#I APOLOGIZE FOR THE PERSON I WILL BECOME WHEN I GET MY GRUBBY LITTLE FINGERS ON A DIGITAL TICKET OF SPY ANOTHER DAY

[itsjusteds]

I've decided that the only way I can get closure on all of the violent excitement I feel over Spies are Forever takes 2 simple steps

Step 1: Meet Curt Mega (and or Joey Richter)

Step 2: Violently shake his shoulders while failing to form coherent thoughts

Am I aware this will never happen? Yes. Yes I am, but listen I also didn't think I could draw all 55 saf characters and I did soooooo

[suddenlysackler]

Afterglow (Nice to Meet You Series)

Charlie Barber x Reader

Nice to Meet You: a series of one shots based off of this post. Previous installments can be found here:

Adam Sackler

TW: Lil bit of angst and cynicism at the beginning, mentions of divorce, breakups, anxiety, depression, mention of alcohol consumption

A/N: This is my first piece that I’ve posted in awhile, I’m so sorry for the content drought! This series is kind of sporadic atm (kind of a result of life) but I miss you all so very much. Here’s to a normal content schedule some day 💓 Thank you for reading!

...

Timing always tends to be a funny thing, you supposed.

You weren’t sure if you were an “everything happens for a reason” sort of person person, a person who believed in fate. Who believed in soulmates. You used to be that way six years ago, before the reality of life and relationships and loss and grief and disappointment and all of the wonderful bad things had gotten to you. Had snatched up who you were, chewed that essence up, and spit it right back out. 

So here you were, one year removed from when everything essentially blew up in your face, leaving you to rebuild.

And here Charlie was, coming off one of the worst years of his life, knowing almost exactly how you felt.

The cynic in you is saying that it’s just too cliché, the two of you being so broken and finding each other like this. 

The small voice in the back of your mind that’s still clinging to the dreamer you once were? It’s telling you that the two of you were meant to find each other and, yeah, you roll your eyes every time the thought crosses your mind. However, with each passing day, you become more and more convinced that it was true.

How embarrassing. 

It’s one of those rare September days that happen before the seasons change, when it feels more like mid October than the last few days of summer. Your cheeks are burning from the wind that whips your hair everywhere, a pleasant cold that you’d longed for over the summer months. The hot coffee in your hand threatens to spill from it’s cup and you take tentative sips when you absolutely have to stop at crosswalks and wait for cars to go by before darting out again.

Naturally, you were running late to the Saturday morning meeting of people on the New York theater scene planning for what the industry calls red bucket season. In the aftermath of all of the loss and grief and spiraling thoughts last fall you had finally said yes to the constant begging of your coworkers in the marketing department at Schubert and started to become more heavily involved with Broadway Cares/Equity Fights Aids. The overwhelming joy that came with the annual Flea Market in the Schubert Ally last September had given you hope to last all the way through to red bucket season, which carried you into the spring and helped you to feel like you were doing something productive with your time other than sleep, eat, work, and cry.

You’d met people from different companies in the theater world, met so many lovely actors and musicians and dressers and heads of house and developed a net to busy yourself, to affirm your sense of self worth, to get a drink with on a Sunday afternoon when the ghost light was finally turned on after the matinee crowd had finally cleared the stage door and the last member of the orchestra had said goodnight.

Taking a deep breath and glancing at your watch only to see that you were fifteen minutes late, you swallow and push your way through the doors, cheeks heating up even more if at all possible. There isn’t anyone you know staring back at you when all twenty something people turn to see who had arrived late and interrupted the meeting’s organizer. You cringe internally as you call out a simple apology and slip into the first vacant seat that catches your eye.

Enter Charlie Barber.

His head whipped back when everyone else’s had. He had looked you up and down, tried to see if you were anyone he knew like everyone else in the room. He couldn’t see you, didn’t really see you until you plopped down next to him, wind blown and flustered and absolutely breathtaking. 

Post divorce finalization, Charlie had decided that he wasn’t going to go looking for someone else. He didn’t need someone to come in and pick up all the pieces or any of that bullshit. He wasn’t looking for a savior to fix it all —grief was something to handle on your own in his eyes. 

As you lean over and whisper another apology to him specifically, as if you had inconvenienced him personally by sweeping into the room late and choosing to sit next to him and draw attention to him too, Charlie feels like he’s been hit by a truck. The simple apology rings like a crescendo through his head and chest and he feels it in his bones. He rushes out his acknowledgement, tells you it’s okay, but he feels like his mouth has turned into molasses.  

About halfway through the presentation, he leans over and nudges you, pointing out a typo in the slide presentation. It’s a bold move, all things considered — you did know the woman running the meeting, she was your boss and someone you considered to be a close acquaintance. You’d mentioned as much when Charlie had turned to you during some dumb partner exercise she had made you all do to get to know each other.

The stifled laughter that bubbles past your lips rivals any top forty hit that played in the background when Charlie got his coffee that morning, much earlier than you, in the coffee shop three blocks from the auditorium you were now sitting in. Suddenly, he finds himself obsessing over how it would sound uninhibited by the social circumstances. He wants to make you laugh over and over again. 

It’s chance that the two of you are assigned to help run the first red bucket training session of the season before the first performance of a long running musical that you had never seen nor cared to have seen three days later. It’s close to dinner time and you’ve had a long day at the office. Charlie’s had a long day too, a long few days thinking about when he’d see you again. How well the two of you had gotten on, how your hands had brushed over each other at the stupid little food spread during your break on Saturday. 

He thinks about what he should wear, what you’d be wearing, if you’d want to run across the street afterwards and split a pie at the local pizza joint that all of the tourists frequented before shows, wanting to get an “authentic” slice but not wanting to stray to far from the familiarity of the theater district and Times Square in all of it’s grubby, overrated glory.

Charlie doesn’t assume he’d even crossed your mind since you parted ways Saturday. He figures you’re busy, that you aren’t looking for anything because you’re just fine on your own or maybe you’re with somebody else. He doesn’t chance snooping on your social media to break the lovely reverie dancing in his head as he falls asleep Saturday, Sunday, and Monday evening. The one where he gets to start over, gets to start a relationship that’s based in equal footing and rationality rather than fear and chaotic emotions and limelight. 

Little does he know that you’ve been thinking about him too, your mind reeling with the same possibilities for yourself. It scared you more than anything that you’d even begun to entertain those types of thoughts.

You knew he’d just come off of an ugly divorce. Hell, you knew who he was when you had plopped down next to him and caught a glimpse of his furrowed brow and broad shouldered stature. You hadn’t expected someone as busy as him, as important as him to be here with the rest of you, all minor players in the theater world for the most part. You certainly hadn’t expected to enjoy your time with him and dance almost the whole way home because you were so excited that you’d been given the opportunity to see him again. 

Was it worth asking him to hang out after the meeting? Would he laugh in your face? Turn you down politely and tell you he’d see you at your next assigned training session? Would he ignore it and walk out to meet someone else and kiss them under the lights of the marquees? 

You spent the whole meeting wondering how you would ask him, if you would even ask him. You worked on autopilot, completely preoccupied with stealing glances across the room at Charlie, joking with Charlie during breaks, brushing Charlie’s hand when you passed him paper...Charlie, Charlie, Charlie.

“Nice work tonight.” A baritone voice pulls you from your thoughts and you glance up to see the man himself, eyes crinkled at the edges as he smiles down at you while the cast filters back stage.

You start to clean things up, trying to busy yourself so you don’t put your foot in your mouth. “You too, Charlie.” You hum, mentally kicking yourself because wow were you lame. You could have said anything else and you just echoed his words instead? Your chances were slipping right through your fingers.

He picks at lint on his sweater that isn’t even there, kicks some invisible object as he watches you. “How come I’ve never seen you around before last weekend? Charlotte told me you’ve been with Schubert for awhile now and both of my shows have been in Schubert buildings. So’s my third.”

“You were talking to Charlotte about me?” You ask, head snapping up with a shit eating grin. He was talking about you with other people?

Charlie’s cheeks go bright red and his hand comes up to rub the back of his neck, a nervous habit of his. He stumbles over his words, tries to come up with any other explanation to hide the truth of why he had asked Charlotte about you. Before he could say anything else, you swallow your nerves, then stand up straighter. 

“Because maybe I’ve been talking to her about you.” You shrug — you hadn’t really. Hell, you don’t even know why the words came out of your mouth. 

His eyes sparkle a bit as he tilts his head. “Maybe?”

“Yeah, maybe.”

The man standing across from you grabs an armful of infographics and slips them into the box that was meant to go to the head of house, to have on hand for people interested in donating. “Charlotte mentioned you liked pizza.” He says and, of course, it couldn’t have been true, you didn’t know Charlotte that well, but you appreciated the effort.

You smile and take a step forward, looking him up and down shyly. “Maybe I do.”

Charlie snorts, rolls his eyes, then nudges you playfully for good measure as he prays that he’s reading the room correctly. “Well maybe you’d want to get some with me?”

You half hear the question. He’s so handsome and you wonder if he knows it. If he knows he’s had you weak at the knees since the minute you’d made eye contact with him Saturday. “Maybe I’d like that.” You say, eyes round and full of wonder.

He smiles, putting his hands in his pockets. “It’s a date then.”

“You want to call it a date?” Butterflies are now running rampant in your stomach.

“Maybe.”

You’re both grinning from ear to ear now, faces hot and hands sweaty and shaking. “If you’re calling it a date, then yeah. I’d like that a lot.”

So Charlie takes you across the street and you each eat half a pizza, laughing over cheap wine and talking about how snooty actors could be. How demanding the stage door was. Your respective backgrounds in theater, his early success, your acceptance of the fact that you wouldn’t make it big and it was better to just settle into marketing and still be in the industry. Job security and such. 

He takes your hand outside of the restaurant as you lead him toward the local bakery that sells cookies fresh from the oven.

You intertwine your fingers with his while you stand in line for hot chocolate as dusk turns to night in Central Park.

He kisses you after wiping a bit of chocolate from the corner of your mouth on the Brooklyn bound A train a half hour later. And again on your stoop when you finally arrive home. 

He kisses you another time after he gives you his number and then once more when he realizes he’s only a ten minute walk from your apartment.

After heading upstairs, showering, doing some dirty dishes, and then plopping onto your bed, you smile when you see three texts from Charlie on your phone’s lock screen. Was it cliché to say that he had swooped in and fixed everything? Yeah and he didn’t fix anything really. He’d kissed you a few times and held your hand, sure, and he seemed like he wanted more. You wanted more too, but that didn’t mean that you were healed.

All you did know was that the hopeless romantic in you was louder than they had been for the better part of two years and you couldn’t stop smiling and wondering if it was coincidence that you had plopped down next to Charlie Barber during the meeting. Was it coincidence that the barista had taken longer with your latte that morning or was it fate telling you to take a deep breath and hold on tight because in a matter of minutes, you’d be meeting someone special.

[atsixesandcevans]

a fate that befell me

Summary: You made the ultimate sacrifice, and now you and Steve must face the consequences and reconcile your misgivings.

Pairing: Steve Rogers/Reader

Word Count: 6.4k

Warnings: angst, talk of injuries and blood, mild ptsd maybe? 

A/N: WHEW, thank you SO much for your patience with me on this, I’m sorry this took so long to get out. There were certain things I wanted to include and filling in the gaps was harder than I thought it would be.

This is the second part of my the fire it ignites series, so if you haven’t read the first part, I recommend you do that before reading :)

I really hope this was worth the wait! I’ve already started writing a third part and, since I know exactly where I want to go with it, I’m hoping the wait won’t be as long! Enjoy :)

Read on AO3 || Masterlist || Series Masterlist

Your body collided with his, making him stumble just a little, his name a harsh shout from your lips. He was about to turn to you, demand what the hell you were doing, when the gunshot rang through the air, sharp and piercing. The sound of it made his body tense as he felt yours stiffen then collapse against him.

Time seemed to slow, the moment dragging endlessly while his mind fazed in and out of focus and realised what had happened. You crumple to the floor, deep red already blooming around your hand, pressed against your side.

The team around him sprang into action, bodies moving frantically, orders being shouted, your name called. 

Steve, for what must have been the first time in years - maybe his life - found himself frozen, despite the unbridled, unmistakable panic swelling in his chest. The voices of his teammates, his friends - your friends - fade to nothing more than distant noise. Steve was unable to do anything but drop to his knees beside your head, moving his face to be directly above yours.

Your vision seemed to lose focus, but soon your eyes locked with his, and they filled with an oddly calm look, tinged with confusion. It was such a soft look that you gave him, brimming with affection that Steve didn’t deserve from you. He watched your face contort in pain as someone - he doesn’t know who, he couldn’t possibly look away from you now - replaces your hand with theirs, pressing firmly against your wound. His hand rested on your head, fingers threading into your hair, stroking, willing the action to bring you some semblance of comfort. Your lips curled upwards, just slightly, at the corners, your expression unnaturally peaceful for the circumstances. 

He wished he could take the pain away, bear it on his shoulders. It should have been me.

Your eyes began to droop, losing focus, and your apology was a breathless, heart-wrenching whisper. Steve wanted to shout, to tell you that you’re going to be okay, that it will all be okay, that he’s sorry too, but a firm hand on his shoulder drew his attention away from you.

Natasha stood beside him, eyes frantic but voice calm, measured. Steve knew her well enough to know that she was close to breaking, but managed to keep up her steely exterior. “We need to get her onto the jet.” It’s then that he noticed that the others were gone, already on the quinjet and getting ready to make their getaway.

Steve moved as if in a trance, slipping his arms underneath your shoulders and knees, lifting with ease. He held you close to his body, moving quickly from the building, and rested his face against the side of your head. He kept talking to you, reassuring, though not entirely sure if you could hear him or not. He pressed a kiss to your temple, willing you to be okay, then felt your body go limp against him, while the guilt settled thick and heavy in his heart. 

---

The hours that you were in surgery were some of the longest, and most stressful of Steve’s life. Second only to the hours when he didn’t know if Bucky was alive back during the war. But even then, he didn’t feel the same weight on his shoulders, in his heart. This was a different feeling, the guilt deeper, more consuming than he could remember having ever felt before.

He was sure his pacing would wear a hole in the linoleum floor of the hospital wing corridor. His hands were still stained with your blood, his grubby uniform undone but still clinging to his restless body. He refused to leave even long enough to wash or change. 

His hands balled into fists as the sounds of the gunshot and your pleading whisper flash through his mind, remorse never waning, settling like a rock in his chest. 

While Steve was pacing, the rest of the team arrived sporadically, having gone back to their rooms to change and shower, safe in the knowledge that he would alert them of any news in the meantime. 

Natasha was the first to arrive, along with Wanda, hair damp and wearing sweats and t-shirts, sullen looks on their faces. Sam and the others soon joined them, some pacing like Steve, some leaning against the wall, some folded in on themselves in the uncomfortable plastic chairs that lined the corridor. Even Tony had shown up, presumably at the insistence of Nat or Pepper. He was sat in the corner and busy tapping away at his StarkPad. Steve couldn’t even be mad at the tapping sound that interrupted the near-silence. He was just glad he had turned up.

Steve’s guilt grew exponentially as he realised that he’d been too caught up in his own thoughts and feelings to notice the hit the rest of the team had taken with your injury. For months, he’d been preoccupied with his dislike for you that he hadn’t even realised how much of a place you had found within the team. Looking around, he didn’t see a group of superheroes waiting for their colleague; he saw a team worried for their friend. Worried for you. You, who might not even be in this position if he hadn’t been so cold to you, if he hadn’t said those awful things, things that weren’t even close to being true. He realised that, now. 

A selfish person would never jump in front of a bullet for someone, especially someone who had been so awful to them. To you. And, looking around at your teammates, your friends, he realised that you did deserve to be on the team, perhaps more than anyone. More than him, that was for sure. The rational part of his brain tried to tell him otherwise, but he wouldn’t listen. After what he said, and what you did, he wasn’t sure he was worthy of his title. 

The pure relief that spread through the room when the doctor told them that the surgery was successful was almost palpable. He heard the doctor say something about blood transfusion and internal bleeding and broken ribs, but all Steve could think about was the fact that you were alive. You would be okay.

That was enough.

---

Once the team had had some time to feel the relief that their friend was alive, the doctor came back and explained that your recovery was going to take time. Although the wound itself had been patched up using Dr Cho’s new cradle, it would still take time for your ribs to mend, and even then it would be painful to make certain movements. Once you were all healed up, you would need to regain your strength and flexibility, which could take weeks. 

All things considered, nobody could complain about this outcome. Everyone knew it would be tough, but you would do it. If anyone could come back from this, it was you.

Now that he wasn’t stressed out of his mind, Steve’s mental and physical exhaustion finally caught up with him, and he slumped in a chair with a heavy breath. Although a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, there was still the undeniable guilt that he knew wouldn’t go away any time soon, if ever. 

After some persuasion from Nat, Steve made his way sullenly back to his room, where he swiftly stripped and showered, before collapsing into bed, falling quickly into a restless sleep. 

---

Everything was dark. And silent. It was unsettling, made you nervous. Why was it so dark? Where was all the noise? You couldn’t even hear your own breathing, and panic welled inside of you. Don’t let me be dead.

You tried to open your eyes, move your head to look around, but found yourself unable to move. The fear grew stronger, the complete absence of… everything too overwhelming, too confusing. Your ears strained to pick up on a sound, any sound, just to prove to yourself that you weren’t dead. Dear God, please don’t let me be dead. 

There was a sound. Voices, you thought, distant, muffled, like you were deep underwater, unknown depths threatening to swallow you whole. The voices grew louder, just a little, enough to make it feel like coming up for air, until something pulled you back under and it went silent again. 

Somehow, this time, it was comforting. Being surrounded by endless nothingness was oddly calming. The feeling of no obligations, no time restraints. It was leisurely, and you almost wished it would never end. 

A strange orange glow seeped through your eyelids, and you basked in it as if it were the sun on a warm June afternoon. You could almost feel yourself smiling, feel the light breeze on your cheeks and the happiness in your heart. 

The image was ripped away, however, when you felt a searing pain in your side. You choked on a gasp, before once again succumbing to the darkness around you. 

---

The hospital wing was quiet when Steve returned, too early in the morning for the regular bustling noise of pages turning and people chattering. It felt strange, being here at this time. Being the visitor, rather than the patient. It was eerie and reminded him too much of the night he lost his mother for him to make it a regular occurrence. Hell, if he hadn’t been called for a mission, he wouldn’t even be here. But he had to see you before he left. He had to make sure you were okay. 

Steve nodded and smiled softly at the nurse on duty at the front desk, tired eyes illuminated by the soft glow of a lamp where she worked on some files. He had become a regular enough admission to the wing to not need to have his ID checked, though he doubted he would need it anyway. 

As he rounded the corner and approached your room, he couldn’t fight the anxious knot in his stomach. He wondered what state you would be in if you would be awake or asleep. He wasn’t sure which would be worse. 

His racing mind couldn’t prepare him for the reality, though. 

The room was small, just big enough that there was room to move around unencumbered, lit dimly by an off-white light in the far corner. And, in the centre of the room, laying almost statue-still, was you, covered from the waist down by pristine baby blue sheets. The image of you, surrounded by wires and machines that he couldn’t name even if he tried, was jarring. You looked so small in the bed, so vulnerable, and Steve found himself missing your feisty spirit and your recklessness, even the way you always spoke back to him. He’d take any of it, all of it, over this. 

Before he could think twice, Steve found himself at the side of your bed, looking down at your sallow face, hair falling limp against the pillow. His eyes trailed down your torso, the edge of a bruise peeking out of the top of your hospital gown, and lingered on the spot he knew bore your healing wound. There were bruises across your knuckles, but that wasn’t unusual after a mission. He reached out instinctively and took your hand in his, the pad of his thumb brushing delicately over the purplish flesh. 

He was startled from his thoughts by the vibration of his phone in his pocket, and he quickly but gently rested your hand back at your side. Secretly thankful that there was no one around to see the blush creeping up his neck. Stepping just outside the doorway, he fished out his phone and answered the call with a stiff but hushed “Rogers.” He only half-listened to Maria Hill inform him of some new information regarding the mission before thanking her and ending the call. Heaving a sigh, he turned and looked through the doorway at you for a long moment, before tearing himself away to get ready to leave. The urge to turn around and go back to you only strengthened with every step he took.

—-

The first thing you noticed when you woke up was how heavy your body felt, like it had been dipped in concrete. It was unnerving, but you didn’t allow yourself to panic, not yet. Not until you had figured out exactly what was going on.

Taking a chance, you made an attempt at opening your eyes - though the apparent weight of your eyelids meant that it took a great deal of concentration to do so - and immediately regretted it. The harsh white light surrounding you sent jolts of pain through your eyes, like needles piercing the flesh behind them. You tried again, this time with more caution, opening them only a fraction, just enough to take in your surroundings. 

From what you could tell, you were in a hospital room, if the crisp sheets and rhythmic beeping beside you were anything to go by. As your eyes adjusted to the light, you were able to scope out a little more of the room. You could see the door, across to your right, as well as a set of drawers against the wall to your left. It was adorned with various vases of flowers and what looked to be Get Well Soon cards, along with a borderline-tacky foil helium balloon. As far as you could tell, it read something like ‘Sorry you feel like s**t!’. You were reasonably confident that that was thanks to Tony. 

The display of well-wishes confused you, though. Usually, the stints that any of the Avengers took in the hospital wing were short-term, so didn’t warrant gifts, which begged the question; how long have I been here? And its prequel, what the hell happened?

You scoured your recent memory, searching for anything that would tell you why you were in here, but all you got were fragments of sight and sound. A man pointing a gun. Your voice, shouting Steve’s name. A gunshot, loud and clear and unmistakable. A solid mass, engulfing you, protecting you.

Oh god.

Almost frantically, you pushed down the sheets that lay across your torso and lifted the hospital gown where the ache that you were suddenly aware of told you the wound would be. Your whole abdomen was wrapped in a white bandage, and you lifted one side of it to see the distinct scarring of what you knew to be a bullet wound. 

The fragments of your memory began to come together, forming one coherent mass, and the realisation of what you had done hit you like a freight train. You had taken a bullet for him, for the man you claimed to hate, the man who claimed to hate you. How had you been so stupid, so reckless? You were sure that if you were to look up the word ‘idiot’ in a dictionary, there’d be a picture of you, in this exact situation. 

What the hell were you thinking? And, more importantly at this moment, what the hell must Steve think? You’d virtually proven his point about being reckless. This was it, you were sure of it, this would be the last straw, and you’d be off the team. You resigned yourself to your fate, settling back into the pillows only semi-comfortably, and began planning your next moves. There was no way he’d allow you to stay here, after the stunt you pulled, so you’d have to find a place to go. You wondered what happened to your old apartment, the one you lived in before you were recruited by Fury, whether it had been sold, whether you could just go back there. Judging by the healed-over skin and the pain in your side that you knew to be broken ribs, you’d probably only need to be here for a few more days. After that, you’d get by. It would be tough, on your own, but you’d come back from worse, and without the support of an entire team behind you.

That was a lie, and you knew it, but this was no time for actual logical thinking.

Just as you were making a mental checklist of what you would need to do before you left, your thoughts were interrupted by Nat, wearing her trademark smirk. She was followed closely by a svelte woman in a doctor’s coat. “Well, look who decided to return to the land of the living.”

Your own lips quirked up into a matching smirk, though when you spoke, your throat was dry and hoarse. “Oh come on, Romanoff, surely we’ve known each other long enough that you can just tell me you missed me.” Natasha’s smirk morphed into a genuine smile, and she took a seat in the chair that had been angled towards the bed.

“It’s good to have you back, Y/N,” the other woman spoke, her voice light and melodic. Not at all what you would expect from a doctor who had to fix secret agents and super soldiers daily. She approached the bed and lifted the clipboard hanging from the end of it, flipping through with a natural smile on her face. “My name is Dr Helen Cho, I’m in charge of your recovery here.”

Your mind whirled, trying to work out where you’d heard the name before. Sensing your struggle, Nat elaborated, “Dr Cho is head of the U-GIN Genetics company in South Korea. She used her technology to design a machine that can create synthetic tissue and bond it to human cells. It’s pretty incredible.”

Dr Cho becomes almost bashful at the praise. “Well, it’s not perfect, there will always be ways to improve it, but it does the job we need it to. And I must say, it has worked wonders on your injury.”

You nodded absently, the final pieces coming together in your mind; perhaps you weren’t out for as long as you had thought, if that machine of hers was what healed your wound so quickly.

“How long have I been here?”

“Just a few days. You were in surgery for a couple hours while we figured out the extent of your injury and removed any shrapnel that might have gotten lodged in the wound. After that, we just let the Cradle do its work. And you’ve been in here, sleeping since then. We decided it was best to let your body take all the rest it needed, rather than forcing it to be either asleep or awake. The body is surprisingly good at healing itself, and sometimes the best course of action is to just allow it the time to do its thing.”

