#all those times you don’t realize someone had been alive until you find out they died

[after-witch]

How a Minute Spends Now [Yandere Platonic L Lawliet x Sibling Reader]

Title: How a Minute Spends Now [Yandere Platonic L x Sibling Reader]

Synopsis: Your brother is dead. What pieces are there left to pick up?

Word count: 3800ish

notes: yandere, abusive sibling dynamic, grief and death mentions

Your brother is dead.

And oh, it’s clear now: whoever said death was an inevitable cold hard fact was a liar. Or stupid. Or both. Because this fact is not cold or hard; it’s warm, oozing, feeling like so much black sludge running between your fingers. 

You’ll never get it off--the death, yes, and the awful, sinking realization--

Your brother is dead and their first priority was not to tell you. 

They don’t bring you into a quiet room and ask you to sit down, before explaining in sympathetic, gentle tones that something bad has happened. That the brother who carried you through hell as a child, who kept you safe (and locked away) well into your thoroughly stunted adulthood, will never be coming back again. That you’ll never hear his voice or see his face or feel his touch. 

No. They don’t bother with you, first.

Their first priority is to gather together two of those damned groomed successors--Near and Mello, of course--and take them into a quiet room and explain, softly but succinctly, that L was dead.

That’s how you hear the news. You’d followed along, hackles raised when they were gathered up, and padded silently into the next room with a sourness in your stomach. And that’s how you hear it. With your ear pressed against the wall of the room next door, gleaning snatches of the conversation afterward through a horrible ringing in your ears.

(And aren’t you an awful thing? That you didn’t know until that moment? That you weren’t struck numb the moment he died thousands of miles away, that some guttural psychic primal instinct inside you didn’t say: Something is wrong and my brother is dead. Aren’t you a shitty person, that you didn’t somehow know without the muffled words through the wall?)

Mello is loudest. He cuts through that awful, disbelieving buzz that courses through you. 

“Who did he pick--”  And you don’t have to hear the rest to know what he’s asking. Did L pick him--or Near--as a replacement? As if he could be replaced. As if someone could simply step into his shadow and wear his skin.

“He didn’t have time,” answers Roger, and you puke a little bit of breakfast back into your mouth. 

What a thought--that L had been snuffed out without warning. Without time to think about it. Without time to regret, to come to terms--to call you. 

What was he thinking about, as he died? Was he thinking at all? Was there even the quickest of thoughts about you or your parents (distant, foggy beings that they were) or something else, something you would never know because your brother always kept some parts of him out of reach?

The wallpaper scratches underneath your fingernails, and a dim part of you wonders if they can hear it beyond the wall. Maybe you want them to hear you, hear the way your fingers dig into the paper and drag down as you slide onto the floor.

Your brother is dead, and you’re alone, and what the fuck was any of it for, if he was just going to get himself killed?

--

They do get you, eventually. Or rather, they find you, quiet and curled up in the corner of the room next door, a room you ought never to have been in. 

You don’t respond to the quiet calls of your name. You don’t respond when they step inside and Roger crouches down beside you, asking if--and he doesn’t finish the question, because he knows that asking someone “Are you all right?” when they are in a tight fetal position after clearly hearing news of their brother’s death through an orphanage wall is a stupid fucking question.

So all Roger does is put a hand on your shoulder and squeeze. It means nothing, and you get no comfort from it. No one here could comfort you. No one alive. 

“L left a letter for you,” Roger says, and it’s only now that you turn your head to look up at him. “Before he left for the Kira case.”

Kira. If only everyone who uttered that name had their tongue turned to ashes. 

“Give it to me,” you whisper.

--

It is his handwriting. Not a typed letter, which could be a forgery. No, this was written by his hand, his distinct scrawl. But what sealed the authenticity was that it was written in invisible ink, revealed through a solution only you had access to; L made it himself. Because he was smart--and a pompous asshole. 

But that’s how you know in the end that it’s not a fake, but a real letter. The last letter you’ll ever get from him. 

You bring the paper to your nose and sniff; it doesn’t smell like him. Maybe it did, at first, before whatever filing cabinet they’d stowed it in leached away the scent. Or maybe it smelled like him before you poured the solution on, and your anticipation to read what he said destroyed your last chance at remembering what he smelled like. 

It doesn’t matter.

The letter is simple and your hand trembles and the first words on the page hurt--tears drip down stupidly and turn blue when they hit the chemical solution on the paper. 

He’d make fun of you for crying, before wiping your tears with his shirt, so you’d call him gross and smile and feel a bit better. He would do that, if he were alive. But he can’t, because, as the letter says--

If you are reading this, I am dead. Kira has killed me. 

I was aware that this was a possibility--

Oh, fuck him. Fuck. Him. 

There is the urge to crumple the paper now. To find a fireplace and make someone light it and watch the paper burn, chemicals sparking, with satisfaction. How dare he. How dare he chase after this case, knowing it was a possibility, knowing that you might end up staring at this letter. Knowing that you’d be so utterly fucking alone. 

Breath coming in shallow pants, you keep going. 

I was aware that this was a possibility and I’ve prepared for it, as such. You don’t need to worry about money. It’s taken care of. You don’t need to worry about a place to live. It’s taken care of. 

You realize, dimly, that one of your hands has begun to pound against the wall. Who-cares-who-cares-who-cares. You don’t want to know that there’s money and a place to stay. 

What you want is your brother. 

You want him here so you can grab his shirt and tug him close and tell him he’s a massive asshole and you love him. You want him to tentatively wrap his arm around you, to give you a pat, to murmur something about being too clingy. 

You want him to suddenly pull your hair so you can stomp on his foot. You want to curl up in bed, like you used to, and wait for him to stroke your back to sleep while you asked him questions about anything and everything. His voice would be soft and dull, walking that fine line between patience and annoyance. You’d fall asleep while he told you something especially important, and he’d debate flicking your head to wake you up, a 50/50 chance that he’d do it.

But he can’t do any of these things. Not now. Not ever again. He has no voice to speak with, no body to touch. He has no more life in him at all. 

You couldn’t even visit his grave, assuming he had one. 

The tears are hot against your eyes as they drip-drop and stain the page now. It’s not fair, none of this. The death and the letter and the gray future ahead of you.

But you have to keep reading. Every word is precious, the last ones you’ll read from his hand. And maybe--this is awful, isn’t it--maybe this letter is where he finally has to admit that he’s been selfish. To keep you locked away, to put his need for control over your need to live a real life, to stay away as much as he does--as much as he did.

Maybe this letter is where he admits his faults as a brother, so you can cry over something other than the feeling of a gutted cave inside your chest. 

Maybe this is when he admits he’s kept you wrapped in a useless bubble, and that was wrong, and now you’ll get to--

I have given instructions that my successor will care for you like a brother.

The pounding on the wall stops. Thoughts come quick, snapping, punctuated by a red hot stings of electric hate. The bastard--how could he--why would he--the words don’t even seem to make sense, so you read them over and over and over, trying to understand. 

I have given instructions that my successor will care for you like a brother. I have given instructions that my successor will care for you like a brother. I have given instructions that my successor will care for you like a brother. I have given instructions that my successor will care for you like a brother.

But no matter how many times you read them, the words don’t register as anything but a jumble of phrases put together. He couldn’t have written that. But he did. Yet the very thought that someone else would care for you like a brother--

No. Your brother is dead, and no one can replace him. Not as the best detective in the world, not as your brother, not as anything. How could he, why would he, there’s no answer that comes so you let the questions singe the air instead. 

There’s a woozy, hazy fuzz that descends on your head like a net, and you lean against the wall. Red-hot anger simmers, bubbled with a hazy grief, as you force yourself to continue. 

I have left them detailed instructions on how to care for you. 

The words drop into your stomach hard, with no reprieve. He left instructions for your care, like you were a pet being looked after on a vacation. Fucker. You try to determine if it was a joke, or an intentional slight meant to irritate you, or not something he put any spite into at all. Was he being sincere? 

Because--well.

Is it entirely wrong? You and the figurative pampered dog both leapt to attention whenever your owners--whenever your brother--deigned to come home from vacation. From solving crimes. Both whined when he left. Both circled and moped, staring out the window, hoping for their return.

Not that there would be any return for L.

You will be safe and protected, as you were under me.

A hand goes to your mouth, covering a smile that no one else is here to see. Safe and protected, sure. Like a princess in a fairy tale, like some maiden kept under lock and key in a dragon-guarded keep. Only the dragon never breathed fire--only familiar platitudes and a comforting sameness that chained you down as well as the actual locks on the doors, the security cameras, the strict instructions for the security guard at the gate.

But you were safe, and you were protected. And here you are, now, wet tears on your cheeks, anger in your stomach and a smile on your face, because your brother apparently put you in his will like some sort of inheritance for whoever takes up his mantle. 

Please don’t do anything foolish now that I’m gone. Not that it stopped you, before.

A flash in your mind, the image of your brother’s smirk, curling up at the ends. A thumb in his mouth to soften it. 

It aches and it doesn’t, this image, the clear sense of L in these words. Why can’t he be here? Why this pain, this gouged sense of reality that makes you feel like screaming until there’s no more air in your lungs? 

Your hand finds the wall again, scratching at the paper with as much force as you can, rippled scratches following in their wake. 

Better the paper than your skin--your skin will heal. They’ll have to replace the wallpaper if they want to fix the jagged scratches. Let them replace it. Let them replace it like they want to replace your brother, and see where it gets them. You’ll be there in either case. 

There’s nothing more on the paper. You’re not sure if you expected there to be; you can’t imagine him writing soft, sweet words of comfort. He never said them, not exactly, so why write them now? No “I love you,” no “You’ll be fine without me.”

But, ah. There’s more to that, isn’t there? L would never write “You’ll be fine without me,” because he didn’t like to lie. 

And who is the successor that will receive these so-called instructions? He hasn’t chosen anyone. Roger, you’d heard, suggested Mello and Near work together. Fat chance. Like they would--like they could. 

They couldn’t, and they can’t, and they don’t. It isn’t long before Mello leaves and there’s one less orphan in the building, and Near steps in.

To be trained, to be raised, to study the Kira case--to take care of you, so says your dead brother in his last letter. 

But Near isn’t L. 

And you’re alone.

--

It is not terribly long after you become brotherless--and rudderless--that you walk into your room to find Near sitting on the floor, stacking rows of gray, pattern blocks that resemble a cityscape in the center of your private little space.

The sight of him is wrong. He looks--not like L, not in that way. But the posture. The outfit. If you squint--and you do--you can blur him into something like a younger version of your brother. Different hair, of course, but didn’t he sometimes sit like that when he played? When he refused to share his blocks, and made you watch him play, and occasionally deigned to let you place a piece or two as long as you put it exactly where he told you?

And you always did, little fingers trembling, because you wanted him to think you were good enough to listen. Good enough to do what he says, because he was older, and smarter, and you should listen to him. 

There’s a lump in your throat before you realize it.

”Why are you here?” Your own voice is a croak, rusted from ill-use. Crying. Shouting. Not talking for hours until you had to.

It’s not like you had too many people to talk to, anyway; but if you get him to talk, then this blurry vision will vanish. Near might look a bit like your brother, might have the same penchant for picking things apart, but he wasn’t L. Never would be, not really.

He doesn’t look up when you speak. Thank God for small mercies. Instead, he takes one finger and pushes it in the center of a block tower, creating a window. 

“Roger said you were upset.”

The temptation to blur vanishes with the sound of his young and decidedly not-L voice, and it’s easier to cross your arms, to put up the defenses. 

“Obviously.” A little less dry now. A little more sarcastic. And a little more alive than you’ve sounded in weeks, or months, or however long it’s been since your brother ceased existing and your life at Wammy’s became all the more bleak. “My brother died.” 

Near’s eyes finally flick up to you before they dart back down to the blocks. He carefully slips a block figure--a bland smiling thing--into the window. 

He speaks softly, with little intonation. You hate how familiar it is. 

“That is, upset about me.” 

The sound of your stupid little intake breath in the quiet room is a little too much to bear, and you try to focus on the sound of the blocks instead. The small shift of the pieces as he slides them here and there, the clacking sound as they stack together. 

Click. Clack. 

What does Roger know, anyway? 

“Not about you… in particular,” you admit. It’s the most you’ve admitted to Near in--well. Ever. It’s not like you were eager to talk to many of the children at Wammy’s, especially when you outgrew them. Yet unlike the orphaned faces that faded from memory in time, you weren’t adopted, weren’t eased into some other life outside these walls; instead, L kept you here, guarded, safe, and completely stuck. 

And you are stuck. You’re an adult. You could’ve stormed out the doors the minute L died, you’re sure, legally speaking (before that--even--before that you could’ve left); started walking and taken up a job at some shitty diner and rented a room in a seedy motel until you were on your feet. 

It’s something that you’d threatened in L’s face from time to time, and he didn’t even deign to take you seriously, and it’s only now that he’s dead that you understand why.

He knew you wouldn’t leave. Couldn’t leave? Maybe it’s the same thing. Because he was right. There’s no life for you out there; no life for you in here, except for what L left you, which includes--somehow--this boy in front of you, stacking blocks, who is supposed to take up the position of older brother. In capturing Kira and everything else.

“I’m going to take care of you,” he says, all matter-of-fact. “L left instructions.” 

Your chest squeezes. Those fucking instructions. You had asked--stormed up in a huff, demanded, in a tantrum--Roger to read them, and he refused. Said L indicated the letter was for his successor’s eyes only. 

So all you had was your imagination; did L write down a list of things you liked, things you didn’t like? Did he rattle off your favorite foods, what time you were supposed to go to bed, what to do if you had a meltdown and began to cry over your social isolation? Or did he--the thought was tempting, however improbable it was--write something more sentimental? 

Logic and bitterness win out, and you imagine Near reading the details of the letter meticulously, probably looking for the words-within-the-words, all while flying an airplane with his other hand. 

“I’m not a dog.” Your eyes dart over the blocks, over the memory of all the toys you’ve seen Near playing with; there’s something painful in that image, for too many reasons. “Or a toy.”

“Yes, I know.”

Near doesn’t look up again. Instead, he flicks his hand, and knocks over the tower with the window, with the smiling person inside, who topples to your carpeted floor. Something about it makes you want to laugh; makes you want to get on the floor and ask if you can push over the next one. Tears prick at the edge of your eyes. 

Instead of swooping onto the floor, you weave around the circular city he’s created in your room without permission, and climb onto your bed. The book you were reading this morning is still there, ragged bookmark jutting out of it. Your bed is unmade, otherwise. Sheets rumpled and unwashed. You haven’t bothered with the bed since L died. Haven’t bothered with a lot of things, besides. 

It was an older book. A philosophical treatise from the 1930s, when Europe was on the cusp of war; translated into English and shuffled around the hands of starving artists and avant garde thinkers until, decades later, it landed, battered, onto the shelves of the orphanage for gifted children. Gifted children and you, L’s leftover baggage.

Well. If Near is going to barge into your room without permission, you won’t let it impact your day. Roger said if you didn’t start eating again, you couldn’t borrow books; that’s where you’d been, before you came back. Grabbing something to eat under his watchful eye and eating it with deliberately pointed chewing motions, as if it bothered him.  

So you’ve eaten. Now you can read. 

“What are you reading?” He asks, like he didn’t already see the title of the book. He probably saw it on your bed whenever he first came into your room. Probably knows exactly where it rests in the Wammy library when it’s not checked out, and who else has read it besides you.

But he’s asking anyway and something empty in you clings to that question, as you curl up on your side--body and soul aching for the physical curled-up nest of your brother that doesn’t exist anymore.

You hold up the cover and shrug, hiding the need, pushing down the urge to bury your face in your pillow and have an imaginary conversation with your dead brother.  It wouldn’t be the first one you’ve had this week.

Near’s eyes flick to the book, before he works on creating another tower. 

“Do you like it?”

Your heart clenches. You’re reading into it, the way it reminds you of L. The way the question is open and you can’t tell if it’s asked because he thinks the book is pointless trash and will find you silly if you like it, or because he genuinely wants to know. 

It’s not a book you’d read again, that’s certain. Not because you think it’s awful, but because none of it really makes sense to you. You’d grabbed it because the thought of reading a novel you’d been eager to read while your brother’s corpse was buried thousands of miles away made you want to vomit. So a random philosophy book was the better option. 

You don’t want to tell Near all of this; because of his age, because he’s little more than someone you know, and because like your brother, you want to keep some things secret. 

“I don’t understand most of it,” you admit, finally, the words sticking to your mouth a little. A bit of truth would be okay, in the end. “I just wanted to occupy my time, I guess.” Reading words from someone who furiously pushed them out on his typewriter almost a hundred years ago was better than thinking about who wasn’t in the room. 

Near smiles, a little, not looking away from the blocks. 

“Do you want to help?”

He doesn’t stop what he’s doing, picking up each piece carefully and stacking it just-so. He leaves the toppled tower, figure and all, where it is. 

You’re not sure how long you wait before deciding.  All you know is that in your isolated room at Wammy’s, with only a window to the outside world you’ve barely known to give you any inkling of the passing of days, you slide onto the floor and tentatively pick up one of the toppled blocks.

Near doesn’t tell you to leave those where they are, and that’s okay.

He doesn’t tell you where to put it, either, as L would have certainly done--and somehow, that’s okay, too. 

[cordeliawhohung]

In Limbo [Chapter 13]

mafia!141 masterlist | In Limbo masterlist | general masterlist | taglist | playlist mafia!Simon Riley x fem!Reader

in limbo

cw: non-con (touching, groping, assault, attempted coercion/quid pro quo of a minor), major death, murder, blood and gore, depression, anxiety, PTSD, vomiting, passive suicidal ideation

wc: 7.5k

Suddenly, you are sixteen again. 

Your fathers face is printed onto a piece of paper, and he won’t stop staring at you. It’s an old picture. Grain thick and fuzzy, distorting the features of his face. Nose running into his cheeks running into his jawline, all morphing together until it’s a blob of flesh. It’s impossible to discern the color of his eyes through the flare. Terrible. Amateur. Your father never liked when people took photos of him. This was the only good one your mother could find before his wake. 

Someone soliloquizes on the podium before your fathers body. They speak into a microphone as they rattle off some meaningless eulogy that doesn’t quite reach your ears. The volume of their voice blares through the speakers, but it’s a waste. There’s not enough people in attendance for it to be of any use. A whisper would suffice. It’s only you, your mother, and a handful of blurry faces you don’t have the energy to attempt to place names to. 

All you can do is sit there and look at the memorial bulletin, and your father’s face when it was still warm and full of life. 

“Would you like to see him?” 

Paper crinkling in your hands, you shake your head. This version of your father, the one held delicately in your hands, is the only one you want to remember. Tears blur the image where they well and fester in the corner of your eyes. It stings. Bitter needles piercing through your scaleras. You swallow down the grief and look up at your mother, inflamed eyes staring back at you, burning as they desperately attempt to hold back her own sorrow from streaking down her face. It is then, that you realize, you have to go up there with her. For her sake. 

A few small steps disrupt the path to where your father lays peacefully in his casket, and each one you climb feels treacherous. Air grows thinner, gets caught in your nose and sears your throat as you try to force it through anyway. 

Head propped up on a pillow, he peeks out of the casket as if playing peek-a-boo. He wears a suit, something sleek and mostly black, and it does not fit his personality. Not the rambunctious, cheeky man that raised you. He looks… old. Like he hasn’t been long for this world for quite some time. Eyes closed, hands resting upon one another — he looks as if he’s sleeping. Immobile. Peaceful. 

Wrong. Contorting. Incorrect. This is not your father. Not this corpse with his scraped up fingers and tiny sutures attempting to conceal violent compound fractures. The bones aren’t straight. Can’t be set straight. There’s nothing living left to heal. And his lip. Busted. Fat and wide but not swollen — his face droops because of it. As if he’s melting. As if he’s been rotting all along. Poorly matched makeup stains the sides of his face, a waxy sheen obscuring an entry and exit wound that burrowed through his brain. A small hole by his temple. Then large portions of fractured skull gone and fixed up, erasing the violence that had been wrought upon him. 

This cordolium is too thick to swallow. Too blisteringly violent to go down easy. You stare because it is all you can do. Stare and think about how those fingers had once taught you to play cat’s cradle. How those lips used to curl with mirth as he held you tightly. Now, he is ruined. Broken apart and shoved back together for a hasty goodbye. He was alive, and now he is not, and he sits here in front of you as if trying to convince you otherwise. 

There is a desperate attempt in trying to remember him how he was. When he was still full of vigor with that shine in his eyes, but you can’t. It’s just him. With crooked fingers and deep lacerations and this suit he would never wear, he replaces all the versions of him you had ever grown to love. His death ruins him — ruins you — and you fear with that anguish inside of you, it’ll kill you too. 

Just as you feel yourself start to fall through the floor — down into the depths your father is soon to be buried in — a hand grounds you. It’s soft. Gentle as a feather as it rests on your shoulder. You blink and you are back in that building with that corpse and with those strangers. 

“I’m sorry for your loss. Truly.” 

That voice speaks with a Russian lilt and it has you turning your head to be met with a stranger. You’re unsurprised; there are very few people you recognize in this place. Murky eyes look at you the way everyone else has since your father’s passing; with pity. His hand falls from your shoulder as he glances at the body. The stranger does not flinch despite the proof of violence strewn before him. 

“It is hard, losing a parent,” he continues. “You will have to be stronger. Smarter. But you seem like an intelligent girl. One that knows how to stay out of trouble.” 

Something buzzes at the base of your skull. An incessant insect that traverses through your brain, leaving holes in its wake. Devouring everything but the neurons that allow you to fear. 

“Who are you?” It’s meant to be a gentle question. One in curiosity; a polite excuse to learn about this strange man. Instead, it bites. Still, the man does not flinch. 

His full attention returns to you with a courteous smile and an outstretched hand. He does not answer your question until you take it, and his fingers are ice cold as they wrap around yours. 

“Vladimir. A friend of your father.” A gentle vibration irritates his pockets as his phone goes off, and he releases your hand in favor of glancing at the screen. You watch him with a dull face as he smiles at you. “I’m afraid I can’t stay long. I hope you are able to find peace. My thoughts are with you, friend.” 

This man — Vladimir — excuses himself, but you don’t respond to his farewell. You’re tired of saying goodbye. You watch him leave, phone pressed against his ear as he escapes the building and vanishes into the bitter December air. 

Despite the well wishes bestowed upon you and your mother, peace doesn’t come easy for either of you. Each day is full of tears and wordless meals while your nights are plagued with bad dreams and a bed that doesn’t feel comfortable with your fathers absence in that empty home. Any attempt to soothe this throe is met with backlash. Movies offer no comfort without his aimless commentary. Delicious meals taste bland without his assistance. The walls are cold without his laughter. 

You are a shell. A husk void of all the feelings that make life worth living. 

Against your mother’s wishes, you return to school. She tells you to stay home. To not put too much pressure on yourself, but you rot in that place. Maggots fester in your skin the same as they do in your fathers except you waste away in the comfort of your bed — you cannot stand yourself. You cannot stand the fact that you draw breath while he does not. 

Your teachers try to tell you that you are allowed to take a longer bereavement period. That all of them had come to the same conclusion of exempting your end of term exams in favor of your mental health. Their concern falls on deaf ears as you continue to participate with glassy eyes and mindless doodles in the corner of your notes. They offer you resources. Counselors and books on healing. You speak to no one and read nothing. There are whispers shared between your classmates. Careful and benign questions flitter between one another as you play with the string in your hand. 

