#maybe. maybe it's a helpless effort to stick to the past. or. no. fuck that other thought i'll forget abt it

[suashii]

୨♡୧ GOT ME LOOKING FOR ATTENTION! — how they react to you being needy.

featuring. itoshi rin, shidou ryusei, nagi seishiro, barou shoei.

warnings. f!reader, f!masturbation, dacryphilia, marking, pet names (pretty lady, good girl). all characters written 18+.

note! it's my first time writing barou so please be kind! enjoy (≧∀≦)

₊˚ପ⊹ ITOSHI RIN

it's a day before rin was expected to return home and instead of telling you about his early arrival, he figured he'd try to surprise you. though, when he opens the door to the apartment, you aren't at your usual spot on the couch. he worries that you might not be home, until he hears it—a pitchy whine coming from down the hall. he follows the sound that leads him to the bedroom where the door is slightly ajar, enough for the moans to spill from the gap.

rin pushes the door open with his foot, revealing your figure on the bed. it's a lewd sight; on your knees with your legs spread, fingers stuffed in your dripping cunt in a chase for that sweet spot you can't quite reach. still, you pump them with fervor in search of blissful relief. it takes a moment for you to notice the man's presence and turn to him with teary eyes.

a gasp catches in your throat at the late recognition. your call of his name comes out wobbly. "rin?"

a tear falls past your lashes as you blink, rolls down your cheek and drips from your jawline. rin thinks it must be a little fucked up that seeing you in such a state turns him on. it makes his pants feel tighter, lights glowing embers beneath his skin. he figures that, maybe, he should inquire about the watery look in your eyes.

"why are you crying?"

"it's not the same," you reveal, turning your gaze down. you chew at the inside of you cheek, contemplating on if you should elaborate. though, when you drag your eyes back up, it's like his teal stare compels you to continue. "y'know... as when you do it."

rin didn't think his ego could get any bigger but you have a knack for feeding it. the confession goes straight to his dick and as much as he'd love to sit and savor your helplessness for just a little longer, there's a way address both your needs while still having a bit of fun with you.

"i'm here now," rin tells you, closing the distance between you. he wipes another stray tear from your cheek. "so, why don't you ask for my help?"

₊˚ପ⊹ SHIDOU RYUSEI

your breath tickles shidou's collarbone as you let out yet another discontent sigh that borders a whimper. with a drink in one hand and the other settled on your waist, shidou glances down at you. it's a rare sight to see you so clingy; usually he's the one sticking to you like glue. but now, there's a sparkle of want in your eyes as you toy with the buttons of his shirt, fingers threatening to unfasten them.

"a little touchy there, huh?" shidou says with a grin. he wouldn't mind putting a little bit of his naked chest on display but it's unlike you be so forward at events like these—ones where anyone can see. "thought you preferred when we maintained decorum at these types of things."

"you know i don't want to be here," you respond, a soft pout punctuating your words.

oh, does he know. you'd been even more touchy while the two of you were getting ready earlier. the length of your nails grazed the curves of his abdomen as you straddled him, your clothed cunt hovering just above the growing tent in his boxers. leaving a wet kiss on the pulse of his neck, you rolled your hips, grinding down on his bulge. releasing the lip you had pulled between your teeth, a tempting offer fell from your lips. "can't we just forget about this one? i think we'd have more fun here anyway."

if weren't for his manager warning him that another absence would be the woman's last straw, shidou would have given in and stayed home to please your every desire—lapped and slurped at you until you came on his tongue and fucked you until you did the same around his cock.

though, in an effort to stop himself from burning any more bridges in the industry, he chose to attend with a needy girlfriend and a painfully hard cock.

lifting his glass, fuchsia eyes flit to the watch wrapped around his wrist.

"twenty more minutes, pretty lady." shidou dips his head down so his lips are ghosting yours. the airiness of his voice sends shivers down your spine, causes goosebumps to raise on your arms. "and i'll be happy to take care of you."

₊˚ପ⊹ NAGI SEISHIRO

nagi isn't usually distracted so easily when he's playing games. he pays his phone little mind, so much so that people begin to worry when he doesn't text back after a couple of hours. sometimes he's focused to the extent that he forgets to eat until he can hear his stomach growling.

the one exception and his favorite distraction is you.

he doesn't mind when you shimmy your way between him and his controller, latching onto him like a clingy koala bear. he'll rest his chin on the top your head and let you be. that much was meant to be the plan today when you took your place on his lap but you seemed to have something else in mind if the kisses you left trailing up his neck were any evidence.

they were easy enough to ignore at first but the soft feel of your lips against his skin eventually turned into wet, open-mouthed kisses—the kind where you suck and nip at him. each bruising kiss you leave behind chips away at nagi's focus. though, much to your dismay, his caramel eyes stay glued to the screen ahead of him.

you were almost sure he would have given in by now, picked up on the heavy hints you were so clearly dropping. you suppose his cluelessness is one of his many charms and you certainly don't mind having to speak up if it get you what you want.

"sei," you draw out the syllable, curling your fingers around the wisps of snowy hair at the nape of his neck, "wouldn't you rather play with me?"

the purr of your voice and the implication behind your words makes him still for a moment, long enough for little health his character had to dwindle, prompting the game over screen. he doesn't seem to see his failure and if he does he's made it apparent that he doesn't care.

finally, you're the focus of his gaze. nagi abandons the controller in favor resting his hands on your hips. his hold on you is firm and when you meet his eye, you can feel your heart jump in your chest. it isn't so often that you witness this side of him—the one where he greed is palpable. that and his next words light a flame within you.

"what did you have in mind?"

₊˚ପ⊹ BAROU SHOEI

there's something endearing, captivating, about watching barou practice. his moves are fluid yet forceful and they can't help but remind you of another activity that you'd describe the same way. it's even more difficult to not make the connection as you watch his chest heave and beads of sweat drip down from his hairline.

the image makes your mind wander to thoughts of you beneath him, mouth open wide and nails running down his back as he pounds into you, hitting that sensitive spot he's sure will make you come undone. you rub your thighs together at the thought in a feeble attempt to alleviate the pressure between your legs. it does little to help and you imagine there's only one thing that can.

"hey."

you blink at the call of your name, eyes focusing on barou at the barrier between the field and the stands. he beckons you over with two fingers, he other hand wiping away the perspiration that dampens his face. picking up the water bottle you had refilled for him, you scurry over to meet him.

your gaze follows the bottle as barou brings it to his mouth. you watch his adam's apple bob up and down with each swallow before your eyes drag up to see his lips wrapped around the spout. the scene before you transforms again, this time to one where it's your nipple between his lips. you squeeze your thighs together, crossing one arm over your chest. when you speak, your voice comes out a little squeakier than usual. "almost done?"

barou shakes his head. "still got half an hour."

"half an hour?" you repeat, eyes widening and lips curling down into a frown.

barou isn't stupid. just like you've been watching him, he's had his eyes on you. he's seen how you've been looking at him with that far away gaze of yours and he knows exactly where your mind had gone in those moments. after all, you're doing a pretty poor job of hiding it.

"be a good girl and wait," he tells you, tipping your chin up so you're looking him in the eye. his crimson stare is hard but there's something else behind it—hunger. "then i'll give you what you want."

thanks for reading! consider commenting or reblogging if you enjoyed ❤︎

[the-magpie-collective]

Let's talk about how Ulder Ravengard was having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad year when he finally runs into Wyll, for the first time in seven years, and his son is now definitely maybe sort of a devil?

Look, D&D cannon is absolutely wild and inconsistent but I need ya'll to know approximately how many horrible things befell Ulder Ravengard in the few months right before the events of Baldur's Gate 3.

Ulder Ravengard goes to Elturel. This is fairly normal. He often had to travel as a Duke for diplomatic reasons to nearby cities. Sure, the Vanthampurs' had their fingers pulling the strings this time to ensure he went, but that is also, unfortunately, normal. And it's not like anyone else can go in his place. Who would he send? Portyr whose only use is as a windsock? Stelmane who is suffering from the long term effects of a "stroke"? Vanthampur?

(Portyr, Stelmane, and Vanthampur being the other four dukes at the time)

So he goes and it's supposed to just be another diplomatic trip to a neighboring city. Except exactly nothing goes to plan. The Vanthampurs have made an alliance with devils and a deal with the leaders of Elturel to orchestrate the fall of the entire city into Avernus. Ulder Ravengard is there with several of the Flaming Fist when the entire city is plunged into hell. And no, Avernus is not some sort of cushy vacation spot. There's a reason why Karlach would rather die than go back. There's a reason why it is called hell.

It's not hard to imagine he watches many of the Flaming Fist get slaughtered. People he's worked with for years, maybe even decades. People he called friends. Not hard to think that he watches innocents suffer as they are preyed upon by devils and demons, children slaughtered in the streets all while he is helpless to stop it from happening. It's not out of the question to think this is possibly one of the worst times in his life. Oh, Ulder Ravengard has been through numerous disasters before. He's watched countless friends die. But when has he ever been so helpless as the time he was caught in an entire city of relative innocents as it is dragged down to the hells?

It gets worse.

You see, Ulder Ravengard is put into a catatonic state by the Demon Lord Baphomet using the the Helm of Torm's sight. The Helm of Torm's sight is a holy item that allows the user to commune with Torm (god of Duty, Loyalty, etc). In a last ditch effort to save the city of Elturel, Ulder Ravengard attempted to get to the Helm in the hopes that it could be used to fight back. Instead he gets to watch as his hope is perverted and used against him. He gets to see himself fall helpless and under control of the demon while his men are slaughtered in the attack.

We don't know how Ulder Ravengard escapes this situation (*cough* play Descent into Avernus *cough*) but somehow he does. After weeks of fighting in the hells (maybe even months?) and narrowly escaping with his life and mind intact Ulder Ravengard is hurrying back to Baldur's Gate as quickly as he can. He knows the city is in danger, whether the Vanthampurs' succeeded at seizing power or not. And on the way home he gets ambushed by fucking goblins and drow working together. He gets to see as some of the few survivors who made it through their time in Avernus with him, get killed. He gets to see his close friend and advisor Counselor Florrick get trapped in a burning building.

Then he's kept imprisoned, and likely harassed, in the dungeons of Moonrise towers. All he hears is 'the Absolute' this and 'the Absolute' that. Then what does he know but apparently the mastermind behind this whole thing is fucking Gortash, the slimy counselor he has spent the past while doing his best to ignore because even if he didn't like him and thought most of his ideas were bad he couldn't actually do anything to get rid of him. And then Orin—a fucking Bhaalspawn—uses him for a chair while Ketheric Thorm goes on a whiny oh-woe-is-me rant and Gortash sticks a tadpole in his eye all while mocking him.

He then gets to spend the next while under control of the Absolute. We don't know how unpleasant this is, but we do know that when the Absolute controls someone directly their brain starts bleeding so severely they collapse and die after less than a minute :) and when he's finally freed from the Absolute he has chronic migraines so yeah not fucking pleasant :)))))

And then his son rescues him. Yay. His son who he strove to teach right from wrong all those years. His son to whom he imparted the four pillars: strategy, courage, justice, insight. His son, who, despite everything he has ever taught him chose to throw all of his promise away to a devil. And he doesn't know why and maybe he hopes that there was a good reason behind it all, but he does know that he lost any chance he had to ever be able to fully trust his son again because he doesn't know the terms of the pact and he can't know the full terms of the pact but he does know that his son is now under the control of a devil.

And please just take a moment to think about how terrifying that would be. This isn't something that an 'I'm sorry' can fix. Wyll says it himself: it would be easier to drink the Chionthar down, drop by drop, than to break a devil's pact. The chances of Wyll ever being freed from his pact are slim to none and the damage he could do in the mean time is immeasurable. Ulder Ravengard has the weight of an entire city's well being on his shoulders. I am not saying he made the right choice, but there is a reason why Wyll says it was the only choice he could make. He told Wyll to go. Maybe out of shame, maybe out of fear, maybe out of the hope that his son would do less damage far away than if he were to stay. We don't know why. Maybe he regretted it, maybe he never looked back.

But he's been having one of the worst fucking years of his life and most of it is due either directly to devils or to people conspiring with devils. His mind has been scraped raw by the Absolute. He's injured and if you broke Wyll's pact he was just attacked by another devil and exploding spiders. If you didn't break Wyll's pact, he just saw evidence that Wyll is still in leagues with a devil, after all Mizora states very clearly that she always fulfills her promises as she saves him.

Oh and if you didn't kill Karlach, Wyll is a devil now (*techinically he is still human, just with some devilish features and will be regonized as infernal in origin by the spell Detect Good and Evil, but Ulder Ravengard doesn't have the insight to game mechanics that we have and may or may not be aware that Wyll turning into a devil is a lot less probable than him just being made to look like one.)

So maybe, it's just a little understandable that instead of greeting Wyll with joy or gratitude at being saved the first thing he thinks, the only thing he can think of is: what fresh hell is he in for now?

(And maybe ya'll can be a little more understanding of Wyll choosing to forgive his father too. I don't think it's out of character for Wyll. I don't think he's ignoring everything wrong with what his father did. I don't think Wyll is a bad person for choosing to forgive his father or that anger would have been the right choice for him. It's far, far more complicated than that.)

[yandere-daydreams]

I think you’ve written about darlings with amnesia, but there could be something fun about a yandere with amnesia. Maybe it was an accident, maybe the darling had a potion or magic trick up their sleeve, but either way the yandere has no idea who the darling is anymore. The darling’s first instinct is to get the hell away, but once they see how helpless the yandere is... Maybe they can rebuild the relationship into a healthier one, maybe history doesn’t have to repeat itself. (Fun fact: history repeats itself.)

tw - unhealthy relationships, codependence, past physical/financial abuse, mentions of injury, obsessive mindsets.

I think pity has a lot to do with, especially if you're the one who (purposefully or otherwise) left them in such a vulnerable state. You might've hit them over the head in an attempt to knock them out, slipped a little too much rat poison into their wine, tried to get away and fucked up and, in a fit of panic, called an ambulance and lied to the paramedics about why your controlling spouse is bleeding out on the kitchen floor. You don't love them anymore, but you did, once, and you've spent so long pretending to be just as loving and just as obedient as they've trained you to be. It's hard to just... let that go, even if you were trying to escape.

And, when they wake confused, in pain, surrounded by doctors and bright lights and familiar faces they can't quite remember, you have to feel guilty, too. You've gotten used to cruel sneers, cruel words, cruel hands around your neck and cruel reminders that they own you, so their new, soft smile catches you off-guard, as does their hesitance, their mild-mannerisms, how often they apologize for not being able to remember your name or who you are or why they married you, not that you're eager to remind them. They thank you genuinely when you agree to take them home, since they can't seem to remember their address, and when they try to hug you, to kiss your cheek, to hold your hands, they're so shy, so timid, so quick to pull away and stutter over an apology, it's hard to believe they're the same person who once striped you down, tied you up, and left alone in the guest bedroom, exposed and sobbing, until you were willing to apologize for saying you wished you'd never met them. It's hard to rationalize. It's hard to tell yourself that they're the person who made your life into a living hell when they're so clearly not, anymore.

So, you tell yourself you'll stick around, for a while. You're still financially dependent on them and their overwhelming, seemingly-endless fortune, and they're still dependent on you and your ability to differentiate between long-lost relatives and opportunistic scumbags. They still get disoriented, sometimes, forget to take their medication and wander off in the middle of cooking, or doing laundry, or some other common, household task that they never even would've tried to take on themself, a few months ago, and they're so much better, now, more than happy to let you sleep in a separate room, willing not to ask why you hold your breathe whenever they raise a hand a little too high or move a little too quickly. They're sweet. It's easy to be around them, even if it's still not easy to let yourself be around them. They seem to want to make things up to you, even if they don't know they have anything to make up for, just yet.

They mean well. They haven't told you, haven't found the right words to say it out loud, but they appreciate you, they're grateful, and they're beginning to see why they fell in love with you, too. You're so gentle, so patient with them, and you stay, even when you don't have to, even when you're so clearly uncomfortable with staying in their home and spending their money and letting them cling to you when they wake up in the middle of the night, screaming and in agonizing pain, too busy trying not to sob to care that you're shaking, too. You're taking care of them. You say you're just helping them get back on their feet, that you can't stay forever, but they think you're wrong. They think you're taking care of them. They know that you care about them.

And they think it'd be nice if they got to take care of you, too. Just for a little while, obviously. Just until they feel like they've repaid you, given you back all of the time and effort and love you've given them.

Just until they feel like they're ready to let you go.

[after-witch]

Close to My Heart [Baby Mine Part 3] [Yandere Overhaul x Reader]

Title: Close to My Heart [Baby Mine Part 3] [Yandere Overhaul x Reader]

Synopsis: He’s drugging you again. The bastard. 

Word Count:

Notes: yandere, stockholm syndrome, medical/drug content

He’s drugging you again. The bastard. The world is too much--too bright, too empty, too heavy and thick. The drugs he’s giving you make you sleepy, slow, heavy. 

And the room you’re in is so empty. Bare walls and a bed and an overhead light. The familiarity--scenes of years ago, of weeks spent in a room just like this one--is gutting. You miss the side table next to your bed with your books and notepad; you miss glancing into your daughter’s bedroom before walking downstairs to get a glass of water in the middle of the night. You miss your daughter. 

You don’t know how long these things have been gone, only that they are gone, leaving you with nothing in their stead.

Nothing but him, anyway.

He’s sitting on the end of your bed again. Staring down at you, mask on, eyes piercing even through the heaviness surrounding you. Your arms aren’t restrained anymore, but every time you move, it’s clear why he isn’t bothering: with all the drowsy-inducing sedatives built up in your system, you couldn’t muster an effective attack even if you tried.

And you’ve tried.

“How are you feeling?”

The same questions, every morning.

You press your lips together and smack them. Your throat is dry. You hope he brought your water cup. It’s the least he could do.

“Where’s my daughter?” You say, finally, voice dry and hoarse.

He doesn’t miss a beat.

“She’s safe. How are you feeling?”

“Let me see her.”

He shakes his head, a small, imperceptible motion.

“Not until you’re better. How are you feeling?”

His voice never loses its smooth, authoritative edge. You can’t say you missed this, missed the way he talked down to you like you were some weak little thing that doesn’t know right from wrong.

You lean back on your elbows, forcing your head to lift up enough to look him in the eyes. You try to muster an expression of disdain, but you don’t know if it’s registering anywhere but your own mind.

“Like shit. Fuck you, by the way.” You can’t help but take the tiniest bits of satisfaction where you can, and it doesn’t matter that your voice is hoarse and your arms are trembling and that you’re drugged to shit, because it gets a reaction fro him.

A small reaction, but still. His lips purse in a frown.

“Dear,” he says, oh-so-disappointed. “Your language.”

You let your arms give way, falling back against the pillow with a laugh that hurts your chest. Potty mouth, you think, I’m such a potty mouth. What did you read one time, some novel set in the American Midwest--better put a dollar in the swear jar.

“Stop being difficult.”

You snort.

Your head stays where it is, eyes following him as he retrieves a tray he set on the only other piece of furniture in the room: a bolted down chair, padded like a marshmallow. You’ve been tempted to point it out, tempted to ask him if he thinks you’ll try to smash your head open on a normal chair--why not pad your bed then, too? But he might just stick you in a straightjacket or something equally restricting if you so much as make a joke about harming yourself, so you don’t.

A rumbling, empty feeling in your stomach, the scratchiness of your dry throat, destroys any temptation to goad him more. He’s not above making you wait for food if you’re being testy, though you don’t think he’d go so far as to actually starve you. Just deprive you a bit, like he has a few times this week. So you force yourself to simply sit quietly and watch as he brings the tray to your bed, unfolding the little legs and placing it down in front of you.

He lifts up the cup of lukewarm water, a large blue cup you recognize from the kitchen. The little white straw peaking out of the top bounces around until you catch it with your lips. You barely listen to his words--’just a few sips, dear’--and try to ignore the tight, tingly feeling all this gives you.

Prickling humiliation, vaguely colored with childhood memories of hospital stays that made you feel helpless and alone, washes over you every time he gives you something to eat or drink. He always insists on holding the cup, on making you use a thin plastic straw--small sips only. He cuts up your food into tiny bites and only gives you a plastic spoon to eat with.

You dimly remember him feeding you thin broth some time ago, spoon knocking against your teeth every time you moved your head; but that was when your sedative dose was higher and stronger and you were so conked out of your mind that you kept calling him a doctor.

But you’ve graduated to rice and overcooked, bland vegetable that you can eat with a spoon. You know who he is, all the time, which honestly makes things a bit worse than when your stuffy mind thought he was someone else. Hooray.

Your fingers tremble as you press your spoon against the lumpy mash of vegetables. You can’t decide if he’s overcooking them on purpose or if he simply stinks at cooking now, having surely been years out of practice. They look even lumpier than normal, covered in a thick sauce; you bite down the urge to snarkily ask him if the sodium content from such a sauce is appropriate for your delicate health.

You’ve been his little home chef for how long now? Whipping up desserts and dinners like it was your profession. Whipping them up with a smile. And, before the birth of your daughter changed everything, whipping them up with a bright anxiety brimming underneath--anxiety for his approval. Did he like it? Was it too salty? The rice was cooked fine, wasn’t it?

And it wasn’t just the food, no. You’d wanted to please him in everything. In the way you cleaned, in the way you dressed, in the way you tried to soothe him after he’d clearly had a rough day while you sat at home, comparatively comfortable, reading books or fussing with the kitchen curtains again.

But true, honest (disgusting, dark, deep-seated) thoughts of pleasing him have been the furthest thing from your mind for years now. You allowed only the vainest of surface pleasantries to remain, for the sake of pretense, for the sake of getting away with the loving act long enough to get the two of you as far away as possible. Long enough to see yourself and your daughter free and happy, creating a new life--somewhere. Anywhere.

Well, look at you now.

A tear drips down onto your tray, running past your lips, warm and salty. The sight of the tear mingled with the smushed vegetables does it, brings you over the edge, and your shoulders shake helplessly as you begin to cry. You can already feel the exhaustion sweeping over you--the mere act of sitting up and crying and feeling something, feeling something so sad, means you’ll be out like a light soon. Your emotions feel so muted lately--the sedatives?--and when you do feel them, it’s so, so tiring.

His gloved hand brushes your cheek, brushes at your tear, and flinch away. You stare at the floor, white, bare. Rugs are a tripping hazard, you assume. Or maybe he wants to drive you crazy with all the light colors, the creams and eggshells and just-barely-there pale greys. 

You sigh, and look back at your tray. Your stomach demands it, so you lift up a spoonful of muddy-colored vegetables and take a bite. Despite your best efforts, the plastic spoon clinks against your teeth anyway. On your next bite, you go slower, steadying your hands--sometimes he insists on feeding you himself, if you mess up enough. You don’t think you have the energy left today to deal with that. So you eat, slow. Carefully. He doesn’t speak, simply watching as the plate of food, the vegetables and rice, slowly disappear inside you.

The sauce is salty and the vegetables are mush, but the rice is fine and you only wish there was more of it so you could stomach the vegetables more readily.

When you’re done, he holds the cup again, positioning the straw near your lips. You sip a little faster, greedy and thirsty, until there’s nothing left inside.

His eyes practically light up at the empty tray, and as he’s taking it away you leans in closer, whispering through his mask, “Good girl.”

Your stomach churns. Maybe the vegetables had gone bad. Or maybe hearing him voice praise that would have made your heart flutter before is making you feel sick.

After he sets the tray to the side, he takes his place--this time not at the end of your bed, but on the side, unnervingly close to you. You watch as he slides his hands behind his ears, slipping off his mask and setting it down on top of your bedspread.

But then he just… watches you.

You’re about to ask him what he wants, tell him to just spit it out already, tell him to fuck off if he’s just going to be a creeper who stares at you, when you feel something. Something different. A blooming, a wave, a strange feeling coming from inside your skin. Bone-deep, blood-deep.

And it’s then that you realize that he’s drugged the food with something new. Something strong. Something that does more than make you sleepy, like the stuff he injects into your arm.

Oh the fucker. Fucker, fucker, fucker. You feel it taking effect like a slow-going tide, radiating through your body. Tingles, light and airy, taking all of the sadness and stress and hate balled up inside you; soaking them up like a towel, until all that’s left inside you is a blissful feeling of forced relaxation.

“What did you do?” You ask, though it comes out as a whisper. Your head lolls a bit to the side. Was your pillow always so soft? You blink away that thought, try to focus on what’s happening: he put more drugs in the food, he put something in the food that’s not just to make you sleep and now your body is tingling.

He takes your hands in his--you dimly realize that you should pull away, but why bother? His grip helps your hands feel less floaty, anyway--and gives a firm squeeze.

“I know you’re still in there. That… untoward behavior with our daughter, none of that was really you.”

You smile. There’s a brief flicker of lightness in his eyes, but when you speak it flies away.

“You don’t know me,” you say, voice free of the snark and bite from earlier, but clearly grating to his ears all the same. 

Chisaki leans forward, and in your relaxed state you don’t attempt to move away. You simply register the closeness and focus on the way your body, your mind, is slowly deflating.

He squeezes your hands tighter. Too tight. They won’t float away, for sure.

“We’ve lived together for years. We’ve shared the same bed. We have a child together. You think I don’t know you?”

You whine--you don’t mean to, not necessarily, but your chest and lungs and throat aren’t cooperating. They’re too light for the sound you wanted to make, a guttural low sound from somewhere inside. Instead it comes across as childish and helpless and you suppose, that’s what you are.

“Lived together…” You laugh, shaking your head against the soft pillow. “But you kidnapped me.” He did, didn’t he, all those years ago. From a life you barely remember, especially right now; from people whose faces are scrubbed from your memory by time and trauma.

His fingers are stroking your hands now. It feels nice--it almost tickles. But the softness of the strokes, the way they tickle the tops of your hands, contrasts against his voice, firm, controlled, a touch of anger brushing underneath.

“I gave you a home. I indulged you in your interests, your hobbies, however silly. I gave you a family. Don’t act ungrateful.”

“M’not,” you mumble, reflexive more than reflecting. Trying to think about what he’s saying is hard, and getting harder by the minute. The tingling has now draped over your head and your thoughts are wrapped in cotton, thick and fluffy. You wish he’d talk softer. Everything else is calm, and the edge of something dark in his voice feels amplified a thousandfold.

“Look at me.” His voice is still too harsh. Maybe you should pet his hands to see if it helps, like it helped yours stay intact.

Before you can do anything, he speaks again.

“Don’t you love our daughter?”

Your head turns too quickly to look up at him, and you’re dizzy, but the words tumble out of your hoarse throat anyway.

“Yes. Oh, yes. You know I do.”

You may not remember the faces of others (your mother, your friends, your mother) but you remember your daughter’s face. Clear as a bell. Bright. You want to be with her so badly.

Another firm squeeze of your fingers. You squeeze back--hopefully it will bring him down to your level, to the cotton and balloons.

