#I feel like we oughtta dust it off for this

[eek-a-tron]

WHAT

Screenshots from X-Men '97 S1E6

[houseboatisland]

Henry’s Day Out

***

The driver tapped despairingly at the murky pressure gauge.

“Come on, old boy!” he coaxed, “Try harder!”

The tapping reverberated through the smokey gloom of the shed, even overcoming the din of the other engines slowly sizzling to life themselves. The fireman bitterly wiped a ticklish bead of sweat off the tip of his nose, and dug noisily down into the tender for yet another shovelful of coal.

“Ohh, it’s no use, I’m shattered,” moaned Henry, “I’m not fit to boil a pot of tea...”

“Not talking rot like that, you won’t!” his driver scolded, but the encouragement behind his words was clear, “You’re my engine, and no one can put’cha down, least of all yourself!”

The skinny brown needle twitched behind the greasy glass, almost shyly.

“That’s right, more of that!” he ordered, and feverishly wiped the face of the gauge with a yellowing rag, “Y’know why they call it ‘The Early Bird,’ dont’cha boy?”

Henry rolled his eyes. So did the exhausted fireman, raking the coal fastidiously with his shovel tip for a lump of coal just the right size.

“Because the Early Bird gets the worm, and it’s the first train of the day, and we are out for a worm of our own,” Henry replied mechanically, like all the other times.

“There’s a good lad, I knew you hadn’t given up on me, yet!” The driver’s teeth were pearly against the soot and smut on his face.

A corner of Henry’s mouth quivered hesitantly, but he quickly let the smile flourish.

“No, Theodore,” he hummed tepidly, “I haven’t, and I won’t.”

“Let’s ease you out into the sun, there’s still a bit’ta time before we need to be coupled, yet,” Ted patted his side of the cab, and peered his grease top cap out down the yard, “I want the whole railway to admire my engine! He’s gotta be SEEN to be believed!”

With conservative little whooshes of steam from his cylinder drain cocks, Henry tiptoed gently out of the shed, and drew to a stop.

The waxing light of dawn caught his blue paintwork and red boiler bands, and he seemed to radiate light of his own where he sat. His princely copper chimney cap still sparkled even after all the coal they had burned. He wasn’t an ugly engine by any means. With sweeping frames, tall driving wheels, and a tender of The Fat Director’s own design, any run of the mill passenger or porter would even call him handsome. Several had. Henry didn’t look too far removed from the engines on posters advertising nonstop expresses to Scotland, or boat trains in and out of Southampton.

But that was just the trouble.

“Try not to lose too much steam sitting,” groused the fireman, chucking his second cigarette into the firebox and shutting the door snappily behind it, “At some point, all the coal against the tubeplate’s more trouble than its worth!”

Theodore glared.

“You know and I know the boy can’t help it,” he practically murmured, “If he needs coal, he needs coal.”

“I need arms like an Olympian, feeding him,” the fireman pressed on, “They ought to give me two-and-six for each pound of coal I put on, then maybe it’d be worth it!”

Henry stayed silent. It was better to pretend not to have heard.

“Just leave us a minute and get two pots from Oil Issues, and come back with a smile,” Theodore ordered darkly.

The fireman hopped down, and dusted off his overalls.

“Sure and I will, for two-and-six,” Henry clearly heard him, before feeling him disappear.

Henry gulped.

“I’m... I’m sorry, Mr. Robbins, sir,” he quavered.

“You call me ‘Theodore,’” harrumphed the driver, absentmindedly wiping between the various gauges and handles on the backplate, “It’s that shifty little sod that just went for our oilpots that oughtta call me ‘Mr. Robbins.’”

Henry didn’t laugh, or even try to.

“You know I can’t help the way I am?...”

“Of course I know, boy.”

“And you’re not upset?”

“Bless you, no, boy.”

Henry sniffed. The sun was rising fast and strong now. The rails felt warmer. Vicarstown Station’s all-over glass roof twinkled and glistened in the distance, like a mountain of diamonds. Horses trotted, and their carts squeaked and banged. Somewhere, a policeman blew his whistle. The streets behind the retaining wall were coming alive with throngs of people chattering. The church bells gonged, meaning it was six o’clock. Not long now till coupling.

“...I can pull that train, can’t I, Theodore?”

Theodore firmly held his hand onto the regulator, twisting himself back for a sign of the fireman approaching.

“You what, lad? O-Oh, yes, sure ya can, and I’ll be right here to see to it. It’d be swell if that blasted fireman could get back, though. If I find out he’s knocking about the canteen again, I’ll make him eat your shovel for supper.”

Henry choked. He could feel the time slipping away. The crowds of people, really quite far away from where he stood, seemed to become louder and louder by the second. He needed to go, he needed to go, he wanted to cry. If only he could be allowed to go. Even if he were to need a pilot halfway down the line, even if he needed to be taken off the train altogether, he could bear more than to keep sitting here. He felt so helpless, so trapped by a million forces pushing down on him in that moment from every angle.

It was so unfair.

[exploradora-writes]

Fireside Love: An Arthur x Charlotte Fic (18+ Only)

Warnings: NSFW, wholesome smut 

Summary:  During a snowstorm, Arthur and Charlotte decide to use their time cooped up in their cabin wisely.

Word Count: 3,455

Notes: Thank you @the-halo-of-my-memory​  and @unpocowboys​ for helping me out with this fic. The both of you are very talented writers! I plan on writing more Charlotte and Arthur fics in the future. These two are one of my favorite comfort couples, so I wanted to make a spicy yet cozy fic about them. Warning: Tons of wholesome smut ahead...

This fic can also be found on my AO3 under exploradora_writes

The first frost flakes began to stick to the window, the kitchen gradually becoming colder as snowflakes began to fall from the pitch black sky outside. 

Charlotte sighed, tossing another log into the stove, her stew stubbornly refusing to boil. She glanced at the woodpile, the three tiny logs lying there in an almost mocking sort of way. 

The clouds blocked out much of the sunlight, but she knew it would be dark soon. She held onto the counter, trying her hardest not to think of the worst, but she couldn’t help it.

He could be lost, stranded with no direction, no food, no warmth.

She shook her head, coming to her senses. Arthur may view himself as nothing but muscle and absolutely no brain, but as his wife, she knew better. He had an excellent sense of direction and survival skills. Any minute he’d be through that door with a load of firewood, and maybe even an animal or two.

She asked if she could come. Two heads were better than one, she tried to reason.

“No, darlin’, as much as I’d love to go with you, I need you stayin’ home and watchin’ over the house, keepin’ it warm. Wouldn’t want any strangers takin’ residence while we’re gone, would we?”

More than one weary traveller, some more hostile than others, had taken up residence in their home on more than one occasion while the two of them were off on hunting trips. While she understood where Arthur was coming from, she couldn’t escape her fear of the worst. She’d already lost one of the men she loved dearly to the harsh conditions of nature, she couldn’t bear to lose another one.

Her motionless broth seemed to stare back up at her as it refused to boil. “You ain’t making this easy for me, broth.”

Talking to an inanimate substance? The snow really was making her stir crazy. Arthur had better hurry up before I start talking to the logs, she thought. 

Figuring the broth was nowhere near boiling over, she took those three pathetic logs sitting on the woodpile and tossed them in the fireplace. She looked around for a match, lit it with a satisfying strike, and tossed it on the pile. The flames licked up the logs, but Charlotte knew it couldn’t last long. She lay back on a chair in the kitchen, staring into the flames of the fire. She smiled, her eyes following the flames as they danced along the logs, remembering all those years ago when her and Arthur danced around the campfire on their little outdoor honeymoon getaway. They drank and sang and made love their fair share of times by the roaring flames of the fire. Sure, it was no fancy trip in the big city, but it was simple and memorable. 

Unfortunately, the fire before her sounded more of a purr as opposed to a roar. She let out another sigh, looking back at the empty woodpile, longing for her strong handsome woodsman to return.  

As if on cue, she heard the door handle jiggle, as the man she had been longing to see emerged from the snowy darkness outside. 

“Arthur!” She arose, practically pouncing on him. He moved his scarf away from his cherry red face, panting from the effort of carrying.. firewood. Loads of it. Charlotte sighed with relief at the sight, wrapping her arms around him. She didn’t care that he was like an icicle, nor that she would get wet from the snow that dusted his wooly blue coat. Her hands met his face, cold despite the large beard he sported. Her lips met his, her warm pink lips melting his icy blue ones. 

“Charlotte,” he breathed. “Glad I made it in time. Bundle up and help me haul in some of this wood. I have a feelin’ this is only the beginin’ of this snow storm.” 

She threw on a sweater, a coat, and a pair of boots. She opened the door to the dark depths of the winter night. The bitter cold nipped at her entire body despite being bundled up head to toe. She tried to imagine how good the fire would feel against her and her lover’s bodies once they were in the warmth of their little home. 

Arthur had made quite the haul. Firewood, some supplies from the general store, and even a deer. She smiled, feeling her body warm up as she thought of how wonderful and lucky she was to have a man like him. 

They fought against the wind back into the house. It took the strength of the two of them to even get the door closed. They both panted and fell against each other. 

“Well, we best get cozy, darlin.’ We’re gonna be here awhile.” Arthur said, removing his snow covered clothes. 

Charlotte returned to the kitchen, the pot of broth finally showing signs that it was preparing to boil. She threw another log on the stove for good measure. 

Arthur came up behind her and kissed her cheek, his cold lips sending a shiver down her spine. “How’s everything comin’ along?”

She smiled as the both began to boil. “Rather nicely now that you’ve returned, cowboy.”

“Hmmm I figured I’d have the opposite effect. My coldness would ruin any hopes of ever makin’ a good meal.”

“Quite the contrary, Mr. Morgan.” She stirred in the ingredients: savory chicken, carrots, onions, and peas. “Because I think you’re so hot, you make pots boil. You made mine boil when you walked through that door.” She looked back at him, stirring the pot in lazy circles. “Cheeks still rosy from the cold?”

“Er, yeah,” he fumbled, “you could say that.” 

She rubbed his face, running her fingers through his beard. “You hungry?”

His hands ran along her hips. “Starvin’..” 

“We could eat in front of the fire if you’d like. It’d be a nice change, don’t you think?” 

“Sure, sounds cozy.” He gave her hips one last squeeze before getting two bowls from the above cabinets. “Smells delicious.’”

“You talking about the soup or are you talking about me, dear?” She gave him a small smile. 

“Can’t I be talking about both?” Like a magnetic attraction, his hands were back on her hips.

“Goodness you’re handsy tonight!” She giggled. “Alright, soup’s on.”

He gave her cheek a quick peck before serving himself a large bowl of soup. She unwrapped some bread she had been saving for tonight and placed it in each of their bowls. They brought their meals over to the fireplace, sitting in front of it. 

Arthur took a sip, his body quickly warming up from the combination of the fire and the broth. He let out a satisfied groan. “This soup’s real good, sweetheart.”

“Well I’m glad you think so,” she beamed. “I always worry I’ll muck something up.”

“That’d be pretty hard for you to do, Char.” He smiled at her, motioning for her to sit closer to him. She obliged, cosying up to him and resting her head on his shoulder.

The sounds of the crackling fire and the slurping of soup filled the room. Arthur tipped his bowl back, finishing the rest of the broth. He let out a satisfied sigh and took Charlotte’s bowl as well, putting them next to the sink to be washed. He’ll clean up eventually, he thought. Right now all he wanted to do was warm up his wonderful wife.

  He changed into his union suit, catching a glimpse outside the window. The snow came down with a vengeance. He grabbed a log from the pile and tossed it into the dying flames. The fire continued to dwindle. 

“Goddamm it,” he muttered, bending over to grab the poker and stir the ashes around. He felt the familiar sensation of a hand giving his behind a light smack. He turned around, his wife looking around, a mischievous grin plastered on her face. 

He arched an eyebrow. “Was that really necessary, darlin’?”

“Was what necessary?” She tried looking away, but try as she might, her lips continued to curl into a smile.

“You know damn well what I’m talkin’ about, missy. Your hand just loves smackin’ my ass, don’t it?” 

“That is quite the accusation, Mr. Morgan!”

“I oughtta smack YOU on the ass.”

She smirked, tilting her head. “Well? What’s stopping you?”

He studied her for a second, then knelt down next to her. “Goddamn, have you always been this naughty?”

“Always have, always will be. It’s one of the reasons you married me, remember?” She lay back on the carpet. “Now get me a blanket, would you, darling? It’s freezing in here.”

He sighed, tossing her a few blankets. He tossed another log on the fire, then lay next to her. He wrapped his arms around her as she shivered against him. He scooted the two of them closer to the fire. “There, now that’s better.”

She nuzzled against his chest and yawned. “Arthur?”

“Hmm?” He looked down at her.

“How long do you think we’ll be in here? Waiting out this storm?”

He looked outside again, the snow showing no signs of stopping. “Awhile. Don’t know how long exactly, but we’ve survived much worse. ‘Sides, I stocked up on food and supplies, we’ll be fine.

She sighed, looking up at him and kissing his cheek. “Well, we’ve got plenty of time, what should we do to pass it?”

He chuckled. “Well, there’s always dominoes, and redecoratin’, and we can always be workin’ on our marriage.”

“Oh? And how exactly do you want to work on that?” She held his hand, circling his palm with her thumb.

“Well, when’s the last time we’ve had to ourselves like this? Seems like we’re always busy with housework, farmwork, all kinds of work. This is a good opportunity for us to just… be in each other’s presence.”

She hummed against his chest. “Sounds wonderful.”

The flames of the fire crackled, and Charlotte let out a small, breathy laugh.

“What’s so funny?” Arthur asked.

“Oh just remembering our little honeymoon.”

Arthur smiled as the memories came flooding back. “That little camping trip.”

“Yes! Remember, out on the lake?”

“How could I forget? We tipped the whole damn canoe over!” He laughed, rocking back and forth and waving his arms around dramatically, reenacting the fateful moment. 

The two of them collapsed on the floor in a heap of giggles, cuddling up to each other to trap the warmth again as their laughter died down. Charlotte looked into the flames of the fire, a small smile on her face. “And the campfire,” she mused. “Illuminated the entire night sky. Millions of tiny stars, looking down at us.”

Arthur chuckled. “Yeah, I remember.Them crickets were noisy sons of bitches, weren’t they?”

“I think they thought the same thing about us, dear.” She ran her hands along his chest, gazing into his blue eyes that perfectly complimented his rosy cheeks. 

“Darlin’, you were the one makin’ all the noise,” he said in a low tone.

She sighed, resting her head against his chest. “You’re right, you always were a good lover.”

He rubbed her back, gazing into the flames as well. “You know, we could alway reenact that night. If you’re up to it that is.”

She smirked, smooching his cheek. “I thought you’d never ask,” she whispered in his ear, giving it a small nip. He let a gasp escape his lips.

“Jesus, darlin’.” His lips met hers as he gracefully flipped her onto her back. “I was on top, remember?” He pinned her wrists to the soft, welcoming rug beneath them. It was her turn to let out a gasp. A bead of sweat dripped down her brow, the weight of her husband’s warm body causing blood to rush throughout her entire being. 

She kissed his neck and moaned. “Are you sure I wasn’t the one on top?” She wrapped her legs around his torso and twisted her body around and caught him off guard. Arthur grunted, his wife now the one staring down at him. 

He couldn’t help but chuckle. Who knew such a typically mild mannered woman could have the drive and spunk of a working girl? He felt himself growing stiff beneath her. 

“No, darlin’, you’ve got it all wrong, remember? You were on top when we was by the lake, after we went skinny dippin’. I remember ‘cause the rocks were diggin’ into my back, but hell, it was worth is just to watch myself disappear inside of you over and over again.”