You listened intently as Dr Cho described the nature of your injuries, and the procedures they went through to repair them, before detailing what your next steps to recovery would be. She explained that you would need several days more bed rest here in the medical wing, followed by several more in your own suite. After that, you would be able to move around, provided you didn’t over-exert yourself until your ribs were healed. Then, you would need to train regularly in order to regain muscle mass and be able to move with the ease and fluidity as you did before. Dr Cho insisted that it would be a long process, but it was necessary if you were to make a full recovery. 

It wasn’t exactly the prognosis you were hoping for, but if it meant you could go back to normal? You’d do all you could.

----

Within a day of you waking up, you were able to sit up in bed a little more and actually feel like a human being again. You had your first actual food in days, and a slightly plasticky prepackaged sandwich had never tasted so good. Your skin had begun to return to its natural colour, your hair returning to its normal fullness. 

Since you’d ‘returned to the land of the living,’ as Nat had put it, most of the team had been by to say hello. Some only dropped by fleetingly, on their way to or from one thing or another, but some stayed longer, keeping you company. Nat and Wanda were with you most of the day, glad to have their friend back and eager to catch you up on everything that had happened while you were out. They brought you a couple of books and magazines to keep you occupied since they had meetings to attend and paperwork to complete. They even brought you food from your favourite takeout place.

The only ones who didn’t visit you that first day were Tony - who cited his known dislike for hospitals in his ‘glad you’re okay’ message - and Sam and Steve, who were away on a mission and weren’t expected back for a few days.

So, you were beyond surprised when, in the late evening the day after you came to, your attention was pulled from your book by Steve tapping his knuckles against the doorframe. He was dressed casually in jeans and a t-shirt, hair damp from the shower, and held a vase of flowers in front of him.

Dread immediately settled in your chest, forming a lump in your throat, his name a surprised murmur from your lips, earning an equally quiet “hey” from Steve.

You’d never seen him so apprehensive. The tenseness he carried in his whole body made you think that, if they weren’t otherwise occupied, his hands would be in knots in front of him.

“Do you wanna come in?” He nodded stiffly, and moved towards you, placing the vase on the table to your side. You motioned to the empty chair, and he sat, looking uncomfortable and tight, and he looked everywhere but you and oh god, this is the end.

There were several minutes of somewhat tense small talk. He asked how you are, you asked how the mission went, though neither of your hearts are in it, and you wished he’d just get to the point already. After a stretch of silence, you both went to speak at once.

“Are you kicking me off the team?”

“I want to apologise for what I- you think I’m kicking you off the team?”

You sigh, almost exasperated. “Well, of course. You didn’t want me on the team in the first place, and now I’ve just given you more proof that I don’t belong here. The team would be a whole lot better if I wasn’t on it.”

Steve began to shake his head almost immediately after you started your little tirade. He sat forward in his chair so he could catch your gaze, which had dropped to your lap where you had begun picking at a loose thread in the blanket. When you met his eyes, they were sincere and full of regret, brows knitted together in a frown. 

“No, Y/N, listen… I am so sorry for what I said to you that day, and for the way I’ve been treating you since you got here.”

You nodded slowly, blinking back the tears that had begun to form in your eyes. “What you said really hurt me, Steve.”

Steve’s chest tightened almost painfully at the vulnerability in your voice, knowing that he was the reason that you looked so broken. He sighed, swallowing down his own emotion and sitting forward in his chair a little more. “I know. I know I hurt you and I can’t sit here and give you some lame excuse for my actions, especially now that I see just how wrong I was. All I can do is say that I am really, truly sorry, and hope that one day you can forgive me.”

You saw the sincerity and regret in his eyes and offered him a small nod and a watery smile. “For what it’s worth… I’m sorry too. I know I shouldn’t have disobeyed you that time in Minsk, I just… I wanted to prove myself to you, to the others. Prove I could be useful, that I deserved a place on the team.” You lifted one shoulder in a lopsided shrug. “I guess that plan backfired.” 

“No, you were right to investigate. Admittedly, I do wish it hadn’t been against my orders, but there could have been something useful in that room. I know that several others on the team would have done the same thing.”

After softly agreeing with him, you both settled into several seconds of somewhat tense, but comfortable silence, until you spoke up in a quiet voice, “so… what now? Am I still on the team?”

Steve’s answer was immediate. “Yes. Yes, of course, you are, there’s no doubt in my mind that you belong here. You’ll always have a place here, with us, as long as you want it.” You breathed a relieved sigh, chuckling lightly.  “But for now, how about a do-over? At your confused expression, he stood and held his hand out, clearing his throat a little. “Hi, it’s nice to meet you, I’m Steve Rogers.” You searched his face for any sign that he was making a joke, but his vaguely amused expression was sincere. You shook his hand and returned his sentiment, giving him your name, your voice light with humour.

The two of you chatted for a little while after that, finally allowing yourselves the chance to get to know each other, until Steve caught you trying to stifle a yawn. He graciously helped lower you into a comfortable sleeping position and turned the lights to a dimmer setting. He paused in the doorway, looking back at you with a smile, which you returned, before turning and making his way back down the hallway.

Smile still on your face, your eyes wandered around the room, settling on the flowers Steve left on the side for you. You admired the simple, yet beautiful arrangement, wondering if the symbolism of the flowers was intentional, eventually deciding that it was too on the nose to have been coincidental. 

Purple hyacinths. Daffodils.

Forgiveness, remorse. New beginnings.

---

To your surprise, you started seeing a lot more of Steve after that. 

The next morning, he turned up - way too bright and early for your liking - bearing heavenly gifts of decent, non-watery coffee and fresh pastries from someplace he passed on his morning run. He was oddly bashful about it, too, as if worried that you would blow up at him for bringing you breakfast. You accepted them gratefully, the smell alone enough to make your stomach rumble, acting as a reminder of the less-than-ideal food that you had been subjected to since you had woken up. Seriously, Tony could afford to replace entire jets every week, but couldn’t stretch to food that was actually edible?

You had just finished the last dregs of your coffee and were halfway through your third danish when Dr Cho appeared in your doorway, cutting off your - only slightly - stiff small talk with Steve. She offered the both of you a bright smile before letting you know that you would be moved back to your own room with strict instructions for rest for several more days, and no strenuous activities for at least a week. 

When Dr Cho asked if there was someone who would be available to help you if you needed it, Steve quickly offered his assistance and, after several minutes of arguing back and forth, you relented. He had pleaded with you for god's sake, who were you to say no?

Not two hours later, you found yourself in a wheelchair, Steve manoeuvring you through the corridors of the compound towards the living quarters. You had changed into fresh sweats and a T-shirt that Steve had Nat fetch from your room just before she and the others left for one mission or another, leaving you and Steve pretty much alone in the compound. 

You managed to get yourself settled into a corner of the couch in your room without too much fuss, your ribs only aching a little, while Steve went to return the wheelchair. When he came back, he swung by the kitchenette in your room, soon returning with two plates of sandwiches which he placed on the coffee table in front of you. You thanked him quietly and went back to flicking through Netflix for something for the two of you to watch. 

After several moments, you broke the silence. “So, cap, what’s your pop culture like? Have you managed to acquaint yourself with twenty-first-century television?” 

Steve chuckled softly, gently shaking his head. “Not really. Movies, sort of yes, but TV shows are always such a big commitment, and it’s hard to see the point in starting something when you could be called away for weeks at a time. Then by that point, you’ve missed a bunch and have to play catch up, only to be called away again. It’s an endless cycle.”

“You see, that’s the joy of Netflix.” You gestured towards the TV screen with the remote. “A lot of the shows on there are completed, and they’re there all the time, so you don’t have to worry about schedules or not being able to watch for a while. You can just jump right back in whenever you want.”

Steve seemed to contemplate that. “Huh. I guess I hadn’t really thought about it like that.” He was silent for a few seconds before he asked, “so, what would you recommend I watch?” 

“Well, it kind of depends on what you like, there’s such a variety. But… I personally would recommend the show, Sherlock. I feel like it covers a variety of bases, crime, drama, comedy…”

“Sherlock as in… Sherlock Holmes? Like in the Conan Doyle novels? I used to love reading those in the 40s.”

“Yeah, the show is basically a modernisation of those characters and stories, set in modern-day London. Plus, each episode is basically its own mini-movie, and there isn’t a whole lot of spread-out storylines, so you don’t have to worry about being away for long periods.”

Steve put his hands up in surrender, laugh bubbling from his chest. “Okay, okay, you’ve convinced me, I’ll try it.” 

You didn’t even try to hide your excitement and quickly found the first episode, both of you settling back with your sandwiches as you pressed play. 

—

The third episode was just drawing to a close when your stomach rumbled, drawing an amused chuckle from Steve, who offered to make dinner while you showered. Not, however, before spending several minutes fussing over you and making sure you were able to move around as much as you needed to. You were nearly forced to resort to violence, had he not finally relented when he realised that you had made it to the bathroom without assistance. He did make you promise to call if you needed help, though. 

It started out okay. You had managed, very carefully, to undress, and stand under the stream of hot water, the warmth and pressure relaxing your muscles and washing away the grime of being stuck in a bed for days on end. But then you made the mistake of trying to apply shampoo to your hair. You momentarily forgot about your ribs and raised your arms too quickly, sending a shock of pain through your side that had you almost doubling over, pained shout tearing from your throat. 

It took all of three seconds for the hurried knocking on the door to start, Steve calling your name sharply, voice laced with worry. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” you gasped, trying to swallow the whimpers of pain. 

“No, you’re not.” Apparently, you didn’t try hard enough. Damn him and his super-soldier hearing. “I’m coming in.” You listened to the door opening, then closing, and when Steve spoke next, he was less than a metre away, voice softer but no less concerned. “What happened?”

You sighed, the pain in your side shifting to more of an ache than the sharp agony it had been. Your voice was quiet as you explained, “I went to wash my hair but moved too quick and aggravated my ribs, is all. I’m okay now.” You had hoped that that would be enough to placate him, but really you should have known that it wouldn’t. 

“Are you sure? Do you want my help?” He sounded genuinely concerned, clearly unfazed by the ridiculousness of the situation. 

You shook your head, even though he probably couldn't see you. “No, it’s okay, I…” You paused, and shifted a little on your feet, the movement sending another shooting pain through you, and you barely stifled the groan that it caused. You sighed again, relenting, and whispered a resigned “yes, please.” 

Steve could feel the heat of his cheeks as he stepped in behind you, having stripped down to his underwear, focusing his eyes on the tiles above your head, the knobs of the shower, anywhere but the drop of water making a meandering path down the curve of your back. 

You both settled into a tense silence, the quiet only disturbed by the steady stream of the shower, and the soft is this okay?s and whispered replies. 

His touch on your scalp was firm but gentle, and you wondered distantly what it would be like to have those hands on other parts of your body - pressing into your hips or skimming down your sides or pawing at your-

Steve’s voice pulled you from your thoughts, and you quickly snapped out of it, allowing him to gently move your body so that your head was under the stream of water. You hoped the flush you felt in your cheeks wasn’t noticeable. 

It was almost overwhelming, the intimacy of it all. You wondered how on earth you would be able to go back to treating each other as mere colleagues after… this. How would you be able to look him in the eye after having felt the heat of his body so close to yours? Felt the dexterity of his fingers running through your hair, felt the new and encompassing desire you had for him at that moment? You wondered if he felt it too, this strange charge of energy between you, hanging in the empty space between the cold tile walls of the shower. If he, too, felt something new and unexpected for you, born of forced intimacy and affection. 

It was nice to dream.

Once your hair was washed, Steve made sure you were okay to finish up before he stepped away, shoulders tense. He grabbed a towel and dried his body as best as he could, before slipping back into his clothes, muttering something about going to change. His voice was taut and barely audible over the sound of the water surrounding you.

By the time he returned, you had managed to finish your shower and change into comfortable, clean clothes without too much difficulty. You were settled back onto the couch with your phone, when a quick knock at the door alerted you to his presence before he came in, muttering an almost sheepish “hi.”

The air was thick with tension as Steve went straight back to preparing dinner. He barely glanced your way until you stood, a soft groan slipping past your lips at the physical exertion and the movement that jostled your ribs slightly. His head whipped around, and he started to approach you, telling you to stop and wait for him to help you, which you waved off with a flick of your hand. “I’m fine, really, Steve, I’m perfectly capable of standing on my own.” You took careful steps over to the kitchenette, standing on the opposite side of the breakfast bar counter to Steve, who had his eye trained on you the whole time. You pushed yourself onto one of the barstools next to you, sighing when you were finally situated. You did not enjoy how much simple tasks took out of you. You couldn’t wait to be better. 

Once sat, you lifted your gaze to meet Steve’s eyes, which were filled with concern, his eyebrows drawn together to form what the others had called the Eyebrows of Disappointment. You took a breath and tried to tamp down the rising urge to just hightail it out of there, realising that you wouldn’t get very far on your own and Steve would be able to catch you. Very easily. 

Taking a deep breath, you tried to figure out what to say. What could you say? As far as you were aware, there was no standard protocol for talking to 100-year-old super-soldiers who, not thirty minutes ago, had been in your shower. With you. While you were naked. 

“I… thank you. For your help earlier. I really appreciate it.” His features softened upon your words and your grateful tone, eyebrows relaxing slightly into an expression that held an unexpected tenderness that made your heart clench. It was clear he was trying to swallow his embarrassment, but there was no mistaking the pink tinge to his cheeks and the tips of his ears. You bit your lip and dropped your gaze to the counter in front of you. Steve waited patiently for you to continue. “I don't… I don’t want there to be any awkwardness between us, especially since we only just got on good terms, so… I think it would be best if we just… forget it ever happened?” Your voice was hopeful towards the end, raising your eyes back to his just in time to see a flash of… disappointment? - no, not possible - before he offered you one of his lopsided grins that, coupled with the softness in his gaze, had your stomach doing somersaults. 

“Sure, Y/N.”

You responded with your own grin, before adding, “oh, and maybe don’t tell the others? I feel like Nat would have a field day if she ever found out about this.” That earned you a full laugh from Steve, your own chuckle bright and cheerful, with a lightness that you hadn’t felt in a while. 

After a brief moment where you were both unable to break the soft eye contact, you settled back into light chatter, the shower incident a distant memory, just as you had asked. 

So why did you feel that unmistakable lump of regret in your stomach?

[the-hidden-writer]

A Second Chance: Chapter 1

An Ace Attorney fanfic. Read on both AO3 and FF.net!

Summary:  Miles learns the identity of his "dead" mother, and the aftermath of that revelation is a tricky one. Especially when his newfound little sister is trying to turn him into a spirit medium.

AKA Miles is a Fey. Miles also doesn't really know how to family properly.

[Chapter 2] | [Chapter 3]

Comments make my day! :D

The Box

Hazakura Temple was one hell of a case, and he’d seen some weird ones over the years. It was like fate how he, Dick Gumshoe, always got roped into those weird ones. Or maybe you could say they were the exciting ones. Depends on who you ask, he thought, as he climbed the stairs of Elise Deauxnim’s cottage- each step creaking dangerously as he went.

It usually wasn’t his job to search victims’ houses, but he thought this time he owed it to Maya. The poor girl lost her mother, and if there was anything in there he could give to her he would find it.

One cupboard at a time.

Even for a famous children’s author, Elise Deauxnim didn’t seem to have many possessions. All he’d found were books and clothes. Even her house wasn’t that big, though it was pretty secluded. Which would make sense since she was Misty Fey in hiding.

God, that was weird to think about. He’d read his nieces a bunch of her stories and secretly enjoyed them too. He’d never be able to do it without thinking of the author’s corpse now.

Clink! Thud!

The others were probably packing up the silverware to give to charity downstairs. Death was so strange… one moment a person’s there, living their life as always, and then the next they’re gone.

He contemplated his own death as he sifted through the belongings of Ms. Deauxnim’s bedroom. Nothing special. There was a neatly-made double bed with a floral quilt, a small wooden bedside table with a shaded lamp, and a few wardrobes full of various clothes.

In the final wardrobe, the small white one, he finally noticed something valuable.

Among the dresses and cardigans, somewhat hidden behind them, was a familiar lengthy, deep purple robe. Dick had been to Kurain village so he knew what it was almost immediately. At least he knew they were in the right house.

At least he could give something to Maya.

Gently, he tugged at the robe. It was stuck. So he pulled again, a little harder.

It remained glued to the rail.

So he thrust his hand far into the wardrobe, half expecting to find Narnia, and felt around with his large fingers until he had a fistful of robe. Sucking in a breath, he yanked it out.

Crash!

He cringed.

Good news: he had the robe. Bad news? The clothes hanger that the robe had been attached to had fallen to the ground.

Sighing, he went to pick it up, when he noticed that it hadn’t fallen on the bottom of the wardrobe. Instead, it had fallen on what looked like some sort of gift box.

Curiosity taking over him, he carefully took it out. It had yet another floral pattern on it (she sure was into flowers, huh) though this one was a lot more faded than the one on her bed or her curtains. On the lid, written gracefully in ink, was the word “Kurain”.

Bingo!

He crouched down onto his knees and slowly opened the box. Inside, was a folded robe- one much smaller than the one hung up. Maybe once belonging to a child? Under that was an old photograph of two girls, desperately trying to fix a broken vase of some sort. It was adorable.

There was also a small pendant in the shape of a magatama, which looked like it could open.

He tried to open it, but his fat grubby fingers kept on slipping off. Maya could probably do it.

Satisfied with his find, Dick leaned over (wobbling slightly on his knees) to close the wardrobe door when he noticed something behind where the box had been.

Another, smaller box.

He took it out, and immediately almost dropped it again.

On the lid, written in that same ink calligraphy was one word.

“Edgeworth.”

Dick’s eyes went wide. What was he supposed to do? Open the box? That might cost him his salary… but he couldn’t not open it.

“Sorry, Mr Edgeworth.” He muttered as he took off the lid.

He stared blankly at the box’s contents for a few moments, the reality of what was inside not sinking in, and after what seemed like way too long he finally uttered two words.

“Holy moly.”

He needed to call Mr Edgeworth.

~._-_.~

“Mr Edgeworth, Sir!” Gumshoe cried, thrusting open the door so that it ended up hitting the wall with a loud bang.

Miles winced and sighed. At least he could always hear Gumshoe coming, so he had a few seconds of bliss to mentally prepare himself. He clicked his pen and looked up from his desk.

“Detective.” He greeted.

What he wasn’t expecting was the large man to be noticeably more out of breath than usual, huffing and puffing with a large white evidence bag under his arm.

Miles couldn’t help but groan when he noticed the lack of label on the bag. “You’re not supposed to take evidence without registering it first, Detective.”

Gumshoe scrunched his nose in apology. “I know pal, but this is important, I promise.”

He flopped onto the couch and started to fiddle with the zip on the bag. Miles sighed again. It was evening, and since Gumshoe had been investigating Misty Fey’s residence, which was a good few hours away by train, he hadn’t been expecting a visit from him today. Not that he particularly enjoyed his visits...

Tapping his finger impatiently, Miles waited for Gumshoe to finally take out the contents of the bag. He was underwhelmed to say the least. It appeared to be a small rigid gift box of some kind.

“C’mere, sir.” Said Gumshoe as he thumped the seat next to him and looked up at him expectantly.

Miles relented and stood up to join the detective.

“You know,” he said, “when I received your text, I believed this to be something urgent.”

Gumshoe shrugged. “It is, pal. I wouldn’t’ve disturbed you if it wasn’t. Don’t you trust me Mr Edgeworth?”

“Of course.” He said, sitting down. Miles didn’t, but decided that this wasn’t the time to reveal that particular secret to his sensitive colleague. “So what is it?”

All of a sudden Gumshoe visibly steeled himself. His expression became soft, but his shoulders were tense. All of his usual energy solidified into something that resembled that of a detective’s. Miles had seen this multiple times before, and it was always when Gumshoe had bad news to tell. It was unnerving to see the man do it in their own conversation.

A bad feeling began brewing in his gut.

“So, I was checking Misty Fey’s house, right?”

“Yes.” He answered, a little too quickly.

“And… she was the one who channelled your dad, wasn’t she?”

Miles didn’t have to answer that. That bad feeling only worsened.

“Well uh, I found this and…” Gumshoe paused. “I think you’d better take a look for yourself.”

Slowly, as if he were handing something fragile to a small child, Gumshoe passed the ominous box to him and gestured for him to open it. What immediately piqued his interest was the fact that it had the word “Edgeworth.” written neatly on the lid.

So, with an unhealthy amount of caution, he began to lift it...

“Hey!”

...and almost fell off the couch at Gumshoe’s outburst.

“What?” He asked, disgruntled.

The detective turned to face him. “I uh just wanted to say, whatever’s in there, that I’m here for you Mr Edgeworth. Whatever you need. I knew you should have this the moment I saw it, no questions asked.”

“I see.” Was all he said in reply, as his curiosity was beginning to eat away at him with every passing second.

He opened the box.

...and breathed a sigh of relief. He’d been half-expecting something to jump out.

A bunch of papers. Newspaper articles, mostly. He recognised the majority at once- they were all reports of his father’s death. The DL-6 incident. He furrowed his brows, wondering why Gumshoe assumed that he hadn’t read each one of these articles a million times over already.

Then, whilst removing them, he noticed more faded newspaper clippings underneath. However, this time they were ones he didn’t recognise. They were far smaller, from a local company he hadn’t heard of, and difficult to make out on the yellowed paper. But they all shared one common sentence:

“Defense attorney Gregory Edgeworth wins case.”

The original shock wore off quite quickly as soon as he thought through it logically. Reading them one by one, it started to become clear to him. It made sense that Misty Fey would have researched his father’s career- the police asked her to channel his spirit after all. And his father was good enough of a defence attorney to have various reports written about him.

This box was nothing more than an accumulation of research resources.

Through the corner of his eye he noticed that Gumshoe was still fiddling with his hands nervously. The detective caught his gaze and nodded at him to look further into the box. Obviously he hadn’t come across what he wanted to show him yet.

Great.

He tentatively took out those newspapers, flicking through them with his pale fingers to be certain that he hadn’t missed anything. See, newspaper clippings made sense for research.

What didn’t make sense was what was lying beneath them.

A photograph. Slightly crumpled, yellowed, and worn at the sides, but a photograph nonetheless. Yet the quality of the picture was of no interest to Miles. No, what immediately caught his attention was the pair of smiling faces.

The photo was of a young man and woman. His father and a woman, with one arm wrapped lovingly around his waist and a head resting on his tall shoulder. Dad and…

He gulped.

“...Misty Fey?”

He phrased it as a barely audible question, even though he knew deep down that Gumshoe was as in the dark as he was. The poor detective nodded anyway.

Adjusting his posture to rest his elbows on his knees, Miles used both hands to grip the photo tightly as if it would disintegrate in his hold.

It didn’t. It was real.

“How… how did they know…”

Again, he knew Gumshoe didn’t have a clue. He just needed to get the words out. He had a tiny, impossible suspicion that was starting to make him feel sick.

“Um, sir?”

His head snapped to look at Gumshoe, who yet again nodded towards the box. Miles just stared at it in fear.

What other secrets could this damn box possibly hold?!

Turns out, it was an open envelope. Miles braced himself to perhaps learn something new about his father. He took it out and turned it over. And almost had a heart attack.

It was addressed: “To Miles.”

Enough was enough. Quickly, Miles threw the envelope face down, held his head in his hands, and let out an odd whimpering sound.

He could sense Gumshoe shuffling towards him and could visualize him outstretching his arms.

“Don’t.” He commanded weakly, to no avail. He was still engulfed in the detective’s arms.

“Did you read it?” Dick asked softly.

“No.” Miles replied, then thought for a second. “...Did you?”

Gumshoe took his arms away from him in order to scratch the back of his own head nervously. “I couldn’t help it. If ya want I can tell you what’s on it, but I think you should read it yourself.”

Miles sniffed. He was starting to get emotional over what was probably nothing, or at least that’s what he told himself. He tried to pull away from the bigger man but didn’t really care that much at that point. He’d already read it without his permission.

He made a mental note to cut his salary later.

With a deep breath, he removed the mysterious letter.

Slightly smudged, it was written in the same calligraphic handwriting that was on the box lid.

“Dear Miles,

I’m sorry for not writing to you sooner. My name is Misty. I heard about what happened to your father, and I would like to be the first one to express my sympathies to you. He was an amazing man, the best I have ever met, and you should think yourself extremely lucky to have been able to meet him.

I want to tell you something dear, something very important. I am your mother, Miles. From what I understand, your father had told you that I died when you were young. I am so very sorry that we had to lie to you, but I’m afraid we had no choice. We are not allowed to stay together. I do love you Miles, and I always will. But the situation is very complicated at the moment.

