#I THINK it’s more ‘if you waver from the fate dealt you you hurt other people’

[fellhellion]

It’s time for your hourly tunes thoughts on miguel but like. So interesting to me that there’s an element of self-centredness to his empathy regarding people and situations that hit too close to his guilt and anger at himself.

It’s not as if he’s utterly emotionally distanced from the average person simply by fact of the multiverse; he cries out when the renaissance Vulture strikes the helicopter and sounds genuinely distressed.

But I think the reason he at first denies Jess recruiting Gwen is strictly because of her relation to Miles, since there’s other Spiders around the same age in the society. But I also think the reason he finally relents is because she reminds him of himself when she says in that small unsure voice that she has no idea how to fix this. That’s what his weary response about joining the club says to me at least. And he sends her home because she voices a doubt I think he has himself.

His “Do you want to find out?” response to Gwen’s question of if he’s certain Miles will cause harm by changing canon doesn’t exactly ring of certain knowledge to me, only fear and anger at the possibility of it all happening again.

Regarding Miles as well, I think both the anger and eventual empathy regarding Miles losing his father are both tainted by Miguel seeing himself in each aspect. He’s utterly unable to evaluate Miles’s actions separately his own trauma.

[somewhatgreatexpectations]

To Die For (Wanda Maximoff/ Reader)

Hello! It is with great joy and a little bit of sadness that I present you all with the final part of “Love Goes”. This part in particular is inspired by Sam Smith’s “To Die For”. Pieces from Endgame are used but very little. 

Summary: The aftermath of Endgame, how will Wanda navigate and what will happen to Y/n. 

“I long for you, just a touch of your hand. You don't leave my mind. Lonely days I'm feeling like a fool for dreaming… Sunshine living on a perfect day while my world's crashing down.”

Hope. That was all Wanda had left. She knew that she couldn’t let it waver for even a moment. Allowing the hope within her to waver would be the same as accepting defeat. Accepting that you weren’t coming back. That was something she would never allow herself to believe. 

Like you told her, you and her were a happy ending. It’s the only ending she could ever envision for herself. The only life she wanted. The only life she’d accept. You and her. Together. Happily.

It had only been a week since the fateful battle and you had been transferred to a S.W.O.R.D. facility since. What worried Wanda most was that you still hadn’t woken up and hadn’t shown much progression since arriving. 

She could still feel you though. 

Wanda would allow herself glimpses into your mind and could see the vibrancy that still existed within. Your heart was still beating, and your mind was still your own. Even if you weren’t awake, you were still you.

The thought brought comfort to Wanda despite the circumstances. It kept hope alive in her heart.

It was only a matter of time until you were awake and in her arms again. At least that’s what she kept telling herself. 

The situation could have been worse though and she knew that. Shortly after you were transferred to the facility she learned the full details of how exactly Thanos was defeated. How Tony and Natasha had given their lives in exchange for the outcome. As much as the news saddened her, she couldn’t help but feel a selfish sense of relief that you hadn’t been dealt the same fate. 

Her life – her heart - felt as though it was hanging in the balance. You were all she had. All she wanted. If she lost you she knew there would be no recovery for her. She’d drown. Sink to the bottom with no chance of resurfacing if you weren’t there to pull her back up. 

The warmth of your hand in her own anchored her. It always did, but not as much as being in your arms, or hearing your voice. “I’m drowning.” She whispered against your hand. “I’m drowning, Y/n. I need to hear your voice, see you open your eyes, and have you hold me and tell me everything is going to be okay. I’m drowning, and you can’t save me until you wake up.” Her lips trembled slightly against your hand as a single tear fell down her cheek.

The days and nights had blurred together for her. Both of which were spent unwaveringly at your side. The only disruptions often came in the form of varying people in the facility checking your vitals or injecting new medications into your IV that they informed her should wake you up soon. 

Besides the worry and fear she constantly felt, there was a sense of bitterness that the only one who had come to see you or her during your time in the facility was Fury. That was only when you were still at S.H.I.E.L.D’s location. It was upsetting to her that Steve had yet to visit you considering the history you two shared and how close you two had always been. Considering how you had been willing to risk your life for him on multiple occasions. 

Today was Tony’s funeral and she was reluctantly leaving your side to pay her respects for a short while. Also, to give Rogers a piece of her mind.

When the funeral concluded she wandered over to the lake to collect her thoughts and emotions. Taking in the beautiful day around her, a stark contrast to how she felt internally. The perfect day felt wrong when it still felt like her world was crashing down within her. 

As she was staring out the lake, preparing herself for what she wanted to tell Steve, Clint walked up to her. “Hey, kid.” 

Wanda kept a neutral face and merely nodded at him. “Hello.”

There was hesitation in the way Clint stopped at her side. “You have every right to not want to talk to me right now.” He began seriously, his head ducked shamefully. “I wanted to go visit Y/n… Check on you. I did. I just-… It’s been hard accepting that Nat’s gone, you know? It’s not an excuse for not being there. It’s just where my head was. I’m sorry, Wanda.” 

As much as Wanda wanted to ignore him, she knew she couldn’t. “I understand.” She replied softly, her gaze still on the lake before her. 

“I wish there was a way that I could let her know that we won. That we did it.” Clint admitted quietly to her.

Wanda shifted her gaze to him. “She knows.” There was a small pause. “They both do.” Despite not being awake, she liked to believe that you knew.

Clint wrapped a comforting arm around her and she leaned into the embrace. 

“Wanda.” A somber voice caught her attention as she turned to find Steve standing there with his hands folded behind his back. “A word?”

Clearly not wanting to be caught in the crossfire, Clint stepped back. “I think that’s my cue to go.” He pressed a kiss to the top of Wanda’s head. “I’ll do better, okay? Let me know if you need anything. I’ll be by to visit Y/n soon.” Wanda nodded slightly at his words as he walked away. 

When Clint was out of the vicinity, Steve stepped into his place. Wanda’s jaw clenched. She was more upset at him than anyone. She knew if roles were reversed you would have been uncompromisingly by his side.

“What do you want?” She asked, her tone cold.

Steve’s face remained neutral despite her tone. “How is she?”

A bitter laugh escaped her lips at his question. “How is she?” she shook her head in disbelief. “You have a lot of nerve asking that when you’ve had a whole week to go see for yourself.”

A heavy sigh escaped his lips. “Look, Wanda, I understand you’re upset with me but I-“

Wanda rounded on him, her eyes livid. “Upset? I am far passed upset, Rogers. I’m furious. Y/n needed you and you abandon her. She would have done anything for you! She idolized you!”

Each of Wanda’s words impacted Steve, she could see that, but she didn’t stop. He took it. “She thought you were her family and you couldn’t even be bothered to go see for yourself if she’s okay! You don’t even care-“

“Enough! That’s not true!” Steve roared. The accusation that he didn’t care seemingly being the final straw. Wanda recoiled in surprise. “I feel guilty, okay? I feel like the only reason that she’s in there in the first place is because of me. I couldn’t face her. I didn’t deserve to.” His volume didn’t lower as the emotions he was holding in finally boiled over. 

“You know she wouldn’t have blamed you.” Wanda eventually replied, her tone still clipped.

Steve rubbed a hand down his face. “I know, but I do. I blame myself. She was trying to protect me, and she only felt like she had to protect me because I couldn’t stop him the first time. She got hurt because I couldn’t get to her fast enough. She’s my family too.” 

As much as she wanted to be angry with him, she found it much more difficult when she learned of the guilt that seemed to be weighing heavily on him. “You know Y/n would have done that either way.” She confessed quietly. “She would have tried to stop him regardless of who she was defending. That’s who she is.”

A weak nod was his only response. Wanda wasn’t sure if he believed her. “How has she been?” Steve repeated, hoping for a genuine answer this time.

“She still hasn’t woken up.” Wanda began unsteadily. “They keep injecting her with new serums everyday saying that each one will wake her up, but it never does.”

Steve closed his eyes at the information, his expression distressed for just a moment until he schooled his features and put on a brave face for Wanda. “She’s going to wake up. I know she will.” 

Hearing the words she had been telling herself from someone else brought Wanda a small sense of comfort. “I know she will too.” She turned to him. “I’m going to get back to her now, she needs me. Go see her.” 

“I will.” He nodded firmly, his words definitive. “I have to return the stones in an hour and try and see if I can undo something. As soon as I do that I’ll be immovably by her side. I’ll stay with you until she wakes up. You have my word. She has my word.” There was purpose in his voice. 

Wanda quirked her lips up slightly at him and nodded without a word. She knew he meant what he said. She walked off to her car to begin the drive back to S.W.O.R.D’s medical branch of the facility. ___________________ Her heart dropped when she entered your room, only to be met with an empty bed. On numb legs, she ran out and stopped the first worker she saw. “Y/n Y/ln. Where is she? She was here just an hour ago.” 

The employee looked around nervously. “She’s been moved. I believe it would be in your best interest to speak to the director.”

Wanda’s brow furrowed in confusion. “The director? Why?”

“His office is located on the second floor, third door on the left.” The employee informed her meekly before scurrying away. 

Practically running, Wanda reached the office in minutes, throwing the door open. “Ms. Maximoff.” The man who she presumed to be the director greeted her, an unnerving smile on his face.

“Where is she?” Wanda demanded, not caring about anything other than being reunited with you. “Is-is she okay?” Anxiety began to build within her and press against her chest making it harder for her to breath. Her nails dug into her palms.

The man gestured for her to sit in an empty chair, she ignored the request. “My name is Tyler Hayward. I am the director of S.W.O.R.D.”

Wanda merely stared blankly back at him, her jaw clenched tightly. “Where. Is. Y/n?” She enunciated sharply, her patience fading. 

The unnerving smile never faltered on Hayward’s face. “That is the unfortunate part, Ms. Maximoff. You see, while you were gone Ms. Y/ln suffered from some brain hemorrhaging. We were able to stop it, but it seems her brain has suffered an extensive amount of damage. We ran some tests and it appears she has lost all cognitive function. She is just a shell now. She only has another day or two at best. I’m sorry.”

Wanda’s world stopped at his words. She immediately shook her head. “That’s not true.” She said shakily as tears began streaming down her cheeks, the weight on her chest getting heavier, forcing her under. She couldn’t breathe. “That’s not true. Let me see her.” 

Hayward gestured forward to the large window in his office. “They’re running some tests on her now, but so far the data has remained conclusive. There is no longer brain function.” Numbly Wanda walked up to the large window and glanced down, feeling the life drain from her at the sight of you. Pale and on what looked like an experimentation table, surrounded by several S.W.O.R.D. scientists.  “I’m afraid it’s time to start talking about letting her go.”

Wanda spun around to face him angrily. “Let her go?” she cried, her voice cracking. “She’s all I have.”

Hayward held his hands up slightly. “It’s only a matter of days before she’s unable to breathe on her own and her heart stops being.”

Empty. That’s what she felt at his words. She wanted to scream. Her powers reacted to the emotion she was feeling before her mind did as the glass she was leaning on shattered. Without hesitation she floated down to where you were. Her heart hammering in her chest the closer she got. 

The world around her went dark and the only sight she was able to take in was the way your chest weakly rose and fell with each breath. With shaking hands, she raised them to your temple as feeble wisps of red floated from her fingertips and disappeared into your mind. 

All she saw was darkness. 

“I can’t feel you.” She whispered brokenly, the pain in her chest overcoming her. The sensation composing her entire being as everything within her collapsed. She was alone, and she knew she wouldn’t recover. Then everything went dark around her. ________________________________

“Darling, have you seen my notebook? I’m running late for my meeting with my editor and I can’t seem to find it anywhere.” You questioned hastily as you rushed into the kitchen and skidded to a halt in the entry way. Looking around the area with a frazzled expression on your face.

Wanda looked over from her place by the stove and waved her hand, the notebook floating from under your arm to directly in front of your face. “You mean this one, dear?” She asked with an amused smile. 

Sheepishly you plucked the notebook out of the air as you made your way over to her. “What would I do without you?” You leaned forward so your lips rested gently against her own.

“Mmm,” Wanda mumbled with a smile as she spoke against your lips. Her arms resting comfortably over your shoulders. “I believe your mind would fail you, sweetheart.”

Your hands fell to her waist as you pulled her closer. “That’s for certain.” You replied easily with a loving smile. “Have I told you how beautiful you look today?”

A small blush spread over her cheeks. “You have not but thank you. You look beautiful as well, darling. I’m beginning to get jealous that your editor gets to spend the day in your presence. Speaking of…” she trailed off and glanced pointedly at the clock.

“My meeting!” Your eyes widened as you pressed one last loving kiss to her lips. “I’ll be going now. I love you, darling. I’ll be home soon!” You shouted as you began running out. 

Wanda shook her head at you, the smile on her face never faltering. “I love you, too, dear!” She called after you, pretending to catch the kiss you blew to her as you rushed out the door. She sighed happily and leaned against the wall of the kitchen. 

The end.

 . . . . . .

“Glad you were able to make it, Rogers.” Fury said seriously as he shook Steve’s hand. “And Ms. Romanoff. Welcome back.” He shook her hand as well. 

Steve nodded easily in response. “Of course. You know that I’d be here in a heartbeat for Y/n. Wanda as well.” Both followed Fury into a large make-shift tent located in the woods. 

“What exactly are we dealing with?” Natasha asked, confusion lacing her words.

For a moment Fury seemed to ponder her question. “We’re not entirely sure.”

“Does Wanda even know that she saved Y/n? That she was never gone?” Steve questioned seriously, his arms crossed as he stared at the screen before him. 

Fury shook his head. “No. It seems Hayward convinced Wanda that Y/n was gone, no brain function. What Wanda didn’t know was he had gone rogue. Every serum they injected in Y/n kept her in her comatose state rather than attempt to wake her up like they were telling Wanda. I’ve looked at the files that my inside contacts gave me, and it seems Y/n should have been up in the first day or two to recover from minor brain swelling.”

“Why are they doing this though?” Natasha questioned as she looked over the chart. Steve’s jaw was clenched as he listened to each detail.

Taking the chart from Natasha, Fury turned the pages until he found what he was looking for and handed it back to Natasha. “Right there. It seems that Y/n carries a rare mutant gene that they could extract and essentially build an army with. They believed that if they removed Wanda from the picture they could continue the experiments and eventually wipe Y/n’s memory to use her as a weapon. Turn her into a super solider… but much worse because of her powers.” There was an edge to his tone. “They are very interested in her ability to manipulate earth and metal. They had considered Wanda briefly as well, but the perfect opportunity presented itself with Y/n. That’s why they insisted on her transfer to their facility.” 

“How do we get them back before Hayward gets to them?” Steve questioned quietly, a dangerous tone to his voice.

Instead of answering Fury gestured to the woman who had been sitting and listening to the conversation. “Wanda isn’t letting anyone with ties to your past in. Fury already tried. She won’t let you or Natasha in.” They both stared at her. “I didn’t introduce myself. Sorry, my name is Darcy Lewis. Astrophysics. Big fan.” The bespectacled woman rambled. 

Natasha smirked, an amused glint in her eye. “Okay, Darcy Lewis, what’s our next step?”

“We’ll do whatever it takes.” Steve finished powerfully as they all watched you and Wanda share a sweet kiss before the credits began to roll on the screen before them.

Well, that’s all folks! 13 parts completed! It’s been a journey writing this and it is by far the longest thing I’ve ever written. This story has become my baby and it always brings me so much joy to read your comments and seeing others enjoy it. I had a plan for this chapter since the moment I began writing this story but it was so hard when it came down to writing because of the most recent episode of Wandavision, so I tweaked it a little. Was it a sadder or happier ending? You may never know. Thank you all so much for taking this journey with me. I hope you enjoyed. 

As always, thoughts and comments always welcome. :)

p.s. I brought back Steve and Nat but I couldn’t figure out how to make Tony surviving make sense or fit the story, sorry. Still love Tony. 

[americanoddity]

Basic Aspects- Astrology Notes #23

We’re moving onto aspects now, and I’ll expand on everything I’ve covered in previous notes later on. 

To start with aspects, first check if the aspect is applying or separating. 

Applying aspects represent what you believe you can do (control and opportunity), and separating aspects represent what you believe has been done to you, around you, or beyond you (coping, learning, overcoming, adapting).

And I can’t stress this enough, planetary conditions matter a lot here. The planet involved with the other (i.e. Jupiter opposition Saturn, or Venus opposition Mercury) matter so much. Whichever planet comes first is the energy that’s helping, hurting, or blending with the other placement’s energy. 

Benefic Aspects

Conjunction- Two planets in the same sign. Powerful alliance, the energy is working together. However, this can create a *lot* of energy happening in a certain sign, especially if the planet conjunct is a malefic (think Saturn conjunct Jupiter, Saturn is going to restrict the expansion of Jupiter, whereas Jupiter conjunct Saturn is going to “smother” the effects of Saturn a little bit). There can also be “too much” of a good thing, think about how everything is good in moderation here. The energies in a conjunction, especially if a stellium is involved, can blend so hard that they kind of “forget” that they’re distinct and separate. This can create a blind spot and lead to the individual or collective having a hard time seeing the distinction/separate energies of the planets, while others can see it pretty clearly. The energy is very united in a conjunction. 

Trine- 120 degrees apart, 4 signs apart, all placements are in the same element. This aspect is one of perfect agreement and friendship between the placements. Jupiter is naturally domicile if a trine is present in the chart. Most beneficial aspect to any chart. There’s a natural harmony here, and the individual or collective may not notice the natural talents the trine offers, which can lead to those natural talents not being developed because the talents seem natural and like second nature. Paying attention to this natural talent (whatever this trine offers depending on the blend of energies) can lead to accepting ourselves, others, situations, and gives an individual or the collective the highest state of synchronicity. This can be a huge blast of the same kind of energy, once again the possibility for too much of a good thing, but in an elemental sense rather than a specific sign like the conjunction- this energy needs to be directed at something. If the trine is in a natal chart and the person isn’t aware of what the energy is doing, this can lead to a kind of “lopsided” individual that focuses too much on one thing, or it can make them lazy because they don’t feel the need to develop that talent. Relying too heavily on a trine without developing the natural gifts given from that aspect can lead to issues. Trines need to be managed, and can create profound effects on an individual or the collective if managed and developed properly. 

Sextile- 60 degrees apart, 2 signs apart. Good aspect but not in complete agreement, Venus is naturally domicile if sextile is present in the chart. Not an extremely strong aspect like the conjunction or trine, but very compatible. Placements involved are yin and yang energy (Earth and Water, Fire and Air). These placements aren’t in conflict, and it’s easy to resolve issues between them if there’s any. Sextile aspects are wonderful for “shaping” and making changes to, there’s a huge potential for intelligent use of the energies- the energy is capable of being directed. Sextiles are usually noticed in an individual’s birth chart or by the collective, so the talents that come from a sextile are more easily noticed and appreciated. 

Semi-sextile- 30 degrees apart, signs are next to each other. Semi-sextile aren’t inherently good, depends on planetary Lords and signs in the semi-sextile aspect (i.e. Aries Sun semi-sextile Scorpio Mars, Aries being exalted in the Sun and Scorpio being domicile in Mars could make a very passionate, strong individual or a very impulsive, vengeful individual). Look to the planets and signs involved, the planetary condition and planets involved are really important here. Semi-sextile aspects are a kind of aggregative energy, there’s friction between the two because the signs don’t really have anything in common. Think sextile but more malleable and easier to flip to “good” or “bad”. Super malleable energy. 

Malefic Aspects

Opposition- 180 degrees apart, 6 signs apart. Considered the worst agreement and most malefic energy in a chart. Saturn is in natural domicile if opposition is present in the chart. There’s massive polarity and polarity happening between these two placements. Opposition marks discontent, insecurity, and a wavering attitude if present in a chart. The individual or collective may seek out people/ situations/environments to mirror their internal struggles in order to learn more about themselves through observing and interacting with these people/situations/environments. Oppositions may lead to swinging from one side to another and create a feeling of being internally torn between two things. The key here is learning how to see the grey area- learning how to interact with that grey area instead of everything being so black and white between the energy of the two placements. Negotiation has to be learned and the tension has to be worked with to bring the two opposites together. There’s a need for balance, compromise, and introspection in an opposition. 

Square- 90 degrees apart, 3 signs apart. Moderately the lesser of the two malefics, opposition being the least agreement between two aspects. Mars is naturally domicile if square is present in the chart. There’s tension between the placements, but not an overwhelming amount. The placements share the same triplicity (cardinal, fixed, mutable) and can show conflicting parts of self or conflicting parts of the collective. These parts of self can be solved with introspection, squares don’t require as much work as an opposition does. Squares also show where there’s a struggle for balance. Squares are more difficult when you’re younger because as you mature and work on yourself, the more the square becomes naturally evolved- this applies to the collective too. If a placement is squaring for a long period of time, it’ll help the collective become more evolved before the transit is finished. Squares help us stop being complacent, but we have to do things right when evolving this placement. 

Semi-square- 45 degrees apart. Not inherently bad, depends on planetary Lords and signs in the semi-square aspect (i.e. Taurus Moon semi-square Mercury Pisces, Taurus is exalted in the moon whereas Pisces is in detriment in Mercury, the individual’s emotions may clash with the way they communicate or take in information). Think of the square’s energy but less conflicting. This energy is also very malleable, as any “semi” aspect is. There will be natural friction here, but it won’t be as strong. The friction can be pretty easily dealt with through some introspection and internal work. 

Neutral

Quincunxes- 150 degrees apart, 5 signs apart. Connections to the idea of fate or destiny are present here. The signs don’t really have anything in common and adjustments must be made for them to work together in agreement. The placements have different missions, serving different agendas at the same time, and the energy can be merged if the effort is put in to get them to work together. If a quincunx is in the natal chart, it may mean that an individual’s fate and natural personality don’t line up (especially if the Vertex, Chiron, Midheaven, Part of Fortune, Sun, Ascendant, Moon are involved). 

[ditttiii]

Kintsugi. | 0t7 (m) || 02 |

◈ Hybrid AU || Ot7 x Reader

◈ Summary:  Life is neither fair nor what you had dreamed that it would be, but the hand that fate had dealt them was worse than yours.

When you get a chance to adopt seven hybrids, all a little rough around the edges, do you take it? Will this last-ditch attempt at doing something right, end with you buried six feet under the ground or will it finally give you the family that you have always secretly hoped for?

◈ Genre: eventual romance || hurt/comfort || angst (with a happy ending) || eventual smut || will in due course dive into discussions of abuse, however nothing too gruesome.

◈ Chapter Two 

Word Count: 4.7k

Warnings: Language, mild panic attack(sfw)

◈ Masterlist (all available chapters will exclusively be linked here only.)

Moodboard By: @today-we-will-survive​ ❤ 

You think they see you standing, because they pause, their steps halting near the entrance. The ones at the back, who had their heads tipped low and gazes locked to the floor, end up bumping into the ones at the front, soft curses disrupting the eerie quietness of the room.

Your feet are rooted to the floor, hands cold and trembling inside the pockets of your hoodie.

The man doesn't take note of their shyness, or is it hesitance? You don't know yet, but he moves ahead, only stopping once he reaches the side of the table.

Opening the file he had tucked under his arm, he starts rifling through it, not saying a word to either you or them, and the uncomfortable silence stretches on.

Knowing what you do, acknowledging what's going to come ahead, you shouldn't be so hesitant to break the silence, to make the first move, but you are. Heart thudding painfully against your ribcage, your pulse picks up, your cold, numb hands growing sweatier and icier.

You try to gulp, clear your throat, but it's like your muscles have grown numb too, not following your command, mouth so dry you don't have any spit left to gulp.

