#and so the decency stays and so does the trade

[bloodboonfic]

So you have done a few bullet point AUs? Curious what would a Bloodboon role swap AU look like (Philza kidnaps Techno at the very start but Techno wants to return to nether)?

Me and Pink had a lot of fun with this one :D

Techno doesn't have anything on par with Philza's kids, so the circumstances need to be different: a full on war between the Nether and the Antarctic empire. Techno is King Ashthorn's top warrior/general. The Nether is loosing the war, and when talking terms of peace, the Antarctic council comes to the grim decision that The Blood God is too dangerous to let live.

Philza, however, has respect for his enemy, and doesn't think someone deserves to be executed just for being on the wrong side of a conflict. He manages to talk his council down to taking Techno as a prisoner of war/hostage.

Ashthorn is stoked to have a scapegoat for everything that went wrong with the war and pins it all on Technoblade, the dishonourable war prize. As a last chance to take advantage of this, he even promises Technoblade an honourable return home, on one condition: successful assassination of the Antarctic royal family.

A grim plan forms. Technoblade must endear himself to emperor Philza and his sons, get their guards down, and strike when it's least expected. It shouldn't be that hard, right? As the emperor's war prize, he'll be expected to serve him in all ways, right?

Philza promptly puts Techno is a palace wing as far away from his own courters as possible and tells him to stay away. Techno is a guest, for all intents and purposes, and he'll be treated with decency and respect, but he is still a dangerous enemy agent who will not be trusted. As the whole situation is quite awkward, Philza would prefer to forget Techno is even here. This is very confusing to Techno, who was under the impression he'd be used as slave labour. Philza is appalled at the very notion. Prisoners of war as slaves, what savagery!

Techno then makes the quick calculation that the fastest way to Philza's good graces is through his sons. Bad news: Philza has forbidden his sons from interacting with Techno is any way, shape, or form. Good news: Tommy doesn't listen very good.

Techno never even attempts an escape. Instead, the large conflict that leads to actual friendship building comes from secretly training Tommy, because that's what the prince wants and Techno needs to befriend him, but then Tommy accidentally injures himself. Philza walks in at just the wrong time, immediately sees red, attacks Techno, and would have killed him if Wilbur hadn't intervened quickly enough. Techno does, however, break a tusk.

Philza, after having the truth explained, feels bad, and invites Techno over for a fancy dinner. Techno is perplexed! He's been eating bread and cheese this whole time, what could be fancier than that!?

Philza also gets Techno an iron prosthetic tusk later, which is really badass from a piglin cultural point of view.

Random assortment of things that could also happen at some point:

Techno half-accidentally breaks into the royal library and has a grand old time. This might be how he meets Tommy in the first place, who was hiding from his dumb boring tutors

Techno discovers reading glasses, significantly improving his quality of life

Not seeing any signs of Techno actually doing his mission, Ashthorn sends more assassins: Witherbrand and Thornwhip. They're lured into defecting by the promise of bread and cheese

The happiest ending, I imagine, would be Philza arming Techno to the teeth with the best armour and weapons the Overworld has, and Techno returning to the Nether to duel Ashthorn and take the throne.

And thus, we come full circle. Technoblade rules the Nether as a wise and just king, with the bonus of excellent trade deals with the Overworld established early on in his reign. Also Techno and Philza can visit whenever they want ^^

-Anchestor

[book--brackets]

The Cemeteries of Amalo by Katherine Addison (2021-present)

When the young half-goblin emperor Maia sought to learn who had set the bombs that killed his father and half-brothers, he turned to an obscure resident of his father’s Court, a Prelate of Ulis and a Witness for the Dead. Thara Celehar found the truth, though it did him no good to discover it. He lost his place as a retainer of his cousin the former Empress, and made far too many enemies among the many factions vying for power in the new Court. The favor of the Emperor is a dangerous coin. 

Now Celehar lives in the city of Amalo, far from the Court though not exactly in exile. He has not escaped from politics, but his position gives him the ability to serve the common people of the city, which is his preference. He lives modestly, but his decency and fundamental honestly will not permit him to live quietly. As a Witness for the Dead, he can, sometimes, speak to the recently dead: see the last thing they saw, know the last thought they had, experience the last thing they felt. It is his duty use that ability to resolve disputes, to ascertain the intent of the dead, to find the killers of the murdered. 

Now Celehar’s skills lead him out of the quiet and into a morass of treachery, murder, and injustice. No matter his own background with the imperial house, Celehar will stand with the commoners, and possibly find a light in the darkness. 

The Children of Green Knowe by Lucy M. Boston (1954-1976)

Tolly's great-grandmother wasn't a witch but both she and her old house, Green Knowe, were full of a very special kind of magic. And Green Knowe turned out not to be the lonely place Tolly had imagined it to be. There were other children living in the house - children who had been happy there centuries before.

The Smoke Thieves by Sally Green (2018-2020)

In a land tinged with magic and a bustling trade in an illicit supernatural substance, destiny will intertwine the fates of five players: 

A visionary princess determined to forge her own path. 

An idealistic solider whose heart is at odds with his duty. 

A streetwise hunter tracking the most dangerous prey. 

A charming thief with a powerful hidden identity. 

A loyal servant on a quest to avenge his kingdom. 

 Their lives intersect with a stolen bottle of demon smoke. As war approaches, they must navigate a tangled web of political intrigue, shifting alliances, and forbidden love in order to uncover the dangerous truth about the strangely powerful smoke that interwines their fates.

Mongrels by Stephen Graham Jones (2016)

He was born an outsider, like the rest of his family. Poor yet resilient, he lives in the shadows with his aunt Libby and uncle Darren, folk who stubbornly make their way in a society that does not understand or want them. They are mongrels, mixed blood, neither this nor that. The boy at the center of Mongrels must decide if he belongs on the road with his aunt and uncle, or if he fits with the people on the other side of the tracks.

For ten years, he and his family have lived a life of late-night exits and narrow escapes—always on the move across the South to stay one step ahead of the law. But the time is drawing near when Darren and Libby will finally know if their nephew is like them or not. And the close calls they’ve been running from for so long are catching up fast now. Everything is about to change.

The Door Within by Wayne Thomas Batson (2005-2006)

Aidan Thomas is miserable. And it's much more than the strange nightmares he's been having. Just when life seemed to be coming together for Aidan, his parents suddenly move the family across the country to take care of his wheelchair-bound grandfather. When strange events begin to occur, Aidan is drawn into his grandfather's basement where he discovers three ancient scrolls and an invitation to another world.

No longer confined to the realm of his own imagination, Aidan embarks on an adventure where he joins them in the struggle between good and evil. With the fate of two worlds hanging in the balance, Aidan faces Paragory, the eternal enemy. Will Aidan be willing to risk everything and trust the unseen hand of the one true King? The answer comes from The Door Within.

A Face Like Glass by Frances Hardinge (2012)

In the underground city of Caverna the world's most skilled craftsmen toil in the darkness to create delicacies beyond compare. They create wines that can remove memories, cheeses that can make you hallucinate and perfumes that convince you to trust the wearer even as they slit your throat. The people of Caverna are more ordinary, but for one thing: their faces are as blank as untouched snow. Expressions must be learned. Only the famous Facesmiths can teach a person to show (or fake) joy, despair or fear — at a price.

Into this dark and distrustful world comes Neverfell, a little girl with no memory of her past and a face so terrifying to those around her that she must wear a mask at all times. For Neverfell's emotions are as obvious on her face as those of the most skilled Facesmiths, though entirely genuine. And that makes her very dangerous indeed...

Squire by Nadia Shammas (2022)

Born a second-class citizen, Aiza has always dreamt of becoming a Knight. It’s the highest military honor in the once-great Bayt-Sajji Empire, and as a member of the Ornu people, her only path to full citizenship.

Now, ravaged by famine, Bayt-Sajji finds itself on the brink of war once again. This means Aiza can finally enlist to the competitive Squire training program.

The camp is nothing like she envisioned. Hiding her Ornu status in order to blend in, Aiza must navigate friendships, rivalries, and rigorous training under the merciless General Hende. As the pressure mounts, Aiza realizes that the “greater good” Bayt-Sajji’s military promises might not include her, and that the recruits might be in more danger than she ever imagined.

Dragon's Bait by Vivian Vande Velde (1992)

Fifteen-year-old Alys is not a witch. But that doesn't matter--the villagers think she is and have staked her out on a hillside as a sacrifice to the local dragon. It's late, it's cold, and it's raining, and Alys can think of only one thing--revenge. But first she's got to escape, and even if she does, how can one girl possibly take on an entire town alone? Then the dragon arrives--a dragon that could quite possibly be the perfect ally. . . .

Tales of Alderly by Alan Garner (1960-2012)

About 150 years ago, my great-great-grandfather, Robert Garner, carved the face of an old man with long hair and beard in the rock of a cliff on a hill where my family has lived for at least 400 years, and still does. He carved the face above a well that is much older. How much older, no one knows, but it's centuries older, or even more. And why did he carve it? He carved it to mark that here is the Wizard's Well.

I am Joseph's grandson, and I grew up on that hill, Alderley Edge in Cheshire, aware of its magic and accepting it. I didn't know that it wasn't the same for everyone. I didn't know that not all children played, by day and by night, the year long, on a wooded hill where heroes slept in the ground. Yet there were strange things. Below another ancient well, the Holy Well, a rock lies in a bog. It fell from the cliff above in 1740 and made the Garners' cottage shake. It landed on an old woman and her cow that, for some reason, were standing in the bog, and, as a result, are still there. When I was seven, the bog was dangerous for somebody of my size and I once got stuck in it and thought I was going to drown, even though I sank only to my hips; but I managed to reach the rock and to climb up it to where a fallen tree was lodged, which spanned the bog, and by sliding along the trunk I was able to reach firm land. Nearby, under the leaf mould, is a layer of white clay that we used as soap to wash ourselves before we went home after playing. But there wasn't anything I could do about my clothes, and Grandad was not pleased.

The Edge is a land of two worlds: above and below. It took me my childhood to learn about above; when I was 19, I went to learn the wonders of below: a world of darkness and silence, so dark that you can see the lights of brain cells discharging; so silent that blood in the veins can be heard.

Stoneheart by Charlie Fletcher (2007-2009)

A city has many lives and layers. London has more than most. Not all the layers are underground, and not all the lives belong to the living. Twelve-year-old George Chapman is about to find this out the hard way. When, in a tiny act of rebellion, George breaks the head from a stone dragon outside the Natural History Museum, he awakes an ancient power. This power has been dormant for centuries but the results are instant and terrifying: A stone Pterodactyl unpeels from the wall and starts chasing George. He runs for his life but it seems that no one can see what he's running from. No one, except Edie, who is also trapped in this strange world. And this is just the beginning as the statues of London awake

[aetherbladedstick]

Either 20 or 93 with 20/93 because kriedbanajad forever

HEHEHEEEE THIS WAS AMAZINNNGGG ok so i went with 20 - Press Conference (from Chess the Musical Original Concept Album (but must be the original (black album cover) if you intend to listen - the version from the "Chess in concert" is way less fun bc the tempo is vastly slower.)) [also for the record 93 was I See Fire but a cover] and i think i love this. there is an amazing line in this song that is SO igor and would go great in a DRAMATIC igor contract fic imo but as it is the vibes worked very well (imo) for kreidbanejad. i hope you like it! under the cut etc etc

There's something outrageous about having to do press conferences. They're kind of awful at all times, but they're particularly awful now - in the middle of losing and rumors and all kinds of shitty fucking things that people want to dig into Mika about. The press wants a story. Mika wants to live in relative fucking peace.

Rangers management is only happy to facilitate one of those, and it's not Mika's goddamn peace.

He's kind of sick of it all - the hounding questions, the incessant reports that they're going to take Chris from him, the nonstop queries about his slump. He wants to go home, though if pressed - hah. - he probably wouldn't be able to define what 'home' means.

He wants to live in a world where he skates with Chris every night, and nobody asks him if he thinks he's past his prime, or if he thinks he's being paid more than he's worth. He wants to go home - home being not fucking here, right now.

The media has always been full of assholes, but this particular year seems worse than all the rest. Maybe it's because his tolerance has gone down - after all, he got used to a world where even Rangers beat wasn't allowed in the locker room - but maybe it's because the world seems to be staring down his throat, scrutinizing his every move. He feels, sometimes, like he's in a fucking shark tank, even when he's not reading the news.

So it's peaceful when he gets to sit next to Chris, at least, for this ridiculous interrogation. He avoids calling on the men he knows don't like him - and who, for the record, he barely likes in return. He mostly avoids commenting on trades, and mostly avoids commenting on loss, and tries not to scream, "You weren't even this fucking critical of Quinner," mostly because he knows it's inappropriate.

They're going to twist anything he says anyway, so when he retreats to a room where only Sam and the Rangers are allowed, it feels like peace. He talks to Sam about how he tried baking cinnamon buns to bring in, but they didn't make it past Chris, and Sam laughs, and Sam leaves, because Sam, at least, has some decency.

Chris leaves early - lucky fucker, though Mika knows he's not - and Mika stays late, biking and lifting and trying not to scream. He lets the pounding 5/8 rhythm in his head keep him going, and he tries not to yell his frustrations to the world, and when he finally emerges from his music-fueled lifting session, he drives home.

Home smells like meatballs and pasta and apple pie, because Chris Kreider loves him too much. (Kreids would say there's no such thing. Mika would say that Kreids is probably the most attentive boyfriend on the planet, and he'd go viral on TikTok for half of the bullshit he does for Mika. Krieds would say it's not bullshit. They've had this discussion.)

Also, Kreids has apparently blocked all the news websites from their internet in the last 4 hours, and laughs at Mika when he discovers it. Mika is reminded of how Chris can justify throwing a five hundred dollar iPad to protect his peace, and feels that perhaps, this is only just slightly left of being utterly absurd behavior.

Chris Kreider, sometimes, is so fucking lucky Mika loves him. (Kreids would say he is always so fucking lucky that Mika Zibanejad chose him, out of everyone in the world, but then again, Kreids is a giant sap, so. There's that.)

[the-elder-polls]

This is not ES related but I just wanted to say. I’m not American but I am genuinely scared from the election. I thought we could have faith in the American people having the basic decency of allowing people to have basic rights, even if they don’t like politics or don’t care about Kamala’s policies. Instead, as a result his cult members think they’re “reviving justice” for not being socially allowed to say derogatory “jokes” or comments? enforce their extremist religious beliefs that aren’t rooted in fact most of the time, their fascist and dictatorship ideology, deporting innocent people and saying that the rich should stay rich and the poor should stay poor. This also affects us as China, Russia and North Korea want him in so they can manipulate him, leaving us Australians, as well as Japanese and Taiwan people vulnerable to them, trading taxes to skyrocket as well as leaving countries who are desecrated by war suffering. I’m genuinely scared, I hate this, why does the world have to be this way?

i can't really offer any words of comfort for you, i'm sorry. i completely see where you're coming from. i plan on getting involved in my local community, and that's all i really can do. but i understand you, i'm here for you.

[jalebi-weds-bluetooth]

ArShi SS: Crossing Boundaries

Warning: 16+, heavy themes on desire

Note: I watched the kidnapping track where they're just so desperate for each other hence this is the end result. And a little gift for the enthusiastic reaction to the Sobti interview!

(Psst, please do go over and paste your comments in the website as well!)

Chapter 1 | Imagination

The mind does not differentiate between thought and reality. If an athlete simply imagined that they were running across a field track, their mind was stimulated as if it were in reality.

Thus when Arnav woke up mid sleep, drenched in sweat, heart racing as remnants of a sinful dream faded with waking, he knew he had crossed the first boundary of whatever moral decency that existed.

Khushi in a modest red saree with a daring backless blouse with no room for a bra.

He knew that it would just take a flick of a finger to undo the blouse.

What if the saree hadn't been pinned?

He had seen the sliver of skin through the gossamer fabric.

The long lashes wet in the rain, lips quivering in confusion...

Could he assume anticipation? Damn it, he was losing his mind. Playing games with Khushi Kumari Gupta was no longer fun. At first he had foolishly thought that it was a battle of wits and he had been so entertained to put her through menial tasks, watch her intelligent mind get frustrated with the redundancy. She was close to making a mistake, to not finding a creative solution for the assignments.

