#Ladder Batter is now right and it's very important to know this you see...

[reksink]

hey, did u see ? off is like coming to steam and theres new stuff too apparently? also official merch

I have indeed! I was in the chat of the announcement stream if you're willing to look for me, hehe!! If I'm being completely honest I was incredibly suprised when the merch was first revealed. Like everyone else I was really happy that Mortis was drawing more OFF related stuff again, but I ever guess something this big was coming for us

My overall thought process if that Mortis was 'past' OFF, you know? A 16 year old project that's haven't had any big new in the longest time, with other current projects to work on, I figured we wouldn't get much outside of anniversary streams

BUT obvious I'm not Mortis, so it's not like I would have a clue about this And I'm not complaining in the slightest of course! I'm not sure when I'll get something, but if I had to choose I'd definitely want the shirts the on Fangamer OMGA. That and the Zacharie pins, hehe

As for the new ports, I'm not sure if I should get it for Steam or Switch. OFF on the go sounds great, but I was wanna show off Steam achivements...A choice indeed Bonus Promo Art Inspired Judge Upon Thy

[kubrik-was-a-c-nt]

EVIL DEAD RISE IS ON MAX

FUCK YEH LETS DO THIS

Nice fake-out with the drone, I think this is the first time the demon movement was paired with the movement of a real object.

Why the fuck did these guys rent the burning building from Midsommar? Or the cult church in Mandy? Perfectly triangular buildings are super sus now.

Ooooh we got ourselves an OG cabin clock.

Are they just jumping right into it? No build up? Just deadites from the start? I guess I would take anything over stupid family drama.

Uh.... well, that just happened. A scalping 5 minutes in.

I guess this isnt the first time there was a cold open featuring a possession and a bunch of gore. I guess my face blindness made it so I didnt realize that none of the actors I saw were in the trailers.

Okay, we got a rocker chick who I mistook for Mia for a sec who I guess is pregnant? Interesting so far.

How old is this lady that he has several kids? She doesnt look that much older than her older daughter.

"Hey Bridget, Moms on nights so we're watching all the Freddy movies in a row."

"Even the shitty ones."

"There arent any shitty ones."

Excuse me, did we watch the same Dream Master? Dream Child? Freddy's Dead? I love Freddy but he has as many bad movies as he does good.

I like this strange small child with her baby head battering ram.

Oooh, is mom using overtone on her hair? Her hair looks like mine when I used to dye it. When I could afford to dye it. (I got a better paying job so I can start to do that again!!!)

So Beth is forever young mom's sister, interesting.

Staffanie is fucking awesome.

Oooof... Ellie, did you send a text or an email? Two calls and a voice mail are easily forgotten when someone is super busy on the road.

Also, Beth, listen to your sisters voicemail when she leaves one. Call without voicemail is a chat, call with voicemail is important.

Wait, what was this bank built on top of? Or did Mia deposit the Necronomicon into a bank vault to keep it safe?

Are people in movies just not scared of the dark? Of bugs? Of-

JESUS CHRIST JESUS CHRIST

DO NOT TAKE ANYTHING THAT WAS STASHED IN A GRAVE. ITS CURSED AF. I DONT EVEN BELIEVE IN CURSES OR GHOSTS AND EVEN I WOULDNT TOUCH IT. AND NOT EVEN BECAUSE ITS DIRTY AS HELL.

That pizza was still good to eat, just a little smooshed.

"Weird shit like this gets locked away for a reason." Bridget is smart. Bridget should throw that book out the window right now.

The Necronomicon, now featuring a tooth/claw lock with a blood release. Not seen that before.

ONE OF THREE. THREE.

Is this actor on the vinyl trying to imitate Dr Knowby from Evil Dead 2? Like obviously hes not the same guy but the way hes talking.

Oh no, haunted turntable. You see, that's why CDs and MP3s are the superior formats.

NOPE NOPE NO ELEVATOR HORROR FOR ME. PLEASE NO IM STILL WORKING THROUGH MY PHOBIA.

Well great, you just had to take the book and vinyls and now your mom is haunted.

No tree roots available? Ropes and cables will make a good substitute! Cant do an evil dead movie without a little bondage.

Eeew, how many fertilized eggs did you get in your dozen? Where did you get them?

Sorry kids, your mom is a tweaker now.

You think the elevator is going to work in a blackout?

Um... I would be worried if a 'dead bodys' eyes reopened. I know there can be post-mortem spasms but the eyes perfectly reopening and nothing else moving is very strange-

FUCK I SCARED MYSELF. I have my tablet next to me and I saw movement in the screen reflection and I almost jumped out of my skin. It was my hand moving to set down my glass of water.

Hm... this feels like a new ploy for the deaddites. Play dead for a while and then reanimate in the creepiest way possible? I like it.

This is when you jump down the broken stairs and run for your lives. Hell, most elevators have little ladders in the shafts to climb up and down. Fuck it, take the cable and rappel down, just get the fuck away from the possessed tweaker with a glass shard.

Do not kiss a freshly made tattoo. That is very unsanitary.

Wasnt an eye popping out and going into someones mouth in Evil Dead 2? Like, wasnt it Henrietta and Bobby Joe?

El is doing a poor impression of Annie from Hereditary. You need to smash your face against the door way faster than that.

Sorry neighbors, but its every man for themselves now. Not even a gun can save you now.

Yeah Danny, you see cursed shit, you leave it ALONE. I love antiques and mysterious vinyls as much as the next antique enthusiast, but that book was CLEARLY fucked up.

Little girl whose name I forget, grab Staffanie, you're gonna need her.

Oh no, Bridget's face is haunted. We gotta cut it off. Should we do it Mason Verger or Nick Cage style?

It might be easier to convince your daughter to leave the apartment if you move the dead armless boy from view.

Oh Kassie... I cant be too mad. At your age I would have done the same thing. I remember getting scared when I saw my mom walk into a wall and faceplate on the ground. I would have done anything in that moment to believe she was okay (she was, she was super sleepy when she hit the wall and the fall dazed her. She only had a few bruises after)

Bridget, you are not Phoenix Wright! You cannot eat glass and not expect serious internal injuries! And you are not Rohan Kumakura, so put that cheese grater down!

Oh no Bridget... I'm so sorry they couldnt save you before you got impaled. And I'm sorry Kassie that you had to do that to your sister. This being a family and not a group of mostly unrelated friends is making this a lot harder.

Danny with the good ideas now. Where were your good ideas when you climbed into the bank vault?

Chekhov's soldering iron coming in clutch.

IF YOU KNEW THAT THE WORDS WERE CURSED, WHY DIDNT YOU DESTROY THE VINYL THAT HAD THEN RECORDED??? YOU CAN'T DESTROY THE NECRONOMICON BUT YOU CAN DESTROY YOUR RECORDING OF THE WORDS.

The mom is too big to fit inside the vents... is the armless kid in there wiggling around?

IF YOU ARE TYING UP A CORPSE YOU THINK IS GOING TO RISE AGAIN, TIE THEM UP SUPER TIGHT!!! Also Beth, keep one ear open in case the kids need you.

Oh, I guess mom is thin enough to fit in the vents.

Is the mom making a Lilo and Stitch reference? Putting her nail in the vinyl and making the noise come out her mouth?

They are killing a lot of kids in this movie. Barring any deaths from the TV Show, which I abandoned after a while, I don't think they've killed kids before. I'm assuming Bridget is under 18.

I guess this Book works differently than the one in the last movie. 6 kills and no rain of blood yet.

DEAD BY DAWN. DEAD DAWN. DEAD BY DAWN

Kids... what are you doing to your mom? Why are you putting your hands in there?

So this is what the elevators in the Overlook Hotel look like from the inside. And of course this built up to a clear Shining reference.

It didnt rain blood, it flooded blood.

Oooh! Theres a truck with a wood chipper attached to it in the garage! The deaddites can't possess a body that's a pile of mush!

I'm going to see that thing in my nightmares. Holy fuck, what were the designers got this movie thinking when they made this monstrosity? Like, I'm legit scared to look at it right now. I'm trying to not look directly at the screen but I also don't want to miss anything.

Kassie will not become your Saffanie! You don't need one!

You must choose your destiny, the chainsaw, or the boomstick?

You know, I was criticizing Beth for wearing her shoes inside the apartment, but they helped keep the chipper from hurting her.

I can't even begin to imagine all the therapy that Kassie is going to need once this is all done. She will never be able to be around wood chippers again. Or chainsaws. Or elevators. Or look through a peep hole.

That garage MUST smell awful. Theres blood EVERYWHERE. Before I was on birth control I had super heavy periods and the bathroom would reek of blood during my heavy days. That's a tiny drop compared to the ocean of blood in that garage. How did that lady not IMMEDIATELY smell it? (Unless shes like my old boss and lost her sense of smell)

I see... the cold open is a result of these events. The Mandy Midsommar temple cottage wasn't demonic, just the girl who can't smell.

LEE CRONIN WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU. YOU TOOK AN ALREADY PANTS SHITTINGLY SCARY REMAKE AND MAKE IT SHIT PANTS HARDER

Good job

[katnissmellarkkk]

General #7

Hiiii! Okay, well I bet you thought I forgot about this! Or, more than likely, you forgot you even requested this back in Decemeber. But never fear, my child. I remembered and have been thinking of this fic and what to write for months. 

And so I’m so sorry, I’m a total perfectionist and I started and discared like 3 ideas for this before deciding on this oneshot sooo if this sucks, I’m at least comforted by the fact that I accomplished something in writing this itself? That sentence made zero sense but... I’m tired 🤷🏼‍♀️😅.

Prompt : General # 7 :

“Is that blood?” 

“Yes but that doesn’t matter right now, what does matter is-” 

“You are literally bleeding.”

Anyways, thank you for the prompt and here we go! 

Whispers Of Light

I don't know exactly how I got roped into this. How exactly Delly Cartwright, Peeta's best friend—and alright, my friend now too—managed to convince me to help her and Leevy and about three dozen other members of the community with sorting boxes.

Sorting boxes. Organizing contents. Decorating with "found treasures".

The type of activities Prim loved doing with our mother. The type of activities I refused to do after my father died, to punish my mother for her depression.

The type of activities I now kick myself for walking out on, that I'll never be able to take back. I'll never be able to get those moments back with my sister. I'll never know what those hours between her and our mother entailed, because I chose to exclude myself, just so I could hold onto my petty anger for something that was out of all our control.

Maybe that's why I agreed to help Delly and the others with sorting through boxes upon boxes of debrief, of the items that scarcely survived Twelve's bombing almost two years ago. Maybe I only agreed out of guilt, both for never doing this type of endeavor with my sister and for being the direct cause of the bombing itself.

But whatever my reasons were, I agreed to help nonetheless, and I always follow through my promises. If there was one part of me forged in the war, if only one minor aspect of me was amplified in the smoke and haze and blood of revolution, it was the importance of keeping your promises, against all odds.

The dire consequences of a broken promise has long lasting aftereffects, beyond anything either Haymitch or I wish to dwell on.

"Katniss!" Delly calls, holding up an old, half-ripped paper book that is completely void of a front cover. "Look! I think this book is from the old Apothecary Shop!"

I squint at the dusty, decimated item, not entirely convinced. "I don't think so?" I murmur, unable to even decipher the words on the now melted, conjoined pages. "I'm pretty sure my mother kept the only apothecary book in her family?"

Kanon Bagley turns to inspect the battered item in his girlfriend's hands as well. "I don't think this is a medicinal plant book, Dells," he says sheepishly, a small smirk playing on his lips.

She gives him an incredulous look. "What do you mean medicinal?"

I peer up at him too, not comprehending his meaning any more than Delly. "What kind of plants do you think are in here?" I ask, taking the nearly destroyed object myself and flipping through the worn pages again, seeing odd herbs that neither of my parents ever mentioned or had on hand. "These don't look like the poisonous ones my father told me about?"

Kanon bites back a laugh now and I can't help feeling a little perturbed. As kind and soft-spoken as he usually is, I'm foreign to the feeling of him laughing at me. "What?" Delly snaps at him before I even can.

He still chuckles though, in spite of both our nasty glares. "You guys, it's a book of plants that'll get you high."

It takes a full minute for the meaning to dawn on me. Long enough that Leevy and a couple guys I used to go to school with come over to inspect the book as well. Long enough that they confirm Kanon's assessment just as I realize we're talking about plants that'll make you feel akin to how the morphling made me feel while confined for I killing Coin.

While everyone else snickers—and Delly full on chortles—I pass the book back to Kanon, sliding out of the crowd and moving towards a brand new box of savaged items.

It's not that the mention of plant-based drugs is a trigger for me. It's not something I ever truly gave any thought to before, to be honest. My father likely knew of them but it's not like he was about to bestow that kind of knowledge on his eleven-year-old and my mother perhaps felt it was inappropriate to mention.

No, it wasn't the subject in itself that hit a sore spot for me. But like so many times before, it's where the subject led my mind. It's where the topic took me back to.

Snow's Execution Day. The day I chose to kill President Coin instead. Being thrown back into my old tribute room. Getting high on the morphling.

Trying to forget all that I'd lost. Trying to forget my little sister becoming a human torch before my very eyes. My district engulfed in flames. The ambiguous loss of my best friend.

The connection between me and Peeta that I believed then would be permanently severed. That I believed then to be irreparable.

I suppose I believed then I was irreparable too.

And I miss Peeta suddenly, even more than I already did. Because he always knows what to say when my thoughts turn dark, when I'm suddenly triggered out of the happy, every day events and suctioned backwards to a war torn bird with her wings clipped.

But he's not here to talk me down or scare away the ghosts haunting my mind. He's not here to comfort me or even shoot me a supportive glance. No, he's at his very busy business today.

Peeta's bakery—the Mellark Bakery—has only proven to withstand the test of time these past few months. Since someone accidentally burned down the place, with nothing more than a croissant and a fancy Capitol toaster, the rebuilt bakery has been nothing but a success.

And also extremely time-consuming, I grumble internally, as I begin to pull out stuffed toys that once belonged to dead children.

"If any of those are still intact, we can donate them to the community home," Leaf John says as he opens the box across from me.

"And what exactly are we supposed to be use as decorations from these boxes?" I murmur, peering into another cardboard container, full of half-charred papers and cloths.

The general idea of today, as Delly had pitched it to me last week, was to help the community of Twelve finally sort through these boxes, donate what we could to those in need and decorate the new Justice Building with the leftover contents inside.

Somehow though I can't imagine pinning up terrible drawings of plants that'll inebriate you or headless teddy bears is going to bode well with the district.

Delly rolls her eyes in my direction—a whole new kind of response that I never thought I'd be receiving from the girl who skipped through the town square until she was fourteen years old—before nodding towards boxes on top of the ladder. "We're decorating the Justice Building with the surviving photos from those boxes, Katniss."

"Oh." Then why am I sorting these grimy, dirt-covered playthings? Why didn't anyone give me more clear instructions on today?

And why has it taken almost two years for Twelve to get a group of people together to organize the surviving items from the bombing?

I have no idea how Peeta's managed to get two bakeries built in the time it's taken for thirty-eight of us to come to the Justice Building and look through fifty cardboard boxes. And if I'm being honest, I have no idea why I'm even still here helping. I'm clearly not contributing much to the event. There's definitely more than enough volunteers without me.

And, of course, I could be at the bakery right now. Without a doubt, I'd be of more service there than I am here, digging through dusty knickknacks. I could be helping Peeta and Thom and the other part-time employees, exerting more knowledge and authority than I have here.

After all, Peeta did say the bakery was partially mine. In his mind, at least.

The ulterior motive of getting small, fleeting moments with my boyfriend, of basking in the feeling of safety with him beside me, of the occasional stolen kiss or hand squeeze when no one is looking, runs through the back of my mind.

And sways my decision immensely.

I open my mouth to tell Delly and the others that I'm about to head out, that they clearly have it covered here and I'm just in the way, when at the worst possible second, Leevy kindly murmurs, "Katniss, do you mind starting on the box on the ladder? Seeing if any of the pictures are in decent enough shape?"

I hesitate for a long moment, realizing immediately my predicament. It'd be rude to leave right after someone just essentially assigned me a task. I did agree to be here today, to help out with this tedious project. Leaving right now would only come off as rude and inconsiderate.

This is the reason I never did enjoy group assignments in school. The longer I'm here, the more I'm rediscovering this fact about myself. The division of the workload, the bore of the standing around, not knowing if you're doing the right or wrong thing, the lack of total control.

But I still nod after waiting a beat too long and agree with the nicest flare in my tone I can manage.

I'll go through the one box at the top of the ladder and then subtly make my exit afterwards. The image I unintentionally conjured up of Peeta and the bakery is still pulling at me, making me anxious to get back to him, to see him again even though we were together only three hours ago.

Since we officially became a couple a few months back—though Haymitch scoffs at that notion, claiming we've been together since Peeta first started sleeping over in my bed—I've found myself growing far more clingy to him than I ever could have anticipated. I hate when he leaves for the bakery in the mornings now, even as I still revel in the solace I find inside the woods. I look forward to his return home every night. More than even look forward to it, I'm usually at the bakery around the closing hours, helping him clean and inventory, asking him when he's coming home. Maybe looking somewhat unconsciously flirtatious as I say it.

I grab the box sitting on the ladder's top stair and pull it open, easily maintaining my balance one rung down, the same way I maintain my balance on a tree branch while hunting.

Inside pours out a plethora of photographs, mostly of Twelve's now past citizens. Near the top of the pile I see images of Greasy Sae's daughter, Dolly. The mother of her granddaughter. The daughter who died of croup a few years before the war.

Those photos must belong to Sae, I realize. Which means more of her items are probably scattered throughout the boxes here. And despite the fact that I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that she'll tell me not of be impractical, that if she's made it two years without these things she doesn't need them now, I still make a mental note to return her lost items. If nothing else, I make a mental promise to give back to her the photos of her daughter.

I know better than anyone what kind of comfort photographs of the deceased can provide.

As if in line with my thoughts, as if I alone manifested it somehow, the next image that catches my eye is one I entirely do not anticipate.

It's a shiny photo, on the kind of glossy paper my family could never afford. In the image is a blonde man with broad shoulders and a tall build. Wrapped in his embrace stands a petite girl, with long blonde curls and mascara accentuating her already long lashes. The couple both have eyes that match the color of the sky and are dressed up in some of the nicest clothes in all of Twelve. A white dress with lace. A gray suit with a black vest. The pretty girl wears jewelry and lipstick and there's a familiar glint in the male's eyes and I find myself mesmerized.

And I can't pretend I don't see my boyfriend in both of their faces. I can't pretend Peeta isn't the spitting image of both his parents.

He has his mother's smile, I realize with startling assurance. I never saw the witch smile personally, at any point in my life so I suppose I wouldn't know where he got his charming, sweet grin from.

The mannerism looks so out of place on his mother. The kind smile Peeta has, the one that could light up a blackened sky, doesn't bode with the woman in the picture, even on her wedding day. The charming smile doesn't fit with what I know of the woman's character. With what little about her Peeta chooses to share.

But I'm even more surprised to find how much Peeta has come to resemble his father. How much Peeta has grown to favor the now deceased man.