Dipping your head, you watch from in between your strands as they all huddle closer. Two of them from the back are crowding closer than others, their hands wrapped around each other, and the sight of them together, so afraid, so timid has something—somewhere, inside of your chest clenching .

Their figures cloaked under large white hoodies and loose white slacks, which even from a distance you can tell are paper-thin. The silhouette of their gangly limbs visible under the harsh, unforgiving whiteness that bathed the entire room.

Your gaze travels to the man who is still rifling through the papers, and you wonder if he is pretending or if he genuinely has a document in there that he is desperate to find. Judging by the meagre few pages inside the file, you have a feeling it's the former.

Seeing the lack of progress, one of them takes it upon himself to be the brave one in the room and steps forward.

The tall figure moves forward, his gait unsure—wavering, but he marches on, only pausing briefly to look at you before he bows his head low towards you. Figure not rising until you let out a soft, distressed sound.

Only once you mumble out a soft, "please sit," does he take a seat, perching himself at the very edge of the middle chair, head still bowed low as his figure hunches in on itself.

The sight has the back of your throat closing in, and you bite back a sob.

The tall figure of the man sits on the cold, uncomfortable metal chair, back ramrod straight but shoulders pushed low, as though his instincts were warring with his resolve to act respectfully

The taste on your tongue is bitter when you realise just what exactly is considered respectful in their eyes.

Encouraged by his action, slowly all of them trudge closer, their pace no less unwilling, and you wonder if it's hesitance or something else entirely. You see how one of them has his hands clenched so hard against the side of his slacks that his knuckles have turned white.

Pausing in front of a chair each, they all move to bow, and you squawk out your previous request. Even though you had given your permission already, the six men in front of you still bow low, figures staying curved for a few seconds, as they give you the respect you apparently deserve, before they all move to take a seat.

The sound of metal chairs sliding against the tiles rings sharply in the room, and you see more than one of them flinching in response to the harsh noise.

You wonder if what you are doing right now is okay. Whether or not this futile last-ditch attempt at being a better person will change anything—do any good at all.

And maybe it won't, but you also know you can't turn back now; you'd never forgive yourself if you did.

Sucking a deep breath in, you move to take the lone chair that faces the seven men, from the other side of the table. Eyes capturing the way their postures tense further as the distance between you and them shrinks.

Lifting the chair a little, instead of sliding it back to prevent making that god awful screech, you hesitantly take a seat opposite the seven cloaked figures. The hoods still pulled low over their heads reveal not a glimpse of any of their faces.

Registering your movement, the man finally deems you worthy of his attention, and with a snap, the file in his hands snaps close. He slides it across the surface of the table, and you bring a hand down to stop it from slipping off to the floor.

Eyes locking with yours, he nods, and with a muttered, "You have thirty minutes," he walks out the door.

The only sound that you can hear is the tick of the lone clock that hangs on the wall opposite you, and you internally start a countdown for the next thirty minutes.

Gaze jumping from one figure to another, you part your lips to say something, anything, but come up short.

Wetting your lips with a swipe of your tongue, you finally rasp out an introduction, "Hey... I am y/n."

Your voice comes out soft and a little too quiet, but in the constricting silence of the room, it still sounds loud to you.

Their heads tip forward, but no words come forth. Clearing your throat, you wipe the sweat that had accumulated against your palms over the rough fabric of your jeans.

"Um...I understand this is a difficult and uncomfortable position for you all to be in, and I am sorry that it had to come to this, but I would be grateful if I could maybe get a chance to talk to all of you," you propose. Words catch in your throat before you push forth, "That's all I want, you all don't have to agree to anything, I just...I just want to talk right now."

You pause to study their response. Two of them raise their heads, still not high enough for you to see anything under the darkness of the hoodies, but enough to let you know that you are acknowledged.

"Talk to me... please," you beg, body leaning forward. You don't want to think of what might happen if you don't get them to talk to you. Is that what they want? You wouldn't be surprised if they would rather face the horror that awaits them instead of choosing you. If you were in their position, you might just too.

'But you aren't, are you?' a voice inside your head whispers, and you have to embrace the reality. No matter how scared you are, how visibly terrified they are, if you don't take them home with you today, you'll never be able to live with yourself.

Most would call your actions selfless, but you know better. The guilt still sits deep and thick in your stomach, while nightmares plague your sleep, leaving you sobbing and gasping against your pillow, tears wetting the fur as you battle your demons night after night.

Perhaps it's your desperation, or maybe it's the stripped bare vulnerability, but something in your voice catches their attention, and they finally raise their heads. Seven pairs of sharp, glittering eyes gaze back at you from under the dark shadows of hoodies, and suddenly you feel your heart pick up, adrenaline rushing through your bloodstream.

Your feet tingle with the need to run, to put some distance, but you stay firm, squaring your shoulders and raising your chin—doing your best to put on a brave, steadfast front.

Your trembling, clenched fists away from their sight, however, give away the fear you feel.

"Why?"

Just one word, that's all that comes from the figure sitting opposite you, the one who had sat down first, and you voice out an unintelligent sound—confused.

"Huh?"

"Why would you do this?" he clarifies, hazel coloured eyes gleaming back at you eerily, and you have to suppress a shiver at how bright, sharp and deadly they look.  

"Why shouldn't I?" you counter instead, because the truth is that you don't have an answer to his question. Why indeed. Why are you willing to do something so many others of your kind aren't? Do you have a hero complex? Or are you trying to salvage that last speck of morality you have left as you try to make up for your past mistakes?

The last thought leaves you feeling hollow again, memories flowing in, and you clench your fists tighter until your nails are digging sharply into the soft flesh of your palm.

Distraction, what you need is a distraction.

Something to centre yourself before you spiral, because you can't right now. Any sign of weakness on your part could ruin your present, hinder your future, and also the lives of the seven men who are studying you, internally cataloguing your movements away.

You can't risk it; not when the stakes are so high.

His eyes peer into yours, the question going unanswered as he tries to find something, maybe an ounce of what the truth is, what your intentions are, and you let him. You keep your eyes locked onto his and let the others in the room study you too.

It's as though you can feel their gazes rake against your skin, and goosebumps break out all over your body, even under the warm protection of your hoodie. The previously cold room somehow seems even icier as they take their time, letting the silence stretch on, and you have to stop yourself from fidgeting or nervously tugging on your hair.

"Can we trust you?" His eyes are filled with some unnamed emotion as they gaze back into yours, and your mind goes blank, thoughts slipping away into thin air when you see the way he looks at you.  

Your eyes stray away from his, skimming over the other six figures briefly, before they lock with his once more, and you gather your thoughts again. Voice filled with confidence you don't truly feel, but secure in the knowledge that you will always try, you say—

"Yes you can, all of you can. I won't let anybody hurt any of you, ever."  

Rubbing your right arm, you look around the room, pretending that you aren't focusing on the seven men huddled together a few feet away, furiously whispering to each other. You wish then that there was more in the room than just a wall clock and a metal table. How long can one gaze at blank walls before they are officially considered crazy?

You are suddenly thankful that there are no cameras in the room because you must be making quite the picture. Hands dug deep into the pockets of your hoodie again, you bounce on your feet, eyes darting from one nook to another, willing your anxiety to ebb.

You hear one of them whisper something harshly, but neither can you make out the words, nor do you try. The least you could do for them is give them some privacy. Your words before were bold, saying that you would protect them from any and every harm, but would you? Or more precisely, could you really? After all, you couldn't even—

No.

No, you will not go there. You can't. Not right now, not when the seven men hunched close together not ten paces away from you need you to survive. Taking a deep breath in, you blow warm air over your fisted hands; No, you decide this time won't be a repeat of your past.

As your eyes shift to see the seven hybrids, you make a promise right there to do all that you can to protect them, and if anything or anyone comes in between you and that goal, well then, they'll be damned.

When they finally straighten and turn to look at you, your gaze snaps away from them, cheeks heating at being caught. Thankfully they don't mention anything, and you wonder if by this point they are just used to being ogled. Do they think it's okay for others to decide for them? Acceptable for others to gaze at them with eyes filled with emotions ranging from pure admiration to sinful lust and utter disgust?

The tall figure from before clears his throat, and your eyes snap back to him and the six men flanking his sides. Your breath, however, gets caught in your chest, when he drops down in a deep bow and then shrugs the hood off of his head, raven coloured strands spilling in his eyes. From in between the long messy mop of hair emerge two triangular, black-furred ears.

Taking his cue, the rest of them follow suit, shrugging off the hoods over their heads one by one, and your chest hurts from holding your breath for so long, but you can't bring yourself to breathe.

They crane their necks up, and your eyes rapidly flick from one to another.

There in front of you are the seven most gorgeous men you have ever seen in your entire life. And while some might feel a sense of power and control with seven handsome men bowing low in front of them, all you feel is dread—far and dark, pooling deep in your belly.

What have I done?  

"Uhm, ri-rise—please!"   you stumble, the words falling somewhere in the realm between a command and a plea, your hands flailing in a motion to let them know that they shouldn't bow anymore, but they stay put.

Spines curved, heads tilted low, they keep their gazes locked onto the floor, and together, seven voices swelling into one request: "Please take care of us, mistress."

The back of your throat tightens, and you don't say anything. Not because you don't want to but because you might sob if you try. Is this what it's like being a hybrid? Calling humans master or mistress, forever physically and psychologically being shackled and owned?

Your eyes blur, and tears slip down your cheeks, and hastily you bow down low too, ignoring the sudden uproar of protests and calls of "mistress!"

"I wi-will always do my best to care for you, please trust me, and I hope we can one day be...be..a real family."

You blubber out as tears stream down your face, leaving warm trails behind in their wake before they drip down from the tip of your nose. Your lungs hurt from holding in your sobs, and you have to clench your jaw to prevent any whimpers from tumbling out. The past haunts you and tears your heart to shreds inside, and with every utterance of the word 'mistress' from them, it's like something in you is dying—curling and rotting away.

Nauseous you think of what they must have been through to become as submissive and yielding as they are today. The seven men are all hybrids, part animals for fuck’s sake, submissiveness wasn't a trait they were born with; what did humans before you do to turn them into who they are today?

More than anyone else, you know that hybrids have nasty tempers, so where was their anger? Where was the dominance that came inherently laced into their DNA?

"Mistress please, stop!" someone cries out before soft arms grip your shoulders and raise you, blurry eyes catching sight of a different pair of ears. You watch as this new man fusses over you, his distressed voice clearly agitated over the fact that his new mistress was crying.

Soft, warm palms rise to cup your cheeks, and you make a surprised sound.

However, the sound startles the hybrid enough that he seems to realize what he was doing. With a whimper, the hybrid man pulls back, apologies tumbling out of his mouth like water from an open faucet.    

Raising your arms, you try to assure him, but before you can get a word in edgewise, he is bowing and scurrying away, back into the dark hallway and to wherever he had come from, while you just stare confused and worried at his disappearing figure.

"Wa-wait!" you call out and move to chase him but stop when one of the taller hybrids steps in your way. Raising your eyes, you realise he's the one who you have been talking with, and you wonder if maybe he is the leader of their group.

"I apologise on behalf of Jimin, Mistress. He must not have been thinking clearly, and he shouldn't have touched you without your permission. He is one of the younger ones, and sometimes he slips up, but I promise you he means no harm. Please forgive Jimin for his impudence; he won't do it again." The tall hybrid pleads, his ears flicking in distress between his long raven strands.

You gaze at him with a baffled look on your face, shaking your head and looking around the room in search of something, except you don't even know what that is. Brows furrowing, you open your mouth, but no words come out.

Impudence? Permission? And was Jimin the name of the hybrid who had just high-tailed out of the room?

Internally shaking your thoughts off, you cough out, "It's okay."

Gaze moving to the darkened hallway anxiously, after much internal debate you decide to leave the hybrid alone for now. You know absolutely nothing about Jimin besides his name, and you haven't even officially adopted him yet. Intruding in what is essentially his place somehow feels wrong, and so you stay put. Against what every cell in your body is asking you to do, feet itching to chase—you still stay put.

One might have left, but there are still six more hybrids standing in front of you, and it would be unwise and utterly stupid on your part to ignore them. They might all look close, but just in case you are wrong and they aren't, you'd rather not have seven hybrids fighting to be your favoured one.

After all, in your world, as twisted and disgusting it may seem, earning his owner’s favour is a hybrid’s purpose.

It might look as though they are all bonded together, but how long would it truly stay that way? Would one of them throw the others under the bus the first chance he gets? And on the off-chance that something like that does happen, what will you do?  

A grunt comes out of you, feet swivelling as you take a few steps away from them. Hands raking through your hair roughly, you take in deep, slow breaths. Hearing one pair of footsteps inch closer to you, you raise your hand.

"Just give me a second," you rasp out, voice choked as your stress rises. You did not think this through at all. Less than five minutes in, and you have already somehow succeeded in making one of them upset.

'What the fuck am I doing?!' you internally screech to yourself. Thinking about how most hybrid owners are usually calm, poised, their noses tipped high up in the air snootily, as they gaze at the rest of the world with ill-concealed amusement and disgust, you curse your lack of composure. You hate—detest those kinds of owners, the ones who look at their hybrids as nothing more than mere pets, a commodity to show off and elevate their status in an equally superficial society.

But at least they can look their hybrids in the eye. Except for two of them, and even then catching Jimin's gaze could be called an accident, you haven’t so much as actually looked at them. No, what you chose to do was of all the times in the fucking day, you picked this exact damn moment to lose your shit and start having a panic attack.

Fists clenching, nails biting into the skin until they leave indentations behind, you breathe out harshly, head tilting forward and hitting the wall, as you try to get the sudden bout of anxiety and vertigo under control.

Seeing you in very obvious distress, one of them again makes a move behind, and you hiss out, "Don't."

The feet stop immediately, and you breathe out harshly, cursing yourself for intimidating your hybrids even more. This is not okay; you are panicking and hissing, and you are not a serpent dammit. You are a full-fledged human being, and lord knows not everyone is as fortunate in this world, you can and need to pull your shit together right fucking now.

With neither much poise, nor grace, you eventually do manage to ground yourself again. Exhales coming out more like a dragon's angry huffs, you are positive that you don't make the most comforting image and are probably intimidating the hybrids a little bit at the very least, but maybe that is a good thing. While you'd never want them to be scared of you, perhaps a little intimidation would be useful in trying to get them all settled.

A voice in your head tells you that you are just making excuses for yourself, but you push it away to save both your time and sanity.

Straightening up, you turn to look at them and do a double-take when, instead of his attention being locked onto you like the others, you see one of them looking towards the darkened hallway.

Your gaze comes to rest upon him, and your eyes track the way his hands curl and uncurl restlessly, the way he chews on the inside of his cheek, brows furrowed and eyes swimming with concern for the hybrid named Jimin.

It somehow comes as a surprise to you, but maybe it shouldn't. How long have the seven men in front of you lived together in this facility? When was the last time they had a warm home to live in, a family to dote after? You don't know much about any of their pasts, neither does the facility, or they would have mentioned it in the file, so maybe it's wrong of you to assume that you'd be their priority.

While at first glance they may seem like they worshipped you, their potential new owner, much like any other hybrid would, they also have gone through more shit than most others of their kind. So perhaps, you shouldn't be so quick to make assumptions.

Clearing your throat softly, you watch as the anxious blonde-haired hybrid snaps his gaze to you, trying to school his anxiety under a calm facade, but the sporadic tick of his fingers still gives him away.

"Would you mind checking up on Jimin for me?" You phrase it as a question and a little like a request; you give him the option to deny you even though you know he won't, because if you ever want them to truly feel like they are your equals, any human’s equal, you'll have to make sure that they understand what the word free-will entails. That they have a choice, that they will always have an option.

That the luxury to deny is something that they deserve, just as much as any other human; master or mistress.

You still don't know his name, your thoughts too convoluted to recall what you had read in the file earlier, but you know one of them is a lion hybrid, and looking at his voluminous long, straight blonde hair, you think he might just be the one.

Hearing your question, he simply gives you a nod. In the time it takes you to blink, he is halfway across the room, and soon his figure disappears into the hallway that he had come from. His speed surprises you a little but again, maybe it shouldn't; he is a predator hybrid after all.

"Taehyung." The raven-haired hybrid again speaks, and you raise a brow in response, silently urging him to explain.

"His name is Taehyung, he's a lion hybrid. I am Namjoon, a wolf hybrid, and it is our honour to have you as our mistress y/n-ssi," he continues, with a small bow, and you have to bite your lips from saying anything in response. The formality, the way his words seem almost rehearsed, detached and void of any warmth, as though he had spoken the same introduction time and time again, leaves you feeling unsettled.

"Namjoon," you repeat slowly and smile when Namjoon nods in response. No smile comes your way, and your action goes unreciprocated, but you do your best to not take it to heart. You expected this would happen, they weren't going to trust you so easily, and you'll just have to earn their trust, but that's okay, you can work with that.

Your introduction earlier was cut off, and you try to avoid thinking of just why. Instead, you say, "Umm, you don't have to call me mistress, y/n is fine. In fact, I'd rather you not, makes me feel older than I am," you joke, and just like your smile it goes by without a reaction too. The awkward silence stretches on and you fake a cough in your hand, to break it.

Ignoring your slowly warming cheeks, you turn to the man (Or is it a boy?) who is standing next to Namjoon. Sensing your attention on him, he shifts a little to hide behind Namjoon, his hands peeking from under the long sleeves of his hoodie as he hunches in on himself, large front teeth peeking out, and biting into his lower lip.

His cheeks colour under your scrutiny, and you physically restrain yourself from letting a coo out.

However. when his hands wrap around the wolf hybrid’s forearms, and he peeks at you from behind the tall frame of Namjoon, you almost lose the battle. Contrary to his large build, his demeanour is shy, soft, his actions more in sync to the animal that his brown, floppy ears come from.

"Jungkook," he mumbles, and then quickly shies away, hiding behind Namjoon again.

You bite your lip to hold in the grin your lips are itching to form, and instead give him a soft smile in response.

Jungkook, the bunny hybrid, whose long brown hair falls in soft waves and frames his face, with high cheekbones and big starry chocolate brown eyes that you can see peering at you from behind Namjoon’s shoulders. His soft, demure 'hi' melts your heart and makes you want to take him away from the coldness of this facility, to somewhere warm and loving, to a place where he won't have to be so meek.

Failing to hold in the giggle, you wiggle the tips of your fingers in a responding gesture and grin, while in response, Jungkook squeaks, cheeks turning red, as he promptly curls and hides behind Namjoon.

You see the other hybrids try and fail at holding in their own amused smiles in response to his antics, and your gaze snaps to Namjoon, the respectful, cold wolf hybrid when you hear him let out an amused huff, his eyes brimming with warmth and his stance protective in front of Jungkook.

For the first time since you stepped inside this hauntingly cold and quiet facility, you feel warmth seep into your heart, feel the edges of your grin soften into a fond smile.

Maybe this won't be as hard as you had initially thought, maybe—just maybe, there is still hope.

A flickering but still-burning flame of hope that perhaps you will come out of this with more than you had expected or even dreamed of—and that, you think, is reason enough to keep trying.

A/N: At 4.7k this is a pretty long chapter. The introduction had to be split into two chapters so that I could fit in all that I had wanted. I also have an exam to give, so I won't be updating this for a while. Wish me luck! *nervously bites her nails*

I am gonna edit this later and add a moodboard in (which btw is gonna be very fucking pretty) Anyywhooo, Have a great day, and if you liked the chapter, I'd love to know why. Comments fuel me like nothing else 💖So please validate me, lol. 

Lastly shout out to Cecilia for pushing me through this, you’re an angel Ceci 🌸 

[rugbypolycule]

what more could you do

pairing: arisu ryouhei x karube daikichi

characters: karube daikichi, arisu ryouhei

rating: general audiences, no warnings apply

words: 1788

summary: freshly dropped out of university and knee-deep in depression, arisu ryouhei breaks up with karube daikichi with no explanation. months later, unable to deal with the fallout, arisu goes to his apartment. wounds that have yet to fully scab over reopen.

ao3 link

Karube didn’t need Arisu. In spite of his poignant absence, the sun still rose every empty morning and set at frigid night. The cold still crept through the cramped apartment, through the creaking floorboards and in-between cracks in not quite sealed windows. The earth turned, it turned, and it turned without Arisu. In this, there was no argument.

So, Karube didn’t need Arisu. If the suffocating world outside his slowly encroaching walls continued its screaming persistence, then Karube too would refuse to bow out. He would grit his teeth, hunch his shoulders in his too-thin jacket, desperately not recalling an exasperatedly fond voice that would nag him to dress warmer. He would curse as he woke up to flecks of snow on his window pane and wrestle with his useless heater. He would not ache for the childlike wonder of someone who was no longer there.

Eventually, the snow would melt. The man who had left would take the rent money with him, and Karube would have to figure out where else he could take up space. Karube would go to work in a run-down bar in the sticky heat of the coming summer, cicadas filling the silence in his mind where a plan for the rest of his life should sit. Karube Daikichi would be, in all senses of the word, alive.

Even so, his chest was empty – so he filled it with tar. Karube was never particularly interested in smoking before the hole in his life abruptly dug itself. Now, the nicotine numbed the disquiet in his head, and his throat burned, and for a brilliant moment nothing felt real. For mere seconds, he could shed the sense of loss that hung around him like a bad smell. He tried his best to heave his heavy hurt out with every exhale, to no avail. He kept smoking, kept treading the smouldering ashes into the concrete beneath his boots outside his apartment building. Kept telling himself this was the last one, that this would be the last time he allowed himself to feel like this.

Eventually, the pack emptied. His hands trembled with it, fingers clenched around cool air. Pressure blossomed in the centres of his upturned palms, stomach knotted, the spaces between his ribs drawn tight.

He shoved his frostbitten fists in his pockets, steeled himself to face a space that was not his home. But as his eyes followed his cloud of exhale, they caught on a figure on the other side of the empty street.

Karube Daikichi realised he did not need a heart.

What was the point of a muscle which tore so easily? Which couldn’t regulate its sole function when it was confronted with such devastating eyes? His heart, this useless lead pump in his chest, that supplied blood to his forsaken limbs. To the legs that would halt for nothing tangible on this earth as they made their way towards Arisu. Like a pitiful asteroid in its hapless orbit around a star, Karube fell into place in front of the man who had left him.

‘Daikichi,’ was all it took to break him. To snap the thin wire that ran from head to heart, built to forbear embarrassment in times like these.

‘Don’t call me that. You don’t get to call me that anymore.’ His voice was abrasion in the quiet evening air. Arisu, tensed and taught, raised his hands in cautious surrender.

‘Sorry. Karube, then. Karube.’

There was always something wounding in the way Arisu said either of his names. As if it was something precious. As if he hadn’t swirled the taste of it in his mouth and resolutely spat it out at Karube’s feet. It made him feel untethered, strings cut all at once and without warning.

‘You kept paying the rent. You left, without telling why, and you never stopped paying the rent. Do you think I need your pity, Arisu? Do you think I need your father’s money?’

Part of Karube wanted to spit more poison at Arisu. To ask if living as a constant disappointment to his father was really so much better than living with Karube. To ask if he really did hate him that much, that he would run to someone who had never tried to understand him, who never tried to love him. Karube had given him so much love. Why did he throw it away?

‘It’s not pity. I would never pity you.’ Arisu’s speech was often soft and hesitant, but in this statement there was an unmistakable firmness.

‘So then fucking explain! You left, Arisu.’

‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’

‘Why do you keep apologising? If you’re really that sorry then just…’

‘Just what?’ And his eyes. Glassy with unshed tears and rimmed with red from many previous. Arisu was a man exhausted. That his spine was curled forward, that his shoulders almost grazed his ears made him seem smaller and more fragile than Karube had ever known him to be.

The useless muscle in his chest constricted itself again. Karube’s veins throbbed with it. Had he ever really known Arisu? Had he ever meant anything to him? He bit his tongue to stifle the pathetic question he so miserably needed to ask. But brittle eyeteeth could only do so much against a brain on fire.

‘It’s not fair. None of this is… is fucking fair, Arisu,’ and he makes a fist around the urge to reach out, to touch his frost-reddened cheek, to gentle a thumb at the thin skin of his eyelids. He buried such bile once again in the pockets of his worn jeans, glared at the pavement like it would fix any of this. And he had to clench his diaphragm, swallow once, twice, to kill the sob that clawed its way up his throat. He could feel Arisu’s stare itching at his scalp.

‘I’m sorry. I’m- fuck I’m so sorry, Karube. Please,’ and the waver in his words stuck like needles in his skin, ‘you have to know that I’m sorry. It’s all my fault.’

And all too suddenly, a hand cupped his cheek. It was the cruellest thing in the world, the warmth of it. How Karube’s neck arched towards its softness, how Arisu’s palm was moulded to fit his jaw like they were fired in the same kiln, forged in the same fire. Who was Karube to stop it, when the seam of his lips smoothed ever so slowly against the length of Arisu’s thumb? How could he have halted the splintered shudder that parted his lips against the tendon of an unfurled fist?

Small, like the first patter of rain on a cloudy day, Arisu begged.

‘Won’t you look at me?’

Could he have? Was it possible stare bare-faced and guileless into the sun without burning? Karube was willing to go blind with it, if it was Arisu asking.

Some of Arisu’s tears had spilt, shimmering rivulets grazing his cold-stung features. Karube’s treacherous thumb carved its home in the hollow of Arisu’s cheekbone. Ridiculous. Both men, all fragile lungs and wounded eyes, stood holding onto one another as if he couldn’t quite believe he was real. As if the other would stay for as long as he was held.

Like breathing, like the most natural thing in the world, Arisu closed what little distance remained between them.

He kissed him, a whimper leaking from between the searing heat of their mouths. It was torturous, and roiling up the arched column of Karube’s throat came a smouldering ire. Arisu always did this, always dealt the blow while looking like the most injured person in the room. It made Karube want to hurt. Thus the kiss became more teeth than lips, a grab for purchase on whatever chilled skin was exposed to him. Karube kissed to mark, kissed to plea, kissed to hollow out a space for himself that had long since closed.

The inside of Arisu’s mouth was hot, and Karube was a man starved for warmth. His other hand settled, curling against Arisu’s jaw, and all at once Karube was cradling Arisu’s face. He crushed their mouths together again and again, lips stinging and teeth too blunt to cut deep enough to make it right. Karube’s rage rose like steam out of him in the slick kiss, leaving a gentle simmer deep down in his belly.

Arisu cradled Karube’s jaw like one would hold a baby bird. His fingers gentled against his jugular, feeling the searing jackrabbit pulse of his blood under the goose-fleshed skin of his throat. His chapped fingers ran feather-light up and down, ever-so-slightly grazing the beginnings of karube’s hairline. In days gone by, Karube’s favourite thing to do was let Arisu run his fingers over his scalp, working through the tangles in his long hair until he was satisfied. This caress now was more of an echo, ringing hollow in Karube’s chest. His lungs burned with it as he gasped for air into Arisu’s mouth, gasped for what he no longer had.

It was like being crushed.

Pulling away was like pulling glass shards out of Karube’s tongue. His lips stung and his eyes burned and his heart hurt.

‘Why are you punishing me for loving you,’ he choked out, mouth filled with sawdust, ‘why can’t I have you?’

The moment shattered, red string of fate slashed to pieces. Arisu recoiled and almost snapped back, spine ramrod, eyes red-rimmed and wild. The spell broke as Arisu remembered what he came here for.

‘I’m just here to drop off my key,’ he said, voice broken but tone flat as he could muster. Arisu was a different man with the same face, a crude impression of the object of Karube’s tragic affection. Nothing felt right in the cold street, not in Karube’s palm where the cruel metal of Arisu’s key was pressed, fingers moulded over it into a fist by Arisu’s pitiless hand.

‘Just like that.’ It wasn’t a question anymore. The air that had so violently filled Karube’s chest as they kissed had seeped out and then some, leaving him deflated and exhausted. What little hope he had left had been dying a slow death since Arisu turned the corner onto his street.

‘I’m sorry, Karube,’ and Karube didn’t doubt that he was in the slightest, no matter how much it made his ears burn and his pulse ache.

He replied, ‘thanks,’ as devoid of emotion as he could muster. Karube didn’t need Arisu. Not his hands nor his kiss nor his apology. Crossing the street and unlocking the door to the apartment he resolved to move out of as quickly as possible was as easy as breathing glass without choking. Karube didn’t need Arisu.

He didn’t look back.

[sunnyrosewritesstuff]

Day 3 Birthday Plot Bunnies 2

If you want this to become my next WIP, be sure to shower it with lots of love!!  🥰 💖 All the story starters will be linked back to this masterpost.

Title: Soul Traitors

Summary: Betrayal among soulmates is unheard of in all the free races of Arda, yet that’s exactly what Durin, King of Khazad-dûm, endures. Heartsick and angry, he damns the Valar for their choice and earns their wrath in return. He and his former lover will be reincarnated until the wrong between them is righted. Thorin, Durin’s lastest reincarnation, believes nothing can break that curse and instead mounts a quest for the Arkenstone to free his people of theirs. Gandalf, the meddlesome wizard, offers a Burglar for their quest. A hobbit burglar who will help Thorin uncover more than just a gem.

Warnings: Character Death, Gore (I mean, it’s not heavily descripted gore, but it does mention the manner of the character’s death so just to be safe.)

Each of the races have their own views on soulmates and how you go about finding them. However, all seem to agree that to find a soulmate is a very special thing. To find the one person who you can trust with your whole heart and soul. That’s why to the dwarves, they called these people, Ones. None would ever consider betraying their Ones as that seemed a cruelness beyond even that of the orcs. Which is why King Durin stood in the high chamber of the court of Khazad-dûm staring down at the small figure below with such shock and fear, many feared a light breeze could topple their usually infallible king.

The curly haired creature in chains returned the king’s stare with heartbreaking indifference. Many of the court began to chant prayers to Mahal that this was not to be so. That the One of their dear king wouldn’t dare do that which he was accused. Durin’s flat and breathless voice finally spoke, silencing all in the hall.

“Madoc son of Maloch of the Holbyta Tribe Fallohide, you stand before the King of Khazad-dûm as the sole conspirator and thief of the Arkenstone. One of the great treasures of our kingdom. What plea do you make in your defense?”

With no hesitation, no change in emotion, the small being stated the same line Durin’s heard since his capture.

“I love you.”

The king leaned forward to bow his head as he gripped the stone podium tighter. 

“Madoc, this is serious!” Durin’s most trusted advisor, Gelbim, spoke up. “You have taken a sacred relic from our halls, and not just any, but the one that has the power to bring ruin upon our city and our people! Your crime is punishable by death. For the love of Mahal and the great Valar, please, tell us where you’ve hidden the Arkenstone.”

Durin slowly brought his eyes up as the silence persisted to see a small break in Madoc’s mask. His jaw trembled and a single tear leaked from his soft hazel eyes that Durin had loved from the moment he met him. 

“I...love...you.” He sobbed.

That was the moment Durin’s heart broke. Not shattered completely though. No, unfortunately that particular pain would come later that week when Madoc’s sentence was being carried out. But this...this was the first of a pain that would never desist.

“How can you when you hurt me so?” Durin asked softly, yet his words carried through the chamber as Madoc bowed his head in defeat. “You are given a traitor’s sentence. Death with no chance to appeal. Your name will not be spoken aloud again, your hair will be shorn and removed of any braids and beads, and your body will be burned rather than returned to the land and stone. In the Eyes of Mahal, so mote it be.”

Gelbim, his dear friend, told him he didn’t need to attend. None would think less of their king. Durin wished he had listened. He couldn’t bear to watch, but the sound of the axe going straight through his One’s neck would haunt him for the rest of his life. As it was, he stumbled to his chambers to fall and not rise from their marital bed for weeks after. When he resumed his reign, the toll of losing heart and soul was apparent to all. 

Durin became hardened in the final years of his reign. He demanded every ounce of mithril in the mountain to be pulled up and sold it to his allies for too high a price. What he didn’t sell, he forged. Weapons, jewelry, a particular handsome mailshirt, and if it were all the same size as his beloved holbyta? Well, none had it in them to point it out to their fading king. As demanded of a traitor’s death, the name Madoc was stricken from all records and replaced with the Amrâb Hufrel or “the soul’s betrayal of all betrayals”. The rest of the Fallohide tribe which was camped near the Misty Mountains was forced to pack up and resume their nomadic lifestyle west or face war with the dwarves. The sorrows of Durin were not to stop there. 

“The goblins of the Deep grow bolder.” Gelbim remarked as they watched the latest battalion return battered and worse for wear.

“Without the Arkenstone, they will not stop.” Durin growled.

“Durin, my friend, we’ve sent quest after quest after the gem. Wherever M-the Amrâb Hufrel has hidden it, we may not ever find it. It may be time to consider...alternatives.”

“What alternative is there aside from leaving my mountain and my mithril!” Durin spat.

Gelbim raised an eyebrow at his answer. “And is that worth more than the lives of your kin?”

Durin froze before spinning around quick as a flash. “Leave if that is your wish! This has been the home of MY line since the reign of Durin I and I WILL NOT GO!”

Go, Gelbim did taking a third of his kingdom with him including the young Prince Thrain and his mother. Crown Prince Nain, Durin’s only stone son, could not be moved to leave his father to his fate even as he saw the heartless path he wrought. For in their quest for more mithril, an ancient evil slumbering deep below the rock was awoken. The king led a frantic charge against the beast and was slain almost instantly. The war against Durin’s Bane lasted a year longer, but when the newly instated King Nain, was slain, the mountain and its riches were abandoned. In the lore of Durin’s folk, this was the first great curse of the Amrâb Hufrel’s theft.

Durin, who welcomed his death with open arms, awoke expecting to find the Halls of His Father. Instead, the nervous face of his treacherous One amongst a starry plane was the first sight he was graced with. 

“Oh Durin, my heart…” The holbyta began taking a step forward.

“You!” The king snarled, moving away as quickly as he could.

The Amrâb Hufrel looked miserable as his face twisted in anguish. “Please let me explain…”

“NOW YOU WISH TO EXPLAIN!” Durin boomed. “You had your chance! You had every opportunity to tell of your nefarious schemes, and instead you mocked me. You mocked my kingdom, a kingdom you once called yours. Well look at it now! All because of you!”

The creature before him was truly wretched and small as he hunkered against every blow Durin dealt. And the dwarf was yet to be finished.

“Peace, my son.” Came a great voice from above that Durin instantly recognized as His Father even having never heard it before. “You have made your point. Now let your Sanâzyung (Perfect/True Love) say his piece.”

“NO!” Durin roared against the very heavens themselves. “I don’t want to have anything to do with this...this...Amrâb Hufrel!”

Thunder rumbled, shaking the entire platform they stood upon. And while the holbyta trembled in the face of such power, Durin’s anger was too great to be cowed.

“You would reject this gift we offer, son of Aulë?” A female voice demanded, icy and iron.

“What gift?” Durin sneered. “Unless you offer me the chance to sever his head myself this time, I see no gift here.”

The other creature of blood released a gasp that was more like a sob, but Durin had no more patience for the likes of him. In fact, he had nothing left to give to him. Something that became apparent to the Valar watching.

“You have become cruel.” Another, softer female voice soothed. “You know only the truths you have seen with your own eyes.”

“And it is enough for me to condemn that thing and the Great Valar that thought to join my soul with it! Damn him and DAMN ALL OF YOU!”

If Durin expected the same booming show of power he received previously, he was sorely disappointed. Instead, it just all seemed to fade away. The stars, the platform, and the holbyta. His sorrowful face full of tears was the last thing Durin saw before he was swallowed by the darkness. The darkness allowed no sound, not even from Durin’s own voice, and no escape. He was unsure how long he wavered in that place: hours, weeks, years? He was utterly and completely alone until finally the voice of His Father broke through.

“You have shamed me, my uzfakuh (great joy). You have shamed me, you have shamed yourself, and you have shamed your Sanâzyung.”

Durin knew he could not speak back, but he still fumed at the Great Smith’s words. 

“We have thought long and hard on how you can atone for the atrocities you’ve committed today.”

And what of the Amrâb Hufrel’s atrocities?

“Your path will not be an easy one, especially if you hold tight to the stubborn slights of your mortal heart. For a soul is worth so much more. You and your Sanâzyung shall be reborn over and over as many times as needed until you can right the wrongs between you and hear the truth of his soul.”

Durin felt a burning on his breast and looked down to behold a glowing oak tree being inked in chains.

“You shall carry this mark in every life of yours henceforth, and it shall know the mark of Madoc in return. Only free of the chains that bind your soul, will you be welcome in my Halls.”

The legend of Durin’s curse and the theft of the Amrâb Hufrel passed down through the centuries until it had inscribed all dwarven mothers with fear. For any child to bear the mark of Durin was to lead a loveless and empty life. Likewise, any “hobbits” as they preferred that met with the dwarves were met with open hostility. Especially if they bore their own mark, though none knew for certain if it was Madoc’s or not. Still, the hobbits learned fast and stories of their own circulated that any child bearing an acorn on their palm would be hunted and killed by the dwarves. So as the stories grew wilder and edged with desperation, Durin and Madoc were reborn again and again just as Aulë promised, but were no closer to breaking the curse that bound them so.

It was many centuries later when a young prince from Durin’s own line was born to the immediate wailing and disappointment of every dwarf in attendance. Not even a few seconds old, Thorin, son of Thrain, Prince of Erebor bore the heavy burdens of his ancestor. It steeled his heart as he grew into adolescence and forced him to throw his all into his duties as prince. He would love Erebor for none would ever love him. And when Erebor was attacked by the dragon, it was Thorin’s foresight and friendship with the men of Dale that was able to send Smaug away. Thorin grew from prince into a king his people could be proud of, and he never wavered from his vow to his kingdom. Never knowing that almost a century and a half later, a hobbit was born with the death sentence of his people on his palm and a destiny he would not be able to escape.

[letsunity]

Save Your Tears

Omega is gone. He failed her. The blastershot to his chest doesn't nearly compare to the hole she left behind.

He failed.

Hunter fought many, duelled even more. It usually went the same way, him taking down multiple targets at once.

That bounty hunter moved so fast that Hunter blinked and was on the ground. His hand wasn't even on the blaster; it's like it teleported. Hunter had only seen such speed in the Jedi; not even a droid had such reflexes.

What hurt the most, however, was her face as he faded from consciousness. She was so scared, terrified, likely believing that he was dead. He should be; by turning to shoot the droid, the blast barely missed his heart. The last thing he heard was her cry for help, then his brothers waking him back up.

Not even twelve hours before, Hunter told her that she was staying with them; they'd never leave her. She'd never be alone ever again. Omega, a child with no experience with the outside world, trusted him. He failed that trust; he failed her; he failed everybody. A leader is supposed to protect their squad, but he failed.

Although Hunter didn't know, he failed Crosshair first. Thanks to Wrecker, they know he's trapped in there, controlled by that chip. Even though he's not doing it, Hunter can't help but hate him, which only makes it worse.

Hunter doesn't want to hate him, he has to hate the chip, but when Crosshair threatened Omega, it was nearly impossible.

He failed them both. By delaying removing the chips, he failed Wrecker, too.

What kind of leader fails his squad so horrifically?

When Wrecker strangled him, the electricity from that Zygerrian's whip, being shot, none of that compared to the emotional anguish.

  "Several rib fractures, a crack along the sternum and lung burn. Considering the probability of surviving the shot, it should be worse."

Though he knew better, it felt like he deserved worse.

"Do you know what Bounty Hunter it was?" Hunter growled out, a hand instinctively covering his bandaged chest. His insides were on fire, even with the bacta-patch.

  "According to Cid, their name is Cad Bane. I've checked my data and found that he was the very bounty hunter who held several senators hostage, kidnapped three force-sensitive children and successfully stole a Holocron. Given that information, I've concluded that you were outmatched. The responsibility isn't on your shoulders."

Tech was trying to make him feel better. It was Hunter's responsibility; it was his fault, regardless of Tech's data.

The specialist didn't know what else to say; emotion wasn't his strength. Tech followed logic, data, information, but emotion didn't follow such consistency. It was illogical, often unreasonable; it was out of Tech's range of capability. Tech's alexithymia made him unsuitable for comforting his Seargent; he couldn't identify his own emotions, let alone Hunter's.

The lack of Omega's presence was noticeable, however. There was pressure inside of his chest, a clawing sensation in his throat. His eyes stung, despite his goggles securely fastened.

From Tech's understanding of biology, his brain was excreting chemicals that equated emotion. As there would eventually be excess, it'll leak through his tear ducts, possibly why his eyes stung. Despite understanding what was physically happening, he couldn't fathom what was going on emotionally; he wasn't connected correctly.

Was it fear, guilt, sorrow? Tech didn't know. He conflicted about it, both envious and grateful for this cross-wiring.

  "It wasn't your fault," Tech shortened, aiming to appease his brother's internal monsoon. His facial expression remained strained, indicating failure. "You'll be no help to anybody if you exacerbate your injuries."

  "The past weeks, I don't feel like I've been much help."

Ah, the illogical side of emotional turmoil. Tech didn't have a way of navigating this obstacle. He had too little data to compare and devise a plan for.

Given his unsuitability, having another take his place was the logical course of action.

  "Echo, Wrecker, I require your presence," Tech called, taking some steps back. When they stepped up to Tech, he was straight with them, like always. "I don't know how to assist emotionally."

  "Ain't like we're any better," Wrecker shrugged honestly.

  "Possibly, but you can empathise far easier. Echo, perhaps you're better suited for this task."

"What we do is stay together and support each other," Echo stated firmly, pointing back to their distracted brother. "We're in this together; we'll get through it together."

Wrecker provided a grunt of agreement. While he wanted to break something, they needed to help each other. He wanted to blow stuff up, but even that wouldn't make him feel better. It was bad enough that Wrecker tried killing Omega, but he couldn't help protect her, either.

He failed just as much as Hunter did. He wasn't a good enough big brother to her; he wasn't strong enough to help. That's all Wrecker can do, though, blow stuff up and be strong. He'd be strong for his brothers; he didn't know what else he could do other than breaking something.

While Echo was preoccupied with Tech, Wrecker entered the small set-up they had for Hunter.

  "I got her bow," Wrecker said, hoping that'd help some. "We don't blame ya."

  "You never were a good liar," Hunter responded, noting the discomfort he'd caused. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean that."

He didn't want to, but on some level, Wrecker did blame Hunter a little. He shouldn't; Wrecker didn't even manage against Fennec, let alone this Bane guy. It wasn't right. Wrecker didn't think that anybody was to blame.

  "Yeah, I know. You're upset; we're all upset. Things get said, fists fly, it's an outlet thing, innit?"

The hulking clone shifted himself onto the makeshift bed, alerting Hunter. He manoeuvred himself behind the Seargent, wrapping his big arms around his brother. Given that Hunter was injured, Wrecker didn't hold as tight as he wanted to. Holding someone made Wrecker feel a little better, though it wouldn't make up for the emptiness.

Without the energy to fight it, Hunter accepted the embrace, shivering from the overwhelming turmoil. His body rose and fell, moved by Wrecker's breathing, something to try and focus on.

As the moments flew by, salty warm wetness tapped onto Hunter's shoulder. The smell burned his sinuses, scratching into his own eyes, demanding to be quenched.

Echo joined them, sitting to Hunter's right and integrating into the bundle. Wrecker moved his arm to add Echo, pulling the trio closer together.

Hunter could see Echo was holding her trooper doll; she'd painted it to look like him.

With Omega gone, she didn't feel like just a friend. She didn't feel like a sister, either; it was more than that. He'd been following Cut's advice; he was an acting father figure to her.

Finally, after weeks of caring for the girl, it dawned on him. She was his daughter, his child. He was her father, guiding her and protecting her, who failed her.

Echo had dealt with loss before; it was a constant being a soldier and in the 501st. He watched his brothers die constantly; he was there was Cutup was eaten, as Droidbait was shot, and as Hevy blew up, and stood by as 99 perished valiantly. He couldn't be there for his twin, Fives, something that pained him daily.

The fact that Rex probably killed Anakin hurt too. Knowing how good the General was to the 501st, he didn't deserve that fate. As Ahsoka wasn't a Jedi, maybe she survived, his dorky togruta sister living her own life. She'd grown up so much since he died.

It was hopeful, as was the thought of seeing Omega again. He didn't know how, but Echo was determined to help get her back. They needed her back; she was one of them. If the stars aligned, they could rescue Crosshair, too.

Hunter had his brothers on all sides. Even with this secure sensation, the loss of his daughter did not waver. It grew like cancer with each second, his parched cheeks begrudgingly satisfied. A leader should not cry, a soldier shouldn't break down like this, but alas, they weren't soldiers anymore.

They were a family, an incomplete family.

He failed her once; Hunter won't let it be a second time. He'll get her back; he'll prove to have earned her trust. He'll kill the emperor if it means seeing those brown eyes bright with wonder and amazement again.

They all will.

[jaskiersvalley]

I'm thriving on the angsty things you write. Especially with the Cahir/Eskel/Lambert trio. Especially the uncertainty of Cahir being alright or even alive in most situations. I wonder if you have more things with that kind of stuff, I mean, is there a piece where one of them clinically died for some time? And the others were uncertain about this one's fate?

You know how to break my heart Nonnie. Usually I wouldn’t touch a prompt dealing with death. As a general rule, character death prompts get deleted immediately. But it’s a new year, I’m in a very odd funk (all I will say is: fuck you melon in the fridge, fuck you) so, you know. I wrote this. I cried. Eskel cried. Lambert cried. Cahir cried. And one of them died.

CW: Major Character Death

Just because love had magically found them didn’t mean that they could slack off. All three of Lambert, Eskel and Cahir had their roles in the world, tunes they had to march to even if their hearts called to each other. However, they could compromise and pick times and places where they could just so happen to meet. They were few and far between but that made their shared moments that much more precious. Usually, they picked quite out of the way places that they knew to be Witcher tolerant. Having one Witcher in an inn made people nervous, to have two easily turned them hostile. It meant it was usually a little further for Cahir to travel but he always maintained it was worth it.

Knowing what they did of each other’s travelling habits, Eskel was usually first to arrive. He liked to get a room as big as possible, claiming his size warranted a few nights of luxury in a bed he could fit in. Second to arrive was Cahir, always keen not to be late which made him almost early. Despite his best intentions, he had a habit of finding trouble wherever he went, which meant he rarely did get to their meeting point before Eskel, even it that was his plan. Last but not least, Lambert would saunter in, loving the fact that everything was ready, he didn’t have to make nice with the local and beg them to take an unfair portion of his coin for subpar board and food.

Only, this time when he arrived, it was only Eskel there to greet him. Unusual as it was, they knew Cahir attracted trouble by just existing. It wouldn’t be a surprise to have him turn up, bruise and battered but with a somewhat proud smile at having managed to either save the day or outwit some fool who tried to cross him. The sun set, Lambert and Eskel curled up in bed. Just because Cahir wasn’t there didn’t mean they couldn’t enjoy each other’s company. They’d have plenty of love and energy for when Cahir arrived.

