#but the unblinking man they can’t manage to hit even when they shoot from behind him???

[phoenixkaptain]

Underappreciated aspect of Splinter of the Mind’s Eye (by me, I’m the only one appreciating anything about Splinter of the Mind’s Eye in the year of our lord two thousand and twenty and four) is that Luke is unhesitating in stabbing a bitch. Straight up he cuts off multiple limbs and several people in half.

Luke woke up and decided that mercy was for another day and honestly I fucking love when the Jedi are unflinchingly brutal yet perfectly placid in killing.

[viperbarnes]

The Tie That Binds – [One of Eight]

[B. Barnes, Soulmate AU]

Summary: HYDRA took everything from you, your life, your future, they even burned off your soulmark to make sure nobody would go looking for you. Now the man they forced you to fix reappears in your life, to make amends and to be ‘of service’.

You know that they made him do all those things, that James 'Bucky’ Barnes is not The Winter Soldier, that he’s innocent. You don’t blame him. But that doesn’t make seeing him again any easier.

Warnings: Panic attacks, language, talk and depiction of home invasion and abduction, canon level violence, HYDRA levels of torture, angst, fluff, slow-ish burn, friends to lovers.

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Nothing felt real until you saw him again.

It was as if ever since 2015, you’d been living your life in some kind of limbo, nothing mattered, the same old routine day in and day out. The world seems to move in slow motion around you, everything slightly lagging behind.

Like you can only see in black and white.

Like you were numb.

And then all of a sudden, in one brilliant flash of light everything speeds up, colour blinds you and the numbness disappears, replaced instead by pure, unadulterated fear.

He walks slowly down the hallway of doors, his eyes locked on yours like he knew you’d be here, knew exactly when to catch you. That in itself sets off a million other fears in your brain, and no matter how many times you’d gone through this scenario in your head, how many times you’d stayed up formulating a plan for escape, you can’t seem to move. Your body is frozen in place, the only movement available to you is the shake in your hands as he gets closer and closer.

You can’t even seem to cry.

He stops several feet away, looking for all the world like he wanted to be anywhere but here, but he squares his shoulders anyway and takes a deep breath.

“Hi.” He greets grimly, voice more nervous than you’d imagined, though deep and distinctly tainted by a Brooklyn accent you might’ve found endearing if not for everything else.

You realise suddenly that you’ve never heard him speak before.

You only stare, unblinking. He takes another deep breath and continues.

“My name is James Bucky Barnes. I am no longer the Winter Soldier–”

The mention of him, the name itself, makes you drop the thick set of keys and the small stack of letters you hold, sending them clattering to the floor. He stops speaking and blinks down at them, then back at you, before he crouches down to collect them.

“… And I’m here to make amends.” He stands slowly and holds out your keys and letters, lips pursed tightly as he waits for you to say something, or react at all. But you’re still staring at him, still unable to tear your eyes away until he waves the items, making your keys jingle a bit, and you snap out of it.

“I’m sorry.” He says, seemingly sincerely, but your voice is gone, and you can only nod as you carefully, hesitantly, take your things back from him, thankful when he steps back again. He stares at you with a sad frown, and you want so desperately to open your mouth and to say something, anything, but you just can’t.

He shoves his hands in his pockets and takes another step back.

“I’m… I’m going to go home now.” He tells you pointedly, and you can only nod once more. He turns his back and begins to walk.

You take that moment to shakily shove your key into the lock, quickly heaping yourself inside and slamming closed the door.

Making sure you lock your door once again, you can’t stop the sobs that wrack your body, sliding down the heavy wood and curling yourself into a ball.

You don’t hear him stop at the end of the hallway, you don’t hear the way he curses under his breath.

-

You laugh wildly and wave off your friends, shaking your head as you enter your apartment building. Even as the doors shut you can still hear them talking and laughing loudly as they return to their own buildings, but let the first peaceful sounds of quiet hit you as you jab the button for the elevator and make your way up to your place.

The alcohol buzzing through your veins amplifies reality and you ponder what an odd sensation it is to be so cognisant of yourself when you’re finally alone after a night of being surrounded by others. You lean heavily against the elevator wall and pull your graduation cap from your head when you realise you’re still wearing it.

It wasn’t the first time you’d graduated, but it was the last.

Excitement bubbles in you once again as you exit the lift onto your floor, all the possibilities and futures that lay before you making you feel unstoppable. You were going to be big, the things you were going to do were going to be big and now that you were fully and properly accredited, you couldn’t wait to prove to the world what you could do.

You unlock your apartment door on the third try, and stumble as you throw your cap and purse on the counter. Tomorrow you would call back Stark Industries and formally accept their offer, but for now, you needed water, a shower and bed. In that order.

You don’t bother turning on the lights in your apartment as you stumble through it, moving for your bathroom, however, when you reach the main hallways that lead to your bedroom, you pause and frown, switching the light next to you on as you stare down the passage.

You could have sworn you’d shut your bedroom door… In fact, you’d made a point of it before you’d left that morning… but here it was, wide open, and even swinging slightly like it were caught in a breeze.

In your drunken haze, you only frown deeper and move further down the hall, tiptoeing as quietly as you could, as if you were going to catch a ghost or an intruder off guard, but when you reach the doorway and switch the light on, you’re greeted by nothing.

A breath of anxiety leaves your lungs. It had been a busy morning, you could have easily forgotten that you’d gone back in after you’d shut it.

You relax, and kick it open further, shuffling forward before closing it behind you, but it stalls, refusing to click into place. A little frustrated now, you push on it harder, looking down at your floor to make sure there was nothing stopping it from shutting, but everything was clear. With an annoyed growl, you tear the door open again, intending to inspect the door frame itself, but you’re stunned frozen.

A man stands before you, completed shadowed in black, all but his eyes covered. You don’t even have time to react, you open your mouth to scream, but his hand shoots out, grabbing your jaw, the noise dying out before you can even make it.

Your body trembles, tries to back away, tries to run but he already has you, a grip stronger than what seemed real pulling you by where he holds you.

“Pack only essentials.” His voice is monotone and dark, and from his free hand, he throws a black duffle bag at your feet between you. His words left no room for argument, no terms for negotiation and yet your inebriated mind throws this out the window. You manage to latch onto the nearest item, a small lamp on the cupboard next to you, and with strength you didn’t know you had, you smash the thing into the side of the man’s head.

He releases you, hissing, and you run, somehow past him, your sloppy, drunken movements tamed somewhat by the adrenaline coursing through you.

You make it to your kitchen, to your purse and your phone, but then he’s there, hand grabbing yours and squeezing so hard your phone breaks under his grip. Intense and unrivalled pain lances through your fingers and palm, joined by a strange burning sensation. You become acutely aware of the snapping sound of bones until he lets go.

“Do not run.” He warns, though it sounds more like a threat, and with his body now bearing down over yours, and the pain in your hand, you lash out with your other, trying to push him away, maybe injure his eyes. Your fingers catch on something hard though, and you only manage to dislodge his mask, revealing his full face to you.

You don’t know or recognise him, and there was something so cold and unfeeling about his expression despite the situation you were in that makes your skin crawl. It was like the lights were on but nobody was home, like his brain was completely disconnected from his body and actions, right up until his eyes narrow, and he lifts a fist.

You can’t help but glance at the appendage before it crashes into your face, something catching your eye about it as the moonlight pouring in from your living room window hits it, and you realise, it was silver.

The last thing you remember before he knocks you out is the strange, but all-too-familiar whirring of a mechanical arm.

You wake up with a start, air trying to claw its way out of your lungs desperately. Your wide eyes search the room, and momentarily you see nothing but four grey walls, slowly closing in on you, before your senses begin to return, and your familiar bedroom fades through the nightmarish vision.

Sounds of the city waking up outside serve to ground you, and you slump back against your pillows for a few seconds, allowing your breathing and heart rate to calm down before you peel yourself out of bed slowly, cringing at the way your hair sticks to your clammy, sweaty skin.

The cold Brooklyn morning is comforting to you, and although you’d usually sleep longer than this on a work night, you know you won’t be going back to bed any time soon. You make your way to your small, cramped bathroom and switch the lights on, quickly discarding your clothes.

When you reach for the tap, you pause, eyes fixated on your hand, the one you hand remember clear as day being all but crushed in his grip. It had healed, but the broken bones weren’t the worst of it.

They’d taken your soulmark.

You don’t know why they did, you guess it had something to do with making sure there were no loose ends as far as your abduction went. They’d cut the mark from your hand, burned the wound, until it healed into just a lump of scarred, white skin.

Out of all the things they’d taken from you, it was this that hurt the most. They’d taken everything and left you with nothing, not even that which you were fated for. Knowing that somewhere out there, your soulmate would be waiting, wondering where you were, but you’d never be able to find them, never be able to know for sure if they were the one...

The first blasts of cold water shock the thoughts from your mind, and you immerse yourself, basking in the feeling against your hot skin, before the water finally begins heating, fogging up the room.

You take a deep breath and force yourself to close your eyes, leaning your forehead against the white tile.

“They’re gone. You’re free, and they’re gone…” You begin repeating softly, the familiar mantra only just audible over the running water.

You hadn’t had a nightmare in months, not one so vivid anyway, not one that made sense, that was more a memory playing itself back than a dream. You didn’t sleep well as a rule, but normally your bad dreams consisted of other things.

