#cacophony of random notes and chapters

[kandyscorner]

Do I Know You? Part 28

Synopsis: Something happened and everybody’s tense about it.

Note: Hey guys, crazy ending last chapter, huh? Y’all are not going to like me for this chapter I don’t think. So, enjoy that!

Masterlist

Your head hurt. So did your eyes, your throat and even your skin. You turn slowly in the bed. Your body ached almost like you had the flu.

“Jason?” you mumble because something was wrong, and you hoped he could help you.

Silence.

“Jay?” you try again and your greeted with nothing. You finally manage your crusty eyes open and squint up at a ceiling that’s not yours. You sit up slowly, a bidding nausea settling in your stomach but not enough to make you truly sick.

You look around the unfamiliar room, the wall bookcase, the king-sized bed that held only you. You must have stayed at the manor. You close your eyes and rub your face with your hands, trying to remember what happened.

Everything was fuzzy. You remember meeting everyone, remember Jason helping with your dress and then Dick…

“Oh my god,” you groan. Dick Grayson was Nightwing. You didn’t know what to do with that knowledge, for now it just made your head hurt. You try remembering past that but it’s the blurriest your memory has ever been, and you don’t know why.

It may have rained, or you showered. Based on your apparent change of clothes, which were not the clothes you had arrived in the manor. You didn’t like this, this not knowing. What if you did something awfully embarrassing. Jason would probably tell you what happened but where was he?

You turn on the bed, legs slipping out from the sheets. Where were your pants? What happened!? You tamp down any panic you have when you spot a sheet of paper on the nightstand with a glass of water and some ibuprofen pills.

For the headache.

There was no signature, but you knew that wasn’t Jason’s handwriting. You weren’t going to argue with a piece of paper though, your pounding head enough to ignore a survival instinct to not take random pills. You drink some of the water to wet your parched mouth before taking the pills. And then you drink some more water, a sudden thirst overtakes you and the glass is empty before you know it.

You take a minute before standing and decide you need a bathroom. You try the first door you come to, and it opens to a hallway. Not a good plan, you have no pants. You close it and try the other, thankful for the sight of the toilet. You do your business and take note of a pair of pajama pants on the floor. You tug them on and find your dress hanging near the shower. Your hands press into the fabric, and you find it damp. Maybe it had rained.

You splash water on your face and try to wipe the mascara from your skin, so you didn’t look so much like a dying racoon. You need to find somebody, preferably Jason, but one of the girls or anyone in the family really would be nice.

You shuffle back to the door to the hallway and step out. You make it about half down the hallway before you meet Titus. The dog sits down in front of you and stares. You sit down crisscross on the ground and start petting him.

“Hello, sweet boy. I bet you’re not as confused as I am.” He licks at your cheek, and it makes your nose wrinkle, “Do you know where everyone is? Or someone?”

You swear he almost nods before trotting a little away from you. He turns to look at you nearly expectantly.

“Yeah, okay, I’m coming, give me a second.” You mumble standing back up. You catch up to him and he starts walking again, slowly with you by his side. He leads you downstairs and into yet another space you don’t recognize.

It’s the kitchen, that much is an easy guess based on the appliances and the great smell. You hear voices in the next room, a mild cacophony. Titus pushes his nose against a sweeping door and pushes his way into the next room. The conversation quiets as you follow after the dog, pushing the door a crack to peek in. The door opens wider, and you meet the eyes of an older man. He smiles at you kindly.

“Miss, there is no need to lurk. I have a seat for you at the table.” The British accent throws you off and you have a sudden sense of déjà vu. You step into the dining room and anxiety edges into your throat as they all stare at you.

“Wow, you look like shit,” you meet Dukes eye, a tease across his face and makes you grimace but relax a little

“Duke, language,” you hear the stern voice of Bruce Wayne, a far different tone then your mind remembers. Your eyes flash over to him as Duke mumbles a less than sincere apology. He smiles at you, but you can’t help but think of how tired he looks.

“Alfred made his hangover special. I swear it’s magic. It can get rid of just about any hangover.” You feel suddenly hit in the face by Brucie Wayne instead of whoever he was when he was scolding Duke. The tonnage and lilt of his words changing and he doesn’t look as tired as you thought.

“Oh, I’m not hung over. I don’t drink, Mr. Wayne. I do think I may have a flu or a cold. Maybe I shouldn’t sit, I don’t want to get anyone sick.” You say glancing at everyone.

“Honeygirl, I’m so sorry!” Steph’s sudden loud words make you flinch, and she manages her way to stand in front of you, but she doesn’t touch you. It makes your brows pinch.

“If I knew you didn’t drink, I would’ve never given you those mimosas.” She practically wails. You can see how distraught she was, but you don’t understand why.

“Perhaps we should not give drinks to others unless they ask for them, Miss Brown” Alfred says, and you can hear the light scold in his voice. Steph’s head dips in shame and you feel very confused still.

“Why should it matter if I drink?” you ask the question lightly not trying to backtrack Alfred’s scolding but trying to understand it, “Mimosas are just fancy orange juice, isn’t it?”

“Todd said you spoke about this.” Damian speaks up and you shrug your shoulders.

“My memories are not doing too hot this morning and I don’t know why.” You try to keep your voice level despite the way the statement worries you.

“Damn, I didn’t know you were that drunk. No wonder Jason was so uptight yesterday.” Tim says as he loads some strawberries to his plate. The family tenses, a physical thing that you can see.

“Tim,” Bruce’s stern voice is back again, and you would have assumed it was because of his language if not for the way the family had reacted.

“I wasn’t drunk. I don’t drink.” You repeat your statement ignoring the weirdness of the morning.

Cass moves around Steph and tugs you to the table. Steph still looks upset with herself but follows.

“Mimosas have champagne in them.” Cass tells you, “You didn’t know that, but you drank quite a few yesterday. Your hungover. It’s why your memories are fuzzy.”

“Oh,” you say flatly as you sit down next to Cass, “That actually makes sense. I hope I didn’t embarrass myself.”

After Stephs sits and everyone goes back to eating, you glance at the empty plate next to you, “Where’s Jason?”

That awkward tenseness filters into the room again and you wonder if something happened with Jason. He’s told about how he can be prone to fights with the family and you wonder if that’s what happened. Something sits heavy on your chest too. It makes you wonder if you said something to him, but you can’t figure out what.

“He went for a ride on his bike,” Dick offers, “he should be back soon.” You eye twitches as you fight the urge to squint at Dick, to let your mind imagine a mask over his eyes.

“Okay,” you mumble out before you start dishing your own plate. The tense atmosphere settles and the previous cacophony of people talking over each other returns. You give your compliments to Alfred (you had leaned over to Cass and asked her about the older man quietly. Evidently you had met him, you just didn’t remember it.)

You tell Bruce that he was right about the magic of the food, your body was already feeling better, your mind clearing a bit, but your memory stayed gappy. Every once in a while, you’d catch someone staring at you like they were waiting for you to say something or announce something.

Breakfast is almost over when you hear a door shut somewhere else. Everyone tenses again where you perk up. It was Jason, you just knew it and you missed him. You don’t know why he went out riding so early in the morning and without you no less (probably because you were hungover but that was neither here nor there).

The kitchen door swings open. You turn in your chair to smile brightly at him, but it drops when he freezes, eyes set on you. A worry works its way into your heart. He looks exhausted, like he hadn’t slept all night, and he looked like he wanted to run. He’d never looked at you like that.

“So, turns out she was blackout drunk, her memories pretty sucky,” Dick all but announces to the room. You turn back on him with a scoff.

“That’s rude,” you turn back to Jason, “but he’s right. If you have anything embarrassing I did, please share with me for my records.” You try to joke. Jason moves slowly pulling the chair out beside you.

“You don’t remember anything?” he asks slowly as he settles in the chair. He’s still looking at you like he’s waiting for something, like he’s ready to run should the opportunity arise.

“I remember a little bit,” you shrug, “my last solid memory is when you and Dick helped fix my dress.”

Jason’s brows shoot up in surprise and you spot even Damian looking shocked. It worries you a little. What had you done in your drunken state? Was it even something you wanted to remember?

“that’s the last thing you remember?” the way Jason asks you feels stunted. Almost like he has more to say, or he can’t decide what emotion to put with it. You glance around and find everyone watching you two.

“Did something happen?” you ask because you don’t like the blankness in your mind compared to the atmosphere of the room. You were starting to feel like you were the one that needed to run.

Jason’s hand settles against your shoulder and your whole body relaxes. You hadn’t thought that the reason you felt so on edge had to do with the fact that he wasn’t touching you.

“Nothing you need to worry about,” Jason says and it’s with that same unsure emotional tone. It bothered you a little bit. You think you catch someone out of the corner of your eye wince but think nothing of it.

“We should go home today.” He tells you quieter and you nod and whisper back, “I have to do laundry.”

“Maybe, you two should stay another night. It might jog your memory.” Bruce offers and there’s a flash of something in Jason’s eye you’re not sure about, but you turn to Bruce with a smile.

“That’s kind of you but I have to work tomorrow, and chores galore to do today. Thank you for everything though. I wish I had been more sober to remember the entire brunch.” You suddenly want to be out of this house. You’re even more sure Jason got into a fight with his family and now you think it might have something to do with you.

Bruce Wayne looks like he wants to argue with you. A stiff frown on his features and a look that feels like he can see right through you to the deepest darkest parts of you. It makes you a little uncomfortable. A gentle hand on your thigh makes you jump but it’s just Cass.

“I’ll go grab your clothes from yesterday.” She says reminding you that the clothes you’re wearing were not yours. Then everyone is moving from the table, and you feel like you missed an entire conversation. Jason pulls you up too.

“You didn’t eat.”

“I ate earlier, don’t worry about.” He says stiffly. You let him pull you out of the dining room and to the front door. Everything feels disjointed and you almost feel sick again. Cass meets you at the door with a small backpack, Jason halfway helping you get your jacket on.

“Oh, thank you, Cass,” you take it from her sliding it over your shoulder and she pulls you into a tight hug. It feels heavy.

“Don’t be angry with him.” She whispers and it has you squeezing her tighter, a rock of emotion suddenly in your throat but you don’t know why.

“I’m not,” you tell her as you pull back from the hug. There’s a worried look in her eyes and you want to ask but you don’t think you’ll get an answer. She glances over your shoulder and that worried look grows.

“Let’s go,” Jason’s near demand startles you, not accustomed to him speaking like that but you’re sure he’s wound up. You nod fully parting from Cass and follow Jason out the door. You give Cass one last wave before she closes the door.

He’s already at the bike and you don’t know when he got so fast. By the time you reach him he already has his helmet on and he’s handing you yours. You slide the helmet on and attempt to do up the straps. Something you don’t do, something you haven’t done in the time you’ve been riding with Jason.

You think he’s upset with you or irritated, and your hands shake as you try to do the straps with little success. Jason doesn’t say anything, just pushes your hands out of the way and does it for you. He climbs on the bike and offers you a hand like he always does. The intention suddenly feels different, like he’s doing it out of obligation rather than because he wants to.

The ride back to your apartment is in silence. You keep yourself from tapping at him like you usually do and his hands stay glued to the handlebars. He speeds, a lot more than usual, and it has you holding onto him just a bit tighter.

Back at your apartment, you follow the same tense sequence in reverse. The ride in the elevator is had in tense silence. It makes you antsy and anxious, shifting on your feet. You can’t wait to get to your apartment. Maybe then you two could relax and you could figure out what’s going on.

****

Jason didn’t know if he should be thanking some divine deity or cursing them. You didn’t remember. Or you did and you were just pretending you didn’t which didn’t sound like something you would do. Especially if you hated him for the truth like you had said last night.

He’s sure you can sense something is wrong. You’ve been awfully quiet and there’s an awkward pressure between you two. He hates it but thinks it might be his fault.

He hadn’t slept since he left you. He hurt a lot of people in his upset, trashed a multitude of Black Masks operations in one go. He got a stern talk from Bruce about excessive force. One he’s heard before and one he’s sure he’d hear again. But that was when he told Bruce and everyone else what happened before you fell asleep.

Not the no pants and you straddling him part. He’s sure someone would have stroke over that, but the part that you asked and he answered and that you said you hated him. Everyone left him alone for most of the night after that, an occasional check-in, mostly from Oracle.

It gave him time to think, but the more he thought about it, the more confused he felt. You had known or at least had a theory. Probably long before the brunch and you had said nothing. Jason had no idea you may have thought he was Red Hood.

You hadn’t even told him about your friendship with Red Hood, no matter how short it was. If anything, the situation just showed Jason how much you two weren’t honest with each other. Not entirely deliberate. It was just that you two didn’t lay everything out for each other. He didn’t know what that said about your relationship.

He didn’t know what your reaction meant either. You said you hated him, but you hugged him like you thought he would disappear. It’s why he actually came back to the manor to take you home. He was going to let Alfred do it, but he was afraid that you’d hate him even more. Because then you would know how much of a coward he was when it came to you.

But there you were at the breakfast table, happy to see him. Your mood fell from there and again, he’s sure it’s his fault. He watches you flinch when the elevator dings and it makes his chest hurt all over again. He wants to hug you, pull you close and tell you he’s sorry but you wouldn’t know what he was apologizing about.

You walk to your door fairly fast, digging into the pocket of your jacket for your house keys. You unlock the door with haste and Jason suddenly wonders if you feel like you’re being chased. You push the door open and step inside, only to turn to look at where he stops at the threshold of your apartment. You hop on your feet and smile like you want something.

Jason hates himself for what he’s about to do, but he needs space from you to think. He just wanted you to get home safe.

“I have to go,” he starts, and he watches your smile falter, your hopping slow.

“Oh, well, I’m off in two days.” He already knew that he had your schedule memorized.

“No, it’s- I’m not,” he stops before he can stumble his way through the rest of the sentence. He sighs and restarts, “I’m leaving town for a little while.”

“You’re leaving?” your voice is sad and small, and Jason hates it. He finally takes a step into the apartment but only to press a hand to the back of your neck and pull you into a hug. You ease right into it like nothings ever been wrong between you two, arms pressing into his back.

“It’s for work,” He mumbles into your hair, “just for a while,” he repeats. You squeeze him tighter.

“For how long?” he barely hears you ask. It’s a hard question to answer. When he called Roy to see if there was anything the Outlaws could get into, the ginger had been pretty vague.

“A week, maybe two,” He guesses. You pull back suddenly.

“Two weeks? What am I supposed to do without you for two weeks?” your joking, he can hear it in your voice, but the words tug at him in an achy way.

“What’d you do before we started hanging out?” he asks ignoring the way he felt.

“Literally nothing.” You laugh, “you gave my life meaning, Jason Todd. You must return from work as soon as possible; else I’ll wither away.” You’re still joking and its killing Jason.

He was starting to wish you remembered because this was going awfully for him. Last night you said you hated him, so he decided to leave Gotham for a bit. This morning you’re telling him he gives your life meaning and he never wants to leave you alone again.

“I’m sure you’ll figure something out.” He pulls you back into a hug, tighter this time, just in case. Roy had told him whatever mission he planned was dangerous, they always are. This is the first time Jason knew for a fact that someone wanted him to come back and that the same person hated him for being the Red Hood. He hated his life.

“I’m not angry with you,” he hears you mumble, and it makes him pause. Maybe you did remember.

“What was that?”

“I’m not angry with you. Cass said I shouldn’t be angry with you and that’s the second time she’s said something like that to me. I thought maybe you thought I was angry with you, so I want you to know that I’m not.”

Jason doesn’t know if he should be thankful or upset with Cass over her attempts to get involved but he would have to deal with it later because his phone was ringing. He pulls out of your hug but keeps a hand on your arm as he pulls his phone out.

****

You watch as Jason answers the phone. He placates whoever, someone named Roy, on the other side of the phone.

“I’m already on my way, okay? I had to take care of something.” his hand squeezes at your arm and understand that you were the something. He’s quiet for a second and then he’s rolling his eyes affectionate. He meets your eye like he’s over talking to this Roy character.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. See you soon.” He finally hangs up the phone and turns towards you. He leans forward and presses a kiss on your forehead, and you wonder why you two had been tense all morning.

“I gotta go,” he tells you quietly. You slip up to your tiptoes and press a kiss to his cheek.

“Be safe, okay? My life’s totally lame without you.” You say in complete seriousness this time.

“I’ll do my best.” He says it like a reverent promise and then he’s slipping away from you and out the door. He pauses there and gives you a look. You roll your eyes playfully.

“Goodbye Jason.” You say and finally shut and lock the door. You look through the peephole and watch him stand there a second before finally moving on. You sigh and look around your apartment.

Two weeks without Jason. What were you going to do with yourself? You set your borrowed backpack on the ground and settle on the couch, turning on the news.

You flinch at the flash of red that crosses your screen, a photo for the news report. You don’t need to listen to recognize that red anywhere. Red Hood. You don’t know that you’ve ever seen him on the news. You turn up the volume.

“-majorly injured. This new development might seem odd but months ago Red Hood had killed a man involved with a human trafficking case. The slew of violence exhibited this last night may be another sign that Red Hood is falling back on a path he had been on years ago. Commentary from local Gothamites offer a mixed perspective.”

“Red Hood has always looked out for the little guy especially in the harder parts of town but last night he was merciless.”

“I saw him beating up some of those gang members last night through my window. He was like an animal. I hope everything’s okay with him.”

“He stopped me from being mugged last night but honestly I was almost worried he was going to come after me and I hadn’t done anything.”

A few more interviews are shared with mix of people either worried or scared about Red Hood going on a rampage. Something scratches at the back of your mind, like you know something, or you should know something. You try to remember if Red Hood ever talked about his more violent moments, what made them happen, but you can’t.

You tug the locket from under your shirt to thumb at it. You wore it everywhere. Just in case something happened. You wonder if you should press it, maybe Red Hood would show up and you can check if he was okay.

No, you couldn’t do that. You were angry with him. He had gotten you kidnapped, and he never came back. He kissed you and never came back. Beside with your luck, you’d get Dick Grayson clad in spandex again.

You close your eyes and scrub your face. Jason’s brother was Nightwing, and you figured it out by accident (or it was intentional. He was pretty obvious.) you needed to talk to someone but who?

There was someone you could call. It made you feel guilty for finally reaching out over something like this. He had tried multiple times since you’d moved to Gotham. You answered maybe one out of thirty calls and the last time you saw him was when you visited home for Christmas two years ago. Your thankful for his patience with you and for not giving up.

You mute the TV and pull out your phone. Your scroll through the contacts and stare. He doesn’t hate you; you remind yourself, otherwise he wouldn’t call every other week. You press the call button and press the phone to your ear. It rings and part of you hopes he won’t answer.

“Hello?” you steal yourself at the sound of his voice.

“Hey Wally.” You cringe at the way answer him, “I’m sorry for ghosting you but I have a superhero question.”

Additional notes: Surprise! Wally is the flash that she knows. A few chapters ago I had mentioned something about slipping in some backstory for the reader and Wally is part of that (he is important for later on trust me). The next chapter also has a couple sneaky glimpses of her past too. Also, that missing memory is really going to stress her out, who wouldn’t it stress out? As always thank you for reading! And let me know what you think!

Tag List: @little-miss-naill, @nikilolo787, @joonunivrs, @uzxotic, @qardasngan, @stormz369,  @g4bbi3xx, @iwatobiswimbros, @the-lonely-flute, @elz-xo, @gone-batty-fics, @princessesgarden, @notfckincreative, @love-theangel, @feyres-fireheart, @penguimlover23, @herodedicatedblog, @dearghostling, @automaticplant, @alma-ru3, @13fresh, @anuttellaa, @nekotaetae, @redsakura101, @sleepy-head1, @aejabba, @asteria33, @princessbl0ss0m

[alienseasfanfics]

Friction: Part 2

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | AO3

Pairing - Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

Summary: After a tense argument in the middle of the street, you go to drink your stresses and sorrows away, though they're never far. However, Bucky is never far either, as you come to find out.

Word count - 5,300.

Author's Note - I got in my head about this story and completely rewrote the outline and this chapter a bunch. Also decided to take it way more seriously. Hence, this long chapter. Thank you very much for the support on the last chapter, I appreciate all of you.

Chapter TW: Drinking, bombs.

The rain peppers the windows like gunshots, and the day outside is black as night.

The darker it gets, the more the walls close in on you, trapping you in a hall of mirrored windows reflecting a stranger. At home, you’ve already covered all of your windows with newspaper. You know Bucky finds it crazy, finds you crazy, always glancing over at the windows every time Sam drags him over for a “wellness visit”.

Anxious, your stomach turns. Some selfish part of you is glad for the visits. Often, it was the only time you’d speak to someone in days. But then, they led to you being stuck here, enmeshed with people you’re trying to protect with your distance.

“Damn. It’s really pouring.” Bucky says from across the living room, peeking through the blinds you just shut. You nod absentmindedly as you block off the kitchen windows, throwing dust up in the air.

“Where did you find this place? Has it been frozen since the Dust Bowl?” You cough, and its Bucky’s turn to ignore you as he continues looking outside. You start making a coffee while watching him from the corner of your eye, taking advantage of Bucky’s rare lack of attention on you.

You woke up in an empty bedroom this morning. The almost-untouched chair made last night seem like a dream. His apparent lack of interest in talking to you about it makes you think it was a nightmare. You don’t want to talk about it, but is that better than letting it hang in the air? It was something to talk about, no? You have things to say to him. You need to say you’re sorry, that you’ll be quiet in the future, that he doesn’t need to come in again, and that you appreciate the sentiment, but that you can handle yourself.

That you thank him, that you’re sorry you’re so pitiful and broken, that you’re sorry that he even has to be stuck in this damn house with you.

That, that, that. It’s not even a real word anymore. Shame swims up from your stomach and plants itself in your throat, choking you. Gripping the counters edge, you try to still your mind.

He’s not going to talk about it, you whisper in your mind, trying to calm down your racing thoughts.

Some small, tiny part of you says through the cacophony that it’s hurt. That it does hope last night happened, that he’s going to talk about it, and that he was genuine. That he wasn’t looking at you with pity, seeing how broken you are even in your sleep. You imagine yourself locking that little voice in a box and throwing it into the Pacific.

You look at him again. He’s still looking outside and now frowning slightly. You wonder if he likes the rain. Does it rust his arm? Does it make him cold to the bone, like it does to you? Maybe, if you went together, you could run, jumping in puddles and laughing together under a stormy sky. You quickly look back down at your coffee, and add more chains to the box.

Hope is the worst hurt of all.

“Are you gonna drink that, or just stare at it?” His voice right next to you makes you jump. You glance up at his face, avoiding his steel blue eyes before shrugging.

“Have it.” You move away from him, sitting on one of the shitty chairs in the living room and grabbing the remote. Turning it onto a random channel, you stare at the mindless infomercial as if it was the most interesting microwave known to man.

“How many of these things you have today?” He says from behind you, clattering around in the kitchen.

“Two.”

“It’s eight in the morning. No wonder you’re jumpy.” He snorts.

“I’m not jumpy.”

“Like a trampoline.”

“Trampolines aren’t inherently jumpy.”

“A pogo-stick.”

“No one uses those anymore.”

“A kangaroo.”

“Are you just going to name things that jump?”

“Spring.”

“You’re irritating.”

“Bungee cord.”

“Like a mosquito.”

“Rabbit.”

The old nickname hits you like a bucket of ice. You suck a breath in and dig your nails into the arm of the chair – he doesn’t know.

“Don’t call me that. Please.” You say after a moment.

“You’re more of a hare, anyway. Different.” He murmurs, and you look behind you. He’s sitting at the counter, his chin in his hand.

He’s looking at you again, and you can’t help but lock eyes with him. He looks so focused, though a ghost of a smile is tugging at the corner of his lips. He’s examining you like your forehead is printing out your thoughts word for word, and you quickly look away from him again as your cheeks burn.

The ice from the past and the heat of your present mixing together makes you light-headed.

"And what is that supposed to mean." You ask, suspicious. "What do you think it means?" He shrugs, and you narrow your eyes. “Being a hare is better than being a mosquito.” You mutter.

“Touchey.”

You roll your eyes, and switch channels aimlessly. You try to ignore him behind you, but his horrible gaze still burns in your radar. You hate him. You hate how he’s able to get under your skin so easily. How he’s infected the part of you that you don’t allow yourself to have. And how you can never have what you want.

He’s breached your defenses, and he doesn’t even want to be in them. It’s infuriating how little he wants of you, when a part of you is willing to give it all to him if you’d only let it. If he would want it to happen. You pinch your thigh discreetly, the small shock of pain trying to stop your runaway thoughts.

He’s here for a job, you’re here because of your lack of backbone. He’s here to get paid, and you’re here to wait him and Sam out until you can get away. He’s here for a short time, and so are you.

It’s better for you to remember that. It’s easier than the alternative of telling him what that little part of you wants, and being thrown away. Or even worse; he accepts, and you get a taste of life with him before the worst inevitably happens, and you have to live the rest of time with his scent on your pillow. You pinch yourself again.

He doesn’t want that anyway. He said it himself. You’re ‘different’. A weirdo, in other words.

“I’m taking a shower.” He says from behind you.

“Thank god.” You say.

“Don’t try to come in.”

“You don’t ever have to worry about me doing that.”

He says nothing back, and you wait to get up until you can hear the soft din of the shower from the bathroom above you. Going to the kitchen, you pause before getting a new mug. The cup of coffee you gave him is empty, but a new one is brewed, waiting at the edge of the counter. You sip it, and the warm drink makes your cheeks flush red again. The little voice calls from the bottom of the sea.

Fucker and his mixed messages.

-

You sit impatiently in the passenger seat of the car, watching the diner window like a hawk. Rain pelts the windshield, but you can still see Bucky inside, waiting at the counter in his bulky grey rain jacket. A sliver of his metal arm peeks from a small gap between his sleeve and his glove, shining the red light from the OPEN sign back at you.

You turn away from him to watch the sheets of rain falling down the windshield. Main Street in a small town means a diner, a general store, a park bench, and two bars. The street continues, stretching into the foreground until it’s lost to the grey, unlit evening. You glance back at the diner, where Bucky stays waiting. Judging by the turned-off beer sign in the corner of the brightly lit window, you’re pretty sure it’s three bars.

This is suffocating. All day you’ve been tormented with the constant sound of rain, of your reflection, of close contact with Bucky as he ignores you even while brushing past you in the cramped dusty house. The silent hours are heavy when there’s someone else in the house, especially when it’s him. His stares, glares, and scowls have felt like shocks to your core. Electric and dangerous. Every room you’ve been in has been getting smaller, every second that passes. The car is no exception.

