpses, that Mr. Lahote isn’t truly lost. There’s an awareness that maybe he was trying to escape, but couldn’t fully. She didn’t have Mr. Lahote pegged as the type to do the emotional stuff. But she’s happy to be proven wrong. Even just a little bit about him. 

With another nod, Maelyn carries on past the house. Another shot. The kind of phrase and assumption that carried expectation, but Maelyn doesn’t let that weigh her down.Whatever happened at the end of this, would just happen.

The garage isn’t a fancy thing. It’s more like a glorified shed, big enough that a car could fit if needed, and seemingly a car never actually set foot into the space. Paul’s situated at the workbench, surrounded by wood, screws, and a mailbox. Maelyn would ask more questions but instead she manages to catch the screw Paul drops when he spots her, not even a full three steps from him. The tinny sound of guitars blares around them muffled by Paul’s ears. He slips the headphones down from the top of his head.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, voice full of the surprise that paints his face. 

They’d talked once after Maelyn told him to give her the three year head start, agreeing that they’d hold the space as friends and that they should both live life in the interim--dating included. It was a small shock to Maelyn for Paul to agree readily to the terms, considering that his face fell for a moment. But his agreement came easy in the end. 

Maelyn drops the screw back into his waiting palm. “You really shouldn’t play your music that loud if you can’t hear me coming.”

He scoffs, pressing the pause at the portable CD player. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

“I’m leaving next week, the last day of the month.” She knows she should’ve given him more of a heads up. Yet, she hadn’t been able to. She worried that he might try to get her to stay. So far, Paul hadn’t pushed the timeline, hadn’t asked questions about when she’d be gone. Perhaps, Paul trusted her more than she anticipated.

He nods. “That was faster than I thought. And that’s too bad, you’re going to miss Halloween.” He taps the pointed end of the screwdriver into the wooden bench, once, then twice, and then before the third tap clicks, sets the tool down. “But are you excited?”

“Excited and nervous,” she agrees. 

“Do you have a place yet?”

Maelyn nods. “I’ve only talked to her over the phone, but she seems nice and the rent’s cheap.”

“I hope it works out with the roommate. I fear if they’re an axe murder there might actually be an animal attack to report on.”

Maelyn laughs at the smirk on Paul’s face. He’s still him. Brash, and an asshole. All the things she’d loved in him and about him. “Are you saying I’m worthy of national news? Don’t flatter me.”

“Yeah,” Paul answers softly. “I am.”

The space between them shakes. If this were before, Maelyn would’ve leaned in. She would’ve kissed him, told him that he’d make national news too with a face that deadly, but this isn’t before. This is after. Maelyn slides the manilla envelope onto the bench, it scraps against the saw dust and other debris coating the wood. “That’s for you,” she starts. Paul reaches for it, but she’s yet to lift her fingers from the paper just yet. “I’m going torture you and tell you, you can’t open this until November 7th, a week from the day I start driving.”

Paul sighs, eyes rolling at the added instructions. “You’re a fucking tease.”

She grins. “You say that like you never liked it.”

They both know he did. The silence of Paul’s rebuttal only further confirms what they both know. Maelyn pushes the package the extra inch towards Paul as she speaks, “Three years, from November 7th. Not a day sooner, and not a day later, got it?”

“Got it,” Paul nods. “Did you get your oil changed? Since you’re driving and all.”

The worry peaks out in the small things. Maelyn can see it in the dart of his eyes. “Yes. Tires are rotated and the tire pressure is all set. Jake’s checked everything out. The old girl’s in tip top shape for the drive.”

“Can I ask where you’re headed?”

Maelyn points to the package. “It’s all in there.”

Paul huffs, eyeing the package like he’d rather break his word now. But he pushes it further off to the side, away from his work. “November 7th.”

“Who’s mailbox are you fixing?”

“Ms. Susie’s. Someone hit it.” The grumble in Paul’s voice sounds like he knows who, but doesn’t want to say. 

“At least it’s only a mailbox,” she offers. 

Her suspicions lead her to believe Paul’s father might be the culprit. But she doesn't pry. Paul’s hum is noncommittal and they share a few beats of silence staring at what’s left of the mailbox. Maelyn sees now the new post made, pushed further up onto the bench. Paul seems to be working now on the best way to reattach the metal to the wood. It doesn’t look complicated, just precise and time consuming. 

“Yeah,” Paul finally says, “it’s only a mailbox.”

*******************

It’s easy enough at first to walk past the envelope on his dresser. The calendar still says October. With that, he can remind himself that Maelyn’s only a few minutes from him. That she’s still close enough to him he doesn’t have any reason to miss her. But when he wakes, November 1st, a day after she set out on her drive, Paul feels like the envelope taunts him. It stares back at him from the dresser and all but begs him to open it early. He can’t though. He made a promise so he pushes up and spends most of the day out, anywhere that he can go to resist temptation.

November 3rd nearly passes slowly. The day creeps by inch by inch that Paul feels like he watches every hour on the clock, even when he’s in the midst of the rest of the pack. Even when Emily promises she followed the recipe to the exact letter for the blueberry cobbler that Maelyn left behind even with the just a hair too thin sugary confection, Paul watches the green time on the oven as the minutes slip by. 

“It’s like water,” Jared huffs. “Going to fall off the fork before I can get it to my mouth.”

“I am trying,” Emily laughs. “Her instructions sometimes need to be decoded.”

That’s the thing about Maelyn, according to her, she learned to cook like her grandmother’scooked. In pinches, and handfuls. Some recipes she has she only really knows by sight and feel. A sight and feel that takes a bit of time and trial and error to pick up. But can be picked up all the same.

“Bake it a little bit longer,” Paul states, pushing up from the kitchen table. Part of him is scared that if he gets too close to the oven, too close to the clock he’ll lose all his progress, as if the hands of time can suddenly move backwards. The filling isn't bubbling, just a little warm from the look and he places it back into the oven, watching as Emily peers over the half sheet recipe card. “And then as it cools, it’ll thicken up a little bit too. Fresh out is going to look different than cooled.”

Emily turns the card over and then laughs. “What are you? A psychic? Verbatim from the back of the card.”

