#+ // threads / flickering chronicles.

[thedaschosen]

( ⌺ ) // WAVES WASH AGAINST SAND, THE SOUND LIKE A CURTAIN OF RAIN. wind stirs at the palm leaves -- the shadows in stripes upon the crow's form. golden honey eyes trace the horizon of the sea. in treviso -- there were canals, lapping at old bricks and history stained structures -- but in rivain, the ocean felt vast and endless.

" so, this is home ? " the white blonde haired crow inquires, looking up at the other, " never seen beaches like these ... honestly haven't travelled much out of treviso until now. " she admits, arms crossing as she shifts her boots in the sand below. // @abanbas liked for a starter !

[thedaschosen]

( ⌺ ) // " NOW THAT YOU MENTION IT ... " nose scrunches in thought, glancing to her belt at her hips, empty rings of leather feeling strange with the loss of weighted glass, " some of my poison vials have gone missing. not a complete loss since i don't use them often but -- yeah. why ?? are you missing things too ? "

@thedaschosen liked for a dialogue starter

“ Have you noticed any of your things going missing? “

[imaginaryshorts]

The Enigmatic Masquerade: A Tale of Shadows and Secrets

In the heart of an oppressive metropolitan city, under the cloak of night's inky black calls, lived an intriguing figure known as Isabella. Isabella was no ordinary city dweller. The most striking feature about her was her long, beautiful black hair that cascaded down her back like a waterfall, mirroring the obsidian sky above. It was as if her hair was woven from the very threads of the night, so black bountiful.

But more alluring than her dark, lustrous hair was the enigmatic mask she wore. This was no simple face covering but an intricate design of gleaming silver filigree that didn't just represent uniqueness; it was a symbol of mystery that shrouded her true identity. Her eyes, however, were left exposed - twin emeralds that shimmered with untold tales, courage, and a hint of melancholy.

The tale begins on a peculiarly wind-swept night. Isabella was a beacon of intrigue amidst the busking city, captivating the attention of those who dared to look past the mask. Some claimed she was a vigilante, fighting for justice in the town, constantly slipping into the shadows after her heroic deeds. They said the cover was a mere disguise to protect her anonymity.

Others spun tales of her being a phantom, a figment of imagination from the city's collective anxiety and wildest dreams. And yet, in the silent corners of the city, to the hushed whispers of the wind, she was simply a girl whose free spirit couldn't be confined by the metropolis' metallic cold grasp.

One thing that everyone agreed on, though, was that once you spotted her, you could never shake her image from your mind. Her silhouette against the dimly lit streets, the contrast of her dark hair and the enigmatic mask these images would be forever etched in the minds of the onlookers.

As the glittering city lights flickered, plunging the metropolis into short-lived darkness, only to return brighter, so did Isabella with her mask - a girl among the crowd, yet a universe of her own. The mysteries of the girl with the mask became legends the city whispered, chronicling tales of their mysterious guardian, the Enigma.

"The Enigmatic Masquerade: A Tale of Shadows and Secrets" thus became a tale told and retold. While some believed, others scoffed, but for Isabella, it didn’t matter. She continued to exist on her own terms, living behind the silver filigree mask, creating an unforgettable spectacle in the city that never slept, forever etching herself as a living paradox of invisibility and intrigue in the heart of the behemoth metropolis.

[outrokillua]

Tree Song

by forest newsom

In uncharted territories and vast green domains— we flicker, transient flames. Our echoes ripple tracing the fabric of shared dreams and enduring names.

Longings guide our thoughts like roots searching in soil towards unscripted spheres; where silence cradles our intertwined narratives, the grand chronicle of human years.

In the loom of existence intricate threads get woven. Echoes cascade into memory's abyss, tales of struggles won and burdens cloven.

Oblivion's canvas harbors our fleeting inscriptions, silent and discrete. Against the tireless current of moments they stake their claim, indomitably upbeat.

Outlining the infinite stretching sky in contemplation's quiet seclusion. Desires mirror themselves in cosmos and bowers, a distant but familiar illusion.

Navigating the irrational tide of existence, clarity we seek. Finding comfort in transience as the paradox of emptiness we, together, speak.

Facing stark absurdity our resolve remains unswayed. Interwoven stories offer comfort, a testament to bonds unspoken and frayed.

Each echo solitary; yet part of a grand tableau, creates a mosaic of perseverance, a testament to shared ebb and flow.

Our saga unfurls, devoid of divine dictum. Heirs to time we chart our course in the expansive cosmic and earthly continuum.

Not just adrift in the inexhaustible sweep of chronology— we are authors within a universe where cosmic verses are but an apology.

Devoid of inherent essence, the spectacle of being unfolds. In this fleeting drama, an understated elegance quietly holds.

Unshackled by despair, this revelation births an uncharted liberty. In our transient sojourn, we sculpt wisdom, our pyrrhic victory.

[thedaschosen]

( ⌺ ) // ELEGANT HILTS TWIRL ON HER PALMS AND BLADES FLASH. a laugh chimes from her briefly -- her body twirls through the air, a beauteous whirlwind of knives as she cuts through a venatori rogue -- quick enough to slash through their defenses -- quick enough to catch them off guard, to know the flow of the smoke before they appear.

" i'd love to ! hell, you could start a tab if you want ! " illia jokes, her voice carrying over the sound of combat, spitted curses, and clanging metal. she dodges with a flutter of feathers-- the long distance range of another mage, burying himself within his group of venatori goons, the attack barely making its target. burning golden eyes lock onto her target, turning with a whip of silver white hair. steps are quick, pushing off from the ground and into the air -- he feather patterned cloak spreading like wings as she plucks grenades from her belt, the small rounded items between her fingers. in an 'x' her arms cross over the bottom half of her face before blade wielding palms swipe out -- a scattering of explosions pummel the group with a maraud of screams, all falling like pins. illia huffs as her feet hit the ground again, whipping her head to scan the remaining area. a brooding presence then emerges on the battlefield. " shit ... emissary ! "

"I owe you one" from @thedaschosen || illia de riva + harrow thorne

Harrow grins as they use their shield to shove back the venatori cultist that had been lunging for Illia's blind spot. The bastard gives a frustrated yell as he loses his footing- and it's cut off entirely by Harrow's raider-axe separating his head from his shoulders. Spinning, they launch their shield at another, hand flashing up to catch the disk of metal as the enchantment on it sends it spinning back, and the momentum of that is used so that they can roll and surge into the crowd of remaining foes.

"Yeah, you do!" They call cheerfully over their shoulder to the blonde crow. "You can buy me a one of those- chocolate drinks from Treviso later, and I'll call it even." The Warden gives a wild grin- and then surges forward, using themselves as a veritable battering ram against the next overconfident venatori.

"Maybe two," they say as they drive their boot into a blood mage's rubs, sending them flying. "But I'm sure we'll all owe one another by the time we're through, so don't worry about it too much!"

[benjaminlas]

Enchanting a Flickering Tale: The Alchemist's Potion of Clarity

In the realm where pixels dance and shadows play, there exists a tale of conversion so potent, it feels as though woven from the threads of ancient magic. Once, within the quills of a humble scribe, lay the chronicle of a remarkable discovery—a sorcerer's brew to breathe life into the weary frames of yesteryear's videography. Thus, the legend of iFoto's AI Video Enhancer unfurls, a tale not just of technology, but of the sorcery that turns the mundane into the magnificent.