Bad people are chasing me, so I have to run away- which means I can’t come and see you. Believe me, If I could then I would just snap my fingers and come and take you home to your sisters. That’s right, you have two sisters! A sensible older sister called Mia, and a little cheeky scamp called Maya. I’m so very sorry to say that we had to lie to them in the same way. They both believe their father died, and they don’t know that they have a brilliant brother called Miles.

Please don’t come and find me. I promise that when the bad people stop chasing me, I will come to you. Until then, stay strong. Your father would not have wanted you to be so upset over him.

Don’t forget that I love you Miles. You’re not alone. Love Misty.”

“Sir?” He thinks Gumshoe asked, but his vision was so misted over and his ears were ringing so much that he couldn’t be sure.

Miles barely registered Gumshoe holding him as he began to sob.

This was going to change everything.

[motleymoose]

Homecoming Pt.3: Bits & Pieces Ch. 3

Chapter 3

This Isn't A Peace Talk

Fandom: The Mandalorian, Star Wars Characters: The Mandalorian (Din Djarin), Gender Neutral Reader, The Child Words: 2.3k+ Warnings: SO MUCH ANGER AND SQUABBLING

Summary:

I get to use my mech skills, but also I have a fight with the bounty hunter.

Notes:

I don't know why it took so long to get this chapter out, but it's here now!!!

Thanks for reading!

Homecoming Masterlist

***GIF NOT MINE***

The hours bled into one another as we flew ever closer to the Mandalorian’s destination, and I was becoming nightmarishly restless. After checking the patched wiring in the hold’s crawlspace and tinkering with a few spare parts in need of cleaning, I snooped around the hold some more. Most of the hold was empty, except for a couple of crates marked FOOD AND MEDICAL and half-dozen still-frozen bounties in the carbonite lockers. With nothing to do and a whole lotta time to do it in, I prowled about the lower decks in tight figure-eights, much like a wild creature stuck in an observation tank. The boredom was driving me bonkers.

Unable to take the utter lack of stimulation anymore, I grabbed a portable equipment chest in one hand, shouldered the diagnostics kit on the opposite, and made my way precariously up the ladder to the top deck.

It didn’t take long for the bounty hunter to find me, borrowed tools scattered around me and a diagnostics pad in hand, pottering around the engineering room with grease smudged across my forehead.

“I told you to stay put,” the Mandalorian gruffed, nearly tripping over me. I sat cross-legged on the floor, running a simple program to check on the aural sensors. I glanced up at him dubiously. His fingers brushed his blaster in a convulsive if threatening manner.

“You told me to stay out of your way. Engineering isn’t anywhere near in your way, unless you deviate from your way on purpose.” I stopped, trying to sort out what exactly I meant by that. But I batted it away with a hmph. I didn’t have time to figure out my own nonsense. “Besides, can’t a person ogle another person’s band limiter cuffs without the third degree?” Still seated in front of the sensor panel, I craned my neck over my shoulder and up, agitated at the interruption.

The visor tilted upwards, contemplating. Gloved fingertips drummed on the pistol’s grip until he sighed deliberately and relaxed his arm. “Fine,” he said gruffly. “Just - don’t break anything important.”

“I’m a blackthumb. If I break it, I’ll fix it better,” I said, forcefully bright and smiling. The little diagnostics computer dinged. I unplugged it and stood up, stretching the kinks from my spine. Sidestepping the Mandalorian, I slapped his pauldron good-naturedly as I slithered past him and into the bay.

“I do want to take a look at your pressors, though. This ol’ girl ‘bout rattled the teeth out of my head when she came out of hyperspace. May also need to tweak the conversion module to keep up with all that new tech you’ve got back there,” I said, easily falling back into Professional Mechanic Mode. Making my way to the cockpit, I crawled underneath the control deck, holding a pen light between my teeth as I lay on my back and surveyed the wiring system.

A tiny, warm body flopped onto my legs, and I was delighted to see that the child had come to join me. He scrambled up my thighs, across my belly and came to rest on my chest. Big ears wiggling happily, the kid propped his chin in his hands and stared at me intently. I removed the flashlight from my mouth and wedged it between my neck and shoulder, making it easier to talk to him.

I happened to be in the middle of explaining the intricacies of navcomp programming to my rapt pupil when the toe of the hunter’s boot nudged my hip.

“What?” I asked curtly as the long mental list of small improvements faded from my mind. By then my hands were caked in carbon dust, and the child made no move to slide off of me. Resigning to my fate, I signaled for the Mandalorian to continue with whatever it was he had to say; I wasn’t going to be moving out from under the control deck any time soon.

A flutter of cloth on steel, and the bounty hunter was in my space, crouching beside the pilot’s chair, his helmet parallel to the lip of the deck.

“What are you doing to my ship.” His tone was smooth yet menacing.

Rolling my eyes, I shooed the child off of me and clambered out from under the panel. The Mandalorian had retreated to the door while I’d wriggled out. Brushing dirty fingers across the chest of my jumpsuit, I sunk heavily into the co-pilot’s seat, scratching my forehead with my opened multitool. The little one trundled to me from out of the console’s shadows and tugged at my pantleg until I was obliged to pick him up. He held a small silver object tightly in his grubby little hands, and he ferreted it away underneath his tunic as soon as he settled onto my lap.

“Just a few minor adjustments and reroutes. Nothing too fancy or critical. Did you know this ship was stripped by Jawas?” I gestured animatedly with my custom multi-purpose tool. “I wouldn’t have noticed with how amazing the rebuild was, but I could tell by the wiring harness modifications. Distinctly Jawa scavenged mods.” Grinning stupidly, I shook my head in amazement. “Whoever rebuilt the Crest sure knew what they were doing!”

“Yes,” the bounty hunter replied, a little more brusquely than I thought the conversation warranted. He leaned against the cockpit’s door frame, arms crossed and exuding false indifference. He was strangely emotive for how much beskar covered his body.

“No doshing way?” I exclaimed. The prospect of Jawas intrigued me to no end; they were a scavenging people, mainly dealing in mech and droids. Their methods of acquiring said mech and droids could be considered loosely in the vicinity of ethical, if you squinted really hard, but they always did have the best stuff.

The Mandalorian stared out into the inky dark of space, starlight blurring over the silvery dome of his helmet. He cleared his throat, started to say something and then stopped. I waited patiently, the prickly curiosity holding my jittery nerves in place. The kid whined and made grabby hands at my multitool, so I folded it back into itself and gave it to him. It looked absurdly gigantic in his tiny fingers, but he gnawed on it with gusto.

A sigh crackled over the bounty hunter’s vocoder. “An Ugna- my friend. His name was Kuiil. He negotiated to get all the parts back from the Jawas, and then he-he helped me repair the Razor Crest.” The tension he had been holding suddenly dissipated, and his shoulders sagged in something akin to relief. His breastplate rose and fell in a juttering, painful beat, and the strangled sigh of modulated air buzzing from his helmet told me everything I needed to know. Whoever Kuiil had happened to be, I knew that he must have been a very good friend to the Mandalorian, and his loss was still felt across hyperspace.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

The bounty hunter huffed. “Nu kyr’adyc, shi taab’echaaj’la.”

“Not gone, merely marching far away,” I murmured in turn.

The Mandalorian stilled. For a beat, neither of us moved. The silence widened the already substantial gap between us, sweeping away what little bit of common ground we had found purchase on. Having that tiny foothold crumble beneath me in a matter of seconds set me on edge. I didn’t like him any more than he liked me; our mutual dislike for one another had turned into something more, something almost companion-like. But since I had to go and open my big dumb mouth, we were back to Square One.

The kid let out a loud, wet snerkt!, pulling us both out of our respective thoughts.

Arms uncrossing and leather gloves tightening into fists at his sides, the bounty hunter took the two steps from the doorway to the co-pilot’s chair. Without a sound, he took the slumbering child from my arms and stomped off to his quarters.

“I -” A tiny kernel of guilt blared in warning. “Wait, I didn’t mean to- ah, blast it,” I muttered, crossing my arms over my chest. I hadn’t meant any disrespect to his friend, or his Creed. I only knew enough Mando’a to get me into trouble, and I hoped I hadn’t overstepped any boundaries by saying the tribute in Basic. Fiddling with my multitool for a long moment, I tried to come up with some sort of apology that would convey my cultural misstep.

Wracking my brain for Mando’a phrases to express my regrets at my choice of words, I didn’t hear him return to the cockpit.

Huffing once more, the bounty hunter startled me from my guilt trip. I averted my eyes, swallowed my pride and braced myself to deliver an apology. “Look, bud. I’m not good with-”

“Where did you get this?” he asked, cutting me off from my apology.

“What are you -”

“Where did you get this necklace??” he repeated, hissing through his teeth.

Silver flashed into my field of vision. I blinked a few times, my eyes refusing to believe what the bounty hunter dangled in front of my face. “Wha-” My voice cracked dangerously. I couldn’t believe it. It was my pendant. My eyes followed the Mythosaur skull as it swung back and forth, mouth gaping in astonishment. A small spark of Hope rekindled somewhere deep down inside my chest, clearing a slim but bright path through the anger and the guilt that had been dogging me for the past several days.

“My - my..” I said weakly, tears pricking at my eyes. “Where did -”

The hunter lunged suddenly, slamming both fists down on the armrests on either side of me. I yelped in surprise, shrinking back in the co-pilot’s chair. Pinned in, I could do nothing more than stare at him, confused.

“This shouldn’t exist. It shouldn’t be yours.”

The small, flickering flame of Hope guttered out, and once more I was cold and empty and full of rage.

“What gives you the right?” I spat. I leaned as far forward as the hunter’s presence would allow, my nose almost pressed against the beskar helmet. “You don’t know me. You don’t know where I came from, or what I’ve done to get here. All I am to you is a bounty that went wrong. It’s not up to you to decide what I can or can’t have.” Chest heaving and fists clenched together in my lap, I stared down the Mandalorian. I was too confused to be scared of what he could do to me, too pissed off to care about his reasons.

That pendant was mine. And I wanted it back.

The Mandalorian’s blank, glassy facade didn’t move. No words, no sounds escaped his modulator. Hot waves of anger rolled off of him, anger that I didn’t understand, didn’t want to understand. The co-pilot’s seat trembled underneath me, but I wasn’t sure if the movement was his or my own.

“Give it back,” I growled, finally breaking the silence. “It’s mine.”

“No.” The rumbling baritone was tense, straining against his control. His whole body held unspeakable amounts of emotion, and he was unwilling, or unable, to let it go.

“Bastard.” I swung up from my hips, clipping the lip of his helmet smartly with my clasped fists.

He stumbled back, dropping the necklace as both hands came up to straighten his helmet. Seeing an opening, I rushed the bounty hunter, driving my left shoulder into his side and pushing him into the opposite wall. With a roar, he ducked out of my grasp, using his momentum to kick out at my knees. I dodged sideways, his boot only grazing my shins. Now off-balanced, I staggered back and tripped over my own feet. I took a nosedive, landing heavily on the pilot’s seat. The air was knocked from my lungs, and for a moment too long I was dazed. At that opportunity, the Mandalorian grabbed the back of my collar and hauled me out of the chair.

“Hrrkt!” I choked, scrabbling to loosen the stranglehold my jumpsuit currently had on my neck.

“Last time. Where. Did. You. Get. This.” With each word, the hunter shook me like a ragdoll. The calm he exuded was frightening in comparison to the violence he was promising.

“Uunrkt,” I replied.

The Mandalorian released the back of my jumpsuit, and I crumpled, catching myself on the pilot’s seat. Pressing my forehead into the roughly-woven seat cushion, I panted laboriously. Tears were streaming down my face. I sniffled loudly and wiped my nose on my sleeve before I spoke.

“That is mine. It was given to me by my caretaker.” The anger I had been feeling melted into sadness. I was tired of fighting the emotion, so I embraced it, allowing myself to finally feel. “It’s the only thing I have left.” I broke off with a sob, burying my face in my hands.

“What was his name.”

I went rigid. Names held power, even I knew that growing up where I did. But he was dead, so surely the issue was moot? At least, I hoped he was dead. The alternatives to why he never returned hurt my heart too much to bear.

“You wouldn’t’ve known him,” I said thickly.

“Try me,” the hunter said gruffly.

I couldn’t get around it now. Even if he wasn’t dead, sharing his name with one of his brethren probably wasn’t the worst thing I could do.

But, then again, if he wasn’t dead, that meant I didn’t owe him anything for leaving me behind.

“Reyn. His name was Drys Reyn.”

[bnhascribbles]

Liar

Todoroki x Reader

Angst; Contrary to what you may think, you were not specific enough.  You did not ask for fluff, thus you must suffer.  I apologize in advance: my brain is an absolute menace.

Words: 1.2K

Warnings: None

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Todoroki was your friend. A good friend—you’d go so far as to call him your best friend. Together, the two of you were supposed to be able to overcome anything. After all, you’d already helped him settle things with his sorry-excuse-for-a-father, and he’d, in turn, helped you train to become the best hero you could be. You’d been admitted to, and subsequently graduated from UA together, with all of your fingers and most of your spirit intact (a miracle, given it’d been three years with Aizawa).  Probationary periods at agencies, your first real hero interviews—the two of you had been inseparable through it all. 

So what was different now? What’d changed?

It’s laughable really, how obvious the answer to that question is.  If you didn’t already know it��if you were still blissfully unaware of the reason—then maybe you’d be outside with Todoroki, taking your proper place at his right side. Instead, you were hiding out in some bathroom that was way fancier than it needed to be, picking at strands of thread hanging off the edge of an armchair (something totally necessary in a bathroom) and praying that everything would stop for just an hour or two. Enough time for you to formulate a strategy to survive the afternoon. 

A knock on the door reminds you that, unfortunately, you do not have a time manipulation quirk.  Your breathing hitches. 

“You in there?” 

The voice that calls out from the other side is soft and cautious and thankfully, not Todoroki’s.  You breathe, steeling yourself, and reluctantly undo the lock.  Midoriya shoots you a tentative smile.

“Everyone’s asking where you are.”  He says, reaching out towards you, then thinking better of it and returning his hand to his side.  “You feeling alright?”

You just nod, knowing that Midoriya is smart enough to know that’s all you’re going to give him.  You shoulder your way through the door—past him, out and away from your only place of refuge.  You pretend not to notice the way his nervous smile drifts downward as he watches you go. 

Midoriya really was too smart sometimes. 

“Where were you?”  There’s a hint of concern in Todoroki’s voice when you return to the table, taking your seat beside him.

“Restroom.  The nerves were getting to me more than I thought they would.” You say plainly.  A lie.  You make sure to strategically ignore Midoriya as he pulls out his chair and sits in his place at the other end of the table.  “I had to be alone for a little while.”

“But you’re better now, right?”

You laugh even though it feels like the action is singing your insides—like you’ve swallowed a match and how you’ve got an inferno raging deep in your belly.

“Yeah, I’m good now.”

Another lie.  Good thing Todoroki was hardly paying attention to you, what with the person sitting at his left side, drawing his attention away every thirty seconds or so.

“Why?”  You ask, desperate to savor what little time you have left with him.  “Afraid I was brainstorming all sorts of ways to embarrass you?  Finding stories to tell that would guarantee you a headline on at least three different news stations tomorrow?”  Todoroki scoffs when he turns back to face you, rolling his eyes playfully.  You forget where you are, what you’re doing, and snicker like old times.  It feels nice.

“Is that why you sent Midoriya over to find me?  So I wouldn’t think up something too scandalous?”

“You can say whatever you want,” Todoroki offers with pursed lips and a nostalgic look in his eyes, “just remember that for every story you tell, I have three more to leak to the press.  Stories that paint you in a less-than-favorable light.”

You cock your jaw to the side, feigning shock.  “Are you threatening me, Shoto?  On today of all days?”

But he’s already distracted again, mumbling something soft to the person beside him.  You sigh, taking that as your cue to get things moving.  Despite the throbbing, nauseating, downright painful heat coursing from your toes to your ears, you stand.  You were ready for this, after all.

Your third lie today.  One you only had to tell yourself.

When you clink your fork against the edge of your glass, the clamor around you dies down.  Even Todoroki puts an end to his conversation, watching you with those familiar, mismatched eyes.  He looks happy.  Excited.

The stares don’t bother you as much as you’d thought they would.  Maybe it was because you recognized a lot of the people here—schoolmates, fellow heroes, agency executives-but then again, about half of them are strangers.  But that’s to be expected, you suppose.

“I have a thing or two to say about Shoto Todoroki,” you begin, “well, more than a thing or two, I guess.  That’s what happens when you grow up together.  You gather all of the dirt on a person, the things that reporters would pay millions to get their grubby little paws on.” Todoroki shoots you a dangerous look, just daring you to try and continue.

You pause.  You tell yourself it’s for dramatic effect—a buildup—but really it’s because you can already feel yourself getting choked up.  You’re not even at the hard part yet.

“Unfortunately, I’ve been specifically instructed not to share any of my best stories with you tonight.”  

A rumbling awwwwww courses through the room and you force a laugh.  Put on a show, like you’re supposed to.  Fake it ‘till you make it.

“It’s not my fault guys—I really tried to convince him to let me.  But like…he knows where I live.  I can’t take any chances, so I hope you’ll forgive me just this once.”

You inhale, and much to your horror, it’s shaky.  On top of it all, you feel winded, even after taking another “dramatic pause”, aka “a second to try not to break down in front of hundreds of people with cameras.”  Still, you know stopping isn’t an option.  The burning in your eyes would just have to try and figure its issues out by itself.

“What I can share with you is a much better story.  A love story.”

As you’d expected, saying it out loud feels like a punch to the gut from Lemillion.  A train car ramming into the space between your shoulder blades.  A jackhammer going ham at the very center of your forehead.

Midoriya bites at his thumb as he watches, and you just know he’s planning out sixteen different ways to stop you from saying something that could ruin everything.  You don’t blame him for worrying: he was Todoroki’s friend too.  The last thing he wanted was for a scene to break out because you couldn’t just be strong—be a liar for just a little while longer.  If only he knew that he had nothing to worry about.

You don’t even try to stop the tears from seeping down your cheeks when you begin to speak again.

“This is a story about two people that just belong together.  People that saw what they wanted and leaped in headfirst—snatched it up without a moment of hesitation.”

And you smile.  Because today was a great day.  Because today, your best friend was getting married to someone he absolutely, wholeheartedly loved.

And that someone wasn’t you.

[robbyrobinson]

Family Diner

(Alternate reality take on the series that may or may not have some invoking of the Old Gods.)

Working for Fazbear Entertainment was a thankless endeavor. A franchise dedicated to making the most in terms of children's entertainment. I remember when the establishment was struggling and was practically dead on arrival. I was assigned to work for a branch of the company called Fredbear's Family Diner, a family-oriented establishment. Business was down in comparison to their rivals and reviews further sunk the chances of parents taking their rowdy children to any of their branches.

But what kept it afloat was two men: Henry and one William Afton. Afton came off as being a crude replication of a man. He was of a sickly thin stature with his purple business suit barely clinging onto his body. His eyes were sunken in and possessed a yellow hue. When I somehow got wrapped up in his business, he shook my hand. He had the most skeletal, papery skin around his fingers. He smiled at me, but his smile was disconcerting as well. It was artificially made like a mask and seemingly rubbery in texture. His low husky voice did little to match up with his lips' movement.

"It is a pleasure to see that you have decided to join our goal."

I mustered up as much of a smile that I could, but I could not deny that I felt intimidated already. At least his business partner was more affable. He was leagues above Mr. Afton in terms of physical appearance. He had a healthy skin color, a peachy one, and a brown beard. He was already thinning on the top of his head that he often hid away with a top hat. He wore a blue business uniform and was more on the plump side of the spectrum then Afton could attest to.

"We are somewhat falling short of quality, I admit to that," Henry confesses, "but I will give it my best to make sure you do not regret working for us."

Henry showed me the ropes of the establishment while Afton tended to seclude himself in his room for the remainder of the day. Sometimes he would disappear in the middle of conversing with me, Henry, or any of his employees. Each time, he trudged to his office and slammed the door loudly as if not wanting anyone to become aware of what he was doing in secret. Sometimes I managed to catch a glimpse of some glowing, luminescent orbs floating without direction in his office before he slammed the door shut.

Before long, Henry introduced me to early iterations of the franchise's animatronics. Fredbear and Spring Bonnie to be exact. Long before the likes of Freddy Fazbear, Chica, Bonnie, and Foxy the Pirate, there were two animatronics. These animatronics were oddly high-tech for their time with the Spring Bonnie animatronic in particular also doubling as a suit. Despite them being technological marvels, they lacked a certain flair. They were devoid of personality or charm. Children were less likely to fawn over them as frankly they came off as being creepy robots. Naturally, they were, but some children could at least look past that issue and accept them as their friends. Henry noticed me looking at the two animatronics one early morning, understanding what I was thinking without me having to tell him.

"I know it isn't much, but kids will love them if you are willing to give them a chance."

A ludicrous proposal, but I did try to become more invested with the animatronics. But their hollow eyes and endoskeletons clouded any good feelings I may have had for the robots. I did feel somewhat bad for Henry, but I would not lie to myself that there was inherently nothing appealing about Fredbear or Spring Bonnie. The franchise was now verging on full scale closure and if it did not shape up, the business would be shut down and the employees would be without a job. Henry and Afton had to do something. Fast.

But my god if it did not come with a cost.

Time passed and at the beginning of the month, a child went missing. The authorities were notified of the disappearance and during our regular scheduling, they stormed the diner and went to speak with the owners. Henry was charitable as always and spoke calmly with the police. According to their discussion, it was an 8-year-old, porky boy who disappeared during the open hours of the establishment being seen with Spring Bonnie. I stood by listening to the conversation. At the corner of my eye, I caught Afton edging further away from the authorities and this time opening a door to the backroom of the diner and slamming it behind him.

An utter nightmare of a day that was, but I made the most of it and headed home only to return the next day. I had quite the shock; Spring Bonnie and Fredbear appeared livelier and more active. They had a glint in their eyes that sparkled. I would even swear that I saw them blink a few times. Henry approached me, with a full smile on his face. "Told you it would be a matter of time, but the kids now can't have enough of the two!"

I smiled back. Well, I could not deny it: whatever happened proved to be beneficial for the diner. However, Mr. Afton noticeably stayed longer in his office hardly ever leaving to discuss any recent developments with any of our staff. The few times he had temporarily left his office, I noticed that his skin became progressively paler almost matching his business suit's coloration. He was becoming more of a walking corpse each passing day then when I first became employed at the diner. But I did initially shake that observation out of my mind instead attributing that to disease. Mr. Afton was a sickly man, after all. It maybe could be easily explained away that he was most likely suffering some type of illness, perhaps of a hereditary variety.

Business was booming at a greater rate than ever before. Birthday parties were being held at the diner. Reservations were filled. Everything was going well. At least until one day that is. On one of our less busy days, Henry took me to the side. He was sterner and more serious than usual. "What is it sir?" I asked in genuine curiosity. I almost sensed the dread in his voice. Was it that I was going to be laid off now? I have been representing the establishment for about two months now.

"My son is coming to have a birthday party tomorrow."

"Oh, a birthday party for your son?" Henry did often mention in passing to having a daughter. This was probably the first time I have heard him having a son. But it made sense with what he said next.

"My boy…is greatly terrified of the animatronics. It is a rather odd dilemma. He used to really love the animatronics at least until his older brother started to terrorize him by dressing up as one from one of our owned pizzeria chains. Humorously, he keeps his plush animals around. As you can probably tell, he is greatly important to me hence why I keep him under surveillance numerously. Sometimes at the diner. Sometimes at home by installing a tracking device inside of his stuffed Fredbear doll."

That was unsettling, but I could easily tell that he was fiercely devoted to his son. So, I listened tentatively to what he was saying. I was to keep watch over his son while his party was underway. Pretty simple I first thought. On that day, I sat to the side watching the young boy. He and his sister and mother sat far away to the near back of the diner away from the prying eyes of the animatronics. It pained me seeing a young child like that be so frightful of the two-animatronics stationed in the diner, but he slowly began to enjoy himself in other ways.

But with anything what started off as harmless fun devolved into urgency and mass hysteria. When the boy's mother slipped from her seat to go to the restroom, the boy's brother arrived at the diner wearing a Foxy mask along with his hooligan friends. The boy's fears started to kick in with his breathing becoming more frantic. I called out to the boys demanding that they cease their behavior, but I was met with only the mocking laughing of the boy's brother and friends. They scooped the crying child into their grubby hands and walked in the direction of Fredbear. The boy's screaming rung through the diner. I nearly could not listen to it with it being that pained and frantic.

"Why not give Fredbear a big kiss?" the brother asked.

Despite his younger brother's protests, the brother placed his head into Fredbear's open maw. Fredbear's maw moved in an up and down fashion, sluggishly moving. They all laughed at the boy's utter humiliation and fear.