“I have the same recipe,” Paul answers. Emily’s is in blue ink and all of Paul’s are in the purple gel pen, but the handwriting is all the same. He peers at the time on the oven again and is relieved when the time has only ticked upwards. “Try again in like ten minutes, maybe fifteen. Wouldn’t push twenty or it’ll burn the top crust.”

November 5th nearly drives him mad. He tells himself that keeping busy would soothe the frustration. He helps Sam with adding some braces to the shelves in the laundry room, gets pretty minimal grocery, and even helps his dad with the newer truck to replace the brakes and rotors. But by the time all that is done, the clock barely pushes 2 PM. And there, sitting on the dresser is the fucking manilla envelope. 

Though Paul called it a tease, it really feels like a threat now. That he can’t open it now that he’s waited this long. But the threat remains. He could open it. He could read what’s inside. Yet, he doesn’t. He does not give in. Paul spends the rest of the day, staring up at this ceiling from the floor of his bedroom, hands threaded together over his chest. And in the edge of his periphery, the corner of the envelope stares down at him from the edge of his dresser.

It’s all in there.  

His countdown would begin when he cracked open the seal and read whatever is inside. But it's not even fully sealed, that’s the thing that’s killing him. Paul knows about the seal not being shut because he sat and inspected the package. The flap is tucked in and he’s teased it, pulling the flap out only to tuck it back in--over and over, in and out, in and out. 

But Paul doesn't look inside. He won’t break the promise. He puts the stack--he suspects that in the box is the very thing he asked not to be returned--on his nightstand instead. It moves, again, though. A constant fidget from nightstand to his lap, back to the dresser, to go back to the nightstand, to find its way back into his lap. Around and around his room it goes, never fully opened. 

The night of the 6th, Paul settles onto the floor against his bed and watches as the digits blare red from his alarm clock. He watches every minute as they tick by. Counts the second seconds in his head until the time flips over and the count begins again.  

11:52 PM

11:53 PM

11:54 PM

11:55 PM. Paul traces the letters of his name across the front of the envelope. Follows the hump in the ‘p’, chases down the curves in the ‘a’ and the ‘u’. He slides down the ‘l’ and notices a little tail, the flick of her wrist that dotted the letter perhaps unintentionally. 

11:56 PM. The edges of the envelope are slightly warped, dust and time working to fade pieces of the protective outer layer. All the debris is cleared off it, from the workbench he left it on as he finished assembling Ms. Susie’s new mailbox, and leaves behind a faint etch in the paper. 

11:57 PM. 

11:58 PM. He untucks the flap, running his fingers along the edges of the inside. There’s paper, raised with the print of Maelyn’s penmanship. 

11:59 PM. Paul pushes the sides together, let’s air come inside now but doesn't look inside. He still watches the red time on the clock. Ticking closer and closer and closer to yet another countdown. 

12:00 AM. He pulls the letterhead out, noticing the couple sheets of notebook paper sticking straight up inside the larger envelope, and turns the package upside down and the box falls into his lap. The box manages to stay closed even in all his haste. 

12:01 AM. Paul picks up the box, only to see a sticky note taped to the top and feels the smooth plastic of tape keeping the box closed. Read the letter first. Of course, she’d know. Of course Paul would pick out that box anywhere. He’s still praying that what he thinks is inside isn't actually in there. 

Paul, 

It feels strange to write this now. But writing is the best form I think for this. I’m scared to say it to your face. Scared I’ll lose my confidence if I do. 

I know three years is a long time. And I’m grateful you agreed. I hope we find ourselves. Whatever it looks like. If we find our way back together, or if we don’t. I hope you get to work with your hands and discover all the things that you need. 

I hope I discover what I need too. 

Who knows where I’ll actually be in three years. Who knows where you’ll be in three years. But for now, for the foreseeable future, I'll be here, in Austin, Texas. Should all go according to plan, by the time you’re reading this, I’m in Texas or at the very least, it’ll be the last part of the journey for me. At the bottom of this letter is the address. If that changes, I’ll be sure to let you know, so you know where to be. 

I do want you to take care of yourself. Learn. Grow. Read. Laugh. Cry. Meet someone new. Make more friends than you thought was possible. Live. Please live. Please have stories to share with me too. 

Included in this package/letter/whatever to call this is now, is a piece of insurance. I know you said you didn’t want it back, but I couldn’t bring it with me. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s fear. Maybe it’s not. All I know is that everytime I packed it up in my suitcase, I couldn’t sleep. I leave it with you, as an excuse. So you can tell me in three years that I left something important behind, so that if you still want, you can follow me. Maybe you won’t need the excuse. I know I’ll want it back eventually and trust you’ll keep it safe until it’s returned. 

You chose me twice before and I am grateful for such decisions. I will always be grateful for your love and care. I hope you don’t think I’m not choosing you. I hope you know that you have been in everything and I need time, just a little bit of it to get back to myself. My dad told me he was sick of buying caskets. 

I don’t want to wind up in a casket at twenty. I want to live. I want my mom to be proud of me (she does say thanks for the new set of flowers. I can’t remember if I ever said thanks for that, but thank you). I want her to feel like she did everything right. So I have to leave. I have to leave and I know I won’t be coming back. 

So, the only way the insurance gets back to me is if you bring it to me physically or if you mail it back. But that choice will always be yours. And I’ll respect that choice either way. If you want to come or not. 

I have loved you. I do love you. And it may look different now but you have always mattered. You’re always important. 

You are worthy of everything good that’s ever happened and will happen to you. 

--Maelyn

Paul runs his fingers over the half cursive, half print script. You are worthy of everything good that’s ever happened and will happen to you. He doesn’t feel worthy. Not after everything that’s happened between them. But this wasn’t about him anymore. This was about her and he understands needing to put enough space and distance between the person and all the shit they've been through. Maelyn would probably do it more healthier than he did. He hopes, in the end, he does himself proud though. Perhaps, it’s time for him to worry about himself. He needs to grow, and to learn, and to figure out how to get back to himself too. Paul would make himself proud. He’s sure of it. 

