#but my life has been so peaceful without fearing for that blue arrow

[killa-trav]

omg happy one week since i get the most disgusting hate anons of my life that was so bad i had to turn anons off!!!

[thomasshelbydrabbles]

The Spy (10/?)

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x Adeline Taylor (OC)

Warnings: period typical sexism, series typical violence, period typical views of PTSD, period typical racism, blood and gore, angst, sexual situations, infertility, loss of child

Summary: The morning after Adeline's reunited with the Shelby's, she learns more about what happened while she was away.

**Note: This is a series, so you should read The School Teacher and The Messenger first if you want to understand everything.**

Word Count: 2543

Author’s Note: I know it’s been forever. Life has been crazy. Let me know if you want added to the tag list.

Arrow House, 1924

Adeline woke before the sun. Tommy’s arms tightened around her, pulling her further into his body. A smile, small and fragile, spread across her lips. This moment felt perfect. So many things could have gone wrong last night. They’d been fighting on the back foot since she’d left the Darby years ago. She hated it. Waiting. Biding her time. Felt too much like the war, like that scared girl desperatly trying to hold the frayed edges of her sanity together. The girl who somehow thought things would get better, thought that she’d get better. When things inevitably went bad - quite bad given the various pieces currently on the board - she would remember the stillness of this moment. Tommy pressed a kiss to the back of her neck. 

“Why are you awake?

His voice was a sleep-rough whisper against her skin. 

“Didn’t mean to wake you. Go back to sleep.” 

She tried to shuffle forward in the bed. Tommy’s arms tightened, the sheets rustling as his body shuffled closer.

“Where are you goin’?”

“Hush. I’m going out to the stables. You’re still half asleep.”

Before she could move further, she found herself underneath a suddenly wide-awake Thomas Shelby. She blinked up at his blue eyes, allowing herself to drown in them. His hands on her body grounding her, reminding her that this was real. 

“Not waking up without you in me bed, Adeline. Not again.”

Her heart clenched. This pain she understood though because she shared it. Each morning she’d woken up without Tommy had broken a small piece of her. The longer she’d been with Sidney, the more she’d feared that so many small, broken pieces would add up to her whole self being destroyed long before they were reunited. Cupping his face with her hand she smiled up at him. 

“Then get up. I’m going to go visit my horse.” 

Tommy laughed as he leaned down, pressed a kiss to her lips. She felt the smile in it. 

“Sound like a Shelby with statements like that.”

“As good as. We’re stronger together,” Adeline admitted. The truth felt like glass in her throat, but she’d resolved to stop lying to herself. Everything Alfie had told her, everything she knew, but was terrified to admit to herself crystalized in that moment. Being apart had nearly killed her. Had nearly killed the family. Remaining together had to be better. “I don’t like it - I know the danger I putting you, the boys - Polly, everyone in. My waking nightmare from the war followed me home, and like an idiot, I brought it to your doorstep. It frightens me more than anything, but I learned my lesson. We Shelby’s are a formidable family when we’re united. It’s the best way to keep the nightmares at bay.” 

Tommy didn’t respond. His eyes never wavered and she found herself once again lost in the blue of them. How she’d managed to breathe without seeing his face might just prove her mother correct about God and miracles. Silently, Tommy lifted himself from the bed and Adeline found herself entranced by the feline grace with which he moved. She wet her bottom lip with her tongue, and caught the way Tommy’s gaze darkened when he caught it. 

“Go see to your horse before I change me mind and keep you wrapped up in bed all day,” Tommy ordered, a frown on his face. 

As though recognizing that a sort of fragile peace had descended upon the Shelby household, the skies were a clear blue when Adeline walked to the stables. The air still had a bite to it, but she enjoyed the way it smelled. Not all countryside smelled the same. When she’d been with Sidney, there’d been plenty of fresh air, plenty of countryside, but it smelled of France, of fucking Russia. Nothing smelled like England, and here at Arrow House, she could still catch the faintest whiff of Birmingham in the air. Of course, when she’d first told Tommy that years ago, he’d laughed, then frowned and threatened to find a new house, one without the stench of “fuckin’ Birmingham” tainting it. When she’d told him she quite liked the way it smelled because it signaled home to her, he’d fucked her there in the open for God and all to see. He’d spent the rest of the day picking random pieces of grass from her hair. 

“There’s my girl,” Adeline said, a note of reverence in her tone. “Have you missed me? The lads been taking good care of you?” 

Renata nickered at her, nosed against her hand. She knew Curly had taken excellent care of the horse. As Tommy’d told her, he was part horse himself. Adeline chuckled as she pulled a quartered apple from her pocket. Holding the treat up, she smiled at Renata who gummed it into her mouth. 

“There now, see? I know better than to come back empty-handed,” Adeline told her as she passed another piece of apple along. As apologies went, she still found it ridiculous, but given her current circumstance, she wondered if presenting each member of the Shelby household with a horse of their own would help smooth things over for her. Maybe two horses. And an apple. 

Walking to the tack neatly sorted along the back wall, she felt Renata’s eyes on her, a small smile on her face at the knowledge. Adeline shook her head; the horse was just like Tommy in that way, always watching her. Selecting a brush from the wall, she tested the fibers against the palm of her hand before taking it back to the stall. Letting herself in, she slowly trailed her hand down Renata’s back, up to her neck; made sure to scratch behind her ears before beginning to brush her. Adeline found the routine calming. The mindlessness of the task allowed her brain to still, at least for a moment. 

For a while, she’d had a horse in France, well, it wasn’t exactly hers, but she’d had unfettered access to him, and they’d bonded. Of course, one morning when she’d gone out to the stables to greet him, the 14-hand midnight black Andalusian was gone. Glancing down at Renata, she blinked back tears. Asking about that black horse never crossed her mind back then. Like so many things during the war, the horse existed in a state of ephemerality. Part of why she liked Birmingham was that it was so opposite - nothing changed, not anything of significance.  

“He almost shot her one night,” John’s voice broke the peace of the moment. 

Adeline’s hands stilled as his words registered. Spinning on her heel to face him, she knew her face must be a mess of emotions. “What?” 

“Tom got drunk, well, he was always fuckin’ drunk, but this night was different. Been ‘bout six months since you’d abandoned ‘im, abandoned us. Pol, well, she’d taken to followin’ ‘im ‘round, makin’ sure he didn’t do nothin’ foolish. Saw him wavin’ his pistol ‘round like a bloody lunatic. Got to ‘im just in time, too. She hauled him by his ear back into the house. Me ‘n Arthur put him to bed.” 

Her grip on the brush tightened, knuckles turning white. She opened her mouth, but what the fuck could she say? 

“Didn’t think ‘bout it at the time, but Michael and Isaiah went down to London. Nothin’ too strange ‘bout that now, not with Alfie, but there’d been this weird fight at the Garrison ‘round that time, too. They didn’t go to London, though, did they?” 

Adeline shook her head. Turning away from Renata, she left the stable, ignoring the way her hands trembled. Facing the tack wall, she walked to it, placed the brush back, and grabbed a set of tack. Draping them over the stall door, she attempted to gather her thoughts. Leaving had been nearly impossible. As though she’d left her skin behind, and only her bones had gone with Sidney that day. Coming back felt impossible. Stepping back into the skin she’d left behind impossible. The parts didn’t fit together anymore. Her bones had been warped into something different. She hadn’t expected anyone to make it easy for her. Knew they’d each take their pound of flesh, but John’s reaction seemed deeper. Like he was working out his demons on her. If that’s what he needed, then she’d let him take it, but she’d get around to discovering what was truly bothering him. Later. Once he’d worked it all out on her. If nothing else, her skin was thick. 

“You Shelby’s have all created this fuckin’ perfect image of me, even though you’ve only known this version of me, but John,” Adeline paused, took a breath. “Sidney - he’s seen so much more of me. Second only to Alfie, and even then it would be a coin toss difference. Sidney…broke parts of me, stole parts that I’ll never get back because time doesn’t fix everything. I couldn’t risk him breaking any of you because the thought of what he might do, what he could do to any of you - those thoughts keep me up at night.”

She watched his brow furrow. Saw him take the toothpick from his mouth, then stick it right back in as though he’d forgotten what he’d meant to do with it in the first place. She understood.

“Sounds like you’re scared of ‘im.” 

“Aye.” 

“Not like you to be scared of someone.” 

Adeline laughed bitterly. “Oh John-boy, it’s very like me to be scared of Sidney. Been scared of him since the day we met. I work hard to hide it, to pretend it’s not true because it would give him a sort of power over me that I cannot abide, but I still think he knows. Pretty sure he enjoys it. Can’t blame him for it. You’d enjoy it too if you knew you were the only person in the whole bloody world that terrified Arke.”

John became so still that Adeline wondered if he was even breathing. “What did he do to you, Addie?”

Tears burned in her eyes. She blinked furiously to hold them back. Damn Shelby’s. Still, she squared her shoulders and faced him. She’d promised no more running.

“You were in the war,” Adeline spoke, the words harsh. “What do you think he did to a naive young woman to transform her into the most whispered-about weapon the British had during the war? I was the shadow behind every nightmare. I was the warning tale whispered about in corridors. I’ve blood on my hands, John - so much of it I could fill the Thames.” 

Adeline’s shoulders sagged. She abandoned the pretense of saddling Renata and closed the stall firmly behind her. When she’d first come back, when Alfie’d found her, she’d dream about it - those first days with George - Sidney. How Alfie had known to provide her with some training, to teach her how to survive during their sojourn to Calais…it didn’t matter, but she’d owe him for that until the day she died. 

“I thought he was dead,” Adeline whispered, words caught in her throat. “Killed a lot of men to make sure I died with him. That Arke died with him. That day at the races - he was there. Like a ghost. Like a nightmare. But I couldn’t wake up from this one. Not this time. Me luck had run out.” 

“Should have trusted us to help you.” 

Oh how she wanted to slap him. Instead, she closed her hand into a fist, and clenched her jaw so tightly it ached. “You’re not fuckin’ listening.”

John shook his head. “You and Tom both treat the rest of us like bloody bin-men. Just good enough for a fuckin’ catch and ferry. Do this. Kill ‘im. Collect the money.” 

“Men like Sidney don’t bother with bin-men, John.” 

“I don’t need you bloody well protectin’ me all the time.” 

“Good thing I don’t do it for you. I’m a fuckin’ selfish woman, John boy. I protect you, I do everything I can think of to keep you, all of you, safe because I wouldn’t survive your loss. Hate me if you need to,” Adeline nodded. “Dead men don’t hate. Dead men are just dead.” 

John didn’t respond. He kept looking at her though. Like every other man in her life, she wondered what he looked for, what he saw. She didn’t ask. Tried to avoid asking questions she didn’t want answered. She knew, now - years too late, of course, what Sidney meant about having weaknesses. Not only had she failed to kill the one person who could destroy her without actually taking her life, she’d brought him a whole family to use against her. Maybe it was cowardly of her to want to keep them all safe, keep them for herself, keep them away from Sidney and his machinations. Perhaps John was right, too. Doubting them, doubting their skill, their ability to stay alive, to fight - it was both insulting and dangerous. A thin line between knowing they’re the Peaky Blinders scared of nothing and no one, and getting themselves killed for being fools. They were all fools in the end. 

After long moments, John nodded his head. He took the tack from her and walked over to Renata. Adeline followed him, watched the way he ran his hands over her flank, teased her nose with his fingers. Like Tommy, he seemed a natural with the horse. 

“You know Linda’s your fault,” John said as though commenting on the weather. 

Adeline smirked, thankful for the ceasefire. Seemed she might get her family back in spite of her missteps and Sidney’s continued fucking existence. 

“My fault?”

John nodded. “Arthur fell apart when you left. Snow.” 

Adeline cursed under her breath. 

“Not sure even Arthur remembers how he met Linda, but one day she was just there. Thought Pol was gonna take her tongue the first time they met with the way Linda was goin’ on ‘bout God and damnnation, but then Arthur started gettin’ better. Less snow. Less drinkin’. ‘Course he had a woman at home tellin’ him exactly what to eat, when to sleep - when to work, or not work.”

“What’s she got to do with business?”

“Nothin’,” John told her with a shake of his head. “She doesn’t believe in what we do. Don’t mind livin’ on the money Arthur brings home, but she convinced Arthur to only work during the day. See, the devil works at night, and she calls what we do the devil’s work. Has him home each night for supper.”

Adeline snorted. “We both know it’s not supper she wants him home for.” 

“Figured as much. Since Arthur wouldn’t make anything official with you gone, figured she’d be looking for other ways to attach herself to the family.” 

Adeline froze, a whole new type of terror gripping her. Everything about Linda made her want to shoot the woman between the eyes and be done with it, but if she’d kept Arthur alive while she’d been…away, then perhaps she owed the woman an opportunity to fall in line. But, she knew women like Linda. Been raised by one. 

“If she gets pregnant I’ll throw her in the Cut myself soon as the babe’s born.”

Tag List: @stevie75  @muhahaha303  @highgardenrosexx @dolllol2405 @allie131313 @shaddixlife 

Master List

[papertoashesandashestodust]

Dear Love (2024)

She was my classmate's sister's classmate, A vision of beauty! Smart, graceful, fair An angel with gentle charm beyond compare.

We first met in the school canteen In front of the drink stall, It was like I was in a dream The words escaped my lips, unplanned "She's beautiful" I breathlessly whispered to my friend

(If only the friend had stayed discreet that day And not gave this admission away This secret would be buried within And there would be no what-ifs to begin No internal struggles as I grappled with this sin)

She was unsmiling that afternoon But I remember her ponytail that shakes and sways Brightens even the gray-est day Her smile, a sunbeam, pierces the night Leaving hearts warm and filled with light Her laugh, a soft and joyous chime, Echoes sweetly, stopping time.

My senior in an all-girls school  She requested for a letter of ardour penned,  I burned to pour out my soul page after page,  And declare a love defying age.

5 pages - she thought too highly of me  My heart may be on fire with a poet's passion aglow,  But my words could not capture love's endless flow.  I have no talent for poetic rhyme, My literary skill has not improved with time

Fears of abandonment loomed,  When she'd graduate So when my hopes will be entombed.  As the days passed and the date she'll leave drew near What I had to do (what I thought I had to do) Became increasingly clear

We were young then People assumed we wouldn't comprehend What love is, its different forms They would be quick to condemn I imagined her bright future In mixed gender company and better days While I am part of a dark history Forgotten in memory's haze.

The letter I could not bring to light,  A door to bliss was sealed that night.  I turned paper to ashes and ashes to dust Perhaps it was for the better, no history penned,  The wiser decision lest in future, she her past condemn.

I argue with myself I tell myself it is cleaner, clearer…  It is wiser this way  We who live in society still need to care what others will say "In our society, this can't be right, A girl with a girl - outrage and blight."

My insecurities consumed like fire,  Fanned by dread of heart's desire.  Rejection's sting, I couldn't be brave,  Though your attention, your affection I did crave

It was not rejection of you that held me back But clear knowledge of what I lack I wish to be the wind beneath your wings Selfless and giving Without the cruel judgement this world can bring

Though 23 years have swiftly flown by,  Memories with her evoke a wistful sigh.  She's moved on, married, all this is in the past  If we met again, a second glance won't last. Ring's on the ring finger, clearly within sight The decision made then should thus be right

Decades later now I still wonder Was it adolescent infatuation? Or love's thunder? This bolt out of the blue could be Cupid's arrow? You were my first love, and you are my forever love It has been so many years yet I still feel the sorrow What if I made a different decision that day Could we still have found a way?

What if I try write again what I have wrote…

Dear Love! 

In the dark sky, you are still my only moon, Even in the brightest of day, you outshine the noon Surrounded by the brightest of a billion brilliant stars I look up to you from a distance I admire you from afar I adore you fiercely and endlessly Though I hide it deeply so no one would see

I loved you, love you, will always love you  I will be 100% honest. I will never harass you  I will never wish you harm I pray you find an oasis in every desert,  In every storm you have peace and calm

You have found a husband and a home May happiness be with you wherever you are,  And your family and friends be blessed, both near and far.

Every step of the way Every start of the day Life's every stage and many parts I wish you joy and good fortune from the depths of my heart.

[heliads]

Can you do an imagine with prompt 19 and Isaac and the reader from Rehearsals? They’re newlyweds and don’t have kids. Isaac is out of town with some friends from work. One of his friends is getting married, and it’s his bachelor party weekend. After a night out, the guys go back to the hotel they’re staying in, and Isaac calls the reader and asks how she’s doing. They’re in different time zones. In Beacon Hills, it’s the afternoon. Wherever Isaac is, it’s nighttime.

rehearsals isaac my beloved...

part two / masterlist

There’s a group of teenagers running in the street past your house. Their faces are twisted by something a little more than play, a little less than fear. They run as if the running will save them, and if you were to call out one thing to them, it would be that running never makes anything go away, just pushes it back for a little while.

But you don’t call out to them, you stay silent and watch from the door of your house. You can remember what it was like to be that young and that desperate to live, and although growing up may not have taken away your empathy, it has reminded you that not every shout is a matter of life and death. They aren’t in danger, they aren’t like you. They aren’t supernatural.

It’s funny to think now that all of that is over. You have moved on from Beacon Hills, you’re no longer a high school kid stuck in that same cycle of having to worry about math quizzes and bow and arrow-toting hunters all in one day. Sometimes, you can’t decide whether that change is for better or worse, but it’s over now.

In a way, you almost thought that you would never truly leave it. Was there ever a chance that Beacon Hills would relinquish its hold on you, let you go out into the world and leave it behind? Some part of you thought you would never truly be more than a high-spirited kid, locked in a battle too fierce to handle and left to burn out once the battles were through.

Luckily, the future wasn’t that bleak. You grew up and grew out of the person you were, even without realizing that past you wasn’t permanent. Soon, you were laughing over memories of you and the McCall pack in high school- what were you thinking, to do all that? It seemed so right at the time, and it was, but what a life to lead. You don’t pity her, the girl you were, but send a silent thought to your old self: it gets better from here on out.

Footsteps cross the hall, and then someone’s standing beside you, leaning against the frame of the door as he looks out. Isaac Lahey is older than he was when he first met you, but his blue eyes shine just as bright as the first time you met him.

He smiles, glancing at the kids still running past. “Thinking about the good old days?”

You laugh. “Something like that.”

Isaac is quite possibly one of the best parts of growing up. You were terrified at times that you would lose him, that the real test of your relationship wouldn’t be risking your lives for each other every other night but what happened when everything settled down, when the only thing waiting for you was each other. Without a near-constant adrenaline rush, what would become of you?

Happiness, as it turned out. You are happier now than you have been in a long time. Finally, you think you have an answer to a question that’s been stuck in the back of your head for a long time. What happens to the teenage heroes when they grow up, stop being so reckless and brave? According to the movies, your golden age ended the second you graduated, but you think you beg to differ.

What you have now is good, just as good as that time spent running with the pack in high school. There is no terrible thing to be found in peace, just a knowledge that you’re doing better. You do not hate yourself for not fighting anymore, you love that you have the chance to lay down your weapons. Isaac Lahey looked at a talkative young witch in charge of a high school musical and said yes, I could love her. You’ve learned to trust that he was right.

Isaac reaches a hand out now, wrapping his left hand around yours. He does this often, claiming that it’s because he likes being close to you, but you know the way his gaze flickers proudly to the two metal bands around your finger. You’ve been married not three months, but it feels like the greatest victory you’ve ever had in your entire life.

You look up from the rings to him, and smile in spite of yourself. No, you may not be in danger anymore, but you’re still doing alright for yourself. Isaac loves you like a saint to his icons, every morning holy when it’s just you and him. There is no goodness like moving on from fear.

Outside, the kids keep running and disappear around a corner. The sounds of their shouts and yells echo off the walls, but they don’t sound troubled. It’s a beautiful day, dusk just setting in. Danger has no hold on you, not here.

The sun is high in the sky as you stand outside the airport, one hand waving in goodbye. Isaac’s been called away to visit some friends from work. The guy is getting married a few states over, and wants Isaac to be there for his bachelor party weekend. Your husband (what a thing to say) will be gone for a week or so, and then he’ll be back home.

You watch Isaac head away now. You walked with him as far as you could, but you can only go so far. He smiles and waves one last time before turning down a narrow hall, one carry on bag slung over his shoulder. Isaac has already promised to call about a thousand times, and you think he just might manage it.

It’s about halfway between afternoon and darkest night, and you’ve already spent a good time pacing around your kitchen pretending that you’re not looking at the phone when it finally rings. You pick it up happily, not even needing Isaac to name himself before you know it’s him. He sounds good, tired but glad to be with his friends.

“How’s the prettiest person in the world doing?”

You laugh at his question. “I don’t know, how are you?”

Sometimes, your friends wonder how Isaac seems just as infatuated with you as the day you met. He still tries his hand at cheesy pickup lines, offers you his jacket on windy days even when he looks absolutely freezing. Maybe it’s because when you find someone who understands you more than anything, who’s seen all your flaws and chooses to love you anyway, you can’t shake your surprise that they stay with you after everything. It’s how you feel about him, to be sure.

Isaac’s chuckle transforms into a quiet rumble of static over the phone. “I’m not bad. It’s been good to see everyone. I’ve already bragged about you and your directorial achievements a good few times.”

You grin to yourself, absentmindedly twirling in a neat circle on your kitchen floor. “You can’t talk about me too much, they’ll get sick of it.”

You can sense Isaac rolling his eyes across the phone. “Then they should learn to deal with it. You happen to be my favorite topic of conversation.”

You lean against a wall, one hand holding the phone to your ear. “How’s the party? Have you all had a chance to get blackout drunk yet?”

A rush of static that sounds like it could be the aftereffect of a shrug echoes through the phone. “Only once. I’ll have you know that the other guys are stunned at my ability to not get drunk or hungover.”

You can feel a smile tugging at your lips, threatening to pull you under. “Have you told them it’s because you’re secretly a werewolf?”

Isaac’s voice takes on a warm tone, as if he’s smiling. “I haven’t brought that up yet. I’m waiting for a particularly grueling round of icebreakers with the groom’s family when I can reveal my true identity. It has to have the maximum effect, you know.”

You laugh. “Of course. If you’re going to expose yourself as a werewolf, you might as well make it worth it.”

The sound of Isaac’s laugh should be bottled and kept on museum shelves forever. “I’m glad you understand, I knew you would. How are you, by the way? It’s late over here, but I imagine it’s a little brighter over on your end.”

You nod, staring out the windows. “We’ve got a few more hours of daylight, I think. Things are going well. Oh, you won’t believe the rumor I just heard. They say the Beacon Hills theater department might lose their head teacher in a couple of years or so.”

The image of Isaac in your head widens his eyes, and if you try hard enough, you think you can hear it in his voice. “No. You think they might be looking for a replacement?”

You shrug, forgetting for a moment that he can’t see it. “Maybe. It won't be for a while.”

Isaac clicks his tongue. “Y/N Lahey, are you thinking about looking into this? I can sense that there’s something going on in that pretty, absolutely brilliant head of yours.”

You smile at the phrase, and the way he knows you without you even having to explain yourself. “I can’t decide whether I want to or not. It wouldn’t be all bad to see the place again, after all. We should probably make sure the supernaturals haven’t burned themselves to the ground.”

The witch part of you jumps at the chance. Living in Beacon Hills as someone who wasn’t entirely human was great- your spells had never been stronger, and you’d been able to have plenty of chances to use your magic to save the lives of the McCall pack. Although it’s been wonderful to live a life outside of the town for a little while, you can’t deny that it appears in your dreams every now and then, offering you a chance to go back.

Judging by the hopeful tint of Isaac’s tone, he might have been thinking the same thing. “It might be fun to visit again, right? I mean, that place was everything to us. There had to be a reason, and I’d love to see if it changes us now that we’re older.”

That’s the side of Isaac you’d thought you’d hear, the part you’d hoped to appear so much that you’d told him about the news so he could sway you over to looking into it. To be able to return to Beacon Hills as an adult, someone with more expertise and years under their belt, someone who can see the good parts of a town that scarred you more than you and your nostalgia care to admit- well, that would be everything.

Isaac speaks again, and you realize that you paused for a while. “Y/N? You’re a little quiet over there.”

You sigh, but you do it with a smile. “Just thinking. They haven’t said anything about opening up the post to applications, but if they did, I think I’d like to look into it. Feels like I’ve been waiting for a chance like this for a while.”

Isaac’s voice is quiet, brought low by the late hour. “I know what you mean. Every now and then, I think about what it was like back there. We all miss our hometowns, but I think this is something different. I think this is our place. Our home.”

You nod, tilting your head back to stare at the ceiling. “I don’t know that we could ever truly leave. For happiness or ruin. We’re not human, and Beacon Hills was the best chance we had at accepting that.”

It’s the truth, as much as you hate to admit it. No one in your new town knows that you’re supernatural, and you’ve had to hide your gifts as best you could. Isaac stays inside on full moons, keeping to himself and refusing to let his eyes glow gold. He hasn’t transformed in a while. You don’t perform spells unless you have to, when the neighbors are nowhere in sight and all of your doors are closed and windows shuttered.

You’ve told yourself that it was growth, learning to live without being on the run, but what if you could live as your true self again? Isaac would go anywhere for you, you know that. The thought of going back to a town where you could embrace your supernatural side sounds perfect.

You tap your phone absentmindedly. “Let’s talk about it more, once you get back. I think this might be a good thing for us.”

Isaac seems happy to hear it. “I think so too.”

You pass the time on the phone, watching the sun fade behind clouds as Isaac’s voice spills into your kitchen. There’s something new building in your heart, something you treasure. It’s hope, hope for a new chapter of your life. You’d seen something like this in a prophecy spell you did years ago, around the same time as your senior musical. It’s a chance to go back, to return home. You and Isaac, where you belong once more. It’s a dream you can’t wait to follow.

teen wolf tag list: @thatfangirl42, @rogueanschel, @lovesanimals0000, @rafecameronswhore

[jxsatlas]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐏𝐀𝐋𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐍 ⇢ keith kogane, ch. 3

keith kogane x gn! reader – previous

DISCLAIMER! this story does not originally belong to me, the author is @MaddieWolf37 on Wattpad. i have simply received permission to rewrite and continue her story. go and check out her profile for the original version!

SYNOPSIS! a story in which you are thrown into the middle of an intergalactic space war and have the undesirable weight of being a symbol of peace dropped on your shoulders. but maybe if you look past the constant danger and endless fighting, there's some good to being a paladin of voltron.

MATURE CONTENT! swearing, violence, gore, war, graphic descriptions, mentions of self-harm

You step into the tent, eyes wide at the sight of three unconscious scientists scattered around the ground. Straight ahead, Keith is carefully pulling Shiro off of the metal table and trying to sling Shiro's arm around him.

"Nope! No! I'm saving Shiro," Lance says and takes Shiro's other arm and tosses it around his shoulders.

"Uh... who are you?" Keith asks, furrowing his brows at Lance in confusion.

"The name's Lance?" your brother says, but Keith only blinks at him. Lance feigns a look of hurt and disappointment. How could his self-proclaimed rival not recognise him? "We were in the same class at the Garrison? We were like rivals. You know, Lance and Keith, neck and neck?"

"Really? Are you... an engineer?" Keith asks.

"What? No! I'm a pilot," Lance frowns.

Keith narrows his eyes at Lance for a moment before it clicks. His face relaxes. "Oh... yeah, I remember you. You're a cargo pilot."

"Well, not anymore. I'm fighter class now, thanks to you washing out," Lance sasses.

"Congratulations," Keith says in a low tone, not interested.

