#Who already wrought a reckoned?

[endreal]

Final days? You're not going to go all Majora's Mask on us are you? 🌕😢

The final days of a questionably appropriately dressed comic store gal

[iced-squid]

An introduction to the characters of my (incomplete) story, The Chaos Magnet:

(I collaged together a mishmash of old art to make this. It's not very elegant but oh well.)

The Chaos Magnet is urban fantasy, with a magic weapons system (because I had very specific media fixations back when I was a teenager). Two secret organizations have been waging a centuries-long war to gather magic weaponry and find the Pandemonium Machine. Wyn Halford, the leader of the organization formerly known as “The Confederation of Angels,” is desperate to end the war. As he sets his plans into motion, he recruits his nemesis’s daughter and is dealt much more than he reckoned for.

I wrote the first draft almost a decade ago and edited it religiously, but I’ve currently uprooted the whole story and I’m rewriting it. If my art skills ever get better, I’ll make a webcomic.

This post mostly explains my characters’ relationships to each other. I made this diagram to make it easier—

—just kidding. This diagram is insane and confusing. I did it for the joke, but in retrospect, I spent a little too much time on it.

It's going to get reallllllllll long, so I'll break down their dynamics/background below the cut.

The main POV characters are Glade Gideon, Wyn Halford, and Arch D'Auvay.

Glade Gideon is the daughter of Henry Gideon (the main villain, a.k.a. Wyn Halford's nemesis). She's a runaway drifting from place to place until Wyn sends Arch to "recruit" her. She is kidnapped to the organization headquarters and forced to join the war against her father. Though she doesn't like her father, she holds resentment towards Wyn for kidnapping her. She befriends Arch despite his role in carrying out the orders because it is clear he lacks autonomy—plus, he's fun to annoy.

Arch is not amused with the new addition to headquarters or with the incessant interruptions to his reading time, but it has been long since he had consistent conversation. He is not willing to admit he likes the company, or that he likes seeing Wyn suffer the annoyances wrought by the new recruit.

Wyn deeply regrets recruiting Glade because she is a menace. She spikes his coffee with a new condiment every week and interrupts his paperwork process, asking him inane questions. He did not sign up for babysitting his enemy's daughter. Hoping she would prove to be of some use, he has Arch and Layla train her as he makes preparations to dismantle Henry Gideon's organization for good.

Extra:

Glade is convinced she can snap Wyn like the twig he is (if he didn't have magic powers of course). If only she knew the phrase "I want that twink obliterated." She would have so much fun.

Arch secretly partakes in the "condiment of the week" prank with zest. But he's so deadpan, Glade can't tell.

Wyn likes the pranks. At least, most of the time. He loves a break from the monotony of his work and the chance to be melodramatic.

The slightly older characters with intertwining fates who are all doomed by the narrative: Eno Vallerium, Layla Adderley, and Wyn Halford.

Eno's dead. But as far as the narrative is concerned, she's alive and well. Prior to her death, an seer told her the year she would die, so it came as no surprise to her. Knowing she would cease to be, she made every effort to stamp out her feelings for Layla. But she was not very successful. They have a few good months before her timely death. Eno is also well aware of Wyn and Layla's mutual feelings for each other, so they encourage it.

Layla was recruited into the organization when she was fourteen by Wyn, who had already been ambitiously running the organization for two years. She worked for Henry Gideon and was an utter slaughter machine, so Wyn saw her as valuable. In her youth, she followed excitement and ambition—motivations Wyn exploited. Unfortunately, with age and Eno's influence, her lust for murder has waned. It turns out, a quiet life is much better than a life of endless bloodshed.

Wyn was drawn to Layla's ruthlessness and ambition because it mirrored his own. They bicker often in their youth, usually with Eno on standby ensuring it won't devolve into a fight. Wyn and Layla both defend Eno fiercely, especially knowing her eventual fate. They don't know when they develop feelings for each other, but after Eno's death, they are determined to hang onto each other forever. Their relationship is a secret because they fear it will be exploited by the enemy.

Extra:

As of The Chaos Magnet, Layla and Wyn are engaged with rings inscribed with a commemoration to Eno.

Wyn has consistent morals and values he abides by, but Layla is genuinely a terrible person until she matures. She spends a lot of her life in a "frozen time" state, so she has a lot of time to think. They get on the same wavelength eventually and spend their free time chilling on a couch.

They're all just very tired.

These guys grew up together in the organization headquarters. Eno basically parented Eric, Arch, and Wyn. Wyn takes care of Arch and Eric when he grows older, but he also gradually becomes more distant, especially after the responsibilities of leadership are thrust upon him at the green age of thirteen.

Wyn and Arch were orphaned in the same night. Before dying, Wyn’s parents ensured they would make a safe trip to the headquarters, despite having retired from the organization because they didn't agree with the politics.

Eric and Eno were practically kidnapped for the organization’s needs. Eno doesn’t even know their own birth name.

They all grew up alongside each other, but the weight of responsibility divided them. Eno and Wyn learned to shoulder the burden of knowledge so Eric and Arch could live as carefree as they possibly could. Of course, they couldn’t escape from the organization’s work.

Arch and Eric were inseparable, training and spending every waking moment together. If one of them got sick, the other would not escape the illness either. This would have probably continued forever, if Eric didn’t get beaten to a bloody pulp on a mission. The last time Arch sees Eric is when his maimed body is swept up by a helmeted stranger on an enemy motorbike. He’s twelve when he blames himself for what happened.

Wyn is too busy with work to provide consistent emotional support and Eno tries her best, but she is contending with her own fate, which was coming for her in less than a year.

As a result, Arch spends all his teen years stewing in guilt and loneliness, with nothing but his books.

Extra:

Layla’s there too, but she’s horrendous at dealing with people’s emotions. She tries, but she’s not good at it. The most she can do is hold a box of tissues.

Clem shows up eventually, but she’d rather die than deal with touchy feely stuff.

I had no idea what to label these guys, but here they are: Eric Florentine, Arch, Glade, and Clem. They're the younger of the main cast.

Glade meets Arch and Clem her first day of being kidnapped. Clem is the resident healer who is mysterious and aloof, but as far as Glade is concerned, she has not wronged her, so she likes her presence. Plus, for a person prone to small injuries, having a magic healer around is handy.

They all meet Eric when he shows up at the doorstep with a potentially fatal wound. Arch has been sure he was dead for six years, but Eric is very much alive, and he has been made into an experimental subject for Henry Gideon's people. He's been on the run after he made an attempt to steal something important from Gideon. He's a charismatic dude, and he dislikes Wyn, so Glade automatically considers him a friend.

Clem likes to stay out of the drama and emotional bits of other people's lives as much as she can. She heals people, and that's it. Out the gang, she likes Arch the most, since she considers him the most normal one. He's quiet and doesn't stir up trouble (at least, until Glade's influence and Eric's reappearance).

Extra:

Clem is secretly bothered by the fact she can't take Layla in a fair fight. She respects Layla the most though.

Glade is usually only annoying when she is with Arch and Wyn. She's much more chill when conversing with both Eric and Clem because she admires them.

Wyn has known Eric was alive for four years. He never told Arch on account of the promise he made to Eric.

They're all a hot mess. It's a miracle Clem can stay out of it at all.

It gets a lot more complicated, but this is the simplified, spoiler-free version.

If you've read all of this...well I don't know, I guess I owe you a small sliver of my soul. Here, I'll put it on a fancy gilded plate for you.

[davidmariottecomics]

The (Cash) Value of Art

Hello again, 

If you've been engaged in the comic and art spaces recently, you've probably noticed a number of troubling trends. While cost of living is rising, folks are looking up numbers showing rates have stagnated for extended periods (and given inflation, technically fallen). Folks are talking about being offered too little by places with big budgets. Folks are talking about massive delays or straight-up non-payments from comics publishers. And between NFTs featuring stolen artwork--a thing that has proven time and time again to be a scam of occasional worth, but no value; the seemingly ever-worsening state of actually crediting/acknowledging artists, much less listening when they say things like "do not repost or steal my art"; and AI tools that don't actually level any sort of artistic playing field and just steal and repurpose existing art (and user data and, sometimes, medical records?!) for the benefit of *checks notes* people who don't want to pay for art, it's a ROUGH time out there. 

DISCLAIMER: While I'm happy to harp on the negatives of art theft, as noted in that last point, I encourage doing your own due diligence on the first few. These are conversations that are happening and that, in conjunction with the rampant art theft and general devaluation of art that I'll be talking about today, I wanted to make sure got mentioned. However, as a lot of these conversations are coming from social media, I do think it's worth doing independent verification of any claims. I'm not here to say whether or not companies are paying people--I don't know. I'm saying that it's being discussed. 

What I am going to talk about more at length today is, generally, how you can value your art and take that valuation with you in all avenues you may pursue. These tips might not work for everyone, but maybe they'll work for you. 

The Value of Art

Chances are, if you're reading this, you already know what I'm about to say, but maybe you need a reminder. Art is human expression. It is the distillation of an idea by an artist in whatever medium they may choose. It may be inspiring or emotional or wrought with pain or just a funny little picture of a funny little guy because you were bored. It may have meaning and purpose and depth, or be vapid and convenient and random, and both can be enjoyable. Art is, I'd reckon, one of the base ways we relate to each other. It can be communication and entertainment, and one can beget the other. I am someone immersed in art all the time--from my work to the things in my home to what I consume in the public sphere. Art pays my bills (speaking of, my cats had to go to the vet--routine check-ups and vaccines and stuff, but not great timing, so if you wanna support me, check out the shop and buy my art). It has helped me when I've been down. It's brought me great joy. Art is valuable. Your art is valuable. Even if it is for no one except yourself, your art is worth your time and energy in that you created something you set out to create. 

So it really sucks when people devalue your art externally. It sucks that while social media has allowed for artists to find outreach and build audiences and community webs like never before, it's also an ever-churning engine looking for something to self-promote. An artist's post on Twitter is equally free promotion for Twitter as a place to find the artist and their work as it is the artist themselves. Sometimes, the equation's even more unbalanced as the proliferation of free art being shared by artists has led to entitled folks believing they have a right to all art--from taking and reposting art without credit (or, equally infuriatingly, with "credit to the artist") to piracy to the new wave of feeding other people's hard work without their knowledge or against their will into programs that allow other people to use and make a profit from their work. This is a particularly important point--the art's value isn't lost. AI generators, NFTs, the aforementioned social media--they're making money off of that work, instead of it going to the creators of the work. And people often submit that willingly because--at best, they don't know better, and at worst, they seek to actively cause harm to the artists. 

When there's so much happening, it can be disheartening. It feels like attacks against the worth of your work on all sides. And as many artists point out, they'd love to be able to make art for free (and, often do, though when they do, the fact it was free is overlooked and underappreciated). But they have bills and wants and needs and as long as we're using money to pay for things, a need for money for their work (as one last aside, pretty sure you could sub artists for sex workers and art for sex work and have the statement be equally true--notable because many forms of sex work overlap with art and also, y'know, people who have their work and humanity devalued gotta stick together, y'know). 

So, when it seems like things are against you, how do you value your own art?  

A Fair Price

What is a fair price is for your art? How can you set a price that you feel is justified? Who decides that price? Big questions, I know, but hopefully simple answers. 

The what and the how go hand-in-hand. I don't have it in front of me, but I've seen a pretty good calculation for setting rates in the past that is something like: 

Minimum Wage x Estimated Hours to Complete a Piece [taking into account style, complexity, and layers--a sketch takes less time than a fully colored multi-panel comic page--as an extra note here, you may want to ramp your "hours" up as a valuation of expertise, if you are quicker because you've learned and practiced to become able to work more quickly, take into account the hours spent getting there too] + Cost of Materials divided by Number of Projects they can be used for [how long does your pencil last? Your iPad? Monthly costs of electricity and/or internet? Also including shipping costs if those apply] + X Project Specific Materials [if you're paying for a special font or canvas or reference material] + the biggest variable, Minimum Wage x Estimated Hours for Promotion [that is to say, if you're expected to self-promote a project, how much you expect that sort of marketing work will cost/would be traded off for other work]. 

You might go up or down with whatever number you come up with, but now you have a base and one that is justified through a lot of your time and consideration. And that's the biggest thing--despite art appraisers and the budgets of commissioners [or a private or business level]--only you can really set the standard for how much you'd like to be paid. 

How to Go About Talking $$$ The short and sweet is, if you have a number in mind to start, you're ready for the conversation. Not all art budgets are going to match your number. Sometimes, occasionally, you'll be offered even higher (and unless the project is evil--probably worth saying, some art is inherently vile and bad and evil--you should take it). Sometimes you'll be lowballed and it'll be up to you whether or not you take it. A lot of the time, you'll be given a price that someone somewhere, not the person talking to you in the moment, said is the amount that can be paid. 

To that end, remember to be polite to the person attempting to hire you. Keep your number in mind and see if they have any flexibility if it isn't being met. I recommend talking budget early--either with deadline or after confirming the deadline will work. And ask your questions early too. Places should be able to answer basic questions about the money: how it can be paid, if there is an average/expected time that it is paid in (sometimes called a Net period), questions about rights, other usage, etc. 

From there, go with your gut. Ask a peer if something seems off. But if you know how much you value your art, that's the way to start the conversation. 

Speaking of the value of art and how artists need $$$ to pay for things... my friends Elizabeth and Danny had their catalytic converter stolen right off their car and those are expensive, so if you like good comics and stuff, maybe go and help them out! And Becca's shop is slightly updated and open through 12/26, speaking of someone who has recently been giving a lot of free art to social media and deserves to be paid for their work. Also, if you're an adult and a Genshin Impact fan, they're currently doing one of those "strip" trends of a sort... Also, lots of really good Makimas recently for you CSM fans. 

Next week: THE LAST BLOG OF THE YEAR! It's going to be a goodbye of sorts as I say a bit about my time with Transformers as we part ways for now, as well as saying goodbye to the first year of this blog. Hope to see you there! 

Things I've been enjoying this week: Heading out shortly to hang out and watch Xmas movies with the aforementioned Elizabeth, Danny, and Becca! Candy canes. Honkai Impact (Video game). Chainsaw Man (Anime & Manga). Knowing Star Saber's on his way and should be here Monday (and some other TFs are going to be coming home soon too). Finding something as a present that you didn't think you'd see before Xmas and is now under the tree. Advent calendars. Lego Masters (TV show). The Simpsons (TV show). Tiansheng being such a good boy for the vet (Nadja was not and so we have to go back Wednesday with her dosed with a calming drug beforehand). Hades II!!!!!!!! Getting through a chunk of my to-do list. This past week wasn't quite as "Winter Slumpy" as I was expecting, but I made good progress. 

Also, I took a pull on Genshin and got the artist formerly known as Scaramouche by accident and Becca still needs to pull him because they're actually much more interested, so one more plug, please buy some stuff from Becca so they can get this guy.  

New Releases this week (12/7/2022): Sonic the Hedgehog #55 (Editor) Transformers: Best of Windblade (Editor--our penultimate TF book) Godzilla Monsters & Protectors: All Hail the King #3 (Editor! My first Godzilla book!)

New releases next week (12/14/2022): Transformers: Shattered Glass II #5 (Supervising Editor--Our last TF book. More next week). 

Pic of the Week: Last week I drew a silly little comic about how doing self-promotion, including for this blog, kinda backfired as it seemed like I was being throttled in who my posts were reaching, as well as how to get past it (hint: he's fast and blue and I think I literally already posted this here, but whoops?). 

[fullscoreshenanigans]

Agree with the majority of people that the Ayshe-Norman conflict needed to be expanded upon because it is such a letdown to tease the moral quandary of one of your protagonists who's been pulled back from the brink and objectively committed grievous wrongs reckoning with what he's wrought, only to put a pin it and vaguely nod to it later on as not being entirely settled (because how could it be in such a short amount of time). To be fair, things had already simmered down by the time they meet in the capital, and I like to at least partially contribute that to her interactions with Don and Gilda, but Norman has yet to be shown initiating any act of restitution. It helps that Shirai acknowledges this was an unsatisfactory conclusion to the conflict and meant to further elaborate upon it, but for now we're left in limbo.

#going with ayshe bc i think she deserves it and tbh it would just be more interesting to detail whatever happened there w her??? #like some internal monologue or some follow up even if just a bit #sorry idk how to put it into words (via @trainerbea)

What you said makes sense! You even went further by centering it around Ayshe's perspective after the only follow-up we receive is this panel from chapter 181:

And you can make inferences from it—them being in such close physical proximity while she allows him to hold one of her new puppies, beings she considers part of her family—but still, nothing compared to a more fleshed-out chapter or light novel story. We're never privy to the full spectrum of emotions she regards him or the other Lambda kids with, which is kind of important, given how she's the entire other side of that conflict.

Whether it was a regular 19- to 21-page chapter or a 35-40-bonus-length one, I could see Shirai keeping it primarily in her perspective or alternating between the two, but after what we received for the resolution up until now it couldn't be primarily from Norman's; it would feel too unbalanced.

#I'm still waiting for the Ayshe oneshot Shirai did promise us so... #but! I really don't want to see Ray addressing his relationship with Isabella #why? because it's more fun to think about it yourself #and see different interpretations of various writers and artists #everything else would be great too #I'd also love to see more of Isabella's time in the Headquarters as trainee #and how she changed over the years (because she changed) #not to forget - how James did assemble his supporters #that would be great too #but first I need more Ayshe stuff (via @officersnickers)

After all our chats you know how much of a sucker I am for Ray and the rest of the Grace Field children having an open discussion about the woman who raised them and everything she put them through, so I would 100% be down for that if it had enough room to breathe. If the focus is centered around Ray, I don't feel it would be impossible even within the confines of a regular-length chapter. However, outside of it being directly addressed in a dialogue with other characters (most likely with interspersed flashbacks), I feel like the best framing would be musings over the course of years.

But as noted in other tags, I should have opened the choice up to all the Grace Field kids sorting this out; this was me getting hung up on how messy the last interaction Ray has with her is (on top of, you know, all the prolonged trauma) when the last time Norman saw her she was handing him over to Peter and his nerves looked absolutely fried.

#ray addressing his relationship with isabella is so low on my priority list honestly bc i doubt it would be done in a way that satisfies me #i’m biased but i just don’t think shirai has the guts or willpower to address that implied abuse with any kind of nuance #the strained relationship between mother and son #nothing that can ever truly be mended #i want ray to loath her and i don’t think shirai can really hit that #jointly though i wouldn’t want a chapter like that that solely focuses on ray (isabella was norman and emma’s mom too!) (via @whamss)

We do have the December 2020 exhibition interview where Shirai state she's a (morally) poor person for being taken in by the belief that her actions as a Mom are entirely noble.

I do agree though that the chances of Ray coming out of that hypothetical chapter fully loathing her would be nonexistent with the way her death is framed.

#By this point WSJ should give them the special 35-40 page chapters because 20 pages would not be enough for any plot line above #Of course I would choose the Ayshe-Norman conflict first #But I remember there being an option for fans to choose whether they want to see how Mujika and the demons are post-canon #I've been so curious about that every time I remember it (via @thathilomgirl)

Ooo Mujika post-canon going-ons would be good, too. My initial thoughts are with how bizarrely and conveniently smoothly we see the transfer of power to her thanks to Leuvis' grand display that any immediate conflict afterward would feel awkward and contrived, but as a vehicle for delving into more of the demon world's culture and history and/or there potentially being a significant timeskip by demon lifespan standards to see the long-term effects of her reign, it could be neat.

And yes in an ideal world we'd be getting way more than a single chapter to feel the full impact of any of these scenarios without large chunks lost to timeskips of a few months or years. (I've always got the prayer circle going for a Shaman King situation playing out with more chapters being added in a perfect edition rerelease.)

*The kids integrating into the human world and the potential struggles they face post-finding Emma.

**Ray addressing his relationship with Isabella, either by himself or with other characters.

Interested if people will specify a difference between what they think is most needed and what potentially requires an entire arc to properly address versus what they think can reasonably be addressed in a single chapter, and if the standard chapter length of 19-21 pages versus the 35- to 40-page length of Isabella's and Krone's respective bonus chapters factors in at all.

[peachypascal]

work for it

summary: tensions are running high between you and mando, and after a long day, he loses his patience with you.

warnings: unprotected sex, oral (m+f receiving), choking, condescension, possession i guess?, very lowkey dom/sub vibes, one (1) spank, spoilers for season 2, unedited

word count: 5.3k

you can barely even look at him anymore.

if you could get to his face, if he wasn’t such a skillful fighter, you reckon you might have hit him already, but instead, you’re forced to push all your irritation under the surface. it’s already such a tense environment; there’s no point in making it worse.

he’s been fighting with everyone since the moment you had landed. he’s unhappy. it’s understandable, given what he’s lost recently, but you had lost, too. you had lost the child, and you had lost a piece of yourself. you hurt, too, but he won’t allow you your moment to grieve. for the first time since the two of you met, your mandalorian expects you to stand up. you are meant to be the strong one this time. before he had begun taking his upset out on you, that had been fine. you had been okay with that.

din has lost more than you have. you lost grogu and you lost the ship, but he had lost his child, his home, his creed. din had lost his way. you ache for him, really. it’s unfair that such a good man should live a life so wrought with tragedy and tribulation.

it doesn’t stop you from bristling at the way he talks to you, like you can’t take care of yourself anymore. the two of you had always worked so well together before now. now, he’s pent-up. he’s angry. about his losses, about his mere proximity to bo-katan, who seems to have her mind set on defeating him every step of the way, about the fact that he can’t find a moment alone, not with you staying in the same room he’s in, one hardly big enough to hold the two cots you’ve been sleeping in.

he thought getting off the ship was what he needed. solid ground and natural light and someplace where looking out the windows doesn’t make his head spin, but now he’s even closer to you than before. lately, something that was once so comforting now only reminds him of one more thing he’s bound to lose. against all great odds, he had managed to survive his losses. you, he’s not so sure he could handle losing. you’re the last thing keeping him hanging on, the single thread keeping him where he needs to be, and without you, he’s gone.

after the days that you have been living, all you want is a nice, luxurious bed to fall into after your perpetually long days, but you and mando are barely able to scrounge enough extra credits together for the dingy little box they call a room. you would call it a scam, but after traveling with mando for so long, you’ve grown used to the seedier parts of the galaxy, and you’ll only be here a few days while everyone regroups. it’s a much-needed break from the only person you want to punch more than din and even with your mounting annoyance, it feels nice to listen to the chatter of a city while you sit in your room, watching them from above.

behind you, the door opens. you don’t bother turning around—you fear that seeing him might set you off and vice versa. a deep breath holds still in your chest, waiting, wondering if he’s going to say something to you. right as you begin to let your guard down, your shoulders dropping, he breaks the silence.

“we’re leaving tomorrow.”

they’re the first words in days that he has spoken without malice behind them, but the sound of his filtered voice still grates on your nerves. the two of you have been living in a powder keg, your explosion inevitable, but you had hoped it would stay intact until you left this planet. with the irritation that burns you now, you’re unsure you’ll make it through the night. it fills you with a great sense of dread. no, you aren’t sure you can stand another moment sleeping three feet away from him, but you hate even more the idea of the two of you not even speaking.

you don’t hear him move, still by the door, still in his armor. with a quiet sigh, you glance back at him only to give him confirmation that you’ve heard him. even through the modulator, you hear his disgruntled huff. he begins removing his armor, shaking his head at you. you purse your lips at the sight of him. before grogu was taken from you, it felt as though you two were finally getting somewhere. you had been traveling with them long enough to feel as though you were a part of a small family. you had finally managed to break down din’s walls, to almost get close enough to touch. all your travels had led up to this, all the nervous glances and tentative touches, and now, you can barely look at him. you want to reach out for him, but even in the tiny room, he feels too far.

finally, you sigh. “great.”

din stacks his armor noisily beside his bed, hiding his blaster under his pillow and kicking his boots off. he’s being loud. after so many nights of hearing him take off that armor in the crest, you knew he was always careful not to let it clang the way it does now. if you could see his eyes, you would see the light that flickers in them, just waiting for an excuse to start a fire.