“She’s back already?”

“She looks like she hasn’t slept.”

“Don’t say that, that’s rude.” 

“I heard her dad was murdered.”

“Nonsense.”

“No, really. Shot, I heard.”

“Shot?” 

“You think it was the mafia?” 

It’s only natural for them to be curious. You remind yourself as much during meal times when the whispering becomes so overwhelming you can hardly hear your own thoughts. Perhaps it is for the best. To have someone else do the thinking for you, lest your brain tear itself apart cell by wretched cell. 

On the last day of exams, you are given a bouquet. Stunning sympathy flowers clump together with red ribbon, complete with a card signed by most of your classmates and teachers. Their handwriting is beautiful. Elegant swirling letters dance across the paper in some well meaning note, yet your eyes can’t focus on it. Just like everything else, your mind filters it out. Pushes it away. 

You walk home. It’s grueling in the frigid weather, and you’ve forgotten your tights to wear underneath your skirt. Or maybe you did it on purpose. To feel something, even if it’s pain. Bare skin tightens and freezes against the breeze, and even the petals of your flowers begin to wilt midway through your travels. They shrivel and curl into one another and against your chest as if huddling for warmth. You’re killing them slowly in your own selfish way, and yet they still cling to you as if you can save them any better than you can save yourself. 

The TV is on when you arrive home. Muffled voices drone through the speakers, none of which properly reaches you. Just like everything else, you’re experiencing it second hand. Through a film you can’t break through no matter how thin it seems — this veil is suffocating.

Ignoring both the sounds and the lack of oxygen, you don’t even bother to take your shoes off or announce your presence before slipping away into the kitchen. Over the weeks both you and your mother have been bombarded with floral arrangements from distant family members and friends. They’re much too lazy to offer their condolences in person. There’s bound to be a vase left over for you to resuscitate these poor withered plants in your hands. 

Your mother is in the kitchen, and she is sitting. Legs wide on the floor, back slumped against the cabinet, her eyes burn a hole into the floor in front of her. It isn’t until the tips of your shoes dip into thick cruor that you fully realize the blood on the ground. It’s everywhere. Spreading along the linoleum, soaking into the crack just under the sink — she is motionless and torn to shreds in front of you. Offals press out of her stomach just underneath where her hands rest, attempting to keep herself from spilling. Now, she cools on the floor with parted lips and dried tears on her face. 

“Mum?” 

She does not respond. She only stares at the floor. 

A hand clasps over your mouth before you’re able to process the mess in front of you. Pitiful feet squirm and thrash as you’re dragged through the room, flowers soaring through the air and  blood smearing on the soles of your shoes, before you’re violently spun and shoved against the wall. You attempt to make sense of the black hair and green eyes in front of you. Of the hips that pin you against the wall while this intruder leans back to get a better look at you. Yet, when he smiles with teeth just as sharp as the knife pressed against your throat, all you can do is stand there and panic. 

“Easy now,” the man warns. Each syllable washes over your nose with mint so strong it burns your eyes — like he’s trying to hide something vile behind the freshness but it isn’t quite working. “Pretty thing you are, aren’t you? Yeah… Yeah, let’s try to keep it that way. Gonna move my hand and you’re gonna keep those lips sealed, right? Not gonna give me any trouble.” 

The only thing you can think to do is nod. To confirm you’re not a threat. To do anything to ward off the blade against your throat. And still, when he removes his hand you whimper. Eyes wide with terror, you look over this man and find nothing recognizable. Not his attire nor grin — not even the heavy cologne that burrows into his clothes. There is only one thing that seems remotely familiar, and that is the heavy lids over his eyes, like he’s ravenous and he’s sizing up a good meal to eat. 

When he asks for your name it stumbles from your lips like it caught on your tongue on the way out, and he gives you his in return. Marco. He says it as if you are having a polite conversation; like your mother isn’t slouched against the cabinet by your feet. 

“Sorry about the mess. Dear mum wasn’t very cooperative. But you seem like a smart girl, yeah? So you’re gonna stay quiet and listen to what I have to say. Nod.” 

Just as ordered, you nod with a tremble, throat bobbing against the blade. Marco allows himself to drink in the sight of you. Blood stained shoes, long winter skirt, pristine coat — your mother had just ironed it for you that morning. Delicate hands working with grace to make sure you looked well and proper while off at school. It’s a sour memory, now. Those hands now cover a mortal wound she couldn’t save herself from. 

“I’d like to apologize about the loss of your father. Good man, he was. Hard worker. Managed to get himself in a bit of a mess though.” A wince tears through your throat at the pressure of his hips against yours, and he finally seems to register just how close he is to you. Offering you a smile in faux reverence, he moves back only an inch before pressing the tip of his knife against your sternum. You can’t feel its blade through your layers, but you feel the dread that stains the steel. “The type of mess that got him killed. That got your mum killed. One that’ll kill you too if you don’t play your cards right.

“Now, your sweet father works — well… worked — for a very important man named Vladimir Makarov. Heard of him before?”

Vladimir. Your mind reels, images of your father’s funeral flashing before your eyes as you remember that strange man and his cold grip. Is that the Vladimir he speaks of? The same man who offered you kind condolences? 

“He… he’s the one they’ve been talking about on the news,” you conclude. 

Marco’s smile is accompanied by a chuckle so saccharine it turns your stomach. “Yes. Yes, very good. Smart thing, you are. Everyone knows him. Makarov. The Russian Mafia. Your father worked for him.” 

Confusion rattles your bones as you shake your head, bottom lip jutting out and trembling. Marco sneers at it. At the twitching of your skin and the way you shudder against him. 

“But, no… No, my dad worked-” 

“Your daddy was a liar,” Marco interjects. “A fat fuckin’ liar, yeah? Sure he didn’t mean any harm by it, but daddy kept a lot of things from you. He worked for Makarov as a drug runner. Sure you know what that is, right? Makarov makes a lot of money off of that little side business of his. Lost a lot of cash for the big man the other night. Got himself killed trying to deliver a shipment. Lotta money we’re short on now. Care to venture a guess, babe? How much do you think we’re missing?” 

Numbers spin in your head like gambling machines and your eyes squeeze shut. This isn’t something you want to play. Some deranged guessing game with a knife pressing into your chest and a wall against your back. You wish he would kill you already. Leave you onto the floor next to your mother where you can cool and congeal in peace. You hope you’re buried between her and your father. You’d like to be able to reach out and touch them both again. 

“Roughly three hundred thousand,” Marco eventually answers once he’s had a fill of your petrified silence. 

The number he names is astonishing and cruel. Your eyes open, body no longer trembling, and your mouth opens in an attempt to respond. Nothing comes out. All you can do is stare at the widening sneer growing on his lips. 

“I know. Bad, isn’t it?” he humors with a crass chuckle. “Imagine how we feel, getting shorted like that. Not very good. Of course he’s too dead to pay it back, so I tried to talk to good ol’ mum. Didn’t take too kindly to me visiting. Wasn’t very keen on wanting to pay back what your family owes. But you seem smarter than that. Smart enough to know what your options are, yeah?” 

Reading between the lines is easy when he’s carving the message into your throat. It’s your turn to pay. Your turn to right your father’s sin, and if you don’t? Linoleum can only hold so much blood. 

Maybe you wouldn’t mind joining your mother on the floor. You’d be too dead to care. At least this incessant void that continues to swallow you whole would be sated. There would be nothing left for it to feed off of. But then you look at Marco. Verdant eyes bore into you with more than just curiosity. More than a sick sense of power. There are things worse than death. A filthy wanton desire taints his lips as he wets them, and for a moment the stale viscera mixes with the mint on his breath and you think you’re going to be sick.  

“I… I don’t have that money. I-I’m still in school, I’ve…” Whatever you’re trying to say, it won’t come out right. It catches on your teeth, in the tight confines of your throat, and chokes you. 

“Quiet now,” Marco coos. Convinced that you’re not going to run, he drops the knife from your chest but the weight is still there. “I’m not a monster. Of course it’ll take time. We’ll work out a payment plan. Wait until you’ve got yourself a job, something proper without worrying about school. I’ll make things nice and easy for you. Always better that way, right? We have a deal then?” 

Before his words properly register, you’re already nodding your head. Desperate to get him off your back. Doing anything to fawn and appease this terror as he stares you down, lips peeling in a gibe. 

“Good. Good… wanna make another deal?” Before he continues he slips his hand into his pocket, stowing away that wicked blade after flicking it shut. With both hands free, he’s able to move easier. A warm hand settles on your waist and it burns through your uniform all the way to your skin, layers turning into ash underneath his fingertips. You don’t fully register what he’s doing until his other hand brushes against your cheek — your blood runs colder than your mothers. “I’ll knock the price down by a quarter if you let me fuck you.” 

This is your fault. You should have seen this coming. From the very moment your back was against the wall and Marco had you pinned, this was his idea all along. And instead of fighting, you froze. Let him close in on you until you were caged. Leashed. Attached to him by a string of infinity that you can’t seem to break through. He feels it, and you feel it too. That lure. That connection that allows him to take and take. 

A crucible ignites in your stomach as the hand on your waist ventures lower, the thick fabric of your skirt bunching as he moves it to the side. Your legs attempt to knock together, to shut him out before he even enters but he’s quicker. Faster. Stronger. His knee darts between them, and you try not to cry when he chuckles. This is his bread and butter. His favorite meal and the only sustenance he desires. 

“I’d be gentle, of course. Like I said, I’m no monster. Could show me your room. Bet your bed’s plenty soft. Like you, huh? Pretty, soft thing, aren’t you?” Greedy fingers sear the insides of your thighs as he travels up and up… the tears begin to fall when his fingers reach your underwear. You squirm, shoulders fidgeting and hands trembling as the foreign feeling taints you. “I’d knock it down by half if you’re a virgin.” 

You want to close your eyes. To pretend it’s not happening until it’s over. You don’t. You look anywhere but him as the tears mark your cheeks, and you swear they’ll create canyons in your face if they continue at this pace. Cutting deep until the flesh erodes away and there’s nothing but bone left. So you look away. You look at your mother. Her crumpled form hasn’t moved. She’s just the way she has been. The way you found her. Forever frozen in her last moment — with her final breaths — hands attempting to stitch together something she can’t. 

She still stares at the floor. At the linoleum that glistens with her blood. And they’re dead. Her eyes are empty — her eyes are dead, and she is dead, and you are glad. You are glad, because you don’t think you could survive her witnessing what’s about to happen to you. 

“Just say the word,” Marco eggs. He’s luring you in, fingers pressing harder, and it aches. You should be apoplectic. Should rage against him, but you don’t. 

Wavering hands slither between your body and Marco’s, palms flat against his chest as you attempt to melt into the wall behind you. Amused, he cocks his head. Avaricious eyes rake over your face, drinking in the sight of your tears like he wishes he could grab a taste for himself. When his body jolts, you fear he almost does. 

“I’ll pay the full amount,” you mutter. You can’t look at him when you speak. You can hardly even get the words out as is. “All of it. I’ll do it.” 

He huffs in a patronizing scoff that has his breath fanning across your face again. Menthol burns your eyes and evaporates the tears on your skin. You wish you would evaporate with it. 

“I’ll pay it, just… please stop…” 

There is a fleeting moment where you don’t think he will. You’re convinced he’ll continue to take, to ravage you on the bloodstained ground next to the corpse of your mother, but he relents. Hand sliding away from your thighs, your skirt covers yourself as he releases you. Without his weight pinning you like a specimen to an examination board, your legs give out, knees bending into jello as your back slides down the wall. He chuckles, and it is purely virulent. 

“Alright, alright,” he sighs. “Other half of the deal is still on, then. We’ll make arrangements at a later date. Best you stay in town, babe. Would hate to have to track you down somewhere else.” Marco pauses, filth stained hands shoving into his pockets as he glances around the mess he’s made of both you and your mother. “Call the police. You’ll need help cleaning up. Tell them you came home and found her like this, but don’t tell them about me. About anything else. I’ll know if you do. Makarov’s got eyes and ears everywhere.” 

Vision tunneling, you nod. It’s the only thing you can think of doing as you stare at the stain on the floor. Part of you wonders if it would have been better to deny him. To let him sink his blade into you so you can cry pitiful squeals as you come to some unkind demise. You wonder if you were ever really given a choice. If you said no, would he have even bothered to kill you? Would he have taken you to your room, undressed you, forced himself on you until he had his fill? Would he ever have his fill, or would he just continue to take, and take, and take, and —

“Hey.” His shoes come into focus as he stands in front of you, and he gently kicks the side of your leg, prompting you to look up at him. He’s amused. You’re nothing more than meat to him. “That other offer is still on the table. Just in case you find yourself changing your mind. I’ll be seeing you later, babe.” 

The door slams behind Marco as he leaves you. Crumbled flowers lay on the ground, feeding off of the blood as they rest next to your mother. You want nothing more than to crawl into her lap as if you were a child again. Aren’t you still a child? Sixteen and in school, uniform and all — you feel like an adult shoved into a child’s body. Or a child shoved into an adult’s. You’re fractured. Spiraling and sparkling like kaleidoscope fractals to be gawked at with wet lips and greedy tongue; you are in between a girl and a woman. 

In your prime state, you are now a meal, and he is everything more. 

It isn’t long before flashing blue lights smother your neighborhood like some village smothered under azure waves. The officers arrive before the ambulance does, and they find you curled up and shivering on the front steps of your home. The scent of decaying iron had become too much to bear. Trembling fingers clutch your phone as you stare at the pavement. Unlike the kitchen floor, it’s pristine and clean, void of all blood and gore, yet you still see it. It haunts you. Scarred deep into your retinas until all you see is red. 

When a new pair of shoes invades your vision, you’re certain it’s Marco again. Already come to collect your dues and more. This new figure is kinder. There is not a single shred of the violence you had been subjugated to before as they kneel in front of you, hand on one knee. They do not seem to care about their pristine pants as old dirt stains the uniform, nor do they grunt at the joints that pop and crack throughout their legs. 

“Hey, kiddo.” He’s a man. Voice amicable and soft, it coaxes you into glancing up to look him in the eyes. You squint, blue lights diffusing around the curves of his hat, and you see him smiling. You wonder how he can smile when there’s a corpse in the house behind you. “Come on. Why don’t we go somewhere to warm up?” 

For the next few hours, you are a broken record. Retelling your falsified story to investigators; reliving every gruesome detail except for the one that scares you most. It doesn’t feel good to lie. You hate lying. It makes you swelter, sweat beading along the back of your neck as if you’re cooking in an oven under their gaze. If they see your deceit, they don’t say anything, and so you keep repeating what you were instructed to. You walked home. You found her body. You called the cops. 

You walked home. You found her body. You called the cops. 

Somehow, after it’s evident that the fringes of your family died with your mother, you end up in the care of the same officer who cajoled you from the stairs of your home. You don’t argue with it. It’s certainly better than sleeping on the streets for the night. It’s quiet in his car — nothing but the hum of the engine and grind of the weathered road beneath the tires — but he breaks it to tell you about his daughter. She’s older than you, already moved out and engaged. It’s small talk. Something to keep your mind off of everything. You appreciate it until he shares that you remind him of her; you nearly apologize for it — that he might have a daughter like you. 

His wife calls him Chief when he brings you inside their home, but she freezes at the sight of you. Puzzled at your presence, she brushes it off quickly before welcoming you, too as if you’re old friends. You’re brought to a room that looks like a spare with plain sheets and walls, but you can tell it’s lived in. They already have spare clothes and toiletries on hand, and they’re left at the foot of the bed for you. It isn’t until you lay down that you realize they’re used to fosters. Vagabond, wayward children with nowhere else to go. 

You don’t sleep that night, even though you desperately want to. Anything to not have to be conscious through this new, miserable existence. Instead, you rot in that bed with your soiled body, still marked from Marco’s fingerprints, and you want nothing more than to burn them away. You think you’d have to burn yourself alive with it. Immolate yourself as an offering to whatever sick god decided you deserved this fate. As long as the memory lives on, so does the crime, and so does your shame. 

Shame for being alive. Shame for enduring what you had to. Shame for surviving it. 

Come morning, you slip into the bathroom to try and clean yourself up properly. To wash your hair and face and forget the blood that stains the soles of your feet. Chief and his wife provide everything, and don’t skimp on it either. When you exit your shower, your skin has never felt softer, and for a simple, fleeting moment you’re convinced you might be able to sleep despite the sun’s position. 

Everything falls apart when you go to brush your teeth. 

Mint floods your mouth, smothering your tongue with its cooling burn, and it hardly begins to foam before you’re freezing. Your stomach recoils; twists and thrashes at the flavor and you try to will the nausea away, but you can’t. Because underneath the menthol and frigid bite, there is your mother. There is your mother, and her offals, and her dead, glossy gaze, and there is Marco — and there is you; too weak to do anything. 

Your toothbrush clatters to the floor just as your knees do. Torso curved, stomach constricting, you hardly make it to the toilet before you throw up. It’s vile. Bitter bile coating your tongue, washing away the aftertaste of the horror with acid. You pray it torches your senses. Renders them completely useless so that you’ll never have to think about that man or that kitchen or the mess ever again. 

“You alright in there, sweet pea?” The question comes with a gentle knock and a fair amount of concern from Chief’s wife. Feet shuffle just underneath the door in your periphery, and you try to quiet yourself. 

You spit the last remains of vomit out of your mouth. “I’m alright.” 

Christmas passes by in a blur you can’t remember. There are vague conversations that stick, but nothing of value. Just muffled voices to be added to the soupy mess of your brain. Disconnected. Disjointed. Bereaved, you spend your days wandering this strange home like a ghost as you try to plot out the rest of your seemingly decreasing lifespan. Marco’s threats still ring fresh in your mind. As do his hands on your skin. Surprisingly, it’s a very simple life. Work, pay, repeat. Pray Marco doesn’t hurt you. Repeat. Try to forget. Repeat. 

Repeat. 

What you don’t account for are the nightmares. The lack of sleep. The way you can still so clearly smell everything, feel everything. Breath against your cheek. Hand between your thighs. Fear boiling your blood. Mint mixing with gore and death. Something clean attempting to conceal something rotten. It follows you. Clings to you. Burrows into your skin. No, it’s deeper than that — it’s not some superficial wound. It slices through thick muscle and sinew, drills deep into bone and into the soft tissue of your head. Frying synapses until all you can think about is the despondent ache that pulses in place of your heart. 

Unfortunately, Chief can sniff out death better than a cadaver dog, and you’re smothered in the scent. 

“Now, you’re not in trouble,” he says, but his voice carries a sense of authority that nearly has you trembling as you sit on the couch. He stands in front of you with his arms crossed over his chest as you stare at the photo in your hand. “I just need you to tell me the truth this time.” 

It’s Marco. A grainy, CCTV image of him, but you don’t think you’d be able to forget his face even if you tried. You see him with his hands shoved in his pockets just outside your house. Your real house. The one your mother still haunts. You swallow thickly as the picture stares through you — you want to look away but it won’t allow it. 

“Who is that man?” Chief asks. 

You shake your head. “I don’t know.” 

He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t fight and call out your obvious lie. Instead, he kneels just like he did when he first found you on those icy steps. Soft eyes try to peer into yours, but you can’t stop staring at Marco. Not even the fuzz can obscure the smirk on his face, and you feel your stomach churn at the sight. 

“I know this isn’t easy,” he says, voice soft yet still carrying the authority of an officer. “We’ve seen the video. Watched this man walk into your home. Watched you enter long before he left. It’s not easy facing men like that, someone terrible enough to take a life so flippantly. I’m sure he said a lot of things. Made a lot of threats trying to get you to keep quiet. I promise, whatever he told you isn’t going to happen. Not while I’m around.” 

His confidence is almost laughable, and you would laugh if you weren’t terrified. Marco’s words echo in your head the same way they have for the last two weeks. Makarov has eyes and ears everywhere. Are they listening now? Are they testing you? Trying to see how easily you’ll crumble if given a way out? If tempted with even the mere thought of escaping this life so viciously forced upon you? 

“I can’t,” you stutter out. It’s weak. Poignant and miserable, especially when accompanied by the tears that mark your cheeks. You cry so often these days you think the well will never run dry. “I can’t, he’ll kill me.” 

“What did I tell you? That’s not going to happen while I’m around,” Chief assures. “Is he part of any syndicate? Is he on his own? I just need a little bit of information — a name, anything you have — and I can put him away for good. Please. Let me help you.” 

A part of you believes him. There’s a quiet flicker of hope that has you praying he’s right. Perhaps most of what Marco said was an empty threat. Something to get you to be complacent and easy to abuse. Aren’t you, after all, still a child? Gullible and pathetic? The conflict roars in your chest; manifests as shaky hands and a chest that cracks with every beat of your heart. 

“I…” This is going to kill you to say. It’s not easy being brave — it’s nothing but asperity. “His name is Marco. He works for a man named Vladimir Makarov and he… he…” 

Everything wants to spill out. The blood, tears, and bile — the hands slipping underneath your skirt and the dead eyes that watch your defilement. It’s too much to hold by yourself. You don’t know what to do with it besides let it fester and metastasize inside of you. When you look up at Chief and see the look in his eyes, you can tell he already knows. That he’s known for a long while. He could see the cracks through your skin like dry desert clay long before you ever showed them. 

He hugs you when you begin to cry, and it feels like your father is holding you. It’s the first fraction of comfort you’ve received since either of your parents died, and you’re unable to hold back the sorrow. You are a leaking faucet. Something that has no choice but to make a mess, and still he holds you through it all.

When your crying quells enough that it no longer racks your body, Chief asks you if you’ll go to the station with him to give an official statement. He promises that it won’t go public, that it will stay classified until everyone who could ever want to hurt you is rotting behind bars. Still sniffling back snot, you agree. 

This might be the only chance you have to avenge your parents — to avenge the girl Marco ravaged and left to decay in that house.

New Year's Eve leaves all of London terribly crowded. Jobs close up shop early, public transportation is packed, pedestrians swarm walking paths like schools of fish; all of it leaves you and Chief in tightly knit traffic. Each stoplight you run into seems to last an eternity, and it only aggravates the already untamable anxiety that dwells in the pit of your stomach. A time bomb ticks away somewhere just out of your reach, forever slipping through your fingers, and it only gets louder as you weave throughout the city. 

Halfway through the drive, Chief calls someone. His tone is clandestine, hushed and soft as if you’re in some other room and not in the passenger's seat next to him. Only a few of his words cut through the tempest in your mind. He mentions your name. The homicide case involving your parents. Marco and Makarov. The streets you’re passing on the way to the station. Lighthearted complaints about the traffic. His voice shakes when he laughs. You think he might be scared. 

There is a moment in time when everything shifts. The air becomes thicker. Your body feels lighter after your confession, yet, there’s a trepidation that hangs so tightly around your neck you’re certain you’ll choke. But you’ve been choking all along, haven’t you? Marco’s had a hold of his end of the rope this whole time, slowly pulling and pulling as the noose constricts around your throat like a viper. 

