#Ash is built like a brick shit-house

[the-nocturnal-writer]

[istumpysk]

Operation Stumpy Re-Read

ADWD: The Queen's Hand (Barristan IV) [Chapter 70]

Long ass chapter for no good reason.

The Dornish prince was three days dying.

He took his last shuddering breath in the bleak black dawn, as cold rain hissed from a dark sky to turn the brick streets of the old city into rivers. The rain had drowned the worst of the fires, but wisps of smoke still rose from the smoldering ruin that had been the pyramid of Hazkar, and the great black pyramid of Yherizan where Rhaegal had made his lair hulked in the gloom like a fat woman bedecked with glowing orange jewels.

Perhaps the gods are not deaf after all, Ser Barristan Selmy reflected as he watched those distant embers. If not for the rain, the fires might have consumed all of Meereen by now.

+.+.+

He saw no sign of dragons, but he had not expected to. The dragons did not like the rain. 

We already know they hate the cold, and don't do well in the north, but not liking rain seems to be a new development. At least for me.

"I knew it would rain," he said in a gloomy tone. "My bones were aching last night. They always ache before it rains. The dragons won't like this. Fire and water don't mix, and that's a fact. You get a good cookfire lit, blazing away nice, then it starts to piss down rain and next thing your wood is sodden and your flames are dead."

Gerris chuckled. "Dragons are not made of wood, Arch."

"Some are. That old King Aegon, the randy one, he built wooden dragons to conquer us. That ended bad, though." - The Dragontamer, ADWD

+.+.+

Missandei sat at the bedside. She had been with the prince night and day, tending to such needs as he could express, giving him water and milk of the poppy when he was strong enough to drink, listening to the few tortured words he gasped out from time to time, reading to him when he fell quiet, sleeping in her chair beside him. Ser Barristan had asked some of the queen's cupbearers to help, but the sight of the burned man was too much for even the boldest of them. And the Blue Graces had never come, though he'd sent for them four times. Perhaps the last of them had been carried off by the pale mare by now.

It seems little Missandei can stomach some pretty gruesome things. Reminds me of another little girl in this story.

I'm going to pretend the Blue Graces aren't helping because they hate him.

+.+.+

The tiny Naathi scribe looked up at his approach. "Honored ser. The prince is beyond pain now. His Dornish gods have taken him home. See? He smiles."

Dornish gods?

+.+.+

How can you tell? He has no lips. It would have been kinder if the dragons had devoured him. That at least would have been quick. This … Fire is a hideous way to die. Small wonder half the hells are made of flame. "Cover him."

Says the Targaryen loyalist.

+.+.+

"I'll see that he's returned to Dorne." But how? As ashes? That would require more fire, and Ser Barristan could not stomach that. We'll need to strip the flesh from his bones. Beetles, not boiling. 

Something tells me House Martell won't be enjoying this skull as much as the last one.

+.+.+

"You should go sleep now, child. In your own bed."

"If this one may be so bold, ser, you should do the same. You do not sleep the whole night through."

How does she know that?

+.+.+

Grand Maester Pycelle had once told him that old men do not need as much sleep as the young, but it was more than that. He had reached that age when he was loath to close his eyes, for fear that he might never open them again. Other men might wish to die in bed asleep, but that was no death for a knight of the Kingsguard.

If there is any justice in this world, Barristan Selmy falls down a flight of stairs. Make it old man shit.

+.+.+

After the girl was gone, the old knight peeled back the coverlet for one last look at Quentyn Martell's face, or what remained of it. So much of the prince's flesh had sloughed away that he could see the skull beneath. His eyes were pools of pus. He should have stayed in Dorne. He should have stayed a frog. Not all men are meant to dance with dragons. 

Misleading. Remember everyone, the dance won't actually involve dragons, Daenerys or any other real Targaryen.

+.+.+

And with the sun arrived the Shavepate. Skahaz was clad in his familiar garb of pleated black skirt, greaves, and muscled breastplate. The brazen mask beneath his arm was new—a wolf's head with lolling tongue. 

LMAO.

Two for three! If this guy is in a rat mask at the start of TWOW, I'm going to lose my mind.

Can someone do me a favour and ask a Targ if it's a good thing when the poisoner dresses like a wolf?

+.+.+

"They await the Hand's pleasure below."

I am no Hand, a part of him wanted to cry out. I am only a simple knight, the queen's protector. I never wanted this. But with the queen gone and the king in chains, someone had to rule, and Ser Barristan did not trust the Shavepate. 

You realize you didn't have to do anything, you stupid jackass.

+.+.+

There are two hundred highborn gathered in the square, standing in the rain in their tokars and howling for audience. They want Hizdahr free and me dead, and they want you to slay these dragons. Someone told them knights were good at that. 

Personally, my money's on cripples, bastards, and broken things. And Samwell.

+.+.+

Men are still pulling corpses from the pyramid of Hazkar. The Great Masters of Yherizan and Uhlez have abandoned their own pyramids to the dragons.

You find any lions under that pyramid?

+.+.+

"Nine-and-twenty?" That was far worse than he could ever have imagined. The Sons of the Harpy had resumed their shadow war two days ago. Three murders the first night, nine the second. But to go from nine to nine-and-twenty in a single night …

Sounds like the perfect time to go to war, Barry.

When she opened her eyes again, Daenerys said, "I cannot fight two enemies, one within and one without. If I am to hold Meereen, I must have the city behind me. The whole city. I need … I need …" - Daenerys V, ADWD

+.+.+

Why do you look so grey, old man? What did you expect? The Harpy wants Hizdahr free, so he has sent his sons back into the streets with knives in hand. 

Both of these men thought Hizdahr was the Harpy.

+.+.+

The sign of the Harpy was left beside the bodies, chalked on the pavement or scratched into a wall. There were messages as well. 'Dragons must die,' they wrote, and 'Harghaz the Hero.' 'Death to Daenerys' was seen as well, before the rain washed out the words."

Damn, they forgot my favourite.

+.+.+

"Twenty-nine hundred pieces of gold from each pyramid, aye," Skahaz grumbled. "It will be collected … but the loss of a few coins will never stay the Harpy's hand. Only blood can do that."

"So you say." The hostages again. He would kill them every one if I allowed it. "I heard you the first hundred times. No."

He can deny him all he'd like, the blood is still on Barristan's hands if these kids die. He's the one who committed treason, and empowered this maniac.

+.+.+

Hizdahr's grotesque dragon thrones had been removed at Ser Barristan's command, but he had not brought back the simple pillowed bench the queen had favored. Instead a large round table had been set up in the center of the hall, with tall chairs all around it where men might sit and talk as peers.

The audacity of this man.

+.+.+

They rose when Ser Barristan came down the marble steps, Skahaz Shavepate at his side. 

[...]

"Whitebeard." Belwas smiled. "Where is liver and onions? Strong Belwas is not so strong as before, he must eat, get big again. They made Strong Belwas sick. Someone must die."

Someone will. Many someones, like as not.

You can only laugh. I'm sure Skahaz is.

+.+.+

Should Drogon return to Meereen without Daenerys mounted on his back, the city would erupt in blood and flame, of that Ser Barristan had no doubt. 

Wanna bet the same thing happens if she is mounted on his back?

+.+.+

Thus far both dragons seemed to have a taste for mutton, returning to Daznak's whenever they grew hungry. If either one was hunting man, inside or outside the city, Ser Barristan had yet to hear of it. The only Meereenese the dragons had slain since Harghaz the Hero had been the slavers foolish enough to object when Rhaegal attempted to make his lair atop the pyramid of Hazkar.

Uh, no actually, that's not accurate at all.

The dragon twisted violently in the air, wounds smoking, the girl clinging to his back. Then he loosed the fire.

It had taken the rest of the day and most of the night for the Brazen Beasts to gather up the corpses. The final count was two hundred fourteen slain, three times as many burned or wounded. Drogon was gone from the city by then, last seen high over the Skahazadhan, flying north. - The Queensguard, ADWD

Convenient to forget something like that. I bet Barristan is going to be forgetting a lot of things in the future.

+.+.+

"We have more pressing matters to discuss. I have sent the Green Grace to the Yunkishmen to make arrangements for the release of our hostages. I expect her back by midday with their answer."

Barristan Selmy sending the Harpy to go negotiate with Yunkai is the most Barristan Selmy thing he could have done.

+.+.+

Skahaz Shavepate slammed his fist upon the table. "The Green Grace will accomplish nothing. She may be conspiring with the Yunkai'i even as we sit here. Arrangements, did you say? Make arrangements? What sort of arrangements?"

"Ransom," said Ser Barristan. "Each man's weight in gold."

Of course the Shavepate would be the one to correctly suspect treachery.

+.+.+

"Their sellswords will want the gold, though. What are the hostages to them? If the Yunkishmen refuse, it will drive a blade between them and their hirelings." Or so I hope. It had been Missandei who suggested the ploy to him. He would never have thought of such a thing himself. In King's Landing, bribes had been Littlefinger's domain, whilst Lord Varys had the task of fostering division amongst the crown's enemies. His own duties had been more straightforward. Eleven years of age, yet Missandei is as clever as half the men at this table and wiser than all of them.

Hm, it's usually Arya. This is the first time Missandei has given off older sister vibes.

+.+.+

"They will refuse, even so," insisted Symon Stripeback. "They will say they want the dragons dead, the king restored."

"I pray that you are wrong." And fear that you are right.

Reasonable demand.

214 people dead.

+.+.+

"Your gods are far away, Ser Grandfather," said the Widower. "I do not think they hear your prayers. And when the Yunkai'i send back the old woman to spit in your eye, what then?"

"Fire and blood," said Barristan Selmy, softly, softly.

✨ foreshadowing ✨

+.+.+

Skahaz Shavepate stared through the eyes of his wolf's head mask and said, "You would break King Hizdahr's peace, old man?"

"I would shatter it." Once, long ago, a prince had named him Barristan the Bold. A part of that boy was in him still. "We have built a beacon atop the pyramid where once the Harpy stood. Dry wood soaked with oil, covered to keep the rain off. Should the hour come, and I pray that it does not, we will light that beacon. The flames will be your signal to pour out of our gates and attack. Every man of you will have a part to play, so every man must be in readiness at all times, day or night. We will destroy our foes or be destroyed ourselves." He raised a hand to signal to his waiting squires. "I have had some maps prepared to show the dispositions of our foes, their camps and siege lines and trebuchets. If we can break the slavers, their sellswords will abandon them. I know you will have concerns and questions. Voice them here. By the time we leave this table, all of us must be of a single mind, with a single purpose."

Horse shit, this is exactly what he's wanted from the beginning.

"You mean to take the field?" The Shavepate's voice was thick with disbelief. "That would be folly. Our walls are taller and thicker than the walls of Astapor, and our defenders are more valiant. The Yunkai'i will not take this city easily."

Ser Barristan disagreed. "I do not think we should allow them to invest us. Theirs is a patchwork host at best. These slavers are no soldiers. If we take them unawares …" - Daenerys V, ADWD

x

The queen sighed. "What do you counsel, ser?"

"Battle," said Ser Barristan. "Meereen is overcrowded and full of hungry mouths, and you have too many enemies within. We cannot long withstand a siege, I fear. Let me meet the foe as he comes north, on ground of my own choosing." - Daenerys V, ADWD

Ahem.

Ser Barristan is a valiant knight and true; but none, I think, has ever called him cunning."

"Knights know only one way to solve a problem. They couch their lances and charge. A dwarf has a different way of looking at the world. What of you, though? You are a clever man yourself." - Tyrion II, ADWD

I'm dying at the author giving the Daenerys side a beacon. I'm used to Stannis copying her.

+.+.+

And when all that had been discussed, debated, and decided, Symon Stripeback raised one final point. "As a slave in Yunkai I helped my master bargain with the free companies and saw to the payment of their wages. I know sellswords, and I know that the Yunkai'i cannot pay them near enough to face dragonflame. So I ask you … if the peace should fail and this battle should be joined, will the dragons come? Will they join the fight?"

They will come, Ser Barristan might have said. The noise will bring them, the shouts and screams, the scent of blood. That will draw them to the battlefield, just as the roar from Daznak's Pit drew Drogon to the scarlet sands. But when they come, will they know one side from the other? Somehow he did not think so. 

A little friendly fire. No biggie.

I wonder which ally is getting smoked.

+.+.+

Ser Barristan took two of his new-made knights with him down into the dungeons. 

Ego always wins in the end.

As he watched them at their drills, Ser Barristan pondered raising Tumco and Larraq to knighthood then and there, and mayhaps the Red Lamb too. It required a knight to make a knight, and if something should go awry tonight, dawn might find him dead or in a dungeon. Who would dub his squires then? On the other hand, a young knight's repute derived at least in part from the honor of the man who conferred knighthood on him. It would do his lads no good at all if it was known that they were given their spurs by a traitor, and might well land them in the dungeon next to him. They deserve better, Ser Barristan decided. Better a long life as a squire than a short one as a soiled knight. - The Kingbreaker, ADWD

+.+.+

Ser Gerris punched a wall. "I told him it was folly. I begged him to go home. Your bitch of a queen had no use for him, any man could see that. He crossed the world to offer her his love and fealty, and she laughed in his face."

"She never laughed," said Selmy. "If you knew her, you would know that."

"She spurned him. He offered her his heart, and she threw it back at him and went off to fuck her sellsword."

"You had best guard that tongue, ser." Ser Barristan did not like this Gerris Drinkwater, nor would he allow him to vilify Daenerys. "Prince Quentyn's death was his own doing, and yours."

This will be the man who tells Dorne what happened. I couldn't be happier.

She did laugh, and she did influence him.

+.+.+

Barristan Selmy could not dispute the truth of that. He had spent the best part of his own life obeying the commands of drunkards and madmen.

Sounds like another king I know.

Jon laughed, laughed like a drunk or a madman, and his men laughed with him. - Jon VIII, ASOS

+.+.+

To Ser Barristan the big knight said, "No need to come and talk if you meant to hang us. So it's not that, is it?"

"No." This one may not be as slow-witted as he seems. 

You can't be serious.

This POV is unbearable, I can't believe I have one more to get through.

+.+.+

Ser Archibald grimaced. "Why is it always ships? Someone needs to take Quent home, though. What do you ask of us, ser?"

"Your swords."

"You have thousands of swords."

"The queen's freedmen are as yet unblooded. The sellswords I do not trust. Unsullied are brave soldiers … but not warriors. Not knights." He paused. "What happened when you tried to take the dragons? Tell me."

Even 11-year-old Sansa wasn't this deluded about knights.

+.+.+

The chains … there were bits of broken chain everywhere, big chains, links the size of your head mixed in with all these cracked and splintered bones. And Quent, Seven save him, he looked like he was going to shit his smallclothes. Caggo and Meris weren't blind, they saw it too. Then one of the crossbowmen let fly. Maybe they meant to kill the dragons all along and were only using us to get to them. You never know with Tatters. 

What a weird thing to write.

+.+.+

"Ah, what did you expect, Drink? A cat will kill a mouse, a pig will wallow in shit, and a sellsword will run off when he's needed most. Can't be blamed. Just the nature of the beast."

Still holding out hope this isn't only about Brown Ben Plumm.

+.+.+

"What did Prince Quentyn promise the Tattered Prince in return for all this help?"

He got no answer. Ser Gerris looked at Ser Archibald. Ser Archibald looked at his hands, the floor, the door.

"Pentos," said Ser Barristan. "He promised him Pentos. Say it. No words of yours can help or harm Prince Quentyn now."

"Aye," said Ser Archibald unhappily. "It was Pentos. They made marks on a paper, the two of them."

There is a chance here.

If you thought Barristan Selmy sending the Harpy to Yunkai was the dumbest thing he would do in this chapter, I've got some news for you.

"Pentos?" Her eyes narrowed. "How can I give him Pentos? It is half a world away."

"He would be willing to wait, the woman Meris suggested. Until we march for Westeros."

And if I never march for Westeros? "Pentos belongs to the Pentoshi. And Magister Illyrio is in Pentos. He who arranged my marriage to Khal Drogo and gave me my dragon eggs. Who sent me you, and Belwas, and Groleo. I owe him much and more. I will not repay that debt by giving his city to some sellsword. No."

Ser Barristan inclined his head. "Your Grace is wise." - Daenerys IX, ADWD

+.+.+

"I mean to send them back to the Tattered Prince. And you with them. You will be two amongst thousands. Your presence in the Yunkish camps should pass unnoticed. I want you to deliver a message to the Tattered Prince. Tell him that I sent you, that I speak with the queen's voice. Tell him that we'll pay his price if he delivers us our hostages, unharmed and whole."

Yup that's right, Barristan Selmy promised to give Pentos to a sellsword. PENTOS.

There are no words.

+.+.+

"Why not? The task is simple enough." Compared to stealing dragons. "I once brought the queen's father out of Duskendale."

Past your prime, peaked in high school energy.

+.+.+

The simple part, at least, thought Barristan Selmy, as he made the long climb back to the summit of the pyramid. The hard part he'd left in Dornish hands. His grandfather would have been aghast. The Dornishmen were knights, at least in name, though only Yronwood impressed him as having the true steel. Drinkwater had a pretty face, a glib tongue, and a fine head of hair.

God, shut up.

He would have a thin blue line bumper sticker, I know it.

Edit: Necessary addition.

+.+.+

By the time the old knight returned to the queen's rooms atop the pyramid, Prince Quentyn's corpse had been removed. Six of the young cupbearers were playing some child's game as he entered, sitting in a circle on the floor as they took turns spinning a dagger. 

Uhh, that doesn't feel like a good omen.

+.+.+

Far off to the east, beyond the city walls, he saw pale wings moving above a distant line of hills. Viserion. Hunting, mayhaps, or flying just to fly. He wondered where Rhaegal was. Thus far the green dragon had shown himself to be more dangerous than the white.

He sure is!

+.+.+

The Dornishmen, Hizdahr, Reznak, the attack … was he doing the right things? Was he doing what Daenerys would have wanted? I was not made for this. 

NO YOU CLOWN.

I want no war with Yunkai. How many times must I say it? - Daenerys VI, ADWD

+.+.+

Galazza Galare was attended by four Pink Graces. An aura of wisdom and dignity seemed to surround her that Ser Barristan could not help but admire. This is a strong woman, and she has been a faithful friend to Daenerys.

That's all the Harpy confirmation I need.

It's not clear what Pink Graces do. I am reminded of House of Pahl.

+.+.+

"I am pleased to hear that. The Wise Masters of Yunkai asked after him. You will not be surprised to hear that they wish the noble Hizdahr to be restored at once to his rightful place."

"He shall be, if it can be proved that he did not try to kill our queen. Until such time, Meereen will be ruled by a council of the loyal and just. There is a place for you on that council. I know that you have much to teach us all, Your Benevolence. We need your wisdom."

"I fear you flatter me with empty courtesies, Lord Hand," the Green Grace said. "If you truly think me wise, heed me now. Release the noble Hizdahr and restore him to his throne."

"Only the queen can do that."

But you can arrest the king, start a war with Yunkai, and give away Pentos?

+.+.+

The pyramid of Hazkar has collapsed into a smoking ruin, and many of that ancient line lie dead beneath its blackened stones.

How about twins? Any set of twins under that pyramid?

+.+.+

"And murder. The Sons of the Harpy slew thirty in the night."

"I grieve to hear this. All the more reason to free the noble Hizdahr zo Loraq, who stopped such killings once."

And how did he accomplish that, unless he is himself the Harpy?

+.+.+

"Her Grace gave her hand to Hizdahr zo Loraq, made him her king and consort, restored the mortal art as he beseeched her. In return he gave her poisoned locusts."

"In return he gave her peace. Do not cast it away, ser, I beg you. Peace is the pearl beyond price. Hizdahr is of Loraq. Never would he soil his hands with poison. He is innocent."

"How can you be certain?" Unless you know the poisoner.

If he would take one fucking second to listen to the words pouring out of his dumb idiotic mouth, he might realize there's no motive here.

+.+.+

"They did. No amount of gold will buy your people back, I was told. Only the blood of dragons may set them free again."

It was the answer Ser Barristan had expected, if not the one that he had hoped for. His mouth tightened.

Should the hour come, and I pray that it does not, we will light that beacon.

