#I cannot swipe to it or navigate to it or anything

[hopecomesbacktolife]

hey there tumblr mobile app uh just a quick question but

where tf did my messages go 🫥 I would like to talk to my friends please

[suguwu]

last light on: part one

Years after your break up, Itoshi Sae returns to Japan.

He finds he left more than just you behind.

MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT.

pairing: itoshi sae x f!reader, one-sided itoshi rin x f!reader

wc: 4k

cw: aged up characters/pro-footballer au, sae and reader have a named daughter together that reader hid from him, exes to lovers, complicated relationships.

notes: i couldn't contain myself any more. after several false starts (aka me posting and deleting while having a meltdown), here is the real thing. i owe my life to @lorelune for their input and advice on this fic—i cannot even begin to explain. anyway, i hope you enjoy this first part! please note this will have slow updates - please be patient with me, thank you!

Japan is a haunted place for Sae.

He forgets that, most days. He spends most of his time as far away as he can get. And Sae is not a man who lives in the past; he is focused on the future, on the endless horizon of upcoming days. 

Then he steps onto Japanese soil and remembers you. 

You live at the edge of his memory, gone wispy with the passing years. These days, you’re just the tilt of your lips; you’re the elegant slope of your shoulder. An outline of yourself, an imprint left behind on a foggy window. 

You’re a ghost of the worst kind: one of his own making. 

And Japan is your territory. You linger in the very air; he breathes in sea salt and thinks of the taste of your tears. It stirs something inside of him that he’s quick to ignore.

This trip is no different.

The plane lands at the first bloom of dawn, pink streaking across the sky like petals. Sae’s been up for a while, reviewing game footage on his iPad. He makes another note before he puts it away; there will be plenty of time to review more.

By the time he slides into the car, the sun is starting to peek over the horizon. The light is sweetly golden, soft and warm, and to his surprise, your smile flashes through his mind. It’s one of the things he’s never forgotten, but he keeps it tucked away, under the melon rind curve of the bitter smile you gave him when he left. 

He shakes off the memory. He starts the game footage again, his teal eyes sharp, a scalpel’s edge. He watches for a few more minutes before he sighs. He pauses it and takes out his phone, ignoring the notification from his manager. Instead, he navigates to Instagram.

It’s a relic of his past life. He’s never updated it since going pro; he can’t be bothered. He can’t even remember the last time he opened the app. Maybe to see what his PR team had posted on his official one. 

He clicks into his profile. The most recent post is almost as old as the account itself; it's the beach at twilight, the waves eating at the shore.

Right.

He'd deleted all his photos of you.

With a sigh, he navigates back to his feed. He scrolls a bit, flicking through most of the photos without a second glance. It’s all tepid, glimpses into tedious lives that he doesn’t care about. He’s just about to close the app down when something catches his eye.

It’s you.

Older now, but undoubtedly you. You’re facing away from the camera, but he knows the line of your neck, the swan’s wing curve of it. He swipes to the next photo in the set; you’re still in the background, but you’re in profile this time, lips tilted sweetly, wine-kissed. 

He swipes again, but you’re not in the next picture. When he glances at the caption, it doesn’t tell him anything, but you’ve commented. He clicks the link to your profile, but it doesn’t take him anywhere. His lips thin; he tries again and gets the same result. 

When he tries to search by your username, nothing comes up.

You’ve blocked him.

His brow furrows. It’s not entirely unexpected, but he had thought that the years might have softened you towards him. He sighs and tosses his phone onto the seat next to him before starting the game footage once more.

It’s for the best.

—

Sae does not dream often.

Or if he does dream, he simply doesn’t remember. He wakes in the morning and nothing lingers. There are only the cobwebs of sleep, which he blinks away with ease.

But tonight—his second night in Japan—he dreams of you. 

It’s hazy in that way that dreams often are. He knows it’s your first apartment, the one with the flickering porch light you always left on for him, but he can’t make sense of the rest. It fades into the background, leaving him with only the starglow of your eyes peeking over the horizon of your shoulder as you disappear from room to room. 

You weave through the apartment with easy grace. He follows until he doesn’t, watching you vanish into the kitchen—a tiny, cramped thing with plants stuck wherever they can fit. You glance back at him, half-devoured by shadows. There are tears shining on your cheeks. Your lips part, and as you start to speak—

He blinks awake. 

Sae stares up at the ceiling. He runs a hand through his sleep-ruffled hair and sits up. The hotel room is dim, the rising sun held at bay by the thick curtains. If he were someone else, he might think of the shadows that you peered out from, but he doesn’t. The dream is already fading. 

He gets out of bed. The curtains part under his hand; the sudden gleam of the sun makes him squint.

He opens the window, as he always does. The breath he takes is deep; it fills his lungs with the fresh bite of the morning air. It washes away all but the dregs of the dream. He takes another breath and buries those dregs deep.

He buries you.

—

Like all ghosts, you refuse to stay buried. 

By his fifth day in Japan, Sae has thought of you more than he has in years. He’s not sure what it is about this trip in particular; you’ve always returned to mind when he’s back, but never to this extent. 

It’s annoying.

With a sigh, he taps his pen against his notebook. He glances out the window and sees the hydrangeas waving in the breeze, tiny puffy clouds. He thinks of you, petal-bodied, and sighs again. He pulls out his phone and starts a text to his manager.

Sae has always been a man of action. 

He’ll exorcise you himself.

—

Your neighborhood reminds Sae of Kamakura. 

It’s nicer than he expected; a family neighborhood, based on the parents walking by with children perched on their hips like little birds. The houses are a mosaic of architecture, a few odd styles standing out, just like his childhood. It’s only missing the kiss of salt in the air, the sea’s eternal presence. Instead, there’s the earthiness of the park that cuts through it, pungent and grassy after the morning’s rain. 

He crosses the street as the light turns; according to Navitime, your house should be on the other side of the park. The foliage swallows him down, a verdant throat, before it spits him back out into a manicured playground. Children are laughing, bright peals of sound like summer windchimes. 

He glances at the parents lining the sides of the playground and blinks.

Sae thinks of the Instagram post from just a few days ago. He hadn’t paid much attention to who posted the pictures, but if he were to pull it up again, he knows exactly who it would be.

Rin.

Rin, who is currently staring at him from his spot next to you. 

It can only be you. There’s a ghost of the girl you were just under your skin, blooming like a spring bud. It’s in the way that you move; it’s in the way that your eyes gleam. The imprint of you that’s haunted him given new life. Made real again. 

You still haven’t noticed his brother’s early onset rigor-mortis, because your attention—your attention is on the little girl snuffling on your lap. 

She’s a tiny thing, no older than three. Her hair gleams cherry-dark in the sunlight, the faintest sheen of red shimmering through it, and when she blinks, her long clusters of lashes sweep across her cheek like clouds. She blinks again, slow and sleepy, and it’s all sunlit stained glass, her eyes a familiar shade of brilliant teal.

His shade of teal.

The world narrows. Sae takes a step forward without thinking about it. 

The little girl yawns. Her nose crinkles with it, twitching like a bunny’s. You lean down to nuzzle your nose against hers, a little smile unfurling on your lips, a night-blooming flower. She bats at you with a tiny hand before rubbing at her eyes.

Sae watches, entranced.

A shadow falls over him; a hand pushes against his chest. He glances up into burning turquoise eyes. 

“Rin,” he says. “It’s been a while.”

Rin steps closer. His lean muscles are coiled tight; his lip curls back in a snarl. He’s blocked Sae’s view of you and the girl, a sheepdog circling his lambs. 

“Stay away from them,” he spits out.

Sae blinks. “Hello to you too.”

“I’m not here to say hello. Stay away from them.” 

He’d known. Sae has always had a quick mind; on the field, he needs only the smallest glimpse of information to put together the puzzle pieces, to build his strategy. He’d known as soon as he’d seen his daughter, but this—Rin and his bared fangs, Rin and the fear trembling just beneath his fiery tone—it confirms everything. 

He has a child.

“Them,” Sae muses. “So the kid is hers. Mine, too.”

Rin’s hand flexes at his side, his long fingers twitching. “Go away.”

Sae raises a brow. “It’s a public park,” he points out.

Rin scowls, moving fluidly with Sae as his brother tries to step around him. “She doesn’t want to see you,” he says. 

“She can tell me that herself.”

“Not telling you should speak for itself.”

Sae lets out a breath. “You can’t stop me, Rin.”

“You don’t deserve them,” Rin says, his turquoise eyes aflame, flaring like the auroras in the night sky. 

Sae realizes that he is not the only one you haunt.

“And you do?”

Rin goes stiff. 

Sae hums. “Does she know you’re still sniffing after her?”

“Shut up.”

“That’s a no.”

“At least I’ve been there. At least she wanted me there.”

Sae’s jaw flexes. “But she still doesn’t notice you.”

“You—”

“Sae?” you say. Your voice warbles, delicate birdsong, his name sweet on your tongue. 

Rin flinches. 

A little smirk flickers to life on Sae’s lips. Rin’s fingers flex, his glare deepening, but he wavers as you step closer. It gives Sae an opening. He claps a hand on his brother’s shoulder as he pushes past him. 

Rin makes a sharp noise, but Sae ignores him.

You're his focus now.

There was a time that your eyes lit up when you saw Sae, but as he draws closer, he sees only wariness. A wolf with its lips drawn back, giving a glimpse of teeth. Not yet bared, but the promise of a bite. 

“Sae.”

That airy warble is gone; your voice has settled into something cooler, the first kiss of winter on an autumn day. There’s a slight furrow to your brow, but Sae still knows you. There’s a tremble to your lower lip; there’s sorrow tucked up secret in the corner of your mouth.

He says your name. Watches the way you cup your daughter (his daughter) closer to you, her little face burrowed in the gentle curve of your neck. You have one hand cradling the back of her head, as delicate as a dove’s wing, your fingers splayed like feathers.

“What are you doing here?” you ask. 

“Looking for you.”

Something flickers across your face, a fleeting summer storm. 

“Japan, Sae. Why are you in Japan.”

He shrugs. “It’s still my home, you know.”

“Is it?”

Your daughter makes a small, musical noise, shifting in your arms. You hush her, humming softly until she falls still again, lulled back into sleep. Sae watches the way her little hand curls into your sweater, tiny fingers anchoring her to you. 

(He wonders, briefly, if she would hold onto him in the same way.)

"What's her name?" he asks.

"Why do you care?"

He sighs. "Games don't suit you," he says. "Tell me my daughter's name."

Something in you hardens, frost spiraling across a river's surface.

"Rin," you say quietly, and his brother steps in front of him again, blocking his view of you and his daughter. He flexes his fingers as Rin scoops up the little girl; she mumbles quietly before settling against his lean shoulder. It's easy, born of familiarity, and something in Sae grows teeth.

"One brother wasn't enough for you?" he asks.

Rin whips around, fury lining him like a cloak, splitting through him like a thunderclap. Your hand comes up to rest on his other shoulder, restraining him with the most delicate of touches. An owner pulling her dog's collar.

"It's fine," you tell Rin. "Can you settle her in the stroller, please?"

Rin's turquoise eyes are aflame, burning like a comet's tail through the velvet sky. He stares down Sae for another breath before he turns back to you.

He leans in close; too close for Sae to hear what he says to you.

You nod, and Rin sends Sae one last glare before he walks away, carefully cradling the little girl in his arms. Sae's gaze catches on her small form; he thinks of the sea foam that washes up onto the shore, too delicate to last.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asks, turning back to you.

You meet his gaze steadily. "You wouldn't have stayed."

Sae shoves his hands in his pockets; he stays quiet. You watch him, your lips curling down at the edges, like wilting leaves.

"What do you want, Sae?"

"My daughter."

"You can't have her," you say. "You'll break her heart."

"Like I broke yours?"

"You didn't break my heart, Sae."

He watches you for a moment. You meet his gaze steadily, but he sees the cracks in you. The ghost of who you were before he left you behind. The girl you’ve grown out of, her skin too small for the woman you’ve become. 

"Yes," he says. "I did."

You sigh. "Go home, Sae."

"I will," he says easily. "But not without her."

You stiffen. "You'd take her from me?"

"No," he says. "You're coming too."

"Fuck off."

He steps in close, until he can feel your body heat, until he can hear the soft breath you suck in. Longing cuts across your face, a wound torn open. It’s gone in a breath, but Sae sees it.

"You miss me," he says. "Don't you?"

"Fuck off, Sae."

"That's not a no."

Your hand comes up as he pushes closer; you splay it across his chest. The heat of it sinks through his shirt, like spring sunlight, gentle and warm. He waits, but you don't shove him away. He wraps a hand around your wrist, stroking his thumb over the tender underside. Your eyelashes flutter, a butterfly’s wing.

"You miss me," he says. "Say it."

"I miss you," you breathe.

The words are delicate, spider’s silk. They linger in the space between you, a gleaming web spun from your trembling lips.

Sae leans closer, until he can smell the honeysuckle-kiss of your shampoo. 

"Then let me in."

You let out a shaky breath. Your fingers flex against his chest, wrinkling the fabric of his shirt.  "Sae—"

"Yeah?"

"No," you say, finally shoving him away. He steps back gracefully, his face impassive. “Don’t do this to me. You won’t stay.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes,” you whisper. “I do.”

Sae studies you. Your eyelashes are damp; one of them has caught on your cheek, a dandelion seed. There’s an urge to reach out and sweep it away with his thumb. He shoves his hands in his pockets instead.

“Do you give Rin this hard a time about leaving?” he asks.

“That’s different.”

“Not really.”

“Sae.”

He shrugs. “I’m just saying.”

You purse your lips, a flower bud pinching shut. “This isn’t about Rin.”

He glances past you. At the edge of the playground, his brother is rocking the stroller with long, practiced movements. It’s a strange picture, this snapshot of Rin; his ease speaks of a life already lived. 

Rin leans down; he’s reaching for the girl’s foot, kicked over the side of the stroller. Sae stares at that tiny foot, cupped carefully in the palm of Rin’s hand.

“You’re right,” he says. “It’s not.”

He returns his gaze to you. 

“It’s about my daughter.”

Something flashes across your face; Sae thinks of the last days of summer, the slow swallow of them.

“You mean my daughter,” you say. “She’s not yours.” 

He sighs. “We both know she is.”

“No,” you say. “Not in any way that matters.” 

Sae was stung by a sea urchin, once. He’d stepped on it in the shallows, its prickly body hidden amid the shadowed, worn rocks of the tidepool. The spine had pierced through the bottom of his foot; he’d bled. He hadn’t been able to play soccer for a week.

But he hadn’t held it against the sea urchin. 

It was just protecting itself.

“I would say helping create her matters rather significantly.”

(Okay. He had held it against the urchin. A week was a long time to be banned from soccer.)

“It doesn’t,” you say. 

Sae tilts his head. “If that was true, you wouldn’t be so scared right now.”

You flinch.

“I’m not—”

“You are.” 

Quiet falls between you. Your eyes flash in the sunlight; Sae thinks of heat lightning, how it never touches the ground. 

“You’re right,” you say, so softly that it’s almost lost to the wind. “I’m scared.”

He waits. 

“Tell me I don’t have to be.”

Sae glances past you again. He wishes he could see into the stroller, that he could see his daughter’s face again.

“I can’t.”

Your face crumples, delicate origami crushed in a fist. 

(You have always reminded Sae of the lacquered origami that’s scattered around your bedroom like stars. Like them, you’re tough enough to protect yourself against the elements, but underneath it all, you’re still paper.) 

The creased paper edges of your devastation slice through Sae, scoring the tender underbelly of him, the part he’d thought had long hardened against such cuts. He thinks of roshambo; perhaps he should have known.

Paper always beats rock. 

But if he’s cut, you’re wounded, a deep, terrible thing. You’re curling in on yourself, just slightly, as if that can staunch the sorrow seeping from you. Your lower lip trembles, but Sae can see the anger starting to filter in, a sunset bleeding across the horizon. 

You blink away your unshed tears; the remnants of them leave your lashes glistening, the sunlight catching in them like a prism. Sae watches you piece yourself back together, your anger the glue, glowing through you in kintsugi gold. 

You take a deep breath.

“You’re such an asshole,” you murmur. 

He doesn’t bother to refute it. He knows this is where most people would apologize, but he won’t. Not for telling you the truth. 

“I want to see her,” he says instead. “Can I come over tomorrow?”

You go stiff, a marionette pulled upright by its strings. He wonders if you’re thinking of what you both know: Sae does not ask for things. He does them, consequences be damned. It’s an olive branch, one barely blooming, a twig of a thing. But it’s there. 

“No.”

Sae doesn’t flinch, but he feels his jaw go tight, his teeth clicking together, bone against bone. He flexes his fingers at his side.

“You—” he starts, voice chilled, a blade of ice. 

“You can’t just walk into her life,” you say, cutting him off sharply.  

It stops him in his tracks. He’s not used to that, not anymore. People tend to listen when he talks. The surprise keeps him from responding, giving you enough time to add: 

“And you can’t just walk back into mine.”

He doesn’t need long to recover, though. “Even though you miss me.”

Your expression twists, souring at the edges, the first hint of rot in overripe fruit. “That doesn’t matter.”

“I think it does.”

“I don’t care what you think, Sae.”

“Yes,” he says, “You do.”

You sink your teeth into your lower lip, denting the plush flesh. “You’re such an asshole,” you tell him again. 

“I know.”

The wind picks up; it catches at your clothing, plucking at it with playful fingers. You smooth the fluttering fabric back down with a trembling hand. 

“You can’t see her,” you say softly. “She won’t understand.”

“Won’t understand what?”

“Why you have to leave again.”

“You don’t know that.”

You sigh. “I do,” you say. “It’s hard enough with—” 

You pause, clamping your mouth shut before you can finish your sentence. Something cold curls through Sae, a winter river that snakes between the banks of his ribs. 

“With Rin, right?” he asks. “It’s hard enough with Rin.”

You watch him for a moment, your eyes wary, a rabbit peeking out from the brush. You nod.

Sae exhales through his nose. “I see,” he says coldly.

You wince. “Sae—”

“Don’t.”

It’s not his usual calm tone. It’s shatterglass, keen-edged and ready to cut. He hates it. 

Your eyes widen. There’s something in your expression that Sae doesn’t want to name. It catches beneath his skin like a burr, sharp and unrelenting. 

“Sae,” you say softly. “I—”

A piercing cry rents the air, splits it apart like a blade. Sae blinks, but you’re already whirling around, heading for the tree Rin has settled under with the stroller. His brother is hefting the screaming girl into his arms, his big hand stroking along the slip of her spine, but she’s still wailing, a high, animal keen. She reaches for you as soon as she sees you, her chubby hands grasping at air.

She buries her face in your neck as you cradle her. Sae’s too far to hear what you’re murmuring, but her wailing starts to trail off. Your hand settles at the back of her head, cupping her close, a gentle promise. 

Sae steps forward just as Rin shifts, curling around you like a shield. There’s a flash of turquoise heat; Rin’s expression is a dare.

He should know better. Sae has never been one to back down. 

He ignores Rin and comes closer, until your voice floats to him. It’s softer now, but it’s steady. Sure. 

“It was a scary dream, huh?” you say, pressing a kiss to the crown of the girl’s head. “It’s okay. You’re awake now. Let’s go home, yeah?”

The girl’s answer is lost in the salt of your skin, her face still glued into the curve of your neck. You seem to understand the squashed words perfectly, though. You hum an agreement and adjust her in your arms. She finally peels away from the cradle of your neck. There’s silvery tear tracks mapped across her chubby cheeks. From under her wet eyelashes, there’s a peek of teal, a crescent moon of familiar color. She sobs again, low and wrenching.

Something twists through Sae, a tender bruise being pressed. He takes another step forward, but before he gets close enough to garner your attention, Rin slinks forward, blocking him.

Sae gives him a sharp look, but Rin’s thundercloud scowl only darkens. 

“Not now,” his brother hisses. “Are you stupid, you shitty brother?”

Sae glances past him. His daughter has buried her face in your neck again; only the sunset sheen of her hair is visible. You’re curled protectively around her even as you search the stroller for something. 

Sae is not one to back down, but he also knows how to pick his battles. 

He nods to Rin; his brother blinks, his scowl softening in his surprise. Rin watches him for a moment before clicking his tongue. He doesn’t nod back, but Sae doesn’t need him to. 

Sae watches as Rin turns back to you and coaxes the stroller out of your grip. 

“Let’s go,” he says gruffly.

“Okay,” you say, hushing the girl as she whimpers softly. “Got everything?”

“Yeah.”

You glance back at Sae. It’s only for a breath. For a moment, he thinks you’ll say something, but you don’t. You turn around and start down the park’s path, Rin pushing the stroller at your side.

Sae watches until the verdant throat of the park swallows the three of you up.

You don’t look back again.

[thefanficsideblog]

Moonlight And The Break Of Dawn - Astarion (Part 1/5)

Content Warnings: Mentions And Reference To Abuse, Trauma and Consent Issues. Canon Compliant Trauma, Violence and Threat. Canon Divergent Powers. No Use Of Y/N, Tav Supplemented. Gendered Pronouns Used (she/her). Not Beta/Proof Read.

This was written for a friend and myself but I thought I might aswell share it here.

Behind every exquisite thing that existed there was something tragic – Oscar Wilde

No grave can hold my body down, – I’ll crawl home to her – Hozier

Your presence will be sun in winter – Alfred Lord Tennyson

The road is long and the path is winding, you had never really given it any thought before but the days under your feet that put distance between you and the crash, are both exhaustingly long to comprehend and not far enough. Though you wonder if any distance could be far enough. Your head is throbbing, an irritating repeating painful pulse that surges through your mind between steps. You wish you could blame the pain on the tadpole swimming around in your cerebellum but you know the much more likely truth- you're dehydrated. And more than that, you're lacking a decent amount of blood in your system to compensate for that. You let your eyes shift to your left where Astarion walks a few strides ahead of you, he is walking with such energy and a strange type of confidence, even for him. You wonder if he knows what you do, you wonder if he has the slightest clue that he hasn't fooled you, not for a moment, not even the smallest amount. He thinks he has everything laid out, this perfect little plan, he thinks he is playing you like a fiddle. But you're smarter than that, smarter... but not wiser. You can read his manipulation like a favourite book, because in some ways that's exactly what it is. You've done this before. You recognize this. In it's twisted way, it feels like coming home. He is using you, and you're letting him.