Paul puts the letter on his nightstand and peels the tape off the box. The amethyst crescent moon peers up at him. Just like he didn’t want. But it would be his choice to hand deliver it or to mail it back to her. Maelyn was leaving him choice in this. Paul folds the letter back up into the trifold it was originally in and then folds it in half one more time. Small enough that it fits at the bottom of the box and the gem can rest on top. He’s got three years until he returns it. One hundred and fifty-six weeks until he hands it back to her. Paul hopes they do themselves both proud. 

“I got the job.” Rachel dabs her handful of fries into the ketchup on her plate. She opted for the chicken tenders rather than her usual burger, Paul notices. Her grin is bright, but her eyes are distracted. She tucks her hair behind her ear again. The polish this time is a deep purple this time. 

“Congrats,” Paul returns. He goes for a sip of his Pepsi--light ice as always. “Everything okay?”

Rachel hums and shrugs. Over the weeks, Paul’s learned a thing or two about Rachel. He knows a ‘I-don’t-want-to-talk-about-it’ shrug from a ‘I’m-scared-to-talk-about-it’ shrug. This one is the latter. Honesty, though it’s toted on as the best policy, is messy. But he’d been honest regardless to Rachel about the fact that he currently had intentions of moving to Texas and why he wanted to move. 

“Don’t give me that,” he laughs, pausing around his work to bring his first of two chicken sandwiches up for a bite. “Don’t shrug at me.”

“I can shrug if I want to,” Rachel mutters around her laugh. 

“I don’t need tact,” Paul reminds her and then goes for his bite. 

She swirls one of the tenders in a mixture of the ketchup and the barbeque sauce she requested, seemingly intent on mixing the two together. Paul knows Maelyn would never do such things but doesn’t harp on it, even if he notices it. “I think we should just be friends. For a while.”

He nods, swallowing down the bite. He looks down to his plate and wonders for a moment where the spare pickle slice is, but then remembers Rachel doesn’t like pickles so he didn’t order it in the first place. Paul had a feeling this is where things would land finally for them. He was pretty sure the nail in the coffin was Texas, that most likely was the beginning of the end. “Was pretty sure we already were,” he returns, looking back up to Rachel. 

She snorts. “Oh, get over yourself.”

“Okay, jokes aside,” Paul starts, wiping at the corners of his mouth with his napkin, “being friends is fine. Mind sharing with the class what changed? Besides the job of course.”

“And besides your confession that you’d follow Maelyn to the ends of the earth, right?”

“To Texas,” Paul corrects. Though he's pretty sure Rachel isn’t quoting him right, he knows she’s not technically wrong. He would follow Maelyn to the ends of the earth, if and when allowed. 

“Yeah, says the man that fought his alpha. But,” Rachel looks up from her plate. Her words slip away, silently as she pauses around the next thought. This is easy, Paul realizes, because it was meant to be easy. Rachel’s easy to talk to, and she manages to handle her own with their banter. It’s fun and a little flirty, but it always seems to get stuck, like tires in mud, slipping around and around itself without going much of anywhere. 

“But,” Rachel starts again, blinking herself back to the present. Paul’s not sure where she went, but he keeps his gaze on her to let her know he is listening. “I think my life’s had enough cosmic interventions. To go from finding out my ex is cheating, to learning I’m basically a soulmate to you, watching Maelyn leave, not having the same relationship with her or my brother as before, I think I’m ready for something normal. Boring and normal. I do like you. You’re a great guy. Don’t get me wrong. I just want something normal for right now. And I know how you feel about Maelyn and that you’re going to Texas. And I know I promised to be okay with sharing. And all that’s still true. But I don’t think I’m ready for commitment right now. I’ve had actual nightmares about commitment. It’s pretty terrifying. I’m like trapped in this box. I think it’s a coffin.”

Rachel shudders at the thought, visibly. Paul reaches out for her hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. Friends feel right. He can do that. He can be the person she calls just to catch up with. Listen to her vent when she needs it. Hold space for her only in small pieces. That part is easy. “No commitments here, then. Zero. You could actually leave from this table right now if you need,” he teases. 

Her laughter is short and snorted, but she squeezes back at his fingertips and then goes for her cup--Sierra Mist in the red cup. “Thank God,” she says after her sip, pushing up like she’s going to walk away from the table without fully committing. 

Paul takes his hand back and goes for the last two bites of his first sandwich. His amusement curls his lips up and there’s a small lull in their conversation as they both work down their bites. “So, you’re headed to Colorado. When?” Paul asks. 

“Job starts January 2nd for me. So I’m flying out December 29th. I’m still looking for an apartment though.”

“So, it looks like I was right. That you should’ve just applied.”

Rachel rolls her eyes. “Yes, yes you were right. Are you happy to hear that?”

Paul puffs out his chest. It’s met with another snorted laugh from Rachel. “Actually, yes, I am. But seriously, I hope you’re proud of yourself. For taking the leap.” 

“Thanks for encouraging me to do it. And you’re sure you don’t want fries?” 

Paul shrugs. “I’m watching my figure.” 

Maelyn wouldn’t have taken the answer, knowing Paul would’ve taken a handful of them from her plate. But Rachel’s only got the side of fries that comes with her strips and no extra. So Paul refrains, doesn’t reach like he would’ve and Rachel doesn’t offer. 

She nods with another short burst of laughter. “I really don’t think you have to worry about watching your figure. But okay. Do you know what you’re going to do? I mean the odd ends and stuff helps but do you think you can do it forever?”

“No, I’ve got a plan,” Paul answers, working around his bite. “There’s been a small hitch. But it should be resolved fairly soon.” Renesmee was growing faster than anyone could keep up with, but apparently some leech decided that even without a single conversation they had the full picture. So until then, until the fallout hits the bottom and the dust settles, Paul’s here on the rez. 

But he wouldn’t be here forever. That much he knows. Because he has a plan. 

“Would you, like, freak out if I hypothetically got you a Christmas present? You don’t have to get me one in return. I’m just testing the waters here,” Rachel comments. 

“I wouldn’t freak out.”

Rachel’s immediate reach for her purse confirms Paul’s suspicions at the question, but she produces an unwrapped CD--Funeral by Arcade Fire. A band Paul knows very little about if he’s honest. But he accepts the CD with a nod. “I’m going to get you to listen to real music, even if you hate me,” she laughs. 