Warmth flooded her core as she began to grind against his leg. “Well, which was it, Arthur? Make up your mind before...before I..” She buried her face in the crook of his neck and moaned.

“Look at you…” he chuckled. “You gonna cum before I’m even inside you?” 

She shook her head. 

“Thought not. Goddamn, you must be soaked.” He held her against him and kissed her lips. He lay her back down against the soft texture of the rug, his hands exploring her body, as they had on that fateful night. “Now it’s all comin’ back to me. You were lyin’ there, the light of the fire dancin’ across your nude body…” His hands played with the straps of her nightgown before sliding them off, revealing her bare bosom. “Your breasts, milky white…” He planted kisses on them, his calloused fingers running across her pink buds. 

She bit her lip to stifle a moan. “Yeah? Then what?”

He slid the nightgown further down her body. “Your stomach, soft and delicate” His voice had grown low and a bit hoarse. 

Charlotte rubbed her thighs together, her breath shallow as she anticipated his next move.

Finally, he slid the nightgown completely off of her body, the cold air hitting her skin. She shivered, not from the air, but from the sensation of Arthur’s bearded face rubbing against the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. He kissed all the way up her thigh until he reached her core. He placed his fingers against it, and while a layer of cloth separated his touch from her body, she still left out a soft moan.

“Yes...yes…” he growled. “I’m rememberin’ now. How you tasted…” He looked up at her as he slid her panties down her legs. “Darlin’, it’s takin’ everythin’ in me not to devour you right now.”

“W-what’s stopping you?” 

That comment again. God, she was a relentless tease. 

He stared at her as he gave her pussy a long, teasingly slow lick. She let out a soft whimper at the sensation of his warm tongue against her intimacy. Her juices continued to flow, and he was right there to lap them up with his eager mouth.

Her taste was familiar to his tongue, sweet as summer honeysuckles. His beard rubbed the skin of her inner thighs, and she arched her back as his tongue continued to explore the familiar territory of her folds. His cock throbbed against the tight fabric of his union suit. He longed to be inside her, to hold her against him as their heartbeats began to sync. 

He growled, fumbling with the buttons of his suit and he moved his head back and forth. He ran his hand along his entire length, finally letting it free from its previous confines. 

His wife couldn’t help but glance down and moan at the sight of her husband pleasuring himself while he pleasured her. She bucked against his face, feeling herself reaching her peak.

His calloused thumb made lazy circles around her clit while his other thumb circled the head of his cock. 

Charlotte bit her lip and whimpered, squirming against her husband’s face. 

“That’s it, darlin’,” he growled, “cum for me. You can do it, I know you’re close. Fuck…” His cock leaked with precum. 

She arched her back and moaned out his name, and while no one could feasibly hear them in the middle of the woods, right at that moment it felt like the entire world knew that Arthur Morgan was filling her with ecstasy as she reached her climax. 

She panted, her body coated with a thin layer of sweat. “Oh...Oh, Arthur..”

He panted heavily as well, sliding beside her and kissing her, his face and beard still lingering with the taste and scent of her. 

“Mmm that’s a good girl…” he whispered in her ear. 

Her hands squeezed his glistening biceps, then trailed down to his chest and stomach. She played with his chest hair, a sly smirk on her face. “My big man loves to eat, hmm?” she teased, kissing his neck and nipping his earlobe. 

“You’re damn right I do.” He let out a grunt, his cock twitching. 

Charlotte kissed him and shimmied the rest of his suit down his body. 

“Now we’ve just gotta stay close together so we don’t freeze to death,” she said, her hand gripping his length and stroking it. She kissed his lips, muffling the groan that escaped his mouth. 

“Mmm I want us both facin’ the fire,” he whispered. “No more fightin’ to be on top.” 

“Yes sir.” She obeyed, laying on her side facing the fire. 

He slid her body against his, turning her face so he could kiss her. He lifted her leg, reaching a hand around to rub her pussy, still soaked from their previous interaction. 

He slid inside of her with ease, both of them gasping practically the same breath. His cock inside of her was a familiar feeling that seemed to bring her more pleasure with each thrust. 

His large hand clasped her smaller one, the both of them unable to take their eyes off of the other one. The fire continued to roar, and while the outside raged with icy wrathfulness, the inside of their little cabin was a hearth of comfort and pleasure. 

“Darlin’, I…” he growled, twitching inside of her.

A familiar, floaty feeling began to rise in her stomach, and she let out a soft moan. 

He brought their clasped hands down to her sensitive bundle of nerves. With his hand over hers, he guided her and pleased her, as an artist guides his brush across a canvas, and as an artist creates a passion filled work of art, so too were they.

She squirmed against him, barely able to contain herself as she moaned out broken pieces of his name. 

“That’s it, goddamn that’s it…” he growled in her ear. “Cum with me, be a good girl and cum with me..” 

The fire crackled and sparked and so did she, moaning as she came undone once more. 

Arthur pulled out and groaned, spilling his seed on her stomach. 

The two of them collapsed in a heap of sweat, the both of them panting and staring up at the ceiling, holding hands. 

Finally, Arthur mustered up the strength to get up and retrieve a wet cloth to clean up his wife. He smirked as he cleaned her. “You were so good tonight.”

“So were you, dear.” She kissed him. “You always know exactly what I need.”

The fire began to fizzle out. Charlotte sighed and arose, retrieving a log from the pile and tossing it into the fireplace. The light of the flames illuminated every curve of her nude form. Arthur’s heart beat a bit faster at the sight.

He wished to God he could capture her in that same pose. He’d be sure to sketch a replica of it, hell, maybe have her model for him just so he had an excuse to see her naked again. Either way, the sight of her looking like a work of art made his heart soar. She definitely beat all the dirty cigarette cards he and the old gang members used to trade. 

“Something on your mind, Arthur?” 

He blinked a few times before chuckling. “Nothin’. Just thinkin’ about you and how lovely you look.”

She smiled and lay down beside him, kissing his forehead. “You’ve still got it, darling.”

“Oh, is that so?”

“I’m not kidding. You were wonderful tonight. It was almost identical to our honeymoon.”

He furrowed his brow and turned his head to look at her. “Almost?”

“Well, we weren’t under the stars!”

He looked out the window, the snow still coming down fast. “Darlin’, you’d better be thankin’ the lord we weren’t doin’ it outside. We’d be freezin’ our asses off in all that snow.”

She giggled, nuzzling against him and kissing his chest. “Well we may not have been making love under the stars, but you certainly made me see stars tonight, Mr. Morgan.”

He chuckled, pulling her against him and kissing her one more time before drifting off to sleep. 

[godkilller]

          DRABBLE    //    REDEMPTION VERSE.

          THERE WERE STILL SPECKS OF BLOOD ON THE LIGHT BLUE WRAPPINGS, and Gin surmised it was his own, not Aizen’s, from when his Zanpakuto had been tucked within the folds of his crimson-stained white robes. Not drawn, not used in defense, no, nestled away whilst its master was cut down. A few small blemishes ultimately missed by its temporary keepers, the confiscated blade had been otherwise cleaned and stored away, kept sealed, awaiting something. Gin hadn’t seen it since that day; a whirlwind of destruction, that gleaming blade, toying with the Kurosaki kid via collapsing buildings cut like they were brittle things. Then, plunging, biting, devouring that gaping hole into Aizen’s chest, filled only by a suspended Hogyoku agleam in the pale light of its slain host... falling, falling, and falling right into his waiting hand.

          Shinso hadn’t been the last thing Gin’s right hand held, after all.

          But, the Zanpakuto had been the most familiar with that particular palm instead. Now, as the Second Division Shinigami patiently extended the sheathed weapon out for Gin to take, it felt utterly different...

          There was a seal still placed on it, akin to a muzzle for the spirit-housing sword to not so loudly beckon for its master whilst kept away, so an absence of presence, of connection, felt relatively normal; to be expected. Yet, there was more.

          SOMETHING WAS OFF. It felt... clumsy. This was not the grip meant to slay anything, this was some messy hold meant better for a broom than a sword. He turned it in his hand, then adjusted his grip lower towards the center of its sheathe to find balance as if that would help his derailed experience. Shinso was wrong. Heavier. No, lighter, not quite right. Instinctively, Gin shifted to consider slipping the sheathed blade into its place at his hip, though found he needed to switch sides mid-motion, which he did so quickly to remedy the mistake. SLOWLY, SHINSO FOUND ITS PLACE AT GIN’S RIGHT SIDE, the opposite side that he was accustomed to, adding more fuel to the fires of his disorientation.

          Rangiku was quick in thanking the guards in Gin’s stead, a cheery and upbeat tone meant to swiftly dismiss them without outright saying it; a classic, though he hoped she felt no strain in the act. Gin turned to leave halfway through, knowing full well that their anticipation couldn’t be appeased no matter Rangiku’s passive aggressive urging — they were waiting for Gin to clear the grounds in accordance with his reinstatement regulations. RIGHTFULLY NERVOUS, having at last handed back an ex-criminal his beloved and powerful weapon. Even at half-strength, Gin reckoned he could level the Gotei 13′s various barracks in the surrounding area within one fell swoop.

          That is, if he even had it in him anymore to do so.

          Rangiku caught up to him shortly, especially pleased with herself, made unaware of Gin’s quiet worry; could he even manage his Shikai at this level of discomfort and disarray ? 

          ❝ I actually got them to give you the whole day, you know, instead of the three hour limit they wanted you to do at first? I mean, that was ridiculous, who wants to train with such a strict schedule anyways? It takes me hours just to get Haineko to say a sentence of something useful to me. The last thing I’d need would be to feel rushed. ❞

          RANGIKU’S ATTEMPT AT CONVERSING NORMALLY OVER AN ABNORMAL SITUATION — GIN NEEDING PERMISSION TO HAVE HIS SWORD — WAS APPRECIATED.

          ❝ How long’s it been since ya tried talkin’ with her ? Maybe you oughtta take the day, too. ❞ Gin kept his stride despite Rangiku’s slowing a step or two in response.

          ❝ Don’t poke fun, I’m respecting her space. ❞ A huff, a pout. Rangiku’s hand flew back by habit to rest on the hilt of her sword as though a reassuring shoulder pat whilst coming to the defense of a friend. Haineko was not an easy spirit, Gin knew that much from her various complaints about any meditation being ‘time spent wasted’, mostly. HE WOULDN’T JUDGE, but he also couldn’t help but wonder... did the spirit feel like it was missing something, was Haineko so temperamental about helping Rangiku become stronger because it was a Zanpakuto with a gaping wound ? Was she unable to ascend any further because of what Aizen took ?

           That was a topic for another day. Gin smiled, instead, and kept matters light.

          ❝ Is that what they’re callin’ it these days ? ❞

         RANGIKU SHOT HIM A LOOK, the look, and Gin relented to her.

          ❝ Alright, alright — you’re right. ❞ 

          They walked towards the gates leading beyond the Seireitei together, quiet, for the rest of their route. IT WAS NICE OUTSIDE, a light breeze on a cool day, and the sun was shining past the curtain of gray that had been the previous few days, making its light feel all the warmer despite winter’s telltale chill. The two Shinigami took to a path through the Northern Rukongai, towards the mountainous range far beyond, avoiding the cleared streets for less commotion and conflict with the residents lurking within their shacks. INSTEAD, THEY TOOK THE SCENIC ROUTE, crunching leaves and swaying trees above, brisk, they both knew where to go, even if things had changed since the last century or so. The clearing was vast, outlined by barren trees towards the outskirts of a vacant skeleton row of houses left abandoned, dry dirt at their feet telltale of grounds over-farmed for rare nutrients. Rangiku idly unpacked their provisions; a decently sized blanket geared towards a picnic set-up, a few snacks packed lovingly, some sake bottles  ( of course she would )  ... and at that point Gin turned away to see her unearth nothing further, shaking his head yet smiling all the same. He surveyed their space, the trees, and hummed softly.

          ❝ Dunno — ❞ he projected his voice back to her as he gazed out, then scuffed his foot against the dirt as though testing it, an absent fidget. Looking back to her as she situated their little day outdoors, he couldn’t help but recall the tremoring fracture of Haineko as it absorbed Shinso’s impact, meant for an unconscious Hinamori. HE ALMOST BROKE HER SWORD THEN, back when he had far more control, and now...

          ❝ ... Maybe y’shouldn’t be out here with me, I might nick ya. ❞ Their eyes met for a brief moment before hers went back down to arranging their things, busywork as she thought. Gin watched. She seemed to catch his uncertainty, or at least a portion of it.

          ❝ Well... how about we start small... ❞ Rangiku replied with a gentle hum, then subsequently pat the space next to her as she situated herself onto the blanket, with Haineko on the opposing side, sheathed and set proper. Gin obeyed, approaching and slowly lowering himself down next to her as desired. He slid Shinso free from his waist, then set it down in a way which mirrored Rangiku, head tilting at her suggestion. ❝ Let’s both drop in and say hi. That’s easy, right ? ❞

          ❝ Thought y’were givin’ her space. ❞ Gin eyed her with a weakened playfulness.

          ❝ The lengths I’ll go for you. ❞ SHE DID NOT MISS A BEAT.

          Fair enough, Jinzen it was. Gin shrugged and sighed out, then took Shinso to place the sheathed blade into position across his legs within his lap. He sneakily peered at Rangiku for a moment as she also assumed the meditative position, endearingly so, especially the subtle frown of concentration caressing her expression, the fluttered eyelashes pressing closed in focus, the stray hairs tickling at her temples with the slightest kiss of a breeze. Gin hesitated only a second longer, then shifted and closed his eyes, too.

          THE CONNECTION SURGED WITHIN AN INSTANT.

          Whipping winds rushed around him, and he was no longer seated within a pleasant clearing, dirt and grass and swaying trees, no. GIN WAS WITHIN A BARREN WORLD NOW, assaulted by snow and ice and freezing air that ripped at his form. When he opened his eyes to seek the giant serpent within his inner world, the space not even two steps ahead of him wasn’t visible past the blizzard and downpour of snow and icy mist, graying his surroundings in such brutality that nary an outstretched hand could be seen, let alone a mountainous range of sleek silver scales stretching for kilometers down a frozen lake. If he couldn’t see Shinso, then the near-blind spirit certainly couldn’t see him. GIN VENTURED OUT ONTO THE ICY SURFACE MADE SMOOTH, black shoes the sole contrast in an otherwise white outfit — ah, wait, Gin stopped to inspect himself, a jarring moment of two hands raised to observe a familiar pale outfit he hadn’t been wearing prior to entering this world; Shinso hadn’t seen him since Karakura Town, of course, so perhaps there had been a disconnect in what he was wearing when manifested... among other things which needed updating. Gin flexed his right hand, curious, and then clutched it shut. It felt cold, no aid to be given by his current environment, but it was distinctly more numb than his left. Odd.

          Clearly, they needed some catching up.

          Careful steps slid forward across the frozen water, though Gin did not fear falling through; it rarely thawed, he must’ve been just a kid when it was thinned enough for his curious childish eyes to catch fish swimming beneath his feet. Sometimes the snow died down to a gentle dusting, a pleasant whisper of winter as opposed to this oppressive force. Gin did not shiver quite yet, though shielded his eyes in searching for his Zanpakuto’s massive spirit; SURELY HE’D SPOT HIM BY NOW...

          Maybe he’d taken shelter, in which case Gin doubled back from wandering across the stilled lake, treaded back through heavy snow till it reached his knees and numbed his legs with a wet clinging chill. NOW he was shivering...