+.+.+

"I know these were not the words you wished to hear," said Galazza Galare. "Yet for myself, I understand. These dragons are fell beasts. Yunkai fears them … and with good cause, you cannot deny. Our histories speak of the dragonlords of dread Valyria and the devastation that they wrought upon the peoples of Old Ghis. Even your own young queen, fair Daenerys who called herself the Mother of Dragons … we saw her burning, that day in the pit … even she was not safe from the dragon's wroth."

"Dragons," Aemon whispered. "The grief and glory of my House, they were." - Samwell III, AFFC

+.+.+

Ser Barristan was on his feet at once. "What is it?"

"The trebuchets," the Shavepate growled. "All six."

Galazza Galare rose. "Thus does Yunkai make reply to your offers, ser. I warned you that you would not like their answer."

They choose war, then. So be it. Ser Barristan felt oddly relieved. War he understood. "If they think they will break Meereen by throwing stones—"

"Not stones." The old woman's voice was full of grief, of fear. "Corpses."

Yeah no shit, I would also feel relief if I manipulated the system for a specific outcome, then got exactly what I wanted.

I wish him well. Barristan Selmy is not allowed to die in Meereen with a sword in his hand.

Final thoughts:

Live look at me trying to get through the last three chapters.

-> return to menu <-

[pirates-pirates-pirates]

Unstable

I had this song stuck in my head and I thought it would make a very good Ace/Marco fic, so.

Marco x Ace - Implied SFW

It's okay if I'm a bit unstable But I've been doing just fine on my own I don't care if I am in denial It's a mild syndrome [unstable by chaotica]

“Fuck.Off.” Ace spat and slapped the hand that had dared to come close to him.

Marco furrowed his brows for a moment, feeling the sting on his hand from Ace’s outburst, how he sneered and snarled and backed further into the tatty armchair. Ace was pressed so tightly against the back of the chair Marco was sure he was hoping to burst through it to escape him.

“I’m trying to help you yoi,” Marco was doing his best to keep the exasperated sigh from his tone as he ran a hand through his messy hair, the crop of blond swayed back into place.

Ace’s eyes focused on it, glaring at the strands, anything to avoid eye contact with the doctor. Flames of pure irritation flicked across Ace’s skin as he gripped the arms of the chair to the point of his knuckles turning white.

“I never asked for ya fuckin’ help, did I?” Ace hissed through gritted teeth, nails digging into the fabric, digging the heels of his boots into the rug.

Marco watched him for a moment, seeing the flames dance across his body, never burning the clothes he wore. Even in his most agitated and wild state Ace had such masterful control over his abilities. The smell of burning wafted into his nose and he glanced at the arm of the chair, the age-stained upholstery catching alight.

Ace didn’t care about the chair like he had his clothes apparently.

The phoenix let out a tsk and stood up from his crouching position, a few strides back to his desk, grabbing the vase of flowers he’d used to brighten up his office space, taking out the handful of flowers, setting them on his desk before turning to Ace and the slowly burning chair.

Marco looked the scowling man in the eye, his half-lidded gaze was no less intense than the narrowed eyes of Ace. Wordlessly he dumped the water over him, the stench of dirty water hit his nose, and the outraged ‘You fuckin’ cunt!’ met his ears.

His lazy smile tugged into a wicked smirk when Ace leapt up from the chair, looking down at his wet shorts and arm. Marco set down the vase and folded his arms over his chest, thin brow quirked as Ace spat out more insults as he tried to pat himself down.

“Why the fuck did you do that?” Ace demanded, puffing out his chest, making commands he was confident he could back up.

“You were burning my chair, what else do you do with untruly fire? You put it out.” Marco’s tone was so matter-of-fact it did nothing to quell the brewing anger in Ace.

“Really? That shitty chair? It’s seen better days, why does that even matter?”

The phoenix looked down his distinguished nose at Ace, unfolding his arms and placing a hand on Ace’s chest, pushing him with enough force that he was made to sit back in the now dampened chair with a grunt.

“Just because you have no respect for others and don’t see the value in something that is important to another person, stop being a little shit for just a second yoi.” His tone was firm, something Ace wasn’t yet used to from the normally easy-going man in front of him.

“I don’t know why you’re even bothering with me; I don’t need anyone, I don’t want anyone.” Ace spat as he slumped back in the chair, arms folded.

Marco let his arms fall to his sides, a sigh, not hiding his annoyance from Ace in the slightest as he moved a hand to his hip, cocking his head to the side, examining the huffy rookie in his chair. There was so much damage in one person, just like a house burned to the ground, nothing left to the untrained eye past the evidence of destruction.

He saw it though, Marco knew there was a strong foundation under the ash and debris, one that could be built on, one that could be bigger and stronger than ever if Ace let him lay the first brick.

“You act like a lone wolf, you want to hate the world you think hates you, I can see that clear as day, I can also see the scared boy inside that’s desperate to not be left alone again. You desire love and attention from others, you just need to allow yourself to admit that first.”

Ace shifted in his seat, the intensity in his gaze wavered before Marco’s eyes, he was right, and he knew it, Ace knew it and to be so seen by what was still a stranger to him had shaken his resolve. Marco was observant, the flame user couldn’t hide under a rock of denial any longer.

“I don’t need anyone.”

“Then why do I see you smiling and laughing with that crew of yours? Why do I see you sitting on the edge and looking in with that sad look of utter longing? If you wanted to be alone, you wouldn’t inch closer hoping to catch someone’s attention yoi.”

Ace opened his mouth to protest, to shout harsh words at Marco. All the fight died; his shoulders slumped in a further sign of defeat as he drummed his fingers on the edge of the chair. He didn’t look up at Marco, didn’t want to.

“I thought so, you aren’t a lone wolf, you’re a cornered animal who fights because that’s all they know.” He reached over, placing his hand on Ace’s knee where the gash was still oozing blood.

“It’ll be okay Ace, we are here for you, you don’t have to be alone anymore yoi.”

Marco felt Ace flinch as his hand touched his skin, the cooling blue flames he wielded with such practised ease washed over the cut on his leg, the pain ebbed away as the wound started to pull itself back together, the red disappearing as Marco worked his magic.

“There.” He hummed and pulled away, Ace wide-eyed and gawking at his knee, no signs of injury.

“Thanks,” Ace mumbled under his breath, amazed.

“What was that yoi?”

“Thank you, Marco.” He repeated, louder, politer.

“You are very welcome, Ace, you can go now but please, think about what I’ve said?”

Ace itched at his freckled cheek, unsure of how to progress with this conversation, he had a lot to think about thanks to the ship’s doctor, he needed time to process, to put his own thoughts in line. He needed to take a look at himself and allow himself to heal.

“I will…”

“Good yoi!”

[enochianribs]

Chapter 2 of the Cabin AU is up now!

Read on Ao3 here, or under the cut. 

(Reblogs appreciated!)

The roof had a leak. Dean woke up to a growing wet spot on the pillow next to his. He laid still, eyes crossing as he stared at the ceiling, watching the bead of water run across one of the unfinished boards, suspending itself for an entire minute until it plopped right next to his head. Slowly, his mind pulled itself out of his dream, though the haze lingered.  The roof had a leak. Dean woke up to a growing wet spot on the pillow next to his. He laid still, eyes crossing as he stared at the ceiling, watching the bead of water run across one of the unfinished boards, suspending itself for an entire minute until it plopped right next to his head. Slowly, his mind pulled itself out of his dream, though the haze lingered. 

 “Mmm...great.” Another item on his to-do list. 

 Dean was willing to bet there were more leaks in the living room. 

For a moment he debated allowing himself to be lulled back to sleep. It was all too easy to slip back to that dream again: blurry hands, soft mouths, quiet murmurs, everything he missed and everything he’d never had. Not really. 

 Rain gently pattered against the outside of the cabin, the storm grinding in from the East and then settling its haunches right over the hills to stay for the night. The sun was rising, and the pink sky cast shadows from the drops on the window pane, little spots phantom dripping down his sheets. 

 It was the first morning since he’d gotten to the cabin that he’d slept in past sunrise. Sluggishly, he sat up, diggin the heel of his hand into his eyes as a yawn fought its way out of his chest. He turned his head, and reached out with a hand to wake his companion, before reality caught up with him and his hand fell to the mattress, going through the ghost.

 That’s right , he thought. His mouth tasted like ash.

 If he laid there any longer his chest would become heavy, and his breaths ragged, so he tossed the covers off, and trudged over to the shower. The cold water bit through the fog better than anything else could, and he leaned his temple against the glass door waiting for it to heat up and fill the room with steam. 

 Normally, he’d air dry, but it was chilly and an urgency hung around him. He grabbed the bleach-spotted towel hanging sadly by the door towelled off quickly. 

He wandered idly, picking his daily morning tasks up and dropping them before he’d complete them. Something pulled him around the house. He was forgetting something.

Dean was midway through folding the quilt and draping it on the sofa arm when they caught his eye. 

Two large feathers sat in the middle of the massive dining table (he still wondered who had built and what they’d been thinking—  the thing could seat the knights of the round table if necessary). Tugging the fridge door with one hand he reached blindly for the pot of coffee he kept iced, and nudged it closed with his knee, never taking his eyes off them. 

They were captivating. He continued to stare as he poured himself a cup, spilling some of the coffee onto the counter. He’d forget to clean it up, and it would stain, but that was okay. If they asked, he was experimenting with wood staining.

Dean could examine them once he made himself some kind of breakfast. Those were the rules: remember to feed yourself, and then you can do whatever you want to with your day. Breakfast ended up being toast and jam, and he plopped it down at the end seat of the table, and reached for the feathers before he took a bite. 

The color on the first one was so dark it looked heavy, but it was as light in his hand as any feather should be. He held it up and squinted, twisting his wrist back and forth. It caught the light and reflected a shimmering oil slick back at him. The colors shifted, hues iridescent.

 At first glance it could be a raven’s, but it was at least four times bigger than that.

 The second one was more muted, the black towards the base of it dappled into a brown and white, and it was downy soft where the other was sharp and precise. Yesterday he’d thought it was grey but better light proved that it was a grey-brown.

He’d assumed that it was from the same bird—  creature , but now he wasn’t so sure. Dean didn’t know the first thing about birds. However, he knew several people who did. 

▵▿▵

“Hey, Bobby. Can I talk to Rufus?”

“He’s kinda in the middle of some’in’, Dean.” The roll of his eyes was audible, as someone yelped in the muffled background. “Can I call you back?”

“Please?” Dean asked, grinning cheekily even though he wasn’t there to warm Bobby over in person. 

Bobby made a disgruntled noise and paused, before sighing. “You’re doing the face aren’t you?”

“Maybe.”

“Fine. You never want to talk to me .” 

“You know that’s not true.”

“Hm.” Bobby replied. Out of spite, he kept the phone next to his face as he shouted for his attention. “Rufus! It’s Dean.” 

Ouch , Dean mouthed wincing at the volume, as he listened to the sound of two old men grumbling at each other before fabric shifted, and Rufus picked up the phone. 

“He lives.”

A smile burst its way through Dean’s concentration. “Hey Ruf, gotta question for you.”

“Coulda called us sooner. We were beginning to wonder if you’d sold the cabin and moved somewhere warmer with pink flamingos.”

The image made Dean snort. Him at the beach? Unlikely.

“Nope.” Dean quipped. “Still here and freezing my ass off. You guys ever think about installing a damn heater?”

“And pay that bill? Hell no. We added a fireplace, what more do you want from us.”

Good ol’ crabby Rufus. “What do you know about birds?” 

“A lot.” As per usual, he was being obtuse.

“Know of any big enough to leave behind two foot feathers?”

Rufus whistled. “Not in North America, unless you’ve got ostriches running around.”

“That’d be a negatory. So there’s nothing you can think of?”

“Nope. Did you find something, kid?”

“Holding one right now.”

“No shit.” He could hear the bewildered tone of his voice over the shitty connection. “Well, I guess keep an eye out. It’d be real hard for something that big to hide, and even harder for it to sit comfortable in those pine trees with the branches so dense. I’d say you’re about to make the biggest zoological discovery in North America in the past century. Keep us posted?” 

“Will do.” Dean said, and he heard Rufus handing the phone back over to Bobby. 

“Hope everything’s okay up there, Dean.”

“Everything’s peachy, honestly. Anyways—” He checked the clock on the stove. 8:30. The hardware store would be open in a half hour. “I’ve got some errands to run, so I’ll leave you to whatever it is a couple of old farts do in retirement.”

“Hey—” 

Dean grinned to himself. “See ya, Bobby.”

“Take care of yourself.”

“I will.”

The line went silent, and Dean shoved his phone back into his pocket, bobbing his head to the side in thought. Though he didn’t get a definitive answer, at least the call had eliminated the options of native fauna. 

▵▿▵

At nine in the morning, Dean was usually one of a small line of people waiting outside Lafitte’s Goods to needle Benny’s brain for fixes and tools of the trade. Pamela was waiting against the brick wall, hand shielding the summer morning sun from her eyes, reading a 99 cent paper back with interest. 

“Hey, Pamela.”

“Dean-o. Call me Pammy.”

“Really?”

“No, of course not. But Pam works. I’m not your mother.”

“You call your mom by her first name?”

“Fair point. What’re you here for?” She nodded her head and bounced off the wall, as Benny unlocked the doors. A couple of grizzled old men shuffled in ahead of them, beelining it for the plywood. 

Porch season. 

“Roof’s got a leak.”

“Leak season.”

“Apparently. This is the third one since I got here.”

She squinted at him, like he was omitting something important, and popped the bubble of gum in her mouth. Dean started to itch under her scrutiny. He hated being studied like a lab rat.

What was the woman? A witch? Why was she peeling back layers of his get-up without warning.

Dean coughed, and used Benny’s presence as an excuse to wiggle out from under her gaze. “Gotta—  yeah, see you.” Turning on his heel he fled towards the adhesives, face contorting with embarrassment. 

Holy fuck, somehow he’d gotten even more awkward. 

Dear god, help me. 

Benny never pried unless Dean seemed interested in offering up information, and for that Dean was actually incredibly grateful. Most days he didn’t want to talk about anything, certainly not his past, but Benny and his bushy beard and warm eyes had managed to wiggle through his walls, just a little. 

“Benny.”

Benny stared at him from behind the register, inquisitive expression considerably easier to cope with than Barnes' hungry expression. A friendly smile danced across his face as he assessed Dean’s no-doubt rosey cheeks. 

“She’s got her claws in you, huh.”

Dean ducked his head, glancing sideways at the brunette woman still looking at the different kinds of rope. A tramp stamp peeked out from under the bottom edge of her tank top. Dean tapped his fingers on the pock-marked wood counter and turned his attention back to his friend. “Is she always like that?”

“Sure is,” Benny drawled, ringing up everything Dean had haphazardly shoved onto the counter in his escape. “You just happen to be the newest, prettiest , plaything in Pringle.” The burly man winked.

 Pink crawled up Dean’s neck  from his collarbones and spread into his cheeks once again. Christ, there was no escape from these people. Still stammering, Dean practically ran back to the Impala. 

▵▿▵

 The phone vibrated in his back pocket. By the third ring, Dean had parked Baby in her usual spot, and he struggled to tug it out of his pocket, checking the Caller ID. 

California. 

He pumped the window down, the air getting warm inside the car, and he flipped the phone open, inhaling sharply. He should have called before now. Shouldn’t have let so much time pass. In the fall, he’d be too busy to take any of Dean’s calls anyways. 

“Hello?”

“Dean?”

“Sammy.”

Several seconds of too-long silence passed between them. 

“Where have you been?”

Dean swallowed, thick, guilt permeating the small space. 

“Sorry, I just—” He didn’t have an excuse. “I didn’t know what to say.”

“You still could’ve picked up the phone. I tried to call you about six times. You don’t always need to have something to say, y’know…  It just would’ve been nice to know you’re still breathing.” His brother’s voice was basically a whisper at the end. 

“I know.” Dean closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing shakily. “I know.”

“I had to hear it from Bobby. Dean—” Sam’s voice pitched up to that octave it always did when he was upset. “Dad’s gone again.”

Fuck. 

“And that’s fine. It’s not like I’m ten and incapable of caring for myself but I thought—  I thought he’d be back by now. It’s been a couple of weeks.”

“Shit, Sammy.” 

“I think he’s fine. He sent a vague text a couple of days ago, it’s just with school starting in two months I get worried. Not even for him, just for us. I can’t pay for school myself, and I can’t afford to miss anything because of Dad. If my grades drop, I’m out.”

“I know.” God, Dean knew.

Sam was a late bloomer for college. The kid was brilliant, but he’d been dealt a bad hand, and it was a miracle Rufus and Bobby had invested in a saving fund for the two of them decades ago. At twenty-two, Dean knew that he’d already had trouble securing the scholarships. Stanford wanted the best and brightest, not the kid with seven schools on his high school transcript and an overabundance of unexcused absences. 

The guilt piled up and perched itself on his shoulders until he sagged into his seat under the heaviness. It was his job to keep John out of trouble, not Sammy’s. And instead he’d run away from that responsibility. 

The repair materials sat in the backseat, and his heart twisted in his chest. The meadow sat peacefully in the late afternoon sun, just across the short distance of woods, and it still kept its secret. He didn’t want to go back. Not yet. Not until he’d had his fill of independence.

“Look,” He could kick himself for how his voice cracked. “If John doesn’t turn up by the end of the week, I’ll come back. I’ll help. Promise.”

For what it was worth, a facet of his brother’s relieved sigh sounded apologetic.“Thank you, Dean. I don’t know how to do this without you.”

“Okay then.”

“Bye.”

“Talk to you soon, Sammy.” Dean’s jaw clenched involuntarily, as he flipped the phone closed and tossed it against the passenger door. His frustrated shout echoed between him and the trees, but he didn’t feel better.

Always this .

Historically, John would do something stupid and irresponsible and Dean would drop everythign to clean up the mess and no one would thank him. Not really. That was fine.

Family was supposed to break your heart. 

 ▵▿▵

 The leak proved to be an easy fix. 

Dean fought the attic door that led to the roof, following the small staircase up until he was on the balls of his feet, head sticking out as he pulled himself onto it. The shingles were rough, cracked and damaged from the winters, and he scrapped the length of his arm against it.

 The source of the leak took only a minute to find. Five or so shingles were missing, leaving nothing but the wood underneath, which did nothing but absorb any and all precipitation. The rubber sealant smelled terrible, and he gagged dramatically, almost dropping the metal can in the process. Done applying, he plopped his ass down, determined to see it dry properly before he went back inside.

Half assing things had always resulted in a stern talking to in the least, and it had been something he’d struggled with growing up, his mind yanking him a thousand directions until his head was spinning and John was disappointed. 

Dean grit his teeth, purposefully dragging the raw scrape against the rough roofing, the burn biting through the thought, bringing him back down from that far off place he so frequently wandered to. He didn’t even know how he got there, but he found himself lost, shrunk down, smaller than the hand-me-down leather jacket he tried to fill.

From the roof he could see almost everything. It turned out that Rufus and Bobby’s cabin foundation was built onto a gentle slope.

The rain clouds had dissipated, migrating to the flat plains further south, and it left a crisp atmosphere behind. The sun poked through the remaining gargantuan cumulonimbus clouds, sunbeams gently caressing the grass. Grey mist rose from where the creek beds greedily absorbed the heat. It reminded him of the paintings of cowboys, sitting on a stallion, bathed in golden light, their backs to the audience, all the edges illuminated and throwing everything else into stark purple shadows. 

 The burn of the scrape subsided as a sense of peace settled Dean, his body melting into the shingles. An hour passed before his stomach growled, and he climbed back down for lunch.

 ▵▿▵

 Tapping. 

Tapping at the window pane only inches from his face. 

Groggy and only slightly encrusted (gross) Dean opened his eyes and was met by dark blue ones, a tawny human hand pressed up against the glass. 

 Dean’s soul evaporated out of his body, back pressed to the headboard as he scrabbled for the small knife he kept under his pillow. Before he could look again, it was gone.He launched himself out of bed, so very entirely grateful that he’d had enough sense to go to sleep in his boxers and his worn-out threadbare Kansas shirt. 

Holy hell.  

Fingers trembling, he opened the window, leaning almost all the way out, hovering a few feet above the ground.A single feather slowly came to rest soundlessly on the pine-needle carpet. The view from the window remained unyieldingly motionless. 

Black-eyed susans had begun to sprout in the shade, despite themselves, and now they quivered where they grew between the pine-roots even though the morning wind had not pierced through the woods yet. 

