#my life is an endless series of what the hell is she doing

[theblueflower05]

The Sweetest Sylaung

A/N: So I def didn’t mean to write a novel long Neteyam smut story but here we are. Debating on making this a mini series. Also the anon that requested a “curvy” reader insert- here ya go!(she’s also an Augustine- buttttt you can only see that if you squint lol)

Word Count: 6k+

Warnings: This is smut. Pure smut. Please don’t read if it is not your jam. You are in charge of cultivating your own online experience, you’ve been warned!

Pairing: Aged Up! Neteyam x Human!Curvy!Reader

Summary: After an “accidental” romp in the forest, you do your best to avoid Neteyam. It’s for everyone’s good, or so you’ve convinced yourself.

“I’m begging for you to take my hand, wreck my plans. That’s my man”- Willow, Taylor Swift

The kaleidoscope of colors explode under your eyes in endless patterns and shapes as you look over the sample of Pandora flora under the heavy duty microscope. This particular piece of the Moons terra had never been discovered before, only blooming at what you estimated to be every ten or so years, under the right monsoon like conditions

At least that’s what you had discovered so far.

The flower, which sprouted into a berry, and then dissipated into a moss like cluster of microorganisms all within its short life cycle had turned into your passion project. You we’re doing your thesis on it, the last step in getting your Masters.

You’d gone through schooling on a computer screen, guided by the greatest minds on Earth that had relocated to Pandora. Scientists of all fields who you’d grown up around. None of them had been surprised when you’d picked up botany. Xenobotany to be exact.

It was in your blood.

The desk your at shakes violently- disturbing your precision like focus. Breaking you straight out of your zone.

“Ugh” you groan, frustrated, raising your head, eyes narrowing at the culprits.

Spider, Lo’ak and Kiri freeze like deers in the headlights of your fury. Spiders arm raised, a wad of paper balled up in his hand, aimed to shoot. He lowers it slowly as the weight of your your heavy gaze zero’s in.

“Sorry, cu-”

“I told you guys, if you cant behave to get the fuck out” You seethe. Your nerves are paper thin anyway. Too much screen time frying your brain something fierce as you focused in on your studies. “Is that not what I said, verbatim?”

“You need to chill. You’ve been so high strung lately. Come hang out with us” Lo’ak suggests smooth and unhelpful. As usual. “When was the last time you left the lab?”

You roll your eyes and bite your tongue, trying not to say anything to scalding to the surprisingly sensitive Sully brother. “No thanks. I’ve gotta focus”

“Maybe Lo’aks right” Kiri starts, her face screwing up as she speaks “Eywa that sounds wrong. Nevermind, My brother is never right- but you should come hang out with us. Let’s go swimming- the watering hole is over flowing from the storms”

The deep sigh through your nose isn't calming, even though you pretend it is. You know they mean well, in the most annoying way. That you’d been buried in books and paperwork in the lab for the past couple months.

Hiding from the outside world within the thick walls of Hell’s Gate.

“Can’t. This is important, Kir- but why don’t you guys head down there? Its closer to Home Tree and its almost curfew anyway” two birds, one stone. Its a smart suggestion- but Kiri’s face falls, shoulders sagging and ears lowing. That look had always gotten you-

“I cant today, but maybe tomorrow? The samples are too fresh and I don't want to put them on ice…But I think Max made those Yovo cookie things” That’s only half of the truth, but luckily Kiri’s always been understanding.

She grabs your elbow in her long fingers and tugs you along.

The mess hall had seen better days, but the large open space still tends to be the meeting ground for the humans that were allowed to stay and inhabit the moon. With twelve foot tall ceilings and airtight exits and windows that lead out to the Avatar Program training yards. Its a common room of sorts, a place where everyone gathers. For meals, for mismatched Holidays. But mostly for gossip.

I mean, what else is there to do?

Like currently, you’re deeply engrossed in the story that Doctor Martinez’s, Xeno-Zoologist is recounting. All dramatics and dirty intimate details “It’s true, they’re gonna bring it before Mo’at and everything”

He’s talking about Trevino and Eital’i.

Everyone had heard the whispers, seen the not so subtle signs. The main Radio Tower operator had turned during the resistance, had fought beside Jake and had been allowed to stay on Pandora- better stuck on a foreign planet then thrown in a familiar jail cell. Trevino’s a cool guy, really.

A cool guy who had been sleeping with a Na’vi woman, apparently. The two had kept it under wraps, really private. No one could pin down how or when it happened,,,but to go to the clan’s Tsahik seeking a mating blessing? That’s major.

“You’re lying” you accuse in a gasp as the table breaks into whispers, all wide eyes and shaking heads. “They’re going to mate?...How?”

“It’s not like it hasn't happened before” Another scientist chimes in casually. Like it’s a known thing.

Which it kind of is.

Taboo, yes. But not unheard of, more like untalked about.

Humans and the Na’vi of the forest had lived in close quarters since the overthrow of the RDA. Jake, the standing Olo’eyktan, just had a little too much homosapien in him. Yeah, he’d survived the soul transfer and fully inhabited his blue body- but he never quite grew out of his human roots.

It had been hard, lots of politicking and good grace shown on both parts, but somehow, like all biomes in the vast perma green forest, all had learned to live in harmony. Most Omitikaya kept their distance. Very hesitant about the human presence. They had every right to be scared, hostile. Scarred by man and its weapons and its destruction.

Others had been raised in close proximity to Grace’s school. Had become accustomed to the nearly two decade long human presence on Pandora. Curious and accepting.

You’d heard about interspecies hookups.

Locker room talks that left your ears burning and your heart racing. It usually came from members of the Avatar Program- It tends to set a precedent, when the quote on quote “royal family” of the Omiticaya is a Jarhead and a native woman.

Na’vi are gorgeous, tall and lean but humanoid enough to be familiar…you’re not exactly sure what they see in humans but you know damn well what you guys see in them.

“How do you think that works? The…physicality of it all I mean. Trevino doesn't have an Avatar. How do they fuck-”

You’re not the only one zoning out from the conversation and it’s lewd turn.

You watch Kiri watch Spider and your heart aches for her. What they have is secret, delicate and forbidden. As a woman with high standing in the clan, you knew that her feelings for the boy wouldn't go anywhere. Couldn't.

When they we’re kids, it was cute. Now that they 're both technically adults, it was just plain stupid.

You tell her of the fact, often.

Kiri tells you to stop projecting.

———

The Sully Kid’s are always late. It’s like no matter how hard they try, they cant make curfew. You throw on an Exopack, hurrying them to the fence.

“Yeah, yeah okay mom. Take it easy” Lo’ak shrugs huffily as you yank hard on his arm. “I’m going, Y/N!”

“Not fast enough you strumbeast’s ass! You’re gonna get me into trouble, who do you think your dad’s gonna blame when you guys end up back at Home Tree super late again? Norm chewed me out for that shit last time!” You man handle the much taller than you alien.

Kiri and Spider a few leagues in front of you, already at the mouth of the giant fence. They’re awkward, not in their usual synched steps. You wonder how much of that conversation earlier had gone to their heads?

You’re bickering with Lo’ak, an extremely normal occurrence. He can be a real douche. and had been kind of insufferable lately. You think its nerves about his impending Iknamaya.

So engrossed with getting them on their way home that you don't even notice him until it’s too late.

Neteyam is a skilled hunter, through and through. The youngest in the clan to ever make a kill. Swift and quiet. Beloved.

But around you he feels out of his element. Clunky and awkward, no matter how hard he tries to play it off its like you can see right through him. Its scary and thrilling, sets his stomach alive with butterflies everytime. This is no different.

Showing up to Hell’s Gate to retrieve his siblings was something he had done since he was a child.

He’d used to bleed hours away playing with them at the scientists fortress, but as he had gotten older and his responsibilities had grown heavier- he had little time for it. Still, when ever his parents would send him out on a one man search party to bring them home, he’d jump at the chance.

At the hope of seeing you.

You’re arguing with his little brother, trying not to laugh at something he said and Neteyam knows. He knows he shouldn't feel jealous but he just cant help it. Cant help the acidic twist of his insides.

Especially when he chirps out his family's familiar call, letting his presence be known.

And watches that pretty smile fall right off of your face.

“You’re late, as usual” His voice has a stern edge. It’s annoying, the role he has to play. Kiri is a woman grown, Lo’ak just weeks away from being the same. He doesnt blame them for the way their feathers bristle, almost viscerally.

“Ah, big brother you didn't have to come all this way to get us” Kiri reassures, patting Neteyam on the chest good naturedly. “We we’re just about to be on our way”

Neteyam notices the way you try to look anywhere else but him. It stings because he cant stop looking at you, cant pry his eyes away from your form.

“You all should start heading back before dad notices” Neteyam starts. His father had been busy as of late, harvest season abundant and fruitful this year because of the heavy rain season “I’ll catch up, I need to speak with Norm”

“What? Dad cant use the coms now, he has to send his messenger” Lo’ak’s nose scrunches a little, always questioning. On a normal day it wouldn't affect Neteyam so much, just a normal jab from his snot nosed little brother.

Not today. Not when he’s stretched so thin. Not when you refuse to look at him but are staring at the side of Lo’ak fat head. It feels wrong, makes his skin heat up to the point that it feels itchy and tight.

“That's none of your concern. Head back to Home Tree. Now” He doesn't normally throw his weight around. But he feels the need to puff up big in front of you “Those are orders. Get out of here”

Lo’ak’s less offended and more surprised. One of his oh so human eyebrows cocks, a sly remark in his throat before he scoffs. “Aye, Aye Captain Kiss Ass. C’mon Kiri let's go. See you later Spider, Y/N”

He deuces up Spider, gives Y/N a pat on her small shoulder and glares harshly at his brother before he disappears into the thick brush of the jungle.

Kiri wraps her arms around you in a strong hug, muttering about ‘swimming’ and ‘promises’. The small impish smile she shoots Spider gives YOU butterflies so you don't blame the way he swoons, before she’s off behind her younger brother.

“I can go find Norm for you, bro. I think he’s still out in his Avv, but Max can radio him back in” Spider is none the wiser. Doesn't notice the heavy tension that simmers on a low bubble. Oblivious, as usual.

“Yeah, sure” Neteyam replies, barely sparing the human boy a glance. He’d feel bad for it later, when he could form coherent thought. When his brain wasn't on Y/N issued override.

Spider chatters, good natured. He never got to see the Olo’eyktan in training anymore. He missed his homie.

“Well, I should be heading back. You guys have a good rest of your night-” You’re already turning on your heels when you make the announcement, eager to get back inside. Back behind the safe walls of the lab- far away from Neteyam.

“No”

Neteyam who stares at you with all too knowing eyes. He looks straight through you like he can see through your clothes, through your thinly veiled escapism attempts. He reaches out, wraps his long fingers around the top of your arm and tugs you back to him. Gentle, but very firm.

He doesn't have to say it- it’s written all over his face. Not this time. He’s not going to let you run away from him.

“Netey-” You start in a whine, tugging on his hold. He doesnt relent, if anything his fingers tighten as his eyes narrow. Dangerous, desperate.

“Just talk to me” it’s a barely concealed plea, his tail twitches anxiously behind him “I'm just asking for five minutes. Please Y/N”

Spiders oblivious, yes. Stupid? No. He doesnt know exactly what's going on between the two of you but has clued into the fact that it’s heavy and he wants no part of it.

The excuse he makes is shit- he’ll just go find Norm. Yeah… he’s so out of there.

“What is wrong with you?” You hiss as you watch Spiders awkward, quick retreating form. Eyes flickering over the empty for now training yards “So much for keeping it lowkey, huh? Could you be anymore obvious?”

“What’s wrong with me?” Neteyam is almost shaking with disbelief “What the fuck is wrong with you? You havent talked to me in over a month. Everytime I make any kind of attempt you bolt. I dont-” He sighs, pinching the wide bridge of his nose with the hand that isnt holding onto you.

He looks tortured. Tired. Run a little ragged.

Beautiful.

“I don't know what I did? If this is about that day in the forest-”

You sigh at his words, once again pulling on his hold. Shaking your head desperately because you can't.

You can't talk about it. Fuck, you’ve been trying not to even think about it.

And failing as you replay the event over and over again the darkness of your bunk. Hyper fixating on the way that his lips had felt against yours. Oh the way that his big hands had worked your body over

“Don’t” you whisper “Please don’t”

You’d never been one to beg for pity, for mercy but that’s what you do now. Beg him to let you out of his tight clutches. Metaphorically and physically.

“You’re all I can think about” It's a gutted admittance, but Neteyam makes it all the same “That night- I can’t sleep. I can barely eat- I’m falling behind on my duties because I keep coming back here. Standing outside this fence and waiting for you. I know you could hear me over the coms, right?”

And you could, a few weeks or so ago.

When he’d begged you to come out. To come speak to him. His voice so appealing that you’d almost caved. You’d had to turn off your receiver. Had sat with your head in your hands for hours as you fought the urge to crawl to him, knees raw and your bloody heart on a platter only he could divulge in.

He shuffles closer, all lean strong muscle. Firm, unmovable. “You heard me”

“Of course I did”

“And you still left me out here” He scoffs, head shaking slightly as his adams apple bobs, his ears are pinned to the sides of his head in obvious distress “I could never do that shit to you.”

“One of us needs to be the adult in this situation” Your voice is as strong as you can make it. Trying to speak reason on to both of you “We can pretend it never happened and go back to the way that things were before. You’re my friend, Tey”

You reach up, stroking at his wrist. Trying to soften him enough for him to let this go. Let you go.

He’s trying to control his breathing, all that training for all of those years for what? One fragile human girl to make him completely unspool? To lose any and all composure he’d worked so hard to gain.

He was always the adult, in all situations. Had been born with a neck cramping crown on his head. Shrouded in pressurized glory.

“If this is me being childish, so be it. Where has pretending gotten you, huh? Look at you, yawntutsyìp. you look so tired. When was the last time you slept? Kiri says you spend days in the lab without resting”

His hands, both of them, come up to cup your face. Huge and calloused. Yet he holds you like you're something precious. A small animal, a rare gem. His whole entire world since he was just a boy.

Neteyam thumbs at the cool glass of your mask, tenderly. The bags under your eyes are sunken and bruised. “Don’t shut me out”

Your body, in its entirety, clenches at his words. Velvet and sincere. He’s a fucking dream. Your head leans into his hands, neck sagging of its own accord as any and all words of protest leave your weak mind.

He makes you so easy.

“Let me in…I dont want there to be this distance between us anymore” He hisses around the word distance. Hating even having to say it “I want to be inside of you again”

Your plump lower lip gets skewered between your teeth, eyes screwed shut as you remember the last time. Your first ever time being full…you’d dreamt of it every night since it had happened.

If it wasn't for the blasted mask and your need for Earth’s oxygen he’d kiss you. Right here right now. He didn't really give a shit who saw or what they had to say.

Instead pulls you into his chest, lets you wind your arms around his lean middle and bury your chest in his diaphragm. Its as close as he can get you, for now. Makes you cling to him the way that he’d clung to every thought of you for the last weeks.

You wish it was lungfuls of his skin that you were taking as you try to bring yourself down from this abrupt shaky high. You dont get it, how your relationship couldve flipped this hard in such a short time.

He had always just been Neteyam. A shameless flirt yes- but that’s all it was.

“Would you like that?” He questions, hands working through your hair. Fingers light and soothing on your scalp. Massaging the thoughts right out of your head.

“Hmm?”

“If I was inside you again?” He presses on. You can feel the tickle of his long, thin, tail as it wraps around the back of your calf and you groan, digging your nails into his back.

“You’re such an asshole. Stoppppp it” You’re embarrassed and turned on and already feel stupid enough, he doesn't need to rub it in. His chest shakes as he chuckles.

“I’m serious. Tell me you want it-”

“Neteyam! Hey!”

The two of you break apart in an instant. You jump away from him as though struck by lightning. Instantly putting enough distance between you and the Na’vi that maybe, just maybe an onlooker might think that the embrace was friendly.

It’s Norm, having heard that the eldest Sully was looking for him he’d come eagerly.

The smile you plaster on is forced and honestly, Neteyam doesnt fair any better. He’s obviously flustered, just glad that his erection isn't tenting his tweng.

“Spider told me you and your dad are looking for me. I’m not intruding on uh anything, am I?” Norm looks between the two of you.

Your arms are folded tightly over your chest and Neteyam is rubbing at the back of his neck, strong jaw flexing as his teeth grind.

Oh yeah, Norm had definitely interrupted something.

Knows for sure as you scurry away. As Neteyam, always so level headed, has to string together words. Stumbling a little bit as he tries to remember the message that Jake had relayed.

It’s not any of his business, he thinks at the time. He sure didnt want to be the one to shine the light on whatever the hell was going on here. Turning a blind eye to the mysteries of Pandora is the only way to survive the harshest terrain known to man.

———

You dont know that though-

No, you’re spiraling more a little bit as you prepare yourself for bed. Brushing through your thick hair and staring out into space as your mind assaults you with all of the gnarly ‘What If’s’

Norm had seen and he had to know right? Oh god, what if he told Jake?

You balk. Lowering the brush as your eyes bulge out of your head.

What if he told Neytiri?

That's actually a super horrific thought. Like nightmarish. You have a lot of respect for the future Tsahik...

…And a very healthy does of fear. She didnt like humans and made it known. She tolerated them only for her husband's benefit. What if she found out that her eldest son, her golden boy, had fucked one?

You’re freak out is interrupted by static, by the beeping of your com receiver on your night stand.

“Y/N?” its Neteyams muffled voice through the device. You’d ignored it once. You should ignore it again…

“Yeah?” you wonder if he picks up on how shaky you sound through the receiver.

“Tomorrow night meet me at the East Gate. Like when we we’re kids” he’s not really asking. Not demanding either. You could ignore him again, but he has to try.

The line goes silent, quiet for minutes on end.

“Y/N?”

You’re so stupid. “What time?”

You can hear the grin he’s sporting as he replies “0100”

“Got it, over. Good night, Neteyam. Go to sleep”

———

The East Bay is on the other side of the large fortress-like building. It's not that it's forbidden, or anything. but it is deserted. It’s where the military personnel had inhabited, and since most if not all of them had gotten the hard boot off Pandora it was empty as a ghost town in these maze like halls.

When you we’re younger; you’d caught Spider sneaking Kiri and Lo’ak in through the rarely used entrance. You’d demanded the know how, if he didnt want you to rat on him for it. It was a rare occurrence, but the Sully children had all been snuck into Hell’s Gate this way over the years.

You type in the codes, disabling the alarm system in order to usher Neteyam into the pressurized, air lock. You’d toted one of the Avatar Exopacks along for him, they’re heavier then hell but he’d need it.

“Hi” you smile, suddenly shy as the tall Na’vi man stands before you.

That's what he was now. A man, not only in the eyes of his people but as a whole. Broad and muscular, strong. Verile. The next leader of his people. You know that he’s highly desired in his clan. Women fawn over him. Vie for his attention.

It doesnt feel real that he wants to give it to you.

You’re nothing special. Not tall and stunning like the Omaticaya women. Even by Earth’s standards you're short, curvy. Not particularly pretty. Insecurity gnaws at you, as it so often does.

“C’mere” Neteyam urges, boldly yanking you by your waist. Pulling you flush against his body. Grabby and insistent, he wants to feel your bare skin. All plush and soft, hes been dying to taste it since the last time.

Kicking himself over and over for not savoring every bit of your body that you gave to him. He won't make the same mistake again.

He’s not gonna lie, the concrete and metal of the walls inside of Hell’s Gate have always made him a little claustrophobic. But he can't do this outside-

His lips capture yours, demanding and needy from the jump. Big, over powering, he swallows your little chirp of surprise. Devours any and all breath from your lungs. Its messy and so good. You hadn't gotten to kiss him last time.

His mouth tastes amazing, his tongue rough in texture just like you remembered. It grates your lips as you suck on it-

“Hey, slow down a little bit” You giggle as Neteyam paws at your ass, lifting you off the ground until you squirm hard, making him release you “Not here, we can't do this here there’s cameras everywhere”

“I don't care” Neteyam pecks all over your face, trying to recapture your mouth as you avoid him “Let them watch, most of those pervs would like it”

And they would know that you’re his. The thought is beyond heady.

You gasp as his sharp canines ghost over the delicate skin of your neck, nibbling on your pulse point “Please- Neteyam”

You firmly push him away, hand on his chest and maybe if you hadn't cut him off cold turkey he would've given you space. Could've pulled away for a moment to let you say your piece. Instead the idea of letting you pull away even an inch is unbearable to him.

No. instead he tosses you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He hauls loads heavier then you every day, your protests mean little to him. With his free hand he scoops up the Avv Exo Tank,

“Where to, yawntutsyìp?”

Where too is an old conference room. Its as good as any, and Neteyam yanks a couple cushions off the old couch to act as a brace for your head as he lowers you to the floor, flat on your back.

You’re so pretty like this, he tells you of the fact.

With your hair a mess behind you, your face free of that damned mask. Grinning up at him as you rub your thighs together. He wishes he had that camera that his dad liked to take pictures on. He wants this moment of you framed, immortalized.

“I hate sky people clothes” He mutters as he tugs on the hem of your t-shirt. It hides you, hides all that skin he craves.

“You want me to take it off?” You offer eagerly, raising up enough to start peeling the piece of clothing off. You’re bare underneath, completely. Your breasts jiggle as they’re freed, nipples peaked in the cool air-conditioned air.

“Don’t ever put it on again” He demands, taking it from your hands and tossing it across the room. He’s dead serious, but by the way you're giggling you obviously think its a joke.

He can’t help it, he dives in face first. Rubbing against your soft breasts, obsessed with the way they feel. Heavy, pillowy. He drags his tongue across all of your bare skin. From your clavicle to your nipple. You always smell so pretty, but its got nothing on the way you taste. It explodes bright and savory on his tastebuds.

You let him explore, until your spit soaked and shaking. Your panties sticky as your hips search for any kind of friction. “I need you”

“You have me, my love. All of me” your eyes water at his words. At the sincerity. At how much you want them to be true.

You grab one of his hands and drag it down your chest. Past your soft, rounded belly and into your shorts. He grunts as you guide him to where you’re wet and pulsing. Rythmetically clenching around nothing.

He circles your clit, feather light. More of a tease then anything and you want to sob. You’d thought of nothing but this, touched yourself imagining him. “Tey-”

He smiles around a mouthful of nipple,tugging on with his teeth. “I missed you so much”

“Then be nice to me” you plead, trying to shove yourself down on his fingers.

“We’re being nice now? Were you nice to me when you ignored me?” he can't help it, hurt bleeds into his voice. It had been so fucking painful, knowing that you hadnt wanted to see him. To be with him.

“I’m sorry” you whine, grabbing his face, pulling it from your bosom. “I’m so sorry. I was so scared- I’m still scared but I need you”

He lets you cup his cheeks, lets you plant kisses all over him. The bridge of his nose, his eyelids, his cheekbones. You dote on him, gentle and caring and he gorges himself on your love.

“You cant ever do that again, okay?” He shivers as you kiss his ear, running your tongue along the hyper sensitive flesh “If you’re scared you come to me, not run from me. Do you understand?”

You nod, eager. “I promise, Neteyam”

It’s all he needs to hear, that you’re his. That you won't deprive him of your presence ever again. He doesn't know what he’ll do. He’s a little scared of the man he becomes when it comes to you, you’re not the only one frightened by the gravity of your feelings.

“You asked if I wanted you inside me again? Yes. So much. I never knew I could be that full” it’s like you know just what to say. You light him up from the inside. His fingers begin circling your sopping clit again, this time with intent.

It’s blurry, the fact that your lightheaded making it hard to think. To track what he’s doing to you because somehow Neteyam seems to be everywhere at once. His big body all encompassing as he takes you.

“No-no marks, baby” You try to remind him and his blazing eyes zero in on you in a glare “you know we cant…not where they can see”

You’re right, and he hates it. He’ll just have to mark you where only you can see. Where you can look at your self and be reminded that you belong to someone. That you belong to him.

He doesn't have the patience, cant stop his hands from shaking- the tear of your shorts and panties echos around the room as he removes any barriers between him and the heat at the apex of your thighs.

You cant help the thrill it sends down your spine. He’d…ripped your panties off. You thought shit like this only existed in bad Earth made Porn that you’d found on one of the labs computers.

“Sorry, sorry” his apology is far from sincere though and you can't help but giggle, patting his braids fondly.

The fingerfucking is rough, your wines and moans spilling from you as he hits spots inside of you that make you want to curl up. It’s too good. Too much-

You screech, back bowing as he bends to kiss you, loud and sloppy, right on your wet clit. His big head burrows between your thigs as he delves on your cunt, his long rough textured tongue lapping at the fat puffy lips. The texture difference has both of you groaning.

It’s heartbreakingly good, the kind of good that you’ll never be able to forget. That you’ll crave and need for the rest of your life. Addictive, as he dedicates himself to making you feel pleasure.

Neteyam eats pussy the same way he does everything else in his life, exceeding any expectations. His instincts sharp as he hones in on how to make you lose your mind.

He keeps telling you how good you taste, breaking away for heaving breaths before he reburries himself. The only sounds in the room are the beyond wet sloshing of his tongue lashing and the pathetic noises your making.

He’s eating you alive, you don’t know how you’re supposed to survive this.

His fingers, two and then three fuck in and out of you. Corkscrewing as he loosens your tightness up for him.

“O-ooh” you whine high and reedy as you feel your tummy tightening, the pressure building in a way that makes you feel like you cant breathe. You cant your hips, shoving them down at that perfect angle “Oh, sh-shhhhit. I’m gonna, I’m-”

He doubles down and you’re a goner.

The orgasm is devastating. Sofuckinggood you think you might see stars for a minute there. You can't even scream, you keep letting out these little cries that are more like wheezes. A desprate attempt to get some kind of air back in your lungs-

Which reminds you.

Even though you’re in a daze you wiggle away from him, he hisses at you about it but you swat the top of his head as you reach for the Exo Pack.

You shove the mask in his face, between your legs.

”Breathe, Neteyam” you demand him to gulp down the Pandoran air. Yeah, he could go longer in your environment than you in his but still. Death by giving head isn’t the way you’d like him to go out.

He takes long breaths and you try not to be embarrassed by how soaked his chin is.

When he pulls away his eyes are a little more focused “Thank you, sweet girl. Always thinking about me, huh?”

You nod, dropping the mask. Closer this time for easier access. His eyes quickly zero back in on your swollen pussy, on how wet he got you. On how pretty it looks. His mouth is watering all over again-

When you try to close your thighs, the burning of your cheeks getting to be too much he hisses again. It’s not a sound he often makes and it’s a revelation, he’s so sexy. Almost feral.

“Who said I’m done?”

You’re never going to be able to get over this man “I already came?...”

“Yes? So?” he rolls his eyes, lowering his head, nuzzling at the damp juncture of your inner thigh “You’re still so tight, here feel”

His fingers slip back in you and you mewl, baring down as he scissors the long digits.

“We have to get you loose enough to take me, I don’t want to hurt you” He explains it like you need convincing. Like he has to convince you to let him eat you out. You just re-spread your thighs, relaxing back onto the cool floor as you let him do as he pleases.

It takes two more orgasms that you scream and shake through until he deems that you’re ready. By the time that he begins to slide his cock into you you’re a blubbering, oversensitive mess. You’re crying rivers of tears as you cling to him.

“Hold my hand? Please ” You request and he smiles, kissing your tear streaked cheek as he interlaces his longer fingers with yours.

Humans and Na’vi can fuck, but we’rnt designed to. His dick is overwhelimgly big and will really injure you if the two of you aren't careful about this.

You both gasp sharply as his tip breaches you.

It hurts, it’s agonizing. It’s the kind of pleasure pain that you didnt even know could exist. Everytime you think you can adjust, he pushes in another inch. But oh, how you missed it. Being so full it feels like you’re going to burst. You’re pussy flutters as it fights to take him and you focus in on his face.

It’s all scrunched up in heavy concentration. His lips speared between his sharp teeth in a way that has them almost bleeding.

You can't have that. You tug him into a kiss, soothing the abused flesh with your tongue.

“I-I dont want to hurt you” He whimpers as his forehead rests against yours.

“It’s okay, you’re okay” You hum to him, grasping at his hand even tighter “I love what you do to me. I love how you feel”

When he bottoms out you think he must be in your ribs. Hes still, letting your body get used to him. Trying to be kind. You want to tell him that there’s no getting used to his size. That he could fuck you every day for the rest of your lives and he would still feel just as massive.

“Please” you wail instead “please”

The first gentle snap of his pelvis has you both reeling. Your thighs lock around his thin hips, urging him. You can take it. It only takes a little urging for him to lose himself. The harsh stretch of it has you shaking as your over sensitive pussy tightens. You’re coming again, less intense the the previous orgasms, thankfully.

Neteyam had been so focused on making you feel good that he’d neglected his hard, weeping cock. His balls are so full that he knows he’s not going to be able to draw this out.

You know you have to look stupid, mouth hanging open as you raggedly gasp for breath, letting out punched out sounds as Neteyam pounds into you. You cant look away from his face though.

It’s mesmerizing, all of it. The sounds he lets out. The way that his braids sway with the rhythm of his pleasure seeking body. His broad shoulders, bulging biceps and forearms- you are so fucked.

You’re so in love.

“Please Y/N” He wheezes as you squeeze around him, letting go of your hand so he can wrap both of his arms around your lower back “I can’t hold it. W-where should I?”

Oh. Oh, he’s the sweetest man. He always has been.

You peck his lips, not minding that he’s too lost in his own pleasure to really kiss you back

“Come inside me. Come inside me. Come inside me” it’s a heated chant, broken and breathy by the erratic rhythm of his hips and he buries his head in your neck, wailing in the skin there.

Just for a moment, lost in the haze of sex, you can tell he forgets his own strength. Thrusts into you so hard that you scream out in pain, the mushroom tip of his long cock batters your cervix relentlessly. Its a sharp, startling sensation that you’ve never known but you ride it out for him. Desperately trying to keep your whimpers of discomfort at bay.

When he comes, his whole body goes still and ram rod straight. He hugs you tightly to him. You wish you could see his face. Next time, hopefully.

He’s Neteyam, the mighty warrior. The dutiful son. The next clan leader but as he shakes and twitches and basks in the afterglow you can't help but want to baby him. But stroke his back softly, rubbing the residual tension out of his tired muscles.

He’s your big ol’ pussy cat, you’d always teased. He purrs like one every time you’re affectionate with him.

You can’t help but run your hands along his sensitive spine. Let the length of his tail run through the loop of your fingers. He grins and flicks it from side to side. He’d always thought your fascination with it was amusing.

“Are you okay?” he mutters, still hidden in your hair as he starts to come back to himself and you hum, moving up to pat his braids.

“Mmhmm” you’re maybe not as capable of making words as you though you were. He chuckles and hugs you. Holds you in his big arms in a way that makes you feel untouchable.

The two of you lie in that room for as long as you can, until he has to start heading back to Home Tree, it’s almost morning and his parents are early risers. They’ll look for him if hes not in his tent…

It's hard. Letting him go. Even though you know he’ll be back. You keep pulling him back in for kisses, holding onto his muscular arms until he laughs and peels you off of him.

“I’ll be back my love. I’ll always return for you”

You frown but agree, pushing him away to get re-dressed- “How am I supposed to go back like this! Neteyam I don't have any pants!”

He’d shredded your shorts and panties. Literal tatters of cloth are all that’s left.

Neteyam cracks up, almost keeling over. Thinking he’s oh so funny. It lightens the situation and makes letting him go- watching him disappear back in the forest a little easier.

You end up having to pull your fortunately oversized t-shirt down as far as it can go as you make a mad dash across the facility, back to your dorm. You fall asleep grinning, thinking about how the panties had been a necessary sacrifice.

———

Norms on late night watch, keeping a bored, admittedly not sharp enough eye on the security camera’s feeds. With the rainy season, came an influx of Slinths’. It made sense to have a lookout, and somehow he’d gotten saddled with an overnight shift.

He’d definitely fallen asleep for a few hours. Not that he’d tell anyone of that fact.

There is nothing that could prepare him for what he see’s on the screen, over in the desolate East Bay. First, he thinks that he’s hallucinating, his sleep bogged eyes playing tricks on him.