Crunch.

The laughter stopped as quickly as it began. The boy suddenly became limp and lifeless. Blood trickling down Fredbear's furry cheeks. Upon closer inspection, the force exerted by the animatronics' jaws caved in the boy's skull. Blood was everywhere. I never heard so fierce a scream ever and I hope to whatever ethereal being that was out there in the cosmos that I never would again.

I scrambled to get to the diner's work phone and dialed 911. "Yes, we have an emergency on our hands. Our address?"

Henry was in an obviously distraught mood with the whole thing. He was greatly devastated by the freak accident. He reacted harshly to his older son dismissive of him trying to apologize. Even when he was being taken away to be interrogated. He was a broken man in all but his sanity. Mr. Afton was in his office again, per usual, but he left it upon hearing all the commotion. He approached Henry with curiosity. When he was given the rundown on what happened, Mr. Afton tapped his shoulders. His skin was becoming purple, as if it were decomposing. His eyes were stretched wide.

"Do not worry, old friend, we will put him back together."

The hell kind of ominous statement was that? Henry looked Mr. Afton over suspiciously and alarmed at what he was saying. Without needing to say anything more, Henry pried his hand off his shoulder. Afton shrugged his shoulders and headed towards the backroom to resume whatever he was doing. The diner shut down for a good week or so until the disappearances resumed.

Everything was picking up for the diner. Much of that had to go with how well-received Spring Bonnie and Fredbear were. As I have said, they were once devoid of much expression and personality, but through whatever means, business was flourishing. At least until that incident involving Henry’s son. It felt like a fever dream with how rapid it was in its action. Since then, Henry acted more embittered. He kept up the image of being affable, but he nevertheless became colder to me and the staff. But Afton’s insistence that he would help put Henry’s son “back together” still lingered in my mind. His son was in critical care; how could Mr. Afton even begin to believe that he could put his friend’s son back together as if he were a broken vase.

 But ever since that 8-year-old boy went missing, seemingly disappearing in thin air, more children around the diner began to fade into the shadows. A young girl with green eyes and blonde hair was last reported mourning her deceased puppy dog. Around that time, the Spring Bonnie animatronic was mysteriously missing. I remember Mr. Afton detailing the exact specific functions of the Spring Bonnie animatronic saying that it was specifically designed to be worn by an employee; he called it a springlock suit. The suit itself was called such because of its springs and wiring that could be…well, for lack of a better word, locked away. But he warned me that if any moisture got into it…he represented the situation by balling a scrap of paper between his hands. Accidentally touching the springs or breathing on them also proved to have deadly consequences. Why in good faith would Mr. Afton even think that it was a good idea? It was a lawsuit waiting to happen. Oy, this company.

 But more bizarre than that was how Mr. Afton began to ramble odd remarks about…gods? If he were a religious man, that would be fine, but he would keep talking about odd anomalies and how at one time, they ruled over the world long before mankind took its first few baby steps. He spoke openly bout his dedication to the gods and how they were the ones behind the success of the franchise. His skin no longer resembled any recognizable skin tone. He became akin to a shriveled grape in the sun. His eyes were so sunken in now, all I could make most of was a thin shade of darkness where the whiteness in his eyes should have been. My staff members were most assuredly disturbed by Mr. Afton’s slow transformation, but he did sense it in the back of his mind. He now spent most of his time either alone in his office or in the backroom only emerging towards closing time. One day when I was about to punch out and call it a night, Mr. Afton took me by the side and smiled at me. Even his gums were purple.

 “I do not know the time of day or the hour, but the gods will return to reclaim this world. I may be dead by that point, but I hope that you will survive to see their return. Yog-Sothoth will open the gates wide and the gods will terry the lands as they have done long before.”

 Years later, I still saw Mr. Afton’s words as being the breaking point for me. Thinking back on it, Mr. Afton was never sane to begin with. He was blessed with the technological know-how, but he had odd manners about himself almost as if he were stark mad. He became obsessed with the aspect of opening the Gate to usher the gods of old back into our plane of existence. Once they arrived, the powers within this planet would be reverted to them, and Yog-Sothoth would drag this rock into the void between worlds where he rules. Outside of time and space itself; outside of the organized world into realms of madness and disorder. Into a realm of decaying, dead planets and faceless gods.

  Within the first week of the month, four more children vanished under mysterious circumstances. With every single instance, the Spring Bonnie suit was absent, suspicions falling on the employees that they were deliberately spiriting the animatronic suit away to use it for nefarious purposes. As the weeks went by, adults lost hope of the original missing children ever being found. An employee was charged for the murders and was sentenced to be executed. Word spread that he was being set up but by whom none could tell or let alone agree.

 Another month passed with the adults and parents giving up on the missing children and accepting that the employee who was accused of the crime was the best they could attain to closure. Spring Bonnie and Fredbear continued to rake in patrons sometimes getting booked for personal reservations. With more money in their pockets, so to speak, more animatronics were gradually introduced to other locations but also fell under the same dilemma resonating with the diner formerly: the animatronics were lifeless. Granted, they were robots so that could be kind of the point. But lifeless in that they were not entertaining. Henry at that time did not take much concern about the other locations due to mourning the loss of his son. That responsibility squarely fell under Mr. Afton. Whenever he left his office, he wore a trench coat to hide his body coloration. He would tend to be gone for days at a time, but once he was done visiting, the animatronics also took on a life of their own and were on the receiving end of a warm reception. The Spring Bonnie suit also followed Afton throughout the different locations.

 Henry and I grew closer to each other due to Afton’s abrupt leaves. He entrusted me with spieling out his frustrations and sorrows and appreciated me as a confidant. I would give my concerns about how Mr. Afton conducted his business and placed it at his feet. Each time, Henry felt the need to explain his co-owner’s oddness away in the most trivial of ways. Afton’s devotion to the gods of old became increasingly problematic and impeded on his side of the business scheme. Yet he kept insisting that the gates will be opened. Sometimes he looked at me almost as if hoping that I would be the one to open the gates.

 Henry’s older son was still away somewhere in a juvenile correctional facility. His surviving daughter was named Charlotte. I had seen her about once or twice. She was the near image of childhood innocence. She treated other kids respectably and was always there to lift their spirits or be the one who would offer their shoulder to lean on. Charlotte was Henry’s pride and joy. Which was why I found what happened to her leagues worse than what befell his son.

 Business began as usual with me taking orders and keeping watch on Fredbear. Without warning, Henry erupted from his office frantically causing the documents in his hands to fall onto the floor in a heap. I tried to intervene and ask him what had happened, but all he could reply was “Charlie, my daughter…”

 Charlie was found dead at one of the pizzerias. From whatever explanation that was readily available, forensics speculated that she was sick from a stomachache and for whatever reason opted to run out of the pizzeria. By the time that happened, an assailant attacked her leaving her in a pool of her own blood. It was raining heavily at the time and some of the blood was already disappearing from the scene. When some of the employees noticed that Charlie was absent from an arranged party, to their shock, they found their surveillance animatronic, nicknamed “The Puppet” by the side of the deceased girl. From their research, they found a green bracelet on the corpse’s wrist that was meant to be a signal for the Puppet to indicate that one of the children were not in the pizzeria. Strangely enough, Charlie’s blood trickled into a puddle with the rainwater and it met up with the animatronic. The Puppet was returned to the backroom under the shared fear that it had malfunctioned. Purple streaks were underneath the Puppet’s eyes. As if it too were weeping.

 Henry’s controlling over the situation worsened. He could not think rationally nor critically. His demeanor changed ultimately with him being dismissive with me and the other employees. He could no longer be trusted with dealing with the diner’s finances. Even just thinking about it was enough to push him into one of his winded tangents about the unfairness of life. Mr. Afton remained behind locked doors during Henry’s mindless dribbles, but he had what I at best could call a demented sense of intrigue at what happened to Charlie. Instead of consoling Henry over his loss, Mr. Afton instead asked questions about the murder and continued to speak on his occultic obsession. It was incredibly distasteful, but I could sense that Afton did at least have a small iota of sympathy for his co-owner’s plight. Maybe to the furthest extent I could give him some leniency was perhaps he was not as monstrous as I imagined him to be. He leaned into Henry’s ear and whispered something. I had not the faintest idea what he could have possibly been saying, but Henry’s eyes lit up. It must have been something about Charlie because his color returned to his skin and the glint returned.

 “Just follow me,” Afton said.

 Without speaking another word, Henry followed his old friend. They walked past his office which was lit again with the light of those glowing orbs. I quietly followed the two men whilst they were none the wiser, and I stopped when they approached the double doors of the backroom. I darted around the corner and remained there until I heard the doors slam shut.

 They were gone for a deafly long time. I had waited for at least two minutes for either two to come out, but it was a fruitless decision. I returned to my station and took more orders. When I got finished with that, my eyes floated over to Spring Bonnie and Fredbear again. They still looked lively as usual. While it came off as less of a surprise, I did notice a few quirks that the animatronics had. They were singing their typical substandard tunes that the children ate up, but the adults reviled as earworms.

 An hour passed when the two men were gone, but I heard the doors open again. A floored Henry emerged from the backroom the color in his skin tone diminishing. He was white as a ghost. He rubbed his eyes in a maddened haze when the smallest light entered them and became near intelligible from whatever Mr. Afton had shown him. He stammered slurred words and grasped his head between his hands. “Souls…remnant…blackness.”

 I ran towards him out of concern. Whatever he had seen had made him into such a psychological mess he barely had any memory of me and his surroundings. He was speaking what amount to anti-intellectual dribble.

 “A mist of darkness swirling and writhing in every which direction. Ropes of tentacles made of ink on top of a drove of primeval legs each innumerable and infinite. Some being that is centuries old undoubtably older than our known universe. Mouths on every orifice of the creature’s abominable form. Rows upon rows of mouths with hideous monstrosities leaping out of the open maws in a maddening frenzy scurrying away from their ‘mother” in fear of getting devoured. Green slime raining down from the open maws, And oh my god, that goat head….”

 Mr. Afton clasped Henry’s shoulder. “You have beheld our source of revenue. One of those elder gods who I have summoned to Earth. I serve her with every fiber of my being. Do you not see that without her we would be no better than the worms beneath our feet?”

 Henry swatted his hand away, “I…need some time to myself.”

 Mr. Afton frowned, but with what little remained of his lips it came off as artificially contrived. “Take all the time you need, old friend. The time is on the essence.”

 He turned away from the madman and momentarily looked at me. I was going to respond, but he immediately turned again and exited through the front door. The time he dedicated to himself evolved into minutes, to hours. To days. To months and finally a whole year.

 He never returned to the diner.

 With Henry's departure, business began to plummet. Without his hand over management of the finances, Fredbear's floundered in reviews with not even the liveliness of Fredbear and Spring Bonnie doing much to turn heads. Henry never went to any of the branches in Fazbear Entertainment. The last I have heard about him; he was still ranting wildly about whatever Mr. Afton had in the backroom. None knew what was behind there for Mr. Afton made even staring at the double doors prohibited. In the backroom of the diner, there came rustling and chillingly low growls. They resembled no such animal on this Earth. They were the sound of freight trains all going in the same direction and forming a massive collision.

Everywhere that Mr. Afton went came the utmost disturbing of news of children going missing in the different sections of the franchise. The Spring Bonnie suit was permanently retired due to Mr. Afton's insistence of using it for personal projects. Mr. Afton no longer resembled a human but an emaciated skeleton whose very bones were a darker shade of purple still. The very fact that he was still able to move around despite there being little fat on his body was a miracle. Or should I call it a curse?

At Freddy Fazbear's Pizza for instance, there was a case of five missing children consisting of three boys and two girls. It was another one of those booked reservations for a birthday party that was being thrown late in the afternoon. Witnesses claim that they were seen going into the backroom being led away from the other screaming children and bustling parents by one of the golden animatronics. What happened next was sketchy: they just…faded away seemingly in thin air. No bodies were ever found. No one noticed that the kids were missing until about four hours later. Mr. Afton was there – wearing his trench coat yet again – looking suspicious as always. He aided the search party anyway he could even placate younger children by voluntarily giving them tickets so they could play in the arcade or giving them pizza slices free of charge. There was never so much protesting from moral guardians before in the history of Fazbear Entertainment and there never would be again. Parents held other parents as being to blame for the Missing Children Incident if it benefitted them regardless of their allegations being factually sound or not. The grand witch hunt led to the families incriminating a security guard as being the guilty party. They ignored his attempts at trying to reason with them and was arrested. Mr. Afton stood by and with what little remained of his mouth, he made a short whistle.

As there were no bodies found at the scene of the crime, the security guard was found guilty of the five children's disappearances and sentenced to five life sentences. To this day, he still insists that not only was he innocent of all charges, but due to the prejudices that were thrown his way, the moral guardians failed to catch the real killer when they had the chance.

Sometime after the whole ordeal, something peculiar befell the animatronics. They began to reek afoul some attributing the scent to unveiling of an ancient crypt. Blood and mucus secreted through the eyes, nose, and mouths of the animatronics. Due to the mass disappearances of children at the pizzerias, surveillance technology was added to the animatronics, here called "Toy Animatronics." They were supposed to be linked to a criminal interface and were "revamped" versions of the original four of Freddy, Foxy, Chica, and Bonnie. There were also the additions of that wretched Balloon Boy and the upper executives remodeled the Puppet they had from the other pizzeria perhaps convinced they could revamp it as well. But they warned that one had to continually wind its music box to keep it at bay. I do not know what it would entail if someone neglected to do so, but I assume whatever is the result, it is not pretty.

Fredbear's Family Diner's days eventually came to a slow, excruciating end. There were massive layoffs and Fredbear was decommissioned and sent to be hollowed out for scrap metal. I could have sworn that I saw Fredbear's eyes move about in a frantic pace and his movements stiffened. It was disheartening to watch. Mr. Afton remained in his office for a long duration of time not interacting with any of his staff or employees. I was the last one left and as I gathered my things, Mr. Afton called out to me again.

"Do you mind staying a little longer?"

"Yes sir, what do you expect from me?" I responded.

"I'm sure you are dying to know what was behind these backdoors," Mr. Afton explained, "since your services are no longer needed here, I feel that now is the appropriate time to reveal my inspiration."

I shrugged my arms. Mr. Afton was becoming more unnerving by the second, but since I had nothing at the time to lose, I decided to humor him this one time. After all, I may as well not be expecting to see him again. He held out a bony finger and flicked it. "Just follow me."

I followed the deranged man like he asked of me and we both disappeared behind the back. I have seen just about everything this franchise had to offer, but I could not mentally prepare myself for what I was about to see.

We made it to the double doors and Mr. Afton held the knob sternly in his hand, fondling it even. "Behold my muse."

He…opened the door. It was like what Henry had mentioned. There in the back was a large creature of indiscernible design. The creature was of a larger scope that my brain began to short circuit from my desperation at trying to comprehend what I was seeing. A swirling mist of darkness and tentacles all on top of goat legs. Smaller creatures leapt out of the maws of the monster and acted abrasively towards each other. A dark paste-like subject was leaking from underneath the dark being that was being gathered through an irrigation system. Tubes and wires led towards a vault where the dark matter was pumped.

"What? What is all this?"

Mr. Afton smiled again. "As you can see, I have been in quite the desperate debacle with trying to keep revenue flowing to the diner. After trying the more legal means of doing so, I became desperate. Henry and I were. So, I did further research and ultimately, I found the answer to my dilemmas. Shub-Niggurath."

Green slime dripped from the many mouths of the Black Goat of the Woods. A hideous creature with even more abominable offspring, Shub-Niggurath a fertility goddess of sorts that was worshiped by many cults. But why…why is Shub-Niggurath in our diner rather than anywhere else? But what caught my eyes was the dark substance being collected into large vaults.

"That my dear boy," Mr. Afton said in a sing-song tune, "is what I call remnant."

Remnant I thought. It was an odd term for whatever…this was. My mind was still trying to wrap around as to why Mr. Afton summoned an Outer God to our plane of existence. "That is what I had been injecting into the animatronics to give them life," he explained.

"How did you do that?" I asked though I plainly did not wish to know. As I finished my thought, I saw something to the side of the room in a small heap. I ran over to it to get a closer look. My mouth was agape with horror. It was clothes of varying sizes discarded with nonchalance. My mind began to comprehend what it all meant, but Mr. Afton gave me the answer anyway.

"It is simple, my boy; children are sacrificed to satiate my goddess' hunger and once that is done, I pillage through the remains of secretion and from there, I harvest remnant. Remnant at its simplest and purest of form are condensed souls of the children."

I wanted to vomit in repulsion, but none came out. What a despicable endeavor. But it explained why Spring Bonnie and Fredbear felt so alive. They were with the melted down souls of any unfortunate child that was lured away and sacrificed. I believe that they were in deep pain and writhing with every wave of pain. My heart went out to those children lost.

"You psycho, how could you kill all these children!?"

Mr. Afton laughed. "They are not truly gone; they live on in various forms some within Shub-Niggurath herself or as the animatronics they love. I am sure you had some favorite character once, correct? Well, I am also positive that you wanted to be them in some way?"

My hands shook. "What of Charlie? Was she also apart of your sick experiments?"

"That one I admit had no real purpose behind it," Mr. Afton confessed, "it was more a happy accident."

He crossed his arms. "If my foolish friend allowed me, I would have put his precious boy back together again. You know that I have the means and resources to do so. Ah, such a tragedy that was."

I had enough of Mr. Afton's callousness I went to turn around, but he grabbed my arm. "Wait, please hear me out before you do anything rash."

"I am done listening to you."

"My time is not promised," Mr. Afton said bluntly, "I have tried to use remnant to make myself immortal, but it had bleached my skin and is poisoning my bloodstream. Please devote the rest of your days to serving my goddess."

I grabbed his hand with my other hand and pried him off. "You have tampered with something unearthly and grave. You can go sleep with the worms for all I care."

Mr. Afton sighed. "Then we have no other reason to speak. I hate it very much."

He made another grab for me and caught me by the collar. There I was being dragged towards one of the many maws of the Black Goat of the Woods. Mr. Afton muttered something beneath his breath maybe some slurred praise to the Outer God. With her acidic breath coming ever closer, I had to think fast. I leaned forward and bit down on Mr. Afton's wrist. He hissed in pain and covered his hand with his other to ease the pain. I scurried to get back up and I punched him squarely in the face. He fell to the ground with a thud. Before he could say anymore, one of Shub-Niggurath's tentacles darted out and grabbed his leg.

"My goddess, wait, do not do this to your faithful servant!"

Mr. Afton was being dragged into the goddess' open mouth and her young took interest in what was happening and came down on Mr. Afton clawing and scratching his face. I was frozen in fear but if I did not leave, Shub-Niggurath would direct her attention towards me. I ran as fast as my legs could take me down the hall ignoring Mr. Afton's screams asking for assistance. My legs were giving out quickly, but I fought for my life.

The foundations of the diner were crumbling from the rapid movement of Shub-Niggurath. By the time I escaped, the ceiling caved in and collapsed in on the walls. When the dust was settled, Fredbear's Family Diner was nothing more than a pile of rubble. Afton and his goddess were buried deep in the debris. I had survived, but at what cost for I was the only one aside from Henry who knew what Afton was really doing.

I tried going about living my daily life, but I am still bothered by Afton's horrific experiments and his attempts of trying to usher in beings potentially worse in their scale from what Shub-Niggurath could attest to. But whatever was out there in the cosmos, I was relieved that at least the apocalypse was averted. But for how long?

[aj-artjunkyard]

‘Til Death Do He Part AU CHAPTER ONE: Wailing Sirens

The ‘official’ ‘Til Death Do He Part AU story begins...

Wailing sirens cut through the silent street, getting more and more deafening as they approached the bloodied form of a young adult who lay motionless on the sidewalk. The flashing blue and red police lights blinded and irritated the man. Nonetheless, he tried his hardest to keep his eyes open for as long as possible. He couldn’t loose sight of the billions of gleaming constellations above him. But despite best efforts, they were becoming dimmer by the minute. Lester dragged in rugged, uneven breaths that became slower and more sluggish as the seconds passed.

His favourite wooden peacoat was loosing its grey colour to the deep red seeping from his side. His work shirt was in tatters, torn to shreds by the hellhound that had attacked the three young demigods he had been driving to camp half-blood. Lester thought of the little girls he had been guiding, his sympathetic heart aching at the thought of preteens making the long journey to camp all by themselves. He had defeated the hellhound and given them time, but with the price of his life. A price he was willing to pay. The thin, navy scarf he constantly wore in a European loop had come undone, the light fabric fluttering in the bitter winter wind. His pale skin had been utterly drained of pink undertones. He was too tired to quake under the sting of the December cold.

Footsteps. Getting closer. Yelling. Faint yelling. Faraway…

“…ter? Lester! C’mon buddy, wake up. Lester!”

Lester felt a few light slaps to his cheek, the cold of this person’s hand shocking his eyes into opening a crack. (Wait…they had been closed?) He managed a tiny smile when he saw that he was looking up into the face of a very familiar man. The same man who had kindly brought him, a grubby teenager dressed in torn rags, into his own house when Zeus had refused to accept the tried boy back into his Olympian ranks. The same man who worked late shifts and extra days at his job as a police captain to pay for the additional food. The same man who had treated him like his own son for almost nine years.

“It’s me, it’s Derek!” His voice was fast and breathless. A reassuring smile tugged on his lips, though his eyes showed nothing but pure, undiluted fear. He sounded desperate for anything, any noise from his adopted son. “Derek Goodman, you hear me Les’? It’s-”

“Dad,” the young man croaked, before breaking down in a fit of coughs. Derek tried his best to calm his son, though he had to admit, the gash in his right abdomen was alarmingly deep. He was loosing blood fast. Derek kept one large, dark-skinned hand on the wound to slow the blood flow, and used the other to point and bark orders at his men who stood aways back from the scene, all very interested in their own boots. They had never seen their centred captain this distraught - and none wanted to endure it for much longer - and so they scattered to follow the captain’s commands.

Meanwhile, Lester Papadopoulos was focusing all his remaining energy into tracing his index finger around a crack in the pavement beneath his hand, trying to think about anything other than impending death. He had known that the clammy hands of Thanatos would tear away his life-force one day, but he had hoped it would happen like a regular mortal’s (as sad as he knew that was). In fact, he had envisioned it many times: he was in a hospital bed during a bright summer afternoon. He was surrounded by his children, his friends (most of which might as well be his children), and perhaps even his mother and twin, who still shone with eternal youth. He was grey and withered. This millennia-old life had nothing more to offer him. He was complete and at peace. The reality was startlingly crueler.

The pain that tore at his stomach, hands and face was fading to a dull throb as a deathly cold overtook his senses. His mind was alight with panic - where would he go when he died? Would he scrape Elysium or would the gates of the fields of punishment swallow his soul? Would he be cast into Asphodel, forced to wander for eternity as a blank apparition of his former self? Would he ever see his children again? Would he ever see Meg again? Meg. Where was Meg? Would she be okay without him? Would his mother weep for his passing? Would his father care? His last breath escaped his lips before he could think of an answer.

Even until the very end, the man’s slashed and bleeding hand clutched onto a phone, the screen still alight with the emboldened words: ‘Dad’ and ‘Call ended’.

……………

………

…

.

I couldn’t hear anything. 

I couldn’t feel anything. 

I couldn’t see anything.

No. Wait.

I could see something. It wasn’t anything, but it wasn’t darkness either. It was different. It was light. A blinding, golden light that pierced my vision like searing hot needles. My body burned, but I could feel no definite limbs or appendages - just blazing, scorching heat. I didn’t feel solid. But I was there, and for now, that was enough. Voices faded in and out of earshot, like someone was repeatedly dunking me underwater and yanking me back upwards before I drowned in my own subconscious.

Blurred shadows danced across my vision, blocking out the intense light with their large forms. Slowly, those forms sharpened and became detailed. I searched the many faces looming above me, surrounding me as if I was a fading patient on a hospital bed. 

The faces were human... but not quite. They gave out a certain aura of boundless, buzzing power. I was quite sure it was supposed to make you drop whatever you were holding and run screaming to your momma, which is something I would’ve appreciated at that moment. As well as their general aesthetic, they also had strange features that no human should possess. The few who seemed happy to see me had literal halos of light around their heads that reflected their cheerful smiles. Some were less ‘excited’ and more interested in my presence - one of which was a woman with piercing grey eyes who wore a full set of gleaming bronze armour, complete with a helm. One of them leaned against the wall to my left, smoking a cigarette and absentmindedly cleaning his wraparound shades on his red muscle shirt. His eye sockets were hollow, and where his eyeballs should have been, there were two spherical flames, both sparking and flickering furiously.

