#*blows the dust and cobwebs off that part of my brain* its time to get angry

[mor0ver]

honestly it was over the second they made richie tozier Actually famous. andy you and i will be having words because no he fucking would not drive a sports car.

[corpsekiller]

consumption of a heart unloved — dabi

PAIRING. dabi/touya todoroki x genderneutral!reader (sorta healer!reader)

WARNINGS. hurt/comfort, descriptions of scars and burns, slight gore, but i promise it's still sweet at the end

SYNOPSIS. dabi's body deteriorates after another mission, slowly meeting its inevitable end. you're able to offer him a fleeting sense of relief, an escape from the pain, even if it's just for a short while.

AUTHOR'S NOTE. so, this is one of the two fics i wanted to finish before i go on a two weeks break to focus on my upcoming exams! i've never written healer!reader before, but it just seemed to fit the plot of this fic... and with that, i'll officially log off for the next 14 days (besides reblogs and the other fic), so wish me luck on my exams🖤✨️

LENGTH. 2.072 words

MASTERLIST

It's getting worse.

He can feel it beneath his skin, breathing, pulsing, feasting on his churned flesh and brittle bones like a fuckin' parasite, consuming every inch of his sickly being with a lethal appetite.

The burns have started to spread across his torso and the staples at the seams of his discolored scars have burst open, barely able to piece his frail body together any longer as the fresh wounds tear him open from the inside out, crawling over what remains of his untouched skin with blistered heat that pulls a scream out of his throat — raw and utterly broken — like a dying animal writhing in the dirt.

It echoes through the abandoned building and fades into ever-lasting nothingness, a desperate cry that remains unanswered as he sinks further into the cushions of the old couch he found in the new hide-out of the League, hoping the cold leather might soothe the unbearable ache that keeps tormenting him.

It's a futile attempt that reminds him how pathetic he's become — unable to control his quirk and forced to suffer with the shame of it.

Dabi is convinced ripping his failing organs out of his own abdomen would feel more pleasant than this. It would be easier to bear, removing parts of this pathetic body that is causing him so much pain, dismantling himself into small pieces like a puppet — without a heart that feels and a brain that thinks — and putting them back together until everything fuckin' works how it's supposed to do.

Until his body obeys.

He's too delirious to remember when the pain started, doesn't recall what he was doing before it began to unwind in the pit of his stomach earlier that day, but he's still capable of noticing how his skin begins to feel like it has grown too tight for his bones — a prison of flesh he can never escape.

And it's not like he wasn't expecting this day to come. On the contrary, he was always aware of the ticking time bomb buried behind his ribs, the can of gasoline pulsing through his veins, waiting for the light of a burning match to blow everything up and engulf the entire world in a hailstorm of violent destruction.

That's how it was always supposed to end.

Dabi knows his fire will seal his inevitable demise in a blaze of cerulean blue, swallowing him whole and wiping him off the surface of this godforsaken earth. Still, nothing could have prepared him for the torture he has to endure until that day arrives.

His fingers twitch, blackened at the tips and trembling unsteadily, reaching towards the ceiling as if he'll find something to hold on to or perhaps someone who'd reach back and grasp his hand to pull him out of the delirium that fogs his usually so clever wit - he finds nothing but a shattered lightbulb hanging above his head, the lampshade covered in a thick layer of dust and cobwebs, a single spider dangling from it in the corner.

He faintly wonders, if it feels just as lonely as he does.

The pain caused by his movement twists through him like barbed wire, slicing into every muscle and every nerve until his mind becomes a blur of feverish thoughts, jumbled together until he can barely form a word.

Oh, he's awfully aware he's burning out — a collapsing star on the verge of a supernova. He expected his life to end this way, should have made peace with the fact that he'd never get a happy ending, but—

The sound of footsteps pulls him back from the brink of his madness, light and deliberate, like whoever is approaching is trying not to disturb him as if he's a mere child slumbering innocently in his crib. The door creaks open, rusty hinges protesting as a figure silently slips into the darkened room.

Dabi doesn't have to look up to know it's you — he'd recognize your presence anywhere.

He always does.

"Hey," you whisper softly, your voice cutting through the haze of his pain, soft and steady, like the soothing caress of calm waves washing over his frayed nerves. Carefully stepping into his line of sight, your features deepen with a certain kind of concern — through his blurred vision he can still make out the fine line between your cinched brows, your lips curved into a small frown as you brush a loose strand of hair behind your ear. Though there's no pity in your eyes.

There's never pity.

It's the only reason he lets you stay.

Immediately, he grits his teeth and tries to sit up straighter, digging his fingers into the cushion for some kind of support, but the effort causes his skin to scream in protest. Before he can even realize what's happening, you're already rushing to his side and crouching beside him on the dirt-stained floor, your hand hovering near his face like you want to touch him but aren't sure if he can take it.

"You look like shit," you mumble as he catches his breath, a weak attempt at humor that coaxes a ragged chuckle from his coarse throat despite the searing heat pulsing through his entire being.

"Feel worse," he rasps, his voice barely above a whisper. The corners of his chapped lips twitch into a half-hearted smirk, a ghost of the maniacal grin he wore earlier when he watched his flames consume another one of the inglorious heroes he always despised so much.

You don't laugh.

Instead, you reach out and tentatively brush the tips of your fingers against his unscarred skin, right above the silver staples that glisten faintly in the dim light creeping through the wooden planks nailed across every window of the room.

It's the barest touch, but it sends a wave of something strangely comforting through him — something that seems to extinguish the fire for a split second and settles deep in his chest, cradling his stuttering heart like a fragile butterfly with broken wings.

You're using your quirk, he notices far too late, the realization crashing down like a sledgehammer to his skull, leaving his thoughts shattered and bleeding. His body stiffens beneath your careful touch, a primal instinct to recoil sparking somewhere deep in his aching limbs, though even as his pain screams for him to move, he stays frozen in place.

He's certain now because he can feel it — the subtle, almost imperceptible shift as your energy flows into him, soothing the jagged edges of his agony. It's not enough to heal him completely - nothing could undo the damage he's done to himself - but it dulls the worst of it, like a cool cloth pressed to his fevered brow.

You’re taking it from him. The pain that is meant for him to feel, the agony that is his to own (or perhaps it owns him).

Then Dabi sees it.

The faint crease of your brow, the way your jaw ticks and clenches to stifle a sharp inhale of breath as your fingers tremble against his mangled skin, ever so slightly, before you finally press the palm of your hand over his sweat-slicked forehead in a motion so gentle that it almost reminds him of a mother tending to her sick child.

"Shit," he croaks, his words nothing but a cracked brittle thing climbing out of his mouth as he tries to jerk back. "Stop, you're–"

"Don't move," you interrupt, quiet but certain. Your voice breaks just enough to betray the strain you're under, though your hand stays firm on his face, even as your breaths start to come out quicker than usual, shallow and uneven like your lungs have unlearned how to function properly.

He supposes that's what his pain does to someone who isn't used to suffering the kind of torment he feels every day.

"You’re feeling it," he growls, though the argument dies somewhere in the back of his throat when his eyes look onto yours and find a glimpse of what is going on in your head — determination, stubborn and unyielding, even as the pain he’s spent years burying himself in bleeds into you.

"I know," you murmur shakily and tight with effort. "Just let me... let me help."

His jaw clenches, and for a moment, all he can do is stare at you. Dabi watches the thin sheen of sweat gather on your temple, the way your muscles twitch and your shoulders cave in like they're trying to hold back a scream, and he hates it.

More than that, he hates the way you’re looking at him. Not with pity, but with something far worse: care.

Fuck, he wants to tell you to stop — he needs to yell at you, push you away, do anything to make you let go, yet he can't, not when your touch feels like the only thing anchoring him to reality, the only thing keeping him from slipping into the abyss that’s been pulling at him for years.

"You can’t fix me," Dabi whispers after a moment, his voice trembling as his hands twitch uselessly at his sides. A certain kind of guilt cuts through his chest, sharper than any flame ever could and it's strange because he can't remember the last time he ever felt remorse for anything he's ever done, for anyone he's ever hurt. "You can’t—"

"I know," you cut him off again, your tone firmer this time. "But I’m not leaving you like this."

Your words slam into him harder than the pain ever could. Reeling for another argument, he swallows thickly around the stone that has settled in his throat, heavy and suffocating, as he feels the edges of something unfamiliar awaken in the depths of his mind- it isn't anger nor is it hatred.

No, it's smaller, softer, fragile like a flickering candle trying to survive amid a raging storm.

"Fuck, sweetheart," he mutters, his voice cracking with defeat and his eyes dropping to where your other hand has moved to rest against his collarbone. "You're gonna kill yourself."

"Not today," you reply, your lips twitching into that faint, stubborn smile he's grown to like so much. "And neither are you."

He hates how much he wants to believe you, how much he wants to let himself lean into you, let you carry some of his burdens even if it burns you, but as he watches you endure it — every stab, every flicker of heat and pain his body throws your way — he realizes something he’s never let himself think before.

He doesn’t want to lose you.

Not now, not ever.

"C'mon, stop trying to fight me," you mutter, tenderly brushing some tousled strands of hair out of his forehead before you lean forward to press a kiss to his temple, letting your lips linger there for just a moment. "I'm not going to leave you, I promise... Touya."

The sound of his name falling from your tongue so sweetly feels like a soft ripple across still waters.

It seeps into the cracks of his fractured soul, cooling the blistering heat beneath his skin and quieting the flames that have consumed him for so long. His shoulders drop, the tightness in his chest easing as he finally exhales a shaky breath. It’s not a miracle, not a cure — but for the first time, it doesn’t hurt quite as much.

He doesn’t have the strength to answer, so instead, he leans ever so slightly into you, letting your presence hold him together where his broken body and soul cannot.

Finally, Dabi allows himself to lose this battle, letting his muscles relax for the first time in what feels like hours, days, maybe even weeks as your energy shifts around the room and the burning pain has simmered down to a dull tenderness. Cautiously, your hand leaves his forehead to find his and he lets it stay there, lets himself savor the warmth of your touch.

For the first time in longer than he can remember, the thought of surviving doesn’t feel like a punishment. It feels like a promise. Something worth fighting for and it terrifies him.

He doesn’t say it out loud — he can’t, not yet — but the thought burns brighter than his flames and he silently wonders if maybe, just maybe, he can hold on just a little longer.

For you.

Taglist: @justwolosers @jaerang @dabislittlemouse

(@redr0sewrites tagging you because you loved my other fic so much, i thought you might like this one too <3)

[hanazou]

𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐲𝐬.

Genre : Comfort, fluff, romance

Word Count : 1.9K

A response to this request.

— 𝙀𝙭𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙨𝙚 𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙙𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙙𝙖𝙮𝙨 𝙢𝙖𝙠𝙚𝙨 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙩𝙝��𝙣𝙠, 𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙩 ��𝙤𝙢𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙮𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙣 𝙛𝙤𝙧, 𝙤𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙤𝙣𝙞𝙛𝙞𝙘𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙤𝙛 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙩 𝙝𝙞𝙢𝙨𝙚𝙡𝙛?

The days when time slows down is the most dangerous, you thought to yourself, because you can feel your soul rotting away, your will and lack of passion eating your bones, and yet the mind musters no good enough reason to pull your pieces back together.

It is a common story, your own. Your days have been cut shorter and your nights lasted much longer. The desire to sleep the sluggishness away monopolizes your energy, leaving none left to have your meals, diverting your eyes from mirrors so you don’t have to be reminded of your buffering state; one that lacks the passion to even stretch an arm.

You no longer drink morning coffee ever since its sweet-bitter taste is lessened to plain, distasteful bitterness, and the smell of your favourite food no longer makes your appetite moist. The insatiable thought of letting your bed suck in your slothful body washes away each wants and needs.

All those explain why you look the way you do now. You had the chance to make your eyes less saggy and to hide the dark circles, you could have pressed cold spoons and applied some concealer, but it was a chore to even toss aside the blanket glued to your body to drag yourself to the shower. You shouldn’t have slept that long, you barely washed your hair off the filth you gathered from sleeping on the same dusty pillow.