It had taken him one day to realize her mind, and mouth, were as sharp as a razor.

Thus having her stand motionless, mute, with a coat all day was the masterstroke. He saw the way her eyebrows shot up when Liza hugged him, then why did it piss him further when she seemed perfectly unperturbed when Liza continued to harp praises on him. Why did he need to get her attention on him?

And since when had Arnav Singh Raizada fret over a nobody.

Fret. Arnav scoffed, he was wiser than that. Obsession was the truth. There was something about her, something that frustrated him to no end.

Because having anything with Khushi Kumari Gupta would change the fundamental outlook of his life. She valued love, marriage, commitment and would see lust in the bracket of sin.

Arnav flopped back in his bed, content with being exhausted enough to catch a few more hours of sleep.

Being attracted to Khushi Kumari Gupta would challenge his formative beliefs and there's no way he would be trading his foundation for a passing fancy.

Even in a hypothetical world, Khushi wouldn't change to fit in his life. She wouldn't ever be a safe bet.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Khushi couldn't risk fancying Arnav Singh Raizada. Fancy? Khushi sighed in defeat, twisting away in bed, unable to look at Payal's sleeping face nor Devi Maiyya.

She was bothered by her relief in staying back in Delhi. Of course staying back in the same city as Buaji meant the most, but he lived in this city too.

Something bugged her about Arnav Singh Raizada. It almost felt like if she spent another minute in his presence, something might happen.

Something that might fundamentally change Khushi Kumari Gupta.

Something for which she'd trade her strict upbringing and romantic dreams.

In the romantic novels she sneaked in at library, the term fancy felt closest. Because this couldn't be love. But it bore the symptoms of it all.

Yes, she wanted to see him again, yet run away at first sight.

Yes, he made her pulse go faster, as well as her nerves.

Yes, she had dreams where he caressed her hair in her sleep, and a reality where he'd push her buttons to the extremes.

The contradictions ruled out anything that could happen between them. But when she told she couldn't, no, wouldn't see him ever again, she wanted to stay back and look at the disaster on his face.

They had nothing, but it felt like she broke something.

Khushi closed her eyes, shivering at the wind brushing her hair across her forehead.

He stared at her, brushing the hair away. Once to see her, then again to caress her. She felt his strong hands rest on her skin as he carried her, lightweight. The sheer power in his physicality - the heat emanating from his skin or the eyes that just saw right through what she wore.

Imagination was worse than reality, Khushi concluded.

Reality gave one the excuse to state that one didn't anticipate crossing the boundary. But imagination revealed that one was yearning to cross it all along.

A/N: Let me know in the comments how you liked it. And yes this is prewritten and will be posted pretty soon unlike my other stories *cry* - Jalebi Tagging: @butaneandthebeast @shiyaravi @shaonsim @thenainitaldisaster @maansiloves @muttonthings @sapnokiduniyaisalwaysbetter @bengudill @myloveforstuff @laad-governess @laadgovernorandsankadevi @leila1 @lostafpanda @magicfeltmybloop @honeybellexox x @featheredclover @goals1024 @bigfatreader @simplycurlz @persephone-with-a-cat@sankititaliya @ijustchangedmyname @noor1025 @bitchy-bi-trash @thecharlesboyle @minpdnim @starzin8s @zaphbeeblebrox @white-thebeauty @bunnypassionsworld @scorpio-smiles @exosexosekai @whateverworks21 @chutkiandchotte (let me know if you want to be added or removed)

[suzannahnatters]

I have a normal amount of feelings about eps 11-15 of MOON LOVERS: SCARLET HEART RYEO

you think these boys are going to fight over our girl but NOPE they're going to take down the villain and clear her name using the power of brotherhood yisss

wait...no...

I ALWAYS KNEW THAT BLIGHTER WOOK WAS NO GOOD

Ohhhh Lady Oh is FLAYING him with a few concise, perfectly judged words

queen yoo this, princess yeon hwa that, who cares about the minor villains? the king is terrible and deserves to lose everything and the whole system is rotten and needs to burn down

can't say how much I love that the iconic rain scene is NOT simply "me big strong man protect frail woman". It's MOSTLY about our girl doing what little she can to protest injustice, and So being the only one with the moral courage to defy his father and join her.

a year goes by. it does nothing for Wook's personality except maybe made it *even worse!*

can't say I'm fond of the decision to make it look like the king is Doing His Best, Really! and that all the Shenanigans are the fault of the scheming women!

My soul longs for an OPHELIA-esque ending where our girl simply opts out of the Nonsense. But I'd settle for a Shakespearean ending where the presiding patriarch is depicted as deeply morally ambiguous and just as terrible as everyone else. We shall see -_-

anyway BAEK AH, DON'T YOU DIE ON ME

ahahaha this show wants you to know that the horrible king gets to be reunited blissfully after death with his one true love, whom he treated like dirt, ignored, got pregnant, and then executed for a crime she didn't commit!!! THANKS I HATE IT

on the other hand there's also a subplot in which a princess wants to kill the king who slaughtered her whole family but this mission is complicated when she accidentally falls in love with one of the princes and I do respect a show that just offhandedly includes such a trope

oh yesss, our girl finally figures out the depths of Wook's duplicity and cuts him off without a shilling, now THAT is satisfying

vale Prince Guyliner, you DIDN'T deserve any better but you died very prettily without anyone trying to make you out to be A Saint, Really

at this stage I'm wondering who bites it next. my money is on Mu or possibly the not-so-awful queen.

I was right. Vale Mu, you died, but not before becoming every bit as terrible as the last king

on the other hand it looks like if you trade in one prince you get another back, nifty!

anyway this episode was full of tragedy, skulduggery and people making awful choices for relatable reasons and all these sweet boys are all at each others' throats and it's the finest vintage pain I've experienced in a long time, I love it so much

the romance is working so! well! for me!

the way So has now happily waited THREE YEARS (I know, give the man an award for Basic Decency shush)

the way our girl steps into Lady Oh's shoes T_T

two adults have a misunderstanding & actually TALK IT OUT?

So apologising? what's this? a kdrama male lead actually APOLOGISING to the female lead? instead of demanding apologies from her???

So apologising for a promise he never made explicitly but only implied? to someone of a lower rank?

SKIN WATERED, CROPS CLEAR

I did NOT expect to feel this positive about a male lead who just got MARRIED to his UNDERAGE NIECE, YIKES

huaaargh I'm a huge fan of how this show started out with a girl in fairy-floss-pink dresses charming 8 cute princes and now it's this suffocatingly bleak steadily-ratching doom-laden Shakespearean tragedy

best family drama I've seen since Shah Jahan's succession crisis. everyone's climbing across each other's dead body to grab the throne or stay alive.

except our girl, who's doing her best with what she's got

Wook, in a rare moment of honesty: "Are you going to become the King's dog and kill Eun? ...You and I are both struggling to survive. That is the fate of a prince who does not become a King. One must submit in order to provide protection."

ajks? our girl has just found out who poisoned the last king...just by ASKING?

And she was told. Because she's powerless. Because she's not a threat. Because who can she ever tell. *faint screaming*

this is just one of my favourite things in fiction--the power of the powerless

the WAY!!! she has taken on this role of a wise woman/prophetess! best use of time travel EVER

"what could have caused the variable that carried the 3rd prince to the throne?" asks the court astrologer and So is like oh heck

so...their love IS changing history? but for the better, or worse?

oh no, Eun and Bear Girl finally (after what, 3 years of marriage) got as far as first base and discovered a mutual appreciation for toy boats, if this leads to their untimely deaths I will be extremely miffed

well, of all the young idiots who were SUPPOSED to run away together and start a toyshop and a dojo...

how am I supposed to stop watching this AUGH

[averagejoesolomon]

lol don't mind me, just casually posting at 12:12AM because I literally couldn't wait to share this with you. Thanks for holding out—you've earned this chapter. And if you're new here, you can read all of Full Circle on Ao3.

Chapter Ten

He finds his heart first, pounding at a mile a minute and broadcasting beacons to different parts of his body—his leg, his hand, one two three ribs, his head, his head, his head. The beat shatters into a static that buzzes through his veins, cluttering up his frequency, crossing his signals. There’s a ringing in his ears. Cotton clogging up his hearing. He wishes for his old Army-issued headset and a Queen song that cuts through all the quiet. He’d sing the words, if only he could remember them.

The rest of his awareness comes on slowly, floating along the smell of sage and lavender. He’s weightless, still in that damned river, not sure which way is up, but that can’t be right. Someone pulled him from the water. He remembers that much. Someone pulled him from the water, and dragged him through the mud, and brought him to a little stone house by the shore. Shoved him into the cold, and the dark, and—

Pain. More and more pain.

Matt’s hand jerks toward a fresh sting radiating from his temple, as hot as Hell’s shattered stained glass. Before he can reach it, a stranger grabs his wrist, pinning him back in place. “Easy,” someone says, and maybe it ain’t a stranger after all.

One blink. Two blinks. By God, he is moving slowly. Far too slow for Moscow, which is a realization that forces him into alertness—or as alert as a fella can be, after the downright exhausting work of nearly drowning. He’s got to move. Got to keep his head. Got to run.

The last place Matt expects to be is the Moscow safe house. And the last person he expects to greet him is Townsend. 

The kid has traded in his polo for an uncollared t-shirt that sits too wide on his shoulders. There’s a worn quality to him—something about the stubble on his chin, the uncharacteristic slouch, the ways his curls have deflated since they last spoke. It’s a jarring skip in a timeline Matt can’t recall. “I told you,” Matt croaks, “to stay put.”

It’s the start of a lecture he didn’t get to give, still stuck in that moment before he hit the water. Townsend at least has the decency to look sheepish, even if he can’t quite muster up an apology to go with it. “Yes, well,” he says, releasing Matt’s hand in exchange for a half-full glass of water from the nearby nightstand. “You didn’t die, did you? No harm done, really. And if it helps, you did lead me directly to one of her safe houses, even if—well. Even if it was a bit inadvertent.”

That’s one Hell of an understatement, but Matt doesn’t say so. He doesn’t have the voice for it, until he takes a sip of Townsend’s lukewarm water. “Can you trace it back to her?” he asks, sip turning into a chug. “Or anyone else?”

“Not yet,” says Townsend. “Not here. But when I get back to the office—”

“Yeah,” says Matt, finishing off the glass. “Keep me posted.”

“If I’m feeling generous.”

“Townsend.”

“Only kidding. I can tell a joke, you know.”

“Stick to spycraft, kid—gah.”

Another blazing spike drives directly into his temple. Matt has the sense to pull away this time, but the pain follows him. Only then does he realize Townsend isn’t the only person waiting at his bedside.

Every once in a blue moon, Hay Springs gets hit with an ice storm—windy, blustery ordeals that shatter the world overnight. By morning, every building, branch, and lamppost is coated in a gorgeous, crystalline layer of glittering ice. Like the whole neighborhood has been dipped in glass and left to cool. It’s the sort of divine and otherworldly beauty thought up by angels, but it has a fury to match. The weight of the ice has been known to crack tree trunks in half. To tear bridges into two. To peel roofs apart one shingle at a time. It’s a cruel duality, that the prettiest storms are also the deadliest.

Right now, Rachel looks a lot like one of Nebraska’s ice storms.

Not a single expression plays out across her face, which is a surefire sign that something’s brewing below. Her shoulders are rounded, tired, and her normally pristine bun sags in its scrunchie. A thinner hair tie rests along her wrist and it’s stretched past the point of usefulness. He remembers that she tugs at them, when she’s worried. Snaps them against her wrist over, and over, and over.

Her nightstand hosts a collection of gauze, tape, pills, and hooked suture needles. He can smell alcohol nearby, too, probably from the pad she presses against his apparent head wound. “Does that hurt?” she asks, cool and even.

“Mmm,” Matt strains against the sting. “M’yeah”

She presses harder. “Good.”

On instinct, Matt jolts away again. At least, he tries to, but Rachel’s first two fingers find that spot on his chin she’s so fond of, and she pulls him back to her. “Hold still,” she orders with another sharp dab. “You’re going to pull your stitches.”

Dab, dab, dab. He winces at her touch, but immediately regrets the tightness of squeezing his eye shut. “Stitches?” he echoes. “Did the river—?”

“Not,” says Rachel, “the river.”

Hail Mary. Hail Mary. Hail Mary.

The prayer latches to his pulse, filling the gaps where his memory fails. He doesn’t remember the hit that earned him fresh stitches—doesn’t remember the one that gave him a matching shiner on the other side of his face, either. He doesn’t remember the hands that wrung his neck, or the boot that kicked bruises into his ribs, or even the rope that left shining red cuts across both wrists. But it’s all there, more scars to add to his collection, his heart threaded through every last one as though it intends to stitch him back together beat by wild beat.

Try though it might, his heart won’t hold up against the evenhanded and deliberate efforts of Rachel Cameron, but Matt reckons that’s always been true, when it comes to her versus his heart.

“How long?” he tries to ask, but his voice gives out on the second word. He takes another gulp of zinging, metallic tap water and tries again. “How long did they have me?”

Without his own memory to work from, he does his best to read an expressionless Rachel. She doesn’t give him much to go on. “Not long,” she says, at the same time Townsend says, “Nine hours.”

All of Matt’s hearts skip a beat. “Nine hours?”

“Not long,” Rachel reiterates, resting a hand on his chest when he tries to sit up. “Closer to eight-and-a-half.”

“I don’t remember if I talked,” Matt realizes.

“You didn’t,” Rachel promises.

“How do you know—?”

“Because I know you.”

He tries to sit upright again. “That’s not—we’ve got to go.”

She presses him back down. “Matthew.”

Up. “We can’t stay still.”

Down. “Matthew.”

His torso aches. “I can’t guarantee our safety here.”

Her hand is firm. “I can.”

“These are dangerous people,” he snaps, and the sharpness of his own words brings a new cut to his attention, thick on his upper lip in a way that drags down his Ps. “If we stay here, we’re sitting ducks—”

“Maybe you should have thought about that,” she snaps right back, lips sharp and clear as ever, “before you snuck out in the middle of the night to go meet up with them.”

He wants to argue. Wants to slip into their comforting cadence of back-and-forth bickering. Except the words don’t come. He can’t explain his line of thinking when the Circle sits at the very start of it. Despite years of friendship, Rachel still doesn’t know this piece of him and if Matt has his way, she never will. But the secrecy strips away his defenses, Rachel pinning him in place, and all he can do is sit there, wondering when he became the type of guy whose first instinct is to run.

Rachel seems to be thinking the same thing, so Matt says, “Townsend, give us the room for a minute.”

Townsend perks up in his chair, a flicker of betrayal in his eyes. “But—” he staggers. “Don’t you want to debrief? Discuss what happened—?”

“Now please, Townsend,” Rachel cuts in.

Her request is a whole lot more commanding than Matt’s, which doesn’t leave Townsend much room to wiggle any contrarian logic into the cracks. He stands and trudges out of the room, muttering something about being underappreciated in his time as he shuts the door behind him.

And then it’s just Rachel.

She wraps the bloodied pad in some old gauze and discards it in a small tin trash can to be burned later. With the same methodical motion, she straightens out the pill bottles, secures the cap on a small bottle of alcohol, and places the needles back into the faux sewing kit she pulled them from. Matt watches on, waiting quietly for the words that clearly sit on the very tip of her tongue. It doesn’t take long for them to break through. “I don’t want to fight.”

She doesn’t look at him when she says it, her focus absorbed by the tasks she’s made for herself. What’s more, she says it delicately, coolly, with every intention of keeping the moment icy smooth.

But Matt knows her. And he knows better. There’s a weight to her words, threatening to snap him straight in two. “Sure sounds like you do.”

She shakes her head, jaw tightening in that way it always does when she’s got something to say. “You’re hurt,” she says, reminding herself more than she’s reminding him. “Concussed, probably. Wounded, definitely. I put nine stitches in your face. I’m not convinced your ribs are still in one piece.”

“My ribs are fine.”

“Your ribs,” she says, “are covered in twelve inches of uninterrupted bruise, Matthew.”

“Rachel—”

“I said, I’m not fighting with you.”

“And I ain’t fighting with you,” he agrees. “Even if you did hide the passports from me.”

She snaps her suture sewing kit shut, attention finally landing on him. Dark, sleepless rings hang heavy below her eyes. “I hid the passports from Townsend,” she corrects. “I didn’t think I had to hide them from you.”