You know it’s not a coincidence, not when he’d shown up at your door a week ago.

You knew he was innocent. You knew that. He’d been brainwashed and tortured and he was innocent… But that didn’t make everything you’d experienced less real. Coming to terms with the fact he wasn’t some monster was hard when all you wanted was someone to hate.

You suppose you just never thought you’d ever see him again in the flesh.

It was easier to fear the memory of something, but when it showed up at your door, apologising and wishing to make amends…

Despite your best efforts, you can’t stop thinking about him. What had he meant about making amends? Why had he sought you out after so long? What did he want?

Maybe that’s why when he shows up at your door again, you aren’t so terrified.

He definitely gives you a fright, but no more than anyone would seeing as you’d opened your front door just as he’d raised a fist to knock on it. A momentary flash of fear makes your eyes widen, but you’re rather surprised when it seems to pass over you, settling down into something more like unease.

For his part, Barnes looks a little bewildered, like he’d been caught out, and you wonder briefly, with no small amount of discomfort, how long he’d been standing there.

You both stare at each other, until he finally forces open his mouth and speaks.

“I can go, if you want,” He blurts, eyes darting over your features quickly, but always returning to your eyes.

“But I just came to ask if there’s anything I can do for you?” He nods slightly after speaking, as if he’d been practising the words and had delivered them just as intended.

You blink at him, completely taken aback, but somehow managing to find your voice this time. Is this what he’d meant by ‘making amends’?.

“I… I don’t know…?” You shuffle from one foot to the other.

“My… My friend told me that I should seek out people I hurt… to be ‘of service’.” He tells you quickly, as if he suddenly felt the need to explain himself. Honestly, it’s helpful, helping you put together more pieces of whatever the hell this puzzle was.

“You didn’t hurt me.” You say carefully, trying not to sound like you’d been practicing. You see his brow furrow, and his lips pull into a thin line.

“HYD– They were the ones who did it…” You take a deep breath, adjusting your hold on your reusable shopping bags. His eyes flicker to them briefly, but are back on your face in a blink.

“I read about you… after, I mean… I know you weren’t…” You lift a hand and tap your temple, though immediately cringe.

Barnes lips quirk, but any semblance of a smile disappears soon after, his eyes turning strangely soulful. With his haircut and altogether more well-kept look, it was hard to see why you’d been so scared of him the other day… he didn’t even look like the same person anymore.

“Sure. But I still did those things… I still owe you.”

You stare at each other again for a long while, almost like you were both just reacquainting yourselves with what you looked like. You weren’t exactly put-together yourself right now, but you can’t imagine you look any worse than when you were a literally prisoner of HYDRA.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” He asks again a moment later, and you suddenly remember that you were standing in your doorway, disrupted in your task.

“I– I don’t know, I’m sorry, I have to go,” You shake your head, and attempt to dismiss him for now. The store was only open for another hour before your shift started.

“I need to get my groceries before the shop closes.”

Barnes steps back, gives you plenty of room as you pull your door shut behind you, locking it securely. But when you turn back to him, his face seems to have perked up. It’s odd to see on him, honestly.

“I can carry them for you.”

You stare at one another again, and you find for some reason you can’t say no.

Perhaps you just wanted to see the former Winter Soldier carry your groceries.

The thought almost makes you laugh.

Not as much as seeing him trail behind you in the aisles does. You wonder if your sudden ease at his presence is similar to the ease you have when there’s a spider in your bathroom… You don’t want it around exactly, but if you’ve got your eyes on it, at least you know where it is.

You keep to your short list of needs, mostly trying to ignore the fact that this was very, very strange all things considered, and when you’ve finished and gone through the checkout, he grabs all six of your bags and waits for you to lead the way.

“Do you… do you live in the city?” You can’t help but ask him on the walk back. He looks at you, almost surprised, but nods, and averts his gaze again.

“In Bed-Stuy.”

It’s your turn to be surprised.

“That’s only a couple of blocks. I’ve never seen you around before.” You marvel. He doesn’t look at you, keeping his eyes trained to the pavement.

“I know.”

Silence falls between you again, and prevails until you reach your building.

“Thanks. This has been… weird.” You tell him truthfully, watching how his lips quirk in that almost-smile again. He hands you your bags of groceries and then looks about.

“You do this every Thursday?” He asks, and you shake your head.

“No, I just forgot all week, and I really needed milk.”

He hums under his breath, frowning slightly again as he digs into his pocket and pulls out a small notepad. You watch him scribble something on a page, before he rips it out and holds it out to you.

“That’s my number… if you ever need anything, call me. I’ll come.” Barnes says seriously. Nodding, you reach out to gingerly pluck the paper from his fingers, but he keeps a hold of it for a moment longer, locking eyes with you.

“Anything.” He reiterates. Swallowing, you nod again, and he releases the page.

“Thanks, uh–”

“–Bucky… Please just call me Bucky.”

You watch him with a strange feeling filling your chest as he shoves his hands deep in his pockets and steps away from you. It takes you a few seconds to build up the courage to actually say his name.

“Thanks, Bucky.”

---

Bucky waits until you’ve disappeared inside your apartment building before he quickly pulls his hands from his pockets, hissing in discomfort as he finally attends to the searing, itching burn that had suddenly begun attacking his soulmark.

A few good scratches does the trick, but it leaves him with an entirely different sensation.

Bucky stares up at your apartment building, despair and dread settling deep in his belly. Realisation spurns on a hundred memories, a hundred memories now with a new context, a worse context, and Bucky feels completely nauseous.

You were his soulmate.

And HYDRA had made you afraid of him.

If you enjoyed, a comment or reblog would be greatly appreciated! Thank you for reading!

[rotten-games]

City of Immortals RO List

Okay so here it is, the list of ROs like I promised. Both mc's have their own pool of love interests to choose from with little overlap.

Here you’ll get a description of the ROs and some information on how the mc or others might view them. Also some info on the mc’s.

Mc1

Born to be a soldier by design, they were afflicted with immortality and stopped aging entirely once they hit thirty. A side effect—or perhaps a feature—is the beast that all but lives inside them, taking control when they feel incredibly strong emotions, though most often when anger is present. Where once they held full control of it, of the transformation they go through, now they must wrestle with its control with each passing day.

You are what’s called a Hunter. Every settlement has them, but Eden has the most. Caroline controls all her hunters from Eden, though ‘Hunter’ may be a bit of an oversimplification of the job description. Yes, one of their main jobs is providing food and other resources for the settlement, but they’re also bounty hunters, keepers of the peace, and are also often recruited for odd jobs when they have no contracts to fill. Perhaps the most important rule in Hunting, is that you always work in pairs.

Caroline: She/her

The best way to describe Carol is ‘short’, with a pair of unblinking amber eyes and a wind-buffeted, naturally tanned complexion. Her russet curls, while  usually out of her face, never seem to stay tied back for long, a seemingly constant slew of curls sticking to her forehead. A jagged scar cuts across the knuckles on her right hand.

Caroline is unrelenting. She knows what her settlement needs and she’ll be damned if she doesn’t get it—to save the lives of those she must oversee she is willing to do anything. Within reason. Truthfully, Caroline never asked to be made the leader of Eden, the job just sort of fell into her lap one day and no one bothered to take it from her. You’ve worked for her for years by the start of chapter one, and if you’ve learned anything about her it’s that she doesn’t do smalltalk. She’s been in a relationship with Lowrie for years now, and as far as you can tell, they’re very happy with one another.

Lowrie: non-binary, they/them pronouns

Impossibly tall and scrawny, Lowrie’s skin is constantly burned red by the sun, seemingly unable to tan no matter what they do. Their face is long, with ash-coloured, shoulder-length hair that would usually hide their grey eyes but is otherwise kept out of their face with a blue-patterned scarf.

Some have called Lowrie stuck up in the past for their less than talkative nature but that would be an oversimplification. In truth, they just aren’t fond of talking—which is probably why they get on with Harley so well—and more shy than anything else. One of Eden’s finest Hunters, they spend most of their time in the sweltering heat of Wasteland bringing bandits in and shooting any of the mangy beasts that stray too close to Eden. The rest of their time is spent managing the bar with Caroline and Harley, tending to keep to themself. You’ve worked with Lowrie in the past, and as far as you can tell there’s little love lost between the two of you. 

Carol + Lowrie poly:

Caroline and Lowrie are poly and in a committed relationship with one another. They will not leave one another for monogamy with mc, however, you don’t have to be in a throuple with them—though that’s definitely on the table—you can simply be with one, who is with both you and the other. Lowrie is also currently casually seeing Harley. Carol is not seeing anyone else.

Mordred: he/him.

With a seemingly constant fuzz along his jaw, and a never-ending supply of little scars littering his warm olive skin, his hair tends to cover everything but his yellow eyes and the deep bags underneath. His hair is typically tied into a loose bun at the back of his head, mostly obscuring his pierced, slightly pointed ears.

Mordred is a hot-headed, easily irritated young man who’s been by your side since day one. You dragged yourselves out of the crumbling ruins of Ledala together, you fought together, and now you work together as Hunters. Partner’s in crime doesn’t quite cover your relationship but it’s certainly close. In recent years, however, your relationship has strained—perhaps it’s due to past mistakes getting in the way, or past feelings, but either way at the start of the book he’s nowhere to be found.