The last time I saw the baker—the original baker, that is. Haidon Mellark—before the Quarter Quell, I resented the fact that Peeta wasn't as tall or as broad as his father. I privately believed if he'd inherited those traits, he'd be even more likely to win the games again and I could worry about him less.

Peeta was always taller than me and was always remarkably strong, after working in the bakery since childhood. But his father was a whole different level. Haidon Mellark, I'd forgotten until now, had a body that could only rival my own father's.

And as it turns out, Peeta did inherit Haidon's physicality. He just also happened to be a late bloomer. Like his mother, I imagine, staring at her tiny frame in the picture.

The change in Peeta's form occurred so gradually I barely even noticed until a couple months ago, when I woke up with my head against his heart and abruptly realized just how broad he had become. Until I couldn't even reach to kiss his jaw on my tip toe. Until he started laughing at me and had to lift me up in order to properly embrace the way I like.

"Katniss?" I hear Delly beckon, trying to bring me back to reality. Trying and failing, that is. I hear her but only in a vague, distant sense. My mind is still stuck on the image in my grasp. Still stuck on the novelty that I managed to find a remembrance for the boy who still at times questions if his memory is full of lies.

"I still cry about my family and somedays I can't even remember their faces."

I never even considered the possibility of finding a token of Peeta's departed family here. It never occurred to me, the potential finds in this box at my fingertips, that I could take home to my boyfriend. I never imagined finding him something to hold onto when the inevitable dark day came again like a storm cloud, full of thunder.

I'm so entranced what this could mean for Peeta, so lost in my own little world, that I'm barely even hanging onto the ladder. I'm definitely not as steady as I should be, standing near the top rung.

And I'm definitely not steady enough to hang on when Delly gives it a rough shake, trying to catch my attention.

/

The boxes break my fall. Sort of. Kanon and Leaf John had taken the liberty of placing the empty cardboard, already looked through and emptied, beneath the ladder.

Falling headfirst into a large, void box is better than falling plainly onto the filthy, concrete tile floor. But not ideal. Not as helpful as falling into a box of surviving clothes or toys would have been.

Delly apologized profusely for shaking the ladder. She'd even begun to cry when she noticed the blood seeping from my forehead.

Thankfully Kanon was there, as I didn't have the energy to console her much. I don't even know how I managed to cut my head at all, but it stung a fair amount and it provided me the excuse I wanted minutes prior, to escape the group project and head for the bakery.

Even after the fall, my mind still was cemented on the newfound treasure. My first instinct was still to show this memento to Peeta as soon as possible.

Kanon though, like a good friend, insisted on walking me home, despite my many protests that it was unnecessary, that I was just fine, that I could walk home blind if I had to. He insisted, foiling my intention to walk directly to the bakery and not wait for Peeta's return home, which still remained hours away.

Kanon was surprisingly stubborn when he felt strongly about something and I chose to relent, to give in and allow him to accompany me back to what used to be Victor's Village—where he now resided with Delly, inside Peeta's old home—without much fight.

Fighting for your independence and autonomy doesn't exactly present you as rational when there's a bloody gash in your forehead.

"Doesn't that hurt?" Kanon asks as we make out way up my porch.

I look up, maybe a little startled, from Mr. and Mrs. Mellark's wedding photo. "My head?"

"Yeah," he says carefully, looking at the blood like it's a mutt in an arena.

I shrug, doing my best not to indicate how dizzy I actually feel. Either from the fall or the blood still dripping out despite my attempt to plug the wound up with old cotton rags someone sorted into the trash box. "I've had worse."

He chuckles, a little sardonically. "Yeah, so have I."

I thank him for walking me home—for it was as inconvenient as it was sweet—and close the door slowly behind me, before leaning my ear against the wooden frame, waiting. Waiting for him to climb the steps down from my porch and make his way back to the Justice Building. Waiting for him to be far enough out of sight that I can sneak back out without him also trying to accompany me to the bakery.

It's not that I don't appreciate Kanon and Delly and all of my other friends' concerns. It's the fact that I wish to bestow a likely loaded item upon my boyfriend and I really don't need an audience to do it.

It's not the easiest feat, to slyly time it so Kanon won't hear me opening and shutting my front door again. And it's probably not my smartest plan, to walk alone along the rocky cobblestones and the uneven concrete, with a less than level head and body.

But I make it to the back door of the bakery still, just as I knew I would. It takes three times as long, but I make it there nonetheless.

Still clutching the photograph of his parents between my fingers too. Still with the same primary focus on my mind. To give him a token of remembrance, a token of the imperfect family he lost so tragically, that he still greatly missed, even when he can't say their names. Even when he can't conjure up their faces.

"You don't remember your family?"

"Sometimes I do... I'm not so sure other days. My memory isn't exactly top notch, if you know what I mean."

I push open the heavy-weighted back door, using all the energy my body can muster up. To my relief, Thom is already in the back room, sweeping flour off the floor.

"Hi, boss," he greets slyly as I walk in, barely glancing up at me. I shoot him an over-the-top eye roll, though I can't help smirking myself at the stupid nickname, when he beckons Peeta. "Hey, your girl is here!" He yells loudly. Too loudly to be packed with customers at the counter.

I take that to mean the daily rush has come and gone. Which would be very convenient, as it means I can present Peeta with my finding that much faster, without having to worry about his business—or our business, as he teasingly calls it—being held up.

I hear the sound of my boyfriend's quiet laughter from the front. The sound that I akin to my father's singing or my sister's squeal of delight. The last sound still alive that can make my heart do a flip.

But it dies out the second he peaks his blonde head into the back room. The moment his baby blues, the same color as both his parents', meet my silver ones and then trail upwards.

Almost as if remembering the gash in my head, I reach to my forehead, to ensure the makeshift cloth bandage is still in place.

"Katniss?" Peeta says, his eyes looking far more nervous than I anticipated. Which I can only take to mean the red liquid has seeped through the plain fabric. "Is that blood?"

I don't want him to focus too heavily on that fact though. Like I told Kanon, I've had much worse injuries in my life. Me and Peeta both have.

Just look at his prosthetic leg.

"Yes," I reply easily, before moving closer to him, pushing the glossy photograph towards him. "But that doesn't matter right now. What does matter is-"

"You are literally bleeding."

I sigh, feeling slightly perturbed now. "Peeta, look," I insist, thrusting the image of his parents towards him, waiting for it to take anchor.

And it does. It takes a beat longer than I expect, but it happens nonetheless. I watch silently as the image captives him, as the shiny photograph takes him back to a time when this exact location was the only home he'd ever known and this business was run by the two people inside the picture.

He touches the photo, as if to test it's realism, before looking up at me in disbelief. "Where did you find this?"

"The Justice Building today. Inside the boxes, with all the things lost in the bombing."

There's a long pause as Peeta process this. The silence makes me antsy, finding myself abruptly uncertain of what could be going through his mind.

Finally, he whispers softly, "I never thought I'd see this picture again."

And the awed, tender smile that spreads across his face swiftly encompasses me in its warmth.

And I suddenly don't even feel the gash in my head anymore.

/

Read The Rest On AO3

[galpalaven]

kiss it better

pairing: Cullen Rutherford/F!Trevelyan rating: T word count: 1.3k warnings: None

a kiss on the knee Cullen returns from a trip more battered than usual, and Ellinor isn’t happy.

Ellinor belongs to the lovely @bitchesofostwick​! Thanks so much for commissioning me!

That man is going to be the death of her one day.

A routine mission, he’d said. I’ll be back before you know it, he’d said. Really, nothing is going to happen, please don’t worry about me, he’d said.

She should have insisted on going with him. Or she should have insisted that he stay behind, that he send out his troops on their own because surely they were more than capable of handling a routine mission on their own. Of course, he wouldn’t have listened, no matter how she’d asked unless she’d directly ordered him to stay, but still. It would have saved her the terror pumping like ice through her veins right now as she strides across the battlements, mind racing with all the horrible ways he might have been mangled and mutilated on his excursion. The soldiers had seemed a bit concerned, and so many of them were also nursing pretty bad injuries—her imagination is running wild even through the short time it takes to get to his quarters.

Ellinor hesitates at the door to his chambers, hand hovering over the doorknob for a long moment. She doesn’t know what she’s going to find, so she must brace herself for whatever lies on the other side of the solid wood and iron of the door.

Deep breath in. Exhale.

She opens the door…

He isn’t in there. Or, at least, he’s not at the desk where he usually is. She’s about to wonder if he’d wandered off elsewhere, ready to start scouring the castle grounds looking for him, when she hears a noise from up above in his living quarters.

“…Cullen?”

“Ellinor?”

Her breath leaves her in a relieved whoosh as she makes her way over to the ladder that leads up to the loft. “There you are,” she calls up to him as she starts to climb. “Your men made it sound as if you’d lost half your limbs out there.”

She can almost hear him shrug. “Nah, it’s not that bad. They’re all rather superficial, I’m just—oof—a bit sore. I’ll be alright in a few days.”

That sounds like a big fat lie, if you ask her—and then she’s made it to the top of the ladder, and she can see the extent of his injuries for herself.

“Cullen—“

He is absolutely covered in bandages. Several of them are already showing signs of bleeding through as he struggles to wrap a particularly nasty gash on his thigh. She shakes her head, huffing in annoyance as she crosses the room to him before he can even start to protest, dropping to her knees and slapping his hands away so that she can do up the bandage herself. She’s told him time and time again to be careful, to stop taking on such dangerous missions himself, and does he listen? Of course not.

“I thought I told you,” she says after a moment, pulling the bandage tight enough that he grunts a little, “to be careful? How many times have I told you to be careful? How did this even happen?”

Ellinor watches red creep up his neck, making his ears nearly glow as they flush with embarrassment—he clears his throat, looking away at the wall over her shoulder rather than meet her gaze. She rolls her eyes, continuing to wrap the wound as he mumbles something half-heartedly. She catches something about ‘bloody red lyrium,’ and she sighs deeply. She’d asked him to stop going near the stuff, especially since he’s trying to quit lyrium in general.

He cuts her off before she can start scolding him for his recklessness.

“I know,” he sighs. His voice is soft and low, and his shoulders slump. “I know, you’ve told me to stop going near the stuff. I don’t mean to worry you.”

“Worry me?” she repeats, a harsh laugh bubbling up with it. “Of course I’m worried! You’re—”

She cuts herself off, both of them surprised by her outburst. Heat rises up her cheeks and pools in her ears as she looks back down at the bandage she’s putting on his leg.

“You’re very important to me.” A pause. “To the Inquisition. You have to be more careful.”

“I know,” he says, and the words feel heavy. She wonders what else he knows. “I’m trying.”

She scoffs, eyes still on his leg. “Well. Try harder.”

Ellinor looks up at him, finishing off the tie on his bandaged leg. He looks down at her, still sort of slumped, but there’s something strange about the look on his face. His cheeks are still red, and his brows are raised a bit and she’s placed her hands on either of his thighs in preparation to stand when it hits her. The way they’re positioned, with her on her knees between his thighs, nothing but a blanket draped across his waist now that she’s paying attention beyond the bleeding wounds—it’s downright sinful.

Both of them are blushing now, as she returns her gaze to his leg, clearing her throat. “Does that feel better?” she asks. “Too tight?”

The sound of rustling fabric tells her he’s shaking his head. When he speaks, his voice is raw and hoarse. “No. It’s perfect.”

The way his voice curls around the words, soft and breathy, brings her gaze back up to his face. His eyes lock onto hers—the honey brown of his eyes sends a pleasant wave of heat washing over her skin, sending gooseflesh prickling across her flesh. Carefully, still holding his gaze, Ellinor bends her head and presses a kiss to his bandaged knee.

“For fast healing,” she says by way of an explanation. Her face is on fire now, but it’s less embarrassing when she sees that his blush has started to spread down towards his chest.

“Of course.” His voice is barely a whisper now.

Their gazes hold, the heat in the room slowly rising, and Ellinor can hear her own pulse as it beats a stuttering rhythm in her eardrums. This isn’t the first time she’s felt like this around him, and she’s not sure what it means for either of them, but it’s—concerning? Interesting?

…Exciting?

But, she’s not ready to look that particular horse in the mouth just yet. She coughs suddenly, breaking the moment as she rises to her feet, running a hand over her braided hair.

“I’ll… see you later, then?” she asks, forcing her voice to come back to a normal speaking volume.

He stammers in response. “Er, yes. Yes, I expect you will.”

She dares one last glance at his face. His cheeks are still so red that the scar on his lip looks white, and she’s almost worried until he smiles at her, eyes still warm and happy. A smile pulls at the corners of her lips.

“Get better soon, yeah?”

He laughs. “As you wish, my dear.”

Oh.

Her heart flips in her chest and it’s all she can do to stop herself from giggling like a teenage girl with her first crush. She nods, turning to leave, planning to spend the rest of the evening contemplating—whatever this is—when he calls out to her, catching her wrist before she can step away. She stops, startled, and watches as he brings her hand up to his lips and presses a soft, solid kiss to the back of it.

Oh.

Ellinor laughs, both of them grinning like schoolchildren. She moves to the ladder, smiling all the way. As she steps down onto the ladder, she gives him one last look and half of a wave.

“See you, then.”

“See you, Ellinor.”

The way his voice caresses her name sends a shiver down her spine, and she has to hurry down the ladder to avoid letting him see just how affected she really is. She hurries back out into the chill of the open mountain air, taking a deep, cold breath to steady herself. She still has work to do today—people to meet, plans to make—but even as she crosses back to the main hall, she finds herself flexing her hand, trying to shake away the tingling sensation left by the phantom touch of his lips.

[rubysunnday]

This is really random but Shelby sis organising a scavenger hunt type thing to find her because the family had been arguing a lot recently so they all had to work together to collect clues to find her -the clues could be like important memories with each member So as well as getting along they find out about each other more

A/N: I sort of took this idea and ran with it. It’s kinda along the same lines but also slightly different so I hope that’s alright! 

Also, my hatred of small children appears to be fairly obvious in this one...

You were close to loosing your will to live.

No, scratch that, you had lost your will to live.

There was a lot going on with the family business at the moment. A lot of arguing, a lot of fighting and more drinking than usual - which was saying something - had led to the entire family being even more volatile than usual.

Because everyone had been too caught up with the business, they’d all forgotten it was easter.

And had all forgotten to make an Easter egg hunt for the children.

“Why the fuck have I got to do it?” You asked, frowning as you stood in the doorway of Tommy’s office.

“Because you’re the only one not involved with this,” Tommy replied, gesturing to the very full room of his office.

The ‘family’ meeting had been going on for several hours now and there’d been a lot of yelling coming from the office. You’d been evicted thirty minutes in when Tommy had realised that he didn’t really want you hearing what was going on.

“Only because you don’t want me involved,” you muttered.

“Y/N,” Tommy said, raising a hand,“just, please, do this one thing without complaint because I’m about to fucking loose it.”

You tutted but gave in. “Fine,” you replied, turning around and shutting the door again, leaving your family to continue their meeting.

That was how you ended up organising an Easter egg hunt for the numerous children you’d somehow become godmother to over the years.

Said Easter egg hunt was also the reason why you currently wanted to die.

You’d sat yourself in the lobby of the house, near enough to the office that you could occasionally hear what was going on and near enough to the front door that the children could find you.

And so that you could run away.

“Y/N!” Charlie whined and you closed your eyes, sighing.

“Yup?” You asked, turning to look at your nephew.

“Katie took my Easter egg,” Charlie whimpered, pointing at his cousin.

“Katie, give it back,” you said tiredly.

“Why?”

“Because there are enough Easter eggs for everyone to have at least five so give it back,” you replied.

“Fine,” Katie grumbled, taking the egg out of her basket and all but throwing it into Charlie’s.

The two ran off again and you relished the blessed peace that came with it.

“Y/N!”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” you muttered as Karl came up to you. “Hi,” you said, leaning down to look at your nephew. You’d always had a soft spot for Karl. Well, you had a soft spot for Ada and therefor her son too.

“I can’t find anymore,” he said quietly and you glanced down into his basket, seeing only two eggs.

‘Those fucking animals’ you thought.

“Oh, don’t worry,” you said, lifting Karl onto your lap. “I’ve got a secret stash you can have some from.”

“Really?” Karl asked, looking up at you hopefully.

You nodded, smiling. “Yeah. Now, go see if you can find any in the library, I’m pretty sure there's some in there.”

Karl jumped off your lap and ran down the corridor.

Peace reigned once again.

Until yelling started up again from Tommy’s office.

“Right, I’ve had fucking enough,” you muttered, standing up and marching over to Tommy’s office.

You swung open the door, silencing the yelling match currently occurring between John and Tommy.

“You lot, shut the fuck up!” You exclaimed.

“Y/N,” Tommy began, a warning tone in his voice.

“No,” you said shaking your head, “I've had enough of this. I’ve spent all fucking day with your children and, quite frankly, it has put me off ever having children. So, here’s what’s going to happen. You lot are going to help your children with their Easter egg hunt whilst I go hide somewhere. I have also conveniently left clues to where I shall by hiding along with the eggs.

“Once you have figured out where I am hiding, you to find all of the shit you’ve taken from me over the years and bring it to me in my secret hiding place. When you bring it to me you are to not be twats or arseholes and are to act like my older siblings and, maybe, give me a hug. We clear? Good.”

You didn’t give them a chance to answer properly before you left the room, slamming the door behind you.

You looked up from the magazine you were reading as the wooden ladder up to the tree house creaked and groaned.

“Why the fuck are you up here?” Tommy asked, poking his head through the hatch.

“The children can’t follow me,” you replied, breaking off another bit of chocolate. “And it’s where my chocolate stash is.”

Tommy climbed in and sat down next to you.

You glanced down at what he was holding. “Is that the book you borrowed four years ago when you bored during Ada’s birthday and never gave back?”

Tommy chuckled, handing it to you. “Yes, thank you,” he replied. “Did you put those clues there just for us to give your shit back?”

“Oh, no, it was meant for the kids to come and get the final prize,” you explained, “except the final prizes no longer exists because I’ve eaten it.”

Tommy scoffed, shaking his head as you ate another bit of chocolate.

The tree house groaned again and Ada popped her head through the hatch.

“I hate you,” she said, climbing in, accepting Tommy’s hand of support.

“Ahuh,” you said, scooting over so that she could sit next to you. “My bracelet which you borrowed for a date with Freddie but never gave back?”

Ada handed you the bracelet as she sat down, taking a bit of chocolate at the same time. “Is this the treehouse?”

You nodded. “Yup. Tommy over there has sentimental issues apparently and moved it here for Charlie, except he never fucking uses it.”

Tommy rolled his eyes but said nothing.

“You get fed up of the arguing too?” Ada asked, accepting the chunk of chocolate you offered.

“Did I ever? I almost kicked a small child as well,” you muttered.

“Who’s?”

“John’s.” Ada nodded. “Feral children.”

“Thank you!” You exclaimed.

“I take great offence at that,” John said, wiggling his way through the wooden hatch. “Why the fuck we up here for our family reunion?”

“Because the children cannot climb,” you replied, scooting further around so that John could fit in. “And therefore I am safe from their terror.”

“They’re not that bad,” John said, sitting down on your right.

“Yes they fucking are,” you told him, “I think Karl learned about five new swear words today because of your fucking children harassing me.” You turned to face Ada. “Sorry, in advance.”

“Apology accepted,” your sister replied.

