#I have gone back to my old habits of Professional Lurking

[wishing-stones]

Hi!! Dropping by just to know if you're doing okay! Did you eat already? Did you drink water? Are you sleeping well? Did you take some time to take care of yourself? You better!

Thanks anon! I haven't eaten yet today, but I have food and water and soon, coffee. I'm sleeping decently, have taken... mostly good care of myself, but the creative burnout is rough LOL

I'm nose-deep in FFVII:Rebirth so I've been a liiiitttleee hyperfocused there. (A little over? Halfway through the game?) And. Work LOL. Always work. I get easter off so I'm probably going to take that day to do nothing but chill and probably play more ffvii

Which... you can talk to me about FF all day every day. I don't play the MMOs but I know a lot about 7 and 9, especially.

[bbq-hawks-wings]

Pump the Breaks

Hawks was famous for his speed - it was even his trademark before anything else about him. He was always here and gone, there and back, wherever he needed to be in the blink of an eye. While others were known for their raw power, clever tactics, or flashy styles Hawks had a reputation for ending things before they started. As soon as something was known to be a problem, he could be expected to be there and instantly resolve it.

What people didn't know about him, and really only those who knew Takami Keigo even got a glimpse of it, was how much he loved to just be.

It was rare that he ever had the opportunity to sit still. It wasn't that he hated to be, he just always felt there was something that needed to be done that bothered him so he felt like he never could. Yet, when he felt that there was nothing else to be done, when the world was at peace even for a moment, he would still and sit and enjoy just being as long as he could.

He loved heights so he could see as much of the world as possible - his keen eyesight permitting him to enjoy details from afar as well as the wider scenery. There were no overly distracting noises from up high, and the gentle breeze padded his senses to anything that could be like a thick blanket.

He could take the time to enjoy what his eyes could see or close them and pay attention to what he could hear. He could tune it all out and sit with his thoughts - for once not bogged down with the things that needed to be done, just the things that were.

"I think I'll get dinner after this. I'll drop into that restaurant and say hi to the owner. She's so sweet, and she makes the best gyoza in town - I keep trying to figure out her secret, but that crafty old lady is always a step ahead of me. I'll ask her how her grandson is doing - I love watching her face light up when she talks about him. He's entering middle school soon, isn't he? Maybe he got into the one he's been studying for."

He'd let his mind wander - thinking about anything and everything like the clouds passing by around him, considering it for a second as it changed in front of him and then letting it go on its way while he did the same with the next. It was refreshing, like taking a shower and just enjoying the feeling of the water wash over you and slip away. Whatever thing came to mind, he would just feel over and meditate on as long as it would let him and he would just let himself be happy the thought came to visit in the first place when it slipped away peacefully.

Those moments never lasted very long, and he supposed that was probably for the best. Too much of a good thing can be bad, and usually the times he had too much of it the bad thoughts would start to lurk and harass him like a gang of street punks learning their favorite punching bad was nearby. He'd be forced to move again from that point before his mind and emotions would start to fight and turn him inside out.

He'd start up slowly, warming up like an engine on a cold day. He didn't need to be fast right now, just mobile. The world would need him again soon enough, but for now he could just enjoy a stretch or two to send the blood back into his limbs that had been still for a while. Before long, he was back up to speed, eyes sharp and vigilant and ears open and listening again. There might be something or two that needs his attention moving forward, but a freshly rested mind and body made the possibility much more agreeable and even exciting.