Even the possibility of running into Chuuya today wouldn’t get you on your feet. No, that’s inaccurate—it’s because you might meet Chuuya that you don’t want him to see you in this state. Your beloved won’t leave you alone the moment he sees you like this, which in itself isn’t a bad thing, but how will you explain everything to him? This dormant state, this feeling of wanting space and time to swallow you whole?

Your deepest wish is actually to have him around your arms. Just the thought of silently letting his warmth comfort you soothe you more than any blanket could, but you can’t afford to do that today when you’re in the headquarters looking like someone who’s considering starving themselves to eternal sleep.

Your reflection in the bathroom mirror earlier made your lips twist. You did brush your hair and wash your face and yet, you are still far from looking presentable to the Boss. Unfit to see him, unfit as a mafioso, unfit to be here at all. You did pat down your shirt and pants with a pessimistic hope the Boss will only reprimand you and not send you away on a probation period.

You couldn’t recall when your automated legs brought you here, but here you stand, listening to the Boss briefing you today’s agenda. The explanation feels like hazy flowing clouds of words that blow pass you. You can’t rearrange your wandering thoughts, can’t even feel your numbness away. You simply understand that there are vermins trying to intimidate Port Mafia’s weapons dealer and that the Boss is sending you there to give them a good hit on their faces.

Only when he mentions Chuuya’s name do the wires in your brain spark.

“Chuuya?” You blink.

“Chuuya-kun insists that you will need company, he came earlier than you did to convince me that.” The Boss grins, chin on his hand. “I have the same judgement as to him, but that aside, have you looked at yourself in the mirror today?”

Barbells weigh down your shoulders. That was his way of asking, ‘what makes you think you’re fit for a job today?’ The Boss is the personification of logic. How will he accept your explanation if even you don’t know why you’re feeling the way you do, as if you’re a homeless unemployed bum without responsibilities?

“I’m sorry,” You lower your head.

“Not a problem with me, actually, as long as the job is done.” He smiles. “You can go, Chuuya-kun must be waiting for you somewhere.”

After a respectful bow, you leave through the large mahogany doors. The corridor outside, dark and orange as usual, although narrow, feels too large without Chuuya next to you.

You and Chuuya usually walk out of the Boss’s office together, you smiling at the comfort he gives, discussing what you two would be doing after the day’s job. You feel like a forlorn. An abandoned. A lone traveller whose journey is just to get to the end of the corridor when it was you who tossed away the one whose presence is sure to bring recovery.

“Not going to say hi?” The voice you’ve been craving echoes from behind. You jolt. You’re happy. You want him to bask you in his presence. But you’re afraid. How will he react to your condition?

You debate with yourself, should you turn around and face him? You don’t want to make your worry contagious, but you will have to face him either way for the job. The tips of your feet face opposite directions, unsure where to face, but before you come to a decision, Chuuya appears right in front of you.

Your conscience twists like a sponge when Chuuya’s smile abruptly turns to shock as his eyes lay on you. He gapes your name, not sure what to address, and you turn and walk some distance between you.

“I’m okay, I just slept too much,”

Like a wilting flower, you hide your face.

“Are you kidding? Nobody looks like that from sleeping in too long!” Chuuya’s voice escalates just like you feared. You wish your earlobes can curl in to push away the guilt hearing him makes you feel. Oh, alas, he’s approaching—“What the hell’s been going on?”

“Nothing.” You cower away. “I’ve been feeling slow, that’s all.”

You omit the important parts because Chuuya didn’t sign up for them. He didn’t date you for you to become a lousy, disordered sloth. He wants the smiling and comforting you, not the you who needs him to smile and comfort you.

If you could just push him away for enough time for you to put yourself together—

Chuuya seizes the hand that’s about to put some distance. “You don’t think I can help you, is that it?”

You instantaneously look at him. “I never said that!”

“You know, I hate it when people lie to me, and I don’t like being kept in the dark just the same.” He says.

The way his eyes pierce your conscience makes your head avert away but he clenches your hand tighter. When you glance back at him, slowly that is, his hold softens. “But do you know what I’m feeling right now? Something like self-disappointment. For not noticing earlier that you’re having—those kinds of days.”

“Have you had one?” You ask, interest piqued. “Days when you just, don’t know what you want?”

With a distant look, Chuuya makes a noise of affirmation. He pulls on your hand, taking you with him to a deserted corner halfway at the end of the not-so-dark corridor now. In fact, it may feel a bit... warmer. More comforting, more familiar, more grounding with the way Chuuya’s hand has been holding yours. It’s amazing how just his hand helps more than sleeping for a whole day does.

When both of you enter the hidden corner, Chuuya’s pace still pulling you with him, he yanks you onto his body. Your body crashes against his and his arms are quick to trap you in him. There’s no room for you to struggle nor any space for your anxiety to linger. Like a strong wind, his embrace dusts away the cobwebs around your soul. His hand crawls to the back of your head to push you down so your face covers his shoulder.

“If I had met you when I was going through what you’re feeling now, you could’ve given me this.” Chuuya’s voice came from behind your head. His chin presses your back, his other hand holding you still against him. “So make sure to do this with me when it’s my turn feeling down.”

You begin to feel his heartbeat, and you wonder, has it always been this therapeutic, having this much influence to thaw your continuously swirling uneasiness? But the thought of letting him do the chore of comforting you doesn’t sit right. You push to put a little distance but his hold around you tightens, trapping your arms at your sides.

“Not yet. Just another 30 seconds since we’re on the clock.”

You’re unsure where to look. The floor in front of you? His hair near your nose? The material of his coat your hands are touching?

You don’t want to think anymore. No more confusing rationalities, no more questions, not in this position, not when he’s here. You want to feel, to finally accept. So you close your eyes, bring your arms around him, and let your breaths slow down.

How you’ve missed this.

This doesn’t solve problems, you think, but why can you feel your worry melting away?

The pressure on your arms becomes lighter. Has it been 30 seconds? You can put some distance between you and Chuuya now, but not to escape or avoid him. You just want to see his face.

But your vision was suddenly obstructed by something dark. A sharp scent of comfort, Chuuya’s scent, fills your nose. Your fingers graze up and down to figure out what it is. There’s a flat surface connected with the perpendicular one, and the texture feels oddly similar as you take it off.

From the upper sides of your eye, you spot that in your hand is Chuuya’s hat as he pushes it down over your face again.

“I’m lending you the hat this once so you can cover your face for the job, then I’ll stay with you for the whole day wherever you want.” His hand lifts off you. “I can come over, bringing some of my own wine. How’s that sound?”

You adjust Chuuya’s hat to sit properly on your head, liking how it fits perfectly on you as you look at him. From the look on his face, you know he thinks so as well.

“Hey, you know what? You don’t look half bad with it.” He smirks, pocketing his hands. “You can wear it for the whole day, if you want, but just give it back and don’t scratch it.”

“What a nagging man,” You chuckle. “I’m holding this hostage till I feel better.”

Chuuya scoffs. “Hostage? Ha! My hat will be the one making you feel better.”

“It’s not just because of the hat, silly,” Your cheeks grow from your smile, giving him a meaningful look to thank him.

Chuuya’s eyes widen and his nostrils flare. He turns away, walking out to the corridor, and you follow. “W-Whatever, just keep it with you.”

“What if it’s not enough?” You pat down the hat, liking the way it presses your head. “What if I want more?”

“If you want more, then ask me! Why do you make it sound complicated?”

You lock your arm by slipping it through his. The fabric of his sleeve on your forearm feels natural as you sigh, your temple against his shoulder. “Can I really?” You mutter.

Chuuya heaves a heavy breath and releases it with a long sigh. You raise your head to apologise but he shoves down his hat to cover your eyes again, obstructing your vision. “Of course you can, stupid. I promise.”

You breathe in his scent again, feeling his hat around your head, his clothes against your skin, and his strong stature on your body.

You see light at the end of these kinds of days if he’s with you.

📜 ; like what you read? visit my bookshop!

[the-last-cuddlebender]

I wish you would write a fic where Aang is just flustered and is amassed at katara while she’s just doing nothing ❤️maybe after the balcony kiss (btw your my favorite fic writer 💕)

*smacks table* *kicks a chair over* *screams into the void*

(;´༎ຶٹ༎ຶ`) NO YOU’RE MY FAVORITE, ANON😤❤💕💖

Ngl tho, this prompt and one other have been haunting me for so long oml I just for the longest time drew complete blanks like...just nothing came to me. Nada. I even tried getting a legit 12 straight hours of sleep to turn my brain off and back on again but nOpE. I really wanted to keep it related to after the balcony kiss since I wanted the challenge, but gosh did it fight me. My brain go poof I hope you’re happy for making me question everything, Anon lol

Anywho, I love and cherish you, Anon, you bean, you godsend, you magnificent angel, you🥰~ I hope you enjoy the fic!!!

Words: 1,785

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Aang kneaded his right thumb into his left palm. The scars there were small and white and hardly noticeable unless he held his hand right to his face.

It was peculiar, to say the least. Only the hand that received Ozai’s lightning bore a shadow of his opponent’s cold fire. The belly of his palm was a memory of death barely avoided, but he tried (...tried…tried very, very hard...) to imagine the milky pattern on pale skin as looking like a leaf’s veins when held up to the sunlight.

Aang rolled his lip between his teeth. He was going to tear something if he crouched for much longer. The scars burned without burning, and he wasn’t sure which fate was worse. Was it even considered a scar if it was never open? It was just there after the battle like it was a maker’s mark on a finished piece.

Katara would know—there was little that she didn’t know—, but she had been far too exhausted for him to even consider asking—

Katara...

Aang’s face burned like the fire she lit in his cheeks was eternal.

If he was perfectly honest, he didn’t remember feeling the kiss.

He only remembered how the kiss felt.

Because remembering the moment when Katara redefined what happiness felt like was a moment Aang would never forget.

His shoulders rose to his ears; his face smoldered as giddy magma crawled up his neck. He teetered to one side when thoughts of her shifted gravity. Maybe it was a good thing that he was crouching, after all.

Katara…

...But then he looked at his estranged left palm and the new maker’s mark that it bore.

...And his heart crisped and flaked into ashes piling in the pit of his chest.

The scarring changed nothing but uprooted everything. It was a cancer, black and numb on his hand, like it was suffering from frostbite and needed to be removed.

The estranged left palm that saved his life was the same hand Katara held—all those months ago—when they kissed that day in the dark, trapped and alone, in an inky-black Earth Kingdom cave.

The kiss was a gentle waltz turning into a speedy tango, but her hand on his was the tug to lift him out of his chair. It was the strike of flint and steel that burned away the cobwebs in his heart and brushed aside all dust to welcome something new.

...Katara...

Sokka had interrupted before Aang could ask her to be his girlfriend. Time was an illusion, but time was precious. Memories framed in moments were the beginnings of beautiful new somethings.

What they were, though...

He really hoped Katara knew better than him. Of course, she would—there was little that she didn’t know.

Did the kiss make it—them—official? They said more in words unspoken than words said aloud ever could, but they hadn’t had a moment of peace since then. Surely, he had to ask her. He really, really wanted to, too. It didn’t feel right to celebrate an anniversary without a proper date—Spirits, he and Katara were gonna have an anniversary, oh Spirits—

Aang’s palm stared back at him. Embarrassment hit him like a skybison at full-speed.

Katara had nearly killed him during the meeting that morning.

Holding his hand—that hand—under the table was toying with whatever gave his heart reason to beat.

Aang had hugged her times a-plenty, but he had never held her hand in that way for that long. It eclipsed their kiss and left him powerless like a suddenly doused fire.

...It had felt like he was poisoning her—like he was touching her with an open wound. 

Aang slumped a little more in the corner of the balcony and stared at his callouses like they could tell him what to do.

The sunset was a smirk mocking his plight, but the moonrise was a gentle grin trying (...trying…trying very, very hard...) to heal his hurts.

Katara hated holding his hand. He felt that she did. She muted the room for him when she touched him; it brought her every reaction into stark relief. He had briefly wondered if that was what Toph felt like when she sensed when someone was lying.

Katara had stiffened. She even shifted like she couldn’t get comfortable. The breath that left her was fast at first like she was just told bad news. Her exhales after that were deep and almost seething.