“Alright, where’s me mirror?” You asked John, holding your hand out.

John rummaged around in his pocket and pulled out a very battered but well loved silver mirror. “Forgot I had that.”

“Yeah, no shit,” you muttered, adding it to your collection. “You nicked it to give to Lizzie.”

“Don’t remind me,” John grumbled.

“Who the fuck decided to come up here?” Arthur grumbled as he climbed inside the cramped tree house.

“I’m hiding from your children,” you replied. “They’re evil and I never want one.”

Arthur rolled his eyes, throwing a hair clip at you. “Found it in an old drawer,” he said, sitting down next to Tommy.

“Yeah, you nicked it last year because I was being annoying and never gave it back,” you told him.

“Didn’t we build this?” Arthur asked, knocking on the slightly shabby wood wall behind him.

“Yeah, you and Tom,” you said. “When Finn and I were...eight, I think? I did wonder how it was still standing.”

“I am slightly concerned it’s about to collapse underneath us,” Ada muttered to you ad Tommy and Arthur complimented their work.

“No, so am I,” you muttered back as the tree house creaked and groaned.

“Y/N, those children are fucking feral and should be locked away,” Finn groaned, grunting as he squeezed himself into the house.

“I quite agree, Finn,” you replied, dragging him to sit in front of you so you could hug him. “Terrifying things.”

Finn put the ring he’d found on your finger. “Thanks, by the way,” he said, “even if I didn’t end up proposing.”

“Didn't think you would, to be honest,” you replied, resting your head against his back.

For a moment, the tree house was silent.

“You lot done fighting for the next ten minutes?” You asked quietly, suddenly acting like the youngest sibling instead of the oldest.

You didn’t admit it often but being left in charge of numerous children was terrifying. You didn't think yourself fit to be a mother - well, you knew you weren’t because you couldn't stand children - and it terrified you whenever your siblings left you alone with theirs.

The constant arguing for the past week had put you even more on edge. You weren’t sure that you could cope with your family falling apart in front of you. They were your main column of support and you knew you wouldn’t be able to function without them.

Before the war you rarely argued. There was the odd sibling fight but that was to be expected when six siblings lived in one tiny house. But, the tiny house had brought you all closer and the bond you had with your siblings was a unique one.

John shuffled closer to you, putting an arm around your shoulders. “Yeah,” he said, pressing a gentle kiss to your head. “Did we scare you?”

You nodded once. “Only because I was going to end up looking after your kids,” you covered quickly.

Arthur snorted. “Y/N, sweetheart, you’d end up murdering them all in the first day.”

You shrugged. “What can I say, I don’t do children.”

Ada laughed, entwining her hand with your hand and resting her head on top of yours.

For a single moment, you all felt like the kids who’d lived in Small Heath in a tiny house, sharing bedrooms because there wasn’t enough room.

“You know,” you said suddenly, “I really don’t think this tree house was built for six grown adults to sit in.”

“Yeah, I don't feel entirely safe,” Finn added.

“Are you insulting our craftsmanship?” Arthur asked, frowning.

“Yes,” you said as Finn nodded. “Now, leave me alone and go deal with your feral children.”

“They are not feral,” John said as he got up and began climbing down.

“KARL, THAT’S MINE!”

“Alright, maybe they are,” John admitted to himself as he climbed down the ladder to deal with his children.

You rolled your eyes as John started yelling. “Fucking children,” you muttered.

[immortalcoelacanth]

Little Nightmares 2 Oneshot: The Choices We Make

I PROMISE I’M STILL WORKING ON ALL MY FICS!!! I just got into that mood and had an interesting introspection of the ending and I couldn’t stop myself from writing it down. 

With that being said, there are spoilers for the ending to Little Nightmares 2 here, so if you wanna avoid that I recommend not reading!

Word count: 1559

Summary: She could feel his fingernails sinking into her flesh as he clung to her. She could feel the board underneath her creaking and groaning with their shared weight. She could hear the static of the television, her freedom, buzzing so very, very close behind her. 

She could feel nothing but disgust for the boy that had been her “savior.” 

Stupid.

Moron.

Idiot.

These words repeated themselves over and over in her mind as she glared down at the boy clinging to her hands. Bones that were not as fragile as they appeared ached under the strain, her wrists unused to supporting so much weight, but she refused to let the pain show. Even as his nails dug into her flesh and drew blood, her face remained shrouded in darkness, impassive and blank.

It was what she preferred, of course. Hiding her eyes from the world and letting no one see. The eyes were the windows to the soul, after all. The Viewers did not have them, the televisions had taken them.

Their eyes.

Their souls.

They were weak.

They had stupidly exposed the most vulnerable parts of themselves and suffered the consequences. Been changed by a power they could never comprehend, a strength they lacked, all because they had allowed themselves to fall into the tower’s trap. Their weaknesses had been exploited.

Six refused to be weak.

She would be strong, had to be strong in this world. Being weak would get you killed, or worse. She wanted to survive, to fight and live and break free of the fear that encompassed her life. One day, she would be able to stop running, stop hiding, but for now she had no choice.

She had to wait until she was strong enough to fight back, but until then she had to keep herself alive. A struggle in the best of circumstances, and something that was practically impossible when you had a deadweight dragging you down. Like a brick that had been chained to her ankle as she struggled to stay above the water, always seconds away from drowning and never any closer to freedom.

Mono was weak.

It was something she had noticed right after meeting him. The fact that he had bothered to free her, as if she had been incapable of freeing herself, and the worry that had been clearly expressed made it clear that his emotions ruled him.

He had been concerned about the girl humming her tune and playing her song, stopped whatever he was doing to swoop in and save her from whatever horrible fate awaited her. At least he had proven his worth by helping her get that ladder down and finding the key, but she did not need his help. She did not need him anywhere near as much as he needed her.

The smile that would cross his face as he looked at his presumed companion as he forced her to tag along on a journey that she had never agreed to, his mask everchanging and slowly showing her more and more of his personality.

It was disgusting.

Almost as disgusting as the hope that would fill his eyes whenever she caught him after an especially far jump. Previously, his face had been obscured and hidden by his collection of headwear, eyes safely hidden, but now?

Now the whole world could see them, see how brightly they shone with joy at the fact that she had caught him once again, like she always had.

How dare he.

How dare he.

How dare he smile, be happy, as everything around them crumbled. How dare he become emotional while hanging between life and death. How dare he act like everything was going to be fine once she pulled him up.

How dare he assume she would save him, assume she would save the one who had brought so much angst and fear into her life.

He was the one responsible for everything!

Everything bad that had happened to her had been because of him. She had been captured because of him. Been dragged on this horrible journey because of him. She had been attacked and injured more times than she could count because of him! Battered and bruised, crushed and left tasting blood.

His hand always clamped around her wrist and tugging her along, chaining her to him. His voice always calling out to her, demanding her attention.

He was needy.

He was clingy.  

He was weak.

It was only when she first watched him touch that television, seen how he had instinctively moved towards it, communed with it, that she realized how much trouble she had gotten herself into. He had been oblivious to how she recoiled once she broke him free of the television’s influence. She had seen the door, the eye, and quickly put the pieces together.

He was being manipulated, clear and simple.

How could he not see the trap he was falling into? The road that would lead to his demise, how could he not question it and what he was doing?!

It was obvious!  

So, so painfully obvious…

Instinct was important to survival, but so was asking questions. Why was he being drawn towards the city? Why was he able to commune with the televisions in such a way?

What was behind the door?

He never asked, never bothered to slow down and think during any step of their journey. He had just stubbornly kept moving forward no matter what obstacle they faced or how grim the situation became.

Like the hunter who had been shot by one of his own guns, like the doctor who had been lured into the furnace and burned alive, neither of their foes had stopped to question their actions or think about what was going on. They blindly followed their instincts and it had led to their demise.

And here Mono was, following in their bloody footsteps.

At least the teacher had known when to stop, known that her prey had escaped her. She had not followed the instinct to hunt, to kill, and had left that encounter with her life intact even though she had been one of their most aggressive pursuers.

Even during their escape, he had been weak.

He had allowed his injuries to slow him down, and the tower had closed in on him. Eyes that focused on him, and him alone, and watched as he struggled to jump over the newly formed gaps, stumbled over the bridges of flesh that appeared before him. He was slowing her down.

He had always been slowing her down.

In this world you had to be strong. You could not show weakness. You could not hesitate. You could not depend on others as the world would just take them from you, leaving you alone in the darkness.

Six liked being alone.

There was no one else to hurt her, or be hurt by her.

She liked the darkness.

It was easier to hide, to wait and watch.

The shadows that hid oh, so many monsters. The shadows children had been taught to fear. The flashlights that cut through the gloom and made her eyes ache at the intensity of the light. He had taken the safety of the darkness from her more than once.

She liked her song, her shadows that stretched out before her and made a shape that was far taller than she could ever hope to be. A form strong enough to fight and take what was hers.

Twice now her song had been stolen from her because of him, him and his selfish desires. She did not need him to save her, she did not need him to help her, and she had been put in that situation, the tower, because of him.

She hated him.

Hated him for how weak he was. Hated the audacity he possessed to think that she had ever agreed to help him. Hated that he had assumed that she cared about him as anything more than a helpful partner. Hated the fact that, on the edge of freedom, he dared to drag her down into the darkness with him.

The tower would never let him go. His fate had been sealed long before he entered the city, and he was an idiot to think it would let them escape.

There was no future for her as long as Mono was by her side, his life was chained to this place. There would be no freedom, and she would always be weak.

Resolution steeled her nerves, tensed her muscles, and she lifted her other hand. Not to pull him up, nor to push him down, but to instead move her hood and brush her bangs out of her eyes.

Eyes that had been hidden from him since the start of their journey.

Eyes that burned with malice and hatred.

It was amusing, watching the realization of her feelings dawn on him and seeing the hope fade from his eyes. The shadows that dimmed his eyes and brought her salvation. It made her feel triumphant, even as her shoulders burned and her gut ached-  

To survive you had to be strong.

You had to fight.

You had to do whatever you needed to, no matter the sacrifice.

She would survive.  

His mouth opened, as though he were aware of what her decision already was, the start of him pleading for his life, but she was done with him. She had made up her mind ages ago on what to do with him the moment she was able to.

The choice to break free from the weight that dragged her down. The weight that was holding her back.

And, so…

Six let go.

                                    xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

I am so very eager to see all the different theories that are gonna come out and all the cool details and symbolism people will discover as times goes on. I doubt anyone will know for sure what was going on in Six's head when she let Mono go, but I am ready to see the content that comes out of it, angst and otherwise.

Anyways, I hope you guys enjoyed reading!

- ImmortalCoelacanth

[aenwoedbeannaa]

Pretty Words | Geralt x Reader

Requested by: salmonbutter 

Summary: Geralt may have needed some help finding a book, and the bookkeeper's apprentice may be the reason he keeps coming back. 

Word Count: 2,319 

Warnings: Implied smut.

The first time he came into the rather blandly named Book Emporium, you had been an Apprentice, still shaking with nerves every time the bell on the door announced the coming of a customer. Now, of course, you can handle curious visitors with ease--you know every nook and cranny of the shop. You know where to find books on monsters, from alghouls to wyrvenns. You know which books identify plants and their magical properties, and which books can help an herbalist use those very same plants to create poisons.

But, on the day that the Witcher first walked into the store, you were probably more lost than he was as you dashed between the stacks, trying to find the book he was looking for. You could feel your face blushing, your cheeks positively on fire, when he gave you a playful feline grin and pulled a book off of the shelf that you would not have been able to reach without stepping up onto the battered wooden ladder.

You were scared, because this was your first time alone in the shop, and you didn't want Artur to think you incompetent. You wiped your sweaty palms on your apron, feigning nonchalance. You were desperately trying to think of something to say, anything to break the tension.

Thankfully, you didn't have to.

"Well, with it being all the way up here, it's not a wonder that you didn't see it," he said with a smirk. 

****

The second time the bells chimed and you looked up to see his familiar white hair, you were thankfully much more composed. It had been at least a couple of months since you had last seen him, and you wondered if he had used that book on wraiths to kill one. He was a Witcher, after all.

You maneuvered around the few stray piles of books behind the counter and stepped around front to greet him.

"Geralt!" You exclaimed, a bit too brightly.

Mentally cursing yourself for looking, you assumed, like a star-struck villager. "How can I help you, Sir?"

"You can start," he began slowly in that gravely tone that you'd been playing over and over in your head since the last time he'd been here, "By dropping the Sir." 

You nodded--too eagerly, once again. "Of course! Sorry si--Geralt."

"Second, I didn't catch your name last time, Miss."

Given that you had spent most of your life lost in books, you were not used to that question. You were invisible to most people, it seemed.

"Y/N," you answered timidly.

You weren't sure if it was the fact that you were not so great at hiding your emotions or whether he could hear your hammering heartbeat with his Witcher senses, but either way, you heart leapt into your throat when he leaned over on the counter, bringing his face only inches from yours.

"Are you always this nervous, Y/N?" He leaned slightly closer, a seemingly out-of-place grin on his lips. "Or are you scared of Witchers?"

It was a rhetorical question, but you answered anyway, conversation coming easy despite all of the awkwardness.

"No, not afraid of Witchers," you said, a vivid memory coming to mind. "Once, when I was little, I was sitting out in the field--on the hill--you know, the one outside the town a ways away?"

He nodded understanding, so you continued on.

"Well, I was reading, and all of a sudden, this thing... " You shuddered at the memory, losing your train of thought for a moment.

"A Drowner?" the Witcher interrupted your strangled thoughts. "The stream there is teeming with them. They usually stay well away from settlements, though." His amber eyes hinted concern as he looked at you expectantly.

You nodded, pushing the unpleasant memory out of your head.

"Yes, a Drowner... And anyway, there was a Witcher... He hacked it up pretty well."

"I'll have to thank him," Geralt said so seriously that you believed him wholeheartedly.

"Vizimir was his name," you added, surprised you could still remember. "He wouldn't even let me pay. I offered him the book I was reading--I didn't have any gold, you see."

"So, the old man doesn't always follow the Witcher Code," he said with a gleam in his eye.

There was a moment of silence before he finally broke eye contact and leaned back, eyes scanning the stacks of books behind you as if searching for something to focus on.

"I am here for a book about similar things," he said. "Would you happen to know if you have a book about alghouls, would you?"

This time, you knew exactly where to point him. He still stuck around to hear your explanation of three different volumes and the slight difference between.

He bought all three.

***

The pattern continued over the next few months. Every few weeks, the door chime would sound and you would look up to see your silver-haired friend.

One time in particular, you were surprised to see that the afternoon had faded to twilight and the candles had burned down nearly to stumps as you poured over books with Geralt. He was researching a Witcher potion, or something like it that was more suitable for humans. He didn't tell you what for, but it didn't matter much.

He ended up purchasing one of the rare texts, the ones you had to fish out from the back room.

Another time, he caught you off guard, while you were completely wrapped up in the novel you were reading. You nearly jumped out of your skin when you heard his voice from just over the counter. Your embarrassment only grew when he asked you what it was that you were so interested in that you hadn't even heard the door chime and you had to give him a brief synopsis of a fictional kingdom... and a princess and a knight.

It was really quite mortifying.

***

Though you will never admit it, your favorite section of the store is nestled in the back corner, where the deceptively large collection of fiction is stacked on crowded shelves. Your mentor is always telling you that you should be reading books of more importance. But those books, as important as they may be, are of little interest to you. You know enough about history and mankind to know that the history books are full of only war, pestilence, and suffering.

Reading is your escape. So, important or not, you spend many a quiet afternoon nestled in the back of the shop on one of the old chairs that has been scratched to pieces by the bookshop's cat, Erasmus. (An old, fearsome looking but completely harmless thing with a bad habit of sharpening his claws on the furniture and chewing on the corners of priceless manuscripts.)

This is where Geralt caught you this time. Though, to be fair, you heard the door chime, and you'd had to scramble out of your warm little corner. It was actually just past closing hours, and there had hardly been a soul in the shop all day. It was one of those early winter days, where the weather seemed to be reminding everyone of the bitter cold to come.

"Y/N," Geralt grinned, "I found your lair." He had somehow managed to cross the length of the shop in only a couple seconds. How Witcher-y of him. You told him so.

By now, you had slipped into an easy friendship with the Witcher. You no longer stammered when he talked. At least, most of the time you didn't.

It took you a moment to realize that he was carrying something this time--a book. You raised an eyebrow, also immediately realizing that it was not a book from the shop. This one had a ribbon tied around it. Artur was not one for such frivolous things. There was not a scrap of ribbon or wrapping paper in the entire shop, you were sure. So he must have brought this with him.

Clearly aware that you were staring curiously, he offered it to you--for once, he was the one with a slightly bashful look on his face as he waited for you to take it.

You took the book in both hands, blushing slightly as you pulled the ribbon loose and inspected the cover. It was well-worn, just like most of the books in the shop. You recognized the author, though, and your eyes sparkled as you teared up slightly. You didn't even remember the last time someone had given you a gift.

"But..." You stammered, flipping through the pages in disbelief. "This isn't even supposed to exist!" It was a continuation of the book that he'd caught you reading before. It was published only once, so there were an incredibly limited number of copies. Sure enough, you saw the words 'first edition' printed on the yellowing page. "I mean... there are only, maybe, fifty in all the world!"

The Witcher's amber gaze was fixed on you as you poured excitedly over the text. "Well, I see a lot of the world," he said. "With my job, and all."

His words only served to fill you with more emotion. You wiped your eyes quickly, not wanting to look stupid for crying over a silly book. "Thank you, Geralt," you said, eyes fixed on the book so that you wouldn't have to look up at him with tears in your eyes. "Truly."

You registered the feeling of his calloused fingers under your chin at half-speed. The world seemed to slow down has he titled your face up to his. He brushed a stray tear with the pad of his thumb. His touch was gentle even though his skin was rough. Your knees nearly buckled.

"Don't cry on me, Y/N," he said, voice softer than you'd ever heard it. "I'm glad you like it."

For what felt like an endless time, but was probably only a few seconds, the two of you just stood there, staring at each other, unable to look away as if held by magic.

Tension pulled tight as a rope when he spoke next.

"I'm not an expert on these kinds of things, but a when there are no monsters to save the Princess from, it only seems right that the Knight brings her a present."

"I...Gera--" he cut off you stuttering by pulling you firmly into his arms and pressing his lips to yours.

You responded immediately, so quickly that the book slipped from your hands as you wrapped your arms around his neck and kissed him back. Breathing seemed basically out of the question when one one of his arms snaked around your waist and the other tangled itself firmly in your hair.

You had to admit, you certainly felt like a princess when he picked you up, avoiding the stray stacks of books littering the floor. You were absolutely certain, though, that the cold of his Witcher medallion pressing against your chest was a far more pleasant feeling that chain mail would.

You had approximately a millisecond to catch your breath when he pulled away to lay you on on the oversized chair and strip off his weapons and then he was on top of you, with his lips on your neck.

You had no idea how much time passed between that first kiss and when you lay with your head in his lap, his fingers stroking your hair, out of breath and utterly spent. All you knew was that you'd knocked more than a few piles of books over. There was lots of moaning--you? Him? Your head was still too clouded to remember.