“what did you do today?” you ask quietly, skin burning with the tension and your need to diffuse it.

he sighs, shaking his helmet minutely. “nothing.”

a crinkle forms between your brows. “nothing? you’ve been gone all day doing nothing?”

his shoulders square in irritation and the sight nearly sets you off. “does it matter?” he scoffs, settling his hands on his hips.

your jaw sets and you turn to face him. “no, i suppose not.”

the air is thick between you and a heavy shiver runs down your spine, desperate to get away from him. you stand, in need of a moment of fresh air, but din grabs your bicep before you can pass him, the stoic flat of his helmet tilting to look at you. “where are you going?”

your mandalorian is a man of pride. he would never admit it, especially not after he had sacrificed that pride so much in the time that you had known him, but it was true. that pride means that asking the very question makes him cringe beneath his helmet. perhaps it’s your anger with him, or your inability to keep your mouth shut, but in a quick moment of spite, you sneer back at him. “does it matter?”

before you even have a chance to change your facial expression, one gloved hand wraps firmly around your throat, forcing your gaze up to meet his. you choke, not because he’s holding you too tightly but because of your surprise, eyes wide as you look up at him. “watch it.”

you stare at his visor, hardening your expression. your shock wears off quickly. instead, you find it much easier to concentrate on the fury that has been building for days. “or what?” you spit. “i’m not fighting with you, din.”

the use of his name catches him off-guard. he had only heard it fall from your lips in the most intimate of moments, quiet, long conversations in the cockpit when the child was asleep. then, it had calmed him. it soothed his soul to know that you knew him. now, it fuels the fire already burning in him; it only feeds the need settled low in his gut at the sight of you. it sets him off.

he takes two, long strides and takes you with him, backing you against the wall with his hand tightening around your throat, ignoring your confused squeak. “you don’t talk to me like that,” he cuts out, voice low and tight, and you laugh mirthlessly, still impassioned enough to fight him even with his hand around your throat.

“and you don’t treat me like dirt. deal?”

the two of you stand in a long silence, your nose an inch away from his visor; you wonder if mando will say anything, defend himself, but he seems as though he doesn’t even hear your words. he takes in a slow, deep breath before his fingers tighten around your throat, and you can’t help your quiet moan, eyes fluttering closed. his mouth goes dry at the sound, legs weak at the sound he’s been imagined every single night. even with anger still pounding through you, you can’t deny that you like the position. after traveling with him for so long, always at arm's length, this is all you think about anymore. him, touching you, holding you so close like he does now.

you shudder under his hand and blood rushes in his ears, seemingly amplified under his helmet. his breathing is heavy, pondering his next move cautiously before he finally says, “turn around.” you’re so headstrong, you have been since he’s known you. you don’t take his commandments without question or pushback, which is why he expects you to spit a curse back in his face. you don’t.

instead, for the first time ever, you obey without question.

din feels like the breath he takes is gasping, his mouth open like a fish as his hand falls down to his side, eyes tracking down the arch of your spine. it’s as though you’re presenting yourself to him, the subtle look over your shoulder telling him all the words he wants to hear. take me. i’m ready. the wait is over.

“mando,” you whisper hoarsely, pressing your warm forehead against the wall. “please.”

he’s unsure exactly where to start. after a thousand fantasies, they all seem to blur together until he wants everything, no way to figure out what he wants the most. as he pulls off his gloves, he takes a moment to deliberate, admiring the sight of you waiting for him. all those fantasies and din can only decide on one thing: he’ll take as much as he can.

his bare hand glides over your hip, his touch relaxing your tight muscles as his arm wraps around you, palm pressing to your stomach and his chest pressing to your back. “you’re okay?” he asks, voice tight with barely-restrained need.

your answer is breathy and needy. “yes,” you sigh. “please.”

din tightens his arm around your ribcage with an impatient grunt, his other hand already reaching into the waistband of your sleep pants. your skin is warm under his palm and not for the first time, he’s cursing the helmet on his head. he wants to be closer to you, to bury his face in your neck and breathe you in until you’re all he knows, and just as he begins to toy with the band of your underwear, he pulls away.

you give a frustrated groan, leaning back into him, but it’s fruitless. he’s already crossing the room, bare hands drawing the curtains and turning off the lights. “mando.” it shocks you to hear how your voice sounds, whiny and small while you turn back to him. “what—did i do something?”

“no,” he answers shortly.

there’s a moment where all you hear is the pounding of your own heart and the faraway chatter of the crowd on the street below you before he returns to you. you breathe out gently in relief when his large hands grip your hips tightly again, squeezing once before one travels up and the other goes down. your eyes flutter closed, reaching to grasp at his wrist when he cups your breast.

and then he leans down and presses his lips to the shell of your ear. you jump in surprise at the feeling, at the idea that he would take his helmet off in such a vulnerable position, and your eyes fly open. “mando!”

din shushes you. “it’s okay,” he murmurs, fingers slipping into your pants once again until he’s cupping your pussy, an unfiltered moan vibrating against your neck. “maker, you’re already soaked.” your hips jolt into his hand, desperately searching for any sort of friction. his teeth sink into your earlobe. “needy,” he growls. “always so needy.”

a quick retort is already on your tongue, but his nose nuzzles against your temple and two of his fingers find your clit, lips stretching into a small smile when he hears your soft moan. your head falls back onto his shoulder, sinking into the pleasure he’s building within you. he’s always worked so well with his hands but you have a newfound appreciation for the dexterity of them as he rubs deep, slow circles into you.

din buries his face in your neck, tongue laving over your pulsepoint and teeth biting at your collarbone, savoring the way you take over all of his senses. he grinds against your ass, the thick duraweave of his pants grating against your threadbare sleep pants. “feel that?” he murmurs, just below your ear, and you moan, grinding down against his fingers. you certainly do. it shocks you, at first, just how hard he is, how big he is. he’s always been so broad, so big in every other sense that it shouldn’t surprise you, but you find yourself daunted by the thought of him already.

“fuck, mando,” you whine, unable to decide where you want to be more, grinding down against his fingers or back against his cock, and you let out a frustrated groan.

“what’s wrong?” he coos mockingly, hand sliding from your breast to your throat. “you want more?”

“i want to come,” you beg.

“you want to come?” his grip around your throat tightens. “work for it.”

your knees almost buckle, a loud moan falling from your lips, one that makes din’s cock twitch. you press back against him, grinding shamelessly against your mandalorian with your brow furrowed in pleasure. his fingers work faster against your clit, the arm across your chest keeping you tight against his, and his low moan rumbles against your back.

it’s just out of reach, right at your fingertips; you need just a little bit more. you reach back for him, your fingers tangling in his hair. “din,” you gasp, voice choked. “i’m so close.”

he hums against your hairline, long fingers slipping further into your underwear to circle your entrance just once before he’s sinking one in, enjoying the bliss that washes over his body when you lean back against his chest. “stars, y/n, you feel so good,” he breathes, his eyes falling closed when he adds another finger.

your jaw clenches in preparation for your orgasm, already burning you up when din presses right against your sensitive wall. with a tug of his hair, your stomach tightens, the prettiest moan he’s ever heard in his life falling from your lips. din curls his fingers, breathing heavily when you clench tight around them. it takes over you without warning, your strangled cry of his name forcing his own rough groan against your hair. your thighs shake around his hand as you come, pulling on his hair until he’s hissing.

it’s the first time you’ve come in weeks and by the time din stops pressing against your g-spot, there are tears running down your cheeks. your hips jerk away from him fruitlessly, desperate to get away from the stimulation. din can’t help his soft smile, guiding you to your bed as well as he can in the dark. “c’mon, you need to rest.”

“no,” you insist, eyes wide and searching for him in the black. “no. sit down.” the thought of you on your knees for him, between his legs, it nearly makes him sweat, so he searches for your hand, entwining your fingers. “please.”

you trap your lip between your teeth as you sink down to your knees, listening to your mandalorian remove his clothing before he sits on your cot. your palms find his knees, brushing over the hair scattered over his skin, grinning at the sound of his exhale. you hum, running your hands up and down his thighs, over his hips, appreciating the feeling of his skin against yours until you wrap your fingers around his cock, stomach flipping at his quiet moan of your name.

all you want is for him to feel good, to feel a fraction as blissful as he made you feel, and it’s hard to pace yourself, so you lean forward and take him in your mouth, your lips closing around his head and your eyes fluttering closed. it’s a scene you’ve imagined a thousand times over, but none of your daydreams compare to the real thing. he’s so vocal, his loud moans and quiet murmurings filling the room, and he’s intoxicating you, his scent and taste and the feel of him under you, it already has you ready for him again. you moan around him, tightening your grip slightly, and his hips stutter.

“fuck,” he hisses, grasping the blanket beneath him. your eyes open, desperate to see him, but the way this man, this warrior, whines when you flick your tongue a certain way, you think that’s just as good as seeing his face.

din’s hips jolt at a particularly strong suck at his head. you hum at the taste of him on your tongue, distinct and so uniquely him, taking him deeper to taste more of him. when he hits your throat, your gag makes him cry out, voice thin from the pleasure, and in an attempt to calm himself down, he pulls you off of him, panting loudly. it had been far too long, not just since relief but since he had started fantasizing about this very position, and it’s not unlikely that if you continue, this will be over far too fast for his liking.

wordlessly, he pulls you off the floor and into his lap. strong arms wrap around your waist, and you gasp when he grabs the nape of your neck, guiding you into a kiss. it’s sloppy, a little unpracticed, but you’ve never felt so worked up. you wrap your arms around his neck, eagerly rolling your hips against his. “more,” you insist, grinning against his lips at his silent chuckle.

“what did i say?” his grip on the back of your neck tightens and his voice drops, suddenly serious. “needy.”

without answering, you reach between the two of you, fingers wrapping around his cock again before you drag it through your folds, pleased with the impatient grunt that falls from his lips. his fingertips dig into your waist and his teeth dig into your lip, trying to will you into giving him what he wants and you’re in no position to deny him this; you’re just as worked up as he is. with another long kiss, you sink down slowly, pressing your forehead to din’s. the room echoes with the relieved breaths that fall from both of you, with the increasingly passionate kisses the two of you share as you begin to adjust to his size, and with the lewd sounds of him filling you. he’s panting, holding you close in an effort to not drag you down on his cock. you’re barely halfway and already whining against his lips, and maker, he’s going to leave bruises to show his restraint, a sweat springing at his hairline every time you take him just a little deeper.

finally, with a high, quiet moan, you sink fully down on him, settling on his thighs for a moment of rest, adjusting to the way he stretches you. “din,” you breathe, tugging on his hair. you clench around him, your heart leaping when you feel him shudder. “you feel so good.”

“you’re so tight,” he huffs, thrusting up into you gently. “sweet little thing. i’ve been waiting for this.”

the admission makes you whimper. you kiss him hard, rolling your hips against his in an effort to get him just a little deeper and din’s head falls back, taking in a shaky breath before he’s thrusting into your again. leaning forward, you nip at his jaw. only he will see the marks you leave on him, but you’re unsure what happens when the two of you are done. you don’t know if it will ever happen again. you’re determined to leave your mark on him. you want him to remember this night when he looks in the mirror tomorrow, and the day after, and as long as your marks last. it sets a new fire under you, holding desperately to him while he fucks you, your teeth littering marks on his neck.

“mando,” you whine, sensitive clit rubbing over his pelvis. you want to say more. you want to tell him exactly how he’s making you feel, dizzy and hot and intoxicated by him, but you can’t exactly find the words. instead, you hang onto him like you’re going to lose him. he has you stuffed full and near tears with how deep he’s fucking you and for the first time, you have him. all of him. you feel him all over, breathing his scent in, finally pure and strong without the obstruction of his armor between the two of you. it’s a scent you never want to get rid of.

the way you squeeze him nearly has him coming, hands shaking even when pressed against your skin. he wants to pull you off him—needs to pull you off him—but you feel too good. his eyes roll back, jaw tight when you circle your hips just right, and with no warning, the same way he had pulled you on his lap, he rolls you off onto your cot.

“no, no, no,” you cry, reaching out for him. your fingertips barely brush his bare skin, and he shushes you quietly, grabbing your ankles as though he can see you perfectly well.

“you’re okay, mesh’la,” he says softly, pressing a sweet kiss to one of your calves. “i’m going to take care of you.”

din sinks to his knees, pressing his cheek to the inside of your knee, and you take in a sharp breath, his facial hair scratching pleasantly at the sensitive skin. “din,” you breathe, sitting up on your elbows. he only hums, soft lips pressing a line of sweet kisses up your inner thighs.

oh, he had been waiting for this. all of it, really, but this is his favorite daydream. his mind had worked up the most elaborate fantasies about what you would sound like, feel like, taste like, and his heart pounds at the idea of finally finding out. he’s not in the mood to tease you, not anymore, and his eyes flutter closed as he wraps his arms around your thighs and leans in, dragging his tongue through your folds with a satisfied hum.

you keen, reaching down for his hair without hesitation. the sharp tug makes him moan into your cunt, savoring the taste of you with nothing but pure delight. for a few minutes, all he wants is to taste as much of you as he can, but your quiet, little moans are no longer good enough for him. he licks a thick stripe up your slit and wraps his lips around your clit, tightening his grip around your thighs.

“oh, fuck,” you mewl, pulling on his hair harder. he flicks his tongue before he sucks your clit into his mouth, basking in all your needy little sounds.

din pulls away despite your desperate whine. “can’t believe you’ve been keeping this from me, sweet girl,” he whispers, pressing soft kisses to your clit.

your back arches, pushing your hips further toward him. “please.”

as though he hasn’t even heard you, he continues, “but this pussy is mine now, isn’t it?”

those words are enough to have you clenching around nothing, the idea of din wanting you longer than just a night. “yes!” you cry, digging your heels into his back. “it’s yours. i’m yours, din. please let me come.”

his fingertips dig into your skin and his eyes roll back. he ducks his head down and the fervor with which he licks into you has your hips rolling against his face, so close to your release. the room echoes with the lewd sound of him between your legs and your eager moans, teetering right on the edge of another orgasm. your legs struggle against his hold as you writhe around on the cot, voice getting pitchy as he sucks your clit again, humming into you. whatever sound you’re making gets caught in your throat, your whole body tensing around him as you come again. you sob his name out, pulling his face closer and pushing your hips away, unable to decide whether you need more or rest.

din works you through your high with sweet kisses and quiet praises, nuzzling his bare cheeks against your inner thighs as you whine. “c’mere,” you slur, trying to pull him up by his hair.

he complies, allowing you to pull him into a tired, sloppy kiss in the haze of your orgasm. “can you give me one more?” he asks quietly, lining kisses across the bridge of your nose.

his wide hips settle between your legs, grinding his cock against your sensitivity and you shiver, scratching his scalp gently. “yeah,” you breathe, searching for his lips again. you smile against his lips at his sharp intake of breath, hips rolling toward yours in an effort to get him back inside of you.

din sinks his teeth into your lower lip, tugging gently. “roll over, cyar’ika.”

you barely feel like you can get the strength up to do it, even with his hands on your hips. with your hips raised in the air, you rest your forehead on your folded arms, pushing your hips back toward him eagerly. “i need it,” you huff, jumping when one of his large hands settles on your hips. “need you inside of me.”

“so impatient,” he mumbles, the tip of his cock prodding at your entrance. your whole body wracks with anticipation, pushing back against him and grunting when he pulls back. “you are not in charge here,” he hisses, slapping the swell of your ass sharply.

your yelp echoes throughout the small room, the sound fading into a low hum as you push your hips back. “i’m sorry,” you respond smally, reaching back to grab his wrist. “i’m sorry. please.”

his chest burns against your back as he leans over you to slide inside, choking out a moan into your ear. “perfect girl,” he spits, wrapping an arm around your waist. “take my cock so fucking well.”

you brows furrow, hips shifting until he’s brushing that perfect spot inside of you with every single thrust. still sensitive from your last orgasm, you can’t help the way you cry out at the stimulation. “right there,” you wail, your head falling from your arms as you grab helplessly at the blanket.

it feels so good that it nearly hurts, the tears that had dried after your first orgasm springing to your eyes again. “right there,” he repeats. “is that what’s going to make you come again? hm? is that the spot that’s going to have this pussy squeezing around me?”

your head feels foggy, unable to focus on anything other than the way he feels, not just inside of you but around you, too, his hot breath fanning over the side of your face, the heat of his skin warming you everywhere. one of his hands slithers between your body and the cot, finding your sensitive clit and drawing lazy, tight circles around it. “i— fuck, din,” you blubber. “it’s too much.”

“too much?” he asks gruffly, teeth sinking into your shoulder. you think the lapse in his movement will give you some relief to that unbearable ache growing between your thighs, but when his hips slow, his cock nestled as deep as it will go and your fingers still rubbing your clit, your hips jolt in a dazed panic. you can’t afford for him to stop, not when you’re so close again. “are you done yet?”

“i can take it,” you sob, fingers tightening in the flimsy blanket that covers your cot.

he’s beginning to lose control, his thighs slapping against yours as he fucks you, your face buried in the mattress as you blubber. din desperately tries to hold on but the way you cry for him leaves him reeling, counting backwards in his head to keep from coming too soon, and he’s unsure how much longer he’s going to last while you squeeze him so tight that he has to clench his teeth.

“c’mon, mesh’la,” he whispers in your ear, voice tight as he staves off his orgasm. “let me hear you.”

“din,” you whine, your thighs aching with how tight your muscles are. he hums, kissing the shell of your ear. his orgasm is already taking root in the pit of his stomach, so he pinches your clit gently.

“can you come for me? one last time?” he asks, but you’ve already clamped down on him, a broken moan falling from your lips as you come around him, inconsolably shaking around him, and there’s not a single bit of hope for him. he comes—hard—calling out your name and clutching at you, both of you riding out your highs in the darkness of the room.

after a long moment of nothing but the two of you breathing heavily, din pulls out with a broken moan, rolling to lie beside you on the cramped little cot. he’s never been good at this part—the after effects. he never knows exactly what to say, whether or not to cuddle, or if he should leave. in fact, he he’s already working himself up wondering exactly what he’s supposed to say, or if he should say anything. his eyes move in the black of the room, fingers reaching for you tentatively, ready to take the leap and pull you into his chest.

in the heavy silence, you finally give a tired laugh, rolling closer to him, right under his already open arm. “wow.”

“wow?” he repeats softly, and he can hear the mirthful lilt in your voice. it makes him feel a little better, a little more hopeful that he hasn’t entirely ruined your relationship.

“i’m just surprised that this is what all our fighting was leading up to.” it’s a joke, really, but it makes his lips turn down in a frown. after so many long, unbearable days of fighting, his heart sank at the reminder of how short the two of you had been with one another. the way that he’d treated you. he had never treated you that way before, and he had never wanted to, and even through the veil of post coital bliss, regret begins to eat at him.

“i’m...sorry,” he finally whispers, fingers intertwining with yours.

you smile, lifting your hands up and pressing a kiss to the back of his. “i know,” you assure him. “i am, too.”

and then he’s quiet again. it usually means that he’s searching for exactly the right words, so you allow him his time, pressing your cheek to his chest and breathing him in, waiting for him to finally sort out whatever is going on in his head. “i don’t—i dont want you to think that this was...something i did…” he stumbles through the idea, but you exhale softly, opting to put him out of his misery.

“mando,” you cut him off, turning your head to kiss his shoulder gently. “i know better than anyone that none of your decisions are careless.”

din chuckles quietly, relief flooding through him and relaxing all his muscles. “still, i shouldn’t have treated you that way,” he insists. “this wasn’t how i imagined this happening.”

a smitten smile pulls at your lips. “well, you’ll find some way to make it up to me,” you hum. he rubs a large hand over your back, goosebumps following as the cold air of the room rushes back to your skin. you lean away from him only to tug on the blanket. “in the meantime, i’m exhausted. let’s get some sleep.”

for the first time since he can remember, din sleeps through the night.

[chudleycanonficfest]

Summer Nights

Day 16, Story#1 is by @zurisenchantedquill

Title: Summer Nights

Author/Artist: zurimadison

Pairing: n/a

Prompt: Slice of life

Rating: General Audience

Trigger Warning(s) (if any): n/a

Shout out to @accio-broom for beta-ing!

______

Summer nights at the Burrow, dear Reader, were a peaceful, happy affair. 

Our story takes place on one such evening, when even the chill of the air couldn’t dampen the spirits of the young rapscallions who had taken to sneaking out of their beds, despite their mother’s best intentions. 

It was a particular tradition of the Weasley children to enjoy evenings during the summer on the back porch of their abode. The Burrow was a colorful, at times chaotic affair, but it held a special magic after the sun sank beneath the horizon, for it was only at night, when they had no proper supervision at all, that the children of the house endeavored to get along. 

The first to arrive on the evening of our story was the second eldest, by the name of Charlie. He was dressed for the cool summer weather, and popped the collar of his denim jacket as he relaxed in the porch swing. The rusty chains released gentle creaks while Charlie rocked, watching the last vestiges of the sun disappear beyond the rolling hills of their country home.

He was joined in short order by the eldest Weasley sibling, Bill, whose hair fell into his eyes, despite being pulled into a short ponytail at his neck.

“Want some?” He asked, brandishing a bottle of dark liquor.

Charlie accepted the subject in question with greedy resolution and took a swig, though he followed it with a grimace and a cough. Bill chortled, and re-took the bottle, drinking as he installed himself in the open seat of the porch swing.

“Wicked,” a newcomer said, disturbing the brotherly silence. This sibling was the fourth eldest of the brood, though by a mere matter of several minutes. His twin shared his eager grin as the two boys shut the back door quietly. Fred and George assumed seats, as though they’d been assigned to them, side by side on cut logs that served as stools near the stairs of the porch.

“Give us some, then,” George demanded, but Bill shook his head with a stern expression.

“Absolutely not. You’re only ten.”

Fred assumed an impression of a fish that had been pulled out of their family pond and left for too long on the wood of the dock. “You let Charlie have a bit!”

“Yeah, well,” the second eldest Weasley smirked. “I’m older, aren’t I?”

“You haven’t even started at Hogwarts,” Bill cut in, holding up a hand to quell his younger siblings’ indignation. “It’s not happening.”

“That's a whole year from now!” Fred exclaimed, and the voice of another newcomer interjected in the conversation.

“It's a disgusting drink. You’re not missing out on anything.” The appearance of the third eldest Weasley elicited mixed results from the four who were already assembled on the porch. While Bill smiled, gesturing for Percy to take his usual post on the wrought iron chair beside the porch swing, the other three exchanged eye-rolling glances.

“Wait,” George said, suspicious of a great injustice. “Does that mean you’ve tried it?” 

“Well, of course,” Percy replied, pushing up his glasses and jutting out his jaw with pomp and circumstance. “To be frank, I didn’t care for it.”

This last opinion was ignored, however, as the twins stared at their eldest brother with looks indicative of ultimate betrayal. “He’s only two years older than us,” Fred hissed, jaw clenched.