The walls of the shitty little sedan have held onto all of the cigarettes its past owners have smoked in it. The more it rains, the more the humidity causes the smell of tobacco and tar to invade your lungs. Nicotine is such a cloying smell. It reminds you of sticky yellow gunk covering the walls of your life. The janitors closet of your high school, the crappy basement-turned-bedrooms of your college exes, the dingy walls of His bunker. How many times in your life have you scrubbed your hands raw after touching something sickly covered in the crap? Your chest gets tight, breathing becoming panting. You bring your hand to your face to rub your temples, but stop when you see your nails, suddenly as cracked and long and just as yellow as His, and you rip the car door open and step out into the pouring rain.

Slamming it closed, you pick a random direction, ignoring the blaring car alarm as you walk quickly down the street.

One two fo-

One thr-

You take a deep breath in.

One two three four five.

One, two, three, four, five.

You let your breath out, stopping at the end of the long sidewalk and looking down at a puddle in front of you. The evening is dark and you’re blinded by rain, but your reflection stares up at you all the same. The flickering streetlight above you gives you a halo for seconds before plunging you back into the grey world you live in. Going in and out, you feel caught in the middle of two dimensions. One where you’re okay, and the reality where you’re not.

Your Narcissus impression is broken by a tire driving into the puddle, splashing dirty water on your shoes. You look up and glare at Bucky, who’s leaned over the centre console and glaring right back at you. The window rolls down.

“What are you doing.” He says rather than asks, his tone clipped and measured.

“I need some air.”

“There is no air. It’s a torrential downpour. You’re drowning on land.”

“I can breathe fine.”

“You’re a fish now?”

"Blub, blub."

He sighs, closing his eyes for a second before glaring at you again.

“I have the food. Get in the car.”

You wrinkle your nose in disgust and shove your hands in your jacket pockets. You can still smell the cigarettes from the sidewalk.

“Don’t make that face, I showered this morning.” He scoffs.

“Not everything is about you, Bucky.” You sigh, checking your nails – neglected, but normal and not yellowed – before pinching the bridge of your nose.

“Did I say that?" He snorts. "I just want to go home and eat.” He says.

“That’s not home.”

“You know what I mean.”

You look back down at the puddle. Your face is cut off, and the mirror only shows your body.

“I just want to be left alone.” You say.

“I’m not going to leave you on the street in the middle of a storm. Get in the car.” His voice is so stern. So strict. Barking orders at you like- You close your eyes tight and pinch the bridge of your nose, digging your nails in until the sharp pain stills your thoughts. You spin on one heel and walk back down the street you just came from. Bucky honks behind you. When you don’t turn around, he spins the car around and drives up next to you, rolling down his window.

“Y’know, at some point this is going to get old.” He says.

“I’ve been through worse than a little rain.”

“I don’t mean the rain. I mean shutting everyone out.”

You stay silent. Glancing at him, you see him gripping the steering wheel, his gloves off. His hand shines so annoyingly bright in the moonlight. He scoffs before continuing.

“All you do is bite at others. At Sam for caring about you, at me for protecting you, at yourself for even daring to exist-” You can hear the thump of his metal thumb against the steering wheel at every point.

“I don’t bite.” You interrupt.

“You do bite. You bite so much that you think you’re just talking. But you’re not. You’re pushing away the people who care about you. And that will only get you killed. You’ve already almost died twice with some psycho stalking you, who again, has left bombs on your doorstep. Yet, you still act as if you’d rather be dead than safe. To hell with everyone else, right? I don’t get it at all.”

Now you are biting. Your mouth fills with the taste of blood as you tear apart your inner lip, the pain being the only thing keeping you from crying.

“You don’t have to get it.” You say each word carefully.

“From the moment I met you, you hated me. Every time I ever went to that shitty place you call a home, you acted as if I was an intruder. Sam begged me to come just so he could go find this guy for you. And I came, knowing you hate me. If I’m spending weeks of my life being gnawed on like a damn chew toy, I think I have the right to be irritated by it.”

“Fine. Then leave.”

“No.”

He brakes hard as you whirl around to face the car, stalking up to the door and stabbing a finger at him. His brow furrows if only slightly, but he doesn't back away from you.

“If you have such a big problem with it, leave. I didn’t want to be here. I told Sam to not put me here, to stay away from me for his own sake. That I had it handled. And you both interrupted that. Sam, a guy with too much heart, and you, who has none. You hate me too, remember? I remember. Every glare you’ve sent me across Sam’s living room parties, you standing in the corner of my apartment scowling like a bratty kid, and every time you’ve ignored me. And you’ve ignored me a lot, James,” He tenses at his name, and you internally flinch at the colloquialism too, “Even when you’re pleasant, you pull away. You’re nice then cold, going all silent and analytical. You’re like if a gargoyle was a bodyguard. All you do is scream ‘stay away from me’, and I’ve tried, Bucky.” Your voice cracks slightly, and you take a sharp inhale before continuing, “And I’m sorry that Sam also dragged you out here. But maybe now that we both know how horrible I am, you can agree it’s better for you to just leave, and let me take care of this alone.”

You pull back from the car, crossing your arms. The rain (or maybe tears) is now clouding your vision, but you can see he’s still staring at you, unblinking. He’s examining you again. Maybe a security camera would be a more accurate description. An emotionless, analytical, machine. The description makes your stomach turn.

“You want me to leave you here, alone, on the street in the rain, in the middle of the night in Nowheresville, U.S.A.” He finally says, slowly.

“Yes. I do. You don’t want to be bitten, and I don’t want to be pitied. I can take care of myself.” The words come out of your mouth faster than you can think them.

He looks you up and down and raises an eyebrow. Anger boils in your blood.

“You’re such an asshole.” You turn again, walking briskly down the sidewalk towards the diner-bar-whatever it is, away from him. Succeeding in not looking back, as you hear the car speed down the street, you let the tears fall as the sound of tires on asphalt grows quieter and quieter.

Good. Fine. You can be alone. It’s safer for everyone for you to be alone.

-

Being drunk is nice. Being gone is nice. Running a fingernail down the chipped wooden bar top is especially nice as you find a groove, sliding down it. This is the best. You’re warm, and you’re ignored, and you’re tipsy enough to not have to think about anything that’s too difficult.

Music is pouring from the blown-out speakers in the corners of the now-dimly lit diner, turning the dated, nostalgic interior into any other dive bar you’ve been in, or stared through the window at. Craning your neck to the middle of the room, you see tables pushed back to create a pseudo-dance floor. Coloured lights are dotted on the walls, illuminating a couple slow-dancing and a couple drunk farmers in the corner booth. The couple hold each other close, swaying together unsteadily, drunk in love and in liquor.

Watching them is easy. People get a sense when anyone is looking at them, like you do. But alcohol allows you a window to see people’s authentic selves. It gives them a bubble just for each other.

The next sip of your drink is bitter, or maybe it’s you, your good mood washing away as quickly as it came. He took a lot from you, including your ability to be normal. From being in the bubble of accepted society to being trapped outside of them, cursed to look in and fear ever bringing anyone into one with you.

There’s a tap on your shoulder. Looking over your shoulder, you’re met with loose grin of a local. His dirty trucker hat hides his face other than his jaw, covered in a sparse beard. The smell of beer rolls off of him and you quickly look back down at the bar in the hopes your disinterest will tell him to leave.

“Howdy. You’re new.” He says, sitting on the stool next to you with a grunt.

Oh, god.

“Just passing through.” You say, taking your glass and downing it. He snaps his fingers and orders another of your drink, and the bartender turns away to make it before you can say no. She’s the same woman that was helping Bucky before, and she’s been borderline ignoring you since you came in drenched a couple hours ago. She must’ve seen you storm out of the car earlier, Bucky running after you and the blaring car. You wonder what she must think. That you got rainwater everywhere for her to clean? That you’re hysterical and emotionally unstable? That you broke up with your boyfriend in the rain and came here to drink away the pain?

One of those things is not like the others, and you down half of your new drink as soon as she passes it to you in order to shut up your mind again.

“Hon?”

You snap back to attention. Hazier attention, but still. The guy isn’t gone. You’d think ignoring him would give him a hint, but they never get the hint.

“I’m not your hon, and I’m just passing through.” You say into your drink. He chuckles next to you.

“No one passes through here. There ain’t nothin’ to see. Until now, that is.”

“And what is there to see now?”

“Well, you. And you’re a sight and a half. Almost blinding.”

This is too cheesy, but his words still run like rain down your spine.

“You’d better get some sunglasses then.” You mutter, and he laughs again. It’s a high-pitched laugh, lilting up like a hyena on helium. It makes your head hurt, and you down the rest of your glass. The bartender takes it and replaces with a new one quickly, following the pattern you’ve set for the last few hours. Shit, you have been drinking for a while.

“You’re a funny girl. What’s your name?” He’s still here? Your head is swimming.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Well, that’s why I asked. Though, there’s other things about you I’d rather know.” Even when he drops an octave, a giggle is barely hiding behind his words.

“I’d rather not know you.” You say, clipping your tone as you take another sip and look towards the dance floor. The couple is gone, and the farmers have moved from their booth to mob the end of the bar, chatting at the bartender who’s focusing on polishing glasses and smiling politely at them. You wonder if they tip. You wonder if you can tip her off on how creepy this guy is next to you, and that you need a damn lifeline.

“Aww, come on, don’t be like that. I’m just being a friendly guy. Welcoming all who come crawling into this podunk town.”

“I am not crawling.”

“Well sorry pet, but you look like a drowned rat that the cat dragged in.”

“That’s what I am. A dirty, disgusting rat. I will bite and give you rabies and the fleas on my back will give you the bubonic plague. You’ll die a horrible death if you even come near me.”

He laughs again, the psycho.

“Feisty! That’s alright. I’ve never been one to shy away from a buckin’ horse.”

You glance at the stranger. He’s come closer, grinning like a mad-man just a few inches from your face. You can almost feel the bar close in. All you can see is his yellow teeth, years of tobacco turning them into shotgun shells wedged in his barrel of a mouth. You look back down at the bartender, psychically willing her to turn around and see you both, to tell him off, to throw a glass at his head, anything. She leans on the bar top towards the farmers, cutting you off from whatever saving grace you had a chance of having.

“I’d like to be left alone.” You say, leaning forward on the bar-top. Your head is out to sea, the alcohol and sudden cloying panic taking your limbs and leaving them both weightless and too heavy.

“We’d all like somethin’ darlin’. Sometimes, only some of us get what we want.” He says, setting his untouched bottle down on the bar with a thunk. Out of the corner of your eye, you see his face get closer to yours, until the sharp edges of his beard scratch against your ear. One arm slithers along the small of your back, hooking around your waist like a cuff. Your face and body feel hot, sweating, panicky, but you still freeze.

You always freeze, little rabbit.

“I think that’s enough.” A different voice this time, but one your body lurches to instinctively, away from the stranger, but his hand keeps it’s vice-grip on your belly.

“And you are?” His drawl is far too loud in your ear and you grimace.

“The guy telling you that you’re done.” Bucky’s voice is clipped, harsh. You glance up to see him standing above you, blocking the exit to the door with a wide stance in the narrow pathway. He’s looking at the stranger hunched over you with a stony glare that makes your mouth go dry. You wonder if that’s a natural glare, grown from a rough childhood, or whether it was trained into him. Sam had mentioned his time as the Winter Soldier, the sheer violent force of man and machine that he exhibited, but you had never seen his anger show on his face like it was now.

No wonder he was so effective. You wonder how it looks when his face softens, if it ever softens, and if that same hard exterior can melt away with it. You shake your head, getting your fuzzy thoughts out. Too many drinks.

“We were just talkin’.” The stranger says, chuckling again. His revolting laugh is so familiar, and the same tightness in your chest that you felt in the car is coming back full force.

You try to pull his arm away, but it’s no use. His lean arm is locked in, keeping you pinned to the stool and away from Bucky.

“Something tells me that she doesn’t want to talk to you anymore.”

“I think she can decide that for her-” You take the strangers pointer and middle finger in your fists, yanking them apart from each other until he yelps in pain, ripping his hand away. No longer being held up, you start to fall forward off the stool, alcohol stealing your sense of balance. Bucky quickly grabs your waist, bringing you back to your feet with his own iron grip, and this time only the flutter of butterflies invade your thoughts instead of a rush of panic. You look up to lock eyes with him, and you see another ghost of a smile on his lips.

“Hey! That hurt, you bitch!” The hyena behind you cries out. He must have moved towards you, because suddenly, Bucky lunges around you towards the stranger. You stumble back, gripping the bar behind you. A glint of light catches your eye, and you look to it to see it coming from the lights reflecting off of Bucky’s metal arm. His vibranium wrist is almost fully showing as he balls up the mans collar, hoisting him off of his stool with ease and holding him midair.

“Bucky...” You glance at the locals at the other end of the bar, who are watching in stunned silence. Maybe they’re too drunk to deal with all of this either.

Bucky glances at you from the corner of his eye, then follows your eyes to his wrist. Scowling, he pulls the man closer, whispering something indecipherable in his ear before throwing him back down towards his stool. The stranger falls to the ground with a clatter, trucker hat falling off. You only get a glimpse of his face before he covers it with his arm, cowering away from you. Or more probably, from Bucky.

“Let’s go.” Bucky says gruffly, putting a hand on the small of your back and pushing you towards the door. You almost fall but he quickly grabs your waist again and balancing you, sending more drunk butterflies into your stomach. As you walk past the gawping barroom audience, he pauses to toss a few bills from his moneyclip (so old-fashioned, maybe you should buy him a wallet for his birthday?) onto the counter, before pushing you out of the bar.

The cig-mobile is a welcome chariot, and he gentlemanly shoves you into the passenger seat before slamming the car door shut. You fumble with your seatbelt as he gets into the drivers seat, blind in the bright car interior. He clips himself in and sighs, looking at you.

“You drank that much?”

“I’m sensing judgment.” You say.

“At least you still have some of your senses. Stop that, here.” He waves away your hands and clips you in before driving away from the bar quickly. You turn to see the stranger outside of the bar now, the red eye of a cigarette winking brightly at you against his black silhouette.

-

The ride back to the safehouse is long and silent. You stare at Bucky’s reflection in the car window, studying him with drunk confidence.

He took his gloves off a few miles back, and now clutched the wheel in a white-knuckle grip. The tension followed up his arms to the rest of his body, his jaw clenched and posture stiff. When he seems lost in thought, his body clenches up, almost as if protecting him from attack even while his mind is gone. You know constant defense

“I’m sorry.” You say without thinking. You pinch yourself.

“For what?” Bucky says after a moment. His tone is even, not showing his rigidity.

“For the bar. And the street.” He stays quiet in response, turning down the dirt road back to the house. The rumbling beneath the wheels doesn’t help settle the nerves in your stomach. Or maybe that nauseous feeling is the alcohol, rearing its ugly head again.

You both sit in silence, staring ahead at the house, not bothering to unbuckle. The silence hangs in the air but you’re almost too drunk to care. Just his presence next to you is steadying now, if you ignore all of the voices in your head screaming at you to get away from him. Tired, you lay your head back on the seat, watching him fidget with the steering wheel cover. How cute. You bite the inside of your lip.

“I’m...sorry. For the street. I went too hard. Hangry or something, I dunno.” He says while he fidgets, running a hand through his hair and looking at the drivers side window. You think maybe, he’s watching you the same way you’re watching him. You look down at his hands.

“I’m not stupid. Some of this is my fault. I know you’ve dealt with some shit. I don’t know what it is, but - ” He speaks down at the wheel, barely leaving a pause for you even if you could answer him, “- at the end of the day you’re here. That shows enough strength. Shit, you showed it in the bar." He sighs, dropping his hands into his lap, looking down at them pensively before he continues.

"I’m sorry that I haven’t shown that I’m a shield rather than a bomb.” He flexes and relaxes his metal hand, and sparks run down your spine as you turn to look at him, in his full color.

You wonder if he would be fine with the fact that you are the bomb he’s trying not to be. Maybe that’s why you’re so magnetically drawn to him, even if you don’t want to admit it to yourself, least of all to anyone else. Hopefully he stops talking while you still have a chance to hate him, and a chance to make him hate you. The eventual goodbyes can still be easy.

“And, don’t be sorry for the bar. I would do that again for you in a heartbeat.” He says before smoothly getting out of the car, shutting the door behind him with a soft thunk.

The walls are closing in again, but you don’t even care as you watch him go to the door, taking one last look behind him at you in the car. In that moment, you curse yourself, and you curse him, but most of all you curse Him for taking you away from everything, and everyone, that you have had the chance to meet. In that moment, you want to throw yourself at Bucky and talk to him, tell him everything and hold him, be held by him, and your hope comes rushing into your head so fast that it makes you dizzy.

You don't move, and he enters the house without a word. When you finally make your way inside, he's sleeping on the couch he's made into his bed, worry etched into the lines on his face and blanket thrown to the ground. Silently, you take the blanket and cover him back up, allowing yourself only a second of staring as you go up the stairs to your own bed.

Your dreams are filled with blue eyes and yellow teeth.

[michaelsgavey]

Chasing Shadows of You - Will x Fem!Original Character | Ch. 1

Summary: Will felt out of place at the New Year’s Eve party, surrounded by laughter and people who all seemed to belong. Just as he given up at the party, he noticed a girl standing alone.

Warnings: None other than use of alcohol and smoking.

Type of story: Mature (there’s no mature content there but there will be in the future)

Author's note: Hello everyone! I hope you have a good day / evening. This is my first time writing for Will. He rarely has any fanfics and i feel like he does deserve the love too. So i decided to come up with a story for him! This will have multiple chapters and an original character. So i’m excited to dive into this. With that being said , i do hope you guys enjoy it. This took me almost a month to write but i hope it’s good for y’all to read.

Taglist: @thought--bubble ♡

The bass from the speakers reverberated through the packed flat, a steady pulse beneath the cacophony of laughter, shouted conversations, and the occasional clink of glasses. Will leaned against the wall in the corner, his drink untouched in his hand. He glanced at the clock above the kitchen counter. 10:47 p.m. The new year was still over an hour away, and he was already ready to leave.

Why did he even decide to appear at this party? Why did he agree to be here? Originally he was going to spend some time with his friends but they just left without him. Matt was probably somewhere with Tom . God knew what they were doing. They just wandered off without warning.

Will’s fingers curling tightly around a half empty glass of champagne. The room was alive with laughter and music, couples swaying to the rhythm or whispering intimately in corners. Groups of friends huddled close, sharing inside jokes and snapping pictures beneath glittering decorations.

Yet, amidst the joy and connection, Will felt like a ghost, unseen and untethered. He scanned the crowd, his eyes lingering on faces bright with the warmth of companionship, while a hollow ache settled in his chest. The night was cheerful, but instead of excitement for the new year, he felt lonely.

This was not how he wanted to end the year.

He had only come tonight out of obligation and a vague hope that maybe the night would surprise him.

It hadn’t.

As the laughter and music swelled around him, Will made up his mind. He didn’t belong here at all. The lively energy of the party only amplified the quiet emptiness he felt inside. He weaved through the crowd and sidestepping groups locked in animated conversation. His eyes scanned the room for his friends, but they were nowhere to be seen.

Will sighed, brushing past a group of lads loudly chanting along to a drunken rendition of some random song in the corner. The smell of spilled beer clung to the air, and he scanned the crowded living room for any sign of Tom or Matt. Near the kitchen, someone was pouring vodka straight into a row of plastic pint glasses, the crowd egging him on with cheers.

He glanced toward the garden through the open patio doors, where a group had gathered around a man attempting to light fireworks with a cigarette, laughter and shouts erupting every time he stumbled. He muttered under his breath, dodging a pair of partygoers arguing loudly over who’d nicked the last sausage roll.

It was all so typical. Where were they? Will sighed again, slipping past a makeshift DJ booth where a girl in sparkly heels was demanding “Mr Brightside” for the third time. "Tom? Matt?" he called out loudly, but his voice was swallowed by the chaos, leaving him to feel even more invisible.

His heart sank further as he realized they might be too caught up in their own moments to notice he’d disappeared. The thought stung, but he pushed it aside, moving toward the door with a quiet resolve. The sooner he was out of this glittering haze of joy, the better.

What even was the point of being here if he was going to feel alone? To not interact with anybody in this party? Will felt like he didn’t belong here. He just wanted to just leave. His friends wouldn’t care if he left right? They wouldn’t even question it.

It’s best if he just left this stupid party.

He decided to just head out straight to the door. Just as Will was about to step out the door, he hesitated, his hand lingering on the handle. Something, or someone, caught his eye. Near the corner of the room, partially hidden behind a group of people laughing over their drinks, stood a girl.

She was holding a glass of wine, but it looked untouched, her fingers loosely cradling the stem. Unlike everyone else, she wasn’t caught up in the buzz of the party.

Instead, she was watching it all with a quiet detachment, a faint, thoughtful expression on her face. Her dark hair framed her features in a way that made her seem both elegant and out of place here, like she belonged somewhere quieter, somewhere else entirely.

For a moment, Will forgot about leaving. He stood frozen, his earlier loneliness tugging at him in a different way now. Something about her felt oddly familiar. Like she, too, might know what it was like to be surrounded by people yet still feel completely alone.

She had a quiet beauty that stood out amidst the noise and chaos of the party. Her skin was warm and smooth, with a natural glow that caught the soft light from the fairy lights strung along the walls. Her dark, wavy hair framed her face in loose, effortless strands, a few curls brushing against her shoulders. There was a calmness in the way she stood, her posture relaxed yet poised, holding a half-full glass of red wine as though she wasn’t in any rush to drink it.

Her almond shaped eyes, deep and rich brown, held a quiet intensity, scanning the room without giving much away. A soft curve rested on her lips. Not quite a smile, but not a frown either, just something pensive, as though she were lost in thought or quietly observing the world around her. She wore a simple yet striking small black dress, fitted enough to show her figure but modest in its elegance, paired with small silver earrings that glimmered whenever she tilted her head. She also wore a black jacket with the dress.

There was a grace to her that made her seem untouchable, yet something in her expression suggested she might welcome a kind word or a moment of understanding.

Will watched as the girl shifted her weight, glanced down at her glass, and then turned toward the kitchen, weaving her way through the crowd. She moved with a kind of quiet confidence, unbothered by the drunken laughter and jostling around her, her heels clicking softly against the wooden floor. Without really deciding to, Will found his feet moving after her. He told himself he just needed water or maybe to find Tom and Matt near the snack table but deep down he knew it wasn’t true.

The kitchen was quieter now, the muffled buzz of the party fading behind them. She paused in front of the counter, setting her glass down as she scanned the plates of half eaten finger foods. Will stopped in the doorway, suddenly unsure of himself.

Wait.

What was he even doing? Following some stranger like a lost puppy? It wasn’t exactly the kind of move he was proud of. He shifted awkwardly, his hands fidgeting at his sides as he debated just turning around and leaving. She didn’t seem to notice him, reaching for a handful of chips with a delicate sort of care, as though she was determined to remain composed even while picking at party snacks.

Will swallowed hard, his throat dry. What was he going to say? Did he even have the courage to speak? Every instinct told him to walk away, but something about the quiet air around her. The way she seemed as out of place as he felt had kept him rooted to the spot.

As the girl reached for another snack, she paused, her movements slowing as though she could sense she wasn’t alone. Turning her head slightly, her gaze flicked toward the doorway and landed on Will. For a moment, her expression was unreadable, her dark eyes studying him with quiet curiosity.

Shit.

Will froze, caught somewhere between offering a sheepish smile and pretending he’d just wandered in by accident. His throat tightened as she straightened, brushing her hands together to dust off the crumbs.

"Hi," she said softly, her voice carrying a lilting accent that only added to her understated charm. It wasn’t overly warm or inviting, but neither was it dismissive. It was simply… open, waiting for his response.

What can he say? Will was trying to think of what he could say towards her.

Will fumbled for words, his pulse quickening. "Oh, um- sorry. I didn’t mean to- uh, I just…" He glanced at the counter, grasping for some excuse. "I was… looking for a drink."

Her lips quirked ever so slightly, the faintest hint of amusement flickering across her face. "Plenty to choose from," she said, gesturing toward the cluttered countertop where abandoned glasses mingled with bottles of wine, beer, and soft drinks.

Will nodded, stepping further into the room, though he still felt painfully awkward. "Yeah. Right. Thanks." He reached for a bottle of sparkling water, his mind racing as he tried to think of something else to say, something that wouldn’t make him sound like a complete idiot.

The girl picked up her glass and turned toward the doorway, clearly ready to leave the kitchen and return to the noise of the party. Will’s heart thudded as he watched her go, the moment slipping away before he’d even had a chance to do anything about it.

Just do something , damnit! Don’t stand there looking at her like that. Talk to her!

He clenched his jaw, his mind warring with itself. If he let her walk away now, that would be it. Another missed connection. Another night spent wondering what might have been. Before he could overthink it, he took a deep breath and stepped forward.

“Wait,” he called out, his voice a little louder than he intended.

She stopped, glancing back over her shoulder. Her expression was curious but unreadable, her dark eyes meeting his blue eyes.

Will swallowed, his palms suddenly clammy. “I-I just…” He hesitated, his courage faltering for a moment. Then he forced himself to push through. “I just realized I don’t actually know what I’m looking for. Maybe it wasn’t a drink after all.”

Her lips curved slightly, a subtle smirk that was more amused than mocking. “What are you looking for, then?” she asked, tilting her head.

Will felt the heat rise to his cheeks but managed to hold her gaze. “Maybe… Well.. just someone to talk to. You seemed like you might not mind that, right?”

For a moment, she just studied him, her expression softening slightly. Then, to his surprise, she stepped back into the kitchen and leaned against the counter, setting her glass down beside her. “Well,” she said, her voice as calm as it was inviting, “I suppose I don’t.”

Will let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, a tentative smile tugging at his lips. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad night after all.

Will leaned against the counter, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly as she stayed. She picked up her glass again, swirling the wine absently before glancing at him.

“So,” she said, breaking the silence, “are you going to tell me your name, or do you usually wait until the second conversation?”

Will blinked, caught off guard, then chuckled nervously. “Right. Sorry. It’s Will. Short for William, obviously.” He paused, his fingers grazing the edge of an abandoned beer bottle. “What about you?”

She took a sip of her wine, her eyes meeting him over the rim of the glass. “Val,” she said simply.