“Oh, my music choice are good!” Paul huffs, slipping the CD over to read through the tracklist. He knows none of the ones listed. “Thank you though,” he adds on looking back up to her. 

“It’s a couple years old, but I really love that album.”

“I’ll give it a shake. You have to promise to at least give Demon Dayz a try, though.”

“Can I beg for Green Day instead?”

Paul shakes his head, laughing at the pout on Rachel’s lips. He nearly caves. Almost says she can get the pass, but if they’re just going to be friends, he knows he’s not going to suffer through music he’s never delved into before alone. “No, I know you like a couple of their songs already. It wouldn’t count.”

“Fine,” Rachel exhales, the sigh a clear mark of her defeat. “Do you have a copy I can borrow? I’m not spending money on something like that and then not liking it fully.”

“Yeah. I have a copy you can borrow. I’ll get it on our way back.” Paul picked Rachel up and would be responsible for returning her home, but it isn’t a bother in the slightest to go by his place before hers. “And I do listen to real music, just so we’re clear.”

“If you say so.”

**********************

Alasie’s smile greets Maelyn as Maelyn turns to the sound of her roommate’s croaky morning voice. “Morning,” Alasie offers, shuffling towards the fridge. Maelyn slides in closer to the microwave, waiting for her oats to finish their revolutions around the contraception. The apartment is small, smaller than her house, but they make do between the two of them. It may not be in the best part of West Austin, teetering on the outskirts, but for Maelyn it’s less about square footage. It’s about the leap, about how she’ll hopefully land on her feet. 

Alasie’s inky black hair sticks up on the back of her head and Maelyn stifles a laugh, knowing the girl’s literally just woken up. Her alarm sounded only five minutes ago. Maelyn’s morning run brought her back with about twenty minutes to spare before Alasie’s alarm, so she seized the moment to shower and get her breakfast started. The few weeks together has already given both of them a barometer for the other and their schedules. 

“Morning,” Maelyn returns. 

Alasie is a second year Education student, with aims to work specifically with elementary age students after graduates. The irony is that as much as Alasie appears to be chipper in the mid morning to early afternoon, she needs a quiet early morning to get that level of energy. Maelyn’s found herself having to be accustomed to the mornings as she managed to pick up a job at popular deli just far enough off campus that it doesn’t feel slammed constantly, but just close to campus that there is always a flurry. Due to her free schedule she most often gets the midday shifts or the opening shifts. Today is a midday shift. 

Maelyn’s first attempts at applying to the University of Texas Austin didn’t get her far. She wound up on the waitlist, but didn’t make it in for the Fall term. Though, she is holding out hope that the Spring term yields her better results. Until then, she’ll continue with her work at the deli and possibly a second job if she can swing it. The microwave beeps and Maelyn pulls at the handle to a small waft of steam from the bowl. 

“I’ll never understand your ability to get up and just go for the day. You need to be studied like a lab rat,” Alasie croaks over her billowing cup of coffee. The coffee matches her black hair and dark eyes--never one to fuss too much with cream and sugar. 

“They wouldn’t like what they find,” Maelyn laughs, wanting to make a joke about her being a shapeshifter, but knowing that she can’t. Though she didn’t have Sam’s or even Jacob’s gag order on her, she’s still careful with that information. It’s not information she wants to give out without justifiable cause. And just being roommates for the time being didn’t seem like justification enough. 

“I understand the feeling,” Alasie mutters. 

It’s a simple sentence. Four words, but the way Alasie says them, with her eyes falling to the floor below them makes Maelyn wonder what could it be that makes Alasie understand. She doesn’t look away for long before flicking her gaze back up to Maelyn. They share a silence interrupted only by the click of Maelyn’s spoon against her bowl and the sips from Alasie as she works down the cup of coffee. 

“You know,” Alasie starts, setting her mug down for a moment, pointing Maelyn out. Her fingers are decorated in black ink, dots and lines in a repetitive pattern against all ten digits that Maelyn’s stared at a little too often at times. Maelyn wants to ask what they are, but doesn’t, for fear that it’ll be too insensitive. That, and Maelyn’s not sure how she’d describe the black ink on her outer bicep either if Alasie asks in return. Yet, there’s something intriguing, something that draws Maelyn in each time she sees them. “We need a girls’ night out.”

“A girls night?” Maelyn questions.

“Yes. You got into town and immediately went into work and I know the term was already underway for me, but goddamn we’re not stiff in a casket. When’s your next day off?”

“Sunday,” Maelyn hisses, knowing that’s usually when Alasie digs deep into her work for courses, between the courses and her job at the bookshop. 

“What time are you off Saturday?”

“6. I have an opening shift.”

“I’m off from the bookstore at 9. Take a nap, whatever it is you need to do to get ready, because we’re going out.”

It’s an offer that Maelyn knows she can’t really refuse. She did need to get out more. Her trips to the local mall, and visits around small shops in town were nice, but there was a side to Austin she hadn’t explored yet. She hadn’t been able to explore it, didn’t know where to go or who even to ask. When Alasie was home she was buried in books, so Maelyn didn’t really want to interrupt her too much. 

“Sounds good to me.”

There’s a final nod exchanged before they go back to their respective breakfasts. Maelyn’s not sure where they can go. Both of them are technically underage but the logistics matter less and less the more Maelyn thinks about it. She’s heard about 6th street--a strip of bars and clubs on the street. She’s yet to visit. Part of her is a little apprehensive about diving into the nightlife like this. But a larger part is ecstatic, ready to embrace a new part of his chapter. 

The thing Maelyn can’t do is anticipate how alive the blocks are--the click of heels around her, a vibrancy in the short skirts, almost fully unbutton shirts. Part of her feels out of place in the lacy camisole tank that Alasie picked out and the simple blue jeans. Not that Maelyn feels overly exposed, the lack of a bra is normal to her, the thin tank top hails of her time prior on the rez. Maelyn’s not even worried about the midriff of her low rise jeans. But there’s a part of her that feels like she’s fumbling as she follows behind Alasie in her beat up Chucks, trying to take in the dazzling lights, listening to everyone’s laugh on the strip. 

“Oh, this isn’t Vegas,” Alasie laughs. 