You want to feel guilty about it, you want to be mad at yourself for not falling for his facade but actively walking directly into this trap of his. But you cannot bring yourself to be. Because for all the planning and scheming. For everything he is trying to achieve with you, you know one more thing, one thing that maybe he doesn't even know yet. You know why.

His hands flex in the sunlight and you know he is pretending it's not stunning him, but it has been a lifetime since he got to be in sunlight, you don't blame him for basking in it. It’s almost enough to keep him from complaining about the bugs as you navigate the wetlands.

Astarion swats away a bug with his hand and mutters a few curses under his breath. “I cannot wait to be free of these bug infested woods,” he says, as if it was everyone else’s responsibility to make that happen.

“Used to fancier environments are you fancy boy?” Karlach asks.

“Most certainly, it’s not hard to have higher standards than somewhere where these little cretins bite you for taking a step,” Astarion points out. “I know the better places in Baldur’s Gate, no nasty little buzzing critters guaranteed.”

“Blood suckers,” Shadowheart muses at the mosquitos. “You think you would have more sympathy for them Astarion.”

The look he shoots her way is a smile, but it’s so full of malice that it is much more of a grimace, “Oh so you can make jokes?” he asks. “Not forbidden to laugh under your false god?”

“Let’s not,” Karlach laughs, clapping her hands together, “let’s not start anything that I will have to finish.”

“I say let them have it out, fighting will only make us stronger,” Lae’zel offers up, swiping at a vine that leans too close to her body for her comfort.

“Let’s keep the fighting for the enemy, if we start fighting amongst ourselves, then we are truly fucked,” you point out, walking faster to put yourself as a social shield between Astarion and Shadowheart, who look equally likely to attempt to draw blood.

“Sunshine to the rescue,” Astarion teases. If you weren’t too busy trying to decipher if he is genuinely irritated with your interference, you might pay more attention to the way he calls you that: Sunshine. You might be able to see the layers within it, read all the implications in such a simple word. Sunshine: something he has been denied for years, something he never thought he would get to have again, something he didn’t know he missed until it wasn’t able to access it. Something he is scared of losing again. But you notice none of that, not while you’re trying to read past the gentle slumping of his body against a nearby tree, the way he cocks his head to the side, watching you. The tiny curve in the corner of his mouth that might be all that slips through in an attempt not to smile. He leans back like a bored rake eyeing up his next conquest, something that on anyone else would be unflattering, but on him it’s ungodly elegant, and you have to look away.

“Hello,” comes a voice from the rocks. The whole party glances up to see a man moving in a hurried manor down to greet you. His hair is long and his movements determined, but he still meets your gaze with an attempt of a smile.

“Hello?” you echo back at him.

Astarion eyes the man with reproach which you admit it’s new for him, everyone is either someone worth charming or someone he would rather not be bothered by, this man certainly seems to be the latter. “Must we stop and speak with every wayward walker?” he huffs.

“I won’t take up too much of your time,” the man assures you, eyes flitting to Astarion, “I’m Gandrel-,”

“Oh, you are Gur,” Astarion says, stopping his slacking, and standing up really straight, arms crossed neatly cover the cotton of his black shirt. “Monster hunter, come to cast some type of curse?”

You elbow Astarion and he looks genuinely confused as he complains at the almost violent interaction. Gandrel laughs it off, looking not half as inconvenienced as you would have expected. “And every other thing people think my kind can do, honestly I wish I could do half of it,” he says, “but alas, we are mere mortals.”

“Brave words for men who hunt monsters,” Shadowheart says, looking almost apprehensive at the man in front of them. “So what are you hunting?”

“Let me guess,” Astarion says, moving his hands around as he speaks, all theatre and brimming with a strange type of enthusiasm. You’d almost think he was nervous, but you haven’t seen him nervous before, why would he start now? “Wendigo? Or better yet some winged horror?”

“Nothing that exciting I am afraid,” Gandrel states, his smile is welcoming, “some vampire spawn.”

If Astarion could get any paler, he would in his moment, his muscles stiff and his words threatening to falter, you sense his panic without as much as a glance. “A vampire spawn?” you ask, hints of laughter in your voice. “Not even a full vampire, how is that worth your time?”

Astarion glares at you, but he knows what you’re doing so he holds in a pout before adding. “I don’t know, spawn can be quite a handful, powerful things,” he says.

“Your friend is unfortunately right, and this spawn… he is particularly dangerous,” you don’t take your eyes off Gandrel, afraid if you look at Astarion you might see him smirking, “I was wondering if maybe you’ve seen anything.”

“What do you know about this spawn?” you ask, scorning yourself mentally for not coming off more subtle.

“His name is Astarion,” he starts, and you don’t hear much more after that, he begins to explain why he is hunting him, and what he has done, but the words just blend into the wind, and you are doing everything you can to try and act calm. You hear the words dangerous and volatile and in some deep met instinct you step back and in front of Astarion, leaning into him, you look afraid. You look like the man’s stories are bringing you concern, like you’re seeking comfort. But you’ve learned enough from wolves to know how to play this game. Astarion doesn’t know how to respond to your sudden proximity and just stands idle, listening to the man talk.

“Well I…” you look for the right words, the right approach to take.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” Gandrel assures you. You feel sick to your stomach, this man is trying to be kind, his concern is genuine, and you know as well as the others that Astarion is not a saint, he is no pinnacle of good, he has done things. He has done unthinkable things. But he was surviving, and you cannot think you would do any different. Not that he ever had a choice in those awful things, Astarion has not had a choice in anything in two hundred years. “But you should be careful.”

“It sounds like this is a real threat,” you manage.

“It does, doesn’t it?” Astarion asks, “maybe we should… do something about the threat?”

“What would you do, if you found him, kill him?” Shadowheart asks, taking a little too much joy in this situation.

“No, I am on orders to bring him back alive,” Gandrel explains. The fear rolls off Astarion in waves, somehow that is worse, somehow that is so much worse. You’ve not doubted for a moment, since he told you, since you found out what he is and how he became it, Astarion would rather die than go back to Cazador, and he really doesn’t want to die.

“We shall keep a close eye out,” you say. You feel Astarion’s discomfort. He does to express something, annoyance perhaps but you look up at him, and he can hear you in his head, clear as that first moment when he saw your memories from the crash.

‘Trust me, I am not letting him find you, just trust me.’

And it takes all his effort, fighting every instinct he has, but he does. The others start to continue moving, and you watch Gandrel setting up camp. “I’ll be right with you,” you tell the others, letting yourself fall behind.

Gandrel is a good man from all you’ve seen. You know Astarion wants him dead. You can understand why he would feel that way, because as far as the eye can see it’s the way to keep Astarion safest. But you have another idea, a long shot, probably will end up the same way, but you’re going to try it anyway idea. And it has your hands shaking.

“Can I help you?” Gandrel asks, looking up at you from where he is laying out his bedroll. You cannot do this with his eyes on you, so you force yourself to do something you’re not very good at. You think on your feet.

“Strange question but you don’t happen to have any… wispweed do you?” you ask, eyeing his bag. “I have some payment, I just am running low.”

He gives you a smile and your heart plummets into your stomach. “Let me look,” he says, turning to reach into his bag.

You reach forward as fast your can a hand either side of his temple and you blood all of your power into freezing his muscles, you wait a short moment, checking that it has worked, but when all you can hear is the slow beat of his heart you move with more conviction. You haven’t done this in a long time, and you’ve got to get it right. You’re navigating his mind, looking for the right place, the right centre to alter, finding the pulses and the pathways. When you find them you can feel your own nerves starting to burn, this is not easy magic, this is not careful magic, it is unstable and you need it over quickly. “You don’t know anything about Astarion, you are not looking for him, and you will not find him,” you start saying, feeling the magic changing the pathways as you command it to, “even if you found him, you could not see him, you could not hear him, you would not know who or what he was, and you can never learn,” you feel sick but you know the last thing, the other thing and it tumbles from your lips before you have time to reconsider, “and if you were to be at risk of causing him harm, you would slit your own throat before putting him in danger.” You step back and your mind is swimming, the tadpole is feeding off the energy and you take no comfort in that.

Gandrel pauses before resuming what he was doing, he turns to you, empty handed. “Sorry,” he shrugs, “no luck.”

“No worries,” you say, voice shaking, “I will keep looking,” you turn on your heels, “Gandrel?”

“Yes?” he asks.

“Good luck on your hunt,” you pause, “what are you hunting again?”

He is quiet for the longest time, “A… hag?” he sounds unsure, “must be, that’s what I know is in this area.”

“Keep yourself safe,” you tell him. He tells you to do the same as you disappear to catch up with the group.

“Smart move that,” Karlach is saying to Astarion, “she has quite the head on her shoulders.”

“What?” Astarion asks, he hadn’t been paying attention, trying to listen at a distance to what you were saying and failing.

“Tav,” Karlach says, “pulling the whole wolf bit.”

“What in the gods are you talking about?” Astarion asks. Karlach eyes him, surprised that he missed it.

“When she stood in front of you,” Karlach says, like it is obvious. “Playing scared, it’s a wolf trick. When a wolf is being threatened their female mate often cowers underneath, hiding close, it looks like she’s afraid but really she is protecting the softest and most exposed part that the enemy could attack, the throat,” as Karlach explains it becomes painfully obvious that was exactly what you had been doing, you’d stepped into him, to put yourself between him and the threat, you’d been acting scared to protect him, “so when she-,”

“She was shielding me,” Astarion muses, “how thoughtful, and entirely unnecessary.”

“Sure buddy,” Karlach says laughing. “Because you weren’t scared shitless.”

“I am not dignifying that with a response,” Astarion states.

You catch up to Astarion and Karlach’s stride and Karlach starts that excited gushing she does, talking about something you wish you knew more about, but are happy to listen. “He won’t be a problem,” you whisper to him as Karlach talks. He doesn’t respond, but you can see in his eyes that he is trying to process your words. “I didn’t kill him,” you manage, quick and quiet, “but he would die before he sets eyes on you again. You don’t need to be looking over your shoulder, at least not for him.” You don’t miss the way Astarion is watching you, almost like he is hungry.

You’re setting up to settle down for the night when he beckons you over, he has barely said a thing since Gandrel and you weren’t sure if you’d upset him somehow. “Can we have a word?” he asks. You nod and follow him as he walks a distance from the campfire, leaving the others in the low amber light. “What you did,” he starts, but you’re already shrugging it off.

“He was a threat to you, I couldn’t let that be the case,” you say. He is flickering his eyes over yours, searching for something.

“That pesky little moral code of yours, you couldn’t kill him,” he says.

“I didn’t kill him,” you echo your earlier sentiments. “But I neutralised the problem… permanently.”

“You used mind magic,” he realises, you try again to shrug it off like it is nothing, but his is smiling, and it’s so coy and mischievous.

“I did not expect that to give you an ego boost,” you admit.

“That’s not easy magic darling, and you went to all that effort for little old me?” He is leaning in, grinning, his fangs unabashedly on display. Your knees feel weak at the sight of him, and you know he knows it.

“I wouldn’t let him hurt you Astarion,” you tell him, “I promised you that much. What I said when I found out what you were, I meant it. I am going to do everything in my power to make sure you get your freedom back, I mean that.”

He steps forward and you step back, and your back presses into a tree. He leans, one hand resting against the bark of the tree, just above your shoulder, almost pinning you in, as his other hand reaches up to brush a few loose strands of hair from your face. “Well, I suppose a thank you is in order,” he says, holding your chin between finger and thumb. “A reward for your protection.” He kisses you, it’s heated and fast, you can feel the way he presses against you and it steals almost every thought you have. You want this, of course you want this, you don’t remember a time you didn’t want this. But something about it makes your heart sink. Maybe it was the look in his eyes as he leaned for you, like it was so rehearsed, like he was playing this role, or maybe you can just feel something wrong, something insincere. You pull away and Astarion is nothing short of stunned.

“Is there a problem,” he asks, leaning in again, trying to regather is bearings, but you just turn your head away.

"Astarion- stop," you tell him. His whole body goes rigid, completely lost in confusion.

“I guess I misunderstood,” Astarion says, and you swear he sounds hurt. It’s his fear, the rejection, you realise so quickly, like a match being lit, what he thinks is happening. He thinks you don’t want him to kiss you, he thinks you don’t want him. He couldn’t be more wrong.

"No, it's not that, gods it's not that," you assure him. "I'd take being side by side with you, not even close enough for shoulders to brush, than... anything with anyone else. That's not it."

He blinks and his voice comes out more bitter than you would like it to be as he speaks, “then what the hells is it?” He is curious, confounded, completely unsure of where this is going. He has not been rejected, not for a long time. How could anyone turn him down? He knows he is beautiful, everyone tells him as much, he is charming and this routine always works, and yet you pull away.

"Astarion, I don't want you doing this because you think you have to," you say. Astarion isn’t sure he has heard you right. He thinks the words must be in the wrong order, or that they came out wrong.

“What?” he asks, voice devoid of any tone.

“Astarion I don’t want you to… do this, whatever this is, unless you want to,” you tell him. He is slow to register your words and you can see that on his face.

“Don’t you want me?” he asks. You feel like you could snap, the need in his voice, the desperation to be loved, wanted, desired. In spite of everything, he still craves that.

“Astarion, I want that, of course, but I only want it if you want it,” you try to explain. “I don’t want anything you don’t want, I don’t want you to do this because you think you owe me. I protected you because I care, because I wanted to, I didn’t do it so you would reward me.”

Everything he has been doing was instinct, it was taught behaviour, it is exactly what he has been doing for hundreds of years to survive, but now it was different because he wasn’t doing it for Cazador, he was doing it from himself, to protect himself from Cazador, so in it’s own way nothing has changed. It was a simple plan, sweet talk, seduce, bed, create a sense of bonding and then know that there was someone in his corner, someone who wouldn’t turn on him, someone to protect him, fight with him and for him. But you were doing all the work, you were willing to fight for him, and you weren’t asking for anything in return, and more jarringly you weren’t expecting anything in return.

"How did you know?" He asks, not able to meet your eye.

"Because our wounds might be different but our scars match just fine," you tell him. "Not being able to say no, and feeling like you cannot say no are close siblings in pain."

He is watching you now, closer, like he is seeing you anew, or maybe just truly seeing you for the first time. He had thought that you were easy to manipulate, that it would be straightforward, and in ways it was, it had been, it was easy, natural even. But he hadn’t considered how strange and natural it was to you. How you looked at him with such knowing, such understanding, but never once asked for the truth when you knew what he said was lies.

He watches you look away, turning from the light, as if you’re scared of all the things it might illuminate, suddenly lay bare.

"But you want me?" He asks.

"I don't want anything you don't," you tell him. He sighs, raking a hand over his neck, a little agitated that you're not hearing what he is asking.

"That's not what I mean, you would want me," he says, more of a statement now than a question, but his eyes still beg for an answer.

"Yes," you tell him, "I don't know how well that might go, or what that would look like but yes, I want you, and I would want to, or I want to want to... it's complicated."

"I know," he says and you know he does. "When you stepped back from Karlach," he says slowly.

"I struggle with... contact sometimes," you admit. You'd known Karlach wasn't going to touch you, that she couldn't touch you but you'd flinched anyway and it haunted you. You can feel Astarion looking at your neck now and you pinch the edges of your collar to pull it down and give him better access but he doesn't move.

"Why do you let me?" He asks.

"You need it," you say. "And I want to help."

"So, after all this you're going to start keeping things from me now?" He asks, almost coy. "Come on darling, tell me the truth."

"You need it, and I want to be needed, if I can offer you this, knowing the others can't, I know you're less likely to run from me," you say, staring at the ground, "you're not the only one looking for protection. You wanted it from the world, I wanted it from being left behind."

“You are protecting yourself,” he whispers. His eyes dance over you, taking all of you in, and he cannot help but wonder, how you could reduce yourself to thinking your only worth the blood pulsing through your veins. He catches himself, and wonders how he could let you feel that way. Or worse yet, if he made you feel that way. His plan was so easy, so simple, and it felt like you were falling for it, like he could make you fall for him, the guise, the mask, the charisma, like it was second nature. But that’s what he had been wrong about, you had fallen for him, it was obvious in those eyes that were staring right back at him. He had you at this point, this moment in time, where you would leave the entire world behind for him. But not the him he meant for you to feel this way about, the act, the rake, the smooth talker with the smile like a devil. It was the part of him that he buried under that, the man behind the vampire, that was the Astarion you were so desperate to help, to hold onto. He can not understand this care you have for him, or the feeling in his chest that is blooming from it. He doesn’t know how to do this right, not when he is known, when he is seen, when he is wanted in all the ways he had long forgotten you could want a person. Before Cazador and the betrayal and the sex and the death. The way you can want a person exactly as they are, no conditions, and no strings. You look at him and everything you do not say with words is written clearer than daylight on your face: ‘show me your sharp edges, show me your thorns, show me the most dangerous, unlovable parts of you, and I will show you my hands, open, waiting, willing to bleed.’

“You give up parts of yourself in the name of protection,” Astarion says, ringing his hands together, trying to look less fidgety, but the more he watches you, the more he understands the more this warmth spreads up his neck, this strange flush in his chest. It feels as if by some strange miracle of existence, his heart is trying to beat.

“But I am telling you,” you insist, “you do not need to do that for me, I am here, I will stand by you Astarion, hells or high waters, so you don’t need to pretend, you don’t need to do something because you think it is what I would want from you.”

“I am not pretending,” he says, a little more honest than he expected from his own mouth. “My attraction to you is genuine, my connection with you is…” he pauses, unable to find a way to make it make sense, “confusing. But I am not pretending.”

“You were pretending, you were manipulating me,” you point out.

“And you were letting me,” he says. You shrug.

“I am not stupid enough to imagine I was more than useful Astarion, which is why I want to continue being useful, we can have each others backs, and no one is left without someone in their corner, but you do not need to try and… you don’t need to make yourself uncomfortable on my behalf.”

Never in his life has Astarion wished he could hold someone without that feeling of disgust and guilt, never has he wanted to kiss someone more than in this moment. But he knows what follows, he knows how Cazador has seeped into everything, and tainted it all. Ruined it all. He doesn’t even know where to begin to undo that damage, he doesn’t know if there is a way to undo that damage. But never has he wanted more to try. He looks at you now, and he wants to kiss you, to kiss you without it being this strange twisted regret that it always becomes. He want to be real, he wants to kiss you and mean it, and let it be only what it is and not a reminder of everything that has happened to him. But he doesn’t know how to do that.

“I do care about you, you know, and I wish, I wish I knew how to be different,” he says, “but I haven’t had the time to figure that out.”

You shrug. “You’ve got all the time in the world to figure out whatever you need to figure out for yourself Astarion, and I am doing everything I can to keep that true, so we need to keep moving, and get these nasty little fuckers out of our heads, and separate Cazador from his, and everything else, we can figure out after.”

“You truly do just want to help me, don’t you?” he asks. True, selfless love, that wanting for another person, not for what it mean to you, but just so they can get what they deserve and be happy. If he asked you to stay, you would, you would drop everything to stay, and if he asked you to go, you would do the same, because you only want what is best for him. Astarion has never known a feeling like that, and he is chasing it, clawing at it, trying with both hands to get a good grip so it doesn’t slip through his fingers and run out of his grasp. He doesn’t think he could find this again, he doesn’t think he would want to. He just knowns he can’t lose this, this feeling like a beating heart in his chest when he looks at you.

“I do,” you say. “So, are we going to do this?”

“I think so Sunshine,” he says, letting that smile return, even if it is just to disguise this nervousness that is pounding at his skull.

“Okay good, then take what you need and we can get on with things,” you say, pulling your collar aside so he has best access to your neck. He looks at you and lets his eyes wander to the slope of your neck, he places a hand on your side pulling you closer and you let yourself be calm, let him do this. He leans down for the bite, lips pressed against the pulse point, and you wait for the soft pain, the dizzying feeling, but it doesn’t come. His lips brush soft and cold against that pulsation and then they pull away, leaving you with nothing but a ghost of a kiss where teeth marks should be.

“You’re worth more than that to me Sunshine,” he whispers, close enough to your ear that you can feel his words against your neck. “So much more,” and he pulls away, not giving as much as a glance as he walks back towards the others, leaving you puzzled with your heart thundering in your chest.

“Oh Star,” you whisper, to the wind more than to anything or anyone. “You are never going to be able to be unloved by me.”

[sleepyserena]

i was playing some uncharted: golden abyss earlier and while i do appreciate the extent to which the vita's unique controls were showcased in that game, i can't help but feel mixed about the implementation

the main menu CANNOT be navigated by anything other than the touch screen. you MUST swipe and touch through the options

you can do the normal uncharted shooting and climbing with button controls, however, you MUST swipe the touch screen for contextual actions like finishing a melee combo or helping a character get to a higher place, or reloading your weapon

balancing on a beam or directing drake down a rapid river MUST be done with tilt controls, meaning the vita has to be in a specific position for best results, despite your thumb already being on an analog stick

on the other hand: gyro aiming is nice! i think swiping the touch screen to clean an artifact or holding your vita up to a light to decipher hidden text is genuinely really neat! i love that i can play a full uncharted game on a handheld device!

i'm just a little bit annoyed with these unwieldy things when i'm trying to just play the game in bed

[koasinag]

The Hollow Promise the Internet Makes to Lonely People

New Post has been published on https://www.koasinag.com/the-hollow-promise-the-internet-makes-to-lonely-people/

The Hollow Promise the Internet Makes to Lonely People

The Hollow Promise the Internet Makes to Lonely People

February 16, 2024

by:

Samuel D. James

Creating Your Own Image

One of the primary messages that the web is preaching to our hearts is that you can be anything and you can do anything, and you don’t have to accept the life of the world or the truth that God has put in your life.