You suck in a breath of air as best as you can, eyes wandering over to Chief. He’s still on the phone, but you can’t understand what he’s saying. His mouth moves, jaw bobbing with his words, but it’s nonsense. Silence. Gibberish through static. When you exhale, you look at the steering wheel. One hand guides the car. Firm fingers keep it straight as he drives through the intersection. 

When you blink, those fingers suddenly look like your father’s — crooked and wrong. 

Pop!

Your vision is plunged into darkness as gunshot-like bangs deafen you. Muscles along your spine tense and harden as your body is jerked around, seat belt digging into your chest and hips as you’re helplessly tossed — a ragdoll in the hands of a merciless child. Something hits the side of your head, and your ears scream with a high pitched squeal by the time the movement ceases. Your eyes are open, but you can’t see anything. It’s blotchy. Underdeveloped images that fade in and out of existence. Sparkling glass. A white airbag. Blood on your fingertips. 

Something shakes you. Prods you to look elsewhere. Your senses move slower than your body does. You’ve turned your head but your eyes don’t catch up until moments later. Chief looks at you, shouts something that makes your ears hurt, and yet you still can’t hear him. His brows furrow as his hand reaches for the side of your head, and when he retracts it, his fingers are red. 

Everything begins to stitch itself together as you glance around. Crystalline shards of glass litter your lap, small pieces of it embedding themselves into your arms where beads of blood poke through your jumper. Frigid air hits your face through the broken window, and when you look to your left, you notice the door is bent. Metal morphing inwards as if to crush you in its maw. 

A thick veil lifts from your body, but it does so agonizingly slow. Pain rages inside your skull as more blood trickles down the side of your face, and you’re finally able to make out the words Chief says, though he sounds like he’s underwater. 

“We’ll get out of this kiddo, just try to stay still. Of course the tossers had to hit your side,” he grumbles. 

As you turn your attention to him — vision still lagging behind your movements — you notice someone standing by his door. Your brain tells you it’s the driver of the other car, the one that hit you. He’s coming to check on you. To right his wrong. But your gut screams something tremulous. 

When the door opens and you see the flash of a knife, you know there’s nothing you can do but sit there and watch. No scream leaves your lips as the blade sinks into Chief’s stomach. The assailant does it so easily. A practiced motion. One executed with too much confidence. There’s no sound that accompanies it. No clink of metal or sickening smack. There is only silence. 

Ichor flows freely from the wound as the knife is yanked free, and Chief paws helplessly at it with a gasp. A begging plea for it all to stop leaves your lips, but this man with his dull eyes says nothing as he retrieves the cell phone lying on the floor of the car. He begins to pick it apart, hardware and internals ripped open just like the dying man next to you, parts being removed and shoved into pockets. 

“Maybe I was wrong about you.” 

The repugnant voice of Vladimir Makarov drowns out the ringing in your ears as he leans through your broken window. Your head only snaps to look at him when he presses against the wound on your head, and he grins at your surprise. He stares at the blood marking his fingers like it’s a trophy, and you want to scream but your brain refuses to relay the message.

“You’re not as smart as I thought you were, after all. Not witty enough to keep out of trouble,” he chastises with a titter. “Let this be a lesson to you. I don’t like teaching the same thing twice.” 

More slurred nonsense leaves your lips as Makarov leans away from the window, attention turning to the man ravaging Chief’s phone. He nods to himself, tossing the phone back onto the floor before looking to his superior. The man dying before him is nothing more than collateral. 

“Come, Andrei. We’ll have guests soon,” Makarov orders. 

They fade into the mess of the commotion around you. Melting away like ghosts you can’t seem to catch nor escape. Dark figures joining the void. You’re always one step behind. Just another piece in a game you don’t know how to play. 

“Chief,” you choke out. Your voice is raw and tight, vocal cords twisting and threatening to snap. “I-I don’t know what to do, please help me, what do I-”

He’s dead by the time you’re able to turn your attention back to him. Hazy eyes stare through the cracked windshield as stained hands rest over his stomach. It is the same thing all over again. A vicious cycle that spins around you. You’re at the epicenter. Approaching the event horizon that will soon rip you to shreds. For now, it lets you live, but it’s impossible to forget the gravity slowly dragging you in. 

Just like you did with your mother, you sit and cry as the body next to you begins to cool. Each sob pierces through you, electrifying every nerve until you’re rendered nothing but a thrashing mess. Your arms flail, glass sent flying as you attempt to free yourself from your seat belt. Other people have approached the wreck, but their voices and warnings to stay calm do nothing to soothe you. They don’t understand. No one understands. The only person who even could is lying dead next to you.

Each moment that passes is a painful reminder of what you wrought upon yourself. Of the blood that stains your hands. You should have known better than to even attempt to harbor some useless meliorism. As if you could outrun voracious greed. No. There is only one way out of this game — this hell — this limbo you’ve trapped yourself in — and it involves death. It has to be yours. It will be yours, someday. 

Until that day, you’ll continue to rot with the corpses that fall due to your negligence and stupidity. There’s no use in fighting. You’ll only ever be clean from this sin when the mortician washes you postmortem to lay you in your casket.

[mellowsaturns]

in losing grip, on sinking ships (you showed up just in time)

BUCKY BARNES X FEM!READER

summary: when the avengers pick up unusual activity, they realize that not all of hydra was destroyed. one unidentifiable face sends the team into a frenzy but bucky knows it. he could recognize those eyes anywhere.

warnings: heavy angst, one sided enemies-to-lovers-ish, hydra!assassin!reader, hurt/comfort, happy ending, brainwashing, trauma, guns & knives, fighting, implied kidnapping of reader when young, all the feels, misunderstandings, poor attempt at writing action

wc: 4.7k

a/n: sorry it’s been forever but i hope my fellow buckyluvrs are still here <3 i actually wrote this a long time ago but never got around to editing until recently so i guess you can say this is (from the vault) ? inspired by the idea: what-if there was another winter soldier and bucky finds himself in steve’s position this time trying to get you back to him. anyways, i hope you enjoy this one :)

Bucky’s life was a never ending montage of gunfire and bloodshed. It didn’t matter if he was under the clutches of someone else, he still lived through the wars—the lingering smell of smoke and tang of metallic forever ingrained in his senses.

And just when he thought it was finally over—a glimmer of peace at last—it comes and steals that dream away from him.

Like deja-vu, he’s looking at faces that were once responsible for his pain.

On the screen, three Hydra officers stare back at him. All faces identified by Tony’s system. Alive. Last seen in the outskirts of some small country in Europe. Irrelevant low ranking officials that had managed to survive the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D and have been hiding and secretly continuing Hydra’s mission underground ever since. Low officials or not, it was one too many.

Bucky freezes in his spot when Tony swipes the screen. The billionaire goes on a rant saying this particular face cannot be identified, which was according to Tony, bullshit because his face recognition system is the best in the world. The rest of the team is arguing and flipping through countless files and internet archives. But Bucky knows. He knows that face and those haunting eyes that he still sees in his dreams.

“Buck,” a voice calls out. “You know her, don’t you?”

He looks up at Steve from his spot, his best friend's face worried and all knowing.

One thing about Hydra was that they were always prepared. They had backups and multiple plans ready, or else how would two heads take its place when one was cut off? Unfortunately for the world, Hydra managed to make another deadly assassin, one whose work was so discreet and nimble that even intelligence didn't know they existed.

You were a ghost story that lived in the shadows of the Winter Soldier. You were another one of Hydra’s prize possessions—less known, but just as deadly.

With Steve’s comment, all eyes are now on Bucky. A pregnant pause fills the air and he gulps before he confesses, “I wasn’t the only one.”

The room becomes tense. The war that they thought was over suddenly looms over like an unpredicted oncoming storm. “Jesus Christ, Barnes. You couldn’t have informed us about her earlier?” says Tony.

“I thought,” he says, shifting his eyes onto the ground, “I thought she fell with S.H.I.E.L.D.”

Bucky couldn’t find you anywhere after he escaped their grasp. After he joined the Avengers, he tried once again secretly using Tony’s technology but it was to no avail—it always ended up being a dead end. And for that, he assumed Hydra had put you out of your misery the day they were caught.

But the face on the screen says otherwise. And suddenly, Bucky feels very guilty.

Steve clears his throat, “Well, they were picked up not too long ago heading north. If we leave now, we might be able to find them and stop them once and for all.”

Everyone looks at each other, debating on his proposal. “What the Captain said. Everybody, suit up. Quinjet leaves in ten,” says Tony.

On the jet, Bucky stares off into space but countless questions run through his mind.

Steve walks over and sits beside him. “What’s going on in that head of yours?” he asks, voice quiet.

Bucky sighs, “I just… I thought she was gone.”

“Hey, it’s not your fault. You didn’t know.”

He looks up, wondering if he should tell Steve the truth. That he’s not brooding about the fact that he concealed you to them. After a moment, Bucky speaks up. “When we get there, let me handle her. Please.”

Steve didn’t know what kind of history Bucky had with you. But judging from the look his best-friend is giving, it’s more than what Steve could understand or even comprehend but he trusts Bucky and so, he gives him a nod. “She’s all yours.”

After scouting the area and tracing the location to a very hidden underground warehouse in the middle of nowhere, they split up. The warehouse was dark and dusty, surely abandoned, but Bucky knew better—it was their facade behind the most sinister of activities. Through the comms, Natasha announces that she has already taken care of all the troops in the West wing. Moments later, Sam reports that he has eliminated one of the Hydra officers. They wouldn’t last long. Hydra didn’t have much resources or time to rebuild—their current empire was weak, they were no match for the Avengers this time.

The only person Bucky’s truly worried about is you. The fact that he trained you, made you into what you were today already gave him the chills. He’s not the Winter Soldier anymore, but he was certain that you were still in that killer mindset that Hydra forced upon you.

Step by step, Bucky walks through the quiet hallway, the echoes of his footsteps the only noise. It’s cold here, he notices, which gives him flashbacks to those days in his dirty cell and the cryostasis chamber. Down a hallway to the next, round a corner and another, there wasn’t a single soul in the eerily Eastern wing.

But he spoke too soon, because seconds later, a garrote wire was around his neck. The swift invisible steps and the perfect pressure that was being used to quickly cut off his air supply was all too familiar. He knows this move, he taught this move. You’re here, and you’re dragging him backwards.

Before all oxygen gets cut off to his brain, he jabs his elbow backwards and hits you hard on the rib which releases the hold you have on him and sends you stumbling back. Bucky takes a moment to regain his breath but you’re on your feet again. He looks at you and for a moment he freezes, then you let out a sinister grin. “Nice to see you again, Soldat,” you taunt, before running towards him.

Bucky’s deflecting your punches one after another. Maybe he’s glad he was the one who taught you everything you know because your moves were predictable—if it were another person, there is no doubt they would’ve been on the ground with multiple concussions bleeding out already. You’re ruthless when you do a triple roundhouse kick on him. On the fourth one, he manages to catch your leg and twists it, sending you to the ground with a groan.

How familiar this scene was, Bucky thinks.

Some forty-years ago, Hydra brought a woman into the training room. There was no further instruction than to train you and that’s what he did. He could tell you were well trained already—compliant and pliable. You were good. And you were just like him, injected with a serum that made you a hundred times more efficient and stronger. In just under a year, Hydra would start sending you on missions. Sometimes with him, sometimes alone.

During training, the both of you would spar for hours, leaving each other bloody and bruised, but it didn’t matter to the overlookers, the both of you would heal in a few hours anyways.

Once you pick yourself back up, he pulls a gun out on you. “Stop this,” he commands.

You smirk, “You going to shoot me, Soldat? I want to see you try.”

He clenches his jaw. You continue to look at him, a dark look on your face that shows no sign of true recognition.

His thoughts are disrupted when you tackle him onto the ground. You kick his gun away and pin his arms down as you straddle him. “I’m going to kill you,” you declare, “I’m going to put a bullet through your head.”

When he looks up at you, your eyes are full of rage. Bucky doesn’t know whether that’s the brainwashed version of you talking or the actual you talking—maybe both.

“What are you going to do after you kill me?” he says, irritated. C’mon, please recognize me. “This is all that remains of Hydra. Half the troops are already dead. One of your new leaders is dead. In a few hours, Hydra will be no more. What will you do after that? What are you going to do after you kill me?”

“What does it matter? You’re my mission. I’m going to finish it.”

He groans at your stubbornness that was identical to his Soldier persona.

He says your name slowly. “Get off. You can walk away from this.”

You frown, but he continues, “I know how you feel. You’re feeling helpless.” He clears his throat, “There’s someone behind this version of you. I want to talk to her.”

“What are you talking about?” you utter in annoyance. “Stop stalling.”

He says that name again, with calamity and care. You want to rip out his tongue.

“Let me talk to her. Please.”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about!” you shout, grabbing for the gun that’s strapped onto your waist. “Stop talkin–”

“I was in the cell next to yours. You liked the colour green. You were wearing white when we first met. You always wanted to visit Bucharest. You hated the leaky cold showers in the Siberian facility,” he rambles, trying to remember every single thing about you in a desperate attempt to get your attention so this version of you won’t shoot him in the face.

And for a moment, it works because your hand freezes on the grip of your gun. He takes that moment to flip you over, so you’re under him now, hands pinned above your head. He takes your gun and throws it behind him.

You snarl at him while trying to escape his grasp. “I know you’re under there,” he says. “Please, come through. Please talk to me.”

Your face scrunches in pain, not from him—he would never hurt you—but from the mental warfare that’s currently going on in your mind. You close your eyes as he speaks again. “Listen to my voice, you know me, don’t you? мой милая.”

My darling.

For a moment, your entire body tenses up and then you let out a painful breath. When your eyelids start to flutter open, he finally sees the eyes he came to know and rely on—eyes he came to love.

The both of you are looking at each other unblinking. A scene neither of you expected but always dreamt about.

You break the silence with a whisper of, “James?”

Bucky slowly nods at your disbelief. Finally, he thinks. But such respite doesn’t last long, because seconds later, you hook your foot under his and flip him over and escape his grasp.

There's darkness in your eyes and he can tell that the Soldate is back and the fighting resumes.

You’re chasing him down the twisting hallway and when you catch up, you grab his shoulder and throw a punch to his jaw. He stumbles back and then a voice comes through the comms.

“Just took down the second one.” Steve. “Bucky, how are you holding up? You’ve been quiet ever since we split up.”

He’s trying his best to block your hand, which now has a damn pocket knife. Your quick movements are starting to tire him out. Maybe he taught you too well, he thinks.

“Buck? Bucky. Confirm your status, right now.”

Groaning in frustration, he taps his earpiece. “I’m fine,” he grunts. A second later, “Shit!” he huffs out as you nearly slice his face.

“You don’t sound fine. Is she with you? I’m sending back up.”

“No!” he says, “Don’t send anyone. I can handle her.”

In truth, he’s struggling right now—your stamina has always been better than his—but he’s worried that you’re going to accidentally get hurt and even more agitated when people appear. His main priority was keeping you safe. Fuck the mission statement they talked about back on the Quinjet.

You’re angry—no, you’re extremely angry at him. It doesn’t take a genius to tell. It’s a mixture of pure rage from both the brainwashed and actual you.

He supposed he deserved it. You should be angry. Because for the longest time, it was you and him.

Other than turning you into a ruthless assassin just like him, an unexpected companionship also formed during those hazy in-between moments when the two of you weren’t frozen or on the metal chair getting fried by those machines—during the times when he was just Bucky and you were just you, two unfortunate innocent souls that shared the same suffering.

They weren’t pleasant moments. It was dehumanising. It was getting shoved into draughty cells with nothing but a blanket until it was time to train or time to embark on a mission. Luckily, your cells were next to each other and it made the endless nights a little more bearable. He was a little off-putting at first, but when he yelled at you to stop crying because they would torture you even more for it, you knew he meant well.

During your shared time together, glimpses of your true selves would seldom come up and you would tell each other about the little bits and pieces of a life once known. And the both of you would hold onto each other's memories and stories in case the other forgets.

And whenever they prep the two of you for the chamber due to there being no current missions for the time being, the two of you would look at each other—a look of longing with the secret squeezing of each other's hand before going under.

Despite the absolute awful situation the two of you were in at the time, the both of you were hopeful for the next shared moments together. Because even when all hope was gone, you had each other. And that was good enough for the two of you.

He misses you. So damn much.

“Shut up,” you mutter.

He didn’t even realise he said it outloud. “Well, I do,” he admits, his back hitting a wall.

“You talk too much, Soldat,” you say, creeping up on him. “I ought to cut your throat.”

“I’m sorry I left you with them.”

You halt in your steps and your jaw ticks. In a second, you pounce on him, your knife against his throat. He’s gripping your hand to stop you from continuing your job.

He says your name again. You’re pushing but he’s pushing back just as hard. “I’m sorry…” he repeats, “I’m so sorry.”

The desperation in his voice… You glance up at him slowly and he sees the pink forming in your eyes and your trembling lips. “What are you doing? What are you doing to me?” you whisper.

He sees the internal war behind your eyes once again. Bucky gulps for a moment before letting go of your hand, trusting that you won’t do any actual harm, and moves his hands so he’s cupping your face, firm enough so you’re forced to look at him. You look into his eyes for a second, then a minute, and for a moment, everything stops. Your breath hitches, because those eyes… those arctic blues… you know them. You fell in love with them many years ago.

A realisation washes over your face, one that Bucky doesn’t miss. You’re back.

The first tear falls. Then the second. “Bucky.”

“Hey, sweetheart,” he whispers.

You let out a small cry before you press the blade harder against his neck, your grip a vice from his betrayal. He could feel the sharp cold metal pierce through his skin ever so slightly, but he doesn’t try and stop you.

“Give me a reason to not kill you right now,” you grit through tears. “You left me. You left me behind to rot alone. You promised me. You fucking promised,” you say, voice laced with venom and so much hurt.

Bucky’s heart breaks at the sadness of your voice. Because he did promise. There wasn’t much to do in the cells other than throw around false hope. But whenever he told you he was going to escape one day and that he was going to take you with him—it didn’t feel like false promises at all because it wasn’t, and you knew it too.

Until he broke that promise and left you all alone.

“I didn’t mean to,” he says, voice breaking. “I didn’t mean to leave you there with them.”

“I waited for you,” you cry. “Day and night I waited for you to come back. Even when they relocated, I waited for you because I knew you’d find me.”

You remember that day clearly. Everyone was in a frenzy when the death of Alexander Pierce broke out and that they could not locate the Soldat. For a moment, you could taste your own freedom because government officials would come anytime now and finally arrest all these criminals. But right when they came, a few Hydra officers managed to escape and took you with them, and when you woke up, you didn’t know where the hell you were. But even then you didn’t lose hope because James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes, the name you committed to memory, was going to come for you just like he promised.

Until days, months, and eventually, a year came with no sign of him.

You were angry at first, but it slowly turned into worry because what if something bad had happened to him? But what do you know? You were stuck in this building and only went out whenever they spoke those trigger words to you. And you were always under their watchful eyes, giving you no chance to even attempt an escape. Surely he would never break his promise to you so something must’ve happened to him, you told yourself multiple times.

But he was standing here right in front of you. Alive. We’re under attack, your handler said to you moments ago, Kill the Soldat before he kills you.

“You’re a liar. You never cared about me,” you hiss.

Sometimes, it got too much. But whenever reality was a bit too hard to endure, Bucky was there, always reaching his hand out to you through the metal cage, which you took and held tight. And it meant the world to you, that someone cared.

“All those moments, did it even mean anything to you?”

He uses this opportunity to pull your arms down slightly, knife finally away from his neck and his eyes start to sting from his own tears. “They meant everything to me. I care about you.”

You look up at him with a defeated expression and Bucky never wanted to punch himself in the face more. “Then why? Why didn’t you come back for me?”

“I did,” he chokes out. “When I escaped, the first thing I did was go back for you, but the facility had already been raided and there was no one there. I checked every inch of the building.”

Bucky had never felt so scared, because what if the government took you too? They would never understand—framing you as a villain even though that was far from the truth. But there was no news of your capture, so with a breath of relief, Bucky continued to look through other known Hydra facilities.

“I tried my best looking for you, but I also had to be careful because I was a wanted man at the time. When months passed by and there were no clues, I thought that maybe you had escaped. I was in Bucharest waiting for you. Remember how you said you always wanted to go there? I knew that if you escaped, you’d find me there. Even when you didn’t show, I never gave up. Steve… I think I told you about him once—he found me, he helped me and cleared my name. After that, I still searched for you but it all ended up being dead ends. And…” he pauses for a moment, “and so I thought you were dead. I should’ve tried harder. I’m sorry.”

He had mourned you and blamed himself endlessly for it.

He knows he should’ve asked for help, but instead, he took this task upon himself until it got too much—because that was the one thing he struggled with the most, asking for help.

When his side of the story finally comes to light, you break into a sob. “I don’t expect you to forgive me,” he says, “but please, drop the weapon and let me help you.”

You swallow hard at his confession. He never stopped looking for you. You didn’t even consider how hard it must’ve been for him after everything and yet you’re lashing out on him.

“How are you going to help me?” you say. “I’m a mess. All you have to do is say those words and I turn into a weapon.”

Twelve. Ember. Fragment. Nine. Academy. Order. Frigid. Yearning. Blue.

Those were your trigger words.

“I got you out of your trance, didn’t I?” he says with a gentle smile.

Hydra needed you to rebuild their empire and they relied on those nine words to do so. To them, those nine words were your greatest weakness but one of them, the last one, the one they liked to spit out in vexation, was also your greatest strength—your salvation.

Blue.

You think back, moments prior, when all he had to do was use his voice and all you had to do was look into the blues of his eyes. Hydra can repeat those words all they want, but Bucky would always be able to bring you back.

At that, your grip relaxes and the knife finally drops onto the floor, it’s noise ricocheting off the walls.

“There’s a place called Wakanda and I know someone there who can help you. Her name’s Ayo and she’s amazing. She helped me overcome my words.”

He brings his hands back up to cradle your face and you shutter at the familiar touch—at the calluses on his palms. “And I think you’ll like it there. It’s quiet and there’s so much… green.”

You let out a small laugh through your tears but doubt still fills your mind. “But… all the things I did,” you whimper, “I did such terrible unforgivable things. There’s… there’s so much blood on my hands.”

Sadness flares around his heart. It was all so familiar. He knows the feeling.

“It’s not going to be easy. God knows how long it took for me to believe that none of it was my fault. But let me be the first one to tell you,” he says, wiping your tears away with his thumb. “None of what you did was your fault. You were a victim.” He swallows a deep breath, “There are going to be days where it’ll be too much too bear and there are going to be nights where all those casualties will haunt you,” he admits. “But… but you’ll get there. Someday, you’ll learn to stop punishing yourself for something you didn’t do.”

And he vows that he’ll help you every step of the way.

You breathe out slowly, digesting all his words. “You can trust me,” he tells you, “I won’t let you down this time. I’ll be here.”

Blinking up at him, the small hesitant part of you so desperately wanted to say, “How can I trust you?” but his eyes were telling you everything you needed to know. Because it was filled with nothing but honour and truth.

He breaks away from you and reaches out his hand. An invitation. You stare at it for a while, then you slowly lift yours and brush your fingers amongst his before grabbing it tightly—a truce of sorts, a promise. He squeezes back in return, a loving smile on his face, just like all those nights many moonlights ago.

Your breath hitches when he pulls you into his embrace, your face burying perfectly into the valley of his chest. He wraps his arms around you in urgency, in fear, almost afraid you’ll slip out if he doesn’t.