“It was a quick sip.” Bill flapped a hand, waving away his brothers’ ire. “Just to taste. Come off it.”

“It’s alright, little bro,” Charlie said, ruffling George’s hair with affection. “Maybe next year.”

“I can’t believe this is your last summer at home, Bill,” Percy exclaimed, in a brazen attempt to change the subject and abate his younger brothers’ displeasure.

Bill drank a little more of the liquor as his eyes lit with mirth. “Getting all sappy on me, now?”

“Reckon it won’t be the same anymore,” Charlie mused, fiddling with one of the chain links near his hand. “Summer nights like these.”

Bill was saved the need to address such a sentiment by the appearance of the youngest Weasley brother. The child let the screen door slam with rather more force than his brothers would have preferred, and rubbed his bleary eyes. “What’re you all doing out here?”

“Hi Ronnie,” Bill said in a bright voice, and he hastened to stash his bottle of liquor behind the potted plant which grew beside his seat. “Why are you awake?”

“I heard voices,” Ron said, eyeing his brothers one by one. “I thought Mum said it was bedtime.”

“Oh, ickle Ronniekins,” Fred cooed, igniting his twin to snigger. “Only wittle babies have bedtimes as early as you.”

Ron clenched his small fists and stomped his foot with all the sincerity of a child scorned. “I am not a baby!”

“Oh yeah?” George asked, his expression one of such innocence that it immediately set his older siblings on high alert. “Prove it then; go jump in the pond.”

“George!” Percy admonished, adopting a tone of eerie similarity to his mother. “It’s too cold to swim at night, you know that.”

“Bill is of age,” Fred fired back, as though this solved their every problem. “He can dry him with magic.” He turned his mischievous attention back to the youngest brother. “What do you say, Ronnie? Are you a baby or not?”

“Don’t listen to him,” Charlie said sagely. “Unless he jumps in the pond first, you have nothing to prove.”

Bill, sensing the danger, hastened to add, “even if he does, jumping in freezing ponds proves nothing about age.” He eyed the twins' impish grins. “C’mere, Ronnie, you can hang with us for a while, if you want.”

Ron skirted around his most naughty brothers and settled onto the porch swing between Bill and Charlie, a delighted grin plastered upon his young face.

A slight disturbance beneath their feet alerted the brothers to the presence of another, and their imaginations raced to images ranging from small, home-dwelling critters to large, eight-legged monsters. The movements of the siblings ceased in one collective breath, all frozen so that they might listen with greater intensity. Charlie planted his feet so that the gentle creaking of the swing ceased, and they watched with mingled interest and tension as the bushes beside the porch steps began to rustle. 

Thus it was that the subjects of our story were confronted with the most astonishing event so far in our tale. A small redheaded girl, all knees and elbows, burst out of the hedge with surprising speed and sprinted towards the pond at full tilt.

“LAST ONE IN THE WATER IS THE BIGGEST BABY OF THEM ALL!”

Six Weasley brothers looked around at each other for a fraction of a moment as six Weasley hearts jumped into six respective Weasley throats. 

“Can she swim?” Bill asked, aghast at the idea even as he leapt to his feet.

Charlie was already bounding down the steps of the porch, kicking up dust on the path at the bottom. “I have no idea.”

“Let’s not find out,” Percy exclaimed, tripping over a stool in his great rush. “Ginny!”

The brothers were able to capture their sister in the end, and the siblings amused themselves with thrilling tales of long-lost memories as they passed away the remainder of the night, crowded together on the back porch of their home. 

Days and months and years passed, both sluggish and lively, filled with events ranging from tragedy to jubilation to everything in between. It is pleasing to report, dear Reader, that no matter the time nor the distance apart, when the siblings were together, they were always able, in one way or another, to rekindle the magic of summer nights at the Burrow.

[veinblooded]

@comaliesvii​​​​ asked:  ❛  are  you  TRYING  to  get  yourself  killed  ?!  ❜ (from Jack!)

questioning minds - accepting

          cael was absolutely baffled— baffled and perplexed at jack rutherford’s sudden outburst once he came around. for a military veterant of profound knowledge and undoubtedly peerfess foresight with years of actual field experience— something that he respected jack for, he’d reckoned that jack would understand there was no better way to get out of such a compromising situation without a means of sacrifice. if anything, shouldn’t jack be pleased that he played the bait part out of the two of them? it was only necessary. 

          fresh out of revival, his recollection of the past events was a bit hazy at the moment but he still remembered essentially what transpired during that death trap. it was exactly just that— a death trap created by a band of rogue revenants who revered the great collapse as their salvation, the abyssal monsters their saviour, the lost their redemption, and, therefore, were determined to wipe out the remaining government revenant force. they were not too many before — a dozen at best, or it could be two— but with the emergence of the queen, they were developing quickly, steadily in number. he supposed it was to be expected: the destruction that the queen wrought was a clear indication of her terrifying power, and against such wicked strength, desperation soon consumed the feeble mind of men. 

          and desperation led to desperate beliefs.   

          a growing headache was what they were. the queen was already a hassle to deal with, silva knew this and ordered a special unit of adept revenants to ‘ tackle the problem ’ ( ‘ do whatever you must to have them turned to ash ’, directly quoted gregorio silva), so cael and jack rutherford were appointed as partners for this operation. two against the whole fucking cult, while the rest of the division was dispatched for some... mundane tasks— he didn’t know the man have such faith in them or was it a plot to push them into their inevitable death devised by some scheming human advocates, fearing that one day, the perfect hierachy and the power balance would be disturbed, and revenants would come back and bite them? this continued any further and he might. out of pure spite. 

          for now, he needed to focus on what must be done. conspiracies and whatnot besides, these rouge revenants were impeding his progress to reach the queen— barring his way to cruz silva. and cael could not have that. he decided he had had enough of these annoying flies jumping around like they owned the place, and he would see to it personally that they be perished forever from his sight, that they be reduced to nothing but ash. one was driven by a bottomless abyss of rage whereas the other driven by a heavy burden of duty; though their motives might differ, cael was certain jack rutherford shared the same sentiment regarding the whole cult fiasco. 

          so he didn’t think using his immortality to open a blood path out of that death trap was getting himself killed— no, he was merely using what was at his disposal. it was better that one of them died than both did. shifting his glance to his hand, the wounds gone, broken flesh knitted together again by the mercy of the mistle, at the mercy of cruz silva’s sacrifice; somehow it made him more anxious, more impatient to get the cult out of the way. his mind was screaming a deafening cry of defeat— he felt sick, tired and exhausted, his muscles yearned to be released from the earthen bound, to join the godforsaken rank of the lost. but he needed to be there, he needed to reach her before it was too late— he needed to see her. and until then, temporary death was simply an instrument to be exploited. his soul could only rest after her death.

          fists clenched, cael shifted his glance to jack. his voice cracked a bit involuntarily when he tried to speak. ‘ save your unnecessary concern, i only do what is needed to be done. how do we proceed now? ’ 

[senju-sekhmet]

The Leash (Part 3)

Summary: Your rescue was supposed to be as smooth as these missions can be. However very quickly, Tobirama faces off against an enemy that has no form, color or smell - and time is running short, very fast. Unless he figures out what truly holds you hostage, your life will be lost. Warnings (for the finished work): Blood, illness, descriptions of heavy injuries and graphic violence, torture (both depicted and implied), needles, morally grey territory, human experimentation, panic attacks, character death ~7000 words (this chapter, finished work: 80.000) Previous: Part 1; Part 2 Read on AO3!   Disclaimer below the cut!

DISCLAIMER! -i reckon I don’t need the paste it again... but in short: this is a purely self-indulgent work which contains a lot of my own headcanons and whatnot. It’ll get darker! And more dramatic. But this chapter is a little bit different, reader gets some pov, though i should say in this fic- it’s.. divided, ahah. thank you so much for reading!! Your world was on fire. Every fiber of your body had burned up as your muscles were cramping. Desperately, you had been straining to free yourself of this  somehow  , alleviate the pain  somehow  , but everything just  hurt  . Both dull and sharp at the same time; either you were being restrained or your muscles wouldn’t obey - but you couldn’t move much. Your head was swimming with a sharp headache that made focusing on anything besides the internal turmoil impossible, and while this certainly was not the worst pain you had experienced by far, it was vexing in its own ways. It felt like splitting open from the inside, slowly; every muscle, every fiber, every single thing that made you was being spliced open, set on fire and was burning, burning, burning. You weren’t even sure how this had started - you merely remembered being rescued. Tobirama had been carrying you out of the dreaded cell you were sure you’d die in. You had been zoning out frequently then, but that hadn’t surprised you. It was just normal for you - first came the torture, then the crushing exhaustion. Actually you were pretty sure he had taken you to the hospital. At least you thought so. You were supposed to be safe, now. So what was happening to you? Had the rescue failed? Did the Stone get you back? Was this a new form of torture? What was Tobirama doing? You didn’t know how much time had passed nor where you actually were now - all you knew was this horrid sensation of burning out from the inside and your inability to escape it. Trapped. As per usual. Very distantly, you thought you heard a familiar voice speak to you - he sounded anguished. Sorrowful. Instinctively, you wanted to console him and his obvious regret. You wouldn’t break now. Frankly, you had endured worse. This, you just… would adapt to, too. Then, you felt your head - at least you thought it was your head - being seized by yet another vice grip. You whimpered. This wasn’t boding well for you. Panic started to flare, but it was hard to feel anything despite the inside burn that ate you alive.

Something reached for your jaw, pressing down and forward behind the joint so hard you knew what this was about: they were forcing your mouth open. The procedure was frightfully familiar by now.

They wanted to drug you again.

Hysteria was rushing through your veins so fast, for a moment it eclipsed everything else.

Peripherally, a deep voice spoke again. To you, maybe. You didn’t know. You’d never beg for mercy. But you desperately wished they’d just stop. You wanted to scream back. Whether or not a sound came out you didn't know.

So it wasn’t over, yet - and you were horribly aware of all that would follow: excruciating pain until you’d pass out, until your voice had broken completely and no sound could come out anymore - and merciless assaults on your mind you absolutely must keep guarded for the sake of everyone at home. It was violating.

Your stomach roiled. Tears flowed.

You were supposed to be safe.

The heavy liquid began to coat your tongue. You wanted to spit it back at them. They were too fast. Whoever held your jaw expertly shut your mouth closed and applied pressure to your airway so that it was near impossible to do so much as utter a single peep.

Swallow, or suffocate. Well, with the way your head was wrenched back, the substance was dripping down your pharynx already anyway.

Under tears, you swallowed.

Instantly, the pressure was gone from your neck, jaw and head.

You stilled. Whatever had been fuelling the fire that had been burning you out died out rapidly. You took a few, even breaths.

It wouldn’t last, of course. As usual, it started with your head swimming - an innocent, lighthearted feeling. Tipsy, even. Then everything intensified. As if someone turned every single sensation of your body to maximum.

It hit you all at once.

You were sure you heard a drop falling from a sink in the room you were in. There had been no sink in the torture room. But you were already lying on the table. No restraints though. Weird. Instead, two people were fixating your body on it with their bare hands, you realised. It hurt. Your whole body hurt. It always hurts. Every single injury they had inflicted upon you echoed through you. These people were pressing down on them. They might as well be driving the knives, saws and drills again through you. That was how intense it felt. Their grip started to loosen up. Had they read your mind? Low rustle of cloth being worn. Someone’s breath, not far away from your face. The scent. Familiar.

Your eyes flew wide open.

The light above was blazing down on you. You were sure it’d signe your skin off with how intense it felt.

You drew ragged breaths.

Your gaze fell on the man’s face whose breaths had been above you.

Recognition hit you like a punch in the gut.

Tobirama.

His expression was shadowed by the way too damn bright light in the ceiling.

Nothing made sense anymore. He shouldn’t be here when it was so obvious all this - all this was the start of yet another session of indescribable agony.

Your hands gripped the edges of the table. It felt like your skin had been peeled off when they did. Bile rose in your throat.

“Y/n,” Tobirama uttered. His voice was - different. Haunted. Wrought with a kind of worry not to be put in words only. And loud. It all was so loud.

You groaned and began to heave your chest off of the table, surprised nobody slammed you back down.

Your breaths came shorter now, more shallow. Your wild eyes darted around the room to take in your surroundings. This wasn’t the terrible room you usually came to when they had forced something down your throat. There were cabinets in here whose contents you already could guess nonetheless - by your feet, someone you didn’t know.

A window? There were no windows underground.

Your heartbeat hammered so hard in your chest, you thought it’d jump out any second, now. The aches in your body were intensifying. Swelling. The noises became louder. You heard the blood flowing through your skull.

This must be a genjutsu of some kind then, no? That was the only explanation. The Stone shinobi were trying a new angle to make you writhe, whimper. To break you. You groaned, a hand meeting your face. The sensation of your own skin on your face felt alien. Like your nails were clawing at your bare muscle tissue.

“What are you waiting for?”, you spat, your voice still broken. It always was. And way too loud in your own ears. Your hand slapped back down on the table. You whimpered for the pain that caused you.

The illusion of Tobirama knitted its eyebrows. Did it look uncertain?

The colors of the room were looking way too vibrant now. Blurring. Each of your past wounds now was searing through your flesh. You trembled.

It wouldn't be long, now. You groaned.

You looked down on yourself and found nothing but a gown on you. Did the thing just move on its own? Was there… was there blood on you?

Had they begun to torture you already?

Your breath came quicker and more shallow now.

“What’ll it be? Sawing my ribs up again?”, you continued, sneering now. Except the tremor made your voice shaky. Hardly arrogant. You’d pay so much for this kind of defiance later. Their loss for not subduing you better. “Or maybe you’ll cut open my arms and legs again? Drill a hole into my bones? Go ahead, you fucking cowards, I won’t break.”

The one looking like Tobirama hung his head low now. His breaths came ragged, his shoulders were heaving each time he took one. When he looked back up, you balked for a moment at how agonized his gaze was. “This isn’t a genjutsu, Y/n,” he began slowly. His deep voice was supposed to be soothing. But there was an undercurrent in it - a slight shake to his timbre you had never heard before. Hah, you wouldn’t fall for that. “We saved you, remember?” He released a hand that was gripping the table to make a familiar sign and mumbled: “Release.”

Nothing happened.

You threw your head back in a bitter laugh. "As if I wouldn't know what comes next by now." Everything in the room was morphing. Forms were twisting. Your legs looked broken - no, they  were  broken by how it all hurt. There was blood on your skin. Gushing wounds that littered your body - it was all breaking up. You were splitting up. "You've already started," you wheezed, giving in to the tremor that shook you and slumping back onto the table.

"Nobody is going to hurt you," the voice that belonged to the Tobirama-illusion spoke - the voice that damn sounded like him, albeit still anguished like you've never heard him before. The jitter had gotten worse. It was… desperation?

A hand touched your shoulder.

You shrieked from the sheer agony that caused you. You were sure they were driving a metal pole through your joint - "No!", you shouted frantically.

You twisted to the side, recoiling from the sensation and ignoring how this must mess up your horribly disfigured limbs.

"Y/n!", another voice was heard. It was familiar, from behind you. You didn't care to look back who it was. "Should we-"

"Wait!"

They were all so fucking loud. If nobody was going to stop you, then -

You rolled to the side to where you knew the table would end, eyes widening at how high up it was. You'd break your legs if you went down there-

Whatever.

In a fluid motion, you were on your feet. At the same time, you heard the voice that sounded like Tobirama's call out: "Y/n, no!" - another hand wanted to seize your arm, probably saw it off-

Blackness framed your vision as your shaking legs tried to support your body's weight. It was painful. So damn painful. You wheezed at the agony past clenched teeth. There were bony splinters sticking out of your skin. Blood trickled down your skin. Your wheeze became a holler of anguish. "Fuck," you stuttered, grasping for the edge of the damn table as your abused appendages gave in and you slowly sunk to the floor.

Within a second, Tobirama was in front of you. You could barely make out his form anymore, everything was becoming a distorted mess and your mind was overrun by sensations. You couldn't tell what part of yourself didn't hurt at this point, you didn't even know how you were sitting on the floor now. Only that you were. Probably.

"Y/n," his voice was panicked now. At least it was supposed to sound like that. You closed your eyes. At this point, all you saw was just frightening. "We're at home, you're safe and whatever is going on - it's not real."

These words alone were enough to drive you over the edge. Your abused voice became wrecked by laughter, a horribly disfigured sound even in your own sound simply for how off it sounded. "Yeah? Then why the  fuck  am I feeling like this?" You opened your eyes. The world was an inhomogeneous mass of colors, moving blotches. The Tobirama-illusion was just a black patch of something in front of you with a voice that sounded way too much like his own. "You fucking drugged me!", your voice rose to a shrill screech that hurt your eardrums so much you thought they'd rip. Not that you'd care.

You heard a perfectly anguished whimper. "I'm so sorry," the voice whispered, again filled with more agony than you ever heard from him before. It made you balk for a moment. "Forgive me, Y/n - please, forgive me. We had to."

A shudder ran through you. You closed your eyes again.

This was too much. All of this.

"You were dying, Y/n," Tobirama's tormented voice reached you again, persistent. Insistent. "We had no choice." Who was he trying to convince?

You stilled completely.

It obviously had to be a nightmare- a genjutsu- anything- "Tobirama would never…", you croaked, voice breaking with despair.

You heard a sharp inhale.

"Y/n," he sounded closer now, his voice almost as broken as yours. "Forgive me. Tell me what to do."

Your heart hammered frantically again and your hands rose to your ears to cover them. You were bursting with everything - the excruciating pain, the overtuned senses, how real Tobirama's voice sounded, not knowing what was real-

Sobs were starting to wreck your body before you knew it.

A hand touched your arm.

You hissed, eyes flying open, swatting it away - but you didn't see anything besides a mush of colors. "Don't fucking touch me!" Your voice was a shrill screech.

He made a sound as though someone punched all the air out of his lungs - a low huff, cutting off quickly but so pained, it felt like someone stabbed his heart. Yours, too. It was hard to register between everything.

You started to scramble away from your current position - blindly, you navigated on your hands and knees. It was like dragging yourself over glass shards. It sure felt like those were digging themselves into your bleeding skin. You pathetically sobbed in pain.

"Tobirama-", the other voice started.

"Don't, Hashirama," he was quick to reply, firm but still anguished.

That anguish in his voice. It was so real.

Frankly it was about the only thing you were willing to believe in.

You must have reached a wall when your head bumped into something. Perhaps a cabinet. You didn't care. You curled up there, tucking your knees to your body and hiding your face. A rocking motion settled in, subconsciously.

"He'd never do this," you muttered. Over and over again.

_________

Tobirama was reeling.

The last time he had felt his very world shaking like this was when they had brought his brother's mangled corpse into the Senju compound.

Everything he had just seen - heard-

Damn, what had he done to you?

Ever since rescuing you, it all had been a series of failures, culminating in this: your haggard form pressed against a wall, whispering to yourself and rocking back and forth in what Tobirama knew was stereotypical behaviour meant to soothe yourself. He had seen this before in victims of torture.

The way you had recoiled from him might as well have been a very physical blow from a weapon.

But your words - your words, they had shattered his heart in a way only you could have. Your abused voice, your wide-eyed, near insane gaze: Tobirama would never.

He had.

He damn had.

He felt he had no right being here anymore - near you. How could he, when he had failed you, over and over again? Not to mention what you had been going through - at the very least, the 'leash' had altered your perception of reality in ways that made you feel pain. Hell, who knew - maybe it had caused you pain. But to see you, your strong and dignified presence so broken down - broken into nothing but a husk of yourself - it made him shudder to guess at what was going on inside you. The ache of his own heart was driving him insane - as was his sheer, mad desire to protect  you - he couldn’t, he simply couldn’t, instead he had done this to you.

Slowly, he started to question if he actually truly could protect you - ensure your wellbeing, make you heal.

He'd go with no right now.

Yet what was the alternative? Giving up - giving up was not an option. Never. Especially not with you. Humbly he’d accept all the anguish his heart suffered from his moment, the crushing guilt from his actions against you - necessary ones, but cruel altogether.

No, he'd never forgive himself.

He could only hope you would.

He blinked at his palms, laying on his thighs after he had sunken to his knees, shoulders slumped. A hand rested on his shoulder. Hashirama's.

"Tobirama," he began slowly, lowering himself to eye-level with him.

Tobirama couldn't help but narrow his eyes to slits. Hashirama had been the one to press for giving you the damn drug-

And he felt guilty right after. Tobirama had allowed it. Shifting blame was the act of a coward.

Besides, Hashirama had been right. Though you certainly were in a deplorable state now, the life-threat seemed to have passed.

Moments of silence passed. Duly he noted the nurse had left the room. Maybe Hashirama had sent her away. Tobirama didn't care anymore.

"Looks like we saved her." Tobirama's baritone voice was caustic.

Hashirama sighed. "We're going to find an antidote. This is temporary, remember?"

Time to pick himself up again and focus on finally solving a problem for once.

This was a new enemy you were up against he needed to figure out and then defeat.

Tobirama sucked in a sharp breath, gaze snapping back at you. Of course. The clock was just reset. But ticking again. "Twelve hours until we have to make her go through all this again. At most." His voice was a hiss with how hard his teeth were pressed together. His jaw hurt.

Tobirama rose to his feet then, his gaze never leaving you. Your sight pained him, but he'd take it - he deserved this. His arms crossed in front of his chest. The mind had begun to race again. "She was different when we found her in the hideout," he began, tongue clicking in thought.

Hashirama followed suit, also considering you with a sympathetic gaze. He nodded.

Tobirama rubbed a hand over his face. "Based on what we witnessed now, it seems after indigestion, this 'leash' has an… immediate effect," his voice became raspy. Frail. He had to take a pause. Then, "Followed by a phase of exhaustion. After which withdrawal sets in."

"It would seem so," Hashirama agreed, humming in ponder himself. The noise annoyed Tobirama.

"Can't you think quietly?", he snapped.

"Tobirama…"

He all but ignored his brother's reply.

"We must synthesise more of this drug firstly," Tobirama darkly ascertained right after, "A cure seems unlikely on such a tight schedule. Focusing our efforts is key; otherwise we'll run out of time." He felt physically unable to phrase the outcome any other way.

Both brothers knew, though.

"In doing so, finding an antidote will become easier anyhow," Hashirama added thoughtfully, sparing Tobirama from voicing what hung in the air. That much was certain. They'd have to understand how this drug was made up before finding ways to counter it.

You were still huddled up at the wall, unintelligibly mumbling while a fine tremor shook your body. If only there were a way to alleviate your torment. Tobirama knew better than to approach you again.

"Is there nothing we can do for her?", he asked, half to himself, half to his brother - the pain was becoming him again with how hushed that had come out. "She can't stay like this." This was beneath your dignity.

Hashirama hummed in ponder again. "We could put her to sleep, I suppose," he finally suggested, but the hesitation was obvious in his voice. "At this point I'm not sure how anything is going to affect her, though."

Tobirama couldn't help but crack a cynical chuckle. Of course it'd come down to that. "Restrain her again and take away what freedom she has, you mean." He absolutely loathed that his choices were restricted between inflicting more torment on you or simply taking you out - confining you to your own mind, really.

When would he finally do something to heal you?

He took a step closer towards you.

"Tobirama, let me do it," Hashirama interjected, readily taking a step towards you, too.

"No." Tobirama cut him off sharply. This was his duty. His burden to bear. He wouldn't run away from it or hide behind his brother.

Hashirama sighed, but knew better than to try and stop Tobirama.