The promise of the web is that with just a click of a button or the swipe of a finger, I can be in relationship with whoever. I can be involved in any type of controversy or conversation. I can curate the life that I really want online. That’s a powerful message.

It is very powerful to tell people that with just the right piece of technology, they can have the life that they really want, that the things that make them anxious or insecure about their bodies or about their relationships and offline life, all that can go away. All they need to do is to be online and they can control how they are presented to the world.

And that promise is really an empty promise because the self that we’re presenting to the world is not a real self, and the selves that we’re seeing stare back at us from the internet are not real selves. We’re all projecting an image of ourself.

It doesn’t mean we cannot be honest with other people when we use the internet or when we send an email, but it does mean that our digital selves are not part of objective reality, but something that we’re constantly curating to share with other people exactly what we want them to see. And that can lead to an unexpected sense of loneliness, even when we’re surrounded by digital friends.

Samuel D. James is the author of Digital Liturgies: Rediscovering Christian Wisdom in an Online Age.

Samuel James is the associate acquisitions editor at Crossway. He is the author of Digital Liturgies, a regular newsletter on Christianity, technology, and culture. He lives in Louisville, Kentucky, with his wife, Emily, and their three children. 

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[maryjanewatsonparkers]

Pretending to wave regally when Peter titled her as the queen of beer pong, Mary Jane thanked him and kissed him on the cheek. It was an adjustment knowing that May, even a a baby, was capable of chewing off a piece of plastic like it was paper. MJ knew she had to be more careful around May, just in case their daughter accidentally used her strength. It wasn't as if May was in complete control over her own strength. Luckily, there haven't been any major injuries, but she couldn't say the same for May's toys. There were some toys MJ would come across that was completely squeezed to the point where it was almost paper thin. "She definitely is your daughter," MJ commented. "You cannot say that I cloned myself and she is just an MJ clone when she clearly has some of your DNA." Crouching down so that she was at eye level with May, who sat in her stroller, Mary Jane leaned in to kiss their daughter's chubby cheek and ruffling her hair. "Don't put anything else in your mouth okay, Baby May?" she asked, giving May a stern look. She got nothing but a giggle from May, causing Mary Jane to chuckle and shake her head. "Truly your daughter. Goofy smile and everything." Grinning and nodding her head at the mention of air hockey, MJ took May's stroller and started to navigate to where the air hockey table were. Parking May beside her so that Peter could keep an eye on her from across the table (and hopefully distract Peter with her cuteness), she grabbed the red pusher thing and swiping her card. "Are you ready to play, handsome?" she asked with a grin, waiting for Peter to drop the puck. "I also happen to be queen of air hockey," she joked.

Despite knowing that his wife had a very good point, Peter still rolled his eyes and waved a hand around dismissively. “Yeah, yeah. Okay. I get what you’re saying. I’m just saying that the invitations had been considered. It hadn’t been a flat out no. Trying to defend myself a bit here, y’know.” He smirked at his wife, even though she was technically right. He in fact did not end up going so that did mean he didn’t have that usual college experience. Not that he would have ever been able to considering his responsibilities as Spider-Man. Peter had barely been able to get to his classes on a regular, timely fashion. Going out to any college activities was essentially out of the question. But that didn’t mean he hadn’t wanted to go whenever MJ extended an invitation, even when things were weird between them. When the redhead began to demand that he bow to her in celebration of her win, Peter couldn’t fight back his laugh, but he indulged her anyway. He took a step back and bowed to her. “What can I say?” He said, standing back up. “You won, fair and square. You are officially the queen of beer pong.” He then lifted a finger up and wagged it at her. “That is, until our inevitable rematch.” One of his eyebrows quirked upwards in a challenge before he smirked at her. “But that’ll be for another time.” After placing the now slightly chewed game card away, he watched Mary Jane grabbed the missing piece out of their daughter’s mouth. It hadn’t even occurred to him that she’d still be chewing on that small piece. “Oh, May,” he muttered, though slightly amused by all of this. “It’ll definitely take some getting used to. I keep forgetting she’s not a regular baby. Then she goes and does something like this and it’s like ‘yep, that’s my daughter’.” Peter ticked May’s belly before he pointed towards another game at the arcade. “Wanna try and beat me at air hockey?”

[musings-from-mars]

@dragonslayer-week 2022 Day 8 (Aug 1): Free Day!

(I know there already was a Medieval prompt but...)

With powerful swings and swipes of her sword, the brave knightess Yang Xiao Long clears the last of the foliage between her and the mouth of the cave, 'twhich leads to the lair of the feared dragon. She stares down the dark earthen maw, then steadies herself with a deep breath. The moment has arrived, she must fulfill her duty of rescuing the prince from the monster, and perhaps in the process, win the fair royal's affections.

Down through the darkness, the rocky surface echos back the sounds of her armor. She continues forth until seeing a faint flickering, like the dancing light of fire. She knows she must be close to the hoard of the dragon.

Emerging into the light, she gazes upon the riches before her. Shining gold, polished silver. She cannot take a single step without the sounds of coins shuffling beneath her boots. She navigates through the passage, until she is stopped in her tracks by a booming voice. "Knightess!" The voice calls, thunderous in the enclosed cave.

Yang puffs out her chest and slams the broadside of her sword against her shield. "Dragon! Wherever you may be, I have come to rescue the prince!"

"You?" The dragon's voice booms again, feminine and harsh. "You made such a journey of many miles to this cave of riches, solely for the young prince?" What follows those words is the stomping of massive feet, getting closer and closer... "Just to fill your helm with this gold..." the dragon continues, the beast's head now in view above the mounds of precious metals. "Would mean to have riches beyond what any human lifespan could possibly exhaust."

The dragon, a burning orange in color, with rippling scales and bright, piercing eyes looks down upon Yang. She steadies herself and nods, raising and pointing her sword upwards. "I do not seek riches, I only seek the prince. Now, surrender him, foolish dragon! Or I will have no choice but to perform my duty as a knight of the Arc Kingdom, and risk my very life for his safety!"

The dragon throws her head back and laughs, straining Yang's ears. "You must think yourself a very capable knight to approach me alone like this. How admirable, how foolish!"

"I am no fool, I am simply aware of my abilities," Yang says. "For my entire life, I have trained..." She digs her heels into the ground. "To slay dragons!" She pushes off and advances, yelling a war cry as she runs forward, preparing to defend against the dragon's inevitable attack.

What comes instead is a large clawed hand, which easily plucks the sword from her grasp.

"Wh...what...?" Yang murmurs as she comes to a stop.

"Well done, knightess!" The dragon praises with a laugh, appearing to stand down. She begins to pick at her sharp teeth with Yang's sword. "I was promised that you would show no fear if it meant rescuing my dear brother."

"Brother...?"

As if on cue, there was Jaune, atop the dragon's head, waving as he holds tight to a spike. "Hello, Sir Yang! Sorry about all this, uhh, this is my sister Saphron!"

"Jaune?!" Yang yells.

"My dear little brother had told me much about your devotion to him," the dragon says, then in a flash of light seems to disappear. Yang gasps and runs through the gold and riches, only to find Jaune safely on the ground, standing next to a human woman with similar blonde hair to his. Yang simply stands there, awaiting an explanation.

"I simply wanted to see this bravery for myself," Saphron explains, Yang's sword still in hand, which she hands to Jaune.

Yang looks at Jaune, who seems embarrassed more than anything. "Your sister...is a dragon?!"

"Part dragon," Jaune explains, stepping forward to hand Yang her sword back.

"And part human," Saphron adds, gesturing to herself.

"Does that mean you are...?" Yang murmurs, studying Jaune closely as she sheaths her sword.

Jaune laughs and shakes his head. "Only the eldest born of the family is able to take the dragon form."

"But...the Arc Kingdom's enemy is the dragon!"

"There is a lot of history you aren't privy to," Jaune tells her. "I would be happy to explain later!"

She immediately grabs him by the shoulders and pulls him into a hug. "You better do just that! And don't you dare scare me like that ever again, idiot!"

Saphron chuckled. "That's no way to speak to royalty."

"Shut up!" Yang yelps, gritting her teeth and hugging him tighter.

"Were you that scared for my safety?" Jaune asks, hugging her in return.

"I thought a dragon had kidnapped you and eaten you or something?!"

"Ew!" Saphron gags. "Human meat is not as good as you think."

"Saph, gross!" Jaune says.

"Kidding!" Saphron waves her hands and smiles. "But I think this test was a success, Yang. Congrats! You'll make a great princess."

Yang stares at her for a moment, then parts from Jaune's arms and looks up with wide eyes. "Wh-"

"Weeee have a lot to talk about!!!" Jaune cuts her off, smiling widely and awkwardly. "Thanks again, Saph!"

"No problem at all, little brother!"

Jaune takes Yang by the hand and begins to lead her out of the cave. Apparently, there was a secret entrance to it that was just a simple path of boring stairs.

"Your Highness..." Yang mumbles.

Jaune kissed her cheek, making her face flush instantly. "I knew you could do it!"

She bites her lip, and despite her anger and confusion, can't help but smile. "I'm...still mad at you."

"I do not blame you, but my sister would not relent," he says.

"That was a long walk, you know!" She says.

"And now we can share the journey back!"

She huffs and frowns. "You're a weird prince..."

"You're a weird knight," Jaune says back. "You called her foolish. Who calls a giant dragon foolish?"

Yang elbows him harshly.