“Then why don’t you want to be with her?”

Why is he asking such a mean question? Your lips curl downwards in an unintentional childish mimic of a frown. They feel thick, almost numb, as you half-blubber out the words.

“I do want to be with her, but you won’t let me.”

His hands leave yours--you almost want to reach out, but they lay almost limp on your stomach--and he cradles your cheek instead. There’s warmth on your cheek and you realize that he’s taken his gloves off. Ah. Maybe your squeeze worked, after all; he only takes off his gloves when he’s happy, when he’s comfortable. When he wants to comfort you. 

Fuzzy memories of crying into his shoulder, of weeping openly on a bed in a long-forgotten room, mingled with the sensation of his bare skin against yours. Always soft, comforting. Enduring. Something you could rely on to release the pressure of your emotions and bring you back down.

“Because you’re unwell,” he whispers, voice as soft as the cotton wrapped around your thoughts. “You’re so unwell.”

The way he brushes his hand against your forehead feels nice. Maybe you’re sick, after all. 

You don’t even think about the words before you speak them, instinctual questions now going right from your surface thoughts to your voice and out your mouth.

“If I get better, can I see her?”

There’s a hand cradling your cheek again, and this time, you lean your face into the warmth. There’s that spark in his eyes again, but this time the look doesn’t melt away because of your ill-timed comment. You press your lips together to keep it that way, lest the thoughts flying out your brain make him upset again.

You feel so nice, like this, like you’re wrapped in the softest blankets in the world and there’s nothing, no hardness, no anger, no sadness, holding you down and making you cry. Just him and you and the warmth radiating throughout your body.

Why cry, when his hand is right here, when your body is so tingled and relaxed. Why cry, when all you can think about is how nice you feel, how calm he is, how calm you are.

Why cry, when the next words he speaks make your heart thud against your chest in pure, body-lifting joy.

“Of course you can.”

His hand trails along your chin, cupping it in a way that makes your stomach flutter.

“Now that I’ve found the right medicine for your… disposition, we can start the rest of your treatment right away.”

What he says should scare you. But there’s no room left in your body for anything but forced content and fuzzy softness and the smallest hint of deja vu, a wispy little thing cupping its hands and yelling warnings that you brush away with a smile.

[inyourwildestdreamslove]

Tell Me No Secrets: Chapter 9

Pairing: Steve Harrington X Reader X Billy Hargrove

Begins in Season 2.

Summary: You thought you escaped the world of science experiments and torture when you walk out of that lab. However, high school has other plans, somehow you end up as unlikely friends and love interests to the two most desired boys in school. Not to mention monsters from another dimension and a little girl named El from your past that just won’t seem to leave you alone. Maybe that lab wasn’t as bad as you thought, at least there people left you alone.

Masterlist

Chapter 9: The Captured

The trees are a blur as the car roars forward. The bewildered and angry faces of Dustin and Steve in the rearview mirror sparks a twinge of guilt. It’s better this way though, they don’t need to be involved. It’s bad enough that Max and Billy are involved. Groaning as the two men in the car pull out behind Billy but in front of Steve. You can feel how startled Steve is and his growing panic as he realizes what’s happening. 

Billy glances behind him and growls out, “Friends of yours?” 

“Something like that…” you say absentmindedly as you assess the situation behind you. 

Realizing that they have far more information than you would like punches you in the gut as town quickly approaches. 

You make a decision.

“Pull over.”

The order hangs in the air. 

“Are you crazy?!” Max yells, pulling herself forward in the seat, “They’ll catch you!”

“That’s the point,” you say emotionlessly as you regard her. 

“No!”

“What is going on here!?” Billy yells angrily beside you.

“They’re going to take her!” Max screams turning to Billy, “You can’t stop! She’s going to give herself up to save us!”

“Fuck that,” Billy says as he revs the engine and makes an abrupt turn to the right. The car behind you all skids but makes the turn at the last minute. 

“You need to let me do this,” you say calmly. 

“Like Hell I do!” he says rage in his voice. 

You huff in annoyance, “They will succeed, if not today, someday.”

“Then it’s not going to be today,” Billy says, taking another abrupt turn trying to throw them off your trail. 

“You need to let me do this,” you say matter of factly.

The alleyway you find yourselves in is a dead end. Billy curses and slams his hands on the steering wheel as you get out of the car. 

“No!” Max yells as you exit the car, Billy reaching for you a moment too late. 

You turn to the men, each of them pointing a gun at you. Steve pulls up behind them a moment later and grabs his bat from the back seat. 

“Steve… Don’t…” you murmur tiredly. 

“They can’t have you!” Steve yells.

“It’s okay…” you soothe them.

“So you’re coming quietly?” questions one of the men. 

“Yes.”

“Good choice,” the other murmurs as he pulls the trigger. 

The panic from those around you is palpable as you fall to the floor the dart sticking out of your neck. Steve and Billy make to run towards you before they turn to the men and to rush them. 

With the last of your strength your message echoes in their minds, “Don’t forget…”

***

Horror fills them as they watch her fall to the ground. Her eyes roll back into her head and everything goes silent before the rush of rage brings everyone snapping back to reality. Billy pulls back and punches the nearest man as a tranquilizer dart flies towards him. Steve falls next his bat rolling uselessly to the side. Max and Dustin panic and scream as they rush to Steve and Billy. 

Max whips around in just enough time to see the two men haul her up and throw her limp body in the back seat of the car. Methodically, as if kidnapping is second nature to these monsters, they move Steve’s car. Dustin is struggling to pull Steve out of the way. 

Max cries out in sadness, feeling helpless, as her friend vanished from sight around the bend. She’s left with her unconscious brother and a panicking Dustin.

“What do we do!?” Yells Dustin snapping Max from her shock.

“I don’t know!” She yells back, anger masking her fear. 

“We have to do something!” Dustin yells as he paces back and forth. He would periodically rake his fingers through his hair. 

“Like what!?” Max screeches back fists flying to her side in rage and frustration.

With no small amount of effort the two preteens drag their older and heavier brother figures into Billy’s car. The two young men are slumped together unceremoniously in the back seat as Max takes the wheel of Billy’s car. 

“Are you sure about this?” Dustin asks, hesitation clear in his voice. The memory of the last time Max drove clear in his mind.

“Zoomer. Remember?,” She says pointing at herself in confidence, “Besides, you didn’t die last time,” she says flipping her hair over her shoulder.

“It was dark last time! No one was on the road! It’s the middle of the morning!” Dustin argues crossing his arms.

“Stop being such a baby! It’ll be fine!” She exclaims, frustration seeping into her voice. 

With that, she starts up the car and nervously pulls out onto the road. Slowly the preteens make their way to the police station. Not without many near misses and loud honks of other drivers. 

The preteens jump from the vehicle and rush into the police station yelling for Hopper as they do so.

“What are you two doing here? Why aren’t you in school?” Hopper asks in bewilderment coming out of his office. The receptionist unable to control the duo before her. 

“They took (Name)!” Both Max and Dustin yell in a panic turning towards the confused chief of police. 

***

When you wake up you are strapped to a chair with a helmet over your head. Your head is completely silent for the first time in your life, and if you weren’t concerned with figuring a way out of this, you would be enjoying it more. The room is dark save for the single fluorescent light in the very center of the room. There are one-way windows on one side of the room and you can practically feel the eyes of the people on the other side. 

A man that you recognize from your childhood enters the room and regards you as a science experiment. He’s wearing a brown suit with a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He hasn’t changed much except for the now graying hair on his balding head. 

“Three… How have you been? You are quite the sneaky little thing aren’t you?” he asks conversationally as he sits down across from you at the table.

Your answer is an emotionless gaze. You can feel yourself retreating back into your mind as the man in front of you regards you the same way as so many years ago. Like an experiment, as if you are less than him. 

“Where have you been hiding all this time, hmmm? With Melanie Snow perhaps?” he quips pulling the cigarette from his lips. The smell burns your nostrils as he releases a puff of smoke. 

You feel your chest constrict as he mentions her name. 

“I see you’ve made friends with a Steve Harrington? A Dustin Henderson? A Maxine Mayfield? A William Hargrove?”

“They aren’t my friends, they are annoyances,” you answer monotonously. 

“Annoyances?” he sounds almost amused.

“Yes… If it wasn’t for them your lackeys would be dead,” you spit the words at the man fire in your eyes as you regard him coolly. 

“Dead, you say? You would do that?” he asks leaning forward on his elbows.

“I’m not a child anymore,” your voice is ice.

“No… I suppose not… However, we will be picking up where we left off. Perhaps we will see the results that we want after all this time.”

With that, he gets up and leaves the room. You keep your mind calm and clear as you access the situation you are in. 

It’s not long before a couple of men in white come into the room and push you from the chair. Their handling is far rougher than it should be as you walk down the hallway. You can hear the cries of a few children, but you keep your face void of any emotion. The room they take you to is the same one from your childhood. You see the number three on the wall and suppress a shudder. You are shoved inside, but before the door is shut you turn to the man behind you and lock eyes with him. 

“You know… cheating on your wife when she’s pregnant with your child is disgusting.”

The look on his face as the door closes is priceless.

***

“We have to help her!” yells Dustin as he paces the living room floor of (Name)’s house.

“Can Elle find her?” questions Steve his hand in his hair as he sits on the couch. 

“Damnit!” curses Billy as he punches the arm of the chair he’s in, “What good is this?” 

Steve and Billy had woken up in a panic upon realizing what happened. They had given their statement to Hopper, who had been very displeased that Max had driven to the police station while the boys were unconscious, but that’s a talk for another day. They went to break the news to Melanie which is how they found themselves setting up camp in the Snow living room. 

“Hey just calm down man! We’re going to figure something out!” Clenching his teeth against the pain in his head. The tranquilizer making his head pound with the leftover drugs still coursing through him. 

“Well, what can this Elle girl do?” he rounds on him anger radiating off of his person.

“More than you!” yells Dustin.

“Hey! Yelling about everything isn’t going to solve this!” yells Max. 

“She’s right…” laments Melanie, “She’s going to have to get herself out of this.”

“But Elle can-” Dustin begins.

“She would be putting herself in danger!” Hopper interrupts, “You don’t know how they found her, they could do the same to Elle.”

“We can’t just do nothing!” yells Billy as he stands up from his seat and takes a step towards Hopper. 

“I’m not risking Elle being found. That doesn’t mean we aren’t going to do anything.” Hopper holds his stare until Billy backs down. 

“Why do you care anyway?” Dustin asks looking over at Billy in confusion.

“Why do I-?” he looks angrily at Dustin, “Because-” He trails off looking unsure of himself for just a moment before his anger covers it up. “None of your business twerp!” 

“Will everyone just calm down?” Yells Hopper trying to maintain peace. 

“How?! How are we supposed to do that?” Asks Dustin shaking his head in frustration.

“Can someone just do something?!” screeches Melanie before she collapses to the floor crying. 

Everyone is silent as they regard her, each of them thinking the same thing...

‘But what can we do?’

***

The next few days you sit quietly in your old room listening. Your powers while not entirely snuffed out are muffled and it isn’t long until the helmet is replaced with another stronger one. You don’t mind as much they think you do as you feign sleep all the while listening. 

It’s in sleep that you feel him though. He’s frantic and angry and feels very alone. 

You can’t blame yourself for this. You say calmly regarding him. 

His eyes widen when he sees you sitting there on his bed. 

“You got out?!” he says getting up and coming towards you.

No… I am still there…

“How are you able to…?”

We have a connection Billy… Perhaps it’s our emotions that bind us… We understand hurt better than most…

“You let them take you!” he explodes, “You could have fought them! We could have fought them! Max is… Max is really upset! And damn Harrington! He- Damn it!” He yells angrily picking up a can of hairspray and throwing it against the wall.

It had to happen…

“No, it didn’t! I could have… done something... protected you…” He sits down on the bed defeated, his elbows resting on his knees.

You’re silent for a moment, ‘There are bigger things at play than you understand. They would not stop and I had to think of more than just myself…’

“Bullshit.”

Tell them not to worry… 

“Not to worry?!” he yells, “You’ve been captured by some freak show scientists, and no one is supposed to worry?!” he jumps up from the bed and towers over you breathing heavily in his rage.

You regard him silently with the same patience that you always have. 

Trust me…

With that, you vanish from his mind. Blinking you are abruptly woken up by the sound of a little metal flap swinging as food is shoved into your cell. You sigh as you glare at the hard bread and porridge that is sitting in the bowl. It’s important that you keep your strength up though it’s imperative to your plan. You pick up the tray and begin to eat.

***

“What do you mean you saw her?” Steve asks, disbelief clear in his voice. He hadn’t been sure what to think when Billy asked to meet him behind the school, but this wasn’t what he expected. 

“I told you! I saw her okay?! I don’t get it either!” Billy yells all while trying to keep his voice down. He doesn’t need anyone seeing him and Harrington talking behind the school, too many questions. 

“But why did you see her and not me? I’m her friend!” Steve says defensively and maybe a little jealously. Why were you talking to Billy and not him?

“I’m her friend too! You aren’t the only one!” 

“Yeah right! What have you ever done for her huh?” 

“She-” Billy looks away from Steve. He can’t know…

“She what?” Steve presses, voice going lower in a warning. 

“None of your business! Look, I just wanted to know if that makes any sense to you!”

“I mean… she’s special… you know…” Steve says uncertainty clear in his voice. 

“Yeah, I know she is…” Billy says remembering the day you casually told him you were going to help him.

“So what do we do?” Steve asks.

“She said to trust her…” Billy says trailing off in thought. 

“If she contacts you again see if she knows where she is. We’re going to get her back,” Steve says with finality. “Truce?” he asks holding his hand out to Billy. 

Billy regards it for a moment before he nods, “Truce.”

The two young men clasp hands in a firm handshake, both trying to have a tighter grip as they shake on it. 

“What are you trying to do? Break my hand?!” Steve yells.

“You’re such a wuss Harrington!” Billy laughs as he pulls back.

“Wuss?! You face a Demogorgon and tell me who the wuss is!”

“What the fuck is a Demogorgon?” 

“You have a lot to learn Hargrove. A lot.”

***

You feel yourself growing stronger every day. And among the quiet in your mind, you’ve noticed something else. You can tap into emotions and you spend the next few days wreaking havoc on the workers of the lab. You cause anger outbursts, crying spells, and lust to run rampant. Papers are thrown to the floor in a rage and balled up in fits of uncertainty. You plant lies in their minds with the simplest of sentences. If you didn’t know any better you would say you’re having fun. 

“It seems we’ve underestimated you…” Carl Watt says from his position in front of you. He adjusts the button on his ugly suit jacket as he sits down before you.

You just regard him blankly as silence rings throughout the room.

“You have caused quite a few problems for us. Are you having fun?” he asks patiently as if speaking to his six-year-old daughter who made a mess in the kitchen. 

You gaze down at the steel table in front of you, eyes unseeing as you creep in his mind. 

“If you don’t cooperate there will be consequences.”

Again you are silent at his threat. 

“After all we wouldn’t want anything to happen to your friends would we?”

You fight the reaction. The flinch. The twitch. The way your mind screams at the man before you in rage. You give him nothing as you continue to gaze down at the table, the silence stretching long and cold in the sterile room. 

“You think you’re fooling anyone? Teenage girls are so easy. You all have the same weakness. Emotions. Boys. Attention. You are not nearly as complex as you believe you are.”

You finally raise your head to look squarely in his eyes, your own void of any emotion as you regard him. 

“You think you’re fooling anyone?” You mimic, “Men are so easy. You all have the same weakness. Power. Lust. Control. You are not nearly as complex as you believe you are.”

Carl looks enraged as his fist flies onto the table. Instead of flinching as he wanted, you merely tilt your head to one side and regard him in boredom. 

“And you said teenage girls are emotional. You should really have better control than that,” you say calmly. 

“Get her out of here,” he says through clenched teeth. 

Walking back to your cell you sense it suddenly. A tickle in your mind. You snap your head to the side and hear it plain as day.

They know.

They found it.

The door. The door. The door!

There is panic in the words and in the mind. 

He’s fourteen with dark hair and wild green eyes. You remember him vaguely from when you were here before. 

Show!

You collapse as the boy enters your mind and you are thrown into a dream. 

Billy is in a car accident. He’s pulled into a void. The screams are too much. 

You try to pull away from him. To break away from his hold on you. 

Bait.

The creature that fills the sky is terrifying. Black and everywhere. It fills your mind and you know in your heart that this isn’t over. That the Upside Down is beating at the door. 

Wait…

You gasp as you are thrown back into your head. The haunted green eyes of the boy down the hall filling your vision. 

“Get up!” yells the guard. 

You are kicked roughly in the side as you double over again. The other reaches down and grabs your hair dragging you up to your feet. 

“Not so tough without your powers are you?” spits the guard.

You blink and reorient yourself before you wipe the blood from your nose. You can feel him at the edge of your conscience. 

Bad men… bad…

‘Yes…’ you think to him, ‘Bad men…’

Out?

He pauses for a breath as you are thrown back into your cell. 

Out out out???

‘Soon.’

The thought seems to soothe him as his mind quiets and he drifts off to sleep. Vaguely, you wonder if he even knows how to talk. His mind is less fragmented than you originally thought though. You can use that to your advantage. 

 ***

Billy opens his eyes to see you standing before him.

I need you to be ready.

“For what?” he asks instantly alert and sitting up, “Ready for what?”

The moment I expose them…

“What do you need us to do?”

The old base is where I’m being kept. Elle knows where. I will need a distraction in precisely three days’ time. You need to listen very carefully to my instructions. In a glass bottle mix carbon disulfide, phosphorus, and sulfur with a metal lid. This solution is highly flammable if exposed to air.

“What do you want us to do with that?”

I want to burn this place to the ground.

Notes:

I know! Such a long time coming! Concentrating has been difficult even with inspiration for this story! The next chapter will probably be the final chapter for this story, but never fear! I'll begin work on "I'll Tell You No Lies" the sequel to this story set in S3 of Stranger Things! There may be a little short in between this story and that one because I have such affection for this weird triangle between MC, Billy, and Steve. Please drop a comment to tell me your thoughts!

[hopeamarsu]

Of potions and myths - Chapter 8

William “Ironhead” Miller x f!reader

Word count 2,8k

Warnings: Some angst, but it’s mostly sappy and fluffy. 

A/N: This is it, the final chapter. I’m getting a little emotional over this, this is my baby and I can’t believe it’s finished. It’s done, complete, and OMG. I can’t believe I did it! Wow. 

Thank you so much for sticking with me on this ride, I can’t thank you enough ❤️ I hope you enjoy this morning with our bonded couple. 

Chapter 7 - Story masterlist

The morning light sweeps across Will’s bedroom and you stir from your slumber as the rays tickle your eyes and nose. It takes a moment to orient yourself, but as you wake up a little more, you feel Will’s strong arm around your middle, keeping you tight against him, the other hand under your pillow and last night comes back in a rush. You burrow into his arms a little more with a smile, feeling his hot breath on your neck and relishing in his warm embrace around you. You feel well-rested and the thought alone makes you giddy. 

When the call with his uncle was finished, he’d swept you up from the couch, kissed you soundly and told you about the pull he felt, how it had changed in between you. There hadn’t really been a discussion on what it meant as you’d taken the celebration back to the bedroom and he’d made you cum hard twice until he’d rendered you boneless once again. After a short cleanup, you had settled under the blankets and into his arms, falling asleep tangled up together. 

Now, as you lay in his arms, you turn the words from last night in your mind. The pull was still there? But how come you didn’t feel it, only he did? It’s a little concerning, though it might only be because he is a wolf and you are not, but you don’t like it. Worry gnaws in your stomach as you keep wondering how and why it’s different for you now when it wasn’t before. Were you not enough? Was your mundane status not what the bond wanted after all? 

“Mmmm, y’think too hard, I can hear you from here,” Will mumbles, kissing your neck. “I thought I’d worn you out last night.” He trails a series of kisses to where he reaches, basking in the combined scents of you both and the heavy aroma of sex still lingering in the air. One of his hand trails down to your naked thigh and he squeezes the flesh gently. He nips gently at your shoulder, a low purr in his chest as his wolf rejoices in the connection you now share. 

“You did, I don’t think I’ve slept this good in a long while,” you reply, trying to keep your voice light and airy, but failing miserably. He props himself up quickly, all alert now, and holds your shoulder to push you under him. His eyes flash somewhere between red and blue, almost purple as they sweep your face and his nostrils flare as Will takes in the shift in your posture.  

“Hey. Talk to me sweetheart. What’s on your mind?”

You turn your head sideways, not wanting to look at him and his inquisitive eyes. You don’t want to tell him, to ruin the mood, but also at the same time you want to share, want to hear him tell you again that all is going to be fine. 

The emotional turmoil of the past week and now takes its toll and you can feel hot tears gathering in your eyes and you close them in effort to make them not drop. This is a happy moment, don’t ruin it, you remind yourself over and over again. It’s not a big deal, the elders surely have an explanation for this. And you do feel him, the touch is there! It’s nothing big, just tell him all is well. 

“Baby, please. Look at me,” Will pleads with you, watching as you shake your head minutely, mouth in a thin line and eyes scrunched shut. He’s getting more worried by the second and gathers you as close as he can, burrowing his face into the crook of your neck. 

“Please sweetheart, don’t push this away. Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it together.” Please don’t push us away, he thinks as he kisses your scar, hoping it will soothe you but it only makes your head shake harder. 

“Are you in pain? You’re worrying me right now.” He takes an alarmed look at you, shuffling back a little with eyes running across your body to see if something has happened during the night. A worrisome thought comes to his mind that maybe he hurt you last night, not enough prep or care taken in the frenzy. He itches to run his hands all over your body to make sure nothing is there.

“No, no… I’m okay, just. I think a lot is catching up with me now.” Your voice is raspy as you finally speak. You don’t look at him, opting to keep your eyes closed, a point that is not missed by the man in bed with you. Will lowers his voice a little, something hesitant creeping into his tone as he speaks. 

“Do you - ummmm - do you regret... what happened last night?”

He doesn’t want to ask it, he doesn’t want to hear the words if this is what has you upset. But he’s trying, he wants to make this work and this bond flourish and if asking things that make him uncomfortable to voice is it, it’s a price he’s willing to pay. You shoot him a look with wide, panicked eyes and you place your hand on his cheek, stroking the stubble gently. 

“Will, no, of course not! Last night was amazing, beyond anything I’d ever hoped for. I’m just… I guess I took the loss of the connection harder than I thought I would.” 

He breathes deep from his nose, his shoulders sagging in relief. For a moment he thought the worst, the old wounds and fears rearing their ugly heads and Will gathers you back into his arms, squeezing tight. 

Taking a moment to ground himself on you, he closes his eyes and draws in your scent, blissfully mixed with his. The scent of home. He reminds himself that he’ll need to open up about his own scars eventually too, but this is far too important to dismiss. He wants to help you in any way he can and if he can help it, he’ll take all of your worry and pain away.   

“Do you want to go back to the elders? Or maybe Frankie’s abuela could help, she’s not in the council but she used to be. She knows a lot and has a good sense of the spirit world. I could invite her over and you could talk. Or perhaps you would like to consult your colleagues?” 

He’s spouting off ideas, feeling somewhat helpless. He keeps the more ludicrous ideas to himself now, his agitated mind sprouting off ideas that range from turning you into a wolf (something Will has never done in his life) to running away to live in Norway, far away from any of this but if you want them, he’ll give them to you. 

“Will, I’m not…”

“Just say the word sweetheart, whatever you want to do.” 

You are about to answer him, when a loud knock on the front door interrupts and Will lets out a low growl. The knock is soon followed by another and another and then Benny’s voice booms from the door. 

“Come open the door, brother! And you better be decent, I’m not watching your bare ass this early in the morning William!”  He growls again, this time louder. You cover your mouth with your hand, trying not to make a sound. 

“I can hear you growling in there! Come open the door. The boys and I, we brought breakfast and we need to brainstorm how you are going to ask your lovely mate to MOVE IN WITH YOU AFTER THE BONDING!” That little shit. Will leaps out of bed, huffing and forgoing his shirt as he stomps towards the front door. 

He wretches it open, eyes flashing in anger as he glares at the three men on his doorstep, shit-eating grins on their faces. Benny winks and shoulders his way in, followed by Frankie and Santi, the latter clapping Will in the back as he squeezes past. The blond drags a hand across his face before closing the door with a sigh and follows his brothers to the kitchen, where Benny has commandeered the space. 

He moves around the space like he owns it, picking up items to use for breakfast while Frankie sweeps up the glass shards and Santi gets the coffee running. It’s a well-oiled machine, each of them anticipating the others move but this time Will opts to stay out of it, flicking his eyes between the closed bedroom door and his brothers. He longs to join you back in bed, ease up your worries over the connection and he needs to figure out something fast so he can get the boys out of the house.

But all his plans go out the window as you open the bedroom door and step out, bare feet padding on his floor and his flannel tucked around your body. You’ve dug out some college pants and a tank top to fit under the flannel and he doesn’t think he’s ever seen you look more beautiful. All three heads pop up as they register the footsteps and Will smirks a little as he thinks of what goes on in their heads as you reach him and lean up for a kiss.

He tastes his toothpaste on your mouth and a little possessive but happy sound leaves his lips as he accepts the offered lips on his own. 

“So, no planning needed then, huh?” Santi quips, picking up a fifth cup from the cupboard. He doesn’t sound surprised, more like that he was expecting this. “I saw you last night as you hurried past, not exactly subtle behavior,” He winks at Benny, who has stopped peeling the avocados. 

“And you didn’t tell us?” Benny gestures at himself and Frankie with the peeling knife. The older man snorts. “He didn’t tell you, but I got a text full of emoji peaches and eggplants with the words Will and mate sprinkled in.” The dry tone of Frankie’s voice makes Will snort and he watches amused at his little brother pointing an accusing finger at the third man. 

“The fuck Pope?!” 

“Hey, you would’ve run your mouth and brought the whole council here had I told you. These two needed a night alone, without anyone hovering over them with research or myths or potions or pressure.” He looks at Benny, who has to shrug, agreeing with the statement.

“But you could’ve told me this morning…”

“Where’s the fun in that? And besides, this had the added bonus of embarrassing Ironhead when you yelled that comment, so I’m going to take my win!” Santi cackles and tries to hide behind Frankie as Benny suddenly gets the urge to throw something in his direction.

Will grips your side softly, steering you to the side, out of view. 

“Please excuse those assholes…” He murmurs, turning you so you are face to face and tips your face up from your chin so he can look into your eyes.” Are you okay?” He wants to ask more, but mindful of the men currently wreaking havoc in his kitchen, he keeps his words brief. “Do you want to talk in private?”

“I’m fine Will, really. It just hit me hard, but we’ll figure it out. I’m alright, I promise. We’ll consult the elders later, okay?” Your words feel like a balm on his heart.