You roll your eyes at their interaction and place a hand on your hip. "Are you two just gonna sweet talk each other or are we gonna take Shiro and get out of here?" you ask.

Keith looks up at the sound of your voice, recognising it. He stares at you for a bit, unintentionally. It's been a while since he's seen you, and he could honestly that say he missed you.

You were the only person he truly got along with at the Garrison, so it's reasonable for him to feel that way.

"Well?" you ask, quirking an eyebrow.

Keith blinks, breaking his stare and bringing him back to reality. "Taking Shiro and getting out of here," he says.

You all rush out of the tent as fast as you can with an unconscious person in your arms. As the others make their way to Keith's hoverbike, You take a quick look to see what's going on with the Garrison.

"Oh, that's not good," you say and spin on your heel quickly. You scurry over to the hoverbike. "We should really get moving! The Garrison is coming back and they do not look happy!"

Pidge climbs onto the hoverbike. "Hey, is this gonna fit all of us?"

As Keith sits down at the helm, Hunk climbs onto the back, causing the back to drop downwards. "No," he grumbles.

But he doesn't bother wasting time when all of you are on and ready to go. He revs the engine and the hoverbike roars to life, lifting up into the air a few feet.

And right as the Garrison comes around the tent, Keith does a sharp 180 and heads in the opposite direction. He speeds away with the Garrison pursuing without hesitation.

To fight against the inertia, you grab ahold of Keith who you sit right behind. And you don't plan on letting go anytime soon, scared you'll fall off.

Pidge has his arms hooked under Shiro's. "Why am I holding this guy?" he asks, but he's left unanswered.

Lance looks at the Garrison behind us. They were getting closer by the second. "Can't this thing go any faster?"

"We can toss off some non-essential weight," Keith says bitterly.

"Oh, right!" Lance chirps and looks around to see what could be tossed off the hoverbike. But when he finds nothing and realises Keith was talking about Hunk, he rolls his eyes. "Okay, so that was an insult."

Keith shouts over his shoulder at Hunk. "Big man, lean left!"

Hunk does so and the hoverbike sharply veers left, quickly evading the gaining pursuers. The Garrison tries to match the sudden movement, but two of the vehicles chasing after you crash into each other.

"Aw, man!" Hunk whines. "Mr. Harris just wiped out Professor Montgomery!"

You look over your shoulder behind you and see the two vehicles rolling and flipping. You frown. You hope they're okay.

"Big man! Lean right!" Keith orders and Hunk listens to him again. As the hoverbike tips to the right, jumping over a canyon and to the narrow ledge on the other side, you make the mistake of looking down below.

Your body tingles with adrenaline as you watch the ground disappear for a second too long, not enjoying the sight at all.

"Not cool! Not cool!" You say and squeeze your eyes shut. You don't usually have a fear of heights. But it's one thing when you're piloting an aircraft, and a completely different thing when you're riding on the back of a hoverbike where falling off is a very prominent thing.

"Are you seriously scared of heights?" Lance asks, picking up on the reason why you suddenly got anxious. "You're a freaking pilot!"

"This is different!" you bark back at him.

"Wait! Guys! Is that cliff up ahead?" Hunk asks, pointing ahead. You turn back around and you squeak at the sight of the sudden drop getting closer and closer.

"Oh, no, no, no, no!" Lance shouts.

"Yep," Keith smirks and increases the speed, practically flying towards the cliff.

Everyone, except for Keith and Shiro, who is still very much unconscious, clambers and screams incoherently as Keith heads straight for the cliff and drives right off.

You feel your stomach fly up to your chest as you fall, your butt lifting off the seat. The butterflies make your entire body buzz with fear and you tighten your arms around Keith. If you fall off now, there's no doubt you'll be dead.

And flat as a pancake.

"What are you doing!? You're gonna get us killed!" Lance shouts, his eyes wide with fear. His grip is tight on the hoverbike. He doesn't want to fall off either.

"Just shut up and trust me!" Keith shouts back at him.

"I trust you!" you shout, squeezing your eyes shut once again. You truly do. Even though Keith was reckless and quite the trouble maker back at the Garrison, You know he wouldn't intentionally put you in danger without a way to get you out of it.

You fall for what seems like an eternity before Keith rolls the throttle all the way, maxing out the power of the engines. The hoverbike stops just before it hits the ground. Your butt hits the seat pretty hard and you wince.

That's definitely gonna be a bruised tailbone.

With the Garrison having no way to get down the cliff and chase after you, Keith drives off into the desert.

﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋

Inside of an old cabin in the middle of what seems to be nowhere, the group lays about. Lance sits on the edge of a surprisingly soft sofa with you laying across the majority of it, your head in his lap. He has his arms hanging on the back and his head resting on his shoulder. The two of you snooze away.

Pidge and Hunk are across the room sitting on the floor, talking about tech and engineering. Keith is outside with Shiro.

When you were waiting for Shiro to wake up, you had a chance to catch up with Keith. You hugged him and conversed with him happily. He seemed to enjoy talking to me too again, a faint smile on his face.

Although Lance glared at you from across the room the entire time. The boys have a mutual dislike for each other, so Lance didn't take too kindly to you talking to Keith. But you think Lance feels the said dislike more. Keith doesn't seem to care most of the time, but Lance can and will get on his nerves.

Nevertheless, you genuinely missed Keith. You were pretty good friends with him. In fact, you think you were his only friend at the Garrison.

You stir awake when Keith and Shiro walk back into the cabin rather loudly. You rub the sleep from your eyes and sit up. You stretch your arms out with a yawn, accidentally smacking your brother in the face.

Lance jolts awake with a small yelp.

"Oh, sorry," you say. Lance grumbles under his breath and sits up. He yawns as well.

"What have you been working on?" Shiro asks slowly.

You turn my attention to the other side of the room. Keith holds a large cloth in his hands, having pulled it off of the wall. And on the wall are pictures of caves carvings and odd locations and maps of the desert pinned onto it with tacs and tape. Messy red arrows and circles are marked onto said maps, pointing out places in the desert. But not as much as an area at the center of the map, where a large, overlapping circle was scribbled down.

With curiosity overpowering your sleepiness, you rest your chin in your palm and lean forward with interest. "What's that?" you ask.

"It's... kinda hard to explain?" Keith says with a shrug. "After getting booted from the Garrison, I felt... lost?" he says with a somber expression.

Keith points to the large circle on the map. "But I was drawn to this place. It was like something, some energy, was telling me to search," he says.

"For what?" Shiro asks.

"I'm not sure," Keith answers. "But when I did search, I came across a cave system with all these ancient carvings. Each depicting a slightly different story about a Blue Lion, and some... arrival happening," he explains and points to the photos on the wall before looking at Shiro. "Then you showed up."

Shiro hums, a small, impressed smile tugging at his lips. He turns to you, Lance, Hunk, and Pidge, who are clumped together across the room. "I should thank you all for getting me out of there," he says.

Shiro reaches his robotic arm out to Lance. An awestruck expression takes over my brother's face. On the outside, he appears rather calm. But on the inside, he's most likely freaking out about the fact that his idol is wanting to shake his hand.

"You're Lance, right?" Shiro asks.

Lance nods with a wide smile, firmly grasping Shiro's metal hand and shaking it.

Shiro turns to you. "And... [y/n]?" he guesses your name and you nod.

"Yep! That's me!" you affirm and shake Shiro's hand as well.

"I'm Pidge, and the nervous guy is Hunk," the short ginger says and points to Hunk, who is pulling at his fingers, with his thumb. "Do you know if the rest of your crew made it?"

You glance at Pidge. He seems to be pretty hung up on Shiro's crewmates. You slowly get lost in your thoughts wondering why.

Could he possibly be related to any of them? Or at least a good friend to one?

Pidge gives you a strange look and you realise you're staring. You flash him an embarrassed smile and look away.

"I don't know," Shiro says after taking a moment to dig through his memories. "My brain is still pretty scrambled. But one thing sticks out. I kept hearing the word Voltron, over and over. It's some kind of weapon."

You blink. "That's what Pidge was hearing on the radio!" you point out.

Pidge nods. "Yeah, I picked it up on alien radio chatter when scanning the solar system," he rephrases.

"Maybe those were the aliens that captured Shiro?" Lance suggests.

"Well, we need to find this Voltron before the aliens do," Shiro says with a sharp tone of determination.

"But how are we gonna do that?" Lance asks.

He's got a point. "Yeah, we don't even know what Voltron looks like," you say.

"I got that doodle in my notebook?" Pidge says.

"Sorry, Pidge, but your artist's rendition isn't the best," Lance says. You smack his arm and he smacks yours in return.

Hunks smiles. "I don't think Pidge's drawing skills will be a problem," he says and picks up Pidge's backpack. "Because I was looking through his stuff–"

Pidge snatches his bag from Hunk and holds it away from him. "What were you doing looking through my stuff?" he asks sharply.

Hunk rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. "Looking for a snack," he says. "Anyways, I was looking through his diary and–"

"You did what?" Pidge growls. He seems to like his privacy.

"–and I noticed a repeating series of numbers that kinda look like a Fraunhofer line," Hunk quickly finishes talking before Pidge has a chance to interrupt him again.

"A frown-what?" Keith asks and you, him, and Lance give a quizzical look.

"Sorry, we have the brains of pilots," you say.

"That's fine," Hunk shrugs and proceeds to explain what he's talking about. "It's a number describing the emission spectrum of an element. But this element doesn't exist on earth, so I was thinking it could be this Voltron?"

You nod, understanding a little bit more of his engineer mind, but not really. He used too big of words.

"I think I can build something to track it, like a Voltron Geiger counter," Hunk says.

Lance flashes an impressed grin and crosses his arms. "Hunk, you big gassy genius!" he praises.

"It's pretty great," Hunk smiles bashfully at the compliment. He then reaches into his pocket and pulls out a sheet of paper with a sort of graph on it. He holds it up for everyone to see. "It looks like this."

Keith snatches the paper from Hunk and examines it closely. He furrows his brows and turns to one of the photos pinned up on the wall, something connecting in his brain. He holds the graph up next to a photo of rocky outcropping somewhere in the desert.

The line matches the shape of the tall, jagged rocks eerily well. You all share a look, concluding that that's the next place you need to go.

[wesimpforxiao]

Say My Name and I’ll Be There: 10.2

Author’s Note: I got all 4 wisdom teeth removed on Tuesday and now I look a bit like a chipmunk hehehe XD

"Haah...ngh..."  Squinted eyelids prevented you from panicking at the sight of the branch retracting from your abdomen while you slowly pulled yourself away from the tree.  Still, the movement only enhanced the stars that obscured your vision.

"Your opponent's right here."  A cold warning caught your attention, and you glanced up to see Childe with another arrow knocked against his bow and aimed at Scaramouche's head.  Apparently the sixth harbinger was contemplating on striking you down while you moved.  "Your fight is with me."

"You have three seconds before I end you for betraying the will of the Tsaritsa," he growled back.

"Well, Mezzetin? What're you waiting for? Get out of here."

"Mhmm..."  You scooped up a handful of snow and pressed it to your stomach.  You don't have to tell me twice.  You turned your back to them, trusting Childe with your literal life in his hands, and--froze.  Dammit.  Why is he throwing his life away for me? He has a family to return to.  "Childe-"

"Go! I can handle him."

You peered over your shoulder to gaze at his profile.  He didn't bother looking your way which was the smart move given the dangerous situation.  His expression was nothing less than determined and focused on the opponent in front of him.  "Be careful."

Childe didn't respond, though his lips did twitch slightly upward at your heartfelt warning.  The sound of retreating footsteps that crunched in the snow allowed him to breathe a sigh of relief. He dismissed his bow and summoned two hydro blades in his hands.  "Now then.  I've been wanting to fight you for awhile now.  What do you say we have ourselves a friendly fight to the death? Show me your strength."

.................................

"What do you think you're doing?"  A faceless god struck Xiao across the face and sent him sprawling to the ground.  "You have the audacity to disobey my commands?  Who do you think you are? You are nothing without me.  You hear? You're nothing, Alatus."

Xiao licked the blood that covered his teeth and bit his lip to prevent himself from fighting back.  This wasn't a new occurrence by any means...or at least, the little rebellion wasn't.  He would fight, claw his way out of this god's grasp if he could, but every day he was back at square one:  nothing but a slave.

"What's your excuse this time," the god questioned, yanking Xiao into the air by construing a firm grip in the adeptus's hair, "that you couldn't fulfill your duty?  Did it make you sick, killing those creatures?  Exterminating those gods that were strangers to you?  You're weak.  You're worthless.  You're worthless!"  

The god dropped Xiao and he fell to his knees.  He couldn't bring himself to speak with the growing lump in his throat and the tears burning his eyes.  Who was he but a murderer now?  Could his soul even be redeemed for the sins he's committed?  He's only been in this god's grasp for a couple months now, but the amount of beings he's killed is--

"I have a special punishment for you."  The god summoned what looked to be a young god, no older than a child and an orphan by the tear stains on his cheeks.  He was beaten, like this god had already decided to have his way with the child; bruises colored his pale malnourished flesh with blues and purples.  There was no light in the kid's eyes; they were empty, devoid of hope, devoid of rage, devoid of even sadness.

The sight alone was enough to scar Xiao.  Would he too become devoid of all emotion in due time?

His master shoved the god spawn forward so he fell before Xiao's stiff body.  "Kill him."

"What?"

"You heard me loud and clear, Alatus.  Kill him, and eat his dreams.  This is what you will do from now on when I give you the order to kill."

"I can't," Xiao wavered and stared at the broken child in front of him.  "I won't."

Xiao would very much rather be dead than do these awful tasks so the god never bothered to threaten death.  Doing so would give this worthless servant release from a job that needs to be done.  Torture seemed to work on some occasions, but eventually Xiao had become used to the pain and rarely cried out.  So the best way to get this stupid creature to follow orders--  "If you don't, I will.  And you know what that means."

Unnecessary torture until his dying breath, the yaksha thought as his wavering gaze lowered to the child once more.

"What'll it be?"

The child held Xiao's gaze, but he felt no hope looking at the adeptus.  His life was over; that much, he was sure.  There was no point in living anyway.  His entire family was slaughtered.  Where could he go but wonder the lands alone?  Nothing would fill the void in his heart nor replace his loved ones.  

Xiao recognized the acceptance, the defeat, in the child's broken demeanor.  He didn't want to kill him but if it prevented a much slower, painful death, then this is an act of kindness.  It's an act of kindness.  It's an act of kindness.  He's doing this for the orphan's benefit.  This is a way of saving the child.  This is--

"...Forgive me."  

The blade of his polearm shot through the god spawn with the utmost precision and speed.  A weak labored gasp escaped him from the contact, but all he felt was a small pinch.  It was peaceful, or at least as peaceful as death could be.

This is for his own good, Xiao told himself as he watched the life drain from his eyes.  A desperate persuasion of the mind to preserve what little innocence he has left.

"Eat his dreams."

"I won't disobey again.  Please, spare me," he begged.  But the unwavering glare of his master said there was no room for bargaining.  

Xiao returned his attention to the boy who was now hanging by a very thin thread.  To extract one's dreams, they must still be alive--and the last moments of their death are a frightening eternal nightmare.  He did as he was told and pulled the boy's dreams out until a glowing substance sat lightly in his hand.  The smell was different for everyone's dreams, those with pure hearts having the sweetest of fragrances just like this boy's.  The tastes of dreams themselves were rather unrememberable, but the textures were all the same.

He devoured it as quickly as possible, holding his breath so that sickly sweet aroma wouldn't stick around in his nose to haunt him.  As he did, the dying boy's expression changed from empty to horrified, and then his body finally gave in to the drastic wound in his chest and slumped over.

He just stared helplessly at the body for awhile while his master nodded in approval.  The weight of the god's hand clapping his shoulder barely managed to snap Xiao out of his distraught gaze.

"You'll learn to love the taste, Alatus. Then their distraught expressions as you take from them."  Then the god dismissed himself from the room leaving Xiao to stare brokenly at the corpse before him.

Xiao's nose scrunched up in anger while his stomach flipped with displeasure.  He hated this god.  He hated him.  'You're wrong, I could never,' he wanted to protest, 'I could never be like you,' but his stomach twisted in self-disgust.  A part of him did enjoy it, if even by the smallest amount, and it made him hate himself even more.

If killing the child broke him, then devouring, tasting, and seeing the child's dreams devastated him.  They consisted of the child with his parents living together again.  Smiling, laughing.  No sign of torture, only peace.  Something pure and loving, that he would never have again nor will Xiao ever get the chance to experience.

Just as that child died, so too did Xiao's remaining innocence.

Years passed, and what once was a kind-hearted adeptus was now a cold-blooded killing machine.  Slaying gods left and right, increasing the death toll in the honor of his wretched master until a major war broke out throughout Teyvat.  That was when he saw fear in his master's eyes for the first time--the threat of his domain being overthrown loomed heavily over his head. Though Xiao felt a sense of hope, it was quickly shattered when he was once again put to work.

It was one gloomy day during the Archon War when he and his master were confronted by Morax.  They tag-teamed the god, but the master was quickly slain while Xiao was trapped between a few pillars summoned by the god of geo. The master's blood spilled onto the grass and he felt his knees weaken with relief and trepidation.

Finally, he was free.  He sank to his knees and watched Morax approach him with a bloody spear.  He can die free.  Morax had other plans for him and welcomed his presence with open arms.  But the words that came out of his mouth did not belong to him.

"Xiao, can you...hear me?"  The voice that came from Morax was heavily distorted and high-pitched.  "Please..."

"That's not part of this memory," Xiao, now aware that he was dreaming, spoke out.  "Who's calling me?"

"Please don't die!"  Why was it suddenly hard to breathe, and what was this grief and anger washing over him suddenly?

"P-please don't die!"  I have to go back for him.  He can't--  You stumbled forward through the snow, still hesitant on whether to follow Zhongli's trail or make your way back to the palace rubble.  It was only a moment's hesitance, though--you were already making a beeline for the palace and making a point to avoid Childe's fight by the time you realized what you were doing.  It wasn't long until your wounds and exhaustion caught up to you about halfway back to the palace.  You force yourself to continue on all-fours for a little ways, but your fingers were growing numb from the cold now that you lacked a vision.  "Rex Lapis, please, I can't--I need to reach--"  Wait.  The wind can carry me, can't it?  You tried despite the growing pain in your stomach.  It barely lifted you off the snow, but it was something.  You can do this.  It's just another mile or so.  

But just as your body was lifted from the ground, something grabbed you by the collar of your shirt and lifted you higher into the air like an animal carries it's offspring.  "It seems I cannot dissuade you from running back to danger."

"Z-Zhongli?" You winced, and your hand pressing tighter against your side.

"You're injured!"  Aether immediately moved to inspect the wound, but you swatted him away just as Zhongli set you back on your feet.  "Were you able to defeat Scaramouche?"

"I'm fine, it's not fatal--I think."  Your gaze swept across your companions' faces.  "...Childe intervened and is fighting him now."

"Wait, Childe betrayed the Tsaritsa?"  Paimon appeared out of thin air after hearing this.  "Why the heck would he do that? And now of all times?!"

"Perhaps it's best we save the questions for later," prompted Zhongli.  This may as well be some form of apology for the harbinger's actions against you and the rest of the group; he hinted a possible alliance when Zhongli confronted him above the harbor after the Lantern Rite ended.  Regardless of the intent, they need to take advantage of the time they were given now.

"Either way, I don't care.  I'm not leaving Xiao.  You all came to rescue me, but I refuse to have my life traded for one of yours."

"That much is clear," the consultant let out a heavy sigh, but there was a certain fondness and respect in his eyes as he looked at you.  "Very well.  But as soon as we recover him, we leave immediately.  No more impulsive decisions."

"Yes sir."

"I too have begun to suspect all is not well," he murmured thoughtfully, but you couldn't quite hear him.  "Do not push yourself further, I'll carry you."

"Wha--? Ah!"

The palace was a literal heap of smoking rubble.  Not a pillar was left standing.  Whatever fires may have started were immediately smothered by the snow, leaving ominous black pillars of smoke that didn't have an origin.  The silence was overwhelming despite being filled by the wet shoes that crunched in the snow.  By the looks of it, not a single agent survived the fall.  How would they? For humans are but fragile creatures incapable of healing themselves unless they had the specific power to do so.

Paimon frantically flew over the rocks and columns ahead of the group.  "The mess goes on and on! Where would we even start?"

"We should split up to cover more ground."

"But what if the Tsaritsa reappears?"

"I doubt she will be in a fighting condition after facing Xiao.  Paimon and I will start here.  Aether, would you two search to your right?"

"Sounds like a plan."  The traveler joined your side while throwing your arm over his shoulder to assist you.  You weren't looking too hot; your skin was pale but it was unknown whether it was more from the cold or from your injury.  "Leave the heavy lifting to me, alright?  Don't push yourself too much."

"Xiao's always pushed himself to protect me.  It's time I do the same for him."

A wry grin lifted the corners of Aether's lips.  "That might be true, but he's more equipped to handle it don't you think?"  He escorted you to a suspiciously large pile of rubble.  "Wait here.  I'm going to use Elemental Sight to see if I can locate him."

"Elemental Sight?"

"Oh...right...you never learned how to do that since you haven't held a vision for long," an awkward laugh escaped Aether as he began pushing boulders away from the pile.  "I'll tell you about it after this is over."  The elemental traces left behind were crowded with a mix of cryo and anemo energy, which made it difficult to decipher the strongest trail that Xiao left behind.

"...What'll we even do once we find him?  Where would we go?  The Tsaritsa wouldn't just give up on hunting us down."  Your palms pressed against the next boulder and it tumbled unceremoniously into the snow.  Then they gripped the next one, and your shoe needed to push against it for it to budge.

Aether didn't answer at first and the two of you removed several chunks of the wreckage over several minutes.  Then he used his Elemental Sight again and scanned the area.  "I was actually talking to Zhongli about that after we left Scaramouche to you.  I was gifted a Serenitea Pot a few days after you joined the Fatui; it's an adeptal realm only I or those I invite can access."  Aether's gaze hovered over a spot and his brows furrowed with concentration.  "The two of you can stay in there until the situation calms--There."

"Huh?"  You followed his line of sight but didn't see anything.  "What's there?"

"He's very close.  Hey, Zhongli! Paimon! Over here!"

"Did you find him?"  Paimon beat Zhongli to the punch and worriedly scanned the surrounding area.  

"I think he's trapped back here.  Zhongli...?"

"Allow me."  The boulders of rubble carefully rose away from the pile one by one to prevent any possible cave-ins that could injure Xiao.  He must've removed at least twenty chunks from the debris before a small cavern was revealed.

"--wake up!  Xiao!"  The ringing in the yaksha's ears finally faded until a girl's voice filled its place.  Slowly, his drowsy eyelids opened to see a blurry figure stare down at him.  Despite his unfocused gaze his reflexes were as quick as they always were.  A flash of silver nearly slashed at your neck, but a golden shield erupted around you and Xiao's polearm bounced off.  You were unfazed.  "It's alright.  You're safe now."  A numb hand was placed against his cheek.

Zhongli stared thoughtfully at the boulder that sat on Xiao's abdomen and stained his clothes red.  "Aether, can you grab a few handfuls of snow?"  

"Yeah.  I'll be right back."  Paimon glanced at the two of them before flying after Aether.

"Don't do the stupid thing and move yet," you nagged once you finally caught sight of the blood.  

Something between a pained groan and a scoff left his lips.  'Don't do the stupid thing?'  Who do you think you're talking to?  "You're one to talk," his gaze grazed over your side, where the snow you had pressed against your body was melting and soaked with blood.  "...Here.  Put more pressure like this."  Despite being pinned, his heavy arm lifted enough to push against your skin.

"I would do the same to you, but your injuries are more extensive--"

"Yes, it would be wise to refrain from doing anything until Aether returns."  Zhongli knelt on the other side of the yaksha, his gloved hand ghosting over the boulder.  "I may have a solution, though it depends entirely on the presence of those Aether has authorized to enter his teapot..."

"Okay, do you think this should be enough?" The traveller entered the cramped cavern once again with an armful of clean snow and his scarf removed.  "We can tie this around his waist so the bleeding slows down--"

"Aether," Zhongli turned to him.  "Have you by chance invited a healer to your Serenitea Pot?"

"...Yes, actually.  You're thinking I bring them here?"

"The opposite; I want you to enter your teapot now and see if they're taking residence at the moment.  If they are, we could potentially send these two into the teapot where the healer aid them."

"T-That's brilliant!"  Paimon immediately went to pull the Serenitea Pot out of Aether's bag.  "Paimon would've never thought of this! Quick, Traveler! Hurry up and go see if Bennett's inside!"

"Right!"  Aether handed the snow and scarf to Zhongli.  Then he opened the teapot and a vortex sucked him inward in an instant.

"It shouldn't take him long to return.  Quickly," he handed the scarf to you.  "I will lift the debris and place the snow on his injury.  While I do that, tightly wrap the scarf around his abdomen.  Ready?"

"Y-yes."  Xiao looked displeased, but he nodded at you.

"One, two, three." The debris was easily lifted off of Xiao's body.  

You did your best to ignore the gruesome wound and the dark blood that had soaked into his clothes, carefully sliding the fabric beneath his back and tying it at his front.  A low grunt escaped Xiao when confronted with the sudden movements, but other than that he remained silent.

Aether was thrown out of the teapot and almost stumbled onto the three of you.  "Okay, he's inside! Give me your hands."

"Our hands?"  You and Xiao exchanged confused looks before returning your attention to Aether.  Despite the confusion both of you lifted one of your hands to him.

Aether pulled out what looked to be some sort of marker from his bag and drew a symbol on your palm, then Xiao's.  The symbols then glowed a bright gold before fading like they had never been on your skin in the first place.  Next, Aether tapped both palms twice.  "Okay.  You'll be able to enter the realm now.  All you have to do is tap your hand like I did."

"...A-Are you sure about this? Xiao's..."  He's not looking well anymore; he was still bleeding heavily from his stomach and blood was still dripping from a wound somewhere behind his hairline.  "This won't hurt him, will it?"

"Relax.  Bennett will be there to treat him the second you guys enter."  

You and Xiao simultaneously turned to Zhongli, who nodded in confirmation.  "Go now.  We will contact you once we're out of Snezhnaya."

"Okay.  Be careful."  It was your turn to look at Xiao, and both of you then brought your hands together to enter the realm.

Tap, tap.

[ddixons-angel]

Stay

Requested by Anonymous

This is my first ever scenario request and I honestly had a lot of fun doing it haha big thanks to @twdeadfanfic for helping me out with this one and motivating me with going on, love you!!! This is probably the longest one-shot I’ve written so far, I hope you all like it!

Request - Daryl finds Reader in the woods, alone, dirty, possibly even hurt. She’s been alone so long that she’s scared of anyone she encounters. However, she’s practically glued to his side when he brings her around other people. Daryl has a hard time getting her to talk/leave the house. Fluff and angst

Mid-season 6; Alexandria

Run. That was the only thing on your mind. You just knew you had to run. It’s the only thing that kept you alive for the last few weeks, your only means of survival. You were alone in the woods, not knowing where you were going, the only thing you knew was that nowhere was safe. Without slowing down, you look over your shoulder behind you to gauge how far the dead was from you, but that was a mistake. You found yourself tumbling down to the hard ground as you tripped over a large root of a tree that stuck out of the ground. You let out an involuntary shriek when you feel your hair being grabbed, you had no doubt it was the dead when you feel the cold fingers gripping your arm. This was it. This was how you would die; getting ripped apart while screaming for your life in the middle of a forest. 

