#warding off any dead batteries and old men

[causenessus]

NEVER MIND IM NOT THE OLD MAN ANY MORE ‼️RETREAT RETREAT‼️ I WOULDN’T SAY THAT‼️

also hi i luv u i hope u are safe and okay now

LAMOAOAAO IT'S OKAY MITCH HELLO <3 I LOVE YOU SO MUCH I AM GOOD THANK YOU!! I HAD NO IDEA HE WAS GOING TO TURN OUT THAT WAY (TO be fair if i drove to the library [where i was at] to drop off books and a random man started walking towards me i would also probably drive away [this is what happened, and then he was like "wow, go back to your pathetic little home, slut" and i just saw in my car like "dear god someone help me." do u like my parentheses within my parentheses!! i'm sorry this is a nightmare to read] but i digress bc i also told him he should go and he wouldn't leave and ik he meant the best for me but at that point i was getting the ick. so like. move away old man. thank u. /lh AND I DON'T FEEL BAD ABOUT SAYING THIS BC HE CALLED SOMEONE A SLUT)

AND IT'S OKAY BECAUSE!!! I ENVISION YOU AS THE LITTLE WHITE PENGUIN MY FRIEND HAS ON HIS REARVIEW MIRROR <3 THAT WAS U ON THE WAY TO SAVE THE DAY AND PROVIDE EMOTIONAL SUPPORT!! THIS IS YOU!! <33

[youbloodymadgenius]

Ivarello (Modern!Ivar x reader) Chapter 4

Moodboard by @quantumlocked310

Ivarello’s masterpost here

A/N: This is my entry for @deans-ch-ch-cherrypie 500 Followers Fairy Tale Challenge. It's a retelling of Cinderella. Congrats again, darling 💖

A huge thank you to @mrsalwayswrite , who's a great beta reader and an even greater cheerleader 😂

A massive thank you to @quantumlocked310 , @vikingstrash and @serasvictoria . Thank you for agreeing to collaborate and for sharing your talent with me. Your moodboards are beyond amazing 🤩

In this story, Sigurd is alive. Ragnar and Aslaug are dead, but Lagertha didn't kill her. I took a lot of liberties with the show, I hope you won't mind.

Unlike the tale, there will be no magic involved. Not everything will be realistic, however. It's a fayritale, after all!

Let me know if you want to be tagged 😊

Summary: Orphaned five years ago, Ivar and his brothers have been living with Lagertha ever since. Now 16 years old, he wants to attend Harald's traditional Midsummer party, but obstacles stand in his way.

Warnings: description of car crash; orphaned kids; Sigurd being Sigurd; OOC characters.

Words: 2877

Additional note: This is the final chapter. There'll be an epilogue, but you'll have to wait a bit because there are a lot of challenges I've signed up for and I'm way behind schedule.

Enjoy 🙂

🛡⚔️🛡

Devastated and angry at the world. That's how Ivar is feeling.

Holed up in his room since the night before, and despite Lagertha incessant requests, he doesn’t plan to come out, not now at least. Come to think of it, he might as well decide never to leave his room again.

He can't stand the idea of facing his brothers. He doesn't want to have to tell them about his failure. He doesn't want to endure Ubbe's pity and condescendence. He doesn't want to see the look of triumph on Sigurd's face. The thought makes his stomach lurch while at the same time a murderous urge creeps into his mind. No, he definitely can't see his brothers.

Surprisingly, and unlike Lagertha, his brothers have left him alone, as if sensing that entering his room would be as moving into a minefield. Only Hvitserk had taken a chance earlier, cautiously poking his head through the door. His disapproving look obvious when his eyes had taken in the scene before him, Ivar's belongings scattered on the floor, some of them smashed into pieces.

"I got you a chocolate muffin from the kitchen, baby bro," he had explained, putting it on a nearby shelf, and it had almost brought a smile to Ivar's face. To Hvitserk, there's no predicament that can't be improved with comfort food.

"Look, Ivar," scratching his neck, Hvitserk had then said, "I don't know what happened and I don't want to pressure you. You tell me when you're ready, if you are. But I'm here, okay? Whatever the time of day or night, you don't have to be alone if you don't want to. If I'm upstairs, just call me, okay?" With these words, he was gone, the door closed.

Ivar can't get the events of the previous evening out of his mind. Like a waking nightmare, they are playing over and over in his head: how he had freaked out when he heard the beeps; the confused and then so disappointed look you had given him when he sputtered his need to leave; finally, his shameful escape into the night.

What could he have done? What should he have done?

He does know the answer. He should have been more cautious. He should have checked the time, asked for your number and just walked away.

On the other hand, what difference would it have made? He would still have no future with you, right? He would still be a cripple, and you would still be... you... perfect... too good for him.

So yeah, he had run away like a coward. He lets out a bitter chuckle to himself. Run away? Who is he kidding? He hadn't run away, that would have been too easy. Cripples don't run away. Without his cane – why the fuck did he leave it behind?? – he had pathetically limped away, stumbling, his feet sinking into the sand. He had still been on the beach when the battery had died. He had had no other choice but to crawl like a worm the rest of the way, silently praying to the gods that the darkness of the night would prevent you from seeing him like this.

Tears of despair run down his cheeks for the umpteenth time. He's used to feeling humiliated, but feeling humiliated and heartbroken simultaneously is really too much to take. He feels like he's dying from the inside over and over again, cursing himself for wanting to attend the party, for wanting to see you again. He should never have let his walls down, he should never have dared to hope. What was he thinking? He may have walked, and even danced with you, but at the end of the day, he still is a pitiable cripple with stupid, crooked legs, in love with a girl way out of his league.

If he's being honest, that's what hurts the most. He now realizes how delusional he had been. Holding on to a dead dream for years, he had not forseen the painful yet unavoidable reality check. And now, it's like he's been hit by a train. Because there's no denying it, dreaming of a life with you is no longer an option, not after last night. And even though it's almost unbearable, he knows now he has to let go of you, of the idea of you and him being together. As much as this mere thought is devastating, he has no other choice. He has to stop fooling himself, for his own sanity, if nothing else.

Giving a guttural cry, much like that of a wounded animal, Ivar doesn't hear when the front doorbell rings. Not that he would have reacted even if he had heard it, too busy wallowing in self-pity.

***

"Thank you for having us here on such short notice, my dear." Your uncle states joyfully, his eyes sparkling, as Lagertha greets him with a handshake and a tight-lipped smile. Even though you don't know why, it's obvious that she's not his biggest fan.

Your uncle, who doesn't seem to notice – or doesn't care, you're not sure – keeps giving her a beaming smile. "My niece here," he turns his head toward you for a short moment, "has a weird request. She met a boy yesterday, during the party. He lost something and my sweet Y/N has been adamant since this morning that she wants to find him and personally return it to him. We were wondering," he turns his gaze in the direction of the couch, "if it could be one of your wards."

There are indeed three young men, half sprawled on the couch, who get up as one when Lagertha gives them a stern look. If you vaguely remember having seen them before, a single glance is enough for you to know that the one you're looking for is not among them.

You're on the verge of saying so but your uncle doesn't give you a chance to. "See boys," he unceremoniously grabs the cane you're holding behind your back, "here is the lost item. A cane! Fairly uncommon, if you ask me. Anyway... Does this... thing belong to any of you?"

Since you know it doesn't, you're surprised when two of the guys both take a step forward. "Actually, it's mine," they say in unison, each of them only then becoming aware that the other is speaking.

Dumbstruck, you look at one then the other successively. They've got a lot of nerve! You know they're lying, and you would have known it even if these two idiots hadn't spoken at the same time. They just look nothing like your handsome stranger – if he's a stranger.

"Sigurd, you know it's mine!"

"Don't play dumb, you never use a cane, Ubbe! Whereas me, I do sometimes. Everyone knows artists tend to be eccentric, right?"

The blondest one – Sigurd if you heard right – points his finger at a guitar leaning against the wall and then winks at you, "I'm a musician, you know?" You don't even have time to roll your eyes as the other one – Ubbe? – yells, his nostrils flaring.

"Shut up Sig, you're so full of shit! You know I've got a sprained ankle!"

"A sprained ankle, no kidding? Who did a ten-kilometer run today, huh? It's not me! So, you are the one going to shut up, you fucking douchebag!"

It's almost funny to watch them arguing back and forth. If you weren't so pissed off, you'd laugh. But right now, you're mostly mad at them. Their blatant lies make your blood boil with anger.

Are they really thinking you're a complete idiot? That you can be fooled so easily? Who do they think they are? Who do they think you are? Some stupid chick ready to fall for their good looks? If they think that, they're kidding themselves.

"You're the fucking douchebag, Sig!! Don’t forget I'm the oldest!"

"And what's the difference, huh? You can't have all the girls, Ubbe! Keep fucking Margrethe and just let me be! Stop being a controlling asshole!"

"STOP!!!! BOTH OF YOU!!!"

Lagertha's shout is deafening and if looks could kill, these two morons would be lying dead on the floor right here, right now.

"Y/N, my dear," Lagertha gives you an apologetic smile, "I'm so sorry for that. I swear they usually know how to behave, better than that at least. Guess they don't know how to handle your striking beauty. Now sweetheart, tell me, is one of these two knuckleheads the one you were with last night?"

The silence that falls on the room after her question is so complete that you could hear a pin drop. Acutely aware that all eyes are on you, you shyly lower your gaze, shaking your head slightly, as you clasp your hands over your belly. You eventually speak, your eyes meeting Lagertha's, and you can see she knows what you're going to say. "No, the guy I was with last night is not one of them."

"How can you be so sure?" Sigurd's voice is soft and tentative now, and Ubbe adds, seemingly for once in agreement with his younger brother, "yeah, how can you? It was pretty dark after all."

You give them a smile. "How can I be so sure? You mean beside the fact that you obviously don't need a cane? Neither of you?" The third brother, who still hasn't opened his mouth, chuckles, giving you a thumbs up. "Look, I appreciate your interest, I really do, but neither of you are the one I am looking for. Therefore," you look at your uncle, "we should leave, don't you think?" Checking the time on your watch, you shrug. "What about the Eyvindsson family? Didn't you tell me about three brothers? We may have time to go and see them tonight if we hurry."

Your uncle nods, handing you back the cane. "You're right, Y/N, we should leave." Taking two steps forward, he grabs Lagertha's hand. "Sorry dear, we will waste no more of your time."

You're about to thank her when one of the boys clears his throat. "Ahem..."

Turning your head, you're surprised to see the third brother, the silent one, raising his hand. "I think I might know who this cane belongs to." Frowning, he glances at his brothers. "And you both know it too."

"Shut up, Hvitserk!" Sigurd spits, clenching his hands into fists. "Don't bring the fucking cripple into the conversation."

"Sigurd! Keep your mouth shut!" Lagertha glares at him for several long seconds then her face softens as she looks at Hvitserk, placing a hand on his shoulder. "What are you trying to say, Hvitserk? Do you think this cane belongs to your baby brother?"

Hvitserk nods. "I know it does, actually."

"Come on, Hvit, you're talking nonsense. It cannot be, it just cannot. That guy was standing. It wasn't our brother. Our brother wasn't there last night." Ubbe stubbornly insists, but Hvitserk just shakes his head.

"Of course, he was. I saw him. And don't bullshit me, Ubbe, you saw him too. With Y/N." Hvitserk states. That's when you realize that your palms are sweating and your pulse is racing.

Hvitserk keeps going, now speaking to his guardian. "I know what I saw, Lagertha. It was him. I don't know how, but he was standing, Ubbe is right. He was even walking. It may sound weird but I swear, it was him."

Lagertha nods. "I believe you, Hvitserk." A beaming smile spreads across her lips and she tilts her head. "I wouldn't be surprised if Floki had something to do with such a miracle. Go get your brother, Hvitserk, please."

Your heart leaps at these words, you're barely able to contain your excitement and as you let out a nervous chuckle, you cannot help but jump for joy. Needless to say, Ubbe and Sigurd seem much less enthusiastic than you.

***

Reluctantly following his brother, Ivar mutters under his breath, "you're pissing me off, Hvit. I'm fucking not in the mood for whatever you have in mind."

Hvitserk pays him no mind though, a small smile dancing on his lips. "Trust me, baby bro, you'll be in the mood."

Ivar wants to protest, or maybe just turn around and wheel back to his room but all at once the sound of your voice reaches his ears and he stops, frozen in place, his eyes wide open. He may have stopped breathing.

Patting his shoulder reassuringly, Hvitserk whispers, "It's Y/N, baby bro, but I have a feeling you already know. She's here for you, she was looking for you, Ivar. Go..." before giving a single push to his brother's wheelchair, his right hand on the backrest.

Ivar honestly doesn't know how he manages to wheel himself into the living room. What he does know, however, is that you're suddenly standing right in front of him. The heart stopping smile you flash him blows all the air out of his lungs, his heart pounding wildly in his chest, and the outside world – Lagertha, his brothers, Harald – ceases to exist.

A little voice tells him he should be feeling self-conscious with his hair all messy and wearing worn sweatpants, but he can't bring himself to care, not when you kneel in front of him with stars in your eyes.

"Here you are, finally," you breathe, gently placing a hand on his knee. Ivar didn't know until now that one could die of happiness, but that's exactly what he's feeling and he wouldn't trade it for anything.

Swallowing, he blinks several times. When he speaks, his voice trembles, his bottom lip quivering. "Hello Y/N, you were... looking for... for me?" He has trouble getting the words out, his nervous fingers fidgeting on his lap.

Grabbing both his hands in yours, you nod, your thumbs stroking his knuckles tenderly. "I was, yes, and for a very long time."

Shyly lowering his head, Ivar, almost feeling dizzy, can't wrap his head around your words. They're just too good to be true. "But... why?"

"Why?" You giggle, your laughing eyes lighting up your face, and he's positive, you're even more beautiful like this. "Isn't it obvious? I want to know more about you, what's your favorite color, what you eat for breakfast, where you see yourself in ten years. I just want to spend time with you, Ivar."

'Ivar' You've just said his name and it's like the sweetest music to his ears. He can't believe it. Wow. "You... You recognized me?" There's so much hope and joy in his voice, he cringes.

You shrug, your smile never leaving your lips. "I wasn't sure at first. You've changed a lot." Your hand cups his cheek. The sensation on his skin is so overwhelming he has to hold back the tears threatening to gush. Yet, he can't help but think you're speaking about his legs.

He grits his teeth. "Yeah... Standing tall can change a man."

"No! no, no, no," you retort without missing a beat, "That's not what I meant. In my memory you still looked like you did when we were ten, but look at you now, all grown up! Your hair was so short back then." Reaching out, you brush a strand of hair back and tuck it behind his ear before letting your fingers run slowly down and up his bulging biceps, your hand finally lingering on his forearm, "Plus, you clearly work out a lot. So, yeah, I thought it was you, but I wasn't sure. When we were dancing last night, I thought I'd ask you right after, but then you left and... well... I didn't have a chance..."

Ivar wraps his fingers around yours, a frown creasing his forehead. "About that, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have left like–"

You shush him, holding a finger to his lips. "It doesn't matter, Ivar. You don't have to explain. All that matters is that I found you." Standing up, you lean forward and gently kiss his cheek and he feels like he's floating. Intertwining his fingers with yours, you whisper in his ear, "I reckon we got some lost time to make up, you and me. Can we go stargazing now?"

Hearing this makes Ivar's insides turn to jelly. Barely able to think, he is on cloud nine and wishes with all his heart never to come back down to earth again. But despite the daze, despite the fog in his head, despite the blinding happiness, he knows one thing: no matter how many stars he sees, you'll be the brightest one.

"Yes, Y/N, you're right," bringing your hand to his mouth, he gives it a kiss, "let's go stargazing."

And as he leaves the room, you walking alongside him with your hand on his shoulder, his heart filled with joy and wonder, he doesn't miss the thumbs up Hvitserk gives him, nor the scowl on Ubbe's and Sigurd's faces.

For a fleeting second, he thinks he should – he could – taunt them. They deserve to be laughed at, don't they? But then, he realizes he doesn't have time for that. The time for happiness has come, and it's far more important.

Giving you a beaming smile, Ivar inhales deeply before releasing a sigh of satisfaction. Yeah. Happiness. Happiness sounds good.

🛡⚔️🛡

Ivar’s taglist: @waiting4inspiration @honestsycrets @lisinfleur @saldelys @gearhead66 @inforapound @readsalot73 @milkkygirls @xbellaxcarolinax @shannygoatgruff @zuxiezendler @hecohansen31 @lonewolf471 @fuckindiva @tgrrose @didiintheblog @peachyboneless @pieces-by-me @funmadnessandbadassvikings @ethereallysimple @destynelseclipsa @cocovikings23 @xceafh @mrsalwayswrite @deans-ch-ch-cherrypie @pomegranates-and-blood @jadelynlace @grimeundglow @quantumlocked310 @alexhandersen-marcoilsoe-fandom @adrille88

Ivarello's taglist: @not-another-viking-fanfic-blog @hashimily @prepare4trouble @supernaturalvikingwhore @funmadnessandbadassvikings @heavenly1927 @dini73

[katastroficwriter]

Fic title, "vulnerable"? :)

vulnerable

Summary: Kiibo and Ouma should never be together.

Especially when exploring a decrepit high school with rotting floorboards.

In which Kiibo and Ouma dug themselves a deeper hole than expected when they accidentally crashed to the bottom of a run down school with no other way out.

Tags: Supernatural, Heart-to-heart conversations

                                         ———————————-

“So ghosts, am I right?”

“GAAAH!!! SHUT UP! STOP TALKING ABOUT GHOSTS! I DON’T SEE NO GHOST! GHOSTS AREN’T REAL! YOU PROBABLY JUST MADE GHOSTS UP!” Momota’s sudden outburst easily grabbed everyone’s attention from whatever conversation they were having..

The next thing they saw was the face-splitting grin that slowly took over the supreme leader’s face.

“What’s the matter, Momota Kaito-chan, “Luminary of the Stars”? Scared of a few ghoooooosts~?” he cooed mockingly. “Then again…you know what they say! The more terrified they are…the louder they howl. Wow~!  You’re such a big coward, Momota-chan!”

“SCARED? ME? Of-of-of c-course not! Why the hell would I b-be s-scared of something that doesn’t even e-exist!” the astronaut stammered, taking a couple of steps back. “And I’m no coward!”