“As long as you’re sure, sweetheart.” He rubs your arm before honing in on your bare shoulder peeking from under his flannel and this time he follows his instincts and wraps his arms around you and noses the flesh. It works well for him to hide his face as he speaks the next words, feeling both calm and timid at the same time. This was definitely not the way he thought about doing this but his brothers forced his hand. 

“I know you heard them yelling, so I guess there’s no point in hiding this.”

“Yes.” You answer him before he can even get the question out. He’s right, you did hear Benny yelling earlier (the whole street heard) and while it still feels crazy and too soon and out of this world, you know it’s what you want. What you desire. “I’ll move in with you, if that was your question.” 

Elated, Will sweeps down to claim your lips into a longer, heavier, more passionate kiss. He grips your hips as he draws you in and slips his tongue into your eager mouth. “Let me, umhmm, get rid of, mmmmm, these idiots and, uhnmmh…” He tries to whisper between kisses, but not a lot comes out. You finally regain your senses and end the kiss, small pants leaving your lips. 

You go to speak but Will shakes his head and kisses you hard again. “Just a moment, I want a second to kiss my mate good morning. My beautiful, gorgeous mate who is all mine,” He grins against your lips, relishing in the idea that you are his, he is yours and the bond is strong between you. All mine and I’m all yours, he thinks as he forgets the world and loses himself within your warm lips. 

Before he can turn it into a full-blown make-out session, you distance your lips from his, echoing your movements from before. You press your foreheads together briefly before straightening your spine. “Behave, mate,” you tease him and watch surprised at his unconsciously preening form over the word, tucking the information for later use. 

Will nearly whines at the loss of you, but your finger on his lips stops any of that and he nibbles on the digit, hoping you’ll entertain his idea of breakfast in bed, for two only, but you have other plans. “They are your brothers and considering our newly-bonded status, I would love to get to know your pack, your family, a little better.” 

“Our pack, our family.” 

Your eyes might be a little misty and your smile is splitting your face at his words, but sappy as they might be, it feels so right to hear the words from his mouth. You reach up to cup his face between your hands and you press a hard kiss into his plush lips. 

“Then let's go and tell them the good news.”  

You take his hand into yours and you return to the kitchen, snorting as something green hangs from Santi’s cheek. Frankie is washing his ballcap under the spray and his curls wild around his head as he glares at Benny, who looks mighty proud of his ability to swing guacamole ammo around the room. 

Will shakes his head in that exparated love in his eyes one can only have for family and you know that despite what the elders might have to say about the missing connection, or your bond or whatever, this is now your home. Even if the pull never comes back for you, this feels right and that’s all that matters. Despite the worries you had in the morning, they seem to evaporate as you work it out in your mind. You love this man and he loves you, he accepts you into his family. That’s all there really is to it, your mind whispers to you as calmness settles on your heart. 

You all sit down around the table and only slightly burnt toast is passed around. Once the plates are full and overflowing, Will tells them the good news. He wraps his arm around your shoulders and kisses your forehead and whoops of joy fill the air.

“So it really worked, huh? You are bonded now?” Santi asks, taking a sip of his coffee.

“Yeah, we are. We’re mates now.” Will nods and steals another small kiss from you, Benny groaning that it looks gross when it’s his big brother. This makes Frankie smack the younger man and grin in your direction. The tiny nod of approval from him goes unnoticed by all but you and you wink back at him.  

The boys gently rib at their brother while congratulating you and asking all the questions you don’t know all the answers to but it’s okay. Easy conversation fills the air as the men begin to plan moving all your things into this house later that afternoon and you lean into your mate’s embrace and smile. 

Whatever might come next, potion or myth, you know you have this and it makes your heart soar. 

It might be the first time a love potion actually led to love.

*

Of potions and myths taglist: @mylifeisactuallyamess​​​​ @luxmundee​​​​ @innerpaperexpertcloud​​​​

Everything taglist (I fully understand if you want to skip this one, please let me know and I’ll remove you!) @clydesducktape​​​​ @wayward-rose​​​​ @themuseic​​​​ @miraclesabound​​​​ @clydesfavoritegirl​​​​ @a-true-janian-reply​​​​  @10blurredsmoke10​​​​  @caillea​​​​ @mariesackler​​​​ @princessxkenobi​

[dapandapod]

Lambert needs a hug

@permanently-exhausted-bitch I don’t even know if you remember prompting me this for almost over a year ago, but it has finally been written! And finished! And even beta read by the wonderful @jaskierswolf! 

Sorry it took so long and thank you for giving something to write when ideas ran low!

Warning: Lambert is very drunk. And Aiden reads a steamy book. That is about it.  Oh, and swearing, because come on, it’s Lambert.

Please enjoy!

On Ao3 here!

Everything is shit. Shit, shit, shit. The trees are wobbly, the ground seems to be unconvinced of its firmness, and Lambert's own sense of balance seems to be taking a break.

It all comes down to one thing, if one were to think about it:

Lambert is drunk off his ass.

There are of course reasons that Lambert is drunk today. This is not his normal state; certainly not. It’s far too expensive to be drunk on a regular basis, or rather stay drunk, if you are here to mark words. Getting drunk is easy, but the alcohol just burns right out of his system. The curse and the blessing of fast metabolism and poison immunity. Yes, staying drunk takes hard work.

He is not sure where he is going, but he sure as hell is not staying at the keep. It’s barely past noon, the sun is peeking out behind dark heavy clouds. You can still see patches of snow here and there, the ground wet and frozen in all it’s early spring glory. Anger thrums through his veins, no matter where he goes, what he does, it’s always there.

It’s frustrating. He takes a swig at the bottle he brought with him, leaning his head so far back he almost loses his balance.

The gods' damned bottle is empty.

He tosses it carelessly away from him, disgusted with it’s betrayal.

“Lambert?” the bottle asks him. Wait, no, not the bottle. That sounded like the bard Geralt drags with him everywhere. Lamber squints, willing the trees to be still long enough that he can locate the voice.

A very, very tiny version of a cliff juts out in the gently leaning slope. On it, despite snow and ice and slush, sits the bard and Geralt, the first one sending him a confused look, the other a confused frown. What is there to be confused about?

“Jas-...Jaslert?” Lambert asks, and then breaks out in giggles. This is why alcohol is fun, he can make angry giggles. “Jaslert. That’s tha best.. Best thing I evher said.”

“I agree,” Geralt said with a smirk. Bastard.

“What are you up to?” asks the bard, Jas-something, ever pleasant.

“‘M drunk,” Lambert tells him, how is that not obvious?

“Yes, but why?”

Ah, the lovely why.

“Wude,” Lambert mutters, then turns and walks away. He doesn’t want to talk about why, that is so rude of the bard. Here he thought Jaskier (JASKIER! That's it!) had manners.

You drink to forget why you are drinking, why the fuck else?

“I'm betting Aiden. Or Vesemir.”

The forbidden names. Charge.

Lamber twists around, infinitely more graceful than that stupid cat swaggering around up in that fucking keep, and pounces.

Not at all like a cat, thank you very much.

Geralt catches him, interestingly enough, how did he see that coming? They fall back to the stone, which for some reason is pleasantly warm despite the season. Geralt is such a cheat. They wrestle for a while, Lambert baring all of his pretty teeth.When he tries to bite Geralt, it seems that whitehaired pompous arse has had enough of Lambert’s struggles. Thick, stupid arms wrap around him, trapping his own arms uselessly at his sides. Geralt holds him still by pressing Lambert against him. Like he weighs nothing.

So fucking undignified. He strains against the hold, feelin all blood rush to his face in effort to break free, but Jaskier just laughs. He leans forward and pets his head like he is a dog.

“So feisty,” Jaskier chuckles, and scratches behind his ear.

Alright, just because that feels nice it doesn’t mean he is a dog. Right?

“Jus’ because that feel nicies doesn’t mean I'm a dog,” Lambert squeezes out.

“Absolutely,” Jaskier agrees, agreeably, still scratching behind his ear. “Is that why you are angry?”

So what if Lambert relaxes in Geralt's grip? It’s got nothing to do with anything.

“No.”

“So yes. Want to talk about it?” Jaskier asks him, now petting his hair instead. Geralt doesn’t let go, and Lambert totally isn’t happy about that. At all.

Lambert stays silent and lets the petting continue. He is helpless, restrained and tortured. He can endure. Also, the trees seem to be dancing, and it is a bit funny to look at.

“So no. Want me to keep petting you?”

“Tortururer,” Lambert mutters. Close enough.

“So yes. Geralt, did I tell you about that time when-” and Jaskier goes on to completely ignore him. He touches his hair, his ears, pinching his very cold nose, how very dare he do that actually. But Lambert is stuck, can’t fight it, and so the stupid, evil, meanie, tortururer bard keeps doing it.

He is not taking comfort from this; not at all.

They sit there for a long time, enjoying the cold sunlight while it lasts. Jaskier rambles on and Geralt is slowly lowering Lambert towards the stone, but not letting go of him.

“Jaslet? How’s the stone warm?” Lambert asks the both of them.

“Oh, it’s brilliant!” Jaskier beams, pinching Lambert's face together so that his lips sticks out in a pout. Geralt grumbles somewhere above him, and that usually means that he is embarrassed. Nice.

“The stone was all covered in ice and snow and stuff, and Geralt did this sign thingy with his hands and blasted fire all over it. Such a gentleman.”

Ohohohoo, Geralt is going to hear this. The alcohol is leaving him, damn it all, and the nausea and headache is settling in.

“Well. How about we return to the keep?” Geralt suggests, tightening his grip on Lambert.

“Oh, splendid idea!” Jaskier abandons Lambert's face, clapping his hands together. “We should let the kitty-cat take up the cuddling.”

“What? No!” Lambert protests, legs kicking uselessly as Geralt stands up and throws him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

“Oh yes!” Jaskier smirks, and how did Lambert ever think this man was agreeable? Evil, meanie bard.

“Evil, meanie bard!” Lambert complains, his headache not getting better at all from being upside down and his nausea being a right pain with Geralt's shoulder in his abdomen.

They don’t care in the least about what Lambert thinks.

Jaskier opens the door to the 'kittycats' room, and Geralt tosses Lambert on the bed where said kittycat currently is reading a book. Aidens knees are fucking hard.

“Cuddle him. He’s sad,” Geralt tells Aiden, and Jaskier smirks behind his back.

“I'm not sad!!” Lambert protests, trying to detangle himself from kittycat limbs.

“Aiden. Cuddle. Now. Or I won’t get you the second volume of the steamy book you are reading,” Jaskier threatens and Aiden gasps.

“You wouldn’t!” And wow, feels nice to be wanted. Lambert makes an attempt to crawl away, he is sure there is some booze in Eskel’s room. He is always hiding the good stuff in the chest under the window.

“Oh no you don’t” Aiden catches him, and it seems it is the second time today Lambert is losing a wrestling match. “I am so getting the next volume. Cuddle me, you prick!”

The ‘why’ Jaskier was asking about before?

This may or may not have been a part of why Lambert was angry. He doesn’t know how to ask for things. It may or may not also be the reason why he is “losing” the match.

Maybe the booze can wait.

[morgana-ren]

if you'd be so inclined my dear, what are your thoughts on how Tomura's character has developed over the series' timeline? -☼

So, I think Horikoshi did an excellent job at character development- especially considering that he's a villain (not the focal point of the series) and he really didn't have to do that. He easily could have kept Tomura an impudent little man-child, but he didn't, and I truly appreciate that.

So, in season one, we get his debut as USJ, and it became quickly apparent that he was... disorganized. Intelligent and dangerous, clearly, but not quite there yet. He essentially threw money at a pack of sell-sword villains, had a basic plan for how he wanted things to go, and relied on his Nomu to do the majority of his work for him. He didn't even consider variables and other things he couldn't have foreseen- he took Master at his word and just went for it.

He makes a multitude of mistakes during this attack, and it's part of why he fails so hard. Underestimates the kids simply because they're young, not factoring in that these are to be the nations top heroes. Even young, each one is sporting a power that puts them at the top of the class and above the rest of the nation. He basically goes "Fuck it, just scatter them and have these no-name villains kill them. No way that could go wrong." not considering that these children have been learning from the best of the best and are clearly already intelligent of their own accord.

He doesn't take into account that these heroes actually care for these kids and that feeling responsible for them works in their favor as opposed to being a detriment. They fight harder and take more abuse to keep them protected (Aizawa getting absolutely demolished but still persisting to defend the children even as he bleeds to death with a broken body.)

The intel wasn't wrong, per se, but he took it at face value, not even bothering to consider that All Might would push far past his limit to keep these kids safe. For someone as obsessed with felling All Might, he certainly didn't really know a thing about him. His genuine goodness and character would not allow him to fail when their lives were on the line. And then there's the matter of Midoriya, and while Tomura had no way of knowing that he's inherited All Might's power, he should have been able to account for wild cards like that from valiant children dedicated to heroism.

More under the cut because I’m just rambling.

I think this defeat humbles him. For most of his life, things have gone his way because of who is backing him and because he is extremely dangerous with a powerful quirk- this teaches him that raw strength and basic strategy won't be enough.

He watches Stain take the country by storm, and he can't understand it. Doesn't get what the big deal is- he believes he and Stain are mostly cut from the same cloth because of their penchant for violence and murdering heroes, totally blind to the convictions behind Stain's actions. He's incapable of thinking outside of his own view points, and it cripples him. These are his first few steps outside of his own comfort zone and where he begins to grow.

He's forced to consider not what he wants, but why. He resists this every step of the way, but ultimately realizes that paying off little bastard villains to work in his name isn't enough. He needs players under his command that will fight for more than money- and sell swords are loyal to nothing but that. He needs to find a conviction (even as he ends up stealing the mask of one and using it as a facade at first) that others can relate to and be passionate about.

So he does.

He steals Stain's ideology for his own and uses it to recruit some of his top members- even if he is a right little bastard about it at first. While he throws a tizzy fit because they aren't "perfect" (his standards are very high despite the fact that he's arguably not a very effective leader) but eventually ends up utilizing them regardless.

It's around here that he starts sharpening his instincts and learns what it is to be a true leader. He learns he cannot casually throw around his pawns because ultimately, he cannot win this war by himself. 'The enemy of my enemy is my friend' and while he isn't as enchanted with Stain's entire gimmick as his comrades are, he still wields it effectively.

He's still learning, however, as we learn when he takes Bakugo. Had he gone to the effort to get to know a single thing about him, he would have learned very quickly that trying to recruit him would come up completely pointless. He just saw untamed anger and unrestrained violence bordering on unhinged and thought "Ah yes, he's powerful and very much like me- he'll do nicely" and put together a whole plan to kidnap him. I think the vanguard's success in capturing him shows Tomura just how useful it is to have clever little birds under your command, and that sticks with him.

Losing his Master, like AFO says, forces him to become his own man. He loses the cushy abode he'd had for most of his life, loses many of the benefits afforded to him by being AFO's protege. He and his ragtag team of villains live in squalor, almost entirely destitute, and are forced to survive- but they stay loyal, and that means something to him. I think it’s around here where he actually begins to care about them. 

We see how he reacts to Magne’s death. I don’t think for one second he aided in destroying Overhaul simply because he was a threat. If that was the case, he would have stopped once he was arrested. He risks everything to get vengeance. Cuts his limbs off and renders him completely helpless as payment for what he did to Compress and to avenge Magne’s wrongful death. 

Over the course of everything, he’s become more patient, more cunning, more dangerous. He’s learning quickly from his mistakes, how to command his ranks in a respectful, effective way, and how to keep them safe. He learns their strengths and weaknesses, and while he’s still a bit thorny, it’s very apparent he does care for them. He’s on his own now, and knows he needs greater power, greater numbers to achieve his goals. He is ruthlessly ambitious, willing to endure ungodly amounts of pain to meet his ends. 

So now we have this season (which I haven’t actually watched, as I’m just waiting for disappointment because I fucking know Bones won’t do him justice) and he’s seeking out both Gigantomachia, a former ally, and the PLF. Both things that could be of great value to him. His leadership skills and ability to command will be put to the test, but so will his endurance, his willpower, and everything else. This is the beginning of him as a truly devastating threat. 

He’s growing into the villain I think he deserves to be. He’s facing down the very bones that comprise him and learning why he is the way he is. What his convictions really are and how far he’s willing to go to achieve his goals. HIs past, his life as he knows it, what needs to be done to put a pretty little ribbon on everything. He is, in a way, shedding like a snake- ridding himself of weaknesses, growing into his strengths, and evolving into a more capable predator. 

If you ask me, realistically, I think Shigaraki would actually win. When it’s all said and done, I think his arc is far more compelling than any of the heroes or their children. I think he has more drive, more wit, more raw power and more reasons to keep fighting. A lot of the kids, while cute and the main characters, are quite hollow. But over the course of all these seasons, we get to watch Tomura’s metamorphosis and his evolution into a purer, undiluted evil. He transforms into something truly sinister- a literal manifestation of all of the flaws and pitfalls of society and hero culture as it exists. He is undeniable proof of the toxicity and that the way things are cannot be allowed to stand, and the fact that so many people resonate with him and follow him loyally should be the ultimate clue-in. 

I think if the heroes weren’t blinded, they would look at Shigaraki and his league and consider it. Wonder if, just for a moment, there was something there that they should pay attention to. A cry that they should hear rather than be willing deaf to. But they don’t. 

Gran Torino is a prime example of this. So are all the other so called ‘heroes’. Calling him evil. Underestimating him. Considering him someone who just woke up one day and decided ‘I don’t like this so I’m going to kill a lot of people’. You’d think that they’d recognize that a drive like his does not come from nothing. If they sat down, shut the fuck up and listened for ten seconds, maybe they wouldn’t be dying by the dozens. 

I’m not saying that they should allow him to continue to trample the world and kill at will. But what I am saying is that part of how they’re fighting him and how they’re viewing this in terms of black and white and good versus evil is exactly the fucking problem, and it’s that kind of bullshit that birthed the villain we know as Tomura Shigaraki to begin with. 

[ketchupkio]

Pillow Talk

co-written with @mizuriii!!

Rating: G

Category: M/M

Relationship: Legend/Warriors

Words: 2123

Contents:

established relationship, the rest of the polycule is mentioned, trans male character, fluff, like some cavity inducing fluff, light angst, nightmares, prophetic dreams, phantom pain, chronic pain, comfort, Legend and Warriors being mushy, sleeping in the same bed, lullabies, contains like 1.5 references to sex lol, also a reference to Plot??? OWO???

Summary:

Legend and Warriors get some rest... or try to.

An excerpt of something that was supposed to be canon in the AU, but we didn't think hard enough about the timeline first so it's not lmao. Hope you like it!!!!!

Context: Legend, Twilight, Sky, and Wild have just come back from a excursion and traveled the whole night, not sleeping, because they got freaked out by something. Warriors couldn't sleep either because he was worried about them (...but mostly about Legend, let's be real). Legend saw him and immediately went cling! but Wars started spouting theory and strategy and that wasn't super appreciated by the sleep deprived heroes.

The hero with his face currently buried in Warriors’ scarf groaned in protest. “Babe, c’n it wait until ’ve had caffeine or a nap? Please…”

Twilight looked like he didn’t absorb half of what Wars had said. “Strategist brain is appreciated, but a nap would be good, yeah.”

"Er.... s-sorry. We've got these rooms for the next two days, so you're all welcome to head back upstairs if you want...?"

Legend tugged on his scarf, trying to get his eyes to focus enough to glare at him. “You’re coming too. Ya didn’t sleep either, dummy.”

"I-- .... okay, okay, I'm coming. I just wanted to let them know they don't have to rush."

Warriors smiled at him and let Legend push him toward the stairs.

"Your rooms are the three at the far end of the second floor, and the first right hand door on the third."

“Their room is on the third, if you wanna avoid it,” Wind sneered. Hyrule pinched his ear and Legend flipped him off before managing to successfully shove Warriors into the stairwell.

"Are you really alright?" Warriors asked, slipping an arm around Legend’s body. ".....You look exhausted, love...."

Legend hummed. “No one got hurt, but… haven’t been sleepin’ well recently. Barely got any ‘n past few days… Nightmares… ‘N I have a hard time without you...”

"....Me too. When I turn over and you're not there, it's--.... it's cold, you know? But more than cold."

Warriors kissed his temple as he led up to their room, and produced a spare key for Legend in case he wanted to get up and get breakfast before Warriors woke later on, unlocking the door with it before slipping the key into Legend's waist pouch.

"Come sleep with me, okay...? We'll actually get some rest for once."

Legend nodded, and after the door closed, he let Warriors unbuckle his belt and open his tunic. Legend would have dropped them on the floor, but Warriors laid them over the back of a chair, along with his scarf.

“Stays and boots off,” he instructed, and Legend complied with barely an insubordinate tongue sticking out in return. Warriors chuckled at him fondly as he climbed into bed and reached for him, trying to snag the hem of his shirt as he changed into something softer.

“Love you…” Legend murmured. “C’mere…”

"Your wish is my command," Warriors hummed, settling in once he was changed himself, and nestling up under Legend’s chin. His hands pressed gently against Legend’s side and his back, and Warriors took a minute just to breathe in the smell of Legend’s presence. "I love you more..."

Legend would have protested if he hadn’t been so damn tired, so all Warriors got was a (frankly adorable) grumble as the younger hero slung his arms around him and pressed his cheek against the golden hair at his crown. Warriors could feel the tension leaving him as he relaxed, and with Legend’s steady heartbeat under his ear, he could finally breathe easy enough to relax too.

"......Goddesses, we're such anxious wrecks," he laughed after a minute. "Fuck me sideways..."

"Mmh. Maybe tomorrow."

Warriors snorted, then kissed his neck before settling again.

"Sleep well for me, love.... My night depends on it."

…..Legend tried his best. He did.

There were flashes of the desert, of a different era’s Hyrule Castle, of the shade of a king and a jaded prince taking the throne from a corrupt queen, a furious Sheikah founding a rogue organization, and an old, bitter sorcerer with a young face making a deal he couldn’t refuse. Then, dark, choking mists of acid, plants and grass melting at their feet as they advanced, searching, hunting--

Legend shot awake, gasping as phantom pain shot through his arms and back along old, white scars that coiled and branched off like vines through his blood vessels in place of the stinging, corroding pain of acid from his dream.

He didn’t even hear Warriors calling his name until the pain receded to a strong, but not overwhelming ache.

It was dark, he could hear rain hitting the shutters of the windows, and he could feel the storm in his hands and knees and hips.

“Link…” he managed, in an effort to let his partner know he was alive.

Warriors loosed a gasp of relief and worry, and then pulled Legend tight to his chest.

"Y-you were wailing," the captain said, tripping over his words, "a-and crying for me-- are you okay?"

“Sorry…” he rasped, trying to get his bearings. Gods, his throat was raw and he could feel sweat rapidly cooling on his skin in the chill the rain brought. It’d be nice if he could flex his hands at all, or move his anything without it hurting. “I-I ruined your sleep, didn’t I?”

"To hell with my sleep, y-you're in pain, aren't you? Is it the storm? ....Fuck, where'd I put my potion bag--"

“‘S okay, don’t rush… Potions don’t help a lot when there’s nothin’ to heal, babe,” Legend muttered, sluggish even as a sense of urgency crept over him. “...Had a dream. Been having similar ones lately… I have a bad feeling about it.”

"....... Can you tell me about it?" Warriors asked. "You sounded like you were in agony, it scared me...."

Legend leaned into him as best he could. “O-old pain trying to come close to dream pain… It had a sorcerer in it, and a rogue Sheikah… Didn’t Wild say the Yiga from his era used to be Sheikah? This might have been the first of them… Something about Hylian royalty… I-I had prophetic dreams before my first quest…. This feels like those.”

".....A prophetic dream you have bad feelings about....?" Warriors grimaced. "....Should we wake up Sky and the sprite? If you're having prophetic visions, they might be too, but if they're not we can maybe rule out that there's an evil sorcerer on our case."

Legend wanted to ball his fists in Warriors’ shirt, but he couldn’t make his fingers do more than curl loosely. “If I could move, yeah, but that’s probably not going to be for a while… You could get them if you wanted.”

".......Later. When the storm passes, because I'm not leaving you."

Legend let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Thank you…. Come here and hold me? I’m cold…”

He didn't have to ask Warriors twice. The captain practically wrapped himself around Legend, and pulled in close and tight.

"I've got you, love. I'll keep you warm."

Legend kissed whatever part of Warriors was closest, which happened to be his jaw. “....You’re wonderful…”

….Something nagged at him, though. Warriors hadn’t been a part of his dream that he could remember, but…

“Hey… You said I called out to you…?”

"Yeah.... I think you were asking for help...."

“That… doesn’t bode well,” Legend grimaced. “Can you promise me something, though? I mean like actually promise, no matter the circumstances.”

"......You're scaring me a little.... What is it...?"

“Don’t throw yourself in front of anything for anyone. Not even me. Don’t do reckless bullshit that would get yourself hurt instead of others. That’s not to say you can’t defend anyone, just… don’t jump in where you know you’re gonna overextend and get hurt as a result. Does that make sense? I know that’s both specific and not at the same time, but I can’t explain it. I just… have a feeling. Promise you’ll be careful about that?”

"Don't do something reckless that'll get me killed out of some white knight complex and lack of self preservation? Is that what you want from me?"

Legend tried to shrink further into Warriors’ chest. “....Yes….”

"......You're asking me for quite the tall order," Warriors hummed, pressing kisses against Legend’s temple. "Aren't I supposed to be your dashing knight in shining armor, astride a white horse, keeping all the scary monsters at bay?"

He was trying for humor, but humor wasn't a given promise.

Legend huffed, but the kisses were sweet and he liked the attention. “Yes, and I know that’s a whole personality archetype for you, but Link… I’m worried. Please. This wasn’t in my dream, but it’s got the same feeling. Can you promise me that you won’t do something stupid like that?”

"I--"

Warriors hesitated.

".....Legend-- if something happened to you--"

“No, no, that’s not relevant. Link. We carry fairies and spells and items as countermeasures so if we do get into a dire situation like that, we’ll survive and not have to endanger anyone else in the process. There would be no need for you to risk yourself like that, which is why I want you to promise me you won’t. Hyrule has the goddamn triforce. I’m sure if something were to happen to one of us, there would be some way to help that wouldn’t involve you needlessly throwing your life away. Especially if it’s me, who has items so overpowered that I don’t use them, but keep them in reach so if I need to, I can…. You’re not making me feel good about this.”

"......You didn't hear what you sounded like tonight.... I'm sorry, I just-- ....There's not a whole lot worse than having someone you love screaming for you to help them and being helpless... I don't want to repeat that when there's someone trying to kill us."

Legend scowled, then gave a long sigh. “...We also have three partners at home. We have to think about them too. Minimum number of people getting hurt…”

He… felt like he wasn’t going to get his answer at this rate. Goddamnit.