“You’ve been?” Maelyn asks. 

“No, but I want to,” Alasie answers and then steps at the back of a line. There’s only a few people in front of them, but the bouncer at the door appears to be thorough in his check on the IDs. 

“Hold out those hands, ladies,” the older man says after checking their IDs. His beard is thick and wiry on his face, his eyes nearly blending in with his dark brown skin tone. There’s just enough light that reflects off, bathing his cool undertone in blue and purple from the signs above and around him. Alaise and Maelyn both offer their hands, palms down, awaiting the ‘X’. “Don’t cause trouble again, Las.”

She laughs with a nod. “Don’t let assholes in tonight.”

He snickers, pointing with his thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll try not to. Next.”

The crowd is thick. The room smells of stale beer and sweat. But they slither their way through, Alasie in front, her hand slipping behind her for Maelyn’s and Maelyn gives her left hand up freely. They stay close, the ‘excuse me’s’ swallowed up by the rattling bass from speakers. Until they’re spit out near the bar and nearly immediately, the bartender glances from their faces to their hands back up to their faces.

“Who’s this?” The question falls from the woman behind the bar, her hair cropped short on the sides, the skin of her scalp visible only for a couple inches before the dirty blond strands start to become longer and longer until the crown is the longest, flipped over to one side and gelled back without it being stiff. She smiles as she asks the questions. 

“My roommate, Maelyn. Who I was talking to you about? Maelyn, Brenda. Brenda, Maelyn,” Alasie introduces. 

Brenda extended her hand, a smile still gracing her face. The sleeves of the black button up dress shirt are rolled up on her forearms. “Nice to meet you, Maelyn.”

The handshake is quick and Maelyn nods before returning, “Nice to meet you too.” They have to shout just a little to be heard, over the rumbling music that cascades down around them. Maelyn’s not even sure she’s spotted where the speakers are in the room but the music fills in around them. Her ears ring just a little and next time she’s out, she’s definitely bringing earplugs. But for tonight, she’ll manage. 

“Now, what am I getting you ladies?” Brenda asks. The question is for both of them but her heated gaze stays on Maelyn. Her hooded eyes seemingly even more shaded with the slow work down Maelyn’s torso, to the top of her jeans before dragging back up again. 

“Coke,” Maelyn answers. The heated stare makes her stomach stir--whether it’s unease or excitement, Maelyn’s not sure. 

Brenda nods, reaching behind the bar for glasses. Alasie’s Sprite order is fast, leaving her plenty of time to lean in closer to Maelyn, but still loud enough to be heard by Brenda. “Don’t let Brenda fool you. She’s a major flirt.”

Maelyn laughs. “I don’t mind a flirt,” she returns, gaze flickering over to Brenda. The small smirk Maelyn sports earns her a wink as Brenda slides the glass across the bar. 

“First one is on the house,” Brenda offers and then looks to Alasie. “But not you, since you’re interrupting.”

Alasie slides the few bills across the wooden bar. “Rude.”

The two girls grab their respective glasses, black tiny straws floating to the top due to the fizzy carbonation. The crowd carries them again far from the bar and into the midst of the dancefloor. The songs are punchy and fast, beats that Maelyn doesn't immediately recognize but that doesn’t slow her down. She finds her rhythm immediately and lets the pulsating sounds take over her limbs and hips. 

It’s easy here, in the middle of the dance floor. When Alasie lifts her brows as yet another person slips a hand on Maelyn’s waist, Maelyn’s learned to laugh and knows that at the very least the person doesn’t look like a creep. And Maelyn returns the favor. The two never stray far from each other even when Maelyn’s spun around and greeted with the prettiest eyes she’s ever seen. A piercing green and a smirk that makes her stomach flutter. 

“Can I get you another drink?” the boy asks. His face is young, floppy curls hitting at his forehead. 

“As long as I can throw in one for my friend,” Maelyn returns, slipping her arms around his shoulders. 

He grins but nods. “You drive a hard bargain,” he calls out, lips pressing against her ear. “Don’t go anywhere without me.”

“No promises,” Maelyn returns and watches for a moment. The world doesn’t feel shifted. Gravity doesn’t seem to be quaking. There’s only just the small flutter as he winks, lips quirked up into a grin. The further the mystery boy gets in the crowd, the less Maelyn’s drawn to him. And though the thought stings, just a hair, she wonders if she really wants an imprint at all. Does she like having a choice? She could leave with Brenda, or this guy, or no one. Maybe it’s far too early to think about that, to worry about who she might sleep with--if she sleeps anyone at all. 

Maelyn turns at the squeeze at her elbow and Alasie slips in close. “You okay? He’s cute.”

“Yeah, I’m okay.”

Alasie’s face is blurred for only a moment in the switching hues of the lights. Her mouth drops open and then Maelyn catches--a sickly sweet scent. She knows it anywhere. Five months. She couldn’t even get half a year without the creatures always lurking over her shoulder. Alasie’s gaze sharpens, her lips curling up. Maelyn’s spinning out of the embrace, slipping in front of Alasie. 

Though Maelyn’s instinct is to step in front of Alasie, the snarl on Alasie’s lip echoes too close to the looks of her packs back at home. Could it be possible that there were more? No one had mentioned it? But according to Jake, and what she’d heard of the Cullens before she left, is that there were clans all over. Given that, maybe vampires had more than wolves to worry about. But it couldn’t be, right? 

There were only the wolves. 

Maelyn pushes the thought to the side though the second she spots the red eyes. Though the club is thick with the smell of sweat, she knows that scent in a heartbeat. “Let’s get some air,” Maelyn suggests. She calls out over her shoulder. 

But as Maelyn speaks, Alaise slips in front of her. “Just stay behind me,” Alaise calls out. 

Maelyn wants to laugh. Alasie is only a couple inches shorter than Maelyn, not enough to mean much. Except here. Here it means enough. But just over Alasie’s shoulder, the creature eases forehead. He smiles at the people he passes by, but his gaze is locked in on Maelyn and Alasie. 

“I think you should stay behind me,” Maelyn returns, taking another step around Alasie. And just as she plants herself, the creature’s staring up at her. 