“I beg to differ, Momota-kun. There have been countless traces of the souls of the dead roaming in plenty of villages I’ve visited in the past, ku ku ku…” Shinguuji added, waving his index finger a little. “It was truly a wondrous experience. I still remember it as if it were only yesterday.”

“See? Even Shinguuji-chan says they’re real,” Ouma snickered. “And that’s why I want to see them for myself!”

“I-It has to be a lie! You probably roped Shinguuji into this! As long as you’re involved, it has to be a lie!” Despite the strength in Momota’s accusation, everyone can tell how badly his legs were shaking like a newborn fawn’s.

“You’re just afraid of the truth, that’s why you always dismiss it as lies,” Ouma tapped at his lips with a deceitfully serene smile.

“Everybody settle down!” Akamatsu huffed, placing her hands on her hips. “Anyway…what’s with this sudden interest in ghosts, Ouma-kun?”

“Finally! Someone asking the right questions. I knew I can count on you, Akamatsu-chan~” Ouma waved his arms up and down with uncontained excitement. “You see…I wanted to propose a class bonding activity in the form of a test of courage!”

“A test of courage? Hah! I’ll ace that like how I aced my astronaut exam!” Momota slammed a fist against his chest, color returned to his face.

“After your shameful display? I highly doubt that,” the supreme leader made a show of flicking dirt off his nails.

“Ouma you bastard–”

“But a test of courage in Spring? Isn’t that a little…off-season?” Shirogane spoke, raising her hand. “Wouldn’t Summer or Autumn be a more suitable time for those kinds of things?”

“Oui, Oui! Shirogane-chan!” Ouma crossed his arms over his chest. “But you see, the abandoned Saishuu Academy would be demolished next month! We absolutely cannot afford to wait for Summer or Autumn!”

“Saishuu…Academy?” Saihara lifted the bill of his hat as he spoke. “Why there?”

“Huh? Is there something going on with Saishuu Academy, Saihara-kun?” Akamatsu tilted her head to the side.

The detective tugged his hat lower, “Um…none that I know of. It’s just…my great-great-grandfather used to go there during his time.”

“Exactly!” Ouma pointed at the detective. “Saishuu Academy is one of the, if not the oldest school in the entirety of Japan! It’s bound to house a lot of ghosts in it!”

“What makes you so damn sure about that, you gremlin? It’s not like people fucking died there!” Iruma scoffed.

“Shut your stinky mouth and listen, pig, you might actually learn something if you do,” Ouma slammed a hand on his desk.

“H-hiiee!” 

“The school has a clean record, sure. But I’ll have you know that Saishuu Academy was in fact built over an execution ground for criminals! A prison! There’s plenty of deaths on that land, that’s for sure!”

“Nnngh…you’re probably just lying again!” Yumeno pointed an accusatory finger at the leader, though her bravado was belied by her pale face. “Y-you’re just saying that to d-disrupt my mana flow!”

“Oh, but what Ouma-kun said is in fact true,” Shinguuji chuckled. “I even have records of it in my lab. I would present it to you all, however, it’s a very old record and thus very fragile to the elements. I do not wish to damage it.”

“S-stupid! This idea is stupid anyway! Why do I have to go through a test of courage when we already know how courageous I am!” Momota slammed his fists together. “G-ghosts or a-ayakashi, or y-y-youkai, they aren’t r-real and are just stories invented to t-torment the feeble-minded!”

“No need to be shy, Momota-chan, we all know you mean you,” Ouma smiled. “Anyway! If anyone wants to join in the fun, just go meet me and Kiiboy by Saishuu Academy’s school gate. I’ll only wait for 10 minutes. I’m entering the school whether or not you all come, just saying.”

“Wasn’t this supposed to be a class bonding activity?!” Chabashira raised a fist.

“That was a lie, really. I’m just making this announcement in case I die while exploring the place, nishishi! That way you’ll know where to look for my remains.” The leader hopped off his seat and approached the albino robot, who was currently sitting idly by the wall in sleep mode while he charged.  “Speaking of which, I really love nature so make sure you spread my ashes in the forest, okay?”

“B-bullshit! Stop fooling around!” Momota gritted his teeth.

“That aside…did Kiibo-kun already agree to this? I didn’t think he’d be the type to go on trips like this one,” Amami rubbed his nape.

“Oh, he doesn’t have a choice, really,” Ouma proceeded to poke and prod random buttons on the robot’s body. “I just needed something to take paranormal photos of! Kiiboy’s a machine, so he can definitely detect ghosts and print out a photo for us or two!”

“H-hey, you should stop messing with Kiibo, what if he blows up or something?” Momota shuddered had the thought. He still needed to go to space! There’s no way he’s going to die from an explosion!

“…Mmm? Huh? Up already? But I’m only at 79 percent…” Kiibo mimicked a yawn. “How did–”

“Morning sleepyhead~ Wanna go on a test and courage with us later?” the supreme leader flashed the android a toothy grin.

“O-Ouma-kun? Test of courage?” Kiibo’s brow furrowed as he began perusing the recording of the conversation which he slept through. “What for?”

“Just for some good ol’ class bonding,” Ouma tucked a strand of hair behind an ear. “You have no choice by the way, I only asked you for the sake of formality.”

The albino frowned at the remark after reviewing the entire conversation he missed. “You might as well have forgone the pretense of being polite, Ouma-kun. Go use your smartphone instead. After all, it’s still a machine which can also take photos.”

“Whaaat? No way! It has to be you, Kiiboy!” Ouma shook the robot by his shoulders, fake tears streaming down his cheeks. “Your flashlight function is way better than a phone’s! And you don’t need to hit a shutter just to take a photo! You’re more useful and convenient than any old smartphone for this!”

Kiibo paused at the unexpected praise. “…You’re just saying that to butter me up.”

“I’m nooot! I don’t just mean your camera function, I also mean your recording device! You can pick up subtle sounds right? Maybe you can pick up the messages of the dead too! That would be so cool! Come on Kiiboy, pleeeeeeease?” Ouma gave the android his best puppy dog eyes. “And didn’t the professor fix your shitty battery usage problem? That makes you even more useful!”

“Well…true…” Kiibo rubbed the back of his head, still a little weirded out from the leader’s behavior. “…Fine, I guess. But only to keep you out of trouble.”

“Yippeeeeee!!!” Ouma released the robot’s shoulders and started jumping around. “You’re the best, Kiiboy!”

“Kiibo-kun is so easy to sway as always,” Yonaga chimed.

“He still has a ways to go,” Hoshi tugged his hat lower. “He’s too soft, which is exactly why Ouma never stops bothering him.”

“That said, who’s going?” Amami asked, turning to look at the others. “I hardly know anything about the school since I’m almost always overseas, so I’m kinda curious about it. I’m going.”

“I will. I can’t help but worry,” Akamatsu raised her hand. “If something goes wrong, having more people around would make it easier to find help.”

“I will too! It would just be like Ghost Hunt! I’m so pumped!” Shirogane bounced in her seat excitedly. “I actually learned some basic warding spells from some monks for my cosplay research. If something does turn up, we won’t be completely helpless!”

“I’ll pass, this is a waste of time,” Harukawa played with one of her pigtails. “Not to mention dangerous. This is just asking for trouble.”

“I’ll pass too, unfortunately! I have to offer a special prayer for Atua tonight. I can’t afford to miss it,” Yonaga squished her cheeks together.

“I’ll go. I would love to do some recording of my own. Maybe I would be able to discover something new to add to the one I already have,” Shinguuji chuckled.

“Hyahaha! I’m cumming alright! I’m gonna take my ghostbusting gear with me!” Iruma grinned. “Ghosts or not, as long as I can test out my babies then it all checks out!”

“Gonta and Toujou-san are still away on a trip. It’s a shame that they can’t go,” the artist sighed. “Everyone seems so lively about the idea!”

“I don’t want to risk my entry in the next Tennis Tournament if I get in trouble for this,” Hoshi murmured. “Take care though. Don’t want any of you getting hurt.”

“That’s sweet of you, Hoshi-kun,” Akamatsu smiled.

“Well I’m not going! Tests of courage are nothing but a sneaky ploy for degenerate men to get handsy with girls!” Chabashira huffed.

“Mmmm…I’m going, I want to test out my exorcism magic I’ve been honing…” Yumeno rubbed her chin with a thoughtful look.

“If Yumeno-san is going then I will too~!!!” Chabashira pumped her fists in the air.

Saihara chewed on his lower lip before nodding to himself. “I’m going too. I’ve never seen its interior before, but I’ve heard rumors that it had plenty of secret rooms.”

“Wh–you too, Shuuichi?!” Momota gaped.

“It’s totally okay if you don’t come, Momota-chan! Just because your bestie is going doesn’t mean you have to. You don’t have to push yourself so hard,” Ouma cooed.

“Why I outta–”

BING! BONG! DING! DONG!

Ouma said nothing but smirked at the astronaut as he was literally saved by the bell, much to the other Ultimate’s chagrin. Their homeroom teacher entered a few minutes later, successfully ending their discussion about their plans later.

—————————————————-

“I’ll have you know that I’m leaving as soon as an hour is up,” Kiibo spoke as he carefully avoided stepping on rotten floorboards.

“What? Why?” Ouma stared at his partner in disbelief. “Don’t be such a spoilsport Kiiboy! Live a little!”

“Yes, I want to live, that’s why I do not want to stay here any longer than what’s necessary,” huffed the android. “I don’t want to worry the Professor for staying out too late. Not to mention this entire building is a hazard to everyone.”

“Tsk, fine, whatever. But you better get some good shots of ghosts you hear? I don’t want to leave this school empty handed,” Ouma pouted.

“That’s hardly something I can control, Ouma-kun,” Kiibo sighed.

Before entering the school premises, everyone drew lots for their pairs: Kiibo and Ouma; Shirogane and Shinguuji; Saihara and Yumeno; Chabashira and Iruma; and lastly, Akamatsu and Amami. It turned out that Momota’s evident fear of the supernatural made pairing up easy for everyone. They were all going to enter the school in that order, but they were free to explore any of the academy’s floors.

“Still, this really is a big school,” the android said with awe.

“Mmhm! It has tons of stuff in it. A church, a dormitory, clubrooms–” Ouma looked around the area, taking note of tattered and worn school festival fliers still posted on the cracked walls. “The land the property was on is really big, they were going to tear the school down and build a new mall.”

Kiibo looked at the fliers with dismay, “That’s…a bit of a shame. To have a place so full of memories get torn down for something like this.”

“Yeah. But time waits for no one. Money makes the modern world go round. Something abstract like memories don’t have economic value,” Ouma frowned, but eventually relaxed. “Anyway, detected any ghosts yet?”

Kiibo reviewed his memories and shook his head. “Sorry, still nothing.”

“Gahhh that’s so lame. How about we take the other way around?” Ouma huffed.

“N-NGAAAAAH! WHAT IS THAT? A ZOMBIE?!”

“Yumeno-san calm down! That’s just an old human-body model!”

“SAIHARA WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO YUMENO-SAN?!”

“Quite the loud bunch aren’t they?” the raven-haired Ultimate shook his head. “Maybe that’s why ghosts aren’t showing up. Maybe inviting them wasn’t such a good idea.”

“I think it’s better this way,” Kiibo chuckled. “The more the merrier, as they all say.”

“Nishishi! Maybe so,” Ouma huffed in amusement. “Mm? Hey, have we checked this room before?”

“Hmm…I don’t think so,” Kiibo looked up at the rusty signage above the dislodged door. “The library, huh.”

“Oooh! They probably have valuable books left behind, that’s a nice find. Let’s go in!” Ouma grabbed the android by his wrist, skipping through the doorway.

“Wait, not so fast Ouma-kun! The floor might give out–”

*CRACK*

“Huh?”

“Ouma-kun, hold onto me–!”

The floorboards had collapsed under their combined weight the moment they took their first step inside the old library. Down, down, down, they crashed. How many floors have they gone down exactly? None of them could keep count with both of their eyes shut tight. The only thing Ouma could register was the feeling of falling and strong metal arms wrapped around him protectively.

————————————————————-

CRAAAAAAAASH!

Akamatsu’s head perked up at the loud noise. “Oh no…”

As though reading her mind, Amami pulled out his cellphone and sent everyone a text.

‘Yell out your names if you’re safe. If you’re inside a room, get out so we can hear you.’

The pianist and the survivor nodded at each other before initiating the roll call.

“AKAMATSU KAEDE!”

“AMAMI RANTAROU!”

There was a beat of silence until the next person followed.

“YU-YUMENO HIMIKO!”

“SAIHARA SHUUICHI!”

“IRUMA MIU!”

“CHABASHIRA TENKO!!!”

“SHINGUUJI KOREKIYO!”

“SHIROGANE TSUMUGI!”

Silence followed.

“That can’t be right…where’s Ouma-kun and Kiibo-kun?” Akamatsu’s forehead creased with worry.

“That could only mean that they were the ones who crashed. We better look for them fast, they’re probably hurt,” Amami hastily tapped another message, telling everyone to meet up at the entrance hall. “Let’s go.”

“Okay.”

Akamatsu and Amami carefully proceeded towards the meeting place, mindful of their footsteps now more than ever. Shirogane and Shinguuji arrived at the designated place before everyone else, followed by them, and the others arrived shortly after.

“Ouma’s probably messing with us again,” Iruma scoffed, tapping her finger against her arm.

“I agree! What if he didn’t do his roll call on purpose to spook everyone after destroying part of the school!” Chabashira nodded.

“I don’t think Ouma-kun would do anything to risk his own safety,” Saihara murmured. “Not to mention, Kiibo-kun was with him.”

“Correct! Even if Ouma-kun decided not to do roll call, Kiibo-kun still would have done it himself,” Akamatsu’s brows furrowed in concentration. “Was anyone near the crash?”

“I was on the first floor with Shinguuji-kun,” Shirogane raised a hand. “We heard something crash nearby but we didn’t see anyone at all. If Kiibo-kun and Ouma-kun did fall…shouldn’t we be able to find them on this floor?”

“That’s a good point.” Amami rubbed his chin. “How close were you to the crash, exactly?”

“Not very close, but I can pinpoint us to its general direction,” Shinguuji raised a hand.

“Alright. Everybody stay close. We can’t have anyone else getting hurt,” Akamatsu took a deep breath and slapped her cheeks. “No use panicking! Focus, focus!”

“Shouldn’t we call the fire department for help?” Saihara asked.

“But what if they were taken by ghosts? No one would believe our story!” Yumeno interjected.

“Shh! Everyone focus!” Shirogane turned to look at the others. “Now’s not the time to entertain thoughts like that. We need to try looking for them first before calling the fire department.”

“I’m on board for that. We practically broke some rules just entering this shithole,” Iruma flipped her hair.

“We’re here. I’m not sure of the specific source of the sound, but it should be around here,” the anthropologist proceeded to tie his hair in a neat ponytail.

“Okay, let’s split the rooms among ourselves. Got it?” Akamatsu regarded her friends with a look of determination.

“Got it!”

Their search didn’t end up being completely fruitless when Saihara managed to locate a hole in the infirmary’s flooring. But that very same discovery led them to their next problem. If there was a hole on the flooring of the first floor…then where does it lead to exactly? They were met with darkness even after flashing their lights on the hole. Ouma and Kiibo should have landed on the first floor if not any of the floors just above them.

“This is a big problem.” Amami concluded.

————————————————————

“Ouma-kun. Ouma-kun, wake up.”

Ouma hissed in pain as he shifted to his side. “O-oww…what–what happened?”

“The floorboards collapsed from under us and we fell a couple of floors down,” Kiibo replied, helping the supreme leader sit up. “Take it easy, you have a slight head injury and a twisted ankle.”

Ouma instantly raised a hand to touch his head, only to feel his scarf wrapped around his head. “What floor are we on, exactly?”

Kiibo pursed his lips. “…We would be in the equivalent of the basement floor. I reviewed my memories and we already went past the first floor by a couple of levels.”

“The basement level? The map didn’t have anything like that at all,” Ouma withered in pain, resting his weight on the robot.

“That’s what I thought too. This was probably one of the secret rooms Saihara-kun meant,” the albino paused to point at the spot across them. “…Though judging by the look of those rusted iron bars…we’re actually inside an underground dungeon.”

“If it weren’t for the fact that I’m in pain and we’re currently stuck, I would have thought that this was cool,” Ouma groaned. “Tch. There’s no use texting the others, there’s no way there could be reception in a place like this.”

“…I’m sorry, Ouma-kun.” Kiibo looked down.

The supreme leader raised a brow. “For what?”

“If only I had the ability to fly, I could have gotten us out of this mess right away,” the android explained. “I don’t have the strength to carry you out of this room either.”

“You could have just explored the area, searched for the exit and then come back for me afterwards,” Ouma huffed.

Kiibo shook his head. “That’s a risky idea. I don’t want to leave you alone during a crisis like this. What if more of the school gives out? If I left, there’s a big chance that we’d be separated by debris and only one of us could get out.”

“That’s…true. Heh. I guess my head isn’t working as well as I hoped right now,” Ouma chuckled half-heartedly. “I’m…sorry too. I got us into this mess in the first place. I wasn’t being careful earlier, so we fell. We’re more or less even.”

Kiibo was taken aback by the sincere apology, but did not dare to comment on it. They couldn’t exactly afford to bicker during an emergency like this one. It was clear that Ouma was too hurt to put up his usual mischievous demeanor, too.

“I’m glad you were my partner.”

“Huh?” the albino stared at his companion in confusion.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Ouma huffed as he slowly sank into a lying down position, resting his head on the robot’s cool lap. “If I had fallen with anybody else in our group, one of us would have already died; or worse, both of us would have just died and rotted together with this school. Look at you. It was a nasty fall, but all you have are scratches. You really are something, huh.” He grinned up at the albino.

Kiibo chewed on his bottom lip, a little embarrassed from the praise. “I don’t mean this in an offensive way, but–”

“Go ahead and say it.”

“Okay.” The albino took a deep breath. “Ouma-kun, did you rig the pairing lots so that I would be paired up with you? You did point out all of the convenient tools and functions I had for your exploration idea…”

Ouma simply chuckled in response. “You probably won’t believe me, but that was all luck. I never really cared about who you get paired up with, I just wanted the ghost pics.”

“I see…I thought just as much,” Kiibo nodded along. “I wonder if…the others are looking for us right now.”

“They are. You’re with me after all. If it were just me alone, they probably would have just left me behind,” Ouma sighed nonchalantly. “Then again if I were alone, I’d already be dead. Nishishi!”