He rubs them hard with his knuckles, not believing the image that is large and clear on the security footage.

It’s Neteyam. Inside the facility which almost never happened. And he’s bending down, his lips locked with Y/N’s . Kissing her hard and long before she punch’s in the code, and opens the air locked door to let him back out into the shadowy eclipse.

Norm’s learned a lot living on this strange moon- Pandora was mysterious. Full of things his brilliant mind would never understand. So he does what he does’ most of the time.

Minds his own business.

So I’ve had this idea cooking for months, but didn’t have the bandwidth to get it written down. The ideas wouldn’t translate to page and I still kind of feel like they didn’t butttttt whatever. This is pure self indulgence. I am so much more in love with Neteyam now. He is SUCH a good guy. Ugh.

Also, please remember that my requests are OPEN! Send in all that good shit. Come blue alien brain rot with me!

[farfromstrange]

Do No Harm

CHAPTER ONE: Night Shift

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Summary: Matt has to accompany Foggy to the ER in the middle of the night because he dislocated his shoulder. In need for some peace and quiet, Matt wanders the halls of Metro General and instead finds you crying in one of the abandoned hallways. A conversation ensues.

Warnings for this chapter: Slight angst, mention of injury.

Word Count: 4.3k

A/n: My brain gets the strangest ideas for fics and then I have to write them or else I will go crazy. This is how this baby was born. Keep in mind, I’m not a doctor. I simply watch a lot of medical dramas and I like to research medical terms for the fun of it. Heed the warnings for the entire series (see Series Masterlist) but also chapter-specific warnings that apply, as seen above. I hope you enjoy!

Read Chapter 1: Night Shift here on AO3

Ever since he can remember, Matt has hated hospitals. The antiseptic scent that lingers in the air, the sterile white walls that seem to close in around him—it all brings back memories of days spent in agony, tied to an uncomfortable bed, and seeing nothing but an endless void of black.

He can only tune out so much. The stench, the sirens, and the overlapping voices in an emergency room—they could easily kill him. 

Hospitals remind him of what he lost. He lost his vision, he lost his father and in the process, he lost his innocence. Matt lost everything, and even though he is well aware that it isn’t the hospital’s fault that he decided to save a man or that his father made a deal with the devil and got himself killed, he still hates the same empty walls that made him feel so small to begin with.

Matt doesn’t want to be a liability, he doesn’t want to be the reason the people he loves get hurt, and yet it continues to happen time and time again.

Maybe he’s cursed. It’s the only explanation for how things are going for him now. Maybe God has a grudge and finally decided to exercise his right to make his life a living hell. There is an infinite number of possibilities, but none of them make sense. 

He’s the anti-hero of his own story and that of everyone else who has ever dared to let him into their lives. He’s his own worst enemy, his personal saboteur. His unwavering pride has a tendency to get in the way of his happiness, which often leads to more bad than good, but admitting that would leave him vulnerable and exposed—and he can’t let himself get hurt again. 

It’s better to push the people he loves away before he can hurt them and force them to walk out on him the same way everyone else in his life has walked out on him ever since he can remember. At least in his twisted mind, that’s true. 

He never thought he would find himself in Metro General again, not since Claire came into his life. Claire, the caring nurse who saved him when he was on death’s door and continued doing so until she realized that falling for the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen comes with its own set of risks. 

Foggy dislocated his shoulder. 

It’s almost laughable. Out of everyone, he chose Matt to come to the hospital with him. Not Karen, Matt. He had the choice between the most empathetic person either of them have ever met, and Matt, someone so far out of touch with his own feelings, living in denial has become the standard for him. Foggy chose the latter, for whatever reason he doesn’t even seem to know himself. It just felt like the most natural thing to do, he told Matt when he asked his best friend, “Why me?”

He should feel honored that he trusts him that much, but being trapped in the sterile four walls of the hospital he only connects bad memories to while Foggy is stuck in the queue for an X-ray feels more like torture than an honorable act. 

The loud, demanding voices of the nurses, the painful groans and soft cries coming from the patients in the waiting area of the emergency room a few doors down, and the obnoxious beeping of the machines lining the walls in every room are like a swarm of bees in Matt’s inner ear. No matter how hard he tries, he can’t get them out. He’s allergic to them.

The room smells of disinfectant, blood, and other bodily fluids. He tries to focus on his cologne and the scentless laundry detergent he has grown so accustomed to over the years, but the balm only lasts for a few seconds before the wound reopens and his senses are flooded.

Matt keeps rhythmically tapping his fingers on his thigh. How much longer he can sit on this uncomfortable plastic chair in front of the radiology area and wait for Foggy to return, he doesn’t know. It won’t be long now until he loses his mind. He is about to drown in his own misery.

He feels the desperate urge to land his fist in the wall next to him. He wants to scream, cry, maybe even both—this night is not going well. He hasn’t had a good night in weeks. Tonight though, he’s stuck in the hospital rather than outside, doing something against the injustice he is forced to listen to every day.

The hits he took the previous night were pretty severe, and his ribs still hurt. The numb ache that tears through him whenever he moves is a temporary relief from the pain induced by the noise around him. Whatever bits of sanity he tries holding onto eventually slip through his fingers. 

Eventually, he can’t take it anymore. He gets up, his head tilting toward Foggy’s elevated heartbeat. He’s still in line. Fifth, probably.

Matt taps his cane against the floor, making his way down the hallway. He’s not quite sure where he’s going or where he will land, he just knows that he needs to get out of there as fast as possible.

Rounding the hundredth corner of the evening, the sound of clattering metal trays and medical supplies disappears behind layers of drywall and automatic doors. Matt takes a moment, and he realizes that right here—right where he is now—he can finally breathe again.

The sound travels more easily. The air wafting through the vents and over the cotton sheets on a row of empty beds is the only sound that meets his ears. They’re lined against one side of the wall. The rooms are empty, the doors locked. It seems as if in a moment of desperation, he found his way to one of the abandoned parts of the hospital. 

A lack of funding caused Metro General to cut their losses. It certainly wasn’t an easy decision, but with capitalism on the rise, public hospitals are barely holding on.

Even though the truth is depressing, Matt still can’t believe his luck when he realizes how quiet it is. That may be a selfish thought, but he can't help it. The world is always so loud and uncomfortable. Finding someplace quiet after torturing himself in the waiting room for hours feels like heaven on earth on such a busy night.

The fog dulling his senses finally dissipates. He takes a deep breath. The air is cleaner here. No disinfectant, only the faint scent of plastic and dust; he wouldn't have thought it possible that he would ever consider that combination a blessing.

That’s when he hears it—a slightly elevated heartbeat followed by a series of muffled sobs. He got so caught up in the fact that he finally found what he was looking for amidst the chaos that he forgot to fan out his hearing.

Despite what he originally believed, he isn’t alone.

The air smells of the salty essence of human tears. Matt stops dead in his tracks, not sure whether to continue his journey or to turn around and return to the uncomfortable plastic chair in front of the radiology department.

“This nervous breakdown space is occupied,” your soft voice bounces off the high walls. It’s thick with exhaustion. Pain. Loss. He almost recoils at the all-too-familiar feeling it elicits in him.

Matt keeps his cane hugged tight to his chest, his knuckles whitening with how hard he is gripping the base. “Oh, I...I’m sorry,” he says, careful to keep his voice light. “I didn’t catch you there.”

You’re essentially a stranger to him. A troubled one, at that. You must have your share of problems or you wouldn’t be here. You wouldn’t be crying your eyes out. He doesn’t want to intrude, but he also can’t turn around. Not now, not anymore. You’ve already noticed him.

You sniffle, your hands wiping against the soft skin of your reddened cheeks. For a moment, your heartbeat picks up in speed before returning to its normal rhythm. “It’s alright,” you assure him.

Matt picks up on the faintest hint of disinfectant and the scent of antibacterial soap on you now, maybe a little blood, and definitely antiseptic laundry detergent—you’re wearing medical scrubs.

Your shampoo smells of vanilla and some herbal element he can’t quite identify just yet. Your perfume isn’t expensive, just enough to last through a long shift and filter the sweat that is seeping out of your pores. It’s not unpleasant. You smell like someone who’s been working hard and far past your limits, too.

“Do you need something?” you ask him. 

He pauses for a moment, rethinking his answer. His lips purse. He’s not sure how to answer that without completely giving himself away.

Your eyebrows raise slightly.

“Oh, just…some peace and quiet,” Matt says, finally finding his voice again. It sounds a bit more nervous than he would like to admit.

The chuckle you exhale is one of surprise and possibly even a bit of genuine amusement. “Yeah,” you sniffle, “I know that feeling.”

“Well, I’ll, uh, leave you to it. Sorry again.”

“No. Don’t.”

Matt stops in his tracks when the words pass your lips. 

You pat the space beside you. Your perfume becomes a little clearer. It’s so natural, so… you. He could get high off of it. Or maybe it’s just the sleep deprivation catching up to him. 

“This is the only quiet corner in this hospital,” you tell him. “Trust me. Underfunding has its perks for introverts. Rest in peace to about thirty internal medicine beds, but lucky me.”

Your chuckle echoes bitterly off the walls. You use humor to cope, apparently, but you’ve run out of strength to pretend.

His cane begins to gently pave the way as he makes his way forward. “Do you mind?” Matt nods toward the bed you’re sitting on. 

You pat the mattress again with a shake of your head. “Not at all.”

Gentle seems to be the one word that is consistent with everything you do. He can’t get this picture he has painted of you based on the sound of your voice out of his head. Maybe you’re an angel and he has officially gone insane, or maybe there are just a lot more good people left in this world than he originally thought. 

Matt folds his cane and skillfully sits down on the edge of the mattress. You smell even better up close. Your heartbeat reminds him of a beautiful symphony, no longer as erratic as when he first picked up on your presence. 

“I’m Matthew, by the way,” he says.

He can hear a sudden uptick in your heartbeat. He may have just imagined it. You suck in a sharp breath, and he’s sure he didn’t imagine that, but then you lift your hand to take his.

“Olivia,” you say. 

Matt listens closely. You have no reason to lie about your name. Your heartbeat may be faster, but it isn’t a lie. You just seem a lot more nervous and unsure than before. It doesn’t quite make sense why you would be unsure about your own name.

“Nice to meet you, Olivia.” His lips curl into a soft smile.

You smile back, he can hear it, but it lacks an essence of truth. You’re trying hard to seem like you’re okay. It’s not your fault that his senses are sensitive to all changes in the human body, even in that of a stranger he just met.

You’ve been crying, so of course, you wouldn’t be alright. The question is, why? 

“I take it you’re not part of the staff,” you say into the silence.  

“No.” Matt chuckles. “I, uh, have a friend with a dislocated shoulder,” he says.

“Ah! Let me guess, his doctor in the ER reduced the dislocation but insisted on doing an X-ray just in case, so now you have to wait because radiology has a hold-up longer than the Nile?”

A laugh rumbles through his chest. “Yeah, that… that’s pretty accurate.”

“It’s always like this,” you say. “A dislocated shoulder doesn’t have priority. We have bigger fish to fry.”

“You work here?” he dares to ask. 

You pull at the bottom of your scrub top. “Guilty as charged. Trauma surgery. I’ve been an attending here for a little over two years now.”

“Oh, wow! That’s…that’s incredible.”

Matt has encountered his fair share of doctors in the past, but no one has ever been quite like you. You’re unique. Mysterious. An enigma. You have piqued his curiosity, to say the least, and your profession only adds to the pile of interesting things he can ponder about.

You smile at him again, but it’s still not a genuine one. “Thanks,” you drag the last syllable out, the air deflating your lungs.

He swallows. “Or it isn’t. I didn’t mean to–”

“No, that’s not… some days just aren’t that rewarding,” you say. “That’s all.”

“And today has been one of those days?” Matt asks.

“Yeah, something like that.”

Your eyes roam over him once again.

He reaches for his hair, running his hand through it. He ruffles the brown strands until they’re covering his left temple. Matt’s not sure if you saw; there is a high chance that you did, but he can't anticipate your behavior. Not yet. 

You let out a longer breath. “Not a fan of hospitals, I take it?” you ask.

He shakes his head. “It gets… loud,” he says. 

“Sensitivity to sound.” You nod. “Noted.”

He hears the fabric of your scrubs brushing against your skin and the cotton sheets on the bed. You cross your legs, opening yourself up to him just slightly, and he wonders if you really are comfortable around him or if you’re just being kind. 

“Probably to smell as well? Feeling? Taste?” There is a soft smile laced in your voice. This time, it’s real. 

Matt chuckles. You hit the nail right on the head. You’re simply not aware of how sensitive he is to these things. “Pretty sensitive, yeah,” he says. 

That about sums it up. You nod, but you don’t push him any further. 

“Well,” you say, “The ER is pretty disgusting. And loud. And to be forced to wait in front of radiology is probably a scenario they offer as a torture device in one of the seven circles of hell.”

He can’t help himself, “It’s nine, actually.”

“Sorry?”

“Nine circles,” Matt clarifies, his lips twitching in a faint grin. “Dante’s Inferno. A good Catholic boy’s guilty pleasure.”

You let out a genuine laugh this time, and it warms his senses. It’s a rare sound in a place filled with so much pain. He can almost hear the weight from your shoulders hit the floor. The tension in the air seems to ease, if only for a moment. You allow to let yourself go. 

Your grin turns into a smirk. “Catholic, huh?” you retort. 

“Since the day I was born,” he says. “Are you religious?”

That seems to steal your breath away. You have no words. For a full minute, silence settles in between the two of you. It’s almost uncomfortable, and Matt fears he must have crossed a line. He just doesn’t know how to apologize for something he is truly curious about. 

The topic of God and religion seems to hit a nerve when it’s not used in a humorous context. There are many reasons why that could be. He spends every day battling his own religious trauma and the demons that he feels he’s harboring deep inside, but he still holds on tight to his faith. If he doesn’t have an excuse—if he doesn’t have anything to hold onto other than what broken self-respect he has left—where would he be?

You finally clear your throat after what feels like an eternity. “No,” it’s a simple answer. “I don’t believe that there is a God.”

Your mouth stays open. You want to say something else, but your lips close within seconds after the thought has passed by you, and you swallow it. He wonders what he could have learned about you if you had allowed yourself to say what you were truly thinking when the words first left your mouth. You’re holding back, and it is audible. It might even be visible. Your cheeks are running hot. 

Matt nods. He doesn’t question you. Your beliefs are yours. Most of the time, he doesn’t even believe that there is a God himself. 

“It’s hard to keep the faith in this world, especially when you work so hard every day trying to save people’s lives. When you are forced to see what the system does to those who can’t defend themselves over and over again, but you can’t do anything about it. Or when you see what people do to each other. I mean, the cruelty of human beings is unmatched, and it makes you wonder if God is just a sadist, or if maybe he isn’t even real because a gracious God wouldn’t let innocent children die,” you cut yourself off in an instant, and he tilts his head toward you in surprise. 

Your breath shudders. “I… I’ve seen too much bad to believe that there is an all-merciful God,” you say. “So I simply don’t.”

You try to meet his eyes, but all you see is your reflection in the red of his rounded glasses. Your heart breaks a little, he can hear it. Your shoulders slump. You’re defeated.

He isn’t sure how to react to that. How to help. How to be a decent human being. Matt just doesn’t have the answers you need, and it makes him question his own faith for a minute. Not that he has ever not questioned it; his relationship with God is as complicated as it gets.

You catch yourself after a moment of staring into the void of his glasses. “But… that’s my opinion. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“I’m not offended,” Matt says.

You were smiling, and now you’re not anymore. He doesn’t like that. He liked it more when you were more open with him. Your legs have moved back to your chest, your arms clinging to them. You’ve retreated. 

“Sorry,” you whisper. The edge in your voice breaks his heart. 

He shakes his head. “Don’t apologize. I get it. Injustice…it’s a parasite. I’ve encountered my fair share of good people who deserved better than what they got. You try and you fail over and over again because the world isn't fair. I’d be the last person to judge you for not sharing my beliefs.” He breaks off in a chuckle. “I'm not that kind of guy.”

Your eyebrows shoot up to your hairline. “What is that you do again?” You didn’t ask that question before.

“I’m a lawyer,” he states. “Defense attorney.”

“Wow,” you let out a soft puff of air, “And you chose to go to Metro General instead of jumping on the big money train to the Upper East Side?” 

Although your tone is joking, Matt can tell that there is an ounce of truth in your words.  

He hides his laugh behind a cough. He’s not sure if he’s surprised or if he actually finds that assumption hilarious. Maybe a bit of both.

“Oh, no.” He shakes his head. “I have never even been in the same station as the big money train.”

“Oh?”

“No. We, my partner and I, do pro-bono work. We don't get paid for our services. Well, other than baked goods and overdue bills in the mail, of course.”

You chuckle. “That’s a relief. Not so much for your bank account, but ethically.”

“Yeah.”

“Sorry for assuming. That was prejudiced of me,” you say. “I’m not trying to judge you. I’m sorry. Rich or not, it’s none of my business.”

Matt shrugs. “It's okay. Lawyers and doctors are the two professions so many think make millions of Dollars a year, and while that may be the case for a few, a lot of us just… don’t,” he says.

“Amen! If I had a drink, I’d toast to that.”

“Yeah, well, an intoxicated doctor would not fare well in the legal sense.”

“You think that would end my career?”

“I can’t even give you good legal advice other than, don’t.”

Your giggle turns into a laugh. “Thank you for the advice, counselor.”

He joins in. “Anytime.” 

For a moment, only the two of you exist. Matt adjusts his position, but he doesn’t take his bruised ribs into account. His wince is barely audible, yet you notice it in an instant. And when his hair slips, you can see the gash on his forehead. The one he tried to stitch up himself but probably did an awful job at concealing. 

Your eyes narrow in concern. “What happened to you?” your voice barely breeches the sound barrier. 

“Oh, nothing,” he tries to shrug it off. “Just an accident.”

“An accident?”

“I am blind, you know. I tripped, hit my head. It happens.”

“Hm.” Much to his surprise, you don’t press him further. Instead, you gently reach out to brush the sweaty strand of hair from his face that he used to cover up the aftermath of his latest endeavor. 

Now that he thinks about it, his ribs really do hurt. He’s sure nothing is broken, but they are severely bruised. Even he can feel the blood pooling under the skin. 

You bite your lip, not wanting to pry. The urge is obvious to him, but only to him. You’re good at your job. You focus on the task at hand. That is probably why you became a doctor in the first place; to help people, not to pry. 

But Matt Murdock doesn’t need help. 

“It’s fine,” he assures you. 

You nod. “I believe you.”

You don’t. You’re lying. He appreciates the effort though. You try your best at making him feel comfortable and welcome. Asking questions would only drive him away; you wouldn’t be able to satiate your pathological need to help. It’s who you are.

“Whoever patched this up did a terrible job,” you say, “and I don’t want to know who did it because if you tell me it was you, I will lose my mind, so, I choose to believe you for the sake of my own sanity.”

His lips part in a soft laugh. “Yeah, you don't wanna know,” he says.

“Can I fix it?"

He opens his mouth to decline, “You don’t have to, I–”

“Please.” 

There is no arguing with you, it seems.

Your footsteps echo in the empty hallway. One of the drawers in the cart across from the bed slides open at your touch. Matt can hear the distinct crinkle of packaging and the clanking of metal. When you return to his side, your steps are a little heavier. 

“I’m going to clean the wound and then apply a butterfly bandage to help the skin grow back together,” you explain. “The cut isn't that deep, but you must’ve hit your head pretty hard when you fell. I can’t force you to get a head CT, so… If you experience any nausea or neurological deficits in the next few days, you should come back to run some tests. But—and that is not my expert medical opinion because I don’t have the tests to back it up—I think it should be fine to heal on its own.”

“Any other advice, Doc?” he jokes. 

“Well, I can’t give the same good news about your bruised ribs.” You only have to place your hand on his side and his lips come to press tightly together. “I’m guessing third and fourth,” you say. “If one of them is fractured, it makes you run at risk for internal bleeding, but to see the extent of your injuries, we’d have to get an MRI. That is not my call to make. I can’t force you to get your battle scars checked out, I can just advise you to think about it. Really think about it.”

Matt sighs. His laughter has long died. “I know.”

He doesn’t want to repeat himself. He’s fine. He has to pretend that he’s fine because he doesn’t have time for doctors or questions. Neither you nor the law can protect him from the damage that the truth would do. 

You’re disappointed, but you swallow your pride. With delicate precision, you start cleaning the wound on his forehead, the cotton swab dabbing at the dried blood. He winces at the sting of antiseptic, a subtle twitch in response to the pain.

“Sorry,” you murmur.

Matt manages a half-smile. “It’s alright. I’ve had worse.”

That doesn’t make you feel better, but you accept it. You’ve learned to respect your patients’ wishes, even if that means swallowing a lie. 

As you work, your fingers graze over his skin with a careful tenderness. It’s a stark contrast to the harshness of the world he navigates outside—a double-edged sword. If he doesn’t go out there, more people die or get hurt. He would sustain the same injuries over and over again and almost die rather than pretend that evil isn’t lurking right outside his window every night. And there is a bigger storm brewing in the distance, one he isn’t fully prepared for. 

Yet.

You finish cleaning the wound and proceed to carefully apply a fresh bandage. Matt can feel the cool adhesive against his skin. Your touch is soothing, almost comforting, and he allows himself to relax.

“There,” you announce softly. “All patched up.”

Matt lifts his hand to touch the bandage, a habit he developed over the years to reassure himself that someone cared enough to tend to his wounds. “Thank you,” he answers. 

“No biggie.” You shrug with a tiny smile, and that makes him smile, too. It shows him that while you are displeased with his lack of respect for himself and his health, you aren’t mad at him. You just care.

The shrill beeping of your pager tears a headache through his skull.

You curse under your breath. “I’m so sorry,” you say as you skim over the text that has been sent to you. “The, uh—the ER needs me.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he quickly responds. 

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Go. Save a life!”

You’re reluctant at first, but then your lips curl into a broader, more genuine smile, and in the heat of the moment, you grab his hand. “It was nice meeting you, Matthew,” you say. “Take care of yourself.” 

Your footsteps retreat and your heartbeat gets fainter as you walk down the hallway. He’s speechless. He doesn’t even remember how to say goodbye. 

“Oh, and do me a favor?” You stop momentarily just to ask him, “Get those ribs checked out?”

His mouth opens and closes like that of a fish on dry land. “Sure,” he says. 

“Thank you,” these are your last words to him before you take off running. 

Both of you know though that once he is out of Metro General and on his way home, he won’t come back. Not for himself, at least. And it is something you have to accept as much as he has to accept the fact that you are long gone, off to save a life in the very four walls that seemed so scary to him all alone only fifteen minutes ago.

Tag List: @shiorimakibawrites @allllium @siampie @auroraslibrary @roseallisonparker @abucketofweird @thatonegamefish @capylore @kniselle @sumo-b98 @peachstarliight @littlehappyperson @danzer8705

[the-darklings]

──𝐭𝐨𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐢 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐞 [𝐗𝐈.]

summary: "We begin... with a spin."

pairing: dream of the endless x f!reader

wc: 16.2k+

warnings: gonna break your heart one last time, Dream is still Dream (reluctantly affectionate)

notes: all good things come to an end : )

ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ: Rule the World (Odyssey Version) by Take That

1:32 ───|────── 4:55

part one | series masterlist | ao3 |

PART ELEVEN: BEYOND.

“Who are you?” 

“I am Destiny of the Endless.”

“And who am I?”

“You are the one who wanders. You will do so until the universe ceases.”

“Why?”

“Because you have been cursed to do so. Because you chose no shackles, no roots. You wished, instead, to roam free. And now you shall.”

“Why?”

“Because all is as it is meant to be, Wanderer.”

“Why?”

“Because you wished to break your destiny. And so you did.”

.

“I knew a lad called Jack Constantine once.”

Book in hand, you step around Hob, licking the dryness from your lips. Copper lingers on your tongue. “Same family.”

He perks up at your subdued comment, arms unfolding from where they rested over his chest.

“Nah, really?” He mulls it over for a moment. “Wait, that actually makes a lot of sense. He was a bit of a twat.”

Johanna sniffs. “Piss off.”

Late evening sun streams through the blinds, bathing the dark wood office in syrupy, golden-brown light. Books and notes lay scattered everywhere you look, each inch utilised fully. Johanna leans her hands on the table, squinting at the grimoire laid open. She’s been chewing on her lip for the last five minutes. That doesn’t bode well. 

“No can do,” Hob replies, hitching his shoulders with a proud smile. “I’m here on strict business.”

Dropping the grimoire Johanna requested on the table, you shoot them both a look, “Are you two done?” Your attention swivels towards the necromancer despite your trembling hands, finding her delicate features pinched. “Can you find Jed Walker?”

She huffs, her brows folding inwards. “You’re asking me to find a needle in a haystack of seven billion, give or take. I’m not a bloody witch. I don’t just cook up locator spells. I deal with demons and the dead.”

Bracing your hand on the table to mirror her, you soften your voice, “I understand what I’m asking for.”

“I’ll need time to figure this out,” she admits tightly. 

Private displeasure colours Johanna’s voice, and you nod in defeat. It’s hard to admit any shortcoming, much less one rooted in one’s power. While Johanna may be more powerful than most mortals can comprehend, it’s not power without gaps. She’s still so young. But, as with all Constantines you’ve known, there now sparks that fiery, stubborn drive, seemingly blazing from within. This is a challenge and one she’s set to overcome. 

“What about the other?” she poses abruptly, turning several pages in the grimoire. Her index finger trails over the yellowed pages, glued to another spell. “Do you have anything of theirs? You said this one has magical protection?”

“It’s conjecture,” you clarify. “But he’s been able to skirt me for over a century, so I’m left with one conclusion.”

Hob whistles under his breath. “A century? Bloody hell, you must be eager to find him.”

Memories flutter to life, birds caught in flight. A tall man with blonde hair, a dangerous smirk, and your blurred reflection dancing across his shaded glasses. Nothing more than a twisted memory that’s all fangs and blood. To file this want under ‘eager’ would be insulting. This specific longing comes with both elation and dread. Horror at what you might discover. This ignorance is no more than a flimsy illusion. You’ve spent the last century following Corinthian’s every crime, experiencing it as if he executed them on you instead. 

“I can’t promise this will work,” Johanna continues, oblivious to your internal struggle. Your attention snags on Hob, who is watching you with deep creases denting his forehead. There’s old, shrewd awareness in how he examines your rumpled appearance. “At best, I might be able to cloak you. Again, locator spells are not my speciality. At all.”

You clear your mind, pushing away from the wooden fixture. “ What if I gave up an object? It’s old, full of history. Would I be able to form a tether?

You’ve seen such spells performed—you know they’re possible and incredibly advantageous when done right. 

Johanna glares down at the grimoire for a beat, silent. Her chin lifts suddenly, her narrow-eyed stare harsh and biting. There’s digging intensity to how she inspects your appearance from head to toe, and you bristle at the probing check. 

“You look like shit,” she says bluntly. “I don’t think you should be doing any tethering to anything.”

Your teeth gnash. “Can it be done, Constantine?”

Tension barbs through the room. Hob sighs, making you even more defensive because you can instinctively tell it’s about to become two against one. “We’re not daft, you know,” he says quietly. “It’s clear you’re unwell.” 

Your eyes flutter shut. Forcing your jaw to relax, you mull over the most palatable way you can deliver this information to them. It’s clear from their wonderfully human determination that they’re not going to let this drop until they have more context. 

“Fine.” Filling your lungs with oxygen, you hold your breath, gathering yourself. How difficult it is to draw oxygen should probably concern you. “Remember how I told you I’ve been experimenting? Well, I’ve exercised a degree of control over the curse. The travelling part, at least. I can force it to take me places I want, but it… costs me. Physically.”

Johanna folds her arms over her chest, humming in consideration. “Cost, eh? How steep?”

These damn Constantines. 

The setting sun warms your cool cheek, and some invisible restraint in you loosens your invisible cast dropping. “Internal injuries. Bleeding, tissue tears, organ failure, haemorrhaging. It heals, but slowly. Excruciatingly so. If I abuse controlled travel too often, I can pass out. Slip into a temporary coma until internal damage heals. Vomiting, mobility issues, dizziness, hallucinations—take your pick.”

You’re avoiding direct eye contact, but utter silence encompasses the office when your words sink in. 

Hob gathers himself first. “Jesus Christ.”

Shrugging, you say, “It’s fine. I’m getting better at controlling it.”

“Which part of that is fine?” Hob’s voice is barbed with horror. “None of that is fine.”

You wish neither of them were looking at you like this. Rattled, aghast, alight with shades of sadness. It's so much easier to handle this when no one is standing there reminding you of the ugly aspects of this curse.

“Can it be done?” you bite out. 

Johanna wipes emotion from her face, stretching out her hand, palm up. “Show me this item.” 

Without a preamble, you hand her the roughened wooden figurine. Your stomach roils at the sight. Desperately your fingers clench and unclench in the folds of your coat, blunt nails biting into your palms. The urge to snatch back the figurine is bone-breaking. 

Johanna rolls the item in her hand, scanning it with eyes that see far beyond its material form. She’s digging deeper into what history—power—the object contains. “It might work,” she muses pensively. “I’ll cloak you, but the spell will have a time limit. The further away you are from me, the shorter the timer will be. Whoever it is won’t see you coming, but I can’t promise you the exact location.”

The grim determination bubbling in your gut answers: “Just get me as close as you can.”

.

Swirls of colours and shapes; loud, jarring noises, spinning, spinning, nails raking through the skin—

“Make it stop, make it stop—”

It doesn’t stop. There’s only colour—sound—sound—breaking—madness. And it doesn’t stop for a very long time.

.

A thousand reflections stare back at you. 

“Coward.”

“Traitor.”

“Murderer.”

“I’m not,” you gasp. “I’m not.”

Do it, do it, do it—

A rat scurries past your arm, disappearing into the hoary mist, and you flinch. 

No matter how loudly you plead for forgiveness, for relief, there’s only endless despair and glass cutting into your palms. 

.

Flower fields. Sunshine. Peace. 

A tall, pale, looming man with twin stars for eyes stands over you. 

“What does the Lord of Dreams dream about?”

No reply.

But for the first time since you’ve woken up as you: hope. 

A beautiful dream. 

.

“Who did you say you were again?”

Mighty, leathery wings block out whatever light there once was, the newcomer’s pale hair shining like a halo around their fair face. 

“I am an angel, here to save you,” a benign, soothing voice coos, followed by fingers tracing over your bloodied jawline. “If only you help me.”

“By doing what?” you slur, blood and sweat trickling down your split brow. “By spying on the Endless? On Dream?”

“Do not fear. I alone can protect you. Your purpose is to merely… observe.”

Demons hiss and growl around you, and you flex your newly healed jaw. They broke it four times in succession. So much for talking back. Scorched dirt beneath your feet stains with your congealing blood, and you chuckle. The croaking sound grows in volume until your throat bleeds. 

It’s answer enough. 

Your bones quiver under the sheer power of Morningstar’s displeasure. “Take this one away. Make sure there’s nothing left.”

The demons make good on that order. 

.

Johanna pierces the world map with a letter opener, every inch cutting in with deliberate slowness. Candles flicker, settling after the spell, and you taste the magick at the back of your throat. 

“Georgia, U-S of A,” the necromancer announces, loosening a breath.

“Great,” Hob chirps, his arm brushing against yours. “That’s just brilliant. It’s across the bloody ocean, that is.”

Johnna shoots him a venomous look. “Oh, sorry. Were you hoping for a nice trip down Brighton?”

Hob stares at her blankly in the shadowed office. He turns your way slowly as if mutely asking do you believe her?

You do. You’ve dealt with enough Constantines in your lifetime to ensure their sarcastic, surly nature is no longer a shock. 

“You’re a highly unpleasant woman,” Hob concludes, though no real malice lingers in his tone or bearing. 

“Thank you, Constantine,” you cut in before they can break into another bickering session. “There’s one more thing.”

The brunette rolls her eyes. “Is there now?”

“Magdalene’s Grimoire,” you begin deliberately. Johanna freezes. “I want you to locate it and retrieve it for me.”

Your companions speak simultaneously:

“Why?”

“You believe it has something to do with your curse, don’t you?” 