Craning his neck, he glanced up, half expecting the last thing he’d ever see to be a terrifying bird man staring down at him like he was lunch. Nothing. 

Dean practically fell out of his room, chanting under his breath in a poor attempt to calm himself down as he stumbled down the short hall to the living room. 

It’s human.

“No,” Dean spoke to the picture frames on the walls. He had no idea what he was denying, but the situation begged to be denied. He paced back and forth in the living room, no doubt wearing the floor down despite the fact that he was wearing socks—  the ones with the holes in the heel. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

Oh my God, it was so very not okay. 

Suddenly, the couch seemed like the perfect place to suffocate himself to unconsciousness. Someone else could deal with this. 

 No , he thought. You wanted this to happen, you dirty liar. Stop panicking and deal with it. 

Wings was human- or at least partially human. He looked like a man. Dean’s thin eyelids fluttered closed, and the image was painted on the backside of them with crystal clarity. Square jawline, arrow-straight nose, curiously arched eyebrows…  and the eyes . They were so blue. And they had been looking right at him. Watching him. 

It was entirely ridiculous that his eyes overshadowed the massive lurking darkness behind him, of what had to have been his wings. 

A human with wings. 

This was crazy. Everything was crazy.

The way he saw it, there were two directions this could go: he could pretend he hadn’t seen anything, and this would be tucked away into the delusion box that he kept under lock and key at the back of his mind and he could grow old being none the wiser of whatever breach of reality this was, or he could go find it. 

The first option was sounding real nice. Normal. Well adjusted. 

He was well adjusted. 

Besides, Dean wasn’t entirely convinced it wasn’t a dream.  this entire thing was a fever dream and he was in some hospital bed back in Lawrence, stuck in a coma. Dean pinched himself, viciously and stared at the white marks left on his forearm, helpless. 

Nope. 

“Okay.” He barked out a laugh. 

He should call Jo. 

After a few more minutes of pacing and hyperventilating, he decided against it. He would tell her—  of course he would! —but when it came up.

The Harvelle’s were good people and they’d shown him nothing but kindness. 

The situation had to be broached with care, or the small home he’d built in the life he wanted to live would topple in on itself, and the rubble and dust would drown him.

Trust issues were a problem of his, and he’d been aware of them since high school, when he’d had too many secrets to keep and any semblance of a support system was states away. 

God, he knew the way he clammed up was obvious, but sometimes he surprised even himself. If he was being honest, there was a lot more to it than a strong need for privacy. Didn’t matter though. In the end, after all the nit-picking and self beratement, it boiled down to fear. 

Jo could keep her mouth closed, but there was always a chance she’d accidentally tell someone, and there was a high chance it would be the wrong person. If he let it slip that this thing existed, who knew what would come packing. And he knew sooner or later, someone would bring the heat. Words got around easily in a small town like Pringle and he knew everyone would be at his door, wanting a chance to see the freak of the week. 

Which… was a thing that existed. A human with wings, that called the small clearing his home.

His heart skipped a beat at the thought. He felt protective over the man, almost ferociously so. 

The day’s hunting trip wasn’t happening— now Dean was paranoid.

What if he accidently shot him? Or scared him off permanently? 

His stomach churned, acid and bile climbing their way up his throat. The burn was familiar. Half his childhood had been spent subsiding panic attacks and anxiety, calming down Dad or Sam or both at the same time. 

▵▿▵

The tin echo of a gunshot managed to penetrate through the thick log walls of the cabin.In a heartbeat, he was scrambling for the ancient shotgun. The front door swung open, the little voice in his head told him to close it behind him, but his feet carried him quicker than his mind and so he left it swinging on its hinges at his back. 

An anguished scream gargled its way from somewhere deeper into the woods, due south of the cabin. Rocks dashed the soles of Dean’s feat and he swore out loud, having forgotten his boots at the door. 

Shit shit shit.  

Someone was nearby, and they were ballsy enough to fire a weapon despite the illegality of hunting on private property. His mind raced at the same speed he ran towards it, a limp skewing his gate every few steps. Stray branches caught the sleeves of his shirt, tearing through the fabric as he refused to slow down. 

It’s just a deer. 

He knew better. 

They’re just after a deer, or a bison that wandered away from the heard or an elk or something—  

Another blood curdling scream erupted from amongst the pine, this one loud enough to rattle the crows out of their nests. They cawed, the sound of dozens of pairs of wings taking flight muting the pained groans. 

He knew better. 

Please—  please. Not Wings.

He faltered over a boulder, panic overtaking muscle memory and skidded to a halt at the crest of a ledge. The scene below knocked the breath out of his chest, leaving a vacuum in its wake. 

Campbell, one of the more elderly hunters of the area was standing over another tawny body. Giant black wings sprawled out, twisting and twitching in the dirt and mud, feathers slightly splayed underneath his back. 

Campbell’s face distorted in pain, a tense moment passing before his wild eyes landed on Dean, the whites of his too visible, even from ten yards away. Blood pumped out from a wound on his neck, and he had a hand clamped down onto it, slick with red, he held a shotgun limply in his left hand, the butt of it dropped heavily to the ground. 

Semi-satisfied that Campbell didn’t seem interested in shooting again, Dean fixated every ounce of attention on Wings and his breath hitched. Smeared across his mouth and chin was a copious amount of blood. He’d bitten Campbell. Dean’s heart swelled with pride.

Good . 

His short encounter with Campbell prior had proved that the man was a bag of dicks, cocky and far too keen on the killing aspect of hunting. It skeeved Dean out then, and it certainly did now. Campbell was still looking at Wings like he was prey. Though no component of the scene begged to differ: the man was naked, teeth bared, but he was incapable of escaping, the gunshot wound in his abdomen bleeding him dry. 

Dean leveled the end of his shotgun at Campbell’s head. “Get the fuck away from him.”

Campbell backed away from Wings, the muscles in his right arm tensed, like he wanted to put it up defensively, but it was necessary he kept pressure on the wound. It looked like Wings had gone for the jugular. “It attacked me, Winchester.”

“And?” 

“You’re fucking crazy.”

Dean would put money on the fact that he looked the part, he could feel his chest heaving, something akin to dull rage pumping through his veins. He prayed the tremor in his hand didn’t betray his hesitation. “I said move .”

Obeying his orders, Campbell stepped back, never taking his eyes off of the strange man. Agony flashed across his face where he laid in the dirt.In his hands, he held a silver blade. Wings looked from Campbell to Dean, expression visibly softening.

“Give me your coat.” Dean didn’t have much time, glancing at Wings, he saw that a red gleam of blood was starting to trickle from the corner of his mouth and his eyes moved frantically. He slid down the slope and went to take off his jacket and remembered his was only in his boxers. “ NOW .” 

Campbell shirked it off and threw it at Dean, staying exactly where he was. Moving quickly, Dean pressed the thick fabric to the wound, moving his other hand to the back side to see where the bullet went. There was no opening there, and he was thankful that Wings was naked. He could skip the sometimes detrimental process of removing his clothes to assess the wound better.

 He tied the jacket around him and slid one arm under his legs and the other across his shoulder blades, lifting him up carefully. Dean had to get him back to his house immediately, before Wings lost too much blood.

One last time, he regarded Campbell. He felt the sneer tug his lip up, his voice like acid trying to eat through the other man’s bones until he was nothing. “Get the fuck off my property. And don’t tell anyone about this. He’ll be fine, not that you care. But you won’t be if I see you here again, or if I hear about this from anyone. Do I make myself clear?”  

Samuel’s eyes darkened clearly at war with Dean’s threat, but his skin was taking on a pallor akin to lethal blood loss. He nodded curtly, acknowledging the agreement, at least for the moment. 

Reasonably satisfied that Campbell wouldn’t shoot them in the back, Dean turned and left, the body draped over his shoulder too warm.Dean’s hand wrapped around, hand feathering over his taut side, avoiding the wound. He could feel his fingers wet with blood. 

Wings was whispering something feverishly, though Dean couldn’t catch a word of it, his eyes glazed over with pain, searching the sky for something with a fervor of a religious man with hell hounds on his heels. 

“It’s okay. It’s okay.” Dean murmured, straining to carry the both of them the distance to the cabin. “I’ve got you.” 

Wing’s head lolled to the side, and his body went slack. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes, but Dean couldn’t afford to cry now. If he did, he wouldn’t be able to get them inside safely. He swallowed the terror. He ducked and wove through the undergrowth, fearing that the drooping wings would catch on a branch or boulder. 

The time it took until he could lay Wings down on his dining room table felt like hell had manifested on Earth, keenly able to feel life slipping away in his arms.

Once Dean managed to put Wings on the table without his head smacking the wood, he tore the kitchen apart for salt and a bowl of water and some clean washcloths, and sprinted to the bathroom, yanking the drawers out and emptying their contents onto the counter and sink until his eyes landed on the tweezers and isopropyl alcohol.

It wasn’t a perfect med kit, but there was no other choice. It had to do. 

Dean approached the table cautiously, worried that too much movement would set him off. The dark wingspan spread out almost three feet on either side of the table and Dean swallowed a stone.

He had no idea what to do next, not really. The closest experience he’d had to being a doctor had been treating John’s stab wound when he was thirteen and John had come home more beaten than usual.  

He stared helplessly down at Wings.  

“He...help.” Wings voice was like a ghost’s, he barely heard it, and he was standing right next to him. He looked up at the cobwebbed chandelier lighting like it was something holy and mesmerizing and Dean realized he was losing him. 

“Shhh… it’s okay.” His forehead was sticky with sweat and drying blood, and Dean pushed some of the unruly black wisps from his eyes, humming low. “I’m gonna help you.” 

Wings hand shook, following the edge of the table, feverishly searching for something to hold onto. Tentatively, Dean slid his fingers between his, feeling his calloused palm against his own. “Wings. Wings, you gotta listen to me. Wings, please . You have to lay still.”

He had no idea if the man understood a single word he was saying, but it seemed to do the trick. Over the span of a terrible minute, his breathing slowed down, and his grip on Dean’s hand went from frail to almost bone crushingly alive. 

Wings’ blue eyes were on him, flickering a little in the low light. Dean waited, untrained, unable and unwilling to play operation on him while he was still conscious, eyes desperate to look at anything but the daunting task before him. 

Eventually, he passed out, his painful grimace replaced by a soft one, and Dean began to remove the shrapnel bullet, praying to anyone who was listening that it had not shredded his insides beyond repair. 

 ▵▿▵

 At some point in the night, Dean had gotten up to draw the curtains and lock the door, willing to sacrifice only a moment to seal them away from the rest of the world. 

 Now, sunlight pierced through the cracks, illuminating them both in thin lines of white light. He watched Wings toss and turn, his face gnarling into pain each time he moved.

 What if Dean had fucked it up? What if the next breath he drew was his last? His mind raced, punishing him for every moment’s hesitation that could very well lead to his death. 

 Dean caught himself following Wings jawline, examining the stark contours of his face like he would never see them again. Please, just please make it out alive.

 “Don’t die on me, Wings.” The words slipped out subconsciously. “Please, God, don’t die on me.”

 Dean had the decency to cover him up with the quilt. The two’s hands were still tightly entwined long after the heartbeat in Wing’s wrist lulled Dean into sleep, tumbling heart over head. 

[bethisblogging]

Ted Cruz, like trump before him, thinks it’s a good idea to compare Paris with Pittsburgh, probably because they both begin with P. As someone from the Pittsburgh Area, but has spent my whole life in the Western PA Rust Belt, let me tell you....

Pittsburgh has seen first hand the damage that can be done by unchecked manufacturing on the environment. Efforts to first start cleaning up the pollution in the city started in the Nineteeth Century! That’s how bad shit was! According to some sources, by 1946 the city was so dark all the time because of a smokey haze that filled the city, streetlights can be seen turned on in photos taken as early as 10 A.M. Literally my whole life I’ve learned about the air pollution around me, including at a local museum who has a gorgeous mural that they purposely left a chunk of unrestored, so people could see how much gunk built up on the inside of buildings from the low air quality. While my actual house is where the suburbs start to become really rural, we still had a steel mill not many miles away (which I had family work at who lived down the road from me, so ya know, a commutable distance in 1940 America), and on the buildings (especially older brick) you can still see the effects of the smog.

Moving forward in time to the modern day, we still struggle with our air quality, and other environmental issues. Even very recently a local coal plant was literally paying people to get their cars washed because of the lay ash that would blacken everything overnight. People campaigned hard and lost the battle for a fracking processing plant to go in near me. It’s currently under construction, but I worry about what’s going to happen when they’re actually processing the oil. When Trump first said the “Pittsburgh not Paris” line, the whole city pretty much called him out and said that they didn’t vote for him or that kind of politics.

Long story short: Republicans pls stop bringing up Pittsburgh we didn’t vote for you & we actually would like to breathe clean air for once (also maybe do your research before you tweet but we all know that’s not happened )

Some sources:

https://www.post-gazette.com/news/health/2010/12/13/Dangerous-dust/stories/201012130252

https://popularpittsburgh.com/darkhistory/

https://www.post-gazette.com/news/environment/2020/04/21/American-Lung-Association-State-of-the-Air-quality-Pittsburgh-Allegheny-County-pollution/stories/202004200118

[thecandywrites]

Of Heaven and Fire Chapter 13

 Shit about to hit the fan. *light’s molotov cocktail with a sparkler* I’m sorry in advance. 

@probablyclever​ @imherefortheforthefanart​ @funmadnessandbadassvikings​. 

Of Heaven and Fire 

Part 13

You woke with a start, disturbing your sisters who had climbed into bed with you because they had missed you dearly and practically slept on top of you but they were deep sleepers and they only stirred but didn’t wake. It was early dawn and your dream had you wanting to scream your lungs out and breathe fire as you would too. 

Your chest was heaving and your throat felt like you were being strangled and you couldn’t stop the streaming tears down your cheeks as your breasts were hurting and tender while your gut was in knots while your body was on edge and drenched in sweat. 

You had a nightmare you couldn’t understand or make out. Like it was a bunch of snippets of memories scrunched up, knotted and folded and pinned together and it didn’t make any sense but the overwhelming feelings of betrayal and rejection ran deep and cut you like a thousand knives through your flesh down to your very bones and even though your mouth was dry, the taste of bile and blood was drenching your tongue and the only cure to it, was to eat that damn berry from “Zirvush’s tree” and without even thinking about it, you climbed out of bed and got into your satchel and got the berry and quickly scarfed it before your sense could stop you and instantly you were put into a trance and you realized...you were in a different realm. 

“Finally, you’ve come to me.” A fae man, dressed in the grandiose and gaudy royal attire who’s crown was twice as big as his head- greeted cheerfully as you seemed to be put into his court, a fae court that while naturalistic, still held profound gravatas as you got your bearings and stood up and looked around. 

“Who are you?” You asked wearily.

“His holiness, Prince Zirvush Matae.” He bowed with extreme flourish. 

“So you’re the thief.” You leveled as your eyes narrowed. 

“No, no thief, but definitely a being worth worshiping since compared to such simple and fragile and if I may be so bold as to remind you- profoundly mortal creatures from your realm, I’m practically a god.” He purred as he circled you like vulture as he drank you in like a fine wine with his eyes as you just huffed through your nose indignantly. 

“Such a fiery spirit for such a lovely creature, it burns so brightly in your eyes. But your face is clearly that of heaven. No wonder all those mortals are half in love with you with just a glance, I know I am. They would be that way even if they all weren’t under a spell to love you at the first sight of you.” He prodded. 

“What?” You asked, your heart dropping into your stomach. 

“Yes, you have many spells cast over you right now, from the orc shaman, to the mountain moura seer, to the priests in the heavens, to the very water dragons in the sea, those poor guys didn’t stand a chance.” He laughed. A sardonic sound if you ever heard one. 

“I broke the ones from the orc shaman.” You insisted. 

“Oh no you didn’t.” He shook his head dismissively. 

“Yes I did, I have the shackles myself because Suriel tore them off!” You argued. 

“Two of the many. It would take no less than a dozen orc spells to really take any hold on a magnificent moura like yourself, especially as one as diverse and gifted as yourself. Look at you, you’ve only known that orc a month and you’re ready to marry him and bear his children- a thought you detested a month ago. Seems a bit odd doesn’t it? Especially to a being who moves in time frames of decades. Orcs move fast, they have to- the violent things- such short lifespans, every time I blink I see new generations. Everything orcs touch either gets consumed or destroyed or both. And you’ve already been consumed, it’s just a matter of time before you get destroyed.” He taunted. 

“Brock would never…” you shook your head in disbelief. 

“Yet when I showed you your future with him, it woke you out of sound sleep and you thought it was a nightmare. It was a prophetic vision is what it was. Let your heart stay on that brute and the vision will define itself more clearly and all those wrinkles and folds will smooth out, just you wait and watch. Fight it- and it gets worse, accept it- and you’ll resign yourself to a heartache that you can’t fathom yet. Just wait.” He promised and your whole soul became agitated at his words and any argument died in your throat before you could speak.  

“However it doesn’t have to be that way. Choose me and I’ll make you a proper goddess, one worshiped and revered till the end of time. There will be alters to you in every temple complex the world over in every realm there is and your own temples to house your alters will rival all others in grand magnificence and richness, not to mention power. Because you’ll be the goddess of justice, peace and prosperity. And I can give you the power to fulfill all the wishes of those who pray to you.” He offered. 

“I don’t want to be a goddess.” You shook your head no. 

“Ha! That’s a lie. You don’t mind one bit how your suitors worship the ground you walk on- even now, how they are bending over backwards to get you everything you could ever want. How you’re using them even now to serve you and your interests or should I say Brock’s interests which you’ve adopted as your own, even now those clans are making you their patron goddess of reunion, rebirth and prosperity. And I know for a fact that you don’t mind at all how Brock worships you in private, if anything your whorish soul relishes it.” He practically moaned in your ear as the hairs on your neck and arms raised as you fought the chill that gave you. 

“You stay the fuck…” You began to hiss. 

“Out of it?” He guessed with a giggle that was worse than any vacuous girl with nothing but sex on her brain. 

“Really, the choices are really all up to you. If you pick Ralitor, you’ll grow incredibly old with boredom in his ever blissfully peaceful kingdom and it won’t matter how many dresses you’ll have made or how much sex you partake in, you’ll grow numb. Pick Oriles, and you’ll grow monstrously large in the depths, to the point you’ll be unrecognizable to your family and a monster to the very clans you’ve befriended. Your grandmother will feel like a guppy compared to you. Pick that prick Bedhu and you’ll just be another slave in his house as your canal will grow so loose with birthing so many children to the point that even Bedhu will feel like having sex with you is like throwing his sausage down a hallway. Pick Cordene and you won’t even have room to breathe because of how suffocating and smothering he is. His jealousy will consume you both. Suriel however is your best shot at what you really want. Because isn’t all you want is to be loved and cherished by one man? Who knows you as well as he does respect and reverence. Who adores your strengths and forgives your shortcomings and who balances you? Who completes you and who answers the question of- if there’s a soul mate? Because he will. But it’s just too bad he’s destined to fall in love with your sister since she’s his soul mate and she his- but he’s so blinded by you, he can’t see it and won’t see it until it’s too late. And even now, Yaviane is having jealousy eat her alive and resentment dig it’s roots down deep because you have all these suitors who all seem to love you yet you don’t really love any of them, not even Brock, as desperate as you are to be so. But I’m sure you’ve figured it out that if I break these spells, all those orcs in Drauch and Vraum will fall right out of the skies to their deaths.” He concluded as you felt a little vindicated as your own suspicion was correct. 

“So, because you are so incredibly pretty and fiery and that perfect balance between heaven and fire and because I’m feeling generous, I’ll do you the biggest favor ever even though you want to burn me to ash as we speak, which is so incredibly entertaining.” He continued to giggle with delight.

 “l’ll wane all of these spells over the course of two weeks. By then, your suitors’ eyes will be opened and their hearts will be freed from their attempts to join their hearts with yours, but I’ll still incline their hearts to make good on what they’ve already offered to you so that their dignity, reputation and honor are intact along with your own and all of them will have an air of goodwill towards you, your family, your colony as well as the other competitors and they’ll even be in alliance with one another.” He offered. 

“In exchange for what?” You asked wearily. 

“That you accept me as the god I am and leave things in the colony the way they are now.” He urged you. 