"Ow! Armor!"

~~~

This event was a lot of fun to write for! I'm very proud to have written for every prompt, I consider that an achievement! 💖 Thank you for reading!

[starfirette]

Ok but Helena Bertinelli x fem!reader where Helena takes all her pent up anger out on reader thru sex and she just tops the FUCK out of R and it’s super hot and R lowkey loves when Helena gets angry when it leads to steamy sex👀 oof I need a MINUUUTE😫

a/n: this is very smutty. it is more emotionally angry, and y/n more takes her anger out on helena, BUT i think it's good. .......i think?? | 18+

masterlist | more helena | inbox | ships + requests open

Every single piece of furniture was toppled over.

The fine china that you’d once had shelved on display littered the floor in ground little pieces.

It was a shocking scene to say the least, especially when you were expecting to walk through the door and take an instant nap.

After being in Moscow for the week, both you and Helena had been looking forward to coming back to the shared Alaska home high up in the mountains.

As you stared around in a state of shock, Helena pulled you by the waist. It was as though she wanted to shield you from the destruction that laid before your eyes.

You weren’t naive. At least, not too naive. You could recognize what was going on.

The last time something similar happened was three years ago. At that time, you and Helena had recently been married. It was the threats and destruction that followed Helena which caused her to leave Gotham with you in tow. Together, you traveled halfway across the across the country, in search for a haven that would protect you from Helena’s enemies.

But they’d found you. Again.

“Get your coat,” Helena instructed as she pushed you towards the foyer. 

“But-”

“Get your coat, now, Y/n,” she snapped again, not bothering to look at you. 

You felt oddly embarrassed by the way your wife had spoken to you. You mustered a submissive nod as you hurried to pull on the coat you’d just taken off.

Helena’s angry, Italian cursing bounced off the walls as she turned through the house, her shoes crunching over glass. She spoke with someone in the phone. Her words were fast and icy. She rarely spoke in Italian, but you’d been with her long enough to learn some of the lingo.  She spoke about a safe house and about a rabbit--

Maybe rabbit wasn’t the right word. 

But you’re positive it’s something about a safehouse. 

You waited in the foyer, shivering in the heavy coat you wore despite the warmth it was generating. 

Helena came rushing to you after her phone conversation ended. “We’re getting back in the car,” she instructed you, using her hands to physically turn you back to face the door. 

“Wait, what’s going on?” you asked, feeling dumb as she snatched a random sweater from the coat closet. 

“We’ve been found, so we’re leaving,” Helena said again, slowing her words as if she was trying to dumb it down for you. She put her arm around your waist, ushering you out of the house and carefully down the snowy pathway that led to your driveway. The fresh powdered snow had two sets of footprints, your own and Helena’s. You didn’t see any others, nothing that would have alerted you to thinking someone had broken in. 

Your face burned with warmth as Helena buckle you into the passenger seat. You don’t like being babied by her. You were tempted to bitch about the way she was treating you, but you knew better. At least, right now. You try to remember she’s in a panic, and she’s running on auto pilot. 

The car raced down the long driveway that wrapped in a spiral down the mini mountain. 

Your heart thumped in your throat as she sped away from the house. You clutched into your seatbelt, letting it dig into your palms. “Slow down,” you finally blurted out.

Helena grunted in response. Her foot reluctantly pumped the break.  

You know she doesn’t like to be told to slow down, or to relax, or to be safe. Even so, Helena knows you don’t like when she drives to fast, or goes into a rage, or puts her safety on the line. 

The drive was silent as she expertly navigated some snowy backroads. You wanted to talk to her, maybe even distract her from whatever was boiling in her brain. She didn’t explain what was happening. You were left to your own devices. You could only assume she was taking you to one of her safe checkpoints in Cordova. That had been ingrained into to your mind; Cordova is safe. If anything happens, go to Cordova and call someone, whether it be Harley or one of Helena’s contacts in Italy.

You slumped down your seat, shifting all of your body to lean against your door, your head against the window. "I love you," you muttered.

Helena didn't say anything.

The underground house in Cordova spans 500 square feet. It's nothing fancy. It's more of a basic studio flat than a house, really, with a very well structured lay out. The kitchen consisted of a two burner stove and an old fashioned ice box. On that same note, the given bedroom was really just a queen size mattress on the floor, shoved in a corner against the north eastern wall. It had a pile of new pillows, still wrapped in their Macy's store liners.

You dropped your coat on the little coffee table in the dead center of the room. It faced an outdated, but thorough, television set, with a boxy TV and VHS player. Stacks of worn VHS tapes and magazines were laced neatly on the little coffee table, alongside the clunky television remote.

A single door was on the western wall, and you assumed it led to the bathroom.

You pried off your shoes as Helena closed the heavy vault door, turning all of the metal spires so the locks clicked, leaving only you and her within the room.

It was a heavy silence for a couple minutes. Helena didn't do anything but stand, staring intensely at the vaulted door, as if it was responsible for destroying your mountain top mansion.

You curled into the bed. The quilts had the consistency of hotel blankets, thin and flimsy, allowing all the cold air to pass through the threads.

The side of the bed sank when Helena sat down, her long legs bent at the knees awkwardly. Her hand placed softly on your back, which was huddled in the corner of the bed, pulled over with the quilts.

"Are you okay?" Helena asked. Her voice was hard. She sounded as if she were in a great deal of pain.

You rolled over. You faced your own wall, turning your back on her. When you did not answer, Helena asked again. "Don't ignore me," she snapped.

You jerked upright.

Helena looked momentarily surprised, as if she'd watched a corpse rise from his grave. You stared at her with wide, angry eyes.

"Don’t even start,” you snapped, holding up a finger to stop whatever words Helena was about to start blabbering out.

"You're not allowed to speak to me any way you want, any time you want," you added with a jab of your finger. You scrambled to leave the bed, tripping over the bedding as you clumsily plunged out of her reach.

"I understand that you're stressed," you said, trying to control the volume at which you spoke. "But you always take it out on me. You always make me feel like the world's going to end."

Helena pinched her nose, bending so her elbows rested on her knees. She looked stressed, just so stressed, just about as stressed as you were feeling, but maybe less angry and shaky. "This is serious, Y/n," she said slowly, as if she didn't think you would have understood her otherwise.

"Even so, we have to keep our wits about us. We have to keep our relationship steady, otherwise we're just going to fall apart and fail. This relationship will not last. It will not last. We are always going to be chased by these troubles, by your enemies. I think I could handle it if we didn't get into massive fucking fights every time it happened. It feels like I'm a kid again, watching my parents go back and forth, staying together 'for us kids', when it's pretty clear that divorce would just be better for all of us."

Helena by now had released her face. She had a blank expression as she stared at you.

"I'm sorry," she finally said.

You couldn't muster much energy, so you shrugged and collapsed on the little sofa. "I don't care anymore," you muttered. "I just want water. I want to sleep."

Helena ran to your side. She knelt at your feet, quite literally on her hands and knees for you. She braced her hands on your thighs. "How can I make it up to you?"

You stared down at her, unsure of what to say.

"I cannot lose you," she said next. "There wouldn't be a reason to have such safehouses like this if I lost you."

"I cannot handle these fights anymore. It's too much."

"What can I do?"

"I just want to sleep," you sighed. "I'd rather just...listen to the television."

Helena led you to the bed, straightening out the mess you'd made when you'd trampled out of it. You shimmied out of your pants, throwing them out so you could sleep comfortably.

"Please just talk to me," Helena begged as she laid behind you. She wrapped her arms around you tenderly, your back pressed against her chest. "I'm just tired, Helena," you sighed as you let your eyes fall shut.

Helena dragged her hand up the stomach of your shirt, her calloused palm tucking close against your belly.

"I'm tired," you whispered.

Her fingers slipped beneath the band of your underwear. Her palm cupped your warmth, her lips pressing soothing kisses behind your ear.

She did not tease that night. She swept two finger tips into the opening of your hot, twitchy cunt, swiping drops of arousal and then spreading it around your clit. The lubricant beneath her fingertips made the sensation slippery and slick. You slowly gasped at the feeling. The sensation got you to slip out of your body for a split second, as if you could see the scene playing out in front of you. Your hips were grinding fast and hard into Helena's hand.

You snatched her wrist and pushed her hand down. "Inside," you snapped. "If you're really sorry, then inside."

"As you wish," Helena murmured. Her three fingers pushed up and in, stretching the velvety walls of your cunt out. You wanted to scream. Her fingers curled and reached up at the spongey spot way inside of you, like the brightest star in all the galaxy.

"Shit!" you cried. You lurched your head back, your hair scrunching up into Helena's face and nose. She didn't seem to care as she slowly pumped in and out, always making sure to press up at your starpoint.

"Never again," you cried as you gripped at Helena's forearm. You used this as an anchor point to keep you grounded while you wiggled your hips into Helena's hand. "You're never again going to treat me this way. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Dove, yes," Helena assured you in a soothing voice. "You're such a good bird for me," she sighed, her cool breath tickling your ear. "And you deserve good things. You deserve to cum all over my hand."

Yes, an internal voice shrieked within you. You thought another version of yourself would punch through your chest and take over, take over everything.

Your entire existence rolled up into nothing but pure light as you felt your high coming on quickly. You knew you were cumming, and Helena did too, for she used her other hand to simultaneously stimulate your clit.

The pressure released, like a balloon snapping in your belly.

You were breathing heavily as you sank into Helena's arms. You hadn't realized how tense you'd been until all of your muscles relaxed.

"I'm sorry, Dove," Helena murmured into your ear. She held you tight and close. Her natural perfume, a blend of rosewater and fresh flowers, flooded your senses. With your energy dwindling after such an exertion, you didn't have the strength to argue or complain. You laid there, silently accepting her apology. No longer were you distracted by the wanton desires for orgasm and relief. And in the same way, you were no longer consumed with bitter anger.

"Do you promise we're going to be alright?" you asked, voice cracking and hoarse.

Helena kissed your neck.

"I do."

[astriefer]

Just Let Me Breath With You

Pairing: Thomastair

Word count: 3033

Warning: CHAIN OF IRON SPOILERS, injury, blood, mentions of trauma

It all happened in a swift blink of an eye. The demon attack, the fighting, it all passed in a great swipe of Thomas's boleadoras.

The attack was surprising - not because it was an attack, but because it was close to the stronghold of London's enclave- the London institute. Demons lurked in the road, near Fleet street. A get-together at the institute was held that gray, hazy day in London. What precisely they celebrated was beyond Thomas; what mattered was that old and young Shadowhunters as one joined the battle against the horde of Achaieral demons. Their numbers were the larger he has seen ever since the Mandikhor. It didn't pass smoothly - some injured, although Thomas hadn't registered who. During the fight, Henry or Christopher threw at the demons one of their newest innovation. He noticed only a blur, a small grenade-like object, thrown close to where he was fighting one of the demons. He tried to stop the nasty-looking Achaieral demon from flying - with Thomas himself- when smoke swirled from the thrown grenade. There was a hollow thud of metal hitting something, an explosion followed afterward, and the demon disappeared.  Maybe it was better not to inhale, but he was surrendered by the weird, thick smoke. He wasn't blown up from his inside out, so he considered it safe enough. As for now, the gates of the institute were behind him, hanging open to carry wounded and hurtling carriages. 

Thomas's hands were sore and calloused as he rubbed them against his neck. He swayed slightly, an expression of a fool sprawled over his face. He surveyed his surroundings in bewilderment. Soon enough, worried and relieved faces gathered around him. His friends and family crowded him, mumbling altogether to make no sense at all. It felt utmost importance to note to himself not all of his friends and family truly were there. Matthew wasn't, and so was Cordelia. He heard the word "overwhelmed" in all the havoc. He didn't understand what they were talking about - surely they had been fine if they were running around the way they did.

He kept his eyes on them, trying his best to decipher what they were saying, but his gaze inevitably slipped away from them. He caught a brown blur of torn red jacket, grey pants, and tousled dark hair. That instant, the world turned down, and all left was him and this man in another corner of the institute. Even the voices surrounding him ceased to exist.

On the spur of the moment, he briskly departed from his family and friends and walked to him, barely restraining himself from storming toward him. A hand rested on his forearm -  an attempt to stop him - but he shook it off without glancing at whomever it was. Sensing his intensive look, Alastair stared at him with a puzzled countenance. The short man was sitting against a wall, letting another Shadowhunter draw an iratze on his left arm. Thomas remembered Alastair charging to battle, now and in other battles they fought side by side, and relief I've washed him because he didn't seem to be wounded. By the time he reached them, It didn't matter who the other person was. The moment he captured Alastair's forearm, he broke into a run, not bothering to look at anyone as they hastily evaporated from the forecourt. Bad-mannered indeed, but Thomas was sure whoever that was would've understood urgent matter to talk with Alastair if he had known.

The tall man led the other through hurrying servants and leery eyes. Thomas almost knocked over a few people, but he did not find himself to care much more than mumble a half-hearted 'sorry'. He hadn't let go of Alastair, just loosened his grip slightly so he could slip his hand into Alastair's. His hold was firm nonetheless.

"Thomas!'" Alastair called out and caused him to turn his head over his shoulder. By the look of annoyance on his face, Thomas assumed the other man called his name a few times. Or perhaps, it was a result of being publicly dragged by Thomas for no apparent reason. Then he understood. Alastair had to run in order to follow him at this pace. For the first in entirety, Thomas cursed Alastair's shorter legs; but he quickly took it back because Alastair was, of course, the most beautiful the way he is. e slowed down his pace enough for Alastair to walk beside him, still dragging him after him. He felt a jolt of surprise Alastair didn't fight him about that, that he just let him take him to wherever he had in mind. Perhaps he was too stunned to really do anything else but stare at Thomas.

Thomas hadn't stopped to ponder over his good luck and no fuss from Alastair's side. He navigated through the maze of rooms and corridors, guiding Alastair to a casual unused guest room. He thrust the door open, let Alastair and himself enter before releasing his hand and shutting it close. He couldn't quite catch his breath.

He spun around to confront Alastair. Beautiful, he thought. The man in front of him was beautiful. Alastair - with torn clothes and dirt on his face - looked as charming as ever. In the last rays of the London sun, Alastair's eyelashes cast shadows upon his face. His cheeks seemed a bit red - was it because of Thomas or because of the previous fight? - and he chewed his lower lip. Thomas had the sudden urge to raise his hand and separate his lip from his teeth, pass his thumb on the soft mouth of Alastair Carstairs. The older man clearly tried to look expressionless, but he could see he studied him with concerned eyes. Thomas saw the question in them as well. Out of self-awareness, he looked down at his own clothes; they were rumpled and he lost his waistcoat in the fight, leaving him with trousers, a jacket, and a white shirt. All stained Ichor. He peered at Alastair, his clothes, and Alastair again. He must have looked like a corpse. Alastair, however, kept his captivating eyes on him, endearing-looking with his normal composed facade slightly off. 

Alastair's stopped biting his lip and opened his mouth to talk, yet before he could voice a word, Thomas stepped closer and buried his face in the soft hair of Alastair Carstairs. He relished the feeling of Alastair close to him, of his smell and heartbeat and warmth. "You're here. You're fine."

His voice was just above a whisper, but it filled the quiet room. "I wanted to talk with you for days now." Alastair's breath hitched. He hadn't pulled away. He hadn't tried to push Thomas aside. It was Thomas who backed away from their position. Alastair tilted his head up to look at his face and gasped loudly when Thomas crushed him in a hug. He groaned in pain, and it struck him Alastair had been injured.

"You are hurt." Thomas's voice was almost offended. He loosened his grip on Alastair, whose hand came to rest protectively on his side, where his bruise must have been. Thomas recalled all of sudden he had been given an iratze. Was his wound worse than just a bruise?

"It's nothing," Alastair wheezed and took a careful breath.

Their gazes met for a long moment. Alastair didn't squirm. Thomas leaned forward leisurely, testing his boundaries. When his lips collided with Alastair's forehead, he let out a sigh against the soft skin. Alastair stood strained at first, then slowly relaxed. it had not even been a week since the sanctuary, since Belial and his schemes, since Cordelia and Matthew disappeared to Paris. Alastair was avoiding him like the plague, and Thomas couldn't blame him much. He wished he could. It hurt seeing Alastair and knowing he could not be with him the way he craved to be. He suspected Alastair would back away soon, leave him alone in this room, disappear without a second glance. Come and leave like in a dream. Like in their time in Paris. 

Then, "I am glad you are okay as well."

Thomas's heart skipped a beat. Or a few. He abruptly ducked his head into Alastair's neck, close to his pulse. His body lost its tense as he devoted all his heed to the marvelous sound of Alastair's heart, beating strong and fast, addicting to Thomas's mind. Not a minute later he felt small palms pushing against him gently. He drew away begrudgingly.

His eyes were unclear, while Alastair's were shining brightly. Too brightly. He lifted his arm to touch the side of the fair hair on Thomas's head. When he lightly caressed it, Thomas winced. Letting his arm fall to his side, Alastair said, "You are hurt too. You need treatment."

Alastair dismissed his injury because he didn't want to worry Thomas and make it about him; Thomas dismissed it because he didn't want to be away from Alastair. His head was throbbing; it didn't matter. "It's nothing." he tried to enfold the small figure in his arms once again, but Alastair didn't let him. Thomas didn't try again, just silently observed Alastair. The dark man's eyes were conflicted as to if debating over himself what to do now. He sighed. "We can't, Tom. Please."

It was like a heated knife to his heart. He swallowed tightly. "I know," he forced himself to speak. "I am - I keep remembering all you are. All I love about you. Your hair," he counted and planted a kiss on his damp hair.  Alastair looked at him, surprise written over all his face. "Your haughty smile, your dark colors, your eyes-"  sparks of gray in a pool of black that reminded him of a starry sky. "Your lips," He closed his eyes. "your heart, so wide and loving, despite how much you try to conceal it. Your stubbornness, kindness, and selflessness. Your love for mundane movies and history and art. All of it. The feeling I can twirl around you for hours without getting a tad bit tired."

"Thomas," Alastair whispered.

"You deserve to be happy. I wish you would let me show you some of it," he continued tentatively. The man in front of him stood rigid, and it made sprouts of doubt rise in Thomas's chest. 

"Thomas. No. No. We cannot. Don't act like we- as we could ever happen. Don't say those things to try and convince me we can be more than heartbreak for each other."

The knife twisted. Thomas blinked. "I am not telling this to try and win you over, Alastair," he said slowly. "I am telling you this because you deserve to know. Because I want you to know how much you mean to me," he inhaled, feeling a bit lightheaded, and went on. "With my friends, I always hide this part of me. The part you take in my life, in my heart. I can be all I am with you. You understand me so easily, that it takes my breath away. I- I am not as good at words as James is. I am not as wild or charming as Matthew. I am not as talented as Kit. I am me, and with you, I feel it's enough."    

"Tom, it always has been enough."

Thomas sucked in a breath. How could he say this and expect Thomas to keep his face straight and his heart in control? He tried to push Thomas away but didn't let him think less of himself. He didn't let himself what he deserved, what they both did, because he believed they would both end up hurt. "I know so many things are - complicated," Alastair snorted at that. "But right now, everything is lucid, with you here."

He gazed deeply into those dark eyes. They held depths inside them he wanted to learn off by heart. Depths he wished to explore but could not reach.

Alastair shook his head and stubbornly kept his gaze at his dusted shoes. "You think we have reason by our side, but all we have is the burning yearning and stolen time." He knew if he let himself fall this time, he could not stand back. He would lose himself those kind hazel eyes, his deep voice, his brave heart, in everything that is Thomas Lightwood.

"We have more than this," Thomas declared. "I trust you."

Alastair piped his head up, "What?"

"I trust you," he repeated."And I want you, Alastair. I know you do too. But I want you to trust me as well. Trust me when I say I will never say those things just to make you give in and be with me. I am saying them because they are the mere truth and because I care for you."

Alastair glanced away hastily, eluding his eyes. "You are in no condition to make this decision. You- We can't -"

"But do you want us to be? Do you wish us to be together? "

Electricity filled the room, and both couldn't take their eyes off the other. Thomas knew it wasn't fair of Alastair to ask such a question. He knew on his flesh what it is to admit- even simply to oneself - you want something and believe you would never have it. That is how Alastair seemed to perceive them - a false fantasy, a feverish dream that would never come true. Thomas knew as well that Alastair had made it clear he didn't think they had a future, and making him fumble with those pieces of broken fantasy could hurt worse than words could. Yet, a part of Thomas couldn't help but wonder what the other had been through to be so hesitant to let himself be happy.

Do not say it's not possible on my behalf, he wanted to shout. If you wish to break my heart, do it because what you want is not a future with me in it.

"Yes."

Relief came so fast he felt abashed. His heart pounded ear-piercingly through his body. "Tell me," he asked gingerly. " Will you allow me to kiss you?"

Alastair drew in a sharp breath. Color flooded his cheeks. "Thomas..."

Thomas searched his face, which for so long was emotionless when he saw him the past week. He saw the hurt -  how much it must be for Alastair?  he pondered - and the fear. The dark-eyed gentleman wouldn't believe Thomas's words. He wasn't sure he could trust him with his heart. For now, he shall have the certitude for both of them. There was a voice telling him he wouldn't have come to Alastair after the fight if he could think clearly. He pushed that part away, locked it in a cage, and threw away the key. 

He swallowed down the odd, stinging feeling of being rejected. "Will you allow me to embrace you, then? " Just let me breathe with you. Let me hold you in my arms, to reassure us both, to know you are here. "You don't have to. I swear to it." He took a step back to prove his statement.

The judicious decision was to ignore the offer. To turn away from Thomas and all the comfort he had to give. Alastair was on the verge of tears. Thomas hated those tears were because of him. Because of them. Alastair opened his eyes and hummed acquiescently, soft and low.

The shreds of resistance left Alastair's body as Thomas swooped him into a hug. His big hand passed his head on Alastair's back, between his shoulder blades, and to his lumbar. He absentmindedly caressed Alastairs's side, touching Alastair's wound lightly. The smaller man shied away from the contact but immediately calmed back into the hug. He stifled a whine, and in the back of Thomas's mind, he knew they both had to get checked on. Thomas put his cheek on the other man's forehead. He closed his eyes and let out a pleased noise. Alastair's arms slowly cloaked Thomas's waist, holding him close. 

"We should return," Alastair whispered. A few minutes had passed. They were alone, far away from anyone who might hear, but the moment was so dreamlike and tender both were afraid to break the air around them. That alternate reality they formed in this godforsaken room, for a glimpse of a moment.

"I find it so tremendously difficult to do," his breath felt heavy; so did his heart. "Because I don't want to ever let go of you."

He heard Alastair gasp, and Thomas's own breath was quivering. The pulse beating deep in Alastair's chest raced, and Thomas was sure he could listen to it forevermore. The hug felt more private than a kiss, more overwhelming and welcoming and warm and protecting and trusting. "I missed you."

"Tom," Alastair's voice was suffocated, and thick from emotion, as if he was a boat that slowly sank because it's full of water. Thomas tried to retreat, suddenly fearing he passed the line. He must have passed it long ago, and yet Alastair let him, despite his own warnings. Thomas was about to apologize when he felt Alastair's hands tightening around him, and then the blazing understanding hit Thomas that It was Alastair's way of telling it was fine. Haltingly, he returned to their previous position.    

They were hugging, nothing more. But the proximity made Thomas feel a sense of internal peace, like a calm wave hitting the sand lightly. It made his lungs protest because he was out of breath. How could he ever let go? It was better than nothing at all, better than air and staring long at the wall of his room. It was Alastair, and he was ready to take every drop given to him. Yet, because it was Alastair, he could never get enough. It was hard to capture it - the soft looks, the thumping hearts, the yearning and the hurt. Thomas's cheek was still pressed against Alastair's forehead. He shifted to hide his face in his strands, dark like the night, soft as a feather. Alastair's smell was intoxicating. The words slipped his tongue before he knew it. "I am glad I am here with you."