“It’s over,” he mumbles into your hair.

Because two floors down an explosion erupts, finishing off the last remaining garrison of troops. Three hallways down, Natasha sets fire to a room that contained the other small red leather book that held those nine suffocating words written in Russian. Outside, the last Hydra officer attempting to flee falls to his knees from an arrow to the chest. And the only hope they had left to rebuild their regime was safely in Bucky’s arms.

He pulls away and uses his thumb to rub gently across your cheek, “It’s over. The war is finally over.”

Now that the worst is over, Bucky’s hopeful. There will be other conflicts to come, that was just how it worked, but this one, the one that held you and him underwater for years was finally over. War always took too much, but this time, it gave something back. Because among the ashes and ruins you came back to him, no more oceans in between.

“What do we do now?” you press nervously. You were taken at a young age and spent years in the Red Room before you were sold off to Hydra. Like Bucky, you’re in the wrong time period, there’s no one to go back to.

There’s so many things you could do, Bucky thinks. You can finally start living the life you deserved, the life that was taken from you too early. He’ll have to explain all this to his teammates but he knows they’ll understand. They treated him so well, there’s no doubt they’ll show the same kindness for you. Then, he’ll go with you to Wakanda, get rid of the words, maybe stay there for a while so you could heal—maybe show you the goats he took care of during his time there.

You’ll probably adjust to the 21st century better than him—you won’t need to start off with a flip phone, that’s for sure. He’ll make you listen to all the great records and watch all the movies you missed out on. There’s so many things he wanted to do with you. He knows you have no memories, no recollection. It didn’t matter, Bucky thinks, he would make new memories with you, ones worth cherishing and remembering. If you’ll have him, of course.

But first and most importantly, “Let’s get you cleaned up, okay? Then we can talk about it,” he says, rubbing the grime off your nose.

He grabs your hand and heads for the exit. But before he does, you pick up your knife from the floor and in one quick motion, you spin around and throw it. The knife embeds itself into the wall a few metres away, right next to a prying face. You stand in front of Bucky and stare at the intruder with a murderous gaze and Bucky’s heart races at the thought of you still wanting to protect him after everything.

The blond raises his arms up in surrender.

“Steve,” Bucky says from behind and you briefly recognize that name. You turn around to look at him and he meets your eyes, nodding. You relax your stance.

“Hi,” Steve says, voice slightly hoarse. “I hope I didn’t interrupt anything.”

Bucky scoffs at him, as if he wasn’t eavesdropping the whole time.

Steve looks at the both of you, then a gentle smile adorns his face. “C’mon, the rest are waiting outside for you both.”

You step forward. This is it. Freedom. A new life. Bucky notices your hesitation as you suddenly stop in your tracks. Intertwining his fingers with yours, he squeezes with reassurance. You take a deep breath, then the two of you follow Steve to the exit, leaving behind the smoke and memories of your old life.

Outside, the sun comes up slowly but surely on the horizon, painting the awakening sky a gentle warm hue of oranges and pinks.

A new beginning awaits.

[angelgoeslewd]

only between us.

🔮 summary: finishing what you started in skirt with Raphael.

⚠️ warnings: 18+ content, minors DNI, very graphic mentions PIV sex, lots of spicy horny thoughts and scenes, a bit of religious sacrilege, Raphael being both emotionally and sexually constipated, AFAB! Reader.

Raphael has been alive for more than a millennium.

he’s young, compared to Simeon and Michael, but older than humans can ever even imagine. but all these years....

all these decades and he’s never been quite so taken with someone as much as he is with you.

you captivate his worst imagination; you, a little, unassuming human, a pea in the scope of the layers of the universe — you are the one to drag him into the eternal torment of blasphemy. his lustful thoughts, his unangelic desires to touch you, constantly tossing him closer and closer to falling.

prayers, interrupted by You. the constant turning at night in his own sanctuary, bidding his hardened length to leave him, shaky hands eventually succumbing to sin, sweating as he spills over into his hand and getting all worked up again wondering if you would lick it off for him. is it really a sin to think about how he would worship your body? how he would spend hours between your thighs, nipping and licking and sucking, covering his chin in spit and your slick, making you cum on his tongue until you cry, until his locks are taken into your hands and you beg for him to stop. how can it be such, when it feels so good?

he can practically hear your snarky remark the next day, wondering how he could sneak into the Celestial Realm when he behaves like such a demon in bed. he doesn’t retort. gives you a pointed look, then drops it to your shaking thighs, that you can barely brush together, lest the evidence of your coupling distract you once more.

while you and him shared some sort of… connection, one he couldn't possibly attempt to understand, Raphael wasn’t a mind reader. there was no possible way to know how far your feelings for him extended, you never crossed any lines that came with a loving ‘friendship.’ and while he desperately wanted to ruin it, to create something different, something deeper and more meaningful, he couldn’t bring himself to cross that line.

every moment you were by his side was too precious. he didn’t have any earthly belongings, anything he needed was bestowed or earned… but you. you gave your time, your patience, your kindness to him so freely, even when he knew he crossed the lines of pleasantries. he was utterly taken aback that a human could be so giving. as any angel, he was always taught humans took and took until no more could be given, then they would turn and find more to take. that they ruin and destroy as they did to the Fallen Ones. but here you were. handing him a set of new pens that he had off-handedly mentioned he liked the grip on. and suddenly, he wanted to be selfish too.

if he could just have you, platonically or otherwise, it was worth every second of keeping it status quo.

the most torturous part of the whole arraignment, however, is that you don’t even seem to realize the effect you have on him. you sit close to him, far too close, practically on his lap, teasing him with the slight distance, despite all his attempts to get you to actually do so, to play out his most shameful thoughts. you leave your scent on his arm, his shawl, his fucking papers.

he wants to burn them. he wants to bury his face in them and never forget your scent.

he tries so hard not to pay it any mind, but it is as close to home as he gets these days; his mind goes blank when he lifts it to his nose and smells you, vision blinding white in bliss and euphoria, your outline silhouetted every time he closes his eyes.

and those skirts. fucking hell, those short, perversion-inducing skirts. he’d damn them all to hell if he wasn’t currently living there already (physically and metaphorically). every time you wore one, Raphael lost his sense of reality. he’d live in a world of just you, him, and his bed. school and responsibilities be damned. they'd be less fucked than you would be. Raphael would keep you there, you’d have no reason to leave. he could conjure anything you needed with a snap of his fingers. the door to his room mysteriously vanishing from the Purgatory Hall, swallowed up by the void, along with your sweet, sinful moans. only he would hear how you would call for him, your pitiful cries for more of his touch. he would fuck you for every single time your skirt rode up and made him snap a pencil in his hand, your soaked little panties begging for him to push them aside and plunge deep in you. he would tell you to call his name when you came, make you forget about whoever else ever crossed your mind and replace it all with him.

the thought of you being such a little slut for anyone else made him crazy. he wanted to ruin everyone for you. he wanted to push his cum so deep in you that you could never even think of anyone but him doing so. how dare you swish your pleats like that? you even nearly made him break a pen in class once, when he watch you do a little twirl for Leviathan and Beelzebub. ink bubbled from the tip as you strutted back over like you didn’t just flirt with two demons in front of his face, asking with a pout if you could borrow his wrap because you were chilly.

— you, lying on your back on the classroom table, your cunt dripping wet stains onto the white fabric you ‘borrowed’ —

he couldn’t hold your eyes after such a thought. he handed it over to you and left in a hurry for the bathroom.

he would shamefully finish himself there, leaning his head against the peeling paint of the stall, pounding his fist into the metal as he came into his hand, yet again, reminding Raphael of how absolutely fucked he was.

the fact that all these ugly, human emotions came to head simply because of an article of clothing pisses him off. can he not control his mind over such an insignificant little thing?! how is he fit to be Michael’s secondhand!? he could never live up to Celestial realm's expectations if this continued. and it would be found out. he knew it would. they always find out.

he had to train himself. he had to be a better angel for you. you couldn’t have such an impure, deviant partner. he had watched you rebuff such demons, time and time again. and he was acting no better than they were. maybe… maybe if he could expose himself to you in little amounts, those thoughts would leave him… wouldn’t they?

but you. you were all-consuming. a total and complete aphrodisiac to his senses. and you never seem to stop fucking wearing that stupid skirt. did you know what it did to him? were you doing this to test his resolve? his thoughts tainted every time you searched him out wearing that flimsy piece of fabric. Raphael knew he was much stronger than you. he could just rip it off you, hold you up as you bounced on his cock. it didn’t matter where you two were. but whenever he made a decision to make a move, he would get up, meet your innocent, lovely face, and crumble like the walls of Jericho. he couldn’t defile you in such a way. not in this state.

pitifully, his only savior was the gardens. losing himself in something else, something so pure it almost felt like it cleansed him of his sins. or perhaps it just reminded him too much of the Celestial realm, touting its overwhelming, overbearing expectations of perfection and innocence. but it worked. at least it worked.

most of the time.

it seemed today was his absolutely unluckiest day. he was hounded by temptation. of course today was a day you were wearing that damned skirt. the old wives' tale of keeping you awake at night by dreaming about you didn't seem to be true. and of course, last night had to be a night with a dream that was so utterly debauched that Raphael feared the Devildom was eating his angelic nature alive. it seemed like every time he turned, there you were. over his shoulder, trying to “help” him with his assignments, the length of your skirt so short that the bottom just barely reached the top of the desk, even with your frame not being very much taller, making him sweat internally, trying to keep his hands from twitching, from doing something rash and unbecoming, but oh — how desperately he wanted to run his hand up your thigh and see just what your choice of panties were this day.

he wouldn’t necessarily call what he was doing running away or avoiding you. it was simply… just not an adequate environment to work in. that’s it. yes, he just couldn’t get past the fog of thoughts all related to you and what exactly you would do under him, to focus on absolutely anything else. not even his silent prayers were enough to hound them off anymore, and he found himself doing less and less of that and more of what sort of penance to he would pay on his knees to your beautiful— Raphael.

he was just in class with you, and even so, that brief window of opportunity was enough to do him in. he couldn’t stop. his grip on the book clenched, wrinkling precious papers, all because of your hold on him. you, this human who randomly showed up and captured seven demon lords, his former brothers, mind you, and him, in this nefarious web of lust and love and, my god, did he just want it to be over.

he tried to slow his heart beat, looking upwards to the darken sky in desperation to find some sort of relief. was this a test of his own willpower? did Father plan for this to happen? was it just him? was he broken? Raphael was at a loss. How was he ever going to fix this? He couldn’t keep on like this; losing sleep over you, messing up the simplest of assignments because every time he looked down he was reminded of your smooth, sweet legs, peeking out from that skirt.

the crunch of grass is enough to snap him back to reality. he quickly tries to look busy, and exactly not like an angel in utter turmoil, hoping his furrowed brow and tensed shoulders would be enough to drive off whomever came across his little bubble of paradise.

“Raph? There you are.”

Of course. Of fucking course. Smite him now. There was no escaping this eternal hell of sin. The sound of your voice seems to inspire a sort of natural reaction from him, his legs already stretching to get up, book snapped shut and pressed tightly under his shoulder.

“Really? You’re going to try and avoid me again?”

You were always so blunt. Raphael can say without a doubt that he was utterly in love with that, and he felt no shame in admitting that, at least. But now… now it just embarrassed him. He knew, subconsciously, that he wasn’t doing right by you. What kind of friend just avoids another? So many questions he had, and not enough experience to answer them. He supposes that’s why he felt so pushed to run from them. Very much like he would do up above. he can’t even bring himself to turn and look at you when he answers.

“I… I’m not avoiding you.” he cringes. great, now he’s a bad friend AND a liar. What else could go wrong.

“bullshit.” that’s not what he wanted to hear. Raphael slowly turns to face you, he doesn’t want to meet your eyes, but when he finally spins around… they’re right there. you’re search his own for answers, for clues, and he worries for a moment that you might find what he hopes to bury.

“So what do you call leaving every time I come into a room, then?”

“Trying to maintain my dignity,” he breaths out, finding that he’s unable to fib when he’s meeting your beautiful face head on like this. it doesn’t even register in his brain that he’s said it. when it does all click together he’s panicked, wondering how to get out of this, how to leave, how to explain, but your face contorts and twists into something that breaks him further. confusion. hurt. anger. it’s so gorgeously human that if he wasn’t hopeless in love with you that he would spend all day in awe of it.

it’s that thought that finally fits.

the piece he’s been missing, this whole time.

the part of the cog that has his whole body relaxing in utter relief, exhausted with his charade.

he’s been in love with you, this entire time. this lust is just a facade for how much he wants for something he’s not supposed to have. he’s so hopelessly devoted to you that there’s nothing that could come close. he’s never felt this way about the celestial realm, all these years, and all this time he has with you, he’s been doing nothing but thinking about how he can realign himself with them, when it’s obvious that no matter what, he can never think the same after meeting you. no matter what they say about this, about humans. and he’s more than willing to follow this spiral to the end. regardless of what waits at the finish line. there is no other path, no way of redefining or fixing his dedication, for Raphael. because there is only you.

he blinks. you blink. and finally, he’s done running.

he sighs, surrendering himself to the execution of your friendship, and figures he might as well sit down as he ruins everything. the bench is hard and cold under him, and he barely feels it. his fingers shake almost undetectably as he meekly flips through the book that will forever mark the end of this. of you two.

“When… you wear stuff like this,” he admits, shyly, dog-earing a page back and forth, “It makes me feel. A certain way.”

the silence is impregnable. it’s heavy and thick like the celestial realm before rainfall. it’s murky and undecided and so painful that Raphael wonders if being cast out would hurt less than this. he doesn’t look up. he refuses to. he hates to admit that he might actually cry if he does.

“I… I’m sorry. I didn’t realize that I...” the tips of your shoes tap each other.

why are you apologizing? he wonders. it’s me. i’m the one that’s ruining everything.

you’re shaking, he realizes, you’re shaking and it’s all because of me.

“I’m… just gonna go.” his hand reaches for you before you can even move an inch. he doesn’t know what’s happening, or what will happen, but you’re here now, right? and… and you didn’t outright laugh at him or say no, so that should mean something positive. a newly found courage in him has him shaking his head.

“No, no… you’re already here. And it wasn’t right of me not to tell you. It wasn’t fair. You should know,” he says, which is absolutely true. he was a terrible friend for hiding this from you. he wonders if you hear him when he adds quietly, “And I miss you.” he wants you back. he wants you here, with him, by his side, even if he can’t have you in the way he wants, he wants to be selfish and a little human too.

you take a place next to him on the bench, your skirt splaying around your full thighs like a crown of temptation, the thorns that festered this whole mess. yet… Raphael’s head has never felt clearer. he is mesmerized solely by the fact you still choose to sit so close to him that he can feel the warmth of your skin through his clothes.

“I missed you too. It’s why I was so upset. I thought you were angry at me or I did something wrong-”

“Nothing like that,” he cuts you off before you even slightly doubt his intentions. he wants nothing more than to protect you, don’t you see? his mind will be the downfall of you both. but… it seems by doing so, he prevented nothing but your light. your company. your closeness. in trying to circumvent his prophecy, he ran head first into it. he will do better by you this time.

but still. it does nothing to chill or put an end to the loathsome heat inside of his heart for you. the book is a prop in this play, in this act where you both try and pretend there is nothing that hangs between you two. where Raphael pretends that he isn’t still enchanted by your youness and he tries not to glance too long at the skirt you wear and what could blossom underneath, how much he wants to experience it all. and this play is coming to an end… or, perhaps, to its climax?

“Raphael…?” your saccharine voice is all he needs to be push over the edge. he has enough willpower not to immediately toss the object in his hands (that, and fearing what Satan might do if there’s any damage to it) but shuts it nicely and looks up at you.

your breath catches. he’s close enough to hear it and he can’t imagine what you see, but he hopes it’s good. he hopes you like it. and honestly? he’s done hoping now. he wants to do something.

your breath fans his face, lingering warm tendrils on cheeks that heat them to a rosy pink — or perhaps, he’s blushing. who can tell, when you’re both this close to each other. your whisper is lost to only him and the gardens:

“We don’t have to do—”

“I want to.”

his lips catch yours before you can say anything else, he can faintly feel the book slip out from him, dropping to the dew wet ground as he wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you in. you squeak, but let yourself be trapped against him. he loves the feeling of your arms pressed against his chest, the way your fingers fiddle with the delicate gold ornaments and colored fabrics. he wants to feel them on his skin, he wants to feel your nails dig into him as he brings you to orgasm, he wants the catch of your finger pads on his shoulders when he lifts you up and thrusts his cock into your pussy. he leans into you, and you catch the hint, leaning back into his grasp, letting him slowly lower you until you feel the hard rock under your back, his arm still cradling the small of your back, albeit a bit uncomfortably. it’s the he pulls back, tracing the wet curve of your lips, now dripping with spit, sloppily, gasping for air and he combs over your flushed face.

he’s so utterly fucked.

[Continuation . . . COMING SOON.]

[quinloki]

you've casually ripped my heart out and took a bite so I raise you

Sun God Nika.

ACES brother.

Warrior of LIBERATION.

meeting the very not liberated "s/o" of his brother (and I mean they gave him candy so now they're auto besties )

I imagine him being torn with helping his friend even if he has to fight ace because something is obviously wrong with him.

This isnt the brother luffy remembers.

his ace would never take someone's freedom like this, he couldn't...He could never...right?

Not after all they talked about

...right?....

But he did and luffy is ridiculously emotionally smart so he knows in his gut this is the truth and he has to do something for his new friend who asked for help in getting free.

hes strong enough now.its not like he has to kill anyone to safely get you both away but why does it hurt so much? Your okay and he isn't wounded..so why?why does he feel so...so...betrayed?

..By ace?...

for not being who he looked up to anymore.

he really wants to cry. He wants to excuse his actions but that would make him just as guilty wouldn't it?

At least your free now. Even if its left his heart beating different....

Sorry for spelling mistakes !

No apologies needed, but allow me to make it Worse.

Imagine escaping Ace and ending up on Luffy’s crew - we’re not going to worry about any other surrounding details, but the important bits are that you don’t know they’re brothers.

Luffy doesn’t know the terrifying person you’re running from is his brother. Couldn’t imagine it in a million years.

Maybe it’s post time skip, post Wano even, before you, Ace and Luffy occupy the same space (I am thinking shadow reader vibes, thatch and Ace are alive, etc.)

All through Alabasta the stars just didn’t align, and at Marineford you realize Luffy’s connection to Ace and maybe that’s why you leave with Crocodile again instead of Luffy when everyone’s going their separate ways.

However it works doesn’t matter.

Its just that moment when Ace finds you, he’s relieved and delighted and the others are going to be so happy you’re alive. And for a second Luffy is almost delirious with joy.

His friend and his brother are friends and now they’ve been reunited \o/

But then Luffy looks at you, and he knows.

Your fear is palpable, but more than that he’s putting the pieces of stories he’s heard over two years ago or more together. The emotions. All the details. Your fear is so obvious and strong even the rest of the crew knows without seeing.

Luffy grabs Ace’s wrist and pulls until Ace lets go of you. He doesn’t understand at first, “Luffy what are you doing?”

But the smile fades and the expression on Luffy’s face is a mix of sorrow and despair.

“They’re afraid of you Ace, can’t you see?”

And in those words is so much more. How could you? What did you do? Why is their fear so terrible? Ace - what happen to you to change you so much?

He hasn’t hurt like this since the day he thought Kuma had slaughtered his crew.

And for that to turn into a fight? Yeah, the drums of Liberation will have an almost manic edge to them after that. They cannot be somber, so instead they’ll be a little more wild, a little more free, a little more loud to drown the pain god bears.

[zepskies]

Never Say Goodbye - Bonus Track #3

Pairing: Dean x Female Reader 

Summary: The first time you and Dean sensed each other’s thoughts and feelings, you were just kids. It would take years to realize that you both were bonded for life, and even longer to finally meet. [Soulmate AU] (18+)

AN: Aaand Part 3! I’ve so enjoyed this series. 

Word Count: 2,500 Tags/Warnings: Angst, hurt/comfort, cavity-inducing fluff

Bonus Track #3: To Be Loved

Sam and Eileen stayed with Bobby while Dean brought you home. 

Jack had been blowing up his phone all day, and Dean knew he’d have to have to fill in your dad eventually. But right now, all he could think about was taking care of you.

You were quiet the entire car ride home. Your thoughts were a mess, and Dean could only glean so much. But he accompanied you into the bathroom while you showered, just to make sure you were all right. 

After you were dressed in soft pajamas, you finally spoke. 

“We should call my dad, let him know what…what happened,” you said. You tried to find your cell phone. You looked all over the apartment, but frowned when you realized you had no idea where your purse was. 

Dean approached and calmed your shaking hands, grounding you with his firm, but gentle touch. 

“Hey, take a breath, okay?” He guided you to sit down on the couch in the living room. 

“I remember…being at work,” you said with difficulty. “I touched that damn book.”

Dean nodded grimly. “It’s burnt to a crisp.”

You sighed. “What the hell am I going to tell Jerry?”

“I told him you were mugged, and the book got stolen in the process,” he said. 

You raised a brow. 

“And he bought that?” you asked incredulously. 

“He seemed to,” Dean said. “You might have to smooth things over, but for now, you can just chill here at home, okay? You don’t have to go anywhere, talk to anyone, until you’re up to it.”

He settled you on the couch with your favorite throw blanket. 

“You hungry?” he asked. “I can make us something…or better yet, let’s order in. What do you feel like?”

You were too preoccupied to answer. Dean sighed and sat down beside you on the couch. He could tell that your mind was racing, but he couldn’t pinpoint more than a few stray thoughts. You bit your lip and looked up at him with tears in your eyes. 

“She killed all those people…using me,” you choked out. “And I can’t even remember most of it…”

“We destroyed the tapes,” Dean said. Though he knew that wasn’t what you were getting at. “There’s an active investigation, but she mainly used magic. If there’s any fingerprints, your dad will take care of it.”

You gripped your head with both hands in dismay. 

“He shouldn’t have to break the law for me. This is insane…”

Dean scooted over so he could hold you, rubbing your back while you dissolved into tears. It all but broke his heart. 

Deciding you might be more comfortable in bed, he picked you up bridal style. You continued to keep your face covered as he carried you to bed. 

Dean then settled in himself, but you surprised him a bit by turning to him. You moved over to his side of the bed and buried your face into his neck. He wrapped his arms around you, shushing you gently and soothing a warm hand up and down your back.

I can’t stand it, Dean, you whispered in his mind through the bond. So many people died because of me, in a single day.

It’s not your fault, he replied. Someone would’ve touched the book eventually. 

You just don’t know that. 

“What I know is you’re alive. And I'm damn grateful,” Dean said out loud, soft in your ear.

You sucked in a breath at that. You pulled away, just enough to see his face. Despite the tears clinging to your lashes, making your eyes red and puffy, you still looked beautiful to him. 

Because he recognized you—the size and strength of your heart. You were crying for people you hadn’t known, over something you had no control over, and had only vague memories of. But he knew you still felt responsible for their deaths, just as Dean would have, if he were in your shoes.   

“I’m grateful for you,” you replied, sniffling and stroking his cheek. “I’m so sorry for all this.”