“And what, pray tell- would it take for Brock to get his moura cloak collar back?” You furthered. “Oh he’ll get it back when he leaves Suchi for the final time, never to return- along with you choosing a life partner, any life partner other than him. Because if you do choose him, the council will have no choice but to expose him and his clan’s shaman for their crimes and they will all be prosecuted to the fullest degree. Not only in the mountain moura courts but in every court all over the world and neither they or their clans will ever know this peace that you’ve fought so hard to bring to them.” He threatened. 

“And if they dare go that far- I will also expose each and every single one of them to the point that they will lose all power and respect and face in everyone’s eyes, I will rip the heavens themselves down and and bring hell itself up from it’s depths to destroy everything they’ve ever built brick by brick if I have to because whatever they’ve built deserves to fall if it’s built on lies. deception and corruption and I’ll make sure each and every single one of their sins will be known to everyone living on the face of the planet and they will be known as intimately and thoroughly as everyone knows their alphabet and I’ll start with your alter and I’ll burn that tree to ash and nothing will ever grow in it’s place.” You snarled angrily. 

“Even if your own sins are given the same treatment?” He returned calmly as you could see his devious nature in his eyes and the wickedness in the curve of his grin. You wanted to punch it off. 

“I take it you’re talking about my own manipulations via sex? Of course.” You started laughing a bit mockingly yourself. “Men in every realm will use a woman’s sex as a tool to either liberate her to their bedrooms or condem her to shame after she leaves it. You or even they think I’ll be too afraid of the possibility that Brock won’t want me if he knows I’ve laid with others? Or that my parents will feel ashamed that their daughter has been to so many beds before her own marriage one? Or are you trying to imply that perhaps Brock’s parents will object to me over it? That no one would respect me if they knew I had- heaven forbid- sex much less orgies and had the audacity to enjoy them too? You do know you’re talking to a moura? Most mouras in general view sex as either a casual affair or entertaining past time? Or how in desperate times, my actions were in fact desperate too? Know this, I’ll defend myself and those I care about till my dying breath and if the council really wants to pursue that, I’ll gladly pursue it too and I won’t stop until I’m done and I’ve seen everything to it’s finish. Even if I have to lose everything in the process because if they dare take anything from me or bring harm either to myself, my family or those I care about, I’ll take everything from them. If I’m going to be condemned to hell, I’ll drag each and every single one of them with me, I have enough claws for all of them. I’m a moura, fighting is in my blood but it doesn’t stop there, I’m also siren, I’ll swallow them whole. I’m also angel, I’ll see to it that everything they’ve ever done comes into the light. And I’m human which means I’m creative, empathetic and determined. If that’s the game they want to play, then I’ll play it. There won’t by any winners or survivors though and I am a worthy opponent in any sphere they wish to wage this war in.” You warned as you felt your courage surge as you stood to your full height and took on the strongest stance you could. “Bravo, I do admire your spirit, but I fear your mouth may be writing promises your body can’t hope to fulfill since usually women in your circumstances are far more desperate for different terms to their outcomes. But I can tell that no matter what, this will be your answer. So I have no choice but to deliver it in full. Do not fear that this will repeat if you eat the fruit of the Zirvush tree in the future since the berry you plucked was magicked, the rest are not are no different than any other fruit in your realm and know that I and those in my realm mean you and those you care for and love- no harm, I am after all just a messenger in this circumstance.” He explained as you watched as his clothes changed to less grandiose and gaudy attire to that of a more simple yet dignified as his crown shrunk down to something much more discrete as his appearance was now much less predatory and imposing to a much more rugged, if not handsome and appealing before he waived with a smile and you felt like you were falling for just a moment and you caught yourself on the floor as the flavor of the fruit left your mouth refreshed, with sweet tones of tropical fruit paired with the refreshingness of perhaps mint before you spit out the seed into your palm. 

You didn’t know if what Matae had said was true or not. Or if it was just propaganda to scare you. The latter felt more plausible. 

But your agitation reached your core and you needed to see Brock more than anything as you quietly slipped out of the window and sprouted wings to fly to Drauch to the home he was staying in as you slipped into the room from the window to see him tangled up in the bedding and even now you could see his fitful sleep as you quickly shut and locked all the windows and went over to the bed and carefully pulled the bedding straight before you slipped into the bed with him, your moura cloak vanishing into tattoos in an instant so that you were skin to skin as that woke him up to feel someone in the bed with him before he instinctively held a blade to your neck which made you freeze as you inhaled sharply before he turned to see who had tried to slip into his bed. 

“Oh, thank the gods, it’s just you.” He realized as he quickly pulled the knife away and put it back into it’s sheath under his pillow before he enveloped you into a hug and held you so tight your back cracked but instantly the agitation soothed and calmed and peace reigned in your heart, mind and soul as you hugged him back with all your strength. 

“I’ve missed you so much.” He croaked and you could tell he was about to cry. 

“I’ve missed you too.” You professed as you could feel your own eyes get watery too. 

“Has any harm come to you?” You asked as you pulled away just enough to frame his handsome face in your hands to look him over carefully. 

“No, but your unease and misgivings are my own so I’ve been on guard. I have had no less than half a dozen women offer themselves to me though since I’ve stepped foot in this colony.” He confessed. 

“Who?!” You demanded which made him smile fondly to see you so possessive and instantly jealous like you really loved him or something. 

“Doesn’t matter because they don’t matter.” He insisted. “I didn’t indulge them so there’s no reason to be upset.” He reassured you as he threaded his fingers in your hair and stroked your face lovingly before he kissed you soundly which had your whole body melting into his. 

“Good. I would have had to start kicking ass extra early this morning.” You insisted when you broke for air which got him to chuckle before he kissed you just about senseless and just as you hiked your leg over his hip as he easily speered your center before there was extra squish in that movement. 

“Wow you’re extra juicy this morning.” He grunted with a wicked grin of his own before he sniffed the air deeply a few times and frowned. 

“Wait, is that blood?!” He asked as he recognized the scent of blood before he stopped you as you reached over him to touch the cloud light to illuminate the room to see that there was in fact blood dripping down his cock from your core. 

“Fuck Yana! How come you didn’t say anything? How did I hurt you Babe?” He asked as he quickly pulled out and put away from you as you stared down at the blood in confusion. 

Moura’s got their moon blood once every three months, or more like once a season, in the beginning of the season. You were due to have it when you were captured a month ago but it never came. However in times of distress and to keep from being prey, a moon blood would skip and come late then early to get back on cycle. It would make sense that now you were physically back home, your body would feel at ease enough to have your spring cycle. But mentally you were never more stressed or distressed. But at this moment. You were just relieved to see it.

 “You didn’t hurt me Babe, it’s my moon blood, it’s late this season.” 

“Wha-huh?” Brock asked. 

“My menstrual cycle?” You rephrased. 

“Oh! Blood week.” Brock realized. “Wait, season?” Brock repeated. 

“Yeah, mouras only get our blood week as you call it- once a season, once every three months.” You informed him. “How often do orcs get their blood week?” You asked curiously. 

“Once a month.” He answered. 

“So do you have pain and discomfort with yours?” He asked as he palmed your belly reverently as you felt your affection for him resolidify. 

“No, just usually a craving of chocolate and usually bitchiness punctuated with even more sexual appetite than usual.” You shrugged. “If it grosses you out though, we can stop.” You offered as you pulled the blanket down to cover yourself as your moura cloak began to make a nightgown for you as the bedding magically cleaned itself. 

“Uh, no, it doesn’t gross me out, if anything it relieves me and if it doesn’t bother you and doesn’t hurt you or give you any discomfort, I’m ok with continuing because right now I’m about ready to pop and you haven’t really touched me yet.” He confessed. Well damn. 

“Well then fuck me senseless.” You invited with a laugh as he practically ripped the blankets back and pinned you to the bed before he pulled them back up to cover both of you as he thrusted hard into you, a squish and the scent of your arousal with a twinge of blood began to fill the air. 

But you didn’t care. You wanted this- no, needed this more than air at the moment. It had been too long since you had laid with him last and you had missed him terribly and you could tell he had missed you too by how desperate and possessive his touch was. Like if he didn’t hold you tight enough you’d slip away like water between his fingers. He poured his heart and soul into you as he kissed you as his hips began to snap into yours as your heels dug into the mattress behind his thighs as your hands clawed at his back. Your fingertips finding the deep valleys between the swells of his muscles as most of his body was now tightening like a coiled spring, ready to snap and he scooted down and curled himself over you so he could suck on your breasts and shove his hand between you as his fingertips found your nub and rubbed determinedly at it as your own body began to tense as he was practically hurtling you towards your release. 

“Yana, please, cum for me.” He begged as he crouched on his knees and brought you into his lap as his thick arm cradled the small of your back as the other arm braced himself up as you wrapped yourself around him and held onto him like a lifeline while he licked and kissed your chest and neck and somehow him pulling you into him coupled with the hard snaps of his hips at this angle was exactly what you needed as you watched as your moura marks and his started to pulse brightly and coil and knot in the most beautiful patterns before they got so bright you had to close your eyes as he did the same as the flood of pleasure endorphines overwhelmed your senses as you both shook and twitched as you both rode your orgasms out to their limits before he fell into the bed at your side and held you close as you both basked in the afterglow. 

“Everything ok otherwise?” Brock asked as he started to pet your hair, combing it lazily with his fingers as you sighed tiredly. 

“No.” You answered honestly as Brock didn’t say anything as an invitation for you to continue. 

“I had really bad nightmares and I woke up tasting blood and bile and then I ate that fruit from the tree because I was depserate to get the former tastes out of my mouth. And low and behold, eating the berry transported me to the fae realm where Matae delivered the council’s ultimatum.” You revealed. 

“Which was?” Brock prodded curiously. 

“To choose anyone but you as my life partner and to send you away from Suchi- never to return and your moura cloak will get delivered to you once you’ve left.” You stated, your tone hinting at anguish. 

“And what are they threatening if you chose me?” Brock inquired. 

“That they’ll prosecute you to the fullest extent of the law, they’ll hunt you down to the ends of the earth to do it and neither you or your family or your clan will ever have peace again. And the penalty for capturing a moura, much less enslaving one- is death. Not only to the person, but their entire family and everyone involved in it, including your shaman, so that the knowledge of how to capture a moura and shackle one, or tether one or enslave one is wiped from all memory which would leave your clan without leadership or hiers and their spiritual connection to thier gods.” You explained solumnly. 

“Fuck.” Brock coughed like you just sucker punched him in the gut. 

“Yeah. So I countered that if they tried, I would expose each and every single one of them so that everyone would know each and every single one of their deeds and sins as well as you and I know our alphabet.” You answered which made him guffaw before he dissolved into a deep belly laugh before he started kissing you all over. 

“Gods I love you. Only you would have the balls big enough and hard enough to threaten something like that and I know you would make good on that. You’re so fierce, I love it.” He beamed which made you smile in turn. 

“So, that being said, give me time to deal with my other suitors, and once they’re dealt with and dismissed, I’ll pack everything I own and travel back to the clan with you, Cugas can keep coming to deliver the fish and seafood and we can squeeze all the money out of Suchi as we can. But as far as I’m concerned, if you’re not welcomed here, I won’t feel welcome either.” You shrugged. 

“Sounds like a plan to me.” He grinned happily as he kissed you again.

[bet-your-ash]

A Midsummer Night’s Dream

Cherry Tree: Chapter One: A Midsummer Night’s Dream 1,505 words  masterlist | extras | << prologue | chap. 2 >>

It was a warm summer night, the night after the girls’ high school graduation, and they were in the tree house, sitting in comfortable silence until Ashley blurted, “We’ve gotta do something wild this summer.” 

Lilac raised an eyebrow. “Like what?” 

Ashley grinned. “Petty crime.” 

Lilac laughed, shaking her head. “That fancy college of yours can still reject you, you know…” Ashley pursed her lips. “I dunno about that, Lila. I’m pretty set. And anyway - we’d only, like, vandalize something or… something.” 

There was a beat of silence, and then Lilac said, “Maybe we could do something wild, but, uh… legal.” Ashley rolled her eyes. “Nothing’s wild and legal, Li, that’s a contradiction at its most basic roots.” 

“Oh, please,” Lilac laughed. “You’re too dramatic. We could, like… go to the amusement park or something. Or - oh! Does your dad still have the campfire thing? We’ve been meaning to do something with that for ages!” Ashley groaned. “All that’s so boring!” 

Lilac bit her lip. “What about the boardwalk? We haven’t been down in months.” 

“It’s so far away,” Ashley whined.

Lilac smiled. “It’ll be fun, Ash, I promise.” 

***

Ashley groaned dramatically as her ring bounced onto a bottle and off again for the sixth time in a row. “This is rigged,” she grumbled, crossing her arms across her chest petulantly and storming away in a huff.

Lilac shrugged at the guy behind the booth and handed over her ticket. She threw the rings one after another, landing each of them perfectly on the bottle heads. One prize later, Lilac tapped Ashley on the shoulder and handed her a huge pink teddy bear. 

Ashley squealed, grabbing the bear and wrapping Lilac in a hug. 

Lilac flushed, hugging her back with a wry smile. 

“You must be magic!” Ashley declared, inspecting the teddy bear happily. “God, I love him!” she exclaimed. “How’d you even manage to do that game thing? Swear it was rigged, Li, I’m not that bad at anything.” 

Lilac shrugged, throwing her arm around Ashley’s shoulder as they ambled towards the beach. “Well,” she said, “you said it yourself.” She grinned down at Ashley and winked. “I’m magic.”

The two strolled down the boardwalk, breathing in the ocean air as they  walked against the seemingly endless amount of boards, stretching into the distant sunset. Lilac glanced down, watching Ashley fiddling with her fingers, and debated holding her hand to make her go still before deciding against it and shoving her hands in her pockets. 

“So!” Ashley chirped. “Here we are.” 

“Here we are,” Lilac echoed, a bit warily. 

“What’s next?” 

Lilac hummed, shrugging slightly. “Oh! We can go back to your place and light up a fire!” 

Ashley raised an eyebrow. “While I would not be opposed in the slightest bit to lighting my house on fire,” she said dryly, “that’s also arson and very much illegal. I somehow doubt that’s what you mean.” 

Lilac rolled her eyes, nudging Ashley’s shoulder with a smile. “No, no, I mean, like, a bonfire. Remember? We were gonna use your dad’s old campfire thingy.” Ashley groaned. “That’s so boring, though!” 

Lilac bit her lip and looked at the ground, thinking hard. Then she grinned, pointing down at the boardwalk beneath her feet. “Let’s go underneath the boardwalk! I’ve always wanted to do that!” 

Ashley blinked. “That’s even worse than your last one.” 

“Well, what else could we do?” Lilac asked, regretting it immediately. 

“Petty crime!” Ashley exclaimed with a grin. 

Lilac sighed, already shaking her head, but Ashley went on excitedly, “Come on, Lila, please? And - and look!” She stopped walking, grabbing Lilac’s hand and sending shivers down her spine, and pointed to a little decal store they’d so conveniently stopped in front of. 

“Absolutely not,” Lilac deadpanned. 

Ashley pouted. “Oh, Li, please? It’s right there!” She pointed through the glass to an entire aisle full of spray paint. “Look, see all that? It’s just… it’s calling to me, Li! You can’t deny it!” She grinned. “Me and that paint? We’ve got chemistry, Lilac. It’d be crime in itself to keep us separated.” Lilac paused a beat, and then groaned, putting her head in her hands. 

“I hate you,” she mumbled.

Ashley raised an eyebrow. “Is that a yes?” 

“No,” Lilac replied, peeking through her fingers, “it’s an I hate you.” 

Ashley giggled, grabbing her hand, again, and sending shivers through her spine, again, and exclaimed, “That’s a yes!” as she pulled her into the shop. Lilac rolled her eyes, biting back a smile, and let Ashley lead her through the aisles. 

“It’s too hot for this,” Lilac grumbled, wincing as a can of spray paint slid from one of her hoodie sleeves and onto the floor with a clang. Ashley giggled, apparently unfazed by the noise, and kicked the paint can in front of her as she replied, “You’ve spent half your life with me, Li - you should be used to the heat by now.” 

Lilac rolled her eyes but bit back a smile, which faded away all too quickly as she saw an employee walking through the aisles. “Shit,” she whispered, prodding Ashley in a fruitless attempt to make her walk faster. 

“We’re gonna get caught,” Lilac hissed as Ashley kept her leisurely pace. 

“We’ll only get caught if we look suspicious,” Ashley whispered back, walking all too slowly towards the door. Thankfully, as soon as the door swung shut behind them, Ashley grinned and grabbed Lilac’s hand - almost making her drop the paint cans in her sleeve - as she ran around the corner and towards a wall they’d found a little earlier. 

It was built of brick, the perfect height, and freshly painted with a coat of white paint. It had been sitting unused for months - it was supposed to be painted soon since the building it was on was supposed to be renovated, but the developers had given up a while back, leaving it open, unused, and - at least in Ashley’s not so humble opinion - practically begging for vandalization.

 “We have to be good about this,” Lilac panted as soon as they stopped running, a little out of breath. “It’s gonna be here forever, you know? So we have to make sure it’s not something we… you know, regret.” 

Ashley raised an eyebrow. “Like what?” 

“How about… Treat people the way you want to be treated?” Lilac suggested. 

Ashley shook her head. “Too long.” 

“Okay, be nice.”

“That’s just… not even… no,” Ashley replied, looking disgusted by the mere idea. 

Lilac bit her lip. “Do good?” 

Ashley sighed. “These are just horri -” She paused, thinking, and then schooled her expression into something that suggested innocent agreement (which, looking back, Lilac thinks really should have been a red flag). “Yeah,” Ashley said cheerfully. “Do…” She cleared her throat. “Good. Do good.” 

“Perfect!” Lilac exclaimed,  

Ashley nodded. “Okay - you right the do part, and I’ll do the, uh - the other part.” 

Lilac raised an eyebrow. “Your handwriting sucks. Why do you get the longer word?” 

“Because… my handwriting doesn’t suck, it has… character?” Ashley said hesitantly. 

“Okay,” Lilac laughed, shaking her head. “You can do the first part with your very personalitied handwriting, and I’ll do good.” Ashley pouted, giving her puppy dog eyes. “How ‘bout because I’m leaving and I don’t want people to forget how I write my gs?” 

“Oh, fine,” Lilac sighed, shaking her can of paint as Ashley grinned. 

Lilac wrote out do in her fanciest, most legible, and least identifiable handwriting as carefully as she could. She gave the d a little flourish and connected it just barely to the o, putting all her concentration on making everything perfect. 

And then she looked up with a smile, satisfied with her work, and stepped back to look at the whole wall… Only to find that Ashley hadn’t written good. Lilac’s mouth fell open as she looked at Ashley’s loopy handwriting, covering half the wall in a horrific contrast to Lilac’s careful script, reading something that was most definitely not good or anything else close to it. 

There, with one word in neat, legible, tediously written, carefully chosen white spray paint and the other scrawled in giant, bold, bright pink paint, the once pristine brick wall now read a scandalizing - 

DO CRIME. 

Lilac gasped in horror, convinced her entire future would disappear down the drain once somebody inevitably found the wall and realized it was her, and turned to Ashley with a murderous look on her face. 

“I am going,” she declared slowly, “to kill you. We could go to jail for up to -” 

She stopped as Ashley began to laugh. 

Ashley laughed, bright and lilting and hard - so hard she put her arms around her stomach because it was physically painful how much her genius stunt had amused her. And Lilac felt herself smile, because this was Ashley, because it really was a genius stunt, because this was Ashley. And maybe, just maybe, it was because she was pitifully in love with this bright, bold, lovely menace to society. 

***

🍒 la fin 🍒

And there she is! The first chapter!!!! We hope you enjoyed, and if you wanna be a ✨bright, bold, menace to society✨ give us some feedback! We love hearing from you guys! 

See you on Wednesday! 

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<< prologue | chap. 2 >>

[panda-noosh]

before the world burned {Diego x Reader}

Words: 7.6k 

Summary: Five finally manages to return to his family after spending many years wandering through the rubble of the burned world. Too attached to leave you behind, Five brings you back home with him on the day of his dads funeral - and it is there that you meet his siblings. Specifically, Diego Hargreeves. 

Genre: fluff i guess oof

Warning: PTSD

Notes: masterlist - support my writing or ask me about commissions :) - i loved writing this so much!! i hope you guys enjoy reading it!! 