At the start of the game you can determine just what your relationship is with him—it’s strained at this point but the reasons why are totally up to you. He can also potentially have been an old flame of MC2.

Ridley: Gender variable

Ridley is an energetic person with a pair of bright green eyes constantly sparkling with a glint of adventure. Despite their heavily-muscled frame, they seem to constantly be hiding behind their oversized glasses, a veil of their shaggy red hair, and a slouch that makes them out to be much smaller than they are.

Ridley is… an enigma. While technically a Hunter, they seem much more interested in the pursuits of science and research than holding off rabid beasts with nothing but a gun that’s falling apart and a rusty sword. Of course, they can hold their own well enough, but when they’re meant to be spending their time training or helping out—and indeed, even on their time off—they’re usually found traipsing around in the desert looking for… who knows what.

Doc: She/her

Doc is stocky and sharp-jawed, dark brown, almost black eyes always watching. Her dense curls are shoulder-length and appear twisted together and held back behind her head. The tip of her left ear appears to have been torn off somehow.

Not known for her bedside manner, Doc travels between settlements to tend to the sick, injured, and broken, and though none can particularly vouch for her interpersonal skills (though who can say anyone has particularly good ones, these days?), they can certainly do so for her medicinal accomplishments. Some think her a wandering ghost, aiding those who need help to make up for the sins of her past, others simply see her as a woman seeking to do her part for the good of Wasteland, regardless, if you get on her bad side she’s been known to be liberal with her gun. Or so the rumors say.

J. Allard: Gender variable

Allard is a nervous-looking, shifty individual with short but messy brown hair flecked with grey. Constantly fidgeting with the ring on their thumb, their stutter becomes more obvious the more nervous they are. Though their eyes hide behind a pair of darkened glasses, a pallid face a week out from its last wash they are, completely, honest. Trust me.

J. Allard is a totally normal priest. There is nothing strange about them, they simply want what is best for you and your companions.

Mc2

Dragged down into the depths of the earth on the day Ledala fell, you never knew of the city beneath the surface. Your sibling died that day, you’re sure of it, and a part of you died with them—the beast no longer responds to your call and you’re still left injured from whatever afflicted you and your comrades that day. The man who saved you set you to work for him—sorry, with him—and now you walk perpetually in the darkness of a city long since forgotten by the sun, with people named after the remnants of an old world you never knew existed. You were never meant to survive that night, and every day the world around you reminds you of that.

Arthur: he/him

Arthur doesn’t look quite there half the time. His skin is translucent, his pale blue eyes impossibly far away, platinum blond hair little more than wispy strands atop his head. Most of his body is otherwise covered completely by that old, brown coat of his. There’s light freckling across his nose.

Arthur saved you that night. A Private Investigator by trade, he brought you on to work together because you had no where else to go. Maybe because of it you should be closer than you are but there’s always been a distance between you he’s been unwilling to cross. Either way, despite working together—living together—he keeps to himself and you try to keep to yourself in turn. Still, you can’t help but notice the disdain he has for the City Council and their lackeys.

Perci: she/her

Perci is constantly smiling. Relaxed of posture, her straight hair once ashy brown is now dyed silver. It’s cut short at the sides and back, creating an undercut, most of her fringe tucked behind her ears to reveal a pair of dark brown, monolid eyes. She seems allergic to sleeves, taking whatever chance she gets to show off her cybernetic arm and the colourful tattoos that adorn her flesh arm.

A friend of Arthur who sometimes helps with investigations. She’s friendlier than he is with you, even inviting you out on occasion, but rebellion is on her lips more and more nowadays, and she isn’t subtle about it. You haven’t seen her in quite a while—as far as you can tell she and Arthur aren’t on speaking terms anymore after that big fight they had a few months back. As far as you can tell, she’s moved on and you certainly wouldn’t blame her if she has Council dogs on her heels.

Saga: Saga is always the same gender as your mc is.

Saga’s hair is a deep blue in colour, their black roots just barely growing through. Half of their head is shaved, the other half left chest-length and braided over their shoulder. Though their entire body seems to interwoven with tech, what is perhaps most interesting about them is the angular tattoo that crawls down the right side of their face. This is probably why they come to you completely covered in muck and baggy clothing.

Saga shows up at your door with a different name and a job. You aren’t given why, only the how, only the what. They’re stubborn and flighty in equal measure, suspicious of everyone around them including yourself. Oh, they dress the part of a street rat well, but the cash they have just on hand is nothing to blink at and, underneath all that grime, their skin is perfectly unmarred by the ravages of time.

Deimos: he/him, gay

Whether or not Deimos’ strength is his own or from borrowed, military-grade tech is anyone’s guess, but no one’s ever bothered to ask. Though he’s tall, he isn’t necessarily as muscular as the fear he commands would suggest. His eyes glow orange, black hair trimmed but not maintained, and his grin is enough to stop anyone in their tracks. For whatever reason, he always wears warm clothes.

Deimos is a Council dog who’s been hounding Arthur for a few years now. You’ve never officially met him; somehow whenever he drops into the office you always manage to be out. Whether that’s coincidence or because Arthur sends you out on errands very conveniently at those times it’s not for you to say. Somehow, he never seems to do too much damage to your colleague.

Adrastea: Non-binary, they/them or she/her pronouns, only attracted to nb or female mc’s

Adrastea has been voted the city’s most attractive person many years in a row now. Everything about them is perfect; perfect smile, perfect blue eyes, perfect cascading coils of iridescent hair, yet somehow despite their well-calculated appearance it’s like there’s a tiger waiting to pounce on any wary admirer who comes too close.

While not a member of the council they hold great sway simply by virtue of their age and the fact they’re so beloved by the populace. You’ve seen them on the holos, how they’re oh, so giving to the needy and even invite the commonfolk to their lavish parties all the important council members attend. It’s an act, it has to be; through their gorgeous smile and all those sheer dresses they seek nothing if not attention. A lot of their history is shrouded and deleted from public record, but you do know that they were once a head scientist that took part in the very same project that supposedly made you what you are today.

Dagda: gender variable

Dagda is the perfectly attractive face everyone sees on their screens every night. In a world of cybernetic bodies and unnaturally bright lights, they are the one person who almost looks... natural. With a perfectly cultivated appearance of salt and pepper hair, soulful brown eyes, and that winning smile, nothing about them is their own; everything they do exactly what everyone else tells them to do.

The mouthpiece of the Council, Dagda is seen to be charming and down to earth in the vids. They say Ledala is prospering more than it has in decades, that the crime rates are lowering thanks to the wonderful work they and their colleagues on the Council are doing. Of course, there always has been a certain emptiness behind their eyes. When the camera isn’t rolling, you wonder what they really think.

[the-darklings]

Can we have something nice? Maybe something happy please? Something that doesn't make me want to scream due to angst? P̶o̶s̶s̶i̶b̶l̶y̶ ̶s̶o̶m̶e̶ ̶H̶e̶c̶t̶o̶r̶/̶V̶ ̶l̶o̶v̶e̶ ̶m̶a̶k̶i̶n̶g̶?̶ Something that has an actual happy ending?

you asked for more elites and here i am!

wc: 2.2k+

.

“I bet twenty you can’t do it.”

“Twenty what? Thousand? Be specific, idiot.”

“Dario, Julian is bullying me!”

A sigh; long and worn, a sound of a man who has had to deal with this for years. “He’s allowed to bully you. You know you have to be specific about bets, Step.”

“V,” Step whines, turning to look at you as you walk behind him. “Julian and Dario are bullying me. Help me, carina.”

“I’m about to bully you with my shoe up your ass, chickenshit,” Hector warns from beside you. In the shadows of the night, his features appear even harsher and he blows out a puff of smoke, glaring. “Stop your yapping.”

Step���in all his unwise, slightly tipsy glory—promptly flips Hector off and the Devil of Camorra growls under his breath, ripping the cigarette from his lips. Those icy eyes appear silver grey in the moonlight and you watch the shadows dance across those wide, sharp features. 

“I’m going to break your goddamn arm,” the man warns and you know it’s not an empty threat. “Try that shit with me one more time, I dare you.”

“V won’t let you hurt me because I’m her favourite,” Step shoots back smugly and sticks his tongue out. “She danced with me all night so, uh, stronzo, maybe next time.”

Dancing all night is a bit of an exaggeration. When the Four—or at the time the three—had invited you out for a night of food and drinks, you had agreed right away. It’s been a few, long months of pulling job after job, mission after mission. Camorra doesn’t rest. There is always some hill to climb or people to kill. You don’t stay at the top by being comfortable with what you have.

Giovanni wields you all like an expert tactician. Aware of every strength and every weakness and delegating appropriately. You are the core that holds his empire together. 

The five of you together have reshaped Camorra into something downright terrifying. 

Looking at you all right now—casual clothes, too wide grins and snarky banter—it would be hard to assume so. 

Except maybe Hector. He makes people uneasy by simply breathing. 

It’s been an amazing night of hearty Italian food and several, eventful bar hops where you danced and laughed and danced some more. Finally relaxed and happy. You’re well known in Rome. Whispers follow you wherever you go, and good service is expected whenever Camorra’s finest and deadliest are present at your establishment. 

Hector joined you late, having just come back from his latest mission. His first solo mission in a while, in fact, but you haven’t asked him for information on it. When it comes to his service to Giovanni, there are no questions to be asked. 