Dean shook his head and pressed a kiss to your forehead, followed closely by your lips. 

The next day, Dean woke you with a kiss above your brow. 

“Morning, sleepyhead,” he said. He sat down the edge of the bed, already dressed in his usual jeans, undershirt and opened buttoned down ensemble. 

You smiled, until you spied the alarm clock on the nightstand and realized how late it was.

“I talked to Jerry, called you out of work on official police business,” he said, guessing at your thoughts. “Need your help tracking down the ‘mugger.’”

You gave a soft huff at that. “I don’t think that coverup is going to stick.”

Dean’s shrug was deceptive; he had already broken things down with Jack this morning, in painstaking detail, so that the murders of ten people likely wouldn’t be traced back to you. Jerry was, quite frankly, the least of his worries.

“It’s gonna be fine. I’ve got it all worked out,” he told you. “But are you hungry? Want some eggs, pancakes, bacon, or all three? Breakfast of champions.”

He rubbed his palms together with a grin, one you tried to match, despite being sleepy. Really, you still felt like total crap. But you appreciated the way he was trying to lift your spirits. 

“Whatever you want, baby,” you said, grabbing his hand, the one that held his mother’s ring. He looked down at you with a softer smile. He brought your hand up to his lips. 

“All right, beautiful. Breakfast of champions it is,” he said. You were able to smile a bit more as you watched him leave the bedroom.

Getting up was a monumental effort, but you made yourself do it, or you knew you would spend the entire day lying in bed and feeling sorry for yourself. 

Your guilt was still eating at you. You knew you could only try to move forward, like Sam and Dean used to have to do after a rough hunt. You tried to focus on one task, and the next, until you were dressed, freshened up, and sitting down across from Dean in the dining room, eating breakfast. 

But he picked up on the predictable course of your thoughts, most of them following the path of self-loathing. He took your hand across the table, which prompted you to look up at him from your eggs.

“You didn’t know the book was cursed,” he said. “Just because I’m retired from hunting, doesn’t mean this shit isn’t still out there.”

A fact that elicited his own guilt. 

That he got to have his normal life while other hunters scraped and struggled and died. You sensed his thoughts, and it broke you out of your own inner world. You squeezed his hand, feeling tears well up in your eyes. 

“You’ve earned this, Dean,” you said. “You’re finally living your life for you.”

He considered your hand in his. “That doesn’t make me selfish?”

“You deserve to be happy…even if I’ve been making that part difficult.” You wiped away the first couple of tears that broke down your cheeks when you remembered how angry you had been at him a few days ago. How selfish. “The fight we had, before all this started…”

Dean leaned over and brushed a lock of hair away from your eyes, along with a stray tear from your cheek. 

“Listen, whatever we were arguing about, it’s petty shit. Let’s just move on, okay?”

“It’s not petty,” you replied with a sniff. “You were right…about Jason. I shouldn’t have been out all night at his place.”

Dean was uncomfortably silent then, even though a part of him felt vindicated, deep down. It did also feel stupid now. 

“Look, I trust you,” he said.

“I know. But it’s still not fair to you,” you said with a sigh. “I know between my job, the wedding planning, and everything else, it doesn’t feel like we’ve actually been together for the past few months. I don’t want us to feel like that before, or after we get married.”

Dean folded his hands on the table. “Okay. So what do we do?”

You raised a brow at him. A teasing smile worked its way onto your face. 

“You’re letting me call the shots?” you asked. 

Dean noted that smile, spying a glimpse of your old self.

“Well, you generally do what you want anyway. So I figured I’d just tag along,” he remarked.

You pushed at his chest. “You’re not getting off that easily.” 

He grabbed that hand and held it. And he kissed the inside of your palm, then down your wrist. It was tender, languid, and sweet. Until the heat in his eyes made you blush, earning a smile from you.

“Come ‘ere,” he said. 

He tugged you over by your hand, and you got up, willingly being guided into his lap. Your free hand delved into his hair, nails scraping lightly against his scalp. He gave a pleased hum and tugged you down into a kiss. The heat of it made your toes curl as his hands molded to the curve of your ass. 

You held his face, pressing lingering kisses against his lips, along his jawline, down his neck…

Desire coursed through both of you, echoing through the soul bond in perfect symmetry. 

“I need you,” you whispered in his ear. 

Dean grinned against your neck. He slid an arm beneath your legs and around your back, and lifted you into the air, eliciting a squeal from you as he made a quick path to the bedroom.

Three weeks later…

“Hun, you need to calm down,” Jo told you. She was stifling her laughter as she fixed the lay of your wedding gown. 

It was ten more minutes of waiting.

Ten more minutes, and you wouldn’t have your last name anymore. You would be a Winchester. 

Sweet Jesus, you were about to be an honest-to-God wife.  

“I need ice,” you said, trying to air out your underarms. “Someone blot me. I’m sweating like a whore in church.”

Jo resisted the urge to remind you that you were in a church. Or at least, in the women’s dressing room.

“You’re gonna be fine,” Eileen said in amusement. You made sure to turn to her when you replied, so she could read your lips. 

“I feel bloated.” You grimaced, rubbing your chest as if that would quell your sudden anxiety. Or was it Dean’s? You couldn’t tell anymore. 

“Or possibly heartburn. Maybe the breakfast burrito wasn’t a good idea.”

“What’s to be nervous about? He faced down a literal goddess for you,” Eileen replied with a smile. You gave a wry smile, even if that was a somewhat painful reminder. 

“I know. And no matter the words, it’s just not enough to describe how much I love him. But it’s just…” you took in a deep breath. “What if I’m stopping him from being who he’s supposed to be, you know?”

Both women had to know what you meant. They were still hunters. Eileen and Jo shared a glance, but it was Eileen who touched your hand. 

“When I met Sam, I thought I had my life figured out. I was on my way out of New York. I never meant to stay, let alone for six months,” she said. 

And you knew this story, but it still warmed your heart to hear it again. 

“We’re still figuring it out,” Eileen admitted. “But I see you and Dean, and it gives me hope. It makes me think I can still be myself without hunting…maybe even a better version.”

You teared up, like the emotional wreck you were, but Eileen and Jo immediately went to blot it away from your mascara. 

You didn’t know that Dean was having a similar meltdown.

“Dude, quit fidgeting. You’re gonna be fine,” Sam said in amusement. He was fixing Dean’s cuffs, then the burgundy carnation pinned to his breast pocket.

“I don’t know if this monkey suit is fitting right,” Dean groused.

“It is,” Sam informed him. 

“Does it really need to be a flower,” Dean gestured at the pocket Sam was adjusting, along with the satin pocket square. 

“It does,” Sam once again informed him.

“I don’t know why. It’s not a fucking prom,” Dean muttered. 

Sam resisted the urge to laugh at his brother’s evident nervousness. “All right, just calm down.”

A knock sounded at the door to the men’s dressing room. In came Jack, popping his head in and asking if it was a good time.

“Perfect time,” Sam said, straightening his brother’s tie. “I’m going to check in with the ladies, see if they’re ready.”

Dean nodded, though his anxiousness grew to see him leave. Still, he welcomed Jack in to take a seat across from him on a wooden stool. Jack obliged, but first, he pulled out a flask from the inner pocket of his blazer. 

Dean raised a brow. “Whiskey?”

“You gotta ask?” Jack said. Dean grinned and took the flask, and then a sip. 

“The day I married my wife, I was much like you. Shittin’ my pants,” Jack said with a wry chuckle. Dean looked down, both embarrassed and amused.

“For me it was questions. So many questions,” Jack continued. “The world’s telling me this is it. This is the girl. But what does that mean…practically?”

Dean could relate to that. 

“You know what I found out?” Jack asked.

Dean looked up at him. “What?”

“The bond…it matters, but it doesn’t always make things easier either,” Jack said. “It just gives you a reason to be honest. To have someone you can be fully yourself with, no matter the repercussions. Someone who can be your true support system.”

“That sounds about right,” Dean said after a moment. Jack leaned across the divide to pat his shoulder. 

“After her mother died, I worried about my daughter every day,” he said, with some deeper emotion shining through his eyes. “I didn’t realize that she came up strong, stubborn, with her own ideas about the world and what she wanted from it.”

Dean nodded. That definitely sounded like you.

“We didn’t have the best start, you and I. But I see how you look after my girl. How you support each other,” he said. “I’m proud of you, son. Proud to call you that too.”

Dean’s throat constricted with unexpected emotion. On days like today, he really wished his dad could’ve lived to see this. 

But Dean was grateful to shake his father-in-law’s hand.

“Thank you, sir.”

Dean stood alone at the altar inside the church sanctuary. But he wouldn’t be alone for long.

Five minutes.

His gaze roamed, finding Bobby and Ellen in the first row. The latter was already teared up, smiling with almost motherly pride. Even Bobby shot him a wink and a smile. 

Dean smiled back at them and took in a steadying breath. There was Jody Mills and her husband, some of your friends from work, and from school. There were other friends of his from the precinct. 

Then he noticed someone in the back—a lanky kid with shaggy brown hair and an attitude. Dean grinned when Jessie Deluca met him with a lazy salute.

He’d been dropping by the precinct lately. Dean had taken him out a few times for burgers and pizza and light conversation. 

You had even suggested that Bobby give him a part-time job after school, at the tow yard, and a safe place to stay when he needed it. So far, Jessie hadn’t taken Bobby up on that offer. Dean was working on it.  

But the fact that he’d accepted Dean’s offhand invitation to his wedding spoke volumes. He sent the kid a little salute back, along with his grin. 

And then the music started. A hush drew over the crowd, and even Jessie took a seat in one of the pews. The double doors opened in the back, and down the aisle came Sam and Eileen. She looked beautiful in her wine-red dress. Sam was tall and dapper in his light gray suit, contrasting Dean’s darker one. 

Jo was next, being escorted by one of your buddies from college, then your cousin Lily and her boyfriend. And finally, your father walked you down the aisle. 

Dean sucked in a subtle breath. He’d never seen the dress, of course, but it was beautiful. You were beautiful. 

The moment you reached out and took his hand, he could breathe again. 

And he knew then that he was ready…because this felt right. 

He later showed you the ring before he slipped it on your finger — engraved with an anti-possession star. You smiled up at him wryly. 

But then your smile became more genuine, more lovely. Your eyes shone bright with unshed tears. 

You held nothing back from the soul bond, and so Dean got a full picture of what it was to be loved. 

His eyes burned too. He hoped you were able to read his WiFi signals right back. Because just now, he wasn’t sure if his voice was going to cooperate with him.

The simple fact of it was, you were his girl. His person.

And that was something that couldn’t be broken.

AN: I hope you enjoyed this more official epilogue to Never Say Goodbye! ❤️

It’s been so much fun to write this story. But let me know if there are any requests in this story-verse! I’d be happy to come back to it someday. 🥹

Keep Reading:

Ready for another bonus one-shot?

Read on: The Old-Fashioned Way You and Dean are having trouble trying to start a family. What happens when you turn to a spell for a possible solution?

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[ijwrsmff]

OMG YES!!!

I don’t know if your requests for yandere arcane is still open so disregard this if it isn’t.

Yandere Silco/Viktor x GN!reader (romantic, feel free to pick between the two men, I love both of them)

I wanna see them react to insecure reader being harassed for their insecurity in person and how they deal with the situation + manipulate it to their advantage in a way to get the reader closer to them.

Thank you so much and I hope you have an amazing day!!!

LOVE THIS IDEA!

I'm not the biggest Viktor person, but a yandere version of him? Now that I can get behind. Can you tell Silco is my #1?

I did this as headcanons, in the form of bullet points, I hope that's okay! Thank you for requesting!

(Traces of Jinx in Silco's section)

Silco:

When one of Silco’s men made an odd comment about you while you were in Silco’s office…he genuinely had no idea how to respond for several moments

Was this man really so stupid…so ignorant as to say something like that not only in front of you, but in front of him?

“Come here.” He said, in a cold and unwavering voice to the man

He was confused but got closer anyways

Silco moved quicker than any of you knew he could, and grabbed the man by the front of his shirt

“Tsk tsk tsk. And here I thought you showed promise.” He let go, shoving the man into the chair across from his desk

You could hear Jinx giggling above you, as she watched with anticipation

You were just…hurt

How come he picked at the one thing you were most sensitive about?

You looked at the scene in front of you, confused and anxious to see what was about to happen

It was no secret to you that Silco ran a…minorly illegal business

To say the least

But he rarely showed you just how bad it could get, so for the most part you had no idea

You were about to find out though

Silco gestured for Sevika to block the door, and it made the man antsy in his chair

He then looked up to Jinx, and nodded

She knew what to do

Silco then grabbed you as Jinx hopped down, and pressed himself against you

Your back was to his chest, and you were now sitting in his lap observing what was about to happen

The man screamed as Jinx kicked his shin hard enough to break it

She pulled out one of her guns, and started shooting across his arms and legs

The most twisted part of it all was that…he was alive. He could feel every shot into his body

Jinx giggled and put pressure on some of the wounds, as the man screamed…and screamed…and screamed

“See darling? This is what happens when someone crosses me.” He whispered into your ear

You were terrified, the display being so cruel and brutal that you were left in shock

He spoke once more, but this time to the man crying and screaming across from you

“Apologize. To them, not to me.” He smiled coldly over your shoulder, wrapping both his arms around you, keeping you locked in place

“I’M SORRY! I’M SO SORRY IT WON’T HAPPEN AGAIN, PL-”

Jinx let off one more round, straight into his torso

She giggled again, and shrugged, saying “Oops! Not good enough!” 

As the man fell to the ground, you nearly started sobbing

Silco felt this, and put a hand over your eyes, which only made you more terrified

“It’s okay…as long as you’re with me, not a single soul can bring you harm. I will punish anyone without any remorse for hurting you.” 

His breath was hot on your ear, and he chuckled. 

“You’re mine, and I’ll protect you. No matter the consequence.” 

Viktor:

You had been with Viktor a few months, and he was just…so sweet

Something in you had those alarm bells going off, but you brushed it aside as anxiety

He was always pretty protective of you, but generally much more laid back about it than some

You didn’t realize just the severity of it until today

You and him were walking, as he liked to do

Sure, his leg was real bad but he always said exercise would help eventually

He had his cane as usual, and you were both chatting away

It was peaceful…for now

A man you’d never seen before came up to you, and said something cruel about an insecurity you tried to hide all your life

The tears fell, and Viktor froze on the spot

Within seconds, Viktor went from looking at you, to the man

“That wasn’t nice…I’m going to request you apologize.” He smiled at you, and held your hand, barely paying attention to the man

“Why would I? Piss off.” The man said, and he went to walk away but Viktor spun around and slammed the cane into the back of the man’s knee

“What the-THIS ISN’T WHAT-” He was cut off when the cane struck his stomach

Viktor hit him, a good few more times before he stopped, leaving the man with at least a couple broken bones

He winced, knowing he overworked himself again

You just stared, how could he hurt someone like that?

“Ah…” He mumbled, leading you away from the scene

“I’m sorry love…When I saw you cry I just snapped.” He looked sheepish, but something in your mind screamed “RUN!” 

You ignored that feeling again

“You…care about me that much?” You wiped the tears from your eyes, and held Viktor’s free hand

“Of course I do. I would do anything for you.” And he gave you a big smile

Something about his words felt off…

You clung to his side, and he simply thought…”That was easier than I thought.” 

He had paid that man, telling him exactly what to say

Viktor knew of your deepest insecurity, and fully intended on exploiting that to get closer to you

The man he beat up wasn’t informed on the fact Viktor would beat him nearly half to death

But as soon as he left the scene, he signaled to his…”friends” to dispose of the man

Had he been more sane, he would have never used your insecurity against you

He was not, however

When he said he’d do anything for you…he may he lied a bit

There was one thing he could never do even if you wanted to

And that was leave your side

He would never, in a million years, accept a break up

Now…you wouldn’t want to know what would happen if you tried…

Would you?

[joelslastofus]

[SUMMARY: You are blind and Joel is assigned to take you somewhere that he is unaware is dangerous for you.]

SMUT

“It’s me!” He quickly grabbed your hand making you touch his face trying to calm you down.

“It’s me, see?” You realized it was Joel, your hand still on his face, you felt his breath close over you.

“You have to do us this favor” Marlene whispered to Joel as you waited in another room.

“We have a woman who is being asked for by another group, if we don’t bring her to them, it’s more problems for us here.” She explained leaning into him.

“Who are these people?” Joel asked with a raised brow.

“People that we can gain a lot from, you’ll see once you get there, whatever we get, we’ll split with you.” Joel hesitated for a moment but he knew he was low on many things and eventually gave in.

“There’s only one thing…”Marlene said with slight worry as she backed away.

“She’s blind, Joel”

“What?” He began to shake his head.

“I’m not being responsible for some blind woman,thats gonna hold me back the whole way, no I’m not doing it”

“Joel-“

“Find someone else” Joel turned away just as you opened the door and found yourself right before him.

”I can take very well care of myself, blind or not, I’ve dealt with this all my life. I’ve kept myself alive this long” Joel took a step back not expecting you to have heard him.

“She’s been out there before on her own. She’s a fighter” Marlene assured Joel as he looked at you without saying a word. Thinking about the supplies he needed he took a deep breath and walked past you clearly frustrated.

“Let’s go” he muttered as you hugged Marlene and grabbed your bag following the sound of Joel’s footsteps out the door.

“Marlene’s told me a lot about you” you walked beside him feeling your way around.

“Has she” sarcasm in his tone, you could tell he didn’t want to be there. Joel kept looking beside him making sure you watched your step, you seemed better at this than he thought.

“I’ve walked this way many times before, I could tell by where the cars are, thirty feet ahead there’s a car blocking the street with a tree trunk or something sticking out the window.” Joel looked straight ahead and sure enough you were right. He didn’t say anything but he was impressed.

The rest of the way you silently walked beside him continuing to feel your surroundings until he made a turn. You stopped in your tracks and he soon noticed you weren’t walking beside him any longer.

“What’s the hold up?” Joel turned to see you with a confused expression feeling the car beside you and the one in front of it. Your fingers sliding across the broken window with a look of fear.

“What’s the matter?” Joel furrowed his brows wondering what made you so afraid.

“This….this is not a good way to go”

“Why not? You come across those things around here before?” You slowly shook your head.

“Not that” Joel watched as you slowly continued to slide your fingers over the glass, a look in your eyes as if you were remembering something, something horrible.

“We shouldn’t go through here” you pulled your hand quickly away holding it close to yourself.

“Look, I promise you I’ve been through here plenty of times. It’s a quicker way to where we need to go” you began to shake your head quickly. He took a step toward you attempting to grab your hand making you quickly back away and lose your balance falling to the floor.

Before he could even help, you quickly got back up as he looked at you with a bit of concern.

“Please, let’s find another way” the desperation in your eyes made him agree.

“Fine”

The two of you walked silently another way, he could tell you were being more careful as you walked, you must’ve not been familiar with the area.

“You can hold on to me if you need to-“

“For what so I can hold you back, I’m fine” you stubbornly responded remembering what he had said earlier. Joel didn’t say a word but you knew he kept looking at you along the way making sure you could find your way without trouble.

At one point he quickly kicked a big rock out of your way making you stop in your tracks.

“What was that?”

“Nothing, I moved something for you” he responded as you slowly continued to walk.

“Thank you.”

Walking along an empty street the two of you remained silent before he stopped realizing what was in front of him.

“Why’d you stop?”

A load of cars on top of each other blocked the way before you. He had no idea how he was going to get through it with you.

“Alright, you’re gonna have to hold onto me-“

“Why?” You heard him sound like he climbed on top of something.

“What are you doing?” You followed the sound.

“There’s a bunch of cars blocking the sidewalk and street, if we get over these three we can get to the other side, come, take my hand” he reached over right in front of you.

“How the hell am I suppose to do this?”

“I’m gonna help you,”

You licked your lips nervously and reached up as he grabbed your hand and began to pull you up. He didn’t sound like he struggled much as he got you on top of the car, you sat still afraid to move as he stood up beside you.

“Come on, hold my hand while we get on top of the next car, it’s right next to this one” he could tell you were nervous by your expression, but you followed what he said. He led you slowly to the next car with one left after that one. Joel turned towards you still guiding you by your hand as he stepped onto the last car.

“Ok this one’s a little bit farther and higher”

“Is it?” You asked nervously.

“Move slowly-“ just as you did your foot slipped off the car causing you to slide in between the cars before Joel caught you.

“I got cha-“ he grunted as you dangled, he could see the panic in your eyes. With one hard pull Joel pulled you up on the top of the van landing himself on top of you. The both of you were out of breath as he stared down at you. For the first time your eyes looked into his, he almost felt as if you could see him.

“You alright?” He panted as you suddenly placed your hands on his face and began to slowly feel around it.

“What are you doing?” He asked with confusion.

“I don’t know what you look like” you whispered as you gently brushed your fingers over his facial hair, the thickness of his brows, your finger accidentally brushing over his bottom lip. You tried picturing what he looked like based on what you were feeling, Joel remained still allowing you to feel him. Your hands were soft, your touch almost making him relax for a moment until you came across a cut on the side of his face. It felt fresh as if it still slightly bled.

“Youre hurt” you spoke softly just as he caught himself getting distracted by your touch. He cleared his throat and quickly began to push himself up.

“It’s fine” he responded as you got up hearing him moving around.

“Alright I want you to move right here,” he took your hand guiding you to the edge of the top of the van.

“Sit down and don’t move” you did as he said before hearing him jump down.

“Alright I’m right in front of you, I’m gonna catch you-“

“Catch me? How high am I?” You asked worriedly, Joel looked around knowing you were pretty high but was confident he would get you.

“Trust me” the sincerity in his tone did ease you a bit. Joel instructed you to jump and with a slight scream you fell right into his arms. Getting you to your feet you took a deep breath and adjusted your clothing.

“Wow, nice catch” you chuckled.

The two of you continued your journey as you walked close to Joel as it began to rain heavily.

“Oh great” you sighed.

“I can’t wait to get to my brother”

“Your brother?” Joel looked at you strangely.

“Yeah, that’s where we are going. Marlene found where my brother Nick was staying a few day ago, didn’t she tell you?”

“No, she didn’t” Joel wondered why that wasn’t mentioned but you didn’t think anything of it. It was getting dark and Joel found an abandoned warehouse for you both to sleep in for the night.

“We should make it there early tomorrow, I think we’re close” he opened the door letting you inside.

“Hopefully” you waited for Joel as he made sure the area was secure before the two of you made yourselves comfortable. Staying in a small stock room, it was easier to keep track of things with it only having one exit. Joel settled down his belongings before turning to you as you felt around the room.

“Not bad” you turned to him catching him off guard by the sight of your white shirt drenched to the point that it was transparent. Your nipples clearly peaking through, Joel all wet himself cleared his throat uncomfortably trying to look away.

“Here” he quickly began to take out a jacket from his backpack.

“Put this on” he handed you his jacket as you made a confused expression.

“Thank you but I don’t need your jacket, I’m not cold” you laughed handing it back to him as he found himself taking a quick glance finding it harder to look away.

“It’s cold in here” he handed you back the jacket as you raised a brow.

“No it’s not-“

“Just put the damn thing on!” He suddenly yelled taking you by surprise. Not saying a word you put on the jacket before sitting on the floor. Joel took a deep breath brushing his hands over his face not explaining why he acted the way he did.

