#but his words always cut to the bone so succinctly

[luxekook]

intimidation | myg

⇥ pairing: yoongi x reader

⇥ genre: fluff, a lil touch of smut, college AU

⇥ summary: in which you think Yoongi is intimidating bc of his dark clothing and his quiet ‘don’t give a fuck’ attitude… but then someone makes him laugh and you watch as his face lights up in the cutest gummy smile complete with shining eyes and blushing cheeks and BOOM you’re whipped for that boy

⇥ word count: 2.3k

⇥ warnings: dirty talk, light smut, cursing

⇥ sequel: intensity

Thursday, September 28th – 11:16am

Min Yoongi intimidated the living hell out of you.

While the boy in question was not all that tall or all that muscular, there was admittedly something in his aura that just screamed ‘big dick energy’... Not that you’d ever get the chance to confirm that hypothesis. You weren’t even sure you wanted to.

Shoulders slumping, you shifted your peripheral gaze off of Yoongi and back onto your professor as she droned on about evolution. Your shared Introduction to Biology class inspired an odd mix of dread and excitement every Tuesday/Thursday morning as a consequence of Min Yoongi’s sheer presence.

Your mind drifted back to the first class of the semester about a month ago...

Arriving in the lecture hall indicated on your class schedule, you took a seat in the middle of the room. You were spoiled for choice given that you had arrived fifteen minutes early for lecture. The first day of classes was always stressful for you, given your tendency to get lost within the many buildings on campus as well as your hatred for lateness.

As the room filled with more and more students, you shuffled through your backpack. “Where the hell is it?” you muttered, searching for your planner where you would jot down important notes.

Finally, you spotted it wedged in between two of your folders. Grasping it in triumph, you tugged it out of your backpack and placed it on your desk. Glancing back up, you found the coldest pair of brown eyes staring back at you.

“Is anyone sitting there?” The question came in a slow drawl, all rough and lazy. Long fingers adorned in rings shifted as the boy pointed towards the empty seat next to you. God, he was offensively good-looking.

You blinked and shook your head, “No, have at it.” His gaze pinned you in place for a few more brief seconds before his chin lifted in acknowledgment and he slumped into place beside you.

You had learned absolutely nothing that first class. Or any subsequent class that Min Yoongi deigned with his presence. The odds were about 50/50 on any given day.

Today, his presence was wreaking havoc on your nervous system. Since the initial encounter on your first day of class, the amount of words exchanged between the two of you could be counted on one hand. Last week he had asked you for your notes from a previous class he had missed, and you almost burned from the inside out with embarrassment as he took in your impeccably organized and color-coded notes with raised eyebrows and a slight smirk.

“Were you planning on framing these?” he had asked while snapping a quick series of photos of your notebook pages. In response, you had scowled, pulling your notebook out of his reach.

You were a nerd. You knew that. But you didn’t like being made fun of for it. Especially by a boy as arrogantly apathetic as Min fucking Yoongi.

Therefore, you were doing your absolute best to ignore him today. The hour and a half of class dragged by so slowly you thought you might have grown a couple gray hairs by the time your professor dismissed everyone.

Rushing to pack up your belongings and multitude of colored pens, a small slip of paper dropped onto your desk. Confused, you immediately glanced up to find the source and found Yoongi sauntering away from you, black backpack hitched over one shoulder carelessly.

Fingers shaking, you opened the hastily folded paper: “(y/n) – Sorry if I made you upset last class. I only meant to extend my compliments to the artist... – MYG.”

Compliments to the—Min Yoongi was so full of shit. But you couldn’t fight the small smile that spread across your face.

“(y/n) ... (y/n) ... (y/n)!”

The sound of your name shook you from your thoughts. Your roommate Nia decided that wasn’t enough and she shoved you in the arm.

“Ow, what the hell, Nia?” you grumbled, rubbing your left bicep dramatically.

Nia scoffed, “You’re staring into your bland salad like it holds the key to the universe. What’s up with you?”

Stabbing said salad with your fork, you waved your well-lettuced utensil in your roommate’s face, “What’s up is that I cannot stand Min Yoongi! He walks around looking like god’s gift to anyone attracted to men. Then, he has the audacity to critique my notes and give me a half-assed apology with further ridicule? The nerve! The gall!”

“I’m going to stop you right there,” Nia cut off your rampage succinctly, “Min Yoongi apologized to you? We are talking about the same Min Yoongi, right? Bleached hair? Piercings? General hatred for life?”

You nodded. Nia’s eyebrows rose to new heights, “We must contact the historians. This is one for the books.”

Rifling through your planner, you pulled out the note Yoongi left you and thrust it in Nia’s direction, “Look!”

Unfolding the small torn paper, you watched as Nia’s eyes darted back and forth... and back and forth... and back and forth.

“Well?”

Nia’s wide eyes lifted to yours, “(y/n) ... Min Yoongi is flirting with you.”

You choked on your lettuce, “What? Where on earth are you getting that? He’s clearly roasting me.”

“Nope,” Nia threw the note back at you, “Clearly flirting. Damn, Min Yoongi is into my best friend? This is wild! Okay, you first need to get on that, and then you need introduce me to Park Jimin.”

“Are you insane?” Your outburst gained annoyed looks from the surrounding students in the dining hall and you lowered your voice, “I am not ‘getting on’ anyone!”

Rolling her eyes, Nia stared pointedly to the right, “So if I'm hearing you correctly, you’re saying that you don’t find him attractive?”

Your eyes followed her line of vision and landed on none other than your topic of conversation. 

God, he looked good. Even surrounded by his group of attractive friends, Yoongi stood out to you. You were just about to glance away when it happened.

Kim Seokjin’s windshield wiper laugh burst through the cacophony of conversations, following what must have been one of his famously so-bad-they’re-good jokes.

And then Min Yoongi smiled.

Your heart stuttered in your chest as you watched his eyes crinkle, his cheeks turn a pretty pink and, his smile to widen into the cutest, most devastating gummy smile you had ever seen in your entire life.

“Holy fuck.” You exhaled. It was official. You were fucking whipped.

“Yup, that’s what I thought,” Nia’s smug tone pulled your focus away from this new version of Yoongi you were desperate to know, “Still going to deny that you want to jump his bones?”

“...No.”

You were scared shitless by Nia’s maniacal grin in response to your admission.

“Excellent,” she smirked, her palms rubbing together like a plotting villain, “Here’s what we’re going to do...”

Friday, September 29th – 10:34pm

Your hands tugged at the hem of the short leather miniskirt Nia loaned you for the night as your stomach flipped more times than Simone Biles’ floor routine.

Damn, you were nervous.

When Nia talked you into attending Kim Taehyung’s party, you had agreed pretty easily. You both had reasoned that Yoongi might not even be there; and, if he was, you would just see if he would approach you.

It had seemed so simple in the moment, but now as you grasped your beer you realized that nothing regarding Min Yoongi was simple. Since arriving about twenty minutes ago, you and Nia had immediately been recruited for beer pong by Park Jimin and Jeon Jungkook. Unable to crush Nia’s dreams of hooking up with Jimin, you had agreed immediately even though you were both absolutely terrible at the game.

Jimin and Jungkook now only had one cup left to make, while you and Nia had five. You dipped the pong ball into the designated cup of water to clean it, took aim and watched in glee as the ball sailed into the front cup.

“Oh, fuck yes!” You and Nia high-fived, taking in the rare victory. Opening her mouth to respond, Nia’s words died in her throat as she looked over your shoulder.

“What is it?” you began to turn to see what was so alarming to your friend.

“No!” Nia hissed, “Don’t you dare turn around. Min Yoongi is staring at you like you’re a five-course meal and he’s starving.”

Your soul left your body, only to be snapped back into place with the interrupting cheers from Jimin and Jungkook as they sunk their last cup.

“Good game!” Jungkook’s arm wrapped around you in a half-hug. You shoot Nia a look, but she’s completely occupied in conversation with Jimin. Jungkook’s arm fell to encircle your waist when you felt it – the weight of a certain someone’s gaze.

You barely registered Jimin and Nia’s exit from the pong table and onto the makeshift dancefloor in Taehyung’s living room. And when Jungkook suggested getting another drink from the kitchen you almost shouted in agreement. Anything to escape the eyes you knew were glued to you.

He’s just a boy, you tried to remind yourself, you could handle Min Yoongi.

You followed Jungkook into the cramped kitchen, nodding along to whatever story he’s rambling on about. Locating the vast array of alcohol scattered along the kitchen island, you grabbed a solo cup and fixed yourself a rum and coke.

“...and then Jin-hyung said ‘It’s burgundy!’” You tuned back in to Jungkook’s story just in time to laugh in the appropriate place. You felt bad. Jungkook was cute and sweet, but just not your type.

“Jungkook,” a low voice broke through your shared laughter.

Jungkook’s eyes widened in alarm as he turned to face the intruder, “Yoongi-hyung! Wh-what’s up?”

Yoongi’s gaze narrowed; Jungkook gulped, “Bye, (y/n)-noona.”

You watched in horror as Jungkook literally scrambled out of the room to get away from you and Yoongi.

“Why’d you do that?” You looked up at Yoongi.

Damn, he looked good. His blonde locks were tousled like he had been running his hands through it and his cheeks were slightly flushed – probably from drinking.

Yoongi ignored your question, shooting a look at the group of boys occupying the kitchen counter space next to you and they immediately made themselves scarce.

His dark gaze turned back to you, “Why Jungkook?”

Your eyebrows furrowed, “What?”

“Why were you talking to Jungkook, (y/n)?” Yoongi moved closer to you, backing you into the counter behind you, “That boy couldn’t handle you.”

Your eyebrows quirked up, “And why’s that?”

“Because, baby, all that hair, all that ass, and all that attitude needs a man to give you what you want and what you need.”

You struggled to formulate an answer as you watched as he took a long sip of his beer, his eyes continuing to burn into yours.

“Are you drunk, Min Yoongi?”

“Lil’ bit,” he muttered and shot you a devastating half-smile, “But still sober enough to appreciate how goddamn good you look right now.”

Your mouth opened and closed several times before you choked out, “I thought you hated me?”

His hand darted through his hair as his jaw flexed once… twice, “Not even close.”

“But you don’t talk to me... you made fun of my notes!”

“I don’t talk to you because I think you’re so fucking cute with your colored pens and your oversized sweatshirts and your overused planner. I don’t talk to you because I want to ruin you and worship you all at once.”

All air had escaped your lungs at this point. You let out a jagged breath as Yoongi suddenly slid his hands around your waist.

He scooped you off the floor and placed you on the edge of the counter. Your arms circled his shoulders instinctually and his grip tightened on your hips. When he glanced down at you, he let out a rough breath, sounding like you were torturing him.

Turning to the side, you tried to hide from his intensity behind the curtain of your hair, but he just pushed it back behind your ear.

“Yoongi, please…” Your desperate words left your mouth subconsciously, the feeling of his lips so close to yours made your pulse race and your head spin.

“What do you want, baby?” he asked, his voice hoarse and his pupils dilated, “I’ll give you anything. Just ask.”

“Kiss me?” You barely finished asking your question before Yoongi’s lips slammed onto your own.

He kissed you like he wanted to own you – and to have you own him. Gravity tried to drag you down off the counter and your mouths separated in a gasp. Yoongi hoisted you up higher with a firm hand on the back of your thigh.

Hooking your leg around his slim waist, you tugged him into you, feeling every inch of his body respond to your touch. He breathed heavily as you dragged your nails down his back slowly, provokingly. You felt his responding groan rumble deep from within his chest.

His free hand latched into your hair and tugged your lips back to his. You both moaned as his tongue circled yours, twining around it, enticing yours to follow.

You swore the way Min Yoongi kissed could be felt all the way down to your bones.  

His kisses got greedier, more desperate as he seemed to be trying to memorize the taste of your mouth on his. “God-fucking-damn," he panted, pulling back slightly and resting his forehead on yours.

You smiled, completely fucked out. His fingertips dragged down your skin slowly until he reached your waist. His hands slid up under your shirt, and he rested his palms against your skin, fingers splayed down over your hips. His hold was undeniably possessive.

Shifting his head into the crevice of your neck, Yoongi muttered, “Go out with me, (y/n).”

The only answer your last few braincells could formulate was a garbled “Mkay”. But judging from the smile you felt against your pulse point, it was good enough for him.

a/n: originally was going to make this fic about jungkook (inspired by this post), but I decided I needed to write it about Yoongi bc he is baby

© luxekook. please do not repost, modify, edit or translate.

[retvenkos]

words | a.p.

Merlin (BBC) - Arthur Pendragon x Reader, fluff

tw: mentions of battle, mentions of blood, mentions of violence

word count: 1.4k

A/N: once again, if we can just pretend i know how to write a kiss, i would be much obliged. 

prompt: I’m sitting with my back to the fireplace, and my back is burning but my feet are cold, and you are sitting across from me and i think you’re smiling endearingly, but it’s hard to tell.

(Y/n) and Arthur had been friends since childhood, and as such, everyone in the castle knew that where (Y/n) wandered, the prince was not far behind. As it was with any young prince, Arthur Pendragon was a mosaic made of contradictory statements and confusing ideologies, but the one certainty was (Y/n) and his devotion to them. The entire world could be ending, but as long as you knew where (Y/n) was, then you could find the wayward prince. The whole of Camelot knew that the two of them were inevitable, like a prosperous spring after early showers of rain, but exactly when the two would realize this themselves was unknown.

But then, again, how could not know? Surely (Y/n) noticed Arthur’s constant loyalty, interspersed with that intense and unwavering feeling of love, and certainly Arthur had to realize (Y/n)’s particular fondness mixed with the steadfastness of their adoration.

It seemed unrealistic to think that the two didn’t realize they loved the other more deeply than anything. But perhaps they had gotten too comfortable in their love for the other, and recognizing it was like trying to put a name to a feeling they had carried their entire life, so deeply set into their bones it was a fact more than anything else.

Whether they put a name on their true feelings or not was of little consequence. There was nowhere one of them could go where the other would not follow. That was made succinctly clear when Arthur had to go to an outlying village some two days' ride from Camelot to bring peace amongst the people and raiders who were taking much needed grain. It was the heart of winter, and the days were cold enough to make any man wish he were dead, not to mention the freezing nights. Arthur and (Y/n) argued for days over whether or not (Y/n) would join him, but in the end, the two rode off together with a few other knights.

The fight was fairly mild, when all things were considered. Both sides were strong in their resolve to fight, but only so much blood could be spilled before the raiders could no longer justify their stance. When it was all over, Arthur immediately searched for (Y/n), ignoring the deep cut on his cheek in favor of making sure they were alright.

They were fine, without so much a scratch on them, but when they saw the state of Arthur, they were quick to reprimand him. They had patched him up immediately, their fingers cold against his flushed cheeks. 

Arthur insisted he didn’t need help - especially when other men were worse, but when (Y/n) had finished, he thanked them sincerely. 

(Y/n) kissed his forehead with an absent-minded “Of course,” and moved on to help the other injured. Arthur had watched them retreat with a smile that made his newly patched cheek burn. 

The ride back to Camelot was faster than the ride from - everyone was eager to escape the biting winter and sleep on something other than frost and snow. They returned home late at night, after King Uther and many others had gone to bed, so Arthur had resolved to bring news to his father in the morning, telling everyone to get some well-deserved rest.

When walking into the castle, (Y/n) had shivered from the cold and Arthur insisted they come to his chambers and warm by the fire. The knights around them shared looks, raising their eyebrows and nudging each other in the ribs, but neither (Y/n) or Arthur seemed particularly fazed by their behavior.

Inside Arthur’s chambers, the fire burned brightly, emanating a warmth that made both draw close. (Y/n) sat down on the hearth, rubbing their hands together and putting them close to the flames, and Arthur watched them with a tenderness in his gaze. The fire made (Y/n’s eyes sting and they turned their back to the flames, rubbing their toes and pulling off their socks. 

“Need a blanket?” Arthur asked, but he was already retrieving two, handing the thicker one to (Y/n). They took it from him with a soft ‘thank you’ and Arthur pulled up a chair to sit in, much preferring it to the hard stone.

“How’s your cheek?” (Y/n) wrapped the blanket around them, their eyes trained on Arthur as he made himself comfortable near the fire, across from them.

“Eh,” Arthur made a non-commital noise and (Y/n) rolled their eyes. Arthur smiled, “It’s alright. You could make a decent physician if Gaius took you in.”

(Y/n) scoffed. “And deal with the idiotic injuries of knights all day? I’ll find something else to occupy my time.” It was hard for Arthur to see their face, with the fire to their back, but he could guess at how their lips were tugged into a grin, their eyes alight with mirth. He fiddled with the laces of his boots, taking them off so he could warm his freezing toes. “Dealing with you is enough to give me a heart attack, I don’t think I could handle worrying over anyone else.”

“Worrying over me?” Arthur laughed, and the sound of it echoed through the room, clear and warm, laced with enough affection to make even the most cold hearted misers smile. “Bit of a lost cause, isn’t it?”

(Y/n) joined in his amusement with laughter of their own, soft but present. “You wouldn’t believe.” They tilted their head and the curve of their cheek was illuminated by the fire, the light caressing the right side of their face and shedding light on the affectionate vulnerability in their gaze. “But I’ll always worry over you, Arthur. It’s inevitable.”

Arthur fiddled with the ring on his finger, tearing his gaze away from (Y/n). It was hard to tell, with the dark of night upon them and the fire casting them in odd, ever changing shadows, but the smile on his face almost seemed endearing.

“So it’s rather pointless to try and get rid of me.”

Arthur furrowed his brow. ”Rid of you? What makes you think I’d want to get rid of you?”

“I never said you wanted to, dollop head—” Arthur guffawed, much to (Y/n)’s delight “—only that you couldn’t.”

“Well, maybe I should reconsider my previous statement.” 

A comfortable quiet settled between them, and for a moment the two just looked at the other, not trying to do anything other than relax. There didn’t seem to be anything more perfect than what lay between them - a content sort of love that went beyond need for the world.

“You did well, back in the village,” (Y/n) eventually spoke and their voice was soft, barely heard over the noise of the flames. Arthur leaned back in his chair with a sort of amused confidence and (Y/n) scoffed. “I mean it. You’re going to be kind one day, and I’m not worried about how you’ll turn out.”

Their words struck a chord in Arthur, something deep that made him sober for a moment. “So long as you’re by my side, I’ll be fine.”

(Y/n) nodded slowly, but averted their gaze, a tinge of sadness making its way into the way they bent their head. “Don’t you think you’d want someone else at your side? You’re the future king of Camelot, Arthur. Those are large shoes to fill. Don’t you think your time is better spent with others?”