...The worst part was when she wouldn’t look at him. She only glared about and around them.

Aang slumped from his crouch until his rear hit the ground. His right thumb stayed married to his left palm, and the white lightning stung tender like something freshly burned. He only partially wished that he had the top of his robes on when the thought of her regretting him cut the strings that held him together; he was a puppet collapsing against the balcony wall and sliding down gritty concrete. His scar—another reminder of her—stung him like smacks to the face and melted him into something made of noodles.

The moon was a bit higher, now, but its grin wasn’t any more reassuring than before. The bugs and small critters must have become annoyed with his melting because there was silence like Hei Bai’s forest when Aang made himself smaller than his shadow and dragged his kneading hand even closer to his face.

Their kiss—she had kissed him—barbed him with a sting like thorns on a rose bush except laced with poison and fiberglass. It was decaying from the start of something new into the empty longing for a once in a lifetime occurrence. 

Something shot him in the leg and crippled what made him Aang.

His right thumb kneading his left palm slipped and dug a fingernail into a callous.

He was goo freezing over—a body consumed by jennamite.

Aang breathed out, about to take the inhale to fuel the first hiccup dancing on his shaking lip—

—but then Katara stepped onto the balcony and leaned up against the bars.

Being an airbender had its perks, and his lungs not popping from the force and fullness of his panicked inhale was definitely one of them. He was a statue—a deformed gargoyle that looked more horrific to behold than to cross—, and the glimpse of Katara’s soft grin became a braided noose refusing to let him exhale.

None of the lights were lit.

Spirits, did he love his moonrise and the weakness that she gave him.

Katara was staring into something that didn’t exist on this plane and smiling at something he couldn’t see. She was a stilled lake normally raging and powerful and beautiful to behold. He wouldn’t dare disturb her. She was as calm as a reflection.

Sudden exposure reminded him of stepping into a forbidden part of the Southern Air Temple, and his presence became a violation of something precious. Katara was remembering moments of beautiful new somethings if the way she absentmindedly bent a stream of water about one wrist—her bending her joy unhindered—was anything to go by.

Aang blushed a shade of red that Aunt Wu could have mistaken as the intended location for eruption from the Symbol of Volcanic Doom. He closed his eyes, covered his ears, and dared to shimmy into the shadow of the corner. Katara was a warrior unmatched and without equal. That’s why she was Master Katara. He could no sooner escape her than escape the earthshaking hammer-blows that the hint of her smile drove into his chest. 

He sat on a tightrope whose cables were snapping and unwinding.

It was only when he felt weaker in a way that made him stronger that he peaked an eye open.

Katara was crouched and more concerned than bemused. “Aang?” She touched the knee that had curled to his chest and was threatening to buckle into his sternum. “Are you okay?”

…’Okay’ was a subjective and circumstantial term.

His voice was the sound of rubber sliding water off of wet glass. “M-hm.”

“What are you doing out here alone and...in the corner?”

“Well, I was just...Well, y’know…” His right thumb stuck to his left palm like they were nailed together. He tried (...tried...tried very, very hard...) to hide his wound from her. “Moon ‘s nice ‘n…’n stuff.”

Katara mulled over his words, said and unsaid. Her stare was an examination checking his vitals—his heart, his soul, and his happiness. She hummed a thoughtful sound that bookmarked her place in the pages of him.

It all happened in under the time it took her to breathe. Aang nearly stopped breathing altogether when she tapped her finger on his knee.

“You’re hiding on the balcony because ‘Moon ‘n stuff’?”

“...Yes?”

She spared his ‘hidden’ fiddling hands a half-lidded glance. “Aang...”

“What?”

Katara flicked his arrow. Then, she waited.

Aang didn’t crack. He melted. 

“I was just—I thought…” He deflated. “I needed somewhere to think.”

Something about his words or the way that he said them made every bit of her soft. Her concern riddled him with holes, and, when she settled on the ground before him and propped her head on her arms on his knees, there was barely any of him left to keep him together.

“You wanna talk about it? It’s okay if you don’t. I just haven’t seen that look on your face since...Well, I can’t remember since when.”

One part of Aang threatened to grab the other part of him and throw him into a volcano.

He was making her worry. He should never make her worry, especially over something so silly—

He opened his mouth but hesitated. He didn't want to say no.

“Not—Not now.”

His honesty tamed her like she could feel it as easily as a temperature change. “It’s not something hurting you, right?”

Yes.

“No.”

Katara frowned with her eyes.

Then, she stood.

(Spirits, Aang loved his moonrise.)

“Take my hand.”

Aang’s heart took a trip to the tiny star just to the right of the moon.

She looked at him, and he felt hot cinders flake from his face and into his twisting belly. It sparked a fire so hot that it turned his sea of chi into an ocean of molten ore.

He was suddenly empty of something and filled to the brim with something else.

Katara’s hand was an invitation without equal, and the instinct to grab hold and never let go was a god’s hand trying to push him forward. 

He almost did.

But then his right thumb paused on his left palm, and white lightning struck him down.

Katara flinched like she felt it.

Aang curled into a knot like he could still hide it. 

Kneeling, Katara unraveled him without touching him. Her eyes found his and held him in place not like in a trap but like in a hug. Too soon his right thumb was hushed away from his left palm and his estranged hand was held close to her face. 

Aang couldn’t remember hearing her words, but he felt what she was saying.

Her sorrow nearly tore him apart.

Luckily, her smile kept his shredded heart together. 

And the kiss to his white lightning and the three points of his hand’s arrow put air back into his lungs. He dove into the cool-blue look she gave him and drowned himself in all that she was. 

He was filled with clouds so puffy that they threatened to let loose their rain, but his eyes became only wet and never misty. He smiled beyond the limits of what anatomy allowed when her face turn as red as his felt.

She said something that put his pieces back together, and she looked at him with something that gave him the strength. Cherry-red metal poured from a kiln and wept up her neck and into her cheeks.

Katara rolled her eyes to something that wasn’t there, disappeared inside, and returned with a mass of blankets.

“What are all the blankets for?”

“Moon ‘n stuff,” Katara said as she finished her nest of comforters and fortified quilt walls. 

Then she offered her hand again—she slipped it loosely into his own and waited for him to hold her first. 

“Sit with me.”

Aang shouldn’t have been as giddy as he was, and Katara pursed her smile like she was struggling not to enjoy his happiness too much when she tugged him up from the ground and laid with him against cushioned concrete. 

Moon ‘n Stuff was laughing and pointing out funny bits in constellations of their own designs. It was gossiping all the good rumors and their hopes about which of them might be true.

Katara crowned him King of their Chateau of Comforters with the softest blanket she had. It was blue and smelled like mornings when he could sleep in and like the small joys of finding warm things in cold places.

Katara accepted his invitation into his Blanket Castle within their Comforter Chateau. The blanket was plenty big for both of them and tied them together in a fuzzy cocoon.

She relaxed against him like she was sinking into warm water. The air that left her was fast at first like she just saw something she dearly missed. Every exhale after that was slow and satisfied—drunk on the indescribable and bewitched by the unimaginable. Aang felt her every movement so clearly that he wasn’t sure whether to give thanks or repent for the precious moment she was creating with him.

But then she shifted like she couldn’t get comfortable enough.

And she dragged an eye open to glare at any critter’s sound breaking their peace.

That was when Aang understood.

That was also when Aang lost it.

The urge to laugh was so overwhelming that it didn’t process into the bodily function, instead filling him from toe to brim with small giggles and soft feelings.

Katara didn’t want to share.

Of course, she didn’t.

Their moments were their moments, and he was hers and hers alone.

Master Katara was a being without equal, but Aang knew that which even she didn’t know.

Don’t worry about them. It’s just you and me right now.

Aang’s confidence limped back to him and convinced his estranged left hand to sidle towards hers. He touched the back of it with two fingers—an almost mute invitation, an almost silent knock on the door.

Katara laced her fingers with his like it was the most natural thing in the world. She handled it not like it was something wounded but like it was something precious, and she kissed all of his knuckles before cooling his white lightning with the gentle touches of her snowy-soft palm.

The hands were the most sacred part of a bender. They were the outlets from which their soul leaked. They were the culmination of all of their senses to interact with the world.

Aang’s world shyly smiled and fiddled with her hair. She shifted like she couldn’t decide on which spot against him or which way to hold him would bring them as close as she wanted. 

She wouldn’t even look at him for fear of changing color and state of matter from beautiful young woman to gorgeous little puddle.

She blushed like something beautiful coming into bloom.

Then, she said something.

Her words bypassed all feeling and branded themselves onto his heart

“...want to be my boyfriend? O-Only if you want to...because I want to, so...um...”

She inhaled on the word like she was telling good news and hoping for the universe to talk back to her.

Aang’s current incarnation threatened to be kicked out from under him and reborn into the Water Tribes.

His head nodded like it was trying to make a break for it.

Katara laughed like it was the only language she knew.

They shared each others’ smiles in a shy kiss that felt like a brushing of souls—like the gentle zap of lightning between earth and sky that brought beauty and shook all that they knew but brought with it no scars or destruction.

She squeezed his hand.

He kissed her again just because he could.

White lightning and snowy-soft touches connected what made them each other.

Aang wilted like soggy grass, full of that which gave him life and drunk on all that she gave him.

His hand didn’t hurt anymore. His heart was starting to ache, though. It was going to burst if he looked at her for much longer.

His night got darker when Katara closed her eyes, but he welcomed the weakness his rising full moon gave him.

She fell asleep against his side, and even when Aang no longer felt his arm, he didn’t dare move.

The balcony was empty except for them, and his heart was full of only her.

Katara mumbled once, shifted twice, and adjusted her grip to hug the whole of his arm.

She was hardly doing anything, but her doing nothing did everything to him.

Aang’s courage found him just as Katara found her new favorite spot.

He kissed her cheek, but, if he was being honest, he didn’t remember feeling the kiss.

“...I love you.”

He only remembered how her smile felt.

***************************************

.

.

I hope you enjoyed, Anon! I know this isn’t Katara doing “nothing”, per se, but this is what my mush-brain put down when I sat and wrote😅  (I did, however, tuck that little ”doing nothing” idea away for different ficlet👀)

[bitletsanddrabbles]

WIP Wednesday: Things I Absolutely Did Not Want To Write, But My Brain Had Other Ideas

Me: Okay, brain! Ready to work on the thing we’ve been researching?

Brain: Naw.

Me: How about that new thing you’ve been talking about? Ready for that?

Brain: Mmmm, maybe another week.

Me: Right, then, another research day!

Brain: Nnnnnnnnnnnnnrgh, tired of reading!

Me: .....the Thomas/Mary wedding thing, since you dragged that up last week?

Brain: Pffff, last week’s news!

Me: So what do you want to do?

Brain: Oooooooooooo! BODY SWAP FIC!

Me: *groan* No, brain. Just no.

Brain: YES! YES YES YES YES YES! WE’VE NOT WORKED ON IT IN SO LONG! COME OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOON!

Me: I hate that thing! That is hands down my least favorite trope ever!

Brain: But it’ll be fun! And new! And different! And we never do things like that!

Me: Yeah, BECAUSE I HATE IT!

Brain: I have new ideas for it! Shiny ideas! Character torture ideas!

Me: ...................you’re not going to shut up about this, are you?

Brain: N.O.P.E.!

Me: .............right then. But after this, we’re at least getting a paragraph of notes on something else, you hear?

“This is the last of it, Mr. Barrow,” Andrew announced, walking in and setting a medium sized box down on the boot room table. There were three there already, one opened with its contents spread over the table, and the other two tucked in a corner.

Thomas looked up from the rather large vase he was examining. “Thank you, Andrew. We’ll go through that one when we’ve finished these.”

“Do you really think anyone will want to buy these?” Albert asked, picking up a very old, very thread bare toy horse that had come out of the open box. God alone knew how long the box had been in the storage attic, tucked away in the back corners.

“Who can say?” Thomas shrugged, reaching for a soft cloth. “Toffs get funny about what they’ll blow money on, don’t they?” Glancing at the horse again, he admitted, “I can’t see that one fetching much, though. Its value seems entirely sentimental.”