---

Five had really done it this time.

    All his talk had finally come full circle, and you were not equipped to believe it. 

   For months he spoke about getting back to his own time. For months, he'd tried to convince you that he could, indeed, go back in time, that he wasn't actually from the time you met him in. For months, you really thought he was insane.

   He hugged that stupid mannequin all the time. He spoke to himself. He went on about his dead siblings, and the end of the world, as if you hadn't watched it crumble just as much as he did. You only stayed by his side because you had no one else, and – quite frankly – you were a little worried to leave him on his own, afraid of what he would do if he had no one there to keep an eye on him.

   He told you he had Dolores. You'd smiled at him, patted his knee and went back to eating whatever scraps the two of you managed to conjure up that day.

    But today, he'd proved you wrong.

   The way he grabbed your hand, so excited, not even waiting for you to get fully ready – that was the first red flag. Though Five was a strange individual, he wasn't hyper. He kept his head down and he minded his own business. He never got excited – not about anything. In the years you've known him, you've never once seen him get bubbly.

    But his face was alight on this specific day, eyes shining. He grabbed your hand, didn't explain anything. The only words you got out of him were a rushed, “Hold on tight,” before you felt like your body was being ripped to shreds.

    You tried to cry out, but it didn't work. At least, you didn't think it worked. Your heart was thundering too loud in your ears, the blood rushing to your face, the pain unbearable. Your skin was surely sliding off your bones. Your fingers were slipping out of Five's. He was grinning from ear to ear.

   And then you fell to your knees.

    You gasped for air, shooting upright just in time for a knife to find purchase at your throat; you stiffened, mind too muddled to make much sense of what was going on – you could smell rain. In the distance, someone was talking, but you couldn't really hear what they were saying. Beside you, Five shot to his feet and looked round his surroundings with the determination you were so familiar with seeing.

    You followed his eyes, and immediately your heart fell.

   Standing before you were five other people, all of whom were staring at you and Five with wide eyes; they were dressed in normal clothes. They didn't have ash streaking their faces, had no holes in their attire, weren't coughing up a lung or rubbing their eyes free of dust.

   They just looked. . . normal.

  Except for the man standing closest to you. He was dressed entirely in leather, with a mask to match.

    “Five?” a tall woman with curly hair said, snapping the shocked silence in half.

   You looked up at Five. “What the fuck did you just do?”

   Five didn't even look back at you when he said, “Y/N, meet my siblings. It seems as if we've crashed my fathers funeral.”

     “Dad isn't gonna be happy with you,” a brown haired man holding a cigarette muttered. “You know what he thought about bringing guests to the house.”

   “Diego, take the knife away,” Five ordered. “We've got more important things to worry about than my acquaintance.”

   The man dressed in leather continued to stare down at you, his knife still firm in his grip. You had half a mind to headbutt him in the groin, but decided against it when Five sent you a sharp look of warning – he was going to try and handle these strangers. You'd be better off just staying silent.

   Nonetheless, you couldn't help but look up and give the man in leather – Diego – a sarcastic little smile. He scowled before slowly pulling away, knife and all.

    You slumped forward. “Great. Now can someone explain to me what the fuck is going on?” You covered your mouth. “Are people allowed to swear at funerals these days?”

   ---

    Apparently, Five's dad died.

   Five had been unaware of this, of course, but looking at him now, it didn't look like he cared all that much. You sat at his kitchen table, a warm cup of tea having been prepared by the ape that was apparently the Hargreeves butler – you'd learned not to ask too many questions. Having lived with Number Five for this long, you'd grown to expect the rest of his siblings to be just as messed up.

   They sat around the kitchen island, Klaus sat on the counter top with his legs folded beneath him. Allison, Vanya and Luther surrounded him. Five was pacing the kitchen.

   And Diego was in the corner with his eyes set firmly on you.

   You tried to ignore him, tried to listen in on the oh-so-interesting conversation the other Hargreeves kids were having, but it was difficult to do so when you were expecting Diego to jump across the kitchen counter and stab you in the throat at any given moment. He had the knives for it, and by the sounds of things, the temper, too.

    “I don't ever remember Dad teaching you how to go back and forward in time,” said Luther. He was built like a brick house; you kindly didn't comment on it.

    “Dad didn't need to teach me anything,” said Five. “I was always capable of doing things entirely on my own.”

   “What a waste of time,” Klaus scoffed. “Dad didn't put us through that shit just for you to go off and learn on your own. Whatever you've been doing these past few years-”

    “He's been hanging round with strangers, apparently.”

   You bit your lip, flicking your eyes up at Diego; he had such an issue with you, and you couldn't pinpoint why. Even when your eyes met his, he refused to look away. He just continued trying to look intimidating, arms folded over his chest, eyebrows furrowed as if he was trying to figure out who you were, where you came from.

   If he'd asked, you would have told him. The stories you had to tell couldn't be nearly as weird as the stories you've heard today, as getting served tea by a British walking, talking ape.

   Five waved a dismissive hand in your direction. “Y/N was just an altercation. Don't mind them.”

  “Thanks, asshole,” you muttered.

   “No, no, wait,” said Allison, stepping forward. “I don't want to just ignore this. You disappear for years, and then suddenly you show up again with a friend who we know nothing about – you literally fell out of the sky.”

   “This is what I've been saying!” said Diego.

   Five narrowed his eyes. “I've just tried to explain the entire situation to you all. Why do you care so much about Y/N?”

   “A stranger,” said Luther, as if it was obvious. Maybe to them, it was. You couldn't help but feel a little attacked.

   You sighed and leaned back in the chair kindly offered to you by Klaus, the only one of the Hargreeves siblings who didn't look like they would blow your head off at the first chance available. “You know, if you have a problem with me, you can just tell me to go.”

    “Y/N-” began Five.

   “I don't know these people,” you pressed. “I don't know what the fuck you lot are even talking about. I'm sorry about your Dad, but I couldn't give two shits about what happened to him.”

   Klaus laughed. “Join the club!”

    You stood up. “I'll just go and hang out outside until you've all discussed what you need to discuss, and then you can ask me whatever you want to ask. How does that sound?”

    The Hargreeves siblings paused, regarding you with narrowed eyes – none of them looked alike, but you were beginning to understand why. Though none of them confirmed it, it was becoming more and more clear that they weren't related by blood.

    “I don't trust you just standing outside on your own,” said Diego. You turned, scowling at him. He was the one you were having the most trouble with. “I'll go with you.”

    “Or you could just stab me.”

  Five clicked his fingers in your direction before pointing towards the door. “No arguments. Just go and stand outside – Diego, keep an eye on them.”

   You gawked. “Five!”

   “Go!”

   You groaned, glared at Diego one more time before you marched out the front door. The sun had finally come out, a direct contrast to the storm that had been taking place during Reginald Hargreeve's funeral. The little tree his ashes were buried beneath still stood tall and proud, a tiny dab of blood on the trunk from where Luther and Diego had apparently gotten into an altercation only seconds before you and Five fell from the sky.

   You approached the tree now, tracing your fingers along the bark; it had been a long time since you'd seen a true, healthy plant. After the world ended, they all just died off – there was the odd one here and there, but they'd become more of a rarity than anything else.

    Looking at it now brought you back to that god awful time Five had managed to free you from; though the little bastard got on your nerves, you would never be able to thank him enough for what he'd done for you. You remembered the screams, and the smoke, watching your family run directly into the fires because they didn't know where else to go – the world was ending. The fires were everywhere. People were everywhere.

   And then they weren't.

   You still aren't sure how you managed to survive it all. Maybe it was Five. Maybe the world just looked at him and thought He really can't be left on his own and then they threw you in his path and left you to look after him. Who would have thought it would be him saving you in the long run?

    “Why are you here?”

   You didn't turn at the sound of Diego's voice. You froze, however, with your fingertips still brushing the bark. You were scared to step away from it, lest it disintegrate into ashes like all the other plants you'd seen.

    “Five brought me,” you replied.

   “But why? How do you two even know each other?”

   You shrugged. “I don't really know.”

   Diego hummed, as if that answer made any sense at all. You heard him rattle around behind you, sitting down on a nearby tree stump. Glancing over your shoulder, you saw him tugging grass from the ground and sprinkling it on his leather boots.

    “How did you two meet?” he asked, not looking up.

    “He was in the ash, and so was I.”

   “Do you ever talk like a normal person?”

   You shrugged. “Depends who I'm talking to. Five and I can have pretty deep conversations sometimes – though most of the time he's just getting on my nerves.”

   Diego scoffed. “Yeah. Same here.”

   “Did you think he was dead?” You weren't sure why the question was there, or why you even cared, but it was out before you could ponder over details.

   Diego looked up, eyes meeting yours for a brief second before he looked away again. “We all did. None of us knew he'd learned how to mess around with time.”

    “Must have been hard. He told me about Number Six.”

   “Ben.” Diego nodded. “Yeah. He died a few years after Five went missing.”

    “And then you guys just. . . stopped talking?”

    “We moved on,” Diego corrected. “None of us ever wanted to stay with our dad, so we left as soon as we could. I guess we lost touch with each other, as well.”

     It was a sad thing to think about; Five never spoke about his siblings with any particular fondness, but he spoke about them often enough for you to know he cared about them. When he wasn't speaking complete gibberish, he was talking about his family life, how much his siblings annoyed him and what they'd gotten up to as kids – when they had the chance to be kids. Though he never specified, you had the vague idea from his stories that Reginald Hargreeves didn't want to raise children – he wanted to raise heroes.

    “The Umbrella Academy,” you said, the name suddenly appearing in your mind from the stories Five told you.

   Diego perked up. “How do you know about that?”

  “Five told me a bit about it.” You grinned, glancing at his leather suit. “I see not all of you have moved on, huh?”

   Diego grumbled, tugging on his leather trousers. “This isn't a superhero costume, before you start making fun of me.”

   “Then what is it? Were your boy shorts in the wash?”

   Diego rolled his eyes. “It's got a lot of pockets.”

   You paused.

   Diego looked up. “I have knives everywhere. It gives me easy access to them.”

   “Ah, right,” you drawled. “Why do you need knives, may I ask?”

   “That's what I'm good at.”

  “You're good at knives?”

   “Well, what are you good at?”

   You shrugged. “Surviving. Winding up superheroes, apparently.”

   Diego stood up. “I'm not a superhero! I'm a crime fighter!”

   You snickered, unable to help yourself. Diego's face reddened, fingers tightening at his sides until you were fairly certain you'd crossed a line – no matter how much you laughed at him, there was no denying that he was, indeed, good with knives. You'd felt the kiss of metal against your throat just seconds after laying eyes on the man.

    You quietened down, covering your mouth timidly. “Sorry. Yes. You're a crime fighter, not a superhero. I should know the difference.”

   Diego's expression softened. “Good.”

   You slowly sat down on the ground, leaning your back against the tree trunk. Diego watched you, and you didn't miss the way his fingers twitched towards his knives – though you were unarmed, he clearly still saw you as a threat, someone he needed to keep an eye on.

    “So what kind of crime do you typically fight?” you asked.

    “All of it.”

    “Every single thing? So you just walk up to a poor kid who's been pirating music and you whip out your blades-”

   “Who gave you the right to tease me so much?” He folded his arms over his chest. “You don't even know me.”

   You shrugged. “I watched the world burn, Diego. I've gotten past the point of caring what people think of me, and therefore, I'll say whatever I want.”

   He raised a brow. “So that's where you and Five went. To the end of the world.”

   “That's where Five, and Five alone, went. I was there first. I'm an original.”

   If you'd looked away for even a brief second, you would have missed the tiny twitch of Diego's mouth. It was the closest thing to a smile of affection you'd managed to coax out of the crime fighter this entire time, and it felt like a triumph. You crossed your ankles and looked up at him.

    “I might just stick around and experience it all over again,” you said, even as the words planted some type of fight or flight response in your system. “We can experience it together!”

   Diego raised a brow. “You're a sick son of a bitch.”

   You grinned, sending him a wink.

   ---

    The sweat was always the worst part of waking up from one of these nightmares.

    Sure, the dream itself was horrific, but once you were out of it, it was gone, finished. You could go back to sleep and start all over again.

   But the sweat made you get up.

   Your breathing ragged, heart thumping, you stumbled into the nearest bathroom and locked the door. Five wasn't in his bedroom, no doubt too busy working on whatever stupid project he'd locked himself in this time, so you didn't even bother going to him for any sort of help.

   You bent over the sink, trying to catch your breath. There was a physical pain in your chest, only soothing when you put a tiny bit of pressure against it. With one hand curled into your collar bone, you used the other to rub water on your face, ridding your forehead of the disgusting flood of sweat you hated so much.

    Who would have thought watching the world burn would give someone PTSD?

    The nightmare had depicted it happening all over again. As per usual, it was in chunks, little snippets you could barely make out – it wasn't even the visuals that got to you. It was the sounds in the background, the screams, your mother crying your name just seconds before an explosion went off beside her and she was suddenly no longer existing. They echoed in your head even after you'd fully awoken, even after you splashed the water on your face, even after you told your reflection to man the fuck up.

    That's what Five always said to you when you woke up. He'd look over at you, raise a brow, give you that smug little smile and he'd say, “Man the fuck up,” and you'd go back to sleep with that advice being your comfort blanket. Five may have showed his love for you in strange ways, but you'd spent long enough with him to know it was there, whether his words depicted it or not.

   But now, he wasn't just there. He was away in his office. He had rooms to explore, a whole world with working shops and other people – he didn't need to stay tethered to your side at all times, so you were entirely on your own right now.

   You brushed some more water down your face before the knock on the door startled you upright. You glared at your reflection, examining whether or not it would be a good idea to open the door – your appearance had you leaning more towards no, hair wild and eyes bright red.

    Instead, you opted for simply calling out an, “Occupado!”

    “I know.”

   You closed your eyes. Diego. What did he want?

   “I heard you run in here. Is everything okay?”

  “Everything's fine,” you lied. “Do you need to piss?”

   He sighed. “Do you want me to get you anything?”

   If you were any less wise, perhaps you'd be able to convince yourself that Diego Hargreeves actually sounded concerned. The mere thought was enough to have you grinning in amusement.

    “Do you have any alcohol?” you asked.

    Diego paused. “Pogo might know where some is.”

   “I'll have anything you can give me.”

   “Then you're gonna have to come out.”

   “Just pass it through the door.”

   “How are we meant to have a drink together if there's a door between us?”

  You opened your mouth, quickly closed it and cocked an eyebrow at your reflection. “You want to have a drink with me?”

    “Well, yeah. There's no way I'm getting back to sleep now.”

    It would have been wiser to just say no. He would ask you questions, make you go through the nightmare you'd had, and that was the last thing you wanted to do. It was one thing reliving the horror in your dreams, a different thing to speak them aloud.

    Nonetheless, your willpower wavered. You needed a drink, anything to help you get back to sleep after the night you'd had – you may as well give Diego a chance.

    So, you shakily inhaled and pulled open the bathroom door. You didn't miss the intake of breath Diego sucked between his teeth at the sight of you, but neither did you stick around to question it; you shoved past him and headed down the hall, giving him nothing but a single, “Where's this alcohol you promised?”

   ----

   As it turns out, Diego wasn't much of a talker when he had alcohol in his system.

   You sat across from him, one leg folded over the other. The wine Pogo hesitantly gave you was doing nothing to calm your trembling hands – trembling hands that Diego saw and thankfully decided not to bring up; maybe he could sense talking about your nightmare wasn't what you wanted to do right now. Maybe he just didn't care.

   Either way, the conversation wasn't flowing at all. You just continued to stare at him, taking the occasional sip of your wine. You were beginning to regret agreeing to this at all.

   Diego swirled his wine, gazing down at the liquid lazily. He was already on his third glass, and clearly had no plans of stopping.

    “Maybe you should slow down a little bit.”

   Diego glanced up. “Or not.” He took a long swig, downing the remainder of the glass before reaching forward to pour another one. However, you were quicker, managing to snatch the bottle out of his way before he had a chance to curl his fingers around it.

   He sighed, slumping back. He splayed his arms out behind him, not caring that the tiny droplet left in the bottom of his glass tipped over the back of the sofa as he did so. He regarded you with a lazy gaze, a scowl on his face.

    “What do you want from me?” he asked. “You're not gonna let a man have a drink?”

   “You've had a drink,” you replied. “Three of them.”

    “It's my wine.”

   “It's Reginald's,” you corrected. “Who, apparently, you don't give a shit about.”   Diego snickered, tossing his head back. “Didn't give a shit about. He's dead.”

   You frowned. “That's a bit morbid, Diego. He was still your dad.”

  “He was the man I happened to live with.” Diego looked up. “I don't have a dad. I never have.”

   You pursed your lips, deciding not to pry; Five had said things along a similar line, claiming Reginald Hargreeve's wasn't somebody he was fond of associating with. Of course, Five had said it with a little bit more insanity and a little less alcohol, but you could see the two brothers walked along a similar path.

    “Whatever,” you mumbled. “It's best for you to not drink any more, anyway.”

    “Who gave you that authority? You're in my house.”

    “Because clearly the alcohol has put you in some kind of mood.”

   “It's not the alcohol. It's you.” He reached over and snatched the bottle from your hands; you didn't even try fighting him, instead watching him with narrowed eyes. His cheeks were glowing bright red, yet he smiled even as he poured his fourth glass of wine and took a swig almost as soon as he put the bottle back down on the table. “So why don't you start telling me what you were doing in that bathroom earlier on?”

   You froze. You should have expected the question to make an appearance at some point, and yet the words falling so violently from his lips gave you pause. You looked down, biting your lower lip in your attempts to keep your anger at bay – he was drunk, and you had to keep reminding yourself of that. He wasn't in his right mind.

    “That's none of your business, Diego.”

   He raised a brow, looking at you over the rim of his glass. “When you say it's none of my business, that just makes me more curious – what have you got to hide? You and Five aren't fucking, are you?”

   “That's disgusting. He looks like a twelve year old boy.”

   “Mm. I heard time warps will do that to a person.” Diego snickered. “You two didn't even kiss when you were alone together?”

    “What the fuck, Diego? Why are you even asking about this?”

   “Well, you two have been so private about everything else, and I've never seen Five get so comfortable with someone before. I just want to know what makes you so special.”

   “What makes me so special is the fact I was the only one left,” you hissed. “Now can you stick your nose out of my business and drink your fucking wine before I shove this bottle so far up your-”

   “What's going on in here?”

   Both your heads snapped round as Five wandered into the living room, Pogo trailing behind him. The ape looked slightly guilty, looking at you over the rim of his circular glasses; you wondered if he ever slept. Did creatures made by human hands need sleep?

   Five raised a brow in your direction, glancing at your half finished glass of wine. You quickly set it down on the coffee table and stood up, flattening your hands over your pyjama top. “Nothing. I was just getting up to leave.”

  “No you weren't,” Diego grunted. “You were just about tell me all of your dirty little secrets.”

   You looked at Five. “Does he ever shut the fuck up?”

   Five sighed, rubbing his fingers into his eyes to clear them of the anger building. You'd know that look anywhere; Five wasn't in the mood for this.

   “It's been a day,” he said. “And already you two are at each others throats.”

  “He's drunk,” you said.

   “And you're not?” Five nodded to your glass. “You haven't touched a drop of alcohol in a long time, Y/N. The tiniest bit is gonna have you on the floor. You should have known better.”

   “Oh, go to hell, Five,” Diego scoffed. “What right do you have telling us what not to do? You're the one that disappeared for years on end, and won't explain why.”

    “And I won't explain why until I feel like you're going to be mature enough to handle it,” Five snapped, before turning to you. “What are you doing up?”

   “Nightmare.”

 It was as simple as that; with Five, you wouldn't need to explain yourself, wouldn't need to go into the details of what you'd been dreaming about. He heard the word, and he just knew.

  His eyes softened only slightly before he sighed and pointed to the door. “Go back to bed.”

   “Yes sir,” you grumbled. Diego snickered as you left, amused by the way Five could so easily boss you about – he didn't understand. In truth, being around Diego in itself was making you angry. You needed to get away, and if it made you look like a complete kiss-up in the process, then that's what happened. You would take any and all excuses right now.