The alchemist, a digital wizard of sorts, had long toiled over the scrolls of code and the cauldrons of data, seeking the elixir that would sharpen the blurred visions of the past. "Can one truly capture the essence of a memory, long faded, and restore it to its former glory?" the alchemist considered. The whispers of the winds carried the answer, and thus, the AI Video Enhancer was born, an arcane creation of iFoto that would defy the limitations of time and clarity.

Upon the first casting of this enchantment, our alchemist faced a tapestry of flickering images, each frame a broken fragment of a once vibrant saga. The low-quality videos, akin to the forgotten lore of old, cried out for revival. With a few incantations and the aid of iFoto's AI Video Enhancer, the alchemist watched in awe as the pixels realigned, colors deepened, and the resolution climbed to heights previously thought unreachable—upscaling to grand sizes without a whisper of quality loss.

The digital sorcerer marveled at the conversion. The enhancement from standard definition to 4K at 30FPS was like turning a dim candle's glow into the brilliant radiance of a thousand suns. The videos, once prisoners of the past, were now free to walk among the (high-definition) pantheon of the present.

But what is this magic, you ask? How does one conjure such a spectacle? The AI Video Enhancer works in mysterious ways, akin to the alchemist's blending of rare herbs and potent fluids. It studies the essence of the visuals, learning their structure, understanding their purpose, and then weaving them anew with a finesse that defies the natural order. Each frame is a puzzle to solve, a riddle to unravel, and in the hands of the AI Video Enhancer, every piece finds its place.

Consider, dear reader, the archivist who uncovers a treasure trove of historical footage—videos of a simpler time, yet damaged by the ravages of time. With the AI Video Enhancer, these relics are reborn, their tales rendered in crisp, vivid clarity, ready to be shared with the world. The past becomes the present, and the stories within these frames jump to life, vibrant and untouched by the sands of time.

Is it not the dream of every artist to see their creations stand the test of time? With iFoto's AI Video Enhancer, the dream is woven into reality. The alchemist found that not only did the tool breathe new life into old videos, but it also inspired a wave of creativity. The enhanced footage became a canvas, ripe for new tales to be painted atop the foundations of the old.

Yet, the experience of this sorcerer did not end with the satisfaction of a job well done. The true magic lay in the experience itself—the quest to refine and improve, to seek out the lost and restore it to its former splendor. And so, our alchemist continues to experiment, to push the boundaries of what is possible, guided by the whispering winds of innovation and the ever-burning desire to create.

In this age of digital wonders, the AI Video Enhancer stands as a beacon, a testament to the wonders that lie at the intersection of technology and art. It is a tool, a guide, a companion to those who wish to bring clarity to their visions, to amplify the voices of the past, and to preserve the beauty of every fleeting moment.

And so, the tale of iFoto's AI Video Enhancer is not just one of conversion, but of possibility—an invitation to all who seek to cast their own spells upon the canvas of time, to enchant their tales with the sorcery of clarity and the magic of enhancement.

[dustedmagazine]

Ibelisse Guardia Ferragutti & Frank Rosaly — Mestizx (Nonesuch/Intl Anthem)

Two musicians with Latin roots but primarily Western musical training and experience dig into a multicultural heritage, incorporating indigenous rhythms, instruments and sounds into intricate space-age explorations of history, myth and personal authenticity.

The two musicians in question are Frank Rosaly, a well-regarded free jazz drummer whose exploits have been frequently chronicled here at Dusted. Jazz fans may associate him primarily with a thriving Chicago scene, but he has Puerto Rican heritage and now lives in Amsterdam. His wife Ibelisse Guardia Ferragutti is a singer and multimedia artist, classical trained but born in Bolivia. This is their first collaborative album, a careful excavation of the sounds and musical traditions of their respective Latin cultures, a reclamation, of sorts, of influences that neither artist feels fully able to claim as his or her own.

Authenticity, is, of course, a tricky concept. Ferragutti freely admits that growing up in Bolivia doesn’t necessarily entitle her to ownership of indigenous culture, while Rosaly, in the liners, admits to experiencing Puerto Rican culture largely as an outsider. Mestizx (a non-gendered term for people of mixed heritage) is as much about being estranged from one’s history as it is about participating in it.  

So there is joy but also a sense of longing in these multi-rhythmed, intricatedly constructed cuts. The beats are insistent, celebratory, all-enveloping, and yet you glimpse them as through a window. Elements may come from isolated rainforest tribes—the two enlisted Fredy Velásquez a scholar and performance artist with expertise in Colombian indigenous rites as a collaborator—but they are viewed through the whole of the western tradition: jazz, rock and classical. The gorgeous “Saber do Mar” flickers like a hallucination, threads of drone winding through intricate structures of malleted percussion; it feels both real and imaginary, a place visited in febrile dreams.

These songs are sung mostly in Spanish, with occasional diversions into other dialects. The titles indicate political engagement (“Balada Para La Corporatocracia” translates as “ballad for corporatocracy,” “Destejer” as “to unravel.”) yet the music is anything but didactic. It seethes and undulates with an easy fluidity, Ferragutti’s serene vocals cresting over the synchronized clatter of percussive instruments made of metal, wood and skin. Other artists, mostly from Chicago, drop by to play. Ben LaMar Gay, Bill MacKay, Rob Frye, Mikel Patrick Avery and Avreeayl Ra all make appearances.

All of which coalesces in some genuine sonic pleasures. “Turbulência” barrels down a groove like a freight train, the shush and pop of samba rhythms clattering amid grinding bass and the trebly sparkle of keyboards. “Writing with Knots” pounds a two-toned cadence, shakers and fluttery melody at play, the thread of dissolution always looming. This one, in English, recounts the terrible history of colonialism, but also points towards the future. Like the Meztizx project writ large, It sends tendrils back into the past in order to plot a better way forward.  

Jennifer Kelly

[xasha777]

In the fading light of a distant future, where the threads of time have woven a tapestry of cultures both ancient and evolved, there lies a planet called Aethiopius. It is a place where history breathes through the sands, and where the old Earth heroes are revered as gods. The most legendary among them is Scipio Africanus, the ancient general who once conquered the unyielding forces of Carthage. On Aethiopius, Scipio is not merely a figure of lore, but a symbol of strength and strategy, his essence infused into the planet's very core.

In a remote village of Aethiopius, a ceremony takes place. A woman stands adorned in the regalia of her people—a visual homage to the Earth's ancient tribes. Her name is Naya, the Chieftain of her clan, and today, she partakes in the Ritual of Scipio, a sacred tradition held every century when the two moons eclipse. It is said that during this alignment, Scipio's spirit walks among the people, selecting a worthy soul to imbue with his tactical genius, ensuring the protection of their world against the looming threats of the cosmos.

Naya's eyes, sharp and discerning, reflect the flickering torchlight, her face painted with the symbols of her authority and the concentric circles symbolizing unity and eternity. Around her neck, beads of turquoise and sanguine—each representing a battle won under her leadership—clatter softly as she steps forward to the ancient shrine. The jewel at her forehead glimmers, a fragment of the very asteroid that brought Scipio's spirit to Aethiopius eons ago.