“What’s your name?” he asks. His eyes would feel hypnotic under the lights. If there were enough alcohol in her system, Maelyn might even consider that she’s in a dream. But she’s not. Not with how much her nose burns. 

“What’s it to you what my name is?” Maelyn barks down at him. She’s calm. She is in control. She knows she can’t phase here. Not in the middle of the dancefloor. But she’s going to make it abundantly clear that this guy is not welcomed. 

“I think we have a mutual acquaintance. You know Jasper Hale, right?” His words fall with a Southern drawl. The cowboy hat doesn’t fit the vibe of the club, but the shadows of the hat dance over the sharp angles of his cheeks as he dips his head back to look at her. 

It doesn’t shock Maelyn to hear Jasper’s name. It’d been clear in the limited conversations the two of them shared that he had connections down South. The thing Maelyn can’t make sense of is why this guy cares enough about her to approach her. “And if I do?”

His gaze flickers away and Maelyn follows the stare behind her. There’s a deep rumble, the kind of guttural sound of sincere disgust and warning. But there were only the wolves that Maelyn knew about. What could Alasie even be if she was also a shapeshifter? His gaze flickers back up to Maelyn, a smile still decorating his face. “No, I get it. If I were you, I’d react the same. But, just know you’ve got friends in all sorts of places looking out for ya.” He turns then, slipping back through the bodies. 

“Do you know that guy?”

Maelyn’s more focused on the last sentence. You’ve got friends in all sorts of places looking out for ya. What has Jasper said or done? Why did this guy seemingly know Maelyn well enough to pick her out in a crowd? Besides the scent of course. Another rumble barrels out of Alasie’s chest. Maelyn turns and spots the small shakes, the soda splashing out of the cup. 

“Let’s get some fresh air,” Maelyn suggests, taking her hand. 

“You shouldn’t do that,” Alasie warns, attempting to pull her arm back. But Maelyn’s hold is tighter. Both girls slip out through the crowd, following the path of the vampire though seemingly he was nowhere to be found now. His face is burned into Maelyn’s memory--the pointed nose, the sharp cheeks, the square chin. The next time Maelyn spots him she’ll get answers, or she’ll tear him to shreds. Either would work for her at this point. She was supposed to be far away from that world. 

Outside it’s just the packed streets. There are no red eyes or cowboy hats to be found. “You’re actually insane, you know?” Alasie huffs. 

The only sound around them is the chatter of drunken people, the wet gravel crunching under the tires that are passing them by. Maelyn pulls Alasie around the corner of the bar, to the side alleyway. There were only the wolves, unless there weren’t. Unless there were more shapeshifters like them out there just spread out far and wide. It’s a leap of faith, a calculation that could land Maelyn in the asylum.

Maelyn takes the leap. “I know I am. But I also know phasing shakes when I see them.”

Alasie’s eyes widen, head whipping side to side as if to check for people listening. Though the alley is quiet, the street is too loud for their measured and hushed conversation to bleed into the nightlife noise. “How the fuck do you know about that?”

“Same way you know what it is.”

“No fucking way,” Alasie whispers, eyes falling over Maelyn again. As if reassessing her now. Until her eyes land on the tattoo on Maelyn’s shoulder. Alasie’s brows raise and Maelyn knows what’s being asked. So Maelyn reaches for Alasie’s hand and raises her left hand between them. “Well, send me fucking upstream,” Alasie laughs. “I thought it was only us? So, a brown bear too?”

Maelyn points to her chest after letting Alasie’s hand go, eyebrows raise to confirm that the question is about her. Alasie’s brows furrow but she nods. Maelyn shakes her head no. “Wolf.”

“How does a wolf work?” Alasie questions, easing in closer now. “Like the teeth or?”

“Teeth and claws. How does a bear work? You’d be too slow?”

“We’re not always chasing,” Alasie laughs. “More coordination, but still effective. You’d be a little too small at times to go one v. one though.”

“Usually pairs for us, coordination required, but not impossible.”

“What are the odds?” Alasie mutters, eyes still scanning over Maelyn. “I knew it was something about you. I tried looking up that tattoo, but couldn’t find a damn thing on it,” she confesses. 

“I wanted to ask about your hand markings, if it means anything. But I was too chicken shit. Didn’t want to be insensitive.”

Maelyn’s still not sure how a bear would work, if the speed would be a big hindrance or if the counter of their strength and size would make up for the slight inconvenience. But the shock of the discovery is still outshadowed by the mention of Jasper’s name. What did he do? 

“You still look like you’ve seen a ghost. You have come across…his kind before, right? I’d really hate to have to explain that.”

“No, I have. But I don’t know that guy. I know the guy he mentioned though. Vaguely.”

 The Cullens at this point could’ve all been burned at the stake and Maelyn wouldn’t really know. Well, Jake would probably tell her. But she hadn’t heard anything about them in over a year. Yet, apparently the Cullens were talking about her it seems. 

“So Jasper is like him too?”

Maelyn nods at the question, knowing what Alasie is asking between the words: Is Jasper a vampire? “It’s a long ass story, Alasie. Way too long.”

“Well, it’s a good thing we have waffle mix at home. Because now you have to tell me.”

“It is supposed to be a girls’ night out.” They’d been out for maybe two hours, now? The fading and flashing lights make it a little hard for Maelyn to read her wristwatch. “And that other guy’s probably going to be pissed that I left.”

“Did you want to sleep with them? Because I’m all for re-prioritizing. He was cute.”

Maelyn looks out to the street again, knowing that it may not be too terribly hard to get back inside. The guy’s smirk and Brenda’s wink playback through Maelyn’s eyes. She’d have plenty of time for that. When she felt more ready for it. When she wasn’t still reeling from the disappointment of just the flirting and nothing else being connected to it. It’s probably all too silly to worry about an imprint right now. There was plenty of time. If it were meant to happen, it would. But just behind the thought is Paul’s face. Maelyn wonders if he’s doing okay. What would life be like if she did imprint on someone after all she’d been through with Paul?

But she could ponder that later. Right now, Alasie is staring at the side of her head, eyes boring holes if eyes could do such things. Nothing would happen tonight, but she’d keep this place on her list of establishments that need to be revisited. She’d like a proper night out, not one interrupted.  “Well,” Maelyn sighs looking back to Alasie, “no, not tonight. I’m trying to figure some stuff out.”