"............That could also go for you, you know.... but that isn't what you want me to say."

Warriors sighed.

".......If you promise not to get into a situation I feel like you won't come home okay in, I won't do anything stupid. Deal....?"

….That was also a hard thing to guarantee. But…

“I’ll try my best. Deal,” Legend said with a note of finality. “...Now kiss me to seal it. We’re making a contract.”

Warriors smiled and tilted up Legend's chin with his fingers, and pressed a soft, but long, luxuriant kiss against his mouth.

"I love you, love.... Please, goddesses above, get some rest..."

Legend stole another kiss because he needed it. “And I love you, Sir Knight… I’ll try, if I can. Tired…”

".... Should I sing for you...?"

When Legend looked up, Warriors wasn't looking at him, and instead trained his eyes on a particularly interesting lump on the old earthen wall as his ears burned.

"Y-y'know.... t'help you sleep...."

Goddesses above, Legend was smitten. Every day he fell a little bit harder for this man.

He kissed Warriors’ cheek. If his hands worked, he’d be tempted to stroke those beautiful, flushed ears and run his fingers over the scarred edge of his left one. “...I’d love that, baby.”

"M'kay..... Tell. No one. Okay?"

“Why would I? This is just for me. Wouldn’t wanna share it with anyone else…”

"Three reasons. Guess their names."

Legend grinned. “Why wouldn’t you want them to know? They’re our partners, we love them. Two are very musically gifted and would love it. While cute, you’re also being silly.”

"Mhhhhhhh because!! It makes me self conscious and people used to stare.... A-anyway, are you gonna hush and let me, o-or what??"

Warriors’ face was so, so red, and Legend was having some very dangerous thoughts about proposing marriage. Nonetheless, the younger hero conceded.

“Gods above, I’m so in love with you. Okay, yes, I’ll be quiet,” he said, tucking himself more comfortably into Warriors and the pillows.

Warriors kissed him again, and sighed, letting his thumb rest on Legend's cheek, the circles it ran over his skin serving as his metronome. A gentle lullaby brought Legend back to gentle shorelines, warm sand and easy, soft sunlight. It nestled him against merchants fabric that smelled lightly of spice and fairy dust, to old books with knowledge ancient and timeless. It brought him round to soft white linen and blue silk, and rocked him gently on the heels of someone taller than he was, pulling Legend over to a gentle heartbeat.

It brought him home even though home was a thousand miles and goddess only knew how many years away from now.

There was something to be said for song magic, because Warriors was doing it, whether he intended to or not. Legend could feel the intent of a spell woven into his voice. It made him feel warm and safe, eased the pain and fatigue of his body, and relaxed him enough that he immediately started to drift off, awash in the calm sea of Warriors’ voice.

He was out like a light.

Thanks for reading!!! Reblogging and/or screaming in tags/replies/inbox is SO appreciated!!!

[hexalianrebel-blackfeathers]

Crossfire

Panda’s Notes: Hey, it’s a new fandom. >w< I kind of fell in love with the chaos and characters from Friday Night Funkin’, so I’ve got a few stories in mind. This one is based on this piece by @fluffymary!

Find it on AO3!

John didn’t have a side. Demons, mortals; the blood of both ran through him. All he really knew was war. The smell of the gunpowder; the ringing in his head from explosive shells; the sounds of tanks and jeeps rolling across their battlefield and the men calling—

“Sir!!” He flinched out of his inner monologue and spun around to see one of his soldiers panting softly in the doorway. “He’s back again.”

As if on cue, there was a chorus of shouts under a melody of loud gunfire. Usually, John wouldn’t bat an eye, but today, he snatched his helmet and the staff leaning beside his door.

“Get Squad 17 together; tell them it’s time.”

The soldier sprinted down the hall, and John took a brisk march in the opposite direction. As he passed the infirmary windows, he could see several soldiers already appearing in beds; and with enough frequency that they quickly began to appear on top of each other. The kid certainly wasn’t slacking this time either.

The soldiers that had recovered were quick to fall into line behind John as he made his way out of the building and onto the field, fanning out to return to where their weapons had fallen from their deaths.

The air screamed as something tore through it at supersonic speeds, and the bullets from several soldiers’ guns were redirected or ricocheted back into their own or a fellow soldier’s face. A cloud of dust suddenly appeared, swirling around the little beast that caused it with his sudden stop.

Fully clad in red and green scales, carrying a beast of an automatic rifle, and excitedly whipping a long tail was the brat they’d met all those weeks ago; and had been continuing to meet every time the bastard needed to blow off steam or something. The little dragon glanced over his shoulder, eyes glowing bright green as he smirked with sharp teeth at John.

John only huffed as the dragon disappeared in a burst of speed, and he drew a strained breath as he felt blood strike his face from a soldier that happened to pass near him. Oh, he was going to teach this kid a lesson alright…

“Sir, do you copy?” John’s radio crackled softly on his shoulder, and he glanced around warily before tipping it closer to catch his voice.

“Copy. What do you want?”

“Squad 17 is in position. On your mark, sir.”

John smirked this time, drawing his staff from its holster on his back and stepping forward. “Everyone, you know what to do.”

The soldiers mobilized quickly, scattering away from the main area and gathering up in a tight group on the target practice field. Many were less than thrilled about the position they knew they were in, and they could only clutch their riot shields and brace when the call went out.

“Here he comes!” Someone shouted, and indeed, the beast could be easily spotted perched on a lamp post and sneering down at them. The rifle in his hands glowed with his green aura before he ripped it into the pair of Uzis they were all too familiar with. The second he vanished, soldiers were dropping and vanishing left and right as bullets ripped through them.

John took his time approaching; there was nothing more that the little bastard seemed to enjoy beside playing with his prey. In the meantime, he leaned into his radio, reconfirming the position and preparation of every member in Squad 17. He could feel a surge of power swirl around him and his staff, and he couldn’t resist the smile on his lips as he finally called out to their attacker.

////////////

Pico adored the battlefield. Miles away from any cities or towns to damage or helpless people to put at risk; dozens of targets to mow through for his personal speed tests; and, most importantly, he knew he couldn’t kill any of them. Pico had known about the “Tankman’s” power long before he’d first been summoned to this place by Lilith’s own abilities. He’d always assumed it was just some kind of rumor; one if his mother’s exaggerated stories.

But here he was again, watching the same soldiers he’d shot through the head reemerge from the main building to come rushing back to the fray.

Fuck whatever Heaven’s got; this was the life.

He must have been a damn sight, tail wagging all over the place. He hadn’t razed like this since he was little, and even then, it was with his mother over his shoulder making sure he was sticking to the targets and locations she’d been assigned. Nothing like letting a fully loaded toddler do your job for you, after all.

He was smacked out of the casual memory by a bullet bouncing off of his armored hand. An attempt to disarm him, probably. Yeah, right. He lunged into a run, his aura spreading out around him. He never got tired of the way bullets hung in midair, easily redirected by a slap from his hand or tail and usually finding a new target in one of the soldiers firing at him. He paused again to catch his breath, unable to keep from laughing to himself as he rolled his shoulders and checked the stopwatch he’d mounted on his rifle.

He felt a sort of tingle as a new, powerful aura hit his senses. The half-blood; the leader; the Tankman. He glanced over his shoulder, sneering a bit fiendishly at the man before zipping off and sending a shot through the soldier that was running by him. He adored pissing him off almost more than mowing through his soldiers. Almost. Nah, no he didn’t.

He spotted a crowd growing at the far end of the training field, and he made his way to the top of a lamppost to get a good look. They were practically lined up, every other row bearing riot shields that wouldn’t stand a chance against Pico’s shots while the others were taking aim.

“Here he comes!” Someone called, and they all seemed to brace and cringe.

Oh, well, now he had to flex. He made a show of transforming his rifle into his favorite pair of Uzis before lunging down into the crowd. The sounds of his guns couldn’t even reach him with how fast he was moving, and he couldn’t resist tackling some soldiers to the ground to make room for a sweep of bullets before shooting them as well. His average time was coming up; he just knew it. He needed a good finisher. Maybe something flashy…

“Alright, you little shit!” Pico flinched at that familiar voice, looking up from his position of standing on a soldier’s chest. Oh, perfect! A high level tag. It’d be a first, for him at least, but taking Tankman down a peg in front of all his soldiers would be a fantastic note to head home on.

“This little game of yours ends now, ya goddamn salamander!” Tankman barked at him, holding a…a fuckin…glowing stick?

Pico blinked, capping the soldier he was standing on before turning to face his target. Why was it taking so long for him to catch his breath? He could have been over there by now. He scoffed as he caught sight of Tankman’s smirk; what’s a little headache if he got to punch that jaw in?

His aura spread out as he prepared to rush, and whoa, whoa, time-fucking-out!

He was dizzy; way too dizzy. He stumbled to a stop, keeping his distance from Tankman; but he was still shaking. His guns vanished, and his head cleared a bit. He could see the staff in Tankman’s hand glowing, and when he narrowed his eyes to hone his demon senses, he could see purple lines and symbols etched into the ground around him. Unfortunately, such an effort threw his head back into a spin, and he found his butt hitting the dirt as his tail and scales shifted off of him to leave him seated there in his school clothes. He pushed his red curls out of his face, panting softly as he glanced around at the soldiers surrounding his new little cage. Shit; there went his run.

“Men, I’d say Operation Coyote was a complete success.” Tankman said with a grin as he stepped forward, and the soldiers cheered and laughed around him.

Pico growled as he locked his gaze on Tankman. His face shifted suddenly as his eyes glowed, flames wisping between the gaps in his teeth as he—promptly faceplanted into the dirt from the sudden lightheadedness.

“Aw, isn’t that cute?” Tankman jeered as others chuckled, and Pico looked up to see him kneeling beside the edge of the circle, which seemed a lot smaller now than it had a minute ago. “He tried to do the scary eyes.” The man popped the visor off of his helmet, and Pico’s face fell as bright purple eyes bored into him from pitch black sclera.

Tankman sneered for a moment at Pico’s speechless staring, standing up as he reattached the visor. “Heh, and that’s how you do it, kid. You like your new playpen, brat?”

Pico blushed a bit, embarrassed, and quickly got to his feet. “It’s tacky, old man.” He growled, clenching a fist and trying a punch. He wasn’t surprised when his hand couldn’t go past the circle, but he was surprised when Tankman’s hand came through to grab him by his shirt.

“Yeah, it’s an older setup;” The man hummed, easily dangling Pico’s human form as the kid kicked against the barrier. “It’s amazing what you pick up when you’re raised by Demon Hunters, eh?”

Pico snarled softly, trying to pry those deceptively strong fingers off of his collar. “When I get out of here, I’m gonna fucking—!" He was shut up when his face was yanked against the barrier.

“You’re not gonna do a damn thing, you shitty little snake-spawn!”

Pico had winced a little at what he assumed must be the “Captain voice” he’d heard rumors about, a cheeky smirk seating itself on his lips to mask his nerves.

“We’re getting sick of your games, runt; and it’s about time you were put in—”

“What?!” Pico shouted exaggeratedly, tipping his head back and kicking the barrier again. “I-I can’t hear you; some old fuck blew my eardrums out with his bitching!”

He just knew Tankman was glaring at him through that stupid visor, and Pico couldn’t help laughing tauntingly until he was dropped on the ground. The man drew his hand back, resting it on his hip as the other tightened its grip on his staff.

“Men, next step. Get started.” He ordered shortly, stepping backwards.  

Pico scrambled to his feet. Okay, he was fine as long as he didn’t use his powers; no problem. The soldiers were regrouping, and about ten of them stepped closer to the circle with staves or wands or whatever conduit they carried. Pico growled softly; he had a feeling he knew what they were doing, but dammit, he couldn’t tell which of them was going to attack first. He glanced over his shoulder, sure that they’d go for his blind spot, only for something to lash around one of his wrists.

He yelped, planting his feet and trying to lean back. He did his best to suppress the instinct to use his demon strength, and he growled angrily as he was forced into a tug-of-war with at least one full-grown man who didn’t look like he was having much of a problem keeping the magic coil still. The soldier beside him seemed to perform the same spell, another coil of magic energy zipping around his free wrist.

“Ack! F-Fuckers!” Pico barked, his sneakers dragging in the dirt for a moment before he was yanked down to the ground. He cried out as his tongue got caught between his teeth, and he struggled to find traction to pull against the magic ropes.

“Not bad, boys.” Tankman called, sauntering into the circle. He rested his boot heavily on Pico’s back, and a pair of soldiers managed to wrangle Pico’s flailing legs from outside the circle. “Well, kid, not so tough now, are ya?”

Pico growled up at him, but dammit, he couldn’t think of a response. They’d actually caught him.

“Pfft, no stupid quips either, huh?” Tankman jeered. “Damn, that’s almost sad. Stevie! Front and Center!”

Pico could hear footsteps running toward them, and another soldier made an effort to pass through his sightline and give him a wave.

“Hello, Pico.” He said almost politely, carrying a book under his arm; and Pico hated how genuine he sounded. “Ah, sir, the spell’s ready when you are.”

 ////////////

John couldn’t help a roll of his eyes when Steve greeted the little brat, given the position they were all in. He was a sweetheart to a fault.

“The spell’s ready when you are.” Steve said with a smile, the book floating out of his palm as his hands glowed. As the pages flipped rapidly on their own, John cracked his knuckles and grinned.

“Good to hear it.” He chuckled, removing the glove on his left hand. “Hit me, Stevie.”

Steve took a deep breath and spread his fingers, and John felt magic wrap around his arm. It coiled and tightened between his fingers, supplying his powers without the circle draining them away. His arm shifted: a dark black-purple form with sharp fingers, meant to reach and pull at souls and the essences of life itself.

“Alright, kiddo…” John hummed, curling his fingers and sneering when he caught sight of the brat looking up at him. “Time to learn ya a thing or two about messing with soldiers.”

The kid yelped when John’s hand clutched at his shoulder, and John’s eyes glowed behind his visor as he forced the brat into a partial shift. Scales quickly covered his back, and half of his head became dragonesque, glowing eye included. The soldiers restraining him had to plant their feet and pull as he got a burst of strength to fight.

“Stevie?” John huffed, setting his knee on one of the kid’s legs as his free hand gripped a handle on his belt.

Steve knelt in front of their captive, smiling in that calming way he does. “Now, Pico, I can imagine how upset you must be, but I’d suggest you keep still. All we’re going to do is a sort of test. Research purposes.”

“Fuck you…” The brat hissed, and John smacked him on the back of the head with his free hand before he could stop himself.

“Don’t fucking talk to Stevie like that, shitstain.” He growled, returning his hand to his belt to finally pull up the knife he’d been unsheathing. “Since you don’t want it sugar-coated, I’m going to scrape some scales off you so our boys can find out what kind of bullshit makes you so damn bulletproof. Knowledge is half the battle, you know.”

The kid’s glowing eye turned to him, a mouth half full of sharp teeth trying to snarl.

John just rolled his eyes. “Yeah, kid, I’m so terrified.” He flipped the knife in his hand, angling the blade against the boy’s spine.

Despite the fact that he’d spent at least an hour sharpening the damn thing that morning just for this, it simply rattled along the scales like a tire of the off-road track. John sucked his teeth, his shifted hand clutching tighter when the brat tried to kick again.

“Knock it off!” He barked, sounding closer to a whine from where John was kneeling.

John bit back a chuckle, but a smirk played his lips as he set the tip of the knife at the back of the kid’s neck. “Why should I? You haven’t quit shooting up our battlefield every other day for weeks! I’d say this is the least of what you ought to get.”

Steve was eyeing the kid curiously, and he took a seat on the ground to look a little closer. John crisscrossed the knife along the scales at the center of their prisoner’s back, growing a bit frustrated when he realized he was only dulling his blade.

“I s-said quit it!” The kid’s voice pitched to a squeak, and he tried and failed again to pull. John actually paused this time, quirking an eyebrow.

“Ah, I see!” Steve suddenly said, smiling happily as he tipped his head to try and make eye contact. “You’re a little ticklish, aren’t you, Pico?”

The kid promptly looked away from him, not even letting out a growl this time.

Steve smirked a little, crossing his arms. “Oh, you’re very ticklish; my mistake.” He corrected teasingly, purposefully raising his voice a bit and giggling at the look the kid must have given him.

John rolled his eyes and scoffed. “Takes one to know one, Stevie.” He said with a little smile of his own, attempting to curb his frustration with that cute blush on Steve’s face. Of course, after all this hassle, the damn kid’s dragon hide turned his sharpest knife into a tickle tool.

Wait a fucking second…

  ////////////

It probably would have been easy for Pico to just tell Tankman that his demon form was pretty blade-proof, but he couldn’t resist the chance to upset him a little for putting him through this. He quickly regretted that decision when the knife managed to catch his nerves despite not breaking through his armor.

“Knock it off!” He insisted, trying to keep any giggles from slipping into his voice. That “Stevie” guy was watching him closely, and Pico was too focused on trying to struggle to hear whatever Tankman was saying. A shiver shot up his spine when the knife made zigzags across it, and damn him, that tickled so bad!

“I s-said quit it!” He squeaked out, still unable to escape the magic coils on his limbs.

“Ah, I see~!” Stevie said playfully, watching Pico’s face as he struggled. “You’re a little ticklish, aren’t you, Pico?”

The human half of his face felt hot, and he looked away from that stupid smile. He was just trying to get Pico’s guard down; he just knew it.

“Oh… you’re very ticklish; my mistake.” Stevie taunted, raising his voice enough that a few soldiers behind him actually reacted.

Pico gasped indignantly, and Stevie just giggled. Oh, he didn’t care how nice this guy was; Pico was lighting him up next time. He heard Tankman scoff, and he realized the knife wasn’t touching him anymore.

“Takes one to know one, Stevie.” Tankman teased, but then he seemed to pause as Stevie was pouting at him. Pico blinked and shook his head as it suddenly started to shift back to fully human. He didn’t have the leverage to look over his shoulder, but he saw Stevie and a few soldiers behind him smile and snicker.

Before Pico could figure out what was going on, he found himself laughing loudly and trying to struggle again. Tankman’s fingers were digging and scribbling over his back and shoulders, occasionally giving more firm scratches right over his spine. His hands crawled up and shoved into the spaces between his shoulders to flutter along his neck, ripping a squeal out of Pico’s mouth as he tried to scrunch his shoulders up to his ears.

“Gee, Stevie, I’d say he’s definitely pretty ticklish~” Tankman taunted, wiggling his fingers against Pico’s neck where he could. “The little brat’s caught my fingers.”

Pico, indeed, was making an effort to keep Tankman’s fingers pinned where they were despite the squeaky giggles he kept pulling out of him. This was embarrassing enough as it was.

Tankman leaned slightly, and Pico heard him whistle. There was a bit of a murmur, and a few footsteps crunched on the dirt.

“Oh, quit being a bitch, he can’t hurt you. Now, come here.”

Pico tried to look back, only to squeak and squirm when Tankman so much as twitched his fingers. Another weight set itself on his left ankle, and he could feel his sneaker being worked off.

“W-Wait a minute; that’s not fa—!” He tried to protest, giggles mixing in as Tankman leaned over him.

“Oh, yeah? And why is that? Your little dragon paws tickwish too?”

“Fuck you!” Pico shot back, unable to keep from laughing when the new soldier scratched gently at the sole of his foot, seemingly tracing the snake patterns on his sock.

“You know what I think is unfair?” Tankman continued, letting his nails drag one last time as he finally pulled his hands away from Pico’s neck; Pico still hesitated to let his shoulders down. “I think it’s pretty damn unfair that you keep running in here taking pot-shots at my soldiers just for shits and giggles.”

Pico had to bite his tongue to keep from giggling as Tankman aimed a poke between his shoulders to punctuate the line.

“So, obviously, it’s only fair that they get a few pot-shots at you. And hell, if bullets aren’t going to work, we’ll stick to what does.”

Tankman’s hands burrowed into Pico’s armpits, and the poor kid shrieked and yanked his arms down. “Ohoho! There it is! That’s a tickle spot, alright!” Tankman’s left hand came to pry at Pico’s right arm, his free hand scribbling faster and digging to draw out loud squeals.

Fingers were scribbling all over his foot, and someone else was digging into the back of his knee. He let out a cackle when someone’s hand found the soft part of his side, almost catching the edge of his stomach. Stevie still sat in front of him, ruffling Pico’s hair with one hand while the other gave gentle scribbles around his ears that made him giggle even harder.

“Sir, why don’t we flip him over?” Stevie suggested. “Get the poor thing out of the dirt.”

“Heh, yeah?” Tankman asked playfully, hooking his hands under Pico’s arms. “Or do you just want to find out if his tummy is as bad as yours too?”

“John!” Stevie scolded with a chuckle, and Pico flailed a bit as he was lifted up. Two soldiers grabbed his wrists, and—Wait, when the fuck did his hands get free anyway?! Pico didn’t have a chance to think about it, since several soldiers’ hands returned to their positions of scribbling or pinching around his torso.

Pico’s voice was lost in squeals and cackles as he tried to writhe. That same bastard had ahold of his foot again, and someone else was reaching over to scratch under his toes. An arm was hooked around his leg, and fingers scribbled under his knee; a claw-shaped hand vibrated and squeezed around his stomach, catching the edge of his bellybutton every time he squirmed; knuckles dug and twisted against his ribs; and there was some feather-light tracing under his chin and down his neck.

Pico was a damn patient person. He’d have been willing to forgive all that shit.

If the fuckers weren’t teasing him!!

It was mostly the fact that they were laughing at him that irked him—no, he was not just going loopy from his own laughter, the soldiers were chuckling at his ordeal like fucking sadists—but the cooing in his ears and to each other about ‘how cute’ he was, and ‘poor thing’ and ‘Maybe we could let him go if he’s learned his lesson~”

Oh, yeah, that Stevie guy was so dead.

Tankman laughed beside him, arms crossed for a moment as he tapped his foot. “Nah, maybe a little longer. Kids like him tend to need some tutoring, y’know?”

Stevie gave him a little push, chuckling, and Pico tried his best to find some clarity.

A little headache was worth the glow that came to his eye.

  ////////////

John shook his head as he observed the chaos. Poor kid was kind of getting destroyed. Not that he didn’t deserve it, of course, but John certainly didn’t envy him right now.

Steve approached him with a smile, softly nudging John with his shoulder and adjusting his glasses with his thumb. “The guys are ruthless as usual.” He commented, sidestepping the poke John tried to give him.

“Yes. I’ve trained them well.” John chuckled, only to snicker and shake his head as a few of his soldiers broke off into their own little tickle fights.

“Think they should let up a little yet? I almost feel bad for poor Pico.”

John wanted to roll his eyes, but they stuck on Steve as he smiled fondly. “Yeah, no.” He snorted. “Good cop ain’t on call today, Stevie.”

“Maybe we could let him go if he’s learned his lesson~?” Steve suggested, raising his voice so the kid could hear him.

John let out a laugh, crossing his arms over his chest. “Nah, maybe a little longer just for that. Kids like him tend to need some tutoring, y’know?”

“John, you’re terrible.” Steve giggled, punching his arm lightly, and John chuckled with him until he felt something.

He looked up to see the kid glaring at him as best as he could through all that laughter, one eye glowing a bright, flickering green. He rolled his eyes and smirked.

“Yeah, kid, I’m so scared…” He huffed, stepping forward and kneeling in front of him. “But as long as this circle’s up, your powers aren’t getting you any—”

Something rattled, and John spun around for a second. It had sounded like it was right against his head, as if he was wearing a rattlesnake around his neck.

Rattlesnake…

“John?” Steve called hesitantly, looking around for a moment as well. When John’s eyes fell on him, they widened fearfully before he could catch himself. A tiny spot of green light rested perfectly still on Steve’s chest. As he was pulling his staff from over his shoulder, a hail of bullets came down fast enough to turn Steve into a fine mist and hard enough to rip deep burrows in the dirt where he once stood.

“Stevie!!” He cried out, eyes narrowing sharply as he turned around. “Men, get back; get behind me!”

The air itself seemed to rattle with gunfire as the soldiers around the bastard kid were quickly thinned out. Those who had managed to get behind John were encased in the purple shield he cast. Slashing lines were cut deep into the dusty earth, cutting through anyone in their path, and, as John was quick to realize, upsetting the ground enough to break the barrier spell they’d spent so long setting up.

The kid seemed to realize, too, since he shifted quickly into his demon form and curled up tight to protect himself. The rattling came closer until bullets were battering John’s shield. He growled to himself, and the soldiers around him attempted to aid him in boosting the shield’s power, but it seemed to chip faster with their effort.

It burst within seconds, and all of John’s soldiers were gone before he could blink. And to top it all off, John’s body was thrown to the ground by a weight attempting to cave in his ribs. A heavy boot came down on his collarbone. When he was finally able to open his eyes, he found himself staring down the barrel of a rifle, his helmet lost or broken somewhere during the chaos.

Two rattling tails swayed slowly in his peripheral. Less than he was used to; she wasn’t too mad. The gun was shoved up against his cheek as she ground the toe of her boot into his neck.

“O-Okay, easy, easy! Krotalía!” John choked out, grabbing at her ankle with one hand.

“Sergeant John Captain…” She hissed slowly, eyeing him through the sights. “I was starting to think you’d forgotten my name. Maybe got your hand shot off in a way ya finally couldn’t fix it. Would explain why ya never write me anymore.”

John could hear his soldiers’ footsteps coming from the main building, but they knew to keep their distance from this one.

Krotalía continued with a snide chuckle. “But, nah. Here I find you: still in one piece; still running the boys up and down the field; and most importantly: Picking on my goddamn kid!”

“Ma, I was fine!” The kid suddenly argued, stepping forward half shifted. “I could have handled them!”

John saw one of Krotalía’s tails split into two, and a gunshot rang out as the kid was thrown backwards with a little squeak.

“Oh, we’ll be discussing your punishment in a second, ya little hell spawn.” She snarled, but John could see her smiling over her shoulder.

“Alright, Rattlesnake, cut the shit.” John huffed, giving a small grin of his own. “Let me up. We’ll chat, yeah?”

Krotalía hissed faintly, unable to keep the smile off of her lips as she finally pulled the gun away from John’s face. “Yes, let’s…” She stepped back, turning away from him and giving her son a playful kick where he was lying.

John sat up with a wince, coughing softly and spitting some blood between his teeth. “So, who wants to talk about how your little brat has been razing through our battlefield like clockwork for the past few weeks?”

The woman chuckled, lifting her kid up by the back of his shirt and setting him down. “Yeah, I had a feeling he’d been getting some training in somewhere. He’s been getting awfully competitive with me lately.”

John glared slightly; fuck him for expecting a mischief making snake bitch to discipline her mischief making dragon brat.

She laughed at him though, resting her rifle over her shoulder. “I know that look, Johnny; you read like a bad script.” One of her tails whacked her kid to nudge him forward. “Go on, Pico. Make nice for once.”