There was a beat of silence. The voice of the man he loved - Thomas almost startled himself by the heedless use of the word love - barely reached his ears.

"I am, too."

[songsofdivinity]

Both her hearts ache upon seeing the abject fear on Athena's face; even more so at the words that spill from her in explanation as to why the occasion is not joyous. Medusa can understand, to a degree. Long ago had she given up the idea of being a mother; her dedication to Athena had been greater than any desire for a family of her own. She is... aware of the two entities that sprung from her upon her death, but neither were children, nor did she have any attachment to them due to the circumstances of their 'birth'. Motherhood was not - is not - a concept Medusa had considered in any great detail. To be faced with the possibility of it now is daunting.

But a child of Athena's... A child with the woman she adores so? That is not a thought that makes her recoil. Together they have created something; a life borne from their love, however unintentional that creation may be. Unwittingly her mind calls forth an image of a sweet little being - one who bears a remarkable resemblance to it's sire, with only a little of Medusa's influence. How sweet that could be, and so the joy she tried to suppress flares a little, fighting her resistance. But now is not the time.

Swiping away the salty tears with her thumbs, Medusa presses right back with her head until the pressure between their foreheads is almost uncomfortable. She needs Athena to focus on something other than her fear.

"Oh, my love. You are terribly clever - few minds could ever best yours - but it does you no favours now," she says, lips curling up slightly into a gentle smile with the equally gentle tease. "Every day you wear armour around your heart, allowing others to see only what you want them to. And yet not once have I ever doubted your love for me, because love cares not for such things. I call, and you come swiftly to my side to meet whatever I may need of you. You kiss me with a sweetness no amount of nectar could ever match, and you hold me so close it is hard to discern where one body ends and another begins - an impressive feat considering how much of me there is. I know I need not navigate this world in fear, for you spring to my defence in the face of any adversary that seeks me. You love me so completely, I cannot even fathom the contrary as an option. And so I know if we were to have a child, they would not want for love, nor be able to doubt their place in your heart."

As she speaks, she moves to press a sweet, chaste kiss to her lover's lips, and then upon both of her cheeks before rubbing their noses together, eyes soft with affection. She has no doubts at all that Athena could be a wonderful mother, or that she would do anything but throw herself into the role as she does with everything else she does - full of determination.

"You are capable of so much more than you think, my love. And do not forget that I am by your side, always and forever. It is no task you would face alone."

The initial panic upon seeing the sheer terror upon Athena's face is eclipsed by the disarming question - one that makes her almost want to bark a laugh at the absurdity of it. Her coils shift to better accommodate the goddess, ensuring she is secure before Medusa nods, her agitation betrayed only by her snakes writhing uneasily in her hair. "Of course yours, my love. There is no doubt to be had there." It has been so long since Athena pulled her from death, and the gorgon has remained true to her love since. There is only one possible sire.

Uncertainty begins to swirl in her for a different reason though, as Athena's tongue spills apologies and fear, and then that last question that has Medusa aching for the woman she loves so dearly. Expression pinched, she releases the goodness' hands so her own can cradle the woman's face, thumbs stroking over her fair cheeks to try and ease that terror from her expression.

"You do not need to be apologetic. I did not know it was possible either. I thought I could no longer– I had assumed–" Her speech halts, and she swallows the words she knows will not be helpful in this moment, no matter that they would not be meant in anger or malice. She need not speak of more painful times, nor the assumptions made back then. She exhales slowly, regaining composure.

"I am... shocked. Uncertain. But angry? No, my love. Never. Not for this. But you... You are not pleased." No matter how she searches, there is no happiness to be found in Athena's face, and it is for that reason Medusa cannot nurture the tiny pinprick of joy that resides somewhere deep inside her. Until she knows her love's thoughts, she will keep it small, so she might snuff it out should Athena not want this.

She brings their foreheads together, still cradling Athena's face in her hands. "Tell me now if it is unwelcome news. I do not want you unhappy."

[teshadraws]

Pokemon Mystery Dungeon: Seekers of Soul

[Chapter 6] (10 Pages)

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Tobias needs to form a Seeker team, and he won’t take no for an answer. Even if that means disobeying his guild leader.

-

“Give me one good reason why I can’t form a solo team,” Tobias growls, trying to sound respectful even as embers flutter from his mouth with each breath.

August sighs, the rillaboom looking less like a majestic leader and more like an exasperated parent. “Tobias, you cannot be a solo team, as the word ‘team’ itself implies more than one member.”

Verene bites back a smile at the cheeky response, and Tobias sends the lurantis a glare.

“That’s not the point,” he grumbles.

“The point,” August says. “Is that Seekers work in teams of two or more as a matter of safety. If you were to enter a dangerous situation alone and be injured, there would be no Pokémon there to help you.”

“We have rescue badges!”

“That have the possibility of malfunctioning and can’t be activated at all if you’re unconscious,” August counters, red eyes sharp.

Tobias takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, blowing it out as a cloud of smoke through his nose. “I made it out of the forest dungeon just fine.”

“Nia was with you,” August points out.

“But she didn’t do anything! I did all the fighting and I didn’t even get hurt!”

“And what if next time you aren’t so lucky?” August asks. “I’m not trying to downplay your skills, Tobias, but escaping one low level dungeon does not make a Seeker.”

“Tobias,” Verene cuts in, tone carefully neutral. “What is this really about? You know we can’t grant you Seeker status on your own. Why not join an existing team? There are plenty of teams in the guild with only two or three members.”

Tobias doesn’t meet her eyes, feeling shame and anger bubble together in his stomach. There’s a moment of silence, and then August takes mercy on him, voice unbearably soft. “Why don’t you see if you can make amends with some of the Pokémon in the guild, Tobias? Maybe in time one of them will welcome you into their team.”

Tobias swallows back a sharp retort, feeling tears sting his eyes. He nods once, curtly. “Yes, sir.”

“Then you are dismissed,” Verene says, voice uncertain. Right, she’s only been here for about a year. She wouldn’t know quite how “troubled” he is yet. Well, he’s sure August will catch her up.

Feeling a thousand times worse than he had when he’d stepped into the guildmaster’s quarters, Tobias leaves and stalks down the hallway. He sniffs back tears, swiping angrily at his eyes.

Stupid rules. So what if he wants to risk his own safety on a solo team? He’s an adult. It’s his life, he can decide that for himself. It’s not like he’d be hurting anyone else. If he could just show them that he could take care of himself, that he doesn’t need a partner to accomplish a mission or navigate a dungeon—

Tobias stops in his tracks, eyes growing wide. Of course. He...he could prove that he could handle missions on his own. If he completes enough missions alone, unofficially, then there’s no way anyone could stop him from creating a Seeker team! Technically August could, but at least then Tobias would have an actual argument. The charmander’s heartrate picks up, and his walk speeds up too, then transitions into a run. He knows this is reckless, that he might just get into more trouble than before without even getting a pass. He probably will, in fact.

He doesn’t care. He’s desperate, and he knows it. Tobias needs to become a Seeker. He has no other option.

Tobias hops down the stairs, careful not to trip, and catalogues what he could take with him. He can’t risk going to the medical ward in case he bumps into Maggie, and since he’s not an official Seeker he can’t pick up items from the storage floor without someone getting suspicious…

Looks like he’s doing this without items. Or teammates. He’s going solo with just his own moves, and he has no rescue badge in case things go awry. Great. Fine. He’s got this. He’s not afraid—he’ll be fine—and he’s not imagining the fear on Maggie’s face if she discovers him gone first, if he doesn’t make it back—

“Stop it,” he growls to himself. “You were fine last time. You’ll be fine this time.”

He finally arrives at the bottom floor, and pauses at the stairwell entrance to peek inside the giant space of the departure floor. There are only a few Pokémon milling about, moving from board to board and talking amongst themselves about the missions posted there.

Tobias tries to look casual as he walks over to the E-rank board, scanning the available missions. Delivering items to Pokémon in the forest, helping elderly Pokémon clean up fallen branches, taking a bidoof on a tour of the guild...

None of these will make him look capable. Luca could handle these tasks! Tobias casts another wary glance around, then slips over to the D-rank board, fingers crossed that these listings will be a bit more respectable. Sparring practice, looking for a lost item—ah!

Tobias reaches out and snags the paper off the board, eagerly scanning through it. A roselia and their friend, a teddiursa, stumbled into the same mystery dungeon that Tobias and Nia got stuck in. The two Pokemon were separated, and while the roselia found their way out, the teddiursa has yet to return.

Perfect.

Tobias goes to fold up the paper and take it along, but hesitates. Usually, when Seekers take a job, they just input the code on the job listing into their badge to note that they’re taking the mission, and leave the posting up so other teams can also take the job in case of failure. He doesn’t doubt himself (he doesn’t), but he also doesn’t want to be the cause of an innocent Pokemon remaining trapped in a dangerous mystery dungeon.

The charmander crinkles the paper in thought, but then sighs and pins the page back up. He’ll just have to get the client’s name so they can vouch for his success when he’s done. He turns to go, feeling excitement begin to replace his nerves, but jumps back with a startled sound, slamming into the board.

Nia jumps too. “S-Sorry! Sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you!”

Tobias clutches his heart, glaring at the riolu. Then he registers that she’s here, and his gut turns to ice water. How long has she been here?

“What’re you doing down here?” He asks, wary.

“Oh! I, uh, wanted to talk to you, actually.”

Tobias’ eyes flick past the riolu, looking around to make sure no one’s paying them any attention. Did she see him looking at the message board? She does look nervous, but she always looks nervous, so that’s not saying much. Either way, he’s relieved that she didn’t catch him holding the job listing.

“Talk about what?” He asks.

“W-Well, uh...Can we go somewhere more private?”

“Why?”

Nia shifts uncomfortably. “I-I, um…I wanted to ask you something, b-but I think we need to talk first, and I’d rather there not be so many other people around, so...”

Okay, Tobias has no clue what Nia is looking to talk to him about that’s so weirdly secretive, but he doesn’t have time for it. He has a mission to accomplish.

“Look, I’m kind of busy, so it’ll have to wait.” He shoulders past the timid riolu, expecting her to just leave him be as he walks away. Instead, she hurries to catch up to him, and he sees her glancing between him and the board they just left.

“W-Where are you going?” She asks. Tobias can’t tell if he’s imagining the suspicion in her tone or not.

“I’m just gathering some herbs, okay? Alone.”

The riolu takes the hint and slows to a stop. Tobias thinks he can feel her eyes on his back as he takes the nearest tunnel into the forest, and he really hopes that she won’t mention him leaving to Maggie.

If he remembers correctly, this route doesn’t have a guard this time of day, thanks to how well the entrance is hidden, and he doesn’t need a ground type to guide him through solid earth either. It’s one of the better exits for sneaking away undetected. He travels quickly through the dimly lit underground, remembering Nia’s comment and grudgingly admitting that the crystals are rather pretty. It takes him maybe ten minutes to make the trek, and when he emerges in the forest, climbing out from a crack in a hollow tree, he takes a moment to recall which direction to take to the mystery dungeon. Then he sets off, eyes peeled for any useful berries or herbs he may find on the way.

The forest is peaceful today, with sunny warmth dappling the undergrowth and the distant calls of Pokémon giving the environment a quaint feeling. Still, Tobias feels himself slowly grow more and more on edge as he travels, knowing what he’s willingly walking into. Sure, he fought his way through the exact same dungeon not even a week ago, but he’s not so stupid as to underestimate the chaotic nature of mystery dungeons completely. He’s heard enough stories to know that the same dungeon can be a quaint stroll one day and a death trap the next. The tides can turn in an instant.

Sooner than he would like, and with only a single apple to his name, Tobias recognizes his arrival to the mystery dungeon. There’s no flashing sign or obvious entrance; the forest ahead of him looks nearly identical to the trees he’d just passed through. But he knows this is it. The air feels...thick. Heavy. Almost tingly on his skin. And every time he blinks, the path ahead of him seems to shift and change, ever so slightly. He thinks he can hear a wild snarl come from deeper within the brush.

Tobias takes a deep breath to steel his nerves, holds his apple closer, and steps into the mystery dungeon. Immediately, the environment feels...off. Just like last time, the plant life seems almost sentient, shifting and changing in subtle ways to box him into a maze of foliage, weaving itself into shapes like walls and rooms. He already hears Pokémon moving about through the undergrowth, and can’t deny the tension in his shoulders as he moves forward.

Focus, Tobias. Stairs, you’re looking for the stairs. According to the job posting, Teddiursa should be somewhere on the 5th floor, near the end of the dungeon, so he needs to focus on moving forward. He rounds a corner of dense tree trunks and foliage, and stops, surprised to see a familiar set of crumbling stone stairs. Well, that was fast. Tobias shakes his head and climbs the stairs, still unused to the way the world shifts around him and as he reaches the top step. Predictably, the second floor looks nearly identical to the first. Tobias only takes a moment to look around before quickly moving on down a hallway.

In the next room, a lithe purple Pokémon dives out of the undergrowth in front of him. A purrloin. The Pokémon swings around to watch him with crazed, blank white eyes, baring its teeth in a snarl. Tobias takes an uneasy step back. Even though he’d fought some Pokemon last time he was in the dungeon, seeing a feral up close is still more unsettling than he’d like to admit.

The purrloin hisses and launches at him with outstretched claws. Tobias makes a sloppy dodge to the side, then lunges and manages to scratch it with a metal claw attack. The purrloin brushes off the damage and darts forward to try and bite. Tobias stumbles back, feeling a jab of panic as he struggles to keep up with the speedy Pokemon and keep away from its attacks. He needs to distance it! Tobias takes a deep breath and spits a flurry of embers at its face. The purrloin shrieks and finally bounds away into the undergrowth.

Tobias stares at the spot it disappeared, fighting off a shiver of unease. He’s been practicing his fighting for years now, but it’s so different fighting actual Pokemon instead of cloth dummies. Last time he was in this dungeon he’d only had to fight three Pokemon, two of which were weak to fire type moves, but it’s only the second floor and already he has ran into a feral strong enough to need his flames. How many Pokemon can he fight off before he’s too tired to use his moves?

Tobias huffs a breath of smoke and shakes his head. He can’t turn back now, even if he wanted to.

Tobias forges on, managing to find the next set of stairs without another fight, but he doesn’t realize until it’s too late that he’d dropped his apple in the scuffle with the purrloin. As he carefully navigates the third floor, picking up an oran berry he finds on the way, he runs into two more feral Pokémon. The first is a wurmple who falls unconscious after an ember attack and a whack from Tobias’ tail. The second is a lotad who clips his arm with a bubble attack that leaves the skin stinging and singed. He manages to send the little grass and water type packing with a few swipes of his claws, but even he recognizes his exhaustion by time he reaches the stairs that lead to the fourth floor.

Tobias takes a moment to rest, sitting down and leaning against the side of the stone steps. He didn’t think this would be so...difficult. Last time had been tiring, but not this bad. So far he’s only been hit hard once, but some part of Tobias sneers that this was an incredibly stupid idea. Which he knew already, but still. He has...what? Two more floors until he even finds the teddiursa?

He looks down at the oran berry in his claws, rolling it around thoughtfully. The bubble wound on his arm stings, but...maybe he should save the berry in case he really needs it. He nods and stands back up. Onwards, then. He can’t stop here.

Tobias takes the steps and is warped to the next floor. Twisted, maze-like greenery and shifting sunlight sprawls in every direction. It would be beautiful if he didn’t feel the danger breathing down his neck like a houndoom.

He decides to head left, and immediately regrets it as a feral pidgey screeches and dives at his head, pecking gouges into his scales. Tobias snarls, trying to bat the feathery annoyance away, and finally resorts to shooting a cloud of embers straight up. They drift down like a fiery rain, and the pidgey flutters back to avoid getting burned. Tobias takes his chance to lock on to the bird and leap up, managing to snag it out of the air with his claws and slam it to the ground. Before it can fight back, Tobias spews another breath of embers directly onto it, stepping back when he’s sure it’s unconscious. 

He stands up, panting, and winces as he prods at the cuts on his head and arms. Where did he put that oran berry? The charmander groans as he spots it, sitting in the grass and charred from his little ember move earlier. Great. He eats it anyways, but has a feeling it doesn’t heal him as much as it should. Still, his cuts seal up and stop bleeding, and his bubble burn dies down to an ache. Tobias moves on, trying to tell himself that the roar of blood in his ears is just from adrenaline and not fear. He’s fine, he’s doing fine. He’ll just try to avoid any more Pokémon if he can.

He makes it to the room with the staircase, nearly sprinting to the stone steps, when something snags his feet. He faceplants into the grass hard enough to knock the air from his lungs. What in the..? He looks down at his feet to see a sticky cord of white wrapped around his ankles. String shot?

The charmander looks up in time to see a weedle charging at him, stinger raised. Any other time, he would laugh at the idea of a weedle of all things challenging him to a battle. But here and now, he feels a jolt of panic. If he gets poisoned, he’s done for. He tries to stand, but the string shot is surprisingly strong, hardly even stretching as he tries to tear it away. The weedle lunges for him, and he rolls out of the way, immediately looking back to his bindings. Maybe his fire would work.

He blows a plume of embers onto the string, relief ballooning in his chest as they melt. Tobias springs to his feet just in time to punt the weedle away from him, watching it tumble into the undergrowth. The gooey remains of the string shot are still stuck to his feet, but he takes his chance, bolting for the stairs and racing up them.

There! This should be the fifth floor, right?  He sure hopes so. The teddiursa should be around here somewhere. He can grab them, find the last staircase, and then head home! Tobias takes a moment to breathe, then wanders down a hallway to the right.

When he steps into the next room, he’s surprised to see something bright orange sitting in the middle of it. Some sort of item? The charmander looks around warily, then steps closer to investigate. Just as he crouches to pick the item up—a scarf?—something beneath his foot shifts and clicks. Tobias freezes as pink smoke hisses out of the grass. It quickly cuts off any visibility, before dissipating just as fast. When it does, Tobias’ heart drops to his toes.

Four or five Pokémon surround him, all feral. They immediately lunge at him with a terrifying jumble of cries. Tobias curses and rolls out of the way, still getting grazed on the side by something sharp before trying to make a run for the hallway.

Something wraps around his arms, yanking him backwards. He falls hard onto his back, struggling as two vines reel him back into the room across grass and dirt. He shoots a cloud of embers over his shoulder, and the vines hurry to release him. He scrambles to his feet and turns, and he has just a heartbeat to recognize the Pokémon he’s facing: an aipom, an electrike, a starly, a snivy and a wurmple. Then, the electrike and the starly are darting forward, the flying type flickering out of view and slamming into his chest with a quick attack.

Tobias cries out as he’s sent tumbling back. He hardly has time to catch his breath and squint an eye open before the electrike crashes into him with an electricity-charged spark. Tobias slams into the room’s wall, wheezing and struggling to push himself up onto his arms. He...he has to move, has to get up. Run. He can’t get knocked out here. No one knows where he is, no one even knows he’s gone, they’ll never find him in time!

He can’t die. Maggie would be heartbroken. He still has to catch the outlaw trio, and he...he has so much to do. The charmander feels his arms give out, and tears blur his vision.

He’s such an idiot. August was right.

The snivy hisses, and Tobias squeezes his eyes shut, trying one more time to move to his feet, with no luck. He hopes he blacks out quickly.

“Tobias!

He knows that voice, but he’s never heard it like that, so loud and sharp. Tobias blinks open his eyes, just in time to see a familiar blue and black shape step in front of him. Over her shoulder, worried ruby eyes glance down at him before moving back to the ferals. Tobias blinks, again and again, but she’s still there. Her fur is ruffled and scraped up, and even from his position on the ground he can see that she’s shaking, with fear or exhaustion or both. But she’s there.

“Nia?” He rasps.

[funkylittlebard]

Hey, @too-many-fandoms-no-social-life ! Happy birthday!!  I wrote you a thing, hope you like it!

edit 18/05: Ao3 link

CWs: Geralt’s predictably awful self-esteem, there’s a literal monster at one point, but that’s about it

Geraskier hurt/comfort-ish, getting together shenanigans 

They had been wandering side by side down the trail when it had happened. Geralt had left Roach in the stables of the last town, deciding that the narrow winding path overgrown with thistles and thorns that lead to his next contract would be too difficult for her to navigate. So it had been just the two of them together strolling along in the shade avoiding the bright afternoon sun. It had happened slowly, at first. Geralt had stiffened and froze, nose twitching as if he had smelled something, and Jaskier had been turning to make a joke that was certain to be in poor taste right as the creature descended on them. Geralt had his sword out instantly, pointing it straight ahead of him, ready to strike at any moment. Jaskier, however…

It wasn't as if he hadn't been trained to use a sword as a viscount's son. It was just that he’d never paid all that much attention, and what little he had taken in had been forgotten over the years. He hadn't even told Geralt he knew how to hold a sword, for god's sake. As it was he didn't carry one, just a few daggers he kept hidden about his person. 

He had been reaching for one when it happened. It had taken a moment between seeing Geralt's horrified face, spotting the threat, and making a move for his dagger. His fingertips were just dusting the top of his long dark leather boot when the giant centipede had hit him square in the chest with its mandible, pushing him back down onto the ground. Wide-eyed, he had watched in horror as the thing mounted his chest and hissed at him, rearing its back ready to strike again. Sucking in what he had thought would be his final breath, a panicked thought registered in his head- I never even got to tell Geralt I-

The head had flown off landing centimeters from his own with a sickening squelch and squeal of breath from the creature. Before Jaskier could even think to move, Geralt had been there, piercing yellow eyes boring into him, searching for something. He had let out a ragged breath, and pulled Jaskier up to his chest, holding him close and tight. 

Which brought them up to now, with Jaskier sitting in front of the witcher, watching meticulous fingers tear off strips of bandage to wrap around Jaskier’s battered head. He found himself thoroughly entranced by the way those same hands were able to do something so delicate as efficiently as they had wielded the sword that struck the centipede’s head clean off. Geralt hummed and Jaskier peeked up at him again. The frown on Geralt's face hadn't left since he'd placed Jaskier down from their impromptu hug. It seemed unlikely that Geralt was cross with him, but then again, he had a habit of blaming Jaskier for problems of his own making. An involuntary whimper escaped him at the thought, and suddenly he could feel the weight of Geralt's gaze pinning him in place. 

“Jaskier-” Geralt rushed forward, slotting himself between Jaskier’s knees and staring up at him, concern etched into every pore. Jaskier felt shaking hands settle tentatively on his knees. “Jaskier, what's the matter?” 

They locked eyes and Jaskier’s stomach felt liquid. What if he had died? How could he go on now, knowing that any opportunity to tell Geralt the truth could be snatched from him without even a moment's notice? He felt sick.

“Geralt, I,” he paused, swallowed, and continued. “Geralt I have to tell you something.'' The other man grunted and continued searching for any sign of further injury. Jaskier gasped as his hand slid gently around his face, grazing one of the scratches on his forehead with his fingertips. He stared as Geralt poured a little water on the rag before swiping it across the cut. Jaskier held his breath as Geralt continued his gentle ministrations. He had to tell him, it was too much. 

He drew in a deep breath, let it out, and opened his mouth to try again. “Geralt, I-”

“Don't talk.” Geralt silenced him with his gruff reply as he daubed some tincture on and spread it across his forehead. “Makes it harder for me to tell what I'm doing.”

Something about that seemed… off to Jaskier, Geralt could focus on much more difficult tasks in much more taxing circumstances. Instead of questioning it, he swallowed and waited for Geralt to be done, his left foot tapping a frenetic beat on the forest floor as he waited. 

After what seemed like years, and as Jaskier could feel the very last of his patience fraying, Geralt finally pulled back. He peered at Jaskier, eyes darting about with a look of intense concentration as he assessed his work. He nodded sharply and turned away. 