“Best way over someone is under someone else. Well, if you want to of course. But, if not tonight, there’s next week, or the week after, or tomorrow for someone else. Right now, we have waffles to make and secrets to spill.”

Maelyn laughs, allowing Alasie to drag her off the wall of the brick building. “Maybe I’ll give Brenda my number next time we’re out.”

“I didn’t think you were a lesbian.”

“I’m open to experimenting,” Maelyn offers. “Testing the waters.”

“Oh, Brenda loves a project. Word of advice: sleep with almost any other lesbian in Austin other than her. Deep down she’s a hopeless romantic and will fall first and hard. I do not need a repeat.”

“So your previous roommate slept with Brenda?” Maelyn asks. Alasie’s roommate post mentioned that her previous one had moved out over the summer after graduating and would pay the remainder of the lease, which was set to renew November 1st. 

Alasie snorts, before pausing on the sidewalk to hail a taxi. The walk home is long if they don’t, but between the two of them the cost won’t be terrible. “No. Well, I was the roommate in this situation.”

“In addition to tribe secrets, you have to spill the beans on your hookup with Brenda.”

“Deal. But I hope you know this means you’re never getting rid of me. We are now officially best friends until we both die.”

“Something tells me that was going to happen anyway.”

[ace-angel-judas]

When do Arabella and Jungkook get together in the fire bender au?

Arabella didn’t like being called to these arrangements but considering it was about the matter of her marriage, she was forced to attend.

“You do get a pick,” Her aunt spoke as they sat in their thrones, “Well, sort of,”

“What if I don’t want to get married?” Arabella asked softly, “Dad said I wouldn’t-“

“It’s been demanded by the Fire Lord and Lady,” Grace frowned, “Your father doesn’t get much of a say,”

Arabella’s shoulders dropped until she noticed that the seat next to the thrones as empty. It was Jungkook’s spot, his specific place as the vessel of the family.

She’d always grown used to him sitting there, between herself and her father.

“Will our suitors please announce themselves?”

Now Arabella zoned out, sparking a tiny flame in the palm of her hands and staring at it. It danced across her fingers before it settled on knuckles.

Three suitors had moved forward, Arabella giving them nothing more than a sparing glance. Her grandmother had combed through the eligible bachelors in the fire lands to make the best match.

“What do you think of them?” Grace asked her softly.

“Why isn’t Dad here?” Arabella avoided the questioned.

“Mother feared he’d burn the palace down,” Grace smirked.

“I think I’d rather that than this,” Arabella grumbled.

The announcer spoke and Arabella glanced upwards, “That concludes the suitors of Princess-“

“I submit as a suitor from the Eastern fire land!”

Arabella sat straight up, eyes going wide as Jungkook marched down the red carpet of the hall. He wore his home colours of red and gold, a formal firebending uniform on his body and his hair flowing freely.

“What is the meaning of this?!” The queen announced, “You are-“

“Your majesty,” A scribe bowed at the thrones, “We did send a suitor match to the Eastern lands, he is the eldest son of the Eastern Fire family,”

The queen slowly sat down while Arabella looked at her aunt. Grace was ever the calculating one in the family, her brows furrowed together as she thought.

“Can he do that?” Arabella whispered.

“Well, yes, there was a formal invitation and submitting yourself in the bul-ui simjang ritual isn’t against the rules,” Grace spoke, “Although.. there was one thing added this year,”

“What?” Arabella looked to her aunt.

“The last standing contestant has to defeat your father,”

[phoenixduelist]

“If you believe I would obey you, damn, that's beyond even underestimation. Dare I call it pure stupidity at this point.” fangs bared viciously, the another position shift of her blade sent sparks up her shoulder, she can't have that. Not now.

“Marcell! Tedd vissza a vállam. Most.” (Marcell! Pop my shoulder back. Now.) She decided, cutting off the first mate's possible protests. Few steps backwards, minding the corpse littered grounds, the jaguar although curious following her path protectively. The large palms heavy yet comfortingly braced on the injury, thankfully no tremors of unease.

“Három.” (Three.) Marcell informed gently before the swift push followed by the audible pop as the joint jumped back into its socket. Pain only conveyed through the sharp, sudden expansion of her ribcage, perhaps the faintest twitch in the otherwise pristine cover. Marcell's touch lingered even when she tested her work, dried blood falling like tiny rust colored leaves. It will do for the time being.

“Jobb, ha inkább kardot fogsz.” (Better if you hold a sword instead.) She instructed, hoping the rest also had a chance of sneaking past the newcomers after the carnage.

Rozália didn't mind the added distance, while she wasn't afraid nor avoided close combat, better to rely on her blades now. The time window should be enough for one of her tricks if it came down to that. A nod towards First Mate Hands, she respected the swordsman and definitely would've rose to a duel invitation under different circumstances.

Főnix chittered in distaste at the stench attacking her nostrils, the jaguar's bloody maw also snapping towards Blackbeard in warning. The young animal circled around the gathering crew with predatory grace and the same emerald eyes as the Captain.

“Not more difficult than keeping a tentacle beard in check.” ridiculous rumor countered with an another one

“Then” deceptively smooth lilt despite the accent “Let me hear it. Entertain me with the idea or get out of my way.” while she was sure she would refuse, there was a sliver of curiosity. Curiosity whenever she will be swift with her sword or make it last while she duels with First Mate Hands.

Hasn't she tolerated enough this day? Apparently universe wasn't done with her; when was that son of a bitch ever in her favor to begin with. Rozália rose to her full height despite the aches, noting the nonexistent height difference between them.

“First of all. Captain.” oh it was just as sharp.

She didn't like the slightest the way he spoke about her kitty. Like she was just some instrument of war, instead of a living animal.

“Touch her and I will gut you before she can bite your fingers off.” the bloody blade whirled in front of Főnix, damascus steel a thin but deadly protective barrier between them

Her left shoulder dislocated, not too badly, her ankles, her wrists, bruised ribs screamed at her to rest, but for once she refused to heed her body's warnings. She definitely had an another round in her if the situation called for it, and it very much looked like so. An eyebrow raised in clear offense, lips curling into a snarl, of course she put the laid out pieces together that he's Blackbeard, and not just the beard, but the leather and most importantly Israel 'Izzy' Hands. She just had a long day but not a fucking concussion!