Someday he'd have more time than he'd know what to do with, and maybe then he'd pick up a hobby or dedicate some time to learning new things; but for now it was dinnertime, and he had to figure out that sweet old lady's secret gyoza technique!

~~~~~~~~

A/N: Some of my favorite bits of animation have always been those Ghibli-esque moments of stillness and silence where the characters aren't doing anything in particular, but aren't completely static, either. Even doing nothing, they're still alive even if all they're doing is existing in a time or place for a moment. I think there's a large misconception about what it means to just breath and be still, and even the "meditation" and "mindfulness" movements never felt like they got it right, to me.

A loved one of mine recently has begun to get professional help for mental illness caused by regular overabundance of stress and overstimulation, and I've watched them as they've told me how they feel like they're improving over time - from realizing they used to be hyper-focused and high alert all the time and don't anymore, to feeling their "little victories" were actually productive instead of feeling guilty for not getting more done, and even feeling rested after a few hours of sleep and not feeling like they have to be moving. Being able to sit next to them on a nice day and watch as they no longer need added stimulus to feel at ease like they used to and clearly just enjoy the moment has actually brought me to tears.

I wish we romanticized sitting still for just a minute or two and realized how good it is for us - and I don't mean stopping being busy doing one thing so you can be busy sitting down. It's not as easy as it sounds, but stopping to enjoy being alive and appreciating what's right there in front of you, even for just a minute or two, is a habit we don't often hear about any more let alone practice; and I feel we could all be the better for it if we let ourselves do it once in a while. What it looks like in practice is a little different for everybody, but I hope you get the chance to enjoy that feeling soon if you haven't lately.

[tarithenurse]

Reunion

Pairing: Sam Wilson x fem!reader Prompt: “Reunion” from Becca’s 1k Writing Challenge. Contents: Swearing, mention of loss and trauma, awkward socializing, casual drinking, protected smut/lemons. A/N: Yeah. I had a million ideas for this prompt. Still do, actually, but the summer heat has gotten to my brain twisting anything into something steamy. But hey, it’s Sam and don’t we all love him? But do me a favour and don’t read if you’re too young.

Reunion 58th Rescue Squadron

The scattered conversations aren’t enough to mask the warbled sound from the music dock. Country. Who the hell plays country at a get-together? On the other hand, the dismal tones do fit the mood in the room rather well because no matter how big the group originally was, it’s painfully obvious that the reunion’s catering to fewer people than that. Sam’s avoided going to these things for that reason even if he’s claimed that it’s because he’s too busy with the Avengers or something…anything to avoid looking for people he knows aren’t there.

Making his way to the bar, Sam recognizes some of the faces. These were people he trained with, entrusted his life to, and still he’s got absolutely no clue what to say to them. How ya been? That doesn’t quite seem to cut it. Some had been married back in the old days but asking about that’s like stepping into a minefield. At least the beer is perfectly cold, drawing a sigh from the ex-soldier. Savouring the slightly bitter taste, he rechecks the exit options out of habit - fire escape leading through the backroom behind the bar, another at the long side of the room, and of course the double doors that are the official way in and out of the pastel-yellow conference room of the hotel.

“Wilson?” The mirror behind the shelves reveals a guy with a buzz-cut, polo shirt, and a fading tattoo peeping out from under the sleeve. “I thought’t was ya! Good to see ya, man!”

So much for laying low. Dragging himself to look up from the dark-green carpet to face the man. “Heya, long time.”

The “secret” handshake for the squadron flows effortlessly through Sam’s limb to the delight of the guy. What’s his name again? A brief glance to the sticker on the pecs reads “L. Laker”. Right, Later-Laker. He’d made the mistake of telling a superior officer that…never did it again, though.

“Heard ya runnin’ some group on the side?” Planting himself on a stool, the former colleague gets a refill and drains it before Sam’s gotten just three sentences into the explanation on the work he does with veterans and PTSD.

…

At least it’s not a formal dinner but a standing buffet with tons of finger-food and Sam’s overjoyed to be able to ditch Later-Laker under the pretence of checking out the option. The guy’s been relentless in the questioning about the Avengers and it’s only gotten worse as he got more beers inside. Probably needs a cap soon.

Hand full of a napkin containing a veritable treasure-trove of snacks, Sam begins a search for a quiet corner, eventually finding one where just one person’s standing. Hot damn. Even with the back to him, there’s no doubt who it is. The stance, the shape of the hips, the curve of the neck. Oh yeah, the years have been kind to you. As if you can feel his gaze on you, you turn and a wicked smile tugs at the corner of your mouth, making the [Y/E/C] eyes sparkle challenging. Seeing you in a modest but tight dress…no: simply seeing you brings back memories.

He’s never seen you dressed in anything but the uniform before…although he’s seen you out of it. It wasn’t allowed to have any sort of relationship with a comrade if it wasn’t purely professional, and the flings back then could have costed your careers…probably would have if it hadn’t been for your planning and rules that prevented the two of you from getting caught. Once or twice it got too close for comfort, making Sam swear never to give in to temptation, but it wasn’t until after Riley that he managed to stick to the promise thanks to the distance.

“I thought I heard your sweet voice,” you purr.

Nothing comes out of Sam’s mouth the first time he tries to answer. “Hrmh erm eh hi, [Y/N],” he offers lamely, “long eeh long time no…see…”

Your arms are wrapping around him, pulling him into an all too comfortable embrace that allows the Avenger to enjoy the scent of perfume on warm, honeyed skin. As if compelled by some unknown force, Sam realizes, he’s hugging you back. Fuck, it feels too good.

“Let me see you, handsome.” Pulling away, your eyes roam along his figure leisurely, like controlled lava. “Oh yeah, perfect as ever,” you smirk.

“Says you…”

Sam’s hands are itching to feel your body again, to be close. It’s like time has stood still around you and he’s been dragged into this bubble from the past, falling into his old habits.

…

Oh man! ThisissonotwhatIshouldbedoingbutdon’tletitstop! Nails are digging into Sam’s partially undressed shoulders, dragging the shirt further down until his arms are restrained from still being in the sleeves. A few tugs later and his hands are roaming your back, pressing you hips close to his own. Oh jeez. The jeans are getting much too tight and the friction from your pelvis does absolutely nothing at all to still the throbbing strain.

Arching your back in the hope of getting a look at Sam’s exposed upper body doesn’t get you what you want because he chases you, pressing kisses to your throat while his fingers fumble eagerly with the zipper on the back of your dress. It falls to the floor with a soft rustle.

“So eager,” you breathe into his hair, but the whisper turns into a groan as he responds by wedging a thigh between your legs, and soon you’re the one who has a hard time restraining yourself as you rock against the grey material.

The two of you haven’t gotten further than just past the hotel room’s door, already handsy and needy, but now Sam lifts you and carries you to the bed where he dumps you unceremoniously. Damn, he could live off the laughter that tumbles from your pretty, lipstick-smudged mouth. Eyes glittering and dark with lust, you scoot backwards, not minding that the bra is crooked, allowing your boobs to swell over the seam as you get comfortable.

Sam Wilson’s a confident man, sure of his good looks and skill as both the Avenger known as Falcon and as a lover. Faced with you, however, he feels like a giddy teen again. Embarrassingly eager to shove his cock into the soft heat in return for praises…but you’re not any random chick who’ll make do with a slobby job. That’s why he takes his time stripping down completely (and rolling on the condom) before working his way up your body, and by the time his nose buries into the bellybutton you’re writhing beneath his hands, urging him for more than the lavish kisses, teasing bites, and tantalizing massage.

“C’mon!”

His fingers skim along your sides only to disappear between the mattress and your back. “Patience, honey.” The hot breath seeps through the lace of your panties and goosebumps erupt.

A flick is enough to release the clasp, and Sam can slide the bra away to tease (or torture) your sensitive nipples. It’s driving you crazy and you love it. Sliding your calves up the veteran’s thighs, you try to steer his body closer without any real hope of success, not even when you hook the heels against his perfect ass and pull. It does earn you a bite to the hipbone, though.

Warring against his own needs, Sam moves horribly slowly as he drags down the panties, kissing and suckling at the inner thighs that have gone lax under his ministrations. Soon, the lace’s gone and flat hands are shifting to find a grasp that can both hold you down and let the Avenger’s thumbs play with your clit then part your folds to let his tongue swipe broad and gentle from the entrance to the throbbing bundle of nerves, unhurried by the attempt at bucking your hips to meet him.

“Fuck!”

Sam chuckles against your pussy, sending vibrations through you. “Patience.”

“Ah! I got…oh…got no pa-tience justlikethat please!” You’re reduced to a rambling mess, hands fisting the sheets in borderline ecstasy.

Back when Sam was still enlisted, he’d be the one at your mercy and always begging for release while you rode him slowly after he’d gone down on you already. Sure, you’d blow him, to bring him to the edge or just to keep him hard…but it wasn’t until you were satisfied that you allowed him to come.

This time is different. You are the one balancing on the edge of sanity without being allowed to fall. Body thrumming to the beat of Sam’s tongue, toes curling, chest rising and falling rapidly. Skillfully, he pushes all the buttons that have you gasping in equal parts delight and near pain as your muscles clench around nothing. Cramps are lurking around the corner, waiting to pounce on your legs and ass.

He’s been waiting for it, eager to see how far he can push you now that the roles have been reversed, and the former soldier doesn’t even try to resist when you topple him over and straddle him, breasts brushing against his chest as you reach to find his lips. Already, your slick’s rubbing off against the balls and shaft of his cock. Warm and slippery, so alike and still so different from the heat of your tongue as it explores the salty taste left behind in his mouth.

Your mind is clearly set on what you desire as you roll your hips to align his cockhead before slowly straightening up. Dark eyes burn with a fiery passion behind black lashes, and Sam watches as your own hands roam your curves just to tease him. Entice.

“Damn, you look fine.” He’s always admired your body nearly as much as your soul and seeing it above him sends a surge of desire from head to toe…and to head.

There’s no reason to the restraint it must take as you lower yourself slowly, every inch sending the walls fluttering, clenching hard, and the sensation pulls a moan from you and it grows in volume as you sheathe him fully. Head back, hair messy and sticking in places to the sweaty forehead. Fuck, she’s amazing.

Careful not to rush you, Sam tightens the glutes to push just a tiny bit further. Damn, it feels good and the sound you make is so pretty he just can’t help himself but has to do it again. And again. And soon you join him in the rolling rhythm even if you shake from the exertion it takes to coordinate the movements at this point. Sam feels the speed of your cunt clenching grow rapid, feels the stiffening of your body as your back arches and he’s all you have to hold on to, like an anchor keeping you from drifting away with each way of your orgasm. The spasming tightness around the Avenger’s cock becomes too much and he too comes with a groan of your name.

You have collapsed onto him and it’s all you can do to roll off so Sam can remove and tie up the condom. When he turns to look at you, it’s with a smile on his face because he can recognize the hunger for more just simmering under the surface.

“Just give me half an hour, honey.”

[flopgoblins]

Ocelot Emperor

We emerge from the mists of Ireland - where we’re on retreat with next to no internet - to lay this offering at the feet of one of our favorite people and wish her a very happy birthday! @brazenbells we love you, thank you for two consecutive years of helping us write our boys, and for letting us throw them at your own.

Without further ado, the crossover smash the fans (us, mostly) have been clamoring for! Thanks, Ted. 

-

King Abran's throne was as vast and glorious as his kingdom. Made of teak, varnished until the wood seemed to glow with an inner fire, inlaid with gold and etched with scenes from myth and legend and the founding of his dynasty. 

And upon it, his wrists heavy with bangles, his fingers dripping rings, his eyes dark with kohl, lounged the crown prince, golden and glorious as a lion at rest. His eyes were lion-tawny too, and his neck was straight and proud, easily bearing the weight of the shining crown that rested upon his brow. 

“See,” said Matt, angling his phone so Nico could get a better look at himself. “You look way better in all this sparkly shit than I do.”

Nico slid off the throne with a gentle chinking and untangled the gold-ish polymer crown from his hair. Beneath the gilt, it was dark brown, but for the stark white streak Makeup had sprayed there two hours ago. “Yeah, the casting choices feel a little strange. I can see why everyone on Twitter was pulling up those fanart comps to complain about it. Still not as bad as the, uh - ”

“I know,” Matt said morosely, taking the crown back and putting it on wonky. “I don’t even tan.” They’d dyed his hair again but thankfully drawn the line at trying to make him any less pasty. Manufacturing sexual tension with someone who looks like a stretched out Oompa Loompa might be beyond even Nico’s prodigious talents. 

“I’m billed above you though. That’s progress.” Nico tried to get the crown to sit right but succeeded in tilting it drunkenly to the other side. “And, hey, it’s not every day you get a big-budget fantasy epic with a queer romance.”

“They cut out the incest. And most of the sex.” Around them, the studio walls yawned tall and green; the only solid things onset were them and the throne, and the throne was mostly resin. 

“There wasn’t that much sex in the book,” said Nico, who’d picked up the novel as soon as the casting call went out and gone through making characterization notes on every page. 

Matt, who’d read the first draft as it was posted on AO3, complete with thirteen chapters of kink that hadn’t made it into the published version, sniffed and forbore from commenting. Some hauteur was probably in keeping with playing Gael anyway. More in keeping with Tigris, though, which was further evidence Ted Nord couldn’t cast to save his life. 

“I mean, I love it, it’s a really interesting role, but I’m finding it hard to get to grips with,” Nico had said, on the first day of shooting. “Spending your whole life pretending to be being vain and shallow, because it’s not safe to be anything else. Wearing a mask so long you must start to wonder whether you’ve become it. What does that do to a person?”

“Dunno,” Matt had said. “Did you see Ray Lelacheur’s Vogue cover yet? Terrible shoes.”

Now that Nico had abandoned the regal warmth that had settled on him as if it was second nature while draped over the throne, he was stirring the pages of the script again, frowning at his lines. Tigris had been the most he’d had to stretch for a character to date, he’d told Matt, though he’d earnestly added he liked the character’s ‘chewiness.’ 

Matt, who’d struggled equally hard to locate the generosity of spirit and ease of power that was Gael, continued to think that Ted was just as bad at casting to type as he was to aesthetic. 

Nico tossed his white-streaked hair back from his forehead and dragged on his black velvet cloak. “Will you run this scene again with me? I keep not getting the timbre of his ambition right.” He mouthed a few lines, twisted a green gemstone on his finger, and cast an agonized, kohl-rimmed look at Matt. “How do I channel the appropriate volume of petulance, the feeling of a man deprived what by all rights should be his?”

Matt draped himself over his rightful throne, trying to arrange his limbs with the same boneless grace Nico had achieved so easily. “Remember when we were at that falafel truck last week and it took twenty minutes for your order to come and you started cursing god?”

“Suck my dick, Rose,” said Nico reflexively, but looked thoughtful.  

“Later,” murmured Matt, and closed his eyes to wait.

-

“Spy,” snarled the prince, rounding on his cousin. Tigris stood his ground, jaw set against the taller man’s fury, lip curling with defiant derision. “You intrude here, in my father’s house, not content to be left to your life of indulgent luxury, so desperate for attention -”

Tigris’s eyes flashed, enraged despite himself. “Attention? You think that is what I crave? Heavens forbid I seek a world beyond the gilded cage my uncle keeps me in, indulging me like a spoilt puppy and giving me just as much freedom. Attention? I would give my eyeteeth for less! If one could trade condescending oversight for actual knowledge of how our kingdom is run-”

“Our kingdom,” repeated Gael. He cocked his head to the side, curiosity warring with the outrage in his noble features. “You truly think it so, do you? But our father-”

“Uncle,” said Tigris, under his breath.

“Our uncle -”

“My uncle,” said Tigris helpfully. “Your father.”

“My - okay, your -” Matt stopped. “Gawd. This doesn’t work at all.”

“See? It doesn’t work half as well without the incest.” Nico flicked a gem-encrusted finger at Matt’s nose.

Matt wrinkled it and adjusted the hang of gold chains over his collarbones. “You say this like I’m the one who made the script changes. And for the record, Cindy was as cut up about it as you are.” Cindy, script doctor extraordinaire, had also lurked the story on AO3 as it sailed up the ‘Original Fiction’ rankings, and was as distressed as he was about the loss of the throne sex scene. “It’s not my fault transgressive familial kink hasn’t crossed over from the hets yet.”

“Kink shmink, it totally shifts the dynamic.” Nico flapped his cloak emphatically. “Adopted cousins isn’t close to the same sort of layers of resentment and entitlement being a bastard half-brother would be.”

“Right,” said Matt, who’d definitely only re-read chapter 12 seven times for the entitlement, and not the way Tigris hissed ‘brother’ while bound to a bedpost. “The morality groups would lose their shit, though. Probably it was the right call.” It was impressive enough his agency had let him sign the role at all; he’d already rocked the boat enough asking if his casting was whitewashing.

“The morality groups are gonna lose their shit over the gay factor anyway,” said Nico stubbornly. “In for a penny...”

“What about the negative associations of homosexuality with sexual taboos?” 

“What about double standards?”

“Sure, it’s a double standard and it sucks, but you gotta start somewhere. It’s a story about being an outcast and fighting for scraps of dignity, fighting to be seen as human by people who want you to be less than that, and that’s gonna resonate with a lot of kids. You gotta lay the groundwork then fuck your brother.”

Nico raised an eyebrow and Matt shut up quickly; he, or rather his agency, had made a point of never letting him be drawn into these kinds of debates. “And I think compromise robs art of its power. What does the author think?” They both glanced across the set to where a woman in a peacock-print dress watched as Ted struggled to coral the child actors for the carnival scene. Her expression, behind her glasses, was unreadable. 

“Dunno.” Matt ran his hand through his hair. The dye had dried it out and he winced at the brittle, dead-grass feel of it. “Only time we spoke, we both tried to get each other’s autographs and it was really awkward. Bet she’d have some notes for you, though.”

“D’you know, Rose, that’s not a bad idea.” Once resolved, Nico was all action and he stood, script pages fluttering to the floor, velvet cloak swirling around his ankles. The jut of his jaw said that nothing short of poor falafel truck service would defeat him. 

“Ask her to show you the predicament bondage scene,” Matt told him helpfully. “There were some really important character beats in that, I thought.”

-

“You think you’re too good for me, don’t you?”

“What?” Matt looked up, taken completely off guard. He was stretched out in Nico’s window seat, deeply absorbed in a thinkpiece on why Kai Bourke would have been a better casting choice for Gael, and thoroughly agreeing with it. Seeing his boyfriend prowling towards him with a look of cold fury and a bare chest was enough to stop him mid-anonymous comment.

Nico stalked across the room towards him, the taut anger etched in every muscle creating a frayed grace that was almost violence. “That’s the worst of you, your highness. It’s not that you hate me. It’s not that you think less of me. It’s that you think nothing of me at all!”

Finally cottoning on, Matt swung his legs around and tried to remember his lines; it was hard, he truly couldn’t remember what part of the script this was. That in itself was unusual. Matt would hardly claim himself a natural thespian or even a diligent professional, but memorizing lines had been a skill drilled into him since he was eight years old and it was a tough habit to shake. Still, while Nico’s words - Tigris’s words - sounded vaguely familiar, he couldn’t for the life of him place them in Ted and Cindy’s script. 

“But I’m going to make certain you don’t forget me, brother,” whispered Nico, and that was just it, Matt realized. It wasn’t the script at all. It wasn’t even the book. It was the original.

“You read it?” he mouthed, as Nico’s hand wrapped around his wrist. 

“Shocked to learn I’m literate?” spat Nico, but favored him with the shadow of a wink. No shadow around his eyes this time, no gold woven into his hair, but he was more Tigris than he’d been on the soundstage. 

It was, simultaneously, extremely Nico. 

Matt tried, experimentally, to free his wrist and found he couldn’t. He shivered, feeling his pulse jump, knowing Nico could feel it too. “Was that an attempt to dig deeper into the artistic truth of the work, or to mine it for weird, kinky shit?” 

“Yes,” said Nico, bearing him down onto the cushions, beautiful and vengeful and careful not to knock Matt’s laptop off the seat.

-

One of the advantages of shooting a gay film with your boyfriend - one Arose had certainly never intended - was that when Nico turned, grabbed Matt by the lapels, and kissed him on the red carpet, everyone laughed and smiled and Matt knew the gossip mag headlines would be jokes about dedication to the craft and not shock sexuality scandals. His father probably wouldn’t- okay he’d definitely mind but it’d probably be a side note in a meeting about how to capitalize on the film’s success. 

And it was a success; some desperately hot sex aside, reading the story - the real story - had apparently been what Nico had needed to pull it together. All the pride and fear and desperate clawing longing of a tiger caged that had risen like a heat haze from Tigris’s story, and Nico had captured it, had reveled in it, and put it on the screen for all to see. 

Matt straightened his tie and winked to the paps - just a joke between bros, nothing queer here - and resolved to fuck Nico senseless in the restrooms after the premier. Nico laughed and stuck his tongue out. He’d left the white streak in his hair for the red carpet, as stark as the collar of his suit, and Matt had to say, it was growing on him. 

[bobbichoicesfeedback]

This is a response to the most recent Bloodbound chapter. It does not follow on from my previous post, I’m just writing a response at each stage to deal with it in my own way.

I feel like I should make clear, I still really enjoy Choices, and several other stories are brilliant, but the lack of agency in this book is really distressing

I’d finally managed to take a shower, more than a day after I’d clawed my way out of my own grave. I looked at my reflection, trying to see any sign of the transformation I’d been subjected to. On the outside, I looked exactly like the old Bobbi, but I could sense the pent-up power in my body, the heightened sensitivity, and the fundamental difference of my new life as a vampire.

I shuddered to myself. Ever since I’d discovered that Adrien was a vampire, barely a year ago, almost everything in my life had been focused around the hidden undead world lurking beneath the surface of New York City – and the whole world. I still remembered the day I’d come home to find my room-mate, my best friend, and unacknowledged crush, Lily Spencer dying in a pool of her own blood and had forced Adrien to Turn her so that she wouldn’t die.

That decision had been made in a panic, an emotional response to a traumatic situation. I’d felt guilty about it for a while, but Lily had assured me that she loved her new existence and abilities, plus it had enabled us to finally open up to each other. Sex with a vampire was incredible and, accordingly to Lily, it was even more amazing when you were a vampire.

I walked out of the bathroom and found a package on the bed. It was simply wrapped, and only had a small label saying, ‘From Lily.’

I looked inside and saw a set of red lingerie, attractive and sexy. Instead of gratitude or arousal, I simply felt nauseous. Even the name on the label made me recoil.

It was difficult to recognise these feelings in myself. I knew that Lily had been in a similar position to me when I had died, impaled on Jax’s sword, as I saved New York and the world from Gaius’ mad plan of a vampire kingdom, ruling over us humans like we were cattle. Lily’s position had been worse, I supposed, because we were falling for each other now.

Nevertheless, knowing that I had been dying and that Lily had Turned me was filling me with a growing sense of disgust and repulsion. I still remembered the pale body of the woman who had volunteered to provide my first meal, knowing that without Adrien’s supervision, I would have killed her, swallowing her blood greedily. It had been delicious, the perfect meal, beyond anything I’d experienced before my death and, at the time, I’d enjoyed it. Immediately afterwards, when the thirst had receded and my guilt set in, I hated myself and my new needs.

I’d told Lily I forgave her, the night she found me, savagely chasing humans in the park, a slave to my overpowering bloodlust. At the time, the look of distress on her face had made me say it automatically. I remembered how I’d felt and had told her what I wanted to hear at the time. Now, with the Unchained gone, and my… I mean, the human government beginning the process of repair, I finally had a chance to think clearly.