Trying to fight the thoughts he had he took a deep breath.

“Are you sure we’re safe in here?” You asked distracting Joel before hearing a loud click.

“No one’s getting in here, let’s get some sleep” he locked the door and placed something in front so no one could come in and sat on the floor right beside it.

“Close your eyes, youre gonna need the rest come morning” you began to blink heavily leaning your head sideways against the wall as you fell asleep, Joel watching you silently.

A part of him feeling guilty for even having looked, for wanting to look more. It wasn’t right, you were unaware, you were blind for Gods sake. Before he knew it his eyes began to close and quickly you both fell asleep.

The next morning you both continued your journey getting to your destination. Joel was instructed what the entrance would look like so he would know where to go and did as told knocking four times in a certain rhythm so they would know who it is. A man opened the door instantly smirking as he saw you beside Joel. Joel looked at him strangely before he called out to someone behind him.

“Glad you could make it” another man showed up at the door with a bag of supplies he handed to Joel.

“We’re looking for her brother Nick”

“Yes, Nick” the man smiled in a way that made Joel feel uneasy.

“He’s back there, you can come right in” the man stepped aside as the both of you stepped forward until Joel was suddenly blocked.

“Hey-“

“Only the lady can come in, you’ve got what you came for”

“Joel?” You turned around just as you felt an arm wrap around your waist and pull you back.

“Don’t worry, she’ll be taken care of” a new voice made you gasp, you knew that voice. Joel could see the terror in your eyes as the man holding you pulled you in tighter.

“It’s you” you shook your head in shock.

“Who the hell are you?” Joel stepped towards the man at the door as he continued blocking the entrance.

“Marlene already told you what this was, you did your part, now you have what you want, stay out of our business-“

“Let go of me!” You screamed trying to break free from the man.

“This has nothing to do with you, you don’t even know this woman so what do you care, walk away” the man warned Joel who stood silent. Not saying a word he took a step back making the man let his guard down before rushing towards him and landing him on the ground. Before the man could could get up Joel grabbed his knife and sliced the mans throat.

“Oh you son of a bitch!” The man holding you pushed you to the floor making you scream not knowing what was going on around you. Backing away on the floor not knowing where the hell you were going all you could hear was a commotion around you. Grunting as Joel and the man began to fight, you panicked feeling helpless before hearing a loud yelp escape from one of them before everything went silent.

Shaking in confusion, afraid to move you waited for a moment before feeling a hand grab your arm. You screamed backing away before you were grabbed again.

“It’s me! It’s me” Joel’s voice made you breathe a sigh of relief. He pulled you up and quickly walked out looking behind making sure no one else was coming around.

“Let’s go.”

Finding your way back to the warehouse, Joel held your hand the whole way. Opening the door he let you in and rushed to the back. Standing at the end of the room you could hear Joel locking everything up and moving around.

“Do you think more of them will come and find us?”

“They won’t find us here” he assured you as you thought about Marlene.

“I can’t believe she did this” you whispered,

“I trusted her.”

“You shouldn’t trust anyone, you can’t” Joel quickly responded as he began to set up somewhere for you to sleep on for the night.

“But I’m trusting you” you responded making him stop in his tracks. Joel didn’t like getting close with anyone, he always made that a rule for himself but for some reason it was hard to follow this rule with you.

“Here, sit down, let me give you some food” Joel changed the conversation as you did as he asked. He handed you half a sandwich and sat beside you to eat.

“That area that you didn’t want to first walk through, did that have anything to do with those men?” Joel suddenly asked making you put your food down and slowly nod.

“Mhm” he looked over at you and noticed you became anxious.

“Who are they?” His expression was serious watching as you wrapped up the rest of your food.

“They were…they were bad people” you responded hesitantly.

“Let’s just say….they took advantage that I couldn’t see anything, they took advantage that I couldn’t do much for myself until one day I just found some way to escape. I thought I got lucky and found Marianne, I told her about my brother and she promised to find him and here we are” you sighed.

“That’s why I say I trust you-“ you suddenly reached before you knowing he was close, your hand caressing his face feeling over what you already knew of him. He didn’t move allowing you to touch him with the tips of your fingers. Closing his eyes for a moment he relaxed to your touch.

“You haven’t used my blindness against me” you smiled as you put your hand down.

“You’re a good man, Joel” you began to get comfortable and lay down. He watched as you closed your eyes and soon had fell to sleep.

A few hours later it was dark in the room and quiet, you both peacefully slept beside each other until you began to toss and turn. Joel began to hear you moan in your sleep making him sit up and grab a flash light. Sitting it on the floor beside him he turned to you.

“Hey-“ Joel tried to shake you as you shook your head whimpering in your sleep.

“No…no…” you moaned in your sleep as he attempted to shake you against.

“No…no!” You suddenly screamed opening your eyes pushing against Joel’s chest.

“It’s me!” He quickly grabbed your hand making you touch his face trying to calm you down.

“It’s me, see?” You realized it was Joel, your hand still on his face, you felt his breath close over you.

“Joel?” You panted as he leaned in closer. Your hand shakingly feeling his face, slowly running your hand through his hair. A look of relief in your eyes as you touched him. He didn’t say another word, gently placing his hand on yours guiding it to his lips.

“Joel” you whispered feeling him move closer to you. You knew his face was right above yours, just as he leaned in and placed his lips against yours. He kissed you slowly as your arms wrapped around him, his hand sliding down your waist as a slight moan escaped your lips. Reaching below you unexpectedly began to unbutton his pants quickly as his kisses grew more intense. Before you knew it you both were practically naked, his body on top of yours. The feel of his bare skin against you exciting you.

“You still trust me?” He whispered against your ear in a husky voice.

“Yes” you panted feeling him against your entrance. He brushed his lips over yours then to your neck feeling you pull him against you.

“Please..” you whispered. He kissed you and with one thrust you gasped. Running your fingers through his hair you held him close, his lips pressed against your neck, each thrust he pushed in a little deeper. He loved how much you used your hands to feel him, it was as if you couldn’t get enough of him. He didn’t say much, he wasn’t a man of many words but he didn’t need to speak. His hand holding yours, intertwining fingers, the sound of his breathing roughly against you…it felt right. He began to move faster making you moan louder, sweat building up on his forehead as he thrusted harder. Sliding his arm under your back he lifted your body up against him as he got on his knees.

“Wait-“ you whimpered grabbing onto him tightly not sure what he was doing.

“I got you” he grunted as he grabbed your hips and began to slam your body down on his. You screamed clinging onto him as he moved you at a pace you couldn’t keep up with. Your legs wrapped around him he grunted as he watched your eyes roll back. He felt you tighten up around him, your nails digging into his shoulders.

“Joel-“ you screamed before he quickly lay you on your back, he pulled out and came on your thigh. You panted feeling him leaning over you, his hand by your head as he groaned jerking himself off.

“Shit” he whispered trying to catch his breath. You lay still for a moment wishing for just a moment you could see Joel. Reaching up to his face, he turned and softly kissed the palm of your hand. You could hear him stand up, moving around before feeling him wipe off your thigh with a cloth. He placed what felt like his jacket over you to cover you before laying beside you.

“What are we gonna do?” You suddenly whispered.

“I have a plan”

“Really?” You sounded relieved as he lay his arm over you pulling you in.

“Mhm, get some sleep” and you did, trusting Joel’s word you felt peace you hadn’t felt in so long wondering where this journey would take you.

[star-girl69]

Keep Me Ablaze

Jake Sully x Neytiri x Fem!Reader

—-

a/n: i don’t think you guys are gonna like this but i hope you all enjoy anyways!!

Chapter Twenty- To Die For

—-

“Aunt Grace?”

Your voice is small, right at the end of her bed, but some instinctual part of Grace that has adapted and evolved to fit you will always hear you.

She rubs the sleep out of her mind, let’s her mind wander to the worst, but when she sits up there’s no blood to be found anywhere on you.

“Oh,” she breathes, feeling slightly better. She cannot handle losing you too. “What’s wrong, baby? Can you not sleep?”

She hopes it’s just something like that, so she can just wrap you in her arms and drift back off to sleep. But you look so small at the end of her bed, stuffed animal tucked to your chest, eyes downcast. She knows it is not just that, and her heart hurts, she has never wanted you to feel anything other than happy.

“C’mere,” she urges, holding her hands out, and it takes you a moment but you walk over. She picks you up, helps you sit on the bed. “What’s wrong, baby?”

You let out a soft sound that starts like a cry, and Grace has never wished more for her sister to be here.

“Aunt Grace, why don’t I have a Mom?”

She thought she had a few more years until you asked, more time to mourn, more time to figure out what to say. She doesn’t know what to say, not know. How is she supposed to tell you something like this?

It’s almost like the two of you have been living in a glass cage, and she is taking a mallet to it.

“Why don’t I have a Dad?” you continue, eyes wide and fixed on her face, shiny with tears in the light from the moon that slips through the window.

“Oh, baby…” she whispers. She feels nothing like the woman she knows she is. She feels nothing like a guardian to you, an aunt, someone to love you. “You do have a Mom and Dad.”

“I do?” you are just a child.

She puts her hand on the side of her face. “Yes.”

“Where are they?” you are just a child.

She hates this world for being so cruel, she hates the world for taking so much from before you even knew what they meant to you.

“They’re… not here,” is the best she can come up with. She almost can’t be the one to tell you they’re dead. “You’ll see them, one day.”

“A small time?” you ask hopefully, those bright and curious Augustine eyes staring right at Grace. “Or a big time?”

She rubs her thumb over your cheek.

She can’t break it to you, she can’t be the one to break you.

“You’ll see them, one day,” she says.

—-

“One three,” Grace says, wrapping her arms around Jake’s legs.

You tentatively place your hands under his back, feeling like you’re betraying The People as well, like you’re just as bad as him.

“One,” Norm starts, “two, three!” he grunts, and the three of you manage to get Jake into the helicopter.

You take a deep breath, reach for his wheelchair, but Grace grabs it before you can. The gunshots start. You flinch, but you’re used to the noise by now. They’re not quite near you, not at this position.

“Get on!” she shouts over the whirring of the helicopter blades, ready to take off and take you far away from here. It’s easy to leave Hell’s Gate, this place was never a home for you.

You look Grace up and down, but she is already picking the wheelchair up, so you turn. You crawl on, towards the bench in the middle, panting from the running and the thrill. Adrenaline pumps in your veins like a second supply of blood, making you feel so alive and on top of the world.

In this moment, with the gunshots ringing in your ears, the sound of the helicopter blades becoming everything, cool metal under your palms as you steady yourself against the bench, wind whipping around, a thousand colors bursting behind your eyelids- you have never felt more alive.

“Grab my hand!” Norm shouts, and you open your eyes to find him tugging her on. “Come on, we’re in. Let’s go!” he shouts to Trudy, and you start to lift off the ground.

The realization comes fast and quick, like a strike of lightening. The sides are open wide, and with the way the helicopter is turning, where you are, where the bullets are coming from- they’ll hit you unless you duck.

You mean to do it, you really do, the world is just all too much and too loud and your adrenaline is fading and you can barely think-

“Y/N!” someone shouts, before a body slams over top you. You groan as your head hits the metal bench, but something like the forest fills your nose, even though you’re still at the base.

The base smells of metal and humans, not like the forest. That smell has been burned out of the air, here.

But it’s the forest overtop you, covering you like a blanket.

The gunshots stop for a moment, and the helicopter finally finishes its turn, now moving straight away from the base.

“Are you okay?” a voice asks, a hand brushing back your hair, rough, a warrior’s touch. But the motion is still soft, it’s simply the pads of his fingers that are textured and wrinkled. “Are you hurt? Baby? You ok?”

When your open your eyes, Jake is on top of you, but he pulls back his hand, using it to help himself sit up straight.

You burn with and without his touch.

You tell yourself it’s just the memory, but you know a part of him is forever burning inside of you.

It’s like you can never escape him, and this is all so normal, and it all comes rushing back.

You push against his chest, and he lets you, eyes roaming over your body to see if you’re hurt.

“I can take care of myself,” you spit. He chuckles to himself, staring at your thigh and smiling, tongue touching his canine tooth. When he looks up, you can’t stop looking at him.

“Never hurts to have some extra help, sweetheart.”

You pull in your bottom lip and sneer at him. “I don’t need your help. I don’t,” you say, but your voice holds an undercurrent of something you wish wasn’t there. Doubt. Love.

“Well it sure looked like it.” Everyone else is shouting and laughing, celebrating the victory, but your entire world narrows down to him and you. To this moment.

“I don’t need you,” you hiss.

“Doesn’t matter,” he shrugs, staring at you hard for one more second, eyes like a fire on yours, until he turns away. “Would still die for you, even if you hate me.”

I do, you want to say. I hate you. You betrayed me, betrayed Neytiri.

But you don’t. Because he saved your life, and you love him even after all of this.

You swallow quick, slide your hand along the metal.

You watch as the tip of your middle finger touches his pinky, and then you watch as he places his pinky over the ends of your fingers. When you don’t move away, because in this moment you really don’t think you can, his hand slides into yours like it was made for him to be there.

“I hate you,” you whisper, as the both of your stare at your entwined hands.

He laughs. “I love you.”

Suddenly, Grace’s groan cuts through the air, taking your eyes away from your hands and towards her.

“This is gonna ruin my whole day,” she chuckles, and when your eyes meet hers, they’re wide, in fear, in love, you don’t know.

She looks down to her stomach, and you follow her gaze, see the blood spurting out from behind her hand.

It’s like a blooming flower, you think, before your throat forms a sob and tears stream down your face.

—-

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[yourmamakira]

BOYS GON SOFT

Henry Bowers

Henry develops a crush on a very sparky girl, and everyone can see how soft he's gone, but him.

Black!Fem Reader

Tw: assault, violence, bullying, vulgar language

Henry Bowers has always been aggressive & violent. And those who did get into his pants knew he's wasn’t there for, commitment or a meaningful relationship.

He's never cared about that stuff…Well never until he met you.

For weeks he told himself he didn't like you, over and over how could he fall for a loser like you.

But the day you accidentally bumped into Patrick hocksetter and he nearly murdered his best friend. He knew.

He knew he was in deep, deep, deep deepdeepdeep shit.

YOU! (first person)

I Knew I was a freak, a fucking loser. Nothing but a Pusey bag to fuck and a whore to look at. I mean I wouldn't be suprised. And I’m not.

I've been played more times then I have fingers. I've been bullied, degraded, Abused and sexually assaulted for as long as I've been in derry mein. And I've been here my whole life. I don’t really know why I’m treated like this. Maybe it’s because of my skin color, anyone here that’s not 100% Caucasian is considered a slur. Or maybe it’s the roomers Greta Keen Spread About me in the 5th grade, about how I shagged the whole Baseball-team.

Which is absurd for someone who was my age and not even the teachers believed me. And none of the players denied the claims, only making my hatred burn brighter.

It wasn't until Monday. June 2nd, when I was having the shitist day of my entire fucking life, that I realized how much of a fuck up I really was.

I had just gotten into an argument with my so called father about how much of a so called slut I was. When in reality the most I've done is kissed a guy. Not even that. My father had accused me of sneaking out and stealing his liquor, accusing me of getting pregnant and aborting the baby. Telling me I’m the reason my mother left…when in reality he’s the reason bc he’s a two face back stabbing man whore alcoholic fuck up father.

And on top of that, I had just started my period, so I was in immense pain. And on FUCKING TOP OF ALL THAT. I just HAD to be a cluz and bump into the Patrick Hocksetter. Derry's very own Psychic Most likely 98% murderer. But somthing weird happend.

I was left alive and defended by his best friend, Henry fucking bowers.

I don't know what was weirder.

The clown I saw that day, or Being defended by the Henry bowers. Either way. They both caught me off guard.

3rd person pov: Monday, 6.2.81

"Well FUCK YOU DAD"

The girl screamed at her self proclaimed Father. But she liked to call him a wannabe dad behind his back.

"Just fucking wait till you get ho–"

She didn't even let him finish his sentence, she cut him off with the car door, slamming it in his face, gripping her backpack straps closer to her shoulder as she made her way into the school clutching her aching stomach.

She would deal with her father later.

She was not in the mood, she was more bitchy then usual today and on top of her bitch ass father she had to deal with. She had to deal with her period, which caused loads of unnecessary stress and pain.

She walked into the school, avoiding the sweaty teens and horny boys cat calling her everywhere she went. Curse that stupid fucking roomer.

She scoffed as she took out her walkmen she got a few Christmases back and pulled the headphones over her head. She looked down at her walkmen re winding the tape finding her favorite stress relapsing song. Her head stayed down for a few seconds. That was her first mistake.

The song didn't even play for 10 seconds before her headphones were knocked off her head and she was knocked to the floor.

She groned and looked up about to go off but stopped out of fear as she was faced with the back of the Patrick HOCKSTETTER.

His back was slumped and his knives that he always carried around was a skew on the floor.

She scooted back scrambling to her feet as quickly as possible.

She was about to start apologizing when she was Grabbed harshly by the neck. The gasps around them went unnoticed by the captured Girl. His grip grew tighter as he raised his head.

She griped the wrists that held onto her attempting to pull them off.

She raised her head to face Patrick’s seething one, right in-front of hers. His hot breath came in contact with her nostrils and she tried hard not to gag at his horrid breath and his stench taking over her face.

"You got a death wish, Slut?" He spat out lowly, so only she could hear.

She out of pure fear and stun didn't anwser him. Second mistake.

She was like a deer caught in headlights, to afraid to move or speak. She would've snapped back with something snarky, but as much as she hated her life. This was one of the worse ways to die.

He shook the girl, hitting her head on the wall once more. She let out a loud grone. That was definitely going to hurt later.

"Anwser me Whore!" He spoke loudly catching the attention of the other kids in the hall way who stared out of fear FOR the small girl he had got this time.

When she didn't anwser he got upset. He cocked his fist back and started for her face. She clenched her eyes shut and flinched back making an attempt to protect herself. But it was useless.

‘ Patrick hocksetter was going to beat me to death.’ She prepared for the hurt but it never came.

She kept her eyes closed as she was relased and placed gently back on her feet.

She slowly opened her eyes to find Patrick at knife point by his best friend, Henry Bowers.

Through her loud and fidget breaths she couldn't pick up any words they exchanged, all she could hear was the ending of his sentence.

"–ch her again, and You're Dead."

She was stunned.

‘ was he talking about me ? He couldn't be. Of course he was talking about me stupid ! ‘

Henry dropped his best friend and threw the knife to the ground with a huff, he spun around glaring at everyone and anything, they all restored back to what they were doing before, not wanting to risk getting beat to death by bowers.

The girl stayed in her spot, stunned at what just happened. Her life was just saved…by Him?..

She hadn’t noticed he was right in-front of her until he spoke.

“Hey? You okay Doll?”

She snapped out of her trance and gulped fearfully, she quickly spoke up not wanting to anger him. She was in too much of a daze to be in her sparky attitude. She was all together still stunned, her Sas had been put on pause

“Oh Yes..Yes I am..” speaking to him was…much more easier then she imagined..he’s more calm and he’s actually speaking to her without calling her any sorts of derogatory remarks.

He smiled a little bit and Her heart did a back flip. She stared at his smile and couldn’t help but smile back.

He moved closer and out of instinct her smile vanished and she moved backwards. Could he blame her.

His face dropped and she thought she has angered him. She shook in her spot as she let out a shaky sigh. She moved closer to him and stood infront of him.

“I’m sorry if I upset you, I…I just don’t like…I don’t like being close to anyone. Not just you. It’s a social thing…”

She explained carefully. She wasn’t lying to him, and he knew that too. She hated being close to people. She hated contact with anyone and she preferred being 6 feet at all times.

He had no idea why she was being so considerate today, usually when he would hear her and see she was yelling, screaming and beating people up and being her sparky self…maybe she was sick.

He smiled again and chuckled. “It’s alright princess, you ain’t hurt my feelings. I ain’t a sissy.”

Now it was her turn to smirk, “huh, I would’ve never guessed”

‘ there she is ‘ he thought with a grin.

He laughed and got up close to her, this time she didn’t move. He leaned down to her face and smirked, he pushed her a bit and she stumbled back with a laugh.

That very laugh made Henry Stop in his tracks to just admire. Stop to admire. Just stop. To admire Her.

Something he has never in his life ever done before. He had no idea what this feeling was, but in a way he despised it, he hated it with a burning ember. But In another way it was like a drug, an addiction he didn’t want to get rid of, a bug that sound like a fly but looks nothing less then a butterfly.

He scoffed before walking away.

“Hey!” She called after him.

But he didn’t stop to respond, he just held up the bird and went on, still with that giddy Smirk on his face.

She smiled with a laugh and turned around to pick up her walk men. She put it on and switched on her music.

She strutted down the hall way, unaware she had just gained protection from the biggest storm in Derry.

[klbwriting]

Broken Prism

Chapter 17

Fandom: Red Hood

Pairing: Jason Todd x female!Reader

Warnings: some suggestions of outing someone

Summary: Penguin has Jason and YN goes to get him back

You had gotten back to the manor around 1AM and had gone right to bed. Nothing was amiss, Jason wasn’t expected back until later and the rest of the family were either asleep or out patrolling. What was strange was when you woke up and checked Jason still wasn’t in bed. He slept late into the day and normally you were having to pull him out of bed to function after a long night. Today he was already gone. You shrugged and headed down to the dining room, passing Bruce’s office and noticing the elevator to the Batcave was open. This stopped you. That elevator was closed up during the day most of the time, unless there was an emergency, and someone forgot to close it. You walked over, getting on and heading down, not sure what to expect.

No one noticed you coming up behind the Batcomputer. Bruce was seated with Alfred, Dick, and Tim watching the screen. You weren’t sure why until you saw Jason’s bike crash. He looked alright but then he stood and was soon surrounded. Then they started beating him. You let out a gasp, trying to remember that the color was still around you, he was alive, but clearly in bad shape. Dick turned around and saw you there and walked over.

“Listen…” he started, breaking you out of your trance. You looked at him, then at Bruce and Tim.

“Where is he?” you asked. “Where is Jason?” you demanded again when no one answered. The video was still playing, and you saw men dragging him away and then Tim dropping in to find his guns and jacket. “Tim, where did they take him?”

“I don’t know, the tracker goes to an old meat packing plant in Otisburg and then disappears,” he said. “They were already gone when I got there, I tried tracking them but…I couldn’t.”

“Ya, I bet you tried really hard…” you snapped before realizing that was a shitty thing to say. “I’m sorry…I know you actually did try.” You looked at the rest of them. “Well, what are we doing to get him back?”

“I’m going to head to the Iceberg Lounge, see if I can sneak into his office, find out anything,” Dick said. “We know that Jason was gaining territory on Penguin, but this is a little extreme, even for him.” You had the sneaking suspicion Jason wasn’t the only problem. Bruce could see your mind whirring and frowned.

“Care to share?” he asked, and you shook your head. “Don’t do that, don’t keep ideas to yourself, we all want to help. You don’t have to do this on your own.” You sighed, hating that he was right in this case. If what you suspected was going on was true, then you would need backup.

