#and because the rope was cut off by the lightning from last night they decide to build the bridge so everyone could cross safe and sound!!

[catastrxblues]

hi so i just finished bridge to terabithia and now i’m unwell and my eyes are red because i’ve been crying before i’d even reached 20 minutes of it for i actually knew what was going to happen and by the time i reached an hour something something i just straight up sobbing screaming into my pillow. and now it’s 12 am and i’m still thinking about them. because god, look at them, how they were, the little world they lived in, wouldn’t you just love that, to run away, to escape, to grasp that childhood naivety and innocence that you lost a long time ago, to feel the sun in your skin and the air in your lungs and to paint fantasies and laugh and play and run hidden away from the world and find an old run down tree house and decided to make it your own little shelter and pin up canvases on the worn wood and paint and let your creativity goes wild and have someone understand you and gets you and do it with you, and wouldn’t you just love to have something so constant, so sincere, so genuine, so pure, so real, that there wasn’t anything else. if i knew i was going to cry this much, if i knew how much space this movie would make in my life, i wouldn’t have started this movie tonight. i would have been in peace on the floor of my room, not realizing how badly i actually want something like this even though i would never unironically admit this to anyone in my life or even myself when i’m outside of the familiar place of my mind, for that matters

[petrichor-idyllic]

ON YOUR OWN PT. 2

MASTERLIST | MINHO MASTERLIST

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3

Request for @d4n1elll4

SUMMARY: Follow up from part 1. Fem! Reader x Minho. Reader x Platonic! Gladers. Movie based fic.

I have a whole ass movie to cover here- so some scenes that aren't important to your character get brushed over. Sorry, this is long enough as is and I have another part to write.

You've escaped the Maze, and with your words of wisdom from Thomas, it's time to survive the Scorch. Which is harder than it looks. But what happens when you over estimate your abilities when no one else is around? At least, you think there isn't.

WARNINGS: Inappropriate language, awkward teenagers, more dumbass dog, some sexual tension if you squint a bit, Minho has lightning scars, WICKED being WCKD because movie.

Okay, maybe this was a bad idea.

After Thomas' advice, you went and raided the lab and went back to the Middle to get as many supplies as you could- which took an entire day in itself.

But still, that might not have been enough.

Somehow, the Scorch is even more confusing than the Maze. You have no idea where you are or what direction you're actually meant to head in. It would've been nice for Thomas to give you some directions, but it seemed like the boy was on a tight schedule.

It's been a couple of days, and your makeshift piece of wood with some rope attached that you're pulling over your shoulder, is a lot heavier with a lazy German Shepherd on it. Your arm aches and you're running out of water.

This is less than ideal.

Not to mention they call it the Scorch for a reason. The days are unbearably hot and the nights send chills through your body. But you can't stop, especially since you don't have a clue where you're going.

That doesn't mean you're coping well, though. You're exhausted, deciding to pick moving over sleep. You're dehydrated, sleep-deprived, your body hurts and has forgotten how to regulate its own temperature. You feel like you're dying.

And honestly, you might just be.

The blazing sun beats down on you the same way it destroyed half of the planet, and you're starting to regret leaving the Maze.

You're sweating, but feel cold and your head is pounding. You push through as your vision starts to be clouded by dark spots. Though, when your knees go weak and you hit the floor, your options are looking slim. In a desperate attempt, you roll onto your back, grasping for your water bottle, your hearing cuts out as no water comes from the bottle.

Your hand hits the floor as your eyes roll back.

You're one for the vultures now.

Well, not quite.

"Uh, guys?" Frypan says as the group bickers in the background. They'd just lost Winston, and Thomas is being salty about Teresa getting her memories back but not telling him about it whilst Newt and Minho fight over a water bottle. Aris hasn't said anything for the last two hours and doesn't intend on changing that anytime soon. They're definitely not your best shot, but it's all you've got. Not that you're conscious to argue.

"Guys!" He snaps, making the group behind him look at him. "Are you shanks seein' this or am I having a marriage?"

"Do you mean mirage?" Newt chuckles, making his way over to his friend, patting his shoulder as he expects to look out and find absolutely nothing from the top of their sand dune. "Holy shuck," he mumbles, his expression dropping.

"What?" Minho asks as he approaches, Thomas and Aris not far behind him, with Teresa being the last to join.

"Is that... a dog?" Teresa asks.

In the distance, your useless dog has decided to actually do something to help you- aimlessly run around the Scorch to try and find help.

Quest spotted them from a mile away and is making a beeline towards them, barking his little head off.

As the dog gets closer, it stops at the bottom of the mound of sand, and Teresa's face drops. "Holy shit. Quest?"

The boys snap to look at her.

"Quest?" Minho raises his eyebrow. "The shuck is Quest?"

"He is! That's- That's Quest! He's (Y/N)'s dog!" Without giving anymore explanation, she stumbles through the sand, nearly falling over as she rushes to the dog.

"Who the hell is (Y/N)?" Newt asks, just in general. Frypan shrugs, deciding to follow the girl with Thomas hot on his heels and Aris blindly following anyone who moves. Newt goes to join in, but he hesitates when he sees Minho's face.

It's an expression he can't quite put his finger on. It's like that one time someone pointed out that the Grievers were also probably made by the people who were feeding you- like a small piece of the puzzle just fell into place.

"Mate, you good?"

"Hm?" Minho snaps back to reality. "Yeah, I'm good- let's find out why there's a shuckin' mutt in the middle of the damn desert."

Minho starts walking towards Quest but it takes Newt a second to follow.

Something just happened in the Runner's head. And Newt's almost scared to find out what.

In truth, your name sent chills down Minho's spine and a rush of adrenaline through his body. He doesn't understand why- but it was that strange feeling when someone mentions the name of someone you have a crush on when you're not expecting it.

But he'll deal with that later.

"We have to find (Y/N)!" Teresa demands. "She'd never leave Quest on his own!"

"Who the everliving shuck is (Y/N)?" Minho asks as he strides over, looking at Thomas who simply gives him a shrug.

Teresa sighs. "She was one of us- from a Maze. Thomas lied about her dying and basically turned her Maze off- she has to be out here."

"What?" About three boys say at the same time.

Quest barks, not letting her explain further. He spins around, taking a playful stance before starting to run off in the opposite direction.

"C'mon!" Teresa shouts.

"Teresa-!" Thomas lets out a loud and frustrated groan. "We don't have time for this."

The boys feel like they're aimlessly wondering around the Scorch for about twenty minutes as they let this random dog take them on a wild goose chase. But when Teresa suddenly stops, gasping, they realise this might be more serious than they originally thought.

"No," Teresa mumbles, "No! (Y/N)! She runs down another dune, falling to her knees next to your unconscious body.

"What the shuck?" Newt mumbles.

To his surprise, Minho is actually the first to follow her (probably because he hates her guts). It's obvious that Minho is used to the solid concrete of the Maze as he fumbles over himself, the loose texture of the sand making him unbalanced.

Staring at your unconscious body, a strange wave of familiarity smacks him in the face. He knows you. At least, it feels like he does. But he has absolutely no recollection of you whatsoever.

"Minho," Teresa snaps, forcing him out of his trance, "water!" The boy fumbles, passing the ravenette a bottle as she opens your mouth, pouring some in and sitting you up more so you don't choke. She checks your pulse and your breathing. "She's alive." She confirms as the other boys join.

"We need to wait until she wakes up-"

"We need to move, Teresa," Thomas says, "we can't risk everything over this."

"Thomas is right," Newt groans. "We have to move- we can't afford to stay here."

"We can't just leave her," Teresa argues, "you saved her before, Thomas, even if you don't remember it- it was for a reason."

"She's right," Minho agrees, making everyone look at him. In all honesty, his curiosity is driving him more than anything, but the thought of leaving you makes his chest hurt and his fists ball. "We need all the help we can get- and if Teresa knows her, then we all probably did at some point. Besides, if we're gonna pretend to be good guys- this seems like a good place to start."

"Yeah, can't argue with that," Frypan sides with the Runner and then looks at Aris, who simply nods in agreement. Relief crosses both of Teresa's and Minho's faces as they've won the vote.

So, the Gladers set up camp as night starts to fall, with Teresa keeping an eye on you; Quest never leaving your side.

They also steal your food. Compensation, I guess.

You stir awake, your head pounding as you rise up. Quest immediately barks, getting everyone's attention before he starts licking your face.

"Quest, chill, bro," you mumble, trying to push the dog away.

"You're awake," Teresa says, snapping your attention to her. You blink. "You gave us a real scare."

You're lying on the sand, using someone's bag as a pillow as you're surrounded by people. Not only have you seen most of these people in your dreams, but you literally saw Thomas and Teresa on video.

What the actual fuck?

People. There's people. There are actual living people here and talking to you.

Maybe you should pass out more often.

"W-what?" You stutter out, straining to sit up.

"Take it easy," the girl soothes you, "you were out cold for quite a while."

"I-I don't understand," tears start to prick your eyes, "is this real? Am I dreaming?"

"Klunky shuckin' dream if you are," Minho says, gaining the courage to speak to you as he comes to your other side. "Here." He holds a water bottle out to you.

It's him.

Him.

He's here.

You look between him and the bottle. He's even more attractive in person and this weird crush you'd developed for someone you don't even remember speaking to puts you in an interesting situation.

You takes the drink, briefly brushing fingers for a second and it sends a spark down Minho's spine. Okay, what's happening to him here?

"Thanks," he pulls his lips into a thin line in response.

"Your dog brought us to you," Teresa explains. "Do you remember us? At all?"

You blink, considering your words very carefully so you don't sound insane. You open your mouth, but as your eyes flicker to movement, only one word leaves your mouth.

"You," Thomas is stood with his arms crossed, his eyebrows twitching. "Y-you stopped the Maze- you're the reason I escaped."

"Yeah, so I keep being told," he sighs. You tilt your head as you sit up straight.

"You don't remember?"

He shakes his head. "None of us do. Teresa got her memories back, but we didn't."

"What? Why don't you..?" Your voice trails off. "Were you guys from more Mazes?"

Minho almost feels weirdly jealous at the attention Thomas is getting from you. This makes no sense. So, he butts in.

"Me, Thomas, Teresa, Frypan and Newt were all from the same Maze," he explains each person giving you an awkward wave in turn, "and Aris is from a different one."

You look at him, your eyes becoming hollow before they come to your dog. "You guys were together?" Your voice is barely a whisper.

It's like your heart breaks in that moment. These people had each other? Why didn't you have someone? Why were you abandoned?

Minho looks at Newt for advice, who simply shrugs. Great help, thanks, Newt.

He crouches next to you. "You okay?"

You can't even look at him. "They put you guys together? Like you were a group?"

"Yeah," his eyebrows furrow, confusion taking over his expression, "there was like fifty boys in our Maze."

You turn to look at him again. "What?"

"What? What- I don't get it," he pinches his brow, "What's going on here?"

"You guys were together? And all I had was my dog?" Quest seems to sense your unease, resting his head on your crossed legs.

Minho's expression softens, he looks between Thomas and Teresa for help.

"You were on your own?" Thomas asks.

You nod. "Yeah, just me and my dumbass dog." You scoff.

As much as you tried to ignore it and pretend it didn't faze you, and that animals are better anyway, being on your own for so long killed some small part of you. And these guys didn't have to go through that?

There's a long pause. "Wait, hold on, you survived the Maze all on your own?" You look at Minho, who is staring at you like you're the closest thing he's going to get to meeting a God.

"Not like I had much choice," you give him a small smile, and he stands up, mumbling something to himself.

They start to fill you in on what happened with WCKD and that they're currently on the run, and you tell them what Thomas' past self told you.

It's obvious you've not been socially conditioned as you feel very awkward. Though, you and Aris get along pretty well since neither of you came from the Glade.

You sit in front of the fire, Quest sitting next to you as you hold your hands in front of you. You flinch slightly when Minho joins you, clearly yet to adapt to the boy's presence.

"Sorry," he mumbles, awkwardly putting his hands out to show he's no harm but not really sure how to go about that properly. He doesn't day anything else, seemingly just enjoying the warmth as you sit with your knees to your chest.

You have no idea what the appropriate way to act here is.

Do you start a conversation? Is it inappropriate to look at him? What's the right amount of eye contact? How to person good?

"I can't believe they put you in a Maze on your own," thankfully, Minho beats you to it. "You realise how insane that is, right?"

"Not really," you chuckle, "I've never known any different."

"Well, there was like fifty of us, and we're the only people that actually got out alive- and Winston, so..." He trails off, struggling to process it.

Minho spent years of his life protecting and helping the Gladers escape- but he had help. If it weren't for Thomas, Alby, Teresa, Newt, and maybe even Gally to some extent, Minho doubts he would've survived that long.

"Like I said, what choice did I have?"

"Bet it was lonely."

You pause, deciding to play it off instead since you really don't know him- even if it feels that way.

"Nah," you scoff, "I had Quest," you refer to the sleeping dog next to you. "Dumb mutt."

"That dumb mutt saved your ass today."

"Yeah, I know," you sigh. "One hell of a coincidence you guys just happened to be in the Scorch at the same time as me."

"Yeah, well, there's been a lot of coincidences recently- I mean, Thomas was only in the Glade for like three days," he laughs, "I only met the shank like a week ago."

"What? What's a shank?" You look at him, resting your head on your knees, and something about the way you look at him makes his stomach flip.

"It's uh, well-" he clears his throat, composing himself, "I don't really know. It's just like an insult, I guess."

"So, you guess have your own slang? That's kinda fun."

"Yeah, Alby would shout at us if we actually swore- he was like an old man."

"Alby?"

Minho goes quiet for a second. "Yeah, he- he was my boss, I guess. First Greenie in the Glade and he basically ran the joint. He sacrificed himself to save us."

You guess that's the benefit of being on your own- no grief. You can't attend the funerals of people you were never introduced to.

"He sounds like a good man."

Minho smiles softly. "Yeah, he was. Lost a lotta good people."

"I'm sorry you went through that," his eyes flicker to you, and you're surprised when he playfully nudges you.

"You, too."

The group decides to sleep, you included. The fire is put out and you all lie in the sand. Quest curls up next to you, and you've not fully recovered from your exhausted body, so sleep comes easy enough.

Though, Minho's wide awake. He sits on the ground, his eyes fixated on you.

"Alright," Newt groans, "what's goin' on in your shuckin' head?"

"What?" Minho looks to the blond, who's now resting on his elbows as he's lay down.

"You're actin' weird, dude- you like the new girl or some klunk?"

Minho drops his head, scoffing. "Shit, I was joking," Newt snorts when his friend doesn't respond.

"I mean, she is cute," Minho grins, turning into a chuckle when Newt's eyebrows raise.

"She looks like a corpse."

"Yeah, 'cause she nearly was one." Minho defends you before sighing. "But, no- I mean, I don't know. It's weird, she feels... familiar, almost. Like I used to know her." He hesitates. "Like we used to be close."

Newt processes this for a second. It's rare for Minho to be so unsure of himself. "Well, Teresa knows her, so I don't think that'd be that far-fetched."

"Yeah, I guess," the Runner mumbles.

"Get some sleep, shank- I ain't dealing with your grumpy ass in the morning," Newt tells him and Minho rolls his eyes, but reluctantly lies down.

None of you actually get much sleep thanks to Thomas.

"Guys! Guys!" He scrambles, shoving anyone close enough to get attacked.

"Ugh, what?" Someone responds.

"Get up! Get up! Frypan! Aris! Get up. I see something! You see that?" Thomas points off into the distance, lights flickering as the faint outline of a city skyline is just about visibly through the thick grey of dawn. You all scramble to your feet. "It's lights."

"We made it," Minho lets out a sigh of relief, which is cut short when the crackling of thunder turns you all around.

Deep grey clouds loom nearby, the darkness only broken up by blinking flashing of lightning.

"Let's go. We gotta go," Thomas says. "Come on!"

Panic sets in relatively quickly as everyone stumbles to get their bags and belongings. Not fully recovered from the previous day, you stumble, dropping some stuff from your (poor) luggage attempt.

"Shit," you hiss, dipping to grab some bags of food and water bottles.

Quest barks, and Minho turns to find you on your hands and knees, desperately trying to collect your belongings.

He grabs your arm, pulling you up. "Leave it! We'll find supplies in the city, we gotta go!"

He gives you very little choice but to go with him. He yanks you towards him, pushing you forward as you start to break into a sprint, merging with the rest of the group.

Booking it through the Scorch, you come across a parking lot with what looks to be an old factory building attached. You'll be able to escape the storm there.

That's until there's a blinding light to your left and Minho is thrown several feet, landing on the concrete with a thud.

A few of you are knocked down, you and Thomas included as ringing shatters through your skull. You groan, looking around. Thomas seems conscious, but the other boy is out cold.

You're on your feet in seconds as a strange feeling of almost heart break and pure panic takes over.

"Minho!" You shout, desperately trying to pull him up. "Help him!" You yell despite not being able to hear your own voice after being briefly deafened.

Thomas is the first to help you, and for a brief second you lock eyes. You don't know why you're crying- but you are. Tears pour down your face as your vision is blurred, but with the help of Thomas, and now Newt and Aris, you're able to get him up.

Frypan found a door into the building and is shouting you all to follow, but you're having some kind of emotional breakdown and Quest is getting in the way of your feet.

You've... never cried before?

Even back in the Maze, you never shed a tear. You just kind of got mad and hit things, and then got over it and went on with your day. Maybe it was because you never had to deal with the emotional attachments of other people, but all it took was Minho getting hurt for your tough act to crack.

Plowing into the dark room and slamming to the door behind you, Thomas tells you to put Minho down before turning on a tourch.

"Minho!" Thomas shakes his friend. The room is briefly filled with people exclusively saying his name.

"Move," you push Thomas out of the way, pressing your fingers to the unconscious boys throat, trying to find a pulse. Leaning in to check his breathing, you're startled when he suddenly groans.

Lifting his head, he makes eye contact with you and visible relief washes over him.

Oh, God, you're close. He lean back again, giving him room to breathe as he tries to process what the hell just happened?

"What happened?" He grumbles.

"You got struck by lightning." Newt says, bluntly after a pause.

"Oh."

The boys chuckle amongst themselves and you shake your head.

For some reason, you playfully punch Minho in the arm as he gets him. "You nearly gave me a fuckin' heart attack."

It's a simple gesture, really, but it's unusual for someone you've just met- but it's almost natural, like you've known him your whole life. I guess in a way, it does feel like that for you.

"Sorry," he mumbles, chuckling as he's fully on his feet. "Thanks, guys." He grins at his friends, who give a mix of rolling eyes and friendly pats.

"Hey," Teresa gets the group's attention, clearly not as concerned about Minho's well-being as the others, "what's that smell?"

She turns her light on and is nearly immediately attacked by a Crank. She jumps back, screaming, but the Crank hits the floor, restrained by chains, in its desperate attempt to get to her.

"Behind you!" Teresa yells and you're suddenly yanked back again. Minho pulls you behind him as Quest stands in front of him, seemingly protecting him, too.

Pure chaos ensues as the group screams and shouts, and between the blur of lights and being stuck in the middle of the huddle, you can't really make out what's going on.

"I see you've met our guard dogs," an unfamiliar voice says as yellow light bleeds into the room. Peaking from behind Minho, you watch a short-haired girl make her way through the crowd of chained up Cranks.

"Stay back!" Minho shouts, his arm coming out in front of you as you stand on your tip-toes, unintentially pressing your front into his back.

Minho is still a dumb hormonal teenage boy, so that's definitely grounds for his brain to go fuzzy- but he can't afford to get distracted here.

"You guys look like shit," the girl says, almost jokingly. "Come on. Follow me. Unless you wanna stay here with them."

You all exchange concerned glances, but no one moves as the girl walks off.

"For fuck's sake," you mumble, pushing through the boys. "We can't stay here- c'mon."

Your independence comes out as you take the lead, Thomas jogging to catch up to you but careful to avoid being shredded by what used to be people. Your options are slim, and you know who you'd rather deal with- they just decided to follow.

The girl leads you in the factory, which looks like it's been turned into a refugee camp.

"Come on, keep up." She instructs. "Jorge wants to meet you."

Leading you up some stairs, Thomas finally speaks. "Who's Jorge?" He pushes in front of you, Teresa by his side. So you fall back, walking between Minho and Newt, with Frypan next to Newt.

"You'll see. No one's come out of the Scorch in a long time- you've just got him curious." She pauses, looking over her shoulder to look Thomas up and down. "Me, too."

You look at Minho, who smirks slightly as he looks back at you before both of you look at Newt, who is wearing a similar expression- especially when Teresa's face drops. The three of you have to try not to laugh. This could be funny, and apparently Thomas is a chick magnet.

I mean, look at him; you can't really blame them. (Don't tell Minho).

But the amusement is short-lived when Newt looks behind him and there's a group of men, looking like they want to eat you all alive. Minho grabs your wrist, pulling you in front of him just a little bit as Quest keeps close to your side.

"Anyone else starting to get a bad feeling about this place?" Newt asks, noticing the way Minho's keeping you close and the way you all just interacted sending alarm bells off in his head. Maybe Minho wasn't tripping before- you do feel familiar.

"Let's just hear him out," Thomas looks back at you guys, "see what he has to say."

Going up another set of industrial stairs, you entire a large office room with a giant dome window that is covered in rust.

"Jorge," the girl gets the attention of a man fiddling with a radio, "They're here." She sits on an old sofa and appears bored whilst Jorge mutters to himself.

He turns around, hands on his hips and sighing. "Do you ever get the feeling the whole world's against you?"

You all exchange glances before he continues.

"Three questions: where did you come from? Where are you going? How can I profit?" No one says anything as you realise Newt was probably right. "Don't all answer at once."

"We're headed for the mountains," Thomas offers an answer, "looking for the Right Arm."

The men behind you snicker and even Jorge scoffs, taking a sip from his drink.

"Looking for ghosts, you mean. Question number two; where did you come from?"

"That's our business," Minho spits out as you stand by his side.

Jorge shrugs, and it's probably a signal because you're all immediately restrained.

Thomas is screaming for them to get off of him as the girl grabs a device, forcing his head down and scanning the back of his neck. "Shut up, you big baby."

The machine beeps. "What is that?" Thomas manages to shove her away, his breathing laboured.

The girl looks at the device and then at Jorge, who puts his glasses on. "You were right," she says.

"Right about what?" You snap, your hands being held behind your back by a guy twice your size as another one pins Quest's head to the floor. "What's she talking about?"

You get out of the man's grip, but that's because they all seem to let you all go- even Quest, who you're quick to grab and force to your side.

You have the urge to protect these guys, and you've survived the Maze on your own- so you don't see these guys as a real threat.

"I'm sorry, hermano," Jorge scoffs, "looks like you're tagged- you came from WCKD. Which means you're very valuable."

And that is how you ended up hanging from a ceiling, your dog in a cage made of chicken wire on the side, and a looming pit of darkness beneath you.

"Good plan, Thomas," Minho's sarcasm echos through the room, "just hear what the man has to say. Really working out for us."

"Shut up, Minho," Thomas groans as you chuckle. "Maybe a can reach the rope."

You watch in some form of second-hand embarrassment as Thomas fails to fold on himself and looks like a poor excuse for a gymnast before giving up.

"Enjoying the view?" Jorge approaches.

"The hell do you want?" Thomas is clearly done with his shit and you can't blame him.

"That is the question," he scoffs. "My men wants to sell you back to WCKD. Life has taught them to think small. I'm not like that. Something tells me that you're not either."

"Is it the blood rushing to my head, or is this shank not making any sense?"

"Minho," you warn him, "Shut up, man."

"Tell me what you know about the Right Arm," Jorge continues like you guys never spoke.

"I thought you said they were ghosts," Newt butts in, earning a glare.

"I happen to believe in ghosts. Especially when I hear them chattering on the airwaves." He moves over to a lever, resting his hand on it. "You tell me what you know, and maybe we can make a deal."

"We- we don't know much," Thomas starts, but he gets little chance to continue when you all drop several feet. "Okay! Okay! Alright! They're hiding in the mountains. And they attacked WCKD. They got out a buncha kids. That's it, that's all we know!"

The man goes to speak, only to be cut off when someone else appears.

"Yo, Jorge, what's going on?"

"Me and my new friends were just getting acquainted- we're done now."

"Hey, wait- you're not gonna help us?" Thomas sounds desperate.

"Don't worry, hermano, we'll get you back to where you belong." He walks away, shouting "hang tight" over his shoulder.

And you're left hanging.

Quite literally.

So, you kind of make a plan- shove Teresa as hard as you collectively can so she can reach the side. Which mainly consists of Minho struggling and you being bumped into.

Though eventually, you manage.

It's a small victory that doesn't last long when you hear a voice over a loud speaker, accompanied by a helicopter. The group seems to recognise this and goes into panic mode.

Through trail and error, you all manage to get pulled to the sides, and this guy monologues in the background. You also get your dog free.

"Okay, let's go! Let's go!" Thomas' favourite phrase as you go to escape, only to be blocked by the guy from before. "We're not tryna cause any trouble, okay? We just gotta get outta here."

"Is that so? Janson, I got 'em for ya, I'll being them down- don't shoot us. Come on, let's go."

You're standing next to Thomas as the man holds a rifle in front of him. You have an idea, and it's dumb but as you look at Thomas, you realise these guys have probably survived on dumb ideas.

"I said, let's go."

You grab the barrel of the gun, a bullet flying out and narrowly missing you as you get into a wresting match. Slamming your head into his nose, there's a cracking noise as he falls backwards.

He gets to his feet relatively quickly, gun still in hand, aiming to kill.

And a gunshot goes off.

But not from him.

He falls to the floor with a thud, the girl from before standing behind him, holding a pistol. All of you stare at her.

"Okay, come on. Come on! Let's go!"

You, once again, take the lead, following the girl through the factory. "Sorry," you mumble, I didn't catch your name."

"Brenda," she says, simply. "You?"

"(Y/N)."

"It's nice to meet you, (Y/N)- you've got fire, kid, I like it."

"Thanks?"

"Your dog's also cute."

"Oh, thanks."

She leads you to Jorge, who has a lot of bags and quickly ushers you all through the building. Shoving a window open, he reveals a zip line.

"Oh, you gotta be kidding me," Frypan mumbles and you have to agree with him.

Jorge gives some words about getting you to the Right Arm but you're too busy worrying about getting Quest on a zip line.

"Follow me!" He shouts, whizzing off to another building.

"Okay, come on!" Brenda shouts, yanking another piece of rope.

"Wait, what about-?"

"I got him," Minho threads his legs though the loop, and then leans down to pick up the dog with a surprising amount of ease. Quest isn't exactly small. He hooks him under one arm and uses the other to hold on as Brenda pushes him forward.

Aris goes next, then you follow.

"Holy shit!" You shout as you cling on for dear life, not having time for the same safety precautions that Minho did with the loop trick.

"I got you!" Minho shouts as you draw closer. "I got you!"

You practically collide into his open arms as he steadies you, letting go of the rope, you throw your arms around him. Squealing slightly and stumbling, you both somehow manage to end up on your feet.

"You okay?" He asks as you pull away, his hands coming to your shoulders.

You swallow. "Yeah, yeah I'm okay- I'm okay."

He nods. "Okay." Your eyes lock for a second, and all you want to do is throw your arms back around him and let him comfort you about this stressful situation.

Quest barks, jumping up on you and distracting you from the boy. Though, you glance at Minho again. "Thank you." You're clearly referring to the dog, who you might actually die without.