Val? That was her name?

Will tilted his head, intrigued but unsure. “Val? Is that short for something?”

Her lips twitched into a small, amused smile, as if she’d been asked that a hundred times before. “It’s short for Valeria,” she said, her voice carrying a subtle richness to it. “But I don’t use that much. Too formal.”

“Valeria,” Will repeated, testing the name on his tongue. “It’s nice. Unique.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Unique? It’s not that uncommon.”

“No, I just meant…” Will hesitated, realizing how awkward he sounded. “It’s not a name I hear much, that’s all. Not around here. But despite that, it suits you.”

She arched a brow again, this time with playful skepticism. “Does it?”

“Yeah,” he said with a small grin, feeling bolder now. “Strong, kind of mysterious, but not trying too hard. Definitely suits you.”

For the first time, Val laughed—a quiet, melodic sound that made Will’s chest tighten. “Strong and mysterious,” she repeated, shaking her head. “Shit. That’s one way to put it, I suppose.”

Will found himself smiling wider at the sound of her laugh, his earlier awkwardness fading away with each word they exchanged. He leaned slightly closer to the counter, the small space between them somehow feeling less intimidating now.

“So, Val,” he said, his voice softer this time, “what’s a name like that doing at a party like this? You don’t exactly seem to fit in with the chaos.”

Val’s expression shifted subtly, and for a moment, she looked almost distant, like she was weighing how much to reveal. She took another sip of her wine, her gaze flickering toward the party before returning to him. “I guess you could say I’m here more out of habit than anything else,” she said, her tone casual but with an undercurrent of something more. “Not really my scene. But, you know… sometimes it’s nice to just be around people, even if you don’t feel like you belong.”

Her words struck a chord in Will. He’d felt that exact same way for most of the night, surrounded by noise and laughter but somehow feeling like an outsider, disconnected from everyone else. He wasn’t sure if she was speaking about the party or something deeper, but he could relate either way somehow.

“Yeah, I get that,” he said quietly, his eyes meeting hers. “I think that’s why I came over here. Felt like I needed a bit of a break from all that.”

Val nodded, and for a moment, there was a comfortable silence between them, the noise of the party in the background now almost fading into the distance.

“It’s funny, isn’t it?” she said suddenly, breaking the quiet. “How we end up in places we don’t want to be, but sometimes meet the right people while we’re stuck there?”

Will chuckled, surprised by how easily they seemed to slip into this kind of conversation, as though they had known each other longer than just a few minutes. “Yeah, funny. And lucky, I guess.” He paused, then added with a shy smile, “Maybe you’re one of those right people.”

Val raised an eyebrow, a playful glint in her eyes. “You always this forward?”

Will laughed, feeling his cheeks warm. “Honestly, no. You’re just… different. I don’t know. Feels like I’ve been walking through this party in a fog and then… well, then you showed up.” He admitted.

She didn’t answer immediately, just looked at him for a moment, as if weighing his words carefully. Finally, she smiled, a soft, almost secretive smile. “Well.. that’s interesting to hear.”

As if on cue, the music from the living room grew louder, and the steady thrum of bass vibrated through the walls. The laughter and shouting in the next room grew more frantic as someone shouted, “Let’s get this fucking party started!”

The sound of shoes tapping against the floor, a few whoops of excitement, and the unmistakable sound of people clinking glasses filled the air. The atmosphere shifted, the calm of the kitchen suddenly at odds with the wild energy spilling out from the rest of the house.

Val glanced over her shoulder toward the growing crowd, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the rim of her wine glass. She seemed a little hesitant, as if the sight of everyone dancing stirred something in her but also made her unsure.

Will, sensing her unease, leaned in slightly. “You, uh, thinking about joining them?” he asked, his voice a bit teasing, but also genuinely curious.

She looked at him, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “I don’t know,” she said, her gaze flicking to the people dancing. “It’s just not really my thing. I mean, I don’t exactly blend in with that crowd.”

Will watched her, noticing the way she stood a little apart from the chaos, like someone who had danced before but wasn’t quite sure if she wanted to give in to the madness tonight. “I get it,” he said, giving her a reassuring look. “I’m not much of a dancer either, to be honest.”

She laughed softly, the sound light and easy, but there was a small hesitation in her eyes. She glanced again at the dancers, her lips pressing together as if she was weighing her options.

“You know,” Will said after a moment, taking a small step closer, “you could just go for it. No one’s watching you. It’s just harmless fun, right?”

Val seemed to consider his words, a spark of mischief flickering in her eyes. “You sure? You might regret it later, watching me embarrass myself.”

Will grinned, feeling a bit bolder than he had earlier. “Nah. I’m pretty sure I’ll regret it more if you don’t dance.”

That seemed to push her over the edge. With a playful roll of her eyes, she set her wine glass down on the counter, then glanced at him with a challenge in her expression. “Alright, then. You’ve got yourself a deal. But you’re joining me, you know. No backing out now.”

Oh boy.

Will’s heart skipped a beat, a mixture of excitement and nerves rushing through him. “Deal,” he said, feeling a grin spread across his face as he followed her toward the crowd, the pounding music now somehow feeling a little less intimidating.

As they stepped into the living room, the energy of the party seemed to envelop them. The crowd was already moving, people laughing and dancing without care, their feet tapping to the rhythm of the music. Will and Val stood at the edge of the group, a brief moment of hesitation between them before Val let out a soft laugh, her eyes glinting with a mixture of challenge and amusement.

“Well,” she said, glancing at Will, “looks like there’s no turning back now.”

He chuckled, adjusting his stance nervously. “I’m regretting this already,” he teased, though his grin said otherwise.

Then, without another word, Val took a step forward, swaying her hips to the beat in that effortless way people who actually knew how to dance did. Will followed her, the awkwardness fading with each passing second.

His feet shuffled, then moved in sync with the music, though he wasn’t quite as graceful as she was. Val shot him a look over her shoulder, a playful smirk on her lips as she swirled around, her dark hair bouncing with the movement. Will couldn’t help but laugh at how natural she made it look.

“Come on, Will,” she teased, her voice above the music. “You’ve got to move with it. Less stiff, more fun.”

He threw her a mock glare, but the tension in his body slowly began to ease. With a deep breath, he started to let go, the music slowly working its magic.

But he wasn’t perfect.

He definitely wasn’t going to be winning any dance battles, but there was something freeing about it, something that made him feel less like an outsider in this chaotic space.

Val spun around again, her laughter mingling with the music. “Now you’re getting it!” she called, her eyes bright with the sort of energy that made everything feel less serious.

Will took another step forward, his movements becoming more fluid. He found himself smiling, truly smiling, for the first time that night. For a brief moment, the crowd, the noise, the earlier loneliness, all of it faded into the background. It was just him, Val, and the beat. She glanced at him again, her gaze softening as they shared a moment of unspoken understanding, both of them shedding the weight of the night, letting the music carry them.

"See?" she said, her voice more genuine now, her grin wide. "I told you it wasn't so bad."

Will nodded, feeling a rush of relief. "Yeah, you were right. Guess you’re a good influence."

Val’s smile softened.

The music swelled around them, and for the first time in a long while, Will didn’t care about the rest of the party, the people, or what anyone might think. It was just the two of them, lost in the moment, and for once, it felt like everything was exactly as it should be.

As the night wore on, Will and Val seemed to find an unspoken rhythm between them, moving seamlessly from one part of the party to the next. After their dance session, they found themselves drifting away from the chaotic center, seeking quieter corners of the house where they could talk and laugh without having to shout over the music.

They grabbed drinks together, both opting for something simple this time, just a couple of beers to match their newfound camaraderie. The evening seemed to unfold naturally, like a sequence of small adventures within the larger chaos of the party.

They sat down on the worn couch in the corner, legs crossed, and started talking about everything and nothing. Discussing favorite songs, the weird things they’d seen people do at parties, and their mutual dislike of certain holiday traditions. Will couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so at ease with someone that isn’t Matt or Tom.

At one point, Val challenged him to a ridiculous and silly game of ‘who can hold their breath the longest,’ which ended with them both laughing until they nearly couldn’t breathe, much to the confusion of a few tipsy partygoers passing by.

Later, they moved to the back garden when a group of people started lighting sparklers. Will hesitated at first, but Val’s infectious enthusiasm quickly pulled him in. She took a sparkler and held it up, writing her name in the air with it like she was an artist creating fleeting magic. Will joined in, their words and laughter blending with the crackle of sparks as they made shapes in the night sky.

When the cold started to seep in, they huddled together under the warmth of a blanket, watching a few others try and fail at some embarrassing attempts at karaoke. Val, with her easy wit, made a few cheeky comments about the performances, and Will couldn’t help but laugh.

He’d forgotten how much fun it could be to just be in the moment.

To let go of the walls he usually kept up around people.

By the time the clock neared midnight, they were standing in the kitchen, swapping anecdotes about their most awkward New Year’s Eve experiences, laughing harder with each story. Will found himself looking forward to the countdown, not because of tradition, but because it would mean spending those final seconds of the year with Val, someone who, in just a few hours, had become the most genuine connection he’d had in a long time.

When the countdown finally started, they both paused, watching the others around them cheer and shout, the room filling with energy. At the final moment, as everyone shouted “Happy New Year,” Will turned to Val, feeling a sudden rush of excitement. Without thinking, he reached out, brushing her arm gently.

“Happy New Year, Val,” he said, his voice quieter than the others around them.

She looked at him, her expression soft and sincere. “Happy New Year, Will.”

And as the room erupted into cheers and laughter, Will realized it didn’t matter that they hadn’t planned anything, that the night hadn’t gone as he’d imagined. It had turned out better than he could have ever hoped for.

After the excitement of the countdown, the party began to wind down, the buzz of celebration shifting into a quieter hum as people settled into smaller groups, some retreating to the corners of the house, others heading out for fresh air. Will and Val found themselves back on the couch, the dimmed lights casting a warm glow over the room. The atmosphere was more relaxed now, the air filled with the soft murmurs of conversation and the occasional clink of a glass.

Val, ever the calm presence, leaned back, stretching her legs out in front of her and pulling a cigarette from the pack she’d left on the coffee table. She flicked the lighter, the soft orange glow briefly lighting up her face as she took a slow drag, the smoke curling up into the air before disappearing into the room.

Will watched her, the flickering light catching in her eyes. She was so effortlessly cool, it almost made him feel out of place. But then, she turned to him, offering him the cigarette with a casual, inviting glance. “You want one?” she asked, her tone light but with a subtle curiosity beneath it.

Will hesitated for only a moment. The calm between them, the way the world outside felt distant, and the strange connection that had bloomed between them made it seem like the right moment to say yes.

“Sure, why not,” he replied, his voice quieter than usual, a little more relaxed than he’d been all night.

She handed him the cigarette with a small, approving smile, and Will took it, bringing it to his lips at first, before Val leaned over to light it for him, her face so close for a second that he could feel the warmth of her breath. The small moment felt oddly intimate, a brief connection in the quiet of the night. He took a slow drag, the smoke harsh but soothing in its own way, and exhaled, watching the plume drift into the dim light above.

“That’s better,” she said with a half-smile, clearly amused by how he’d taken the first hit. “You’ve got to take it slow.”

He nodded, feeling a little more at ease as he passed the cigarette back to her.

Val cleared her throat and sighed. “I don’t usually smoke a lot but.. It’s something to make the night feel a little… different.”

Will chuckled, glancing down at his hands, the cigarette still between his fingers. “Yeah, I get that. Everything about tonight’s been… different. But in a good way.”

Val leaned back against the armrest, her eyes half-closed as she took another drag, the smoke escaping her lips lazily. “Sometimes different is exactly what you need. You know, to stop overthinking everything. To stop trying to figure it all out.”

He felt his chest loosen at her words, like she had just put into words something he hadn’t been able to articulate himself. Will looked over at her, meeting her gaze with a quiet understanding. “Yeah, I guess I’ve been doing a lot of that lately. Overthinking. Just... wishing I could escape it for a bit.”

She smiled, the edge of it knowing, and handed the cigarette back to him. “Well, here’s your escape for tonight. No thinking about anything except... this moment.”

Will took the cigarette and took another drag, the smoke filling his lungs, making everything feel a little softer, a little easier. He looked at her again, really looked at her, and for the first time in a long time, it felt like he wasn’t missing anything.

He wasn’t looking for something else, or wishing he were somewhere else. It was just him, and Val, and the quiet comfort of being together in the middle of the chaos. It was simple. It was good.

“Thanks,” he said, the words slipping out without much thought, but they felt genuine. “For tonight.”

She gave him a small smile, her eyes gleaming with something unspoken. “No problem. I think we both needed this. Just... no strings attached, right?”

He nodded, feeling the weight of her words settle in a way that made sense, somehow. No strings, just two people taking a break from everything else, finding a moment of peace in a world that never seemed to slow down.

“Right,” Will said, his voice steady and sincere. “No strings.”

As they settled further into the comfort of the couch, the soft hum of the party around them felt almost distant now. Will had forgotten the time, the noise, everything except for the quiet warmth of the moment with Val. He exhaled the last of the cigarette smoke, his mind drifting into a state of peaceful clarity.

But just as he was starting to feel the true calm of the evening settle over him, Val’s phone buzzed softly. She glanced at it, and her relaxed posture shifted, her fingers reaching for the screen almost absentmindedly.

Will noticed the change immediately, the ease in her expression replaced by a small, subtle tension. She glanced at the text, then back at him, her lips pressing together briefly.

“I—” She hesitated, then sighed softly. “I need to go.”

He blinked, momentarily caught off guard.

She’s leaving? But why?

"Go? But it’s still early.” Will said with a frown.

Val gave him a small, apologetic smile, but there was something distant in her eyes now, something that hadn’t been there just a moment ago. “I’ve got to get back. My ride’s here.”

Will's brow furrowed, his confusion growing. “You’re leaving now? I thought-” he cut himself off, unsure how to finish the thought. He wasn’t sure what he had expected, but it wasn’t this sudden shift.

Val seemed to sense the confusion in his expression. She sat up, gathering her things slowly, her movements careful as if she didn’t want to make the situation more awkward than it already was. "Yeah, it’s... it's getting late. I’m sorry," she said, her voice a bit quieter now. “I didn’t plan on staying this long.”

“Right.” Will sat up, unsure of how to react, feeling a knot form in his stomach. The night had been so easy, so relaxed. What had changed so quickly? He had to push back the urge to ask her more, to figure out why she was leaving so suddenly.

Val stood up, a soft smile pulling at the corners of her mouth as she looked down at him. "I really did enjoy tonight, though. I’m glad we... spent some time together."

Will nodded, his mind racing. "Yeah, me too." He hesitated, his thoughts tangled. “But… why now? I thought we were-”

“I know,” she interrupted gently, her hand brushing against his in an almost comforting gesture. "It’s just… things to take care of, you know? It’s nothing personal, Will."

He wanted to say more, to ask her what she meant, to understand why she was being so vague. But as she started to move toward the door, his mouth felt dry. The words caught in his throat.

“Alright,” he said finally, his voice quieter than he intended. “Take care, Val.”

She paused at the door, looking back at him one last time. “You too, Will. And... thanks. Really.”

With that, she slipped out the door, leaving Will sitting there, still trying to process everything. The party felt suddenly more distant, the noise, the lights, everything seemed to blur around him. He wasn’t sure what had just happened. The night had been so easy, so natural... but now, everything feels incomplete.

Was it just him, or had there been something more? And why had she left so suddenly?

He let out a sigh, feeling the weight of the questions settle heavily on his shoulders.

Will sat there for a long moment after the door clicked shut. The sounds of the party seemed to return in full force, the laughter and music now feeling oddly muffled, like they were happening in a distant world he wasn’t a part of.

His fingers still felt the slight warmth from where Val’s hand had brushed his, a touch that now seemed impossibly distant. He stared at the spot where she had been, his mind a tangled mess of confusion and something else. Disappointment, maybe.

Maybe even more than that.

He didn’t understand it. He had been so sure of the easy connection they’d shared earlier. Everything about their conversation, their laughter, even the dancing felt so effortless.

But now, she was gone, slipping away with barely any explanation. The night he had been enjoying so much, the night that had been different in the best way, felt incomplete.

A pang of frustration hit him, his chest tightening. Why did she leave so suddenly? What had changed? Was it him? Or something else? He couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something left unsaid, something left undone, but he couldn’t place it.

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply, trying to push down the swirl of questions. The party around him continued as if nothing had happened, people still laughing, still dancing, still shouting the occasional “Happy New Year!” Will couldn’t bring himself to care.

He had gone from feeling so comfortable, so in sync with everything, to feeling completely out of place.

After a few more minutes of sitting there, his thoughts growing heavier, he finally stood up. It was no use staying. The energy of the party was draining, and he knew he couldn’t keep pretending everything was fine. He wasn’t even sure why he felt so thrown off.

He barely knew Val. She was just someone he’d met tonight. But something about her, something about how easy it had felt with her, made the emptiness of her sudden departure feel more profound.

He moved through the house, glancing at the small groups of people still huddled around, talking or laughing. He passed a few familiar faces, but no one seemed to notice or care as he slipped out of the living room and toward the front door.

The cool night air hit him as he stepped outside, a refreshing change from the warm, stuffy atmosphere of the party. He inhaled deeply, trying to clear his head, but it didn’t help. The questions still lingered, unanswered and heavy.

Will pulled his jacket tighter around him, hands buried in his pockets, his gaze lost in the dark street ahead of him. He wasn’t even sure where he was walking, his feet moving without thought, just needing to get away. He had no real destination in mind. He just wanted to put some distance between himself and the party, between himself and the way he was feeling right now.

It didn’t make sense. None of it did. But as he walked, the feeling of being adrift, of being alone in a crowd, seemed to settle more deeply inside him. And for the first time in a long time, he wondered if maybe he’d let something good slip through his fingers without fully realizing it until it was too late.

Would he see her again? Who knows?

As Will walked aimlessly through the quiet streets, his mind couldn’t shake the thought of Val. He kept replaying the moments they had shared, the laughter, the easy connection, the way she had made him feel like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

But now, with her gone and no real explanation, he was left with a nagging feeling of uncertainty. Would he see her again? Was that all there was? Just a fleeting, perfect night that would slip away without any real trace? Or was there something more, something he had missed in his own hesitation?

He couldn’t answer any of it. All he had were questions that would probably remain unanswered. But as he looked up at the dark sky, he couldn’t help but hope that somehow, their paths might cross again. Maybe it wasn’t the end after all.

Maybe it was just the beginning of something unexpected.

[bloopitynoot]

Reading SVSSS: Chapter 18

For those who don't know, I am reading SVSSS for the first time and sharing my thoughts!

If you have not read it, there will be spoilers! Consider this a warning.

Also- if you want to follow along, I am aiming to post updates daily. You can find all the posts in the tag bloopitynoot reads SVSSS. You can also check out the intro post for context on my read.

New chapter, new cup, and back on my tea drinking! Today is another past year ren faire hand made cup with a Blueberry Jasmine tea.

This is present me rn - having finished this chapter- I WAS NOT PREPARED WHAT THE FUCK; what a goddamn jump scare of a read! D:

let's get ready for the notes journey so you can see me descend into a cacophony of sound:

Okay the visitor from last chapter was not Luo Binghe, and I really thought it might have been- it is in fact Liu Qingge! p159

Where is Luo Binghe though?? p159

Side note: unrelated, but a little bit related- adjacently related if you will - to the plot -> Big Same Shen Qingqiu! When I see a fan I too have to give that baby a firm crack! p159

Also real as fuck. LQQ: "what's up with you and Luo BInghe?" SQQ: I don't really know, but here we are LOL" p160

What did Liu Qingge see in the room that made him trip up/pause??? (I am sure we will find out later but still what the heck) p162

I'm crying at the strike out over here "His current attire and appearance was exactly identical to the Luo Binghe from before the Immortal Alliance Conference: the model of flawless and pure disciple of a major sect, the image of a pretty, diligent, and competent young wife, it really...really...was..." p162

Why am I so suspicious about the breakfast service Luo Binghe has for SQQ. p163

I love how the two of them in disguise in this very obvious trap of basically every powerful cultivator and sect is Luo Binghe changing his facial expression and SQQ being like "well I've been away for a while they will never recognize me" stealth check natural 1 for sure for sure p168

ewwww. anything to do with Old Palace Master. I really hate this guy, this story is so fucked. honestly poor Luo Binghe rn. pp171-172

oooo! New quest from the system: Raising Righteous Image Points! p176

more me appointed points to my 'SQQ is the damsel/love interest narrative', "In conclusion: So the female lead's role was going to be Shen Qingqiu again, huh?" p177

THANK YOU! This guy is the only one talking sense. Tianlang-jun really did nothing to start this whole war. He was only tricked and then essentially had the shit absolutely beat out of him. I dont even think the rumour he was going to wreak havoc and kill a bunch of humans was true- probably made up by butt hurt Old Palace Master. p181

ugh. Poor LBG having to hear all these people talk about his parents, their story, and how his mom hated him so much she tried to abort him. what the fuck, that's enough to mess anyone up quite badly. pp181-183

LBH: SQQ: my heart!!! pp 186-187

OFC LBH would be blamed mid Menty-B for the random demons being present. p189

Also so valid! the sects really are using the same tricks they used on Tianlang-jun. You know what, i'm really starting to stand with these demons - they have been done so dirty! p190

Hell yeah Yu Qingyuan stepping in! p191

Everyone here wants an explanation- how tf are they going to explain any of this tho LOL p195

Oh fuck, oh fuck! He hit zero points! p196

wait...alternate punishment? p197

Oh dang, he really just collapsed p197

AH! What's happening in the dream punishment. Is the punishment SQQ having to live with the original novel Luo BInghe and forever pining for him LOL? pp 198-199

Oh shit. Luo Binghe is totally figuring out that Shen Qingqiu is not his original Shizun p201

HE TORE HIS ARM OFF?! P202

MORE LIMB RIPPING P203

WHAT WHAT WHAT!!!!

THIS IS WILD.

What a horrible punishment OMG.

[hhighkey]

Decode // Chapter Eleven, Scarlet Haze

Dracule Mihawk (opla) x OC (female)

Rating: mature

Story Contains: live action characters, related and non-related one piece plots, unspecified religion, OC is a nun on sabbatical, trauma, violence, age gap (40 v 23), insecurities and self doubts, possessive / protective behavior, kidnapping, true loves, eventual smut

Note, gets sorta graphic / grotesque at the end just a warning

Masterlist

-

The balcony doors were open when he returned, rain water pooling along the hardwood, the curtains whipping about as wind shrieked. That was the first sign that had him on alert and reaching for Yoru. His heart was in his throat with each creak of the floor as he moved into the room, closing the door sounding like a gunshot amidst the silent tension.

The second sign- Sabine was not anywhere to greet him with her beaming face and welcoming presence. So his fingers gripped the hilt of his sword a smidge tighter, he stalked towards the closed bathroom door. 

A splotch of blood in the bathroom; fresh on the tile. But there was no other presence outside the permanent aura of himself and Sabine twisted up within this hotel room. He could only breathe in and smell them. 

This wasn’t perpetrated by someone who lacked skill after all. Purposely left traces of their aura on the bodies to see who could close in on them, gleeful to watch and see if they could get caught. And they managed to throw Mihawk off his usual game, to pursue down the streets towards what he believed would be a clue to the devil fruit user. He’d let his guard down because he assumed this to be trivial, a waste of his time if it weren’t for Sabine’s insistence for answers.

Was this all a ploy to get their grubby hands on Sabine? Mihawk had to see it from each angle, needed to think logically rather than allow the clawing anger within him to take over. His veins threatened to burst from the molten lava that seemed to flow within them, pulsing and goading him to implode. Every fiber of his being alive with pure, agonizing emotions over Sabine being taken, snatched from the careful bubble of protection he’d built up around her. The thought of her being hurt! The fact he hadn’t been there to protect her! It gnawed at him. Made him want to scream until he could no longer; made him want to destroy, to throw everything in his path until it splintered into finite pieces.  

He’d seen it for himself, how the victims began to look like Sabine. He’d read the reports, how victims were of random gender and race until her return. In his mind it was no coincidence anymore, he never should have let her out his sight, not even in the confines of a hotel patronized by church-folk. 

Mihawk needed to think. Needed a clear head. A minute of silence, as he sat on the edge of the bed leaving Yoru leaned on the side. Prodding at his forehead to ease the dull ache forming from the anxiety that flitted his nerves, coursing like painful electric sparks. 

A single name flashed in his mind. Red lettered and large, clear as day through the cacophony of all his screaming thoughts. Giorgio. 

While he did not know if that man was capable of this, he was the only person Mihawk knew Sabine held disdain for on this island. He’d been a nuisance during the initial investigation, per her words. That there was something within Sabine telling her to stray far away from him, Mihawk had seen it that day when a crowd gathered to listen to Giorgio’s ridiculous preaching. He saw the fear in her even if she could not explain what it was she was fearful for. 

Mihawk’s whole being ached for Sabine. Everything had begun a jumbled dissonance of feelings and actions upon meeting her. Sleepless nights and endless worrying during the day. A constant gnawing in his chest, the constricting around his lungs until he’d heard her voice over the transponder snail. When he saw her in weeks after Baratie, it was like all his solemnity and distress evaporated. 

He revered her. He’d worship the ground she walked for as long as she’d let him, for as long as she chose him. But he could not, would not ask her to choose him at the end of her sabbatical. Even when that one choice dictated how the rest of his life would go. For Mihawk was prepared to lose her, to live with the harrowing thoughts and void-like emotions. To wander the seas living with her ghost until the day Zoro would likely surpass him, then perhaps he’d be at peace. 

The fury that began to seep its way into him. How dare someone think they could get away with taking the woman he loved away, under the guise of a kidnapping from the blood in the bathroom. They’d feel the full brunt of his abilities as the strongest swordsman in the world. He won’t spare them. He’ll destroy whatever it is they love, whatever life they built around them, then he’d prolong their suffering to know the depths of how he felt. Mihawk felt as if he was dying. That he’d drop any second from how his heart wrenched and extremities shook. 

Love. A sentiment he was not all too familiar with. And he’d just admitted to loving Sabine! A girl who held strong faith in her morals, in her actions, fierce in how she carried herself whether she believed that or not. An open book for him to read, simply because she allowed him to. Sabine held all the stars in the universe for all he was concerned with. His luck to have met her, the luck to breathe the same air as her. It’s daunting. It weighs on his shoulders. But he does not want it any other way, the pressure is also lovely and worth fighting through. 