Arthur blinked, genuinely confused, but he stopped himself from rushing into an answer. There was a vulnerability in (Y/n)’s voice that stopped and reminded Arthur of how precious this moment was, and the delicacy with which things like love had to be handled.

When he spoke, Arthur caught their eye, refusing to let them go. “Time better spent than with the person I love?” And the intensity of his being lay within his eyes; the strength that was so characteristic of the prince, (Y/n) doubted whether he existed beyond it.

“Love,” (Y/n) smiled, testing out the way the word rolled over their tongue. Strange, how it felt no different than Arthur’s name itself, or any other words that were meant for him. “It’s silly we haven’t said that to each other before.”

“Not really,” Arthur leaned back in his chair, a smile of his own growing on his lips, “I don’t think we ever needed it, before now.”

“Yes, well,” (Y/n) drew nearer to Arthur, the thick blanket around their shoulders dragging behind them, “I wouldn’t mind hearing it again.”

Arthur kissed them, his hands as warm as his heart, after having sat in front of the flames for so long, and (Y/n)’s touch was on fire, searing their every movement into his memory forever. When they pulled away, Arthur leaned his forehead against theirs. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

-- taglist: @locke-writes​, @randomfandomimagine​, @brokenandheadoverheels​ // message me if you want to be added!

[soapdish290]

Harrow the Ninth may be one of the best books I’ve ever read.

Under the cut for some of the questions I need the answers to, as well as me mulling some implications / potential theories.

Harrow the Ninth is horrifically, horrifically dense, and is the first book I’ve ever read that made me take actual honest to god notes on first reading, but my entire GOD is it worth while.

I’ve never ready anything with a form / point of view quite so immensely complicated whilst still adding to and complimenting the narrative. Absolutely masterful shit.

I’m going to go hog wild with spoilers under the cut.

Edited in a probably fruitless attempt to make the formatting not The Worst on Mobile

IT WAS NEVER IN SECOND PERSON OEFHAUIOFNBaufbhAPIhbaip

It was always Gideon. I kind of jokingly wondered if it was back when I first heard it was going to be written partially in second person, but I didn’t BELIEVE it!

Things we should have known

1. There are so many clues that Harrow has inexpertly switched her cognition of the very word ‘Gideon’. I mean we know she’s wiped HER Gideon out of her head way back in Chapter 2 when John talks about Harrow’s Cav, name drops Ortus, and Harrow notices “As he spoke, his mouth looked strange.” Well yes, hearing something out of sync with what’s actually spoken will do that!

But we can actually see that it’s MORE than that way back in the Dramatis Personae. Everyone has their name, written out grammatically and normally, and then we have ORTUS. All in caps.

Obviously the real tell however is the codenames in Chapter 36. We know from Cytheria’s funeral that the Lyctors are naming themselves [Necro first name] [Cav first name]. The codename’s reflect this - apart from ‘Ortus’s’, which is G.P. P for Phyrra, G for Gideon. That’s when I got it.

What I MISSED, is that this tells us, right there and then, that he was very involved with our Gideon, who is named for her mother’s last word. Her mother whose last word was for OG Gideon.

2. Palamedes knew there was a perfect Lyctorhood and outright told us way back in chapter 33. “Tell me you [became a Lyctor] correctly. [...]Tell me you finished the work. You out of everyone could have worked out the end to the beginning I was starting to explicate”. I had to stop and stare at a wall for a bit with the implications of this one, at the time.

Things we now know

1. The thing for me, the real thing, is how goddamned casually the answer to one of the biggest mysteries is dropped. It’s an afterthought. Chapter 51:

“You clawed my face so bad that my blood ran down your hands; my face was under your fucking fingernails. When I let you go you couldn’t even stand, you just crawled away and threw up. Were you ten, Harrow? Was I eleven?

Was that the day you decided you wanted to die?”

Gideon is trying to work something out. She’s trying to parse together how Harrow opened the locked tomb. The entire opening part of this chapter is Gideon’s brain, whirling, working, following the reveal that the Necrolord Undying’s “unbreakable ward” was a blood ward. Rightfully, a ‘cell’ ward. And that Gideon is God’s blood.

So what have we learned?

In order:

We've learned that only John could open the ward. That Harrow couldn't possibly. That the latter half of her life has been a tragedy based, as is oft the case, on a misapprehension.

Then we learn that God is wrong, because he doesn't understand blood wards as well as he thinks he does.

We learn at the same time, through implication, that the locked tomb is blood warded (and think back to Gideon Prime's advice to Harrow RE warding).

Then we learn that our Gideon was birthed to be a weapon used to open the locked tomb. She is the blood of God.

And here, casually, that when Harrow decided to commit suicide by ward, she did so with our Gideon's fresh blood underneath her fingernails.The locked tomb has been open for 8 years.

(as an aside this is ‘casual’ because Gideon’s entire goddamn existence has just been torn asunder by learning her parentage and hearing what might become known, in the literary canon, as The Dad Joke Undying. It’s casual and seemingly disconnected because Gideon is dissociating to FUCK and Muir is a damn MASTER of linguistic form echoing narrative function).

2. “Alecto had your eyes from the moment any of us first saw her.” Harrow, who is in love the the body in the tomb, would have seen this, too. A 10,000 year old body with the same exact eyes as Gideon Nav. Nothing specific to add here. Just... worth noting. There are potential implications.

3. Oh yeah, Wake’s spirit was in the sword as well as Cytheria sometimes. OG Gideon probably knew this when he was macking on the corpse, seeing as both he and his Cav were fucking her. Although she ALSO very much tried to kill OG Gideon, so go figure. Wake was haunting Harrow and trying to steal her body. Apparently people were having trouble with this.

Things we do not know, but would like to.

1. ‘“Augustine”, he said, “if the man you were - the man you were before you died, before the Resurrection - could hear what you just said to me, he’d tear your throat out.” Augustine said, “Thanks for confirming that.” And then he was silent.’

So, this has some pretty legit implications right? Augustine has just told John to give up on his ‘invasion force’. So either Augustine has changed over 10,000 years and John hasn’t, or else Augustine was LITERALLY someone else before the resurrection. This leads in to the next thing that I Would Very Much Like to Know:

2. What the BALLS caused the Resurrection. What WAS the resurrection. Why was it necessary. Why does John need an invasion force? What, succinctly, the fuck is going on?

3. John says that he will forgive OG Gideon for failing to “fix or put down” Harrow. A scant page later he says that he “was trying to save her”. Save her. By ‘putting her down’. That’s not the language you use for someone you’re trying to save. That’s the language you use to minimise what you’re doing. What the fuck was John doing. Who was he manipulating. He told Harrow he wished she was his daughter. He asked OG Gideon to try and kill her. Why. What the fuck my dude.

3. The Stoma at the bottom opened for John. They’re only supposed to open for the Resurrection Beasts. “some kind of heinous underworld that only opened for the undead souls of monstrous planets”. What the fuck IS John, at this point? I can’t help remember that he had bodies and souls left from the Resurrection - he used them at the start of the book to rejuvenate the Ninth House and ‘buy’ Harrow. I’m reminded of Teacher from Gideon, who was 50 men. Of Harrow herself, who is 200 children. How many is John? Cytheria said she was doing her work on behalf of the 10 billion. The population of earth in the presents near future? of the solar system? Going back around to an earlier point, WHAT DID JOHN DO.

4. Gideon-in-Harrow is saved by the body. By Alecto, who speaks “with the wrong voice twice removed”. Whose voice? Why is it wrong? Who is she talking to when she asks for chest compressions? I assume she’s with Blood of Eden? With the Sixth and Coronabeth?

5. The Harrow who wrote the letters still knows more than we do. She knew that Camilla was around, that Corona was, that Judith was. She knew enough to know that Judith would need to be muted instantly.

6. The Epilogue. To me the implication is that they have Harrow’s body, but do not know who is driving. They give the bones and the sword, and look for a reaction.

7. Gideon’s body. Where is it. The assumption is that Blood of Eden have it. Why.

8. Oh, Gideon outright states that Ianthe was playing games with Harrow, up to and including lying about seeing Cytheria’s body under her bed (fucking nightmare fuel right there by the by). Not surprising, but oddly specific if just doing it for shits and giggles. Could just be that Ianthe assumed Harrow was doing all the made shite on her own and just egging her along, could be something else. Doubt we’ll find this one out, I’m probs overthinking.

I’m definitely missing a lot. I could also list the fucking effortlessly cool shit that keeps happening in this book, but this is long enough.

[banditthewriter]

Trust Is Earned - Charles Vane - 6

Here we are at part 6! Thanks to everyone for their reactions to this story. I’m enjoying reading your theories. 

Warning: Descriptions of violence and torture

*gif not mine*

Enjoy!

------

There had been plenty of noise from the front of the shop but you ignored it in favor of working on the dress you had bought the fabric for. As you started to work on the stitching around the hem, you heard voices rise sharply. One familiar voice brought you out of your rooms and into the shop immediately.

Just outside of the door to the shop, which was barely open a crack, was Billy Bones trying to strong arm his way past four of The Ranger crew.  

“What in God’s name is going on here? Release him this instant,” you demanded as you pushed past the men that were surrounding Billy. 

“The captain told us to stop anyone from coming into the shop,” one of the men said indignantly as you shoved at his arm.

“Oh did he? Well perhaps he meant anyone that means me harm and I promise that The Walrus boatswain does not mean me harm. Let him pass.”

The men obviously didn’t want to disobey Vane but you could be intimidating when you wanted to be. They must have collectively decided it would be easier to explain to Vane than it was to stop you because they released Billy and let him follow you into the shop.

They didn’t let you shut the door though.

With the four of them just outside of the shop, you directed Billy to follow you into your rooms. God help the man that tried to storm into your private living space without your permission.

“I thought The Walrus was out on a hunt.”

“We were. Caught an easy prize on the way to our lead, needed to bring the perishables back to Nassau before we go back out.” After a beat of barely there silence, “Why the fuck are four gunners from The Ranger repairing your front door?”

“Possibly because their captain was the one that originally broke the front door,” you said as you went over to where your dress was waiting for you.

“Never mind that. What the fuck happened to your face?”

Ever the eloquent gentleman. You reached up and touched the swollen skin around your eye before you turned back to Billy.

“Nothing for you to worry about,” you said evenly. “Would you like some tea? I might have some rum hidden somewhere if that’s–”

“Stop with the pleasantries and tell me what the fuck is going on Y/N.”

You rubbed the bridge of your nose as you turned away from Billy. This conversation had been inevitable but you had thought you’d have a little more time to figure out a way to put it succinctly.

“I was attacked. Captain Vane has loaned me some of his men until the culprits have been… dealt with.”

Billy marched across the room and grabbed your arm, pulling you around to face him.

“Did he do this to you? Is that why you’re scared? Is he holding you prisoner here?”

You shook your head sadly.

“That’s a lot of questions Billy,” you admonished softly, knowing you needed to get him to calm down before he made a serious mistake. “No, Captain Vane didn’t do this to me, no I’m not scared of him, and no I’m not being held prisoner in my own home. Like I said, they are keeping me safe.”

Billy reached up to touch your face, the corner of your mouth where the split lip was starting to heal. Then he reached down to check under the cloth around your neck. You watched as fury crossed his face at the sight.

“Who did this to you?”

You tried to push his hand away from your neck but he wouldn’t budge.

“I have already said that it’s being dealt with. I don’t need you to run off half cocked and make things worse.”

You hadn’t meant to say that, but the words came out in a rush anyways. Billy’s fingers tightened on the edge of the cloth around your neck until you could feel the strain of it against the back of your neck.

“This is his fault, isn’t it? Vane. No one would have a reason to go after you, you’re just a candle maker. It has to be his fault.”

A laugh poured from your lips at that. You weren’t sure why you were laughing, because he had called you just a candle maker or because he blamed Vane when the events of late could all be traced back to Billy’s decision to bring Silver to your shop.

Either way, you laughed until your lips hurt. Billy had loosened his grip on the cloth, surprised by your sudden onset of mirth. Then his hand went around the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair.

“I’ve heard what they’ve said on the beach about you and him. I know it’s bullshit, I just don’t know why you’re going along with it. What does he have over you? I can help you, you know that I can. I’ll take you to the beach, take you to The Walrus. We can have Eleanor Guthrie help us.”

You reached up and cupped Billy’s cheek, your smile sincere as you stared up at him. There had always been something so earnestly pure about Billy, pirate though he was. There was a softness about him that he let out around you, around anyone he cared about. It was that sweetness that you had attached to, to allow it to grow without realizing what it meant.

He was half in love with you and you didn’t feel the same. It wasn’t fair to him.

“What you’ve heard about us is simply how it is. I don’t need protection from him.”

Billy reached up to cover the hand you had on his face.

“He’s a monster Y/N.”

You opened your mouth to say that no, he was simply a pirate, but you didn’t have the chance. A different voice cut in instead.

“Is that right?”

Both you and Billy turned to the door where Vane stood. It probably wouldn’t have been such a shock if he hadn’t also been covered in blood with his sword still in hand. 

Billy immediately pushed you behind him, his hand going to his hip but finding no sword to draw. You knew that you probably only had a short time to diffuse the situation before there was bloodshed. That in mind you carefully walked around Billy to place yourself between the two pirates.

“Billy, you need to leave. The Walrus needs you, it’ll be leaving soon for the hunt. Come now, I’ll walk you out.”

You gave Vane a glare but he merely raised an eyebrow as you grabbed Billy’s arm and began to pull him from your rooms. Billy went along, but you could feel some resistance. You had done right to mention his ship and the fact that the men needed him. Hopefully he was more duty bound to them than he was to you at that moment.

“Y/N, he’s–”

“I’m well aware of what he is, Billy Bones. Now you need to get back to your ship and I need to… get back inside. Please,” you added when it seemed that Billy wasn’t going to budge.

Finally he nodded and turned to leave. There weren’t any men outside of the shop anymore so perhaps Vane had dismissed them when he got there. As Billy made his way down the road and out of sight, you let out a sigh and shut the door to your shop. It closed easily, more locks added to the inside for you to use.

Once that was done, you took a deep breath and made you way back into your rooms.

Vane was at the water basin against the far wall, his hands turning the water pinkish and then red as he wiped off the dried blood there. It was also on his clothes, but that was a lost cause.

You walked over and grabbed a cloth that was usually used to dry one's hands. You dipped it into the water before you reached up to start to wipe the blood from his forehead first.

“The boatswain come to save you from the monster?”

You gave him a baleful stare before you continued your work.

“Because of the attack and things he finds to be impossible,” you said softly as you ran the cloth over the bridge of his nose and then across his cheekbone. “He’s not sure how these things are happening to just a candle maker.”

Vane’s hand reached up to grasp your wrist. He didn’t use his grasp to pull your hand away or to guide the movements. It was almost as if he just wanted to touch you.

“You’re not just a candle maker.”

Warmth filled you at those words, but you didn’t react. Instead you switched hands so that you could ring the rag out and start on the other side of his face. 

“Am I to assume this is the blood of my attackers?”

“It’s not my own,” he said in a lilting voice, a tease. When you didn’t give him even a smile for the joke, he sighed. “It’s not Eleanor Guthrie’s either, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“It’d crossed my mind,” you admitted as you moved the cloth across his jaw and then down over his neck. “Do we know if it was her behind it?”

He pulled away from you at that. With a dry cloth in hand, he turned away and went over towards the fire.

“Found a promissory note on one of the men. Wasn’t signed, but it was her handwriting. I dropped it on her desk… in the hand of the man who had it.”

You closed your eyes at that confession. He’d dropped a severed hand on Eleanor Guthrie’s desk while standing covered in blood. It was a miracle he’d made it out alive.

Or maybe not a miracle. As much as Eleanor seemed to hate Vane, she never made the moves to actually rid herself of him. Perhaps you could understand why.

“I’m assuming that won’t end favorably.”

“I simply told her that an attack against you was an attack against me in my eyes and that if anyone else had concerns about my ability to lead my men, they would do best to bring those complaints to me directly.”

Days ago you had been assuring Eleanor that there was nothing going on between you and Vane and now he was dropping a bloodied hand on her desk and declaring the two of you to be some sort of unit.

You thought about how it was with Jack and Anne. They were both their own entities to be sure, Jack Rackham the quartermaster to The Ranger and Anne Bonny a feared and infamous pirate in her own right, but they were also a pair. It was Jack and Anne, Anne and Jack, rarely one without the other.

Is that what the future held for you and Vane? To be spoken of in the same breath even if you were alone. How many of your conversations or interactions lately had centered around your fictional attachment to the captain?

And that was the rub of it all. This was all happening due to a fiction that the two of you had created. You had a business partnership that was lucrative and profitable, but that was it.

You weren’t even sure you could consider Vane a friend.

“Thank you for what you did,” you finally said as you settled back down into the chair where you had been working on your dress. “I know that you didn’t do it for me but because it was a threat to you, but I’m still grateful that I won’t have to sleep with one eye open for now.”

Vane turned away from the fire and looked over at you. He tossed the cloth he had grabbed onto the table with the basin, not caring that it fell into the water. He took a few strides until he was in front of you. You watched as he reached out, those fingers gently caressing your cheek and down your jaw, much like you had done when you cleaned his face.

“Of course I did it for you.”

Those words were beyond unexpected. You could feel your body heat rising in reaction, butterflies erupting in your stomach. Before you had a chance to process the words, to even think about a response, he dropped his hand and headed over towards the door.

“I’ll keep at least one of my men here with you for a while, to make sure there won’t be any repercussions.”

He gave a quick nod in your direction and then he was gone.

And you? You were left with a mind swirling with things you weren’t sure you could ever truly figure out.

------

The garden had been long neglected so you decided to spend part of the day with your hands in the soil. The Ranger had been at sea for almost a week and it had been the most mundane week you’d had in months. People shopped, you made deliveries, you joined friends at the tavern for meals. 

One difference is that you had a shadow for these things. The man that Vane had left with you was named Edgar. He was large and looked mean, but you’d found him to be the most polite pirate you’d had the pleasure of dealing with in a long time. 

You refused to let him sleep outside and he refused to sleep on the couch in your front room so the compromise was a cot that he slept on in the shop. You made sure he ate, tried to make him leave your side to enjoy the whores at the brothel while you ate in the tavern, but he was a good sentry. 

He stayed nearby while you tended to the garden, listening to you as you talked aloud to the plants and discussed the different uses for the herbs that you usually grew. Your neglect of the garden meant a lot of the plants looked unfit for use, but you were determined to fix your mistake.

“Hasn’t been enough rain for those,” a voice said from the other side of the fenced in garden you were in.

You looked up and smiled at Captain Flint who was looking at the proof of your hard work. Edgar edged around the garden while you stayed on your knees in the dirt, his hand on his side where his pistol was. You gave a brief shake of your head to call him off but you knew he wouldn’t stand down until Flint left.