Kiibo frowned. “Even if you were alone, we would still look for you, regardless of whether you’re dead or alive.”

“And what makes you say that, Kiiboy?”

“We’re friends, Ouma-kun. If such an obvious answer wasn’t clear to you, then you probably need to rest as much as you can right now,” the robot’s frown eased after finishing his sentence.

“Heh…I guess I can do that,” the raven-haired Ultimate shifted in his position a little, careful not to aggravate his aching leg as he did so. “I don’t wanna sleep in a shithole like this though, so you and I are going to be talking for quite a while until we get rescued.”

“That sounds like a good idea,” Kiibo smiled.

Being stuck in a very deep hole was probably the worst time to start getting to know a person more. But since that person is Ouma, a crazy situation like this is probably the only thing that could get him to talk sincerely. From his love for shounen manga to his hobbies, these were all things Kiibo had hoped to learn from the supreme leader at school and not in some hidden dungeon.

“Kiiboy, can I level with you for a moment?”

“Isn’t that what we’ve been doing for a while now?” Kiibo lifted a brow.

“Just shut up and listen to me,” huffed the other teen.

“Alright, sorry.”

Ouma released a sigh before speaking. “…I honestly think I’m going to die here. But even if I die, surely you won’t. That’s why I want you to record something for me.”

“…You mean a will?” Kiibo’s forehead creased with worry.

“Haha! Not quite,” Ouma shook his head. “Just some things I wished I was able to tell everyone before we both got into this mess. A confession of some sort.”

“Ouma-kun…”

“I want you to show it to everyone in the worst case scenario,” Ouma continued. “But if I ever survive this, whatever I’m going to say is going to be just between you and me. Understand?”

“Y…yes, I understand,” Kiibo nodded, though his worry was still very much present on his face.

“I’ll start now, ready?”

“I’m ready.”

“Then I guess I should start about my parents…”

——————————————————————-

It had already been more or less two hours since Kiibo and Ouma crashed. The firemen struggled with trying to figure out how to pull them out from such a deep and dark pit. The realization that their two classmates had fallen lower than what they had expected brought chills down their spine. It took the firemen another hour to finally be able to rescue the missing Ultimates, much to everyone’s relief.

The EMTs carefully strapped Ouma to a stretcher and ushered him into the ambulance so they could take a better look at his wounds. Everyone then got off with a heavy scolding both from the rescuers and their respective parents for doing something dangerous without even contacting an adult. Though for Kiibo’s case, he was praised right after for his quick thinking during the emergency, otherwise the supreme leader would have been in a critical state.

“I hope you all learned a valuable lesson from this experience,” a fireman huffed.

“Yes, sir…” the teens all responded in unison.

“Let’s go home and get you fixed,” Iidabashi gave his son’s hair a ruffle. “Also cleaned up, you’re terribly dirty.”

Kiibo’s gaze lingered at the ambulance before turning to look at his father. “…Okay.”

The premises of Saishuu Academy was completely locked down the next day in light of the incident during the previous night. Both Kiibo and Ouma were sought after by the Newspaper Club, determined to secure an exclusive interview from them regarding their experience of being trapped. Unfortunately for Ouma, his twisted ankle prohibited him from escaping their pesky advances. And just as unfortunately for Kiibo, he still had the stamina of a senior citizen, but his father did improve his strength in order to assist him in emergencies.

“Ouma-kun, may I speak with you for a moment?”

It took Kiibo about two weeks before he could muster the courage to talk to the raven-haired Ultimate. They had to keep a facade that things were back to normal after all.

“Depends on what you wanna talk about,” Ouma leaned against his chair. “If it’s about that then no. I don’t want to hear anything about that stupid school anymore.”

Kiibo shook his head. “It’s…kind of related, but it’s not about the incident.” He pulled out photos from one of his pockets. “I thought that maybe…you needed to see this.”

Ouma lifted a brow, curious, as he accepted the photos.

The android shifted in his place. He specifically chose to speak to Ouma today since everyone was out eating at the cafeteria and the supreme leader had slipped away from the group not completely unnoticed. It was the only chance where they’ll have some form of privacy during school hours.

“UWAAAH! WHAT THE HECK! THAT’S SO CREEPY!!!” Ouma shuffled out of his seat in a panic, haphazardly throwing the photos on the table.

“…You did say you wanted photos,” Kiibo murmured as he picked the photos up. It was a photo of his memory during the incident; specifically the time right after they landed in the hidden dungeon. For a brief moment, he had caught a glimpse of a woman cradling Ouma–she disappeared as soon as he blinked though. That was why he wasn’t able to record her face in high definition.

“Y-yeah! But not when it involved me!” Ouma pointed an accusatory finger at the photos in the albino’s hand. “Have an exorcist burn it!”

“But Ouma-kun…” Kiibo shuffled through the different photos and picked one out to show the other Ultimate. “I think…it’s your mother.”

Ouma’s eyes visibly widened at the photo. It wasn’t taken inside the dungeon, no, the setting was entirely different. In fact, it was right when Ouma got brought inside the ambulance. A translucent woman stood waiting outside of the ambulance. Thanks to the lighting, her face was properly recorded. Even more so when she was looking right at Kiibo, giving him a wave. 

Jet black hair, soft, lilac eyes…

Her features alone were a dead giveaway that she couldn’t be anyone else but Ouma’s mother. 

Ouma shakingly took the photo from the android, this time staring at it with awe instead of fear. “…It’s really her…”

“Yes. That’s why I thought that you needed to see this,” Kiibo scratched at his cheek nervously. “…Do you really want to have these burned?”

Ouma let slip a sincere smile, “…Maybe not.”

Kiibo perked up, pleased to be able to make him smile.

Bonus:

“I’m only keeping this one. Buuut—!” Ouma snatched the photo of the hidden dungeon and showed it to the android. “You definitely have to show this to Momota-chan!”

Kiibo shook his head, “I don’t see why you need to–”

“Show me what?” both Ultimates turned their heads to face the astronaut.

The android paled at the very sight of the grin that took over the supreme leader’s face.

“Kiibo showed me this really cute photo he took on the way to school! And I thought you’d like it too!” Ouma chimed, slightly limping his way towards the taller Ultimate to hand him the photo.

“Momota-kun, wait–!”

Alas, Kiibo’s words fell on deaf ears.

“GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!!!!!!!”

“Nishishi! So ghosts, am I right~?”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP, OUMA!!!”

———————

If you’re wondering why I never explained what those memories were…that’s because Ouma survived. Kiibo’s not obligated to show you what it was.

[fatandnerdy30]

The Itsy Bitsy Spider 29

Oh man....just one more chapter to go!! Then, I don’t know what I’ll do...but, I’ll keep you guys updated! Until then, please enjoy!!

Tony arrived at the base shortly after sunrise. After pushing his suit to the limits of its speed, he broke the sound barrier at least three times in succession, leaving the quinjet in the dust. "Tony, you have to slow down and think," Steve's voice came from the comms. "It won't do Peter any good  if you show up alone and start blasting your way into the facility. Think about his safety first." Of course the righteous Captain America was right, but Tony didn't want to hear it. "Calm down, old man. I'm going to scout the area before you get here." And if he got to smash a few heads,  that was all the better. "Only scout," Rogers told him, his voice serious. "Yes dad. End communications." "Tony you'd be-" the line went dead. "Friday, if I ever get that cranky in my old age, you have permission to end me." "Yes Boss," she replied a little too hastily. "Really? Well, that's rude." He focused on the facility as it came into view, the rapid movements on his HUD flicking, ever changing and giving Tony the information he needed. The mist from the early ocean breeze fogged his vision a little, making it hard for him to see. "Friday, scan for a shield or a power source for one." Already his defoggers were working to clear the helm. "Yes, Boss." The AI did a full scan of the facility as Tony passed over it, activating stealth mode so he wouldn't be seen. "They have the set up for it, but it has yet to be activated." Perfect. "Get me a body count outside of the facility." "I count fifteen guards, all armed." Fifteen? He could take that many in his sleep. He began landing procedures, his suit balancing out to hover just above the ground, his hands out. "Hey," Tony whistled to get the guard's attentions. "Yeah, you. Catch." His tracking system had targeted the men and he shot bullets from his suit, hitting each one in the kneecap, crippling them. "Told you to catch." With that, he flew up and took off his stealth mode just as the quinjet flew overhead, Steve jumping out even before it could land. He landed on one knee, slamming his shield into the ground to absorb the impact. "Just couldn't wait," he quipped. Tony didn't want to hear a whole speech. "Of course not, which is why I started the games early. They already lost. Friday counted fifteen, well, now twelve, guards on the ground. I didn't do an internal scan yet." "Make that ten," Natasha's voice came over the comms. "Eight," said Sam. They were knocking these guys out easily. Too easily. "Guys, don't you think this is too easy?" Tony voiced his fears. "I had noticed that...why do you think that is? I mean, they usually put up more of a fight than this." Sam had deployed Redwing and he shot four of the guards, watching them go down, unconscious. "Unless....guys! This isn't the main facility!" At that minute, something in the harbor splashed and Tony sped into the air to see a Hydra underwater vehicle race away, diving under the waves. "Oh no you don't. Guys, I'm going after it." "Tony, no! At least wait for Rhodey!" Steve's command was ignored and the mechanic raced to the harbor. "Friday, anything?" He was beginning to panic now. "No....It must have a stealth mode that makes me unable to track it." That made Tony's heart skip a beat. "Then we'll just have to look the old fashion way. How much air do I have?" "Thirty minutes. This model isn't made for underwater missions." "Remind to fix that." With that, he dove into the bay, his repulsors pushing him through the murky water, trying to find any trace of the black submarine. Was he too late? Suddenly, to his left he saw a trail of what looked like bubbles disappearing. "Found you trail of breadcrumbs..." He shot off in the direction of the trail. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "Tony, I told you to wait for Rhodey!" Steve snapped, pressing his communicator in his ear. "How can I wait with one of my kids in danger?" Came the billionaire's answer. "Besides, Rhodey already has me on lock and on his way." "Could have told me that sooner," the captain muttered. "Just be careful. We'll check it out here. And Rhodey, make sure he doesn't blow up the ship. There might be more experiments on board." "Wasn't counting on letting him get that far," came the colonel's answer. With that, the line went dead and Steve sighed. "Avengers," he called to the team, waiting for them to group around him. "We've got no idea what could be inside, so once we breach, we'll have to be careful. Everyone, watch your backs." The group nodded and they broke up. Natasha went straight for the vents, slipping in silently. Sam went for an air approach and Steve....well, Steve took a page from Hulk. He smashed his way in. "I was right," Sam whispered over the comms. "There's nothing in here. It's just an empty building." Steve cursed under his breath. "Natasha? Anything from your end?" Suddenly, the wall was kicked in behind him and he turned, raising his shield. "The vents are even fake!" the assassin complained. "Who the hell goes to this much effort to create a building with fake vents? It's unnatural." Rogers sighed. "Looks like we're getting wet," he told the team and ran outside for the quinjet, the team behind him. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Peter sat in his cage, playing with the cold food at his feet. The bacon had begun to gelatinize and he was drawing in the grease when the door slammed open, making him yelp and jump. "Righ this way, Mr. Bloom." It was the man that hit Morgan's voice. Peter grew angry when he saw his face and shot up, running to the front of the cage, banging on the glass. "You! You bastard!" He screamed, anger written on his tiny features. "Well, well, Mr. Ward...It looks like number seventy-three doesn't like you very much." Bloom walked through the door and instantly the boy stopped his banging. His red face was suddenly white washed. "Hello, seventy-three. How pleased I am that you remember me." He took steps towards the small rectangular cage on the silver table, always looking down at the being inhabiting it. "I trust you are well?" He asked. But, Peter couldn't answer him. Fear had closed his throat and he found his legs too shaky to hold him up and crumpled to the floor. He watched as the man gripped the cage in his hands, his breath pumping from him in great gasps as his fight or flight instinct kicked in, but he couldn't run, and he sure as hell couldn't fight this giant man. He could only stare as the cage was brought up to Bloom's eyes. The cold, peering eyes of the scientist brought back bad memories and tears started leaking from the boy's eyes, his bottom lip trembling. "You look good. But, it seems you haven't finished your breakfast. That's a good thing, though. You'll have to have an empty stomach for the procedure." The eyes took on a sorrowful gaze. "I wish we could have kept you alive, but we need to extract everything and anything that contains your DNA." With that, he brought the cage down and tucked it under his arm. Peter felt every step, every beat of the scientists heart....but he didn't care. He didn't want to die in a lab, cut open like a high school experiment. With a sob, he threw himself at the glass. He did it again and winced as his shoulder grew sore. Again and again, he tried to get out, but every time he hit it, the glass was left unchanged. How? How could he not get away, even with his abilities? With a snarl, he stuck to the walls and climbed up to the sealed top and hanging by his arms, he kicked at the clear top. But, just like the sides, he couldn't break it. He couldn't even put a dent in it. He dropped to the bottom, staring at the walls, an incredulous look on his face. So, this was really it....He was going to die..... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "If I may, what's in the case?" Bruce picked up the circular case, turning it over carefully to study it as if it were some kind of puzzle. "It's where I store my cars," Pym gently took the case. "We need to be outside for this." He walked out onto the porch and down the stairs. "Where can I set this up?" Clint, who was leaning against the railing, pointed to the spot next to a tree with a target on it. "Over there, in that field. It doesn't have anything growing in it yet and has the most room." "Perfect." hank walked over and set the case down, opening it. "Oh, I forgot." He turned toward the plane sitting on the grass in the front of the house. Pulling out a remote, he looked to Hope, who nodded and started walking towards it. "Hope you're not gonna try and change the channel," the archer joked, squinting against the sun. Pym just smiled and pushed the red button. Instantaneously the plane disappeared, or it seemed to. Hope bent down to retrieve the small model sized toy looking plane from the ground. "We have to work on the weight ratio," she said with a strained voice. "It's much heavier than the cars." "I know, I just haven't had the time." Hank then pulled out a hideous(in his opinion) brown van and placed it on the ground, clicking the blue button this time. "Amazing," said Banner, awe in his voice as he watched the toy become a life sized car. "Absolutely incredible. Is this the van that powers the Quantum tunnel? How do you control it?" He inched closer to the van. Even though this wasn't his area of expertise, he was still a curious scientist. "Yes, the van powers everything. Unfortunately I lost my lab a while ago in an explosion actually pertaining to the tunnel. Luckily, I was able to shrink it to its present size. I fixed the van up with a high powered battery in order to power the tunnel efficiently." "That is really fascinating....Is the batter lithium powered or nuclear based?" "Neither, actually. It's powered by Quantum energy that Scott pulls out. Which, is what he's going to do today. As soon as we have Peter back, I'll be able to take some blood samples and run diagnostics on him. You said his blood is very interesting, which I can't wait to see." He hoped the team would be able to get him back soon. He was worried about the small teen. "I'm sure he'll be fine," Bruce laid a hand on Pym's shoulder. "Don't worry." Hank nodded and turned to the van. "Scott? Can you please turn it on?" Lang nodded and jumped into the driver's seat and turned the ignition on. "Just needs to warm up." As he was getting out, his hand accidentally hit the horn, sounding the playful tone. "Sorry.." Clint burst out laughing at the hat dance that played. "That's your secret weapon? Oh my God...Best blackmail ever." "Bruce, can you set these up over there?" Hank handed the doctor a few stands that were miniaturized. "And  don't touch anything until I say so." Banner nodded and placed the mini stands in the clearing, close enough to the van that they would be able to reach with wires. "Here?" Hank nodded and pushed the accelerator, unshrinking them. "Now, we attach the wires and Scott can go get the energy we'll need. I'm going to need multiple cans this time." Scott nodded and jumped into the passenger's seat and pressed a few buttons. A row of energy canister's popped up from the console and he grabbed the whole row, another row appearing behind it. "Is one row enough?" "Should be. Come on, I want to get this over with so we can help get Peter back!" Hank was already hooking the wires into the computers that lead to the van, booting them up. He typed in his code and  waited for the Pym logo to show up, then opened up the necessary files, inputting the codes. "All right, we're good to go. Scott, you ready?" "Ready and waiting." "Okay. Hope, I'll-" "You need me on the other computer, I know. Who's going to man the third, though?" "I can help, if you tell me what to do," Bruce said, taking a step towards the computers. "I'm actually really good with technology." "Good, then take the one next to Hope. She can tell you what to hit." He was going to be watching Scott's progress on the screen, as well as how much energy he was able to absorb. "We're ready," Came Hope's voice. "Ready here....okay. Going Subatomic in three....two...one..." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The process of going that small had freaked Scott out for the longest time, but now, as he passed through the tunnel, he found himself actually enjoying the peace and serenity of the space with no concept of time. As he shrunk, he stayed away from the dark tunnels,. not wanting to get caught in a vortex or in a different time line. Or even a different realm. That was the scariest part about this. Once he was clear of those, though, he kind of just floated. A rainbow of colors, turning through the ever shifting kaleidoscope of the space. "Scott, mic test," came Hank's voice over his comms. Scott immediately answered once he found his head. "This is a go for Scott Lang. Opening up the first container." He opened the absorber, watching the Leptons jump in and out of the crystalline particles shifting around him, reminding him of jumping fish, beautiful and hypnotic. Once one was full, he got another out, attaching the full ones to his belt until his waist was almost decked out. "I think Bruce would love to see this sometime. Maybe we can get him into a suit, hmm?" "Don't push it, Scott. How we doing? I see you've almost completely filled the last container." "Just finished loading up the last one. Ready to be extracted and back to normal." He said and looked around the terrifying beauty of the realm between realms. "Extraction in three....two....one..." Scott was assaulted by the vertigo from growing so quickly, but it passed once he was out of the tunnel. "All full and ready for you." He clicked open his mask and took a deep breath of fresh air. He had air while in the tunnel from his suit, but even after just a few minutes recirculated air got stale fast. "Thank you, Scott. Now, let's get going. We've got a boy to save." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Bloom sat in the car, watching the scenery pass with a small smirk on his lips. By now, Stark was probably chasing down the dummy lab, now miles away from the shore line. And by the time the Avengers figured it out, Bloom would be safely in the air. It was a goof thing he kept a stash of his lab equipment with him. He would like to get started as soon as possible. Looking down, he saw the boy curled up in the corner of the glass cage, arms wrapped around his legs. It was then he noticed something on his wrists. "What is this?" Picking up the cage, he peered inside, squinting his eyes to see the boy's wrists. "Seventy-three. What is that on your wrists?" Angry brown eyes looked up at him for a fraction of a second before disappearing behind his knees again. Silent treatment? "Fine. I'll remove them eventually." Bloom sat back, placing the cage on the floor, and shoved it under his seat. If the subject didn't want to cooperate, then he would be in the dark. "How much longer until we meet the plane?" "About ten minutes," Ward told him, opening one eye. "Nervous?" "I am never nervous. I just do not like being so close to Stark and his team." He sat back, his foot hitting the case. He heard scrabbling from inside and then nothing. Whatever. He didn't have the patience to check on seventy-three. He wanted to board the plane and get off the ground. It was safe in the air. Ten minutes passed like nothing and soon, Bloom was reaching for the case, shoving it under his arm roughly and climbing out. "Get the engine started!" he screamed and ran to board it. "Hurry up, Ward!" "I'm coming, Mr. Bloom. Calm down." Ward climbed the steps and as soon as he was in, he reached behind him and pulled the chain to close the door, locking it in place. "Now we can go." "Take off!" he screamed. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Peter watched in horror as his last chance at escape was closed, pressing his hands to the glass he watched as the world became the inside of a small plane. Soon, he was shoved under the scientists seat. And there he sat, alone in the dark, dreading his future. Peter's ears popped, signalling they were rising and leveling out until it stopped. A sob caught in his throat and he curled up on his side in a fetal position, crying into his knees. "May...Mom.....Dad...." he whispered. He was scared. When they had been in the air for a while, Bloom pulled out the clear cage and leered in at the boy, who stared at him with wide, terrified eyes. "It is time." At that, Peter started shaking and once again tried to escape from the box, but like last time, he wasn't able to break the glass. Not even a crack. But, Bloom had to put his hand in, didn't he? That could be Peter's chance! It seemed like the Parker Luck was working though, as he watched a tube be attached to the top of the cage. What? Suddenly a small slit appeared and Peter felt air hit his head, which was odd. Then it hit him. That wasn't air! "No!" he screamed, beating his fists against the clear plates, begging Bloom with his eyes. "Please! Please, don't do this!" Slowly his muscles began to weaken as he felt his body slipping under the anesthesia. He tried forcing himself to stay awake, but it was impossible and soon blackness swallowed him.