His fingers flex. He rolls his shoulders back. Head raised with dangerous certainty in his eyes. With Yoru on his back, none of his strength would be kept at bay. Even if it destroyed this whole damn city just to get Sabine back in his arms, safe again.

-

Sabine woke up in the same fetal position she’d passed out in on the cold floor. It took her a second to acclimate from her grogginess, from the pain, but it caused her stomach to sink upon realizing she hadn’t been in a dream. It was not a dream when Giorgio took her, or tied her to the bed, or offered her wine, or even when he called upon the puppet in the shape of her demon. Fuck. A shriek had left her as she flinched, terror as cold as ice coursing through her that had her stumbling backwards. 

But it did not move, only its eyes to follow her like it was a shell, a mannequin. 

Legs felt like jello as she tried to walk. Numb and buzzing with tiredness that almost hurt, shooting through her as if it needed her to stay awake. Because she had to. She could not afford to fall asleep again, not alone with this creature, not with the threat of Giorgio coming back at any moment. Her sense of time is out of sync, worse than before.

As she moved out of the primary room with the fireplace, couch and wine, the thing followed her. Chills go down her spine at how languidly it walked, awkward and inhuman. It was uncanny how it didn’t scare her the same as last year. A person can change in a year. Sabine liked to think she had, and for the better. She believed she was stronger. More capable, that she wouldn’t fall apart so easily. Perhaps she had something to prove for her failures that only seemed to stack up like the bodies had, or she’d gone through such a metamorphosis since joining Luffy’s crew she couldn’t go back.

A dim hallway, at the end was a downward spiral staircase. No more windows in the brick walls, just flickering lanterns that seemed to die the more she walked. With each step was another to match a few feet back. A presence she can’t shake, it made her tremble, made her pulse continue to race. Fear tickling her mind with intrusive thoughts imagining the worst. Imagining it striking her from the back, its inky tendrils wrapping around her to choke her, to bite into her flesh and drain her of life.

And as she reached the top of the stairs, darkness seeming like it went miles into the ground, she grew nauseas. 

An intense gravitational-like pull urged her to continue, to make the descent. Even as the hairs on the back of her neck stood tall, the demon breathing down her neck. Strained gasps of air left her, limbs tingling- she took the plunge. Without thinking she shattered the invisible wall between her and those depths, treading down to the first step. From hollow to being swarmed with chaotic ardor, prickly vines blossomed in her ribcage, cutting and bleeding her from within. 

Each step down, the heavier the air felt. Thick and swarming with a metallic musk and a pungent smell of chemicals trying to mask the stench. It reminded her of the morgue. Of the crime scenes. There’d be no turning back, but dread filled her as she could only imagine what awaited her. Imagination ran wild in the dark. Expecting to find medical tables with gruesome bodies atop, or a torture room with outdated tools and old blood staining the floors and walls. 

Sabine used the wall to help guide her, never releasing her palm from its harsh material. Careful as she felt with her foot, trying to judge the distance to each step or (hopefully) coming landing in the dark. Pitch black. Her eyes were not adjusting. Static filled her ears. She retched. Nose burned from the fumes, it was more than death, it was more rotten and old. 

A light shone feet away. She finally reached the bottom. 

Red drag marks caked the ground, the walls scratched up with thin bloody lines of fingers that tried to grab hold. 

Sabine gasped, clamping a hand over her mouth as she heaved, as she began to cry. She couldn’t stop the tears and she couldn’t stop how her feet moved onwards. There was no need to look behind her, Giorgio’s puppet stayed feet back still. It did little to comfort her, but she realized it wasn’t the monster she had to fear. Giorgio was the monster. 

Because only true evil reveled in a room closed off from the world, splatters of blood along the walls. A square, grim room that reeked of rust and rotting meat. A table that held medical tools, all shiny and silver, the only clean objects present. 

The girl’s body had already begun to decompose. Her face contorted in horror, mouth agape with missing teeth, and eyes bulging from the sockets. She must have been screaming, pleading for her life. For her eyes told the story of the pain she endured up until her life was taken. Colorless and putrid. The maroon of blood mixed with dirt and sweat was the only remaining color splayed out on her skin. Brown locks tangled and cut, coated with the dried muck.

The basement too bar below the surface should have been cold, but Sabine was burning alive. Sweat brimmed at her hair line as her chest and stomach constricted, there was nothing left to vomit but she dry heaved all the same. Her face burned from the pressure of forcing liquids up, temple feeling like it was stabbed over and over. Tears slipped down as she regurgitated, gagging and nauseating. Sabine swayed as she straightened, eyes glassy and far away. 

She stumbled forward and the damage on the girl became more evident. Missing fingernails. Fingers twisted in the wrong directions, knuckles broken. Strange marks cut deep into her skin. Her feet looked wrong. As if binded, as if twisted at the ankle too far. 

“No…” She whispered, realization coming over. This girl looked like her. From the brown eyes to dark brown hair, to the pale skin and elegant cheekbones. A slim nose and similar build in stature. Sabine saw herself staring back in that twisted look, one she didn’t deserve to die with. 

Sabine cried as her fingers quivered, jutting out just hovering over the deceased girl; bawling as she touched the clammy flesh, closing the eyes. Rest easy. And Sabine whimpered as if in pain as she moved the jaw to close, waiting for any sign of life or something to jump out. The girl now looked as if she was asleep. No more bugging eyes in fear or mouth agape in terror. 

Sabine sunk to the ground in the heap blubbering and shaking her head in disbelief, praying, praying that she'd open her eyes and be elsewhere. Prayed for strength. Prayed for the girl on the table. Prayed that she wouldn’t end up there next. 

It was some time before Sabine could pick herself up off the floor. Hunched over and vibrating, weak as she sludged back down the hall into the dark, then slowly ascended the stairs. Guilt wracked her, to leave that poor girl to decompose in that dingy room all alone. But Sabine needed to get out, needed distance, and a far off voice told her there was more to see.

But an amalgam of bellowing thoughts echoed in her head like an alarm clock that couldn’t be turned off. 

Giorgio didn’t just use his abilities to murder people in public for show, but he did it behind the scenes too. Some type of psychopathic sadist, a torturer who practiced in private, found joy in the dissection and agony of another. He played the part of a harmless yet annoying jester so well, never could she have imagined this. The skeletons in his closet. 

The wine called to her as she stumbled, head spinning back into the main room. Dizzied, she sauntered over, using the couch to steady herself. Breaths in, then out. Then again. She could still smell the death; still see the girl’s body laid out. The sight engrained in Sabine so wickedly, she knew it’d be what would keep her up at night now.

She wouldn’t let herself give into the temptation of the red liquid, not as she could smell the bitterness from the open bottles. 

“Go away!” She screeched, whirling on her heels to face the puppet. Frustrated, she began to toss what she could at it. Pillows from the couch, to the wine bottles. They did nothing as they shattered on the ground or flew right through it. How? Sabine knew it was a physical entity, from when it had killed that bishop and all its victims. Throwing another bottle that just nicked its hand it went through to the wall. Wine splattered. An angry wail left her, “Why are you doing this? Just kill me!”

No reaction nor response, just staring right through her. 

She huffed feeling trapped; this was going to be a long day, night, week, however long she’d be stuck here. Sabine twirled, gazing at all her options as there was only one thing to do- explore this place under a watchful and dark gaze, while waiting until either Mihawk came or Giorgio did first.

-

posted: august 23 2024

taglist : @zzbloody-animezz @honeybeezgobzzzzz @mythical-goth @iraaiitz @moonmaiden1996 let me know if you wanna be added!

[hq-analysis]

Haikyuu!! Chapter 249: Cacophony and Silence

This chapter is EPIC.

No, not because of this, though I’ve been waiting for Hinata emulating Hoshiumi.

But because of THIS.

Hinata, dramatic much? I don’t realize you could be such a drama queen.

I honestly cackle, cackle seeing these panels as prone as I am to second-hand embarrassment. 

Everyone’s perfect reaction is perfect. Suga and Yamaguchi’s being adorable. Kageyama being Kageyama. But interestingly, he only scolds Hinata for trying it during spiking/scoring.

It’s just so Hinata, who just wants to practice his jump.

(You should have given him the chance Daichi)

Honestly, the nerve to pull off a new, untried move in the middle of Nationals, against the second strongest team. But thanks to that…

Oh hello. Hinata, you put yourself in their radar. Just like you always do. Good job, despite your epic fail. You’ll get it soon and knock people’s socks off, as usual.

Now that we’re done rolling on the floor laughing and breaking the tension. Let’s dig into the chapter.

@spring-emerald noted that Inarizaki has managed to get to Nationals in THREE times consecutively, which… makes at least half of the team National regulars, and this current lineup is the one that gets the the farthest, and closest to the top. While Hinata gives us the impression that it’s business as usual, it’s kinda hard when we’re given so many hints how strong this team is. It’ll be Shiratorizawa all over again?

The only difference, other than being in the Nationals, is that Inarizaki has eighth player.

Additional psychological pressure actively using the supporters. It’ll be the first time for Karasuno to experience this. Hopefully they’ll get used to it.

Wait… I feel like we’re missing someone. Why court captain for Inarizaki and team captain for Karasuno? Wait, we’re shown the captain before right?

Wait, he’s not a starter????? I thought with his attitude he will be, but he’s NOT? WHY? Is he injured, like Oikawa? Is he a pinch server? Is the current lineup is not the best/strongest lineup???????? A team captain who is not a starter is more than odd, it’s suspicious for a team as strong as Inarizaki. Damn, this looks like it’s gonna be a long, tough match.

Back to the lineup. Tanaka,  Hinata/Noya, and Daichi are at the back. Kageyama, Tsukishima and Asahi are in the vanguard. Interestingly, they are not using the same order used against Aoba Josai (Daichi, Asahi, Tsuki/Noya at the back, Hinata, Tanaka, Kageyama) but using the same order used against Shiratorizawa. So Ukai’s strategy is not on the order… or not? What does he have up his sleeve?

On less serious note, I kinda like the brothers dynamics. Osamu gives the impression of the long-suffering brother having a twin like Atsumu. He gives as good as Atsumu, despite his calmer and more disinterested demeanor (rather reminds me the MBs)

Osamu’s toss in the beginning strengthens fandom’s speculation that Inarizaki might be using two setters strategy, despite Osamu stated as Wing Spiker. Who knows? Miya also looks rather normal here? He’s not as irritating, somehow. Just a typical perfectionist (coughOikawacough). The glare is awesome btw.

Lastly, just some random observation.

The annoying girls Miya’s glared into silence are twins with mirroring bangs, just like the Miya twins. And that enlarged Karasuno pre-game cheers shows jumping Noya and Hinata, and oddly fired up Asahi. Despite not losing his habit of writing people on his palm, Asahi is much calmer now and more comfortable as the ace. I’m proud for Asahi.

And it kinda occurs to me, Inarizaki’s name. INARIzaki. Inari, the fox, the trickster god…. Coincidence?

[banneriscarried]

I missed the poll, but somewhere between “one planning document, individual documents for each chapter”, “one planning document, one writing document” and “some ungodly cacophony of random notes and chapters”, though I just use Google Drive for everything.

So I have one main doc for all planning and notes. Literally everything I come up with for the plot goes into there, that doc for my longest fic so far is over 30,000 words alone. But I also like having some smaller docs I can immediately go to so I can reference specific things, like a more detailed version of the overarching timeline so I can figure out exactly where I am in the story, ages and birthdays (because I really like being accurate with those when possible), and I also have a separate document to roughly work out large group conversations so I can easily keep track of who said what. Basically, pretty much everything is kept in my main planning document, but sometimes I want to have something more in depth or detailed, or something I want to actually keep track of, and those usually get their own documents to expand upon.

For the writing, I typically write in the main doc, which has every chapter and change in POV marked out, but I also have smaller documents for each chapter that I go into for editing purposes (specifically HTML formatting). Having one main writing document is good for me to be able to go through and find specific references and details that I want to keep consistent, but the separate document for editing makes it easier for me to narrow my focus. I also really don’t want any of the HTML on my main writing document since it’s visually distracting for me.

hello writers.

[acteur-dramatique]

Chapter Twelve: A Stroll Through Ophelia Parrish

After trekking back to the main part of campus, TJ and Adam made their way to Ophelia Parrish, the fine arts building. Its grand entrance featured wide windows that let in plenty of natural light, illuminating displays of student artwork along the walls. Sculptures, paintings, and photography lined the hallways, showcasing the creativity of students from every corner of the art department. The building had an energy to it—a blend of inspiration and passion—that TJ immediately felt as they walked inside.

“This place is incredible,” TJ said, a small smile on his face. “I’m taking a drama class and a music theory class here this semester.”

Adam looked around, nodding, though his expression was less enthusiastic. “Yeah… it’s cool. Arts just aren’t really my thing.”

TJ laughed, rolling his eyes playfully. “It’s fine, I get it. But I think you’d like the drama class. It’s not just performing—it’s about understanding stories and how they work. And music theory… well, that’s for the hardcore music nerds.”

They wandered through the building, peeking into the practice rooms where music students were tuning instruments, their melodies floating into the hallway in a cacophony of random notes and rhythms. They passed a group of students rehearsing a monologue, their voices echoing through a small studio space, and TJ felt a surge of excitement. He could imagine himself in there, rehearsing lines or working through a scene, finding his place in a world he’d always admired.

Adam glanced around, still looking slightly out of place. “Guess it’s kind of like your version of the gym, huh?”

“Exactly,” TJ replied with a chuckle. “Just a different kind of workout.”

Eventually, they reached the grand auditorium, a sweeping space with rows of plush seats facing a massive stage. The dim lighting and rich acoustics of the room made it feel almost sacred, like it was made for transporting people to another world. TJ could imagine it filled with students and faculty, captivated by a performance or a concert, each one drawn into the stories or sounds onstage.

“Alright,” Adam said, nodding toward the exit. “Think we’ve covered just about everything in here.”

TJ sighed, pulling his gaze away from the stage. “Yeah, I guess so.”

They made their way out, weaving through clusters of other freshmen touring the building, and headed back to Missouri Hall. The day’s explorations had taken their toll, and by the time they reached their room, they both looked exhausted. Adam dropped his backpack onto his bed, stretching and letting out a yawn.

“Alright,” he said, moving to the mini fridge. He pulled out a couple of sodas and looked over his shoulder. “You want one?”

“Yeah, sure,” TJ replied, catching the can Adam tossed his way.

They each cracked open their sodas and sat on their beds, savoring the cold fizz after a long day. TJ took a sip, letting his mind wander back through all they’d seen—the library, the ROTC display, the psych program, and finally, the familiar warmth of the fine arts building.

“Today was… a lot,” TJ said, exhaling with a contented sigh.

Adam nodded, leaning back against his pillow. “Yeah, but at least we know where everything is now. Or… most things, anyway.”

TJ nodded, feeling a sense of satisfaction settle in. They’d barely scratched the surface of campus life, but even this small taste made the place feel a little more like home.

[ddarker-dreams]

Hell Within Reach XVI. Chrollo x F Reader

Rating: M (Violence, drug mentions, vaguely implied not SFW, Reader experiences what implied to be a panic attack)  Word count: 6.2k. Misc Info: Your Nen | Survosia Note: ORIGINALLY ,, this was supposed to be the final chapter, but it was starting to get really long and i decided to just split it in two hrtkgemjr thank you for being patient during the long wait! 

[Hell Within Reach index]

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

A cold front had settled into the crevices of Survosia’s capital, Srosa.

You’re more used to the city now than you were years prior when the only times you had to visit were for The Mother’s Blessing or other political squabbles in your father’s shadow. Back then, you had a distaste for it. The constant steam rising from the ground, gas generators powering food carts buzzing noisily in a cacophony outdone only by honking cars, mixed with tourists and the scam artists ready to set them back a few dollars.

That was then, however. Now you’re more or less adjusted to the constant noise. Yorknew was much the same, aside from the difference in the language spoken by the city’s inhabitants. Spending time there meant what you found grating before blended seamlessly into the background now.

What you didn’t like about being in the city currently was having to see your father’s face plastered everywhere.

He follows your person, haunting you like a specter in the night. On the skyscraper’s billboards, inked into the front page of newspapers littered across the sidewalk, in footage looped on every news station since his passing. His funeral last week only made it worse. Estella outdid herself, you have to admit. She provided an emotional eulogy while wearing black from head to toe, her tear-soaked face obscured by a mourner’s veil.

In truth, you barely remember the event. A national day of mourning was declared by the king, who your father served directly under for his entire life, though the monarch himself was noticeably absent. He did send enough flowers to open a perfume company should you ever quit your excursions with the Troupe. Among those present were your extended family, whose ridiculously long names and titles Estella whispered into your ear each time they came by to give their unwanted condolences, government officials, and other prestigious families. Lining up one after the other like rows of ants.

Some bigshot Hunters were in attendance as well, since they were in the midst of negotiating better visa programs for their constituents to enter the country more easily. There was that girl whose countenance was reminiscent of a dog, and that other one, who Estella bristled upon seeing. Pariston, you think his name was. You remember his ‘condolences’ the best. He had an ear-to-ear grin as he approached you and your siblings, his aura almost radiating sparkles. You rubbed your eyes, in fear you were seeing things.

“What a shame,” Pariston had sighed, as if the loss touched him on a personal level. “To die so young… under such random circumstances too! Who would’ve thought that a man in seemingly perfect health would pass from a rare, incurable disease.”

His eyes flickered to you and his smile widenefd. “Leaving behind his oh so lovely daughters in the process too. A true shame indeed. Well, I suppose I shan’t be hearing wedding bells anytime soon? That’d free my schedule up significantly.”

Is Pariston referring to the rumors surrounding your father marrying the three of you off, or perhaps… by that knowing gleam in his eyes, he had caught wind of your brief entanglements with Chrollo. You suppress a scoff. No wonder Estella complains about him in our phone calls, you think. He is insufferable. Almost enough to be on par with that parlor trick clown.

Hunter Association Vice Chairman or not, he could learn to watch his tongue. Especially when you were growing more tempted by the second to rip it out. There were suspicions around Victor Avalor’s sudden death, not that anyone had the gumption to voice them outside of gossip and tabloids.  

Estella interrupted before you could get the chance. “Illness is a mysterious thing, isn’t it, Vice Chairman? You never know when it might arise, or how much time you’ll have left to act. That’s why it’s best to live each of your days to the fullest while you still can.”

You almost choked on your spit. If Pariston Hill is a rat, then your eldest sister is a viper. The extra heavy emphasis she placed on the word Vice succeeded in making his eyebrow twitch, though it procured nothing else. His immaculate image returned before it could even wane. You wondered who had practiced smiling in the mirror the most between the two of them.

This is exactly why you couldn’t stand being back home. Sweet lies laced with poison, the intent to backstab scarcely hidden behind cracked masks, a battlefield of words rather than blades or bullets. You had a strong preference for the latter. That’s why you were reserved for the dirty works that take place in the dark, rather than the bright cocktail parties where the wine and orchestral music flowed in tandem. Every second you were forced to endure this was more torturous than anything Feitan’s hands could concoct.

However, you weren’t free to leave for Yorbia just yet. Estella was holding you on a tight leash to compensate for keeping her in the dark and plunging the family into chaos. That, and the loss of her most useful assistant, Xue Ya.

Xue Ya.

You come to a halt alongside the crowded streets, earning disgruntled looks and a few choice words for your trouble. In record time, they form lines heading on either side of you, the city equivalent to the Red Sea’s parting. Your companion notes your absence, gray eyes searching and then locating you immediately.

“[First]?” A voice asks, almost penetrating through the white noise humming in your ears. You glance up. The most you can register is black hair, pale skin, and deep, unnervingly empty hues. Just like Xue Ya’s. A hand wraps itself around your wrist upon your lack of response. You think you’re being led someplace — where exactly, you couldn’t concern yourself with finding out — not when your heart is twisting in your ribcage in a way it shouldn’t.

Suddenly, you forget about the icy air biting at your cheeks. Sweltering heat envelops you in its stead. It’s as if you were boiling, the thick plushness of your outerwear growing unbearable. You didn’t activate Corruption, did you? No, there’s no way you would do that, not when your body was still recovering from the last time. So where is this miserable boiling sensation originating from? Had you not been in public, you would’ve stripped each layer off it it meant alleviating the misery just a bit.

You think you’re sitting down. There’s someone beside you too, saying your name over and over again, though their voice is calm. A guiding light amidst the brewing tempest. You breathe in. Breathe out. Once, twice. The thrumming noise never leaves entirely, yet it does recede enough for your mind to make sense of what happened. Why it did is another reason entirely.

“I’m fine,” you snap, your voice on edge and taut as a pulled bowstring. Then, remembering yourself, you clear your throat and try again. “I mean… I’m alright now, Chrollo.”

The two of you are situated on a park bench, far removed from the crowd. He had used a stolen Hatsu ability that manipulates passerbys' fusiform gyrus, making them unable to recognize your face, thus preventing any issues due to your prestigious status. Chrollo’s face goes from a swirl of unidentifiable colors and shapes to a solid structure, and for a brief moment, you’re yourself again. Whatever or whoever that is. If he doesn’t believe your admission, then he isn’t making a point of voicing it. Aside from the frown on his lips, he looks perfectly composed.

Chrollo reaches his hand out, hovering it over your cheek, then pausing after he feels the heat radiating from it. He settles for tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear instead, likely getting loose from your tight updo during your… episode. Phinks told you it looked nice when it was down, but you rarely wore it that way for a reason. The possibility of it impeding you during a fight served as a deterrent.

That’s right — you’re a fighter. A warrior. A honed instrument who kills at the orders of another.

That is who you are, isn’t it?

“Should we return to the hotel?” Chrollo proposes, breaking the silence. “You’re burning up again.”

You shake your head. He doesn’t press the matter.

Even when it wasn’t active, Corruption was nothing short of a curse disguised as a blessing. A glorified Nen covenant that ate you alive from the inside out in return for its temporary boost in physical prowess. It’d been three weeks since your rushed use during your confrontation with Victor — three weeks of random bouts of weakness, public appearances, and barely concealed fevers.

Estella had finally started getting everything under wraps. Or at least enough to loosen her hold, “So long as you stay in the country and on-call, dear sister,” as per her instructions. Ash would be returning to school (which they actively protested, then ceased just as quickly after Estella gave them a stern look), and you were free to roam around. Having nothing concrete to do felt like a unique punishment. At least you were able to busy yourself and your mind with Estella dishing out orders.

Chrollo flew back in a few days ago upon hearing your schedule was free. He committed himself to courting you properly. Dinner at the finest restaurants, shopping trips to exclusive boutiques, ferry rides along the water that bled late into the night… it was all nice, you suppose.

What you found yourself enjoying more than opulence were the quiet moments. Little, probably insignificant things. Chrollo knew how much sugar to put in your tea and what channel of the radio suited your fancy the most. In return, you’ve learned about him too. He is a stickler for reading physical books — the look he gave when you mentioned downloading a recommendation of his was unnecessarily judgmental. What a snob. He also has a thing for sweets, chocolate mints specifically. If he didn’t think you’d notice the hotel room’s stash being slowly depleted, then he was dead wrong.

Yes… there were many details about Chrollo Lucilfer that were being illuminated for the first time. Tiny, pretty stones of a mosaic you were never permitted to step back to fully admire the scale of. You suppose you weren’t much better yourself. Secrecy was yet another language you were fluent in.

“What kind of place is Meteor City?”

The abrupt inquiry surprises you both. Muted emotions pass over Chrollo’s face in waves, his eyebrows knitting, lips parting then closing. He’s staring at you, picking you apart with his eyes, searching and searching for a conclusion that comes sooner than later.

“... Would answering that question be of any help to you?”

Your immediate instinct is to say yes, if it meant he would part the curtain of his mysterious persona just enough to grant you a fleeting glance. You school yourself before the careless reply can tumble out. Trying your hand at manipulating a man who lived and breathed the art would be a fruitless battle. The words of your past self echo in your mind.

“Do not try to play mind games with me.”

You’d be no better than a hypocrite if you were to go back on this. You give up on pursuing this opening if it comes at the cost of one of the few core principles you hold dear, fractured into millions of little pieces as it may be.

“I don’t know.”

It’s subtle, but you notice Chrollo’s shoulders relaxing, as if you presented him with a prized escape route. People like the two of you don’t talk about the past beyond what’s necessary. It’s a simple, unspoken rule. Crossing that invisible line is considered taboo. What matters is who you are now, not who you were back then. That’s what you used to think. It’s easier on the palate, after all. Still… you want to cross that line if it means understanding the man sitting beside you better.

If it means understanding yourself better.

That opportunity was likely lost alongside your indecisiveness, so it’d be better not to dwell on it. That’s what you think, until Chrollo speaks again, his voice uncharacteristically quiet.

“It’s not pleasant, as I’m sure you can imagine,” he begins. Then, he sighs, tearing his gaze from you and setting it straight ahead. “It’s… hm. A place where you make the most with what you’re given. Though even if you do get a grasp on the situation you’re in… survival is not guaranteed.”

“What guarantees survival then?”

He gives an enigmatic smile at that. “Learning how to kill and accepting that you’ll likely be killed one day yourself.”

Not wanting to waste this chance, you continue your tentative prying. “Do you recall the first person you killed?”

“I do, yes,” Chrollo replies, then leans in closer to you, head tilted. “And you?”

Ah, so this is how it feels to be on the receiving end. After a beat of silence, you nod your head. His deafening silence urges you to fill the gap. If he’s granting you permission to peer into the heavily guarded fortress of his mind, for however brief a moment, you’d be remiss not to do the same.

“They started me out small. Mice, then eventually, larger mammals that could put up more of a fight. I… remember that I didn’t want to do it, at first. I thought it’d be different from the animals. I didn’t know the man’s name. He had clearly been drugged before arriving in front of me, enough so the servants handling him could drag him in without a fight.”

Your fingers flex at the memory, the ghost of a blade’s hilt almost tangible within your grasp.

“Victor was present to monitor my progress. I was told I could take as long as I wanted, since it was my first. Everything past that, he said, would be timed. They removed the bag from his head. I recognized him and he recognized me. A gardener who had a penchant for gifting my mother flowers. I think he was going to say something, though I’ll never know what.”

You look down at your gloved hands. “That’s when I learned it didn’t feel different. Animals, people… it all felt the same.”

“Like what?” He prompts, staring at you as if there was no one else in the world. Perhaps there wasn’t, for that passing moment.