“You should be fine now.” Jaskier didn't miss the way Geralt's shoulders quaked as he bent down to pack up his supplies. Gathering himself up to his feet, Jaskier padded across the clearing and set his hand down cautiously on Geralt's shoulder. He felt more than heard Geralt suck in a shocked breath. It didn’t matter- he had to do it now, or he might lose the nerve. He tightened his grip ever so slightly on Geralt's shoulder. 

“Geralt. Can I tell you what was bothering me now, please?”  Jaskier was not above pleading- his eyebrows pulled together and a slight pout emerged on his face. Geralt’s fist clenched, and he ducked his head against his chest with a strained sigh. Although he seemed angry, Jaskier had gotten very good at reading Geralt's moods over the years- this was an anxious sound, not an angry one. Well, that made two of them then. 

The possibility that in telling Geralt how he felt he might push him away was not lost on Jaskier. But he had tried silently enduring. He had tried distracting himself with sex and flings, with wine and poetry. Nothing changed how he felt, it just made his heart ache all the more. He would rather lose Geralt than carry on without telling him how he felt. He took in a final steadying breath before letting the words all rush out of him all at once.

“Geralt, when we part it feels like my soul has been torn in two, I cannot stand not to be by your side, ask Essi, I’m tragic without you every winter, because dear heart, I love you.” 

He took a moment to breathe, reeling a bit from his admission. The forest seemed to spin around him as he sucked in a nervous breath, in a dizzying rush of dark greens, ochres and browns all spinning into one. He stumbled back a little as his vision settled. Geralt stood in front of him, completely still. Jaskier could feel his eyes beginning to water. Why wasn't he moving? Why wasn't he saying anything? Why wasn't he-

“Jask, you can't.”

What? Jaskier studied Geralt's back as he tried to understand what Geralt meant. He could feel his hands getting clammy and his knees shaking minutely. He thought he had been prepared for rejection, but to hear Geralt spell out that he wasn’t enough for him so clearly...  

“Well, it's good to know how you really feel Geralt, thank you for telling me,” Jaskier said forlornly, looking down at the ground and blinking rapidly trying to keep the tears at bay. At least he had had all those years with him before Geralt made him leave.

He cleared his throat and went over to stand in front of Geralt, ready to say goodbye, head back to their room at the inn and collect his belongings to make a hasty exit off into the sunset to anywhere but here. Instead, he found himself stopped short at the sight of Geralt. His hands clenched tightly closed, jaw trembling as he tried to keep it jammed shut. His head was resting against his chest and his hair was falling in a state of disarray that obscured his expression from Jaskier’s view. He took a step closer and reached one arm out in front of him like he did when trying to get Roach to accept his love, cantankerous as she was.

“Geralt?” he said, edging closer. “I understand that you don't feel the same way, that you don’t think I’m good enough for you-”

“That's not it.”

They stood frozen for a moment as Geralt's words settled in. Jaskier blinked and tilted his head in confusion. Nobody moved. Jaskier could still feel the tears prickling in his eyes, threatening to fall at a moment’s notice. He pressed on anyway- he might as well know what the problem was now, having come so far. 

“Then what is it, Geralt?” The clearing fell silent again. Geralt haltingly tilted his head up from his chest, and the expression on his face was so raw that Jaskier’s stomach jumped, butterflies fluttering through it. He watched as Geralt swallowed, and frowned as he stared back down at the ground, knuckles turning white where he was clenching his fists impossibly tighter.

“It's me, Jaskier. I'm not good enough for you,” he said it so softly that Jaskier wasn't quite sure he'd heard it at first. Surely this strong, capable, considerate individual in front of him didn't truly think that. He paused a moment. No, that was of course entirely possible. Geralt's view of himself had never been especially reliable. It wasn't surprising, what with how so many other people treated him, and the man’s own views on his ‘mutant’ status, but that didn't make it any easier for Jaskier to hear. 

“You're an idiot.”

Geralt didn't move from where he was, didn't blink, didn’t protest. Jaskier sighed- that wasn't what he had meant. 

“Of course you're good enough for me Geralt, why ever wouldn't you be?”

Geralt flinched away from Jaskier’s touch. His shoulders hunched, and it took a moment before he spoke again. 

“Jaskier… I, I’m nothing compared to you. You have your words, and your songs are… fuck Jaskier I can’t even explain. I-” an irritated sigh ran through him and he scraped his hand through his hair. He winced and tried again. “You.. all I do is kill things. You bring joy to people's lives, and they can’t even look at me. You are so much better than me in so, so many ways.” He stepped away, tension clear in every part of him. Jaskier’s heart melted. How could such a wonderful man think so little of himself? It hurt.

He ran his hand very lightly across Geralt's arm. Then he snatched up his wrist and spun the man forcefully round to face him. A little surprised at his success, he blinked but carried on regardless. He clutched Geralt's hand and brought it up to his chest over his heart, willing Geralt to notice from his heartbeat that he was not lying. He angled his face to try and catch Geralt's eye, and when that proved difficult he reached up with his right hand and caught Geralt's chin, tugging his face so their gazes met. Geralt’s amber stare wavered and flickered, eyes glassy. Jaskier tugged roughly until Geralt's eyes focused in on him.

“Geralt. Darling. I am not too good for you. I'm sorry that you feel that way, but I promise, I will do everything in my power to help you see yourself the way I do.” He let his grip on Geralt's hand and jaw soften. He inched back, let his grip slowly fall completely free, and made to slip a step away. He found he couldn't, because there was a sudden, surprising grip holding him in place. 

Geralt's gaze had not moved from the floor but he took in a shuddering breath and looked up once more. His golden eyes glinted in the light, shining with unshed tears. He nodded and moved a step closer. 

“Jaskier,” he whispered, reaching very slowly for his hands. “I’m... I’m not good for you. But I…” he sucked in a breath, his anticipation apparent. “I want to be.” He finished firmly. 

Jaskier smiled. He could see Geralt's mouth moving slowly towards a smile as well. Nervous but determined to take the opportunity while destiny offered it to him, he looked Geralt dead in the eye and said, 

“May I kiss you, my love?”

Geralt nodded cautiously. And then he leaned in. Jaskier couldn't help but notice the way his eyelashes brushed his cheeks as his eyes fluttered shut. Unable to wait any longer, Jaskier surged forward to press their lips together. He sighed, content, as they leaned into each other, and he let his hand fall to rest on Geralt’s waist. He felt Geralt’s smile push up against his mouth and his arms loop across Jaskier’s shoulders. With the sun starting to dim behind them, and the rustling of leaves in the breeze, Jaskier didn’t think he could remember ever feeling so elated in his life.

[jangofctts]

Keida, I wanna know how cornering Blanche and just grabbing his face like, “you stupid bitch I love you” would go. Because he’s been avoiding you and not dealing with those feels, but you know he has them, bc he’s gentle af late at night after sex when he thinks you’re asleep.

hERE YOU Go -- it”S FULL OF ANGST

cc-8352 commander blanche // fem!reader

warnings; angst and sad kissing ewkjhh

Gedet’ye = please 

There’s a patterned knock on the door—a short but firm tippity tap that rules out any sort of delivery or sleazy salesperson. That and the fact it’s well passed midnight. Only one person that could be. Blanche—  

You spring up and throw your shitty tabloid onto the footrest and scramble towards the door, cursing when your big toe slams into the legs of your couch. Kriff, you probably broke that shit but bones be damned. This visit is unexpected and you’d gladly break your entire foot just to witness a mere glimpse of the commander.      

He’s got his back turned to you when you throw open the door—inspecting the drab wallpaper that’s beginning to peel and reveal the shitty durasteel underneath. He looks a bit comical like this—almost too broad to fit between the halls with his armor and the sheer mass of his body. It’s not his fault. To put it simply—you live in a dump and Blanche is far too polite about it. He’d compliment the scrap rats if he could, all in the name of putting your embarrassment at ease.   

“Blanche?”

He turns his head, those furrowed brows softening as they graze over your face. You look like a feral loth-cat lady, mismatched pajamas you probably should have tossed out years ago and wild hair thrown into a frantic updo. He always looks at you like this—as if you’re some benevolent deity, gold stained fingertips with a helm of shattered stars that heaves the sun into the sky with ropes of bronze, just so he’s able to navigate through the day. Equal parts amazed and scorched with the brutal reality that he cannot provide anything in return. 

“Did I wake you up?” He asks. His armor shuffles as he takes a step back. “M’sorry. I can leave.“

You grab his wrist and tug him into your apartment before he can escape. No matter how many times you tell him, he’ll never learn—won’t accept the fact that this place is his home just as much as it is yours.  

“I was up anyway,” you say. “Is everything—“

He cuts you off with a feverish kiss, cupping your jaw with both his gloved hands to wrench you closer. He grunts when your teeth bump his bottom lip and the harsh plastoid digs into your chest and—you wouldn’t change a thing. It’s different tonight—Blanche is usually steady, never rushes through the honey sweet kisses and savoring touches, grafting the memory of your very being like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. Or he will—

Tonight is the crackling static of the unknown. Deep fissions of burning stardust, the scent of woodsmoke and ash that blackens your lungs and dances towards the blade of panic. He’s hiding it well with tender whispers of your name through the gaps between kisses, as if his mouth were not full of fear and blood. 

Pieces of his armor are clawed off by your desperate fingers, compiling into a messy heap of white and cyan at your feet. You gasp as his bare palm whispers under your shirt and up your sides to cup your breast. Blanche’s thumb teases over your perked nipple. “Gonna be gone for awhile—wanted to tell you in person.”     

You run your fingers through his hair, threaded with stark white strands, and pull back to kiss the bridge of his nose. The same spot stitched back together, leaving behind a thin scar from where the tip of a blade caught flesh. A dark flush paints his cheeks as you curl a strand of hair around your fingertip and bush it behind his ear. “I miss you already, Blanchie baby.” 

His lips quirk, the half-moon scar over his lip distorting with the motion. “Told you not to call me that.”

“You always smile when I do,” you tease, running your thumb over the tattoos circling his one ice-blue eye. There’s a ring of brown outlining the iris, a sharp crack of mahogany brown through the blue—a mutation—less than perfect he told you once. Another thing Blanche refuses to learn—that perfection begins with the syllables of his names and ends with the sweet taste of his lips.

Neither of you have the patience to move to the bedroom. Instead he pulls you to the floor, the two of you lying over the carpet like a mess that someone’s been meaning to clean for the larger part of a long while. The weight of Blanche’s body draped over yours is a comfort sweeter than ripe fruit on a summer’s eve, feet dipped into the lukewarm lake as the sun melts into the horizon. His lips drag over the protrusion of your collarbone and when he pulls back to look at you, it carries the same weight as blunt knuckles punching through the diaphragm of your lungs.

You don’t care that what you say next is reckless. You mean it, plain and simple. “I love you.”

He flinches as if you’ve you’ve brought his palm to an open flame. “Don’t,” he says, his words edging into a near plead. “Don’t—can’t say that t’me.”

Blanche swallows your shaky breath a kiss, the pad of his thumb swiping away a tear that rolls down your cheek. When the commander pulls back he cups your jaw, his mismatched eyes so full of hurt and bruised insides—he loves you too.  

“Why not, Blanche?” You challenge. 

His crestfallen eyes look away worrying his bottom lips between his teeth. “I wont break your heart.”

“You already have.”

Blanche’s jaw clenches. He sighs. “I belong to the Republic.” It’s hollow. A line repeated and stamped into him. “Just a tool—nothing more.”

You don’t care that when he captures your lips in another kiss it tastes like salt. “You’re not a tool, Blanche. How—”  

His calloused fingers skim your temple and brush through you hair. “Forget me if I don’t make it.” 

You frown, your heart squeezing and twisting like a strangled thing as he plants a kiss over your temple. “Gedet’ye, cyar’ika.”

Blanche never learns.   

[haloud]

things we could burn in one go (eminence) - chapter 9

also on ao3

Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Isabel Evans & Max Evans & Michael Guerin, Michael Guerin/Alex Manes, Forrest Long/Alex Manes Additional Tags: post-s2, Canon Compliant, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Starts Forlex Ends Malex, Other Characters May Appear, Tags Subject to Update, Mutual Pining, Breaking Up, Getting Together

Chapter Summary: Michael and Isobel reckon with the fallout from Michael’s choices; Maria and Max catch up with him post-recovery.

Excerpt:

Maria sat on the steps, an old CD radio of Rosa’s beside her playing a classic Rosa mixtape, a Third Eye Blind track Michael only half-remembered flowing around her, her humming running under it, glittering minerals in a riverbed. She was surrounded by papers, pinned under painted rocks to keep them from being snatched away, her hair tied back by a rainbow scarf, and she bent over to write in a binder propped on her knees.

Michael rapped on the pillar behind him to get her attention, and when she looked up she smiled and set the binder aside.

“Guerin! You’re up! What brings you here with the sun in the sky?”

“Where else am I gonna go to get my sea legs back?”

“Well, come pull your ass into port and sit with me.”

She patted the low stair beside her and Michael did as he was told, swiping his hat off his head as he approached her. For her it was wordplay, but Michael cradled to his chest something more true than maybe she’d intended—Maria was a safe harbor, a port in a storm. No matter how bad things got, her warm heart and practical mind were a reminder to never give up. Just sitting beside her was enough to make him smile, even though he sat with a good six inches buffer between them, still unsure what boundaries were appropriate, still navigating the uncertain waters of being friends with an ex who meant something.

 (Wednesday, 11:00 am)

  Michael flipped Alex’s key over and over in his fingers, running it along his knuckles, pressing his thumb into the teeth until they left a locking-imprint on his skin, then doing it all over again. At some point, maybe it would start to feel real, if he reminded himself of the thing often enough.

The repetition and stimulation of the rough teeth, the cool, smooth metal, soothed him as he waited on Isobel’s porch. She’d called him here in the first place, so eventually she’d open the door. Until then, he waited. And as he waited, he thought of Alex, because what else was there to think about these days?

(A thousand things, like Jones and Project Shepherd, Max and Liz, and all the work piling up at Sanders’s, but Alex had a way of blotting everything else out, and, no matter how much his brain tried to get him to feel stupid or naïve or childish for hoping yet again, he was going to let himself bask in that shade for once in his life.)

He hadn’t left Alex’s house, still, except to go to work and get things from his own place. At Alex’s, he was still sleeping in the guest room, the both of them afraid that they’d fall back into their old patterns too fast if they fell right into bed. But during the day they shared that space, a kitchen, a den, existing alongside each other as they read or cooked or composed, and the routine wasn’t so different from the tense and quiet days right after Michael’s injury, but at the same time they were nothing alike, not when each tiny glance could mean so much, not when fingers on the soft rasp of turning pages were fingers he could touch, that could touch him.

Everything was different. It was terrifying, and exhilarating, brand new and nostalgic. It had only been a day; it had only been half their lifetimes.

“Ew, you’re glowing.”

Isobel’s voice started Michael out of his thoughts, and he jumped, shoving Alex’s key into his pocket. She was glaring at him, but still he relaxed, because Isobel’s snark was a form of love and her turning scorn in his direction was a sign things were getting back to normal between them.

“It’s all natural,” he drawled as she stepped aside to let him inside.

“Right. Did something happen, or is this just some lesser known side effect of being brought back from the brink of death.”

“Uh…”

In a way, sort of, if only because Michael’s own stupidity had driven him and Alex closer together, but that wasn’t exactly a direct correlation or anything admirable.

“Nope,” he said, popping the ‘p.’ “Just…”

He fell silent. How was he supposed to talk about being in love? He’d never done it before, and this was a first he hadn’t anticipated facing.

“Alex and I…” he tried again, but found himself only able to smile, still without words, and he raised his arms in a helpless shrug.

Isobel’s eyebrows raised. “Oh my god.”

“Yep.”

“I’m still pissed at you, but if Manes is making you his side chick after everything, I’m going to rip his spine out through his—”

“Isobel, no! It’s not like that,” Michael laughed, shaking his head.

“Well what’s it like, then? I cannot handle him breaking your heart again when we’re already dealing with Max.”

He replied, “My heart is fully intact,” as he headed in and dropped down on her couch, throwing a hand over his heart for dramatic effect. “No, uh, Alex and Forrest had a fight, which sucked, but it led to us getting a chance to talk more about, y’know, us, and what we wanted, and each other, so…”

“So this is rebound,” Isobel snipped.

“Can you stop?” Michael said, half-laughing. Even her pessimism on the subject of love couldn’t pop the bubble around his heart right now. He patted the couch beside him, and she hesitated for a few seconds with her arms crossed, before capitulating and joining him.

“Oh, fine,” she groused, leaning against the arm of the couch farthest away from where he was sitting. “Your funeral.”

The words landed like a lead balloon, and Michael winced as her face grew stormier.

“I’m—”

“Don’t,” Isobel held up a hand in his face. “Don’t you dare say you’re sorry. I don’t want to hear it.”

“Well, what do you want to hear?”

“An explanation, Michael! What the hell were you thinking? Why would you do that? What if he’d just straight up killed you, did you want us to find your body in a cave somewhere or, or never, blown to smithereens by a man who literally breathes fire! You’re so stupid, and selfish, and—” She cut herself off, furious tears welling in her eyes even as the rest of her face didn’t change.

“I know! I know, you’re right, it was stupid. I wasn’t thinking, or, well, I was thinking, but my head was all messed up.” He rested his forehead in his hands and running his fingers through his hair. “I don’t think any explanation is going to make any sense now, out of the moment, but I just…everything was going to shit, and I couldn’t do anything for Max, and I thought Jones might have answers, or could help me unlock new powers like you’ve done on your own. So I could protect everyone.”

Isobel threw her arms up and got to her feet, pacing around the couch; Michael tracked her, anxiety dipping and spiking every time she circled him. Her anger pulsing when she passed behind him made his skin crawl, and he shifted in his seat.

“I don’t even know what to say to that,” she finally spoke, stopping in front of him.

He kept his head bent forward, staring at his knees.

She continued, “I really don’t. I’ve been trying for twenty-one years, but I still don’t know how to get through to you. How to convince you that you’re not alone, that people want to protect you. To help you. But I’m not Max. I’ve never pushed or pried or fought to cling onto you when you shook us off. I just hung around because I knew you’d always come back.” She took a deep breath. Her voice stayed steady and deliberate. “But Michael, this has gone on for too long, and you went too far this time. You have to let us help you. Otherwise—I don’t know. I just don’t. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do anymore.”

Drops of water speckled the tops of Michael’s knees, and he sniffed, swallowed, mouth dry, throat tight and aching. His sister’s gentle hands threaded through his hair, cradling both temples, right hand over Max’s lingering handprint, but no matter how careful that touch was, he flinched.

Isobel tipped his head up so he had to look her in the eye and said, “You’re my brother, Michael. I love you so much. And I would do anything for you, just like you would—and have—do anything for me. But you need to let me! From here on out, I need you to fucking work with me. We’ll figure this out, okay?”

Tears trickling down his face and dripping from his chin, Michael nodded, not trusting his voice, and Isobel fell forward, his arms opening up to catch her, and they stayed like that for a long time, Michael rocking her back and forth, her clinging desperately to his shirt.

“I’m sorry,” he finally croaked, wiping his eyes with the heel of his hand. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. Or Max. I just, I can’t stop myself, sometimes, I know it’s not an excuse, I know it was stupid, I know—”

“I know,” she interrupted his stream of self-loathing, sitting back to look him seriously in the face. “I was in your head, remember?”

She’d found him beneath a vaulted ceiling, stained glass in shifting, alive, alien colors, walled in with his demons. Defining himself inside the devouring maelstrom by the battles he understood. His whole life, he’d sewed himself back whole, and his work wasn’t pretty, but the patterns made sense, and they kept him sane even when the odds demanded otherwise. The image flashed behind his eyes, but that’s all it was, an image. He shook his head.

“Not really.”

“Well. I didn’t really go snooping, no matter how tempting it was,” she said with a self-deprecating roll of her eyes. “But let’s just say…you don’t owe me any explanations you aren’t willing or ready to give. Those belong to you. I know I haven’t always understood that in the past. We both have things to work on, okay?”

“Okay,” Michael rasped, squeezing her tight again. “I…want to work on them with you.”

“Then it sounds like we’re going to be okay,” she softly replied.

(3:00 pm)

Isobel didn’t let him leave the house until both their eyes stopped being red and puffy from crying; It took multiple episodes of some Food Network show he’d never heard of before she agreed to let him out of her sight, and, in deeply un-Isobel-like fashion, she followed him to the door and pulled him into another hug for the road before she let him leave.

The drive from Isobel’s to the Wild Pony wasn’t really long enough to fully ruminate on how bad he must have scared Isobel to warrant this level of reaction. Logically, he’d known, but emotionally it was just beginning to sink in.

Over the past year, he’d been faced with losing Isobel and with losing Max multiple times—had lost Max, in fact. He knew how it felt. Why should the loss of himself be any different to them? In low moments, sure, thoughts shifted beneath the murk of his mind, lurking demons from childhood, that they didn’t need him, they had each other, a more special bond, he was the odd one out, outside, out in the cold. But on the day to day, he didn’t devalue himself like that, not in so many words, did he? But—

To be surprised? That Isobel was afraid, that Max was afraid, that the both of them stood on the precipice of grieving him and had to process the horror of that fall after snatching themselves back at the last minute? It was a slap in the face, a rude awakening. A lesson that for all these years he’d resisted learning.

The first step to protecting those who loved him was to protect himself. He couldn’t keep shelving it as the lowest priority. They were one and the same.

It sounded fake to his own ears, but he’d just have to say it until the lesson sunk in.

With the windows rolled down, the idle breeze tugged Michael’s hair across his face and cooled the late-summer stickiness from his skin. It was just after lunchtime, a little early for Max to be at work, but since he wasn’t at Isobel’s house, it was faster to check for him here than to drive all the way out to his own place.

If there was one positive to his near-death, it was the way Max was invigorated by a purpose. The healing drained him, of course it did; it could have killed him, and that weighed on Michael’s conscience, but afterward, after it worked and he’d pulled Michael back from death, he smiled. He slept. He bustled around Alex’s house babysitting Michael while Alex was at work, and now, with a little distance from fragile death, that didn’t chafe as badly.

Max deserved a better thanks than Michael had thus far been able to render, and with Isobel’s words still ringing in his ears, there was no better time than now.

He pulled up to the Pony, the fairy lights strung across the patio dancing in the wind, the wood of the old building all pale and real in the sunlight. The old, familiar sign above the door was off as long as the bar was closed, but Michael still took a moment to glance at it nice and long, remembering the feel of fixing it under his hands so the whole place felt less liminal, less like a mirror vision of the beating heart that was the Wild Pony glowing under the night sky, lit from within rather than from the sun.

Faint music played as Michael parked and left his truck, so he rounded the corner of the building to suss it out and smiled at what he saw, leaning against one of the trellis supports.

Maria sat on the steps, an old CD radio of Rosa’s beside her playing a classic Rosa mixtape, a Third Eye Blind track Michael only half-remembered flowing around her, her humming running under it, glittering minerals in a riverbed. She was surrounded by papers, pinned under painted rocks to keep them from being snatched away, her hair tied back by a rainbow scarf, and she bent over to write in a binder propped on her knees.

Michael rapped on the pillar behind him to get her attention, and when she looked up she smiled and set the binder aside.

“Guerin! You’re up! What brings you here with the sun in the sky?”

“Where else am I gonna go to get my sea legs back?”

“Well, come pull your ass into port and sit with me.”

She patted the low stair beside her and Michael did as he was told, swiping his hat off his head as he approached her. For her it was wordplay, but Michael cradled to his chest something more true than maybe she’d intended—Maria was a safe harbor, a port in a storm. No matter how bad things got, her warm heart and practical mind were a reminder to never give up. Just sitting beside her was enough to make him smile, even though he sat with a good six inches buffer between them, still unsure what boundaries were appropriate, still navigating the uncertain waters of being friends with an ex who meant something.

“What are you working on?” he asked.

“Oh, you know me.” She gestured vaguely to the arrangement of papers and tucked her feet up beside her, leaning toward Michael, cutting the space between them in half like it wasn’t worth noticing. Some of the tension in Michael’s chest unwound at her ease around him.