"Don't worry about it."

Teresa's screams bring back to reality for a second time. Both you and Minho go to grab her.

"You okay?" You let her grab at you but she doesn't say anything, immediately turning around.

"No," she mumbles.

"What's wrong?" Newt asks, stepping forward after witnessing whatever just happened with you and his best friend.

"Brenda ran off and Thomas went after her-"

"What?" Jorge steps forward. "Shit."

"Uh, guys," Frypan leans out of a different window, pointing down as WCKD's guards swarm the building.

"Shit," Jorge says again before collecting himself. "Okay, we need to go."

"What?" Newt steps in. "We can't just leave them!"

"We have no choice, hermano- Brenda knows her way out."

"We can't leave Thomas," Teresa steps in front of the man, blocking him from moving.

"Brenda will keep him safe, we can't stay here or-"

He's cut off by the sound of a massive explosion. You shield your face as chunks of debris fly through the open window. The building is turned into rubble and flames, smoking billowing into the night sky.

"What did you do?" Teresa shouts, snapping her attention back to Jorge. "What did you do?!"

"They'll be fine- we'll find them in the city. We need to go- now!"

Jorge rushes off, giving you all very little choice but to follow him.

Making your way through the building, the WCKD personnel are too busy dealing with the burning building to even notice you slipping away.

I mean, they still think you're dead so that's probably a good thing.

You keep running for what feels like miles until you end up in the city. It's almost deserted, towering abandoned buildings trap you in and faint chattering beyond what you can see. It's unnerving, but you stay close.

"We have to find Marcus- he's an old friend that used to have connections to the Right Arm. Brenda will be looking for him as well. We find him, we find your friend."

"Wait, Marcus?" You jog to catch up with Jorge. "Thomas told me to find him."

"Thomas told you that? So, he didn't tell me everything."

"No, WCKD took his memories- he told me in a recording, he doesn't remember anything about it."

Jorge stops, raising his eyebrow as he looks at you, before he hums. "Okay, hermano, we'll set up came for the night. There's no point trying to find Marcus now."

You all reluctantly agree, picking a spot under the damaged bridge, you take a breather.

You sit with Quest, leaning against the wall behind you. You tried talking to Teresa, but you didn't get anywhere with that. She's been acting weird, but you can assume that's because Thomas is currently missing with some random girl.

Minho walks over to you, standing in front of you. "How you feeling? You've been quiet."

"Shouldn't I be asking you that?" You scoff. "You got knocked out by pure electricity like three hours ago."

"Eh, bit achey, but I'll live." He stretches and you rolls your eyes, but your eyes lock on his exposed mid-drift. Not because it's hot (well, it is but that's not it) but because of the spider web like lines stretching across his lower stomach.

"Uh, Minho?" You blink as he drops his arms again.

"Yeah?"

"Lift your shirt up."

He freezes, blinking at you. It doesn't help that the other boys are within earshot. "What?"

"Just..." You stand up, "just lift your shirt up- I think I'm tripping."

He furrows his brows, but does as he's told.

Exposing his abs, he reveals his chiselled form, but also the pinkish, exposed vein patterns that curl from around his back and come around the edges of his front, some cutting completely across his skin. Which is what you noticed.

"What the shuck?" He mumbles. In a fumble, he dumps his jacket off and yanks his shirt over his head.

He turns around, exposing the larger and more feathered patterns that stretch across his back.

"Holy shit," mindlessly, you move towards him, touching his back and making him jump. "Dude- you've got lightning scars."

Traving your finger down his spine, goosebumps cover his body and his arm hair pricks up.

"I- you, I- what?" He clears his throat. "Lightning scars?" He turns to face you, looking down as he examines his own arms. "Shit."

He looks over at his friends, who are yet to move. Frypan, Newt and Teresa seem more interested in how this pans out than their friend being permanently scarred. Jorge and Aris don't want to be involved.

"They look kinda cool," he looks back up at you, starting to feel flustered under your admiring gaze as you stare at his body.

"I, uh- thanks?" You snort, sitting back down.

Minho puts his shirt back on, but doesn't bother with the jacket. He flops next to you, groaning.

"Well, shuck it- guess that's something I have to deal with now."

"As long as they don't hurt, they're not really a problem though, right?"

"Yeah, I guess."

You settle into a comfortable silence, the other's start to go to sleep, but neither of you really make an attempt to. It's smart for someone to stay awake anyway, and you'd rather not do it on your own.

"Okay," Minho clears his throat after a while, finally gaining some courage after thinking about it for so long, "this is gonna sound weird, okay?"

You furrow your brows, but nod. "Okay."

"Okay, so, I uh, I think... I know you." You blankly look at him. "Yeah, I know, I don't get it, but you feel... familiar. I just, I feel like I know you, like we're close, in some way." His head falls into his hands. "The shuck am I even saying?"

"I used to have dreams about you." You state pretty bluntly. "Well, memories, I guess." If you're going to be honest, this might as well be the time. Especially since Minho is being open with you.

"What? What do you mean?"

"We were... friends? I guess. I don't really know. But I'd have these dreams about you, and the others and we'd be in this lab. All of it was pretty mundane and nothing really of note- you were just in pretty much all of them. Half of the time we were just chilling, or playing some game or talking about something." You shrug. "I guess my memory wipe didn't work as well as other people's."

"That's..."

"Weird, right?"

"Yeah," he scoffs, "I didn't even have any memory-dream-things. It's just a feeling. I can't explain it."

Another round of silence settles, and you laugh to yourself, making him give you a puzzled look. "I think I used to have a crush on you."

He blinks at you.

Why the fuck did you say that? Oh, yes, very subtle- like you totally don't still have a weird crush on him.

A grin spreads across his face.

"You had a crush on me?" You face starts to burn.

"Well, I uh, I think so- I mean I could feel things in those dreams- wait, no, not feel things that sounds weird. I just mean I could feel my last self's feelings, so I could feel my own feelings, I guess. That makes no sense, I uh- I'm not weird, I promise."

He barks a laugh, shaking his head. "That's cute."

"Shut up," you playfully shove him.

"Nah, it is." He smiles at you. "So, you still got a thing for me or...?" You shove him again, harder this time.

"Dude, shut up."

"I'm only asking."

"Why do you wanna know?"

"'Cause I do."

You hesitate, feeling your face grow redder. You shrug. "I uh, I don't know- I mean, you're hot, dude. But I don't even know who I am, yanno?"

"Yeah, I get you," he pauses, "so you think I'm hot?"

"Bro," he snorts again.

"Look, I don't think it really matters if we know who we are- but if we know how we feel, then that's as close as I think we're ever gonna get. I mean, we've got this far, right?"

He stares off into the city, internally dealing with these feelings himself.

You shift slightly, leaning forward and kissing him on the cheek. Minho freezes before turning to look at you. "What was that for?"

"You're right. And thank you, for looking out for me I guess. It's nice not having to be on my own and fend for myself for a change."

A soft smile creeps across his face. "So, you do still have a thing for me, then?"

"Shut up," it comes out as more a mutter than anything else as his hand comes up to your face.

"I'll take that as a yes," his nose brushes against yours. You lean forward, kissing him. It's a sweet kiss and it doesn't last very long.

You pull away, resting your head on his shoulder. For the first time ever, you feel actually kind of content.

"Oi, lovebirds, wake up," Jorge kicks you awake.

You didn't even realise that you'd fallen asleep, but you're both sat upright against the wall, your head still on Minho's shoulder, his head resting on top of yours and Quest sprawled across your outstretched legs.

You groan, your movement stirring Minho awake too.

"We gotta move, hermano, get up." You and Minho exchange glares before you make Quest move, getting up and offering Minho a hand.

You're on the move fairly quickly. You walk with Teresa and Aris, chuckling to yourself as you listen to Frypan and Newt tease Minho about you.

Eventually, you reach a building. It looks like a party that was in full swing about an hour ago, but now half the people are passed out and the other half are slurring their words and looking very lost.

All of you creep into the room, and you spot Brenda, who is trying to wake up an unconscious Thomas.

"Uh, Jorge?" He looks at you, and you vaguely point in the general direction.

Brenda and Jorge reunite and he instructs Brenda to take you all upstairs, Minho, Newt and Frypan having to carry Thomas.

And Jorge said he had to deal with something and would meet you up there.

You, however, did not expect him to return with a beaten up bloodied stranger that he tied to a chair.

Who is Marcus, apparently.

You leave Jorge to deal with that and join Minho and Newt as they watch Teresa caress Thomas' face.

They exchange glances. "How romantic," Minho whispers, sending Newt into a fit of repressed giggles. You elbow him. "What?" He grins at you.

"Don't be dick."

"What? It is romantic." You give him a deadpan expression. "You don't want me to gently stroke your face?"

"Try it and I will bite you."

"Please don't."

"Hey, hey, you're okay," Teresa says, bringing your attention back to Thomas as he rises up, groaning. "Hi," she smiles, "we have to stop meeting like this."

And suddenly you understand why they were making fun of her.

Minho walks over, leaning over Teresa. "Welcome back, you ugly shank."

Thomas gets up, processing the scene in front of him as he joins you and Newt. "Looks like you've been having fun," the blond boy says.

You walk over to Minho, taking no interest in the violence and honestly being pleased you don't have to deal with this on your own- like the original plan when you escaped.

Minho casually puts his arm around your waist, pulling you closer. Apparently, he has no problem with PDA. "You really think this guy knows where the Right Arm is?" He asks you and you shrug.

"It's not like we have any other option, really."

He hums in response. "I guess."

You all cringe as you watch Jorge give Marcus a piece of his mind, resulting in him kicking the man in the chest, sending him flying and stealing his car keys.

So, you ended up in some random man's career driving into the mountains. You, Minho and Frypan got into a massive fight about riding shot gun, so much so that you missed Newt taking the seat before any of you got the chance.

So, obviously you then got into an argument about who got to sit next to the window.

Minho won.

And you ended up sitting between him and Aris, with Thomas, Teresa and Brenda in the very back. Which seemed very awkward and you felt bad for Frypan- who also ended up there.

Quest decided to sit on Minho so he could stick his head out of the window. Minho regretted his decision pretty quick after that.

You were thriving, however.

The drive is surprisingly peaceful, and it gives you the opportunity to talk to Aris more.

Though, when the car slows down due to a pile of vehicles in the road, none of you really have to say anything when you get out. Silently walking through the graveyard of transport, it becomes apparent that driving anywhere past this point is unlikely.

Then the gun shots start.

You dive behind a car with Minho and Newt as the group lets out numerous shouts along the lines of "get down" and "take cover".

"Does anyone know where those bloody shots came from?" Newt shouts once it's confirmed you're all okay.

"You okay?" Minho asks you, his voice low as he pets Quest. You nod in response as he take your hand into his.

Another round of gunfire.

"Everybody! Get set to run back to the truck! And cover your ears!" Jorge shouts, making the three of you look at each other. Well, that can't be good.

Two girls appear, forcing Thomas to drop whatever weapon he has and making you all get to your feet, shouting demands at you.

That's until they recognise Aris. You lean the girls are called Harriet and Sonya, and they have a nice reunion that leaves you all confused.

It's been a weird few days.

"Uh.. what's happening?" Minho asks for you all.

"We were in the Maze together," Aris explains.

Harriet whistles before shouting. "We're clear, guys! Come on out!"

People start to appear at the mountain tops, and before you know it, you're following these two girls through the mountains.

You get into another set of cars as they take you to the Right Arm base, which is a pretty big camp.

Harriet and Sonya give you all a run down of what's going on here- which is when you meet Vince.

He seems skeptical at first, which gets ten times worse when Brenda collapses and he threatens to shoot her. Though, a lady comes through revealing that Thomas actually released the location of all WCKD locations to the Right Arm.

So, she takes Thomas and Brenda away to give her a Flare buffer.

You stick with the boys, since you don't know anyone else, and end up chilling with them on a hill. Teresa vanishes and Aris goes to catch up with Harriet and Sonya.

"So," Frypan clears his throat as you sit on the ground, playing with Quest as he tries to get a stick you've found, "are you two like... together?"

Both you and Minho pause, looking at each other. And then, in sync, you both shrug, which then causes a wave of laughter.

"Do you wanna be together? We didn't exactly have that conversation," he asks you.

"Sure," you says simply.

"Cool," he turns to Frypan and grins, "I've got a shuckin' girlfriend."

Newt snorts. "We've been out of the Glade for a couple of days and you've bagged a girl?"

"What can I say? I'm just smooth."

"You're full of shit, Minho," you say, making the boys laugh.

"What? I am smooth."

"You almost had a panic attack when I touched your back."

The Gladers lose it. They're literally crying laughing as Minho desperately tries to defend himself.

The conversation progresses naturally, and it's moments like these that you wish you could've had in the Maze. Maybe it wouldn't have been so bad then.

After a bit, Thomas finds you.

"I wish Alby could've seen all this," Newt says, having a sentimental moment.

"And Winston," Frypan adds.

"And Chuck." Thomas says as he looks down at a small wooden figure.

"He'd be proud of you, yanno, Tommy," Newt gives his friend a reassuring smile.

Frypan shouts Aris, who waves back, making you smile. "I kinda like that kid."

"Yeah," Minho says sarcastically, "still don't trust him though." You playfully shove him before he throws an arm over your shoulder, making Thomas and Newt smirk at each other.

It isn't every day they get to see Minho actually happy.

Thomas goes off to find Teresa, leaving you all to your own company once again as darkness starts to fall.

That's when it goes wrong.

You watch as Quest's ear perk up, making you look into the sky as you hear the buzzing of helicopters.

"Uh, guys," you stand up, the boys doing the same as one of them flies towards camp.

"(Y/N)! Get down!" Minho dives into you as a missile strikes the camp, sending fire and debris everywhere.

You scramble back to your feet. Watching the suffering and chaos unfolding, your legs move beneath you- these people need help.

"(Y/N)- shit!" Minho and the others follow you, running down the hill and joining Vince as he shoots from a machine gun.

You send Quest away, you trained him in the Maze to hide if needed- and if you don't get out of this, he could probably survive for months on the food left.

He passes Minho a gun, who is actually surprisingly capable of using it. Harriet also gives you a weapon, and you start shooting, too.

"Nice shot, babe."

"We are not going to be one of those couples that calls each other babe."

"Noted."

"Look out!" Newt shouts before a granade goes off, electricity completely paralysing you.

You're rounded up in the centre like cattle, forced on your knees in a line as a guard scans people's necks.

"A5, A6, A7," he scans your neck, pausing. "Uh, Sir?"

"What?" The silver haired man, who you're assuming is Janson, responds.

"This just says... X?"

Janson looks at the guard before his gaze falls to you.

"Well, (Y/N), aren't you meant to be dead?"

"Bet you'd like that, eh?" He grimaces.

The guard confirms that they'd rounded up pretty much everyone, and then Janson asks the question. "Where's Thomas?"

"Right here."

Thomas approaches with his arms up, and is swiftly punched in the stomach and forced to join the rest of you.

"Why didn't you run?" Minho asks him as you sit between the boys.

"I'm tired of running."

You watch as a Berg flies over head, its bright lights blinding you as it comes to land. The doors open, revealing a group of guards and Ava Paige.

She stops to talk to Janson, and then they start forcing people onto the Berg.

She comes to talk to Thomas, and then Teresa joins her side.

"What the hell?" Frypan says. "Teresa?"

"Wait, what's going on?" Newt asks.

"She's with them," Thomas explains bluntly, his voice full of pain as Minho looks at you.

You swallow. The boys would've never found you if Teresa hadn't have gone out of her way to save you.

"Since when?" Minho asks.

"Oh," Janson butts in, "Teresa's always had an evolved appreciation of the greater good. Since we restored her memories, it was only a matter of time."

"I'm sorry," she says, "I has no choice. This is the only way- we have to find a cure."

"She's right. This is all just a means to an end. You used to understand that, Thomas. No matter what you think of me, I am not a monster; I'm a doctor I swore an oath to find a cure. No matter the cost. I just need more time."

"More blood," the woman from before says from behind you.

"Hello, Mary," Ava greets her, "I hoped we'd meet again. I'm sorry it had to be under these circumstances."

"I'm sorry about a lot of things, too- but not this. At least my conscience is clear."

"So is mine."

A gunshot rings out as a bullet flies into Mary, leaving Vince screaming and grasping at her. Ava commands that people move as Janson puts his gun away.

Then Thomas elbows a guard in the face and pulls out a bomb.

Everyone goes into panic mode, with Teresa begging him to stop. "Thomas, please stop. I made a deal with them, they promised we'd be safe. All of us."

"And I'm supposed to trust you now?"

"It's true- it was her only condition." Ava interjects. She continues to try and convince him, with Janson even joining in.

But you'd rather die here than go with them. Moving towards the boy, the others follow.

"We're with you, Thomas," Newt says.

"Do it, Thomas," Minho says as he slips his fingers between yours.

"We're ready," Frypan agrees and Thomas looks at you.

You nod.

"We're not going back there, it's the only way."

Ava screams Thomas' name as he goes to press the trigger, only the be stopped by a loud beeping noise.

A truck slams into the side of one of the helicopters, sending debris flying as you all dive to the floor.

In the truck, Quest is with Jorge. So, two treats for Quest for getting help again, I guess.

A guard goes to attack Thomas and he lets off the explosive, diving to safety before getting knocked by Janson.

Who is promptly shot down by Brenda.

You all scramble, Minho finding a gun as you retreat to safety. Hiding behind a box, Minho stands guard.

And then he's shot. The shock of the Launcher leaves him defenseless.

"Minho!" You scream, both you and Thomas trying to get to the boy as he's dragged away, whilst the Gladers try and hold you back and keep you safe.

You're dragged backwards, watching them as they take Minho with them and the doors of the Berg closing, with him inside.

Gone.

The real damage is shown when morning comes.

The camp is destroyed and Vince makes plans to move you all to the Safe Haven.

You sit with Quest, listening in.

"I'm not going with you," you state.

"What?" Vince asks you.

"I'm going to find Minho- I've dealt with worse shit on my own. I'm going after him."

"She's right," Thomas nods at you. "I made a promise to Minho that I wouldn't leave him behind, I'm going after him, too."

The others try and talk you down, but it doesn't work, Jorge saying it's like suicide.

But Thomas has he mind made up, and so do you.

You're going to get him, even if it's on your own.

Bro omg this took so long. Ik the pacing is probably completely wack, but there were scenes that writing them fully out would take up even more space and my tumblr is already bugging out over this.

Part three should be out at some point soon, but we shall see if I stick to that.

I hope you kind of enjoyed lmao :)

[echoingbirdsofprey]

Lightning On My Lips (Every Time You Kiss Me)

5 - Woke Up In A Dream

Pairing: Tyler Owens x OFC Georgia Tennley

Rating: Explicit (MDNI!)

Warnings: Concussed!Georgia, graphic descriptions of Georgia's injuries, swearing as usual, panicky!Tyler, allusion to smut, flirty!Tyler

A/N: Imagine Tyler Owens leading your fire breathing dragon of a barrel horse down the alley? Oh wait, I did.

Playlist

Tyler sat quietly in the waiting room, head in his hands, hat on the bench next to him. He held the button up he’d given her earlier across his lap, still littered with shards of glass and blood on the collar from her head and neck. 

He’d barreled his truck into the emergency area and carried her in, panicked as the nurses rushed to her with a gurney. They took her back and assessed her rather quickly, ultimately deciding she needed stitches to close both wounds once they were debrided. Her loss of consciousness had been due to her loss of blood as well as the force of her head hitting and most likely breaking the glass of the truck window. 

Tyler’s nerves were getting the best of him as he had to stand, pacing back and forth. It felt like hours before a nurse came out and told him that Georgia was comfortable, pain meds on board, and that she had awoken briefly and asked for him. 

When he entered the room, he was taken aback by the IV lines littering Georgia’s arms. He reached up, rubbing the back of his neck, his hand covering his mouth. What had she looked like the first time she saw him like this, after his accident? Had she been just as distraught? He would never know because he couldn’t fucking remember. 

He pulled the chair from the corner of the room and sat as close as he could to her bed, placing his hat down on the sheets covering her legs. He gingerly took her hand in his, feeling how cold her skin was. He felt her stir slightly but she didn’t wake up. He would stay there until she did though.

🌪⛈️🌪

~ Tyler ~

He couldn’t believe what his life had come to. He’d always heard the stories from the other bull riders about the ‘buckle bunnies’ but what the fuck would they call him? He was head over boots for this goddamned can chaser. What would they call him? A Buckle Buck? Bleacher Bitch? Barrel Racer Chaser? Hell if he knew, but when she asked him to lead ‘Twist’ down the alley for her because her friend wasn’t there with her horse, he was sure he’d be getting called something crude. 

He had his hand on the reins of the fire breathing dragon of a mare that Georgia only rode every few races. The mare was so goddamned excited to do her job, she was bouncing up and down beside Tyler as he walked, as calmly as he could, down that damn alleyway. The mare was snorting, drooling, and about to leap out of her skin and Tyler could only be amazed at the complete flip of attitude just taking the thing down the alleyway did. She was never like this any other time. You could rope off the mare, cut cows, hell, Tyler had ridden the thing a few times as a pickup rider for his bull riding buds, but here, going through the alley, the mare was lit.

“Next up we have, from Stillwater, Oklahoma, the Pink Princess, Georgia Tennley, lookin’ to secure a qualifier spot to the NFR on her blazin’ fast mare, Twist It Up!” 

Tyler let go at the last syllable of the mare’s name and braced himself for the rush of wind and the possibility that the mare would hit him with her shoulder, or Georgia’s boot and stirrup might hit him, as she streaked past him. He glanced around, his friends all hooting and hollering as she was in fact, poised to make the fastest time of the night. Last to go, best to go, as Tyler always said. He smiled as he hopped up on the panels to watch. The mare was quick on her feet and she whipped around the first and second barrels. Coming around the third, Georgia’s boot hit it, but the barrel didn’t fall, and they recovered fast to blitz toward home. 

As she ran back down the alley and yelled ‘whoa!’ the mare slid to a stop and everyone down by the roping chutes and bull chutes whooped and threw their hands in the air. They were one tenth of a second behind the first place rider, but still fast enough to squeeze in a run to the qualifier. They’d be headed back to Oklahoma for Qualifiers. And if she had good times there, the National Finals Rodeo. 

Tyler jumped down from the panels and ran toward Georgia as she dismounted her mare. She nearly jumped into his arms. 

“You made the qualifier!” He said excitedly as their lips connected. She nearly melted into him.

“You’re my good luck charm.” She said as she patted the mare, gazing up into Tyler’s sparkling blue-green eyes. Tyler rubbed the mare’s head as he reached for Georgia’s hand, leading them both back to the trailer, for some well deserved rest.

🌪⛈️🌪

~ Georgia ~

As they pulled up to the modest little farmhouse, Georgia in her big black lifted GMC with the living quarters trailer in tow, and Tyler right behind in an old, red, square body Ford that was on its last axles, her mother stepped out onto the porch, switching the lights on.

“You’re awful late, girly.” Her mother, Eleanor, said as she met her daughter halfway down the path to hug her. “And who might this young man be?”

“Tyler Owens, ma’am.” He said, holding out his hand to shake hers. She hugged him instead.

“Welcome, Tyler. You sure you know what you’re gettin’ into here?” She asked with a lilt of humor in her voice, glancing at her daughter.

“Momma...” Georgia said with a smirk.

“I’m beginnin’ to.” Tyler said softly, as he reached for Georgia. 

“Well, when y’all are done putting the horses away, come on in and I’ll fix ya somethin’ to eat. I’m sure you haven’t had somethin’ decent in a few weeks.” Her mother said and Georgia and Tyler went to take the horses off the trailer.

First was Twist, the black mare with the funky tornado shaped blaze on her face, and then was Wilene, the buckskin paint mare that Tyler had first seen Georgia ride. They led both horses toward the barn and Georgia made sure she did her due diligence, poulticing both horses legs to prevent any swelling and then turning them both out into the field by the barn after feeding them their dinner grain. It would be a nice vacation for them to be home for a few days, before they headed to the Qualifiers. Then it would be full steam ahead, especially if they got good enough times to go to the NFR. Tyler needed one more good ride as well, to put him at the NFR. 

Georgia let the mares out as Tyler watched her and then when she came back in the barn, he took her by the waist. He placed his hat on a hook beside them.

“Look at you.” He said softly, pressing his lips to her cheek and then he let them trail across her jaw and to her lips. 

“Me? What about lil’ ole me?” She asked with a smirk. She reached up, pulling a few of his buttons apart and letting her fingers dance over his strong chest. He let his head fall back slightly, mouth falling open in an ‘o’ as he pulled her flush against his body. 

“You're gorgeous, Gee.” He murmured, her hands winding around the back of his neck. She buried her fingers in his hair, begging him for another kiss. He obliged and tucked his hands into the back of her jeans, feeling her soft skin under his calloused fingers. She made a small noise against his lips as they continued making out. His back hit the wall of one of the stalls as he backed up, dust unsettling from its crevices. He smiled against her lips, as his hands traveled up under her shirt. They both had a light sheen of sweat forming on their skin from putting everything away and from their close proximity to each other.

“That all, Cowboy?” She asked, unbuttoning more of his shirt and pushing it off his shoulders. He unbuttoned and unzipped her jeans.

“No, no, baby girl, I’ve got a lot more to say, but...” He pushed her jeans down her hips just enough to expose her most desirable parts, as he lifted her and placed her on one of the tack trunks in the barn aisle. He kneeled in front of her, his lips ghosting over the soft skin of her hips and around her belly button. He placed gentle kisses on her stomach and trailed his mouth down, down, and said, “I’d rather lay you down and show you how I feel.”

🌪⛈️🌪

When Georgia woke up, she was still a little dizzy. The room spun as she glanced around, seeing a familiar face laid down next to her. She reached up and ran her fingers through his hair, albeit uncomfortably with the IVs in her arm. 

The nurse had just walked in, seeing that she was awake, she took her chart and wrote the time and that she was awake. 

“How are you feelin’, miss?” She asked and Georgia nodded.

“Will the dizziness go away soon?” Georgia asked and the nurse’s face contorted to one of worry.

“We’ll keep an eye on it. It’s due to the concussion, but if it gets worse, we may need to do a more in depth neurological workup and make sure nothing else is going wrong...y’know, he’s been here the whole time. He’s been pretty worried.” She said, giving Georgia a small smile and writing on her chart again.

“Yeah. I figured. Thank you.” Georgia said as her eyes focused on Tyler. One of his arms was under his head and the other was draped across her midsection. A protective gesture on his part as far as she saw it. As the nurse left, he stirred slightly, turning his head to face Georgia. He blinked a few times, feeling her massaging his scalp, then groaned as he sat up. 

“Yur awake.” He mumbled, rubbing the exhaustion from his eyes. They were so bright bluish green even in the low light of the room. Georgia gave him a small smile as he took her hand in his again. He wanted so badly to lean up and kiss her, but he couldn’t. Slow, remember? he thought.

“Hi. You stayed.” She said, her voice rough sounding from both sleep and the come down from all the shock and adrenaline. 

“Course I stayed.” Tyler said, stretching up and kissing her on the lips this time, like he wished he had earlier. 

[gaoau]

Crying in the rain is almost like wearing a mask; at the end of the day, we're just a drop of water in the sea

Kill Yourself warnings — none. word count — 850

next.