"Kapitány..." (Captain...) Jancsi broke the thunderous silence and Satan, she hoped he at least reloaded before making his presence known. "Ez Feketeszakáll, ugye?" (This is Blackbeard, right?)

“Az. Jelenleg pont leszarom.” (Yes he is. And per moment I don't give a shit.) she confirmed, not making the mistake of turning away from the man

The hand ignored, although that gesture isn't related to her mood and state; her hands' health worth more than the whole British Empire. Instead an another adjustment of her sword, this time the one maneuvered behind her, angled for a strike.

“Secondly.” Rozália spat the pooling blood out of her mouth at his feet “Keep my title out of your fucking mouth.” gold glinted among sangria, letting him know exactly who, or better said what was he dealing with

[ultralightpoe]

Understanding - Stephen Strange

Description: Stephen Strange understands Wanda 

Word Count: 964

Warnings: MULTIVERSE OF MADNESS SPOILERS, 

Authors note: Not me returning with some half assed angst. Had some life stuff go on, doesn’t matter I’m back. Hella depressed so get ready for angst

MAIN Master List - - Marvel Master List  

Stephen Strange understood everything Wanda Maximoff felt in this moment. 

He recognized her pain with the America incident, sure, he knew a bit of loss too. But he hadn’t actually understood. 

Not until this moment.

With a final scream, his scarred hand losing a bit of feeling as you gripped onto it, your scream replaced by the sound of a baby's cry. 

And as you let out a breath of relief, still gripping his hand, Stephen pictured Wanda. He saw the witch caressing your hair back and smiling at you. 

When his eyes finally landed on his daughter there was a tightened feeling in his chest as he started to shake. 

Suddenly Wanda Maximoff seemed like an angel. 

He would do anything for her. Tear apart worlds to keep her safe, create his own darkhold in order to protect her. Stephen Strange would do absolutely anything for this creature. 

You laid back, tears streaming down your face as they checked the child, waiting patiently until they brought her to you. “We…… We never decided the name.”

“I might have one in mind.” Stephen smiles, finger skimming the pink blanket as tears sprung from his own eyes.

“Oh yeah? What’s that?” You whisper, not removing your eyes from the bundle. 

“Well…. “

----------------------------------------------------

“Wanda STARK STRANGE!” He screams as the 2 year old runs off. 

His daughter went from crawling to running, from crawling to her parents to running from them. It was a never ending loss for Stephen. 

He always knew his daughter would possess abilities beyond compare, her father being master of the mystic arts and her mother being the mutant saint herself. 

What he hadn’t expected was his baby girl being a juvenile delinquent. 

Right now he was chasing her down as she clung to his sling ring in her tiny palm, eyes glowing as she giggled in glee. 

“WANDA NO!” 

“Stephen what is going -” You ask as you walk out of your shared bedroom, right as your daughter walks through an open portal into a snowstorm. “WANDA NO!”

Within moments you are launching for it, screaming as it closes up and the sparks sputter out. 

“STEPHEN STRANGE GO GET-” 

He didn’t hear the rest of what you were screaming, his eyes already trained on the warlock spellbook in front of his, mustering his power to use the darkspell. 

He saw Wanda again in this moment, as his soul leaked into the dark, heart hammering as he ruined himself to save his daughter. He wished she was still here, if anyone would understand this feeling it would be her. 

He had her in his arms within seconds, you bombarding her with kisses as he released himself from the spell, watching his daughter giggle, her nose red from the cold. 

------------------------------

He saw Wanda again when she went on her first date. Well, he saw his old friend as you prepared your daughter's hair. She was standing by the door, a small smile graced her features as Stephen nervously paced the main entrance of the sanctum. 

His heart beat against his ribs and he couldn’t catch his breath.

It felt like last week he was tucking her in and telling her a bedtime story, cooking her cheap dino nuggets as she sobbed from falling on the playground. 

Now he was waiting for that smug little shit to knock on his door and steal his daughter from him. He would pummel his face in, he would cast the spell to make the kid pummel his own face in, he would-

“Be reasonable Stephen.” She smiles, looking past him to where she was. “She’s excited.”

“I am being very reasonable.” He snaps, eyes snapping to hers. “Where have you been?”

“In another universe, with my boys.” She smiles, moving closer. “Just be reasonable.”

Eddie Munson (lol i had to bro) took his daughter to dinner and a movie, Stephen watched the time closely, you laid with him and played with his hair as you let the man stress. 

“You see Wanda again?” You whisper, kissing his forehead. 

“I did.” He admits, playing with the button of his nightshirt. “I judged her, y'know. I told her that she was using the justification of our enemies. And now…… Now I understand.”

----------------------------------------

Once again Stephen Strange was wrong. 

He never truly understood Wanda until this moment, this exact moment. 

Feet planting onto the ground, he recognized Bucky Barnes running to stop him. Throwing him back with magic took nothing and he was zeroed in on where you and Wanda would be. 

And that was when Stephen saw her. Not his wanda, not you, not Wanda. No, he saw the Scarlet Witch. She stood there, unmoving as people moved around her. No, not around her, through her. 

“You shouldn’t have to see this Stephen.” She warned, to which he did not listen, waltzing right through her. He needed to find you, he needed to find Wanda. 

“Stephen-” Sam Wilson starts, covered in blood as the tears streamed down his face. You were Sams friend, and he knew what this meant. 

“No.” He snapped, throat tightening up as his power began to surge. “NO!”

And then the magic was escaping from him like molten gold. He couldn’t help it. The pain was strong and overpowering him. 

People flew back, alarms from cars went off as Sue Storm built a shield to block civilians. This is when Stephen let the rage out. 

Eyes glowing as he dug into his power, feeling that dark barrier he had hidden away, letting the third eye form as he begun his trade. 

She stood a few feet away now, eyes burning into him as she shook her head. “You once told me not to go down this path Stephen.”

“This is the only way.” He had a wife and daughter to get back.