“I think this has to do with me more than Jason,” you said. “For the last few months, I’ve been gathering intel on Penguin’s different enterprises, trying to find enough proof for the GCPD. He does weapons sales, but actually registers the weapons and only sells them to those who can legally buy them, so even if after the sale the buyers use them for a crime, or if they scrape serial numbers off and resells them, it can’t land Cobblepot in prison. He has storehouses full of drugs, but none of them can legally be linked to him, only to those who are willing to take the fall for him. None of it holds up in court. Last night I met with a scientist from CADMUS who gave me proof that Penguin has been harvesting organs from the houseless all over the city, sometimes killing them, sometimes not. CADMUS has been buying them for experiments and this week Cobblepot chose greed over smarts and accepted a check written out to him for sale of the organs. The scientist had a copy of the check and the order form with the same amount for organs. Another damning piece is that listed on the manifest for delivery is a heart with a pacemaker attached, that pacemaker is linked to a body that was found yesterday in an alley in Old Gotham. It still needs work, but it can be tied back to Penguin. He might have taken Jason because he knows that Red Hood protects Lady Red. Without him Penguin can come after me. So, I’m going to go to him instead. Trade the information I have for Jason.”

“You can’t give Penguin the proof, it took so long for you to find it,” Tim said. You shrugged. You really didn’t see what else you could do. You weren’t going to abandon Jason to whatever Penguin had in mind for him.

“Miss YN, Master Jason was working on something with me for this occasion,” Alfred said, and you looked at him. “He knew that you gathered information that many in the city would do anything for and he thought that perhaps one of your friends would be in danger. So, he and I developed a specialized hard drive, one that you have to be holding a button on or else it will self-destruct so to speak. You can go in with it, they can scan it, it will have the information needed, but be unable to be copied, only viewed. If you are to take your hand off the button because they have killed the hostage or you yourself then the information is first sent directly to the GCPD and then destroyed on the hard drive.”

“That’s pretty ingenious actually, taking a tactic for a pressure-controlled bomb switch and making it work for information, you have an info bomb essentially,” Tim said. You smiled a little, there was Jason trying to protect you again.

“Well then, let’s get him out of there."

It took some doing but Tim was able to get Jason’s tracker back online, showing him near the meatpacking plant where the signal stopped, in what looked like a processing facility for the meat. That was terrifying, and you hoped Penguin wasn’t going to try to grind him up when you threatened to destroy the evidence. As you approached the facility you saw two men outside, watching the front entrance. Once you were inside Dick would drop in and take care of them while Tim would handle anyone watching the back door. Bruce would get in through the roof, ready to help inside and apprehend Penguin before he could escape. The GCPD was on standby, evidence already in their hands. Even with all this help and planning you were still scared that Jason would get hurt, would die again, and you would fail to save him.

“Who are you?” one of the guards at the door asked, pointing his gun at you. You rolled your eyes, really not wanting to deal with this right now.

“Lady Red, I believe I have some information for Penguin, something he wants,” you said. The guard turned to the other, who was talking on a walkie talkie. He nodded and the other guard let her in. “Good luck boys,” you muttered before the door closed. You walked down the aisleway between machines out of a Saw movie, everything rusted and covered in grime. You would need to get so many shots if you survived this. There was only a couple dozen henchmen inside the facility, Penguin at the head of the group, pacing the room by the back door, and you saw Jason tied down beside Penguin, helmet still on. That was a relief, at least his identity wasn’t compromised. Making the helmet code word compliant was a good idea Tim had. His armor was gone, and you nearly threw up at the sight of his body, clothes torn, blood down his front and you could hear a wheeze through the helmet as he was breathing. You hoped you could get him out of here before he collapsed.

“I’m glad my suspicions have been confirmed,” Cobblepot said as you approached. “Lady Red, really giving your alliance away there.”

“That was intentional, Red Hood is my protection,” you said. Cobblepot let out a bark of laughter.

“Ya, really doing a good job there isn’t he,” he said, taking a pipe and hitting Jason in the stomach with it. You took a step forward and every henchmen raised their guns at you. “O no, don’t come any closer, they will kill you.”

“Then you won’t get the information I have,” you said, holding up the hard drive, finger pressing the button. “Think of this as a bomb, you hurt him and I let go of the button and all the information I have is sent to the cops and then destroyed. I die I let go of the button and the same thing happens. I want him and I want us to leave alive. If that happens, I disengage this device and you get all the information on you I have, and you can do whatever you want with it.” Penguin glared at you.

“Why didn’t you call your bat friends?” he asked. You rolled your eyes. You were keeping a distance from them. Being in league with Red Hood was one thing, but being completely tied to the Batman was a different story.

“I don’t have bat friends,” you said. “I only have him.” You looked at Jason again, swallowing, before looking at Penguin. “I want him back, now.”

“Aw, cute, you’re sweet on him. What must you be thinking getting into bed with such a hated vigilante,” Cobblepot shook his head. You caught sight of a shadow near the ceiling but kept your eyes on Penguin.

“Well, you know as well as I do its hard to find good dick these days,” you said. He froze in his tracks and looked at you. That information was very hard to find indeed. “I mean, Riddler isn’t exactly on speaking terms with you anymore is he? I mean he seemed very annoyed in his last email to you, next time Oswald, listen for the safe word…”

“Shut up,” he snapped, walking over to you, pointing the pipe at your head.

“Let Red Hood go and all of that information, the emails, the pictures, it goes away. Although, you could just come out about it, no one would judge you,” you said. You knew that Cobblepot came from a very traditional family in Gotham, one that probably made him into the monster he was now. You hated using this information against him, but seeing Batman, Robin, and Nightwing swooping in, quietly taking and disposing of the men surrounding you, all while you kept Penguin’s focus on you, was what was needed.

“You little bitch,” he said, raising the pipe to strike. You closed your eyes, expecting the blow but it didn’t come. When you opened your eyes Bruce had Penguin in a chokehold, forcing him to pass out, dropping the body hard to the ground.

“Let’s go,” he said, hearing the sirens nearby as the cops came to round everyone up. Dick picked up Jason and they fled back to Wayne Manor. On the way over YN rode on Tim’s bike.

“Would you actually have done that, outed Penguin?” Tim asked into the communicator. You scoffed.

“Never! I found that information but deleted it immediately,” you said. Tim nodded. “I’m an asshole, not a scumbag.” You heard the boy chuckle and smiled.

Jason groaned as Bruce set him back in bed. Two broken ribs, a collapsed lung that they needed to call in Dr Thompkins to check out, 100 stitches all over the place, he was a mess. And he had to find a new jacket, pain in the ass. He could hear Bruce in the hallway arguing with YN.

“He needs rest, those pain meds are going to kick in any second and make him sleep anyway, just wait…”

“Fuck off Bruce, I’m going to him. I promise I won’t make him do anything strenuous,” she said, shoving past him and closing the door behind her. “Hey,” she smiled, coming over and sitting on the bed next to him. “How bad is it?”

“I’m fine, could run a marathon,” he said, making her laugh. “Thank you, for saving me, that took some serious balls to do.”

“It was nothing, I’ve been looking into Penguin for a while, figured something like this might happen,” she said, gently taking his hand. Jason squeezed it to show he was fine.

“Ya, but I wasn’t supposed to be the hostage, should have been Jocelyn or Aura or something,” he said. You laughed. “I know, very sexist to assume only the ladies are hostages.” He felt a yawn coming on, trying to suppress it, but it didn’t work, only became bigger.

“Go to sleep,” he heard YN say. “I’m not going anywhere.”

[fazedlight]

Dreams (Nia character study/brainia)

It started with a dinosaur. 

A… purple dinosaur.

Of all the things for a teenager to have recurring dreams about, Nia couldn’t fathom for the life of her why Barney was haunting her. Sometimes his green spots would overwhelm him, or glow white - other times, he’d be completely blue. She’d watch in bewilderment before waking up.

Then he started showing up playing the theme song on some sort of flute - I love you, you love me - and she felt like she was going insane.

---

The sleepless nights were starting to get in the way.

All she wanted to do was write about fashion - to share with the world how this form of self-expression was so inherent to being alive, to help people understand that how we present ourselves was an art form in its own right.

All she wanted to do was impress reporter Kara Danvers. Yet there she was, complaining about coffee on her clothes to a stranger who turned out to be her idol, only to later fall asleep at her desk.

Why am I like this?

---

She didn’t catch the name of the man in the pizza shop. Truth was, she was entirely too pissed off about the whole incident to think that far ahead, and her sleep-deprived brain was too exhausted to make the swerve from thinking about the pizza shop owner’s bigotry to figuring out how to flirt with a stranger.

But she did feel a tug of interest that day, and she was kicking herself in the aftermath. Why did I tell him to find me?, she lamented, I should’ve just given him my number.

The mystery didn’t last long, as the stranger reappeared - A friend of Kara’s? Small world - rattling off her address and phone number and other personal details as he reached for a scone. “Why didn’t you call?” Nia asked, laughing.

“You told me to find you, not call you.”

Nia smiled. Another person might’ve found the response creepy, but she found it oddly charming.

---

The dreams were only getting worse. Random shapes and images, or moments that would repeat in real life the next day, or horrific happenings that Nia prayed weren’t real.

Still, the cracks in her shell didn’t start appearing until she found Kara Danvers knocking at her door. Somehow, the blonde’s calm and compassionate demeanor finally let Nia open up - and so Kara became the first person Nia told about her suspicions, that the dreamer powers had come to her. What will Maeve think?, Nia lamented.

Nia wilted under Kara’s optimism, realizing the blonde thought far too much of her abilities. “My dreams aren’t like you think,” Nia asserted. “I don’t even know what’s going on.”

But Kara had a solution for that, too. Brainy strolled in - calling her by an old traditional naltorian name, which Nia found astonishingly odd - and offered to help her.

What surprised her most - more than Kara’s compassion or Brainy’s ability to trigger her dreams - was that she had been able to help in the fight against Agent Liberty.

She supposed that was something.

---

That was not the first date she had expected.

In fact, it hadn’t been a date at all, which had left her in a rather dour mood.

Me? A superhero?, Nia thought, reflecting on Brainy’s proposal. That’s crazy.

---

Someone brought coffee for the team at Catco. One was even her go-to sugar-free vanilla latte. 

That wasn’t the part that bothered her. What bothered her was the “Barney” written on the cup. Suddenly those dreams she hadn’t thought of in years came back to her. Like the dinosaur? “Who’s Barney?” she asked to the room.

“Barney Fife,” Brainy said, “is my name among humans.”

Fife? Like a flute? The damn psychedelic dinosaur flashed in her mind, and she suddenly realized why it would at times shift from blue or green. Oh for fuck’s sake.

---

There was no more running from it.

She dreamt of spiders and black ink and poison. And then her mother had died, and she was forced to reveal herself to save the town. As Maeve bitterly threw her biology in her face, Nia found herself feeling more alone than she had ever been. There’s no turning back now, she mourned.

Life will never be simple again.

---

She couldn’t believe that her idol - in the form of reporter Kara Danvers - could also be Supergirl.

Stranger still was realizing the weight that Kara had on her shoulders, the secrets she carried. Nia had never thought about the burden of heroism, but she supposed she was going to find it out first hand. “Help me train,” she asked Brainy.

It became a burning desire, to honor her mother and heritage - something she could hold onto in the face of her mother’s death and her sister’s rejection. The walls she had built up to avoid even acknowledging her powers seemed to collapse in one fell stroke, and she found herself pushing to the edges of what was possible as the dreamer. Far too quickly, she knew, but if she could just be useful…

But that wasn’t in Brainy’s syllabus. It wasn’t the pace she should be training at. “And now you’re astral projecting,” Brainy said, “That jumps months of training.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” Nia murmured, “I just… I move too fast because that’s what I do.”

“That’s what heroes do,” Brainy asserted, “Leaping before one looks is part of the job description.”

Nia eyed him curiously, realizing she had misread the situation. Brainy wasn’t frustrated. If she didn’t know better, she’d think that was admiration in his eyes.

---

She thought things were going well. Until James ended up in the hospital. What use are these powers if I can’t even keep my friends from getting shot?, Nia thought.

She watched as Brainy’s own guilt ate at him, his own fears bubbling to the surface - how he couldn’t protect James, how he almost couldn’t save Kara, how he didn’t want to become the evil mastermind that his family was hoping for.

She kissed him.

But Brainy broke away. “You and I can never be together,” he said. It didn’t really make sense, but all Nia could do was watch him leave. Sometimes a dream is just a dream.

---

“What are you doing?!” Nia asked, as Brainy locked her up again. What’s going on with you?

“You have to go through the portal,” Brainy said nonchalantly. “Once you’re on the other side, astral project.”

“Brainy,” Nia shouted,  “You can’t do this-”

She continued calling his name as he closed the container… but he was gone.

---

She had faked her own kidnapping, then gotten actually kidnapped when she was abandoned by Brainy, then finally managed to astral project and pass on a message - ending up facing a reactor in the middle of gearing up to commit a genocide against her mentor’s people.

It was not a good day.

Nia sprinted to the other side of the reactor, ignoring Brainy’s statistical analysis as she forced a surge of power in the hopes of matching J’onn, trying to overwhelm the reactor into shutting down.

She could hear Brainy, hear the odd cadence of his voice change, going from the cold facade that he had adapted when he locked her into the container, to a confused series of mumbles about Socrates and Monty Python, until he finally seemed to snap.“Stop! Stop what you’re doing!” Brainy shouted desperately, his cadence sounding normal again. “What you’re doing doesn’t make any sense!”

That’s what heroes do, Nia thought as she struggled, unable to reply to him as she focused on pumping energy into the reactor. Leaping before one looks is part of the job description.

She couldn’t move from her spot, couldn’t check the progress of the reactor. She could only try to cause as much power to surge as she could, knowing that J’onn was just across the way, trying to do the same. Is this where we die?, she wondered briefly. Will we save Argo?

The mystery didn’t last, not as Brainy’s words began to break through again. “You’re amazing!,” he shouted, and she almost smiled through gritted teeth. It’s working, she thought, we’re winning. “You’re astounding!” Brainy continued to shout, the joy rising in his voice as he paced. “You’re astazing, Nia Nal… and I love you.”

It was then that the sparks became overwhelming, and all three of them collapsed onto the floor as the reactor blew. The core is self-destructing, she thought gratefully, trying to catch her breath.

Nia turned to Brainy, and was surprised to find him looking overwhelmed. He smiled back warmly. “When this is over,” he said, “I would like to ask you on a proper date.”

Nia’s heart skipped a beat. “Yes, I’ll go on a date with you.”

“I have not asked yet,” he clarified, rising to his feet. “Back to battle?”

Nia bit back a smile. “Of course.”

---

Nia collapsed onto her couch. What a day, she thought, reflecting on the superfriends’ debriefing. “Not every day is like this one,” J’onn had said.

The dizzying moment of the evening had definitely been when Kara - the person she looked up to most, both as a reporter and a neophyte vigilante - had pulled her aside. “Thank you for saving my people,” the kryptonian had said.

Nia smiled at the memory.

She heard a knock at the door, and groaned slightly as she dragged herself off her couch. Maybe that’s the pizza I ordered, she thought, but she felt the briefest flash of a dream - that damn dinosaur again.

She opened the door, finding Brainy on the other side, holding a bouquet of roses. “I am proposing we spend an evening together,” he said, as Nia smiled and took the flowers. “I am thinking of dinner, and… a movie,” he continued dramatically. “Nia Nal, would you go on a date with me?”

Nia grinned. “Yes.”

[yujeong]

Fic Ask Game: Favorite Fic Lines

Hello people. So, I got some sudden inspiration for this little game, which goes hand in hand with the KinnPorsche Fanfic Comment Event a little bit, in my opinion: Share the lines of fics that have brought a big emotional reaction out of you. It can be anything, from sadness to happiness to horniness to anything in between. Lines that have stayed with you, no matter how long ago you read the fic. I believe our writers deserve a little praise in these trying times, don't you think? So, for me, some of them are the following: 1) "The rib hurts so much more now that someone else knows about it." - drank every scar, by @ginnymoonbeam - Tbh, I'd have to put the whole fic in here, but this is the line I tend to think of whenever the fic comes to mind. Rereading it now to find the line made my eyes water, it's so fucking visceral and perfect and I love it so much. Once again, thank you so, SO much for writing it and sharing it with the world ❤️ 2) "Vegas’ violence is unpredictable, painfully personal, and utterly, tragically ineffectual.

Pete forgives him all of it." - Civil Hands, by @ameliarating - I can't count the times I went feral over both Civil Hands and Deep Dive. As a fan of Pete, both of those fics mean the world to me, and this specific line has been on my mind since the moment I read it. I love how it showcases Vegas' effect on Pete's worldview, how Vegas made him break his own rules, and how he came to accept it, because it's him. Incredible writing, I love it so fucking much❤️ 3) "He’d rather be marked as disposable, he’d realized, than erased as invisible.

There was something bitter about realizing that he’d been both." - Once You Are Real, by @veliseraptor - Lise chose this for the summary and it's such a perfect choice. I think it's the reason I chose to read the fic in the first place. I am very emotional when it comes to the concept of Pete finding out he was forgotten, and this fic does an amazing job with it. I keep returning to it a lot, I love it to death. Painful in it's brilliance, I can't recommend it enough. 4) "“I don’t know,” Pete said unsteadily. “I don’t know. How could I know what that feels like? I’m not that kind of person.” He pulled against Vegas’s grip, and got nowhere. “You make my teeth ache. You make the world bright, like it’s real. It hurts. It’s hurt since I met you, but that means I can never forget I’m alive." - even the clearest water, by @luckydicekirby What a fic. The concept, the lines, the execution, it all deserves praise until the end of time. Pete's answer to Vegas' "Do you love me?" will always remain in my head as one of the best things VP-related I've ever read and ever will read in my life. I loved this so fucking much, I will never get over it ❤️ 5) "“And now you have nothing,” Kinn says. “As I said, a dumb move.”

“Wrong again,” Vegas says. “I now have something you don’t.”

“Oh?” Kinn doesn’t hide the way he rolls his eyes. “Massive hospital bills? Bed sores?”

“Happiness.”" - Your Power Over Me, by @wisteria-daydreamer - A very special shout out to my lovely friend who's written one of my favorite Kinn&Vegas fics I've ever had the pleasure to read. When this line came, I literally gasped out loud, it left me speechless. The way Kinn's POV is written was marvelous and the whole conversation he had with Vegas was incredible. Check it out if you crave some good Kinn&Vegas fics, it's very, very good. Disclaimer: I have so many fics and authors I love and I've made that clear to both them and my followers in the past. My brain could only handle doing 5 for this, but I absolutely have more than 5 that I'm obsessed with. Maybe one day I'll do a Part 2, I'll see how it goes in the future. No pressure tagging all the following lovely people, besides the writers that have already been tagged: @wretchedamaranth, @xpi-x-elx, @fleet-off, @lu-sn, @suzteel, @tsttoain, @thisautistic, @theoldastronomer, @vegaseatsass, @adanima, @kissporsche, @raksh-writes, @nyxelestia, @yourknightofrage, @mightymightygnomepriest, @justanothervariant, @justfionn and anyone else who wants to share the love for their fave fics and authors. You can do 5 or 10 or 100, there's no limit at all ❤️❤️

[peachy-panic]

It's Nice To Have A Friend

Here it is, the chapter I've been mud-wrestling with for a literal month. Jaime and Ezra finally meet :)

(yes the title is a t-swift reference)

WARNINGS: BBU/BBU-adjacent, brief mentions of past foster system, mentions of grief/parental loss

< PREVIOUS

The car radio carries on for several minutes after Sebastian kills the engine, then, eventually, that shuts off too. The silence they’re left with is all the more heavy given the remote location. Still, neither of them make a move to get out. Sebastian will gladly wait all day, if that’s what Jaime needs. 

A couple of times, he catches movement out of the corner of his eye; Jaime’s hand twitches toward the door handle, then flattens back against his thigh. 

“We don’t have to do this today,” Seabstian says. “No one will be upset if you want to back out and go home.”

“I know,” Jaime answers too immediately to be completely true. Sebastian glances over to find the familiar crease between his brows. He waits him out a few more seconds. 

“Whatever it is, you can say it.”

Jaime takes a breath. “It’s just him here?” he asks. “Your friend Ezra? No one else?”

“No one else,” he promises. “Ezra’s partner won’t be back until he gives him the word.”

Sam, of course, was perfectly happy to skip out for the day in the sole interest of making Jaime more comfortable. Sebastian finds himself, not for the first time, marveling at the generosity of this group of people he has found himself entwined in. He can’t imagine handling this contract without their support. 

“And you won’t…” Jaime pauses. 

He gives him a second to find his words. “Won’t what, Jaime?”

“You won’t leave me alone with him?”

Sebastian grinds down hard on his molars and pointedly does not let himself think about the kinds of situations Jaime may have found himself in during past contracts to make him ask something like that. He absolutely does not let it show in his expression. 

“Not if you don’t want me to,” he promises. 

Jaime lets a narrow wisp of a sigh slide between his lips. “I think I’d feel better if you stayed with me.”

And that… sort of knocks the wind out of him. Because, on one hand, that could be a crock of shit fed to him by handlers to make him feel reliant on the person who holds his contract. On the other hand, Sebastian has somehow made the jump in Jaime’s mind from active threat to someone he feels better around in the presence of strangers, and that is not a privilege he is about to take lightly. 

“Then I’ll stay,” he says. 

“Okay,” Jaime breathes, sounding genuinely relieved. He nods once, setting a look of determination over his features. “I’m ready.”

****

Jaime positions himself slightly behind Sebastian as they approach the door.

“We can tap out at any time,” Sebastian reminds him. “Just give me the word and we’ll go.” 

Jaime nods, even though Sebastian isn’t looking at him. He stands stiffly, clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides, as Sebastian knocks. A few seconds later, the door swings inward and Jaime forces his feet to stay planted where they are. 

The man standing in the doorway is nothing like the image Jaime had in his head. He didn’t have much to go on, physically, from Sebastian’s description, but in hindsight, Jaime realizes he was picturing someone more like himself. Someone shrunken and cowering, someone visibly less alive to the naked eye. 

The man he presumes to be Ezra is none of those things. He stands taller than both Jaime and Sebastian, with light brown skin and dark hair twisted into a bun at the crown of his head. Like the sweater he wears over a pair of jeans, the smile that spreads across his expression is unmistakably warm. He looks strong. He looks like nothing could ever scare him. Jaime can’t help but stare. 

“Hello.” Sebastian gives a small wave. 

“Sebastian.” Ezra nods. “Glad you could make it.” They don’t reach for a handshake or a hug, but the familiarity is obvious anyway. His eyes shift to Jaime. “Hi, there,” he says. 

Jaime swallows. “Hello, sir.”

“Ezra, please,” he says, and his smile doesn’t falter a bit. “There are no formal titles in my house. What would you like me to call you?

Jaime turns to Sebastian, who offers an encouraging nod. They’d talked about it beforehand—that Jaime is safe and allowed to use his real name around Ezra, and that he already knows that Sebastian knows it, too. That doesn’t make it any easier to get used to. 

“My name is Jaime,” he says after only a short beat of hesitation.

“It’s nice to meet you, Jaime. Please, come in.”

The house is beautiful. Big, but not arrogant. It’s not immaculate and sleek like Mr. Torley’s or Bryan’s, but well lived-in. Taken care of in a way that reflects how cherished it is to the people who live there. Mostly, Jaime just keeps thinking this house belongs to Ezra. 