Slowly, Tobirama enclosed you and crouched down right in front of you. At this proximity, he could make out your whispers: "He wouldn't do that. It's a trick. It's all a trick. Tobirama would never do this to me." Over and over. He drew in a slow breath if just to help him deal with the fresh agony that washed over him, hearing this again. Knowing what he'd do next made it no easier.

Briefly, he contemplated to try and get through to you again to announce his intention, but he doubted there would be much use in that - you’d been delusional before, adverse to touch and if he’d do so much as hint at forcing you to sleep, you most likely wouldn’t take it kindly. The cynicism of the situation was cutting, really.

He'd just do this as fast as he could.

Channeling chakra of his own for a moment, his hand shot out and seized the back of your neck within the blink of an eye.

You shrieked, half in surprise, half in pain - your head shot up, eyes wide and the gaze nothing short of crazed. "Get away from me!", you wrenched out, tears forming.

Tobirama's lips formed a thin line, his chakra then grazing over your network in preparation of what he'd do next: sending a strong pulse to your brain; specifically the regions that controlled awareness and consciousness. However he balked when he felt you - really felt you: your chakra network was near mute. The flow of chakra within you was so slow, it might as well have been stopped. He could feel how it tried to repel his own pelting over yours, but no more than that happened. The response was lazy - frozen, almost.

Your hands had seized his forearm then and were trying to pry it off, shrieks mingling between desperate sobs. "Stop it!", you yelled, over and over. But your attempts were feeble at best and the weeks of imprisonment had stolen near all of your strength. You were in no shape to remove Tobirama's iron grip on your neck, which he reinforced lest your assault would impede on his examination - though sadly once more he had to come to grips with this shadow of your former self. It hurt - it just hurt.

Tobirama then took a deep breath, cursing when he exhaled it.

There was an opportunity in this, right now.

He hated himself for the way too logical thought he just had - but he wouldn't pass up the option that just offered itself to him now. Even if going through with it felt like yet another atrocity he’d commit; darkly he realised he’d been setting one new record after the other ever since you had been taken. This, this would be his next feat.

"Y/n," he began, his baritone voice low again, "I promise, I won't rest until I've freed you from this and healed you." His voice shook from sincerity and anguish alike - a broken sound that was testament to the turmoil and yet so quiet again, reserved for your ears only. His heart wanted to jump out of his chest. "Forgive me for all I have to do for that though, I never want to hurt you," he continued. But it seems I will have to, at least indirectly.

You continued to claw weakly at his arm. He held your frightened gaze. How much of all this reached you, he didn't know. Perhaps he could tell you later again. But it helped a little with what he did next.

His free hand seized your thin wrists effortlessly to pry them off his forearm to no hamper his focus. Your wails increased in protest, you pleaded for him to stop desperately, under tears. "Don't do this," you whimpered, over and over again.

His grip on both your wrists and the back of your neck was unrelenting.

It tore at his heart in ways only you could. "Forgive me," he muttered again before closing his eyes to focus on you again - your muted chakra network.

And more importantly, your body itself - to examine the effects of the drug on you, as of right now. It was cruel - he extended your suffering, he hated himself for it, but there was no other way if he wanted to understand what was happening. You, on the other hand, vehemently protested the examination he was giving you; such a procedure did not hurt the slightest - it should not. Therefore he could only guess that right now, it must cause you immense discomfort, but he continued anyway. He had to. Distantly, he felt your body shift, - maybe your legs kicking out, against him? - he all took it humbly and with no more than a huff. He deserved it and then some.

However no matter how hard he looked, he couldn't find a trace of bodily harm inside of you, besides what he already knew of. His focus shifted to your brain then -

He understood.

For all your chakra network lacked, your brain made up. The firework of nerves of each of your sensory cortices was a light that was too bright for Tobirama to investigate further - but if he were to guess, the 'leash' was responsible for this kind of overclocking. Everything made a lot more sense then: your pained reactions, your inaccessibility to logic. To put it plainly, they had taken every single sense and turned it up infinitely. Tobirama wouldn't be surprised if you could hear his own heartbeat right now. Quite possibly you had also been suffering from hallucinations as the unfed mind would begin to devour itself.

It was the perfect outlet for torture. Especially if the goal was to break the mind. Susceptible to everything it was exposed to.

Especially pain.

Tobirama felt the white-hot rage burn in his veins again.

And yet you had withstood.

He quickly understood why. The longer he examined your brain, the more your resistance grew - and he hadn't even done as much as gauge your mental  defenses, much less prod at them - this was just a physical examination. But your otherwise mute chakra had begun to swirl, to gather - and while it certainly lacked the strength to repel him, it began to coat you like a defensive mantle. The connection was withering.

Enough, he decided.

With no small amount of sorrow he let his chakra pelt yours in a familiar, soothing way - a feeble attempt to calm you down if just by trying to make you recall the many times you two had done this.

Convince you it was really him, he, would do just about anything to protect you.

Maybe, just maybe you stilled for a moment.

Then, he let his chakra smother the part of your brain that was responsible for your consciousness. Gently, quickly.

Humanely.

You stilled completely, your fight stilled.

Tobirama opened his eyes.

You were sacked against the wall, head hanging down, feet no more pressed against him.

He felt forlorn, spent. It was all too much.

He didn't even know how to name what was going on inside of him exactly anymore, it was all a garbled mass of sorrow, heartache, guilt and protectiveness.

He pulled you closer slowly to gather your gaunt form in his arms again. The hand that was on your neck snuck around to lock around your shoulders and the other freed your wrists and reached under your legs. Momentarily, he simply pressed his face to your hair and breathed in your familiar scent. "I'm so sorry," he whispered, wetness budding in his eyes again, though no tears would fall anymore. "I'll protect you." He simply was spent.

Then, he rose to his feet and turned towards Hashirama, who had arched up both eyebrows questioningly. The length of Tobirama's endeavour had not escaped him.

"I examined her to ascertain the effects of the drug," Tobirama confessed readily, dejectedly. His head spun, his heart ached so much again he wondered about how it still pumped blood evenly. That particular muscle had hurt so much lately it was a miracle it still worked as it did.

"I see," Hashirama replied, gently. "What did you find?"

"Let's take her to a room first. She'll be staying here longer, it would seem." Tobirama didn't want to speak more yet. He needed to regain his composure again before he'd explain. Besides, he still had to process all that just happened.

Hashirama nodded and motioned for Tobirama to follow him.  

He tightened his grip around your far too light body and followed him, looking down just once - your face looked more peaceful now than it had in hours. That, at least, was a relief. Although he still had wished it wouldn’t have happened this way. The wards were located on the second floor. Tobirama didn't look left or right at any curious faces - they knew better than to stare at you. Eventually they reached an empty room in one of them, Tobirama carefully placed you on the bed and draped the blanket over you. Then, he sat down on the bed, extending a hand to ghost over the side of your face in an utterly tender way.

He took a deep breath before rising up again and meeting his brother's expectant glance.

"This drug," he began slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers, "It has a psychotropic component. All of her senses were extremely heightened." He crossed his arms. “It’s no surprise she was delusional.”

Hashirama himself moved into the room to stand beside Tobirama, but glanced down at you. His forehead wrinkled in a sorrowful motion. "I see. That would… make sense, indeed."

Tobirama could only give an affirmative click of his tongue to that. Cruel sense, indeed. He then ventured to explain in more detail the findings of his examination, as neutral as possible.

The truth was, the exhaustion was taking its toll on him by now. He couldn't remember how long it's been since he slept - he still didn't  feel tired. But he was lightheaded and his concentration was faltering. Telltale signs, he knew.

No good. He still had work to do. Less than twelve hours until you needed the next dose. He needed to start on analysing that drug-

"Tobirama." Hashirama cut in. His warm gaze was on Tobirama now.

"What?", he replied, irritated.

"Go to sleep. You've been awake for more than thirty-six hours. We can't do more now." Sternness was leaking into his tone.

Tobirama gave an exasperated sigh. "Nonsense. I'm fine. We need to start working on analysing the contents and workings of this 'leash'."

Hashirama huffed. "We certainly do. But we will do that much better with some sleep."

"Then go. I'll start," Tobirama's eyelids narrowed to tiny slits, his tone became more icy.

Hashirama wouldn’t be fazed this time. "Go home, Tobirama. Don't make me throw you out." He made a meaningful pause. "Because I will."

"Anija!", he was practically growling now. To think his brother actually had the gall to-

Hashirama was unwavering. He really was serious about this.

Both were staring at each other in a silence that was so high-strung, only the faint sounds of your breaths echoed through the room. Another moment passed, then Tobirama huffed in a way that was nothing short of  very annoyed.

"I want to be notified the moment she wakes up," he commanded immediately, leaving no question about what might happen if he was not. If he was to follow  orders , then he had some demands too.

"Of course. I'll ask Mito," Hashirama found a much more agreeable tone. Throwing his wife's name into the mix was a smart move of course, but it calmed Tobirama only so much.

He should be here.

He reached inside his pocket to retrieve a piece of parchment. A second later, the distinct smell of burnt paper was in the air. He placed the branded item on the nightstand next to your head.  With another sorrowful glance, he considered your gaunt form, still perfectly still and asleep. The next moment, he was in his own home. If he hesitated a moment longer, he'd have stayed by your side most likely - his mind was heavy, his heart torn but his brother was right. He was spent, exhausted and this had been a trip into a hell, back again, and then right back into the next hell.

It still took quite some time before sleep claimed him. His mind wouldn't stop to process the information he had gained today and begin to plan his next moves meticulously.

Truth be told, everything was just too quiet here.

Forlorn.

_______

When next you came to, the familiar powerlessness had you in its vice grip. But you had expected that. It always was like that after… after they had done everything to you.

The blanket over your body felt leaden. You didn't complain. Wait - blanket?

Other than the crushing exhaustion, you weren't too bad off. What disturbed you more was the fact you did, in fact, recognize your surroundings: the Konoha hospital.

Which put everything that just happened in a different light.

Your gaze shot left and right frantically to be certain this really was what you believed it to be.

The memory of what must have been a few hours ago was vivid. Way too vivid, in fact. A nightmarish trip you remembered  most  things of, even though your perception of it had been very jangled, to put it mildly. The voices and persons you misconceived.

The things you had said.

What Tobirama's voice - no, Tobirama - had said-

What he had done. A lump formed in your throat. No, what he had been forced to do. He'd never- You groaned and dragged a hand over your face, happy the sensation felt… normal. But the tiny bit of comfort you had found was blown away. The predicament you found yourself made you uneasy. In fact, you had to fight down the panic budding - The door swung open. A smiling, red-haired woman entered. "Mito," your raspy voice whispered. Her fine eyebrows rose up. "You're awake," a small smile formed on her lips. "Good. There's someone waiting for you." She walked closer to your bedside. Your eyes followed her as she picked a piece of parchment up from the nightstand - and you recognised the seal on it immediately. Your heart skipped a little. "Is Tobirama here?" She chuckled and her smile turned distinctively finer. "Something tells me he will be in a heartbeat." You ducked a little, daring to utter a chuckle of your own. When was the last time you had done that? She winked and turned to leave the room. Instantly, you felt wishing her back. Being alone turned your focus back to yourself - all that just happened - what might happen again? Your breath came shorter. What exactly was going to happen now? Weren't you going to be safe now? Just a few hours ago- Your heart was hammering inside your chest now. With a low groan, you heaved your chest off the bed and sat up. Your abused body protested, but you ignored the aches that pinched and burned through you, echoes of everything the Stone shinobi had done to you. Your eyes were becoming awfully wet- A baritone voice pulled you out of your downward spiral. "Y/n." Your gaze shot up. In the door stood Tobirama, dressed in his black long-sleeved shirt and pants - huffing a little. His scarlet gaze was intense - he was gauging your reaction. When he recognised how laboured your breathing was however and the glint in your eyes, his forehead wrinkled in a worried frown. "What's wrong, Y/n?" He took a step closer. Was he being … cautious? "Are you in pain?" His voice was as firm as ever, but you could tell he was making an effort to be soft. You sobbed. "Tobirama…", your voice was somehow even more frail than before, but shook your head. You beckoned him closer with a wave of your hand, a lead he gladly took. In an instant, he was by your side, sitting carefully down on the side of the bed, giving your blanketed body a quick once over. "Tell me what's wrong, please," he inquired then, now more smooth than before. His hand reached for your shoulder to press you gently back onto the bed. You didn't resist - not that you could, anyway. You shook your head then slightly in regards to his question, already feeling your breathing even out. Your hand reached for his, which again he eagerly took in both of his. With a warm smile you felt his chakra grazing over yours and your network slowly - mingling with yours. You wanted to respond in kind, but you knew your response was too sluggish - your chakra felt drugged still. It had been since your capture. Unsurprisingly, Tobirama wouldn't let go of the issue with a shake of your head. "You were crying, Y/n." His voice was still tender, but there was a certain kind of firmness in it still. You had to smile weakly. Only Tobirama could care for you and still make everything a command. "I think I have a lot of things to cry about." But you were nothing if not known for your sharp tongue. Tobirama visibly flinched. For a moment, you felt bad - perhaps that comment had been too sharp. He closed his eyes momentarily. When he opened them again, he was gazing on the floor, still holding your hand tightly. A thumb began stroking over your skin. "You are right of course," his voice bore a fragment of the anguish you recalled it had born before. "What happened, Tobirama?", you finally asked, gently. He took a deep breath. "You started to deorientate, slowly, after we had rescued you. You were tired first - but then, that turned into somnolence. Not long after, you started to tremble and developed a fever." His voice was sounding neutral, but you could tell there was a low jitter in his baritone voice. "Hashirama and I examined you and we found your chakra network was being disrupted by something - your body had started to repel it. The more it did so, the more you were harming yourself. I … found out it was the effect of the drug the Stone had given you. Or rather, the beginning lack thereof." He frowned, then. "Parts of this drug, anyway." You were silent. It didn't take a genius to figure out how the rest had come to happen, then. A chilling sensation befell you. "They had forced something down my throat frequently," you supplied when Tobirama didn't continue directly. "I didn't realise… at some point, it'd become a necessity." How, anyhow? They always used it to torture you. His grip on your hand became tighter, the brush of his chakra a bit warmer. "We were forced to give you the drug again." He paused, and took a deep breath. "Forgive me, Y/n," he finally gazed back at you. His eyebrows were pulled together in what could only be described as a sorrowful expression, oddly vulnerable. And yet - this being Tobirama - he still carried this air of dignity around him. You gasped - you hadn't forgotten the promise he had made during your delirium. But to hear it from him again, now - it hit differently. Tobirama was a serious man. But the sincerity his voice carried now - the unspoken plea for forgiveness, the guilt - it hurt you. "You had to, Tobirama," you whispered, letting your free hand rub over his exposed forearms to try and alleviate him from his sorrow, to absolve him from his guilt. He closed his eyes for a moment, taking deep breaths. When he opened them again, the sorrow was not yet gone. "We've got no antidote yet, Y/n." A shiver ran down your spine. You gulped. You knew you wouldn't like what he'd say next. "Until we do…", he began slowly, visibly struggling to find the right words. The gentle words, maybe. Tobirama was not a man of gentle words. "You're going to have to take this drug, regularly." The statement hit you like a punch into the gut. Your blood in your veins froze. You closed your eyes which had already begun to burn up already. All of this was supposed to be over now. Except it wasn't. Regularly, you'd be forced to undergo horror trips under the effects of that damn drug. If you didn't, you'd die. You clenched your teeth as you tried to bite back a sob. It was unfair. Well, life was unfair. The weight on the side of your bed shifted. You peeked a bloodshot eye open to find Tobirama now was facing you. His lips were turned down - he looked helpless. You whimpered miserably. "Y/n," he uttered, his voice reveal the hint of a tremor, too. You grasped more tightly at his forearm to pull yourself up with it, groaning lowly with the pain that movement. You felt Tobirama stiffen at first and actually were sure he was sure to shut you down since he'd never stand for you doing anything that hurt yourself - but when you had flung your bony arm around his neck, his eyes widened slightly. Quickly, his hands released yours to hug around your haggard body and pull it close to his. You buried your face in the crook of his neck, breathing in deeply. The sobs still came through, though. A hand rubbed gently over your back, soothingly. "Y/n," he whispered again, your name haunted by anguish. "I don't want to, Tobirama," you breathed against his skin, fisting the fabric of his black shirt with one hand and his silvery hair with the other. "I know," he sighed. "You must." There was no question in his tone, only sorrowful recognition. "If not, the withdrawal will kill you, Y/n." His grip around you became firmer. More desperate. The hand around your shoulder moved to your hair to stroke it gently. "How long… until the next dose?", you asked, dreading the answer already. He sighed. "About four hours. I'm not sure yet when the withdrawal symptoms will set in again." You could only give a whimper in response. He rubbed over your back firmly. "I won't rest until I've got the antidote, Y/n," he continued, the vigour returning to his voice - the tremble, gone. Do not get between Tobirama Senju and his objectives. It reassured you. To know he was the one on this - your face turned slightly to breathe up his neck first, then peck his cheek. "I love you, Tobirama." His response was prompt. He leaned back slightly just to gaze at your face - the determination inside was near tangible. Then, he leaned forward to press his lips against yours, desperate, almost. "I love you too." It wouldn't alleviate the fear of when the next dose came around, no. But you dared to hope now.

[inthcgartcn-moved]

❣️ + umejomett !! sent by @poppicede​

SEND ME ❣️ + A SHIP AND I’LL TELL YOU…     [   VOL. 2   ]

feel free to elaborate as much as possible !

Who is the little spoon?

Little spoon is a sacred position that is rotated, or if the person really needs it will be gifted to them. Umeko isn’t into being little spoon and would rather cling onto the boys back like a jetpack or be held in their arms. If I had to say who gets to be little spoon the most it would have to be Emmett.

Who sings in the shower?

Joey! He had learned to not sing too loudly if Umeko is sleeping in that day or else a reckoning is wrought upon him.

Who plays pranks on the other?

Joey is more of the prankster, but they all get there own fair share. Umeko is more likely to do something cute like hide keys and innocently be like “Oh no?? You can’t leave without your car keys. Guess you’ll have to stay UWU.” While Emmett is a little more awkward, and it’s quick to tell when he’s plotting.

Who is the one who listens to pop music?

They all listen to it, but I think Joey listen a little more often then Umeko or Emmett does. I think their “edgy” music taste might effect Joey overtime though.

Who brings the other a random cup of joe?

Umeko! She likes surprising either of the boys with a surprise coffee or tea to get the energy pumping. She knows their orders by heart, and likes to give them a little something nice on a rough day.

Who picks the cheesy movies for date night?

Joey! And they would all love watching it together.

Who is more likely to feed the other in public?

Umeko or Emmett. Either those two are sharing their food or feeding Joey cause he asks them with big ol’ puppy dog eyes. Emmett doesn’t have to do anything and he will get food offered to him. Meanwhile Ume is more of a food thief so watch out.

Who gives the other random little compliments?

Emmett! All three of them compliment the others, but Emmett will let out small, tiny compliments out all the time. He finds it embarrassing when he realizes what he said, but Ume and Jo will be too busy cooing at him for being so sweet!

Who is always stealing food from the other’s plate?

You’d think Joey, but Umeko is more likely to do it. Emmett kinda just lets her, but Joey gets a little pouty when she keeps doing it despite getting caught every time.

Who is more likely to let the other borrow their car? 

Emmett is the only one with a car, but he wouldn’t let Joey or Ume borrow it lol.

Who makes the list before they go grocery shopping?

Ume and Emmett are the type to make the list. Umeko will go as far to organize it by which store to go to and what aisle it would be in. Joey just kinda watches and will throw in “we gotta get push pops this time!” “I already wrote it down, Jo.” “I just wanted to make sure.”

Who makes sure the other takes their meds when sick?

Emmett. Only because Umeko is awful about taking medication and getting rest when she’s ill. Emmett is able to keep her in bed, and makes sure she stays on track on getting better soon.

Who watches sports and has to teach the other the rules?

I don’t think of them as sport watchers in general. I can imagine Joey trying to explain football, but it goes nowhere.

Who pulls the other to their feet for a dance in the living room?

If a good, slow song is playing Joey will pull either of them up on their feet. It won’t be a lot of dancing, but just slow swaying and hugging.

Who has to keep reminding the other to hurry or they’ll be late?

Umeko. She’s tries not to be a nag, but she has to remind a certain red haired man to stop goofing off, and to hurry out the door or else he’ll be late to work.

Who is the one most likely to get a tattoo with the other’s name?

As impulsive as Joey is I don’t see him doing that. Umeko and Emmett would quickly stop him from doing that. But I can see the three of them getting flower tattoos together. Maybe one to represent each of them. So a poppy tattoo just like the one Joey has, a daisy for Emmett because those are his favorite, and a hydrangea for Umeko!

[thekitchensnk]

and the spider lilies bloomed in the fall (chapter 22)

Rating: T Warnings: Violence - sadism, murder Pairing: Gin/Ran Part 1: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11, Chapter 12 Part 2: Chapter 13, Chapter 14, Chapter 15, Chapter 16, Chapter 17, Chapter 18, Chapter 19, Chapter 20, Chapter 21 Part 3: Chapter 22

“They say that lovers doomed never to see each other again still see the higanbana growing along their path, even to this day.”

A girl collapses on a dusty road one day. A boy takes her home.

The girl lives.

—

(The boy doesn’t.)

What kind of beast are you, Ichimaru Gin?

What are you becoming?

--

--

--

(What could drive a man to kill a god?)

--

It is a cloudy night. There is not a star to be seen as he sits, his sword flat on his lap, and waits. The air is calm, the night is still, the sky is gray, and he waits and he waits and he waits whilst the moon ripens behind the clouds. The student barracks are empty. Everyone has long since made the journey home since graduation, to warm and joyous families keen to celebrate their success and the prospect of their glowing futures. The halls are silent.

(He had also made the long journey home the day before, out into the dark woods of the far flung districts of Rukongai. Such a journey - a journey which would take an ordinary person weeks of foot-travel - had taken him mere hours. But there had been no warm and loving family to return to, no celebration of his success. The house had been empty but for a letter written long ago on a torn piece of sack cloth.)

Empty.

This is good. There will be no witnesses - no one to see him leave. No one to see him return.

It would not do to be seen coming back from the site of a murder.

A lurid, jittery excitement coils up in him - the sort of excited anticipation a child feels on the day of their birthday. He tries to quell it, but he can’t. The occasion warrants more caution than this, more ritual sanctity. Everything rests on the outcome of tonight. If it were to go wrong… It is no excuse to play, to indulge himself in a little petty cruelty. He has to be quick; he has to be sharp. This murder is not for him- it is for her, and so he should treat it with the seriousness it deserves.

Everything he has done has been for her.

But, he cannot help but think, squirming with the excitement of it all, it will be fun to see how it goes.

He is a prodigy, a genius, a wonder child - no one has ever graduated the academy as quickly as him, not in a thousand years. His opponent (victim) is a seated officer, and not just that, but a third seat, third only in power to the Captain and Vice-Captain.

This might end up bein’ more difficult than I gave credit for, he muses. But he can do it. He knows he can.

After all, he has to.

He cannot dampen the small thrills running through him, the urge to whistle, the brightness shining in him. It is beyond him to feel any kind of remorse for the pain he is about to inflict. He will enjoy it too much, and for once, his cause is righteous.

Tonight he should be calm. Tonight he should be still. If tonight goes to plan, there will be only one man standing in between him and the satisfaction of his vengeance and his labours will almost be at an end.

The thought makes him giddy with a twinned delight - one part ecstasy in the anticipation of bloodlust, the other part a tenderness so soft it hurts.