@sparrowrider @midas-or-khaos @letsbeinspiredby @6inchicon @ixlovexirondad @carttorchdeatth

[solivar]

WIP: Ghost Stories On Route 66

In which Lena is bored, Mei is bored, and Hanzo absolutely does not have enough to do with his hands...yet.

There was nothing remarkable about the condo -- it was one of dozens in the Mesa del Oro subdivision, its exterior beige stucco in a vaguely pseudo-Pueblo facade identical to its neighbors on three sides, its tiny xeriscaped yard made up mostly of raked stone with the occasional clump of succulents around the building perimeter, interspersed with solar-powered garden stakes, of which there were more than actual plants. Attached garage, standard number of windows, blinds drawn to defeat the attempts by nosy neighbors to snoop while the residents, four men and a woman, students of a various disciplines at the local UNM campus, were evidently absent. No exterior balcony or deck but rather a slab of concrete set with river stone around back serving as a patio, as evidenced by the rickety selection of white wicker chairs gathered around a wrought iron table, also painted white, clustered together in the middle. In fact, it looked like exactly the sort of place that a bunch of college students would rent together, occupy for a year or two, and then move on from, to be replaced by another, nearly identical group of college students, and so on until either the heat death of the universe or the owners selling out for redevelopment into an upscale gated community for hip, young professional ex-college students, whichever came first.

It certainly did not look like the sort of place to be emitting potentially fabric-of-reality rending supernatural forces but, according to the initial contact report and subsequent surveillance orders, that was exactly what it was, and the complete lack of evidence of such forces be damned.

“This is such bloody waste of time,” Agent Lena Oxton muttered mutinously, not for the first time and likely not for the last, from her place a block and a half way at the window of a temporarily unoccupied unit blessed with a clear view of the surveillance target for all the team’s assorted monitoring equipment.

“We can’t be sure of that Lena -- we’ve only been here two days.” Mei replied from her place next to the communications rig, a few minutes later, once those words had the chance to penetrate the layers of stultifying boredom/exhaustion accrued through the second stage of her back-to-back watches.

“Oh, bollocks.” Lena replied, glowering through the viewfinder of the etheric waveform monitor, currently displaying a whole lot of fuck-all. “We’re here because Whitehawk Major has a hate-on for that Special Ops ranger and these kids had the bad fortune to get mixed up with him.”

“...You may have a point there.” Mei admitted, again after a long couple minutes of processing. “Amélie said she didn’t get anything off him and it’s not like she’s easy to fool that way.”

“You sure you don’t want to sack out? I mean, we don’t all have to be dead bored and I’m sure Zarya wouldn’t mind.” Lena pulled away from the viewfinder long enough to suck down the last of her third cup of coffee.

“Observation protocol requires --”

“‘Two agents be on duty station at all times,’ yeah yeah. Honestly, Mei, you’re too good for this sinful -- well, hello now, what’s this?” A dark blue contractor truck, hauling an equipment pod, was pulling up in front of 488 Yucca Court and Lena switched from the etheric waveform viewfinder to the plain old long-range telephoto binoculars. “Well. Well well well. Check this out.”

“What is it?” Mei scooted over on her hoverchair and Lena scooted sideways to let her take a look through the binoculars. “Oh, oh dear -- is that --”

“Reinhardt Wilhelm.” Lena confirmed with a thrill of something close to pleasure. “Craftworker -- runes and bindings and wards and suchlike, formerly associated with a top secret UN Special Mission through the Department of Peacekeeping Operations, currently listed as retired. Last known place of residence, Waldo, New Mexico. Moved here some time after the US government finally called their dogs off Morrison and Reyes.”

Mei reached over and jerked Lena close enough to share the binoculars, one eye for each of them, and she was rewarded with the sight of one Shimada Hanzo, stone cold fox art student, sliding out of the passenger side of the truck’s cabin, slinging a gear bag over his shoulder as he went. “Oh, all right. Now things are finally getting interesting.”

***

“What can I help with first?” Hanzo asked, as Rein went about the process of folding out the truck’s physics-mocking workspace, anxious and energized enough to charge a kinetic battery with the sheer force of his nervous twitches.

It had not been a peaceful evening at the hacienda. Reinhardt had left, shortly after the initial plan to convene at the condo was made and agreed to, returning some time later with a dozen boxes of supplies and equipment, which he deployed into an ad hoc workshop in the hastily rearranged sitting room, for both himself and Ana. The pair of them, accurately perceiving his borderline-violent need to be doing something, anything of use, put him to work: grinding herbs and sea-salt together for sachets that Ana stuffed and sewed shut, melting blocks of beeswax and fragrant oils together over the double-boiler to produce good-sized batches of salve for healing and for warding, cutting perfectly even strips of paper and cloth and leather for the making of protective amulets, which they primarily handled themselves, the infusion of power they used being beyond his abilities. It was well after midnight before the frantic construction processes began to wind down, processes that had only mildly dented his own manic energy.

He decided, when he woke the next morning, that sleep darting him was probably the kindest thing Ana could have done for him.

[thephilosopheroftheboudoir]

Grim History

Diary Of a Rich Madman: Jacques Lebaudy, Emperor Of the Sahara

    In 1903s, the French millionaire Jacques Lebaudy renamed himself Jacques the First and declared himself Emperor Of the Sahara. At the age of forty, he was rich, by the standards of his day, after inheriting money from his deceased father who had made his fortune running a sugar factory in their home country. Lebaudy was a short man with a taste for expensive odd clothes and, some would say, an annoyingly high-pitched voice that resonated like nails on a chalkboard. Apparently the age of forty was the big turning point in his life when he decided to translate what he believed to be his destiny into reality. But was he insane?

    At first, no one seemed to think so. Lebaudy, using his vast sums of wealth, bought a yacht for himself and two others to follow, filled with 400 men, a battery of high powered guns, and the American Civil War hero George Edouard Gouraud who would act as his Governor-General during the venture. The yachts landed at Les Minquies island off the coast of Morocco. Jacques Lebaudy had his men carry a throne to his recently built pavilion and announced his intention to claim the Sahara as part of the Empire of Patagonia for the French colonial government. The French crown, however, refused to accept him as Emperor. Lebaudy, nonetheless, continued to make plans for his conquest, no doubt believing the colonialists would soon see the error of their ways and come around to his point of view. While Lebaudy sat on his throne, some of the local Arab population hatched a plan to make money off the faux-dignitary; they kidnapped several of his men and demanded a ransom. Lebaudy refused to pay them and tried to coax his followers to ambush the kidnappers and bring the men back. By this time, his subjects had started to think he was a kook; many of them abandoned the Emperor. Some returned to France and petitioned the authorities for help. Soon a fleet of French naval vessels showed up and began bombarding the island shores with artillery. The Arab kidnappers got scared and released the prisoners.

    Jacques Lebaudy, Jacques the First, Emperor Of the Sahara had become an embarrassment to the French government. They went to Les Minquies, captured him, revoked his French citizenship, and deported him. Lebaudy soon showed up in London, using his wealth to establish residency in the plush Savoy Hotel.

    Jacques Lebaudy had quite an interesting time at the Savoy. When entering the dining room in the purple robes of an emperor, the hired musicians would cease whatever piece they were playing and launch into the national anthem of the Empire Of the Sahara which he had commissioned a local composer to write in his honor. Lebaudy always sat at his own private table with wife and daughter, the table being draped with a royal purple tablecloth; a crown of chrysanthemum hung from the ceiling overhead. Word got out that an emperor had arrived in London and a cadre of journalists, photographers, celebrities, and other schmoozers began to hang around. Several hundred visitors stopped by; laborers, weapons dealers, merchants, farmers and others all sought favor from Lebaudy, hoping to land a job. Some of them were hired and immediately put on salary. Jacques the First spoke of elaborate plans to cover the entire Sahara desert with his newly designed flag as soon as he conquered the vast territory spreading across the African continent. At dusk there was to be a church ceremony and the greatest fireworks display the world had ever seen. January 1, 1904 was set to be the date in which the new empire was to be officially declared. That day came and went. Nothing happened. The emperor’s throne remained empty on the island of Les Minquies, awaiting the return of Jacques Lebaudy.

    His family felt humiliated by his delusions of grandeur. They quietly shipped him away to America to live in a Long Island mansion where he would pace the halls and grounds in his uniform, covered in thick rows of medals and military insignia.

    Then something started to irritate the old nut. The age of automobiles had arrived and a woman who lived nearby had taken to cruising the roads at 15 or 20 miles per hour in her newly bough car. The sound of the motor drove Lebaudy crazy and what could possibly have been America’s first conflict over noise pollution resulted in him paying his workers to put bales of hay and tree trunks across the road to prevent any further traffic. The lady driver called the sheriff who showed up on horseback. Then Jacques Lebaudy emerged, himself on horseback and clad in full royal regalia, from the surrounding forest. He claimed responsibility for the mess and the sheriff commanded him to clear it up. Lebaudy refused and tore off across a meadow on his horse. The sheriff summoned more police. After seeing Lebaudy at a distance, they chased after him and a pursuit involving pistol shots began. Jacques Lebaudy’s horse eventually showed signs of exhaustion and fatigue then finally refused to run any more. Lebaudy dismounted and surrendered. The police beat him up and hauled him off to jail.

    Jacques Lebaudy’s wife pleaded with the police to release him on the ground of his eccentric and erratic behavior being symptoms of mental illness. They agreed and took him to the nearby Knickerbocker sanitarium. They put him in a special wing of the psychiatric ward which was reserved for the highest political functionaries; it is rumored that the Emperor Of the Sahara had an easy time making friends with the King of China and the Queen of Africa.

    But a goof emperor can not be kept down for long. The quick-witted Lebaudy one day pretended to be asleep; his guardians stopped paying attention to him and he got up and jumped out the window. He ran all the way home. Nobody pursed him and nothing else was heard from him until one day the police were called Jacques Lebaudy was found dead with several gunshot wounds. As the story goes, upon his retirn hom, Lebaudy spent several weeks trying to seduce his daughter. She continuously refused his advances until one day he physically assaulted her and tried to rape her. His wife then pulled out her gun and shot him dead.

    So was Jacques Lebaudy, Emperor Of the Sahara insane? Probably but then again, the French colonial era produced a lot of adventurers who sought to conquer foreign lands, often with a head full  of bizarre fantasies about what life outside Europe was like. Turn-of-the-century England also had its share of eccentrics and an emperor living the Savoy Hotel probably attracted a great deal of attention but in the end, he probably seemed like just one more weird man in a society full of weird men. And America certainly attracted its share of strange characters. Maybe Lebaudy was little more than a trust-find baby who had lived a sheltered life in an aristocratic chateau. Maybe he read too many books and never spent enough time around other people. Maybe the other family members he knew were just as eccentric as him. Maybe  he had too much money and too little common sense. Maybe, at the age of 40, Jacques Lebaudy started having an unusually bizarre mid-life crisis. In any case, there were certainly enough people who were blinded enough by his money to overlook his oddness and believe in his grandiose fantasies. Maybe they were the ones who were crazy.

Strauss, Erwin S. How to Start Your Own Country. Paladin Press, 1999.

https://grimhistory.blogspot.com/

[cockslutpadalecki]

Ah awesome! Feel free to play around with it. Negan notices one of his Saviours is wound up and not herself and bugs her for a reason why she's so off her game. She is super sexually frustrated and tries to avoid Negan until he bugs her so much she blabs and maybe he offers to help? I got an image of him laying her back against his chest and rubbing her off while whispering dirty things in her ear, calling her a good girl then boom 🔥🔥 frustration over. Wham bam thank you Daddy

Sexual Frustration

Words: 1397.

Warnings: female masturbation.

A/N: I seriously hope this is okay! I kinda thought it was only gonna be a couple of paragraphs but as usual I got a little carried away… so, here you go - my very first request! Not beta’ed so all errors, spelling mistakes and general bullshit are entirely mine. While likes are gold, feedback is golden.Masterlists/taglists can be found in my bio.

You sit at the Saviors’ table, hands clasped together nervously as you glance side wards to look at your leader. You’re always nervous as shit whenever he asks you in here, afraid that you’ve stepped out of line or pissed him off without even realising it but the smirk on his face tells you otherwise. “So, you gonna tell me what’s crawled up your ass lately?” Negan asks stepping to his feet. 

Not this shit again. 

He’s been on your case for weeks and you just wish he’d let it drop. He never has to worry about this sort of thing - he had the wives to run to any time his balls started twitching but you? You had to walk around with months of pent up sexual frustration sitting between your legs and you’d be damned if you were gonna fuck any of the slimy pricks who tried to hit on you as you ate your dinner. It had gotten so unbelievably bad; you had even started dreaming about Negan and sitting in front of him now made you blush. If only he knew the kinds of things your subconscious had conjured up… he’d probably enjoy them. You debate climaxing it all away every night with a quick rub of your fingers as you imagined they were Negan’s but you were too afraid that your screams would wake the entire Sanctuary. You never could keep quiet when you came. 

One day in the commissary, you spotted an old back massager and the urge to swipe it overwhelmed you to the point you even tried to source some batteries for the damn thing but they were all as dead as a fucking walker. Just your luck. Sooner or later, you were gonna have to get your rocks off one way or another otherwise you may as well join the undead. 

“Nothing. I’m fine.” You reply with a tone resembling that of a scolded child. 

“Bull-fuckin’-shit.” Negan utters as he reaches you, placing a hand on the table and leans towards you. His presence usually makes you uncomfortable to an extent but now, it’s an entirely different sort of uncomfortable. You shift slowly in your seat, the seam in your shorts rubbing up against you clit and it takes every ounce of resolve not to gasp at the sensation. 

“You’ve been avoiding me for days, you’re snappy as shit and on that last scavenge you were about as useful as a fuckin’ condom with a hole in it. Tell me what the fuck is going on. You on the rag or some shit?”

“No I’m fucking not.” You snap and really wish you hadn’t. He slams his palm onto the table and the noise echoes through your body right down into your groin and stays there.

“That’s it. That’s the shit I’m talking about right there - that short fuckin’ tone. I ain’t gonna tolerate that shit darlin’. None of my men talk to me like that, what makes you think you fuckin’ can?” 

You stare straight ahead now suddenly terrified. A simple talking to from your boss could develop into you getting your head caved in all because you couldn’t hold your tongue. You don’t care any more - the second you get out of here, you’re gonna storm to your room and climax your way to the best orgasm of your fucking life and you’re not gonna care who hears you screaming. 

If you get out of here. “Now you’re gonna fuckin’ tell me what has got you on the verge of a suicide mission or so help me fuckin’ God.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It fuckin’ does.” 

“Negan, I swear-”

“I’m not letting you leave until you fuckin’ tell me.”

“Just drop it-”

“Tell me.”

“I’m frustrated okay?!” You scream as you turn your head to face him. The heat has risen into your cheeks making you hot and your breathing ragged. You can feel the wetness in your knickers starting to moisten the fabric of your shorts and you’re afraid it’ll start to pool in your chair. Negan’s face softens as he lets out a small laugh.“Frustrated? Like, annoyed?” He asks inquisitively. You watch as he alters his position, lifting himself to lean a hand against the back of the chair next to you. You notice his slender fingers curl around the top of it and your pussy clenches involuntarily. 

“Um, I guess- maybe more like, I don’t know how to-” You glance away awkwardly as his smile widens, finally connecting the dots.

“Holy fuckin’ shit, are you horny?” He can’t hide his amusement and you want the ground to swallow you up. You twitch in your seat as you refuse to meet Negan’s stare. “All this fuckin’ time you’ve been hankerin’ for a fuck?” He laughs loudly. 

“I mean, I wouldn’t have put it quite like that…” 

“You desperate to ride some dick?” He pushes himself off the chair and comes to stand behind you. 

“Why you gotta make everything so crude?” You tut loudly while you feel his hands grip the top of the chair behind you as your eyes close, wishing with everything inside you that he was the other side of the room. Having him this close is starting to make your clit pulse. You sense him lean down as his words whistles past your ear.

“Want to ride mine?” 