Ignoring Hob’s incredulous outcry, you nod towards Johanna. Pain twinges suddenly in your core, and your breaths slow until you get a grip on yourself. But it’s slow. Numbing pain laps at your senses for a debilitating minute until it clears once more. The curse wants to drag you in a thousand directions, but you don’t permit it. 

You right yourself again, swallowing over your dry tongue. Your temples throb insistently. 

“I think it’s old—older than people assume and has spells that no mortal should have access to.” You lean towards the map, examining the range letter opener has offered. You’ve been to Georgia several times previously, but long ago. “Roderick Burgess might have gotten lucky, but the mere fact there’s a spell there that can help capture an Endless… I find that curious. Unlike what your records indicate, he was not the first Magus, but he was the last. This means the grimoire has to be with his family—likely his son—or someone relating to them. I’ll pay you.”

Somehow. 

“Are you joking?” Johanna scoffs immediately. “One of the most powerful grimoires known to humanity? I’ll find it for free. Imagine what I could learn from it.”

Your stare glides to her unhurriedly, fixing on her fair complexion. She visibly falters at whatever she spies in your cool regard. “Within reason… and for the good of humanity. Scout's honour.”

Hob squints at her. “You’re not even American.”

“Shut… up,” she mutters, shooting him another nasty look. 

You tug your coat free when it catches on a chair, slotting your hands in your pockets. “Thank you, both of you. Is the spell active?”

“Yes, but it won’t hold long at this distance,” Johanna warns. 

Your attention latches on the wooden figurine on her desk. It’s wrong—it feels so wrong to have it out of your grasp, to feel nothing more than Dream’s pebble warming your hand. You try not to think about him now or your last conversation together. Instead, you focus on the thread woven around your heart, tugging you away and over the ocean. 

“I won’t be back for at least two weeks, but see what you can discover in that time,” you tell them. 

Hob balances on his heels, presenting Johanna with a charming grin. “Well, I guess I ought to help you.”

The sorceress scowls. “I don’t need your help.”

“Everyone needs help,” Hob counters.

Levelling them with a fond look, you wordlessly head towards the door while they verbally spar. Your hand briefly braces your chest, feeling the unsteady thud beneath your palm. You’ve been jumping too often, too far, and too rapidly for your body to recover. But just a bit more. Then you can rest. 

You’re almost at the end of a darkened hallway before an urgent voice sounds behind you, accompanied by brisk strides in your direction. 

“Wait, wait…”

You’re not even slightly surprised to hear Hob behind you or feel his fingers wrap around your bicep. Street light filtering through the window paints over his taut features, creating a pronounced tale of two sides. Light and dark. Young and older than anyone can comprehend. Quite fitting for both of you. 

“Take me with you,” Hob says, imploring edge laced beneath his lighthearted manner. It pinches your heart. “You know what they say: two immortals are better than one, eh?”

If things were less dangerous, less volatile, if it were anyone but Corinthian, you would take him up on his offer. You would love nothing more—two immortals going on an adventure. Hob has known the same horrors, similar hardships, countless failures and highs. Together you’re as effortless as breathing, as familiar as old friends meeting after years apart. You’ve felt that kinship with him from the first moment you locked eyes in that overcrowded pub, sitting there soaked and miserable. 

But this is the Corinthian. Even if Hob is the one human with nothing to fear from the nightmare, this goes much deeper. Soul deep. Perhaps deeper still. This conflict is between you, Corinthian, and Dream. It’s always been a tale of three parts, interwoven into a single, unbreakable thread. 

“Hob Gadling, you are a gem,” you say softly, placing your hand on his warm cheek. An unsure smile forms across his mouth. “And maybe one day I will. But this… this is something I must do alone.”

“You don’t, though. You realise that, right?” Hob argues softly, fiercely. “There are people who care about you.”

You think about the Dreaming and its occupants, all the mortals and other beings you’ve encountered in your many travels. Friends and companions who have told you to visit, stay, there is always a place for you here even when they knew you could do no such thing without putting them at risk. You think about the Endless—your becoming and undoing.

Your hand slips away from him, your faint smile hollow. “I do. Two weeks.”

.

The Endless are formidable individually. The raw power holding this universe together, given form and reason. Their realms are kingdoms that put others to shame. You’ve visited plenty by now to draw the unsurprising conclusion. Dealing with each sibling is an exercise in patience, tact, and subtle respect in differing shades. 

Sitting in the same room as seven of them makes you want to crawl out of your skin and run for the hills. You’ve met them individually in the past. There’ve been a handful of occasions where you encountered several simultaneously. But never all together in the same room like this. 

They’re terrible and wonderful and so suffocating in their casual existence that every instinct in your mortal body warns you of one indisputable truth:

“I shouldn’t be here.”

Death shakes her head promptly, giving you a stern glance. “Nonsense, sweetheart,” she asserts. “You’re right where you belong. Isn’t that right, Destiny?”

Destiny of the Endless sits unmoving, only his mouth visible behind his flowing, beige hood. His hand rests on the Book of Destiny, pale but relaxed. Whenever Destiny does move, the chain connecting him to the book rattles through your bones. 

He hosts these family gatherings, though all Endless have equal prominence in this universe and its continuous function. Despite it, from your angle, it appears as if he’s the one at the head of the table. Oldest and certainly the most overwhelming in his sheer aura. It took him a simple swipe of his hand for an additional chair to materialise at the table for you. For his fluttering, eerily silent attendants to lay a plate and glass on either side of you. 

“All is as it should be, sister,” Destiny replies, his voice whistling wind through dry leaves. 

Your pulse beats against the curve of your throat. If your stomach weren’t already empty, you would likely be throwing up right now. 

Death grins brightly, pleased. Her smile is no doubt meant to be reassuring when she angles back towards you. “See, that’s a yes.”

Your words form clumsily on your tongue, “I didn’t mean to impose—”

Sitting on your left, Delirium tightens her grip on you, cutting your words short. Her chair had been dragged towards yours, your arms linked despite the uncomfortable angle. The scent of leather, sweat, and burnt sugar bites into your nostrils. Today, her hair keeps flickering between bright orange, yellow, and neon green. 

“Uhm… impose?” she mutters. Her words flow so swiftly that it’s an effort to keep up. “No, no, imposing to be imposed on, and, um, imposing is impolite. What is impolite?”

“To impose would be impolite, yes.” Your words come out measured. “Like that man. You went into his home.”

“Well, he, well, he wasn’t a very good man.” Delirium’s voice thins, frustration biting into each syllable. On your other side, you sense Destruction turning in your direction. Tension blinks out from Delirium’s lovely features, her different-coloured eyes shining in the dimly lit room. “I made him see colours. Really pretty, pretty colours.”

Yes, she certainly did. You’re hopeful the man received a swift death via villagers, others having no doubt concluded him mad or consorting with devils and demons. As if to illustrate her point, Delirium lightly positions her thumb and index fingers together, forming an O. She giggles, blowing air, and much to your unspoken wonder, multicoloured bubbles float through the air. Some remain bubbles, bloated and bobbing. Others shape into animals and birds. 

“I am not an Endless,” you remind, feeling foolish for doing so. As if anyone could mistake you for one of them. Your eyes briefly skim over each sibling, shifting in your seat for the dozenth time. “I don’t think it’s right for me to be here.”

Despair, sitting opposite to you beside her twin, hoods her eyes. The metal hook on her finger digs into her chin. Blood bubbles beneath the honed metal. “Yes. Mortal.”

Her whispering, thin voice blankets you, and your insides ball up. 

Destruction chuckles on your right, deep and echoing in the dining hall, smoothing over your suddenly chilled, clammy skin. “Sister, do you meet many mortals who live over three hundred years? I see no harm in you being here, dear Wanderer.”

Desire stretches indolently in their seat, candlelight washing over their indescribable features. Scoff ripples from their chest, their chin dropping in their open palm. 

“Right, is anyone else opposed to Wanderer being here?” Desire voices, sweeping a challenging look around the table. When no one speaks, Desire shrugs, arms open at their sides. “See, sweet thing, relax. Have some fruit.”

They pointedly push the fruit basket closer towards you. The fruit does look tasty, and you hadn’t eaten in two days, but don't think you can stomach it right now. 

Dream casts an inpatient glance Destiny’s way. In extravagant robes, Dream Lord appears the most disgruntled with being summoned. “Why are we here, Destiny? You do not call upon the family without a cause.”

Destiny’s answer comes predictably vague: “You are here, brother Dream. That is all.”

Despite your unease to be dropped into their family meeting, annoyance pinpricks you at his words. Always the same ambiguity, always what the book dictates, and never what someone might feel. Destiny is not human. It would be unfair for you to hold any of the Endless to mortal standards. For you to expect them to comprehend sentiments that are so far out of their reach. 

It doesn’t take away from the sting, though. At least this time, the curse was mindful enough to drop you inside Destiny’s stronghold inside the Garden of Forking Ways. Last time, you found yourself helplessly lost inside the boundless maze for weeks. Destiny did nothing to aid you—it was as it was meant to be. You associate him most closely with that wild animal fear and sheer helplessness. You can’t help it. 

“Why the rush?” Desire calls out, interrupting your thoughts. “Eager to get back to another failed relationship, sweet Dream?”

Shadows coil around Dream Lord’s feet, seated between Delirium and Death. You silently question if it’s a purposeful partition. 

“That’s enough from you, sibling,” Dream warns. 

Desire’s lovely mouth spreads into a quick, beaming smile; all teeth bared and tawny eyes aglow with sadistic amusement. A predator having scented blood. “Oh, come on now,” they coo. “We all come here to talk as a family; even lovely Wanderer is present. Yet you think yourself above everything. Your realm, your rules—we’ve heard it all before! You’re oh so dull.”

Despair slumps beside her twin, face downcast. “Dull. Yes, rather dull indeed.”

“And are you perhaps bored, my sibling?” Dream returns, a slight pinch to his imperious features. His voice remains perfectly aloof. From this outsider’s perspective, it’s easy to see why Desire views Dream as supercilious. “Did you run out of adequate ways to amuse yourself?”

Momentarily swallowing down your fear, you slant your head over to one side, “Dream.”

Dream pauses at your drawn, anxious expression. The ignited stars dim, draining away, but the hard slant of his broad shoulders doesn’t drop. 

“Oh, don’t run to his defence.” Desire’s voice is just edging on goading. Their nails tap on the wooden table when they cross their legs, leaning towards you. “This is quite characteristic. Surely you find him just as insufferable as the rest of us?”

Death’s retort is whip-sharp. “Desire. Shut up.”

Others around the table appear calmly accepting. They’ve seen this fight play out in the past a thousand times. While you’ve never demanded reasons for the bad blood between the two Endless, it’s clear it runs deep, a problem stemming from innumerable centuries long since past. And very clearly not a situation for you to get involved in. You’re not naive or arrogant enough to assume you can fix their problems for them. Neither Desire nor Dream seems particularly invested in settling anything, either. 

But inciting like this is dangerous. Desire has never attempted to spark arguments involving you in the past, no matter how spiteful the mood. 

As if mentally arriving at the same conclusion, Destruction’s rumbling words vocalise your unspoken plea: “Do not involve Wanderer in your quarrel, sibling.”

Delirium curls into herself, her legs raised on the chair and pressing into her chest. Her hold on your arm turns near painful. “Arguing, fights, it's not nice, but it… um… that’s not where Desire is supposed to be. It’s um… it’s somewhere else. It’s in Dreams.”

You’re not sure how to decode Delirium’s words. You once believed them to be mindless babbles. Then some phrases would come back to haunt you months or even years later. Whatever caused the turn in Delirium from Delight gave her foresight no other Endless seemed to possess. Save, perhaps, Destiny. 

Desire’s fingers curl beneath their pointed chin. Desire surveys you, then his older brother, with a feline's slowness. “Well, well. Aren’t you two sweet on each other?”

This time, the darkness curling beneath Dream’s chair becomes physical. Visible even to your mortal eye. 

“Cease your poisonous stipulations,” Dream says icily. 

Desire scoffs, dropping back in their seat with a graceful, seductive stretch. Heat encompasses your being, pouring in the crevices of your skin. Desire’s effect is all but impossible to escape this close. 

“Is it not my function, oh dear brother of mine, to sow desire in the hearts of all living things, mortal and otherwise? What are they without their desires?” The Endless straightens just as swiftly, their elbows digging back into the table while they eye you, chin back in their hands. Something cruel and fragmented, endlessly amused, slides through those golden irises—an intent you’ve never seen Desire direct your way until now. “Come, my sweet, doesn’t it get dreary? All those mortals set on your suffering? Surely you have missed the sweet, loving embrace of Desire? I could make you desire anything… even a kiss.”

And then…

The world melts away, and everything once making up your being bows and folds under the power pressing into you. You’re but a child. You are atoms. And you’ve forgotten how terrible their power could be once unleashed. 

There’s only cocoon and darkness and golden, glowing eyes beckoning you, warming you, bewitching you. Your limbs are too far away to control, your will dulled into thin, worn paper—brittle to the touch. Your skin is too hot, and the air in your lungs is insufficient. It feels so good. So good, so good—

Even a kiss, even a kiss, even a kiss—

Your limbs are on strings, tugged in one direction, then another. Distantly, horror chokes you, and you scratch at the walls inside your mind, clawing for some semblance of control, but there’s only a sultry embrace of desire. 

“Desire, no—”

“Stop—”

“Enough.” Something inside your chest trembles at that single word’s sheer, unbridled power. Your numbed senses are clear but not enough to free you. You're trapped, caught on the verge of awareness. “You dare.”

“Now, now, dear Dream. Did I get under your skin? It’s but jest. Lighten up.”

Few stars emerge in your blackened vision, guiding you closer. They urge you forward to safety, but you’re unable to move. It feels good to be here, so good and hot. There’s no pain, only desire and pleasure—

“We do not control mortals, sister-brother. Their will is their own. Release Wanderer.”

Destiny’s tepid command shreds through the heated, desire-filled veil. You return to yourself with a choked gasp, snapping into your tiny mortal body with a painful lurch. It’s overwhelming. Every sense was smothered to such a degree, it’s as if everything is twice as heightened now. 

“Are you insane?” Death snaps. You’ve never heard her this angry until now. There’s always a smile on her face and a playful gleam in her eyes. But you’re too busy shaking to be afraid. “What was that, huh?”

Your hands convulse. Bloody indents line your palms. Your nails must have cut into your skin hard enough to draw blood. You fought. But what can a mortal do when faced with an Endless? You were erased, folded down to nothing. You are nothing. 

Voices melt into one. You’re too shaken to separate them. When some semblance of awareness settles in, you realise how awful these… seconds, minutes, or hours have truly been. 

You’re half straddling Destruction, arms half wrapped around his broad shoulders, your mouth near his neck. Horror liquefies your limbs, rooting you in your spot. Too much—it’s too much. Humiliation leaves you immobile, but Destruction rests his hand between your shoulder blades, his gaze kind and concerned beneath his bunched eyebrows.  

“Are you well?” he asks quietly over the clamour behind you.

Your chin wobbles. Shame lashes your skin. You’ve been used as no more than a puppet to be thrown at him. On him. Like some mindless whore. A witless worshipper, begging for their chosen god’s favour, not understanding what they’re inviting. How the gods are never kind. How they only use and break for their amusement. 

Even though Destruction doesn’t appear angry, you can’t stop yourself from croaking out, “I… I… I’m sorry.”

His sympathetic frown is visible even beneath his thick beard. He cradles you to him but with gentleness indicating how fragile he believes you to be at this moment. “Do not fret. It is quite alright, my friend.”

“Can you…?”

Your words splinter. The burn behind your eyes turns painfully prickly. Destruction’s handsome face creases further. He nods mutely, carefully manoeuvring your body to a standing position. His large hand presses between your shoulder blades, steading and hot through your thin robes. His fingers fold slightly, protectively. Your gratitude for his unprompted support is immeasurable. An anchor while your knees shake.

“It was a joke,” Desire calls out over his siblings. “Desire is who I am. It’s all in good fun. Isn’t that right, sweet thing?”

Your shoulders spasm, your back still to them. Your insides churn at the prompt, and you’re unsure if you’re about to be sick, cry, or some horrific mix of both. 

You thought… you were foolish enough to assume… 

How many times have you landed in the Threshold, thrilled to see Desire? How often have you shared jokes, laughs, and peaceful evenings and mornings in the twilight land? What other touch or embrace have you known over three centuries that didn’t end in agony but Desire’s? You’ve told them numerous times you have no preference for any sibling in their family—that you cherish Desire’s company as much as others, perhaps even more so. Because with Desire, you could remember what it’s like to be human—to want and need. 

You had foolishly believed you were friends. 

Now you see the truth. You feel the horrible, numbing heat licking across your flesh—the aftermath of this ultimate betrayal. Desire’s power shimmers on the outskirts of your mind, ready to devour you anew. Rob you of reason and choice. 

“I—you… I trusted you.” Everyone falls silent at your frayed words, scraping through the eerily quiet dining hall. When you rotate clumsily towards them, you look only at Desire. You avoid others. Your humiliation burns too brightly for anything else. “You… just made me feel like nothing. You degraded me. I’m no more than a thing for you to play with.”

Some foreign emotion spasms briefly through Desire’s face—gone in a blink. Their answering smile is so patronising a deeper crack splinters your chest. “Wanderer. Be a good sport. It was simply a bit of fun.”

A bit of fun. 

Desire can be fickle, and it can be cruel. But you’ve forgotten just how cruel they could be. To Desire, this is no more than a practical joke. You’re only a silly mortal. No wonder you don’t get the joke. You’ll get over yourself soon enough. But no one else is laughing or smiling, either. Even Despair in your peripheral remains hunched and mute, typically first to her twin’s defence. 

“Fun.” 

The word shatters something between you the second you voice it. You can see it on Desire’s face. The realisation settling in. There is no regret, no apology. Nor will there ever be. It’s clear from the dismissive curl of Desire’s mouth. They don’t see anything wrong with what just transpired. 

It makes it worse. So much worse. 

“Wanderer, brother Destruction. Sit.”

Destiny’s perfectly poised voice shreds whatever little composure you’ve been clinging onto. 

“You knew, didn’t you?” The accusation rips through the room like wildfire. You shake off Destructions comforting touch, your lungs filling with air and spilling out fire. “You knew Desire was going to do that. That’s the only reason why you permitted me to stay. Do I not suffer every day? Or do you enjoy making me into your little plaything? Have I not been humiliated enough for your amusement?”

Destiny says nothing. 

You shove away from the table with disgust. Your feet tangle before you command your sluggish limbs. Death rise after you immediately.

“Wanderer—”

You flinch away from her extended hand, from all of them. You don’t care what invisible line you may be overstepping. “Don’t touch me,” you spit out. “I never should have stayed.”

Your feet carry you several paces until another, more resounding voice calls, “Wanderer.”

A part of you doesn’t understand why you pause or look back. Dream’s gaze sears into you. Yet you can’t untangle a single thing you see burrowed there. He’s standing as well, his hand flat on the table. Foolishly, you hope he will come after you, say something in defence of you. But Dream is Dream. He’s likely just as clueless about why you took this so badly as others. Perhaps the fury you see glimmering in those starlit eyes is but your imagination. Another pretty lie your sentimental, human heart would be all too happy to convince yourself of. 

He doesn’t move. You pivot away, your shoulders hunching. 

Desire’s chuckle licks at your back, silky and smooth. “So tense, that one. It was only a bit of fun.” 

No one laughs. No one responds. 

Only a bit of fun.

“Take me away, take me away from here,” you sob, stumbling into a shadowed hallway.

For once, the curse listens. 

.

Rivulets of sweat drip down your back. The puddle of blood at your feet is starting to go dark. These observations float from somewhere beyond the dense fog shrouding your mind. It’s so difficult to focus. Wiping across your sweaty forehead, you lean on your arm, breathing deeply. You’ve forgotten how suffocating the humidity could be here in Georgia. 

Mercifully only heat-blurred fields surround you. The vast, open stretch of highway is all you see on either side.

Lights dance in your vision, your ears ringing. Maybe it’s the curse and not the heat. Your limbs obey no command, barely held together by sheer stubborn will to follow the tether pulsing in your chest. The spell’s power is already dimming. You have no choice but to jump. This is your only chance to get to Corinthian first. 

“Come on… come on… I don’t obey you.” Your nails scrape on the heated metal, your head hanging low. “You obey me.”

Your tongue rolls the words clumsily. No matter how much you swallow, more saliva floods your mouth, causing your stomach to cramp. Your knees beg to fold beneath you. Lay down in this tall grass and wait for the inevitable that will never arrive. It’s foolish. Death is far from the worst thing that can befall an individual. It was the very first lesson you learned. 

Digging deeper, you claw and yank on the curse’s power, squeezing it until the bleed becomes physical. Until your limbs rip from one place to another. 

When you settle back into your body, skin stinging, your knees hit the ground immediately. Blood dribbles past your lips, your sweat-covered forehead pressing into the soft dirt. You pant loudly, blood trickling past your cracked lips. Pain is coming from everywhere. Sounds mangle into each other when you attempt to raise your head. Your stomach protests viciously, leaving you dry heaving. Nothing but more blood escapes your body. 

A hotel sign. It’s the first thing you register. You’ve landed near one, practically on it. Your fingernails dig into the dirt as you stumble into a standing position. The tether Johanna’s spell has threaded pulses harder and faster in your chest. There. Corinthian has to be there. 

Cradling your sore midsection, you painstakingly make your way towards the hotel. Relentless heat melts your already nonexistent strength reserves down to nothing. 

Several people glance in your direction when you push through the reception door. In this climate, your attire certainly raises eyebrows, but you remind yourself there’s no way Corinthian can know you’re here this time.

“Can I help you?”

You stumble to a stop, breathing heavily. A man with a tiny hat and a nametag reading Fun Land sits behind a table, his annoyance palpable while he stares at you expectedly. It takes considerable effort to gather the strength required to speak. 

“No.”

You turn to go. 

“Hey, woah! This is a convention-only area. Can’t you read?”

Following the direction the man is gesturing wildly towards, you find a board reading Cereal Convention printed in large, bold letters. The rest blurs, sweat stinging your eyes. You work your jaw. 

“No,” you repeat.

The man’s petulant glare would be comical if you were in a better mood. 

“You can’t go here,” he declares stiffly. 

Your fingers curl weakly, convulsing at your sides. You didn’t come this far to be precluded from finding Corinthian by a goddamn sign. By a cereal convention. Cereal convention. Cereal. At the back of your foggy mind, something nags at you. 

Your brows dip inwards, your gaze slipping towards the man. His bravado stutters, washing away from him. He shrinks backwards the longer you stare at him, his throat working on a gulp. Your lips compress into a stiffer line. Someone brushes behind you, stepping up to the table. Fun Land exhales in audible relief, serving them, pretending he’s too busy to pay you further notice. 

Fine. You’ll find another way. 

Stalking outside, you keep to the shade, leaning into the wall for support. It doesn’t take long to track down the delivery entrance. Every hotel has one, and depending on the time of day, they’re not the best protected. Like right now, in the afternoon, after housekeeping has gone home, leaving only a handful of staff on standby.  

He’s in here somewhere. The hotel corridors melt together. Beige walls and stale, humid air. They warp, smearing together into nothing but sensation. You’re a rat caught inside yet another maze. Sickness churns inside your stomach. 

And then, impossibly, you see him. 

A pale head of golden hair illuminated by washed-out light, his back to you while he strolls ahead and away from you. 

“Corinthian.”

The raspy exhale ricochets. The nightmare stops dead in his tracks. Until this precise second, he wasn’t there, wasn’t real, but with his name, the nightmare becomes a reality. Corridor may separate you, but the spell winks out, confirming your suspicion. 

Aircon buzzes through the long, otherwise vacant corridor. Your heart thunders in your ears. 

Then, Corinthian speaks: “You shouldn’t be here.”

A sob wells in your chest at his drawling, smooth words. Nearly two hundred years you haven’t seen him. Over a century seeking him out, having to live with the ramifications of atrocities he’s been inflicting. And now, here, it’s just you and him. You’re not sure which sensation pulses in you stronger: anger or relief. 

Your mouth quivers, your tongue dragging across your dry, cracked lips. “I searched for you.”

“I know you did,” he replies listlessly, his back still facing you. It hurts, because you were right. He’s been knowingly avoiding you. As if reading your mind, Corinthian raises his hand, and your stomach shrivels when you spot your ring firm on his finger. “I have this to thank you for, but it would seem you found me out anyway. Shame.”

The ring. Of course. 

A small piece of humanity for you to hold. I told you, they’re not all bad. I hope this can help you experience it.

And experience it he did. An essential part of yourself put away in that ring must have given him a sense of your presence nearby. He used your own present against you. 

The Corinthian finally turns to face you, all but unchanged except for his modern hairstyle and refined round shades. You want to say so many things to him that your tongue refuses to work altogether. A great chasm yawns between you, and you have no idea how to bridge it.

“What are you doing?” you ask at last. 

There’s no smirk or sly grin in sight. He’s as closed off as you. Despite his seeming indifference, you read the subtle tension lining Corinthian’s broad shoulders. He can hide from others, trick and lie to them if he pleases, but never you. 

“What I was made to do,” he replies tightly. 

“No. You’re hurting them.”

Corinthian’s jaw locks. “He made me in your image, Wanderer. Now I’m making the world in mine. I thought you’d be proud.”

A disbelieving scoff rips from your chest, burning your windpipe as if acid washed down it. “Proud?” you parrot. “You’re killing them.”

Your harsh condemnation dissolves whatever neutrality remains in the space between you. Prior uncertainty dashes beneath a strain of a century dripping in the blood of innocents. 

“Did they do less to you?” Corinthian’s voice is all nightmare; honeyed, cruel, and seductive. His head tilts playfully to one side. “How often did they torture you? Shun you? Sought to eradicate you? Still you defend them as you did him.”

Your sight muddies, and it takes a shake of your head to clear it. “You can’t punish all for crimes of a few.”

A snarl twists Corinthian’s mouth, his feet carrying him towards you in a measured, prowling stalk. 

“A few? They’re all the same: greedy, selfish, and cruel. The curse reveals. I reflect. They don’t change; they only learn how to hide better.” He pauses, licking his lips as he considers you. Something seems to occur to him, a faint laugh vibrating from his chest. “Do you have any idea how many times I stopped them? Punished them for hurting you? New Orleans in ‘31. Berlin in ‘43. Vienna in ‘55. Seoul in ‘62. Moscow in ‘71. Bangkok in ‘89. New York in ‘00. Why those were all me and then some. I was there. I’ve always been there.”

Each date punctures through you like a stray bullet. Honed and whetted for the single purpose of hurting you in a different sense. A fragmented nightmare. You’ve chased a mirage while the nightmare has spent a century mirroring your steps, keeping you safe from the shadows whenever your paths crossed unbeknownst to you. 

There’ve been times—

You thought you’d caught glimpses of him in decades-long since lost. But unfailingly, you’ve only ever found empty alleyways when you pursued these figments. Eventually, you stopped chasing these mirages. The pain was too great. But it’s never been just your overreactive imagination, has it? He was real. He was there. 

He’s spent a century killing indiscriminately while also keeping you safe. You want to scream at him for the evil he’s committed and cry from sheer relief he hasn’t forgotten you. 

“Then why hide?” you croak, stumbling closer. “Why not speak with me?”

“Oh, come now.” Corinthian clicks his tongue. He turns away, nostrils flaring, then turns to face you again. “You know why. You would have asked me to come back, and for you, I would have.”

His features blur, your words barely audible, “And would that have been so terrible?”

“Come back to what? Dream’s ball and chain?” Acidic words, despite their softness. His rage deflates instantly, a huffing laugh escaping him as if he’s surprised himself with the lapse. “You think he gives a fuck about either of us? He threw you out. You left.”

Indignation flares in your chest. “Not by choice.”

“Then you should have taken me with you. But you left me. All you ever do is play by Dream’s rules. I figured out how to leave the Dreaming back during Dreamfall, but I stayed. Wonder why.”

You have no response to that. You’re left standing there, gaping. For you. Who else? He had no one else there; no other reason to stay other than your presence. 

“So that’s it,” you begin shakily, your words rasping, sniffling. “All this because you believe I chose Dream and his rules over you?”

“What did you do to yourself?”

Corinthian’s voice has gone dreadfully quiet. Fiercely unhappy. Too late, you realise you’re sniffling because blood is dripping from your nose. Clumsily, you swipe the back of your hand over your chin. Crevices in your skin crack with dried blood. 

“It was never a choice, don’t you get it?” you whisper, your words pouring out thick and wet with emotion. “It’s always been you. Always. I was terrified the journey would destroy you. Had I known, I would have taken you with me in a heartbeat.”

Corinthian closes the remaining distance between you, grasping you by the forearms. It’s such a relief to have him near again. You sag into him, trembling. You try to raise your hand to wipe beneath your nose, but your limbs are too stiff to obey. 

“What did you do, Wanderer?” He sounds furious while he examines you, as if only now realising the extent of your deterioration. “What did you do yourself?”

“I had to get to you first,” you tell him. Blood smudges the lapels of his jacket where you grasp it. “Please, you have to stop. They don’t deserve this, Cori.”

He looks disgusted at your words, but your legs fail you before he responds. Corinthian catches you before your knees hit the carpeted ground.

“It hurts.” His words come out hissing, sharp with incredulity. “Why does it hurt?”

Your chin jolts upwards, your bloodstained smile trembling around the edges. “You know why. I’m inside of you. You can’t escape that.”

Neither of you can. You’ll carry him in you until your bitter end, as he will carry you until his. 

“Shh. I got you.” Corinthian tucks you into him when a whimper of pain escapes you. His hand cradles the back of your head. “I’m going to set us both free.”

And then, through horror, darkness closes in. 

.

Motion. 

“Who is that?”

A woman’s voice. Unfamiliar. 

“Oh, yes. This one is with me. Won’t you be a good girl and share that tidbit with others, so we don’t have any… complications. I appreciate it.”

“But I thought—”

Arms tighten around you possessively—the air coils, suffused with thick tension. 

“Good Doctor. No one touches this one. Or they'll have to deal with me. Personally.” 

Footsteps retreat near instantly, the atmosphere lightening in the absence. You’re resting on something velvety. You have no idea where you are, but you know you’re safe. 

“Cori…”

“Shh, I’ll be back before you know it.” Cold glass touches your lips. When your lips part, soothing water slips into your awaiting mouth. After several mouthfuls, the glass disappears. A cool hand traces your face. “Things will be different real soon, you’ll see.”

You reach blindly, seeking. “Don’t go.”

“Oh, don’t worry. After I’m done, we’ll have a Dreaming of our own.”

Then nothing. 

.

Anchor around your ankle. Plunging, bitter cold water, pressure, pressure, a hand reaching uselessly towards the shrinking light above, then nothing—

.

Ropes bite into your wrists, the pyre is tall, and the crowd jeers with open delight. They throw things at you; some hit, some miss. You don’t know if you hate them or pity them. Both, neither. Sahsin’s face is disgusted, filled with hate. She has positioned herself in front of the throbbing mob. When the fire comes, Sahsin enjoys it. When the fire comes, the agony devours all else—

.

Blank page. 

Blank page.

Blank page.

And beneath, a faint, pulsing power of Endless Destruction. 

“My lord.”

Urgent footsteps head in his direction. Morpheus raises his head, his grip on the tome in his hands white-knuckled.

Loyal Lucienne and a rather familiar figure a step behind her. 

“I apologise for leaving, Lord,” Fiddler’s Green begins, flustered but entreating. “But you must help. He’s killing them.”

.

You awake with a pained gasp. Your head swims, your fingers clumsily seeking purchase. 

An eerily silent hotel room greets you when your hiccuping gasps assuage into a steadier rhythm.  Corinthian is nowhere in sight. You wrench yourself from beneath the comfortable covers, stumbling. You grab your carelessly thrown coat on your way out, shrugging on the familiar weight. At least your vision is clearer than earlier. Pain remains undiminished by your fretful rest. 

The hotel is unnaturally quiet—your nerves prickle. Nothing good ever comes from places where there should be life, being devoid of it. Unease pools in your stomach while you stumble through winding corridors. Where did everyone go?

Outside, twilight has settled over the landscape. Your pace increases, your palms dragging across the walls to keep moving.