Panic started to swell in my throat as I realised the sheer number of beings present. Their energy unsettled me, their searching eyes and obvious raw power left me feeling extremely small and exposed. I tried to lift my arm, but I was too weak to move a muscle. All I could do was observe as eleven pairs of eyes (or flames) stared me down. 

“Try not to move, sweetie,” whispered a caramel-haired woman to my right. “Your essence is still settling. Give it time”. She talked in a calming, soothing manner, like a mother to her child. Her tanned skin seemed to glow in the bright light, and her features were soft and caring. She wore a stark white sundress that revealed her shoulders. She looked as if she had been crying for hours. I felt my pounding panic slow to a rate that would only worry a doctor (instead of sending them into immediate shock). She did not seem like the type to try to hurt me. And I could’ve sworn I had seen her somewhere before. 

In fact, I could have said the same thing to everyone in this room. They were all so frustratingly familiar, yet so vague that I couldn’t place it. Where had I seen them? In a dream? In a past life? Was I dead? I didn’t feel dead. Then again, I had never died before. Not completely, anyway. I tried to voice my concerns for which direction my soul had gone and if I could possibly go home, preferably with a hot latte and a sincere apology in the form of this month’s rent money, but all that came out of my mouth was a puff of air and a small squeak.

“She told you not to move, idiot,” an annoyed, young girl to my left spoke, rolling her piercing silver eyes - though they were also red and puffy from tears. She was about thirteen in age, with auburn hair pulled back into a high ponytail. She wore a grey parka, arctic camouflage trousers and weathered white hiking boots. On her head, she wore a silver crescent circlet that glinted in the light. I looked down and noticed she had one hand squeezing my arm so hard her knuckles were white.

My arm.

I choked in horror as I took in my state. My skin was shifting and moving like the surface of a pool. My arms melted from being tanned and muscular, to being wiry and pale, and sometimes completely formless - like churning liquid gold encased in a vague human-esque shape. I saw my clothing was the same, though it flickered more frequently. The bronzed skin wore short greek togas, white blazers with gem-studded lapels, skinny jeans or red leather jackets. The pale form’s wardrobe was much more limited - a thick, grey, knee-length peacoat made an appearance in many of the outfit combinations, along with a navy scarf and with dark, uniform trousers with work loafers. Sometimes though, the body sported a plain t-shirt with flannel pyjama bottoms or an oversized navy hoodie with some loose jeans. I noticed that unless the black loafers had been adorned, that form hardly ever wore shoes, like he could only afford one pair - though being broke would also explain why he wore the peacoat with everything. 

Confusion beat down on my mind, threatening to crack my skull with the pressure. Who was I? Which one of these bodies was mine? Surely it couldn’t be both. I closed my eyes and racked my aching brain. What was the last thing I remembered? Faces began to swim in my memories. 

I remembered a girl in her late teens, about five years younger than myself. I had known her for years and knew her inside out - the pudgy ex-street-urchin who had been my best friend for nine long years. She had a bob of shaggy black hair and a constantly changing sense of fashion that got more mismatched with every outfit. Her tracksuit bottoms were a favourite, and maybe a tattered jacket every now and then, but sometimes she even dared to leave the house wearing double denim, which was the biggest no-no known to the human race. She had long since ditched the cat eye glasses in exchange for some more regular-looking red glasses, even though they magnified her eyes so much that she could have been mistaken for a Disney character. I grabbed at the name in my conscious, refusing to forget - Meg Mccaffrey.

The shifting between looks slowed as I thought about the name. The fit, tanned body became less frequent as I remembered what I looked like. Images - memories - flicked through my head. Feeling spread throughout my nerves and tingled warmly at my fingertips. I felt the soft bedding below me, and the tickle of my tight curls on my face. With my shoulders relaxing, I tilted my chin up slightly and sank further into the comfy pillow beneath my head, taking long, deep breaths. My life flowed through my brain in double time, allowing me to relive the last nine years in seconds. 

My name was Lester Papadopoulos. I was a clear-sighted mortal and a lanky, caucasian man with tight brown curls, blue eyes and a relentless case of sniffly nose that never seemed to dissipate. My father was Derek Goodman, who had fostered me shortly after finding me unconscious in an alleyway in Brooklyn Heights, and officially adopted me when I turned eighteen. From there I had worked towards a goal of helping people, like my new dad did in his job as a police captain. I had become a paramedic, the first one one the scene when someone was hurt. I had saved some half-bloods from minotaur wounds, minor deity singeing and cyclops bruisings and broken bones. I calmed them and drove them to camp, where word spread of the human hero who openly helped half-bloods, free of charge and free of tricks. My crummy apartment had become a safe place for the lost and hurt descendants of both Greek and Roman deities - and even sometimes their faun or satyr protectors, if they were lucky enough. Even when I had no money in my pockets, I still tried my hardest to keep the shelves stocked for the next poor kids who didn’t ask for their fate. When those kids reached their camps, armed with the information that I was practically broke, demigods started appearing with snack food or teabags as meek offerings (curtesy of the satyrs/fauns, who seemingly didn’t know what humans needed to make a sustainable meal). I learned their names and remembered their stories. When they couldn’t sleep, they snuggled themselves into my own bed, like my own little personal hot water bottles - if hot water bottles could burrow their heads into my sides and put their freezing cold feet on my legs. They were all a constant hassle, and I loved each and every one of them with all my heart. I would do anything to keep them safe, which is why I always had to say goodbye.

It dawned on me that this was what I had been doing when I died.

A chilling scene played in my mind’s eye. It was dark, the street only lit by the golden light of the sparse, flickering street-lamps. I was running, my breath short, my exhales causing bursts of mist to hang in the frigid air behind me. A little girl in a worn, woollen jumper sprinted by my side, taking three steps for every one of mine, and still struggling to keep up. Her dark skin glistened with sweat. A rucksack - which was filled to the point of bursting with her inventions and things she insisted that she could make ‘useful’ - bounced on her back, the contents clanging together with every stride. A few dreadlocks hung out of her now messy buns, one gathered on either side of her head. It was too dark to see her expression, but I could tell she was terrified from the whimpers she kept letting out. Hetta Abdi was always the worrier of the group, perhaps because she had inherited her godly father’s genius, and was more aware than the others. It seemed like her and I were the only ones sensing the sheer weight of the situation, as neither of the other two seemed too concerned.

The youngest one slept soundly in my arms, her snores echoing through the night as the rest of us ran for our lives. Every few yards the girl’s peaceful face was illuminated by another streetlamp, reminding me of the god who I was certain was her father, as he too loved nothing more than to nap in the most dire of circumstances. How he managed to stayed awake for long enough to conceive with a rich Singaporean businesswoman, I would never know (or want to find out). The girl’s expensive silk pyjamas were stained by mud and monster goop, and ripped at the hems and knees, which she assured me would make her mummy very upset. Even though my arms ached, I clutched her tighter. I couldn’t fail this innocent little girl, who’d known nothing but hardships in the guise of a golden life. She had told me (between naps) that she didn’t mind that I wouldn’t get it, as no one did, but sadly I knew exactly how Aria Chua felt.

The last girl was the feistiest, the alpha leader of her mismatched pack. She was the same age as her friends, about ten or eleven, but had the guts of a rigorously trained soldier on the battlefield. Except, her tactics boiled down to ‘smash everything, then run for your life’ which was not going to help us right now. Still, she insisted on running a few paces behind me so she could protect us if the ‘big doggy’ got any ideas - but how an eleven-year-old planned to beat a hellhound with a scraped and taped baseball bat, I had no clue, but I had learned not to question her. She reminded me of how Meg used to be at that age. All I could do was run as fast as I could and pray the hellhound didn’t gain any ground. Her choppy blonde hair flew wildly around her like a lions mane, her expression just as fierce. Her ratty street-urchin jacket billowed out behind her, and her torn jeans flapped in the wind. Yes, Eden Ross made me think of Meg in more ways than one.

The hound was gaining on us, its glowing eyes washing the pavement with light the colour of blood. Its paws churned up the tarmac. Once I felt its warm breath rustle my hair, I knew it was too late. 

For a split second, the moon was blocked out as the massive figure leaped over our heads. We skidded to a stop (Eden thumping into my legs and giving my thigh a painful whack with her baseball bat on instinct) as the creature landed in front of us with a mighty thud.

It snarled, foamy saliva dripping from its many-toothed maw. Its eyes flashed dangerously, its oily black ears pressed flat against its neck in aggression. It dug it’s claws into the pavement, ready to pounce at any second. Beside me, Hetta whimpered and clung to my peacoat. Eden growled and tensed, ready to swing her bat at the hellhound’s legs. Aria shifted in my arms, the commotion finally waking her up. I seized the opportunity and flung her down to sit at my feet next to Hetta, who grabbed her friend with her free arm, the other fist still tight around my coat. I pulled out a flashlight from my pocket. It  had been made specially for me as a parting gift from Harley, as I had broken his first present to me while fighting Commodus in my trials (a celestial bronze ukulele which I had loved very much). If he could make such amazing contraptions when he was eight, he could certainly make astounding things as a thirteen year old. I clicked the ‘on’ button three times in quick succession, and the flashlight began to extend and morph until I held a sleek, matt black bow in my hand, which I drew. An arrow matching the dark sheen of the bow pooled into existence from the arrow rest to the bowstring. 

The wretched creature did not seem to care. A small pointy stick? It probably thought. Ha! I eat those for supper! It stalked closer to us, unafraid and clearly drawing out the confrontation. It could kill us in seconds. We were no more than its source of entertainment. It was only a matter of time before it tired of this game of cat and mouse, and then we were toast. 

I loosed my arrow. The hellhound snapped it up in its mighty jaw and chomped down on it like the deadly projectile was a cheap chew toy. I felt my heart sank as I realised that I had no hope of defeating this thing. Even if I managed to land a hit on it, I knew my arrows would do little to no harm to it. The best I could do was be a distraction, and by the Styx, I was going to do my best. These little girls deserved a chance to grow up - as someone very close to me once told me, everything living deserves a chance to grow. 

I tightened my grip on my bow and stepped out in front of the kids.

“Mr Lester?” Hetta called uncertainly. “What are you-”

I glared over my shoulder and said in the most commanding tone I could muster: “Run.”

“What?!” Eden barked, her bat still raised. “We are not going to-”

The monster was on the move again. It bounded towards us, opening its jaws to reveal rows of glistening, jagged teeth washed red with blood. I turned back to ready myself for my final battle. 

“RUN!”

I charged the monster, hoping beyond all hope that the girls had heeded my warning and fled. I had no time to check. I loosed a volley of arrows, aiming for the monster’s eyes and joints. A dozen of them found their marks in the hellhound’s matted fur, but it did nothing. I ducked as it made a swipe at my head with its claws. I released more arrows into its side when the monster whipped around, whacking me with its tail in the process and violently knocking the wind from my lungs. My leg made a sick cracking noise on impact with the cold ground. I lay on my back, gasping for breath before rolling onto my front and forcing myself to rise to my knees. Those kids needed me to give them time to get away, or they’d be dog food. I’d grown to care for them over the week they’d spent at my apartment, like all the demigods who passed through. I let steely determination flood my veins as I stood, gripping my bow until my knuckles were white. My left leg was screaming from my rough landing, causing me to lean to the right to keep my balance. ‘Wobbly Young Adult’ isn't exactly a feared status, but nonetheless I tried my best to look territorial. Thanks my many hours spent with Artemis and her hunting dogs, I had a general gist of what actions portrayed which messages, though it had been a while since the last time I spoke wolf - since my last visit to Camp Jupiter, in fact. 

Bearing my teeth, I drew myself up to my full height and glared daggers right into the deathly red eyes of the hellhound in silent challenge. Like; “Hey, you just slapped me across the sidewalk, and I’m still standing. Leave my land, for there is no way you’re gonna top that.” 

Thankfully, the hound seemed unsure of me. It sniffed at the air around me, circling me, as if deciding whether he should heed my warning or pounce and be done with it. I stayed opposite him, carefully sidestepping with my bow drawn and my expression stony. The bitter night air hung still in suspense, like the whole city was waiting with baited breath. Suddenly, without warning, a high, shrill scream of pure fury rang out from behind the Hellhound, startling both of us out of our brief stalemate. We broke eye contact as a little girl of eleven bolted towards the dog, baseball bat in hand and wrath on her face. Her irises seemed to glow yellow in the light of the streetlamps, making her eyes look as if they were alight with rage at this creature’s intent to her friends. She swung her bat with all her might, yelling a war cry that resounded off the hard surfaces of the street. The bat connected with the hound’s leg with an almighty CRACK - and shattered to splinters.

The Hellhound did not like being whacked by eleven-year-olds.

Eden’s face dropped as the monster turned. It snarled and stalked threateningly towards her tiny frame. She backed away, terror evident in her movements as she dropped the remains of her bat with a clatter. The noise was enough to spur the hound into action. It pounced for Eden. The sheer thought of any of my girls being hurt was enough to make something snap - a click of power I hadn’t felt since my last days as a mortal quester. I remembered how I felt when I saw Frank (precious, adorable Frank who would now be around my age now - twenty-five - but I still had trouble imagining him as anything other than the huggable seventeen-year-old praetor I had left the last time I was at Camp Jupiter) burst into flame in the Caldecott Tunnel. I remembered the power I had instinctively called upon when I wrapped my hands around the throat of Emperor Commodus. I called on the same protective might that had made a half-divine crumble.

I let out a singular note: all my love, rage and fear compacted into a roar that cracked the pavement and shattered the bulbs of every streetlight in sight, making glass rain down around me. The hound shuddered and whimpered, it’s head was bowed and it clawed it it’s ears, trying to block out the sound. Eden covered her ears and curled into a ball, the noise thumping down on her even though it wasn’t aimed in her direction. The sight made me falter and stop, clamping my mouth shut should it let out another sound without permission. Everything was still once more - if only for that one second where I stood, glued to the cracked concrete, fearing the worst as I searched for signs that the demigod was okay. In that second, the Hellhound, though visibly weakened, turned from Eden to swipe at the source of the sound. 

Claws raked from my right abdomen to my left shoulder. Warm, red blood, a stark contrast to the cold, frigid night, seeped through my shirt. A pain as white hot as Hephaestus’s most scorching forge erupted from my entire torso. I toppled, my vision only staying clear enough for me to witness the Hellhound’s dusty demise before blurring completely. My heart thumped in my ears. I don’t know how long I lay there. Nothing disturbed me until those wailing sirens…

[eirian-houpe]

The Library Beneath the Clock Tower - Chapter 3

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply 

Relationships: Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold, Belle/Gaston (Once Upon a Time)

Characters: Belle (Once Upon a Time), Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold, Red Riding Hood | Ruby, Widow Lucas | Granny, Grumpy | Leroy, Maurice | Moe French

Additional Tags: Bookshop On the Corner, slightly AU, Cursed Storybrooke (Once Upon a Time), Alternate Universe - In Storybrooke | Cursed (Once Upon a Time), Eventual Smut

Summary: Storybrooke has no library, and neither does Belle, not since the library where she worked in Boston discovered her past as an inpatient at a mental hospital. Taking her future into her own hands, Belle travels to Storybrooke where her intention is to open up the town library, but all does not go according to her plan. Obstacles and false starts, and diversion along very wrong pathways interrupt her journey toward fulfilling her dream, as well as taking her rightful place and becoming a part of the Storybrooke community.

Chapter 3 - Ending Before It Began - Read here on AO3

Bolstered in both confidence and determination by Maggie’s bannock, Belle took the short walk to Game of Thorns.  There was a white van parked outside, and the back was open, presumably for the loading or unloading of flowers and potted plants.  Belle, therefore, took the opportunity to peer inside, and to use her imagination to picture the interior of the van with shelves all around, full to bursting with books and with a small circulation desk where the passenger seat was currently.  It would be quite the refit, but it would be worth it to see the faces of the residents of Storybrooke as they began enjoying a library again.

She ran her fingers over the floor of the van, the wood was damp, and somewhat grubby.  That would need a good clean, and… perhaps even some carpet, and maybe a few bean bag chairs to encourage people to stay and read.

She was so lost in her daydreaming, that she didn’t hear the footsteps approaching, so when the voice sounded behind her, it made her jump.

“Can I help you?”

She spun around and found herself face to face with the florist, Moe French, and as she tried to get her startled breathing under control, she offered him a smile.

“Belle Marchland, remember?” she said softly, “We arranged for me to take the van… a test drive?”

She watched him frown, and the same reluctance that she’d seen in him earlier, resurfaced, but stronger somehow. She saw a flash in his eye that almost spoke of the wrongness of allowing this to go any further.

“A test drive, right,” he repeated at last, “I remember, yes.  Only… I had a sudden order come in, a large one and I’ll need the van to make the delivery, so… it may not be possible, and--”

She frowned deeply.

“Is this that same rot you were spouting earlier… worrying that I”m a ‘girl’?” she accused. “I can assure you, I’m more than capable.”

“I’m sure you are,” Moe French’s voice was not without a hint of doubt, but he ploughed on before she could open her mouth to protest again. “And anyway, it’s not about that. I told you, I need the van for deliveries.”

“It’s not as though I’m going to take all day, Mister French,” she said to him, “A quick spin around the block, just to see how it runs, and we’ll be done.”

“You drive a hard bargain, Miss Marchland,” Moe said, glancing around, as if looking for something, or checking that they weren’t being watched.  Belle’s hackles rose a little as she started to believe what Leroy and Maggie had warned her about - that there was definitely something ‘not quite right’ about this man’s intentions.

After another moment or two, Moe finally relinquished the keys and began walking with her to the driver’s door, listing the short catalogue of things to watch out for. It certainly seemed like the van had… personality.

She climbed up into the cab, and as best she could, adjusted the seat to accommodate her short legs, and being very careful to adjust the mirrors so that she could see all around her. The last thing she wanted was to crash into something on her test drive. That would create a very poor impression after all.

As per Moe’s instructions, Belle pumped the gas twice and then turned the key, listening to the engine cranking before it caught and not-quite-roared into life.  A tune up then, she thought to herself, and then gradually, almost gingerly pulled out onto the quiet streets of Storybrooke.

At first, she kept her speed down, since she was unsure of the brakes and how well they’d function, but after a stop sign or two she discovered they were more than adequately to the task of stopping the vehicle. After that, she drove pretty much as she would have done normally.  It wasn’t so different driving a van after all, no matter its size. The steering was a little heavier on one side than the other, and she figured that Mister French didn’t get much of a chance between deliveries to have the van serviced all that often. That would definitely have to be her priority… when she bought the vehicle.

All too soon, having thoroughly enjoyed the ride, she was pulling up in front of Game of Thorns, having made up her mind.  She wanted to buy the van. Climbing down, her cheeks flushed with exhilaration, she made her way toward the shop door, intending to go inside and find Moe French and make him an offer.  As it happened, she didn’t need to. He must have seen her arrival and hurried out of the door to meet her, his expression… stricken.

“Mister French,” she began almost beaming with happy excitement, “It’s perfect, absolutely perfect.  I would be…”

Moe French held up a hand in a kind of ‘wait a minute’ gesture, and began to walk a little way away, but in full flight as she was, Belle was not to be deterred.  She hurried around to put herself directly in his path and his line of sight again, as she continued, as though he hadn’t just completely blanked her.

“I would be happy to take it off your hands,” she continued, oblivious, and as before, not hearing the ambient sounds around her.  “Provided the price isn’t too steep. Then I can--”

“What the hell is this?” The voice that came from behind her this time was also one she remembered, and belonged to the man with whom she had collided the previous day.  She turned and stepped aside from between that man and Moe French.

As before, the newcomer was immaculately dressed, this time in a black suit with a midnight blue shirt, and a tie that was darker still, and was inlaid with a patterned texture. In one hand he held his cane, and tucked under the arm of the other was a large manilla file folder, since his hand held a folded up newspaper.

“Gold,” Moe stammered, “I can explain.”

“Oh, I was hoping you’d say that,” said the man, whom she had now learned was called Gold. “Because from where I stand, and from what I read,” he took a step forward and slapped the newspaper against the middle of Moe’s chest, completely unconcerned, or so it seemed, by the man’s additional height and bulk, “it would appear you are trying to sell my van.”

“ Your van?” Belle sang out in confusion, but was ignored.

“Not the van, Gold, no,” Moe stammered, “Just...just…”

Belle’s heart sank as she listened in on the conversation and heard, it would seem, that either Moe was lying to this Mister Gold, or he was lying to her and never intended to sell her the van in the first place.

“Just…?” Gold prompted.

“Just the loan,” Moe spluttered finally. “I thought that if I could find someone willing to take over the loan, it wouldn’t fall so far behind and…” he trailed off and Belle found herself looking from one man to the other, her anger and bitterness rising again, to think she had been so easily played… well… almost.

“I don’t know whether to be flattered or insulted, Mister French,” Gold drawled in the same condescending tone he had used while talking to her, and she bristled again, though without much fire. Her disappointment accounted for most of that.

Gold turned, just a little then, enough to include her in the conversation, such as it was. “Well, Miss Marchland, it seems I must apologize on behalf of our friend here.  It appears he has no integrity.”  He turned and gave Moe a terrible glare, before he added, “I’m truly sorry you got caught up in all of this.”

“No need for you to apologize, Mister Gold,” Belle said, “At  least I found out before we made any kind of transaction.  Other than a test drive of course.”

Then, feeling the need to show her own integrity, and having gleaned from the conversation that French had attempted to resell his own debt in order that he could avoid repossession of said van, she reached out with the keys that were still in her hands, and gave them to Mister Gold.

“You have my thanks, Miss Marchland,” Gold said, nodding to her, “But now, if you will excuse us, it would seem that Mister French and I have some business to attend to.”

“Of course,” Belle said curtly, and without another word to Moe French, turned away and began to head back toward the diner.  She was seething inside, and wanted nothing more than to leave this wretched town, and get back to Boston, before she lost the chance altogether, to find a new job in time to be able to support herself.

That, however, would have to wait until morning, as the bus out of Storybrooke had long since left that day, and as she walked into the diner, she caught sight of Leroy looking almost expectantly in her direction.

When he saw the expression on her face he instructed, “Whatever the lady wants, it’s on me.”

[rohitkkumar]

WTC final Is Virat Kohli battling worrying form in Tests? Numbers suggest so

I had a great apartment in Somerville, just outside of Boston. It was the second floor of a two family with two bedrooms, decent living room and kitchen, a full bath, off-street parking and a porch overlooking a small park. The rent was steep and I didn’t want to move, so I put an ad on Craig’s list. A lot of replies I discounted because they had pets, were smokers or just sounded way too weird. I was about to give up when I saw Megan’s response. I never considered a female roomie, but wasn’t opposed to it either.

I set up a time for her to come and see the place. She was prompt and I opened the door to see a tall, beautiful red-head. I’m six-four and she was only a couple inches shorter. She had shoulder length wavy hair, a trim figure and a great smile.

She said her roomie was getting married and would be taking over the whole apartment where they lived. She worked as a nurse in Boston and my location would be an easy commute.

I showed her around, collected a couple references and told her I’d call her. Her references were all positive, so I called her and told her I’d be looking forward to her as my new roomie.

I had some misgivings sharing with a girl. I always had guy roomies. I wondered if it would be awkward. What if I brought a girl home? I laughed and said slim chance of that with my recent dating history. What if she brought guys home? Well, I wasn’t her father, so what the hell.

Megan moved in the first weekend in May. She didn’t have much to bring. Her old roomie and her fiancé carted in a twin bed, beat up dresser, one bean bag chair, boxes of books and clothes. They got her settled and left. Megan spent the rest of the day settling in.

Around six I offered to get some pizza and beer and she readily accepted. Later as we sat in the living room we began to fill each other in on backgrounds. I’m a writer and she looked dubious. I assured her it’s a regular job with a paycheck. I work for a high tech firm writing manuals, spec sheets, a newsletter and other stuff. She’s an ER nurse and said she had strange hours. She might work three twelve hour shifts in a row and then be off for three or four days.

Megan was easy to talk to and easy to look at. I hoped I could adjust to having a beautiful woman living in my apartment.

We settled into a simple routine. I was usually up and out by 7:30. On the days Megan worked, she had to be at the hospital by 7:00, so we didn’t see too much of each other. On her days off, we usually had dinner together and started becoming good friends.

Living with a woman caused some adjustments. I was pretty much a boxers or less around the house guy. Often, I wouldn’t wear anything to go to the bathroom for a shower and I never wore clothes to bed. Now, I started wearing shorts and a t-shirt and being discreet about closing the bathroom door and other things so as not to seem like a jerk.

After about a month, the weather turned warm. The apartment had no air conditioning, so we tried to keep cool by a couple window fans, open windows and by not wearing a lot of extra clothes.

I couldn’t help but admire Megan’s figure. In running shorts, her favorite bottom, her long legs were nothing short of awesome. She favored tank tops that outlined nice but not large breasts and showed a flat and tight tummy. Her ass was phenomenal in her shorts, jeans or almost anything she wore.