Eyes burning with unshed tears—tears she's too proud to allow to flow, but they undeniably exist in this disastrous whirlpool of emotions, swallowing and wrecking even the smallest of sprouts before it can bloom. She had it coming; she knew it was coming. People enjoy their nonsense babbling, spitting out precipitate I love you's to anyone with a mask of decency, covering their eyes and ears and mouth with rose-colored wax so as to pretend love exists for a little longer. Love is blind, [Name] has heard her entire life, and she wasn't a believer until experience taught her differently.

Dates spent staring at his phone, brimming affection only for himself, hours wasted looking at him in front of a mirror because he only sees his own face. It simmered, it bubbled, it boiled, it exploded; carving crescents into the flesh of her palms, [Name] demanded a sensible conversation that would either fix their relationship or tear skin off her hands so she would let go of the rope. The flags existed, flowing in the vicious winds of a violent hurricane, rainfall pelting on her bare face like rocks. It's hard to find the bright red among all the pink.

What began as a regular talk, escalated into an argument, only to develop into a fight. A busted lip here, a shattered vase there. Screams and hollers of saturated wrath wrapped in a thin layer of fear. She flung a hook and he bruised her wrists. Tears salted his grimacing face—not so pretty now as he refused to glance at the mirror she smashed with a book—while he watched her vanish with nothing but her phone and pieces of her dignity. His validation stormed away into the lightning splitting the sky among pitch black clouds. His calls failed to make her ringtone sound ever again.

When Atsumu opens the door of his apartment in the dead of the night, the last facial features he expects to see are [Name]'s. Eyes burning with unshed tears, tangled strands of hair sticking to her face, body quivering in the autumnal cold. He blinks owlishly at her in a fuzzy daze of stupefied surprise. Her teeth chatter under the influence of low temperatures and she wraps her soaked arms around herself, seeking warmth in the coldness of her wet clothes.

A grumble slips past her swollen lips as a gust of wind slaps her across the face—it cuts at her cheeks and nose. "Can I come in, Atsumu?" It's more a demand through gritted teeth rather than a polite request of permission. Her patience runs thin as she feels the blood in her veins cluster into ice.

Atsumu steps aside, his head jerking to shake himself out of his confusion. "What are'ya doin' here?" He spares a glance at the clock on his wall to find [Name] decided to visit him at almost 3 o'clock in the morning. His gaze searches for hers at the silence he receives; it's a sight he's never seen before. Worry opens up a hole in his stomach, anger curls his fingers into fists.

"Can I just get a towel? I'll explain later, I just wanna warm up now." Her voice becomes drained and dull in contrast to the orchestra of thunder and lightning she emerged from only seconds ago. She doesn't raise her volume to keep her weakness hidden. Atsumu nods stiffly before retreating to fetch a towel, which she accepts with a trembling hand and purple fingers.

He watches with tight lips as she musses her hair to flicker water out of it and taps the cotton against her face. A second passes, the towel pressed firmly against her eyes. Another second passes, a muffled sniffle cutting through the quiet of the room. One more second and [Name] crouches on the puddle of mud and rain she brought in with her, curling in on herself while screaming into the towel. Tears she was too proud to let flow freely now disappear into the fabric, her throat tears itself apart with every uneven break in her wails.

Atsumu clicks his tongue and sighs, eyes darting away from her wallowing. It's only to psych himself up so he can figure out a way to comfort someone that rarely needs it. He considers calling his brother, but ultimately scratches the option and instead settles his palm on [Name]'s back. "Go take a shower, I'll find ya some clothes."

It takes silence a moment to find the opportunity to claim the apartment for its own; it's dense and suffocating, seeping into corners untouched by light, filling crevices unknown to its resident, billowing curtains of a shut window. [Name]'s hum is almost imperceptible as it comes an eternity later, blocked by the towel she's too proud to let go of. When she unhides her face, cheeks red and an open wound bleeding into her mouth, she sniffles only once. She disappears into Atsumu's bathroom as an unnoticed drop of crimson stains the floor.

[the-broken-truth]

Broken-Style Remix: The Red Hood & Shadow Hunter (Jason Todd & Bellatrix Todd)

Broken: So, I happened to read one of @anxiousnerdwritings's works about Jason Todd and Damian's Twin sister being a team and going against Bruce and the Bat-Family who want Damian's twin sister with them. This idea came to mind and I thought you would like it. Let the words weave and enjoy!

@anxiousnerdwritings's version: LINK

Quick Note: Bellatrix's Name is Shadow Hunter - Her Armor is like Jason's but it is more wolf-like (My personal touch) and has a bit more tech to it.

Blue eyes forced through the magnifying glasses on the face of the Eldest Wayne Heir, yet the one who cast the name aside for one that better understood her and a family that would better understand her than the Dark Knight or his gaggle of infants ever could. She sat in the darkroom - well, not entirely dark; the sparks from the tools in her hand made occasional lights that illuminated the room every now and then, plus there was the desk lamp on the workbench - shining light on the hand & forearm model and the gadget in the making that Bellatrix was working on. It was an attachment to her suit - Claws that gave a lightning discharge. She could use it to knock someone out or remove them completely with enough voltage but she won't do that - she won't live on the Al Ghul Blood, she won't be like Talia Al Ghul or the boy she once called brother.

Speaking of brothers.

"Another all-nighter?" A familiar voice called out, causing Bellatrix to turn off the tools, placed them down, and turn in her seat while lifting the goggles off her face to look at the man in the doorway with a cup of coffee in his hand.

"Yeah, I wanna make sure the claws are ready for our next patrol." Bellatrix explained as she pulled the goggles off her head and placed them on the table before getting up and walking over to Jason, who gave her the coffee cup once she was in front of him. "Thanks." She said as she took a sip.

"No problem, what are brothers for?" Jason asked with a smirk.

"Other than entering their little sister's workroom without knocking?" Bellatrix asked with a raised eyebrow.

"As your brother, I have a right to invade your privacy for the greater good." Jason said with a smirk.

"And to be nosy." Bellatrix added as she walked past him.

"And to be..." He stopped when he realized what he was gonna say, "Hey! I'm not nosy!" He yelled as he followed behind her to the kitchen where breakfast was waiting.

[Later That Night]

Shadow Huntress secured her clawed boots shut before standing to look at the modified claws before sliding them on and latching them closed. She then positioned her right hand as if she was going to strike with her claws and smiled as the light blue electric current waves ran flowed from the bottom of her forearm to the tip of her claws; the tried with her other arm and everything was perfect. She grabbed her sword in one hand and her mask in the other before heading out to see what Hood was doing.

"Anything?" Huntress asked.

"They're still moving - I think they might be hiding to the abandoned warehouse on the edge of town; you know, the one near the waterfront." Red Hood said.

"I think that's where they are heading. Look." Huntress hits some keys on the supercomputer and the cameras in that area showed the factory. "See those boats? They're new, no one has been in that district and it's the only place to do a deal uninterrupted because the cops don't patrol that area anymore." Huntress explained.

"Then, we have our place. Let's move out." Red Hood said as he placed on his helmet and Huntress did the same - both masks locked into place and the two of them were out of there.

[Gotham Rooftops]

Red Hood soared through the open spaces of the backstreets of Gothan while the Shadow Huntress ran across the roofs with the speed and prowess of a wolf on the hunt. She leaped for a high roof and used her claws to climb to the top before running and jumping to the next one while Red Hood attached his rope to another point and began to swing.

The two of them landed on the roof at the same time - a vantage point that showed the trucks driving into the warehouse and the men that stood out to keep watch; not seeing the two hunters crouching on the roof, waiting and watching.

"What do we got?" Red Hood asked. Huntress placed her fingers on the control pad of her mask's visor to activate heat-vision mode - seeing the heat signatures in the building.

"There's about 25 of them - not counting the ones that are waiting outside." Huntress explained.

"What do you think we should do about it?" Red asked.

"We take out the guys outside, then we find the generator and cut the power; under the cover of darkness, we take them out - one by one." Huntress explained.

"What if they see us or hear the noise?" Red asked.

"Then we beat the hell out of them." Huntress said as the two of them rose to their feet and jumped down.

Everything was going good until Jason decided the throw someone through the window, everyone was high alert - it was ass-kicking time.

Red Hood and Shadow Huntress were knocking thugs down left and right, showing the combos that brother and sister made together. Huntress saw one of the thugs pointing his gun at Red Hood and jumped in the way, taking the bullet in the side but she still stood. She cracked her hand in the claw formation and the lightning came to life, causing her to pounce on the thugs, knocking them out through electrical waves while Red just beat the hell out of them.

When the last thug fell, Huntress grunted as she held the bleeding hole in her side, causing Red to run to her.

"Huntress, you alright?" He asked.

"I'll be fine. Let's get out of here and we can get it patched up." Huntress said as she rose to her feet and the 2 of them jumped through the window. They scaled the wall of the roof to stop and breathe for a moment while Jason removed the bullet that got stuck and clean the wound before wrapping it. They were waiting when Huntress's Robotic Wolf Ears shot up at the sound of footsteps - 4 pairs of them, she groaned.

"They're here." Huntress groaned and just when she said that 4 Figures landed on the roof in front of them.

The Dark Knight - Batman, a.k.a Bruce Wayne; Bellatrix's Father.

The Latest Robin - Damian Wayne; Bellatrix's Womb Mate.

Nightwing - Dick Grayson.

Batgirl - Barbara Gordon; the Police Commissioner's Daughter.

"What the hell do you 4 want?" Red Hood said as he rose to his feet.

"We received reports about gunfire in this region, we came to investigate." Batman said to Jason, but his eyes remained on Bellatrix, who just glared at him.

"There was a Firearms Deal going on and we put a stop to it before it could have even begun." Huntress said as she rose to her feet and stood beside Red Hood; Nightwing looked over the edge and whistled.

"They put a stop to it alright - everyone is laid out." He said.

"Laid out? You killed them?" Batgirl asked.

"We're not above killing but we try not to, per Huntress's request." Red Hood said as he gestured at his sister.

"You don't kill but you partner yourself with a killer? How backward you are, Bellatrix." Damian said.

"It is no business of yours, Wayne." Huntress growled.

"You're my sister, so it is my business, and you're a Wayne too; as well as an Al Ghul." Damian countered but Bellatrix scoffed.

"I've never been an Al Ghul, that's why you and your mother cast me aside; the only one who saw any worth in me in that family was my grandfather. Just like you wiped your hands of me back then, I wiped my hands of you - you're nothing to me but a stranger I happen to share my blood with." Huntress said.

"Bellatrix, that's enough." Bruce said.

"You have no say over me, Bat-Boy; I don't have to listen to you." She said.

"I am your father, you need to listen to me." Bruce said.

"I may have your blood but I damn sure don't have to listen to a damn thing you have to say because I don't live with you, nor do I work with you." Huntress said.

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about. Bellatrix, you've been hanging around Jason for too long, it's making you reckless and dangerous. I think it's time you came to live with me, with us, with your family. There is a room waiting for you at Wayne Manor and we can talk about patrols and missions once you get settled in but you need to be with us now; Todd is a bad influence on you." Bruce said.

"You're joking." She said.

"No, Father is right - you've been living with this brute for too long. You're a Wayne and an Al Ghul, it's time you started acting like one." Damian said.

"Let me tell you something: I stopped being an Al Ghul when I left that hell you called home, and I never accepted to be a Wayne. Last time I checked, my last name is Todd and I want nothing to do with you...and of you." She glared at all of them. "Let's go, Bro. I'm done with this." Huntress began to walk away with Jason at her side.

Jason was her brother.

Jason was her family.

Bellatrix was a Todd and there was nothing anyone could do it change that.

[dastardlydandelion]

medium luci

ao3 link

content warnings: homophobia, comphet, child abuse, abusive relationships

It’s rare that Susan and Neil have the same weekday off. Neil typically works five days a week and she three or four, depending who’s on staff, being that she’s only part-time. But he’d had a dentist appointment midmorning so he’d taken today off and decided to make his hours up by volunteering for a double next week.

Susan doesn’t typically care to spend any extra time alone with her husband. They have so little to talk about these days, now that he doesn’t try to butter her up or feed her honey sweet lies as much as he used to. Now that Neil doesn’t care to talk much at all unless ranting or complaining about the various things he doesn’t like, his son’s style of dress, women who sit with their legs open, cab drivers who don’t speak English. Susan doesn’t even remember the last time Neil had to take a cab but he has strong opinions on them nonetheless, and the list goes on and on.

He thankfully hasn’t done much of that today, however. He’d parked himself in front of the television after coming home from his appointment and simply nodded when Susan announced she was going out to garden. She only comes inside when she hears the phone ring and by the time she’s walking up the back steps, Neil’s already answered it.

She watches his expression change as he converses with whomever’s on the other end, nervousness fluttering in her chest as his eyes widen, then harden.

“I’ll be right there,” Neil concludes as he hangs up, turning those hard eyes onto Susan. “That was the school.”

“Oh dear…what’s Billy done this time?”

“Not Billy.” Neil shakes his head and Susan’s heart drops with the realization her husband isn’t just irritated but seething, knuckles blanched as his hands ball into tight fists. “Maxine. Did you know the Sinclairs have a girl around her age?”

“N-No, I didn’t. I’m not very familiar with them, Neil.” Susan never had much luck getting close to anyone anymore, not in the least because of Neil himself.

“Apparently Maxine is,” he declares icily. “A teacher caught her and the Sinclair girl fornicating under the bleachers.”

Susan’s heart turns to stone and sinks into her stomach.

No.

Please, no.

Neil has very strong opinions about sexuality in general and homosexual conduct in particular, and Susan can practically feel the outrage radiating from him. It crackles in the air like the promise of a lightning storm. Neil’s fists are still clenched and his posture goes taut like it always does before he explodes.

“W-Well,” Susan begins, swallowing past the lump in her throat.

She hates herself for what she is going to say. She says it anyway.

“Well, you know where she learned that kind of b-behavior from, don’t you?”

Because if Neil is going to explode, Susan can’t stop him. But she hopes she can at least encourage the worst of it away from Max. She watches Neil’s eyes flicker and knows they’re both remembering the day they came home early from the short vacation they’d taken for their fifth anniversary, a girl and a boy sneaking out of Billy’s bedroom window, neither particularly clothed. She watches the angry bulge of the vein pulsing in his neck and knows they’re both thinking of that short young fellow with the skateboard who worked at the used car lot during the day and spent his time with Billy during the night.

“Yes, I know exactly where she learned it from. I’m picking both of them up and we’re all going to have a family discussion.”

“I should come with you.”

“No.” Neil holds up his hand. “Stay here, Susan. We’ll be back soon enough.”

Neil has gun powder in his gaze and she dares not argue. She lowers her head and steps aside when he walks past to fetch the truck keys from the hook. He stomps down the steps and slams the backdoor shut behind him.

Susan watches through the window as he gets into the truck and pulls out of the driveway, feeling dreadfully ill. She doesn’t mean what she’d said, of course. There are a number of behaviors that Max has picked up from Billy, but that isn’t one of them. If anyone is to blame, Susan supposes it’s herself for passing it along intrinsically.

She has her own secret desires locked away within the chambers of her heart. Desire she dares not confront for her own sanity, for her own safety. She’s never acted on her wants, always chose to play private games of hide and seek with them in her head instead, those insidiously innocent wishes of hers. Never spoken aloud let alone pursued those urges that flush hot beneath her skin when she finds her eyes drawn to other women’s lips, hips, breasts.  

Susan gave it to Max and unlike her, Max is brash and bold and brave. God save her, Max does what she wants to do and doesn’t care what other people think. Susan would admire her for it if it didn’t scare her to death.

Because Neil does care what other people think. He cares very much. And Susan’s seen him annoyed with Max in the past. She’s seen him frustrated with Max, displeased, exasperated. But never has she seen the silent stirring of a reign of rage to come where Max is concerned, never has she known that particular look in Neil’s eye to be directed Max’s way. She can only hope—

Oh, it’s such a despicable thing to hope for. Susan has poison in her soul, she swears she must. But Billy isn’t remotely hers and Max very much is.

* * * 

Susan doesn’t know if it was actually her remark that spurred Neil to turn the blame on Billy or if this was the conclusion he would’ve come to anyway. Neil often blames Max’s mishaps and mischiefs on Billy. Billy being the older sibling meant to lead by example. Billy being the older brother, meant to keep his younger sister out of trouble to begin with.

Her remark or Neil’s default thought process, in any case, it’s Billy he’s glaring at in the living room. Angrily dictates that Billy take off his shirt, belt in hand. Susan grabs a very pale Max’s shoulders and begins to usher her down the hall.

“Where are you taking Maxine?”

Susan freezes, mouth going dry.

Neil’s looking their way now, brow arched, stern and skeptical.

“I-I—“

“She isn’t going to learn if she doesn’t watch, Susan,” he declares with no room for argument. “Bring her back.”

Susan swallows, hands tightening on Max’s shoulders. Something dies inside her when she turns her daughter around. She buries it silently as she’s buried so many other pieces before and avoids Max’s eyes boring into her as she marches her back to the living room. Neil motions for them to sit on the couch, sunlight glinting off the metal buckle. Billy doesn’t bother to disguise his disdain, glaring murder, nostrils flaring like an ornery bovine. Susan suspects he’ll pay for this too.

“Your behavior today was beyond inappropriate, Maxine,” Neil tells her coldly. “Unnatural, disgusting, absolutely unacceptable.”

Max squirms next to Susan, hands tucking under her thighs. She is stone faced but this close, Susan can feel her shaking.

“Now, I know it’s not all your fault. Big Brother here’s taught you—“

“I didn’t teach her shit!” Billy cuts him off, sharp and acidic. “I told her to steer clear from Sinclair, this isn’t on me!”

Neil punches his son in the stomach with all the affect of swatting a fly, once, twice. Susan flinches. Billy’s gasping, breath knocked out of him. He staggers and Neil viciously shoves him to the floor.

“She saw you with that faggot’s tongue down your throat, don’t think I don’t know! I know you, I know the kind of shit you think you can get away with behind my back!” Neil roars like thunder. “Well, now it’s my turn to teach her a thing or two! Pay attention, Maxine!”

Max stiffens beside her. She opens her mouth to protest and Susan grabs her arm, sinking her nails in. Startled, Max's eyes dart to her. Susan gives a tiny shake of the head, urging her not to speak. Max bends her elbow like a chicken wing and jerks her arm out of Susan’s grasp. Ire flares in her gaze but she holds her tongue. She does not challenge Neil as he begins beating Billy with the belt.

Susan can’t watch. She lowers her eyes to the floor. She can see the movement in the shadows, Neil’s rapid whipping of the improvised weapon and Billy’s form jolting with the blows. Susan shuts her eyes to the shadows but she can still hear it, thick, hard leather striking bare flesh.

“Don’t turn away, Maxine,” Neil barks at some point between the sounds of violence.

Billy doesn’t cry out. Eventually it’s over. Susan raises her head and cannot bear more than a glance at her stepson braced on his hands and knee. The belt now rests at Neil’s side and still, her stomach is churning.

“If there is ever a repeat of the conduct you displayed today, there will be consequences. Is that understood, Maxine?”

Max looks to Susan. Her eyes are wavering. Then they glean whatever it is they were searching for from Susan’s and harden.

“Yes,” she mumbles.

“Yes, what?”

Max clears her throat.

“Yes, sir,” she corrects, louder and clearer.

“Both of you to your rooms,” he commands. “I want both of you to reflect on your actions until it’s time for dinner.”

“Yes, sir,” Billy answers this time, climbing to his feet in the corner of Susan’s eye. She remains on the couch as her daughter rises and plods down the hall, cheeks as red as the cherry atop a sundae. Flushed as red as the welts on Billy’s back that have Susan’s stomach in ropes even though she only spares a brief glance.

Neil sets the belt aside and plops down in his armchair. “Can you get me a beer, Susan?”

She nods and rises, quietly fetching one. Pops the tab and then passes it to him before she excuses herself. In times like this, Susan wants to leave more than anything. She wants to grab Max and take her far, far away. But she can’t imagine they would get anywhere, truly.

Neil controls the finances. Susan makes less money than he does and every cent she does earn inevitably winds up under Neil’s attentive purview. In a distant, ostensible kind of way Susan understands there are shelters for women in her situation. Shelters out there, somewhere…aren’t there? For her situation?

Neil hasn’t actually put his hands on her. Not yet. Not like what he just did to Billy. Hasn’t actually done so to Max, although the threat of that unfolded in the living room in a way that could not be more crystal clear. The threat alone feels like a fist to Susan, invisible fist clenched tight around her insides and squeezing so hard she's nauseous.  

Is the threat enough? Would Susan and Max be accepted on the basis of threats alone?

Provided she could ever find such a place to begin with. Susan doesn’t have the faintest clue of where to look for what feels more like a nebulous fantasy of a sanctuary than a tangible reality. A shimmering oasis in the desert. Even if she were to locate such a place, what if it were at full capacity?

What if she and Max got turned away?

That would mean choosing between being homeless or going back to Neil. Going back to Neil after a failed escape would certainly mean him making good on all those threats of his, the ones verbal and non. The examples explicit in his words and implicit in his actions. Above all, any failed escape would certainly ensure there would be no second escape.

Susan isn’t going anywhere. And neither is Max. The very notion is abstract and distorted, floating just out of reach in a gaussian blur of a wish. Their home isn’t a good home. But it is the home they have and so, Susan will simply have to do her best to make sure Max never does anything like this again. That Max never does anything to get Neil’s attention like that, nothing to stoke the coals always smoldering in his choleric soul. That as painful as it's sure to be, Max learns to keep certain parts of herself under lock and key.

When dinner is in the oven and Neil is engrossed in his program, Susan slips off to Max’s bedroom. She knocks quietly and lets herself in. Her throat knots up at the tear tracks on her daughter’s cheeks, far more gutting than the way she bristles as Susan steps closer, the sheer hurt in her eyes.

“What do you want?”

The same things as you, Susan thinks irresistibly. And I’d go after them too, if I didn’t know better.

“I’m sorry, Max.”

Max huffs and turns away. “Whatever.”

“I am.”

“No you’re not. You’re just like Neil, you think I’m disgusting,” Max spits, hiking her legs up on the bed and hugging her knees to her chest. “You think Billy’s disgusting too, you couldn’t even look at him.”

“No, I don’t…oh, Max.” Susan swallows and lowers herself to a sit beside her on the bed, gently placing a hand on her knee. She swallows her heartbreak when Max’s eyes flash as though the touch scalds her. “Neil and I disagree about many things. This is one of them.”

“Then why didn’t you say that?” The blaze in Max’s eyes dies down, voice softening to cinders. “Why didn’t you stop him?”

“Oh, he’s so much bigger than me, Max.” Susan sags with familiar defeat. “And I— I don’t think it’s wrong, you and this girl.”

“Lucy.”

“I’m sure Lucy is lovely,” leaves Susan’s lips, this fragile whisper she dares not tempt fate to speak above. “I could never think that you’re disgusting. But I’m just me, Max, and Neil is bigger, and the world…the world too, is so much bigger than I am. You can’t— never, ever in public.”

Max’s eyes widen. Susan shifts on the bed and moves her hands, finds both of Max’s and squeezes tight.

“You cannot be open with feelings like that. You can’t take girls to your school dances, you can’t kiss them where other people could see.”

Max lets out an angry growl even as her eyes well up.

“It’s not fair!”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“That’s not good enough!”

“I know.” She knows, oh, she knows, she’s never not choking on it.

Max chews her lip, scarlet and fuming. Susan halfway expects her daughter to headbutt her or holler right in her ear until she deafens. But after a moment it’s almost as if Max can decode all the things she cannot say because her hands twist under Susan’s and intertwine their fingers.

[whumpasaurus101]

Branding

First off, THANK YOU SO FREACKING MUCH FOR 100+ FOLLOWERS!!!!!! okay, sorry, im finished now:) Here is Rodger getting bored so he asks Alicia for some help...

Masterlist / Previous

CW: Dehumanization / Branding / Past Trauma (mentioned) //

Asher shifted awkwardly and held back his hand, trying not to adjust the tight collar around his neck any more. Last night, Rodger gave him twenty lashings on his knuckles after touching the collar.

Alicia and Jack were over and Asher was kneeling on the ground beside Rodger. He was staring directly at Jack. He hadn't really studied the man before. He was older than him, and taller. He had a very slight stubble and one ear piercing on his right ear, which looked infected. Scars littered his body, as well as bruises. As well as Asher.

Rodger carded his fingers through Asher’s curls. Asher tried to pull away, but that only earned him a harsh yank. “I've been thinking,” Rodger sighed.” “Congrats,” Asher scoffed. Rodger moved his hand to the side of Alex’s temple and pressed in. A lightning pain struck through Asher’s head, he yelled out in pain.

“As I was saying, Alicia, when did you brand Jack?” Asher froze. No. No,no,no,no! His branding with his old master hadn't gone well. He had gotten punished after getting his brand, because he flinched. Aiden was a mean bastard. He was even worse than Rodger, well … so far.

“Oo, Rodger! It doesn't matter when I did it to Jack, I can get my blacksmith to start the fire now, the brand should be heated up fully tonight!”

“You hear that, you're going to get your branding tonight! What do you say to Alicia?” When there was silence, Rodger squeezed once again against Asher’s temple, “ARGH! Fuck! Thank you! Okay, I said thank you!!”

Rodger’s hand retrieved and he went back to Asher’s hair, “That would be perfect Alicia, I'll have him ready by six.”

Jack shot Asher a worried look. Asher had never really looked him in the eyes before, but he looked scared. Was he worried about the branding, or something else?

At half five, Rodger was dragging Asher out of the house, “Come on now, don't make me put your shock collar to use.” Asher growled but then decided that it would be better if he just complied.

Surprisingly, he was allowed to sit in the front seat -duct tape over mouth and tied to the chair, of course. “You know, I should duct tape your mouth closed more often. I mean, the silence is just amazing! What do you think?” Silence. “Hah! Sorry, I forgot… you can't speak!”

Asher glared at him. He tried to free himself from the ropes which kept him to the car seat. The roads were empty, they were in the middle of nowhere, no one could save him, it's just him, with Rodger, alone.. After a few minutes of bumps and turns, the car eventually pulled up in front of a small shack. Outside the door stood Alicia and Jack.

Asher didn't notice Rodger getting out of the car until his own car door was being opened. Rodger produced his pocket knife and started cutting the ropes, “Hold still, or else this knife will be cutting something other than rope.” Asher did hold still, but it was hard when Alicia was giving him the most evil grin.

Rodger dragged Asher to the hut and the door opened. A wave of heat hit everyone from the fire. The fire roared in the corner of the room. The blacksmith turned around, “Ah Alicia! I missed you!”  Alicia walked over and hugged him, “I've missed you too! Rodger, this is Rueben.” 

It was all too much for Asher, he felt his breathing quickening, he went to run out the door but Rodger caught him by the hair, “Woah, not so fast!” He cackled. “Please, please. I ca-” Asher fell to the ground when Rodger set off his collar. “Don't be such a wuss.”

It took Jack, Rodger and Rueben to tie Asher to the table. Rodger gave up on the shock collar when it hadn't really worked. Once Asher was finally strapped down, Reuben guided Rodger to the brand which had been in the fire all day. “Whaddya think Alicia? You think it's hot enough?”

Alicia let out a cackle, “I wish it had been in the fire for longer but I'm getting impatient, so, what are we waiting for? Let's get started!”

“Now,” Rodger grinned, getting closer and closer, “I need you to stay very still for this or else you’ll get punished.” Asher whined, remembering his past experiences with brands and punishments.