He turns his attention to his sword in a bid to distract himself. It is a short blade, a blade perfectly sized for a child-murderer’s hands, and his face shines in the reflection in its blade.

Shinso. Shinso, he sings to his sword happily, keen to share his excitement with someone.

But if Shinso has something to say now, it is keeping it to itself. Gin waits a moment for a response, and then aims a mental kick at his sword.

It says nothing, and he frowns in annoyance.

The night before he had walked into the darkness in his mind, slipping down, down, down into the empty hole where his sword’s spirit dwells within him. The labyrinthine dark is as familiar to him now as the sight of his own hands. He had spent long sleepless nights at the academy learning its winding passages, its eerie, quiet dead ends, its blind and looping paths.

There are times still that he cannot help but feel like he has been swallowed whole, that he is wandering in the coiling, twisting insides of a snake.

There had been a figure in the darkness, the night before. It had sat there, its legs dangling impossibly into the thick darkness. They had kicked very slightly and childishly in the nothingness.

As he had walked closer, he had seen that its hair was amber-bronze, its skin sun-kissed and freckled, the light down of the hair on its arms golden.

He had held his breath for a moment, and then exhaled, a white grin fixed on his face. And then he had walked up to it.

It had turned, the thing wearing Rangiku’s face, and it had copied his bright smile. So often, it has her dimples. So often, it wears her beauty mark. (When he sits across from it, there are only black holes where there should be eyes.)

“Are we ready then?” Shinso had asked in Rangiku’s girlish voice, a voice like sunshine, its head tilting like hers had.

Gin wonders what it says about him that Shinso does this. Shinso does this, he thinks, to unsettle him- to hurt him- to get a response, maybe. Maybe because Shinso thinks it funny.

Maybe because Shinso is everything that he is, monstrous cruelty included.

Gin had given it a cursory glance, trying not to dwell on that eyeless face. He had squinted into the darkness resolutely. “Reckon so,” he had said to it.

“Do you know how we’re going to do it?” Rangiku’s voice had echoed cheerfully.

Rangiku would never sound so cheerful to be preparing for murder.

He had known. He had known the plan down to the smallest turn. He is not so confident in his ability to defeat a third seat that he hasn’t dwelt obsessively on the details, hasn’t spent sleepless nights dwelling darkly on how it might be done. In the end, he has decided to play it safe, play it conservative. This murder is not for him and so it needs to be done carefully. It needs to be done right.

“Same plan as last time.”

Shinso’s stolen face had fallen, and its stolen lips, pink and perfect, had stretched into a look of alien disgust. Rangiku’s mouth cannot twist like that. Her teeth are not that sharp. “That’s boring,” Rangiku’s voice had announced, and it had echoed as if coming from a mile away. “Boring.”

It was boring, but Gin had shrugged. “Everythin’ hinges on how tonight goes. Can’t fuck it up.”

The bottomless pits of Shinso’s empty eyes had snapped to him, snake-like. They bore into him, those empty sockets. Every time he looks at them, the memory of eyes soft and blue as forget-me-nots stirs in his soul, and the memory disquiets him. But Gin always stares back, undaunted.

“You’re going to fuck it up if you do it that way. He’s going to want a show.” Shinso had told him. It had seemed to find the thought suddenly funny. “He’s going to want to see a show, the sicko. Give him a show. Excite him. Let him see us, see us how we really are. Let him get a peek. That’ll grab him.”

The irony of calling anyone else a sicko had seemed lost on Shinso, but it was right, Gin had realised later. If he is to pull this off, he’s going to have to perform, he’s going to have to draw him in.

Seduce him, even.

“Think ya’ might be right on this one,” he had admitted reluctantly, and he frowns now, in the present, mulling it over. Let him see us, see us how we really are.

It is a troubling thought.

No signs of softness, no signs of weakness; never let them know where your heart lies. He had heard those words, in a different place, in a different life.

Shinso had padded towards him through the darkness until there had been scarcely any space between them. Its footsteps do not echo. The blackness it wraps itself in is gentle as velvet. It had pressed its (Rangiku’s Rangiku’s Rangiku’s) head against his own tenderly, and Gin had frozen. It has Rangiku’s hair, it has Rangiku’s face, but its skin is always so cold.

“Have you thought about my questions?” It had uttered with a smile. It had whispered in his ear, but there is no warm puff of air when Shinso speaks, no sound of breathing, just the sound of dust, a hiss. “Do you know what we are yet? It is a choice, Gin. Commit; and do not turn back. Everything that happens now happens because you made it that way.”

It is a choice, Gin. Commit; and do not turn back.

When he had looked into those black hollows, he had known what it was he had to do. He had known what he had to be.

He thinks he has begun to understand what he has to give up.

(But he hasn’t. Not really. Not yet.)

“I know.”

He had swallowed. There had been nothing more he could have said.

In the present, the excitement bubbling away in his chest finally dies down. He sighs and runs a hand through his fine-stranded hair, knowing Shinso to be right.

It had all started to become so complicated, somewhere along the line. When he had seen him, the man, Aizen, in the forest for the first time, it had been so simple.

Kill him. Kill him. Kill him. Kill him for what he has done. Kill him for even daring to touch her, his heart had screamed bestially.

Time had passed and he had tracked them all down, one by one, each of the animals that had laid their hands on her. But still Aizen lives, still Aizen thrives, and his heart rages now with impatience to see his vengeance wrought.

Aizen -

And one more.

But not for much longer.

It had taken so long already. Who knew what could have become of her in a year?

Unbidden, his mind drifts back to the letter she had left for him, dried mud and ash on a grey-brown sack, in a wooden hut and a shitty town, so, so far away.

Suddenly, it is too much effort to stay upright, and so he carelessly pushes Shinso from his lap and lets himself fall back against the tatami mat.

He had known that she would be devastated when he left her.

He’d left anyway.

It had been more important to him, at the time, to leave.

(That maybe, just maybe - he hadn’t cared enough to stay.)

The thought is small and ashamed.

He’d thought about her often when he’d been at the academy, on cold starless nights in shared dormitories where her hair did not tickle his nose and he didn’t have to manoeuvre around her clumsy, kicking legs in the night; where he had not woken in the night to screams that he alone had been able to soothe.

When his mind had turned to her - as had been inevitable because the thought of her had been as inescapable as gravity - guilt and remorse had twisted up inside him like a snake wrapping itself around his insides. It had been a novel feeling, guilt. He had not liked it then, and he doesn’t like it now.

It had always been a cruel thing, the sight of her crestfallen face as he left her, the way she would look dully at her hands and the way that the light would drop out of her. Something about it stung at him, and so he had tried bitterly to avoid thinking too long on how she was coping, what she doing, how she was faring.

It had been difficult, but having taught himself to steel himself against it, he finds it is the uncertainty now, the fact that he does not even know what she is doing, that she could be with anyone, which makes his heart do strange things.

His smile is strained.

I don’t even know where ya’ are anymore, he thinks distantly to himself. Did ya’ even exist? Or did I dream ya’ up to keep me company? Where are ya’ now, Rangiku?

“I’m not angry that you left,” she had written for him. “Not all of the time, anyway. Sometimes I am. Sometimes I hate you. But most of the time I’m just sorry that you felt like you had to leave. I just wish I knew why.”

“Thank you”.

“You’ll always be my friend.”

My friend, he thinks fervently. My only friend.

He sighs.

The letter had just been further proof of what he’d always known: that when all was accounted for, when all was tallied up in the book of their lives, she was a better person than he was, and always would be. She had that elusive ability to care for others, and the even more elusive quality to forgive.

It wasn’t that she didn’t get angry.

(He shakes his head ruefully at the thought. He had suffered too many punches to the arm to think anything otherwise).

It was just that her anger had always been quick and passionate - fierce, but quick to burn itself out, gone almost as soon as it had arrived. She could be shouting and throwing things at him one minute, but she’d be joking with him the next, all wrongs forgiven as if he’d never done anything wrong in the first place.

Would it be naïve to hope that he could be forgiven this time?

He has rarely felt remorse for anything in his life. Remorse means caring that you have wronged another person. Remorse means having the ability to know, know in your heart, that there is such a thing wrong in the first place.

But Ichimaru Gin does not care. He lacks that compass inside of him, that invisible magnetism, which seemed to guide everyone else towards the good. He has heard talk of evil, but it had always seemed to him a label which people gave to the things they disliked, to the things that caused them disgust or pain.

It is still an alien sensation to him, this prickling, this strange curling and twisting inside of him, the feeling of guilt. If he’s honest, he’s still not even sure he knows what guilt is, but it hurts him to have hurt her and he figures that must lie close to the essence of it.

Rangiku was considerate of other people, he thinks stubbornly. Though she had hidden it well, she’d had a melancholy streak in her that ran a mile wide and as deep as the blue sea. It was born of abandonment, he muses, of fear that she would be left alone again. She was always considerate of other people. Too considerate, he thinks to himself. When something went wrong, she always sought to smooth over the edges, to please people. As far as he was concerned, they could die in a ditch.

She’d have done anything to avoid being abandoned.

He’d done it to her anyway.

(Simply, shamefully – it had been more important to him to leave than it had been for him to stay. There was nothing more to it than that.)

Had she managed to convince herself that he’d left because of something she’d done?

The thought twists at his insides. It troubles him.

It has been a year since he had left. He had eschewed all academy holidays in order to concentrate on his goal, had endured the braying of the idiot sons of Seireitei noble families, had shut himself in libraries night after night, had sweated and bloodied himself and ran himself hoarse on the training field, all to graduate as quickly as possible. All to murder Aizen Sosuke in cold blood for all that he had done to her.

Does she still have nightmares? Has she learnt to fight ‘em off without me?

Does she still-

He cannot bring himself to complete the thought.

(-need me?)

But him?

He has grown strong without her.

He will be graduating as a seated officer. He is a legend, a prodigy, the first person to graduate from the academy in a year.

Tonight - tonight he will carry out his plan. He is a boy, a child. No one will suspect him. No one will know. Everything will go as he wants it to.

It is an easy thing to convince himself that it will be easy. Aizen will never see his true nature, or at least, he amends to himself, not enough of it to know what he intends. The man’s blood will dye Shinso scarlet soon enough, even if not tonight, and Gin will laugh and laugh and laugh to see it gush out of the man and to see his corpse crumpled on the ground, like trash.

The excitement is back, the lurid satisfaction, and he lets it bubble away merrily inside of him.

He has found his smile again, and it is like a sickle.

He hums to himself in pleasure, and rocks forward to a sitting position. He grabs Shinso from off the floor, and he jumps to his feet jauntily.

So what if it has taken longer than he had planned?

Nothin’ worth doin’ was ever done easily, he thinks to himself and he tries not to think of the heartbreak on her face as he left.

It is not as complicated as he had made it out to be. It is simple. He will steal back what was taken, and he will return it to her, and then he will return himself to her, and it will be over.

Over.

And then-

Unbidden, the words of what feels like a life time ago rise up in him. His pale fingertips ghost over his lips for a second.

She had rushed the words out, trying to explain herself to him.

"I could never hate you completely, not really. Not if you tickled me for hours, not if you made me dig up the garden and dangled every worm in my face, not if you made fun of every other person on earth-" her breath had hitched, and he had watched her, dumbfounded "-not even if you left me, not even then. You gave me this birthday, and for as long as I live, I'll wake up today and think of you because you saved me and you gave me a home."

He remembers every word. It has been over a year, and yet he remembers it as if she’d said it yesterday, this morning, an hour ago.

How could he not? She had-

(-kissed him. It had carved away at his insides like a disease, rent apart his chest, ripped him to pieces. The memory sat in the hole it had hollowed out, flush in the space between his heart and his soul, reigning like a king over his body.)

He will never again be rid of it.

It had been like a promise; it had been like a vow.

Nothing more had ever been said about it.

What did it mean? What did it mean? What did she meant by it?

But still that memory warms him. He can feel the lingering traces of the dizzying delight he had felt in that moment each time he closes his eyes and remembers it. His lips quirk upwards.

An eerie, tuneless whistle emerges from his mouth. He cannot help himself, not when the world is so alight with possibilities.

He has murder in his heart, a sword in his hand, a whistle in his mouth, and the ghost of her kiss on his lips.

He smiles.

Time to go.

--

It is a masterpiece of theatre.

He coaxes the man into the woods with a few wide-eyed, warbling words of praise, some pathetic, snivelling dross, all dewy-eyed innocence. The man doesn’t question it for a second.

When they are safely hidden by the canopy, safely ensconced in the darkness, he strikes. The air heaves and writhes with his killing intent, and the third seat crumples beneath the pressure like he is made of paper. A paper man. Goin’ ta’ fold him up and put him in my pocket, Gin hums to himself. He smiles brightly.

Nah, goin’ ta’ rip him up.

He is on his hands and knees in discomfort, retching into the soil, thick, suffocating saliva forced from his mouth. The sweat trickles from his brow, leaving a sheen; the hair on the back of his neck stands on end, mimicking the response of all prey since time immemorial. The man is frightened. It is written all over his face.

He should be. He’s going to die.

The third seat tries to rise, but he can’t.

“Come on!” Gin cheers him on. “Ya’ the third seat, so act like it. Come on up and get me, Mr Third Seat! You can do it!”

The man grits his teeth and lets out an inhuman roar of effort, pushing with all his might to try to get to his feet.

“So close now!”

The man has made it off his hands. Gin makes an appreciative noise and claps his hands at him, delighted. He has only the most rudimentary knowledge of that thing called empathy, but if he were hard pressed to guess, he would say right now that the man must be feeling something akin to hope.

The third seat stumbles low to the ground, and Gin cheers for him.

And then, his expression never shifting for a moment, white grin still stretched across his face, he aims a vicious kick straight to his head. The man’s nose bursts across his face.

He collapses to the ground again, making a low, heaving noise. Gin wonders vaguely whether he’s crying.

“Oh no!” Gin sings at him. “Whoopsadaisy! Ya’ve fallen over, Mr Third Seat! How clumsy of ya’!” He shakes his head at him theatrically. “How clumsy! Fallen over ya’ own feet!”

The man seems to have given up on trying to stand with Gin’s spiritual pressure beating down at him again and again like a hammer against an anvil, and so he begins to crawl, hands and knees, across the forest floor, blood gushing from the splatter that had been his nose.

“Oh no, no, no,” Gin says to him, grin wide. “Let me help you up! Mighty third seats shouldn’t go crawlin’ through the forest on their hands and knees. That’s for bugs.” Something burns in his eyes for a second, but it is gone the minute it appears. “Or vermin.”

The third seat looks back with fear-filled eyes. He inhales and exhales rapidly, in the broken breathing of the terrified. His hands are scratched from where broken branches have torn at them.

“So stubborn!” Gin bends over, wiping his hands on his black shihakusho, and drags the man to his feet by the collar. “Up we get! Was that so difficult, askin’ for a bit of help?”

The third seat is not stupid enough to fail to see where this is going. His face twists into an animal snarl. He has realised what should have been obvious since the beginning: that he will be permitted to leave with Gin’s permission, or not at all. His stupid, ugly curtains of hair fall into his face as he grabs for his sword. His beady little eyes have blown wide with hatred.

Just try. Just ya’ try.

He tries.

His zanpakuto comes free from its sheath, and he swings it brutishly, clumsily, at Gin’s side. Shinso is in his hand in a second, and he knocks the third seat’s blow aside with an almost clumsy laziness.

“’S not very nice to take your anger out on other people like that, Mr Third Seat,” he says reproachfully. “’S not my fault you can’t get up.” There’s something hysterically funny about that. His grin widens.

The third seat swings again, and again, and again, until he is trembling and sobbing with exertion.

“Shhh, shhh,” he soothes. “Shhh. It’s nothin’ to cry over! ‘S just a fall. ‘S just a fall. We all fall down sometimes. Gotta tell ya’ self it doesn’t hurt.”

He pauses dramatically, looking behind him to the thinning tree line. Aaah, he thinks coldly and he turns back to the man. Good timin’.

“This though,” he says, turning Shinso over in one hand casually, “this is goin’ ta’ hurt like hell’.”

He pushes the blade through the man’s stomach, slowly, slowly.

Shinso is sharp, but the organs of a grown man are thick and spongey, filled with gristle and muscle and gore and blood. It explodes outwards in a thick stream, making his hands and his chest slick, and as he slices upwards, it spurts in a hot, unexpected shower across his face, the wetness. He can hear the dull slap of the man’s guts as they slide out and hit the ground, the shocked intake of the man’s last breaths.

There is no performance now.

He lifts the man by his collar, still lodged on his blade, and looks at him, watching his eyes cloud over.

It is a strange thing, a heady thing, to watch. A person is never more themselves than in extremis, never more honest in their desires, in their choices. Those categories called good and evil- how easily they seem to be forgotten in the overwhelming impetus to survive. How much more, he thinks, people seem to resemble himself in their final moments. How clear it seems then, that there is no good, no evil- only people. Beautiful, ugly, strange people.

The man’s eyes were brown. In death, they are black.

It is done.

He shuts his eyes for a moment and raises his head towards the sky.

Behind his eyes, he sees her as he had first seen her, collapsed on the ground, the man's hand buried to the elbow in her chest, taking something vital and shining from her. Rangiku's yukata had been bunched up around her thighs, and her face had been wan and marred with bruises like storm clouds. As the man rose, he had cupped her face almost tenderly, caressing her cheek. And then he had slapped her, and the sound had rung out through the deserted road. There had been dirt in her golden hair.

The nightmares she had suffered, how she had struggled to walk for days after, the blood on her face and her fat, split lip-

The man had turned to his companions afterwards, and he had laughed.

He had laughed.

There is fury boiling in him. He has forgotten the performance.

Gin only regrets that he cannot kill the man twice, regrets that he had not thought to inflict more pain while he still had the chance. Overcome by rage, he sends another kick crashing into the man’s face, and then another, breath hissing through his teeth.

Overhead, a gap forms in the clouds. The moon emerges; it is eerily bright. He readies another furious blow.

“Ah…”

And then he stills, exhaling a shaky breath through his nose.

The voice, rich and lazy and loathsome, issues from behind him. He had wanted an audience, and now he has one. He had almost forgotten in all the excitement.

“They weren’t exaggerating then. I’d heard, but I had not given much credence to such inflated rumours. A mistake, obviously. What’s your name?”

Gin turns, and as he does so, the moonlight falls on him like a spotlight. The blood, which had seemed black in the shadows, has painted half his face red, like a mask. His fine hair is soaked with it, and it has separated into damp strands. He looks at the man’s face.

Aizen’s eyes are warm, and honey brown, and so gentle.

Except they aren’t.

Gin has known enough monsters to recognise a face put on for polite society when he sees one. He has seen this man obliterate people, seen them blur into thin air, like tea in hot water. He doesn’t dare buy for a second the look he sees on this man’s face.

He looks closer.

Cruelty. Amusement. Intrigue. Hunger.

(The eye of a fellow connoisseur; the eye of a fellow artist.)

(The thought sickens him.)

He steels himself for what he’s about to do. His heart fights against his ribs to burst out of his chest. He has never done anything so terrifying.

(He thinks of her.)

Perform. Perform, he thinks desperately. Keep his attention while you have it. And he lets his most blood-chilling smile stretch across his face, a bright rictus grin.

“Good evenin’, Vice-Captain Aizen!” he calls out sweetly, the third seat’s guts at his feet. He can feel the blood starting to soak through into his tabi. “Lovely moon we’ve got out tonight.”

Nothing like surprise crosses Aizen’s face. If anything, he looks rapt- darkly pleased by Gin’s response.

“Good,” he murmurs softly, before smiling. “You’re even better than I’d heard. I’ll ask you again. What is your name?”

It is a choice, Gin. Commit; and do not turn back, Shinso had told him. Everything that happens now happens because you made it that way.

“For as long as I live, I'll wake up today and think of you because you saved me and you gave me a home.”

Gin takes a deep breath, and hopes that Aizen will blame it on the exertion of murder.

“Gin. Ichimaru Gin.”

There can be no turning back.

[spiriituma]

||--not sure what, if anything, to tag this as but !! potential trigger warning for death, some gore... basically magic horror beneath the cut, so have fun !!--||

IT WAS AN ALL BUT SILENT NIGHT. The witch’s heart pounded in her ears, she could feel it rising up into her throat. Each footfall was more panicked than the last, and though the sirens were far enough behind her to fade into obscurity behind the thick curtain of fog that followed, the fear that they would catch her couldn’t help but creep into her thoughts. Lee’s white-knuckle grip on her cloak and the bag she carried over her shoulder only grew tighter as she barreled through underbrush, deeper and deeper into the thicket, paying little attention to where she was headed, only looking to get far, far away from where she’d been.

Once she could no longer hear the sirens, the girl stopped, doubled over coughing, trying to catch her breath. She didn’t know how long she’d been running, how far the town she’d just booked it out of was behind her. A shaking hand reached out to grasp at the nearest tree, nails digging into the bark. She’d gotten a little bit too cocky with her thievery; breaking into a pawn shop to rob them of their most valuable objects only to find an armed night guard hadn’t exactly been a shining moment of hers. (She was a teenager with magic too strong for her own good; it was bound to get to her head eventually.)

A few minutes passed before the blonde finally stopped shaking. She took a tentative step forward, pulling the hood of her cloak back up around her. It had just begun to drizzle; thunder rumbled in the distance, lightning flickered faintly overhead. If she didn’t start moving now, she’d never make it to somewhere she could keep dry before it started to downpour. The last thing she wanted was to be rained on when she had only one other set of clothes to change into and nowhere warm to sleep. If only she could start a fire that wasn’t cold, something that she’d have to teach herself later; maybe she could practice while she walked.

Muttering to herself, playing with a small blue flame, Lee picked her way through the woods, starting down a little dirt trail that looked like it hadn’t been trod down in years. A half an hour of walking, of practicing, and an iron gate blocked the young girl’s way. Soft, blue-gray eyes gazed up at the wrought iron design arching above her head. There was no name on the gate, but the headstones just past it led her to believe she’d just stumbled upon an old cemetery, seemingly forgotten to all but her.

The witch very cautiously pushed the gate open with a loud creak, fog pooling around her ankles as she wiped the rust on her tattered jeans. It must have rained rather hard there before she arrived, puddles lined the gravel road down both sides; the gravestones, some of which appeared to be old, scuffed marble shone with a new glory, the dust and dirt washed away. As she walked, she read the names, the inscriptions. A married couple resting side by side. A young boy. A woman taken in her prime. Several stones with no names, names that had faded away with time. Feeling the tears begin to well up, Lee paused, squatting beside them, fingers grazing over the still wet stones.

Condolences were whispered to the souls who laid beneath, an apology uttered along with it. A fascination, a connection, with the dead had always bubbled within the witch. As a child, she had spent a lot of time in cemeteries, more so after the loss of her grandmother. A witch herself, Lee’s grandmother had been the young girl’s rock, teaching her the basics, helping her control her magic. When the woman passed, Lee was lost-- completely devastated. Her one solace was visiting her grandmother’s gravesite every evening... until their family moved. And kept moving. With every mistake that Lee made regarding her powers, the girl’s mother grew more and more angry, holing her away from people save to send her to school. The blows to her psyche kept coming, and the pent up anger and aggression rose ever further to the surface.

Until the girl blew a fuse. Quite literally.

Lee visibly winced, trying to push the thought out of her conscious as she stood, casting a lingering glance at the wordless grave markers before continuing on. The thunder she’d been trying so hard to avoid boomed louder, echoing around her, seeming to shake the cemetery itself. Her breath hung in the air like dragon smoke amidst the fog around her; a quick peek over her shoulder determined there was no going back-- she was far enough along that the gate had since disappeared. “Well...” The word was breathy, quiet, said to no one in particular, not even herself. “I guess the only way out... is through.”