“Like nothing.”

He’s silent for a prolonged second. From what you can tell when you look at society’s laws, killing was meant to be a taboo. There were exceptions, of course, self-defense was cited as an acceptable reason to end another’s life. You doubt little of what you’ve done could be classified as such. Still, it makes logical sense why these rules are in place. Human beings were able to advance due to creating tight-knit societies. The resulting evolution of the brain placed great importance on maintaining social relations so this would be preserved.

You wonder, then, why some find it so easy to bypass their inherent nature and do as they please at the expense of others.

Chrollo’s long, black eyelashes flutter shut. “Cliff.”

“Hm?”

“The name of the first person I killed,” he pauses, then corrects himself, “Or boy, I suppose, if you want to be a stickler to semantics. I had formed a group with other kids in the vicinity. It started out as a way to survive, by delegating work to those who excelled in their specific field. I hadn’t really… intended to assume a leadership role. That’s just how it ended up being.”

He says that like it’s unexpected people would naturally push him into the position. You had always seen his leadership qualities when it came time for the Troupe to reconvene. Nothing, not a slight unexpected development or a heist on the verge of collapse would move his steel composure. Chrollo always had a plan. If your enemy was two steps ahead, then he would be three steps over them.

Did he not see that quality in himself? Or did he acknowledge it, yet still not care for being the one in charge regardless?

“Planning for the future was paramount. It wasn’t enough to just have supplies for the next day. You needed to be prepared weeks, no, months in advance. I kept a careful count of our supplies for that very reason. When it came to my attention that some of our reserves were at a lower count than recorded, I investigated the matter personally…”

Subconsciously, you move closer to him, your thighs almost touching.

“Cliff had been pilfering what he thought was an unnoticeable amount to trade with other gangs in the area. His younger sister was an invalid — he’d take anything that’d ease her suffering. Painkillers were ideal, of course, but as you can imagine, those were difficult to come by. He’d settle for anything that did the trick, narcotics included.”

“Ah,” you say, realization dawning. “I see.”

“I suppose I didn’t hold it against him,” Chrollo shrugs and leans back into his seat. “Regardless, an example had to be made. My orders were absolute. If that came into question, then the group would fall into disarray. I slit his throat the next morning.”

“How old were you?”

“Hm… seven, perhaps eight. I wasn’t in the habit of tracking it at the time.”

“And how did killing him make you feel?”

Chrollo gives it some thought, then responds, “In control.”

You study his face’s profile. The downward slope of his nose, the loose strands of black hair framing his structured features, how natural he smiles despite knowing it’s anything but. At that moment, a flicker of envy burns within your chest. He’s far more self-aware than you are. With enough introspection, perhaps, he could come to fully understand himself. Or at least reach a point that was close enough.

Feeling your intense stare, he turns to meet your gaze, and you drop your attention to the gloved hands folded on your lap.

“Was my answer unsatisfactory?” He queries, sensing your disdain. There’s no offense in his voice, only amusement, which makes you bristle further.

“... No,” you sigh. “It made me realize how little I know about myself.”

“Is that what that look was? I feared for my life just now, you know.”

“I doubt you need to. In my current state, I wouldn’t be capable of posing a threat.”

“I’ll sleep with one eye open when you fully heal, then.”

This is why you’re suspicious of people boasting charisma. They know how to put you at ease, weaving pacifying words even when the world burns to ashes beside you. Still, you sense no malicious intent and decide to not press the issue. His banter does as intended — you feel comfortable enough to voice what’s truly been plaguing you all alone.

“The day we found the vat of Corrupted blood,” you begin, earning his rapt interest, “Ash and I searched for Xue Ya, Estella’s assistant. She’d gone missing the day prior.”

“Ah, yes, I remember her. She’s the one who hinted at the Zoldyck’s true reason for being present, yes?”

You nod.

“We found her at my mother’s gravesite, or, to be more specific, her corpse. I have reason to believe Victor hired Illumi and Silva to kill her. Why he would do such a thing after she served him loyally for decades, I haven’t the slightest idea.”

“That isn’t what’s troubling you, though.”

Astute as ever, you think.

“No, it’s not. She’d been dead well over a day. However…”

You remember it vividly.

The flash of silver, the ringing of metal clashing against metal, the unnatural movement of limbs. You had successfully parried the offender’s attack, working from instinct alone. Ash, in their distraught state, stumbled back and earned the assailant’s attention. It went from slashing wildly at you to charging at them. Once more, you intercepted the attack, teeth gritted from how your recovering body ached in protest.

Above all else, you prioritized getting Ash to safety.

Dirt and grass flew from the ground as you kicked forward, grabbed a horror-struck Ash, and hoisted them over your shoulder.

This assailant… the movements of its body, from how it grasped the hilt of its blade, everything struck a chord within your long-term memory. It was far more erratic than what you had trained against for many years. Almost primal — the wild lashing out of an animal baring its fangs.

You glanced back and gaped in disbelief at what you saw.

“She had utilized the technique of post-mortem nen. I don’t know if it was a last-ditch effort to dispatch the Zoldycks when she understood she was going to die, or a way of cursing the world altogether. I had no choice but to take care of her — it — before it became a larger concern.”

Something seems to click into place for Chrollo. A look of understanding washes over him, as if he could see a full picture that you could not. Gingerly, he lifts your dominant hand, looking at you with what you’ve come to realize is a silent request for permission. Ever since he’d seen your bare hands, he’d become fascinated by the “design” using Corruption had left behind. You thought his description was far more romanticist in nature and couldn’t help but scoff at it. To you, the dark lines marring your once-perfect flesh were an unwelcome reminder of a bloodline you wanted nothing to do with.

With the utmost tenderness, he removes your glove and sets it to the side. Then, he traces the veins, a smile playing on his lips.

“And how did that make you feel, dear?”

You close your eyes and think back to the most significant points in your life thus far. The pronounced emptiness that consumed your person when you killed the gardener, even when you killed Victor; there was nothing. No remorse, exhilaration, regret, or guilt. After you were dropped off in Yorbia following your disagreement with Victor’s plans, all you could focus on was what you should do next. Securing identification, finding a base of operations, legalistic matters devoid of emotion. You just did, you never stopped to reflect further than that.

Then you recall slicing through what remained of Xue Ya.

It was easy enough, once the opening presented itself. Her corpse lacked the finesse she triumphed in life. You cut through her drooping flesh, brittle bone, the liquified remains of her internal organs. Bloodshot eyes stared at you, bulged out from sockets that caved into her skull.

What you felt then…

You place a hand on your chest, feeling a strange tightness within it.

“... I don’t know,” you confess, your voice just shy of a whisper. “And I don’t think I ever want to experience it again.”

-

Later that night, Chrollo receives a phone call.

It wakes you from a dreamless slumber and you shiver from the frigid air blasted by the hotel room’s air conditioner. The phone he picked up is solely for work, so you can safely assume it’s a Spider on the other line. Despite the bedroom being shrouded in darkness, you catch the subtle tensing of Chrollo’s jawline. You sit up and observe the unfolding scene with newfound attentiveness.

“I see,” Chrollo replies. It could be your imagination, but you swear his eyes flitter toward your form for a moment. “She is to be killed on sight. Inform the others for me.”

He hangs up the phone and you take the opportunity to speak up. “Is everything alright?”

“Karina Novikoff breached the agreement we came to.”

Any exhaustion weighing down on you dissipates in an instant.

“... You’re kidding.”

“Unfortunately not.”

That woman will be the death of you. In exchange for her life after causing trouble for the Troupe, she was placed under a pseudo house arrest in exchange for continued support. Karina boasts an abundance of connections to various Survosian institutes, making her valuable for any future heists Chrollo might plan here. Valuable, but not invaluable, a distinction you hoped she would commit to heart.

Chrollo begins to get dressed and you join him, falling into a natural rhythm. He throws you your discarded undergarments while speaking casually.

“Shal has found traces of her on CCTV footage arriving in Srosa’s subway. Do you have any idea where she might hole up?”

“A few places come to mind,” you wrack your memory and frown, “There’s a prominent motorcycle gang that operates various nightclubs in the city. She would often hang out there to sell information and network. I imagine they’d be willing to assist her for old time’s sake.”

“How many clubs do they own?”

“Six, I believe. Two of those are far more exclusive in nature and attract wealthier clientele. She has quite a taste for luxury, I imagine those would be her top choices.”

Chrollo obscures the tattoo on his head by wrapping it in bandages. “Write down the addresses. I’ll go to one and you’ll go to the other. Call me if you discover anything significant.”

“... Understood,” you secure your hair into place with a black ribbon, a gift from Chrollo to replace the one you cut through.

After sliding your gloves into place, you make for the door, only for him to gently grab your wrist and hold you in place. The two of you exchange a knowing glance that urges you to look anywhere other than his eyes, omnipotent as they seem. He quietly sighs and shakes his head.

“I apologize that it came to this. I know the two of you shared a… history.”

You bite your lower lip. “She brought this upon herself. It’s inconsequential to me.”

Freeing yourself from his loose grip, you open the door, but not without sparing him a final glance over your shoulder.

“And another thing, boss,” you start, earning a hum from him. “Your acting around me is getting rusty. That wasn’t the slightest bit convincing.”

He offers an enigmatic smile yet says nothing else on the matter.

After writing down the two addresses as he instructed and circling the one you intend to visit, you take an elevator down to the main lobby. The sinking sensation aligns with the sensation stirring in your stomach. Why did Karina adore putting you in uncomfortable situations like this? The setup she haggled for was ideal — far better than a coffin six feet beneath the ground. Years have changed but she stays the same.

This won’t be like the last time she landed herself in a tricky predicament. She won’t have you to use as a rope to climb out from the pit she dug.

Hailing a taxi, you tell him your intended destination, and situate yourself in the back seat.

Thirty minutes pass in pronounced silence. While staring out the car and focusing on the passing lights, you sense the taxi driver eyeing you in the rearview mirror, likely aware of your identity. Your destination comes into sight and he pulls up to the curb, getting as close as he can without infringing on the busy valet session.

Out of his line of sight, you secure your wallet from its interdimensional storage place in The Beyond. Grabbing three times the required rate in cash, you hand it over, but keep your grip firm when he tries to grab it.

“For your discretion.”

“O-Of course, Lady Avalor— er, I mean, miss… stranger…”

You allow him to take it after staring him down a second longer. His face goes paler than the moon hanging in the sky. Sensing you’ve sufficiently gotten your message across, you emerge from the backseat. The heels of your boots click against the sidewalk on the journey to the main entrance.

Written in your native script in bright, flickering neon, is the club’s name: V1x-1s.

A despicable place for despicable people. Karina’s interest in the city’s nightlife was a mystery, the appeal was lost on you. During your relationship, she’d dragged you here a few times, insisting on having you expand your horizons. Staying glued to your hip easily allowed her access while most people would be put on waitlists for months. It’s another facet of your relationship that made you realize her intentions were purely for her benefit all along.

You count two bouncers at the door, men of towering stature that easily had over a foot on you in height. No cause for alarm there. In the building across from the street, you sense a small group watching the entrance from the second floor, a telling addition of security. The guests standing in line to get in are unarmed and consistent mainly of small-time social climbers, no one of notable status must be present tonight.

That serves to make things easier.

“Aha, is that an Avalor I see? What are the chances?” You pivot on your heel and catch the sight of an old, if not familiar face.

Adar Othena — the middle child of another one of the six most influential families in this country, same as you. The main difference being that his family disowned him a few years prior. There had been rumors he had taken charge of Srosa’s most prominent motorcycle gang, the outfit he currently adorns giving this more credence. Rather than wearing a pressed suit and tie like the last time you saw him, he’s taken a more casual appearance; boasting a black leather jacket and ripped jeans. His messy chestnut sandy brown hair is styled in a low ponytail that reaches halfway down his back. Most notably, he has a long scar that discolors his right eye.

“So you’re not headless after all,” you dryly comment, referencing the nickname news agencies have taken to giving him; The Headless Horseman.

“For now, that is,” he takes your wry tone in stride. “Sorry to hear about your old man, by the way. Doubt you used up too many tissues for his sake though.”

You mentally screen the men and women wearing similar outfits by his side, who you assume to be his entourage. They’re all armed, you think. Concealed guns with silencers. Nothing hard to deal with.

“Anyway, I’ll cut it with the small talk. The two of us have had to deal with enough pretentious shit like that to last multiple lifetimes. If you’re here, I’m assuming it’s for business, not pleasure. Mind chatting more with me inside?”

“Perfect. I was just about to ask that myself.”

Adar must be the guy running the show in these parts if he’s able to make calls like that. You find the timing of everything slightly off — it was noticeably inorganic. They emerged from their hiding place almost instantly after catching sight of you. Whether that meant they were warned in advance by Karina you or someone else is after her, or your presence in general was cause for concern, you couldn’t discern.

He brings you to a different, private entrance on the side that’s nestled in a dank alleyway. The men standing watch here are armed too, and the second it becomes evident you’re going to be following Adar inside, they move to pat you down. Adar parts his lips to warn against it, but it’s too late.

A blood-curdling scream resonates in the air as you slice off the arm reaching out at the shoulder blade. Adar’s retinue waste no time procuring their weapons, aiming the barrels in your direction with enraged eyes. Meanwhile, the man whose tendons you cut through like butter crumbles to the ground, blood spurting in steady streams. During the instantaneous action, a few specks of blood hit your face and you cringe.

“Do not presume to touch me,” you leer down at him through your eyelashes as if eyeing trash on the street, “Every limb that attempts to do so will promptly be removed.”

To your left, you hear the safety click as it’s removed. “You bitch! I’ll—”

Adar places a hand on the shoulder of the man who spoke. “Corey, stop. Lower your guns, the lot of you.”

“But she—”

“I said, lower your guns. She’ll kill you before you get the chance to shoot. Don’t bother.”

You procure a clean handkerchief from your inner breast pocket and dab at the blood that splattered on your cheek.

The group sputters in disbelief. In all likelihood, they probably had no idea what you did to remove the arm of their companion, since you sensed no significant aura from any of them. Nen was out of their realm of knowledge. Adar’s former position guaranteed he’s familiar with it. His order is wise, you’ll give him that much. Your patience is drawn thinner than a fraying thread. He must’ve realized this and decided not to test you.

“Get Crow some first aid before he bleeds to death. I’ll handle things from here,” Adar says.

Not a word is uttered past that. Adar fiddles with a keychain, unlocks the door, and motions for you to follow. The noisome assault on your senses is instantaneous. Sweat, body odor, tobacco, and cannabis mix together thickly in the hazy air. Music pounds at an obnoxious decibel level in the other room loud enough to rattle loose screws and bolts. Discarded needles and empty bottles litter the ground even into the emergency staircase, which you both ascend to the third floor.

Finally, he leads you into a room you assume to be his office. You shut the door and lock it while he props himself up on his desk.

“You mind?” He asks while reaching into his jacket, revealing a cigarette pack.

“Do as you will.”

He sets it in between his teeth and lights it. “Listen, we’ve done nothing to cross your old man, Divine Mother rest his soul, or Miss ‘Stella. My group knows better than to stir up trouble in Avalor territory. I can’t say I know what this personal visit is about.”

“You’re correct. You’ve done nothing to earn my ill will yet,” you place the slightest emphasis on the word yet and note how his Adam’s apple bobs. “Does the name Karina Novikoff sound familiar?”

“Ah, your old flame. Yeah, I know of her. She used to be a regular.”

“Used to?”

“Past tense intended, miss. Karina hasn’t been in Survosia for some time, much like you, far as I've heard. Apparently she ruffled the wrong feathers or something.”

“I see,” you respond. “In that case, would it be a bother if I had a look around?”

You phrase it like a question but you both know it’s far from it.

“Er, don’t take this the wrong way or anything, but we got a fair share of VIPs tonight. I think it’d be in both our best interests to avoid attracting unwanted attention. Business for me, reputation for you. Who knows what kinda rumors would spread if it got out an Avalor was seen in a place like this?”

He’s lying about the VIPs, you think. Security would’ve been bolstered tenfold if anyone of decent status was here.

“Reputation means less to me than the dirt on the soles of my shoes. By extension, so do the lives of everyone in this building.”

Adar took a risk by inadvertently threatening you, a ploy you snuff out in an instant. He takes another puff of his cigarette and inhales deeply. The dopamine rush he’s receiving might hide some anxiety, but you catch his finger’s shakiness. His complexion has taken a pallid shade as well. With every second that drags by, you maintain unflinching eye contact. If he felt in charge earlier, you imagine he no longer does.

He breaks the tense silence. “If I tell you where she is, I have your word that we can put this little spat behind us?”

“Once I confirm your information is solid, yes. You have my word.”

Adar closes his eyes and leans back. He pinches the bridge of his nose, muttering under his breath something about how ‘troublesome’ this is, along with a string of curses. You attribute his hesitation in the face of imminent death to not wanting to lose face. If it gets out that he ratted out on his associates, it could lead to drastic shifts in leadership or drop in respect. The predicament Karina has put him in is almost worse than what she’s done to you.

Almost.

“... The warehouse a block over, on Dex Street. Number 45. Can’t miss it, the paint’s old, still visible enough. I’ll get you the keys.”

You put your hand up and shake your head. “There is no need. I’ll see myself out. Thank you for your cooperation.”

Following this, you stride past his desk, much to his confusion.

“Uh, I think you’re missing the door by a few feet— oh.”

You cut through the padlock securing the nearest window shut and pry it open. Adar doesn’t dare utter a word while you do so, instead opting to reach for a glass bong beneath his desk. It must’ve been a significant amount of stress you put him under. Sliding through the window, you prepare to jump to the ground, but not without leaving Adar a final warning for good measure.

“If I find out you’re deceiving me,” your voice is light as it dances about the room, “I will send your head to your estranged family. Have a lovely night.”

And with that, you drop three stories to the ground without making a sound.

Karina... you better hope it’s me who gets to you first.

[operation-red-herring-ch]

What if Britain had a questionable plan to get an alliance?

What if it backfired?

What if it caused America to join the Axis Powers?

_______________

Welcome to the cacophony that is Operation Red Herring.

This is an AU in which America joins the Axis powers. Please note that I do not support Nazism (duh). This is simply a story about a hypothetical scenario, which does not aim to romanticize nor downplay the horrors that took place during WWII. There are mentions of some of these events in the story, however, they are treated as the horrendous acts that they are, and are not meant to be downplayed/romanticized. This is my statement as the author of this story, and all I ask is that anyone who interacts with the story and/or this blog respect this, and not use the work to romanticize these events.

Additionally, this story deals with serious/triggering topics, such as Child Abuse, Sexism, Homophobia, Nazism, etc. These, along with other topics dealt with in the story, may be triggering for some, and I encourage everyone to take care of themselves, and to not read/interact with media that will upset them. A full list of triggers can be found on Ao3 (by chapter). If someone wants a full list of triggers (so far) without having to go to the fic, please message me, and I will be happy to provide you with a list.

___________

This is a blog I created to dump my sketches/random stuff about the story, which I don’t want to put in the book. It is essentially extra-content that doesn’t fit into the format. May not update often, as my main focus is still the actually story.

Links to FanFiction:

Ao3

[aminiatureworld]

A Sea of Fragments V

Word Count: 2,635

Warnings: Swearing

Author’s Note: I don’t know how I went so long without updating! Honestly I really enjoyed writing this chapter. Things are starting to get dramatic, and I’m upping the ante a little bit. As a treat.

Scaramouche exited the dining tent as quickly as possible, storming off towards his tent with urgency. He hated eating around other people; the noise, the insipid conversation, the amount of imbeciles trying desperately to get in his good graces. It was agony, and the sooner he got away from it the better. Besides, he had something vastly more important to do this evening.

Entering his tent Scaramouche took some odd sense of pride from the fact he had beaten you to it. Sitting down in his chair he sighed, propping his head up with his hand and allowing his thoughts to drift for a moment. He had to admit that he was incredibly curious as to what he was going to witness today. He had already gotten a glimpse of your ability during your first meeting, but between the tense atmosphere and the barbed conversation he hadn’t been able to really focus on what exactly you were doing. Your terrible physical state at the time certainly hadn’t helped, as you had looked as if you were going to faint any moment. Scaramouche was glad there would be no fear of that this time.

What must it be like to look into the future? Scaramouche had to admit that he envied your ability slightly. Though you had seemed less than enthusiastic about it, Scaramouche couldn’t believe that you truly begrudged the ability to see into the future. If you did then you were surely a greater fool than he was already aware of. Even with your revelation that it was hardly an exact science as to which future would happen, even the slight ability to see what might come to pass would be an incredible asset to the Tsaritsa and her goal.

Besides, Scaramouche couldn’t truly bring himself to believe that your bedraggled state had been solely due to seeing into the future. How much energy could be expended by sitting into a chair and closing one’s eyes? In a world of war and battle and death the idea that something so still could be so taxing was absolutely ridiculous. No, there was no reason for him to worry, or for him not to begrudge you something that was so obvious a blessing from the Seven.

“Scaramouche?”

Your voiced pierced through the air, pulling the Harbinger slowly out of his thoughts. He hadn’t realized how engrossed he had been in his own musings, and the sudden pull back to reality cause irritation to once more surface within him. He quickly managed to push it down however, the reflexive annoyance replaced with an anticipation that couldn’t be completely hidden. Gesturing for you to sit in the chair across from him Scaramouche sat up straighter.

“Is there anything that must be done before we begin?” The Harbinger wasn’t used to such pleasantries, but this time he figured it was probably worth asking. Seeing you shake your head he nodded curtly. “Good. Then shall we begin?”

“If you insist,” you mumbled, voice lacking it usual sharpness. The nervous feeling that you emitted the first time he saw you in the forest appeared to have returned from out of thin air, and you shifted in your seat awkwardly.

“Is something wrong?”

“No! No, just, I just need to relax.”

“Take all the time you need.”

You shot him a look with very little behind it. Breathing in deeply you closed your eyes, letting your head tilt backwards slightly. Sitting back in his chair, just realizing that he’d been leaning forward this whole time, Scaramouche watched as your breath began to slow and you appeared to drift into some sort of trance.

 Closing your eyes you willed your mind to emptiness. From the moment you had entered the Harbinger’s tent once more you’d been seized with anxiety. You never wanted to be in this position again, divining for others, taxing yourself over and over for goals and wishes not your own. Not to mention the identity of your current employer; Scaramouche’s Harbinger status aside relaxing in front of this man seemed nigh on impossible. Letting your eyes flit this way and that you didn’t even bother to try and look him in the face. Not when what you were about to do loomed over you.

Looking into the future was bad enough, doing it in front of Scaramouche was even worse. You tended to lose control of yourself while looking into the future. Falling out of furniture, mumbling things randomly, all those things were possible. And though the people in your village had gotten used to your half-trances you were sure that Scaramouche wouldn’t quite appreciate you accidentally faceplanting into the table or sliding onto the ground the way the people you had grown up in proximity to would.

Letting yourself sigh once more you allowed your conscious to fade, shoving aside all those problems to deal with it later. The present would always exist, but for now you had to cast your eyes upon the possible futures. The world darkened around you, turning into a sea of stars which fell down, down, down. Letting yourself tumble around you finally saw fragments begin to form in front of your eyes. Stretching out your hands you reached for the one that seemed to shine the clearest, reached for the best outcome that you could find. Always start with the clearest ones first, for the muddier the fragment, the worse the suffering, the more energy must be expended. It was information that had been extracted after years of trial and error, and now you let it guide you as you sought out what you needed to know.

You were standing in a deadly quiet room. Paper doors surrounded you, the moonlight filtering through them casting long shadows, making it look like you were trapped in an odd sort of prison. If so, it was a very cozy prison. All the hallmarks of domesticity were there; pillows thrown this way and that, books shoved into various nooks and crannies on a small shelf, a table which housed various small clay figures. There was a hallway to the right of you, and from it you could hear the faint sound of snoring. Taking a few steps forward you studied the small shelves hammered into the wall, trying to look for something that seemed to house a great deal of elemental energy. Letting your elemental sight guide you, you slowly turned around.

At the other end of the room was a small table. Upon it was a small red cushion, and upon the cushion was a mirror. The circular glass was surrounded by an emerald frame, dotted with small gems and cracked in certain spots. Though it might have appeared like an ordinary enough family heirloom you could tell that it was infused with power, a power so great it seemed to be leeching the rest of the energy around it, a black hole, warping the fragment around it. Taking a step back, afraid of it even in this imagined future, you felt the energy become even stronger, even more corrosive. Blinking slowly your eyes finally removed themselves from the scene.

Looking around at the other fragments around you, you tried for the next clear fragment. In it you found yourself wandering the streets of the village, right near the inn where you had been hiding out until recently. Although nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary initially you were soon pulled towards the rooftops. You could see a Fatui recruit, though which one you were hardly sure. Clad in black their face was a sharp contrast to the night around them, pale and twisted into a frown.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit. What am I going to tell Lord Scaramouche? Where is it? Where is the damn thing?!” Sighing the Fatui member climbed back down from the roof, something not very difficult as the building was a rather squat one. Running into the night you saw him look back once. The village was as silent as ever.

You pulled yourself back into the liminal space around you. Looking around at the various fragments scattered about you felt yourself frowning. How many there were! It would take ages to find such specific information as where the mirror was located. Letting yourself drift you closed your eyes. You would just have to pick one at random. Reaching out your hand you felt the cool shard of a fragment against your fingertips. Opening your eyes you let out a strangled sort of noise, faced with one of the darkest shards floating around you.

What you were transported too was absolute chaos, chaos and a crushing weight pressing upon you. You weren’t supposed to be seeing this, you really were supposed to be seeing this. Stumbling around you tried to focus on one thing. The noise, that was the best thing at the moment. Ignoring the flames that licked at the houses and ground around you, the fleeing people and the choking smoke, you tried to pick up on any piece of information.

“Did you manage to get it before it went up into flames?”

“Fuck, no I didn’t! Did you see that house? No one would fucking survive something like that!”

“I’m not sure if we’re going to even survive.”

“Fuck, no this isn’t how I wanted it to end. I didn’t even get a promotion.”

“You three! Stop dawdling and get out of here! We’ve already caused enough trouble.”

“The village is a goner anyways.”

“Glad it’s not, fuck, glad it’s not mine.”

The voices faded into the cacophony, quickly replaced with more unpleasant sounds.

“Mama!”

“Did you see my husband?”

“No, I have to get back in there!”

“Your books are a fucking goner.”