    You wandered back to Five's bedroom and fell to the mattress on the floor. Your muscles ached. Your hands were still trembling, and sweat was still coating your forehead, no matter how often you wiped it away. Why the nightmares were getting worse was beyond you, but you didn't want to ponder too deeply on the subject – that would mean facing it, and you couldn't do that right now. Five had a mission, had chosen you to help him out with it. He wanted to save the world, and you couldn't get distracted from that task right now.

   ---

   Weeks passed before you finally found your footing in the Hargreeves household.

   Allison and Luther had finally warmed up to you, though they continued to treat you as more of a guest than anything else; on the rare occasions you actually saw Vanya, she spoke to you like a friend; Klaus was just high all the time, so it really depended on what drugs he'd taken that day to determine what mood he would take on with you. Most of the time, however, he was fairly polite.

    Diego, on the other hand, was a different matter.

   It wasn't like he was hostile, because he wasn't. He had an edge to him, but you noticed he had that with everyone. You were not a special case – at least, not in that way.

   The two of you bickered like an old married couple, and it drove you insane because that wasn't how it was meant to be; he was a pain in the ass. Once upon a time, ignoring people like him had been easy – that was your go-to method of getting rid of them. But with Diego, his comments struck a nerve in you that had you turning and firing back even worse insults.

    And he was attractive, which made it all ten times worse.

   Even in that stupid leather suit of his, you still could not look at him without feeling those butterflies rise in the pit of your stomach. Even though you sometimes wanted to knock his teeth into the back of his throat, you would be lying to claim his smile did not absolutely floor you.

   It was so frustrating.

   This morning, you'd been woken up by yet another jarring nightmare. The clock read five am, and you'd rolled out of bed and gone downstairs, waiting for the sun to rise so you could officially start your day.

   The first person downstairs was Diego.

   He had a towel round the back of his neck and was wearing a casual outfit consisting of a plain, tight black shirt and a pair of grey sweatpants, rolled at the cuffs to reveal his ankles. His hair was ruffled, slightly damp from the shower.

   You looked at him from the sofa as he approached the fridge and started looking for something to make. “So you're still here.”

  “Mhm,” he hummed. “So are you.”

   “Crazy. Are you making coffee?”

   “No. Coffee can give you stomach ulcers.”

   “Oh.” You paused. “Can you make coffee?”

    “Make your own damn coffee.”

   You raised your hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. I was just asking.” You shoved yourself up from the sofa and headed into the kitchen, making sure to nudge his hip on your way to the coffee machine. He grunted, kicking you in the back of the leg before going back to his breakfast-rummaging.

    “Did Five get you into coffee?” Diego asked.

   “No,” you replied. “I've loved coffee since I came out of the womb.”

  “So you have a coffee addiction?”

  “Yeah.”

  Diego hummed. “Good to hear you admit to it.”

   You shrugged, placing your cup beneath the slow dribble of water. The smell of the caffeine was already waking you up a little more, though the screams echoing in your head had done that job many hours ago.

    “How long have you been awake?”

   You looked at the clock. “Three hours.”

  Diego shot upright. “You woke up at five am?”

    “Had a bit of a nightmare.”

   His eyebrow twitched. “You have an awful lot of those.”

   You shrugged again. The conversation was starting to tilt onto icy ground, and you weren't entirely sure whether or not you were willing to dive in to that side of things just yet; yes, it had been a few weeks, and Diego had already been subject to your trembling morning self on multiple occasions, but actually sitting down and talking to him about the psychology behind these episodes was something you wanted to avoid. You didn't even understand them just yet.

     “You know, maybe coffee isn't the right thing to be drinking if you've got night terrors.”

   You scoffed, grabbing your cup and taking a swig despite the beverage scolding you. “No, Diego, I think it's the perfect thing to be drinking when I've got night terrors.”

    “Have you ever tried green tea before bed?”

   “No, but I lit a green tea candle once and Five tried to smother me with his wife's t-shirt.”

   Diego blinked. You hid your smile behind the rim of your coffee mug, staring right back at him. You could watch the cogs turning in his mind, trying to figure out whether you were joking or not – you wouldn't be the one to tell him that this event had genuinely happened, and was one of many times Five had woken up in the middle of the night, thought you were some kind of murderer, and tried to kill you.

    You'd done the same to him on multiple occasions, so it was fine.

    At last, Diego sighed. “What about taking a walk before bed?”

   “Diego, I'm fine-”

  “I can go with you if you're scared of getting lost.”

   You paused. “You'd take me on walks?”

   He shrugged, leaning against the counter. For the first time, Diego Hargreeves actually looked a little bit sheepish. “If it helps you sleep, then I don't see why not. I've got nothing better to do until the police let me back on the force.”

    You could already imagine how this little walk would go – it would just be one big argument the entire time.

    “Alright then.”

   Diego's eyes shot up. “Yeah?”

   “As you said, I don't see why not,” you said, shrugging. “I've got nothing better to do.”

   ---

    The city was breathtaking at night.

     Breathtaking and dark, and busy and loud, and it smelled of smoke.

   You tried not to concentrate too much on the smell of smoke as you and Diego walked through the streets. It was smoke from cigarettes, from chimneys, from burning wood – it wasn't smoke from the ashes of dead people.

    That hadn't happened yet.

   Diego sighed, his breath fanning out in front of him. He'd pulled on a beanie before leaving the house tonight, and you had to admit that the messy, underdone look he was going for was one you thought he suited.

     “I didn't realise it would be this fucking cold tonight, you know.”

    “It's not that bad,” you replied, even as you curled your fingers up in the pockets of your jacket. “I think you're just a bit of a wimp.”

  Diego scoffed. “I'm tougher than you. At least I can get a good nights sleep without having a nightmare.”

   You fell silent. He hadn't meant it in a bad way, and you hadn't necessarily taken it badly – you just didn't want to retort with something you knew would be a weak comeback.

   Because he was right, of course.

    Diego flicked his eyes over to you. Even in the darkness, you could feel his eyes burning holes into the side of your head, knew he was about to ask you something personal.

    You beat him to it. “I have nightmares about the end of the world.”   Diego paused. “Why?”

    You shrugged lazily. “Because I lived through it, I guess.”

   “So they're like flashbacks?”

   “If you want to call them that. Nightmares makes it sound more sinister, less like a That's So Raven episode.”

    “So...” Diego inhaled, grasping for the right words. “So the end of the world gave you PTSD?”

    “I didn't come out here to be diagnosed-”

   “It's not a bad thing.” Diego looked at you. “And I'm not diagnosing you. I'm just trying to understand.”

   “There's nothing to understand. I have nightmares. That's it.” You bit your lip. “Hopefully these walks will help a little bit.”

  Diego's shoulders slumped. The two of you continued to walk in silence, the only sound being the cars screaming past. Sometimes, a group of rowdy teenagers would make an appearance, but one look at Diego and they immediately quietened down – even so many years on, the Umbrella Academy was still a known phenomenon around these parts. People recognised Diego, saw him as the fierce kid who was born under such confusing circumstances, gifted these abilities that everyone wanted but only he and his siblings had been given.

   In truth, Diego Hargreeves was a very interesting character. Try as you might to make him out to be the biggest bastard on two legs, he was someone you could analyse for hours on end and still not have all the answers. He picked and he chose who he told his secrets to.

   You were thankful that he'd decided to open up – even just a little bit – to you, a person he barely knew, a person he seemed to hate in the beginning.

    You glanced at him now, his body tense as he tried to fight off the cold. Maybe you shouldn't have seen him as normal. Maybe you should have been like everyone else, looking at him in awe because he had this fantastical past and these powers that nobody could really explain.

   But in the same breath, maybe he should have been looking at you in the same way; you were the person who witnessed the end of the world, the person who went back in time.

   You balanced each other out, and maybe that was why you were able to walk beside him and feel so calm.

    ---

    It was the worst one yet.

    You hadn't even meant to fall asleep.

   These sleepless nights had finally gotten the better of you, and you couldn't keep your eyes open. Sitting in the Hargreeves' living room, your head had fallen to your shoulder and you'd drifted off into a sleep that was totally uncalled for, and certainly unplanned.

   It ripped you apart.

    The screams were doubled. The ash was rising, rising, rising, choking you, filling your lungs and staining your teeth and it wasn't just ash from cigarettes, or a chimney, or a burning pile of wood – it was the ash of bodies. It was burned human beings, because that was all there was left; rubble and ash, and it was in your mouth and your hair and your lungs-

   “Y/N!”

   You cried out. The noise was ripped from your throat as you lurched forward and immediately dug your fingers into Diego's shoulder blades; he didn't flinch away. His own hands dug into your waist, holding you up as tears poured from your face – you couldn't even process your own emotions at this point, too busy trying to fight back to reality.

   Diego was in front of you. That was one thing you were sure of.

   His eyes traced your own, a franticness to them that you'd never seen in the usually calm, collected and confident man.

   “Fuck,” you hissed, hands trembling. “I fell asleep. I wasn't meant to fall asleep-”

   “Hey, hey, hey.” He brushed a strand of hair from your face. “Calm down, alright? Take a deep breath and talk to me.”

   You inhaled deeply. Your body took the air in well, assuring you there was no ash in your system – it was a dream. Just a dream.

   A memory.

  “Did you have another flashback?”

   You closed your eyes. “It was really bad this time.”

   “Do you want me to get Five?”

   Your eyes snapped open, fingers digging a little harsher into his bare skin. “No. Don't leave.”

   Diego's expression softened. You caught the flicker of surprise, but it was quickly covered by his nod. You leaned back against the sofa again, this time dragging him down beside you. His hand curled round your waist, and without even asking him to, he pulled you into his side and let you rest your head on his chest.

    His bare chest, considering the man was shirtless.

    “I'm sorry if I woke you up.”

   “Don't be an idiot.”

    “Was I loud?”

   Diego shrugged. “It doesn't matter.”

   “Just answer the question, jackass.”

   He sighed, tilting his head back to get a good look at you. “I went into Five's room to check if you were asleep, and you weren't there; when I came down here to look for you, you were thrashing about on the sofa, sounding like you'd swallowed your own tongue.”

   You winced. “Yeah. I dreamt there was ash in my mouth.”

  Diego raised a brow.

   “Don't ask,” you mumbled, before tucking your head back beneath his chin. “I said I wouldn't go to sleep tonight. I promised-”

   “You can't just stay awake for the rest of your life,” he said. “You've gotta learn how to deal with these flashbacks you keep getting.”

    “I am dealing with them. By not sleeping.”

   Diego flicked your forehead.

   You reeled back. “Diego-”

  “I'm serious,” he said. “I don't like seeing you this way.” He grabbed your hand, waved it in front of your face. “You're trembling, for fuck sake.”

   You snatched your hand back. “And I'll get over it.”

   Diego shook his head; even without looking up at him, you could tell he was frowning. You'd grown so used to that frown, so fond of it these past few weeks.

  It made you smile.

  Even with your trembling hands and your thumping headache, just winding Diego up was enough to make you feel that little bit better. The added help of his warmth tucked against your own was an added bonus.

  “Do you ever get nightmares, Diego?”

  He froze for just a second. “Sometimes.”

  You shifted, tilting your head up to look at him. “About what?”

  “Everything.” He bit his lip. “My childhood, mostly. I have this nightmare all the time of my dad getting really mad at me and kicking me out of the house because of my stutter.”

  You raised a brow. “You don't have a stutter.”

  “Y-yes I d-d-do.” Diego groaned. “It only comes out s-sometimes, but it used be v-very bad when I was a kid.”

   You chuckled, tapping his chest in reassurance. “That's cute.”

  “Yeah well. My dad hated it.”

  “By the sounds of things, your dad hated everything. I wouldn't think too deep into it.”

  Diego chuckled, shocking you just a bit by nuzzling his head against the top of your own. You fell silent again, basking in his warmth and the sound of his heartbeat. It was a nice change to lean your head against him and not be able to feel the bumps and ridges of knives hiding beneath his clothes – this was just Diego. Purely Diego, and nothing else.

  His fingers traced a line up your spine. You shivered.

  “You should try and get some sleep,” he whispered. “I'll be here to wake you up if I think you're slipping into a nightmare.”

   You looked up. “You need to sleep, too.”

   “I've already had a few hours. Plus, you look exhausted.”

  “I'm not tired,” you insisted, and it was partly true. Logically, you really were tired – drained. Your body hadn't seen a decent rest in weeks. But in this moment, you were able to push that exhaustion away, because the feel of Diego against you was so much more appealing than the idea of sleeping. You didn't want to waste this moment.

  Diego frowned down at you, and you couldn't help but grin. He narrowed his eyes.

  “What are you smiling at?”

  “You're not even gonna tell me off for being a stubborn bitch?”

  “I don't see the point – you've made it very clear these past few weeks that you don't give a shit about what I have to say.”

  You hummed. “True enough.”

  “You know, if you stay awake, you have to tell me the truth.”

   You froze. “The truth?”

  “About you and my brother.”

  You groaned, throwing your head back. “Diego-”

   He laughed, grabbing your chin to turn your head to him. You looked him dead in the eye, unable to hide your own smile at the look of pure amusement etched across his features. “Just tell me if you two had anything.”

  “He's married.”

  “To a mannequin!”

  “I respect Dolores too much to try and go for her man.”

  Diego rolled his eyes. His voice lowered when he next spoke. “So you're saying you have no feelings towards Five at all?”

  You shook your head.

  Diego scooted a little closer to you. “You've never had any feelings for him?”

  You leaned in, lips inches from his ear when you whispered, “Not ever.”

  A low growl emitted from Diego's throat. You could basically hear his restraints snapping when he finally reached out, grabbed your face and kissed you with an intensity that had you seeing stars.

  Your body lit up immediately. You shifted, straddling him, kissing him back as best you could with what little experience you'd had; Diego kissed like it was his day job, lips working professionally against your own. You could almost cover the fact that you had very little idea as to what you were doing.

  He bit your lip when he pulled away. Your eyes popped open, wide and telling, but Diego simply grinned.

  “Good?”

  You swallowed. “Very good.”

  He traced his thumb along your jaw, gently brushing it against your lower lip. You bit down on his thumb nail for just a second before he pinched your hip, causing you to yelp and jump a little in his lap.

  He opened his mouth to say something else, to probably tell you to go to sleep, but his words were cut off by the sound of a groan coming from the living room door.

  Your head snapped round, body freezing at the sight of Five shaking his head, arms folded over his chest.

  “I bring one friend home with me, and already Diego has you sitting on his dick.”

  Diego sighed, tilting his head against the back of the sofa. “Do either of you ever sleep?”

  You and Five glanced at each other. At the same time, you both said, “Nope!” a little too cheerfully. Diego rolled his eyes, and you pressed a very light kiss to his lips in silent apology.

[outofmylimitcal]

Easier - CTH

a/n: j like the title insinuates its based off their new song easier

synopsis: basically a toxic as fuCK relationship

word count: 1296

warnings: swearinG

♢♢♢♢♢♢♢

You and Cal’s relationship had been rocky to say the least. Fueled with jealousy, secrets, and fighting, the only thing that stayed consistent between the two of you was the mind-blowing makeup sex you had when all was said and forgiven. Him and the boys had just gotten back from tour, yet you hadn’t seen each other yet in the week he’d been home, much to his dismay, and your busy schedule at work. Ashton had decided to throw a party as a welcome back, and Cal had really hoped you’d be there, you told him you’d try to make it if work allowed it but weren’t making any promises. This led to a fight between you and Calum about how you never make time for him, further charged by the fact that you only went out to see him on tour twice in the six months they were gone.

Things with Calum weren’t always bad, the first year of your relationship had been the most fun you had in years, and you loved that you found someone who was basically you in a guy. But then you fell into a routine and the same things that worked because you were so similar, your stubbornness, your jealousy, and your commitment to work began to be the root of your problems. Both of you being so head strong led to neither of you wanting to be wrong in situations and hating to compromise on things you wanted to stand your ground on. Which is why now as you walked into Ashton’s house you were unsure of where your relationship was gonna go, the party was in full swing by the time you had showed up, you were two hours late. Weaving through the dancing people in the living room, and waving hi to the few people you knew, you found yourself in the kitchen pouring a shot and downing it, before making yourself a mixed drink. You knew you’d be able to find Cal, the guys and their girlfriends in the back since they loved to retreat there as the party progressed. But you weren’t sure if you were ready to face them yet.

The guys loved you, and so did their girlfriends, becoming a tight-knit group and many of your fondest memories stemmed from nights out with them, but that didn’t stop them from seeing how toxic your relationship with Cal had become. They knew that Calum would never change who he was, and neither would you, and it’s not like you wanted Calum to change but with the way things were going now all it was going to lead to is even more pain.

“You think she’s gonna show?” Ashton questioned Calum across the patio, Calum was already on his third beer, and did shots earlier before anyone showed up.

“Honestly, I don’t know, and at this point I don’t care. She can do whatever she wants, she’s already showed where her priorities are.” Calum replied taking a swig from his beer and looking up at the night sky. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could take playing second fiddle to your job, he loved that you were so passionate about it, just like he was with the band, but every free time you had you never prioritized him like he did with you, and seeing his band mates with their girlfriends always out on tour was hard. But neither one of you really appreciated change so you were stuck in this cycle, even if you both have thought about breaking up, you both also felt like you needed the other to breath.

Walking through the doors to the back, you crossed the patio, to be greeted by a course of hellos and waves from the boys and their girls, yet the only person you cared about was taking another swig from his beer and avoiding eye contact with you. Moving to sit next to him, you mumbled a quick hello and took a sip from your cup, looking sideways at him. He shifted so that he could fully take you in. He couldn’t lie, you looked beautiful, but you always did. And sometimes he thought he loved you so much that he could practically hate you. “Let me guess, work?”

“Yeah, I had some things to finish for a deadline later this week.” You replied, earning a scoff from him, bringing his drink up again.

“I figured, it’s always some shit with work.” He mumbled, jumping into a conversation with Michael about going for a hike this weekend. Taken aback by his coldness, and ability to both insult you and then switch so comfortable into another conversation, you felt the anger slowly build in your stomach..

“Do we really gotta do this now? Right here with all your friends around.” You said, slightly raising your voice, and finishing the rest of your drink. You sensed the change in the atmosphere as several of your friends glanced your way, not wanting to pry, but also seeing the sudden change in both of your demeanors.

“Yeah, we’re gonna fucking do this right here.”

“C’mon Cal, lets discuss this in the morning, we can work it out when you’re sober.” You leaned back in your chair. You watched as Calum’s jaw tensed, and he turned to you narrowing his eyes.

“Oh, how do you know how much I’ve drank if you just got here? How do you know anything? You’re never. Here. Y/N.”

“I’m sorry I have a job. I’m sorry I can’t be at your every beck and call.” You replied leaning forward, resting your elbows on your knees. You looked around the group, earning a few sympathetic glances from Crystal and Sierra. “You know what? I’m just gonna head out. Call me when you figure your shit out. Bye guys, thanks for inviting me Ash.”

With that you picked up your stuff and began to walk toward the door leading to the house.

“Wow real fucking mature Y/N. Always running away when shit gets tough.” Calum called after you, forcing you to spin on your heels.

“What the fuck do you want from me Calum? Would it be easier for you if a stayed? Or if I go?” You said staring pointedly at the man who was now standing in the circle his friends had created on the back porch. “I’m not gonna change who I am, nor do I expect you to.”

“Who the fuck said anything about changing, I just want you to make more of an effort to spend time with me! You saw me on tour twice and haven’t even dropped by to say hello in the week that I’ve been home. I’m supposed to be your boyfriend for god’s sake.”

“I’m sorry I’m not good enough for you, but I’m trying my fucking best.”

“No, you’re not, Y/N. You find every excuse to not spend time with me and I’m fucking over it.” The rest of the group tried to keep to themselves, and delve back into their own conversations, but you and Calum having a fight in front of them was like a slow-motion car accident, terrible but you can’t bring yourself away from looking.

“Once again, I’m not having this conversation with you right now. Call me when you’re sober.” You calmly shuddered out, letting your shoulders drop from them tension released. Turning back around to head out, you started to take a step.

“Just know if you walk through that door, we’re over. For good.” The tension came back and hit you like a ton of bricks. Not bothering to look back, you kept your eyes trained forward as you stepped up the ledge and back into the house. Guess we were only built to fall.

♢♢♢♢♢♢♢

read part 2 here!