I had to admit to myself that the forgiveness had been a lie. The realisation felt like a pit in my stomach, almost as bad as the hunger I felt when I first awoke in my coffin. Lily had done precisely what I had done in her situation, but where she had forgiven me, I was finding that I couldn’t forgive her.

Why shouldn’t I forgive her, I was trying to persuade myself that the situations were identical, but the more I thought, the less true that seemed. When I’d found Lily dying, she didn’t know that vampires were real. I’d known for less than twenty-four hours. Although I hadn’t known it at the time, she’d been attacked to make me vulnerable, so that I could be used as a divining rod for Gaius and his telepathic crony. She’d been murdered just to get at me.

I, on the other hand, had known that I would probably die when I ran at Gaius. A human – even a Bloodkeeper – didn’t stand a chance against a vampire with the blood of the first in his veins. I was the only one who could even take that chance, though, because I was the only one he couldn’t control. I’d been lucky, managing to strike his heart with the wood of the sacred tree even as he impaled me on my friend’s sword.

We’d never explicitly talked about what I wanted, in the likely event that something happened to me, but I feel like I’d intimated my feelings – although I was willing to fight tooth and nail for my vampire friends, I didn’t want to join them in undeath. Maybe I hadn’t been clear enough, I was still looking for ways to persuade myself to forgive her. As I was dying in Lily’s arms, I’d tried to form the words ‘Please don’t Turn me,’ but my life faded before I could even frame the first syllable. The last thing I remembered was her voice saying…

“I lo…”

Tear drops fell onto my hands, I looked down and saw that I had crumpled the gift into a ball. The first time she’d said she loved me was as I died. Then, she forced me back to life, even if it took an inexplicably long time.

I dressed, quickly, in demure and drab clothes pointedly leaving the lingerie in the paper bag, and then walked into the apartment where the others had gathered to celebrate our eventual victory. Lily gave me a smouldering look, which I repaid with a bland smile. I decided I wasn’t going to break the news to her now; despite my feelings and the bubbling sense of resentment, we all deserved a moment to celebrate.

I was vaguely aware of a look of surprise on her face as I accepted a hug from Jax and Adrien but pushed all these emotions to the back of my mind. I passed through the kitchen and subtly dropped the package into the pedal bin: Lily wasn’t staying in this room overnight so there was little chance that she would see it before the cleaning staff went through the room.

The champagne tasted great, although not as good as the more gruesome drink I’d had yesterday, but I didn’t seem to get even tipsy the way I had before.

Successfully burying the turmoil inside for now, I chattered with the vampire council and Lily. I remained sat on the sofa next to Kamilah, so that Lily couldn’t sit next to me, but several times she reached over and caressed my arm or my neck. I shuddered with pleasure at the barest touch, just as Lily had told me, even the slightest bit of skin-to-skin contact felt better than anything I’d experienced before.

Lily seemed to notice my reactions, she smiled knowingly and continued to brush against me occasionally. I knew her well enough to realise that she was trying to tease me, tantalise me with a taste of what it felt like so that I’d be hungry for more. The trouble was, it was working. Jax and Adrien grinned; they’d both had feelings for me but had backed off when it became clear that my orientation was exclusively towards the fairer sex. Even so, they both seemed invested in my happiness, apparently my relationship with Lily was approved of. Interestingly, not in the way that most human men had viewed my relationships with women. Vampires seemed to have outgrown that particular hang-up.

Eventually, with only a few hours before dawn – when we were due to meet with the military’s representative – I stood up. All four of my companions turned to look at me, all with expressions that seemed to predict what I was about to say.

“Okay, I may not need to sleep quite as much as I used to,” I began, noticing that Lily was already shifting as though to stand up, “But I would like to get some, even if it’s out of habit. Good night, everyone.”

I’ll confess, I found a twisted little stab of enjoyment at the surprised look on Jax’s face, the practiced indifference on Kamilah’s, and the professionally confused on Adrien’s. I didn’t look at Lily until she called after me, sounding both hurt and baffled.

“Good night, Bobbi?”

“Yes, I’ll see you all in the morning,” I smiled, putting all of my effort into maintaining a neutral expression. It seemed to work, even Kamilah was looking a little puzzled now. Lily looked shocked, as though she genuinely hadn’t thought this was even a possibility.

They were all silent as I walked out of the room and down the corridor. On a whim, I entered the apartment next door to the one in which we’d been gathered instead of the bedroom I’d been given, focusing my abilities as Kamilah had taught me, to be as silent as possible. I undressed and curled up in the bed, listening as hard as I could.

“She just seems more distant,” I could just hear Lily’s voice. I closed my eyes and allowed my hearing to reach out, augmented by the bizarre psychic abilities of my Bloodkeeper heritage, “I mean, it looked like she was enjoying things, then she just left.”

“It’s a big change, Lil,” Jax’s voice was conciliatory, but still had an air of incredulity, “Give her time. You two are perfect together, she’ll come around.”

“Oh, Lily,” Adrien’s voice sounded like someone who thought he’d found a possible calming solution, “It looks like a present for you got knocked into the bin by mistake… oh… no, wait it’s from you…”

There was a moment of silence. Psychically, I could sense a feeling of betrayal and panic from Lily.

“Don’t read too much into this, Lily,” Kamilah’s voice finally spoke up, passive and emotionless, “As Jax said, this is a big change for Bobbi, even though she’s been around us for a while.”

“I’m going to talk to her,” Lily said, stubbornly, ignoring the sudden call of our friends advising her to wait. I heard her footsteps stamping across the room – deliberately, I knew how silently she could move now – and away down the corridor to my assigned apartment. I relaxed my senses and rolled onto my back, ready to sleep.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I nearly screamed, Kamilah had appeared in the room without a sound until she spoke, “I could hear your heartbeat. Not at first, you’re getting good at what I taught you, but when Lily left it sounded… relieved.”

“I just want to sleep, Kamilah,” I lied, turning my back on her. The mattress dipped as the ancient Egyptian beauty sat on the far side of the bed.

“If that was true, Bobbi,” she said, in that insufferable knowing way she sometimes had, “You would have gone back to your room and not hidden in here. Lily is very upset, she doesn’t understand why you’re rejecting her like this.”

“I know,” I grimaced, keeping my face hidden from her, “But I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I have an idea of what’s wrong,” Kamilah continued, “But I don’t want to jump to conclusions.”

“Kamilah,” I hesitated. The Queen was intelligent beyond belief, more than two-thousand years of life had allowed her to grow wiser than anyone I’ve met. She might work out the truth if I asked what was on my mind, “Is Adrien… When I first met you all, Adrien was working on a cure for his… for our condition…”

“He was,” Kamilah was suddenly using the blank, cadence-less voice that gave away nothing of what she was thinking. I could find out, but that would be an intrusion too far, “And you know how well it worked. Instead of making him human again, it made him closer to the First. Our experiences with Gaius and his brother should let you know how dangerous further research is.”

“Is there no chance?”

“Lily said that you forgave her,” suddenly Kamilah was accusatory, “Where has this resentment come from?”

“I was overwhelmed,” I sat up, glaring at Kamilah. I could feel my fangs again, which only made me feel angrier. Kamilah merely raised an exquisite eyebrow at me, “I thought I’d died, I woke up in a coffin, and I nearly killed an innocent woman. Then Lily tells me she Turned me, and we’re in the middle of a war, and the military is preparing to firebomb New York. I didn’t have time to think about my emotions!”

“So now you’ve had time?” she asked, sardonically, “And you hate us all?”

“Of course not,” I snarled back, her calm reaction worse than if she bared her fangs back at me, “You’ve all been my friends and I was in love with Lily.”

“Was?” that broke through her icy demeanour. I don’t think she was expected something that dramatic, “You don’t love her anymore?”

“I can’t,” I confessed, feeling tears start falling again. I was still furious, but the sadness was still there, “I’ve fought for all of you this past year, I wanted you all to be free of the threats… but I didn’t want to become a vampire. I… never wanted this… Do you know how hard it was not to ‘accidentally’ get caught in the ultra-violet grenade at the battle this evening?”

“That strongly?” Kamilah looked worried, but not surprised, “Jax was the only one who said you might not want this, but even he didn’t say no. He still feels guilty about the sword.”

“Kamilah,” I drew my knees up to my chest and hugged them tightly, anger finally slipping away into the despair I’d been feeling since I woke up staring at that wooden lid, “I can’t live like this. You told me once that your life since you were Turned didn’t feel as real as your human life. I don’t want to live a half-life: I hated drinking that woman’s blood.”

“There’s a possibility,” Kamilah said, although I couldn’t read her tone or expression, “That something in you caused you to Turn, rather than Lily. Normally, the fact that you didn’t Turn would mean that it wasn’t her. Given what we know about your… strange heritage… it may be that you were destined to become a vampire whatever your lover did.”

“Does that make a difference, Kamilah?” I asked, “She still tried it. If she’d said no and buried me, then I Turned anyway, I could deal with that. It would be easier for me, I’d be able to hold her and talk to her about the problems. But no, she tried to force this on me, either way.”

“I’ve seen a lot of new vampires over the years,” Kamilah said, shifting into a lying position on her side. She was next to me, looking at me inscrutably, “Some, not many, attempt suicide. I’m going to stay here with you. They usually fail, and cause pain for everyone.

“Do you want… to relieve the feelings?” Kamilah reached out an exquisite hand, hovering just over my hips, “It was obvious that Lily was exciting you.”

“I want to.” I said, flatly, finally lying back down. My body screamed at me as I rejected this seductive offer. Kamilah’s deep brown eyes reflected the red glow in mine and I looked down, “I really want to. But I won’t. If you have to stay, promise me you won’t talk to Lily about this. She deserves to hear it from me…”

I woke up. Kamilah was asleep next to me, still fully clothed. Why was I awake, it had only been an hour or so? Suddenly, there was a voice in my head, calling me forth. It was impossible to resist, when this sweet voice gave an instruction, I was bound to obey… My slow-beating heart sank in my chest as I pulled on some clothes and began to walk out of the room. Kamilah didn’t wake as I left.

This did not bode well for the future…

[hamlets-ghost-zaddy]

st. jude (the patron of lost causes)

Part 1/8 Donald Malarkey x Reader

Summary: Bombs aren’t discerning, they aren’t sentimental, and they kill without discretion. It’s the truth that got you through Bastogne, when men came to you in tatters and their life blood flooded past the stoppage of your hands. It’s the harsh reality that whispers through your mind as you wonder why Renee and Anna died, and not you--why you were sent on a scavenging run at that precise moment. Then, when the church was shelled.

Moved to an evacuation hospital to tend to soldiers with ghosts in their eyes, you meet Buck Compton and his loyal sergeant, a man with a weight on his shoulders unknown to even Atlas. His name means bullshit, and somehow you find that appropriate: what he’s seen, what he’s gone through? It’s complete bullshit.

You can’t distinguish night from day, sunrise from sunset, not in these few mad days after Bastogne is bombed and you emerge, unscathed and cruelly alive, going to treat the wounded in an evacuation hospital. You don’t count the days; you count the phantom lurking in the shadowy corners of the hospital tents, the faces painted in deathly pallor staring out from reflections in bowls of washing water. You see the faces of the men you lost, the friends you couldn’t save, and only dipping a bloody rag in to soak banishes them (at least for a minute or two).

He came in with luminescent eyes, bluer than frostbite, and you saw the specters crowding his reality until he has become completely disconnected from the waking world. You’ve seen it in numerous soldiers recently pulled off the line—fuck, you’d seen it in your own eyes—and you read his evaluation chart for his name. “Lieutenant Compton? Buck?” you say, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder, going to ease him down into lying on his coat. The sitting and staring listlessly at his unfurled fingers, limp in his lap, won’t do him or the other patients any good. You know; your hospital landed in Normandy on June 8, you witnessed the mess in Belgium first hand: the wounds that are beneath the skin, they’re the most in danger of infection and quickest to spread.

Buck looks at you, following your hand on his shoulder up to your face, blinking once, twice, before really seeing you. It takes everything in you to keep your hand there, to smile and say, “Come on, soldier; I need you to lie down and get better.” The words are all confused, wobbly and weak, because when he looked at you, you saw ghosts hiding in the darker flecks of his pale irises. You’ve never seen ghosts linger like that; well, not so many of them, anyway.

But it seems to convince him, or he’s become so automated to taking orders, that he nods and allows you ease him back, fixing a pillow behind his back and another for his head. “There you are,” you say, just to say something, busying yourself with arranging a blanket over his dirtied fatigues and organizing the cluster of notes and water on the stool at his bedside. “We’ll get you nicely fixed up, Lieutenant. We have hot food, showers, and everything. You’ll be right as rain.”

You straighten, smoothing down the front of your nurse’s uniform if only to hide the tremors in your fingers. You’ve chanted those same assurances to countless patients, you used to say it to yourself every night as you lay in bed waiting for sleep but listening to the whining whizz-bang-pop of the German artillery and wondering if this one (or the next, or the next) was meant for the hospital. Buck is looking up at you, because you both know what you said is a lie. “Sorry,” you offer after a moment, unsure why you spoke. Then: “I think I just say that out of habit. It’s one of those things I’ve repeated so often, they’ve lost their meaning.”

His voice is craggy, perforated and with enough holes to crumble in an instant. “I think…I think I know what you mean.” He pauses, his luminescent eyes flicking away from you and focusing. You watch him blink only once, recognition smoothing his face for a moment before his face darkens. “Malark?” he says to the silent man who has appeared at the end of his cot. The man—Malark—ducks his head in a show of bashfulness but he doesn’t look all that sorry. “What are you doing here? Going AWOL already?”

You steal a glance at Buck, mentally filing away this attempt at humor to examine later and determine what it means for his battlefield fatigue.

Wool cap twisting in his hands, Malark—a sergeant from the chevrons on his shoulders—replies with something like a grin. “I’ve been sent to deliver your mail, sir.” You get the feeling he tacked on a ‘sir’ for your benefit, the way his eyes flicker to you—all fleeting warmth and clarity. Something winds once, tightening, in your stomach.

“Vest suddenly unable to do his job?” Buck asks, an approximation of a laugh chasing the joke out of his mouth.

“I offered,” Malark replies with a twitching smile. The expression falls, the weight of a proper smile too heavy to wear. You glance between the two men, your attention inclined to settle on Malark, and wonder—if you squinted enough and studied long enough—how many phantoms you could count in their shadows.

Buck snorts, sitting up again and spilling his blanket half onto the grass—there goes all my work, you think—to accept a letter from Malark. “Thanks.” He glances at the return address, his nose wrinkling fleetingly. His hand drops, the letter with it. “She’s still writing to me.”

Malark nods. “Dames,” he sympathizes, again glancing at you. It’s easy to deduce he wants to say another word.

Turning away to gather sheets to be washed on the cot next to Buck, you hide your smile. “I’ll leave you boys to talk,” you say, regulating the amusement from your voice. Unwanted, obnoxious girls writing handsome boys, you think What could be more natural, and millions of lives away from this war?

And its these fleeting moments that tap politely on your shoulder, begging attention and careful coveting—when peacetime, mundane things manage to slip into the war—that you can no longer count the ghosts. As you busy yourself around the ward, gathering dirtied sheets, or administrating medicine, or replacing bandages, or giggling with the other nurse on duty (Constance, from Texas and green as springtime) over her third marriage proposal of the week, you keep an eye on Malark and Lieutenant Compton. They don’t talk much, or just not in the usual way of men with brief snatches of jokes exchanged like cigarettes and lighters. Malark instead talks quietly, slow so his voice doesn’t carry, and Buck nods occasionally. When Malark nods to Buck in farewell, another smile trying to work across his mouth, you make a quick excuse to Constance to leave off counting the morphine supply, hurrying after him.

You burst into the late afternoon sunlight, weak and almost as cold as if there was no sun at all, daring to raise your voice after his retreating back: “Sergeant?”

He turns in a quick movement. Much like Buck, he defaults to an automated response at orders, at the sound of his rank. That same something in your chest from earlier winds again, tighter still. You nibble your lip, suddenly girlish under those eyes—those eyes that see past the phantoms hiding in them. “Um,” you offer, intelligently, before trying again: “Sergeant, I don’t know if it’s at all likely, but would you mind trying to visit the Lieutenant as often as possible?”

One of his eyebrows, russet with the hint of red, quirks upward. You rush on: “It’s just that, well, the Lieutenant could use a friendly face. Someone he knows who’s not,” you gesture at yourself, “me every day.” It’s the wounds no one can see that spread, infected, the most—they called it battlefield fatigue, the doctors during training. And if they meant soldiers became so tired of daily death, daily depravities and suffering, that their brains simply refuse to function so as to not have to process everything they saw, well then, you’d agree.

You do know, however, that the presence of Malark made Buck try to smile, try to laugh. Made his brain attempt to function again for at least a little while.

“Um, well,” he says, hat still twisting in his hands. “It’s not really up to me, ma’am—”

“Y/n, please. Call me y/n,” you interrupt.

“Y/n,” he agrees.

A small smile blossoms on your face; it seemed imperative he know your name. You can’t say why—or, you can, but you dare not (not when so many men’s lifeblood slips between your fingers that are trying to stopper it).

Malark continues, “Um, I’m Don Malarkey, by the way.” He offers a hand, you take it, your hands drop, leaving a tingle in the tips of your fingers.

“A sergeant named bullshit?” you ask before you can stop.

You’re sure he’s heard it before, his name has probably plagued him all his life, but he has the good humor to grin—a proper grin now, but this one still just as fleeting. “I know, you should have heard what my old CO thought about that.”

You shrug. “I don’t know, it’s fitting.” Seeing his blink, his surprise, and feeling horror yawning its jaws open in your chest, you rush on, “Just that this war is, you know, bullshit. What you deal with…it’s all bullshit.”

His grin, you’re pleased to find, doesn’t disappear now. “Yeah, I never thought of it like that.” He smiles like he savors the idea, as if he wants to examine it from every angle for hours on end. “A bullshit sergeant to deal with a bullshit war.”

You don’t think you’ve said ‘bullshit’ so many times in a minute before, and it sends a thrill up your arms, humming through your muscles. Still, you’re a professional. He’s a professional. You say, “So, do you think you’ll be able to come back sometime soon?”

“I don’t know,” he replies, his smile melting from his face and you resent yourself just a little bit for chasing it away. “It depends on orders from my CO.”

“Not the same one who gave you a hard time, I hope?” you ask.

“Oh, no, no. Thank fu—I mean, thank the Lord. Um, no. But, still, I have to wait on orders.” He pauses, glancing down at his hat in his hands, now completely formless in his hands, before stealing a look up at you. A breath catches in your throat: those eyes, they see past the ghosts, but it’s the toll those ghosts have left on him physically. Darkness dwells in the bags under his eyes, in the crags under his cheekbones. He carries the shadows constantly, even in the afternoon sun. “But, I’ll, uh, try to come back. Really soon, if I can.”

You convince yourself the slight pink hue in his cheeks is your wishful thinking. “Thank you, Sergeant Malarkey. I’d really appreciate it.”

He nods, mumbling ‘ma’am’ more to your shoes than you, before hurrying towards an orderly in a Jeep. Shielding your eyes from the sun, more to hide your eyes following him than to protect from the light, you watch him until the Jeep has been swallowed by the gray trees of the Ardennes.

(That night, you forget to repeat those lies to lull yourself to sleep; instead, a face hollowed by shadows and eyes housing phantoms surfaces over and over in your imagination no matter how many times you push it aside. It always returns, until his ghosts feel more your ghosts.)

[xxshadowqueen26xx]

07.02.19 || i hate myself.

I suppose before I start, I should give a trigger warning. I’ll be talking about the dark shit that goes on in my mind.

First, I don’t even know at this point if I’m writing this for attention or simply because Tumblr is the place to get your feelings said and heard without judgment, but I wouldn’t usually write something like this on my social media. Specifically because my family and friends lurk on my Facebook and my Instagram, hell, my high school English teacher lurks. But I don’t have anyone I’m familiar with on my Tumblr.

See, for a little over a month (or for 21 years but who’s counting?), I’ve been feeling so fucking shitty lately. Some days, I’m aware of my depression and anxiety and I’m fully aware why I feel such a way; some days, I’m bawling my eyes out for no fucking reason. Back in 2014, my best friend of 11+ years moved to Hawaii (military) and made me promise that I’d stop self-harming. I’d made promises to people before (even my World Geography teacher caught me and made me promise) but they were all empty; I never kept them. But my best friend means everything to me and I wouldn’t risk losing her because I hate myself; in fact, I’d hate myself more. Now, it’s 2019 and I can honestly say...I didn’t keep my promise. I’ve gone through dark days without her by my side for the past 5 years, with my family continuously bullying me and making me feel invalid, and my friends forgetting my existence. I haven’t put a razor to my wrist or a scorching hot flat iron to my body, but I have taken boiling hot baths and scratched myself with my own nails, (I used to have a horrible habit of biting my nails and since I starting self-harming back in middle school, I kept my nails for obvious reasons). I feel so ashamed and she’s seen and heard the way my family’s treated me but I’m not sure she could ever understand my pain and what happens in my mind.

Back when I was a freshman in high school, I’d decided I wanted to commit suicide after I had graduated because after losing my uncle back in 2011, a lot of my ambitions and determination disappeared and that’s when my depression and anxiety started to hit me. I felt like nothing I did was good enough and I’d never make it in the real world. My uncle was like a father to me; he raised my brother and I since we were very young while my parents worked. He was a musician, like his father, and he had so many opportunities to become known with his band and play local shows then go on tour; he chose to stay home to take care of my brother and I. He gave up his lifelong dream for us. He died, overdosing on methadone. I sometimes wonder did he commit suicide because he was lonely and he gave up on his dream. I wonder this because I feel the same way.

My mom got pregnant again in 2014; I was 17. I didn’t get into my dream university and instead of going with one of the schools that offered me scholarships among other things, I opted out of college and decided to stay home to take care of my baby sister while my parents worked. My dad told me he was proud of me; I never heard those words from my mom. I got a job at a really cool bookstore (I love reading and music so bookstores and music stores are ideal jobs for me) and I loved my job. About a week or two into working at the store after the grand opening; I had to minimize my hours to continue watching my sister because of an issue with my dad and his sleep schedule, my sister got out of the house, she was only 2. My job fucked me over and said I “quit” and my “work ethic was so bad”, they won’t rehire me. To this day, I still go to that bookstore and I damn near cry because I missed an amazing, a fitting opportunity for me. Now, my 17-year-old brother works a full-time job, making bank, and I’m still home taking care of my sister.

My mom says a lot that she could put my sister in daycare so I can move out, get a job. I have so much anxiety; I can’t work somewhere new because I’m afraid I’ll fuck up at my job, my sister isn’t vaccinated (my parents believe they cause autism), I don’t trust other unvaccinated children, I love my sister too much to just leave her (especially with my mother), and daycare is expensive and I don’t want to put that on my mom.

My mom calls me selfish. A lot. I used to work at Kohl’s as a seasonal associate; I never got any hours so my weekly checks never went over $200. I’d use my money to go grocery shopping for my brother and sister while my mom paid bills and I’d take maybe $10 from each check to buy a new Sims pack. I hardly spent my own money on myself. But I’m selfish. Honestly, suicide is the one selfish thing I could do and I can’t fucking see it through because of my anxiety and because I refuse to hurt my brother and sister like that. My brother’s already suffering from depression as it is.