Still it had been surreal seeing him cut through the crowded bar and heading for your booth after almost two weeks of not seeing him. For once, he was not wearing his Camorra suit. Not the burgundy nor his preferred black. 

Just loose, fluffy strands of hair, a white t-shirt and a familiar leather jacket with dark jeans. Effortlessly striking; a dangerous, wild thing claiming every inch of space as his own. More than one head had turned at the sight of him, but as always, Hector didn’t pay them any attention. 

He chooses who he wants, not the other way around. 

The man in question looks like he’s about to reach out and throttle Step till he truly is dead so you take this opportunity to insert yourself between them, walking backwards so you’re facing the Devil. 

“Twenty K was it?” you wonder with a slight quirk of your eyebrows as you link your arms behind you. “You’re all on.”

Silver, devious eyes zero in on you at those words. Warm summer breeze ruffles your clothes, his cigarette smoke hiding his features for a second but his full mouth quirks; a minute, taunting thing. “You sure you can handle that, sweetheart? You don’t take losing so well.”

“Careful, Hector,” Julian remarks knowingly, amused. “This one bites back and delights in laying you on your ass.”

“Yeah,” Dario adds from behind you. “We would hate to see that.”

You bite back a smirk at the way Hector seems to squeeze the cigarette harder between his fingers and bring it to his lips, his eyes narrowing. “Fuck off, Julian,” he shoots back dryly, no heat there, and you watch the way the amber light from his cigarette illuminates his rings. Only four from the eight fit your own— “You’re as bad as the skinny little shit over there. Fine, though. Next one you see. 40k. Let’s see if you have the balls to follow through, compagno.”

Never one to back down. You turn, careful not to let your feet tangle and watch Julian’s lips part. He splutters slightly and Dario chuckles. It’s a deep, rumbling sound that fills the otherwise empty street.

“Walked right into that one, Jules,” Step sniggers with a waggle of his fingers and you can’t help but to silently agree. What good has ever come from provoking Hector of all the people? You should know. “Sì? No? Is it ooooon? Come on, Julie, I’m dying from suspense—”

“Fine!” Julian snaps, irritated, his dark moustache twitching and he rubs his forehead with a huff of air. “Dio aiutami. You’re so annoying.” 

Step beams, bobbing his head and pushes his sunglasses up his nose. You, to this day, have no idea how he manages to see with them on. “It’s part of my charm.”

Hector snorts loudly and your lips curve. In the darkness of the night and in between the melody of bickering filling the air your eyes find his again. 

He throws the bud of his cigarette in the bin as you all walk by and you almost comment how, for once, he’s actually acting like a well adjusted citizen.

“You’re up, Julie,” he drawls suddenly and his eyes linger on you for a beat, a different heat there, before they move over your shoulder. “Better make it count.”

“Wait, what?” 

Hector rolls eyes and points up with his index finger. 

Your head slants and you know that your other three companions are doing the same. 

Above you, on the third floor balcony, stands a lone female figure, smoking in nothing but her lingerie and a loose robe. 

Every bit a self-assured, powerful woman confident in her body, in herself.

Step coughs weakly. Julian is beyond flustered and you don’t need daylight to know that, you can hear the small choked noises he’s making from where you stand. 

Hector, the clever bastard, just looks smug.

His eyebrows cock as he waits expectantly before wandering closer. “Well? Or would you like to give me the cash now, huh?”

A bet to ask out the first person you see.

Julian’s nose twitches and he sighs. “You won, Hector. Happy?”

“What really?” you ask, surprised. “Not even going to try?”

Julian shakes his head, his expression grave, and few loose strands of his dark hair flutter in the breeze. “I’m not stupid. Knowing him, he probably knows the woman and knows that she will yell and throw something at my face if I try. No thanks.”

Hector doesn’t disagree and you blink at him. 

“Hey, assholes,” a voice from above calls in accented English. “You may want to keep it down before someone calls the police on you. It’s 3am.”

Step steps forward, extending his arms as if in a welcome. “Bella signora,” he calls out happily, slipping into a charming Italian drawl. “Would you be so kind as to accompany me for breakfast in exactly two hours and ten minutes?”

Breakfast at sunrise? Oh, Step.

The shadowy shape of the woman peers down at your group and scoffs. “I don’t understand the word you just said,” she retorts, still in English, and you see her throw the cigarette down in your direction. “I’m Swedish. But next time lose the goofy glasses before trying to come onto someone.”

The balcony door slams shut behind her. 

Silence. 

You all burst into laughter simultaneously and even Hector smirks, his amusement apparent. Dario pats Step on the back sympathetically when the younger man’s arms plop to his sides. “Maybe next time, amico, hm?”

“Yeah.”

He’s practically pouting. 

Lowering his head, his tattooed neck disappears from sight and you step closer to him, patting his arm in comfort, too. 

“Next time, S.”

“At least you love me, bella, yes?” Step says with a crooked grin. 

A large, heavy hand lands on top of your head, then, roughly ruffling your hair. “Yeah, she simply adores you, idiot.”

You punch his gut and it’s like hitting a wall. Hard, solid muscle meets your fist, forged by years of relentless training and brutality. 

“She does!”

Dario sighs. 

“Whatever.”

“Hey! Don’t ‘whatever’ me, square face.”

Hector promptly ignores the Camorra Chameleon and turns to you, staring down at you unblinking. “We need to get your ass back home or you will be useless in the ring tomorrow.”

“I could lay you flat on your back without sleep and with my hands tied.”

His eyes spark at the challenge. “That can be arranged, sweetheart,” he warns but you read the double meaning behind his words even if the context might be lost on others. 

Your mocking expression strains and you pull away from his steady grip. “I’m not flinching,” you tell him sweetly. “But you have a point. It’s late.”

You don’t miss the fleeting look Dario shoots you both.

Julian stretches his arms upwards before wrapping his arm around Step’s shoulder, his Camorra rings gleaming in the streetlamp. “Come on, Romeo. Time to go. Boss will have your head if you’re late again. You can crash at mine, it’s closer.”

Step lays his cheek against Julian’s shoulder. “Oh, what would I do without you, JoJo?”

“Perish.”

You laugh. “He’s not wrong.”

Hector’s arm brushes against yours and your head slants in his direction, still grinning, and the man arches his eyebrow. Faint amusement lines his face but he doesn’t comment.  

“Enough you two,” Dario interjects and pats both their shoulders, towering over them. “I’m getting jealous.”

“Oh, Dario,” Step says sweetly, dragging out the man’s name. “You can join us any—”

The Strength of Camorra lives up to his name by effortlessly tugging the other members of the guard with him as he turns to go. 

“See you two in the morning.”

Julian follows Dario willingly as always but Step—in usual Step fashion—makes a fuss the entire way down the street,

You watch them go with a tiny, fond smile twitching your lips. 

Idiot men. 

Your idiot men. Friends. Family. 

You wish Ares and Roberto had been able to come too but Santino had business to deal with in Seoul.

Cassian was busy with Gianna. 

Busy. 

“Coming, blue eyes?” you call out with that faint smile as you turn to go.

You take a step. 

Before he grabs your wrist and drags you to him, his hungry mouth slanting against yours. You let out a small appreciative gasp when he presses you to him, his fingers sinking in your hip, trailing a deliberate path across your waist. His other hand tangles in your hair and your hands wrap around his neck. 

“Fucking finally,” he mutters and kisses you again. Hard. Tobacco and bourbon on his tongue. It’s a demanding and hot kiss that makes your heart stutter and he practically lifts you in his arms. His leather jacket presses into your skin and you moan softly into his domineering kiss, matching every slant and exhale and nibble of his teeth. “Been waiting all fucking night to kiss you.”

He tugs on your hair and presses a series of ravenous, rapid kisses down the length of your neck, his teeth scraping against your pulse. 

“I think Dario knows,” you gasp breathlessly, and suppress a hiss at the way his hand drags over the curved of your ass, squeezing deliberately. “Do you—”

He bites your earlobe, nibbling on it as the heat of his breath tickles your skin. “Dario knows. He’s always known,” Hector grumbles and kisses your jaw before his hand drags up again, slipping under your top and up your naked back. You shiver at the coolness of his rings against your flesh and lean into him further, breathing heavily. “He’s smarter than people give him credit for. Morons.”

“Do you think—”

He bites your neck; playful, deliberate. “Any other men you wanna discuss with me right now, sweetheart?”

Your fingers find the soft strands of his hair, unstyled for once. Your other tangles in the cotton of his t-shirt. “Just your favourite,” you breathe against his mouth and his jaw flutters, his eyes flashing. “You. Looking handsome tonight, asshole.”

His teeth flash. “You’re the one to talk,” he grouses, his eyes narrowing and he grips the skin of your waist—his fingers tracing, claiming—and you lean into his touch. He kisses you again. Bites your lip, tugs on it, and you do the same, and he only grows hungrier for it. “Looking like that, smiling like that. You tested my patience, I’ll admit. The only thing I could think about all night long was you between my legs. How pretty you look when you moan my name.”

“Such a romantic.”

His arms slide down your body and he lifts you in the air easily, your legs wrapping around his waist. Your arms wrap around his broad shoulders and he looks deadly and half-starved in this muted, hazy light. Half-shadow, half-devil he always gets compared to. 