You find the reception empty, the convention table barren. Except…

“—a black mirror, made to reflect everything about itself that humanity will not confront. But look at you—”

Your body turns to stone mid-step. There’s no confusing that voice with anyone—the absolute power infused into every deliberate, low syllable. 

With a start, you realise your knees have bent, your coat pooling around your ankles. You’re scared. Dream wasn’t supposed to be here. Not when you’re not there to mediate. Clawing at the walls, you force your legs forward. Your bones quake in protest with each step. 

Shoving into the conference room, you find the room full. Hotel patrons sit in neat rows, their heads bowed and eyes closed. 

Dream of the Endless and the nightmare make for a lonely, contrasting sight on the stage: dark and light. 

Corinthian’s small smile is scornful. “I’m not the problem, Dream.”

“You’re right,” Dream Lord concurs quietly. “This is my fault, not yours. I had so much hope for you, but I created you poorly then. So I must uncreate you now.”

Dream’s arm lifts in the air between them. You lurch forward, stumbling up the stairs.

“No!”

You let out a dry sob, pushing past Dream to get to the nightmare. The contours of Corinthian’s face have begun dissolving, singed red at the edges, disappearing back into the sand he was fashioned from. 

Corinthian chokes out a breath, grinning widely, grasping your hand. “Hey, trouble—”

His hand in yours crumbles. A wounded, animalistic sound rips from you. There’s a futile, blind attempt to grasp onto his body as it slips between your fingers. Through your arms, and then out of your life. 

“No! No, no.”

Your knees hit the stage so hard the sound is a thunderclap through the hushed room. Sand lays in a golden pile at your feet. A tiny skull containing teeth for eyes is all that remains and—

Your ring. Corinthian’s faint warmth still lingers on the metal. Wet dots fall into the sand. Only then do you register the tears dripping down your face. Followed by speckles of blood. It seems appropriate that, in the end, he should have your blood also. 

Featherlight touch on your shoulder only registers after Dream’s voice floats through your agony: “Wanderer. I am sorry.”

Perhaps under different circumstances, you would have examined this moment closer—Dream Lord, an Endless, on his knees beside you, his voice impossibly soft. Instead, you want to disappear. 

“I know,” you sob, shaking, half leaning towards the ground. If it weren’t for Dream’s grip on you, there’s no doubt in your mind you would collapse right where Corinthian has. Something mangles inside you, far beyond physical. “I know you had to stop him. I… to me… he… to me he’s…”

Everything. 

Dragging your hands desperately through the slippery grains, you gather them in a smaller circle. 

“What are you doing?” 

Dream’s question is uncharacteristically gentle. There’s deeper awareness that a wrong question could shatter you completely. 

Past your raw vocal cords, you only manage: “I—I can’t leave him. I can’t leave him again.”

You’re not sure if you’re coherent enough for him to understand. Each word borders on a pained howl. Black is rapidly devouring your fading vision. Too much. It’s too much. You’re about to explode. Collapse like the nightmare did, utterly undone. 

Several scarlet drops drip into the sand, and Dream sucks in a deep breath beside you, his grip on you tightening. 

“You’re bleeding.”

He doesn’t get a response. Blackness devours you whole. 

.

Recovery takes three weeks. You’re unconscious for the first two. Another week crawls by until you can move again. 

The simple fact that it takes you so long to become functional only confirms that Dream brought back a broken soul into the Dreaming. You’ve survived limbs being severed. Past incidents where your skin was peeled off. But this goes beyond skin deep. 

You haven’t travelled since the incident. The mere thought induces a fresh dose of cramping terror through your system. The curse, wounded and worn, has retreated. Dormant. For now. 

“You mourn him.”

You jump in your spot. Your fingers close protectively over the ring in your hand. Dream steps into your line of sight, his coat fluttering around his lithe figure. His face is slanted away from you, observing the waterfront. You try to hide your surprise at seeing him. 

He’s been… distant these last three weeks. Not cold, but…

Sad. 

There’s no other way to delineate the forlorn stares that seem to follow you. 

“I’m not an idiot. What Corinthian was doing was horrific,” you say dully, tugging on stray blades of grass. 

Fiddler’s Green has returned, taking his post once more. It should make you happy. He apologised personally for his departure, but you understood his reasonings for leaving. Without his creator, Fiddler’s Green wanted to experience what it was like to be human. What right do you have to judge him for such a wish? Yet memory is a cruel mistress—the recollections of the one whose absence is so torturously felt are everywhere. 

“He took lives that were never his to take,” you continue. Anger bites into controlled syllables. “Not to mention his plan to have Rose become the new heart of the Dreaming. Did he realise the universe would have collapsed in on itself? He had to be stopped.”

It was what had awoken you back at the hotel. It’s only later that you learned the extent of Corinthian’s plan. Rose Walker was the vortex. Given enough time, she would have become the centre of the Dreaming, drawing dreams and nightmares to her. And collapsed this universe as a result. Dream would have killed her—it’s the only time the Endless are permitted to take mortal life, if they’re an active threat—but Rose’s grandmother had stepped in last second. A woman who should have been the vortex if it hadn’t been for Dream’s capture. If the sleeping sickness that swept through the waking world had not robbed her of life. 

“But you mourn him still.”

Unequivocal insistence. Your composed mask cracks around the edges. Lying would be pointless. 

“Of course I do,” you exhale, pained. 

Dream’s fingers curl at his side, but he doesn’t look your way. “This was my oversight, Wanderer. Do not bear the guilt for those lost.”

Trees ripple and shiver in the faint breeze. Waterfall roars to your left, while to your right, the dark shores of the Dreaming reflect sunshine like the darkest obsidian. You consider the Dream Lord while he watches the beach with a stony expression. Utterly closed off—same old Dream. 

Deflating, you struggle back onto your feet. 

“Their blood is on my hands, too,” you say, turning to go.

Guilt will follow you no matter what he maintains. 

“Are you departing once more?” he calls out, halting you in your tracks. He’s scrutinising you when you peek his way. “You are not fit for travel.”

Offering a throwaway smile, you shrug. “I’m a rubber ball. I bounce back quickly.”

“Stay until Dreamfall if the curse permits it.” Dream pauses after his brisk request, catching himself with a swallow. Awkwardness permeates the air. “It would mean a great deal to others if you celebrated with them.”

You loosen a reluctant breath, squinting at him. “Do you want me to stay?”

Something shifts between you at the forthright prompt; tightening, warming. Surprise collects in your chest at the fact you dared to ask. But you’re tired of feigning, acting as if you’re both not caught in some bizarre impasse. 

Dream’s lips part softly, his answer a mere exhale, “I would.” 

Light, tingling sensation webs through your chest. You hadn’t expected that. “Under one condition.”

“Name it.”

“Answer me something, Morpheus. Truthfully.” With deliberate slowness, you step into his bubble, so close Dream’s lashes flutter as he peers at you. There’s such unbearable weight to his gaze. There’s always been a raging storm brewing there, but this is more. Heavier. “Corinthian was convinced that you made him in my image. Is it true?”

Your jaw sets stubbornly, the nightmare’s name stinging your tongue. Dream’s eyes roam over your features, seeking some unknown truth. You’re not asking about physical similarities, but you permit him this moment. Because he digs deeper, because your heart is in your throat when Dream finally settles on his truth: 

“While I did not recognise it as such at the time, I believe I did.”

You’ve known, been aware of this fact for centuries. Since Corinthian shared his hypothesis, you’ve been unable to scrub it from your mind. But to have confirmation from Dream himself paints many past events in a different light. 

“I made you poorly then… a black mirror made to reflect everything humanity will not confront.” Recalling Dream Lord’s words, you stagger backwards, your mind whirling with thoughts. A startled gasp pushes from your lungs, your attention snapping back to the Endless. Suddenly all the puzzle pieces slot perfectly into place. “I had it all wrong. Corinthian was a manifestation of your anger for what humanity was doing to me. He was to be your mirror, your teacher, so humanity may choose to be better. So they may learn to overcome their darkest impulses.”

Staggering backwards, words escape you in a torrent, “But it went wrong, didn’t it? You gave him too much of that anger—the fury of an Endless and reckless, unshakable defiance of a cursed mortal. You created a masterpiece by giving him too much. By making something that is so much more than just a nightmare. A perfect hybrid between an Endless and a mortal.”

Dream says nothing in response. It’s the only confirmation you need. 

In the end, you stay. But this time, you’re the one who avoids the Dream Lord. 

.

“You’re always welcome in my chambers, sweet Dream. It’s lovely to see you. Can I get you anything you desire?”

Morpheus strolls through the glossy scarlet chambers of his younger sibling’s stronghold. Desire of the Endless curls with each word spoken, stretching indolently across their seat. Loving malice lines planes of Desire’s face, enigmatic and magnetic as their name suggests. 

Dream moves closer. “I desire nothing from you, save some answers.”

Desire pouts, sitting up, their hands in their lap. “Oh? Do tell. I love a test.”

He’s never understood Desire’s love for games. Petulant slights or wish to inflict harm. To manipulate and use. Once…

He supposes it no longer matters what their relationship might have been once—too many years arc between them: too much history and bad blood. Morpheus prowls through the gallery, briefly flicking his attention towards his family’s sigils. 

“Unity Kincaid should have been the vortex of this age. But someone saw fit to take advantage of my imprisonment and fathered a child with her, knowing full well that it would become the vortex and I would be left with no choice but to kill it.”

A mock gasp escapes Desire’s ruby-painted lips. Their golden eyes blow wide open, startled and innocent, while they monitor Dream. 

“Are you implying I meddled with affairs of another Endless domain, dear brother?” Desire’s pout wobbles when Dream doesn't respond. The faux innocence melts away in a blink, leaving behind nothing but conniving malice, peering back through a hooded stare. “Oh, fine, was I really that obvious?” 

A brief, cool smile touches Dream’s lips, his words coming out frosty, “No. You covered your tracks remarkably well.”

“High praise, coming from you,” Desire tuts, grinning sharply. 

“What did you intend?” Dream heads towards the other Endless unhurriedly. “That I should spill family blood? With all that would entail?”

“This time, it almost worked.” Desire’s grin stretches wider, pleased. “I haven’t seen you this worked up since my little wrangle with lovely Wanderer. How is she, by the way? Still coughing up blood?”

His younger sibling adjusts their position once again, sitting up straighter. Bracing for a fight, Morpheus realises belatedly. This is a sore spot that always elicits a reaction. But this time, Morpheus will not be giving his sibling the satisfaction. He’s observed Desire’s and Wanderer’s relationship—or what little of it remains—long enough to draw his own conclusions. 

“You do not fool me,” Morpheus begins deliberately. The corners of Desire’s mouth tilt downwards slightly. “I know your fickle heart, my sibling, and you resent the fact Wanderer forgives others but not you. But you fail to understand why that same forgiveness has not been extended your way. We of the Endless are the servants of the living, not their masters. We exist only because they know deep in their hearts that we exist. We do not manipulate them. If anything, they manipulate us.”

“Then perhaps I shall pay Wanderer a visit in person.” Desire drags their thumbs over the edge of their lips, sly in their wily deliberation. “I do, after all, wear your face now. But unlike you, I will endeavour to be a far more… devoted lover.”

Wrath kindles in his chest. Morpheus knows. He’s read about your and Desire’s encounter at the shores of the Dreaming while he was locked away. 

He shakes his head. “Still, you fail to see. We are their dolls, Desire. You and Despair, and even poor Delirium, will do well to remember that.”

Desire presents him with a dismissive shrug, their nose wrinkling. “Maybe I don’t understand.”

“No, perhaps you do not,” Morpheus agrees softly. Circling, he slips behind his younger sibling. Desire’s head wrenches backwards, their gulping gasp nearly lost when Morpheus twists the other Endless’ head back, peering down at the blonde coldly. “Then let me tell you something you will understand: mess with me or mine again, and I shall forget you are family. You lay a finger on Wanderer, and I will make every circle of Hell feel like kindness by comparison. Do you believe yourself to be strong enough to stand against me? Against Death? Against Destiny?”

Desire forces down a gulp, their breath stuttering at the creeping wrath, “No.”

“No, indeed.” Dropping his hold, Morpheus straightens, his jaw rigid as he stalks away, adding, “Remember this next time you’re inspired to interfere in my affairs.”

And then he’s gone. 

.

Translucent light kisses your shoulders as you stroll towards the looming stronghold, your hands buried deep in your pockets. Your fingers have turned numb from how tightly you’re clenching them. The impressive, stone-carved statues depicting the seven Endless guide your way. Well, six. You pause by Destruction, the only one facing away, unlike his siblings.

You don’t dare to stray from the path. The likelihood of finding your way out if you get lost in the maze again is non-existent. 

The ruler of this sprawling, eerily silent domain greets you at the foot of the marble staircase. 

“I welcome thee, Wanderer, Roamer of Realms, into my stronghold.”

Even at this distance, Destiny looms so impossibly tall, some forgotten human instinct sparks in a warning.

Undeterred, you halt before the imposing figure, bowing your head. “I greet and thank you for your welcome, Destiny of the Endless.”

Only Destiny’s lower face is visible behind his billowing hood when he speaks in a crackling rasp, “You have arrived here for a single purpose.”

No ifs or buts about it—he knows better than that, the book slotted neatly under his arm. 

“And here I was, ready to ask if you’re surprised to see me,” you shoot back jokingly. Destiny does not smile or construe entertainment from your words. You sober, your attempt at levity now abandoned. “Guess we both know the answer to that. I’m here to share some theories if you have time to spare.”

To your surprise, Destiny slips past you, heading in the direction you came from, deeper into his garden. His footsteps make no sound. His cloak whispers behind him, shimmering in the dim, muted light. On equal footing, you have to crane your head to see him. The devouring dark pooling around the contours of his pallid face reveals nothing beneath the hood, even at your angle.  

“You seek to ask questions for which there are scarce few answers, Wanderer,” Destiny says resolutely. “You are far older than most mortals can comprehend, yet your heart remains stubbornly mortal.”

You set out after him at once, your invisible hackles rising. “In what way? My defiance?”

Destiny does not falter, his pace remaining as steady as lapping waves. “That is not for me to judge.”

The garden is vast and a marvel to behold, but the temperature lingers on that unnatural lukewarmness that gives away how unorthodox this place is. The light is perpetually unfading, gauzy in the corners of your eyes. It’s a confusing, strangely profound place. It’s as if Destiny’s realm contains everything all at once but also nothing. A place of futures to come, lives unlived, and wilted pasts. There’s no point in attempting to unravel it. There’s only uncanny strangeness you’ve come to accept. 

“You will spend time in the realm of each sibling—you will dream, despair, desire, destroy, delight and otherwise, and, eventually, die—but you were his from the very first page, and only he will read how your story comes out, a long time from now.”

Destiny doesn’t pause at your reiteration. There’s no indication he even heard you, but you’re a step behind him. A thousand years of trying to get answers have taught you he would not be entertaining you if this wasn’t heading somewhere. The thought of another scrap of information sets your heart thudding. Haven’t you spent the last two centuries piecing things together? Attempting to confirm your speculations before you came here to confront him with them. Your past attempts may have ended in uniform failure, but today is different. You can feel it.

“You told me that when we first met,” you continue, keeping your nonchalance. You’re no more than a child to him despite your millennia of existence—this is the only way to get him to take you seriously. “When I awoke in your garden, alone and terrified, with no clue as to who I was or what had happened to me. I’ve been thinking about those words ever since.”

Destiny slows, then stops altogether. Your heart climbs to your throat. You've paused by his statue, standing at the foot of polished, pale stone. Destiny’s cloak whispers when he hinges in your direction, anticipatory. He already knows what you will say.

“It was you. You’re the one who did this to me.” 

The clarity that clangs through you with those words shakes your knees. Sucking down more oxygen, you add, “Not directly, maybe. I was cursed by mortal power. This much I know for certain. But you made it possible. You led me to this by the hand. Why?”

And like a dozen times you’ve tried in the past, you expect dismissal, or worse, silence with which he’s punished you often. Destiny would disappear from your sight altogether. His patience and unwillingness to give you clear answers are unmatched. 

But not this time. 

“Because you broke your destiny. Tore it to shreds. Painted it red.” Destiny readjusts the heavy book under his arm. “So you were allocated a new path. One of hardship and pain, but one that may lead you to salvation. Should you tread it mindfully.”

The roar in your head is so loud you barely understand Destiny’s low, equable words. 

“You could have told me this a thousand years ago,” you choke out. 

He remains a perfectly barren canvas, but in the tension pulsing between you, there now whispers a hint of displeasure. Sweat trickles down your nape. 

“I did,” he replies flatly. “But you did not listen. You instead raged and ran, and what came of it?”

Madness and despair. 

Stumbling forward, you bite out, “Why? What did I do? What could prompt eternity of this.”

All this pain for crimes you couldn’t so much as recall. Whatever it was, have you not paid back your dues? Have you not suffered enough to make up for your past?

“Forgetting is the only kindness you’ve ever been spared. Or ever will be. Treat it as such.” Cold needles your spine, and a terrible urge to fold yourself into a ball gnaws on your bones. Destiny’s pitch does not change, nor does his bearing, but it doesn’t need to. “In your quest to break, you reformed into something else.”

Your force down saliva, near choking. “Into what?”

“Challenger of the Unknown.”

Silence envelopes the garden. There’s little to no sound in the Garden of the Forking Ways to begin with, but those words blanket everything. Not even the wind seems to stir. No blade of grass moves. This means something; it means something crucial, but you have no idea what.

“What does that mean?” you beseech. Destiny doesn’t move, nor does he answer. Your voice cracks. “Please just tell me.”

But you already know it’s a lost battle. This is all too familiar—the cold, pitiless silence, utterly unmoved. He’s given you all he’s intended to. 

“I used to think you hated me.” You’re not sure why you’re telling him this. Destiny won’t care. Your feet carry you past him. Briefly, you pause by Dream’s statue, then keep going. “More than anyone else in this universe. It wasn’t until Destruction left that I finally understood your position more. It is a burden to know what others don’t but be unable to speak that knowledge.”

There’s no doubt in your mind that Destiny knows where Destruction is. 

The Prodigal’s statue pierces your vision, making you squint into the hazy skies above. Your following words slip out, each lilting with breezy ease: “But it doesn’t mean I’ll ever forgive you for letting Dream rot in a cage for a hundred years when you knew it was coming, when you could have warned him somehow. I know you have a duty, but he’s your brother. However, indirectly you let Dreaming decay—my home. You let humanity suffer. I figured it out, by the way, why it’s a loophole. Why my book exists in the library, but nothing in other dimensions does. Why I can sleep in the Dreaming but not anywhere else.” 

Destiny stands stock still, his bony arms close to his chest, clutching his book. He displays no outward reaction as per usual. It’s a relief to voice your thoughts. You’re utterly terrified of him, but he’s right—your heart is still stubbornly human, as brazen as the Fates accused you of being.  

“Because if my curse was the will of the Endless, if my path—whatever it is—is so tightly bound to your family, then it only makes sense, right?” You’re not looking for a response because Destiny will offer none. “The Dreaming is the only place where aspects of each Endless manifest. It’s a loophole. The curse goes dormant when I’m in the Dreaming because the only thing more powerful than the curse is the combined power of the seven Endless.”

You’ve waited to voice your conclusions for so long, it’s surreal to have spoken them aloud. You might fear Destiny, but not enough to continue as a coward. He can deny it, but you’re confident that’s the reason. It’s the only thing that makes sense. 

“My siblings have gained much from their companionship with you, Wanderer,” Destiny admits. You quell a flinch despite Destiny’s voice retaining its monotonous quality. “But you and I are antitheses of one another. My brother would not be who he is now had he not tasted that helplessness and sorrow. You are the ink and the quilt with which Dream will write his story.”

His words make little to no sense. Dream is… Dream. What could ever influence him? Much less you. He’s changed since his imprisonment, it’s true, but doubt still nestles in your heart. Had the situation with Gault not proven how those attempts to change come undone in a blink? Despite it, Dream is trying, and it’s more than enough. Change doesn’t happen overnight; not any profound version, anyway. 

You wipe across your face, schooling yourself. “I won’t stop trying to save them even if I’m punished further,” you assert. “I’ll always fight for humanity.”

Even over his hood, you feel your gazes clash, burning into one another. 

“I would expect no less,” Destiny assures. 

Squaring your shoulders, you’re halfway between dimensions before a thought occurs to you. “Just one more thing before I go.”

Destiny is as grave as usual, entirely inhuman in his foreboding silence while he waits. 

“It can be broken, can’t it?” you say, scrutinising him closely. “The curse. There are weak spots in its design.”

“That is for you to discover,” he replies, much to your surprise. It’s closer to a yes than a no. “But pay heed. This path will not be forgiving should you wish to pursue it.”

Icy trepidation creeps its claws down your spine. You don’t permit it to show. 

“Nothing in my life has been forgiving,” you say curtly. “I bid you good fortune, Destiny.”

“And I you, Roamer of Realms.”

.

“Happy Dreamfall.”

Slanting your head, you let your chin dig into your shoulder, smiling. You hadn’t seen the Dream Lord since you snuck back into the Dreaming, seemingly no one having noticed your momentary departure. Normally, there are someone’s eyes on you. But only Dream can sense your appearance and disappearance inside the Dreaming itself. So you’ve taken advantage of his absence. You’ve had too much on your mind since your return from visiting Destiny to seek him out yet. 

“Happy Dreamfall,” you say to the Endless, who comes to a halt beside you. “May Fates smile upon you, Dream Lord. And may your realm of dreams be aplenty.”

Behind you, the castle grounds buzz with activity. At long last, things were returning to normal. This is the first cause of celebration these dreams and nightmares had in over a century. Back home, safe and in a place where they belong. You hugged and drank sweet nectars with plenty, smiling and touching hands. Or claws. But it didn’t take long to slip away and settle out here. 

Perched on the castle staircase, you must make for an odd sight, but Gatekeepers straighten back into their patrol positions with Dream’s arrival. You had left the castle to enjoy the darkening skies, the dreams swelling and blinking in the pitch-black canvas, ready for their journey. The Gatekeepers had clustered close, and you had spent a while simply chatting. You’ve missed them. It had been harrowing to witness them turn to stone while Dream was missing.  

“Would you walk with me?” Dream asks.

Wetting your lips, you stand. “Sure.”

Without a preamble, Dream sets out. His gait hovers on ponderous this evening. You’ve gotten used to more hurried, curt interactions between you. Invisible tension stretched tautly. Will-o'-the-wisps dance and sway through the humming evening air. Flowers in your path bloom in different colours, fairy dust sprinkled through the air. You continue on the faintly lit path cutting through the heart of the Dreaming without a word. 

“Are you well?”

Dream’s sudden question shakes you from your peaceful stupor. 

“Busy, but good,” you answer. “And you?”

Dream halts abruptly. You pass him, then do the same, gazing back at him, confused. 

Dream Lord’s pale eyes dig into you. They steal from you, and they give more than words ever could. But this once, Dream also uses his words: “I wish for us to talk as we once did.”

Anxiety pangs through your belly. You hadn’t expected him to point it out. Your lips compress into a stiff, bloodless line. It would be a bald-faced lie to insist something hasn’t broken between you. Corinthian’s unmaking has driven a wedge between you that neither can overcome. The nightmare had to be stopped, but it doesn’t take away from the grief festering in your chest. Most believe grief is an absence, but you’ve found the exact opposite is true. 

Grief is a presence that should be there but isn’t. It’s a weight of memories, of possibilities, of life unlived. Corinthian has become your phantom limb, his absence invisible to all but you as is the bleed.

“We’re getting there,” you say lastly.

His wild hair covers his eyes when his head lowers. Subconsciously, you find yourself stepping towards him, folding your hand around his. Cool and silky to the touch. A breath, and then you feel Dream’s hand curl around yours. He doesn’t move otherwise, muscles sitting in rigid mass beneath his pale skin. 

“Dream,” you call his name gently. “You’re trying. I see that. We’re finding new ways. Now tell me why we’re here.”

Because this path is familiar to you as your own hands. Just over the dark treeline lays the beach. The docks you’ve visited every night in his absence. This path had been your pilgrimage once, and now he’s returned. The fingers folded around yours tighten. Dream wordlessly tugs you with him until soft sand cushions the soles of your shoes. 

“It is a night where anything is possible,” he says knowingly. 

Your heartbeat jumps when he leads you towards the pier, wood creaking under your combined weight. “What are you doing?”

Dream draws you both to a stop halfway across the pier, something close to mischief sparking in his gaze. It’s so bizarrely unwonted you do a doubletake.

“Giving you my present.”

With that, he strides closer. Your mouth dries when he gently curls his arm around your waist. He raises your joint hands, spinning you to the side slowly. Clumsily, your legs obey, your breaths escaping uneven gulps. 

“Are we dancing, Dream Lord?”

Dream bows his head closer to yours, his voice velvet, “We are dancing in starlight, you and I.”

It’s then you feel the tingling, reverent whisper of his power over your body. Your eyes widen when you see faint light needling the sturdy fabric, as if your coat has become no more than a window into the raw cosmos. Galaxies swirl in raging spirals across the once-dark material. Your head snaps to the side while Dream continues spinning you unhurriedly. Your coat is shrinking, reshaping to fit your body even better than it did up to this point. 

“Dream this is…”

The coat settles into actuality. Sparkling dust spills from the material when you shift. Your overcoat has shrunk to kiss just above your knees. More fitted but no less comfortable. And then there’s the way it glimmers like a precious jewel whenever moonlight hits it. 

“I had hoped to give you something more… fitting,” Dream murmurs. You look up at him, your noses almost touching. “It is only right for the one who roams the stars to wear a coat of pure starlight.”

“Thank you,” you whisper shakily. “It’s beautiful.”

Beautiful doesn’t do it justice. The midnight material shimmers with your movement, liquid starlight captured into tangible fabric, and your throat closes up as you examine it further. Dream slips his arm from your waist. He lifts your joint hands, comfortable in his own, and lays a light kiss on your hand.

“It becomes you,” he compliments quietly, releasing you. “Now… it’s time.”

Your brows crease. “Time for what?”

Was this not it? Thick emotions still coat your tongue, lodged deep in your windpipe. But Dream only devours you with quiet intensity. 

Above your head, dreams start raining down in shining beams of light.

“We begin… with a spin.”

Your heart stutters to a stop. Water roars behind Dream, wild spray flying through the air. The faint drizzle beats against your face, leaving you gaping. 

“Dream. I…”

He extends his hand your way. “There is no Dreaming without Wanderer Island. Should you wish it, I would like us to create another.”

Your features crumble, the ball in your throat robbing you of your voice. Indecision holds you captive—on the one hand, you want nothing more, but on another, you’re too afraid. What if it all ends up in the same place? You watching yet another part of you sink into those inky depths. 

But there’s something cautious, near vulnerable, to be found in Dream’s guarded features. It’s an effort for him to open up, but you can see the unsure way his hand hangs in offering between you. He’s bracing himself for rejection, for you to leave him alone on this pier. 

You grasp his proffered hand, fingers winding cautiously around his. Dream’s shoulders slump slightly from their rigid slant, relaxing at the contact. 

He guides you to an all too familiar position. You standing at the edge of the pier, him behind you, a hand on your shoulder. A disconcerting sensation of deja vu falls over you. 

“Describe it to me,” he prompts.

Black, foreboding waters of the Dreaming spin in ferocious whirlpools. Dream’s elegant hand pierces your line of sight, primed for creation. 

“There’s a small island.” Your voice trembles. You haven’t forgotten anything, down to the exact words used. You conjure the Wanderer Island in your mind’s eye as it once stood; brilliant and shining. The visual blooms bold and alive in your mind. “The grass that grows there is the greenest there’s ever been. And it tastes like sour apples.”

Dream’s hand on your shoulder squeezes lightly. Same amusement, even centuries later. You’re both changed, but a familiar outline of an island starts taking shape on the horizon. 

“The sun that shines on the island is never too hot. The air is sweet and light. The flowers never wilt, and trees never shed leaves.” It’s pouring from your mouth now, an avalanche of memory. You’ve missed the island so dearly, and details from five centuries ago come readily. “The sky is an endless periwinkle shade. There’s always food and drinks. Books and games. And…”

Your heart bleeds, fresh wounds gushing. But you push on because it’s not about you.

“And an old friend waits at the beach to greet you with a patient smile whenever you arrive. Because not everyone has a family, and not everyone needs a lover, but everyone should have a friend. The island will be there whenever someone feels lonely, lost, or desperate for an escape. It’ll be there to welcome you. To give you a corner to hide. There is no sadness there. No loneliness or confusion. Only…”

Dream’s lips tickle over the shell of your ear. “… hope.”

And then stillness. 

The water settles in a gurgling slosh. In the distance, a patch of land once again floats. There to welcome new dreamers. Wanderer Island blurs. The heel of your hand presses over your eyes, overwhelmed. 

Blindly, you tug on Dream’s coat; a mute request. Between one inhale and the next, wood underfoot is exchanged for sand. 

Everything is the same down to the last blade of grass and tree composition. Either your vision was so clear Dream could pluck every last detail from your mind or…

Or he remembered the Island with the same clarity as you. 

You sink to your knees. Sand crumbles around your digits when you dip them into the pliable sand. 

“Hi. There you are.”

Nothing, then…

Grass sprouts unprompted around your hand, tiny daisies twining across your thumb. Utterly impossible, yet tonight, here, anything is possible. A choked laugh escapes you. Your cheeks ache from your beaming smile. 

“She’s missed you,” Dream reveals quietly.

Your head lifts in surprise. You stroke the miniature, perfect blooms. “I missed you too.”

With another tickle, the flowers and grass retreat, shrinking into the golden beach. Several moments pass by until you unearth the strength to stand. Dream’s profile greets you. He’s turned away, giving you privacy, but subtle uncertainty lines his features. Sensing your attention, he peers towards you, then past you. 

“Thank you,” you breathe. Despite your verbal gratitude, Dream’s attention remains fixed over your shoulder. “What?”

His low words reach you over the sound of lapping waves. “Are you not going to say hello to an old friend?”

You follow his line of sight. Behind you, at a distance with falling dreams as his backdrop, stands a tall, pale-haired figure. 

Everything inside you falls very, very quiet—all those tumultuous emotions freeze. Your head snaps back to Dream with a stifled gulp. It can’t be real. Surely it’s some mirage, a feedback loop, a ghost conjured from your love for the now-gone nightmare. 

But Dream only slants his head in a marginal, affirming nod. You dare to peek behind you once more. There he stands. The nightmare. Not a twisted joke. 

Your feet carry you towards him without conscious thought; half-running, half-walking, stumbling all the while. Corinthian stands with his hands in his pockets, his shoulders in a slight slouch. His nude-coloured slacks and white shirt shine like beacons in the pale moonlight. Round shades cover his eyes, his blonde strands fluttering in the light breeze. 

He's a figment. Not quite tangible until your body crashes into him, your arms scrambling to hold onto him. “Oh, God!”

Dry, humoured, “Not quite.”

Your heart is pounding so loudly you’re sure he can feel it, if not hear it. A pained, whining sound bubbles up in your throat, gripping him closer.

“I… how…” You wrench yourself back, a horrible thought occurring. You search his handsome features. That infuriating smirk always curling his mouth is absent. “Do you remember me?”

Corinthian stands there, not moving, with no real emotion on display, either. Your heart sinks. Could it be that he—

Dull throb flares across your forehead. He’s flicked you—

A wide, toothy grin stretches across Corinthian’s mouth. “Gotcha.”

With a choked laugh, you punch his shoulder, hugging him close with a wide smile. “I hate you.”

A pleased hum. This time, the nightmare’s arm settles around you. “Hate you more.”

You’re not sure how long you both stand there. When you do part, reluctance keeps your hand on him. Fingertips connecting to some part of him. Remembering the Dream Lord you came here with—who gave you this, his present—you find Dream no longer on the beach. Or anywhere in sight. He’s given you privacy and time. Your heart softens further.  

“Does this mean I’m forgiven?”

Corinthian’s subdued question tugs your attention back towards him. You almost wish he didn’t remind you. Because now you’re faced with the reality that even though he’s been returned to you, there’s much you both need to overcome and fix. That losing him did not magically wipe away the wrongs he’s done. If you hope to return to the relationship you once had, you’ll need time.