Continuing on, Lee had to stop herself from stopping at more headstones, telling herself that it would be fine, that those who rested there would forgive her for not acknowledging them. All that mattered was making it to a safe, dry, and preferably warm location before the oncoming storm finally touched ground. As she reached what she presumed was the edge of the cemetery, about to hop over the rusty iron fence, something caught her eye. There was a portion of the wrought iron that was broken, overgrown by a large tree. Past it, an even lesser traveled path poked out from underneath loose leaves and brush. She paused, fingers tapping against the iron; teeth bit down hard on her lower lip. Keep going keep going keep going-- Her mind told her to keep going straight.

BUT IT WAS HER HEART TUGGING HER TOWARDS THE SHADOWS.

Lee jogged over to the broken portion of fencing and hopped the roots that had overtaken it, pushing past the underbrush as she moved forward, keeping her eyes on the gravel path so that she wouldn’t be lost in the fog were she to want to head back. There was an air of excitement, of mystery, around the place. She had never been one to find cemeteries spooky; in fact, the contrary was true-- walking through one’s gates felt like going to visit friends. However, what she stumbled upon in the woods was a sight unlike anything she’d ever seen before.

A hauntingly beautiful mausoleum stood among a circle of trees, seemingly protected from time itself, and standing in front of it... A STATUE OF A HORSE. She was transfixed by the creature, and how could she not be? The piece was immaculate, sculpted from what appeared to be black marble or granite, though a more exotic kind than she’d ever seen, shot through with swirls of red and gold. What intrigued Lee most of all, however, was not what the horse was made of, but its posture, its physique. It looked to be a mare, standing alert, one ear pricked forward, her neck arched and nostrils flared-- though the horse was not rearing up or striking, all four feet planted on its base, something about it sent a chill down the witch’s spine.

SHE WAS A PROTECTOR. A FIERCE ONE. A FORCE TO BE RECKONED WITH.

It was clear to her that the mare had been placed at the site as a memorial, but also as a warning-- one that she would later regret not heeding. Though, in that moment, she was desperate. An idea had worked its way into her mind. She remembered a spell in the book her grandmother had given her that would give life to an inanimate object, long enough for the object to provide a service to its creator before turning back into whatever it had once been. A loud crack of lightning across the cloudy night sky told the girl all she needed to know. She needed to find that spell, and she needed to find it fast. This horse could help her. Maybe it could protect her, be her guide; if nothing else, it would at least provide a way out of the woods that was faster than her own two feet.

Setting down her bag, Lee dug through it and grabbed the musty, torn spell book her grandmother had given her. Flipping through it, she occasionally cast a glance up at the horse; maybe it was just her own paranoia from the events that had transpired earlier that night, but she felt like it was eyeing her. Sizing her up. Upon finding the spell, Lee set the book down onto the wet ground (how odd that the page had already been marked, and not by her own hand,) before taking a deep breath and stepping back towards the statue. Her tongue stuck out from between her lips in concentration as she began to draw a circle around the base with her magic, lighting up the surrounding area with an eery blue glow. 

Lee checked the circle once, twice, three times, going back and forth to her spell book to make sure she had everything right. Stepping back to admire her handiwork, eyes closed tight, a plea to a higher power slipped past her lips. The witch swallowed thickly and opened her eyes-- it was time to try out what she’d learned. Hands hovered above the book, she stood square with the statue’s base, looking up at the stone mare. This had to work. IT JUST HAD TO WORK. 

“Veni... ambulabunt mecum.” (COME... WALK WITH ME.)

Another crack of lightning split the sky, though it was Lee’s magic that still illuminated the clearing and everything in it. Leaves began to swirl at the statue’s base, and the witch felt her breath hitch in her chest. Her hands trembled, fingers tense from holding the spell, but she simply had to see it through its completion. Lee’s teeth gritted, brows furrowed, fighting the urge to stop. I can take it. I can do this. I’m strong enough. Gramma wouldn’t have given me the book if she didn’t think so--

Blue tendrils of magic branched out of its circle, snaking up the statue’s base and around the horse’s legs, up its chest, barrel, haunches... crawling up and wrapping its neck and head. Suddenly there was a CRACK that wasn’t from above; Lee’s eyes shot up, the circle she had created around the statue’s base ceased to glow, fading into the ground. The clearing was silent.

DEATHLY SILENT.

The statue began to twitch. Head canted to the side; stone crackled and chipped as its ears flicked back and forth. Eyes forced themselves to blink; hooves were picked up one by one off of the base, the creature gaining its footing for the very first time. Lee’s magic still ensnared it, the mare’s eyes glowing a bright blue. From her position on the ground, Lee took a step back, a small smile of disbelief on her face, watching the creature. She’d done it, she’d completed the spell--

She tripped over her backpack, sending her falling onto her backside with a thud. Breathless, the witch’s eyes locked onto the statue, meeting the creature’s gaze. Something felt wrong. A sudden terror struck her as the magic that had been meant to fade began to change; the blue tendrils warped themselves, swirling faster around the figure and changing from the electric blue that Lee was so familiar with to a blazing blood red. Scrambling backwards, desperately trying to get herself untangled from her backpack, Lee’s heart nearly froze in her chest.

THE MARE’S JAW CRACKED OPEN IN A SILENT SCREAM, AND THE CREATURE RAISED ITSELF ONTO ITS HIND LEGS. 

Within seconds, it sprung towards the witch, Lee having just barely managed to kick herself free and get to her feet, throwing herself in the direction of the path she’d traveled earlier. Once again, she found herself in a desperate chase, though this one easily felt more LIFE AND DEATH than the previous. She couldn’t stop shaking, sparks flying from her fingertips with each stride; the girl dared not look behind her, for it was enough to hear the stone horse crashing its way through the underbrush. 

There was a slight bit of relief as the broken portion of cemetery fence she’d jumped earlier came back into view through the fog. Frantically, Lee leapt the fence, but she was stopped short upon landing, her cloak caught on the wrought iron spikes. She stumbled to the ground, choking, clutching at her neck in an attempt to free herself of the garment. Just past the fence, the horse had come into view, menacing red eyes shining through the heavy fog. IT WAS AFTER HER. IT WASN’T STOPPING. IT WAS GOING TO KILL HER.

AND SHE WAS RUNNING OUT OF TIME.

With enough struggling, the cloak ripped, sending the witch flat onto her face, but providing a bit of a distraction for the ghastly creature that had hunted her down. As Lee scrambled back, the horse became tangled in the cloak. It had no voice, it could not speak, but THAT DIDN’T STOP IF FROM SCREAMING. Eyes were still fixed on the young witch as she backed away from the creature, her thoughts a blur, mind racing, trying to determine a plan of action-- or if there even was one. Her ankle was twisted from the fall, running would no longer be an option; the book that contained her spells was somewhere past the horse, on the other side of the fence, still at the mausoleum, there was no way she’d be able to reach it in time.

WHAT DO I DO WHAT DO I DO WHAT DO I--

The stone mare had finally freed itself from the cloak, shaking the garment that was now tattered beyond recognition off of her hooves and facing down the witch. Save for Lee’s ragged breathing, the cemetery was quiet; the sense of dread that had overtaken the witch was soon replaced with anger as the creature stood there, a ways in front of her, watching her with an almost disappointed gaze. AS IF SHE WERE WOUNDED PRAY THAT THE HORSE HAD EXPECTED MORE OF A CHASE FROM.

“Wh-- What do you want--?!” Maybe SCREAMING AT IT wasn’t Lee’s best option, but... she didn’t see any way out of this in which she was STILL LIVING. Tears began to stream down the witch’s battered face; she clutched at her side, knees trembling, trying to convince herself to KEEP STANDING. “What do-- do you want from me? You wanna kill me? IS THAT IT?!”

There was no response from the horse. Had the girl really expected one?

Letting out a shaking, choppy breath, Lee spat blood at her feet, keeping her eyes trained on the mare. It had finally hit her, the anger that she had kept deep inside ever since her grandmother’s death. Still willing herself to keep standing, the blonde gritted her teeth, staring down the horse through her tears. “THEN FUCKING DO IT! GET IT OVER WITH! Look at you, you fucking bitch-- you’re a MONSTER. And I’m the one that made you--

I’M NO BETTER THAN YOU ARE.

I’ve wasted this life. I’ve wasted my life, a-and I’ve played god, and I DON’T DESERVE A SECOND CHANCE, SO WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU WAITING FOR--?!

JUST GET IT OVER WITH ALREADY!”

And so, it seemed, the mare would, launching forward at Lee from her end of the small cemetery. There was nowhere for the girl to go, and as she faced down the horse, she knew then and there--

Wait, no-- NO NO NO. SHE DIDN’T WANT TO GO.

Before the mare could finish the job, Lee held both hands out in front of her, willing her magic to do whatever it needed to protect her. Never before had she put such faith in her powers, but with her life dependent on them... she didn’t have a choice. A burst of electric blue beams shot from her palms at the horse, seeming to blind it. Sliding to a stop, the stone creature reared up and backed away, the blast hitting it square in the chest. Though the horse wasn’t knocked over, it had stopped, and as the magic faded from Lee’s palms, it stood quietly, blinking at her, the red fading to a soft magenta. Lee’s hands fell to her sides, a breathy laugh of relief slipping past her lips. Whatever she had done... the horse now seemed... normal. Friendly. Curious, even. It looked like her magic had--

WITHOUT WARNING, THE GIRL FELL TO HER KNEES.

A searing pain shot through her chest, and she doubled over, forehead resting on the ground, hands wrung together at her throat. What was happening? It was pure, blinding agony; Lee had never felt something so powerful in her life. Her breathing ragged, the poor girl frightened and confused, a blue glow began to seep past her closed eyes. She dared not look; teeth gritted, Lee tried her best to curl up even further, but it was no use. The witch’s chest split open like someone had taken an ice pick to a frozen pond, her whole torso starting to crack, the veins resonating from the area above her heart. 

“P-- P-Please--”

Sobbing, the witch was knocked out of her fetal position, the magic coursing through her forcing her up onto her knees. Blue tendrils surrounded her, one of them BLASTING her full in the chest.. and retrieving HER STILL-BEATING HEART. Lee watched on in horror, unable to believe that the organ had been so easily taken from her, UNABLE TO BELIEVE THAT SHE WAS STILL ALIVE WITHOUT IT. Yet, that wasn’t entirely true-- rapidly, the witch’s body began to change. 

HOW MANY PEOPLE CAN SAY THAT THEY HAVE WATCHED THEMSELVES DECAY? 

Her skin became pale, ghastly, with the very hint of rigor mortis setting in. Bruising seeped into her finger tips, causing the beds of her nails to turn a dark black-ish purple; the same could be said for the area surrounding the witch’s eyes, creating almost a mask-like appearance that stretched over her face. She shivered, both trembling from shock and the newfound COLDNESS that crept into her body. Lee’s hair, which had been neatly braided, hanging roughly to her waist, burst from its tie, growing wild and unruly to the full length of its potential. If it were cut, it would never grow back, for it had done all the growing it ever would in this lifetime. 

Still in shock, her thoughts drifted-- THE HORSE. Where was the horse? The creature that had attacked her had turned tail, absolutely terrified, though it seemed that LEE’S MAGIC HAD CAUGHT UP WITH IT. Electric blue tendrils grabbed the horse’s legs mid-stride, pulling it backwards and onto the ground, dragging it nearer to the human heart that floated just above them both, still beating, surrounded by a glowing orb of magic. Lee locked eyes with the creature; there was a part of her that felt for it, despite the fact it had tried to kill her. 

IT WAS CONFUSED. SCARED. 

Lee was about to reach out to the animal when the heart-- HER HEART --split in two, rocketing one half into the witch and the other... INTO THE HORSE. The force of her heart reentering her body sent the girl flying onto her back, though she managed to shakily position herself so she could see the animal in front of her. LOOKING BACK, SHE WISHED SHE HADN’T. 

The animal’s stone facade CRACKED AND SPLIT, down her spine and in veins across her barrel. Magic whisked away into the woods surrounding them, sucking the life out of everything around them-- trees lost their leaves, wilted, decayed; birds fell from the sky. WHAT LEE HAD GIVEN WASN’T ENOUGH; more had been needed. Her eyes were no longer a solid, glowing mass, but the whites now shown, the magenta orbs pleading with Lee for help. BUT THERE WAS NOTHING SHE COULD DO.

Both of them exhausted and bleeding, Lee crawled her way towards the scared creature. Its mane and tail that had once been sculpted stone were now long and slick; as the girl pulled herself closer, she could see fleshy areas on the animal’s hide. The mare was CHANGING, like Lee had changed, though were life had been taken from the witch... it was rapidly, TOO RAPIDLY, being given to the mare.

Lee managed to reach the horse, one hand lifting to shakily press against the creature’s now warm, soft muzzle before the girl passed out, everything around her fading to black.

[365daysofsasuhina]

[ @sasuhinabigflash2020​ || Day Two: Contempt ] [ Uchiha Sasuke, Hyūga Hinata ] [ SasuHina, blood ] [ Verse: Of Monsters and Men ] [ AO3 Link ]

[ Previous ] [ Next ]

It’s funny how being different is typically such a crime...unless that difference makes you useful.

Since a young age, Hinata has known that the world would treat her unkindly for what she is. That her abilities beyond that of a typical human would see her cast aside, glowered at from behind window panes, and shunned from any social gatherings.

...except those that required her abilities.

Those like her vary widely. From power over elements to gifts like her own that give sight into the future, witches - known all over the world by other names in other tongues - have been at odds with humanity since the two sides were first introduced. And as long as humans remain so stubborn and ignorant, the odds of finding a peaceful middle ground are slim.

But despite all that, Hinata has done her best to settle in, growing familiar with the people of her village and their needs. Though not skilled in their magic, her love for plants sees a decent business in selling flowers or herbs. But what most come to see her for - hooded and cloaked to avoid being spied by their neighbors - are her visions.

For like her mother before her, Hinata’s eyes can see beyond what lies before them, discerning flickers and moments that have yet to pass. And while many are more than willing to scorn her for it...just as many are eager to use it when it pleases them. Even the leader of their little town has stopped by once or twice. It’s Hinata he has to thank for the wife he found with her help.

But that doesn’t encourage him to help defend her with his influence over the people.

Some would think it only fair for Hinata to meet their contempt with her own. But it’s simply never been in her nature. She can’t blame them for their fear, as birthed in superstition as it is.

After all...she isn’t the only thing they have to fear...nor she they.

For there is a third world at play in their lives. One Hinata has rarely had to venture into, despite being the so-called twilight between their darkness and the sunlight of humanity. By whatever grace, those who call themselves the Nightwalkers have steered clear of her and her little town.

But no peace lasts forever.

“Miss Hyūga! Miss Hyūgaaa!”

Startling in her sitting room, Hinata abandons her sewing to meet a small group of people at the door. Carried haphazardly by several of them is a man...and painting his pale form is a worrying amount of blood.

“He’s been attacked! One’a the lord’s sons! By a monster!”

That gets her eyes to widen. “...set him here,” she directs, sweeping clutter from her table.

His garments are torn, and immediately she can’t help a grimace. There’s a terrible bite wound to his throat, which seems to be where most of the blood is coming from. If this is what she thinks it is…

“I need space to work,” is her quiet command, glad her reputation at least means they fear her enough to do as she says. Cleaned rags are gathered, water set to boil over her hearth. Clearing the wound of blood and debris, her eyes flicker between it and the pale planes of his face. If she had to guess, this is a vampire bite.

But that alone doesn’t seal his fate. Even if he was bitten...the monster’s infection could only take hold if they were in a frenzied state, pushed to their limits resorting to their basest form and instincts. He has a chance: he might still be human.

So, for now, she urges the others to leave so she can work uninterrupted. “I’ll send word when he wakes. Until then, I must tend to him, and quickly.”

Worried faces eventually turn and leave the way they came. Left in silence, Hinata begins doing her best to treat the bite. A brief friendship at a crossroads with a healer means she at least should be able to do this much...but much else will be beyond her skillset.

And if he is infected...she’s going to have quite the problem to deal with in a few days.

But for now she focuses solely on her task. Carefully dabbing a poultice into the punctures, she then wraps the bite in clean linen, boiled and dried.

All the while, he barely stirs, eyes closed and sunken in pain. Hinata glances to him often, but there’s little to glean.

Not yet.

Once he’s cleaned and bandaged, she manages to drag him to a nearby settee, a bed too far to reach. Not as comfortable, but better than the table.

For now...all she can do is wait.

Gently, fingers lift his eyelids. Beneath are dark irises, pupils contracting in the light. But at this stage, it’s too early to tell either way.

He’s left to rest, her evening passed by cleaning up the lingering mess of soiled cloth and blood on her table. Taking a light supper, she watches him occasionally twitch, groaning and sweating.

...this isn’t looking good. But there’s nothing she can do...a frenzied Nightwalker’s bite means only one of two things: death...or change.

And the latter is considerably worse in almost every way.

With little else she can do for him, Hinata turns in for the night, the typical sounds of her yard in the dark accompanied by his ragged breathing and occasional whimper.

Needless to say, she sleeps very little.

And come morning, her fears are confirmed. Lifting his lids, her heart sinks at the sight of flickering crimson irises.

He’s Turning.

Retreating, she braces a hand at her lips, unsure what to do. Once his transformation is complete, he’ll be a force to be reckoned with, with new abilities and instincts he’ll have nearly no control over. A danger to himself, and to others...not to mention a monster in their eyes. Even his family is sure to fear and hate him, now.

There’s little room for pity in their hearts when it comes to those beyond their specie.

The merciful thing would be to kill him now while he’s defenseless, and tell the others the wound claimed him.

...and yet…

Looking back, she can’t help but feel revulsion at the idea. Taking a life...she’s never done so before, though she’s been told more than once to prepare herself for the inevitable. Is it truly right to kill him? Does the pain he’ll feel really outweigh any possible good?

...she can’t.

Instead, she digs through a chest in her bedroom, fetching chains she never thought she’d have need for: forged in silver. Just...something to subdue him until she can help him make sense of all this. Carefully, she fastens them from the main beam of her home to each of his limbs and around his torso, sat up against the wood as he suffers through the changes wrought upon him.

...that’s all she can do. She knows no one else capable within traveling distance before he wakes.

She’s on her own.

For another day, and another night, he remains barely conscious, slumped over save for where the chains bind him. Every so often, Hinata carefully guides water between his lips, glad to see him drink. And when she goes to check the bite along his throat...she finds it already healed.

It’s when the sun sets on the third day that something changes. Mending a torn apron, Hinata stills as the sound of ragged breathing ceases. In its place, a groan, followed by murmured nonsense.

...he’s awake.

Setting aside her task, she moves slowly to stand in front of him. His breathing is still labored, but quiet, form leaned back in exhaustion against the beam. Eyes are closed...but snap open as her floor creaks.

She stills.

For a moment, the eyes are dark...but instinct - fresh in his veins - sees them flash a bright, tantalizing red. But he doesn’t struggle, just...stares.

“...you’re Sasuke, aren’t you?” Hinata asks, tone soft to avoid riling him. “Son of the county’s lord Fugaku Uchiha?”

No reply, still staring.

“...you were attacked three day ago. Something...bit you. Do you remember…?”

Breaking his gaze, he glances aside, clearly trying to think. “...it’s all so...foggy…”

“Given what you’ve been through, that’s understandable. You see, sir...when you were bitten, it…”

Realization seems to dawn on him. For a moment, his face slackens in shock...and then wilts with somber understanding. “...am I...no longer human…?”

So, he knows. Her own form softening, she can’t lie to him. “...no. No, you are not. If what I know is enough to reason with, then...I believe you’ve become a...a vampire.”

“...a monster…”

“...do you feel like a monster…?”

That lifts his gaze back to her face. “...I feel like...myself. But...strange.”

“Humans can be monstrous, too,” Hinata murmurs. “It is our actions that m-mark us as what we truly are. This...affliction does not define you, sir.”

“Sadly, no one else will see it that way.” His head leans back against the beam with a dull thunk, eyes closing. “...kill me.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it...it goes against my nature. I’ll not harm you. Not unless...you give me a reason.”

“Is being as I am not reason enough?”

“No.”

The blunt reply clearly takes him aback. “...I am a nightmare. A threat that lurks in shadows. No matter where I go, contempt will follow me. Forever shunned by those I once called kin. All at the hands of another monster…”

“You still have a choice.”

Unfortunately...it’s then a knock pounds against her door.

It seems the others tire of waiting for news.

Turning to the sound, Hinata gasps at the sound of crunching wood. By the time she about-faces, he’s already free, the bottom of the beam splintered and the chains pooled at his feet.

“...I can’t stay here...I can’t -!”

“Sasuke, wait -!” Reaching out, she manages to lay a hand along his arm.

And in place of what she sees, she’s granted another vision. A wood-shrouded cottage, a gravel path, and a woman smiling in the doorway. She looks like -?

The contact is then broken, and Hinata flinches at the shattering of glass just as the door swings open.

Behind her, the crowd of humans gawk, torn between staring at the window and the beam. “...w...where’s the lord’s son?”

Staring through the broken panes, Hinata swallows dryly, only able to answer, “...gone.”

But she knows she’ll see him again.

Her visions never lie.