“Are you joking-” You cut your sentence short as you feel his hand slowly slide down over your arm to the waistband of your shorts.

“I’ve never been more serious princess.” You breath out deeply tilting your head back against Negan’s shoulder as his lips kiss just below your ear. 

“If you don’t want it, stop me.” He whispers as his fingers push their way under the material and walk one at a time down your flesh till they’re at the apex of your thighs. “Otherwise I’m not gonna stop till you’re coming all over my fuckin’ fingers.” They slip further down, sliding through your folds as Negan chuckles.“Damn doll, you’re horny as shit.” 

Your thighs clench as his fingers brush your clit and you open your legs to allow him better access. He continues to lean over you, nibbling gently at your neck as he begins to rub at your bead. You let out a heavy gasp before biting down onto your lip to hold in the scream you want to release. They start to pick up speed as you grasp tightly at the arms of the chair you’re sat in.“You like that sweetheart? Am I hitting the fuckin’ spot?” He breathes heavily, his lips hooking up into a lazy smirk. 

“Mm-hm.” You reply as the tingling in your clit builds almost instantly. It’s been months, you’re not going to be here long. “I’d prefer your dick but I know we’re pressed for time.” 

“Ohh, I never knew you were such a naughty fuckin’ girl.” Negan chuckles softly.

“This? Tip of the iceberg.” 

“I think you just became my new favourite fuckin’ person.” He whispers in your ear, his fingers matching every word. You sink lower into the chair as your knees begin to shake and you can feel yourself on the very edge of your orgasm. It feels fucking sensational.

“Then make me fucking come.” You beg breathlessly as he gathers up his pace rubbing you furiously as your frenzied climax meets you and pushes you over the edge, enveloping you in the most violent peak you think you’ve ever had. You grip your bottom lip between your teeth as you tense beneath Negan’s fingers as your juices slather his hand. Your body goes limp in the chair as he slips his hand out of your shorts and brings them up to his mouth, sucking deeply. 

“Shit girl you taste fuckin’ divine.” He breathes heavy in your ear. You sit there a while as Negan leans back up and walks back to his chair, your eyes catching the very evident bulge in his pants. You don’t even mind that he’ll probably go and fuck one of his wives later - you got yours… for now. The aftershocks of your orgasm still shooting flames through your groin and thighs, you manage to compose yourself and start to stand slowly as Negan paces back towards you with a small smirk on his face.“Still hankerin’ for that fuck?”

***

Tags: @8vampiregirl8 - @217fanfic - @alyisdead - @ask-kakashihatake - @beegnc - @ccordiform - @curlyhairedblueeyedangel - @dusty-cookie - @daddys-girl5683 - @daisysouthmoore - @dany-rainbow-starfish - @emoryhemsworth - @edgaralllenpoop - @edgy-losers-lol - @fleurydelacoury - @godaddy-winchester - @gutterwatch - @gublerandbands - @haleyea - @ibelongtonegan - @i-am-negan-trash - @isayweallgetdrunk - @kazzieglove - @jdmsgal - @jeffreydeanneganstrash - @jeffreydeanneganstrashreadthings - @lovesjdm - @letsby - @lilymdonaldson - @londoncapsule - @lambe-rt - @labyrinthofheartagrams - @metalzombiemiss - @marriedtonegan - @mal4789 - @mdxxr - @mega-supernatural-writings - @negans-network - @negan2point0 - @nixiewaterlily - @negan-the-cat - @negan-is-me-bitch - @negvnsbombshell - @originalwinchestervamp - @olivicmunnn - @ohsosmutty - @okaysobands - @prettyepiic - @pseudonymfox - @pelctiersnegan - @purplemuse - @rasax45 - @seraphimkouenki - @stevenvrogers - @superblychaoticdragon - @shadesofarrogance - @sarahlee8793 - @toxic-ink - @to-pick-ourselves-up-7 - @twdwalker5 - @the-purple-dragon - @taylatooturnt - @topthis808 - @tcquotes - @vesper-lou - @wandering-rosebud - @warriorqueen1991 - @wonderstruckbyfandoms - @xxx-unknownuser-xxx

* those in bold and struck through, I couldn’t tag. If you’d like to be added to any of my tag lists (Negan/Supernatural/Forever), don’t hesitate to drop me an ask x

[yehet-me-up]

Playing Forward

Pairing: JB/Im Jaebum x Reader (female)

Word Count: 3,348

Rating: (F) for fluff

Summary: College!AU, Jock!AU. After a flying soccer ball knocks you over on your morning run, the player behind it aims for your heart as well.

Part 1 of the GOT7 colors series of oneshots! 🌈 Color: Green.

Music pounds in your ears as you sprint around the track, furiously swinging your arms. Legs straining, you round the turn, approaching the invisible spot on the track you’d marked as your starting place. The smooth sounds of James Blake carry through the headphones you wear, so incongruous with the frantic motion of your body as you run.

Ten more strides to the finish. Five. Three, two, one. You cross the imaginary finish line and stutter to a stop, breathing in deeply as you try to slow your heart rate and catch your breath. Quickly pulling your arm up to look at your Fitbit, you check the time.

One mile - nine minutes, seventeen seconds. You huff out a laugh, dropping your hand to your waist as you slowly start your cool down lap around the track. It’s not as fast as you like, but you’re pleased at the progress anyway. The endorphins flowing through you make you almost giddy with happiness, enjoying the exercise that’s slowly becoming a regular part of your morning routine.

Finally looking up from the track, you take in the scenery. The college’s sports field is lit by the early Friday morning sun. The dew on the track and the field it encircles is evaporating, creating little rainbows in the air. The rich green of the turf field shines, still damp from the heavy rain last night. The stadium, usually packed on busy game nights, is quiet save for a few athletes running up and down the stairs. At least, you assume it’s normally packed; you’ve never been inside for a game before. You’ve only heard the loud cheering from within on your way back to your dorm from late nights in the research lab.

Your breathing slows as you come around the second bend, sighing with pleasure at the satisfying feeling of exertion in your limbs. After a long first month of classes, labs, and hours spent at your internship, you began pushing yourself to get out in the mornings to run. Or at least, to jog. Anything to get your tired body moving, to give your mind a break from the busyness of your junior year and to ward off the malaise that inevitably came when fall made the sun rise later and set earlier.

After a lap of easy walking you pick up the pace, settling into an steady jog, planning to do a gentle mile and a half or so before heading back to the dorm to wash up before your first class. There’s a few other runners out on the track with you this morning. A pair of girls in sweatpants and messy buns, laughing together as they jog, and a few older runners, probably professors or grad students.

A group of men are making their way to the middle of the field, carrying mesh bags of soccer balls. They stretch and start doing warm up drills, you notice in your peripheral vision as you jog. They are all fit and good looking in that clean-cut, All-American way, joking with one another as they practice. They wear similar outfits; slim fitting track pants or purple and gold shorts, white tank tops or black sleeveless shirts with slits under the arms, revealing large swaths of toned muscle.

The song in your headphones switches up to an energetic techno track and you pick up your stride. A few minutes later as you’re winding down your workout, an electronic beep comes through the headphones and you pull out your phone, groaning when you see it only has 3% battery life left. You must have forgotten to charge it when you passed out after coming home last night from a study session.

You hear a muffled cry from the direction of the field, a raised voice above the music in your ears. You turn your head quickly to find the source of the commotion. In the seconds between noticing the soccer ball flying at you and it hitting you squarely in the chest you desperately try to turn out of the way. But it moves too fast for you to get very far and with a whoosh of air out of your lungs you fall towards the ground.

You wince as your butt hits the track, jarring you. Your headphones pop out of your ears as your phone falls out of your pocket and off to the side. You catch yourself on your elbows, thinking in a rush that you’re grateful you wore the long-sleeved exercise shirt today.

Dazed, you sit there for a moment, shaking your head. You bend forward, resting your arms on your knees, stretching the muscles, confirming that you’re unharmed. Bruised maybe, and you’re sure that your ass it going to hurt tomorrow, but thankfully not injured. Male voices are calling out from the field. A chorus of “dude, what was that aim?” and “you’re supposed to hit on girls, not actually hit them with stuff.”

Looking up you see one of the players sprinting toward you, the rest of the team paused in their scrimmage behind him. As he approaches, an apologetic look on his handsome face, you can’t help but notice his body. Toned muscles strain through the thin fabric of the exercise pants he wears. Long, lean sides and muscular arms exposed by the slits in his shirt. His black hair is heavy with sweat, brushing back and forth across his forehead as he runs toward you.

Even if you weren’t reeling from your fall, you think to yourself that you might be stunned just from how attractive he is.

He reaches you and crouches down next to you, eyes roaming your body, trying to assess the damage. “I am so sorry,” he starts emphatically, his dark eyes fixed on yours, his breathing still rapid from the game he’d been playing. “I blocked the ball to the side and it hit my foot at an odd angle. I swear it wasn’t intentional. Are you all right?” he asks anxiously.

You nod. “I’m fine. I just wasn’t prepared to encounter any flying objects on my morning run,” you say, teasing.  

“You sure you’re all right?” he presses, standing up and holding out his hands to help you up. 

You reassure him that you’re just fine, slipping your hands into his larger, rougher ones and letting him pull you up. You’re both still breathing deeply, and you can feel the heat radiating off his body at his close proximity. In the morning light his brown eyes take on an almost amber tone, striking as they meet yours.

After a moment he breaks the silence. “Let me make it up to you. Can I buy you coffee sometime?” he asks rapidly, looking hopeful. 

If he was just being polite, you would have waved him off, saying not to worry about it. But there’s an appraising look in his eyes as he takes in your body clad in your close-fitting workout clothes, pausing for a beat on your breasts, your legs. You can’t deny you’re attracted to him, and it has been forever since you made time to go on a date.

You nod. “All right, that sounds fair,” you say, smirking at him. He pats his pockets, as if trying to find his phone. With a look back at the distant end of the field you see a haphazard pile of bags and jackets. He looks down and finds your phone on the ground, and bends to pick it up. “How about I give you my number?” he says handing it to you.

“Sounds good,” you say and hit the button to unlock your phone, but it does nothing. Pursuing your lips you try again, confused that it’s not lighting up. For a moment you worry that the fall broke your phone, but then you remember that the battery was almost out a few minutes ago. “Shoot, my battery’s dead,” you say, groaning and shake your head.

“How about we pick a time and a place to meet,” he offers. “Let’s go old school,” he says with a lopsided, boyish grin.

“Hmm… how about Parnassus Café at ten on Sunday?” you suggest, naming your favorite little coffee shop on campus, hidden in the basement of the art building.

“Perfect. I’ll be there. What do you take?” he asks. His teammates start calling out from behind him, shouting sarcastic versions of Get a room already! and he turns and holds up a finger, telling them he needs another minute.

“Just a chai tea latte for me,” you say, turning to begin the walk back to your dorm room. “See you Sunday, champ.”

“See you then, gorgeous,” he says with a wink, and starts running back to the scrimmage.

You drag yourself out of bed Sunday morning, yawning as you go about your morning routine. The dorm is quiet as it only is on Sunday mornings, when everyone is wrapped up in bed, sleeping off the night’s activities or catching up on sleep. You stand in front of your closet, debating. Finally you settle on slim fitting jeans, a black v-neck shirt, and your favorite olive green jacket with a faux fur hood. Casual, yet flattering. You gather your hair up into a low ponytail and swipe on some light mascara.

As you approach Parnassus you see a man standing out front, holding two to-go cups. He’s wearing a cozy-looking blue sweater, his dark hair brushed back from his face; stylish black rimmed glasses perch on his nose. With a start you realize it’s the soccer stud. He looks so different off the field you hardly recognized him. He’s just as handsome as he was yesterday, only with a completely different vibe. When he notices you standing there his face cracks into a wide grin.

“Hey there, gorgeous,” he says and hands you the cup. You smile at the nickname.

“Hey there yourself, champ,” you reply, wrapping your hands around the warm cup.

“Well, thanks for the coffee. See you later,” you say brightly and turn to leave. A shocked expression comes across his face and you smother a giggle.

“Wait,” he says, reaching over to put a gentle hand on your arm. “You’re not going to even give me a chance?” he asks, his face light with suppressed laughter.

“Ohhh, you actually wanted to hang out?” you say, grinning, drawing out the words. He lets out a laugh, a pleasant tenor sound, and you laugh with him.

“Yes, I do,” he says, returning his gaze to yours, his expression turning intent.

You duck your head for a moment, pleasure coursing through your body at his obvious interest in you. You would have pegged him to be the “hit it and quit it” kind of jock, but you’re pleasantly surprised. 

“So, want to take a walk through the quad?” you ask, taking a sip of your delicious drink.

“Sound perfect,” he says, and he motions you forward ahead of him as you take the stairs back to ground level.

The campus is gorgeous in the fall, the plentiful trees on campus turning vibrant shades of red and yellow. When you exit the building he falls into step beside you, staying close. “So, I take it you’re on the soccer team?” you ask.

“Yeah, it’s my fourth year. I’m a senior,” he replies. “I play forward,” he says with a smirk.

“So I’ve noticed,” you joke with a wry grin.

He gives you a playful wink as you take the steps down into the quad, absent of it’s usual crowds of students this early in the morning. You fall into an easy back-and-forth of conversation with him. He tells you about the soccer team and you tell him about what motivated you to start running. He asks about your major and you tell him about what got you started on your Biology degree, and your desire to become a medical researcher.

“Going to save the world, huh?” he jokes, but his interest is obviously peaked. 

You turn the question back on him, and find out he’s a sustainable design major, interested in working in city planning to come up with affordable housing solutions. He speaks passionately about an internship he did freshman year that sparked his passion to create safe, accessible housing available to all. His soccer scholarship keeps him busy between classes and volunteering, but he says he loves the challenge.

“Who’s trying to save the world now?” you tease, even as you’re drawn in by his earnestness, and the cute way he uses his hands to emphasize his points.

As you walk laps around the large paved quad you learn that you share an interest in British comedy films and street tacos, and that he’s good friends with one of your labmates this semester. He launches off on a long story of the time that they almost got arrested together in high school, trying to figure out how to rig up a fireworks display for their friend’s sister who was stuck at home sick on the 4th of July. That in turn makes you recount a hilarious experiment a few weeks ago where the guy in question had slipped in a dissection and spilled squid samples all over the lab floor.

Eventually your rumbling stomach makes you realize it’s lunch time. Looking at your watch you’re bewildered by the fact that almost two hours have already passed; it hasn’t felt like more than fifteen minutes. You want to keep talking with him and venture a guess he’d like to as well. 

“So, how about we get lunch? This time it’s on me,” you ask, carefully watching his face for any sign that he wants to leave.

“Excellent idea,” he replies easily. “I know just the place.” 

You walk a winding route to the small Italian restaurant on campus. Cheap, big portions, and delicious baked lasagna; the perfect place for two college students. The two of you are so lost in conversation that you hardly break the flow as you get seated, quickly scan the menu, and place your orders.

Long after you’ve eaten and the waitress has cleared your plates and run your card, you’re still talking. His easy laugh, his obvious intelligence, and his warm eyes, appreciatively watching you from behind his glasses; everything about him is drawing you in. A while later a muted buzzing sounds from his pocket. He pulls out his phone.

“Sup?” he says into the phone once he sees who is calling, hitting the speaker phone button.

A loud, urgent male voice comes out. “Dude, where the frick are you? I’ve been texting you for like, half an hour.”

He wrinkles his brow in confusion. “What do you mean? Where am I supposed to be?”

“Umm, you idiot. It’s Sunday? The game starts in half an hour and no one has seen you. Get your ass over here,” the voice insists and he checks the time on the phone. It’s 4:30. His body goes rigid with shock.

“Oh, crap. I’ll be right there,” he says and rubs a hand over his face.

“I’ll keep Sully off you, just hurry up!” the voice says and the line goes dead.

“We’ve got a game at five tonight, I guess I lost track of time,” he says, giving you a rueful smile.

“Yeah, I can’t believe how late it is already. Don’t let me keep you,” you say, grabbing your purse and quickly signing the receipt. You’re acutely aware that this date, or whatever it is, is now at the point where one of you would make the executive decision of setting up another one. But he surprises you yet again.

“Have you been to a game before? I’d love to have you there,” he says with a sweet smile.

“No, I haven’t. Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to get in your way,” you reply.

“Not at all. Besides, with you there it will give me extra incentive to show off,” he says with a wink.

“All right, then. Let’s do it,” you say, beaming at him.

He reaches out to grab your hand, moving to the door of the restaurant. You hitch your purse higher on your shoulder as the two of you take off running across campus toward the stadium.

The stands are indeed packed, as you assumed they would be. The soccer team is ranked in the top ten in the nation, according to the girl next to you. Stephanie? Melanie? You can’t quite remember her name among the several girls you were introduced to in the “friends and family” section in the front row behind the team’s bench, where your date insisted you hang out.

She’s so sweet during the game, pointing out all the players, explaining their positions. She’s dating Daniel Sullivan, Sully, the captain of the team, “He’s a senior too, like JB,” she says. When you realize she’s referring to the guy you’ve been out with all day, you laugh to yourself. In all the talking you’d done, you’d never introduced yourselves.

It’s a close game, the rival team scores a point early after a miscommunication had two defenders both tied up on the other side of the goal. In the 38th minute of the game Sully manages to get the ball into the bottom corner of the goal off a corner kick. Caught up in the excitement, you scream right along with the girl next to you, hugging her back when she wraps an arm around you.

The minutes tick down and the team calls a timeout, running over to the sidelines to huddle up and discuss. JB looks incredibly hot, you think to yourself, his shirt damp with sweat, his broad chest on display as he stands his hands on his hips. When they break the huddle you call out, “Go get ‘em, JB!” He turns to you and blows you a dramatic kiss that makes you laugh.

Thirty seconds on the clock and the ball is in play. Sully breaks away and moves up the field toward the opposing team’s goal, JB tears down the field opposite him. A pass back to the midfielder. With a quick stop and turn, JB’s past his defender, breaking toward the goal. The midfielder heaves a huge kick, sending the ball into an arch. Leaping into the air, JB whips his head to meet the ball, sending it into the top corner of the goal, just out of reach of the goalie’s hands.

The buzzer announcing the end of the game sounds, but it’s hardly heard over the cheering of the crowd. You grin as you watch him get swept up into a hug by his teammates, everyone smacking him on the back and rubbing his head. You’re pulled into another joyful hug by Melanie, you clarified her name during a snack run at halftime. After a few minutes JB turns to look at you, smiling widely, and starts running over.