          ❝ Shinso ?! ❞ Though Gin did not normally SHOUT, he attempted to do so now, only for it to feel as though his voice had been swept away by the winds and swallowed right up. No luck, he’d just have to go looking around; the shack had to be his next best bet, perhaps his spirit wasn’t in its truest form right now, hunkered down to survive the turmoil and relentless weather beneath a rickety old wooden home not nearly big enough for a thirteen kilometer serpent dragon to squeeze into. Gin had half the mind to Shunpo over, make things quick, but with the winds and howling pelts of snow, he couldn’t quite tell which direction to go. At least, a few spare boards of wood knocked against his ankle, a hissing collision that told Gin to veer right, THERE IT WAS, somehow — almost practically buried, this pathetic thing he called home once, long ago. The raised point of its triangular rooftop was half caved, that same damned spot as always seemed to have given way for the ice and snow to pour in. The entryway was completely swallowed, snow climbing to the last few breaths of its threshold. Gin would have to dig.

          By the time an opening presented itself, his hands were sufficiently numbed, reddened and bared till he felt blistering begin from the bite of cold... but at the very least he could wedge his way inside —— small quarters, and half was obstructed from the pile pooling in at the doorway, and another opening from the roof let snow pillar upwards in the pale light filtering through. THE SHACK MADE EVERYTHING SOUND QUIETER, softened sounds kept at bay via the buried snow packing its wooden frame into place. IT WAS SMALL ENOUGH FOR GIN TO KNOW THAT HE WAS ALONE IN HERE, no one else could be curled up in any corner, and he braced himself against the neighboring wall once he finished wriggling through the snow. He shook both his hands to get feeling back into them, but his left merely stung as his right moved in numbed silence. On the dirt floor, a gleam caught Gin’s eyes.

          There, disregarded on the ground, was his blade.

          Gin took it, breathed in, and then turned to clamber his way back outside. Shinso had to be near, on the lake somewhere, for this sword to be laying around. THERE WAS NOWHERE ELSE TO GO, A SIMPLE ABYSS. Maybe the serpent had traveled across the stretching grand lake fully, into the mountainous horizon beyond ? Had his Zanpakuto spirit retreated inward so thoroughly ? Well, now Gin had the blade, so he could hone in, at the very least, if he got warm. Speaking of warm, IT WAS FREEZING ! 

         ❝ Who’re ya, HYORINMARU now ?! ❞ A futile prod at the absent spirit thusly swallowed by the winds again. Gin kept his stride onto the lake again, glad to be freed from knee-high heavy snow swallowing his every step. Here, he could glide across the sleek surface with a single step, the frozen waters only subtly dusted by snow as the winds stole all else and kicked it back up into the cold air. Gin huffed out a visible breath, then veered onwards.

          The first thrum of energy, awakening, wasn’t quite felt; his palm was completely numbed into a state of occasional biting stings, hot across the rayskin gripped within a raw palm, and Gin thought nothing of it. Until the second pulse, a shudder cracking the ground beneath his feet —— and the blade in his hand was the beacon, the epicenter for the following waves, tremors, threatening to dart another fissure across the glassy ice below. Gin fought instincts to retreat, and instead knelt down to inspect the lake’s surface. FROSTED, CAPTURED BUBBLES OF AIR AND OTHER DEBRIS WITHIN THE WATER AS IT WAS FROZEN MADE FOR AN IMPERFECT REFLECTIVE SURFACE, and thus Gin was able to squint past its thick ice and into the depths, in which a gleam of rows of silver scales laid dormant below.

          It was Shinso in all of his magnificent glory, stretching its large snake-like husk for miles beneath the ice, swirling its silver-armored hide as though frozen in the act of coiling, slithering, writhing out in a gaping expression, massive fangs shrinking Gin in size, mouth opened wide just underneath where its master now stood, forked tongue reaching blindly out for the surface it did not breech. AH, HE MUST HAVE DROWNED INTO THE ICY WATERS, capsizing during Gin’s downfall, and then stolen away by the Second Division to never recover. Locked into a frozen tomb.

          The blade beckoned within his hand, and he knew Shinso needed more than some idling observations. FREEDOM.

          Gin plunged his blade into the ice, stabbed deep, then withdrew it to stab and chip again at another spot, cutting and wedging the blade in attempts to fracture the frozen lake. IT WAS MINISCULE, HIS EFFORTS WITH A SMALL BLADE, but bit by bit ... Gin reckoned he could carve the spirit free with the dormant wakizashi in his hand, all thirteen kilometers of him if need be...

          There was blood mixed with chunks of shattered ice, shreds of snow and frozen water tainted by crimson as Gin worked with blistering hands rubbed raw in the cold. HE WAS CERTAIN HE COULDNT FEEL HIS FINGERS ANYMORE, and both hands were needed to anchor his strikes downward as he worked to free his frozen companion from the ice. Gin couldn’t let go either, his hands were both stiff and clamped shut around his weapon; like it or not, this was his only option. By now, there was an ample section around the grand snake’s snout almost to the point in which Gin could reach down and touch scales rather than ice. HE STILL HAD PLENTY MORE SNAKE TO DIG OUT, and kept to his duty despite the sting of winter beating him down. He must’ve dug for hours more, clearing out adequate space around the serpent’s head. Gin paused to breathe, having clambered his way down towards the beginnings of Shinso’s throat beneath the smooth surface, and quietly shivered into a curled position during his break. HE COULDN’T STOP SHAKING NOW...

          ❝ Th-this would be easier i-if I h...ad a shovel, y’know, ❞ Gin shuddered and clamped his jaw, then focused back on keeping his momentum, his motivation, his drive — he struck his blade back into the ice. A tremor shook the lake again, odd sounds creaking and groaning, echoing, rebounding into the abyss as the ice shifted beneath Gin’s feet. IN AN INSTANT, THE ICE BEGAN TO SPLIT, shattering and breaking apart into freezing waters below, and Gin was promptly swallowed into the depths.

          Had he not been numbed by it all prior, Gin figured his subsequent drowning into icy waters would have struck his body like a building being slammed onto his chest. His lungs instantly jolted to a choking halt, and his entire frame went rigid in arrest, sent plunging down into swirling dark water, ripping currents — falling, falling, brittle to the bone with cold Gin felt akin to dying, shards of freezing glass pelting around him, and a final gasp of his lungs expelled the last of his air. SURELY HE WAS DYING, could he even die inside his inner world ? He couldn’t remember the specifics, the logic in him whispered something but he couldn’t hear it, and everything was fuzzy.

          A solid surface struck him, lifted, until Gin breeched the surface in a splash and sputter, coughing and hacking at the water that managed to squeeze itself into his ragged breaths. THE WINDS WERE RELENTLESS STILL, merciless to his now soaked frame shivering atop the massive sleek scales of Shinso’s coiling body. From the corner of Gin’s eyes, half-shut by slickened bangs and wet hair already freezing in the winds, he saw the large shadow of Shinso’s raising head, the darting flick of his forked tongue casting a delayed dash of air displaced by its large, quick motion. Gin cracked a smile even in his pain, his shivering pathetic state.

         ❝ G-good to s...see ya, ❞ and a cough, a teeth-clattering shudder. Gin straightened the best he could, hunched for warmth he could not find, yet feeling a spark underneath the intense gaze of the serpent housing him. WAVES OF WATER CLASHED AGAINST KAMISHINI NO YARI’S MONSTROUS FORM BELOW, Gin was raised higher now, almost enough to cut above the low storm clouds up high, into the night sky beyond the gray. The serpent was its own mountain range, coils stretched beyond visibility and off across the rest of the grand lake now shattered below. HE COULD FEEL SHINSO’S RELIEF; at being released from his tomb, his state of suspended death, yet also at Gin, MORESO AT GIN, glad to see its master still alive.

          BOOMING IN HIS TEMPLES, HIS MIND ALIGHT, NUMEROUS VOICES SPOKE AT ONCE...

          Are you alright  ( where did you go )  is Aizen still alive  ( why did you not draw me out )  why did we not fight  ( why did I feel you give in )  did we win  ( where is Rangiku )  did Ichigo prevail  ( did Karakura Town fall )  WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU ? WE DID NOT FADE SO WE KNEW YOU DID NOT DIE, AND YET... WE COULD ONLY WAIT AND DESPAIR !

          ❝ We — n-need to... t-talk. ❞ 

[mindfulwrathwrites]

Sunny in the Golden Grave (Excerpt): The Mine

Been meaning to write this out for a GOOD long while, and what better time than the finale of my Month Of Spoooooky Stories?

Words: 2,397 Warnings: General horror

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...

Six inches from the entrance of the mine, the brisk spring night gave way to a stifling, stagnant chill. It wasn't much cooler or warmer than outside, but it was changed. Sunny's breath clouded the air in front of him, picked out like steam from a locomotive by the sharp blue moonlight. Casey went a few more steps before he stopped, too. The darkness before them was absolute, a long throat full of cool, moist air, like a dead thing that had never sighed out its final breath.

"Well, they got the piles in, so—" Casey began, smacking a huge timber that was set into the wall. Splinters crumbled from it, and Casey's hand came back stained with rot. He made a face and wiped it on his trousers. "Eh, I was gonna say we don't gotta worry about the roof falling down, but."

"We oughtta go back," said Sunny.

"Tsch, after we come all of this way? Always you are saying we should leave. We come all the way to Richmond—but we should leave Richmond. We shlep all of the way up to this mine—but we should leave the mine. Hey, fine, if you're not gonna come, then hand over the lantern."

Sunny clutched the lantern to his chest. The rattle of glass against metal rolled down the long dark like a lost coin.

"No way in hell," he said.

"OK, so then put a light in it and let's go," said Casey. "Come on, we don't got all night."

He was right about that, at least; they had about an hour of moonlight left, thanks to the next row of mountains to the west. Sunny braced himself against his spine and fished the matches out of his pocket. It took him four tries to light the lantern—the inside was slick with dew, even the wick. He had to take it back outside in the open air to get it to work. When he brought it back in, the glass fogged up, leaving the light dim and diffuse.

"I hate this shit," he muttered, clammy hands walking their way up his spine. "Why are we doing this, I hate this shit."

"Sunny, bubbeleh, it was your idea," Casey said kindly.

"Yeah, and I'm a moron, what's your point?"

"Well, that an hour ago, you were gnashing all of your teeth wanting to know what is going on down here. What with the disappearing of miners and the murdering of people and the ransoming of children? And the mystery bags of gold to come tumbling down the mountainside, also."

"Shut up and walk," Sunny muttered, shouldering past him. Casey shrugged and followed.

The throat of the mine constricted around them, narrow and breathless. The floor sloped down at an angle on the precarious side of shallow. The last trickles of moonlight were strangled out in under a minute, leaving only the foggy, golden lantern light. Casey had to keep his head down to avoid bumping it on the struts that held the ceiling up. The walls were rough and craggy. The darkness yawned ahead of them. Every breath was thicker than the last. Their footsteps scurried out ahead of them like rats. The air was so still that to disturb it was like pushing through cobwebs.

Still, they pushed onward. The tunnel meandered, at times steeper or shallower, splintering off narrower passages at random points. Each of these was so dark and tight and crumbling that there was no discussion about ever entering one. Sunny and Casey continued down the main passage for a minute, three minutes, five. It was easy to lose track in the dark. Only Casey's pocket watch kept the time from escaping into the choking dark.

Ten minutes in, Casey took off his jacket. Five minutes later, Sunny noticed the sweat trickling down his own sides, between his shoulder blades, the backs of his legs. The condensation on the lantern glass became so thick that it trickled down, too, casting filamentous lines around the tunnel. The walls were sheened with moisture, sweating and slick. The dust on the floor turned to mud. The echo of their footsteps grew muffled.

"Eesh," Casey whispered, wiping the sweat off his forehead. "Is it just me, or is it getting hot in here?"

"It ain't just you," Sunny whispered back. "Jesus, how deep does this thing go? All the way to Hell?"

(He was only half-joking.)

"No such place," said Casey.

"Says you."

"Ya, and says five thousand years of people before me, too."

"Well—there's gotta be something down here."

"Coal fire?"

"It ain't a coal mine."

"OK, some other kind of fire, maybe."

Sunny shook his head. "No smoke. Let's just keep going, maybe we'll find . . . something."

They pressed on. The splinter-caverns became smaller and sparser until they disappeared completely. The main tunnel grew broader and wetter and hotter. There were no more timbers. The walls were smooth, no longer carved by the jagged chewing of pickaxes. With the sheen of water rolling down the curved walls, they looked almost polished.

Twenty minutes into the mine, Sunny became aware of the noise.

It started low, a gentle shiver that could have been an underground river, a tiny earthquake, the mutter of a cave-in deep below. He stopped in his tracks and caught Casey's arm, but the shiver did not stop, or grow, or change at all.

"What?" Casey said.

"You feel that?"

"No, what?"

Sunny chewed his lip. "I ain't sure. Something."

Casey cocked his head to the side, scrunched up his face, shook his head.

"I don't feel anything," he said.

"Yeah, well," said Sunny. He wiped the sweat off his face, switched the lantern to his other hand. "I get the feeling you will, pretty soon."

And they pressed on, deeper, darker, hotter and closer. The low vibrations became a rumble, distant and echoing. If Sunny listened closely, shut his eyes and focused, there was almost a rhythm to it, a steady pulse and ebb like a heartbeat.

He didn't listen closely for very long.

Not long after that, they found the first gold vein. It traced lazily along the marble-smooth wall, glinting and sparkling where it wasn't a dark, rich brown. Casey reached up to touch it. Sunny lunged out and grabbed his wrist. The lantern slipped from his sweat slick hand. Glass smashed. The light went out.

Darkness engulfed them like floodwaters. Sunny froze, his heart in his throat, his stomach balled up to the size of a raisin. Casey's wrist was clammy in his hand, as thin and tough as whipcord. His breath stirred Sunny's hair. The rumble filled the silence. In the pitch darkness, it was impossible to miss the rhythm of it.

"You dumb sonnuva bitch," Sunny hissed. "Now look what you done!"

"So pick it up and light it back, what's the big problem?"

"How am I supposed to find it?"

"It's a square, it's not gonna roll. Just kneel down and pick it up."

"You kneel down and pick it up! I—"

Sunny cut himself off. He squinted. He held his breath. He squinted some more. It had to be a trick of his eyes, befuddled by the completeness of the dark. He waved his hand in front of his face. He looked down at the floor, where shards of glass lay helter-skelter on the smooth floor.

Picked out, ever so faintly, by a dull orange glow.

"Ah, Sunny?" Casey said, much more quietly than when he'd last spoken. "I am thinking, maybe, actually you should not put the light back on."

"Y'know, I was just thinking the same thing," said Sunny. "I'm also thinking we maybe oughtta stop with the chit-chat."

"Ya," said Casey. "I think this, also."

Carefully, as carefully as he could, Sunny crouched down and picked up what was left of the lantern. A few more pieces of glass fell out, and the clatter was deafening. He held his breath. There was no other sound, save for the constant rumble. He did not let go of Casey's wrist. Together, they picked their way around the broken glass and continued, onward and downward.

The slope became steeper, the floor slicker. Veins of gold laced the walls, curling around the passage like the tendrils of some great and many-legged creature. They gleamed in the half-light, unnaturally bright. Sunny and Casey both kept well clear of them. When Sunny let go of Casey's wrist, Casey took his hand instead. With every step, the light grew brighter—candle-light, torch-light, fire-light, until at last it was the red-orange glow of just-past-sunset, clear enough to see the gold veins choking out the rock on the walls, the glittering dust beneath their feet. It was so hot that they were both sweating through their clothes, the air so thick it was nigh impossible to breathe.

At long, long last, they came to the end of the tunnel.