“Come on sweetie, you have to move. I know, it really hurts, doesn’t it? Come on sweetie, we’ll get something to make it better, but you have to move.”

Voices piled on top of one another, roaring and mixing together. Opening your eyes you stared as people rushed all around you, some covered in soot, others nursing horrific burns. The noise was louder still, the weight crushing the air out of your lungs. Clapping your hands over your ears you felt your mind start to go blank with panic. You needed to get out of here. You needed to remember how to get out of here.

A muffled sound seemed to reach above you. Looking up into the burning sky you reached towards it, almost as if you might tear through the papery-thin night back to safety. Taking a deep breath you tried to open your eyes, to go back into the space that you usually occupied. But the weight was so large, the distortion so strong, you found yourself trapped, as if in a nightmare. The sound called out again and you continued to reach towards it.

Please. Please.

“…”

 Scaramouche watched as you seemed to collapse in on yourself, tumbling out of your chair and onto the floor, barely missing the table in front of you. Your breathing was ragged, irregular, and you seemed to be trying to say something. Panic gripped the Harbinger, blood rushing to his ears. Pushing himself out of him own chair he knelt down next to you.

“Hey, hey!”

Shaking your shoulders he went to pinch your arm. You skin seemed to be cold to the point of heat, and you made no move of recognition as his nails dug into your arm. Shaking his head Scaramouche tried calling out one more time.

“Wake up. Can you hear me? Wake up!” Shaking your shoulders once more he tried to suppress the panic that seemed to be driving him, though his thoughts were in such disarray he couldn’t be entirely sure whether or not it was working. A myriad of things leapt through his mind; his plan was going to fail, the effort took in tracking you down appeared to be worthless, were you really going to die? Surely you wouldn’t. He needed you for his plans. Besides, the idea of you dying seemed somewhat terrifying, lying in stark contrast to all the other people that Scaramouche had used and thrown away. The idea of your death seemed much more visceral, much more real.

“Hey. Look at me. I told you that you never even look at me. Open your eyes and look at me. Weren’t you supposed to be blessed by the gods? You can’t even look at me.”

Scoffing Scaramouche glanced towards the tent. He was going to have to call a healer at this rate.

The sudden feeling of someone grabbing his wrist caused the Harbinger to hiss. Looking back towards you he found his eyes met with yours. You seemed to be half wild with, something. Scaramouche couldn’t tell what lay behind the look in your eyes, but it surely seemed something close to panic. Breathing heavily you let out a whisper.

“It’s going to tear you apart.”

“What are you talking about?” Scaramouche felt anger rush through him as the situation seemed to crash into him. “Is that normal? What in Teyvat happened.”

“The mirror, the thing, it’s not normal. It… it warps everything around it. I, I can’t go back again. I can’t look again, I can’t find it again. It’s too heavy; it’ll tear everything apart.”

“You’re not making any sense! Tell me, is this mirror what we’re looking for? Where is it?”

But you said nothing, instead letting your grip tighten on Scaramouche’s wrist as you stared at him. The intensity of your gaze seemed to throw cold water on the Harbinger for a moment, and he quieted down. Everything had gone unexpectedly, what was he supposed to do now? A part of him simply wanted to haul you up and push you out of his tent, towards the healers or towards your own tent he didn’t care. Another part of him however wanted to ask you if you were alright, wanted to know what had frightened you so much, wanted to know why now suddenly you were staring into his eyes, almost as if you were trying to divine his thoughts. The more you looked into the future the odder you became, and the more Scaramouche found himself unable to understand you.

“Do, do you need a healer.”

“No. Just, let me breathe, just let me breathe for a moment.”

You closed your eyes, placing one of your arms on top of your forehead. The grip on Scaramouche’s wrist lessened and you let your arm slump to the group, fingers curled slightly against your palm.

Scaramouche wasn’t sure what caused him to do such a thing, whether it was fear of you having another episode or something else. Yet before he was entirely aware of what he was doing he placed palm on top of yours, allowing it to rest there for a moment. Your hand felt warm against his, still slightly clammy from what had just passed. He couldn��t necessarily call it comfortable, but he nevertheless didn’t draw away.

Staring down at you the Harbinger wondered once more what you had seen. More than that he thought about your expression when you woke up. Expression panicked, eyes wide, gaze full of fear and urgency and something else. It seemed to be the first time you had stared him right in the face without hesitancy. Were your expressions always so intense when you looked someone directly into their eyes? It was uncomfortable, but it always also something else, intriguing, or something like that.

He wondered if you would look at him directly again. He wondered if your words were truly worth heeding. And once more he once more wondered why he, a Harbinger, would kneel in the dirt and trampled grass to make sure you woke up.

[shingekinohyrulewrites]

The Trophy

When flying back from a business trip in Poland, Kageyama Tobio finds himself seated next to a complete random stranger. He finds himself enthralled by her and the two agree to have a date when they return to Japan.

But there's a problem.

The stranger is unemployed, which completely clashes with his first class, upper class lifestyle.

Read first chapter here

Read previous chapter here

It was rare that Kageyama got nervous.

Yet here he was, sitting stiffly in his usual booth in Tokyo’s top steakhouse. You were sitting across from him, wearing a sequined dress with thigh-high slits, exposing your toned legs. Currently, you were perusing the menu, deciding what bottle to order for the both of you.

Underneath the table, Kageyama’s legs were bouncing anxiously, one hand tucked into the pocket of his slacks. His fingers were curved around the soft, velvet box causing a weight in his side and causing his chest to tighten. You were oblivious to how much of a mess he was, instead mumbling under your breath as you read the names and what they were paired best with.

“Madam, have you decided on a bottle yet?”

The waiter returned then, pen and pad in hand as he studied you intensely. You gave the waiter a sheepish look and slowly put the menu down.

“My apologies. I’m trying to figure out what wine would pair best with our meal, and I think I’ve over-thought it,” you laughed.

The waiter chuckled, shaking his head as he fixed you with a gentle smile.

“I understand, madam. Perhaps your date can help?”

Kageyama felt his cheeks go red when the pair of eyes suddenly fell on him. Clearing his throat, he tried to relax as he opened his mouth to speak.

“Bring us your most expensive bottle. We will be celebrating tonight.”

Your eyes went wide with surprise, but there was a glimmer of excitement in them.

“Yessir, right away.”

The waiter bustled off. You leaned forward, resting your chin onto your interlaced hands.

“You didn’t tell me we were celebrating tonight. Did something happen at work?”

“Er . . . not quite.”

“Oh?”

Your lips were pushed out, forming a perfect o. He was mesmerized by how absolutely cute you looked but quickly reminded himself why he was there.

“No, it’s something much more personal.”

Frowning, you cocked your head to the side, confusion evident on your face.

“Personal? You haven’t told me anything.”

Sucking in a breath, he knew that it was now or never. Reaching across the table, he gently grabbed your hand and squeezed it before interlacing your fingers. His other hand reached back into the pocket, prepared to pull out the box easily.

“These past six months have been the happiest I have ever been in my life. You taught me that life isn’t all about work and responsibilities, that it’s okay to let down my guard and just have fun. You’ve opened my eyes to the beauty of the world and I’m so much more grateful to live in it. Plus, I don’t think I’ve ever had sex this great.”

The realization of the situation began to dawn on your face, eyes going wide as saucer as your free hand flew to your mouth.

“I know I might be rushing because it’s only been half a year, but I’ve never felt this connection to anyone. My heart and soul know that I want to be with you for the rest of my life, and I want to make you my wife and always have you by my side.”

With that, he swiftly pulled out the box and kneeled down, opening it. He let out a quiet utterance of your name, pausing before he asked the question.

“Will you marry me?”

Tears began to stream quietly down your face, and you nodded frantically.

“Yes. Yes! Of course I’ll marry you!”

The waiter had arrived in the middle of it, and he held up the bottle as he announced to the steakhouse, “This couple is getting married!”

A loud cacophony of cheers rang out, people raising their glasses and shouting their congratulations to you. Kageyama carefully removed the ring from the box and slid it onto your left hand. You admired it in the lowlights, taking note of how huge the diamond was and admiring the halo of smaller diamonds around it.

“Oh my god, Kageyama, this ring is beautiful,” you breathed out.

“Only the best for you,” he beamed.

The waiter opened the bottle and quickly poured you both a glass, saying he would tell the chef to prepare the best meal on the house before rushing off. You were still in disbelief, eyes flickering down to the ring and then back to your boyfriend - fiance.

“I can’t believe you just proposed,” you blurted out.

He laughed.

“I’ve been thinking about it for a while. I just can’t explain the connection I feel towards you, but I also know that I don’t want to fight it.”

You leaned across the table, grabbing him by the front of his shirt to yank him into a kiss. He smiled into the kiss, eyes twinkling as he peered back at you.

***

“Tell me you want to be my wife.”

After dinner, you and Kageyama had rushed back to his penthouse, and it wasn’t long before your clothes had come off. You were currently laying on your back on his bed, hands tied above your head by his tie. He was kneeling over your body, eyes staring down at you dangerously full of lust. His shirt had been discarded and he had undone his belt, the button of his slacks open and revealing his upper pelvis.

Whimpering, you responded, “I can’t wait to be your wife, Tobio.”

He let out a quiet groan, closing his eyes as he replayed your words before hastily unzipping his slacks and sliding them down his legs.

“Good. Now I’m going to fuck you, dear fiance.”

Your dress was lying on the floor of the foyer, and you were currently only in panties. He slid them down your legs, bringing them to his face and sniffing them before tossing them onto the floor. Grabbing your thighs, he spread them apart further before lowering himself towards you, sloppily kissing you as one finger pushed into you.

“God, you’re so wet,” he moaned, thrusting it in slowly.

Your hips jerked up but he was quick to have his large hands push them down.

“Hm, we can’t have that now, can we?”

He had removed his finger, and you felt empty and needy.

“Please,” you begged. “Just fuck me, my fiance.”

It seemed that fiance was the word to get him going, as he thrust into you with one movement. Your fingers clawed at the sheets as you tried to adjust to his thickness. His thrusts were erratic, not having a set rhythm but instead hitting your ass cheeks hard. The lack of a pace was replaced with the strength of his movements, sending your body moving up on the bed. He lowered his face until he could kiss you, mouth moving against yours sloppily as his teeth nipped against your lips and tongue.

“Fuck, the thought of you being my wife already has me ready to cum,” he panted.

You tightened around him at his words. Moaning, he picked up the pace until he came into you, head falling into the crook of your neck. Sighing, he pressed a kiss before pulling out and shuffling away to help clean you up.

As you heard him run the sink in the bathroom, you sat up, suddenly nervous. Now that the two of you were engaged there was something you needed to talk to him about. Tobio returned then holding a damp washcloth, smiling as he gestured for you to sit at the edge of the bed. Slowly, you shuffled towards him and spread your legs again.

“Um, can I talk to you about something?”

He seemed surprised for a moment before nodding, gently rubbing the washcloth on your thighs. Sucking in a breath, you gathered some courage and began to speak.

“Now that we’re engaged, are you going to stop treating me like a secret?”

His movements froze, the water from the washcloth dripping down your cunt. Biting your lip, you studied his face as you waited for a response.

“Excuse me?”

Frowning, you pulled away from him, tugging your knees towards you.

“Tobio, you can’t deny that you’ve treated our relationship like a secret. Sure, you’ve told your friends but you framed it as more of a hookup more than anything else.”

“That is not -”

Your frown deepened and he shut his mouth.

“If we’re going to get married, you need to introduce me to the rest of your life. I only know you. I don’t know your coworkers, I don’t know your friends, hell I don’t even know your family!”

His expression had become unreadable, and you panicked for a second.

“Why haven’t you told anyone about us?”

Panic flickered across his face before it became blank again. He seemed to hesitate, putting the washcloth down as he sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

“I just didn’t want to share anything about you. I wanted to keep you to myself.”

“That sounds kind of psychotic, you know that?”

He shot you a glare.

“Look, you know the kind of life that I lead. It’s very easy for anything to be taken away from me quickly. I don’t want that with you.”

“Are you sure it’s because of that? Is it because I still haven’t gotten a job?”

Your unemployment had been a sore subject with him. He had been encouraging you to find a job from the start, offering you a job at his company before he settled for emailing you job openings from Indeed.

“I’m going to take your silence as a yes.”

You slid off the bed, bending down to retrieve your panties before walking out. Panicked, Kageyama followed after you, eyes wide as he watched you slip them on before searching for your dress.

“W-where are you going?” he asked.

“Home,” you replied bitterly.

“This is your home,” he responded, voice hurt.

“No, I have an apartment that is technically my home.”

You quickly pulled your dress on and began making your way to the elevator, pushing the button as you slid on your heels. Kageyama was now behind you, contemplating whether to stop you or just let you go.

“Think about your priorities tonight. I don’t want to marry someone who isn’t proud to have me around.”

The elevator doors slid open and you entered, pressing the button for the lobby without looking at him. As they slid closed, you tried hard to keep your resolve, but let out a quiet sob as it descended.

[kanene-yaaay-o-retorno]

The Color of my Soul(mates) [2]

[First oneshot]

[AO3 link]

Kanene’s Notes:

Nope, I do not regret the pun. New oneshot yaaaay!! Just a quick reminder that both Virgil and Patton’s mindsets are bad. They can work, of course, but only for a certain expense. Worry not. They will both start to go to a therapist and take care of themselves, even though this will not be heavily shown in the oneshots.

Warnings, fun facts, random things and stuff:

* That fanfic has Moxiety and Past Moceit and Past Virgil/Remus (no idea how it’s called dfghjdfghj) in a platonic relationship (yet), but it can be viewed as romantic, if you wish.

* Swearing, depreciative thoughts, losing someone (not death, just stopping to be soulmate), anger issues, anxious thoughts and nightmares. It’s hurt/comfort.

* [~*~]  Means passage of time

* [...] Means change in the focus of the narrative 

* This characters do not belongs to me. They all belongs to the amazing Thomas Sanders in his series of Sanders Sides.

* Something around 5.300 words. -w-)b.

* Sorry for any spelling, pontuation and grammar mistakes! Any advice is very very welcome!

* Tô com preguiça de postar a versão em português brasileiro aaaa! Thankys for reading, my lollipops! Say to someone important how much you love them, be safe, talk with the one that you love, drink water and sleep well! Byeioo!~

                          [~*~]

Loneliness is an island with missing boats.

Missing is when the moment tries to run away from the memories to happen again and can’t do it.

Memories are when, even without authorization your thinking re-presents a chapter.

-       Adriana Falcão - Meanings

[~*~]

Hey, Dee! It’s been some time, huh? Nothing really happened around here, so I have no interesting news to share today. Buut, I learned a new knock knock joke! I would finally get you to laugh with this one! It’s like that:

Me: Knock, knock.  

U: Who’s there?  

Me: Ice cream.  

U: Ice cream who?  

Me: Ice cream if you don’t let me in!

Funny, right?!

… It feels silly to continue to talk with you through those letters. I can’t-

I don’t even know where to send them! That is stup- not great.

I just… I just miss you, Dee. A lot. My uncle says that I should get your old representation out of the bed and hide it so I can start moving on, but… It feels empty, you know? Everything.

I really miss you.

Love, Heart.

[…]

“No.” 

His words echoed in his mind, the strap of his backpack slipping from his grip, his body throwing itself forward, heart jumping in the back of his throat as his steps inevitably brought him even closer to the faded green, almost white, shark plushie in front of him. 

“No.” 

He repeated, as if this was a spell able to make the scene before him change. His hands trembled and failed in touching the so loved object, a silent scream slipping from his slightly parted lips. Yet, he still tried to think of something. Anything that would erase his choices. He knew it.

He should have known. He read about it before, the butterfly effect. Any choice, any movement, any little thing you did could change drastically your future. It could make events – people – which would happen in your life just…

Disappear. 

[The stuffed animal remained quiet on his hands, it’s blank face staring superficially, not really seeing him. Not like before.]

He knew it. 

“Rat?” He knew it. He knew it. He knew, knew, knewknewknew it! “Ree?” His soul searched desperate for an answer. But he got none. No thoughts, no feelings, no small touches, no acknowledging sparks, nothing. 

That word seemed to ring unbearably in his ears. There was nothing there. Nothing except for the silence and the void which filled itself with despair at every that went by.

“This better not be a prank or this time I will throw you in the washing machine for real!” Virgil’s eyes were stinging. He should have done better, should have thought in another way or another anything. He shouldn’t have done that, he shouldn’t! 

“Ree, stop. That is not funny.” Ree actually preferred when Virgil called him Rat, and as his chest was scratched by an agonizing, crescent fear, deep down the young boy wished his soulmate would jump – his thoughts always felt like that, excited, uncontrollable jumpy frogs just playing around – from somewhere and demands Virgil called him by it. “Answer me!!”

His fingers squished the soft fabric, a short, unexpected wave of anger pleading for at least a shout of pain before Virgil realized what he was doing, immediately lighting his touch, tears shining in a sad gloom in the corner of his eyes. His breathing started to hurt.

He needed to do something.

“MOM!!”

Virgil opened his door with a strong slam, running through the wooded floor of the corridor, stumbling his way to the stairs, coming down at the highest speed he could muster. The adult figure was already standing in the living room, the Tv blasting a show in the background, probably the activity his mother was concentrating on before his cry. A frown painted her face and her dark eyes stared at the boy when he stood in front of her, holding his stuffed shark in her direction.

“Fix him!” 

[‘it’ a quiet whisper from his brain corrected his sentence.]

Her analytical eyes danced around the toy in front of her, looking for any teared fabric, any stain or hint of what happened to it, the confusion in her actions becoming more and more prominent as no visible result was found.

[And, as her analysis occurred, the quiet whisper in the back of his mind wondered if this was the original color of the shark before it became a representation of his soulmate. They were together for so long Virgil didn’t even remember what it used to look like.]

No! The boy with heterochromatic eyes firmly gritted his teeth, head shaking. This was NOT the shark’s real color. Its real color was a dark, deep, enthusiastic green full of chaotic ideas and dumb jokes and sparks and grins.

He refused to let everything end in this way.

Realization fell in her face, a soft gasp coming from her open mouth. “Oh, Virgil…”

“No, no, no! You- You need to fix him!” But her eyes… “Mom, please,” the way her arms opened to involve his small, trembling form… 

“Please, he is my best friend.”

[‘Was’]

She hugged him, cradling her fingers in his hair and lightly rocking Virgil and his sobs, her sweet words muffled by his cry. Then the younger one wiggled out of her touch, getting the plushie and running back to his room, the door slamming one more time.

He refused.

“No! No!!” He kicked his backpack, its content spreading across his carpeted floor. The shark was placed in his desk seconds before the Virgil focused his anger on his bed, throwing everything on the floor. His pillows hit the walls and the toys on his shelves. The cacophony of sounds made his head hurt, but he ignored this in order to kick and throw more things. 

Seconds, minutes, countless pieces of time passed before he stopped, panting and with stinging eyes in the middle of the room, his only possessions left untouched was his guitar and Ra- His shark stuffed animal.

Because he loves playing guitar. Because he loves Ree.

His fingers pet its soft fur, wandering in every detail, trying to burn in his soul how alive and colored it used to be before today.

Virgil felt like crying, felt like hugging his old-representation with all his might and just spent the rest of the day like this, pleading that Ree would come back and Virgil would do better and everything could be back to normal again.

But he refused.

He refused to cry like a baby. He refused to let this happen to him. He refused to be made a fool by the Soulmate System or whatever sadistic creature that observed him right now. He refused to go through all of this again. 

Ever again.

Virgil opened his closet and got up on his chair, hiding the shark on the highest shelf under a bunch of old comforts he never got to use.

They wanted him to be a Colorless? Very well, then.

[~*~]

Anger is when the dog who lives in you shows its teeth.

Sadness is a gigantic hand that squeezes your heart.

-       Adriana Falcão - Meanings

[~*~]

Hiya, Dee.

Some days are better, some are worse. 

It hurts.

But, hm, good things, right? Today was sunny and refreshing, I love when this happens. A ladybug landed in my hand yesterday, it was so small… I also found another beautiful feather when I went to the park last weekend, very fluffy and a baby on the bus smiled at me after I made some funny faces.

I hope you’re also receiving and giving some beautiful smiles there. Aunt just called me for the movie night so… See you later!

I miss-

Love, Heart.

[…]

Virgil woke up sweating. A tight feeling clutching the back of his mind. However, he managed to catch himself before his eyes opened, the back of his hand pressing them, as if to make sure they wouldn’t open against his will.

Urg… Not this again…

Virgil pressed harder the pillow curling around his head, the pressure easing the irritation as he groaned in protest, wondering how much more time it would take before he finally grew used to this routine. An annoying sensation banged rhythmically on his chest, hammering together with his heart and flying along with the butterflies on his stomach over and over again until a slightly nausea almost leaded the one in pajamas to give up and just find the nearest stuffed animal so his soulmate’s bond could finally be initiated, his representation showed up and then the exhausted teen could finally get some freaking rest  and then proceed to turn a blind eye to his soulmate for the rest of their lives.

Who would say that ignoring the Soulmate System would be so hard?

But, damn, even if this shit always came back at the right moment when the first ray of sunshine hit his face, usually Virgil had at least the freedom of the night to sleep!

His hand wandered clumsily, hitting the bean bag next to his bed and looking for the small device he always left there for the night. He sighs when his fingers make contact with the cold of his phone, quickly bringing it up to his face and making sure nothing else could get in his eye field. On the third try he succeeded to put the right password, ignoring the video shining on it and quickly lowering the brightness of his screen until it was almost nonexistent. 

Four in the morning. What the heck was his not-for-much-longer-soulmate doing up at this hour??

Ok. It didn’t matter, Virgil murmured to himself, his words slurring, completely engulfed by the fog of sleepiness which continued to involve him. It didn’t matter because Virgil was sure he would manage to win that battle, just like he did on every other occasion since Ree. Of course, he never had a perfect receipt for this, only a group of superficial orientations as focusing on something else, tossing around the mattress until the exhaustion took over his body or doing anything that guaranteed his suborn nature to fight until the bond faded away with some hours, maybe one or two days. 

However, this one was about to complete a whole week and his resolution was beginning to weaken, escaping between his fingers regardless of how much he fought to hold it with tooth and nails. The mild headache growing on him was the proof of this.

He flipped his pillow, letting its cold surface rest on his face, adjusting himself to lay starfished onto the bed. 

He needed distractions. 

Songs. He liked to listen to music a lot, something he would be very much inclined to do now if it wasn’t so late and his earphones were so far away. But, stopping to think about it, it was crazy how sounds work, like, even if they’re far away they manage to be heard. Pretty much like that weird sound captured by that boat who was only minding its business… The Bloop. Heh. The Bloop. Such a stupid name… He wondered if it was a Jurassic animal doing that and when humanity would be finally able to answer his question. If it is really an animal will they call him Bloop? That is a horrible name to give to something probably gigantic and scary… Bloop… Bloopers… blooo...

His muscles from his toes to the tip of his fingers began to relax, his breathing becoming more erratic as the trail of nonsense thoughts led him away from reality and straight to the cloak of Morpheus. Bit by bit he started to be unaware of his room. First the faint sound of his spider quietly scraping the sand on her terrarium, second the sensation of the pillow on his face, then the cold of his phone as it slipped away from his hand…

And, unsupervised by the teenager's eyes, his index finger hit the ‘play’ button on the video, and the blasting of Aquiles Priester’s drums filled the room in a hot shot, followed in the same second by Virgil’s hoarse scream. The confusion and sound making the one with heterochromatic eyes stumble to a sit position, blankets and pillows falling from him as his astonished movements tried to be coordinated enough to turn off his phone before his mother woke up and decided to know why and what her son was doing up at four-darn-morning. 

The button was hit and the silence was faster in cover the room all over again, being only broken by Virgil’s shaken gasps, his trembling fingers laying on his adulterated heartbeats, taking large, wobbly deep breaths in order to normalize it, his attention entirely focused on hearing any hint of muffled step outside his room.

In. Hold. Out.

In. Hold. Out.

He was fine. Everything was fine. 

This was only a scare.

In. Hold. Out.

In. Hold. Out.

Okay. No sound. Virgil allowed himself to fall on his bed, stretching and humming in attempts to ground him to reality, not taking too long to let the sleepiness begin to slowly crawl to his mind again, his body feeling surprisingly much lighter than it had been in days. A yawn escaped from his lips. What the hell he was doing with his cell phone anyway?

For the second time in the night his body fled to a sitting position, the sudden calm and coziness which hit his senses now having a slightly sour taste on his mouth as the teenager realized what it meant.

His soulmate bond was complete.

His gaze flew to the small pile of fabric on the floor, a glint of a sky-blue color shining amidst it. He pushed his blankets away and his breath hitched when the full form of his soulmate’s representation was shown.

Oh no. Nononono. That was- 

That wasn’t normal. Nor supposed to happen. Oh shit. Shitshitshitshit. What could he do?

Virgil dropped – carefully, even if the cold on the bottom of his stomach screamed for him to run! – the object on his bed, getting across the room and right in front of his closet in a blink of an eye. The door flung open, his gaze scrambling through all his possessions in search of that specific teddy bear his mother gave him a year ago, telling it was going to help him to heal, grabbing it firmly and plopping it next to the blue fabric calmly laying on his mattress. He bit his nails while his eyes ran from an object to another, waiting for the color to somewhat jump on the plushie, where it was supposed to go in the first place.

Virgil stared inquisitively at his pillow- no, his soulmate’s representation, as if he could scare the reality into changing itself. His fingers ran through his hair, feet pacing on the floor.

 Ok. His soulmate was a pillow. A literal pillow. That was not good.

Before he could fall on his parasitizing thoughts or hide the pillow and pretend nothing had happened, a badly muffled sound reached him, making his body freeze as his brain immediately recognized what it was:

Crying.

[...]

Before is a caterpillar who didn’t become a butterfly, yet.

Indecision is when you know very well what you want, but you think you should want another thing.

-       Adriana Falcão - Meanings

[...]

Hey, dear! Heart here again! It’s been a time, huh? I discovered a new Pet Shop nearby and a very nice old lady let me play with the puppies after school. You really should see the hamsters there! They’re the cutest, most precious soft things!!

They don’t have any snakes, sadly.

I… I hid your teddy bear and I’m getting used to not stare at the right corner of the mattress, looking for you. 

I still miss your smooth thoughts, your warmth, your advice and receipts and… you.

I think I’m getting better. The sensation is starting to feel… normal.