“I’ve been remiss in my gardening habits,” you admitted as you looked around at your handiwork. “Are you much of a gardener?”

“I like to learn a little about a lot of different things,” he admitted as he fingered one of the tomato plants near the fence. “Do you sell from the garden or is it just for you?”

You stood up and dusted off your skirt as best you could.

“I sell some, but mostly it’s just for myself. This is a large garden and I’m just one person. Usually,” you said as you shot a look over at Edgar. 

He didn’t seem to notice that you were talking about him.

“Your man. He’s one of Vane’s, isn’t he?”

You hadn’t had many interactions with Captain Flint, but the ones you’d had told you that he rarely asked a question if he didn’t have a good idea of the answer. You knew that no conversation with him was just one thing. He was always putting a double meaning in his words.

“He is.”

Flint looked from you to Edgar. You could see the calculating look on his face before he spoke next.

“Would he allow me to take you for a short walk?”

You were sure that he wouldn’t like it, but you had an idea. 

“Of course. Edgar, you’ll watch the shop while I walk with Captain Flint, won’t you?”

Edgar was already shaking his head but you hurried around the fence to where Flint was standing.

“Surely I’ll be safe with Captain Flint. It’ll be up to you to keep the shop safe in my absence.”

The men of The Ranger knew that you were the reason they were making the money they made currently so they knew it was in their best interest to keep you and your shop safe. Plus Vane had made the demand so it was to be followed to the letter.

In this case, you had boxed the man in. He couldn’t say no without causing a scene and he wasn’t aware that it wasn’t particularly necessary to keep the shop open.

Plus you didn’t think it would matter much if Edgar was with you or not. If Flint wanted to kill you or kidnap you, there was likely not much one man alone could do. Edgar obviously knew that because he gave a nod to you and stepped back.

Flint offered you his arm and you accepted it gratefully. He had an air about him, the same one that made you think he was part of the Navy before he came to Nassau. The residual air of a gentleman made him a good choice for Eleanor Guthrie’s favorite pirate. At least now that she wasn’t sleeping with Vane.

“Is there a reason that Vane is keeping one of his best in the vanguard here to watch your shop?”

You knew that accepting his offer to take a walk would leave you open to an inquiry like this. While you couldn’t be sure what he was planning, you were confident that you could keep up with him.

“I was attacked a week ago. He left his man with me for protection, but like I said, I’m sure I’ll be safe with you today.”

It was a pointed jibe that he didn’t respond to. Instead he directed you down the winding path that led from the store and towards the beach.

“It does make me wonder how you plan on continuing the act of being neutral if you’re sharing a bed with Charles Vane.”

Gone was that gentlemanly air, replaced by the steel of the pirate captain that everyone in Nassau knew and feared. You tried to subtly pull your arm from his grasp but he didn’t let you. Instead he tugged you down the path a little harder. 

“It’s not an act, Captain Flint, and who I’m sharing a bed with doesn’t change that. I think you’ll remember that I shared a bed with one of your crew for the last few years and yet you had no qualms about my ability to be neutral then, did you?”

It might not have been the best plan to antagonize the man, but you weren’t happy with this particular line of questioning. From others, maybe, but from someone on The Walrus? From this captain? It angered you enough that you forgot that you could very well be in trouble.

Your free hand went to your pocket where the dagger that Vane had given you sat. Hopefully you wouldn’t need to use it today.

“The difference as best as I can tell is that you were merely sleeping with my boatswain. This affair with Vane is a different sort.”

It wasn’t the first time you’d heard something like that either. What was it about Vane that made people think that this wasn’t just a casual thing between the two of you? People heard that you and Vane were intimate and they assumed wedding bells. Or something permanent at least.

“I assure you that what I have with Vane, while none of your business, is as casual as what I had with Billy.”

The two of you stopped and you looked forward to see where you were. You hadn’t noticed that you had been leading off the main path and towards the trees until that moment. In front of you strung from a large tree were two men, naked as the day they were born. 

Their bodies were starting to decompose, animals picking at the corpses. They were both beaten beyond recognition, their bodies mutilated horribly. Across each of their chests was carved the word ‘revenge’. 

You gasped and looked away.

“Casual. If this is what Vane does for a casual dalliance, I’d hate to see him seriously involved.”

Flint came in from behind you, but he didn’t hurt you. He simply gripped your chin and forced you to look at the bodies again.

“Recognize them? I’d understand if you can’t since their faces have been caved in. They were members of the crew of The Tempest. They’re the men that attacked you.”

You saw that one of them indeed only had one hand. The other had been deposited on Eleanor’s desk.

Flint wasn’t here for you. He wasn’t here for Billy or for the members of The Tempest, not even really here for Vane. He was here because of what happened with Eleanor. 

He needed to protect his source of income, just like Vane did with you. 

“Your concern has been noted,” you said fiercely as you pulled your chin out of his grasp. Then you did more and took a step away from him, from the bodies. “Perhaps this conversation would be better had with Vane instead of with me as I’m not in control of his actions.”

Not that you actually expected the two of them to ever sit down to talk. Flint and Vane were at odds more often than not. They had in common that they were pirate captains in Nassau, but that was the end of it. From there the two men were almost as different as night and day, if both were as dark as midnight and dangerous as a pit of vipers.

Maybe they did have more in common than you originally thought.

“I am going to go back to my shop before Edgar decides to see what is taking me so long on this walk. As always, Captain Flint, it’s been a pleasure.”

You didn’t want to turn your back on him but you didn’t have any choice. It took every ounce of your willpower not to turn and look behind you. Instead you walked with purpose back up the street and towards your shop.

Edgar was still where you had left him. When you walked past him with the intention of going into the shop for a moment to regain your composure, he grabbed your arm and pulled you close to him.

“If you do something like that again, I’ll lock you in your shop until the captain gets back.”

You glared up at him and yanked your arm out of his grip.

“You could try but I promise it would not end well for you. And if you put your hands on me again without my permission, I’ll gladly bury a dagger into your throat. That is the only warning you’ll get from me.”

You stormed away from Edgar and into the shop, slamming the door and locking it as well.

Then you fell to your knees in the middle of the floor, desperate to catch the breath that seemed to have been knocked out of you weeks ago. 

How had things gotten so out of hand?

X

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[cookinguptales]

Today, SCOTUS is hearing arguments about whether businesses should have to cover birth control for their employees in their health insurance plans and I just. It’s hard to read.

I was going to make up this big informational persuasive post about the situation. But I’m just. I’m just so sad and angry and tired. So I figured I’d make an emotional one instead.

Let me tell you about my hormonal birth control journey. 

(Rest under a cut for length and content. cw: mental illness, graphic discussion of medical issues, injuries, & menstruation, discussions of suicide & self-harm, discussion of opioids, alcohol, & recreational drug use.)

 I started taking hormonal birth control late in high school to help regulate “painful periods”. It wasn’t for actual birth control at that point and I hadn’t been diagnosed with any disease, not even POTS yet. I just had “painful periods”.

Things were okay for a little while, but when I got to college, things started to fall apart. The double whammy of undiagnosed mental illness and a barely-diagnosed chronic illness (POTS was relatively unknown at the time and my doctors gave me information which I now know is incorrect) really caused me to spiral during my first year of college. I didn’t know it yet, but I react very poorly to some forms of hormonal birth control. Put succinctly, they drive me batshit insane. On one pill, I literally did not leave my apartment for over a month. I became very literally agoraphobic. Bouncing off the walls, irritable, angry, high suicidal ideation. As bad as side effects can be.

But I didn’t know that yet. I just stopped taking BC as part of the whirlwind of medicines and doctors that my life became for about two years while I was on my (first) medical leave from college.

My ribs were coming out back then. I didn’t know that yet, either. I knew that when I was around 16, I started getting severe back pains. The first time it happened, I had to go to the ER because I couldn’t breathe and my teachers thought I was having a heart attack. I got a narcotic shot in my butt. It did nothing to dull the pain. That’s how much it hurt. But it went away on its own eventually and I over the years I started medicating reoccurrences with a lot of different things. Physical therapy. Muscle relaxers. (Medically prescribed) opiates that made me puke. Prescription strength Advil. Wine.

I didn’t see that it was all connected yet. Not yet. I didn’t realize, with my periods as irregular as they were, that the back pains were coming around the same time in my cycle each time.

My “painful periods” got worse. I talked to an OBGYN, with my mother in the room. I told her that I was scared of something like childbirth. I knew that my blood flow was dangerously bad. What if the fetus didn’t get enough blood? Oh, my doctor laughed, that wasn’t a problem. The fetus would always get enough blood. The risk was that I wouldn’t. That it, like the tiny vampire it was, would take it all until I simply died. If I got pregnant, I would likely die. I asked about permanent sterilization. My mother cried. My doctor said no. I didn’t ask again.

I went back on birth control.

It was odd. I didn’t want children before that visit, not really. I was so tired all the time. I knew I’d never be able to manage to raise a child — and honestly, I didn’t care to try. I was so depressed. I was so sick. It sounded like so much work. I still don’t want to have kids. But it still feels… weird, knowing that I can’t. And knowing that I could die if I get knocked up.

I’m bisexual, but I have zero sexual contact with men (because I don’t love them, despite being somewhat sexually attracted to them) and zero sexual contact with people with penises (because they could literally kill me and it would be no one’s fault). But I’ve been followed home by men before. I’ve had cabbies lock me in and ask me for a date. I’ve had men who won’t take no for an answer. And my god, it terrifies me that I might have to deal with both sexual assault and a slowly creeping murder all at once.

(It’s laughable to think he’d be tried for both.)

I ended up getting sick off birth control a few times. I went on and off it periodically during my college career. I now in retrospect see that a lot of my “meltdowns” were a combination of discrimination-based stress, physical breakdowns, and hormonal whirlwinds. At my worst times, I was on birth control. The wrong ones.

My periods, over time, got worse. My back would hurt. The cramps were unbelievable. I couldn’t feel my legs. I could feel them too much. I couldn’t keep food down. I’d be so angry, so sad, so everything.

I went to the doctor again. I was diagnosed with both endometriosis and PMDD. PMDD, or premenstrual dysphoria disorder, is like PMS on steroids. I remember telling my doctor, in halting tones, that I wasn’t well before my periods. That I always had depression, always had anxiety, but I wasn’t well before periods. At her prodding, I confessed that sometimes I would just lie there for hours, for days, in the fetal position. That I’d clutch at my own arms, mooring myself, because I knew that those white knuckles were the only thing between me and killing myself. That my brain, always somewhat malevolent, became an inescapable mantra of death. That I’d just lie there and sob because it took everything I had not to hurt myself. That I’d find claw marks, bruises, on my arms later, and all I could do was get some ice.

It was better than the alternative.

I told my doctor about how painful my periods had always been. How I’d heard a story once about, y’know, that Spartan boy? The one who hid a fox kit under his shirt during an examination and stayed perfectly silent even as it clawed at him so he wouldn’t be caught with it? How it tore at his stomach until he fell down dead, still silent? I told her how I felt like I was holding a fox kit every damn month and sometimes I couldn’t stand the pain of it. Sometimes I considered ending that pain, one way or another.

She put me back on birth control.

A little less than a year later, or in layman’s terms, about a year ago, my mental health was so bad again that I was almost committed. Literally committed. I had to go stay with my parents for a few months while I transitioned to new medications because it wasn’t safe for me to be alone. I learned that the birth control I was on could create those symptoms — but they didn’t start until months after you’d started taking it. So you didn’t realize it was the medicine. You just assumed you were crazy and unlikable and so, so angry. At the world, at your loved ones, but mostly at yourself.

I learned, around that time, that I also had Ehlers-Danlos syndrome. That the pain I felt every month right before my period wasn’t just cramps. It was my bones coming undone from their sockets. It was my hips dislocating. It was my ribs popping out of my spine. I realized that that lump my parents could feel in my back wasn’t a hard knot of tense muscles. It was my fucking rib poking out of my back. I learned that there is a period right before menstruation that mimics a period during pregnancy where your joints loosen — your body thinks it is preparing you for birth, for loosening your pelvic cavity so an entire head can pass through. For someone with Ehlers-Danlos syndrome, that period of joint looseness was enough to wreak absolute havoc on a system of already-weakened joints.

I learned how to put my own ribs back in with a foam roller. I started drinking marijuana tea for the pain. I went on a different birth control. I stopped taking the placebo pills. I had to fully eradicate that entire portion of my cycle. Goodbye PMDD and ribs constantly popping out. I don’t miss you!

I am still on that pill, y’know. Every day I take it and wonder if I’m one step closer to the day when it inevitably destroys me. The last one took about a year. Tick tock.

Or maybe I finally found the one that works… I really just don’t know.

The fact of the matter is that I have a full handful of maladies that require birth control so I can function. PMDD, endometriosis, dangerous pregnancy, EDS. I need hormonal birth control. I would probably be dead by now without it. The PMDD especially was that bad. My internal organs are likely a scarred-up mess. But the birth control itself almost killed me, too. God, it was close.

Simply put, birth control is heaven and hell all wrapped up in a pill. It treats illnesses and it prevents pregnancy. In other words, it provides you with both freedom and peace of mind. It is absolutely essential. But it’s also monstrous. The sheer number of sometimes-deadly side effects that come with hormonal treatments is staggering. Which is why you need to be under a doctor’s careful eye when you’re on it. You need to be free to choose whichever brand you need. You need to be free to switch kinds at a moment’s notice. None of these things are possible in a system where these pills are not fully covered by insurance.

(And yes, I know, this is a stupidly American problem in so many ways. Obviously the ideal thing here would be single-payer for all medical procedures. But that’s not up for debate here and insurance for BC is. Because for some reason we let some people’s religious convictions determine others’ health care. But I digress.)

Please don’t worry too much for me. I have a good employer who has told me in no uncertain terms that I don’t need to worry about my healthcare coverage. But there are so many people just like me. Who may not have diagnoses yet. Who may have “problem bodies”. Who only know that they need to do something and that they might have to go through several pills to find it. Whose employers either have the strong religious belief that hormonal birth control is a sin or the strong religious belief that they want to pay as little as possible for their workers’ health care. (Call me cynical.)

Those are the people I worry about. Those are the people I feel absolutely sick over as I watch the SCOTUS argue whether we should be allowed to have life-saving medicine. The people who I know will fall through the cracks the second that the cracks are widened enough for them to do so. The people who will die.

It’s a tense time right now. It’s a tense time for very obvious reasons. But this morning I find myself to be even tenser, and my stomach hurts thinking about it. It feels like all I can do is stare at a pill packet and remember every horrible reason I need it and every horrible thing it’s done to me and I just.

It’s a lot.

[nelllraiser]

your ass is grass | deirdre & nell

TIMING: after deirdre’s fateful call with regan’s dad. (yes, this is old) PARTIES: @deathduty and @nelllraiser. SUMMARY: regan is grass. nell still hates mimes. deirdre isn’t a rotten egg. penises. 

HellaHairFlip Today at 12:40 AM: do u have anything to add walmart dentist Today at 12:41 AM: add that i love u :/

A lot of things were going wrong for Deirdre, she was happy at least at sneaking into a nearby recreation center was not one. “Move your feet, Penelope. We’ve got something very important to steal.” The door clinked open and the banshee pushed it open, waiting for the human to follow her in. She adjusted the mask on her face, an unnecessary precaution, probably, but she might have taken any excuse to wear a mime mask. They were truly terrifying. “We can’t commit theft if that’s how slow you’re going to move. Don’t witches have more self-respect than this?” The cold night air drifted in behind her, a perfect day for a little criminal activity. Penelope wasn’t her first choice in companions, but she’d need the witch for the spell once they were done here. So it was convenient, more than anything. 

Of all the things to steal, Nell was rather...surprised that it was only fake grass that was needed as an ingredient for breaking a fae promise. “I’m moving fine!” she hissed back, feeling rather dramatic in her all black outfit along with the ski mask over her eyes. “And did you have to wear a mime mask of all things? Cursed creatures. Snobby know-it-alls. They probably think you’re emulating them.” Nevertheless, she thought it’d be rather fun to commit a little bit of theft, even if it was only grass. Besides, if she got brought home by cops— it wouldn’t be the first time. “So why do we need grass anyway?” she asked as they closed in on their target.

“Why aren’t you wearing the mime mask I bought you?” Deirdre hissed, though her anger deflated a moment later. If someone saw them, it’d be the mime and the bargain bin bank robber, and she’d kill to see that headline somewhere. “We can’t be a team like this.” She knew Penelope couldn’t see the smirk on her face, but she hoped the child could feel it. “This was the only mask left in the store,” she groaned, leading the witch through the halls until they reached one of the fields. Glorious, beautiful turf shone back at her through the small window in the double doors. Deirdre pushed on the handle and unsurprisingly found it clunk back at her with the telltale signs of being, equally unsurprisingly, locked. “I told you on the way here: we need the grass for the spell. It takes two parts, fae components and then something representative of the spell. My darling Regan is the grass, or the not-grass, but her father thinks of her like grass.” She looked up at the mechanism that held the door in place and turned back to the witch, gesturing up at it. “Can you do anything about that? I don’t suppose you know any convenient door opening spells, do you?”

 “Because mimes are the literal scourge of the Earth!” Nell’s voice was full with the passion of a thousand suns on that matter. “I’d rather die than impersonate a mime.” Damn. She would have liked to be a team, though. Nell hadn’t thought of that. “Maybe if you’d gotten anything else but the mimes- we could have been the super cool theft tag team. I feel like we could have even just made homemade masks. A fun bonding activity, don’t you think?” She was only half-joking. It’d probably be amusing to see what sort of mask Deirdre might fashion. “Yeah, yeah, but why is Regan grass? None of your analogies make sense.” Nevertheless, she gave a bit of a smug smile as Deirdre requested her services. With a simple few words, and the passing of her hand over the mechanism, the door was ready to go. “Now who’s lacking self-respect?” The retort didn’t make any sense, sure. But it made her feel a little better.

“You really...hate mimes.” Deirdre blinked, simply listening to the child. She hadn’t expected it to be such a hot-button issue, but she also hadn’t expected to be stealing grass in the middle of the night with someone who was, effectively, a child. “I don’t do crafts, I make people do crafts for me and then I throw them out,” she scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest as though it were the most obvious of fact---that she would never degrade herself doing anything lowly. “Regan isn’t the grass, her dad wants her to be grass: easily maintained, something to look at. He only cares enough to keep his lawn looking the way he wants it, no matter what that means. Regan isn’t grass, she’s better than---oh, forget it. Why am I even explaining this to you?” But her explanation served as filler between Penelope’s spell and the door clicking open. “There’s something I’ve always wanted to say, Penelope,” Deirdre smiled, pushing open the door and pausing at the threshold between the field and the hall. Then she turned, her smile twisting with mischief, “last one in is a rotten egg.” And being right at the door, Deirdre took the first step on to the fake grass and was, unceremoniously, not the rotten egg. “You humans have some delightful phrases, although I hope this doesn’t mean I just turned you into an egg.” She paused, “the last one in is not a rotten egg.” She turned back, pulling a knife from her back and gesturing around. “Do you want to do anything else or shall I get started on the grass.”