As the ceremony commences, the crowd's whispers hush to silence, their eyes fixed on Naya. She lifts her arms, and the ground beneath her stirs. A holographic visage of Scipio Africanus materializes, its translucent form towering above the assembly. "Naya," the apparition intones, its voice a chorus of the past and future, "you have led with honor and wisdom. But the galaxy is vast, and danger encroaches upon Aethiopius like a dark tide. You seek my strength?"

Naya nods, her gaze unwavering. "Great Scipio, I seek to protect our home as you once protected the Earth. Grant me the insight to see beyond the veils of time and space."

Scipio's visage nods solemnly. "So shall it be." A pulse of light bursts from the jewel on Naya's forehead, and she is imbued with a surge of knowledge, the ancient strategies and cunning of Scipio merging with her own intuition. Her eyes blaze with newfound understanding, a strategic acumen beyond any seen before.

Weeks pass, and Aethiopius braces as an armada of interstellar marauders pierce the planet's orbit. Naya stands at the forefront, her mind a tapestry of countless battlefields, her spirit in sync with the legendary tactician. With her leadership, the people of Aethiopius outmaneuver the invaders, their defense impenetrable, their strategies unfathomable to the enemy.

The victory is swift and decisive. As peace settles once more, Naya's legend intertwines with that of Scipio Africanus, a tale of unity across the stars, a testament to the enduring spirit of humanity and its heroes. And so, in the libraries of Aethiopius, alongside the great Scipio, the story of Naya is etched into eternity, a chronicle of the Chieftain who became a legend.

[limradesertcamp]

Unveiling the Allure of Desert Hospitality: Limra Desert Camp Chronicles

In the heart of the arid expanse, where the undulating dunes paint a mesmerizing picture of solitude, there exists a haven of warmth and hospitality – the Limra Desert Camp. Nestled amidst the vastness of the desert, this oasis of comfort beckons adventurers and seekers of serenity alike.

A Mirage of Comfort:

As the sun dips below the horizon, casting a kaleidoscope of hues across the endless sands, the Limra Desert Camp emerges like a mirage. Far from being a mere pitstop, it stands as a testament to the harmonious coexistence of luxury and the raw beauty of nature.

Welcome to Limra:

From the moment you set foot in the camp, a palpable sense of tranquility envelops you. The staff, attuned to the rhythm of the desert, extend a genuine welcome that transcends the ordinary. As the traditional Arabian hospitality unfolds, guests are not merely visitors; they become integral threads woven into the rich tapestry of Limra.

A Night Under the Stars:

As evening descends, the camp transforms into a magical realm. The flickering flames of torches cast dancing shadows, while the scent of exotic spices wafts through the air. The Limra experience is not just about accommodation; it's a celebration of the desert's nocturnal charm. Under a canopy of stars, guests gather around crackling bonfires, sharing stories and forging connections that echo the timelessness of the desert.

Luxury Redefined:

Limra Desert Camp effortlessly blends modern comforts with the rustic allure of the desert. Lavish tents adorned with traditional Arabian decor provide a retreat from the elements, allowing guests to unwind without compromising on authenticity. Each corner of the camp resonates with the spirit of the desert, offering a seamless fusion of opulence and simplicity.

Culinary Odyssey:

The culinary offerings at Limra are a journey in themselves. Savory aromas waft from the open-air kitchen, where skilled chefs craft a symphony of flavors inspired by local cuisine. From succulent grilled meats to fragrant couscous, every dish is a tribute to the vibrant culinary heritage of the region.

Adventure Beckons:

For those seeking more than just relaxation, Limra Desert Camp opens the door to a realm of adventure. Guided desert safaris, camel rides, and stargazing expeditions are just a glimpse of the experiences that await. The desert becomes a playground for exploration, with the Jaisalmer Best Desert Camp serving as the perfect launchpad for unforgettable escapades.

Departure, Not Goodbye:

As the sun paints the dunes with its morning glow, guests bid farewell to Limra with a sense of gratitude. The desert hospitality experienced at Limra Desert Camp is not just a stay; it's a sojourn into the heart of Arabian warmth and charm. Leaving behind footprints in the sands, guests carry with them memories of a transcendent encounter with the desert and its enchanting hospitality.

In the realm of Limra Desert Camp, the desert's silence speaks volumes, and every grain of sand is a custodian of the tales whispered by the wind. It's more than a destination; it's an immersive experience that leaves an indelible mark on the soul—a testament to the enduring allure of desert hospitality.

[meowrainsong]

🌳🌸 **Park Chronicles: A Symphony of Memories** 🌸🌳

Hey there, sunshine souls and nature enthusiasts! 🌿✨

Let’s take a stroll down memory lane today, to the heart of a place that holds countless echoes of joy – the park. The park, to me, is like a cherished storybook filled with pages of laughter, whispered secrets, and the timeless beauty of nature. 📖🍃

I remember the sun-dappled afternoons, where the world seemed to slow down as I wandered along the winding paths. The trees, like ancient storytellers, whispered tales of seasons gone by, their leaves creating a symphony that accompanied my every step. 🌳🍂

There were days when the park transformed into a canvas of colors – vibrant blooms painting the landscape with hues of pink, purple, and gold. I'd find a quiet spot, feeling the grass beneath my fingers and losing myself in the poetry of the flowers. 🌺🎨

And oh, the laughter that echoed through the air! Friends gathered for picnics, children chasing butterflies, and the distant sounds of someone strumming a guitar. The park was a stage for shared moments, a tapestry woven with threads of connection and community. 🎶👭

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the park transformed into a magical realm. The lamplights would flicker to life, casting a warm glow on the paths. Nighttime became a sanctuary for contemplation, stargazing, and the quiet hum of solitude amidst the rustling leaves. 🌙✨

So, let’s share our park memories today. Whether it’s the scent of freshly cut grass, the feeling of bare feet on the playground sand, or the taste of ice cream under the shade of a tree, let’s celebrate the park – a haven of memories that bloom in the gardens of our hearts. 🌸💖

With nostalgia, gratitude, and the enduring magic of park memories,

Meow 🌳🌟

[thedaschosen]

100 NON VERBAL PROMPTS  / ACCEPTING /  @scvcnofswords  asked :  ∗ 83﹕ sender  is  discovered  having  a  panic  attack  by  receiver . (harrow and illia)

( ⌺ ) // THE ISLE OF THE GODS HAD GIVEN MORE PROBLEMS THAT SOLUTIONS. despite the defeat of two dragons -- one giant monstrous one had taken their place. they were running out of time, and the pressure was beginning to press its weight upon the veilguard. illia makes her way across the courtyard -- despite the lighthouse not necessarily changing all that much with the usual night and day cycle, there's a particular chill that lingers in the air when night is supposed to flood overhead. her spine shivers, palms rubbing at the base of her arms to find some warmth in the friction. with the doused lamps, she knows everyone is asleep. upon stepping into the kitchens however, she realizes she is not the only one awake. labored breathing is the first thing that hits her ears -- each breath hitting the stone floors and walls. visually, she cannot see who it is until she walks further into the room -- just catching the glimpse of harrow wrapped in a blanket in the corner nearest the fire.