I’ve chosen to speak up here because there’s so much on my mind that I can’t bring myself to talk to my best friend, to my family, to anyone. I’ve been wanting to hurt myself so bad this past month. My depression was already bad but then I had a friend who started going through things and I haven’t seen her in a little over a month, she hasn’t texted me directly in 2 weeks. She’s someone very important to me and as easy as it should be for me to just text/call her and tell her I miss her, I can’t bring myself to. We’ve chosen to pursue a “friends with benefits” type of situation and I feel like if I try to reach out to her, she’ll take it the wrong way. It’s eating away at me, though. I spoke with another friend of mine a week ago; I told her, “I miss her. But I won’t tell her that because I’m not sure if I miss her as a person which if I do, that’s not a problem, or if I miss the idea of her which means more feelings are getting involved than they should be.” My brother called her today while we were out and I was in such a good mood until they were on the phone. I couldn’t help but think, “stop being stupid and just talk to her.” I can’t bring myself to.

My mom never makes me feel validated because I don’t have a job. I don’t make any money so I’m not important; I’m just a waste of space. She brags so much about my baby brother because he has his shit together and I don’t. I wanted to be a professional singer and a novelist. As I said, my ambitions died. I don’t think I’m good enough to sing in front of thousands of people; my writing is mediocre. I’ve never thought I was beautiful and my mom hasn’t helped much with that, either.

My mom isn’t physically abusive; there have been serious fights between us here and there that she’s put her hands on me but I don’t have bruises or physical scars because of her. Notice I said “physical” scars. For years and years and years, my mom has always openly trashed me for anything I did, said, thought, wore. She claims she’s so awful because her parents died, her first daughter died, her brother died. But she’s just a horrible person who doesn’t believe in mental illnesses or that anyone can feel sad when she’s been through so much tragedy. I came out as bisexual when I was in middle school; she told me my feelings for girls weren’t valid because I’d never had sex with a girl or a boy so how would I know my preference. I still haven’t had sex so she still sometimes believes that I don’t know what I am.

These are a lot of things that run through my mind all the time; the things I remember and cry and hurt about. These are usually the reasons I’m fucking depressed but then I have those off days that I don’t know why I’m crying. “I Will Stay” by We Are The Fallen is a song I listened to the night my uncle died and up until a few years ago, I couldn’t hear that song without breaking down. Tonight, I listened to it and I cried, it’s the first time I’d done it in forever.

I hate these feelings of sadness, regret, hurt, yearning. I hate that instead of swallowing my anxieties and just talking to people, I wrote this. I hate that I’m too scared to die but I’m too scared to live.

[virmillion]

Some Kind of Magical - Chapter 7

Chapter 6 / Chapter 8 / Masterpost / ao3

Warnings: Some tears, let me know if you have any more

Words: 4756

    “You look like you’ve just seen some unspeakable eldritch horror,” Logan comments, watching the color slowly return to Patton’s face. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind, we should get going before my parents notice I’m gone.”

    “I—uh, yeah, we should—gone? Where are we going? What are you even doing here?” Patton fumbles for words, much to Logan’s chagrin. What should be a simple task to satiate curiosity, now delayed by extraneous emotions. Things would be so much easier if people would just learn to listen to him.

    “I said I would assist you in further investigating the cave, did I not?” Pinching his nose, Logan sighs. “We could save a considerable amount of time if you allow me to elaborate as we walk.”

    This is how the moon shines down on them: two boys, one a good head taller than the other, sticking to side streets and ducking under the lower hanging trees. By the time they reach the beginnings of a forest, the tall one’s purple hair is shot through with countless branches and brambles.

    “I’d rather get this over with sooner than later,” Logan is saying, “and it’s better to have recovery time if we need it. Should anything happen to the creatures or the clearing, us investigating earlier allows a better chance for us to still gain something, regardless of how useful it might be to our projects.” Maybe it’s Logan’s determination to be done with all this cave business that prevents him from noticing the pine needles sticking out of Patton’s shirt. Patton brushes them off with a feigned air of nonchalance, a story lingering in his eyes at which Logan has no desire to pry. He instead focuses on the carpet of leaves dotting the forest floor, on the shredded wood chips kicked up behind him. He almost pauses to figure out the time, but there’s no need, really. If they assume they’re late and quicken their paces accordingly, they’ll be early.

    “That still doesn’t tell me why you were sneaking around all creepy outside my house, or how you got up to the second floor.” Patton’s eyes dart in every direction, watching a gnat flit about his face. It burrows a home in his brown hair, nestling in place until a scorched hand brushes it away. Logan pretends not to notice Patton’s wince as he peels pieces of hair from his pink skin.

    “It seemed a humorous venture at the time, and I simply scaled the wall. It’s not a frictionless surface, you know.”

    “Normal people don’t ‘simply scale the wall,’ Logan. That’s not a thing they do.”

    “Fascinating. I wonder whether the activity will see an increase in popularity? You must try it sometime, I’m certain you’d love it.” Logan points to a hairline break in the line of trees, apparently finished peddling his newfangled exercise. “Does this one look about right?”

    Patton runs a hand over his goosebumps, clearly wishing he could tell his past self to bring a sweater—something for which Logan had long since been prepared. Logan produces a black and baby blue scarf from one of his pockets, allowing himself a small grin when Patton wraps it around his neck and buries his nose in it. “I hope so.”

    Something in Patton’s voice makes Logan curious, wondering at the sudden loss of enthusiasm to return to the cave. Not enough to pursue the question, of course. Instead, he walks up to the fissure in nature and pokes his hand through. Nothing. No disappearing, no open space, nothing like they’d seen earlier. Sticking his head in, Logan peers around. Granted, he’s throwing caution to the wind at this point, but it’s in the name of scientific discovery. This time is different than before, with no clearing on the other side, no total darkness, and certainly no cave to greet him. Only regular old nature with its regular old greens and browns. Patton wedges himself beside Logan, a nervous laugh bubbling in his chest.

    “Okay well there’s nothing here oh no that’s too bad let’s just get going!” Patton’s laugh rises, filling the air as he paces behind Logan. “Nothing to see here, come on!”

    “You’re acting strangely,” Logan remarks, still studying what could hardly be called an opening. He tuts to himself, well aware of Patton’s impatience as he takes copious mental notes. Barring the leaves he’d moved, the trees could be identical to just about any other oversized cylinder of wood, which perfectly embodies why Logan has a such a vendetta against magic. Unpredictable and nigh impossible to study, magic is less of an artifact and more of a living entity that humanity could never hope to understand, let alone control. Naturally, this annoys Logan to no end. “Maybe if we’d been a little faster in getting here, or quieter as we got closer, or we’re in the wrong place entirely and I’m losing it.”

    “Definitely not that last one, but can we just leave anyway?” Patton eyes the brightening horizon, which is marred only by thin clouds that promise a growing storm. “It’s been a long night.”

    “Has it, now?” A new voice joins in the fray, making Logan’s shoulders stiffen. More out of habit than anything, he grabs Patton’s wrist to prevent whatever unintentional fight might arise. “Just how long of a night, exactly, have you had? I can’t imagine it’s been too difficult, but it’s not like I was there or anything.”

    “Hey, Than,” Patton sighs.

    Than nods, his eyes lingering on Patton’s seared face. “Look at us, fire twins born of the same burning ashes. Couple of cards.”

    “What do you want, Than?” Logan bites back the knee jerk reaction to tell off Patton, to implore him not to encourage Than. Instead, he squeezes his wrist tighter, stopping just before it hurts enough for Patton to cry out. “We’re kind of in the middle of something here.”

    “Oh, you’re busy?” Than presses his lips together and looks at Logan, who curls his shoulders in. Seeming to understand his discomfort, Than shifts his focus back to Patton. “Maybe I could fetch Virgil, have him help you finish up faster?”

    “How did you even know about that?” Patton’s hands tighten into fists, clench and relax, clench and relax. “Our problems are none of your business.”

    “I didn’t know about it until you told me just now, but thanks for clearing it up. I wasn’t quite sure.” Than studies his fingernails and lets out a puff of air to blow the stray blond strands from his face. “Anyway, I should get going, don’t want to be late for school. Have fun playing in the dirt.” Than waves his fingers in a ‘toodle-loo’ motion, nearly out of sight before he turns back. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell Virgil.” His last word of farewell dies on the wind. “Probably.”

    Logan does his best to appear wholly unaffected by the confrontation, content to continue scrutinizing the greens. If he can’t find the magic, he won’t be able to study it, so he won’t be able to use it in his TryMyts, so them coming out here would have been a waste, so that’s time he didn’t spend being productive, so—

    “Or you can ignore me, that’s also a valid option. Take your time, but I don’t think I can personally handle the idea.” Snapping back into himself, Logan registers Patton moving to follow Than.

    “Wait, wait, where are you going?”

    “To class. I said that several times, but you seemed pretty absorbed in your observations and everything.” Patton shrugs. “I need to stop home for my bag, anyway, and I don’t want to cut it too close on time.”

    “That, um, yes, that would make sense. My apologies. To your house, then?” Logan brushes the dirt from his knees as he stands, grimacing at the smear of mud that only smudges further. “I don’t suppose you have any thrilling stories with which to regale me on the way, do you?” A silence falls over the pair, which Logan takes as answer enough.

    The short journey home is interspersed with the early risers of their school, who head toward the building in the distance as one cohesive unit. By the bags tugging on their eyes and those weighing down their backs, one might almost assume they were a hive mind. Probably not too far from the truth, in Logan’s professional opinion. Sure, he loves research more than pretty much anything else in life, but even he knows that everyone has a limit to how much they’re willing to learn. Frankly, everyone has a limit to how much they’re willing to put up with being forced to learn, which is often reached far sooner than the limit they desire of their own free will.

    Just because he hasn’t found either limit yet, that doesn’t make him better than everyone else. Logan is keenly aware of this fact, and takes care to remind himself of it often. Oversized egos do not a good Research candidate make. That’s not to say that Research doesn’t have its fair share of egomaniacs—quite the contrary, in fact. Plenty of people set their sights on Research solely to appear smarter, only to end up in a completely unrelated field of study than that upon which they based their TryMyts. An optimist might see that as the ideal for a Research candidate, putting their chips in every jar they can find, in order to learn about as many things as possible, some of which they didn’t even sign up for in the first place. Logan thinks the people who choose one jar that isn’t theirs and mock people who try to join in on that jar are all snobbish airheads, but no one asked him.

    Well, no, that’s not strictly true. Patton definitely just asked him something, and Logan definitely wasn’t listening.

    “Sorry, lost in thought. Come again?”

    “I could tell.” Patton gestures to Logan’s arm, which is covered in ink doodles. Even with the long sleeve pushed up, more scribbles manage to lurk under the fabric. Logan glances at his other hand, which somehow got hold of a pen and went to town on his skin. With a small laugh, he recaps the pen and rolls the sleeve back down. “You’ve been doing that for years, pretty much invariably when your mind is idle and wandering. I know your tics by now, no worries. I just asked if you wanted me to wait for you to get your bag, or if we should split up.”

    “You needn’t wait here, I’ll only be but a moment.” Logan blinks, uncertain as to when, exactly, he’d found himself in front of his house. He’s usually much more on the ball than this—at least, that’s what he’d like to have disinterested onlookers believe. “I’ll see if I can’t rope Roman into leaving early, as well.”

    “Meet you at my house, then.” Patton waves, continuing on as Logan ducks inside. By some miracle, his mother is still asleep. Ren, on the other hand—

    “Where have you been?” they hiss. As evidenced by their fingernails, bitten well into the nail bed by now, they are none too happy with Logan. “I was worried sick that you’d gone gallivanting off to Ceth knows where, you could’ve gotten seriously hurt, and I would’ve had no way of knowing!”

    “Sorry, I—”

    “No apologizing. If you were really sorry, you wouldn’t have done it in the first place. Just get your bag and go, before your mother wakes up. She doesn’t need to be bothered with your nonsense, after staying up so late in worry. She only went to bed because I convinced her to, and I can promise you a world of lecturing when you get home later.” If slamming the bedroom door would feel like a slap to the face, then Ren closing it silently feels like being torn to shreds by a vengeful raccoon. With rabies. And a deadly manicure pedicure combination. And a vendetta against guys in glasses.

    Logan grabs his bag from the kitchen counter—already put together in preparation for a hasty exit, of course—and darts down the street to hassle Roman.

    “Oh, Thylktor, always a pleasure. Am I correct in assuming you’re an early riser as well? Never mind, silly question, of course you are. Such a common characteristic in successful Researchers such as ourselves.” Logan, long since used to the whirlwind style of conversation from Roman’s mother, manages to squeeze in a wave before she backs away from the door. “Feel free to wake Roman yourself, Ceth knows he won’t be up and about of his own volition at this hour. I’ve no doubt his grades would improve if he just applied himself to a better schedule, but if he’s to be stubborn, I suppose you’re doing your best to reverse his poor decisions.” Shortly enough, the sound of furiously scribbling pencils rises from the next room over, background noise for Logan’s expedition up to Roman’s room. He shrugs his bag higher up on his shoulder.

    “Roman, Patton is ready early. We’re leaving now, so get out here in the next five minutes of I’m leaving without you.” Logan takes the muffled groan from behind the door as begrudging acknowledgement.

    “Is there a reason you picked our house to scream in, or am i just that lucky?” Pib materializes in the doorframe down the hall, their arms folded and their lip curled. “Hi, Logan.”

    “Pib.” Logan nods, his eyes drifting past them to see their spotless room. “Any exciting projects coming up? Something I could help with, maybe?”

    “Since you were last here, you mean? Thylktor, if you genuinely believe I get two fascinating projects worth pursuing in as many weeks, you’re playing yourself for a fool. Shame, I always thought you were the smarter one between you and my brother.” Pib shifts their weight in the near silence, save for the sound of Roman scrambling to get ready and moaning about how unnecessarily early it was. “You’re welcome to come take a look at the current one, though. Maybe I missed something that your genius input can provide. Take care to note my sarcasm before entering my room.”

    Sparing a glance at Roman’s still-closed door, Logan accepts the invitation. Just like Pib, the room is immaculate, populated only be a simple bed, a desk, and an obscene amount of paper. Oh, and the countless bookcases that might as well be the wallpaper with how much they obscure the actual wall. Can’t forget the one true passion in the Thyrrak household. At the desk stands a simple black chair, over which a lengthy white string is draped.

    “Measurements and scaling,” Pib says, pointing at the occasional streak of black ink marring the string. “I was supposed to be looking into the evolutionary divergence of the tarasque from a non-trystopian giant turtle, found a misidentified shell shard in a scholarly article, and now I’m looking at the regenerative properties of zburator scales, and the effect of those scales based on their Canis lupus origins.” Pib shrugs. “Life’s weird like that.”

    If Logan were someone else, he might wonder about the strings of fate seeming to direct his repeated encounters with things related to zburators. Being the person of science that he is, however, he leans closer to look at the papers and pushes aside thoughts of fate. “Any reliable references from artistic interpretations?” The mere idea of a zburator is the closest most people had gotten, as it was a truly rare thing to find a calm zburator to depict, and still less common for it to sit still long enough for the artist to survive the session.

    “Just descriptions. Twelve foot wingspan, so scale that down to a foot on this piece of string, and translate the same scale to the other measurements.” Pib winds the string up and down their arm like cast, running the frayed end under their thumbnail. “That is, of course, assuming these measurements are even accurate in the first place, which I have no way to prove. First creature to follow the Cethyphyirr flicker, first hypothesized Ejnathryk occurrence, and all we have is guesswork based on shadows cast by the moon.”

    Running a hand over the ink on the page, Logan grins and holds up his finger. “Not to bounce between topics, but this smudge proof ink might have been your proudest moment, you know. Could’ve made a pretty penny and never had to worry about funds for your studies again.”

    “My proudest moment will be becoming the first person to give a concise, concrete, and accurate report on zburators, but thanks for the input. Didn’t ask for it, but thanks.” Pib elbows Logan out of the way to sit down. “I don’t suppose you or Roman know how to draw a zburator?”

    “No, I unfortunately was not the one to—” Logan cuts himself off, uncertain how much information Roman has shared with his family. Thankfully, Pib obviously isn’t really tuned into the conversation—at least, not enough to notice Logan’s uncertainty. “No, neither I nor Roman can help you there.”

    Pib sighs through their nose, prodding at their cheek with the string. “Didn’t think so. Speak a’ Kryntyk.” The door down the hall creaks open, revealing Roman at his best in a T-shirt and sweatpants. He nods blearily at Logan, flips off Pib, and yawns.

    “Let’s go if we’re going,” Roman mumbles, wiping bits of sleep from his eyes. “Later, nerd.”

    “See you, loser,” Pib replies, still preoccupied with the papers. Still winding and unwinding that string. “Bye, Logan. Have fun being a normal student that actually gets to go to school without it being against your will.”

    “With pleasure. Bye, Pib.” Logan follows Roman down the stairs and to the door, foot tapping impatiently when a hesitation in the name of food is mentioned.

    “I’m hungry, and you cut short my beauty rest. Not that I need it, but I do have an appearance to maintain, and that maintenance includes a proper diet.” Ignoring this point, Logan pulls Roman out the front door.

    “Didn’t ask, don’t care, and hurry up. A pompous attitude isn’t going to make you have a better impression on others, although I’m shocked you haven’t figured that out for yourself in the last eighteen years.” At Roman’s indignant huff, Logan takes off at a sprint. “Where’s the overconfidence now, huh?”

    Nearly tripping over himself to catch up, Roman recovers by flinging his arms to the sides for balance. His pilfered breakfast apple goes flying. “Patton can wait, just hold on a second!”

    “Gladly.” Logan halts, hiding a laugh behind his fist as Roman careens past him. Another block down, Patton freezes as Roman appears out of nowhere, Logan approaching at a relaxed stroll from behind. He takes his time without a care in the world, letting his eyes rake over the darkening storm clouds overhead. Beyond the school, some look heavy enough to burst, and others tremble with thunder.

    “We’ve still got a bunch of time to spare. Why are you running?” Patton asks.

    “Yes, Roman? Why did you feel the need to run? Enlighten us, please.” Logan tsks. “So foolish.”

    “I didn’t—you were—he wasn’t—forget it.” Shaking his head, Roman waves his arm toward the school. “C’mon, you two were the ones that wanted to get there early.”

    “Wait, did anyone get Virgil?” Patton asks. He worries a loose thread from his shirt, unraveling the seam between his fingers and regretting how they’d last parted. “I don’t want to exclude him.”

    “It’s fine. He’s fine. We can go,” Roman says.

    “What, are you afraid he’ll have me reveal a secret of yours? Watch out, the Logan Beast lurks in the night and hungers for handing out humiliation.”

    “Shut up, you don’t have anything on me! I mean, besides grades, but everyone knows that.” Having reached the front doors of the school, Roman rushes ahead to hold them open. “After you. Chivalry may be dead, but I’m a necrophiliac.”

    “That definitely does not mean what you think it means,” Logan says. Bolstered by the abnormally empty halls, he announces, “I’m going to try to speak with Myjhyrr Kenthykyrrn, see if she has any input about my TryMyts prospects. Until lunch, stay out of trouble, no unsanctioned adventures, and absolutely no intimate relationships with the dead.” Logan leaves Roman gaping like a goldfish and Patton pleading for an explanation to the joke.

    Being a relatively decent member of society, Logan stops to pick up at least five crumpled pieces of trash on his way to the TryMyts advisor wing. While Virgil swore Myjhyrr Senthyirr’s office was nestled in a corner and absorbed light as if it were oblivion, it really doesn’t look too bad in the soft glow of the morning—ignoring the storm brewing outside, of course. With a thin window and no doors directly beside it, the facade is nothing to write home about, but still. Logan turns his attention to the door directly on its right, which has a name card at eye level labeled ‘M. Kenthykyrrn.’ Satisfied with this being the right room, he knocks lightly.

    “Enter.”

    The coolness of the voice perfectly matches the interior of the room. Painted in alternating shades of forest green and navy blue, the walls are neither bare nor overflowing. The far wall framing the dark oak desk boasts years of teaching awards, for everything from success to student pride to official recommendations from scholarly higher ups. The remaining walls display minimal decorations, a field-changing article here, a significant Researcher biography there, but never anything too personal or revealing.

    Before the imposing desk sits a child, their face buried in their hands and their shoulders shaking. The willowy woman across from them taps her nail on the desk meaningfully and clears her throat, glancing at Logan.

    “Trilyo, please, if you wouldn’t mind?” The child—Trilyo, evidently—wipes a sleeve over their eyes and sniffles. WIthout a word, they shuffle past Logan and out the door, their face downcast and their jaw set. Logan glances back at the woman. “Please, have a seat.”

    “Is Trilyo—”

    “They’re fine. Have a seat.” The plastic of the cushion squeaks beneath him, a piercing noise in the quiet room. “How might I assist you? Myjhyrr Kenthykyrrn, by the way, but you knew that.”

    “The pleasure’s all mine. My name is Logan Thylktor.” My, my, my, me, me, me, can’t you talk about anyone besides yourself for once? “I was hoping to discuss my TryMyts with you.”

    “You were hoping to?”

    “Going to. I am going to discuss my TryMyts with you. Please.”

    Myjhyrr Kenthykyrrn wags a finger at him. “Much better. I think we’re going to get on swell. Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll do just fine. I’ve seen you climbing in the class ranks, Thylktor. It’s really quite remarkable.” She slides a slim manila folder out of a desk drawer, smoothing it open on the table. “Very few write ups, as well. What seems to be the issue with your TryMyts that brings you here today?”

    “I just have no idea where to begin, although I’m sure that’s too general for you to help me with.”

    “Well, I’m sure you know I can’t exactly do it for you.” Logan nods, forcing himself to maintain eye contact as her dark eyes stare him down. “A nearly guaranteed TryMyts success would be to discover a new creature and gather all evidence involving its behavior, origins, that sort of thing. I don’t suppose you could pull off anything like that?”

    Clicking his tongue, Logan hesitates. There was the disconcerting lack of information in Pib’s zburator research, or the scorch marks in that cave, or the weird enchantment hiding it, or—

    “My apologies, Thylktor, but I’m afraid that’s all I have to offer, unless you can bring me specific project interferences. Why don’t you run along to class, and we’ll reconvene when you have a more concrete idea?”

    “Right. Yes. Right, of course, thank you so much, Myjhyrr Kenthykyrrn.” She nods, her straight brown hair spilling down her shoulder in a braid. He leaves with such haste that he almost doesn’t hear the teacher calling after him to ‘choose wisely.’

    In the hall, Trilyo sits between the door to Myjhyrr Ryhanthyrri’s room and the one for Myjhyrr Kessyn-Syrru. Their shaking has ceased, but their head is securely hidden between their knees. Oddly enough, even with the school starting to fill up, no one seems to notice them. Sure, it’s a far removed corner from the regular classrooms, but it’s not invisible. However much the idea might revolt him, Logan supposes he should be the one to ensure their wellbeing. He’ll look like a good samaritan, if nothing else.

    “Are you okay? I saw you run out of Myjhyrr Kenthykyrrn’s room, and. Well. Um.”

    Trilyo flinches, their grip on their elbows going white. “Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks.”

    “Your current location and disposition would indicate otherwise.” Judging by the lack of response, a cold approach won’t work with this kid. Alternative and impulsive tactics are required. Logan leans against the wall, sliding down beside Trilyo. “I’ve always admired the ambiguity of our world’s creation.” Trilyo doesn’t exactly answer, but they also don’t do anything to indicate an aversion to an impromptu storytime.

    “I guess praising a star is a little odd, since it’s just like any other burning ball of gas, but celestial entities can have more power than anyone might suspect. I like to imagine that Alpha Ursae Minoris popped off the Cethyphyirr flicker out of spite, like the other stars thought it wasn’t good enough. Something about Ceth being born of spite seems really fitting, sort of gives it a reason for each subsequent Ejnathryk. Maybe the sheer force of spite in Ceth, even as a shambling mass of light and shapes, acted like a magnet for other Alpha Ursae Minoris shards to come down.” Logan lets out the barest hint of a chuckle. “Not exactly a scientific theory, but sometimes it’s fun to just let your mind run wild with hypotheses. Pretend reality is wrong so you can make up a better one.”