Remember we-

I used to-

I know you won’t really read this, but I’m trying to keep taking care of myself. 

Hooray?

Love, Heart.

[…]

Patton loved stuffed animals and this was a fact that anyone who got into his room for barely two seconds would realize. Small plushies of multicolored frogs rested on his shelves. A big polite giraffe sat on his desk, proudly showing off her new necktie and his older ones were in the closet, guarding his favorites clothes. His soulmates, of course, had a special treatment, receiving a seat on his bed, closer to him and within his research at any occasion, emergency or not.

And that was an emergency. Well…technically. 

Maybe…

Perhaps not. 

The teenager changed to a sitting position, his fingers trapping the mattress in a deadly grip, tears falling from his eyes, which was firmly focused on the moon shaped night light across his room, trying to kick out the too cold, too hot feeling the nightmare left on his skin. 

His brain felt fuzzy and his thoughts were all mushed together, way too messy to properly fight against the memories of his dream replaying on his head. The sensation of pure despair still running on his veins as the monster – tall, fast, its shadow hovering over his small form – chased him and his friends. Patton still felt his throat dry after running for what seemed hours, and for when he realized they would never manage to actually escape from it. He could feel the betrayed eyes of his loved ones as he made each one of them trip, the small period when the monster got them giving him enough time to escape, the screams ringing on his ears.

He muffled his sobs, slapping his hand on his mouth and getting up, going to his closet and grabbing his panda. It was one of the fluffiest stuffed animals he had and he could use a bit of softness right now. His steps were tired and he hid his face on the plushie even before laying on his bed again, curling around the bear as if it was the core of safeness, as if it would make all the bad thoughts and feelings go away.

As if it could erase all the nightmare and convince the part of his mind which said that if it was real life, that would be exactly what he would do, that it was wrong.

It was! It was completely wrong! Patton would never, ever, betray his friends, or hurt them, or go away when they needed most! He wouldn’t. He would fight, if it was needed. He would do his best every single time to help them! To be there. He wouldn’t just run away. He couldn’t. He couldn’t be alone. He didn’t even bear that thought.

[A part of his soul struggled, firm on its position. It kept holding into a bond that directed to another soul who kept pushing him away, both refusing to change their mind.]

Bear. Patton let go of a weak, barely audible, forced giggle, squeezing the panda on his touch tighter. Panda was a bear. Heh. His tears began to calm themselves, falling slower from the corner of his eyes, a strange and sudden wave of strange, but welcomed calmness hitting him.

A sudden warm touch laid on his forehead.

“Hey, are you okay?”

Patton gasped, his wide eyes flying open to stare at the now purple plushie on his grip.

Purple. Pandas weren’t purple. He was sure this one was always white with black dots and tiny glasses on it. Definitely not purple. Not unless it was-

Oh. 

Ohhh.

Oh no.

For a moment his breath was taken, adrenaline exploded across his body and his mind went blank, his face stumbling forward to press his lips on the panda’s forehead, a completely lack of words, especially when a flow of sentences began to appear running over themselves and leading to his very tired brain to struggle in order to try to grasp their meaning before another phrase came and took its place.

[His body seemed to relax, letting go of a ball of tension Patton didn’t even realize he had in the first place.]

“Fuck, sorry, that was pretty dumb. Of course you’re not fine, why else would you be crying? What I was trying to say is: Can you get better? No, wait! That sounded harsh and it’s definitely not what I meant- wanted to say. Ehh, shit. Okay. Uhh. Breath, okay? Breathing is a good thing. You have to breathe to stay alive so I think it’s already a good start. Keep breathing, please do not die. Oh god, wait, that is not a dangerous situation, is it? Are you in danger? Are you dying? Oh, fuck I can’t hear-”

A startled giggle made a run from Patton’s lips, making his new soulmate to be quiet.

“Urg, sorry.”

“No, no. I was not laughing at you!” He adjusted his grip so the only part touching the purple bear would be him holding one of his paws, realizing he forgot to stop hugging him earlier. “I am okay. I just… didn’t want to cry on you, sorry.”

“It’s okay. I don’t, huh, care.”

“Crazy how bonds happen nowadays.” Patton attempted a joke, feeling suddenly a bit vulnerable, internally wishing the other wouldn’t ask about the reason for his tears. “It-It’s hot today, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, with the Sun and everything.”

“Yeepp.” Patton sniffed, cleaning the tear track left on his cheeks before resting his back on the bed’s headboard, a beginning of a headache after that waterfall of emotions shining in the horizon.

“...Do you want to listen to a song? It helps me to calm down when I’m, ya know.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I’m already a bit better.”

“Ok, sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Maybe it was sleepiness or the excitement of having a new soulmate, but before he could think much more about it the hidden truth was slipping from his mouth, “I’m grounded. No phone for the week.”

“That sucks.” The teenager just shrugged, hoping his soulmate would understand the action by his movement. 

Silence impregnated the room, spreading and filling his system, his eyelashes closing bit by bit.

“I know how to play guitar. I can… play a song for you. Onlyifyouwantofcourse.” The thought was quick, quiet and disappeared as soon as it arrived, leading Patton to almost believe he imagined it.

A good feeling bloomed in his chest, a smile flourishing on his face as he held his soulmate’s free hand, carefully squeezing them in what he hoped it showed his gratitude.

“I would love to.”

“’Kay. Uh, cool. Give me a second.”

And then a few minutes later his form was engulfed by warmth. Patton let go a sigh of relief, basically melting in the so caring touch, don't having the heart - that word gave a hurtful tug in his chest - to remember his new soulmate he couldn't really hear the accords, only the shy, calming humming rumbling on his chest and lullabying them to a peaceful sleep.

[~*~]

Feeling is the language the heart uses when it needs to send a message.

-       Adriana Falcão - Meanings.

[~*~]

"How can I call you?" 

Patton stopped his voice before that old nickname got out, scratching his throat. He should try to move on, right? 

Baby steps. 

"Pat." 

"Pat?" 

"Pat-Pat!" 

Virgil rolled his eyes, denying the small smile which appeared on the corner of his mouth.

“You can call me V.”

[…]

“So, you’re a pillow.”

Patton blinked, a surprised snort filling the room. “V, I know I often say I’m soft but if you wanted to rest on me all you needed to do was ask!” He added some shadowing on some feathers, giving the drawing of the Bem-te-Vi more profundity. He was really happy he found that site about the birds of America. 

“No, I mean literally. Like… your representation is not a stuffed animal, it’s a pillow.”

“Oooh…” He blinked a few times. “I didn’t know that still happens.”

“What do you mean with ‘still happens’? This happened to you before?”

“Not with me, but I saw a video about this! Before the plushies became famous due their shape being easier to be seen as human-like, the bond would form in anything that could be quickly dyed, just like clothes, pieces of fabric, pillows… I think if they showed it to a doctor, he would describe their condition as ‘comfortable!’” Patton shook lightly the panda’s shoulder, smiling. “Uh? Got it? Comfortable? Because they’re soft?”

“Pat, that was horrible.”

“Awww, come oon.” Patton rested his chin on V’s head, forgetting his drawing for a while. “Puns are harder than knock knock jokes! You have to wait for the perfect timing to make them.” Virgil huffed. “Not even an itsy bitsy giggle?”

“Nope.”

Silence.

“Pat?”

“No. I am pouting.”

He felt a couple of pats (ha-) on his head, the touching going away in a few seconds. “You will get there some day.” The other answered his soulmate with a raspberry, giggling a bit of his own silliness before going back to his hobby. He really was planning to finish this bird today.

“The thing is… Since you’re, ya know, a pillow. I was thinking… okay, I know that this will sound weird but… I was thinking of putting some clothes on your representation so I can… try to see you better.” 

“Ah.”

“Only if you’re comfortable, sure!”

“No, no. I am! It’s just…” Patton bit his lips, lightly squeezing the shell of his ear with the hand that wasn’t holding the pencil, adjusting his body to a better sitting position. “What clothes do you have in mind? Not that I think your taste is bad or you don’t know how to choose good clothes or something like that!”

“No, it’s cool!” The thought came in the moment Patton forced himself to stop his nervous talking. “I wanted to ask you because of that, I, uh, have black t-shirts, jeans, an old grey hoodie, PJs, clothes when I was a kid, onesies, maybe I can get a dress?”

“Gasp. Do you have onesies?? Aww, I want!”

“Everyone has a onesie.” Virgil mumbled in defense, feeling his cheeks getting hot. “I have a skeleton one, a raccoon and the Toothless from How to Tra-”

“OHMYGOSH YOU HAVE TOOTHLESS!” Virgil had absolutely no idea how Pat managed to make a thought so high pitched and excited to the point the words themselves were barely understandable. “HE IS THE MOST PRECIOUS, CUTE LIL DRAGON…” and then a bunch of squeaks and mumbling took over his brain just as he has hugged and then lightly bounced before suddenly everything disappeared.

He decided it was safer to let the silence prolong itself a bit longer.

…

“Pat?”

“You might need to give me a few more minutes, kiddo.”

“You need to chill, dude.” Virgil remarked, a ray of fondness shining in his words. He gathered his onesie. It was his favorite one when he was fourteen, now it didn’t even fit on him anymore and it clearly wasn’t made to be used by a pillow, as well, but it would suffice until he thought of a better solution. “Ok. Got it, you might want to use your Blocker now.”

“Okayy, it’s somewhereeeeee...” Patton rummaged the content of his backpack, looking for the earphone-shaped object. He hadn’t the chance to buy the wireless prototype, so he struggled a few seconds to untangle the cables. “Here! So, see you in fifteen minutes?”

“Ok. If you hear or feel something just touch my arm and I will immediately stop.” 

“Right!! Bye!” Patton waved, more a habit than anything else, plugging the Blocker on his ears and the cluing its ventosa behind his head, right where his cerebellum was. A few pieces of time went by before his head became partially empty, only his thoughts filling it. He put the panda away. 

It was a strange feeling, to use this outside his school, nor parallel conversation of his classmates or a teacher’s voice filling the air to distract his attention for the fact that he couldn’t hear or feel his soulmates anymore. He hummed, wondering how Lo was and writing a self note on the corner of his paper that he should check on him later, ask for him to finish that story with the smart detective he was telling him on Sunday before Patton fell asleep due the other’s habit to keep petting his hair, probably a revenge for Patton’s constant need to hugging, holding or actively interacting with his serious soulmate’s representation, more often than not receiving fond-exasperate pokes in return.

He looked through the window, mind wandering as the wind hit the tree in his neighbor’s yard, messing with its leaves. It was a bit lonely to have your thoughts all to yourself…

But not entirely bad.

[…]

“Sooo, howz does it looks like?” The naturally excited voice asked. Virgil just pressed his hand firmer on his lips, his other arm hugging his middle. His gaze fell for what it felt the umpteen time in the blue dyed pillow before him, the sleeves of  his onesie folded inwards in a poor attempt to cut half of its original length, the ‘legs’ were criss crossed and all of this ignoring, of course, the unnatural rectangular shape of the whole thing.   

‘Like shit.’ It was his first thought, but he decided to not send it to Pat.

“Weird.”

“I am looking at my pillows right now and-” giggles, “but come ooon, it’s Toothless! There is no way it isn’t at least a bit cute!”

‘You have no neck.’ He internally panicked, looking at the few, sporadic tiny blue hearts appearing amidst the black onesie, showing the representation was getting used to the new fabric attached to it. ‘A probably-head, shoulders but no neck. It’s like a reverse freaking giraffe!’

However, Virgil decided against sharing this particular vision with the other. 

“I guess. Are you… breathing well or whatever?” His tune was a mix of nonchalant and nervous, the choice of words making him wince.

“I am. Why?”

“No. Nothing. No reason.”

“Oookay.” The teenage signed at the confusion on his soulmate’s tune, why did he had to talk in the first place or be so weird making a such big deal of something stupid like that? Urg. He stared at the blue object one more time. Damn Soulmate System. Damn destiny. Damn lack of socialization skills.

…………

But, dude, really, the guy has literally no neck here, there is NO WAY he isn’t feeling nothing because of that. Pat is probably lying because he pities him after a so horrible, futile attempt of fixing what he caused. No. Wait. He can’t just assume his soulmate is lying because of his overthinking, the other part of his brain retorted. Was he overthinking? He probably was. He always did it. Or perhaps this was a correct inkling of Pat. Soulmates were supposed to do that sort of thing after some time, right? One week was enough time? What he-

“Hey!” Pat’s thought cut his own. “Sooo, now that you can ‘see’ me a bit better… hug? You can say no if you want, sure!”

Virgil blinked one, two, three times.

“Ok. But you let go when I let go, got it?”

“Sure thing, V!” Warmth bloomed in his chest when he heard his nickname, Virgil wasn’t sure why.

He embraced the representation, feeling a bit silly, the same feeling that was fast to go away as Pat hugged him as well, firm but careful. The sensation overwhelmed his senses, but in a good way, leading the one who loved guitars and got a strange hyper fixation on drums to let go a sigh, body relaxing.

He patted Pat’s back two times before finishing the touch. “There you go.”

“Thanks! Sooo, see you later.”

“Sure thing.” He agreed, wanting nothing more than a good hot bath after so many feelings in such a small period of time. 

“uwu”

“How the fu-” 

“NO SWEARING!”

“-did you do that?”

Virgil snorted, the warmth still spreading on his chest and maybe - only maybe, - having a new soulmate wasn’t an entire bad thing.

[mythrilhusk]

Our World - Chapter One

Technoblade-centric; obligatory Greek Pantheon/The Office AU, No shipping, Not RPF

2.4k words, slightly funny (maybe?), AO3 Link, 

Features ND/Schizophrenic!Technoblade  - (Written by myself, an actually schizophrenic/neurodivergent person... Neurotypicals/Non-psychotics should not attempt this.) 

CW: Intrusive thoughts/visions/urges, auditory hallucinations

Elysium's smallest company branch rests unobtrusively in the town Oneiros, buried in some backwoods county. Technoblade reads through the list of employees once more as his taxi weaves through a mountain pass. His equipment sits on the seat beside him, while the rest of his luggage bounces in the trunk. 

Elysium's CFO, some guy named Eret, hired Techno on the spot when he came to the interview. Seemed kinda desperate, but eh, so was Technoblade. 

H's not entirely sure why they would only hire one guy to do this job. Eh, work is work, and they sure pay well enough. They're providing an apartment, too. An actual roof over his head will be nice, for however long Techno can keep the job. He bets a week, tops. 

The narrow road crests over the top of the mountain, revealing the town beneath sprawling in the valley. The Elysium office building juts out of the south side of the town, an ugly block of concrete and glass. Technoblade wrinkles his nose in disdain, silently agreeing with chat as they mock the displeasing aesthetics.  

When his taxi pulls up into the parking lot, Technoblade piles his luggage and equipment on the sidewalk before paying the driver. He adds a tip, too, though he can barely afford even that much. The driver's pale cheeks stretch in a nervous smile as he clutches the money; he's too afraid to protest the miniscule tip. Techno doesn't make an effort to smile back, too busy ignoring visions featuring the bloody crunch of the man's neck between his thirsty teeth. 

The taxi peels away, leaving Technoblade alone in the chilly mountain air. With ringing ears and a heavy huff, Techno gathers his stuff and heads into the building. 

The receptionist plays on his phone, ignoring Technoblade even when he raps his knuckles atop the boy's shaggy brown hair. "Tubbo," He grunts, recalling the appearance from the employee list. 

Tubbo starts, staring up at Techno with wary intensity, like a tiger cub encountering a wild boar for the first time. Techno smiles wryly at the boy, who must still be younger than eighteen. Chat clamors for blood, urging him with the weight of his knife, but Technoblade doesn't entertain them. 

"Technoblade." Tubbo regains his composure and holds out a hand. "I'm so glad you're finally here, big man, we've been waiting." 

"Why the rush?" Technoblade snorts, ignoring the proffered handshake. Physical contact irritates him. 

Tubbo drops his hand. "We just really like documentaries about ourselves, yeah?" 

"K." It's not his place to question a gig, although chat goes wild with suspicion. "Where am I staying?" 

"Oh, right, you'll be staying with Philza. Heh, try not to piss him off. Or do, it'll be funny." Tubbo waves to the rest of the wide room. "Phil! Your roommate's here!" 

"Fuck off, mate, I told you bastards, I don't want a fucking roommate." Techno recognizes the man who speaks as the dude in charge of customer relations: Philza. His golden hair glints with hints of fire, setting off his blue eyes, as merciless as the stars. 

Chat froths, raging for blood, blood, blood, but Techno mentally bats them away. "K, welp, I was promised boardin' with this gig. I don't really care where; just get me a place to stay." Technoblade shrugs, baring his teeth in a smile that's just south of friendly. 

Philza smiles too, showing off his fangs. Tubbo holds up his hands, saying, "Woah, woah, here. Phil, it's your turn. It's not gonna last long, anyway." 

"Heh? Turn?" Technoblade chuffs, even as the cacophony that is chat hisses, technodead, technodead, lmao, RIP- Shut up, chat, we are not dead yet. 

Philza's grin widens maliciously. "Oh, did Eret not tell you?" 

"That dude told me the bare minimum, man, I dunno, I dunno what you expected." 

"You're not the first film crew he's hired," Tubbo says with a faux apologetic shrug. Before Technoblade can protest the use of crew to describe one man, Tubbo continues with the barest hint of a smirk. "But the other ones died, just like you will." 

Technodead, technodead, EEEEEE, RIP, RIP, F, EEE, lmaooo, F, rainbowchat- "Get outta here," Techno drawls, narrowing his eyes. Not for the first time, he wishes chat had a physical embodiment he could punt. "Technoblade never dies." 

"We'll see," Philza muses, his eyes twinkling with the apathetic amusement of an ancient god toying with mortals. Hazing, that's all this is. Phil hands Technoblade a business card. "Don't be late." 

Techno scans the card, appreciating the flaming torch insignia etched into the bronze-inked paper. Ares, god of war... Chat hisses the allusion, seeming in awe of this man who has taken a god's symbol. Techno flips it over to find the address, and then raises an eyebrow at Phil. "What time?" 

Philza picks up a stack of papers from the massive copy-printer and strides back to his desk. "Before evenfall." 

Welp, that's that interaction over with. Technoblade notes how all the other office workers are studiously ignoring him. He turns to Tubbo. "Where's the boss?" 

Tubbo puffs out his cheeks and crosses his arms, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "Are you, are you going to complain to our manager, mister?" 

"Yeah," Technoblade plays along. "I'm giving you a three star review." 

"Oh, that's not bad." 

"Out of ten." 

Tubbo's visage darkens, and Techno gets an uneasy feeling like a hurricane is about to hit. The feeling passes, though, as Tubbo pouts. "I deserve more than that, man! Give me six stars, at least!" 

"Tell ya what, if you show me where the regional manager's office is, I'll raise my review to seven stars." 

"Done!" Tubbo cries, and points to an inconspicuous pair of doors on the other end of the room. "One leads to Manager Puffy, the other leads to Manager Schlatt. Choose wisely, good sir." 

Techno hums approvingly, then draws out his pad of stickers from his coat pocket. Tubbo's eyes widen and he gasps, bouncing excitedly as Techno sticks a sparkly gold star to his forehead. "Good work, nerd." 

Tubbo just stammers, plopping back into his chair with a blissful expression. Heh. Stickers work every time. Chat begs for stickers of their own, beg to be called nerds, beg for even a little taste of blood, but they don't deserve any rewards after being so bad all day. 

Techno strides over to the managers' office doors. Each has a whiteboard on the front, with various scribbles over them. One has a fluffy sheep, and says in swirly script, //The captain is IN//. The other has various dicks doodled on it, and the only word written is, //Candice//. Chat breaks down in immature giggles. Technoblade opts for the former. 

He knocks politely. A woman's voice replies, "Enter." 

Opening the door, Technoblade scans the room. There's a full bookshelf covering one wall, and a low bureau across the opposite. A bay window sheds light across the manager's desk, tinted by the grey-green curtains. 

A woman rises from her chair, her expression hidden by the sunlight behind her. Her waves of hair-- half brown and half silver-- sparkle with the dewdrop diamonds haphazardly woven in. 

"District Manager Puffy?" Technoblade bobs his head to her. 

"Call me Captain Puffy," Puffy replies, and her teeth glint in a wild smile as she tosses her head. "You're the new film crew Eret hired?" 

"Uhh, apparently." Technoblade appreciates that she doesn't hold out her hand to greet him. "He never specified what kind of film he wanted, though, so-" 

"Don't worry about that," Puffy tuts, "I'll give you instructions when you're settled in." 

"K." Technoblade can respect this kind of person. Chat has been subdued and pouting for the past few minutes by his refusal to give them any sort of attention. He takes mercy on them and stares at the model ships on the bureau, letting them coo over the complexity and aesthetic. 

"Uh, Mister Blade?" Puffy's voice intrudes on his appreciation of the ships. 

"Just Techno is fine." Techno refuses to look away from the ships, since they're keeping chat happy for the moment. 

"You'll be assigned a desk tomorrow, and you'll be given tasks around the office to, to acclimate and get to know your coworkers. Later, you can start filming random candid moments. We want a sort of documentary detailing our office lifestyle." Puffy hands a paper flyer to Techno. 

Glancing through it, Techno frowns. "What exactly does Elysium sell?" 

"We need a better PR team, which is why we've hired you. Elysium strives for the betterment of lives and the strengthening of minds." Puffy completely fails to answer the question. Chat calls her a sussy baahka, and Techno shoots a pointed glare at the bookshelves. He's definitely not giving chat any stickers tonight. 

Puffy seems ready to dismiss him, so Techno bobs his head once more to her and opens the door. A strange noise, like the crashing of waves against a rocky shore, resonates through the air, halting him. Her eyes snap wide, glittering with something cold and unforgiving, yet somehow comforting and protective. "Pray to your god for mercy and it shall be given." 

Technoblade chuckles, smothering the fire lit behind his eyes. "I'm kinda an atheist, Brizo; if there are any gods out there, they'll be begging me for mercy." He realizes too late that his extensive knowledge of the ancient Greek religion has escaped his tongue. Chat screams with excitement as they put together the allusions to the referenced spirit, Brizo, patron of sailors and prophecy. What a bunch of nerds. 

Captain Puffy stares at him, her smile twinkling: sun rays piercing through storm clouds. "Of course, Hades." 

Technoblade smiles back at the retort-- he's always been partial to the god of wealth-- and he bobs his head in deference to her once more. Any fellow partaker of old stories easily gets put in his good book. Puffy bows back, and Technoblade takes that as his cue to leave. He closes the door behind him.  

Spotting the break room, Techno makes his way towards it, weaving through the desks. He pulls out his last, wrinkly dollar and slips it into the vending machine, then selects one of the bags of cookies. Sitting down with it, he inspects the coworker who's followed him in. "Tommy, right?" 

The youth-- the sole employee in HR-- scowls, his ocean-blue eyes narrowing with scorn. "Who the fuck do you think you are, Technoblade??" 

"Heh?" The teen's aggressive tone sets him on edge: hands itching and teeth aching and eyes burning for blood, blood, blood- no. No more of that. "Tommy, I just, I just got here? What are you upset at me for?" 

"I'm just askin', Techno. Who do you think you are?" Tommy juts his chin out challengingly. "There can only be one boss man here." 

"You wanna be the boss?" Technoblade rips open the bag of cookies. 

"Well, obviously." 

"Best me in single combat and we'll see." Technoblade is only jesting, of course. Even if the kid agreed to the fight, it would be unfair. 

"Yes! Meet me in the parking lot in thirty minutes, idiot, and I'll fuckin' wipe the pavement with your ugly face!!" Tommy whoops and skips out of the break room before Techno can explain he was only joking. 

Great. He's going to be fired for challenging a coworker to a fight, now. This will officially become the shortest job he's ever held, beating his last record by three hours. Technoblade munches his cookies and refuses to listen to chat as they bully him for making such a mess of his last chance. 

When he's finished his cookies, Technoblade goes down to the parking lot, figuring that if he's going to be fired, he'd better do it in style. 

Tommy waits for him, the breeze whipping through his blond hair. "No weapons, no magic, just me an' you, Technoblade." 

"K." Technoblade shrugs, not seeing any point to telling the teen that magic doesn't actually exist. It was probably a sort of ironic joke, anyway. 

Tubbo stands on the sidewalk, cheering for Tommy. Another teen leans on the wall behind Tubbo, seeming paler than should really be healthy, with a mop of black hair covering their ears. 

"En garde!" Tommy cries and leaps to punch Techno.

Swaying to avoid the blow, Techno jabs Tommy in the gut with his knuckles. The youth staggers back, face distorted in pain. Technoblade remains relaxed, raising his hands. "Feel free to back out any time." 

"Fuck you!" Tommy roars and charges, fists flailing. The picture of waves recklessly dashing themselves against an implacable cliff comes to mind. 

Technoblade deflects the first fist and takes the wrist of the followup, twisting his arm behind his back. Tommy shrieks in rage and attempts to rip his arm away. Techno releases him and steps forward. "Sorry, but you ain't winnin' this." 

"I will fucking end you!" Tommy once more flies into the fray. 

Technoblade decides to go slightly harder on him. He sends Tommy stumbling with a single smack to his shoulder. When Tommy tries to flail fists at him again, Techno trips the boy. Tommy's back slams into the pavement, air whoofing out of his lungs. 

"Y-you fuckin'-" Tommy wheezes for air. "I will not lose to you-" 

"Looks like it's too late for that," Technoblade chuffs, watching the boy as he struggles to his feet. 

Tommy sneers at him. "I, I'm feeling fuckin' merciful today. I won't kill you this time." 

"I suppose I can return the favor." Technoblade smirks. He turns his back on Tommy to rub in how little of a threat the teen is. Not that Tommy will understand the gesture, but it boosts Techno's ego and makes chat jeer. 

Tubbo and the other youth, a sales rep by the name of Ranboo, stride over. "That was sick!" Ranboo cries, eyes aflame with hero-worship as he stares at Technoblade. 

Tubbo smiles implacably as he pulls Tommy to his feet. "Win next time, big guy. I lost five dollars to Ranboo on that." 

"Fuck you, Ranboo," Tommy snarls, clinging to Tubbo's arm even as he's standing. "Bet on me, next time!" 

"But you lost! I think that's pretty funny." Ranboo glances back up at the windows of the office. Several pairs of eyes seem to be peering down. Great. An audience to Technoblade's last few moments of employment. 