" shit -- " illia is quick, hurrying over and crouching at the other's side. " harrow ? harrow -- look at me. " this felt similar to the waking nightmares harrow had described weeks and weeks ago -- a part of her wonders if davrin is experiencing the same thing now. then again, every warden was affected differently. " it's okay -- you're here and safe. i promise. i'm here. " it's a soft attempt to try and ground the distressed warden, a hesitant hand reaching out to place upon their arm with a concerned frown.

[gwendolynnderolo]

shadowhunters ships as taylor swift songs

the saga of unhinged shadowhunters chronicles posts continues! once again this post is absurdly long so i'm putting it under a cut. let me know your thoughts/other songs that remind you of particular ships cause i'm always down to talk about that!

clace: state of grace 

we fall in love 'til it hurts or bleeds, or fades in time

and i never saw you coming, and i’ll never be the same 

so you were never a saint, and I've loved in shades of wrong, we learn to live with the pain, mosaic broken hearts

malec: lover 

and there's a dazzling haze, a mysterious way about you dear, have I known you 20 seconds or 20 years?

can I go where you go? can we always be this close forever and ever?

my heart's been borrowed and yours has been blue, all's well that ends well to end up with you

sizzy: wildest dreams 

say you'll remember me, standing in a nice dress, staring at the sunset, babe, red lips and rosy cheeks, say you'll see me again, even if it's just in your wildest dreams

someday when you leave me, i bet these memories follow you around

say you'll see me again, even if it's just pretend

wessa: peace 

but I'm a fire, and I'll keep your brittle heart warm, if your cascade ocean wave blues come, all these people think love's for show, but I would die for you in secret

and you know that I'd swing with you for the fences, sit with you in the trenches, give you my wild, give you a child, give you the silence that only comes when two people understand each other

i'd give you my sunshine, give you my best, but the rain is always gonna come if you're standing with me

jessa: invisible string 

and isn't it just so pretty to think all along there was some invisible string tying you to me?

something wrapped all of my past mistakes in barbed wire, chains around my demons, wool to brave the seasons, one single thread of gold tied me to you

hell was the journey but it brought me heaven

blackstairs: cruel summer 

devils roll the dice, angels roll their eyes, what doesn't kill me makes me want you more

said, "I'm fine," but it wasn't true, i don't wanna keep secrets just to keep you

and I screamed “for whatever it's worth, I love you, ain't that the worst thing you ever heard?”

kit x ty: death by a thousand cuts 

saying goodbye is death by a thousand cuts, flashbacks waking me up

i look through the windows of this love, even though we boarded them up, chandelier's still flickering here, cause i can't pretend it's ok when it's not

i take the long way home, i ask the traffic lights if it'll be all right, they say, "i don't know"

and what once was ours is no one's now, i see you everywhere, the only thing we share is this small town

my heart, my hips, my body, my love, trying to find a part of me that you didn't touch

quiet my fears with the touch of your hand, paper cut stings from our paper thin plans

gave you too much but it wasn't enough, but i'll be all right, it's just a thousand cuts

kierarktina: dancing with our hands tied 

my love had been frozen, deep blue, but you painted me golden

and darling, you had turned my bed into a sacred oasis, people started talking, putting us through our paces, i knew there was no one in the world who could take it

i loved you in spite of deep fears that the world would divide us, so, baby, can we dance, oh, through an avalanche?

i'd kiss you as the lights went out, swaying as the room burned down, i'd hold you as the water rushes in, if i could dance with you again

jordelia: cardigan 

when you are young, they assume you know nothing

and when i felt like i was an old cardigan under someone's bed, you put me on and said i was your favorite

a friend to all is a friend to none, chase two girls, lose the one

you drew stars around my scars, but now I'm bleeding 

cause I knew you, stepping on the last train, marked me like a bloodstain

but i knew you'd linger like a tattoo kiss, i knew you'd haunt all of my what-ifs, the smell of smoke would hang around this long, cause i knew everything when i was young

thomastair: treacherous 

and i'll do anything you say, if you say it with your hands

and i'd be smart to walk away, but you're quicksand

your name has echoed through my mind, and i just think you should, think you should know, that nothing safe is worth the drive, and i would follow you, follow you home

ghostwriter: enchanted 

your eyes whispered, "have we met?" 'cross the room your silhouette, starts to make its way to me

i'm wonderstruck, blushing all the way home, i'll spend forever wondering if you knew, i was enchanted to meet you

this is me praying that this was the very first page, not where the story line ends

arianna: august 

whispers of "are you sure?" "never have I ever before"

but i can see us lost in the memory, august slipped away into a moment in time, cause it was never mine, and i can see us twisted in bedsheets, august sipped away like a bottle of wine, cause you were never mine

back when we were still changing for the better, wanting was enough, for me, it was enough to live for the hope of it all

so much for summer love and saying "us" cause you weren't mine to lose

charles/alastair: the story of us 

i used to know my place was the spot next to you, now i’m searching the room for an empty seat, cause lately i don't even know what page you're on

so many things that i wish you knew, so many walls up i can't break through

now i’m standing alone in a crowded room and we're not speaking, and i’m dying to know is it killing you like it's killing me, yeah?

james/grace: my tears ricochet 

even on my worst day, did i deserve, babe, all the hell you gave me? cause i loved you, i swear i loved you, ’til my dying day

and i can go anywhere I want, anywhere i want, just not home

you had to kill me, but it killed you just the same, cursing my name, wishing i stayed, you turned into your worst fears

fairstairs: run 

give me the keys, i’ll bring the car back around, we shouldn't be in this town, and my so-called friends, they don't know, i’d drive away before i let you go, so give me a reason and don't say no

and run, like you'd run from the law, darling, let's run, run from it all, we can go where our eyes can take us, go where no one else is

[thedaschosen]

( ⌺ ) // THE PHANTOM FEELING STILL LINGERS, AND THE MAGIC STILL BURNS. he wished his voice had more power in the face of solas' stubbornness. he had tried -- and he had vowed to save him. solas was a friend -- a mentor -- and taran would never admit it but he had filled the shadow of a father in many ways as well. his face was marred with fatigue despite the hard browed determination previously when deciding the fate of the inquisition. here -- he didn't need to have the stone mask of strength. he could just be taran. as she crumbles, his brows tilt with concern -- instinctively reaching forward to put a firm hand on her shoulder. he had seen what solas and regin had kindled -- like a moth to a flame the two were, immediately drawn to their presences. unfortunately, in the end, regin's wings had been burned. after corypheus -- he knew there was a strange silence between them, one that left regin simmering. and solas had disappeared not long after the battle. it had been breaking for her -- but this. he couldn't have predicted this. eyes shut in acceptance for the first time -- the hole was back again. singing a mournful tune of loss. he lets her cry -- he cannot imagine how twisted her heart must feel. a part of him wants to hate solas -- to damn him for what he's caused. but like regin, they shared that same silly hope that rung like silver bells over the mull of betrayal. as she returns from toil, he takes in a breath. as much as he wanted to shed tears, he would not. he would not shed tears until he knew for certain that solas was truly lost. " i know. " he states in sorrowful confidence, a line of tears at his eyes as he manages a tight smile, " you've taken enough of a hit for both of us. " taran murmurs, moving his hand to now squeeze at her remaining palm as he pauses. " ... i don't know what i need. " he states honestly, " i-- ... a part of me is glad everything is ... over. it just -- all feels so, heavy. "

❛ i guess we both lost something we were fond of. ❜  (taran to regin, laughter slowly turns into sobbing) | @thedaschosen

Regin is sitting in the infirmary bed beside Taran, lips thin as she stares down at the blankets atop her legs and tries to swallow the burning in her throat, tries to suppress the tears building in her eyes. "... You could definitely say that," she croaks.