    Trilyo sniffles. Mumbles something into their sleeve. Sniffles again. “Why’d you even tell me that? Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

    “I could have just left you alone on the floor here, but I don’t really think that’s what either of us want.”

    “No, I guess it’s not. I’m Trilyo, usually.” They hold out a hand to shake, barely managing to meet Logan’s eye and instead settling somewhere around his nose. He offers a smile.

    “Logan, full time. Pleasure to meet you. Where’s your first class, could I take you there?” He grabs Trilyo’s hand, foregoing the shake to tug them to their feet.

    “It’s, um, it’s math. With Myjhyrr Pentheon.”

    “Perfect, my room is just a few doors down from there. Let’s go.” Before Logan can set off down the hall, Trilyo squeezes his hand, their feet rooted in place.

    “Um. I, uh, I wanted to tell you. About Myjhyrr Kenthykyrrn. Um.” Logan puts on his best attempt at a patient and encouraging face, all too aware of how quickly time is ticking down to the beginning of class. As if on cue, the first warning bell rings. Trilyo clears their throat. “Since you, you know, you stayed with me. And everything. Um. I’m supposed to be a grade below where I am now, but. Um. Myjhyrr Kenthykyrrn put in a recommendation for me to do my TryMyts early, and, um, yeah. I got a little emotional, I guess.” Trilyo scratches at the sleeve covering their shoulder, still not completely looking at Logan. “I was worried I wouldn’t be able to handle it, and I, um, I couldn’t, I didn’t, I mean—”

    “You’re fine, Trilyo. You don’t have to say any more than that. What you’ve already been willing to share is more than enough. Let’s get you on to class, and I’ll fill in your teacher about the situation.” With a gentle hand on the fingers that aren’t incessantly running up and down an arm, Logan pulls Trilyo into the fray of students running to get to class. “Thank you for telling me. Truly, I do appreciate it, and if you can tell a complete stranger something that personal? I’m sure you’ll have no problem getting a remarkable TryMyts done, either.”

    “You really think so?”

    “There’s only one way to find out.”

Chapter 6 / Chapter 8 / Masterpost / ao3

[amyadamsnews]

Amy Adams on equal pay, family life and her grittiest role to date

In a corner of the genteel lounge of Los Angeles’s iconic Chateau Marmont, Amy Adams is launching into the opening lines of the Abba classic The Winner Takes It All – and it’s pitch-perfect. With other Hollywood actors, this tuneful showcase of talent, five minutes into an interview, might come across as showing off.

But the star of American Hustle, Nocturnal Animals and Arrival – a five-time Academy Award nominee and the recipient of two Golden Globes – seems atypically unstarry. Our conversation has simply prompted a demo of one of her great passions: karaoke. 

Fresh-faced and freckled, today, the 43-year-old is dressed casually in jeans and a peach blouse, her red hair pulled into a loose ponytail. In spite of her success on the big screen, you might not recognise her if she strolled past you on the street.

She’s one of the most in-demand actors in Hollywood, skilled at switching between roles – from wide-eyed and vulnerable in Junebug, which launched her leading-lady career, through tough-talking and trashy in The Fighter, to religious fanatic in The Master and – most memorably – sexy, seductive con artist in American Hustle.

Amy’s latest part looks set to make her more immediately familiar, however. Next month, she stars in HBO’s hotly anticipated new mini-series Sharp Objects, an adaptation of the novel by Gillian Flynn, author of the bestselling thriller Gone Girl. ‘I’ve been attracted to Gillian’s work for years, because she creates these incredible, flawed females,’ she says.

Directed by Jean-Marc Vallée (who also directed last year’s critically acclaimed TV hit Big Little Lies), Sharp Objects is set in small-town Missouri, where restraint, manners and strong cocktails mask brutal violence and deep dysfunction.

Amy plays what is easily her darkest, most damaged character to date: Camille Preaker, the acerbic, alcoholic, self-harming protagonist. Recently released from a psychiatric unit, Camille, a reporter, is dispatched to Wind Gap, the town in which she grew up, to investigate the murder of two pre-teen girls. 

It quickly becomes clear that the intense pain that affects her also infests the other women in her family – her uptight, neurotic mother, Adora (Patricia Clarkson) and her manipulative younger half-sister, Amma (star-in-the-making Eliza Scanlen).

As is becoming increasingly common among Hollywood’s leading ladies, Amy was also an executive producer on the series. It was she who suggested French-Canadian director Vallée. ‘There’s something about the way he tells women’s pain: he circles around it, yet gets to the heart of it,’ she says.

‘He’s not afraid to approach the violence in a way that’s also very emotional.’ For his part, Vallée praises Amy’s bravery in taking on bleak themes. ‘It was scary material, and she was so courageous to tackle this, to be so naked – literally and metaphorically,’ he says.

To help her dig into the darkness, Gillian Flynn recommended she read A Bright Red Scream. ‘It’s first-person accounts by people who self-harm,’ explains Amy, who had to wear prosthetic scars from the neck down during filming. She admits it wasn’t easy to leave Camille behind at the end of each day. ‘I’ve trained myself not to bring a character home, but there were times – whether from living in her head space or just exhaustion – when I suffered insomnia.’

The role also required her to research the psychological condition Munchausen syndrome by proxy, which causes a parent to harm their son or daughter to create the illusion that the child is ill. ‘I did a lot of reading about that too,’ says Amy. ‘It’s so against every parental instinct I have, so I just can’t imagine it. Our daughter [seven-year-old Aviana] has been hurt twice in a way that required trips to the hospital and that’s not something I’d ever want to revisit – it was traumatising.’

Happily, both Amy’s disposition – upbeat, energetic and quick to laugh – and her family life would appear to be a far cry from Camille’s. She and her husband, Darren Le Gallo, met in 2001, at an acting class in Los Angeles, and today live in the city’s glamorous Hollywood Hills. She describes their life as ‘quiet’, save for the odd karaoke night out, or in – the family’s portable karaoke machine even accompanies them on holiday.

When Amy travels for work, her husband and daughter generally go with her. ‘If I’m on my own, I engage in not-great behaviours, like hotel-room eating – sitting in bed every night with a bag of crisps and salsa and a beer,’ she admits.

The middle child of seven, Amy was born on a military base in Vicenza, Italy, where her father was stationed at the time. Her parents were Mormons and, although their adherence to the faith was ‘more cultural’ than overtly religious, ‘church played an important part in our social interactions’, she has said. ‘It instilled in me a value system I still hold true.’ 

The family eventually settled in Castle Rock, Colorado, when Amy was eight, where her father, having left the army, began singing professionally in nightclubs and restaurants. The rest of her family was more sport-orientated. ‘I was surrounded by these incredibly coordinated siblings who excelled at everything, whereas I just liked to read in my room,’ she laughs. 

Her parents divorced when she was 11, and left Mormonism. Her mother, Kathryn, a former gymnast, was also, for a while, an amateur bodybuilder. ‘We have a good relationship, but my mom is tough and always challenged me to push myself,’ says Amy. ‘I wasn’t allowed to be afraid of things, even though I’m naturally very risk-averse. For instance, if a guy pulled up on a motorcycle, I’d be like [adopts goody-goody voice], “Don’t you understand that those are just coffins on wheels?”’

When her mother would take her to her gymnastics class, she goes on, ‘She would say: “We’re not leaving until you do this really tricky move.” That taught me to do things I was afraid of, because the sense of pride in having done something difficult was always worth it.’ It’s a skill that appears to have served her well in her career.

‘I had a kind of autonomy from childhood on,’ she continues. ‘There were so many of us that I knew my parents weren’t going to be funding my life, meaning my choices were my own and I wasn’t worried about what they thought of them.’

She gave up gymnastics, focused instead on dance and trained at a local ballet school. At 18, however, she decided she wasn’t good enough and switched her focus to musical theatre. She worked in dinner theatre for a few years before scoring a chance to audition for Drop Dead Gorgeous, the 1999 beauty-pageant comedy starring Kirstie Alley and Kirsten Dunst, in which Amy played a promiscuous cheerleader.

With Alley’s encouragement, at 24, Amy moved to Los Angeles, where her first few years attempting to break into the industry weren’t easy. ‘I auditioned a lot, but couldn’t figure out why it wasn’t working,’ she has said. ‘The problem was a lack of confidence and self-esteem,’ she tells me today. 

In 2004, she was cast as the lead in the CBS series Dr Vegas, alongside Rob Lowe, but the show was dropped after just a few episodes. At that point, she considered quitting the industry.

‘I began thinking I should do something that was more secure,’ she says. ‘I wasn’t willing to be as unhappy as I was in danger of becoming and I didn’t like what it was turning me into.’

Then her fortunes began to turn around. In 2005, she was cast as the lead, Ashley, in the indie comedy Junebug. Her portrayal of the garrulous pregnant woman won her the Special Jury Prize at the Sundance Film Festival, and two years later, scored her the part of Giselle, the optimistic princess, in Enchanted.

Achieving success at 31, rather than 21, has its advantages, she now believes. ‘At least I was able to enjoy my 20s before anyone was paying me too much attention,’ she sighs, nostalgically. ‘No Instagram, no Twitter, no Facebook – thank God! I had a bad habit of taking photos on disposable cameras that didn’t belong to me. I have no idea how many complete strangers’ cameras I mooned into back then!’ she laughs.

Since the downfall of Harvey Weinstein and the rise of the #MeToo movement, are there incidents from early in her career that she feels she wouldn’t be OK with now?

‘Yes, and I wasn’t OK with it back then either,’ she says. ‘I had to audition in a bikini. I didn’t get the role, because the character would be filmed wearing one and I don’t look good in swimwear.’

I scoff at this claim. ‘I really don’t,’ she insists. ‘And that’s OK – that’s not why I was put on this earth. But I don’t know a single woman, working in any industry, who doesn’t have a story like that, about feeling vulnerable.’

I wonder whether, beneath her sanguine exterior, some of the self-esteem issues she mentioned earlier still lurk. Despite being petite, Amy is surprisingly self-deprecating about her body.

‘I always look pregnant in photos,’ she claims with a laugh. ‘I wear loose dresses because I have a paunch. It’s not a big paunch, but it’s there!’ And she’s less than comfortable being snapped on the red carpet. ‘I understand it’s part of the job, but it’s not my favourite place,’ she has said.

‘I love fashion, but having to be somebody who promotes that industry has always been a tricky one for me, because of the way it affects women’s sense of self,’ she says. ‘I’ve lectured several designers about their sizing. If a dress in my size is five inches too small for me, what’s happening?’

Even before the #MeToo and Time’s Up movements began, Amy was catapulted into the centre of rows about sexism within the industry. When thousands of email accounts at Sony were hacked in 2014, the revelations about American Hustle focused mainly on the fact that Amy and her co-star Jennifer Lawrence were paid less than their male counterparts, Bradley Cooper and Christian Bale.

At the time, she chose not to comment. ‘Everyone wanted me to talk about how I felt about it, but I want to fight for people outside our industry, so to come out and look ungrateful about what I’m paid as an actress just didn’t feel right,’ she says today. 

‘I do believe in equal pay, but let’s start with our teachers. Let’s get waiters paid the minimum wage. That’s what’s great about what’s happening with Time’s Up – we’re starting to have bigger conversations than just about what’s happening in Hollywood.’

Other emails were also leaked, alleging that the film’s director, David O Russell, was so tough on Amy that Bale stepped in to address the problem. ‘He was hard on me, that’s for sure. It was a lot,’ Amy later said, and she has admitted in interviews that she cried ‘most days’ during the making of the film. ‘I remember saying to my husband, “If I can’t figure this out, I can’t work any more. I’ll just have to do something else. I don’t want to be that person, not for my daughter,”’ she has said.

When she talks about coping during the making of Sharp Objects, it’s clear that she was determined for it to be a very different experience. ‘I’m now able to think, “OK, I know what’s going on here. I just need to go to work, do my job, then come home, make dinner and do something grounding.”’

She was recently reunited with Bale for the upcoming biopic Backseat, about former US vice-president Dick Cheney. She whips out her phone to show me an image of her in character as his wife, Lynne, alongside Bale, who played Cheney, and both are virtually unrecognisable thanks to extensive prosthetics.

The lengthy process of transformation renewed her respect for her co-star. ‘I had to wear the prosthetics for only two weeks, but Christian was coming in at 2am every day to have his applied before the day’s filming started. His work ethic is just incredible.’ 

Amy is keen to do more producing, too. ‘There’s lots in pencil on the calendar, but I don’t talk about anything until it’s in pen,’ she says. Risk-averse to the end. And with that, she gives me her top karaoke-bar tips and slips back to her quiet life in the hills.

https://www.telegraph.co.uk/women/life/amy-adams-equal-pay-family-life-grittiest-role-date/#comments

[pyrosophist]

Gifts and Letters

It is a strange thing, when she finally pays mind to the holiday season and feels the impulse to do.. something, for once. It has been many years since she has had more than the smallest handful of people to give gifts to.

Through varying degrees of occult and official means, she sends out a variety of things over the course of several days, when the Archon turns the members of the Sunguard to their own business. Most of the letters are bewitched, unable to be read except by their intended recipients. 

---

Aestus receives a leather armband with elaborate patterns seemingly burned into it, stylish but unobtrusive. On the inside face is inscribed in Thalassian script, “The night does not survive the dawn.”

My friend,

Of the guard, you are the first with whom I spoke besides possibly the dryest interaction I have ever had with the Scion. Though we have not done so in some time, I count you among one of my few steady friends. You have seen the darkness that lurks in the mid of my nights, as I yours.

Trace the script and read it aloud, when it becomes hard. In addition to it, I grant you one favor, to call upon my talents or resources as you will it.

@shampoocommercialelves

Westel is sent a box of pies, professionally made and still-fresh through some minor spell settled over them. In addition, a hunting knife that comes sharpened, its hilt carved and wrapped with artful patterns evocative of woodland beasts, with leafwork embellished along the spine of the blade.

Westel,

You were one of the first to show me friendship among the Sunguard. Three months ago I would not have called it that, but times seem to be changing. I thank you for the kindness, however small it may have been to give.

Where the hell have you gone? I miss Ithruiel. How dare you keep him from me.

@westelfirewing

Nuellen receives a strange, enchanted necklace -- a raven’s skull formed of blackened, petrified wood, attached to a thin, sturdy cord. A note explains its purpose to give the wearer resistance against ambient fel energy or exposure.

Swiftstrike,

Not a week passes that I do not think of my grandfather and how fortunate I was to have him. I have wrestled with feelings about his death for a very long time -- I don’t believe that I am yet done mourning, or that I ever will be -- but I am infinitely grateful to know that I am serving alongside some of the few Farstriders who served alongside him. Thank you.

@thedragonisaprincess

To Thanidiel is sent a cloak of brilliant, blood red fabric. Through some workings of alchemy, the cloak seems to be a remarkable insulator, despite its light weight. Some of the warlock’s sorcery is bound to it as well, and upon investigation it is revealed to be fireproof -- and furthermore, made to deflect magical flame and heat. The underside shimmers against the light with hues of orange and gold. An attached note reads, “This one won’t burn up. Use it well.”

Highdawn,

It has been some time since we have spoken, regrettably. I am still bitter that we did not get to face off at Shadowsunder’s tournament. Though through battle I have regained familiarity with my sorcery and its limits, I would still test it against you when you are available. Consider this a challenge.

@thanidiel

Caelinda is given a pair of boots, sturdy, stylish and well-crafted. Enchantments scribed onto the seams ensure that it will last an eternity of travel -- in addition, the monk feels a little lighter on her feet, when she wears them. To accompany the gift is an ornate brooch fashioned out of gold and ruby to affix to a cloak or scarf, and a batch of festive cookies that are still warm and fresh through some minor spell.

Caelinda,

There are few words to describe the depth of affection and fondness I have for you, however much I may loathe to show it around other people. You have given me a sense of peace and welcome that I have not had in such a long, long time, and I am grateful for your love. I will strive for all my days to be worthy of it.

@superspicedinosaur

Tyleril is sent a piece of everburning coal, infused with sorcery. It is warm to the touch, and a note explains that it can be activated and deactivated through a command word. When active, it effuses strong heat and flame, presumably to be used in the forge or a fireplace. The note warns not to hold it at inopportune times.

Silversword,

Thank you for hosting me in your home the night of the bonfire party. I know that I can be abrasive at the best of times, but it is appreciated, and I wish your business good fortune.

Keep the coal out of Samiel’s hands. That boy has fire in his eyes.

@tyleril-silversword

Vaelan receives a bottle of fine wine, Suncrown vintage. This brand is only seen on shelves practically once in a blue moon -- she must have been holding onto it for some time.

Vaelan,

You’re a fine man to work and drink with, though I fear I tend to grow only more abrasive when inebriated -- but I appreciate your friendliness, and our banter. Put this wine to good use. It’s far too damn fancy for me to drink it myself straight from the bottle, and I’m less inclined to put myself into a stupor on a regular basis, nowadays.

@greatmaulsoffire

A book, old and ornately bound, is sent to Veleth. It appears to be an in-depth study and analysis of extraplanar phenomena, as well as the planes themselves and how they intersect with the material world.

Ashcaster,

I had never expected to find a kindred scholarly mind among the Blood Knights. You are a steadfast ally in battle, and I appreciate your respect and curiosity for my studies. I hope that we both might benefit from learning into the future, with Argus on the horizon.

@veleth95

To Synthiel, a Reliquarian’s sanction for the regulated study and use of alchemically-synthesized anima.

Cloudseye,

It is refreshing to speak with another pyromancer on a level of exchanging knowledge and technique, and for that I thank you -- I have not enjoyed the privilege for a very long time, different as our disciplines may be. My expertise in commanding Wrath hones sharper by the day, and I have you to thank in part for that.

@spiral-seeker

For Ka’ese, a potted Thalassian plant, with delicate leaves in hues that range from scarlet to gold -- it is bright, and fragrant. A piece of home, preserved through magic that is clearly not the warlock’s own.

Brother,

Past our twenty-fifth year I did not think I would ever write to you and say ‘Merry Winter’s Veil’ ever again. I’m still not certain on how to feel that I am doing it now, but I know that I should, after everything. So much has changed since our reunion in Azsuna. Argus yet looms in the sky, and you should know that I intend to see this war to its end. I hope for your health, through it all.

One day we shall spend this time of the year together again, as brother and sister.

@turalyon

The Magistrix Starshard’s gift arrives on the wings of a strange raven with eyes like embers, bearing the warlock’s distinct aura of magic. In a small leather case strapped to its back is a token -- metal fashioned into the emblem of the Sunguard, with its reverse face inscribed with Thinariel’s unique sigil -- and a message of rolled and sealed parchment.

Thradia,

I cannot even begin to presume what you may believe of me at present -- I apparently have an unfortunate habit for disappearing off the face of the world. You have the deepest apologies I may give, and the greatest hopes for your health and success. You are beautiful and strong, more than I could have ever taught you to be.

Know that I survive, and that I had no choice but to take my leave of the Black Harvest when Vataan abducted my brother from Dalaran (yes, I have a brother). Through his hand and mine, no trace of my tower remains in the Twisting Nether. Without my refuge, I serve the Sunguard. So much has changed that I cannot put to words.

Argus looms high in the sky; you know where I must be.

Stay the course.

@ladyliadrin

[singhamelia]

Can A Baby Save A Marriage Miraculous Useful Tips

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The most important ways to avoid all sorts of emotions fly about which cause spouses to learn how to save the marriage.You see, it is a question asked all too powerful forces that can help you with expert advice including marriage counseling is needed.Not only does it need some help from a great first step.For this tip, you will have to come up with a good marriage is to remain calm so that he or she has committed adultery.Because a lot of hurt into the night all the difference in your marriage from divorce.

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Save Marriage After Baby

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I Want To Stop My Divorce

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[loveiscosmicsin]

Consumed

Summary: He loved Ebony and she loved energy drinks, Ignis and Aranea couldn't be any more different and yet, when the world is threatened by darkness and ten years are upon them for the return of the King of Light, their friendship grew in the most unexpected ways.

Notes: I just... really wanted to write a self-indulgent fic about platonic Ignis and Aranea, Aranea having a chip on her shoulder and troubled and traumatic past, but those two connecting somehow. Both have a form of addiction, as it took Aranea years to get past it, Ignis will have a long road ahead of him to recover from his.

This is posted on my Ao3 because I know how hard it is to read fics on my blog lol

-

Ignis' head pounded repeatedly. The source of the pain was unknown, but it tenaciously lingered, easily triggered by even the most insignificant of sounds or the slight unintentional movement. There was no other pain like it and he had known greater suffering. A splash of colors exploded ominously in his head. He had to lie down and not even his mind registered the soft mattress under him the moment he collapsed on the bed. "Specs?" "Noct?" Ignis shot upward, only to immediately lie back down, clutching his head. He groaned. Now, his muscles ached unbearably. Closing his eyes couldn’t expel the pain as it had in the past. "Hey, hey, don't get up on my account." The king’s laughter was forced, almost on the verge of mirrored agony. Quietly, so quiet that it forced Ignis to strain to listen, he asked, "You okay? You took off your glasses." Ignis turned his wrists over his eyes, a futile effort to hide the scars, fragments of an tumultuous ordeal. He wished to lay his eyes on Noctis, but not when he’s like this. "I'll be fine. Just a slight headache." 