“I’ll show you romance.” 

He carries you in his arms the entire way to your apartment, his lips attached to your neck. 

You barely make it through the door before he tears at your clothes.

You’re late for training the next day. 

[prettywordsyouleft]

Spiritual Connection - Part 2

Summary: Ever since you were a child, you had known the five men who lived in your Grandmother’s house. What you weren’t expecting upon returning as an adult was that they would still be there - and look exactly the same.

Pairing: Brian Kang / DAY6 x reader

Genre: ghost au / fluff / romance

Warnings: none

Spiritual Connection will be posted daily at 10am NZST.

Preview | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

You felt as if you had returned home for the first time in years. Staring up at the proud home before you, nothing had changed. The flower beds and bushes were just as wildly maintained as usual, and you looked to the front of the house and smiled when you saw the porch swing you had sat out upon every morning watching as the world started to wake up for the day.

It was all just how you expected it to be and you were struck with a wave of grief. You missed her terribly. You wished you had come back sooner, not letting the throes of life and the bustle of the city overwhelm you and make you only consider of how to get through each day.

You should have sought out this enchanting place far sooner.

Getting out of your car after reaching for your bag, you moved onto the cobblestone pathway that wound through the flowers up to the front porch, fingering the keys within your jeans pocket. You had kept them close ever since they had been handed to you, much to your mother’s chagrin.

“But you have so much going for you in the city, Y/N! Don’t throw it away on that little seaside escape. You’ll find it’s not how you imagined it to be. As a kid, you could play all day. Now as an adult, you have to worry about how to survive. There’s not a lot going for work there.”

Taking a deep breath, you ignored your mother’s pessimism and slotted the key into the front door.

You stepped inside, closing the door behind you and began to explore. Some items triggered memories and others puzzled you. Why had you enjoyed hiding so much behind this big chair? You remembered the highs of your childhood here, full of laughter, excitement and happiness. Had your friends moved away now? The house was so silent, apart from the sounds of your footsteps, or the opening of doors as you peered into the rooms. Did you really imagine them all? You sure had been a creative child at one point.

The longer you wandered through the home, the more certain you became that it was just your grandmother living here after all. When your world was turned upside down with your parent’s divorce, you had needed some sense of comfort in that confusing period. You rationalised your friends to be projected as just that, the workings of needing friends during an upsetting time.

“So then, who do I need to clear out of here, Grandmother?” you murmured, turning around in a slow circle as you surveyed the living room. On your second spin, you saw a set of eyes that you hadn’t in many years. Blinking rapidly, as you spun, you caught the face that was attached to those warm brown eyes, wobbling to a halt.

“Y/N?” he tentatively asked and you stared back at Brian for a moment, before a loud scream erupted from within your chest, and you promptly passed out.

“Wave the bag of smelling salts closer to her nose, you idiot!”

“I am, can’t you see how close they are? These things still stink after all these years.”

“Do you think Y/N’s going to be okay? She hit her head pretty badly.”

“Wonpil, if she’s not, we’ll just blame Brian, okay? It was him who showed himself first.”

“Would you all shut up, I was surprised too, you know. I had expected that attorney to come back and keep snooping through Pearl’s belongings for signs of life here, not Y/N.”

There was a loud snort and you felt your heavy eyelids start to lighten off with the sound. “Only the dead walk here.”

“Look, guys, she’s stirring!”

With a groan, you finally fought through the endless dark world back to the light, where the voices above you all ceased. When you managed to open your eyes again, you stared up into the faces of five familiar men. It shocked you just as much as before, but since you were sprawled out on the ground, you merely jerked back, eyes growing wide again.

Jae shook his head adamantly. “No, don’t faint again! I’ve been shaking these salts for twenty minutes and I know it might not seem like much to do, but they are heavy.”

Silently, you eyed the bag above you, soon scrunching your nose up when you inhaled the strong scent attached to them. Reaching out to take the bag from Jae’s appreciative grip, you sat up slowly, vaguely aware of all the prepared arms shooting out to help you just in case.

Man, this was confusing.

Before, you had been hoping to see your childhood friends as soon as you entered the home. Even after all these years, you had believed you couldn’t make up five men. If you had wanted friends, shouldn’t they be closer in age to you? That would be the most logical choice for imaginary friends. And whenever you questioned why they were so old in the past, Sungjin would smile distantly and say that he couldn’t do as good of a job protecting you if he was too young. Dowoon had enthused he was stronger this way and Jae had always joked around with you asking why you were so young instead. It had never really bothered you that much, accepting them for what it was at the time. Regardless of appearance, they had played with you endlessly. And they had been your friends for many years.

How had they not aged since?

“She looks confused, are you okay, Y/N?” Wonpil asked, kneeling closer. He chuckled sheepishly. “Feels weird to think you’re Y/N, I remember when you were this tall.”

“Why? People grow up, Pil.”

“Not us,” Dowoon interjected and Brian reached to smack him around the head. “What? Being dead means we stopped aging a long time ago.”

“What… what did you just say?” you asked, and the conversation fell short. The men looked between one another for a moment.

And then Sungjin tentatively smiled. “Y/N, you really didn’t know?”

“I know you’re my childhood friends, and you’re still in my Grandmother’s house after what, eight years since I last saw you?”

“That’s kind of what happens when you’re a ghost,” Jae surmised and Wonpil hissed at him worriedly. “Don’t hiss at me. There’s no point sugar-coating it. We weren’t imaginary friends, Pearl knew we lived here. She used to play with us when she was young too.”

“I’m sorry,” you started, raising your hands and heaving in a deep breath, in hopes it would help you understand better. “Did you just say, you played with my Grandmother when she was younger?”

Five heads bobbed up and down and you slumped in your posture, unblinking.

“Do we need the smelling salts again?”

Taking in a shaky breath, you glanced up into the face you had first seen earlier today. Brian had always been the one you turned to the most. He was cautious, watching and waiting for your next reaction. You swallowed despite your throat feeling dry. “Just how long have you been here for?”

You paced your bedroom floor back and forth, trying to understand your discovery. Your grandmother’s house was haunted? Was that some kind of joke? Since when could you see the dead, anyway? If that was the case, shouldn’t you have seen many others before in your lifetime too?

You shivered, despite the warm spring evening, rubbing your hands against your skin to take the chill out of it.

The five of them had tried to give you the space you requested after getting up and removing yourself from their surrounding circle. You couldn’t just readily accept their words, even if things were slowly clicking into place.

However, Wonpil had knocked on your door before sticking his head around it, offering you a blanket in case you still felt unwell. Sungjin had reminded you that you hadn’t eaten and it was growing dark out. You knew it was Jae playing the guitar and singing loudly about your denial in the office down the hall, and Dowoon had come up to look through the window more than once until you closed the curtains.

Only one respected your wishes, but you knew Brian was close. He always had been.

Twisting the handle of the door when you felt ready enough to, you peered around the threshold and found him leaning against the wall, eyes perking at your appearance. He smiled and you couldn’t help but return the gesture. His smiles had always charmed you.

“You okay?”

“As okay as someone can be after all this,” you mentioned with a shrug, stepping out into the hallway and eying him with some interest. “You know, I never knew ghosts could change their outfits. Shouldn’t you be floating around in the same clothes you … you uh-”

“Died in?” he offered and you nodded softly. Brian smirked. “I think if I had to stay in that outfit for the rest of my existence, I would be pretty annoyed. I’ve been in this house since the late eighteen-hundreds; would you really want to see me in what was the norm for me back then?”

“I don’t know, I find the Victorian era pretty fascinating.”

“Do you just,” he murmured, staring back at you. It unnerved you and for a moment you almost forgot that he wasn’t, well alive. Blinking away from his gaze, you played with the hem of your t-shirt. “You’ll have to explain more about this to me as we go.”

“You’re not going to pack up and leave? I had you pegged for running away from all of us now that you know we’re not part of the living.” You shot him a warning look and he grinned happily. “You still do that same expression after all these years.”

“What expression?”

Brian attempted to mimic what you had done and you laughed, shaking your head at him. He laughed too and then stepped closer, growing concerned again. “Are you going to sell this house?”

“Will you leave if I do?”

“This has been our home for far too long,” he mused, glancing around at the picture-laden hallway. Your grandmother had always decorated with a cluttered, homey vibe. “Should we move on?”

You didn’t know how to answer Brian’s question, though you did know some changes would have to be made around this house now.

_________________

Part 3

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[kitanoko]

In which Todoroki and Kaminari ‘studied’

Note: HEY EVERYONE, I haven’t written in a long time (a year at least?) but I want to dedicate this to @selephi and @foxxhunter44 ‘cas they’ve always been very supportive of my fanfics and heck I hope y’all enjoy this!

This hit, that ice cold, Michelle Pfeiffer that white gold… This one for them hood girls, Them good girls straight masterpieces~

Todoroki tapped along with the rhythm unexpectedly, unaware of where the upbeat song had seeped from until he saw from the corner of his tired eyes that the boy studying beside him was grooving with headphones on. The music was loud enough for Todoroki to wonder if it would prove any hearing damage to the electric hero chilling beside him, leg propped up.

“Are you even studying?” Todoroki had his cheek pressed against his hand, eyes fixated on the biochem notes Midoriya had kindly lent him. The candy wrappers and biscuit crumbs lay grubbily on the scratched up table and he took a refreshing sip of his ice cold coconut water.