The wide, round mouth of it opened into a vast chamber. The reddish light came from everywhere and nowhere, the far distances of the chamber lost not to darkness, but to haze. Massive pillars held up the ceiling, bulbous and twisted. Bizarre formations littered the floor, heaps and piles, hills and valleys. In the clutter, in the dizzying visual noise of the place, the shiver of the ever-present rumble, Sunny's eyes struggled to pull unfamiliar shapes into familiar ones. Was that a twisted filament, or an arm? A face, or just the play of strange shadows on strange shapes? Tangles of fibrous ore, or of bodies?

All of it, every bulb and filament, every pillar and hillside, was made of gleaming, glittering, glistening gold.

"Holy shit," Sunny breathed. The sound muttered through the stagnant air, a stirring in a sleeping place. It was impossible to take in the scale of it. The wealth it would have represented was completely incalculable, completely beyond comprehension. In the dim, hazy light, the gold took on a sickly sheen, feverish. Sunny did not go forward. Casey did not, either. They stood together on the threshold, gawping, hand clasped on sweating hand.

Far out, out in the heat and the noise and the haze, far out in the gold, with a sound like the screech of twisting metal, something moved.

Casey's hand clenched on Sunny's. Sunny clenched right back. His vision blurred with watching. His ears rang with listening. Was it getting brighter in here? Was the rumble getting louder?

To his right, just out from behind one of those massive pillars, something flickered—the glint of light off metal. And on the other side, like the bending of wheat fields in a breeze, some gentle motion, some ripple of light. Another squeal, almost pig-like. A groan, a mutter. A shifting of heavy air.

"OK," Casey whispered. "I think now we should go."

Sunny's feet were rooted to the floor, his knees locked, his spine a solid rod. His jaw was clenched like a padlock. Casey dug fingernails into the back of his hand, gripped so tight it pried his knuckles apart.

"Sunny," he said, and his voice was shaking. "We need to go, now."

A flicker of movement to his right, accompanied by that groaning, screeching sound, close and quiet. He didn't dare to turn his head. In the corner of his eye, a long, thin, golden limb unfolded, jerky, rusted, twitching and tortured. Clawing golden fingers dug into gleaming golden floors. A shuddering heave. A lurch of some massive, bulbous form. A rising glow, like a suffocating ember once again given air.

And on the other side, another; and in the haze, another; and echoing back through the chamber, the screech and squeal and groan of several, dozens, hundreds—more.

"Sunny, now!" Casey shouted. The sound echoed like a gunshot. The whole room shuddered. Through the haze, light; through the rumble, a deafening, blistering shriek.

Through the gold, movement.

Terror hit Sunny in the spine like lightning. He whipped around. He fell. Boots scrabbled at glitter dust. Casey hauled him up. The lantern clattered down. They ran.

Light bloomed up the tunnel. Heat blasted their backs. The sound, the horrendous sound—

They ran. Slick floors, steep grades. The tunnels twisted. Sunny couldn't breathe. Scrabbling, chugging, screeching, heat like a bonfire, blazing light. They ran. Casey slipped, fell, cried out. Sunny skidded. He darted back. He grabbed Casey. Light and heat and noise, the whole tunnel shaking. Sunny looked up.

A massive golden thing swarmed up the tunnel, hundreds of arms clawing at the walls, faceless and headless and shrieking, burning bright as the sun, chugging and roiling and scrambling and hungry.

Sunny heaved Casey upright, screaming. Casey heaved on Sunny. If he screamed, Sunny couldn't hear it. The thing crashed up the tunnel like a tidal wave.

They ran.

Craggy walls flashed past. A hundred black mouths gaped at them from either side. The tunnel juked and wrenched, narrowed, steepened. They plunged headlong into the dark, shadows thin and stark before them. The smell of snow. Timbers shattered. Rock crumbled. The floor was ragged, treacherous. Sunny's whole body burned, screaming with pain.

The floor disappeared.

His stomach dropped. He tumbled, head-over-heels, down a scree slope, skidded, scraped, stopped. The cold struck him like a slap in the face. Casey came tumbling down next to him. A cloud of dust rose around them. Light blazed from the tunnel mouth. The roar of a locomotive thundered out into the valley, full-throated, deafening.

The thing burst from the tunnel like a massive, headless, golden centipede.

Sunny screamed. Casey scrambled back. The thing reeled, screeching. A hundred arms flailed at the air. The bulbous body twisted, shuddered, writhed. Splotches of brown spread across its surface, smothering the terrible light. Where the browning reached its arms, they jerked and curled and stiffened, claw-ended with pain. Shrieking that terrible tooth-grating shriek, twitching and lurching, the thing dimmed, and slowed, and retracted, back into the tunnel. The sound faded. Pebbles skittered down the scree slope and grew still. Silence reclaimed the night. The tunnel mouth grew dark. The cold seeped through Sunny's clothes and bit into his nose and ears. A slow, burning pain suffused his legs and lungs and shoulders. Next to him, Casey drew a long, shivering breath.

"Sunny?" he said.

"Yeah?" said Sunny; dazed, reeling, winded.

"What the fuck was that?"

[kazieka]

Whumptober Day 5 - Gunpoint

whoops i’m running late! here’s yesterday’s prompt featuring Firefly, because after all this time i still adore Firefly with all my heart

“So… what flavor of crime is it today?” Simon finally dared, peering over Kaylee’s shoulder.

Kaylee straps the biggest crate she could find to the back of the lander and inspects it with a critical eye. “There’s an ol’ Alliance cruiser planetside,” she says, apparently satisfied with the crate’s placement. “The Titania. Combustion coil died, or so I think, an’ all the crew had to shuttle off. Alliance has been lookin’ for the wreck, but ain’t no one’s snitched.”

“So… a salvage job?” Simon is pretty sure that’s the right term. He’s getting the hang of space piracy.

“Naw. Well, sorta. They’ve called off the search and presumed the cruiser lost, so every salvager in the quadrant’s been circling, waiting for it to be legal to strip down.”

“Ah. So we’re competing for first rights to the wreck?”

“That’s the plan!” Kaylee swings herself up on the lander and starts clipping buckles in place. “Barrin’ any unpleasantries.”

Simon considers that. “I feel like there’ll be some unpleasantries.”

Kaylee sighs. “There usually is.”

-

“So you’ll be taking your shuttle,” snarls the bearded man with a thick Core accent, “and heading right back where you’ve come from.”

Captain Reynolds doesn’t flinch, or even really react. He just sighs real deep and puts his gun away. “This is our salvage,” he explains for the dozenth time, “and that’s our preacher. You can’t have neither.”

Shepherd Book is surprisingly calm for being held at gunpoint. If anything, he seems a bit annoyed. “Sir,” he starts, but a click of the gun silences him.

“Zoe,” Mal says, not even turning to look at her, “am I speakin’ common? I sound like I’m speakin’ Common to me.”

“Sounds that way, Captain.” Zoe eyes the bearded man with exhausted disdain. “Seems to me we oughtta take the good preacher and head for the next salvage.”

The Titania looms above them. She’s small for an Alliance cruiser, but planetside, anything looks huge. Her hull lists in the sand dunes, her bottom up and slowly buried. The sand shifts and wriggles with desert snakes.

“I could stand to be bought out,” Mal admits. He takes the gun back out of its holster, calmly ignoring the bearded man’s jump. “Wouldn’t come cheap, though. I got a lot of crew to feed.”

The bearded man scowls and jams the barrel hard into the Shepherd’s back. “You ain’t gonna see a gorram credit.”

The Titania groans.

“Hear that?” Mal makes a show of putting his hand to his ear. “Sand’s gonna take the wreck while you’re here haggling with me. You fancy digging it out of a mile-deep dune, or you fancy payin’ for salvage rights?”

“You fancy watching your chaplain’s insides come outside?” the bearded man snarls. He cocks the gun.

“If’n you were gonna shoot someone, you’d’ve done it already.” Mal spits on the barrel of his own gun, rubs it in with a grimy sleeve that hasn’t seen the inside of a washer for too many weeks. “So kindly return our Shepherd before he meets that Maker he’s always going on about, throw some credits over here, and we’ll be on our merry way.”

The bearded man seems to think that over. It’s a good sign. The stopping to think pause is usually a precursor to victory. “I’ve got no credits,” he says, and the Core accent fades a little bit into the familiar rimworld one. “Best I can pay you is a brick of adderite.”

To his credit, Mal manages to look disgusted. “Fuck am I supposed to sell adderite in this system?” he barks. “I ain’t making a trip to the Core just to try and find a buyer. Liable to get into some unpleasantries with the law there.”

“It’s adderite or your friend in a pine box,” the bearded man shouts, and Shepherd Book winces away from the noise at his ear, earning another jab with the gun.

The captain mulls it over. The Titania creaks under her own weight, sinking another inch into the silky sand.

The wind whips the dust into little cyclones. Zoe placidly watches them spin, waiting for orders.

“All right,” Mal says. “Throw the adderite, then let the preacher go.”

“An’ you’ll be on your way,” the bearded man says. “No funny business.”

“No funny business,” Mal confirms.

The man digs a hand around in the pack at his feet, keeping the gun buried in Book’s back with the other. He draws a loosely-wrapped block out and tosses it. It lands with a soft thump in the sand at Zoe’s feet. She scoops it up, pulls back the linen wrap. The adderite underneath gleams.

“Checks out, sir.”

Mal nods. “All right. Now for the religion merchant.”

The man takes a half step back, nudges Book with the barrel. “Walk,” he orders. “Real slow-like.”

Inch by inch, Book shuffles forward in the sand, hands up. He’s had them up for so long, Zoe wonders if he still has feeling in them. “Blessed are the peacemakers,” he says.

In unison, Malcolm and the bearded man groan. “Shut up an’ walk,” the bearded man says, as Mal says, “Lord, Shepherd, give it a rest.” The men share a look of surprised comradery before returning their attention to the ten-foot span of sand between them.

Book finally gets close enough for Zoe to grab his wrist and pull him behind her.

“Now,” says the bearded man, sparing a backwards glance at the Titania’s exposed hull as she groans again, “you better get your behinds off this planet ‘fore I change my mind.”

Mal takes his time packing the adderite away, fiddling with the linen wrap, before giving Zoe and Book a nod. “Guess we better move along to the next salvage,” he says, far too loud. “Pleasure to meetcha.”

He turns and strides through the sand, kicking up clouds of dust. Zoe and Book follow.

“You’d give up a salvage for me?” Book says, when he’s pretty sure they’re out of earshot. “Captain, I’m flattered.”

“Don’t be,” Mal says. “And walk faster.”

Far behind them, the bearded man turns back to the hulking Titania. The thought of all the salvage inside that will make him rich…

The Titania creaks, then suddenly the top of her hull, dozens of feet overhead, starts to tilt.

The bearded man dives aside as the Titania’s hull falls aside, like the husk of an empty pecan shell, like a set on a play, falling flat on the sand.

Behind the hull, there’s only a few scraps of twisted metal, and a lander far in the distance, vanishing in clouds of dust.

Kaylee, still clipping crates full of salvage to the lander even as Jayne speeds dangerously for the ship, whoops and waves her blowtorch at the remnants of the ship behind them. “Seven minutes!” she hollers. “That’s a brand new record!”

“Just secure the haul!” Jayne bellows over the wind and the whine of the lander. “Any of this falls off, captain’ll have your head!”

Kaylee howls with laughter the whole way back to the ship.

[cuthie]

Omru: Talk Talk Talk

Dripping.

  Vul’dun was a hot desert often frequented by raging sandstorms. The heat could be downright oppressive and water a scarce resource. So when Omru came to, the sound of dripping water was almost alien to his large vulpine ears. Slowly he brought his hands to his eyes, wiping the crud sleep had gathered along his lashes.

Drip, drip-drip, drip.

  Om groaned as he sat up, his eyes adjusting to the dim light. Beneath him was a thin blanket atop a smooth stone. The air was relatively warm and along the walls were torches being held by small earthen sconces. He was inside a cave, that much was certain, though not one he was familiar with. In the corner was a very small shallow pool, and what was interesting was that water seemed to drip down only above the puddle and nowhere else. Near the water was an odd red metal object, drilled into the stone itself. The drill had a flickering blue light that seemed to match the rhythm of the dripping droplets.

Blink blink blink, drip drip drip.

  Light flickered at the opposite end of the cave as a hooded figure passed before a torch, revealing an exit Om hadn’t initially seen. A trick of the stone, it only looked to be a solid room, the far cavern wall blending into what looked like a stone hallway. This hooded figure began to sing in the most off key croaking sounds Omru had ever heard.

“Oh wella wella wella woop, tell me mo’, tell me mo’, how much dough did he spend?”

  Omru snarled his muzzle, “If you’re gonna kill me, then kill me quickly. I can’t bare this kinda torture a moment longer.” The hooded figure stepped into the torchlight, revealing himself to be an odd furless bipedal creature.. Like a troll but not quite, Vulperine in size,and ugly as sin.

“Ey, I been nurturin’ yous back ta life with these songs. Fuggin kids today don’t appreciate nothin, I tell ya. Anyways, welcome back to tha land of tha livin’. We diden getta meet proper last time, on account of yous was seducin’ rocks with them pipes. I’m jelly, ta tell ya true. At’s a gift, kid, but damn if I ain’t all befuddled tryin ta figure out what that’s gotta do wit’ shamanism. And I’m sure you gots questions too, so let’s have a nice chat. Whaddaya say? Tha name’s Pazaz. Pazaz Nunya Bidniz, proud member of the Earthen Ring and.. Kindy sorta semi ashamed member of the notorious Horde. Heh.”

  Omru’s big bright orange eyes blinked in mild disbelief. He wasn’t really up and up on his history, but Horde sounded like a familiar word. What really struck his interest was this green ball of hot air’s funky way of talking. Of course, trading tales and exchanging information was a way of life out in the desert, often a profitable one. Still, this guy had saved his life, so Om wasn’t withholding. “Omru. I kind of remember you. I’ll be honest, waking up, I kind of thought I had just dreamt you into creation. Sooo, what happened and where are we?”

“Omru what? No last name?”

“Nah. Having more than one name just sounds complicated. I’ve heard of a few, though.”

  Paz shrugged, “Cool. Okay, so, I came here ta Sargeras’s butthole on a super secret mission. Recruitin good guys to fix the world’s problems. Ain’t secret no mo’s, is it? Aha! Along the way, I saw that a buncha you fox folks was all chained up and/or enslaved. Slavery is uh.. We had it back in Kezan, former island paradise of my peoples the Goblins. I had a few myself, but I done learnt the errors of my ways, yeah? So I went about settin yous all free. Ain’t that sweet’a me? You remember that bit, for sure. I smashed them shackles right offa yous, then ya summoned an elemental to smash them slavers into snake dust. You passed out, ya babysitter picked ya up, and I lead you and about a dozen more Vulpera out ta safety. The Horde’s got the rest of your friends.. Or family or whatever. I kept you, though. Even built up these lil digs. I ain’t the best healer, but it got the job done. Your turn, tell me about the rock monster you employed.”

  Omru’s eyes darted from corner to corner in the room as he absorbed the story. Sargeras? Probably a religious figure. Goblins. That sounded familiar, right? He had heard of them before. Probably. He scratched at the back of his neck, his shoulders feeling stiff as he did. In response, he hopped up off the ‘table’ and stretched out. For a moment he just patted himself down, checking that all of his parts were there, then curled his tail to his arm for inspection. Everything seemed fine. Better than when he was chained up for sure. Hm. “So. You saved me, thanks, I owe you. Rock monster, huh? Yeah, she came in handy. I’ll be honest, not too sure how it all works. Just something I found a few months ago. Not Rocky, but the totem on the rawhide. That was my second time using it, glad it worked. Now, you said you kept me here instead of leaving me with the rest at the Horde camp. Why?”