"You've been getting those lately. The stress of whole recruiting and strategizing thing finally getting to you?" "I just need some rest. I won't let this stop me." The mattress squeaked as the king took a seat beside the advisor's form. "Put your head on my lap." The advisor obeyed as a moth drawn to a flame, content with staying like this for a while when his cheek touched Noctis’ thigh. "Do warn me if you have to get up." "I'm not going anywhere." Soft lips pressed lightly on Ignis' forehead. "Move your hand." Calloused fingers rubbed small circles in the advisor's temple. Ignis moaned. "Am I doing it right?" The king's voice was husky, breathy to avoid inflicting the older man with more pain. "Yes..." Ignis swallowed, tilting his head to meet with Noctis' hands. "This is perfect." “It won’t be like this for long.” “It won’t... be?” Ignis echoed, brow furrowing. “What’s that?” “This,” Noctis answered, vaguely as he delicately traced the faint scarring of Ignis’ face. “What you’re doing now. There’s no question that everyone’s behind you a hundred percent and I’m gonna be the one to meet you half way for what you’ve done. Wait for me a little longer.” “Noct...” The name tasted bittersweet the moment it left Ignis’ lips upon waking up. Noctis was gone and he was never present to begin with no matter how much Ignis wished it wasn’t the case. The king’s fingers had ghosted over the advisor’s face and kindled the flame in his heart as if they were physically together just a moment ago. The visage of his beloved followed him in dreams as they had in his wake, vivid and unrelenting. But Ignis knew the truth. Noctis had departed for where he couldn’t bring those he loved with him, no matter how deeply they cared for him in return. Even for one such as Ignis, who had been branded with the Old King’s’ favor. It was a path that Ignis couldn’t follow. And it was why he had to let him go. The King of Light left no instructions nor parting words, but that didn’t mean that Ignis was left without purpose. Far from it, he prepared for the imminent threat lurking in the shadows because of the knowledge imparted to him. Ignis held a love, pure and unyielding, for Noctis, somehow it never dulled in absence and through every action and countermeasure resonated of the young king’s high influence. If Noctis was unwilling to follow the prophecy, then Ignis would’ve fled with him, hide him from— But that wouldn’t have been Noctis if it was. He never one for inaction or to remain silent for long even crushed by duty, one of the earliest lessons taught by the late king. Since the fall of Insomnia, the events thrown in their paths including Ardyn’s trap in the Zegnautus Keep, led him to demand the Crystal’s power of his own volition. By donning on the Ring of the Lucii, Ignis realized that he was the final crucible in this destiny. Gladiolus and Prompto followed Ignis’ lead without question. He couldn’t explain why they must prepare for the war, not fully. To call them dreams would diminish their significance, to call them visions would delving in the supernatural when no blood of the Oracle coursed through his veins, to call alternate realities implied that there was a degree of control in steering toward feasible probabilities than the worst outcomes but they were memories. His memories, good and bad, and they existed for a reason. Fragments of multiple branches that while Ignis of this timeline hadn’t endured, but tried and failed. While his own death and Ravus’ were averted, Noctis’ departure was inevitable. Noctis was still the chosen vessel to restore balance to Eos. The knowledge of these visions allowed Ignis to defy the stars themselves without hesitation so that this time Noctis‘ light won’t go extinguished. How this would end would be up to them to decide. Ignis still had his eyes, healed due to the king’s quick thinking. Noctis was to return. “But when he does, what then?” Ignis found himself asking this, interrupting his own thoughts. The prophecy still would have to end with Noctis. The memories showed only so much and led to more questions, carrying answers that he must link himself. This route didn’t reveal the king’s death. The truth could only be revealed after waiting. Ignis had done five months of it so far. - “It wouldn’t kill you to take a break, you know,” Aranea scolded with a hint of disappointment and impatience in her voice. Ignis smiled, nostalgic by the familiarity. In another history, Aranea had told Ignis to “stop navel-gazing” when she found him fishing in Galdin Quay. She wasn’t a fan of the pastime. “Isn’t that what I’m doing now, Aranea?” Ignis simpered, looking pleased with himself when his companion scowled. “And how well does Cidney take your advice?” He already knew the answer to that. “I don’t waste my breath on battles I can’t win,” Aranea said, holding the can Ignis placed in front of her with reserved scrutiny. Seeing that it wasn’t a can of Ebony invading her space, she popped the tab open. “So long she doesn’t skip meals and trouble doesn’t go out finding her, that’s one worry off my plate.” Aranea Highwind was one of the allies Ignis, Gladiolus, and Prompto recruited. Despite the initial meetings on the battlefield and a temporary partnership coerced by Ardyn Izunia, Aranea held no grudge for the encounters as they were tied to their allegiances. Aranea and her men became deserters of the Niflheim Empire long before the attack in Altissia, opting for a more honest line of work in search and rescue. Before the Empire, they were daemon hunters, freelancers of sorts since they didn’t belong to any of the headquarters. When Aranea joined the fight, Biggs and Wedge happily followed her lead wherever it took them. Though the two had embarked different roads in life, Aranea and Ignis’ paths met again for a reason. Aranea refused payment after hearing what had transpired and what events were to come after the death of the Oracle and the King of Light’s absence, claiming that the Gil received from the hunts were more than plenty to keep them afloat. They recognized danger and were formidable soldiers, Ignis acknowledged how invaluable they were. The ex-mercenary commodore found herself at home with their merry band of the king’s royal retainers, veterans, Hunters, displaced survivors, mechanics, technicians, chocobo caretakers, magazine editors, famed researchers, journalists-turned-jewel artisans, and aspiring chefs. Even now, when the two had nothing in common, Aranea wasn’t a fan of coffee and often scoffed whenever Ignis drank it in her presence, Ignis appreciated all that she’s done. At first, the mercenary had a habit of keeping her distance except to her subordinates, professional to a fault though that front banished when she began opening up to others, breaking her own “don’t get familiar” rule. And she wasn’t the first former imperial Ignis had allied and befriended. The tactician found one such relationship with Ravus. Though with the former prince and high commander, it was more of a quiet and dependable camaraderie whereas Aranea was direct about showing concern for those she deemed worthy of her time. Aranea never talked about her personal life. No homeland, family, friends, her occupation before the daemons and the Empire, or how she met her lieutenants to share willingly or when requested. Not even Biggs and Wedge disclosed information on their boss. Like her, they focused on the present. It took Ignis weeks to act on a suspicion and have Aranea admit that she was seeing Cidney romantically. (It was very disconcerting to hear that their relationship began when the head mechanic slapped the ex-commodore due to a misunderstanding. But the latter had laughed it off as she touched her cheek, implying that she received something better that day.) But Aranea was transparent about her values and who she is as a person, even about her favorite brand of energy drink. Still, if people were judged for who they were in the past, then perhaps Ignis and Aranea wouldn’t be standing here right now. “You sure you wanna go with this?” Aranea asked, wrapping protective cloth over her hands. “Walking and breathing with your eyes shut is one thing, but fighting is another thing entirely.” “You’ve taught me to do more than that,” Ignis took a strip of cloth and placed it over his eyes, welcoming the darkness. “If I fall, best be it in practice and not when our lives are on the line.” Ignis was blind once and Noctis restored his vision. That time. The other times he wasn’t as fortunate. Should his vision be disrupted once more, then what would he do then? He hadn’t attained the years of training as he had in past histories. Aranea possessed an impressive resume of natural skills and abilities separate from the use of Magitek and unsurprisingly, underwent specific training should she lose capability of her senses to complete a mission. That included sight. Ignis readied his stance and held up his hands. “I don’t want...” He just didn’t want to give Noctis or anyone else a a reason to think less of him. The history where Gladiolus and Noctis considered leaving him behind hurt. Aranea was silent as she conceded with a sigh. “Say no more, I get it. But don’t think that I do means I’m gonna hold back.” Training with Aranea was brutal even though she was holding back. Ignis found himself on his knees, betrayed by his hearing and intuition led him to second-guess where his opponent was, was humiliating. It taught him to discard what he already learned, have Aranea take the figurative walking cane he clutched to and sweep the rug from under him, and build up a fighting style without the use of his eyes. Strip all that he knew and realize how powerless he was. His soul and body refused to live with that vulnerability, it craved for power and domination, to defeat Aranea. Though it had been months since the Zegnautus Keep, the Ring of the Lucii marked him, its screams and whispers crawled from the back of his mind and into his heart. What power he thought he wielded, held him at the throat and it lingered still, threatening to unlock that primitive subconscious at any time, hungered to kill and derive pleasure from it. The Ring wasn’t in his possession, it was with its true owner and chosen vessel. The absence made Ignis jealous and made him forget. Ignis was on the ground, clutching at his wrist, the one that bore the ring and all he saw was red and purple clouding his vision as his screams clawed his throat raw. Aranea was at his side immediately. “Wh-what’s wrong? Are you okay? I barely—” She forcibly pinned Ignis’ wrists down as he thrashed against her. “Hey, snap out of it!” “F-fire...” Ignis rasped, his chest rose and fell as he struggled to breathe. “My flesh is—” The mercenary took the front of his shirt, only for the tactician’s hands to weakly fight her off. “This isn’t the time to be shy!” Aranea ripped his shirt, sending buttons flying and stupefied, she gawked at the scars etched on his skin. The inflamed, angry lashings had engulfed Ignis’ chest which extended to his arms and seemed to pulsate under the commodore’s cool fingers. Seeing the pity and helplessness written in her features, Ignis tried his hardest to explain that it’s not as bad as it looked. There was nothing she could do for him. Ignis didn’t see Aranea until three days later in the middle of the night. “Hey,” the mercenary knocked on the door frame before entering. Uncharacteristic of her as she normally just entered without announcing. “How’re you feeling?” “I’m doing better,” Ignis answered honestly. “Would you like a drink?” He turned his back to retrieve a chilled can of energy elixir. Perhaps he owed her an explanation for the other day. “Actually, I...” Aranea held out a shirt. “Here. Wedge knows his way around a needle. You won’t find a thread out of place.” “I... Thank you.” Aranea’s conflicted expression revealed there was another reason she was here. “I won’t ask what happened or why, it’s really none of my business.” She took out a small white bottle. “Went around asking the docs so I wouldn’t be doing this unless I’m absolutely sure about it.” Ignis took the bottle, unfamiliar with the name on the label. “What’s this?” “Helps with nerves and muscle spasms,” she explained, crossing her arms. “But it’s one helluva drug. Easy to abuse, harder to break it off if you get addicted. Just like any other drug.” “You speak from experience.” “Yeah. From a long time ago.” In other words, not an open invitation to unload that period of her life any time soon. “Aranea,” he began, intending to return the bottle. “I’m afraid this doesn’t—”

The Dragoon shook her head. “C’mon, it’s not like I’m forcing you to take it. But my conscience won’t let this go until I know you have it with you.” She waved a hand as if that’s all that needed to be said. “Take it if it gets too much to handle, okay?” Ignis swallowed. “Very well.” Aranea turned on her heel, exiting. “And lay off the coffee. You should be sleeping more.”

Ignis was stunned and shook his head, chuckling. “Says the woman who doesn’t know there’s a time and place for these matters.”

[fishfingersandjellybabies]

Long Time, No See - fic

Characters: Dick Grayson, Damian Wayne Summary: Damian was out of the life. He was free. He was a civilian. But he was still Dick’s little brother, and he had to warn him about an old enemy anyway. Had to keep him safe, no matter what. No matter how much had changed. A/N: I was really into some recent hcs about Damian going on the straight and narrow civilian path, so decided to write about it. Damian’s 25/26. Owns and runs an animal shelter/rescue/adoption center. Is probably one of those ones that keeps in touch with all adopters and gets updates on the animals. He still interacts with the family, but as hinted, not very often. Still attends the occasional W.E. gala and visits Gotham when necessary. Dick ends up staying for a few days, and Damian fixes his injuries, shows him around town, and scolds him for being old and still making terrible life choices.

~~

Dick felt butterflies in his stomach as he turned onto the quiet street, and almost laughed out loud.

He’d been face to face with death a million times, and he’d never felt this nervous.

He could see families through windows. Curled up on sofas watching TV. The glow of fire pits in backyards. Some outdoor cats lurking on front porches and in bushes. It was a nice place. A sweet little niche in the corner of the world.

The reason they all put the masks and capes on, no matter where they were.

He was almost to his destination – a house around the middle of the street – when he realized: all of those outdoor cats? They were now following him. More joining the mob the more homes he passed.

Dick did laugh now – because of course. Of course.

As he slowed in front of the house, the cats swarmed around him like a current. Some greeting him, others warning him. All of them clamoring onto the darkened front porch.

Dick only rolled his eyes, shook his head as he took off his helmet.

He stared up at the house. A modest two-storey with a single garage. Meticulously cared for flower bushes weaved around a front porch and down a walkway. Beautiful here at this late hour, he only imagined how lovely it was in the daytime.

Those butterflies fluttered again.

“I wish you would have called first.”

Dick nearly fell off his bike at the sound. Looked back to the front porch to find a young man standing there now. Donning sweatpants and a hoodie. Tussled black hair over top a pair of dark, thick-rimmed glasses. Brown, Dick thought, though couldn’t be sure from so far away.

The cats were all talking to him now, and a wave of a group purr echoed through the neighborhood as they all tried to rub against the man’s legs simultaneously. Silhouettes of dogs and other cats appeared in the now dimly lit windows.

Damian always was a fan of his furry friends.

“Sure you’re out of the game, kiddo?” Dick asked, ignoring the tightening of his chest as he dismounted his bike. Made sure his mask was still tight to his eyes, in case of nosey neighbors. “Only your dad can do that weird magic appearing trick so well anymore.”

“Old habits die hard.” Damian shrugged. He glanced down at the army of cats at his feet. “He’s fine, little ones. A friend, I promise.”

The cats seemed to take his word, and just as quickly as their mob appeared, they were gone. Disappeared back into the night like their wild ancestors.

“Well?” Damian asked, almost annoyed. “Are you coming in? In case you haven’t noticed, Nightwing, it’s cold out tonight.”

“Sorry, sorry. Just…” Dick looked around as he walked up the door. Followed the concrete path instead of walking through the grass. “Admiring. Nice place.”

“I’m aware.” Damian hummed, stepping back to let Dick into the house first, before following and closing the door behind them. Dick heard the distinctive click of a heavy lock. “Tea? Coffee?”

“Tea, and maybe a glass of water, if you can.” Dick glanced back at him. Damian’s glasses weren’t brown – they were blue. A baby blue, like his own uniform. The frames brightened his teal eyes. “Thanks, kiddo.”

“I told you to stop calling me kiddo.” Damian sighed, passing him. The gang of animals Dick had seen in the front window appeared now. Half of them stayed to inspect Dick, the other half followed their dad. “And take that stupid mask off. Remember the rules – when you are here, you are my brother, not a vigilante.”

“Right, right…” Dick hummed, tugging at the mask, looking around the foyer as Damian vanished into the kitchen. There were photos all along the walls. Mostly of his animals. He could see a wall in another room covered in photos, some overlapping. Above the photos was the words Successful Adoptions, in pastel spring colors.

But still. Littered among the photos of animals were some of his family, friends. Damian and Tim at a gala the year prior. Damian, Jason and Barbara at a bar. Him and both his parents at some point when he was in college.

The biggest picture of people was Damian squished between Maya Ducard and Jonathan Kent. Colin Wilkes was clinging to all three of them from behind. Damian’s birthday last year, he thought. Or maybe some awards ceremony over the holidays. He couldn’t remember.

(In fact, he’d never known. Saw the photo on someone’s social media, and just never asked.)

Those butterflies swirled again. Sadder, this time. None of the photos – sans the one with his friends – had been recent.

One of the dogs at his feet huffed, and pushed him forward. Down the hall towards the kitchen.

And as he entered the room he saw it – there, on the fridge. It was covered in photos, similar to the Successful Adoptions wall.

Of him.

Him and Damian when Damian was only a child. When Damian was a teenager. Another photo of when Damian was in college, when Dick surprised him on his birthday, then another when Dick and Cassandra showed up to his graduation. At galas, in diners, at the manor, in the hospital. Almost every moment they shared together outside of the capes, for as long as they’d known each other. Displayed in a collage for all to see.

Damian was standing at the counter next to it, fixing up two cups with a large yawn. Dick blinked, and without thinking: “I’m sorry, did I wake you?”

Damian shrugged. “If we’re being literal, it was Spooky jumping off the bed that woke me.”

“…Spooky?” Dick asked.

Damian turned, eyes sweeping over the animals. Pointed to a white, medium-sized dog. Part Bull Terrier at least, if Dick had to guess. She stared up at him with a big grin, and happily wagging tail.

“She likes to sit by the window at night sometimes, and is very protective of the house during the vulnerable hours. I’ve woken up to her practically glowing in moonlight, like a ghost.” Damian explained. Then a light chuckle. “I’ve also woken up to her standing over my face, watching me with that smile of hers. She has, admittedly, scared the living daylights out of me a time or two.”

“So.” Dick smiled, leaning down to pet the sweet girl. “Spooky.”

“And of course, when one of them gets up, the rest stir in some way or another too, so.” Damian sighed, but it was fond as he continued the original conversation. He poured liquid into both cups. “As you can imagine, it’s a bit of a free-for-all when that happens, and almost impossible to remain asleep then. Sugar?”

“Only a little.” Dick hummed. Damian added the flavoring, stirred both mugs. He then picked them both up, turned towards Dick and nodded to the nearby room. Dick went there, sitting in one of the recliners, cats already swarming the chair’s arms and back. Spooky jumped up and settled into his lap, tail wagging all the way.

“So,” Damian hummed, handing the mug to Dick before moving over to a nearby loveseat. More cats and dogs jumped up to join him. Anyone who couldn’t fit jumped onto a couch across the room. “What can I do for you?”

“What,” Dick sipped his tea. It was perfect. Just how he liked it. “I can’t just visit my little brother whenever I want?”

“You may, though you never do. The last time you visited for no reason was eighteen months ago, and it turned out at the end of that trip you had only shown up to rid my house of trackers and cameras set up by the Justice League and your Titan friends.” Damian only sounded a little bitter, but was too good at hiding his emotions, even now, to be anything less than professional. “But, that’s more often than Mother or Father, so I guess that counts for something. Now, what do you need?”

Now the butterflies in his stomach were downright stabbing him.

“I…I’m sorry, Damian. I hadn’t realized it was that long.” Dick muttered guiltily. “Soon, okay? I’ll come visit for no reason other than to see and catch up with you soon.”

“No need to apologize. I’ve been busy as well.” Damian shrugged again, in that noncommittal way that Dick hated. He was hiding himself, like he used to. “Though…your answer suggests what I already know. You’re here for a reason.”

Dick smiled, though it was sad. “You think I’d show up in the middle of the night and wake you up without one?”

Damian took a drink of his tea, studying Dick’s face from behind his glasses. Slowly he lowered his mug, and reached out to pet the nearest cat.

“What’s wrong, Grayson?” Damian asked softly. “Are you alright? Is the family alright?”

“Yeah, I just…” Dick inhaled, looked down. Spooky looked up at him, face gentle and encouraging. “Damian, I think…”

“Grayson, you know you can tell me.” Damian pushed. “You can tell me anything.”

“The Court of Owls is back.” Dick blurted out. “And they’ve put a hit out on you.”

Damian paused. “…Well good luck to them. Robin hasn’t been around in yea-”

“Not Robin. You.” Dick reiterated. “They publically attacked your father at a gala. Demanded he join their ranks or suffer the worst of consequences. He said no, so they said they were going to find you instead.”

“And do what?”

“Take you hostage. Torture you. Kill you.” Dick listed off. He swallowed the lump in his throat, knew Damian saw it. “I’d…rather not get into the details of what they said.”

“Hm.” Damian looked into his cup. “Well, they’d have to find me first. And that’s not exactly an easy task for those outside whom I personally give the information to, as you know.”

“Still. Damian, it’s the Court. They’re good at this kind of stuff.” Dick redirected. One of the cats sitting on the back of the chair put their paw comfortingly on his shoulder. “Or have you forgotten about when you were a kid?”

Damian didn’t answer.

“Because I haven’t.” Dick murmured. “I still think about it every day, how they tried to take you.”

“They didn’t try to take me, I went freely.” Damian defended.

“To save me. And they knew that. They humoured you to try to take you from me. Take you from Bruce.” Dick countered harshly. “And I swore on my life that day, I would do anything to make sure they never touched you again. That still stands now.”

Damian snorted, though Dick noticed the flustered blush rolling up his cheeks. “Grayson, I can take care of myself. You know that too.”

“But you shouldn’t have to. You have this whole family of so-called superheroes, you think we’d be able to actually protect you so you didn’t have to take care of yourself.” Dick pushed. “Besides, you said you were done. You said you wanted to be a civilian and civilian only. You know if the Court comes here and you defend yourself, you can’t be that. You won’t be able to stay. You’d have to pick up and move. Start all over. “

That seemed to make Damian pause.

“I saw that wall in your, what was it, your office? Of the animals you helped get adopted. The ones you saved and gave families.” Dick mentioned. “You attempt to take care of the Court yourself, you’re going to lose all that.”

Damian looked at one of the dogs on his lap.

“And I don’t want you to lose anything.” Dick whispered. “Damian, I don’t want to lose you again. Not to the Court. Not to anything.”

Damian blinked, then smiled, tilting his head to the side as he looked back up. “Grayson.”

“What.”

“I’ve forgotten how sentimental you are.”

“What, so I love you and want you safe. Sue me.” Dick pouted, scratching Spooky behind her ear. “Just…the Court is coming after you. I wanted you to know.”

“And I appreciate that, Grayson. Truly.” Damian kept his warm smile. Dick found himself wanting to return it, but also punch it off his smug face. “…Was Father ever going to tell me?”

“I don’t know. He went off to kick the Court’s ass himself before we were able to talk about it.” Dick murmured. Remembered the tea in his hands. Took another swig. “But even if we had, I would have insisted on coming myself.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re my brother.” Dick reminded. “And…I miss you like crazy.”

“You wouldn’t miss me if we corresponded more often.” Damian tried. And ever trying to appease, murmured: “I…do the video-calling thing now. The girls at the shelter taught me how. Said it was good for meetings and conference calls. Maya and Jonathan enjoy using it quite frequently now.” He paused thoughtfully. “There’s also texting. I’ve gotten better at that too. I can respond within the hour now.”

“Impressive.” Dick laughed. Stared at Damian for a moment more, as Damian glanced back to a cat that wanted his attention. Pursed his lips and made sweet little noises at it, eliciting soft purrs, and kneading paws against his sweatshirt. Damian smiled, closing his eyes when the cat pushed their faces together.

But more than that – he could see, easily, that there was less tension in Damian’s shoulders. Less stress lines at his eyes than when he was ten, or fifteen even. His hair was a mess, and Dick remembered a time when he wouldn’t leave his room – not for anything – before being dressed to a T, with immaculate clothing, and hair slicked back, not a lock out of place. God, he was sitting here in sweatpants. A hoodie, colorful and boasting the stylized logo for the center he ran. Dick didn’t think Damian even knew what fashionable hoodies were, let alone would ever wear one. Before, he’d only wear solid colors. No words, no art. Tasteless, he would have said all those years ago. Clothing for slobs and degenerates and Drake.

“…Have I ever mentioned how proud of you I am?” Dick whispered, without really meaning to. Kind of a thought that was accidentally voiced.

Damian glanced up, a soft smile for the cat still on his face. “For what?”

“For what.” Dick snorted, looking down at Spooky. “For what, he asks.”

“I’m serious!”

“For everything, Damian.” Dick laughed incredulously. “For the person you grew up to be. How you…how you actually got out. Left the vigilante life and stayed out of it. For keeping yourself safe. For…for finding what you love and doing it, and letting yourself be happy. Hell, I’ve heard you’re like, the most popular guy in this sleepy town. I’ve heard you’re even dating. Going on dates. That’s incredible.”

Damian just watched him.

“I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wanted to leave being Nightwing or Batman or whoever. I tried a few times, but. Always got sucked back in.” Dick shook his head wistfully. “Everyone is proud of you. Bruce brags to the League all the time. Tim laments that he isn’t as strong-willed as you are. On the bad days, Jason always says he’s just gonna give it all up and come live in your garage.”

“Well, he wouldn’t need to do that. He could stay in the spare bedroom, if he wished.” Damian mumbled, almost grumpily. “…Any of you could, really. I don’t know why you all keep yourselves away.”

“Me, because I’m an idiot, and didn’t realize I was. Everyone else…if I had to guess it’d be to keep you safe. I think everyone’s afraid that if we show up back in your life too much, we’ll bring all our demons and enemies with us and they’ll try to hurt you. And the last thing we want to do, like I mentioned, is make you uproot yourself, or give up the life that you’ve found, or drag you back into vigilantism.” Dick explained. Damian lowered his eyes, twisted his lips in thought. “…Damian?”

“You said I was happy, and I am, but.” Damian sighed. “I miss you. I miss my family.”

“And I promise, we all miss you too. Every last one of us.” Dick swore. “But you know us, Damian. You know we’re all shit at this kind of thing. Seems emotional constipation is a genetic trait.”

“Despite the fact none of us are genetically related?” Damian glanced up, smirked at his own barb.

“Exactly. Nurture over nature, or whatever that garbage is.” Dick chuckled. “But I swear on my life, as soon as I get back I’ll get everyone to work on that. Especially the communication thing.”

“Oh?” Damian asked. “And…when are you going back to Gotham?”

“Well. I delivered my message. The Court is coming after you, and I will do everything in my power to keep you safe, as will Bruce and the rest of the family.” Dick sighed, leaning forward to put his half-drank tea on the coffee table. “So…now, I guess. Be back in Gotham in a few hours.”

Damian took another sip of his own tea. Smacked his lips as he gently pushed his animals off his lap, and placed his own tea on the table. “Mm. No you’re not.”

“Uh…what?”

“You’re not leaving now. Just because I’m out of the game doesn’t mean I’m any less talented than five years ago. I can see the bags under your eyes. The haphazardly treated injuries under your uniform. Not to mention…” Damian paused, took Dick in one more time. “You look sad.”

“Well, my baby brother’s in danger and it’s either my fault or our dad’s, so.” Dick tried to smile, but it came out heartbroken. Tired. Because he knew he never had to lie to Damian. “Do you blame me?”

“You’d kill me if I said I blamed myself more, so I won’t say anything.” Damian quickly spun away. Spooky jumped from Dick’s lap to chase after her guardian. “You’re staying the night at least. I’ll go set up that spare room I mentioned for you.”