He reaches you in a rush, leaning against the low dividing wall. Your hands come out to hold onto his shoulders so he doesn’t fall forward, both grinning excitedly at each other.

“Congratulations, stud,” you say cheerfully. His gaze drops to your lips and then back up to your eyes, darkening as they seem to decide on something impulsively.

His hands slide up to cup your face as he leans down to you, his eyes searching yours for any sign of objection. Your hands tighten on his shoulders and you give him a broad smile. Satisfied, he closes the distance and kisses you in earnest. 

His passion catches you off guard but you catch up quickly, burying your hands in his sweaty hair to hold onto him. You taste the sweat on him as his lips work against yours. He smiles against your lips and his eyes are bright when he pulls back, keeping you close.

“So, can I buy you dinner? It’s on me,” he says with a grin.

You nod, smiling back, and grab his jersey in one hand to drag him in for another kiss.

[theforeverhiatus]

Leap of Faith || oneshot

Read on AO3

Words: 3708

Summary: 

A oneshot in which Phil was due back two hours ago, and Dan is beside himself with worry. His concern only intensifies when a police car arrives outside of his flat.

 Warnings: angst, strong suicide theme, swearing

Rating: 17+

Notes: 

I don’t want to say whether or not Phil lives in this story incase some people would like to read it without knowing what’s going to happen, but if you are someone who would like to know, then you can find out here before reading. If the link isn’t working, you can always message me and I’ll let you know!

Apologies to mobile readers if there isn’t a read more. I’m still learning...

Dan glanced at the clock. 9.30pm. It was a cold night in the middle of January, and the temperature had already fallen below zero. The wind howled through the gaps in the windows, and tiny drops of rain had begun to fall on the glass. It was dark outside, and though Dan hated the dark, he couldn’t bring himself to switch on the lights in the lounge; how could he sit in such brightness and warmth when his boyfriend was outside in the brutal London weather, missing? Dan wondered if the terrible weather only foreshadowed an equally terrible situation. Phil, his boyfriend of 8 years, had been due back at 7.30pm after a meeting at the BBC, and as the night wore on, Dan’s worry only intensified. It was entirely out of character for Phil not to call if he was going to be late, or at the very least send a rushed text. He’d dialled Phil’s phone seven times, and each call was only answered with a series of short bleeps before going to voicemail. This is Phil’s phone. Leave a message after the roar! Roar!!! Dan began pacing - through the hallway, to the kitchen and back to the lounge again. He couldn’t sit still with so much anxiety raging inside of him. He had to feel like he was doing something.  Phil had been quiet before leaving, but nothing struck Dan as particularly out of the ordinary. He knew his boyfriend had taken his phone because Phil had texted him only minutes after leaving the apartment to say he loved him. Dan had smiled like a lovestruck teenager before tossing his phone on the sofa and going to make them both dinner. He’d leave Phil’s in the microwave for when he got home. The line rang, so Dan knew that Phil’s phone couldn’t have run out of battery, though surely Phil would have used the office phone at the BBC if he couldn’t use his own? The BBC. Dan’s eyes widened as he realised that one of his friends may know something of Phil’s whereabouts. He unlocked his phone again with his thumb and ran through the contacts until he reached Nick Grimshaw’s name. Nick answered almost immediately, his voice light and unconcerned. ”Hey, Dan, buddy!” he exclaimed enthusiastically. “This isn’t like you, mate!” It was true - Dan rarely called anybody, choosing email over actually talking to someone personally, a hallmark of his anxiety. He would even answer calls in an Indian accent to ward off cold callers and potential members of his audience who could have sourced his number somewhere.

”Nick, is the meeting over yet? Phil’s not home,” Dan mumbled quickly. “He was due back at 7.30, he said he’d be back at-,” ”Dan, slow down,” Nick interrupted. “What meeting?” Dan’s heart skipped a beat as adrenaline and fear coursed through his veins. ”The one at the BBC. Today. Ummm, I think it was about Phil appearing on some show or another? An upcoming DJ’s show?” ”I don’t know of any meeting, and I haven’t seen Phil, but I’m just about to leave now myself, so I can check the sign-in book on the way past reception?” Nick asked him, clearly beginning to understand the weight of the situation. Everybody knew Phil wouldn’t do something like this. ”Please,” Dan replied. “Could you text me as soon as you do? I’m going to try his phone again.” Nick assured him that he’d go straight down to the reception desk and take a look at the book before hanging up the phone. Before Dan had even managed to find Phil’s name in his contacts, the windows of his lounge lit up with red and blue; a police car had stopped outside of the apartment and he heard the deafening sound of car doors slamming. He talked himself out of believing it was anything to do with him, and continued to scroll through his contacts until a message from Nick dropped down from the top of the screen. ‘No sign of Phil today on the list. Let me know when you find him and kick his butt for me.’

Dan froze. His doorbell chimed and he resisted the urge to throw up all over his feet. His eyes glazed over, and his movements became mechanical as he inched towards the door, muscles aching with the amount of adrenaline pumping through his bloodstream. His surroundings became suddenly blurry; everything spinning as he struggled to find the balance to walk across the room.

”PC Holland,” the first policeman announced. His face was giving away nothing as he held his identification badge up for Dan to peer at, as though Dan could concentrate on anything other than not wetting himself in fear. “Are you Daniel Howell?” Dan nodded and opened his mouth to formulate his response, but the words died in his throat. ”I understand you live with a Philip Lester?” PC Holland continued. Dan noticed his use of present tense, trying desperately to cling onto any shred of assurance that Phil was in fact still alive. He could deal with anything; brain injury, coma, loss of limbs…just not death. ”Boyfriend,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Just tell me. Is he d-dead?” Dan’s eyes were focussed intently on PC Holland, trying to read his facial expression for any hint towards Phil’s safety. ”He’s on Waterloo Bridge.” ”Oh thank God he’s okay,” Dan exhaled a long breath that he hadn’t realised he was holding. “He is okay, right?” ”He’s threatening to jump,” the policewoman to the left of PC Holland explained. Her voice was nondescript, but Dan noticed the slant of her eyebrows - pity. “PC Loren.” She held out her arm and rested her hand on Dan’s elbow in an attempt to steady the 6ft man swaying before her. ”No, that’s not right,” Dan replied softly. “Phil wouldn’t do that. That’s not my Phil, you’ve got the wrong one.” Every inch of his skin was prickling with goosebumps as he tried to convince himself that this was some sort of prank; a viewer who held a grudge against them must have arranged this. His vision began to cloud as he watched the mouth of PC Holland form words that he couldn’t make out over the ringing in his ears. The policeman was gesturing towards some shoes lying at the bottom of the stairs, but Dan couldn’t compute what it was that was expected of him. PC Loren slipped inside of the doorway and picked up Phil’s white vans, handing them to Dan before turning to the coat rack and choosing his black parka. Dan couldn’t find it within him to argue that the shoes didn’t belong to him, and slipped them onto his feet. His head felt as though it were underwater, but he tried to pull his mind back into the real world, asking the big question flooding his brain. “He’s not going to jump, is he?” PC Loren was quiet for a moment before carefully choosing her words. ”I hope not.” The car ride to the bridge was silent; the tension almost audible. Tears formed in Dan’s eyes as he thought about how he hadn’t even texted Phil back to tell him he loved him too. He blinked furiously, willing himself to remain calm. His thoughts were wildly speculating, hopeful that this wasn’t as it seemed; the man standing on the bridge was not in fact his boyfriend, and that a confused Phil would message him any moment asking where Dan was and apologising for getting home late. Nausea rose through Dan’s body, but he ignored it, head spinning with terror. Red and blue was flashing all around him, parting the traffic like Moses and the Red Sea. The radios on the belts of the officers sitting in the front were chattering with serious business and descriptions of thieves, gang members, and a missing 12 year old boy. Dan noted that he hadn’t once heard the mention of any bridges, or 30 year old men. The car sped through the streets, rushing through the city centre until they eventually reached the bridge. Dan let out a quiet exclamation of fear as he saw the scene unfolding in front of them. The bridge was cordoned off, a tall grey-haired female officer was standing at the barriers waving to the car, signalling them to drive forward right past the cordon. Dan tried to open the door, quickly realising it was child-locked. The older woman who had directed them to their stop opened it, leaning down into the doorway. PC Holland and PC Loren exited the car and stood beside her, asking her for an update and plan of action. Dan tried to stand up but was gently held down by the new policewoman who explained she needed to talk to him briefly before he bolted towards Phil. Dan couldn’t comprehend how his boyfriend stood just metres away from him feeling suicidal, yet he was forced to remain seated. ”Two seconds, Mr Howell. I need to tell you what’s going on first,” she told him in a strong cockney twang. “There’s a negotiator up there with Phil as we speak, but Phil is very distressed and has made it very clear he doesn’t want anybody getting too close. If you run up to him, it increases the risk of him falling. He’s been asking for you, which is why we’ve brought you.” The rain continued to fall around them, only worsening the situation and endangering Phil further. “His bag was found discarded down the road. It had his phone inside, so we managed to contact his parents who were listed as emergency contacts. They are understandably distraught, and we have an officer with them, but they have advised us that you’re our best hope and requested we contact you.” She moved out of the way, finally allowing Dan to stand up. Any thoughts that this wasn’t Phil soon disappeared when he focussed his eyes on the man standing on the wrong side of the railings, head tilted back, sobbing uncontrollably. “Approach him slowly. Talk clearly. And Daniel, if it comes to the worst…do not blame yourself.” Dan began to shuffle forward. He felt as though he were moving in a dream, a nightmare. The group of police officers walked halfway with him before stopping short and giving him reassuring nods. PC Loren leant forwards and gave his shoulder a squeeze. Dan glanced back at her, fear evident in his brown eyes, before continuing to very slowly edge forward. There was a blond haired man, who could have only been around 22/23 years old standing around 5 metres from Phil. Dan briefly considered how someone so young could possibly deal with such a situation effectively, and fought the urge to run at him and push him away. The man spotted him and turned back to Phil to continue talking. Dan heard his name, and Phil slowly turned around to look directly into Dan’s eyes, his mouth whispering “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Dan continued to take small, tentative steps until he was level with the negotiator, a man who quickly introduced himself as Steve before returning to his soothing tones encouraging Phil to breathe, reminding him that he wasn’t coming any closer. Dan wanted to shout at him, furious that nobody had simply grabbed Phil and dragged him back over to the right side of the bridge. It was then that he realised that it would only take a split second for Phil to let go; his feet hanging over the concrete edge of the bridge. ”Dan, stop!” Phil shouted as Dan reached roughly the 3 metre mark. Dan instantly came to a standstill. His heart felt as though it were in his throat, hammering with an all consuming fear that at any moment, he was about to watch his boyfriend fall to his death. ”Phil,” he whispered. “Phil, I’m here.” Dan knew that he had to hold it together, and taking a deep breath, he willed his mind to de-fog itself enough to allow himself to think. “I’m here baby. I won’t come any closer until you say it’s okay.” ”I can’t!” Phil sobbed. “I can’t, Dan! I can’t do it! I can’t!” He wailed, his words catching as he fought to speak through his tears. “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t” Phil’s eyes scrunched up as they continued to stream, his entire being radiating distress. Dan inhaled sharply, struggling to watch the very man he loved more than anyone else in the world suffer so deeply. ”Philly, what do you need me to do? Anything. Anything you need, I’ll do it. I can’t let you do this, my love.” ”Don’t you dare come any closer,” Phil shouted. “DO NOT COME CLOSER.” His hand slipped on the railing which was wet with rain and Dan closed his eyes, squeezing them shut tightly until he heard Phil swear in a moment of panic. He could stand there all day and all night if that’s what he had to do, but there was no way he could watch Phil tumble into the murky depths below. ”What can’t you do, Phil?” ”Everything,” Phil cried, shaking his head. “Waking up, breathing, existing.” Dan swallowed his fear and summoned the courage to continue. Despite the absolute panic he felt, right down to his core, he continued to breathe in, out, until he could keep talking. ”I’ll stand here with you all night if that’s what it takes. Phil, I know you’re hurting right now…and I know carrying on must feel impossible, but you’re not going to be alone. I promise you that.” Dan watched as Phil’s movements became shakier and shakier as he started to mumble to himself. Phil stared down at the lapping water below, contemplating his options. “I don’t want to die,” he whispered so quietly that Dan almost didn’t hear him. ”You don’t have to…” Dan murmured back softly. “You don’t have to, Philly. Do you trust me?” ”I trust you with everything I have,” Phil cried, his tears slowing ever so slightly. “But I don’t see any other way out.” Phil’s confidence began to subside as he considered the fact the jumping now would mean his boyfriend watching him die. He knew in that moment that he couldn’t put Dan through that. Even if he deserved it, Dan didn’t. ”Let me come closer,” Dan continued. “Let me hold you.” Phil was quiet as Dan told him gently that he was going to take another few steps forward. When Phil didn’t say anything, Dan experimentally shuffled forwards, slowly, slowly, until he stood close enough to Phil to reach out to him. “Don’t leave me,” Dan whispered softly from behind. “Please.”

Phil opened his mouth to speak, then promptly closed it again as though carefully thinking through what he was about to say. “Okay.” Dan let out a sigh of relief as he snaked his arms around Phil’s body, holding him so tightly that had Phil even tried to jump, he was going nowhere. Suddenly, police officers from all directions advanced on them and hauled Phil over the railings until he fell into Dan’s arms, the pair of them collapsing on the pavement. A voice beside them spoke into a radio informing all channels that Phil was safely back on the pavement. Usually, they would have handcuffed Phil for his own safety, but PC Loren held up a hand to signal the officers to stop; Dan wasn’t going to let Phil go and separating them would do absolutely nothing for the situation. Dan held his lover tightly and allowed his emotions to finally spill as he began to cry against Phil. Their tears became one, and Dan pressed his lips against the side of Phil’s head, brushing his sweaty fringe from his eyes. “I’ve got you, Phil, I’ve got you.” He rocked the man in his arms as he repeated soothing words into his ear. “I love you, I love you, I love you.” He glanced up at the officers around him and quietly asked them to inform Phil’s parents immediately. Pulling Phil further into his chest, he listened as PC Loren explained to them that Phil was going to need to go to the hospital to be evaluated by a psychiatrist before he could return home. Phil howled louder, as Dan continued to rock him, promising he’d be right be his side the whole time.

 6 hours later…

 Dan fumbled for the keys to the apartment in the pocket of his parka, his free hand tightly gripping Phil’s hand. For once, he had given not a single fuck that they had walked through London hand in hand; he had almost lost his soulmate, and he wanted nothing more than to hold his boyfriend’s hand to remind himself that this nightmare had ended, for now. Dan knew that tonight was only the very beginning of a long, long journey, and he knew he would never forget the agonising fear that Phil would be ripped from him, succumbing to the unforgiving illness he was suffering from. In that moment however, all he could concentrate on was the man standing before him, silently thanking a God he didn’t believe in that Phil was still breathing the same oxygen as him. He twisted the key in the lock and led them both into the hall, unzipping Phil’s coat and shrugging it off of his shoulders. Phil hadn’t said a single word since they’d left the hospital, walking through the streets in a daze, overwhelmed by emotion, yet paradoxically numb. Dan had allowed him the silence, understanding that perhaps Phil just needed space to breathe. He had just been very precariously balanced on the edge of a very tall bridge, after all. Dan wordlessly hung up their coats, then guided Phil to the bottom of the stairs where he sat him down and smoothly removed his shoes. Phil was staring straight ahead, not acknowledging Dan’s presence at all. Dan was incredibly worried about the man sitting before him, but he pushed his anxiety aside and managed a weak smile. “Come on, let’s get you into some cosy pyjamas, and then we can cuddle up in bed. You must be exhausted.” Phil nodded and reached for Dan’s hand.

 They wordlessly climbed the stairs, Dan telling Phil how Nick had instructed him to kick his butt for worrying everyone, but promising he wouldn’t discuss with anyone what had happened. He just wanted to fill the silence that felt even more prominent now that they were surrounded by the quiet of their apartment, as opposed to the busy London streets. When Phil made no effort to choose any pyjamas, Dan chose them for him, grabbing his cookie monster bottoms and one of their merch t-shirts. “Arms up,” he instructed, gently tugging Phil’s wet t-shirt over his head. Dan quickly changed Phil out of the wet clothes and into his pj’s before changing himself into his own.

Phil had already begun climbing into bed by the time Dan had finished, but he tucked Phil in anyway before climbing under the sheets beside him. He took him into his arms facing him, and though the light was low, he gazed into his boyfriend’s eyes, committing every inch of his face into memory. He never wanted to forget those beautiful eyes, and despite the absence of their usual glow, he could have gazed into them all day. “I forgot to text you back,” Dan mumbled into Phil’s hair. ”What?” Phil breathed, his eyes closing with exhaustion. ”I didn’t text you back when you told me you loved me.” ”Dan,” Phil curled into Dan’s touch, his hand searching for his boyfriends, which he stroked lovingly. “You have a whole lifetime to tell me that.” Dan gasped, closing his eyes as the tears began to roll down his cheeks. “And I will tell you every single day,” he vowed, tenderly placing a kiss on Phil’s lips. “I love you.”

[dearophelia]

anthem (2/3)

There’s a crack in everything. Olivia’s never asked Zaeed what he means by that, but she wants there to be a hopeful second half to the phrase. Eight months is a long time without Garrus. 

(they’re stuck, all of them; it’s hard to move forward when you can do nothing)

Previously on: Part 1

PG, this part ~7k; Olivia/Garrus, Hannah/Zaeed, Olivia+Liara friendship, Liara+Garrus friendship, Olivia+Zaeed friendship. Vague references to PTSD.

Garrus sits down in the mess opposite Ashley, datapad in hand.

“I don’t want to hear it,” she grumbles. She looks at him, deep hollows under her eyes, and sips at her coffee. After a moment, she sighs, pushes her hair out of her face, and gestures for him to go ahead.

“Long-range communication, FTL drive, stealth drive, and the main guns are all offline. They’re not…” he grasps for the colorful phrase James used, and comes up empty, “completely destroyed, but they took significant damage.”

Ashley frowns. “And we have negative repair supplies.” She sighs heavily. “What else?”