The kid crossed his arms and looked away, thumping his tail on the dirt behind him; and when he finally looked up at John, he just stuck his tongue out and blew a raspberry.

John snorted before he could catch himself. “Y’know, if you’re going to act like a four-year-old, maybe you should expect the tickle monster to get ya again next time too.”

He blushed brightly and snarled, shifting suddenly and attempting to lunge, only to be caught in one of his mother’s tails. “Dammit, Pico!” She growled while John just laughed again.

She set him on his feet again, and he shifted back to a mostly human shape before she gave him another whack on the back of his head this time. He grumbled angrily and stepped forward, extending a hand.

“…You know I’ll be back, right?” He asked, hinting a smirk.

“You gonna call your mommy to bail you out then too?” John teased, but he was quick to accept the handshake before the brat… Ugh, before Pico took it back. He even ruffled that mess of red hair as he chuckled and let go of his hand. “Krotalía, you don’t have to make him apologize. We’re all friends here, yeah?”

Pico spit out a little spark of flame and tried to pout, but he couldn’t help smiling a little. Krotalía looked between the two of them and rolled her eyes with a sigh.

“Boys…” She snickered, slipping one of her tails around Pico to guide his turn away from John and the soldiers. “C’mon, kid. Let’s go over those numbers you got.”

Pico had bounced excitedly at the idea, but he glanced back as they were walking. He drew one of his handguns from thin air and sneered right at John. “I’ll get you, old man…” He growled playfully, getting a little smack on his arm by his mother’s tail.

John chuckled, shaking his head. He’d look forward to it.

“John!” John glanced back to his troops, and the crowd parted slightly to let Steve run up. John smiled as he caught him in a hug, sighing softly over his shoulder and squeezing him tight.

“Are they already gone?” Steve asked softly, having to fix his glasses when John let him go. “That’s a shame. I wanted to speak to her.”

“You would say that after getting fucking shredded, wouldn’t you?” John chuckled, giving Steve a playful shove before addressing the soldiers that had gathered.

“Alright, men! I’d say we handled that pretty well, all things considered…”

There was a chorus of chuckles and murmurs in agreement.

“Now, I think we all know damn well this isn’t the last time we’ll be seeing Pico rushing through here. More importantly, the kid’s not gonna fall for that trick so easily again. It’s time I put you all on some heavier demon hunter training.”

He glanced back at Steve, who was already flipping through his summoned spellbook. “Game on, Stevie?”

Steve smiled fondly and shook his head. “Game on, sir.”

[heli0s-writes]

Saga*

Summary: Bucky is in a mood.

A/N: HELLO. Here is the much-awaited bunny saga. How did I get here. Why did you guys do this to me? Thanks everyone who cursed me with this, especially @softbiker​ who put the bath-time idea into my head and had me dry-heaving about it. 🧡

Warnings: Smut! 18+ DomBucky. Rough sex. Mild comeplay. Anal fingering. Over-stimulation. Crying. Possible Dubcon. Please I don’t know. 2.5k words.

It’s nine-thirty and hazy when you get home. Another day spent poring over paperwork and e-mail chains, tracing lines of command to seek the right department head to question and scrutinize. Senators and budgets. Bureaucracy and posturing. Your affixed scowl and bared teeth when you berate men making wrong decisions for half the free world.

Most of the time, your job is fulfilling and fits you perfectly. However, it’s been an entire week of fuck-ups to resolve and you’re overwrought. Sleep-deprived. Pissed-off. Permanently on edge. Thank God the house is quiet, at least.

You break the silence almost guiltily, calling his name. Nearly seventeen hours you’ve been gone—and it’s been like this too long. Now it’s Friday and you texted him near lunchtime you’d have to be in tomorrow, too.

Radio silence ever since. Naturally, you’re anxious.

Down the hallway, Bucky’s voice echoes. “I’m in the bath, sweetheart.”  

Instantaneous relief.

-

The door swings open and buttery vanilla greets you first. Then notes of garden rose cuts through the cream. Moisture hangs heavy in the air. Thick. Warm. You marvel at the view.

He’s leaned back, shoulders and chest exposed above the swirling bubbles, hair tied up with a smile on his pretty lips. His reflective left arm rests on the smooth edge of the porcelain, motioning you forward with shimmering candlelit fingers. Silver bowing to an orange-golden glow.

“Been waiting for you.”

Droplets roll down his neck, gather in the space between his collarbones. It’s heavenly. You slip in the tub and heave a sigh. Oh, he’s good. Always so good at taking the day from you. Always known what you needed.

Since the first time he caught you grilling Tony at the compound, flicking off Steve on your way out in half-jest half-sincerity because their levelling an entire block meant a mess-ton of work on your end and a headache into next year, he’d known. He asked you out, then, as an apology. Something about the mission being his fault. Lemme get you a coffee, please. And you had snapped up yours, Barnes, but met him the next day anyway. Twenty minutes turned into two hours and by the time you were leaving for home, he was coming along with you. One broken bedframe later and you were gone for him.

Exactly what you needed.

“Buck...” You rest your head on his shoulder now, grateful. “Mm... Sorry I haven’t been home much.”

“I know you are.” It’s a mysterious reply, but you’re too worn to raise questions.

Bucky’s breath fans over your shoulder, hotter than the water on your skin. A kiss to your throat. His torso rubs against your back. His legs and arms shift, rearranging himself around you purposefully and it feels like you’re being eased into a trap.

A groan when you discover his game. Exasperated and on edge, reflexive with attitude because you’ve spent all week telling men what to do, you put on that voice you reserve for work: sharp. Commanding. “I have to be up early; I need to sleep.”

Petulance is his reply. Equally decisive. Even sharper.

“I don’t care.”

Under the flickering glow, Bucky sucks the inside of his cheek between his teeth, peers up from behind darkening eyes, and you feel your entire soul tremble.

“Go lie down.” His timbre is steady, indifferent, as if he’s got the entire situation in the center of his palm. He rumbles from deep in his chest, and the trap is revealed. Turning gears and metal mechanisms clatter. Bucky’s finger on the trigger. “Be good, bunny.”

Fuck. You bite down a wince. That pet name. He only uses it when he’s feeling a certain way— dominating, maybe even vengeful. Tired of missing his girl and chasing her shadow. His pupils are blown wide and hounding your every move. Voracious and predatory and you feel very much like his prey now. Defiance flees. You’re barely audible.

“Bucky—“

His tongue flicks over a canine and your stomach leaps into your throat.

“Don’t make me say it again.”

The cage door crashes down. Locks itself shut with you ensnared.

-

Harried thoughts about how to escape his wrath swim through your mind on the bed. You love him. Jesus Christ, do you love him, but you have to get more than three hours tonight. Your eyes are still shut when you feel big hands slide under your calves, behind your knees, lifting you up and right onto his face.

Leisurely licks despite his urgency. Up. Down. The pad of his tongue wet and loving, slicking you up with kisses and spit. His tender affection tucked within impetuous craving. A bruising grip to your hipbones, settling your body, ignoring your pleas when you attempt them.

“Haven’t gotten to touch you in days. You know what that does to me?” Another long, soft suck as you quiver. You can hear his mouth. Smell your own scent threading through the rose and vanilla atmosphere. Sweet and tangy. Alive and keening. Undeniably eager for him. Your pulse feels attached to every effort of his fingertips.

“Gonna have you all night---” Low timbre, curling deep. “—till you’re falling apart for me—” You try to catch your breath. “—shaking the goddamn bed—oh--”

At the first clench of your orgasm, Bucky smiles against your clit, flicking sharp lines as you jerk the tender bud away.

“Stay still.”

His left hand wraps itself around the base of your throat, pressing enough to keep you compliant. The plates shifts and clicks. You break out in a shudder at the sound of it whirring. His other fingers begin their real work, heel of his palm hitting your throbbing clit with every manic shove. Squelching. Smacking. Your desperate whimpers. And then a final loud yelp and you go slack for the second time.

On the comedown, your bones melting into the mattress, you attempt to swat him away, but he’s faster— of course he is— and in a flash he flips you. A crack of his palm and agony shoots up your side like fire.

“I said, stay still.”

You yelp when he does it again, squirming helplessly because he’s barely touching it now— the swollen skin on your ass blistering. He’s dancing on the edges, teasing, lifting— and then—

Another one. You’re stuck in his grasp. Your vision blurs. He leans forward to kiss newly formed tears at the edge of your eye into his devilish mouth. Your spine is electric like a live wire.

Tracing your inflamed wound with his finger-- light touches around the edge of the hurt-- he dips past your flushed cheek with a grin. His tongue is hot when he licks the salt between your teeth. That teardrop he pulled from you, traded from his mouth to yours.

“Cryin’ so pretty, baby.” Bucky praises against your trembling chin, tasting another droplet collecting along your jaw, “You’ll be good now, won’t you?” A weak nod. Captured game spellbound by all his power.

“Get up there with your fucking face in the pillow.”

Metal grasps the back of your neck, tangling your hair, pressing your cheek into the cushion. A slow nudge, he parts your entrance, giving just a tiny bit of him, making you squirm and clench already around his cockhead. Beneath his grip, you pant, nodding, inhaling lungfuls of fresh detergent on the sheets, steeling yourself.

Another mindful lean. He’s so thick. You shimmy desperately, throbbing for more. “Needy fucking girl.” A scrape of his teeth to your shoulder. “Jesus, you got me all slicked up and wet.”

He sinks in-- all the way—easily and so, so deep you swear the air’s been punched clean out of your body. Bucky holds you beneath him, dick pushing deeper and deeper and god how is he doing this.

“I’m gonna fuck you hard, baby—” A grunt. “--maybe too hard, huh?” His breath chases a shudder down your back. “I’ve been wound up—can’t help myself anymore.”

You struggle, shake your head, feel yourself choking up another sob, toes curling until they feel stuck.

“Come on it,” he commands, “Squeeze my cock, sweetheart. Make it filthy with your pussy.”

“Ngh— Buck, you’re gonna—“

A wilted cry tears itself free, smothering itself out on the pillow beneath. You’re still reeling when he picks up his pace, hands gripping your ass, spreading you to admire the sight of him welded inside. You’re trembling-- twitching, overstimulated and overwhelmed—sniffling quietly. You’re shivery and hot, raw and exposed.

He drives in again.

“You ain’t going back to work tomorrow. You’re gonna stay right here— all— fucking—day.” You punctuate his syllables with gagged moans—lilt high like you’re injured, fisting the blankets, tears catching in the pillow.

“Sweet girl,” Bucky croons, wolfish, “Does it feel good?”

He sticks his fingers back in your mouth, thumb under your tongue where spit has collected and drags out a line of it. “Look at you… drooling everywhere, bunny. You’re so fucking messy for my cock.”

Bucky drags his hand down your back, takes his time traveling over the swell of your ass, into the dipping line and prods gently against your tight hole. Jesus fucking Christ.

“Yeah?” A wiggle of his hips, “Tell me you want it.”

Your brain is—not quite working. A little crinkle of static here, a little drone of magnetic humming there, realizing how embarrassed you feel. Submissive and helpless, sloppy and displayed, but you have enough bearing to nod. Get a quiet agreeance out. “Y-yes.”

And it’s enough for him. A lazy kiss to your shoulder, stilling his cock, spreading what’s smeared around your pussy and his base up to your hole, driving in slow and deliberate. The little sense you have flees entirely. You want it so bad, lost to him.

Grinding, grinding, grinding. Deeper and deeper. Dragging all the way out and then back in.

“Too much? Hm? You’re gonna take it, though, aren’t you? Yeah--” He’s harder now. Stiffens up with his own goading, you tensing beneath him, sheen of sweat on your brow and back. “Fuck, I love your pussy. Love your ass. Gonna fill you up at least twice.”

Sometimes the pros of being with an enhanced super soldier is the sex. Sometimes the cons of being with an enhanced super soldier is the sex, too. Twice is a walk in the goddamn park for Bucky. It’s a promise and a threat.

One finger becomes two, hooking slightly, rubbing the back of his knuckle down, feeling the stroke of his cock through your swollen layer of muscle.

“Oh,” you whine, “Bucky—ah—ah.”

It hurts like the way a long morning jog does— aching muscles, worn and overworked, thrumming voltage and adrenaline— and you’re high on it. Clumsy grunts and gasps, blabbering compliance, head spinning. Your vision bursts white. Or black. Or stars—whatever. You’re finished, that’s for sure. Gone for him. Like always.

But not Bucky. Hell, he keeps going, crams another finger inside of you, other arm underneath your belly now, elbow crooked, thighs splayed around your hips, shoving himself in so fucking furiously it rattles the entire room.

The realization dawns that you’re not coming back down. It feels like you’re being torn apart. Skinned and stinging and the most incredible sensation in the whole damn world with him wrapping your entire being around his desire as he fucks into you. You feel claimed. You feel owned. You feel infinite.

“Jesus, baby.” He grunts, “Jesus—fuck—yeah. Fucking good-- all mine.”

Near inarticulate and filthy. He gets this way when he’s close-- tongue-tied as much as Bucky can be, because he’s always got the kind of clever vocabulary that makes your entire body burn without ever having to touch you. So now, when he’s stuffing you full and saying those kinds of things, you don’t stand a chance.

Bucky grips your hair and peels your throat exposed, sucking a mark on the pulse point, and comes so hard he knocks you both into the headboard with the back of his hand cushioning the blow.

His cock is covered when he pulls out, still half-hard and stroking himself, using it like lube. You push your palms over your face, move your knees together but he wedges them apart so wide they smart.

His ruddy cheeks glow beneath the searing blue ring of his eyes, a microscopic corona encircling the darkness of enormous pupils. He holds you frozen with a single look-- ravenous. At least twice floats into your head. Oh, god.

It doesn’t take long the second time, like he’s propelled straight through his first and pitched right into the next. He buries his face into your neck, jerks to a halt with heavy pant, hair splayed over your collar. The sound of it, the smell of it, the feel. His cock, painfully hard. His come, shoved deeper. Your insides, bruised tender and sore, throbbing, stinging, still fluttering for more. Pleasure blurs into pain and back again.

He pinches your nipples hard. Squeezes your jaw, your cheeks. Fucks your mouth with his hand and smears your spit down your sternum.

“What’re you doing tomorrow?” He leans into a thrust, “Tell me.”

Bucky sits you up into his lap, wraps his limbs around you lovingly. The world is hazy and incoherent. You let him do as he pleases, making only choked-up sounds and half-attempted replies.

“Yeah.” Quiet crooning, shushing in your ear, soothing your frantic heart, “I got you. I got you, baby. I got one more for you, alright? And you’re gonna take it, aren’t you? You’re gonna learn your lesson.”

You sob his name with each thrust, chew on your lip distraughtly. You can’t. It’s too fucking much. Stop, you think, please. More, you think, please. Every time you feel thrown off one edge, he takes you to the next one, even higher. He fucks you raw and open and loose and when he finally comes for the last time, you dig half-moons into his arms, curl into the shape of a wounded animal and tremble in pleasure.

-

He cleans himself up. Cleans you too. Soft caresses on the parts of you he marked up, nuzzling his nose into your cheek, imprinted with the creases from the pillowcase. Bucky lays you down slowly, brushes the damp hair from your jaw, settles in next to you with sweet kisses and mindful aftercare.

God, he’s good. Always known what you’ve needed even before you realize it for yourself. Your man.

Wrapping you up his arms when you need warmth. Giving you space when you’re feeling restless. Loving you slow when you’re withdrawn. Loving you hard when you’re aching.

And oh, you ache.

Your body sinks into the sheets. Every synapse shutting down, feeling a rest so deep every cell hums.

“What’re you gonna do tomorrow, bunny?” Gentle prodding, just a little sharp. Hypothetical, of course because he already knows your answer. Already knows you belong to him for the rest of the weekend.

Bucky tugs up the comforter around your shoulders, slotting himself behind your body, enfolding both of you safely. Your lids flutter shut. All the stars in the sky pitch themselves out. The night closes black and endless, eats your mind until you’re lost to sleep.

He pulls you tight to him. Possessive. Caged in. One final scrape of his teeth over the back of your neck like a warning before he muffles a satisfied moan into your hair.

You’re trapped. You’re caught. It’s heaven.

[joyandthephantoms]

please don't hint that you're capable of lies

Words: 1.3k

Rating: teen and up (for language)

Characters: Bobby Wilson, Luke Patterson

Pairing: Luke/Bobby

Summary: 

“Right, because it’s much better to hear me bitch about how my best friend spent 3 months slipping notes into my journal and walking me to class and sticking his tongue in my mouth because he pities me,” Luke spits.

In Bobby’s defense, this isn’t where he thought asking Luke out would land them.

(ao3 link in reblog)

“Seriously, dude, what the fuck?” Luke says. “How could you do that?”

Bobby’s fought with Luke plenty of times before—can’t even imagine what their relationship would look like without the constant push and pull that comes from being too stubborn and too proud and caring for each other too much—but he’s not sure that he’s ever made him this furious.

“You told me you liked me,” Luke says. “I didn’t ask, you just said—this was your idea. You made me think you wanted this.”

In Bobby’s (admittedly very weak) defense, this isn’t where he thought asking Luke out would land them. He’s not sure he thought about it much at all, just that he’d seen Luke, two weeks out of a bad breakup with a worse girl, making eyes at that asshole Michael from across the cafeteria, and he’d snapped.

The words were out of Bobby’s mouth before he had time to think about later or about whether or not this was a good idea at all or about the fact that he wasn’t actually into Luke and that might be a problem. “So, Patterson, are you gonna let me take you on a date or what?” As if they’d been talking about it the whole time. As if his reasoning was something beyond I can at least be a better boyfriend than Michael fucking Hoffacker.

What he should say now is “I’m sorry.” It’s “I don’t really know what I was thinking but I just didn’t want to see you get hurt again and I guess I figured this would only last a couple months before you found someone better and moved on so it wouldn’t matter anyway, but either way you’re right and I was an asshole and I should have been honest with you and I’m sorry.”

It’s definitely not: “I don’t know, maybe I was sick of hearing you bitch about people who clearly aren’t good for you all the time. Maybe I wanted a fucking break, okay?”

“Right, because it’s much better to hear me bitch about how my best friend spent 3 months slipping notes into my journal and walking me to class and sticking his tongue in my mouth because he pities me,” Luke spits.

It takes effort to not bite back again, to not say something else that he doesn’t mean—because he really didn’t mean it like that, didn’t mean it like caring about you is a burden, like it’s your fault they hurt you.

He’s trying hard not to do what he always does, acting like the asshole the other person wants him to be because it’s simpler for everyone that way. But without that, he’s lost, and he really has nothing to say for himself here. He’s stupid, he’s so stupid, and he should have thought this through for even half a second before he went and fucked everything up.

He wants to tell Luke he’s got it all wrong, that no, he does like him like that, he does now, but he can’t, because—because Luke isn’t wrong. Whatever Bobby feels now doesn’t make it untrue that he lied when he asked Luke out in the first place; it doesn’t make him less of a dick.

Every half-baked explanation and apology gets jumbled together and stuck in his throat and all he can get out is a too-quiet “I don’t pity you.”

“Then what? You were trying to protect me? I’m not a fucking kid, Bobby.”

Something twists in Bobby’s stomach, because how many times has Luke had this same fight with his parents? How many times has Bobby sat beside him and listened to him recount those fights and affirmed the same things he’s repeating right now?

He might be the worst friend on the planet.

Luke keeps talking. “Look, I get that I don’t—I’m not—I know I made some bad choices with who I dated, I know they sucked. But you and your savior complex don’t just get to swoop in and lead me on for months to try to fix me.”

“Luke, I—”

“How long were you gonna let me think it was real?” Luke’s an angry crier, and honestly, it’s a miracle they got this far without any tearshed. But his voice is thick now, his eyes wet and his jaw clenched tight.

It makes Bobby feel helpless, the way Luke’s looking at him. Hurt and angry and pleading, like he’s simultaneously begging Bobby to say something to make this right and daring him to speak another word. Bobby reaches for his hand, because it’s instinct, and because he’s an idiot.

Luke yanks it back, glaring at Bobby like he slapped him. “Forget it. Fuck this, I’m done.” He pulls his flannel a little closer as he ducks past Bobby to shove the door open with his shoulder.

He pauses halfway out and turns back. “You know that pretending your feelings don’t mean anything doesn’t make you a hero, right? It just makes you a different kind of asshole.” He wipes his eye with the heel of his hand. “Save me some trouble next time and don’t fucking lie to me.” He turns back around and lets the door fall shut behind him.

Bobby sinks onto the couch, buries his face in his hands.

Fuck.

It’s past midnight when Luke lets himself back into the studio. He didn’t want to come back at all, but it’s not like he had any other options. Going home is off the table, for obvious reasons; Reggie’s parents are . . . volatile, to say the least; and Alex’s will flip if they catch him with a guy in his bedroom.

He thought about staying out all night, chasing music and doing everything he could to push Bobby from his mind. But Bobby thinks he’s an idiot who can’t take care of himself, and Luke isn’t going to prove him right by going on a self-destructive spiral at the very first chance he gets.

So he’s back in Bobby’s garage. There are clean sheets on the couch and a stack of neatly folded extra blankets beside it, and every angry feeling comes rushing back because fuck Bobby for taunting him like this, like: Wow, see what a fucking perfect boyfriend I am? Too bad I don’t love you for real, huh?

There’s a note on top of the blankets. Luke’s tempted to crumple it up and toss it away without looking at it, but he knows there’s no chance in hell he’ll be able to sleep if he’s wondering about what it says. So he reads.

Luke,

I fucked up. I’m sorry.

I don’t have an excuse for lying to you. I was an idiot because I didn’t want to see you get hurt again, and I hurt you, and I’m sorry.

I’m not trying to make this about myself, but you were right that ignoring how I felt made me an asshole. You know I hate being sappy, but I owe it to you to at least tell you that none of this is pretend.

I started everything out all wrong, but I meant it when I said your energy is magnetic, onstage and off, and I meant it when I said that being around you makes me feel like I belong in my own skin, and I meant it when I kissed you last night and the night before that and the night before that.

You don’t have to give me a second chance. You don’t have to ever talk to me again. But I wanted to make sure you had the facts straight first. So. Now you know.

Ball’s in your court.

Love, Bobby

Luke stares. He didn’t know Bobby Wilson was even capable of that much vulnerability at once.

He groans and shrugs his flannel back on, because he needs to go have a long conversation with his boyfriend.

[onecanonlife]

careful son (you got dreamer's plans)

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

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

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

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

Chapter Word Count: 8,147

Chapter Warnings: swearing, referenced past suic.ide, referenced past character death, mentioned nausea, blood

Chapter Summary: In which things start coming to a head, and not everything is going according to plan, but they’re trying.

(masterpost w/ ao3 links)

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

Chapter Nineteen: wake the beast

His mind races.

If the enchantments are gone, someone must have destroyed them from within their bounds. Tubbo said as much, said that it was the only way. And now Ranboo stands by Dream’s side. Ranboo stands by Dream’s side, Dream’s hand on him, and he would not have thought it of Ranboo, of the awkward kid who so often sticks close to Techno or to Phil, of the person who they both obviously care for. He would not have thought it—and that was his mistake. He should have been more watchful, more vigilant, should not have dared to let his guard down in the slightest, because this is what it gets him, time and time again—

(all eyes on him and his people turn against him in a blink in a second and a sentence and he feels dead even before the arrow tears through his heart)

(and it was never meant to be, says a trusted friend and he is numb numb numb even as his comrades his friends his brothers his family die around him and he has been betrayed and he dies terrified and knowing that he has failed and the memory of that first death has never left him nor the pervasive thought that it could happen again that any valued companion could hide a traitor’s heart)

“Ranboo wouldn’t,” Phil says, as if reading his mind. “I don’t know what the fuck is going on, but Ranboo wouldn’t.”

“Just because you think someone wouldn’t doesn’t mean that you’re right,” he hisses back. “People stab each other in the backs, Phil. It’s what they do. You ought to know that.”

Phil looks at him, eyes wide and wounded, but he pays him little mind, creeping forward to peer further over the side of the roof. He stays low in an effort not to draw attention; the longer Dream doesn’t know where they all are, the better.

“How did you get in?” Eret is asking below, their voice steady, commanding. They are still a monarch in their own castle, though the wolves are inside the gate. Beside them, Sapnap takes on a battle-ready stance. There’s no sign of anyone else yet, and Wilbur is torn between hoping that the others will be out any moment and praying that some of them have the good sense to stay inside.

(because he closes his eyes and sees Dream shooting Tommy dead where he stands and he sees the blackstone walls of the final control room and he sees the vine pull Tommy away from him and Dream lunging for him with an axe and it is all too easy to imagine a sword at Tommy’s throat at Tubbo’s throat at Fundy’s throat and he won’t let that happen but he couldn’t prevent their deaths before but he has to now he has to)

Dream laughs.

“I’ve said before that I’ve got eyes everywhere,” he says. “It still counts if the eyes don’t know you’re watching through them. I have to say, that was a good trick, with those enchantments. But people go wandering sometimes. All I had to do was wait until Ranboo stepped back outside.” He tugs Ranboo closer to him. Ranboo moves with the pull, completely unresistant, like a rag doll. “Don’t worry, I’m taking good care of him. We’re great friends.”

Wait. That almost sounds like—

He turns to Phil again.

“Can he control other people?” he whispers.

Phil shrugs helplessly. “I’ve got no fucking clue,” he says. “But Ranboo sleepwalks. I dunno, maybe that would make it easier. But Ranboo would never betray us of his own free will.”

The cacophony of whispers in his mind, the storm that swirls and tosses and insists that he has been betrayed, that the world is out to get him and that this only confirms as much, quiets. Dies down at Phil’s insistence and at the scene before him,

(and you would not have allowed this months ago would not have allowed someone to talk you down did not allow anyone to talk you down so perhaps you do not quite know what better means but that is not to say that you have made no steps toward it toward that nebulous and far away goal even if you have difficulty in recognizing it you are different from how you were you are)

because Phil could be right.

(and it would make sense, perhaps, because even from here he can see the way that Ranboo’s eyes stare straight ahead, unseeing, and it is not like how he met him in the corridor last night but it is how he was in the Egg’s chamber, and he has wondered for quite some time now how Dream knew to break out of the prison when he did, how he knew to take advantage of their ill-fated attempt, and maybe there has not been a willing betrayal at all)

But if Ranboo is an unwitting accomplice, is somehow under Dream’s control, then that only complicates matters further. He’s not sure how many complications they can afford before all their planning falls apart at the seams.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re right, we need to move.” He glances back down at Dream. He’s still talking, though it doesn’t sound like anything too important anymore. Nothing they didn’t already know. “He likes to monologue. We can use that.”

Phil nods, and together, they inch back along the roof and toward the stairway. He breaks into a run as soon as he’s sure no one below will see or hear them, and Phil keeps pace with him. They careen through the hallways at breakneck speed, and the further they get back into the main corridors, the more people he can hear, moving about, their footsteps rushed, their voices frantic.