Reuben picked up the brand and approached Asher, “Ready when you are Rodger.” Rodger decided to wait for a few agonising moments, watching as Asher’s breathing became quicker, chest rising up and down swiftly. “Now.”

At first, Asher couldn't feel anything but then it hit him. The searing pain of the metal against his skin. His vision went white. He could feel his eyes starting to roll up behind his eyelids. All of a sudden a felt hand jab into his temple. He yelled out in pain. “Now, now darling, we can't have you passing out on me, huh?”

Jack watched from the corner, tears in his eyes. Asher’s shrieks rang through Jack’s ears. Jack was about to get sick. Alicia noticed how pale he was and came over to him, scratching behind his ear. Jack didn't like himself for it, but he relaxed into her touch.

Asher didn't realise he was screaming. He screamed until everything went black. He wasn't in pain. He had escaped Rodger.. Well, for a little while anyway.

---

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[kylorengarbagedump]

Little Bird: Chapter 41

Read on AO3. Part 40 here. Part 42 here.

Summary: You need Kylo Ren to understand. He needs you to understand, too.

Words: 3900

Warnings: an attempt at emotions

Characters: Kylo Ren x Handmaid!Reader

A/N: Is this angst? Is this how you write angst? Is it angsty enough? Hahaha.

Thank you all very much for reading. Only four chapters left, and I am honestly terrified! Haha. I really hope you enjoyed this chapter, I tend to like the ones where I can attempt something new. I want the emotional beats to feel correct. 

I love y'all very very much. THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU. 

You were awake.

Your bed was stone, a slab that poked through your flesh into the bone, forcing adjustments between tired sighs. Even though this movement exhausted you, you found it impossible to sleep.

It couldn’t have been the baby. After all, it was blueberry-sized at this stage, a time when most women didn’t even know they were pregnant. And it couldn’t have been pain, as most of it had subsided, or faded to a pleasant, ambient hum in your nerves, far more comforting than distressing. It couldn’t have been hunger, either--at least not anymore. Sneaking food from the kitchen after sunset had quelled your raging stomach.

But you still found it impossible to sleep. 

It was obvious, of course, why you couldn’t, but it was a memory you wanted to avoid processing. Johana’s tattered voice, gleaming tears, her admission--I give up, you won--played in your head like a busted cassette tape, rewinding with a sickening click every five seconds. Your Commander’s decision, his cruelty, that remained unprocessed too, a willing rejection of his apparent reckless obsession. You would not, could not consider just how deep, how desperate this obsession was, would and could not consider the urgency of its terrible course.

If you considered it too long, you would feel its twin, the ache in your blood, the silver pulse of your own mirrored need--and know its depth and its desperation as easily as you knew to breathe.

You sat up in a sigh. Beyond your porthole window, the quarter-moon was an opal shimmer over the garden, and the only stirring residents outside were crickets, grasses shifting with the whispered wind. If you were going to be awake and miserable, you could at least gaze into something other than your own empty ceiling--so you rolled out of bed with a groan, deciding bare feet and a nightgown were plenty appropriate for a time where you planned for no one else to see you.

On your tip-toes, the creak of wood could be mistaken for the settling of an old home, your fingers skimming the walls for stability while you crept down the steps and through the darkened halls. You weren’t sure what time it was, but you knew your Commander to be a man of little sleep and littler compromise--seeing him was the last thing you wanted at this moment. When you reached the back door, you held your breath, flipping the lock and easing the knob to the left, prying it open, only to be greeted with a huge black shadow.

“Jesus Christ!” You bit a scream between your teeth, stumbling back--as your vision focused, heat rushed you. It was a Knight Templar. “Um. Hello.”

“What are you doing here?” This was Ushar again--you recognized his voice from earlier--and you relaxed, slightly. Your awkward moment with him was already addressed. “You’re not permitted to leave the premises.”

Another sigh escaped you, and you crossed your arms. You would’ve felt more embarrassed to be only in your nightgown if he hadn’t already seen everything else. 

“I’m not leaving,” you replied. “I just want to be outside for a second.”

Ushar glanced into the garden, then back to you. Or at least, you thought he did. Helmet and all of that. “It’s late. The Commander will expect you to be sleeping.”

“Well, to be honest, I don’t really care about that right now.” You went to push past him, and he side-stepped to follow you. “Oh, come on,” you said, “why are you even here? He’s home, he shouldn’t need you.”

“We’re on duty until his meeting with the Council tomorrow.”

You blinked. “Oh. I thought all of that was today.”

He shook his head. “Preparation. Tomorrow is execution.” A pause. “Figuratively speaking.”

Dread sank its tiny teeth into your stomach. “Or maybe literally, knowing him.”

Ushar cleared his throat. “Yes,” he said. “Well.”

Silence settled between you. Strange, to speak with a man who had, less than 24 hours ago, stood in a circlejerk to spatter you with sperm, and stranger still to converse casually with him about the fact that your mutual Commander’s preferred solution to any issue was to blow its brains out.

“Well.” You cleared your throat, too, as if this would ease the tension in any meaningful way. “Look. I just want to walk around the garden a little bit. You can stand and watch me the whole time.” Half-grinning, you held up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

“What’s that?”

“Oh. Um. Boy Scouts?” Your shoulders sagged. More heat at your face. Perhaps the strangest thing of all was the reminder that anything and everything familiar had been razed like a forest by Gilead’s flame. “They were like. A thing. Before…” 

“Never heard of them.” Ushar paused, and pivoted to the side. “Go ahead. Don’t be long.”

“Thank you.”

Pinching your lips between your teeth, you slipped outside, neglecting the stone pathway and cutting into the grass. The little blades were fuzzy at your feet, wedging between your toes, and the air cleaned your lungs, the sky a lonely galaxy beyond the hedges and the yard. Gold twinkle lightning bugs flickered between the flowers, hovered above the pond, the sole source of light outside of the sterling moon and stars. You peeked over your shoulder at your sentinel--but he was motionless, observing you in silence.

Your feet carried you past the bench into the mini-maze, catching sight of the birdfeeder, the bag of seed. The Marthas hadn’t gotten to it, yet--not that they would have had time to--and in its day and a half of neglect, the bag had toppled over, spewing seed onto the ground, the feeder abandoned in two pieces by its side. It seemed almost rude, now, to see this mess and decide it was a job for someone else. With a shrug, you strode over, heaved the bag onto its bottom and started scooping handfuls of tiny kernels, dumping them back in.

They spilled like water through your fingers, raining onto your feet and the dirt--you seemed no closer to your goal with the next scoop than you had with the one previous. Another one, and another, and still the seed scattered, palms empty before you reached the bag. Sighing, you gave up, choosing instead to grab the feeder and pop on its top. As you gathered both halves in your hands, the backdoor opened, and you froze. 

“Where is she.”

Your throat thickened. You dropped the feeder. He was here.

“She’s beyond the hedges, sir,” Ushar replied. “She just--”

Scuffing soles on stone cut him off, storming toward you--and you remained, unflinching. Even if you wanted to run, there was nowhere for you to go.

Kylo charged the corner into the maze, still dressed in black, his shirt unbuttoned low enough to expose his clavicles, which you hated to acknowledge. At the sight of you, he stalled, capturing you in his gaze, focusing on your figure, curves draped in your white nightgown, your breasts unbound, your hair wild vines over your shoulders. He swallowed, air rolling through him, attention drifting to your face. The muscle under his eye fluttered, his fists furled.

“You weren’t in your room.”

You knew hadn’t imagined it--the tremor in his voice, the quiver at his chin. He didn’t sound angry. He sounded scared.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

Kylo took a single step--the distance between you seemed at once too great and too smothering, and he stopped, drawing a long breath through his nose. He stared, held it, chest rising, then released it, hands relaxing as he exhaled. His gaze slid to the hedge, tracing the woven ropes of leaves through the trimmed branches, wandering to the grass and landing there. The crickets hummed in the void. You would’ve asked why he had headed to your room if he hadn’t made the answer so plain to your eyes.

“The first time we met here,” he began, “I said I wanted to know you.”

You offered a slight shrug. “We’ve definitely become more familiar.”

“I do know you.” He glanced up. “I know that there’s a part of you that wants to stay.”

“Really.” Frowning, you shifted on your feet, ignoring the warmth at your cheeks. “You know that.”

Kylo stole a step. “Yes.” Another, and another. “I do know that.” Two more, and his long legs had brought him within arm’s length, his pupils wide in the night. “Because there’s a part of me that wants to leave.”

Oxygen escaped you, and you shook your head, averting your gaze. Crackled embers glowed in your heart; given his hesitations, his strangled frustrations, and your own inability to find resolve, this had been a part of him you’d already known. But to hear it from his mouth, given life on his lips, it was palpable. Tangible. You met his eyes again, paralyzed by their power--they were endless, brimming with emotion even you yourself had never been asked to name. 

For a second, you forgot to speak, wondering how you could snatch this moment like spun glass in the air. Then you stepped closer, and grabbed his large, strong hand.

“Then why don’t we?” you murmured. “We can go. Just be. We can forget all of this.”

Kylo fled--for only a millimeter--before steeling himself, curling his hand around yours, and bringing it up to his face. He examined your thumb--now scabbed, but still sore, and stroked it with his own. Satisfied, he wove his fingers between yours, pulled you to his chest. 

“All of this,” he said, “is under my control, now. I can keep you safe.” His other hand cupped your cheek, fingers coasting over your skin. “Make you want for nothing.”

Staring into him, into the vortex of his gaze, you tried to swallow the thickening desire to admit the only thing you did not want him to know.

“You keep saying that,” you replied, tugging his hand from your face. “But as long as I’m in Gilead, I will never want for nothing.”

His hand squeezed yours. “There’s more I need to do.”

You shook your head again. “Well, even if you could make that happen--”

“I can.”

“Even if you could.” You unwound your grip from his, stepping away. “What about everyone else?” The Resistance, the car chase, Poe’s head, Snoke’s mansion, the dress, the party, Tera Jackson, the Widows, the Wives, Johana--all dangled above your brain, a broken mobile composed of the casualties of your affair. “It’s not enough, it’s not fair to change my life when it makes everyone else suffer,” you said. “Why not just live a life where you don’t have anything you need to change?”

He raised a brow, as if he hadn’t understood the question. “Because I need to.”

You sighed. “But why?”

Kylo’s gaze broke from yours, aiming beyond you as his tongue traced his teeth in thought. A soft exhale, and his attention returned. “The world was flawed, before Gilead.”

“Gilead has only made the world more flawed.”

He grumbled. “Do you understand what happens to those without direction?” he asked. “Without order?” You were silent, waiting for him to continue--he speared you with his stare. “Chaos.” A tension in his throat. “Suffering.”

“Those without direction…” Head tilting, you searched his face. Puzzle pieces shifted close, edges locking--his rage, the graveyard, his terror, his Wife’s own words. “If the world wasn’t flawed, you wouldn’t have been abandoned,” you said. “That’s what you think.”

His eye twitched, jaw rigid. “It made sense.” Blowing air through his nose, he paced around you, fingers curling in and out of fists. “Snoke made sense. At first.”  He huffed. “But he was just as flawed.” Steady and still, you watched him, watched his thoughts race through his mind, watched while he struggled to match them with words he had never had to speak.  “Only I understand the consequences of chaos. Only I have the capability to perfect this.”

It emptied you, his hopelessness, his resignation that the only way out of his depthless hatred was to drown it in a void of control. You knew another way--knew it was nested within the words you couldn’t say.

You sighed. “You think that will fix it?” you asked, folding your arms over your chest. “You think that will make you satisfied? More whole?”

Kylo rounded, shoulders pinned back, a predatory curve to his spine. “Were you satisfied with life before Gilead?” he asked. “The loneliness. The uncertainty.” He drew closer, trapping you in his gaze. “Falling asleep empty. Waking up in agony.” Inches from you, he clutched your shoulder, turning you toward him, brushing your hair to your back. “I know your life, little bird.” His hand pinched your chin, his tone tinged with ire. “I know it because it was mine.” 

Heat flashed through your spine. “It still is your life,” you growled, swatting his wrist and backing away, “you’re still miserable. And it’s still my life too, and it will be as long as you keep me!”

“You’re miserable,” he said, following you step for step. “You are the one who said you wanted all of me.” He was chasing you, stalking you as you retreated further into the maze, eyes rimmed gold in anguish. “And now you want to leave. Like everyone else.”

Your heart fractured. “Kylo--”

“I will end the Council if I need to.” He was black-winged in the moon’s shadow, a luminous Lucifer. “I will tear out every tongue that threatens your life if it will keep you here.”

A branch caught your sleeve, and you stumbled for only a moment, chin stiff. The threat was not hollow, but it was equally not wise. In his wrath, Kylo Ren did not believe there was a fight he could lose. In your sanity, you did not believe there was even a fight to be had.

“You can't do that. You know you can't.” A curly finger of the maze tugged you into the vines--you shrugged it off. “You know you won't be able to keep me safe forever.” There was no cease to his advance, no glimmer of cessation. “Johana is right.” The words flew from your mouth in a bid to convince him. “The Council won't stand by this. There's no such thing as divorce--”

“I don’t care.”

“--there’s no such thing as living with your Handmaid, I mean, do you expect us to get married--”

“I don’t care!”

Rapt in his gaze, you stumbled again, back flush with a wall of leaves, and Kylo consumed you, a silhouette against the sky, swallowing your sight. One hand grasped your wrist, the other pressed to your cheek, his palm smooth, your skin hot at his touch. You resisted the urge to melt into it.

“I want you,” he breathed, your name a ghost on his tongue. “I need you.” His lips trembled. “You are the only thing that makes sense.”

You were trembling too, quaking as you struggled to restrain the inevitability forming in your throat. Kylo Ren had been your Commander, the architect of your suffering. And he had been the only one in over three years to stir you, save you, see you--to care if you lived or died, to truly and genuinely desire not just your mouth, but the thoughts that came with it. 

He had found you. You didn’t want to be lost again.

“I want you, too.” You nuzzled his hand, and he led you closer. “I need you, too.”

Kylo gathered you against his body, the hand at your wrist sneaking to caress your back, his fingers carding through your hair. There was no vacancy in his eyes; they were flooded, overflowing with warmth, with worship. You felt it--the thump of that silver pulse, the genesis of a clandestine reality you wanted, with every screaming cell in your body, to speak into existence--felt its weight as an echo on his tongue. His lips parted, his focus falling over your face. 

Words would damn you. So you thrust your hands in his hair and pulled him into a kiss instead. 

He enveloped you, mouth meeting yours as if it’d been years, a tender groan cresting in his chest while his grip clung to you, seeking your flesh through cloth. Humming in bliss, you sketched over his scalp with your nails, basking when he gasped and shivered at your touch, your tongue slipping past his teeth and sliding over his own. He moaned into you, pressing you to his frame, breaking off only to kiss you again, lips touching once, twice, before his full, plush mouth massaged yours and his tongue returned. There was no fury, no primal insistence--Kylo cradled you and contained you, held you like a man who was terrified to lose you, terrified to let you go.

Soft lips skimmed yours, and he stepped between your legs, pressure digging the hedges into your back. You whimpered in shock--he stopped and snatched you to his heaving chest, seeking the origin of your pain. It almost made you laugh, this protective urge, when you still bore the bruises and bumps from the previous night. Grinning, you eased away, catching his face in your hand and forcing him to meet your gaze. His eyes swam, spinning oceans, eager and alive. Your breath hitched. It left your mouth without even trying.

“I don’t want to leave you,” you said. “Leave with me.”

Kylo paused--you could almost see his mind reeling--as he stared at you. His chest fell with dejected air, and he held you closer, tighter. A strong hand returned, cupping your face again. His head offered the tiniest shake.

“It’s too late.”

Your heart fractured further. “No, it’s not.”

His hold left you, then, comfort torn like skin from your bones when he stepped back. In summer air, you froze, icy without his embrace.

“What I’ve done…” He glanced to the side, pacing away, steps taking him a slow circle while he gazed into the corners of the mini-maze. “What I’ve done cannot be undone.” Looking back to you, the knot in his throat bobbed. “Even if I wanted it.” His hands clenched, unclenched, and he approached you again. “If I leave,” he said, “it won’t be with you. I will be arrested.” The severity in his expression petrified you. “Or I will be dead.”

Perhaps, in the back of your head, you’d always known this, always known that escape was not a simple solution for a Commander, and certainly not a man like Kylo Ren. But to hear him acknowledge it too, to seal himself to his own inexorable conclusion--it decimated you.

“Oh,” you said, as it was the only sound you could make for a moment. “War crimes.”

Kylo’s head dipped in acknowledgement. “Yes.” A pause, and he turned, thoughts cast across the yard, before swiveling back to you. “To stay is the only way,” he said. “For you to be mine.” He gestured to the garden. “For this to be ours.”

You frowned. “Ours?”

His hand dove into his pocket, plucked his wallet free. Stone-faced, he flipped it open, fished into the slot and produced a folded piece of paper, presenting it to you as an answer. Cocking a brow, you pinched an edge, looking between him and the little note as you unfolded it.

One corner was swathed in smooth, swooping ink, the opposite end festering with wobbly attempts at leaved-lines. In the middle, they met, blooming into a tiny Eden--beautiful, borne from the hallowed recognition that suffocated, unspoken between your mouths.

“Kylo…” Chin quivering, you suppressed a laugh. “You think,” you said, “after all of this, what I want is,  is… to what, control this with you?”

“No.” His tone was serious. Sincere. “You want freedom. You want me.” Stepping toward you, he took your hand, dwarfing it in his own. The heat of his body choked you. “But we don't get to choose what we're owed, little bird. Destiny decides it for us.” His attention flitted to you and the drawing. “I know what roles we are meant to fulfill. This is not just mine.” His gaze bored into you, chaining you in a plea. “It’s yours.”

Kylo Ren did not want to leave. He wanted you with him. In power. In whatever capacity he decided. 

The offer was not only disappointing, it was insulting. To think you would want to stay in a land where you’d watched women hang, to remain in a nation where, without him, you could never hope to survive. No matter what route you chose, with him, you lost. There would be no agency for you in a world where you reigned standing on cadavers. And for your child--there was no purity coming home to a burial ground. 

You glanced at the drawing, mapping it to memory, imagining it in his pocket while he met with Council members, ferreted threats, worked late into the night--pictured it tucked away at his hip in the Audi, stowed somewhere safe on the Buzzard when he was with his men. And your fractured heart splintered into scarlet shards.

Meeting his eyes, you shook him free, taking the sheet in two hands. Without a blink, you shredded it in half, layered it, ripped again. You caged him in your stare, unflinching, as you turned the paper into flakes, tear by tear, and littered them across the grass. Kylo watched, carved from redwood: large and flushed and eerily still, until his gaze dropped to the ground. He was speechless--and the inevitable words burgeoned, a tangled mass in your throat again. This time, you said them.

“I hate you.” 

His eyes snapped to yours, struck black with horror--but before he could think to respond, or you could take it back, you fled, sprinting through the maze with your nightgown hiked to your knees. 

There was no sound behind you, not even the crunch of boots, and you were grateful for it, grateful as you skipped past the pond and up the stone path, as Ushar veered to the side, as you pounded the halls and up the steps to the annex. You were grateful that you hated Kylo Ren, grateful that it would not hurt when you rended him from your heart, grateful that whatever route you chose, without him, you’d win.

It was gratitude, certainly, you felt when you opened the door to your room, an empty hole and empty bed. It was gratitude, too, that flooded you when you collapsed onto the mattress with a groan, and gratitude that stung your sight, flowed past your cheeks, stained your pillowcase. Thank God, thank God you hated Kylo Ren, thank God he was so easy to hate, thank God you would not ache when you left him behind, made a home without him, or gave birth to his child. 

A tiny knock on your door. You stopped, cries arrested in your chest, as you cranked your neck to the threshold. Were it not for this timid request for permission, you would’ve ignored it in belief it was the only person you did not want to see. Clearing your throat, you straightened and hopped onto your feet, wiping your face clear--not of tears, but gratitude--while you turned the knob and cracked it open an inch.

Johana, cloaked in a frilly blue robe, stood anxious in the hall. Her face twitched with fear, her eyes stark, her mouth tight. In silence, she held out her fist, and opened her palm. 

The switchblade.

[shewhowillnotbenamed1]

Bound

With the tail-end of the storm approaching, the ship had cut her way through the last of tremulous waters. The crewmen finally began to dwindle, with some of their number gone below deck to their quarters to relax and rest. Tell tales. Take drink.

Except for Wayne

He was the Captain and inheritor of the impressive vessel, The Aquamarine. Reentering the Captain's Quarters with a wrist behind him, he bowed, bent low to the desk. By the withering candle light, he reexamined the map that he had used to plot their course. He poured over his graphs and charts, and all the while recalculating the length of the journey, whether they could recover any lost time.

Not once had he stared at the edge of the room toward the mast. It was a cruel reminder that he had merely prolonged the imminent.

The muted sound of the boat creaking and the churn of choppy water was but a faint backdrop. A quill drawn up to scratch ink into worn pages broke through a moment of silence. And it seemed to break her.

"Please..."

There she sat in his chambers, a maiden, with wrists knotted behind her back, holding her fast to the mizzenmast. The girl spoke so softly under the shadow of breath, like a whisper of a last attempt. Her hooded head dipped down so low, she feared that he had forgotten her, but he hadn't. Oh, how he wished he would - wished he could.

The Captain's eyes locked in on her immediately. "Please." The word fell again from full lips like a prayer and his body flinched, turning ever so slightly toward the source. Slowly but surely, she was reeling him in. Wayne tried his best not to think about the myriad of methods he had at his disposal to make her say that word.

But he longed to hear it again.

Ardently.

And again.

Softer. Louder. Harder.

Again.

Sweet staccato - in tandem with each of their heartbeats.

He blinked brilliant sea foam colored eyes, rapidly in an attempt to sift away the dangerous thoughts, to wash them away like a turning tide would carry in a newborn turtle to the sanctity of the sea's embrace. To join its brothers. Never again to see its mother, so much of that was true of himself.

The true parallel was the perseverance, he did what he had to survive. And that included tying up loose ends.

"It's been hours..." Her voice was barely audible but held weight, as that of wavering waters, depths unfathomable. "The ship sailed through the turmoil..." Wayne wondered briefly if the squall had shaken her. Made her feel even more helpless. Tied up in his quarters with the boat rearing and rocking through turbulent sea. Alone and powerless. "You promised upon your return that you would...tell me my fate."

Had he?

Suddenly, Wayne craved the whiskey he saved for occasions or the occasional situation where he'd had to make a particularly tough call. Did one such as this constitute? Surely he had to have a drink or at least something to numb himself with. Why wouldn't he need a buffer or a filter to cloak himself, when to be in her presence was to grab hold of the ship's wheel, round it an about face and venture back into the maelstrom?

"I've made no such promises..." Captain Wayne smooth creases from his papers. "I have yet to reach a verdict regarding your fate. And until I do so, you will remain in my quarters. Silently." He included.

Captain Wayne traced his map with a finger and made a notation. Four. They would arrive in four nights. He'd relay this to his first mate Jon in the morning and then, the crew. This storm had slowed them, but they would dock in a few days if the ship remained on course with no interference. His lip curled. No external interference.

"I will..." The maiden conceded reluctantly. "Only if I may ask you this, so that I may prepare myself... What should I expect in these circumstances...?"

"I have said - you will wait," Wayne replied tersely. "Do as I ask." But that command sounded weaker than the last, to both of their ears. His resistance was dwindling, almost as if she were a mermaid or a siren seducing him, inducing him into action with a spell to make him serve her and bind him to her for all time. Though she sat bound before him.

And why?

She walked upon two legs with nary a tail nor fins in sight, how was that she in her cloak and white dress had awakened something in him he previously believed to be dormant?

Wayne had seen the finest things that this life had to offer. Treasures beyond measure. The seas, the skies, jewels, and the fairer sex - he had seen, but never indulged, never been tempted to stray. To allow any of these countless vices to corrupt him would cloud his judgment.

None had managed to rouse him like she, stringing along his soul and wringing up his beliefs.

And how?

Between her two hands, were they not tied?

"You..." She tried again. "Appear to be a reasonable man. More than fair." The woman licked her lips.

No.

His temple pulsed, an accusing finger jabbed in her direction. "You speak of fairness? Everything you've shown me is in complete opposition." He scoffed. "You stand to disregard this ship and my position, with your very existence - unsanctioned presence - aboard my vessel."

The maiden appeared to pale even further, but she continued. "Perhaps, I can make my case to you properly... Explain -"

"Captain," he interjected, needlessly. "That is captain, to you maiden." He peered over his pages at her body, mostly obscured in the sparsely lit room. "You may not be a member of my crew, but this is still my ship. And on my ship, you will address me by the appropriate title."

"Am I to stay here all night - bound...?" Her thighs turned in the loose fabric of her dress. And Captain Wayne found he had to glance away. "Captain," she added.

"Yes." Wayne's quill pierced the paper in his frustration. He cursed under his breath. "You are to remain here if I so command it."

"Then, I am to be treated as your enemy?" She blinked in realization. The woman drew her knees up. "And once you've turned me out, you'll cast me off? Or...flog me?"

Oh.

Captain Wayne's jaw twitched at the last in ways that flogging had never previously prompted. His consciousness betrayed him. The ripple expanding inside him incited such distracting warmth. But how was he to know that such suggestions would only bring about visions of a pale body, bare, bucking and bound to the mast, a moaning mess before him with a leather flogger in hand. Her hair askew, skin deliciously rouge and ripe while she begged for more.

This maiden was violating his vessel, he was fully in the right to flog her...

But.

"What you are remains to be seen... But you're hardly as innocent as you claim." He cleared his throat. "I should have you locked in a cell down below like the prisoner you are." Wayne didn't have to turn to her to know the defiant sparks he had felt had started to fall from her. Yet, he did not go to her. "But as I have not, do not test me."

"So then, in a manner of speaking, you have decided..." She mumbled low. "What am I if I am to remain here in your chambers like this? Your personal prisoner?"

Thoughts of a personal prisoner in his private quarters elicited Wayne's mouth to water again. Why did her words titillate him so?

The girl shifted, ropes groaned as they squeezed upon the smooth red wood of the mast. "Surely you cannot keep me," she murmured quietly.

He rolled up the map at last. "Are you willing to take that chance?"

For a time she was silent, as if that thought hadn't been meant for his ears.

"I would prefer to come to an agreement rather than to come to that, Captain."

"Hmm." Rising from the desk, he took a heavy step, as he pondered. "Prisoner or not, you have nothing to offer. Not materially nor strategically." She wasn't trained to be a seafarer, it was true. "You could serve to be no more than a liability to me."

"That's not true -" The woman insisted. "This is a misunderstanding..."

"If it is a misunderstanding, explain your presence aboard my ship? Is it an accident perhaps because you were caught?" The captain lashed quickly, glaring sharply in her direction.

"No..." She breathed. "You are correct... I boarded without permission and unbeknownst to you - I stowed away." The girl hung her head. "But, please allow me let me stay."

"You confess to being a stowaway, and you would like to be permitted to stay?" Captain Wayne asked, incredulously.

"Yes. Please." Her voice quivered and he could bet her lips did in turn. "If I may, I would like to stay."

She sounded like a woman on the verge. Why would she beg to stay on a strange vessel after her confession? A prison aboard a pirate ship was preferable to other options? But it was suspicious. Was she a mere interloper or did she have mutinous aims? Or worse, did she seek to end him?