The implication lands squarely in the space between them—that she shouldn’t have to hide anything from him. That they’re supposed to be on the same team. That she’s not sure she can trust him, and that maybe she’s got good reason not to.

But she doesn’t say any of that outright. Instead, she pulls a Band-aid from her supplies and strips back the wax paper packaging one wing at a time. Cool, steady hands place the pad over his stitches, fingers lingering along the edges until it sticks. Matt’s heartbeat presses against her touch, again, and again, and again.

“I know it’s a lot to ask of you,” he says, “to look the other way one more time.”

Her gaze flicks toward him. “Then don’t ask me to.”

“I have to—”

“No.” Her hand comes up, as sturdy as her voice. “You can’t keep asking me to blindly trust you. Not after I woke up in an empty bed. Not after I tore apart the Moskva shoreline trying to find you or, god forbid, at least find your body. That’s not fair.”

Matt nods. His brain sloshes around the inside of his skull. “You’re right.”

“You have to tell me what’s going on with you,” she demands.

“That’s need-to-know.”

“What about want-to-know?”

“Rachel—”

“Matthew, please.”  Matt’s seen Rachel do a lot of surprising things over the years including, but not limited to, free climbing the Apennines, flying a helicopter across French borders, and beating a Singaporean footballer in a particularly high-stakes shoot-out. But until now, Matt has never once seen her beg. “I’m not asking for everything. But I deserve something.”

Matt doesn’t know how many fresh cuts he has, but he does know they’re all cleaned, stitched, and bandaged. He can’t count his bruises, but he knows they’ve all been checked and tended to. He woke up in a bed he trusts, with people he trusts, and wearing his favorite gray hoodie to boot. Somehow, Rachel has made Moscow safe for him. For that, and so many other reasons, she deserves the moon.

But the moon is out of reach and so is the information she wants. At the rate he’s going, working against the Circle of Cavan could turn out to be a lifelong war and he’ll be damned if he drafts her into it—but she’s right. She deserves some truth, and Matt could stand to gain some peace of mind by satisfying her curiosity. Rachel’s already poked at enough of his secrets, and might be a new Circle target as a result. He can’t have her digging any deeper.

So he tells her what he can. “Joe’s in trouble,” he says, “and has been for a while.”

Her answering sigh is short, in both length and attitude. “Joe is trouble,” she counters. “And that’s been the case for a while too.”

These are fightin’ words if ever he’s heard them, but Rachel has already initiated a ceasefire, so Matt follows the terms of the treaty. He holds back a holler in his chest, but still wants to be heard loud and clear, so he sits up one last time. When Rachel tries to settle him, he rises through her touch, straining against the long, hollow ache in his ribs until he’s upright at the side of the bed. Facing her like this, his legs find a place between hers, and he reaches out to rest a hand on her knee. His knuckles are splotchier than he remembers.

“You’ve had one Hell of a day, so I can’t blame you for being angry with me,” he says. “But if you’re gonna talk nasty about the guy who taught me everything I know, then we can’t have this conversation.”

Her brow furrows. “I taught you everything you know.”

“You both,” Matt concedes, “taught me everything I know. Just one of the many ways you two are more similar than you think.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Do not compare me to Joe Solomon.”

“There are far worse people to be compared to.”

This sends her to her feet, legs no longer knocking together as she lets his hand fall from her lap. She’s not quite pacing, not quite standing still, and Matt’s not quite sure what to make of it until she says, “I’m the one who pulled you out of a torture session. Joe’s the one who got you into it. We’re not the same.”

“Hold on—”

“Matt—”

“No, just hold on. Joe didn’t get me into anything.”

“Really?” she snaps. “Joe didn’t have anything to do with your little excursion?”

Joe’s the one who coordinated the damn thing, but this is another one of those truths he can’t tell without giving away the farm, so he settles for a partial truth instead. “Joe’s halfway across the world watching old baseball tape and icing a bad ankle,” says Matt. “How’s he gonna cause that much trouble with an ocean between us?”

“If anyone can find a way…”

Matt’s heartbeat is back at the forefront, beating through his body and making his blood run hot. Somehow, they always end up here. “So this is about Joe, then?”

She’s finally cemented herself at the foot of the bed, arms crossed and jaw set. “Always seems to be,” she answers, “doesn’t it?”

When he laughs, it comes out as a sore, scratchy huff. His ribs seem to crackle without air in his lungs to hold them up, but he winces through it. “That’s what you think of me, huh?” he says. “That I just do whatever Joe tells me. That I just follow you blindly through it all—believe it or not Rachel, I do actually have some agency in my life.”

“That’s not—”

“I follow your lead because I trust you,” he cuts in. “Because I’ve watched you work for years, and you ain’t steered me wrong yet. I follow you on purpose, not because I’m some clueless fool from Nebraska, but because I’m smart enough to know that you’re smart enough to save the world, and keep me alive in the process. And I know you don’t like this, but it’s the same for Joe.”

“But Joe—”

“—has saved my hide more times than I can count,” Matt finishes for her. “So I won’t sit here and listen to you rag on him. He’s trying to be a good guy.”

“Trying doesn’t count.”

“Trying is the only thing that counts.”

This is the first full truth he’s offered since coming to. Maybe Rachel hears the sincerity, because she’s looking at him the same way she looks at a mission brief, examining the facts laid before her. Her eyes are sharp. Her lips tighten. She studies him with such keen attention, until she finally lets her head fall. “Of course,” she huffs, patience waning. “Of course that’s what you think.”

Matt eases up to his feet, tired of being looked down upon. He doesn’t make it far, held back by a twist in his ankle. “I thought we weren’t fighting.”

“We’re not,” she insists. “We’re definitely not. It’s just—god, of course you would say that.”

“What exactly am I missing here?”

“You’re just—” she tries, but the end of her sentence is empty, and she fills the space with the shake of her head and a disbelieving squint. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Twisted ankle be damned, Matt limps to meet her. “Try me.”

“I don’t want to fight with you,” she says again.

“Well maybe I want to fight with you,” he argues. “What won’t I understand?”

Maybe Rachel’s reached her boiling point or maybe Matt just looks better, healthier, when he’s standing right in her face, rather than rotting away in her bed. Either way, she stops holding back and slips easily into their usual rhythm. “You think the world is made up of good people,” she says. “And what you don’t get is that almost everyone wants something, and they’ll do almost anything to get it. Just because you bring out the good in people, it doesn’t make them good.”

She really does have a gift for making compliments sound like insults. If her spy career doesn’t work out, she’ll make a killing in politics. “So I’m too much of an idiot to tell when someone’s got bad intentions,” he translates. “Do I have that right?”

“He’s using you, Matthew,” she says. “How many of those scars on your chest are from an op he sent you on?”

Joe’s a good guy—or trying to be, anyway. The way Matt sees it, it’s the trying that matters. Goodness comes easy to a lot of folks, but Joe’s always had to work for it. There’s an effort to his good deeds. Real, honest intention. Joe wakes up every morning and decides to make the world better, even when he’s got a half-dozen reasons not to. In Matt’s book, that makes him a better man than most, if only because of the sheer determination of it all.

Rachel Cameron is a genius. The smartest person Matt knows. But she’s missed the mark on this one, and he ain’t afraid to tell her so. “Joe Solomon,” he says, voice low, “is twice the man I’ll ever be. He’s worth every cut, bruise, and broken bone I’ve got.”

It takes their refusal to argue to finally land on the fight they’ve been trying to have for years. Finally, they stop their side-stepping and land right on target, centering themselves, and it’s Rachel who finally has the guts to say, “You’re going to get yourself killed trying to help a guy who can’t be helped.”

He’s finally close enough that she has to look up at him. Close enough that he can see the red in her eyes as frustrated tears break toward the surface. When it comes to Joe, Matt’s hardwired to jump to the defense, but then he catches another glimpse of the bags under Rachel’s eyes. The stretched-out band around her wrist. His favorite wool socks on his feet. And he settles on a simple, softer, “You’ve got to trust that I know what I’m doing. Joe ain’t gonna get me killed.”

Rachel’s not feeling quite so generous, laughing right in his face. “You’ve got nine stitches in your face that say otherwise.”

“That’s got nothing to do with Joe.”

“Then what’s this all about, Matthew?”

“Rachel.”

“Please, enlighten me. What was going through your mind when you decided to go rogue in the middle of Moscow—violating the Espionage Act, by the way—and on my watch. Do you know the amount of paperwork I’m going to have to fill out for this? I mean, seriously, what was going through your head—?”

“You.”

Matt’s seen actual, physical blows strike Rachel with less impact. She’s an expert at dodging, but there’s no getting out of the way of this one as it lands square in her chest, knocking her breath away. Matt waits for a counterstrike, but it doesn’t come.

So instead, he repeats, “It’s about you. Obviously.”

Rachel’s breath slowly comes back to her. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, come on.”  He has to take a step back, shaking the heat from his hands, his arms, his shoulders. The movement groans against sore muscle, but his restlessness wins out. “C’mon Rachel, enough pretending already.”

She follows. “Excuse me?”

When he spins back toward her, she’s already right there at his front. “This ain’t a coincidence—Moscow is not a coincidence, Rachel,” he says. “You didn’t happen to land this op, after spending your entire career in Western Europe. You sought out the Soviet Union, because you thought it would lead you back to me.”

“I sought it out,” she says, teeth grinding, “because the agency asked me to. Because I uncovered a lead—”

“A lead you found by poking around in my mission history. You saw an opportunity to finally get some answers you couldn’t get from me, and you took it.” His mama always used to warn him about the dangers of assumptions, but Rachel’s silence is all the confirmation he needs in this particular instance. “And you’re good at what you do—damn good, even. But someone took notice. You want to talk about bad guys? These are bad guys, and you raised their alarms somewhere along the way.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about—”

"I left to clear your name." His hands find her shoulders. “I was trying to take care of you.”

She swats them away. “I don’t need taking care of.”

“You do, if you’re gonna stick your nose where it don’t belong.”

“I’ll stick my nose wherever I want, thank you very much.”

“What is it with you, huh?” says Matt. “Always in control, always in the lead. You lose your head every time a plan goes off the rails—”

“I’m not the one in trouble, here,” she hisses. “You’re the one who stole US identities for an off-books trade. You’re the one who ran this op off the rails—”

“Why can’t you trust anyone but yourself?” he says. “What are you so afraid of?”

“You.”

That’s about when Matt realizes that two can play at this game. Sure enough, he’s breathless, and his heart is back to beating throughout his whole body. “What?”

“Obviously, horrifyingly you, Matthew,” she yells, and Matt’s suddenly thankful for the soundproof walls surrounding them. “God, it’s like—it’s like you don’t even know how crazy you make me. Just because you feel invincible, it doesn’t mean you are invincible, and it certainly doesn’t give you any reason to act like you are. All. The damn. Time.”

“What are you—?”

“I plan, and study, and strategize because everyone around me is some sort of magnet for risky decisions. You, Abby, my dad—and don’t think I don’t know about all the phone calls between you two, by the way.”

Matt opens his mouth to argue, but can’t come up with anything to say. She’s right, after all, and Joe always says there’s no use in lying when he’s already been caught.

“People die in this business,” she goes on. “Every day. And it’s my job to make sure none of my guys end up in an early grave.”

“Oh, that's your job, is it?”

“I won’t lose another person I care about,” she says. “I won’t do it.”

Just like that, Matt’s back in Baltimore, standing in the clutter of Rachel’s childhood bedroom with a well-worn photograph and even more worn book of poems. He wonders just how long Rachel’s been taking care of people. Then he wonders if anyone’s taking care of her.

He shakes his head. “That’s not up to you,” he says. “Rachel, things happen.”

“Not if I don’t let them happen,” she replies, but there’s an edge to her voice, as though the concepts of chance or happenstance keep her awake at night. “Not if people listen to me, and don’t go running off in the middle of the night to meet god-knows-who, about god-knows-what.”

“I didn’t—”

“And—god, honestly Matt.” She keeps going, one word rolling in after the other, and it’s clear she’s been waiting to say all of this for the past two years. “If you’re going to be this stupid you should at least have the decency to be hard to love.”

Wait. “What?”

She blinks up at him. “What.”

“What did you just say?”

“I said you’re too likable to go off and get yourself killed.”

“Nuh-uh,” he cautions. “No, that’s not what you said.”

“Yes it is.”

“Rachel.”

“Don’t.”

“You know what you said,” he tries, “don’t you.”

“I’m not going to fight with you.”

“The ship has sailed on that one, Ace.”

“You’re hurt, and you’re exhausted, and—and—”

He’s hanging on every word, waiting for her to repeat just one. But before it can come, he’s all caught up in a flurry, her cool hands gripping either side of his face and her soft lips landing directly on his own. Thunder rumbles in his chest, ice crystalizing along his skin. A crack runs straight down his spine and he’s at risk of falling. Falling hard. Falling fast. It’s all he can do to keep standing against the weight of her, right up against him, but his bruises are aching and his cuts are calling, and he lets out a soft, “Ouch,” without thinking.

Rachel pulls away immediately. “Sorry,” she says. “Sorry, I forgot about your—”

“Absolutely not,” he growls, and he doesn’t waste a second before hooking an arm around her hips, pulling her in close once more. It hurts worse a second time, the momentum of Matt's grip backing up another kiss, but the pain has nothing on the pleasure. He’s kissing Rachel Cameron, and Rachel Cameron is kissing him right back, and there ain’t enough pain on this planet to take him out of this moment.

[vertical-dreams]

11.08.23

a post to vent

I tire of it all so easily. I wonder if I'm just lazy, as I've been told. I wonder if I'm depressed (it runs in the family, you know). Maybe some of those. But I also remember that a plant's ability to thrive is based on its environment.

I love everyone in my life and I am so grateful for the people and things that I have in my life.

It upsets me when I am mocked and ridiculed. I avoided a job for so long, which I must take accountability for. It was influenced by people telling me to focus on school, that I might not do well managing both, which fed into my fear of losing my scholarship. But I traded independence for security.

Maybe the mocking is just a rite of passage. Maybe it is out of love. But should love ever make one feel so deflated, so defeated by life, so embarrassed? I lack confidence, and I don't think the consistent ridiculing has ever helped. Ridiculed for not having a job (by the same people who discouraged me to get one) made me feel crazy, ashamed, and little. A small little sprout being trampled on before reaching its potential. Leaving school on the weekends, then the evenings, because family were 'crying themselves to sleep' over how much they missed me. And me, being afraid that if I didn't come back, they'd seek solace elsewhere, like an abusive ex. I felt the weight of too much responsibility that I did not prompt or otherwise instigate. Then, made fun of at school for not being there. It was hard to feel comfort.

Looking after my family, despite them being pretty independent. They still have a tendency to put themselves in dangerous situations, so I have been a watchful eye and a helping hand (at some points, I hope, though it seems by their reactions that perhaps I am not much help at all). Does everyone and no one need me? Staying at home for my final semester for money from the school (that I did not receive) and to appease my family and to maintain my own comfort. Being berated for not wanting to go in public as much, not having a job, having thoughts and opinions that dared to be different. It breaks my heart to hear that my opinions are stupid, that I don't know what I'm talking about, and that I should shut the fuck up. It makes me sad.

It is also a lack of privacy. Being an adult but fearful of dating because I know I will face criticism and questions for going out and meeting new people. It is learned helplessness, as I avoid trying things because I know someone else will not be satisfied with my work, and I will receive an earful.

Maybe that is what independence is, learning to rely on yourself and not the words of others too much. Maybe I am the only one who will push myself, kindly and gently, out of my comfort zone (without backlash, because I deserve politeness and decency). I deserve everything I want in life. Just keep trying to spread love.

[lilpressedflower]

I started writing in the tags and Then realized it was way too much and way too late and the same time so,, if you could read the tags?

Crooked Kingdom really be like “Kaz is Wylan’s dad and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

[melmedardasworld]

A TVD what if I would like to write a fanfic about: the Bonnie/The Bennett edition after rewatching the show, starting from S3.

- Abby's reason for leaving has to do with her daughter/family not Elena/ Gilberts. Everything Abby did was for/because of Bonnie/her mother/husband. I might keep the complexity of Abby not wanting the responsibility of being a witch cause I can understand her POV, but she would've been a better mom and taking her responsibility that she has a child, cause why could she do it with Jamie (he does not exist in my fic and Wilson is an alias while she was on the run/in hiding) and not Bonnie? I think it is possible to separate being a witch and a mom.