You consider him for a moment. 

“You’re always forgiven,” you tell him honestly. 

Standing in the moonglow, you pretend you don’t notice how something coiled tightly seems to loosen inside him at your reassurance. Instead, you reach for his face. Your fingertips brush over Corinthain’s glasses, and his hand snap out, wrapping around your wrist tightly. Bones making up his jaw roll beneath the skin. Tension throbs between you while seconds tick by. Through clenched teeth, Corinthian unwraps his hold finger by finger. 

You tug his shades away from his face. He’s tense as a bowstring, his head slanted at an angle. The same jagged teeth sit where most have eyeballs. They’re hooded, though. His discomfort—and anger at said discomfort—couldn’t be more perspicuous. 

His shades close as you fold arm temples one at a time. You hold his stare, staring right at those jagged teeth with a slight frown. You extend his shades back to him mutely. 

“But my trust is something you will have to earn back,” you state earnestly. 

The nightmare hesitates halfway to reaching for his glasses. Those pale fingers dance over them before he plucks them from you.

“Sounds like a fair deal,” he muses absently. You expect him to put the shades back on, but instead, Corinthian hooks them on his shirt pocket. Turning to go, he calls out a honeyed, “You coming?”

He gazes at you over his shoulder, jagged teeth on full show, and you feel yourself smile.

“Always.”

.

Sun shines luminous and warm today. The Wanderer Island stretches as far as your eye can perceive, teeming with life and greenery around every corner. Flowers and trees bloom everywhere—an awe-inspiring marriage between tropical and temperate climates. The Island once again oozes a sense of magick and wonder that was once so prominent here. No place in the universe can compare.  

“Rebuilding is almost complete,” you begin conversationally. “The Dreaming is more beautiful than ever.”

The Endless keeps pace beside you, a pensive sound rumbling from him. “It was not without aid.”

A smile twitches your lips upwards. “You’re welcome.”

Two weeks have gone by since Dreamfall. Things have mended—between you individually and the atmosphere around the Dreaming. While Corinthian’s return was met with some side glances, no one discussed it further. Dreamfolk trust Dream to make the right decision. Or perhaps Gault was right; they’re wiser than to outright question.  

“The Corinthian has also been making progress,” Dream says. “I am hoping to place him under supervision and monitor his conduct. To make sure what happened is never repeated. Should the need arise, he will be allocated duties back in the waking world.”

Joy flutters in your heart. “Yeah? That’s great. Someone you trust, I assume?”

“Yes.”

“And?” you probe. “Are you going to tell me who or not?”

In your peripheral, Dream inclines in your direction. “Yours.”

You nearly trip. “Dream, I—” You clear your throat, pausing. “Are you sure? It didn’t exactly work out last time.”

Dream’s intent scrutiny slides over your facial features. “It was due to no fault of yours. And this Corinthian is the same in all but one function. He will not fail again. He has a different purpose now.”

There’s a solemn sort of finality about the way he articulates those words. A tiny shiver skitters down your spine. He will not expand further upon those words. Whatever that purpose is, you imagine time will reveal it. 

You chew on your inner cheek. “Okay. I would like that.”

You smile at him. But Dream’s expression stutters, overcome by some foreign emotion. His mouth parts, then closes, his fingers folding into white-knuckled fists. 

Just as you’re about to ask what’s wrong, Dream speaks: “Wanderer. Stay.”

You muster up an uncertain, perplexed smile. “I’m right here.”

Dream marches closer, sunshine caught in his onyx hair. 

“Stay however long you want,” he insists softly. “Stay forever if it should so please you.”

Shock envelops you, freezing you in your spot. You’ve told him, didn’t you? That you would stay forever by his side if only he asked. Now he’s asking. Except confusion and unease battle in your chest. Can you trust his word? Did Dream change enough? He brought back Corinthian. He freed Gault from the Darkness. He insists this is a new age. But…

“And if I wanted to leave?” you question. “If I chose never to return, what then?”

“It would sadden my creations—”

“I’m asking you.”

Dream falters, shackled by your insistence. His lashes flutter, his head lowering in near palpable struggle. You’re challenging him, but you refuse to continue with the charade. If he wants forever, you can’t live with the fear he might change his mind about it. 

“It would pain me, also. A great deal.” He hesitates again, and it’s bizarre because this degree of uncertainty is not something you associate Dream with. “But you are free. You've always been free. The Dreaming is your home. Should you wish to return, its gates will always await you.”

Doubt twists your mouth downwards. “I thought that once—”

“I swear it. No matter what the future may hold. No matter how angry I get, I shall never again take the Dreaming away from you.” Sheer power woven into those words leaves no room for doubt. It’s a vow. He will not break it. There would be a price to pay if he did. Dream’s fingertips ghost over yours, a graze leaving fire in its wake. “I read your book in the library. I did not wish to tell you sooner because I worried you would leave. Because… you were right. I could never understand the sheer devastation. Or the harm I inflicted.”

You drag your hand back, stepping away from him. Dream’s features fall subtly. You face away, giving him your back while you process. Raising the hand he was caressing seconds prior, you cradle it to your chest. Sunshine prickles your cheek, but you ignore it. 

“I’m not ashamed of my past,” you tell him, turning back to face him. “I always knew there was a chance you could read it. So, what did you think?”

He appears pained. At least now you know why he’s been so melancholy these last several weeks. “That I should wish for nothing more than for you to stay by my side.”

Those unadorned words devastated you. 

Smiling through your inflated, overjoyed heart, you mumble, “Stay forever… I can’t technically do that.”

But Dream is unruffled. If anything, you glimpse the beginnings of hope starting to take root in him. 

“I’ll seek a way,” he avows. 

“To what?” An incredulous chuckle escapes you. “Break the curse?”

Destiny’s warning jump back to the forefront of your mind, and you swallow thickly. You don’t dare to ponder freedom for longer than an indulgent moment. 

“Yes,” Dream replies. 

You stare at him. Tall and dark, sunlit and more open than you’ve ever seen him. Determined and golden. Your Dream Lord. He terrifies you. You love him. 

“You can’t interfere,” you remind him emptily. “And I might die.”

“Or you may live,” Dream argues. “Freely. And choose for yourself. Always.”

“Trying to bait me, Dream Lord?”

Sudden tension between you loosens around the edges. Once more, the susurration of the trees trickles into your mind, elevating the brewing anxiety. 

A thousand years. The curse has defined your existence and has kept you alive this long. What are you without it? There’s always been an unspoken acknowledgement that you could never break the curse without dying. Simply too much time has passed. No mortal vessel can survive over a millennium otherwise. When you asked Destiny, it was only to understand more about the nature of the curse. Not because you ever assumed you could survive breaking the curse. 

Dream’s mouth compresses as if he’s attempting not to smile. “I would never.”

“Stay by your side, huh?” you mutter, looking away while you mull over your conversation. “And what exactly would that entail?”

His response is immediate, smooth, “Whatever you wish.”

“A companion, then?” Your words pitch lower and silkier while you close the minimal distance with relaxed, unhurried steps. Dream’s eyes darken a shade. “An emissary? A consort? A queen?”

His black-clad shoulders lift with his inhale. 

“Those are but words,” he murmurs silkily. “For you would be all those things, and more.”

You examine his profile, those starlit irises, the doubt swimming there. Does he doubt you would stay? After such long years harbouring this affection for him? Silly, wonderful anthropomorphic personification. “I’ll stay, but only if you answer a question.”

“Even if the price were a hundred thousand questions, Wanderer, I would pay it gladly. What is this question?”

Narrowing your eyes, you scrutinise him. Dream does not balk under your exigent examination, waiting patiently. Biting back a smile, you permit your features to relax. He’s unfairly fun to tease. 

“What does the Lord of Dreams dream about?”

Relish bubbles in your chest at the way Dream’s expression comes undone. As if from a thousand questions he was bracing for, nothing could have prepared him for this. Birds chirp a merry tune somewhere in the tree line, a warm breeze ruffling Dream’s dark hair while he gazes at you with utterly confused wonderment. A slight, fond smile curls his lips.  

“A thousand years,” he begins in a bewildered drawl. “And still, you ask the same question.”

You laugh faintly, shrugging. “Well, in all fairness, you never answered me the last time. Which was very rude, by the way—”

In an inhale Dream of the Endless materialises in front of you. His hands slip to hold your face, cupping it with delicate hands as he tugs you closer. His kiss falls over you like stars. Silky, gentle warmth that washes over you with such fervent passion you gasp against his mouth. Your hands grasp onto him blindly. You part only long enough for you to gulp down oxygen before your mouths meet again, and again, and again, burning with need unquenched. Heat spreads through every inch of you. A thousand years being cold, floating unearthed, but now someone is holding you. 

Dream presses another kiss to your mouth, desperate and hungry, gentle in his handling, and you return it with equal enthusiasm, equal need. Dizziness envelops you, and Dream pulls back, his forehead resting against yours. You shudder, a delicious heat licking up your senses. This closeness hurts better than anything ever has. You remind yourself to breathe, to remember this is real, he’s here, holding you, and nothing matters in this moment. Whatever the future holds, you do not fear it. Because Hob was right: there are people out there who love, and that makes all the difference. 

Dream’s thumb grazes over your bunched-up cheek. Your smile is wide enough to light your entire face. 

It continues with a gentle, rasping: “I’ll tell you one day, stardust.”

an:

Never apologise, never explain.

I set out to write nothing more than a fun little story that I expected to have maybe 3-4 parts max. Something entirely self-indulgent and fun for no one but me and maybe one or two mutuals. I never quite expected it would become as beloved as it did. I suppose here, in the end, I would like to take the time to thank everyone who read this and supported it. Be it by commenting, making edits/art for it or just sending me encouraging/funny messages. You guys are the reason this story became what it did. I'm immensely grateful for each and every single one of you. It was a rough month, but I'm glad I could offer you this conclusion at long last. Thank you for being here, thank you for being kind, and thank you again for reading.

Goodnight, and see you all in dreams, wanderers ☾ ⋆･ﾟ:⋆･ﾟ

[dark-night-hero]

Glaze Lily (Zhongli)

ᴴᵃⁿᵃʰᵃᵏⁱ ᴰⁱˢᵉᵃˢᵉ ᴬᵁ

I have been in love with you as far as I can remember.

"If you were to watch the love of your life slowly fall in love with someone else, what would you do?" Asked the figure with a violet eyes and black hair. Its deep yet misty eyes stare at the two figure from afar then back at the woman in across it.

There the said woman followed were the figure with violet eyes were looking at. Looking at the scene, he was holding her close. He was holding her close that it was almost suffocating. Like something was stuck on her throat that she felt like throwing up.

"Are you okay?" It was the same figure with violet eyes that has been bothering her for a while now who snappened her out of her daze. "Love can be a dangerous game darling." Her eyes were glowing as if to warn her something. "Stop loving while its early." The hooded figure laughs, standing up from their seat as she continue to glare at the figure before it disappear from her sight.

She was left there in place, hands clench in a fist as she bit her lips. It was suffocating, her throat was itching. Something was happening. Something is starting. But what is it?

"Are you alright?" Rex Lapis asked as he gently and carefully approach her, but as soon as she look up to him, she could see her following closely behind. "Yeah. I'm alright."

I was here first. I met you first. I was there first. I was with you first. This means nothing to you, right?

Loving can be kind, but one must remember that love- loving can be dangerous. So dangerous.

She was so kind, so smart, so caring and lovely. Of course the adeptus were all over her for a reason, even him was no exception. "I honestly prefer your work over mind, what was Morax thinking when he chose mine?" She pout, sitting on the near vacant seat. Looking at her, a fake smile makes its way on her lips, "Is that so? Tell me about- cough!" "Oh my-! That sounded so painful, are you alright?!" "I'm alright.. If you'll exc- cough! cough!" She quickly stood up, hands covering her mouth. "Are you sure-!" "Move." "What was that-" Before Morax, Rex Lapis could even finish his sentence, she already run off.

Looking down at her hands in horror, there was blood. Then there was a single blue bloody petal. "What is thi-!" "I warned you didn't I?" She almost flinch but the perhaps, she had seen this coming. "What is happening to me?" She gasp, it was suffocating. For a while now, that suffocating feeling never went away.

"Pfffff haha" The hooded figure sigh like it cannot help it. "Asking something you already know?" She could not help but to glare at the fugure, hand curling into a fist, crushing the bloody petal. "It's the sickness of unrequited love. Hanahaki disease." Then the figure laugh, its violet eyes glowing. "I warned you, didn't I? Even the all mighty ones has their own demise."

Love is dangerous. It will bring you happiness until everything falls apart, tearing you into tiny little pieces.

I was there in your deepest darkest hours. I was there when no one was by your side. I was the one who pulled you away from darkness. I have always been by your side.

Series of claps can be heard as well as cheers as the two figure finally announced their relationship to the majority of the adeptus. And as much as she wants to do the same. She felt her throat itching like hell. Her sigh was getting deeper and deeper as time passed by, it was only a matter of time before she burst into fit of coughing. But she was all pretending everything was fine with a smile.

She held it in for a very long time until it was time for them to leave, she did not say a single thing. She just stood there in place, a smile on her lips. As soon as she was far away from hearing and sight. She crouch over to the ground as she burst out into a fit of coughing. Endless coughing.

She felt like she was dying, maybe she was. She cannot breathe, she felt like her lungs were being ripped apart. It hurts like hell that its killing her inside out. Tears rolling down her cheeks as she cough out bloody and fucking bloody white and blue petals. "Ah seriously-! cough- ugh!"

Is this the price to pay for loving-

"Tsk tsk. Look at you." Someone crouch down along side her. "Funny how humans and those immortal ones have something in common." Those belittling violet eyes, she wants to pull them out. "They all become a fool in love." "Regretting it now?" "Hahhhh... get out of my face."

Love is dangerous. But you know that didn't you? This is your choice.

"What should I do with you?" She was barely hanging on into consciousness. "This is such a foolish move." The figure tsked as it watches her die slowly. But it the major wounds on her body or suffocation. She had already accepted it. "Those wounds is fixable. It is the disease that is slowly killing you." The figure explain. "I can fix it but there is a consequence." That made her look at the hooded figure. "You'll have your emotions gone-" "They..." "???" "Are they okay?"

The figure halt. Then it laughed. "How crazy." "They're the reason why you're like this but even after all that you're still looking after them?" The hooded figure laugh for a long time then it looked back before disappearing without a trace, and not too long after that. Morax came on sight. His arms were trembling as he picked her up. She hated it, she hated the suffocating feeling in her chest that never went away even in these times. It was killing her. Like someone was tearing her lungs apart. Like somone planted a seed in there having its roots warped all around her lungs.

"Morax... Rex Lapis." She gasp, she was holding on into him for dear life. "Hush, come on. She'll be here in no time to heal you-" "My love.." She felt Morax stiffen. "My dear." She could barely breathe. "My lovely (First name)." "Guizhong-" "Morax... take care of her.. please?" She gripped on his arm. "I..." her eyes were teary. "I love her."

Just as Guizhong said that, the hands that was holding into him loosen. Slowly, Guizhong body starts to form a crack before it disintegrate into thin air. In her place leaving behind a bloody flower that was later known as Glaze Lily.

Love won't die, but it can kill you. You know?

[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2024°

: as much as I want to keep it gender neutral, I need to mislead ya'll for the plot twist so yeah.

[puffein]

UNMENDABLE THING | late spring [x.]

summary: wanda seeks out the only person who knows all the answers to her questions. pairings: wanda maximoff x fem!reader, wanda maximoff x natasha romanoff (platonic) warnings: angst word count: 2104 a/n: please enjoy!!

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Westview, New Jersey

Early-February 2024

Natasha always knew her life would be a constant moving car on an endless highway to chaos. She planned it herself to have a life she's having now. To continue studying even just after receiving her bachelor's degree, well, that was a year ago but it's still as fresh as what her mind thought of. 

You have suggested her to take a year to rest, to start law school in the year 2024 but Natasha didn't want to waste more time. She wants to have the chaos she desires even if it will want her to pluck her hair out in the near future, but that is what she wanted. You have called her mental for starting researching schools for law a year before graduating and even called her a beast when she started studying for the admission test just a month after receiving a degree.

Everything is quiet right at this moment for Natasha. The only sounds emitting in her cozy apartment were the tunes of paper rustling and a low melodious classical music she had played in the background. Her eyes are downcasted in her desk, focused on a thick book that she had carried with ease. Everything is just in place for her. Quiet and peaceful.

So, when her front door was giving a frantic continuous loud banging of fist. She uttered a silent profanity in hopes for the noise to vanish but of course, the world is not a giving mother, it's a greedy one so she was left to fend off the banging of her front door. 

Pushing herself off the chair she's residing in, she shouts a gritted, "Wait a minute!" 

And when she thought chaos would start after her admission in her desired law school, she was wrong. Because standing in front of her, in her front door was the epitome of chaos. 

Wanda stood rigid in front of Natasha with her dishevelled auburn hair, green eyes imitating a sight of turmoil and confusion, hands fisted so tightly that Natasha made a mental note to check if it was bleeding. 

They stood looking at each other for a few seconds, when the stoic redhead finally spoke up, "What are you doing here, Wanda?" 

Natasha's voice was gentle like a calm weaving waters because she knew why Wanda is here. She had argued with you about this, about this exact event that will happen right before you fly away to Scotland but alas to her, you are one hell of a brickened being so, she was left to face Wanda with answers she had prepared. 

"Can I come in?" Natasha was shocked to hear the calmness of Wanda's voice, it contradicts her appearance. But Nat knew better, it was the calm before the brewing storm.

She opened her front door wider, inviting Wanda to a space she has never set foot before. When the two figures placed themselves comfortably in Natasha's living room, Wanda's travelling gaze set right at a picture frame of what she makes out an image of you and Natasha in graduation. It made the green-eyed woman taste bitterness in her mouth. 

"I'm sorry for intruding so suddenly, I know we have never been close before and I– uh want to thank you for coming to my wedding. The gift you and Y/N gave was something we needed." 

Wrong, that gift was everything Wanda hated. She hated that instead of a gift just from you, the small card glued onto the gift was written with 'from Y/N and Natasha'. 

Everything just seems to be you and Natasha, even in this little space of a place she never set foot in screams you and her. 

She saw little remnants of you in Natasha's place, like the small silver box that was always on top of your desk is now placed nicely on Natasha's shelves, the all too familiar vase you have decorated yourself sits rightfully in the redhead's coffee table, hell, even your favorite book is placed at her desk.  

She didn't want to get too worked up just by looking at things that is useless from the eyes of an outsider. But she was not an outsider, she knew how these little things mattered to you and it hurts for her to see it in the hands of another. 

"Y/N was the one who picked it so.." Natasha said cautiously, she waved her hand dismissively, "Would you like something to drink?" 

Wanda only smiles, shaking her head lightly, "No, it's fine. I'm not really here to have a drink with you." 

She should have worded it nicely but with the hard thrumming of her chest and the unanswered thoughts resurfacing in her troubled mind, she can't seem to be polite and civilized. 

Natasha sat back, her hands placed cooly at her lap, "What is it, Wanda?"

"Have you.. have you heard of Y/N?" she started, eyes focused on every little muscle of the redhead's strong features. "I just, well. We had a coffee back in December and um, it's been so long since she replied to me and when I called, it, it seemed to me that I was blocked."

Natasha nods, "Wanda, I didn't really know–"

"No. You can't possibly not know, Romanoff. You are her best friend." saying that made her flinch, like a pinch by the hands of a giant right at her chest.

"Look, Wanda. I don't want to come in between what is happening with you two. It's not my business." 

Wanda scoffs, her head whipping to the side as she tries so hard not to shed frustrated tears in front of the very woman she does not like. 

"I don't even know what is happening between me and Y/N. If you are clueless, what am I then? What word could you describe to someone more than being clueless?" she says exasperatedly, tone drawing out in between the lines of being desperate and being angry. But at the very back of her mind, she had a tiny clue of what was unfolding right in front of her eyes. She just wants to be shielded by the comforts of being blind and clueless in hopes of getting more answers.

"Because I don't know, Natasha. I don't know what is happening and it's making me angry that I have come from a place that knows every single detail of her life to nothing at all!" Wanda didn't mean to shout, she didn't mean to look like a crazed woman in front of a seemingly calmed redhead that stares at her with sympathy pooling in her eyes.

When silence ensues, Wanda knew she needed to be calm, to have her head in a space that would work perfectly. "Please, I just want answers that I know you could give." 

"She's in Scotland. She has been a week maybe after you and her met in the coffeehouse. I really don't know the exact date you and her met but she left in December." That was enough for Wanda to straighten her figure against the soft cushions of Natasha's couch. 

Why didn't you tell her?

Was her presence in your life not significant enough for you to tell her you have moved far away?

And without a warning, the self-doubt she had hidden, tucked away in the deepest corners of her soul, came crashing into her being like a canonball that has been shot for the sole purpose of crumbling a safely guarded boat in a harsh waters of the ocean.

"Did she tell you anything at all?" About me? Wanda wanted to say. Her voice was so quiet, the soft tunes of Natasha's music is more loud than the question she had just asked. 

Natasha moves her head in an answer that disappoints her, "I tried to tell her to talk to you properly, I really did, Wanda. But she doesn't want to, she said it's better for things to stay the way it is."

Wanda's strong facade crumbles down fast and rapidly. What did you mean to stay the way it is? What is that supposed to mean? Every answer she has heard just piqued her another question to be answered. And she's getting tired and confused, she thought Natasha would help her shed light on things that have stayed in the dark for too long but instead it just blew out the small illuminating candle in a space so pitch black.

"I-I'll be back, Natasha. I have to go. Thank you." with her weakened knees and the shaking of her hands, she stood tall and at the same time small as she postured herself to walk away. 

Natasha didn't let her go that fast as she rounded up the couch in a haste movement before Wanda could take a step outside. She grips the shaking arms of the green-eyed woman, "Y/N just needed time for herself. Please understand. You mattered to her, you should know that."

Wanda stares at her unmoving, the whipping of her cascading auburn hair was harsh and swift, "And still it was not enough for her to say goodbye?"

"Wanda–"

"No. Everything is just not enough when it comes to me." She gently yanks her arms out of Natasha's soft grips.

"If I mattered, she wouldn't be doing this. I know I have become such a shitty best friend for the past years and I know I have never apologized to her for my actions before graduation and just moved on in hopes for things to settle itself right as it is. But was that too big of a deal for her to just completely forget about me?" 

And there it is. The unspoken broken relationship you two had. She never spoke of it, in hopes that it will vanish and somewhat mend itself as time passes by. But she was clearly wrong. She had ignored things far too long that she knew in the back of her mind that this will never be fixed. It drove you away from her. 

It was in the year 2022, wasn't it? The year everything just fell apart, it was the year she started ignoring, giving you the cold shoulders, became a stranger. Just because she heard a half-finished conversation that hurted her ego and feelings far too deep. A conversation you didn't even know of because she just started doing actions after actions that resulted in a broken friendship. 

Darcy even told her to just say everything she had to say but of course, she had nothing to say and left things unsaid. 

It must've been so painful for you. 

Because pain is an understatement for what she's been feeling right now. Now, that you were the one to have left things unsaid. 

"I really don't know what happened between the two of you. But she was happy when you invited her to your wedding, I just knew she was elated that you somewhat did not forget about her after graduation." Natasha didn't know what she was saying, she shouldn't try so hard to mend things that has been left broken for so long. 

"Here. It's her address, she will kill me for this but the talk you two should have is long overdue, right?" Natasha pushes a small card into Wanda's hand, closing it tightly on the palms of an auburn haired woman.

She had to give you a push, right? Even if it's a push she shouldn't be doing.

Wanda glances away, her face contorts into an image of pain, "Thank you. This means a lot. But I– you wouldn't be saying that if you knew what happened." 

"Y/N kind of implied something about you leaving her hanging but she never told me the whole story. She always tries to shield you from my negative judgements, Wanda. I knew you did something wrong despite that," Natasha wipes her palms hardly on her thighs, "It just seemed the right words to say."

Wanda gave her a smile of appreciation and nods, "Thank you." And with that she started to let her feet lead her away.

Not without hearing the last words Natasha shouted, "Wanda, you should talk to her. Just say everything you had to say." 

She would laugh right now if she can because the words are just the same of what she had heard before. 

The world is a weird place to be living in, isn't it? 

Because she should have listened to that words a year ago when everything was fresh, not now, when everything seems to be in a place so hard to be fixed with.

general masterlist ◄ ►

—୧ taglist: @esposadejoyhuerta @sokovianbaby @vivs46 @kyaraderuwez

[bettyfrommars]

hi loves

a wee announcement/bit of reflection below the cut

nothing heavy, just some thoughts & updates

First of all, I want to say I love this fandom so much. Truly I do. It has carried me though possibly the hardest, loneliest year of my life (and this ol' girl has been though some dark times). I've made friendships here that I hope to cherish for the rest of my life.

I came into fanfiction in October of last year, after not writing anything substantial for almost a decade. My dear friend at the time said she was looking for a specific Eddie Munson story, so I wrote it for her. I wrote it in first person because I didn't even understand how "reader perspective" was a thing, that's how wet behind the ears I was to this world. My friend, on the other hand, is a well-versed fic reader, and I distinctly remember messaging her like, "okay, what the hell is a Y/N??"

I spent that entire dark, cold winter writing and passing it to her in parts like notes in a classroom. The rush of getting back to something I loved so deeply after so much time away turned me into a monster. I lived and breathed that story. We sent endless messages back and forth every day about what each character would do next, imagining ourselves in that world, with Eddie. We made playlists, we cried. We screamed and giggled and kicked our feet when they finally kissed. We mourned the loss when it ended and moped around a bit before going back to read it all over again. Some 40k words and four months later I realized, holy shit, I think I write fanfiction now?

In a way, fanfiction saved my life. It brought me back to a part of myself I had buried, a part of me that worried it might never see the light of day again. It came crawling out of the ground, gasping for air like, "you better stretch your fingers bitch because I have a lot to say."

In April, I started posting here when the fandom was notably beginning to wane, but I was happy to see there were so many still going hard for our man. I kinda creeped in, like a little scuttling crab, and was grateful to find that a handful of you embraced me.

Long story short, I am NOT leaving, not at all. I know the tone is there, but that is not what this is, lmao. I will hopefully keep this blog for as long as you will have me. I plan to finish writing I'm on Fire and Death Becomes Us, as well as maybe another bit for gargoyle!Eddie, and nightmare!Eddie, but the other series I've started (or planned to start) will stay on hiatus for a while, possibly forever. I will continue to post blurbs and hc's and whatnot, but I won't be committing to any new series or long fics.

My masterlists will remain intact for the time being for those who want to enjoy what is there. That being said, The Nightmare Factory and Stop the World and Melt with You, might be taken down in the future only because I plan to re-work them into original stories. I have a second non-fandom blog in the works that is dedicated to monsters, nightmares, and magic realism, and I will let those who are interested know about it when the time comes.

Mostly, I wanted to let you know that, even if you notice some changes, I will continue to persist with "My 2 Joe's" delulu era, possibly until the earth swallows me up. I am no longer taking requests, but my asks will always be open for thots, blurbs, obsessions, etc. You know how much I love hearing from you.

That's all really. Perhaps this is simply one of those "end of year" thought dumps, but I also wanted to say a heartfelt Thank You to those who continue to support me, enjoy my work, and share it. My Ride or Die monsterfuckers and biker Eddie enthusiasts. My nightmare Eddie dreamers, my Twilight Zone Eddie pineapple heads. My gargoyle Eddie romantics who cheer on our Stone Boy, and my Hybrid Steve lovers who leave their windows open at night. My True Blood friends who appreciate a vampire Eddie who is nothing like Bill Compton. My darlings, my fellow rebel rousers and misfits, my friends.

This is a very symbiotic relationship, and I could not/would not do this without you ❤️

[tree0frog]

Hi, I just recently came across your blog and I really liked the way you write.

Can I make a request about the twelfth doctor and Clara?

Where Reader is in Clara's class at Coal Hill School, and she always enthusiastically talked about her main hobby - space. Since childhood, she could look at the starry sky for hours, and also talk about it for hours. She reviewed all science fiction films and TV series on space topics, reread all the works of famous astronomers and astrophysicists. Can name all astronauts and cosmonauts in chronological order.

In short, she is the number one fan of everything cosmic, and everything seems to be fine, except for the constant endless bullying from classmates and passive-aggressive reproaches from parents on the topic that "how stupid it is at her age to get carried away with such nonsense." And one day, hiding in a remote alley in the backyard of the school, Reader accidentally sees her teacher Miss Oswald first talking to a strange old man, and after that how both of them go into a strange blue booth.

Hi sorry this took so long iv been busy with work and college and trying to finish the other 100 things I wanted to write lol hope you like it .

i will do a part two if its asked

strange man

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platonic Clara x teen reader

To most, you were weird quite a freak even.

But to Clara you and your mind were amazing. You found comfort in her from the start bonding over your love for all things space and sifi.

The doctor started questioning his companion when she took little gifts from their travels.

"what's a {Y/N}?" he asked looking up from his book.

" A kid in my class gets bullied and I thought this would hear them up doctor, their mind gosh it is just incredible you'd love them" she laughed tucking a piece of hair behind her ear.

so life continued for some time Clara would bring you small gifts from her travels and would tell you about them.

" so the man in the box whats he like?" you asked taking a drink from your bottle and you found yourself eating lunch in the safety of your teacher's classroom like most days.

"Well, he can be very grumpy most of the time VERY Scottish old the doctors are very smart as well"You smiled as you went on listening to your teacher ramble about this old man who could travel in time and space.

The other kids would tease and pick on you for believing in things like that however to you well it was different just the idea that life could exist beyond earth was so amazing to you and to find someone who shared your interest even if she made up still story to make you feel better its worth it.

The bell rang singling that it was the end of another day at the hell you called a school,walking past the back gates you noticed a blue box that wasn't there before outside side it was a man and you.

Teacher?

you froze in your seat as you watched the pair enter the blue box your eyes met the strange man's gaze as he smiled at you before you watched him shut the doors and the blue box faded into nothing.

[gaysindistress]

Sad girl - ten

summary: James has an interesting new business proposal and one hell of a condition to deal with.

pairing: Mob!Bucky Barnes x Reader

warnings: cursing, Bucky’s smartass, 

word count: 2k

a/n: It’s almost wedding time!! 

part 9 | series masterlist

taglist: @missvelvetsstuff @angelsincident @spencerreidisagorgman    @i-have-no-life-charlie @esposadomd @reader-without-a-story @unaxv @iateall-yourcookies  @alana4610 @kandis-mom @beware-my-thorns @ozwriterchick @littlelizardlizzie @goldensunflowe-r

disclaimer: credits to original creator/poster of image/gif. found on google/Pinterest

“Natasha,” the syllables of her name are being dragged out as Doll tries to give her the best puppy eyes she can. 

“Yes?” the redhead replies, not looking up from her phone. 

“I need your help with something.”

“If this is your way of asking me to help you dress shop, I’m going to stop you right there.”

Doll lets out a loud sigh, dropping herself into the chair next to Nat, “You’re the only one I want to go with. I’m not asking Pepper and Morgan is too young to give any real advice.”

“You have friends, don’t you?” Nat looks over at the pitiful sight of the other woman. 

“My situation doesn’t really allow for any real friends.”

“You make it sound like you’re a criminal.”

“I’m not one but the people I’m surrounded by are.”

“I’m sure you have at least one you can call.”

She doesn’t answer right away, the silence is telling of her answer though. 

“Oh my god,” Nat turns her body to fully look at her, “you have no friends.”

“Okay, that’s not fair. I do, they just aren’t people I particularly like being around for a long time, and dress shopping is going to take a long time,” she holds her hands up in defense as she explains. 

Nat raises her eyebrow, “So then they’re not friends.”

She rolls her eyes and stands up, “Fine, I’ll go ask Steve or Thor or even Loki.”

“No no I’ll go,” Nat grabs her wrist, preventing her from leaving. 

“Oh thank god. Thor is nice but Loki always looks like he’s got something up his sleeve.”

Both women make their way into the hallway as Nat speaks, “That’s probably because he does.”

Her eyes widen at Nat’s words but the slight smirk tells her it’s a joke. She leads the redhead upstairs and into her room. Nat takes a seat on her bed as the other woman grabs her computer and sits next to her. 