The faint cruel smirk faltered.

"I'll bet you'd like me to let my guard down... Is it because you wish to do me in?" Her head shot up and her eyes were widened. The Captain continued callously. "Is that it? Have I figured you out?"

Looking at the crumpled form bent before the mast, it was difficult to think such a thing was true. But so thought the men fooled by sirens into believing they were lovers, before their bodies were crushed and ripped apart by rocks and waves.

Suddenly, the woman glanced over at him, unblinking, the whites of her eyes glowing. "Just as you wouldn't hurt me... I have no intention of hurting you..."

Without warning, a deafening crack gave way to a residual flash of lightning. The remnants of the storm cried out into the sky for vengeance to all that had escaped its wrath. She yelped in shock, as he was suddenly right behind her. "I'm one of the most lethal Pirate Captains of the age. I may have spared you, but you have no idea what I would do." A strained gasp escaped when he whispered into her smooth neck. The waves of hair fell to one side under her hood. "But you. You're perhaps worse than I, you're not blameless," He said darkly. "So I'll ask you again... You hid yourself on my vessel, in attempts to what - to kill me? Did someone send you?"

The maiden's breath hitched in her throat. "So hardened by the life of a pirate that you assume the worst of anyone... I've told you, I wouldn't - I could never." She sounded innocent. "Please." Her head angled toward him, her eyes had grown wide and wet, and her voice aching, as though the thought of doing him harm caused her pain. Even though he'd been the one that had her strewn up in his room and surely she was in worse pain, with her wrists raw and red. "You know I would never."

"Why should I believe a single utterance from your lips, when you have shown me little more than deceit?" A finger reached down and parted her lips with their rough textured tip. The silkiness, he had been compelled to touch. "How am I not to think these are not the lips of a traitor, when only one with traitorous aims would hide themselves as a stowaway aboard my ship?"

"Then, I'll have to show you... To make you see..." The maiden's tone was downcast, but only on Wayne's behalf. After all, he was a man who had seen such atrocities that he had grown desensitized. He could never easily believe in another, even if they had no malicious intent. One could swear she leaned into his touch, even brushed his digit ever so gently with the cupid's bow. "I am not."

Wayne withdrew his finger from her warmth to stand before her, somehow waiting for her to show him, to prove it. When she lifted her hooded head, he felt the strength in the gaze she placed upon him; it was parallel to the pressure on the ocean floor. Shameless eyes, she took him in with the most undeniably, desperate need. Those dark eyes of hers traced stroke after stroke into him, the deep tan skin turned darker by the unfiltered sun's rays, though under those eyes Wayne's body had never felt more ablaze.

Oh how he wanted her to look at him, to burn through him with the intensity of her stare like the scorching sun bleaching the wood of the top most deck. More than he had ever wanted anything in his life, he wanted to hold her and for her to look at him as she did. More than he had ever wanted anyone to look at him.

Wave after wave of drunken heat crashed over him as she took him inch by inch. The salt water whipped waves of dark hair, aqua green eyes. The leather strings of his tunic that lay unlaced with the front falling open to reveal the planes of a broad, muscular chest. The tanned flesh was a stunning contrast to the white fabric, with the rolled up sleeves revealing scars set upon the rich skin. The snug fit brown leather trousers did little to disguise that he longed for the chance to drink her in and then drink her down until he was drowning in her.

It was dangerous to have her on board this ship.

All caution fell away when compulsion drew him nearer, called his breath to brush her cheek. And she inched upward as several bristles of stubble scratched her neck. Her eyelids fluttered and the entirety of her being almost reverberated. And he heard a tiny note of a noise scale up the back of her throat. One of pleasure.

He closed his eyes and savored the song from the siren's lips. That illustrious sound of music, it was far better than he had mused. At once, he had to clear his senses, to distance himself from her. He stood by the door. His hand pressed into the wood wall, catching his breath.

But at last she spoke. Her voice was raspy, though in it was a concession. "Whatever punishment you ultimately decide - I will accept. And... I do not fault you for it."

No adequate explanation or reasoning and he longed to do whatever she asked. Baseless, he wanted to believe her.

Suddenly, Wayne sought to go against everything he stood for.

He took long strides over to where she sat with his leather boots creaking on the surface of the wood floor. A shadow fell over her, it grew until the maiden gasped. She sat up sharply, feeling the ends of her ropes loosened from around the wooden mast. She stood, slowly and shakily and searched for her former captor. As quick as the turn of tides, he had materialized by the windows whose shapes carved out a wide view of the endless blue reflecting the stars and moon.

"Did you just - free me?" Her wrists were still wrapped, but no longer tied to the mast. The maiden massaged her hands, they were finally regaining feeling. "Why...?"

"No more questions." Wayne said urgently, his back to her. "Come here, into the light."

"The light?"

"You wanted me to see you, to believe you..." Captain Wayne repeated.

"Yes," The maiden lingered by the pole, shaking her head slowly. "Do you...?"

"That remains to be seen..." He said cryptically. "But, I gave you an order... I wish to see you...properly."

The maiden had gazed upon him for a time and arrived at an answer. What would happen if he did the same?

"Oh..." Her cheeks tinted with rouge. But she sounded almost eager. "Yes, Captain."

Was it an eagerness to be close to him?

Upon her approach, he seized the ends of the rope in one hand, to take her in and to take in the white dress under her cloak. The long sleeves, the lacing of the corset secured the tight bodice to her tiny waist in ways that made him thirst as though he'd swallowed several gallons of saltwater. At last, he removed her hood and angled her chin to examine the unnaturally pale skin, almost in violent opposition to the thick tresses, they were jet black, located at the other end of the spectrum. With fast fingers, he brushed the hair away. The soft skin smoothed onto her sharp cheekbones. He settled upon the eyes carved into the marble.

They were blue-violets and lavenders. Perhaps, purples and magentas. Inconceivably, sapphire, amethyst, and ruby. All manner of flowers, hues, stones were fused together in fire to paint vibrant colors and brilliance he had never seen. The treasures and cosmos abound in those orbs alone shouldn't have been allowed to take shape. The ripples throughout him thought otherwise, his body pulled toward her, aura reaching out through the rope, the tethers were a link bridging the physical over to the subliminal, finally manifesting in his breath reaching out beyond his body to feel her.

Yes.

All that he thought he once knew was threatened, this maiden had turned the tides and now it was he who was captive.

A woman like her couldn't exist - shouldn't exist.

How, if her presence alone could rise up and give shape to feelings of which he hadn't spoken the names. And if he had known of their existence, he thought them to be myths. But how were they fancies, if there were a mythical creature standing before him?

Who or what was she?

The maiden bit her lip, still gazing up at him through the curtain of her dark lashes, as they stood together in the light twice forged from silver light of moonbeams and fire from whittled down candles. Her eyes were half-lidded, as they drew to close. And his grip on the rope slackened, the captain tilted downward to her until his mouth hovered within an inch of her own. Her chest started to rise and fall faster in the low neckline - crests of waves - pushed up by the corset and Wayne needed her, so much already, he knew she had breached through the hull of him.

*

"Captain, you wished to see me, privately?" Wayne glanced twice around the deck, ensuring there were no onlookers, before he feathered Raven's palm, twining their fingers and pulling her through the door to his quarters. An excited blush rose on her face, but her expression remained neutral as she awaited his orders.

Whatever was between them, there was still the matter of what to do with her. The crew had a code, it mandated she had to be punished, but if not made useful in some manner. A captain and his crew mates had to see to that. There was a stowaway onboard that claimed she wanted to stay and he had to be impartial. Or at least attempt to do so.

"I see, you're settling in, but your place here is not set." He frowned. "You would like freedom and free passage aboard my ship. And in exchange what will you offer me?" The captain folded his arms. "I found you with no personal effects on you. Nothing of value. You have nothing to barter, a fact of which we are both aware." It would have been laughable to some to negotiate terms with a stowaway, but Wayne was willing to hear her.

Raven's eyes sparked with that defiant, daring he had come to know from her. "I may not breathe the ins and outs of seafaring life into my bones or blood, as you pirates do, but there are things I do know..." She paused. "You think I have nothing of value, but..."

"But?" Wayne paused and turned to her fully.

"I... have myself."

"You?" He cocked his head. It was undeniable that his interest had been peaked. He wet his lips. "Elaborate... I would like to understand your terms properly."

"Surely, it should suffice... If you claim me... If I'm yours..." Her heart began to pound flippantly. "The Captain's woman..."

[wordstro]

[3:56 PM] + avatar: the last airbender au

it’s only been a few years since the first colonies were established in the earth kingdom. it’s only been a few years since the air nation was completely wiped out and, presumably, so was the avatar. you remember hearing of the change in school curriculum after the fire nation invaded your village - how they taught children of the supposed evils of the air nation, how weak they were, how fire lord sozin defeated a nation that felt they were above and beyond the laws established by the fire nation, how they would have spread their lawlessness and ruined the entire world. colonization came with the red outfits your siblings had to wear to school and an influx of fire nation soldiers passing through your little village, wreaking havoc as they went. it came with a food shortage and a steep rise in prices, with sneering soldiers, too many burn injuries, and your parents warning you to keep your head down, especially when you’d go into town.

the fire nation instilled the belief that the air benders were gone.

they should be gone.

yet, here one was.

he’s cross-legged and floating in the air as he reached for a ripe apple-granate. he has fluffy dark hair - nothing like the bald monks you were told about in your younger years - and delicate features, all pulled together tight in deep concentration. you can see a bit of blue on his forehead, along his hands, the air nation tattoos your parents told you stories of when you were a child.

still, you didn’t mean to or want to catch his attention, because the one thing you’ve learned over the past few years of experiencing war and occupation was that it was really best to just keep your head down and pretend like you didn’t see some of the things that you did.  

except you back right into something fluffy and large and you spin, only to come face-to-face with a large beast. you scream, you can’t help it, and the beast roars back and oh god, oh god, it’s going to eat you and you’re going to -

you’re wet and sticky and oh.

you realize quickly that the large white beast just licked you and, “gross.” you mumble, trying and failing to shake the slobber off you.

“don’t call him that!” an unfamiliar voice snaps.

your head snaps to the side and the boy is standing there, quite literally hovering over you, dressed in yellow and orange robes. you’ve heard stories of the airbenders, before the fire nation spread their own stories, of how they were always kind, child-like almost, but this one has a gaze that is anything but. he looks at you with sharp eyes, fiery almost, and the intensity there could rival a firebender’s. still, there is a delicate sweetness to him, a regality that reminds you of the stories your parents told you. he stares at you, head held high, challenging almost, and you think he is not someone you should ever want to anger. but, his eyes are gentle, despite the fire, and they remind you of the airbenders the stories spoke of, not the ones the fire nation belittles.

“it is gross, though.” you mumble, glancing back at the white beast, who just breathes heavily, tongue lolling all about. its eyes are huge, and it has a dark arrow on its head shaped just like the boy. it must be an air bison, you realize. you thought those were wiped out, too.

the boy lands in front of you, so gracefully, you can’t help but stare. he spins his hands, once, twice, and you yelp as he uses wind to siphon the slobber off you, leaving you looking like a wreck.

“thanks...” you look up at him expectantly.

“yeosang.” he supplies, perhaps a little too easily.

“yeosang.” you repeat a few times, getting used to the sound of his name on your tongue. you tell him your name, despite him not asking. he doesn’t repeat it, just stares.

his eyes are still so intense as he says, “i’m just passing through. that’s all.”

his words are pointed, biting, his eyes flickering over your shoulder. you glance back as well - there’s a column of smoke coming from the fire nation watch towers in your village and you can see a bit of the fire nation emblem peeking through the tops of the trees, always looming, always watching.

“where are you going?” you’re not sure why you’re asking, you’re not supposed to care and you’re certainly not supposed to endanger your entire family by exposing yourself to information that will clearly get you killed, or worse. you bite your lip, add a quiet, “you don’t have to tell me, it’s just…i was just wondering since…”

you trail off, cutting yourself off.

something changes in his eyes - like a sadness, a longing, that makes you pause. his air bison whines softly from behind you. he sighs, glancing up at the sky, before he shrugs, “somewhere safe.”

you don’t tell him that you think such a place does not exist, not anymore. you just nod. you just say, “good luck. really.”

his eyes snap down, settling on you, and he looks...surprised. after a moment, he tosses you the apple-granate in his hands. you fumble, nearly dropping it.

he waves, says, “thanks.”

then he disappears into the trees.

~.~.~.~.~

it’s hard for you to assimilate the way the fire nation orders you to, but you’ve seen what happens to dissenters - your friend and neighbor, choi jongho, was taken away when he tried to crush a pair of fire nation soldiers with a boulder. the memory of him being taken down, of fire engulfing him, dancing in the darkness of his eyes, before he was completely knocked out and dragged away remains vivid, haunting you. no one knows where jongho was taken or whether he was dead or alive. still, it’s hard for you to wake up in the mornings and dress in fire nation red, hard for you to watch as your village succumbs to the rules of another nation, hard to see so many of your people cower beneath hands ablaze with flames. many of the old festivals are forbidden, and the silence that lingers in the streets is a deafening kind.

it's hard for you to forget what it was like before, though your memories begin to fade. hunger and fear turns your village more complacent than ever and you think it’s a clever move, on the fire nation’s part. you're meant to forget, you know, but you still remember things, still remember that encounter with the airbender yeosang, still remember the dances and the festivals and the stories. with the fire nation growing more heavy-handed, more oppressive, with the rumors that the avatar has abandoned the world for one has still not appeared, despite how long ago the air nation had been wiped out, with the way you’ve seen some of your friends dragged away from their families for even whispering of rebellion, you decide you cannot stay in your village any longer.

“it will be one less mouth to feed.” you reason with your mother. you do not tell her the longing you have to be free, because that’s dangerous. “i can find work and send you money. it'll be okay.”

and, you think, your mother knows more about your true intentions than she lets on. she had looked at you strangely the night you returned with your hair sticking up in every direction and the faint smell of animal saliva radiating off of you. she had mentioned that the soldiers were looking for a fugitive in the woods, scolded you for wandering off without telling her where you were going. even now, as you try to soothe her with carefully crafted words, she just stares at you. she doesn’t refuse, though. she just hugs you tight and tells you to be careful.

~.~.~.~.~

you find work on a ship – it’s a fire nation ship because you can never really escape them, not really, but they pay well enough for you to send home a decent amount of money every month and you find that you coming from a fire nation colony makes it easier for you to get such a job in the first place. they called it a privilege on your first day and no one batted an eye at the statement.

“come on, put your fucking backs into it!” the captain of the ship shouts, his whip snapping loudly against the metal floorboards, almost as loud as the thunder and lightning crackling up above.

the sea churns angrily and you push down the urge to vomit as you yank at the sails. you've been on this ship for half a year, yet you’ve never seen a storm this bad. it was unexpected; the skies were clear as day just a click back.

rain drenches you and you lose your grip on the ropes when the boat lurches forward. you land on your back hard, so hard you see black spots in your vision, just before you get a face-full of seawater.

then the captain appears in your spotted vision, snapping his whip. the pain on your leg is unbearable and you have half a mind to kick him off the boat yourself (you’ve had these thoughts since the moment you joined this crew and the captain seemed to make it his personal mission to make the lives of every single colony member’s life a living hell) when lightning cracks behind his head and you swear you see the outline of a gigantic beast in the clouds, your eyes widening in horror.

“have you broken your brain, idiot? get up.” the captain shouts, spitting everywhere, hand splayed, fire growing in his palms.  

you hear screaming on the boat. the captain turns at the sound. instinct tells you to grab something and hold on tight. so you do, stumbling to your feet, lunging at the metal mast and ropes. there's a roar – you’ve heard the rumors of a sea monster roaming the seas, destroying ships as they pass, but you believed them just to be rumors – and you watch, with the slightest bit of satisfaction, as the captain gets swept overboard by an unnaturally large tidal wave. it drenches you in saltwater and your eyes burn when you try to keep them open, even as you hug the metal mast like a koala-cat.

something big lands onboard, roars so loudly, you let out a small whimper. you blink, eyes wide, as the mist clears, as the storm seems to settle, too, and your eyes widen because –

it’s an airbison.

you know it, despite the black cloak it has wrapped around it, it’s eyes and tongue is familiar.

mist still lingers around the ship and you are acutely aware that you are the only one still on board. from the mist, a dark shadow looms, until metal clangs against metal and you realize, oh, they’re hijacking the ship.

someone emerges from the mist, followed by a couple more people, and maybe the captain had been right about you breaking your brain, because you hadn’t even thought to hide until now.

you slowly back away from the metal mast, only to bump into something – or someone.

“it looks like we missed a spot.” someone calls, making you flinch, and you try to run, you really do, but the person is faster, easily yanking your hands behind your back and securing you. all you can do is let them shove you to your knees and sputter nonsensically, cursing under your breath.

the mist dissipates quickly from the deck, clearing, and you look up, first at the person who caught you – a boy with sharp, angled features and a dimpled grin dressed in various shades of blue. then you look ahead, at the people cautiously stepping towards you.

one of them has dark hair, wears familiar green – you almost forgot that your village used to dress like that, before the invasion – and another is also dressed in blue. there is someone, also, dressed in all black, as if he is in mourning. your eyes flicker to the airbison and back to him, a small voice at the back of your head whispering nonsensical conclusions. you know it couldn’t be him, because the fire lord emphasized that he had killed them all, even the nomads that managed to get away. days after he left you with that apple-granate, rumors spread quickly of soldiers finding an airbender hiding in the woods, of how they killed him on the spot and left his body for the animals to feed on.

“please don’t kill me.” you blurt out, the minute they come to a halt in front of you. “i'm too young to die.”

there's a long pause. you open one eye, peeking up at them. the one in green lets out a small snort. he looks a little familiar, “we don’t kill people like you.”

“you don’t?” you blink, in disbelief. you nod at the air bison, “i mean, you have the perfect opportunity to feed me to that?”

“he’s a vegetarian.” the boy who captured you says, from above you.

you only eye them with more disbelief, “you sure about that?”

“do you want us to feed you to Tiny? it really seems like you want us to.” the other boy in blue crosses his arms over his chest. his voice is deep and he’s tall, his nose distinct.

“wait.” you make a face, “you named your giant air bison with teeth bigger than my head Tiny?”

you focus on their faces, one by one, settling on the boy in the green for a moment longer, because he looks incredibly familiar. it takes you a moment too long, only because there’s a scar marring his face, a burning streaking from his nose down his jaw. your eyes widen –

“jongho?”

the memory of flames, of them dragging jongho away so long ago remains vivid in your mind, even now as you look at him. it takes him a moment to recognize you – it was so long ago, and you’ve both changed a lot. but, he recognizes you, his voice unfamiliar around your name.

“what – what are you doing on a fire nation ship?” he sounds…offended.

you shrink a bit at the edge to his tone, at the way his friends seem to look down at you, literally and figuratively. “i needed to find work. this was the best i could find.” you pause, throw back, “what are you doing…out?”

you never expected him to get away from fire nation captivity.

“i broke out.” he says, quite simply, before he gestures around him, “they helped me and a friend get out.”

you notice, however, the boy dressed in all black watching you from the back of the group. his gaze seems particularly pointed and it makes the hairs at the back of your neck stand on end. you stare back at him, have half a mind to snap what because the staring is making you uncomfortable.

he speaks, though, after the lull of silence stretches on longer. he says, “how did you know this was an air bison?”

“what?” that catches you off guard.

“he’s covered up.” his voice is quiet, musical almost, but so heavily weighted. “it could be giant mutated polar dog bear for all you know.”

“i…it flies?” you blink. he doesn’t say anything – doesn’t believe you. “i mean, i remember the stories from before.” the silence keeps going. you fumble with your words, somehow compelled to keep talking, even though no one is prompting you. you say, “i…fine. i saw one – up close – a few years ago.”

jongho blinks, “you did?”

you nod, “yeah, i met…an airbender.” you glance at the boy, note how he freezes in place.

“who?” his voice is sharp as a knife. you think you can detect the hint of desperation. he hurries forward, each footstep light, barely audible, though he moves fast, nearly floating, until he, too, is hovering over you. he lands in front of you with a gust of wind, his hood slipping from his face. he’s sharp and pretty, but it’s not delicate, it’s angular, full of fire in ways you expected of a firebender. A blue arrow peeks out from beneath his long fluffy hair, but he isn’t yeosang. “who was it?!”

you flinch at the loudness, the way it booms all around them. the boy who captured you reaches out, puts a hand on his shoulder, pushing him back just a bit as he says, warningly, “hongjoong.”

you stare at the boy, hongjoong, and you’re disappointed, you realize. you think you may be looking at him with the same type of disappointment that he is looking at you with. for a moment, you both share a look of understanding. he definitely knew yeosang longer than you, but the boy has lingered in your thoughts for years, became something of a symbol of freedom, of the old days, to you. to hongjoong, he must represent his entire culture. he’s no longer alone. for a moment, you both seem to understand each other a bit too much for mere strangers, so you look away first, your gaze settling on his feet.

“his name was yeosang.” you say, quietly. “he said…he said he was going somewhere safe.”

hongjoong slumps in his spot and it’s as if the other boy’s hand is the only thing holding him up. “oh.” he whispers. “oh. he…he…he survived, too.”

the vulnerability in that one sentence makes your chest hurt. you tell it affects his friends, too, their brows curling with concern. you don’t know how you’re supposed to tell him of the rumors after you met yeosang. you don’t know how you’re supposed to remind him that you saw yeosang years ago. there's no guarantee he’s still alive.

but, as you look into hongjoong’s eyes, you think he knows that already.

hongjoong straightens up, his black cloak flapping all around him. he says, “let’s grab the supplies we need and get off this thing.”

you stare as the boys start to move, following his orders, leaving you on your knees, still tied up. only jongho hesitates, but he still leaves you alone. hongjoong stares down at you, for a long, long moment.

“can you bend?”

“what?”

he sighs, “everyone in the crew can bend. can you?”

you shake your head.

“then, what’s stopping me from tossing you overboard like the rest of your fire nation crew?” hongjoong bites out, then, still staring.

“your pacifism?” you squeak.

his expression twists into annoyance. “get up.”

“to your ship?” you ask, a little too hopefully, as you stumble to your feet.

“unfortunately.” he mumbles. “don’t make me regret the decision.”

you nod, quickly, “i won’t, i promise.”

he just watches your enthusiastic nodding carefully before he sighs, turning his back on you.

[thebibliomancer]

Tides of the Dark Crystal liveblog pt 15

Tides of the Dark Crystal by J.M. Lee because we’re halfway through, whoa-oh I can’t think of a rhyme but we’re in a desert now.

Last times on book: Amri and co are on a quest to unite all the Gelfling clans against the Skeksis. They’ve managed to convince Maudra Ethri of the Sifa to not sail off into the sunset and join the cause. And now they’ve reluctantly hired known thief and smarmy guy Periss of the Dousan to take them on his sand skiff to the Crystal Desert where Maudra Seethi is.

Chapter 15

A storm in the desert, a teeming of Crystal Skimmers, a peril, and some Tavra/Onica content.

Team Naia plus Periss sand sails all day and continues sand sailing when night falls. But people need to sleep so they’ll just leave someone on watch.

Kylan volunteers Amri for first watch. Amri is like ‘hey, rude’ before realizing that Kylan was subtly letting him stay up at night without making a big deal of it in front of the others. And then he’s warmed by this kindness.

Aw, frens.

Some hours later, Naia joins Amri up on the deck because she had a weird, bad dream. She was in the Sog but she was Gurjin. And a message came for Momdra Laesid who reacted in horror to whatever it was. And then Naia woke up.

Amri suggests it could be an omen but Onica is sleeping.

“I’ll ask her when she wakes... You should rest, too, nightbird.”

Amri stood and yawned. Then he added, “Birds die in caves.”

“Nightworm, then.”

“They’re called nurlocs.”

“Go on!”

Hah! Frens!

I love that they’re the kind of friends who bust each others chops.

So Amri goes below deck and I’m confronted with the idea that this sand skiff has a below deck. How big is this thing? I was picturing...... Moana’s boat. But on sand.

Periss’ ship doesn’t just have a lower deck, it has hammocks. Multiple hammocks. Multiple hammocks with multiple hammocks still vacant. At minimum that’s... lessee Kylan, Onica, Periss all sleeping.... There’s a minimum of five but I don’t know if it would be uneven so there’s probably at least six hammocks!

This is a big, small ship and Periss was scooting around all alone in it.

Anyway, Amri gets into a hammock and passes out almost immediately.

He’s woken up in a hurry by Kylan (although its now daytime so he must have been asleep some hours) because there’s a storm and Crystal Skimmers because it doesn’t rain in the desert but when it rains it pours.

Also, they’re in the basin now so its just endless sand in all directions.

To their right, the sky ended in a cloud of gray dust crackling with lightning rolled like a monster with fire in its teeth. It boiled, unleashed and unconstrained like a whirlpool, in the wide desert.

Also, Crystal Skimmers. Darkened ones.

Geez, I feel like we haven’t deal with the darkening in a while. It barely come up, if at all, during the Sifa stuff. Because of ocean, I guess? I mean, if the darkening works by seeing some darkened crystal veins all that open ocean means that only the deep sea creatures are gonna get darkened and they’re probably bonkers already.

Anyway.

The approaching sand clouds teemed with horrific golden creatures. Their diamond-shaped bodies were bigger than the skiff, the size of the three-masted Sifa ships, with rough, ragged manes and long barbed tails. The creatures crashed out of the sands turned up b the storm to the left and the right and all around them, snapping with enormous gaping mouths.

If you remember the giant flying manta rays that the Dousan use to travel, then its those guys.

They seem huge so I wouldn’t want to deal with a rabid one of them, let alone a teeming of them.

Seasoned desert traveler Periss also decides that the storm isn’t natural either. He would have been able to navigate around it except for the Crystal Skimmers ambushing them.

One of the Crystal Skimmers side swipes the skiff’s starboard float and then gets tangled up in the ropes and starts dragging the boat around.

Periss recognizes this Crystal Skimmer as Hanja, who has the remains of a Dousan harness on its back. He begs Hanja to calm herself but Onica says that she can’t be reached since she’s seen the darkness. And that they’ll need to cut free or get dragged to death.

Seasoned boat traveler Onica takes charge. She and Periss go out to cut the ropes at the bow and stern where the Skimmer harness tangled.

They succeed in cutting the lines but before Amri can pull Onica back into the boat

Just as the starboard float glanced off the racing sand below, another Skimmer burst from below them. Amri felt Onica’s fingernails rip against his palm as the Skimmer snagged her in its enormous mouth, tearing her from his grasp.

ONICA NOOOO!

You’re too delightful to die! We barely know ye!

Okay okay okay Crystal Skimmers don’t have teeth so she’s not getting chewed but its got her good and it doesn’t feel the pain as she stabs it in the lips with her knife because its so maddened by the darkness.

And it keeps diving into the sand with Onica in its mouth which as far as experiences go I imagine is like being in a tumble drier full of sandpaper.

Periss follows the Crystal Skimmer but its flying too high and he says that Onica will have to fly down to them, winged girl Gelfing that she is.

“She can’t fly.”

The tiny, numb voice came from the folds of Amri’s cloak.

“What?”

“She lost her wings in a storm,” Tavra said. “She can’t fly.”

Oh no! Is that her Dark Backstory that we left the Sifa plot without learning? The thing that filled Ethri with much regret?