[iguanasarecute]

Sext... with a pro-hero? [Bakugou x Reader]

summary: It wasn't really your thing; but he sure is something. It was a week of this and that, until it was the time to step up, and meet him first-time in person; to see the hidden face behind it. But then, it wasn't really a first-time meet, as the hidden face behind it, sure is fucking familiar.

warning: smut, profanity, explicit !

[Start]

It was the day. The fire-brick red dress of yours, tracing every line of your figure. It showed some cleavage as it tightly fitted up to your butt. Your black Prada suede stepped on your carpeted stairs; while you gazed at the picture frames from your UA life, a bittersweet smile etched on your face; you missed them.

About to step out the door, you recalled... the mask. You rolled your eyes as your hands grabbed the black mask to cover up your identity. Well, being a Pro-hero kinda sucks when you know, you do some stuff like this. Thoughts roared inside you, about him. You made his aqcuaintance on a dating app, where both of you were matched; then later on the two of you passed on photographs of your temple built body; nudes. Without unveiling your true identities. Did you liked it? So fucking much.

Before starting the Aventador car parked under the gleaming moon above, you texted him.

[Y/N] : Hey handsome. On my way xoxo

[Mr. Big guy] : Alright baby. Have a safe trip. Can't wait to fucking see you👅

You felt the inside of you burn when your eyes read his words. Your engines started as you rapidly drove to the meeting place; the Bar. This weren't really the type of person you are, knowing you're also a Pro-hero; but damn, you're also just a hot girl, who happens to be single...and this someone, is also single as fuck. The thought of his body now on your reach, was making your heart thunder. Pictures no more. It was also an opportunity to see what he can also offer as a real life person. How he talks, or think, or how his unknown face would lit up whenever he sees you smiling. You wondered if he would actually be the one.

The Aventador car of yours ceased at the parking lot, as you inhaled, sprinting in the Night Bar, full of feral people. You were in no doubts, standing out; because of, well... umm... the motherfucking mask. You slid up your phone as you typed:

[Y/N]: Here already. We've both talked about wearing masks rigt? And how we agreed to it? Find me 😘

Your foot twitched while glaring at a mob of guys, scrutinizing you, from your breasts, to your butt. It was unable to see their faces when the Bar has complicated lights. One of the man from the mob was walking to you, ready to aim; when a warm rough hand touched your shoulders.

Him. His figure was exactly what you expected it to be. Though, you couldn't exactly leer on his face, because of the silver mask veiling his eyes; and the inconsistent lights of the bar, as it changed colors every second, giving both of you a challenging game of 'Let's see with our goddamn eyes'. He leaned on your ears, his warm breath tickling it, "Hey baby, wanna go out this fucking place? So we can talk... and do something," His hand collided with yours as he pulled you out the wilderness of feral people. His warm grip, feels like....you knew him from somewhere. The two of you stopped outside the parking lot; where no people can be seen, only the two souls, madly thirsting each other.

An Ash-blond was gawking at you, the scent of caramel touched your nose. Familiar. You eyed his black-polo unbuttoned at the top, as it shifted on his face. Those sharp jaw that can cut you, sexy soft lips, the way his hair moved in different directions. You couldn't help but tilt your head, "Do I know you from somewhere?"

The man leaned to you, grabbing your waists, as he pulled out his mask. Fuck this shit. Satan, why are you playing me like this.

Your eyes went round as you pushed the muscular body away from you. It was cretinous to even think of doing this, and now you're on the final round...regrets flowed throughout your body. You deeply exhaled, as you thundered, "Katsuki Bakugou?! Really?!"

His face was full of questions as he clicked his tongue, "I thought you would be happy atleast that you were sexting a Pro-hero all this time,"

Your mouth shot open to find for words, when you swiftly turned away, "That's it. We're done. I'm not doing this with you. Fuck this! Why does it have to be you?!" You thundered, heading to your car, and forget this even happen. The thought of thinking maybe he's the one, now gone ashes. He was your fucking classmate.

The Crimson-red eyed jolted and grabbed your wrists, "Wait the fuck up! I don't understand. Don't you like what you just fucking saw?" His brows knitted, "You don't like my appearance? Where did I failed baby please—"

You glared back at him, the mask that supressed your face, now tossed on the ground. Bakugou's face flushed pink as his eyes went round. Your eyes rolled, "It's because we're both Pros, Ground Zero,"

Bakugou was speechless, as he loosened the grip on your wrists; giving you a free-pass to escape, and forget. You were expecting for him to thunder you with curse words as you turned back, but then he clicked his tongue, and mumbled, "(Y/N), don't you think two pros making out, is a better idea?"

You stopped on your tracks, "Bakugou, what do you mean—"

"I don't fucking know. But hey, long time no see," The ash-blond's hands were resting in his pockets, slowly walking to you; as you turned to face him. A smirk curved at the corner of his mouth, "Because to be honest, I liked what I saw. And... I'm not even dissapointed, It's you,"

The inside of you burned as your eyes darted at him; now, just inches away from you, "Katsuki, I—"

The crimson-red eyes of his intensely stared at you, "Tell me baby, what you fucking saw... did you liked it?"

Your eyes were still round as you gulped, and nodded, "Yes, but—"

"Perfect," Bakugou smirked wider, "What's wrong with Pro-heroes doing that?" He gripped on your waists, "We are, just people, right?" he leaned to give you a kiss, a soft one, than turned to battling of tongues.

— • —

"Bakug—ughh..." You moaned as he gave you hickeys, while cupping your breasts with his warm rough hands. His room and home was unexpectedly clean; he is a clean-freak, after all.

"Babygirl, I didn't knew it would be better on person," he whispered, as he licked your breasts, down to your tummy, and stopped above your panties, "Hmm, can I?"

You gazed at his lustful eyes, "Nah-ah, you first," you smirked.

"(Y/N), I'm getting fucking excited!" He whined.

Your eyes rolled, "I was first to show you this," you shook your hands to your breasts, you made walking figures with your fingers on his abs, when it slid down and grabbed his cock, "Ooooh, it's hard already, Bakugou," you grabbed his belt as you unbuckled it, unzipped and slid down his pants; lastly, the underwear.

A burning sensation crept in your body as you glued your eyes at his huge trobbing member, the Ash-blond smirked at your reaction, "Suck it, baby," you obliged as it entered your mouth; Bakugou's deep moans turning you on, "Ohh yes (Y/N)... faster— Ughh... It feels so—good.... ughh," You parted to catch for breath as the Ash-blond grabbed your panties and slid it down.

He licked your walls, and played with your clit; while you softly moaned his name. The Ash-blond carried you and glued your naked body on the wall, his hands gripping on your tighs for support, "I'm going in babygirl,"

Bakugou then entered his cock inside your tight hole, as your body raised with every pressure, "Bakugou— Ughh— Ohh,"

— • —

The two of you cuddled as your bare-bodies touched; a warm fuzzy blanket covering your collided souls. Opening up to each other and discussing about how your lives went on after graduation.

A voice boomed inside Bakugou's house, from a speaker, "Ground Zero. Ground Zero. This is from Police Force. A store robbery occured in your nearby Grocery store. Bring a back-up; a nearby hero is located at...your house? Ground Zero bring (Your hero name) with you. Thank you,"

The ash-blond gave you a look, "Damn, (Y/N), you brought your Hero-Tracker?"

You bit the inside of your cheek, "Uhhh, yes,"

He clicked his tongue and chuckled, "Now the whole Police Force would know we had sex," he stood to change his costume; he looked back at you, "Now, (Your hero name), let's kick the robberies' asses,"

END

by: i.k. | yall go to church

author's message: hi i'm currently writing tons of stuff, but a soft one would be posted next; to, ya know, calm our shit. UA's lingerie collection part 2 would be posted soon! also, i'm open for requests ;)

press lemons for more lemons: 🍋 ; 🍋 ; 🍋 ; 🍋

[doctorcanon]

I have a headcanon that everyone from Faerghus is built like a brick shit house. Like okay everyone know Dimitri, Sylvain, Catherine and Ingrid are giants but Felix and Ashe? You don’t know if it until they have their shirts off which is almost never. But then there’s Annette, petite and stronk. Her hero’s relic is giant fucking hammer. Where’s my Buff Annette?  

[sophygurl]

okay so I saw your fox way post (which i realise is from like 5 months ago so i'm sorry if it's not in your main interests anymore) and I wanted to know what you think would be some good descriptors for the organised comfy chaos that is their house. bc i love the idea of a house of miss-matched over stuffed sofas and everything everywhere that doesn't understand the concept of minimalism but I can't find anything online that looks like what I imagine. Thoughts?

omg so The Raven Cycle in general, and Fox Way in particular, is never out of my main interests so thank you for this!! I actually have a Bunch of other metas that I’ve kinda collected notes for and one of them is actual physical descriptions of 300 Fox Way? 

I feel bad because I’ve already promised @sparkly-things metas about Maura and Gray next up ages ago, but hopefully they won’t mind? And I happen to have a lil energy and time today, so here goes with every physical description of the house that I’ve collected during re-reads (may have missed stuff). 

This got long, and is perhaps not even what you were looking for, but I hope it helps you and/or others looking for descriptions of the house! 

Blue describes the architecture of the house, simply, as weird in TRB. In TDT she expands on that, saying it “was two houses knitted together, and neither structure had been a palace to begin with. Narrow hallways leaned eagerly toward one another.” I’m not sure if she means this literally, as in two small houses on nearby lots got made into one building somehow, or just that the way the house is built just makes it feel that way? 

She goes on to talk about a “stray toilet gurgling somewhere” - since we know there is only the one bathroom is she talking about that or does this language mean there is maybe another toilet connected somewhere, like in a basement? Then “the wood floors were as buckled as the sidewalk out front.” Some of the walls were painted in vivid purples and blues, and some had decades old wallpaper (in the same rooms or in different rooms?). “Faded black and white photographs hung beside Klimt prints and old metal scissors. The entire decor was a victim of too much thrift-shopping and too many strong personalities.”

Gansey describes the house as being “cramped with extraneous people and whimsical objects. It hummed with conversation, music, telephones, old appliances.” Malory calls the house “lovely” and seems to appreciate just how many walls there are. 

At one point, it’s said that 300 Fox Way is one mile away from Monmouth Manufacturing. 

The exterior is a “little bright blue house”. There is a hand painted sign that reads “PSYCHIC” and then “By appointment only”. When turned around, the sign reads “CLOSED COME BACK SOON!” I’m not sure if there is a porch, but there is a porch light referred to when opening the front door, so that’s a good guess. There is a front step, so it’s not a ground level entrance to the front of the house the way it seems to be in the back. 

Outside in the backyard - there’s Blue’s large Beech tree, which shades the entire backyard with it’s “beautiful, perfectly symmetrical canopy” that kept out all but the heaviest of rains. There is a high wooden fence covered with honeysuckle that blocked out neighboring lights and the canopy of the tree blocked out the moonlight.

Right off the sliding glass door in the kitchen, there’s a cracked brick patio leading into the yard itself. There are chairs arranged on the patio.

In the kitchen, above the table, is the chandelier described as a “badly designed stained-glass creation” (also described as “the fake Tiffany lamp”) - the one they have difficulty changing the bulbs in. The process of changing the bulbs took at least three hands and was generally left until all the bulbs had burned out - so consider that the kitchen would have different levels of light depending on how far along in this process they might be. The kitchen counters seem always to be cluttered with mugs, teas being made and packaged, essential oils, flowers, pots boiling, etc. There is also a cabinet filled with glasses, either in the kitchen, or close enough to the kitchen for them to rattle when one gets down off of the kitchen table. 

Also in the kitchen - the door to the pantry that Artemus takes up residence in. 

You can see to the front hall and the base of the stairs from the kitchen, and there’s a main hallway that connects from the kitchen, which is at the back of the house, to the front of the house where the front door is, and so I imagine that the stairs are right there in that front hall area. I also believe there is only the one set of stairs connecting the two floors. The staircase has a railing with a knob on it. In the hallway, there is a table with a clock on it. 

The reading room can easily be gotten to from both the kitchen and the front hall, so I imagine it’s off to the other side of the stairs perhaps and maybe there’s a door from the hall and another to the back from the kitchen? There do seem to be multiple doors into the room, and since Adam describes it as a room meant to be a dining room, that makes sense to me. The doors are sometimes closed, so it’s not one of those rooms that is just separated off by archways or whatever.

Anyway, it is described as containing “the candles, the potted plants, the incense burners, the elaborate dining room chandelier, the rustic table that dominated the room, the lace curtains, and finally ... a framed photograph of Steve Martin.” Maura seems proud of that photograph, and makes sure to tell Whelk that it’s signed. It’s also described as having mismatched furniture, with an armchair at the head of the table.There’s a framed photograph of a standing stone on the wall. Also, apparently, there’s a phone in the reading room. There are blinds over the windows. 

There’s also a living room, which I’m thinking is further into the house, because you can’t see the front hall/door from there. There is a fuzzy mint green love seat, and a blue striped chair, and a wicker bench in front of the window. There’s also a couch. I’m also guessing this is where the TV is, unless there is a separate TV room as well, somewhere on the downstairs level? 

There is only one bathroom, and it’s upstairs. There’s a full bathtub. 

The upstairs phone, the one dedicated to the psychic phone line Orla had put in, is in the Phone/Sewing/Cat room, which has green gingham wallpaper and is “full of a multitude of odds and ends”. I’m not sure if the long purple silk Calla does her aerial yoga in is always there, or of Calla sets it up before she does it each time? There are bins of sewing materials, a chair with a pillow on it, and I’m guessing this is the room with the sewing table in it? 

Blue had repurposed canvas trees glued to her bedroom walls, decorated with collaged and found-paper leaves. There was a card table shoved against her twin mattress with reading materials on it, and a nightstand with a dim green lamp. Her closet door was covered with glued dried flowers. She had a ceiling fan that was hung with colored feathers and lace, also leaves. And she had copied a poem on her ceiling. There was a bird painted on one wall with a talk bubble that read “WORMS FOR ALL”. A shelf cluttered with buttons and scissors. A rotating fan in the corner. Blue’s room is adjacent to the Phone/Sewing/Cat room.

Maura has her own room, which is next door to the Phone/Sewing/Cat room. Calla describes it as being chaotic and messy and filled with too much shit. 

Calla and Jimi share a bedroom. It is my considered opinion that they also share a bed, but this is never mentioned or alluded to. We do know that on Calla’s dresser is kept the three statues of Oya, Oshun, and Yemaya, the Yoruban goddesses.

Persephone’s bedroom was at the end of the hall upstairs, past the Phone/Sewing/Cat room and bathroom, and the door to her room was painted red. She had a desk with a Victorian desk chair, and a “high, elderly twin bed”. There was a shaggy rug. 

Presumably Orla has a bedroom somewhere up there and if there are other residents of the house (see the post referred to in this ask for why I wonder about that possibility), then perhaps there are also other bedrooms??

The attic is accessible from the second floor with a door that leads to the stairs that lead up to it. This door is at the very end of the hall, probably past Persephone’s room. A single light bulb lit the attic and it didn’t reach the stairs, so that was a dark stairway. Once up there, there are numerous slanting roof lines which means this is one of those houses with lots of angles and not just one flat or arched roof. There’s also unfinished wood floorboards and areas patched with plywood. There’s a porthole window (along with other windows apparently?), the leads out to the mismatched roof angles outside. Before Neeve moved in, there was nothing up there because Maura was against collecting things. 

When Calla and Blue go up to investigate once Neeve’s been living there, they find a mattress covered with throw rugs on the floor; lots of candles, bowls, and glasses cluttered together, bright painter’s tape making patterns between those objects, a half-burned plant stalk on a plate dusted with ashes, and in one of the narrow dormers - two full-length footed mirrors facing one another. Also a statue of a woman with eyes in her belly, a black leather mask with a large pointed beak, a red mask that matched it, a switch made of three sticks tied together with a red ribbon, and a little cloth bag with asafetida tied into it.

After they clear out Neeve’s things and it becomes Gwenllian’s room, the mirrors are still there, and the mattress, but it becomes cluttered with her own mess of things, also including candles and half-burnt plants.

So that’s what I got! LMK if you have more questions. I love this house and the people who live in so very much. Thanks for asking about it! 

[pink-grapefruit-cafe]

my sense of wonder’s just a little tired

just some metaphory shit <3

When everything was broken

The devil hit his second stride

But you remember what I told you

Someday, I'll need your spine to hide behind

I watch as a tear rolls down your cheek - indistinguishable from the rainstorm we are stood in. Wet shirt clinging to your back like your last regrets, heavy and cold to the touch. Your body shakes like a leaf in the breeze and you shift your weight from one foot to the other, anxiously waiting for something. Anything. The tear is like a petal in the springtime, one of a million yellow rose’s spiralling towards the ground - emotion, undying love, heartbreak. I can see you playing catchup with your own thoughts as they race ahead of you - Olympians in the race of life and god, you’ve never done well in competitions.

My heart beats outside of my chest, cooling in the rain and I cannot watch you break like this. You have always sprouted like dandelions, growing where you are least expected but this feels like someone has cut off your roots and you are left stranded. Alone. I’m sure I could reach out and catch a seed from the air, the fluff tickling at my rough skin like a feather. You are a candle in the wind, one puff in your direction and you are out - I feel I must save you but I do not know how.

For fear of moments stolen

I don't wanna say goodnight

But I'll still see you in the morning

Still know your heart and still know both your eyes

I move out of the slight shelter of the doorway, out into the backlot. Trace my fingers along the geraniums of your neck, let the warmth of my fingers heat up the ice of your skin. You relax underneath my touch and I have to remind myself that you are not used to the love of another person - you do not usually get to feel this joy. The warm caramel is soft like summer and I wonder, just for a second, if we could get out of here. But this is a production - we cannot escape.

I light a cigarette instead, you are not yet done in your sorrow and I must let you grieve the only way I know how to. It may be raining but the smoke I exhale blooms aconites - lets them grow under the heavy water droplets only to be blown away by a breeze. They taste of misanthropy and stale ash. It’s a taste not easily forgotten, then again neither are you .

I wonder for a second, whether we could have been more - whether we could have withstood the storm clouds and lived to see a brighter day. But it doesn’t work like that and I could not will away the hurricane to protect you from its winds. I could not dissipate the tornado in time for it to spare the fragile house we built together. Every brick, a promise that we could not keep.

I am grateful your tears are indistinguishable from the rain - I’m not sure if I could cope with seeing them.

I could have told you ‘bout the long nights

How no one loves the birds that don't rise

So you can tell the heroes go hide

My sense of wonder's just a little tired

I wonder how it would feel to have my heart stomped on by those heels. I don’t really wonder though, I know how it feels. I know what it is like to have those laces tied around your lungs squeezing out the last breath of air as you try to explain the inexplicable. How it felt to feel the black stiletto puncture my throat.

You throw words like knives when you feel you must. I have always admired that.

My words are more like arrows. They go where I intend with grace and dignity. There are no doubts, just quick, solid movements.

Our relationship was cut apart by knives not arrows. There was no grace, no solidity as the four walls were torn apart, just the feeling of cool metal on hot skin, a green willow in a field of heliotrope.

I stub out the cigarette on the wall I am leaning on, hope that the rest of the queens will have left by the time I return to the dressing room so that I will not have to explain why my dress is wet and stained with the remnants of my heart.

But if only you could see yourself in my eyes

You'd see you shine, you shine

I know you'd never leave me behind

But I am lost this time

You turn around like you are not expecting me to still be there. I wonder if the emptiness in your eyes is my fault but know that it will be anyway so I keep my mouth shut and my eyes front and hope that if I keep my chin high you won't see the cracks. You won’t notice the tears that are pooling in my eyes.

Every part of me is yearning for the warmth that I know neither of us possess even when the rain burns like fire, scattering the truths of the past year onto the concrete with reckless abandon. I can only hope it will bloom in irises where the tears had washed away the honeysuckle we tended together.

How can flowers watered with love still turn so sour?

We are stood on a small square of cement and yet it feels like there is an ocean between us, distance stretching aeons into the backs of your eyes. They pool water like the oversaturated ground, murky and dark and full of a lost cause you won’t let go of. I am begging you to let go.

Are we destined to burn or will we last the night?

I will hold you 'til I hold you right

You tell me you want to hold on, that the door is big enough for the both of us, the lifeboat can hold our weight. I want to believe you so badly but my heart aches and my lungs are on fire and we carry the scars from this on our bodies for the world to see. You cannot stop up the holes in a sinking ship, must yield to the power of the sea as it draws you away.