We both enjoyed running and would often take a three mile run in the evenings. One night it was really hot and humid and we returned drenched. I said she could take her shower first and after mine we could hit an air conditioned neighborhood bar.

I had just finished a tall glass of water and was headed to my room, when Megan came out of the bath. She held a towel in front of her and we almost ran into each other. We apologized and she turned to head into her run. Her back was completely exposed. I looked at her ass and blurted out, “Holy shit.”

She looked over her shoulder said, “Oops. Sorry.” She dashed into her room and closed the door. I went into the bath and stripped off my wet running clothes, struggling to get my shorts over my erection that popped up the second I saw that perfect butt.

Now I love women and don’t have any dominant fetish about any one part. All parts appeal to me. But, Megan did have the best ass I had ever seen in clothes. Now, seeing it naked and moving, it literally took my breath away. I’d put it right up with Nicole Kidman. It was tight, round and luscious. My hand strayed to the rod sticking out and, after a few minutes of attention, brought the release I needed.

I dried, dressed and Megan and I walked the few blocks to a bar. The cool interior was a relief as were the tall draft Sam Adams we had.

We sat at the bar and paid a little attention to the Red Sox game on the tube, but mostly drank, ate bar peanuts and didn’t talk. That was unusual for us, because we talked to each other all the time.

Finally I broke the ice, “Megan, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…well, I mean, I didn’t expect to see your…what I’m trying to say is I hardly saw anything, honest.”

Megan had a great smile that lit up her entire face, and she turned it on full blast. “Jake, you said ‘Holy shit’. So I gotta imagine you saw my ass.”

“Sorry, Meg. I was just surprised.”

“Yeah,” she answered as she sipped her beer. “You know I’ve been thinking about this sort of thing and have come to the understanding that living with the opposite sex roomie has its challenges.”

“Challenges?” I asked.

She nodded and said,”Let me ask you something and promise to answer honestly. Before I was here, what did you wear around the apartment?”

“Boxers,” I said and then smiled and added, “or less.”

“Exactly,” Megan said. “Now you’re wearing shorts or pants all the time. Now, me, I am sort of a let it all hang out girl. My old roomie was a nurse too and we worked a lot of the same shifts. We’d get home and feel really grubby from being around sick and hurt people. So, we’d just about get in the door and we were stripping. We’d throw our stuff in a big hamper and walk around bare-assed drinking wine or beer until we each had our showers. Most days, it was just bikini bottoms around the house—at the most. When her fiancé moved in, we discussed it and said we weren’t going to alter our habits. I can guarantee you he never complained.” The last bit she offered with a grin.

I didn’t know where this conversation was going so I did what most guys do, kept my mouth shut and drank beer.

“So,” Megan continued, “as I said I’ve been thinking about it. I think I have an idea that will help.”

“What?” I asked.

“Tell you when we get home,” she said and ordered us two more beers.

At least this conversation broke the ice and we started chatting normally. We ended up splitting a burger and fries at the bar and had two more beers.

Arriving back in the apartment, Megan excused herself to go pee. I was sitting on the couch watching the end of the Red Sox when she came back in.

“So, do you want to hear my idea?”

“Sure.”

“I say we just get it over with and then we can relax.”

“Get what over with?”

“Being afraid one of us is going to see the other person naked or be seen partially naked or whatever. Or worse, imagining what the other person looks like naked. We need to get rid of the big curiosity factor.”

“Megan, I haven’t been trying to spy on you if that’s what you mean.”

“No, I’m not saying that, Jake. But, let’s be honest. I see you looking at me sometimes when I have that old tank top and my nipples are poking out. Hey, I’m not pissed, but just saying that’s natural. I’m a girl, you’re a guy and we get curious.”

“Meg, I’m really embarrassed. I don’t want you to think I’m like mentally undressing you all the time. Ok, I will admit that one tank top is provocative, but I didn’t think I was that obvious.”

Megan laughed and her laugh was one of the sweetest sounds I ever heard. “You weren’t that obvious, but I knew you were looking. And, true confessions, I was flattered. Besides, after the first time, I could’ve chosen not to wear that again. So, I guess I was being a bit of a tease.”

She continued, “So we can agree there is some curiosity and that each of us has had to adapt to living with the opposite sex. I think it’s stupid, so let’s get it over with.”

I still did not get it. “Megan, I don’t want to appear to be stupid, but what are you talking about?”

Again the brilliant smile, “What I’m talking about, Jake, is that right now, right here in our living room, we strip off. We get buck naked and let the other person see it all. No more secrets, no more sneak peeks. Let it all hang out and then we can get back to living the way we want.”

“So, you’re saying we undress in front of each other?”

“Jake, that’s exactly what I’m saying. So, stand up and let’s do it.”

I felt as if I were moving in a dream, but I stood. Facing each other, I pulled my polo shirt over my head and dropped it on the floor. Megan removed her t-shirt exposing a sports bra. She then dropped her shorts to reveal a pair of pink bikini bottoms. I undid my belt, praying that I would not get a hard-on and embarrass myself to death.

Megan looked at my boxers that were decorated with Patriot’s logos and just shook her head.

In a fluid motion she pulled her bra over her head and without hesitation bent and tugged her panties to the floor, kicking them free with her foot. I stared at the magnificent naked body in front of me.

I was brought back to reality with a pronounced, “Ahem” from Megan.

I realized I still had my boxers on. I slowly slid them off and straightened to face her. She did not hesitate to look me up and down, spending some time on my crotch. She motioned with her finger and I turned my back to her.

“Holy shit,” she exclaimed. We both burst out laughing at her imitation of me. I turned back to face her. She raised her hand and we high-fived.

I once again took in her body. Her breasts were on the small side, but stood out proudly from her chest. She had almost no areoles topped by dark, tiny nipples that appeared to be erect. Her tummy was flat and tight. She had a belly button ring that made her navel stand out. Her pussy was the same shade as her hair, a mixture of reds and strawberry blond. She slightly trimmed the side and the top, but the rest was a wondrous jungle of tufts, curls and color.

Her breasts and crotch were lily white as opposed to the fair complexion of the rest of her body. I knew she would never tan, but there was a nice contrast between her sex parts and the rest of her body.

She watched me looking and then turned to give me a full view of the fantastic ass I glimpsed just a few hours ago. I now saw each cheek had a delicate dimple. Her back and legs were muscled but smooth.

I was using every ounce of willpower to keep my dick from getting hard.

“So, there,” she said. “We’ve each seen it all.”

“What now,” I asked? “What are the rules?”

Megan smiled and said, “Simple. No rules. If either of us doesn’t want to wear clothes, then we don’t. If we do, we do. No hassle, no pressure, and best of all, no wondering. Deal?”

It didn’t take me long to figure that the deal would mean I probably would be looking at one of the best bodies I had ever seen and so said “Deal.”

Megan extended her hand and we shook.

“Now, I’m going to bed. I’ve got to be in early. ‘Night, Jake.”

“‘Night, Meg.”

As I lay trying to get to sleep, I kept replaying the scene of her stripping and the view of her naked body. My dick rose to the occasion this time and my hand helped relieve the tension it was carrying.

I didn’t see Megan for three days. I had two night meetings and went to a Red Sox game with some buddies. The next time I saw her was Saturday morning.

I woke around 8 and had to pee. I started to pull on my boxers and then thought, maybe I don’t need them. Then, I thought maybe Megan had second thoughts or really didn’t want me to actually walk around the apartment swinging in the breeze. I covered my bets by picking up my boxers, but not putting them on. I figured I could just hold them in front of me if I ran into Megan and she seemed shocked.

I opened my bedroom door and noticed Megan’s door was open. I headed to the bathroom and heard her call out, “‘Morning.”

I turned to see her walking my way with a mug of coffee in one hand and the Globe in the other. She wore tiny blue bikinis and nothing else.

I slid my boxers in front of me and said good morning and motioned to the bathroom.

She nodded and then said, “What’s with the boxers?”

“Uh, I, well, I was just carrying them in case, you know, that maybe being naked wasn’t…”

“Jake, I thought we covered that. Go balls out all the time. It’s cool. I don’t mind. Hell, it’s nice to see a tight bod. And, in case you are wondering, I think you have a good dick and great ass. Very good, actually. Ok? So, chill.”

I grinned and tossed the boxers back into my room. From that moment on, it was very casual in our apartment.

Boston was in the midst of one of the worst heat waves in our history. Both Megan and I appreciated being able to strip off and cool down. On the evenings she was home, we settled into a little routine. We’d have a light supper of salad and white wine, put a fan in front of the couch, turn off the lights and watch a ball game or pick a movie to watch, or sit on our porch, all while being nude or sometimes Megan wore tiny bikini panties.

We alternated movie selection. One night it might be a chick-flic romance for her and the next a shoot-em-up or spy one for me. Neither complained about the other’s choice and we each loved making caustic comments about the inane plots of any of the genres. When watching baseball, we’d comment on the players, which ones were good guys and which were assholes. Megan asked why guys kept pulling at their crotches. I tried to explain adjusting the boys, but she felt they could do that in the dugout and not on the field. All in all, we soon hardly took notice of our nudity—well, actually I always noticed her body, but I certainly didn’t complain.

One particularly hot evening, we were watching a Sox game. We were both damp with sweat and finally Megan said, “I need something really cool to drink.”

I said how about frozen Margaritas.

We agreed and both headed to the kitchen. Megan said she’d get the blender and I pulled out the booze and dug in the fridge for limes. I was turning to get a knife to slice the limes just as Megan was backing up from retrieving the blender from under the counter. She was still bent over and her butt was sticking up in the air. I turned and she moved back and suddenly my dick was right between her ass cheeks.

She yelled, “Whoa!” and I stumbled back. My embarrassment went off the chart when I immediately got hard from this unexpected contact.

“Jake, what the…” Megan stopped in mid-sentence as she turned and saw my erection.

“Oh, boy,” she said softly.

“Sorry, Meg, that was totally an accident.”

She looked directly at my erect member and said, “And, that is the result of this accident?”

I smiled dopily and said, “You know they have a mind of their own. Sorry, I’ll go put some clothes on.”

“No,” Megan commanded. “Actually, this is sort of the last barrier of curiosity. I admit I wondered what your dick looked like hard. So, now I know.”

We both looked down at my erection, and, honestly, without me doing anything, it bounced.

We laughed and Megan said, “Well, hell-o to you, too.”

We made our drinks and went back to the couch. I was back to almost normal. We sipped in silence for a while.

“Jake, are you Ok?”

“A little embarrassed, but, yeah, I’m Ok.”

“Well, I was wondering about this. I mean I know we say being naked around each other is cool, but you never got a hard-on. I’ve been around guys, and usually it happens a lot. God, my ex-roommate’s fiancé had a woodie half the time we were there. I think he was proud of it and I also think he was hoping that Carol and I would team up and take care of it. Never happened, I assure you. But, you’ve been pretty tame.”

“Well, I’ve been concentrating a lot to keep it down. And, if I had one, I stayed in my room until, well, let’s say it went away. Many times in the morning I have one, but just hang in my room ’til it goes away. I didn’t want you to think I was a perv and imagining you in a sexual way.’

“Jeez, Jake, don’t work yourself up. We are friends and I’d like to think we are very good friends. I don’t think we are going to screw each other by mistake, but that doesn’t mean we don’t have sexual thoughts. I like looking at you naked. I think you have a really, really attractive dick and I especially like seeing it as it swings when you walk. It’s certainly not tiny, I say that because I hear you guys are hung up on size, but it’s not grotesquely big. I think your ass is fab. And, you have a great set of balls. So, yeah, I think sexually. It’s normal.”

“God, I wish you didn’t say all that,” I moaned.

“Why, did I offend you?”

“No,” I said and looked down at my crotch. Megan followed my eyes to see a hard and upright dick.

“My bad,” she said giggling.

“I’ve think you’ve unleashed the devil. Now that he knows you’re not offended, he’s going to be popping up all the time.”

“No prob, Jake. He’s always welcome” she said as she lightly touched the top of my naked thigh.

She offered her glass and we clinked rims and drank.

“How about you and your man-spear get us a couple refills, while I just enjoy the view.”

I was amazed at how fast I was loosing my concern about parading around aroused. I returned with her drink and she asked me to stand there. She looked intently at my erection, which did nothing to ease its hardness.

“That’s very attractive, Jake. I still marvel at how hard a guy’s dick can get. Thanks for letting me stare.”

I raised my glass and we toasted silently.

After that night, Megan stopped wearing her bikini briefs even occasionally. She was always nude when we were in the apartment. It was now mid-August and a weekend when both of us were off work. I stumbled out of bed with major morning wood and went in search for coffee. Megan was in the kitchen making a pot. She had on black undies.

She turned and noticed my erection and said, “good morning my fine hard friend. It’s always good to see you.”

I shrugged and said, “Morning wood. As soon as it goes down, I’ll pee. By the way, what’s with the panties?”

Megan blushed, turning her white breasts a pretty shade of pink.

“Got a little visitor.”

“Huh, someone’s here?” I panicked thinking she might have a guy over and I didn’t want to be caught in this condition.

Megan laughed, “No, stupid, I’ve got my period.”

Now it was my turn to blush and I am sure I was scarlet from head to toe. “Sorry. It’s just that I never noticed before.”

“That’s because my last two happened while I was working.”

Talking about this feminine stuff made me go soft enough to be able to pee, so I excused myself.

Back in the kitchen I poured a mug and joined Meg at our small table.

“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever talked about a girl’s period before. Doing it would be weird, but not as weird as sitting here naked talking about a girl’s period.”

Laughing Megan assured me it was Ok.

“Jake, I think we can talk about anything. I don’t believe I’ve ever been as comfortable with any guy or practically any girlfriend as I am with you. You’re a great friend.”

I agreed and offered a coffee mug toast.

[littlejedii]

Your Face

this week has been *jean-ralphio voice* THE WORRRST and I’ve been thirsty for mitjo content so i wrote some. title from “clouds” by borns, thanks to one of @buddymueller mods, a radical human. story under de break :))

Jonas pushes through the heavy front doors of Sellwood High, moving with a crowd of people who push and shove and bump their way to freedom. It’s a Thursday, he hates Thursdays. Such a tease for the weekend. Not like he does anything particularly special, really. Plays video games, practices tricks with Sidney... and lately, waits for Mitch Mueller to text him and whisk him off for a little secret troublemaking. If Jonas wasn’t such a goody two-shoes, he’d probably have much more fun. But he’s getting there.

Like today, he told Dean and Sue he was staying late to tutor a girl from his math class. But in reality, he’s heading to Mitch’s to do their project.

Pretty rebellious, huh?

Jonas spots him in the senior parking lot. The tall boy is hunched over at the waist, staring into the driver’s window of Scratch’s car with a frown, running his long, busted fingers through his hair. He jumps when Jonas bumps his shoulder, his shock quickly turning to the warm, familiar smile which makes Jonas’ heart flutter.

“Doing your hair, huh? You don’t seem like someone who cares about your hair,” Jonas teases.

“I don’t, just... fuckin’ hate when the brown shows through,” Mitch grumbles the last few words under his breath, looking back to the window and tugging at his locks exasperatedly. “Means I gotta dye it soon and I haaaate dyin’ it,” he tosses his head back as he whines, making Jonas giggle. For a second, Jonas gnaws on his lower lip, considering whether or not to say the words lingering right behind his lips. He blurts them out as he meets Mitch’s gaze in the window.

“I- I could do it for you...”

“You could? You’d wanna?” Mitch turns now, straightening. Jonas nods, smiling up and clenching his fists hard to keep his lights at bay as Mitch gives him a toothy grin for the first time that day. “Well shit, then! Scratch, we’re stoppin’ at the store.” Scratch slides off the hood of her beater and excitedly into the driver’s seat. Mitch has no idea that Jonas’ stomach does a cartwheel when he pulls him into the backseat and onto his lap, long arms wrapped loosely around his middle as he chatters away with his friends.

The trailer is quiet when they arrive, stolen box of bleach tossed onto the counter as Mitch rummages through the fridge.

“Watcha want? Soda?” he calls as Jonas stands awkwardly near the sink, glancing around the kitchen. He’s still getting acclimated to Mitch’s living conditions. He just isn’t used to it, a house which doesn’t smell like disinfectant, a house where the bags of chips are left open on the counter, a house with ashtrays on every available surface. It’s not bad. Just different. He’s still glancing around, not answering as Mitch nudges him and presents him with a can, suspiciously lukewarm for coming right from the fridge.

“So... how do you do this?” Jonas asks, and Mitch cocks an eyebrow.

“I thought you knew, you offered.” Jonas starts to blush, stuttering out an apology and feeling positively stupid before Mitch stops him with waving hands. “No, no it don’t matter! I’ll teach ya,” Mitch tears open the box and shakes the contents on the counter. “Usually I just like, put that shit on my hands and like... scrub it through my hair and then... wash it out?”

“Okay, I know I said I didn’t know how to dye hair, but I know that’s not right,” he laughs as Mitch grimaces, rubbing the back of his neck. “You should probably sit down near the sink, to wash your hair. Like they do when you get it cut.”

“I’ve... never had my hair cut anywhere but here,” Mitch mumbles, and Jonas’ chest seizes with embarrassment.

“I’ll sh-show you then!” he squeaks, pulling a folding chair away from the table and situating it against the cabinets, motioning for Mitch to sit. The taller boy looks down at the chair, then back to him.

“It’s backwards.”

“No, it’s not,” Jonas huffs, tugging gently at Mitch’s arm. “Just sit.”

“Pushy, pushy,” Mitch mutters, but he’s grinning as Jonas pretends to forget he still has a hand securely around his bicep. Softly, he pushes Mitch’s chest, swallowing thickly and trying to ignore the way Mitch’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Do you have shampoo?”

“Yeah, uh... bathroom. Under the sink,” Mitch’s voice is just a touch cloudier than it had been a moment ago, and Jonas curses himself for noticing it. His fingertips sear where he had pressed them into Mitch’s chest as he shuffles away to retrieve the bottle. Mitch’s face is still pink when he returns and turns the faucet on, running his fingers under the water as he looks down at the taller boy.

“Lean back,” he commands, smirking slightly at how quickly Mitch complies. One sharp eyebrow cocked, questioning, Mitch stares up as Jonas grabs a grubby, crusty dishtowel from near the sink and says, “for if it’s uncomfortable.”

“Nah, s’fine,” Mitch shrugs, but lifts his head to allow Jonas to slip it beneath his neck. Jonas can’t help but let out a shaky breath as he presses his fingers softly to Mitch’s temples and coaxes his head back. Mitch’s jaw clenches and he casts his eyes down as he starts to go red. Every time they’re together, boundaries are pushed; lines are blurred between study partners and friends and something else he can’t identify. Mitch is full of firsts for him: the first time he smoked, the first time he skipped school, the first crush on a guy, the first person he’s touched like... this.

It’s intimate. He feels powerful, because usually Mitch is the one touching, but now he’s melting beneath his hands. With just light brushes of his fingertips he threads his way through Mitch’s hair. He’s flushed bright red as he lets the warm water flow over Mitch’s scalp, squirting shampoo onto his hair and beginning to lather it with calm, gentle strokes. His eyes flicker down to his friend’s face.

How long had Mitch’s eyes been closed? His shoulders are still slightly rigid, arms crossed tightly over his chest, but his face is free of any tension. Jonas keeps his fingers working as he scans over Mitch’s face, silently praying the boy won’t open his eyes. He looks so peaceful.

Jonas has never noticed how thick and dark Mitch’s eyelashes are. His eyelids flutter, amber eyes moving beneath them, and Jonas is enraptured. A lattice of faint blue and purple veins decorate his lids, smooth and white up to his eyebrows. Jonas swallows as he notices a tiny line of discoloration, a scar, underneath Mitch’s right brow. His eyes continue to trace down over Mitch’s cheeks. Just under the skin, faded and old and nearly unnoticeable, are a few stray acne scars and pockmarks he’s never been close enough to make out until now. There’s a slight stubble over Mitch’s lip and near his jaw, the light brown hair barely visible, but Jonas grins anyway.

Mitch actually shaves around that pube-y beard of his. Gosh that’s... really cute.

“Is this what I been missin’ out on, not gettin’ haircuts?” Mitch murmurs suddenly, causing Jonas to jump. “S’good,” Mitch hums out a noise of pure contentment and Jonas can hear his own heartbeat in his ears. He rinses the suds from Mitch’s hair and fumbles the gloves on.

“I’m gonna put this conditioner stuff in, then do the bleach. Is that okay?” Mitch hums once more in concession, and Jonas swears when he starts to run the conditioner through Mitch leans into his touch. In a moment of uncharacteristic bravery Jonas presses his fingers onto Mitch’s head, applying light pressure as he strokes through his hair, and Mitch’s sigh is like music. He rinses the conditioner and fumbles with the applicator, carefully squirting the thick dye onto Mitch’s dark roots. Slowly, carefully, he begins to run the bleach through his hair, unsure if he’s doing it right, but he takes the fact that Mitch hasn’t protested yet as a good sign. He’s cautious to avoid Mitch’s dark, shaved sides before the tall boy’s body shifts suddenly, and Jonas yelps.

“Hold still, I don’t want to-” He snaps his mouth shut quickly as he looks down. Mitch’s head is lulled back, his arms have fallen away from his chest which is rising and falling steadily beneath his once-white tank top.

He’s asleep.

Jonas inhales sharply. You don’t have to be a rocket scientist to tell Mitch doesn’t sleep often. The dark bags under his eyes are the strongest indication. But if you know Mitch, or watch him as much as Jonas does, you can see the exhaustion which permeates his limbs and lips and walk. His heart warms with pride as he slowly takes his hands away from Mitch’s hair, starting a timer for the dye. As strange as it is, and he knows it’s strange, he leans against the counter to watch Mitch’s chest rise and fall with even, slow breaths.

Mitch is such a wild flurry of movement and energy that Jonas has never gotten to... admire him like this. The sharp prominence of his collarbone enchants Jonas and distresses him all at the same time. He’s glad he has gloves on, or else he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from bringing his fingers to that skin and running across it. He bets it feels paper-thin and smooth stretched over the bone, almost straining. From afar Mitch is thin, strong, sinewy, but up close here Jonas can see the beginnings of emaciation. Beneath his chest, his ribs are starting to become obvious, something Jonas notes is definitely new. The thinness of his wrists, the gauntness of his face begin to spin into a new light, and Jonas stiffens. He had seen the fridge, and though there hadn’t been much, there had still been food in it. That day in the bathroom, when he’d heard Mitch, he tried to write it off as something else.

But here staring down at the unnatural sharpness of Mitch’s hipbones peaking out above the hem of his boxers, he can’t pretend any longer. He knows she shouldn’t, but he carefully takes a glove off and slowly brings a hand to Mitch’s head. Pressing his palm into the side of the boy’s long face, he slowly caresses a thumb along Mitch’s eyebrow. He freezes when Mitch leans into his hand, but he doesn’t stir any further, so Jonas continues his soft strokes.

“Mitch,” his voice is too low to even be a whisper, but he wants to say something. He just doesn’t know what. I’m worried, maybe? Can I help? might be better. You deserve to be happy. Or I want you to be happy. Maybe even I want to make you happy. Could I ever? He can’t say any of it, though, so he just continues to rub him soothingly. Things begin to float, then. Only the light things. His free glove rises off the counter. Crumpled paper towels near the sink, a used styrofoam plate, half of an old-looking cookie drift upwards. Jonas can’t help but laugh softly as they begin to spin lazily, orbiting around them. Little items continue to float up, joining the orbit around he and Mitch as he cradles the sleeping boy’s face.

His heart pulls as he gazes down. Scary, angry, mean Mitch Mueller is no longer the front he puts on for anyone, and Jonas is pretty sure he’s one of the only people to ever have seen him like this. God, he looks so vulnerable, so small for someone who’s so tall and long. He looks gentle and soft and warm and serene.

He looks beautiful.

Just as Jonas inhales, realizes he’s so far gone into something he told Sidney was a crush but is now recognizing is infatuation, the timer on his phone begins to ring and the atmosphere breaks. He pulls his hand away instantly as the items drop to the ground, making small noises as Mitch jolts upward.

“Shit,” he grumbles as he rubs his eyes, resting his elbows on his knees. “Did I fall asleep?”

“Yeah,” Jonas’ voice is shaky, almost guilty, but Mitch doesn’t seem to notice. “I still have to, uh... I still have to wash the bleach out.” Mitch grunts and leans back, arms back to being crossed over his chest, a protective barrier around himself. He doesn’t melt under Jonas’ touch as he had before, he stays rigid with his eyes screwed shut as Jonas works. Mitch’s hair is light again, more blonde in some areas than in others and a little blotchy, but for a crappy box dye and his first time Jonas feels pretty darn good about it.