     Day two! And done in much better time that this morning last night! I have a nasty habit of writing at very peculiar hours, but I’ll try to get these done in better time so they aren’t buried lol      This time we’re going with my original monster verse, Of Monsters and Men! I actually have an (incomplete) mini series of sorts from the year-long challenge with this universe. It IS still on my list of things to make a proper fic out of, I just...completely underestimated how dreadful 2020 would be, so a lot of what I’ve wanted to do just...hasn’t gotten done OTL BUT! Someday, lol      This is more of an older setting, though I didn’t have an exact date in mind. And in all honesty it feels a bit rushed, a concept I’d do better with with more time and larger word count, but to avoid burnout I’m trying to keep these short. But if a prompt allows, I might do another part! I won’t be tying any of THESE drabbles to any previous events, but I’m not against things within THIS event being connected lol      Anywho, that’s all for today’s! Got other things to do tonight so I better skedaddle, but I hope you enjoyed!      ALSO, I’ll be doing comment reply posts at the end of each week to avoid clog, so I’m not ignoring any replies! I’ll do a post every seven days (tho the last I’ll just wait until the 31st). Until then I’m always thrilled to hear from you guys! <3

[mrsunderhill678]

Hehe, guess who wrote more shit? Well, it’s not shit, but uhhh... Yeet

“Hope for the future is just optimism based in dead realities.” - West Von Sparrow

“He's claimed me as a butcher would a carcass, he's bled me dry and left me ta hang on this hook. I have been flayed of my soul, of my flesh, of my fucking humanity, guess I should'a learned he who rolls against the house, never holds the damn die.” - West Von Sparrow

“You may be a monster, but I'm just a little less than human, and that's what makes me, dangerous." - West Von Sparrow

“It's the break of a new dawn, and though the dusk took my last sunrise, I ain't giving in, cause after all, the sun doesn't rise only once. So when the night comes, just remember, bravery gets you through the night, love gets you through the day.” - Delilah Coraline

“It's beautiful, isn't it? When you find someone to share your world with?” - Evangeline Frights

“Guess I'm an oaf that's seen some shit, but so long as I'm her oaf, I bet I'll be fine.” - Crane Hemmington

“I haven't been in the trenches, but blood spilled is a war in of itself, thing is, you become the enemy.” - Crane Hemmington

“Everything that is yours, can just as easily be mine, possession of self is all you have, and even that can be taken.” - Ballith Greedpaw

“Life is the most precious thing to steal, is it not? Not only do you steal a life, but the joy the memories of the poor bloke you slew held in those who loved him's mind.” - Ballith Greedpaw

“Greed is such a twisted thing, and I suppose that is why I am tangled.” - Ballith Greedpaw

“If you want to speak in the language of what haunts you the most, you'll find yourself speaking the tongue of your mind.” - Damon Watkinson

“I, can do whatever I want, cause in a game with no consequences, why would I choose to lose? You don't reach the end of the checkerboard without the words, "King me," rolling off your tongue. You don't trap the other player's King without saying "Checkmate," so why would I get this far just to say, "Sorry?" - Damon Watkinson

“I have seen the truth, and a thousand lies, and perhaps, I am nothing more than one of the thousand.” - Damon Watkinson

“Our love is magical in the sense that it is beautiful in all it's simplicity and complexity.” - Gracie Hangers

“Life's been a struggle, of black eyes and bloody knuckles, the betrayal of false love and hopes, but whenever my heart falters and threatens to stop, I look into the eyes of my children, and find a reason to fight.” - Camille Trueblood

“I thought I fell in love, when all I really did was tumble off the fucking cliffside. God, I dived into those waters so willingly, drowned for a man who doesn't God damn care. All he's ever been is a false promise, and I guess those hurt more than lies, don't they? Lies are so easy to catch, but a false promise of love is so seductive, especially for a girl with... Nothing. All I had was my heart, and I guess he took that too.” - Jenna Coleburg

“The sun always fades into the night, you're guaranteed to spend some of your days in darkness, but that ain't what matters. What matters, is that you fight through it, and come out God damn smiling. It's what I did, ain't the strongest man of all, the one that comes out of hell still smiling? Or perhaps, the one who walks into hell, smiling.” - Carter Gariah-Smith

“I was swung from the gallows for sumthin' I never would'a done.” - Carter Gariah-Smith

“Just because something is damaged, don't mean it can't deal some.” - Carter Gariah-Smith

“Funny, huh, how in these thirty odd years of mine, I knew her for three, and if you think about it, those were the only three years I lived.” - Avelice Bevelriks

“I lost everythin', really, Sandy, my darling wife, she was my rope, and I guess ever since she snapped I just been floatin. It's cold in these hands of mine, these memories of her. I'm tryin' so desperately ta hold onta em, but they're slippin, they are. Her smile, her laugh, it's all faded. Don't even remember the sound of her heart no more. Though... I can still see her, in my daughter. Her eyes, her laugh, hell, even her smile or the way she sits. Sometimes it's hard lookin' at my daughter, some days it's like I'm lookin' back at Sandy's ghost.” - Casimiro Boeheken

“I've seen the devil's dreams, where young men die by young men's hands, where boys turn ta men and mothers ta widows.” - Casimiro Boeheken

 “Got a noose round my neck, and the floorboards are creakin' underneath me. Either I can cut the rope, or let them floorboards give way, cause either way, I'm free.” - Casimiro Boeheken

“Everything we do has a song, a melody, a voice. And I can hear the song in his smile, harps and echoes of angels, but I can hear the tinge of pain that haunts him.” Marinda Weathers

“I live to love, I live to lift up those around me and tell them, "You're strong, you're brave, and God, are you beautiful, live life like a butterfly, flutter those wings and fly. Because life is short, and you, are loved." - Marinda Weathers

“Day in day out, I fight, I win, and I move on. That's life, these days. Days pass, but I don't.” - Garret Weathers

“Everyone loves the angel with broken wings, huh? Cause they fight the hardest to get their wings back, only to realize, they're the savior of nothing, and they're ripping their own damn wings.” - Garret Weathers

“We can fight the dark, punch it square in the jaw and tell it to back off, cause the dark's only got place in our life when it's lightin' up the stars, and we ain't here to stay in the shade.” - Bob Weathers

“He who won't accept all of ya, don't accept ya at all. The bravest thing you can ever do is be you in the face of the man who hates ya.” - Bob Weathers

“My lullaby sings of secrets I cannot possibly understand, and my heart plucks the chords of joys forgotten and tragedies resurfaced, such a melancholy tune, this melody of my scars.” - Beatrice

“It's like Amethyst and Wanda are my lighthouse, constantly guiding me home. Even if I'm drowning I can see their light from underneath the waves.” - Gracie Ace

“Perhaps I ain't got no stars leadin' the way, but I got my heart givin' me direction. Sure, it's scarred, and God is it battered, but it's flutterin' them wings with everythin' it's got, and me? I'm still pumpin', blood's still coursin' through my veins, so I'm alive, and by every God, I'm fuckin' kickin.” - Crystal Bones

“It's kill or be killed, and I guess we just ain't dyin.” - Alfred Godsel

“In the eyes of many, I'm a hero, but in my eyes, all I see is a man with a gun, who pulled a trigger, and ended a life, but still somehow managed to make the most egregious of sins look like a hero's doin. How the hell did we manage to make spillin' blood somethin' noble?” - Alfred Godsel

“I've lost a lot, but I'll save my grievin' for the livin', for those who've managed to die before they ever hit the dirt.” - Alfred Godsel

“They say dead men tell no tales, but when I come knocking, oh, you'll be wishing that was true, you can pray to every god you know, but that won't save you, no one can. Because he who you silenced, have ripped the stitches from their mouth and out tumbled your secrets, right into my ear.” - Celestia Cloven

“At first I thought it a curse, the whispers of the dead, but not anymore... Not anymore. They speak to me their secrets only so they may find rest, and so he who wrought him demise, may be brought what they deserve. And I, am what they deserve.” - Celestia Cloven

“Belief can be either beautiful, or oppressive, it's up to the morals of the man who believes to create the damn definition.” - Jakobi Warcoat

“Until the fires of this revolution swallow us whole we will shout, we will cry and weep, cause freedom ain't so quietly taken away.” - Jakobi Warcoat

“You wanna kill us, go ahead? Show us just exactly who, you, are. Cause we already know, all yer doin' by killin' us, is provin' us God damn right.” - Jakobi Warcoat

“I've been running all night, trying to find myself, but sometimes I feel... Lost. But maybe that's not a bad thing, you know? The lost boys found a purpose in Neverland, after all.” - Gayle Flint

“I've got scars, and God do they show, the markings of a lonely child lie on my wrist, and they hardly compare to the ones in my heart and my mind.” - Emma Flockheart

 “If a warrior isn't a woman who's been through hell but came out a better person, than I don't know what is.” - Emma Flockheart

“My father was the one who built the crumbling pillars of my heart anew, but now, without him, I'm crumbling, God, I'm crumbling.” - Juno

“Some days, I feel perfectly comfortable in my body, and other days it feels like a cage and I wish I could just scratch at my skin until I tore my way out.” - Juno

 “No matter where you run, or where you hide, your mind gives you up to your demons every fucking time.” - Juno

“You can't explain love, just feel it, and trust it.” - Lynsey Aldallen

“You have the strength of a thousand lions, you shed your mane, and traded it for the hunt, and as you were always meant to, you led the pride, with your claws and your strength, the remnants of your mane fluttering behind you. And that's beautiful, to be brave and vulnerable all at once.” - Lynsey Aldallen (For context, she’s talking about her sister, who’s trans)

“My mother rescued me, I rescued her, she's my hero, but sometimes, we have to fight for our heroes, because their strength falters. And when it does, it's up to us to save them.” - Lexie Rebhan

“I'm already swingin', I reckon, these gallows were made for selfish men like me, I imagine everyone'll cheer. All hail! All hail! The wicked man is dead, strung by his neck, payin' for his sins with the devil. It's damn well the fate a man like me deserves.” - Ron Jameson

“So oh gravedigger, vengeful angel of death, put me down as you would a wolf wearin' the single dead sheep's wool in the flock, watch me bleed. Cause that's what I did to you. I caused you're pain, I caused mine, just be lucky you don't have to live with me... Cause I do.” - Ron Jameson

 “I was born to be damned, as they say, they speak of me in such terrible ways, history is written by the victors, the patrons, the saints, never by she who made it.” - Selena Wolfmoon

“All who burned me at the stake only had to live with themselves, but I, I have to live with the actions of every single one of them, and, worst of all, I have to live with my death. The scalding of my flesh and the charring of my bones, the screams of my two daughters still haunt me. They way Eldridge begged and howled, or how Autumn cursed at those who damned her. And all I could do was howl in grief as we burned away, but I imagine we were lost, just as tears in the rain or stars upon the waking of the sun.” - Selena Wolfmoon

“I like to say I'm tough, but it ain't because 'a what I look like on the outside, but who I am on the inside. You could be strong as all shit and still be a weak man. All you ever gotta do ta be weak, is push another down, and all it takes ta be strong, is helpin' a man up.” - Elwood Sparrvitz

“I 'ave been made anew by the love I been showed and given, my heart no longer beats 'a regret and pain, but for my lovely wife and children. Cause if your heart don't beat for no one, what's life worth?” - Elwood Sparrvitz

“To be completely divine is as inhuman as it is to be entirely damned, entirely broken or whole, we are never one hundred percent, we are many pieces, smelling of ash and smoke, and the fire that created it.” - Diaze Calico

“Savagery suits her like a well tailored suit, or a ball gown on the most royal of queens. She is savagery, she wears blood like wine on her teeth, and your pain like the finest of shawls, and in the end, she shall wear that shawl of your scars and dance before you in it, she shall make a mockery of your death, for that's all you ever were.” - Diaze Calico

“You can believe that hell is not where you'll go, but that's the greatest lie the devil ever spun, that there was an option other than her, that there was a loving God watching us.” - Diaze Calico

“The wicked doth not sleep, they doth not live, only breathe this blood on their breath.” - Diaze Calico

“Out of all this pain I've been through, I've found that even if bullets had flown that day, and planes had been torn from the sky on burning wings, it was in my sleep, when my mind was at rest, that I felt the most bloody chaos.” - Duke Benson

“I should've died the day a bullet pierced me fucking skull, but all that's left is this scar on the Earth known as Duke bloody Benson.” - Duke Benson

“I'd ask for a prayer or an amen if I thought it'd saved our damned souls, but a single prayer won't save a man who's sinned.” - Duke Benson

“A prayer won't save a man who's lost his fucking faith.” - Duke Benson

“With a foe as cruel as myself, I was bound to bloody lose.” - Duke Benson

“Bury me six feet deep, mate, deeper if you can, because I am a soldier, a sinner, a beast, not a bloody man.” - Duke Benson

“Reckon me 'ands are as stained as the soil wifin' da trenches.” - Angel Benson

“Inside me is a boilin' angah, at da world, at dis pain, myself and anyone in point blank range. I imagine me angah's shot me point blank, left the man I was fokin' bleedin', dead from a single shot.” - Angel Benson

“I've always condemned what I can't fokin' understand. So if I fear meself, wot does that make me, aye?” - Angel Benson

“You know wot's fokin' funny? You don't 'ave ta fight in it, ta be bloody broken by it. You could be livin' untarnished boi it, next thing you know, a soldier's knockin' on your fokin' door. War breaks all. They who fight, and they who bloody don't.” - Angel Benson

“Raise a glass ta da sinner full 'a anger, raise a glass for the poor bastards and blokes war touched, cause all who 'ave known her embrace 'ave known pain no loving God could create. But never, mate, NEVER, raise a glass, to the bloody Bensons.” - Angel Benson

“When I'm finally in da dirt, where I belong, da world will keep spinnin', the sun will rise again, as it shall sink, and though it may rain, da world won't weep a single fuckin' tear, for da man known as Jerry Benson, cause mate, why should it?” - Jerry Benson

“Us soldiers, we're cheered for, celebrated, but dey care only for da actions, not for da man.” - Jerry Benson

“As I've learned, 'e who tastes death will find dat da aftertaste is an eternal stain on one's tongue. Da tang of iron and blood is all dey'll ever fuckin' know.” - Jerry Benson

“God created us to love 'im, and expected us ta be more selfless den he.” - Jerry Benson

“War don't change a man, no, it kills him, and replaces the soldier with itself.” - Mordakai Benson

“He who runs with the wolves is bound ta be ripped inta the moment he stops runnin', no wonder there's blood on my teeth.” - Mordakai Benson

“War don't give a damn who you are, what kinda pain you been through, it'll putcha through more while promisin' glory! That's the picture they paint. Soldiers woopin' for victory and glory for all who fight, but they always forget he who catches the fuckin' bullet.” - Mordakai Benson

“The only thing you and I got in common is that we were made by God, difference is, I was forgotten by him.” - Mordakai Benson

“Don't raise no glass for this soldier, don't pour no wine on my casket, cause I'm the lamb that strayed from the flock, only ta learn he always wore a wolf's fur.” - Mordakai Benson

“I’m one dead dream away from blasphemy.” - Calliger Cougar  

“They say life is short, Tommy, that it goes by in the blink of an eye, so why ain't we fucking dead yet? I blinked a hundred times, and I'll blink a hundred times more. Cause no matter what they say, it don't go by in the span of a blink, or like a bullet speedin' through the air. It's slow, and God damn miserable, this here ward is proof of that.” - Ben Stilts

[orthodoxydaily]

Saints&Reading

Commemorated on August 28

Saint Moses the Black  of Scete (400)

     The Monk Moses Murin the Black lived during the IV Century in Egypt. He was an Ethiopian, and he was black of skin and therefore called "Murin" (meaning "like an Ethiopian"). In his youth he was the slave of an important man, but after he committed a murder, his master banished him, and he joined in with a band of robbers. Because of his mean streak and great physical strength they chose him as their leader. Moses with his band of brigands did many an evil deed – both murders and robberies, so much so that people were afraid even at the mere mention of his name. Moses the brigand spent several years leading suchlike a sinful life, but through the great mercy of God he repented, leaving his band of robbers and going off to one of the wilderness monasteries. And here for a long time he wept, beseeching that they admit him amidst the number of the brethren. The monks were not convinced of the sincerity of his repentance; but the former robber was not to be driven away nor silenced, in demanding that they should accept him. In the monastery the Monk Moses was completely obedient to the hegumen and the brethren, and he poured forth many a tear, bewailing his sinful life. After a certain while the Monk Moses withdrew to a solitary cell, where he spent the time in prayer and the strictest of fasting in a very austere lifestyle. One time 4 of the robbers of his former band descended upon the cell of the Monk Moses and he, not having lost his great physical strength, he tied them all up and taking them over his shoulder, he brought them to the monastery, where he asked of the elders what to do with them. The elders ordered that they be set free. The robbers, learning that they had chanced upon their former ringleader, and that he had dealt kindly with them, – they themselves followed his example: they repented and became monks. And later, when the rest of the band of robbers heard about the repentance of the Monk Moses, then they too gave up their brigandage and became fervent monks.      The Monk Moses did not quickly become free from the passions. He went often to the monastery hegumen, Abba Isidor, seeking advice on how to be delivered from the passions of profligacy. Being experienced in the spiritual struggle, the elder taught him never to overeat of food, to be partly hungry whilst observing the strictest moderation. But the passions would not cease for the Monk Moses in his dreams. Then Abba Isidor taught him the all-night vigil. The monk stood the whole night at prayer, not being on bended knees so as not to drop off to sleep. From his prolonged struggles the Monk Moses fell into despondency, and when there arose thoughts about leaving his solitary cell, Abba Isidor instead strengthened the resolve of his student. In a vision he showed him many a demon in the west, prepared for battle, and in the East a still greater quantity of holy Angels, likewise readied for fighting. Abba Isidor explained to the Monk Moses, that the power of the Angels would prevail over the power of the demons, and in the long struggle with the passions it was necessary for him to become completely cleansed of his former sins.      The Monk Moses undertook a new effort. Making the rounds by night of the wilderness cells, he carried water from the well to each brother. He did this especially for the elders, who lived far off from the well and who were not easily able to carry their own water. One time, kneeling over the well, the Monk Moses felt a powerful blow upon his back and he fell down at the well like one dead, laying there in that position until dawn. Thus did the devils take revenge upon the monk for his victory over them. In the morning the brethren carried him to his cell, and he lay there a whole year crippled up. Having recovered, the monk with firm resolve confessed to the hegumen, that he would continue to asceticise. But the Lord Himself put limits to this struggle of many years: Abba Isidor blessed his student and said to him, that the profligate passions had already gone from him. The elder commanded him to commune the Holy Mysteries and in peace to go to his own cell. And from that time the Monk Moses received from the Lord the power over demons.      Accounts about his exploits spread amongst the monks and even beyond the bounds of the wilderness. The governor of the land wanted to see the saint. Having learned about this, the Monk Moses decided to hide away from any visitors and he departed his own cell. Along the way he met up with servants of the governor, who asked him, how to get to the cell of the wilderness-dweller Moses. The monk answered them: "Go on no further to this false and unworthy monk". The servants returned to the monastery, where the governor was waiting, and they conveyed to him the words of the elder they had chanced upon. The brethren, hearing a description of the elder's appearance, all as one acknowledged that they had come upon the Monk Moses himself.      Having spent many a year at monastic exploits, the Monk Moses was ordained deacon. The bishop attired him in white vesture and said: "Abba Moses is now entirely white". The saint answered: "Vladyka, what makes it purely white – the outer or the inner?" Through humility the saint reckoned himself unworthy to accept the dignity of deacon. One time the bishop decided to test him and he bid the clergy to drive him out of the altar, whilst reviling him for being an unworthy black-Ethiopian. With full humility the monk accepted the abuse. Having put him to the test, the bishop then ordained the monk to be presbyter. And in this dignity the Monk Moses asceticised for 15 years and gathered round himself 75 disciples.      When the monk reached age 75, he forewarned his monks, that soon brigands would descend upon the skete and murder all that were there. The saint blessed his monks to leave in good time, so as to avoid the violent death, His disciples began to beseech the monk to leave together with them, but he replied: "I many a year already have awaited the time, when upon me there should be fulfilled the words which my Master, the Lord Jesus Christ, did speak: "All, who take up the sword, shalt perish by the sword" (Mt. 26: 52). After this seven of the brethren remained with the monk, and one of these hid not far off during the coming of the robbers, The robbers killed the Monk Moses and the six monks that remained with him. Their death occurred in about the year 400.

© 1996-2001 by translator Fr. S. Janos.

The Great Martyr Shushanika, Princess of Rana (475)(Susanna of Georgia)

     The GreatMartyress Shushanika, Princess of Rana (+ 475), was the daughter of the reknown Armenian military-commander Vardanes. Her actual name – was Vardandukht, but the name she was fond of using – was Shushanika. From her childhood years Saint Shushanika distinguished herself by her fear of God and her piety.      She entered into marriage with the pitiakhshah (governor of outlying districts of Gruzia) named Varxenes, who renounced Christ and became an apostate to the faith. In the eighth year of the rule of the shah Peroz, Varxenes set off to Kteziphon, whereat was the residence of the Persian shah, and he became a Mazdaeite (fire-worshipper), so as to please the shah. Having learned about this upon the return of her husband, Saint Shushanika did not want to continue married life with an apostate from God. She left the palace and began to live in a small cell, not far off from the palace church. The priest of the empress, named Yakov-James Tsurtaveli (afterwards the author of her vita), relates that the holy empress, learning of her husband's intent to resort to force, was filled with determination to stand firmly in the faith, despite any sort of entreaties, threats or tortures. Rejecting the offers of Varxenes, on 8 January 469 she was subjected to a beating by him and thrown into chains, and on 14 April 469 she was locked up in a prison fortress, where she remained for six and an half years. "Six years she spent imprisoned and yet adorned with virtues: by fasting, by vigilance, standing on her feet, with unflagging prostrations and the incessant reading of books. She was wrought into a spiritual flute, sanctified and embellished by prison". To the prison came many of the afflicted, "and each, through the prayers of Blessed Shushanika, received from God the Lover-of-Mankind that in which they were in need of: the childless – children, the sick – health, the blind – sight". By this time Varxenes had converted to fire-worship the children of Saint Shushanika, and they ceased to visit their imprisoned mother. In the seventh year of the imprisonment of Saint Shushanika sores began to appear on her legs and body. Jodjik, the brother of the pitiakhshah Varxenes, having learned that Blessed Shushanika was close to death, managed to get into the prison with his wife and children and he besought of Saint Shushanika: "Forgive us our guilt and bless us". Saint Shushanika forgave them and blessed them, saying: "All the present life is transient and inconstant, like a flower of the fields; one plants it, and another is pleased, one squanders it on trivia while another doth gather, one uses it for oneself, but another doth find...".      On the eve of the blessed death of the holy martyress, she was visited in prison by the Gruzia Katholikos-Archbishop Samuel I (474-502), by Bishop John and by the priest of the martyress Yakov-James Tsurtaveli (over the course of all six years he had constantly visited and consoled her). The court bishop Athots (Photios) communed Saint Shushanika. Her last words were: "Blest be the Lord my God, wherefore with peace I do repose and sleep". The end of the blessed martyress ensued on 17 October, on the feastday of the Unmercenary Martyrs Cosmas and Damian, and it was particularly on this day that the ancient Church celebrated her memory.      The relics of the holy Martyress Shushanika rested at first in a church in the city of Tsortag. The Tsortag church after a certain while fell under the lead of an Armenian bishop – a Monophysite, and the Katholikos-Archbishop of Gruzia Samuel IV (582-591) transferred the holy relics of Saint Shushanika to the city of Tbilisi, where in the year 586 they were put into a chapel of the Metekh church, on the south side of the altar. And indeed, it is in connection with this event that the memory of Saint Shushanika was transferred from 17 October to 28 August.

© 1996-2001 by translator Fr. S. Janos.

Mark 5:1-20

1Then they came to the other side of the sea, to the country of the Gadarenes. 2And when He had come out of the boat, immediately there met Him out of the tombs a man with an unclean spirit,3who had his dwelling among the tombs; and no one could bind him, not even with chains,4because he had often been bound with shackles and chains. And the chains had been pulled apart by him, and the shackles broken in pieces; neither could anyone tame him.5And always, night and day, he was in the mountains and in the tombs, crying out and cutting himself with stones./6When he saw Jesus from afar, he ran and worshiped Him.7And he cried out with a loud voice and said, "What have I to do with You, Jesus, Son of the Most High God? I implore You by God that You do not torment me."8For He said to him, "Come out of the man, unclean spirit!"9Then He asked him, "What is your name?" And he answered, saying, "My name is Legion; for we are many."10Also he begged Him earnestly that He would not send them out of the country.11Now a large herd of swine was feeding there near the mountains.12So all the demons begged Him, saying, "Send us to the swine, that we may enter them."13And at once Jesus gave them permission. Then the unclean spirits went out and entered the swine (there were about two thousand); and the herd ran violently down the steep place into the sea, and drowned in the sea.14So those who fed the swine fled, and they told it in the city and in the country. And they went out to see what it was that had happened.15Then they came to Jesus, and saw the one who had been demon-possessed and had the legion, sitting and clothed and in his right mind. And they were afraid.16And those who saw it told them how it happened to him who had been demon-possessed, and about the swine.17Then they began to plead with Him to depart from their region.18And when He got into the boat, he who had been demon-possessed begged Him that he might be with Him.19However, Jesus did not permit him, but said to him, "Go home to your friends, and tell them what great things the Lord has done for you, and how He has had compassion on you."20And he departed and began to proclaim in Decapolis all that Jesus had done for him; and all marveled.