“Since it’s going to be here, I figured something short would work. I don’t really want anything big.”

Scrolling through endless pictures, Nat stops and points at a mid-thigh length tuxedo dress, “what about that one?”

“Isn’t that one a little too mob wife?”

“If the shoe fits.”

“Rude,” shooting her a side-eye look, she clicks on the dress. 

“You could wear a wide belt and a pair of white pumps,” Nat comments as they both look over it. 

“Definitely no veil,” they agree. 

Doll adds the dress to her cart and continues to search for the items Nat suggested. After finding a thick white belt and a pair of white pumps that have a diamond strap and buckle over the top, she hits the confirm payment button. 

“That was easy,” she adds as she closes her computer. 

“Um we’re not done yet,” Nat reopens it. 

Confused, she lets Nat take the computer and watches as she pulls up the Fleur du Mal website. 

“Oh no no no, I’m not getting lingerie,” she nearly shrieks as she tries to take the computer away from Nat but she’s too quick and pulls it out of her reach. 

“Why not? Unless you plan on going commando which would really shock him.”

She lets out a defeated sigh and falls back against the bed, “He’s not going to see anything.”

“Do you really believe that?” Barely lifting up her head, she says “I don’t know what I believe. My brain says no but my heart says maybe.”

“What does your pussy say?” Nat casually asks, not even looking at her and looking through the various sets. 

“We don’t listen to her. She has a mind of her own.”

Nat shifts back to show her the set she’s picked out; the Frankie lace set with a garter and sheer thigh-high stockings, “Maybe you should listen to her. She knows better than you do most of the time.”

“Well she has a bad taste in men so I ignore her,” she looks over the set, “that’s really pretty but white? Really? I’m not a virgin.”

Nat laughs, “If she’s telling you Bucky then just listen to her. I’ve heard he’s good in bed and yes white. It’s your wedding even if you’re not a virgin plus his jaw will drop if he sees you in this.”

“I’m not even going to ask how you know that. Fine, I’ll get it but I don’t have to wear it. I reserve the right to change my mind.”

“Agreed but I can guarantee you’ll wear it,” Nat quickly buys the set before the future Mrs. Barnes can change her mind. 

________________________________________________________________

The next week and a half go by without any major incidents. Since they had agreed to a small private ceremony, there wasn’t much planning to be done. Steve was in charge of getting the marriage license as well as getting ordained. Nat and the wedding planner were given the task of making as little fuss about the whole ordeal as possible. While she hadn’t wanted much to be done, Doll had requested one long table with candles and simple white flower arrangements for everyone to sit at. Not wanting to even involve Pepper or Anthony in the planning, they opted to have it Bucky’s New York house in the garden. 

“It’s comfortable here so why not?” had been her reasoning when he suggested using Sam’s Kings Point house. 

Saturday is the day of the wedding and she finds herself buzzing around the bathroom, anxiety starting to rise in her throat. Nat offered to help in getting ready and it was taking everything in her to not slap the bride to snap her out of this anxious pacing. 

“Oh my god you have to stop or you’ll work up a sweat and ruin your makeup.”

She stops and takes a deep breath through her nose, turning to Nat who is sitting on the bathroom counter. 

“I don’t know why I’m so nervous, it’s not like we have anyone to impress or lie to. Everyone knows this is arranged so why am I so nervous?”

Nat hops off the counter and stands behind her, brushing the hair off her shoulders, “Now this is just an educated guess but you like him and it’s starting to feel real.”

“An educated guess? What evidence do you have?” she’s started chewing on her brand-new nails but rips her hand away quickly. 

“You should see the way you look at him. It’s like a love-sick puppy, cute but also annoying.”

“Oh god.”

“But,” Nat starts as she grabs the curling iron and begins to curl her hair, “he looks at you the same way. I’m sure he’d have the same conversation with Steve right now.”

“You really think so?”

Nat nods and she’s not wrong. Across the hall, Bucky is also pacing his room while Steve and Sam drink whiskey and try to convince him to do the same to “calm his nerves”. 

“Seriously Buck you have to stop worrying so much. Nothing is going to happen. There’s no way John can get in or would even know about the ceremony,” Steve tries to reason with him. 

“Steve’s right. You took every precaution you could’ve, now sit down and drink. It’ll help or it’ll get you drunk so you forget what you’re worrying about,” Sam says, handing him a drink as he guides him by the shoulders to sit on the edge of his bed. 

“That’s not what I’m worried about.”

Sam and Steve exchange a look. 

“Don’t even start with that ‘I told you so’ bullshit,” Bucky warns, nearly downing the entire contents of his glass. It burns as it touches his tongue but he doesn’t mind and hopes that it distracts him from the racing thoughts. 

“I wasn’t going to say that but we are right. You said it was going to just be a business transaction but here we are, the day of your wedding and you’re worked about whether or not she likes you back,” Steve says as gently as he can. 

“I know, I know. I fucked up but I couldn’t help it. She’s just so…. her and it happened before I could even stop it. With everything that’s happening, I’ve been thinking about her all of the time and I couldn’t even tell you when it shifted from concern to…” he pauses and just looks up at these two friends. 

“Wait do you love her?” Sam is the one to ask the million-dollar question. 

“No, I don’t think so. I like her a lot but ‘like’ doesn’t feel strong enough and ‘love’ feels too strong.”

“You’re on your way to love then. I’m going to say; we told you this was going to happen. You always say you’re not going to get feelings involved and then bam you’re head over heels in love. Just don’t push this one too fast. She’s going to be your wife so you can’t just end it whenever you get bored,” Sam says. 

“Yeah but she’s made it pretty clear that she doesn’t want us to be in a relationship.”

“I don’t know about that one, Buck. She might have said that in the past but how she’s been acting lately is telling a completely different story. Give it a chance. Talk to her and tell her how you feel, I’m sure you’d be surprised to hear what she has to say,” Steve adds. 

A knock at the door stops the three men who all share a look of confusion. Steve gets up to answer the door, only opening it a few inches. 

“Oh, it’s just you. Come in,” he steps aside to let the woman into the room. 

“You’re not even a little bit surprised or excited to see me?” she asks Steve while giving him a hug. 

“Well of course I am but we were expecting it to be someone else.”

“Yeah whatever,” she says as Bucky pulls her into a hug, “at least this one knows how to greet a person.”

“Hey Becca, I wasn’t sure if you were going to come.”

“I wasn’t about to miss my big brother’s wedding even if I’ve never met the girl,” there is an edge of upset in her voice. 

“Now you have to tell me; is this real or did you get wrapped up with the wrong people?” she asks, taking him back by how forward she’s being. 

“I’m not sure how to answer that,” he rubs the back of his neck, the anxiety starting to creep back in. 

“Okay yes, it’s real or not it’s a setup.”

“He’s falling in love with her but it started out a business deal,” Sam pipes up. Bucky makes a surprised face at how he just blurted it out. 

“Oh okay, I see. In that case, you’re stupider than hell for agreeing to this but I’m happy for you,” she chuckles as her brother sits back down on the bed, her taking a seat next to him. 

“Mom would be upset but happy that you’re finally settling down. Dad would probably be proud and give you some speech at taking on the family business at last.”

“We both know I’m not a part of that anymore.”

“You can tell yourself that but any involvement is still involvement,” she chides him, taking the glass from his hand and extending it out to Steve for a refill. 

“I think mom would like her. She’s stubborn but in a good way. She keeps me on my toes that’s for sure,” Bucky speaks lowly to his sister, fiddling with his watch. 

“If she really is Stark’s daughter then she’s perfect for you. I remember how much he used to piss off dad to no end but he would’ve done anything for Anthony if he’d asked,” she reassures him, putting her hand on top of his to stop his fiddling. 

“I don’t remember her though,” she continues. 

“From what I understand, her mom dropped her off at his door when she was a teenager and never looked back. It would’ve been around the time dad died and you left.”

“I see,” she checks the time on his watch, “well I should probably head downstairs and get seated. It’s almost time for me to finally see this Stark girl.” 

Becca gives him a quick kiss on the cheek, hugs the other two men goodbye, and heads downstairs. Bucky takes the refilled glass from Steve’s hand and downs it once again. He stands and puts on his double-breasted jacket. 

“Alright, gentlemen let’s go get married.”

[wutheringcaterpillar]

Domesticity Series Part 1: The Beginning

Summary: Being the only one seeming to notice William’s ptsd, he realizes that his feelings from the past may be the answer to his future when you come to his rescue.

warnings: depictions of ptsd, scenes from the movie, insecure william, trauma, lies, just overall William needs love and you are there.

All the small talk and music in the room stopped abruptly, catching everyone’s attention.

“Now why would you turn that off, do you not like that silly old song?” Vera snickered, completely oblivious to her husband’s struggle as she was too intwined dancing with the poet whom you’d known to have slept with her while William was away.

It was a shame, William was always a loving, gentle, respectful man that deserved all the kindness, all the sympathy in the world. If only his wife could see in him what you did. She merely watched him come back a broken man yet still found the audacity to conversate and be friends with not a man but a boy with an ego the size of the planet whom she had an affair with right in front of his face.

“Thank you.” William finally spoke from where he was standing against the counter, his knuckles turning back to their normal shade as he released his grip on the wooden surface.

Vera turned, finally looking his way like an utter bimbo, completely oblivious of the fact William’s mind was rotting every singular day, even when he’s asleep from what he had partaken in during the war.

Having endless flashbacks being caused by small triggering factors. He felt as if he were an outcast, still struggling to find his way back to a normal routine. It hurt him immensely that other peoples lives including his wife just moved forward and he was stuck at the bottom of this endless pit of hell. They’d never understand and she’d never make an effort, making him believe she just wanted him for money, surely not love.

He glanced toward you once more, nodding his head in sincerity that you noticed. That’s all he ever wanted from his wife, but then again her wants weren’t anything like his.

He did always think you were quite beautiful, the shyness and humbleness always held an attraction to him, and you were always very kind.

“Well I- I guess I’ll get dinner on the table then.” She stuttered, walking awkwardly between the two of you feeling out of place. She recognized that look, his blue eyes fixated on you from time to time even when you weren’t looking. That’s exactly what she did with Dylan. 

~

The sound of multiple gunshots scared you out from the deep slumber you were in. When you heard Vera yelling outside, attempting to convince William to go back in the house, you knew what he must’ve found out. The poor man’s head was all over the place, feeling like he had risked his life for his country and a woman that did not love him how he loved her. Living in complete turmoil not knowing if he’d survive to see another day, and he wished he hadn’t, he really did.

Scrambling out of bed you quickly fastened your robe, heading toward the house of misery as you liked to call it.

When you approached the door, the sound of the rifle echoed through the atmosphere, it was then you realized you would not stand there, and allow William to stoop to their level. 

Walking into the home, Vera was to your right, hands covering her mouth in disbelief as she finally shut up, seeing the meltdown her husband has been having, seeing that he was finally snapping like a small twig under the feet of poor excuses of human beings.

“How can you just stand there? As if everything is alright? Don’t you care?” Dylan’s wife stared longly at him with her tear stained face, confused and too frightened to say anything.

“Your husband and my wife? Rowatt isn’t even mine, they’ve been lying to our faces.” William stood there distraught, a broken down man who had never felt so alone, so heartbroken. Tears rolled down your cheeks effortlessly not only for him but for Dylan’s wife. As of the moment it was clear she didn’t know of the affair when she took a glance of utter betrayal toward Vera with her bloodshot eyes.

The sound of a child crying in the other room echoed through the silent house, but it didn’t seem to phase him.

“William?” You spoke ever so softly, barely moving a muscle as you didn’t want to scare him or make him believe you meant any harm.

Your voice seemed to be the only one he listened to.

Turning his head slowly, hands still wrapped around the gun, Vera was taken aback at how easily his attitude had changed, like the flip of a switch just from the sound of your voice.

“Listen to my voice, alright?” He nodded, gulping back the fear and anxiety, his anger simmering down like the flame of a cigarette.

Noticing the shift in his gun, his grip loosening, Vera lunged to grab the weapon from him until you shot daggers into her unfaithful eyes, daring her to even touch him. Backing away, not wanting anymore trouble she excused herself outside once realizing the hypnotizing effect you had on William, realizing she could never handle him with such care the way you did.

Cupping his cheeks, your forehead pressed against his, reaching for his shaking hand settling it upon your chest where your heart lay. “Do you feel that William?” He nodded once again, his breathing becoming more steady with each passing second.

“My heart beats for you. It always has and always will. Please come home with me. The screaming child means you no harm, he needs his mother, just like I need you. The longer you hear the screaming, the longer you will experience traumatic effects from the war. Please, let’s go back to my house.” Almost instantly, the wounded solider fell into your touch, his head nuzzling into the warmth of your neck, needing to be closer to the woman who brought him so much comfort, so much love without once caring what others may have thought.

He began to weep into your chest, clutching onto your soaked clothes for dear life, dropping the gun onto the floor. Dylan and his wife stay staring, still frightened to move, the sod of a poet disgusted you, the way he smirked like he had finally one his true prized possession, the lovely Vera.

Putting his arm over your shoulder, you picked up his gun from the floor to ensure the others would not take his firearm that he owned before walking him to your house.

~

He had calmed down once he was away from everyone, just alone with you. You had seated him in the kitchen, insisting that he eat something, even if it was small and grabbed him a blanket from the living room sofa. He didn’t hesitate to wrap the warm fabric around his trembling, frigid body, nodding to you gratefully. 

He was almost too stunned to speak and didn’t know where to start on how grateful he was for you. The moonlight shimmered in your hair, his eyes fixated on every step you took while he pondered and took a breath before speaking.

“I don’t even know where to begin to thank you. You were always such a genuine, kind-hearted girl and- and I’ve always had a feeling deep within my heart that I was with the wrong woman.” Carrying over his cup of tea and a plate of graham crackers, you sat beside him brushing his hair back to reveal his uncannily beautiful face. 

He was a damaged man, and you were a strong woman, willing to make any sacrifice for him, and his injured soul. William needed love, he needed to know that he isn’t hard to love.

“William, you don’t have to thank me. I can assure you those bastards don’t deserve you or the love you so willingly gave. It angered me, and saddened me to see them take advantage of you and I want you to know you mean so much more to me than you could ever comprehend. I’ve sort’ve always loved you. Now please eat.” He followed your instructions, and to his surprise you made his favorite tea, adding just the right amount of honey and sugar. You stayed seated, sipping your own cup, pulling a book to read to him. It was a love story, about a man who grew up without a family, and a woman that was independent and believed in equality. William couldn’t help but notice the similarities between your own lives. Every word, every annunciation, and the soft, adoring tone of your voice had him feeding and listening intently to every word, even when you stuttered or mispronounced a word he found it adoringly cute. 

Closing the book, once you finished the chapter, you settled it soundly back in its spot in the corner of your table, realizing William had finished his tea and crackers.

“Do- do you mind if I stay with you tonight?” His eyes scanned the floor In embarrassment, causing you to take gentle hold of his hand, brushing your fingers over his wounded skin.

“William, I wouldn’t love anything more. Come.” You stood up, and walked him to your room. He felt out of place being in your private area but when you padded the mattress, he took the hint that it was okay for him to sleep beside you.

“Can- can I take off my clothes. It’s quite warm in here and my clothes are still wet but I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.” He stood awkwardly on the other side of the bed, glancing around unable to make eye contact with you. He didn’t want to scare you or think he’d take advantage of you in any way.

“Of course. That’s alright.” After asking once more, he shed himself of his clothes, deciding to stay in just his gray short-sleeve and underwear.

Taking his side of the bed, the subtle cinnamon smell of your belongings brought a strong comfort to him, and he nuzzled his head into the soft pillow. When you turned the light off, William lay with his back to you facing the wall. He wished he could kiss you, he was beyond grateful for all you’ve done and was very hesitant, he didn’t want you to kick him out, but you were thinking the same thing as you stared at his muscular back.

“William?” He turned around to face you, his blue eyes still finding someway to shine in the darkened room. “Are you alright?”

“Kiss me, you fool.” Slowly, he moved closer toward your body, his hand gliding over the delicate skin of your neck as he pressed his lips against yours. The moment fully sinking in that he did indeed marry the wrong woman. He had never kissed someone where it felt so right in an instant, it felt like an electric current was moving through his veins. Your lips were very soft, almost angelic like, you kissed him with such fragility and patience, not wanting the moment to end. Tracing your hands behind his neck, you deepened the kiss, pulling him against your body. Needing to taste more of him, your tongue delve into him with grace, skimming over his. He tasted of honey and cinnamon, such an inviting taste, so magnetic and alluring. His mind was swirling in every direction and for some reason he felt closer to you in such a short amount of time than he had ever felt with Vera.

Something about you just felt so right, William was unable to break away from your velvet lips, taking much enjoyment in the silk, smooth feeling of your tongue and how you tasted of cherries and rum. This was somewhere he wanted to stay, ignoring the sound of Dylan and Vera arguing outside the house as his lips spread into a wide smile, finally feeling like he had found a home and a future wife to love him whole. As far as he was concerned Vera was history, especially since he found out Rowatt wasn’t his, he found no reason for him to need to stay, but he was determined to take things slow as a love like your was much too fragile, and difficult to find. He wanted to enjoy every second with you, and he vowed to himself, he would be the man for you.

Falling asleep in his arms, you fell asleep with a warm smile on your face, the fluttering beat of your heart being held purely in his hand and his only.

[wannab-urs]

The Spreadsheet Digest - Vol 17

Hello darlings!

It was another big week - 24 fics! I should really start sleeping at night instead of reading until 3 am.... oh well. Enjoy the fruits of my sleep disorder!

You can find the Spreadsheet in all it's organizational glory here and all of my previous recommendations here.

Recommendations below the pedro meme (created by @gasolinerainbowpuddles)

Ravish -a Joel series by @psychedelic-ink

I've read a few like... cam girl/chat service/sex work type AUs and I have to say this is one of my favorites. I really really love the little Dieter cameos. And a little birdie (the literal author) told me he may be making an appearance in a future installment??? I am so excited ugh. Joel is like... stunningly hot in this despite being the kind of guy that falls in love with a cam girl. Yummy yummy

Seven minutes in heaven (the bathroom) -a Frankie one shot by @tieronecrush

A fun twist on the bathroom quickie trope. Frankie is so filthy in this fic and it is fantastic. I really like the ending also. Made me giggle

A Savage Place - a Joel series by @gasolinerainbowpuddles

SUB JOEL MY BELOVED!!! This is one of those more realistic sub joels where he's confused as fuck about liking it, but he really clearly needs someone to take control for a little while. I really fucking love this so much. (there's pegging in part 2 @ my pegging enthusiasts <3 ) Reader is hot as hell, also. GOD I love this.

Whistle in the Dark - a Joel series by @gasolinerainbowpuddles

Romantic cucking <3 No but okay the like basic plot is that your husband is a piece of shit who cheats on you so you like forcibly cuck him with Joel and Joel has feelings and it's sooooo hot and so good and like... affirming? and sweet? And your husband deserves to have his dick cut off bc he does something real fucked up, but having to watch Joel Miller dick his wife down GOOD is a start.

He hurt me but it felt like true love - a Joel one shot by @iamasaddie

Mean sexy Joel is pissy cause he found your dildo and he's gonna make that your problem. It's so hot. Vaginal DP????? GOD DAMN. Someone said DP isn't depraved a while back (eyeroll). They should read this. This is beautifully depraved

Feral Woman - a Joel series by @gasolinerainbowpuddles

This series has me feeling so many emotions. Watching FW/reader/Julia/Bug heal over time and learn to trust again is so fucking good. Susan is the light of my motherfuckin life I love that woman with all my heart. This series is GORGEOUS

Endless Night - a Joel series by @gasolinerainbowpuddles

yes i basically worked my way through Puddles' masterlist can you fucking blame me look at this shit. Anyway. EnNi reader/OC is, on the surface, the sunshine to Joel's grump. But the thing I love about her is that she's got this underlying darkness that adds so much depth to the grumpy x sunshine trope. I'm also eating up the borderline enemies to lovers dynamic going on here. Joel is such a dick lmao. I'm so excited for the rest of this fic.

All the good girls go to hell - an Ezra one shot by @psychedelic-ink

DUBCON with PRIEST EZRA yesssssss. The Haunted Hoedown is the gift that keeps on giving. This fic is so fucking HOT. Ezra as a priest seems so wrong and so right at the same time. This is excellent. I'd gladly go to hell for this man UNF.

Three's a crowd - a Marcus P/Javi P one shot by @agentmarcuspike

Marcus motherfuckin cute ass baby Pike watches Javier Peña fuck you. Yeah. Cucking Marcus Pike. That's what this is. Marcus is also characterized perfectly. Like this is so fucking cute actually. And it's really hot. obviously.

Begging for you to take my hand - a Joel series by @jupiter-soups

This fic is driving me up the wall in the best way. Joel is a big dumb idiot man who is like... not emotionally intelligent enough to realize he's in the wrong while trying to do what he perceives to be the "right thing." Here's what I commented verbatim on part 2 "Joel 'You Deserve Better Than Me' Miller back on his bullshit. I love this so much. Joel is so sad and so stupid i kinda wanna hit him." So if you're like me and you like to watch Joel be a sad little idiot who is also super hot.... this is the one

Refuge - a Joel series by @cool-iguana

GAH THIS IS SO GOOD!!! This fic really situates you in reader's head. Like you feel disoriented and frustrated and scared when she does and you feel like a powerful badass when she does and it's SO good. Basically in this one your husband joel shows up with some kid who is def not your kid in Jackson after you've been there for a hot minute and it's a big wtf moment. There's some other shit going on that I don't wanna spoil but like... this is so good. I know I keep saying that but GOT DAMN

Exposed - a Javi P one shot by @atticrissfinch

big fat dub con warning on this one. I so rarely see Javi written as a creep and I really fucking enjoyed it. I would like to humbly request more creep!professor!javi p

The Apprentice - a Dave York one shot by @pedropascalsx

This has like mafia!au vibes while not really being that, but what I mean by that is that the big bad murder daddy who you thought you'd be scared of saves you from murder father (ur dad). I really liked the characterization of Dave in this and the smut was HOT

Stockings - a Joel one shot by @atticrissfinch

Daddy kink daddy kink daddy kink. This is inspired by a photo that literally looks like denim shirt joel is helping you put your stockings on. This fic manages to be adorable and aggressively hot at the same time. I am in love.

Slumber - a Joel one shot by @cool-iguana

I love a good somno fic. also this is literally their 2nd fic they ever wrote and it's so good?! TALENT. There was a thing in this that caught me off guard bc I fully did not read the warnings, but I was not at all mad about it... HOT

Yearling - a Joel series by @justagalwhowrites

Holy motherfuckin shit balls dude. I'm noticing that I'm reading a lot of Reader-Who-Is-Extremely-Traumatized fics this week and I refuse to examine why that is but also they all have handled the heavy content very very well. Anyway. Reader is super duper good with horses and Joel is so soft and Ellie is so Ellie and I love all of this. I really love the way Kit builds the world in her fics. Like the opening chapter and then the way Bambi's back story is built up and the spaces that she exists in, they're all so vivid and good and real to me. I'm so fucking in love with the way Kit includes these details like reader singing and playing music, joel's coat, the light on in the house when Bambi is gone. It feels like nothing is there just to be there, like it's all important and it has a significant impact on the story and man... (also if you're worried about starting a longfic that's not finished, it updates like twice a fuckin week. Fast writer lol).

The Cabin in the Woods- a Dave York one shot by @xdaddysprincessxx

Getting kidnapped by Dave York and held in his cabin in the woods. Dark dark dark fic and so fucking well written. Love this <3

Isn't She a Doll? - a Dave York one shot by @proxima-writes

You are Dave's perfect little housewife and that is definitely the only thing going on here. Nothing out of the ordinary at all. (just read it)

Who do you call? - a Joel one shot by @chloeangelic

Your hot neighbor Joel helps you get rid of a spider! How sweet of him. Oh and then he rails you on the couch. I really love the way they have a whole conversation while they're fucking about how long it's been since they've fucked anyone. Chloe just has this wonderful way of infusing humor into really really hot fics that I adore

Does your mother know? - a Joel one shot by @cupofjoel

Another bathroom quickie for the rec list and god DAMN this one is hot. Close Family Friend!Joel (god I love putting this man in situations). There's something about being forced to stay quiet that just makes everything hotter.

Cellmate's Nephew!Joel - a Joel series by @toxicanonymity

JoJo is actually the love of my life. His tattoos, his voice, his dick print.... sigh. Can't wait to get out prison so this man can rail me on every available surface between the prison and Mabel's house.

The Man That I Love - a Joel series by @lumoverheaven

Joel is an idiot who doesn't know what he has until he almost loses it. The first part is heartwrenching and sad and I love it. The second part is wonderful and makes me tear up a lil

I said I didn't feel nothing, baby, but I lied - a Veracruz one shot by @iamasaddie

Veracruz is so hot. I swear that man could punch me in the face and I'd suck his dick for it (that is not healthy oops). This lovely little drabble is literally just you getting your ass spanked so raw you won't be able to sit for a week and it's HOT AS HELL

Creep - a Joel one shot by @theywhowriteandknowthings

Joel Miller is your super hot creepy neighbor and he manages to get you to fuck him and that is definitely the only thing going on here. nothing fishy at all. nope. totally normal reader fucks her creepy neighbor fic. (just fucking trust me and read it ok?)

---------------------------------

Happy Reading!

[sofiasjornal]

My (many) questions after HOFAS

While writing my HOFAS review, I was thinking about the different perspectives and POVs the new book could have, since we are finally leaving Bryce and Hunt's story. Selfishly, I would love the focus to shift to Lidia and Ruhn. Not only because they became my top two favorite characters but because the possibilities for crossovers and connections with the other series are endless. I don't think there's a need, but let me just clarify that this is all speculation! And because I might remember something more in a few days, or weeks, or months, I’ll update this as I go along!

1) Lidia has some kind of connection with Aelin and Mala’s bloodline (she named her son after Brannon, after all!!) and since KoA and ACOSF share the same timeline, and HOFAS is set after ACOSF, Aelin is still very much alive and could somehow connect with Lidia! She seems to have an incredible amount of firepower, the likes of which we only saw with Aelin, so there’s definitely a connection there. And they are both trained assassins, for god's sake! And with the stags! She’s a Terrasen girl, through and through!

But again, how did the fae shifters come to Midgard if Erilea (I don’t think the name of the planet was ever revealed, so let’s stay with Erilea) was never conquered?! Another rift that opened and then closed? Is there any mention on ToG of that? I don’t remember… I might have to read it all again! 

There's also the very interesting context in which Lidia's children were conceived, in a very similar ritual to Calanmai, from the Spring Court (ACOTAR). So how come two of SJM's series come together in Lidia's character?

2) Also, Ruhn and Rhysand would also be an interesting crossover. The similarities between the two go beyond those of Fae, it would be really interesting to explore that. Bryce didn't really explore these similarities when she met Rhysand, I wish she had. We know that Prythian is the home planet of the Fae, but definitely something linking Rhysand and Ruhn together.

Also think about the possibility, if Ruhn is connected or a descendant of Rhys's bloodline and Lidia of Aelin’s, then the two bloodlines are now united! AGAIN, SO MANY POSSIBILITIES, IM GETTING DIZZY!

So in a book where Lidia and Ruhn take center stage, imagine the power of that story!! I’m speechless just thinking about it! 

3) The link between Wyrd and Urd got me thinking! Somewhere in HOSAB, when Bryce went to the under-king and he talked about Urd, when she was not a goddess but a force, “When she was a vat of life, a mother to all, a secret language of the universe?” (Yes I went looking for the quote, my mind is driving me insane). This secret language of the universe, could it be the wyrdmarks?! And if so, remember when Bryce killed Micah in the first CC and Micah said “The language is beyond that of this world. It is the language of universes.” Could Bryce’s tattoo be in wyrdmarks and if so that would mean that the Book of Breathing is also in wyrdmarks! Amren can read those! HOW?! HOW?? And what are wyrdmarks doing in acotar and crescent city?! There’s definitely a connection with ToG! It’s right here!

4) The Valg, the Asteri, the Daglan, the Princes of Hel, and... one hell of a mess, pun intended! By the end of HOFAS, we know that the Asteri and the Daglan are the same thing. I’ve been, however, wondering about the Valg. I don’t believe the Asteri are Valg. They don’t fit the same characteristics. Besides, in ToG is said that the Valg’s home planet was ruled by three kings, a planet made by pain, wind, and darkness, and the Asteri were originally seven and come from a forgotten planet in the cosmos. Besides, the Asteri feed on firstlight and the Valg don’t have that need. So I don’t think there’s a connection there.

However, in ACOMAF, when Bryce is fighting the Stryga and throws a brick in her face, the line reads  “Bone crunched and she roared, black blood spraying.” This always stayed with me because it kept calling the Valg to my memory. The Valg have black blood as well. Also, the death gods feed on life just like the Valg, if I’m not mistaken! So could the death-gods be Valg? Do you know who else has black blood? The Reapers! In HOSAB, when Bryce strikes with the starlight sword it is said “And nothing had ever felt so right, so easy, as plunging the blade into the bony chest of the wounded Reaper. It arced, bellowing, black blood spurting from its withered lips.” So either it is a coincidence that all these creatures have black blood or there’s a connection! And considering the reapers originate from Hel, is there possibly a connection? However, it doesn’t quite make sense, because their home planet was ruled by three kings Erawan, Orcus, and Mantyx (let’s not forget that bitch Maeve). And in Hel, each layer is governed by a different prince, seven in total. So this is where I raise my hands and say I don’t know 🤷🏻‍♀️ where to go from here! 

5) The whole issue of the Viper Queen! When Tharion went to the Viper Queen something’s raised “concern”. First, the blood oath! I only remember something like that being mentioned and talked about in ToG! Tharion was only able to escape because Ithan killed Sigrid and broke the bond! Remember at the end of HOSAB, after Tharion defected and VP ordered him to come back after Cormac’s death? He felt a pull of the bond that he couldn’t resist! Remember how the cadre were all Maeve’s prisoners with that same bond? It’s the same thing! And remember Tharion mentioning that her blood was darker than normal?! 

Feel free to join this mess and give me more theories and your thoughts on all of it! I’m just going to figure all this out! And like I said, as I think of new things I’ll just update this!

[elena-mayfair]

Raging storm

Paring: Morpheus x f!reader, Sandman x f!reader Warnings: swearing, horror images, graphic violence, adult themes, reader discretion is advised Summary: All she wanted is a moment of rest, peace and quiet. But it was not meant to be. The Witch finds herself inside the raging storm, both around her and inside her. Can Dream of the Endless calm down the storm? What offer will he make to her? Word count: 4.7k Note: Gifs are not mine, credit to the authors

Series Masterlist Part nine: Consequences

***

"What were you thinking! Going to Hell with one of the Endless?!" Missouri was right, whether you wanted to admit that or not. Truth be told you were wondering that yourself since the moment you got back. What made you follow him to Hell? What unknown power took hold of your mind, guided your actions, and made you risk your own mortal life in Hell? There had to be some bigger power at play here. That is at least what Missouri would like to think. How could you tell her that there was no such a thing, that no one had forced you, that it was your own decision, that you went to Hell because you wanted to?

Sitting on a soft comfy couch in a cozy living room, thoughts of hell seemed to be strangely distant to you. The soft fluffy carpet was spreading out under your feet, so different from the scorched earth you walked on just a few hours ago. Hand-decorated embroidered pillows were inviting you to lie down on them, to rest. The smell of pie and fresh cardamom tea was spreading through the apartment mixing with the scents of vanilla, lavender, and sage, so different from the stench of death, burnt and decay, it brought comfort to your senses. You felt good, you felt at home. Even the raging thunderstorms inside you seemed to quiet down.

"Well?" Missouri walked into the living room with a tray filled with cups and plates. "Spill it out! Or do you really want me to pretend that I have not just seen your thoughts!" she placed two steaming cups in front of you.

"What is that?" you frowned as a weird smell reached your nose. Missouri only removed one cup from your hand and placed it outside of your reach.

"That is an Asphodelus potion, it's for later. When you decide that it is time to get some sleep," she explained, "How long have you been awake?"

"I look that horrible?" you took a sip of a cardamon tea, "about 48 hours. For my body at least. It seems I've been gone for two weeks."