Still, he can’t ignore the way his heart drops when Mitch doesn’t relax under his hands. He’d give his whole life for one more moment of that vulnerability, that moment when it felt like Mitch was almost his. So with quaking fingers, craving just one more touch, he brings his thumb back to Mitch’s eyebrow. Mitch jolts and peeks an eye open, but the smaller boy doesn’t stop. He runs the digit slowly, carefully over the scar.

“I’ve never noticed this.”

“Yeah, got it from Freddie. He thought he had pretty decent aim when he’d toss me into those pools but one time he- he didn’t,” Mitch snorts and Jonas laughs softly in response, not taking his hand away. “Thank fuckin’ Christ it ain’t any bigger, though. I don’t need my face lookin’ even more fucked up than it already does.” With those words he leans forward, away from Jonas’ touch, and grabs the towel to dry his hair. Jonas can’t help but notice the way Mitch’s spine rises from his back when he bends, and though his hands itch to stroke against it he pulls them away, back by his sides.

“Hey, this looks pretty damn good, Spots! I’m impressed,” Mitch is staring into the glass oven door, fumbling with his still-wet locks.

“Yeah, not so bad for my first time,” Jonas hums, watching Mitch’s long fingers run through his hair and longing to replace them with his own.

“What I’m hearin’ is that you’re gonna do even better next time?” Mitch turns to look at him, face plastered with that smug, crooked smirk he puts on whenever he flirts. Jonas smirks back. He takes a step forward, his knee pressing into Mitch’s thigh as he threads his fingers through the taller boy’s hair. Mitch’s mouth drops open in surprise and his eyes widen, but he doesn’t make a noise. Jonas strokes over his scalp, messily brushing Mitch’s hair into it’s usual slicked-back style.

“Mhmm,” he hums as his fingers work, “It’s a little patchy, next time I’ll make it more even,” he cocks his head to the side, feigning innocence, pretending that his fingers aren’t trembling, pointedly ignoring the bright red blush on Mitch’s cheeks. As he continues to style Mitch’s hair, the taller boy’s sharp shoulders ease. He rests his elbows in his knees, his body slumping with relaxation, and Jonas warms.

Someday, maybe Mitch won’t lean away from his touch. He may be able to trace his fingers over that sharp collarbone, over his spine, over that little scar and the stubble he’d never known existed. Finally, Mitch’s downcast eyes slip shut as he leans ever so slightly into Jonas.

Yeah. Maybe someday.

[huntertales]

Part Four: I Pray the Lord My Soul to Keep. (Dark Side of the Moon S05E16)

Episode Summary:  Ambushed by angry hunters, Sam, Dean and the reader are shot and killed and sent to Heaven. Castiel warns them Zachariah is looking for them. He instructs them to lay low while searching for an angel named Joshua who can help them since he talks directly to God. During their search, they run into some old friends and family members. Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader Word Count: 7,274. (......Oops.)

Previous Part | Supernatural Rewrite Masterlist

Your name: submit What is this? // <![CDATA[ function replaceAll(find, replace, str) { return str.replace(new RegExp(find, 'g'), replace); } function myHandler() { var input = document.getElementById("inputTxt").value; document.body.innerHTML = replaceAll('Y/N', document.getElementById("inputTxt").value, document.body.innerHTML); } // ]]>

For a bit of time you were a bit afraid that you might have landed yourself in a situation that you couldn't get yourself out of. You were dead, landed yourself in a playing field that you had no idea which worked with the only angel you had on your side still down on earth and the one that was holding you held you even tighter whenever you tried to wiggle out of his embrace. You did managed to get Zachariah’s grubby fingers off your face, but the smirk on his face never failed to leave, thinking he had the three of you exactly where he wanted you. As he opened his mouth once more to start some very much needed payback after dealing with your shenanigans over the past year, he froze in his spot, a voice coming from behind him caught the angel off guard.

“Excuse me, sir?”

Zachariah rolled his eyes and peered over his shoulder, wondering who needed his attention at this very important time right now. He did say he cleared his schedule for this moment. But an older gentleman stood in the kitchen with his hands folded together, an apologetic smile on his face for intruding. The other angel wasn’t in the mood. “I’m in a meeting.” He said, gesturing an arm to the two and a half humans that were standing right next to him.

“I’m sorry. I need to speak to these three.” The other angel apologized once more before stating his reason for coming here out of the blue. Zachariah wasn’t all pleased with that excuse when he stepped away from you and the boys and to his own kind, a look of anger settling into his expression. “It’s a bad time, I know. But I’m afraid I have to insist.”

Zachariah scoffed at what he heard, “You don’t get to insist jack squat.”

“No, you’re right. But the boss does.” He said. Zachariah narrowed his eyes as you knew exactly who the other angel was talking about. You shifted your gaze away from the stranger and to the boys, all of you wondering if what he was saying had some truth to it. “His orders.”

“You’re lying.” Zachariah whispered, trying to call some kind of bluff.

“Wouldn’t lie about this.” The angel defended himself, but Zachariah still didn’t seem to believe a single word he was hearing. “Look, fire me, if you want. Sooner or later, he’s gonna come back home. And you know how he is with that whole ‘wrath’ thing.”

Zachariah digested the words for a moment as he tried to brush off the subtle threat with a scoff and looked over at you three, thinking you were going to try and side with the angel. But you remained dead silent. You realized the angel standing across the room was Joshua himself. You didn’t find him, but instead, God personally made sure he found you. Zachariah decided that his time with you was over. You heard the sound of air whooshing around you, all before you felt your feet touching the ground and the angel had disappeared. As you looked around to see where he had went, you noticed right away the house you were standing in was soon gone, and replaced with a much greener sight. Your eyes wandered around to the new change of scenery.

It was a greenhouse...a very big greenhouse. There were all sorts of exotic plants and flowers around you, some were short and nearly went up to your knee, there were others that had grew well past Sam’s head. All of this looked breathtaking as you heard the distant bird chirp from not too far away, but it wasn’t what you were expecting to see. You weren’t exactly overwhelmed like you thought you’d be, but you were underwhelmed, either. The boys took a step down from the few steps that would lead you to Joshua, you followed behind, but your eyes never stopped looking around at the garden.

“This is…” Your eyes trailed up to the glass dome that kept going for a while until it arched off to another part of the garden that was a far distance away. You looked down until you were staring at Joshua with a bit of a confused expression. “This is Heaven’s garden?”

“It’s nice...ish.” Dean shrugged his shoulders, admitting that he wasn’t all that impressed with what God had thought was considered a garden. It was green and big, but that was about it. “I guess.”

“You see what you want to here. For some, it’s God’s throne. For others, it’s Eden. You three, I believe it’s the botanical gardens. You came here on a trip when all of you were younger.” Joshua said. You inspected the place once more, a smile started to spread across your lips at the very faint memory that began to cross your mind. Before you had moved and John had a rough hunt, he would sometimes leave the boys with your mother for watching. She did all sorts of things with the three of you to pass the time, from the playground to the gardens to learn about all sorts of different things, she tried to make the boys feel normal as possible until they were forced back into the hunting lifestyle. But the question burned in the back of the mind of the three of you, and without asking, the angel confirmed. “I’m Joshua.”

“So, you...talk to God?” Sam presumed.

“Mostly, he talks to me.” Joshua said, clearing up a little misinterpretation.

It was exactly what you wanted to hear. You could feel a bit of hope starting to spark back up into you again, this was exactly what you wanted to hear, but you didn't let your excitement cross your face just yet when you glanced over at the boys. "Well, um," You found the words stumbling out of your mouth, suddenly feeling bashful and nervous for what you were about to say. Months of hard work and tragedy has lead you to this point, and there was no turning back from here. "We need to speak to him. It’s important.”

Dean asked the most important question of all, “Where is he?”

“On earth.” Joshua answered not a second later.

“Doing what?”

“I don’t know.”

"Do you know where on earth?" Sam asked, trying to get a straight answer out of the angel.

“No. Sorry.” Joshua said, knowing the man was hopeful for some kind of response that could lead them to a proper whereabout. But no angel knew of where God was, not even the one who spoke to him daily. “We don’t exactly speak face-to-face.”  

“I’m sorry. I don’t get it.” Dean said. “God’s not talking to nobody, so…”

“So why is he talking to me?” Joshua finished the oldest Winchester ’s question. “I sometimes think it’s because I can sympathize—gardener to gardener. And between us, I think he gets lonely.”

“Well,” Dean couldn’t help himself but slip a sarcastic reply in for the big man’s internal issues that he was working through when there was so much around him to keep him occupied. “My heart’s breaking for him.”

“Well, can you at least give him a message for us?” Sam wondered.

“Actually, he has a message for you. ‘Back off.’” Joshua said two words that you never thought you would hear. You could feel that little bubble of hope suddenly pop. It was as if Joshua had grabbed a pin and stuck it right in there. Your face dropped in surprise as you tried to ask him what he meant by that, but the look of shock that sank into your face spoke it all. “He knows already—everything you want to tell him. He knows what the angels are doing. He knows that the apocalypse has begun. He just doesn’t think it’s his problem.”

"Not his problem?" You found yourself suddenly enraged with anger. And without thinking about it, you let a bit of your own wrath slip through. "We've spent months getting this point. We’ve been breaking our backs trying to make sure this world he created is safe. And all he says for our hard work is to ‘back off’? Are you kidding me? That’s not fair!”

“I’m afraid that’s how it is, Y/N. God has done what he believes is enough. God has saved Dean. He put you on that plane. He brought back Castiel. He granted you and Sam salvation in Heaven. And after everything you’ve done, too.” Joshua looked over at the younger Winchester, knowing the man wasn’t exactly a saint. While you were a little bit grateful for the handouts that God had given you in the past, it wasn’t enough. “It’s more than he’s intervened in a long time. He’s finished. Magic amulet or not, you won’t be able to find him.”

"So, what? I'm supposed to be thankful that I was relaxing in Heaven for all those other times I died? I might not be a child of his, but I didn't ask to be born. I didn't ask to be apart of any of this. None of us did. We just want his help." You gritted your teeth, trying to keep the words coming out civil as possible. "He can stop it. He could stop all of it. I mean, he's the reason why any of this even started in the first place."

“I suppose he could help, but he won’t.” Joshua said, trying to make it simple as that. Dean tried to ask once more of why God couldn’t just straighten things out. “Why does he allow evil in the first place? Why did he allow Lucifer to become free from the cage after he disobeyed God’s orders? You could drive yourself nuts asking questions like that.”

“So he’s just gonna sit back and watch the world burn?” Dean questioned the angel.

“I know how important this was to you, Dean.” Joshua said, understanding the man’s sadness and frustration about the answers he was being given after breaking down that night and praying to God for a bit of help. Turns out, he was just wasting his breath. “I’m sorry.”

“Well, forget it. Just another deadbeat dad with a bunch of excuses, right? Nah, I’m used to that.” Dean tried to brush off the situation like something he’d face before. While he let his lips stretch into a half smirk, the pain was clear in his eyes. “I’ll muddle through.”

"Except you don't know if you can this time. You can't kill the devil. You can't find a way to change Y/N. And you're losing faith—in yourself, your brother, and now this. God was your last hope." Joshua said, admitting the oldest Winchester's feelings without missing a beat. Dean shifted his gaze somewhere else as you and his brother found yourself staring at him with sympathetic glances, knowing well enough the man tried so hard to be strong for everyone. "I just...I wish I could tell you something different."

"How do we know you're telling the truth?" You asked the angel.

Joshua furrowed his brow from your accusation, "You think that I would lie?”

“But it’s just,” You quickly were to defend yourself. “You’re not exactly the first angel we’ve met.”

“I’m rooting for you kids. I wish I could do more to help you. I do. But...I just trim the hedges.” He said, shrugging his shoulders at how his hands were tied here. You let out a sigh when Joshua began to walk away. As you asked him what the three of you were to do now. He stopped and turned around to face you. “You go home again. I’m afraid this time won’t be like the last. This time, God wants you to remember.”

+ + +

There was a burst of light, that's all what the three of you remember before coming back to life. The boys still remained as they were, lying on their backsides in the motel bed, as you were lifeless on the motel bed, fallen flat on your face with your arms outstretched in front of you. While the room remained in silence for a moment, Sam was the first to rise from the dead. He could suddenly feel a jolt of power rush through his veins, kick starting his heart as he jumped up in bed, causing him to sit up straight as he inhaled a large breath of air when he felt like all of it had once been knocked out of him. Dean had rose just a few short seconds later. The brothers sat on the bed for a second, inspecting their blood soaked shirts and to see if the bullet wounds they had suffered before were still there, but there was nothing. Both of them slowly looked over at one another to make sure they were all right. But they realized one person was missing.

Sam peered slightly below at the ground, his newly started heart began to pound faster in fear when he noticed you were still there, with no signs of movement. But it happened just a long moment later. Your eyes went wide as you inhaled a deep breath, your body nearly jumping up from the ground at the adrenaline that pumped through you. You leaned yourself against Sam’s bed as you quickly inspected your throat and chest, wanting to make sure that you were in one piece. The three of you sat quietly in the motel room for a few seconds. All of you were soaked in dry blood, but you were alive.

“You guys all right?” Sam asked.

You inhaled a few deep breaths and leaned your head against the mattress, your eyes wandering away from the ceiling and to the man sitting right across from you. Everything that you had witnessed flashed in your mind all at once. "Define 'all right', Sammy."

+ + +

Breaking the news to his own child was the worst thing that you could have ever done. Cas had remained silent for the past five minutes when you told him God didn't want to be apart of this, he done his share. All four of you were on your own. There was no where else to turn, no other people you could talk to. You let out a faint sigh as you crossed your arms over your chest. While the boys stood with their backs turned to the angel as they packed up their belongings, you watched Cas work through his own personal thoughts. You quietly spoke the angel's name after another minute of silence, wanting to make sure he was all right. Well, the best way he could be for a situation like this.

“Maybe…” Cas finally spoke up, but it was denial he was stuck in. “Maybe Joshua was lying.”

"I don't think he was." You said, giving him the unfortunate news. You looked away from the angel when the boys finally broke their gaze away from their mundane task to try and keep themselves busy. All three of you exchanged a look before your eyes drifted to the angel. "I'm sorry."

Cas didn't say anything for a moment. You watched as he pushed himself up from the wall that he'd been leaning on and walk to the middle of the room, his back turned to the three of you. He stood there for a moment with his head turned up to the ceiling, as if this was his last attempt at praying for help. But it wasn't. He wanted to tell his father off. After being a good son for all eternity, all the things he'd done, he was done. Cas was done with faith...with everything.

“You son of a bitch. I believed in…” But the angel didn’t finish his sentence. There was no point. Nobody was listening to him, God stopped listening a long time ago. Cas turned around in his spot on the floor to face the three of you. His expression was flat, like he was drained from all the human emotions he’d been putting himself through over the past year. He reached a hand inside his trench coat pocket and walked over to Dean. He tossed the older Winchester something. Dean unraveled the familiar leather string to see that it was the amulet. “I don’t need this anymore. It’s worthless.”

“Cas. Wait.” Sam called out to the angel, somehow hoping he could talk some sense into him before he could vanish. But with the sound of fluttering wings, Cas was gone when you blinked. The man let out a frustrated sigh and threw whatever he was holding to the bed. He placed his hands on his hips and looked at you. You were trying your hardest to be strong here. “We can still stop all of this, guys.”

“How?” Dean asked.

“I don’t know. But we’ll find it. The three of us will.” Sam knew it was his turn to be the one to pull everyone together when things were getting tough. “We’ll find it.”

Dean didn't say anything. He let his actions speak for himself. You looked over to see that he grabbed his duffel bag and stared at the doorway ahead of him. The man passed you and his little brother without saying a single word and headed for the front door. But he stopped. He waited a moment before making his decision. You watched as he let the necklace slip through his fingers and dangle in the air. When you heard it hit the bottom of the metal trashcan, your heart sank in your chest. He threw away his amulet. The one that his little brother had given him and he threw it out like it was trash.

Sam tried not to let it bother him. He looked away from the sight and pretend like nothing was wrong. He grabbed his duffel bag from the bed and followed in his brother's footsteps out the front door. You wandered to the front door, but before you stepped outside, you stared at the trashcan. No, there was no way you were letting it stay there. Without an ounce of hesitance, you bent down and picked up the amulet. all before slipping into your back pocket. The amulet was more than just a way to find God, it was a symbol for Sam's love for his brother. You weren't going to let them throw it all away for nothing. There was a way out of this, and you were going to find it yourself if you had to.

+ + +

Dreams are the only thing you have anymore for salvation, a little piece of Heaven to call your own. Sometimes they're a bit strange that leaving you to scratch your head for a possibility of how you could've come up with an idea like that, others are of things that make you feel an emotion that you thought had died long ago...happiness, normality. It had been a few days since God had given up on the world, and the three people that had been trying to save the thing that had took him seven days to create to make sure everything was perfect. You tried so hard to make sure that Lucifer, his son that was trying to burn the world to the ground, would finally go back to where he belonged after breaking free. You tried so hard, but even that wasn’t good enough for the Father of Creation. Not even a creation of the Devil could do good. So, you gave up. Just for a little while. You had curled up into some queen sized bed that dozens of other people had laid their heads on, some were probably people on business just wanting to rest their weary heads. You began to wonder as your eyes grew heavy of how many unfaithful spouses had took off their wedding rings on the nightstand to share a night of passion with their mistress. While it was your last thought before you were thrown into a deep slumber, you didn’t dream about unfaithful partners or making business with demons. You had a sweet dream about a normal life that once was. It was a mixture of a memory you had, along with a fantasy twist that you wished happened. There was nothing better than hearing the roar of the Impala’s engine coming from outside and peeking out the window that overlooked your driveway to see Baby, and Dean’s smiling face. He did visit you every so often before you started hunting with the boys to make sure that you were all right or if he needed you to do a search on a monster he was hunting. But one thing lead to another, and the tired hunter was sleeping in your guest bedroom after eating a home cooked meal you insisted on preparing for him. During the quiet nights in your house, you would lay awake in your bed, silently wishing that someone would occupy the other side of your bed to keep your company. While Dean had made you feel a bit safer when he was there, he couldn’t help with the ache in your heart for companionship. But in your dreams, he was there every single night, cuddling you and whispering into your neck of how much he loved you. Your dreams had a bit of a twist to them. While you didn’t necessarily wanted the white picket fence and two kids with Dean, you wanted him close to you after he had a hunt. You wanted to be the one who he could think about when he was saving the world. You wanted to be the one to give him a home that he could look forward to after killing the monster. In your dream, that’s how it worked. He came home to you, Sam and his own girl lived right next door. It was perfect. You had him in your embrace, both of you saying of how lucky you were, nothing could touch what you had. The two of you were stupid in love, the only reason why you were together was because that’s how fate wanted it to be. “I love you, sweetheart.” Dean would say to you in bed while his arm was wrapped around your waist and your head resting on his chest, the man without a shirt. Your little touch to make things a bit better. You heard his heart beating steadily in your ear as he softly brushed his fingers down your arm, sending shivers down your spine. “I love you more than anything. I don’t need anything else to make me a happy man. Just you, me and Sammy.” You didn’t need much to be happy yourself. In your dreams it was just the small things and your close family that brought you joy. As you pushed yourself up from his chest to sit up straight in bed, Dean gave you a smile, his green eyes lighting up even more at the sight of you. He parted his mouth open to say something, probably about how much he loved you again, but no words came out. And just in the snap of someone’s fingers, your sweetest dreams...can turn into your darkest nightmares. The man you had loved with every single ounce of you blinked, and instead of the piercing green eyes you loved staring back at you, it was replaced with something far worse. What was looking back at you was a glowing pair of red eyes with a dark back pupil that looked straight into your soul. It was a color that you’ve never seen before, but you knew just looking at them it sent a shiver up your spine. It was like looking into the face of pure evil. Your mind suddenly kicked into survival mode, but before you could run away, the man roughly grabbed ahold of you by your forearms, pinning you to his lap. He forced you to stare into his eyes, and down the path you’ve was ignorantly ignoring for the past several months. "How long do you think you can hide from me, sweetheart?" It was Dean who was holding you tightly into his embrace and whose lap you were straddling. But it wasn't him. He held you close so you could look at him in those eyes that were making you fearful. As you tried to yank your arms away, he smirked at your pitiful attempt and wrapped his fingers even tighter, ignoring your wince of pain. This was a nightmare, he wouldn't leave bruises. "How long are you going to hide behind this...thing you call a companion? He can’t save you, not the way that I can. You’re mine, Y/N. And I’m gonna find you. One way or another…” 

“You’re not real.” You whispered with a timid voice. Much as you tried to be strong, there was no denying what you saw was complete nightmare fuel. Dean being possessed by the devil himself and wearing a smile that made your skin crawl off the bone. He tilted his head to the side and stared at you with those eyes that were pure evil. This was a position he’d never got to have before, but you thought this was a work of your imagination. Shutting your eyes, you tried to block out everything around you but your own steady heartbeat. “This isn’t real. This is just a dream.” You kept changing the thought underneath your breath as you forced yourself to think about waking up from horrible nightmare. This wasn't happening. The Devil didn't find you, and he sure as hell wasn't possessing Dean. You could feel yourself being jerked forward into reality and back to the motel bed you had crashed on just a few hours ago. You sat up in bed and tried to catch your breath, a thin layer of sweat covered your body from what your mind had come up with for tonight's fear inducing nightmare. You leaned over and reached out to turn on the bedside lamp to have some light in here so you calm yourself down first before thinking anything about grabbing a drink from the tap. As the motel room flooded with light, you threw yourself against the pillows. You shut your eyes for one second. But he was there. “Pleasant dreams, I suppose?” Your eyes ripped open to see his face clear from the light, the mischievous grin you've grown to despise has settled on his face, showing no signs of leaving. Lucifer sat at the edge of your bed with his hands nearly folded in his lap. You know better from the engraving on your ribs that he didn't find you. He's in your head, you're still dreaming. “Leave me alone.” You hissed at the Devil himself, thinking the words you spoke with an icy tone and a conflicting mousy voice would be enough for him to vanish from your sight. But when you blinked, he remained as where he was. “I said, leave me alone.”