Garrus scrolls through his list. “Daniels and Donnelly have been working nonstop on EDI, but they said it’s like her program is just gone. There are also multiple severe hull breaches.” At her raised eyebrow, he explains, “From crashing into a pile of rocks.”

Ashley nods and covers a yawn. “Oh, right.”

“Slightly less destroyed:” he continues onto the next section. “Sublight engines are offline, but Tali and Adams think they’re salvageable with enough time and effort. Liara thinks navigation would probably work if we could figure out where we are,” and we sure could use Shepard for that, he adds silently. “Short-range communication is twitchy at best, and Traynor’s exact words were ‘my toothbrush has more reliable reception.’ She had a similar opinion about our long- and short-range scanners.”

She stares at him over her coffee cup. “What is working?”

“Life support.” That’s it. Ten days of diagnostics and emergency triage repairs, and the only thing they’ve managed to get working is life support. And they crashed on a planet with breathable air and drinkable water.

“Well, at least there’s that.” She takes another sip of coffee.

“And other minor systems with varying degrees of functionality.” He may not be a very good turian, and he may technically be nowhere near her chain of command, but Garrus knows how to give a complete report to his ship’s CO.

Ashley exhales slowly and closes her eyes for a moment. “How are you?” she asks quietly.

Garrus stills. They’re all feeling Shepard’s absence, and he doesn’t want to claim more grief than anyone else. But since he kept her name off the memorial board, refusing to consider her another casualty, he’s noticed most of the crew going to great lengths to avoid speaking even her name around him. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t appreciate it.

He suspects Ashley put him in charge of overseeing repairs for more than just his ability to give a report. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t appreciate that, too. For most of the day, he can throw his focus and efforts into other problems, tangible problems. Problems that are largely - ah, shattered to shit, that’s the phrase, but problems that can be solved.

It’s only the few hours before sleep, when he’s alone in their quarters with nothing to distract him, that despair tugs at the edges of his mind. He tried simply going to bed earlier, but that was worse - lying awake in their bed alone, as her scent on her pillow disappears a little more each day.

He’s taken to working his way through her extensive media library. And sleeping on the couch.

“The fish didn’t survive the impact,” Garrus says, instead of voicing just how much it hurts to not have her here. “But her hamster’s still alive.” The little guy has even started coming out of his box to sniff at his fingers when he feeds him.

Ashley nods, and takes his words as a valid answer. She reaches over the table and plucks the datapad from his hand, and scrolls through it for herself. “Let’s talk repair schedule.”

***

Thunder booms overhead and Hannah freezes. She hasn’t heard real thunder in, god, twenty years. She’s been rained on since, sure, but never with thunder and -

Lightning. She closes her eyes.

Good air in, bad air out. You’re in London. Gripping the edge of the sink until her hands hurt and her knuckles are stark white, she takes slow, even breaths to bring herself back from a cornfield twenty years ago.

Zaeed rests his hand on her hip and she opens her eyes. She stares at their reflection in the kitchen window and tries not to see ships and slavers in the clouds outside. She leans back against him as thunder crashes again, loud enough that she feels it in her chest.

“You alright?”

Her reflected self nods, but her real self answers, “No.” It’s a good answer, an honest answer. They’re both too old and been through too much crap to lie when memories creep up from where they’ve buried them deep.

He shifts, settling his arms around her waist, and brushes a kiss to her cheek. “Anything I can do?”

Find my daughter, she wants to say. Go outside in the storm and dig and dig and don’t stop until you find her. But Zaeed’s spent every day digging, alongside Wrex and Grunt and the others. She shakes her head, and links her fingers with Zaeed’s. “No,” she says again.

Zaeed gently tugs her away from the window and the storm, and toward the living room. She curls into the corner of the couch, hugging a throw pillow to her chest, as Zaeed messes with the entertainment system. They at least have power tonight, and the former residents of the apartment they’re squatting in have no shortage of television and vids they can watch.

He picks something innocuous, an old Earth black and white comedy that hasn’t aged particularly well but is decent background noise, and joins her on the couch. Hannah leans into him as the storm rages on outside and a 1950s nuclear family with sparkling wide smiles appears on the screen. Zaeed is warm and solid, and she’s felt unstable for nearly three weeks - like a sheet of paper in the storm outside, tossed around and battered, blown from one feeling to the next.

She’s alive and Zaeed’s alive and the reapers are dead. Dead and gone, save for the hulking, looming shells of their destroyers and capital ships casting long dark shadows when the sun chooses to come out.

But Olivia is missing. Hannah knows the Alliance has listed missing in action; presumed dead in her daughter’s record. And though she isn’t quite so quick to believe the worst, Hannah finds herself unwillingly moving just a little bit closer to the same conclusion with each passing day.

Zaeed presses a kiss to her temple, and Hannah sighs, trying to focus on the show. She can’t, the storm is too loud and her daughter is too missing, and so instead she curls into Zaeed and rests her head on his chest. She lets her eyes drift shut as he gently strokes his fingers across her back.

Five days later, in a rare rain-less day, Zaeed and Wrex lift a broken piece of wall in the Citadel cleanup site. They heave it into the omnigel conversion unit beside them, and bend down to lift the next piece.

Both men freeze when they see a piece of armor, with a bright purple stripe smudged with dirt and blood and oil. Zaeed kneels and wipes away a smear of mud with his thumb.

N7.

Zaeed’s stomach drops.

He looks up at Wrex, and sees his worry reflected back in the krogan’s beady red eyes. “Dig,” Zaeed orders, and radios for more krogan and a biotic assist squad.

Hannah makes three wrong turns in the hospital before finally finding the correct ward. Zaeed’s sitting on the floor halfway down the hall, opposite Wrex, who’s leaning against the wall beside Jack and Grunt. Zaeed stands as Hannah stills, unable to walk any further for what the news might be.

Nodding, Zaeed walks toward her. Hannah wraps her arms around herself and bites the inside of her cheek as Zaeed and the others blur through sudden tears.

Everything stops, except for Hannah’s loud, pounding heartbeat, and Zaeed in front of her in his muddy armor. It probably only takes him three seconds to reach her, but it feels like an excruciating eternity.

“She’s alive, Hannah,” he says.

The universe crashes into motion again so fast that Hannah loses her balance. Zaeed wraps his arms around her, holding her up as Miranda sprints past them.

***

Liara opens the battery door to a bang and a clatter, and an audible growl from somewhere deep in the gun’s inner workings. Filed under: things that don’t bode well, she hears in Olivia’s voice. She wishes Olivia would stop that. They’re all going a bit mad stuck on this planet, and she’d prefer that her insanity look a little more like Sam’s, working forty-eight straight hours on a quirky subroutine, or Ashley’s, trying to glare a hull breach into submission.

Instead, Liara has her best friend in her head. At least she hasn’t started seeing her. Or having conversations. Could be worse! Liara rolls her eyes.

Sighing, Liara takes a tentative step into the battery. “Garrus?” The doors close behind her.

Another angry growl, this time accompanied by the distinctive sound of someone punching the uncooperative technology and putting their whole weight behind it.

“Did you lose the coin toss?” he says tersely, subharmonics still growling.

Technically, she volunteered because the others were too scared to toss a coin in case they lost, but Liara suspects he knows that. Garrus has always been fairly self-aware; he can’t be oblivious to the way he’s retreated into the battery (and himself) and stopped talking to everyone over the past two weeks. He also can’t be oblivious to how unhealthy that is.

Then again, Liara surmises, he responded to Olivia dying by quitting his job, leaving his life and friends behind without so much as an email, and running off to Omega to become a vigilante for two years. And that was before he fell in love with her.

Not like you’re one to talk, Miss Spent Her Life Savings Excavating My Dead Body From A Glacier.

Liara huffs. “Something like that,” she says. “You missed dinner.” She steps around a column and finds him tucked uncomfortably into a corner, arm threaded through an access panel as he blindly tries to fix something out of sight.

“I’m not hungry,” he says. There’s a shower of sparks, a low rising hum of something trying to activate, and then a falling hum as it fails. “Damn.” He pulls his arm back and shakes out his hand.

Liara huffs. “I don’t care,” she snaps. “Eat something.”

Garrus swings his attention around, and locks his piercing stare onto her. “Interesting pep talk,” he says, though he takes the offered ration bar.

Crossing her arms, Liara leans against the bulkhead. “I’m not here to give you a pep talk,” she says. “I am trying to make sure my best friend’s boyfriend doesn’t die out of sheer stupidity.”

I appreciate that.

Her words seem to deflate him a little bit, and he slowly nibbles at his dinner. He finishes the bar in silence while Liara fidgets nervously. She didn’t come here to yell at him about eating - she actually came in to bring him dinner and tell him the good news about navigation. The whole crew is on edge, growing slightly more restless and irritable with each day they spend trapped on this planet. She thought she’d been doing a good job of not joining them.

“I’m sorry,” she says softly as he crumples up the wrapper and tosses it into a bin beside scrap metal and wire. “I did not mean to yell.”

Garrus nods and rubs the back of his neck. “Thanks for the food,” he says, in a gentler tone than Liara’s heard from him in a week.

“I discovered where we are,” she says. A terrible pop song from ten years ago provided the key, oddly enough; Olivia listened to it nearly nonstop the semester she wrote a paper on the nearby supernova, and it triggered something in Liara’s memory. “As soon as the FTL drive is back online, we can start back to Earth.” They don’t have a navigator on board - yet another reason to miss Olivia - and by her estimations, it will take five months. Provided they don’t run into trouble.

Always expect trouble.

Six months, then.

“Good,” he says tightly, and turns back to his panel.

Liara takes a deep breath, and reminds herself that he’s grieving, just like she is. Their grief just looks different. She nods. “I’ll leave you to it.”

“Fiancée,” he says quietly as she turns away.

Liara pauses and turns back. She tilts her head, curious.

Garrus sighs and looks down for a moment. “I asked her to marry me. We, uh, we weren’t going to tell anyone until…after.”

“Garrus!” Liara gasps quietly, part in surprise, but mostly in excitement. Genuine joy rises in her for the first time in months. It feels a little strange, unfamiliar, like a friend she hasn’t spoken to in a long time.

His mandibles flutter in an approximation of a smile. “I’m surprised you didn’t know.”

Whether that’s a reference to being the Shadow Broker, or her friendship with Olivia, Liara isn’t sure. She presses her lips together. “I do sometimes keep my nose to myself.” When she doesn’t see quite the same joy in his face she would expect, she sighs. “You know she will fight like hell to get back to you.”

He takes a slightly shaky breath, and his mandibles tighten. “Yeah.”

Liara knows that they’re both remembering Olivia’s voice at the Crucible, and how broken and hurt she sounded. Whether Olivia is able to fight or not - Liara slams down that thought. “She will, Garrus.”

***

The Normandy lifts off the day Olivia gets discharged from the hospital.

***

The skycar pulls up in front of their newly-built prefab, one of many slowly starting to replace the refugee camps, and Hannah peers out the window. They were tailed by a newscar almost the whole way here, but they lost them two turns ago. Their street has been surprisingly - and thankfully - empty. Either the media has more respect than she thought, or Wrex and his krogan set up a perimeter. She’d bet not an insignificant amount of money on the latter, especially when she sees Jack and Kasumi sitting outside the prefab next door, trying to look like they’re lounging casually on the porch.

Hannah doesn’t think Domestic Casual suits either one of them, but she appreciates their presence, and not just because she’s sure Jack’s hiding a shotgun somewhere. Miranda moved in with the two women once Olivia was stable enough to not need her immediately nearby. A Major Kirrahe lives across the street; Hannah doesn’t know what role he played in her daughter’s life, but he seems quiet and nice, if also about as likely to kill you as he is to feed you. Their whole block is filled with Olivia’s friends and crew, the ones who were stranded here, and Hannah thinks it’s kind of nice. Insular. Let Olivia start to navigate her life again amongst friends.

That Olivia has hardly spoken at all since she woke up is a problem for tomorrow.

“You ready?”

Olivia nods, but she doesn’t look sure of herself at all. Three weeks under a pile of rubble, kept alive only by the remains of her hardsuit, and then a month and a half in the hospital - the hollows under her eyes haven’t gotten any lighter. Hannah sets her hand on Olivia’s shoulder and offers her a soft smile, then tilts her head in the direction of the prefab. They’ve put a piece of metal over the front stair to make it easier for her.

Gathering up Olivia’s bag, Hannah opens the door. She stands up, and then takes Olivia’s crutches, holding them out for her.

Olivia slides to the edge of the seat. Grimacing, she takes the crutches and braces them under her arms. With a deep breath, she checks that her balance is right, and stands. Hannah shuts the door and follows Olivia down the small path to the prefab.

Keeping her stare forward, Olivia walks uncertainly on crutches and one leg. Her jaw clenches as Kasumi calls after her - hey Shep! - and she pauses, offering her friend a forced, tight smile and a wave of her fingers.

The skycar powers up with a loud whine, and Olivia flinches as it drives away. It’s only a tightening of her eyes, but to Hannah the flinch shines like a beacon on her normally-unflappable daughter. Olivia’s breath grows shallower and speeds up. She closes her eyes, and visibly forces herself to count to ten. Her arms, and the crutches, start to shake.

“Let’s get you inside,” Hannah says softly.

Nodding, Olivia opens her eyes and continues on, making her way up the impromptu ramp.

Zaeed’s leaning nonchalantly against the open door, but Hannah knows better - he has at least three guns on him, and could draw and shoot to kill before his target even blinked. He smiles warmly at Olivia as she passes, and Olivia manages a weak, but genuine, smile in return.

“How is she?” he asks quietly, shutting the door behind them.

Hannah exhales and watches Olivia make her slow way to the couch, and carefully, awkwardly, sit down. “I have no idea,” she says, just as quiet.

***

She sits in therapy, silent.

Her therapist is nice enough, and comes with a stack of degrees and the highest Alliance security clearance.

But she seems intent on making Olivia talk. And in lieu of her volunteering anything, the therapist spends their sessions reaching for topics.

Mostly, she asks about the leg.

The prosthetic has been fitted and connected and attached now, but it’s still adjusting. Olivia refuses to call it “calibrating,” though that’s really what it is; too many memories about that word. She still needs the crutches.

Olivia isn’t defiant toward the idea of therapy - she knows she needs a heavy dose of it, and probably for at least the next three years. But speaking is too much, too loud. There’s too much to say, and it’s all too big to let out in little pieces. And while her therapist is nice enough and qualified enough and has enough security clearance, Olivia isn’t about to open the dam and let everything flood out to a relative stranger.

So she sits silently in her therapist’s office with its fake-cheery paintings and fake potted plants not doing much at all to disguise that the office itself is a sectioned-off corner of a bombed-out parking garage. Olivia lets her ask about her missing leg, and gives one-word answers, sometimes two if she’s feeling charitable.

At least I got to say goodbye, she thinks, as the calendar changes from August to September to October, with still no word from the Normandy. She likes to think of herself as an optimist, but optimism is in short supply when she can’t sleep, can barely walk, is missing her fiancée and best friend so much it physically hurts some days, and has nothing to do except think about all of it.

She gives up on therapy entirely in November. November is also when Miranda gives her the okay to stop using crutches full-time. There’s no metaphor in that, Olivia says from the door as she tells her therapist she’s quitting for now. Just coincidence.

It’s the most words she’s said in a single session.

Two nights later, Zaeed gets up for a glass of water and finds her on the couch, head buried in her hands. He silently sits beside her, and she tells him everything.

From the Illusive Man and Anderson, to her mom and Garrus and Liara, to that stupid hologram and its choices, to destroying the reapers (to laughing around a collapsed lung and broken ribs at the thought that she would choose any other solution), to knowing it meant the geth and EDI and the mass relays too, to accepting the idea that she was going to die.

To waking up and finding that she hadn’t, but that she was missing a few parts. Literally and figuratively.

Olivia tells him everything in a hushed whisper by cloudy moonlight, and lets him pull her in for a hug.

I think I’m going to cry, she warns him after a while.

He rubs a hand across her back. You’ve earned it, he says, and holds her as she quietly cries herself to sleep.

***

Garrus finds Tali in the tiny corner of engineering she claimed as her own, the same corner Jack slept in. She’s packing. She doesn’t have much to pack, but it’s clear she’s taking as long as she can with the bag.

“You sure about leaving?” he asks, leaning against the wall. They rendezvous with the quarian ship in twelve hours. It’s a miracle they even found each other, passing through a nebula with malfunctioning scanners on both ships.

Tali sits back on her heels. “Yes, I should be with the Fleet. Besides, the engines are stable now. All I’m doing is eating your food, Garrus.”

He sighs and sits down on the stripped bedframe. The quarians have an extra box of rations they’re willing to part with in exchange for some spare power coils, and Tali leaving doubles the length his food will last. But she’s the only other person who’s been here for it all - for Saren, for the Collectors, for the reapers. Tali’s who he went to for advice when he realized he had feelings for Olivia, the one who smartly told him to either tell her how he felt, or stop sleeping with her.

She’s also the only one who can successfully yell at him into leaving his quarters these days. Not even Liara can drag him out, but Tali has a tone.

The gun’s been online for a month, he doesn’t know anything about the Normandy’s long-range communication systems (and he suspects Traynor would kick him out within five minutes of trying to help anyway), and everything else is working. Garrus has nothing to do. It’s hard not to isolate himself and succumb to grief. The quarians aren’t the first ship they’ve come across, and no one has any news from Earth.

“I don’t mind sharing,” he offers lightly.

Tali turns to him and tilts her head. He still can’t see through her mask, but he knows that tilt. It’s the you’re being an idiot tilt. He’s seen it a lot over the past five years.

“Yeah,” he sighs and looks up at the crossbeams and wire grating above them.

She closes her bag and then sits beside him.

For one horrible moment, he thinks she’s going to say something comforting. That she’s going to tell him not to worry, that Shepard’s alive, that if anyone could beat death a second time, it’s Shepard.

“I’m transferring my Monopoly property to you,” Tali says instead. “If you let Vega beat you, I will take it as a personal insult.”

Garrus laughs. It sounds a little desperate, a little unhinged, but still - it’s a laugh. That game has continued for three weeks, and showed no signs of coming to an end when he last checked. “You got it,” he promises.

***

“I’m worried about her,” Hannah says, a few days after Christmas. She rolls over onto her back and stares up at the ceiling in the dark. She’s been worried about Olivia for months now, but she thought it would subside, thought  Olivia would get better, like she always does. Mindoir, her N4 mission, even dying - Olivia’s always gotten better.