The next day was equally empty of Cahir. Slowly, Lambert and Eskel began to worry. A day late was fine but this was now three days later than usual. Not only was Cahir late but their room was only paid for one more day. Over breakfast the next morning, Eskel made some enquiries.

“There’s rumours of a beast on the southern road. Been upending carts and spooking horses. Your contact may have run afoul of it.”

Asking around in the village, it was rapidly becoming apparent that there was indeed something haunting the road. The silver lining was that the mayor offered a handful of coin if Eskel took care of it. It wasn’t like they could linger any longer, Lambert left a message for Cahir if he made it that they missed him and were heading south for a contract.

“It’s likely a noon wraith,” Eskel said as he led Scorpion out of the stall. “I hate those so much.”

“You cast yrden and I’ll do the rest. Work to our strengths and all that shit Vesemir banged on about.”

Swords coated in wraith oil, Eskel left Scorpion in the shade when he began to get skittish. It meant the wraith was nearby. Sure enough, there was an otherworldly screech and something buffeted past them, giving them angry shoves but nothing more. Probably a newly created wraith then, still with some memories intact. Eskel threw his hand up as the wraith rounded on them again and cast yrden. Instantly Lambert was throwing himself into the fray, sword raised. Only, he didn’t bring it down in a maiming blow. With an alarmed cry, he took a step back and promptly fell on his backside. It was usually a death sentence for a Witcher to be so clumsy. Yet the wraith didn’t attack. In fact, it slowed down and morphed into a flickering image of what it had once been.

“Lambert?” Hollow, crackling voiced, the wraith loomed over Lambert. “Why did you try to hurt me Lambert?”

Eskel’s sign flickered and failed as he watched Cahir’s spirit waver above Lambert. There was no hiding the gasp of a sob that ripped from his throat. Immediately Cahir’s attention was on him.

“You’re crying. I’ve never seen you cry before.” Cahir floated closer to Eskel, a ghostly hand reaching to try and wipe the tears. It was like being touched by fire and ice at the same time as Cahir’s hand brushed not over but through his scars. The tear’s path down Eskel’s cheek remained unchanged.

Behind them, Lambert picked himself up, looking stricken. He couldn’t do it. The hundreds of wraiths he’d dealt with before had been impersonal. They were malicious echoes left behind by a violent death. None of them had been Cahir who he’d seen laugh, cry and everything in between. His watery eyes met Eskel’s. They knew what had to be done. But they were too weak.

Reaching for the tear again, Cahir watched his hand pass through Eskel’s cheek. His lips formed a soft ‘oh’ and he pulled his hand back.

“I’m dead, aren’t I?”

Lips quivering, Eskel nodded.

“They killed me.” Cahir looked towards a copse of trees and Lambert knew where they were going to have to go once Cahir’s spirit moved on. “Six bandits-” His hand drifted to his throat subconsciously. “-they wanted my money. I only had a handful of florens but they didn’t think it was enough. They wanted my horse and then they- they-” Moving his hand away from his throat, Eskel could see the bruises forming as the memories came back.

Looking over his shoulder, Cahir twisted to look at Lambert. Taking pity on him, Eskel moved to stand next to his partner so they could both see Cahir.

“What do I do?” Cahir looked so lost and young all of a sudden.

Voice nothing more than a croak, Lambert replied. “You move on. You have to.”

Unable to hold himself back, Eskel reached for Cahir, held his hand in a mimicry of cupping his cheek. “I don’t want to let you go.”

Tears were flowing down his cheek, his nostrils flared with each sniff. It didn’t get easier to watch as Cahir reached up, hand hovering over his while the other reached for Lambert.

“You’ll always be with us,” Lambert promised, his hand clenching over static filled air. “We won’t forget you.”

Cahir offered a wobbly smile of his own. “Our history will always carry our shared footprints.”

A gust of wind scattered ghostly ashes that faded in the grass. Eskel dropped to his knees, sobbing, hands scrabbling to keep even a single speck of it. Not that Lambert was much better. His lips were pressed into a tight, white line and he leaned over, braced on his knees, trying to hold back his sobs. There was nothing left though. Nothing of the man they had loved, only a body they were going to have to retrieve. The only thing left was to build a Witcher’s funeral pyre. Cahir may not have been a Witcher himself, but he’d had two Witchers’ hearts to call his own.

[sims2bellaswan]

pas de deux IV [Bruno Bucciarati x Reader | Risotto Nero x Reader]

[SFW]

AO3 VERSION

PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER

You’ve worked your whole life to earn a place in the Rome ballet company, yet everyone seems to work against you.

Between the stress of working to match the other dancers to unforeseen romantic issues, problems just seem to pile up.

Trish sighed into her spot on the loveseat. The man next to her, clad in a daring purple, silk suit. The gold buttons reflected the warm lighting; their little black buttonholes making them akin to sunkissed ladybugs peppering his suit. His button down almost had an iridescent quality, picking up the light and showing it back.

He pulled his hand through his blond hair, watching Trish pick up a champagne flute. His eyebrow cocked in surprise, “Drinking tonight?”

“I hate doing these parties. This is exhausting.” She sipped delicately, an attempt to not make her annoyance seen.

“You can think of a better word than that.” He smiled, dimples puckering on his tanned skin.

Remembering her lessons felt like a pike to the gut. “Demeaning, boring, absolutely pointless?” She looked over to him, staring through her lashes and furrowing her brows. “You aren’t my teacher, Giorno. Can we leave my failed english exam out of work?” There was a certain sting to her words.

Giorno clasped his hands in his lap, balancing his elbows on his knees. “Wouldn’t want your new ducklings to see your attitude just yet, Trish.” His voice felt playful in comparison to her’s. He was teasing her, as friends do. “Nor, would Fugo be very happy to hear you complaining about his lessons.”

“Enough. I told him I would make it up when the season ends.” She finished her champagne, quickly. “I have a lot on my plate.” Her sentence was punctuated with a gentle sigh.

Giorno was a benefactor: Trish’s first sponsor and closest friend. He hosted galas, collected donations, and dealt with money. It seemingly came easily to him, considering how well off he’s become. Gossip will tell you his father is big in England, a big shot lawyer, but you neither knew nor cared about English legal talk. Hopelessly polite and endlessly caring, he had a brilliant public face. His golden record was well known in ballet circles in Italy. Every serious ballerina in the country dreamed of being sponsored by him.

You pressed on your abdomen as you walked to Bruno and his conversational partner. You couldn’t place at all where you knew his face and it was beginning to bother you. Should he be someone you should've known, you’ll be outed for not having done your homework. That would be the final embarrassment of the night and you would probably die on impact. Or, more realistically, bawl your eyes out at home.

Bruno’s hand instinctively went to the small of your back, lingered for a moment, then fell away. “Nero, this is a friend of mine.” He glanced at you, it was painted on your face how nervous you made yourself.

Taking the hint, you introduced yourself. Nero, as you had heard, shook your hand. His hand was callossed and his grip was tight. You shook your hand lightly after the fact, pins and needles would’ve picked up if he had held on but a moment longer.

The man was almost looked out of place. If it were not for how well he wore his suit, you would’ve thought he was wandering in from a passing wedding party. He wore a black suit with a small repeating pattern across the blazer, in a red foiled thread. Noticing little details, he was out of place to the point of button colors. While his hair, stark white and braided, had little golden beads at the end, his suit was entirely detailed in silver. An aged silver tubing lined the hems, which complimented the red in its warmness.

Releasing you of his grasp and momentarily giving you his attention, he betrayed no emotion. “Risotto Nero.”

Like a million alarms, bells and warning sounds went off in your head, you had to hold back your physical realization. Today was not your day for recognizing, like, really important people. This is Risotto Nero as in the ballet master for the Rome Company. You’re not kicking yourself nearly as hard as you were when you hadn’t recognized Trish. But, you still kicked yourself.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, uhm, signore Nero.” Your second language fled your mind under your nerves. You wanted to cry. Oh, cruel fate.

He hummed, giving you no sign of continuing.

Seemingly dissatisfied with your response, he turns his attention back to Bruno. You try hard not to be disappointed. The key word there is ‘try’. Biting at your inner cheek and embarrassment filling your gut, you had half a mind to catch his attention again and earn a positive response. Yet, the waver building in your throat and your fear of disappointment held you back. Oh, cruel fate.

Their conversation continued on, but it faded out from your ears. The blood rushing to your cheeks and the pain from your incessant chewing began to take the place of your ability to hear. You found no place to insert yourself so you stood beside Bruno silently. It wasn’t until Risotto had walked away that you had realized the conversation had ended. Though, your friend did not seem satisfied with its end.

Bruno’s gentle hand led you from the ballroom to the garden as the party began to die. Surrounding a luxurious pool were a few stragglers, ballerinas who were on the last bits of their conversations and donors hoping to catch a word of next year’s season.

“I ruined that.” You muttered, collapsing into a wicker chair. Tears bore needles at your eyes, threatening and fighting to slip down your cheeks. “I just gave the worst impression to the one person who could break this for me.” This time, with feeling.

His hand squeezed your shoulder. “He was an ass.” There is clear disdain in his tone. It’s quiet, but knowing him this long, the steel in his voice is clear as day. “You’re not the only one.”

That was a bit of a kick to the stomach, you weren’t the only one who made a terrible impression. So, Bruno agreed. You needed to get home before you cried.

“He has no care for his dancers, you know that.” Bruno gently reminded you, walking the minefield of your broken spirit carefully. He was right, you were well aware of the complaints Risotto received as a master. Ballerinas quit the company in pieces after dancing for him; he broke them. Trish was the exception that proved the rule. You held little to no chance.

“If I quit, it’s going to be because of him.” Those words were hard to get out. Three hours ago, you wouldn’t have entertained the idea of quitting, you had worked so hard. In for a penny, in for a pound. But now? It was an all to real end to your dreams.

The cab home was rough. You elected to take one alone so you could call your parents. You ended up not doing that, opting instead to have a silent sob in the backseat. Crying until your eyes were dry, you wiped what remained of the makeup you spent hours perfecting off your cheeks. Your hair a mess, your mascara running, you looked more like a victim of breakup than a failing ballerina.

A beacon amongst the rocks, your apartment was a safe haven in Rome. The warm lights buzzed with age as you flipped them on, casting off your shoes and coat as you fell onto your bed. You reviewed the night in your head a million, no, a trillion times.

It wasn’t a disaster. Not a complete one, at least. You met Trish. You met Ballet Master Nero, which was the low moment of the night, but it still happened. You’ll have a friendly face at the first rehearsal. You’ll have Bruno. You began to cry again.

Smiling past your tears and glancing at the clock, you groaned. Your smile faded when you realized just how late it had become. Swallowing whatever emotions were left, you padded like a hurt dog to the bathroom. Your nightly routine was lethargic at best, with brief intermissions of staring at yourself in the mirror. You felt exactly like you did when you had thought you failed the Diamond solo. Everyone knew, everyone saw, and no one wanted to tell you how pathetic you looked while you were doing it.

You really needed this sleep.

[jafndaegur]

Noise of Rain | Chapter 1

Sesskag

Endless Forlorness Made me Numb

A/N: so @fandomplethora and I were talking about Mo Dao Zu Shi AUs. And I was like "nooo, I'm not gonna work on my Sesskag version. I have too many WIPs already". You know, like a liar. So here's my MDZS au for Sesskag🤣 it happens during the course of the canon-timeline, I guess before Final Act. Sooo yeah. I hope you enjoy whatever the hell this is🤣🤣🤣

｡☆✼★━━━━━━━━━━━━★✼☆｡

Kagome watched with pursed lips as the last of the sun set over the horizon. Gilded rays fluttered over the earth, streaming across the trees and grass like rivers of fire. Warm. Beautifully and utterly warm. The dying sunlight drenched her skin, and she tilted her head back—trying to drink in it's comfort. 

Trying to ignore the pressing cold digging its way into the edges of her senses.

Sunset's birth left a wake open for the creatures she'd come to dislike and maybe even hate. Soon she knew the faint pale wisps of the Soul Stealers would come into view. They would approach but never broach, as if taunting the unspoken agreement of distance. Time and time again, they teased the limits, dancing along the edge of her sights until she spun around. In the back of her mind she wondered if it would be worth it to just fork her spirit over to Kikyo. The undead priestess deserved a life, free from trickery or deceit. Something pure—

Only caught by the ascended.

After all, before her egregious turn to...what Kagome liked to think of as the emo rebellious phase, Kikyo had been rather fair and just. The death dealt to her an unfair blow by fate into the hands of a psycho spider demon.

But as the thought began to teeter close to the cusp of action, Sango's voice called her from their campsite and the idea dissipated.

Still. 

That darkened patch in the back of her mind, the one that hid behind bright smiles and dazzling sapphire eyes, pulsed. It reached out and brushed against her reiki, causing the edges to crumble to dust, unreplenished. Not that Kagome knew.

It wasn't as if anyone were helping her cultivate her priestess powers. So if she felt a bit more fatigued or a little more drained, she blamed it on the fact that Inuyasha was nowhere to be seen in the camp. Although she hadn't expected to see him. With the Soul Stealers in close proximity, they always chimed his cue to leave.

The passing scenery is going to collapse—

Cold wrapped her mind and complete midnight gripped her reiki. She cried out for help but no one could hear. 

They didn't need her. Just a jewel-shard detector.  They didn't want her. Just a lesser reincarnation.

—along the obsequious side.

"Oi, Kagome," Inuyasha's voice drew her from her sleep-deprived autopilot. "Can't you pick up the pace?"

Her brow twitched and she tried to find a good reason to not "Sit" him then and there. But her chest heaved and the exhaustion washed over her, and she acquiesced. Today was neither the time nor the place. As their group moved forward in the direction of the next Shikon jewel piece when the hanyou had picked up scents of Sesshomaru traveling their direction. In a bout of stubbornness, he refused to change course. Insistent that if his half-brother wanted to fight, then he wouldn't shy away.

Kagome's brow rose as Sesshomaru’s own little group met up with theirs. 

Rin perched happily on Ah-Un's back, Jaken in tow, and the proud daiyoukai at the front—the little quartet brushed passed them as if they weren't there. Other than the pleasant wave and hello Rin shouted in their direction, it was almost like they didn't exist.

Almost.

As they continued on, Kagome shivered as the sensation of Sesshomaru’s youki swept over them. It probed with an innocent inquisition that was disarming. She wondered why he was searching to change the hidden. But in the moment that she detected his power, it eased away and left them.

"What an asshole, he probably just came around to show-off," Inuyasha huffed.

Kagome wondered if that was the case. The full youkai had been searching for something. But what? 

She felt herself going to the dark spot in her mind, wondering if she took hold of it and reached out—would Sesshomaru’s presence return? Was this darkness, this strange thing, was this what he looked for? Kagome felt half inclined to try. She wanted him to turn around.

To notice that she felt…

Miroku called out that he noticed a dark aura from the north, something suspicious and chilling.

Kagome sighed and supposed that it didn't matter how she felt. Hitching her backpack onto her shoulders, she closed her eyes and sifted for that familiar feeling of the sacred jewel. While she wasn't sure, something stirred her heart in the direction the monk had pointed to. 

With a triumph smile, she hopped up to the front next to the half-demon. "I'm not 100% sure, but I think there's a shard in that direction."

That pleased Inuyasha enough. "Alright! Let's get a move on then."

They made camp a couple miles out from wherever they were headed next. A heavy dread had covered the little campsite, the nearby evil seeping close enough to have everyone on edge. Inuyasha and Miroku both kept a vigilant watch neither one comfortable to rest. Sango helped keep Shippo and Kirara calm enough to doze into a restless sleep. Kagome stared off into the distance. The Soul Stealers were in the opposite direction of the unholy aura; wandering, looking.

But unlike the previous night where they had toyed with the notion of trying to take her spirit again, their movements differed. Unorganized and haphazard—the ghostly creatures meandered in confusion.

Heart pounding against her chest, Kagome couldn't help the small smile wiggling its way onto her face. In her mind's eye, she cupped the darkness more. After all, it had swallowed her reiki whole, hiding it from even Miroku's detection.

It protected the treasure by throwing away the guidance everyone depended on.

The middle of the night sung out to her and she awoke on a cold sweat. Someone was crying. But everyone had fallen asleep. Miroku and Inuyasha seemed fitfully sleeping at best, while Sango and Shippo curled in for warmth against Kirara's warm side. The fire-cat however, glanced at her with worried large eyes. 

Kagome hoisted the holy bow and arrows onto her shoulder. She gave an appeasing pet the demon's nose.

"Don't worry, I'm just going to investigate," she murmured gently. "Something's off. And I want to make sure we don't walk into a trap later."

Kirara gave a low growl but she did not move otherwise.

Kagome smiled and snuck forward. The morning had yet to start, so the air felt frigid and moist. Dew just barely started to accumulate on dark forest and heavy grass. Pushing her way through the underbrush, the inner compass in her chest pointed the direction she needed. Not to mention the voice she'd heard began to cry louder. Words still weren't quite comprehensible but the sentiment was there.

The forest started to scar away, replaced by shale and growing rigid crags. Heavy mist permeated the area more. Kagome drew her bow and crouched low, still persisting. The crying started to take on a form.

 Noise of rain. It wept. Noise of rain your footsteps cry.

And suddenly just like that, Kagome spun around, arrow ready to shoot. Naturally,  Naraku stood behind her—his arms behind his back, his face pensive.

"Kagome," he greeted, voice heavy and hesitate.

Her brow cocked. "Naraku. What do you want?"

Noise of rain—

"What are you doing here so far from your watchdog?" He asked, still nothing but curiosity and even perplexity radiating off of him. 

—your footsteps cry.

"Something called me," she whispered.

The spider hanyou's crimson eyes narrowed and he walked away. "Follow me."

As they trekked, the mist began to seep with a type of miasma, but for some reason... It didn't hurt her. Shady, inky tendrils looped slow through the air as they trudged upwards, following the rise of the mountains.

"I found this place, yet it confounds even me." Naraku drawled, dark hair wavering. "There is some type of life. But it refuses to interact."

"Can you blame it?" Kagome bit back.

He chuckled darkly.

They reached the peak. 

Below them an infinite spiral of darkness. Except this time not one voice cried out to her. They all whispered and unfurled. They all heard her. 

They reached for her.

"What's down there?" She murmured. 

"As far as I can tell, these are burial mounds." Naraku hummed. "Any one place you dig, there are bound to be bones."

The darkness over her reiki swelled. Kagome trembled.

"The miasma here is not my doing," Naraku continued. "It's not poisonous. Just resentful. It's quite the odd place."

She reached out her hand and the voices smiled. "You are wanted here. Please help us here. This is the end of all lies."

"I don't think it's resentful," she whispered. 

"Interesting theory," Naraku's voice curved and drawled. "Would you like to test that?"

Before she could ask what he meant, his foot collided into her back. She screamed as her body tottered over the edge. Loafers slipped, hands grasped air, and her body tumbled into the abyss' embrace.

Weak and limp she couldn't move her limbs. Every fiber, every bone, everything must have shattered at the impact's drop. Her lungs heaved painfully. The voices giggled and suddenly they were no longer begging but controlling. They grabbed at her, trying to tear her apart and reach for the reiki within her soul.

Yet that darkness from earlier, the darkness that had appeared one day and started to grow the next…

She imagined Inuyasha looking mournfully around his surroundings, wondering where she abandoned him—just like his first lover...

Her mother and brother called out for her endlessly. Their worried tones climbing and climbing but never finding the ears they wanted…

Sesshomaru’s youki poked and prodded, searching, searching, searching for her…

Her darkness consumed every part of her reiki, like a wildfire over a bonfire, it ignited a flash that had her toes digging into the ground and her will sending her to stand.

Her aura spread and she clenched her jaw, commanding the voices to quiet.

[flannelpunkcalum]

The Devil Wears Kevlar - Part 3

Part 1 Part 2 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7

okay this is like, actually the plot igniting. so that’s exciting right??? also did you guys see the new joker trailer? nice to see the dcu is finally catching up to me... anyway sorry this is a little late it’s just that i’m a hot mess express this week love you bye! word count is about 3.5 k 

Things aren’t exactly easy, but they work.

In the next few days Aspen does start to get yelled at, in small amounts. Calum’s distinctly hungover on Monday, and she’s scared he’ll fire her for turning on the lights too bright. She’s tired some days too, and makes mistakes, or there are meetings she didn’t know about and someone shows up and Mr. Hood is double booked. He always gives her this look as he apologizes to whoever has been slighted, and he always says “new personal assistant” like it’s her fault that it wasn’t in the fucking book. He stops giving her little smiles all of a sudden, and he most certainly doesn’t tell her she did a good job in a low low voice at the end of the day.

Aspen learns to take deep breaths and count to ten and go back to her desk. She knows she’s shitty at hiding her feelings, always has been, but now that she’s a personal assistant she forces it to manifest as extra-saccharine smiles and that’s it.

Mr. Hood knows how she feels; she knows by now he’s too smart not to. It’s ridiculous, what they both know the other knows, but they’re both ignoring that. Logically, it's fucked, but if he closes his door a little too hard or she smiles with too many teeth they let it lie. It works, she thinks.

And here’s the thing; she thinks those are the bad days.

She has no idea.

It starts about a week and a half in, on a Thursday. She knows it’s a Thursday because those are the roughest days and this one is no exception. It starts out okay, actually; her roommate Mel is up in time to grab breakfast with Aspen, and they talk about normal things, goofy things, that episode of Criminal Minds they had watched last night, until they go their separate ways. She’s grinning when she hands Calum Hood his coffee and schedule that morning, and she has a happy song stuck in her head while she taps away at her keyboard. She’d like to think her good mood is infectious, because when Mr. Hood leaves his office to go to the boardroom he’s got a faint smile on too.

Things seem like they’ll be good today.

The next time she looks up from her computer it’s to glance back to the elevator when it dings open and a grey-haired man steps out. The next thing she notices about him is that his suit is nice, and the third thing is that he’s making a beeline to Mr. Hood’s empty office. That's all she has time for before she rushes up to stop him.

“Excuse me, sir?” She says, in her very best polite voice. He turns, thankfully; he may be greying but he certainly doesn’t look frail. “Mr. Hood isn’t in right now, but he should be back soon if you’d like to wait.”

The man jerks his head towards the office door, seeming confused. “Yes.” He says, and moves towards the office again. Jesus, no one goes into Mr. Hood’s office without him, not even the janitors, not even her. She moves to stop him, but before she can touch the stranger Liam’s hand is on her shoulder and he’s moving towards the man. Thank god, she thinks, before he shakes the stranger’s hand.

“I’m sorry, sir, she’s new.” Liam says, and then he turns back to Aspen. “Aspen, this is Don Falcone.” He says it like it’s big news, like this man’s important. It still means jack shit to Aspen.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you. Can I get you anything while you’re here in the reception area? Coffee? A magazine?” She says, with an admirable smile (considering the circumstances).

The man doesn’t move. “Liam. Talk to this pretty little girl for me,” he says, and then Liam grabs her elbow and pulls her away into his office, hard enough that she almost cries out. He pushes her inside and closes the door behind them.

They can’t treat her like that.

“Liam, I’m not gonna let you do this twice-”

“Would you shut up and listen to me?” He reaches out again, but this time Aspen is expecting it and she darts out of his reach. “Jesus. I know you’re new to Gotham, but you don’t understand- Don Falcone is the most powerful man in this city and I’m doing you a favour, keeping you out of his way.”

“Some favour, I’m gonna bruise!”

“Yeah, well, if you stood in his way you’d get worse, Aspen. Half the city works for him.”