  Pazaz picked at his nose with his pinky finger, then flicked the booger towards a wall to let it stick. “Found it. That don’t sound right.”

  Omru cringed. Ugh, what a dirty little bastard. He took a second to shake the image from his head, “Well, that’s the truth. I find lots of things. Not all of them summon stone guardians though. That’s why it’s my most prized possession.”

Paz exhaled, “So you don’t know nothin ‘bout shamanism?”

“I know it’s a thing that a couple troll tribes do to talk to ghosts, trees and bugs.”

Paz rolled his eyes, “That ain’t right, ya numb skull. Ghosts? Sure. Trees? Nah-uh. Bugs? No way. The elements kid. We commune with the whole flippin’ world.”  Shaking his head, he pointed towards the red metal machine dug into the stone near the pool, “That’s my water totem. I’m a shammy extree-fuggin-ordinaire. And that’s why you’re with me instead of the goof troop back in the sand bunker. Horde is uh.. Horde is good people sometimes, but bad people to they’s enemies. I diden want’cha involved with them until I talked to yous first. The Earthen Ring, remember I told ya I work for’em? They’re all shaman. They all got different ways of talkin to the elements, maybe even some of them sing, heh. Me, personally? I write contracts, with a small exception for my favorite breath of fresh air. Anyways, yeah, I’m kinda hopin to recruit yous. You got talent, kid. Not just singin, which was great. Like, dream big, you could make it as an entertainer. But communin’ with the earth the way ya did? It was casual, natural even, right? Folks don’t just pick up a totem and use it. Magic don’t work that way, the elements don’t work that way. So the way I sees it? You got shamanism in ya blood. Or mayhap ya just an elemental bard or some shit and you’s singin is all magickal and whatnot. I dunno, but I think with a couple of years learnin from the Earthen Ring, yous could help repair the planet. Maybe. Shamanism is hard as fel. Anyways, Azeroth needs all the repairs she can get. Whether you know this or not, this bitch is about to flip on it’s back and flat out die. Dead. D.E.D. Dead. You unnastand the words what’re comin outta my mouth?”

  Omru folded his arms over his chest as he stared at the metal totem. It was nothing like his own mystical treasure. His was a small wooden vulpine carving attached to rawhide. This thing was ten to twenty times bigger, metal and blinking. Weird. Shamanism wasn’t a foreign concept, he had seen a shaman or two. Some of the Vulpera even. Honestly though? He had no idea where he would even start with such an offer, but, he did owe this guy. “Uh. I’m getting like every other word. Cultural differences and all that. You want me to be a shaman and meet your friends? That’s- Not in the stars, my friend. Sorry, I just don’t see myself putting on religious garb and becoming best friends with the clouds. I can help in other ways, though. I mean, I owe you my life. Oh and where are we? You didn’t say. Not many sources of water out here.”

  Paz grinned, his sharpened goblin teeth akin to a baby shark’s, do doo do doo do doo, “Shame. It ain’t for everyone, and for all I know, yous got lucky with the necklace. Anyways, far as where we is? We’re only a hop skip anna jump from where I snuck into the Slitherfucks nest to save yous. The pool comes from ocean water, my friend. I got it flowin through the ground, donatin it’s salts to the earth. This shit is clean as a night elf’s moonwell. It’s purity yous can taste. I oughtta bottle it up and write that on tha label, yeah?”

Omru’s eyes widened further, “You can do that?”

“Kid, stick with me and you’ll see that ain’t much ole Paz can’t do.”

“Okay, how? I’m listening, I’m curious to learn.”

  Paz interlocked his fingers together, pushing his hands out until the bones made a light popping noise, “Alright, first one’s free, aha.” Grinning, he walked over to a small leather backpack, taking just a minute to open it and rummage about to eventually pull out a glowing golden scroll, “This here is a contract. They ain’t always so pretty, but I like ta get all fancy. You can’t read it, don’t ask, but I’ll give yous tha jist of it. I made peace witta Water Elemental over in Stranglethorn once upon a when. The Elements, you see, can grant folks boons. Make us all magickal an shit. The mo betta ya elemental friend is, the stronger you get an all that. But they always ask for somethin’ in turn. Some folks take it by force. We call them fat heads and punch’em in tha junk. Anyways, sometimes the elementals want somethin specific, sometimes it’s just a code to follow or a pledged oath. This contract was written up, enchanted and I got that there totem to really help me harness her watery goodness. Like, I could mend some minor flesh wounds wit just a little stream nearby or somethin’. But out here in the desert, I needed to pull out the totem to get a good source flowin. It won’t last forever, but trust me, that’s powerful magic to make that lil puddle. Speakin’ of powerful totems, iffens you ain’t intressed’ in shammin it up in the maelstrom, how bouts you offer me that thing around ya neck and we’ll call us square”

  At the mention of his own totem, Omru pinched the wooden figurine between two furry fingers, “Oh. You, uh, don’t have enough of your own?”

  Paz changed to a more sombering expression, “I can’t just eyeball a totem an know it’s history. I dunno where ya found this thing, but if that elemental is bound to it, that ain’t right. What is you doin for her? Nothin cause ya don’t speak tha lingo. She’s a prisoner, bud. Just like you was.”

  Om slipped the little strap of rawhide over his head, momentarily getting it caught on a large fuzzy ear. “I didn’t know that, sorry. Just.. found a magic item and put it on. Can’t blame a guy for his love of loot, right?” Sighing, he handed the necklace over. He hadn’t had the thing for too long, but twice now that elemental had saved his bacon.

  With no flash or incantation, Paz simply twirled the totem between his fingertips, summoning the earth elemental to his side. The rocky creature was large enough to almost fill the entire little nook, ducking it’s head and forcing the fox boy to take a few steps back. “Heya girl. You’re a good egg, okay? Ya diden hafta save this boy, but ya did. Want me to see yins free?”

  Omru watched as the elemental moved about slowly, as if fidgeting. He couldn’t hear a damn thing, but apparently Paz did.

“Is that so? Yo, Omen, did you find this necklace on somebody’s dead corpse?”

Om’s eyes widened, “What, no! And it’s Omru.”

“Chill, I’m just makin sure tha owner ain’t died. This lady right here belongs to someone named Keyi. Ring any bells?”

Om nodded once, “Yeah, I know a Keyi. She’s a bit of an odd bird.”

  “Good, take me to her when you’re back on ya feet, kay? We’ll get these two reunited.” Paz extended four little greeny wigglying fingers towards the Elemental, who in turn extended a few floating pebbles from what might be a limb? Hands were touched, for the briefest moment, before the elemental was taken back to her home plane.

  Omru just watched the whole scenario, fascinated. “Uh.. Yeah, I can think of a few spots she might be. We don’t exactly have permanent addresses, ya know?”

  Paz shoved his hands in his pockets, “Yeah, I heard that about yous all. Kindy like the Tauren that ways. Oh and you’ll get a kick outta this. Ole gal thought you -was- Keyi. Says all you Vulpera look the same to her. Plus she thought ya singin’ was perty. Cute, huh?”

  Omru smiled at that. It wasn’t the first time he had accidentally wooed someone through song, likely wouldn’t be the last. Heh. “Cute.”

--

[riverfroggen]

Valerian- Alfprim

word count: right around 1200! Herb gathering was the theme, suggested by someone I follow on my rp blog. Thank you!

Primrose hadn't intended to find her way to Alfyn out in the woodlands near Victor's Hollow.

Her intent had been simply to go for a walk and get some air. It was their second time in the city as a traveling group, and she needed time away from the busy marketplace. Fond as she was of Tressa and Therion, their familial sort of bickering could grow tiresome after a while.

After the Merchant's Fair they would go to Everhold. That was their plan, at least. Primrose's wound was healing slowly, and the fair wasn't far off anyhow- it would help fill the time.

Olberic, Cyrus, Ophilia and H'aanit had stayed at the inn for the better part of the morning. Alfyn had been gone already when they all rose- herb gathering, his note said.

So, Primrose should have supposed she might run into him when she stepped into the thinner woods nearest town. An area where no monsters or beasts roamed, too close to civilization for them to want to. And there was Alfyn, work gloves on his hands, carefully cutting, binding and cataloguing some sort of plant.

It appeared to be a flower, with long stalks- they split into many small pink blossoms at the crown, with a host of leaves down under. Alfyn was cutting just above the leave and binding the flower and root separately, while occasionally making notes if he noticed something.

Primrose didn't notice that she was staring, not quite. Alfyn was usually so fidgety and lively, it was strange to see him quietly focused and his movements so precise and small. Apothecary though he was, he was a tall and strong bodied person with a voice that carried and commanded attention despite its gentle tone. And even in a fight, though he handled himself as well as any of them, he preferred larger movements and brutalizing the enemy with magic and might to the fleet evasion of others such as Therion and H'aanit.

By and all, this silent focused side of him was not one the dancer had seen very often.

A thought came to her unbidden- Ophilia had mentioned to her before their departure from Noblecourt that while she had administered the most emergency treatment, the practical care for the wound after had been managed tirelessly by Alfyn, who didn't sleep until they were sure Primrose would stabilize.

Had he, she wondered, been like this when suturing and cleaning her wound? She thought about the small tin of ointment in her hip pouch that had many times already alleviated soreness and irritation in her healing wound. It even seemed to be keeping the scarring to a minimum. A pang of something went through her, and then Alfyn sneezed into his elbow.

Without ever realizing she had stopped to stare, she approached him and lowered herself to kneel next to him on the ground.

“Hello there, Alfyn.” She offered calmly. He blinked and looked up at her, as if just noticing her. Judging by how focused he had been until just then, Primrose believed it could very well be true.

“Oh!” He breathed, “Golly, Primrose, sorry. Got real into things and didn't hear ya come up.”

“There's no need to apologize.” Primrose said. Alfyn wiped at his face and left a smear of dirt on his nose- she restrained a laugh at the way he wrinkled it when he realized. Isn't that just cute. She thought. This was more like the head in the clouds country boy she had first met.

“What are you picking here?” She asked after a moment. Alfyn turned back to his work and started to basket the herbs.

“It's Valerian.” He provided brightly, “Good stuff. The roots can help with some different things, mostly they're good for calmin' ya down. In different doses they can be used for anxiety or insomnia, and they're friendlier tasting than sleepweed by a longshot. I thought I'd see how they work for the night owls among us.”

He stood and dusted off the knees of his trousers. Primrose followed, and was once again amused at how high he rose above her. Alfyn insisted he had been a 'scrawny pipsqueak' as late as age sixteen, but that was a far cry away from the straight backed tower he was now. Nothing compared to Olberic, who may as well be an entire tree- but then, nobody was quite as formidable as the knight.

“What purpose do the flowers serve, then?” Primrose asked curiously as they began to walk toward the road together. Alfyn laughed.

“Nothin' much, so far as medicine goes. But they're a pretty sight. Thought we could sell 'em for a penny or two, and Ophilia's taken to pressin' those sortsa things as a hobby, so I usually set aside a couple for her when I find something she hasn't put in her little book yet.”

She didn't have to quicken her steps to keep up with Alfyn after they reached the stone path- he slowed to accommodate her, as he always did. Probably a reflex by now. The only member of their party taller than him was Olberic, after all. Even H'aanit stood nearly a half head shorter than the riverlands boy.

“Ah yes, I think I had noticed that.” Primrose mentioned, looking at the flowers. It must have been what the cleric had purchased the empty journal for a time back.

“You oughtta come along with me next time, Primrose.” Alfyn said, offering her a hand up the bridge steps- which she accepted.

“I don't know much about medicinal plants, Alfyn.” She replied with a wry smile. Alfyn laughed.

“Doesn't mean you can't have some fun traipsin' through the woods! Aside of that, you always fit right in with flowers and such. Pretty as a peach blossom, you are.”

Primrose's pulse leaped just a touch at the compliment. They flowed from Alfyn like water when it came to her- she wasn't blind, either. He was enamored of her quite a bit, and she knew it, and so did everyone else. Alfyn thought he hid it, she was sure, but his soft gazes and gentle words were hard not to see right through.

And, she was finding more and more, hard not to believe. He meant every kind word he ever put to anyone. Completely guileless he was, a rare and refreshing trait.

Though her tongue felt a bit dry (curse her traitorous body) as she did so, she laughed. She took his arm.

“No need for flattery, sir.” She commented lightly, “You've already won my friendship.”

“Aw, come on now, I'm not trying to flatter ya, it's just the truth.”

He plucked up a sprig of the valerian blossoms and deposited it in her ponytail with a chuckle. “There ya go. Have yourself a gift.”

Primrose only shook her head and chuckled back.

But, as they returned to the inn, she did hold herself much closer to Alfyn than she would have before. His woodsy scent, the solid feel of his arm- and the slow amble of his gait so she could keep up easily- they were much more soothing than any medicine could be.

[mellicose]

That Woman Over There - Chapter 3

A You Me and Him Fix-it Fic

Rating: Teen, for language

Word count: 2924

Warnings: none

Summary: ~ Set after the birth of Monty, Olivia’s baby ~ A dear friend of Olivia comes to visit for a week, and she disturbs the fragile peace between her, Alex, and John.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

Chapter 3

They spent a nice morning in, since Olivia was still on her extended pregnancy leave. Connie reveled in their domestic rhythms, and it made her wistful. She missed it. The unhurried affection, the unspoken knowledge of each other’s habits.

After breakfast, they sat around chatting again, but before lunch, Connie was yawning and rubbing her eyes.

“You’re still jetlagged,” Olivia said, picking up Monty from the play seat on the floor “You should have a little nap before lunch.”

“I dunno,” she said. “Then I won’t be able to sleep tonight.”

“I’ll wake you in an hour. Monty’s looking like he needs a nap too,” she said, and kissed his sticky cheek. “It’s been a busy morning.”

She leaned over and poked Monty’s belly. “What up, friend,” she whispered. “We’re nap buddies.” He yawned, then gave her a grin. She looked up at Olivia. “Yeah, I think I could use a sueñito.”

Olivia smiled. “A little sleep, si?” she said.

“Precisamente,” Connie said. Olivia had loved their Spanish lessons back in the day. And she had been a very, very good student.

“Hasta luego,” she said, waving Monty’s hand at her. “Until later, Aunt Connie. Bye bye…” she said softly, then walked out.

She got comfortable on the giant sofa and pulled a woven blanket over herself. The sun warmed her feet, making the burns sting a bit. She tucked them in the blanket.

Aunt Connie, she thought, and closed her eyes. I like the sound of that.

Slow, pulsing pink. 

Her cheeks burned with sunlight. She turned to her side and it was dark again. Singing, soft, and in an unfamiliar cadence, kept her from sinking back into unconsciousness. It was sweet, and vaguely reminded her of late nights in her childhood, when her father sat by her bed after coming back from parts unknown, still smelling of good tobacco and bay rum. He sang to her to let her know he was there, hoping it would sift through to her dreams and comfort her.

She missed her papa. But he had gone to a place she would not follow.

She sniffled, and her closed eyes filled with tears. One of them finally dripped to the batik pillow.

“Ye okay?” John said, voice gentle with concern. She opened an eye. He was sitting on the floor, in front of the coffee table. Her ball of necklaces was now neatly organized on the table by metal type and length. He smiled at her, thrusting his bearded chin at his handiwork. “Brilliant, right?”

“Don’t touch my things,” she said. She leaned forward to grab her necklaces, and clumsily slid off the sofa.

He took her hand before she got a messy fistful and tangled them again. “I’m sorry about this morning. I was trying to be funny, and failed miserably. You’re beautiful. Really,” he said, his brows knitting with sincerity. She yanked her hand away and crawled back onto the sofa.