Anna, who had come in to fetch some cleaning salts, closed the cupboard she was reaching into and came to examine the horse. She ran her fingers over one of the bare patches. “I might buy it, for Johnny, if no one with real money goes for it. It’s a bit ragged, admittedly, but the stitching’s all there.”

Thomas concentrated on the vase in front of him, not even glancing sideways at the woman and the toy. “Tell Lady Mary you want it, and she might well just give it to you,” he suggested, forcing his tone to be bright and cheerful. He started brushing the dust and cobwebs off the vase. Urn. Whatever you’d call it. The big clay pot with Greek pictures on it. It had to have been in the attic as long as the horse, and it hadn’t been in a box. It was covered in dust and he was fairly certain that when he tipped it over there would undoubtedly be dead spiders inside. At least, he hoped they were dead. They would be soon, if they weren’t already. After all, no matter how ancient your Greek pottery was, it wouldn’t fetch much at auction if it was full of spiders.

“She might,” Anna agreed, setting the toy aside. “But that’s hardly going to help fix (FIND A PROBLEM), now is it?”

“I suppose not,” Thomas allowed. It had been Mr. Branson’s idea, naturally, to auction off some of the family’s old knickknacks, abandoned in the attic for most of His Lordship’s lifetime, to raise money. The only surprise was how readily the family had agreed to it. Thomas had expected more of a fight, but he supposed with Lady Violet gone, there was less sentiment for the fifth Earl’s belongings. “Seems backwards, though, that we should pay our hard earned wages to keep our employer afloat.”

His grumbling earned him a sharp frown. “No one’s asking you to buy anything.”

Before Thomas could reply, Mrs. Hughes came around the corner, her eyes immediately taking in the well-organized chaos. “Goodness. Well, I should hope this should fetch a tidy sum. Enough to get the job done at any rate.” She looked between Andy and Thomas. “Is there anything more to come down?”

Despite the fact Andy and the hall boys had been doing all of the shifting, Thomas answered dutifully. “No, Mrs. Hughes. We’re most of the way through the first box.” Realizing that the piece he was working on had, very obviously, not been in a box, he added, “And I’ve been handling the big pieces.” There was a lamp standing behind him, not to mention an old clock that probably hadn’t walked since the fourth Earl was a boy. He’d probably have to order in parts for that.

Mrs. Hughes nodded. “At least they’ve agreed to a buffet for luncheon. Albert can keep the cold cuts ready well enough.” She turned to Anna. “And Nanny was planning a picnic for the upstairs children for the afternoon. She wanted to know if you could take Johnny for a couple of hours.”

Thomas scowled at the writing emerging under the layer of grime on the pottery. At least he assumed it was writing. He couldn’t read it, naturally, but it looked like the Greek writing he’d seen here and there in books and such. “Don’t know why the woman still bothers. She knows the answer is going to be ‘no’.” She also knew that Lady Mary would insist the picnic go on anyway, and that she take Johnny with her, servant’s son or not. Because somehow Nanny was the only one in the world, or at least the estate, who had a problem with the Bateses’ son being treated like a member of the family. Carson would probably have complained if he were still here, and probably did complain to Mrs. Hughes when she was at home, now that Thomas thought of it, but he had no say anymore. Lady Mary loved Anna and would do as much for her as her own sister, maybe more, and that was that.

Both women turned stern expressions on him and he wished he’d bitten his tongue. “What’s gotten into you today?” Anna asked.

He opened his mouth, but quickly shut it again. More writing and a bit of key patterning emerged under his administrations as he tried to come up with a believable answer. “Nothing, sorry,” he finally said, the words accompanied with a poor attempt at a smile. “Just a bit of a headache from all of this dust.”

Mrs. Hughes eyed him, equal parts stern and concerned. “Mm. Why don’t you take a break and step out for some air when you’re done with that?”

“Yes, Mrs. Hughes,” he agreed, eager to say anything that would keep her from asking any further questions. He turned his full attention to the task at hand, trying to shut out the women's’ conversation. Unfortunately, having the best hearing in the house had its drawbacks. It was impossible to ignore Anna’s assurance that Lady Mary wouldn’t mind Johnny tagging along with the rest, or that she thought some time outdoors would do the children good. He wished he could go and work on the books, something that would at least take attention and, perhaps, distract him from thinking about the fact that Richard was coming to York to visit his parents. He’d be there for two days and, as luck would have it, those days coincided perfectly with the damn auction. He didn’t even need to ask; the notion of the butler being absent for even part of the proceedings was lunacy.

If he’d been a lady’s maid, he’d have had a chance.

If he’d have been Anna, if Richard had been Bates, Lady Mary would have moved mountains to give him time off. His Lordship would have helped. If necessary, Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson would probably have taken Johnny, or Daisy and Andy.

He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, pretending to ward off the headache he claimed to have. He was doing better. He was being kinder and people liked him, or at least they liked being able to have a wireless in the servant’s hall. Mrs. Hughes and Baxter cared, to a certain extent at least. Things were better. There was no reason to be jealous anymore, except…

“Um, Mr. Barrow?” Andy’s voice cut through his spiraling thoughts. “What’s that light?”

“Hm?” Thomas opened his eyes. He had just enough time to realize that the letters he’d been clearing off were glowing, like something out of Arabian Nights, before the entire room filled with light. He thought he yelled, both in surprise and pain at the brightness, but it could have been someone else. Or all of them. Or his imagination.

The last thing he was aware of was the sense of falling, then everything went black.

In case anyone is looking at the description of that pottery and going “Erm, that sounds a bit culturally inaccurate....”, you are not wrong. That’s intentional and will be a plot point.................if I ever get to it.

(Heck, I’d suspect the writing was Arabic rather than Greek, but I can’t think of a single reason Thomas would have run across Arabic writing while Greek might show up in a philosophical something or other... That pottery really is off.)

[headoverhiddles]

Hide Your Hand - Marilyn Manson x Reader [Smut]

Synopsis: You can throw your rock and hide your hand, working in the dark against your fellow man. As sure as god made black and white, what's done in the dark will be brought to the light. 

Notes: Started this when the God's Gonna Cut You Down video came out, and it's been a while, but I rewatched it and finished this! The ending is kinda up for interpretation. Also, this is kinda based on the idea that this video is a sequel of sorts to Man That You Fear. Enjoy! 

Tagging: @blueinkblot​ @antichristsuperslut​ @skin-slave​ @peachynun​ @plagued-rat​ @livelifewondering​ @elrosew​

His eyes open.

The lids crack with falling dust as he attempts to move his head, but notices white plastic in his peripherals. Confirming his suspicions, he finds his limbs packed too tight to move as well. Flexing the muscles in his shoulders and making fists, he begins to rock, the necessary evil of desert dirt filling his mouth as he cracks his confines. Tattooed fingers break ground, and blunt fingernails pick their way out of the makedo grave.

Thankfully the coward who buried him didn't do a very good job. Then again, not many people expect a dead man to emerge from the dirt, especially when they can't see past the ends of their noses. A reanimated corpse would have given whatever bastard who did this a heart attack; then he'd be the one holding the shovel.

Shaking the dry dirt from his black hair, he tries to remember why he was buried in the first place. It's as if he's half brain dead-- or half his brain hasn't been awakened yet. Every time he tries to think of his past, it's as if a mental dam would go up, blocking him access. But it isn't mechanical-- no, he is the opposite of mechanical. He is biodegradable, or he should have been. The only undeniable clarity in his mind is one single fact: he should be dead, and he should've stayed dead.

Seeing as it isn't really an option to get back in the hole and cover himself up again, he starts walking. He has hopes that this was some kind of underworldly mirage in a sea of punishment, that he'd wake up and see some nightmare only he would be capable of dreaming up. But thus far, the devil wasn't popping up to laugh in his face, so he supposed he could stop being so cynical.

Once bitten, twice shy.

Why the fuck is that? Who had done the proverbial biting? What had happened, and how had he awakened? He lets out a long sigh, the air in his lungs brittle and unnatural. What he does remember of his life before, is there was an element of relief found in simple country indulgence. Whoever he is, he recalls the taste of whiskey sour and the satisfying singe of burning herb on his tongue, filling his mouth, filling his dry lungs.

He has to find a bar.

 -

You feel like the ice box in front of the motel you passed on the highway: melting slowly in the desert heat.

A single coin, older than three of your lifetimes, tumbles down your fingers like a staircase, swiped up into your palm and placed again at the top. The pure silver glints under the bar lights, and your drink is placed in front of you.

"On the house," the bearded man, who was as close to a modern day cowboy as he could get, smiles at you. You tip your wide brimmed hat. Nobody questioned why you were wearing a hat and dark glasses inside, or why you had taken the very end of the bar, farthest away from everyone. Southwestern places like this get people from all walks of life passing through, and people, in general, were all just as fundamentally odd as they pretend not to be.

Finally placing the coin heads up on the cracked wooden table, you swirl your drink and observe.

Something had drawn you to this town. Last time you had contacted the other world, they had directed you here, and though you hadn't studied the occult for long, you understood that that many signs, from the living world or otherwise, meant something catastrophic had just happened out here in the desert. You'd wait it out, and see if whatever it was would come to you first. You can already feel it, whatever it is-- you can feel the energy, and it makes you shiver. Fermented hatred, violent impulse, and bitter restlessness buzz beneath your skin, and you're dying to figure out where-- or who-- this bad mix of hoodoo is coming from.

-

A white pickup truck, damaged by some kind of weather, sits abandoned on the side of the road. He looks around, and as he suspected, there isn't another soul as far as the eye can see. That, by his standards, makes this his pickup truck.

As if a gift from god, the keys are still in the ignition, and he doesn't have time to worry about the two bloody bullet holes in the seat. He drives out of there in a cloud of dust, hoping for civilization.

Civilization, and people.

He suddenly swerves violently, eyes snapping shut.

He had a wife. She looked somewhat like him, only more feminine. Her name was Marilyn.

He wore a hat. He had long hair back then, hair that would get tugged in moments of passion and brushed in moments of vulnerability. Soft hands interrupted rivulets of warm water cascading down his back as he sat under a showerhead and let tears fall.

He lived in a small community. A cult created out of fear. A pointing finger, blindfolded shot caller.

He had been a scapegoat.

Bare chest, open palms, and a deep, aching pain, repetitive, blood running down into his eyes, until...

Those eyes snap open, and he swerves back onto the road. Narrowly missing a white painted cross, he looks back to see a graveyard.

"Marilyn," he says to himself. His voice sounds like paper ripping, and he coughs, growling a little until his throat begins to feel normal again. He still doesn't remember what they called him, or who he properly was... his wife wouldn't be needing her name anymore, since she must be long dead; he decided it suited him.

 -

The sun is just going down over the Mojave hills as you finger the black crystals dangling between your breasts. Whatever it is, it's taking its time.

Licking a small sheet of rolling paper, you fill it with some of your own homegrown bud, and strike a match off your boot.

"You waiting for someone?" the bearded cowboy asks you, and you recognize the charming glint in his eye as someone who's barking up the wrong tree.

"I don't know yet," you reply honestly, and leave it at that. The man presses.

"What do you mean? You've been sitting here all day." He leans in. "My name's Shooter. What's yours?"

"Call me Clint Eastwood, cause I'm the Woman With No Name," you answer drily.

"Hey now..." Shooter leans in, "It would just break my heart if a pretty little lady like you got stood up... left lonely for the night."

You meet his gaze. "I'm far from lonely. And the night is far from over."

Just then, a breeze blows the door open, and someone walks in. It's a man in a white wife beater and a plaid button up over it, jet black hair covered in dust and dirt. His eyes are dark, just like the rest of his aura, and you're drawn to him. This is him. This is the feeling.

He sits next to you at the bar, but doesn't look over immediately. First, he checks the place out... then his eyes land on you.

"Thirsty?" he asks. You nod, smiling.

The twitch of his lips carve a mysterious half smile in his face as he lifts his fingers to catch the bartender's attention. Not like he hadn't already.

A drink is placed in front of you, not on the house as it was when you were "lonely and pretty". The man takes his own glass of dark amber liquid. Nursing his own poison and seeming to revel in it, he lifts it to his lips. You notice the alchemical symbols tattooed onto his fingers. 