“Wow, Liam, a CEO?” Aspen’s still in what is very nearly a fighting stance - what the hell kind of office is this? He coworker raises a hand, and she flinches, but he just brushes his hair out of his eyes. He’s still between her and the door. “Never dealt with one of those before, thank you so much-”

“He’s the head of Gotham’s biggest crime family, so yeah, you should thank me for trying to keep you safe. He could order a hit on you for less.” Liam says, all biting.

Aspen opens her mouth to say that’s stupid, that doesn’t happen, but then she takes a look around. This is Gotham; this was where you buy pepper spray at the dollar store and where crazy people dress in costumes to burn the city down. Her mother hadn’t wanted her to take this job for a reason. Someone like her, she’d probably be no trouble to kill.

She stops and closes her mouth, looking in the office’s direction through the glass walls of Liam’s office. “...I should call the police.” She says finally, moving towards the phone.

Liam gets there first. “No, you shouldn’t. This is Gotham, the police aren’t gonna do shit. You don’t have to worry about Mr. Hood, their families go way back, the Don’s not going to hurt him. You need to worry about you.”

Aspen’s still for now, but inside she feels like something’s raging, something like a storm. Liam’s hand is on the phone, holding it down. He's twice her size, she couldn't drag him away. He looks… just as freaked as she feels, now that she looks at him. His eyes are wide and his hair, which is usually perfectly gelled straight up to heaven, has let a few stands hang in his eyes. It makes him look a little younger. Aspen feels herself wavering. “What am I supposed to do, let him just- isn’t it my job to do something-”

“It’s your job to stay alive.” Liam says, firm enough that Aspen doesn’t argue.

...for long, anyway. “I thought you didn’t want me working up here.” She says, finding just a little more anger in her.

Liam scoffs. “I don’t,” he says, sitting on the corner of his desk, “but that doesn’t mean I want to see you hurt.”

“How very sweet of you.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t make it easy.”

Aspen starts to inch towards the door, but Liam’s watching and he doesn’t try to stop her. She takes that as a sign that she can leave, but right as she’s about to make her escape she makes herself stop and face him. “You know, the next time you grab me, I’m gonna break a finger.”

He laughs, but she’s not joking. “I mean it. I’ve had enough of being manhandled. Don’t try it again.” She says, and turns on her heel. She leaves stony faced, and she sits down at her desk and looks at her hands and wishes she didn’t have these fucking glass walls so she could have a fucking meltdown.

Her hands are still balled into fists when Calum arrives, and she rushes out of her office to meet him. “Mr. Hood? Don Falcone is in your office, he’s been waiting, I couldn’t-”

“Don Falcone? Wait, he’s in- why didn’t you do something?” Mr. Hood looked reluctant to be stopped, but as soon as she started to explain he turned all the way towards her and yeah, that was worse.

“You think I could stop him? Sir, I-”

Mr. Hood has a briefcase in his hand and Aspen can only imagine that he’d like to swing it at her head. “I expect you to, yes, that’s-” He stops himself and grimaces, glancing at his closed office door. “We’ll discuss this later. Don’t leave your desk until I call for you.” He adds, already walking away.

She stands in the reception area until the office door closes. Janice won’t meet her eyes.  

Aspen’s somewhere between furious and desolate.

She goes back to her desk, of course she does. Feels like she’s in a fucking time out. She’s not prepared for this. She knows science, not mob bosses or office policies, and she’s not used to being pushed around like this (because she associates with decent fucking people in her spare time).

She’s not going to let Mr. Hood get her in trouble for this. She doesn’t think she’ll get fired, but the thought crosses her mind - after all, the man goes through personal assistants like he goes through girlfriends. Anyway, if she loses this position for standing up for herself, then it wasn’t fucking worth it in the first place. In a way, she’s thankful this meeting is going into her lunch break; it gives her time to build her case, get determined.

Carmine Falcone (she did some Googling, but there’s not a lot out there) leaves after a good long time, looking unreadable. Aspen forces herself to smile and wave at him as he passes her office, which gets a nod in return (“order a hit” reverberates in her head). Calum’s office door closes before she sees him, so she grits her teeth and stays sitting down, staring at her computer monitor before the phone rings.

They maintain their polite ignorance over the phone. Mr. Hood asks if he could see her in his office, please, and she says right away, sir, and they both hang up like adults. Aspen doesn’t kid herself, though, he’s going to tear her apart in a minute.

She squares her shoulders and crosses the lobby, knocking on his door before she can chicken out. “Come in,” says Mr. Hood, and she has to take a deep breath and remind herself of the overtime pay before she pushes open the door to meet her fate.

She knows he’s mad because he keeps on writing, doesn’t even look up as she enters. He wants to make her suffer for this, in some small way. He’s really fuckin’ mad, then. Still, she waits. There’s not much else she can do.

Eventually, he puts his pen down and looks up. “Is it unreasonable, what I ask of you, Aspen?”

“Is-”

“No.”

Alright, then.

Mr. Hood continues. “My orders are simple and they’re easy to follow and yet you allowed someone to stay in my office unsupervised for half an hour without so much as opening the door? Do you understand how ridiculous that is?”

Aspen knows she’s in the right, but she can still feel her face growing red. “Yes.”

“Oh, really? I don’t think you do, because certainly you allowed it to happen. I also know that’s the reason Carmine Falcone has a copy of one of my stupid paper schedules in his pocket and for the rest of the day he knows-”

This has gone too far, Aspen has to do damage control. “Sir, I think that’s-”

“Miss McMichael, you will not interrupt me.” His very tone makes Aspen feel like she's been slapped, and she closes her mouth. She doesn't think he's ever called her that before. “God knows what else he’s got on me, thanks to your negligence. I think I’ve been very forgiving of your mistakes, but this is something else.” He stands up. His jacket is off, and his dress shirt is drawn tight across his shoulders. Aspen is reminded of how big he is, but he’s not like Liam. He’s not going to grab her. Right? “Can you give me one good reason that I shouldn’t send you out of this office right now?”

“Look, Mr. Hood, I tried, but-”

“You will not use that tone with me.”

That does it.

Aspen feels lightheaded with anger. “No, you will let me speak, sir, since I’ve sat through your entire rant so far.” She says, with all the energy in her little body. She’s firm. She’s not going to get pushed around any more. “I tried to stop him, and I’m sure he told you that, but Liam wouldn’t let me and I don’t mean to blame him but he told me about - um, Falcone’s line of business, and to be frank yeah, I think it’s a little unreasonable for you to ask me to drag a mobster out of your office while you’re out.”

She almost regrets her harsh tone for a second, while Mr. Hood sits in stunned silence. Fuck, she’s never spoken to him like that. “I understand that you’re angry but this isn’t fair. I don't want to lose this job but if you want someone who’ll let you scream at them just because you’re angry you should send me back to the lab right now.” She says, finally.

Aspen knows from experience the next few moments are crucial, because she’s known to be an angry crier on occasion. If she can just keep it together for a few more seconds, caught in Mr. Hood’s agonizing gaze, she’ll be alright and able to scrape her composure back together. And this is Calum Hood they’re talking about, she’s seen him go cold on people before, but being the target of this is almost knocking her over. If she crumbles now, though, she’ll never have his respect. She can see it in his eyes.

He doesn’t speak.

This silence draws long.

It’s probably only a few seconds, but Aspen can’t stand it. “Also I think if you thought the paper schedules were stupid I think there’s a better way to tell me.” She adds quickly, and that gets a small sniff of amusement from Calum and suddenly she can breathe again.

“You’re... somewhat right.” He says, sitting back down.

That’s something.

“...next time something like this happens, I need you to call me right away. Don’t put yourself in any danger, if it comes to that. If Falcone, or anyone else won’t listen to you, just let them go and call me as soon as you can.” Aspen nods. At least that’s something she can do. “I’m sorry I was unfair. But you should know that if this happens again and you don’t alert me, your job will be entirely on the line.” It’s not the same threat he gave her earlier, but her stomach still twists. She moved for this job, she can’t lose it. Maybe Mr. Hood sees that, because his tone gets a little gentler. “How did Liam stop you from keeping Falcone out, if you don't mind me asking?”

At this point, Aspen’s just trying to calm herself down. She's not sure if she wants to tell her boss about her conversation with Liam, to be quite honest, because she's mad at him and all but… now she thinks he might have been doing the right thing. “That’s… well, he kind of pulled me into his office and had a talk with me and if what he told me is true I should be thankful for it.” She tries to make her choice of words sound neutral, but there's no reason for Mr. Hood to question her. She really doesn't want Liam to get in trouble for this.

“What did- it doesn't matter. Sometimes in Gotham you can't tell myth from fact.” Mr. Hood mumbles, face unreadable. “...thank you for being honest with me, and for… I hired you for this and not Liam for a reason, you know that?”

Aspen doesn’t trust herself to speak, so he continues. “Liam’s wonderful. He’s loyal. But you weren’t afraid to stand up to me in the interview, and you weren’t afraid now. I admire that. I just need some of that to come out next time Don Falcone comes into the building, understood?” He graces her with a rare smile and Aspen almost falls over. He was ready to fire her a moment ago, but now she watches carefully and she doesn’t see any anger seething under his skin. She hopes that’s not dangerous, but when he looks at her like that - well, it feels a little dangerous for a different reason.

Mr. Hood is waiting for her to reply, so she wets her lips and makes an effort. “To be fair, I was very afraid to stand up to you. Both times. But, uh, fortune favours the bold. As do ridiculously wealthy CEOs.”

He smiles outright at that. Aspen can’t believe she missed this feeling over the past few days, when he was just- different. She doesn’t know what it is that’s changed, but now he seems like a person, not her boss. It’s exceptional, this brief side of him.

“Indeed.” He says, picking up his pen again. “And I apologize for Mr. Falcone, if he made you feel uncomfortable. He has… old fashioned manners, I think, that’s a polite way to put it.”

Aspen thinks back to “pretty little girl” and almost pretends to gag for dramatic effect. She doesn’t, but it’s a near thing. “Does he ever, sir.”

“Don’t worry.” Says Mr. Hood. “His kind of man, their time in Gotham is coming to a close.”

Later, Aspen won’t remember what he said after that. She won’t remember exactly what she said to make a polite exit, or if Liam spoke to her after. She’ll remember the rest of the day as mostly a blur, almost like any other day.

One thing that sets it apart is that she’s starting to realize that she may have a teensy, tiny, miniscule crush on her boss. Well, not on her boss exactly, not on Mr. Hood, who is cold and inconsiderate and kind of a dick, but on Calum. She thinks she sees it sometimes; the parts of him that smile and tease and try to console her. It seems pretty superficial on her part, if she’s honest, and it doesn’t happen often so it shouldn’t be a problem, but Aspen’s fucking derailed by it right now. Her time at her desk that afternoon is infinitely complicated by it; she’s itching to get him to smile again.

Mr. Calum Thomas Hood is a complicated man, she’s coming to realize, and even though logically, she knows she wants no part in it, that doesn’t change the fact that she does. If he wasn’t her boss - if she was looking to date - if he wasn’t so stern - if she wasn’t so obviously not his type - if he wasn’t - maybe things would be different.

But here they are.

That’s what Aspen arrives at, at the end of the day. She gives herself the whole subway ride home to feel sorry for herself, but she knows she’s got to repress the shit out of those feelings if she wants to hang on to this job.

When she gets home that night, she tells her roommates about creepy Don Falcone, and they tell her that she should be grateful that Liam pulled her out of there. Paige is a journalist, Melissa is a political aide, and they both know more about Gotham than she does, so she believes them and tries not to let the cold reality of this city get to her.

That does turn out to be impossible.

When Aspen wakes up the next morning, Paige is already in the kitchen with a bowl of cereal and her laptop open. Sometimes after some major crime Aspen will find her like this in the morning, typing furiously and half-awake. It’s rarely a good sign.

“You’re gonna want to see this.” Paige says, in lieu of a good morning, and spins her laptop to show Aspen.

“...Jesus Christ.”

“I know,” says Paige, “Leslie thinks it’s the Batman, doing this, ‘cause you know how he feels about corruption, and, well, it’s Don Falcone, but the police are saying…” and she’s trying to fill Aspen in but Aspen isn’t so focused on that right this second.

She knows it’s silly, and she knows she’s paranoid, but Calum Hood had been really fucking angry yesterday after Falcone left. What he had said - his time was coming to an end, or something - he couldn’t mean…

Well, this was Gotham. There was nothing you couldn’t do with the right kind of money.

Aspen knows it’s just her being crazy, but hell, if she wasn’t planning on staying away from Calum before, she is now.

[spongeekat]

[Rewrite] The 6 Months Peter Parker was Dead Chapter 1

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Masterlist Here

Summary;  Peter is forced to fake his own death to save the lives of his fathers, as well as his boyfriend Wade and the rest of the Avengers. Now living as his secret identity of Spider-Man, he must cope with the pain he's causing his friends and family, while adjusting to the lonely life of a full-time hero. It's not easy when his decision keeps finding ways to haunt him, and it seems his identity is even harder to hide when he's 'dead.'

“Peter, please. Just look at me. You don’t want to do this. You don’t want to hurt Tony, or Steve, or anyone else that cares about you. You’re so young.”

Bruce’s pleading was wasted breath. His uncle’s voice was distant, barely audible over the pounding of blood in his ears. Peter’s mind throbbed with unease. The burning embers kissing the windows and door frame were pulsing brighter than the rest of the world, and when he tore his gaze down to his arms he saw the crimson burning his skin and up the expanse of his shoulder.  Fire Trucks blared deafeningly close, yet he didn’t so much as wince. Men and women were screaming at the rescue teams to help. It all sounded so far away. When he looked up at the fire consuming the burnt mansion, dripping with hunger and malintent, the blistering heat scorched his body. Sweat gathered on the edges of his hairline, and for a moment he felt he was breathing in pure charcoal and ash.  His logical mind, though hardly present, told him this was a terrible decision, and he should stay clear of the collapsing building. He felt a hand firmly grasp onto his shoulder, before it drug his limp form around to face Bruce. Peter caught sight of calm eyes staring back down at him, though the usual composure of the scientist before him had broken. Blood dripped steadily down his cheeks, and Peter was aware of wires of a bomb strapped to his uncle’s chest creeping up from under his shirt. They served as a grim reminder of the consequences of his actions, if he chose not to go through with the plan being forced onto him.

The splintering crash of another room caving in on itself pulled him from his mystified haze. His senses slowly started to return, the deluded shrieking now hitting him in stereo. Glancing back at the horrifying scene, the mansion was standing on its final legs. His window of opportunity was running short. There was a tunnel in the basement open only for so long, and Peter would lose his chance to disappear into it if he didn’t make quick decisions.

A man howled for help from the second story. Peter wasn’t sure if he was a pawn placed there by Harry, or if he was an actual tenant of the home that had been ambushed with his arson. Either way, the fire truck's ladder wasn’t operating, and the man had no method of escaping. Peter’s urge to rescue him was making his stomach churn in agony. He knew Harry was watching, and any aberration from the scheme would result in negative outcomes for everyone involved.

“Don’t think about me for a second.” Bruce’s voice was soothing, and much closer to Peter this time, his hands desperately anchoring him in place to keep him from making a move towards the flame-engulfed house. “Think about yourself. It would be better for me to die than you. Remember your fathers. Remember New York. All the people that love and depend on you. The people that would be devastated.”

Who? The thought made Peter’s throat constrict. He couldn’t deny Tony and Steve would be left in shock- and childless- but thinking logically, both of his previous sets of parents and the one girl he’d ever loved were already dead. Superheroes lost people all the time. In the overall scheme of things, did his life really matter…?

But Bruce. Uncle Bruce was someone Peter had vowed to protect. He glanced shortly up at his worn face, the abuse he’d been dealt taking form in dark bruises on his jaw and a fractured nose. The Green Goblin had been the mastermind behind this all.

Harry Osborn had made his appearance at the science convention Bruce and Peter had gone to that afternoon. Peter had originally been invited by Tony, but his Dad hadn’t been up to attending the event and sent Bruce in his place. The look of disbelief on his Uncle’s face when Peter had shot out a web to defend them was cemented in his mind. Peter fought hard. He hadn’t won. Harry had baited them out of the convention center to a parking garage rigged with electric traps, and he’d stupidly ignored his spidey-senses until it was too late. Static shot through the room, currents cutting through his body until he was debilitated and had passed out. The horror he felt waking up to Bruce, beaten, bloodied, and covered with explosives, had felt grimly similar to watching Gwen fall to her death 2 years ago. He couldn’t go through that again. He couldn’t watch another person in his life die because of his double-life.

Windows shattered behind them,  glass shards dropping to the sidewalk and causing onlookers to take steps further back to avoid the spray. Peter was pushed into Bruce from the momentum of the crowd, though Bruce wound his arms tightly around him. Peter could feel his unwillingness to let go. He wished he could stay that way with him, even if just for a minute longer. He may have resolved himself to his death, but that didn’t make the fear any less harsh.

“I know you think it’s your only option. But Peter, you have so much more to live for besides just being Spider-Man. You can’t lose your family. You can’t lose Wade.”

Wade. He would be devastated. He and Peter had agreed they would end each other’s lives when it came down to it, because neither wanted to survive alone. His promise ring was heavy on his finger. Peter slowly reached down and slipped it off with trembling hands, pressing it tightly into Bruce’s palm. “Keep it for me.” Peter’s voice ruptured through his chest, searing his lungs. His body ached, like he would have a break down any moment. However, he didn’t feel the immediate need to cry. He felt... numb.

Harry hated Peter. He didn’t have to scream it at him a thousand times to get the point across. He could see it in the spiteful eyes of his ex-best friend. He could see how Peter had broken him with his refusal to be the experimental drug for Norman. He had promised to do what he could to help the man he’d grown up with, but Norman had taken matters into his own hands and was too far gone for Peter to save him in the end. And then there was the night Norman had killed himself in a horrible accident, impaling himself on his glider when he had tried to take out Spider-Man. This fueled Harry’s inexplicably strong animosity, and Peter had no way to convince him that he hadn’t caused the loss of his father. In his eyes, while he knew it was horrible mistakes leading up to this, he accepted the blame for ruining his friend.

“You don’t deserve your dads.”

Peter had been electrocuted to the point he felt the shaking wouldn’t stop, sweat dripped down his face, and burn marks charred his arms and legs. He was in no shape to attempt an escape from the Goblin, especially with Bruce covered in explosives and unable to mutate to the Hulk. He wouldn’t risk his life in a gamble.

“Little Spidey wants to take away my father, my future, and still wants to pretend he’s the good guy! All we wanted was your goddamn blood !”

“Harry, this isn’t you.” Peter had seen Harry’s darkest days - through every disagreement with his family. Yet, despite the pressure of his Dad and the fate that awaited him, his fire had never burned out. Now, it seemed only black voids filled his eyes. “Let me help you. I-I promise, I’ll do everything I can-”

“No, that offer has expired. Sadly enough for you!” Another bolt coursed through his spine and spread down to his fingertips. Peter collapsed to his side on the floor, his body spasming excruciatingly as he tried to catch his breath and his heart threatened to give out. “You’re on my terms now. And that is somewhere you don’t want to be.”

Harry had given him an ultimatum. He cackled sadistically from behind his deranged mask, hovering over Peter’s broken frame on the floor still his twitching from another round of electrocution. “I won’t kill you. I want you to kill yourself. Peter Parker will die from this world either way.”

Peter was too disoriented to respond, and trying to pick himself up off the floor only left him dazed and in a heap once more. His limbs seemed to stop obeying him entirely.

“So I have a choice for you, Spider-Man.” A single, deformed finger blinded him, his brain engorged with electric sparks and hardly able to take in the details of it wavering in his eyes. “I’ll blow Banner’s brains out like a firework , reveal your identity to the world, and just as you return to normal life with Dear old Dad’s and your family of super-freaks, I’ll come for you. You won’t know where I am. But I’ll take a person from your life one by one, rip them to shreds and send you videos to commemorate, until you end your pathetic existence yourself.”

“Don’t listen, Peter.” Bruce croaked, though his prompting didn’t eliminate the weight of the Harry’s threats.

“Two.” Another green finger dug into Peter’s forehead, pushing sharply at his temples to make his neck arched painfully back. “You will leave your life as Peter Parker, and your Dads will be childless. You are a part of the Avenger’s now, aren’t you? Do you have fun being Spider-Man? Running around pretending not to sleep under the same roof?  Is it easy to lie to them? I hope so, because Spider-Man is all you’ll ever be. You’ll kill yourself- or at least, they’ll think you’re dead- on television so everyone can see just how weak and pathetic you truly are. And you’ll suffer each day watching them in pain, knowing they couldn’t save you. Your Hulk will live. So long as you trust him to keep a secret.” He paused, tauntingly, and withdrew his fingers from the teen’s forehead. Peter stared in disbelief at the floor in front of him, a shuddering taking over his form. He couldn’t do that to Steve and Tony, or the rest of his family. Either choice was a terrible punishment for them; they’d lose a friend, a team member, and suffer the publicity of Peter’s identity reveal and the murders that followed; or they’d lose their only son, while he played observer to the aftermath right under their noses.

“Don’t make me wait all day, Spider-Man, the choice is clear. Make your decision by the count of three, or I’ll set off my boom-toys and kill Banner now.”

Before Harry had even reached 2, Peter’s voice shot out in utter panic. “I’ll do the second one! I’ll pretend to die!”

Peter could see the heartbreak on Bruce’s face. He knew he was selfish. He knew he couldn’t do this to the people he held most dear, but he couldn’t risk lives that weren’t his. He couldn’t put people in danger who had never agreed to be in harm’s way in the first place.

“Be careful. Get the bombs off as soon as possible.” Peter brushed away Bruce’s arms from his body, taking a few steps backwards. Worry spiked in Bruce’s eyes, but Peter had his back facing him before he could say another word. He ducked under the police tape at the front lines. A fireman squawked to his right and made to grab him,, but Peter was quicker and evaded his grasp. He sprinted towards the home before anyone had really noticed he’d broken through, but when they had, there was an outcry of concern from the crowd. His steps tapered off at the front door and he slowed to a stop. The furniture and walls just inside the doors were blackened from the flames, sweltering smoke pouring through the frame. He could smell the petrol that had fed the fire, which was now spilling down the stairs at a rapid pace. He had a minute, maybe less, before the entire front room would be consumed by the blaze. Sweat collected on the arch of his eyebrows, and for a moment he was left petrified on the porch. There were civilians screaming at him to stop, and training his ears, Peter knew one of the first responders was dashing towards where he stood, his footsteps slamming against the asphalt. Despite the dread of entering the tomb that stretched in front of him, he couldn’t let himself get stopped. If he were interrupted by an officer he wouldn’t get a second chance to finish what he had started. His eyes locked onto the cameraman from their local news gawking at him from behind police lines, and before concerned bystanders could get in his way, he had ducked in the doorway and out of sight from the public.

Before he had even taken 5 steps away from the door, an explosion sounded behind him, nearly catapulting Peter into a half-destroyed piano from the force. Peter threw arms over his head as dust and debris sprayed his way, varnishing his face and hair with ashes. The side of the house closest to the stairs had begun collapsing, beams creaking before plunging through the weakened ceiling and splintering against the ground. He navigated his way towards the kitchen, the furthest point in the house from the source of the fire, purposefully orchestrated by Harry. He knew he was watching him, executing perfect timing as to prevent Peter’s plan from getting hindered. This also meant Peter was given no chance to go back on his word, once it was set into motion. His way out had been barraged chunks of burnt wood and drywall, and there was only one escape point remaining; the basement.