Missouri only threw a questioning glance. Although you had no idea where to begin the explanation you really wanted, you needed someone to talk to about what had happened to you. And she, she was the only person you trusted unconditionally.

"For me, it was a few hours Missouri," you began, "just a few hours. But after we've returned I discovered that two weeks had gone by. But we've been there only for a few hours..." you drifted off for a second, "But even few hours felt in Hell like an eternity."

"But child! Hell?! What on Earth have you been thinking?" Missouri sat closer to you, but although she really wanted to take your hand, embrace you, she held back. She wanted for you to tell the story the way you wanted, with details that were important to you, she didn't want to take it all from you. "What did he do to you that forced you to go to Hell?" she asked carefully.

"Who? Morpheus?" you asked and a small giggle escaped your lips, "He didn't do anything to me, he did not force me to do anything if that is what you're implying. As a matter of fact, he was very much against it."

"Why did you then?" she inquired.

You drifted away in your mind for a moment to those black endless eyes and those shining stars asking the same question. The lightning inside you sent a pleasant delicate shiver through your body.

"Because I wanted to..." you replied quietly, "Because Morpheus needed that."

Missouri remained quiet for a moment as if analyzing in her mind how she should comment on your words. Although her gaze gave away nothing but kindness, it did not escape your attention that she snorted quietly when you casually uttered the name of the Dream Lord.

"Oh my Lord!" you exhaled, "If you have something to say just say it!"

"Endless ones...they do not need anything, they do not want anything. It surprises me how casually you speak of the Sandman..." she began in a quiet pensive voice, "This beings...they are terrifying. Oldest and more powerful than anything that exist on this or any other world. You are dealing with literal personification of Dreams and Nightmares here..."

"I am aware." you interrupted.

"Are you? This..." she struggled with finding correct word, "this being, has a power to control and manipulate Dreams of all living creatures. And it had it from the beginning of time, or perhaps even longer. Only God knows what it can do."

"I'm pretty sure that God has no clue," you sneered, "and besides, it is not it! He is a man, and his name is Morpheus!" you were getting annoyed by the course of the conversation.

"My child..." put her hand on your shoulder carefully not to touch your bare skin, "he is no man, he is not even a human."

You furrowed your brow angrily ready to shout out all the arguments that were brewing in your head. You didn't come here to be disciplined like a disobedient child, you didn't need moralizing and your actions criticized. You just wanted a little break, peace, you needed to feel normal for a moment.

"Perhaps you are right," you started after drowning your anger in a teacup, "but to me...I don't how to explain it... I know who he is, or more what he is, I know what he can do, I do!" you assured her, "But he is not just that, he is not just a Ruler of the Dreams and Nightmares. I sware to you sometimes he is so humane, so normal, same as you and me."

"There is nothing normal about us my dear," she joked and you could not help but smile with her.

"You know what I mean... he is not just an Endless, he is much more than that..." You stared into the distance and allowed the images in your mind to guide your words. With your imagination's eyes, you saw his all peering eyes seeming concern, worry, sadness, and anger, you saw Morpheus sitting by at your bedside and guiding you through your own dreams, you saw his endless all-enveloping darkness standing in your parent's living room, watching you keenly. "He is much more that..." you repeated quietly and clasped Missouris' hand in yours. You saw his statuesque figure walking with you through the rain, holding an umbrella over your head, you saw the shining stars in his eyes as he embraced your exhausted bloodied body belaying it from falling, you felt his hand secured on yours, you felt his closeness as his hand rested on your waist, you heard his deep enveloping voice in your head saying "I am hope." You saw all of it and Missouri saw it too. "You see? Yes, he is all you say he is but he is much more than that."

Missouri slipped her hand from your grasp and exhaled deeply.

"Don't ever do that again..." she warned quietly.

"I'm sorry, I just wanted you to see..."

"I know child..." she tapped on your knee gently, "I know. But it doesn't change the fact that you are dealing with forces beyond your power and understatement," she continued arguing, "Humans should not get involved with forces like that."

"Really? Come on! We both know two guys who are meddling with forces way beyond their power and comprehension on a daily basis!" you smirked, "I don't see you giving them the same lecture as you are giving me!"

"What Sam and Dean are doing is beyond me! And even if I would like to lecture them they would not listen!"

"What makes you think I will?" you grinned.

"I've always had the impression that you are smarter than them. Or at least you have a stronger self-preservation instinct."

"Well looks like I'm not," you smiled innocently.

"But you are a Witch! You should approach this kind of thing with a mind of a Witch!" she was getting frustrated.

"And what do you think I've been doing!!" you were getting frustrated too. "This is exactly what I've been doing!! He was in need of help and I could help him so I did!! Besides every since..." you cut off.

"Every since what?" she looked at you curiously.

You shuddered, regretting that you had strayed so far in your words. Even if you had wanted to explain to her what was happening to your power, how much your power had changed, how much the lightning inside you was illuminating all your senses, you could not… you couldn't find the words to describe what you felt. You couldn't find the words to describe what you saw in Hell, what you felt when Morpheus fought Lucifer.

"Y/N!" she shook you out of your thoughts, "What is it?"

"It's my power Missouri...." you began nervously, "It changed... I've changed. The things I saw...the things I've felt... what I could do..." you were trying to put feelings into the words, "I do not know what is happening to me but it started before I've met Morpheus. It scares me, to be honest. And I have a feeling that if anyone could understand and explain what is happening to me, it would be him."

"I know that something had changed in you..." she nodded her head gently, "I can sense it just by sitting next to you."

"What is happening to me!?" you cried out.

"I'm sorry my dear but you know that I cannot offer any answers to your questions," she said with an apologetic look, "Perhaps you are right, perhaps only Lord of Dreams can help you find the answers." she finally agreed and you could not help but feel somewhat relieved, "Wipe that satisfaction from your face missy!! I stand by what I said! It is a dangerous thing the meddle with beings like him! Just promise me you will be careful."

"Sure," you agreed quietly and reached for the cup filled with Asphodelus potion.

"Promise me!!"

"Fine! I promise!! Damn! I promise, alright. I'll be careful." you sniffed the smell coming out from the cup, "This shit smells like old socks," you frowned.

"But it will help you to sleep calmly," Missouri assured, "I'm surprised you never tried it."

"Whisky smells and tastes better," you snarked and drowned down the whole cup at once.

***

Sleep found you quickly. Before you had time to even think about going to the guest bedroom your body and mind drifted off into a sweet state of unconsciousness. Soothing darkness surrounded your tired senses, binding your mind. Yet it did not last long. For the first time in weeks, you found yourself in a dreamscape.

A soft calm wind breezed across your face as you opened your eyes to see a beautiful green forest looming all around you. The sun shyly peeked through the dense treetops, enveloping the world in a mystical atmosphere. You were laying on the soft ground with your head resting on a pillow made of grass and fallen leaves. You were starring at the crown of trees above you, at the light that was shining between the leaves, at every color and shape it was playing with, at every single drop of water the wind was knocking down on your face. It was so peaceful, so enchanting. The sounds of forest life reached your ears making you rise slowly only to see a delicate silk fabric falling down gently, wrapping your body down to your ankles. You ran your fingers along the black silk relishing in its touch. You closed your eyes in delight as the wind drizzled a few raindrops on your bare shoulders. You looked around confused, but there was nothing in sight except a forest thicket. With your bare feet, you stepped a few steps into the forest. As if sensing your pleasure, the wind seemed to have decided to continue playing with the tree leaves, knocking off the crystal drops that fell on your bare shoulders and loose hair. It hummed a soothing song for you. The smell of undergrowth, pine needles, leaves, and tree bark floated around you, you breathed deeply with a smile on your face and welcomed the chirping of birds, the soft rustle of leaves, the sounds of life teeming in the thicket. You ventured deep into the forest, as you walked you greeted with a touch every tree you passed, every forest bush, every herb growing from the ground. As if at your command, the forest parted slightly to reveal a small meadow adorned with lilac bushes and finely flowered myosotis. You knelt on the soft grass and let the scents surround you, intoxicating you with their sweetness. They flooded your senses as you ran your hand over the flowers surrounding you. It was so peaceful. As if on your wish, a small creek appeared right next to you, the water flowing down the stones immersed you in a soothing melody. You breathed deeply, closed your eyes, and drowned in the delightful smells and sounds. As you lay among the flowers, intoxicated with sweetness and serenity, you closed your eyes and smiled, wandering your hand over the beauty surrounding you. It was so magical, so peaceful, if only you could stay here forever.

The shadow obscured the sun that warming your face, and your body as if instinctively had sent a tickling shiver down your spine. The touch of water droplets on your bare shoulders disappeared replaced by the gentle grip of strong hands. They gently lifted you up and set you on your feet before you had time to open your eyes. As you opened them, you could only see the endless blackness of the universe against which the individual stars shone with a cold glow. "You must wake up Y/N," a deep husky voice pierced your dreaming mind, "You must not sleep now. Wake up. Now."

***

Listen...Can you hear the screaming? it was the last thing you heard before you opened your eyes. You were back in the Missouris' living room, lying on the couch, covered with a warm blanket. Gone was the scent of flowers, the sound of trees, the singing of birds, gone was the black silk dress. The smell of cardamom and plum cake returned, the touch of silk replaced by the harsh feel of black jeans and black blouse.

"How long I've been out?" you rubbed your eyes with the back of your hand. Missouri was sitting and watching TV not far from you. "Missouri?" you repeated and got up, "Hey! Lady! I'm talking to you!" you walked over to her and stood directly in front of her. Your senses alerted your mind at the sight of her absent stare. She was staring with dull eyes at the TV, with only fear and terror painted on her face..

We interrupt our program to broadcast emergency information. We are receiving reports from our international correspondents that the sudden wave of violence that seems to have engulfed humanity is spreading not only in our country but all over the world. Reports are emerging of a series of brutal murders sweeping through every city from the States through Europe to Asia. The wave of violence seems to be spreading like a virus. We are receiving information about countless suicides, acts of violence, robberies…there are not enough words to describe them all. Only a few moments ago we received information that the pilot of a London-Washington airline flight set fire to all the passengers then crashed the plane. There were no survivors. Footage of this dramatic event went viral on the Internet. Actually, it was kind of funny…don't you think? They burned so beautifully, like sausages left too long on the grill…"

"What the hell!?" you grabbed a remote and switched a channel. Panic crept into your heart.

Preachers of all religions declare the end of the world.

You switched a channel again.

Mr. Dino says that we all should kill ourselves. But remember kids to cut along the vein, not across it.

"What the fuck is going on?!" you switched channels again and again hoping that it was all a nightmare, hoping that you will wake up in a moment.

I've always wanted to tell you, Rob! You are one ugly mean fuck and hate working with you.

You saw a presenter shooting his co-host on live TV.

We are all doomed! The end is here! And we will all pay for what we have done! Salvation will be granted to a few!

The preacher was raising his hands into the sky, he was crying.

There are no more emergency services available, people all around the world seem to be losing their minds! So if you can, if this...whatever this is did not affect you, help! Lord help us...

"Can you hear it?" the voice spoke again, "Three children are trapped in the elevator with a serial killer," the voice sounded in your head, "The man prowls the dogs' home, a tire iron clutched in his bloody fist. The nurse screams with laughter as the flame devours the geriatric ward. Listen." and so you did. You reached to your pocket and clenched your shaking hand on the vial of sand, closed your eyes and suddenly you could hear it all, you could see it all.

"I can see it," you replied in your mind, "What is happening?" there was no response.

You quickly turned off the TV and kneeled down in front of Missouri.

"Can you hear me?" you shook her absent body, "Come on....please, not you, come on, Missouri..." tears started gathering in your eyes.

"Listen. Can you hear the sobbing?" you squeezed your eyes tightly trying to push away the intrusive voice.

"Missouri, hun, you can't do this to me..." you begged and shook her again, "come on! I need you!" the anger rose inside you, lighting storm began raging relentlessly, "SNAP OUT OF IT!!" you yelled and slapped her across the face.

Missouri's eyes returned to normal, her mind came back to her as she placed her hand on her burning face.

"Why did you do that?!" she asked shocked but instead of answering you only threw yourself on her and hugged her with all the strength you had.

"You gonna thank me later," you smiled through tears, "Come on. It seems that the world is about to end."

"Listen. On the freeway, helpless weeping comes from the crush-sculpture of twisted blistered metal, burning rubber, shattered glass," the voice sounded in your head again, it wanted you to see how the world around you was dying, "Listen to the anguish of the world in which bad things are coming out of the dark places," you pushed both of your hands against your head as if trying to push the voice out of your mind, the sound of pain escaped your lips. "Listen to the world in pain. Listen."

"Y/N? What's happening?" Missouri wrapped her hand around you curled in pain, clenching your eyes, clenching your teeth, "What is wrong with you!?"

"Listen to the rushing rivers of blood, flowing downwards, in a warm torrent. The blood of the weak. Of the helpless. Of the mad."

"GET OUT OF MY HEAD!!!" you screamed in pain.

"Listen. You can hear it." the voice seemed to ignore you. Through pain, you started to realize that it wasn't talking to you. These words were meant for someone else. "STOP! Enough! I am here. And I see what you have done John!" Morpheus's endless voice echoed in your mind filling every inch of it with the impenetrable darkness of the universe. You closed your eyes tighter and clenched your hand on your necklace and suddenly you could see clearly, the universe was looking at you with single stars shining against endless darkness, "Go. Help those who are in need of help."

The pain in your head disappeared along with Morpheus's eyes. Your heart took on a steady rhythm again and your mind illuminated with the clarity of a lightning storm raging inside you. You were able to think clearly again.

"Y/N, my dear? What was that?" Missouri was still wrapping her hand over you, her eyes were filled with tears and fear.

"I'm alright," you assured her, "I've told you that my power had changed." You straightened your back and raised your head, strength emanating from you. "Come. We've got work to do."

***

You opened the door of the house and stepped outside into the street. An image of utter despair unfolded before your eyes. On the opposite side of the street, a man was mauling a whimpering dog with a bloody beam of wood, which he must have torn from a nearby fence. A few steps further a girl was sitting on the sidewalk, in her hands she held a bloody knife with which she was cutting tattoos out of her skin. Around the corner an ambulance was on fire, a paramedic was lying inside with his throat slit. Someone walked down the street shouting to the sky that Armageddon had arrived. Someone else fired a gun. Hell was nothing compared to the despair surrounding you.

"What hellish nightmare the Winchesters have unleashed this time..." you heard Missouri gasp in disbelief.

"This is not Winchesters doing. Come. We need to help these people"

With a gesture of your hand, you ordered Missouri to deal with the girl. You waved your hand at the ambulance, the remaining flames extinguished at your command. "Good, she'll need bandages," you thought then with a hand gesture you snatched the wooden beam from the man's hand and knocked the attacker out. Desperate whimpering turned into quite whining.

You moved in the direction from which the shots came. You wanted to check if the person who was shot was alive. You wanted to take the gun away from whoever had it. However, what you saw made you freeze in your step. A picture of horror emerged from around the corner. A woman and two children trapped in a car, they should be screaming, begging to be rescued, banging their hands on the wind shields, trying to kick out the car doors, the car that was in flames. They, however, laughed maniacally as the man poured gasoline on himself and fired up his lighter. He also laughed maniacally when his body began to be devoured by the flames. You let the storm inside you rage uncontrollably. You stretched both hands out in front of you and with your power you began to extinguish the flames. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see a man armed with a gun. He was walking towards you, smiling sinisterly as he spun the weapon in his hand. The smell of burning flesh brought back images of Hell, and you had to focus all your will on suppressing them. People needed your help. You had to help them.

Hell...

The burning flesh sizzled before your eyes as the man's maniacal laughter died down...

They continued to laugh...

The man with the gun was getting closer and closer...

The flames did not stop...

Children. There were children there...

You heard the sound of reloading...

Hell...

Flames were consuming the car...

They were laughing...

He was getting closer and closer...

You couldn't save them all...

***

Morpheus walked quietly through the destroyed city streets. He shoved both of his hands deep into his pockets and put up the collar of his coat. He passed broken storefronts, burning cars, people who had been gunned down on the streets. Ruby was destroyed, John Dee was given the gift of eternal sleep which he will dream behind the walls of Arkham Asylum until the day Death claims him. Although he had regained his power his heart was filled with sadness. But it was not caused by the all-pervading image of despair, deep inside he felt as if something was missing.

"All the damage the ruby did, can you undo it?" Matthew asked. He was following Morpheus through the city determined to not let him out of the sight again.

"The ruby didn't do this," Morpheus began, "John merely used it to reveal wounds that were hidden, but never healed." he traced his eyes over the surrounding despair, "Tomorrow, the rebuilding will begin. In this realm and in mine. But tonight at least...humanity will sleep in peace."

"Boss you may want to hold that thought for a moment," Matthew suggested and flew up into the sky to show him the way.

She was here. She was kneeling next to a sobbing woman cradling her terrified children. She was smiling kindly despite the exhaustion painted on her face, she was stroking the head of the frightened child. Her power seemed to pulsate out of her like a quieting thunderstorm. She rested her hand on the burned car and slowly got up from her knees. She ran her eyes over the burnt body of the man, the expression on her face betrayed to him that she wished she could have helped. "How could one person possess so much empathy?" She walked up a few steps to the man that was lying on the lawn and she snatched the gun from his hand. "Next time you think about pulling the trigger remember me. I could have killed you. I didn't. Consider it a gift and don't fuck it up!" she said, the gun in her hand crumbled into dust. Surrounded from all sides by despair and suffering she stood strong, she helped, she showed compassion even to those who didn't deserve it. And then she looked at him. He could see as her eyes suddenly lit up with happiness and relief. She smiled at him. "How could she smile despite the destruction around her?"

"I guess that the nightmare is over?" she asked as she closed the distance separating them.

"Are you hurt?" Morpheus asked. She stood close to him, he could smell her perfumes piercing through the stench of burning gasoline. The sweetness of vanilla and jasmine surrounded his senses cut only by the bitterness of cedar and sandalwood. "Why she was standing so close..."

"I'm alright, really. I'm alright," she smiled shyly, "Them, however, not so much." she gazed over the people affected by Johns' actions, "I heard his voice in my head. What happened to him?"

"He no longer poses any threat."

"So is that mean that you have your ruby back?"

"Ruby was destroyed," he stated, "But I regained my full power," he added upon seeing sadness creeping in her eyes.

She smiled again, and he could see the kindness in her eyes. Pure, beautiful, miraculously preserved despite the despair she had endured in her life. In his eyes, she was beautiful, more beautiful than all the goddesses he had seen during the eons of his life. It was not the kind of beauty visible to the human eye, it was not the kind of beauty that people paid any attention to. For it was the beauty of a noble soul and a pure heart.

"Come with me," he said with a quiet voice, "Much has changed. My kingdom needs a change, too."

She looked at him questioningly and he could see millions of thoughts flowing through her mind. Desires, dreams, wishes….

"I can't…" she whispered and looked over her shoulder at the woman watching them from afar, "Not after what happened today. She needs me..." that sounded more like an apology. "You have your realm to rebuild. I have to...I think I have to take some time..."

"You don't have to explain," he cut her off.

"I'll see you soon," she smiled again as her arms wrapped around his neck. The scent of jasmine and vanilla hit his senses when her lips lightly brushed his cheek.

As she walked away only one thought illuminated his mind.

"I had forgotten what this feels like…"

Part eleven: Fallout

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Authors note: Chapter 10! Oh my Dream Lord (yes I will be overusing that phrase) how did this happen?! Oh I really liked writing this one, I was kinda anxious, but at the same excited at the beginning of this chapter. I think it turned out well enough. If I wouldn't be happy about with it I would not post it, right? And yes, I can already see your frustrated comments down below ;) What can I say, they are both stubborn dumbasses at times. But I would not have it any other way :) I have a favor to ask. I was playing with a tag list since it is getting bigger. Could you please let me know if you received the post notification? I would appreciate that. As for now, Dear Reader, I thank you for reading :)

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Tag list: @mycrazyfandom @unavoidabledirewolf @calicoevening72 @uzumaki-mj @thegreatestsandwich @parabatai-winchester @munsonmunster @consistentreader578 @jupiterclipse @fangirlmary @clown-princesa @galaxypox @dilfsandtherapy @kc-265 @midnxghtblue @sallysal9 @0shippingtrashaway0 @lu123sworld @octo-octopie @asmallhobbitruinedmylife @xxbeckybeexx-blog @jesllianaquilesrolon @dollfaceyourfear @shaewithyou @heavenmaycare @moon-enthusiast @home-of-disaster @xmxrfx @missnightingale1971 @lilfoxyqueensworld @fate-huntress @bionic-donut @kaifloof @mischiefmanaged71 @beakami @mm2305 @redbircl @floatingintheupsidedown @chaoticmessneutralplease @selena-mayfair @goingwiththewind

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[quickreaver]

Jo Harvelle: was she and mirror, and for whom?

This is a requested repost (and a little update as I'm ruminating) of my response to a thread asserting that Jo Harvelle and Dean were mirrors of each other, and it got me smoke grinding (as one does when one has deadlines, lol.) Starting out, here's a grab of the Dean-Jo comparison in question:

This isn't to say that Jo doesn't have anything in common with Dean (of course she does), and as per usual, Dean relates more easily and charmingly to our other characters in the series (because he's the Han Solo personality), but...

I do appreciate the analogy of Jo = Dean, but imho (and this is just me, as ye olde Sam girl (gn)), Jo is far more an inverted version of Sam than Dean. But as per usual in SPNland, Dean is the character who opens up and “relates” more obviously to those folks he either needs or idolizes or befriends (or crushes on). He’s more overt with his affection and charm. But that doesn’t mean he parallels Jo as neatly as Sam does. Again, just my take! Both Sam and Jo were somewhat sheltered, if you will, and went against their parents’ wishes, but in different directions: Jo wanted to hunt and wasn’t allowed to, Sam wanted to leave hunting and wasn’t allowed to. Sam was the one who was canonically given a gun when he was fearful of monsters under the bed, though we know both boys were trained to hunt. Both boys were also expected to fall in line with the Family Business, but only Sam was the one who actively wanted out. From the pilot:

Sam: You think mom would have wanted this for us? The weapon training and melting the silver into bullets? Man, Dean, we were raised like warriors.

Dean: So, what are you gonna do? Are you just gonna live some normal, apple pie life? Is that it?

Sam: No, not normal. Safe.

The one time Dean got out was because Sam asked him to do so, in a sort of deathbed confessional. Finale, S5. And it didn’t stick. It never sticks for either of them…until it does. Sam wanted out consistently through the series. He ran away at 15. He went to college, like many a normal kid aspires to. He tried to get out when Dean was blasted into Purgatory (yeah, yeah, S8 was a tangled mess and I have endless bones to pick with it, but Sam did what he did), and then at the end of all things, Sam did get out out. Dean absolutely assumed he himself would die in a blaze of glory, but I don’t think he envied Jo that. Okay, well, maybe in that it’s “easier” to die than to be the one left to live with grief and loss. But at that time, they were just starting to unwrap what was going on with Heaven and Hell as actual places that existed. It was still scary. I don’t think Dean wanted that. But Dean and Jo would’ve made adorable hunting buddies! Kinda like someone else we know… *cough Sam cough*

[superblysubpar]

leather and lace masterlist | leather and lace playlist

Chapter Summary: Your first day back in Hawkins is interesting to say the least, involving several unexpected reunions - good and bad.

8.1k words

Warnings: we'll be kicking up the angst from here on for a bit, but with plenty of fluff in between I promise (but I won't mention this necessarily after this as a heads up), mentions of reader celebrating Christmas, weed mentions/use, police/ "arrest" mentions | please see masterlist for overall warnings.

A/N: Thanks for your patience as I worked through mega writer's block in getting this out friends. I'm *extremely* excited to keep going with this series and I'd love to hear your thoughts. Endless thanks to my hive mind and @boomhauer for beta'ing.

Side A | Track 02: "Escape" by Metallica

“Yes, well, I don’t know Margaret, she said she got laid off and now she’s home.” 

Your body tenses at the sound of your mother’s hushed voice drifting lazily past the living room entryway. Sure that if you opened your eyes, you’d find her with the phone cord and receiver in her hands, pacing, just like a gossiping high schooler. 

Counting to five to make sure she’s passed completely, you roll over on the scratchy living room carpet, ending up face to face with your drooling and snoring little brother. 

Late last night as you blinked sleep heavy eyes, you had hoped to sneak into your childhood home unannounced and avoid any confrontation with the family until morning, but you should have known your brother wouldn’t let you slip in quietly. He was out the door and running barefoot through the snow before you could even take the keys out of the ignition. 

It’s interesting how easily you were able to fall back into old habits as he flung himself into your arms and you ruffled his too long hair. Hip checking and semi-wrestling with each other, whispering ‘you look like hell’ and ‘what took you so long’, when you really meant ‘I love you' to each other. And then you entered the living room to find a pizza and several VHS tapes already laid out on the coffee table. He turned to you looking far too old and yet younger than he ever had as he pointed and in a stern whisper accused, “You promised.”

And you had, so you stayed up too late, catching up, eating food that was bad for you both and watching terrible movies—ending with both of you passing out right there on the floor just like old times. 

Glancing around your family living room, it truly was like nothing had changed. Aside from a few updated decorations that you’re sure your mother was pressured into buying by other moms in the neighborhood, it was all the same. 

"Maybe she could get a job here. She's just so stubborn..."

Exactly the same. 

Suppressing your sigh, your eyes land on your brother’s now open ones and that terrible pitying look that you wanted to avoid at all costs is plastered across his face as he whispers, “She means well, you know that.”

He isn’t wrong, you do know that deep down. But just because someone is your family, and you love them, it doesn’t mean you have to like them all the time. Even if you were able to choose them, you use that magical word ‘family’ to describe them even once and you’re stuck with them. The word, and by definition who you’re describing when using it, is a funny thing. Family is a core value for many, a word to summarize people - and almost a feeling that can't be described. Sayings like 'Home is where the heart is' and 'We don't have much but at least we have each other' on pillows like the one behind your brother’s head or embroidered hangings on the wall come to mind. A group of people that get you in a way no one else ever will because they lived the same places with the same people, experienced the same or similar things. Their life is not yours nor yours theirs, but that connection will always be there. Not a choice for most, and if you're lucky, you may end up with a pretty great one. Which, even the most blessed people will forget every once in a while. Forgetting how lucky you are to have them, guilty when you remember how quickly it could all be different - how it could all change. Sometimes it's tough, and you really have to work to remind yourself that they're your family and you do love them. 

Which is perhaps why you choose to ignore your mother’s penchant for gossip and neither confirm nor deny his statement and instead poke his side and whisper, “Your breath is absolutely horrendous.”

He grunts in protest at that, whacking the back of your hand in sibling code for ‘get away from me or else’ as he hisses, “Your face is horrendous.”

You poke him again and roll away from his retaliating kick as you pout, “Wow, pretty rude to say to someone who will get you a donut for breakfast and a ride to school…”

He grins, knowing you’ll still do both of those things even if he kicks you and is about to say so when your mother’s voice is loud above your heads, “Oh good! You’re both up!”

Though upside down, you can see your mother dressed in her morning work out clothes from the electric blue leg warmers to the lime green sweatband simply used for poofing up her already styled curls, telephone pressed to her neck to avoid the speaker and a bright smile on her bubble gum pink lips. It only makes sense to the people of Hawkins to wear a full face of makeup to exercise.  God forbid you look like a normal human being while working up a sweat.

Despite her early morning gossiping centered around your predicament, you are happy to see her and you jump up to hug her, though she tries to push you away. “Oh no, honey, I’m all sweaty! Let me hug you hello when I’m- oof!” breath knocked out of her as you push past her protests, she laughs into the phone, “Margaret let me call you back!”

A little bit of the mother that didn’t revolve around the other moms, the town or its gossip and pecking order - the mom who lounged in her sweats and drank coffee all day makes a resurgence as she clicks the phone off before Margaret can even reply. She hugs you back tightly, whispering, “Welcome home, kiddo.”

It is easy to forget, if only for a few seconds, why you were home when you’re in your mother’s embrace. Easy to pretend it’s all okay while she runs her hands through your hair three times before she kisses the top of your head, just like she had always done. 

But as she takes in a deep inhale, signaling the onslaught of questions and pity that she is about to bombard you with, you remove yourself from her grasp, spinning towards the stairs. “Glad to be back. I’m gonna take the dweeb to school, so I’ll see you later?”

She frowns, arms still outstretched like you were still in front of her but she nods, recovering quickly and smiles as you disappear up the stairs two at a time. 

Escaping into your room, you fall against the door, closing it with a soft click, and let yourself exhale as you look around the space that feels a little like stepping into a time machine. 

Your posters of bands you loved in high school line the walls, bedspread still the bright yellow covered in daisies, polaroids pinned around movie tickets and a dried corsage from prom that you swore you threw in the trash. Even your cassettes are littered across your desk, like your family couldn’t bear to change a single thing about the space in your absence. 

Fingertips brushing over the stack of them, you smile as you find one of your favorites. Easily slipping back into old habits, you pop it into your stereo. Blasting it loud enough while you get ready for the day that your brother has to bang on your door to get your attention several minutes later, “Y/N! Jesus! Let’s go!”

Smiling as you swing your door open, he rolls his eyes at you and shakes his head. You race him down the stairs, ignoring his protests about cheating and head starts. You argue the whole way to get donuts about the best kinds of frostings and sprinkles or no sprinkles, filled or not filled, new music and movie opinions making cameos in between. You’re happy to pretend everything is okay, but you know it’s not and it all starts to sink in as you get closer and closer to Hawkins High. 

While your brother babbles on about Dungeons and Dragons, driving down the familiar streets to that school, it’s like your failure is blinking in a flashing sign above your car. Stomach twisting in knots as you recognize spots that once held happy memories, now just reminders of what you left behind willingly because you believed you were above it all - better than the town and the people in it. 

Pulling into the parking lot, you blow out the breath you didn’t realize you were holding, “What time is your game over? I can pick you up.”

“Um, it’s not just a game and -” he turns to hold a one second symbol out to the group of familiar friends. Their hats pulled down over hair too long just like your brother’s, hands shoved in puffy winter coats and scowls across their faces until you’re grinning widely at them and waving. Slight nods from all of them and half-hearted waves back. Some of the boys turn bright red, ducking their faces down as two girls shove elbows into them all, shaking their heads. Your brother groans and mumbles, “Idiots.”

Ruffling the top of his head as you laugh, "Relax dude. Whatever it is, I'll be here. So again...what time does it get over?"

He's digging in his bag, opening the door halfway, the chill from outside swirling around the car and making you shiver as he mumbles, "No, I don't need a ride, Steve usually gives the few of us without cars all one home. Speaking of which," he dumps five VHS tapes into your lap, "Can you return these for me today? Steve and Robs will pluck Mike's eyeballs out if they’re any later. He took the - Hold on!” he shrieks out the door at the grumbling from a few feet away before continuing, “Anyways, Wheeler said he forgot but really it was my fault and…”

So lost in so many different questions, you don’t hear the end of his sentence as you blurt out the first thing you can think of, "Steve? Who's this Steve that gives you rides?"

He blinks at you like it's obvious, his tone even and slowed down as if he's sounding it out for you as he replies, "Hair - ing - ton."

"Steve Harrington gives you rides home from your Dungeons and Dragons game?"

He rolls his eyes but nods, half out the door as he zips his bag back up, "Yes he does and -"

"The Hair? King Steve?"

He huffs, “He doesn’t really go by that-” the school bell's shrill ring sounds out and he groans, jumping out of the car fully.

You shout an apology behind his body and the closing door and then, “Wait! Harrington works at Family Video?!”

He waves you off as the door slams and he’s racing past the group that’s all shouting at him as they all scurry into the building, shoving each other as they go. Somehow, despite their broader shoulders, longer hair, and taller bodies, they were still that group of awkward misfit kids to you. 

Glancing down at the tapes in your lap, you can’t help but wonder how the hell your little brother got wrapped up with Steve Harrington. You push your car into drive, ready to find out. 

The trilling chime you’re expecting as you step inside Family Video halts after one ring and you glance up to see a tiny piece of string pulling the bell back - just enough to stop it from hitting the door hard enough to ring out repeatedly. 