“They’re my biggest and most mortal enemy on this Earth,” Nell finished succinctly before thinking to continue on with. “Though often I doubt if they’re actually mortal. Especially that weird one that walks on all fours.” Nevertheless, her disdain for the mimes dissipated as she traded it for amusement. “Crafts can be fun.” Nell wasn’t entirely sure if she’d entirely caught the whole ‘grass’ analogy, but she was fairly certain she at least understood it well enough to be able to replicate the spell Deirdre was teaching her...if she ever needed to. Surely being able to do away with fae promises was something that would come in handy one day. “No fair! I wasn’t warned! You’re supposed to count down from three or something.” She was, quite understandably, quite miffed at having found herself the rotten egg, though she was quickly placated by Deirdre’s rectification of the situation. “Oh- that’s much better. Thank you. I could feel my yolk forming as we spoke.” Nell scanned the surrounding area, as if someone was waiting to jump out and yell, ‘Gotcha!’. Though could they actually be arrested for taking fake grass? “No, no, please proceed with your grazing. I’ll be here.” She squinted at the knife. “You know you could probably just pull the fake grass up...right?”

“Oh! You’ve seen that thing too?” Deirdre knew they were getting off-topic, but what was a chat about mimes while they stole fake grass? “I was with someone who cut its head off and the cursed thing just grew right back! Such a shame, really. I would have loved to pick through the bones that thing must leave…” she paused, gazing off, lost in the fantast in her head. “If any,” Deirdre murmured finally, shaking her head and moving along. “I think you’d look like Humpty Dumpty if you were an egg. You know, with the eyes and the mouth and the small little legs dangling over your brick wall.” Deirdre bent down, stabbing her knife into the grass and digging out a clean square for them to take. “This is more fun,” she glanced up, working through her patch of grass, “you’re not terrible for a human, Penelope. Certainly more fun than some---”

“Hey!” A voice boomed through the walls, and the jangling of keys followed. “Is anybody in there?” The double doors on the other side clanked open, and an old man dressed in security blues hobbled in. “You whippersnappers better not be painting any more penises here!”

In a moment, Nell put two and two together, her brow furrowing together a bit. “Wait, are you talking about Shiloh? She was telling me she cut it’s head off!” She’d been a bit jealous that she hadn’t been there to witness that, or have the honor of cutting it off— even if it wasn’t it’s real head. “But true...it’d probably be some pretty weird bones.” Her nose wrinkled, immediately rejecting Deirdre’s egg classification of her. “Ew, no. I couldn’t be. I don’t fall off of walls. I’m gonna be like a...dragon egg. You can be a chicken egg,” she joked with a little shrug. But she nodded sagely at the other woman’s claim, knowing firsthand that it truly was more fun to cut things with a knife. “Aww, Deirdre. Careful now. I’ll start thinking you like me or-” But her head snapped towards the voice that had yelled out, and she took in the sight of the night guard. “Do you have enough grass yet??” she asked in a hurried tone, not really wanting to be taken home in the back of a cop car or something. “Damn- we should have drawn some penises, though,” she finished under her breath.

“You know Shiloh too?” Deirdre, astonished again, blinked. It really was a small town. “Is Humpty Dumpty not a beloved story, Penelope?” She teased, making quick work of the turf below and slinging it over her shoulder once a sizable enough square has been cut. “I do like you, human. I say this now because you’ve suggested phallic defacement and of that, I am always a fan.”  The guard finally snapped his flashlight to life and cast its orange-tinted light over to the two trespassers.

“Oi! You two there better not be drawin’ any penises or else I’m--” he paused, squitining. Then he took a cautious step forward. “Are you���.are you two stealin’ grass?”

Deirdre snapped up, down with her thievery but not so done with her mischief. She turned to Penelope and gave a wide smirk, then turned back. “It was her!” And with no remorse, she pointed at the younger girl and dashed from the field with her fake-grass. She spared one singular glance backwards, seeing the security guard waving his light around and giving a very slow chase. He was too shocked to speak into his transerver to report the crime, but not shocked enough to trip over as he attempted to give chase. He hollered behind them, “a mime and a ski-enthusiast are stealing grass! A mime and a ski-enthusiast! My wife said it could never happen! I knew I was right to worry!”

‘Bitch!” Nell called after Deirdre, though it was colored with some amusement. “You’ll never catch us alive!” She yelled dramatically before hauling ass after Deirdre, rather quick on her feet. But then the other woman’s words about phallic drawings as well as the security guard’s were running through her head. And truly...she couldn’t resist. In a moment she was waving a hand over the grass, and a giant, stark white penis was glowing up from the greenery. Who cared if she used a little magic while her identity was hidden? As the man’s voice continued to yell after them, her joyful laugh flitted through the air, all too pleased with her art as her and Deirdre made their grand escape. 

[the-faultofdaedalus]

Tony and Nebula! in SPACE! Bonus points if Tony quotes Yinsen, plz MURDER ME

Nebula’s afraid of him.

Tony can see it, where most others would see anger, would see cruelty, would see coldness. She’s snappish and withdrawn in moments, acting as robotic as she looks.

Tony doesn’t know why.

He’s... well, he’s human. He’s not augmented, not in any way, not anymore. He’s got a hole in his gut that’s barely being held together with the nanites he didn’t use to patch up the ship. 

Nebula is a fighter. Tony has no doubt that if she wanted to, she could kill him in a second, in a variety of different ways. She has weapons, she’s made of weapons, and she has training in a way that he doesn’t. 

And yet, she’s scared. Of him. 

It doesn’t make sense, but Tony’s too busy with other things - grieving, planning, trying to keep this patchwork ship from falling apart around them - to try to figure it out. 

In the grand scheme of things, fear is not important until you let it control you. Tony knows this better than most.

(mind the cut!)

It’s some kind of sisyphean task, trying to keep the ship moving. Trying to keep it together. 

It’s falling apart almost as fast as the nanites can repair it, almost as fast as he can weld together seams with Nebula’s help, almost as fast as he, himself, is falling apart. 

He thinks she’s noticed, has noticed that he’s slower and slower to react to even the smallest things, the fact that his movements are pained and stiff, the fact that his shirt is spotted with blood. 

Nebula doesn’t comment, doesn’t point out the obvious weakness, and he’s glad for it. The only weaknesses that matters right now are those in the structure of the ship.

The thing is, he doesn’t want to die.

The thing is, he’d thought he’d finally found something to live for.

The thing is, none of that matters.

There’s a leak in the hull, nearly two weeks - by Tony’s count, which has been thrown off by exhaustion and pain and endless, tedious work, by restless sleeps and even more restless periods of nothing - after they’d left Titan. 

Tony isn’t the one that catches it. All he knows is that over the course of an hour he grows steadily more and more tired, the kind of tired that sinks into your bones and does not let go. 

The kind of tired that he’s felt for almost his entire life. 

He wishes he could sleep, and he almost does. 

“Stark.” Nebula says, jostling him out of his doze, “Stark. Something is wrong.” 

Almost for the first time this entire trip, Tony’s angry. “The only thing that’s wrong,” He snaps, “Is that you are waking me up. I’m tired, Nebula, can you just-”

“What amount of oxygen does your kind need for survival.” She asks, still shaking him, and all he wants is to sleep, God, he’s so tired and no one will let him sleep, but something in her tone, in the words, pings something in his brain.

Reluctantly, he stands, and nearly falls over, and that is when he starts feeling afraid. “More than what’s in the air,” He guesses, “What’s the air pressure-”

“Dropping.” She says, succinctly, and Tony wonders why nothing can ever go right in his life. Hell, he’d settle for things not going wrong for more than five fucking minutes at a time. 

“So it’s not the recycler,” Tony summarizes, “There’s gotta be a leak, somewhere, we need to find it before-” 

“Yes.” She finishes, is already at the computer, checking- checking- 

Tony falls over. His vision is going cloudy, fading into grey. He’s hypoxic. He knows this. He can’t quite muster up the ability to feel fear about the inevitable outcome. 

Time.... slips. 

"Stark,” Nebula is shaking him awake, again, “I’ve found the breach, but i cannot seal it, not without risking combustion-”

“Where,” Tony says, and he knows what he’s going to have to do, and it’s going to kill him anyways. He’d laugh, if he had the air. “I can- I just-”

Everything spins around him, and it takes him until Nebula puts him down beside part of the bulkhead - the piece they’d just repaired, Jesus - to realize that she’d carried him. 

Tony puts his hand over the crack, where he can feel the coldness of space leaking in, the whistle of air leaking out, closes his eyes, and tells the precious few nanites he has left, the ones that are acting as biological scaffolding as his broken body tries desperately to repair itself, to seal the breach. 

They flow out of his stomach, across his arm, flowing and red like blood, and the hissing noise stops. 

The air recycler starts chugging again, taking carbon dioxide and turning it into breathable oxygen, and the red keeps coming. It is blood, this time. He thinks he can feel his liver collapsing in on itself. 

And then he doesn’t feel anything at all.

That, in itself, is a relief. 

He wakes up.

That, in itself, is a surprise. 

A bigger surprise, is that...

He doesn’t hurt. Nothing hurts. He feels... better, than he has, in a long, long time. 

"Good.” Nebula says, from somewhere beside him - he can’t pinpoint direction, it sounds like there’s dozens of her, speaking in perfect synchronicity, and it freaks him out - “You’re awake.”

“What.” Tony says, sits up - again, painlessly, which shouldn’t be possible, he hadn’t not been in pain for nearly a decade - and stares at his stomach.

There’s no hole.

There’s not even a scar.

What there is, is metal, folded in seamlessly around where the hole used to be, about an inch on either side. “What did you do to me,” He chokes, tearing at his skin, because he can’t, he can’t do this again, he can’t, he can’t-

Nebula looks at him. “I saved your life,” She tells him, like he should already know this, like this should be something easy for him to accept, and he won’t, he can’t accept being more metal than human, he can’t-

“You ruined my death,” He snarls, trying to catalogue whatever she’s done to him, trying to figure out which parts of him are now less than human, because nothing hurts and that means that more than just the stab wound has been repaired, and he’s still tired and no one will let him rest-

“You can’t die,” She says, with more emotion in her voice than he’s ever heard from her, “You are not allowed-”

“And who are you to decide that,” Tony snaps, “Who is anyone to decide that but me, It’s my life-”

“Not anymore.” She says, flatly, in a tone that sounds sympathetic, or, as close as it as Tony has heard from her, “You forfeit that when you made yourself known to Thanos.”

She stands up, from where she has been crouching beside him, and walks away.

Tony is alone, once again.

The ship is too small to sustain any degree of seperation, but they make a decent enough effort of it. For the first day, Tony is so incandescently furious that he refuses to risk seeing Nebula. 

It doesn’t take him very long to realize that Nebula is not who he should be angry at, that she’s just as desperate, just as furious, as he is, and younger than him by years. 

They’re the same, patchwork people held together by metal and stubbornness and rage. 

He is, at the very least, self-aware enough to realize that he’s reliving Afganistan almost to the second. He was furious at Yinsen, too, in the spaces of time when he wasn’t just tired.

On the fifth day, he takes her rations to where she’s been holed up in the cockpit. He knows she doesn’t need to eat - knows that she hasn’t been eating, not really, - but...

It’s a peace offering, and she takes it, after a long look at him, wary and angry and resigned by turns. 

He wishes he knew why she is still so afraid of him.

He uses the helmet, one of the only pieces of the armor left, to scan himself. To see the extent of the new modifications she’s made to him.

The sliver of metal on his stomach, the arc reactor, now, once again, attached to his chest, as expected, go deeper than that. 

Once again, he’s a patchwork of a human being.

Once again, none of it was his choice. 

“Why,” He asks, when he’s too tired to not, “Why couldn’t you just let me die,”

Nebula doesn’t look at him, keeps her eyes fixed on the open portion of her own torso, where she’s having to reach in with a pair of pliers to remove the corroded piece of wiring that has to be hurting. 

That’s the thing he doesn’t understand. Yinsen, at least, had only theoretically known what he was doing to Tony, when he’d put in the battery, carved out his sternum and ribs and parts of his lung to get it to fit.

Nebula is part machine. She should know what it’s like, why no one should ever be forced into that horrible half-life, she knows and she did it anyways and does she really hate him that much-

“You know why,” She says, tugs the wire free with a shower of sparks, and the panels on her stomach fold back over themselves. “You have to end this first.” 

Why me, he wants to shout, why does it always have to be me.

He doesn’t.

She looks at him, still wary, still afraid, and walks away. 

The rations are running out. 

Well, they’ve always been running out. They’ve been in a constant state of running out since they got on this damn ship.

Only, now, it’s starting to be a problem.

Nebula isn’t eating anymore, sits still, like a statue, to conserve energy, whenever she can.

Tony’s cut his own rations down to the point where he’s barely taking a bite each time in an effort to make them last longer. It’s not going to matter.

The nearest civilized planet - hell, the nearest life-supporting planet - is still further away than even the most meagre of rations would allow. 

“You are going to die.” Nebula tells him, and something in her voice is resentful. Tony’s mostly just glad that she’s gotten the balls to speak to him in a way that isn’t robotic, a statement of fact over all else. 

“You should’ve let me.” He retorts, bitter, and angry, and tired. “At least then it would’ve been quick.” 

“You can’t die.” Nebula continues, “You are the only one who can fix this-”

“Why do you think that?” Tony snaps, finally, “I’m not special! I’m just a guy! Why is everyone putting the fate of the entire goddamn universe on me? What have I ever done for anyone to think that I’m some sort of cosmic saviour? What-”

“Because Thanos is afraid of you.” Nebula tells him, her voice, her tone, more alive than it’s ever been, “Because you made him bleed. He was afraid of you, because he knew that you could-”

“That I could do what,” Tony wants to cry, “So fucking what, daddy dearest had some sort of complex about me for no goddamn reason aside from that I was in the right place at the right time and because I was stupid enough to try to make a sacrifice, because I was stupid enough to think that anything I did would matter-”

Nebula is leaning over him, on her knees, fire in her eyes. “He spoke of you,” She says, “Before he ever spoke of earth.” 

Tony blinks. “That’s not-”

“It is.” She says, “The stones told him of you. He was angry, because they wanted you, because you were theirs. Because they were yours.”

“I didn’t even know they existed,” Tony says, baffled, “Not before New York - uh, the invasion he sent to earth, and even then, i didn’t know their names, how- I don’t understand.”

“Neither do i,” Nebula admits. “I only know that you cannot die. We have to fix you.”

Tony closes his eyes, and says goodbye to his death, once again. “Make me like you, you mean. Ok.” He says, “Just... give me a minuite.” 

He sends a message in a bottle, and he hopes it’ll reach someone. That it’ll reach anyone. 

And then he lies down, on the flattest part of floor they can find, and closes his eyes. 

Nebula looks worried. He thinks it’s the first time he’s seen her worried. Sympathy comes from experience, after all. “I am sorry,” She tells him, “This will hurt.” 

“I know,” He says, closes his eyes. “I know.”

“I am sorry.” She tells him, after it’s done, “I know you did not want this.” 

“Life doesn’t seem to be very keen on letting me get what I want.” Tony replies half-heartedly, and there’s something on her face that makes him continue. “I know,” He says, “I don’t- i don’t blame you.”

“You should.” Nebula tells him, has curled up on herself, arms around her knees, and Tony’s reminded that in the grand scheme of things, she is very, very young. “I did to you what Thanos did to me. That is unforgivable.” 

Tony hadn’t asked where her modifications had come from. He can’t say he’s surprised, but nevertheless, his stomach roils in horror. “Well, that’s not true.” He says, voice soft, “Because I forgive you.” 

It’s easier to say than he’d thought it would be. It’s easier to say than it had been, all those years ago. 

“How,” She asks, “I made you into a monster, like me, I took your death from you, I-”

Tony’s well aware that doing this could earn him a knife in his shiny-new gut, but he scoots over closer to Nebula anyways. “You’re not your father, Nebula.” He tells her, “You’re not a monster. You’re not what he tried to make you.”

“I am exactly what he tried to make me.” She says, but she doesn’t stab him, actually leans towards him, just barely. “You should hate me.”

"I did.” He admits. “But... you did what you thought you had to, you did what you thought was right, and... I didn’t really want to die.” He says, “I was tired, and I was being stupid, and you saved me. So, thank you.”

She doesn’t respond, but they sit like that, two barely-people, lost in space.

It’s the first time Tony hasn’t felt lonely this entire trip. 

“Why are you afraid of me,” He asks, because she is, she still is, even after everything, even after near a month, by his count, in this tiny, patched-together ship.

Nebula doesn’t answer him, for a moment. 

They’ve been sitting together more, and more. Tony recons that she’s lonely, too. “Thanos spoke of you.” She says, finally, “He was obsessed with you, with destroying you. He was scared of you.”

“And because you were scared of him,” Tony finishes, trails off. “I... I understand. I’m sorry, i’m not-”

“He was right, to be scared of you.” She cuts him off, “You are everything he is not, and you will be his downfall.”

“I’m not that powerful-” Tony protests.

“You don’t need to be.” Nebula says. “The powerful have stood against him before. You’re the only one who’s survived.”

“I’m not,” He says, “You survived too. You survived years of him.” He pauses, looks side-long at her. “How do you know that he’s not scared of you?”

Nebula cocks her head, considering that. 

“He hurt you,” Tony continues, “He tried to break you. He picked you out, from hundreds of others, to take as his child. Why would he do that, if he wasn’t afraid? Nebula,” Tony says, takes a breath he doesn’t need, not anymore, feels something warm sparking in his chest, “My father, he tried to do the same. He wasn’t- not like Thanos, he wasn’t bad, not like that, but... he knew I was smarter than him, and that scared him, and he took it out on me. My godfather tried to have me killed because he was afraid. I don’t think it’s me he should be looking out for.” 

Nebula looks at him, eyes narrowed, like she hasn’t ever considered that. 

“I think he’s afraid of you.” He tells her, “I think he was afraid of Gamora, too, of what she meant to him. I think,” He says, and forces his face into a smile, “That I can’t do this. But I think we can.”

Nebula looks at him for a long second, and bares her teeth in a mirror of his smile. “Yes,” She says, “We will.”