The roof groaned with strain, and the snapping of wood caught Peter’s attention. A tingle of warning ran up his spine, and his arms straightened above him on instinct to catch a burning beam that was hurtling down towards him. It easily outweighed him and was painted black with fire. The flames scorched the skin on his hands, but his adrenaline-induced high distracted him from the pain. He managed to throw it aside back towards the living room, side-stepping the cavern above him in case another piece of the frame decided to give out. He sucked in a sharp breath to look down at his palms, bits of the skin burned away to reveal pink and bloodied skin, but there wasn’t much to do about it now. The sooner he got out of this house, the less trauma he’d have to worry about later.

He trudged his way down the staircase that led to the under structure, the air growing thinner and easier to breathe. Peter hitched his backpack off his shoulders and dropped it to the floor, yanking out his suit. Despite the rush he was in, he faltered when he looked at the fabric, as if it was his first time seeing it. He didn’t feel like he was in a hurry this time to don the costume. After today, it would serve as his prison sentence. He wasn’t able to take it off and return to his life as a student, son, and Daily Bugle employee. Peter Parker, in this reality, was dead.

He tore off his current clothing, dropping it to the ground beside him. It was difficult to pull the spandex over his damp skin, but he eventually was zipping it and fixing his mask in place. Feeling his breathing obstructed by the suit was what finally made it all seem real. He wouldn’t be returning that night from his trip with Bruce to a warm bed and a kiss on the forehead from Steve. He wouldn’t spend his night listening to Tony trying to prove why it was a pointless convention made for less competent scientists to prove their theoretical intellect. There’d be no family movie night like every Saturday, and Natasha wouldn’t tease him and Wade endlessly when Wade snuck in once Tony and Steve went to bed. He wouldn’t go out for his nightly patrol, and he’d never again return at an unholy hour to rush to hide his new bruises with concealer and long-sleeve shirts.

Peter was really losing his entire life.

He twisted to locate the crudely carved tunnel leading out of the basement and up towards the back yard. Harry had told him it would be there as his means of escape, and it seemed just barely big enough for him to crawl through. With a faltering confidence he shoved his backpack in far enough to fit his body, then grabbed hold of the walls of the dirt path to pull himself in as well. His toes poked around for a growth in the dirt, and when he found it, he gave it a light tap and withdrew his foot. A weak bomb went off and the end of the tunnel collapsed, the light fading out of the space in seconds. Harry hadn’t been lying about the detonator to prevent his route from being found. He really had planned this revenge meticulously.  Peter grabbed hold of his backpack and pushed it up further along the steep angle, using his feet to climb up after it.

Trapped in utter darkness in a tunnel that led Peter to god-knows-where, he crawled towards the beginning of a new kind of hell he wasn’t emotionally prepared to face.

--

“Now being called a Reckless Hero; How the adopted son of Tony Stark lost his life in an attempt to save politician Jamison Morre last Tuesday when he was trapped on the fourth floor of his burning home. The Manhattan Arson and Explosives team has just concluded their investigation on the case of a house-fire that left two dead earlier this week. Firefighters received the call about this massive fire at about 4:30 PM. When they arrived on the scene they discovered Morre was still inside the home, unable to escape his bedroom before the fire had caused the stairs to collapse. 20 Year old Peter Parker-Stark was spending the day with a family friend when the young man supposedly passed by the scene and heard the cries of the homeowner as he yelled for help. Despite all of the first-responders best efforts, they were not able to extend their ladder due to faulty equipment. It was then Stark decided to take matters into his own hands. He ran into the half-demolished building to try to reach him, but a gas line exploded just as he entered. Police say they found a body that was badly burned and crushed under the rubble, but it had been concluded to belong to Parker-Stark. We talked to the fire chief that was on the scene at the time.”

“It was an unfortunate incident that my men were not prepared to deal with. Our truck ladder wouldn’t extend, and we couldn’t reach the man through his window. The kid ran past us and it took too long for any of us to realize he had gotten through. It’s something sad that we have to deal with when heroes like Spider-Man and Captain America run around and try to save people all the time. Normal people want to be heroes, too. All of our trucks are being tested to be sure this won’t happen again, and the parts that failed are being looked into.”

“We’ve received no comment from Tony Stark on the incident. More details to come as they’re uncovered.”

The TV clicked off, the screen shutting down to black, and Peter was once more basked in the silence of his empty apartment. He drew his legs up to his chest, resting languidly against the arm of his couch. After a couple of nights taking refuge under the bleachers of his old high school, Bruce had gotten him settled into a rented furnished studio apartment, at least for the time being until he figured out the next steps he would take. It had been surprisingly difficult adjusting to life on his own. Despite his roots of  living primarily with Aunt May and Uncle Ben in an aged, single-family home, he had grown quite accustomed to life in Stark Industries and the luxuries that came along with it. Of course he was also never completely alone in the tower. Even when his 5-or-so family members were away on a mission, he still had Jarvis, who was decent company. But now he was left isolated on the other side of town.

Bruce hadn’t come to visit Peter yet. At least not when he’d been home. He’d left a new phone, clothes from his room, his laptop, his promise ring, and cash in a box on his counter while Peter was out. He also texted him updates about upcoming Avenger’s meetings, though all official activity had been postponed until further notice. Peter hadn’t heard anything about Steve and Tony’s state yet, though he figured that was for the better.

The depression of losing his family had hit him quite hard. Rather than crying to mourn his losses, he just felt... empty. His life had been shattered apart by the man he used to consider his best friend, his relationship had been ripped prematurely away, and he was left a captive to his superhero persona. He hadn’t brought himself to move from the couch since he’d moved in, much less go out for patrols. Besides, the temptation to burst into his old home and reveal that he had never really died and beg for forgiveness for lying to them would overwhelm him. He wasn’t strong enough for it yet.

On his new phone he navigated to the social media sites his family had kept up for him, all now switched to a remembrance page. Several people from highschool and college that had barely even known his name when he was ‘alive’ had posted tribute statuses. Even his professors had reached out about the unfortunate death of their student. The name that stood out most viciously on the page was Flash. He was, according to his post, torn-up by Peter’s death, wishing he had been given the chance to apologize for his misbehavior all those years ago towards Peter. The fact that his death may have actually done good for a person made him want to laugh at the sour irony.

There was still the intrusive thought that overall this may be a benefit to those he’d left behind. After all, how many of his family members had he seen murdered, or close to it, because of his genetics and powers? It was hard to ignore the fears when they were the only thing keeping you company during the day.

Peter’s police scanner buzzed on low volume next to him on the cushions, and the words ‘Masked Red Man’ and ‘Shooting.’ immediately caught his attention. Wide-eyed, his fingers fumbled to turn it up.

“  612 we’re requesting response cars because we have squads tied up with this shooting. Unable to move inside. 5 suspects have been spotted with firearms, and approximately 24 people are still inside the mall. Masked man is now out of sight and has appeared to have entered through the fire exit. Shots have been fired. Where did this guy go? Were those swords?”

Apparently there was a hostage situation in the mall, and Wade was getting himself involved. The fact had Peter on his feet in a second. Wade had been kill-free for a year and half since joining up with the Avenger’s alongside Spider-Man, and had been very proud of that fact. Peter was really hoping that streak hadn’t been broken. No, he had to be sure Wade wasn’t going to hurt anyone. His chest ached as he pulled himself from the couch and tumbled over to his suit that laid out on his counter, holding it up before him.

No more moping. He was going to have to face this head on. He was doing this to protect those he loved, and he couldn’t give up on saving the city and the people in it just because he was grieving. So he pulled the zipper open and ripped off his shirt, trying not to let his mind linger on the anxiety of seeing Wade again.

--

Spider-Man landed stealthily on the glass roof of the Manhattan mall, but he still heard an eruption in the crowd gathered to watch the scene, supposedly noticing him. He braced his fingertips against the slippery panes and crawled silently, eyes scanning inside for where the hostages were. He’d heard from the report that the shooters had been spotted near the electronics store on the second floor through a window. As promised, when he reached that area, he saw a man standing with a loaded gun in the center of a broken escalator, with a group of a dozen people kneeling behind him. There were bound to be more shooters in another section, which Peter had to be careful not to alert, as to not risk any of the individuals’ lives.

He carefully gripped onto and pulled one of the glass panels up as warm air rushed out at him, calculating his strategy. Yelling below him indicated someone was on the phone, likely with the police, in one of the hidden stores. The hostages seemed to all be alive at least, though Peter was sad to know there had already been at least one casualty. He picked the angle at which he could quickly web the gun with one hand and grab the gunner with the other, which would hopefully be silent enough that he could then land in front of the hostages and body-block them until he’d taken out the three other gunman.

Peter adjusted so that he’d have room to jump down once he’d webbed the man, extended his wrist, and braced himself to ambush his target.

“Who the fuck is that?!”

The faint sound of boots hitting tile drew his attention to a maintenance hallway. His vision locked in on a man making his way towards the gunmen with a frightening ambiance, shrouded by the crimson emergency lights flashing rhythmically. His katanas were dragging on the ground, sparks leaping off the tips , and nothing about this man seemed friendly or hopeful like Peter had come to know him. His heart swelled in his chest upon seeing the familiar suit, a sharp pain forming in the back of his throat. Wade. His presence brought in an instant happiness that threw him completely off guard, though the grief overshadowed it in a moment when he’d realized that it meant nothing. Wade had no idea who lied behind the mask. They were still stuck miles apart.

“Stop walking towards me or I’ll kill one of the kids!” Peter was torn back to the situation at hand. His eyes darted to look for the other gunmen, and he could see the barrels of their machine guns poking out of the door of one of the stores. He counted 3 present at the scene, which meant one was still missing.

Deadpool’s heavy steps didn’t falter at the threat, and Peter’s ears picked up on the clicking of a gun safety. It was time to make his move.

A child screamed when Peter descended down on them, which distracted the man aiming at Wade long enough that his blades had the chance to scrape together. Peter turned in horror, expecting a maimed body lying on the floor, though he was met with the sight of a halved gun and the man bleeding from his nose after taking a hilt to the face. Thank God. The criminal was injured, but alive.

The whizzing of a bullet entered his ears and he instinctively side-stepped it, and several other shots. His wrists darted out, web fibers solidifying and sticking onto the strap of one of the rifles. He ripped it out of the hands of the gunman, pulling the magazine out and discarding it before the body clattered to the floor. Peter shot another two webs at the man’s arms and drug him forward, digging the heel of his foot into his forehead to disorient him.  Deadpool was beside him without hesitation, sliding under a bullet’s path and yanking the shooter’s feet out from under him. Peter noted that Deadpool was dully silent compared to his normal banter and… Peter would give anything to hear just a hint of laughter in his voice. Peter turned his head at the hostages, pointing towards the exits. “Go to the police. You should be safe.” He said, calmly, to keep them from panicking and trampling one another. His voice disguiser he’d invested into when he’d gotten invited to the Avenger’s buzzed softly in his mask, distorting his voice deeper and leaving it unrecognizable.

Peter cemented two of the criminals to the floor. He used his knee to anchor another, wrapping web around his wrists to subdue him, and Deadpool seemed to be taking care of the other gunmen. His heart rate had picked up to a rapid pounding due to the close proximity of Wade, and he struggled to find something to say. There was an uncomfortable tension draping them, and Peter knew he should break the silence. He straightened up ever so gradually, studying Wade’s mask, though the mercenary seemed to notice and refused to return his gaze. His body language echoed the tenseness he seemed to feel, his quivering hands using more force than necessary to rip at the shirt fabric of the knocked out man to tie his hands. Peter wanted to hug him. It hurt so terribly to be this close, to see him looking so defeated, but unable to do anything about the fact. Nothing else felt as important in that moment as comforting Wade did.“Deadpo--”

“I have to go.” Deadpool stood from his work, looking over at the computer store. Peter followed his eyes, slowly, every fiber in his being not wanting to look away from Wade, to see the last of the men cowering behind a desk. “You can take care of him, right, Spidey?”

Wade sounded drained. Peter swallowed down the remorse that took over him as he nodded. “I-Uh- Yeah” Wade braced to walk away, but panic erupted in Peter’s chest. He didn’t want him to go. “Um, We should talk!... Sometime. Like we used to.” He said awkwardly, with urgency, unsure why he had made the offer knowing that he absolutely could not risk giving his identity away.

The mercenary hesitated, his blades, still dirtied with blood and gunpowder, being shoved away into their holsters on his back. “Yeah, maybe .” Wade returned half-heartedly, and it was clear he had no intention of accepting Spider-Man’s offer. He didn’t say anything else, picking his way over the bodies and dragging his feet back towards the exit.

And all Peter could do was watch him walk away with the other half of his heart. His promise ring sat heavily on his finger, under the glove.

He was broken. There was no other way he could describe the torment that had crushed his spirit. Wade was hurting, that much was clear by his shortness, and Peter knew it was entirely his fault.

[queen-scribbles]

Shallow

For @pillarspromptsweekly #69. Another Roll for It where I picked my elements (Ondra, snow, reunion). This is an idea I’ve been sitting on for a really long time (almost a year), so it ran away with me a bit.*cough* almost 4k *cough*

‘A single strike upon the crystal will not be enough. The Eyeless respond only as long as the hammer rings. You will need to remain until their work is complete, wielding the hammer until the walls come crumbling down.’

Ondra’s words stuck in Emiri’s head, circling like a school of frightened fish. She knew what they meant.

‘You will need to remain...’

Her breath caught shallow in her throat, and if not for Pallegina, she would have been crushed by the Eyeless that lumbered around the corner. The sharp jerk sideways snapped Emiri out of her stupor and she scrambled to contribute to the  ensuing fight. But she still wasn’t all there, lingering on the goddess’ words. She knew somehow, despite Edér’s dark humored comment, crushing would not be how she’d go. Not her, Ondra’s least favorite child for reasons Emiri had never figured out.

‘Your sacrifice will be mourned.’

No, if Ondra had any say in it, Emiri would survive the crushing to drown when the moon fragment filled with water. Just the thought of it made her heart pound and blood run cold.

‘Your fate is already sealed.’

She must not have done a good job hiding her distress, because they hadn’t progressed too much further toward their goal when there was a hand on her arm.

“Are you alright?” Aloth asked, then huffed a small laugh though his nose.  “Considering.”

Emiri winced as she paused to answer, both at being so easily read, and at the purplish-blue bruise forming under his eye. “Considering, yes. I’ve always suspected Ondra hated me. Never expected to have proof.” She managed a ghost of a smile. “What can you do when the world needs saving?”

‘You have seen what they will do. This is the way you can stop them.’

“Emiri...” Aloth sighed. He knew she wasn’t telling him everything; she could see it on his face. Sometimes it was an annoyance to have a friend who knew her so damn well.

“It’s fine, Aloth. We should keep moving. I doubt the Eyeless will stand around idle to await their destruction.” Emiri rolled her shoulders, Abydon’s hammer seeming heavier than before, and pressed on. 

‘This is the way you can stop them.’

That would be worth it, right? Saving the world, protecting her friends, that was worth a death from her darkest nightmares. She could do this.

‘Your sacrifice will be mourned.’

Suddenly she was twelve again, shackled and trapped inside a cabin slowly filling with water. Icy fear worming in the base of her skull.

They all but walked into the next trio of Eyeless and Emiri threw herself at them with a scream of helpless frustration. She let her terror and dread fuel her abilities, trying to inflict just a fraction on the remorseless monsters who’d put her in this position. They proved largely resistant to cipher powers, her one moment of triumph coming when she made a mace-handed one attack a lance-armed compatriot zeroing in on Hiravias.

“Thanks, Watcher!” he laughed, flashing her a toothy grin as he flung out a small ball of fire that leapt between all three of the monstrosities.

Emiri nodded wordlessly, dodging a lance thrust, and slammed her hammer against the Eyeless’ leg.

The fight dragged on longer than expected--Abydon made the Eyeless well--and all of them needed a rest after this last fight. So they tucked themselves in a small alcove and took a few minutes to catch their breath.

Hiravias plunked himself down next to Emiri and gave her a dark smile as he held out his jerky to share. “It’s fun when the gods decide you’re special, isn’t it?”

“Oh, yes, I’m enjoying myself immensely,” Emiri sighed. The light of her halo rippled. “Everyone acts like it’s such an honor to draw the attention of the gods, but...”

“Sometimes you wish they’d shut up and leave you alone?” he supplied, biting off a mouthful of jerky.

“Exactly.” She leaned forward and braced her elbows against her knees. “It’s more a burden than anything.”

“They do have a funny way of showing their regard,” Hiravias agreed. He scratched idly at the scars covering half his face. “Galawain saw fit to make me far less handsome, and Ondra’s outright trying to kill you.”

“That’s nothing new,” Emiri said with a grim almost-smile. “Ondra’s had it in for me since I was eight. Guess she regretted favoring me with her touch.”

“If she’s been after you since you were eight, you’re more resilient than I thought.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Thank you?”

“I already knew you were tough as shit, Watcher,” he clarified, wolfing down the rest of his jerky in two mouthful. “This just adds to it.”

She laughed quietly. “Well, in that case, a more definite thank you.” She sighed. No point in delaying the inevitable. “We should get moving again” --she turned to the rest of the group--”if everyone’s ready?”

There were nods and murmurs of assent from the others. Trying to ignore the nerves fluttering in her chest, Emiri pushed to her feet and led the way further into the fragmented moon.

They passed through another open chamber with a pool of cold, still water at the center, and Emiri couldn’t stop herself from peering into its depths. She half expected to see more of Ondra’s Hair, come to double down on shallow, emotionless promises her sacrifice would be mourned. But there was nothing aside from the flash of scales as lagufaeth darted in and out of view. She wasn’t sure if that was more disappointment or relief.

She wasn’t given long to dwell on it; there were several more groups of Eyeless to fight and she was determined not to split her focus anymore. These fights went much better, though it was still frustrating that they were all but immune to her cipher abilities. Emiri wound up largely just supporting and protecting her friends as they dealt with the creatures.

It was almost a relief--in a perverse, twisted sense--that the last obstacle between them and the crystal column was a kraken. Emiri was far from eager to reach the end of this road, but it was good to have a foe she could actually fight and contribute more than shielding her friends. The fight was still far from easy, but at at last the gigantic beast sank lifeless beneath the surface. They dispatched the pair of Eyeless that lumbered up with only slightly more difficulty, and then it was time. No more delays.

‘Your fate is sealed.’

Emiri looked at her friends, breath coming fast and shallow as it sank in this might be the last time she saw them. She would try to get out once everything came crashing down--why start passively accepting death now?--but wasn’t optimistic about her chances.

‘Your sacrifice will be mourned.’

Yes, but not by you. Emiri had no illusions Ondra actually cared. It would be her friends, the kith who had followed her down here, battered, bruised, and in a couple cases bleeding. They would be doing the mourning. Not some distant uncaring god.

“Miri? You alright?” Edér nudged her arm. “You usually only go all quiet like that when you’re havin’ one of your Watcher moments.”

“Just... collecting my thoughts,” she said softly. Abydon’s hammer was heavy on her back, heavier in her hands as she walked closer and sized up the crystal column. “This... isn’t easy.”

Water filling her mouth, the surface was too far no matter how hard she kicked. The nightmare was real this time, ready to swallow her whole.

“Let me.”

Emiri was so absorbed in fighting through through the fear that it took a couple heartbeats to realize someone had spoken. Someone had offered to take her place.

It took a couple more to realize it had been Aloth, one hand already wrapped around the hammer’s haft so she couldn’t swing it.

“No.” Every fiber of her being, down to the depths of her soul, twisted in vehement rebellion at the thought of asking him--letting him--do this. She pulled the hammer toward her chest, trying to dislodge his grip. “Absolutely not! This is-”

The words stuck in her throat. Terrifying. Necessary. Something I have to do.

Aloth didn’t let go. He met her gaze, eyes somber but glinting with determination at least the match of hers. “I know how much this... fate frightens you,” he said softly. “You told me, under the abbey.”

Emiri snorted and tugged on the hammer again. “I also told you it wasn’t a death I would wish on my worst enemy or strangers who hadn’t done anything to me. Do you really think it’s something I can condemn my best friend to?”

“You’re not.” Something flickered in his eyes, but he squared his shoulders and maintained his dogged grip on the hammer. “Emiri, I... I have had many decisions made for me in my life, followed orders I neither understood not questioned. This is different. This is my choice.”

“But-” The words wouldn’t come, jamming against each other, caught on the lump in Emiri’s throat. She couldn’t let him do this, couldn’t risk losing him. It should be her, was supposed to be her.

“You are the only one who can stop Thaos, Watcher,” Aloth pointed out, emphasizing the word even as she flinched. “Even aside from my more personal reasons, the world still needs you.”

But I need you. She didn’t say it. Didn’t let go of the hammer either. “Aloth...”

“I’ll not be far behind you,” he said, but she could feel the waver in his soul. He only half-believed the words even as he spoke them. “I have warding spells that can help. And I do, in fact, know how to swim.”

Well, that was one he had on her. Emiri finally, reluctantly, loosened her grip. “If you’re sure...”

“I am.” Aloth wrapped both hands around the hammer haft. He got a good grip, took a step closer to the crystal.

“Oh, wait!” Emiri sniffled, darting to where the others silently waited. She tugged Kana over and dug through his pack until she found the diving helmet Mylla had told her about. It was too small for her, so she wasn’t going to bother, but maybe for an elf... “Never hurts to improve your odds, right?” she said, trying for light-hearted.

Aloth nodded and mustered a smile. “Thank you. You... you should start on your way out. I have a feeling it will not be easy.”

The knot in her chest tightened further and her breath came short and sharp. I can’t- Strangling off the sob that was trying to escape, she pulled him into a hug, hammer and all, tight enough his knuckles dug into her ribs. “You better not be far behind,” she murmured fiercely before letting go.

If he wasn’t, if Ondra took the best friend she’d had in her life, Emiri was fully prepared to storm the Beyond itself to make the Sea Queen fix it.

But it wouldn’t come to that, because he was going to escape, she told herself firmly as she rejoined the others. She refused to let herself dwell on any other outcome. “Let’s go,” she said brusquely, heading back for the embankment they’d slid down to get in. “It’ll get much harder once he starts.”

Aloth gave them just enough time to scale the embankment before the first clear--almost beautiful--ring of hammer against crystal resounded through the cavern. It pierced through Emiri’s heart, and if it weren’t for Kana and Pallegina tugging her arms she would have frozen on the spot. A second clear tone resonated, and the ground trembled.

They ran.

No looking back, it would hurt too much, just forward, forward, forward. Up a tunnel as the walls cracked, past the pool where she’d glimpsed lagufaeth as rocks fell from the ceiling.

And slap-bang into the first of the Eyeless as the path crumbled at the edges. Emiri felt as the creatures’ focus shifted from answering the hammer’s summons to this more immediate annoyance. Before they could fully bring their attention to bear, she lashed out, one of the charms she hated to use flying from her lips. These were vessels, not kith, and her friends were in danger. To her surprise it actually worked this time, and her vicious Not us, them had a large knot of the Eyeless attacking their fellows.

“Come on,” she hissed, leading the way past the distracted monsters. That charm wouldn’t last long, and then they would resume their inexorable march toward the still-ringing crystal. As long as there wasn’t anything closer at hand to capture their attention.

They ran on, as the hammered crystal tone rose and swelled behind them. It was louder now, aided by the Eyeless who had reached the cavern. Emiri wondered if it was hurting Aloth’s ears with how close he was. They passed more Eyeless as they scrambled through the crumbling tunnels, but these were too entranced by the resonating crystal tone, almost deafening now, to be much of a threat.