Naia decides she’ll fly up to the Skimmer and save Onica but her wings are so dried out from the desert that she probably can’t fly and if she did, her wings would probably be destroyed.

Geez, there’s a lot more to having wings than I had ever considered.

Amri decides he’ll do it instead.

But what of his no wings? Necessity is the mother of invention, probably. Amri pulls off two of those fins (that have already been noted to be roughly the size of Gelfling wings) and ties them to his back.

Buuuuut he doesn’t know how to fly. So Amri’s plan has a part 2. He tells Tavra to take over his body like she did before.

OH! That’s coming back up! And her being a spider is plot relevant in a lot of surprising ways this book.

“Amri, I didn’t do it on purpose before,” Tavra protested. “It was an accident! I don’t know how!”

“Well,” he growled, “you’re going to have to figure it out!”

He leaped and spread his arms.

The wind picked up like a hand, thrusting him into the sky. The gusts were like waves, coming from every direction, knocking him and twirling him higher and higher. He had no idea how to navigate, how to fall - how to fly. All he could do was try to keep his arms from breaking as the wind battered and beat him.

“You and Onica made a promise!”

“But I can’t --”

“Are you going to break your promise?”

Oof. Going for the hard-hitting emotional low blow, Amri? You can be mean when needs must, especially for the guy who wants to be the funny friend.

Can’t argue that it works because it works.

Amri is suddenly slam dunked into a dreamfast with Tavra for some important exposition dreamfasting.

A memory of a storm at sea with Onica’s ship broken to bits and her clinging to it as it breaks into smaller bits, holding Tae safe in her arms while the wreckage of the ship and the hail of the storm tear her wings to shreds.

Amri as Tavra fights her way through the storm, scoops up the two Sifa and flies them from the wreckage.

Promise me, someday we’ll sail away.

Tavra and Onica sat together on a misty shore, watching the tide bring in shards of crystalline ice. The seafarer’s lantern glowered nearby, dimly lighting the fog that surrounded them like a protective blanket. They were hidden there, by the silver mist. Or at least they could pretend they were, just for this moment.

To a place where no one can find us. Where there are no Sifa... no Vapra...

Their hands touched palm to palm, fingers weaving together.

Where it doesn’t matter. Where we can just be... one.

I’ve said before that I was 99% sure that Onica and Tavra were dating with all the saying it without actually saying it about their relationship. But, uh, I’m now 200% sure.

This is about as explicit as you can get without having one of them say girlfrens.

Anyway, the dreamfast ends and Amri finds that he’s flying. Or rather, Tavra is flying Amri. Like he’s a giant robot and she’s a plucky anime youth. Mobile Suit Amri.

Tavra is such a good flier even when flying with some juryrigged wings and she’s responding so intuitively to the winds that Amri briefly thinks that the storm had just quieted down since it seems less severe.

But when they reach the Crystal Skimmer, seeing Onica hanging limply in its mouth knocks Tavra out of sorts. The improvised wings get ripped off by the wind and Amri has to climb the Skimmer’s mane towards its mouth.

Now that the drift has ended, I’ll comment that the thing they did, Tavra piloting Amri to take advantage of all the physical skills she has. Its an interesting way to use the two of them. And its an interesting extension of Amri deciding to take up Tavra’s sword to take her role in the group despite having zero experience in swordery or fighting. But as an ultimate move, its probably unhealthy. Since Amri’s deal is that he feels useless and like he doesn’t contribute much to the group. If he starts thinking of himself as just a convenient meat puppet, that’s not great for his self-image.

Can’t deny that it got them 90% towards saving Onica but Amri has to do the last 10%.

The Skimmer dives into the sand - which we can now confirm from the POV character’s POV is an awful experience that crushes and scrapes and suffocates - but Amri manages to pull Onica free right when the creature dives towards the sand again.

He stood, tried desperately to find Periss’ skiff, but it was impossible. All he could see was gold and black, the storm and the din and the deafening howls of the Skimmers. He pulled Onica with him, trudging - any direction, it didn’t matter, he only wanted to be anywhere else. The sand burned his eyes, washed against his ankles, then his knees. He tried to listen, but its voices were too many. Millions of screaming sand-crystals, earth moving like water, singing in a tongue he couldn’t understand.

He turned as the ground shook. A Skimmer erupted under his feet, and Amri’s own scream was lost as the beast’s black maw swallowed them alive.

Geez, there’s just way too much getting eaten by giant beasts in this chapter.

[notesofarichlycolorednight]

it’s taken me a while but here we are!! listened to bloodwater ballad [TUMBLR | SOUNDCLOUD] by @gerrydelano so I’m gonna dive (ha, dive, get it?) into some analysis even tho I haven’t taken a proper English class since AP English Lit in high school and the god complex it gave me has never left (RIP to everyone else, but I’m different). But I do have a degree in Psychology and am a Researcher, so I know how to dissect things (this is probably why the god complex never left lmao)

disclaimer: I have only listened to TMA through one (1), read it ONE time, so if you read something that seems wrong it probably is because my memory is not The Best (the seasons are 40 eps long and 30 mins each, Jonny why) and I’m probably straight-up not remembering or misremembering some aspect or detail about either a character and/or their relationship

(and before you say it, i absolutely CANNOT just go relisten to an ep out of order. my nd brain Will Not Let Me until i have listened thru all 4 seasons, In Order, several times)

ALSO: i speak very definitively here, but it doesn’t mean i’m right abt my analysis

bold and italics are lyrics, regular font is analysis. if there’s a more accessible way to format this, lmk!

analysis under cut

honesty that's what she gave to me mary didn’t hide who she was; eric knew exactly what he was getting himself into

into the water i bleed into the sea sea motif/metaphor to describe how eric viewed his relationship with mary

truthfully even when she lied through her teeth it only meant she trusted me to lay at her feet rationalization from eric: he knows she’s lying, and she probably knows he knows. but she also knows that he won’t do anything about it

oh, heave-ho it's over the edge i sink more of the sea metaphor in pieces in ribbons in tatters i'm thrown into the dark of the drink ribbons and tatters: reminiscent/hint of mary needing a piece of his skint to keep his ghost in the leitner

oh, heave-ho it's over the edge i go blow the man down, he's a jewel for your crown (blow me down) and no one will ever know ”jewel for your crown”: suggestive of how mary used eric like an object. jewel and crown suggests that he was useful to her in an important way, tho, still an object ”no one will ever know”: suggestive that no one else, looking in on their relationship, would even see it for what it truly was, nor would they ever expect mary to throw him away so casually like she did

war, you see is somewhere you go just to bleed the end of a book you can’t read (books you cannot read) a legacy’s greed “book you can’t read”: suggestive of mary’s relationship with leitners ”a legacy’s greed”: commentary of leitner; bc this is eric telling his story tho, this could also be about how mary pulled eric into her plots regarding leitners, and then gerry

distantly, familiar hope came to me that even with blood in our teeth my son stayed asleep ”even with blood in our teeth”: eric knows what role he had to play in all this and is not absolving himself of blame ”my son stayed asleep”: often sleeping can be used as a metaphor for ignorance. in this case, eric is hoping that, despite what gerry’s mother is and what eric has been complicit in, will not affect his son i think it’s interesting to note here that the backup voices cut out for “my son stayed asleep” (put a pin in it)

oh, heave-ho the ship is my body, i gave to my wife as the captain, the whip, and the brine, the shark lurking under the waves more of the sea metaphor; also a metaphor for how complicit eric was to mary’s will i think it’s super interesting that she��s the captain, whip, brine, and shark in this metaphor. all things that can hurt eric, as the ship. suggests that mary is in complete control of eric (as the captain). also adds to the notion that eric knew exactly who mary was and still loved her anyway (”i gave”).

oh, heave-ho the ship is my body, she cracks the mast of my spine, spills my blood as her wine (lightning strikes and) i really like this line bc it makes me think of the marriage lines in corpse bride: “your cup will never empty, for i will be your wine.” and i love that it’s turned on its head here. cuts a flag from the skin off my back (takes all the skin off my back) a direct callback to the fact that mary has to take strips of eric’s skin to keep his ghost in the leitner book, while also staying with the metaphor that eric is a ship out at sea

way, ay, i wanted to say though blinded i still saw the light at the end of the hall, in a crib with his eyes almost grayer than mine in the night direct callback to eric blinding himself, twice! also represents how much he loves his son: “light of my life” is a common saying and gerry was that for eric

i gave up the sight of his face for his life and i would have lost more for the same i'd cut out my heart to save his from her bite and i almost don't know who to blame again, direct callback to him blinding himself so he could escape the institute a demonstration of how much love he holds for his son, willing to give up more and more of himself if it meant keeping his son safe heart motif! both for eric and gerry i really like the last line here bc he’s saying he doesn’t know who to blame for his blindness (aka cutting out his heart): himself or mary. bc, as i’ve stated before, eric knows who mary is. and he still loves her. still had a child with her. i also think it’s foreshadowing. and the reason i say this is bc, in the end, eric was unable to save gerry from mary. this song is representative of his statement to gertrude, so at this point, he’s a ghost. tho he may not know exactly what mary has done, he knows who she is enough to know that after he died, mary would raise gerry in her likeness, with her ideals

is it a murder if i made my bed by her side when i knew what she was? and here we have eric, most nearly explicitly, stating that he knew mary’s true colors. and loved her anyway. perhaps i'm complicit; i fell asleep first in the bloodcutting comfort of jaws this also solidifies his stance that he should shoulder some of the blame for allowing himself to love her when he knew what a truly terrible and deadly (literally) person she was ”bloodcutting comfort of jaws” is also really nice alliteration

forgive me, forgive me, i did try to swim with my hands and feet bound to my heart heart motif! okay so this one has so many layers for me: so, for all intents and purposes here, eric has effectively cut out his heart, which his hands and feet are bound to, and is now in the jaws of a shark (mary), who is dragging him down to kill him. he tried to save his son by getting away from the institute by blinding himself but it didn’t work weighted and anchored with love for my son who by birthright deserves more than scars legit, this confused me for a bit bc i always saw “with my hands and feet bound to my heart” as the anchor that pulled him down, as you’d weigh someone down with big rocks if you wanted them to drown. however, in the context of tma, i realized anchor could also mean the way martin is jon’s anchor. eric’s love for gerry was his reason--the person who he kept fighting for as best he could

additional note: these 4 verses are all sung without backup voices. i think it’s interesting that the lyrics/verses that revolve around wanting to save his son, and that are about his son, are sung with his singular voice. i wish i could articulate more what that means, but despite my best efforts, i’m not musically inclined even tho i’ll kinda be talking abt music composition for firesorrow girl lmao. link at the end

my eulogy the carpet red under my feet like standing on top of the sea (standing on the sea) the frenzy beneath don’t ask me why but i really like how this last part of the song starts with “my eulogy” bc you can tell the song is coming to a close now by that lyric. what’s really nice is i can “picture” eric closing his statement with gertrude with the request that she finds his son more sea and shark metaphors

infamy how do you remember me? that fool just so desperate to leave that he couldn't see? i also really loved these lines bc eric most likely knows how gertrude thought of him, and can probably sense how she feels of him now, after his story then i love how “couldn’t see” has a double-meaning here: 1) of course, he blinded himself but, 2) that he was also metaphorically blind to what kind of consequences his actions had, both on him and his son

oh, heave-ho a dead man has only one tale listen,,, i know i keep saying this, but i love how ron turns turn-of-phrases on their heads. bc “dead men tell no tales” right? eric has one tale, tho: his statement bc he’s a ghost who’s been bound this book and kept, for all intents and purpose, alive i knew she had hunger for blood in the water and that means it was no betrayal again, confirmation that eric knows that he has to shoulder some of the blame for the consequences of knowing who mary was (this bloodthirsty shark) and still loving her anyway

oh, heave-ho though, i have one request of you now if my son can be found and his own hands unbound (find my son) cut the rope - don't you dare let him drown (don’t you dare be the reason he drowns) so a throwback to “hands and feet bound to my heart” tho perhaps gerry’s heart isn’t what’s dragging him down, necessarily bc he was raised by mary, he didn’t have a choice. the moment he was born, he was tied to her. and the moment mary killed eric, there was no chance he could get away and then, of course, the gut-puncher: “don’t you dare let him drown”/“don’t your dare be the reason he drowns” are especially poignant, given gertrude uses gerry much in the same way mary did. gerry becomes bound to a different entity and is used for gertrude’s gain. so he drowns anyway.

--

alkjdlf i hope this is semi-coherent. i tried to do it more “professionally”--i even thought abt breaking it up and putting it back together, out of order, to address all the themes and motifs all in one spot--but then decided what would be best for my brain, was to listen to the song and just add my thoughts in as they came, stream of consciousness style *finger guns*

firesorrow girl analysis | meme i made for these analyses bc it’s funny and i wanted to share

[quixotic-writer]

Adult Entertainment (part 2)

request: basically everyone

summary: Sal had made a bold statement saying he could last longer than Q watching porn. They both decide to put those words to the test and placed a bet in typical joker fashion: loser gets punished by the winner.

Warning: Smut ahead!

———————————————————

It had been about a week since their porn escapades that doubled as a steamy night in and they were ready for their next challenge, one that Sal had proposed afterwards: how much could they handle before they came undone untouched?

Rules were worked out between the two: They weren’t allowed to cum for a whole week to up the challenge, their hands were to be restrained the night of, they both would have their own dildo to use for some sort of pleasure (Sal suggested it), they would both throw together a playlist of porn to play for them to watch on the couch together. They would have no clue what videos they put into the playlist for the other so when they finally put themselves to the test, they would each be pleasantly surprised. Bottom line was: first one to cum gets a punishment. Simple and clean cut rules and regulations for another hot night.

Knowing the rules, it didn’t stop them from finding certain loop holes that they both didn’t mind but drove them crazy. There was only two words to describe the excruciating week: Edging and teasing. Sal’s favorite thing to do was to bend over in front of Q, giving him a full show of his ass or “accidentally” grind his ass against Q at any opportunity he could. The farthest he’s gone to torture Q was waking him up with a surprise blow job and pulling away to go and shower once he was close, this was the moment where Q almost lost his mind. As for Sal, Q would start talking dirty to him, sweet nothings serenading him and tantalizing his senses, then he would start rubbing his hands over his bulge and sometimes go as far as to start jerking him off. The moment Sal was close to cumming, he would back away and just leave him in that desperate state and quickly reminded him of the week’s rules. A taste of his own medicine.

By the time the seven days were finally done and over with, they felt so sensitive and as though the mere thought of release would be enough to get them hard and close.

They gathered all their things for the evening in the living room, the screen was already lit up and loaded up with their filthy playlist of porn, the blinds were drawn to a close to hide their dirty shenanigans from wandering eyes, and both men were stripped down to their boxers each sporting a semi hard on.

“How you feeling about this baby?” Q questions to Sal as he helps tie up his arms behind his back.

“Like this is going to be the hardest i’ve cum since my teenage years.” He jokes. His wrists are tightly (but safely) bound behind his back and the sensation of the restraint turns him on. Q helps remove his boxers and sees already how hard Sal is and feels himself twitch at the sight. “You don’t need to prep me by the way, got that bit covered.” Sal gives him a wink and Q felt his soul leave his body, but little did Sal know that Q had a surprise up his own sleeve.

Sal managed to help sloppily and loosely handcuff Q despite his arms being behind his back, he got on his hands and knees and took the band of his boxers between his teeth and gently pulled them down allowing Q to spring to life. When Q turned around to go sit on the couch, Sal felt as though he could’ve unraveled right then and there.

“Brian Quinn you naughty man.” In between the mountains of flesh tucked away was a butt plug that Q had snuck inside of him earlier that day to prep himself.

“Wasn’t used to having something in me, so I took the extra step.” Q reaches for the toy and slowly pulls it out, sad that he feels so empty, but eager knowing something better is to come. “Well Sally boy, time to put your money where your mouth is. Lets see which one of us can last longer.” Q sat himself on a dildo, slowly sinking down relishing in the full sensation of it all with a low hum. Sal joins in next to him with his own toy slowly entering him until he was fully seated with the toy poking at his prostate, making him close his eyes and bite his lip.

They take a moment to catch their breath and stare at the screen with a thumbnail of the video to play with a giant pause symbol over it. They look at each other, then to their tied up arms, then to the remote sitting on the coffee table in front of them.

“Brian Michael Quinn if you do what I think you’re about to do.” All Q does is smile and take his foot and press the play button on the remote with his big toe. Sal looks to him in disgust and makes a mental reminder to sanitize the shit out of the remote after all is said and done.

The first video begins and it was Q’s first pick: A basic vanilla porn, missionary position, minimal action, just something to get the blood pumping. Q sat in his seat and shifted slightly and felt as the toy moved around inside of him, gently grazing that special bundle of nerves, he bit his lip and hummed. Sal was trying to resist all urges to start bouncing on his toy and finally get the release he craved, but he was stubborn enough to hold himself back just to prove a point. Video one was short and over with pretty fast, but it did leave the two standing at full attention and already leaking pre-cum at the tip.

Next was Sal’s choice in video, things were slowly starting to pick up now. It was the same video of that girl riding a guy the first time they had watched porn together a week ago. Memories flooded quickly into Sal’s head that sent shockwaves to his cock and he found himself bouncing a little to release some tension. When his eyes glanced over to Q, he watched as his dick twitched in agony, now was time to play a little dirty.

“Brian, Nothing will ever compare to the way you fucked me hard that night. The way your hard cock slammed into my tight hole and filled me right up, fuck Bri, it drives me mad just thinking about it.” Sal spoke in a sultry seductive tone and watched as Q’s eyes began to haze with lust and his hips began to flick upwards in search of pleasure. He remembered the sensation vividly and recalled the way Sal felt and looked that night, the way he channeled a whole new side of him that was so sexually charged, and the dirty talk. The dirty talk is what turned him on the most, the way Sal described how horny and desperate he was without him. “Seems that you’re thinking about it too, huh? Thinking about slamming into me until i’m a whining mess below you begging to cum because i’ve been teased all week, watching me lose control in your arms and knowing you’re the one that made me unravel.” Sal kept painting such a clear picture for Q and he felt himself getting closer and closer to the euphoria he’s sought for a whole week.

But the realization that he was so close made him stop all his movements. Despite the disappointment and feeling the welling sensation die down in his pelvis, he knew what Sal was trying to play, and he refused to lose for such a pitiful reason, he would prove he had more self control. Q brought himself back down and watched the rest of the video through and knew his next choice was coming up on the queue.

When the video began, Sal’s senses felt heightened and as though his pores were shooting out lightning. Q bit his lip and smirked as he watched Sal begin to frivolously bounce on the couch next to him. Checkmate.

On occasion if the couple was feeling extra daring or knew they’d be apart for a while, they would whip out whoever’s phone was closest and hit record. It was their own personal collection of self made porn that they would indulge in whenever the mood struck them individually. Q had built up quite the collection and often turned to it when his imagination just wasn’t enough to get him off. Now he used it as his personal ammunition, and he knew he was getting exactly what he wanted.

The screen was lit up with the low quality phone footage of Sal bobbing his head up and down on Q’s dick. Filthy wet noises emanating out of Sal as he took Q further and further into his mouth making the man above him a filthy moaning mess.

“Fuck baby, your pretty little mouth feels so good around my cock. Come on now, you can take a little more darling, I know you can.” His voice is smooth and baritone, he speaks softly as a hand comes into frame and tangles into his hair and brings him down more soliciting a few gags from Sal as his nose hit Q’s stomach.

Sal at this point was fucking the toy inside of him like his life depended on it with the video playing fueling him further. He forgot all about the bet, he didn’t care if he lost, he didn’t care what his punishment would be, he wanted one thing now and he was focused on getting it. Q knew at this point he had gotten what he wanted, and all he wanted now was to watch the man he loved unravel before him. He smiled in victory and had already began plotting his special arrangements for Sal once this was all over.

“Sal, please, if you keep that up i’m gonna bust baby.” Sal felt heat rising fast in his abdomen, each time Q’s voice echoes from the TV, he felt it building quicker. His hips bucked in desperation

“Sally baby, are you close?” Sal lets out a whine in response unable to form actual words. It was enough to give Q an answer. “Look at you, getting off watching yourself pleasure me. Sensitive and desperate, so easily submissive to your desires. You’re a dirt little slut for me aren’t you? Do it then Sally baby. Cum for me on the dildo just like you did when you were horny and needy.” And just like that, with mere words and another slam of his hips downward, Sal was sent into blinding ecstasy. His torso going tense as he hunched over at the relieving sensation, hot thick ropes of white shooting out of him hard.

He collapses on his side allowing the toy to slip out of him gasping for breath feeling the energy draining quickly as sweat drips down the temples of his head. Q manages to slip his hands out of the cuffs that were (thankfully loosely wrapped around his wrists and get up off the couch to untie Sal.

“Are you okay? Did that feel good?” Sal, still in a haze smiles and nods and takes a gentle hand to Q’s cheeks and brings him in for a kiss. “Do you think you could handle more?”

“I haven’t cum in a week and i’ve got a lot of pent up energy.” Q’s eyes go dark as he gives his signature devilish grin to the man in his arms.

“Well then, my love. It’s time for your punishment then.”

———————————————————

A/N: I know this is a wee bit shorter than what I normally write ( ; w ; ) I was planning on adding the punishment to this part, but I decided why not make that a whole part in itself.. either that or i’ll come in and edit this to attach that extra bit. I’ve been slightly busy these pst few days but I just wanted to get something on here for my non-wattpad/ao3 users

[peridot-tears]

If LWJ had jumped off the cliff too, and WWX met Madam Lan

I am falling to my death.

Shijie.

I am falling to my death.

What did his sister think when her eyes closed? Panic? Relief, that she saved her little brother? Or fear?

Would that I could. I would take all that fear from you. And he put the thought away. What did it matter how Shijie felt in her last moments, when he had made her suffer, and now she was gone?

Besides, he thought, with his eyes closed. He was already halfway to joining her.

Would that he could.

.

For once in his life, Lan Wangji did not think. Bichen like a single wing in his hand, he flew. He flung himself from the cliff.

我陪你。

无愧于心。

In his peripherals, the spray of his own blood. In his tunnel vision, Wei Ying. Yes. Tunnel vision, towards Wei Ying. Nothing could attack him from the sides, anyway. His bleeding did not matter. He would not bleed to death tonight.

Wei Ying was so, so far. Lan Wangji reached inside himself for the spherical power undulating unbidden in his center; it moved still. He had energy yet. He gripped that spiritual energy tight, by the throat, and drew it into the wind.

Wei Ying once said that 妖魔鬼怪 were akin to the life and death of a tree. Lan Wangji was now a ship, with a sail. And he was streaking downwards, towards the achingly distant shape of a man.

Wei Ying.

His spiritual energy sputtered, then burst into a speed that threw him down towards Wei Ying. His black shape slowly became larger, and larger, till Lan Wangji reached out a hand and brushed his red ribbon.

More. He needed more.

Throttling the center of himself, he drew out the last desperate breaths of his spiritual energy; with one last burst, he closed the distance between himself and Wei Ying. The core of himself burned, but with a cry of relief, he wrapped Wei Ying’s body in his arms.

.

The name is on the tip of his tongue, and he opens his mouth to exhale it. But he finds that he cannot.

This is such a long fall, but Lan Zhan will not...Lan Zhan won’t—

Just let me die. Wei Ying’s tears are coming again, and the dull throb of his heartbeat has sharpened, is ripping him open from the inside out.

If mere moments and one blackness ago, Lan Zhan’s lips were pinched with the most obstinate look Wei Wuxian has ever seen, then one return to the world later, his face is soft and clear.

I can’t bring you down with me, Wei Wuxian thinks, panicking. He regrets opening his eyes, because he is not yet dead, and now Lan Zhan...he...

“Wei Ying,” he says, more gently than anyone has said his name in days.

Wei Wuxian finally manages to press Lan Zhan’s name out of his throat, though he cannot hear it in the gush of falling around them. He feels the name move the bones in his skull. He wants to tell him to go, but where could he go?

“I am coming with you,” Lan Zhan responds. “Without any regret in my heart.”

.

Wei Ying’s round eyes are blasted open with shock and pleading. His body is pulsing with blood and life.

Let it stay that way.

Lan Wangji tears his gaze away to look beneath them, at the ground materializing into nearness. Bichen trembles in his hand, and he is unsure if it is something in the sword spirit calling him, or the pulse of his own life. He twitches his palm, his fingers, and wills Bichen to listen: if he has one last request in the world—anything—then it would be Wei Ying’s safety.

Bichen loyally unsheathes itself. It matches their pace, tucking itself under Lan Wangji’s feet, killing their descent.

The ground stops rushing up so quickly to meet them.

Lan Wangji is waning, but he is flying Bichen now, both arms wrapped tight around Wei Ying’s waist.

Like a carriage jerked to a halt too quickly, Bichen stops just above the cold, hard ground. Lan Wangji tumbles into its embrace, but not before he rolls into his landing, softening the fall enough so Wei Ying will only feel a bump.

Safe.

Bichen retreats into his sheath at his unspoken command, and that is all he has the strength left to do.

.

Lan Zhan is on top of Wei Wuxian, pressing the breath out of him. His gaze searches him so much, Wei Wuxian feels like he is standing on that rooftop all over again.

Then, with an exhale, he collapses against his shoulder.

With the warmth of his weight on top of him, Wei Wuxian does not know how long he is down there, stunned, alive, crying. He clutches at Lan Zhan’s body. He wants to scream, but loses any desire to. He thinks the sky is too far away. He wants it to come down and bury him.

In the middle of the tears, of counting each spot in the sky where there should be a star, Lan Zhan’s heart beats against his. It is like a spark against flint.

“Lan Zhan,” he croaks, barely hearing his own whisper. “Lan Zhan.” Why did you save me, Lan Zhan?

He has been cursed with good instinct from birth—though it wasn’t good enough to save Yu Furen, or Shijie—and he knows that Jiang Cheng will climb down here to looking for them, even if he must turn Zidian into a rope and climb with each agonizing handful of lightning. He would kill Wei Wuxian. That is fine. But who knows if he would take anything out on Lan Wangji?

Wei Wuxian hefts Lan Zhan’s weight off of himself. He surprises even himself with the strength left in him, rolling him onto his back and brushing his own hair out of his eyes. Jiang Cheng can have him. Jiang Cheng should have him.

But no one should have Lan Zhan.

.

Lan Wangji would not blame Wei Ying if he left him beneath that cliff.

He left Wei Ying all by himself outside of Xuanwu Dong, after having sung him to sleep. He was sick, and delirious, and Lan Wangji left him to wake up alone. It must have been like waking up in a cold bed.

It was the right thing to do at the time. But if only he knew what would come after, how he would encounter Wei Ying next. And the next time. And the next.

His decisions had all been right. But the wrong thing could also be right.

He wakes up to the sensation of swaying.

It is akin to waking up after his first ever taste of alcohol. Wei Ying was there that night, too. They woke up together. He wishes he could see the way he burst into laughter in the late-morning sunlight, almost noon. He wishes Wei Ying could smile as sharply as that light again. But when all is said and all is done, he has granted himself his own wish. Wei Ying is alive.

He wakes up on Wei Ying’s back.

.

Lan Zhan’s breath is soft on his neck. Wei Wuxian wishes he wouldn’t wake up like this. He wants him to stay asleep until he is healed, and then never see Wei Wuxian again, because by then Wei Wuxian would finally have killed himself. And this time, he wouldn’t even have to see it and blame himself for not saving him in time.