“Hustling?” he prompted.

“Yep. I’m just organizing the events I have planned for the upcoming season and making sure I have space set out for scheduling, details, budgeting, the works. High school me would die with envy; my system was never this good when I was trying to study.”

“I’m definitely impressed. Let me know if there’s anything I can help with, anything you need built, or an extra set of ‘hands’ for decorating.”

“How is that going?” she asked, brows furrowing.

“I’m still getting my strength back. Just gotta keep pushing through and hope whatever Jones did didn’t mess me up for good.”

“I’m sure he didn’t.”

Her hand extended but stopped before touching him, until he turned his hand palm-up, asking her to take it. She did, squeezing him.

“You’ll figure it out,” she said. “And the TK aside, have any of the other powers cropped up? The light, the teleporting? Those were the ones Alex told me about.”

“That’s all I remember, really. And no. I haven’t even tried, honestly.” He looked at their joined hands, her wrist bare of the pollen bracelet he’d promised her and wasted, thrown away like trash in a corner of Jones’s cave. This is blasphemy…

“Do you think you will? Try?” Maria asked, head tilted.

“I…hadn’t thought about it. Been focused on getting back to square one with the TK, but…”

Was doing more with his powers still an option? Was he willing to try, and fail, and fail again, without folding and submitting to all the voices in his head that told him every failure was proof positive of the erstwhile adage that he was worthless?

“Well, you have time,” Maria said, squeezing his hand again.

“What about you?” Michael asked. “Any visions?”

Her face shut down. She let go of his hand to smooth both hers down her knees then fold her arms around herself, turning her head away. “No. Still nothing. A few dreams, but it isn’t always easy to tell what’s a normal dream and what’s a vision, and with you out of the woods, the most dire ones are already Jossed.”

“What about Mimi?”

“Huh.” Maria pursed her lips for a second, then said, “I haven’t noticed any change in her? But I’ll have to ask and see what she says. I’m not even completely sure our powers work identically, with the things she’s said about being unstuck in time…I don’t always get that same feeling.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Michael promised her. “Even if it means having to go back to Jones and ask what he knows—”

“No!”

She wheeled on him and smacked his arm lightly.

“Absolutely not! Michael!”

“Not alone, obviously!” He defended.

“Not at all. Jesus Christ. I’ll tell Isobel you said that—I’ll tell Alex—”

“Maria, c’mon,” Michael whined, taking her hand again in an attempt to connect them and calm them both down. “I just don’t want to rule out that he’s meddling in more ways than we know. I still think he’s fucking with Max. You deserve answers, if that’s what’s going on.”

“Not at the cost of your life. Not ever. It could be a hundred other things, too. Stay away from him, Michael, I’m serious.”

“I will. I promise.”

“Good,” she said firmly, wrapping her arm around his again and leaning into him. He let out a long, slow breath as she relaxed.

“You know, in Jones’s cave…”

“Mm?”

Michael carefully encircled her wrist with his fingers. “I lost the bracelet I made for you. The backup one I promised.”

“Are you feeling guilty about that? Because please, don’t,” she replied, covering the hand on her wrist with her other. “That is the last thing on my mind.”

“But I—”

“Hush. I’m glad you had it with you, whatever happened to it. It’s good that you opted to protect yourself, even if it didn’t work.”

“I thought your powers were offline.”

“The visions, maybe. But I don’t need to see the future to read you, Guerin.”

“You are something else, DeLuca.”

“Oh, I’m aware.”

“Hey, Maria—oh! Michael!”

The two of them turned toward the backdoor at the sound of Max’s voice.

“Hey, Max,” Maria said. “Is the inventory finished?”

“Yeah, I was just coming to report back.”

“No need to be so formal,” she teased, standing up and brushing dust from the seat of her pants, looking at the papers around her with her hands on her hips. “I was hoping to get your opinion on some plans, Number One, but someone interrupted, so they’re not quite ready yet.”

“Guilty as charged,” Michael drawled.

Max reached out a hand, and Michael took it to humor him, letting him haul him to his feet.

“I’ll let you off the hook this time,” Maria said as she led the way back into the bar, cool and dim in the daylight. “You can sweep up to say you’re sorry.”

“My pleasure,” Michael said, reaching out a hand, hoping he could summon the broom as nonchalantly as he once could. It sat unresponsive until a spike of formless frustration zipped through him, at which point it flew to his hand fast and hard enough to sting his palm when he caught it. Great. Just what he needed right now—puberty flashbacks.

“I need to run,” Maria said, stowing her binder behind the bar. “Late lunch with Rosa. I’ll see you later, Max—Michael, it was so good to see you. Say hi to Alex for me, okay? I know you’re gonna see him before I do.”

She left with a wink while Michael was still pink and stammering. Maybe Alex had told her already—or maybe that was just Maria, putting him so at ease it was easy to forget how much she saw. His chest glowed so warm he couldn’t stop blushing at that casual acknowledgement, that easy validation, that he and Alex—that Alex and he were what they were to each other, now, again.

“Wait, is she talking about you staying over there, or does she mean—dude!” Max grinned ear to ear and bounded out from behind the bar to pull Michael into a back-slapping hug. “Congratulations!”

Old, brotherly habit had Michael squirming out of Max’s affections, but it didn’t dent his exuberance; he retaliated with a swipe through Michael’s hair, making him duck further out of range, huffing and laughing all at once as he tried to fix it again.

“Yeah, um, Forrest and Alex broke up, and then one thing led to another, so.”

“I’m really happy for you, man.”

“I—thanks. I’m…I’m really happy, too.”

The sudden urge to comfort Max gripped him, a strange survivor’s guilt that things would be working out for him and Alex and Max and Liz would still be so far apart. But it wasn’t his place to throw that in Max’s face now, so he bit his tongue and basked in Max’s honest happiness for him.

“Could you feel, uh, any of my emotions through the handprint?” Michael asked. He ran his hand through his hair over the spot on his temple where Jones had held him, erased by Max’s healing hands, then dropped it back to his side abruptly, flexing away the phantom stiffness that still plagued him, that probably always would. He gave it a shake as if to chase away nervous tingling.

“Nah. But it’s not like I’m looking; I respect your privacy, man.”

“’preciate that,” Michael snarked, and Max just shrugged.

“Any particular reason you ask? I don’t need to know what you and Alex are up to,” Max joked.

Michael considered his answer for a little bit as he made his way between the tables. After all, it wasn’t as if this was the first handprint Max had ever given him. The ones on his neck and hand cut off by his death aside, dozens of times over dozens of years, Max had practiced healing on him and they’d explored that connection. Michael was always the guinea pig; he never wanted for injuries to work on, after all.

But there’d been a lot of handprinting over the past year and change. Max felt something from Liz; Liz felt something from Noah; Rosa and Max had a connection strong enough to tether Max to the world of the living. And then there was Michael, with Jones’s voice in his ear, dripping condescending words about his lack of psychic ability being phenomenal, considering.

At various times in his life, Michael had looked up at the stars and wondered in the silence what it was in him that was irreparably broken.

“Just curious. It’s been a while, and all juiced up like I was, I was wondering if anything felt different.”

“Nothing different. Just you.”

Max smiled like that was a good thing, a comforting thing. And you know what? In between the adrenaline of change, good and bad, in between the rock of Project Shepherd and the hard place of Jones, on an afternoon in a closed bar, a home to both of them, alone with his brother, Michael let it be.

He cleared his throat. “Good. So there’s no…interference or anything? Nothing weird lurking around up there?”

��Not that I can tell; Isobel would probably know better than I would. Whatever he did to you was bizarre, man. It wasn’t like the way, uh, the way I’ve killed people before. Or the way Noah killed.”

“I don’t think he was just trying to kill me.”

Michael made his way over to a booth and beckoned Max over; he lingered over his work for a glance at the clock and then came and joined him.

He continued, “He kept going on about teaching and knowledge and this being the wrong way but the most efficient. He knew it would hurt me, but maybe it would have worked better if he did it to someone more, uh, receptive than me.”

“What are you talking about?” Max leaned over the table, brow furrowed. This close up, the dark circles below his eyes were more noticeable. “Michael, what he did to you wasn’t in any way your fault—”

“I know, I know, that’s not what I mean. Just…look, I saw the security footage from Caulfield, from the day of the Valenti incident. The way that alien approached Jim Valenti and put his hands on him was identical to what Jones did to me, and I think maybe that guy was just trying to communicate but it fucked up a human in a way he either couldn’t expect or was too out of it to realize. And, well,” Michael gestured to his own head. “I’m the most human of the three of us up here.”

“I…huh.” Max sat back and drummed his fingers on the tabletop as he processed that. “Well, whatever the case, it proved you and Isobel were right about him. He can’t be trusted. Nobody should have any more contact with him. We’ll start doing our monthly drop offs contactless until we all figure out what should be done with him.”

His voice was firm, businesslike. Traffic Stop Max was Michael’s least favorite version of his brother and he’d hoped that his turn to the civilian would’ve put that guy to rest, but he had a tendency to rear his head in a crisis.

But in this case, he saw through him, and that façade was hiding something.

“How do you feel about that?” Michael asked, leaning back and slouching, reflecting Max’s rigid body language the way he had for a decade, cops and robbers style.

“It doesn’t matter how I feel about it. He almost killed you; we’ll do what has to be done.”

“Uh, it definitely does matter. You’re the closest thing to a next of kin he’s got, as far as we know. If anyone gets to decide what happens to him, it’s you.”

“That’s what I’m doing.”

“Is it? ‘Cause, look, I know I fucked up a lot of stuff running off to Jones half-cocked like I did. I don’t want to set off a chain reaction of more bad mistakes that rips us apart again when we’re just startin’ to…” Michael trailed off with a self-conscious shrug. It was realer than he’d intended to get, but it was the root of the issue, wasn’t it?

Max’s face softened, and Michael slumped lower in the booth.

“You’re not. You won’t.”

“You’re just saying that—”

“Michael.”

That tone was always a coin flip if it’d get right under Michael’s skin or if it’d shut him up. It landed on the second one this time, to Michael’s relief.

Max said, “No chain reactions. What we were doing before wasn’t working, okay? I knew I wanted something from Jones, but I couldn’t bring myself to reach out and take it. All you did was force us to make a choice when I would’ve dug my heels in and not been able to for a long time otherwise.”

“The answers you’re looking for, though, you deserve to look for them if it’s what you need,” Michael forged on, battling his clumsy tongue. “I should’ve said that before. You deserve to know who you are and to learn who that is in whatever way you can. Everybody deserves that.”

“Thank you. I mean that. But I was getting so desperate—the things I was thinking of doing—I scared myself, okay? I didn’t think—I don’t think I am that person. And being this person I am right now and who I want to be right now is more important than any answers about the past, if that’s what it means to find them.”

Michael sat with that, looking Max up and down, sitting with his own feelings as much as Max’s words. Parsing his own reactions to Max was something he took steadier, more carefully than most other things in his life. It was a set of muscles he needed to practice with as much as he needed to get power back to his telekinesis.

“Okay, man. I respect that,” he said finally, leaning over the table to punch Max in the shoulder. Max made a face and rubbed that spot.

“Ow, man, thanks, I guess.”

“Damn, did I get you in your writing arm?”

“Try my drink-mixing arm. If I’m off tonight, I’m ratting you out to Maria.”

Michael let out a scandalized noise and slipped out of the booth.

“Where are you going?” Max laughed, dark eyes shining with life in a way Jones’s never could. For all they were identical, Michael barely saw the resemblance.

“To lay low, what do you think? You’re makin’ me a fugitive.”

“Uh huh. Good luck; you know she’s just going to ask Alex.”

“Damn it. The things I do for love.”

A smile on his own face as soon as he turned his back, Michael was almost at the door when Max called his name and he turned to face him again.

“Michael? Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Asking. Listening.”

Those two words held a lifetime of desperate loneliness between them, and Michael would be sitting with that, too, as long as he was holding it in his head, making it a conscious decision, to do right by his brother.

“You don’t have to thank me,” he said.

“I wanted to,” Max replied simply.

“Well in that case…I guess you’re welcome.”

Michael’s phone buzzed in his pocket, not the single pulse of a text but the longer jangling of a phone call. He fished it out, smiling when he saw the name, and he didn’t even wait to get privacy from Max before answering.

“Alex—”

“Thank God. Where are you, Michael? Are you okay?”

“Alex? I’m fine, I’m at the Pony, what’s wrong—”

Max hurried to Michael’s side.

Alex repeated, “Thank god. Don’t come home, do you hear me? Do not come back to the house until I give you the all clear. Stay with Max and Maria.”

“What? No!”

But the line cut off midway through his protest, leaving him with nothing but the dial tone.

[artyblogs]

Best Wingman Ever

Read on Ao3

Summary: For @caruliaweek. Prompt: Surprise. After the fight in the pyramid, Julia doesn’t feel so hot, so she checks into a hospital. Carmen finds out and has concerns, so she goes to see her.

---

The longer the press conference goes on, the more discomfort Julia feels. It started in the pyramid, after Countess Cleo pushed her into that godforsaken pit, and she managed to catch the edge with her elbows. Her legs swung under her and something in her torso tore. Or broke. It certainly seemed like something snapped judging by the searing pain that lanced through her chest.

She was able to ignore the pain for the rest of the time they were in the pyramid, half because of the adrenaline coursing through her system, half because…well, it seemed pittance in the face of certain death. But now, in front of all these reporters, with the adrenaline draining from her body, the ache grows and grows until she sweats under her collar from the exertion of standing upright.

Every breath Julia takes is fire.

Either the reporters don’t notice what is happening, or they attribute Julia’s flush to the strong Egyptian sun, because they don’t ask what is wrong. They ask her if she will be heading the effort to catalogue all of these artifacts (she won’t be; all this treasure is technically on Egyptian soil, so it is up to the Egyptian government to come up with a plan), or if she will be working with Egyptologists and other archaeologists to catalogue them (again, that’s technically the jurisdiction of the Egyptian government. If invited, she’d help, but she needs to be invited).

Eventually, they have enough information for their segments, and Julia and Chase end the press conference and slink off towards the parking lot. Julia waits until they are out of earshot of the reporters, and far away enough to be indiscernible by the cameras, before she runs a cautious hand over her ribs.

It doesn’t seem like anything’s broken, but a simple swipe of her palm induces agony. Julia sinks to her knees.

“Miss Argent? What’s wrong?” Chase kneels next to her, his hands hovering, but not descending. He’s probably afraid of making things worse.

It feels like her chest is imploding. Julia tries to catch her breath, but cannot get any words out. Chase takes out his cell phone and dials a number.

“‘Allo? Please send an ambulance, there is an injured woman who needs help.”

---

Julia had hoped that she would be able to tough it out until she got back to the UK because at least there, she would have all of her identification. Here in this private hospital in Cairo, she has nothing. Besides the press conference and Chase, no one knows that she is here. The fact that a whole person could be disappeared like that, that she could be misplaced, is disquieting.

The walls of the hospital room muffle the car horns and loud voices in the street. If Julia closes her eyes, she can imagine that she is slowly sinking into sand, like so many forgotten baubles in the desert.

CLICK.

The door to her hospital room opens to reveal Chase, who carries a grease-stained paper bag and a cardboard drink tray with two paper cups.

“Miss Argent?”

“Agent Devineaux!” Julia tosses the thin, hospital blanket aside and—very, very carefully—sits up and unfolds her legs over the side of the hospital bed. In the back of her left hand there is taped an IV line, and she lightly pushes the IV rack a little to make room for him.

Chase gently closes the door behind him, then he takes the back of a visitor’s chair and drags it to her bedside. He places the tray of drinks on the side table next to a prescription bag, and holds out the greasy paper bag for Julia to open up.

Julia delves into it and finds two shawarma wraps carefully bundled in foil. “Which one is mine?”

“They are the same.”

Julia takes one of the wraps and opens it up, the foil shredding between her hands, and bites into it. The shawarma is a mess of sliced lamb and garlic and spices. Still hot. Smothered in yogurt and lemon juice. She had a similar shawarma years ago when she first visited Egypt during a field archaeology class, and she has been searching for a comparable place ever since.

Nothing has even come close. Julia licks a stray drop of yogurt from her thumb and takes another bite.

“They didn’t feed you, did they?”

Are her table manners that bad? Julia hesitates, then slowly shakes her head to agree. Chase frowns and unwraps his own shawarma. They eat in silence for a few minutes, listening to the muted noon adhan ring out across the city. Eventually, the food is done, and they crumple the foil into balls and toss them into the paper bag, and Chase holds out one of the drinks to Julia.

“Where is the medicine?” He asks.

“On the table. Can you get it?”

Chase opens the prescription bag and blanches. “Miss Argent, this is…eh….”

“It’s just one of each.” Julia chews on the straw and holds out her hand. “Do you mind?”

Thus begins an absurd process: Chase takes out a pill bottle, twists it open, and shakes a pill into Julia’s hand. Julia claps it into her mouth and takes a swig of water while Chase recaps the bottle and sets it aside on the side table.

They do this five times.

At last, Chase sets the empty bag next to the bottles and stares at the display ruefully. “Miss Argent?”

“Hmm?”

“What did they do to you?” He’s unusually subdued.

Julia’s ribs twinge. “I am an ancient historian, and VILE needed to decode ancient languages.”

Chase’s frown deepens. “I have taken similar pills for what I assume are similar kinds of injuries, Miss Argent. Please.”

“They were not nice people,” Julia finally says. She doesn’t…she cannot describe what happened, because to do so would require her to travel there in her mind.

“Miss Argent,” Chase says, now truly alarmed. It’s funny, in a way. A year ago, he would have probably given anything to shut her up and today, he can’t get her to say anything.

“I can describe what they looked like,” Julia says. She can do that, at least. Chase reaches into his suit jacket and pulls out his cell phone, which he unlocks and gives to her.

The screen is cracked. Julia gingerly taps and swipes to navigate to a specific face-generating app, and uses sliding scales to change the different attributes.

“How are you getting back to Oxford?” Chase asks.

“There’s a British embassy down the street; I’ll go there first thing tomorrow,’ Julia says.

“Not today?”

“The doctor wants to keep me here overnight for observation.”

Another pause. Chase’s nose wrinkles as he scowls.

“It’ll keep, Agent Devineaux.” Julia takes a screenshot and refreshes the app to create another face.

Chase makes a noise as he sinks in his chair. “I shall go with you to the embassy tomorrow.”

Julia looks up. “Really?”

“You should not be alone. We do not know where VILE escaped to. They could still be here in Egypt.”

Julia is legitimately moved. She didn’t think it was possible for him to act this way. “Thank you, Agent.”

“Pas de problème.” Chase stares moodily out the window, so Julia returns to the app.

The minutes pass, but somehow it’s not as bad as before. Julia is in the middle of creating the last face when the screen blacks out for a call. She hands the phone back to Chase.

“Zari is calling you.”

“Eh?” Chase looks quizzically down at the phone, then takes the call. “‘Allo? Ah, Agent Zari. I will not be back for another forty-eight hours at least. What?” He pauses to listen. “Wait, now? But Miss Argent needs a security detail!” Chase tries to say more, but the voice on the other end rises in volume. Eventually, Chase’s shoulders slump in defeat. “Yes, yes, I’ll be on the next flight.” The call ends.

He turns to her and he might look as miserable as Julia feels. “Miss Argent, I, er.”

“Duty calls.” She says despite the sinking feeling in her gut. “You have three of the four faces at least. I’ll go to the embassy tomorrow, and you’ll visit me in Oxford when this is all over.”

“But VILE.”

“Aside from you, no one knows…no one knows I’m here. That anonymity will shield me.”

Chase’s jaw clenches, and he nods. “Until then, Miss Argent.”

“Goodbye, Agent Devineaux.”

He turns and leaves the hospital room.

---

Carmen does one more sweep of the hotel room before she zips her duffle for the final time. She doesn’t usually pack a lot on capers, but it pays to be vigilant.

“How is Jules getting back to the UK? Is Devineaux arranging that for her?”

Player absently hums as he types. “Oh yeah. She wouldn’t have any passport or anything, huh? Because she was kidnapped?”

“I want to make sure she isn’t stranded in Egypt.”

“I’ll take a look. And I could whip something up for her if Devineaux doesn’t have anything in place. How does sharing a plane with your favorite Oxford professor sound to you?”

“Ha ha.” Carmen throws a phone charger into the duffel and zips it closed. “Being close to Jules might not be such a good idea. VILE kidnapped her because of me.”

“VILE knows and now ACME knows too. You might as well go for broke, Red.”

“Go for broke doing what, exactly?” Carmen asks. “Don’t say, ‘Jules.’”

Player laughs. “I’m trying to be a good wingman here!”

“Jules has students, and bills, and maybe even a cat, or something. She has a life outside of all of this and I ruined that when I went to see her.”

“How dare you say that to me when I heard what she said when you guys talked in her office. What was it she called you? One of her ‘two key interests?’”

The sheer audacity. “Player.”

“Carmen.” But Player gasps and whispers a curse.

“What is it?”

“Uh.” More typing. “Julia isn’t going anywhere. She’s—uh. She’s checked into a hospital.”

All the hair whooshes out of Carmen’s lungs. When she last saw Julia, she was awake. She was responsive. She was standing unaided. She was…she was in VILE’s custody for at least twenty-four hours at that point, that’s what she was. Julia walking around in the pyramid this morning? Seemingly bright-eyed and bushy tailed? That doesn’t mean a thing if she’s in the hospital now.

BEEP. Carmen’s phone receives notifications as Player pushes an update to it. Address, map, and a plane ticket for the rescheduled flight back to Seattle. She pulls the duffle strap over her head and strides out of the hotel room.

---

In case of emergency, Player allegedly has a list of hospitals that he will trust with the safety of Team Red. Allegedly, because Carmen’s never seen Player’s desktop. When he tells her that Julia’s been admitted to one of those hospitals, it does little to ease the raging unease within her. Carmen gently opens the door to the hospital room and peers inside.

The blinds are drawn against the afternoon sun. A privacy screen is pulled halfway across the room, obscuring the single bed in the room. There is no television monitor, and instead a oscillating fan sweeps back and forth on low.

Carmen steps into the room and softly closes the door behind her. She lowers her duffel to the floor and creeps closer. While she didn’t see any local police, or any police-looking types staking out this hospital, and while she didn’t see any VILE operatives either, it helps to be cautious. When she peeks around the curtain, however, she only sees Julia.

Her glasses and suit jacket are gone, and a hospital blanket has been drawn up to her chest, but it is her. Carmen steps around the curtain to her, and she holds a hand a little ways from her mouth.

There’s a soft breath against her palm, and Carmen almost cries in relief.

“Red? Did you find her?” Player asks.

“She’s asleep,” Carmen whispers.

“Ah.” And Player falls silent.

She’s also alone. There are no guards, or orderlies, or nurses. Devineaux is nowhere to be found. If VILE found out that Julia was here, there would be nothing to stop them from taking her again. Carmen sinks down into the visitor’s chair.

Let them come. She will be enough to stop them.

Julia seems smaller in sleep. Her brow is smoothed free of complex thought, and her lips are slightly parted. A sunbeam falls across her face, highlighting the freckles dusting her cheeks. Julia’s dark hair is disheveled from the pillow, and her front fringe falls over her eyes. Carmen makes as it to smooth it away, but falters and instead, she pinches the hinges of Julia’s glasses and delicately lifts them from her face. She folds them, and starts looking for the rest of Julia’s things.

She finds pill bottles instead, lined up like soldiers at the back of the side table.

“Player?”

“Yeah?”

“When you found Jules’ file, it was bad, wasn’t it?” Carmen whispers.

“I didn’t look very long, because I didn’t want to snoop, but from what I did see? It wasn’t good.” He leans back from the mic and shouts something, then when he returns, he says, “I gotta go eat breakfast. Will you be okay for a minute?”

“Yeah. Go.” Carmen continues searching. She finds the rest of Julia’s things in a drawer in the side table. At the bottom are Julia’s shoes, over which is her suit jacket—carefully folded—and over that is her pendant. Carmen puts the glasses down beside the pendant and closes the drawer.

Julia wakes with a start. She gives a weak cry, and her feet kick out against the blanket. When she settles back down, she also puts a hand over her eyes.

“Jules?”

“Carmen?” Julia’s voice comes out strained and broken. Her hand cannot hide the furrow of her brow, nor can it hide the stuttering gasps she takes in a poor attempt to calm down.

“Surprise,” Carmen whispers. She holds her hand, the one with the IV line stuck into it, and Julia holds on tight. So tight that it might break her fingers and some dark part of Carmen thinks that she might deserve it. But it doesn’t last. Eventually, Julia’s breathing evens out, and her body relaxes against the bed, and her grip loosens, but she doesn’t let go. Julia drops her other hand to reveal red eyes.

She clears her throat. “How did you find me?”

It is so casual that it throws Carmen off. Are they really not going to discuss Julia’s state from not even a minute ago? But Julia looks at her expectantly, so she says, “Player found you. I was worried.”