“Wilbur!”

The shout echoes, ping-pongs off the stone walls, loud and overwhelming all else. That is no surprise—Tommy has always known how to make himself heard, even when the moment does not call for it, and he trained himself a long time ago to respond to Tommy’s voice above all others.

(because even when they were younger, even when they were children, brothers by choice taken under Phil’s wings, Tommy always looked to him before anyone else, before Techno, before Phil, and that was even before the other two began leaving so often)

(for better or for worse, your little brother has always believed the sun shines through your eyes and you have him caught in your orbit just as surely as he has caught you in his and perhaps you are twin suns circling one another but then again perhaps not because you crashed and burned and you know better than to believe that it was anyone’s fault but your own and no one’s gravity was powerful enough to help you not when you denied them all)

(though your beliefs once rock solid are shaken and unsteady and the fault lies with you to be sure but you have always assigned yourself more blame than you ought so sure are you that you are at the center at it all that you are on a pedestal the spotlight shining down and some of the fault is yours but not all not all and it is growth to accept responsibility but also growth to let some of it go to let slip from your shoulders that which is not yours to carry)

Tommy all but barrels into him, panting, and he reaches out on instinct to steady him, placing his hands on both his shoulders. Tubbo follows shortly behind, but at a slower pace, his face pale and wan.

“You weren’t in your room,” Tommy gasps out, “you weren’t—where the fuck did you go? And the bell, we heard the bell, and Tubbo said he could feel the enchantments going down, what the fuck is—is he—?”

“Dream is here,” he answers, glancing back and forth between the two of them. “Inside the gates, and he’s not alone. The vines haven’t reached the castle proper yet, but they’re making an effort.”

Tommy draws in a sharp breath, and Wilbur hates this. Hates that this is happening, that any of them are being put in these positions at all. Hates that Tommy is confronted with this danger time and time again, that Tommy never seems to get a rest, never seems to have time to heal, that he and Tubbo both have never had the opportunity to escape the solder’s uniforms that he dressed them in, he in all his misguided hopes and dreams.

But he’s thought as much before. It never stops the hated thing from occurring.

“So is that it, then?” Tubbo asks quietly. “It’s all coming down to this?” His voice is bleak, and Wilbur wishes he could understand all the weight behind his words

(a weight that comes from being a soldier a spy a president an executioner a leader of so much rubble, that comes from exiling his best friend for the good of his nation, that comes from being trapped in a box with nowhere to run, that comes from no walls being strong enough and no weapons powerful enough to protect himself, that comes from seeing it all come crashing down again and again and being helpless to stop any of it, and it is easy to allow Tubbo to slip to the sidelines when Tommy is so much louder, so much more overt with his fears and his pains, but Tubbo has been hurt just as surely, and he needs to remember that, when all of this is over, needs to remember that Tubbo needs healing and safety just as Tommy does, and he needs to remember and so he will)

but now is not the time to over-analyze, to pick through tone and cadence until the true meaning is laid bare.

“What about our plan?” Tommy says. “What about—do we still try? Or do we just have to go down there and—”

He’s trying not to act panicked, is trying to disguise his quick breaths, his shaking hands. Is trying, and failing, and Wilbur continues to grip him by the shoulders, even if it doesn’t seem to do anything at all.

“We were too slow with it,” he says, blunt. “We’re being pushed into reacting rather than instigating ourselves. But we have to work with it. We don’t fall here. We fight—”

“We go through with it.” The voice is confident, steady, brooking no room for argument. He looks past Tommy’s shoulders to see Techno striding down the hallway, hair loose, armor already on, shining netherite sword in hand. He doesn’t know if this is his typical gear or spares—he doesn’t remember whether anyone thought to pick up his scattered inventory or not, when he died. But it doesn’t seem to matter.

“Do we?” Tubbo asks. “Seems like it’s gone a bit pear-shaped, Technoblade.”

“Yeah,” Techno says, “but we were plannin’ to lure some of them away from the Egg anyway. They’ve practically done our job for us. Sure, we’re on the defensive, which isn’t—I won’t lie, that isn’t fantastic. But we can still work with this, as long as we’re quick.” He draws up short next to everybody and levels a stare right at him. “Phil and I will go out there and help hold them off. Wilbur, can you do this?”

He knows what he’s asking.

“Hold on,” Phil says, “I don’t know if that’s a good idea. Maybe we get someone else to—”

Techno shakes his head, visibly frustrated. He doesn’t have the context that Phil now does, doesn’t know what the Egg whispers to him, doesn’t know that he nearly gave in, doesn’t know that he did.

Wilbur sort of regrets telling Phil any of that, now, in retrospect.

“Who?” Techno says. “Who else, Phil? The options are they go try and make that omelet, or they stay here and hope that we can hold off Dream and his goons. If the castle is breached, I’d feel a whole lot better knowin’ they’re not in here.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Tommy jumps in. “What do you mean, they? I’m not hiding in this fucking castle, Technoblade, what the fuck are you on?”

“You’re not fightin’ Dream,” Techno shoots back. “Don’t try to argue with me. You’re not. You’re not gettin’ anywhere near him. So your choices are, you go with Wilbur, or you stay right here, inside.”

Tommy gapes, mouth working. There is some kind of realization dawning behind his eyes,

(and there is only one realization to come to, really, and that is that Techno does care about him, that Techno is trying to protect him in his own clumsy way, and it doesn’t make up for everything or for anything, really, but they’ve already made a start already laid the foundations for forgiveness, and he can only hope that Tommy sees it that way)

but there’s no time. Even though this feels like it’s all happening far too quickly, there is no time. There is no time for any of this.

“I can do it,” he says, and prays he’s not lying. “I’ll take Tommy and Tubbo with me. They’ll be safe, Technoblade.”

He meets his brother’s eyes, and sees there

(determination and anger and hope and a thousand cuts crusted over and not stitched closed and perhaps a lingering flicker of gold from a death that is sure to have scarred him even though he hasn’t spoken on it and will likely refuse to do so but there is trust there against all the odds there is trust in Technoblade’s eyes trust in the eyes of the brother who he has called his twin who he has used and strung along and not apologized to nearly enough but despite it all there is trust)

an emotion too deep to interpret.

“Why are you talking like that?” Tommy demands. He shrugs off Wilbur’s hold. “Why are you talking like you might—”

Die is almost certainly the word he intends to finish that sentence with, but he cuts himself off.

“I know they will,” Techno says. To his side, Phil sighs, closing his eyes, and then, Techno looks to Tommy. “Technoblade never dies, Tommy. Don’t worry so much. Dream’ll get what’s comin’ to him.”

Tommy flinches. “I’m not worried, dickhead. Who’d worry about you?” His voice cracks.

(Dream’s axe buries itself in Technoblade’s throat, and the red blends with the rest of the room)

“If we’re going, we need to. Like, now,” Tubbo says. Ever practical. Ever responsible.

“We do,” he agrees.

(it’s not a farewell it’s a see you later but he hates that phrase because you never know when it is a farewell, no one ever does, and a see you later never gives the closure that people so sorely need)

(and he never said goodbye in any way that counted)

They’ll be heading for opposite stairwells then, from here. Phil and Techno will go for the front, he and Tubbo and Tommy for the back. This is a separation, even though so much of his mind is screaming not to let them out of his sight, to not allow them to split up, not when there’s every possibility that this will end poorly, will not go in their favor.

(this will not be the end the story will not end here and they will see each other again there is war and there is the other side and there is a new sunrise and they will live to see it)

“Wilbur,” Techno says, and then, he’s pressing something into his hand. He looks down, and it’s a totem. Golden and whole, eyes of emerald. He looks back up.

“I have another one,” Techno says. “For me or Phil. This one’s for you. Or Tommy, or Tubbo. Call it insurance. But dying at all would be pretty cringe. Y’know?”

“I know,” he says, and closes his fingers around the figurine. “So don’t you dare. Either of you.” He flicks his gaze to Phil. Phil nods at him, and the same message is reflected in his eyes.

“That’s the plan,” Phil says quietly. He’s been quiet, this whole time. Tommy makes a soft, choked noise, making an aborted movement as if to step forward. But then, Techno and Phil are turning, striding down the corridor, to where the sounds of battle outside are growing louder by the second, and they’ve lingered here for far too long. Somehow, he doesn’t regret it.

(it’s not a goodbye but just in case it is, just in case, just in case, he has braced himself for the worst)

“They’re going to be alright,” Tommy says, voice pitching higher. “They’re going to be alright, aren’t they?”

“Technoblade never dies,” Tubbo repeats quietly. “And Phil doesn’t either.”

“They’ll be fine,” Wilbur says, and tries to believe himself, tries not to think of Dream lying in wait for them, Dream who has already managed to kill Techno once, Dream who is making what he surely believes will be his final move, the checkmate of his game,

(but this is no game)

Dream who may no longer be a god but is surely something other than human, something stronger, something else. And it has been a long time since he was able to truly believe his family invincible. The events of the past few days have only compounded that.

But there is no time for these considerations. They are all in it now. In his heart of hearts, he knows that this, come what may, will be the end of the ordeal. Someone will come out victorious this morning. And if it is to be them, they have no time to delay. So he jerks his head in the direction of the back stairwell, and his walk becomes a sprint, Tommy and Tubbo following behind him, their footsteps pounding against the floor. He takes the last few stairs at a jump.

(a realization, sudden as he impacts: he forgot to tell Techno their suspicions about Ranboo, but it is too late to turn back and catch up, and surely Phil will, surely, and it’s probably for the best that he did not say it aloud in the presence of the other two, because Tubbo and Tommy both seem to be friends with the boy to some extent, at least, and it would be unwise to cause them more anxiety, unwise to present them with yet another problem that they can do nothing about, especially when they may already be running full-tilt into their deaths as much as he will attempt to prevent as much)

As far as he remembers, the swords were left in the throne room, on the table where they were dropped, where a god bent reality to place them. So that’s where they need to go. Get at least one sword, and then, it’s off to the Egg, and he can only hope that he will have the strength to do what needs to be done. It was not meant to be him in this role. Was meant to be someone else, someone more resistant to the Egg’s call, because even he can admit when someone else would truly be a better fit for the task. Someone like Techno, who discards the voice as just one among many, or someone like Puffy, perhaps, who, as it turns out, has fallen under its sway once and uses that to form her resolution to never allow it in again. But they left it too long, and their base is under attack, the assault happening on their enemy’s terms and not theirs, and Dream must be held at bay here. The best fighters are needed.

So he’ll take up the sword himself, drive it into the Egg’s shell before it has the opportunity to tempt him. Hopefully the rest will fall into place.

(though when, when is it ever that simple?)

And then—

“Tubbo!” someone calls from down the hall. “Tommy!” And then, a beat of hesitation, and a slightly softer, more hesitant, “Wil!” And Fundy is running toward them, from the direction they’re heading toward, armor half on and half off, and he supposes he should be glad that he received any acknowledgment at all. “I was looking for you guys. I don’t know what’s going on! What’s going on? Are we under attack? Is that what’s happening?”

He’s frantic, panicky, his words falling out rapid-fire, and—Wilbur can’t leave him here. Separating from Techno and Phil was bad enough, and he knows that they’re capable warriors, have decimated armies between them, that their monikers are no empty threats. Fundy—Fundy can take care of himself. He has proved that much, even if the thought makes his heart wrench painfully, even if he blinks and still sees his darling boy interposed over the man he has become, even if his mind struggles to accept that his child has grown up without him,

(perhaps in spite of him but that hurts worse so he refuses to let the idea linger)

even if the feeling of failure is absolute, all-encompassing, chains wrapped around his chest and squeezing. Even despite all that, he knows that Fundy is strong. Is grown. Is far from the days where he needed a father’s protection. But he cannot leave him here, in a castle that might fall to the enemy. Cannot leave him where Dream might get his hands on him. Cannot abandon him again, even if it’s what’s expected, even if it might be what Fundy wants. He cannot, and perhaps bringing him to the Egg is a worse idea, but Fundy can defend himself from dreamons, knows all the same tricks as Tubbo. He could be of help, perhaps.

(though that is an excuse because the desire to bring him along to keep him in his sight is far from rational is born of fear and protectiveness because even if Fundy hates him even if Fundy wants nothing to do with him he wants to see him safe and some part of him still believes even after everything even after disowning each other even after the betrayal he felt in the ravine as Fundy licked the boots of a tyrant and even after the betrayal Fundy must have felt in turn after he refused to believe him and tossed his efforts aside even after all of that he still believes himself the most capable person to keep his son safe and he must see with his own eyes that he is well)

“Dream’s attacking,” he says, and does not slow to a stop, even as Fundy comes up to them. Instead, he grabs Fundy’s wrist, ignoring his startled noise, and changes his momentum, taking him along with them. “We’re enacting the plan as best we can. We’re going to the Egg. Will you help us?”

Fundy doesn’t reply for a moment, and the only sounds are their feet against the stones. They’re deep enough in the castle that the battle out front no longer reaches their ears.

“You want me?” Fundy asks. “Really?”

(the doubt in his voice is an arrow to the back is water rising around his ears is sinking and falling and hitting the ground too hard)

“Of course,” he says, and even though now is not for a conversation like this, he opens his mouth again, and starts, even as they keep running, “Fundy, I—”

But then, he stops abruptly, because suddenly Eret steps out in front of them, their shoulder bleeding heavily but their posture still erect, still lordly, still every inch a king. And Wilbur should despise them, but now is not for that, either, so the anger washes away, and he skids to a stop in front of them and feels only confusion for the fact that they are here and not outside, where he last saw them.

Eret steps forward, and proffers to him a sword, gleaming, electrified with an otherwordly aura, the presence of the universe contained in glowing runes and the sharpened point, and—ah. So Eret had the same idea.

“Good luck, all of you,” they say. Wilbur takes the sword, and for a moment, his fingers brush against theirs. He does not recoil from the contact.

“How is it looking?” he asks.

“Not amazing, but not terrible,” Eret answers. “I came to find you and to down a potion. It seems to be only the six of them at the moment, seven counting Ranboo, which I’m not sure whether we should or not—”

“What do you mean, counting Ranboo?” Tubbo demands. He shakes his head, trying to convey now is not the time without so many words, and Tubbo subsides, though reluctantly.

But Tubbo’s always been good at compartmentalization.

“—and they don’t seem to be trying to surround us,” Eret is continuing. “Not yet, at any rate, so if you go out ‘round the back, you should escape detection. Though I find it unlikely that they left the Egg completely unguarded. This has trap written all over it.”

He nods. It has occurred to him, of course, and Eret’s words only solidify his belief. If Dream wanted to take them all out here, now, he’d be smarter about it. He wouldn’t announce his presence, wouldn’t focus his attack in one spot. This maneuver is just asking for someone to escape, to head for the Egg, and he can only hope that they’re several more steps ahead of Dream than he believes them to be. If they are not, then Dream will be proven correct, and it truly will be checkmate.

Really, it all comes down to whether he knows they have these swords or not. Whether he knows that dreamons are not invincible. Whether he knows the universe has intervened.

(humming a tune)

“So, it’s a regular day, then,” he says. “I assume you’re taking the other?” He indicates the sword, and Eret’s lips twist wryly.

“That was the original plan, wasn’t it?” they say. “One for the Egg and one for Dream.” Their posture shifts a bit, almost imperceptibly, but suddenly they remind him far more of a soldier than a monarch. The soldier that they were, once, under his command. “We’ll handle things here, Wilbur. You all take it to the Egg. We’re finishing this today.”

He regards them. There is no sign of duplicity in their bearing. But then, there never was before, and perhaps it is not a good idea to allow them to take the second sword after all, because how sure can he truly be that—

No. No, he will not spiral down that road. Not now, not today. He is making a choice. And trust is not entirely built on choice, not really, because trust is a fragile thing, formed gradually, of shared experiences and opening up far more than he is comfortable with, but in an instant? In a singular moment? He can choose to trust. Can choose to have faith. And he doesn’t know whether Eret has earned it or not. But he doesn’t know that he has, either, and he will not be the one to deny them the opportunity to grow. To be better. He will not.

(and just maybe it truly is time for the old song to receive another revision)

“Yes,” he says. “We are.” And he meets Eret’s eyes, as best he can behind the glasses they perpetually wear. “Good luck, Eret.”

Eret smiles at him, small but genuine. And then they, too, turn on their heel and run off, back to the front, back to the chaos. He has stared at a lot of retreating backs today. He hopes that’s not an omen.

But then, he’s not one to believe in omens.

“Wait, we’re just going to let them go?” Fundy asks. “On their own?”

“They won’t be on their own,” he replies. “And neither are we.” He looks to the other three, to his son, visibly shaking, to Tubbo, face set in a hard expression, to Tommy, who is desperately trying to mask his fear. “You heard them. We go out the back and circle back around to the Egg’s chamber. Tubbo, Fundy, is there anything you can do to hide us on the way there?”

“We can try our best,” Tubbo says. “Right, Fundy?”

“Oh! Um, right, right, yeah, we can do that,” Fundy says.

“Then equip everything you need, and let’s go,” he says, the general’s orders coming easy in this moment. He still holds the sword in his hand; it weighs on him more heavily than it should, but he doesn’t know whether it’s the material it’s made out of or his mind playing tricks on him, something to do with a metaphor about the burden of responsibility. Heavy lies the head that wears the crown; heavy falls the hand that bears the sword.

He only hopes that the blow he strikes will land heavily enough.

--------------------

It is easy to leave the castle. Too easy, perhaps, and all of his nerves are a clamoring mess, insisting that this is wrong, wrong, wrong. In this, at least, he is inclined to listen to his instincts; nothing in war ever comes this easily, and Dream is too smart to leave them such a simple way out unless he wanted them to take it. Wanted someone to take it, at least. Perhaps not them specifically,

(but you have never been one to believe in coincidence)

but the danger of falling into a trap is very real and present. Because it is, undoubtedly, a trap. Of what kind, he doesn’t yet know.

They slip out the back entrance. Fundy and Tubbo have a muttered discussion

(and Fundy keeps shooting looks at him, looks that he has to force himself to ignore, because he doesn’t know what they mean doesn’t know what Fundy wants from him and if Fundy would tell him what he wants then he would burn the world to give it to him even if what Fundy wants is for him to leave him alone he will do it no matter the part of him that such a deed would crush because it is no one’s fault but his and it is about time he began to respect his son’s wishes)

and then begin chanting under their breaths, words in a language that he does not recognize, but soon after they start, the static recedes from his mind, the Egg held at a further distance—and it is probably concerning that he didn’t notice that it was there again in the first place. Tommy sticks close by his side, staring at the other two with an unsettled expression and every so often brushing his fingers against the sleeve of his coat, as if reassuring himself. At any other time, Wilbur would tease him for it. As it is, he rather likes the reassurance himself.

The vines are crowded, clustered, making their progress slow. They writhe on the ground like snakes, or like worms, wriggling and oozing, and though they don’t actually seem to be secreting any sort of substance, sometimes he blinks and sees them covered in blood. But at least, they don’t seem to be interested in them, all of them stretching and straining and growing toward the castle, even before Tubbo and Fundy begin their incantation. And after that, some of the vines part before them, rearing away from their approach.

Picking their way through them is still difficult. And whenever he looks at them for too long, nausea rises in his throat.

But they manage to arrive at the entrance to the spider spawner completely unimpeded, and he stares down into the familiar hole. He’s been here thrice now. Both visits before, it all went terribly, horribly wrong. The first time, he was dragged out screaming. The second time, he stumbled into the sunlight having just watched his brother die.

“Third time’s the charm?” Tubbo suggests.

“Shut the fuck up,” Tommy returns, though there is little heart in it.

“Are we actually going down there?” Fundy asks.

“You don’t have to,” he says. “None of you three have to. You could all stay up here. It might be safer. I don’t know.”

He doesn’t want to force them to confront the Egg again. Doesn’t want to bring them back to that room. Or in Fundy’s case, doesn’t want to expose him at all. Doesn’t want him to have to confront the evil that lies down there. But he can’t guarantee that it would be any safer for them to remain above ground. Can’t guarantee that no enemy would come along.

He can’t guarantee anything. He doesn’t like the feeling.

“Like hell,” Tommy says. “You are not going down there by yourself. What kind of idiots do you think we are?”

“Yeah, big man, you’re not going in without us,” Tubbo says. “Not after—literally everything that’s ever happened down there.”

“What did happen down there?” Fundy asks. “I mean, I know Techno died. You guys told me that. But like, what else? I guess it was bad?”

He closes his eyes.

He’s already told his father. Tommy and Tubbo have been there for all the worst of it. But does he really want to tell his son?

(he can look at you no worse than he already does though you’re not sure that’s true and you do not want to see his reaction to knowing just how much of a wreck you still are the wreck that the Egg appeals to and you do not want to see horror on his face and you do not want to see pity and you do not know which would be worse but you would take cold anger over either of those)

“It got the best of us, and of me, specifically. Multiple times,” he says. That will do. Not a lie, but not too specific. But Fundy’s ears twitch, his eyes narrowing, and he knows that he’s about to ask for more details. “Now’s not the time to get into it further. We need to move.”

“It’s never the time,” Fundy mutters, and it takes all of his self-control to prevent himself from flinching, because that—is not about this, surely. But Fundy subsides, and Tubbo has stepped up to the edge of the entrance, staring down in concentration, and Tommy has a sword in his hand. Not the sword, but a sword, netherite and clearly well-used.

He has the sword. And a bow. No armor, though the rest of them are all kitted out. Full netherite. They’re as safe as they can be

(though that didn’t save Technoblade)

and they have no more time to waste.

So down they go.

The room containing the spider spawner, enchantment table and anvil and all, is choked so completely with vines that it is difficult to see past them. But there is a clear path, leading right to the Egg’s chamber, possible for people to traverse, and it has so obviously been left open as a walkway that even his instincts fall quiet, because it doesn’t get more clear than that. No sense in his mind shouting trap! at him over and over again when the bait is plain as day.

“This sucks,” Fundy says. But he makes no move to retreat.

(he thinks he might want him to, actually, thinks he might want all of them to go back, to climb back out and into the morning sun, despite the danger that no doubt still exists above, because there is danger and then there is danger, and though he wants to keep them all safe keep them all close to him he does not know that this is a danger that he can protect them from and perhaps he should have admitted as much earlier and perhaps this was all a mistake the greatest mistake he has made since his return and perhaps they need to run they all need to run and perhaps he cannot do this at all perhaps it is only hubris that has led him here and perhaps Icarus would have learned his lesson had he been granted a second chance but it seems it seems that he has not that he is facing the red sun knowing full well that it will melt his wings and he is only pretending that there will be any other outcome and)

Tommy snorts. “You can say that again,” he says, but he just sort of sounds tired.

“Nowhere to go but forward,” Tubbo murmurs. “You taking point, Wilbur?”

He can delay no longer.

He nods, and strides forward, wincing every time he treads on a vine, which is about every other step. The air grows warmer, more humid, more stifling. Each breath requires more effort. The air becomes a red haze, shimmering and distorted like heat coming off metal or pavement on a sweltering day.

The Egg’s chamber is more cluttered than he remembers it. The red vines sway gently, and make no move to attack them, to strangle them as they

(Technoblade dangling a snap of his neck and then a moment later the brilliant gold the phoenix rising the god deathless until he was not)

step inside. The Egg itself is unchanged, sitting in its corner. Blood red. Almost innocuous.

Static presses in around him, just barely kept at bay by the enchantments that Tubbo and Fundy laid. And even those will give out within minutes. He’s not sure how he knows,

(you do not bring a sword to a duel of bow and arrow and you do not hope to lay down magic against a dark void thing in the thing’s own lair)

but he is sure of it.

And the Egg is not alone.

“Fuck,” Tubbo murmurs. He echoes the sentiment, but all his words are caught up in his throat and tangled in his chest, a web beyond saving, beyond saving him or anyone else, thread that is too coarse and too rough and too fragile to have any hope of mending this.

To one side, there is a boy, one that he vaguely recognizes as Purpled. He seems bored, watching them with sharpness, but also some degree of indifference. But Wilbur cannot focus on him, even though from what he knows, the kid is a dangerous mercenary.

Flanking the Egg itself, there is Jack Manifold. And there is Niki.

Jack Manifold seems unchanged, though the lenses of his glasses are both red, now, where he was sure that one was blue before, and his expression is set into something harsher than he ever recalls him being. But then, he never paid too much attention to Jack Manifold. Niki, though, Niki—the bags underneath her eyes are prominent, dark and deep, and he almost takes them for thick eyeliner at first. Her face is more lined than he remembers it, her hair a different color. And her eyes are red. Red like fire, red like blood, red like the shards of a shattered mirror, red like a thousand broken things.

Around her shoulders, she wears the hood of his coat. Slowly, his hand comes up to feel around his shoulder blades, and finds the hood missing. He’s not sure how he never noticed that before.

(he gave her one of his coats, didn’t he?)

They both grip swords. Purpled has one too.

(there is a creature living in his chest, wounded and desperate and howling, but for once it does not slam against his ribcage, seeking its freedom, but curls up in a corner, whining, pitiful)

“The Egg said you would be coming,” Niki says, and somehow, her voice is both flat and trembling with restrained emotion. “It said—you were back.”

His tongue lies like lead.

“Niki?” Fundy asks, and steps forward. He shoots out a hand to hold him back, to keep him from going too far, and Fundy glares but does not fight it. “You’re really with the Egg?” And at the same time, Tubbo starts on something: “C’mon, Jack, why’d you think joining up with the breakfast item would be a good idea?”

Tommy, conspicuously, remains silent.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Jack Manifold snaps. “Tell me, Tubbo, what other options did I have? Did you even think to come and tell me about literally anything that’s been going on? No? I don’t think so.”

“We’ve been overlooked,” Niki says, and her voice is quieter, but there is no softness in it. Only anger, and he does not know whether the emotion is the Egg’s or hers. Or both. But he would deserve it, if it was hers. He knows that. “Forgotten, cast aside time and time again. Abandoned by the people who were supposed to care about us.”

(the creature whines again at the word at abandoned at abandoned because he didn’t mean to he wasn’t thinking about abandoning anyone he just knew that they would be better off without him without him and his corrupted creation without him to drag them all down because he was the villain he was)

“But the Egg’s going to give us what we want,” she continues. “Joining it was the best choice for us. The best choice for me.” And she speaks it so defiantly, as if daring him to argue, and there’s a trap in that, a trap in trying to tell her that it’s not a good thing, that she should have chosen something different. Because he has no right to dictate Niki’s choices. Nobody does.

But that includes the demonic egg.

“What’s it going to give you, Niki?” he asks, finding his words at last. Jack scoffs, and Niki’s eyes flash.