Oh the terrible irony. He's lost an arm to the Anchor, but his life had been saved in the doing of it, thanks to Solas. His mentor, his advisor, who plans to undo the world as it is to try and preserve those lost to the creation of the Veil, to 'heal' the wound he seems to think he's cast upon the world.

And Regin, too, has lost her left arm, to a blow from the Saarebas at the behest of the viddasala, her right one currently hugging her knees to her chest beneath the blankets as emotion threatens to tear her asunder.

The physical pain of that injury, and the others she'd suffered by throwing herself between the Saarebas and Taran and Dorian when they'd been nearly taken out by one of the pulsing magical detonations of the massive qunari... they barely register, compared to the pain in her head and her heart, screaming like a hurricane.

Solas. Taran's closest friend, but for perhaps herself or Varric.

Her vhenan, her lost beloved. She makes an attempt at a wobbly smile, but the emotion overtakes her, and a small sob escapes her before she can clap her hand over her mouth, eyes closing tightly. "Fuck," she whispers, trembling faintly.

How could she possibly have even begun to fathom this? She'd known, of course, that Solas had secrets, that he had things he was hiding. That he was so much more than he'd led them to believe. It's plain to anyone who cared to pay attention, and she couldn't help but to pay attention to him. More than she should have.

But the depth of this? It's... Earth-shattering. She bows her head forward, taking long shaking breaths and trying to banish the ice and pain from her lungs with each.

It's a betrayal. She knows that logically. They've been betrayed. But it's also plain to see that Solas still- cared. Deeply. Desperately. 'I would treasure the chance to be wrong once more,' he had said to Taran, and she believes him. Perhaps that small orb of light, of belief in her chest makes her the worst fool she's ever known, but it's there. She refuses to stifle it.

"- Are you okay?" she asks once she's gotten better control of herself, finally scrubbing the tears that had fallen off of her face and then looking up at him, golden-green eyes dull and reddened from crying. "I mean I know- I know you're not okay, I just.." A shaking inhale- a shakier exhale and she slumps back against the headboard, closing her eyes.

"I'm here for you. Promise." He needs her, right now. She can't afford to fall apart for herself or for So-him. Not any more than she already has. So she inhales again, and mentally she... Shoves it down. The pain, the longing, the heartbreak, the betrayal, the love that still aches with every beat of her heart. She shoves it down, locks it away, and looks back to her dearest friend.

"What can I do, Taran? What do you need?"

[beth-march]

sorry about the blood in your mouth

Summary:

"I just want you to know that you're loved, okay?" Lexi says, and he can tell she's trying not to cry, for the way her nose twitches. "I love you, and your grandma loves you, and Ash will always love you. He's in - he's in heaven, right? That's what you believe?"

Or, Ash saves Fez's life, and Lexi picks up where her little brother left off.

A/N:

So I sat down to write the baby fic and it took an incredibly angsty turn because all I could think about was the finale. It quickly derailed into my thoughts about those poor, beautiful boys, and all that Ash sacrificed for Fez. Somewhat inspired by the stellar interpretation of @fixation4fexi so thank you Val. Now that this is out of my system I can write a version of the baby fic where Uncle Ash is thriving and very much invested in being as bad an influence as possible on Baby Girl O'Neill.

Read on Ao3 here or under the cut:

Slippery as sleep can be, Fezco finds it in fragments and grasps on with greed. Reprieve is elusive, always elusive, and the simple black that comes with rest is a balm beyond compare.

Dreamless, he’s mostly been in sleep, except for the haze that follows migraines, and the way that blood sometimes clings to the edges of him. Blood bloomed from his eyes, wretched blossoms spun to life by his father; blood that trickles from the violence of terror, the instincts of a child, his little brother. Corners torn from frightful picture books.

The chronicles of his life, Fez knows. They are stained in vermilion, and when the hue flickers to life behind his eyes, he will wake on the cot in his cell with heave in his lungs. A pressure so severe his fingers do not stir, his breath does not come.

Lucidity claws up his spine, the first night that he dreams about Lexi. It wrenches him awake, douses him in reality, the eerie blue dark, and he shudders in its hold. Strange, to react in such a way, because it isn’t a nightmare, he’s had. It’s the happiest he’s ever felt.

In the dream, his hands are clean. There isn’t one bit of blood in any of his grooves.

His fingers are clean and good and they have been granted salvation. They drift over the light linen, they dwell in the lingering lavender. They come in touch with softness and there is no consequence, there is only fluidity. Fez delves his fingers into her hair, smothers his face there, and it is sweet rest, it is peace as he has ever known it, as he will never know it.

Perhaps conscious thought has crept back in, because he knows how fleeting this is. He knows not to believe it even before his hand slips down her body, and the realisation unfurls. In turn, as does the illusion, because in the dream, Lexi is pregnant. She rests on her back and her stomach protrudes from her frame, a swollen globe of love, a heavy cradle for skin. Sage green adorns her, cotton of an oversized sleep shirt, and it is loose on her arms, but it stretches taut over her belly. It is so big, so strange, that it seems disconnected from her. Its own entity.

Her own entity, Fez’s heart chimes. It’s not just Lexi’s body that he’s looking at. It’s his daughter’s.

Fez places a hand on Lexi’s knee. Her sweet, knobby knee, the seams of skinny legs he used to consider from the counter when she and Rue were young, and in the habit of passing the hours away on his roof. He thinks of the girl she had been, stares at the woman she has become. (Will become.)

Peaceful in sleep, haloed by gentle brown waves. The rosebud of her mouth is ajar, and she doesn’t snore, but she does huff. He is close enough to hear her snuffles. He can see the golden threaded in her dark eyelashes, and he thinks it’s appropriate for her to be tinted with such warmth, when he thinks of her soul. Her wonderful soul. Her pure heart.

The one he vowed not to corrupt, as they fell in love, but it seems he has broken his promise, because there’s a ring on her left finger. It glows opalescent in the darkness. She’s his wife. She’s the mother of his child.

In the dream, at least.

In reality, they haven’t so much as kissed.

-

What is strange about the ending is its ultimate bleakness.

Ivory blossoms dust the crimson roses like lace, but they scatter on stage, the petals wilting and coming apart. Fez doesn’t know that Lexi doesn’t begrudge him, he doesn’t know that the memory of him is what wrenches her from her dark corner of despair, he doesn’t know that she stands in front of everybody she had ever known and professes that this - the bravest thing she has ever done, the only thing she has ever done - is for him. All for him.

A little while earlier, the only home he has ever known is shred to ribbons. The house loses its skins, its bones, and the place of refuge Fez has fashioned for himself, for his brother, crumples. Ash crumples. Fez is shuddering on the floor, and he thinks he is still yelling, still pleading, saying, “Please, he’s just a kid, don’t shoot, don’t shoot - ” but he can’t feel his mouth. He can’t feel his mind. He watches his brother slump to the floor, watches as scarlet seeps from the skin between his eyes, and the world trembles.