At least Ondra was right about that, Emiri thought dryly as she dodged an idle swipe from a lance-armed Eyeless. She almost tripped over Hiravias a few seconds later when he rolled into her path avoiding a mace-handed one. The tunnels were narrowing, which meant they were getting close to the entrance.

A particularly large chunk of the ceiling crashed down behind them, almost grazing Kana’s back and startling a curse out of Edér. Emiri cringed as she wondered how much worse it was at the heart of all this destruction.

Pallegina blurted something in Vailian and pointed ahead. “Look!”

There was light. Dim and flicking, but there. They were almost out. Almost safe. They rounded the final bend just as a fresh cascade of stone and debris tumbled into the opening as the moon fragment gave a violent lurch. The path wobbled and dropped from under them and another sound filtered up under the din of ringing crystal.

Rushing water.

Fear prickled up Emiri’s spine and she willed herself not to think about anything beyond clearing those rocks. No flashbacks, no thinking about Aloth. Just getting the rest of them out of here. Even as she opened her mouth to see if anyone could take care of it, Hiravias’ voice rose in a familiar spell. A pair of boulders flew from his outstretched hand and smashed through the rubble.

He fell behind, limping, as they resumed their retreat, and Emiri dropped back to grab his arm and pull him up. She heard him hiss out a pained curse and boosted him high enough to wrap his arms around her neck as she ran. Ionni Brathr was already trying its damnedest to claim one of her friends, it couldn’t have another.

They all tumbled free of the rotating moon fragment, feet skidding as they hit the ice. A thunderous crash echoed out behind them and the ice started to splinter with long, jagged cracks. Emiri balled her hands into fists as she scanned for a safe path across.

Must be chest high or deeper by now... She viciously pushed away the thought as Kana’s rich baritone rose in competition with nature itself, lending speed to their feet through song.

It wasn’t until the sting of wind hit her face that Emiri realized she was crying. She swiped at the frozen tears as she ran, bringing up the rear thanks to the added weight of an orlan clinging to her back. There was a loud groan behind her as the moon turned and sank yet further.

Don’t look back. She was almost to the shore. The others had made, Edér and Pallegina each holding out a hand as they hollered encouragement.

A crack rent the air just behind her and ice shards stung the back of her legs. Usher spare us all. 

Her last first steps punched partway through the weakened ice, sending her and Hiravias tumbling into the snow. Emiri muddled her way up to her knees and stared back the way they’d come. Only the moon’s tip was visible above the surface now. She watched it sink through blurry eyes, barely registering when Edér and Kana each rested a hand on her shoulders. Pushed to her feet as the ripples faded, wading into the shallows as the icy water lapped over the tops of her boots. As if there was anything she could do. A shiver raced through her and Emiri hugged her arms in close, nails digging into her coat until she could feel them through the leather and fur as she poured all her focus into a single word.  Please.

One heartbeat.

Two.

Three.

At five the tears started running again and her chest heaved, teetering on the verge of a sob. No, Usher, please. Please don’t....

There was a sharp crack, loud in the silence,even though it paled next to the cacophony of a few moments ago. Emiri swiveled toward the sound just in time to see an arm punch through the ice.

Please.

She was already moving in that direction, frozen fingers tugging open the clasps on her coat, when Aloth’s head came into view and he started pulling himself out of the icy water. Emiri dropped to her knees and skidded across the last couple feet of the ice floe to help him. She hauled him up running on pure adrenaline and bundled him in her heavy, fur-lined coat as he finally released his death grip on his grimoire.

He was alive. Soaked to the bone, shaking from the cold, and sporting several additional bruises and cuts, but alive.

Thank you, Emiri thought fervently in the direction of whichever god or force of nature had answered her as she wrapped Aloth in a hug. “What happened to warding spells?” she asked with a shaky laugh, joy and relief bubbling in her chest. “You’re almost the same color as me.”

Aloth smirked at the weak joke. “They only lasted about two thirds of the way up. And it’s nigh impossible to cast underwater.” He shivered. “If we could perhaps move off the ice...?”

“Oh, of course!” Emiri carefully pushed to her feet and helped him up. His hair was starting to freeze, she realized, and belatedly tugged the hood of her coat up over his head. “I still can’t believe...”

“Neither can I,” Aloth admitted as he bent to pick up his grimoire. “Especially after the first surge of water carried away the helmet.”

“I don’t care,” Emiri said frankly through a hiccuping sob-laugh, hugging him again. “Gods, I don’t care, Aloth, I...”

He wrapped his free arm around her in return. “I know.”

By this point, Edér and Kana had traversed the much safer shore to reach them and begun cautiously making their way out onto the ice. Edér grinned cheerfully and quipped, “Hey, look who’s back from the dead.”

Aloth rolled his eyes as he stepped back from Emiri. “I wasn’t-”

“You were as good as,” Edér cut him off, grin spreading wider when the only response that got was another eyeroll. “C’mon, Pallegina’s tryin’ to start a fire for while she sees what’s up with Hiravias’ leg.”

That sounded wonderful to Emiri, and she wasn’t the one who was soaked head to toe standing on a crack-riddled chunk of ice. All four started to head toward their friends, but Emiri was distracted as the water in the hole rippled violently. She froze, thanks to curiosity more than the weather, and noted in her peripheral Kana had as well. 

He edged closer to her as a lagufaeth popped out of the water, its red and gold scales shimmering in the morning sun. It eyed her with far more intelligence than wilder creatures usually displayed. A familiar intelligence, she realized.

Emiri squinted at the lagufaeth. Exandru...?

It squawked and dropped Abydon’s hammer--she hadn’t even noticed that was gone, too--on the ice ‘Our debt for our freedom is repaid by your friend’s life, Watcher.’ shimmered through her mind.

She nodded and the lagufaeth gave a disgruntled hiss before diving back in the still-trembling water. Still-trembling? She frowned. The lake should be settling by now. She was too drained to deal with anything else weird, they needed to get back to Stalwart--

The fragment of Ionni Brathr rose back out of the lake, the large swaths of broken ice knit back together, and the Eyeless spiraled out to demand explanations for the attempt at their destruction.

Emiri was only too happy to point the finger at Ondra, both for painting the destruction as necessary and corrupting their purpose in the first place. Only too happy to agree some things--like the Engwithan culture--were worth preserving (Kana’s gushing may have tempered her feelings on that subject). Only too happy to encourage they reform Abydon, memory intact, and preserve history once more. Only too happy to part peacefully, no need for conflict, hopefully now in the good graces of at least one god.

She and Kana stood for a long moment in silence after the Eyeless retreated. Then he wrapped an arm comfortingly around her shoulders and guided her back to join their friends.

They took a much-needed but abbreviated rest as Pallegina checked Hiravias’ leg--his knee was badly bruised from falling rock,would hurt to walk on for a while, but no permanent damage--before striking out for Stalwart. Under other circumstances, maybe they would have camped near the lake and dealt with the cold, but Emiri would be damned if she let Aloth freeze to death after he narrowly escaped drowning. She and Kana and Edér traded off carrying Hiravias piggyback. Hiravias grumbled abundant displeasure with this arrangement--especially on Edér’s turns--but even he acknowledged it was the best option.

It took until early evening to reach Stalwart, and it wasn’t until they were safely ensconced in one of the finest rooms the Gréf’s Rest had to offer that Emiri’s heart slowed and she allowed herself a deep breath. They were all alive. Despite the long odds and Ondra’s somber pronouncements, no one had died, a fact that left her shaky with relief.

“I never said thank you,” she commented quietly to Aloth as the two of them sat near-but-not-too-near the fire, nudging his foot with hers.

He smiled, shifted the mug of tea he was nursing. “It was implied.”

“No.” Emiri shook her head, staring at a long scrape that disappeared up his sleeve. “You were willing to die for me, simply because you know that death scares me more than any other. Implied thanks is not good enough.” She held his gaze. “Thank you, Aloth.”

He looked ready to protest, but instead took a long drink of his tea before simply saying, “You’re welcome.” A beat. “It was the least I could do.”

She snorted and shot him a skeptical look. “Pretty sure that rates a little higher than the least, no matter how much you think I’ve done for you.”

Aloth smiled at her again over the rim of his mug. “Agree to disagree.”

She was too tired and too grateful to have this debate with him(again), so Emiri simply shrugged and curled her hands tighter around her own mug of tea.  “Warm yet?”

Aloth looked down at his hands, seemed gratified there wasn’t any more blue tingeing his fingernails, and nodded. “Getting there.”

“Good.”

They lapsed into silence after that, both too tired to do more than simply enjoy each others’ company. Because they were alive and they could.

It was a very good feeling.

[lenavonschweetz]

Bridges of Time - Part 14

When I’m Gone, It All Fades Away

Summary: The tale of a man out of time, and the woman who never believed in Soulmates.  When her husband and children are away, a mysterious man stumbles into her life and with a simple brush of skin against skin, their lives are never the same. The two share “a brief affair that is never sordid but instead one of two soulmates who have met too late.” - The Bridges of Madison County

Warnings: A N G S T, canon-typical violence

A/N:  Seriously, this is fuckin angsty as hell.  I’m sorry.

Edit: In X-men Days of Future Past, Erik's in prison for JFK's assassination.  Since I meddled with the timeline, that obviously doesn't make sense.  So Erik was arrested for a president's assassination (I'll leave it vague so readers don't feel aged out of this) and which one is up to you.

The Bridges of Time Masterlist

⏪ Part 13 || Part 15 ⏩

“James!” The name rips its way from your throat as you drop beside Bucky’s form.  He’s writhing in pain, voice escaping in ravaged gasps and it takes everything in him not to scream, his arm twisted painfully behind his massive back.

You know immediately what going on, slamming your porch door open as your tear-stung eyes scan the horizon for your husband.

“Dove,” he starts from the shadows, arm outstretched and fingers curled in gnarly shapes to torture the man at your side. His eyes are firey, a dark pain that you’ve only seen when he speaks of Magda shining in their depths.  He felt he was losing his wife all over again.  “Get away from him.”  He commands coldly. “Come here.”

Can he not see? Is he blind? How can he not see the way you’re cradling this ‘stranger’?

“I will not!” Behind your husband, your children flinch and suddenly you are so violently aware of the way they’re looking at you.  Like you’d betrayed them.  Your own children.  "Erik, he’s mine.”  You sob, ignoring the confused glances your children share at the word as they flit between you and their father.  “Please Erik, he’s my other half.”

Pained blue eyes look up to you, tears welling as his jaw clenches and he desperately tries to free his arm from some invisible grasp.  In those glassy orbs, you see the absolute terror of being controlled again - of losing control.

“Y/N?”  He asks, pleading quietly for help.  Your heart clenches, your teeth doing the same as you stand ready to face your husband.

“Erik,”  you say - a voice that is much stronger than you’d expect comes from your mouth.  “Let. him. go.”

“I can’t do that, Dove.”

“Why not?!”  Your frame takes up the doorway to the best of your abilities, your smaller body falling much shorter than either man present.  This fact doesn’t stop you from holding your ground.

“Momma?”  A small voice squeaks, your rage draining from your face instantly.  “Momma, who is he?”

“Charlie, Brann...”  Erik starts, looking to you once more.  His eyes search your fiery face for any sort of help.  You give him none.  “Go over to Darcy’s.  I’ll come get you as soon as I can.”

“But Poppa-”

“Now!”  You jump just about as high as your kids, debating on whether or not to slap Erik for frightening your children like that.  You refrain, however, when they run off towards your neighbor’s house so that you can speak freely.  Erik’s eyes return to you and you steel yourself with clenched fists.  “Explain.”

The tone of his voice is much gruffer than when the children were present, any patience he may have had gone as he winds his fingers tighter, causing Bucky to cry out once more.  This time, you do slap your husband.

“He’s my soulmate, Erik!”  You cry hands finding the collar of his shirt as wrenching him toward yourself.  “Please,” you plead, “let him go, Erik.”

Half of you is expecting retaliation, another scream from Bucky as Erik punishes him further.  Only this isn’t the reaction you receive.  Instead, Bucky sighs, his large body collapsing to the floor as the invisible force holding him taut disappears.

“Dove...how did you...?”  His question doesn’t quite form, but from the years you spent together it is easy enough for you to gather what he is hoping to say.  “How did you meet him?”

There’s a knowledge in his tone, a distinct disgust as he observes the super soldier next to you and suddenly you know why.  

Charles.  Charles must’ve looked in on you when you hadn’t answered.  And Charles would know exactly who Bucky was...and all he had done.

But then, maybe it wasn’t Charles...no, there was a familiarity hanging between the two of them, though it was obvious that Bucky was struggling now with a memory.  Erik’s eyes were crystal clear, though, as he glared down at the man you tended to.  He obviously wanted to scream.  To tear into Bucky, but instead, he remained frighteningly silent.

“How did you meet Magda?”  You question softly, kneeling down to take Bucky’s head in your lap and rub at the angry red shoulder where metal meets flesh.  When he doesn’t answer, you know it was in the very same way - fate.  Fate brings soulmates together whether they want it or not.  “Neither of us could have known.”

“Dove, do you know who he is?!”  Erik snarls, his eyes flashing toward Bucky’s arm before reaching for yours.  You yank it away instantly.

“I do.”  Erik’s eyes widen, his lips curling back to bare his teeth at the man laid prone in your lap.

“And you love him anyway?  He’s a murderer!”

“And what are you?!”  Tears stream freely down your face now, Erik’s contorting in anger - then defeat - as you scream at him.  “What did you do to all those people who hurt Magda and Nina?!”  A shuddering breath as you square your shoulders and glare right at him.  “What do you think I’ll do to you if you hurt him?”

“Dove, this isn’t...this isn’t the same.”

“How?”

“Y/N,”  He whispers, kneeling down now but being sure to give you plenty of space.  He doesn’t even reach for you.  “Think of Carlie and Brann.”

“Don’t you dare assume that I don’t!”  You snarl, helpless.  “Don’t you dare think for one second that my heart hasn’t been rent in two by this!”

He’s silent then, knowing the pain of losing a child as well as a soulmate, but not knowing the misery it must be to have to choose which one to lose.  Because no matter how this ended - you could only have one.

“Dove, I...”  Words fail your husband, his sorrowful eyes looking to you, then the ground, then finally the neighbor’s house.  “I’m going to go make sure the kids are alright...I’ll be back soon.”

And with that, you watch as he rises then disappears through the doorway - leaving you and your crumpled soulmate on the floor.

A heavy silence looms over the house as you run through the past several days in your mind - then the past several years.  You think of how low you were when the doctors told you that you were defective - a mateless mutant machine and how you would spend your days alone.  But then Erik came into your life.

Erik respected you, not once ever pitying you for the hand life had dealt you, and instead helped you navigate it.  He never expected too much of you, but still gave you the world.  He made it very clear that he couldn’t give you his whole heart, though you would never ask for it.  What he could give you was friendship.

You’d built your life on this understanding, knowing that you would always have your best friend - and then your children - and that you would never want for more.

But then fate threw you a curve ball once you finally adjusted.  You knew something had changed, long before that truck drove into your gravel driveway.

Perhaps it was all the times Bucky awoke from his forced slumbers - each and every one pulling you further and further away from your family until he finally broke free and stayed awake.  That’s why your life had never been the same since D.C. because fate was weaving it’s ways, bringing you and Bucky closer and closer together before you could even realize what was happening.

You dug this hole for yourself, you suppose.  If you had just waited to marry, hadn’t given in to Erik’s grief and lived your own life you could be free to go with Bucky as you pleased.  But that wasn’t the case.

You had a home.

And you had a family.

And as much as it would break your heart, you couldn’t leave either - even for your other half.

“Bucky,”  You whisper, your voice laden with tears.  He doesn’t answer with words, his throat still raw from Erik’s attack, but you can see in those deep blue eyes that your thoughts had washed over him like ice - much like they had done to you.  The sorrow swirling in their depths lets you know that you - thankfully - don’t have to voice your decision because he knows it already.  Still, he deserves to hear it.  And so do you.  “Bucky, I love you more than life itself...but I can’t leave my children.”

“I know, Doll.  I never should have asked you to.”

“But-”

“No.  I shouldn’t have.  Soulmate or not...those are your kids.  And they deserve their mother.  They need their mother.  I won’t be the monster that takes her from them.”

“You could never be a monster, Bucky.”

“I was...once.”  He says, eyes falling away from yours as his heart shatters in his chest.  How?  How could he have ever been so selfish?  “Maybe I still am.”

He wobbles to his feat, brushing off the hand you offer in help before he’s slowly disappearing up the stairs - leaving you in a puddle of tears and silence on the kitchen floor.

Mickey doesn’t approach you, just sits under the table and observes you with almost as much pity as you feel yourself before Bucky is making his way back downstairs with the small amount of luggage he’d even had in the first place.  In his hands, his camera catches the light, the lense staring you in the face.

“Doll, I need you to do me a favor.”  His voice is wavering, weak as he desperately holds back tears.

“Anything.”

“I need you to take care of my camera.  Can you do that for me?”  Your eyes widen, you shooting to your feet not a second later as your hands desperately shove his camera back into his chest.

“No, Bucky, you can’t!  Your camera is your world!  I can’t take that from you!  What if you want to remember-”  Plump lips meet your own, silencing any words that may have followed.  That same electricity that you’d felt at your first touch flies through your blood and you can feel the tears on both of your faces mixing at your connected lips.

“The only thing I’d ever need to remember is right here, Doll.  And I could never forget you.”  This time, you let his camera’s full weight fall into your palms, curling your fingers gently around it and cradling it to your chest carefully.  “Photograph what you want to remember.”  He says.  “That way when we see each other again, it’ll be like we never left.”

“What I want to remember, huh?”  He nods with a sad smile, watching as your eyes dart about the kitchen until they land on the antique mirror sitting by the entryway.  “Come ‘ere.”

Bucky follows immediately, taking his place at your side as you stand before the mirror.  With your hand in his, you take one photo with a sad smile and desperately try to will your tears back.  And then Bucky is moving behind you, arms wrapping around your waist and pulling your lips to his own as the camera flashes again.

“I never want to forget this moment.”  You whisper softly, not bothering to pull away from Bucky’s embrace as you hear Erik’s footsteps approach the porch.

“Neither do I.”  Hot breath fans across your neck, Bucky nuzzling his face into your skin to memorize the feeling forever.  A clearing throat has Bucky pulling back but only barely.

“The kids are on their way,”  Erik informs the embraced couple before him, clearing his throat as he prepares himself for whatever decision you’ve made.

With one final kiss, Bucky pulls away from you and retrieves his belongings before making his way to where Erik is taking up the entire entryway.  No words are exchanged at first between the two, but neither is any animosity.  Only understanding in their stare that seems to last forever - and that was a win you would gladly take.

“Do you remember me?”  Erik suddenly asks, meeting Bucky’s eyes.

“I...do.”  There’s a hesitation as his eyes flick to you, but then he speaks again.  “The president.”

“Yes.”  Your husband sighs.  “They arrested me, you know.”  Bucky says nothing, but nor does he look away.  In the silence, Erik sighs, then chuckles humorlessly.  “You took so many years from me, letting me rot in that concrete prison.”

You could count the times you’d seen Erik cry on one hand, your stoic and strong husband had always been your rock, and even now it was obvious he was trying so desperately to stay strong as he looked to you and his heart broke in his chest.

“And now you’re taking my wife.”  Again, Bucky says nothing as he squares his shoulders to take whatever Erik flung at him.  He knew he deserved it and he wouldn’t fight back.  

But the impending violence never comes.

Instead, Bucky just looks at Erik in apology and lets his shadow disappear from the doorway as he retreats. Erik looks to you with nothing but regret in his eyes then steps to the side, motioning for you to follow Bucky.  When you shake your head, placing the camera down and standing your ground, his eyebrows shoot up almost all the way to his hairline.

“Dove...follow him.”  Erik urges, unable to bear causing you the same pain he’d once felt.

“I can’t,” you answer hearing the kids come rushing up to the house.  The relief in their eyes when they see you still standing there is enough to solidify your choice to stay, especially when they wrap their arms around you and burying their crying faces in your chest.  With a withering sigh, you mouth to your husband, “They need me.”

Erik nods then, eyes finding the truck that is starting outside of your home and then Bucky’s own eyes lock with his.

He wants nothing more than to apologize.  To you, to Bucky, to the children.  This is all his fault.  He took someone’s soulmate away from them, and for that, he would never forgive himself.

But you don’t blame him.  You don’t blame anyone but yourself.

And as you hear the old tires retreat over the gravel off your property, your heart sinks more and more.

Goodbye, James.

TAGS

struck out means I couldn’t tag you

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[eloiseduval]

challenge 5

a/n: the group date in which eloise is the epitome of poise and grace. lol no, but this was fun to write. thanks to everyone for rping! @nathaniel-schreave @clove-teasdale @camille-marshall @victoria-seaberg @ladyallegrahannon word count: 2640

Apparently I was a master at avoiding someone, princes specifically.

It had been about a week since that day on the beach with Nate, and I had managed to avoid any semblance of a mature conversation with him. I was well on my way to a successful lifelong relationship.

I winced at that thought, wondering when I had become so sarcastic. I blamed Clove.

He had tried more than once to catch my eye at dinners, but even then I focused solely on my food and conversations with the girls around me. At this point, I wasn’t even angry with him. I was guilty, and that guilt was welling up inside to the point of me not being able to face him for fear of what he might say or do.

Now, I couldn’t avoid him any longer as I was headed to a group cooking date with him and a few other Selected. Some merciful twist of fate had allowed Clove to be put in my group, something I was eternally grateful for when Nate stepped up to the few of us gathered outside the kitchens.

“Hey, sorry I was running a bit late. The meeting went a little over…”

Did he have to look so good all the time? That one little piece of his hair curled over his forehead, his suit jacket unbuttoned for this more casual activity.

“Don’t sweat it.” Marshall reassured, joined in by Clove who mentioned something about not ruining his suit. Although at her words, I slowly maneuvered myself so I was practically half hidden behind my taller friend.

I only heard Nate’s chuckle as he guided us into the kitchen. Clove eyed me behind her, not missing a beat when it came to my awkward interactions around him, though began talking to Marshall with a grin. We learned upon entering the kitchens that we would be making lasagna, all of the ingredients set out before us.

Nate turned to face us. “Marshall could you get the pasta cooked and stuff? Allegra you could help Marshall with that. And Victoria you could… measure the cheese? And Clove and Eloise can you come with me to help cut some vegetables...?”

Clove nodded, sparing me a glance before turning back to Nate. She knew me too well. “Sure… Where to?”

I could only nod at his request, though silently wishing I could have been helping one of the other girls.

“Just to that island,” Nate instructed, pointing to the other far side of the kitchen.

The other girls separated to do their tasks, Clove gesturing for him to lead the way. “We all know how to use a knife, right?”

I shot her a flat look. “Yes, we do.”

Nate merely walked to the island with a “We have a lot of veggies to cut.”

“It was just a question.” She raised her hands in surrender before following Nate, making me feel guilty for snapping at her. It wasn’t her fault I felt so uncomfortable.

“Yeah, sorry,” I muttered before following suit to the island.

Once I stepped up next to Nate he handed me a knife and a cucumber, giving Clove the same with a different vegetable. “Could you dice these?”

I didn’t even look at him as I took the offered knife and slowly began to dice the vegetable on a cutting board. Being this close to him after so long was doing weird things to my head, so I did my best to focus on the task at hand. Though after a brief glance I noticed Clove looking between us awkwardly.