[boshaw-manor]

Stay

More John and Harlow because I’m not done riding this gravy train yet.

Skin to skin with John, Harlow shifted slightly beneath the covers. The Baptist’s chest was stuck to her back, arms wound around her waist and forehead pressed to the top of her head. He was not letting go any time soon. She blinked awake wearily as sunlight coated her closed eyelids, forcing her to stop snoozing. Stretching against John’s body, Harlow carefully plucked his arms off of her and slid out of the bed. Time to get going. As she got dressed, she found her eyes repeatedly wandering back to look at John sleeping. His dark hair hung over his forehead whilst his painted arms outstretched across the white linen as though searching for something to grab. Silently, Harlow took her leave and walked out onto the wooden veranda.

Corneas stinging from the bright light, she tilted her head down to the floor and carried on walking along the ranch balcony to get back inside. Plodding down the stairs two at a time, Harlow moved past the stuffed wolf and headed into the neighbouring room. Upon entering the kitchen, she opened the breadbin with a clang and frowned. Nothing. Crouching down, she rummaged through John’s cupboards and eventually found a box of cereal hidden behind a stack of plates. Tossing a handful into a bowl, she opened the fridge and unscrewed the cap that sealed the milk. The white liquid washed against the porcelain as she poured it in. Once satisfied with the amount, she stored it and closed the fridge, collecting a spoon from the drawer and taking the bowl into her hands. As she munched, Harlow moved back into the living room and stared out of the patio doors. It was a quiet morning. They were few and far between nowadays. She enjoyed the gentle sway of the grass as the light breeze outside tugged at the roots. When Hope County was as still and as peaceful as this you kind of started to forget there was a war going on. Shovelling the last of her mushy cereal into her mouth, Harlow dropped the bowl on the table with a clang and made her way to the door.

‘You’re not going to just leave that there are you Deputy?’ John’s scolding tone made her jump, spinning to look at him. His black silk dressing down wrapped up his slender frame and he approached her with soft footsteps. Winding his arms around Harlow’s waist, his lips found their way to her neck and started to pepper against her skin lightly. ‘Messiness is a sin.’

‘Pssh. No it’s not.’ Harlow leaned away from him, pupils darting towards the door. John immediately picked up on it and dug his fingers into her sides. She yelped but he didn’t let up, tickling her until she was a rolling heap of choked laughter on the sofa. ‘Stop... it!’ Harlow squealed like a piglet, letting her strong legs flail as John pinned her down and smirked.

‘What’s the magic word?’ He asked tauntingly, fingers poised to dive into her waist again.

‘Stop it, please.’ She strung the word out, popping the ‘P’ whilst gazing up at him. The way her irises glinted with mischief, it was enough to drive even a sane man crazy. Leaning down John kissed her hungrily, lips intensely brushing her own with a controlled sense of passion. His hands pressed against the tuck of her waist instead of jabbing into it, smoothing against the creases of her black shirt.

‘Stay.’ He mumbled incoherently into her lips, acutely aware that she was trying to leave. Moving from her supple mouth, he pressed a trail of kisses down her neck and sucked gently on her collar bone.

‘I would but I’m supposed to be kicking your ass in approximately,’ She plucked John’s wrist up, narrowing her eyes at the face of his watch. Who knew telling the time upside down was so tricky? ‘One hour.’

‘Plenty of things we could do in an hour. And if you really want to stay relevant to your cause, it can include asses.’ He let his hand calmly wander down the curve of her thigh, fingertips pressing lightly to the hard fabric of her cargo pants. Lips still connecting to the skin around Harlow’s neck, it was cut short as she rolled out from underneath him and stood up.

‘I’ve been off the grid for three days. The Resistance are gonna think I’m dead.’ She turned her back on him and John fell forward onto his hands and knees. As he sunk into the sofa, his bearded chin tilted upward to look at the back of her head. Why was she so damn hard to let go?

‘When will I see you again?’ Clambering to the arm of the sofa, John watched as she picked up her cap from the hat stand and shoved her boots onto her feet messily.

‘I dunno. A week or so maybe.’

‘A week?!’ Dissatisfaction laced John’s tone as he got up, bare feet padding over to her against the pine floorboards. That was so long. Far too long to not feel her by his side in bed or to not share breakfast with her in the morning.

‘I mean if you’re that desperate to see me just capture me. I’m not exactly a match for a well aimed Bliss bullet am I?’ She mimed shooting a fake gun into her chest and stuck her tongue out dramatically but John couldn’t even muster a smirk. He just wanted her to stay with him a little longer. Just so he could pretend the Project didn’t exist and that it was just the two of them together.

‘I don’t want to see you like that.’ He grumbled like a spoilt child, clasping onto her neck with both hands and turning her chin up to look at him. ‘I want to see you and feel you and taste you and be with you like this.’ Dressing gown a little dishevelled, his chest was slightly exposed as the black silk ribbon came loose. Harlow’s eyes flitted down to take him in before she shook her head succinctly and stepped away from his touch.

‘I can’t.’ She stated simply, motioning for the door again.

‘Why not?!’ Rage flitting over John’s expression, he simmered it down as Harlow gave him an unimpressed arched eyebrow. She would absolutely not be taking any of his shit this morning. Letting the small bout of anger subside, John’s tired eyes searched her own desperately. ‘I just want you to stay with me.’

‘You know I have a job to do.’ Her gentle palm attached to his cheek, thumb softly caressing the short hairs of his beard. ‘It’ll fly by.’

‘You always pick them over me.’ John sighed sadly, index finger and thumb attaching to her wrist. He could feel the light thump of her pulse as blood coursed through her body.

‘Please don’t make this about you.’ She wiggled free of his grip and dropped her arm back to her side. ‘It isn’t exactly easy for me to be lying to my closest friends about where I am most of the time.’ Her grasp was on the handle now and John lurched forward gripping her arm tightly, trying to yank her back like he was in a tug-o-war contest.

‘Just one more day! Please!’ God he must look so stupidly desperate right now. But he was pining for her, wanting her, needing her. Why wouldn’t she understand how much she meant to him?

‘Pulling my arm out of its socket will not make me want to stay with you.’ As she spoke, he stopped jostling her around and Harlow took her chance to slip out of his grip and disappear out of the door. As the latch clicked shut, John suddenly felt very alone. He stared at the spot where she’d just been standing, eyebrows knitting together sadly. Pushing a few stray locks of dark hair away from his forehead, he turned to go back upstairs to bed. Reaching the table, he paused at the sight of the used cereal bowl discarded by Harlow mere minutes ago. It needed washing up but... Cold blue eyes staring at the flecks of cereal attached to the sides and the small puddle of milk that her spoon couldn’t quite scoop up, John sighed. He reached over and put his palm against the porcelain exactly where Harlow’s had been. Maybe if he left it there, it’d feel like she was still lingering around the ranch somewhere. That she hadn’t vanished again. She was all he’d never known that he needed but the constant comings and goings were too much. He just wanted her to choose him. He just wanted her to stay.

[dragonsaphirareads]

The Selfish Protector - A Snake in Emo’s Clothing (Chapter 1)

Crossposted on AO3

Link to Masterlist

Thomas has a new problem, and he calls his sides to discuss it. But when Virgil pops in wearing his old hoodie, the others realize they may have more issues that they need to work on than they thought.

“What is up everybody!”

Thomas started the vlog with high energy, as he always did, but then he grew more serious and somber. “So, today’s going to be a different, more serious video. Recently there’s been a... rumor going around about me, and I haven’t been sure how I should address it.”

He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “Guys, I could use you for this. Logan, Patton, Roman, Virgil!” He called out, summoning his sides.

Patton popped up first, playing with the ends of the hoodie tied around his neck. “I’m sure everything will work out, kiddo!” He smiled brightly at Thomas, but based on the tight feeling in his chest, Thomas knew he was lying through his teeth.

Roman rose up next, a pencil behind his ear and a crumpled piece of paper in his hand. “I’m working as fast as I can on a solution here Thomas! Just give me a little time!” He exasperated.

Logan popped up last, holding a notebook and a pen in his hands. He glanced up at Thomas, surprised. “Ah, so this is where you went Roman.”

Thomas glanced between the two sides. “You two were working together?”

“In this scenario you’ve found yourself in, it is imperative that logic,” he gestured to himself, “is involved in developing a solution. However, it may be helpful to explain the situation to the audience, in your own words.”

Thomas puffed his cheeks out, blowing a strand of hair out of his face. “Sure, but... before that, where is Virgil? He should probably be up here too, I’m already nervous enough about the whole thing...”

“He’s probably just in his room and didn’t hear you call! Here, I’ll summon him!” Patton bounced on his toes and raised his hand to pull Virgil from the mindscape.

Before he could make the motion, however, Virgil popped in out of nowhere like normal, but something was off.

“You’re... wearing your old hoodie?” Logan asked, sounding incredulous. Virgil’s eyes widened, and he looked down and pulled on the fabric to get a better look.

“I...uh... the newer one is... in the wash?” He volunteered quietly, raising eyebrows all around.

“You guys have to wash your clothes?” Thomas asked, confused. Roman shook his head as the others narrowed their eyes at “Virgil.”

“No, we don’t. Come on, this is sad, even for you.” Roman sighed. “First the old cardigan, and then the wrong tie, and now this? Really, why can’t you just show your face normally?”

“Virgil” opened his mouth to argue, but Logan cut him off. “Yes, it really would be much faster if you were to just reveal yourself now and make your point.”

“I don’t know what you guys are talking about! It’s me, Virgil!” The anxious side insisted, waving his arms around and gesturing wildly at himself.

“C’mon, it’s not good to lie to us. Why don’t you just reveal yourself, Deceit?”

“Virgil’s” eyes widened and his mouth gaped open. “You... you think I’m... I’m that... snake?!” He took a deep breath and gritted his teeth. “I’m serious, I just took my hoodie off and then you called and I panicked, ok?! That’s it! I’m not Deceit!” he hissed out, leading the others to roll their eyes.

“Sure, whatever you say.” Roman rolled his eyes, clearly not buying it. He turned back to Thomas, nodding towards him. “Well, it seems we aren’t going to get our favorite storm cloud to show up, so why don’t we just go on with the video?”

“Virgil’s” head whipped around to all the other sides, and his heart sank when he saw that all of them were avoiding his eyes, instead focusing on Thomas.

“Go on Thomas, why don’t you explain what happened, and we’ll what we can do to help, ok?” Patton encouraged, hiding the hurt in his voice. Thomas took a deep breath and nodded, trying to push away the idea that Deceit was in their midst and that he was refusing to admit it this time.

“So, last Saturday, I went out on a date with an amazing guy. We met recently and really hit it off, and so we went out for dinner and a movie.” Thomas was smiling, and a faint blush dusted his cheeks. “It was perfect... he really liked what I do, and he was super fun to talk to about his job too! And...” Thomas giggled, thinking about how the night had ended.

Then his smile dropped, and he twisted his fingers together. “On Sunday, I got tagged in a Twitter post. Someone had... taken a couple pictures of us together that night.”

“So someone saw you together with a guy and now they think you’re dating someone, is it really that bad?” Patton asked innocently.

“I, uh... it wouldn’t be, I don’t really mind the internet knowing when I’m in a relationship, it’s just that...”

“He’s not out to his parents yet, Patton. Telling everyone that they’re together would be... not ideal.” Roman explained, wincing.

“Not ideal is an understatement, Roman.” Logan interjected, not looking up from his notebook. “Thomas cannot confirm the rumors without forcefully outing this guy he went on a date with, and he cannot deny it because, well...”

Thomas pursed his lips. “They kinda caught a... candid moment...”

“Virgil” took a breath. “Did you ask him what he wanted to do?”

Thomas’s eyes flickered over for a moment. “I did... and he told me he would just deal with the consequences as they come. His parents aren’t online often, but his siblings are. Considering how fast rumors like these spread, they’re pretty likely to see it...”

“Well, we can’t lie! Could we just ignore it?” Patton insisted.

“That’s the problem, padre. If we don’t tell everyone, they’ll think Thomas has been lying this whole time.” The anxious side told everyone. He’d curled in on himself, trying to shield himself from the overwhelming glares that are shot his way whenever he opened his mouth.

Patton looked confused, and Logan finally looked up. “The guy that Thomas went on a date with, well, he’s still known as “she” by the rest of the world. Thomas is one of the first people he’s opened up to. For this to happen so suddenly...”

All the sides looked at each other, uncomfortable. “So, you’re saying that if Thomas doesn’t tell everyone the full truth... people will believe that he’s been lying about his sexuality for these last few years.”

Thomas swallowed hard, nodding. “I’ve already seen a lot of people pulling up my old posts about being bisexual...” It made him sick to his stomach. People were really so quick to believe he’d lied, for all this time, for what? Attention? Brownie points?

“Virgil” groaned. “Why can’t we just deny the photos? Report all the posts and get them taken down! Tell people it’s your personal life, and they have no right to nose into it!”

“Oh, now I’m certain we’re not talking to the real Virgil. He would never suggest confrontation as the solution!” Roman postered, staring “Virgil” down.

“I am! This is causing Thomas to stress more than ever, it would just be better if it all went away!”

“We can’t just run away from our problems, Deceit. We need to face this head-on-”

“I AM NOT DECEIT!”

“Virgil’s” voice resonated deeply in all of their bones, drawing all eyes on him and freezing them in place. They wanted to open their mouths, to argue with him, to just get him to reveal himself so they could take this discussion seriously, damn it!