Glancing around the familiar rental store, you see no customers and more importantly, no Steve Harrington. 

As ‘Temple of Doom’ blasts from the TV’s hoisted in the corners, you make your way towards the counter and set down the stack of tapes your brother dropped on you. A shiny bell sitting on the counter with a post-it attached that reads ‘ring me and you die’ crossed out with harried and blocky writing that says ‘she’s kidding’ and another note below it saying ‘no I’m not’ piques your interest and you tap your finger on it despite the warnings. 

Pausing for several seconds, but when nobody appears you tap it again, and for good measure a third time right in a row, causing a loud groan to echo from the ajar door leading to the back. Shuffling feet and a high pitched and irritated voice calling out, “Steve, I swear to god, if you ring that bell to get my attention one more time-”

A girl about your age, maybe a little younger, stops dead in her tracks as she rounds the corner. Bright red and scuffed chucks knocking into a cart as she flails, trying to catch herself. At about the same time you go to help her, the door lets out the pathetic singular ding and a deeper voice yells out, “Oh shit!” 

The girl has toppled over the cart and is blowing her bangs out of her eyes as she hisses up at the boy, “Yeah ‘oh shit’ Steve! Can you-” she gestures to you, picking up the jumbled tapes, voice dripping with fake polite sweetness, “just help the customer please.”

He nods and finally turns in your direction. He’s got a giant soft pretzel in his hand, a dab of mustard on the corner of his lips, and the famous brown locks atop his head. Steve blinks at you, clearing his throat before squinting and asking, “Y/N?”

Nodding as well, you take in his appearance further. He’s different and yet the same as you remember him. A small amount of stubble around his jaw and upper lip that he quickly wipes at the corner of with the sleeve of his deep green sweatshirt - but you can see the collar of one of his familiar polos peeking out underneath. He’s taller, taller than you now, and his hair - he’s learned how to steer into the mess of it, it seems. It flops in all the right ways. It's not stiff from product and he runs his free hand through it in a way that tells you he does it all the time and makes you a little envious of the hand. He still seems to very much be the King Steve you recall from high school - the one who was popular enough to have seniors over at his house. The one you and your friends included in hot or not lists and flirted with constantly, the one girls bought bikinis strictly for pool parties hosted by him for. The one who still drives a maroon BMW that makes your little rusting bucket currently sitting out next to it look like a piece of shit. 

How did that Steve turn into a guy who gives your brother rides?

He’s still holding the pretzel and his mouth opens to speak again when the girl stands from her stack of tapes on the floor, cheeks blushed pink and a scowl on her face, “Oh good. You know each other, I’m going back to finishing my essay and you,” she shoves the stack into his chest and he cradles it between his one free arm and chin. She snatches the pretzel and takes a bite before speaking around it, “can finish putting these away.”

She seems to have a lighter skip in her step as she takes another bite of the pretzel and he shakes his head at her retreating back before dumping the perfect stack onto the counter behind him, all of them toppling over and out of order again. He turns back to face you and extends his arms towards the now fully open door, “Don’t mind her, she’s dealing with finals and super cranky and-”

“I heard that, Dingus!” echoes from the room.

“You were supposed to!” he shouts back before turning to face you, rubbing the back of his neck, “Um, so, what…how…you’re…”

He starts too many questions for you to even attempt to answer when the door chimes again and you feel all the color drain from your face. Fingers and toes becoming numb as you see the hoard of bright fuschia, patterns, teased and poofed hair, and denim jacket clad women coming towards you. You were not prepared for all of these reunions on your first day back. 

“Y/N?!” one of them shrieks and then the whole crowd descends, shouting out squeals of ‘I can’t believe you’re here’, ‘what are you doing here’s’, ‘oh my god we miss you’, ‘did you do something different with your hair?’ 

Overwhelmed does not even touch the tip of how you’re feeling and you blink at Steve, who none of the girls have even spared a glance towards. He’s quietly opening the tapes you brought back, cheek pulled in as he bites at it. 

One girl steps forward from the pack and your stomach rolls. Brittany Hartman, your best friend growing up, laughs and waves her hands down at the others. “Oh my god, ladies, let her breathe!” She turns to you, a full wattage smile poised on her face, tossing her perfectly curled blonde hair before her arms extend and pull you into a suffocating hug, hairspray filling your nostrils and something overtly peachy as she squeezes you and squeals, “It’s been so long! How are you? Are you home for Christmas? How long are you staying? How’s your mom?”

A snort to your left and you see the girl from earlier is now next to Steve and she covers her mouth and turns quickly to face the back counter, ears turning red and Steve bites his lip trying to hide a smirk. 

Brittany rolls her eyes before turning back to you, her fingers running through your hair absentmindedly with a slight look of judgment as you stumble through all of the responses to her questions, “It has been a long time, yeah, um…” you pull your sleeves over your fists at your side, “Home for Christmas, she’s good, thanks for asking.”

Some of the girls have dissipated between the shelves, twittering amongst themselves about Tom Cruise and what movie to pick. Brittany leans against the counter, elbow knocking over some of the tapes. Steve’s jaw clenches as he catches it and turns to the computer, typing in something. She twirls her hair and nods, her smile stiff as she asks, “How’s the big city? Still living the dream? How long do we get you for?”

Unsure why you didn’t prepare some sort of response before going out in public in this town, you’re kicking yourself for not realizing you’d have to answer this question eventually. Shrugging as you reply, “It’s great, I love it there. I…um…well,” you can feel your throat tightening, the pit in your stomach only growing as you look anywhere but at her as you spit out a half truth, “I’m actually gonna be home for the rest of the school year…”

Her eyes go wide at that, her head tilting to the side, “You can take that much time off?”

The familiar prick of tears you’ve been avoiding is hitting behind your eyes, body suddenly feeling hot in all your layers and then you catch Steve’s eyes. He offers a small smile and you know he knows and you’ll kill your brother if you make it out of this situation alive. Your eyes land on the counter as you blink them repeatedly and mumble, “Actually, I don’t have a job right now?”

Cursing to yourself that it comes out like a question, you swallow harshly and tighten your fists as Brittany gasps, some of the other girls letting out quiet ‘oh no’s’ and ‘that’s terrible’. Brittany’s fingers tap on the counter as her voice drips with fake disdain, “Oh my god, that sucks! What happened? Was teaching really hard?”

Her tone, the situation, some of the girls hiding their smiles behind their hands has your blood boiling over as your head snaps up, trying to control the shake in your voice, “Excuse me?”

She laughs, cold and a little heartless as she waves her hand, “Oh I just, I remember your mom telling my mom that you were teaching? So if you’re not, it must have been hard? Or did something happen?” she gasps again, eyes wide, “Oh my god, did you get fired?”

Words fail you, you’re trying, you really are, to tell her that she’s wrong. That you’re good at your job. That it wasn’t your fault. But she’s technically right, and as her eyes lock with yours, you both know it. 

She frowns, mock pity that you’re familiar with from your years of friendship thick in her voice as her fake sincerity slips out of her lips, “I’m so sorry. Some people just aren’t cut out for city life, I guess.”

The girl behind the counter with Steve lets out a scoff and Brittany tilts her head again, bright blue fingernails tapping on the counter as she questions, “Something to say over there?”

The girl turns, honey with a hint of red small curls that fall from the bun atop her head swaying with the sharp movement as she mocks the tilt of Brittany’s head and shrugs, “Oh, just wondering how you would know that?”

Brittany sneers at the girl whose name tag says Robin before glancing at Steve and responding, “You’re so right. Silly me. It’s pathetic to stay in Hawkins and work here, huh Harrington?”

Unsure of how a dynamic this big could have shifted between a girl like Brittany and Steve in the years you’ve been away, you’re shocked when he stands, smiles and hands her a tape, “Pretty pathetic, Brit. I’ll see you next week, same time.”

The girls around the counter clear their throats and Brittany snatches the tape before turning to you. Her eyes soften, but you know the malice that lies behind them and she isn’t fooling anyone when she squeezes your wrist, “I really am sorry. Let’s catch up soon, okay? I wanna hear all about it and be there for you.”

Squeezing your fingers, but before you can even reply, she’s turning and the hoard of girls follows behind her, calling out their goodbyes. 

The sound of the movie's credits is the only thing that fills the store for several minutes as you stare blankly out the glass front doors. Ashamed you couldn’t stick up for yourself. Embarrassed that you were once best friends with her. Gutted that somehow, still, after all of these years, a shallow level inside of yourself seeks and wants their approval. 

Feeling the need to make your apologies - for freezing, for not defending Steve, for your past friend’s behavior, for your brother clearly not rewinding any of the tapes as you watch the girl named Robin plop one in the rewinder. She shakes her head, "Don't you even think about apologizing."

Blinking at her as she smiles and waggles a finger adorned with a ring attached with a small silver chain to a bracelet, "It's all over your face," she leans onto the counter, crossing her arms, "And you have absolutely nothing to be sorry about."

Steve nods once in agreement and flops down into the rolling chair, throwing his head back and staring at the ceiling, "Except maybe not teaching your brother how to return things in a timely manner."

Robin kicks his shin and he doesn't even flinch, and your eyes bop between the two of them - curious who this girl is, why Steve and Brittany don't get along anymore, and how Steve is not doing any of the things you once imagined he would be and is instead, working here.

He rubs his temples and Robin extends her hand to you, "Robin Buckley."

Shaking it, you introduce yourself and she smiles widely, "Oh, I know who you are."

She must sense your embarrassment of not knowing who she is or trying to recall if you've met before and just forgot because her smile softens and she shrugs, "I was class of ‘86 and we didn't exactly run in the same circles. Besides," she shifts and jumps up to sit on the counter, "A senior hanging out with freshmen? Who'd do something so crazy?"

Steve pulls his head up and rolls his eyes at her which reminds you why you're in the store in the first place. Tapping your knuckles on the counter, ready to interrogate him, Steve replies before you even ask, "It's a very long story, one I'm surprised your brother hasn't told you already, but," he waves his hands and then leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, "Would you...we can...coffee?"

Robin rolls her eyes at him and you can't help but smile at the jumbled question. The smooth talking younger boy is not as full of confident charm as he once was as wide and hopeful hazel eyes stare up at you.

Shrugging, you reply,  "Sure. Since I know the dweeb clearly told you, and you would've found out from that lovely encounter," you nod your head out towards the parking lot before letting your arms fall open at your sides, "I have plenty of free time on my hands."

Steve smiles and nods, "Cool, I'll call you."

"Cool."

Robin's eyebrows raise and she whispers, "Cool."

Biting the inside of your lip as you try to fight a smile, you start to head towards the door, and spin back to face them, "This is going to sound incredibly lame and you're going to think I'm a total loser who really doesn't have anything going for her anymore but um...do you...do either of you know..." you rub the back of your neck before finally spitting out, "Is Rick still..."

The pair share a glance and then Steve stands and nods, "Yeah, he's still at the same spot out by Lover’s Lake. He's more of a...supplier now though?"

Your eyebrows raise and Steve grins, "The town is booming, didn't you hear?"

Laughing as you back into the door, "Clearly I underestimated Hawkins potential should have never left," you push the door open and then turn to say sorry for what occurred with Brittany.

Robin holds up her finger, "Nu-uh! What'd I say!?"

Grinning at her, you nod and let a tiny, "Sorry," slip out before turning towards your car, as the door falls shut you hear her groan.  

The parking lot covered in icy sludge makes you shuffle slowly to your car, wincing as the door hinges squeak, before settling into the front seat.

Determined to turn the day around and quell some of the anxiety from the interaction with Brittany, you turn the key in the ignition and make the trip out to the one person who supplied anyone in town for their parties with the good stuff you haven’t been able to afford for the last year - hoping your “friend” can cut you a deal for old time’s sake. 

Making the familiar drive out to Rick’s house, you hate that your thoughts are still swirling around Brittany, the town, and how long it will take for her to tell everyone about what happened. What about if anyone sees you going into Rick’s and the assumptions they make?

Knuckles tightening their grip on the steering wheel until they’re drifting to your stereo, turning up the knob fully in hopes that the wailing guitar will drown out the anxiety that’s threatening to pull you under. 

Pulling into his drive, you throw the car in park, pressing your forehead to the top of the steering wheel and take several deep breaths. Did it really matter what they thought of you anymore? Why do you care? Sick to your stomach that it hasn’t even been twenty-four hours back in this town and already you were falling back into their clutches of controlling stereotypes. 

Thoughts continue to eat away at your nerves, you bite at your thumb as you pull the keys from the ignition and slam the door. Stepping up the front steps, your head ducks down to shield yourself from the biting wind now that you’re closer to the lake. 

Pounding on the door a few times, you hear a muffled ‘one sec’ from somewhere deeper in the house and you mentally prepare yourself for the conversation with Rick - one that would be longer than necessary due to being interrupted by his large bong rips most likely. Hoping he was in a good enough mood to offer you some sort of deal and maybe, somehow, you could still escape with a little of your dignity. 

When you don’t hear any further footsteps to signal he’s coming, your fist connects with the wood harshly again, worried he was too high and had already forgotten that someone was at the door. 

A louder voice cries out, “I said I was come-” the door flies open and his sentence falters off much quieter, “-ing.”

As if the day could not get any worse, Eddie Munson stands before you, a bag of chips between his teeth that drops to the floor when his mouth falls open as he blinks at you. 

Crossing your arms, your eyes narrow into a glare as you stick your chin up, “What are you doing here?”

He rolls his eyes, bending down to pick up the chips as he sighs, “Funny, I was just about to ask you the same thing.” He turns back into the house, leaving the door open but not telling you to follow him. 

Debating if you really needed the weed that badly, your resolve is paper thin at this point and you step inside and close the door behind you. Eddie turns to look over his shoulder, eyebrows raising as he sees you standing in front of the now closed door. 

He tosses the bag on the kitchen counter as he opens cabinets, “So, really, what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be in Chicago?”

Curious how Eddie Munson knows you lived in Chicago - the town is small, but the people who knew where you lived definitely wouldn’t have been going around telling “the freak” about it. Scuffing your shoe against the floor, you go with a half truth again, “I’m home visiting for Christmas. Is Rick here?”

Eddie laughs as he closes the cabinet, “Really? Cause I heard you got canned and had to move back home,” he winces with fake apology, “Tough break, shortstack.”

How the hell did he know that? And how dare he use that nickname now, after all of these years. 

Seething at the thought of the one person you couldn’t stand almost as much as the town knowing your failure, your voice is cold and sharp, “Well if you knew that, then why the fuck did you ask?”

He pulls out a pack of cigarettes from the front pocket of his black denim jeans, tapping it on the counter as he squints at you, “Someone is bitter…” he drags out the last word as he pulls a cigarette from the pack and lets it dangle between his lips. 

Eddie is similar to Steve in regards to not having changed much - appearance wise. Still long and unruly dark curls cascading over an old band t-shirt, a band you hated to admit you liked too. His jeans have the same holes in the knees, he’s got a little stubble on his jaw, just like Steve had, a reminder that you’re all a little older. The difference between Eddie and Steve is that Eddie seems to not have changed his personality at all. 

“Glad to see you haven’t changed - still an asshole. Again, is Rick here?”

Eddie pulls the unlit cigarette from his lips and places it behind his ear as he shakes his head, crossing his arms and leaning up against the counter, “So what happened, shortstack? All those book smarts didn’t give you enough street smarts for the big ol’ city?” He pouts his lips and blinks his eyes in false pity. 

Picking at the skin on your thumbs with your forefingers, you try to keep your voice level as you retort, “At least I got out of this town and did something, Munson. What’s your excuse for doing absolutely nothing with your life?”

Eddie tucks his tongue into his cheek, big brown eyes hardening into a deeper shade, almost black, as he practically growls through a clenched jaw, “Says the girl who failed and had to move back in with mommy and daddy.”

“What the fuck is your problem Eddie?” you shriek at him.

He stands taller, fingers pointing into his chest, taking a step closer and towering over you like he always has, voice ringing out through the house, “What’s my problem?! I’m not the one who’s had a stick up their ass since we were twelve, sweetheart!”

Shoving a finger into his chest as you take a step closer, “You’re the one who humiliated me in front of the entire tow-”

“You are un - fucking - believable! Are you kidding me?” he interrupts, whacking your finger from his chest with wide hands. 

“Woah, woah, woah, dudes - your volume is not appreciated right now.”

At the sound of Rick’s voice and cough, you physically jump back from Eddie like he shocked you. Feeling the muscles that had tightened and coiled in your body at the growing tension with him start to untangle themselves. Rick looks between the two of you, holding a finger up, and a small, “Ah, yeah, I forget, what happened here?”

Eddie and you glare at each other, both of you mumbling and turning from the other. Eddie a quiet, “I don’t know,” and you an even quieter, “Nothing.”

Rick shrugs like he couldn’t be bothered to know or not and he falls into the plush couch, kicking his dirty barefeet up on the coffee table littered with rolling papers, and baggies full of bud and nods towards you, “What do I owe the pleasure of this house call, former princess of Hawkins?”

Recoiling at the nickname and everything that goes along with it - you hate that that’s how people can still think of you. You were never the queen, or as popular as someone like Steve, but you did run with that crowd. A princess and a pawn in their kingdom you begrudgingly have to admit. You risk a glance at Eddie who immediately looks at the floor, pretending you didn’t just catch him staring. 

“Well, I’m in need of a couple of those bad boys,” you gesture to some of the rolled joints resting in a tin and flash him a smile that always used to work wonders, “Had to come see my favorite guy for them.”

Rick laughs, flicking a lighter in his hand, “Well, I don’t really do that anymore,” he nods his head backwards to where Eddie is filling his old metal lunchbox with baggies on the counter, “My guy took over a few years ago so I could wash my hands of all the messy sales stuff. Gave away too many free joints to the pretty ones,” Rick winks at you.

Disgusted with yourself, you pull out the old charm for the man four years your senior and flirt like your life depends on it, “Oh really? I thought that was something you only did for me, Ricky?” you pout your lips, clasping your hands in front of you.

Eddie makes a choking sound and you ignore him, gesturing to the door, “But that’s okay, I understand. I’ll just tell my friends we can’t get the good stuff tonight and -”

Rick holds out his hand stopping your retreating, “Wait!”

Eddie groans, “No. You seriously did not fall for that pathetic excuse of-”

Rick picks up the tin and shoots Eddie a glare before turning back to you, dopey smile on his lips, “Alright, one free joint for the once upon a time princess who’s always been too sweet to me,” he hands you a joint and you smile at him, batting your eyelashes. 

He pulls another one out, “A second free one for the inconvenience of driving all the way out here and not knowing your old buddy took my gig and his mean yelling earlier-”

Eddie cries out, “Oh my god! Come on, man!”

Rick holds up a third one, “A third and final free joint to save for a special occasion - for old times sake,” he winks at you as you steal it, backing away before Eddie can convince him to change his mind. 

“Thank you Rick! It’ll be our little secret that they were free, and I’ll spread the word that you still have the best stuff in town!” blowing him a kiss that he pretends to grab and slap his cheek with as you laugh.

Eddie stands behind him shaking his head, hissing as you turn your back on the pair of boys, “Rick, this is exactly why you hired me to sell. What the fuck was-”

Rick’s voice follows you out and you wish you were quicker to close the door before hearing, “My man, you of all people should know the power that girl’s smile has on a guy.”

“I thought you didn’t remember-”

“Dude. Everyone remembers.”

Upon returning home, you quickly shuffle up to your room, and click the lock before heading over to your closet. Digging around on the top shelf for the old shoebox covered in collaged pictures and magazine cut outs to hide your newly acquired contraband like you used to in high school. Opening the lid, your stomach churns at the contents of the box you forgot you had kept and hidden away. You dump all of it out and onto the floor and slip the three joints inside, placing one of your old t-shirts atop them. Deciding you’ll smoke the last bit of flower you had been saving first and ignore the pile of tainted memories. 

Placing an old cassette tape into your stereo, and turning the volume up, you blow the smoke out your window and let the high take over, everything that’s gone wrong that day melting away as your muscles relax fully. 

Body and mind lulled into a blissfully unaware and relaxed state, you slowly unpack the things you brought back home. As you take down posters and hang new ones up, replacing framed photos of you and the girls from Hawkins with your polaroids and frames of Chicago, you don’t notice the sun shifting squares across your floor throughout the day or the number of tapes you replace as the songs click to their end. Pausing in between your slow unpacking and decorating to light up the last little bit in your bowl, hollowing your cheeks and sucking in the definitely burnt and past its prime drug.

After the last suitcase is emptied and shoved under your bed, you turn to the pile full of tokens from memory lane hell you had dumped on the floor. Photobooth pictures of you and Brittany where he enters the last frame kissing your cheek. Lace from the bottom of your prom dress that was tailored. Ticket stubs from date nights. A small box that you knew if you opened would be a necklace with his initial dangling on the gold chain. Slowly dropping items into your wastebasket, you pause at a few of them. A pop bottle cap necklace you allow to return to the box. A polaroid of your brother and Dustin Henderson shoving ice cream cones in your face, a handmade card full of drawings your brother made, and a ticket stub to The Breakfast Club all make the cut too. Folded pieces of notebook paper are all that’s left. Several have tiny hearts and your name on them that you quickly shove into the trash, but most of them have striking doodles of dragons and knights, a crown, frogs and various favorite animals from over the years on them made in black sharpie that disappear into the creases of the strategically folded paper. Those you return to the box as well with a lump in your throat and pull out one of the new joints. 

The items sobering any sort of high you had been feeling, you notice the sky darkening, the once gray and bright day fading into a hazy blue twilight as the front door thudding closed and echoes of boys filter up the stairs. 

Excited to greet all of your brother’s best friends with more than a wave from the car, you stick the joint in your pocket and race down the stairs, jumping down the last two and practically falling over at what waits for you in the entryway. 

Your brother grins, “Hey! We brought home pizza!” 

Lucas Sinclair holds up the box and grins at you as well and you gulp as you wave at the young boys, greeting them as your eyes remain on Steve’s and then Eddie’s, “Hey guys, long time no see.”

Dustin Henderson, the closest of your brother’s friends races forward to give you a hug, practically your little brother too and you laugh as you hug him back, “Holy cow, you all got so tall!” You ruffle the top of his head as he pulls away and frown, looking around, “What’s with all this long hair though?”

Eddie narrows his eyes at you and leans a shoulder against the wall and you fold your arms, glaring back at him. 

Steve looks between the two of you and then at your little brother who looks like he’s in pain when Mike Wheeler hitches his thumb at Eddie, “He thinks it’s because of him.”

“Yeah, he’s always been pretty full of himself,” you reply without looking away from Eddie. 

Eddie opens his mouth to respond and maybe it’s some lingering effects of the weed, but you beat him to it, not caring about the audience you have, “Why are you here?” 

Lucas speaks around a bite of a slice he slipped out of the box that Dustin snatches from him and closes, “Eddie runs Hellfire.”

Will Byers pipes up at your blinking when Lucas’ mouth remains full, “Our DND Club? He’s the best Dungeon Master Hawkins has ever seen.”

Turning your gaze to your brother, he rubs the back of his neck and whispers, “Did I not mention that Eddie still ran DND?”

Shaking your head at him, it’s all the final cherry on top to your massively awful first day back in Hawkins, “Nope, must have slipped your mind when you were too busy telling everyone about my mistakes and failures instead.”

Steve clears his throat and nods at the younger boys and the kitchen, slowly shoving them out of the entryway as your brother starts to apologize, “I didn’t mean to tell them all, I was just happy to have you back home and-”

“Whatever, it’s too late now, but,” you point at Eddie who hasn’t moved from his spot leaning, “You’re not hanging out with him anymore.”

Eddie’s jaw clenches, but he doesn’t fight you on your order, surprisingly, it’s your brother who does, “Excuse me?”

Shoving past Eddie, you start to pull on your shoes and coat, “You heard me.”

He scoffs, “Hate to break it to ya sis, but you’re not my mother. Why can’t I hang out with Eddie? Just because you don’t like him? He didn’t live up to the Hawkins princess’ standards, right? Cause it sure as shit can’t be because of the pot like you used to claim since we can all smell how you’ve been spending your day without a job.”

The words land across your skin in a harsh slap, cold and biting, just how they were intended and you see his shoulders fall and the immediate regret on his face, but it’s too late, and he can’t take them back. 

The kitchen turns silent, Steve closes his eyes and rubs the back of his neck and Eddie stands up straighter, all three of them opening their mouths.

Shaking your head as you open the door you mutter, “Save it,” and slam it behind you. 

Fingers fumbling with your keys, you hold in the tears until you’re in your car and down the block, letting them fall silently. Aimlessly driving around, desperate to escape the town you had worked so hard to get out of already, until you end up at a diner along the highway just outside of Hawkins. 

Opening the center console, you rifle through your tapes until you find your favorite Metallica one. You turn the knob so the opening soft chords of ‘Fight Fire With Fire’ fill your car. The cold pads of your fingertips swipe at your tear stained cheeks and you let the metal music fill your brain, trying to let it take over the thoughts sending you into a spiral of self loathing and pity. 

The joint sitting in your pocket seems to be burning a hole there as the lyric, ‘the gods are laughing’ cuts through your wallowing. Pulling it out, you place the joint between chapped lips as you search for your lucky bright yellow lighter. You can’t help but think about how different this scenario is from your previous smoke sessions in Hawkins. Boys always lighting them for you before Chicago, only daring to have a few passes from fear of being labeled a stoner like classmates around you. Now, your hands work with a mind of their own, the steps to smoking alone are second nature, twirling it to get an even burn and as the paper catches the flame, you hollow your cheeks and let yourself become numb. 

The smoke leaves your parted lips as ‘For Whom The Bell Tolls’ starts and you adjust the volume a little louder, letting your body relax into the smoke and sounds filling the car. The events of day replay in your mind like some private showing of a sick and twisted horror movie starring yourself as the paper slowly burns down and the album continues on. As you hear, ‘no one but me can save myself, but it’s too late’ you can’t help but feel like you’ve made a colossal mistake in coming back and a fresh wave of tears starts to gather on your lashes.

Reminding yourself it wasn’t exactly by choice, but you’re sure if you would have picked up a third job, found roommates, something, you could have made Chicago work. But you gave up, your expectations and the bar you set for yourself lower than they ever had been. The fact of the matter is, your entire confidence was shattered as the dream you’d always reached for, the perfect life in the perfect city, came tumbling down around you after one setback. You’d had it extremely easy for most of your life and though you worked hard in school to get a scholarship, worked a job throughout high school to save up for the same brands other’s simply purchased with family credit cards, you were doused in privilege and naivety. Somewhere along the way you let yourself feel unstoppable until the universe reminded you that you’re nothing special and the world is not always going to be fair. 

Maybe everyone was right. You were a princess of Hawkins, a part of a crowd that had life handed to them and you were no better than anyone else. A hypocrite. A failure. And certainly no role model for your brother. 

The tears finally fall and you quickly wipe at them and snuff out the butt of your joint. You’re not sure how this day can get worse, and you’re wondering if this is your rock bottom. Surely you can turn it all around, climb your way back up. Nudging the volume up again, you’re determined to not continue to wallow once your favorite song comes on and you sing out “Out for my own, out to be free…” closing your eyes and headbanging along to the fast guitar as you remember the girl you were when the album came out. First year in the city and full of drive and ambition - full of hope. 

Three quick, loud raps on your passenger door window snap your eyes open. A man with a large mustache and decked out in a uniform doting big blocky letters spelling out the word ‘Police’ is glaring at you and you now notice the swirling red and blue lights in your windshield through the lingering hazy smoke. 

As the diner full of families glare out through frosted windows as you’re escorted into the back of the cop car, you let your head fall forward, fighting off the laugh that was threatening to escape your chest at the universe’s cruel sense of humor.

Correction. 

Maybe this was your rock bottom. 

🖤 Thanks again for being here - any interaction is so appreciated & I’d love to know what you thought about it! If you’re able, please consider reblogging to help get my work seen. 

tag list: @boomhauer @loveshotzz @myobmaya @sweetsweetjellybean @pastel-pillows @littlesubbyflower @christalcake @marymunsonloves @big-ope-vibes @hellkaisersangel @aysheashea @aftermidnightwriting @idkidknemore

[lookingfts]

hello!! omg so happy you’re on tumblr!

love love love every kanthony fic you write. i get an email that you’ve posted and will literally get giddy thinking about going home and reading it. truly you can do no wrong! my favorites are definitely hush (i reread this constantly actually just finished a reread earlier today) and the you were my rock never my stepping stone series (my roman empire is that little “no” next to complete on the series page…. if you do ever write a part 4 i may cry).

anyways! just needed to let you know how obsessed with your work i am. thank you for providing me with endless hours of good fic. just picture me as the gordon ramsay meme; finally some good fucking fic!

Thank you so so much! Gosh, it's crazy for any of my work to be thought of as someone's roman empire. 😂

I definitely CANNOT promise that this will ever be completed, but I once toyed with another part to that series about their wedding night, so please enjoy this snippet and the moodboard I made for it forever ago. (Though I may be rethinking Kate's outfit after seeing her in that incredible red and gold ensemble...)

--

Marriage had been so many things to Anthony over the years.

As a child, a given – marriage and kids were just what people did, especially Edmund and Violet, by far the most enamored couple among all his friends’ parents. As a teenager, it was a burden, it was heartache, it was ghosts left behind. He swore to avoid it, convinced that one of his brothers – or hell, his sisters – was perfectly capable of carrying on the Bridgerton name.

And then, Kate.

It was too easy to want her, too easy to want things with her that he’d dismissed years ago. Maybe the moment he pieced together that he loved her, he knew he would marry her, too. He wanted a marriage with her, a commitment to her, and if Kate hadn’t wanted the same, Anthony was sure he would have gone the rest of his life without ever considering it again.

But she had wanted it. She said yes at Daphne’s party as he desperately laid out his hopes for the future, and she said yes again when he dropped to one knee a few months later to make it official, and she said yes five hours ago when the officiant asked Kate to bind her life to his.

And now Kate was his wife, his partner, though if Anthony was being honest, she’d been both of those things in his mind for much longer.

“It’s rude to stare,” Kate said, a touch of amusement in her voice.

[genshingorlsrevengeance]

(Genshin Impact) Ei being isekai'd into the real world

"The time an Electric God came to my world and became my roommate."

Watching or reading about an Isekai and having one happen to you are two very different things.

Especially when it's a character you know.

God help you, it being a character who is scarily overpowered and one of the most socially inept characters you've seen.

You and Ei lock eyes as you stare at each other confused.

(Ei) "...Where am I?"

Honestly, you think it's a hallucination. Maybe you need to get some sleep.

But when she refuses to go away when you close your eyes, reality starts to sink in as Ei tilts her head curiously.

While you're coming to facts that a woman who could literally kill you has now materialized in front of your eyes, she is taking in her surroundings.

(Ei) "Can you understand me?"

You're quick to answer back, albeit in a panicked manner.

(Ei) "(Y/N)? Do you know where I am?"

...

(Ei) "Your room? Is this Inazuma?"

Thankfully since the Isekai was from a series you actually knew, you're able to explain the situation to her relatively quickly.

But there was the hurdle of getting her back and...well you know, having one of the most powerful women just living with you.

The most important part was to get her to blend in. If people knew, god help you, other fans knew, then you'd both be in deep trouble.

Though maybe you can pass her off as a cosplayer. A really devoted cosplayer.

(Ei) "I see...Well until I can get back, I will be in your care. Thank you for your assistance."

She's surprisingly calm about the situation, though that may be attributed to her not knowing anything from the outside world, let alone her own.

To pass the time, she asks you a lot of things about what people do in their freetime, what this world is like, and how they interact.

It's an endless barrage of questions, but you're able to provide the most important answer.

How do the sweets in your world taste?

Expectedly, she doesn't go out to find a job or anything, instead sitting in your room, using your computer to find all sorts of information, especially about the rest of her own world via the wiki.

But you try to avoid letting her access that since having to explain that is...complicated and a bit too meta.

Besides, how the hell do you explain to Ei that her failed creation of a child is going to be a "party member"?

With Ei now in your life, things get very chaotic despite her calm nature.

Not to mention she still has access to her Vision, so she's able to smite lightning at will, cutting out power and scaring the absolute piss out of anyone she deems a threat.

Some luck you have getting Ei of all people.