“Hey, ya a’right?” a rough voice calls out to you.

It was only when you registered the voice that you realized that the dead that had grabbed you was no longer moving or trying to kill you. You look over to the dead body that lay still, there was an arrow of some sort sticking out from its skull. You get up, letting out of a breath of relief but then freeze when you remember that you weren’t alone. Your eyes dart to the figure in front of you; a man with long dark hair and icy blue eyes. 

Your first instinct was to run, but your legs weren’t listening to you. They stayed planted in the ground as you felt your knees going weak. The adrenaline from running for hours and hours, days at a time without anything to eat, it was all catching up to you as you stared at the stranger who just undoubtedly saved your life. Rather than answering his first question verbally, your legs give out as you fall into a state of darkness.

---

“So... let me just get this straight...” Rick says as he pushes himself off the kitchen counter he was leaning on and turns to look at Daryl, “you brought someone back but know absolutely nothing about them?”

“Couldn’t get a chance...” Daryl says; he knew how this was going to go down the moment he decided to bring a stranger back to Alexandria with no information on who she was.

“Did you at least get a name? Or if she has a group?” Carol asks, standing by the counter with her arms crossed.

“Told ya I never got a chance to.” Daryl says, frustration evident in his voice.

“I know you’re not stupid, Daryl, but what the hell were you thinking?” Carol pesters on.

“She fainted ‘fore I could ask her anythin’!” Daryl snaps, “wha’ was I s’pposed to do? Leave her out there for the walkers to have at her? That can’t be who we are!”

“And I’m not saying that’s who we are or that you should have left her out there,” Rick says calmly, “I’m just concerned about bringing a complete stranger back, someone we know absolutely nothing about.”

“She’s jus’ a girl, Rick! We got her locked up in that house with people watchin’ over her, she ain’ dangerous, she’s jus’ hurt ‘n’ scared.” Daryl says in defense, the others could tell he was getting emotional.

“I know that, but you can’t blame people here for being worried, people are still shaken up by those Wolves that attacked us a few weeks ago. For all we know, she could be one of them.” Rick tries to reason.

“Well, she ain’.” Daryl says immediately.

“And how do you know?” Rick challenges.

“I don’ see no ‘W’ on her, do you?” Daryl asks rhetorically, “‘sides... we didn’ hesitate bringin’ in Michonne when she showed up at the prison an’ she turned out okay. No offense.”

“None taken,” Michonne chuckles softly at his apology, “why are you so adamant on keeping her here, Daryl? This isn’t like you.”

Daryl lets out a deep sigh before answering the question, “the look in her eyes jus’ before she passed out... she was scared ‘n’ alone... nothin’ bad ‘bout her... so even without askin’ her anythin’ I chose to bring her back ‘cause o’ that look... she ain’ a bad person... but guess I’m jus’ fightin’ y’all on it ‘cause I don’ wanna be wrong again.”

The looks on his friends’ faces soften at his words. They heard what happened a few weeks back when Daryl, Abraham, and Sasha had to lead the herd of walkers away from the community. Daryl ran into some people he thought were good, only to turn on him and steal his things. They all noticed that ever since then, Daryl changed. He started to doubt his own instincts and even his ability to tell who was good and who was bad. 

“What if uh...” Glenn pipes in after a moment of silence, “what if we wait for her to wake up and ask her the questions, then make a decision when we hear what she has to say?”

Glenn, Michonne, Carol, and Daryl all look towards Rick, waiting for his decision. After pondering for a moment, he walks over to the kitchen counter and looks at Carol.

“Can you put together a sandwich and get a glass of water? If what Daryl said is true, the girl probably hasn’t eaten in a while, and if we want answers, we should show some sort of hospitality.” Rick says. 

Carol sighs softly with a stern look on her face but nods, “okay.”

Rick nods to her as thanks then looks over to Daryl. The two lock eyes, communicating without words as they wait for Carol to prepare the food. Once they’re ready, Daryl takes the plate and glass of water and walks out of the house, following Rick to the jailhouse the community had set up for temporary confinement. Rick knocks on the door before opening it, stepping in with Daryl behind him. The two of them greet Tara as she was given the task to watch over the stranger. 

“How is she?” Rick asks, stepping further into the room.

“Still out cold,” Tara informs, glancing back at the sleeping figure on the mattress. 

“Well, we brought her food for when she wakes up,” Daryl says, holding up the plate and glass then he heads over to the sleeping girl and places down the meal, “I’ll take over yer shift, Tara.”

Tara nods in understanding and leaves the two of them alone with the sleeping stranger. Daryl goes to sit in the chair that was placed in the corner of the room. 

“I’ll be on guard outside, call me in when she wakes up,” Rick says.

“Why ya gonna be on guard outside?” Daryl questions, a frown of confusion on his face, “think I can’t handle her?”

“It’s just in case,” Rick says just before he steps out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Daryl sighs, he knew why Rick was keeping guard outside, he wasn’t stupid and it wasn’t that Rick underestimated his ability. Daryl knew that Rick was aware what this entire thing meant to him. What it would do to him if the stranger he believed to be good turned out to be bad. 

His eyes fall back on the sleeping figure in front of him, the peaceful look on her face made his lips involuntarily twitch into a small smile. His smile turns into a frown though when he sees her hands tied up with rope. 

“Dammit Rick...” he sighs, then he gets up to untie of the rope. 

Daryl thought he had convinced Rick that there was no need to tie her up since she was unconscious. He told them all that she looked frail and weak, as if she hadn’t eaten for days. He thought he got through to Rick with that logic but he was wrong. Although, Daryl couldn’t blame him for being extra careful. Their community had gotten attacked by a group a few weeks back, they couldn’t take any chances. 

Kneeling down, Daryl reaches out to the girl’s bound hands and gently tugs at the rope. As he begins to untie the knots, the girl shifts a bit then her eyes start to open. Daryl freezes at the movement and he looks at her face. Her eyes lock with his, looking at him with fear like a deer in headlights. She pulls her hands away and whimpers, backing away from Daryl only to hit the wall behind her. 

“It’s okay, I’m not gonna hurt ya,” Daryl says quickly, holding his hands up to show her that he means no harm, “I jus’ wanted to untie yer restraints.” 

She continues to stare at him, not moving or saying anything in response and Daryl isn’t quite sure what to do, not sure what exactly to tell Rick about the situation. He woke her up by trying to remove the rope Rick had originally tied as a safety precaution; yeah, he wouldn’t like the sound of that. Daryl sighs and slowly crouches down to her eye level, his hands still out. 

“I found ya out in the woods, ya passed out an’ I brought ya back here,” Daryl explains, then he grabs the glass of water, “I can tell ya’ve been out there for awhile, here.”

Slowly, Daryl reaches out and offers her the glass of water. Her eyes glance at the glass then back at him, he can practically see the gears turning in her head whether or not to trust him. 

“I ain’ gonna hurt ya, I promise.” Daryl says.

It seems that she heard the sincerity in his voice as Daryl sees her eyes soften. He waits patiently for her to take the glass in which she slowly but surely does. She takes the glass in both hands and she looks at it, then back at Daryl who smiles softly at her. Finally, she starts to drink from the glass. At first she’s taking small sips but her thirst catches up with her as she desperately finishes the contents of the glass within seconds. Daryl reaches out to her again to take the glass from her. 

“Brought ya some food too,” he tells her, gesturing to the plate on the ground, “ya wanna let me untie ya so ya can eat?” 

She still has her hands close to her chest as she contemplates Daryl’s words. He sees her lips quiver slightly, her eyes peering at the plate on the ground. She takes a few breaths before hesitantly raising her arms towards Daryl, her hands tremble as she holds them out. 

“Easy now,” Daryl whispers, carefully and gently untying the rope around her wrists.

He backs away once the ropes are off, pursing his lips together as he gestures to the plate again and sits back on the chair. He watches as she timidly reaches for the sandwich, she picks it up and holds it to her mouth. She pauses, looking at Daryl as if asking him permission with her eyes. He nods at her again, a soft smile on his lips. Daryl can’t help but think that she reminded him of a lost, abandoned puppy. She carefully takes a bite of the sandwich, then another as she starts to feel a little more relaxed. 

“There’s more where that came from,” Daryl tells her after she finished the sandwich, “I can get ya another if ya want.”

Before she can respond, the door to the room opens, startling her and she cowers away again with her back against the wall, afraid of Rick who had just walked in. Daryl had gotten up from his seat on the chair and stands between Rick and the girl. Rick frowns as he sees the rope on the ground. 

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, it’s okay, he’s a friend,” Daryl says gently, trying to calm her down.

“Daryl...” Rick sighs, he beckons him to come over, “you untied her?”

“Ya said to show her some hospitality,” Daryl says.

“I also said to call me when she wakes up,” Rick retorts, he then sighs again, “did you ask her the questions? She tell you anything?”

“Nah, she jus’ finished eatin’. Look at her, she’s scared, man.” Daryl says, gesturing towards her; she had that deer in the headlights look again as she stares at the two.

Rick ponders for a moment then nods pointedly towards her, “alright, let’s ask her now then, are you okay with that?”

Daryl purses his lips and nods. The two make their way towards the girl again and she watches them, mainly Rick, warily. Rick takes the chair and sets it down in front of her before sitting on it as Daryl stands idly behind him. He notices that she flinches at Rick’s every movement as if afraid that he was going to hit her. 

“My name is Rick Grimes,” he starts, “now, I’m gonna ask you a few questions and I want you to answer me as honest as you can, can you do that?”

She stares at him, not blinking, her eyes hard again showing her distrust for Rick, and when she stays silent, he continues, “how many walkers have you killed?” 

Daryl waits anxiously for her to answer, he chews his bottom lip, nervous when she doesn’t respond. She just continues to stare at Rick. 

“I’m gonna ask you again, how many walkers have you killed?” Rick repeats, seemingly running out of patience. 

After another moment of complete silence from the stranger, Rick huffs and gets up from the chair. Daryl steps to him putting his hand on his shoulder to calm him down. 

“Lemme try, a’right?” Daryl says softly.

Rick sighs and nods, stepping back to let Daryl try with the questioning. Daryl carefully kneels down instead of sitting on the chair, catching the girl’s attention again. Her eyes seem to soften when she looks at him. 

“Ya a’right?” Daryl asks, his voice gentle, he continues when he sees her nod shyly, “I’m sorry ‘bout him, he can be a real pain in the ass sometimes.”

Rick furrows his brows at this, not in annoyance, rather in confusion. Daryl has never been like this to a complete stranger before, he was always serious when interrogating new people. This is the first time he’s been so lightheartedly joking around with someone and if the circumstances were different, Rick would be teasing him about it. 

“‘M gonna ask ya some questions, a’right? An’ I want ya to be as honest as possible, if ya do that for me, maybe I can get ya another sandwich,” Daryl says, nodding pointedly to the empty plate. 

The girl bites her lips together in hesitation but then she nods again. Rick crosses his arms as he watches, an impressed smirk forms on his lips. 

“How many walkers have ya killed?” Daryl asks, he catches the look of confusion in her eyes at the term they’d all become used to, “the walkers out there, the dead, how many have ya killed?”

She furrows her brows once she understands the question, she shrugs then lets out a small whisper, “a lot.”

“Wha’ ‘bout people?” Daryl asks, “how many people have ya killed?”

There’s a look in her eyes when she hears his question that Daryl isn’t quite sure how to describe. It was a mix of hurt, fear, and guilt. It was a look that told him that she had definitely killed at least one person. Tears well up in her eyes, as if she was reliving the memory. 

She takes a deep breath before whispering again, “one...”

“Why?” Daryl asks the last question, furrowing his brow in concern at her body language. 

She looks away from him, cowering back again and her arms wrap around her own body in a protective hug, her hands grasp tightly to the fabric of her shirt. Daryl sighs at the sight of this then he turns to look at Rick; both of them knew exactly what her body language meant and why she had to kill. The two men communicate without words then Daryl turns his attention back to the girl.

“Hey,” he calls out, his voice soft, “what I promised ya before, ‘bout not hurtin’ ya, I meant it. I ain’ gonna hurt ya, none o’ us will.” 

She looks at Daryl again, her eyes watery but there was that same softness in them that told him that she trusted him. She nods, her grasp on her clothing loosening slightly. Daryl gives her a small smile then turns to look at Rick.

“Can ya go an’ bring Denise here?” Daryl asks him.

Rick opens his mouth to speak but then decides against it, trusting Daryl and his instincts. Rick nods then heads out to find the community’s doctor. Daryl looks back at the girl who’s now staring at him. 

“Ya got a name?” Daryl asks, “‘cause I don’ wanna just keep calling ya ‘girl’.”

A hint of a smile tugs at her lips at his attempt at humoring her, she whispers, “Y/N.”

“You’re gonna be safe here with us, Y/N.” Daryl tells her, “I ain’ gonna let anyone hurt ya.”

Daryl didn’t know what made him say those words to her. From what he could remember, he’s never said those kinds of words to anyone, not out loud at least. He’s always been the type to say those words through actions, but there was something about Y/N that made Daryl feel the need to convince her that they were good; for some reason, he needed her to know that. 

It seemed as though his words got through to her as her smile grew slightly and she nods at him, trusting his word. Unfortunately, her smile was replaced by another look of fear when there was a sudden knock on the door. Daryl quickly glances over to the door as it opens; it was Denise. He looks back over at Y/N who has yet again put up defensive walls, wary of another stranger now in the room.

“It’s okay, Y/N, it’s okay, she’s a friend, a doctor, she’s here to help ya,” Daryl says in a soft voice before getting up to greet Denise.

“Hey,” Denise smiles at him, “uh, Rick said you sent for me?”

“Yeah, the girl I brought back, Y/N, was hopin’ ya could make sure she’s okay. She also has some cut ‘r somethin’ on her left forearm,” Daryl tells her, he’d taken note of the dried blood on her sleeve.

“I figured it was something like that,” Denise says with a smile, showing her medkit she’d brought with her, she then goes over to Y/N who is staring at her warily, “hi, I’m Denise.” 

Y/N doesn’t say anything in response to her friendly introduction, instead she cowers away. Her body language clearly telling Denise that she does trust her and to stay away. Denise furrows her brows at this but she takes no offense as she heard from Rick that she must have been outside for a long time alone. 

“Y/N,” Daryl makes his way over to her, he crouches down to her eye level, “she’s helped a lot ‘o people, even me, she’s a good person.”

Denise furrows her brows when she takes notice of how Y/N’s expression changes when she looks at Daryl. Her eyes were soft and trusting, as if allowing only Daryl to see a completely vulnerable side to her. A smile reaches Denise’s face when she gets an idea.

“Daryl,” she calls out to get his attention, “I think you should treat her.”

He turns to look at her with a confused look on his face, “wha’?”

Denise sighs at his ability to be so oblivious then beckons him to come closer so she can explain, “she trusts you, Daryl, way more than she trusts me, you can see that just by the way she looks at you compared to me. I’ll take a look at her wounds, but if she needs stitches, you’re going to have to be the one to do them, I’ll only end up hurting her if I stitch her up while she’s tense.”

Daryl purses his lips together, nodding as he understands what Denise was saying, “a’right.”

“Don’t worry though,” Denise pats his shoulder, a teasing smile on her face, “I’ll still be here to guide you through it.”

He scoffs playfully at her then he goes back to Y/N’s side, crouching down beside her again, “Denise is gonna take a look at yer arm, okay? Jus’ to make sure it ain’ infected, then I’ll help ya patch it up.”

Y/N bites her lips together, glancing down at her arms then back at Daryl. Her eyes told him that she wasn’t quite sure how Daryl knew about her injury, but she nods in agreement to his words. Slowly but surely, she pulls up the sleeve of her left arm, revealing a gash. Denise carefully takes a step closer to see the wound and Y/N flinches at the movement. She stares at Denise then glances at Daryl who nods at her encouragingly. She hesitantly extends her arm towards Denise so that she can examine her wound. Denise raises both of her hands to show that she means her no harm then takes another step towards the mattress. 

“It doesn’t seem to be infected, which is a really good thing. And it doesn’t look that deep so I don’t think you’ll need stitches either,” Denise says with a smile after examining the wound, “the only part that might hurt is when Daryl has to disinfect the wound, but other than that, you’ll be okay. Now, do you have any other injuries we should know about?”

Y/N shakes her head at the question and Daryl smiles softly at her, then gestures to Denise, “told ya she’s a good person.” 

Denise chuckles then hands Daryl her medkit, “I’ll leave this with you, I trust you know how to patch up a simple wound without messing up too badly?”

He rolls his eyes at her then scoffs, “yeah, I done it enough times.”

“I’ll leave you to it then,” Denise laughs then walks towards the door, but then she turns to Y/N as she remembers something, “by the way, if you end up feeling sick or feverish in any way, you have to let Daryl know right away, that could be a sign that your wound got infected by his dirty hands.”

“Jus’ go a’ready!” Daryl scoffs making Denise laugh at his reaction just before she leaves the building, he looks back at Y/N, “I won’ give ya an infection...”

“I know.” she says in a slight whisper. 

Daryl smiles at this then places the medkit on the ground. He opens it and takes out an alcohol swab, tearing open the small packet then looks at Y/N. She seems to know what he wants as she extends her arm towards him. 

He gently takes hold of her arm, “this might sting a bit.”

He begins to gently dab at the wound, cleaning off the dried blood and dirt on her skin. He furrows his brows when Y/N winces at the sting. Daryl proceeds to blow onto the wound to try and soothe the pain. Once he’s done cleaning the wound, he dresses it with a bandage. 

“How’s that feel?” he asks her, leaning back a bit to give her some space.

She looks down at the bandage and a small smile tugs at her lips before she looks up at Daryl, “a lot better... thank you.”

Daryl returns her smile and nods, a small moment of silence passes when he dares to pose his next question, “do ya have a group?”

He watches as her brows furrow in confusion at his words so Daryl tries to word his question differently, “do ya have a camp or a group ya stayed with?” 

Finally understanding his question, Y/N shakes her head, “no... I did but... I lost them...”

“‘M sorry...” Daryl says, he purses his lips, seeming nervously shy, “did ya wanna stay here? We got food, water, walls, ya’ll be safe here.”

Y/N bites her lips together as if unsure how to answer, “...can I?”

“Yeah, we got a few houses we can spare, won’t be a problem,” Daryl says, “so ya jus’ gotta tell me if ya wanna stay, I ain’t gonna force ya if ya don’t wanna.” 

Although he hadn’t spoken with Rick on the matter of Y/N staying yet, he was sure that their leader would be accepting of it after seeing her. Daryl was sure Rick could see that Y/N wasn’t a threat to their community. He watches as she carefully contemplates her choices then finally she looks up at him with a soft smile and nods.

“I want to stay... with you.” she says shyly.

Daryl couldn’t help the shy smile that tugs on his lips, he also couldn’t help the blood rushing to his face as he blushes at her words, “a’right... let me jus’ talk to Rick, figure out where ya can stay. Wait here” 

With that, he gets up and heads for the door. Just before he leaves the room, he turns and gives her another reassuring smile. 

---

You stayed sat on the mattress in the room for what felt like a few hours, obediently waiting for Daryl to come back. You trusted Daryl. You didn’t know why but there was just something about him that made you believe that you could trust him. Maybe it was the way he looked at you, or how he did his best to make sure that you felt comfortable. You couldn’t explain it, and it wasn’t like you trusted easily either. You didn’t get the same sense of comfort when Daryl’s friend, Rick, came by and started interrogating you. You didn’t even feel that safe when the doctor, Denise, came to help you, and she looked completely harmless, although you had to learn the hard way to not judge a book by its cover. 

With everything you’ve been through though, you couldn’t help but feel jumpy or nervous and that proved to still be the case when there was a knock on the door. The end of the world forced you to always be on high alert, but you found yourself relaxing when you saw Daryl walk back into the room. There was a feeling in your heart that confused you when you saw him, as if you were happy that he came back to you. As if you missed him. That was a feeling that felt so foreign to you, but you couldn’t help it.

“Ya a’right?” Daryl asks, crouching down again, he continues when you nod, “I talked to Rick, an’ he talked to some o’ the others. They’re okay with ya stayin’.”

You smile at his words. It was only then that you realized just how much you wanted to stay in this place. How much you wanted to stay with Daryl. 

“C’mon, I’ll show ya ‘round an’ where ya’ll be stayin’.” Daryl says as he stands up, holding his hand out for you.

You glance at his hand then back at him. Carefully, you reach up and take his outreached hand and he gently helps you stand. His other hand hovering around your body to make sure you don’t fall. Once you’re steadily on your feet, he guides you out of the house. You have to shield your eyes from the intense rays of the sun at first but once your eyes adjusted to the light, you gasp lightly in disbelief. 

This place was.... Incredible. You never thought you’d ever see a place like this, not after the world ended. It felt as if you went back in time when the dead didn’t roam the Earth, this place was like one of those suburbs with huge houses you could only dream of affording. 

You look over at Daryl when you hear him let out a soft chuckle. He must have caught your bewildered expression as you ogled at your surroundings. You look down at the ground, shy and embarrassed as you blush. 

“C’mon,” he says, tugging at your hand gently.

He must have sensed that you were embarrassed as he didn’t comment on the look on your face. You follow him around, trying to ignore the growing butterflies in your stomach as Daryl holds your hand. He points out the house that he’s staying in as the two of you walk by it. You feel slightly shy as you spot some of the people watching you walk with Daryl. By the sly smiles on their faces, you were sure it was because the two of you were holding hands. 

“Infirmary’s over there,” Daryl says, pulling you out of your thoughts as he points over to the house where you see Denise sitting on the porch reading, “if ya need anythin’ or yer arm starts to act up, ya can go an’ find Denise, she’ll help ya out.”

You smile and nod at Daryl in acknowledgement then continue to follow him around until he stops in front of one of the large houses.

“This one’s yers.” he tells you, making you gawk at him.

“Mine?” you question, not believing it.

When Daryl said that they’d figure out where you could stay, you thought you would have a room that you shared with someone, not an entire house to yourself. 

“Yeah, we got a few houses to spare... if ya don’ like it, ya can look at one o’ the other free ones,” Daryl bites his lip nervously, as if he was afraid you wouldn’t like it.

You quickly shake your head, “no, it’s not that I don’t like it... I just... didn’t think...”

You trail off as you look at the large house in front of you, slightly intimidated. Daryl seems to sense this as well as he gently tugs at your hand again, then he nods pointedly towards the house. You understand his intent and begin to step towards the house. You walk up the porch slowly, continuously taking hesitant glances back at Daryl to make sure he’s still following behind you; he had let go of your hand, much to your dismay. 

Taking a deep breath, you slowly open the door to the house. Although you knew that the house was empty, part of you still expected to be greeted by snarls and growls of the dead. You guessed that being on your own and running from the dead for weeks would do that to you. 

“Wow...” you say breathlessly as you step into the house.

This wasn’t just a house, this was a mansion. Even just looking at the kitchen, it was twice as big as any room you stayed in, before and after the world ended. It looked to be fully furnished, clean, completely untouched by the outside world. You had a hard time believing your eyes as you looked around in awe. 

“Is this... real?” you hear yourself wonder out loud. 

“It is,” Daryl says from behind you and you turn to look at him, he smiles softly at you, “ya like it?”

You return his smile and nod, “I do... thank you.”

There’s a sort of sweet silence between you two before Daryl clears his throat, maybe he felt awkward, “I’ll leave ya to it, get settled ‘r somethin’...”

You feel your heart drop at his words, something you haven’t felt in a long time, “what?”

“I showed ya where my place is, if ya need me, I’ll be there.” Daryl nods and he begins to turn to leave.

A slight panic rises in your chest when you see him turn. You didn’t want him to go, you didn’t want to be alone. It was true that you were safe in a community, surrounded by walls and protected from the dead, but you were still afraid of being left alone. 

Before Daryl could leave, you quickly step to him and reach out, your fingers clutching onto his. He turns around to face you again, a confused look on his face. You notice his eyes soften when he looks at you. 

“Please don’t go...” you say in a small voice, “please stay...” 

Daryl purses his lips together, not sure of what to say. You can tell that he’s thinking of what to do. You were sure that he was trying to think of a way to tell you that he shouldn’t stay. You were practically begging him with your eyes. 

“Okay.” Daryl says with a shy smile after a moment of silence. 

You couldn’t help the smile on your face at his words. Daryl had agreed to stay with you. He had saved your life, brought you back to his community and given you a home. On top of everything he already did for you, he even agreed to stay with you. Even if you had just met him that day, you knew that he would be able to keep you safe. And for the first time in a really, really long time, you finally felt safe. 

---

This was one of my very first attempts at writing in Daryl’s perspective so I hope I did it justice! Please let me know what you thought about this one, I personally loved writing it haha 

Taglist (please let me know if you’d like to be added/removed!):

@twdeadfanfic​ | @fandomfanatic97 | @crossbowking | @watchmeaspire | @spidergirla5 | @kamieshep | @letsstarsfalling | @molethemollie | @alicewinchester99 | @neilox | @womanup22 | @jodiereedus22 | @theonlyone-meeeee | @theunofficialduke | @inlovewdxx | @delightfullykrispypeach | @mrsfortune1306 | @wolfkg | @funeral-7 | @wnygirl2012 | @alispaceme | @themihala | @aavocadocloud |  @polkadottedpillowcase | @felicisimor | @depressedfrog2 | @spacexkiddo0 | @rachelxwayne | @liadamerondjarin | @soraitmnt | @angelofthorr | @vampteefies | @decadentsoulbiscuitgoth

[whitefawnn]

blood letting (part 7)

c!wilbur soot x reader

warnings: manipulation, violence, fighting, panic attacks, trauma, mentions of character death

masterlist of blood letting

note: read the warnings

His sword is a comfortable weight in his scarred hand, the hilt wrapped in leather, his grip tight. The metal weapon felt like a return to himself, its shimmering a sinister promise to hurt those who had wronged him. His mouth watered as he stared at the light blue sword, imagining it as a dark purple. He missed Nightmare but for now this must suffice. Dream quickly went back to sharpening the blade, meticulously making sure it would be perfect to slice through his enemies just as it had been crafted to, to right what had been wronged.

He had been waiting for Wilbur to return without y/n, but something in him knew Wilbur wasn’t coming back. He knew from the start. Men like Wilbur could be so fickle with someone like y/n whispering in their ear. Y/n could be so persuasive, so persistent, he didn’t know if he could bring himself to fault the man for folding. He knew it would end like this though, them on opposing sides. He wasn’t connected to Wilbur anymore, ties severed after he walked out of that prison, no matter what Wilbur had convinced himself of he could care less about the man.

He was almost done preparing his gear, not bothering to even start Wilbur’s even when he was still here. He only had to go to the nether to collect netherite before he could begin his onslaught. The future tasted sweet, a sick promise of blood to finally be in the air again. Dream laid down the sword on the cracking anvil with a smirk. He turned to look at the marked map behind him, x’s on houses, arrows pointing to weaknesses and targets. A mosaic of to-be pain all in one place.

He had been weighing whether he would kill y/n or not. A big question mark scribbled over where their house sat. He wondered if they could change, be fixed if you will. I guess the decision could be made later, when they weren’t in the place to deny such mercy from Dream. When his sword was slowly drawing blood from their neck. Guess he would be just like Wilbur in that regard.

——————

“I’ll come with you, I will, please just-“ I focused on the panicked voice that trailed from behind me as I slowly came to. I was sitting on a hard surface, my back against someone whose chest was hastily rising and falling. Their breaths were forced and ragged. “Sam, please they need help-“ The voice called out and was cut off as I slowly cracked my eyes open to be met with the night sky and the looming prison. The building first insisting fear then a strange sense of home. I was back in the dsmp, no longer imprisoned in a gloomy mansion, yet I was still with Wilbur. Why did that make me so scared?