Tommy grumbles as he storms to the doors, "I'll fucking beat you next time, Techno, see if I don't!" 

The phrasing seems odd, in that it implies Technoblade isn't about to be fired for beating up his teenage coworker. 

[skullrock]

the partners, chapter nine - Steve x Reader

chapter nine - hand in glove 

series summary: you and Steve are police apprentices at Hawkins Police Station in the fall of 1986. you get along famously, but there’s something Steve is hiding, and there is an unknown evil lurking in Hawkins. [friends to lovers, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff]

chapter summary: You and Steve attempt to escape the base, which goes a bit easier - and a bit worse - than imagined. 

warnings: swearing, violence, mentions of blood, punching, etc

word count: 4.1k

a/n: here’s the Spotify playlist that goes with the series, and you can catch up here. we have FANART NOW folks and I have literally not stopped crying over it!! pls go give Andy some love <3 please lmk your thoughts on this chapter! we are almost done bois! love u! also - phrases in italics = memories! 

===

As if would turn out, sneaking around a secret Russian base with a concussion was not very easy.

You were taken out almost immediately just by the lights out in the Interrogation Hub. Steve kept watch as you bent over and squeezed your eyes shut, trying to find an angle that didn’t make your ribs ache. His hand stayed on your back the entire time, rubbing it in attempt to comfort you.

“I know it’s not fun,” he says.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” you whisper, but Steve gently guides you to start walking. He knows if you don’t keep going, you’re not going to make it. And he’d like to take you on a date after all of this.

“We gotta find … walkie… first,” you remind, and Steve nods.

“I have the plan, just relax.”

“Sometimes I forget you’re not totally helpless.”

“You’re on thin ice, Y/N.”

The halls are as deserted as they were when you arrived, much to your relief. It was easy to keep walking, but not easy to know where you were going. It felt like you and Steve were walking in constant circles, and Steve’s anxiety rose each time they walked into another stark white hallway. The sound of voices down the hall forced you both to take refuge in a random room, Steve’s fists raised to fight in case anyone was inside. But it was bare – and full of everything you needed.

On the far wall was a control board, which was in front of a huge wall of screens. You could look and see all of the security cameras on them. This would be helpful if it weren’t for the fact that there were easily 75 screens, and each room looked exactly the same. In the middle of the room was a long table, and there sat your knife, walkie, and gun.

“This seems too easy,” Steve mumbles, fists lowering.

“Maybe the author is taking it easy on us,” you mutter, leaning heavily into him. Your head spins and hurts, your chest aches when you breathe. You don’t remember ever being so miserable, and you want nothing more than to break down and cry. And sleep. Thankfully, the adrenaline keeps your ass in gear, spurring you to keep going.

“God, you’re really concussed,” Steve says. He leads you slowly to a chair at the table and you slowly sit, reveling in the feeling of being grounded. Steve picks up the walkie and hesitantly turns it on.

“Uh, this is –“

He doesn’t even finish before a cacophony of voices scream from the box, making you groan loudly. Steve hisses and turns the volume down before growling, “One at a time! Over!”

“We thought you guys died,” you hear Mike say. “We thought you guys were dead! Over!”

“Steve, are you okay?” Robin asks. “Where’s Y/N?”

You reach up and pry the walkie from Steve’s hands. “This is Juliet. Have you called Owens?”

“Yeah, like, two hours ago,” you hear Lucas say. “Joyce is losing her shit.”

“Guys, please don’t forget to say over,” you hear Mike groan somewhere in the background.

“Is he on his way?” You ask. “We could really use the help.”

“Mom went to meet them at the station, we had to fill her in,” Will says.

“We’re here with her,” Dustin says. “He should be here any minute!”

Steve snatches the walkie from you. “We don’t have time to waste. We don’t know how to get out of here, and Y/N isn’t doing so hot.”

“It’s Juliet,” you say weakly. Steve pinches the bridge of his nose and looks at you like you’re an idiot – but there’s still some love in his eyes, too.

“Look, if Mike wasn’t so fucking sure that we should use code names, then I wouldn’t –“

“We don’t know how to get out,” Steve continues into the radio. “We’re in those tunnels that the Demodogs were travelling through.”

“The ones from last season?!” Max asks.

“Yes, those –“

A song of voices rings out again, this time sounding confused and shocked. You slip away as Steve attempts to explain everything quickly. You head over to the opposite side of the room, away from the screens, and find a series of desks. The desks have things like pencils and protractors on them, and you squint. One desk has what looks like a blueprint on it. Stepping forward, you grab the paper, revealing another set of plans underneath. They’re maps.

“Found something,” you say weakly, and Steve strides over. You hand him one of the more legible plans – architecture and design is not your forte, nor is it his. It’s staggering, the number of tunnels, the number of hubs, all running underneath Hawkins. There were miles and miles of them, and your stomach dropped. These tunnels had been fully functioning as a Russian base for more than a year, and the people put in office to protect you allowed it.

But another realization hits you after that, sending your stomach to your toes: If you’re not close to the exit, you won’t make it.

The rooms are written out in Russian, but you can get a sense of where you are, and you can tell where you had come from. The interrogation hub was clearly marked out, as it had about a dozen rooms within it. You had only gone maybe three hubs and hallways from it, and Steve points out a closet marked with a camera – that’s probably where you were. The exit is on the very far end of the tunnels, where the bar is on the other side of town. You were about ten hubs away from it.

“Closer than we thought,” Steve mumbles, and you scrunch your nose.

“Ten hubs is going to take like, forty five minutes to clear. And we are….” You gesture to yourself and then to him.

“Yeah, it’ll suck, but we can do it,” he says. “I’ve been through worse.”

“Congrats.”

“You get so mouthy when you’re concussed, you know that?”

“I get mouthy when I am about to die, Steve, thanks.”

Steve rolls his eyes and lifts the walkie-talkie back to his mouth. “We’ve got a map. We’re kind of close to the exit through the bar. We’re going to go for it and keep you updated. Over.”

You grab the walkie from him weakly. “Make sure they know we’re down here, yeah? Don’t want to get mowed down by bullets.”

“Got it. Standing by,” Dustin says.

“Going off walkie, talk soon, over.”

Steve takes the walkie back, which is good, because every word that comes out of your mouth makes your head spin and stomach lurch. You grab the gun and knife.

“Woah, hey,” he says, gently grabbing your wrist. “Don’t think you can shoot that in your state.”

“My gun,” you whisper. “Keeping it.”

Steve knows realistically he probably couldn’t shoot a gun right now. He’s keeping cool and positive on the outside, but he’s screaming bloody murder on the inside. He’s terrified to lose you. He knows you’re not doing well; he can see the miserable look behind your eyes, how you wince with each step, how labored your breathing is from the pain. He has no idea how you’re going to make it, other than through sheer willpower - which he knows you possess. Steve also feels like his heart is ricocheting through his body. Every look at you reminds him of things he should have said or did. Every look reminds him of how much he loves you, how much he fucked up.

Yeah, he probably couldn’t shoot a gun right now. Neither could you. But someone should have one. He makes a mental note of where it is on you, tucked into your waistband and sitting on your waist, in case he needs to use it on your behalf.

You carefully put the knife into your garter again and give a thumbs up. Steve’s hand grips the map and he clips the walkie to his uniform before sighing heavily and leading you into the hallway.

You’re met immediately by five people in uniforms similar to Steve’s. You both freeze, eyes wide. Steve’s about to grab your gun but the men simply nod and continue. Steve breathes out a sigh of relief and he takes your hands behind your back to create the impression that he’s taking you somewhere.

“They’re morons,” Steve says to you. “Idiots.”

You make it through two hubs carefully and without incident, but each step is starting to feel like a death march for you. You try to act strong so that Steve doesn’t freak, but you’re almost positive you’re about to collapse.

You enter the third hub. Steve lifts the walkie. “This is – us – we are heading into the third hub right n-“

He’s cut off by the lights turning red and an alarm blaring. You begin to drop to the floor at the noise but Steve grabs you around the waist, holding you steady. “Shit.”

“What’s going on?” Robin asks through the radio.

“Is Owen’s here?” Steve asks. “Or –“

“They know we’re missing,” you answer for him. “They’re looking for us.”

Steve throws his head back, and if he had a free hand, he would run it aggressively through his hair. He straightens you with his arm still around your waist and lifts the walkie back up. “We’ve got company!”

“He should be here any minute!” Robin stresses, and you can hear the panic in her voice. “Hide, or –“

“Yeah, got it, Rob,” he says harshly into the radio. “Stand by.”

Steve clips the radio to himself and uses both hands to steady you, still gripping the map. He turns you to look at him. You’re not sure if you’ve ever seen him look so serious.

“I know you don’t think you have it in you, but you do, okay?” he says sternly. “We have to get out of here. I’ll help you, just –“

“I can’t,” you whisper, emotions rolling through you heavily. Your eyes well up with tears. “Please, just go –“

“No,” he says, gripping onto your shoulders. “I’m not leaving here without you, understand? You’re coming with me. You’re my partner, remember? We don’t leave each other behind.”

You groan and squeeze your eyes shut to stop the tears. “If we live through this, I’m going to kill you.”

He quirks a smile and quickly says, “I think you mean kiss,” before guiding you towards the next hallway.

The bad news – the hallway is stocked full of Russians in uniforms who are looking for you both.

The good news – there are so many of them that they cannot tell that you and Steve are, in fact, you and Steve.

The next bad news – you and Steve are split up almost immediately.

One guard shouts at Steve and grabs you from him – he must assume you’re another prisoner. The guard escorts you roughly down the hallway and you look back at Steve, eyes wide, matching his. He tries to shout after the man who has you, but the other shouting and chaos in the hallway drowns him out. You were expecting to get shot and killed, but this is somehow way worse.

Steve tries to push through the crowd, but he is physically unable; it’s a small hallway, after all. The panic rises in him and he tries to calm himself down, tries to watch where you’re being taken, but it’s so god damn dim and red and he can’t differentiate between anyone. Suddenly, he’s being pushed with the rest in the direction you both just came from, as you head the other way.

Luckily for you, you still have the gun. And although you are tripping over yourself, even though the feeling of the guard’s fingers digging into your bruised skin hurts, you can still remember how to use it. The guard takes you into an empty hallway and heads for one of the rooms off of it, letting go of you briefly to unlock it with his card. You move quickly, grabbing the gun from your waistband and lifting it.

This one puts up a fight, much unlike the young man you encountered before. A scuttle ensues as he grabs your forearms, attempting to throw you to the ground. You plant your feet though, and the sheer adrenaline helps you rip your arm from his grip and slam the pistol down onto his head. He drops and you lean against the wall, catching your breath.

If you didn’t feel like you were going to die before, you definitely feel it now.  

You give yourself a moment to catch your breath and push off of the wall. You can slightly remember the path you had taken to get here, and you attempt to retrace your steps. You know there’s no point in trying to find Steve. Not only can he hold himself – probably – but there’s no way in hell you could take care of yourself andfind him. You walk aimlessly, using the wall for support, stopping every so often to steady yourself. You’re thankful for the dim red lights, even if they flash. It’s better than the stark white you were working with.

You’re also thankful that the guards are somewhere else, because the empty hallways help you navigate quicker than you would otherwise.

Stepping gingerly, you continue your path, simply hoping something familiar comes up or, by some miracle, Steve finds you. Your heart hurts that you didn’t get to tell him one last time that you love him. Fear grips you – what if he dies without knowing? But he probably does know, and he’s probably very smug about it, and the thought of that dumb, smug smile helps you continue to put one foot in front of the other.

You enter a new hallway. Stopping momentarily to catch your breath and rest, you lean against the wall. Your eyes close and you want nothing more than to just sleep. Just a quick nap. Just a –

Someone grabs you roughly and throws you to the floor before you can finish your thought. Your head slams against the tile and you see stars, nothing but stars against a black background. Your ears ring and you weakly reach up to protect yourself, but you’re lifted and slammed against the wall.

“Steve?” you slur stupidly, remembering what happened the last time you both found each other.

The laugh that answers confirms that this is not Steve – it’s Edwards.

“Got split up?” he asks, and he throws you against the wall again, making you cry out.

“A bit,” you reply weakly. You try to knee him, but your leg only lifts about two inches before it falls back down.

Edwards grabs your jaw and jerks it so that you look at him – or, well, face him. You couldn’t open your eyes from the pain.

“You kids have been a pain in my ass since you first started,” he says, and a punch to the stomach sends you careening backwards. You black out for just a moment and he throws you to the floor.

You’re pretty okay with your fate at this point. It hurts, you don’t have Steve, Steve could be dead – this is okay, you think. You’re at peace with it. You just hope it comes quick. You curl into the fetal position, wincing at the pain in your stomach and ribs, and wait for the fatal blow or bullet to come.

“Only wish your boyfriend could be here to watch,” he says, and you hear the gun cock.

He’s not my boyfriend, you think. Not yet.

“Any last words?”

Typical, you think. You open your mouth to respond, but someone responds for you.

“Go to hell.”

Steve’s fist makes contact with Edwards’ nose, a sickening crunch ringing through the air. In shock, Edwards drops his gun, before swinging at Steve. Steve dodges it and throws another fist, which collides with Edwards’ jaw. Edwards manages to grab Steve and throw him down, but Steve pulls him down, too. They struggle with each other, fists being thrown every which way, and you hear the contact from your position on the floor. You are impressed with Steve’s good timing, impressed with his sick-ass comeback, impressed with his punches.

But here’s the thing – you know Steve’s track record. You also know now that Edwards is a sick fucking sociopath with a few tricks up his sleeve. You need to help Steve or you’re both dead.

You pick yourself up off the floor with all the energy you have left and grab the pistol from your waistband.

“It’s simple, really,” Edwards said. “First, make sure safety is off.”

You click the safety off.

“Make sure your feet are planted firmly. Good position is key.”

You plant your feet, one slightly in front of the other.

“Have good posture. Keep your shoulders back and chin up. Don’t take your eyes off of the target.”

You roll your shoulders back and straighten as best as you can, despite the protests from your ribcage. You force your eyes open wide, focusing on Edwards, who is still scuttling with Steve. He’s a moving target, and you’re not sure if you’re going to hit Steve or him, but you still line the gun up with Edwards’ figure.

“Be ready for the recoil – it’ll hurt if you’re not prepped,” Edwards said, making sure to straighten your arms as you focused on the target. “Keep your arms straight as an arrow.”

You straighten your arms, gun held out in front of you, trained on Edwards’ figure. Steve shoves Edwards off of him and he flies backwards, giving you a bit of separation. You train the gun and your eyes on him.

“Take a deep breath,” Edwards had instructed. “And then shoot.”

You take a deep breath. Edwards flies back towards Steve and you force yourself to keep your eyes open as you shoot.

The shot rings through the air.

At first, Steve thinks he’s the one who’s been hit, and he gasps, eyes squeezed shut. He waits for the pain, but it never comes. He slowly opens his eyes to find Edwards on the floor, shot in the shoulder. He’s alive – and fine – but stunned into silence. Steve’s brows furrow, confusion surging through him, until he hears the gun hit the tile, you dropping right after it.

Steve runs for you, holding you tightly against his chest. You just saved his life, twice in one night. The appreciation, the adoration, the horror, the love all travels through his veins at once, and tears run down his face without Steve even realizing.

You are simply spent – there’s no way you’re going to keep going after this.

“You okay?” you whisper.

Steve is, miraculously, fine. None of Edwards’ punches landed, and he got Edwards pretty good, too. He laughs softly in disbelief. “Never been better,” he says dryly. “You?”

Your eyes meet his and the look in them tells him what you need to say. You can’t keep going. You have to stay back. You have to wait for Owens.

But Steve knows that can’t happen. If you’re left alone, you’ll fall asleep, and honestly, who knows what will happen after that? It’s not an option to leave you behind – it never was.

Steve quickly scrambles to get the map out of his pocket. He unfolds it and points. “Look, we’re so close, Y/N, so close. The exit is right there – we can make it, come on!”

He attempts to lift you, but you cry out, so he slowly lowers you back down. Edwards groans from behind you and Steve turns to him, snapping, “I’ll shoot you if you so much as twitch.”

Steve looks back to you, his eyes searching yours. You think he looks so handsome down here in the red lighting. Your hand reaches to his face and you cup it again. “Go ahead.”

“No.” Steve licks his lips and gently grabs your shoulders. “You didn’t owe me a damn thing, and you came for me, and you stayed for me. I will never be able to return that favor, but I can try, right now. I’m not leaving you. You’re not dying down here.”

“Steve,” you mumble.

“Y/N, you have to get up,” he pleads, voice cracking. “I only got to love you for a few hours, and I – I want to spend the rest of my life doing that. But I can’t do that when you’re dead, okay? Or – I guess I could, it would just be really sad –“

“Steve,” you repeat.

“I’m going to take you on the best dates,” he continues. “I’m going to take you everywhere you have ever wanted to go. I will take you to see the National Parks, I’ll take you to that stupid candy themed amusement park in Oklahoma. You always wanted to go to it, right? I’ll take you to the Empire State Building, I’ll take you to Hollywood, I don’t care. I’ll cook for you, I’ll bake you danishes every single day for the rest of your life –“

“I don’t like danishes.”

He laughs sadly and cups your face. “I know, I know, but you haven’t tried one of mine yet, remember? I’ll cookfor you, I’ll take you on picnics, just – please, please, get up. Please let me love you for the time we have left.”

As one of your coworkers had said before, Only love makes you that crazy – and that damn stupid. This apparently applies to near-death experiences as well, because you are able to pull yourself to your feet. The thought of loving you was enough to get you through the last few hubs and hallways. Steve made sure to kick Edwards on the way out, threatening him once more. He won’t die down there – he’ll die after rotting in prison, and that’s a better fate.

Steve carries most of your weight, one of your arms draped over his broad shoulders as he uses his free hand to hold the map. Every time you’d slow down or falter, Steve would promise you something else to keep you moving.

“They’re making a sequel to Back to the Future, and I’ll take you to every viewing.”

“I’ll buy a polaroid and take nice pictures of you every single day.” He pauses. “Well, try to, I don’t know much about photography.”

“I’ll buy you the coffee and pastries every Monday.”

Each promise sends a bit more energy through you. It’s not so much that you want these things to happen to badly that it keeps you going. It’s that Steve gives such a shit that he’d do these things with you. It’s that Steve loves you, and you love him, and he was right – a couple hours of love isn’t enough for you. You want more. You want the cuddles, the kisses, the fights, the sleepovers. You want it all – and that’s what keeps you going.

Steve’s talking into the walkie at certain intervals, keeping the gang updated on what’s going on. You block these intermissions out, instead focusing on how your shoes look on the tile. Before you know it, you’re pushed into an elevator, the same one you rode when you came for Steve. Your vision starts to falter now, and you hear Steve talking, but you can’t make it out.

“Almost there, we’re almost there,” he comforts. “Just a few more minutes.”

The bar is, at this point, deserted and closed down. Steve’s thankful of the absence of bodies as he exits the elevator, you gripping onto him for your life.

“Dustin, Rob, we’re out,” he breathes into the radio. “We’re –“

You decide to clock out right here. You made it – that’s all you could do. You made it out from the underground, and now you’re officially done. You give in to the comfort of unconsciousness and fall to the ground, Steve unable to catch you from how fast you moved.

Dates be damned. You’re out.

Steve drops beside you, his fingers immediately going to your wrist to check your pulse. It’s weak and slow, and he starts to lightly pat your face. “Y/N, come on, don’t do this, wake up!”

When you don’t stir, Steve goes into freak-out mode. He grabs the radio and begs for Robin, Mike, anyone to call an ambulance. His fingers don’t leave your wrist and he doesn’t leave your side for even a second. In only a few minutes, Owens and his troops appear, pushing past Steve and you on the ground and heading straight to the elevators. Joyce is with Owens, and she runs to Steve, kneeling and immediately wrapping her arms around his shoulders.

“Are you okay?” she asks, her mother reflexes kicking in. “Are – are you hurt?”

“She needs an ambulance,” Steve cries, wiping his nose with his sleeve. “Please, she needs to get to a hospital, I don’t know how much time –“

Robin and Dustin appear now, stress and worry gripping their features. They both lunge for Steve, who is now caught in a group-hug, while he holds your hand tightly. Two men with a stretcher appear next, lifting you off the ground, and Steve hugs everyone back for a split moment before running off to join you in the ambulance. He knows he shouldn’t, he knows there are questions he needs to answer, but his first priority is you, his partner, and he’s not leaving your side.

The medics ask him questions about his own state, and he gives one-word answers and shrugs. He’s fine, physically, but he’s pretty sure he will take up Owen’s standing offer for therapy after all of this. Steve doesn’t leave your side even as you arrive at the hospital, running alongside your stretcher.

A woman appears beside him, holding a clipboard. “Relation to the patient?”

Steve’s brows furrow and he quickly answers, “Relation? I – she’s my partner.”

You wake up momentarily just to hear that, and you let out an “aww” before slipping back under. Steve is stopped in front of two double doors, left with the promise that he could see you once they check your vitals and make sure you’re stabilized. He slides down the wall and sits on the cool linoleum floor, still in his authentic Russian uniform. The silence in the hall is deafening and startling for him.

He wishes he could hear your voice.

===

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[fangirlxwritesx67]

Looking For A Black Cat

Chapter 1, 1000 words. Sam x Rowena, side of Dean.  Memory loss, cute animals, and fluff. 

Your name is Sam Winchester. You are a soldier who lost your memory in a battlefield injury. It is Wednesday, so you volunteer at the animal shelter today. 

The electronic voice was coming from his bedside table. Sam blinked awake but wasn’t ready to move yet. In 5 minutes, the message repeated. This time, he rolled over and silenced the phone as his bare feet hit the cold floor. 

Muscle memory got him through his morning routine, showering and shaving. He pulled on jeans and then stood for a long time in front of his closet. So many shirts, all of them plaid flannels in different colors. How was he supposed to choose? Did they mean something? 

Your breakfast smoothie is in the refrigerator in the kitchen. 

His phone broke into the choppy swirl of his thoughts. He grabbed a shirt at random and buttoned it up before heading downstairs and to the kitchen. The smoothie was good, fruity and green. 

He was washing out the reusable bottle when the phone spoke again. Apparently he really had his mornings on a schedule. 

It is time to leave the house. It is time for your shift at the animal shelter. Directions are saved in your GPS.

Sam flicked over to the maps app and let the electronic voice guide him. When he got to the animal shelter, he was greeted by a tall, graceful black woman. Thick curls framed her beautiful face, and she smiled broadly when she saw him. Billie was the name that his brain supplied. She gave him a list of tasks that needed to be done: animals to be fed, cages to be cleaned. 

“And then when you’re done, it’s playtime. It’s a nice fall day, so you can take the dogs out to the yard. You know which ones can be paired up for some exercise.”

Sam looked at her, eyes wide, He felt like this was something he should know, but could not remember. Billie watched him for a moment before she nodded.

“One of those days, huh?” She pointed to a drawer in a filing cabinet that he had not noticed before. His name was on the front, and when he opened it, he found a neatly organized row of folders with a notebook in the front. 

It looked like he kept records on the animals in the shelter, writing down the characteristics that might help them get adopted. The notebook had page after page of carefully detailed notes about which dogs he had taken outside when, what training or play they had done, and which ones got along together.

“Ah, got it.” He lifted the notebook and gave Billie a hesitant smile. 

As he walked into the back, he was greeted with a cacophony of whines and barks, even a few eager mews. The scent hit his nose at once: fur, meaty food, cleaner, and other animal smells. When he stepped to the first cage in the row, the dog greeted him eagerly. 

Sam felt something in his shoulders loosen, a burden he had not realized he was carrying lighten just a little. These animals knew him, trusted him, and counted on him to care for them. They didn’t ask hard questions or expect him to know things he couldn’t remember. They were just happy to see him. 

He took time with each animal as he fed them, making good use of his notebook. He wrote down details of their looks and characteristics, the things that would help him pitch the dogs to a prospective family. 

When all the dogs had received individual care, Sam moved on to the room where the cats were kept. Cats were more fickle, unpredictable. They didn’t all respond to the same kind of attention. He took it as a challenge, each feline a puzzle to unlock, to figure out what kind of love they liked best. 

Some cats were overtly affectionate, some chatty, and of course the kittens were always fun. But one cat remained a mystery, even to him. Mamacita was an aging female calico, with a beautiful fur pattern, but marked by hard years. Sam could see the care notes on the cage and recognized his own handwriting: a list of things the cat did not like. It was a long list. Still, he stopped to sweet talk the old girl, and was met with a hiss and a baleful glance. 

Then he returned to the dogs and began to take them outside. The yard at the animal shelter wasn’t big, but it was green grass and sunshine. The dogs liked the exercise, and so did he. His body, trained for fighting, needed to work, to move. 

The last dogs he took out for the day were two that stayed in adjoining cages. “A bonded pair,” his notebook said. They were happy to be outside, but more interested in one another than in any of his toys or tricks. Something about the two of them, seeing them together, made him smile. 

Once the dogs were all back in their cages, Sam sat down with his notebook to record what he had done that day. He was still writing when Billie said goodbye, leaving him alone for the last hour of the day. 

He looked up when the door opened. A petite woman stepped in, the afternoon light brightening her red hair to flame. When she saw his welcoming smile, her eyes lit up.

“I’m Rowena,” she introduced herself in a lilting voice.  “I’m looking for a black cat.” 

She was beautiful, commanding, and he was stricken with the desire to give her whatever she wanted. Unfortunately, all he had to show her that day was a litter of kittens, one of which was mostly black, but had white socks. She smiled fondly as she played with the kittens for a moment, but then she turned to him and shook her head.

“These are kittens, playful, floofy. I need a cat. You know, a mysterious, elegant creature.”

Sam couldn’t help thinking that those words described her as well, but he didn’t have the cat for her. She left, but not before promising to come back again.

He continued to think about her long after she was gone. There was something oddly familiar about her. He wondered if she had come in looking for a cat before. He recalled the look on her face when she saw him. 

Did they know one another? Try as he might, he couldn’t remember meeting her before that day. He hoped he would remember her.

Stay tuned for 4 or 5 more chapters of this story!

Thanks to @mskathywriteswords​ for the preread and encouraging me to see where this story goes! 

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Dean Curious: @adoptdontshoppets​​ @awesomesusiebstuff​​ @deangirl7695​​ @deans-baby-momma​​  @mrsjenniferwinchester​​ @stoneyggirl​​ @wayward-gypsy​​ @winchesterxfamilybusiness​​

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