“You called?”

~~~

Deceit crossed his arms, glancing around the room at all the shocked, frozen expressions. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Oh, was I not wanted at this very moment?”

Roman’s eyes were wide, and he was looking back and forth from Deceit to Virgil. “S-So, you weren’t really...”

‘Oh, by the way Virgil, you left this behind.” Deceit tossed something to Virgil, and he threw his arms up to protect himself. He found himself drowning in a very familiar hoodie, which he clutched at desperately.

“Ah, so you stole Virgil’s hoodie to deceive us into believing he was you!” Roman accused, to which Deceit rolled his eyes.

“He didn’t steal anything...” Virgil admitted softly, having ditched his old hoodie and tugged on the new one.

“You said your hoodie was in the wash?” Logan asked.

“Yeah, well... I was cold, ok? And wearing my hoodie when it’s straight out of the dryer is comfy, so I put on my old one while it was going, ok?” Virgil was shrinking as he spoke, and the others felt horrible. Especially when Deceit started snickering.

“Ah, I see what happened here. Virgil, they didn’t think you were me, did they? Oh, that must have been terrible! I can’t even imagine what that must have felt like, having your words dismissed without even being considered.”

He had a conniving grin on his face, but his slitted eye’s pupil was narrowed. He gestured towards Virgil, offering what might be considered a kind hand if it were from anyone else.

“I really do feel for you Virgil, that must be awful. Oh, but now that it’s all cleared up, you all can go back to your normal discussions, right? Unless you require my... talents, I think I’ll be going.”

Thomas broke free of the spell first, throwing an arm out towards Deceit before he could disappear. “Wait, Deceit!”

Deceit raised an eyebrow.

“Since... since you’re here... you know what happened, right?” The snakelike side paused for a moment, examining him up and down.

“You kissed your date and someone caught a photo of you, and now you’re debating the best way to deal with it without hurting his feelings.” He summarized succinctly, while sounding distant from the conversation.

Thomas nodded. “Do you... I mean, what do you think I should do?”

Deceit narrowed his eyes, trying to determine what he was playing at. “You... don’t really want my advice.” He said, not sure if he believed his words.

“I want to consider them.”

That surprised him. Deceit straightened his shoulders, glancing over at Patton. “Feelings of others aren’t really my strong point. Why don’t you ask your morality, he should know!” he taunted.

Deceit knew perfectly well that he did not know. None of them knew. He didn’t know either, though it wouldn’t do for any of them to know that.

“What do you value more? The opinions of millions of anonymous individuals online, or the safety and comfort of your date?” He asked, as it was easier to turn the question back on Thomas than to try and come up with an answer himself.

Thomas pursed his lips. “I don’t want him to think that he has to push himself to come out just because someone didn’t respect my private life. The pictures are blurry at best, and they’re always from behind him. His hair hides his face... So, if I don’t tell anyone... he doesn’t have to come out until he’s ready.”

Patton had an odd look on his face. “But... wouldn’t that mean you’d be lying to your fans?”

“Thinking logically, Thomas has more to lose if he forces his date out of the closet. Not addressing these rumors affects very little and there are only a select few who are insistent on believing Thomas has been lying to them. His most dedicated fans will not push Thomas on this matter, especially if he explains that he’d rather keep this part of his life private.”

“We can get the photos taken down, and tell people that we don’t want to talk about it.” Virgil added.

“We wouldn’t be much of a knight in shining armor if we made them come out like this...” Roman mumbled.

Deceit looked around at all of them. “Taking the responsibility onto yourself is only a temporary fix. Especially considering your precious little storm cloud isn’t likely to take this well.” He gestured to Virgil, who was already feeling the stress bubbling and churning in the pit of his stomach. He sneered at Deceit, not caring for him to point it out.

Then the lying side looked down, pretending to inspect his nails through his gloves. “But... if you truly want to bear that, then I have nothing more to say to you.” A lie. Deceit had a million things to say to his host - he wanted to scold him for always bearing the burden. For taking this stress on himself, for breaking himself down so that others could stand on their own.

But this was truly what he wanted. So, there wasn’t much Deceit could do. He hadn’t been wanted in this discussion, and had only appeared by a mere coincidence. None of the sides wanted him there... so he sunk out. Leaving Thomas to finish the video with the others - the main sides. The ones he actually took advice from.

The parts of himself he actually embraced.

Deceit took off down the hallway, his eyes adjusting to the shadows as he wandered the labyrinth that was the subconscious mindscape.

They had really turned on Virgil. Just because he’d been wearing his old hoodie. Deceit smirked despite himself. How cruel was it that they were so scared of taking his words to heart, that they would so easily turn on one of their own. Was he really that frightful?

The side shook his head, arriving at his room. He threw off his hat and gloves, tossing them on his desk and dropping heavy on his bed. The last thing he remembered was staring up at his artificial starry sky before a series of knocks at the door broke him out of his slumber.

[bastionbabble]

Politics of Grooming (Zulf, the Kid, 1630 words, worksafe)

“…Hey, Zulf,” the Kid starts, “can I ask you something?”

The Kid is strangely somber and Zulf stops swinging his legs. “Of course, Kid. Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, yeah. Was just wondering… how’d you know? That you weren’t a girl, I mean.”

Zulf discusses gender; the Kid listens.

(ao3 link)

It’s a quiet summer night and Zulf and the Kid sit on the edge of the Bastion, passing a bottle of bourbon back and forth. The air is hot and dry and mixes nicely with the warmth the bourbon makes bloom within them. Zulf’s head swims with the passing breeze and the ache in his bones ease. Stars twinkle across the sky, one by one, slowly illuminating the dark expanse.  From the other side of the Bastion, Zia and Rucks’s voices carry over, Zia’s harp guitar twanging in time. It’s the kind of needed night they haven’t had in months. Taking care of the Bastion with only four people means work is never finished, but they let themselves off sometimes. They’d go crazy if they didn’t. And tonight is the perfect night for that as everything comes together, mellow and easy. The Kid is characteristically quiet, but there’s something beneath it. He’s never been much for words, but it’s different this time, thoughtful, pensive; the Kid stares at his feet and the deep purple below, his brow pinched and mouth a tight line. He barely drinks from the bottle when Zulf passes it; at this point, Zulf’s drank most of it, and he’s starting to feel it.

“What are you thinking about, hm?” Zulf questions, speech only slightly slurred. “You’re not drinking.”

“Am too,” the Kid mumbles. He holds the bottle in front of mouth, but doesn’t take a sip.

“See! Not drinking. You usually… you usually drink a lot.”

Zulf laughs and pats the Kid on the back. Everything tingles so perfectly and Zulf keeps his hand there. The Kid waits before he shrugs it off. He twirls the bottle in his hand before taking a deep gulp of it. Zulf claps, and the Kid passes it back to him.

“No, no, I’m fine, I am very fine,” Zulf says, pushing away the offered bourbon. “It’s… I don’t usually drink this much, you know. Everything’s so fuzzy.”

The Kid grins, just a little, and takes another sip. Zulf kicks his legs back and forth and hums along to the distant sound of song. The moon hangs heavy and golden above them, a deep orange blossoming at its edges. It’s a good night to be drunk, Zulf thinks. He drinks from time to time, but it’s been a long time since he was last drunk. The last time was… it was before the Calamity, with his love. His old love. An old time. The thought of that night still twists him like twine and he turns his attention to the Kid again. The Kid’s always been a well of light in the darkest times.

“…Hey, Zulf,” the Kid starts, “can I ask you something?”

The Kid is strangely somber and Zulf stops swinging his legs. “Of course, Kid. Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, yeah. Was just wondering… how’d you know? That you weren’t a girl, I mean.” His words are cut tight and an undercurrent of uncertainty flows in. The Kid absentmindedly fingers the rim of the bourbon bottle, his thumb pressing against the deep grooves. Zulf considers the question. It’s always been difficult for him to put that into words, and to condense years of shaping his identity into mere words seems impossible. It doesn’t help that he’s a little drunk. But, he can try. He takes a deep breath and starts.

“When I was young, I suppose. It was— I never felt—” Zulf stops and screws up his mouth like he’s bitten into a sour vineapple. Cael is a limiting language, Zulf has found, and their concept of gender isn’t any different. Ura has so many more words for expression and self, things that barely translate into Cael. Still, it isn’t completely without feeling. Zulf can do this. He starts again.

“It was when I was very young. I would wake up and... it was like my body separated into different pieces. I would have to put all the pieces back together before I could wake up. But it was like… no matter what I did, I couldn’t find the right configuration. I never felt comfortable. I didn’t know what it meant, then. And then the plague hit, and I didn’t have time to think about that.”

He remembers the small den he spent his youngest years in and waking up every morning to a dying fire barely heating the home. Curled under his blanket, he would gradually become a being, slowly stitch his body together. He was so, so young. He thought of asking his parents about it, if their bodies would fall apart, too, but he never did. And then the plague took that away from him.

“…But that’s for another time,” Zulf continues. He swallows the needled feelings creeping up his throat. “It was after the missionary took me in that I really started to understand. I was a teenager and my body, ah, changed.”

A strange warmth settles in Zulf’s cheeks. He presses his hand to his chest, his breasts bound tightly beneath his shirt. That young him, so unaware of what the body did and what it meant—it’s hard for him to relate to now. How scary everything was, back then. The day he got his period, he thought he might just die. He’s lucky his father was so sensitive and understanding. Zulf still remembers running to him, choking on tears, enraged that his own body would betray him like this.

“…Anyway,” Zulf mumbles, bringing himself back to focus. “In the Terminals, we look at gender differently than in Caelondia. There’s so much more than ‘man’ and ‘woman.’ So many of us are between, or separate from it entirely. And I felt… I felt being a woman was insufficient. It wasn’t me. So then I wasn’t one.”

Which is putting it simply. There was a lot of thought, a lot of uncertainty, a lot of discomfort that went into finding that out. He shifted through so many identities and styles of expression in his teenage years. It’s a wonder he made it out with any solid sense of self. Still, it wasn’t all bad; there was a freedom in uncertainty, in being free from labels. He could be anything he wanted to be, and do anything he wanted to do, and no one tied him down with expectations. It was hard, certainly, but it was not all bleak.

Throughout everything, the Kid says nothing. He still fiddles with the bottle and he keeps his attention in the distance and not on Zulf. “…That it?” he finally says. “You just stopped bein’ a girl and then you were a boy? Just like that?”

“Oh, I’m not a boy,” Zulf says with a wave of his hand. “I’m kalali.”

The Kid squints at Zulf, equal parts suspicious and confused. “A what now?”

“It’s…” Zulf sighs. Kalali is a nebulous concept, even in Ura, and it’s not something that has a simple translation into Cael. Cael is a much more literal language than Ura; it has so few words for feeling, and being, and expressing. It takes so long to communicate ideas in Cael, whereas in Ura a word like kalali would communicate everything Zulf meant quickly and succinctly. Perhaps he should teach them all Ura. Still, while it won’t be an exact translation, he can figure out something that works.

“Well… it would be analogous to ‘masculine’ in Cael, I suppose. I’m a man, in a sense, but I’m also not. A part of me is not-man; not a woman, but not a man. Just… different.”

He thinks of being young and putting all his different body parts into one form before he woke up. Sometimes, he still does that. It’s deciding to be a new person, in a way. Every day is a new configuration of parts, a new way of expressing his identity. It was frightening when he was younger, but it’s closer to being a source of comfort these days. Sometimes he doesn’t mind rearranging himself. It’s always been easier than being static. So much of his life has been unstable; he enjoys taking that instability back and making it something good.

The Kid sighs, pauses, and then says, softly, “…You can do that? You can be something else?”

That’s not the terminology Zulf would use, but it works. He nods. “Anyone can be whatever they want. There’s nothing to stop us.” He smiles and ruffles the Kid’s shaggy hair. “Did that answer your question?”

The Kid smiles back, just a little. “Yeah. Thanks, ‘ppreciate it.”

A breeze blows past them, once more carrying the song of Zia and Rucks. Zulf settles into the music and it thrums pleasantly in his veins. “Would you like to join them?” he asks.

The Kid shakes his head. “Think I’m gonna… think for a while. Y’know, ‘bout stuff.” His cheeks burn in the way they always do when he’s more intimate than he means to be. “You go on ahead.”

Zulf stands and stumbles. He laughs. “Oh, I think I’m still a little drunk. I should be careful, shouldn’t I?”

The Kid laughs back and raises the bottle to him. Zulf makes his way over to Zia and Rucks, a little uneasy on his feet but a tune on his breath. He looks back at the Kid; the Kid is still staring into the vast purple-blackness of the night sky, his feet over the edge of the Bastion. It’d take a fool to not understand his line of questioning, but Zulf won’t push him for more, not yet. The Kid has always been one for more thought than talk, and he’ll come forward eventually. And when he does, Zulf will be there, everyone will be there, to welcome him with open arms and open hearts.

[notoriousjae]

The 72 Rules of Cat Grant || Supercat (8/?)

Chapter Title: Diving 

Pairing: Kara Danvers/Cat Grant

Rating: M

Chapter Description:

“I like this side of you.” Cat decides, throat bobbing as she swallows the offering.

“Of course you do. Because you’re so certain that it’s all your fault.” The tease causes another laugh and when Cat reaches across the desk, Kara runs fingers along her palm until she can hear her heartbeat ease into the softest staccato among the constant fluttering of pens outside this closed-off office of glass.

Note: Finally mostly up-to-date with all this jazz. 

Chapter 1: AO3 Link | FF.Net Link | Tumblr

Chapter 2: A03 Link | FF.net Link | Tumblr

Chapter 3: AO3 Link | FF.Net | Tumblr

Chapter 4: AO3 | FF.Net | Tumblr

Chapter 5: AO3 | FF.Net | Tumblr

Chapter 6: AO3 | FF.Net | Tumblr

Chapter 7: AO3 | FF.Net | Tumblr

Chapter 8: AO3 | FF.Net | Below:

It’s day five (and a half) by the time Kara feels her whole life flash before her eyes. Fortunately, the majority of it (where she had a fitful sleep for twenty-four years or so, waking up every few minutes or hours or years to gasp until the life support systems would guide her back into oblivion) is lost in favor of remembering the way Alex had looked when she took her flying the first time, mixed with a murky memory of how Catherine’s smile can catch sunlight. Kara doesn’t have much time to think, at all, and those two images seem to be the best her mind can come up with when her body is thrown through a concrete barrier, fingers scratching at cement to catch her before she can plummet into the murky waters below.

This is officially not her most graceful fight.

The overwhelming taste of green and copper is nauseating-- this is what nausea feels like--and when Kara spits, red spews like paint splatter against the dirty canvas of a life-stained bridge, stumbling to shaky knees when unfocused blue eyes spot the sight of her cousin towering over heaving shoulders of the man in front of her.

This isn’t the first time they’ve met. It’s the fourth, in fact.

It’s the same man, Kara realizes with a sinking dread, that had tried to kill Lena Luthor a few hours before--who had nearly killed her sister a few moments later --and the rage is displayed by another mouthful of something else when he rushes forward, fingers curling around a swallowing neck like an iron vice as she spits what blood she has into his face in defiance.

He merely wipes it away with a rumbling chuckle, the coldness of it seeping far deeper than the Kryptonite does. Which is saying something, because the green is slowly slithering up her spine like a venomous snake and breath is becoming ragged against a swelling tongue.

Powerless.

Kal-El rushes to stop him, but the Kryptonite seems to seep into his bones when Metallo (that’s apparently his name, he likes to throw it around like a trademark) blasts him in the chest, her cousin’s body skittering across the bridge like a lifeless ragdoll and Supergirl struggles against hands made of steel she can’t bend as the glow of green overtakes her, body raising limply into the air as her bending throat creaks like a rusty metal door underneath the weight of his hand.

Definitely not her most graceful fight.

There’s countless flashes from the few spattered civilians brave enough to remain on the bridge and when one throws something at Metallo's head to distract him, Kara lets out a rasping--

“ Don’t --”

--even as the action causes a deathgrip to ease, just a little, because the last thing she wants is for them to die defending her.

Kara really doesn’t want anyone to die, actually. Herself and Kal-El included. Because this shouldn’t be it--it shouldn’t be today--not the day when she’d left Winn asleep on his couch to go stop a robbery. Not the day she hasn’t seen James at all. She hasn’t written Lois. She hasn’t laid out her letters. She’d left a cup of coffee on Cat’s desk with no explanation, this morning and hadn't been the person to leave her lover's third, and had left her relationship with Alex in tatters over a very ill-executed suggestion of Metropolis in her apartment, and they haven’t made it to lunch with Eliza , yet, who is probably making the best sandwiches on any coast, and Kal-El--

Kal-El is stumbling towards them, as powerless as she is from the Kryptonite, and the last daughter of the House of El lets out a quiet, frustrated curse of an apology in Kryptonian, before shoving her hand as hard as she can into the green, glowing pit where a heart should be in this man’s chest with a groan of agony to draw his attention towards her.

Before doing what’s probably the stupidest thing she can think of, but the best option for getting him off this bridge and away from Kal-El--away from the people who are now rushing to help her--

A gasp as fingers claw, memories of a green ring and determined eyes and her sister--her sister--

Kara throws all of her body weight just like her sister had taught her, hand curling in this green abyss (this must feel like what shoving a human’s entire arm into a spreading, growing lava would be) feeling the tendrils of it spreading from her wrist to her arm to her neck. She inhales and exhales and suddenly her breath is green and her eyes are green and her world, weak and small and powerless, is green--

Her leg sweeps underneath his thigh and her nails dig in and pull him closer, not further away--

And she throws them both off the edge of the bridge with a pained gasp, the only thing she can manage, the man’s grunt of surprise in her ear overtaken by a string of very british-sounding curses.

Because only one of them can fly.

It’s halfway through their descent, however, that Kara realizes neither one of them can fly and swallows, eyes closing as she feels the wind rush through her hair and the sound of screams in her ears, and has just enough time to fish out the bracelet in her breast, bringing it up to her lips with a faint apology, holding it with what strength she still has.

Today should not be the day for this.

She didn’t say goodbye.

--

The sun is high and bright and beautiful and Kara’s shoulders almost lazily sag underneath the weight of it as she leans against Catherine’s desk, a takeout box settled on wood and a coffee settled very, very close to her chest. A few moments after depositing them, she decides to plop knowingly--easily--into the chair, instead, and it's a testament to how distracted the CEO must be because there isn't even a half-hearted chide dancing along the office walls, dripping with forced insult and barely-concealed amusement.

“Doesn’t it ever grow tiring, Kara?” Cat quietly asks, eyes settled on a clock and Kara has the most ridiculous urge to skim her lover’s fingers along the edge of gold around her wrist, instead. “Knowing I’ll be here at exactly the same time, every morning. Putting out the same fires with different names. Arguing over semantics. Doesn’t a young girl like you find it tedious dealing with the boring, repeatable minutiae of life?”

“I never get tired of seeing you at 7:05 on the dot, Cat. I actually love minutiae.” Kara shakes her head, coming forward with curled fingers at her lap to keep from running them along the lines of a brow that shouldn’t crinkle quite so deeply. Trying to follow the look in her eyes feels like chasing the tail end of a comet through the stars, something she’ll never be quick enough to wrap her fingers around, and when Cat lets a quiet sigh between the gap of her teeth, she feels succinctly like she’s said the wrong thing. “But I…”

“Of course you don’t, Kara. You haven’t been stuck in an endless Groundhog Day cycle of trying to turn around incompetence, doing the same thing for two decades.” Cat cuts her off, focusing back down on the paper underneath her and a small laugh bubbles up, unbidden, on Kara’s lips, trying to cover it with her hand. It rumbles between them and a singular eyebrow arches over the silver frame of glasses in unimpressed question. “I wasn’t aware my problems amused you. I suppose that’s what I get for paying Lucy van Pelt the 5 cents. Hell, you’ve barely even been alive for two decades, you’re like a perky little goldfish floating around, seeing everything for the first time and then forgetting five seconds later.”

Seeing the tension on Cat’s face, Kara tries to take the insult in stride because the moment she’d walked into a building she currently (for a few more hours) isn’t employed at, she could feel the heat off of Cat’s shoulders. And watch the after-effects of it, given the scurrying employees that told her to run while she could the moment she stepped on the 40th floor.

“Okay, forgetting the fact that you just called me a goldfish, I’m only laughing because I…” Eyes flick behind them and she scoots a chair closer to the desk, uninvited, and ignores the sigh she can practically feel bubbling up on familiar shoulders. “It was the word choice, Cat. I literally spent two decades in space. And I mean literally. Twenty-four years of floating around. Doing the same thing.”

It’s a rare treat to see surprise barely widen those eyes and Kara shakes her head.