Kaminari didn’t hear him, head swaying like he was at the club. Spreading his notes further across the table, Todoroki shook his head in disapproval. He had hoped his classmate would at least try to focus on the upcoming exam. He didn’t have to come after all; he was perfectly appeased with reviewing his lessons in the quiet midst of his room. It was really Kaminari who had asked him to join.

Todoroki nudged him with his elbow after emptying his drink. The blond boy unwantedly pulled down his red headphones and curved a brow, steadily shooting Todoroki a questionable look.

“Yah?”

Kaminari had the audacity to give him a nonchalant one-word response, seriously?

Todoroki gave a grunt, meeting his golden irises with discontent.

“As much as I’d like to stay here and watch you throw your grades away,” Todoroki started, rough hands gathering his notes, “I’m gonna go take a breather.”

Come to think of it, if he left now, he’d probably be able to squeeze in time for the weekly hero special on channel 9 which Midoriya and Iida were for sure going to be watching in the common room. He could already see his best friends’ eyes unblinking towards the screen and letting out the occasional laugh. Not to mention the scent of Yaoyorozu’s relaxing lavender tea tickling under his nose as she walked by in her comfy robe (yes he’s imagining this too)…her soft hair flowing like in her latest commercial and…

Wait Todoroki Shouto. Just stop. Stop whatever you’re thinking.

“Aww, come on Todoroki, don’t be a bum! I was studying I swear!”

That snapped the duo quirk boy back to his senses.

Todoroki peered at him at the corner of his eyes, hands readying to stuff the papers back into his backpack.

“…were you though?”

Kaminari sheepishly scratched the nape of his neck, legs easing back down onto the wooden floor. Hearing his friend’s challenging tone, he quickly said, “I mean…I WILL be studying. Dude, I totally invited you mainly just to like…hang out and you know…get to know each other. This biochem stuff is easy peasy. I could do the test in my sleep.”

“Big words Kaminari. Last time I heard, Jirou hit you on the head ‘cause you couldn’t even draw a water molecule.”

“You sure that was me bruh?”

“Yes. ‘Cause I saw your paper and you drew two oxygens linked to a hydrogen.”

The electric hero stuck his tongue out. “My bad. Silly mistake really…..ANYWAYS” The blond waved his hand in attempt to change topics, “….let’s have some bro time.”

Todoroki didn’t like the sound of that.

“And what does that entail?” He questioned, bending his knee onto his seat.

Kaminari flicked a piece of loose hair.

“Okay question 1.”

“Wha—“

“Who would you choose out of the girls in our class?”

“Choose for what scenario.”

Kaminari smirked. “As a girlfriend bruh. Girlfriend.”

Todoroki shrugged. “Probably Yaoyorozu. Why?”

At that the fire and ice user felt a shook on the ground as Kaminari slumped flat, rolling in laughter.

“OH MY GOD MINETA SO OWES ME 10 BUCKS. ”

The former stared blankly.

“Wasn’t that obvious, who else was I supposed to choose?” Todoroki tried again to shrug it off.

Kaminari’s eyes beamed, “Wait…” He fished out his phone, finger mischievously hovering over the red button, “Can I record this confession so I can broadcast it to all of UA. Not that it needs broadcasting though since anyone who doesn’t have grapes for brains know.”

Todoroki ran a hand through the whites of his hair before he reasoned. “Well, we met before during the recommendation exam. Then there’s the cavalry battle. And of course our fight against Aizawa. Plus, we worked quite well rescuing Bakugou. Yaoyorozu is the most logical choice.”

“Only you would explain that with ‘logic’.” Kaminari mocked and rested his chin against the cup of his hand, “There isn’t anything other than you two having that ‘bond’ that made you say Yaomomo’s name so fast?”

Todoroki actually gave it a thoughtful five seconds before coming up with, “Uh..her personality’s not bad and I wouldn’t doubt she’s the most intelligent student in UA.”

“And?”

“I really don’t know what else.”

“Bro, she’s nicknamed ‘Goddess’ …class B calls her ‘Queen’. Ya sure there isn’t even a slighttttt chance you’d say you’re also attracted to her face?”

Kaminari dragged the word rather mischievously, lips upturning into a cunning yet generous smile. It sent shivers down Todoroki’s spine and not in a pleasant manner. The latter stood up to put away the bunched up jacket that had slid down from the arm of a chair. Oh Thank God. It was something to distract him from saying the wrong words.

“Haven’t thought much about it.” He nonchalantly uttered, mouth parted in an exhale. He turned around wanting to say more when he noticed a noise.

Steady three knocks were heard behind Kaminari and he gestured for his friend to grab the door. What stood on the other side was the girl of topic playing with the ends of her hair which had been fixed straight and held with a bowtie clip above the right of her forehead. Her glassy doll eyes happily danced from Kaminari to Todoroki which seemed unusually fixated on her.

It was different. Nice. Ponytails on her were good too, no, it was great! But this was refreshing. Like seeing the sun rising just after thunderous rain. Okay that’s exaggerating. But heck, he liked it.

“Something on her face?” Kaminari asked and if Todoroki had eyes behind his head he’d be able to see his annoying grin again.

The duo quirk boy rolled his eyes.

“Sorry to interrupt Todoroki-san!” Yaoyorozu did a slight nod to Kaminari as well, “I was wondering if you two would like to enjoy some thumbprint cookies I made?”

At that the electric blond jumped over. Todoroki looked down from her rosy-cheeked smile and saw that indeed she had some baked good in her hands. Circular shortbread with an oval imprint in the middle filled with what looked like raspberry jam.

“That looks delicious Yaomomo!” Kaminari quickly grabbed a few and popped it into his mouth ignoring all common etiquette. But it was Kaminari so ‘etiquette’ didn’t compute to him.

The other two watched as he chewed, sweat starting to bead on his forehead while his jaw completely stopped moving. He also didn’t swallow.

Yaoyorozu frowned. “Is it…not good?”

Kaminari faked a chortle while his face folded into an ugly grimace.

“Ahw no! It zo ….yummmmmmy,” the blond had managed to cough out and nudged Todoroki with his elbows. His voice was obstructed by the mixture of cookie dough and jam that had sat on his tongue. Kaminari rubbed his tummy.

“YYuuummm,” he mumbled again.

The white and red haired boy wanted to roll his eyes again at the thought of how fake Kaminari’s acting was and noticed the girl in front of him slump in defeat, hands lowering the plate of cookies sadly. Todoroki immediately extended a hand to receive the plate and took one of her creations to taste.

Oh god. Now he knew why Kaminari had that expression.

Yaoyorozu’s eyes glinted and sparkled with anticipation, watching his every move.

“So? Todoroki-san?”

Should he…say something?

A whole 20 seconds had passed before he turned to give Kaminari an awkward look as if they could read each other’s minds.

Todoroki swallowed.

Man, it felt like sand and tasted like chalk. How he knew what chalk taste like he didn’t know. At least the jam was somewhat normal.

“It’s,” He swallowed again just to get rid of the aftertaste, “very well-done, Yaoyorozu.”

Good thing he usually had no expression ‘cause now was the best time to look neutral.

“Aww thank you!” The girl appeared zealous, white teeth beaming with her lovely façade. She pushed the rest into his hands. “Enjoy these then. And oh! They’re great with jasmine tea! I’ll head back out now! Can’t have Jirou and Ashido waiting.”

“Sure thanks,” Todoroki nodded in acknowledge and waved once as he watched her stroll-skip along the hall back to the elevators, the flutter of her flowery pajamas catching his attention.

Kaminari hurried to push the door to a close and spat out what looked like cookie sludge into the closest garbage can, some missing the target and ending up on the floor.

“Holy crap that was the worst decision I ever made. It tasted like dirt.”

Todoroki sent him a heated glare.

“Bro I know you were dying inside when you gulped that thing down too.” Kaminari’s gaze rested on the cookies in Todoroki’s hand, eyes narrowing as if they were poisonous.

“Well I didn’t want to hurt her feelings.”

“You’re in too deep my man.”

Todoroki pretended to not understand what his friend was implying and started to open his tea cabinet.

“What are you doing dude.”

“Making jasmine tea as Yaoyorozu suggested.”

Kaminari could only facepalm and slumped back down onto his previous seat. “Don’t tell me you’re actually going to eat the rest of her cookies? I’ll help you flush them down the toilet okay?” Kaminari sent a wink. “And I’ll keep it a secret between us.”

Todoroki shook his head. “I feel like she made it with all her effort and I’m wasting that.” Tapping against the hot kettle that was beginning to bubble from the boiling water inside, the fire and ice user felt a small, appreciative tug along the curve of his lips.

“And seeing her this happy? That was worth it.”

He turned around noticing Kaminari’s sudden quietness and found him leaning forward with his phone in hand, his right thumb just releasing from the red button on his screen.

“—ANNNNDDD DONE. RECORDED!”

Todoroki froze as he dropped what he was doing

“What.”

“I’ve just recorded the oh-so-great Todoroki admit his crush like a giddy teenager.”

“I was not giddy.”

“Oh, were you not? Okay sorry, I’ll say ‘lovesick’.”

Todoroki took a step. His aura begin to build, even Kaminari could feel the heat emitting from his left side. A wave of warmth gradually began to waft over and the blond quickly stood in defence.