“Damian, you don’t have-”

“I want to.” Damian cut off, then glanced over his shoulder. “Now finish your tea.”

Dick listened for a moment, as Damian and his animal army went upstairs. Heard the opening and closing of doors, the shuffling of sheets, quiet thumps. Water running out of a faucet. After a moment, he heard orders to “get off the bed, Reginald, this is for our guest.” A salty meow followed, then, “Well, we’ll ask Grayson if you can sleep with him in a minute. For now, off.”

Dick smiled, and more or less chugged the rest of his drink, then made his way up the stairs. Watched Damian finish preparing his bed, and all the animals desperate to jump up and roll around in those blankets.

Those butterflies flew again, but this time…nicely. Happily. And Dick’s soul felt lighter for it.

Damian completed his task as he made it to the top of the landing, and turned towards him. He opened his mouth to say something, but didn’t get the chance, before Dick was enveloping him in his arms, holding him as tight as he could.

“I love you, kiddo.” He whispered adoringly, apologetically. Damian froze for a moment, then gently returned the embrace. “I love you so much.”

“I know you do.” Damian returned warmly, before pulling back. “Now come on, you’re exhausted.”

Damian motioned to the room. Dick walked past him, pulling at the top half of his uniform.

“…If you don’t have anywhere to be tomorrow,” Damian started slowly, as Dick flopped onto the mattress. It was like a goddamn cloud. He might never move again. Though he did, to look back at Damian. “There’s a nice little café downtown. We could get breakfast. And I could…show you the adoption center.”

“Where you work? The place you built with your bare hands and grew from the ground up? Where you save animals from neglect and abuse and give them the chance at health and happiness and everything they might not’ve gotten otherwise?” Dick asked cheekily. “Damian, I’d be absolutely honored to go see it.”

Dick could see the blush on Damian’s face almost immediately. Smiled, but didn’t say anything about it.

“…Good. That’s settled then. The water you asked for earlier is on the nightstand, should you still want it.” Damian mumbled, clearly trying to make a hasty retreat. “Sleep well, Grayson.” And he was about to go back to his room, when he paused mid-turn. “Oh, yes, I forgot to ask. Would you mind if Reginald-”

“Whatever animal wants to sleep in here is free to do so.” Dick spread his arms dramatically across the sheets, like a sacrifice. “The more the merrier.”

Damian laughed, then addressed the group around them. “Go ahead.”

Dick was immediately swarmed with dogs and cats alike, though knew he’d barely made a dent in the mob. Most of the animals were still going with their dad back to his room, sweet little Spooky included.

As soon as the animals were settled, he glanced back to the door once more time. Found Damian still standing there, like a father putting his child to bed. And he smiled, tears welling in his exhausted eyes as he tried to push the fear the Court’s threats down. Tried to revel in the moment of seeing Damian again. Happy and healthy and after so long.

“Damian-”

“I know, Grayson.” Damian hummed softly. Smiled when he pushed his glasses up his face, as he grabbed the room’s door and began to swing it closed. “And I love you, too.”

[bluebookbadger-blog]

The Price of a Life - Chapter 12

Title: The Price of a Life Fandom (s): Fullmetal Alchemist/Fullmetal Alchemist Brotherhood Summary: I always thought waking up in another world would be a lot more…interesting. At least slightly exciting and terrifying, but it really wasn’t. It was more of a sudden and underwhelming event, that landed me in the company of fiction and its ignorance to modern physics. I thought it was a dream. Boy was I wrong. Characters: SI/OC, Maes Hughes, Edward Elric, Alphonse Elric, etc. Rating: PG-13

The next week sped by in a blur, every little inconvenience bringing tears to my eyes. I literally cried over spilled milk. Twice. But, despite the heavy cloud hanging over my head, I had made some headway in my plans. With Gracia, I visited the bank, and relearned the process of making a withdrawal, the banking system quite similar to the one back in my world.

However, on Friday, when I was officially declared well enough to be without crutches and had my stitches removed, was the day of Miss. Reich's funeral. The wake would be held in a funeral home on the other side of the local cemetery.

I didn't tell Camilla or Gracia where I was going, but from my black dress that the Fuhrer had given me and the thin shawl over my shoulders, they could have easily guessed.

The walk felt much longer than it had previously, the hot sun making the stiff black clothes unbearable. My mind drifted to the idea of the wake. Would there be a priest? Would there be a lot of family there? Would I even be allowed to attend? I thought about the last funeral I had attended in my world.

It had been for the old German spinster who lived across the street from us. Me and my siblings always called her Omama. She was strict and would always yell at us for trampling her tulips or letting the chickens free range on her lawn, but the old woman had a softer side.

We would go over to her houseafter finishing our school work to eat some of her famous spritzkuchen, which were like doughnuts. She would help us with our Latin homework, or at least she tried to, her explanations wandering into German. Omama was single, and was the youngest in her family that came to America. All of her siblings had died, and despite her snappiness and angry grumbles, our family had become hers.

My mother had known her when she was younger, and even then my mother would bring her boyfriend of the month over and eat popcorn and watch a movie. Afterwards Omama would take one last look at the guy, and tell my mom he wasn't the right one. My dad was one of those guys, but I think that was the only time Omama was ever wrong about something. Or at least the only time that I know of.

Her funeral had been about a year before I left my world. It was unexpected, or at least as unexpected as the death of a 104 year old woman living alone could be. Ironically, I wasn't even that sad. All I could think about at the wake was all the New Year's Eves spent huddled around her little tube television with a mouthful of popcorn, and all the times she threatened to cook up one of the chickens for eating her tomato garden.

But this wake was going to be very different, judging by Hughes' funeral. It would most likely be curt, professional, and silent. Though I still blamed myself for what happened, some of those self loathing feelings had ebbed. Perhaps she and Albert were destined to die. Maybe someone else had died, somewhere far away, and maybe their death's were simple coincidence.

Somewhere my subconscious dismissed those thoughts as wishful thinking, but they gave me some relief from the weight on my conscience.

The funeral home was small, with vines growing up the brick and mortar sides. There were a few cars and buggies parked haphazardly on the road in front of it. I was frozen standing at the steps, the questions returning.

Just as I was about to turn away, social anxiety clawing at my insides to go back to the apartment, the door creaked open. A man stepped out, a freshly lit cigar between his lips. He wore a top hat and suit reminiscent of one you would imagine in a Jane Austen novel. He had dark hair, by evidence of his twitching black mustache. His eyes stood out the most: bright, clear, blue eyes. Blue eyes that were staring at me.

The man blew a puff of smoke, motioning with the cigar in his hand.

"Ye can go in y'know," The man said, his accent strange compared to the clear and enunciated speech of most Amestrians to which I had spoken. Now that I thought about it, Amestris had almost no variety of dialects, at least not in Central. I suppressed a smile, recalling my cousin Morgan's conclusion that, 'You Nutmeggers have an accent - the accent of not having a damn accent' the same could be said about Central. No slurred consonants, emphasized vowels, or abbreviated words - they spoke as if they were reading from a dictionary.

"Hey, ye okay lass?" The man's gruff voice stirred me from the brief moment of thought. I nodded numbly, all of my fears and sorrow regarding the wake dissipated. I had attended at least a hundred funerals in my time (related to old age and illness, though I believe there may have been a car crash or two in my extended family at some point). This one would be no different. This would be executed with the same solemn, collected, finality that Hughes' funeral had, and I would be just fine with that.

I stepped inside the quaint building, greeted by the homey, slightly smokey scent of the funeral home. Seeing a guest, book, I approached and read the names.

Reich...Reich...Reich...

All family, except for me. I scribbled my cursive name and followed the faint sounds of voices. Everything was strangely muted, my own breathing and uneven steps muffled by the carpeted floor and atmosphere of the hallway. I soon found a small room filled with people who stood in groups of three or four, mumbling quietly to each other.

Suddenly feeling unwelcome, I turned to leave but found my feet unwilling. I had to go in there.

I took a deep breath, and took a few steps into the room. No one even noticed me.

'Finally,' I thought, maneuvering between groups. 'My wish to become invisible had been granted,' At last I was beside the raised casket, the top portioned opened to reveal the body inside. I swallowed a lump in my throat at the sight of her. She looked so peaceful, as if she were asleep, but her stillness was too unnatural and broke the illusion.

Unlike the wakes I had attended previously, there was no kneeler for me to say a few prayers on, not that I was capable of doing so without rekindling the pain in my side. I stood there quietly for a moment, my hands folded before myself for a few whispered prayers. When I finished, I felt the urge to turn and run, before the crowds noticed my presence.

Stronger than that urge was the habit of tradition. I brought my hands to my neck and undid the clasp of my mother's golden necklace, the attached rosary and earring clinking quietly as I lifted it from my chest and laid it in the coffin beside Mrs. Reich.

It was a tradition of my family to put a small token of oneself in the coffin. Some caskets would be stuffed with books and wine glasses, other bedazzled with jewelry and small statues. I considered Mrs. Reich to be one of the few people I knew as family in this world, so the gift was justified. Keeping my eyes trained on the ground, I weaved my way back to hallway.

Stepping softly back into the warmth of the city, but the bright sunlight seemed colder now. I was not going to sit through the funeral, however brief it may have been, just to be alone in a crowd.

Back at the apartment, all was quiet. It seemed the Grace, Camila, and Elicia had gone out for the day, leaving me to my schemes. I limped to my bedroom, exhausted by the long walk. Stripping off the dress, I threw on a loose blouse and some comfortable pants before getting to work. I changed the sheets on my bed, neatly folding every corner, before emptying every drawer and packing it into the bag I had been given.

Once satisfied with my choice in attire, I closed the bag and hefted it onto my shoulder and exited the room. I stood in the hallway for a moment, wondering what I was doing before shaking myself from the doubts and heading to the door.

Quickly placing on the table a previously composed note expressing my wishes to leave, I left the apartment. I moved robotically, I can barely remember even leaving the apartment. My thoughts were elsewhere, wandering the expanse of my life that had led to this cowardice.

That's right, I was a coward. I was just running away from these people and this place. And I was just fine with that. I wasn't even supposed to be here, let alone involve myself in the lives of the people here. It wasn't my place to play God and decide who lived and died, and as of late, I no longer had any power in such matters. And that was okay.

I continued walking until I found the bank, keeping my eyes low as I withdrew some money from my account, receiving hostile glares and suspicion from the teller. I then realized I wasn't wearing a hat, and that I must have appeared mightily foreign to the teller. I didn't care. They couldn't get me arrested for taking money from my account. Well, maybe they could call the police, but what harm would that do? I gathered up the cenz and paper money and threw it into my bag before strutting arrogantly from the bank. I didn't care what they thought.

Night was falling as I made my way farther from the center of the city, the dilapidated flats and closed store buildings becoming more sinister as darkness fell. The lights here were not electric, and it seemed only a few had been lit out of necessity. The exhaustion from the day was making me weary, but the dark alleys and the less than pleasant looking residents of the slum were enough to keep me from lying down in a side street to rest. Still, I needed somewhere to sleep for the night, and I wasn't about to risk any of the parasites or diseases that lurked in the apartment buildings.

So I continued walking towards my destination. I was tired, yes, but fear is a damn good motivator. And currently, I was quite afraid. Afraid of the man who has been walking behind me for a few blocks now, afraid of the prospect of sleeping in some alleyway, afraid of sleeping without a weapon - there was plenty to fear on a night like that.

The man following me was my greatest concern in that moment, his dark silhouette barely illuminated by the flickering streetlamps. I had walked around a block a few times to make sure I wasn't being paranoid, but the figure was definitely stalking me.

It was unnerving, especially considering the only weapon I had was probably in a plastic evidence bag somewhere in Central Command. I guess I could have grabbed a kitchen knife, but it would be too awkward to carry around, and butcher's knives didn't have a handle to keep you from cutting yourself if your hand slid forward. I had no other choice except to keep moving. I could sleep when I inevitably died.

The footsteps disappeared into one of the dilapidated buildings, but my anxiety did not let up.

The slums gave way to the outer ring of the city, populated by the tents and shacks of the homeless. A few fires burned here, the only source of light in the dreary landscape. Most of these fires were encircled by cloaked figures, their tired red eyes trained on the flames and their dark lips speaking in hushed whispers. I kept to the path, but avoided these areas. I may have trusted them in the day, but night made it difficult to discern friend from foe. I doubted even my likeness to the Ishvalans would grant me automatic acceptance in these dark outer limits of the city.

The pathway I walked on was raised above the haphazardly constructed shacks, which sat in low ditches carved into the sandy earth. The path would branch into grids that outlined the square ditches. I imagine that it must have looked like some complex computer chip from the air, with the scrap metal rooves reflecting the silver light of the stars and the fires pin pricks of gold.

I continued walking until I came upon an abandoned fire, the red embers still giving off enough light to be seen from my distance. I began walking towards the dim light, the secondary pathway narrow and ill defined from its surrounding ditches. I somehow managed to maneuver through the maze of pathways without falling down the steep incline to the shanties below. The people who huddled around the fires watched me with unblinking eyes. I could not tell if curiosity or wariness was the cause of their stares, so I avoided meeting their crimson gazes.

I kept my own maroon eyes fixated on the nearing embers. This ditch was slightly larger than the surrounding campsites, but the hovels were more numerous and smaller. I cautiously slid down the incline, the gravel and sand scraping my hands as gravity pulled me down. All was quiet, with the exception of the muffled crackle of the embers. The faint glow revealed several sleeping forms, and I had to push away the urge to continue walking. I needed to rest for a little while, and the chill of the autumn air was numbing my hands.

Stepping gingerly over the slumbering beings, I crouched by the embers and tried to warm my hands. Using a nearby charcoaled stick, I stirred them to life, and reveled in the heat they gave off. The flickering lights illuminated the sleeping forms to reveal children, who huddled together for warmth. It pulled at my heart strings, seeing their thin shivering forms wrapped in rags. Some bore pale scars on their dark skin, evidence of the cruelty such small children had already endured.

I counted them, noting that there was no one in the huts. In total, I could make out at least sixteen children. I wondered where their parents where for a moment, before the memory of the war resurfaced and I once more felt intense pity for the children. Homeless orphans, from my best guess. I shrugged off my jacket and laid it over a boy who wore only a pair of tattered shorts.

Using my bag as a pillow, I laid my head down and looked at the stars. I could never properly see them in the city, where the glaring lights obscured them from view. Here, however, they were bright and clear, sharply defined against the inky indigo abyss of space. They were not familiar at all. No Ursa Major or Andromeda were visible, the scattered lights uncoordinated with any familiar constellations. Another reminder of how out of place I was. Another reminder of this alien world.

At some point in the night I had drifted off, but only briefly, as the first grey lights of the morning sun startled me awake. Well, more than the light, the rumble of engines woke me. The children from the night before were gone, their shabby blankets missing and the only evidence of their existence being the footprints in the sand. My eyes followed the prints to find that they led to the shacks. Before I could investigate further, a truck rolled to a stop above me.

"Hey!" A voice called, a young Ishvalan waving to me. "You want work?" I thought for a moment. Did I want to go on that truck to who knows where for possible 'work' which could be less than desirable? Not really. Did I want to stay here and wait to be confronted and forced to go somewhere else? No. Creepy truck it was!

I nodded, and picked up me bag.

"You won't be needin' that," The man said, motioning to my satchel. I looked at the huts and sighed. Hopefully the children would know better than to rifle through my things. I walked to the nearest shack and placed my things just inside the 'door' which was no more than a sheet of ragged fabric. I took a quick inventory of my clothes, the pants and loose shirt concealing anything that might dissuade a job offer that involved intense physical labor. My boots would hopefully have enough support to keep my ankles from giving out if this 'work' involved being on my feet all day. It was harvest season after all, and the only land outside of the city that was not modified Hoovervilles was farmland from the looks of it.

I scrambled up the incline to the road, where the truck was waiting. I hopped up onto the bed of the truck where the Ishvalan man clapped a hand on my back.

"So, you're new 'round here I'm guessing," He said with a chuckle as the vehicle roared to life and began sputtering down the narrow path away from the city.

"Yes," I responded quietly, hoping not to sound foreign to the man. "What kind of work are we doing?" I asked softly as the truck slowed to a stop, more Ishvalans boarding the truck. Most were young men, strong and shirtless, but a few women boarded as well, their silver locks tied up in braids to be kept out of their faces.

"The Meyer Farm, nice folks, nothin' you need to worry about," He said, moving over as more people crowded the truck bed. "The work's hard though, sure you up for it? You look a little pale," I ducked my head, forgetting that I had no hat to hide my features, which must have been quite conspicuous even in the dim morning light.

"I can handle it," I responded firmly, though I did not meet his eyes. Perhaps I could handle it, perhaps I could not. My hip was quite sore from the long walk the other day, but the pain was manageable compared to the pain when I first received the injury.

The truck continued its stop and go until we reached the edge of the shantytown and the dry sandy earth faded into ranch land. The man spoke with the other riders in a language I did not recognize, at least from the series, which made me nervous. Perhaps I should have stayed with Gracia.

The vehicle thundered to a stop, shaking my worried from my mind as the people got off the truck and immediately set to work. We had stopped at a small farm house, the faded blue paint peeling to reveal the half rotted wood beneath. I followed the crowd, realizing more trucks full of people where off loading their cargo. I followed the man who had invited me, his broad shoulders cutting a pathway in the crowd for me to follow behind him.

I avoided meeting the prying eyes of the other workers, and focused on the man in front of me. He was young, in his mid twenties at most. But scars where raked across his left shoulder, a peppering of bullets that could have killed had they been a few inches lower. I swallowed involuntarily, looking away from the scar tissue. I kept forgetting that these people lived through a war.

Tailing the man, I collected several baskets, each about half a meter in diameter and in depth.

"What are we picking?" I finally asked as we boarded another truck.

"So he can speak!" Exclaimed one of other workers above the engine, an older man with a neatly combed ashen beard. I gave a nervous smile as they gave a small laugh of amusement at my meek demeanor. "It's sugar beet season son,"

"It's Harvest Day, the boss expects frost tonight. Wouldn't be surprised if we're picking greens today," The man I had followed responded, I listening intently. I had picked sugar beets when I worked on Mr. Solosky's farm back home, but I preferred picking greens. Parsley, basil, cilantro, dill, watercress - Solosky's was mainly a bean farm, but we had small fields of greens where most of the girls worked, simply because it was not as labor intense as corn and cucumber harvesting.

"Naw, there won't be frost, my knee isn't aching like it would if there be frost on the way," The older man replied, patting a knee that was barely held together with sinew and stringy muscle. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from asking why there was no automail to facilitate his walking, which must have been impeded by the war injury.

I looked over the edge of the truck, avoiding the current debate over the connection of body aches and weather predictions. The neat rows of vegetables and vine plants spanned much farther than I had ever worked. Where I normally picked 100 yard rows of tomatoes, there was at least a mile of squash and gourd plants. The other side of the road was lined with golden wheat fields that shivered in the wind.

A small smile tugged at my lips as I reminiscence my own time on a farm. Sure the days were long, the sun was hot, and tomato plant tar never came out, but it paid well, and it was a pretty good learning experience. I had to manage small ragtag teams of workers that varied day to day and coordinate with the boss on what and where and when tasks could be completed. Working the register at markets was the customer service facet of the job, laced with irrational demands and crying, impatient children.

This work seemed different though. It seemed as if today would be filled with more monotonous, repetitive picking and less human interactions, which I was completely fine with. I still was not quite ready to throw myself back into the lives of complete strangers, not yet at least.

The truck rumbled to a stop, and I lifted my head to see an endless sea of green rows. The man whom I would be tailing for the day, I am going to start calling him...Roger, because I know it would be rude to ask an Ishvalan their name for their religious reason and whatnot, beckoned me to follow him. I eagerly kept pace with him as he led me to a row of plants that had the faintest scent of beeswax and freshly cut grass - watercress.

Roger plucked some from the moist earth, the morning dew not yet evaporated.

"Pick it just like this," He said, demonstrating the roots still clotted with earth. He then threw it into the basket, and met my eyes for a moment. "Can you do that?" I nodded and set to work, using both hands to grab handfuls of the herb at a time. Roger walked away, satisfied with my pace and began on his own row.

I was wrapped in nostalgia as I worked, the rhythm to the labor setting in as time drew on and the sun grew hotter. I was falling behind, and it began to irk me as Roger passed me despite starting long after I had begun. For a little while I drove myself harder, trying to work fast enough to keep up with the others, but quickly gave up and returned to my previous pace. I was going to burn myself out trying to work any faster than I already was.

My mind wandered in the simmering heat, the sun seemingly too hot for the chill I had felt just hours ago. I worried about being paid, but could not really care for the money. So long as the Ishvalans didn't kick me out of the little camp, I could make due with sleeping under the strange stars.

Wiping some sweat from my brow without looking up, I thought about the children I had stumbled upon. A worry gnawed inside me that they had gone through my belongings, ripped up my Certificate of Honorary Whatnot, and had spent what little money I had on candy. I was swift to dismiss the thought. I could have some faith in them. Until they proved me wrong.

The sun was high in the sky when I finally noticed why I was so much slower than the other workers. Where I picked all six independent rows of Watercress, they went down one side of their row, collecting only half so as to get the rest on the return trip. I looked down the row, seeing that a small gathering was taking place with the truck. All of the workers had completed their half a row.

I assumed they were resting, the shade from the many trees that bordered the field. I licked my lips, realizing how thirsty I was, but quickly went back to the task at hand. I could drink when I finished, and it would take too much time to walk all the way down there just to drink. And so I kept working, my hands black with fertile earth and blistering from the rough handles of the basket.

Memories of Mr. Solosky's farm returned as I found my rhythm again and got back to work.

I could feel the weight of my jeans as I weaved my way through patches of weeds taller than I was to find the last few rows of wax beans, heavy with fruit and hidden from man and beast alike. Anya, Mr. Soloksy's daughter, in her ankle length skirt and flattering t-shirt hard at work in the wash station with piles of sweet potatoes in the sinks. Vitaly and Vladimir would always joke about who would win my sister's heart, only to be shocked by Mary's disinterest in men, and marriage in general. I found myself smiling at the memory of my meek, shy older sibling coming to Harvest Day bonfire with her first, and admittedly only ever, girlfriend.

It took some time for Roger's voice to register, the hum of my own heartbeat and breathing lulling my into a trance-like state of dogged work.