"Marilyn," he glances up, catching a newspaper clipping of the old Tate murders glued to the wall, "-Manson."

"Manson," you nod, "I'm (y/n) (y/l/n)."

"Pretty name." You wait for the "for a pretty girl", but that part never comes. You tilt your head, intrigued.

"Where are you from?"

He gives a mirthless chuckle, voice still caked with dust and the unfortunate secret that he had just freed himself from his own grave. "I have no goddamn idea where I'm from."

Now you're very interested. “You have amnesia or something?”

He considers this. “Maybe. I just woke up this morning in a body bag out in the middle of devil’s asshole, Nevada.”

“Sounds like someone tried to kill you,” you say softly, heartbeat picking up. He drains his glass, pushing it forward for another.

“Mhm. The strange part is, it feels like they succeeded.” The crystals hanging around your neck begin to warm against your chest, and you look down. He spots your dwindling joint in the nearby ashtray, and sees that half of it is ash now. “If you’re not gonna finish that, hun,” he nods to it. You gesture to it for him to take. He does, studies you, and puts it to his lips. His eyes squint through the haze, and his mouth opens in an ‘o’ to free the smoke. You feel a different sort of warmth fill you.

“You live here?” he asks.

“No.”

“Why you here?”

“I felt like I should be.”

He looks around slowly. “Sure. This is really the place to be, huh?” A fly lands on your glass, and a bearded guy burps over by the cobwebbed jukebox. You look down, smiling.

“I have my reasons.”

He watches how your lips graze the mouth of the glass, leaving a faint red imprint. He feels something rouse inside of him. Now that drinking’s out of the way, he’s suddenly reminded of another need. But he's not certain how everything's working just yet... best to make sure. Shooter fills up Manson's glass again, turned away but intent on eavesdropping.

Manson lifts it to his lips, drinking the Tennessee Whiskey down like it's water from a mirage. Finally, he decides he can trust you.

"I have something inside of me," he murmurs. You rest your elbow on the bar.

"Like what?"

"A sort of intuition. There's somebody I need to kill. Lots of people." 

"I hope you don't mean everyone in this bar," you joke.

He smiles, looking down. "Wouldn't kill you. And that guy over there by the jukebox looks like he's on a mission from God to drink the most whiskey any man's ever drunk, and I'm not about to stop him on his righteous path."

You laugh. "I think you're well on your way to getting there first."

He looks back down to his now emptied glass. "That's another thing. I can't even feel the effects." He cocks his head. "Fuckin' awful. That was the best part about living."

"Was?" you ask in amusement.

"I'm telling you. I can't be alive. Something brought me back, and it's not for good."

"That's it," Shooter says, loading a rifle from behind the bar and pointing it at Manson. "You two take your devilspeak and you get the hell outta here before I blow you away." Manson lifts his eyes to Shooter, taking in the man's much smaller form. He stands, and it all happens in a blur. You snatch the rifle in what can only be described as symbiotic intuition on both your parts, and Manson rushes Shooter, grabbing him by the vest and pulling him over the bar.

"M-Mister I'm--" the bartender begins to say, but Manson impales him with a sickening crack on the deer antlers hanging on the wall below the Budweiser sign.

You pass Manson the rifle, watching the drunk in the corner try and decipher what just happened. He's no threat. Manson slings the rifle over his shoulder, and grabs the bottle from the other side of the bar, drinking from it. He passes it to you, where you’re standing, leaning with your back against the bar. You take the bottle, swirling your tongue around the top, before drinking. You watch the body drip blood from where it’s hanging. He watches you.

 As he stares at your lips, the need building inside of him is almost undeterrable. He remembers what it was like before, to be deep inside a woman, to get everything he can take from a willing, welcoming girl.

"What makes you tick?" he murmurs.

You exhale. "I'm certain you could find out."

He drives toward the address of the motel you had given him, shotgun in the backseat for safe keeping, and parks the truck in the front. You unlock the door, ignoring the strange look from the motel owner, and let Manson in. He sits down on the edge of the bed, and you take your jacket off. Sensing how he reacts to that, you pause, and begin to unbutton your shirt. You turn to him, and take the rest of your top off. 

Manson stares, watching every movement closely. You take off your shorts slowly, and your panties with it. Soon, you're fully naked, and his breathing has increased. He's aroused even more when you walk toward and get in his lap on the edge of the bed, breasts pressed against his chest. 

He brings his hands up to feel your back, and smooths them all the way down to your ass. You straddle him, helping him take his shirt off. You trace his mosaic of tattoos with your fingertips, and cup his cheeks, pressing your lips to his. They're dry, cracked, but you don't care, and neither does he. He kisses back, and a surge of violent desire prompts him to pick you up, clearing everything off the table and sitting you there. You help him work at his pants, and he finally gets them down just enough to lay you on your back on the table and push into you.

You groan, reaching down to help yourself along. He takes a black rosary hanging from the TV set, and ties your hands together with it, keeping them above your head. You whine as he fucks into you, moans increasing as he touches your clit. He uses one hand to massage your breasts, giving attention to both, and his hips stutter. 

"It's... okay," you breathe out, "You can..."

He grunts, but refuses to cum before you, no matter how long it's been. He picks you up and moves you to the bed, lying you on your back. Your hands fist the sheets as his lips move down your body, pressing kisses down your chest, between your breasts, to your stomach, sucking hickies down your inner thighs, licking down your legs to your feet. Then he finally kisses back up to your pussy, watching the wetness leak to the mattress.

"I want to hear you," he rasps, and you sigh, appreciative noises building as he darts his tongue out to make small circles around your clit.

"Oh," you whisper, "Oh yeah."

"Louder," he growls, licking faster.

"Please, please!" you whine, "Right there!"

You cry out loudly as he brings you to the edge of your peak, but he disappears from between your legs before you can cum. Disoriented, you wiggle your hips, but look up to find him standing at the foot of the bed. He tugs you by your ankles down to where he is, and lifts you up. You arch your back in relief as he slides his cock back into you, like it’s your lifeline. That's all it takes for you to come undone, crying out his name as you cum on his cock. 

"Baby, baby... so good," he grumbles, drawing out almost all the way and slamming back in deep. He keeps up his bruising, thorough pace until he too becomes erratic, leaning his head back and groaning your name. You feel him finish inside you, and sigh contentedly, spreading your arms out. 

He drops your legs, and you crawl back up to the pillows. He lays down on the other side of the single bed, letting you cuddle into his space. Your head rests on Manson’s chest, as you close your eyes and search for the stranger’s heartbeat. 

You're awakened from your dreamlike state as you notice he doesn't have one.

--

It's 3 am. Hours have gone by, and he can't sleep.

He realizes, hands behind his head, that nobody who killed him is still around. They all must have died years ago, that he would be chasing ghosts. That's just what he was... a ghost. Or a demon. Maybe he was the devil himself. Sooner or later, he knew that the darkness would return. It came for them, it would come for him. 

He turns to look down at your sleeping, naked form, and strokes you. You look like an angel, sleeping on a halo of the hair spread out over his chest. He defiled you last night, spread his darkness over you. 

Maybe he wasn't a scapegoat after all. Maybe he deserved everything he got. Maybe he wasn't an avenging angel. Maybe he was chaos on earth, brought back for a short time. But his feelings, his human urges were so real when he felt them raging through him. He felt like he needed to kill everyone who wronged him, but he didn’t know how to find them. So many unanswered questions, and the sun would rise on them all in a few hours.

The dim TV with the rosary draped over it glitches, and turns from snowy static to a black fuzz.

-

You wake up in the morning, and find that the spot next to you is empty. You expected that-- the man was on a mission, but it was a nice detour. Still, you get up, and look out the motel window. 

That's strange. His car is still there. You start to search the bed for your panties, but stop. There's a strange dust left in his side of the bed, and a note on the bedside table. 

You can run on for a long time, but sooner or later God'll cut you down.

- The Stranger

[felix-the-cat]

Wednesday, April 15, 2020 – 1:11 p.m.

How do I get out of my head and enjoy this time at home?

There is one thing that is very effective at bringing you ‘out of your head’ so to speak. You can sit still and meditate upon the joys and gratitudes of your life. This is a time of Great Change and is very difficult for many people. Most are not used to just sitting still and being. You are used to doing. So, use that. Use this time to do what you’ve always wanted to do. Focus on your gratitude for what you have been given and more shall be given unto you. You have brought yourself here to learn exactly what you are asking. Be easy on yourself. Go deep within and find out what it is that’s troubling you.

The mind is a very useful tool when used correctly but it has been misused for so long now that it is time to re-train it to serve you and not the other way around. You have been ‘living in your head’ for far too long now.

Your being is like a beautiful mansion that you reside in; but, for far too long you have been residing in just one room. The Mind is a beautiful place to be, but not if you are trapped in that room. You have been given the key to step out of the room of Mind and enter into the room of your Heart.

Once you look about your residence and realize that the room you have been living in has served its purpose, but there’s so much more to explore; you will see that the Heart-space is where you want to reside.

Its quiet interior will give you room to really ‘think’ at last. You have been shown the way out of your Mind and into this Heart space that you so wish to reside in. this space is a much fuller more satisfying place to be in.

You need but only turn on the Light in your heart and dust off the furniture so you will feel comfortable residing here. You have unlimited opportunity to create from here. It’s from this place that you will truly be able to view your brothers and sisters at long last.

Step away from the isolation of your mind and return to Love. It’s from here that the New Earth will be created. This place will allow you to forgive yourself and others for the perceived wrongs that have been committed. It’s how you ‘dust off the furniture’ so to speak so that you may rest at long last.

Yesterday is gone and with it goes all the hate and treachery of a mad planet gone insane. Yesterday is the cobwebs in the attic. You must join us on this New Path if you are to live truly free at last. You have been called to this space; indeed, it is yourself that has called you here. We are here to help you ‘clean up your room’ so to speak. We have come in response to a call you all have made. We are here to help you if you let us. You are sequestered in this space and time so that you may learn to live free at long last.

You have been here before but never like this. This is an intense boot-camp to use your terminology. You are being called to look at yourself at long last. Use this time to grow and create. Use this time to learn to love yourself again. Once you truly get the message it will be time to return to the world. Only this time you along with millions of others will return as changed individuals. You will have seen what has needed to be seen and you will go out into the world with New Eyes. You will have been given the Sight for what it takes to clean up the world as a whole.

You are not being punished per say, but Mother Earth is using this time as well to heal the damage that has occurred to her and to re-build the playground so that all God’s children may play on a New Field. Some are being shown directly how to enter into this 5th dimension of existence and they will show still others.

This time is an extreme example of the Shift that is occurring all across this planet. There will be times of discomfort. Do not ‘fight against’ this change. Do not ‘beat yourself up’ because you feel like you aren’t doing things perfectly. This is a time of growth for all.

Growing pains will occur and with it brings the necessary Shift in Consciousness that will sustain this Great Awakening. Do not be discouraged. Whenever the intensity of this training gets to be too much it is advisable to go deep inside. Go into meditation and learn to reside in your heart. From there you will be able to look out over the balcony and ‘see’ this New Earth forming all around you.

The beauty of this, once seen, will bring tears to your eyes for you will know at once why this is occurring and why it is necessary in order to bring this change about. You can become whatever you choose to be in this New Energy.

Take this time to get very clear about what it is that you want. Go to a quiet room and write down what it is that you wish to become. You have the time now to make this become your reality. Already millions are doing just this.

There are many in great pain at the moment because their world has been shaken down to the very foundation of their existence. Sweep away the rubble and begin to build and new foundation for yourself so that a better house may be built.

Do not think that this is only the end, for with every ending a New Beginning will occur. That is what is happening here. We are bringing about a New Reality. One in which everyone will enjoy and create in. We have been commissioned to help you through this time of Great Adjustment and we understand what it’s like going through this time for we too have been where you are.

We would like to tell you that if you keep the end in mind you will ‘see’ how upside down this world has been and how it is simply being put upright again. For far too long people have been lied to and are institutionalized so to speak.