[greyias]

FIC: Smoke and Mirrors - Chapter 11

Title: Smoke and Mirrors Fandom: SWTOR Pairing: Theron Shan/f!Jedi Knight Rating: T Genre: Pre-Relationship, Slow Burn Synopsis: Something’s rotten on Carrick Station, and Theron won’t rest until he finds out what. But picking at the frayed threads of suspicion quickly unravels a conspiracy much larger than even the Republic’s top spy can handle on his own. (A mostly canon-compliant retelling of the Forged Alliances storyline, as seen through the eyes of Theron Shan.) Author’s Notes and Spoilers: See Chapter 1.

Chapter Index: 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07 | 08 | 09 | 10 | Crossposted to AO3

All-in-all, Darok was not gone at all that long. Just a few minutes if that.

Maybe he went to the refresher, Theron thought to himself sarcastically. Just couldn’t hold it another minute.

By the time the colonel returned, Theron had busied himself back at the terminal. He caught the movement in the reflection of the monitor and made a mental note of the time. It hadn’t been enough to make more than a quick call, although the question of to who remained. Most of the comm traffic going in and out of Carrick Station was either monitored or secured. If it had been on official channels, there would be a log of it somewhere. Another item for Theron’s ever expanding to-do list once he had the freedom to begin his investigation.

That would be soon.

Not long after Darok had made his reappearance, they’d gotten word from the team on the ground that the battle had been won. Tython was theirs again, but it had come at a high cost. There was cleanup work to be done — major cleanup work. It would take months to repair or rebuild what the bombings had destroyed. To say nothing of the fatalities they were currently tallying. 

That uncomfortable feeling in Theron’s chest was trying to settle back in, and he still didn’t have the time nor energy to spend on it. Part of Theron wished he had an unobstructed view of the temple from the armorcams of Darok’s men, but he still wanted to keep a low profile. From his position, he could only catch glimpses of what was mostly wreckage. Unless he went and joined Darok at the holotable, there was no chance he could look at any of the faces of the dead. Perhaps that was for the best. Outside of Hashimuut, Theron hadn’t spent much time among large groups of Jedi. It had mostly just Master Zho and him. Easier to focus on the larger picture if he didn’t try to individual faces. Or maybe just one face in particular. But he wasn’t thinking about that right now.

Instead he busied himself with sorting through the data that Teeseven fed him. The rest of Highwind’s team had been put to work with the rescue crews, and the little faithful astromech had begun the long arduous process of sifting through the wreckage to try and salvage what was left of the temple’s security footage and data.

If there was anything to salvage at all. Theron pursed his lips, seeing the fragments of code he would have to sort through later. Piecing together exactly what had happened was going to be a massive undertaking. 

That left one last wildcard in this situation: Highwind herself.

Apparently she had ordered Bickell and his men to keep all of the prisoners secured until a team of SIS agents could begin questioning them. Theron found it interesting that she was attempting to direct the investigation work over to his branch rather than leave any interrogation to SpecOps. Perhaps that meant she trusted Theron more than Darok with this. The colonel himself had only grunted with just the barest amount of disgruntlement at the announcement, as if the fate of the prisoners on the ground didn’t matter to him at all. Like he’d already gotten what he wanted.

Theron was still musing on that, and the other little mysteries surrounding his asset when she strode in with all of the force (and Force) of a Jedi to be reckoned with. Her strides were measured and deliberate, setting a quick pace that made her cape billow behind her as she once again commanded the attention of the entire room. Perhaps it was in the stern set of her jaw, or the way her attention zeroed in on Darok. Maybe it was just something in her eyes, a dangerous glint that a less observant person might pick up on. Whatever it was, Theron was almost glad he wasn’t on the receiving end of her attention at the moment. Maybe that was the look that Doc had kept mentioning.

“Master Jedi, good to see you,” Darok said smoothly, standing up to his full height. “Our forces are sweeping the rest of the muck off of Tython as we speak.”

That was the wrong thing to say, apparently, as her brows drew down into an unhappy expression. Yeah, no. Theron wasn’t saving Darok from whatever storm was brewing in the Jedi’s intense gaze. In fact, he would’ve broken out the bangcorn if he’d had any on hand.

“Tell me, Colonel, this muck you speak of. Are you referring to the devastation wrought upon my temple? Or perhaps the people we’ve taken prisoner?”

Darok’s lips pressed into a thin line as his wide shoulders raised up in indignation. He apparently did not like being called out on his behavior. Not that it was the first time that Theron had heard that sort of comment from the military. He was pretty sure that not even the Jedi were so perfect as to keep that sort of sentiment tamped down completely.

For all his bluster, the colonel seemed smart enough to not fall into the trap of clarifying his comment, and instead just snorted out a breath before forcing a grim smile onto his face. “You will be glad to hear that reconstruction crews are already being prepped.”

“That is good news,” she said evenly. “It sounds like you have been busy over here.”

“The Jedi homeworld coming under attack tends to garner a lot of attention from Republic command,” he agreed. “The Imps caught us by surprise, but it could have been a lot worse. Thanks in no small part to your leadership.”

The flattery seemed to fall on deaf ears as Highwind just crossed her arms, fixing the larger man with that same intense stare. “I have been meditating as you suggested, Colonel.”

Confusion stole across Darok’s face, as he tried to recall whenever he’d made that sort of suggestion. “I don’t—”

“You said that after we recovered Tython that I should meditate on the coincidences of today. I spent my time on the journey here doing just that.”

“Have you now?” 

“Yes, on the timing of our attack and the Empire’s. They must have happened almost simultaneously. That is a remarkable coincidence, don’t you think?”

“Maybe you’re right,” Darok rumbled. “For them to launch an assault of this magnitude speaks of a robust intelligence network. Perhaps Imperial Intelligence isn’t quite as devastated as we have been led to believe. I am sure the SIS will determine how we managed to miss so many red flags.”

It was a comment designed to rile Theron. Another mark of a con. Keep the targets off balance. Keep them emotional. Nice try, but he wasn’t falling for it. That said, it didn’t take much to lace a good amount of anger and indignation into his tone. “Yes. We’ll get right on that.”

Highwind’s gaze briefly flicked away from Darok to study Theron, but the action was too quick for him to decipher it.

“All the same,” Darok continued on, “your work has been exemplary — gaining us two back-to-back victories. You are a hero and that deserves recognition.”

“A Jedi does not need to seek recognition. The act of doing what is right is enough.” Stars, she sounded like a recruitment pamphlet. Well. If the Jedi had recruitment pamphlets.

The colonel didn’t seem to hear her, as he pulled out a box that had been delivered during her return flight and held it out as if for inspection. She eyed the box with the same amount of skepticism that Theron had on its arrival, but her lack of enthusiasm didn’t make an impact on the show that Darok was putting on. Without another word, he opened it up to reveal a glinting, ornate medal.

The medal was just shiny and distracting enough that neither of them were paying close enough attention to see Theron’s startled reaction at its appearance. Had that been what Darok had disappeared off to take care of? No. It couldn’t have been. That had happened before Tython had been successfully recovered. That would have meant Darok would have had to arrange for the medal before there was a victory to award it for. Or… or perhaps that was Darok’s cover story. Come to think of it, there hadn’t been any mention of the teams that had remained behind on Korriban. Had they made it out safely? And if they hadn’t, why hadn’t Darok brought it up? Why was he so focused on branding today as a day of victory?

If Theron voiced his thoughts aloud they would sound utterly paranoid. This whole thing would sound paranoid. But no… there was something here. Theron would need to comb through whatever communication logs he could get his hands on to verify.

“This is the medal of valor. One of the Republic’s most prestigious commendations.” Perfect. She could hang it up next her Cross of Glory and whatever other trinkets she’d collected over the course of her overly heroic career. “The Chancellor herself wanted me to present this to you. She was truly impressed with your heroic actions today, just as I am. Congratulations.”

One dark blonde brow arched high as she glanced between Darok and his offering. The colonel continued to hold out the medal and its rather ornate box, and as the moment began to stretch out, the more awkwardness and tension built. Finally, she blew out a breath and accepted the box, shutting the lid without giving its contents a second look.

“My crew, Bickell, and the rest of your men deserve just as much recognition for their work on Tython,” she said, managing to sound almost diplomatic. “Perhaps more.”

“They do,” Darok agreed, “but your name is the one that lights up the HoloNet. Especially considering this particular commendation has never been awarded as quick before.”

A flicker of that shadow appeared in her eyes again, before she successfully smoothed her expression back into that Jedi placidity. “I am more interested in speaking of what happened today than the headline that will lead on RNN tonight.”

“It’s hard to leave an operation,” he rumbled, “we’ve all been there. But your part in this is done now. You should focus on your victory and all the rewards that come with it.”

“I do not need a medal,” she said firmly, “what I need are answers. We need to find the person responsible for what happened today and bring them to justice.”

“We have all of the information you gathered,” Darok’s smooth, complimentary tone began to harden. “I’m sure we’ll be able to identify them soon enough.”

“There’s also the matter of a Sith lord that I spoke to on the holo in the Council’s chambers. I told Bickell about it,” she continued on, as if she hadn’t heard the shift in tone. “Before the Sith realized I was not his compatriot he was talking about a package that had been secured.”

“Maybe they just took the opportunity to grab a few things,” the colonel, his words coming out in a tight clip.

“We need to identify who this Sith is and what he wants. He said something about—”

Now that she was on a roll, Highwind kept going as if she needed to be heard. As she did so, Darok’s frown settled in deeper and deeper. The large man’s shoulders bunched up, big meaty fists settling on his hips while his lips pressed together in a line.

For all of her keen observations and quick thinking in the field, right now Highwind was like a Sibian hound that had caught a scent. So fixated on her goal, the Jedi wasn’t paying attention to her surroundings and appeared to be almost oblivious to the danger practically tingling in the air. Nor did she seem to notice that with each protest she uttered the more predatory the colonel’s expression became. He didn’t seem to like questions. 

Theron took several steps back so that he was out of Darok’s line of sight, before he keyed his subvocal mic. “Stop.”

That seemed to take her off guard, and for a moment she looked like she was about to bring attention to the subterfuge. Her protest ended in a lurch as he gaze strayed over Darok’s shoulder to Theron. He didn’t say anything else, just caught her eye and shook his head ever so slowly. They couldn’t talk here. 

She pursed her lips together, that Jedi calm driven away as her temper flared in a way that Theron had not expected at all. Then again, she kept finding new ways to surprise him. This was just one more to the tally. Thankfully, though, she relented in pressing on in her line of questioning. Frustration evident, she let out an annoyed sigh before turning her attention back to Darok. He was still eyeing her with a sharp intensity that made Theron’s skin crawl.

“I apologize, Colonel, perhaps you are right,” she said tersely, as if it cost her something to say it. “I suppose that there might be some good to be found in today. I should meditate on that further.”

“That is most wise, Master Highwind,” Darok rumbled, continuing to eye her for several long moments. “I have my own work to do. I’ve been tasked with organizing the Tython cleanup.”

She tipped her head to him in acknowledgement. “I see, that is quite the task. I should not keep you from it.”

“I need to let the Jedi Council know the Republic is behind them. Let them know this is not like Coruscant. If you’ll excuse me.” He turned back to the holotable, completely dismissing the remaining two people in the room as if they weren’t even there.

The tension that had filled the room seemed to dissipate with the action, and Theron quietly let out a breath. He would definitely be adding “stubborn and bullheaded” as a note to Highwind’s file, just as a warning to any future handler. Maybe put in a warning or two about her propensity to take dangerous risks. She was still glaring at the colonel’s back with undisguised suspicion at this point.

“I don’t know about you,” he said, managing to pulling her attention away, “but I need that drink.”

He was eager to leave this damn room and put some distance between them and Darok, so Theron didn’t even wait to see if she followed. He just made a beeline for the bar. If she was as quick on the uptake as she seemed, she’d get the hint. 

[bubbyleh]

I See La Vie en Rose - Chapter 9

hey there! quick update. chapter 10 IS posted on ao3, but it won’t be getting a tumblr mirror because it’s not really plot stuff, just stupid things i wanted to share. so follow the link on my blog if you want to check that out, or just tune back in for chapter 11 instead

Chapter 9: The Reckoning

Tommy gawks at the destruction wrought upon the pavilion, and without thinking he brings his hands to cover his mouth. Never in all his life has he seen his home so damaged. Some pillars are missing entire chunks! A few of the scorch marks are still smoking!

Where is everyone?

Drawing in a deep breath, Tommy places two fingers in his mouth and whistles as loud as he can.

Sure enough, it takes a bit, but Sunkist comes running from the direction of his house. The first trick Tommy ever taught her, and it still works like a charm! He’s never been so relieved to see her before, at least until she tackles him to the ground with licks.

“Ow,” Tommy whimpers out, feeling the pain in his bruised shoulders.

Sunkist seems to recognize his discomfort, but she keeps sniffing his face. Yeah, she can definitely tell his nose is fucked.

“Oh, Sunkist,” Tommy sits up and hugs her. “You would- you won’t believe what happened down there today.”

“Tommy?”

He breaks away from Sunkist, and holy shit, Bubby doesn’t look good. He’s very clearly just stumbled in, leaning on one of the intact pillars for support. Tommy almost cries out for him, but Bubby cuts him off.

“I thought I heard you call for Sunkist,” he continues. “What the hell are you doing back here?”

In an instant, Tommy goes from concerned for his family’s well-being to seeing red.

“What- what am I doing!?” Tommy places a hand on his chest, offended beyond belief. He struggles to push himself up with his other arm, the thrumming pain causing him to wobble slightly, but he does stand. “What have you guys been doing?! I’ve been- I’ve been trying to get in contact with you all afternoon!”

Bubby narrows his eyes at Tommy, and for a split second he glances behind himself, back towards Benrey and Gordon’s home.

“Where’s the kid?” he asks, as if noticing for the first time Joshua isn’t present.

“He, uh. Darnold’s watching him.” Tommy frowns. Well, now that he knows things are somewhat okay up here, he turns back to his dog. “Actually, Sunkist? Could you- could you head down and keep an eye on them f-for me?” He’d appreciate something divine watching over them for a bit.

Sunkist barks in response, trotting into the Viewing Pool. She disappears with a flash, and Tommy feels like he has one less thing to worry about.

Before Tommy can ask a single question, Bubby has already turned around, gesturing for him to follow. Catching up, Tommy notices that Bubby’s legs are stiff as he walks, as if he has to mentally will them to bend.

“What- Bubby, what happened?” Tommy asks.

Bubby sighs. “Come on. I’m sure everyone is gonna want to see you.”

Wow, this is a whole new level of brushing off! Bubby’s not addressing the fact that wherever he looks, Tommy sees signs of a fight in the place he’s known as home his whole life. He really didn’t think it could get this bad.

But then again, what was Tommy supposed to think? They never told him anything.

They make it to Gordon and Benrey’s house, the door to which Bubby pushes open without knocking. Tommy almost calls him rude for it, but then he catches sight of the scene inside.

Coomer is immediately on Bubby, lecturing him for sneaking out while he’s so fragile. Tommy spies his dad in the corner, his gaze focused intently on the couch. And on that couch sits Benrey, Gordon passed out and laying in his lap. All of them look roughed up.

“Stop, Harold.” Bubby pushes his fretting husband’s hands away. “I’m fine, see?” He pauses, for the briefest of moments. “Look who I found.”

And just like that, everyone’s attention is turned to Tommy in the doorway. But Tommy’s stuck on the one person who can’t look at him, his thoughts going a mile a minute. ‘Gordon isn’t moving why isn’t he moving is he okay what happened-’

A pair of hands squish his face, and Tommy realizes it’s his dad. He’s looking down at him with such a sad look, and Tommy’s not sure if it’s intentional, but he stands right in front of him, blocking his view.

“Oh, oh dear, Tommy,” Gman says. “What happ..ened to your, nose?”

Tommy’s stunned expression turns to a glare. “Wh- my nose!? You want- you want to talk about my nose?!”

Gman obviously wasn’t expecting a hostile reaction to that, releasing his son’s face and backing away. It does little to calm Tommy.

“Do you- you have any idea how worried I’ve been!?” Tommy shouts. “You weren’t answering anything! And I come back, and- and everything is fucked up, and you’re just- just pretending nothing happened!?”

Bubby and Coomer no longer meet his eyes, but Gman just stares. Tommy continues, “Did- did any of you even check your phones!? I fucking fought a Skeleton today, and it-” All of Tommy’s fury vasnishes in an instant. Just remembering the empty feeling he got looking into that thing’s eye sockets is enough to twist his stomach. “It- s-so much about that was- it tried something-”

Tommy’s legs give out. He can feel his father by his side, holding onto him, and he thinks Coomer is there too. But his head is racing and he’s gripping at it as though he could slow it down somehow. “It- it was so cold, and everything was- was moving except me, and I couldn’t think, and if it wasn’t for-”

“It tried to possess you, bro,” Benrey finally speaks up. “Same as what it did to Gordon.” He runs a hand through Gordon’s hair.

Tommy blinks. “W-what?”

“I mean, I guess the… the cat’s out of the bag, or whatever.” Benrey sighs. “Skeletons possess people. Us mostly.”

“You’re- you’re joking?”

Bubby, who’s taken to leaning on one of the walls, shakes his head. “He isn’t.”

“Perhaps this conversation is best saved for when our friend over there wakes up, hm?” Coomer points at Gordon.

It takes Tommy a moment to process it all. ‘When Gordon wakes up.’ His dad pulls him to his chest, and making sure that he avoids his nose, Tommy presses into him with his forehead. He’s searching for a word, something he’s feeling, and then he realizes it’s trusted.

He feels trusted.

☆○☆○☆

“Your nose looks fucked,” Benrey comments from across the kitchen table. Coomer had convinced him to abandon his vigil over Gordon in favor of getting something to eat, but so far all he had done was make a few tonedeaf remarks Tommy’s way.

“Uh-huh,” Tommy responds, more preoccupied with his phone.

Darnold ♡: Wait they don’t know that I know?

Tommy: I’m not sure how to tell them???

Darnold ♡: I mean, it sounds like you’ve done enough “telling” for today Darnold ♡: So maybe don’t?

Tommy: Yeah? Then what? Tommy: They’re gonna be teasing you next time you meet!! :(

Darnold ♡: Well that just makes THEM look stupid, right?

Whatever stupid thing Benrey is about to say next is interrupted by a groan from the next room over. They both meet eyes, before scrambling out of the kitchen.

Tommy: Oh hang on Gordon’s awake!!!!!! :D

Benrey beats Tommy by a longshot, sliding to his knees in front of the couch and pulling Gordon into a hug. This only serves to agitate him.

“Ugh, Benrey!” Gordon complains, and it’s the most emotion Tommy’s heard from Gordon in a week. He almost cries.

Benrey isn’t deterred, only hugs Gordon tighter as he begins to ramble. “I’m so sorry I didn’t notice I should have seen it I’m sorry Gordon I’m so sorry-”

Gordon sits up, Benrey still clutching him like a koala and apologizing. He barely seems to register it, though, instead bringing a hand to his head and wincing. “My head is fucking killing me,” he mumbles.

“We’re all hurting, asshole, get in line,” Bubby snarks. He’s sitting with his legs crossed on the other side of the room.

Coomer, who had previously been sitting next to Bubby, has made his way to the couch. He places a hand on Gordon’s back and smiles at him. “Welcome back to the land of the living, Gordon!”

Tommy can’t help it anymore. With a wide smile he jumps onto the couch next to Gordon, pulling him (and by extension Benrey) into a hug. “Thank- thank goodness you’re okay!” And yup, Tommy can definitely feel himself crying now, but he doesn’t really care! Gordon’s back!

Having gotten a few more of his faculties in order, Gordon starts to realize that things aren’t exactly normal. Like, for example, everyone around him is injured to varying degrees. “What- why do you guys look like shit?” he asks.

Benrey still hasn’t broken out of his longform apology to make any stunning rebuttals, so Tommy just answers him. “I got- I got punched in the face by a Skeleton,” he nods.

“Holy shit, Tommy,” Gordon actually processes his appearance for the first time. “Is that broken? I can-” He worms his hand out from the hug mess, and before Tommy can protest that he really shouldn’t be using his powers right now, the pain in his face is gone in a flash.

Sometimes it pays to be friends with a god with a minor healing domain. Not when he heals you instead of resting like he should be doing, but other, more fun times.

Tommy gasps. “Gordon! No! You should- you shouldn’t be blessing people, right now!”

“I also got punched in the face by a Skeleton!” Bubby points at his bruised cheek. “The Skeleton was just inside Gordon.”

Oh. Well. He just said it, didn’t he?

“The… the what?” Gordon questions, clearly distressed.

“B-Bubby!” Tommy yells at him. “Why did you say that!?”

“What? We’re sharing things today!” Bubby gestures to himself. “I, for one, would want someone to tell me if I punched them like that!”

“The Skeleton was… inside me?” Gordon stammers out. Slowly, Tommy slinks his arms away from him, and he can see Benrey doing the same.

Gman steps in. “What Bubby, is. Saying, is that. You’ve been, possess...ed, by a. Skeleton, for a whole week.”

“What?! No, they- they can do that!?” Gordon shouts. Tommy thinks he’s about two seconds away from having to stop Gordon from pulling his own hair, when…

“They did it to me.”

Tommy hadn’t expected Benrey to speak up again, not since he revealed the fact Skeletons could possess people in the first place. But here he was, staring straight down at the ground, sitting on his hands.

“Um, we… We knew the Skeletons and their cult were bad for a long time,” Benrey continues. “But we didn’t… know. How bad.” He sighs, looking towards Tommy and Gordon. “I think if we told you guys, probably wouldn’t suck as much as it has. You wouldn’t have been hurt, Gordon.”

Gman places a hand on his son’s back as Benrey talks. Bubby has found his way back to Coomer’s side. All of them have grim expressions on their face, listening to a story to which they know the ending.

“So, uh. Two-thousands years ago. I went down to look at them, and they-” Benrey scratches the side of his face. “I don’t remember much after that, but they got me.”

Benrey draws his knees to his chest. “They made me do a lot of things. I didn’t… World got- got fucked. Society two time, second one didn’t like magic so much.”

Things suddenly start making a lot more sense. It’s like a missing puzzle piece gets clicked into place in Tommy’s mind, or a lightswitch gets turned on, or something like that. They haven’t been hiding this out of malice, or messing with the new guys, it was-

Gordon reaches out, grabbing onto one of Benrey’s hands. He cups his husband’s face gently, wiping the tears from his eyes. “Hey, Benrey, look at me,” he whispers. “It’s okay. I’m here, you’re safe.” Benrey launches forward, clinging onto Gordon, and Gordon holds him.

It was fear.

Tommy turns to the others. He has a feeling Benrey is done talking. “But… but why didn’t they do anything this time?” he asks them. “If- if they wanted to destroy things, why wait?”

“Well Tommy, if I had to guess,” Coomer hypothesizes. “We were able to knock Benrey back to normal relatively easily last time, as well as pummel the Skeletons we did find to the ground. Perhaps they wanted to weaken us from the inside before attempt number two?”

Goodness, this is a lot for Tommy to process right now. A societal-wide reckoning caused by the possession of one of his dearest friends? It’s a little much. He leans back on the couch. Damn it, this must be what Darnold felt like earlier.

“Wait a second,” Gordon suddenly pipes up. “Where the fuck is Joshua?”

Tommy pulls out his phone. “He’s with Darnold. He knows what’s been going on, we’ve been texting. It’s fine.”

“Oh, good,” Gordon sighs, but then he changes his tune. “Wait, he KNOWS?!”