“Wilbur, I should kill you right now. Do you not understand what you did? What mercy I’m even giving you right now by letting you fucking speak?” I shook my head, sitting up straight against the person behind me. I desperately wanted to defuse the argument but didn’t feel like I had the words or the strength. My brain a mess of feelings and fog. Sam quickly turned to look at me with wide eyes once he noticed my subtle movements. His gaze felt like sunlight for a brief moment, an escape from all that has gone horribly wrong. He granted me a soft smile that I only knew existed by the crinkle of his eyes that weren’t covered by his intimidating mask.

“hey, y/n” he spoke with a lighter tone more indicative of Sam not the Warden he was being towards Wilbur. I reached for him with an open hand merely wanting to hug my close friend. To give up for just a second. He quickly came up to my side helping me slide off the large horse I had been seated on. I caught a glimpse of Wilbur’s nervous smile, but quickly pressed myself into Sam’s body. Wilbur could wait, he could wait for just a bit.

I needed a separation from everything. Wilbur’s face feeling as damning as seeing Dream himself sat behind me. A chill ran over my body, Dream’s hands pushing me to the floor all over again. My arm hitting the ground. Sam didn’t hesitate to wrap himself around me once I was within reach, warmth engulfing my sleep-riddled body. I winced at the pain he caused by pressing on my injured arm but could care less. “Hi, bear.” he mumbled into my hair, a familiar nickname that made me feel even more relaxed. Warmth bloomed in my heart, a brief moment of peace.

“Sam,” I sighed out, allowing myself to fully melt into him knowing he would support my weight, knowing he wouldn’t let me go as he never had before. I wanted to disappear, to implode, my life felt on fire. A burning house with no exits left. I tried to steady myself against him. The feeling was also a wash of familiarity, smelled just like gunpowder, felt just like when the man behind me had died.

“Do you wanna go home?” he asked me, slightly pulling back from our embrace so he could study my expression. It was such a simple question, but yet I felt my eyes water. He seemed to falter the more he looked at me, his own eyes jumping across my face. I probably looked like shit.

“mmmhm,” I whimpered, stuffing my face back into his chest as hot tears began to run down my cheeks. Everything was wrong and it felt like it was my fault. I could feel Wilbur’s eyes burning into my back and it only made me feel worse. I was not only responsible for my own safety, I was responsible for everyone’s. I was now heaving, sobbing into Sam’s chest as he pet my hair and let me crumble.

“Just breathe, bear. It’s okay, it’s all gonna be okay.” he whispered into my hair. I quickly shook my head against him, my anxiety a vice. “I know, I know, let’s get you home okay.” He took the liberty of picking me up, cradling me in his arms “Wilbur, you follow behind or god fucking help you.” Wilbur didn’t respond but I heard the clicking of hooves follow behind us.

————————-

Dread built in his stomach as he followed closely behind Sam and y/n. He selfishly couldn’t bring himself to focus his full attention on the exhausted body being cradled by Sam. Anxiety pooled on his skin as he slowly trailed behind the pair to y/n’s home. The path was familiar, he need not put too much effort into following as his worries consumed him.

“Wilbur, come hold the door open.” He was quick to tie up the horse and pry open the door. The clear closeness between Y/n and Sam shocked him. The nickname ran through his head, bear, a staple of the months he had missed. Sam hadn’t even been a name he had known, not in any great clarity at least when he had passed. The relationship added context to the fact that y/n had thought they would be able to ebb the consequence of his mistakes with the Warden himself. He hadn’t believed this, leaving y/n to fight with Dream alone on a matter he knew they wouldn’t be able to change. To be left a bruised mess on the floor. To be told by Dream to use them further, y/n a mere puppet to the man, and now a new consequence of his own actions arose, he must talk to Sam alone.

“Wilbur.” Sam’s voice was gruff and lower than the one he had used with y/n.

“Sam, are they-“ he was promptly cut off. Wilbur studied Sam’s hard expression, their eyes locked.

“They are asleep in their bedroom” The tension between the two was palpable, but the reason seemed to have strayed off. Countless things went through Wilbur’s head as he stared the Warden down. “Do you understand what you did, Wilbur? I should have already killed you, but y/n-“ he paused, his hand falling from its place on the hilt of his sword to be run through his hair. Sam shut his eyes tight, trusting that Wilbur wouldn’t foolishly run.

“You mean too much to them.” A breath got caught in Wilbur’s throat “I probably understand that more than you. After you died, Wilbur, they were in bad shape, really fucking bad shape.” Wilbur sharply inhaled, his lungs full of needles. He didn’t need to hear this or maybe he just didn’t want to. “They wouldn’t leave this fucking house, Wilbur, and you came back and, fuck, I think you made them worse all over again.” Sam looked up at Wilbur.

“You were an impossibility to them, they were finally fucking moving on.” Sam got to his feet “You and fucking Dream just hurt them over and over.” His gaze was burning right through him, he immediately relented, stepping back. Wilbur’s shoulders hunched as he let himself fall back against the now shut door. “and they still love you.”

“Sam,” he quickly held up his hand. Wilbur taking the hint that he wasn’t done. He watched as Sam took a deep breath before averting his eyes to the kitchen.

“So much happened that y/n isn’t telling you things that Dream did to everyone in your absence. Wilbur, he beat Tommy to death and he-“ Sam looked back at Wilbur’s crumpled form. Wilbur needed to understand. “You let out a monster, Wilbur. A monster that hurt the person in that room more than you can imagine.” A silence drew out between them, a silence that was not filled by voices but their own shared labored breathing. Both men drawn tight, two strings about to snap. “Stay here with them. Don’t you fucking think about leaving.” Wilbur gave Sam a nod. He wasn’t going to leave them, he wouldn’t think twice about that even if Sam wasn’t threatening his life.

Wilbur trailed to y/n’s bedroom, somewhere they had once shared. The room had changed drastically since then, new sheets and new furniture. He knew it was because of him, he couldn’t imagine living in that room if their roles had been switched, a ghost around every corner. Sheets once green were now a ruby red. Y/n was sleeping now, their face a reflection of calm water not the panic it had been earlier. The more he studied their face the more Wilbur paled. He noticed scars he hadn’t before, how the bruise had only gotten worse. Time apart and together alike leaving them with more wounds. He fell into a restless sleep beside them.

[onecanonlife]

careful son (you got dreamer's plans)

Wilbur gasps back to life with mud between his fingers and rain in his eyes.

Wilbur was dead. Now, he is not. He can't say that he's particularly happy about it.

Unfortunately, the server is still as tumultuous as ever, even with Dream locked away, so it seems that his involvement in things isn't a matter of if, but when.

(Alternatively: the prodigal son returns, and a broken family finally begins to heal. If, that is, the egg doesn't get them all killed first.)

Chapter Word Count: 8,506

Chapter Warnings: swearing, blood, major injury, seizure, character death

Chapter Summary: In which the sun rises.

(masterpost w/ ao3 links)

(first chapter) (previous chapter) (next chapter)

Chapter Twenty-One: morning sun

He has a lot of thoughts on poetry. Poetry, he often finds, is just music without the tune. The rhythm is there already, and the words can be their own melody, if they’re written right, with a shape and a contour and a buildup and a decrescendo. He knows poetry. And poetry can tell stories, too, can tell whole narratives, can show a hero’s journey from the beginning to the bitter, bitter end, because something he noted a long time ago is that in the old stories, the old poems, in the meter and rhyme, there are few heroes who get happy endings. There are few stories that end with the hero growing old and finding peace. The heroes in the stories he was drawn to, the stories that Technoblade told him as they grew from children to lanky teenagers to adults, the heroes in those stories come to tragic ends.

So, he knows poetry.

Is there poetry in death?

Once, he would have said yes. Once, he would have said that death, perhaps, after a long fight, after a struggle lost, after all the world goes caving in and the hero stands alone knowing how far he has fallen, knowing there is only so much further to go, knowing that every cliff has its bottom and every sea its floor, after all of that—once, he might have said that death, after all of that, was the most poetic thing of all.

But he thinks he knows better now. He thinks that death is not poetry at all. He thinks that death is pain and suffering and hurting those who were left behind, and death is an ending that cannot

(is usually not, and perhaps he needs to examine that, too, needs to start considering himself lucky for the second chance that no one else ever gets, because he gasped back to life with mud between his fingers and rain in his eyes and there has been so much pain since then but there has been beauty and now revelation)

be revised once the pen has left the paper, and all the best stories are edited before they are consumed.

But life is not a story, and he is a person, not a role, even if that thought turns everything upside-down, forces him to consider everything he thought he knew about the axis on which the world spins.

And dying cannot be poetry, because he thinks he is dying, and there is nothing lovely about it at all. Not now.

(and not then, either, though you were not ready to know it)

“Shut up, you’re not fucking dying,” Tommy says, and with the words come a wash of cold clarity, focus that he clings to desperately. It might be a mistake, because the pain comes back to the forefront, too, sharp and everywhere and overwhelming and he wants to retreat from it, and he thinks he’s going to retreat from it, if it keeps on like this, so it’s a matter of how long he can manage to hold on.

He’s only just recovered his footing. He’s not going to let himself slip away. Not when he’s only just figured out he wants to keep standing.

And then his heart spasms, sending a burst of hot pain ricocheting in his chest, and he is reminded that he might not have a choice in the matter. He tries to draw in breath, and finds his airways blocked. He tastes iron on his tongue. He tries to draw in breath, and he can’t, and his lungs are burning, burning—

“Turn his head,” Tubbo says sharply, “turn it, he’s choking—”

Someone wrenches his head to the side. He coughs, once, twice, and then he’s wracked with them, curling in on himself as best he can, hands coming up to clutch at his chest, his throat, and he can feel the blood spilling from his mouth, pooling in his cheek and splattering on his lips. Blood. It waters the vines, the vines that are turning to dust. The blood vines are watered, and nothing at all happens, because the vines are dead.

The vines are dead, and he is dying, because he’s pretty sure that his internal organs are all giving out.

“He’s coughing up blood,” Fundy says, near hysterically, “why is he coughing up blood, what’s wrong with him—?”

“The Egg hurts you when you hurt it,” Tommy answers, matching his tone, his high pitch, his fear. “The Egg—and I fucking forgot, oh my god, why did I let him do it, we should’ve figured this would happen—”

“Does anyone have pots?” Tubbo demands. “Does anyone have pots, because I don’t.”

“I didn’t grab any,” Fundy says, “it all happened so fast, I didn’t think to grab any—”

“Wait, shit, I’ve got one,” Tommy says. “Here, c’mon.”

He feels hands on him, gently pushing him out of the position he’s folded himself into. And then, he’s leveraged to sit more upright, and he groans, something in his abdomen screaming in protest at the shift. He doesn’t have the strength to keep his head up, so he lets it fall back, and it hits someone’s chest. He’s propped up against someone, and as his vision clears, just a bit, he sees Fundy crouched to one side, hands hovering over him, and Tommy kneeling right by him, tugging on the cork of a potion, so it’s Tubbo that he’s leaning against.

“Here, Wilbur, just,” Tommy starts, and then the glass is being held to his lips. He parts his lips compliantly, and he feels the liquid slide across his tongue, but there’s too much blood in his throat for it to go down smoothly, and in the next second, he’s coughing again, sputtering, trying to suck air into a throat that’s too clogged and lungs that won’t quite inflate. He jerks, and Tubbo’s arms come up from behind him, grabbing his shoulders and holding him steady even as his body tries to escape the inescapable.

“C’mon, Wil, please,” Tommy says, and his eyes are wide and so very blue, and there’s a sheen across them. Tears. He’s making Tommy cry. “Please, you’ve got to swallow.”

He can’t get in a good enough breath to be able to tell him that he’s trying, that he would very much like to swallow, it’s only that absolutely nothing seems to be cooperating with him at the moment. But surely Tommy knows that, knows that he would if he could, and he’ll keep trying, even though—even though everything hurts, and really, there’s no other way to put it than that. Everything hurts, every inch of him, like his skin is being stretched too tight and he’s boiling from the inside out.

(but then again, Tommy doesn’t know the realization he’s just come to, he just sees his brother limp on the ground and fading away before his eyes and coughing up the potion he’s given him, coughing up what might be the best chance they have to save him, and that is what Tommy sees, so is there any wonder that he automatically assumes that)

No. No, he needs Tommy to know. He needs all of them to know that he doesn’t want this, that he doesn’t want to go, that he’s not giving up.

Tommy presses the potion to his lips again, desperate, insistent. He parts them again, and this time, some of it goes down. A bit goes down the wrong pipe, in fact, setting him to coughing again, but that burn is nothing compared to everything else. He can feel the magic begin to take effect right away, racing inside of him, trying to repair what has been broken and torn apart, and because he can feel it at work, he can feel exactly what’s wrong, can feel it try to patch holes inside of him that the Egg’s death throes ripped open, can feel it surrounding his heart, trying to encourage it to beat in a steady rhythm again, can feel it in his lungs, trying to reopen one that has half-collapsed. He can feel it all, and he knows that even if he managed to down the whole flask, it wouldn’t be enough. Not for this.

Because magic can only do so much. Because magic only goes so far.

Despair pools in his chest along with the fire, but he bucks against it, because he doesn’t want

(he doesn’t want to die and it took him so long to decide as much to understand himself enough to realize it and he doesn’t want to die but his body is giving out even as he fights to stay and this cannot be how it ends, it cannot be, because the world is cruel and the world is unfair but he cannot believe that it would be so unjust as this, so unjust as to take away what he has only just realized he wants to keep)

(but then again, the world does not often listen, does not often care for what is good and what is fair, because the world simply is, and that was a lesson he learned long ago, chased from the podium, the arrow in his back, betrayal and desperation playing a counterpoint melody, and it would never have happened if fairness was something the world at large took into consideration)

(but then again, does the universe not listen, when it well and truly counts? though to say as much would be to imply that it never counted before, when it did, did and still does, still does, because perhaps he can heal if given the chance but he will not forget and neither will anyone else)

to die. He doesn’t want to die. And if ever there was a moment to fight against despair, to fight against despair and win, for once, it is now. It is now.

“I’m trying,” he gasps out, and then immediately has to stop, has to struggle for air again, his chest heaving. He’s shaking, his bones trying to flee his skin.

“I know,” Tommy says. “I know, just come on—” The potion is back, and it’s the last of it, and he manages to force down some more. His vision sharpens, his breathing becoming just ever so slightly easier, but it’s not going to be enough. His heart falters, skips several beats, sends deep pangs shooting through his ribcage, and he knows it’s not going to be enough.

“I am trying,” he insists, as soon as he has enough air for it, “I am, I don’t—I don’t want to go—”

He coughs. Something inside him shifts, grating against other things, and fuck but that hurts, and there’s blood dribbling down his lips again. Hot and sticky. Damning.

“Okay, okay, that’s good, you’re not going anywhere,” Tommy says, “you’re not, we’re not gonna let that happen—”

“Comms are still down,” Fundy says. “I’m not getting through to anyone. Should I—should I go and get someone? I’m a fast runner, I can make it there and back.”

No.

No, no, he—it makes sense, what Fundy is suggesting, but he doesn’t want his son to leave him, because what if he leaves and he—he never gets to tell him all the things he wants to say, all the things he should have said a long, long time ago, what if he leaves and the last that Wilbur sees of him is his retreating back and that’s all, that’s all there is for either of them, what if he dies here and now and he never gets to—

(a scene, imagined: the sun setting over the water, a warm, lazy breeze rustling his hair, and they are sitting side by side, quiet and companionable, and they are fishing, their lures bobbing together in the lake, and all is not fixed and all is not forgotten but there is peace and forgiveness and an opportunity to repair the once-burnt bridge and he wants that he wants he wants)

He moves his arm. The first time, it flops back down uselessly, but he tries again, expends far more effort than he should, and he hooks his fingers into Fundy’s sleeve. Fundy stills, and Wilbur looks at him. Really looks. Meets his eyes and keeps his gaze there. And he doesn’t know what he looks like, doesn’t know how bad he must appear at the moment, but though there is worry on his son’s face, there is something else there, too, something more complicated.

“Wil?” Fundy says softly.

He might not get another chance for this.

“I love you,” he says, and he can feel the words sliding into each other even as they leave his mouth, but he hopes he’s comprehensible. He prays, because he needs Fundy to know this. “I love you, and—I’m so sorry I wasn’t there. I’m so sorry. I wanted to be better this ti—”

His heart squeezes, like it’s doing its level best to collapse in on itself, and he breaks off with a strangled squawking sort of noise. And Fundy makes an odd noise of his own.

“Shut up,” he says. “You’re not—you’re going to be fine. Stop talking like you’re going to—you can’t leave again, okay, you can’t do this to me again, you can’t—”

He’s hurting his son. Hurting his son just like he has all along, and he’s powerless to stop it, powerless once again. And there is some measure of gladness in it, in knowing that Fundy does not want him dead, but he is hurting him, hurting him when he never wanted to do so again. When all he really wanted was a chance to make things better, if he could. If he would be allowed.

He tightens his grip on Fundy’s sleeve. Fundy’s face shutters, and then he reaches over with his other hand and pries his fingers off, and Wilbur thinks that actually he might die right here and now.

Except then, Fundy takes his hand and intertwines their fingers, clutching them tightly. He tries to squeeze back and only manages a flutter, but it’s enough.

(because all is not well between you and perhaps it never will be, but know this, know that your son still loves you)

“I’m so sorry,” Tubbo says suddenly, and he can’t crane his neck to look at him, so he has to settle for listening to the words. “If I hadn’t used the totem, maybe—”

“Oh my god, don’t fucking say that,” Tommy snaps, and Wilbur quite agrees, because if Tubbo hadn’t used the totem, then perhaps this would feel very different, and perhaps he would not be terrified of the sensation of his life slipping away from him, because he would have death’s most effective preventative measure resting in his hand, waiting for his heart to still in order to repair the damage. But if Tubbo hadn’t used the totem—and he didn’t see exactly what happened, occupied as he was, but he can guess well enough from the still-present echoes of terror on Tommy’s face—then Tubbo would be dead. And that is not an acceptable loss.

“It’s the truth,” Tubbo insists.

“No,” he forces out, “no, that wouldn’t—that wouldn’t be any better—”

And then, his muscles seize. His back arches, and he hears himself cry aloud, and then the world goes away for a bit.

When it all returns, it crashes in on him at once, and he feels disoriented, exhausted, like his brain is seeking anything recognizable, anything to help make sense of what’s happening, and coming up with nothing. It takes a moment for him to remember where he is, what’s just happened, and even then, he feels dazed, almost outside of himself. He still hurts, but it’s distant. Like it’s happening to someone else.

He’s lying fully on the ground. There’s something soft under his head. A jacket? There is no one holding his hand, and a low keen rips itself from his throat. But no one’s listening—sound filters back in, and it takes effort to parse the voices from each other, speaking over themselves as they are.

“—going,” Fundy is saying, and Fundy, Fundy, he’d like Fundy to come back and be next to him, but he forces his head to flop to the side and sees that Fundy is standing now, standing with the rest of them. “I’m going, we need help, he’s—he’s literally dying right now—”

“He’s not fucking dying,” Tommy says, “would you stop saying that, he’s not—”

“If you’re gonna go get help, then go and hurry up up about it,” Tubbo is saying at the same time, and—

That’s right. He’s dying. He might have just had a seizure. That’s probably what that was. Caused by—seizures can be caused by traumatic brain things, right? Injuries? Having the Egg fucking around in there probably counts, and even beside that, he felt it die, felt it as the power of the universe flowed through the sword in its hand and tore it apart, even as it took him down with it.

(and there are some things that a mortal mind is not meant for, and surely, surely, the universe in its glory and its infinity is one of them and yet it is in your head always humming always there and it will not leave even when you do not pay it heed)

So that’s that. He’s just had a seizure, and he thinks his body’s gotten to the point where it’s given up on trying to fix anything, because the pain is fading, fading back into numbness, as if all his nerves have collectively decided that this situation is a little too fucked up and there’s nothing they can do, no point in working on it anymore. No point in signaling that anything’s wrong when nothing’s being fixed.

He’s dying.

(he doesn’t want to go)

“No way he gets back in time,” someone says. “You’ve got minutes at most.”

He’s not sure who spoke, but he agrees. Short of a miracle, he’s—he’s dying, and he wants to cry, because he doesn’t want to go. His surroundings blur.

He’s alone. Why isn’t anyone next to him? They’re standing, around him but not with him, talking to each other, voices so frantic and scared, and they’re just kids, and it’s so unfair that any of this is being put on them at all, and he doesn’t blame them for it, of course, but he thinks that if anyone was going to go for help, it should have been done right away. Not now. It’s not going to do any good now.

If he’s going to die, he doesn’t want to be alone.

(he intended to die alone, at the end of it all. he intended for himself to be the only one to be hurt. that’s one of the only reasons why he didn’t blow it all to hell sooner, because people were there, people talked him down, people like Quackity, people like Tommy, and they didn’t talk him out of wanting to do it but their presence reminded him that he didn’t want them to be hurt, he only wanted himself to hurt, because that was what was fair and that was what was right)

(but he didn’t die alone, at the end of it all. Phil held him, and he felt a little less afraid under all that relief, and the last thing he remembers from that day is warmth overwhelming, and if he’s going to die again, he doesn’t want to be cold, alone, alone)

He tries to talk, to say something, but he really is having trouble breathing now. His chest rises and falls in quick, short pants, too shallow to supply enough oxygen, too little to support his voice. He tries to move to get their attention, but his limbs don’t respond to his commands.

And then, Fundy’s taking off, running for the entrance, and no, no, no—

He finally manages to meet Tommy’s gaze. Tommy’s crouched by him again in an instant, and Tubbo is, too, grabbing his hand, and he’s glad of it, glad for the contact, but—

“It’s okay,” Tommy tells him. “You’re gonna be fine, Wilbur, Fundy’s gonna go get someone, and they’ll bring more pots, and, and another totem, too—”

His vision is darkening. He wants Fundy to come back. His heartbeats are growing more erratic, slower, weaker.

“Tommy,” Tubbo says, voice small, and stops. Tommy goes silent for a moment.

“No,” he says, then, and his voice is a sob. Wilbur wants to comfort him. He can’t move. “No, no, this isn’t fair—”

He knows. He knows, and he can’t do a thing about it.

“I—” he manages, pushing the word out with what little air is circulating through his lungs. “I don’t want—”

He can’t finish.

“I know you don’t want to go,” Tommy says, “I know, so, so you won’t, you won’t, you’re going to be fine—”

“We’re here, Wilbur,” Tubbo says. “We’re right here.”

He’s glad. He wants to stay with them.

“Jesus, Wilbur.” There’s that voice again. Not Tommy’s, not Tubbo’s. Soft and exasperated, and perhaps a little bit concerned, but he’s not sure. His ability to think, to reason, is slipping from his grasp, and one some level, that terrifies him, but on another, he can no longer care. “You giving up?”

The peculiar combination of derision and amusement is familiar. He opens his eyes; he hadn’t realized he’d closed them. Above him, a face hovers, upside-down from his vantage point. Dark hair, scruff, chipped horns, a blue sweater. Schlatt.

How long has he been here?

“Is this how you’re gonna go out?” Schlatt asks him. “Taken out by a—whatever the hell this was? You know, I’m still not clear on that. None of you assholes ever explained it to me. Some kind of demon bullshit. But you’re just gonna let this happen?”

Somehow, his voice cuts through the haze that’s filled his mind, cuts through even where Tommy and Tubbo’s voices have blended together, becoming one with the background. Perhaps it’s the sudden burst of annoyance, an energy he thought he no longer had; of course he’s not letting this happen. There’s just not a whole lot he can do to fight against acute organ failure. Does he look as if he planned this?

“You don’t want to go, though,” Schlatt says. “I heard that. Good on you, I guess. Deciding that life’s worth something after all. I’m real proud.”

He tries to glare at him. He has no idea whether his face is doing anything or not. If it is, he hopes that the boys don’t think he’s mad at them.

“Okay,” Schlatt says. “Okay, you know what? Let’s give this a try. You’re a real jackass, though, you know that? I want to make sure you know that. I need you to remember that to the end of your days. I want you to put it on your tombstone when you do finally kick it. Here lies Wilbur Soot, he was a real jackass.”

He doesn’t understand what Schlatt is trying to say. He’s rambling, as if to himself. And the world is sliding away again.

(he’s trying to hold on but there’s only so much he can do if the entire cliff face gives way there’s only so much he can do to fight against it there’s only so much)

But then, he feels it. The tether. The rope that binds them. The trailing connection. It opens up, pulling like gravity on his heart, and there’s that familiar sensation, energy leaving him, flowing down the line, except this is energy that he truly doesn’t have to spare, and the last embers of his panic flare up again, because surely Schlatt can feel it, can feel that he has nothing to give, that this is only going to kill him quicker, within seconds if he keeps this up and he may not have much of a chance here but he doesn’t need Schlatt making it worse—

“Holy shit!” he hears Tubbo say, backed up by, “What the fuck are you doing?” from Tommy an instant later. He can’t see them. He can’t see anything. Their voices are far away, and he’s trying to reach them, but he’s falling, and he can’t stop it, can’t stop himself, and the void is close.

(and he’s scared)

“Hey Tubbo,” he hears Schlatt say. Distantly, from a long way away, and getting quieter. Everything is dim. He’s floating. “You deserved better than me, kid, you really did.” A pause. “Tell Fundy the same thing, would you?”

His heart beats. Once. Twice. And then does not beat again. He’d be in pain if he could still feel it. But it’s all gone. All falling away, and the void is close, the void is reaching out to him, and he is—

And then, the tether reverses.

Energy flows back into him. What Schlatt took, and somehow, inextricably—more.

He slams back into himself all at once, gasping for air, back arching off the ground as he is hit with—everything. Sensation, in his fingers, in his toes. Pain, in every inch of him, every atom. Lungs that inflate, barely at first and then more fully. Ruptured places repairing themselves. A heart that starts again, and beats, beats, beats.

“C’mon,” Schlatt is muttering, over and over, and though Tommy and Tubbo are still talking, it’s the only voice he can latch onto. “C’mon, c’mon.” His hand is splayed across Wilbur’s chest, firm and solid, pressing down. “C’mon.”

He has sight again. Schlatt is still there, is still leaning over him, strain written on every line of his face, and Wilbur doesn’t understand, doesn’t understand what he’s doing, doesn’t understand where this energy is coming from, doesn’t understand how it’s—healing him. It’s healing him. Though—Schlatt is a ghost, is usually intangible, has to rely on Wilbur’s lifeforce if he wants to do anything, but perhaps that doesn’t mean Schlatt has none of his own. Perhaps it’s just not enough to sustain him. Perhaps it’s not enough to form him a body, not enough to create life from death.

But perhaps it’s enough for this.

Just as he works through it, Schlatt loses his solidity. His hand slips down, passing through Wilbur’s chest, and he shudders at the sensation, tingling and cold. But Schlatt doesn’t pull away, and the energy keeps flowing, and then, Schlatt starts to flicker, his form wavering in and out of reality.

And finally, Wilbur thinks he understands.

(reciprocity is something they both know well, and a connection once opened can flow both ways)

“You’re giving too much,” he says, though he’s practically mouthing the words, so thin is his voice.

“Yeah, well,” Schlatt says, his voice echoing and distant and staticky. Like a snowfall. “Maybe I want you to prove me wrong.”