A glaze overcomes Fez, and finds a permanent place with him.

The war is over, and the fight is gone from him. Fez finds himself neutral. He might as well be here, ravelled in the bleary blankness, shrouded by the wobbly white. He might as well be stared down by the other men cloaked in orange, the common criminals with the spit on their feet, the grime beneath their fingernails. Fez fits right in.

And so there is freedom in being caged.

And there is light, precious light, light that seeps through the ivory stems.

Lexi visits Fez every week, and it isn’t as good as talking to her every day, but it is good in the benefit of being able to look at her in real time while she talks to him. It is motivation, in a way; another week of hell endured and he can see her, his sweet, beautiful girl, his best friend. He gets to see her doe eyes and her soft hair and her pretty face.

It is overwhelming, almost. Reminiscent of overstimulation.

Especially when she smiles, and she manages to reflect every bit of sadness he feels for what he has lost, every bit of tenderness he feels for what he might gain, in the simple curve of her mouth. Nothing about it feels simple. It feels deep and desperate, the patch of his heart he’s carved out in her name, the way it has grown, moss covering a stone, and now his heart is green, his heart is hers. Tentativeness has been lost to all that has changed.

It had been fun, doing that little dance. Shying away from each other. Grinning into pillow cases. Wondering and wishing. But it seems juvenile, now that he is ensconced by glass, and they do not refrain from touching out of shyness, but out of necessity. A sign that hangs stark in the corner of the room, that the faceless guards won’t hesitate to rap if the rules are violated.

They’re tethered, and they know it. Together, Fez would go so far as to say.

Among the first visits, Lexi confesses, “I didn’t know him very well.”

Lexi doesn’t shy from bringing up Ash, and Fez is grateful, so grateful.

Desperation makes everything feel violent, but Fez is quiet in the quick of it, encompassed by an open wound that nothing works to stitch up. That she is willing to meet him in these raw, ugly places seems like a firm measure of love, a hint of something everlasting.

These days, when Fez speaks, his voice comes out strange. Too quiet, too hoarse. It doesn’t sound like his own, not when it slips from his lips, not when it reaches his ears. But still, he speaks, at least to Lexi, because she is the only reminder he has of his own existence as a person, and there is vindication in this, a stirring of sick relief.

Undeserved, he knows, but Fez is lost on how to tame those beasts. These are his hands, and he must do with them what he can. He must sit with what they have done.

“I think you do, from all I ever told you,” Fez tells Lexi. “He knew you, from all I said, and fuck knows I went on about you. He called me a fuckin’ fool, and he was right, but he got it. He liked you, I could tell.”

Curiosity brims in her eyes, a glimmer in the chocolate hue, but Lexi doesn’t chase after it, she doesn’t pay it mind. She is not selfish. She knows this isn’t about her.

“I liked him,” she says, quietly.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. This isn’t what he had imagined, Lexi and Ash as ships in the night, the most important people in his life never having really touched. He was supposed to dedicate his life to cultivating their little family, and now…

“I ain’t… I don’t…” he trails off. He cannot make the words come out, he cannot make them clear. The sentiment is there, and nothing else. It is wrapped up in memories, where tears glisten on Ash’s baby cheeks, the ones traced in the moments preluding his death, the ones poured from the days where he was tiny and inconsolable, squirming in Fez’s arms, batting at him with chubby fists. Desperate for his mother.

Sometimes, Fez wonders if Ash ever really recovered from losing her, if the little boy was doomed to tragedy from the moment it sunk in, that all of the wanting in the world could not bring his mother back. When he thinks of nurture, he knows the truth, and he is sorry, sorrier than he can say, about his failure to provide what that wailing child needed.

“Fez?” Lexi whispers, freeing him from a horrible reverie.

“Yeah?”

“I love you,” she tells him.

He has thought of this moment’s arrival like an avalanche. He has anticipated a world spun with such speed it tore apart, a moment that would bring everything to a standstill. But it is as quiet and gentle as every other moment he’s shared with Lexi. It slips from her without protest of any kind. It is truth and glory and beauty and it stretches between them, selfless and certain.

It ensconces him, and a stitch in his heart, an eternal terror, is pulled loose. Tugged free.

“I just want you to know that you’re loved, okay?” Lexi continues, and he can tell she’s trying not to cry, for the way her nose twitches. “I love you, and your grandma loves you, and Ash will always love you. He’s in - he’s in heaven, right? That’s what you believe?”

“Is it what you believe?” he asks. He is awash with torture. He doesn’t think he believes in God anymore, but he remains desperate for heaven, any semblance of it.

“Of course,” Lexi says. “I know he’s at peace. I know he’s found heaven.”

There is certainty in the way that she looks at him, the way that she speaks. He loves this part of her, this ferocity, the way that she shimmers with fervour. He loves her, and he wants to tell her - he has wanted to tell her forever, he has wanted to tell her as soon as she told him, except that it feels wrong to sink into this offering he does not deserve. Disrespectful, to what is left of Ash, to what has yet to come of Lexi. Fez won’t ruin another person he loves.

But he also needs to tell Lexi that she is loved. For the same selfless reasons that drove her confession - the romance is secondary. First, she must know how precious she is to him.

“I love you, too, Lex,” he mumbles.

When he looks at her, it is with regret, because she has succumbed to the salt in her eyes, and he cannot kiss away her tears. He can reciprocate them, and he does. She is splintered in his vision, the ripple that robs, but he forces clarity, rubs at his eyes so that he can see her as she deserves to be seen - vivid and strong and gracious and kind. Her dark eyes glitter with tears and the sadness trails from love. It is terrible, it is beautiful, it is everything.

“I swear, I loved you since the day we met,” Fez says. “Like, that’s when it started. And then I fuckin’ forgot, like the world’s worst fuckin’ fool, until you wound up on that couch with me, and it was like - like the seed, what had been planted, it was like - ”

He cuts himself off. He’s not a poet. He has no words. All he has are his hands, stained in Ash’s blood, and his heart, kept safe between Lexi’s ribs.

“It was like the seed sprouted, when we met again,” Lexi helps him along, because she’s patient, and gracious, and she holds words in bounds. “It was like it blossomed.”

“Yeah,” Fez agrees, because it’s all the eloquence he can muster.

“I thought you were handsome, when I first saw you,” Lexi blurts. “I liked your harlequin shirt.”

(Yo, you think other people will think I look handsome? echoes in his mind. Perspective makes him understand she would have. Petty selfishness makes him wish she could have.)

“What you on about?”

“The shirt you were wearing, when we met. The pattern was harlequin, like with the crisscrossing diamonds. It was a collared shirt, with a zip, and you had pulled it all the way up your throat. I don’t know… I thought it was incongruous for you, when I knew what Rue wanted from you,” Lexi shrugs. “I had this thought… I had this thought that it would be the kind of thing I would want a hypothetical boyfriend to wear…”

“Don’t do me like that, Lexi,” Fez says, on a heavy exhale, and it feels like a plea.

It is unreasonable how pretty Lexi is while crying. Fez doubts that it’s right of him to consider this. He should see her pain and share in it, he should see her pain and want to kill the source of it, but he’s already there, he’s been at war with it long before it touched her.