“Yo, calm down bro, alright I won’t show anybody.”

“Then delete it.”

The blond crossed his arms, teasingly wiggled a finger. “Sorry man, this is hard evidence.”

“Fine.”

Kaminari felt uneasy. The boy in front of him loosened his expression so quickly that it felt almost ominous. Something was up.

“You give up quick dude.”

Todoroki’s shoulders slacked and continued to brew his tea, taking it in stride. “It’s nothing. Just remembered that I have a picture of you crying because you didn’t know how to write Jirou a confession letter.”

Kaminari’s jaw fell open in a big ‘O’.

“WAIT WAIT WAIT HOLLLL UP BRUH.” The electric user stumbled in his steps as he shook Todoroki from side to side. “YOU HAVE WHAT? SHOW ME.”

The former scrambled to find Todoroki’s phone and the duo quirk hero fished it out of his pocket and began to swipe the screen a few times. A smirk finally formed on his chapped lips.

“Yeah. Still here. I forgot to delete it after Bakugou sent it to me.”

“BAKUGOU?!” Kaminari pulled it off Todoroki’s hands. An embarrassing picture of him, eyes red, holding a piece of paper and pen in hand in the corner of the dorm lobby surfaced on the 6 inch screen.

“Guess we’re even then.” Todoroki shrugged. “You can keep that and I’ll keep this.”

Kaminari fell onto his knees in defeat.

“NO PLEASE.”

“Too late.”

“I’ll delete your recording! Come on!”

“Nope.” Todoroki took a heavy sip of his tea as the aroma tickled his nostrils. He grabbed a cookie. Mmm, it was better with tea for sure. Or was this what petty-ness tasted like?

His heterochromic eyes fixated on Kaminari’s frantic expression as he instinctively pulled it back into his pocket.

“To be honest, I don’t even care if you showed what I said to other people. It was a comment I’m not ashamed of and heck, everyone knew I voted for her for class president. It’s not shocking I’d support her in any way I can.”

Kaminari finally came to his senses and forced a sigh.

“Fine. You win. But I swear to all that is holy, Todoroki Shouto, if you EVER show Jirou this I will not hesitate.”

Todoroki almost outright laughed. “Okay, okay.”

“Bro date over now.” Kaminari slogged out the door, sounding unappeased, “Goodnight.”

“Oh, already?” Todoroki teased.

Kaminari’s head swung low as he head towards the hallway and Todoroki mumbled a short ‘Mm.’ before helping him close the door.

Good thing he didn’t mention that Bakugou had sent it to Ashido as well, Todoroki thought, or else he’d worry if Kaminari could even sleep tonight.

[oneofyatosfollowers]

One of a Kind- Chapter 14

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20191861/chapters/54049984

Fanfiction: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13360973/1/One-of-a-Kind

"Captain? Captain, please open up the door." Kuoto knocked on Tenjin's door, leaning close to the slate of metal. The Auto was met with stubborn silence. He double checked the captain's whereabouts, his x-ray heat vision confirming Tenjin was toying with his computer. The captain's heart beat had calmed down a bit from before, but still pounded.

"Pity," Kouto smiled, "The excitement didn't finish the old coup off." The co-captain looked over his shoulder at the sound of the elevator rising to the chamber. His taser at the ready, he turned to face the doors with a smile on his face, holding the weapon behind his back.

"Edachi, do you mind getting that for me?" Kuoto addressed the Go-4 with the lifeless eyes. The man swayed to his feet, robotically walking to the elevator and plugging in the code to unlock the elevator. The doors slid open to reveal Bishamon and Kazuma, faces trained in stoic professionalism.

"Kugaha?" Kazuma narrowed his eyes at the Go-4 who did not respond in any way. Bishamon pressed her lips in a firm line and pushed past the man she gave a name too. Her Co-captian's half torn face made bile climb to her throat, but she didn't let it show. Bishamon met Kouto's eyes head on.

"Sir, where is the captain? Is he safe?" she asked.

"Yes, that Wall-E snapped and attacked him out of no where! I managed to hold him off but the captain is unconscious. I had Go-4 lock him in his chamber to safety recover." Kuoto explained, his face one of distress. Bishamon blinked at him, furry bubbling up from under her skin. She never wanted to beat someone so badly in her life. Bishamon instead walked to Tenjin's door, raising her hand to knock, only for her wrist to be grabbed. Behind her, Kugaha stepped towards them, Kazuma remained rooted by the door.

"Lieutenant General Bishamon," Kuoto's smile remained stiff, "I can take care of our beloved captain, I think you should join your troops in their effort to find the stowaways."

"There's no need for worry," Kazuma stepped forward, "We've captured the rebels and have all of their possessions in custody."

"Excellent work Secur-T. I can take it from here, where are the captives being held?" Kouto tossed Bishamon's wrist out of his hand and fixed his cuffs. Bishamon stood to face him, forcing her body into a more obedient stance.

"I'd be happy to take you to them sir, they need to be dealt with swiftly and their punishment just." Bishamon thought back to the Wall-E with blood stained hands and how he always managed to give her the slip. That bastard.

Something in her expression must have gave her thoughts away because Kuoto's one eye widened before he let out a slight laugh.

"Gave you a run for your money, did he? Don't let it get to you, he is more formidable than he looks." The Auto made his way towards the elevator, preparing to dismantle the one that got away.

"Yes, of course," Bishamon stepped to the side and followed him to the exit, "Kazuma, please ensure the captain is alright." she ordered. At this, Kouto stopped short. His feet just barely in the door.

"Go-4, remain here with him."

"Sir that isn't-"

"Lets go, Lieutenant." Kuoto turned and faced the door, his naked red eye flashing. Bishamon curled her fist and stepped in beside her superior, facing the door as it slid shut. Her eyes met Kazuma's, like a purple fire hitting turquoise water. He nodded to her once, then the heavy metal doors closed.  

"I'm surprised Bishamon, coming here with only one Secur-T," his voice was level, not accusing at all. Bishamon thought of the two unconscious soldiers stuffed into a cleaning closet and cleared her throat. She signaled to Tsuguha and Akiha waiting at the bottom of the elevator.

"Yes, well, when they asked me to report to the captain's chambers I knew it was an emergency and felt it necessary to come right away. Not wanting to cause a scene, I left the rest to look after the traitors or attend to their daily duties. After all, we can't let the public notice anything's amiss. Their happiness is our top priority after all." Bishamon replied easily. Kuoto began to laugh at this. Getting louder and louder until it cut off so suddenly she thought he choked.

It was her. Bishamon's breath caught in her throat when she suddenly had a taser stuck to the side of her skull. Kuoto's good eye looked at her happily, while the glowing red orb embedded in under the ripped skin pierced her like a laser.

"I agree. Our passenger's happiness must be protected at all costs, and there's no way that can happen on a plant like Earth. They belong here, on Heaven's Sun, blindly following my every word. And if their happiness costs me a Secur-T or two," he smiled placidly, "than it's a decision I'm happy to make." The Auto twitched his finger and Bishamon let out a shout.

The sound of a body hitting the hard metal of the elevator floor shook the tube and resonated up towards the captains chamber. From his spot by the bookshelf, Kazuma flinched. He looked back towards the door, stretching his senses as far as he could but the elevator was too far down.

Kazuma shut the manual he was holding and put it back on the shelf with a sigh. He scanned the rows of books one last time, not a single one of them the unsaturated red of the plant manual that the Eve described. Kazuma looked over his shoulder, Kuguha staring unblinking, back at him. The once vocal man who would deliver resources to the Secur-T, now silent. Kazuma would have thought he was a wax statue had it not been for him following at least five steps behind. Kazuma took some air though his nose. He wasn't one for taking gambles, only calculated risks.

"Can you remind me again," Kazuma faced the Go-4 with a smile, "What's your name?" The Go-4 was unfazed.

"I obey the Co-pilot of this ship and respond to the name he gave me. Edachi." Edachi stated. Kazuma went stiff for a moment, anger boiling in his stomach, heart going out to his kind superior.

"You cast aside the name Bishamon gave you?" Kazuma narrowed his eyes at the stoic silence he received. His memory drive must have been wiped, his scanners couldn't bring up any internal data. There was something else. There were no updates from Bishamon on her well-being. Kazuma's eyes slid to the captain's bedroom, not a sign of life since the Auto and Bishamon left. Worry stretched across his chest and tugged his eyes once again to the elevator. He was a Secur-T built to serve and protect the humans of the ship. Especially the captain, who Bishamon entrusted to him.

Kazuma walked forward with his shoulders squared, not sparing a glance at Edachi. His footsteps echoed as he made his way to the door. Just as Kazuma's fingertips brushed the elevator's control pad, his wrist was grabbed. Kazuma look at his wrist, than at Edachi, eyes narrowing into hostility.

"Please forgive my rudeness, but I am under direct orders not to let you leave," Edachi said. Kazuma flicked his wrist and an elegant sword slid out of his sleeve. He swung at Edachi who leaned back just in time for the tip of the sheath to whizz by his nose.

Kazuma rolled his wrist out of Edachi's grip and moved to unsheathe his sword. It was an elegant, glowing green katakana with intricate dark green lines with small circles on the end. He signaled to these techno-stems to pulse electricity throughout the metal. The Go-4 produced a long taser, similar to the co-captain's. The two cyborgs stared at each other with narrowed eyes for a moment, then charged forward at inhuman speed. When they met, an explosion was heard.