“What’s it going to give me?” she parrots. “How can you think that you of all people have the right to ask me that? I mourned you, Wil. I mourned you for so long. It was hard to eat, hard to sleep. For the longest time I couldn’t even accept that you were gone, that that—that ghost took your place and forgot all about me. But that’s—I don’t need you. I don’t need your promises, and I don’t need your lies. I’ve got the Egg on my side.”

(that’s wrong wrong wrong because he never forgot about Niki not even once even when he willfully let the rest of his memories slip through his fingers like the blue that stained his skin even then he never forgot the scent of freshly baked bread never forgot her smile her steadfastness and never forgot missing her either missing her when it was too dangerous to come for her when one wrong move would mean getting her killed never forgot stepping up and offering his final life for hers because she was always worth so much more then he ever could be and even when he forgot everything else he never forgot a thing about her)

(and the irony of her statements is not lost on him, because perhaps he is a liar perhaps he is built of empty promises promises that scattered like ash in the wind over the cliff top but if he is that then what is the Egg)

“We’ve got the Egg on our side,” Jack says. “You want to know what we want? It’s simple. We want Tommy dead.”

The words land like a rockslide. Or too much TNT.

His fingers twitch, a second away from calling a weapon to his hand.

Tommy is still silent.

“You what?” Tubbo says. “Jack?”

He sounds like he’s hoping it’s a joke. But Jack just crosses his arms.

“We’re tired of him doing whatever he wants and not facing any consequences,” Jack declares. “He keeps on getting away with everything. He literally killed me and didn’t even apologize for it! And he was one of my best friends! I went to hell and had to claw my way back out, and that’s his fault.”

“Everywhere he goes, there’s conflict and suffering,” Niki says, and her voice is filled with less hatred than Jack’s, but that’s not saying much. “Until he’s gone, there will be no peace on this server.”

“We’ve tried before. We even tried to nuke him, and somehow we managed to fuck that up,” Jack says. “It never seems to work. But with the Egg’s help, it will. We’ve made sure of it.”

“You tried to—oh my god,” Tubbo says. “Oh my god, did you—did you actually—I trusted you!”

“And I trusted you,” Jack says. “You’re a good sort, Tubbo, really. I do like you. ‘S why I never wanted you to find out like this. But in the end, you still let me down. I don’t hold it against you, because everyone does it. The only one who ever looks out for me is me. Niki and I have that in common, see? But Tommy needs to go. And I’m sorry if that’s going to hurt you, but I’m not sorry for doing it.” He pauses. “And if you join the Egg anyway, it can make sure it doesn’t hurt, actually, so you should really consider it.”

Tubbo’s face is a mask of horror, tears glimmering in his eyes. There’s something here that he’s missing. But now hardly seems like the time to ask.

“He never takes any responsibility,” Niki says. “He needs to. For once.”

Beside him, he hears Tommy draw in a shaky breath, and—he’s not actually believing any of this, is he? But he’s not denying it, as he might expect, and looking to his face, to an expression that reads like sorrow and resignation but no shock at all, he realizes that Tommy knew, to some degree. Knew that Niki and Jack have been—have been trying to kill him, and he’s just accepted that, and that breaks Wilbur from his stupor, draws him from the sea of guilt that he’s been swimming in ever since he laid eyes on Niki’s face. Because he has wronged her. Has hurt her. And he needs to make it right, as best he can. But that doesn’t mean she gets to take it all out on his little brother.

“Never takes any responsibility?” he repeats sharply. “Never—do you know Tommy at all, Niki? Or did you forget the time he was exiled and abused for the high crime of—oh, let me see, griefing someone’s house? Or the time he was chased out of our nation for the fact that he was my running mate? Or the time—I mean, are you even hearing yourself? You think Tommy doesn’t take responsibility? You think Tommy’s never suffered? He’s a teenager, Niki! And he’s been through worse than any teenager ever should be. You can’t blame him for things that were never his fault in the first place.”

Tommy stiffens. And for a moment, she seems to waver, glancing at him, and then at Jack, frowning. For a moment, he thinks he might have broken through. But then, she hardens.

“I’m sick of everyone making excuses for him,” she says. “I won’t take it any more. And you—you have no right.” Her voice breaks. “I think we’re done talking.” Her fingers flex around the hilt of her sword, and that is all the warning he receives before she charges forward, weapon held high, Jack at her side, and he goes for his bow, goes to take a shot,

(though it might fly wide because he doesn’t know that he can bring himself to injure her even for Tommy’s sake and he thinks he will if he has to but whether the fortitude it will take is beyond him is difficult to say)

but then a weight hits him from the side, sending him flying, and he pulls his head back up, expecting to see the vines twisting, dancing, slamming into him, but instead, it is Purpled, now standing over him as he’s sprawled on the ground, sword in his hand. And he’s between him and Tommy, him and Tubbo, him and Fundy, and now Tubbo is yelling and there is the clash of metal on metal as Niki and Jack attack, as Niki and Jack go in for the kill that the Egg has promised them, and he is on the ground and Purpled blocks his path, blocks his way, blocks him from helping them.

“Sorry, Wilbur,” Purpled says. Cool, casual, perhaps vaguely apologetic. “Business is business.”

And then, just as he’s pushing himself to his feet, unsteady and desperate, the enchantments give out. The protection that Tubbo and Fundy attempted to give them, gone.

So, here you are, the Egg says, and here I am, as I ever am and always will be. Hello, void child, will you let me bring you home?

[hawkeyedflame]

Okay! This is all from memory so forgive me if I've forgotten something.

Starting with Roy: while I still maintain that he's a himbo, I think he's more complicated than I initially gave him credit for. When I sent the previous essay I was fully expecting him to go from this morally gray Dirty Harry style government figure to the white knight hero who saves the day and becomes a saint, but he maintained his moral ambiguity, which i REALLY appreciate in a character. A common theme throughout the show is being haunted by your past, and Roy is no exception, while he might have justified his actions at the time with the guise of doing his duty and patriotism he always knew what he did was wrong, and this ate away at him more and more as time went on. And to find out the atrocities you committed were not justified, but in fact utterly evil? Devastating. That's why I think the confrontation with Envy is so powerful, not only did Envy start the war, but they also killed Roy's best friend, and this truly set Roy off the rails. Perhaps he thought that by destroying Envy he could somehow vindicate himself. But that's not true, if Roy lost himself down in the tunnels he would only have spiraled downwards out of control, and it took a guiding hand to bring him back from the edge.

Speaking of, Riza! When I first spoke of her I Thought she was just a cool lady with guns, now I see that she's more than just a cool lady with guns, she's another example of a broken individual just trying to do the right thing. I think she's had a hard life, I can't imagine growing up with an alchemist father was easy, especially when his subject of choice was so dangerous, but then to have said dangerous work permanently marked on her own skin and told to keep it secret is tragic. It must have taken so long to precisely tattoo on her, and longer yet for Roy to study it. She must've trusted him enough to allow him to study it, so I imagine her thinking "did I make a big mistake?" upon seeing Roy use flame alchemy during the war. Speaking of the war, Riza appeared to be very young when she was involved, which is also tragic. It's like she had her youth and Innocence ripped away by forces she couldn't control. And while Roy might have had a higher body count, Riza was a sniper which meant she had a more...intimate relationship with the atrocities she committed. This is reflected in the scene where she buried a person she killed and asked Roy to disfigure her back to rid the world of her father's burden. She felt it was her mistake. Another very powerful, defining scene. Her father's work, the war, that moment, all stuck with her for the years after. Changed her. She clearly became very close with Roy during the war and they decided that they had to stick by one another.

To touch on their relationship very briefly, I honestly don't have the words to describe how just PERFECT their relationship is tbh. Like, their relationship inspired me to alter how I portray the relationship between two of my own characters, so that should tell you how much I like them. The dynamic is just great!

anon i love you, but you understand that himbos are like.. dumb and nice, right? roy is pretty much a genius and like.. he's not very nice, despite being a good person. i concede that, at times, he absolutely radiates himbo energy, but he is NOT a himbo. i will throw hands with you on this hill.

also, yes i completely agree that i prefer he was not relegated to a boring white knight. he is much more interesting as a man seeking redemption than a man absolved of his past. the confrontation with envy is easily the most impactful moment of any piece of media i've ever engaged with, personally. the life-and-death stakes of that moment were so unconventional compared to life-and-death in other stories. in most stories, the danger of death is coming from the opponent the hero is fighting. you're on the edge of your seat because you don't know if your protag is going to dodge the attacks, find the opening to strike, and be able to finish the job. but roy has already won. he has overpowered envy with very little effort and reduced him to his weakest and most helpless state. the danger is not from his opponent here. in this moment, the greatest threat to roy's life is his own hatred. we don't want him to finish the job; it would mean his own undoing if he did. we ache for the pain that he is in, but we also know deep down that riza is right, that what he is about to do will bring him to a place where nobody, not even she, can reach him. and it hurts so badly, because what brought roy to such unbelievable hatred is the unmitigated intensity of his love. because we all love. and to see such love turn into such hate is to see a crossroads in our own souls, the choice between hatred and grief. i am certain that choosing grief is the more difficult path, and i cannot imagine the state of his heart and soul in that moment.

as for riza.. god.. she fucking kills me, man. it's not in the anime, but in the manga when she tells edward about ishval, she tells him that she was brought to the front lines when she was in her final year of the academy. so she was about 20, maybe 21, when she was taking part in a genocide. as a cadet. the unfortunate thing about it is that she didn't actually have her innocence quite ripped away without her control, not as she sees it at least. she maintains that she made the decision on her own to join the military, and she knew she would have to kill people. she says she has no right to see it as a burden. i think this is partially because of her own body count, but also because she feels responsible for every single ishvalan who died at roy's hand. i cannot imagine her feelings when she first sees roy there. in the manga, she actually saves him and hughes from an ishvalan assailant, and then hughes brings roy to meet his savior, and that's how they reunite. it is not clear whether riza was aware of roy's presence on the front lines via rumors, or if that moment where she rescued him was the first time she knew of his being there. either way, it's fucking tragic to realize that the boy you trusted because he told you of his naïve dreams for the future turned out to be using the powers you've given him to kill thousands of innocent people. even after she speaks with him, finds out he feels the same way she does about the war.. i simply cannot fathom the war inside of her over how she feels about him throughout the war. i have to wonder if him agreeing to burn her tattoo off was what convinced her that she could still trust him. and then she goes on to stay in the military, at his side, in spite of everything she went through and knowing there will be more to come. she bears this guilt by his side; even though she could have walked away, she would not have found rest in a civilian life, not after everything she did, the things she facilitated. she tells roy, in the manga when she reports to his office after graduating from the academy, that she likes guns because she doesn't have to feel her victims die. roy tells her this is nothing more than self deception, and she tells him she knows, and that she will continue to deceive herself for his sake, so that he can reach his goals.

and their relationship....god. i could cry. i have never loved a fictional relationship with anywhere even approaching the intensity of my love for royai. it's just so... fucking good ksjdfhgjksdhfksud like... god. the tenderness, the trust.. the fact that they literally have already been through hell and would go there again for one another willingly. the absolute dedication. the fact that they know each other so well, when riza hesitates for only a fraction of a moment, roy knows immediately that something is terribly wrong. all the little looks they give each other. god. just. GOD. damn it. i love their love so much.

[goldafterglow]

hold me in the meadows

Summary: You are Ezra’s dreamcatcher and he is your burrow.

Request: “The sleepy prompts!! Lovely! Can you do “I have had nightmares every night for the past three weeks and now they’re gone because of you, how did you do that?” with (can you guess??) EZRA” - the love of my life, @opheliaelysia

Pairing: Ezra (Prospect) x Reader

Word Count: 4.6k+

Tags: angst?, fluff, more metaphors that don’t mean anything, weird touching lol idk what the fuck this fic is, this is also not beta read so send the flood send the flu

Author’s Note: If you left a like or comment or reblog on Dissolve Me I’m telling you with as little shame as is humanly possible that I definitely reread it at least 3 times. Feedback means the word to me! also this was supposed to be a 500 word drabble and now it’s over 4.5k words if that tells you anything about me. I apologize in advance I think I’ve really outdone myself w/ my bullshit this time

Gif Credit: @pascvl; Also shout out to @pascalplease sorry I spammed you for nothing dsfgdsg

Ezra is staring at you.

He’d met you on one of those toxic moons, one of those deceitfully picturesque mirages where the dust glitters like lily petals but the air would kill you before you could think to appreciate it. You were a floater; a nomad with no place to call home, but you figured you liked it that way. Homes were permanent. They set lives and futures in cobblestone and trapped spirits in gated properties, keeping just about anything and everything tethered under the farce of security. Homes make paraffin casings around dragonfly wings and turn footprints to concrete. So you never had one, and you never wanted one. Ezra had found you amusing. You had found him to be better company than just yourself. So with great reluctance, you established a partnership. Not one forged in steel or bronze but something still fleeting, its true meaning always escaping your lips like a forgotten thought. It’s too much work to try and think about it anyway.

You had let him invite you to reside in his tent. It took coaxing, required copious amounts of golden honey spilling from Ezra’s tongue to get you to tenaciously stick to him, but you were no match for his silver tongue. He did everything he could to assure that this wasn’t a habitat, but merely a shelter - a thing that could be taken down and built back up somewhere else, anywhere you wanted. So you had obliged. He let you take the cot closest to the zipper door; you liked being closer to the exit, just a rotation away from being back on your feet. He tries to let you truly feel like if you wanted to escape, wanted to elope with liberty and run away from the loose bonds of the canopy, you could.

Three weeks of sleeping adjacent to him and you still don’t want to.

Ezra is used to temporary relationships. He has done his fair share of companion hopping, although he wasn’t really making an effort to do so. It scares him a little - why can’t he make anyone stay, make anything last? Partners passed him by, either to traverse on their lonesome or to stay with that greedy man in the eternal sky. Teams disbanded around him like glass castles shattering in his wake. Ezra, whether he liked it or not, was accustomed to transience.

He is not, however, accustomed to fearing that sharp brevity. Ezra is constantly on his toes around you, frequently wondering if he’s pushing you away or pulling you closer. You aren’t skittish, don’t constantly question everything he says or get offended by the sound of his voice, but he’s still scared of losing you. Every time he looks into your eyes he sees wonder, a certain fascination with life that he tries so hard to match because he wants to find things as beautiful as you do. As beautiful as you are. He wants to mis-quote your favorite novels that you force him to read so that you’ll scold him so affectionately and tell him that perhaps he had garnered a little brain damage from his previous escapades. He wants to trip over tree roots that have herniated through the soil so you can laugh at him, maybe lay there on the grass with him for a little bit. Just a little bit.

In your own mind, you are guarded. You try your very best not to get too personal, too deep, too much. Because you don’t like it when people can see your flushed, bloody insides. You just know that the moment you open your chest, someone will steal your heart right out of your rib cage and like the pass of a hummingbird, all of your secrets will be free to float in the breeze like the ashes of your lost quintessence; it’ll all be gone and then you’ll really be empty.  So how could you ever know what you mean to Ezra?

He knows what a truly locked up person looks like. He’s spent hundreds of cycles with people that don’t make a noise. He’s sat in bustling pods of people and felt like the only man in the room, like solitary confinement for his mind. No, you are not some warning-covered steel box, padlocked and duct-taped and glued shut so that even if he’s sitting right next to you, he’ll have nothing more than his own voice bounce to off of your walls and fly right back to him. You’re a music box, a gold-trimmed heart-shaped sound bottle, and he learns that if he winds you up the right way, you’ll sing so pretty for him.

He has spent so long talking, nonsensically making those arbitrary noises burst out of his throat until they lose all meaning, but finally, for the first time in so fucking long, Ezra gets to listen.

He listens to you tell him you think his hair is stupid and that sometimes he smells bad. He listens to you lament about barren dig-sites and wasted time, about how it’s so fucking hot in your suit. He listens to you fantasize about touching the trees, burying your face in your flowers and squeezing the moss in your hands. About drowning in the river so that your body is filled with the water and then rolling in the sand so that it all sticks to you and you have to dive back in to clean off. About feeling something.

Sometimes, Ezra just wants to hear something other than his own voice. And you’re the cold towel to his inflamed skin, refreshing and addictive. You’re much braver than you think, so much stronger than you give yourself credit for, because for once, Ezra can talk into the forest and know that there’s someone to listen besides the leaves. He doesn’t feel alone.

Every night, when the moon has turned its back on the narcissistic Sun and opened its arms to the thousands of other stars, each just a prick of light but understanding of their place in the tapestry of the darkness, the two of you retire to that tent. You both redress into comfortable clothes, backs turned on each other under the guise of respect, and climb into your respective cots. Ezra would turn off that shitty lantern that illuminated the enclosure, and your shadows would dissipate into the darkness.

Except Ezra’s shadows don’t disappear; they hide. They blend into the black and mold into one man-engulfing untamable beast to possess Ezra’s throat. And they manifest again in his mind. They poison that movie that plays once you slip consciousness, instills fear into his bone marrow until he doesn’t feel safe in his own body, his own thoughts.

These slumber illusions haunt Ezra. His right arm waves at him in his sleep, the souls to which he was the conduit bridging life and death haunt his diaphragm with toothy grins to mock him, screeching into his cavities. They remind him that he was never really alone because he has the suffocating embrace of those spirits that are sewn so tight to his eyelids. Every night he somehow manages to pull himself from the darkness only for his own demons to pull him back by the throat. He is always oscillating between consciousness and unconsciousness, being tossed around like a helpless rag with no hope of liberation. Nothing scares him more than his own thoughts.

And you know. You know all of it. How could you not? You were born a tumbleweed, wandering across desolation, so of course you’re a light sleeper. And you can hear Ezra’s choked cries, his tossing and turning as he drains himself of any sense of safety. But this man is a stranger to you. He is just a person you reside with, talk to all the time, nudge gently and tease and smile with. He is just the person that you wake up wanting to see, whose attention you always crave. A stranger.

So every night you turn your body to face the zipper of the tent and pretend that you can’t hear him cry. Pretend that you don’t sometimes cry with him. A pretty lavender lie that smells sweet, tastes sweeter.

You, in your cowardice, let him destroy himself. Watch as the bags under his eyes get bigger and greyer and the strings holding his shoulders up lose their tension.

Ezra, in his flawed cratered embodiment, is only human. And he had gone so long without holding anyone, without being held. He knows what he wants, knows who he wants. But he also knows how jittery you are, how fluttery your heart is, and he doesn’t want to approach it too fast lest he startle you and you fly off into the stars. But he can’t keep doing this, can’t live with himself when he knows he’s not the one in control but those horned, slimy creatures that claw at his maxilla with their venomous grins.

The lights are out in the tent per usual, so Ezra can’t really see you. His careful eyes can trace the outline of the curves of your body - or is it that his delusional eyes are envisioning some arbitrary glow around you, convincing him that what he’s seeing is real? Reality is a concept with which he is no longer familiar.

You, laying in your cot, decide that you just can’t take it anymore. You can’t stand to let this intruder of your life break you down the way he is without even trying. How dare he look into you, how dare he listen to you without passing judgement, how fucking dare he make you feel like a flower in bloom?

Ezra hears your breaths - they’re uneven. You haven’t gone to sleep. What are you waiting for?

“Ezra?” you practically squeak into the void. His ears perk up immediately; your cotton candy voice is enticing to him, flossing its way through his veins.

“What are you doing up, birdie?” Ezra asks softly, the air of his lungs floating on top of his words. He doesn’t mean to keep you awake, but he isn’t mad that you are. It’s stimulating his nerves enough to keep himself awake, and that’s something he probably won’t ever be able to repay you for.

“I-um….” Shit. You hadn’t expected to get this far. What would you say to him? How could you tell him that you wanted to help cleanse him, that you wanted to grovel in lime-coated thumb tacks with him and absorb his pain into your tissue paper skin? “I can’t sleep.”

Not a lie. Ezra knows you mean it. He just doesn’t know why.

“Well that won’t suffice,” he decides, outstretching his left arm blindly off the edge of his cot until his fingers brush against what he’s looking for: that goddamn lantern. With a little more fumbling, a weak but good enough orange glow is emitted on the floor between the two of you. You both catch each other’s pitiful gaze. You want to take care of each other, want to shield each other from the red sprites that nip angrily at each other’s hearts. Ezra holds his left arm out to you, tentatively. He’s never been more unsure in his life. He watches you glance at his arm, and then quickly to the side. You’re trying to decide if you’ll let him add another tether to you. If you’ll let him become something sewed so tight to your bleeding skin that to leave would rip you apart.

You slowly get up and walk over to his cot.

Ezra lets out a soft breath and his lips turn to a soft smile. He’s soft.

“C’mere, dandelion” he mumbles to you, and he hasn’t missed his right arm so much as in this moment. He wants to hold you properly, wants to keep you as close to him as possible. You’re hesitant, and he can tell. You’ve never been this close to him before, and you want to savor it. When your head finally touches his shoulder, it’s like a catalyst ignites underneath the two of you. You mold into each other the way the gods intended, like lake water seeping into the smallest of crevices of an empty river bed. Like the opposing poles of two magnets, like a key penetrating a lock. Like you were made for each other. Your arms immediately wrap around him, his neck now a fixture of your body, and his arm leads you to lay down on the cot. Without words, without that candid discourse that Ezra was so fond of, his face is buried into the warmth of your chest and he feels like you’ve cast an ethereal shield around him.

Ezra doesn’t need to hold you tight because you’re holding him tighter, like you’re trying to cling to something invisible and foreign before it can even think to leave you. Before it realizes that it doesn’t want you. Don’t leave. He can feel you breathe him in, face smashed against his wild hair, and he can’t blame you because he’s breathing you in too.

“Sweetheart-” he breathes, fanning against your skin in a way that sends a deep shiver down your spine and shakes your shoulders.

“Shh.” And for once in his cursed life, he’s speechless. There’s so much, too much that he wants to say to you, but his mind is shouting all of it at him at once and he doesn’t even know where to start. So he shuts the fuck up. He feels you. He feels your heat melt him until he can barely control his own muscles because they’ve gone limp, unable to perform a single contraction because his fibers are relaxed, are at peace.

He doesn’t know when he falls asleep.

When Ezra wakes, you’re still sweet and motionless around him. The lamp was still on, still shining pathetically on the ground. He doesn’t feel the need to look around or squeeze his lids closed in an attempt to wring the bad rest out of him.

Rest?

He thinks fucking hard. When had he woken up last night? When had his banshees infiltrated his thoughts and cried into the void of his packed mind? All he can recall are caramel dreams, whipped cream clouds and berry trampolines for him to jump high into the cotton candy sky. He thinks he might like it that way. Maybe every night can be like that, every morning can feel this transcendent.

He hears you moan quietly as you stir not long after him, breaths shuddering on their way out of your nose as you slowly come to your senses.

“Good morning, birdie,” Ezra finally says. He doesn’t know what to say to you, what he can say to you, without making you flip a switch and realize that it’s all a mistake, that he is a mistake. His eardrums smile as your sleepy whining settles.

“Morning, Ezra,” you whisper, throat not ready to talk yet. It’s okay; you’d rather hear him talk to you anyway.

“Did you…were you able to achieve some sort of comfort?” Ezra asks. For a second you’re confused until you remember what you’d told him last night, and you realize that you’re holding him the same way you were when you’d gone to sleep. He hadn’t woken up.

“Yeah, Ezra,” you finally say after letting yourself simmer in the silence for a second. “Thank you.”

He smiles wide against your skin, the blunt tip of his excitement the battering ram that beats against his racing heart. He’s given you something worthy of your gratefulness, and the feeling of being worthy light his chest with blue flames.

“It’s not my intention to blow you away, dandelion,” Ezra says, his nerves manifesting into his characteristic breathy laughs, “but I can’t deny how direly I want to just touch you.” You feel the air get knocked out of you as your diaphragm begins to spasm; what is he asking? You’ve thought about it before; god, of course you’ve thought about it before. To lay back as you let him study you, memorize you and then let you do the same. Analyze the sculpted marble of his body to remind yourself why you love it so much.

“Please.”

It’s barely a whisper, a secret told to the wind, but Ezra hears you. Ezra always hears you.

So Ezra’s fingers begin to wander along your skin. He wants to map out the scars on your body, wants to learn the shape of you so intimately that he could remodel you if he wanted to. He wants to know your body the way he knows when you’re disappointed or frustrated or amazed or confused. He wants to just know.

You feel the calloused pads of Ezra’s fingers put a little pressure onto that dip of your thoracic vertebrae, draw circles above your hip right under the fabric of your sweatshirt, caress your shoulder. He’s slowly exposing your skin to the humid chill of the dank enclosure, carefully making your top cover less and less of you, but you’ve never felt warmer.

As Ezra’s mind begins to really warm up and the cogs begin to grease themselves, his words begin to flow out the way you’re used to. The way you’ve learned to love.

“Sweetheart, I have had nightmares every night for the past three weeks and now they’re gone,” he blurts. Fuck. His hand stutters against the small of your back. He’s done it now, he’s really gone and blown it, because now you know he’s fucking broken and you’re smart enough to know when to avoid damaged goods. You have to know that if you were to take your hands and try and feel him you’d just get bumps and ridges and cracks. But Ezra is selfish, can’t help himself or his thoughts, so he keeps rambling. “It is not my intention to come off as presumptuous, but I just know it’s because of you. How did you do that, birdie? You never told me you were sent to me as a dreamcatcher.”

You can’t help but smile into his scalp a little at his words. You didn’t mind taking all of his bad dreams and refracting them far away into the space between the stars for him. A light, breathy laugh rolls off your tongue like a huff, because fuck, if you were going to be embroidered to something it might as well be him.

Your breath hitches again as the back of his hand runs flat along your stomach. It travels back around and up to the nape of your neck, tracing your shoulders and then over to your clavicles, paying close attention to the dips. You can’t help but wonder if this means as much to him as it does to you; it means everything to you.

“You’re right. I’ve been holding out on you all this time,” you say, and he can hear you smile through the roses of your words. He slowly and with purpose lifts his head from your embrace so that he can look up at you, maybe even catch a glimpse of that pretty grin of yours and burn it onto his lenses.

“I’m not confident that you’ll ever know how fortuitous I was the day I met you.” Ezra’s voice is low as he speaks, his drawl stretching and fraying the ends of his words, and you soak in every last syllable. You soak in the meaning of his words. He feels lucky to have you.

You look down at him, bringing a hand to run through his hair. That stupid blonde streak snatches your attention for a moment and you thumb at the strands. You want to tease him about it, mock him a little, but you don’t. The moon marine in your arms holds so much unbridled beauty, and it’s all yours to look at.

Ezra is all yours to look at.

Ezra’s hand travels up to your face, cupping your cheek while his thumb toys with the corner of your mouth in a way that makes you bite your lip through a smile. Throwing all caution to the wind, you turn your head and press a shy kiss to the heel of his palm. Ezra’s skin burns where you’ve sanctified him. His hand begins to crave your touch in other ways, he is craving something more from you, but he knows he does far too much taking. He’s already taken so much from you, has already stolen so many moments from you out of sheer gluttony, but it’s not always his fault because you’re so giving. He knows you were a little hollow from the start, knows you were a little frayed in the first place, but still you share your thoughts and companionship with him because whether you know it or not, you’re a little taken by this space mutineer. If you fled this little thing you’ve built with him, you’d be leaving the prettiest parts of yourself behind for him to keep taking care of the way a mother makes her son’s bed after he leaves for college because what if you want to come back?