Do not mourn for the Old World for it is being eradicated and is blowing away in the winds of yesterday. There is a New Day on the horizon. It is forming all around you. What is going on here is so much greater than you can perceive from your vantage point for you see only the Storm ahead of you.

You must go into the center of the Storm and view it from another place. The place you view it from is a heart-centered reality that will show you the goodness and beauty that lies ahead of you. You are a part of this revolution as the storm swirls all around you. This revolution in consciousness is bringing about great change.

Step out of your mind and view it from the calm, still center within yourself and you will remain unaffected by the pain and misery that the mind that is trying to figure it out will inflict. The heart knows what is happening here. Look to the heart for answers and not the brain.

The brain can only do computations based on past data and that data is insufficient to bring you the answers you seek. The heart is timeless. It knows where you are headed. This is the ‘new channel’ that you must tune into in order to remain centered within this storm.

The storm will pass. It has a way of leveling the playing field so to speak and it has already brought about great change. Begin by being still and learning to reside in this New Space. This is where creativity and intuition collide.

You have been shown a great many things and now is the time to utilize the tools that have been given to you. Love one another. Be kind to yourselves and help bring about this New World with us…

[thdorkmagnet]

The Deal (Star is Rapunzel AU part 2)

Summary: A series of one-shots and multi-chapters proving why Star Butterfly should be considered a Disney Princess, as Star and company take over the roles of all your favorite Disney Princess characters! (Starco inevitable)

Check out my other stuff on Fanfiction! 

Disclaimer: Star vs and all its characters are owned by Daron Nefcy and Disney. Tangled belongs to Disney. All rights go to their respective owners.

Click for part 1

After several failed attempts to stuff the boy into her large closet, Star was finally able to get the unconscious intruder inside and hidden (with no help from Janna), without being relatively harmed. She took a few steps back, taking deep, calming breaths, as her mind raced out of control. “Okay, okay, everything's good, Star,” the girl reassured herself, before she continued her incoherent ramble. Meanwhile, Janna was busy riffling though the satchel Marco had been wearing.  “You just have someone locked in your closet. Someone who could be dangerous if he managed to get out. But, who am I kidding, that won't happen. Besides, this is your big chance, all you need to do is wait for mom to get back and then show her what you did. Nothing bad could happen before then, right Janna?”

Star looked over at her bat friend, but Janna was still buried deep into the brown leather bag and  the blond huffed. “Janna, get out of there!” she scolded, actually managing to grab her attention, as she sat up from the satchel with wide, brown eyes. Star stomped over to the animal and snatched the satchel up and out of her grip. “You don't know where that's been!”

Janna flew up and opened the satchel once again, reaching her claws into the bag, despite Star's protest. “Janna, no! We don't know what's in there, there could be something dangerous or bad or-”

Star's voice cut off, as the small fluffy bat pulled out something the blond had never seen before from the depths of the bag. It was golden object of some kind, shimmering and dazzling even in the dim light of the tower and Star became entranced in the thing's beauty and mystery, dropping the satchel without a second thought.

And yet something about it just felt familiar. Though she couldn't recall how, exactly. She took the golden thing out of Janna's claws and began studying it closely. “I've... seen this before,” she admitted, as she turned the object around in her hands, over and over again, trying to recall where she could have seen it. “But I don't know where.” She got a few bizarre flashes, seeing a room bathed in light as a sun spun lazily around in a circle over and over again, in a soothing manner. But for the life of her, she couldn't remember anymore, just small bits and pieces of a memory long forgotten. Her brain throbbed as it tried to fight against the fog that consumed her mind.

She shook her head, trying to clear it of the pestering thoughts, focusing instead on what this thing was. “Hmm, any ideas what this is?” she asked her bat friend, who shrugged. Star brought it closer to her face, examining every inch of its polished frame, even biting on it, in hopes of this providing some form of clue, but it did no good.

Finally, Star was stumped, giving up in defeat, as she retrieved the satchel off the floor and shoved the shiny object back inside it. “Well, whatever it is, mom definitely shouldn't see it,” she said. “I'll have to hide this, too.”

Janna made a small squeak and Star turned to her in surprise. “What?” Reading Janna's expression, Star said, “You want to hide it?”

The purple bat nodded, before flying up and grabbing the bag out of her friend's hands. She quickly pulled up one of the loose floorboards of the stairs, revealing a small place to stash stuff. “Huh, I didn't even know that was here,” Star commented, from over the bat's shoulder. Janna quickly stuffed the bag into the hidden area amongst the dust and cobwebs, before sealing it back.

Once, the small creature was finished, she turned to her owner with a smug look. “Well, I coulda hid it somewhere good, too,” Star defended herself, though she refused to meet Janna's gaze.

Janna looked over at a decorative pot, before turning back to Star with knowing skepticism, implying that she knew Star's first hiding place would be in the most obvious place possible.

Star began scoffing, crossing her arms across her chest. “No, I wouldn't have hid it in there,” she denied frantically, though her tone was more condemning to the small bat than convincing. “I would have hid it... uhh...” Star looked around the room for an idea. “In my room. Under my bed,” she said hesitantly.

Janna gave her a look that told her, Like-that-would-be-much-better. Star opened her mouth to retort, but before she could there was a call from outside. “Star!”

Star gasped. “It's mom!” she shouted in a panic and quickly raced over to the window, nearly tripping over her own hair in her haste. She saw her mother's smiling face from below and quickly hooked her hair before pushing it over the edge for her mom to grab. She wasted almost no time in once again hauling her up the side of the tower. Once Eclipsa was back inside, the woman gave her an immediate hug saying, “Oh Star dear. I am so sorry for arguing with you like that. You know I hate fighting with you.”

“It's okay, mom,” the blond said quickly, giving her a small squeeze before pulling away and skipping backwards over to the closet. “Sooo, mom, I was thinking about what you said about the floating lights-”

“Darling let's just forget about the stars for a while,” Eclipsa said softly but dismissively, as she set the things out of her basket she had gathered. “Why don't you help your mother make your favorite for dinner, candy casserole.”

Star was determined to continue though, hand slowly grasping the chair that sealed the closet doors closed. “Yeah, that sounds great but first I want to show you something. I have a bit of a surprise.”

Eclipsa sighed and turned to her daughter saying exasperatedly, “Star, I thought we talked about this? You aren't leaving the tower, it isn't safe.”

“Yes, but I-”

“No, Star we are done discussing this,” her mother argued firmly.

“But if you would just listen-”

“Enough Star!” Eclipsa yelled, finally losing her calm. “You are staying here and that is final! I won't allow you to leave this tower, ever!”

Star froze, her hand pulling away from the chair, as she gave her mother a long, sad look.

Eclipsa stared at her silently for a moment, studying her daughter's depressed face, before saying, “I don't enjoy raising my voice to you Star. But you know the rules. I don't know why you insist on breaking them. Do you really care so little about how that makes me feel?”

Star felt shame fill her insides and she took an instinctive step away from the closet, giving a very nervous chuckle. “Uh, yeah, who cares about floating lights, anyway? I certainty don't,” she said in a far too forced tone, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible but instead came across as extremely awkward. She wrapped her arms around herself defensively, her eyes gazing back at the closet thoughtfully. She bit her lip, doing a quick silent debate within, before swallowing down the lump in her throat and adding, “I, um, was only going to say that I figured out what I want for my birthday.”

“What's that?” Eclipsa asked softly.

“Some new paint,” the girl said with a shrug. “The ones you brought me that one time from the place really far away.”

Eclipsa gave her daughter a confused look. “Which ones?”

“You know that time you were gone for like two days and they were in these weird seashell things and-”

Eclipsa held up a hand to silence her, “Yes, yes. I do remember now, thank you.” She walked over to her daughter, wrapping her up in a hug, as she asked, “Are your certain that is what you want, darling?”

Star nodded. “Yeah, I'm sure. It was some of the best paint I ever had and it would definitely be a better gift than seeing some dumb stars.” She was thankful her mom had hugged her, because there was no way she could hide the guilty frown from her mom as she blatantly lied to her. But as she felt her releasing her from the hug, Star quickly put on a forced grin, as she stared into her mom's searching eyes. “Are you sure you will be alright all alone for so long?”

Star scoffed, waving a hand in the air. “I'll be fine, mom. I'll just hang out here... like I always do. I can just watch the floating lights from my window, it's much better that way, anyway.”

Her mother gave her a long look before asking suspiciously, “And you won't try and leave-”

“Mom, trust me,” Star said, giving her the most innocent grin she could, while crossing her fingers behind her back.

Eclipsa's face softened, before she leaned over and kissed her daughter's head, saying, “Very well then, darling. If that is what you really want.”

Star breathed a mental sigh of relief as she helped her mother quickly pack a bag of supplies, her mother leaving a few minutes later, wanting to get a head start on the long journey. She gave Star one last hug, the girl swallowing down the guilt she felt rising up inside her. It's too late now, she reminded herself. There's no going back. Star waved down to her mother, as she watched her turn and blow a final, departing kiss, before disappearing from sight.

The second Eclipsa was gone, Star quickly pulled away, now pacing back and forth around the room, not even bothering to remove her hair from the hook in her worry. She was wringing her hands together over and over again, as she let out little, anxious moans of distress. She heard a tiny squeak and froze, looking over to see Janna perched on the back of a chair giving her a piercing gaze which Star instantly interpreted. “Yeah, I know, I panicked!” she shouted, throwing her hands up in desperation. “But you heard mom, she's never going to let me leave! And if she found out somebody managed to get in her, she'd be even more freaked!” Janna nodded her head in agreement at that. Star tapped a finger thoughtfully to her chin. “If I'm going to go see the floating lights, I need a new plan.” Star racked her brain for a moment, desperately searching for some kind of idea, before looking down at her bat friend. “You got any ideas?”

Janna pointed her wing over at the closet and Star followed her gaze, wide-eyed. There was a second of pause before Star said wistfully, “Ohhhhhh.”