Prove him wrong?

(a sunny day, flowers twisted absently in his hands, blue flowers to match the blue sweater, blue sky above, and Schlatt’s voice saying, people like us don’t change, and he once believed that, believed that his role was set and there was no going back, and he believed that for Schlatt as well, believed that for the both of them there could be no redemption, but now he isn’t so sure, and he looks into Schlatt’s eyes and he thinks that perhaps)

“Schlatt,” he whispers, and Schlatt gives him a long look. Hard, but not cruel, measured, but not mocking, considering, not dismissive. And perhaps, just perhaps, there is a little bit of regret there, too.

(regret for the boys they once were, full of life and ideas and hope, tongues sharp and minds sharper, and what good friends they used to be, in the days of their youths when they were free and unburdened and war was a tale from the past and politics a distant future and betrayal a joke and a game, when they were young, when they were young)

“Prove me wrong, Wilbur,” Schlatt says, and then, he is gone. He winks out of existence, and there is no shimmer of blue in the air, no feeling of being watched, of eyes on him, and the tether breaks, snaps apart, and he lets out a soundless shout as the backlash hits him, like a rubber band snapping back into place. The energy stops, and there is nothing in its place, and he reaches out, instinctively, searching, and finds nothing. Where the ghost was, there is blank space. Only the world, and no hum of the stars.

(the hum of the stars is in your mind and your mind only and you are alone inside of it and there is no other not anymore)

And he is alive.

“What the fuck,” Tommy is saying. His hands paw at his neck, pressing up to find his pulse, and Wilbur can feel it. The touch is warm. “What the hell did he do to you, that fucker—Wilbur? Wilbur, c’mon, answer me, man, are you still—”

“Here,” he says, and Tommy falls silent. “I’m here.”

He is here. He is lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling, and the vines are still turning to dust above him. He is here, and he hurts, still, deeply and acutely, every inch of him aching, but his heart beats steadily, his lungs expand when he breathes, and there is no catch in his throat, no urge to cough, no churning in his stomach, no convulsions wracking him, and his vision is clear.

“Wilbur?” Tubbo asks. His voice shakes.

“I’m here,” he says again. “I’m not going. I’m still here.”

“Oh my god,” Tommy says, and then, Tommy’s all but on top of him, lying on his chest, wrapping his arms around him, knocking the breath right out of him, and Tubbo follows a short second behind, taking up all of the space that Tommy isn’t. He wheezes, but it’s a good sort of wheeze, even if it hurts. It definitely hurts. But he’s hardly about to get them to stop.

They pile on him, grabbing onto him like their lives depend upon it,

(or like his life depends upon it)

and he feels warm, and present, and here. Still here.

(safe)

(alive)

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. That’s about all the volume he can manage; his throat feels shredded. “I’m so sorry I scared you.”

“You’d better be sorry,” Tommy chokes out. “I thought you were gonna die.”

“I thought I was too,” he says. “But I didn’t want to. I fought it, I swear. I don’t want to go. I mean that.” They’re on top of his arms, pinning them. He gives them a nudge, experimentally, but they don’t give an inch, so he’s going to have to settle for not hugging them, apparently. “I’m staying right here. I don’t want to die.”

The words are novel. He thinks he’d like to say them over and over again, just to test them out, to feel the truth in them. He doesn’t want to die, and more than that, he rather thinks he wants to live. What a revolutionary thing it is, to want to live.

“You dickhead,” Tommy mutters, and buries his face in his shirt, which becomes damp in short order. He won’t call him on it.

“Please don’t do that again, though,” Tubbo says. “That was actively terrifying.”

He manages a laugh. The sound of it surprises him. “I’m not planning on it,” he says.

Despite the heavy weight of two teenage boys resting on him, he feels lighter than he has in weeks. Since he woke up in that forest, rain falling on his face, and turned to the arctic, to the snow and the tundra and the promise of family that he didn’t know how to feel about, the promise of a family that was scattered and broken into too many pieces. Since seeing his brother again a scarce day later, standing in the rain, the notes of the guitar fading in the air. Since the Egg, since the prison, since arguments and tentative reconciliations and everything that’s happened between now and then. And the thoughts still lurk. He can sense them in the shadows of his mind, ready to swell forth again, ready to tell him all about what he deserves and how he will be betrayed and how everyone hates him and he hates himself but for now—

For now, in this moment, he wants to live, and he wants to live well, and he pushes aside the whispers of what he deserves and lets himself be, and lets himself love.

(and lets himself be loved)

And then: footsteps. Several pairs, rushing down the corridor. He can’t get a good look, and the boys don’t seem inclined to take much notice, either. But he has a feeling as to who it is, and his suspicion is confirmed a moment later, as Fundy’s voice floats toward him, saying, “—bad, I mean, it’s really bad, I really think he’s literally dying, and I don’t, I just don’t—” He sounds as though he’s been keeping up this litany for some time, perhaps more as something to say than anything else, something to focus on, something to distract him a bit. His voice gets closer, and then stops. “Oh my god, is he dead?” His voice pitches upward, and overlaps with a sharp inhalation—Phil’s, he recognizes.

So there’s only one thing to do.

“Help,” he rasps, “I’m being crushed.”

There is a long moment of silence, and he almost wishes that Tommy and Tubbo would get up so that he could see the looks on their faces. Almost, but not quite. He’s content to stay like this for a good while longer.

“Oh my god, he’s alive,” Fundy says, and there is a sharp exhalation, also from Phil.

“You fucks,” Phil says, relief audible. “Do you know how scared I was?”

“I wasn’t,” Techno says. “I wasn’t worried at all.”

Finally, Tommy stirs, lifting his face from his chest and glaring off in the direction of the entrance. He also lifts a hand and flips them off.

“Fuck off,” he says. “We’ve just had a traumatic experience, we have. Are you going to stand there and be—and be twats, or did you bring anything useful? Like—” He stops, looking back down at him. His face is vaguely tear-stained, though Wilbur’s pretty sure that most of it is in his shirt. “Do you still need some pots? Or did—what the hell did he even do, anyway? How did that—you were definitely dying, and then he was there, all, all like that, and then he disappeared and you were better. What did he do?”

“Changed, I think,” he murmurs, and judging from the expression on Tommy’s face, he doesn’t get it. But that’s alright.

“Okay,” Phil says, and then he’s sweeping toward them and kneeling. His wings are on full display, he notes, no effort at all put toward hiding them, and maybe it doesn’t really mean anything, but he can’t help but feel glad. Phil should never have to hide his wings, no matter what condition they’re in. “Alright—here, Tubbo, could you move over a bit?”

Tubbo shifts off of him, too, his breathing unsteady. His eyes are slightly red-rimmed to match Tommy’s. He doesn’t say anything, just shuffles to the side so that he’s sitting next to Tommy. Phil shoots a quick smile at him, one that’s probably supposed to be reassuring but comes off as strained, and then, his hands are on Wilbur’s shoulders.

“You think you can sit up, Wil?” he asks, and Wilbur tries. He tries, but immediately gives it up as a lost cause as all his core muscles cry out in immediate protest.

“Sitting up ability is currently on strike, I believe,” he says, and Phil’s brow furrows in concern, but he takes it in stride. Behind him, Fundy and Techno are both hovering—though Fundy’s far more obvious about it. It is a bit funny how they’re both doing it, though, and the contrast between them, Techno’s bulk and general everything next to Fundy’s fidgeting. Fundy keeps casting glances at Techno, too, nervous ones.

Phil pulls him into an upright position, and he moans, his head swimming for a second before the lightheadedness abates. He hunches forward, letting gravity pull him back down a little; he thinks he’d flop over like a ragdoll if it weren’t for Phil steadying him.

“Where are you hurt the worst?” Phil asks, voice quiet. “Fundy said you were coughing up blood. And that you had a seizure, I’m guessing, judging from what he told us.”

He can still taste it on his tongue. Sharp iron. And his limbs are all very sore.

“A bit everywhere,” he admits. “I’m pretty sure all my organs were giving out on me at once, so I don’t think there’s one specific area that needs attention.” Phil’s expression widens into open dismay at that, and something very much like fear, and perhaps he shouldn’t have phrased it quite like that. Perhaps he shouldn’t be so blasé about his imminent death in front of the man who he begged to take his third life and definitely emotionally scarred in the process. But he’s still a bit wrapped up in the fact that he’s alive at all, alive and glad to be so.

“Okay,” Phil says, in a way that implies he definitely does not think that it’s okay, but he’s trying to keep it together. “Okay. That’s—okay. Do you think you could get down a regen?”

He pulls a face, but nods. Regen potions have never been his favorite; their magic is rough, unsubtle, far more concerned with function over comfort. But he likely needs one, or two, or several, or as many as his body can keep down, because he is alive, but probably far from alright, still; the continuing ache is evidence enough of that, and he’s fairly certain that if he tried to stand, he would tip over immediately. Phil has no reservations, bringing out a pot from his inventory and holding it up to him, a mirror of Tommy’s actions a minute before. Only this time, he brings up a shaking hand to help support the glass, even if he can’t hold its full weight, and he swallows all of it without coughing.

It gets to work. He winces, and then decides that he’s been on the ground long enough. The energy from the pot is more than enough for him to attempt to get up.

“Whoa,” Phil says, “wait, Wilbur—”

He’s up. His vision blacks out for a second, but when it clears, he’s still up, if woozy. He imagines he might need help to walk any significant distance, but he won’t need to be carried, at least. Which is nice. Being carried is undignified.

“You should absolutely not be standing up,” Tommy snaps, and he raises an eyebrow.

“And yet,” he says, spreading his arms. Once again, he gets the impression that he’s being far more casual about all of this than he should be. He imagines that it will hit him later, the horror of it, seeing Niki’s face twisted in rage, letting the Egg inside his mind once again, almost being unable to pull himself out, almost dying right after he figured out that he didn’t want to. It will all his him, he’s sure, but for now, he would like to walk out of here under his own power, his family by his side, everyone alive and unharmed, the trouble dealt with at last. “I’m alright. I actually mean that. I’m not going to keel over.”

He inhales. Wrinkles his nose. Actually, it doesn’t smell very nice in here.

“Is the rest handled?” he asks, glancing at Phil. Phil is standing very close to him, wings flared, likely ready to catch him if he needs it. He won’t, though he appreciates the gesture.

“We felt the Egg go,” Phil says. “It was like—like the world itself distorted for a second, and then patched itself back up. We were already on our way here when Fundy came to get us. In a nutshell, yes, it’s handled. Dream was still up when we left, but the rest of the Egg people just sort of—stopped. And nobody on our side went down hard. Eret and Puffy got the worst of it, but they’ll both be fine, last I saw.”

“But Dream was still up,” he says. Beside him, Tommy’s shoulders hunch.

“Not for long,” Techno says. His gaze is fixed behind them, on the Egg. “We would’ve stayed if we weren’t sure of it.” His eyes drift to Tommy’s for a second. “The others are handlin’ it. But we can go see.” And then, to Tubbo: “The totem came in handy.” A statement, not a question.

“Yes,” Tubbo says, expression inscrutable. “It did. Thank you, Technoblade.”

Techno shrugs. “I gave it to be used,” he says dryly. “Let’s not make a habit of it.” And that is a Techno way of saying you’re welcome, of burying the hatchet as much as he is able, and it’s not nearly enough, but it’s a first step. And then, Techno literally steps forward, and Wilbur is a little too concerned with the way that Tubbo stiffens to notice exactly what his intent is, which is why it takes him by surprise when Techno takes his head in his hands and presses their foreheads together.

Just for a second. But it’s an old gesture, a familiar gesture, and not one that he ever expected to receive again. His breath catches.

(you were kids the first time he did this, the first time he butted his head against yours, impossibly gentle, tender in a way you hadn’t realized Techno knew how to be, and it wasn’t until later that Phil explained it to you, explained piglin instincts and the concept of a sounder and how Techno always, always feels far more than he lets on, and always, always cares, perhaps too much, and he still does, despite everything, he still does)

And then, Techno walks forward, past them, to the husk of the Egg that lies behind, and the moment is over. But it was there. It was there, when it didn’t have to be, when Techno would still be well within his rights to hold back from them, from him, to keep his distance. But here he is, displaying open affection, and he’s not naive enough to think that means it’s all fixed, but—

Hope is a dangerous thing, but he feels in the mood to indulge. And beside him, Tubbo relaxes, and Tommy, just for a second, wears an expression that suggests a bit of hope of his own.

He turns to watch Techno as he roots through the dust, a crumbling, greyed-out monument that barely holds any shape. A reminder, and nothing more. An empty shell, and that, too, will disintegrate soon enough, leaving a room of dust and lava pools, and statues long abandoned.

Techno huffs. Reaches down. And from the middle of the Egg, he pulls out—

“Is that fucking Skeppy,” Tommy states, flat as a fucking pancake.

He blinks. Because it—is. Somehow. Fucking Skeppy. Though he looks different; parts of him are the same blue, but many patches are discolored, greyish white, and as Techno hoists him up, Wilbur thinks he sees red slipping off of him, like runny paint.

“Oh my god,” Tubbo says. “Was the Egg Skeppy this whole time?”

“I was wonderin’ where this guy got off to,” Techno says, and throws Skeppy across his shoulders in a fireman’s carry, apparently unconcerned. “He hadn’t been by to bother me in a while. And BadBoyHalo kind of just sat down and started cryin’ about him, which, I won’t lie, I had no idea how to handle, not my area, but I thought he might be here. Are we leavin’ these two here, or takin’ them?”

Niki and Jack. Both on the ground, chests rising and falling. Free of the Egg, now, but he’s not sure where that leaves them. Though it would likely be—

“Leave ‘em,” Tommy says, startlingly vehement. “Just, we’ll come back, leave ‘em here for now.”

“I don’t think he meant to,” Tubbo says quietly. “I think it just happened really fast.”

“Don’t care,” Tommy says. “Leave ‘em.”

He looks back and forth between them. Gold still dances across Tubbo’s skin. And he wasn’t turned around, didn’t see what happened, but he thinks he can guess, based on everything, based on Niki’s sword at Tommy’s throat and Jack pinning Tubbo to the ground, based on their desperate, misdirected need for vengeance and the way Jack shouted and a boy who would do just about anything to ensure Tommy’s safety. Hears I don’t think he meant to, and thinks about other times, darker times,

(and meaning does not always matter, because intent is washed away in impact, and he never meant to hurt them)

and he decides not to ask. Not now. Not yet. Though it should be addressed. A lot of things should be addressed, a lot of things that they have not, yet, because there has been no time, because everything has been moving at a breakneck pace, but the pace will be slower now. The pace will be slower, and they will have time.

He looks to Fundy. Fundy stares back, not saying anything at all. His eyes are wet.

“I’m glad you’re not dead,” Fundy murmurs. Quiet enough that he doesn’t think anyone else hears it.

“Me too,” he says. “And I’m glad you’re here.”

A start. A first step. There are so many of those that still need to be taken. For now, Fundy’s lips curl into what might be the ghost of a smile.

They will have time.

***

The scene they return to is this: some are standing, some are sitting, all gathered in the courtyard of the castle. The gates lie wide open. The vines are gone. The sun is rising.

There is Eret, standing tall, though blood still runs down from a wound on their shoulder and another long gash on their arm. Their crown is blood splattered, their glasses still perched on their nose, though slipping down, and Wilbur glances away before he can take in something he’s not meant to see. There is Puffy, kneeling, her blood on the grass around her; it is her leg that is wounded, though it is difficult to tell how badly. There is Sam, shifting, uncertain, a lost look in his eyes as his fingers flex around his trident. There is Purpled, on the outskirts, on guard but perhaps an ally, though he has no reason to be. There is BadBoyHalo, sitting, curled into himself, tears running down his face, which is less ashen. The other members of the Eggpire cluster around him, seemingly in various states of shock. None of them move. They are mostly ignored.

There is Ranboo, also sitting. His eyes are wide. Tears are streaming down his face, too, and a bit of steam rises from his skin. He pays no mind. He’s trembling, occasionally gasping for breath through a sob.

There is Quackity, still standing, hands clutched around an axe like it’s the best protection he knows how to have. He wonders if there’s any truth to that; Quackity has never been one for fighting, though he tries.

(he wonders if Schlatt wanted to say anything to him, too. wonders if it would have done more harm than good)

And then there is Dream, lying on the ground. There is George, crouched by his side. There is Sapnap, kneeling, all his weight on the sword piercing Dream’s chest. Dream’s chest rises and falls, shallow and slow, and nobody moves. Sapnap’s face is flushed, tears in his eyes, and whether they are from anger or grief, he can’t tell.

Dark smoke puffs out from under Dream’s mask and dissipates in the air. Tommy makes a small sound, and Wilbur fits his hand into his. Tommy doesn’t look at him, doesn’t look away from the sight in front of them, but his fingers curl around his.

Sapnap moves as if to draw the sword out. Dream’s hand comes up and wraps around the hilt, stopping him.

“No,” Dream says, voice a reedy whisper, free of shadow. “You need to be sure it’s gone.”

And so they stay. The only sound is crying, and Sapnap’s harsh breaths, hitched and desperate. Both angry and grieving at once. George’s hands inch forward until they’re curled into Dream’s hoodie. It’s like a painting, the three of them. The sun crests the walls of the castle, and the rays fall on them like a caress, and the smoke stops appearing. The sigils carved into the sword dim.

Dream stops breathing. Quietly, and without fanfare. Like a sigh.

As one, more than a dozen communicators chime.

Tommy exhales shakily.

(is this closure? is this what he wanted? he doesn’t know, but there is no going back, no going back to the old days, when they were all still friends and the war was a game)

(and after everything that Dream did perhaps it feels wrong that this should end so abruptly or that he should not shove the sword in his chest himself for what he did to Tommy or that Tommy should have no say in his fate but at the same time perhaps it is right and perhaps this is the way the circle breaks at last)

Techno sighs, walks over to where Bad sits, and dumps Skeppy in front of him. As if a spell has been broken, Tubbo moves, too, crossing to Ranboo and crouching before him, speaking to him in low tones. Several others start moving, like the world was on pause and has only just resumed. Sapnap draws the sword from Dream’s chest, but he remains there, kneeling by the body.

Dream looks peaceful. Though with his mask still on, it’s impossible to tell. No one motions to remove it.

Tommy presses close to him. On the other side, Fundy steps closer. Against his back, he feels one of Phil’s wings brush against all of them, a promise of shelter, of safety. Perhaps this time, it will be kept.

Just like that, it is over. Can it be over?

(is it ever truly over?)

(but in every ending there is a beginning, and the world still spins, and the grass still grows, and the sky is still blue, and finally there is more reason to look forward than back)

The sun rises. Is rising, has risen, will rise again and again and again. And he’s lived to see it.

[ygreczed-3]

The Red Guard and the Snow Angel

Stormy Lands concept art

The Thunder War Spirit’s seal concept art

Gavin and the thunder war spirit

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4

On the stormy lands.

Gavin : It's been raining for days. I just want to see a fucking fire now. And feel dry again. Connor : The man from Braverive said there was a city in the middle of the thunder desert… We should be close. Hank : I really need a dry bed. I'm too old for this shit…  Gavin : Rheumatism, old man ? 

They see a cave

Hank : Shut up. Let's just stop for the night.

X

Gavin wakes up in the middle of the night Nines and Connor are in stasis, Hank is sleeping.

??? : ℌ𝔲𝔪𝔞𝔫… ℑ 𝔠𝔞𝔫 𝔣𝔢𝔢𝔩 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔯𝔰𝔱… 𝔗𝔥𝔦𝔯𝔰𝔱 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔭𝔬𝔴𝔢𝔯… 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔰𝔱𝔯𝔢𝔫𝔤𝔱𝔥… ℌ𝔲𝔪𝔞𝔫, 𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔢 𝔱𝔬 𝔪𝔢…

Gavin walks away from the camp and goes deeper in the cave. There is a stone shining orange/yellow in the dark blue night.

???  : ℑ 𝔠𝔞𝔫 𝔪𝔞𝔨𝔢 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔭𝔬𝔴𝔢𝔯𝔣𝔲𝔩. Gavin : … And what do you want from me ? ???  : … 𝔜𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔟𝔬𝔡𝔶.

Gavin touches the stone and a huge lightning strikes from the dark grey clouds. Connor, Nines and Hank are awakened by the sound of thunder, and then Gavin's scream. A thunder spirit is invading the cave, transferring from the stone to Gavin's body.

Hank : What the hell ?!

The magic flows into Gavin's nape, forming a golden seal.

Connor : Nines ! His neck !

Nines sees the seal and hits the spot with an ice arrow. The thunder vanishes from the cave but the seal remains on Gavin's neck. Gavin drops on his knees, in shock, trembling and breathing heavily. 

Hank : You okay kid ? What happened ?

Hank turns to Nines

Hank : How did you know you had to hit the neck ? Connor : We're magic creatures. We have seals too, we know they're a weakness. Hank : So… What was that ? Nines : A thunder war spirit.

*Nines looks at the stone*

Nines : This one was sealed in that cave... Somehow, Gavin unleashed it and now... he hosts it.

X

NB : So, the people that live in the stormy lands sealed the thunder war spirit in that cave a long long time ago. The first generations used to educate fighting monks to watch the cave but as time passed, it became a legend and now fighting monks are sent to other strategic points. The cave and the thunder war spirit that, in the past, devastated the Stormy Lands with bestial ferocity are now almost forgotten.

The war spirit was waiting for a suitable host to come by, someone already powerful and skilled in the arts of combat, but also spirited and ambitious, because those emotions fuels it. Its purpose is to take control of the body it possesses using negative emotions. Attacking the seal that appears on Gavin's neck stunts the spirit and seals it again for an unkown period of time. The only way to control the spirit is to use a goal as a channel, and redirect the thunder power to serve this purpose. The control can be absolute when the host has a steel motivation.

The basic victims of the war spirit are theoretically unable to have higher purposes in life than their own interests, so they always end up being totally under the spirit's influence and are killed to give full control of their bodies.

X

Gavin is outside, touching his neck, lost in his thoughts. It's raining and he's drenched. Nines glares at him from the entrance of the cave.

Nines : You should be dead.

Gavin  doesn't even turn his head to stare back at the golem.

Gavin : Heard this already. Nines : Elemental war Spirits are powerful. Humans… Most humans actually couldn't even contain their magic. That’s... quiet impressive. Gavin : … It's lurking inside… waiting for the best moment to kill me, I can feel it. 

Gavin sighs and closes his eyes, his fingers still tracing the edges of his new scar.

 Anyway. I can't believe you left a scar there. Scars in the back are made when you run away… and I've never run away.  Nines : … Now you can't say you killed everyone who left you with a scar. Gavin : Who knows, I could still kill you. Nines : … Don't be ridiculous. You can't even defend your own body. How could you pretend to be strong enough to kill me ? Gavin : Don't underestimate me, snowy prick.

X

Gavin is still outside, in the pouring rain. Hank is standing by the entrance of the cave.

Hank : Hey… How do you feel ? Gavin :... Weird.  Hank : ...You know, we fight from time to time, but we're brothers in arms, in the Red Guard… Nice to know you're okay. Gavin : … Hm… ...Hey Hank… If I… Die during this mission… I want a tombstone… next to my mother. And I… I want you to visit it, sometimes. I doubt that anyone is gonna remember me… except you, because I was a pain in your ass. Hank : Pff. Don't think about it now. Just be careful in the future, alright ?

X

Hank's frowning in pain, groaning. Connor rises up his head. 

Connor : You okay ? Hank : … That little brat was right… I have an old injury on my back… this constant rain is making it so sore… Dammit. Connor : Does this make it better ?

Connor applies his hand on Hank's back, using snow magic.

Hank : … Yeah, it… actually works. Connor : Cold sooth pain. Markus knows healing magic, he tried to teach me but I'm way better at fighting.  Hank : … What was your job ? When you were still in Detroit ? Connor : I worked a long time in Amanda Stern's fields. And some time before the Night of Freedom, she asked me to clean up and classify her books. I… I read them when she wasn't around. She had a lot of books about Kamski and magic. Hank : That's how you had this idea ? Connor : … One book actually says something that… intrigues me. Hank: ? Connor : "The key to our prosperity lays in…" And the end was never written. If we knew that maybe… Our people could finally find peace.

X

During the trip, Hank and Connor grow fond of one other. Hank likes Connor's capacity to analyze things and is low key impressed by his knowledge and his fighting skills, they even start to spar together. Connor happens to be interested in human sciences, and they end up talking philosophy a lot. 

Connor feels intrigued by Hank, and starts feeling this "warm feeling" that puzzles him. Hank slowly realizes golems might not be totally responsible for what happened to his family, and starts showing empathy to Connor.

One night in an inn, Hank can't sleep, as usual, so Connor takes him out. They walk around the town, Hank talks about the Golden Age in Detroit, and the beautiful night market that was organized once a month. Connor says he remembers it. Golems weren't allowed in it, but he liked to watch the lights and hear the music from afar. When they get back to the room, Hank goes back into the bed and actually falls deep asleep. Connor stays there and looks at him as he sleeps, and can't help but think about how beautiful his silver thin hair looks in the moonlight. He brushes his hand, and it's so warm, a warmth that echoes his feelings. He just sits down near the bed and stays there, lost in his thoughts.

Nines doesn't like that Connor gets closer to Hank. He recognizes Hank is somehow well behaved and… righteous compared to Gavin, but he's still a HUMAN and he thinks Connor is forgetting they are not on the same side. Connor doesn't want to hear anything from his brother, because "I know what I'm doing okay ?". And he's embarrassed to think his brother might understand he's developing affection for Hank. Also, Connor is totally oblivious to Nines and Gavin's growing connection. 

X

On the other hand, Nines relates to Gavin more than he would like to : they're actually pretty similar in the way they think. Gavin doesn't believe they'll even reach and find Kamski, he's just sticking around to make sure he'll be able to capture the androids when they fail, to take them back to Detroit and get all the glory. Nines is accompanying Connor because he doesn't trust the humans and is ready to kill them without batting an eyelid if they tried anything. 

One day he finds Gavin in a sandy combe, training. Nines doesn't really know how, cause they didn't even say anything to each other, but he joins him in his training. Gavin admits the thunder spirit has made him really powerful and that he was sure he would be able to kill him, but this time, he wasn't bragging… His words sound like self realization, and Gavin doesn't seem that happy about it.

Nines provokes him saying "Show me" but Gavin shrugs. He says "I don't want to summon it… it would kill me too."

Nines asks Gavin if he is scared of the spirit, and Gavin looks away for a minute. "I'm a human. Humans are vulnerable  to magic, that's why we fight it. But now… magic is part of me… How am I supposed to feel safe with this beast inside me, all the time ?"

Nines can't believe he replies "Beasts can be tamed. Magic can be controlled. Fear can be overcome. Just work on that instead of doing bulk up."

Gavin stays silent and Nines starts to walk off but then he turns around to face Gavin again and says "I can show you how."

The man hesitates but finally accepts.

[imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl]

Stay With Me (Pt. 01 of 09)

Pairing: Daryl Dixon X Reader

Word count: 2.9 K

Summary: Daryl found you surrounded by the dead, stuck in the backseat of a car. You were wishing for death to take you away for quite a while now, but, as you slid back and forth into consciousness, there was only one thing keeping you alive. Him, the man with blue, worried eyes and kind voice. Your beaten up body was ready to give up, too wounded and broken to keep going. But this man, who went out of his way to save your life is the only thing in the world holding you up. And, because of him, you feel something you haven't felt in a very long time: hope. Wherever he's taking you, you want to get there, and not only to be buried. For what it feels like the very first time, you want to live. He takes you back to Alexandria, but even there, the nightmares and the terror from all the torture and pain you've been through keeps creeping closer, and Daryl, your hero, is the only one who can keep that all away.