But you haven’t left, haven’t abandoned him and in turn, yourself. You’re right here, letting him bask in your reverent lavender radiation, and as he looks at how you’re giving off your own intrinsic glow because the shitty orange light on the ground isn’t enough, he knows he hasn’t earned it. He doesn’t think this is a very fair transaction at all, but he’s too selfish to stop you from paying a little extra. You’ll let him keep the change.

Ezra wordlessly lifts his head, nosing at your wrist so that you’ll bring it lower and let him kiss the delicate skin there. He looks up at you with wide, eager eyes of adoration. His feelings for you are beginning to bubble underneath the surface of his silk-lined thoughts and he is willing them to stay at that low simmer because he doesn’t want to think about anything except how fucking gorgeous you look in the lamplight.

“I’m growing rather fond of the way you feel against me,” Ezra finally says. Everything is so foreign now, so new, so he tries to do the one thing you both know, the one routine you can both dance without needing to think about it: talking.

“I like it too Ezra,” you giggle. Not a long, flittery one, but a pass of air with a note under it. You’re a little nervous too.

“I reckon I could get accustomed to this,” he whispers. Your lip betrays you, curling itself to reveal your reply before you even say it. Your teeth capture your lower lip for the act of treason, but it’s too late. “But I’d just hate it if I made you feel like you’re bearing my baggage.”

“Ezra, you don’t have crippling baggage,” you insist. What is this man talking about? You were the one with issues. You were the one that had to be convinced to stay with him, you were the one that insisted on the right cot, you were the real coward here. You were broken. “Everyone has their demons. There is so much more inside of you. You’re so full.”

Ezra’s eyes go a little wide at your words. You didn’t think he was half a man? Some incomplete mosaic that would never find his missing pieces?

“You flatter me,” he chuckles; no, he giggles.

“Well…I just figured there’s no way a broken man could handle his broken partner the way you deal with me.” His expression melts into something more than pity and less than ignorance - confusion. The tap in Ezra’s tongue pops loose and his words begin to cascade from his lips like some majestic phenomenon, like holy water spraying the filth off of your brow.

“I need you to look at me, firefly.” His voice is more stern now, his words more articulate as he shifts up the bed slightly so that he’s eye level with you. He’s still on his side, his left hand is still gripping the flesh at your hip. “I don’t think you’ll ever truly comprehend how much you’ve done for me these past cycles, but this life is quiet and toilsome. You’re capable of recognizing beauty in things I wouldn’t have even taken note of in the first place, and I hang onto your every utterance whether you’re aware or not. It’s easy for me to sit here and tell you how bad I always want you because you fill my thoughts, pretty dandelion. And if someone came here and regurgitated your exact words to me, it still wouldn’t hold a candle to the way you sing when you wonder out loud. I don’t need to ‘deal’ with you, sweet rose. I want you.”

Your lip quivers a little; you know Ezra likes talking to you, he’s told you before. But you couldn’t help but assume Ezra just likes talking, period. That he liked having you around about as much as he’d enjoy the company of any other talker. To think that someone wants you, your passions and afterthoughts and pondering notions, meant more than anything you could articulate.

“Ezra-” you start, but you cut yourself off. You want to let his words turn into condensation on your skin, to form little rain clouds above your head so that they pour back down on you in delicate drops. You want to let him linger, to sit and hang above you like the sky hangs above the ocean.

You look straight at him, deep into his inquiring brown eyes as you both begin to breathe the same air, scents mingling between you like the heat between two stars. His nose is right up against yours and you can feel his lashes caress your cheekbone. He’s so close, but you want him closer, need him to move his hand or blink his eyes or do something, because you can’t take the nothingness anymore when you’ve got everything pressed right up against your face.

Ezra decides he wants one last thing from you.

“My rose, I don’t want to ask too much of you, but I suppose if that were true I wouldn’t have invited you to stay with me anyway. In the tent, of course. Not the cot.” Fuck, what was he saying? He lets out a soft laugh as he tries to reorganize his thoughts, a blushing mess under your gaze because he’s so used to knowing exactly how to get what he wants, but he’s really pushing your boundaries and bending your fence posts now. You’re turning him into a man who fumbles, a man who doesn’t always have to know what he’s about to say, and he doesn’t mind being a little less talk around you and a lot more touch.

Suddenly, he’s reminded of what he wanted to ask you.

“Sweet creature, could I kiss you?”

You don’t miss a beat in this soft ballad you’re playing with him, letting out a gentle “yeah, Ezra.”

You don’t like homes, don’t like to be told that you’re forever nailed to walls and wood. But maybe, as Ezra’s scruffy chin leans up to slot his lips against yours, you could build a tent in him. Maybe this leaky soul was your permanent, your unyielding, your perpetual.

As Ezra tilts his head towards you with a soft moan so he can kiss you the way you deserve, speak to you through the blinding sensation of his mouth telling you how he wants you, needs you, loves you, without using a single word, he is confident that his hollow cavities are beginning to be filled by your amber essence. He can tell you’re letting yourself finally take root in him, clearing out the wretched foliage so that you can curl up in the meadow of his soul and rest your bones within him.

Yeah.

You’re home.

people who asked to be tagged:  @bobafvtt @catfishingmorales@keeper0fthestars @1zashreena1 @blancatobarxoxo @honeyedspace @cryptkeepersoul

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not me tagging strangers for clout-

Please feel free to tell me if you want to be added/removed to my tags, I promise I’m not scary💕

[batterycityghoul]

There’s a Bad Moon on the Rise (Ben Hanscom/Reader) (3/3)

Summary:  You're Richie's twin sister and a member of the Losers' Club. When the other members all pack up and leave town, you elect to stay behind with Mike to wait for It to come back. After 27 years pass and Pennywise returns, will you and the other Losers be able to finally defeat him?

Pairing:  Ben Hanscom/Reader; Richie Tozier & Reader; Background Richie Tozier/Eddie Kaspbrak

Word Count: 4.6k

Author’s Note: Thank you to everyone who has shown this love. It makes me so happy to know people have enjoyed this. 💖

Masterlist / Part One / Part Two / Read on AO3

It didn't take you long to realize that Richie's bag and Richie's car were both missing. You didn't want to believe your brother would leave you all in the lurch, but all signs pointed to Richie fleeing town.  

You were pacing in the foyer, cursing out your brother, when Ben stalled you by stepping into your path. He put his hands on your shoulders and ducked his head to meet your gaze. "It's going to be okay, Y/N," he promised. "Even if Richie left, it's going to be okay."

"I can't believe that fucking dickwad just left me like that," you heard Eddie seethe as he descended the stairs. "I mean us," he quickly amended with a pained grimace.  

"Let's just get to the library," Beverly said as she joined the rest of you. "Maybe we'll get lucky and Richie will be there."

Thankfully, Beverly was right. Richie was at the library with Mike, but your brother had also apparently killed Henry Bowers in an effort to save Mike.  

You listened to Mike explain what happened as he let Ben take care of the cut on his arm. You noticed Eddie and Richie seemingly consoling each other near the card catalogue, an expression of fury on Richie’s face as he considered the bandage on Eddie's cheek. From the way he kept eyeing Henry's body, you were half-sure he was wishing he could kill the deranged man all over again just for harming Eddie.  

"Where's Bill?" You heard Mike ask as he pulled his bandaged arm towards himself.  

"I don't know," Beverly admitted with a sigh. "We should have heard from him by now."

Mike carefully pulled his cell phone free from the front pocket of his jeans and called Bill. You listened as Mike tried to talk to Bill, his expression growing increasingly worried as he listened to whatever Bill was telling him.

You had a sinking feeling in your gut that told you whatever Bill was doing now wasn't good. When Mike hung up the phone and confirmed that Bill was about to attempt to kill Pennywise all by himself, you knew that the final battle was fast approaching whether you wanted it to or not.  

Once it was concluded that Bill would be going to Neibolt to confront Pennywise, you all decided to meet him there.  

You were relieved when you got to the house and noticed that Bill had yet to go inside.  

"Hey," you heard Mike call to get Bill's attention.  

"Wh-what are you guys doing here?" Bill asked when he turned to look at the rest of you. "You shouldn't b-be here."

"We couldn't let you do this alone, Bill," Beverly told him.  

"Yeah, man," you heard Eddie agree. "Losers stick together."

"But you're all cursed because of me," Bill insisted. "That summer was m-my fault because I made you all go out to the Barrens with me lookin' for Georgie. I can't ask you all to do this."

"Just face it, Denbrough," you started with a smirk on your face that you hoped was covering up the anxiety you felt coursing through you. "You're stuck with us. It’s all of us or none of us."

“Is it too late to vote for none of us?” You heard Richie mutter from beside you. You discreetly elbowed him in the side, ignoring his pained grunt.

Bill looked like he wanted to argue for a moment before he seemed to realize that none of you actually had any intention of letting him storm Neibolt House alone.  

By the time you made it down into the caverns beneath Neibolt, you felt like you had already lived through dozens of nightmares.  

Between trying to help Bill pry the spider disguised as Stan's head off of Richie and listening to Ben's screams coming from rooms away and Beverly getting attacked and nearly drowned, you were starting to wonder if you would ever be allowed to complete the Ritual of Chüd. You were half-sure Pennywise would end up killing you all first.  

As you were throwing your token into the fire, you felt a wary anticipation start to overcome you. If this worked, then Pennywise would be gone forever. If this didn't work, then all of you would die horrible, violent deaths.  

You noticed a brief, sad smile flit across Ben's face before he threw his token into the fire. He glanced first to Beverly before his eyes met yours where you were standing opposite him. He gifted you with a sincere smile before he turned his attention towards where Richie was sacrificing an arcade token.  

You had a moment where you began to wonder if this was even real before you joined hands with Richie and Bill and listened to Mike speak about the ritual.  

As the deadlights descended and you started to chant with the group, you started to let yourself truly believe that this could be the end. If the ritual worked, then Pennywise would be gone. You wanted that more than anything, so you said each word with increasing conviction, hoping it would be enough to put Pennywise away for good.  

"Turn light into dark. Turn light into dark. Turn light into dark," you kept saying over and over, believing that it would be enough.  

It had to be enough.  

Of course it wasn't enough.  

When the ritual quite literally blew up in your faces, you knew that every hope you had of defeating Pennywise was nearly gone. You didn't know if there was anything else that would work, but your only way to survive once he attacked was to run. Pennywise had transformed himself into a giant spider that was big enough to nearly fill the cavern. There was no way you could possibly fight that and hope to survive.  

Mike seemed to be overwhelmed with guilt after Pennywise pressured him to admit that he had left one important detail out of his explanations regarding the ritual. The first and only group to attempt the Ritual of Chüd had all been killed because they couldn’t succeed. Mike had assumed that if you all just believed hard enough, then you would be able to kill It. You heard him apologizing profusely as you dodged a swipe from one of Pennywise’s legs.  

You ended up getting split up from the others. Richie and Eddie disappeared into one cave while Ben and Beverly retreated into another. You were about to bolt after Eddie and Richie, since it seemed like your only possible escape that didn't take you right past the killer clown and spider hybrid, but Pennywise had other plans for you.  

You felt something heavy slam into your back before you went flying. You barely had a moment to pull your arms in close to your body in an attempt to not break them on the rocks before you felt yourself hit the ground hard enough to knock the breath out of you. Your momentum carried you down an opening in the cavern's walls and right through a hole. You felt the odd sensation like you were flying for a moment before you landed on something soft.  

You didn’t even realize that had you closed your eyes during the fall, but once you opened them, you weren't entirely convinced that you were actually awake.  

"No," you whispered when you were met with the sight of your childhood bedroom. You had spent many nights in this room feeling like you were helpless against the lingering shadows on the walls. There were the nights when you swore there was someone standing at the foot of your bed and watching you in the dark. Sometimes the voice belonged to Pennywise and sometimes it was a wheezing, groaning croak that reminded you of every zombie movie you had watched with Richie after he dared you not to get scared.  

You willed yourself to move, but it felt like you were paralyzed with fear. You felt the sheets wrap around your ankles and wrists, anchoring you to the bed.  

"Look what you did to me," you heard a voice rasp from near the foot of the bed. You caught sight of curly hair and torn clothes. A hand reached out towards you, the skin mottled with decay. "You did this to me, Y/N."  

"No," you whispered again, silently pleading with whatever deity was listening to get you out of this.  

"Look at me," Stan snapped as he took a step closer to you, gifting you with a better view of him.  

You closed your eyes and resolutely shook your head. You felt fingers dig into your chin before your head was jerked sharply to the side.  

"Look at me. Look at what you did to me," Stan commanded with a conviction that was strong enough that you almost couldn't help but open your eyes in obedience. "You know what's going to happen to them now. They're going to end up like me. And it's all your fault," Stan spat before he offered you a sickly grin that had you attempting to pull your chin out of his hold.  

His nails dug into your skin and you could feel yourself begin to bleed from where he was cutting into your skin. You struggled against your bonds, a panic beginning to overwhelm you. You had felt trapped for years with the certainty that you might be subjecting your loved ones to their final demise and now Pennywise was playing that scenario out for you in the cruelest way possible.  

"No, no, no," you denied as you kept struggling for freedom. "I didn't mean to. I didn't want you to die, Stan," you cried.  

"You did this to me. To us," Stan snarled before he pulled away. He gestured towards the floor where you could make out the sight of several bodies. "You shouldn't have called us here. You've killed us all."

"NO!" You screamed when the first body pulled itself off the floor. You saw the glasses and dark hair and knew immediately that it must be Richie. You couldn't hold back the sob that fought its way free at the sight of the torn and bloody visage of your brother. His eyes were clouded over and his neck had been torn out.  

It wasn't long before the other members of the Losers' Club rose from the floor and started advancing on you. You could hear their hungry, ravenous moans as their hands all stretched out towards you. You could just imagine what it would feel like as they tore into your flesh and you hurried to free yourself from the bed. You twisted and writhed and finally managed to free one of your hands.  

You could feel nails scraping down your leg and you bit back a cry of pain. You weren't going to give Pennywise the satisfaction of hearing that his torture was working. You could feel blood running from the cuts and pooling onto the bed below you before you finally managed to break free.  

There was a door on the other side of the room that you were desperate to reach, but it would take you right through the undead members of the Losers' Club.  

"Fuck," you hissed, before you decided to try your chances. You bolted over the bed and pushed past the clawing hands and sound of clicking teeth as more than one of the members tried to take a bite out of you. By the time you made it to the door, one of your sleeves had been ripped away and you had deep scratches down your arms and along your torso. You were also pretty sure someone had gotten a lucky bite in, because your shoulder was burning and aching in a way that was nearly enough to distract you from your escape attempt.  

You didn't even bother looking back as you opened the door and fell through it right into the cavern you had left behind what felt like years ago.  

You only had a moment to notice the bright light filling the cave and the sight of Richie caught in the deadlights before you were taking off across the cavern. The image of the reanimated corpses of the Losers' Club was still fresh in your mind as you watched Eddie attempt to save Richie by spearing Pennywise through the head with the broken piece of fence Beverly had picked up earlier that night to use as a weapon.  

You pulled to a stop not far from the pair when you realized that Eddie was exclaiming that he had saved Richie. You were keeping a wary eye on Pennywise, but you still managed to catch sight of Eddie leaning down and kissing Richie.  

You were stunned for a moment, ridiculously happy for your brother and Eddie even if it was the wrong moment to get carried away, before you noticed Pennywise shake off the hit from Eddie. You had a moment to see Pennywise's grin just before he moved to strike. You barely had to think about it as you took off towards the pair, managing to tackle Eddie just before he would have been skewered through his chest with Pennywise's claw.  

You thought for a moment that you had managed to save Eddie without any consequences, but it didn't take long for the searing pain in your shoulder to make itself known. You felt like there was something hooked right beneath your clavicle before you were pulled back and flung across the cavern. You hit the ground with a sharp crack, crying out when you rolled right into the cavern wall. You felt like you had a hole in your shoulder, but that couldn't be right. The blood that was steadily pooling beneath you argued otherwise.  

You realized that you might have saved Eddie, but you sacrificed yourself to do it.  

Your vision went hazy for a moment before you heard someone calling your name. There were hands on you and for a dizzying moment you thought it was the zombified members of the Losers' Club coming back to finish the job. You kicked out at someone before the words began to register.  

"Fucking fuck, Y/N! That was my nose!" Richie yelled as he attempted to help Ben pick you up off the ground.  

"It's okay," you heard Beverly assure you. "You're okay."

"Don't die, Y/N," Eddie pleaded as he helped the others carry you into a cave where Pennywise wouldn't be able to readily reach you.  

"Eds," you croaked as you struggled to hold onto consciousness. You reached out to grab his hand, holding it as tight as you could. "Worth it," you assured him with a grin that probably looked half-crazed as you did your best to stay awake and aware.  

"Fu-fuck! Fuck!" You heard Bill shout as he joined the others. "That's a lot of blood."

"Hey, Y/N," Mike whispered. "You need to stay with us. We can't do this without you."

You felt something press into your shoulder and you couldn't hold back the scream that clawed its way free of your throat. You felt the sharp agony as Ben tried to keep pressure on your wound, having sacrificed his overshirt to try to keep you from bleeding out.  

"Just stay with me, Y/N," you heard Ben murmur. "Don't leave me. Mike's right, you know? We can't do this without you. I can't do this without you. I need you, so you’ve got to stick around."

You managed to suck in a shuddering, pained breath as you met his eyes. You knew you were fast losing the battle to stay awake and you weren't really sure if you were going to make it out of the cavern. Your blood was quickly soaking Ben’s overshirt and the pain started to recede as an alarming numbness began to overtake you.  

You could hear Pennywise taunting you and the other Losers, but all you could really focus on at that moment was Ben.  

You saw Ben bite his lip, looking unsure for a moment, before he brought his hands up and cupped your face in them. He leaned forward and brushed his lips against yours, prompting you to bring up the arm that currently didn’t feel like it was about to fall off to grab a fistful of his t-shirt and reel him in even closer. He felt like your only anchor to consciousness at that moment and you were reluctant to let him go.  

"Ugh, my sister, man? Seriously? Didn't you have the hots for Bev?" You heard Richie wonder with a tone that warred between disgust and exasperation.  

"Beep beep, Richie," you heard Beverly mutter.  

When you felt like you were struggling to breathe, you carefully pushed Ben away. "I'm sorry, Ben Handsome" you whispered before you felt your eyelids droop.  

"No, Y/N, stay awake," you heard Ben urge.  

"Is she dead? What's going on?"

"Fuck! This can’t be fucking happening."

"No, come on, Y/N. Don't do this."

Awareness stayed with you in little bits and pieces. You could hear Pennywise roaring and the others yelling, but they now sounded far away. You could hear something rumbling before your body began to shake. It took you a really long time to realize that you weren't shaking, but the cave around you was as it started to collapse. There was the unmistakable sound of rocks clattering down to the floor and then more shouting.  

You felt trembling fingers on your neck and others wrapped around your wrist. There were hands under your knees and someone pulling you to stand. You felt weightless for a moment and for one brief, disorienting moment you thought you were flying.  

You felt hands on you again and voices drifting across you, but before you could shout or try to avoid the reach of the undead, you finally allowed the darkness threatening to overwhelm you to fully embrace you.  

You didn't really think you were dead. You still felt and heard and experienced. There were flashing lights that had you wishing you could close your eyes, even though they were already closed. There was the prick of the needle as it slid into your arm and a warm voice talking just above you.  

"We'll have to bring her in for surgery now. I'm sorry, but you have to stay in the waiting room."

"But that's my sister," you heard Richie exclaim. "What the fuck do you mean I have to stay out here?"

There was something cold rushing through your veins and a metallic taste in your mouth. There was the drifting awareness and then nothing.  

You jolted awake, your eyes flying open as you attempted to take better stock of your surroundings.  

"Holy shit, you're awake," you heard Richie mumble from your side. You glanced over to see that he was rubbing at his eyes just under the rims of his glasses. He looked exhausted, but there was a delighted, relieved grin on his face that had you automatically smiling back at him in answer.  

You wanted to ask him what the fuck was going on, but he was suddenly out of his chair and striding over towards the door.  

"Hey, guys! She's finally awake!" You heard Richie yell before he was stepping out of your room.  

You barely had a moment to realize you were in a hospital room before the rest of the Losers' Club filed into the room.  

"I'm glad you're okay, Y/N," Bill said as he came to stand beside your bed.  

"Yeah, you had us all really scared for a while there," Beverly chimed in as she reached out for your hand. She squeezed your hand and offered you a reassuring smile.  

"Move," Richie commanded as he brushed past Bill and Beverly. "Don't you ever fucking do that to me again, you got it?” Richie admonished you as he pointed his finger right in your face, as if he was scolding a child and not his twin sister. “I just fucking got you back and I'm not about to let you die because of some stupid, fuckin' clown."

"Pennywise," you breathed, startled to finally remember the clown that had terrorized you all for so long and the recent events that took place in the caverns beneath Neibolt House. "What happened? Is he dead?"

"He's dead," Mike confirmed with a nod of his head. You turned your head and met his eyes where he was standing at the foot of your bed. "We did it."

"I'm so sorry, Y/N," Eddie piped up as he moved to stand at Richie's side. You didn't fail to notice the way Richie's hand immediately reached for Eddie's, their fingers lacing together as Eddie crowded further into Richie's side. “I feel like you almost died because of me.”

"I meant what I said," you told him with a small smile. "It would have been worth it."

"Y/N," you heard from the doorway of your hospital room.  

You looked over to see Ben standing there, an expression of stark relief clear on his face.  

"Why don't we give them a moment," Beverly suggested as she reached out to start steering Richie and Eddie away.  

"Hey, that's my sister!" Richie protested, before he seemed to relent when Beverly whispered something to him. "I'm watching you," Richie promised Ben before he let himself be led out of the room by the rest of the Losers.  

Ben came to sit down at your bedside once it was just the two of you left in the room.  

"Do you, uh, do you remember anything? From before you passed out?" He wasn't quite meeting your eyes, but there was an awkward shyness that seemed so familiar that you couldn't help but grin at him.  

"I remember trying to save Eddie," you muttered before your brows furrowed as you attempted to remember more. "There was a lot of pain. I think I lost a lot of blood," you said as you frowned down at the bandages you could see covering your shoulder. "I remember you," you confessed with a softer smile as memories became clearer. "And a kiss," you whispered before Ben finally met your gaze. "Did you mean it? Or was it only because I was bleeding out?"

"I meant it," Ben rushed to reassure you before he hesitantly reached out to take your hand. "I meant it," he whispered as he let his thumb sweep over the back of your hand. "And I have a proposition for you if you're open to it."

You quirked an eyebrow at him, not able to fight off the smirk you felt tugging at your lips. "While I'm still in a hospital bed? Ben Handsome, I didn't know you were that eager to seduce me."

You noticed the blush that bloomed on Ben's cheeks before he shot you an amused grin. "Not that kind of proposition," he remarked with a fond expression and shake of his head. "I was thinking about what you'd do now that Pennywise is gone."

"Oh," you breathed in understanding. You honestly had never thought of what you would do once you were free to leave Derry. All of your plans boiled down to just that. Leave. But you didn't know what you would do once you stepped foot outside the town for the first time. "What were you thinking?"

"I was thinking that I'm overdue for a vacation and you're probably eager to get out of Derry. You've been stuck here for so long and I know you've got to heal and probably some physical therapy, but we can go anywhere you'd like. It's your choice, but if you'll have me, I want to explore the world with you." He took a deep breath, as if steeling himself for a possible rejection. "So, where would you like to go?"

You were stunned for a moment with the realization that whatever was forming between you and Ben wasn't just going to be relegated to Derry and near-death experiences. Ben was actually serious about this. Serious about you. And while it seemed a bit sudden and you were sure there was so much left to discuss, you couldn’t help but feel excited by the idea that he wanted to see you and spend time with you and take you far away from the town that housed all your nightmares.  

You felt a grin slowly stretch across your face before you squeezed his hand. "I've got the perfect idea."

Later, nearly a week after Pennywise's demise, you joined the other members of the Losers' Club at Jade of the Orient for dinner. You were surprised that you were all allowed back after the property damage from your last dinner, but you were given another private room to hold your meeting of the Losers’ Club.  

This dinner was a complete turnaround from the first one, however. Just a week before, you were all talking about what you had spent the past twenty-seven years doing. It was rife with news of divorce, separation, and uncertainty. It was tainted by the knowledge that Pennywise was back and wreaking havoc on Derry yet again. What should have been a nice reunion was overshadowed by the hauntings of your pasts and the tragedy that was soon to follow.  

Now, you were all looking forward to whatever the future held in store, because you all realized that you actually had a future to experience. There was no more uncertainty and no more monsters to fight. You were allowed to live now without the specter of Pennywise hanging over you all.  

Ben kept a firm grip on your hand through most of the dinner, as if he had to remind himself that you were really there and alive after suffering a near-fatal injury. Richie and Eddie were just as obnoxious as ever, but Eddie had taken it upon himself to kiss Richie whenever he wanted him to shut up. By the stunned and cautiously delighted look on Richie's face every time it happened, he didn't mind.  

Everyone seemed eager to discuss their plans for the next few months. It seemed that Richie still planned to finish out his tour and Eddie was going to go with him. Mike claimed that he wanted to finally check out Florida after being stuck in Maine for so long. Bill said he had a movie to finish and a new book to write. Beverly told you all that now that so much of her past had become clear to her, she wanted to figure out who she really was. She wanted to strike out on her own and learn how to depend on herself, but from the few, brief glances she shared with Bill, you started to wonder if there was more going on there than they had shared with the group.  

By the time you were finished with your food and waiting on the check, you felt lighter than you had in decades. With Ben at your side and the knowledge that Pennywise was no longer a threat, you felt like your future was open to you for the first time in your life.  

You heard Bill clear his throat before he raised his glass. "To the Losers' Club," he said with a fond grin on his face. "To finally defeating Pennywise," he continued with a glance at each of you around the table. "And most important, to Stan," he finished.

"To Stan," you all joined in, raising your glasses in a toast to your fallen friend, before you all took a drink.  

"To Stan," you repeated with a sad smile as you thought of the friend who should have been sharing this victory with all of you. You wished more than anything that he was there to see the nightmare finally laid to rest.  

But you couldn't help but hope that he knew somehow that you and the Losers' Club hadn't let him down. You had defeated Pennywise once and for all and the townspeople of Derry were finally safe from a threat they weren't even aware of after so many decades of suffering.  

And now, you were finally free to live your life.