Finally, though, you had to get up and pull your clothes back on. You couldn't very well sleep in the store, no matter how much you wanted to just lay there, curled up against his warmth.

Geralt stayed with you as you did your final rounds around the shop, extinguishing candles and placing loose books, abandoned by customers in the strangest of places, as usual. Thankfully, this was a relatively simple task considering you knew the bookshop like the back of your hand. Admittedly, it was a task you usually did in the morning before the shop opened. But Geralt was here now, and you wanted to stretch your time with him as far as you could.

Soon enough, however, every stray book was in its place, and all but the candle glowing on the wall next to the door were long-cold. You hesitated in the doorway, keenly aware of Geralt standing only inches away.

You blinked up at him, feeling uncertain of what you should say next. This was not a position that you were often in. In fact, it was a situation that you were never in.

Finally, you manage to cobble together a sentence out of the thousands of words in your head.

"I do hope to see you again soon, Geralt."

The Witcher's amber eyes are fixed on yours, looking like liquid gold even in the faint light of the single candle.

"Well, it is winter," he said thoughtfully. "And I was thinking that this year, perhaps, I'd like to do my wintering somewhere away from Kaer Moren."

You smiled then, tentatively reaching out to touch him, but pulling back at the last moment. You chewed on your lip for a moment, heartbeat racing in your chest.

"I know a place that you could stay."

Geralt's gaze had not left you for a moment, but now he reached to pull you to his chest, pressing a kiss on the top of your head, stopping for a moment to breathe in the smell of your hair.

Geralt pulled away slightly, one large hand resting on each shoulder.

"Please, lead the way, Princess," he said as he blew out the final candle. 

[only-genius-wit-and-taste]

Dialogue prompt: “Give me one good reason why I should wear a dress.”

“Give me one good reason why I should wear a dress.”

“Because we’re on a secret mission!”

Alex dropped the long, green dress they’d been eyeing distastefully onto the bed and gave their brother a withering look.

“Jason, be serious.”

“I’m being deadly serious. I think you’re forgetting why we were sent down to earth in the first place. We have to gather information on the humans, and we have to do it discreetly. That means we have to play along with these so-called “genders” they believe in.”

Alex raised an eyebrow. “Okay. Let’s say for a second I accept that premise. Why do I have to be a girl? Men’s clothes seem so much more practical.”

“Oh they are.” Jason stuck his hands in his pockets with a smirk. Then he lowered his voice and leant in conspirationally. “But what better disgiuse to take on than a fifteen-year-old girl? Teenage girls are always underestimated. You’ll be the ultimate super-spy!”

In spite of themself, Alex giggled.

“And what information am I trying to gather exactly?”

“Oh, I’m sure that will become obvious as the wedding goes on. For now, we just have to dress the part and keep an eye out for suspicious behaviour. Come on - get that dress on and I’ll do your make-up.”

Alex sighed. They looked at the dress, then at Jason, who was stowing invisible alien guns into his suit jacket.

“Anything for the sake of the mission, I guess,” they muttered, but this time when they picked up the dress they were smiling.

***

Outside, the wind was howling and rain battered against the window pane. Alex wanted nothing more than to put on their comfiest pyjamas and curl up on the sofa with a blanket and a Christmas movie. Instead, they were standing in front of the mirror, staring at the reflection of a girl in a ridiculous, sparkly dress. She didn’t look anything like any version of themself Alex pictured in their head.

“Give me one good reason why I should wear a dress.”

Behind them, sprawled across the bed wearing a hideous Christmas jumper, Jason was flicking through a magazine. He glanced up.

“Because Grandma’s a vampire,” he said casually.

Alex fiddled awkwardly with the neckline of the dress. It wasn’t sitting right.

“What?”

“Yeah, she’s a vampire. And now that you’re sixteen you’ve inherited the super-secret vampire fighting powers that we get from Dad’s side of the family. If she senses that you’re a threat then she’ll try and kill you with her evil, poisoned mince pies, but fortunately dresses have magical powers which mask your abilities and confuse her.”

Alex laughed.

“That’s literally the stupidest thing you’ve ever come up with.”

Jason shrugged.

“Hey, I don’t make the rules,” he said, “I’m just passing on the ancient traditions. Now hurry up - if we’re late then Uncle John will have scoffed all the good desserts and we’ll have to eat the mince pies.”

***

Alex tugged at the bottom of their dress. It kept riding up and there was definitely a ladder in their tights which everyone was going to be able to see if the stupid dress wouldn’t stay down.

They glanced over at Jason, who was typing angrily on his phone. He looked pale and tired and kind of stressed. Alex sidled over to him.

“Give me one good reason why I should wear a dress.”

They’d been hoping they could get him to crack a smile, maybe tell a silly story. Instead, he ran a hand through his hair and scowled.

“It’s a fucking funeral, Al. Mum’s upset and everyone’s stressed and you’re practically an adult - just grow the fuck up and be a girl for the day to make Mum happy.”

He shoved his phone into the pocket of his dark suit and strode off across the carpark towards the church. Alex took a deep breath, tugged at their dress one more time and followed him.

Grow up. They could do that. They could smile at relatives and answer to a name that wasn’t theirs and dodge questions about boyfriends. Sure, it stung a little bit that Jason had been so blunt, but he had a point, right? Seventeen was too old to need a secret mission as an excuse to wear a dress. They could be a proper girl, just for today - no big deal.

Maybe the tears prickling in their eyes all through the service didn’t have very much to do with the death of the great aunt they’d only met twice in their life. But they made it through without arguing with anyone about pronouns or causing Mum to get that sad, disappointed look, and that was what mattered most. Right?

Afterwards, Jason found them sitting outside on the church steps. He sat down too, and sighed deeply.

“I’m sorry, Alex. Me and Jess had a fight - that’s why I’m in a bad mood. I shouldn’t have acted like such a dick to you, though.”

Alex didn’t say anything. They just leaned in to Jason’s shoulder and let him pull them into a hug.

***

“Alex!”

Jason burst into the bedroom and threw himself across Alex’s bed, sending a pile of books sliding onto the floor. Alex hit him over the head with one of the remaining books, which did nothing to dislodge the grin that was plastered across his face.

“I swear to God, Jason, if you’re interrupting my studying for anything less important than the house being on fire then I’m going to disown you.”

“Oh, it’s way more important than that.” Jason swatted the book of Alex’s hand. “Jess and me are getting married!”

Alex abandoned the flashcards they’d been writing out and stared at Jason.

“That’s awesome! I didn’t even know you were planning to propose.”

“I wasn’t. She proposed. It was amazing!”

“When’s the wedding?”

“No idea.” Jason waved a hand airily. “We’ve made literally no plans whatsoever yet. But I wanted you to be the first person I told. You’re coming to the wedding, right?”

“Hmmm, I’m not sure. I’m a very busy person, you know.”

“Ha ha.”

“Of course I’ll be there, idiot.” As they spoke, though, Alex could feel their heart sinking. Weddings meant lots of extended family and getting dressed up and...

“Give me one good reason why I should wear a dress.” They said it lightly, jokingly, but Jason suddenly got a very serious look on his face. He sat up and stared straight into Alex’s eyes.

“You shouldn’t.”

“No dress? To a wedding?” Alex gave a faux scandalised gasp. “But what will people think?”

“Whatever they like,” Jason said, still uncharacteristically serious, “I’m not kidding, Alex. You’re not wearing a dress to my wedding. You’re wearing whatever you feel most comfortable in, and if anyone has a problem with that then they’re not invited.”

Alex swallowed down the lump in their throat.

“Even if it’s Mum?”

“Even if it’s Mum.”

“Okay.” Alex gave their brother a watery smile. “No secret missions at your wedding then?”

“Actually...” Jason leant back on his elbows and grinned. “I might have a mission for you. Fancy being my Best Person? No dresses required, but you and I might have to get matching suits. You in?”

“Mission accepted.”

[xiaomoxu]

MLQC CN Lucien (Xu Mo) Long Day Date Part 3 & 4

SPOILERS AHEAD!!

It's Xu Mo Birthday which has released on CN server. I'm doing translation for personal reason, so I'm sorry if there's some mistranslation. Kindly tell me if you found some :) feel free for read it~ ^^

Read Part 1 & 2 here

PART 3

I poured the white tea-scented batter into the mold Xu Mo handed over, and couldn't help sighing.

MC: So you knew it from the beginning, including the gifts I prepared...

Xu Mo: Knowing what you want me to do is not the same as seeing you doing these things for me.

MC: But this is not a surprise!

Xu Mo: Is it important to you to surprise me? Then I can be more surprised next time.

Xu Mo smiled, unscrewed the faucet, reached out to test the temperature, and rinsed my battered hand under the warm water.

I watched the water flow down, and he wrapped my palms, tacitly obeyed.

MC: Forget it, I just want you to be a little more happy on your birthday, and I don't really have to surprise you.

Xu Mo: Your presence is the biggest surprise to me.

His lowered voice fell on my ears, and the heat spread to my heart. I couldn't help giving him a chin on the top of my head to cover up the fluctuations in my heart.

Xu Mo closed the water, pulled the plain cotton cloth on one side, and drew it dry.

My heart is beating between fingers and fingers. Xu Mo was very calm, his palms were dry and warm.

Xu Mo: Having been busy for so long, wanna take a break now?

MC: It's okay, I'm not very tired.

Xu Mo's voice seemed to have a magical power, and people couldn't help but relax after hearing it. Although I said that I was not tired, I yawned naturally.

Xu Mo: Take a break.

When I came to the living room, the autumn sunshine outside the window filled the room, and it seemed warm. I looked at the soft sofa, really tired.

Xu Mo : Are you going to bed?

MC: No, no need! I'll just lie down here.

Xu Mo: Alright then, I'll get a blanket.

I quickly found a place to lie down on the sofa, and there was a text book and Xu Mo's coffee on the coffee table.

I picked up a book at random, and when I opened it, it was full of some difficult proper nouns, which completely exceeded my vocabulary, which made me feel sleepy.

Xu Mo: Are you interested in quantum mechanics?

MC: What?

I raised my neck and looked at Xu Mo who was walking over with the blanket in hand. His smile was very reserved, and I suddenly had the urge to not admit defeat.

MC: Hmm! But the words in this book are too small. It makes my eyes dizzy.

Xu Mo: Then, I read it for you?

Xu Mo sat beside me, covering me with the blanket.

The heat on his body attracted me inexplicably, and when he approached, I could smell the white tea scent left by the cake.

Xu Mo: Lie down, you will sleep better.

Xu Mo pointed to his leg. I hesitated for three seconds, still unable to hold back my greedy heart, blushing and lying down curled up.

MC: It's... really warm.

I raised my head and looked at the superior line of Xu Mo's jaw. He lowered his head and smiled at me, picking up his glasses and the original book on one side

Xu Mo: Then I started?

MC: Ah? Ah! Okay.

Xu Mo began to read the difficult original book. His voice is elegant and gentle, and every turn is like a sprout that has just broken through the soil, touching my heart softly.

I can't understand most of the words in his mouth, but the soft voice is like a flowing waltz. Just listening to it makes me happy.

Before I knew it, I slowly closed my eyes, and gradually stepped into the dark and sweet...

MC: Ah.. what time is it?

When I opened my eyes again, there was a faint warmth in front of my eyes, and a light smile sounded in my ears.

Xu Mo: Woke up?

The darkness in front of me exposed layers of crevices, and bright sunlight came in. I sat up slowly and saw Xu Mo sitting beside me smiling at me.

Xu Mo: I thought... you could sleep a little longer.

He took off his glasses in one hand and still held the original book of quantum mechanics in the other.

I rubbed my eyes, still a little sleepy. The sunlight came over from behind him, and for a while, I was almost uncertain whether I was still in a dream.

His shirt looked a little messy for some reason, and a few buttons were loosened, revealing the usual hidden lines.

My eyes circled back and forth, still a little startled, swallowing water involuntarily.

Xu Mo looked down at my sight and smiled slightly.

Xu Mo: You untied this.

MC: What?!

Xu Mo: You don't seem to be very honest when you fall asleep.

MC: What

I finally woke up, and this time I was so sober, I almost jumped off the sofa.

Xu Mo: What's wrong, don't you want to be responsible?

The smile on Xu Mo's lips grew thicker. I stared at him with widened eyes for a long time, and finally felt wrong with the sense of smell that I had cultivated through the past two years with him.

MC: You are teasing me again

I grabbed the pillow at hand and threw it over, Xu Mo caught it with a smile, and sighed regretfully.

Xu Mo: I thought you were a very responsible person.

MC: What kind of sense of responsibility is this? Childish! Cunning!

I held the pillow and launched a series of attacks, Xu Mo just parried, and did not fight back.

When I was tired, I realized that our distance had become much closer at some point

Xu Mo: Do you want to be responsible to me in this way?

He gently pulled my arm and I almost reached his chest.

I could clearly hear his steady heartbeat, and there was still the faint white tea aroma under his nose.

MC: Ah! My cake!

Xu Mo: It has been taken out and is cooling.

Xu Mo calmly supported me who almost jumped up. I looked in the direction of the kitchen, and only then did I see the closed oven.

MC: what time is it now?

Xu Mo: It's noon. I ordered food for delivery, should we have lunch first?

MC: I touched my stomach and quickly agreed.

The lunch Xu Mo ordered was Chinese food, which tasted very authentic. I asked him where the takeaway order was, but he said there was no takeaway order.

MC: How do you know the phone number?

Xu Mo: ....I remember that.

Looking at Xu Mo's plain expression, I marveled at his genius memory, and once again felt subtle.

After eating, I went back to the sofa and wanted to help him organize his books

I picked up the original book on the coffee table and went to the bookshelf in the corner.

Looking at the books in hand, I suddenly found that the title pages of these books are signed by a small pen: L.X.

MC: Strange... how does it resemble Xu Mo's English name?

When I came to the bookshelf, I couldn't help but admire again, and ran my fingers across the neatly arranged spine of the book.

The bookshelves in this hotel are amazing, they are more like the residents' personal collection, rather than the popular books that other hotels will put.

I looked at the rows of unreadable English letters, and quickly noticed a brown book on the top.

MC: What is this? No name?

I climbed the small ladder to retrieve the book and took down the book without a title. The cover is made of antique leather, and when you open it, you can even see the floating dust.

Xu Mo: What are you doing?

MC: Woah!

Xu Mo's voice suddenly rang from behind me, I turned around abruptly, shaking my hand, and the brown book fell to the ground.

Xu Mo: Be careful!

I fell back from the ladder and was in a warm and firm embrace. And the man was frowning, looking at me intently and nervously.

Xu Mo: Did I scare you?

MC: No! I am always in a panic. Ah, I just dropped a notebook, let's see if there is anything wrong.

Xu Mo: It's you who should confirm that there is nothing wrong.

MC: I'm fine! When setting up the shooting scene, I often climb up and down like this, hahahaha

Xu Mo's eyes remained on me, faintly showing the inexplicable gloominess gradually turned into helplessness. I dare not look deeply and pick up the notebook that has fallen on the ground.

MC: This is...

When I saw what was falling out of the notebook, I was stunned for a while.

MC: Xu Mo..

Xu Mo gave a hum, then suddenly thought of something, and smiled softly.

Xu Mo: Did you still find out

I held the yellowed photo with two fingers, turned my head, and looked at the man in front of me.

MC: Why are there photos of you when you were a kid here?

PART 4

MC: Hahahahahaha! You were so cute when you were young!

Xu Mo: Is it cute? I don't seem to be described that way.

I don’t know how long it took, and Xu Mo and I were still looking through this old photo album on the sofa. I pressed against his warm body, and gradually forgot the time.

After uncovering this treasure, I almost opened the door to a new world about Xu Mo, and I had many questions about every photo.

Xu Mo patiently answered me one by one. For some reason, he always seemed to have a self-sustaining calmness about his past, not excited, nor missed.

MC: So why didn't you tell me this in the beginning this your apartment?

Xu Mo: It's just a residence, it's not very different from a hotel.

MC: How come?! You have been living here when you were studying in the UK, this is your home, right?

Xu Mo's face seemed to be slightly moved, but he quickly returned to his calm and faint smile.

Xu Mo: From the perspective of property ownership, it can be understood this way.

After learning that this is the place where Xu Mo once lived, all the subtle feelings this apartment gave me can be explained.

The X on the doorplate is too homey and familiar, the white rice and tea in the kitchen, and the special bookshelf and the signature on the book...

I didn't expect this person to be so cunning that he would bring me to his home again without knowing it.

MC: Wow, how old were you? There is cake cream on your face, not that you don’t eat sweets is it?

Xu Mo: It was when I was 6 years old. I didn't eat that time either.

MC: Eh?

Turning back a few pages, I gradually discovered that all Xu Mo's photos seemed to be 7 years old.

Thinking of the scenes I saw in my dream before, I couldn't help but squeeze.

I looked up at Xu Mo beside me. In the setting sun, his eyebrows were covered with a faint blood red, and I couldn't help but clenched his hand

MC: Xu Mo...

Xu Mo: What happened?

MC: Nothing, just, suddenly.....

Perhaps it was my palm that conveyed some uneasy emotions. Xu Mo looked at me and quickly showed a soothing smile, touching the back of my hand.

Xu Mo: it's already over. Now, I am by your side.

MC: ..... I am a little unhappy because there is no me in your past!

MC: In the future, we should read our memories book on this day.

Xu Mo stared at me for a long time. After a long silence, his eyebrows finally opened with a long-lost relaxed smile.

Xu Mo: Well, it's like the memories book you prepared for me last year.

MC: We will have many memories books.

I shook my head vigorously, trying to get rid of the anxiety and worries that had just surged in my heart. A light from outside the window came in. I was shocked by the passing of time.

MC: Ah! It's already this time, the cake is not finished yet!

Xu Mo: Don't worry, there is still a while before dinner is ordered.

I hurriedly stood up and looked at Xu Mo's appearance in his spare time. He always seems to anticipate all my flaws and make all arrangements.

I looked at his eyebrows and pulled his hand.

MC: Let's do it together!

Xu Mo's face was slightly blank, and he quickly recovered.

Xu Mo: I haven't done it. Wouldn't it matter if you accidentally spoil your gift?

MC: But you are the most important part of the gift! Doing this with you will make it more meaningful!

Xu Mo stared at me in depth and light for a few rounds. It seemed more mysterious in the twilight, but it made me feel at ease.

He nodded slightly and said yes.

Xu Mo: Then you should teach me carefully

I cheered and pulled him to the counter to take out the cake then start to make the cream.

Xu Mo watched me cut through the cake base skillfully, pour the cream and fruit layer by layer, and his face seemed to be in a trance.

MC: Come, put cream in.

I handed him the decorating tool unceremoniously, and he was shocked for a few seconds, and began to use a rigorous method of experimentation.

I looked at him cautiously and couldn't help but laughed.

Xu Mo: ....Is the way I am now, funny?

MC: No! Wait a minute!

Before Xu Mo could react, I rushed to the suitcase and fetched a Polaroid. I took a photo of Xu Mo holding the cream bag from a distance.

Xu Mo's face was caught off guard, and he laughed again soon.

Xu Mo: Are you going to leave me here alone, teacher?

MC: Don't panic, I am coming!

I put the Polaroid on the edge of the table and began to teach Xu Mo how to squeeze the cream into various decorative shapes.