“You don't suppose you’ll tell me where you and Sam are. I’ve been looking awfully long for the two of you since we departed ways.” Lucifer said, hoping if he was nice you would just give him your exact location. You said nothing, your hardening glare was the only answer you would give him. “And here I come as a friend. I thought if you did something for me, I would something for you. I know you have questions, Y/N. I have the answers.” He watched as your facial expression changed ever so slightly, he could see the curiosity began to overtake the fear that settled in your eyes. “You want to know about Katerina. Ask me any question, and I’ll answer it—honestly.” You looked at him with a skeptical look, “You came here tonight because of that?” “Maybe. I heard the cat was out of the bag when you and your boys came back from the seventies. Michael visited your little boy toy, told him about Katerina. Thought I’d do the same.” Lucifer said, shrugging his shoulders as if he visited you often for casual chats. You furrowed your brow and opened your mouth slightly, ready to ask him if he was going to tell the truth, he answered you before you could even get the words out. “I told you, Y/N. I would never lie to you. Scouts honor.” “Who is she?” You found yourself suddenly not so afraid anymore when he promised you answers about a woman that people said that looked exactly like you. Despite all the research and little information that Dean knew, nothing of importance came up on her. “How come nobody’s ever heard of her? Not even Cas?” "That's my father's fault. He's made sure she stayed our family's little secret. Only a few angels and what you know as demons remembered her...before Michael got his hands on her and claimed her." Lucifer's voice dropped from the mention of his older brother, your eyes dropped down to his fists to see that they were clenching.  You pulled the sheets closer as you backed closer to the headboard, thinking putting a bit more distance between the both of you would somehow protect you when you were reminded this was the Devil. "Michael wasn't lying when he told Dean about her. She was beautiful, and in more than just her complexion. She was a kind soul...she didn't even judge me. Why, she was the only one who tried to listen to me and understand where I came from. Katerina...she made me stop giving the cold shoulder to humans for a little while. Maybe if they were more like her, perhaps they weren't so...filthy.” You furrowed your brow slightly at what you heard, “What happened to change your mind?” "Michael. He got what he wanted. I tried not to let it bother me, but it did. And they just kept coming up. Soon a few turned into a dozen. If that wasn’t bad enough, my father wanted us not only share the planet with them, but he wanted me to bow down to them. You know what comes next. I refused. Michael, the good big brother, threatened me. He—He chose her over me.” The Devil let out a bitter laugh, his lips stretched into a smile, showing off Nick’s lines around his mouth. "I tried not to hate my brother, but he was such a...goody two shoes. He wouldn't listen to me. So, I did the next logical step. I rebelled. But...I started with my brother first. I wanted to do something that made him angry. Not all at once, something nice and slow. Something even he couldn't fix.” It took all of you not to sympathize for the Devil, but there was a small fraction of you that didn’t freeze your heart to him when he talked about this woman. But you knew what came next. He decided if he couldn’t have something, nobody could. “You changed her into a demon.” You said without a drop of hesitance. And just like that, you were back to staring at him like the enemy that he was. “You forced her into something she didn’t want because of your hatred to your brother.” "Did you know Katerina means 'pure'? She was, for a short while.” Lucifer didn't take much thought to what you had to say, he kept going. “She would meet me in secret and tell me stories and I would give her everything she desired. You are a lot like her, Y/N. Both of you have a hunger for something they could never feed you. Knowledge of the good and bad. What God wouldn't show her, I did.” “But you—” “I didn't do anything that she didn't want.” The Devil cut you off, his tone becoming sharp as a razor blade. You inhaled a quiet breath as you backed away from him a little more from his sudden stature that turned defensive. While you knew he was nothing more than a hallucination, there was still the fear that he was real, and it was a lie you were telling yourself to feel safe. “So maybe I did plant a few ideas in her head. Could you blame me? She was better than my brother, she needed someone who would give her the respect and power she deserved.” “Was that before you started messing with her soul?” You asked him. This time, it was your turn to speak to him with a cold tone as your arms crossed over your chest. “Did I do anything to to make you the way you are today?” He answered your question with another. He smiled again when you went silent. “It's a natural instinct. I just simply made it stronger. She wasn't going to be doomed for a fate after Eve took the apple. So I started with her first. I made her the mother of my big plan.” You looked at the Devil with a bit of a skeptical look from what he said. You could feel yourself starting to shake slightly from what you were about to ask. “...Mother of what?” “She was going to be the best thing I ever made. Not even Lilith came close to how I felt about her. I was so close…But Michael. Do you know what he did? He killed the woman he loved because she was different. And God made sure she remained a secret.” Lucifer explained all you needed to know about the woman, and how she was connected to you from what he said next. “But I swore, if I could bring just her memory back, I would. And after centuries, I did it.” You remained confused at what he was saying, but all it took was the look that he was giving you, the same exact one he did when he first saw you after being broken out of the cage. You weren't just the reason why he was free, you were a reincarnation of the woman he lost. Sam was the vessel for Lucifer as Dean was for Michael, both of them had their personalities down to a T. You were Katerina, the woman that each angel loved, but in the end, was doomed to a terrible fate. But instead of having you die at the hands of his brother Michael, he was doing all he could to make you the perfect monster to end the world. All the color in your face drained as you suddenly wanted to get out of here. But your body wouldn't move. His gaze somehow kept you pinned in place. The Devil wasn't done just yet. He had so much more to say. "Do you know how long I've been waiting for this, Y/N? We've worked so hard to make sure all the pieces were put in the right spot. It's you. It's always been about you.” Lucifer pushed himself to his feet, but he remained at the edge of the bed. He looked you directly in the eye for what he was about to say next. “I want you to be the one." “No. Whatever it is, no.” You tried to get out of bed and walk away from him. While he didn't follow, his eyes did. He knew you were his trapped prey, all of this was just play for him. “Leave me alone.” "You belong to me, Y/N. It's only going to be a matter of time until you turn into a demon. You won't be saying no to me when you are one. And together we're going to win." Lucifer persuaded you with a softer tone. You found yourself backing away from him, and with each step you took, he did as well. "We're going to rule over this dark, scorched planet. There will be no more pain, no more lives to save. You can live in blissfulness. Just like how it was always meant to be." You flinched when he reached out a hand, only he softly cupped your chin, his thumb resting behind your ear. He stared down at you with a smile. "Creator with his creation.” "You're a freak. That's what you are." You quickly ripped his arm away from you as you tried to back away from even further. You stared at the angel in front of you, suddenly wanting to get away from here. What you were hearing was worse than anything you could imagine. It didn't make sense...but you knew it did. All of it did. "It's never going to happen. I'm not your property. I'm not some replacement for some chick you tried to turn crazy. It's never going to happen." "What you do you think you're going to accomplish in the next few months? Every single lead you tried had been nothing but a dead end. Another disappointment. God's not here to save you. He doesn't care about any of us." Lucifer reminded you of the bitter truth you've been trying to forget. You clenched your jaw to the point it felt like your teeth were about to break. A mixture of anger and fear suddenly washed over you. Lucifer gently reached out his hand, and without realizing it, he pulled the amulet out from the shirt you were wearing. He let it dangle. "And you can keep trying to save these boys, but you can't. Each of you have a role to play. It's in your blood, Y/N. You can't change their fate.” "What if I could?" The words came out from your mouth a few seconds after hearing about bloodlines. While fate meant Sam and Dean were supposed to be the true vessel, it didn't mean an archangel had to be with them specifically. "What if, instead of Dean, there was another brother who could take his place? He's dead...but do you think it could work?" "What about poor, little Sammy?" Lucifer asked you, his eyes narrowing slightly from what you were trying to do. "Who's going to take his place?" "Me. I'll do it. Make a demon...do whatever you have to to make me suitable. I want to be your vessel. Not Sam.” You didn't realize the words fell out from your mouth before it was too late, but you weren't going to take them back. You stood a little bit straighter as you inhaled a breath. It wasn't your first time making a deal for the sake of the Winchester brothers, but you never had the chance to make a deal with the actual Devil. Lucifer crossed his arms over his chest as he tilted his chin up. But you could tell he was thinking, and from the little smirk starting to spread across his lips, he thought you were finally cornered. You weren’t done just yet. “Only on a few conditions.” “I didn’t say it could—” “Please. I’m begging you. You’re right, okay? I don't know what else to do." You admitted to the Devil as you finally let your guard down to him. You didn't have a God to pray to, there was no more running. This was final chance. You stood in front of Lucifer with eyes that were starting to glaze over as you pleaded to change fate. Just for the people that you loved more than anything. "Don't drag them into this. You want me, I'm yours." 

"Music to my ears." Lucifer shut his eyes as his lips stretched into a grin from what you were doing. He knew it was going to be a matter of time until you submitted to him. "And I've been hearing whispers from my fellow siblings. They're getting antsy. Perhaps I'll send your idea their way...see if they take the bait." "I'll be your vessel—only on three conditions. I want to be the one to tell the angels. Let’s say in two weeks.” You said, bargaining what you could. “There's one in particular that could help. His name is Zachariah. He can help me with bringing someone back from the dead.” “And what’s your next request?” Lucifer asked, his brow rising in curiosity. "Doesn’t matter who wins. Sam and Dean get a happy ending. Neither one of them are going to suffer" You said, giving your second command. Lucifer shrugged his shoulders and decided that it was fair enough. You were constructing a whole other plan for this, and he was liking how you were thinking. “You said you would never lie to me. Right?” Lucifer nodded his head in agreement, "That's right." “Is there really a way to kill you?” You asked him the question that had been burning in the back of your mind since the younger Winchester freed him from the cage. You'd been chasing your tails for months hunting down the colt to see if that would work, and while it didn't do anything permanent, nothing was immortal. Everything had a weakness. Lucifer found himself grinning from ear to ear at your question, but you stared at him with a deadpan expression. He let out a few huffs of laughter. "Answer my question. Is there a way to kill you? Or at least send you back to the cage?" Lucifer stopped laughing after a few moments when he realized you weren't kidding. He slowly shut his mouth and contemplated if he wanted to answer your question. The Devil stared at you for a moment, knowing from your devious mind, you would find out some way. And you’ve done so much for him already. So, he decided to throw you a bone. "Yes." He answered for you. It was one little word that seemed like it was the best thing you ever heard. You tried to keep your composure and not have the Devil call your bluff. You looked away for a moment when you tried to keep the thought out of your mind, the one which would kick start a plan to get yourself out of this deal you made. But before you could stare at the floor, your eyes suddenly jumped to the angel standing in front of you when his hand wrapped around your throat. He didn't hold you with a tight grip, it was loose, but enough of a shock to make you stare directly at him. "Don't do something you might regret, Y/N. Making a deal with the Devil comes with far more worse consequences than any sort of torture in hell. When I come for you, you better be ready for me. You’re mine.” 

+ + + Your eyelids ripped open as you felt yourself suddenly be thrust forward in bed, feeling yourself emerge from a deep slumber. You placed a hand to rest against the bed as you looked around the motel room, trying to look at the surroundings and figure out what was going on. It was early morning from how the sun was beginning to rise and the birds chirp. You felt rested for once, or maybe it was fear that was making all your senses on point. You took a sweep of the motel room to see that it was empty, you were alone. But you knew he was here last night, in your dreams. You slowly looked over at the dresser's mirror that was just at the other side of the room, staring directly back at you, your reflection showed a woman who looked like she had seen her worst fear. And you did. Everything you wanted to know last night became clear. But it came with a price...your freedom, your soul. The fate of the world, too. "What have you done, Y/N?" You mumbled underneath your breath. "What have you done this time?"

[disregardcanon]

in honor of my sapphic marathon, here is the “ Iris West becomes a legend, has a fling with Sara Lance, and saves herself and Barry from Savitar” fic that i abandoned forever ago. 

i’ve been talking about this fic i never finished for a month (because it’s literally been a month since i wrote most of this thing). i was really mad at barry in between the episode where they Broke up and the musical episode, and i always deal with that by shipping the character’s love interest with someone else to spite them. 

it evolved into more of a temporary deal than the hard and fast “iris joins the legends FOREVER” that it was when i started, but i just lost so much momentum after the musical episode fixed everything that i couldn’t fix this up to be ao3 material. hope that you guys enjoy it here. 

implied atomwave because reasons 

"You want to join us?" "Temporarily," Iris says, "I just need a break." "We ain't a cruise service," Mick says. "What Mr. Rory means to say is that what we do is dangerous," Rip says. "We can’t just pick up tourists, Miss West”  "I'm going to die in two months at home," Iris says, "I'm not looking for a luxury vacation, I just want a break." 

“A break?” Rip says, “I’m not sure that this is the place for you.” 

"I want to make a difference somewhere," Iris says, "and if I can figure out how to save myself." She shrugs. Sara nods. She likes what Iris is saying. "Alright Iris," Sara says, "welcome to the Legends." "Get out of my way, dimples," Mick fucking Rory tells her. "Aw, he gave you a nickname already," Ray says, "that means he likes you." "Do not," Mick says. "Uh huh." "I don't like any of ya." "None of us, huh,” which almost sounds like Ray’s prompting a response. Mick rolls his eyes at that.  "You know I like you." Then he pauses, and looks thoughtful for a second.  "Sometimes," Mick says as he walks out of the room. "He likes you," Ray promises, "I'm his partner, I know these things." then he follows Mick out of the room. Iris sends Jax a confused look. "Wait, are those two-" "No one knows what those two are," Jax says, "we stopped asking months ago." That explains absolutely nothing. "Do you have any self defense experience?" "'Not much. I wanted to be a cop when I was younger," Iris says, "but my dad talked me out of it. I don't know how to defend myself, to be honest." "I mean, I'm pretty good with a gun, but without a weapon I'm useless." So Sara Lance teaches Iris self defense. Sara wishes that she'd met Iris earlier in life, when she was less fucked up and Iris was less tied down. She thinks that she could have loved her, before the League. Before Nyssa and dying and whatever the hell she felt for Snart. Iris is exactly the sort of girl she'd have fallen for back then. Iris fits right in with the legends. She takes her journalistic skills into the field and helps solve crimes with her deduction and interpersonal skills, and she writes accounts of all of their trips and gets interviews with people, normal civilians and people of historical significance. She and Nate have a blast working on the historical archives and updating them and figuring out which bits are wrong or right. "It's just frustrating, you know? I know he's just trying to protect me, but I'm not just a damsel in distress. This was bullshit back when Spider-Man did it." Sara cracks a smile. "It never works. The bad guy doesn't forget that person's important to them, and it just makes everyone unhappy." "I know," Iris says, "that's what I keep telling myself." Then her look darkens a bit. "What is it?" "It's nothing," she says in a voice that lets Sara knows it's definitely not nothing. "Iris." "It's just," Iris says, her voice losing confidence, taking on a weird half joking half nervous tons, "I just, I've been thinking that he doesn't even love me anymore." "Iris-" And one thing leads to another and they're in bed, and Iris is freaking out because does it count as cheating if you're broken up and you’re pretty sure you’ll get back together but you don’t KNOW and Sara's like we can stop if you want, we don't have to keep going but Iris kisses her and then the world falls into place. Sara eventually looks into Iris's future. She knows that Iris is avoiding it, and that she thinks she can find a solution if she avoids it long enough. Sara runs through every scenario, and they all end the same. In every version of reality, she dies. Iris West dies, and then the Flash rushes into a hapless, rage-blind fight with Savitar. He dies too, and Kid Flash takes up his mantle. Iris walks in on Sara replaying it. "Oh my god," Iris whispers.   "Iris," Sara says gently. "Is that the future, right now?" Iris asks. Sara nods her head. "What if I change something?" Iris asks, "what if I came back in October or something?" "It's the same in every version, Iris, no matter what you do. No matter when you come back." "Every version?" Iris asks, voice hollow. "Yes," Sara says, "every version." "What if I never went back?" Iris suggests, frantically. "We both know you don't want that." Iris has carved herself a place with the legends, but she doesn't need it. She has family and friends and a fiancé to get back to, and that's not even mentioning her career. The rest of the legends have little to nothing to come back to, but Iris left a full life behind her. Sara won't let her give it up, no matter how much they all want her to stay. "We'll figure out something, I promise," Sara tells her. "The spear of destiny," Iris says, "do you think it could rewrite my fate?" "I don't know if that's a good idea," Sara says. "Do you have a better one?" And no, Sara doesn't. "No!" Thawne shouts, but Iris grasps the spear tighter, and feels herself floating off the ground. She opens her eyes, and sees the shocked faces of her friends. Eobard Thawne looks up at her in awed horror. "Eobard Thawne," she says, her voice taking on an echoing, other-worldly quality. "Iris West," he says, his voice cracking, "please, save me." "Why shouldn't I erase you where you stand?" "Please," he begs, "I can tell you about you and Barry's original timeline, your children, your career. I can help you defeat Savitar." Iris laughs. Like she needs Thawne's help to defeat Savitar, when she holds the power to rewrite reality in her hands. "You killed Barry's mom to spite him," Iris growls, "I should erase you and all of the damage you've done." "Iris," Rip says, "you have no idea the effects that could have on the time stream." "Remember the effects of Flashpoint," Stein says, "you felt those effects for months. Imagine what this would do." Iris can imagine what it would do, though. It would make the world a better place. God, she just wants to do it.  "Iris," Sara says, "I know what it's like to take a life, to take too many lives. It sits with you. You don't want that weighing on you." Iris can feel the truth in their words, and knows that she can't erase Thawne from the time stream. "Please," Thawne says, "I'll do anything just- just save me, Iris." She's not going to erase him. That doesn't mean she has to save him. Iris holds the spear of destiny in her grubby little fingers, and rewrites history. "I'm alive," he says, full of shock. "You are," Iris says. "But I don't feel solid," he says, "I don't- I don't-" Then he spots the time wraith approaching from his left. His eyes widen. "You didn't save me," he says, and he wraps his hands around her throat. "Savitar's not around to kill you anymore," he says, squeezing a little harder, "guess I'll have to finish the job for him." She chokes, and she hears the rest of her Team scrambling for their weapons. "Drop dimples or I'll light you up-" Thawne rolls his eyes. "If you try to light me up, Rory, you'll just get her. I'll be gone in a Flash." "Speaking of Flashes, who should I kill next, Miss West, your brother or your ex?" She sputters, and he laughs. "Guess it doesn't matter, you'll be dead either way." She sees a flicker behind him, something ghostly, and she feels something bubble in her throat. "You brought this on yourself," he says, and the time wraith descends upon him. He drops her harshly to the ground, and he screams as he tries to run. But the time wraith digs it's claws into him and drags him into the void. "What just happened?" Jax asks. "Looks like dimples saved the day," Mick says, which is apparently an explanation. Sara holds out a hand and helps Iris up, letting her lean on her for support. "Yeah," she says, "she did." Iris almost doesn't want to leave. "You sure you wanna leave, dimples? Sure the Captain can treat ya better than the Flash." "Don't pressure her," Ray says, "she'll come back if she wants to." "I'll miss you too," she says, rolling her eyes. "The archives will miss you," Nate says. Amaya rolls her eyes. "He means he'll miss you. I will too." "You're the Captain, Sara," Amaya says, "it's different." "You know you'll always have a place with us, right?" Sara asks. Iris nods. She knows it, and she feels so much better knowing that. 

"I won't apologize for sleeping with someone else while you were Lois Lane zoning me," she tells him. "I won't ask you to," he promises. "How do you do it?" Iris asks him. Barry sends her a confused look.  "Live with the power to change history, and never do it?" "Well,” Barry says, and Iris rolls her eyes as she remembers Flashpoint. 

"You just changed it once," she amends. "I only had the spear for a minute and I almost rewrote everything," she admits into his back, "and if I had it constantly, I don't know if I could help myself." 

"Hey," he says, "you are the best person I know. You did the right thing, even though you didn’t want to. You probably wouldn’t have changed things the one time.” Iris doesn’t know if that’s true, but she decides to let the matter lie. It’s easier that way.  "I am pretty great," she says, "the legends all said so."

[lostpensioner]

All The Gang Are Here.

What had started out as a perfectly normal counselling session gradually turned into an unexpectedly social occasion.  By now I was very familiar with the idea that there was more than one Me.  But I had not been formally introduced to any of them as yet.  I had talked about them in the third person, in an abstract way. But this evening I was about to sit in a room with several of them and have a bit of a natter.

My Room (I had fallen very quickly into the habit of thinking of the counselling room as My Room) contained two comfortable armchairs which faced each other, one for the counsellor and one for me (or maybe I should say “The Mes”).  Beside the counsellor there was an equally comfortable sofa.  By now I had already spoken to the couch many times.  I had been encouraged to visualize aspects of myself, or other real people who featured in my life story, sitting on that couch.  I could tell them things I’d always wanted to say to them and they, very obligingly, would sit there and listen.  They frequently ended up apologising to me for the many scars they had inflicted on my psyche. I would usually end up graciously accepting their apologies. There is, I firmly believe, an endearingly magnanimous side to my nature.

However, I had never sat in that couch.  Tonight, all that would change.  My counsellor, noticing that I had become a bit “stuck” in my communication with my Inner Wounded Child, invited me to sit in the couch and adopt that role for myself.  Sceptically, I dragged myself out of my comfortable and comforting seat and trudged across the floor.  I threw myself down on the couch, feeling self-conscious and foolish.  I’ve never enjoyed any sort of role-playing activities.

“OK Des,” My Counsellor prompted me.  “I want you to be your Inner Wounded Child.  Now look over there”.  She gestured to the chair I’d just vacated.  “Describe the man you see there.”  This task proved to be surprisingly easy.  I had no trouble seeing myself sitting in that chair.  I began, quite unfalteringly, to describe a rather shabby little man in a grubby raincoat.  Although he was not a tall man he insisted on making himself look even less significant by hunching himself down into the armchair.  “Is there anything you would like to say to him?” she prompted.  Neither I nor Inner Wounded Child spoke.  We hadn’t understood which one of us was being addressed.  After a long pause, which would have felt very awkward out in the real world, but was considered perfectly normal in My Room, she nodded towards Inner Wounded Child.  He was delighted to be given a chance to speak and pretty quickly warmed to the task of telling me a few home truths.

Apparently, I had abandoned him when he was around twelve years old.  Since then, he informed me, I had pretty much left him to solve all of our problems in his own childish way.  “Where have you been?” he demanded.  “Why haven’t you stepped up to the plate and taken some of the pressure off me?”  He was getting a bit shrill, as only an Inner Wounded Child can.  He tried to fix me with a stare which was carefully calibrated to convey hurt, desperation and blame in equal measure, while still leaving a faint whiff of olive branch in the air.

But his stare missed my eyes by a mile.  I had quickly run back to my original armchair in order to respond.  And when I got there a strange thing happened.  Instead of trying to meet Inner Wounded Child’s stare I found myself staring angrily at the opposite end of the couch. “What are you looking at, Des?” I heard My Counsellor asking, not in her usual calm counsellor tone, but with a genuine note of surprise in her voice.  “It’s Him!”  I pointed at the far end of the couch, as if my gesture needed no further explanation. “Who?” she asked again.  I didn’t look towards her, but I’m pretty sure her head was cocked to one side, in the way a dog cocks his head when confronted with the unexpected.  “It’s my…” I think quite possibly I paused here for dramatic effect. “Inner Critic!”

My Counsellor said nothing.  She didn’t need to.  We’d talked about this chap quite a lot already.  Apparently he was an internalised version of all the people who’d ever put me down when I was little.  My family, my teachers, religion, the whole bloody society: they’d all chipped in to buy me this Inner Voice who could keep me in my place when they weren’t around.  He was like my own inner Satnav who would always be there to bring me, safely and reassuringly, back to Hell whenever I may have accidently strayed onto the false path of thinking I was just as good as anyone else.

I marshalled my facial features into an expression that left him in no doubt that I’d had it up to here with him, that I would no longer let him push me around.  “I’m my own man!” my eyes screamed.  “I’m a good man.  I’m a capable man. I may not be perfect but I’m a human being and I deserve to be treated with respect.”

“Excuse me,” came a voice from the chair I had vacated. My Inner Wounded Child made that irritating gesture that young people make nowadays when they feel they’re being ignored.  “Am I invisible?”

I ignored him and kept my fixed stare where it deserved to be fixed.  My Inner Critic didn’t miss a beat.  His body language suggested that my irruption had caused him to feel merely a mixture of boredom, scorn and mild irritation.  He didn’t immediately meet my gaze.  He gave me the impression that my gaze wasn’t important enough to be met. He did that thing that bored, scornful, mildly irritated people do so well.  He carefully examined his finger nails as if they were the only cause for concern on his current horizon.  Then, as if by accident, his eyes strayed in my direction.  When they finally reached me, he did a sort of double take, designed to create the impression that he had hitherto been unaware of my presence in the room.

That did it. Something inside me snapped. Then the something decided that mere snapping wasn’t an adequate response to the situation and decided to explode instead:

“Don’t you dare look at me like that,” I thundered. “Who the hell do you think you are? You think you can inhabit my psyche for sixty odd years and then look at me, your landlord, as if we’ve never met before!”

Then I did that thing belligerent people do. I spluttered, harrumphed and then suddenly switched to body-language mode, having exhausted my stock of belligerent words. I toyed with the idea of repeating “Don’t you dare!” maybe several times. It can never hurt to repeat that phrase during an outburst of wounded dignity. But I was somewhat breathless after all the spluttering and harrumphing and opted for the Marcel Marceau approach.

I pierced him, as one does in stories, with a withering expression. My eyes bored through him, because I lack the imagination to come up with an original metaphor for what my eyes were doing. I began to realise that I wasn’t very good at this whole indignation lark. Panic damn well nearly decided to set in. I struggled to assess my options.

Fortunately, my Inner Child relieved me of the need to take any further action. He suddenly launched himself across the room and landed forcefully on top of my Inner Critic. A whole lifetime of pent-up rage chose that moment to unpent itself. Since we’re sticking with clichés, he rained down blow after blow on his arch nemesis. His arch nemesis obligingly absorbed the blows rather than opting to avoid, parry or return them. As a professional Inner Critic, he would have very much liked to pore scorn on his assailant’s lack of pugilistic skill, but it’s hard to be arch when you’re being beaten to a pulp.

I sat speechless. My eyes darted from the violent whirlwind to my counsellor’s eyes and back again. I felt somewhat let down by my psych-lodgers. I wanted to apologise for their churlish behaviour, grab them both by the scuff of the neck and drag them out to my car. In fact, so committed to that course of action was I that the only thing that could stop me was my complete lack of physical, mental and moral courage.

Fortunately for me, my Inner Adult chose that very moment to make an appearance. He took control of the situation, quietly and calmly, with all the authority and self-possession of a headmaster. He said nothing. He merely stood in the centre of the room, arms folded, glaring at the back of my Inner Child’s head. How is it that when a headmaster of exceptional authority and self-possession glares at the back of your head you just know they are there.  They don’t need to place themselves in your line of vision or use their voice. They somehow manage to fill a room with their extremely adult presence.

Inner Child stopped what he was doing. He didn’t immediately turn around. He didn’t need to.

Two minutes later I found myself sitting sheepishly at the wheel of my car. Beside me sat my Inner Adult, with his eyes fixed calmly on the road ahead of him. I felt, as always, totally inadequate in his presence. I checked my mirror. Behind me I could see my Inner Critic holding his pulverised nose and glaring at my Inner Child, who didn’t know whether to cry or exult in his victory. He had won this battle, but I could see in his eyes that he knew as well as I did that the war was far from over.