Warnings: Mentions and description (not graphic) of past abuse; post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD); some violence at the end of the story (a little bit graphic, but not so much); blood.

Next part (02) ->

{The Walking Dead Masterlist}

A/N: I want to thank my awesome friend @jodiereedus22 , who helped me (and still does) a lot to get this story done. She's also a writer and she's amazing so please go check her work!!

×

Blue Eyes and Angel Wings

“Stay with me.”

The sentence is the only thing keeping you alive. The only thing keeping you from surrendering into darkness permanently. The lips from where they flow belong to the human blur that's constantly in your sight. The man with worried, blue eyes, the eyes that gave you something you didn't have for a very long time.

Hope.

You have been in the backseat of the useless car you stole, out of gas, surrounded by a sea of death. Their hands pushing the glass, blocking the daylight from coming in as you lied down, trying not to move, not to breathe, waiting for them to move along. But they didn't. Your sore, beat up body struggled, as the blood dried, as the wounds ached, as the pain became greater and greater until it stopped. Until your body went numb.

The glass wouldn't resist for too long. You only wished you'd die before they reached you.

The notion of time left your mind after a while. You only noticed as the day became night when the darkness overcame you completely. It happened twice. And yet, there you were still, more dead than alive, eyes locked on the back of the driver seat before you.

You don't understand why you didn't just die. Why your body was still trying to live. It was useless. A waste of time. In death, maybe, you'd find peace.

But at some point in your agony, a gap among the dead allowed the light to come in. But it only lasted a second before it was gone. Then it happened again. Your tired eyes followed the source of the light as they kept coming, over and over. Until you saw it. One of the dead falling, colliding against the window with an arrow on its head.

Someone had to fire that arrow, you thought. More gaps kept coming, and some of them remained for a little while. You didn't think you'd love the daylight so much, that you could miss the sun so much. Holding your breath, closing your eyes tightly shut, you used all the strength left in you to push yourself up, until you were seated, back colliding against the leather of the backseat. When another arrow came, your head moved to look for the source. That's when you saw him.

Blue eyes. Living eyes. They found you, going wide at the sight.

The dead kept dying. For another day and a half, until they were gone.

“Stay with me.” He says again, as your eyes open just enough to see the bottle he's holding before you. “Hold on. Jus’ a lil’ longer.” You feel the bottle touching your lips, and water fills your mouth, but most of it just rolls down, soaking your neck, chest, and clothes.

“Alright. Let's get goin’.” When he turns around, doing something out of your sight, your eyes fall on the angel wings on his vest. That's the image that burns in your head as you slip into your half-conscious state, being lifted up once again, moving, floating, hurting.

Sometimes you wonder if he only found you to carry you into death. Because that's where you feel like your heading. Right into death.

• • •

Breathing comes easily. A lot easier then it has for the last... You don't know. Time is lost to you, minutes, hours, days or weeks, it's all mixed up.

But you shouldn't be breathing if you're dead, then maybe you're not. Pushing the air in, a groan leaves your lips when a sharp pain on your side pushes the air out again. The pain is back. Death doesn't hurt, so this gotta be life.

So with that thought in your mind, you force your eyes to open, taking in a bright white ceiling. There's something in your face, covering the nose and mouth, and you're quick to remove it, suddenly realizing that thing was helping with the breathing. Your eyes scan through the place, seeing shelves and things on top of them. Beeps on your right, windows, and equipments you don't know.

Hospital. It looks like a hospital. But how can you be at a hospital?

“She wasn't just hurt, she was–”

The voice makes your heart start pounding, and you sit up, breathing heavily. You wonder where's the man with blue eyes. Did he leave you here?

The door is opened and two women come in. Pure terror clouds your senses and your blood runs cold, like ice. It can't happen again. It can't be happening again. You couldn't be given such a tiny bit of hope jut to fall into the same nightmare.

The younger woman moves, just a little, but it's enough to make you jump, pushing yourself further away, your body leaving the bed and hitting the ground hard. Trying to get up is useless. You know your body won't respond, so you pull the hospital bed down, and it collapses loudly on the floor. The tears already cover your face as you crawl backward until you find a wall. There's no place to go now. No way to run, or fight. You're trapped.

They'll hurt you again and there's nothing you can do.

Covering your head with both your hands, you pull your legs into your chest, despite the pain it shoots through your body, curling into a ball. As if it would protect you from anything.

“Honey?” Someone says in a low, feminine voice. “We won't hurt you.”

You've heard that before. It's always a lie.

“Hello?”

“Denise. Go get Daryl. Now.”

You feel them coming closer, and you hear as the hospital bed is lifted. This is it. It'll start. All over again.

“Hi, there.” A voice says, the same voice you've been listening for a while. Telling you to stay awake, to stay alive. Carrying you, holding you.

He's here. He didn't leave you.

Soaking in a sharp breath, you raise your head, your eyes finding him by the door. Your whole body relaxes, almost involuntary. The man hesitates, looking at the woman before making his way over you. The blue eyes capture you as he crouches next to you.

The words try to make they way out, but your throat is dry, sore.

“I'm Daryl.” He says, looking down before looking at you once again. “Yer hurt. Ya need to be taken care of.” He moves to the side a little, gesturing at the two women. “They'll take care of ya. Ok?”

Nodding weakly, you try to move, to stand up, but you don't know how to. When you look at your leg, you finally notice the blood that soaked the fabric of your jeans, ripped in the middle of your tight, giving you a sight of what's underneath. Your skin was sliced open, and you remember why. And who did it. The smile on his face as he drew the knife through your skin, inflicting the last wound he could before the dead came. Before you fled that hell on Earth.

Through the corner of your eye, you see Daryl's hand.

“I've been hurt too. I know how yer feelin’. But these people only want to help, alright?”

Lifting your eyes from his hands to his face, you remember it clearly now, with no share of doubt, how this man took care of you. For how long he carried you after almost two days killing off the dead for you. Slowly, you lay your shaking hand on top of his.

Slowly, moving your legs and holding your breath, you gather the courage to stand up again.

“I can put ya in the bed.” Daryl offers, and you lock eyes with him again. “I'm gonna pick ya up, is that alright?”

Nodding again, you watch as he slowly moves, an arm on your back and the other under your legs, slowly, carefully pulling you up. Soon enough you feel the soft mattress against your back as Daryl puts you down. Breathing out in relief, you see a woman approaching, the younger one, and Daryl steps back.

In a jolt of adrenaline, as fear starts building up again, you reach out, the sudden, fast movement making you groan a little when pain spreads through your arm. But you keep moving, grabbing Daryl's hand before he's out of reach. His skin is warm against yours, or maybe you're just too cold. You try to speak again, ask him to stay, beg if needed, but it just doesn't come out. Then you just look into his eyes, hoping it will be enough, squeezing his hand just a little bit.

“Daryl, I think she needs you to stay.” The other woman says, the one with gray hair. “Is that what you want, honey?”

Without looking away from Daryl, you nod, relieved when he steps closer.

“I'll start, ok? I need to see where exactly you're hurt and how serious the injuries are.”

“That's Denise,” Daryl explains, and you look at the girl as she hesitates before taking a scissor from somewhere, cutting your jeans just above the wound you saw. “And that's Carol. Ya can trust them, alright?”

Can you?

Holding Daryl's hand, you moan and wince, as many tears roll down. Every shot of pain makes you go back to imprisonment. The dark basement, the cold concrete, the men and women who came to hurt you, beat you, trying to force you to agree on complying with their filthy desires. And every time you said no, it got worse.

If it wasn't for Daryl's hand, you'd swear you were back there, being tortured again. But he keeps you anchored here, and you try to keep in mind that these people are trying to help. He said they would, so they might be.

“I will need her cleaned up before continuing. There's a lot of mud, dirt, and dried blood. I need her body to be clean to avoid any infections.” The woman Denise says.

“I can help her,” Carol speaks up.

“Good. Let's put her on the bathtub we have here.” Denise speaks fast, and you can't do anything but follow her with your eyes, motionless. “Daryl, get her some clothes. But pay attention. Nothing tight. And get those cotton shorts, you know? They look like leggings but are really short, I don't want nothing squeezing her leg, this wound is worrying me, and I–”

“Denise, why don't you go get those. I'll clean her up and...” Carol gives you a glance. “...I don't think she'll let go of Daryl.”

“Alright.” She nods, getting a piece of fabric to clean her hands. Clean them from your blood.

“Ok, honey. Let's do this.” When Denise leaves, Carol comes closer. “Daryl will take you to the bathroom and I'll help you, is that ok?”

Squeezing Daryl's hand, you look at him. Even though he's a man, you know you'd feel better if he helped you instead of this Carol.

“Daryl can stay there. Looking away. Would that make you feel better?”

Breathing out in relief, you nod. “I'll pick ya up then. Ready?” Daryl asks, carefully moving to hold you in his arms once again.

You close your eyes shut as the small trip to the bathroom makes your body complain. Your state of numbness is fading, so the pain gets more and more real now. It's hard to tell exactly where it comes from. You're aware of the cut on your leg, and sharp pain on your side, but all the rest is just mixed up.

Daryl puts you down in the tub, slowly. Carol comes in soon after, kneeling and turning on the water. Your eyes follow Daryl as he moves to the door, standing there, his back at you, giving you the sight of the angel wings on his back. Seeing it makes you relax, and you close your eyes to feel the warm water filling the tub.

Carol is patient. Very patient. The last thing you want is to take off your clothes, so she asks and waits until you let her help you remove them. The wounds burn in contact with the water, and the fact that you must rub the soap on them, to avoid any infections, only makes it worse. You can't help the tears rolling down, and the groans that leave your mouth. It feels good to take a bath, to remove all the mud and dirt, but you wish it didn't hurt this much. Your eyes always fall on Daryl, just to make sure he's still there. Carol also washes your hair, and you're thankful for that because you'd never be able to do that yourself.

After some time, you don't really know how much, you're done, and you have no choice but to sit on the edge of the tub as Carol helps you get dressed. The doctor, Denise, got you black underwear, a light gray tank top, and these soft shorts, that end up right above the cut on your leg. “I'm sorry, I know it's cold, but I don't want anything compressing your body right now. You're very...” Her voice fades and you look at the floor in between your feet. “Here. Take this.” You shake a little when you feel a weight on your shoulders, only to realize it's just a blanket. “Sorry.”

“Daryl. Can you take her back to the bed?”

“Yeah.” He finally turns around, those blue eyes finding yours almost immediately. “Hey. I can see yer face now.” He mumbles, picking you up again.

Once you're back in at the hospital bed, Denise finishes her job, covering all the major wounds. You just found out why your side hurts. Apparently, there are a few cuts on your ribs, right below your breast. As Denise stitches them up, the memory comes back, as vivid as if you were there again. That man, with dark brown eyes and a devilish smile, hovers over you, the needlepoint knife pressed against your skin as he said you'd soon give in, enjoy the pain, and ask him to that over and over again, in the most fun parts of your body.

The memory makes you flinch away when Denise's finger brush on your skin, and you desperately look around, looking for him.

“Hey. S’ alright.” Daryl's voice comes from behind you, and shyly, you reach out your hand, which he takes in a loose grip.

You're not sure how long you stay there, cold and whining, but eventually, the doctor is over. Carol wraps the blanket around you as Denise talks about the pills you'll need to take and how to keep the wounds clean. You don't really pay attention, wondering what happens now. Where you are, and if this new world revolves around this room alone.

“Honey.” Carol stands beside the bed, getting your attention. “We'll take you home now. Daryl and I share the house so you'll be with us, ok?”

Knowing you'll be around Daryl is what makes you nod, agreeing with her. Carol gestures at him, and he's quick to hold you up one more time.

In the last days, you've spent more time in Daryl's arms than anywhere else. It hurts, way too much, with every step he takes, even though you feel that he tries to keep you as still as possible. Ever since the man showed up, you've been feeling safe. You didn't think you'd ever feel safe around someone again. Everyone you met after you were forcefully separated from your first group tried to hurt you. But this man, a complete stranger, stopped whatever he's doing to rescue you. To bring you here, wherever this is, to help you survive.

When he steps out the hospital-like room you were in, you can't help but hide your face on his neck, protecting your eyes from the daylight. And protecting yourself from the small group of people you spot downstreet. Despite being curious to know where you are, you don't wanna look. You don't want people to see you, to know you exist, to think about you. If they don't know you're here, they won't want to hurt you.

“Welcome to your new house.” You hear Carol saying, and the noise of a door being open. Finally, you open your eyes to take in the... Normal house. If you tried really hard, you could even pretend this was a normal house from before... When the dead remained dead. “Daryl, upstairs. The guest room.”

He only murmurs a response you can't understand, and a minute later you're on a bed again, much more comfortable than the first. Your head rests on a fluffy pillow and a long breathe leaves from your lips.

Daryl steps back, turning to talk to Carol, both standing by the door, talking low. You don't try to understand, you just keep your eyes on the wings... Until they leave, disappearing in the hall.

“Sweety, Daryl will take a shower, ok? And I will make you something to eat, to sustain you until dinner. I'll be downstairs so if you need me, you just have to call.”

She waits a while before leaving too.

Being alone isn't the problem. The memories are. You wish your brain would stop working, stop trying to take you back to the cold, hard floor of the basement where you had a taste of what hell must be like. You try closing your eyes, but the darkness brings their faces back. Smiles, laughter, yells. All those people having fun with your suffering, placing bets on how long you'd resist before surrendering.

A couple of minutes later Carol comes back with a glass of water and scrambled eggs, helping you get into a sitting position and urging you to eat before leaving you alone again.

Frozen, you look at the eggs. They smell amazing, and slowly, you take some with your fork, raising it up to your mouth. The taste is so good it makes you ignore the pain spreading through your arm. Your stomach starts complaining violently, urging you to eat more. It's been quite a while, but still, you can't seem to push your body to work any faster. So you just keep looking at your food, trying to figure out which pain you can endure. On your arm or on your stomach.

A knock makes you look up, finding Daryl by the open door, damp hair, and a clean face. The very image of him calms your heart, setting it at ease. “Won't ya eat?” He asks, stepping inside and gesturing at the plate in your lap.

Weakly, you nod, taking some more and raising the fork to your mouth again, trying not to let him notice how your hand shakes, and you almost drop everything before successfully reaching your mouth.

“Do ya... Do ya need help?”

Blushing and embarrassed, you shake your head no, giving up eating. Focusing on not making a mess, you put the plate, still half full, on the nightstand, taking the glass of water. The weight seems to be too much, and your muscles give up trying to lift it, letting it slip and fall back on the nightstand.

“Lemme–” He mumbles, coming fast and taking the glass from your hand. You don't understand why he hesitates there for a moment, before kneeling beside the bed. “Here, drink.” Carefully, he brings the glass close to your mouth, and you lay your hand on top of his, taking fews sips, only then noticing the water is cold. How is the water cold?

That's when you finally take in the lamp on the ceiling, above the bed, the light on. They have electricity. What the hell is this place?

Pushing the glass away, you clear your throat, taking a deep breath.

“I'll leave ya to–”

“Stay.” It comes out suddenly, your voice so weak, so terribly low you barely recognize it. You didn't know you would actually say it, that this feeling, this need would build up and crawl its way out of your heart like that.

It makes Daryl stop in his tracks, already up and ready to walk away. The way he looks down at you, it's clear he's also wondering if he did hear you. You haven't spoken yet, you realize.

“Stay with me.” You force the words out again, repeating the same thing he said to you while he had to carry you through the woods. The words that kept you trying, fighting, struggling to have another chance to live.

“Alright.” He makes a small pause, eyes on the ground before taking a deep breath and sitting on the bed, near your knees. “We were worried. Thinkin’ ya couldn't speak.”

Shrugging your shoulders, you pull the blanket up when you shiver, holding it above your shoulders.

“Will ya tell me yer name?”

His blue eyes are locked on yours, and you feel yourself relaxing, calming down, more comfortable. “(Y/N).” You say, your throat burning a little.

A small, quick smile flashes on Daryl's lips, soon disappearing. But it was there, you know it. Slowly, he reaches out his hand, and you take it without hesitating, watching as he lightly shakes it.

“I'm Daryl. Nice to meet ya, (Y/N).”

×

@funeral-7 @heyyy-hey-babyyy

[five-rivers]

Reflection

Tucker passed in front of a mirror and stopped, did a double take. He'd been doing that a lot, lately, ever since what he and his friends referred to as the 'Egypt incident.' He raised one hand and traced a line under his eye, his lower eyelashes ruffling.

"You checking your eyeliner, Fol-ey?" asked Dash, bumping into him, rudely.

Tucker avoided stabbing himself in the eye and caught himself on the sink. He frowned at the reflection of the jocks in the mirror and scanned the locker room for Danny. Alas, his best friend must still be running punishment laps in the gym.

"Looking for Wimp-ton to save you? That's pretty pathetic," said Dash, jabbing Tucker again.

Tucker spun to face them and started to back away. He wondered if it would be okay to fight back under these circumstances, or if he would get in trouble. Because Tucker could fight. Maybe not as well as Sam and Danny, he was more the tech guy of their group, but all of them could throw a punch. Heck, Tucker could pull back a bow and put an arrow into the center of a target a hundred feet away. That took arm strength.

If he fought Dash, he'd probably win.

But fighting was generally frowned upon at school and with the other jocks as witnesses... Yeah, that wouldn't pan out well. His parents would take his side, but he didn't want to get a bad reputation with the teachers. One of the trio had to stay on their good side. Obviously it couldn't be Danny, and Sam was too argumentative, so it fell to him.

He sighed. Well, he could take a punch, too, if it came to that. He took off his glasses and put them on the back of the sink.

"What're you doing that for?" asked Dash.

"Good glasses are expensive, Dash," said Tucker, flatly, glaring up at the taller boy. "They're also made of glass. I don't want to be wearing them if you decide to hit me in the face."

Dash stared down at him, as though seeing him for the first time. He humphed. "You take all the fun out of it," he complained. "Come on, guys," he said to the other jocks, leading a parade out of the locker room. Tucker sighed and looked back at the mirror.

Eyeliner, huh? Dash probably would have been surprised to find out that Tucker had thought that he'd seen eye makeup on his face. Kohl. No. Not kohl. That was a recent word, and not completely accurate. Mesdemet for the black. Udju for the green. He blinked, unsure where the words had come from.

No, he knew where the words had come from. He just didn't want to think about it.

Danny stumbled into the room, banging the door behind him. "Hi," he said, waving at Tucker. He paused. "Are you okay? You look kind of..." Danny trailed off and shrugged.

"I'm fine," said Tucker. "Just talked my way out of getting beaten up by Dash."

"What, really?" asked Danny, his eyes flickering over Tucker. "Are you sure you're fine? He didn't hit you?"

"Nope. I'm really fine."

He hoped.

.

The archery club met right after school on Tuesdays and Thursdays, regularly, contrasting with the computer club, which met 'whenever' and 'online.' Usually, meetings coincided with Danny getting detention and Sam's activist stuff. Tucker thought of these afternoons as their 'alone time.' Otherwise, they were, well, not quite joined at the hip, but...

It was a near thing.

Tucker wouldn't have minded if Sam and Danny did join the archery club (or the computer club, for that matter), but it could be nice to have some time away, so that he could sort through certain thoughts. Thoughts such as: What was happening to him?

Because he really had thought that he had thrown off the influence of Duulaman's ghost, or that weird staff, or Hotep-Ra, or whatever had been going on that week, and yet, here he was, over a week later, hallucinating himself wearing Egyptian makeup, of all things.

He squared himself on the edge of the archer range and checked that it was clear. The other members of the club were working with the closer targets. Tucker thought that he would challenge himself today. He pulled back.

The thing was, at the end, when Hotep-Ra was gone, and Tucker was back to himself, he had been able to use that staff, the Scarab Scepter, to return everything to normal. He wasn't sure he should have been. He had no idea how that staff worked. Yet, in that moment he had.

And he did look an awful lot like Duulaman.

"You're doing great today, Foley!" called the club advisor from across the range. "Are you sure you don't want to shoot competitively?"

Tucker rolled his eyes. "I'm sure!" Then he caught sight of his arrows. They were all clustered neatly in the bullseye.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Tucker was good. He wasn't, quite, that good. Not at this range. But, in the moment, as he was shooting, he hadn't registered anything as being unusual. He remembered looking at them as he was aiming, so he wasn't just spacing out.

Archery was practiced in Ancient Egypt, wasn't it? He remembered seeing murals. He remembered the sun shining down on his shoulders as his entourage...

... What?

Tucker frowned. This wasn't going to go away, was it?

.

The computer screen cast Tucker's dark bedroom in a blue light. The only sound was him typing away at the keyboard.

Tucker didn't want to worry Danny and Sam. Mostly Danny. He had enough to deal with without worrying that his best friends was going to go crazy and try to kill him. Again.

He cringed. He did not have the best track record when it came to that particular thing. Then again, neither did anyone else close to Danny.

Hence not wanting to worry Danny.

Maybe he should talk to Sam, though. Out of everyone he knew, she was the only one who'd been mind controlled in a similar way. She hadn't said anything about having hallucinations post-Undergrowth, but, then, she wouldn't, would she? Sam had the same reasons Tucker did for keeping quiet.

Tucker made a face at himself. It was probably a sign that their relationship wasn't as healthy as it looked, keeping secrets from each other like this. But... he knew Danny kept secrets. They all did, and they were fine with it. So, Tucker or Sam keeping secrets was fine, too.

As long as it didn't turn into murder attempts. That was not fine.

Tucker slipped his fingers under his glasses to rub his eyes and returned his attention to the screen. He was researching Duulaman, and had dived deep into the academic side of the internet. He'd come up against a dozen paywalls and dismissed them all with a few keystrokes.

Duulaman. Pharaoh of Kemet. A descendant of Hatshepsut and an ancestor of Tutankhamen. He had been a fairly progressive member of his family, restoring several of Hatshepsut's monuments after other of his ancestors had done their best to destroy them, making laws concerning the treatment of slaves and foreigners, and forging peace with neighboring countries. He had been well-liked, his popularity having been attested to even years after his death by inscriptions in other graves, praying that their inhabitants would find themselves under Duulaman's rule in the afterlife. He'd been famed for his athletic and magical abilities.

Sadly, academic publications were as skeptical about magic as they were about ghosts.

Tucker rubbed his eyes again.

Duulaman had been murdered. According to his brother, the pharaoh who had succeeded him, the deed had been done by an advisor whose name and image had been systematically removed from everything.

Probably Hotep-Ra. That fit with the ghost's whole thing, and the fact that Tucker couldn't find any information on him.

After another relatively fruitless hour, Tucker pried himself from the chair and went to bed.

.

He turned the fine silver mirror over in his hands, contemplating its polished surface. It had been a 'gift' from a Mitanni noble, and had carried a brutal curse into the heart of Kemet, but the curse was loose, now, wound around his very soul, and the mirror itself was merely a harmless, empty vessel.

One that Duulaman could learn from. He ran his fingers along the strange symbols scored on the outer edge of the mirror.

If his advisors would stop arguing for just a moment.

"We must attack at once!" said Hotep-Ra. "This insult against the person of god cannot be borne!"

"But it is harvest season," objected another. "We cannot afford to take the men from the fields. There would be famine!"

"Hotep-Ra," said Duulaman, softly, "brother of my heart, it was not even their king that sent this. Would you raze their whole kingdom and force a tragedy on their own for the sake of one man?"

"One who attacked you and our kingdom through dread magics?" asked Hotep-Ra. "Yes, my pharaoh."

"Then perhaps it is good that I am pharaoh. I know that you love me, but I have no desire for war. Even so," he said, raising his voice, "I have sent certain persons to correct the problem, and my brother has borne a letter to the Mitanni king, explaining the situation. It is true that this assault on our kingdom cannot be suffered quietly."

The advisors took that in. Duulaman turned to the Priestess of Mut and tried not to squint. She was just far enough away that he had trouble seeing her. Sadly, none of his magic had yet succeeded in giving him the eyes of a hawk, but he yet had hope.

"What say you about the curse?" he asked.

Duulaman was a powerful priest in his own right, favored by the gods and his ancestors, but he valued other opinions. Being the focus of the curse might have blinded him to certain aspects of its function.

The priestess bowed. "It is as we first feared," she said. "It binds your great soul, so that you may not pass into the green fields of the Duat when it is your time to do so. Instead, it decrees that, when you die, you must suffer to be born into a common line, far from your rightfully exalted place."

"And for Kemet? For my line?"

The priestess, an experienced woman who had served Duulaman's father, actually trembled. "That, whence your second life reaches the age of reason, you shall understand, and you shall see the last of the Pharaohs come to ruin, all our temples abandoned save for nonbelievers, your descendants crushed or cast into obscurity, your name stricken from history, and your tomb robbed by foreigners. She dooms you to watch the slow decay."

This was about what Duulaman had expected. He closed his eyes, pained. If only he had been more careful opening the box... but he had assumed it to be from Hotep-Ra, or his brother, or one of his sisters, for it had been among other, like gifts.

"I see. Fear not. I will take care of it. Kemet shall not fall within our lifetimes."

The relief in the room was palpable. They had faith in Duulaman's power.

Alas, that it might come to naught.

.

Tucker woke with a jolt, hand on his heart. He looked around wildly, relaxing when he saw the acid green numbers on his bedside clock. He was here. He was now. He was Tucker.

And it wasn't even time to wake up for school.

Wait. It was Saturday. He wouldn't have to wake up for school anyway.

Alright. So he might have, thousands of years ago, been Duulaman. Fine. He laid back down, breathing through his nose. He dealt with ghosts on a daily basis. He could deal with reincarnation. This was cool. This was fine.

He was definitely having a crisis.

Crap.

He fumbled for his phone, and hit the speed dial for Danny. Danny never slept anyway, it was fine. Besides, stuff like this was why Sam had bought him a phone (a Nokia brick, because ghost fights) in the first place. Dead people were Danny's specialty.

"What's wrong?" asked Danny, far too alert for the small hours of the morning.

"I think I might be Duulaman," said Tucker.

There was a beat of silence. "Yeah?" said Danny, confused.

"Like, I'm a reincarnation of him or something."

"Yeah?" repeated Danny. "I thought that was the whole reason you could use that staff and stuff?"

"Wait," said Tucker. "You mean, you knew all along, and you didn't say anything?"

"I thought you knew and didn't want to talk about it," said Danny. "I'm sorry. Are you okay?"

"Yeah. I'm just having weird Kem- Egypt flashbacks. I'm fine."

"Do you want me to fly over?"

"No," said Tucker. "I just- Am I still me?"

"I mean, you're you to begin with. You are yourself. That's like, definitional."

"Yeah, but..." Tucker gestured at his ceiling with his hand, even though Danny couldn't see it.

Danny chuckled. "You're still you, Tucker. I know Sam and I aren't always super sensitive, but... We do pay attention, you know? We'd know if you were being taken over. Maybe not right away, but..."

"Thanks," said Tucker, with only a little bit of sarcasm.

"Hey, I like to think we've all come a long way since the thing with Poindexter."

"True," said Tucker. "Hey, thanks, man. I'm sorry about waking you up."

"Don't worry," said Danny. "You didn't. I'd just caught Boxy when you called."

"Oh. That's good. Get some sleep, Danny."

"You, too. Tell me what Egypt was like tomorrow, okay?"

"Kemet," corrected Tucker. "And, yeah. Bye."