MC: It’s not that difficult, you see, it’s like drawing...

As expected to be a genius who mastered a scalpel, Xu Mo quickly learned the trick and squeezed a gardenia shape on the cake.

MC: Wow, that's amazing! I have been studying for so long, but I still can't do this level.

Xu Mo: It's more interesting than imagined.

With the help of Xu Mo, the cake gradually took shape. Every line is beautiful and smooth.

After finishing decorating, there is some cream left in the bag. Xu Mo's gaze swept around and suddenly fell on my finger.

Xu Mo: Let me do another exercise.

MC: What?

I haven't reacted yet, Xu Mo has already pulled my left hand and skillfully squeezed a snow-white gardenia on my ring finger.

Xu Mo: Do you like it?

I looked at the delicate white flowers like sculptures on my fingers, and couldn't help but blush.

MC: .... this is a waste.

Xu Mo: It won't be wasted.

My heart jumped, only to see Xu Mo lowered his head and leaned close to my finger, the back of the finger was warm and warm, and that white gardenia had been accepted by him.

MC: Xu Mo! What....

Xu Mo: Well, it seems to be sweeter than the one on the cake.

Xu Mo's long and narrow eyes showed a bright light, and my heart was beating like a drum. It took a long time to react and hurriedly withdrew my hand.

MC: No, don't challenge the teacher thinking that you have learned it! Now you have to learn to write!

I hurriedly took out the jam and the one-size French flower, but because I was too panic, I couldn't find a suitable filter.

Xu Mo's hand stretched out from behind, and accurately inserted the metal filter into the cut piping bag

Xu Mo: can we start?

MC: ....Okay, thank you.

His arms are warm and strong, and the mood that has just been disrupted finally stabilizes a little bit. I installed the jam and cleared my throat.

MC: The next sentence I wrote is a demonstration for you.

While I was talking, I moved my wrist and wrote this line solemnly in front of his eyes.

Happy Birthday to Mr. X

MC: Did you see it clearly?

Xu Mo: Yes, clearly.

The voice seemed to stop for a while before it sounded deep, and when it fell to my ears, it shocked my heart with countless gentle ripples.

It seems that this day's rush, or everything that has been done for this person in the past, hundreds of days and nights of company, have a place to stay.

The dusk outside the window gradually deepened, and the street lights on the street came on. The warm lights in the house surround us, and the sweet creamy aroma persists.

Xu Mo: Thank you.

MC: .... It's your turn.

Xu Mo took the piping bag in my hand, and suddenly wrapped my waist with his other hand, pulling me over.

His magnified face caught in my eyes, my chest was full, but I couldn't bear to look away.

MC: Write well..

Xu Mo: Okay, I'm writing.

His other hand walked skillfully on the cake behind me, but his eyes were tightly locked on my face, gentle and relaxed, with ease.

MC: What are you writing?

I wanted to look back, but he was firmly clamped on. His approaching face made me unable to escape, I could only hit his forehead and listen to him whispering.

Xu Mo: It doesn't matter what I wrote. More importantly, thank you that you're here with me.

I also remembered that when I met Xu Mo at the airport, he was confident that there was always a certainty in his eyes that I couldn't see through.

MC: So what is your third basis?

Xu Mo paused, smiling slowly.

Xu Mo: it's you.

MC: What do you mean?

Xu Mo: Because it is you, I know you will come.

I blinked, a little unconvinced.

MC: Anyway, Professor Xu has always known everything.

Xu Mo chuckled lightly, his warm lips pressed against me, his breath with the aftertaste of buttery gardenia.

Before closing my eyes, I had already peeked from the corner of the light that he had written on the chocolate card.

Maybe I have long been used to letting go of everything in front of this omniscient person.

Just like everything he put down to me

Xu Mo: starting today, here is...

The second half of his sentence was hidden between his lips, and it became the eternal secret of this day.

And the small letters on the row of chocolate cards still appeared in front of my eyes.

1115 with you, at home.

-END-

Thank you for reading ><

[thedragonslibrary]

I'm having problems communicating with my spirit companion. Like, I just can't do it. Maybe it's because I'm new, maybe I'm rushing it. But, opening my third eye and telepathy are things I don't know how to do. And everything I've seen so far is either too vague or something I haven't even heard of. So, could you help me? You could link me things or just write it out. P. S. Astral travel is scary but if I had more info and more real life stories I feel like is be more comfortable. Thank you.

Hi there!  I know this is an extremely belated answer, and I really hope you were able to resolve this situation.  But I’m going to go ahead and answer it anyway, since it may be helpful to someone now!

If you’re new to the idea of witchcraft, opening yourself up, astral travel, and the like, it can be really scary and overwhelming.  If you’ve already gotten yourself a spirit companion, it may be the first time you’re introduced to any of these things.  But there is no rush - your companion likely knew this going in, and they are not desperately trying to batter through your natural psychic barriers!  They are on the other side, being just as patient, waiting for you to be ready.

One of my all-time favorite books about opening yourself up psychically, which has exercises I still use to this day, is You Are Psychic by Debra Lynne Katz.  The book preaches an end goal of clairvoyance, but I find that even its first few exercises teach a lot about visualization, and its importance in energy and spirit work.  I recommend starting there.

The thing about spirit and energy work is that it is often going to feel like it’s “all in your head,” especially when you are starting out and don’t yet have the skills to tell the difference between yourself and “the other.”  But the most important thing for me is being able to explain this in a way that feels logical, even to those who might never have touched any kind of new age thing before.  So, yeah, I’ll say it - sometimes it feels weird and out-there.  It doesn’t make the most sense in a real-world context.  It doesn’t always feel real, you don’t always see visions clearly or in real-time, most people can’t hear the voices of their spirit guides in their physical ears.  Almost none of it is physical, actually.  A lot of it feels internal.

Telepathy can feel like you’re talking to yourself in your head.  Astral travel can feel like daydreaming.  Witchcraft can feel like saying silly words over silly items.  What brings it gravitas and power is what you bring to the table - how seriously you’re going to take it.  How frequently you’re going to show up.  I consider it to be a lot like this: I played in bands and orchestras for years.  Before, all instruments sounded the same to me, or I didn’t care to differentiate, even if I knew what they looked like and what they were supposed to sound like.  But I showed up every day and participated and listened for years, and now I know what each instrument sounds like, what it sounds like combined with others, and how that differs from my own instrument’s timbre.

So, if you’re just beginning to develop your psychic skills, start here.  It will take time, and practice, but your patience will reward you in time.

Learn how to ground:

Visualize a cord, or roots, stretching from the base of your spine and down into the earth.

Breathe deeply.  As you breathe in, imagine energy from the ground pulling up through that cord, filling you with light.  As you breathe out, imagine that light washing away any darkness or blockages with you.  

Work from your toes to your head.  Take your time.  If you feel you need to spend more time on one section, stay there for a while.  

When you feel you are done, imagine the cord detaching painlessly from your body.

Learn how to stimulate your third eye:

The third eye cannot be forced open (or if it can, it’s not extremely beneficial for you).  When doing the grounding/cleansing exercise I outlined above, take time to focus on the point in the middle of your forehead.  

It might naturally tingle, and one day you might feel its sensations come naturally to you.  But very few people can physically see with their third eye.  It’s going to be more about spiritually seeing - not with your eyes, but with your non-physical sense.

Throughout the day, imagine energy swirling around your third eye, like one of those twirling loading circles.

Interact with your third eye.  Press it with your thumb.  Think about it casually.  Put your palm over it and imagine giving it a warm glow of energy.  Put diluted oil blends on it (and be sure to wash them off later, if your skin is sensitive).  Take time to take care of it.

Repeat this often.  This is an elongated process with no specific end-point.

Create a psychic space for yourself:

Learn to enter and craft a space inside yourself.  This is especially helpful as a meeting place for you and your companions.  A good friend of mine calls her “The White Room.”  Mine looks like a treehouse.  Allow yours to fit your needs, and your personality.  Let it change and evolve as you do.

Find some quiet time to meditate.  You can use free, guided meditations on YouTube to help with this. Once you’ve gotten yourself into a meditative position and a quiet mindspace, imagine going somewhere in your mind.  Open a door, go down or up stairs, climb a ladder - whatever feels right.  Once you have done this, you will find yourself in a space.

This will feel like daydreaming, and it may not be entirely solid.  But you can make it your own place, and over time, with practice, it will solidify.  Fill it with furniture, paint the walls, fill the pantry with food.  Invite your companions over.  They may not feel tangible or may look/feel fuzzy.  That’s okay - they’ll get more solid over time.

Ah - whoops!  Surprise!  You just did your first astral travel!  Really!  It was inside yourself, but it was real.

And since you were looking specifically for other people’s astral experiences, this blog is pretty cool, although it’s not active anymore.  

Practice telepathy with your companion:

This is not going to be like telepathy in the movies at all.  It’s a subtler form of communication, and if you struggle with it, you can always try other communication techniques like pendulums, tarot cards, and automatic writing.

Notice your thoughts throughout the day.  If you have unusual, stray thoughts, if you catch your thoughts responding to themselves, if you have strange urges to look at or interact with things you might not normally interact with, these are all signs that your companion may be attempting telepathy with you.

Like meditation, sit in a quiet space and let your thoughts drift.  Invite your companion to join you, and just let your mind go.  Are there any ideas or thoughts that feel out of place?  Anything that sounds like not your own internal voice?  

This can be a very hard process, especially if you’re not using any other communication method.  I personally learned to perform telepathy with my companions by first using a pendulum and alphabet board to talk with them.  Eventually, I was able to recognize what voices sounded like “theirs,” and differentiate them from mine.

You can read my post on communication for more info on this!

Above all, I feel I need to emphasize this: Your practice does not have to look like anybody else’s who has written their experiences on the internet.  It is allowed to be imperfect, unfocused, messy, and fun.  A lot of people, myself included, sometimes go to great lengths to make it seem as though when they are astral traveling, they feel as though they are physically there.  That level of immersion is very difficult to reach and can take years after years of practice.  I am not even there, I promise you.

Anyway, now that I’ve written an Entire Novel, I hope this was helpful to you or to somebody!  Thank you for asking!

[davidtennan-t]

‘Daddy, you’re soft...’ Chapter 2

The second and last part of this soft af Tentoo x Rose fic

Summary: A tree house and adventuring with his little girl. What could possibly go wrong for the Doctor?

Fluff, angst and the works!

AO3 Link: Chapter 1 Chapter 2

- 

The moment Susan started running, the Doctor was quick to chase his daughter, his long legs moving faster than they had done in weeks as he tried to catch up to his little girl. Persuasive techniques did seem to run in the family. All Rose ever needed to do was lovingly curl her arm into his and spread that smile on her face if she wanted something, so no surprise had come when Susan used it against him to.

"Don't leave me for the Slitheen!" he called after Susan. When had she gotten so fast?

The young girl reached the ladder first and quickly began to scale it, checking behind her every so often to see if the Doctor was still following. By the time her feet were running along the wooden floor, her father only just made it to the bottom. He noted the breathlessness and the quickened pace of his single heart.

“Oi, didn't you hear me? You can't leave your old man to the mercy of the Slitheen!” the Doctor called up to Susan, scaling the ladder to join her at the top, albeit a little slower - his arms and legs couldn't push him up quick enough and some part of him was suddenly frustrated. Tomorrow, he was asking Pete to be head of the next field mission. Exercise, that's what he needed. Not a desk and some occasional heavy lifting.

“So, what’s the plan?” he asked, leaning over with his hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath from the short run.

Susan was taking readings on her toy sonic screwdriver. The tool was battered and broken but showed nothing but love.

“We get to the TARDIS, get to the controls and get inside Downing Street to stop the Slitheen before they escape, or destroy the world!” Susan ordered enthusiastically. She couldn’t remember the last time her father had joined her for one of her adventures. Solo adventures were fun but having a companion was much better. That's what her mother always said - there was somebody always there to help you.

“Ah-ah, you’re forgetting," the Doctor inputted, "Slitheen are cunning, it’s possible they’ve already taken over the security of the whole building by the time we get there… they could be watching us right now - have you scanned around the TARDIS?"

The Doctor pulled out his own sonic, seeing Susan's eyes light up as he scanned the garden. And of course, the tree house - their TARDIS.

"What's yours telling you?" Susan asked.

"It's not good news... they know we're coming, they're closing in - signs of potassium in the air. So, I think we need to use the...” the Doctor stopped, wanting Susan to gain the idea instead of him. He knew it always made her feel much more important. She was - she was his girl.

Susan folded her arms and thought for a second before looking a little surer of herself, a bright grin replacing her doubtful pout.

“The secret entrance!”

“Of course! Well then, Allons-y!”

Another ladder to scale. But in the Doctor’s mind he was the same man he had been when he’d first built this tree house. They would be saving the world together in no time.

Susan raced to the top floor of the wooden structure, feeling ever the more ecstatic her little plan had worked and she was now having some fun with her Dad. She was so ecstatic in fact, she failed to notice the Doctor struggling on the ladder. He reached the top but stopped before he could pull his long legs over, trying to conceal heavy breaths.

“You okay, Daddy?” Susan asked when she realised her father wasn’t beside her, concern heavy on her soft little features.

The Doctor almost looked surprised at the question and was quick to rectify his stillness with a bouncy jump onto the wooden platform.

A click in one of his knees... ouch.

“What? Me? Yes, fine, grand, absolutely smashing – Molto Bene! Now hurry inside, before they spot us,” he insisted, “in fact – I think I see one in the bushes over there."

“Where?” Susan asked, pretending to look for the supposed hiding alien where the Doctor was pointing.

“Although… could just be the leaves. Slitheen are green, aren’t they?” he joked, Susan giving him a playful tug in return.

“No time to joke, Daddy – Allons-y!”

The Doctor smiled as he watched Susan crawl into the wooden house. It had been months since he last stood here… nearly half a year, in fact. It elevated a strangely unfamiliar warmth in his heart - nostalgia. Sometimes he pondered to himself over just how many emotions humans could endure. His first day with utter giddiness after finding out Rose was pregnant had been very eventful.

Not wanting to keep his daughter waiting, the Doctor lowered himself onto his hands and knees, turned sideways and began to shimmy inside the slim doorway after Susan. His first thought wasn’t that the entrance seemed a little tighter than he remembered – it was the shabbiness of the room on the inside.

He really needed to repaint.

“Logging on now, Daddy…” came Sarah’s voice from the pretend console, her figure jumping around the wooden panels whilst she expertly navigated the fake ship.

“Right, that’s my girl, I just need to… just need to…”

A grunt escaped the Doctor’s throat as he tried to push himself inside. His body was slanted to the side, he should be through by now… what had he done wrong? It was so incredibly tight.

He placed one hand on the wood and pushed, feeling a pressure on his middle that was completely unfamiliar to him. When he looked, he noticed his belly was filling up the small space.

“What?” he grunted under his breath, trying again in vain to squeeze his way inside. His still lanky frame struggled and eventually, he had to give up. The skin was nipping the wood too much and the tightness was only growing.

-

Read the rest on AO3! 

[ask-de-writer]

SEA DRAGON’S GIFT : Part 53 of 83 : World of Sea

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to World of Sea

SEA DRAGON’S GIFT

Part 53 of 83

by

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

140406 words

copyright 2020

written 2007

All rights reserved.

Reproduction in any form, physical, electronic or digital is prohibited without the express consent of the author.

//////////////

Copyright fair use rules for Tumblr users

Users   of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights.  They may   reblog the story provided that all author and copyright information   remains intact.  They may use the characters or original characters in   my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or fan musical   compositions.

All sorts of fan art, cosplay, music or fiction is actively encouraged.

///////////////////////

New to the story?  Read from the beginning.  PART 1 is here

///////////////////////

Doctor Corin was supervising the recovery of the surgically and medicinally valuable hag venom.  Master Selked was directing the removal of the beaks for use in tool making.  All of the galley crews were on deck, cutting up and cooking down the Hags to make the fireproofing extracts that could be applied to many things.  The ‘hide,’ the big flat cartilaginous spiral that served the Hag for a shell, was being opened, stretched flat and cleaned.  Strong Skins were being flensed and the meat pickled, dried, and cut into big roasts for immediate use.  Their valuable hides were being stretched on frames for drying and hung from the rigging because there was no more deck space available.

The fireproofing extracts prepared from the Hags were applied to rigging and sails as swiftly as they could be made.

Now that they had learned to use it, the catapult had a better use than ship to ship combat.

After a week, during which they also took a much smaller Wing Ray and added it’s delicately flavored meat to their stores, along with it’s valuable hide, bone and fangs, the storm began to break up over the colder waters of the northern latitudes.  

The Grandalor ran north, through the winds and thunderstorms of the decaying Coriolis Storm, for the safety of the Dragon Sea.

When they finally got to calmer seas, the armored hide of the Wing Ray was added to the reinforcing of the Grandalor’s bow.

Far to the south, the battered Naral fleet was assembling and making repairs.  They had been fortunate.  No ships and few lives were lost. Many sails had to be repaired or replaced and much rigging.  A few masts and some spars or yardarms needed replacement.

Everyone was looking with envy at the Dark Dragon and the Soaring Bird.  

Both ships had come through the storm without damage of any kind.  They had been instrumental in gathering the fleet back together.  The two catamarans had such large deck spaces that it was not necessary to raise a shipbuilding raft to make repairs.

Many Captains made careful note of the special storm rigs that had seen the two through.

In ranging about to find the last of the stragglers, the Soaring Bird had come across a broken spar with blown out and destroyed sail attached.  When it was pulled aboard, a line from it was found to be attached to a fragment of railing, trailing broken standing rigging for a mainmast.  When the Naral fleet was all gathered, the fragment failed to match the damage of any ship present.

The Fauline straggled in late, having survived the storm.  In response to questions about the obvious damage and hasty repairs, Skua told a tale of having intercepted the Grandalor as the Fauline was coming north from the Arrakan fleet.  The Grandalor, he claimed, had rammed them clumsily in an attempt to force them to pay provisions and Strong Skins.  They had been saved by the very storm that had apparently taken the Grandalor.

A Council of Captains was called aboard the Dark Dragon, where there was sufficient space.  Hored of the Grython took the meeting’s helm in Sarfin’s absence.  After the usual formalities, the meeting got down to its real purpose.

“It appears that we no longer have to search for the Grandalor,” Hored pronounced.  “We have been able to positively identify the broken spar and rigging fragment.  It definitely came from the Grandalor. The fragment of railing and the rigging that was still attached to it demonstrates that her mainmast went down in the storm.  The broken standing rigging and the way that the spar pivot lashings were ruptured shows that the mast could not have stood.  They must have swamped in minutes.

“I move that we call off this expensive search and get back to the business of life.”

The motion was seconded and passed by a relieved group of Captains.

Captain Hored signaled for the floor again.  “I have two more items to lay before this Council.  The first, and far the most important, is this. The many efforts of Captains Sula Corin and Huld Barsan on behalf of our fleet should be recognized by a vote of thanks and a refund of their reasonable expenses.

“My second item is related to the first.  Let us give them the freedom to fish our entire territory without limit.  They have shown themselves worthy of the honor.  I cannot think of any that I would rather share fishing waters with.”