“I can’t believe I can’t touch you,” she says, with a sound that’s part sob, part laugh. She’s smiling, which only makes her more beautiful, which only makes it all the more tragic, what she says. They’re in love, they’ve just found out, and they can’t even touch.

Except -

“Yeah, but you are,” he says. “Know what I mean?”

Lexi always does. More tears fall, she knows so well.

“I’m going to give you, like, the best hug of your life, when this is over,” she says.

It’s not that long away - not as long as it could’ve been - but the prospect of waiting makes something ugly twist in his gut. A fitting punishment, he supposes, a wretched atonement.

“No doubt,” Fez murmurs, flexing his fingers like they’re already entangled in hers, thumb grazing her bird bone knuckles, her slender palm. “I’mma hold your hand every chance I get.”

He knows he will, even if he shouldn’t.

And he knows she’ll let him, even though she shouldn’t.

-

The breadth of what has changed does not resonate until he kisses her.

Fez is out of the game. It hits him on the third day of his release, when Lexi is tucked into his side, and he is tucked into a crevice of the convenience store. For all of the hours he had spent there in idle boredom, he never would have imagined missing it, but he stares at the stale stock and the grimy floors and finds relief in what his grandma gave him.

Relief, in that it’s over. He doesn’t have to sell again. He doesn’t have to spill blood again.

So he kisses her. He kisses Lexi.

They haven’t, before now. They’re in love, but they haven’t kissed. They have slept together without sleeping together; curled in each other’s crevices, twining limbs with the same tightness that they have twined valves. They have barely stopped touching since being allowed to touch again, but they have not kissed, because Lexi is being cautious, and Fez is feeling guilty. Guilty about the life he gave to Ash, guilty about the life he won’t be able to resist giving Lexi. If she asks for it, he’ll give it to her, even though he knows she deserves better.

But then comes the realisation that he is free. It is life borne of death. He finds himself remembering the afternoon Lexi had come over to his house to do history homework and watch a documentary on his little TV that her teacher had assigned them, a documentary that showed people mowed down in the name of change, millions of men sacrificing themselves in the name of securing a better future for their country. Carnage of the senseless kind.

“That shit’s so fucked… I don’t even wanna think about that, like man,” Fez had commented, at the time, because he’s always been so stupid. Now he thinks of Ash, dedicating his life to a cause he deemed worthier than his own, and he quivers.

He thinks of the suit he was wearing, the day his brother died. He thinks of his brother, the amused incredulity on his face, listening as Fez talked to Lexi on the phone, day after day. He had perked up every time his phone chimed from across the room; he had woken up every morning wondering about what he would discuss with Lexi that day. Ash must have seen it.

Is this what Ash wanted for him? Is this what he envisioned, throwing himself on that grenade? A life kind enough to offer simplicity. The brightness of the girl he loves.

They were brothers like family, and they were brothers like soldiers. Fez is covered in dirt and debris, he’ll be broken from sleep with the nightmares, but he came home from the war and his sweetheart had greeted him at the train station. He had held her letters to his heart, all through the war, and Ash had seen it, Ash had seen it and wanted to give it to him.

(Wanted to give it, and all of its possibilities - its promises of peace, of normalcy, of marriage, of children, children to be done right by - to the only love he had ever known.)

Sunlight gilds the world. It feels undeserved, the golden hue, but it is stubborn in the early morning light. Fez didn’t sleep well, so Lexi didn’t sleep well. They have wandered over to this part of town, and they are basking in the warmth. Her head rests on his shoulder, and her eyes are closed. There is serenity on her face, and it flickers inside Fez, too.

“Lexi,” he coaxes. She stirs, pulls away from him. There is a question in her eyes, a wonder.

Hope. For that moment, it does not feel quite so impossible, and so he dusts his fingers over her temple. He tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, and he leans in.

[4-more-winks]

Updates Abound!!!!

Every Saturday, my Deca podcast releases on spotify (Wednesdays on the website :P). Today is that day.

Part 3 of 'Chronicles of Deca', as well as Part 4 of 'The Pendulum of Abaddon and Other Twisted Fairy Tales' (18+) have both been released! Feel free to come and meet Case and Hope, Abaddon's newest additions! See the Cast of Characters in the Author section of the website come to life as new names are placed with the character biographies we already find there, not having yet met in story, and some not to be met for months yet. Chance a guess at what kind of character traits would match the bios thus far presented. Wonder at how they fit together. Ask how refusing a gift from a child can destroy a human soul (hint hint, the child isn't human, and the gift isn't something a human can truly use). Find a thread. Remember that cast of characters is LIVING, and will update as the stories come to pass, creating an analysis of and narrative surrounding each subject!

The train is moving, characters are becoming realized. Small threads begin to become apparent. The secrets lying in wait are there, and will be revealed regardless of tact. Follow the threads, for when they change, you will have been of a mind to follow the change they make. That’s the secret.

Chuckle at the fumbling of Deca’s 3rd part, but know that you may find yourself pleasantly surprised in the not too far future. Know that part 4 will return part 5 to the pace that it should follow: alone, cold, in the flickering torchlight, which obscures your vision as you pray the spots you see in the distance are light-borne artifacts in your eyes, and not the glint of torchlight in the eyes of a monster ahead of you. Imagine “Alien” ’s ventilation scene, but fantasy.

Await in trepid (yes, tumblr, like most of my words, trepid is a word) anticipation at the horrors soon to abound in Abaddon (18+ still) as we draw slowly closer to being taken into the gates of Hell by a three-headed demon who seeks to sell souls on market, this aspect of Hell, which is where half of the rest of the novel will reside, for certain characters, is on the horizon. For the Pendulum will shortly begin to swing left, and that is our first location visited. But that is fair, as the last Pendulum swing will be to the right, and toward salvation. I wonder where that swing might lead...

I also hear another story being told elsewhere, and something mischievous is brewing beneath the fold. So come in! Welcome! This is when the magic really begins.

Edit:

Also please start at the intro. Im trying to get you into a certain mindset for the tale.

[ask-spider-man-61610]

The first article dropped in the San Francisco Chronicle at three in the morning. With photographic evidence, it detailed the experiments that had been conducted behind closed doors--including the illegal human trails, and especially the ones that produced nothing but a body to be burned.

Immediately this article spread across the internet like wildfire, shared on every social media site you'd care to name, shamelessly plagiarized by a hundred other news sites and given titles that advertised Shocking Secrets or Dark Truths. It made the second article, the one that named names and listed exact addresses, explode with that much more impact. By the time the third article was published, exhaustively explaining Venom's abduction and the experiments performed on them, the cause of that pale creature that had preyed upon the area for days now, the people of San Francisco were at the Life Foundation's throat.

At six a.m., clad in borrowed black and carrying pouches full of darts and tools, Spider-Man swung on silken threads a hundred feet above a roaring protest outside the Foundation's headquarters. Screaming, waving signs, throwing rocks, San Fran's population demanded an end to the company, while just inside the glass doors, security guards anxiously loaded assault rifles and demanded civilians step away from the building. Spider-Man could sense the anxious flitting of executives high above; they scurried about their offices like ants, shredding evidence or whatever else executives did when their corruption caught up to them.