.

"What are you doing?" demanded Hotep-Ra.

Duulaman turned away from his ritual tools and fixed an un-amused eye on Hotep-Ra. "I may have made it your place to question me," said Duulaman, "but I thought I had made my decision on this matter clear. The method your faction proposed is too uncertain, too risky."

"I have made a mirror," said Hotep-Ra, "one that will recognize your soul in whatever body it should take. With it, we could search all of Kemet for you when you are reborn and then lay you properly to rest, as you deserve, before the curse comes to fruition."

"And if I should be born in lands beyond?"

"Then we should look there, too!"

"Starting all sorts of wars on the way, no doubt. Tell me, brother of my heart, what is the difference between the young man who falls in war, whose body is left for the crows, and the old man who is buried peacefully, and who will find joy in the Duat?"

"The devotion of his family!" responded Hotep-Ra instantly.

Duulaman shook his head sadly and looked back to his tools, touching them softly. He had already completed the ritual that would force the curse to carry his soul thousands of years into the future. By the time his next life reached the age of reason, there would be no pharaohs for the curse to affect. And if there were? Well, it would have been a good long time, and the curse would have weakened significantly. Perhaps even to the point of unraveling.

"No, Hotep-Ra. The difference between a tragedy and a happy ending is time. All kingdoms fall. All civilizations fade."

"Not this one."

"Even this one. The only questions are when and how."

"No," said Hotep-Ra. "No. Never!"

Duulaman felt, rather than heard, the scrape of metal against oiled leather and reached for his staff, which lay across from him, on the other side of his ritual. He was too late. He had trusted Hotep-Ra too much, let him get too close, and he felt the bronze knife slide between his ribs. His eyelids fluttered as his hands groped up his chest.

He was dying.

"I will see you, in the next life," he whispered, blood bubbling in his throat.

And then he was gone.

.

It was bright when Tucker woke again.

He felt... oddly calm. It was nice to know that he had succeeded in out-waiting the fall of Pharaonic Egypt, even though the fact that it was gone made his heart shiver.

Well. He pulled his phone over, and texted Danny. I know what it feels like to die, now, he said. Maybe they'd be able to bond over it. Or Danny would give him some coping pointers, since Tucker was pretty sure he'd have at least one breakdown over this. Either one would be good.

He stood up and walked to the bathroom. His reflection stared back, completely normal. No weird eye shadow, no Egyptian clothes, just Tucker and his pajamas.

Behind it stretched miles and miles of sand.

[realityhelixcreates]

Lasabrjotr Chapter 80: The Littlest Seidkona

Chapters: 80/?

Fandom: Thor (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe

Rating: pg

Relationships: Loki x Reader

Characters: Loki (Marvel),Thor(Marvel)

Additional Tags: Post-Endgame: Best Possible Ending (Canon-Divergent), Party Time

Summary:  It's the final ceremony of Buridag-the Seidkona initiation-and all eyes are on you.

You woke up in Loki's arms, right where you had collapsed, Ulfrun, the junior healer looking over you.

“There.” she said. “It is as I told you, she was simply overwhelmed. There was a great deal of power moving during the ceremony, and she is still but mortal...”

“Yeah, that's me.” you grumbled. “Reaching above my station again.”

Ulfrun jerked back like she'd been burned. Loki chuckled.

“Yes, I think she will be all right. The Princess in Courtesy is in the habit of getting back up after she falls, never fear.”

Princess in Courtesy. That was what you were now. A princess without a kingdom, or people of your own, but you had the title...and for your purposes, that was all you needed.

“Will you have her come by for a checkup this evening? I'm certain Bjarkhilde will want to look her over.”

“I think I can do that.” You said, and she jerked back again. “I know, it's pretty weird, isn't it? But this'll make things easier in the long run, won't it? Except for the people who like talking trash at me, it's gonna suck for them, but I don't really feel bad for them.”

“I think we will be fine Ulfrun, thank you for your help.” Loki said.

“So. The ritual has brought you an inheritance.” Loki said, after the junior healer had hurried away. He kissed your cheeks and forehead, mumbling in affection. “So you will understand me now when I say that when I am drowning, you are my air, that I wish to wash my hair in your perfume, that when you look at me, an arrow pierces my heart, fixes it within my breast, pins it to my soul. Like a hapless bird, your gaze knocks me from the sky, to fall into your gentle, blossoming hands.”

Warmth flowed all the way to the tips of your ears.

“Stop, you're gonna make me faint again.” you murmured.

“Later then,” he said, amused. “When you are already laying down, perhaps.”

Thor poked his head around the back of the dais.

“The smoke is clearing.” he announced. “Is she all right?”

“Yeah, I'm good.” you said, Loki helping you to your feet. You had completed the ritual, now it was time to be presented to the people.

Out of the thinning smoke, and into the courtyard the three of you appeared, Heimdall keeping his vigil from atop the high dais. No one would dare make a move against you while he watched.

“The ceremony is complete!” Thor announced in his booming voice. “The paths of fate have been cleared for the Princess in Courtesy. May she pass down them in peace, for as long as her life has been interwoven with ours!”

The cheering was loud and enthusiastic, and seemed genuine. Your finger didn't hurt at all anymore, likely due to lying in Loki's arms for those few minutes while Ulfrun looked over you.

You stood and let them cheer as much as they wanted, then followed the princes back out of sight behind the dais when the crowds enthusiasm began to wane. You unwound the bandage from your finger to show a very pleased Loki that the tiny cut had nearly disappeared. It was nice to see how happy that made him, to remember how willing-even eager-he had been from the start to share that healing bond with you. You had never found out if that had cost him in pain or energy, just that it was very clear that he was more than ready to give.

“So you have gained something.” Thor mentioned on their way to drop you off with the other Seidkonas. “That will come in very handy. Save you decades of study.”

“So you didn't know it was going to happen either?” you asked. He shook his golden head.

“I've never actually seen one of these ceremonies performed. The last one I know of was for my mother, and that, of course, was before I was even born.”

“They must have had one for me,” Loki mused. “In secret. Hidden away in shame from prying eyes.”

Thor's warm smile withdrew into contemplation, as all three of you tried to envision it: A tiny, possibly blue infant, held over the bowl and crying, like a human baby getting their first check in with a doctor, a blade held against one minuscule hand or squirming foot...

It was an uncomfortable image, but it made sense to get it done as early as possible, if they were to pass Loki off as their son.

“So this is probably normal. Just another way to pass on the magic of Allspeak. We'll just see how well it works out for me.”

                                                 ******

The second part of your day was to be taken up by another, much longer and more complex ritual, that had to be done partially in secret. Thor and Loki escorted you, followed by many people, to one of the popup apartment complexes that now housed to majority of Asgard, until more permanent housing could be built. This one housed the thirteen remaining Seidkonas of Asgard, and had been transformed by them into a ritual house. With some small pomp, the princes transferred you into their care, but beyond their doors, it became a strict 'no boys allowed' club.

This was because, as soon as the door closed, you were led into the next room and stripped down, a bundle of incense being wafted around your body. Once naked, you were plunked down into a metal tub filled with a redolent herbal tea, which the others scooped up in bathing bowls and poured over your head, as if making a kind of Seidkona soup.

The entire dwelling was dimly lit with only candles, and the other Seidkonas were mostly silent in their work, speaking only to give you quiet instructions, or chant ceremonial blessings from the Norns.

Newly cleansed, you entered a different room, this time converted into a kind of sauna. In the pitch dark you sat and sweated, swaddled in thick clouds of suffocating steam from more herbal tea, ladled constantly over the hot stones.

Whether from the heat, the herbs, or the incense, you didn't know, but you began to feel odd. The magic within you felt as though it was swelling, throbbing with a heartbeat different than your own. The passage of time became meaningless, but eventually you began to see a light. Soft, blue, and ephemeral, you couldn't focus on it's source, as it dimmed down into nothing every time you tried to concentrate on it. But it pulsed like the heartbeat of your magic.

The Seidkonas who had joined you in the sauna began singing one word, one tone over and over. Your heart and your magic began to attune to it, thumping along in time, like your little Seidkona drum. The word felt natural, it slotted into your mind, filling a tiny, empty hole. The last syllable of the chant you had been practicing for weeks now. The very last piece of the magical puzzle, that you were not yet meant to utter.

You heard the beating of drums outside, muffled by the door, which cracked open and let in a blast of air. You knew it was warm, but it felt cool on your heated skin, disintegrated the clouds of herbal vapor, and sharpened your heat-fuzzed mind to a razor point. You exited the sauna like an infant; brand new and surrounded by sensation. The air was cool, the candles were bright, and the tub of pure water they dumped over you was like shards of ice.

While some of the women dried and helped you dress yourself, others continued the drum beat that had started while you were in the sauna. Seidkona drums were made of wood now, but their drumstick was shaped like a bone, and the little drums were rounded like skulls, and they may have been these things, long, long ago.

You sat among them, and were given a chunk of bread to eat, and a light, sweet fruit juice to drink. The flavor and texture was more clear than ever before, the sensation of relieving hunger and thirst practically palpable. The drumming continued while your hair dried and and you devoured the snack.

It wasn't just the steam or the heat-whatever herbal concoction you had bathed in and breathed in was effecting you. Your senses felt wider, like you were experiencing sensations on a deeper level. Maybe you always felt things this much, but simply hadn't noticed before.

Somehow you knew when to stand up. You and all the other Seidkonas got to your feet at the same time, some kind of unknown but compelling signal alerting you. As one, you all filed to the door.

Your instructor, the eldest of the Seidkonas stepped up beside you, as the others gathered their cloaks and drums.

“You are different than us.” she said. “The magic runs through you just the same, so you should know in advance: at the initiation, something new is always revealed. Some power, some knowledge previously unknown or lost. I know you've read about it with Saga, and you must understand that there is the probability that it will also happen to you. But you must also know that it's possible that it will not happen. Because you are different than us, and though the magic flows through you just the same, the rest of you might not be able to handle such a revelation. Never have the Norns allowed one of us to be harmed by this initiatory experience. They care about those who act in their stead, and will not force you through something you cannot handle. However, if they decide that you can handle it, human or not, they will push you to your very limit. Be ready for either outcome, for once it is started, there is no going back.”

The ancient Seidkona provided you your little rounded drum, and the parade began; a double line of esteemed sorceresses, wrapped in dark blue cloaks. You followed behind, cloakless, beating your drum in time with the others, a call to the masses that the initiate was coming, the ritual was beginning.

You followed your escort into the same courtyard from earlier in the day. In the time you had been squirreled away for cleansing, the whole area had been transformed. The tall dais was gone, another set of seating had taken its place. There were special seats for the most important guests, and new fencing had been erected, leading to clearly defined separation of Asgardian and human spectators. The entire courtyard had been swept clean of all snow and slush, all debris had been removed and sapphire blue decorations depicting your mark in silver had been put up. New torches had been planted and lit, and large braziers had been placed within the circle-one for each Seidkona, and an extra one in the center for you. They were each filled with a bundle to burn, a little tuft of incense herbs poking out of the top.

The drum beat continued as people filled the seats, as Thor and Loki took their special places, mere spectators in your grand show. The Seidkonas fanned out from their lines and each stood in front of a brazier. The drums only stopped once you had reached the brazier in the center. Each sorceress lit their own fire in their own way. Some were able to use magic, others used burning rods, lit from the torches. You had decided some weeks ago not to use a rod, but to use your magic to teleport burning material into your brazier.

And it worked! You were able to teleport fire! Your bundle burned...for all of a few moments, before the flames shrunk and went out.

Damn. You tried it again. Once more, the fire popped into being within your brazier. And once again, dwindled and disappeared. And again, with the same results. Why wasn't it working?

You heard muttering in the crowd, and you could pick out a few conspicuous questions being asked.

“Is that supposed to happen?”

“Is this a bad omen?”

“Does this mean she's not supposed to be doing this?”

“Did she fail?”

Frustrated, you stalked over to a torch, uprooted it, and used it to light your brazier. This time, the damn thing stayed lit. You scoured the gathered people with a glare, as if daring them to say anything more.

To your eternal annoyance, you spotted Todd among the human seating, his eyes narrowed in the expression he always got when you'd done something he hadn't expected or given you permission to do. Thankfully, you were much too far away to hear the veiled insults and negging that always followed that expression, but your memory helpfully provided several old examples, and they echoed around in your head until you forced them to cease. You swore, if he ever brought this up to you, you were going to teleport him into the middle of the river. If he was properly apologetic, you might even pull him out of the mud before he sank in forever.

Maybe.

“Practical.” Loki said in a stage whisper that carried out over the crowd. “Even mages must know how to solve problems without resorting to magic.” The crowd fell silent once again. Positioned right in front of you, the old Seidkona's wrinkled lips twisted into a wry smirk. She then lifted her drumstick into the air, and the dance began. The dance was supposedly simple: three steps and a quarter turn, four times, ending in a full spin, and then starting again, all in a circle around the burning brazier. Simultaneously, the drum beat, and the chant song kept time. You thumped your little drum, chanting along as you'd practiced. It would only get more challenging, you knew, and as soon as the chant had reached its end, it started over, this time faster. Your performance, how long and fast you could go before declaring the secret last word and bringing it all to an end, was supposed to determine how powerful a Seidkona you would be. In reality, your status was already confirmed, and everyone knew that expectations had to be different for a human, but you were still determined to give the best showing that you were physically capable of. And so you sped up. And sped up. And sped up, continuing until the world became a blur, and dizziness  threatened to overtake you. Blue light sparkled at the edges of your vision, having escaped your dreams, now following you into trance states, when you were between awake and asleep. And faster. And faster. Though you were breathless, the chant song filled your ears, the drum beat mimicking your racing heart, until finally, lest you fall over into the fire, you stopped, threw your drumstick hand into the air, and shouted the last word at the top of your voice. Something appeared in your hands, forcing you to drop the drum and stick. You flung it high into the air. Both Loki and Thor cried out in surprise.

You felt the mark on your hand spark into life, runes searing up your arm, neck, and face. The power buzzed through you, like a swarm of bees in your blood, and for the first time, you could make out words in the thrum of magic. You finally knew what it wanted from you.

You were meant to break the lock. Learn us Learn us Learn us.

“Show me.” you commanded. And then the universe opened up before you.

[narniadynasty]

This is the start of how it all ends

"If I have read the chronicles aright, there should be another. Has not your Majesty two sisters? Where is Queen Susan?" | "My sister Susan, is no longer a friend of Narnia." | "Whenever you've tried to get her to come and talk about Narnia or do anything about Narnia, she says 'What wonderful memories you have! Fancy your still thinking about all those funny games we used to play when we were children.'" | "Oh Susan! She's interested in nothing now-a-days except nylons and lipstick and invitations. She always was a jolly sight too keen on being grown-up." | "Grown-up, indeed, I wish she would grow up. She wasted all her school time wanting to be the age she is now, and she'll waste all the rest of her life trying to stay that age. Her whole idea is to race on to the silliest time of one's life as quick as she can and then stop there as long as she can."

"Well, don't let's talk about that now," said Peter. — 

No, Peter, how about we do talk about that now. 

You’re right Tirian. There are two sisters. Lucy and Susan. Susan is not done. She is alive and breathing. She is living. She is a young woman who is still growing. 

Can the same be said for you Peter? How about you, Lucy and Edmund? How old are you now? How old will you be tomorrow? Or the day after? How old will you be when she is two years, ten years, fifty years older? Here’s the bitter truth: you won’t change. You’re dead. You don’t age. You don’t grow or live or breathe. Your time is done like it will be tomorrow and the day after. How it will be when she is two years, ten years, fifty years older. She grows, but you? You’re dead. 

Lucy, you’re a child gone before you should be. Edmund a young boy only a bit older. Peter you’re a young man who had a whole future ahead. How will you be tomorrow? You’ll be the same. A child gone, a young boy only a bit older, a young man with a whole future ahead behind. You won’t change. You’re done.

Eustace do you remember when she smiled? Do you remember when she laughed? Narnia was not everything she was. It’s not everything you should have been either. You were a child who only knew Narnia. You did not grow or live. You’re dead too. Do you ever think about what you could have done? You’re potential is all that’s left now. The potential that died with you.

Jill, oh Jill. Yes, Susan was to keen on being grown up but...did you grow? Did you age and wither as life went on? Did you dream and become? Do you breathe and live? No. You’re dead. A young girl on the cusp of becoming a woman, gone. Do you regret it? Do you cry? Do you wonder where your parents are? Oh Jill, are you sad?  

Professor, professor! Digory, do you remember her? Do you remember the child that came to your house? Do you remember the one who cried when she returned from out of a wardrobe? Do you remember the Queen who would gaze back with old eyes? Do you remember the Queen the woman the girl who looked at the world and decided ‘Yes, this will do.' upon her final return? 

Polly dear. You’re a woman with a life fully lived. You’ve grown and changed and breathed. Is it fair? There are two young girls who listen as you speak, three young boys who follow. Is it fair? Tell me my dear, is it fair? They are dead. They will not grow. They will not age or live or change the world...but you did. Is that fair?

When do we talk about it, Peter? When do we talk about the Queen left behind? When will you say her name? Do you fear it? When do we talk about the woman alive and breaking and mending and aging? Are you jealous? When do we talk about how you all left her on her own? Are you angry at yourself? Angry at the others? Angry at the Lion? When will you speak of her? When will the Narnians hear her stories? When will they hear about how she and Lucy sat by the dead Lion’s side throughout the whole night? When will they hear about how she saved Edmund with an arrow notched and loosened before you even arrived? Will you tell them about how she cried when you all thought you’d lost him? When will they hear about her crowning? Will you ever tell them how she laughed and danced with everyone who asked? Will you tell them about how she always was the last to sleep and first to wake? When will you speak about how she’d fight blood-covered and clothes shredded to keep peace? When will they hear about the hands she’d stain each time without question in their names? When will they hear about the days where her fingers refused to unbend from her bow with how long she held it loosening arrows left and right? Will you tell them about Rabadash and how she was almost taken from all of you and them? Will you tell them how she cried each night for the soldiers lost in her name? When will they hear about the Gentle Queen who did not want to follow when you chased the stag? When will you tell them that she did not want to leave, but that she had become a mother to your younger siblings in the absence of your mother, had the urge to protect and thus followed? When will they hear about the young girl who’d speak to you in quiet in an understanding voice when you all returned through the wardrobe? When will you speak about the girl who'd stay awake through each night until she could not stay awake anymore only to fall asleep on the couch before the fireplace, realizing all of you wouldn’t be returning? When will you speak about how you did return and she laughed the brightest laugh you’d heard in so long? How she looked at Lucy and Lucy looked at her before they bolted unashamedly to the clear blue water that lay before you? How she dressed in her old gown and slung her bow over a shoulder and donned her armour without question because Narnia needed her again? Will you tell them how Aslan told you you wouldn’t return and she nodded her head and moved on? How she listened to the Lion’s words to the latter? Will you tell them how she will change your world for the better? Even in the absence of you and Lucy and Edmund and Mum and Dad?

When will you say her name? 

[ugly-crying-over-bucky-barnes]

Blue Eyes Epilogue

Summary: After the Garrison is shot up, the youngest Shelby daughter finds a new home in London. She strips herself of her last name and tries to live a peaceful life far away from her brothers’ chaos in Birmingham. But fate leads her right back into it after she runs into Alfie Solomons.

          “Alf?”

           “You alright, love? I heard you getting a bit heated over the phone.” Alfie was at the sink, gently washing the sand off Ezra’s feet. Father and son had been out on the beach that morning watching the waves and the sea birds overhead.

           “I was on the phone with Tommy.” Ella set Sofia down so she could go to Alfie.

           “I figured that much.” He replied sympathetically.

           She walked around to stand by the sink. Ezra gave her a gummy smile, squirming a bit because of the cold water on his toes. Ella grabbed a towel to give to Alfie so he could dry Ezra off. “I just don’t know what to think anymore.”

           “About what, love?” He asked, shutting off the sink and taking the towel from his wife.

           “Just…everything. Tommy was going on and on about how things used to be. I mean-I understand where he’s coming from. He spent all that time looking toward the future, looking at what he could have instead of appreciating what he did have. Now he regrets it because look at everything that’s happened. We’ve lost so many people. But…I like what I have now. I can’t look to the past anymore.”

           “I hate to say it, but your brother’s gone and dug his own grave, hasn’t he? He wanted power and this is what it gave him. The man doesn’t know when to quit.” Alfie wiped off Ezra’s feet even though the toddler gave him a bit of a hard time, kicking his legs and giggling like mad.

           “But we know when to step away, right?” Ella asked quietly.

           Alfie set Ezra down so he could dry his hands off. “What’s the matter, love? Talk to me.”

           Ella wrapped her arms around herself, thoroughly shaken by the world around her. When once she had been so fearless, she was becoming aware of how chaotic things could become. “I’m scared that we’re going to lose everything we’ve worked for.”

           “We’re not gonna lose anything. What are you afraid of losing?” Alfie wasn’t looking to ridicule his wife, he saw the fear in her eyes, and in turn, it worried him. One of his primary jobs was to comfort her.

           “I’m afraid of losing you, I’m afraid of losing the twins, I-I’m afraid of losing my sanity, Alfie.” Her voice broke. “I never expected any of this to happen. Th-this has all gone too far and I can’t take it anymore.”

           “It’s alright love.” He embraced her, pulling her to his chest.

           “It’s not alright, Alfie. I’m not going to give you up because of the things Tommy does. But there are things in this world that I can’t stop.”

           Alfie was starting to pick up on the root of her worry. After all, Mosley was just one man. They could deal with individuals, gangs even. But when there was some sort of movement, with an unknown amount of people following? Well, they couldn’t exactly fight off the world, could they? Even if Tommy Shelby liked to think he could. “The world we’re living in, s’not ideal, is it? But there are more people who are willing to fight this than are willing to stay quiet.”

           “How do you know that?” She asked.

           “Because I fought in a bloody war for the sake of this country.” He reminded her. “I don’t doubt that we’d do it again if we’re threatened again.”

           “But they’re here, Alfie. There are people in Britain who would rather see you hung than fight for you.”

           There were things that Alfie could brush off. He could brush off her brother’s disdain for him. He could brush off the slurs that Darby was so fond of calling him. He could even brush off that he was shot in the eye. But he couldn’t brush off his wife’s concern for him. “What would you suggest we do then, love?” He asked softly, gently petting her hair.

           “I think we should just go somewhere else.” She whispered. “We can go to America, we can put this behind us.”

           “There are fascists in America, El. There ain’t a place on this Earth that’s pure.” He told her truthfully. “America might be further away, but it ain’t much different.”

           Ella couldn’t argue with that. She knew that it didn’t matter how far she went. It didn’t matter if she changed her last name from Shelby. She would always be involved in Tommy’s game. It was her birthright. Something would always bring her back.

           “Mumma.”

           Ella drew away from Alfie so she could scoop Ezra up. “I won’t lose them.” She whispered. It had been painful enough to lose her twins before they were even born. But to lose Ezra and Sofia after she had bonded with them? Ella knew she would never be able to come back from that.

           Alfie nodded. “Well, we’ve got more than enough money to retire. We can sell the bakery, sell the flat in Camden. We can stay here for the rest of our lives.”  

           “I’m scared.”

           “I know. It’s a scary world, but you know we can make it work. It’ll be alright. I promise.”

~~~~~~~~~~

           For the next few years, Ella lived her life very removed from her family. That wasn’t to say she never saw them. She made a habit to keep in touch but wouldn’t involve herself in any business matters. She was vocal about Tommy’s mental state but there wasn’t anything anyone could do. It was all in his hands. And he continued on as the soldier he was.

           Lizzie and Polly confided in Ella often, if only to make sure they weren’t going crazy because of Tommy’s behavior. But they also respected that Ella was raising her own family and had more than enough good reasons to keep her distance.

           For the most part, she and Alfie remained at Margate with the children. Retired and happy to be retired, Alfie was content staying by the ocean. They returned to Camden for special occasions or to see friends and family. But Ella felt much more comfortable at Margate. Going back to London was just another reminder of the trouble brewing. There was unrest, not just in the city, and not just in the country. It was across the continent and Ella felt like everyone was just holding their breath, waiting for the powder keg to explode again.

           Outside of the city, however, she felt much more removed from it all. She could truly enjoy her life as being a wife and mother. She had gained the peace she had always looked forward to.

           As the twins grew, their personalities started to blossom and it was such a lovely thing to see.

           Sofia was a rambunctious little girl who loved the outdoors. One of her favorite things was to trawl the shoreline with Alfie by her side so she could find little sea critters in tide pools. Or sometimes she’d crouch in the garden, hunting for bugs and earthworms. A day without getting her clothes stained with dirt or covered in sand was not a day well spent in Sofia’s eyes.

           Ezra was on the shyer side. He became very bashful when talking to people he didn’t know well and would cling to Ella when they were visiting others in Camden. But he was curious in his own way. Often times, he would have long discussions with his father, simply asking endless questions about how things worked. Where the sun went at night, how did clocks know the time, how did the record player work, why did Cyril have a tail and he didn’t, how come birds fly, how big is the moon. Any little thing would pique his curiosity and he would rush to Alfie for information.

           Trouble was, Alfie wasn’t too sure how to answer his questions most of the time. There were some things he could explain, but most of Ezra’s questions were beyond his expertise. It was a blessing, then, that Ezra learned to read at a very young age. He absorbed books like a sponge and it was hard to get him to stop reading and go to bed.

           Their differing personalities positively enchanted Ella. Despite how difficult motherhood was, she was so happy to take the journey. Every day, her children surprised her and gave her another reminder of how blessed she was.

           It was a difficult balance, trying to keep her children safe while still allowing them to have a relationship with their kin. It was easier to have them around the people from Camden. They grew up with the other children of Ella’s friends and came to know the people they would consider like aunts and uncles.

           But with Birmingham, Ella was very cautious. She understood how easy it was to be swept up into the Shelby Company Limited. Her cousin Michael was a great example. Although raised outside of the family, once he was back in, there was no going back. Ella refused to allow her children to be roped in. Perhaps she was being over-skeptical of her own family. But she was willing to be over-cautious rather than let her guard down.

           Still, she allowed her children to attend parties and holidays with the Shelby family. It was tense, at least in Ella’s shoes. She watched her brothers like a hawk whenever they were around the twins.

~~~~~~~~~~

           One bright summer afternoon, while celebrating Finn’s birthday at Arrow House, Tommy came over to his sister.

           She was sitting in the shade, watching her children play with their cousins on the lawn. Cyril and Anthea were running around with them, just as happy. Alfie was talking with Polly a bits away. The two had grown a well-formed relationship of respect. Polly liked that he had taken care of Ella all those years and Alfie appreciated Polly’s sanity.

           Tommy took a seat beside his sister and pulled out a cigarette. He coughed a bit as he lit it.

           “Y’know, some people are saying smoking is bad for you.” She said. “Maybe you should cut down.”

           “Lots of things in life are bad for you.” He replied and took a drag from the cigarette anyways.

           “Charlie looks so much like Grace now.” Ella did everything in her power to avoid arguments at family functions. She knew there was no point, nothing she could do would change anyone’s minds especially Tommy’s.

           Charlie was kicking a football back and forth with Karl, trying to keep the ball from Anthea. He was so grown from the little toddler that he once was. He was nearly a teenager, had grown like a weed, and indeed was nearly the spitting image of his mother.

           “He’s been asking about her,” Tommy told Ella. “He knows Lizzie isn’t his biological mother, so he’s been asking about Grace.”

           “What did you tell him?”

           “That we lost her before he was old enough to remember her. I gave him all the photographs I had of her. I don’t know what else to do.”