…

Marco woke slowly, moaning in pain as his head throbbed with an unbearable headache. "Ugh, what hit me?" He muttered, waiting for the aching in his brain to stop. Finally it subsided enough that the boy was able to open up his eyes, blinking as he waited for his eyes to adjust to the lack of light. But as he did he noticed a small purple bat holding a lit match close to him and he screamed in fear. "No! Shoo, get out of here!" He tried to wave a hand at it to scare it away, but to his surprise he found his hands were trapped in place. A quick glance down tripled Marco's fears, as he found his arms, legs and torso tied tightly to a chair. Marco began screaming a girlishly high voice, "What's happening?! Where am I?! Why am I tied up?! Is this hair? Why am I tied up with hair?!" "Because that's what you get for breaking into my tower!" Marco's head snapped up as he tried to trace the voice from the darkness. "Who said that? Who's there?" Marco shouted his eyes scanning the shadows around him. Suddenly a form began to creep into view, stepping delicately into the light, and the boy had to fight every instinct in his body to keep his mouth from dropping open. It was a girl with flowing blond hair, very long hair that stretched out across the floor and around the entire length of the castle before leading up to the chair he was tied up to. And if that was not startling enough, she was also quite beautiful, her pale face pretty and fair, and her purple dress equally cute. She was barefoot and had piercing blue eyes that Marco just knew he could remain lost in for all of eternity. He might have even found her presence comfortable if she wasn't currently frowning at him, her eyes full of fire, as she held  a frying pan threateningly as a weapon. The girl ceased her glaring long enough to turn to the bat, still with a lit match in its claws, and said, "Thanks Janna. I can take it from here." The boy and bat shared a look for a second, the winged creature seeming to almost be glaring at him, before it flew up toward the ceiling. Marco quickly recovered from his shock, as he struggled against his bonds, shouting, "What is going on?" "I'll tell you what's going on, you broke into my home so you could steal my hair," Star said coldly, pointing an accusing finger in the boys face. "What? N-No!" Marco stuttered in confusion. What was this crazy girl talking about? "I didn't know anyone was living here and I definitely wasn't going to try and steal your hair!" "Likely story," the girl said suspiciously, leaning in closer to the boy's face, causing the boy to slightly blush, despite the situation. "Now fess up, tell me how you found this place?!" "Look it was a total accident!" Marco quickly said, trying to calm the agitated blond, keeping his voice at the most innocent and nonthreatening tone he could. "I was running from this horse, I saw your tower and I climbed it, okay? That's it. End of story." The girl stared at him long and hard, her gaze unwavering and the boy felt his cheeks continuing to flush, his body growing hot and sweaty. He wasn't used to being this close to a girl, especially one as beautiful or crazy as this one. "You're sure your not here to steal my hair?" she asked, raising a suspicious eyebrow. "Yeah, I'm positive," the boy replied, trying to keep the squeak out of his voice. The intense moment stretched out for far too long, as the girls icy blue eyes narrowed and she seemed to be unsure whether she believed him or not. Marco became afraid his heart might explode it was pumping so fast and he was certain that at the very least this girl could hear the constant noisy hammering of his organ, it was basically impossible to miss. He tried to swallow but his throat was too dry for such an act and he instead let out a raspy, anxious cough. "So uh, can you untie me now?" He somehow managed out and the girl at last pulled away from him, though she still kept a quizzical gaze on him, and Marco had to fight the urge to let out a relieved sigh, as his heartbeat finally slowed. "I have to discuss this with my friend first," the blond said plainly. Wait? Was there someone else in this tower he hadn't seen yet. Marco did a quick look around the tower but saw no one else. He figured it would make sense that this girl wouldn't be alone but still... Then to his surprise, he saw that the blond was talking to the small purple bat, who sat perched on her hand, whispering softly under her breath so Marco couldn't hear. Okay, he really needed to get out of here, this girl had clearly lost her mind. He struggled in the chair pulling against the surprisingly strong hair wrapped around his wrists, trying anything that would get him out of this tower and away from the crazy blond that held him hostage. Finally the girl seemed to finish her conversation, turning back to him and the boy halted his struggle.  "Alright," she said, giving him a stony stare. "I'm prepared to offer you a deal." "A deal?" Marco questioned worriedly, the last thing he wanted was to negotiate with her, terrified of what exactly she wanted from him. He swallowed down the lump of fear in his throat as he risked asking, "What kind of deal?" "I'll let you go if you take me to see the floating lights," she said. "Floating..  lights," Marco repeated, his fears confirmed. Yep, she was definitely bananas. "Yeah you know the big lights that appear in the sky once every year. See look," She pointed over to her painting and Marco stared at it quizzically. "Um, what am I looking at?" He asked, squinting, trying to make out the poorly drawn picture. "Duh, it's me at the floating lights," Star explained in annoyance. "Is that a spider?" Marco asked. Star turned back to the picture for a second, before whipping back around to face the boy. "Okay never mind the drawing." She walked toward the boy, demanding, "The point is you are going to take me go see the floating lights and then bring me safely back home." "And if I refuse," the boy asked, a hint of anxiety in his tone. "Then you never see your purse ever again," Star threatened. Marco rolled his eyes, before explaining, "It's a satchel not a purse." Then, her threat finally registering, he began to frantically look around the tower, straining against the ropes as he desperately searched for his missing item. "Oh no! My satchel, where is it?!" "I've hidden it somewhere you'll never find it," Star said smugly, crossing her arms in front of her chest. Janna gave her a knowing look from her perch on the blond's shoulder, which Star ignored. Marco finally stopped, giving the girl a narrowed glare. "Oh great so your a thief too! Anything else I should add to your resume?" He asked with a sarcastic roll of his eyes. Star huffed. "Hey don't forget you broke in here first, mister.  And unless you take me to see the floating lights, I can promise you you will never find your precious purse," she threatened poking him in the chest with her finger. "Satchel," Marco corrected. "and I don't even know what these floating lights are? How can I even take you there?" "How do you not know?!" Star asked in exasperation. “They're big lights up in the sky that only appear once every year!" Suddenly something clicked in Marco's brain as he finally remembered hearing many of the citizens of Corona talking about something along those lines when he had been sneaking through the town. "Ohhh right, the lantern things," he said without thinking. The blond gasped, before her face broke out into a wide beam as she grabbed the boy by the collar and moved to within inches of his face, her eyes shimmering like her namesake. "You know what they are?!" Marco tried to answer her, his voice squeaking against his will once more from her startling close contact. "Yes! No! Sorta!" The girl's eyebrows narrowed in the cutest way (wait, what was he thinking? she kidnapped him!) As she asked carefully, "Well which one is it?" "Get out of my face and I'll tell you," Marco demanded, his face painted red. Star obeyed, though didn't release her grip on his collar, tipping his chair slightly toward her. Marco coughed to clear his surprisingly tight throat. What was wrong with him? Why was he feeling this way, she was just a girl after all. He had seen them before, so why was she so effortlessly making his heart float, feeling it was separate from his chest. "Look all I know is the people of a nearby kingdom saying something about these lanterns that they use to celebrate their princess or something, okay." Star squealed and turned over her shoulder to shout at her pet, "Do you hear that, Janna? They are real, I knew it!" She didn't even wait for Janna to reply as she whipped her head back around to face the startled boy, who jumped at the sudden action. "So then mister intruder, how about it? You scratch my feet, I give you yours-" "That's not how that saying goes," Marco interrupted. "-We help each other," Star finished, giving him a wide and innocent smile. Marco sighed trying to think of a way out of this situation. "Look you seem..." the thief paused trying to think of the right word to use here. "Well unstable honestly. But even if I wanted to help you, I couldn't, I'm not exactly welcomed over there." "Oh, did you break into someone else's house there too," Star commented sarcastically, rolling her eyes.

“No!” Marco retorted sharply, before adding hesitantly, “I... uh... just sorta... stole something.”

Star stated at him blankly for a moment, before commenting, “And you called me a thief?”

The boy in red rolled his eyes, before saying exasperatedly, “The point is if I go back there I'll be arrested, so I'm not taking you.”

Star gave a nonchalant shrug. “Well then I guess you're leaving empty handed,” she replied carelessly, leaning an arm against the back of the chair in a casual gesture, pretending to be indifferent one way or the other.

The boy could easily see through the ploy and tried a different tactic, “How can you expect me to travel with you, you knocked me out and tied me to a chair! No offense but you don't seem exactly like the most trustworthy type.”

But the girl was quick to counter, pointing out, “Well if anything I'm the one who shouldn't be trusting you, after all you did break into my home and are apparently a wanted criminal.”

Marco opened his mouth to reply, but stopped knowing there was some truth to that statement, instead changing the subject once again, “But I don't even know your name!”

“It's Star,” the girl admitted instantly, before inquiring, “And you are.”

The boy let out a deep breath, not sure if he should give this girl his real name or not. She had given him literally no reason to trust her, but for some reason the boy found himself saying, “Marco. Marco Diaz.”

Star looked almost as surprised as he did that he had actually given out his name (even though she had her doubts it was his real one), but she continued despite her obvious shock, “Okay, look Marco, I know this is a weird request and everything but seeing these things has been my dream since I was little. I've lived my whole life stuck in here and all that's kept me going through all the boring, boring days was thinking about seeing the floating lights in person. And now that you're here, this might be my only chance to get to see them, so please... would you help me?”

Marco was caught off guard by just how sincere and open she was being admitting this to him that he began to feel sympathy for her plight. Her eyes were begging, the deep blue nearly hypnotic to him, and he would be lying if he said that they didn't tug at his heartstrings.

He began to think about this crazy girl in a whole new light, seeing her as more than an enemy or nuisance, and instead got a really good, genuine look at her and who she was for time since he had woken up. Sure she had basically kidnapped him but he did barge into her home and frightened her. If anything he was at fault here and she was clearly beyond desperate to leave this place. It reminded him of himself, honestly, back when he had been just a young child in an orphanage, dreaming of a better life, of adventure and freedom. He understood her need, probably better than most ever did. And yeah, they were still a bit more extreme than he would have liked but her heart was still in the right place, even if her actions were not.

So despite the risk, despite the worry, despite his most basic of instincts telling him this was a bad idea, he instead found himself asking, “So all I have to do is take you to go see these floating lights and then take you back and you'll give me back my satchel.” He searched her eyes for conformation, ignoring his skipping heartbeat from maintaining eye contact with her for too long.

“I promise,” Star said, keeping her gaze steady with him, silently conveying her trustworthiness to him.

Marco sucked in a breath. I'm so gonna regret this. “All right, I'll take you to go see the floating lights,” he finally said and Star gasped in joy and shock.

“Really?!” she exclaimed, hugging her arms close to her chest in excitement. But her letting go of the still tilted chair, caused the whole thing to tip over, sending it and Marco crashing to the floor with a loud bang and equally loud cry of pain from the young thief. Star cringed, calling down sheepishly, “Sorry.”

The boy lay with his face pressed uncomfortably against the floor, a frown plastered on his face as he groaned,“Ugh, I should have just let myself get arrested.”

…

A few minutes later, Marco was slowly making his way down the tower, using the same arrows from before to climb down the tower's side. He looked back up to where Star was, leaning out the window and watching his descent. “You coming!” Marco called up to her and she said nothing, so he merely shrugged and continued the monotonous task, wondering if the blond would actually have the guts to follow. She had seemed so eager and energetic about leaving before, but she was clearly having second thoughts now.

Star, meanwhile, was taking deep, steadying breaths as she looked down at the world waiting below, her heart was hammering so much she was afraid it might explode. Her hair was already secured to the hook and she was leaning against it heavily as she stared at the dizzying heights beneath her bare feet. “Okay, Star, you got this,” she reminded herself, whispering under her breath. “Just the single biggest moment of your life, no pressure.” She tightened her grip on her hair, looking over at her familiar bat friend flying beside her. “You ready Janna?”

The bat looked indifferent either way, shrugging her wings and Star let out a breath. “Wish I was as confident as you,” she muttered, before directing her attention back to the ground below. “Here I go...” she said as bravely as she could, clenching her eyes shut for a second.

Marco had just reached the ground when he heard Star scream, “Look out below!” He looked up just in time to see Star dive off the side of the tower and fall straight down at a breakneck speed, using her hair as a make-shift rope for her descent. Irrational panic took over as he tried to get into a good position to catch her, just in case she couldn't stop herself in time and didn't die on impact with the ground.

Star just giggled incessantly as she felt the cold air rush around her, which was quite pleasant against her face. She closed her eyes and just relished the feeling of weightlessness that consumed her body. But hearing a squeak beside her, her eyes shot open as she realized she was getting too close to the ground and heeded Janna's warnings as she yanked against her hair-rope bringing her to an instant stop, her body just inches from Marco's outstretched arms, waiting to catch her. She looked over at the teen who blushed and said nervously, “I'll, uh, just go stand over there.” He quickly retreated to the small river and Star watched his form for only a second before her eyes jumped back to the unfamiliar grass waiting below her.

She took in a deep breath and bravely lowered her legs down to the forest floor, letting her toes gently feel the soft grass. She giggled as the blades tickled her feet and with new found courage laid down in the grass, feeling a gentle breeze blow against her. She had never experienced sensations like this before, being sheltered inside the lonely tower her whole life. She had dreamed of this moment for so long and now that it was here, nothing she imagined could come close to right now.

Star took in a deep breath, the scent of grass and dirt and just the outside filled her nostrils and left goosebumps on her skin. After another few moments of enjoyment, she rose and ran over to the trickling stream, splashing into the water and spraying the startled Marco next to her. He let out a startled yelp but Star didn't notice as she just scooped up a big handful of water and threw it up into the air, letting it splashdown on her face, with another loud laugh. The cool moisture felt good on her skin and she shook her head to relieve herself of the water, running instead toward the entrance, as fast as her body would take her, her hair trailing behind her and her excitement ever building in her chest.

“Hey wait!” Marco called after her, running to keep up. Star barely heard him as she passed through the vegetated curtain and out into the real world for the first time in her entire life. Her smile was wide and her eyes were shimmering as she took in every sight around her, twisting around and around in an attempt to see it all. Marco finally caught up with her, watching her silently for a moment. Her joy was so infectious that despite everything he couldn't help but smile for her, inwardly glad to see her happiness and was again reminded of himself and how free and content he had felt when he had first been out on his own. Maybe today wouldn't be so bad after all.