Speaking of being a witch, I'd even say Abby had to sacrifice her magic to desiccate Mikael then after 14 years it would return as a sign that Mikael was freed by his compelled (vampire) minions, which makes it so Abby returns to MF to protect her family once more. She finds out her mother isn't alive and get a scene with her visiting the Bennett family graveyard with Bonnie.

-Abby and Bonnie's relationship while strained would've been mended as time went on. They would definitely agree/disagree on how to protect MF and put a halt to Bonnie's borderline selfless that gets herself killed. Abby would put her daughter first like how Elena is put first by the others, especially by Damon and Stefan. In that regard Abby would be more self preserving which would cause friction with the others, but would give Bonnie more agency.

- Abby and Rudy would actually interact as estranged husband and wife (cause the show acted like Rudy didn't exist until S4). Rudy would cope with Abby's return by being a workaholic. Abby would give space until he was ready to talk.

- Lucy would definitely return in my fic, cause she said she'd see her again and the show did her dirty.

That's all I have for now that part.

I do have some other ideas based on the first 'Bennett' witch who arrived to the New World with the Mikaelsons family through Ayana. I'd even introduce her child(ren). After the creation of the Original vampires Ayana and her famjly were force to flee, because a witch created the vampires. They werent safe, Esther got killed by her own child, and the villagers/villages around them would probably have an aversion to witches.

Ayana and her kids could either stay in the New World there or go back to North Africa (excuse the lack of specific country) since historically there was some Viking influence there through raids and plundering. It is the only explanation that makes sense to me as to why she was with the Mikaelson, a Viking family, in Europe in the first place. To briefly touch a bit on Africa in the medieval times : there was (slave) trade between West and North Africa. But that is to flesh it out and have it make sense given the lack of depth the writers gave us in the show.

Don't introduce a character if you can't even make the effort to expand on Bonnie's ancestry other than being a token/relevant for the plot and then retcon or never mention it again in your continued lore (cough, cough Esther in the Originals and the total lack or mention of Ayana). Cause people in fandom are acting dense on purpose when it comes to Ayana and the Bennett influence in TVD and the Supernatural world. But again, if the writers can't show the decency then fandom is gonna follow them.

I would possibly even sprinkle some romance here and there (cause yes, I love my "crack" ships and romantic touches in a story in general c). But my main focus would be the Bennett line and fleshing out their history cause we could've gotten soooo much more and it was such a missed opportunity.

Inspired by the many rants I read in fandom about Bonnie/the Bennets, the fans and a few pro Bonnie/Bennet blogs I started to followed such as @cancerian-woman whose insights I read on repeat together with some other talented writers on here

[angelicyoongie]

the crimson shell (llll)

— pairing: jungkook x f!reader — genre: mermaid au, yandere au — w.c: 4.6k — warnings: explicit sexual content! heavy dub-con touching/intercourse, forced breeding, oviposition, mentions of death/violence, general yandere themes — notes: ah, here we finally are, the last part/finale to the story! please keep the warnings in mind, and don’t read this chapter if you’re uncomfortable with anything stated above!

Part I / II / III / IIII

You’re not sure how long you’ve been here. After the second week of just blankly staring at the never changing cave walls surrounding you, you figured there was no point in keeping track of it. What good does it do you anyway? It’s not like counting the days will miraculously get you out of here. While you might not know the number, you do know that it’s been far too many. Your skin has grown pale and gaunt from the lack of sunshine and warmth you’re so used to, and the diet of raw fish hasn’t exactly been very kind to you. The cave is tall enough for you to stand up in comfortably, so at least your circulation isn’t completely shot, but you honestly lack the energy to stay on your feet for too long. Escaping, even just back up to the island, is your only chance at survival. You don’t think you’re going to last very long down here. It’s already gotten to the point where you’ve begun looking forward to Jungkook’s short daily visits, even just the sight of something almost human enough to keep you sane.

You let out a heavy sigh, the noise echoing around the cave as you lean back against the stone wall. Over the last couple of days, the creature has begun to bring you little treasures alongside with your food. You’re not exactly sure why, but it’s nice to have something to do – even if it’s just tracing the patterns on the lockets and pendants over and over. You run your fingers over the small pile of golden jewelry by your side, trying your best to keep your thoughts away from the people it must have belonged to. Jimin might have managed to get away, but you doubt the rest of them did. Two of the pendants in your pile belonged to the crew Jimin brought with him, and you suspect that if you give Jungkook a few more days, he’ll bring you the remaining three. As if you summoned him with your straying thoughts, a small splash in the water alerts you of the creature’s arrival. You turn your head just in time to see Jungkook hoisting himself up on the ledge, another fish and a new pendant dropped at your feet. You silently scoot closer to the edge, offering up your hand to the creature’s expectant red eyes. Jungkook nuzzles into your hand with a happy thrill, rubbing his cheek along your palm. You suppress a shudder at the sound, ignoring the soft skin underneath your fingertips as you stare at the headless fish at your feet. Sometimes you wish you could share the same fate as your food.

You let Jungkook cuddle your hand for as long as he wants, knowing that denying him will only make things worse for yourself. If you look past the sharp claws and teeth, Jungkook is hardly anything more than an oversized puppy. He seems to crave constant affection and confirmation that he’s done good when he brings you food or treasures. You think you might would have found it sweet if it wasn’t for the fact that he’s keeping you trapped here – and that he’s a monster. There’s nothing sweet or innocent about the creature in front of you. You let out a small breath of relief as Jungkook drops your hand, but he doesn’t immediately sink back down in the water as he normally does. You watch in confusion as he pushes the fish closer, the gold chain around it rattling as it drags against the stone. You hesitantly pick it up, praying that Jungkook isn’t going to stay here and watch you eat it. The raw fish already makes you nauseous, and there’s no way you’ll be able to stomach eating it with an audience. Especially one that likes to punish you when you do something he doesn’t like. Call you crazy, but you don’t think gagging at the food he brings you will make him very happy.

You slowly unwrap the chain, putting the fish back down to turn over the locket in your hands. You suck in a harsh breath at the familiar design at the front, the intricate carved flowers making bile rise in your throat. You had this made for Jimin years ago, back when you were still best friends.  You two stayed friendly even after you started drifting apart, but you figured he would’ve gotten rid of the locket by now. You can’t believe he kept it all this time. That he still wore it. Your hands shake as you gently pull on the clasp on the side, a strained sound leaving your lips as you flip it open. A picture of you and Jimin smiles back at you, your faces bright and carefree. Jimin has an arm slung around your shoulders, his eyes closed into little crescent moons from how hard he’s grinning at the camera. The pure happiness in the photo makes your heart clench. Despite knowing Jimin was the one who lead you here, you find yourself desperately missing him for a split second before you can catch yourself. God, maybe if you accepted that marriage proposal from the baker’s sleazy son last year you would’ve at least been safe. Home.

You’re yanked out of your thoughts as Jungkook tugs you closer to the ledge, a clawed hand quickly snatching the locket out of your grasp. He lets out a series of chirping noises as his red eyes drag from the locket to you, and Jungkook taps your smiling face in the photo before he does the same to your leg. You stare in bewilderment as the creature drops the locket back in your hands, his lips stretched into a nightmarish version of a smile before he lowers himself down in the water. You swear your heart stops the moment you see the rows of teeth lining his mouth, and it refuses to work again until Jungkook is fully submerged and swimming away. You hastily scoot back from the edge, the locket clutched tightly in your hand. A bitter smile graces your lips as it dawns on you that you’ve figured out how Jimin traded your life for his. The picture. While you can’t be sure of exactly how he managed to communicate with Jungkook, you’re sure that being stranded here for six months must’ve been more than enough time to figure out a way to converse without using actual words. With Jimin as living proof in front of him, the creature must’ve understood that it meant that you were real too. And that if he had managed to get Jimin, then there would be a way to get to you. It was probably easier for Jimin to trade your life for his when he had something tangible to show Jungkook, when he had proof in his hands that you were out there too. A part of you hopes that maybe Jimin tried to convince Jungkook to change his mind, to take someone else instead, but you have a feeling that even if he did, the creature wouldn’t have budged. From the time you’ve spent on the island it has become very clear that Jungkook is stubborn and used to getting what he wants – but you suppose that’s only natural for a creature like him. How can something tell you no when it has already been eaten?

Of course, Jimin had no way to be sure that you would set sail for Jungkook’s island. But, while there was no guarantee you would risk travelling that far, your old friend knew how desperate you were for money, and the lengths you were willing to go to keep your family afloat. You suppose he knew how easy it would be to trick you as long as there was a bit of gold involved, and Jimin was dripping in it when he came back. You just hope he at least had the decency to spare your family a gold ring or two after you left, considering he sacrificed you to go free. You toss the locket aside, not really caring where it ends up as long as it’s far away from you. You force yourself to take a few deep breaths, trying your best to quell the anger burning through your veins. Being mad at Jimin won’t do you any good while you’re stuck down here, so you allow yourself to whisper out a string of curses at the man before you lock away the heavy feeling of betrayal deep into your chest. Seeing Jimin’s smiling face has reignited your dwindling spirit, and you decide that you will get out of here, even if it is just to hunt Jimin down.

The next time Jungkook comes back to visit you, there are no more treasures. Instead, your eyes widen in surprise as the creature gently places a familiar shell and pearl down by your feet, next to your twitching meal. You’re certain you left them near your bonfire higher up on the beach, but judging by the scratches and roughed up skin on Jungkook’s arms, it seems like the creature probably dragged himself all the way up there to get them. You feel your throat run dry at the thought, at the fact that you weren’t even as safe on land as you had first believed. If Jungkook was willing to bring himself up on land to get them, then you’re sure they must mean something important. It can’t be a coincidence that both the shell and the pearl have the same deep red colour as Jungkook’s tail and eyes, and come to think of it, didn’t your luck begin to turn after you picked up it that evening before you left?

Jungkook lets out a chirp as you pick up the shell, the creature leaning forward to rub his head against the back of your occupied hand. You eye him warily as your mind races through what has happened ever since you left home. You really, truly, hope that you’re wrong, but based on how everything started after you picked up the shell and how the creature acts – how he provides for you, how offended he acts when you push him away and how affectionate he is, you fear you might have accidentally accepted a courting offer. You’ve seen similar patterns in animals before, and while you’re not entirely sure what Jungkook really is, you think it’s safe to assume that the same thing might apply for him too. What you can’t really wrap your mind around is why he waited so long. It took weeks before you left after Jimin returned, and you were down by the beach every night. The unexplainable fear you felt was probably something deep inside of you that recognized that you were being watched by a predator – by him – but you didn’t know enough to connect the dots. Jungkook had many chances to grab you, but he didn’t. Not until you accepted his shell. Convenience maybe? That this whole trade was easier if he made you come to him? Or maybe some weird kind of custom his kind has? He is half human, after all. But you can’t be sure. If anything, Jimin could’ve at least had the decency to teach you how to converse with him if he was going to throw you to the sharks, or rather, Jungkook. Either way, you’re sure Jungkook would’ve eventually found a way to get to you even if you didn’t leave on that boat.

You’re shaken out of your thoughts when the feeling of soft skin leaves the back of your hand. The clicks falling from Jungkook’s lips are uncharacteristically soft as he pulls himself up on the ledge, those deep red eyes trained on yours as he tugs you closer. It only takes one hard yank before you find yourself caged in underneath Jungkook’s arms again, legs on either side of his waist. Your pulse quickens as you’re reminded of what happened the last time – you’re not exactly eager to pass out again from being smothered by his weight.  

You feel like you shouldn’t be surprised that Jungkook manages to carry his entire weight on one arm, while the other begins to roam across your body. After all, he did drag himself up on land and back, and the part you had on top of you last time was hardly anything. The weight of his entire tail must be extremely heavy out of water. You know the creature doesn’t like it when you don’t pay him attention, so you let your eyes rest on his collarbones, watching as a few drops of water run down his skin. Keeping eye contact is too intimidating, those deep red irises makes it feel like you’re staring right into the depths of hell.

You dig your fingers into your thighs as Jungkook’s hand dips under the torn fabric of your shirt, the unusual texture of the web between his fingers making you squirm uncomfortably as it drags over your skin. You’re very aware of the sharp claws hovering above your delicate stomach as he explores, but at least the creature knows to not let them touch. Jungkook’s hand trails over your sides, your stomach, all the way up to the underside of your breasts. You swallow thickly as a knuckle brushes against the soft flesh, Jungkook’s motion suddenly stilling at the contact. You’ve always managed to push him off before he’s gone any further, but you can feel the shift in the creature’s mood today. You know he’s not going to take no for an answer. But, that still didn’t prepare you for the sudden gush of wind brushing across your exposed chest, your shirt split clean in two with the help of Jungkook’s claws. Before you can scramble to cover up, Jungkook lets out an excited chirp, his hand quickly moving back to your chest. Your mind goes blank as he places his palm over one of your breasts, experimentally squeezing and massaging it as he watches you curiously. You grit your teeth as Jungkook plays with it, ignoring the little tingle of heat in your stomach whenever he does something your traitorous body likes.  

You try to convince yourself that Jungkook is probably just excited to see parts of a human body he hasn’t seen before, that he doesn’t really know what he’s doing. Your breath hitches as the webbed texture between Jungkook’s fingers glide over your nipples, a soft moan falling from your lips before you can stop yourself. The noise only seems to spur him on more, Jungkook repeating the motion to hear the sound again. A harsh squeeze on your breast forces out another moan, your hands flying to Jungkook’s chest. Your fingers twitch against his skin, your head telling you to push him away, while the building heat in your stomach and the growing wetness between your legs wants him close to finish what he’s started. You settle for digging your hands into his skin, grounding yourself in his body, knowing that pushing him away won’t do you any good. Jungkook lets out a happy thrill at your touch, lowering himself closer to your body as his hand moves from one breast to the other. You can feel his eyes burning into your skin, your body growing warmer and warmer under his intense gaze. There’s too many sensations at once – cold water dripping against your overheating skin, Jungkook’s long hair tickling your face, the soft and rough skin of his hand squeezing and moving across your flesh. Your eyes glide shut before you can stop yourself, forgetting your own rule of never letting Jungkook out of your sight. It’s just .. too much. Your body doesn’t know whether to hate the attention or love it, your chest tight with disgust while your stomach swirls with pleasure. At least with your eyes shut, and as long as your hands stay on his chest, he feels human. Human enough to make this whole thing a little less horrible.

Your legs tense as you feel more of Jungkook’s weight against your body, his hips pressing down more firmly against yours. You don’t pay it too much attention at first, too occupied by the hand on your chest. At least, that’s until you feel his hips begin to slowly move back and fourth, grinding against your clothed core. Your eyes fly open at the sudden friction, head spinning as your walls clench with need. You’re sure the flimsy material of your trousers must be soaked by now, and the realization that this creature is the reason behind it makes your cheeks flush red with mortification. You stifle a gasp as Jungkook pinches your sensitive nipple between two fingers, another happy thrill filling the cave as he rolls his hips harder against your mound. You can feel the heat in your lower stomach building rapidly, the coil almost ready to snap when Jungkook suddenly stills. You push down the needy whine in your throat as Jungkook removes his hand from your body, the creature pulling himself up further on the ledge.

Your confusion dies as your eyes travel down a little further past his hips, the arousal you felt quickly washed away by terror as you notice a slit in his tail, and something extending out of it. You nearly choke on your own spit as it finally clicks, trying your best to scramble out from beneath Jungkook’s hold as his cock becomes fully unsheathed. Jungkook lets out a series of low, warning clicks at your struggle, his clawed fingers digging into your shoulders as his arms keeps you caged you in. You look down in horror as you feel him resume his grinding against your clothed sex. It’s nothing like you’ve ever seen before. His cock is slightly tapered at the tip, growing thicker down against the base. What you thought was just some misplaced curiosity is obviously more than that, because now, there’s no doubt in your mind that Jungkook’s plan is to fuck you. You ignore the pain as sharp claws dig into your skin, trying your best to twist out of his hold. Logically you know there’s no place for you to run to down here, and that was probably what he wanted all along. Still, your heart hammers painfully against your chest, urging you to at least try.