“I don’t need your approval. Just leave my stuff alone,” she said, turning her back to him. He tried not to stare at her bum, but her jean shorts left little to the imagination. It was a very nice bum. She groaned and threw the blanket over herself, although her legs were still exposed. He wrapped a string of coral beads around his wrist and sat at the end of the sofa. His fingers ghosted over the fading red of the burns.

“You should put more aloe on those,” he said. She kicked at him, but lightly. “Where’d you put the other aloe leaf I gave you?” He went to the kitchen. It was shriveling on the sill of the window facing his back yard.

Interesting.

He peeled it and sat back down beside her. She was still and her breathing was deep, miming sleep.

He smiled. “You know you snore like a ploughman, right?” he said.

She grunted and flipped him off. “Go home, Juan.”

“One what?” he said. She turned to scowl at him, and he held up the slimy leaf. “Do you mind if I…” he pointed at her legs.

She sat up and tried to take the leaf from him, but it slid out of her fingers to the carpet. Her wavy hair stuck up in the back, and it was thoroughly charming. He stared at her a beat too long, and she stuck her tongue out at him.

“You go to bed with women, but I doubt you see them wake up much,” she said. It was petty, but she was irritated. And embarrassed. Did she snore that loud?

“I was married for 13 years. I saw bedhead enough,” he said. “And dealt with morning mouth. And popping back pimples. And the gun-loud sleep farts? Fuck, I’d wake up thinking she finally shot me,” he said.

She snorted and put her hand over her mouth, but refused to laugh outwardly. She knew all about those. Ella had startled her many times with her vegan wind.

He  winked. ”Made you laugh.”

“No you didn’t,” she said. “It was a yawn.”

“Sure,” he said, and picked up the aloe. It was covered with dust bunnies. “Ugh. I’ll get you more.”

“Don’t worry about it-” she said, and out of habit, put her hand over his. He gave her a look that made her walk in front of the window to scrutinize him. He was a misogynist ass. Completely. A mouth-breathing nerd trying too hard to be a dudebro. But still, her stomach did a flip. “Gimme my necklace back. My mom gave it to me.”

He pulled it carefully from around his wrist, where the coral looked like prayer beads. She was loathe to admit they looked good on him.

“It’s coral, right?” he said, holding it up to the light with long, delicate fingers. “Medusa’s blood.”

She leaned against the windowsill. “What?”

“In greek mythology, when Perseus finally succeeded in cutting off Medusa’s head, the blood dripped to the sea and formed red coral.”

She loved mythology, and for a second, she forgot herself and sat by him. “I don’t remember that,” she said. He took her hand and dropped the beads in the cup of her palm, where they clicked and pooled like blood. “My dad used to read mythology to me when I was little. In Spanish, though.”

“I didn’t get to school much when I was wee, so I read a lot. I loved reading about Hercules and Perseus and Odysseus. Big, brawny, brave men.”

“Why not?” she asked.

He patted his back. “The brace made it … difficult for me to do certain things on my own when I was a little, so my mum home schooled me. Later, in high school, I was able to go often enough to graduate. Lucky me,” he said, but a shadow crossed his eyes. She noticed immediately because, ordinarily, they gleamed with good humor.

“Oh,” she said, nodding. “Was it that bad?”

He pooched his lips and rolled his eyes. “A boy need a proper backbone to deal with all the shite the world throws at ‘im,” he said. He used a heavier brogue that wasn’t his own. “You oughtta quit whinging and straighten up, lad. I’m starting to you’re using that contraption as an excuse to linger ‘round yer ma’s skirts.”

He smiled, but it was bitter.

“Fuck,” she said softly. She thought back on last night. After coming back into the house, she was rinsing out her coffee cup and saw movement in his yard. He did a series of stretches, reaching up to the moon, exhaling until his ribcage was visible through his stained t-shirt, then twisting slowly from side to side, hands on his waist.

She hadn’t meant to stare, but she did. There was graceful deliberation to his actions that made her feel herself in a way she had not in months. She rarely saw men who moved like that except dancers, and they were mostly gay. In any case, she knew he wasn’t trying to impress anyone with the movements - he didn’t know he was being watched.

“I wish I was homeschooled,” she said, finally.

“Oi?” he said, distracted.

“Home schooled. I went to a fancy school, but so much for good breeding - the teachers were as vicious as the students,” she said, putting the coral beads around her neck.

“Oh yeah?”

“It was running gag. Whenever I said something, they would pretend they couldn’t understand. They would make a face and say ‘No understando’ or ‘someone get the maid to translate’. Or my dubious favorite, ‘Shakespeare might be too hard for you. You should just stick with Cantinflas,’”she said, and sniffed.”That shit got old the first day, but it went on for years. The fact that my father is a diplomat made it worse.”

“Who is Cantinflas?” he said.

“A really popular Mexican comedian who did a bunch of movies in the 40’s and 50’s. His thing was playing poor country bumpkins, but he turned the trope on its head. He did broke but clever. He was a cultural icon, really.”

“So, not as much an insult as they thought,” he said. “Some kids are assholes. I didn’t grow up anywhere near rich, so… it was all ketosis-breathed gobshites.”

She giggled. “Gobshites,” she said.

“Cockwombles. Numpties,” he said. She started to laugh.

“That’s hilarious,” she said. “Hijos de la gran puta. Pendejos de la vela, toditos se pueden ir al carajo.*”`

“Those sound dirty,” he said. “I recognized puta.”

“You would, bitch,” she said. He gave her a mock hurt look. She winked.

“You’re getting along famously,” Olivia said loudly. “How wonderful.”

Connie jumped up and stuffed her hands in her pockets. “Pfft. He was stalking me while I slept.”

“I was untangling your horrible ball of necklaces,” he said, pointing to the coffee table.

“Did you hear her snoring? She’s like a bear,” Olivia said, giggling.

Connie’s mouth dropped open. “Olivia!”

“My vote’s for ploughman,” John said, scrunching up his nose.

Olivia sat down on the sofa. “When we had sleepovers, I got in the habit of listening to my Discman so I could get some rest,” she said.

“You said you couldn’t sleep without music,” Connie said. “Dirty liar.”

“It wasn’t all a lie. Without music, I couldn’t sleep … with you.”

“You guys suck,” she said, and stomped into the kitchen.

“I love you too,” Olivia yelled after her.

Olivia pointed at the organized jewelry. “Did you really do all that?”

“Yeah. Seeing it was setting my teeth on edge,” he said. He picked up the pearls. “Did you really give her these?”

“Yes. Those are the pearls I was wearing the day we met,” she said.

“How sentimental,” John said in a sibilant falsetto.

“Totally gay,” Olivia said. “Where’s Alex? I fell asleep with Monty and she disappeared.”

“She went to the shops to buy ingredients for dinner. Her famous spag bol.”

“Ooh, yummy,” Olivia said, clapping her hands.

John shrugged. “Don’t know why you can’t just get it out of a can.”

“She makes it with homemade tomato sauce and italian sausage. You can’t get that out of a can.”

He shrugged and worked the pearls like prayer beads. Their smooth coolness was exquisite. He wondered why men didn’t wear them.

“Oh, about tonight. I’ve been meaning to tell you some news.”

“Really. You’re not moving, are you?”

“You wish. Nah. But it’s big. I think you’ll be proud.”

“You’re going to rid of your deep v t-shirt collection?” Olivia said, in fine form. She wished Alex was there to hear it.

“Never,” he said. He resisted the urge to tap a pearl against his teeth.“Her snoring. It’s not that bad, is it?” he said softly.

“Nah. You get used to it.”

“Did you?” he asked. 

She wasn’t expecting the question. “I suppose,” she said. “I didn’t care at the time. And we didn’t do much sleeping anyway.”

John hooted.

“Get your head out of the gutter.”

“But that’s where it lives,” he said.

“We would listen to music, read to each other, and talk for hours and hours. I would help her with her pronunciation, and she would help me with my French and Spanish.”

“She knows French too?” he said.

Olivia smiled. “Her mum’s french. You know, like, Paris French.”

“Insufferable,” John said, but he tilted his head to try and get a glimpse of her in the kitchen.

“She’s got a good heart. She’s one of the warmest people I’ve ever known.”

“And yet I’m freezing my lads off,” he said, making a face.

“Well, she’s angry at you.”

“Why? I heard what you said last night, about her not blaming me individually. What did you mean by that? I didn’t know her from Eve two days ago.”

“Eavesdropper,” she said. Olivia gave the dramatic sigh she always did before a story. He leaned back and crossed his legs.

“A little more than a year ago, her father filed for divorce from her mother after almost 37 years of marriage. She took it really, really hard.”

“But what does that have to do with me?” he said.

“It came as a huge surprise to everyone, including her mum. She thought everything was business as usual. But during the course of the proceedings, certain facts started to come to light that proved that it had been a long time coming, for him.”

John looked lost. Olivia leaned forward and grabbed his wrist.

“He said he was done with the increasingly misandrist tilt of the world he lived in, and declared that he is now part of MGTOW.”

John’s heart began to sink again, as he knew exactly what it stood for. At one point not too long ago, he felt the same way.

“Men going their own way,” he said softly. “Fuck.”

Olivia nodded.

“He exposed aspects of his relationship with his wife with which he was very displeased, and said he was tired to lugging her dead weight, citing her re-occurring depression and substance abuse problem as intolerable. In short, he was convinced he could do better. Furthermore, he brought proof of instances of verbal and emotional abuse due to the substance use before the court, and he nearly got everything. Her mum went from an Upper West Side brownstone to a one-bedroom flat in Flatbush, since she refuses to move in with Connie. She’s deeply humiliated.”

He was afraid to ask the question. As far as he knew, politicians and diplomats didn’t frequent his humble site - it was mostly insecure college guys and bitter divorced men.

“But why me, Olivia?”

“He mentioned your site as the catalyst that helped to make up his mind. ‘Thousands of men speaking the truth to power about women in a safe space, free from judgment.’ He said he felt solidarity. He said you were a saint and a hero for refusing to be a white knight to screeching misandrists.” Olivia rolled her eyes.

“Fuck,” John said again, more vehemently. “So he mentioned Mannism? And my name?”

She nodded. “I got a screaming phone call, since I had already told her about you and Alex. She was hysterical. It took me hours to talk her out of flying over her to castrate you.” Olivia hugged herself. “What she failed to realize is that it put me between a rock and a hard place. You were the father of-” she nodded quickly, “-the damage was done. But honestly, I hated you. Not only for her, but for everything else. For a while.”

“And you kept that to yourself for all this time?” he said, genuinely surprised.

“What could I do? I fucked up, then Alex fucked up and you fucked up...” she pointed at him. “Everything was fucked. And I didn’t have much sympathy left for her at the time.”

Olivia didn’t usually swear like that.

“We didn’t talk until right after the baby was born, and still, it hurt that she wasn’t going to make it to the birth. We promised each other as girls that we would be present at the birth of our first born. But-” she hiccuped, “she said if I insisted you be there, even after what happened with Alex-” she sniffled, and fat tears dripped down her cheeks.

“Damn it, why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because at the time, you were important to Alex, and since Alex was the most important thing in the world to me…”

John stood up slowly. He shook his head. “I didn’t know.”

“Now you do,” Connie said from the doorway, wiping her eyes.

Olivia wept on the sofa, her hands palm up on her knees. Connie ran to her, already crying.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, falling to her knees in front of Olivia and hugging her waist. “I was a selfish, stubborn, unfair, foolish bitch,” she said, and buried her head in Olivia’s chest. Olivia hugged her back, whooping with emotion.

“I missed you,” she said, hiccuping. “I missed you being there…”

Connie’s body trembled. “I didn’t see Monty ... being born …” she clung even harder to Olivia. “Your little baby…”

They wept passionately in each other’s arms. At any other time, their wailing might almost border on comical, but not now.

He knew it was because of him. It was all because of him.

He walked out the back door quietly and let them make it up alone.

Read Chapter 4

*Sons of bitches. Bunch of dumbasses. They can all go to fucking hell.

[chaos-and-recover]

ALL OF THE ASKS 🖤

EVERY TIME.

Alright let’s do this.

1: Favorite band?

AFI and/or July Talk

2: Favorite song?

Of all time? I think I realized recently that it is in fact Falling Slowly. The fact that I have like 7 different versions in my music library was a solid clue that I fucking love it.

3: What’s a band/artist you loved as a child but can barely listen to now?

My brother and I loved Kris Kross when we were little. That’s some cheeseball rap right there. Also when I was 12 I was super into Prodigy. But then, Firestarter is still a good fucking song.

4: Did you ever see a band/artist live?

Yes? A lot? Many times?

5: Are you going to any gigs soon?

I was supposed to go to Chicago next weekend to see my boys the Plain White T’s but they cancelled the show and I’m bummed.

I’m seeing Jimmy Eat World on December 5th and I’m stoked about it.

I’m also seeing July Talk three nights in a row on the 20th, 21st and 22nd because I have no self control and I love them.

6: Ever been to a festival?

Yes, several. I used to love them and now I’m too old for that shit and there’s too many of them and the bands are spread too thin and no one festival has enough bands I like to justify it lol.

8: A song with a number in the title?

Green Day - 21 Guns

9: A song that gets you through shit?

AFI - Narrative of Soul Against Soul

10: A good song for long bus rides?

Anberlin - Autobahn

11: A song you’d have sex to?

Take That - Pretty Things (I mean it’s kinda weird but uh I’m into it)

12: A song to shut everything out?

36 Crazyfists - Slit Wrist Theory (like 90% sure this song almost got me sent to therapy given how many times my 17 year old self blasted it)

13: A song for when you’re lonely?

The entire “Cities” album by Anberlin is my security blanket. I’ll saw The Unwinding Cable Car though.

14: A song that’s become a joke between you and your friends?

Jack’s Mannequin - Dark Blue ( @sinceubeenjon knows why)

15: A song to jam out to at 4AM?

The Used - The Taste Of Ink. Because it literally references 4:00 in the morning lol

16: An album you could listen to for days on end?

I’m pretty sure I did listen to Decemberunderground by AFI for days on end in 2006. And like… constantly ever since.

17: A song that punches you in the gut every single time?

Anberlin - Atonement. Fuuuuuuuck me :) 

18: A song for when you’re crazy angry?

I wanna saw Slit Wrist Theory again but I’m also trying not to repeat songs so uhhhh The Used - Box Full Of Sharp Objects. I have a lot of angst apparently.

19: If you had to pick one song to represent what you’re feeling right now, what would it be?

It’s not actually Christmas but it is a holiday in the US and I have a cold so “It’s Christmas And I’m Sick” by MxPx. Honestly, I have nothing else. I have no feelings right now lol.

20: A song that calms you down?

The Used - Bllue & Yellow

21: A song that makes you feel alive?

Anberlin - Dismantle.Repair

22: A band with an insane fandom?

Are Twenty One Pilots fans still bonkers? That’s one. Or a certain segment of 1D fandom. You know the one (the Larries. Jesus christ people.)

23: What are some lyrics you love to pieces?

There are so many. Here are some of my favourites:

“It’s not about the money we makeIt’s about the passions that we ache forWhat makes your heart beat fasterTell me now what does your body long after?”-Time & Confusion by Anberlin

“And as the days go onThe love, the lust, the buzz that wasReduced to dust, could be becauseIt never was something moreThan just a void filling feeling”-FL,GA by The Rocket Summer

“I saw you every time I closed my eyesIn the Hughes film I had scored, produced and starred in in my mindI could recite you, well I’d written every lineBut you strayed far from the flawless script on which I’d spent a lifetime”-Veronica Sawyer Smokes by AFI

“I tried, but it rang and rang, I called all nightFrom a payphone, remember those? From another lifeIf everything I meant to youYou can’t lick and seal then fold in twoThen I’ve been so blind.”-Dizzy by Jimmy Eat World

“Let it out, let me in, take a hold of my handThere’s nothing like another soul that’s been cut up the sameAnd did you wanna drive without a word in between?I can understand, you need a minute to breatheAnd to sew up the seams after all this defeat.”-Handwritten by The Gaslight Anthem

I’m gonna stop there.