Sula signaled for recognition and, when Hored acknowledged her, stood. “The offer that you have made is most generous.  Our expenses are already being covered by the Corlis and Barant fleets.  With the damage that you have all had from this storm, we’d not deplete your fleet treasury further.  

“The offer of thanks and fishing rights we will accept gladly.  Not trespassing on your fishing rights has seriously depleted our stores. The opportunity to resupply is most welcome.  You have been generous hosts.”  She sat to polite applause.

The vote was quick and unanimous.

“We must notify the Longin and Dorton,” Hored said deliberately.  “They are starting the map that we commissioned, and working the northerly blockade.  They are presently somewhere about 750 North by 200 West.  Who will volunteer to go?”

Once again it was Sula who stood.  “Captain Hored, we will go and let the Longin and Dorton know the situation.

“There is no urgency to this news.  Captain Huld and myself need to return to our own fleets with the information that we came here to get. From here, it will make little difference whether we go back the way that we came, go on about the globe, or go north through the Dragon Sea and the pole.

“Even with the repairs that we are helping with here, we should be able to get them the news in less than two Wohans.”

“Luve,” said Tanlin, lounging back in her chair in their cabin, “we are only safe ‘ere in t’e Dragon Sea so long as we seek justice under Naral fleet law.  We need on emissary ‘oo can persuade t’em t’ set aside t’eir ruling an’ give us a proper trial wit’ t’e right t’ rebut included.”

Barad rested his chin in one hand and drummed the fingers of the other on the table where their game of Three Dragons had been put aside.  “I can only think of one person that the whole feet would listen to. The problem is, she wouldn’t listen to anything that I have to say.”

“I’ we can convince ‘er, Barad, t’en we’ve ‘ope.  ‘Oo is she — — — Ye connae mean Kurin!”  Tanlin sat bolt upright in her chair.  Pain suddenly flooded her eyes.  “Somet’in’s wrong wit’ Skye!”  She leaped for the cabin door.

“The female Wide Wing?” Barad called after her.

“Aye! Get Doctor Corin!” she called over her shoulder as she shot up the companionway ladder to the deck.  She sprinted for the ratlines of the mainmast and swarmed up toward the Wide Wing’s nest.  The male, Thunderhead, raised his wings and hissed in threat until he realized that it was Tanlin, a part of his flock.  He calmed and hopped to the rail, allowing her to get to his mate.  Skye was sitting the nest, shivering, wings held tight to her body in pain.  Gently, Tanlin picked her up.  She could see the egg that was only partly protruded. She felt the bird’s lower abdomen carefully.

As if he could understand, Tanlin spoke softly to Thunderhead, “She’s egg bound, ‘t ‘appens sometimes t’ paddle ducks, t’.  We can save ‘er but Oi ‘ave t’ take ‘er down t’ t’e doctor.  Ye need t’ keep t’e ot’er twa eggs warm, OK?”  He chirruped plaintively and hopped down from the railing, settling onto the nest.

Tanlin carried the suffering bird carefully down the rigging to the deck, then sprinted to the infirmary.  Doctor Corin was already waiting for her.

“She’s egg bound, Doctor.  I’ we donnae free ‘t, she’ll die!” cried Tanlin in distress.

“Can you push the egg back into her some?” asked Doctor Corin calmly.

“Oi dunnae know.  In t’e Arrakan fleet, we always made a small incision in t’e muscle o’ t’e sphincter,” she answered.

“Try to push the egg back in, first.  If I can lubricate it with this oil, it will probably come out without further difficulty.  If we cut her, there is always a risk of tissue tearing or infection.”

“Hush, sweetie,” Tanlin said gently to the bird, “Skye, we ‘ave t’ put ye on yer bock, ‘ere.  OK?”  The Wide Wing made a small, high pitched cry.  “‘Ere we go, Skye.”  Tanlin laid the bird on her back.  The powerful Sea Hawk did not struggle, even keeping her talons withdrawn into her feathers.  

Tanlin pushed carefully on the egg.  She was able to make it go back in a little ways.

Doctor Corin immediately forced a lavage syringe, usually used to wash blood from wounds, in next to the egg, and squirted in a quantity of oil. He withdrew the syringe and instructed Tanlin, “Massage her around the egg.”

As Tanlin’s fingers worked around the egg, it began to protrude again, then slowly slid free into her waiting hands.  

She held the exhausted Sea Hawk close and triumphantly told her, “Ye did ‘t, Skye!  Bot’ ye an’ yer egg are safe!”  Tanlin tied the egg securely into her scarf and carried Skye back up to the nest. There, Thunderhead hopped back up to rail, while Tanlin put the egg into the nest and put Skye back onto the clutch.

TO BE CONTINUED

<==PREVIOUS   NEXT==>

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[hermannsthumb]

Hello Maria! For the summer prompts, may I suggest Popsicles + Power Outage?

30. Popsicles and 27. Power Outage 

from summer prompt memes here

OF COURSE!! heres a little unintentionally sexy popsicle eating lmao

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Power outages are infrequent and brief enough at the Shatterdome to never cause any real problems or halt work entirely, but they certainly can be an annoyance. Especially when it comes to Newton and Hermann’s department. There are massive back-up generators for all the important things--LOCCENT computers, the jaeger bay, security measures that make sure no one comes waltzing in who shouldn’t be--but no one has ever deemed two strange little men shuttered away in the basement to be important enough to get anything siphoned towards them.

Thirty minutes ago, the fluorescent lights in the laboratory flickered above their heads, before dimming minutely. Three minutes later, they flickered off entirely, alongside (with a dying splutter) their air conditioning.

Hermann froze at his chalkboard, stationed at the third rung of his ladder. “God damn it,” Newton said. There was a wet splat--Newton throwing his work gloves to the ground. Hermann could not say for sure, because he could not see him. He couldn’t see anything, in fact, save for the alien blue glow of one of Newton’s kaiju specimens in the corner. The hazards of being shoved off to the basement. “Not again.”

"Newton,” Hermann said, gripping the rungs tight, “ah, ladder, will you--”

There was a loud, metallic thud, as if something very large and person-shaped had run into Newton’s dissection table, and then Newton started swearing. “Fuck. Ow.”

After Newton helped him down and handed him his cane, they groped around until they found the torches in Newton’s desk, then groped around a bit more until they found a few of their emergency battery-operated lanterns (acquired for occasions such as these) and set them up across the room. It was almost like camping. Or Hermann thought it might’ve been--he wouldn’t know from experience. He doesn’t make a habit of engaging in activities that require him to spend an unnecessary amount of time outside.

“Fifteen minutes,” Newton said, after setting up the last lantern. All, thankfully, had working batteries. “That’s how long the last one took. This can’t take that long either, right?”

This was twenty minutes ago.

“It’s hot as shit in here,” Newton says now. The lanterns have lit him up a strange, washed-out white, but Hermann can see sweat on his brow and the delicate ink that trails below his opened collar. He fans at himself with a blue-stained lab report.

“Mm,” Hermann agrees. He’s shrugged off his blazer and is considering losing the sweater as well. It really is hot without the air conditioning. They could leave the lab, perhaps, and wander up to the assuredly cool LOCCENT, but the walk is so long--and the hallways dark and also hot--that Hermann finds it’s hardly worth it. He and Newton typically sit it out power outages in the lab, anyway. Last time they played cards.

Newton’s shuffling their battered deck now to repeat the tradition while Hermann clears room on his desk for it when he suddenly sits straight up and drops the cards. “My popsicles!” he says.

“Your what?”

“I have popsicles in the minifridge freezer!” Newton says. He grabs the lantern and sprints off, leaving Hermann to clumsily restack the cards in the dark.

He returns five minutes later with a cardboard box. “Good news,” he says, dropping into his chair and kicking his boots up on Hermann’s desk. “They haven’t melted yet. The freezer was still cold.”

“I’m thrilled,” Hermann says. He swats at Newton’s heel. “On the floor, Newton.” Newton’s boots are always filthy, whether from laboratory experiments or simply walking around the city, and Hermann doesn’t particularly want whatever’s caked on them today to cake his desk as well.

Newton ignores Hermann and empties the box into his lap. Six plastic-wrapped popsicles tumble out. Newton waves one at him. “Want it? They’re cherry.”

“No thank you,” Hermann says.

Newton shrugs and rips the plastic open. “I don’t want them to go to waste,” he explains, before shoving the popsicle into his mouth.

Hermann privately considers reminding Newton the box couldn’t have cost him more than the equivalent of a few dollars and it wouldn’t be all that much of a waste. He deals their hands instead.

They play their way through one round of Go Fish. (Hermann wins.) At the end of it, Newton tosses the wooden stick from his popsicle into the trashbin and moves on to another. His lips, Hermann notices, have been stained a bright red already. “You’re really going to eat all of them?” Hermann marvels.

He watches the popsicle disappear, halfway, past Newton’s lips. “Mmhmm.” He hallows his cheeks and blinks at Hermann before dragging it back out, slick with his spit.

Suddenly feeling a lot warmer, and not recalling Newton enjoying the first one quite that languidly, Hermann is overcome with a coughing fit that, er, forces him to avert his eyes. “Bloody stifling in here,” he says. He undoes a single button on his oxford, then, after a second thought, undoes another. “Ah.” He scans his hand of cards without really seeing any of it. He’s still watching Newton eat messily from the corner of his eye. “Eights. Have you got any eights?”

“Mm-mm,” Newton says. He shakes his head and pulls the popsicle from his mouth with a loud pop, then wipes his chin off on the back of his hand. “Go fish.”

Hermann feels dizzy. He blinks. “What?”

“Eights,” Newton says. “I don’t have any. Go fish.”

“Oh!” Hermann says. Blushing horrifically, and grateful for the low lighting, he grabs a card from the pile with a shaky hand. “Yes. Of course. Er. Sorry.”

“Queens?” Newton says. He sucks idly at the remaining stub of popsicle, tongue flicking out across it a few times.

“Queens,” Hermann repeats. It’s stifling. He fumbles to undo a third button.

Newton tosses the second wooden stick into the trash. His lips are stained even redder than before, and now they quirk up into a grin. “Do you have heatstroke or something?” he says. “Yes. Queens.”

Hermann wonders whether or not Newton would taste like cherry if he kissed him. He’d certainly be sticky. “Newton,” Hermann says, and even to his own ears he sounds oddly strangled and out-of-breath. He sets his cards down on the desk. “You--ah--”

Newton’s grin fades. His eyes flick down to Hermann’s open collar, his flushed cheeks, and when he speaks, his voice has gone strangely low, too. “What?”

The power switches back on.

They jump apart, having leaned in closer to each other seemingly without realizing it. “Sorry,” Hermann stammers, doing his buttons back up quickly, “ah, that was--I didn’t mean--”

“Neither did I,” Newton says. “I have to--” He picks up the remainder of the soggy popsicles (knocking half the pile of cards to the floor by accident in the process), shoves them back into the cardboard box, and bolts away.

[confessionary77]

‘I Should Have Remembered Them The Way They Were’

The past should be left alone. Re-visiting the best of memories will only ruin them.

Steven learned that on his own when he returned to his childhood hometown and was swept into the life he thought he left behind.

I spoke to an old friend recently and would like to share his story. However, he asked me to make sure he won’t be identified by what I wrote. It’s not as if he shared deep secrets or anything like it, but he rather likes his privacy and peace. Despite my opinion that there’s nothing to hide, I vowed to conceal anything that can eventually point at him. Names and some identifying characteristics therefore had to be changed.

— — —

Steven left his home when he was barely over 20. The country of his youth had just been through a war and emerged scarred, battered and radicalized. As Steven's dreams and plans expanded, his surroundings shrunk, metaphorically, until his future could no longer fit into the limited mould the country was shaping into. He packed his bags, said his farewells and left, leaving behind everything and everyone he knew.

Steven was a gifted wrestler, a middleweight national champion. His wrestling days started when he was eight and naturally all the friends of his youth hailed from the wrestling club. For years they were inseparable—they not only trained together, they also travelled across the continent for competitions and events; they focused their education on sports, went through the same schools and as result spent most of their waking time together. They studied together, partied together, vacationed together, trained together. They knew each other better than parents ever could. Then, three years before he left, Steven suffered a back injury which sidelined him from competition for a few months. When he healed and returned to wrestling, he realized he lost the killer drive that made him a champion, and took up coaching. He spent more times with his pupils than his old teammates, but although it loosened the tight bond they had, their friendship endured in a more mature, less intense form.

When he landed at his new home an ocean away, they kept in touch. Phone calls were expensive back then, the internet was still very young, but emails flew back and forth. His friends wanted to know everything—what was the weather like, how the life there differed from theirs, what are the girls like... Questions were flying thick and fast, emails piling up in his inbox faster than he could reply to them. It was almost as good as having them around. Then, within months, the questions became rarer, the responses to his emails terse and long in coming, until in the second year of his new life they tapered into nothing. Steven was hurt, of course, when his emails went unanswered. But, most of all, he was lonely. Building life in a new country takes great toll and having no one to share the challenges and soothe disappointments was hard. Drawing on the strength of will that made him a champion, he reminded himself that it was his decision to move away. He understood that his mates had their lives, their daily routines, problems and celebrations which didn't involve him any longer. In a way, cutting loose that particular thread of his previous life made him finally immerse himself into his new reality. He found a good job in a good media company and grew with it.

On personal side a girl emerged to help him build dreams. And, using those dreams as blueprint, they built their life together. His wrestling days and wrestling friends became just a story told on late evenings after the second glass of wine. The edges of that story, just like their faces in his memory, got blurred, softer, less real, until, just like the emails all those years earlier, they faded into nothingness.

Life took Steven as far away from wrestling as it was possible to go; he worked an office job dealing with the new media. The only sport he practiced was semi-regular running by himself when he had time or felt like it. That new media programming turned out to be lucrative enough so that at the age of 50 he was ready to retire. His and wife's careful planning made it possible to move back to Steven's childhood town where living was cheaper and their savings would stretch much further.

That's the long background story Steven shared one boozy evening. He was bothered by something, and although we weren't all that close, the conversation rolled smoothly and a minor life's lesson emerged.

"One day," Steven told me, "while out and about finishing some chores, I ran into an old wrestling coach of mine. We were both genuinely happy to see each other. We sat for a while at a cafe catching up, but both of us were busy rushing somewhere, so we exchanged phone numbers and promised to get together and unravel everything that happened in our lives in the last three decades. We hugged, laughed and separated, looking forward to meet again. We have been in touch over the phone once or twice since, but there was always something that made it inconvenient to meet. That same day, or maybe a day after, the coach ran into one of my old wrestling teammates. I imagine he went 'You won't believe whom I met...' and told him about me. That teammate was always known for his curiosity and gossip he liked to share with everyone. He quickly got busy, called the rest of the team to share the news. They still kept in touch and most of them were still involved in or around wrestling. I started getting phone calls from ghosts from the past, all eager to hear something I haven't told the others, so they can compare notes. Those conversations were stunted, riddled with awkward moments and pauses, but it didn't seem to bother them. They all wanted to meet me. Some invited me to a wrestling training."

"Before I left the country I was like them—blunt, chatty, curious. But through time I grew to be more politely distant, less eager to know things that aren't my business and averse to gossip. Wrestling was something I did in my youth. At the time it probably was the most important thing in my life. However, in the past two decades I don't know if I even thought about it, let alone mentioned it. It became as distant for me as the first children's picture-book I read; I vaguely remembered it, but had no desire to revisit it. Those guys, my former teammates, they seemed frozen in the past. They still plotted and schemed against other clubs and wrestlers, their jargon was still the same, their jokes as crude and insulting. To their invitations to the club I kept replying with 'will see,' 'can't right now,' 'too busy,' maybe next time...' I mean, everybody at his right mind would get it—I wasn't into it. And, maybe they did get it, but still wanted to make me say it out loud. So I did, I finally told them that I haven't been near a wrestling mat for 30 years and I still don't miss it, so I would like to keep it that way and keep myself away."

"When that was finally sorted out, they changed the tack. I got a call from Ned. Ned was my sparing partner in the days of my best results. We went to school together and hung out together; we were practically inseparable for four years. He was a brother I never had. Naturally, when he called, I wanted to see him. Not to pick up where we left off—I knew that was impossible—but to see how he's doing and what he made of his life. We went for a drink, him and wife and me and mine. I was around when he met his wife and knew both of them quite well, but I've never seen his two sons. Ned used to be tall, lanky with head full of unruly blond curls girls were crazy about. Ned whom I met now was a prematurely aged bold guy with torso too wide for his long limbs. He spoke like the 16-year-old Ned I remember, and that maybe more than anything else, felt so weird. It seemed that, except the physical change, not much else has changed about him. Nad had forgotten to grow up. While the wives politely tried (and failed, I'll learn later) to find something common to talk about, Ned gabbed about his sons' extreme talent for wrestling. I smiled politely and tried to nod at appropriate places, hoping he'll think that I care. When we finally managed to talk about our lives, the brief sketches of all that happened since I went away, it exposed the gulf so broad and so deep that no amount of small talk could bridge it. Ned was still involved in wrestling, professionally, as a high administrator for the national association. His wife who was just getting into car sales business when I left, was now a senior manager in a dealership. Their life-paths followed the pre-set trajectory. They are now a few steps higher on the same ladder they started climbing back then."

"I, on the other hand, was doing something so completely unrelated and so utterly foreign to them that they couldn't comprehend what I was talking about when I tried to explain. I got an impression they thought it a failure that I did something other than wrestling. After a few minutes there was nothing to talk about. Of course, I could have feigned interest and asked again about his kids' training, which would undoubtedly unleash another tirade of boastful tales, but I could muster no strength for it. When we came home, wife said 'so, that was Ned! I imagined him completely different.' She hit the nail on the head—I, too, remembered him different. Suddenly, I felt a terrible loss. It was as if Ned was a shiny happy memory kept in a special gallery of my mind's archive. He was forever young, forever shy, funny, witty kid with a talent for wrestling and a charming conversation that so smoothly blended with my own. Together, we were a power-pair people wanted to be around. This new-old Ned tainted that picture forever and I was furious with myself for allowing it."

"After meeting Ned, I stopped taking the calls from the gang. Slowly, they tapered off. They taught me a really important lesson: never tried to re-live the memories, they can never live up to the image in your head. All the people I knew from my past are now strangers with whom I have nothing in common. Meeting them only serves the purpose of comparing who aged more gracefully. Keep the memory of your youth precious and NEVER try to reconnect with people you lost touch with. If they were meant to stay in your life, they would have been there all along. Instead, it's like re-reading that old picture-book, one can't help but find it inadequate, lame and strange."