He singled out his target. He and Vee spent a few seconds comparing notes, stewing in their hatred. As the window shattered around him, Carlton Drake whirled around with a girlish scream--and Spider-Man seized him by the lapels and slammed him into the desk hard enough to crack it.

"Boo," he said flatly.

"Let--let me go," Carlton pleaded. His legs kicked wildly, occasionally making contact with Spider-Man's knees or thighs. Vee had already hardened the outermost layer of their biomass; Spider-Man stared at the cowering man without even blinking until Drake changed his tactics. "...I can--can give you whatever you want! There's millions in cash in this building, I can make you rich. Rich, Spider-Man! I can get you a, a--"

"A mansion made of mansions?" Spider-Man snarled, white eyes narrowing into a glare. Was that Vee's urge to grow spikes and rip Drake asunder that Peter found himself struggling to suppress? Or was it his own? A flicker of confusion passed across Drake's terrified face before Spider-Man went on. "What we want are the access codes for the Klyntar containment units in the basement. That way we'll be able to stop Anti-Venom without killing them." He leaned in a little closer. "Because let's be clear. If we have to kill them to save Brock then you're next. Gimme the codes."

For a second Drake just stared at him, eyes wide, hair wildly askew and hands fumbling at the jacket Spider-Man held him by. Then one of his hands detached from the deathgrip and groped towards his computer until he nudged the mouse and the screensaver cleared.

He talked as quickly as he could. "My, my password is Fg22amp76bZ9," he said. "The access codes are in the bio-engineering folders, along with the credentials you need to get into the room."

Spider-Man nodded. "Thanks. You've been so helpful," he said, and tossed Drake out the window.

Shrieking, Drake didn't even notice the webline stuck to his back until it went taut, slowing his plummet to a gentle descent. As the webline grew longer, the executive sank rapidly towards the riot in the street below--the riot that had noticed him, and now watched him approach with bated breath. Gradually, amused and angry jeers filtered up from the crowd. Crude gestures were flashed. The moment Drake was close enough, a picket sign smacked him in the face and blood began to run from his nose. Then, like a tiny hand, the black webline stuck to his back released its grip on him; as Vee reeled it back in, the biomass of their tendril morphing back into the suit that covered Spider-Man, Drake dropped gracelessly into the angry crowd beneath for them to do as they would.

Spider-Man ignored the yelling from below as his fingers flickered and darted across the keyboard. He tapped the enter key twice, impatient to get logged in, and drummed his fingers as he watched the beachball of a cursor spin. When the lock screen faded into the tacky wallpaper of Drake's desktop Spider-Man grinned beneath the mask and plugged a flash drive into the monitor's edge. The access codes came first, of course, but there were a hundred other files he needed to steal tonight too.

He stepped out of Drake's office and into the hallway outside less than a minute later, making a beeline for the stairwell. A security guard patrolling the floor turned around at the sound of the door latching, and his eyebrows shot up a full three inches as he took in the black-suited Spider-Man heading his way. A miniature, personalized sonic blaster hung from his hip. He had just barely pulled it from its holster when Spider-Man's hand caught his wrist, crushing the bones inside like dry spaghetti; a quick kick to the side of his knee and the guard went down, wheezing in pain as Spider-Man caught the gun in midair. Without looking down or breaking stride he dismantled it, power source and speakers falling to the ground as he ripped them away, until finally as he hopped over the stairs and let himself fall, all he left behind was a little trail of scrap.

The security team on the ground floor turned around with a start as they heard the stairwell door slam open. On the other side of the glass doors, rioters fell silent as deafening gunfire reached their ears and muzzleflash lit up the lobby like a light show; in three seconds, they saw the number of standing guards drop from seven, to four, to two. The final guard lost two teeth as Spider-Man smashed his own rifle across his jaw. Then, with a side kick so effortless it was almost casual, the hero sent the guard flying through the plate glass to land just in front of the protest.

Without a word Spider-Man beckoned them to follow with two fingers. But he didn't actually wait for them to enter the building before he was dashing back to the stairwell, this time heading directly for the basement labs.

With a small, musical chime, the security door hissed open. Spider-Man grinned as he unplugged the flash drive from the mess of wires he'd connected it to, heading into the depths of the labs beneath. He left the door open; the last thing he wanted was for people to take action on his word alone. When the protestors followed him down here, they'd see the evidence of autopsies and symbiote samples, and that would be the end of the Life Foundation. But all of that was shit he'd already known, things that both he and Venom had been harping on for god knew how long. He just needed--

"Bingo."

--one of those.

A cylindrical container about two feet long, two feet around, with black metal forming the bottom half and a roll-away glass arch for the top. A shiny silver handle on each side, and a box on one end with a few basic ports for connecting to computers or drives. The other end was locked into a port in the wall, which was why Spider-Man couldn't have just taken it; if he'd tried, he probably would have destroyed the container. He needed one intact to take Anti-Venom alive.

Spider-Man plugged his flash drive into the container, tapping his foot until a tiny screen lit up. He scrolled his way through it until he found the access codes he'd stolen from Drake's computer, selecting one with his middle finger; he twitched slightly as an aperture inside the wall closed, and then felt a small buzz as three magnetic locks disengaged. He pulled the container away from the wall as easily as if pulling a box off a shelf. "Got it?" he asked, slinging it onto his back.

A few black tendrils emerged from his back and wrapped tightly around the silver handles, holding them in place more effectively than any backpack. "Got it," Vee confirmed.

"Fuck yeah. Let's get out of here."

And yet, as Spider-Man hauled ass out of the laboratories, dodging past the protestors cautiously entering, he hesitated when the echoing sounds of sirens signaled the arrival of the police. He reached the surface easily enough, walking out of the shattered doors and leaping eighty feet to the opposite rooftop, but as red and blue light flashed off the windows of distant buildings he turned around to survey the riot with a wince. Some of the protestors, too, had heard the coming pigs, and the energy had shifted from angry and powerful to nervous and panicky. A couple rioters had already started running for the alleys. Peter glanced from this unhidden face to that custom T-shirt. Gradually, silently, he asked Vee to set down the container.

"No," Vee said in his head, sounding a bit peeved. "Parker, what the hell are you thinking?"

"You know what I'm thinking--"

"We're so close!" Vee snapped. "I could have Emily back in an hour, Peter! We're not putting that on hold just to save a bunch of shitheads who don't know how to riot properly!"

"Do you think Emily's gonna agree once you have her back?"

"I--! I..."

Vee went silent. A police cruiser rounded the corner, then another. The guy who'd been kicking Carlton Drake looked up, startled, and hastily backed away. As a SWAT van rounded the corner, Peter could distinctly sense the large guns and the gas grenades inside of it.

If Klyntar could cry, Vee probably would have. "Damn it," they said, and their tendrils relaxed to lower the container to the rooftop.

Spider-Man nodded slightly, patting the white spider Vee had formed on his chest--though he knew even as he did it that the gesture was silly. "We'll save her," he promised for the hundredth time. "As soon as we save these guys. We'll save her."

He hopped off the roof and turned a balletic front-flip in midair. The first police cruiser screeched to a halt at an angle, clearly meaning to form a barricade with the next two, but before the doughnut-eaters could climb out its hood dented into a crater beneath Spider-Man's feet.