“...that’s new information.” Cat’s careful with her word choice and Kara still sees that journalist in the corner of her eyes--squinting and quiet--even as she sees the lover in her clearer and clearer each day, in the way her finger so carefully squeezes the edge of her pen.

“It’s boring information.” The last thing she needs in this week is to see mockups on James’ desk referencing her twenty-four year casting as Sleeping (not) Beauty. She’s trying her best to keep Supergirl out of the news this week. She’s been in it enough, with Metallo. “I wasn’t kidding about the floating. But either way, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude.” Cat hums, dipping back in her chair, eyes ever assessing, and Kara leans forward to chase that comet, wrists resting on a desk, “There’s a quote I always think of when I think of you, Catherine--”

“You do realize a person who relies on quotes so often usually does so because they don’t have original thoughts?”

Kara’s eyes barely slit, finger raising, “Okay, that’s the second time. I’m letting you slide because I know you’re obviously stressed and it’s rare for you to talk to me about anything so you’re vulnerable and...and grumpy and I do not want to accidentally get Eve fired so I’m keeping my mouth shut,” She straightens her blouse a little, shoulders tightening as her finger wags, voice even and pointed because sometimes Catherine needs a bit of a push back, “But it’s technically not my job to get you coffee, anymore, and I swear I won’t do it if you keep this up, Ms. Grant. Because this one? This coffee’s mine, and I won’t share.”

Okay, it’s not her best threat.

“Oh, you won’t get me coffee ,” Cat drawls, calling her on it, “My world is ending. It’s almost like I don’t have a thousand nameless employees all perfectly capable of doing menial--”

“ Cat .” Kara’s jaw clenches and her voice sounds every bit as strong as the House of El and, amazingly, she watches fingers pinch at the bridge of a nose before they slowly slide off glasses, a hint of remorse settling in a familiar gaze even if her tone is intentionally--it must be intentionally--bored.

“I’m sorry , whatever.” But dark eyes flick towards the balcony and a small sigh lowers shoulders, quieter--barely a whisper, “I’m sorry.”

Kara takes that as her cue to slowly stand, shutting the office door and lowering the blinds--it’s not an uncommon occurrence mid-day for Cat to need a moment, another migraine tucking at the back of her throat--and a softness tips up lips when she sees a familiar hand splayed over the desk like Cat hasn’t expected her to turn around, at all. At the sight of a frown and a down-turned chin, Kara rushes to assure against such a nonsensical fear, voice the same humming volume of the background news coverage she clicks off (an earlier fight between the superheroes and Metallo) when she promises: “I wasn’t leaving, Cat.”

Catherine lets out a slow, slow breath, fingers rubbing at her temples, and Kara leans against a desk--lowers hands with a teasing, knowing bat to an older pair--and lovingly does it for her, hands smoothing against skin underneath the tight line of perfectly-styled hair that falls between them.

“If you scared me off with a couple of mood swings, I wouldn’t have made it past my first hour of working here. Definitely not the morning after we were together the second time.” There’s a faint, almost fond chuckle at the memory of it, “Or maybe I just forget,” It’s sing-song--beaming, “Because I’m a goldfish.”

Cat sags into her hands, a hint of a warm laugh breaking against her wrists, and lips brush over a tilted forehead in a soft gesture--a gentle forgiveness and quiet hello--a hint of gratitude, even, for being able to be right here for her. It’s the equivalent, Kara knows, of not going onto that balcony alone, and she won’t forsake it.

“I should have stuck with golden retriever.” Fingers curl around Kara’s wrist, nose turning into a palm, and when carefully-blackened eyelashes flutter, Kara can see an ocean of open green in Catherine’s eyes.

“Goldfish is fine. I think I like it. Mainly because, normally when people call me a dog, they’re using another word for it and they’re usually very loud.” A sage nod, “ Very angry. And it’s usually? When I’m helping put them in handcuffs.” Her nose wrinkles and Cat laughs and just like that, the day is a little brighter.

“Well the handcuffs could be arranged.” That’s a decidedly lower drawl and Kara flushes from it--crosses her leg on the edge of the desk--bites the edge of her lip underneath the faintest hint of a blush as she leans forward, a breath above Cat’s knowing eyes.

“Well, if you like being tied up, I have a cape that doesn’t fray.” It’s out of her mouth before she realizes she’s even said it and her cheeks turn the same shade as said cape at the image, clearing her throat a little, unused to being so brazen underneath the warmth of the sun but not shying away from it, fingers lowering from temples to skim along a cheek, a moment later hopping up and dutifully retrieving two pills and a glass of water before resuming her perch, those eyes heating skin far better than the sun ever has as she does.

“I like this side of you.” Cat decides, throat bobbing as she swallows the offering.

“Of course you do. Because you’re so certain that it’s all your fault.” The tease causes another laugh and when Cat reaches across the desk, Kara runs fingers along her palm until she can hear her heartbeat ease into the softest staccato among the constant fluttering of pens outside this closed-off office of glass, “If you haven’t the strength to impose your own terms upon life. You must accept the terms it offers you.”

“That’s the quote?” A thoughtful hum, but Cat doesn’t pull away, taking another drag of water as elegantly as a socialite might a glass a wine. “That sounds...familiar.”

“T.S. Eliot,” Kara supplies, “ The Confidential Clerk .”

“Of course, everything you could have possibly quoted by T.S. Eliot and some obscure play marks the top of the list.” The glass sets down on the edge of a desk, a reflection of Cat’s quirking lips caught along the edge of it like how stars catch in the glass of her bedroom window, at night.

“ I’m not the one that likes to drop Superfluous Man into the middle of a conversation.” Kara challenges and Cat leans fully back in her chair, fingers idly twining in a familiar pair, so casual and thoughtless that it makes a young smile soften.

“Oh, I really like this side of you.” A nail skims along the inside of Kara’s index finger and she laughs, raising it up to smiling lips.

“My point,” Kara tries because she’s hardly as motivational as the woman she’s attempting to motivate, “Is that you’re a strong woman, Cat, and in anything I’ve ever seen you do--anything you’ve ever done? You’re the one making the terms. You didn’t like that journalism was male-dominated--had no place for women, at all--so you one-upped the scene. You created every form of media sensation possible with, yes, a whole lot of work, you never stop telling any of us about the work, but you did it. Journalism, news, TV, radio. I’m sure people told you you couldn’t be a single mother and a CEO and CatCo is better than ever. And Carter is the smartest, most talented, brilliant kid I’ve ever met.”

Cat hums, a hint of pride flashing over a wistful smile at mention of her son, “That’s certainly true.”

“Even in the hard things, when you gave up your son,” Kara gently reminds, “Society says you can’t have it both ways, and you’re making things with Adam work--and before you blame me for any of that,” Kara raises her free hand, “This relationship with him? It’s all you. It’s on both of your terms, not what anyone else thinks of it.”

A slow, almost shaking breath straightens shoulders, “Also insightful, in a very odd way.”

A beat, "This isn't about the dinner with Adam, right?" 

Thankfully, Cat smiles, "No." So Kara continues, thankful and glad (and thinking that she should really go check that Facebook message).

“You paved the way, Cat. For women. You paved the way for all of us to be taken seriously without having to dress like men , either. Which, you know, is nice. Please no comments about my wardrobe.” That's a hasty addition, flushing and barreling on before Cat can get a word in edge-wise, “You’re a mother and successful. You have a portfolio that your accountant says is so well-rounded you could have your own gravitational field.” Kara shakes her head, pressing, “Even our relationship, Cat,” It’s gentler, voice dipping the same moment Cat’s eyelashes do, “We’re against all odds here, but instead of giving up, you created the terms. We both did. We’re making it work so far, aren’t we?”

“It’s been a few days , Kara.” Kara can hear it. She can hear Catherine’s breath catch against the edge of teeth--can feel her pulse barely quicken--but the almost shy smile that tucks up the edges of curving lips, amused and fond, is the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen.

“It’s been five months, Catherine. Almost six.” It’s an argument she’ll never give up and the fact that Cat doesn’t even try is more than telling, “And we’ve survived. We’re forging new relationship territory, remember? You’re...you’re a woman who changes the world without changing herself to fit it. I’m in awe of it, sometimes, Cat. It’s hard not to be. But it’s just who you are. So why...why would this be any different? You’re talking about CatCo, right? About being unhappy here?”

A grousing hum is all the answer Kara needs, because this is a subject they've broached only in the darkest mist of night.

“Because it’s my entire company, Kara. It’s…” Cat sucks in a breath, frustration quickly overwhelming any traces of her smile, “I’ve spent so long building this empire. This image. My family and--”

“And the things you love, that you throw your whole heart into, aren't as disposable as you want to think.” Kara boldly notes, watching the way Cat's fingers barely flex and leaning closer before she can pull away, voice quiet, because she doesn’t think this is about them, she knows it’s about Cat. Cat’s happiness. And to Kara, that's more important than them. “I don't know what you're thinking of, Cat. I just know... you're not happy with the way things are here, anymore. I get it. And I know you could never leave CatCo or anything,” She laughs at the ridiculous thought and looks curiously at the profile of a woman who suddenly seems content to look through the windows to a balcony overlooking her city--content to look anywhere but Kara. “I know we talk a lot about duty and...that people depend on us.” Kara doesn’t like the way Cat seems to be caught outside, reaching forward to gently tuck up a chin--to bring a gaze up to meet her own away from the city they’ve sworn to protect. “But there's so many ways to help the world, aren't there? And if the way CatCo is doing it isn't what you want anymore...then I don't think anyone on this planet--on any planet, and I've been to a lot of them--is more capable of changing the terms of the world to fit how she thinks the world should be. If you’re not happy, you’ll change it.”

“You...really mean that, don't you? You really think it could just be that easy. Just change the world.” Cat scoffs a little, but there's something so hopeful in her eyes, Kara's words a near tipping point in a game of dominoes. Kara doesn't know what she's done, and likely never will. “You’re so young.”

“Maybe.” Kara concedes, “On this subject you’re definitely the mentor.” Her smile turns sheepish, “Okay, on most subjects you’re my mentor. In fact, I’ve spent a long time studying you, Cat--I'm still adamant that that was part of my job description--so you should be able to take my word for why I believe it’s possible. It’s because you’ve already done it. Your whole life. If you're not happy, and I think you deserve to be happy--you deserve...so much. To be happy,” It’s cold when she drops fingers from a chin, offering a supportive smile, instead, “Then you'll find a way. And if there's anything I can do at all, to help…”

A hand waves towards herself--hopeful and eager and honest--not understanding the hint of conflict settling so deeply, however brief, on Cat's features.

It’s only a moment--a flicker of vulnerability--but she’ll never forget it, the faint flicker of something dark casting shadows over the bright light of Catherine’s lips. It makes Kara stumble a little over the words, enamored by it:

“You should focus on it. The being happy part, remember?”

Kara thinks it must be the weight of figuring out what to do with CatCo--even feels a naive, righteous sense of warmth in her chest from having helped in even the smallest ways--and she'll never quite understand the look in Cat's eyes.

Because that’s the thing with those small, hidden moments before everything changes, it’s impossible to recognize them as lasts until they’re gone. Kara has pockets full of moments just like this one stuffed in a hidden compartment by her heart--her mother’s fingers skimming along the edge of a necklace as she explains love; her father’s eyes brightening as he taps knuckles along a sculpture; Astra’s lips in a dream brushing over her forehead; and this, this moment of Cat’s eyes haunted and conflicted, holding onto something like a planet that’s turning green from the inside out, determined to take the galaxy with it.

Kara towers over Catherine and watches green eyes catch in the sun, the memory burnt on the back of eyelids with a unforgiving sting of a fountain pen. There’s a breath that tumbles from Catherine’s parted lips that means something in its indefinite silence--that hints towards a lifetime of possibilities unsaid--and Catherine almost says something--maybe almost says everything --and this small, simple little exchange is what will play on repeat for months.

Kara Danvers will play it over and over and over again like nails desperately scratching at a broken record. She'll replay the way Cat's hair falls in front of her eyes as her nose dips. The way that her eyes almost shine above those shadows of her cheeks. The way her breath rattles and quakes. The way those fingers curl nails in anxiety and promise.

The way Catherine's lips part and she...says nothing, at all.

What did you want to say?

Kara will beg her to say it. She’ll never scream--never fall to her knees in rage and loss--she’ll never argue or even actually ask anyone but a figment of a ghost of someone she swore not to love--she’ll beg an empty corner of her bed that’s no longer cold, and that’s worse, somehow.

But right now, happy and light and carefree, Kara doesn't notice, instead drumming her fingers on the edge of a desk with a light shrug, too busy trying to pull Cat out of her own head to dive into it, instead. Because that’s her job, these days, she feels, even when she doesn’t exactly have one--to keep Catherine from collapsing in on herself like a singularity with hope and love, alone.

“I was only kidding about not getting you coffee.” Kara smiles and Cat's eyelashes flutter as she lets out that almost quivering breath, nails curling into her desk. It must be nerves or exhaustion but Kara is determined to help cure either, promising, “Let me go grab it for you. Before you can tell me it's not my job, I want to.” A genuine smile, “The little things. I won’t be able to come back here today, anyways, so I’d...like to.”

A foot turns on a heel, intent on walking away and she makes it to the door, fingers curling around warm metal but knowing better to raise the blinds until Cat is ready. Something else she'll have to inform Eve and she's so focused on mentally running through the list in her desk--distracted by the thought of making sure that Ms. Grant has the best replacement possible (did she miss telling Eve anything, while she's here?)--that she almost misses the way Cat's voice quakes when she barely whispers her name.

“Kara?”

Another turn on her heel with a soft hum of question, adjusting the glasses on the bridge of a nose. The sun has settled in Golden hair and showcases the shadows underneath eyes and for one of the few times Kara will ever see it, Catherine Grant visibly hesitates.

Her mouth stills--words halt--and her lips press a thin line. The smile that follows is forced but genuine, something deep cemented in resolution in the depth of her lover's eyes as she jokes:

“My hero.” There’s a quiver at the edge of her lips--a shine to that endless, painting of eyes before Cat’s looking back down. Back to work. “Scalding hot, please.”

But there sounds like there's truth in it--like Cat believes she's a hero through and through--and it makes Kara beam, turning around to get that third latte of the day.

“Anything for you, Ms. Grant.”

Her phone dings at Noonan’s ten minutes later, a freeze-frame of stolen pictures and smiling eyes there to greet smiling eyes.

Thank you.

Teeth tuck at lips and when her phone buzzes again, blue soften and for a second the latte she’s grabbed might actually feel warm against her open hand.

“Boyfriend?” Eve’s tired voice--Kara sympathizes because boy does she still remember her first day, even if this is technically Eve's second--calls around her shoulder, light and kind and knowing and she quickly tucks away her phone, shrugging a shoulder.

“Just a nice text for a nice day.” She offers, instead, eyes flicking down to the mug before raising it up, “Think you’re ready to deliver this one on your own?”

Eve looks terrified.

“Oh, come on, I promise, it won’t be that bad. You’ve done it twice and she hasn’t killed you, right?”

Kara takes another look at her phone, wise enough to hide her smile, this time.

I’m sorry.

A quick reply hidden by her hip--

I’m sticking by the goldfish. It’s forgotten. Really. We’re more than ok Cat. Eve’s bringing you your caffeine fix so please be nice.

Adding for good measure--

Please be nice *Ms. Grant*. Typo?

Even better measure:

Ms. Grant, who has the right to fire anyone she wants but should be nice anyways. ;) Gosh, look at those typos.

She can hear Cat’s indulgent, annoyed sigh forty floors down. The blinds are back up and Kara smiles over Eve’s shoulder the entire time when Cat shoots her a knowing look but wordlessly takes the latte and that’s enough of a victory for Kara. It should be a simple moment, lost and forgotten, moving about her day with no clue--no idea.

“You don’t work here, anymore, Kiera.” Cat calls to her with a glance at a watch, “Seven hours.”

“Yes, Ms. Grant. Consider me not here.”

“Like anyone could shield their eyes, you're like a walking Forever 21 ad.” But Catherine’s smiling now with a flick of a dismissive hand, Eve looking after her like she’s awaiting a nuclear bombing.

Kara’s decidedly not a goldfish. She doesn’t forget.

She sighs in a big, white, empty office, fingers running along stuffed-away pictures, sagging onto a table as she drums fingers along her desk and frowns.

Idly, she plans to get a picture made of the one of Cat on her phone--plans to gently tuck it in a safe place right next to J’onn--and leaves before she can think anymore about a ticking clock, sipping on her own coffee, not bothering to heat it.

Lena’s name lights up the screen of her phone and Kara shoots up into the sky a few minutes later, unable to shake the look on Cat’s face, leaning over a desk, a thousand words left unsaid, and Kara isn’t sure why.

It's the beginning of an end--such simple things usually are--and anytime Kara ever thinks back on it, she'll cry.

--

The last thing she sees is Kal-El, stumbling and just as powerless as her, diving after her over the edge of the bridge, whatever words croaking out of his lips lost to the sound of the wind.

khap zhalish

The last thing she hears is the sound of Metallo hitting the water and going silent.

--

“Alex, I’m not saying I’m going to Metropolis, I’m just--”

“Leaving? What is that like our family motto? Did you ever stop to think that I’ve changed my whole life --”

--

The last thing she does is smile up at Kal-El, trying to assure him as best she can, despite the fear that slowly settles in the pit of her stomach. Falling, at least, feels a lot like flying.

--

“J’onn?” Kara whispers, fingers tenting over a knee as her chin falls down to it, eyes flicking over towards the familiar, somber face. He hums in acknowledgment, the afternoon sun painting the shining floors of the new DEO building in a way Kara is still getting used to. Everything is so...shiny now. Not all...rock-lair, cave-motif.

“Supergirl?” His voice is gruff as always and she wonders if he would understand what it’s like to not sleep for nearly six days, because she’s certain he sounds like he’s never slept, at all.

“Do you think we can ever be happy? I mean, sure we can, right? Saving the world...” She trails off, chin tipping back as she searches the lines of an exposed ceiling, the words to her question lost on her tongue, unsure how to phrase it outside of her mind, “I know we’ll stop Cadmus--I mean, who comes up with a name like that, anyways? What does that even mean--and we’ll stop whoever comes after that, and I know that the world is full of rules . Especially for people like us. But one of those rules...one of those rules has to be that we should be happy, right?”

“I think…” Kara doesn’t look at his face, but his voice sounds so calm--so confident--so steady as his fingers curl around her shoulder, “If there’s anyone that deserves to find out, it’s you and your cousin.”

“You think?”

“I know , Ms. Danvers.” She turns to take in his smile, then, and she leans into his hand before the squeeze becomes a pat. “You’re still not sure which job--”

“No.” Kara sighs, “It's not that. I think I know, I just...I wonder some days if--I mean, between Alex and Kal-El and Cat--”

“J’onn!” A voice calls around the corner, “We’ve got reports of a jumper on--”

--

The last thing she thinks before the impact of the ocean engulfing her like an unwanted gift, the pain rattling like a broken baby’s toy through her shattering bones, is that Eliza? Alex?

Catherine?

They’re going to kill her if she dies.

The water soaks through her suit, ice and lifeless, staining the white of a list until it crumples so that when it’s unfolded, for the rest of its life, it will never unfold the same way, again. Like the thin line of glass that can never be repaired to its first form, an uncompleted list will crumple at the edges and fold in uneven lines, some of the ink running at the edges.

It will change--break and mend--just like a heart can.

--

Rule #72….

--

Life isn’t as dramatic as the movies--as the books she spent years pouring over bent knees devouring--and maybe hurtling herself and a man bent on destroying dozens of people (herself and her cousin, included) off of a bridge is maybe a little dramatic by nature, but waking up from it isn’t.

She wakes up to an empty room, the heat of a sunlamp staining the rise and fall of her chest with life.

She wakes to a dozen voicemails and one text, in particular, that makes her swallow--she wakes to Kal-El’s smiling, cut face as they both heal--she wakes having not really slept, at all, five and a half days lacking it settling down her healing bones underneath a false Sol just as much as the Kryptonite had.

She wakes up to J'onn's nervous eyes and Alex gone and doesn’t let herself heal and Kal-El doesn’t ask her to. She wakes to her sun having set and the world tasting like cold and green and she tucks a bracelet back in her pocket, not having let go of it for a moment--a breath--the entire time she laid there.

Kara wakes up, maybe, but she doesn't feel awake.

Kara tears apart the city to find her sister and doesn’t let her go when she does, a murmured apology in her ear that’s doubled ten-fold against her neck.

She wakes and heals and saves and a few hours later, all four of them--J’onn, Kal-El, Alex, and Kara--are once again in two separate cities, determined to protect the people within them, moonlight at their backs.

Death doesn’t stop them, and neither does Metallo. She rips out his heart and barely keeps from crushing it beneath her palm.