I close my eyes when we hug, try to make it feel like it used to when we were dry and safe and no one could hurt us but us - and then we hurt us. I open my eyes.

When I go back inside, you do not complain. You don’t argue. There is no fight. Only silence as the raindrops splatter onto the solid ground.

But if only you could see yourself in my eyes

You'd see you shine, you shine

I do not turn around because I am a coward.

you shine

[kiss-me-over-the-garden-gate]

Love, I’m Done With You

by Ross Gay

You ever wake up with your footie PJs warming your neck like a noose? Ever upchuck after a home-cooked meal? Or notice how the blood on the bottoms of your feet just won’t seem to go away? Love, it used to be you could retire your toothbrush for like two or three days and still I’d push my downy face into your neck. Used to be I hung on your every word. (Sing! you’d say: and I was a bird. Freedom! you’d say: and I never really knew what that meant, but liked the way it rang like a rusty bell.) Used to be. But now I can tell you your breath stinks and you’re full of shit. You have more lies about yourself than bodies beneath your bed. Rooting for the underdog. Team player. Hook, line and sinker. Love, you helped design the brick that built the walls around the castle in the basement of which is a vault inside of which is another vault inside of which . . . you get my point. Your tongue is made of honey but flicks like a snake’s. Voice like a bird but everyone’s ears are bleeding. From the inside your house shines and shines, but from outside you can see it’s built from bones. From out here it looks like a graveyard, and the garden’s all ash. And besides, your breath stinks. We’re through.

[eyesofmist]

A Good Story Well told; a Story about a Traumatic Experience,Justified Hatred, Redemption and Love against all Odds

This post refers to a TV drama called Fatmagul, but it doesn’t really matter if you have seen it or not because the post is more about story telling and how good writing is based on details, how one apparently small detail may say or suggest much more than it seems. This is something good writers know well.

This story is about a pretty young girl called Fatmagul, who is going to marry her handsome boyfriend, Mustafa, a blue-eyed fisherman who looks like a Prince Charming. Well, he is bulding a house himself, brick by brick, the house where the couple will live when they get married. When he leaves his girl because of his misguided sense of pride and honour after she is raped by three men, he burns their house down.

His mother even says to Fatmagul that she is nothing but ashes to him any more and Fatmagul says later that Mustafa burned their house, their future and also herself when he did that.

As a result, she gets a husband she doesn't want, a husband she despises and hates. Telling why she marries this man she despises isn’t really necessary for the porpuse of this post but you can read why here.

They run away from their village and the scandal that follows the tragedy and he rents a house that, of course, doesn't belong to him, that he didn't build, that is not his. A house where Fatmagul has to live whith some members or her own family and also Kerim's adoptive mother. A house where he doesn't sleep and where he doesn't eat because he is not accepted there by his wife and he complies with her wishes. He sleeps and eats in a shed that is in the garden, a barren garden without flowers.

In the picture above there’s another beautiful detail, Kerim and Fatmagul’s brother are bringing their belongings into the rented house (only Fatmagul’s family have brought things, Kerim hasn’t brought anything and is with her family, he’s there in hostile territory, so to speak). As he unloads the objects she shouts at him ‘don’t touch that’ and runs to prevent him from touching her hope chest, the one where she still keeps her trousseau. Mustafa built this chest for her and it contains the things she kept for her wedding with her beloved.

All the family members work to turn that rented house into a place to live, perhaps a home, although it seems unlikely because everything is misery there after what happened. Fatmagul hates her husband's guts and shows this at the slightest chance, not the way we are accostumed to in most TV shows or movies but whith real viciousness. Some of the things she says feel like a slap on the face even to a spectator. Not that he doesn't deserve it, because he didn't rape her but didn't stop it either, which is disgusting enough. The fact is that neither him not Fatmagul remember if he did it or not and this is not clear until one of his former friends confirms he didn't do it. Even when this is confirmed she finds it impossible to believe him. He is guilt- ridden anyway because he didn't stop it, which is enough for him to feel like shit.

He can only look through the shed’s window longing to see his wife inside the house, cooking in the kitchen or studying in the living room, there’s no place for him in that “home”.

Anyway, I got derailed, LOL, because the detail I wanted to comment is about the house, just the house, but its so poignant and poetic to see these two looking at each other through its windows without meeting each other’s gaze, like strangers with broken hearts who have only misery in common. Whenever he tries to approach her, she averts her eyes and turns her back on him. He is the living reminder of what she suffered.

Well, we have this house that Kerim rents, which is not his, just like this wife that is not his and this “relationship” he neither built nor owns. And this is just an old dilapidated house, not like the brand new one Mustafa was building for Fatmagul and him in a beautiful sunny place. It's always cloudy here, it's cold and the house is old, ugly and in very bad condition.

All the family works to make the house habitable, they paint the walls, they cook every day, etc., but the one who mends broken things is Kerim. If anything is broken or doesn't work he fixes it. So, little by little the house starts to look different; there's a new floor, new panels for the shed walls, even the shed looks habitable although it looked absolutely awful the first night he slept there. The shed was by far what was in worst condition at first,which is quite telling.

Only looking back in time did I get this, this man, Kerim, fixes BROKEN THINGS. He didn't start from the first stone to build that little ramshackle house like Mustafa did with his new one, which was so near his parents' house. Kerim owns nothing, he doesn't even have parents, only a generous woman who raised him when he was abandoned as a kid, and he has a rented house, a “fake” family and a wife who doesn't belong to him.

He has this wife who is “temporary”, like the rented house, because he intends to go away as soon as the family is settled and she counts the days until he leaves for good because she can't even stand breathing the same air as him, as she puts it in one of the “cruel” sentences she throws at him. They both agree that the sooner he goes away the better. Until then, he fixes things in that ugly little house where he can't sleep or eat and hardly ever enters.

As I see it, all the family members contribute to Fatmagul's recovery, giving colour and warmth to that little house and also to her life that is now so cold, miserable and barren. And this feels real because she needs all of them to help her heal. The family's support is essential.

Mustafa built a house himself in his parents' grounds for him and his fiance, but she didn't take part in its construction and neither did his parents or her family. This time it is different because all of them take part in making the rented house into “a home”? I don't know yet, because I haven't finished watching the episodes, but it feels like hope.

Everything is “rented”, temporary, in another city, unwanted because none of them wanted to leave to another city, another house and another life. But here we have a girl who is absolutey broken and was an innocent virgin in love with her fiance Mustafa so little time before. First she was passive and took no part in the construction of her future and let Mustafa take the initiative in everything, later she takes the reins of her life and takes no shit from anyone any more. She studies, she starts to work and learns to drive. The girl turns into a woman and her “temporary” (“rented”) husband has patience, the patience needed to mend things or to turn ugly things into something beautiful. I'm talking about objects, but can he do the same with other types of broken things? Only time will tell because this is slowburn at its best and nothing is rushed.

How can a girl recover from a traumatic experience in no time and just because of the magic of love? Here the answer is that she can't. She needs professional help to recover and she is the only one who can start to heal from the tatters of her life when she finds the will and the strength to do so. The others can only offer their empathy, their love and support to help her.

Love doesn't conquer all and doesn't wipe her trauma with its magic. It takes hard work to fix someone as broken as she is and her traumatic experience is not just a plot device, it's taken seriously by the writers.

Anyway, we have two men here, one who loved his pure future bride and was going to have a brand new house but burned both to ashes when she was “tainted” by the evil actions of others. On the other hand, we have another who chooses to fix things and then unwittingly falls in love with a girl that has been “defiled”. He was a witness to her worst night that ended up being his worst too. In a way, she is someone else's girl and she is neither “new”, nor in “good condition”, just like the sad little house.

Unlike Mustafa's love, which didn't survive misfortune, Kerim loves her even though she was raped by three other men and everyone knows this, even though she is still in love with another man (Mustafa), even though she hates him and can't or won't forgive him and she doesn't trust him or believes him when he says he never touched her. And he feels guilty anyway because he didn't stop what happened. Kerim loves Fatmagul but doesn't expect to be loved back, not even to be forgiven, he loves her anyway and doesn't run away from the pain of being hated by the one you love. He will endure as long as she needs him. He is also willing to let go if it's better for her but ,as he says, he will never stop loving her.

This wouldn’t be the same in Western countries where a rape victim wouldn't be seen as tainted, and where girls don't wait until marriage to sleep with men, but it has a meaning in other parts of the world where some traditional patriarchal customs haven’t still disappearead as they should. Anyway, wherever you go, there’s still a long way to go until equality between men and women is really conquered. Even in Western countries many girls don’t denounce when they are raped because they fear to be under public scrutiny and that they may not be believed. They also fear their aggressors’ reactions ather the denounce or what may happen if they aren’t sent to jail.

Mustafa was in a hurry to build the new house and get married to his beautiful pure bride, but Kerim has all the patience in the world to live in rented and “shelter” houses that belong to others, with a group of family members around them, deprived of love or a woman's touch, and he fixes things gradually, step by step. It’s more about little details than great gestures.

Nearly a year passes by and he still endures, her contempt eats at him but he endures. Not only does he mend the little house but also the shed where he sleeps because his life is broken too, like the shed, due to what happend that night but also because of a terrible past he hasn't overcome. 

Eventually, she starts to trust him but even when she starts to fall in love with him, she can’t stand a man’s touch, not even his, because of what happened to her and can’t wipe from her mind. That night hovers over their heads like a curse, it’s a curse for both of them.

Little details are important though, like seeing him plant flowers in their house's flower beds when they get to have a home of their own, or like her giving him a flower pot with forget-me-nots she planted herself when they are separated.

This is a man who did something terrible, works hard to redeem himself and on the way falls in love with a girl but doesn't get forgiveness or love just because this is his heart's desire. Somewhat like Sandor and Kylo, because they all did something really terrible, it's not just a trite plot device or a trope. As far as I can see, this is treated well in Fatmagul TV show, I hope it's treated well in ASOIAF if it's ever finished, and my wishful thinking wants to believe it may be treated well in Star Wars.

[waeziverse]

L'enfer C'est Être Seul

His name was Max. But he preferred his chosen name:

IQ.

IQ was a super-villain. A teenager with a brain that had been tampered with, making him an unnatural genius. He was the smartest being on the planet.

Not that it meant much, now that he was alone.

IQ stared out at the wasteland. The genius with hair died red and black who was dressed in Gothic/Punk Rock style outfit was stunned. Nothing alive could be seen. No plants, no animals, no humans, no nothing. America was bare. A kingdom of nothingness.

"This..." IQ fell on his knees. He was completely horrified. "This... This wasn't supposed to happen. They were supposed to stop me. THE SUPERHEROES WERE SUPPOSED TO STOP ME, DANG IT! THAT'S HOW IT WORKS! THAT'S HOW IT ALWAYS ENDS!"

***

It had been a week now since IQ had accidentally killed all of humanity except for himself.

He flew by the use of his jetpack, still looking for some sort of human life. Maybe one of the superheroes had survived.

But no, IQ found no one alive. No humans, no animals. No life to be found no matter where on the planet he looked. Only those damn plants that had mutated and gained the ability to move and do stuff mammals do. This was thanks to IQ's weapon that had killed everything else but the plants.

Mad science was funny like that.

IQ groaned as he landed in the middle of Paris. The once famous city was now a ruin. The Eiffel Tower had been cut in half. The Triumphant Arch was now anything but what its name implied.

IQ tapped his foot on the ground impatiently as he waited for his drones to arrive and give him a report. After a couple of minutes, all seven of them arrived. They were egg-shaped, black, hovered above the ground and had red truck girl decals on them.

"So?" The impatient teen asked his machines.

"NO LIFE DETECTED WITHIN A RADIUS OF 200 MILES, MASTER." Drone 1 said. "EXCEPT FOR EVOLVED PLANTLIFE."

"Dang it!" IQ kicked Drone 1, making it bump into Drone 5. "There has to be some survivors! My weapon couldn't have killed EVERYONE on the fucking planet, I won't-"

IQ was interrupted by the thunderous noise of a horde of chestnut trees that was galloping toward him.

"Perfect. JUST perfect!" IQ rolled his eyes in annoyance as he grabbed his solar based ray-gun. "Drone one to seven, combat mode!"

***

It had been two weeks since IQ had accidentally killed all of humanity except for himself.

And right now, a strawberry bush was doing everything in it's power to hasten the complete extinction of the human race.

The mutated plant had its vines wrapped around IQ, trying to squeeze him to death. He would die in mere seconds unless he thought of something. And he WOULD think of something, since getting killed by a new species he had created would be the mega-genius equivalent of drowning with your head stuck in the toilet.

He stretched his finger as much as he could. He was dangerously close to fainting as he finally pressed the button on his belt, activating his jetpack. He was sent flying upward, the power of his jetpack was enough to pull the dang plant up from the ground with roots and everything. IQ could see a giant, red eye between the roots that stared at him as they flew. But then, it turned white, and the vines lost their strength. IQ gasped as the strawberry bush lost it's grip and fell to the ground.

"This..." IQ finally began to breath normally. "This is the LAMEST apocalyptic future EVER!"

***

It had been a month now since IQ had accidentally killed all of humanity except for himself.

"Funny I never thought about reading this stuff before." IQ closed a very thick book about modern psychology and picked up another one. He had managed to find in the rubble of a bookstore, meaning that he now had something to entertain himself with. He had found a more or less intact chair underneath a pile of bricks so he had something to sit on. "I'm serious, why did I never think about studying how the human mind works and stuff? I'm a super-genius with a mutated brain without limitations, I can handle all sorts of knowledge, and after reading some of these books, I guess my old shrink was right: I DO have daddy issues, but he was MEGA boring to listen to. Do you know what that is like? I mean, trying to listen to someone because you know that they are telling you something important, but they are so boring that your brain shuts down?"

The skull of the deceased hero Valor said nothing. IQ had placed it next to the pile of books to keep him company.

"Oh, don't give me that. All of this is your fault, you know that?" IQ closed the book he had just picked up, deciding that he had read enough for one day. "I told the entire world about my big-ass bomb and how I intended to use it. But I didn't want to use it, you know? I never did. I wanted to fail. Like I always do because some superhero stops me before something major bad happens." As IQ finished the sentence, his face grew tired. "Well, not anymore. No one can ever stop me from anything ever again due to obvious reasons." He gave the cranium of Valor an angry glare. "Why didn't you stop me, you dumb bitch?"

***

"Ouch!"

IQ sucked on his middle finger. He had accidentally hit it with his hammer as he was about to build what would, hopefully, become a house. The house could have been built by his robots in no time, but he was bored and needed something to do.

It had been a year now since IQ had accidentally killed all of humanity except for himself.

"You know, this looked soooo much easier in Little House On The Prairie." IQ said to the skull of Valor. "You know that TV show?"

No reply.

"Yeah, you DO look like a book person." IQ picked up another nail and went on with his work. "But the series was based on these books written by a woman who was a child in the 1870s. You really never read it?"

No reply.

"Yeah, I hate small talk as much as the next guy." IQ decided to call it a day. He felt a bit hungry and decided to dig into the lunchbox he had prepared for himself. It was a sandwich made out of a giant mutated mushroom that had tried to eat him. "So..." he said to the skull as he took a sip from his water-bottle with juice from a very angry cactus. "You wanna hear a secret about me?"

No reply.

"Before I made the whole world go Planets of the Apes... I had only killed three humans."

No reply.

"Oh, it's true. Really. You see, my entire life, I wanted to be a supervillain. So the day I discovered that my brain had mutated into a super information sponge, I was trilled. And the first thing I did was building a machine that teleported my dumbass mom to the Amazon rain-forest. I don't remember why, I guess I was mad at her or something. And then I kidnapped three girls that used to bully me at school. I didn't HATE them, they were just... annoying. And I killed two of them in some bizarre and creative ways."

IQ took a pause so that he could finish eating his sandwich.

"But here's the thing: After I had dehydrated the second one and looked at the pile of ashes that was all there was left of her... I realized that I didn't like it. Killing felt... uncomfortable. It wasn't funny or exciting. I had expected some sort of rush, that I would feel powerful, but... but I just felt like I was going to puke."

IQ was quite for a moment.

"But I felt that I had... I don't know, passed the point of no return I guess. And I now HAD to be a super-villain. So I told the third girl that I would give her a chance, that I would allow her to try and run away and give her a head start so that I could enjoy chasing her. But that was a load of shit. I wanted her to run and warn everyone. So then a superhero came, I made a show out of it to lose and be thrown to jail so I wouldn't lose face. And then, just to make everything worse, I learned that my mom was dead. I just wanted to annoy her and scare the shit out of her, but she had died of a heatstroke in the Amazon Jungle. Making her the THIRD person I had killed. Or maybe the first one, I don’t know." IQ sighed. "So, if I had such a rotten first day doing something I hated, why did I keep doing super-villain stuff? I will tell ya why: I wanted to matter. I wanted to be famous. I wanted to be remembered. And because I was a dumb teenager I thought that the only way to make sure of that was by making some noise, fight some superheroes and make grand schemes where I would constantly take a dive so that no one died."

The skull said nothing, as expected.

IQ blew the skull a raspberry. "Yeah, well, that's just YOUR opinion."

***

It had been four years now since IQ had accidentally killed all of humanity except for himself.

IQ sat inside the little shack he had build for himself. It looked like something that even Groundskeeper Willie would have too much pride to live in. The genius who was now a young adult was about to take care of the wounds he had received after an intense battle with a horde of rapid apple trees. He was all alone now. He had even gotten rid of the cranium he used to talk to as he realized he only did it because he in his dumb teenager brain thought it was kinda cool, NOT because he was crazy. He was in fact very sane. Sane enough to think all sorts of things. He just tried to copy Tom Hanks in the movie Cast Away because it would be cool to be that kind of crazy.

But the problem with being alone with your own thoughts is that you get to think all sorts of things. No matter how grotesquely they are.

"Wait a minute." IQ realized something that would be kinda funny if it wasn't so terrible and absurd. "My GRANDFATHER was an Afro-American guy who married a white chick. That means that Martin Luther King is PARTLY to blame for me being born! Martin Luther King is PARTLY responsible for the death of humanity!"

And then, all the color in IQ's face faded away.

"Oh my god." A single tear fell from his left eye. "I... I did it, didn’t I? I did it. It's all my fault. No one is to blame but me. I... I killed all of humanity!"

IQ couldn't hold his tears back and began to cry like a little child. His cheeks were wet with tears, his nose dripped and he screamed as if he had lost a limb.

"I'm so sorry! I'm... I'm so, so sorry!" Max yelled over and over again, knowing fully well that it was much too late for apologies. "I'm so god damn freaking FUCKING sorry!"

***

It had been twenty years now since Maximilian Augustson had accidentally killed all of humanity except for himself.

Max was doing some gardening. He liked taking care of his carrots and found it odd that he had once despised them. But once you learned to treat them with respect and feed them properly then you didn't have to worry about getting tiny bite-marks on your fingers.

It was almost impossible to recognize the former terror teen who had once been one of the world's most chaotic super-villains. Not just because he had become an adult with a well-trimmed beard, but there was none of his former traits left. He had stopped dying his hair red and black so it had it's natural nut-brown color again. He wore a light-blue T-shirt and green pants instead of that silly "Gothic/Punk Rock" style outfit he used to wear. And, most importantly: He never smiled anymore. No that there was much to smile about. And it didn't really matter if he was unrecognizable or not since there was no one left to recognize him.

As Max finished gardening, he decided to make himself a cup of tea. He left the garden, passed the spaceship (he had build to find another planet with intelligent life on it but decided not to in order to punish himself) and took off his shoes before entering the beautiful house he had build for himself with his own hands. He boiled some water and took a look at the kitchen and all of it's equipment. Like the rest of the house and everything inside it, it was handmade by Max who had plenty of time and needed to keep himself occupied to evade insanity. Sure, going crazy would at this point be a blessing, but he didn't really feel that he deserved it. As he waited for the water to boil, he pondered whether he should build a piano or an organ.

After Max had made his tea, he took his cup and went into his library. He had a good little collection of books he had managed to find in the ruins of homes and libraries as he traveled the world looking for potential resources. After taking book after book out of his shelves only to change his mind and put them back in their proper place, he decided to pick the last Harry Potter book in existence (volume two, written in Swedish) and went out to the terrace. He sat in his favorite chair and began to read.

Life was tolerable.

For now.