But she’s just been silent for six months. She hasn’t been rude or cold. She’s still been Olivia, only a quiet, reserved version of herself. Almost like she’ll break if she speaks too loudly.

Haunted.

Zaeed turns onto his side and trails his fingers down her arm. He looks across the room. Hannah looks over her shoulder and follows his gaze to the window and the snow falling softly outside. She smiles - been a long time since she’s had snow. Her smile is short-lived, however, and she sighs, turning back to him.

“I don’t know what to do,” she admits softly.

“Give her time,” he says. “She’s been through a lot.”

“I know,” Hannah huffs out a breath of air. She doesn’t know what that a lot entails, though she has a suspicion Zaeed does. She’s trying not to let that upset her, and remind herself that Zaeed’s a soldier who’s been through his own share of shit and is the better person for Olivia to talk to. But it hurts a little anyway; Olivia’s always told her everything. “I’m her mother,” she says. “I ought to be able to do something.”

It hasn’t been for lack of trying. From silent support to warm hugs, to promising an ear if she wants to talk, to chocolate chip cookies, she’s done everything she can think of. It hardly seems to have any effect. Hannah exhales sharply. She doesn’t know what else she can do for Olivia. Though it may be her only option, time is a frustrating outlook.

Zaeed reaches out and gently tugs her toward him. She comes willingly and tucks herself up against him, digging a little deeper under the warm covers as she rests her forehead against his shoulder. Zaeed presses a kiss to the top of her head and lightly brushes a hand down her spine.

“Thanks for taking care of her,” she says after a while. Zaeed’s spent the past few nights up with Olivia, calming her after paralyzing nightmares. Hannah tried to help, but Olivia wouldn’t let her. That had hurt, and it took a midnight walk around the block to calm herself down, and remind herself that this is about Olivia, not her.

“Of course,” he says, holding her a little tighter.

Hannah buries her head in the crook of his shoulder. Zaeed’s rough as sandpaper around the edges, but there’s a warmth inside of him, a kindness, though he tries so hard to hide it from the world. She counts herself lucky he’s chosen her to show that warmth to. She counts Olivia lucky, too.

“There’s a crack in everything,” he whispers, long after she thinks he’s fallen asleep.

She makes a small, curious noise in the back of her throat.

“That’s how the light gets in.”

Hannah blinks. It’s a strangely-optimistic phrase coming from Zaeed, even poetic. Then again, a man who was shot point blank in the eye would know a few things about hope, not just revenge.

December ends, and the new year rings in with fireworks that start soon after dark. Olivia puts in earplugs, takes a sleeping pill, and quietly goes to bed early.

But the next morning, Hannah wakes to the smell of coffee and baking bread. She slides out of bed, whispering for Zaeed to go back to sleep when he protests her leaving, and gets dressed by the dull grey dawnlight.

She stands in the kitchen doorway for a few minutes, silently watching Olivia knead another loaf as the sun brightens in the window. Olivia actually looks calm as she works the dough, lifting up on her toes to really put her strength into it. Hannah walks in, careful to make enough noise that she doesn’t surprise her.

“Morning,” she says, stepping up beside her.

“Morning,” Olivia responds quietly, scattering some flour over the counter. Her voice sounds stronger than it has recently, even for just one simple word.

Hannah sets her palm between Olivia’s shoulders, gently rubbing her back. Her daughter’s ghosts aren’t banished forever, just blissfully absent for now. “I love you,” she whispers, and presses a kiss to Olivia’s cheek.

Olivia pauses in her work and leans into Hannah’s embrace. Her breath shakes a little, but she manages a smile. “I love you, too.”

***

Liara grimaces as Dr. Chakwas rotates her arm. “There,” she says, as the rotation hits just the right spot, and something inside of her shoulder twinges painfully.

Chakwas sighs and lowers Liara’s arm back to her side. “Is there a reason you waited five months to tell me about this?” She steps over to her cabinet, and prepares an injection spray.

The charging brute seems half a lifetime ago, not just five months. The pain of missing Olivia, though it isn’t a physical one, eclipses everything else. She feels her best friend’s absence when she’s working, when she’s eating, when she’s watching the Monopoly game spiral out of control as Ashley raises the rent on all of her properties and James acquires the last railroad. The Olivia-shaped hole in her life has become such a constant dull ache that she sometimes doesn’t even notice it. It’s part of her now.

But her shoulder has started hurting in her sleep. Sleep is rare enough without waking in the middle of the night unable to move for the burning pain. The doctor’s question is a rhetorical one, and so Liara doesn’t answer, merely removes the Serrice University sweatshirt of Olivia’s she stole during the hunt for Saren; she sits in a tank top, offering her shoulder. The needle goes in sharp but smooth.

“This will help with the pain for now,” Chakwas says, “and hopefully relax your tendons. Give it three days, and if it doesn’t improve, tell me.” The disapproval in her voice in the last two words is nearly palpable.

Liara nods and pulls the sweatshirt back on. “Thank you,” she says, and hops off the exam table.

She holds her breath as she passes the crowded mess - Risk tonight, and a showdown between Traynor and Daniels that’s bound to win someone a lot of money - but no one calls to her. As much as she scolds Garrus for isolating himself, she knows she’s doing the same thing. It’s hard to be excited, even for a few hours about a board game.

There was at least something to do last time. She had a goal, a singular focus, a way to fix it. Now she’s just stuck waiting out the journey.

Not sure going on a crusade to find my dead body really counts as a healthy reaction.

“I never claimed it was healthy,” Liara says out loud, once the doors are shut behind her and the chatter from the game blissfully silences. “And she who considers ‘more coffee’ to be a valid solution to every problem should not judge.”

Name one time that has failed.

Liara thinks back on the fifteen years of their friendship and tries to remember even a single scenario where that plan has not succeeded. She finds none. “Fine,” she grumbles. “You win.” She sits on the edge of her bed and rests her elbows on her knees, burying her head in her hands. The silence and solitude are overwhelming, but so is the idea of leaving her quarters to watch Traynor and Daniels roll dice in battle over long-redrawn territory.

Super healthy, T’Soni.

“What do you want me to do, Olivia?”

I’m not really here, you know. You’re holding both sides of this conversation. With yourself.

With a heavy sigh, she flops backward onto the bed. “I know.” She closes her eyes and throws an arm over her face. “I miss you,” she says quietly.

Is this where I get to give you the “get up off the floor” speech? Out of bed. Whatever.

Liara drops her arm and opens her eyes. She’s being yelled at by herself in her best friend’s voice. This must be what going properly insane feels like. “Fine,” she grumbles again. She sits up carefully, accustomed to her shoulder twitching painfully, but this time it doesn’t.

Should’ve gone to the doctor a while ago.

Liara simply stares directly into the empty space in front of her, as if Olivia were standing there. “I am not even going to acknowledge that,” she says, and stands up.

Long-range communications are still down, and even if they weren’t, there is no chance the Normandy is within range of an Alliance comm buoy yet. Opening their private channel seems prematurely optimistic, but Liara does it anyway. Even if she can’t broadcast, and even if no one is there to receive, it’s open and ready.

“No comment on that?” she asks the empty room.

Liara doesn’t expect a response, but she’s a little disappointed anyway when one doesn’t come.  

***

January passes with a promotion. It’s ceremonial: her active days are over.

There are plenty of active soldiers with prosthetics, but she’s done. She’s paid back her degree, the galaxy is saved a couple times over, and she’s done.

Hackett knows this, but he puts captain’s bars on her shoulders in front of a crowd anyway. She isn’t even too upset that he’s using her for one last media stunt, though she officially resigns three days later.

“We could still use you, Shepard,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “There’s a government to rebuild.”

She lets out a harsh breath; in another life, it might have been a laugh. “If you’re thinking about naming me Ambassador or Councilor,” she shakes her head. “Admiral -”

She’s ready to tell him, point blank, that she’s done. Out. Finished. Wants to live out the rest of her life so far away from the spotlight she’s sitting in the dark. Doesn’t want anything to do with the rebuilding - she wants a break. To be left alone.

But she doesn’t.

Seven months, and there’s still no word from the Normandy. She’s tired of standing still. Of doing nothing. Of lying awake at night, staring at the wall, trying to make a pile of pillows feel remotely like Garrus. Of pretending the next morning that she hadn’t heard through paper-thin walls her mother whispering to Zaeed about how worried she is. Of muffling her cries in a pillow, so those same paper-thin walls don’t give her away.

She wasn’t made to stand still. She wasn’t built for doing nothing.

“Why don’t you get some use out of that degree you paid for?” Olivia says instead.

Hackett tilts his head.

“Someone needs to get those relays back online,” she says. “The galaxy’s going to stay a mess until we get transport moving again.”

“There’s a team on it,” he says, though his tone is factual, rather than dismissive. “Though they haven’t been able to make heads or tails of the relay wreckage, or the schematics we found in the Archives.”

A smile tugs at her lips. “I suddenly seem to find myself with an abundance of free time,” she says. “And I do have a doctorate in astrophysics and stellar cartography you people haven’t let me use yet.”

“And a remarkable ability for making things happen.”

“That too.” The smile grows. It feels weird. She’s out of practice.

Hackett sighs and stares out his window at the grey sky. “Are you sure I can’t offer you a political position?”

Olivia snorts. “Not on your life.”

Her first act doesn’t have anything to do with relays. Instead, she wrangles a small fleet of FTL shuttles, and begs every ration officer for every extra box they can spare. She orders all the motley N7 teams she can find - humans joined by asari and volus and krogan, turian and quarian and drell, even a few batarians - to pack up the shuttles and fly out.

“We have a lot of stranded people trying to find their way back home,” she says. Home to Palaven, Earth, Thessia, just home. “Let’s make sure they don’t starve on the journey.”

Her second act doesn’t have anything to do with relays, either. She records a message - Liara, it’s Liv. If you can hear this, please respond - codes it for their private frequency, and sends it out through the few intact Alliance subspace comm relays.

***

Garrus rubs a hand over his forehead. “Yeah,” he murmurs to himself. It was a long shot. “Thank you,” he tells the turian commander. “Safe journey.”

The turian nods. “You as well, sir,” she says, and salutes him before signing off.

He sighs heavily and leans on the railing, closing his eyes. He didn’t expect a turian ship way out here, halfway across the galaxy, to have news from Palaven at all, and certainly not news of his family.

But still. Garrus would like some word about someone.

***

“Breathe,” Zaeed tells her as she struggles to do just that.

Olivia rests her elbows on her bent knees and presses the heels of her palms into her forehead. She’s not sure which is worse - the splitting headache, or the nightmare.

Or that she evidently woke Zaeed up across the hall and through two closed doors. Again.

“I’m trying,” she whispers.  

***

He’s starving.

He’s starving and he’s angry and he’s sad and their bed has long stopped smelling like her. There’s nothing he can do about any of it, and he’s furious. Too much pent up energy and nowhere for it to go, no way to get it out. He’s too weak to spar with Vega, too jittery to tinker with anything, too irritable to even think about joining a game. Staying up here alone isn’t doing him any favors, he knows, but being around others sets his teeth on edge.

Writing to her hasn’t helped. Garrus has watched his handwriting get steadily worse over the past weeks as constant hunger set in and his hands started to shake. But he keeps writing letters, every day. He’s not sure it kept him quite sane last time, but it certainly kept him from catapulting over the edge.

He feeds Hipparchus - at least the little guy will make it back to Earth alive, at least he can manage to keep one promise to her - and sits down to enjoy the last quarter of his ration bar. He even licks the wrapper. There are two left. Eight days, and he’s completely out of food. Even with Tali gone, even with cutting down so much it hardly seems worth eating at all, he’s still running out. He adores Tali, but he’s glad she left - he can’t imagine how bad it would be if they were still sharing. At least this way, they’ll be a few thousand light years closer to Earth before he’s running completely on empty.

Olivia, he writes, after eating that quarter of a bar as slowly as he possibly could.

Garrus stares at the blank rest of the page. Though the human pen is weird in his hand, he’s long learned how to write with it. But his hand won’t stop shaking long enough to write anything more than her name.

He snaps.

With an angry roar, he flips the table, expending energy he knows he doesn’t have. He hurls the chair into the wall and watches as it splinters.

He blinks at it, and the destruction suddenly feels devastating. They bought the little table and chairs so they could eat dinner and feel like normal people for a few hours, even if dinner was a just-add-water microwaved tasteless ration packet. They had to collapse everything afterward and stick it in the closet so they’d have enough room to move, but for those few hours they were just Olivia and Garrus, girlfriend and boyfriend sharing a meal.

Gingerly, he rights the table. One of the legs is bent now, and the table wobbles. He sighs, blinking away his rising emotions, and picks up the pieces of the chair, placing them out of the way under the desk. He’ll recycle them into omnigel later, maybe someone can turn them into a power coil or plasma conduit.

He bends over and picks up the notebook, but the pen is nowhere to be found. Garrus crawls on his hands and knees, searching the floor for the pen - her pen. It’s probably only two minutes, but it feels like he searches for an hour. He can’t find it, it’s like it disappeared into thin air, and he’s nearly about to just give in and let himself finally fall apart completely, all over a missing pen.

But he catches sight of something underneath the couch.

Garrus lies as flat as he can and blindly reaches under the couch. His hand clasps around the pen, but his fingers also catch on something soft, something fuzzy. Frowning, his triumph over finding the pen is short-lived and replaced by confusion; he grabs the soft thing along with the pen and sits up.

It’s Olivia’s teddy bear. Saved from Mindoir, kept safe in her bedroom at Hannah’s for most of her military career, brought to the Normandy only after the reapers attacked Earth. The teddy bear mostly stayed on the couch, but there were nights when she slid out of bed to retrieve it, and crawled back into bed beside him, holding it nearly as tight as he was holding her.

Garrus carefully brushes some dust off of its nose; he moves to set it back on the couch, when he takes a breath and gasps. The bear still somehow smells like her; it smells like the warm, fruity lotion she ran out of just before they assaulted Cronos Station. He crushes the bear to his chest, mindful of its soft fabric and his sharp edges, buries his nose between its ears and just breathes.

Several minutes pass, and he slowly feels himself step back from the edge and calm down. He stands up off the floor, fighting a wave of starvation-induced vertigo that is only going to get worse, collects the pen and notebook, and sits down on the bed. He sets the bear beside him, right in the middle against one of her pillows, and opens back up to his letter.

I didn’t stand in front of a reaper just to die of starvation on the way back to you, he writes.

***

Olivia stares out the window of her office - a repurposed single-occupancy room on the first floor of the hotel the Alliance took over for headquarters. The February rain and fog obscure her view, transforming everything into grey and blue smears, occasionally broken by a moving accent of bright color as someone with a cheery umbrella walks down the street.

Her team has mostly moved past their starstruck initial reaction at being led by Captain Shepard, and moved into vague resentment: she’s forcing them to actually do things instead of sit around and talk about the science all day. Talking about the science and the theory is all well and good, when you don’t have a whole galaxy depending upon you to get everyone home.

Funny how they got the Charon Relay up and running within four weeks of that meeting. Unfortunately, one active relay doesn’t do anyone any good - it needs a connection point.

Palaven was the logical choice, though for a while she had a revolving door of asari and salarians arguing that their relays were more important. But communication with Palaven has been unreliable at best; short of sending a scout shuttle, decent intelligence on the Trebia relay is nigh impossible to find. She’s about to give up and switch her efforts to the Aralakh relay. The only reason she hasn’t already is that same revolving door of asari and salarians - though Victus has said he’d support her decision, she’s sure she can add turians to the metaphorical line outside her office.

So much for not taking a political position.

February also marks a return to therapy.  

“I hear reapers,” Olivia says abruptly in the middle of a paragraph-long tirade about politicians, during their third session.

Her therapist tilts her head, and takes a moment to catch up. “How often?”

She holds the woman’s gaze long enough and hard enough that it becomes a stare. “Always.” Inhaling sharply, she continues. “Also geth. And sometimes Cerberus.” She shudders; the Collectors have their moments as well, though usually because there’s a fly in the house.

The woman nods. “That’s normal in veterans,” she says, “to hear your enemies even though you’re safe.”

Olivia blinks at her. “You’re telling me it’s normal for me to think every heavy truck that passes my house is a brute. That my mother’s omnitool beep is a cloaked geth hunter, that my own growling stomach is a husk. It’s normal for me to hear a bunch of kids playing and hear a banshee instead. It’s totally normal that in utter dead silence before I fall asleep I hear get to cover and drone deployed. That’s normal.” It certainly doesn’t sound normal.

“Yes. It’s very common in individuals with combat PTSD.”

Olivia quirks an eyebrow.

She smiles kindly. “I read your file. I diagnosed you in our first session, in August.”

Olivia returns the smile, but just a little bit fake. “I diagnosed myself during the war,” she says. “You have some catching up to do.” It comes out harsher than she intended, and Olivia holds an apology at the tip of her tongue.

“I imagine I do,” she says. “Do you want to talk about hearing reapers, or do you want to talk about Garrus?”

Olivia goes still. She wants to lash out and scream at the woman for even bringing him up - Olivia well knows the implication behind her words: it’s probably time to face that he may not be coming back. But some rational part deep inside of her takes over, and convinces her to take a deep breath, and to focus on the real problem. Hearing reapers and missing Garrus are real problems, but she can tolerate the former and can’t do a damn thing about the latter.

“The night terrors have started breaking through my sleeping pills,” she whispers. Zaeed’s okay enough at walking her back from them, and she’s getting an enormous amount of work done in the hours before sunrise. But it’s the same one she had during the war; only this time, she isn’t chasing a child.

She’s chasing Liara. And when she finally catches up with her, Liara isn’t Liara anymore. She’s twisted and stretched and torn, emaciated. Her mouth curls over sharp teeth and she turns, stalking Olivia like prey.

And Liara screams.

Small wonder she’s been able to sleep at all.

When Olivia gets home that night, exhausted and raw from reliving that particular nightmare for the better part of two hours, she makes polite conversation over dinner and then retreats into her bedroom. She kicks off her shoes and changes into comfy pajama pants and a t-shirt, turns off all the lights save for the strands of fairy lights Kasumi found for her, and sits in the middle of her bed.

Her omnitool glows faint orange as she pulls up her active comm channels. Her message to Liara is still going strong, still repeating. It’s even managed to travel a little further over the past month, as teams slowly repair the comm buoys.

“Please be out there,” she whispers. “Both of you.”

***

[link to part 3]