You don’t succeed in doing much more than twisting yourself over on your stomach, fingers clawing at the stone in an attempt to pull yourself away. You barely have time to process the hiss leaving Jungkook’s throat before the remaining fabric of your trousers are sliced clean in two, leaving you completely bare. The next roll of his hips sends his cock rubbing over your ass, your body trembling at the wetness that seems to be coating it. The scales on his hips are rough and sharp as they drag over your soft skin, and you don’t doubt they'll feel like tiny little razors if you move against them wrong. You’re still trying to drag yourself away when Jungkook’s arms comes under your body, one wrapping underneath your arm to hold the opposite shoulder, and the other curling around your stomach. The creature lets out another hiss at your squirming, pulling your flush against his chest. You can feel his heartbeat against your back, the steady rhythm such a contrast to the wild beat of your own as he once again moves against your body. The new position sends his cock gliding between your legs, the shaft rubbing along your folds and coating it with the same slick fluid you felt on your skin. You dig your fingers into the stone floor, but your body is locked up tight against Jungkook. There’s nowhere for you to go.

Jungkook lets out another warning noise before he rolls his hips forward again, the tapered tip of his cock catching on your entrance. You let out a strangled moan as Jungkook’s cock sinks into your heat, your walls stretching around him as he pushes in deeper. Your arousal from earlier combined with the wetness around the creature’s cock makes the slide painless aside from the uncomfortable burn of being filled too much, too fast. Jungkook’s excited thrill at finally being buried inside your heat rings in your ear from the close proximity, his tongue dipping out to flick across the sheen of sweat at your nape. The creature begins pulling his hips back, not giving you any time to adjust before he snaps them forward. You let out a choked moan as he fills you up again, vision growing hazy as he sets a brutal pace from the get go. You can feel the harsh slap of his hips against your ass with every thrust, Jungkook letting out a pleased hiss as he continues to slam into you. You can feel the tapered length twitching and pulsing inside of you as he moves, more wetness seeping out of his cock to mix with your own. Every thrust leaves you gasping for breath, and the hold Jungkook has around your body feels like you’re wrapped up in steel. You have no choice but to lay there and take it, but as the creature’s cock nudges over your sweet spot repeatedly, you realize to your own horror that you like it.

Lost in a daze of arousal and fear, you don’t even realize the creature has been moving the both of you backwards until you’re suddenly plunged into the cold water. You let out a startled gasp as Jungkook’s length disappears from your heat, and you thread the water forcefully to keep your head above the ripples as you try to figure out where the creature went. You feel his hands before you see him, claws wrapping around your waist as Jungkook pushes you against the ledge. You let out a pained groan as your back collides with the stone, your hands scrambling up to grip the edge of it. You freeze as Jungkook’s head slowly emerges from the water, those deep red eyes looking hungrier and wilder than you’ve ever seen before. It only takes a moment before you feel the creature’s chest pressed against yours, his cock slipping in even easier with the new position. It doesn’t take many thrusts before you’re forced to wrap your legs around his waist to keep yourself afloat, your arms shaking with the effort of keeping your head over water. Your fingers slip a little against the wet stone, your eyes widening as you seem to sink even further down on Jungkook’s cock. You’ve never been so full before, almost delirious as he picks up his pace. Jungkook’s hands are relentless as they glide over your skin, pinching and rubbing every part of your body.

“F-fuck,” You moan as your clit rubs against his tail, the roughness of the scales making a bolt of arousal shoot through your body. You don’t even realize your hips are moving against his as the tightness in your gut grows, the pressure building more and more until it suddenly unravels, waves of pleasure ripping through your body and making you see stars as you come on Jungkook’s cock. The creature lets out something close to a growl as your walls clamp down around him, and he fucks you straight through your orgasm and into oversensitivity with an animalistic pace. You whine as Jungkook’s cock begin to swell, grow, his hands stilling on your hips to pull you flush against him as he comes. He lets out a pleased chirp as the burning hot come floods your insides, a broken moan escaping your lips as Jungkook slows down the harsh pace. It’s done, you think, relieved. He’ll probably leave you alone now. So it confuses you when Jungkook’s eyes slide shut, soft clicks leaving his lips as he pushes you even harder against the stone behind you. He’s still working his hips in and out of your heat, and you realize that even though he just came, his cock is still hard and growing, still stretching your walls.

Your eyes nearly bulge out of your head as you feel something moving up Jungkook’s cock, a firm but soft sphere spurting from the tip and into you. It takes a second for your hazy mind to connect the dots, and you realize a little too late that the creature is laying eggs. Inside of you. Jungkook is breeding you. You desperately try to push against his chest as you feel the second egg travel up his cock, but Jungkook only tugs you closer, tucking his face into the crook of your neck as his chest rumbles. You stifle back a moan as the second egg joins the first, the foreign texture brushing along your sensitive walls. The creature purrs as he released another spurt of eggs, slowly grinding his cock back and fourth as he breeds you. You cling on to the ledge behind you, disgust and pleasure wracking through your body as another egg joins the rest. A deeper click, something almost close to a groan, falls from Jungkook’s lips as he forces the last egg into your tight heat. Your eyes nearly roll back as you feel his cock nudge against your cervix; Jungkook’s slow pace fucking the eggs around inside of you. If you thought you felt full before, it’s nothing compared to being stuffed to the brim with Jungkook’s thick cock, eggs and come.

You can feel Jungkook’s breath ghost across your exposed wet skin, the harsh puffs of air sending chills down your back. Your hands finally slip from the ledge, too exhausted to keep you up anymore. Before you can wrap your shaking arms around Jungkook’s shoulders, the creature suddenly detangles you from his body, quickly hoisting you back up on the ledge. You let out shaky moan Jungkook’s cock once again slips from your heat, your body feeling surprisingly empty despite the eggs still resting inside of you.

“Shit,” You hiss as you strain to push yourself up on your elbows, gliding a hand down to your stomach. You can feel them inside of you when you press down, little bumps gliding around under your fingertips. Panic builds under your skin – you have to get them out. There has to be a reason you’ve never heard of creatures like Jungkook before. You doubt you're compatible to carry his eggs, and you don’t even know what will happen once they begin to grow. And even if you were, it’s not like you want them. Just as your hand is about to slip down to your slick folds, Jungkook hoists himself up from the water, once again covering your body. He snatches your hand away with a series of threatening clicks, barring his sharp teeth as he lies down on top of you. You twist your head with a fearful whimper as Jungkook pushes your hand into his hair instead, the weight of his body not totally crushing, but still enough to make you feel lightheaded.

You squeeze down around the eggs without meaning do, bile rising in your throat as they catch on your entrance, too big to push out without any help. Your eyes land on the crimson shell and pearl pushed over to the side of the cave. Your chest feels tight as it dawns on you that while the shell were likely a courting offer; the pearl must’ve been a mating offer. And you had accepted both. Your eyes begin to sting as you feel Jungkook’s chest rumble against yours, the pleased purrs making you feel sick. You hesitantly shift your gaze back to him, curling your fingers painfully tight into the wet locks underneath your palm as you find those deep red eyes already staring back at you. A twisted rendition of a smile blooms on his face, the rows of sharp teeth glistening as he looks down at you. The message in his gaze is clear – you’re keeping the eggs.

And there’s no way he’s letting you go.

a/n: oh boy. hopefully only those of you that were okay with the warnings made it this far. because i know i’ll get questions: jk fertilized his own eggs when he bred y/n, and y/n will basically serve as an incubator (poor girl lmao) for a while. she’ll push the eggs out eventually and then the eggs will hatch on their own. and no – i have no plans of doing jk’s pov any time soon, and it’s up to you to imagine y/n’s fate. anyway!! i hope you uhh, enjoyed this! and thank you for all the love and support for this mini series, it means a lot to me!  as always, see you all soon and stay safe! and in case you enjoy my stories and want to buy me a coffee, you can do so here! 💖

[corpsebasil]

Easily Replaced | Part 5

part 6

The Ocean looked like it wanted to strangle you with both hands.

"There's no other way out of Kerch?" You demanded, clinging to Jesper's arm as you walked towards the docks.

Since you were eight, you’d hated the sea. Hated the smell, the look, everything. It looked angry today, not even a day after you and the Crows had hired the Conductor, the sky murky overhead, the humidity making your hair frizz. You wrinkled your nose and gripped Jesper's arm tighter, savoring his familiar scent and warmth.

"I've got you, you know that." He told you, stunningly gray eyes winking down at your pinched face. He knew why you hated the water—what haunted your worst nightmares. He had nightmares, too. "We'll be in Ravka soon. Then we can rob a Grisha tent, or feed Kaz to a Volcra."

"We could feed Inej to a Volcra." You mumbled, and Jesper poked you roughly in the side.

"Inej is lovely. As are you." He reached over and fiddled with the Volcra tooth on your necklace, pinching it between his index finger and thumb. "Where did you get this, by the way?"

      She tugged it out of his grasp gently, the tooth sharp against your skin. Memories of a snowy wasteland north of Ravka and a woman with a cane and the temperament of a wet cat came to mind. You missed Marmee, the woman you’d lived with from the time you fled Ketterdam at eight until you were fifteen, and her strange Fjerdan ways, desperately, even now.

Even when you bore scars from the country that had pulled you out of the lowest point of your life.

"My grandmother." Was all you said, and Jesper took the hint to drop the subject.

"We'd better hurry," Kaz's voice met your ears and you shivered involuntarily, refusing to meet his eye when he passed you on the dock. "this weather is shit. We'll be lucky to get into Ravka by sundown in these conditions."

His limp was worse today than usual—it always pained him more when the weather turned cold and rainy, and he clutched his cane roughly, a scowl on his face. You knew he'd be grumpy today. He always was when he hurt.

"Maybe you can bully the ocean into calming down." You mumbled, and Kaz shot you an exasperated look.

You weren’t sure what you’d expected to change between you and Kaz as of last night, but you shouldn't have been surprised when the first words to you from him were rude. He made a face at your hair, piled hazardously on top of your head, and snorted.

"Did you battle a wildebeest?" He asked, gesturing vaguely at your head, and you didn't deem him worthy of a reply.

"Good morning." The Conductor sniffed, nodding his head at you as he approached the group on the docks.

"You're late." Kaz deadpanned in reply.

"Are you excited to cross?" Jesper asked The Conductor loudly, ignoring his friend, and the mustache-wearing man looked up from being jabbed in the bicep with a sharp nail from you as a greeting.

"It's all part of the trade. I've crossed more times than I can count." He gestured to his sleeve and smiled half-heartedly.

You reached over and snatched up his arm.

"HEY—" you squealed, and Kaz flinched. "Look at this. Look." You commanded, and held the poor man's arm out towards Kaz. On the Conductor's left forearm were quite possibly the most tallied scars Kaz had ever, in all of his eighteen years, laid eyes upon.

"I want this many tallies," you said, grinning down at the man's arm. "the Fold is so scary—how do you get across it? Have you ever fought a Volcra? I have."

"You have never fought a Volcra," Kaz commented, but everyone ignored him.

"It's a trade secret," the Conductor replied, giving you an amused look. "you'll see once we land in Ravka."

"Where's Inej?" Kaz asked, turning to Jesper, and you let out an unflattering grunt.

"We're holding up the ship." You said and pulled your arm from Jesper's, stomping your way towards the deck. Your eyes darted towards the churning water as you stepped over the gangplank to the ship, your stomach tossing in unison as you forced down haunting images that always followed the sea.

If you didn't lose your lunch before you got to Ravka, you’d lose your mind.

~

"It's not fair that I wasn't born a Sun Summoner," You pouted and crossed your arms over your chest, slouching aggressively. "Why does Alina get to win? I'd look great in a Kefta."

      The boat trip to Ravka had been brief but debilitating. You’d only seen Inej once, puking over the side of the ship, but you were still so irritated with the Suli girl for winning Kaz's favor and for cutting your face that you didn't do more than offer her a handkerchief.

Even then, the two of you stayed in tense silence around each other.

    Now that you were in West Ravka, piled into a carriage, you and Inej wouldn't stop playing The Staring Game, waiting for one another to crack under the weight of the other's stare. You were crowded against the window of the small carriage you were in, and it was burning hot.

"You look great in everything." Jesper told you, pulling your attention, and scooted closer on the bench beside you, stretching out his long legs.

      The Conductor wasn't leaving either of you much room and Kaz, across from you, wouldn't stop death-glaring you like he expected you to summon a demon onto the carriage just because you were there.

"What the hell are you looking at?" You snapped, irritated with the weight of Kaz's glare, and he rolled his eyes.

"How'd this happen?" Jesper asked, and poked your cheek with a frown on his face. He ignored his best friend when Kaz gave him a glare that implied he was committing treason. "And where'd you go off to last night? I saw you sneaking off down the street all dressed up in your murder gear."

You glared at the person you liked the most out of everyone in that carriage and poked him right back.

"None of your business," you said maturely, and glanced over at Kaz. He watched you with an inscrutable look on his face that made him look like he'd smelled something foul. "I got bit by a snake." You said, and shot daggers at Inej with your eyes.

The girl at least had the decency to look embarrassed for throwing a knife at you.

"I bet." Jesper snorted, elbowing you like you were talking about an inside joke, and Kaz cleared his throat.

"If you two are going to be annoying," he began, and rolled his cane between his fingers, "you ought to ride in the box on the back of the carriage. Some of us have more important things to do than gossip."

"Like what?" You demanded, and Inej stared at the window like she was waiting for a miracle from God.

"Like the Conductor." Kaz started, his eyes sliding to yours, and he frowned before looking to the man crammed against the window beside Jesper. "I didn't hire you simply to get us across the Fold. You're with us because you smuggle Grisha out of the Little Palace, and that's the location of our target."

"Sun Summoner." Inej corrected.

"Alleged." Kaz cut back, and Jesper snorted.

"They wouldn't keep a fraud in the most secure location in all of Ravka," Inej pointed out, and Kaz ignored her, sending a zing of satisfaction up your spine.

"You said you have a contact who can get us inside. A Heartrender." Kaz continued, and the Conductor nodded.

"Mmhmm."

"How do I know we can trust her?"

"Nina grew up there."

"Most Grisha grew up in the Little Palace. Very few would betray their general, and fewer still would help foreigners kidnap their most prized possession."

"Nina's a radical. Thinks Grisha should get to choose if they serve the Crown. She despises involuntary service more than she does Fjerdans."

"What's wrong with Fjerdans?" You scoffed, raising an eyebrow, and Kaz rolled his eyes. You thought you were going to hurt him if he rolled his eyes at you one more time.

"She's Grisha." The Conductor laughed bitterly, casting you a look. "Don't be stupid, girl." He said and despite yourself you felt embarrassed.

"Watch the way you speak to her." Kaz set a dark look onto the Conductor and the man frowned.

"My apologies." He grumbled, turning to look out the window, and you mashed your lips together to prevent a smile.

tags| @balmasedas @euphoniumpets @subjecta13-thefangirl @itisroe @thefandomplace @kaitlyn2907 @alice-the-nerd @beeposstuff @kykymyeon @emberlei @tomhollandisabae @sakuramadae @louweasleymalfoy @thehighqueenandking

[sanjisock]

more than words

50 words; 50 sentences

ao3

#01 - Motion

A spinning kick, a swing of blade — the two meet and hit but don’t hurt, and Nami sighs exasperatedly at such a pathetic display of a mating dance.

#02 - Cool

Zoro stands his ground as his enemy — finally, finally — falls unceremoniously on his back, unconscious, and Sanji thinks for a moment that the sight of Zoro — wild and victorious and ready to take on the world — looks kind of, maybe, slightly cool.

  #03 - Young

Brook sees the two — dying to die for each other, the weight of their friends’ lives pulling down their shoulders — and he thinks too many people forget how young they still are.

  #04 - Last

The Cook is the last person Zoro would consider lending a hand in a fight — “who would want to work together with that dumbass anyway,” he lies whenever anyone asks, and doesn’t admit that it’s because he trusts Sanji’s ability to stand his ground, wholly and fully.

  #05 - Wrong

Sanji knows Zoro, like him, understands better than most — that this nakama thing isn’t just something you’d die for, but something you’d kill for, too.

  #06 - Gentle

Sanji manages to catch Kitetsu before it rolls off from the deck during a storm, and in that moment, Zoro knows, from the reverent way he regards the swords in his hands, that this isn’t the first time the Cook has wielded one.