[kiruuuuu]

I received this a while ago and actually wrote more Bandit/Lion a while ago but never got around to posting it. Well, ‘tis the season, anon, and I send all the love back ♥♥ I hope you enjoy it :) As always, if the warnings put you off, please do not read this! (Rating M, Warning: non-explicit non-con, dark themes interspersed with fluff?, ~6.5k words)

This is the second WIP I’m posting of which I’m not sure if I’ll ever finish it or write more (simply because I usually get distracted by other things). I remain intrigued with their dynamics as I tried to push both of them into extremely unhealthy versions of themselves which turned out to be a challenge I enjoyed tackling, especially since I like interpreting characters in different ways and exploring a variety of themes :) Ultimately, this work is meant to set them on a (very rocky) path of mututal growth and end up with them actually happy, as insane as it sounds... only I never got that far. Anyway, please enjoy the beginning of that journey 💗

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“You’re gonna saw through your tendons eventually if you keep this up”, Bandit points out while brushing over the bandages covering pale wrists. No matter what he does, they end up bruised or bloody, scratched or cut because either Lion doesn’t learn or likes hurting himself a little too much. It’s probably a mixture of both, Bandit has noticed the scars despite how faded they are – he knows what to look for. They’re silvery stripes, paper thin and forming a tight ladder down Lion’s thighs, an easy-to-reach place where it’s not obvious to anyone who won’t see him naked and can even be hidden while swimming, unlike other common places like upper or lower arms or just below the ribs. Bandit didn’t go swimming a lot as a young adult.

There’s nothing on Lion’s wrists, however. No long vertical stripe, so it was less genuine death wish and rather a cry for help which probably went unanswered. It usually does.

When the redhead doesn’t answer for a while, Bandit peers down at him. They’re lying in bed, sated, Bandit satisfied and Lion aching, somehow always ending up pressed against each other – Lion extremely reluctantly in the beginning, usually taking the first opportunity to flee, though he got used to it after the first few times. Right now, he’s glued to Bandit’s side, head resting on his shoulder and limbs thrown over him. He seems shorter than he actually is in these moments, younger, too. His breathing is shallow and regular, his eyes are closed and his lips slightly parted; he’s a sight to behold, reddish brown hair mussed up, lashes fanned out over blushing cheekbones, rosy lips swollen still.

The fucker’s asleep.

Bandit sighs, annoyed, and begins untangling himself from Lion’s grasp, wavers when it tightens for a moment but ends up escaping nonetheless. He shoves a pillow into Lion’s arms which they automatically hug and starts cleaning up the room. There’s drool, sweat, precum and actual come on the floor, that goes first so he doesn’t slip on it. Next, the toys, cane, ropes, all the filthy things which he throws back into the box, then he returns the everyday objects like candles and scissors to where they came from. Once he’s done, he tosses Lion’s clothes onto the foot of the bed and goes to raid his freezer. Their sessions usually leave him ravenous.

He keeps coming back. No matter what Bandit does, no matter how much he personally humiliates him, exposes his flaws, insults him, no matter how much pain he causes, Lion keeps coming back to him. He cries, hides his face in shame, screams, whimpers, begs, shakes his head and fights, yet Bandit is the one to whom he clings after it’s all done. He soaks up every little bit of validation like a sponge, even if it’s just a nod or an appreciative pat; he’s started leaning into Bandit’s touches, not only during when he’s starved for affirmation but also afterwards, pressing himself against Bandit’s body and trembling nervously until he gives in and holds him.

He always gives in.

It’s a fucking bad idea. It’s one of the worst ideas Bandit has ever had, he should’ve left it at that very first encounter because that one at least went by his own rules, ferociously ripped Lion back to reality and showed him unambiguously that he’s not in charge, that Bandit could ruin him whenever he wanted, that he’s nothing. Knock him down a peg. He began losing control over it as soon as he accepted him back, foolishly assuming he’s feeding his own desires when none of it would’ve been possible without Lion approaching him first. There was a shift in power. In a way, Bandit is merely allowed to do what he does now, and he’s even predictable. He makes Lion come at the end, unfailingly brings them both to an orgasm which blows both their minds, and once that’s happened, it’s over. No more pain, no more distress, instead it’s softer words, reassuring touches. No wonder Lion returns – Bandit is safe. He knows what to expect, roughly, knows they’ll end up sharing body heat. Knows Bandit always makes sure he’s ultimately fine.

There’s a reason for it. There are several, in fact, and they’re fucking good reasons which makes this all the messier.

When Lion is still sleeping half an hour later, Bandit plops down on one of the chairs and throws a sock at him. Since it has no effect, he does it again and watches, chewing, as Lion blinks with a frown, yawns, stretches and winces at the residual pain. His eyes lock on to Bandit and then the chicken nuggets he’s eating which seem to convince him to get up. His body is battered and bruised, his ass and thighs purple and the indentations from the ropes faintly visible still in some places; it’s like he’s been decorated, painted. In a way, he’s prettiest like this, marked and claimed by Bandit and only he is allowed to see him like this. Lion puts on his underwear and a t-shirt, just like Bandit, before unsteadily walking over to him.

He’s sleep-warm and grimaces as he straddles Bandit’s lap, discomfort clearly written in his face. “There’s another chair right next to you”, Bandit complains but feeds him a nugget regardless, slathers it in sweet and sour sauce first and then stuffs it into Lion’s mouth. He’s a solid weight, fingers toying with the hem of Bandit’s shirt as they eat in silence, digits touching bare skin now and then and Bandit almost expects Lion to start petting him. Lion gulps down all of the orange juice and doesn’t look like he’s going to move any time soon. “You’re heavy, kid.”

“Don’t call me that.” Of all the names Bandit calls him, this is the only one against which he steadfastly protests. He scoots closer, leans his head against Bandit’s and murmurs: “I called Claire yesterday. To… talk some more, I guess. Explain myself. Make amends.”

Bandit neither knows who Claire is nor does he want to know. Thinking about it, he knows surprisingly little about Lion’s private life seeing as how familiar he is with his body – he’s aware Lion has a son but doesn’t know the story behind it. Claire could be the mother, Lion’s mother, his sister, a friend, who knows? “I don’t care about your fucking sob stories”, he tells Lion bluntly and massages his thighs until he squirms away in pain. Despite the harsh words, it’s self-defence and Bandit hates the fact that he recognises it as such.

“She hung up on me. But I’m still glad I did it.”

This is the most important reason why Bandit doesn’t turn him away, doesn’t refuse to play his game. There are other reasons but this is the only one that matters. Lion is young and lost, the list of mistakes alarmingly long – he’s a walking cliché, masks insecurity with arrogance, hides things from himself which Bandit drags to the surface, forcing Lion to face them, confront himself. He’s the worst person to do all this, has himself convinced he can’t stand the ginger prick and isn’t known for his empathy or compassion. And he especially doesn’t like that he both knows what Lion needs and even provides him with it.

He puts his arms around him, feels Lion relax at the gesture, pets his hair and says quietly: “Good boy. Well done.”

And Lion curls into him, leans into his touch and makes a muffled, content sound.

.

~*~

.

It’s a familiar scene, both contenders having clashed in the past already so it’s not as much of a surprise as it could’ve been. There are few onlookers, some who ignore the scene on purpose, others who seem just as unwilling to intervene and only one person trying to defuse the situation, stop it from escalating. Blitz is positioned between them, hands outstretched in both a calming and warning gesture – don’t cross this line, or else. His expression is serious and almost as angry as those of the two adversaries glaring at each other over the German’s head, their body language nothing but aggressive, ready to strike. Last time, it was the Frenchman who lost, humiliated by the SAS legend. Maybe now he’ll try to win.

Bandit walks over and earns a warning look from Blitz which is basically ordering him to fuck off, he’s got the situation under control, there’s no need to rile Lion up further. He has no clue that he couldn’t be more wrong about Bandit’s intentions and blinks disbelievingly when his teammate puts an arm around Lion’s abdomen and pulls him back, away from Thatcher, away from the small crowd sitting nearby. Lion is fighting against him yet more for show, Bandit’s presence alone leaves him imbalanced and seems to interfere with coherent thought, causing him to be manhandled without much hassle. “Kid”, Bandit starts softly and suppresses a sigh when Lion slaps his arm away.

“Don’t fucking -”, he snarls and lowers his voice, “- I told you not to – this doesn’t concern you. Piss off.”

“Go apologise.” Lion’s ire shows in his pale eyes, so Bandit clarifies: “I’m serious, go fucking do it. Don’t argue.”

“But he -”

“I don’t care if he dropkicked your son or insulted your mother. Apologise. You’re on thin ice, asshole. Do it.” And he’s a fucking stubborn git, nostrils flaring and hands balled to fists so that everyone who takes one good look at him knows he’s not going to back off. Bandit quite obviously has to make him. He grabs Lion’s sweater, right over his belly, over the place where he usually claims him, where there’s a lightning bolt temporarily branded into his skin right now, and pulls him closer. “He’s going to sock you if you don’t. And I’m not stupid enough to stop him, because we both know you deserve it, you little piece of shit. But I don’t like people laying their hands on my property. So shake his hand and walk away.”

He’s never done this. What they do in his bedroom stays in his bedroom, outside they never interact, walk past each other without a single glance, don’t touch, don’t talk, don’t look. They’re in vastly different circles seeing as Rook actively avoids Lion and often hangs around with the GSG9 whereas Lion is usually found in Montagne’s vicinity. It’s the first time Bandit is making use of this strange power Lion allows him to hold and he’s not exactly sure how it’s going to go, whether he’ll upset the odd, fragile peace between them.

Lion is returning his gaze, unmoving, before uncurling Bandit’s fist from the fabric of his sweater. “You don’t own me”, he hisses and Bandit thinks he miscalculated up until Lion stalks past him towards Thatcher, head held high. And hand outstretched.

No one expects it. The Brit gapes for a few seconds before he finally takes it, replying gruffly to Lion’s muttered apology and then both of them turn and leave without another word – disaster averted, fight prevented. Only now everyone is staring at Bandit, especially Blitz, brows drawn together in suspicion.

“What the hell was that?”, he demands to know after walking up to him and looks about ready to cross his arms.

Bandit takes out his cigarettes, lights one and inhales deeply before answering, ignoring the subtle shaking of his fingers. “No idea. According to you, apology isn’t part of my dictionary, so there’s no way I would know.”

“How did you get him to do that?”

“Threatened to steal his kneecaps.”

Blitz is visibly upset now, angered by the notion of Bandit keeping secrets from him without even telegraphing it before – he tries to control Bandit’s every move, acts like he’s a bomb which randomly arms itself and requires instant disposal in such an event, even pretends he’s the only one who can take on the troublemaker of their group. Like a martyr. “Threats wouldn’t have worked. You never talk to him. What’s going on?”

He continues smoking as he considers the vast pool of excuses he could use. Blitz would indubitably realise they’re lies, they’ve spent too much time around each other to fall for this type of thing anymore yet it’d buy him time. He can stall, annoy him a bit and then walk off – with some luck, that’ll be the end of it, Blitz might forget or at least not bother him for a few days. They’re squinting at each other, cogs turning in both their heads and maybe Blitz has seen the marks around Lion’s wrists, noticed how Bandit looks after him now and then, because he whispers in a tone implying even he can’t believe he’s suggesting this: “Are you sleeping together?”

It might also be the last possibility left – there’s no way Bandit would voluntarily spend time in the Frenchie’s company, so they’ve certainly not become friends. He decides on a flippant answer and hopes Blitz leaves it at that seeing as he normally doesn’t show any kind of interest in Bandit’s love life. “I wouldn’t go that far. I’m fucking him.”

His teammate is in utter disbelief. “And he lets you?”

Under any other circumstances, it’d be a rhetorical question warranting an eye roll, maybe a quip, yet definitely doesn’t deserve any kind of answer. Under other circumstances, Bandit would make a joke, a smart comment. Right now, he feels the weight of their secret on his chest, the responsibility to make sure Lion doesn’t tilt, thinks back to the very first time. “No”, he laughs tonelessly and takes a deep drag more so that he has something to do while Blitz’ face falls in shock. Now he’s going to make a big deal out of it, that much is clear, possibly yell and put all the blame on Bandit when -

Well. He is to blame, isn’t he? And it is a big deal. There’s no way he can deny it.

“We two”, Blitz hisses, “need to have a fucking talk.”

.

He doesn’t understand. Like a stray mutt who suddenly has the door closed on him, all nutrition refused, no warmth provided anymore, he stares, concerned, uncomprehending. Probably thinking: why me? And Bandit has no answers for him because it’s been him his entire life as well and if he’d found an answer, he’d damn well share it with everyone who’s as lost and confused and afraid as he used to be, as the redhead on his doorstep is now. He’s not inviting him in to avoid a scene, Lion would rather be caught dead than found yelling in a staircase where he has no business to be. He blinks, brows drawn together in a perfect mirror of Bandit in different stages of his life, moments on which he doesn’t dwell for good reason.

“Do you get it?”, he clarifies once more. “We’re done. That’s it. You had your fun, now it’s over, so fuck off.”

A small shake of the head. He’s not playing by the rules, not the rules Lion set for himself, guidelines neither of them have discussed and therein lies the problem – they’re ultimately hoping for different things, Lion for salvation and Bandit for … he’s not entirely sure, actually. For Lion to get his shit together. To become a person who doesn’t need to seek out Bandit anymore. In a way, he’s digging his own grave with what he’s doing – he craves that which leads to him being alone again. Figures. “That’s not -”

Not how it works? That’s life, kiddo. We never get what we want. “Don’t come back”, Bandit tells him and shuts the door in his face before Lion’s aggressive stance translates into a full blown fist fight right after he’s managed to convince his neighbours not to file a noise complaint. The walls are thick enough but Lion’s voice carries.

Blitz’ aghast expression won’t stop haunting him and neither do his words, expressing concepts which Bandit waved off dismissively, no matter how insistent Blitz was. He liked it, he said. He seeks me out. There were a lot of uncomfortable questions with unclear answers, awkward silences and muttered curses from his teammate as Bandit regarded him coolly, arms crossed and waiting for him to be done.

But they reached him. It took a day or two, but Blitz’ words reached him. And so he’s shutting Lion out now. For both of their sakes.

Lion kicks his door so hard it’s a miracle he doesn’t put his foot through it.

.

~*~

.

A fever dream. That’s all it is, surely, none of it makes any sense. Bandit’s brain cannot piece together how he got here, it’s drifting gently on the waves of heavy intoxication, the flood of alcohol coursing through his system. He’s moving – or being moved? – yet the motion is repetitive, preventing him from going anywhere. The ceiling above him looks familiar but it’s just a normal ceiling, there are no decorations on the bare walls though there’s a new-looking wardrobe at the edge of his vision. Noises are around him, floating in the air and diving into his ears now and then, especially on one side, his limbs might as well have been cut off with how little control he has over them. He weighs approximately a ton.

There’s something happening to his body and he’s not sure what it is.

It started out simple enough, fragments of the hours earlier flit through his muddled mind: a few pubs, familiar faces, then no more familiar faces. A brawl. His ribs are hurting. Some woman, her legs spread and lipstick smeared, face contorted in disgust – he slapped her, meant it playfully but prominent cheekbones invaded his head and so he brought his hand down harder than she liked. Much harder. She screamed at him and probably disappeared though Bandit doesn’t remember that part, merely draws the conclusion based on the fact that she’s not here right now. Someone else is.

Only then do the noises register as moaning. A hand strokes over his cheeks, urgent, a soothing hiss, shhh, as if Bandit was crying or hurt, shhhh, insistent against his skin, just like wet lips which nip at his throat, taste his pulse. He’s nauseous, there’s a faint ache further down and all he smells is his own sweat mixed with beer; he’s uncomfortably warm and just uncomfortable in general, his legs being folded and the hand is still there, feeling his eyebrow, the corner of his mouth, and so is the reassuring shhh.

A fever dream. And he’s starting to wake up slowly, sober momentarily due to the adrenaline rush of not knowing where he is, with whom he is. Bandit’s head lolls around, falls to the side and the sudden change in view is dizzying, now he sees shoulders and a torso and can actually see what’s happening to him which in no way makes it any better. His tongue isn’t his anymore, neither are his arms or legs, they’re at the person’s mercy. And the only mercy he’s being shown is the gentle hand and the calming shushing that now and then devolves into a strangled moan.

He’s dreaming, surely. Because this can’t be reality. This can’t be happening.

.

He wakes up mostly naked. That alone wouldn’t be cause for concern yet he’s being shaken, as if his pounding headache, desiccated body and throbbing pain weren’t distressing enough already. Not entirely sure what’s going on, he switches to auto-pilot and swats at the insistent hands until they’ve disappeared, opens his eyes and blinks dazedly at a face he knows very well. I’m in Lion’s flat, he surmises based on the fact his surroundings are unfamiliar and as barren as he’d expect the Frenchie’s apartment to be, only to add: The Lion’s den. Hilarious. He would’ve congratulated himself with a chuckle if he had the brain capacity to spare, but as it is, he’s little more than a zombie.

Memories are fuzzy, so he decides on worrying about those later, allows Lion to pull him to his feet, even dress him. A glance at the alarm clock on the bedside table tells him it’s seven in the morning – much too early after a night out, that’s for sure. He stumbles around, greedily gulps down half a bottle of water when Lion hands him one and follows him, accompanied by prodding and poking to guide him in the right direction. They leave the flat, enter Lion’s car and as it’s still not fully day yet, Bandit sleeps some more on the way to wherever, head leaning against the cool window and jolting with every bump in the road, but he’s slept under worse conditions.

Surprisingly, he knows where he is when he pours himself out of the vehicle after they’ve stopped. Lion helps him get up, rummages around in Bandit’s pockets and causes an almost overpowering urge to punch him. The sudden impulse is overwhelmingly strong and he has to actively fight it down, struggle against it – he looks at the asshole assisting him in climbing the stairs and wants nothing more than to grind his face into the asphalt, smack it against the metal railing, hear his bones crunch under Bandit’s foot. It’s irrational, they have no quarrel with each other, not anymore, not since Lion knows to keep away, from Rook, from Bandit, from a lot of people. He clenches his teeth, balls his hands into fists and somehow makes it inside. Lion never crosses the threshold.

It’s a good thing. Bandit doesn’t know what he would’ve done otherwise.

The door clicks shut and he staggers to his bed, collapses on top of it and almost immediately falls asleep again.

.

This time, he remembers. His thoughts have cleared up and the shock of his dream contributes as well, floods his system with adrenaline upon the soft shhh in his ear – he wakes up screaming, kicking and flailing but is alone in his large bed. Breathing heavily, he looks at the hook fixed to the ceiling. And he remembers.

It helps that he’s more aware of his own body now, feels the vague burn around his wrists, notices an uncomfortable feeling in his guts. He knows what it means. Even if he couldn’t recall the guilty moans on his skin, the movements, the fingertips dirtying him, he’d know what it means.

He throws up until there’s nothing left in his stomach and dry heaves until his head feels split in two and his throat is raw and sore. After drinking more water and swallowing painkillers which immediately cause him to vomit once more, he nibbles at a slice of bread and waits for the trembling to subside. He’s freezing; even wrapped in several blankets, he’s ice cold. Eventually, he works up the courage to shower. Under the hot stream, he scratches his wrists bloody and scrubs himself clean thoroughly, meticulously.

He’ll be fine. It’s not the first time. He knows how to deal with it, knows what to avoid and what to do, it’s alright. Maybe after a few days or weeks, he’ll be back to normal.

Lion, however, won’t be.

.

~*~

.

“He’s going to have a meltdown”, Bandit tells his teammate without context and plops down on the chair opposite him.

Blitz is instantly suspicious. “What are you talking about? Who will? And why?”