24: Would you ever get any song lyrics tattooed? If so which ones?

I have some! I have “Just point to the light that casts out the dark” from White Fireworks by The Rocket Summer in Bryce Avary’s handwriting and I’m pretty damn pleased with it. I’d probably get more. He also wrote “Be reckless, be bright” for me from The Rescuing Type that I wanna get done. 

25: What’s a band/artist you’d addict your children to from an early age?

Kids? Gross. I’m gonna try to get my niece into some good shit. When is an appropriate age to get her into AFI?

26: A vocalist you love?

I’m perfectly neutral and rational about Davey Havok, tbh, I’ve never been extra about him a day in my life.

I also love me some Adam Lambert and have very strong opinions about him fronting Queen (they are all variations of “he’s great at it fight me.)

27: Has a band/artist ever inspired you to do something?

Yes, usually dumb shit, like travel across a country/continent/ocean to see them.

28: A band/artist you love but no longer exists?

MOTHERFUCKING ANBERLIN.

29: What was your favorite band/artist when you were 12?

The Backstreet Boys, lol.

30: A band/artist you can’t stand?

Twenty One goddamn Pilots. Also ask me how I feel about Metric some time. (I FUCKIN HATE METRIC.)

31: What’s your favorite genre?

I honestly don’t have one. The music I like is all over the goddamn map.

32: Can you play any instruments?

I played percussion for 6 years in school and was self-taught on bass, though I haven’t pulled mine out in literal years. (One day I’m gonna get it out again and learn Pink Eyes by AFI. It’s gonna happen.)

33: Do you sing?

Hahahahahahhahahaa not so anyone can hear me.

34: If you could be a member of any band for one show, who would it be?

I would Jordan Pundik from New Found Glory because I still maintain that he only has to sing like half of every song and the crowd does the rest.

35: Do you have a favorite piece of merch?

My current favourite merch item in the world is my 36 Crazyfists hoodie. It’s so soft, so warm, so comfy. My Anberlin carabiner has served me very well over the years too.

36: What’s the first album you ever bought with your own money?

I always tell people it was the first BSB album but it was actually a Raptors promo CD released ahead of their first season in the NBA. BSB just sounds more like it’s a real thing that existed.

37: Do you prefer buying physical copies of albums or do you download them on the internet?

Physical. Digital versions just… I don’t connect with them as well? I don’t know, I don’t feel like I really own them if I can’t touch ‘em.

38: CDs or vinyls?

Vinyl. Also, not to be a pedant, but the plural of vinyl is vinyl.

39: Do you play your music out loud or with headphones?

Headphones. Used to be out loud all the time back in the days of desktop computers when I’d be alone in a room on the computer and could do that without annoying everyone lol.

40: A band/artist a friend showed you?

I guess I can blame Raven for how much I love Eric Church, does that count?

41: A song that gives you the chills?

Anberlin - The Unwinding Cable Car, but like, a very specific recording of it. This one, in fact, starting at 3:08 when Stephen is singing the bridge and the crowd comes in with “this is the correlation between salvation and love” part completely unprompted and it builds up until he’s holding “heart” and we’re holding “dark” and it’s fucking magical and you know what’s not captured on the audio recording? The look on Christian’s goddamn face when that happened. That was a hell of a show.

42: A song to play at your funeral?

I mean, you could go ahead and play that version of Cable Car linked in the last answer because it’s probably what killed me anyway, but if you wanna be more cliche just bust out Hear You Me by Jimmy Eat World.

43: A band/artist with amazing an instrumental but really bad lyrics?

I listened to BedLIGHT for BlueEYES for the first time in a few years the other day so um. Them. The lyrics have not held up super well but my GOD they’re catchy. (Although “But I guess I shouldn’t hat you you, in fact I oughtta thank you for helping me write this song / If this album tops the Billboard I think I’ll save the quarter to call you and let you know” from Too Late still fucking kills though.)

44: A love song?

Any love song? 200,000 by my sweet baby boy The Rocket Summer, it’s the cutest fucking song in the world.

45: A song you love to sing to yourself?

I don’t sing to myself, that’s embarrassing (it’s probably like, Raise Your Glass by Pink or something, though)

46: What do you listen to when you go for a run?

When I did run more often it was to movie soundtracks. 127 Hours had some really good running tunes. Also there’s a song on the Inception soundtrack that was perfect for a good sprint.

47: A song that represents a deserted city at night?

The Taste of Ink by The Used kinda gives me that feeling, I guess.

48: A wild song?

Wild? How about Wild by AFI, is that good enough lol.

49: An upbeat song with grim lyrics?

Motion City Soundtrack - Everything Is Alright.

50: What are some song titles you love?

Okay so I can’t really think of any but it took me until entirely too recently to realize that “Lying Is The Most Fun A Girl Can Have Without Taking Her Clothes Off” and “But It’s Better If You Do” by Panic! At The Disco fucking… they go together. They’re supposed to be read together. Years that took me. That album was my second most-played in iTunes and I didn’t… figure that out. I’m dumb as hell.

51: If your life ended today, what song would you chose to represent it?

One song, to represent my entire life? Hell if I know. Probably like, Tonight by NKOTB though, let’s be honest.

52: Can you give me a 5 song playlist on ___?

ON WHAT I NEED A TOPIC.

53: Do you listen to instrumental music?

Sometimes, sure.

54: Weirdest band/artist you know of?

Foxy Shazam were weird as hell. We put their album on at work years ago because the sticker… I can’t remember what the sticker compared them to now but it was a mix of bands that made us say “that can’t POSSIBLY be right” and then it was? (one of them was Queen, I remember that). They were fucking weirdos and I miss them TERRIBLY.

55: A song about drugs? 

You know who I haven’t mentioned in this yet? Lucky Boys Confusion. They have a lot of songs about drugs. 40/80 comes to mind. What a jam. What a band.

56: A heart-wrenching song?

This might seem like an odd choice but 11.24.11 by 36 Crazyfists. It goes hard as hell but then “don’t plan to live forever but I wanted her to,” and it’s about his mother, it just fucking wrecks me.

57: A band/artist you’re proud of?

July Talk. They deserve to be bigger but they’re doing so well and I’m so proud of them and if they were any bigger I would absolutely be insufferable about it.

58: A band/artist who’s music could bring you back from the dead?

If I had been dead for like five years but you told me Lucky Boys Confusion were going on tour I would be up and at every single show in a snap, I want to see them again SO BADLY.

59: A band/artist with a sick aesthetic?

Listen, I fucking love July Talk’s black/white, light/dark, sweet/rough contrasting aesthetic. It is everything. It is so well-executed. Talk to me about the first album and how well they played into it. I love them. I love everything they choose to be. I FUCKING LOVE JULY TALK.

60: A song that has a lot of meaning to you?

Plain White T’s - Radios In Heaven is a bit of a thing for me.

[the-voice-of-hell]

STARS VOLUPTUOUS

This is an entry in a choose your own adventure.  Probably not worth reading ‘til it’s finished.

The robots exchanged looks with each other, unknown meaning passing between them.  Beautiful Alcyone showed you a seductive shoulder and gently pursed lips.  “Take it easy, hot shot.  Let’s get you a room.”

Alcyone had to make a quick stop in a closed room.  You were left waiting in one of the hotel styled halls, staring at the paneling, at the glowing ceiling, at the great distance heading out this way and that.  The hall heading back toward the great hall - that yawning chasm, that cyclopean well of stairs - was well lit and clean.  A maintenance robot shaped like a small ottoman scurried down there, barely larger than an ant in your eye.  The hall heading away from the great hall was darker.  Were the lights flickering in the distance down there?

She came back out to see you, dressed now in a basic sort of showgirl outfit - a supporting dancer, not a star,  in a green silk bodice with black taffeta skirt and mint green floral lace over every limb.  Cloth flowers blossomed from the lace at wrists and ankles, and her iridescent high heels matched the bodice.  Her hair was very loosely tied back and darted at random with three fake black roses.  Her skin looked red in contrast to the green, warm and soft.  Her lipstick gave that skin a brighter red exclamation point.

“Why the get-up?,” you asked.  “Not for my benefit, I hope.”

She looked a bit sour.  “You don’t like it?  I can change.”

“No, it’s cute, I just don’t like people making a fuss around me.  Doesn’t look very comfortable.”

“Who dresses for comfort?  Oh, yeah.”  She slapped you on the chest with the back of her hand and a cloud of dust puffed up.  “We oughtta get you sorted out.  I can’t have you around my stuff looking like this.”

“Your stuff?”

“Staff have to sleep in the outer chambers, mostly.  They aren’t maintained like parts closer to the great hall, but I took the time to make my place nice.  Don’t track that space dust in there, cowpoke.”

“You think I like being this dirty?”

As you neared the stretch of the halls with the flickering lights, everything seemed like it was slowly breaking.  A section of panel missing here, the floor panels giving way to concrete there.  The atmosphere was having to engage as you passed into these areas, in acknowledgement that breathing people seldom tread this area.

“I don’t know,” she said.  “What do you like?”

“Oh yeah, that service ethos.  But I’m not a customer here, am I?  I’ve been press ganged into this detail.”

“You’re still a customer as far as I’m concerned.”

Because customer means human and staff means robot here, doesn’t it?  “Now I’m really wondering what kind of work I’m supposed to be doing here.”

“Probably corralling maintenance bots.  Nothing heavy.  You just whack ‘em with a broom when they’re being goofy.”

“Doesn’t seem like that valuable of a service, does it?  I have a feeling there’s more to this.  But then, you wouldn’t tell me, would you?”

She smiled and flicked her hair in amusement.  “Guess you’ll find out.”

“Gah!”  You stepped back a few paces in reflex, having just realized this exposed white pipe in the hall ahead was undulating.  Was it a giant worm?  No, it was much weirder.

Alcyone touched your arm to reassure you.  It didn’t work.  Then she let you go, approached the shape and held a hand close to it.  The mint flowers at her wrist flapped against the pale shape.  “It’s just fairies, cowpoke.  Take a look.”

You stepped closer.  They were stretching from one open atmo vent to another - a chain of tiny fairies holding hands.  They ranged in height from two to six inches, some with wings and some without, mostly nude.  They rocked and swayed as they passed through the hall and disappeared into the vent.

“What the hell?,” you asked.

Just before the last one got away, she caught it by the foot and dragged it down between you.  She turned it over in her hand, showing it off.  The thing flapped wildly, but seemed less scared than excited.  Was it laughing?  Its voice was quieter than the buzz of its wings.

“The fairies are toys.  Some customers bring their kids to Moon.  These little beasts can entertain them.”  She let it go and it buzzed off into the atmosphere vent.

“I’ve never seen robots that small that still bothered trying to look like anything.”

She started walking again, urging you into motion.  “Where are you from?”

“Inner planets.  Do they all have individual personalities?”

“Individual points of view.  Their personalities are all about the same, but they are independent entities.  About as smart as rats.”

You shook your head in amazement.  Maybe you should have visited more places like this in your time wandering the cosmos.  Now you had to get to know it from the perspective of a maintenance robot.

As she led you through the halls they deconstructed and reconstructed at random, looking like a the hotel elements were a layer of rock that had been irregularly eroded by centuries of tides.  More exposed pipes and vents surfaced and resubmerged in the walls, more environmental oddities like random areas of light and shadow, thinner and richer air, breezes, odd noises, even rivers of water running through grooves in the wall.

But a pink-white light began to form ahead.  She led you through halls lit with pink pin lights, guiding you up a flimsy metal spiral staircase, up through multiple floors.  Every other floor was in that desconstructed state - corroded hotel.  The floors in between were dark metallic spaces full of pipes wires and machinery.

The pink lights brought you onto one of the wrecked hotel floors, but this one was cleared of debris and brightly lit with pink and white lights scattered floor to ceiling.  She showed you to a fancy bath.

Like the halls outside, it was missing tiles at irregular intervals, had missing wall panels and exposed pipes.  But they was no dust, no loose debris.  The exposed pipes were festooned with ribbons and fake flowers.

You tried to find out about Alycone.

You tried to find out about the other robots.

You tried to find out about Madam Thebe.

[mythomagically-delicious]

The Second Funeral

Dad didn’t cry at Grandpa’s funeral. Neither did mom. Grandma was ostensibly loud, but I never actually saw a tear. My uncle though. He was made of stone. I mean, at least the rest tried to look sad. But Uncle Stan stood in the back and his face was angrier than I’d ever seen it.

I was 22 when Grandpa Pines died. By that time we’d moved cross country and I was in my last year of undergrad. Computer Science was the hot new field and I was naturally interested in computers growing up. And all sorts of other gadgets. Dad started me with tin soldiers, but somehow I always ended up with the tinker toys.

My parents lived in South California. I went to school further north. My one uncle lived in Oregon, but he was closer than Mom and Dad. Grandma and Grandpa still lived in New Jersey. I got a phone call from Mom about the news. Told her thanks for calling and we discussed school for a bit before hanging up.

Didn’t bother me over much. I had a paper due in two days that bothered me more, to be honest. Grandpa Pines always made me feel like a disappointment when I was a kid, without even saying a word.

Plus, when I was 17, Dad had finally told me the story (as he knew it) behind Uncle Lee and Grandpa. It’s a good thing we’d already moved, or else I would’ve done something stupid. Like egg his house or bust up some of the shop. As it was, I had some buddies of mine from back home bust up his car. Key it, TP the shop, just punk stuff that’d been going on for years. All at once. Dad wasn’t too happy to hear I’d done that.

Uncle Stan, on the other hand, had offered me a high 5 ½.

(I’ll get to that later)

Anyway, Grandpa died when I was 22 and my first thought was if that meant I could push back my paper’s deadline because of a death in the family. (The professor was pretty tough, but a few fake tears and he broke down into a human being again. My professors are better with machines than people, mostly).

I called Uncle Stan the day I got the call after class. We talked about some of my homework for a while, and he even helped me get unstuck from this problem I’d been having in my upper level math for a while.

Then I asked if he’d heard the news. Uncle Stan is a guy who could talk even the most obnoxious know-it-all in circles, under any circumstances. I’d heard the stories and seen him in action, on occasion. But when I asked this, a part of him seemed to drop, and I heard him take a few quick breaths on the other end of the line before he answered with a shaky “Yes.”

To be honest, I wasn’t sure what I expected from him. Dad had told me most of the story between Uncle Lee, Uncle Stan, and Grandpa, but he’d only gotten it secondhand. When all that happened, I was almost two, being watched by Grandma the night it happened. It weirds me out to think that the last time I saw Uncle Lee alive, I’d barely been old enough to walk.

Mom had been at work, waitressing. Dad had been serving too, overseas somewhere. Here’s how Dad told me it happened:

My Grandpa Filbrick was a hard man, hard to please, hard to get a word out of, hard-pressed to show any emotion except anger. My dad was their first son. Older than Uncle Lee and Uncle Stan by almost ten years.

Grandpa had been hard on the tree of them, but he’d been the worst on his second children. Twins, unexpected, and ‘a burden from day one.’ Dad had heard Grandpa Filbrick saw a few too many things about Lee and Ford over the years, some while drunk, some stone cold sober. That’s just how Grandpa was.

Dad said Grandpa hadn’t paid a lick of attention to either of them unless they were making him look bad—or if they had the potential to make money. (Some of this is how Mom saw things too. Once they argued about who had the better perspective on it, all things considered. I’m not sure either of them won).