  #07 - One

“Calm down, Marimo,” Sanji says with a dismissive wave of his hand when Zoro asks about the sword a few days later, “I’m not about to take your place as the ship’s swordsman; a cook doesn’t use his hands to fight, and I had a terrible teacher anyways.”

  #08 - Thousand

“I’m worth two thousand men,” Zoro grumpily says, almost sulking, and Nami can’t resist patting his head like she would to a little boy pulling the pigtail of a girl he has a crush on.

  #09 - King

You’re like the prince of Dumbass Kingdom, Zoro says, and it takes Sanji everything in him not to blurt out, Dumbass Kingdom sounds about right; wait ‘till you see the fucking king.

  #10 - Learn

Watching Sanji converse fluently with a couple of tourists in a Northern language, Zoro wonders when he will ever stop learning something new about Sanji — or if he ever will, at all.

  #11 - Blur

When Zoro finally comes to, the wounds from Bartholomeow Kuma is muted by Chopper’s medicine, a dull throb at the back of his consciousness; but the sharp pain against his heart feels raw still, visceral and razor-sharp, tucked alongside the ache of Sanji’s sacrifice.

#12 - Wait

“Wait,” he manages to croak out before Sanji flees the room, the word spilling out unbidden; he isn’t quite sure why, but he knows that he wants the Cook to stay.

  #13 - Change

“Have some fucking decency ,” Sanji yells, throwing a shirt at Zoro’s direction; the brute has been walking around the ship bare-chested like an eyesore ever since they entered the summer island, and Sanji is just trying to do everyone a favor — and definitely not because there’s a different kind of heat pooling at the pit of his stomach.

#14 - Command

Robin watches the two in amusement — Zoro could have easily refused to be Sanji’s pack mule, and she can hear him grumbling about it still; and yet, here they are, once again, together at the island’s marketplace.

#15 - Hold

Sanji is rough around the edges, bristling at the slightest touch; Zoro knows he needs to be gentle, but he doesn’t quite remember the last time he held something that isn’t a hilt of a sword, without meaning to hurt . It’s a learning curve. 

  #16 - Need

Sanji knows Zoro is a dumbass, but it takes a special kind of stupid to think he would never be good enough for Sanji, when he’s all that Sanji has ever needed.

#17 - Vision

Zoro never regrets losing his eye, but he wishes, sometimes, he could still take in the sight of Sanji with an unimpaired vision, just to see more of him.

  #18 - Attention

“You’re starting a fight, Marimo?” Sanji growls, voice low and dangerous, and Zoro thinks, yes, yes, anything to get you to look at me.

  #19 - Soul

He loves the kid like a brother, but sometimes Zoro hates how Luffy can easily see past his gruff words and feigned ignorance; the way Luffy only needs to take one look at him to guess, “you’re worried about Sanji, aren’t you?”

  #20 - Picture

He carries around everyone’s bounty posters, Sanji tells himself, and tries not to think too hard about how the only one he kept in his breast pocket is Zoro’s, folded neatly against his heart.

  #21 - Fool

“This is the dumbest thing you’ve ever done so far,” Sanji says when they part, lips still tingling from their earlier kiss, because Zoro’s love is fierce and consuming and Sanji knows, ever since he was just a kid with the iron mask, that he doesn’t deserve any of this.

  #22 - Mad

“Don’t you ever say that kind of shit again,” Zoro snarls, slamming the wall beside Sanji’s head, his voice trembling with a kind of anger Sanji has never seen him with before — frustrated, desperate. “You’re important to me, Cook.” 

  #23 - Child

Grow up and cast your dreams away, Sanji tells himself every day, the voice ringing in his ears; you stopped being a child deserving of a dream the moment you chained Zeff down to the ground.

  #24 - Now

Grow up and cast your dreams away, Sanji wants to tell himself, but the voice stutters, drowned out by the sight of the kid bleeding on the deck of Baratie — he’s a swordsman, too, acknowledged by none other than Dracule Mihawk himself — but a kid still, throwing himself headfirst towards the case of his dreams, steps unweighted by regrets.

  #25 - Shadow

Zoro doesn’t know which is worse — Sanji, forever running away from the shadow his brothers cast; or Zoro, chasing after someone who is no longer around to leave behind a shadow anymore.

  #26 - Goodbye

After Whole Cake Island, there’s a period of time where Zoro would follow Sanji around the ship like a lost puppy, unwilling to let the Cook out of his sight; Usopp definitely didn’t expect Zoro to have such a cute side, and crouches over his new invention to hide his smile.

  #27 - Hide

“We’re not doing that here,” Sanji hisses, and forces himself not to laugh at the pout on Zoro’s face; the galley might be secluded enough, but they’re still on the enemy ship’s galley.

  #28 - Fortune

It is annoying, the way Sanji keeps reminding Zoro that he could have collected Mihawk’s bounty and lived the rest of his life in wealth; especially when Zoro would trade any riches in the world just to stay by the Cook’s side.

  #29 - Safe

It catches Zoro off guard when Sanji starts talking about his mother; it’s a short anecdote, a single happy memory, but Zoro can tell by the way Sanji tells it — guarded and hesitant, like he wants to keep the words close and safe — that he has never shared it with anyone else before.

  #30 - Ghost

Usopp starts shaking like a leaf as soon as they enter the abandoned, dilapidated house, and Sanji gently tells him, sometimes the worst ghost is the one you create yourself; Zoro feels the weight of Wado on his hip, and agrees.

  #31 - Book

“I don’t need this,” Zoro grumbles with a blush, pushing the book back into Nami’s hands, trying hard to ignore Nami’s laughter and the words ROMANCE FOR DUMMIES emblazoned on the book’s jacket.

  #32 - Eye

Shusui sinks into the man’s stomach, all the way to the hilt, and Zoro thinks of the way Sanji curled into himself as the man landed a lucky hit on the cook’s hand. An eye for an eye.

  #33 - Never

“This is my first time,” Zoro whispers, head ducking away as he feels his face flush at the admission; but Sanji’s hand rests on his cheek, encouraging, and he can feel the curve of Sanji’s smile as their lips meet and Sanji replies, “it’s mine, too.”

  #34 - Sing

Luffy cheers when Zoro and Sanji comes into view, and he lets them take on the next batch of enemies; a good fight is always fun, but watching Zoro and Sanji fight is even more so — like watching a dance that only those two know the melody to.

  #35 - Sudden

“What, are we supposed to be surprised?” Nami says, barely looking up from the map she’s working on; Sanji sputters, face redder than the tomatoes he served during breakfast, and Nami feels almost bad for him.

  #36 - Stop

“But we — Zoro and I — how did you know?” Sanji asks, and promptly stops asking questions when he realizes the rest of the crew aren’t surprised either; who could blame them, when his and Zoro’s sexual tension can be seen from a mile away.

  #37 - Time

Sanji knows they have to break apart soon, just to breathe, but right now all he cares about is to taste as much of Zoro as possible — he has waited two years for this, and it has been two years too long.

  #38 - Wash

They have their fair share of fighting — and how, considering the amount of repairs Usopp has to do for Merry just from their petty fights alone — but what the crew doesn’t know is that they also have this thing, this quiet thing, just him and the Cook and a stack of dirty plates between them.

  #39 - Torn

“In retrospect,” Robin observes, “dressing up our dear cook in a maid uniform would not only lower the enemy’s firepower, but also ours, considering how distracted our swordsman has clearly become.”

  #40 - History

“Why do you keep him around, mister?” The kid asks, pointing at the old swordsman with three swords and an eye scar by the peer; Sanji laughs, pats the kid on the head, and says, almost wistfully — “you can say we have some history.”

  #41 - Power

Sanji tugs at Zoro’s sleeve, and Zoro follows suit despite his complaints — Sanji thinks, distantly, how much of an honor it is, to have so much control over such a powerful man.

  #42 - Bother

“I didn’t have enough time to make this three-tier ice cream cake for our lovely Nami-san and Robin-chan because you distracted me!” Sanji says with a hard jab of a finger against Zoro’s chest, and Zoro thinks, good .

  #43 - God

Zoro does not believe in gods, but there’s a hymn of a noise when Zoro presses his lips against the crook of Sanji’s neck, the hallelujah of the world breaking apart as their bodies move together, and he thinks, close enough .

  #44 - Wall

 Zoro slams his fist into the wall of Polar Tang, and is taken aback by the depth of his own frustration; he knows Luffy and the others will get Sanji back from Big Mom’s place, but it unsettles him still, the way Sanji hides himself under layers of pretenses when Zoro has bared so much of himself to the Cook in return.

  #45 - Naked

“What the fuck was that for , Mosshead?!” Sanji shrieks, justifiably furious, leg raised and on fire after Zoro sliced his tray into two without preamble; Zoro can’t exactly tell the Cook he did it because he was too surprised at the sight of Sanji in a swimming trunk and nothing else.

  #46 - Drive

Why Zoro , people sometimes ask, but the answer is easy to Sanji — nobody drives him crazy the way Zoro does, and is that not what true love feels like?

  #47 - Harm

Zoro knows Sanji will be furious ; but as he faces Kuma, knowing at least the Cook is out of harm’s way, he knows he would do this a hundred times over, a thousand times over, a million times over.

  #48 - Precious

Sanji is sitting by the corner of the infirmary, face pale with red-rimmed eyes, and Zoro thinks he’s never had that, before — people who would weep for him, knowing that he is more than dried scars and calloused skin.

  #49 - Hunger

This thing we have is dangerous, Sanji tells him, but Zoro doesn’t care — he already has a craving, the same way he needs a booze when it’s been too long, except he thinks that this vice will surely kill him.

  #50 - Believe

This isn’t faith; this is the truth, Zoro’s truth, the same way he knows he will become the Greatest — Sanji will find that elusive sea of his, and Zoro will stay with him until it is the last thing he can do.

[internalsealpanic]

Stiff Peaks and Soggy Bottoms

mood board by: @knightfall05x​ (wuv you)

summary: You, Tim, and Kon try to bake. It ends well. 

A/n: Thanks to @littleredwing89​ and @multifandomgirl-us​ for proof reading. I was watching Kitchen Nightmares while writing this. I am surprised how fluffy this came out. You can blame my need for more poly and this piece by @symeona​. I have not shut up about this piece 50 years later (Hi Sym *waves*-Fish). I forgot to mention that reader is more or less gender neutral or I attempted.

warnings: Terrible cooking

masterlist

Kon yawns, scratching at his broad chest and running his hand through his tangle of curly black hair. He blinks one eye open successfully to the dim light flooding into the end of the hall likely coming in from the living room. The lights dance, glowing softly with faded color against the dark glossy wood of the floor. 

 Kon’s first sleep-addled thought is, Oh, Aliens. Ok, cool.

 It takes his brain a full minute to realize how much that doesn’t make sense. The apartment is dead silent, lacking the telltale whirring most spaceships give off when they’re hovering, the sounds of nervous fingers tapping against a stack of papers echoing in the mostly empty space. Kon strained his ears trying to focus on the other sounds flitting in the room. He can hear the steady calming beat of your heart come off rhythm, jumping a fraction of a beat faster. It wasn’t fast enough to say you were in danger. It was just fast enough to tell that you were extremely engaged in whatever was occupying your attention. Kon thinks it over. The last time he checked looking over papers- lab reports, especially- was the bane of your existence. He listens again. This time making out the voices coming from the TV. Kon wasn’t awake enough to understand what they were saying. 

 5:47 AM

 Kon groans trying his hardest not to laugh while he stares at his phone. You are an actual psychopath. Who wakes up at 5 AM? Villains that’s who. Did you even sleep? Why do you and Tim hate sleep so much? 

 Stepping into the living room as quietly as he can, he finds you huddled against the right side of the couch far away from the TV, your thick wool comforter draped over your head and shoulders making a fluffy tent. Strands of your messy bed head sticking out and swaying as you rock on your heels. Your stack of papers long since abandoned on the arm rest beside you. Kon can’t help but smile at how adorable you looked, still sleep rumpled and red-nosed from the cold. 

 Eyes glued to the TV, you pull up your knees to your chest revealing your fuzzy Red Robin socks. Kon frowns then makes a mental note to get you some Superboy socks later. You curl deeper into your comforter, easing and pressing into the armrest. All of your apprehension fading and relaxing as the rest of the world melted away. Kon smiles devilishly at your inattention. He tiptoes towards you which was entirely unnecessary because it didn’t matter that Kon was about as stealthy as a disco ball not when all of your attention was directed at the TV. 

 Kon launches himself at you too quickly for you to even react or comment or throw a pillow at him. You shriek as he lands on you, his muscular body squishing you into the couch. You wince hoping the neighbors didn’t hear. You’re not too worried about Tim waking up considering how tired he was. 

 “Morning, gorgeous.” Kon greets, winking and wrapping his arms around your waist. The audacity. You groan attempting to glare at him. He simply gives you a dopey smile. You have to blow out a raspberry to keep yourself from smiling back. You strain your lips into a flatline. The crow’s feet at the corners of your eyes betray you though. The corner of Kon’s mouth twitches, those big baby blues shining even in the dim light. He knows he’s won you over. 

 You’re too petty and sleep-deprived to give in. You roll your eyes at him, lips still wobbling and tingling from the effort of maintaining your unimpressed frown. Still, without resistance,  you shift the comforter and refold yourself to accommodate his intrusive form. Large arms wrap around your waist tighter as he lays his head in your stomach. How he finds this position comfortable for his neck is beyond you but you do appreciate the warmth. Kon’s smile widens as he looks up at you. It looks positively smug. Your nose scrunches up bracing for whatever Kon is about to say. 

 “Aw, baaabe, it looks good on you~” You look down at the oversized Superboy hoodie you’re wearing which was two times bigger than it needed to be as was standard of your hoodies.  You mutter a curse. Kon had been pestering you to wear it. It’s not that you didn’t want to. It’s just that you had a soft spot for the Impulse hoodie Bart got you a few years ago which meant it was your got-to-hoodie despite the fact that it was fraying.  It was in the wash so you decided to give this one a try and honestly, it is really fucking comfy and more importantly warm.  You huff at him, feeling your cheeks color. You glare at him, his dopey smile still plastered on his face. You make the executive decision to ignore him. 

 This decision does not last long. 

 About two minutes into your silent treatment, Kon whines and pouts weaponizing those baby blues. “Aw come on, gorgeous, you can’t stay mad at me forever.” He nuzzles into your stomach tickling your drawing a smile out of you. He grins at you and finally, you let yourself smile back fully. “Asshole.” You grumble.  He knows you can’t resist him when he’s being cute and calling you ‘gorgeous’. That is just plain cheating. Still, you relent. You wrap your arms loosely around his shoulders, running your hand gently through his dark hair allowing your fingers to tangle in his curls. The arms around you tighten a little pulling you closer to him. 

 Kon doesn’t need a reminder of how absolutely adorable you are but it is very much appreciated. Kon loves looking at you as the soft glowing colors flash across your face highlighting your features and softening them. In the dim light of the room and under the blankets, you press closer to him all the sharp edges of Gotham's alleys stripped away leaving you sleepy-eyed and very huggable. Between you and Tim, you were the one people pointed to when they thought Gothamite but that was the fun of it. He and Tim, they were the only ones who got to see this softer you. The you that you let get enraptured by hobbies and dumb little things. Kon held you close, relishing your presence. This was the version of you they got to keep for themselves and he wouldn't trade it for the world. 

 -------

 Tim shifts feeling either side of him vacant.  Tim rolls over, arms searching for either you or Kon as his mind catches up. The warm sunlight brushes over his skin as he rolls over once again, stirring him from his sleep. Tim blinks, eyes adjusting to the morning light. 

 9: 10 AM

 He groans, shifting up and burying his head under the pillows hoping to once again fall asleep. 

 “Oh no no no no!”

 “Shush! Don’t jinx it!”

 Tim’s eye cracks open.  He lifts his head a bit tilting it to find the bedroom door open, your voices filtering in like dust in a sunbeam, pleasant but ultimately not helpful. 

 “I can’t jinx a pre-recorded show, genius!” 

 Tim sighs. Sleep was, inevitably, lost at this point. Tim debates on whether to keep himself under the covers and finally be able to hog the thick blankets. Or he could, possibly, investigate the commotion happening in your shared living room and risk freezing. Sadly, he chose the latter. 