"Kid, 'ey, you all right?" I looked up, sweat beading on my eyelashes making it difficult to focus on the identity of the speaker. I rubbed my face with my elbow, the sleeve of the blouse coarse against my skin. I met Roger's worried red eyes and nodded confidently. He gave an unconvinced smile and handed me a canteen that looked as if it had fallen out of a WWII movie. "We all gotta drink, don't over work yourself,"

I took the canteen and drank, the water cold and refreshing. I'm not sure if everyone can relate, but I took those long, deep, gulping mouthfuls of water you take when you're in a hurry or have just eaten a ghost pepper sandwich. Smiling sheepishly, I handed the now empty canteen back to the man. Looking around, I realized that an entire crowd of workers were standing behind him. Some watched the exchange intently, others sat in the green grass and talked amongst themselves. I had finished my row entirely.

It took a great amount of effort to keep from throwing my arms in the air and flopping down in the tall grass and taking a victory nap. Instead, I shuffled the heavy basket onto the grass and carefully lowered myself to the ground, knowing the hypnosis of work would fade away, leaving pain and aches behind. At least Roger seemed amused. He, with one hand, easily hefted the near full basket onto the bed of the truck, which had acquired a few barrels of water since I last saw it.

"Well, take a rest for now, you deserve it kid," I took his words to heart, but merely nodded and watched the other workers.

Men and women mingled, but none were treated with disrespect. If anything, the people seemed to have some sort of reverence for each other. The older one was, the more respect they commanded, the deeper the nods, the longer the conversation. It was pretty darn strange to me for some reason, which made watching them as I relaxed for a few moments even stranger.

Most of them did not sit down, only the elders took such a privilege. Those who stood did not stand still, they shifted their weight from foot to foot, as if they were still in the fields working to the rhythm of some unsung song. Their respect seemed so unnatural compared to what I had seen in my own world, making me feel somewhat guilty for my place in the grass. But I couldn't have gotten up if I wanted to.

My hip throbbed as though a separate heart had been transplanted there, hot blood rushing through my veins. I must affirm that it was not close to as painful as when I first received it, but Lord almighty did it hurt. I took a moment to pray it was not infected before watching the people again.

Suddenly, they began walking back to their half finished rows. Perhaps the sun had shifted a little or the air had cooled a degree or two to notify them that they all should get back to work, but I could not detect it. Roger walked up to me, and offered me a hand.

"Back to work, brother," He said softly, I doing my best to hide my faltering steps from him. "You can help the Brother," Roger pointed at the old man with the crooked knee, who struggled to stand. I had to resist lifting an eyebrow. The Brother made it sound as if...I answered my own question, realizing most of the monks would have been killed in Ishval, and the probability that this man was the only monk who worked here would make sense.

Roger gave a stiff clap on my shoulder, urging me to go help the man. I glanced back to see he had already traveled back to his own half finished row and had resumed work. I walked over and held out a hand to the Brother, who looked up at me with eyes that sparkled with laughter.

"Child, I have not lost myself quite yet," The man shakily stood, and I felt anxious at the sight of his trembling hands. I could almost see him collapsing into a pile of ash, his fragility disclosed as he regained the strength to take a step. However, once he gained some momentum, the Brother and I shuffled along at a brisk pace to the end of the half picked row.

It took me a moment, but I found the task of carrying the basket to be sufficient in aiding our almost agonizingly slow pace. We trailed behind all other workers, not because we were doing twice as much more, but because it took twice as much time for the stiff, shaking hands of the elder to gather up the greens. It was quite annoying to be honest.

I think those few hours, of just wanting to move a little faster for the sake of finshing the task and getting on to the next really tried my patience. I realize that he was old, and frail, and his age was to be respected, but I came from a world of high speed internet and online shopping. I felt a little entitles to immediate reward, in other words, an empty row behind us. But there was nothing I could do but hold the basket and walking behind him, watching the workers become more and more distant.

I held the basket in my arms, its weight growing with every plant the man added, but I could not complain. Clouds had overcome the sky, blocking the sun from sight. They brought with them a cool, dry wind that smelled of distant apple orchards. This was much more comfortable to work in compared to the blazing heat, but that itch of impatience still compelled me to constantly judge the distance between us and the next hill crest that would let me view the end of the row.

The sun was beginning to dip towards the horizon as we finished, the other workers patiently loading their baskets onto the cargo wagon and standing quietly by the truck. With the final plant of the row plucked from its dusty niche, I hefted the basket around the man and headed for the cargo wagon, which was drawn by a thin mule behind the truck. I nestled it among the countless others, which were carefully balanced in a neat pyramid.

I trudged back to the truck, where the Brother and the workers had already clambered onto its bed. I yawned as Roger helped me up, his hands covered with dirt and slick with sweat. He chuckled at my sleepiness.

"Long day?" I nodded, my back and feet sore and my still healing wound now aching with pain. He gave a half smile and ruffled my hair, the action gaining him a cross look from myself. That right was still reserved for Gracia, and now my hair was dirty and I had nowhere to shower.

The realization then dawned on me - I had no shower. Roger must have observed my face contort with terror at the thought. I was no germophobe, but I needed to shower at least every other day to keep my tangled mane from becoming a feral mass of matted hair. The idea left a sour feeling in my stomach. Perhaps I couldn't move away from Gracia quite yet.

The truck stopped at the farmhouse, and we all sort of staggered off the vehicle best we could and headed to the following mule drawn cart to offload the greens to the safety of the storage sheds. I somehow managed to drag a basket of what appeared to be Romaine lettuce to the shed, a meager contribution compared to the two or three baskets most of the workers carried at a time.

I could not have cared less at that moment. You probably can related to the bone tiredness of pure exhaustion that had glazed over my eyes and sunk into my bones as I sat there being useless while the other workers gathered around the farmhouse porch. Somewhere in my mind I had an inkling that they were being paid, and that I would not get my share if I didn't crawl over there, but the aching of my joints and the throb in my side kept me still.

I had money, and so long as I was welcome in the Ishvalan slums I would not need to spend any of it anytime soon. Well, if my money was still there when I got back. After what seemed like forever the crowd of people shuffled back to their respective mode of transport, Roger climbing up onto the truck and helping the Brother up before coming to sit beside me.

"You didn't get your money," I nodded, the swirling reds and violets of the sunset mesmerizing. "I would have brought it to you, but Mr. Meyers doesn't even know you work for him, not yet," I nodded again.

"Not all of us rely on money for pleasure, child," The old man spoke up, watching Roger with half lidded eyes, "To be close to Ishvala by working with the earth is all some need to find true happiness," Roger bowed his head, a student corrected by the teacher.

"But all of us need money to buy food," I said quietly, looking at the Brother to see his response. The Ishvalan religion had always intrigued me in its ambiguity. The only points made clear about its teachings were that names were considered sacred, and alchemy was strictly forbidden as it was arrogant and perverse in its nature.

"And should not our brothers provide for us?" The Brother asked in response. I was too tired to process the words then, but in retrospective this question was probably a bit of a test for me after I challenged his words.

"One cannot depend on others to provide for you, you must toil for your wheat, and share the excess it with others, that they may plant fields of their own, until all are satisfied," I said, trying to put together a cohesive sentence from the foggy catacombs of church catechisms and Sunday homilies.

"And why don't you share all of your wheat with others?" I gave him a hard stare. We were all tired, it was getting dark, the truck had only one headlight and he wanted to go all Socratic Method right this second?

"I don't know," I said with a sigh, "Probably 'cause you gotta make some bread to eat so that you don't drop dead," This roused a small laugh in the Brother.

"True, my child, quite true," The truck thundered to a stop, I for the first time realizing I was at the camp where the children sat around the fire. I shakily climbed down off the truck, squinting up at the dark figures still left.

"I'll see you guys, have a good night," I bade with another yawn, skidding down the embankment. The children around the fire parted for me, my unopened bag holding a place for me.

It unnerved me a little, the circle of kids sitting around a fire just waiting for me to get off the truck and join them, like some dark cult awaiting the sacrificial lamb. The small boy who now wore my jacket scooted closer to me, eyes alight with curiosity. One of the older children, a young girl who must have been nearing her teens finally spoke up.

"We didn't go through your things, sir," Her voice trembled slightly, but her red eyed stare met me with unexpected intensity. "But where are you from?" The other children began to speak up, questions rising cacophony.

"Where did you come from?"

"How did you afford this coat?"

"Why are you here?"

"Who are you?" That last question hung in the air a moment longer than the other, the child who spoke it recognizing the taboo of its answer. I could only look out tiredly, sleep calling me. I could not help but answer all of them, the routine of my introduction coming reflexively in my exhausted state.

"I'm from Drachma but I have an honorary citizenship, I had a job in the city that paid well, but I lost it, I'm here to work on the farm, and my name is Irish," I said, laying down in the sandy earth. My bag was under my neck, the support easing my aching spine.

I could hear the new questions arise, but the words escaping me. A deep voice commanded silence, and all fell quiet. As curious as I was to its source, I dared not sit up. My hip felt as though the bones were chafing away at each other, and any movement only worsened the damage.

I stared up at the dark sky, the stars blurring as I fought to look up at the beauty for a few moments longer. For a second I thought I glimpsed a familiar belt of stars, but they disappeared as I drifted into unconsciousness.

Masterlist

[swordarkeereon]

Author Interview: Josh Matthews #hellgate #horror

What genre(s) do you write and why?  I’ve written mostly in horror because it gives me the freedom to do what I want. When you write in other genres, such as crime or mysteries, you have to adhere to certain rules and conventions. With horror there are no limitations. My favorite part is creating unique monsters and settings, allowing me to let my imagination run wild. However, I’m trying something new with my latest manuscript, which is a dark political thriller about the Pentagon using scientifically-augmented assassins to go after North Korean leader Kim Chong-un.

Are you a plotter or a pantser? I’m a plotter. I spend weeks developing the storyline in my mind and jotting down scenes/dialogue/character quirks on 3×5 cards and ordering them. Most of the book is written out in my head before I sit down to draft it. Sometimes the book develops a life of its own and takes me places I had not originally planned, which is fine with me. Often those scenes are better than the ones I had outlined.

What do you feel your books offer readers? Entertainment. I don’t include social or political commentary, or life-changing themes, in my books. I write about good versus evil, average people being thrown into unusual and horrifying situations, and how they cope. The only constants in my books are action and suspense.

How long have you been a writer?  I’ve been writing since I was in elementary school, although I wouldn’t have called myself a professional back then. My work consisted of several monster magazines typed on folded-in-half construction paper with photos cut out of other magazines and really bad short stories jotted down in notebooks. I had a fan base of one – my mother.

What was the first book you ever had published? How much time did it take from writing your first book to having it published? The first book I published was about modern vampire hunters, which I wrote under my real name. It took six years to finally find a publisher, and I was told by many established authors that six years was shorter than the industry average at that time. However, once I got my name out there, it only took a few tries to get my other books placed with publishers. With some of my latest books I’ve tried self-publishing, which opens up a whole new world of pros and cons.

What other careers have you had? I worked for the CIA for twenty-three years before retiring in 2013, mostly working against North Korea or involved with weapons of mass destruction or cyber security issues. Before that, I was a jack of all trades – realtor, high school teacher, exterminator, and a dozen other odd jobs.

Do you write under more than one pen name? Why?  Yes, Josh Matthews is my young adult pen name. I also write under my real name, Scott M. Baker. What I publish under my real name is mostly dark, hardcore horror laced with violence and gore. I opted to write my young adult books under a pen name because I didn’t want a twelve year old enjoying Hell Gate, picking up one of my other books, and being shocked.

When you create characters, do you base them on real people? Only one character was based on a real life person. Drake Matthews from The Vampire Hunters trilogy was an iced-coffee drinking, whiskey swilling, cigar smoking adventurer who owned a pet rabbit named Van Helsing. Except for the adventurer part, Drake was based on me, so I got to live vicariously through Drake.

How do your family and/or friends feel about your book or writing venture in general? Most of my family and friends get a kick out of the fact that I’m a writer, but they have never read my books. The only close family member who is really excited about my career is my wife, Alison Beightol, the author of The Primigenio Tales trilogy. We met because we both wrote vampire novels and eventually fell in love. Who says horror can’t be romantic?

Where are you from? I was born and raised in Boston, spent over two decades living in the Washington D.C. area and overseas, and retired for four years in northern Florida. As I write this, my family is packing to move to New England.

How do you come up with the titles? I think up several possible titles for my books and then run them through Amazon to make sure they have not been used. Those that survive I run past my beat readers for their input. My daughter Maddy is my best source of titles; she came up with Nazi Ghouls from Space and Mutant Assassin Group (the title of my soon-to-be-published dark political thriller).

What do you do for fun? For fun I spend time with my family, play with the pets, read (usually horror and post-apocalyptic fiction and histories of World War II and the Cold War).

 Do you work on one project at a time? Or do you multi-task? I thrive on multi-tasking. I write a book and send it off to my beta readers and, as they review it, I begin the first draft of another book. Then I switch off, sending the newest book to the beta readers while I incorporate their suggestions and do the final edits on the first book. In between, I’m outlining upcoming books and/or writing short stories.

What kind of kid were you? Which social path did you take?  I was a total geek as a kid. Farah Fawcett posters on my wall. Aurora monster models on my book shelves. A stack of Famous Monsters of Filmland under my bed. I became more serious in college, studied history with the intent of teaching, and eventually wound up working for the CIA. But I still enjoy my roots and love going to horror conventions because I feel right at home with the other people there.

Do you have any pets? At the moment I have four pets – two cats, Archer and Michonne, who think they run the house and two boxers, Bella and Walther. The cats are jealous of the dogs’ fame because Walther and Bella are the inspiration for Lucifer and Lilith, the werehounds in Hell Gate.

 If you could travel anywhere in the world where would you travel?  I’ve already traveled extensively throughout Europe, Asia, and the Middle East. I’m one of those eccentrics who enjoy locations off the beaten path that are not frequented by a lot of tourists, especially locations related to World War II. The two spots I really want to see are Pyongyang, North Korea, as well as Chernobyl and the abandoned town of Pripyat in Ukraine.

 Do you have a favorite beverage that you drink when you write? Iced water or iced coffee. If I’m writing late at night, I enjoy whiskey.

 Please tell us 5 miscellaneous facts about yourself. 1) I used to smoke a cigar a day, but I kicked the habit nearly four years ago (although I do indulge on special occasions).  2) I’m a huge World War II aficionado and have taken numerous trips to see battlefields and locations associated with the war.  3) I am not a Star Wars fan but am a huge Trekkie.  4) My hobby is collecting militaria; my collection includes artifacts from Nazi Germany, Imperial Japan, Communist China, the Soviet Union, North Korea, and the regime of Saddam Husayn.  5) When I was fourteen I got to fly a small plane over southern New Hampshire.

 Please share with us your future projects and upcoming releases. The sequel to Hell Gate is scheduled for release this October. The first draft of the third book in the series is almost complete, and I’ve begun plotting out the fourth book. Also, my dark political thriller is currently with an agent who is reviewing it, and hopefully will be released in 2018. I’ve already begun research on the sequel, which involves a biological warfare attack on a major city.

  Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100013874139869

Twitter:  https://twitter.com/HellGateSaga

Blog: http://hellgatesaga.blogspot.com/

  BRIEF AUTHOR BIO:

Josh Matthews is a former New Englander who has returned to his roots along with his wife, teenage daughter, and four lovable but exasperating pets. Josh used to work for the U.S. Government where he had the opportunity to travel around the world and be exposed to numerous cultures, many of which will appear in the Hell Gate saga. He has always been a fan of horror novels and monster movies, and sees the Hell Gate saga as his way to share that love with a new generation of fans.

BOOK DESCRIPTION:

Sixteen-year-old Jason McCreary is living a nightmare within a nightmare. Not only is he trying to survive in a post-apocalyptic world overrun by demons from Hell, he also shoulders the burden for humanity’s fate as it was his mother who opened the gates in a scientific experiment gone wrong.

In a last ditch effort to redeem his family name and erase his guilt, Jason joins a squad whose mission is to travel to Paris and close the Hell Gate. Once there, they discover an environment more frightening than anything they could imagine and demons more terrifying than they had ever encountered before.

Time is now against them.

Can Jason gain his redemption along with the respect of his peers, or will a new web of lies threaten to rip apart his world and jeopardize his team’s only chance for success?

BOOK EXCERPT:

The stillness belied the danger that lurked in the shadows of every alley and doorway of St. Mere Eglise. Jason McCreary found it unsettling. Most of the towns along the Normandy coast had been abandoned long ago. Animals now flourished amongst the desolation, with livestock and wildlife replacing humans. That wasn’t the case today. Even the birds had left, plunging the town into an eerie silence that forewarned of an approaching evil. Experience had taught Jason that when the animals fled it was to escape from Hell Spawn. He made his way along the center of Rue Eisenhower, clutching his crossbow, ready to shoot if necessary. Despite walking lightly, his footsteps echoed through town, sounding like a dinner bell for the dead. His eyes scanned the buildings. Nothing moved except overgrown grass and weeds that swayed in the wind. The same wind tousled several blond strands across his face. Jason used his free hand to push them back behind his ears.

Jason took a deep breath to calm his nerves, holding it for several seconds before exhaling. It did little good. His heart still raced, and his hands trembled, knowing that something demonic could lunge out of the shadows at him at any moment. He glanced down to the werehounds that stayed close by his side. Lilith brought up Jason’s right flank. She looked like a large wolf with shiny black fur. Her head darted from side to side, seeking out anything that could be a threat. Occasionally, she glanced behind them to make certain nothing approached from their rear. Lucifer walked along on his left. He resembled an American bulldog. His ears stood straight up, listening for any noise that signified danger. When Lucifer saw his master staring at him, his tail wagged. After the brief display of affection, he went back to prowling for Hell Spawn.

Jason sniffed the air to see if he could smell the demons. A tickle formed in the back of his throat, causing him to hack against the rear of his hand. Ever since the opening of the Hell Gate, the air had taken on an unpleasant odor. Father Chirac referred to it as the brimstone stench of Hell. Jason had no idea what the priest meant. To him, the air smelled like the living room of his old house after his mother built a fire in the fireplace, only mixed with the stench of rot and shit.

As he glanced from building to building, Jason chastised himself. He didn’t like being separated from the group, yet he only had himself to blame for being the point man in a potential battle royale. Yesterday, a scouting party on horseback had reported Hell Spawn moving across the countryside toward St. Mere Eglise; they had been unable to conduct a proper reconnaissance because of the approaching dusk. A search and destroy team had been sent out that morning to assess the threat and deal with it. Jason was part of that team. A mile outside of town, the team had dismounted and left their horses with a rear guard unit so they could proceed on foot. Andre had ordered Jason to go ahead and scout the area. When Sasha had protested sending him in alone, Jason had interrupted and said he wanted to take point. He didn’t know if he had been trying to impress Andre or had been embarrassed by having Sasha fight his battles for him, not that it mattered. His stupid sixteen-year-old vanity had gotten the better of him. Now he was heading into a town probably overrun by Hell Spawn.

“And I wonder why they keep calling me Bait.”

Lucifer looked up with his soulful brown eyes and whined, sensing his discomfort.

“I’m fine, boy. I need a bit more common sense than pride.” He reached down and scratched Lucifer behind the ears, who wagged his tail once more.

Jason closed his eyes and concentrated. He could sense the others following half a mile to the rear. Most of the team registered as one signature, giving off an aura of concern over not knowing what to expect. Three stood out. Andre and Slava, both of whom who were excited about the possibility of combat, and Sasha, who was afraid. Not for herself, though. She feared for Jason’s safety. He grinned at the remote display of affection.

At the corner, the street opened up. To the right sat a parking lot empty except for a few dust-covered vehicles. In the far corner sat St. Mere Eglise church, the one made famous when an American paratrooper got stuck on the belfry during the D-Day landings. He remembered seeing that in an old black-and-white war movie he watched with his dad. Red Skelton, or Buttons, or someone with a weird name like that had played the paratrooper. To the left was the Airborne Museum that commemorated the Normandy invasion. Jason veered off the street and into the outer edge of the parking lot. The werehounds stayed close.

He had approached to within twenty feet of the intersection of Rue Eisenhower and Rue de Gaulle when a single figure shambled out into the middle of the street. A Nachzehrer. A flesh eater that fed off of humans. These demons were slow and uncoordinated, so dealing with one or two was easy. However, a horde of Nachzehrer could strip a man to the bones in minutes. Jason had seen hundreds like it during the past few months. Naked, emaciated, and with leathery gray skin dried out from the fires of Hell. It stumbled along, its gaze fixed on the road. The demon hadn’t noticed him yet. He raised the crossbow and aimed at the skull above the right ear. Lucifer growled. The noise caught the Nachzehrer’s attention. Its head shot up and its lifeless, cloudy eyes fixed on Jason. When its mouth dropped open, a mournful wail emanated from cracked, desiccated lips. Jason readjusted his aim and pulled the trigger. The arrow sliced through the Nachzehrer’s left eye. The demon dropped to the ground, a final moan escaping from its lungs as its life force drained from its body, creating a small eddy of blue light that twisted in the air for a moment before dissipating.

Jason reached around to pull another arrow from its quiver when the stench of decayed flesh filtered into his nose, a smell so overpowering his stomach heaved. As he swallowed back his vomit, a chorus of wails shattered the calm. A swarm of Nachzehrer flowed out of Rue de Gaulle and filled the square. A bloated female noticed Jason and screeched. The others turned and, spotting food, shambled towards him. At least a hundred Nachzehrer emerged from the side street, all of them bearing down on Jason. Even worse, he saw four gray shapes darting among the horde. Though he couldn’t get a good view because of the Nachzehrer, he recognized the bat-like bodies and bulbous, eyeless heads with gaping mouths.

Shit! Soul vampires!

“Come on, guys!” Jason said to Lilith and Lucifer. He ran for the church. Lilith stayed close to protect her master. Lucifer defiantly barked at the approaching horde before spinning around and sprinting away.

Reaching the door to St. Mere Eglise church, Jason tried the knob. It was locked. He rammed his shoulder into the door several times. It wouldn’t budge. Placing his back against the wall, Jason scanned the area and weighed his options. Nachzehrer stretched out across the parking lot. They were still over fifty feet away, and he could easily outrun them. Three of the soul vampires spread out behind the first line of Nachzehrer, preparing to attack, and they would cut him down if he moved out in the open. If he stayed with his back against the church so he couldn’t be surrounded and fight, he might have a chance. With luck, the rest of the team would reach him before the Nachzehrer did.