           “I don’t think there’s much else you can do.” Ella shrugged.

           The siblings went quiet for a moment. Tommy smoking and Ella watching the children play.

           “Do you trust me, El?” He asked out of nowhere.

           “Trust you?”

           “Yeah.”

           She glanced over at him to gauge whether he was trying to get a rise out of her or not. But he seemed genuinely interested in what she had to say. “Why are you asking that?”

           “Because it seems like anytime I’m near Ezra or Sofia, you’re looking at me like I’m about to kidnap them or feed ‘em to a lion.”

           She rolled her eyes. “Don’t even say that.”

           “So, you completely trust me, then? I’m just overthinking things, aye?” He challenged.

            Ella crossed her arms over her chest and shook her head. “I don’t want to have this conversation with you.”

           “You’re kin, Ella. They’re kin. Fuck it, even Alfie is kin by now. You really think I’m going to bring them harm?”

           “I trust that you want what’s best for everyone. I trust that all those years ago, you made a conscious decision to help this family. I trust that maybe you didn’t anticipate all of this, and if you had known maybe you never would’ve done any of it. I know you’re a good man, Tommy. I know the person you were growing up. I just…I wish you would quit this. I thought so many times that this would be the one thing that would make you stop. But every time, no matter what happened, you kept at it. I know that if you don’t stop, you’ll be killed. And if that’s something you accept then…there’s nothing else I can do.” She sighed heavily. “But I have to protect my children from that fate. I know you don’t want this for our kids. You said so many times that if we had children, they would never grow up the same way we did. We were supposed to be the ones to stop the cycle, Tom.”

           “I know.” He said in a rare tone of assent.

           “I’m scared,” Ella admitted, trying to keep her composure for the sake of the party. “I’m so fucking scared of everything in this world now, Tommy.”

           Tommy had always known his sister to be fearless. Now it seemed that motherhood had brought up new fears in her. Maybe because she knew what it was like to grow up poor in a dangerous neighborhood. She was familiar with guns before she even went to school. She’d seen death and violence at an early age. It was only a natural instinct to want better for her children. But it didn’t mean she had to have such a crippling fear of everything. “Things are gonna be alright, El.”

           “That’s what Alfie says, that’s what everyone says but I’m not blind!” She exclaimed. “I know that it’s only a matter of time ‘fore…”

           “Before what?” He asked gently.

           Ella shook her head. “It’s a cycle, Tommy, it’s always a cycle. Do you know what I prayed for every night while you and Arthur and John were in France?”

           Tommy could only imagine. She was so young back then. “I don’t-tell me.”

           “I prayed that you three would all come back home safe. And when you did, I prayed that you’d all find nice women and settle down. I prayed that you would all have good lives and be at peace. But then I saw you at the train station and I knew that would never happen. The things you saw over there, the things that happened…I know why you three changed, I get it. But I never anticipated what would happen after that.”

           “I know.”

           Ella looked down at her hands, almost too tired to continue going around in circles with him. Facts were facts and the past was the past. “Do you think we’re going to go to war?”

           Tommy nodded. “Yeah.”

           She swallowed and chewed on her lip. “And that doesn’t scare you?”

           What else could he say? His nightmares were growing more severe, the shovels were getting louder.

           “It terrifies me.”  

~~~~~~~~~~~

           After Finn’s birthday party, Ella felt a little more forgiving toward her family. Maybe if they understood her anxiety, she could trust them a bit more. She also knew that there was no use arguing with Tommy. Both of them understood what it felt like for their sanity to slowly trickle away. They understood what it felt to have the world on their shoulders. They were too alike to blame one another.

           One night, back in Margate, Ella was coming in from bringing Cyril and Anthea out. She shrugged off her coat and hung up the dog leashes. Anthea bolted to Ezra’s bedroom while Cyril hobbled down the hall. The bullmastiff was getting up in age but still had the same docile demeanor he had when she had met him for the first time in London as a pup.

           Ella gave the old dog a pat. “Good boy.” She said softly and followed him into Ezra’s room where Alfie was reading a bedtime story to the twins.

           “My armor is like tenfold…”

           “No, Smaug is still talking so you’ve gotta do the voice!” Ezra protested.

           Alfie chuckled. “Alright, alright.” He cleared his throat and began to rumble in a deep, menacing voice. “My armor is like tenfold shields, my teeth are swords, my claws spears, the shock of my tail is a thunderbolt, my wings a hurricane, and my breath…death!” He read from The Hobbit dramatically.

           Sofia and Ezra laughed, delighted by all the voices their father did for every book he read them. It was commonplace. Alfie always read to them even if he struggled with the strain on his one good eye and often got headaches.

           The eight-year-old twins were always insistent that he read to them, and Alfie wasn’t exactly complaining. He loved their rapt expressions as he read. Sofia often laid on the bed, petting Cyril or Anthea as she imagined the scene her father was describing. Ezra cuddled up close to Alfie in the crook of his arm so he could try and read along with his father. Sometimes he’d stop Alfie and point to a word he didn’t understand, asking for the definition.

           Sometimes, Ella would sit in just to spend those last few moments of the day with her family. But that night, it had grown too late.

           “It’s late, my loves.” She interrupted.

           Sofia looked up and pulled a pout. “Nooooo, mummy it’s not that late!”

           “It’s summer!” Ezra chimed in.

           “It is quite late.” Ella walked into the room.

           “Mum’s right.” Alfie dog-eared the page in the book and began to untangle himself from the children, Ezra on his arm and Sofia sprawled over his legs.

           “But dad hasn’t finished the chapter,” Ezra whined.

           “S’a long chapter, mate.” His father stood and helped him under the covers. “We’ll pick up on the rest of it tomorrow.” He promised. “Not much left of this book anyhow, don’t want to go storming through the rest. Best we take our time ‘n savor it, aye?” He scooped Sofia up so he could bring her to her bedroom.

           Ella tucked Ezra in and kissed his forehead. “Goodnight my love.”

           Cyril took his place in his bed on the floor of Ezra’s room. It was remarkable because the old dog liked sleeping in the little boy’s room. Ella guessed it was because Ezra spent so much time inside reading with Cyril snoozing beside him on the sofa. Meanwhile, Anthea chose to sleep in Sofia’s room. She was very fond of the little girl who always took her out for adventures outside.

           So, Anthea followed them as they brought Sofia across the hall. She hopped up on the bed and curled up by Sofia’s feet.  

           Alfie and Ella kissed her goodnight before retiring to their own bedroom.

           Ella sank into bed as Alfie got ready for the night.

           “Y’know, I like the voices you do too.” She commented.

           “Aye?” He chuckled.

           “Your dragon voice is very nice.”

           “Nice?” He grinned and tossed his shirt to the side. Striding over, he grabbed his wife’s ankles to tug her down the bed.

           She stifled a squeal and giggled. “Alfie!”

           “Hush now. Don’t go waking up the whole house.” He murmured in a low voice and began to creep up her body until they were face to face.

           “Or what? You’ll eat me up?” She teased; her heart started to flutter in her chest. After years of being together, Alfie still never failed to make her swoon. It felt like every night she fell in love with him all over again. Whether they made love or she simply just fell asleep in his arms.

           He laughed and captured her lips with his. One hand pressed into the bed while the other lightly grazed down her side before resting on her thigh.

           When he drew back, she wove her fingers into his hair and pecked his lips a few more times. “I love you, Alfie Solomons.” She murmured.

           “And I love you too, Ella Solomons.” He replied, looking down at her with so much adoration in his eyes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

           August 1940, the Solomons family traveled out to Small Heath. The twins’ birthday had been a few days earlier but they were now going to celebrate with Ella’s side of the family.

           It was a strange time to be celebrating anything. The continent was at war yet again. It had been almost a year since Britain declared war and started to mobilize. Ella got horrifying flashbacks off the time her brothers had been at war. It was so difficult to fathom that they would live through a repeat of the Great War. But this time, eyes were turned to the next generation. The generation that had been too young to fight, now they were ready.

           Ella urged Polly to do everything she could to keep the Peaky boys off the front lines. But it was futile, not with how headstrong they all were, and not with the draft initiated.

           Now they could all only hope this war wouldn’t last as long as the first one did. They could only hope it wouldn’t be as gruesome and wouldn’t claim as many lives.

           “Erdington then Castle Bromwich,” Arthur muttered under his breath as he stood by the kitchen counter, drink in hand.

           “They’re trying to get a better target.” Tommy agreed with a grim look.

           “Enough.” Polly shushed the men, pointing a cake knife at them. “No talk of the war, not tonight. Let the children be children.”

           “Sorry, Pol,” Arthur mumbled.

           Of course, the war was on all of their minds. It was nearly impossible to ignore it.

            Polly brought the two cakes over to set in front of Sofia and Ezra. As she lit the candles, the family gathered around the table and began to sing Happy Birthday.

           Ella was ready with her camera to take a picture of them as Alfie stood behind them, with a proud look on his face.

           But the moment didn’t last long.

           A loud explosion rocked the very ground and was almost immediately followed by a high pitched siren that had become so common to hear in the cities.

           The men who fought reacted the quickest. Alfie grabbed Sofia and Ezra by the hand and hurried them to the cellar doors. Polly gathered the rest of the children as Arthur hurried them all along. Ella set her camera down on the table and blew out the birthday candles so they wouldn’t catch anything on fire. Tommy shut the lights off in the house, making sure everything was off upstairs as well.

           Once dark, he glanced out the window.

           “Tommy, c’mon.” Ella urged and grabbed her brother by the arm.

           The two headed downstairs where the rest of the family was hiding out from the air raid.

           They knew it was a possibility it was a false alarm. There had been dozens. But there was no telling either way.

           “Mummy!” Sofia wailed.

           “I’m here, I’m here.” Ella hushed her softly and gathered her into her arms. Alfie held her and the twins close, gently soothing them.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

           It wasn’t a false alarm. Bombs shook the city with such intensity that everyone in the cellar was praying silently or out loud. It felt like they were down there for days when it was mere hours.

           No one could sleep that night. In the morning, Ella left the house, she couldn’t listen to the radio anymore. She walked down to the Bullring and found it in ruins. The buildings had been gutted and ash was covering the ground.

           It was nearly impossible to fully comprehend. People around her stood and stared at the scene in shock as well. Some were crying, others were too lost to react.

           Ella was in such a state that she didn’t notice Tommy standing next to her for a good while. When she did, she glanced up at him.

           He saw the same scared little girl who asked her older brothers not to go to France. She was too afraid they wouldn’t come back. She was still there, the scared girl who was afraid of what war would bring her family.

           “I’ve got a few leads on houses in the countryside. Plenty of space for you and the kids.” Tommy said quietly.

           “We have Margate.”

           “Alfie wants to stay away from any city or town. Anything that might become a target. The country is the best option.”

           “You spoke to him?”

           “Last night.”

           Ella’s stomach was in knots. “Okay.”

           He nodded. “Stay in Margate until then.”

           “We will.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

           Alfie was still at the flat with the rest of the family when Ella returned. He was sitting by the radio with Arthur, both of them silent. Ezra was laying on the carpet, drawing while Sofia sat on Alfie’s lap.

           Arthur turned the volume down a bit when his sister came in. “Alright, El?”

           “Yeah, I think we’re going to go back to Margate.” She said quietly.

           Alfie nodded. “Sof and Ez go get your things, yeah?”

           The kids got up to gather their things as Alfie stood up from the armchair. “Did Tommy talk to you about our plan?”

           She nodded. “Yeah, he did.”

           “That’s okay?”

           “We need to keep them safe.” She concluded. “Anyway, we can.”

           “Okay.” He kissed her forehead and rubbed her shoulder.

~~~~~~~~~~

           It didn’t take long before Tommy bought the Solomons a place in the countryside. A lovely little home with a sprawling garden and plenty of space for the twins and the dogs.

           He saw them off at the train station. Most likely, it would be some time before they saw one another again. Knowing Ella, she would keep her children in the safest possible place until they were guaranteed safety in the outside world. Tommy knew he had to respect that.

           “Bye Uncle Tommy.” Ezra and Sofia chimed off, each giving him a big hug.

           “Be good for mum and dad, aye?” He said gently. “Make sure you give everyone a call once and a while, okay?”

           “Okay!”

           “Tom.” Alfie gave his brother-in-law a hearty handshake. “Thanks, mate.”

           “Of course.”

           Ella swallowed her tears as she hugged Tommy next. “Thank you.”

           “I should’ve done this for you when you asked all those years ago. When you wanted to be free and safe.”

           “I never would’ve met Alfie if you did.” She pointed out with a tearful smile.

           “I guess so.” He chuckled and let go of her.

           “Right, ready then?” Alfie helped the kids up into the car of the train then held a hand out to his wife.

           She nodded. “Ready.”  

-The end

//Thank you to everyone who stuck around for this long! It was so hard to end this but I leave the rest up to season 6 and see how things go from there. Huge thanks to my tag lists. If you’re interested my masterlist of all my oneshots and series are pinned to the top of my blog and my requests are open.I’m currently working on a new Alfie series so stay tuned. In the mean time I have a lot of Alfie one shots with more on the way as well as plenty of Tommy content. 

Thank you again!

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[vikingsagine]

A Shield-Maiden’s Wrath - Bjorn x Reader - Part Two

Summary - After finding out Bjorn has cheated on you, the night that all the Ragnarsson’s were nervous about finally arrives. Time for your sweet revenge....

Warnings: SWEARING! ANGRY AND PREGNANT WIFE!! VIOLENCE! REVENGEEEE is a  bitch. Or is that Karma? Either way, it’s a bitch.

I did enjoy writing this, it was fun. Part One and Part Three if you want to read it. This is basically just something fluffy in a weird way. Hopefully, satisfying and justifying to the ex wives of Bjorn Ironside and just some brotherly love.

BONUS REACTIONS AT THE END!!

@soleil-dor​ @abonelessgod​ @sadbutatleastsassy​ @youbloodymadgenius​ @ivarthebloodyking​

Hvitserk is nervous. They were all nervous. 

He scanned the herd of people, tearing away at the piece of chicken in hopes to ease the rush of anxiety. If Bjorn knew he flapped his gums, breaking the promise he made, Hvitserk was sure his oldest brother would not be afraid to ‘settle’ things. Then of course, he could already imagine that you would stick up, biting into Bjorn to argue it wasn’t Hvitserk’s fault. Which would cause more strife, barking back from one another and ultimately, he would be to blame. 

Ubbe is more cautious.

He kept his light blue orbs from flickering between the oak wooden doors then to Bjorn, sitting innocently. Unaware of his targeted predicament. All four of them swore not to warn Bjorn of your knowledge because a, they would all remain out of their soon to be hurricane of a temper and b, none wanted to face yours or Bjorn’s wrath. Instead, Ubbe stood closely next to his older brother, not even thinking about drinking or eating. Too agitated and paranoid. 

“What is wrong brother?” Bjorn broke his chain of thoughts and caught him off guard. Quickly recovering from his momentary surprise, Ubbe forced a crooked smile to his lips. More so reassuring himself that everything is going to be fine. “You seem tense, relax. Drink. Eat.” 

“I’m not hungry.” Too quickly he answered, too fast. Bjorn stared at him skeptical as to why he seemed so stiff. Watching out for something. Then it dawned upon him.

“Oh I see.” This caused red flags to go off in his mind, the gears going crazy. Zooming and whirling. “You are looking for someone, aren’t you?” Ubbe clenched his jaw and squeezed the cup in hand. Clenched it so hard, he could feel it dent under the pressure. “That blonde girl, Margrethe. It is alright, I won’t tell your Mother.” He instantly relaxed in his seat and let out a skittish chuckle, quickly turning to the cup of mead for calm. 

“You could say that.”

Sigurd decided to remain ignorant. 

Instead indulged himself in his people, strumming away at the strings of his ute and filled the air of a joyous melody. He laughed and sang, finding pleasure in the company of friends and strangers. All seemingly serene, almost perfect. Yet, he could not ignore the arc of his stomach. Almost sickly as if he ate something bad or drank too much. Nauseous and sick. He knew deep down, even with hopes of peaceful tranquility for the rest of the night, it will soon be thrown to the air. Destroyed and burned. So, Sigurd kept dancing, grasping the last few moments of this bliss. 

Ivar is on edge.

He is not afraid, looking forward to the oncoming festivities that night. He could recall your last controversy. Bjorn verbally abused you over your pregnant state and how you shouldn’t be fighting or using a weapon however, your free-spirited morals did not take it so well. One thing led to another, things were thrown around by your hand. His brother’s voice boomed so loud, he was sure other town’s could hear. Which led to Bjorn’s departure and eventually, Ivar found him screwing one of the servants. Beautiful but rather, daft. Anyone stupid enough to even consider having sex with his older brother; a married man and soon-to-be Father, has a death wish. 

“Brother, are you sure-” 

“Ubbe, stop.” Bjorn cut him off, pressing the woman close to his side. He knew it was very dangerous to be playing around with the chance of his wife walking into those very doors. Of course he knew it would cause his possible death but something about the thought was exciting. “It is far too late, Y/N will not come. Hmm?” The great warrior leaned over his knees and nudged his little brother. 

“Sure.” Ubbe pressed his lips together and stood up. He knew he should’ve said something, hinted at least a little, warned Bjorn or even motioned that you knew. But there was the side that secretly wanted this, curse it be. 

My brother, I hope you are prepared, the Gods will not be on your side tonight nor will I. By the Gods, you brought this upon yourself.

~~~

Two shields of wood smashed wide, slamming against the walls and shook the hall like thunder had struck. Young men and women alike froze in their happy state and awed with wide, scared spectacles. Like a nightmare come to life, they stared. 

You stood, a raging and fuming beast. In all the glory of your shield and sword and arrows and bow. So dangerously true. Coated in leather wrapped around breasts and a bulging stomach; never a pregnant woman seen so chilling. To cause dread. Your eyes glowed vibrantly, black ink surrounded the skin and smeared the corners of your eyes. Paint ready for war. Hair is so beautiful, thick and heavy. Twisted in mending lace. A true shield-maiden ready to demolish their enemy. 

The hall in complete silence. 

You pulled an arrow back and pointed the tip of it towards your target, your prey, your next victim. Another face to tear into. 

“You.” Like a deep rumble of thunder, the sound of your voice bounced from the walls, calm and steady. But there were those that could hear the hot rage, pure and unfortunately real. “And you.” With a darting eye, you glared and aimed the weapon towards the slave girl who was pushed aside and shaking in fear. 

One, two, three steps. 

Bjorn did not budge, holding your gaze with as much passion. His pride and ego and name too much to set aside for the benefit of his wife. Instead he sat and analysed every move of your body, predator eyeing predator. Everyone else disappeared. He could do the obvious and apologize for his doings, beg for forgiveness, admit his wrong and fight for your favor. But, where would be the fun in that? 

“My love I have been waiting for you.” Bjorn smirked and poured a cup of mead to hand it over. “Drink.” The cup was knocked out of his grasp as you shot the first winged spear.

 ‘How dare he.’ You thought. Just the sight of your beloved husband made every cell in your body boil. And then to see the whore he so desperately fucked because of his lack of fulfillment, for his own pleasure. The next arrow landed right next to his head, almost slicing his pale flesh. 

“I see you found out.” Bjorn gripped the arrow planted, threw it to the ground and huffed. “So who told you? Ubbe? Sigurd? Hvitserk? Ivar?” He motioned towards his brother’s; who were now out of the way just like the rest of the people. They all backed up, leaning against the walls to be out of both of your range. Ivar sat in the perfect position, out of the way yet close enough to adore the sight. 

“Do not bring them into this.” You hissed and watched as he took slow steps down the few rows of stairs. “This is your fault. You. Bjorn Ironside. My loyal husband.” Words like venom, another arrow whirled through the air and stopped him in his tracks. 

“Please, we can talk about this.” Another arrow.

“Calm down.” Another.

“You have to understand that-” Arrow.

Bjorn lost all patience now, growling out of annoyance and bored into your being. Pregnant. Strong. And very, furious. Without warning you drew your sword out and dove it straight for his head, in hopes to decapitate that handsomely deviled face. “You cheated on me!” Another swing. “You filthy pig.” Stab. “You animal.” Following him up the steps, you kicked the table to knock him over. 

“I love you.” Bjorn muttered and ducked, dodging the oncoming fly of cutlery and food. Desperately searching for a shield. 

“You love me? You love me so much that you shove your cock into the cunt of a fucking whore!” Finally reaching his axe, he met your sword that buzzed with your fire. He could feel the emotion burn into his body but still, he did not fear it. Instead intrigued, guiltily enjoying your passionate emotion. “You shame me and you humiliate me and you betray me.” You kicked him over, knocking him on his ass and managed to scratch the surface of his chest. 

“I wanted sex and every time I tried, you were in pain.” This added more fuel to the fire, sparking up that heat that burned at your core. You were sure your child also fueled that pit of flames, angry at their Father. 

“Because I am pregnant.” He rolled over to his side and jumped to his feet, re-directing each one of your desperate attacks. “With your child. Tell me, did you fuck that slut before you fucked me?” There were so many questions that filled your head. So many emotions that stung your heart. “You aren’t a great warrior, not a man. You’re just a fat piece of meat thinking with the blunt tool dangling between his legs.” You grabbed a fistful of Bjorn’s hair, wrapping his braids around your hand like shackles trapped to you. Then dragged him and shoved his head against the pillar. “How many times did you screw that bitch?”

“Nine, maybe ten times, give or take.” He gave you a cheeky smirk, playing with your emotion. You heaved him back and smashed his head onto the floor. “It wasn’t my fault.”

“Not your fault! Think so much with your dick that you just fell in her loose lips.” With a fury you growled and punched him in the jaw, followed by a barrage of slaps and claws. “Couldn’t even wait for three months and deceive your own lover! Couldn’t control yourself longer than two minutes! And then you lie to me! All those late nights, you left me alone, cold, miserable while you get your fill!” You grabbed the ruffs of his head and slammed it against the ground. “Then you force your brothers to lie to me. Hide like a rat, a slimy sloppy snake. Drag them into this because you wanted sex!” All you could see is red, nothing else. You. Him. And red. “And humiliate me, making me look like a fool! I defended you, stood up for you, made excuses for your bullshit. And this is how you repay me?!” Bjorn caught your hands and gripped them so hard you thought they would bruise. 

“Now you know how I felt when you let that merchant’s son bury his tiny little cock in what is mine.” With one swift move, he flipped you over and drove his hips into you. It only pushed you that much further and you spat in his face. 

“I do not belong to you, I only belong to myself!” You wrapped your legs around his waist and drove him into you then snapped your elbow up, striking his face. “We weren’t married then either! I hardly knew you!” 

“Even still, you knew I wanted you. You fucking knew it!” With your form now on top, you tried to dig your nails into his eyes and gouge those pretty blue orbs out. The ones you love so much. So piercing and so hard to read. But now, clear as day. “And I know you saw me!” For a split second you were surprised, wavering you from your confident outburst. Bingo! Just like that Bjorn trapped you under his form, holding both your wrists in place. 

“That was five fucking years ago you piece of shit.” You growled, struggling against his hold. “Bringing things up like a bitch. I always knew you were a bitch, a weak, weak man.” You cooed, slithering your knee between his and dug it up. Bjorn groaned and rolled off of your body before collapsing. It would have been sweet that he still took note of your pregnant belly but, considering the situation you didn’t give a fuck. “Besides, he fucked me in ways you couldn’t. He pleasured me better than a weak man like you ever could.” You couldn’t help but smirk, a smugness filled your bones. 

Bjorn jumped to his feet, dragging the axe along with him and met your stance. Ready to unleash your storm of resentment. The clear primal glare behind his piercing orbs sent shivers down your body, now clearly ready to settle things. 

“You want me back Ironside, you better fight for it.” \

You tossed your weapon from left to right hand.

 “Earn me.”

~~~

“What do you think is going on in there?” Hvitserk broke the tension, drawing his knees to his chest and pushed himself into a more comfortable position. 

“Maybe they’re finished.” Sigurd shrugged, pulling at the stings of his ute while his brows furrowed. They all looked at each other, hopeful until they heard a loud cluttering sound followed by a loud groan of their older brother, cue a sigh. “Never mind.”

“Maybe we should-” 

“Don’t.” Ubbe cut Hvitserk off, knowing fully well where he was going. He did not want to lose a limb or an eye by stepping back into the hall, now a battlefield. Another crash sounded from behind them and he shivered, feeling pity for his older brother. Bjorn in an unfortunate predicament of not being able to fight back like he usually did because of their child, which made Y/N even more dangerous. A force to be reckoned with. “By all means go back in there and you try to break them apart but, I will not come to your aid.”

“Why did you have to drag me out of there? I was enjoying myself.” Ivar frowned a little, remembering how Ubbe and Hvitserk practically hauled him out. 

“I’m sure you were.” Ubbe spoke and folded his arms over his chest. “But I am not losing another brother tonight.”

“Don’t be absurd, Y/N wouldn’t have hurt me.” Ivar argued back.

“You would have hurt yourself. Wouldn’t be able to crawl away fast enough.” The crippled glared at Sigurd, who was now smirking. But, he did not get angry this time and just rolled his eyes, over his shit. “I think I won the bet.”

“No way, I said she would attack during the feast first. All of you owe me.” Hvitserk intervened, not really caring about the sack of silver or gold. But instead the glory of beating his brother’s at least once. For the one that started the bets most of the time, he didn’t seem to win a lot. 

“Everyone knew that, even the town’s people.” Sigurd intercepted and made Hvitserk huff. They all snapped towards the wooden door as they shook slightly, followed by the sound of your shouts and the sound of Bjorn’s voice, filled with as much passion. 

“I predicted all of it.” Ivar seethed, halting their bickering. “I said all of that, so I win.” 

“No, you also bet that they were going to end up fucking. That does not sound like pleasure.” Sigurd quickly corrected, pointing to the hall. “I should get all of your money.” 

“No.” Hvitserk denied.

“Yes, I claimed she was going to arrive in battle armor. Not anyone could have predicted that.” 

“Yes but, I bet what all three of you said. It’s me.” Ivar hissed.

“I’m older than both of you, the money is mine.” Hvitserk attempted to pull all of the bags of coins but Sigurd and Ivar were on him, pulling and thrashing. Ubbe rolled his eyes and clearly was over their bullshit, always the one fixing things. But this time, he did so differently.

“Be quiet. Shut up. Stop!” The four boys all froze and listened intently to a soft sound whispering amongst the wind. Coming from inside the hall, less violent or brash. Then their faces fell,  knowing what the hell was happening and sunk on their asses.

“See, I win.” Ivar hummed in victory, snatching each one of their filled pouches of gold and silver. For once, thankful to both yours and Bjorn’s endless cycle. Tiresome and annoying but at least, consistent and committed. 

“Where do you think that thrall went?” Sigurd raised his eyes in curiosity, the only one seemingly interested. Hvitserk shrugged and Ubbe just stared at the sky.

“Do you have to ask stupid questions?” 

“She probably ran away.” Ubbe concluded lazily. “I don’t blame her, I would too.”

~ PROMISED BONUS ~

“I should tell him but, he doesn’t deserve it.”

“If Bjorn finds out I told her, I’m so dead. I’m too young to die. I’m still a virgin. I don’t wanna die a virgin. Why? WHY? Maybe she won’t come, maybe she’ll just forget about. MAYBE SHE - oh nvm.”

“I’m just gonna pretend I know nothing. Ignore my problems. Yeh, this is better. ”

“Oh yeah, he’s screwed.”

“oh.......fuck. I’m too sober for this shit”