 Blearily, Tim searches the room for a shirt only to find one of Kon’s discarded on the floor. Well, it’s not the first time he’s borrowed one of Kon’s shirts. 

 Tim wasn’t surprised to find you out of bed. After all, the idea of sitting still ate you alive. You were always, always the happiest when you were in motion when your hands were working to make something like some part of you was constantly vying for the chance to be something instead of just being. Tim completely understood the feeling. 

 Kon had once accused you of being a workaholic when in truth at the moment you had been avoiding work by doing one of your side projects. He had also accused both of you of being sleep allergic which is probably true but at least, Tim’s drink (read: poison) of choice was tea and not a cocktail of monster energy drinks and misery. 

 It was odd to find Kon out of bed though.  Kon could laze around in bed for days if you let him, so his being up was worth investigating if only to make sure the apartment didn’t burn down.  

 “Look what you did!”

 “It’s prerecorded, jackass!”

 “You cursed him and gave him a soggy bottom”

 Tim can tell just how long you’ve been glued to the T.V. based on the way your vowels slant to mimic that of the hosts. Tim’s slightly chapped lips curl as he shakes his head at the way you and Kon cock your heads towards the T.V., attention completely captured by what seems to be a cooking show. You held your breaths, waiting for the judge to say something. Kon shifts up, leaning his head against your shoulder.  Your limbs were tangled loosely against each other. It was a rare, lazy sort of affection that never failed to make Tim smile. 

 “Ok, no. That’s just mean.” You huff into Kon’s hair, looking absolutely petulant and cute. Tim works to stop an ‘aaaaawww’ rising from the back of his throat lest you throw a pillow at his head. 

 “Babe, it’s Paul Hollywood. What were you expecting?”

 “Human decency. She worked hard on that.” You whine, genuinely looking upset. 

 Seeing, your reaction Kon relents burrowing himself closer to you for comfort. “True.”

 Tim turned his attention to the T.V.. What he found made his brow shoot up. 

 “Great British Bake Off?” Tim asks, sliding into your left side and placing his head on your shoulder. There is a reason you guys bought an L-shaped couch. Said reason was named Conner Kent who liked laying on top of people. Those people being either of you. Tim snuggles into your side, earning him a kiss on his nose.   His nose scrunches feeling itchy. He lets out a small sneeze into the back of his hand. You blanch at him while Kon snorts, throwing him a box of tissues from the coffee table. 

 “Mornin’, Space Case.” You mumble giving him another kiss, this time on the corner of his lip. Tim blushes,  his face brighter than the sunlight outside your window. Tim is, sadly, incurably adorable.  

 Kon smiles at both of you smugly for what neither of you has any clue. Not until you see what Tim is wearing and not until Tim sees what you’re wearing. You groan and Tim blows out a  breath through his nose while Kon presses his positively glowing smile into your hoodie. He’s not going to shut up about this anytime soon or ever. 

 “Do you two even know anything about baking?” Tim asks, crossing his arms over his chest and smoothly changing the subject. 

 You and Kon share a look. 

 “Nope”

 “Yes”

 “Microwaves and watching this show doesn’t count.”

 “Ooook, fine. I don’t. Buuuuuut considering none of us can-”

 “I can cook.” Tim defends, clipped. You roll your eyes dramatically. Kon smirks, also doubtful. You flicker your eyes to Kon to meet his and with the brief contact, you know you’re on the same page. 

 “Microwaves don’t count, Tim.” Kon shoots back, pulling himself off you so he can show Tim the full extent of his Cheshire smile. You can see Tim drawing his hackles up, so both of you, being the little shits you are, continue to goad him. 

 “You can cook in theory,” You drawl, letting the challenge embed itself into the syllables. Tim cuts you a look. You simply look at him innocently. Tim  knows  that you’re baiting him. He definitely knows this and yet…

 “Fine!”

 “Fine?” 

 “Fine. We’ll even make something from the show!”

 “Even chocolate eclairs?” Kon says a little too eagerly. You were just gonna say meringues but chocolate eclairs sound fantastic.

 Tim throws up his arms and exasperates. “Sure! Why not?”

 You and Kon share a dopey smile, smug and preening as you look at him. Tim groans, placing his head in his hands. He knew this would happen. He knew. You and Kon high five and make a little “yeah!” noise in celebration.

 This will not end well.   

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 You twitch your lips staring down at Tim’s phone, deleting and retyping the message for the third time. You weren’t  sure  how to explain this without having Jason falling to the floor laughing. Your eyes stung from the smoke so you decided to just send him your third try. 

 Tim: Hey Jason, theoretically, say your oven caught on fire like via laser beam or something, do you just pour water on it?

 You wait a few minutes, watching the three dots indicating he was typing only for him to stop typing without replying. You make a small noise, which was thankfully lost to the bickering behind you when Jason’s phone number flashed on the screen. You’re always nervous about talking to Tim’s family. Tim had once assured you that you were overthinking it but still. To be fair, it was easier than dealing with Kon’s. Actually, no. No, it wasn’t. Both were intimidating but in very different ways. You do have to say that Jason, scary as he was, was easier to approach than say Bruce. 

 “Baby bird,” Jason says, the edge of a wheeze gripping his throat. Clearly, having just recovered from laughing his guts out. He breathes, hand slamming against what you suspect was either a kitchen countertop or a workbench or both knowing Jason. “Ok, ok, I’m good-” He clears his throat. “Kay, tell me what happened.”

 You flick your eyes toward the fire and your boys who were more or less still bickering, their voices tangling with the crackling of the flames. You’re mildly surprised that neither of them is on fire but you’re not holding your breath. They’ll probably be somehow combust in the next five minutes. You love them but they’re disasters.

 “We were trying to bake- shut up-” Jason does not snort any quieter. “And well, Tim thought-”

 “It was Kon’s idea!”

 “You let me!” Kon defends sounding utterly betrayed. 

 You groan and Jason snickers.  “What do we do?”

 “Have you tried apologizing to it?”

 “Jason, I’m being serious.”

 “So am I. Now, apologize.” You sigh exasperatedly. Waynes are assholes. 

 Tim raises a brow at you and you give him a shrug not really knowing what to tell him. “Apparently, we need to apologize to the oven.” You deadpan, immediately regretting even relaying it. How have you never decked Jason? It wasn’t fear. After all, you’ve decked Batman. Ok, in your defense lack thereof, that one was by accident or moreover reflexive. 

 “Hey Kon”

 “Both of you have to apologize too!”

 “First of all, I was in the bathroom getting towels when you two chucklefucks decided to use laser vision to preheat the oven.”

 You hear Jason fall out of his chair. Distantly, you hear someone calling Jason an idiot but you weren’t too familiar with the voice. You instantly thank yourself for not turning on the camera considering what state you three were in. Kon was covered in chocolate, your hair-as well as your poor phone- was caked in batter, and Tim? Tim was covered in everything but mostly flour which keeps making his nose twitch like a rabbit. Though, you wouldn’t be surprised if Kon’s already taken a few pictures. You yourself have taken a few.  

 “Ok but seriously what do we do?”

 You hear some rustling and a chair squeaking back into place. 

 “No…”

 “First off, did you close the oven?” Your eyes flicker to them. Placing Tim’s phone between your shoulder and ear, you mime the advice. Tim frowns skeptical but Kon kicks the oven closed anyway. 

“Ok, it’s closed now. Should we put water in it?”

 “NO. Have you never put out a kitchen fire before? How do you three eat?”

 “We live in the middle of downtown, what do you think?”

 Jason sighs disbelieving and finally sounding appropriately exasperated. You could see him running his hand over his face.  “Who let you three live together?” This made your lips twitch up. “I dunno. Kon and I just started mooching on Tim and then suddenly we each got a key to the apartment.” It was an oversimplification of events but there was a fire and you had to get at least one joke in. 

 “Do your neighbors have- Wait, don’t you have a Kryptonian clone with freeze breath?”

 You blink and slap your palm against your forehead. The other two seemed to get what you had just remembered and act appropriately with Tim looking defeated and Kon finding the situation hilarious. 

 “Thanks, Jay.” You mutter wanting the Earth to swallow you whole. Esme, your chubby rat, squeaked nuzzling against you as she wormed her way out of your hoodie. She may or may not have been the primary reason for the size of your hoodies. She smiles at the phone, wide-eyed and happy as if she could see Jason. You hear a soft laugh coming from Jason’s end. 

 “Is that Esme?” Your brow ticks up not quite sure how to answer. “Uh yeah.” You answer dumbly, giving Esme little scritches that she leaned into happily making all her little happy noises.     

 “Give her a cuddle for me.” You give Esme a kiss on her nose and she snuggles in reciprocation. Kon pouts face still full of chocolate, “Where’s mine?”

 “You’ll get one once our apartment isn’t about to burn down.”   

 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 Fresh out of the shower, you plop down next to Tim letting your wet hair flop onto his face and his fuzzy Wonder Girl sweatshirt. Tim huffs at you taking another bite out of the hot fresh-ly ordered stuffed crust pizza. The cheese was still gooey and molten. It made your stomach rumble like nobody’s business. You whine childishly trying to get Tim to hand you one. He looks at you, mouthful of pizza, and grabs one only to hand it to Kon. You gasp at him. You stretch your legs over their laps in protest only to retract them immediately after Kon pokes at your feet a couple of times tickling you. 

 You hide behind Tim, glaring at Kon and sticking your tongue out. Tim, the traitor, moves out of the way letting Kon’s long arms capture you. You shriek almost sounding like Esme as he pulls you in sitting you in his lap. You sigh in defeat as Kon places his chin on your head. You don’t even want to see the triumphant smirks on both their faces. 

 You grab a slice and through the mouthful of cheese and grease, you murmur “We really need to learn how to cook.” Tim hums in agreement, leaning against Kon, aka the cuddliest heater in the world. You lean back into Kon as another signature bake is brought up to the judges. You all watch with bated breaths as you wait for the results. 

 -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 You marvel at the fresh ingredients laid before you and the posh man standing in your kitchen rolling up his sleeves. 

 “Hey, Duckie, are we in trouble?” Kon whispers from behind you. He’s got your back, he said. 

 “Kind of?” Tim bleats, his voice a little high. 

 You snort raising an eyebrow at him hiding your smile behind your hand. “Timmy, what does kind of mean?” 

 “I can hear you.” Alfred deadpans. You and Kon stiffen.  You’re pretty sure even Tim straightens up, probably out of habit. 

 “Do any of you know how to cook?” Alfred asks in the primmest sounding accent you’ve ever heard. 

 “Nope, we live downtown for a reason.” You snark reflexively. Tim glares at you and hisses silently.  You shrink and mutter an apology which Alfred takes graciously.

 “I am assuming you don’t then. Well, it’s lucky that I have a free afternoon.”

 Tim eyes him suspiciously. “What happened to B?”

 “Your father can take care of himself.”

 “You sure?”

You think you see Alfred smile at that. 

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Thanks for reading!

tag list:  @batarella , @anothertimdrakestan , @lucy-roo , @multifandomgirl-us , @idkmanicantenglish ,@birdy-bat-writes ,  @boosyboo9206 , @americasmarauders , @l-inkage @arestorationofbalance , @cloudie-skay , @wunderstell

[valdomarx]

“Absolutely not,” the madam says, contempt in her eyes. “This is a respectable establishment. We don’t serve your sort here.”

Geralt lets out a puff of air, disappointed but not surprised. Jaskier looks ready to leap over the counter and fight her himself though, so he lays a hand on his arm to stop him. “I understand.” He turns to leave.

On the walk back to their campsite, Jaskier is livid. It’s almost endearing.

“How dare she! Your sort, she says, as if bedding a witcher was some kind of shame! The damned cheek. She and everyone else in the backwards village would be up to their arses in kikimores by now if it weren’t for you.”

“It’s alright, Jaskier,” he says. This is hardly the first time he’s been turned away from a brothel. “She was only looking out for her girls. I’m not going to force anyone to sleep with me, even for coin. I would never do that.”

Jaskier’s face softens. “Of course you wouldn’t.”

Geralt doesn’t question why Jaskier has chosen to return to camp with him, even when he would have been more than welcome to stay. He’d noticed the girls eyeing him from the back room. He appreciates the display of solidarity, such as it is.

They settle into their practiced habits of setting up camp, and with the fire built Jaskier sits himself beside Geralt, a line of warmth along his side in the cool night air.

“It must be disappointing, not getting what you wanted from the brothel,” Jaskier says, breaking the silence. He inspects his fingernails, seemingly as casual as ever. “I could help you out, if you like.”

Geralt squints at him. He surely can’t be offering what it sounds like. “I would never ask that of you,” he says, stiffly. No matter what people think, he’s not a monster. He does have some decency.

“You’re not asking,” Jaskier says. He puts a hand on Geralt’s knee. His touch burns through the fabric. “I’m offering.”

Geralt looks at Jaskier’s hand on his leg. He looks back up at Jaskier’s face. He finds no disgust there, no hesitation.

“I know it’s not what you want,” Jaskier says. “But a hand’s a hand. You can... lie back and think of girls, or whatever.” His face twists into something sad for a moment, but then it’s gone and replaced with a wolfish grin. “I’ll make it good for you.”

That’s... it’s not... It’s wrong, Geralt knows it, but he does want something and Jaskier is right here and offering. It’s not as if it would be the first time. Back at Kaer Morhen, he and the other boys had taken care of each other on occasion. It was... well, it was necessary sometimes. It didn’t have to mean anything.

A hand was a hand, after all.

“Hmm,” he says. Jaskier knows that means yes.

He lets Jaskier lay out both of their bedrolls together. He lets Jaskier pull him to his feet, then lie him down on his side. He lets Jaskier scoot in close behind him, his chest pressed to Geralt’s back, his hand on his hip.

This is fine. This is nothing they haven’t done a hundred times when the nights are cold.

And then Jaskier’s hand is sliding forward, carefully, teasing at the line where his leg meets his torso, just far enough away to maintain plausible deniability.

Geralt is shocked by how fast his body responds, by how much he wants this. It has been a lonely few weeks on the road, certainly, but now all those weeks of wanting have been sharpened to a hot point of desire focused in on where Jaskier’s hand slides across his body and carefully starts unlacing his trousers.

It feels like he might burst, like he might float away into the sky, and he doesn’t know what’s got him so dizzy. He’s not normally like this, not with the ladies he visits at brothels. That is a business transaction, a simple trading of services for coin.

This is not that. This is -

He doesn’t have time to think about what this is, because now Jaskier’s hand is slipping into his trousers and running delicate calloused fingertips along his cock and the feeling of skin on skin is sending him reeling.

He gulps in a breath of air, and Jaskier’s voice is at his ear, low and soft, telling him, “That’s it,” and “Just relax for me,” and “Let me help you.” 

He turns his face away so that Jaskier won’t have to see him, raw and exposed already. Jaskier’s hand fists around him and slides up and down his length, careful, patient, and it’s making something barbed twist beneath his rib cage.

He shoves back the feelings that are threatening to engulf him, focuses on the basic carnal pleasure of a hand moving against him. He tries to imagine it’s a girl, like Jaskier told him to, to imagine it’s the comely lass from the last brothel he’d visited, stout and vivacious and with a laugh like honey.

But it doesn’t matter what images he conjures up in his mind’s eye, because the hand currently wrapped around his cock doesn’t smell like her or like any of the girls he’s been with. It smells like Jaskier, lavender oil and the linseed he uses on his lute and the underlying smoky scent of hundreds of campfires shared.

There are tears welling up unbidden in his eyes, and that’s even more mortifying than being the subject of a pity wank, so Geralt buries his face into the bedroll and recedes into himself, drawing up the walls until he’s surrounded by a comfortable numbness, until thoughts about Jaskier and the light of the fire and what they are doing are far, far away.

“Hey.” The voice is very quiet in his ear, and there’s a hand stroking ever so gently through his hair. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

And Geralt hates that, hates Jaskier for seeing through him, because he was safe behind his walls and Jaskier has come barging in and demolished them all with a few careless words once again.

He wrestles his emotions back into order, years of practice fueling him, and wonders what the hell it is about a simple hand around his cock that’s got him so affected. It’s not as if this is his first time, not by several decades.

And yet he feels like he‘s falling, the open sky beneath him and the wind whistling through his hair, and while there’s an exciting thrum building in him now he knows that soon enough he will hit the ground and be irrevocably damaged by it.