“Thank you. I didn’t think….” Julia’s face screws up. “Thank you.”

“You shouldn’t. Jules, I am so sorry. VILE was never supposed to get a hold of you.”

“I’m not sorry,” Julia whispers. She winces as she eases up on the bed, and Carmen wants to help her, but doesn’t know how. Julia manages to sit upright anyway.

“You needed help. Was I supposed to say ’no?’” Julia asks. She even manages a half smile. “This was not your fault,” she says as she gestures to herself.

���They kidnapped you because of me.”

“Absurd. I mean, yes, they did. But that still wasn’t your fault. You might as well rage against an earthquake for bringing down a building, or at lightning for striking a tower. Criminal syndicates kidnap people; that’s just what they do. If not me, then it would have been some other poor sod.”

“Jules.”

“I mean it, Carmen. Don’t blame yourself for this.”

When Julia says it like that, Carmen might be able to believe it. “How bad is it? If you don’t mind me asking.”

The bridge of Julia’s nose wrinkles, so Carmen asks instead, “What happened?”

“I said ‘no.’ The taller woman—they called her ‘Countess Cleo’—she said that she would only ask for my services once. So I said ’no.’” Her brows furrow again and she bows her head, casting shadows on her face. “Those two men, Vlad and Boris, they were very persuasive. And I tried, I really, really tried. But I couldn’t.” Julia trails off and when she looks up again, her eyes are glassy. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do more.”

The idea that Julia should ever think of herself deficient in any way, that she could be convinced that that was the case, is so painful that Carmen’s heart could break. It is also equally vexing, because it is clearly untrue. The boldest lies that Carmen has ever heard.

“How could you apologize for being so brave?” Carmen asks.

“I’m supposed to be a former secret agent.”

“And? I don’t care about some arbitrary threshold of toughness. I’m just glad that you’re alive.”

Julia smiles and stares down at their clasped hands. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Me too. Not that I’m in a rush, but the longer you’re here, the more dangerous it is for you. When are you getting discharged?”

“Next morning at the earliest. The doctors want to keep me overnight for observation.”

“So it’s that bad.”

“Carmen….”

But Carmen gestures to the pill bottles. “Jules. Come on. How bad is it?”

Julia sighs. “Hairline fractures in my fibs, and some minor internal bleeding.”

She mumbles this last part, but Carmen catches it anyway. Cold horror washes through her body. “Internal bleeding?”

“Minor internal bleeding. Carmen, don’t feel bad, or we’ll be going in circles all day.”

On the contrary. Carmen’s horror ignites into hot, unbridled rage, and she leaps out of her chair and starts pacing up and down the tiny room.

“Carmen?”

“They are never touching you again. Never again.” Carmen pauses just long enough to say before she continues to pace. Julia face softens a bit.

The door creaks open, and Carmen whirls around and grabs an extra chair. It’s one of those mass-produced plastic and wire things, light enough to throw across the room if needed. Julia too, falls silent.

But an orderly pokes their head in. “Visiting hours are over,” they says in Arabic. “Miss Santa Rosa, you must leave now.”

“No, no, she can stay,” someone else says from behind him. It sounds like the nurse who was manning the reception desk. “She’s her fiance. It’s in the file.”

“Eh? Okay.” The orderly turns back to them. “Have a good night.”

The door closes again.

The chair slips from Carmen’s nerveless fingers. On the bed, Julia turns away, her face and ears a brilliant red.

“You understood that,” Carmen says. It isn’t a question.

Julia, unable to speak, nods her head.

“Player, did you do that?” Carmen asks. Her earrings crackle to life.

“Do what?”

“The fiance thing.”

He chuckles. Actually chuckles. “Best wingman ever.”

Oh no. Carmen is going to die. She is going to shrivel up from mortification. What must Julia think? At the very least, she must think that Carmen’s such a creep.

“Do you want me to change it back?”

“You’ve done enough.”

Player chuckles again, this time with a darker tone. “So that’s a ‘no.’”

“Goodnight, Player.” And with that, Carmen taps her earring to mute.

“You can leave if you need to. You must be terribly busy,” Julia says.

“Never too busy for you,” Carmen says, the words tumbling out of her mouth before she can think too much about it. Julia flushes all over again.

---

Julia gasps awake, the ache in her ribs stealing her breath. Her left hand is clasped tight in Carmen’s, a lifeline tethering her to this this plane of existence.

She fell asleep.

They were talking. About anything and everything. One of those meandering conversations that are pointless, yet profound. Carmen is endlessly fascinating, of course. Julia couldn’t help but hang on her every word. When it was her turn to share, she tried her best to be as interesting, but she couldn’t help but feel so incredibly mundane. Carmen’s rapt attention must have been a facade done out of politeness, because there is no way that she could be just as interested in Julia. Carmen was just being kind.

They were just talking, and then the meds took over and she fell asleep.

“I’m right here, Jules.” Carmen’s worried face swims into focus and the bed dips as she sits next to her. The room is dark, save for a single nightlight plugged into a nearby outlet.

“Was it a nightmare?” Carmen asks.

“The pain from my ribs must be tricking my mind. Every time I go to sleep, I go right back to that safe house,” Julia whispers.

“What about a distraction?” Carmen asks. “If you felt something else, would that help?”

They both look at their hands. They’re still holding onto each other, with Carmen’s thumb gently pressing against Julia’s pale knuckle.

“It does seem to help,” Julia says. Somehow, realigning herself with reality is easier with Carmen around. Carmen’s brow furrows in thought, then she nods, as if making a decision.

“Okay, scoot.”

It takes Julia a moment to understand what Carmen means to do, and when she finally does figure it out, she briefly considers saying ‘no’ before the thought is immediately smothered without mercy. Perhaps it’s because Julia almost died this morning, or perhaps it’s because of the heady cocktail of medications currently running through her system. At any rate, Julia doesn’t say ’no.’

She scoots.

It takes a little maneuvering—Julia’s IV line has enough slack, but they don’t want to pinch it shut—and they take care to not jab elbows and knees, and the bed is already so narrow, but they manage it in the end. They end up facing each other, with Julia’s head cradled between Carmen’s arms, and their legs tangled together. Julia’s fingers curl in the belt of Carmen’s romper.

Carmen runs hot. The heat of her arm thrums against Julia’s ear. Her gray eyes are also very close. The distance between them is so negligible that if Julia were to move just a couple inches forward….

Well.

“Go to sleep,” Carmen whispers, her breath ghosting against Julia’s face. “I’ll be here.”

Julia closes her eyes and goes to sleep.

---

“Red.”

Carmen’s earrings turn on, and Player’s voice cuts through the still night.

“Red, wake up.”

Julia is still asleep. Carmen’s arm is getting a little numb, but hell, Julia can have it. She rolls away a little, not enough to disturb Julia, but just enough so that she can talk to Player without speaking directly into her face.

“What time is it?” She whispers.

“About one AM your time.” Player also lowers his voice to match hers, even though he’s a little speaker in her ear. “The Seattle base got torched.”

“What?”

“VILE destroyed it. They burned everything. And then in Oxford, another team torched Julia’s apartment and blew up her car. They blew it up, Red!”

Beside her, Julia stirs. “Wusrong?” She slurs.

Carmen’s heart sinks. “I’m so sorry, Jules.”

“This again? We talked about this, Carmen.” Julia’s sleepy expression melts away when Carmen doesn’t answer.

Carmen gently removes her arm from under Julia’s head, then maneuvers so that she doesn’t crush her, but she’s able to brace herself over her and align her head over hers so that she can also hear.

“Player? Explain.”

He explains. Julia tenses beneath her, and her hands tighten in Carmen’s clothes the longer he goes on.

“VILE must have wanted to retaliate, but when they couldn’t find either of you, they did the next best thing,” Player says.

“Phone,” Carmen says. She rolls off the bed and goes to her duffel bag. She takes out her phone and swipes across the screen to answer Player’s call. He appears on the screen, and she tosses the phone onto the foot of the bed. Julia sits up and leans over the phone.

“Player?”

It must be early evening where Player is, but it’s always difficult to discern anything with how dark his room is. He must have blackout curtains or something.

“I’ve got Carmen’s plane ticket sorted out, and I was gonna get you on a plane to Oxford, Julia, but I’m not sure I should do that anymore.”

Carmen slips on her shoes and ties the laces. “Put us on the same plane.”

“What?” Player asks.

“You were right about VILE and ACME. Jules isn’t safe as a civilian anymore, so she’s coming with me.” Finished, Carmen stands up and regards Julia, who has her hands over her eyes again.

“Jules?”

“Jay?” Player asks, slightly muffled from the hospital blanket.

“I placed my students’ papers on the coffee table. They were just there in bundles, because I meant to grade them. And there were plant clippings on the windowsill…I was growing them in jam jars.” Julia’s hand moves to cover her mouth, and she stares into the distance. “Gone.”

Player looks down at his keyboard. Carmen’s heart sinks in her chest. She did this. Julia lost everything because of her. Because she asked for her help, and this is how she’s rewarded.

“I’ve only lived in Oxford for half a year, but that flat was mine, and I….” But Julia stops and turns to the side table. She pulls open the drawer and there, nestled in the folds of her suit jacket, is her pendant. It glitters in the low light, and she lifts it out, the chain draping between her fingers.

“I was wrong,” Julia whispers. She slips her glasses back on and she stares very hard at the pendant.

“Jules?”

“Everything I need is right here. Everything else is replaceable.”

Player’s jaw drops, and he and Carmen share a look. “Just like that?”

“Sometimes it really is that simple. Don’t mistake me; it will be awful to replace everything when the time comes, but the fact is that they can be replaced. And I have insurance. My class will be fine. My students will be fine.” Julia unclasps the chain and tries—and fails—to put it on. She looks up at Carmen. “Do you mind?”

Carmen takes the ends of the chain and carefully clips it around Julia’s neck. Her fingertips graze her nape as she pulls away, and Julia catches her wrist.

“I won’t be put in a safe house. If I’m coming, I’ll be useful,” Julia whispers.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Carmen says. Julia smiles up at her.

“Plane’ll be ready in an hour,” Player says. The call ends, and Carmen slips the phone into her pocket.

“Then we shouldn’t waste time.” Carmen unhooks Julia from the IV and helps her shrug on her jacket. Julia slips her shoes on, and after picking up the duffle and the meds, the both of them vanish into the night.

Show it some love on Ao3!

[one-boring-person]

Alrighty! I know I’m late but to make up I’m going to send a B U N C H of requests! You don’t have to do all of em but I think they’re going to be fun!

Ok first off how bout a Dutch x Reader where they got separated in the jungle and meet up in the chopper, but Dutch was sure she died and it’s a nice little reunion!

I cannot wait to write all of these! I'm so excited!😅 I think I may have gone a bit overboard with this first one, but the idea has been going round my head ever since I read the request, so I hope you like it!

We're Alive!

Alan "Dutch" Schaefer x reader (Platonic)

Warnings: death, spoilers, injury, blood, gun use

Masterlist

"(Y/N)! GO!" Dutch bellows at me as he scrambles to get up again, his arm bleeding profusely from his newly acquired wound, the major's voice laced with pain and urgency.

"No!" I snap back, taking up my gun and firing off into the trees, aiming for the origin of the blast from before, going in a wild arc as the automatic pelts the surroundings with a volley of bullets.

"(Y/n), get to the chopper, now!" He tries again, climbing to his feet, his own gun clenched in hand as he backs himself with me, the two of us staring out at the area.

"N-" I go to respond, only to be cut off by another flash of energy coming between us, the heat of it burning away the skin and fabric covering my leg, a surprised cry of agony escaping me as I instinctively buckle under the intensity. 

Dutch is quick to grab me, forcing me to duck down slightly as we take off into the underbrush, the veteran pulling me along with speed. Vines and branches whip past my face, welts appearing on my grimy skin as I do my best to hobble after the broad-shouldered man ahead of me, his physical size easily parting the jungle for him. Behind us, I can hear the pounding footsteps and eerie clicking of whatever the hell is chasing us, my pulse pounding in my ears as my panic fuels my adrenaline, allowing me to ignore the searing pain in my leg. Each breath is harsh and fast, my legs pumping quickly to cover as much ground as possible. 

All of a sudden, Dutch's foot goes out from under him, his massive body falling into the sharp slope to the side of us. A shout of panic tears itself from his throat as he tumbles out of sight, leaving me alone on our original trail, our ruthless pursuer hot on my heels. 

"DUTCH!" I scream after him, briefly considering going after him, unsure of how well I'll fare without him.

A low growl behind me makes the decision for me, my instincts kicking in as I ignore my heart and push on, limping on into the dense jungle, eyes widening as I realise exactly how close the killer is. My heart jumps in my chest as I suddenly feel the quick brush of air as it swipes at me, blades just catching the back of my neck before I've gotten out of the way, my legs carrying me faster as fear takes over. Completely oblivious to any pain now, I thunder through the undergrowth, slapping wildly at vines, leaping over fallen branches and logs, heartbeat racing faster and faster with each step. There's a taste of iron on my tongue, blood from a bitten lip dripping down my face now, coating my chin in a thin layer of the stuff. 

And then my feet are no longer touching the ground.

Crying out in surprise, I throw my hands out in front of me to catch myself, my palms smacking harshly into hard rock as I smash into the boulder below me. Pain explodes in my chest as it collides with the solid surface, winding me even as my knees crack loudly as they bounce off of it. 

For a moment, I lie still, trying to regain my breath, before I roll onto my back, staring up at the slight cliff I fell off, expecting to be met with the sight of three red dots on my chest. Surprisingly, I see nothing, the forest around me mostly silent, except for the rushing of water, which I quickly deduce is from the river nearby. Groaning, I let myself relax, closing my eyes as I finally register the full extent of the pain coursing through my body, my newly bruised torso not helping at all with the stinging from my leg, blood now pouring down the limb in great streams, staining my skin crimson. 

Steeling myself, I push myself upright and take in my surroundings, glad to find myself at the river where there are many boulders I can use as cover, the ground much easier to move over here, meaning I can make a quick getaway if I need to. Somewhat relieved, I force myself to get up and go to the river, knowing I need to clean my wounds or they'll get infected, not that it makes much difference: I'll probably be dead by the end of the day. 

I shake these thoughts from my head, focusing on getting to the river as I limp over the uneven surface, coming to kneel beside it with a wince. Swiftly, I peel back my frayed trouser leg and manoeuvre myself so that the appendage lies in the water, the cool sensation bringing tears to my eyes from the harsh sting. It is somewhat soothing, but mostly painful, the blood washing away quickly, only to be replaced by more as the open wound continues to bleed, the inflicted area being large, not deep thankfully. Biting my lip, I run a hand over it, cleaning it slightly before finally pulling it out, swiftly tearing off my sleeve and wrapping it around my leg as a makeshift bandage.

Having done so, I hobble back to one of the boulders,  sitting at its base as I think over my options. 

My first instinct is to find Dutch, wherever he may be, but the cynical part of my brain tells me there's no real point. If the killer stopped chasing me, it's because it thought Dutch was the better prey, and if the fall didn't kill him, he'll be too beaten up from it to really be able to do anything against the creature hunting him. Then again, Dutch is a tough one to subdue, let alone kill, so he may well be alive and kicking, but I have no way of telling whether this is the case. 

Hopelessness floods me as I think through this, my head dropping to my chest, completely unsure of what the best course of action is. Naturally, I'd go find the pick-up point, but again, I have no idea where I am, and so would struggle greatly to find the allocated place, meaning I'm totally stranded here, alone with a killer stalking around. Lifting my head, I check over my body to see which weapons I still have, glad to find my knife still attached to my hip, though I curse colourfully when I realize I dropped my gun in my haste to escape the predator at my heels, leaving me defenceless, unless it comes into close-quarters, which I would rather it didn't. Chewing my lip, I toy with my knife a bit, before deciding to try and locate the pick-up point, think over the possibility of retracing my steps. I would've left a trail through the jungle from my panic, so it shouldn't be too hard to follow it back to where Poncho was killed. 

At the reminder of this, my heart twists painfully, my chest tightening from the realisation that all of my closest friends, possibly bar one, are dead at the hands of this otherworldly killer, all because of some mission Dillon managed to get us mixed up in. When Dutch had first told us about it, I'd been sceptical, not quite believing that our team was needed for it, rather than another military branch, but I'd gone along with it in the end after a particularly snide comment from Dillon himself, finding myself with the need to prove him wrong. A bitter chuckle escapes my lips at the thought, reflecting on where his antics eventually got us, and him, though I scold myself for being unfair; it's not his fault there's a predator trying to kill us.

Climbing to my feet, I push aside the idle thoughts, ignoring the pang in my heart at my own callousness, limping stiffly back to the small cliff I fell off, glancing up at it to determine how I should get back up. Deeming it appropriate, I slide the knife back into its sheath and find myself a hand hold on the hard rock, beginning the tough climb up. Agony shoots through my battered body, but I simply grit my teeth and push past it, forcing my body to haul itself higher and higher, fingers scrabbling at the tough stone, leaving them raw and grazed, the skin chafing away with each movement. My muscles scream at me in protest, grimaces contorting my face with each pull, relief flooding me as I reach the top of the cliff. Dragging myself up onto it, I hastily scramble to my feet and observe my surroundings, wary of what might be hiding in the trees, my body tense and ready for action.

By now, darkness has fallen on the jungle, a bright moon shining down onto me from above, lighting up the trees before me slightly, casting them in a ghostly light. The dreary appearance puts me on edge, knowing that the new shadows provide all sorts of effective cover for any predator, especially the cruel one hunting me down. Breathing deeply, I start off into the dense shrubbery.

The going is slow, my leg now hurting me badly as I drag my body through the jungle, doing my best to head in what I think is a familiar direction. My eyes have long since adjusted to the darkness, allowing me to see in minimal clarity where I'm going, making the navigation somewhat faster than it could be, though I'm still painfully aware of how disadvantaged I am in this current state. Every sound and noise around me makes me freeze in place, terror stiffening my joints every few seconds, my hand reaching for my knife with each rustle of the leaves. Mentally, I know that if the creature was anywhere nearby, it would've killed me by now, but the weapon at my hip gives me some reassurance in any case.

Something heavy drops from the canopy to land in front of me, branches snapping under the weight, the sudden sound drawing a gasp of fear from me. Stopping still, I stare at the misshapen form on the floor, already dreading going closer, though my curiosity gets the better of me. Unfortunately, I regret this decision as soon as I look over what I now know to be a body. 

Before I can stop it, a cry of horror tears itself from my throat, the outburst horribly loud to me as I fight the urge to hurl, quickly looking away from the mangled body at my feet.

And then I hear it.

Clicking.

Whirling on my heels, I draw my knife and look around me, adrenaline pumping through me, my hand shaking uncontrollably as my wide eyes take in the surroundings.

The clicking continues, seemingly all around me.

Terrified, I jerk my head around, unsure of where it might be, breathing ragged now as I struggle to focus.

Suddenly, the knife goes flying from my grip, my wrist snapping painfully as it is twisted back against my arm, a surprised scream of pain leaving my parted lips as I can only watch the limb become disfigured, the invisible blow dealt to it having a lot more force than I expected. Taking a step back, I feel my heart pound in my chest, still unable to see where my attacker is, as well as who it might be. 

Agony explodes around my jaw as a camouflaged fist connects with it, blood filling my mouth from the strength of the punch, knocking me to the floor. Catching myself, I scramble in the dirt for my knife, ignoring the tears that have sprung to my eyes, spitting out mouthful of blood with each breath, my face aching badly. I don't get a chance to recover properly, before I've been thrown into a nearby tree, an invisible hand clamped tightly around my neck, holding me a good foot or two off the ground. Gasping, I grasp at whatever is holding me, feeling dark spots take over my vision, but not before I catch sight of what exactly is holding me captive. 

Eyes widening, I bat at the metal mask, hoping to knock it off guard before it can choke me to death, but I can feel my throat beginning to constrict, air struggling to flow through it as it used to. My pulse races, body now aware of its dying state, my arms weakly slapping at the huge creature holding me, darkness flooding my vision. Dizzy and light-headed, I feel my conscience starting to leave me, allowing me to fall into the blackness I so desperately want to give in to. 

Vaguely, I register the predator's head snap round, clearly distracted by something, before I finally succumb to the darkness.

*

A low beating sound draws me from the fog in my brain, my conscience coming back to me slowly. Blinking, I push myself upright, yelping in pain as my body aches and throbs, my neck feeling completely useless as the bruising agony there kicks in. Everything rushes back to me, confusion flooding my mind as I recall the predator choking me to death, explaining the pain in my neck, though it does not explain why I'm still alive. 

Frowning, I glance upwards, realising that the beating sound I can hear is the steady whir of helicopter rotors, my heart soaring as I recognise that I may still have a chance of getting out of here alive. Ignoring the agony in my body, I throw myself to my feet and start limping as quickly as possible in the direction of the familiar sound, elated at the thought of getting out of here, though I feel my heart twist at the thought of it only being me. Hope gives me some speed, allowing me to charge relatively quickly through the undergrowth, all thoughts of the predator forgotten as the sound gets louder, the aircrafts now visible in the sky from where I am, though only in the distance. 

A deafening explosion somewhere to my left jerks me from my feet, a shockwave from the blast easily throwing me to the ground. Covering my head with my hands, I instinctively keep myself small, knowing full well how to stay somewhat safe in the midst of an explosion, though I can feel my hope slowly draining away. What if the blast took out the chopper?

Minutes pass before I climb to my feet again, taking note of the thick smoke now shrouding the jungle, making it harder to see where I'm going. I decide to go towards the sound, knowing that the explosion will have drawn the pilot's attention, meaning it'll be much easier to see me if they fly over to explore it. As I thought, the beating of the rotors gets steadily louder as I delve deeper, glad to find that it is much more cacophonous here. 

Bursting out from behind a tree, I feel my spirit soar as I see the smoke in this area being whipped up and away from the clearing, allowing me to see in a large radius around the lowering aircraft. With it, however, I notice that the rotors have revealed something else. 

Immediately, my heart skips a beat.

Clumsily, I stumble forwards, tears coming to my eyes as I recognise the figure standing a little way away, the muscular man turning to me in surprise.

"(Y/n)?!" He exclaims, shock and relief lacing his accented voice as he sees me.

"Dutch!" I call back, running towards him even as he runs towards me, his arms outstretched towards me, the filthy major bloodied and beaten, but still alive. 

Upon reaching each other, Dutch wraps me into a tight embrace, crushing me into his muscular body even as I bury myself into him, clutching at his waist, leaping into his arms. Picking me up, he presses his face into my hair, muttering things to me, voice breaking in emotion, his grip tight around me, knees buckling out from underneath him as it overwhelms him. Tears fall freely from my eyes, my face pressing into his bare chest, ignoring the blood and mud, relishing the feeling of his body against mine, my hands pulling him closer to me as he falls to the floor, my form still wrapped around his. One of his hands comes up to press me head into the crook of his neck, allowing me to inhale his familiar scent, the smell comforting me and reassuring me as I sob in joy. Reluctantly, he pulls his head back so he can look down at me, his grey eyes meeting mine, their surfaces wet with tears.

"I-i thought...I thought you died…" He stammers out, voice breaking with emotion, his cheeks stained with his tears, my heart throbbing for him as the usually stoic man holds me close to him.

"I'm here, Dutch, I'm here." I reassure him, before continuing, "I thought it got you, too…"

I have to fight through the choking emotion, but I manage to get it out, laughing in giddy relief as he pulls me back into him, crushing me into him, his arms locking me in place.

Dutch keeps his arms around me even as we climb into the chopper, the veteran pulling me so that I lie against his chest in my seat, his hand resting on my back as if to keep himself grounded. I stare up at him, unwilling to look out at the jungle even as he stares at it, face blank as the grief and exhaustion finally catches up to him. Anna sits across from us, the guerrilla girl thankfully still alive, glad to see us in a similar state. 

"You have no idea how glad I am that you're still alive...I don't know what I would've done if…" Dutch murmurs to me, the man rambling a little as the emotions assault him, his grip tightening with every word.

"We're alive, Dutch, and I'm so, so happy we are." I respond, nuzzling into his chest, uncaring of the fact it is covered in a layer of mud.

Exhausted, the two of us drift off, sleep finally catching up to us as the trauma of the past few days sets in, our consciences unable to keep going after so long of simply running on survival instinct.