“You’re welcome to keep your shoes on or take them off,” Ezra says, immediately clocking the silent way he watches the two of them for a cue. “However you feel most comfortable is fine with me.” 

Sebastian slips out of his sneakers, but Ezra keeps his on, leaving Jaime momentarily torn. In the end, he decides to follow his Keeper, bending down to untie the high-tops Sebastian bought for him. 

“Smells incredible in here,” Sebastian says, stepping further into the house. 

“I’d be flattered, but I think you’d say the same if I’d ordered pizza.”

“And it would be true either way.”

Jaime watches from a detached distance, surprised at their easy banter. He’s not sure he’s ever seen this side of Sebastian, but it immediately sets him a little more at ease. Ezra is obviously someone he trusts.

“I’m finishing up a few things in the kitchen,” Ezra says, leading them further into the house. “The two of you can keep me company at the bar, if you’d like.”

Sebastian pulls out two stools along the raised counter that separates the kitchen from the living area, and Jaime climbs obligingly into his. It feels intrinsically wrong to be sitting like a houseguest while someone else cooks, but he supposes that is exactly what he is expected to be tonight. His mind supplies the memory of his twenty-four hour contract on Christmas eve, where he spent the night at a lush family dinner, pretending to be a rich man’s arm candy, which does nothing to settle his nerves. He forces his thoughts back to the present. 

“Would you like something to drink?” Ezra offers, already pouring himself a glass of wine. Jaime eyes the liquid, once again looking to Sebastian for a cue. 

“I’m fine, thanks,” Sebastian says. He told Jaime beforehand that he would stay sober in case he—in his words—needs to play getaway driver at some point, but that Jaime is welcome to drink if he likes. 

“Jaime? A drink?” Ezra offers, tilting the neck of the bottle toward a second empty glass. 

He swallows, remembering the burn of each sip that Mr. Torley would coax down his throat. “It’s alcoholic?” he asks stupidly. 

“Doesn’t have to be,” Ezra says easily. “I’ve also got iced tea, coffee, lemonade.”

“Water?” 

A small smile quirks at the corner of Ezra’s mouth, but it doesn’t feel unkind. “Of course.” He pours a glass of water from a filtered jug and sets it in front of him. 

Jaime takes a few sips, mostly to have something to do with his hands, and observes quietly. He finds himself watching Ezra closely, fascinated and curious and bewildered, as he makes his way around the kitchen. There is a certain practiced grace to his movements that Jaime recognizes with a bit of a chill. The way his fingers poise around the handle of a knife in just the perfect way, how he stands with his shoulders back, even when he’s looking down at a cutting board. He can feel the pull of muscle memory in his own back, feel the brush of a handler’s fingers on his spine, hear them whisper in his ear, stand up straight, trainee.

A morbid thought invades his mind: that Ezra’s skill in the kitchen—and whatever other learned skills he brought with him from his time as a Companion—are part of the reason his partner was drawn to him in the first place. 

But Sebastian called him his partner. That word implies a level of equality. And that… Well, that opens the door to even more questions. Jaime hasn’t allowed himself to think much about it since entering the system, but now he has to wonder: is that kind of relationship equality even possible for someone with a past like Ezra’s? Like his own?

It’s such a surreal thought. He still hasn’t quite wrapped his head around it.  This person in front of him—this person with a real name, a real home, a real partner, a life—used to be a Companion. Used to be. It’s not a sentence that even makes sense in his head. For as long as Jaime has been acquainted with the system—both inside of it and out—there has been no way out short of a body bag. 

It’s built into the structure. It’s a lifetime commitment. Companions can be reassigned designations, transferred to different locations, and even shifted to government-direct work when they reach a certain age, but no one ever retains their freedom in the end. There are barriers too tall to escape: high tech locks on the back of their collars, unbreakable metal binding it together. Trackers embedded under their skin, into the surface of their skulls behind their ears. All their money and resources are drained the moment they “sign the contract.”

But here is Ezra, in the flesh, defying everything Jaime believed to be true. 

The thought unsettles him. Sitting still and watching someone else prepare a meal for him unsettles him. The empty patch of skin at his throat where Jaime knows a collar used to exist unsettles him. But he can only fix one of those problems. He shifts on his barstool, inching toward the edge, and clears his throat. 

“Can I help with anything?” he asks.

Beside him, Sebastian tenses. He begins to say something along the lines of, “You don’t have to—”

But Ezra interjects before he can finish the thought. “You’re certainly welcome to, if you’d like,” he says. “The sourdough is cooling now; it should be ready to slice, if you’d like to do that?”

Relief sags his shoulders. Out of instinct, he looks to Sebastian, who offers a smile that he takes as approval. Jaime slides off of his stool, and Ezra sets him up with a cutting board and a serrated knife. Out of the corner of his eye, Ezra works steadily at his own workstation, piping a bag of frosting over some puff pastries. 

The conversation picks up again. Every once in a while, one or both of them make an effort to pull Jaime in, but he is more than happy to just listen. The soft cadence of their voices and the repetition of the task in his hands slowly lulls him into something more like relaxation.

“Sebastian mentioned you like cooking,” Ezra says, passing Jaime a basket for the bread.

“I do,” he says. Briefly, he wonders if Ezra had the same thought that Jaime had about him and his partner. He wonders if he should say something in Sebastian’s defense, to make it clear that Jaime is never obliged to do the cooking, but Ezra chuckles before he can.

“I’m sure Tate is happy to have someone around who knows how to use a skillet.”

“He always helps me,” Jaime adds quickly. 

Ezra and Sebastian share a quick smile. “That’s good to hear. I’m sure he has a lot to learn from you.”

Sebastian feigns offense with a dramatic scoff. “You tell a guy about your affection for frozen burritos once!” 

“Well,” Ezra says, reaching behind himself to untie his apron. “I can only hope this meal will hold up to your sophisticated palate.”

The three of them carry the food into the dining area. The table is long—long enough to make Jaime question just how many people a fugitive like Ezra keeps in his circle.

“So,” Ezra says, folding into the chair at the head of the table. Jaime and Seabstian each take one side of him. “For the main, we have beef brisket with rosemary and garlic. On the side: smashed fingerlings and roasted Brussels sprouts with a chili oil infused honey glaze. And the sourdough, of course, with some freshly churned sea-salt butter.”

“Oh my god,” Sebastian says, looking out over the spread with genuine adoration. “Thank you so much, Ez. It all looks amazing.”

“Let’s not leave it to sight, shall we? Dig in.” 

As both Ezra and Sebastian reach for serving spoons, he must catch a flash of Jaime’s hesitation, because without looking up from the task at hand, he says, “No one goes hungry in my home, Jaime. I expect you to serve yourself as much as you want, eat what you like and ignore what you don’t, and know that I will be thrilled if you reach for seconds but not disappointed if you do not.”

Jaime blinks at him, and Ezra looks up just long enough to meet his eyes. 

“Are you okay with that?”

In the back of his mind, he remembers the face of the woman who ran Jaime’s last group home. My boys don’t go hungry, she told him on his first night. He thinks she would have liked Ezra. He reminds him a bit of her. And that’s the thought that makes him nod in agreement and reach for the last unclaimed spoon. 

For a few minutes, Jaime allows himself to slink back into the background, happily listening to the easy back-and-forth between Sebastian and Ezra. The food is incredible, but Jaime knew it would be. After all, they are trained to be the best.

“What else do you like to do, Jaime?” Ezra asks, pulling him into the conversation. “Beyond supervising Sebastian in the kitchen.”

His fingers twitch around his fork at the unexpected attention, but he recovers quickly. “I like to run,” he says. It’s an easy enough answer—WRU-approved and the one personal fact he’s already divulged to Sebastian as well. 

“Speed or long distance?”

“Either,” he says. “Both.”

“Well, I bet that made morning sessions a bit more bearable in training, at least.”

Jaime goes still. Across from him, Sebastian’s fingers clench around his fork. Neither of these things seem to deter Ezra’s co-conspiratorial smile in the slightest. Jaime, anxious under the silence, is the first to speak. 

“I’m… I’m not allowed to dis—”

“Discuss the confidential training periods,” he finishes softly. “I know.”

And it’s so bind-bendingly bizarre, because he’s hearing those words, in that cadence, from the mouth of a man who has a house and a partner and a life that stretches far beyond anything Jaime has allowed himself to hope for, but it’s undeniable. Ezra used to be like him. Ezra knows what it is like to be in his shoes, and he is on the other side of it. And still, he remembers the rules as easily as breathing. 

“Jaime,” Ezra says carefully. “You don’t have to divulge anything you do not wish to. I won’t push you. But for what it’s worth—which I fully recognize is very little at this point—whatever you say to me will never make it back to anyone who might hurt you. I know you have not been allowed to speak freely for some time, but you can do so here, if you’d like.” A small smile cracks through his somber tone. “Or, alternatively, you can make things up. Lie to me all you want, I won’t get mad. It’s your choice.”

Slowly, Jaime brings his eyes back to his plate, pushing around a piece of meat with his fork, because nothing about this evening is easy to process quickly. After a moment, he clears his throat and says, “I like soccer.”

The admission is followed by a whoosh of air expelling from his lungs, because he hasn’t talked about—or even let himself think about—that part of his life in so long. Most days, it feels more like a detail about a character he read in a book rather than a piece of his reality. A reality that suddenly feels not so far back. 

Because it’s not, he reminds himself. It wasn’t very long ago at all. 

Across from him, Sebastian perks up, eyes alight. “You do?” he asks, sounding genuinely surprised and disproportionately happy. “Did you play?”

Jaime nods.

“Is that one a lie or a truth?” Ezra asks, still grinning ruefully at him. 

“It’s true.”

“Good to know,” Ezra says. “I played soccer, too. Very briefly, when I was young. But I’ve always enjoyed being active.”

“It…” Jaime begins, surprising himself by being the one to offer up more information. “It helps. Moving, I mean. Sebastian has been running with me sometimes.”

Ezra turns to Sebastian, one brow raised. “Has he now?”

“He’s being nice,” Sebastian says. “What I actually do is kind of limp behind him while he leaves me in the dust.” He casts a glance at Jaime on the last part, and he has to duck his head to hide the smile playing at his lips. 

“If you ever want another workout partner, I’ve got a gym set up in the basement. You’re welcome to it any time. No soccer nets, I’m afraid, but I’ve got plenty of cardio and sparring gear, if you’re interested.”

“Sparring?” Jaime asks. 

Ezra nods. “Mixed martial arts, kickboxing. I’m not a professional by any means, but I can hold my own.”

“I didn’t know that,” Sebastian says. 

At this, Ezra’s smile goes a little crooked. “I’m full of surprises,” he says, then turns back to Jaime. “Speaking of… I’m guessing I’m not the only one with some questions tonight. Shall we address the elephant in the room?

For a few seconds, Jaime doesn’t breathe. He watches him, rapt and curious and inexplicably nervous. 

“I gave Sebastian my permission to tell you anything he already knows about my story. Can I ask you what he conveyed?”

Jaime’s gaze once again dips to the smooth column of Ezra’s throat, unobstructed by metal that Jaime has been told, time and time again, is indestructible. Immovable except with the explicit allowance of a high-clearance Handler.  “That you used to be… like me,” he whispers. 

Ezra nods. “I was a contracted Companion for many years. I was seventeen when I was taken in—though of course, my file stated otherwise. I was well into my twenties by the time I got out.”

“How?” The question escapes before he can reel it in, but Ezra doesn’t look offended. He seems to have expected it. 

“There are specifics that I won’t get into right now, not yet, for the safety of the other parties involved,” he says. “But I killed the last Keeper of my contract.”

The sharp intake of breath next to him tells Jaime that this is new information to Sebastian, too. 

For a dizzying moment, Jaime is swept up in a technicolor fantasy: he is towering over the lifeless body of James Torley, droplets of blood collecting at the tip of a knife and splashing into his dress shirt. A shiver runs down his spine. He pinches his thigh to ground himself.

“You ran?” he asks, a bit breathlessly. “They didn’t track you?”

A wry smile pulls at Ezra’s mouth. “They couldn’t.”He turns his head, pulling his ear forward and brushing his hair back to reveal a thin scar where his tracker would have been. Jaime stops breathing.

“I had the right people on my side at the right time,” he explains, turning back to him. “There was someone who could safely extract the tracker without setting off any of the emergency failsafes. I had someone else who was able to remove my collar as well. It was staged as a murder-abduction. Someone kept me sheltered for months, in a house in the country. I laid low. The case eventually ran cold, and I was deemed a casualty. Not so much a missing person, but a financial loss the government had no choice but to write off. And now I am here.”

No one makes a sound for a long time.

“I can’t promise you an answer,” Ezra follows up. “Not about everything. But you can ask me anything you’d like to know.”

There are a hundred questions spinning in Jaime’s head—most of them incoherent, some of them he’s afraid to know the answer to. He unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth and asks, “How long?”

“Since I’ve been out? Nearly a decade.”

“Aren’t you afraid?” Jaime asks. “Of being found?”

“They haven’t found me yet.”

“But they could.” Jaime’s heart is hammering inside his chest. He can’t stop the words from escaping any more than he can control the sudden tremble in his hands. 

Ezra softens his expression, letting out a long breath. “Yes,” he concedes. “They could. But, Jaime, I have spent so many years being afraid. I have fought hard for the life I have now. I refuse to let fear control me again.”

Jaime can’t remember what a life looks like without fear. He has been afraid for as long as he can remember. 

In his very first memory of true terror, he is six years old. They had just moved to a new house, and the layout was still unfamiliar. There was thunder and lightning, so loud it shook the window in his bedroom. Jaime stumbled into the hallway, fingers plugged into both ears, desperately searching for his parents to make the noise go away. But between the fear and the darkness and the newness of the house, he couldn’t find their room. He couldn’t find them. In his mind, in that moment, he was entirely alone in the world. He ended up curled against the wall, wailing into the knees of his pajama pants, until they found him. 

That was the night he learned what it felt like to truly fear the loss of his parents, even if it only lasted a few minutes. Four years later, when that fear came to fruition, he thought the worst had happened. Nothing else could ever hurt him that bad again.

Then life spent the following years proving to him that there are always new things to be afraid of, new things to hurt him, new lows to reach: cruel foster parent, hungry nights in a locked room, a disciplinary board staring him down from the wrong end of a table, a man in a shelter standing over his bed, a stranger in a bar and a cloth pressed over his face, dark gray coveralls and blinding white lights, hands on his body, cuffs around his wrists, pain and pain and pain and—

And what Ezra is telling him now scares him, too. Existing so long in the system without the knowledge of a way out is a hell of its own, but this is a labyrinth he isn’t prepared to face. 

“Maybe…” Sebastian speaks up, eyeing Jaime cautiously. “Maybe we should table this conversation for now.”

“It’s a lot to take in at once,” Ezra agrees, keeping Jaime’s gaze. “I don’t want to overwhelm you. Let’s put a pin in it for now? You can always ask me questions later, if you want.”

Grateful for the out, Jaime takes a few deep breaths and nods. Wordlessly, Sebastian reached forward and nudge’s Jaime’s water glass closer to him; not a command, but a concern. Jaime takes a long drink, focusing on the cool stream down his throat. 

“So,” Ezra says after a few long moments of quiet. “Would anyone like dessert?”

****

While Sebastian laces up his shoes by the front door, Ezra pulls Jaime to the side. 

“Here,” he says, handing him a small slip of paper. “Sebastian already has my number. Now you have it, too. It’s not just for looks; I want you to use it if you need to. For any reason at all, you can call me and I’ll pick up. Okay?”

“Thank you,” Jaime says.

Ezra nods. For the first time all night, there seems to be a brief moment where Ezra is not entirely in control of his emotions. He blinks at Jaime a few times through an unreadable expression, then takes a deep breath to smooth his face into perfect neutrality once more. Jaime shivers, seeing a flash of his own reflection in his eyes. 

“I’m glad you allowed me to meet you tonight,” Ezra says. “I will make no demands of your time in the future, but I hope this won’t be the last time. You are welcome here whenever you’d like. It might be good for you to have a friend right now.” He shrugs, bringing his smile back to the surface. “It might be good for me, too.”

***

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[rubykgrant]

(Talking about Poppy's favorite movie being the Last Unicorn actually created a whole theme in my head about connections with identity, and it turned into a small story; a character study of Poppy explaining certain things about her life, how her favorite movie influenced her, but also how that story is VERY different from what she went through, with quotes from the Last Unicorn added to compare/contrast. The movie is the Rankin-Bass animated 1982 film, based on the book by Peter S Beagle. I think I'll eventually illustrate a comic with Poppy that follows this narrative, but for now, here is the text by itself~)

I remember watching The Last Unicorn when I was little

I first saw it when I was about two, maybe three

I loved it because it was beautiful, and sad, but full of hope… also, the songs were really pretty. The deeper parts of the story I didn’t totally understand, but it was still completely enthralling

I watched it again and again as I grew up. I started to mean more to me when I was older

As important as this movie is… The Last Unicorn isn’t a direct side-by-side comparison to who I am

Everything that happened in my life didn’t mirror the Last Unicorn… but I can understand why some people might think that. I can also understand how other people might relate to it-

“I can feel this body dying all around me!”

“I am a unicorn! I am a UNICORN!”

The Unicorn was turned into a human girl, and at first, that felt wrong to her. She was trapped, feeling like something she wasn’t supposed to be

However, the more time she spends as a human, the more she forgets being a unicorn. Eventually, she wants to stay human forever. She’s afraid to change back…

Until it has to happen. She is a unicorn again, she is herself again, but she also has her human memories and new emotions. After changing so much, she knows she has to keep living, no matter how hard it is

She also frees the other unicorns that have been trapped in the sea, and kills the monster that hunted them all down. That isn’t the focus to this story about identity, but it was still pretty bad-ass, and also something that stuck with me as a little kid

I never felt trapped by my own body. I never felt like I had to change into somebody else… but other people did make me feel like I had to hide. It wasn’t always possible, or safe, to just be myself all the time

When I was still very little, I just really liked the girls in stories the most. They were always my favorite. I wished I was like them. Then I realized, I could be. Then I knew who I was

I never was anything or anybody else

Even when I had to hide, and lie, and pretend… inside, I was still me

“Once, I can’t remember. I was, long ago, someone strange

I was innocent and wise, and full of pain

Now that I’m a woman, everything is strange

Once, when I was searching. Somewhere out of reach

Far away in a place I could not find, or heart obey

Now that I’m a woman, everything has changed”

I had to keep lying for a long time

Eventually, I stumbled into a place where I was finally free to just be myself

It wasn’t a magical transformation, it wasn’t a fairytale ending… but I was happy, and I was really ME

It felt like I found something I had been missing since I was little… I think a lot of people feel like if they don’t have certain kinds of happiness when they’re young, they’ll never have it at all. Like they missed their chance-

“Where have you been? Where have you been? Damn you, where have you been?

Where were you twenty years ago, ten years ago? Where were you when I was new? When I was one of those innocent young maidens you always come to?

How dare you come to me now, when I am this?”

As long as you are still alive, things can change. I had people who really cared about me, and I cared about them. I found my home. Part of my life finally seemed to begin…

 Then, they were gone. I couldn’t save them, or bring them back, or set them free. Part of my life seemed to die… even though I was still alive

I’m not slender

I’m not dainty or delicate

I don’t really wear make-up or jewelry

I never felt like I had to somehow be more “feminine”, or change my features to really be a woman

I’d still be a woman, no matter what I look like. That’s true for everybody- there isn’t a cookie-cutter standard to being a woman. People who act like there is are full of it

One thing I did want, though… I wanted to grow out my hair

Like  princess. A little cliché, I know

If I kept it short, I’d still be a woman. If I ever cut it again, or if it somehow burns off or falls out, I’ll still be a woman. I’ll always be me, because I always have been

I’m still happy that I can actually do this

A change for myself, that feels right, that I want

I didn’t get to be a princess when I was little… but I’m older now, and I can finally be all of myself

I’m alive, and I have a new home

[sailforvalinor]

📔

Since last year, I’ve had an idea for a Harry Potter fic rattling around in my head prompted by the realization that Lily’s death is necessary for the love-magic-protection that enables Harry to survive both killing curses, but James’s isn’t—what does the world look like if James Potter somehow survives? I came to the conclusion that because the protection spell that Dumbledore originally uses to protect Harry until he comes of age applies to those of Lily’s blood, he would still want him to live with the Dursley’s, and thus Dumbledore decides that the best course of action is for 21 year old, traumatized, newly-widowed James to fake his death. It’s safest for Harry, the Death Eaters already think he’s dead, and it’s really useful for Dumbledore to have a piece on the chessboard that both the Death Eaters and the Ministry don’t know about. James isn’t thrilled about this, but he’s too distraught (and too used to Dumbledore being right about everything) to argue. He’s really only a few years out of school, after all.

I know I had worked out all the logical kinks on this one at some point but I don’t really remember now—but the fic would involve James working as a sort of secret agent for Dumbledore, a wild card, if you will, while keeping an eye on Harry from afar. This James would be a little different than the one we’re familiar with—a bit more mature and serious, and of course absolutely wracked with guilt. He hardly resembles who he used to be after losing Lily, and he’s pretty dang desperate not to make any more mistakes, lose anyone else.

Snape of course is one of the only other people who would know James was alive, and the bad blood between them is as terrible as ever, as Snape would blame him for “letting” Lily get killed. (As if James doesn’t blame himself enough.)

Sirius would also know, as he was the first one to Godric’s Hollow after the attack and would have found James, but that doesn’t do much good after he’s arrested. The only way I can think to workaround the fact that Dumbledore would know Sirius was innocent if he had talked to James is if James was so seriously incapacitated after the attack on Godric’s Hollow (don’t ask how I don’t know. WAIT MAYBE IN THIS VERSION VOLDEMORT ENCOUNTERS LILY FIRST AND HER LOVE MAGIC EXTENDS TO BOTH HARRY AND JAMES??? OH MY GOSH???) that the “trial” occurs before James is lucid enough to talk and Dumbledore gives evidence against Sirius because he assumes he’s the Secret Keeper.

Other than fulfilling Dumbledore’s wishes and keeping an eye on Harry, James spends a lot of his time trying to figure out how to break Sirius out of Azkaban. Maybe he succeeds earlier than in the original series? He also is trying to hunt down Peter, of course—probably spots him in the newspaper like Sirius does. Or maybe he sees him with Ron while watching Harry?

Does Remus know that James is alive? I’m gonna say yes, but Dumbledore doesn’t know that. It makes no sense for him not to, he’s the only friend he has left.

I figure by Prisoner of Azkaban, James has had enough of Dumbledore’s nonsense and reveals himself to Harry—it would be pretty dang poetic if it’s during the first patronus scene, and it IS actually him casting it from across the lake. How would Harry react to finding out he’s been alive this whole time? Idk, it would be complicated, but man I’m getting emotional just thinking about it.

Also, while it does make sense that Dumbledore wouldn’t want James to use his original wand, I know it makes the most sense for James to have acquired a spare one somewhere—but the concept of James Potter with a Glock hit me over the head with a broom, and I’d love to somehow finagle it into making sense because can you imagine? Someone in the HP universe with a gun?? The comedic potential???

A dementor: *appears*

Harry and Sirius: “EXPECTO—“

James: *shoots it in the face*