“I’ve got you,” Jaskier says in his ear, and it’s so tender and so soft with understanding that Geralt’s fist clenches in anger. Because that is not how this is supposed to go. This is supposed to be a quick hand in the dark from a stranger, or if he can‘t pretend that, then it could at least be a grand performance of Jaskier, The Famous Womanizer, all artful tricks and cocky swagger.

There is none of that here. There is only a familiar arm around his waist and a familiar hand around his cock and a familiar voice whispering kind, caring words in his ear as if... as if they were lovers. As if this could be something other than sordid and shameful.

He should never have agreed to this. This fall was going to kill him, if not now then sooner or later, and he’d have no one to blame but himself.

“Stop dicking about,” he growls, voice as icy and harsh as he can make it. “And get the fuck on with it.”

He feels Jaskier stiffen against him, smells his uneasiness, senses his hesitation. But Jaskier has always known what he needs without him having to articulate it, and, even more remarkably, has always been willing to give it. He takes a few breaths and regroups, squeezing his fist tighter, pumping faster.

“I see. Is this what you want? You like it like that? You like it hard?” Jaskier’s voice carries a filthy edge to it, and Geralt shudders in relief. This, he can deal with.

He grunts, but his responses don’t matter. Jaskier keeps it up, hissing filth into his ear and jerking him hard enough to teeter on the borderline of pain.

It’s fast and vicious and nothing about it is tender, and finally Geralt can breathe and lose himself in the tight, harsh efficiency of it, brutal and to the point.

“Yeah, that’s what you were waiting for wasn’t it? You’re desperate for it,” Jaskier says, and Geralt bites down to stop himself from whining. “Come on then, come for me.”

He fucking does, like all it takes is for Jaskier to order him about and his body unquestioningly obeys, and he’s spilling over Jaskier’s hand and he can’t stop the reedy little noise which escapes from his throat as he does so.

Jaskier works him through it, finally letting up the harsh pressure of his hand. With a satisfied hum he tucks his cock away and wipes his hand off on Geralt’s trousers. Geralt can’t be too resentful about that.

Still, it takes only minutes for the warm fuzzy feeling of orgasm to recede and for the guilt to kick in, because he’s lying here sated and Jaskier is still there right behind him and Geralt can’t bring himself to look at his face.

A creeping sense of unease is building into something approaching dread, because he ought to be a decent person and make a joke now, show that he appreciates the friendly hand and that they’ll be back to normal in the morning. Should even offer to repay the favour, probably, as much as the idea of offering that opens up a pit in his stomach.

But he can’t bring himself to turn over, to see what’s in those distractingly blue eyes, always too expressive, everything Jaskier feels right there offered up to him on a platter. He’s terrified of what he might find there.

After an interminable minute of silence, Jaskier lets out the tiniest sigh. He sits up and pats him on the hip. “Hope that helped,” he says, voice airy but not quite convincingly light. “Good night, Geralt.”

Then he’s turning away and moving his bedroll to the other side of the fire, and Geralt doesn’t miss the feeling of his body pressed up against his own, he doesn’t.

“Night, Jaskier,” he grunts, keeping his back to the fire and to Jaskier.

He can feel Jaskier’s eyes on him, feel the edge of an unspoken question boring into the space between his shoulder blades.

He doesn’t turn around.

[sodalitefully]

It’s hazardous to breathe... [GNR Mad Max AU, pt. 1]

This is the first half of a AU inspired by the movie Mad Max: Fury Road that @smokeandmirrorz and I came up with after he posted some awesome art for a Mad Max AU!  This oneshot very loosely follows the plot of the movie, it may make less sense if you haven’t seen the film. I split it into two parts so it would be more readable on tumblr, the second part is here and the whole fic is also on AO3.

*Contains mpreg, character death, and plenty of unpleasant things from the Mad Max universe, including implied/referenced sexual violence, some regular violence/gore (more so in the second part), and Immortan Joe.*

----

It wasn't often that the wives were brought outside their chamber.  Less often still that Steven got to be present when they were – so he considered himself lucky to be in the same room when the Immortan's only surviving wife emerged from the biodome to watch Immortan Joe send off his top Imperator on a mission to recruit more valuable full-lives after the untimely deaths of his other two wives.  

It was a little known truth that Steven and Slash had history.  'Little known,' because if the Immortan caught wind that the two had become close when Slash was first brought to the Citadel and Steven was just a War Pup, he would be toast.  As little as they'd talked in the years since then, Steven still considered Slash... if not a friend, at least an acquaintance.  And that's more than he could say about his fellow War Boys.

Being allowed in the same room as Slash was the first step to reigniting their friendship. Now, if only Slash would acknowledge him...

"Steven." Slash's voice was barely loud enough to hear.

"Yes?" Steven perked up, encouraged that Slash hadn't forgotten about him after all.  

"I need you to do something for me."  Steven nodded eagerly.  "I need you to go to Imperator Stradlin, and tell him to come visit me as soon as possible.  Can you do that?"

"Of course.  Anything for the Immortan!"

It wasn't for the Immortan, but Steven didn't need to know that.

"One more thing – It's top secret.  You can't say a word to anyone else, alright?"

--

Getting to the wive's chamber wasn't hard for Izzy: all he had to do was convince the guards he was on official business, and then once he was inside the vault, the soundproof walls would take care of the rest.  All the same, he did not have a good feeling about this "meeting."  Whatever was going on, it was going to be trouble...

The thick vault door swung open, revealing a scene straight out of a dream, so serene it seemed impossible that it could exist in the same world as things like gas wars, and tumors, and the Wasteland.

Sunlight streamed through huge semi-opaque windows and illuminated the smooth sandstone walls.  Green plants and relics of the old world surrounded a pool of crystal-clear water.  And in the center of it all, clothed in the purest white, was the Immortan's most prized treasure:

"Slash... the Desired."

"Imperator."  The wife looked him dead in the eye; his hair was restrained in a ponytail and draped with the same white fabric as the rest of his body.  It was the first time Izzy had ever seen Slash's face completely clear of dark curls, and the first time he'd seen him with enough clothing to cover the rest of his skin.  

“Why did you ask me to come here? Does Joe want something from me?”

Slash’s mouth twitched into a frown at the name, but he responded in a carefully level tone:

“I have a proposition for you.”

Izzy raised an eyebrow. What could a wife possibly have to offer him? Besides the obvious, of course, and that... that was more trouble than it was worth.

“I can’t stay here any longer,” Slash explained.

“You’re crazy if you think he’ll just let you leave,” Izzy replied with a startled laugh. It was inconceivable, but Slash was looking at him with complete sincerity.

“He won’t. But you want to leave too.”

“Do I?” He did, but Slash definitely wasn’t supposed to know that.  

“Please, you hate it here, it’s obvious.  You want to leave, and I want you to take me with you."

“Fucking hell – don't you think I would have left by now if I could?  And why would I help you anyway?  How do I know you're not just testing my loyalty to the Immortan?"

"Don't be ridiculous.  Me, doing favors for Joe?"

"Alright, fine. Then what if I betray you? I could be rewarded for... keeping the Immortan's property safe."  

"What if I tell everyone you took advantage of the Immortan's absence to take his one and only wife for a test drive?"

"Fuck. You're not as pure as we've been led to believe, are you?"

Slash snorted.  "Not by half."

"But that doesn't change anything.  The Immortan would rip my throat out with his horse teeth for trying to steal one of his breeders –"

“Don’t call me that!” Slash snapped.

For a moment, Izzy was reminded of a younger Slash, fresh from the Wasteland and ready to bite at anything that got too close.

But Slash quickly composed himself, trying and not entirely succeeding to recapture an air of calm assertiveness.  "Look, just... Just think about it, alright?  We have a chance, I know we do, and really... How much more of this do you think you can take?"

Izzy sighed. "I'll think about it," he conceded.  

"Thank you."

Slash did his best to hide his disappointment, and Izzy wasn't about to stick around and make things worse by trying to console him.  He turned around to leave the wives' sanctum, but hesitated before he reached the doorway.

"Slash... What really happened to the other Wives?"

"One... One miscarried. The Immortan wasn’t happy about that. The other tried to..." his lips faltered at the worst profanity in the Citadel, "... abort her pregnancy, it didn't end well. The Organic Mechanic couldn't do anything but give her something for the pain.  They give us a serum, sometimes, to help us sleep.  I gave her my dose."

--

The scouting party brought back a feral! they said.  Full-life and raving mad, driving an Interceptor, can you believe it?

No, Izzy couldn't believe it.  Couldn't believe that Axl Rose, MFP legend turned Road Warrior, could get taken down by a pack of half-dead War Boys.  But the proof was in front of him, shivering in a cage, starving and in dire need of a shave.  

"...I-Izzy?"

His voice was exactly the same as it always was, the respirator that Izzy cobbled together a lifetime ago couldn't hide the low timber that sometimes still appeared in his dreams.  

He'd made a mistake when he thought he could play it safe at the Citadel.  He should have listened when Axl told him they were better off on their own.  The Citadel was a shrine to depravity, and he wouldn't let Axl become another one of its victims – he needed to get them out of the tower walls and far away as soon as possible. It would be a challenge to escape unnoticed... but Izzy knew the perfect distraction.  

--

"I'll make a deal with you, Slash."

Slash didn't have the decency to look shocked when Izzy barged into the biodome uninvited – or the decency to put on the thin white shirt that lay discarded on the floor.

Actually, Izzy was the one looking shocked when his eyes fell on Slash’s bare belly and his carefully planned proposition died in his throat.

“What’s the deal?” Slash asked, but Izzy was more concerned with his unfortunate new realization:

“You didn’t tell me you were pregnant! What were you thinking, asking me to help you? The Immortan is going to shred me to pieces!”

“He’d shred you anyway, this won’t change anything,” Slash gritted out. Pregnant or not, there was no way he was about to let Izzy back out, not now. “What’s the deal, Stradlin?”

Izzy hated to be caught off guard, but he could use this to their advantage.  Joe would never risk hurting a potential heir, making Slash an even better shield than before.  And once he and Axl split off, there was no way Joe would waste time and resources going after a twice-disgraced Imperator and a feral bloodbag before he got his pregnant wife back, giving them a valuable head start – if it came to that.

"I'll take you with me on my next supply run.  Ten days from now.  We'll go to the Buzzards' territory, trade guzzoline for another vehicle.  Then we part ways, got it?  I'll get you out of here but I'm not babysitting you or your sprog for the rest of my life."

"You don't want to get caught with me, you mean.  Stopping to deal with the Buzzards will give the Immortan time to catch up to us.  I'm fucked on my own."

Izzy didn't respond, and tried to look like it didn't matter to him whether Slash took his offer.

"Fine.  If they catch up... At least I'll die historic on the Fury Road," Slash said with a sardonic smile.  "But I have a request – I need you to find me a driver.  Someone who doesn't serve the Citadel, someone no one will notice is missing."

"There is no one like that."

"Really?  All those people down there, and none of them can operate a car?"

"If they could, they wouldn't be there."

"There must be someone," Slash insisted.  Izzy sighed.

"I'll see what I can do in ten days.  But what the hell do you need them for?"

"Well... I can't drive."

--

On his third visit, Izzy had spent enough time in the biodome to say that stepping inside the pristine vault always made him feel like a dirty rag, used to wipe away sweat and grime then left out to stiffen in the dusty waste.  

But if he was a dirty rag, then Duff was roadkill.  He was a half-life, one of the Wretched who clung to the sides of the Citadel like barnacles, bathing in dust while the Immortan bathed in Mother's Milk.  He was lanky – no, skeletal, nothing but sunburned skin and bone.  He carried the Wasteland with him wherever he went, tracking dust with each step.  Izzy bit down on the irrational urge to warn him not to touch anything in the vault.

The black leather collar around his neck marked him as a former denizen of Gas Town, one who had likely outlived his usefulness if his rickety prosthetic leg and the cluster of nasty tumors half-hidden by his hair had anything to say about it.  Clearly, he was in no shape to labor in the refinery.  Rumor had it that The People Eater was a cannibal – as his name suggested – but evidently Duff had escaped that fate, perhaps because he had no meat on his bones to speak of, and instead sought out clean water, abundant food, and fresh air at the Citadel.  Hah.

Slash stared at them over his shoulder, wide-eyed and seated in the shallow pool in the center of the room.  Tiny bottles lined the edge of the pool, and the scent of flowers wafted in the air.

"A bath? Now, really?"

"It might be the last chance I get," Slash countered, but he rose from the water, the beads on his skin already drying in the inescapable desert heat.  Izzy averted his eyes as Slash wrapped a length of gauzy white cloth around his waist, tugged a loose shirt over his head, and bent forward to twist another cloth around his damp hair.  Then, finally, he turned to face his guests. "Is this...?"

"This is Duff, the Wretched.  Not a War Boy.  He came from Gas Town, so he can drive."

"Good."  Duff was staring at Slash like a mirage, but Slash knew how to get on a person's good side: "Do you want some water, Duff?"

--

"How the fuck did you get in here?!" In a heartbeat, Izzy's handgun was aimed at the War Boy's head.  He saw movement out of the corner of his eye.  "Slash, get away from him."

"No! You can't kill Steven!"

"He knows too much, he's a liability.  Kill him and let's go," Axl advised.

"No! Stradlin, who even is this guy?" Slash demanded, but once again, he received no explanation.  

"Slash, what's going on, where are you going? Please don't leave me!"

"Steven, I –"

"Take me with you! I can help!"

"Slash, I'm serious.  Step away." Izzy inched closer, his gun unwavering.  War Boys were unpredictable, Kami-crazy.  You never knew what they might do when backed into a corner.  

But Slash was crazier – he pushed Steven back, placing himself between Izzy and his target.  Izzy recognized the steely glint in his eyes before Slash even spoke: "He's coming with us."

--

They were curled up in the hold of the War Rig, surrounded by food and supplies that would never make it to Gas Town like they were supposed to.  Duff was happily munching away at a carrot, and Slash was sitting with his legs curled up to his chest.

"Are you scared?" Duff asked.

"... Yes," Slash admitted, barely audible over the roaring engine.  "Are you?"

"No."

"Why not?  If we get caught, you'll be punished too, for helping me.  And he doesn't care about taking you alive."

Duff shrugged.  "It doesn't really matter, does it?  I've got a few months left, at best."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be.  I've had my whole life to come to terms with it.  Well, half-life."

It was a terribly morbid joke, but Slash still laughed.

“So... You’re not afraid of anything, then?”

“Well, I don’t know – When Izzy brought me to you, I was scared. It was like he’d taken me out of the real world and dropped me in a fantasy. I thought if I touched anything, I’d destroy it; if I spoke, I’d break the spell and wake up in the Wasteland, half dead with a crow pecking at my tongue. I thought if I got too close to you, I'd pass on my illness, and if I looked at you too long, I'd go mad and start believing in things like beauty and health and the goodness of humanity."

Slash could have laughed at the momentous gap between Duff's perception of the biodome and his own.  Instead, when Duff finished his recollection, Slash crawled across the middle of the hold and pressed himself against Duff's side.  

Duff tried to scoot away, but Slash entangled him with the soft touch of fine cloth and uncalloused hands. He wrapped his arms around Duff’s thin torso and laid his head on his shoulder.

“No, don't go.  You don't have to be scared, Duff...  You're the cleanest person to touch me in a long time."

Hesitantly, Duff reached up and let his good hand rest on Slash’s back. Slash’s hair brushed against his collar, even softer than his clothes, and when Duff breathed deeply he could still make out the sweet scent that filled the room when they first met.

For a moment, Duff let himself get lost in the fantasy world that still surrounded Slash, even in the hold of the War Rig, miles from the Citadel. He could forget about the danger they were in, the cruelty they’d experienced, and even the ticking time bombs in his own flesh.

“Do you think your baby will survive?”

“I don’t know.” Slash didn’t sound optimistic, he toyed with his sleeve and avoided Duff’s gaze.

“I’ve never seen a completely healthy baby before, I didn’t think it was possible. But then I saw you, and you’re perfect, so maybe...”

Slash scoffed.

“The Immortan is toxic. He taints everything: the water, the people... and me. If I was ever perfect, I’m sure as hell not anymore, and neither is this baby.”

Duff hugged Slash closer, and slid a hand down to his belly.

“We’ll see.”

----

[part 2]