“My Frenchie.” He doesn’t miss how Blitz’ eyes harden and his expression turns stony. “Don’t fucking give me that, you twat, I’m dead serious. You remember Baffin Bay? The fucking yacht?” A nod. They both know exactly what Bandit is referencing and he’s relieved he doesn’t have to spell it out, doesn’t have to get any clearer than this. It’s taken him almost a year to stop shifting the blame, to rephrase ‘you left me alone with him’ to ‘I was left alone with him’ to ‘I stayed behind’. He snapped – the screams still feature in his dreams sometimes, as do the crimson walls. It astonished him how much blood the human body can really hold. “How was I afterwards?”

Another rhetorical question and this one causes something pained to flit over Blitz’ face. Bandit is the only one brave enough to mention the aftermath, a mixture of destruction and self destruction ultimately halted by a series of worrying events during which he almost went so far as to harm one of his colleagues. He was walking on thin ice after the whole incident and, among other things, has Blitz to thank for dragging him out of the deep pit of depression into which he fell. “Horrifying”, Blitz answers honestly and it’s refreshing to get a candid answer for once instead of sugar coated simplifications, a switch of topic or, even worse, a positive spin. “How is this relevant?”

“Have you looked at him? Yesterday? Today?” The hesitation tells him everything he needs to know. “He’s not sick. He’s not just in a bad mood. He’s going to fucking break down and it’s not going to be pretty.”

“What happened?”

“Mind your own goddamn business.”

“You’re the one telling me about this. Do you want me to get Six involved?”

Bandit rolls his eyes and leans closer, lowers his voice. “That’s exactly why I’m here. If he explodes, he’s done for. Six won’t trust him anymore. I’m only still here because you vouch for me, let’s be honest – and no one whom she trusts as much as you will vouch for him.” As far as he can tell, Lion needs this job. A good part of his self-worth is tied to it and not only because he made it to where Doc is, no, it’s obvious Lion considers Rainbow to be the crème de la crème, the highest step on the career ladder. Getting thrown out because of mental problems would destroy him.

“So what do you want from me?”

It’s baffling Blitz still hasn’t caught on. “You told me never to contact him again. It was you who made me stay away from him, remember? I don’t want Six involved, so I’m coming to you. Allow me to talk to him. Allow me to defuse this fucking time bomb. And let me keep meeting up with him, he needs it.”

“You are so unbelievably full of yourself, Dom. Absolutely not. If I catch you anywhere near him, it’s over. You need this job too.”

He slams his fist on the table and it says a lot that Blitz doesn’t even twitch. “Motherfucker. You have no idea what you’re dealing with.”

“Oh, but you do?”

“I have to do this.”

“Why?”

“I’m probably the only one who even remotely -”

“Why?”

“Are you trying to piss me off?”

Blitz fixes him with a level gaze, unflinching and without mercy. “Tell me what happened. What did he do? And tell me why you’re going to such lengths to help him. It’s not what you’d usually do. It’s not even what you’d do most of the time, especially not if you can just as well watch from the sidelines.”

He knows the answer to this. He doesn’t like it, not one bit, and still he knows it. So he starts with the ‘easier’ part. “I drank too much. I must’ve somehow gotten to his apartment. He fucked me. The next morning, he drove me home while I was still too tired to realise, so we didn’t talk. Haven’t been alone in a room with him since.” Blitz has the aura of someone who’d like to interject with something unqualified, so he adds: “I was unconscious for most of it, Elias.” Blitz’ mouth closes again. There’s a short silence during which Bandit struggles to keep still. He’s witnessed Lion screaming at Twitch first hand, calling her something which rhymes with her callsign and he knows the idiot usually harbours nothing but respect for her. He’s seen the wild look in his eyes, the bags under it, the shaking fingers, knows the signs.

“Jesus fucking Christ”, Blitz finally says and massages his temples. “None of this is convincing me to allow you to go anywhere near him, let alone not to inform Six right this instant, you do realise this?”

“Give me a week. I’ll sort him out.”

“Why should I trust you not to just skin him alive like you would anyone else who even tried something remotely similar?”

And there it is. The question Bandit has feared, the one he avoided up to now – too much of a coward to even admit it to himself. He thinks of the quiet moments after, Lion’s limbs entangled with his, a snarky comment making pale lips curve into a tired smile, auburn hair tickling his skin. “Because I care”, he replies softly.

.

Lion has never reminded him more of a wild cat, pacing in its cage, rearing to sink its claws into whoever put it there or whoever is unlucky enough to get too close. He refuses to look at Bandit directly, lets his gaze wander through the busy café, attracted by anything that moves, now and then flitting over to where Blitz and Montagne are sitting and chatting. It was the only way Bandit could be sure to get him to turn up – make the situation as non-threatening as possible: in public and within sight of a friend. He suspects Lion thought he’d do the same Blitz expected of him but lion hide isn’t what he’s after.

It’s strange, looking at him. Bandit is used to having the upper hand always, in the beginning due to his knowledge of how to get under his skin, provoke him into a fit of rage, later the much more tangible control of physically restraining him and forcing him to listen to whatever Bandit has to say. He lost it when he sent him away. He set him free and, predictably, the cat bit him now that he held no power over it anymore.

“We have to set some boundaries”, he announces while stirring his coffee.

“To what end?” He’s aggressive, thinks Bandit is here to accuse him and therefore is ready to defend himself whatever the cost. It’s counter-productive, so Bandit ignores him.

“No touching outside of play.”

Lion looks ready to sock him in the jaw. “The fuck are you talking about?! Besides, you came over, you know. You threw me out of bed by knocking at my door in the middle of the night and you even tried to punch me.”

Justifications before Bandit even mentioned any of it. He’s losing him and he really can’t afford to. “Listen to me, asshole”, he hisses, “I’m not talking about any of it. We’re not going to talk about it. I’m willing to give you what you want, which is the best fucking you’ve ever had on top of indulging your every whim about being beaten bloody – and you know I’m discreet, I don’t ask questions, I take care of you. You know all this. But I’m only gonna do it if we have this fucking talk, no matter how much you don’t want to.”

It’s the first time either of them implies their sessions have been to Lion’s benefit and not Bandit’s. He’s shocked into speechlessness but they both know he’s not far off the truth, not at all. And yet: “This isn’t what I want. I can’t stand your fucking ugly face, how narcissistic do you have to be to believe -”

“Cut the bullshit, I don’t have the time for it. If you really hate it so much, leave, as simple as that. You know I won’t touch you.” It’s a gamble. He’s convinced Lion’s aware of benefiting from this, now it’s just a question of pride – and the pretty boy definitely has an abundance of it.

“It’s not that simple. You’re abusing me.”

“And you don’t like that? Alright. I can stop hurting you. I can stop degrading you, it’s no trouble at all, I’ll just cut out everything I normally do and then we’re left with vanilla sex. If that’s what you want, sure, let’s fuck missionary style and afterwards giggle like schoolgirls who did something forbidden. I’m down.” Lion rolls his eyes. He’s endlessly annoyed yet it’s not Bandit’s words alone achieving that effect but also his frustration about being unable to speak what he’d really like to say. Bandit is trying to make it as easy as possible for him but it seems he’s dead set on overcomplicating matters. “Look. I’m going to spell it out for you and all you have to do is nod or shake your head. Do you want to keep meeting up with me?”

Lion is chewing on his lip indecisively. He’s being forced to make a decision and he doesn’t like it – he seems to prefer being able to shift all responsibility and blame to someone else, pretend he’s being forced, justify it to himself as something out of his control. That way, he doesn’t have to think about any of it too hard, about why he enjoys it so much, about why he allows Bandit to hold this kind of power over him. He glances at Montagne again who’s laughing at something Blitz said, the two of them comfortable in each other’s presence. Both Lion’s and Bandit’s body language is tense, alert. Eventually, he nods slowly.

If he brags or gloats now, Lion is going to leave. So he simply nods as well. “Alright. Do you want to keep playing?”

A derisive huff. “Is that what you’re calling it?”

“No. That’s what it is”, Bandit stresses, face serious. “It’s pretend. It’s not real.”

“The first time felt pretty real.”

It’s a sore spot and Lion nailed it. Bandit almost winces but stops himself, lowers his gaze regardless. “The first time was… selfish.”

“Oh, and the ones after that weren’t?”

“No. They were mainly about you.” He can watch the cogs turn in Lion’s head, trying to recall details. The kid must realise that a few things he genuinely hated weren’t brought up anymore, that Bandit kept a certain routine to which he responded well, that he always made sure Lion was alright afterwards. Well, mostly alright, considering.

“Yeah. Okay.”

“What’s your safeword?”

“Come on.”

“I’m not doing it if you don’t have one.”

“You’re being absurd.”

“No, you’re being a little bitch. I knew you wouldn’t like it because it gives you control but imagine all the things I can try on you because now I know you’ll stop me if it gets too much. Also, now you can beg as much as you want and I won’t budge.” He can see it in Lion’s face, the question of there’s worse? clearly written on his forehead, followed by an intrigued expression. A safeword is like a condom, ultimately it ensures both participants’ safety but it’s inherently unsexy, a mood killer – which is why he’s bringing it up now and not in the moment. You can slip a safeword on way in advance. “Choose something you won’t forget. Something easy.”

“Okay. Malfrat.” A French word which rolls over his tongue effortlessly yet leaves Bandit frowning. “Basically means bandit in French.”

Good enough for him. He tries to remember the way he said it, makes him repeat it a few times so he’s familiar with the intonation and can identify it even if it’s mumbled, screamed, muffled, slurred. Finally, he nods. “Good. Now to the details. Is there anything you’d like me to never use on you again?”

“What is this, a shopping list?” Despite all his complaints, Lion has calmed down considerably by now. He’s focused on their conversation, barely pays any attention to his backup and has stopped fidgeting. Bandit has shown no inclination to blame him for what he did nor to even mention it, and the prospect of continuing that which they left unfinished due to Blitz’ horror and sharp words seems to placate him. “I don’t like the whips.”

“So no whips anymore. Got it.”

Lion hesitates. “That’s not what I said.”

“Fucking hell, then answer the question. I’m serious about it, if there’s anything you don’t want me to do, now’s the best time to say it. What about the humiliation? The writing? Finishing inside of you? Fucking in general? It’s all fine with you?”

Lion ponders the question for a while but it’s clear he’s made up his mind, is merely working up the courage to say it out loud. His cheeks are filling with blood and it hits Bandit not for the first time how crassly beautiful he is when he has no right to be. His fingers are itching to make him squirm under his touch once more, the pent up desire returning full force upon him pursing his lips. They look so soft that Bandit wants to run his thumb over them. “You can praise me more”, he finally murmurs, visibly embarrassed.

Bandit stares. “What, during? Afterwards?”

“Both.”

This is – he’s noticed, of course he noticed, how could he not when every single compliment turned Lion to putty in his hands, tamed him instantly where violence riled him up at first. A lot of pain is necessary to break his spirit but it only takes a few gentle words to make him pliant, obey Bandit’s every command. He pictures it, forcing Lion to his knees with kindness, having him suck him off amateurishly yet eagerly, thirsty for every word falling from Bandit’s lips and so, so willing. The content smile on his face. The way he leans into his touches.

He’s floored. And yet he nods. “Alright. I can do that.” And with this, Lion seems satisfied.

It’s good enough for the moment. There are things Bandit can do to him Lion isn’t even considering, so for now he’ll err on the side of caution and not touch on any of them without explicit consent. He’s learned his lesson. And he’s fairly sure Lion has, too.

[crimethinc]

J20 Postscript: How I Spent January 20, 2017–A True Story from Trump’s Inauguration

That was the morning we overslept—Friday, the twentieth of January, 2017. It was every activist’s greatest fear: our cell phone alarms blaring in unison, our friends running around us scrambling to get ready, while we just lay there, arms thrown haphazardly across our faces, dead to the world.

How could we sleep with Marius Mason in prison, the polar ice caps gushing into the ocean, and Donald Trump entering office?

For months, reality had hung on us like a bad dream; riding into DC was like entering its epicenter. Every Nazi troll on the internet was promising to gun us down in cold blood. Newspapers were reporting that two million bikers had promised to form a wall of meat between us and the motorcade of the President-elect. We were all going to prison—if we made it out of surgery. If you want a picture of the future, imagine Pepe the Frog stamping on a human face, forever.

All night, we’d discussed the situation, speaking one by one, weighing our options, going around the living room in circles the way one passes one’s tongue over a broken tooth again and again. If Trump entered office with the mandate of an acquiescent population, deporting ten million people would be the new normal. But if we tried to interrupt the spectacle, they would mass-arrest us, put all our names on a list, and our parents and partners would never be allowed to fly again. Would they surround us as soon as we assembled? Would the Nazis shoot us? It was a nightmare from which slumber offered no respite.

And there we were, asleep at our moment of truth. Downtown was filling up with Secret Service agents and crimson-hatted know-nothings as our friends shook us by the shoulders and called out our names. Protesters were already lining up to blockade the checkpoints to the parade route when they resorted to flinging cups of cold water in our faces. It was no use: we were a thousand floors below, wandering the foggy land of Nod.

They wheeled the bed out through the broad double doors of the bedroom, down the narrow hallway, across the living room strewn with backpacks and sleeping bags. They carried it down the steep front steps, bracing themselves against the iron railing. Shoulders to the headboard, they rolled us up the hill past the row houses, through alleyways and intersections and shopping districts into the very heart of the nation’s capital.

The streets were ominously tranquil: a jogger here, a couple pushing a stroller there. There was no indication of the forces massing downtown. The branches of the trees sailed past us overhead, their shadows briefly fingering the bedclothes crumpled across our chests.

Then the buildings opened around us and we were in Logan Circle—the convergence point for the anti-capitalist march, a vortex drawing in all the rage and courage within a thousand miles. Hundreds of our friends had gathered already, their faces concealed beneath bandannas and balaclavas, a swirling maelstrom of anarchists and rebels. More were pouring in from the side streets every minute, pulling on masks and gloves, zipping up their sweatshirts, cinching their windbreakers tight around their wrists, unfurling the great black banners proclaiming NO PEACEFUL TRANSITION—FIGHT BACK NOW—JOIN THE RESISTANCE.

Our friends pushed us to the front of the throng and we set out, a dozen black-gloved hands on the headboard, our cheeks resting on silk pillowslips, our bodies cradled in gauzy silk sheets, the brocaded bedspread folded back beneath our splayed arms as the bed rumbled across the black asphalt. Behind us, the others poured into the street, linking arms, roaring out a full-throated call and response. Are you ready? Yes, we’re ready.

This was the notorious black bloc—bristling, if Trump’s Special Assistant to the Secretary of Defense is to be believed, with “banners, shields, bull horns, noise making devices, gas masks, medical supplies, police scanners, spray paint, ladders, bolt cutters, handcuff keys, and code manuals for covert communications,” dressed in “steal toe boots [sic], body armor, face masks, helmets, military gear, sports equipment, and other such attire,” wielding “Molotov cocktails, mace/chemical spray, flares, bats, sign polls [sic], bricks, rocks, glass, nails, padlocks, slingshots, brass knuckles, martial arts weapons, and bottles of waste.” A medieval monster in a modern fairy tale.

Picture the scene as it appeared to the helicopters thundering overhead: the amorphous black mass driving before it the white quadrilateral of the bed—like a Malevich painting, White Square on a Black Block. Ascending higher, the pilots could make out what awaited us a few blocks away: a lattice of metal fences and concrete barriers defended by 28,000 security personnel. It wasn’t the red-hatted fools we had to fear, but the full might of the state. Squads of National Guardsmen clustered around military vehicles at every intersection; fleets of mobile riot police circling on bicycles and motorcycles; vans packed full of armored officers fidgeting impatiently with pepper spray dispensers and bundles of zip ties. All the mercenaries within a thousand miles become a part of the hostile physical architecture of the capitol, become hostility itself.

Freeze the frame, here, as the march arrives at Franklin Square and the police move into action, rushing to flank us on their bicycles, to chase us with their zip ties, to shoot their less-lethal munitions at us. At the front of the march, the two of us lie in the bed, sunk in unconsciousness, limbs and hair intertwined, jolted by the motion of the wheels over the uneven pavement, our limp bodies without the dubious armor of sweatshirts or bandannas, beneath a hovering hailstorm of projectiles—percussion grenades and rubber bullets and tear gas canisters and frozen arcs of pepper spray. Our frail flesh on the chopping block of the state.

A hush falls. The police, the black bloc, the Trump supporters in their stupid red hats, the screwballs at Franklin Square demanding the legalization of marijuana, the photographers and spectators and passersby—all of them remain motionless. Only our friends continue forward, picking up speed, sneakers flying across the pavement as they charge the fortified lines of police, driving the bed like a battering ram before them. Finally, shoving the headboard in unison, they launch us into the void, remaining frozen in place behind us.

The police lines open before us like the Red Sea and we sail right through. Not on account of Molotov cocktails, pepper spray, flares, bats, bricks, rocks, glass, nails, padlocks, slingshots, or brass knuckles, mind you, not because of the polls or stolen toes—it’s very important that you understand this—but because of the dreaming.

On the other side of the columns of Kevlar and polycarbonate, we continue hurtling down the street, zigzagging between the roadblocks, through metal-fenced checkpoints, past detachments of callow Guardsmen and handfuls of stupefied bikers and gauntlets of snappily dressed pundits crowing in victory or wringing their hands. Our bed coasts by regiments of porta-potties standing at attention, marshaled to hold the excrement of a hundred thousand patriots—through the half-filled stands where bootlickers fresh from Rust Belt exurbs crowd together, mouths agape in a monosyllable—and we roll to a halt in the center of the parade route, blocking the way to the motorcade and the future.

The sudden stop shocks us awake. Starting from unconsciousness, we find ourselves in a petrified city.

Blinking, we take it all in: the bleachers dotted with imbeciles—the armored cars—the secret service agents caught midstride, their faces fixed as glowering masks. Behind them, a brass band blows soundlessly, cheeks bulging, sustaining a single inaudible note.

We rub our eyes in unison. But when we open them again, nothing has changed. Pushing back the bedclothes, we swing our legs over the sides of the bed and step from our brocaded barricade onto Pennsylvania Avenue. The air is absolutely still.

Moving in slow motion through this frozen phantasmagoria as if passing through a photograph, a flaming limousine appears trailing a column of smoke like a bridal train. The smoke extends a hundred feet in the air, blotting out the flags, darkening the asphalt, casting its shadow over the uniformed soldiers on parade. The windows of the limousine are smashed out so we can see that there is no one at the wheel. It pulls to a halt before us.

Should we get in? But what address would we give? Where would we like to go?

A mile north of the parade route, life continues as normal. Drivers enter their credit cards into parking meters; cashiers at kiosks dispense cigarettes and chocolate-covered monoglycerides beside panhandlers; waitresses and system administrators toil to placate creditors and absentee landlords. Carpenters refurbish drab box houses in someone else’s suburbs as amateur pundits tweet about someone else’s political party. All sleepwalkers in someone else’s dream, captives in never-never land.

This scene, not the White House, is truly the center of the nightmare, whence come all the other horrors. The police are not needed here—not in such numbers, anyway. The absence of an alternative does their work.

The dreamlessness itself is the police. It is what imposes the nightmare.

For the first time, we look at each other, you and I. What is our dream? What will transport us unscathed through the lines of riot police? Where do we want our burning limousine to take us? Where do we want to go?

Dream alone, it’s just a dream. Dream together, it can be reality.