He looked over beside him to see the same bat from before giving him a long, almost smirking stare and the boy felt instant discomfort at the knowing look on the bat's face. He coughed and crossed his arms in front of his chest, awkwardly, muttering, “What are you looking at?”

The smirk seemed to widen before she flapped over to Star, much to Marco's relief.

“This is amazing!” Star continued to scream, jumping up and down with joy, causing Marco to let out a small chuckle. “I'm sooo happy right now! If mom could see me now she would be so furious!” Her smile dropped for a moment, but quickly resumed as she continued, “But she doesn't know so it's okay, right?”

It left again as her eyes widened and she grabbed the top of her head in worry. “Oh man this would so kill her!” Marco felt sympathy fill his chest but before he could say a word the girl began to smile brightly again. “Buuuuttt she'll never know, so I'm just fine!”

The young thief raised an eyebrow at the girl's sporadic mood shift, she was definitely strange that much was certain. The girl turned once more, spotting something ahead and began to run towards it, yelling, “Ooohhh what's that?!”

Marco followed her gaze and quickly realized what it was, racing after her as he shouted in warning, “No Star, wait don't touch that!” He managed to grab her hand just before she could touch the five leaved plant in front of her. “That's poison ivy!”

Star blinked once, before pulling her hand away saying gratefully, “Wow, that was a close one. Thanks Marco.”  

Marco blushed against his will, rubbing at the back of his neck with a sheepish chuckle. “Uhh, it's no big deal, just try to be more careful next time,” he said nervously.

Star nodded. “Okay I will,” she said cheerfully. She turned away from him, letting out a soft gasp as she spotted a bee hive ahead. Curiosity overcame her, as she instantly forgot her promise and shouted, “What's that?!” She ran toward it without a second thought and Marco watched her go tiredly, a worried frown on his face. He let out a long sigh, even as her screams reached his ears. “Ahhh, Marco help! I broke it and now the bugs are all angry at me!”

“It's gonna be a long day,” Marco muttered dejectedly.

[readbookywooks]

Death straightened up slowly. IS THIS HOW HE REPAYS MY KINDNESS? TO STEAL MY DAUGHTER, INSULT MY SERVANTS, AND RISK THE FABRIC OF REALITY ON A PERSONAL WHIM? OH, FOOLISH, FOOLISH, I HAVE BEEN FOOLISH TOO LONG! 'Master, if you would just be so good as to let go of my robe —' began Albert, and the wizard noticed a pleading edge to his voice that hadn't been there before. Death ignored him. He snapped his fingers like a castanet and the apron around his waist exploded into brief flames. The kitten, however, he put down very carefully and gently pushed away with his foot. DID I NOT GIVE HIM THE GREATEST OPPORTUNITY? 'Exactly, master, and now if you could see your way clear —' SKILLS? A CAREER STRUCTURE? PROSPECTS? A JOB OR LIFE? 'Indeed, and if you would but let go —' The change in Albert's voice was complete. The trumpets of command had become the piccolos of supplication. He sounded terrified, in fact, but he Managed to catch Rincewind's eye and hiss: 'My staff! Throw me my staff! While he is in the circle he is not invincible! Let me have my staff and I can break free!' Rincewind said: 'Pardon?' OH, MINE IS THE FAULT FOR GIVING IN TO THESE WEAKNESSES OF WHAT FOR WANT OF A BETTER WORD I SHALL CALL THE FLESH! 'My staff, you idiot, my staff!' gibbered Albert. 'Sorry?' WELL DONE, MY SERVANT, FOR CALLING ME TO MY SENSES. said Death. LET us LOSE NO TIME. 'My sta-!' There was an implosion and an inrush of air. The candle flames stretched out like lines of fire for a moment, and then went out. Some time passed. Then the bursar's voice from somewhere near the floor said, 'That was very unkind, Rincewind, losing his staff like that. Remind me to discipline you severely one of these days. Anyone got a light?' 'I don't know what happened to it! I just leaned it against the pillar here and now it's —' 'Oook.' 'Oh,' said Rincewind. 'Extra banana ration, that ape,' said the bursar levelly. A match flared and someone managed to get a candle alight. Wizards started to pick themselves off the floor. 'Well, that was a lesson to all of us,' the bursar continued, brushing dust and candlewax off his robe. He looked up, expecting to see the statue of Alberto Malich back on its pedestal. 'Clearly even statues have feelings,' he said. 'I myself recall, when I was but a first-year student, writing my name on his well, never mind. The point is, I propose here and now we replace the statue.' Dead silence greeted this suggestion. 'With, say, an exact likeness cast in gold. Suitably embellished with jewels, as befits our great founder,' he went on brightly. 'And to make sure no students deface it in any way I suggest we then erect it in the deepest cellar,' he continued. 'And then lock the door,' he added. Several wizards began to cheer up. 'And throw away the key?' said Rincewind. 'And weld the door,' the bursar said. He had just remembered about The Mended Drum. He thought for a while and remembered about the physical fitness regime as well. 'And then brick up the doorway,' he said. There was a round of applause. 'And throw away the bricklayer!' chortled Rincewind, who felt he was getting the hang of this. The bursar scowled at him. 'No need to get carried away,' he said. In the silence a larger than usual sand dune humped up awkwardly and then fell away to reveal Binky, blowing the sand out of his nostrils and shaking his mane. Mort opened his eyes. There should be a word for that brief period just after waking when the mind is full of warm pink nothing. You lie there entirely empty of thought, except for a growing suspicion that heading towards you, like a sockful of damp sand in a nocturnal alleyway, are all the recollections you'd really rather do without, and which amount to the fact that the only mitigating factor in your horrible future is the certainty that it will be quite short. Mort sat up and put his hands on top of his head to stop it unscrewing. The sand beside him heaved and Ysabell pushed herself into a sitting position. Her hair was full of sand and her face was grimy with pyramid dust. Some of her hair had frizzled at the tips. She stared listlessly at him. 'Did you hit me?' he said, gently testing his jaw. 'Yes.' 'Oh.' He looked at the sky, as though it could remind him about things. He had to be somewhere, soon, he recalled. Then he remembered something else. Thank you,' he said. 'Any time, I assure you.' Ysabell made it to her feet and tried to brush the dirt and cobwebs off her dress. 'Are we going to rescue this princess of yours?' she said diffidently. Mort's own personal, internal reality caught up with him. He shot to his feet with a strangled cry, watched blue fireworks explode in front of his eyes, and collapsed again. Ysabell caught him under the shoulders and hauled him back on his feet. 'Let's go down to the river,' she said. 'I think we could all do with a drink.' 'What happened to me?' She shrugged as best she could while supporting his weight. 'Someone used the Rite of AshkEnte. Father hates it, he says they always summon him at inconvenient moments. The part of you that was Death went and you stayed behind. I think. At least you've got your own voice back.' 'What time is it?' 'What time did you say the priests close up the pyramid?' Mort squinted through streaming eyes back towards the tomb of the king. Sure enough, torchlit fingers were working on the door. Soon, according to the legend, the guardians would come to life and begin their endless patrol. He knew they would. He remembered the knowledge. He remembered his mind feeling as cold as ice and limitless as the night sky. He remembered being summoned into reluctant existence at the moment the first creature lived, in the certain knowledge that he would outlive life until the last being in the universe passed to its reward, when it would then be his job, figuratively speaking, to put the chairs on the tables and turn aU the lights off. He remembered the loneliness. 'Don't leave me,' he said urgently. 'I'm here,' she said. 'For as long as you need me.' 'It's midnight,' he said dully, sinking down by the Tsort and lowering his aching head to the water. Beside him there was a noise like a bath emptying as Binky also took a drink. 'Does that mean we're too late?' 'Yes.' 'I'm sorry. I wish there was something I could do.' There isn't.' 'At least you kept your promise to Albert.' 'Yes,' said Mort, bitterly. 'At least I did that.' Nearly all the way from one side of the Disc to the other. . . . There should be a word for the microscopic spark of hope that you dare not entertain in case the mere act of acknowledging it will cause it to vanish, like trying to look at a photon. You can only sidle up to it, looking past it, walking past it, waiting for it to get big enough to face the world. He raised his dripping head and looked towards the sunset horizon, trying to remember the big model of the Disc in Death's study without actually letting the universe know what he was entertaining. At times like this it can seem that eventuality is so finely balanced that merely thinking too loud can spoil everything. He orientated himself by the thin streamers of Hublight dancing against the stars, and made an inspired guess that Sto Lat was . . . over there. . . . 'Midnight,' he said aloud. 'Gone midnight now,' said Ysabell. Mort stood up, trying not to let the delight radiate out from him like a beacon, and grabbed Binky's harness. 'Come on,' he said. 'We haven't got much time.' 'What are you talking about?' Mort reached down to swing her up behind him. It was a nice idea, but merely meant that he nearly pulled himself out of the saddle. She pushed him back gently and climbed up by herself. Binky skittered sideways, sensing Mort's feverish excitement, and snorted and pawed at the sand. 'I said, what are you talking about?' Mort turned the horse to face the distant glow of the sunset. 'The speed of night,' he said. Gutwell poked his head over the palace battlements and groaned. The interface was only a street away, clearly visible in the octarine, and he didn't have to imagine the sizzling. He could hear it – a nasty, saw-toothed buzz as random particles of possibility hit the interface and gave up their energy as noise. As it ground its way up the street the pearly wall swallowed the bunting, the torches and the waiting crowds, leaving only dark streets. Somewhere out there, Cutwell thought, I'm fast asleep in my bed and none of this has happened. Lucky me. He ducked down, skidded down the ladder to the cobbles and legged it back to the main hall with the skirts of his robe flapping around his ankles. He slipped in through the small postern in the great door and ordered the guards to lock it, then grabbed his skirts again and pounded along a side passage so that the guests wouldn't notice him. The hall was lit with thousands of candles and crowded with Sto Plain dignitaries, nearly all of them slightly unsure why they were there. And, of course, there was the elephant. It was the elephant that had convinced Cutwell that he had gone off the rails of sanity, but it seemed like a good idea a few hours ago, when his exasperation at the High Priest's poor eyesight had run into the recollection that a lumber mill on the edge of town possessed said beast for the purposes of heavy haulage. It was elderly, arthritic and had an uncertain temper, but it had one important advantage as a sacrificial victim. The High Priest should be able to see it. Half a dozen guards were gingerly trying to restrain the creature, in whose slow brain the realisation had dawned that it should be in its familiar stable, with plenty of hay and water and time to dream of the hot days on the great khaki plains of Klatch. It was getting restless. It will shortly become apparent that another reason for its growing friskiness is the fact that, in the pre-ceremony confusion, its trunk found the ceremonial chalice containing a gallon of strong wine and drained the lot. Strange hot ideas are beginning to bubble in front of its crusted eyes, of uprooted baobabs, mating fights with other bulls, glorious stampedes through native villages and other half-remembered pleasures. Soon it will start to see pink people. Fortunately this was unknown to Cutwell, who caught the eye of the High Priest's assistant – a forward-looking young man who had the foresight to provide himself with a long rubber apron and waders – and signalled that the ceremony should begin. He darted back into the priest's robing room and struggled into the special ceremonial robe the palace seamstress had made up for him, digging deep into her workbasket for scraps of lace, equins and gold thread to produce a garment of uch dazzling tastelessness that even the ArchChancellor of Unseen University wouldn't have been ashamed to wear it. Cutwell allowed himself five seconds to admire himself in the mirror before ramming the pointy hat on his head and running back to the door, stopping just in time to emerge at a sedate pace as befitted a person of substance. He reached the High Priest as Keli started her advance up the central aisle, flanked by maidservants who fussed around her like tugs around a liner. Despite the drawbacks of the hereditary dress, Cutwell thought she looked beautiful. There was something about her that made him — He gritted his teeth and tried to concentrate on the security arrangements. He had put guards at various vantage points in the hall in case the Duke of Sto Helit tried any last-minute rearrangement of the royal succession, and reminded himself to keep a special eye on the duke himself, who was sitting in the front row of seats with a strange quiet smile on his face. The duke caught Cutwell's eye, and the wizard hastily looked away.