“You’re awake,” he says.

Lan Zhan’s next breath carries the trace of a grunt. His throat bobs against Wei Wuxian’s hair as he exhales.

“Don’t try to talk,” Wei Wuxian says. Truthfully, he is telling himself this too. He should be mourning, so where is the energy to even open his mouth coming from?

Thankfully, Lan Zhan obeys, but he still breathes down his neck like a relaxed predator. Wei Wuxian should not feel so hunted, he thinks, until he realizes that there is nowhere to go. No one in the world would allow a criminal into their inn, much less the Yiling Laozu, who killed Jin Zixuan, who killed millions. Why, even his own sister—

Lan Zhan needs you right now, he thinks.

It is incredible, how long he can follow the rocks of the very bottom of Bu Ye Tian and not get caught. He walks until his feet ache as much as his chest, and then keeps walking.

He walks and walks until the land thickens into trees.

It starts to rain. Nevernight turns to night. Night turns to day. Turns back into night.

He keeps walking.

—

He is brought back to a certain other night, when he decided to walk back into hell to save a handful of innocents. And they later died. I wonder, would Lan Zhan die too? he thinks idly. Well, no. No, he won’t let that happen. Not again. Which is exactly what he declared to the world the last time.

Lan Zhan is unconscious again. Wei Wuxian lays him down under the eaves of the abandoned lean-to, thankful that nowhere else in the world is there wind as merciless as that in Luan Zang Gang. He kindles a small fire and bandages Lan Zhan’s arm.

Even after a battle, exhausted to death, Lan Zhan’s face is the smoothest cut of white jade. It is like the moon—could provide light even in the dark. Wei Wuxian traces a finger along his cheek, his jaw, and marvels at his own hands. They are trembling.

The irony is not lost to him. That he is the one very much breathing and moving—jittering, even—while Lan Zhan is sleeping like the dead. The whiplash of being alive is so repetitive.

His throat works. He hums to himself, then scrapes a leaf off the side of the lean-to. For all the sick feelings in his stomach at the thought of mouthing Chenqing again, he places the leaf under his lips. Its whistle is different from Chenqing’s. There is no power, just the vibrations of something that is still green.

This is what he has been reduced to, he supposes.

The song is nameless, but he knows it.

How long have I been alive? he chants to himself. He threads these words into the tune he plays, giving them lyrics. He wonders if Lan Zhan ever gave them lyrics. He threads that name into the harmony, too.

.

Lan Wangji opens his eyes to the sound of something that should be played on the earthy tones of his guqin. It has been turned into something more high and unreachable.

The first thing he thinks is that he does not hurt as much as he should, that his arm must be bleeding, and that it is rainy and cold.

But Wei Ying.

Their song is in the air. He twists his head in a ginger, delicate motion to see Wei Ying’s exhausted, pale visage, and that one pop of green against his lips.

He finds no need to speak.

.

Wei Wuxian has played the song at least three times before he decides to check up on Lan Zhan. Lan Zhan stares back.

“You’re awake,” he says. There should not be as much emotion in those words as there is.

“Mn.” Wei Wuxian doesn’t like how he’s responding. He’s looking at him as though he is the one lying barely conscious, and Lan Zhan is the one playing this song for him.

“Go back to sleep,” Wei Wuxian says. “The more you rest, the sooner you’ll get better. And then you can go back home, and tell your Shufu and brother that I took you away against your will. You can even take credit for killing me, if you want. After this, you’ll never see me again.”

“I will not leave you.”

Then I’ll leave you, but what’s meant to be a secret then leaves his mouth.

Lan Zhan is steadfast. “Where will you go?”

Wherever Shijie is. So I can say sorry.

Wei Wuxian elects to spread himself open. Where other people curl into a defensive ball, he lays himself on the ground, a child of earthly affairs.

反正天大地大，四海为家。

“The world is big,” he says, “and wherever I go, I can make it into a home. That’s what happened in Luan Zang Gang, but I don’t want to go back.”

But where else do I belong now?

.

Lan Wangji opens his mouth, but Wei Ying has frozen in time. There is not a physical whiff of smoke around him, but he shakes, leaf dropping from his grip. His lips move, as he has conversations with someone who died in a cruel fashion a long time ago.

“Wei Ying,” he calls.

His eyes are glazed over. Lan Wangji has seen this before.

“Wei Ying,” he calls again. With Jiang Yanli out of the world now, and out of wherever the ghosts possessing Wei Ying live—a person like her meets death with a greeting and a bowl of soup—only Lan Wangji has a flicker of hope in keeping him here.

He scrambles to lift himself, winces when he uses his injured arm, then heaves himself upright with core strength alone.

Grabbing Wei Ying’s arm is like touching a hot stone: In a flash meant to repel, it burns him. He should jolt and jump away, but instead clutches harder. He says his name again.

How long has Wei Ying been walking to bring them both out of the reach of the cultivation world? Where are they now? How long has he gone without sleep, when he should have stopped to grieve?

Wei Ying finally, finally takes enough breaths to find himself, finally has the space of mind to turn his head enough for Lan Wangji to realize how bloodshot his eyes are.

With one last shudder, he collapses.

.

魏无羡你想报仇吗？

Revenge? On whom? Himself?

Shijie does not belong on a battlefield. In another life, one where she could be as strong in body as she is in mind, she would be the best. She would beat anyone as easily as Yu Furen and her handmaids. When she is reincarnated, in her 来生，heaven will be kinder to her, because if not to her, then whom?

So why is she here, dressed in white for her own funeral?

There is a whisper she is trying to pass onto him, and the hand on Wei Wuxian’s cheek is already cold from lack of blood. Instead, she shoves him aside. She dies instantly.

That blade was meant for me.

It should have been me.

Jiang Fengmian should never have taken him in. He killed his daughter. Wei Wuxian should have been left to die on the streets.

Do you want revenge?

I want to die.

The voices have faces. Every one of them is Jiang Yanli. Such hateful words should not come from her mouth. He wants to raise Chenqing to the voices, but then, he would have to raise it to her.

He dreams of falling. Luan Zang Gang calls him. Come back, say the ones who gave him Chenqing. Don’t you want revenge?

When he hits the ground again, no longer able to see the sky, Shijie reaches a hand out. She does not belong here, either. “Go,” he tells her. “Go—”

Don’t touch her, he screams at the spirits. Listen to me. You promised, you promised.

Shijie raises one gentle hand to his cheek. He is too afraid to lean into her touch.

“—Ying!”

Read more

[nataliedanovelist]

GF - Where the Crop Circles Grow ch.6

Summary: When things get out of hand at the Pines’ family farm, Ford asks an old college buddy to assist investigating anomalies and Stan hires a farmhand. Who knew asking for help would actually get you somewhere?

For @lemonfodrizzleart. Part of her Farmer AU and featuring her OC, Jackie Asante.

Ao3 link here.

ch.5 - ch.7

~~~~~~~~~~

Jackie was wide awake a good hour before the sun would rise, before Clock would wake the whole house, and yet she didn’t have the strength to get out of bed. Her mind was swimming with so many thought she felt like she was drowning.

Last night she had sex with Stanley Pines, her employer and friend. What the hell was she thinking?! She was thinking he was beautiful and smart and kind and everything she had ever wanted she just wanted to hold him forever, and thus it resorted to her losing her white dress to hay and walking out of a barn in Stan’s shirt and being caught red-handed by Ford and Fiddleford. (Thank God Tate was asleep and didn’t ask questions; if he had been awake Jackie probably would’ve killed herself.)

Her mind replayed what Stan had said to her before they got busy. He seemed to have meant those nice things he said to her, not just saying it to get her to undress. Jackie was a pretty decent reader of character, so okay, at the absolute very least Stan liked her. He wasn’t going to kick her out or dump her. But did he want to do it again? She knew she wanted to at some point, but…

Jackie groaned and laid on her stomach as she buried her face in her pillow. Really, would it be the end of the world if they were together? Probably not, but did Stan even want that? Jackie wanted to think so, but a small voice in the back of her mind told her he only saw her as an employee with benefits and to not get her hopes up. And of course there were the other men in the house. Ford was mortified when he discovered what they had done, but Jackie considered that it was only because he did not want to think about his twin having sex. Fiddleford, who had been married and even had a son, seemed a little too understanding and supportive. Jackie didn’t think she could stand to see their faces today, so she made up her mind to get up now, do her chores quickly before anyone else woke up, and lock herself in her room until dinner.

While the coffee pot brewed, Jackie quickly mixed together some simple blueberry muffins. While they baked in the oven, she quickly fed the chickens and watered the sheep and let them out onto the field. By the time she re-entered the kitchen the muffins were perfect and she let them cool while she tidied the sheep’s barn and gave them fresh hay. Jackie had just fixed her mug of coffee and plated herself two muffins when she heard footsteps and she hurried into her bedroom to indulge in a book.

It took a hot shower and a few sips of coffee for Stan to realize what Jackie had done. He laughed at himself to find the morning chores done and an easy breakfast laid out on the table. Shaking his head, he happily munched on a muffin on his way to the big barn to milk Luna and brush Truffles and he decided that he would check on her later.

~~~~~~~~~~

As the day wore on, as the sun crept higher and higher up the sky, dark clouds drifted into the scenery and hid the sun. Ford and Fiddleford had just enough time to retrieve their cameras so they could spend the rainy afternoon developing the photos in the thinking parlor before it started pouring down. It never escalated into thunder and lightning, but it was a merciless rain that kept the animals sleeping inside their barns and nests, but thankfully the lack of wind made it okay to sit on the porch and watch the rain, and that’s what Stan did until he fell asleep in his chair.

That left the four-year-old to snuggle up with a blanket on the couch and watch TV, but nothing good was on. Tate huffed and turned it off to try to think of what to do so he wouldn’t be bored no more. He could read a book, but he had done that yesterday. He could play with his toys in his room, but he didn’t feel like it. He wanted to get up and move, but it was raining too hard to play outside, Daddy said so when he came back with Uncle Ford with the cameras, so Tate decided he would do exploring.

He liked this house. It was big but not too big and it felt like home. He really liked it here, and though he knew it wasn’t good to be a sneaky peaky spy, Daddy and Uncle Ford and Uncle Stan and Auntie Jackie never got mad. Tate knew what most of the room were and where most doors led to, but there was one in the hallway that he didn’t know where it led to, so Tate opened it and he beamed to find raincoats, a vacuum, and a box of board games on the floor so Tate could reach.

Tate grinned and decided to pick a game to play. Maybe Daddy would wanna play, or when Uncle Stan wakes up he would wanna play. There was a small box of cards on the top of the stack; Tate thought it would be a good idea to play Go Fish. Tate saw Connect Forty-Four, Don’t Wake Stalin, Battle Chutes and Ladder Ships, but the game on top of the stack and right below the cards a game caught Tate’s eye. He liked the big red dragon behind the funny looking wizard, some kinda monster with big lips, and the pretty elf with the unicorn, all above a table of people playing the game.

Take picked up the green box and smiled. He was only four, but Daddy taught him how to read, so he could read the game and the rules. It looked like fun!

Meanwhile, Ford stretched his arms over his head and left the thinking parlor for a drink of water and possibly a snack. He looked down the hall and smiled when he found Tate in front of the closet where they kept the board games, holding a box he found intriguing. “Hello, Tate,” Ford said and walked up to him.

“Hi, Uncle Ford!” Tate piped and looked up at him and showed him the box in his hands. “Lookie what I found!”

Ford instantly recognized the well-used fantasy-talking, level-counting, statistics and graph-paper involved game from college and grinned. “Dungeons, Dungeons and More Dungeons! That’s my favorite game in the whole Multiverse! I used to play with your father and some other fans of the game back in Backupsmore.”

“Can we play it now?” Tate asked.

Ford held his cleft chin in thought and smiled down at his best friend’s son. Dungeons, Dungeons and More Dungeons was usually a complex and thoughtful game; you had to have a prepared Quest Master for starters, create a character and fill out a character-sheet, and use math and statistics a bit too advanced for the average four-year-old, but Tate wasn’t the average four-year-old. Ford knew he wasn’t good with kids and so he had somewhat kept his distance, but Fiddleford had often said the two were very similar and Ford was quicker to notice the similarities between the father and son, so Ford shrugged and got on one knee to be eye-level with the boy. He might not know much about kids, but he did know a lot about this. “Yes, I suppose we can play. This game involves both math and imagination, so I’m sure someone was intelligent as you will love it.”

Tate grinned at the compliment and watched Ford grab a black backpack from the closet’s shelf and then followed him to the living room to play on the card table. Luckily Ford had what he needed to be a Quest Master and knew the game well enough for the job, so he let Tate use a basic character to learn how to play and to see if he would like it. Ford looked out for any sign that the boy wasn’t having fun, but Tate took to it like a fish to water. The minute he learned he had to fill out a character sheet to play for real, he begged to fill one out and Ford happily showed him how to roll the dice and earn his character’s traits and skill-set.

Soon Ford had Tate the elf go on a magical quest. Tate found a dungeon by a river when he used his sword to cut away some plants, and Tate now had to battle boody-traps and devious gremlins to win the game. Ford started to roll dice in a normal manner, but after a while he reverted to his unique way: weaving the dice in between his fingers and picking it back up with his thumb, starting the cycle all over again. Tate nearly lost his mind and demanded to see it again. With hot cheeks, Ford happily showed the boy his little trick and Tate instantly tried to do it, too, but Ford chuckled and explained that it took lots of practice, and then it was back to the game.

“Alright, you enter the chamber.” Ford narrated, in his element, with the models in front of him and his guide for what to do, determined on what Tate rolled. Tate decided that he liked the way Uncle Ford told stories. “Princess Unattainable beckons you, but wait! It’s a trap!” Tate gasped in horror as Ford wiggled his twelve fingers and imitated an evil grin. “An illusion cast by Probabilitor the Annoying!”

“Oh no!” Tate yelled and shook the dice in his combined fists. “I’ll get him with my sword!”

“Hold on, he only has one weakness.” Ford chuckled. “Prime statistical anomalies over 37 but exceeding 51.”

“Oh. Isn’t an anomaly a weird thingy in the woods?”

Ford laughed; of course this kid would first associate the word with Ford and Fiddleford’s field research. “Yes, but… okay, okay, here’s what you do. You see the dice with 38 sides? Roll that with these two, and then I’ll roll these three, and then we get to do some math to see who wins.”

“Yay! Math!” Tate quickly rolled his three dice and Ford rolled his. Ford even took the time to show Tate on his notepad why you should add certain numbers together, and it looked like Tate barely beat Probabilator’s illusion. “Yes! I did it!”

“Good job!” Ford said and ruffled Tate’s hat. “You’ve Probabilitor on the ropes! Now…”

“Oh ho, so this is where you disappeared to.”

“Hi Daddy!” Tate said happily as Fiddleford stood at the doorway, smiling and amused by the scene before him. “Uncle Ford’s teachin’ me how t’play Dungeons, Dungeons n’ More Dungeons n’ be an elf n’ kick Probabilitor’s butt!”

Fiddleford raised an eyebrow at his old college roommate, his smile still standing. “You dug out that old game, then?”

“More like your son was nosy and I couldn’t resist teaching him a trick or two.” Ford answered with a chuckle and ruffled Tate’s hat to show there were no hard feelings.

“Ugh, are you serious?” Tate and Ford looked over to find that Stan had returned, rubbing his eyes with his fists, awoken by the sounds of dorks. “You’re teaching squirt that nerd game?”

“It’s not a nerd game, Stanley, you would like it if you gave it a chance.”

“Thanks, but no thanks. I prefer to do my dice rolling in Vegas.”

“C’mon, Uncle Stan, don’tcha wanna play?” Tate asked and smiled up at him. “You’re always a lot of fun to play with! You can even pick the weapon I get Probabilitor with!”

Stan couldn’t hide the blush in his face. Before he could answer, Jackie walked behind Stan swiftly for a drink of water, but Tate saw her and quickly said, “Auntie Jackie’ll play, won’t you?”

Jackie jumped and darted her eyes all over the room. She ignored Stan and Fiddleford’s smug looks and tried to piece together what the boy wanted. “Um… what?”

“Dungeons, Dungeons, n’ More Dungeons.” Tate explained and even held up the box’s lid for her. “Can’t we all play together, pwease pwease pwease?” He begged, and even puckered his bottom lip out a little bit to sweeten the deal.

Jackie smiled sympathetically as she exchanged facial expressions with the adults. It wasn’t fair to Tate that there was no one his age to play with or to keep him company. While he had never once complained, it meant a lot of his free time was spent playing alone or helping with chores just so he had somebody to talk to. Just for one afternoon, it couldn’t hurt to give in and do this one thing the child clearly desperately wanted.

“I don’t see why not.” She said with a shrug. “Never played, but I’ve heard good things about it. Why don’t I pop some popcorn and make hot chocolate for a snack?”

“Great idea!” Fiddleford backed up. “I’ll go get my old character sheet!”

“Alright, Stanley come here and I’ll help you create your character.”

“Ugh, do I gotta be some sparkly elf or something?”

“No, you can be whatever you want to be. An ogre, a fairy, a centaur…”

“You had me at ogre! I’m gonna have my own swamp and kick out any annoying fairytale creatures!”

Later that evening, after all the characters had been set and the game was ready to begin, the card table became too filled to function, so everything was laid out on the floor and everyone sat in pajamas and snacked on bowls of popcorn, pretzels, chipackcerz, and mugs of hot chocolate. Clipboards for the players’ character sheets, colorful dice, and notepads also littered the living room, and as the room was lit with candles and the wood-burning fireplace to give it a spooky feel, Ford happily narrated his players through the game. “After your victory against the clan of goblins, you rest at a pub…”

“I’m gonna flirt with the barmaid to get some free drinks!” Stan declared and rolled a 38 sided die; once he understood that this game involved more risk and imagination than math, he started to warm up to it, and though he would never admit it, he had fun playing pretend.

Ford chuckled and looked down at the die. “You’re successful! The barmaid is charmed by your smooth words and strong stature, and slides you a free drink, but unfortunately your score isn’t high enough to earn everyone else a drink. Your players need to recharge from battle, so everyone needs to pay one gold coin for fuel.”

“Imma get chocolate milk!” Tate cheered as he changed the amount of gold he had in his bag on his character sheet.

“Okay, everyone roll your 12 sided die.” Once all the dice were still, Ford winced at the score and said with a devilish smile, “Your cheerfulness over your victory has caught the attention of your worst, and most annoying, enemy: Probabilitor the Annoying!”

“Dang it!” Stan yelled as he popped a piece of gum into his mouth.

“He’s accompanied by his trusty eagle, perfect for capturing victims, a hot elf, and his head ogre. Seeking revenge for taking down his army of goblins, Probabilitor attacks the pub with…” Ford rolled his dice. “... a math ray! Everyone roll your D-38.”

While Stan rolled a 32 and Tate rolled a 28, Fiddleford rolled a 17 and Jackie rolled a 2. “What!?” She shrieked, having been earning low numbers the entire game. “Stan, did you load my dice!?”

“Aw, c’mon, missy,” Stan laughed. “I wouldn’t cheat… okay, but not at a nerd game. It ain’t worth my best tricks.”

“While Goldie and Tate dodged the math ray in time, Hadron and Drizzle are hit, Drizzle left weak while Hadron almost made it to safety. The eagle takes advantage and takes them in his talons, following Probabilitor into the sky as the ogre and hot elf ride on the large bird’s back. Goldie, Tate, what do you do?”

“We go after them!” Tate declared.

“What happens if we don’t?” Stan asked.

“Probabilitor will eat their brains. It’s his thing.” Ford answered.

“Fine, guess we’ll go on another quest.” Stan ruffled Tate’s hat, the two paired into a team, and Ford had them set off into the woods for their team members.

“Alright, meanwhile at the campsite,” Ford went on. “Hadron and Drizzle are tied to a tree while the hot elf readies the brain-cooking pot.”

“Hold on, ain’t there a way we can escape?” Fiddleford asked. “It’s only rope, n’ I got my dagger, remember. If it’s in my belt by my hip…”

“Good ingenuity, let’s give it a try.” Ford cleared his throat and reread the rules to make sure it was fair. “Probabilitor, distracted by picking garnishes for your brains, doesn’t notice that Hadron has a weapon he can use without his hands. Roll your D-12, you have to get a 10 or higher to be successful.”

Fiddleford blew into his fists for good luck and let his D-12 go, but then slapped his forehead and winced at the 8.

“You managed to cut some of the binding holding you and Drizzle captive, but your dagger falls from your belt and lands on the grass and out of reach. Before Drizzle can even try to get it back with her foot, Probabilitor returns to do some more annoying dragging about how he’s going to eat you.”

“If I get my eight-year-old character killed over this, Imma lose it.” Fiddleford joked; there was no way he was going to die like this, right? Right?!

“Ugh, if my hands were free I’d break every part of his face.” Jackie growled.

“Oh ho, Probabilitor is so annoying he has even invoked the wrath of the peaceful druid elf.” Ford chuckled. “Helpless for the time being, it’s up to Goldie and Tate to save them, but first they must travel through the woods and reach the campsite.”

“Okay!” Tate cheered and punched the air, ready to beat up some bad guys.

“You two are getting close to your destination, you can tell by the frequent fairy bites. When suddenly your path is blocked by a huge ogre, armed with an axe!”

“Aw, come on, Manly Dave, I thought we were cool.” Stan said sarcastically and the whole room laughed.

“‘Halt!’ Dave the Ogre says.” Ford was using a deeper, gritter voice for the ogre, making Tate grin as the narrator had a way of making the story come to life. “‘You interlopers are trespassing on the ancient forest of Probabilitor the Wizard! If ye wish to pass, first ye must complete seven unworldly quests, each more difficult than the last…’”

“I bonk him over the head with my bat!” Stan interrupted.

“Okay, one, you have a club, not a bat, Stanley,” Ford explained for the uptheenth time. “And second, you can’t…”

“Sure I can! Our team members are gonna be dead soon, we don’t have time for seven stupid quests! So I use nature’s snooze button and bonk him over the head!” Stan argued and shook his dice in his fist.

“Fine, roll your D-38…” The room gasped as Stan rolled a 36. Ford, chuckling with disbelief, said, “You bonk your club on the ogre’s head and it knocks him out cold. He’s not dead, but he won’t be walking for a long time.”

“There’s no cops in the forest.” Stan hissed to Tate. “We take this to our graves.”

The boy actually pushed his hat and bangs back to show Uncle Stan his trusty wink, making the whole room laugh.

“Very well! You are approaching the campsite!” Ford narrated with wiggling fingers. “As Goldie and Tate hide in the bushes, Probabilitor tackles.” Ford cleared his throat and made the wheeziest, annoying voice he could muster, causing Jackie to snort and cover her mouth to keep from spitting out soda. “‘And now, a little math problem! When I subtract your brains from your skulls, add salt, and divide your team, what’s the remainder?’”

“YOUR BUTT!” Tate cried out.

“‘What?!’” Ford wheezed. “‘My butt isn’t part of this particular equation!’” The whole room laughed loudly and Ford had to wait for everyone to calm down before continuing. “Though your insult may have been funny, your cover is blown. Goldie and Tate now have no choice but to battle Probabilitor for the lives of Hadron and Drizzle!”

“Yup, we’re dead.” Fiddleford said and pulled out a clean character sheet. “Better start creatin’ a new character.”

“Hey! We’ve got this, right squirt?” Stan asked as he wrapped an arm around Tate.

“Yeah!”

“Let the battle begin!” Ford placed two small figures of ogres and said, “The ogres swing first! Roll your D-38s to dodge!” Ford rolled a 13 while Stan rolled a 14.

“Goldie uses a… Shield of Shielding to, you know, shield Goldie and Tate!” Stan made up.

“Probabilitor casts a reversal spell, and…” Ford rolled a 15. “... is successful. The shield disintegrates. The ogres attack! Now you can choose to attack or…”

“Oh! Giggle time bouncy boots!” Tate yelled out. “To jump over the meanie’s heads!” Both Ford and Tate rolled, but Tate’s was higher.

“The boots work!” Ford said. “Goldie and Tate bounce to safety, missing the axes and clubs by the skin of their noses.”

“Now they use flamey swords… no! SUPER hot flamey swords!” Tate declared, getting really excited. The boy rolled a 21, Stan rolled an 18, and Ford rolled a 2.

“Incredible luck!” Ford gasp. “Your swords are so powerful they destroy the ogres in an instant!” And he swiped up the little figures. “‘Drat you!’ Probabilitor screeches. ‘You’ll never outrun my Ogre-nado!’” And Ford rolled a 30.

“Yes we will!” Tate said and hopped up on his feet, shaking the die hard. “Centaur-taur will swoop in and save Tate and Goldie!” And Tate rolled a 32.

“A what?” Fiddleford chuckled.

“A Centaur-taur.” Tate repeated and showed a drawing he had made last night when thinking of weapons and characters. It was both horrifying and impressive.

“Tate, I am so confused n’ so proud right now.” Fiddleford said thickly with shiny blue eyes.

“The Centaur-taur dashes just in time and carries Goldie and Tate to the thick of the trees, where the ogre-nado is broken and destroyed. Goldie and Tate rush back to try to free Hadron and Drizzle, but Probabilitor’s score is still too high to be defeated.” Ford rolls his D-4, D-12, and D-38 to determine which of Probabilitor’s spells or minions to use; the Quest Master’s eyes widened as this specific combination of numbers meant he had to use the most powerful monster is all of Dungeons, Dungeons, and More Dungeons.

Ford grinned sheepishly, and narrates slowly for suspense, “You think all is well and good, but Probabilitor was saving the worst for last. Just before Goldie and Tate reach their team members, they’re grabbed by a huge claw with three fingers and are faced with a mouth inside of a mouth and a fiery red eye.” And Ford slammed down the biggest statue they had.

Fiddleford gasped. “The Impossi-Beast! I thought they banned this character!” He argued.

Ford shrugged. “Sorry, but this is the original 1972 version. They didn’t ban the Impossi-Beast until the second version, released in 1975.”

“It’s okay, we’ll just think of some cool weapons…”

“Ya don’t understand, son.” Fiddleford said as he gripped the boy’s shoulder. “He’s so powerful that he can only be defeated by rolling a perfect 38! If not, then we all lose our characters!”

“Rollin’ a 38?!” Tate gasped. “The odds are…”

“Hey, long odds are what you want when you’re a world-class gambler!” Stan said and took up his D-38. “C’mon, c’mon… Papa needs a new pair of… elves!” And he let go of the D-38.

Tate held onto Stan’s arm as it rolled across the floor. Fiddleford’s knees were bouncing despite being criss-cross. Jackie had her hands in her hair. Ford bit his lip, wanting his first quest with the team to be a success. The little blue die looked like it might fall on 1, but at the last second it balanced perfectly on that beautiful 38.

“WHAT?!”

Tate jumped up and down as he cheered and punched the air. “YES! Yes, yes, yes! We won! We won!”

“What do you say, buddy?” Stan asked.

“DEATH BY MUFFINS!”

“Goldie and Tate then throw magical Death Muffins into the Impossi-Beast’s mouth!” Ford narrated. “The monster explodes and Probabilitor is powerless and pathetic as always. But keeping true to his name, he annoyingly disappears into a cloud of math, promising to be back for another journey, but for now Drizzle and Hardon are free, and Goldie and Tate are upgraded to level 2 and earn twenty pieces of gold.”