Kara doesn’t remember being in the water--doesn’t remember much save for falling--but she’ll see the headlines of the image of Superman cradling her body against his chest as he stumbles out of the ocean like a beacon as he holds her , a bracelet limply hanging from her fingers as the sun settles on his shoulders and dances shadows on her bruised, barely recognizable features. Both of their forms cut and bruised and hanging on the edge of life, war-torn and martyrs.

She’ll see the picture hung on the edge of what was once Catherine Grant’s wall, along with their other highest-selling covers--right next to the one of them both healing, scraped and bruised, towering over Metallo--for months every time she walks into the office and feels a chill hang over her features.

She doesn’t remember, but she’ll see that picture and will shatter a breath against her teeth and understand why Cat couldn’t bear to look at it, at all.

The whole night is spent tracking Cadmus with little to show for it and, eventually, in the early hours of the morning--day 6 because being in some kind of coma or something does not count as sleeping--Kara hugs Kal-El tighter than anyone else could, feeling Alex’s fingers on her shoulder, and tells him that she’s staying.

She’s staying. That’s a decision she knows how to make. She’s not going to Metropolis. She’s never going to Metropolis, not as long as Alex is here.

So Kara watches him shoot off into the twilight sky, taking a piece of herself with him--thankfully taking the last of the Kryptonite, as well--before she kisses her sister’s cheek and shoots off, herself.

It’s nearly five in the morning when she sets down on a familiar balcony and wonders why she isn’t surprised to see Cat leaning on the edge of it, swirling a glass in her palm. Either she stayed here the entire night--unlikely, given Carter--or just started early, but the circles unhidden, silhoutting the features of familiar eyes is telling, enough, and Kara has to swallow down more than breath when she comes closer.

Without a word, bruised fingers gently untuck a bracelet from a suit, a little squeezed but since cleaned (haphazardly cleaned in a DEO sink by her cousin at Kara’s pleading, pleading look, and then feverishly cleaned the moment Kara could stand on trembling knees an hour later) and offers it palm up to the woman next to her as their shoulders brush, settling next to her on the balcony.

It’s not unusual that Kara doesn’t know the right words to say--it’s a daily occurrence--so when Catherine takes a long, long drag of the liquid before reaching forward, nails almost reverently skimming along the expensive, bent bracelet, Kara doesn’t bother trying. Instead, she just holds the bracelet up as Cat becomes reacquainted with it--dips fingers underneath the shine of it--and when her lover’s breath finally rattles into the night, Kara doesn’t mention the wet sheen to dark eyes, clear even so high above the city, lights dim and quiet. She just gently unhooks the bracelet and slides it around Cat’s wrist, raising it up to her lips and kissing it in silent apology, just as she had before plummeting into the ocean. Not that she would tell Catherine she’d done that, at all.

That doesn't seem like knowledge that would help.

At least this time, she feels a heartbeat flutter underneath her touch.

And Catherine’s so slow about it, the way her wrist turns and so carefully cups Kara’s cheek in a trembling palm, thumb brushing over the high rise, underneath the worst of her still-healing cuts, that Kara wouldn’t know the words even if she tried to stumble over them.

“That is not what I meant by diving. You certainly like causing a spectacle of yourself, don’t you?” It’s a dry whisper--like a barrel full of whiskey, a burning match hovering above it--and Kara just leans into her. It’s been a long day and there’s familiarity in it, a hint of a laugh flushing cool cheeks.

“Someone likes to tell me I like being difficult.” Kara swallows because the thin smile Cat’s attempted gives way to something else, leaning down to slot their foreheads together and the quaking anger does little to overrun the hint of something far worse on her lover’s tongue.

“We have nearly three dozen witness testimonies regarding your idiotic heroics, and none of them understood the gravity of what happened in front of them. Pictures showing you bleeding before you practically backflipped off of the bridge. You could have--”

“I came home to you.” It’s gentle and loving and a little desperate, lips brushing over a forehead and Cat’s fingers tangle so tightly in her suit that she can barely breathe. “Catherine--”

“You’re still bleeding.” It’s a searing breath that curls up in pain at the end, Cat’s fingers tracing the wound below a bloodshot eye and Kara catches her wrist with a faint wince as that jaw lines itself with steel and features contort in something indistinguishable before Catherine pulls away altogether. Voice far colder: “You missed your deadline--”

Kara selfishly kisses her like her life depends on it--like she can’t catch Catherine with fingers or words, so she tries chasing her with this, instead--pressing her up against glass with a withering, breaking sigh against parting lips. Fingers tangle in her hair and the sound of a bracelet clattering to the floor is lost underneath the scratch of heels, because Kara had forgotten to re-clasp it.

“I don’t care about my deadline.” Kara kisses her again because the further and further Kal-El shoots into the sky, the further the green seeps out of her bones and she knows she can keep Cat here against her with super-strength, but she’d rather keep her with something far darker in the pit of her chest. Almost accusing: “You came up here to wait for me.”

“I wouldn’t--” Catherine practically hisses , a frustrated breath on the edge of her tongue rolling like a locomotive up her lungs, her hands cupping cheeks and tugging her close. “ Yes . I had to see you with my own eyes.”

“I’m right here.” Kara promises, pulling away so that Cat’s fingers can trace every single line of her face like her thumbs are far more knowing than her eyes. And they might be. She sucks in a sharp breath when a thumb swipes underneath that same cut, surprised when Cat tugs her down and gently brushes lips underneath the puckered edge of healing skin.

Catherine kisses her again, consuming and rough, and Kara’s knees shake before she's suddenly pushed her away, again, just as rough and just as consuming, jaw setting.

“We’re crashing the cover.”

“You’re--” Kara blinks because it’s five AM and she doesn’t know how she missed the noise--the life in the building--because her ears are still full of Kryptonite and her lungs might still be full of water, “Oh.”

“You don’t work here, anymore.” Cat straightens her hair--her blouse--sets aside her drink and stands taller than Kara knows how to, shoulders wilting and something quaking pushing through parted lips.

“...oh.” A hint of a desperate laugh, wishing she at least had the bracelet to hold onto because suddenly she feels very, very cold, surprised when fingers gently tuck up her chin and she comes face to face with Catherine’s determined, unwavering gaze. There’s something sad there, now--something Kara’s well aware she’s put there--and it makes her swallow feel like glass. But still she can’t stomach the thought of Metropolis, not now. Not after holding Alex’s trembling hands and not after seeing the look in Cat’s eyes. “I’ll--”

“I extended your deadline.” Cat whispers and Kara blinks.

“You--” Another blink, unable to help the surprise. A third blink because-- “Really?”

“Kara, I’m tough, not cruel.” Her voice is quieter, then, fingers falling from a chin and Kara boldly catches them.

“I don’t think you’re cruel, I just--”

“Thought that I was going to fire you for trying to save someone’s life on the off-chance that you were stupid enough to die?” Cat supplies and Kara swallows.

“Well, I--no? Not exactly...that. Maybe fired me to make a poi--”

“Stop talking before you dig yourself into a hole superstrength wouldn’t get you out of. I’m well aware of what people think of me, I don’t need to add what your pedaling little thoughts are to the--”

Kara reaches up to cup her cheeks in a way that makes Cat visibly tense, words dying out before she smiles, “You don’t want to hear that I think the world of you? I know it’s a little too cheesy for your tastes.”

“You really have to stop talking.” Cat warns but there’s a hint of a smile there, now, and lips brush over a forehead, holding the smaller form against her chest for as long as she’s allowed. Which is longer than expected, long fingers gently raising to spread out over a heart as a nose slots against a neck. Kara can feel the heat of the sun--faint and faraway, but there--on her back by the time Cat untangles herself, a rough sigh sliding past her lips. She bends down and clasps the bracelet properly on her wrist, now.

“Catherine,” Kara murmurs before she can go too far, kissing the rise of knuckles before letting her lover go, completely, “I’m not saying that I think what I did was...okay. I’m not trying to make you feel better, but I...did. Come home to you. I’ll always come home to you, if I can. You’re--you’re what gave me the strength to--”

Cat raises a hand up in-between them, stopping Kara in her tracks, and the look on her face, however brief, is pained enough that Kara feels regret over saying anything at all. The bracelet jangles as the hand lowers and the CEO of CatCo looks back towards her lit office, shoulders straightening and heels clicking, a discarded drink on the nearby balcony table.

“You have until Friday afternoon, 4 O’clock, not a moment later. You’re not stepping foot here in any form of professional capacity until then.”

“Okay.” Kara breathes--nods--looks back up and clears her throat at the straight line of shoulders she wishes she could spend hours easing the knots out of with well-intentioned fingers. Knots she caused. And she thinks Catherine was right, this weekend--she does have to learn how to live with affecting her. “Thank you...Ms. Grant.”

Cat nods and leaves and the balcony feels colder for it.

As cold as the city seems without Kal-El--without Kryptonite, even--and Supergirl turns to tower over her city for a few more minutes before falling down to the street, to the corner around the corner, leaning against the wall by Noonan’s.

She strips off her suit and slowly pulls up jeans--a shirt--and looks down at glasses, cracked along an edge she’ll need to fix, cupped in her palm as the sun starts to rise. She listens to the city wake and the life paint the streets in gold and red and green and with a suit tucked in her bag, a cut slowly healing underneath her eye, Kara Danvers starts the long walk home to an empty apartment across the city.

Alive and exhausted and cold, she doesn't really feel like flying. 

 --

 **Kryptonian Translations, Mythos, and other DC shenanigans** Source(s) Language **Zhalish: Pardon, excuse, absolve, disregard, exonerate. Another way of saying "I'm sorry". verb P: [n̩.ʒæ.liʃ]; Kryptonian: :ZAliS

[infinitehouseofbooks]

BLOG TOUR - Still Black Remains

About the Book

Still Black Remains Synopsis “Still Black Remains” is an original work of fiction.  It tells the story of Twist, one of the leaders of an inner city gang named the Skulls, and the architect of his gang’s decision to kidnap a mafia soldier in a last-ditch attempt to end a violent turf war.  The war started when the Skulls tried taking a bigger piece of the drug business in their Newark, New Jersey neighborhood from the organized crime family who had once been their partners.  Like most great ideas, the plan doesn’t turn out as expected. Negotiations between the gangs deteriorate, words fail, the violence escalates, and the only recourse left is the inevitable execution of the hostage.  Chosen to be the one to execute the prisoner, the story covers Twist’s ability to pull the trigger, the consequences of that action, and his internal struggle.  As the volatile situation grows more explosive by the hour, the lines between right and wrong blur; resolution comes with a price and Twist has to decide if pulling the trigger will get him what he wants, and if he can live with that cost.

Interview with the Author

What initially got you interested in writing?

I love writing.  There is unimaginable power and enjoyment in using imagination and creativity to tell stories – writing makes me feel complete.

I think Hemingway said it best: “My aim is to put down on paper what I see and what I feel in the best and simplest way.”

Every writer is by nature, a story teller, and we all have stories we want to tell.

I was an avid reader as a kid – I read any and every book I could get my hands on, and I always loved the way writers created their own universe to tell their stories. I loved the power of imagination – as a writer you could tell any story you wanted.

  I wrote in high school and college (school newspapers and magazines), although it wasn’t until a few years ago after a career as a corporate samurai that I decided to pursue my dream of writing fulltime.  I had written off and on for a few years while working, but never pursued it seriously.  It comes down to that desire and need to write or tell a story.  Writing gives me complete satisfaction and in a lot of ways, creates the kind of happiness I had always been seeking and never found in business.   Throughout all the years I worked in the business world I felt that dissatisfaction gnawing at me, and I knew I would never be happy until I pursued my dream.  I can’t imagine finding happiness doing something other than writing.

  My only regret is that I didn’t choose this path earlier.

    How did you decide to make the move into becoming a published author?

I was completely dissatisfied with the path I had taken.  My career in business had been successful, if you measure success by things like money and possessions, but it left me unfulfilled – empty. I wanted to be able to do something that made a difference, and for me, writing was that vehicle that could make a difference.  I spent a number of years working at writing, reading a variety of authors, and honing my skills and technique.  Writing is a craft and you can’t just show up and expect to find success without putting in the time and the effort. I wrote a number of short stories – ranging from flash to longer stories – taking chances with some of the stories, and experimenting with voice and POV. Very early I was fortunate to find sites like “Six Sentences”, “A Twist of Noir”, “Fictionaut”, “The Foundling Review”, “At The Bijou”, and “Cavalcade of Stars” who published my stories and gave me an audience of writers, editors, and critics who supplied feedback on everything from structure, to voice, to plot.  Feedback is important – even when you don’t want to hear criticism- because as a writer you need to know what works and doesn’t work for readers. Those magazines also allowed me to carve out my own identity as I found my voice as a writer.

  What do you want readers to take away from reading your works?

Even though there’s violence throughout the book (after all, it deals with inner city life and a gang war based on drug trade), there are moments where the books as well as much of what I write is still about people and their feelings for each other. In “Still Black Remains”, Twist genuinely cares about Maria and Angel, and he thinks about getting out of the game while taking them out of Newark, but he’s incapable of showing that in ways that work for her. He saw something special in Malik and took him under his wing, trying to steer him away from the kind of world he and his brothers lived in – he knows there are only two outcomes to that life (dead or in prison), and he wants more than that for Malik.  Eddie Dallas loves and protects his mother and sisters by sheltering them from the world he lives and works in. And for all of Bone’s toughness and hard edges, he mourns his brother and is motivated by revenge for his death.

What I found surprising was that at the core of the book (and my writing) it’s all about the human experience each of us shares.  We are all just people.  When you dig down underneath surface differences, we are all human beings no matter what our backgrounds. And all of us want essentially the same things at our core. We want to love and be loved. We want to be safe. We want our loved ones to be safe. We want to feel that what we do with our lives has meaning. I didn’t expect to see that in the characters when I created “Still Black Remains”.  That’s what I’m hoping readers see: that beneath the grittiness and violence of life in an inner city, people still live their lives and do what they have to do to survive.

  What do you find most rewarding about writing?

I get complete satisfaction from writing – I can’t put it any more succinctly than that.  The creativity involved in writing fills a need.

A writing career isn’t like being a rock star or a movie actor – very few writers show up in the headlines, wind up on the cover of People, or get interviewed on Entertainment Tonight. But that’s not why you write – you write because you have stories you want AND need to tell to any audience that will read what you’ve created. It’s a need to be a storyteller.

    What do you find most challenging about writing?

Finding the right publisher who will work with you as a writer, and share the same kind of vision for your books is probably the biggest challenge.  I needed a publisher who was willing to take a little bit of a risk on something that was outside the mainstream and didn’t fall within a specific genre.  That was my biggest obstacle – “Still Black Remains” doesn’t have a clearly defined niche or category like horror, fantasy, or romance.  There’s more broad-based appeal to the story and it crosses over between different genres like contemporary fiction as well as crime fiction.  Agents and editors who first read the book felt it was a strong story but they didn’t know how to position it in the market or where to target the audience (most were afraid it would fall through the cracks). The other issue that came up was voice- most of the characters in “Still Black Remains” are black, and I was told that some publishers might be reluctant to publish the book because I wasn’t black (assuming that only a black writer could write and market a book from that POV….which is idiotic because that would mean only women could write books featuring women characters, only real cowboys could write westerns, and only zombies could write about the zombie apocalypse. That kind of belief and attitude diminishes and dismisses a writer’s creativity and ability to imagine).

Literary Wanderlust appealed to me for a number of reasons.  I think the diversity of the writers who are published by Literary Wanderlust speaks volumes about their approach.   I wanted a publisher who would invest in the book and invest me as an author.   Their business model keeps overhead low and allows them to take more risks with newer and mid-list authors, and I was encouraged by their feedback when I initially submitted the manuscript.  Their editors worked closely with me to help tighten the story, making it much stronger and focused – their recommendations made the characters’ POV clearer, heightened the conflict, and ultimately made the book better.  The Literary Wanderlust team came up with a viable marketing plan so that the book won’t get lost on book shelves and will find its audience.  From the beginning we have worked together as true partners, and I have felt that my success is their success.

    What advice would you give to people wanting to enter the field?

You need to write – every day.  And you need to keep writing. And when you’re not writing, read.  Stephen King said, “If you don’t have the time to read, you don’t have the time or the tools to write.”

Never stop trying to improve and never stop working at your craft – the most important thing you need to do is to keep writing. If you want to write realistic dialogue you have to listen – every conversation has a certain style and flow, and as a writer you need to capture that and reflect it in the dialogue your characters use.  Keep working at it and never allow yourself to get complacent or careless.  Then edit.  Revise and review what you’ve written, and don’t be afraid to make changes, even when they are drastic.  Make the book as tight and error-free as possible. Edit ruthlessly.   Don’t be afraid to cut out the parts that don’t work. Then finish what you’ve started – the best advice I got was this:

“You have to finish things — that’s what you learn from, you learn by finishing things.”

Don’t give up. And don’t let somebody else tell you that you can’t do something. Take rejection as a motivator – learn from it, work hard, and study the craft and keep trying to get better.

    Is there anything else besides writing you think people would find interesting about you?

I sometimes get mistaken for Bryan Cranston (okay – actually Walter White from “Breaking Bad”).  It happens all the time so I’ve gotten used to it, and it’s kind of fun playing along when people ask, “Do you know who you look like”?

I��ve had random strangers approach me in airports, grocery stores, even standing in line for a Broadway play – although if I was really Bryan Cranston I doubt I’d be waiting in line.  But any number of people have stopped me so they could pose for selfies and pictures, even after I’ve explained that “I’m not him”.  One lady said she thought I was “the guy from Breaking Bad”, but after hearing me speak said I cursed more like Samuel L. Jackson.

    What are the best ways to connect with you, or find out more about your work?

Website:     http://kevinmichaelsfiction.com/

Facebook:   https://www.facebook.com/kevin.michaels.37

Twitter:       @KMWriter01

Instagram:  KMWriter01

LinkedIn:     https://www.linkedin.com/in/kevin-michaels-aa136519

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4256551.Kevin_Michaels I post my fiction along with periodic writing updates at both A Cold Rush of Air, and  Sliding Down the Razor’s Edge where I offer my opinion and POV on topics not too earth-shattering in size, scope, or detail. And those few people who really want to know more are always welcome to email me at info@kevinmichaelsfiction.com.

  About the Author

Kevin Michaels’ Bio Kevin Michaels is the author of the critically acclaimed debut novel LOST EXIT, as well as two entries in the FIGHT CARD BOOKS series: HARD ROAD and CAN’T MISS CONTENDER. He also released a collection of short stories entitled NINE IN THE MORNING. His short stories and flash fiction have also appeared in a number of magazines and indie zines, and in 2011 he was nominated for two separate Pushcart Prize awards for his short stories. Other shorts have been included in the anthologies for SIX SENTENCES (volumes II and III) and ACTION: PULSE POUNDING TALES (2).

In April 2017 his latest novel STILL BLACK REMAINS will be published by Literary Wanderlust LLC.

He has also published a number non-fiction articles and stories in print publications ranging from the NYTimes.com and the Life/Style section of The Boston Globe to The Bergen News and Press Journal and raged in print at places like the triCity News, NY Daily News, and The Press.

He is the Founder and Creative Director of Story Tellers which is a community-based organization that develops and promotes literacy through writing. Story Tellers provides under-served teenagers, young adults, and women from distressed situations the opportunity to discover the strength and power of their own voices (self-empowerment through self-expression).

Originally from New Jersey, he carries the attitude, edginess, and love of all things Bruce Springsteen common in his home state, although he left the Garden State to live and work in the foothills of the Appalachians (Georgia) with his wife, Helen and an assortment of children and pets.

BLOG TOUR – Still Black Remains was originally published on the Wordpress version of SHANNON MUIR'S INFINITE HOUSE OF BOOKS.