When my uncles were 17 (turning 18 that summer—I had just turned 2 that January) Uncle Ford was suddenly in the running for a full-ride scholarship to one of the best sci-tech colleges in the country. The principal told ‘em all it could be the opportunity to make them millions one day. Mom said from that moment on, Filbrick saw Ford as a talking dollar sign, and didn’t see Lee at all.

Something happened to Ford’s project—the one that would get him the full ride—and Lee was blamed. There was a huge fight at home, and only four people know exactly what was said, two of which are now dead. Filbrick kicked his son Lee out of the house, banning him from coming back until he could make up the millions he’d stolen when he’d supposedly ruined Ford’s project.

Ford didn’t help his brother. Too angry, he turned away when Lee called for help.

The real kicker in the story, though, is that Grandpa had already had a bag packed for Stan. He had just been waiting for the opportunity to do it. Dad said my Grandpa bragged about that one night after a few too many rounds at the local bar. Dad had come to pick him up and carried him half home, taxis all gone. Dad said he’d dumped him on the curb to let him find his own way after he’d said that. I would have punched him first. But I’m not really a fighter. I’m a big guy, but I’m no good at throwing that weight around.

Anyway, that’s most of the story. Uncle Lee took Grandpa’s words seriously, until ten years later he died in a car wreck on his way to talk to Uncle Stan.

That rally seemed to tear Uncle Stan up. That’s when he changed his family nickname from Ford to Stan. That’s all I’ve really known him as.

That’s Dad’s version. When I was 17, Dad told me all that. When I was 18, I’d gone up to Uncle Stan’s for a couple of weeks before school started. He gave me the story between the cracks. It was a hundred times worse coming from him.

He told me how Grandpa Filbrick had yelled and roughly handled Uncle Lee. He told me of the justified anger he’d felt at his brother. How his Pa’s reaction only egged him on. How he turned away when his brother needed him most. Then immediately threw up, sick with what he’d done.

But, how, over time, that anger and justification was continuously fed and fueled by his father. Filbrick kept the wound fresh. And Ford let that anger for his brother fester. The desire to prove himself fueled him through finishing college on time but with two extra degrees. How he came out here to continue studying.

It led only to dead ends and disappointments. He hadn’t talked to his father since his first year in Gravity Falls, when he made it clear he didn’t care about making money, he just wanted to study. Filbrick had practically disowned him as well, at that.

Apparently Grandpa’s greatest skill was alienating himself and everyone around him.

Uncle Stan told me how it felt, all those years. The guilt and anger warring within him for so long. He told me what it did to him when he lost Stanley when he was so close to seeing him again. He told me a lot of things that made me shudder and wipe a tear at. I couldn’t even dream of putting it all here. It’s too much.

So when I asked if Uncle Stan had heard the news, I wasn’t sure what to expect from him. I asked if he’d be going back for the funeral. He said he oughtta help his Ma pack away the shop. I hadn’t thought about that.

I asked if I could help. Uncle Stan wanted me to stay at school, not get distracted by old bones and dust. I agreed to stay at school if he agreed to let me visit after he got back. He laughed and joked about my flourishing skills as a negotiator, claiming all the credit. But he agreed and we moved on to lighter topics, talking about small nothings for another few minutes before I let him go.

Uncle Stan has come to mean a lot to me these last ten years. I met him when I was twelve. I hated to think he was up there alone during another bad time. Knowing our family’s history made it harder for me to just try and let him suffer through another death in the family by himself. But he’s a tough guy, and he hates showing what he thinks of as weakness in front of other people. He lets his guard down with me, sometimes, but it’s hard to crack through.

The funeral was rough, but afterwards when we were talking, most of the anger had melted off his face. I had to leave soon after to hop on a plane and get back in time for classes. But next time I saw him, there were a few reminders of Filbrick hanging around the Shack. Most noticeably, his old, weird fez. I helped out with tours and the gift shop, and took Unlce Stan out to the diner a few times. You can never really tell what Uncle Stan is thinking, but I think for the few days I spent with him, he was thinking about the good part of family, not the terrible kind his dad gave them.

[bellatrixobsessed1]

Of Farms And Fairs (Part 4)

It’s been a while but, I finally finished part four!

The pair sat quietly for a good long while after she finished her song. Azula faced the setting sun, and Sokka had his eyes on its reflection in the pond. He wished that he had a pond in his backyard. Azula absently let her legs kick forward and backward, mirroring the gentle arc Sokka’s swing made.

 “Well it wasn’t totally awful was it?” Azula asked.

 Sokka tapped his chin. “Well, not completely.” He smirked

 “I hate chu.” Azula grumbled.

 “Fer what though? I said it weren’t horrible.”

 “Al'right, Sokka.” She reached her hands out, set on giving him the shove of his life. But instead the swing bucked back and she ended up falling onto him instead. With a thud and an ‘umph’, the pair landed in the ground.

 “Well ya did'n have ta tackle me!” Sokka huffed.

 “Didn’t I?” Azula asked wedging her knee slightly into his stomach.

 “Oh so we’re doin this again?” Sokka asked. He tried to shove her off, but this time she had him quite firmly pinned. “Kay, okay y'all win this round. I surrender.”

 “Then take it back.”

 “Take it back? Kay, yer songs are actually mighty awful.” Sokka dared.

 Azula squinted at him. “That’s it Sokka, now yer in fer it fer sher.” She punched him on the arm, giving him just enough of an opening to switch positions, so that she was almost pinned to the floor.  His victory was short lived, for Azula squirmed her way out of his grasp and pinned him down again, this time face down.

 “A’lright.” He huffed. “I take it back, I liked yer song.”

 “That’s what I thought.” Azula rolled off of him and onto her back. She set her hands behind her head and peered at Sokka.

 He laughed. The pair hadn’t done that since they were kids. Not all out roughhousing; rolling around on the ground until they could smell the grass on their cloths and skin. He told his mother that he would be back within the hour. He had every intention of keeping his promise, laying there with Azula meant everything to him. Even if she didn’t know it. He could work on the farm any old day but spending time in her backyard only happened once in a while. Especially on a day like that one. The last of the sun’s rays fell over Azula, kissing exposed skin from her face and arms to her lower torso and legs. The sun’s reflection perfectly highlighted the gold in her eyes. As the sun sank, he swallowed down his hesitance and took her hand. She stared at him for a moment but didn’t draw back. She had just told Tylee that there wasn’t anything between she and Sokka. Yet when his hand cupped hers, she wanted nothing more than to keep it there.

 From somewhere off in the distance came the smell of burning leaves. “Smells good don’t it Sokka? It’s one of my favorite things, when the neighbors get to burnin’ their leaves. If you wanna come on back tamorrow, Mai, Tylee, and I are gonna do the same. After Zuko rakes of course.”

 “I’ll see what ma has planned.” He replied.

 For a good long while they lay in grass, silently watching fireflies rise form grass. Somewhere down the line Sokka pulled his radio out and put on his favorite station. “Ya really oughtta get an iPod, stead of carryin’ that ol’ thing around.” Azula remarked. “I’ll go out ‘n get ya one myself.”

 “I ain’t need one. I like my radio jus well.”

 “Wach ya mean to say is that you done convince yerself that ya like it so ya wouldn’t feel bad ‘bout not having an iPod like the rest of us.” She stated as a firefly drifted lazily by, she reached out and grabbed it, cupping it in her hands. And just like she had when she was a girl, she sat up and held it out for Sokka to see. It set her hand a glow. The tiny bug crawled over her skin, occasionally illuminating her palms before it finally crawled to her topmost finger and flew off to join its companions. She lowered herself back into the grass and watched the bugs swarm about in luminous clouds. Somehow they reminded her of watching fireworks on the 4th.  Ozai was off on some kind of business or another—Azula couldn’t recall what exactly it was that he had gone off to do. So Zuko took that as his opportunity to speed down all of the backroads with Mai in his new car. He was sixteen at the time, Azula recalled. When they got back the pair carried armfuls of fireworks, the kinds that weren’t exactly legal.

Tylee and Katara stuck with the sparklers. She, Zuko, and Toph got their kicks out of lighting the most explosive roman candles that they could find. Of course that was the day Toph lost her eyesight, but as with everything else, the girl handled it like a champion. In fact she’d even finished celebrating with them before even mentioning anything.

 The girl’s parents took it way worse. That’s why she and Toph hadn’t talked since—apparently she, Zuko, and Mai are off limits. Whenever they wanted to talk she’d have to pass notes along through Aang.

 But the night up until that moment had gone so smooth; Sokka called up Haru from the town he used to live in and Haru called Jet…soon the whole neighborhood and then some were at their house. Haru displayed some wicked barbecuing skills, Sokka made sure everyone knew that. And Aang proved to be a cornhole champion, he’d only beaten Zuko twelve times that night—and in front of Mai too. Azula was the only one who even came close to beating him.

 There were parts of that night that were a little fuzzy—mostly the parts that came after Chan brought the 8 packs. Sokka still insisted that she had made a move or two on Jet.

 Somehow she and Zuko had managed to clear everyone out before Ozai came home, and only found trouble when Toph finally fessed up about her vision troubles.

 Those were such simple days. The siblings still hosted their own 4th of July festivities, but none of them came close to the feeling of that night. Azula watched the cloud of fireflires burst apart and go their separate ways. “I reckon, we should do it again some time.” Azula put out briefly.

 “Do what?” Sokka asked.

��“Get Zuko to go find some more fireworks. Send daddy off somewhere. And throw a big party.”

 He chuckled. “Yeah, maybe we ken even smuggle Toph in wit the beer.”

 Azula shrugged. “I’m sure she wouldn’t mind none.” She plucked a strand of grass. “Maybe if Tylee wins her blue ribbon, ‘n yer family wins yers, we can throw a party to celebrate.”

 “Guess I’m really gonna have ta git ta winnin’ now.” Sokka squeezed her hand.

 “You best do that.” Azula stood up and brushed the dirt off of her knees. She picked up her car. “Ya need a ride home or did ya bring yer truck?”

 “I walked her but I ken walk back.”

 “Did ya promise yer mom that y’all would be back home ‘for dark?”

 She’d caught him again, “well I mighta.”

 “Well then you best get in my car, I ain’t havin’ you banned from my house too.” Azula grabbed his hand and led him out front.

 “Guess I’ll git to spend a ‘lil more time wit ya then.” Sokka gave in. “’Sides, I never did drive wit y’all ‘for.”

 “Well then get ya in the passenger’s seat.” She opened the door for him. “Idiots first.”

 “Ha. Ha.” He rolled his eyes. “This is purtty nice.” He mentioned. He didn’t see her as the type to drive a pickup. But it suited her well. Unlike his, hers was in top condition—not a dent nor scratch on its red paint. The only sign of its use was a light film of dirt on and around the tires. The next time he came back they’d probably be nice and clean once again.

 Azula positioned herself behind the wheel and started the truck. “Now, y’all better not come back here ‘til yer sure that yer mom’s gonna win that ribbon this year. Y’all really do need that prize money.”

 He knew that tone of voice. It was the tone of voice that told him that he could knock on her door all he wanted—he could knock the day and night away—and she still wouldn’t answer. Not until his family won. It was that tone of voice that told him that she would be sharpening her own skills to win her own ribbon and helping Tylee with hers. He hated that tone. He hated the tough love. But that’s what he knew he was getting himself into right from the start.

 “I’ll see ya at the fair then.” He said as she pulled the truck to a stop.

 She rolled her window down. “See ya ‘round, Sokka.”

 And she took off, the dying summer breeze fluttering her hair. She was singing along to the radio as her truck picked up speed, kicking up dust, he knew she was. He watched her until her truck’s taillights became two specks off light, blazing down that dirt road.

[deltabannermen]

Prompt 3 Edit - Expanded Edition

I wasn’t thrilled with prompt #3, and couldn’t shake the feeling that I hadn’t really found the story’s thread. Here is my edited attempt to find the point.

*

“All right, my beautiful bitches--line up an’ let me hear you! WHO ARE WE?”

“IRON MAIDENS!” There was a great deal of whooping and slamming of swords and spears on shields as two rows of women, all armed to the teeth, roared out their name.

“Damn straight,” said the tall, blood-red Hellsguard woman standing before them, arms folded, seemingly oblivious to the blazing Thanalan sun that hammered down directly overhead. “As you are aware, we been...politely invited…” There were scattered, dark chuckles. “...to link up with them Brass Blades for a piece, on account o’ this Amaljaa business’s got outta hand.” She grinned. “Figure this job wants a woman’s touch.”

There was more raucous laughter. In the back line, Madeleine snickered.

“All right ladies...form UP, an’...MARCH! Double time, now!”

There was a rhythmic clatter as the two lines headed out the high sandstone arch and into the desert.

*

The battle was already underway when they arrived, and while the Brass Blades were making a good show, it was painfully clear they’d be swept away by the murderous tide of Amaljaa within minutes.

The Hellsguard woman slammed the butt of her spear into the dirt and held up one hand, calling a halt. “Shit.” She spat. “Well, ain’t much time for makin’ a proper plan...IRON MAIDENS! Go get some!”

The women surged forward.

Maddie hefted her shield, dropped her head, and ran head-first into the thick of it.

There was a bone-jarring clash as shield met a solid wall of flesh, and a roar from the Amaljaa she’d hit. A blade came down, hard--it bit right into the top edge of her shield and lodged there, locking her up.

With a curse, she bit the strap around her arm and tore it loose, flinging the shield aside. 

Who the hell needs it. 

With nothing now between them, she screamed and launched herself at the beastman. 

Short swords clashed. There was a deafening roar and a ringing in her ears and the awful tang of blood and sweat and worse. 

It would have frightened some, though not the Maidens. They’d be feeling many things: excitement. Determination. Amusement, even. 

And some--like Madeleine--would be enraged.

When she haltingly explained herself, the older women nodded, unsurprised.

“There’s two kindsa woman ends up here,” an old Miqo’te woman told her, fur gone silver-white and eyes the color of a heat wave. “Kind as likes it...and the kind as just can’t help themselves. You’re pissed off, love.” When Maddie had opened her mouth to object, the woman only shook her head. “Don’t matter why. Whatever it is, you can’t take it out on the right thing. So you’re takin’ it out on everythin’ else.”

A spear sang past Maddie’s ear, right over a shoulder. It snapped her back to focus, and she turned and screamed her fury at the man who’d thrown it, Tempered most likely, charging towards her now with grim determination.

Maddie flung herself at him--open stance, dumb as hell, but he startled and she brought her blade down hard, not even trying to cut so much as crush.

There was a wet red spray. She kept moving.

*

It took her several minutes to realize she’d somehow gotten separated from her sisters. There were two dead at her feet, one Beastman and another poor tempered bastard who’d got in the way. Her ears were still ringing, even though the fight was clearly over, and she swiped her eyes to clear the red from them.

“Thal’s gilded balls, woman.” That was the Hellsguard, their commander, Dainty Willow. “You oughtta be dead.” She did not sound so much concerned as mildly impressed. 

“Lost my shield.” 

“Aye, I can see that--doesn’t seem to have slowed you down none.” She grinned and held out a canteen. “Here. Might wanna wash some off, yer scarin’ the shite outta the few fellas what’s left.”

Maddie frowned at her. “What’d I do?”

“Ain’t what you done,” she said, then reached down and picked up a fallen shield and used her elbow to polish off the dust. “Take a peek.”

Maddie stared into the shield.

Her reflection, every inch of it, was soaked in blood.

“Willow.”

“Aye?”

“What do you think I’m mad at?”

The broad woman tilted her head, staring at Maddie, studying her the way you’d examine a piece of steel for a flaw. 

“Goin’ by today?” She shrugged. “You mostly seem pissed off you’re still alive.”