“YAY!” Tate quickly scribbled down the changes on his character! “Can we go on another adventure?! Maybe we’ll find a dragon this time! I wanna try to get a Trust Arrow!”

“Unfortunately that’s all I had plan for now.” Ford held his chin and gave it some more thought. “I suppose I could…”

“Not so fast, Sixer, that’s enough nerd-game for me.” Stan stretched his arms over his head. “Ole Goldie over here’s ready for some mindless fun.”

“How about a movie?” Jackie asked and looked under the TV for the box of VCR tapes. “We’ve got The Voyages of Lionclothiclese: Clash of the Genres.”

“Oo! Put it in!”

“I haven’t seen that movie in years!” Fiddleford said excitedly as his son sat in his lap up on the couch.

Ford moved up to the couch and allowed Jackie to put the tape in the machine and soon the TV lit up with the lights and sounds of the old film. Stan had collapsed into his armchair and Jackie held her knees by her chest, sitting between the couch and the chair. Stan noticed this and shook his head discreetly. No way such a pretty woman was going to sit on the floor, even if it was carpet. 

Jackie couldn’t help but feel someone’s eyes on her, and when they looked at each other Stan gave his lap a little pat so no one else would notice. The farm-woman hesitated, but being in his hold sounded amazing, and really what did she have to lose, so she slipped up into his arms and curled up in his lap, the gang allowing the old movie to fill the atmosphere and happily distract them from the real world.

[fourdaysofrain]

A Symphony of Color

Summary: Peter wakes up with synesthesia after a fight.

(Before Infinity War, but they know Dr. Strange. What are canon timelines, anyway?)

Read on AO3

He hears a voice (cinnamon brown) cut through his ebbing and flowing state of sleep. 

He frowns. (Or, at least, he thinks he does. To be honest, he isn’t sure if he’s attached to his body currently.) Brown? Weird. He’s not used to hearing that. 

There’s something rubbing circles on the soft flesh between his thumb and forefinger. It comes with another voice (old rose) murmuring somewhere above his head. The sound comes towards him as petals in a spring breeze. He thinks he reaches to grab them. 

(Peter’s hand twitches against May’s as he lays against the stiff sheets of the hospital bed. Tony sees it from the corner of his eye as May quickly straightens against the uncomfortable hospital chair.) 

“Kid, are you waking up?” someone says (cinnamon brown again), and the question zings slowly around his head like an electrical current in slow motion. The words get lost somewhere on the journey from his ears to his brain. 

Something in him knows that he should pay attention to the colorful voices. They float lazily around him, fat bees leaving a dotted-line trail in their wake. The colors are an impression. When he tries to look at them directly they vanish, but if he unfocuses his eyes (an easy feat currently) they dance easily on the back of his eyelids.

The pillowcase slides against his cheek as he turns his head to the side. He might be drooling. He hears a groan. He thinks it might have been his own. He’s tired of moving his eyes to see colors. Being awake, in whatever capacity he is right now, is exhausting. There’s a pair of scissors in front of him, and they make their way to the black threads twisted together in a rope that is coming from his chest. The scissors cut through them with one great snip, and he falls blissfully backward into the inky black silence. 

---

Peter deftly dodges the beam of orange light that came from the sorcerer on the other side of the rooftop as it briefly cut through the night. 

“I don’t know what you’re trying to accomplish here, but I’m gonna guess it’s something bad,” he says, trying to elicit a response from the sorcerer. Nothing comes in return besides a sneer and another beam of light to avoid.

“Alright, more of a strong and silent type. I get that. We can’t all be endearingly snarky.” He avoids the next shot with a flip, landing too close to the edge of the roof. He teeters dangerously, and that’s the only window the sorcerer needs. 

A beam of light straight to the chest.

Falling.

Falling.

Fal--

---

A woman’s voice (violet) says something as Peter slowly drags himself to consciousness. Again. 

(“I lowered his dosage an hour or so ago. He should be coming to any minute now, but don’t worry if he still isn’t lucid,” Helen Cho tells the small group of people waiting in Peter’s hospital room.)

He tries to move first. It takes a herculean effort to stretch his fingers against whatever he’s laying on. 

Next, he stretches his senses out towards the room like laying out a picnic blanket on a grassy field. 

The first sound to reach his ears is the harsh beeping of a heart monitor to his left. Then he tries to tune into the voices he hears (violet and cinnamon brown and silver and old rose) coming from around the room. Still not quite able to decipher exact words, he just sees an undefined colorful cloud floating on the back of his eyelids. 

He peels open his eyes, each small action a little easier than the one before it. His vision slowly focuses on Tony, who’s standing at the foot of his bed next to a woman in a lab coat. His eyes light up like a lamp behind frosted glass when Peter makes foggy eye contact with him. Peter slides his eyes to the right to see May and Pepper looking at him expectantly. 

He tries to croak out a greeting, but all that comes is a series of colorless garbled consonants hitting against the roof of his mouth.

“May and I will get you some ice chips, Peter,” Pepper says (silver), helping May out of her chair. They both glance knowingly at Tony and the doctor before leaving the room. Peter’s forehead crinkles in confusion. He swears he just saw something in front of him, a flash of a silver chain, when Pepper spoke. 

“Pete, you’ve met Dr. Cho, our resident Spider-Doctor. Among other things, I’m sure,” Tony says (cinnamon brown) as he motions to the woman on his left. She rolls her eyes. He forces his eyes to focus on her, looking through the strange screen of color. His slowed brain finally puts the puzzle pieces together before his eyes light up in recognition. He’s only seen her when he’s injured, but he knows who she is. He tries to move his eyebrows in what he hopes is the equivalent of a wave. She gives him an amused smile in return. 

“Mr. Parker, you feel off a building last night,” Dr. Cho explains, and purple blooms in front of Peter’s eyes like grapes falling off a vine. He tries to track it with his eyes as he listens to her. “Thankfully it was only a few stories, but you landed on your right leg, breaking it in two places. We had to put you under while we worked on setting and casting it. You’ll have to use crutches for a week or so, even with your enhanced healing factor.” 

He nodded slowly, eyes still bouncing around the room as he wonders where the color came from. 

“Eyes here, kiddo,” Tony motions to his face as a soft red-tinged brown appears in Peter’s vision like ground cinnamon sprinkled on top of hot chocolate in the winter. He ignores it to the best of his ability as he makes eye contact with Tony but eventually gives in to trying to look directly at the colors. 

“What are you looking at, Peter?” Purple grapes dance in his vision, joining the cinnamon sprinkles as they wax and wane with the voices around him. It takes him a moment to understand the question posed, and another moment to decide what to say. 

“Fireworks,” he croaks (denim blue) through a hoarse throat. He wishes that May and Pepper could come back with the ice chips soon. Blue joins the show of colors as the cinnamon and purple begin to fade. His eyes close without him thinking about it, still not quite there enough to keep up with other people. He watches the purple and brown reappear and swirl behind his eyelids as he slowly dips back into sleep. 

(“He’s still high as a kite,” Tony sighs in disbelief. Helen Cho places a hand on his arm in comfort. 

“He’ll be okay, Tony.”

“He better be,” he responds, rubbing a hand across his face, “I’m going to go get Pep and May.”)

---

The next time Peter opens his eyes, he is lucid. His head still feels like there might be bits of cotton stuck between a few neurons, but he’s finally able to comprehend the scene around him. There’s light from the late afternoon sun filtering through the window blinds, giving the cast on his leg a set of stripes. He looks over to see Tony dozing in one of the hospital chairs to his right. It’s far from the first time he’s woken up in situations like this. He’s glad that the only injury he has this time is whatever’s up with his leg. 

Peter debates the pros and cons of waking Tony up, but just as he’s about to say something, his eyes blink open. They look at each other for a beat before Tony breaks the silence. 

“How’re you feeling, bud?” His sleep-rugged cinnamon voice falls lightly across Peter’s vision, causing him to frown in confusion. 

“Fine, I--” Peter cuts himself off as a blue that matches his comfiest pair of jeans rises in front of him like oil in a lava lamp. His eyes track it subconsciously; It’s hard to look at directly. 

“Kid, what are you looking at? Is there something Cho missed?” The red-brown in his vision gets more saturated as Tony’s volume increases.

“No, it’s--” the blue returns “--ah. Give me a second.” He scrunches his eyes shut against the colors, only to see them remain as if painted on the back of his eyelids. After a few beats of silence, they fade into nothing.

He opens his eyes again to see that Tony moved his chair closer to where he’s lying. His face is masked with worry. 

“I’m fine,” he knows to stop Tony’s anxiety before it starts. The blue appears again, but he ignores it this time. “There’s just... “

“Just what?” Cinnamon lines of lightning shoot across his eyes.

“Colors? Brown and blue right now. They go away when no one’s talking.” He tries to keep his sentences short, unsure of what the colors mean.

“Cho said it was just the leg,” Tony mutters, and it’s unclear whether it’s to himself or to Peter. “Do you remember what happened?” The brown lightning bolts zip faster around him as if compensating for Tony’s growing anxiety.

“I… I think I was fighting some sorcerer guy, and he hit me with a beam of light like Dr. Strange’s, and then I fell off the roof?”

“Great. I love it when wizards meddle in our business. I’ll have to go through the baby monitor.” He rests his head in his hands as his elbow rests on the metal bar of the bed. The sentence gives way to a companionable silence for a moment. 

“I got an alert,” Tony cuts in sharply, the edges of the cinnamon splashes focusing to become almost like blades, “at 12:30 am. A little robot birdie said my #1 intern fell off a building. I flew over to find him crumpled in the alley like an old oil rag.” He pointedly looks towards the window, avoiding Peter’s gaze. 

“I’m really sorry, Mr. Stark,” Peter starts, the blue lava lamp reappearing and upping in speed to match time with his heartbeat. Tony stops him before he can continue, the sharp edge to his voice softening. 

“You don’t need to apologize for getting hurt, Pete. I- We’ve learned that we can’t stop you from doing the right thing. We were just worried. You should get some more rest, you’ve still got a bit of drugs to burn through. Enjoy it while it lasts, because May and I will lecture your ear off when she gets back from work. Until then, I’ve got a magician to call.” Tony starts to move as if preparing to leave, and Peter jolts up a bit.

“You can call him in here,” he blurts out without thinking. He quickly starts to backtrack, “I mean, if you want to. You can leave if it’s private. But I don’t mind the noise.” He smiles sheepishly up at Tony, who returns a small, knowing smile. 

“I’ll be quiet,” he says, punctuating it with a soft pat on Peter’s shoulder. He leans back in the chair, already fiddling with his phone. 

Peter closes his eyes and relaxes into the hospital bed as much as he can. 

Most people count sheep when they try to fall asleep. Peter, on the other hand, imagines himself swinging down an endless city street. He breathes in as he swings upwards, and exhales as the ground rushes toward him. He makes it a few blocks before he can’t keep track anymore, a cloud of subtle cinnamon dust settling over his eyes as Tony murmurs into his phone a few feet away. 

The lecture from May and Tony never comes.

---

“He’s waking up,” Peter hears a deep scarlet voice announce, entering his vision like the main curtain of a play. 

He groans. He’s starting to hate waking up in a hospital bed. With lucidity comes a dull throb from his leg. He opens his eyes to see a small group of people in the room. Dr. Strange is at the foot of his bed, while May and Tony are to the side. He gives them all a shy smile.

“Morning everyone,” he says with a small, awkward wave. His words cause little blue bubbles to pop up around him as the red fades away. He gets a smirk from May which tells him it is decidedly not morning. 

“How are you feeling, honey?” May’s question brings with it soft, dusty rose-colored spots in his vision, floating softly like clouds. 

“My leg aches a bit,” he ignores a colored remark from Tony, “and I keep seeing colors when people talk to me.” He expects some sort of reaction from that, but May just nods and glances towards Dr. Strange. 

“That’s what I’m here to talk about,” he starts, more red blooming on the sides of Peter’s vision, “we believe that the sorcerer you fought somehow gave you a mild form of synesthesia. Chromesthesia, to be specific-- the instant association of sounds with various visual stimuli. Yours is limited to the association of voices with colors.” He ends his explanation with a flourish of his hands that causes the ring of a bell, and Peter nods. He doesn’t see anything new. 

“That’s kind of--” Peter gets interrupted by Tony before he can finish.

“If you say ‘cool,’ I’m kicking you out of the medbay and you’re healing on your own.” Tony’s cinnamon-colored threat makes Peter stumble on his words.

“Kind of interesting, I was going to say. Did he do anything harmful?”

“Besides causing you to fall three stories?” May says sourly, her tone contrasted by her voice washing pink over the room. Peter scratches his eyebrow and grimaces a bit. 

“Yeah, besides... that.”

Dr. Strange clears his throat and continues with his scarlet monologue, “As far as we can tell, there are no other side effects. There’s no way of knowing if this is permanent or how it will act in the future, but rest assured, I’ll be looking for the spell he used to figure out the reversal. Have a nice day.” He does his hand thing and walks into a portal, causing May to startle and Tony to roll his eyes. 

Peter starts to laugh.

“I just realized, the color of his voice matches his cape.”

Tony and May don’t laugh with him.

“Peter, what did we say about putting yourself in danger?”

“...Did we say we liked it?”

He spoke too soon about avoiding their lecture. 

---

The first thing Peter does once he can effectively maneuver the compound with his crutches is find a notebook that can fit in his pocket. He grabs a pen from one of the many junk drawers and starts a list of everyone he’s talked to so far.

Mr. Stark - Brown, the filling in cinnamon buns, the teddy bear in the baby photo hanging on the fridge.

Aunt May - Dusty pink, Grandma Parker’s old couch.

Pepper - Silver, fancy necklace chains, handcuffs.

Dr. Cho - Violet, purple grapes.

Dr. Strange - Scarlet, his cape, May’s date night lipstick.

He taps the end of the pen against his chin. He needs to talk to more people. 

---

Peter starts to get a new appreciation for classical music. He has his Spotify sorted into playlists by activity, but since he started seeing voices as colors, it was easier for him to just stick to his Study or Die playlist no matter the occasion, which doesn’t have a single word to share among the 50+ songs included. And when it’s quiet around him, whether he’s in his room or on the rooftop at night, and he closes his eyes, he swears he can see the colors of the individual notes waltz under his eyelids. 

He keeps eyeing the fancy piano in the common area, wondering if anyone would be mad if he tried to play it. He’s just so bored with his broken leg. He can’t even get his suit on to try to go patrolling, and he’s on compound-arrest before he gets his cast off so no one from his school can ask why he only had it for a week.

Well, Peter thinks, glancing around the room, ask for forgiveness, not permission.

He slowly stalks over to the piano and sits at the bench. There’s always sheet music laying in the stand, and he still has a rudimentary sight-reading ability from his years in the school band. He opens the cover, surprised to find a distinct lack of dust on the keys. But then again, there’s never dust in the compound. He figures that Pepper probably plays it, or something like that. 

He straightens the sheet music and then starts to play. It’s slow work, but he can close his eyes and see the beginnings of a watercolor painting. He’s just starting to put more energy into it when he hears someone come into the room. He quickly pokes his head out above the sheet music to see Tony leaning against the entryway.

“If you wanted to learn how to play the piano, you should have asked me.” His cinnamon-colored voice is already a comfort to see. Peter gives him an easy smile.

“Do you play?” His blue question floats over to Tony lazily as he walks over to the piano.

“My mom did. She taught me a few things and I taught myself a few more. Shove over.” Peter obediently scoots so Tony can sit beside him on the bench. “Any requests?”

Peter shakes his head. Tony just hums in response as he shuffles through the sheet music and pulls out a slightly-yellowed page. 

“This one’s a duet. Follow this--” he taps on one of the two parts “--it’s the easier one.”

Tony counts them in, and they start to play. Peter can’t quite keep up, but Tony slows to match his pace. 

Eventually, Peter takes his hands from the keys, choosing to simply close his eyes and listen to Tony’s music. Tony continued playing the melody alone as Peter leaned his head on his shoulder. 

The notes danced in a fireworks show just for him, full of vibrant color. 

---

Tony tells FRIDAY to let Happy know they’re on their way down and when FRIDAY responds, Peter just laughs and laughs.

FRIDAY - Turquoise, sea glass.

Happy - Slate gray, medieval castles, cement blocks.

---

Peter finally gets the all-clear to go patrolling again. He wonders how human something has to be before he sees a color for its voice. 

Karen - Green, emerald, the ocean.

---

It’s a quiet evening in the Parker apartment. Peter and May already had dinner, and are now winding down by working on homework and reading a book, respectively.  

Peter can’t pay attention to his homework. He’s had something on his mind ever since he thought about it on patrol earlier that day. He chews his lip in frustration before deciding to just say something. 

“Hey May?” Peter’s words bubble out of him, mirroring the blue that shows up in his vision. 

“Yeah, sweetie?” She looks up from her book, shrouded in soft pink. 

“Do you have… any recordings of Ben?” Peter hates how weak his voice sounds. May doesn’t respond immediately. She smiles at him softly, her eyes already misty. 

“Let me get something from the closet.” 

May leaves to go to her bedroom and returns a few minutes later, holding an old shoebox. She sits next to Peter on the couch and opens it. It’s filled with pictures and CDs. It’s like the sun, Peter can’t look at it directly for too long before his eyes start to water. 

May cards her hand through his hair and they go through the memories together. 

As the night goes on it gets harder to tell if the blue he sees is from Ben’s recorded voice coming from the TV or his own choked sobs. 

---

May gives him a long hug before he goes to bed that night.

Ben - Navy blue, overripe blueberries, the sky after the sun sets but before it’s night.

Dad - Barn red, the suitcase gathering dust in the closet, a worn-out Iron Man shirt.

Mom - Pale yellow, banana smoothies, the paint in the hallway bathroom.

--- 

Ned and Peter rope MJ into watching a Star Wars movie with them after school. 

Ned - Orange, tangerine, really old traffic cones.

MJ - Lilac, May’s dress in her prom photo.

Harrison Ford - Rusted orange, tabby cats.

(Ned is delighted to have a similar color.)

---

Tony, Pepper, and Peter are eating dinner at the compound together on a brisk Wednesday evening. Peter got picked up by Happy right after school for a surprise mid-week trip while May had to work late to cover for a coworker. She had thanked Tony and Pepper profusely, just barely believing them when they told her it was their pleasure. 

Peter has his eyes closed and his head tilted back against the chair as Tony and Pepper talk about Stark Industries, soaking in the colors of their conversation. Pepper’s silver and Tony’s cinnamon brown mesh nicely together. When they start to banter off each other, the brown almost looks like polished bronze. 

The first couple of times Peter did this, people thought he was asleep. With time, they realized that it’s just a new quirk. Whenever he can’t think of anything to contribute to a conversation, or he feels overwhelmed, he likes to close his eyes as people talk around him so he can watch the colors. Peter wishes he had a video of the time he listened to Tony and FRIDAY’s conversation while hanging from a web in the lab. The noise that came out of Tony when he noticed him there was unreal. 

Peter’s neck prickles as their relaxing meal is interrupted by the sound of sparks and an open portal across the table from him. Dr. Strange steps through it, his wine-red voice demanding attention.

“I found a cure for Peter.”

Peter snaps to attention, taking in the sight of Tony and Pepper frozen in their discussion, a fork still hanging limply from Pepper’s hand. To their credit, they recover in record time. Dr. Strange barely gives them a moment to gather themselves before continuing in his monologue. Peter wonders if he has to practice what he’s going to say in front of a mirror before he portals somewhere; he goes through his speeches like a trained actor. 

“The attacker was just a novice. He intended for the original spell to act as an amplifier, eventually causing you to go blind and deaf. He didn’t take into account your enhanced nature, so it ended up being harmless.” Everyone lets out a breath they didn’t realize they were holding. 

No one brought it up, but Peter could tell everyone was walking on eggshells around him the past couple of weeks. They were all just waiting for the other shoe to drop, for him to drop to the ground convulsing because of some time-delayed aspect of the spell. He’s glad he can finally relax.

“Harmless besides the three-story fall,” Pepper adds, her silver chaining up the red in Peter’s vision. Dr. Strange looks sufficiently cowed, while Peter is just glad May isn’t there to chew him out. 

“Sorry, metaphysically harmless,” he pauses, giving a small apologetic smile to the table. “Either way, the cure is quick and painless. I can do it right now if you’re ready.” Pepper and Tony turn to look at Peter expectantly. 

“Wow, okay,” Peter bites the inside of his cheek as he figures out what to say, “I’m glad you figured it out, but I actually kind of… like it. Do I have to get the cure?” He looks around the table to gauge reactions, but everyone has their face carefully blank. 

“You’re sure there’s no chance of Peter being hurt by this?” Pepper’s silver voice strikes through his view. 

“To the extent of my knowledge, which I assure you extends quite far, he has a clean bill of health,” Dr. Strange confirms. There are a few beats of silence as his scarlet remark hangs in the air. 

“In that case, I think we were in the middle of dinner, Criss Angel,” Tony says dismissively, and Peter has to stifle a snort as the reddish-brown dust from Tony’s voice returns. 

“Very well,” Dr. Strange’s face is unreadable, “Let me know if there are any new developments.” There’s another fizzling sound, and he’s gone as quickly as he arrived. 

There are a few moments of silence after his departure, which is eventually broken by Tony complimenting Pepper’s cooking. Something about the entire situation breaks something in Peter, and he starts to laugh. 

“You alright there, kid?” Tony’s cinnamon voice is tinged with barely hidden concern. 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. You guys are just--” he laughs again, not sure why his eyes are starting to water “--You guys are great.”

Tony stammers, probably trying to think of a joke to deflect with. Pepper just smiles softly and pats Peter’s hand. 

“We love you too, Peter.”

---

Tony and Peter work in the lab until late at night, listening to Tony’s dad-rock blaring through the speakers. 

Brian Johnson - Bright red, fire, roses.

Ozzy Osbourne - Neon purple, tie-dye before it’s washed, Barney the Dinosaur.

---

Peter gets detention… again. At least he gets time to pass notes with MJ. 

Captain America - Forest green, pears.

---

Peter supposes it was only a matter of time before people started to ask him more about what he sees when someone talks. It’s hard to explain, but he is able to share a basic understanding of it to Tony and May as they sit around their slightly cramped dining room table in Queens. The weekly dinners at May and Peter’s apartment every Friday were May’s idea. It was part of her post-figuring out Spider-Man’s identity plan to be on the same page as Tony. At some point, the tone of them changed from strictly business to almost familial.   

“Does it get in the way during patrol? I don’t want you to get hurt because someone’s voice blocked your sight while you were fighting them.” May’s faint pink floating into Peter’s line of sight is a comfort.

“I can ignore it pretty easily. It’s not actually there, so I can look through it when I need to. It’s nice to just watch sometimes, though.” The blue that appears moves more erratically than normal to compensate for his rambling. Tony nods to himself, and Peter knows that if it was an issue, he’d invent a way to get around it. 

“So kid,” Tony says, his voice in the same soft register that it always changes to when he visits the apartment, “What color am I?” Peter watches it appear around him for a moment before responding.

“Brown. Like cinnamon, or… wait a second.” Peter excuses himself from the table and goes to grab a photo from the fridge in the kitchen. It's a picture of himself, around two years old, holding a teddy bear close to his chest as he sleeps. He walks back over to the table and offers it to Tony.

“The same color as this,” he says, pointing to the bear captured in baby Peter’s tiny arms. Tony laughs loudly. 

“May, I’m going to need a copy of this for the lab. Something to humble the kid when he starts to get too many ideas.” Peter makes an indignant noise and looks to May, who just smiles and winks before taking the picture and returning it to the fridge. They eat in companionable silence for a while, the only sounds are the soft clink of silverware. 

“Brown... Why couldn’t I be something more exciting?” Tony says, successfully getting a laugh from the two Parkers. 

“Actually, remember last week when you helped me with the gang? When you talked through the suit, you were bright red.” Tony puffs up with pride as Peter and May continue to smile at him. 

“That’s not going to help his ego, Peter.” May ruffles his hair as she starts to gather the empty dishes. 

“May, let me help with those,” Tony offers, also getting up from his chair.

“No, you’re a guest here. Hire dishwashers in your own house,” May responds with a smirk, “You and Peter can go to the living room while I clean up so I don’t get distracted by your science-talk.” She gives Peter a pat on the arm as she passes by him getting out of his chair on her way to the kitchen sink. 

“No use arguing with her, kid. Let’s vamoose.” Tony puts a hesitant hand on Peter’s shoulder as he leads him to the living room. 

As soon as Peter sits on the couch, he feels the weight of this week’s stress press on him. He spreads out over the cushions, looking up at the ceiling. Tony quirks a brow at him. 

“Long week?” Peter likes to imagine that he hears genuine concern underneath the sarcasm in his voice. 

“Yeah. I had like a million tests and assignments, MJ scheduled two meetings for Decathalon this week instead of one, and Ned and I were supposed to hang out on Wednesday but I canceled on him so now he must hate me--” He cuts himself off, not wanting to annoy Tony with his teenage drama. 

“If best friends start to hate you after one rain-check, Rhodey and I wouldn’t have lasted past the first week of classes. Also, you’re Ned’s only connection to the Avengers. I doubt he’d give that up easily.”

Peter snorts. He slides his eyes over to meet Tony’s and sees a comforting look on his face.

“Anything I can do to help?” Peter hums, idly watching the shades of Tony’s voice float around him before he gets an idea. 

“Actually, can you-- uh, nevermind.” Peter ignores the nervous ripple in the blue that shows up in the corner of his eye. He looks back to the ceiling. 

“C’mon Pete, I thought we were over the whole ‘not telling me when something is wrong’ thing. I’m just a guy, you don’t have to be embarrassed.”

Peter flicks his eyes back to where Tony’s sitting. He really does look… normal. He’s just wearing a worn band tee with jeans, his new norm for the weekly dinners after an unfortunate incident involving pasta sauce, an expensive suit, and a very apologetic May. His hair is less gelled, he’s not wearing any of his sunglasses, and underneath the shoes that May made him take off at the door, he just has some store-brand socks on. If Peter ignores the finely groomed goatee and faint glow of the nanoparticle housing unit, he could just be another tenant in the building. It’s strangely comforting to see him like this, with all of his hard edges and metallic finish smoothed and sanded out. Peter comes out of his reverie to see Tony looking at him expectantly. 

“Can you… read to me? If not, that’s totally okay! I just like watching your voice, especially when I’m feeling stressed out, because it’s comforting to me, and I’m definitely kind of stressing out right now, so I could--” Tony cuts him off with a look.

“Kid, all you had to do was ask. I do, despite what you may have heard, know how to read,” Tony successfully gets Peter to let out a small laugh, his shoulders relaxed a bit. “Any requests?”

Peter shakes his head, leaning back further into the couch.

“Work emails it is. Pepper would actually be proud of me right now--” he pulls out his phone, “--Alright. This one’s from Charles Healey. He says, ‘Good afternoon, Mr. Stark…”

Peter sighs and closes his eyes as Tony continues to read aloud. He watches Tony’s voice appear like cinnamon snow. As he relaxes, the walls he puts around his senses slowly come down. He can hear May’s pink voice singing to herself in the kitchen as the sink runs. He starts to hear the murmurs of people walking on the street below. The colors mix and swirl in front of him, each individual person adding their own unique shade. His vision becomes an impressionist painting, one that pulsates to the beat of his heart. It belongs in a museum, but it lives solely in his eyes. Something the world made specifically for him. 

His very own symphony of colors. 

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