I hated being like this. Why couldn’t I get my act together and just talk to him? This wasn’t who I was, shrinking away from the people I truly cared about. And I did care about Nate, more than I wished to admit. But if I was being honest with myself, this wasn’t the first time something like this had happened with me. First with Alex, our mutual avoidance lasting for almost two years, then with Isaac, although with him I had been avoiding my own feelings rather than a conversation.

Still, this pattern was becoming too frequent to sit well with me, and I hoped that I could summon up the courage to fix this… thing with Nate.

Soon.

Maybe.

I almost groaned out loud at my thoughts, only to be drawn out of them at Victoria’s question of what our favorite food was.

Allegra moaned hungrily. “Mac and cheese.”

As I sliced a few more cucumber pieces, I moved them into a bowl only to accidentally brush my arm against Nate’s. I doubted he even noticed as I quickly brought my arm back, pressing my lips together to continue with the cutting.

“Lasagna isn’t in too bad a spot on my list,” Clove replied.

Marshall commented something about burritos and s’mores, to which Allegra and Victoria both agreed with. Though I quickly found myself caught up with the sudden awareness of Nate standing next to me. Every little movement he made — shifting his feet or his hand coming close to mine as we dropped our vegetables in a bowl — I was hyper aware of.

Snap out of it, you’re just cutting vegetables. You’re fine.

To clear my head, I answered Victoria’s question. “I’m a fan of baby carrots.”

I heard her say something else curiously to which Allegra replied, but I couldn’t register the words as Nate chuckled at my comment, the first real acknowledgement I had from him besides instructing me. That simple action alone made my attention waver and my hand with the knife slip to cleanly cut across the palm of my left hand.

“Ow.” I immediately dropped the knife, moving away from the counter to grab some paper towels and press them against the alarmingly bloody cut.

I was an idiot. Who let one laugh unsettle them so much to the point where they literally cut themselves?

“Eloise… are you okay?” I heard Nate ask. Glancing up for a moment I noticed how he had paled at the sight of all the blood. “Uhhh.”

I looked back down at my hand to focus on anything other than the embarrassment of the situation. “I’m fine, it’s fine. I’m just— I’m going to go get this taken care of.”

Leave leave leave.

“Is there a first aid kit?” Allegra asked. I turned to face her, desperate for an opportunity to get myself together, out of this group date.

”No really, you guys just finish here and I’ll go to the hospital wing.”

“Are you sure? I know how to bandage wounds.” The offer was kind but my hand was starting to throb painfully. I had a feeling I would need more than just a bandage.

“Um Clove could you take Eloise to the hospital wing please.” Nate sounded concerned from behind me.

I shook my head at Allegra. “Don’t need any more blood anywhere than necessary.” I flashed a small smile and moved to leave with Clove who had come over to me.

After another brief goodbye, we left. As soon as we were far enough away to be heard, I groaned in pain. “Ow dammit this hurts.” I pressed my lips together and furrowed my eyebrows, not wanting any more colorful language to slip out.

“And you judged me for asking if everyone knew how to use a knife.” Her dry remark went unappreciated as she merely stared straight ahead, evoking a glare out of me.

“I wasn't exactly in the best mood.” I paused, sighing at my temper that rarely came out. My lack of sleep over the past week wasn’t a positive contributor to my mood either, though that wasn’t a good excuse. I needed to get my act together, and fast. “Sorry, we just— Nate and I still haven't talked yet.”

“As the mature adults you are.”

I couldn’t help but tense at her blunt words. Clove wasn’t one to sugar coat anything. “It's not the easiest topic to broach.”

“You just... talk about it. It's better than waiting for the perfect moment.” But she hadn’t seen his face. She hadn’t seen how torn he looked at the sight of me angry at him, so torn that I wondered if he even wanted to forgive me anymore. He could’ve sent me home and dealt with someone else who wouldn’t lash out at him irrationally. But Nate wasn’t one to do that, and I knew that deep down.

I shook my head, both at her words and my wandering thoughts. “I'm not that doing that either, I—” I took a deep breath. “I'll talk to him soon. I think.”

“You think.”

This conversation was going nowhere and I needed to think about something other than Nate and myself, so I looked over at her pointedly. “And how are you and Brooks? You never did tell me about your little New Year's getaway.” After covering for the pair of them on New Year’s Eve, they had never found the time to tell me what they were doing, both that night and since the beginning of the Selection.

“Oh... that one’s a complicated one.”

“You two are nothing but complicated. Spill.”

She considered my words for a moment, sparing the hallway a glance. “After the hospital wing we're making a stop at your room.”

I nodded once. “Perfect.” It’s about time.

“So… do you want the actual info or do you want to know about Brooks and I?” Clove rubbed the back of her neck awkwardly. “Because there's news on both sides.”

“Both. Feel free to start with whichever you want.” I moved to sit on my bed, crossing my arms to prepare for her overdue stories while she stayed standing in front of me.

“Good or bad first?”

“I guess the bad.”

“Alright, so...do you remember the first time we talked at breakfast?”

An odd thing to bring up, but I tilted my head to one side as I tried to recall the conversation. “Vaguely, but yes. Why?”

She scratched the back of her ear. “Remember you said it was funny I got Selected?”

“Oh yeah, I think I said it was crazy odds or something like that.”

“Right, um, well...turns out it wasn’t really in the hands of odds.”

I raised an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”

She hesitated before getting her words out. “The whole raffle thing...it's not really at random. It's fixed to have as many high castes as possible.” Wait, what?

I furrowed my eyebrows, confused. “But... why would they do that? Out of 35 girls they're bound to get high castes already.”

“Yes, but did you realize the amount this time? It's pretty high.”

I took a moment to recall all the girls who had been Selected, and my eyes widened as I counted about half of us who had been of high caste at the start of the Selection. That was too many to be considered random, yet no one had noticed. “Oh. What I still don't understand is why, the people would have been happy with almost any girl Nate favored, high caste or not.”

“It's not the first time they've done this. Nate would've never agreed on taking castes into consideration though, so we're guessing they decided to keep things under wraps and make most of his options close to what they considered good for a Queen. It's not like he would find out anyway and it was easier than trying to convince him on accepting their "advice". They would have to leave some of it to chance, but with half the girls being high castes at the beginning, the Elite was bound to end up pretty much the same. No one is under Four and half of us are Twos.”

I bit my lip, taking in all of the information. “I’d say I feel honored but... that feels wrong.” My teasing wasn’t making itself known in the best of times, but I didn’t know what else to say. I hadn’t been chosen by chance, there were a group of men and women who had looked at my application and thought “She’s good enough,” yet discounted so many other girls who hoped for a chance of a lifetime. The whole point of the Selection was not just for Nate to find a wife, but to give opportunities to those who may have have never had one, and they had violated that.

Nate. One fact of what Clove stuck out in my mind, making me frown. “And you said Nate doesn’t know about this?”

“It feels wrong because it is, but no, he doesn't know. And we're not telling him yet, okay?”

My eyebrows furrowed. “I don’t like the idea of keeping secrets from him, Clove. We have this,” I waved one hand, “thing of being honest with each other and even though we’re... not in the best place with each other, I just—” I couldn’t even finish my thought, rubbing my forehead with a sigh. This was a lot to process in one day on top of everything else.

“Oh, we're definitely telling him. I promised him I would explain why I was being weird on our first encounter,” she frowned at herself, “I never thought it would get to this though…”

She sighed. “I just don't want him to get angry and do something stupid. Now that Brooks is involved I don't even know if he'll want to be the one to tell him. We'll look for a better time, okay? We're still looking into it.”

She moved to sit next to me on the bed, though I kept my gaze ahead, considering her suggestion. Nate deserved to know, but it wasn’t my place to tell him. I trusted Clove enough to realize that it would be better for them to inform him of everything. Still, I wanted to be there when they did.

I peered over at her. “Can I be there when you tell him?”

She returned my gaze. “Sure, if that's what you want I'll tell Brooks about it.”

I nodded. “Thank you.” Looking down at my hand, I played with the bandage a little, only to look back up at Clove when I remembered this wasn’t the only thing she wanted to tell me. “Wait, you said you had good news.”

“Oh.” She seemed to snap out of the serious mode she had been in, her cheeks reddening slightly. I took that as a good sign. Her and Brooks had an unspoken thing for too long, and it was encouraging to see her on better terms with him. They had a long way to go, though I had a feeling that in the end, they would end up happy with one another.

She told me all about New Year’s eve, and after some well worth the wait teasing on my end, we made our way back to the date. The time away had given me a chance to get my thoughts together and realize that being so caught up in myself wasn’t the way to handle the situation. I would work up the nerve to talk to Nate eventually, but for now I would talk to and be myself around the girls.

When we got back, I did exactly that. Talked with Marshall and Clove, even helped with some of the cooking without making a mess of things. Everything was good, and by the time we finished our lasagna I was ready to leave in a much better mood. I was considering when I would find a good time to approach Nate when the opportunity found me instead.

As we were all headed to leave the kitchens, I felt a tap on my arm and a familiar prince whisper, “Can you stay for a bit?”

Well shoot.

[jacksnwangs]

and maybe we knew it all along

sequel to i don’t love you but i’d love to

this one won’t make as much sense if you haven’t read it!

rating: pg-13 pairing: yoongi/everyone, ot7, mostly yoonmin word count: 2950 warnings: discussion of homelessness and hunger

five times yoongi and jimin were probably dating and one time they definitely were

1.

Jin doesn’t like to keep score. He never calculates. Give and take is not an equal exchange.  

Taehyung turns pity into scraps and presents them as if they’re gold and Hoseok works every few nights heaving boxes between trailers in a loading dock and stashes a crisp large bill into Jin’s pocket when no one is looking and Namjoon talks pretty to anyone who comes sniffing around until they leave his family alone. Jimin is gentle and bright and gives them hope even when he can’t provide anything else. Yoongi has the bark and the bite and gives his body, all that he has, to keep them safe. Jungkook has nothing to offer but a cocky façade and a sheepish smile.  

Jin gets cash where he can and manages food more nights than he doesn’t and brings clothes and blankets and snags an old battery radio and he spends every minute of his life providing for and thinking of nothing but his boys. As far as he’s concerned, they’re all on equal footing.  

He doesn’t keep score, but he notices. When he’s giving more than he’s taking, more than is offered, more than there is to have, he knows.

It comes as a surprise when he realizes he’s getting more than he’s giving.

Jungkook comes home hollering and posturing more than usual, overcompensating to hide how shaken he is. Soon after, Yoongi struggles into the train car, deep bruising on his face and a heavier limp than usual. His body sags and his eyes, even the one not swollen shut, flutters.  

Naturally, presumptuously, Jin makes room in his nest of blankets and opens his arms and gives up on his vague dreams of going to sleep before midnight. It’s the unspoken but agreed upon order of things. Yoongi protects his boys. Jin dotes on him.

Only, Yoongi doesn’t slide into his respective place tucked entirely against Jin’s side. Yoongi doesn’t even look at Jin. Across the car, Yoongi sinks to the ground half a foot in front of Jimin and Jimin pulls him the rest of the way in until they’re so seamlessly entangled in one another that Jin can’t tell whose limbs are whose. No one else in the car seems to notice but Jin is transfixed.  

Jimin’s gentle fingers ghost over new bruises and mouths move with voices too low to be heard and Yoongi presses his forehead against the crook of Jimin’s neck and his body relaxes so entirely Jin forgets what it’s like to see Yoongi tensed and ready for a fight. He watches them for longer than he has any reason too, after Taehyung has wormed his way into the spot meant for Yoongi and started chattering about some book he read at the library that day.

The new inequality of their relationship settles beneath Jin’s ribs uncomfortably but Jimin kisses the top of Yoongi’s head so gingerly and Jin just barely sees the edge of Yoongi’s mouth pull up into a sleepy smile and he finds, even with the weight of it in his chest, he doesn’t care.  

2.

Hoseok isn’t hurt the first time Yoongi covers his playful grin with a harsh hand and shakes his head against Hoseok’s sultry offer for “some fun” one late afternoon when he was feeling a little worthless and a lot bored. It’s not unlike Yoongi to say no. Yoongi’s wavering mood towards Hoseok’s kisses is the reason he always asks first.  

He’s not hurt because Yoongi says no as often as he says yes. Yoongi may not be selective towards partners but he prefers a certain mood. How many people he’s already been with that day. Who’s around to see. He won’t kiss Hoseok the way Hoseok likes in front of Jungkook or Jin, but most days it’s fine in front of Namjoon or Taehyung. Jimin’s seen them once for a sure but Hoseok hasn’t had a chance to figure out where he falls in Yoongi’s lists. Yoongi doesn’t like to kiss Hoseok when he can tell Hoseok just thinks it’ll make him feel better – says he can’t be the one to solve all Hoseok’s problems, that he wouldn’t be able to if he tried. He won’t kiss Hoseok if it’s too soon after Hoseok has brought home money or food.  

So, Hoseok isn’t hurt. Sure, Yoongi hasn’t worked in a couple days and it’s only the two of them loitering around a secluded patch of tracks and Hoseok’s in as good a mood as ever and Yoongi is teasing him good naturedly and smiling in that cute little way he has like he’s worried he’s not doing it right. But Yoongi has his reasons and Hoseok has nothing if not respect.  

Hoseok doesn’t feel the sting of it the next four times either. It’s been a while, a few weeks, and he feels himself itching for affection. For the warmth of it, the closeness, the feeling of skin on his to replace the grime of being unwanted by everyone else. For how Yoongi will touch him ever so softly, like he might break, like he deserves to be nothing but treasured.  

Actually, Hoseok never feels anything but mild disappointment from Yoongi’s continued refusal to kiss him until it turns from simple rejection to being replaced entirely.  

He’s definitely not supposed to see, coming across them in a too long walk in the woods surrounding the abandoned train stop, kicking at underbrush and passing time until he can go and worm his way into a temporary night job for no questions, quick cash. Yoongi is easily recognizable, Hoseok intimately familiar with his slim frame and the ridges of bones in his back and the messy hair at the nape of his neck. Less recognizable, at first, is the hand tugging fingers through those tangles and the leg hooked around one of Yoongi’s thighs as he hovers over another person.  

When Hoseok and Yoongi kiss, Hoseok’s in charge. Yoongi is gentle hands and smooth movement, pliant under Hoseok, controlling only when he decides he’s had enough and slips out of Hoseok’s grasp. Here, Yoongi is hard, pressing down into his partner. Yoongi is leading, the body below him following every movement and a surge of jealousy so strong cuts through Hoseok's chest he almost thinks maybe all that time spent wrapped up in Min Yoongi meant more to him than he claimed.  

It wavers, when Hoseok starts to convince himself Yoongi might just be working. Then, the power dynamic shifts and the bodies roll and someone suddenly familiar comes out on top. If Hoseok didn't recognize him from the mess of brown hair, sticking in all directions the same way it does every morning, the high, melodic laugh that follows the new positioning would be a dead giveaway.  

The envy comes back two-fold as the heavy understanding that Hoseok has been replaced by his new best friend, Park Jimin, settles in. After several minutes of debating, Hoseok finally decides to leave them be, stalking away to the fading sound of happy laughter.  

There's an irritated tirade running on loop in the back of his mind, feet falling heavier and heavier the further he gets, the angrier he gets. He scoffs to himself, thinking there he is, replaced by some younger, prettier boy. Momentarily, he's not thinking about the fact that it's Jimin, he's just mad and jealous and more than anything else, there's a rough, desperate ache. It's too familiar – the feeling of being unlovable. That little voice that reminds him, really, no one will ever want him. Not when someone better comes along.

It's dampened, just barely, by the memory of Yoongi's bright, delighted laughter. Hoseok doesn't think he's heard anything like it before.

3.

Namjoon's feeling especially bored and, though he'd never admit it out loud, lonely. It seems like the universe is finally cutting him a break, offering the perfect gift to make up for the cards he was dealt when he sees them, by chance, his two favorite boys. There, only one hundred feet away, are Jimin and Yoongi. It's a rare sight to see Min Yoongi out in the town, particularly in the early afternoon. The strangeness of it makes it feel even more like fate.  

Something stops Namjoon, though, just as he's about to call out to them.  

Even from a distance, he can see the two of them quite clearly. They're huddled close together, bodies touching at the shoulder and the hip. Yoongi has his arm slung loosely across Jimin's back, his other hand stuffed deep into the torn pocket of the ratty coat he recently traded Jungkook his newer one for. At his side, Jimin is using his two free hands to spoon whatever they've bought out of a small cup alternatively into Yoongi's mouth and his own.  

Namjoon isn't mad, that the two of them are eating together. All of them eat what they can, when they can. That's the thing about desperation; you take what you can get. However you can get it. Everyone does it. Except Yoongi.  

Yoongi doesn't eat without sharing with everyone. If he gets food, he'll cart it around until he's surrounded by his brothers in their makeshift home. He'll let every other boy have a bite before he even thinks about taking one.  

It seems like something private, somehow, and Namjoon doesn't think he should interrupt. That doesn't stop him from watching, though, following slowly enough to remain undetected after they finish their snack and start to wander further down the street. The entire time, they stay pressed together, bodies always touching.  

A few blocks later, Jimin says something Namjoon is too distant to hear, and disappears into one of the stores they're passing. Yoongi stays outside, breathing warmth into his cupped hands while he waits patiently, and Namjoon starts to feel a little weird about his behavior.  

He's getting ready to cross the street, to make himself known, when Jimin reappears, this time holding a wide, dark green, knit scarf. Yoongi, loudly, whines a protest that dies as quickly as it starts when Jimin starts to wind it around Yoongi's neck.  

Still across the street, Namjoon watches as Jimin finishes, giving the ends of the scarf a quick yank before dropping his hands to his sides. Immediately, Yoongi ruins the work, tugging it down away from his mouth. Yoongi, head whipping to the side briefly to gauge how many people may be looking, cups Jimin's jaw in his hands and pulls him into a short kiss. When they part, Namjoon can just barely make out Yoongi's expression.

It's not the pride he's accustomed to. It's not the vague indifference he gives the rest of the boys. It's shy and pleased and warm.  

Namjoon smiles softly to himself, a little less bored, still lonely, and turns to walk back the way he came.  

4.  

The first time Jimin ends up intruding on Taehyung's nightly cuddle with Yoongi, the ones that they do not, under any circumstances, talk about, he's been staying with them for exactly eight nights and disappearing during the days and he stays, clutching Taehyung's arm, a full body away from Yoongi.

The second time is two weeks later and Jimin has stopped pretending like he doesn't belong. Taehyung falls asleep with his head on Yoongi's shoulder and his legs tangled in Jimin's. He wakes up rolled half on top of Jimin, Yoongi turned towards them so his knee touches Jimin's.  

Times three, four and five are all in a row – when Taehyung gets the flu – and he sleeps sandwiches comfortably between Yoongi and Jimin for three blissfully warm nights.

There's a long period, a few months, probably. Taehyung would know if he paid more attention to the passing of time. On the streets, the weeks kind of run together and they're lucky if he knows the day. Jimin, intentionally or not, ends up asleep across the car. Sometimes he's piled in with the other boys while Yoongi and Taehyung detangle themselves only to huddle in together. Sometimes Jimin detachess himself from the pack, especially in the warmer months, taking up a private corner.  

The sixth time is months after Jimin was dragged in, sick and scared and alone, by Yoongi and adopted whole heartedly into their found family. Just like the other times, the two of them start the night on opposite sides of Taehyung, touching him but not each other. Somewhere in the middle of the night, Jimin reaches across Taehyung to grab a fistful of Yoongi's threadbare t-shirt, but Taehyung doesn't mention it in the morning.  

And, if, during the eleventh time, Taehyung wakes up to find that Yoongi has settled in behind him in the middle of the night and he and Jimin have their hands clasped, tight and desperate, across his chest, he doesn't bring that up either.

Sometime around the twenty third time, Taehyung is demoted to the outskirts of the group. He'll alternate, in a pattern that seems random but is silently dictated by Yoongi, clinging to the free side of Yoongi's body while Jimin sleeps tucked up against the other and stretching out on Jimin's shoulder while Yoongi monopolizes the rest of him.  

Eventually, Taehyung loses count. It starts to seem a lot less like Jimin is interrupting him and Yoongi and more like he's the one intruding on them.  

5.  

It's a warm summer day. By some stroke of luck, they've eaten well for three days in a row. All seven of them are, for possibly the first time, healthy and full. There's even some snacks left, for later when the hunger inevitably returns, so no one is desperately searching for the next meal.  

The sun is bright and Jungkook, young and filled with food and robbed of a happy childhood, is filled with giddy, reckless energy. Fortunately for him, Taehyung and Jimin are almost equally childish and more than ready to appease him, and the three of them are chasing each other pointlessly. They run in wide, aimless circles, taking time to enjoy the weather and their quiet bellies and life. The other boys watch on, everyone just happy that everyone else is happy. It's one of the best mornings they've had in a long time.  

One by one, though, they start to leave the group. First Namjoon has to go to some show he thinks he might get paid for, if he does well enough. Then Jin, somberly, sighs that no food will last forever and wanders off to find something to do that might earn him some money.  

Hoseok, too, already has a job lined up for the day. When he calls back for Taehyung to come and help him, ruining their game, Jungkook helps Jimin clamber up to the top of the sun-warmed car.  

He kicks his legs, a little obnoxiously, against the metal wall. Yoongi, the last one left on the ground, looks up at him. He expects to be met with a glare and stills, but Yoongi only smiles at them. It's a special kind of smile, one he doesn't wear often.  

Yoongi tells them he has to leave too, and shakes his head when Jimin offers to come too.  

"Someone should stay with Jungkook," Yoongi decides, walking backwards away from them, "who knows what he'd do if we left him alone."  

Scowling, Jungkook elbows Jimin in the ribs when he laughs a little too hard and calls back, "I'm not a baby!"

Yoongi just laughs, too, still watching them. As he turns to look where he's walking, he says, "I love you."

Jungkook knows that Yoongi loves all six members of the pack, but he also knows that he has a special way of showing it to each of them. Jungkook, as far as he knows, is the only one Yoongi actually says it to. It seems only natural to assume it was meant for him, and he replies, "I love you too!"

Without looking back, Yoongi yells, "I was talking to Jimin."  

+ 1.

"Hey, Jimin," Jungkook calls as soon as Jimin appears at the tree line, approaching the little circle he, Hoseok, Namjoon and Taehyung are sitting in. They aren't sure where Jin is, and Yoongi was still asleep when they all came home, so they were waiting for everyone in a little pack, fifty feet from the train car. He waits until Jimin is closer to continue, no longer shouting, "settle a bet for us."  

"What is it?"  

"How long have you and Yoongi been dating?" Taehyung asks.  

The effect is instantaneous. An embarrassed flush burns across Jimin's cheeks almost as soon as Taehyung says the word "dating". There's a soft, surprised intake of breath before Jimin starts to sputter, voice uncomfortably loud, "DATING? Who's... dating... me and Yoongi? No... there's no..."

Jungkook interrupts, lips set in a sly smirk, "See, Taehyung thinks it's been at least a year, but Hoseok says it's definitely only been three months. Namjoon said it's somewhere between four and five, but I think it's been nine."

Namjoon mumbles that Jungkook isn't even basing his off anything, he just keeps randomly picking numbers, but no one pays him any attention as Jimin face colors even darker and he waves his hands frantically against their accusations, "Really, no one's dati-."

A voice cuts in a second time, slow and indifferent, pulling everyone's attention away from Jimin and his red face and his stammered lying, "You're all wrong, actually."  

Yoongi stands with his arms crossed, leaning against the half-open door of the train car. He's looking at his pack of idiot brothers instead of his boyfriend. Despite their confident teasing, Jungkook chokes on air and Taehyung's eyes widen at the admission.  

"It's been seven months."