Down stairs, once again tucked behind the towel shelves of the pool, a Wall-E was hidden with an Eve and a Mo at his side. This time, a completely and totally human man knelt beside Yato, and was working to stitch up his human skin.

"Again, Dr. Masaomi sir, I didn't know you were Hiyori's older brother, I am so sorry I thought you were trying to capture us and tried to hit you with my compactor. And about busting in your office and shooting up the place." Yato hissed as the needle weaved in and out of his tough skin. Masaomi just laughed, tugging the strings tight as Hiyori shushed him.

"That's alright. It was exciting! To think we're going to overthrow the government!" Masaomi gushed.

"Masaomi! We are not overthrowing the government!" Hiyori chided.

"Right," the doctor snapped and pointed at her, "mutiny." he said with a grin.

"Can we hurry it up please?" Yukine whispered urgently. He kept looking back at them from his spot at the edge of the shelves.

"How's it look, Yukine?" Hiyori asked. The Mo peaked out again.

"It looks like no one saw us. There have been cyborgs from the hospital escape that have passed by, but they had Secur-T bringing them into custody." Yukine said.

"What about Bishamon and Kazuma?"

"Nothing yet." Yukine crawled back and sat at Yato's head, frowning at his worsening wheezing.

"All done," Masaomi sat up with a happy sigh, "I did everything I could at skin level, so at least you don't have to worry about infection. If you even get that sort of thing. But we still need to wait for the Major General to deal with the tech stuff." Masaomi said as he wiped his hands and tools clean of blood. Yukine helped Yato into a sitting postion, both Masamoi and Hiyori stood.

"Masamoi, you need to go back to the hospital. I'm going up to help the Lueitentent General ." Hiyori said, clicking her gun snugly around her wrist.

"But! Bishamon said you needed to stay here!" Yukine urgetntly reminded. Masaomi put a hand on his little sister's shouler, the lightwieght flexible armor warm under his touch,

"He's right, leave this to the professionsonals."

"I am the professional. It is my sworn duty to get this plant into the Halo-detector and bring humanity home." Hiyori spoke with conviction. Her brother paused, mouth open slightly as his hand raised from her shoulder. Then, Masamoi smiled, and nodded to her. HIyori nodded back with a more nervous expression. She took a couple steps away before looking down at Yato. At first he seemed to be glaring at her, but he gave her a painful smile. Her heart didn't want to leave him, but if he was going to be strong for her, she could do the same. Hiyori smiled back at him, bringing some color back into his cheeks, then squared her shoulders and walked off.

Hiyori didn't even make it two steps away from their hiding spot when an explosion rocked the floor. It came from the hallway leading to the Captain's Chamber. Without a thought, Hiyori dashed towards the back of the ship. Her engine boots hitting the hard floor before scrambling to a take off. She gasped as she saw the glass of the lobby doors shattered across the floor. Bishamon laid in the middle of the lobby, Kiun on the floor beside her while Take stood between them and the co-pilot. Tsuguha and Akiha stood off to the side, Akiha welding a light blue dagger while Tsuguha crouched behind her a grey shield.

Hiyori screeched to a stop, landing unsteadily on her feet behind Bishamon. Kuoto stood blocking the elevator, which was completely wrecked. Scratches and dents lined the inside, while the doors looked like a cannon shot through them. Kuoto stepped on the pieces of metal flattening them. He hummed as his tongue licked the stream of blood that dripped from his head. His once pristine uniform was now stained and torn; something hard for even cyborgs to do to that type of fiber. Bishamon didn't look much better, the skin of her stomach looked singed and bloody.

"Ah Miss Iki, so glad you can join us. Here to avenge your boyfriend? I'll get to you in just a minute, there's someone ahead of you." Kuoto said with a smile. His arm shifted at his side and Hiyori saw he wore a gun similar to her own. The white and black metal engulfed his fore arm, stretching out into a thin nozzle. Hiyori quickly turned her pistol on him, teeth bared. In front of her, Bishamon shouted her name, and stood with a massive purple sword. When she raised it, the dark purple flame pattern began to glow.

"Now now that's not fair," Kuoto raised his hands in a huff, "Six against one? Where are your manners?" The interior of his rifle began whirl, a ball of red light gathering at its tip. He then swung it to point at Tsuguha. The young Secur-T flinched, but gripped her shield tight.

"What are you doing, sir?" Take asked in alarm.

"Tsuguha don't!" Bishamon shouted.

"It's alright Lieutenant General! I have confidence in being your shield!" Tsuguha shouted back with a forced smile. Bishamon struggled to roll on her stomach.

"No Tsuguha! You don't understand the weapon of an Auto Pilot," Bishamon stretched an arm out in desperation. The gun in Hiyori's hand began to tremble. Kuoto was in her line of vision, nothing blocking her shot. His gun was pointed elsewhere. His focus wasn't even on her. She could shot him right now and end all this.

"Now then, lets level the playing field a little bit," Kuoto said. The air hissed and whined as the ball got bigger and brighter, before firing so fast it appeared to be a spear of light. Tsuguha's shield glowed a hot orange, the molten metal a gaping hole that matched the hole in the wall behind her, and the red one in the girl's torso.

"Tsuguha!" Bishamon cried. Tsuguha's shield clattered to the ground as the cyborg's lifeless body fell to the side. Blood quickly soaked her uniform and puddled on the floor as the open wires that laced her insides sparked uselessly.

The room went silent as Kuoto let out a slow breath and waved the tip of his gun to cool it. He then looked back at Bishamon, who's hand dropped into a fist at her side.

"Hiyori," Bishamon growled low.

"Y-yes?"

"Go help Kazuma with the captain. Get him to turn on the Hallo-Detector," Bishamon commanded in a low yet powerful tone, "Akiha, follow her."

"Okay," Hiyori forced out. This was not her job. As much as she wanted to help, she would just get in the way. As an Eve, the plant needed to get to the captain. But there was no way she could make it past Kuoto. Hiyori fired on her boots and took off back out the door.

"Leaving so soon? That's not very polite," Kuoto pointed his rifle at Hiyori, "Someone should really teach you man-" he whipped his gun in front of his body just in time for Bishamon to slam her sword into it. His smile was wiped away by the sheer furosity in her expression, her mouth was pulled back to show bared teeth and her eyes cackled with intensity.

"Your opponent is me!" she howled, pushing harder against him. Kuoto narrowed his eyes with a grunt as he felt himself leaning back. She no longer cared about her own well-being, and that suited him just fine.

Hiyori could hear the Luteient General's battle cry from half way up the tower. She shook her head to focus and willed her boots to go higher. The glass still had a hole in it from Yato's fight. Hiyori went towards it, hovering so that her eyes could just peak over the ledge.

Kazuma was heaving breaths from his spot indented in the far wall. Edachi was leaning heavily against the control panel, his blood-soaked poncho torn on one side to reveal his missing hand. Kazuma pushed himself out of the wall and landed unsteadily on his feet. His body swayed as he squared his shoulders and put his hands up. The Go-4 did the same, taser held out between them.

In a flash they were at it again, Kazuma's speed and skill as a Secur-T giving him the upper hand, but what Edachi lacked in training, he made up with desperate ferocity and the raw power of electricity. Hiyori crawled in through the window, landing stealthily on the ground like a Wall-E trying to surprise an Eve.

"Kazuma!" Hiyori got their attention, her gun trained on the Go-4. Without looking down she kicked Kazuma his sword, firing at Edachi when he lunged to grab it. Kazuma scooped it up with practiced ease as Edachi landed howling in pain on the ground, the skin of his ankle burned off. Kazuma set up to face him, but Hiyori stepped forward. Akiha came barreling in across the room from the elevator. When he saw his Major with his sword pointed, his knife came out and he faced the Go-4 without another word.

"Kazuma get the captain! You're the only one who can hack the screen-lock." Hiyori narrowed her eyes as the Go-4 rose to stand. Kazuma looked between them, unsure if an Eve could handle this maniac. If he got in close quarters she was done for, Akiha would be too far away to reach her in time. For some reason, the image of a Wall-E's sharp eyes flashed across his mind and a chill went down his spine.

"Miss Iki, I dont think-"

"That won't be necessary, Eve." A voice cut off the Secur-T. Everyone turned to see the captain's door open and Tenjin sitting with his remote control in his hand.

"Captain!" Hiyori and Kazuma shouted together. The feelings of relief were drowned out when Edachi let out and inhuman roar and raced full throttle at the captain.

"Watch out!" Kazuma tried to tackled him. Hiyori shot at his feet, missing as Edachi swerved and jumped just like his superior had.

"Captian!" Hiyori cried. But Tenjin remained calm, pointing what looked like a television remote at his attacker. With one tap of a button, the Go-4 thudded to the ground, not another sound coming out of him.

"The next time I turn you off," Tenjin said to the limp body, "I expect you to stay that way." Hiyori ran to her captain, gun still pointed at the cyborg on the floor. Kazuma followed, taking the opportunity to cuff Edachi.

"Captain, what was that?" Hiyori asked. Tenjin showed her his bedroom television remote.

"Is everyone ok?" Akiha ran over, holding the Go-4's collar by the orders of the Major General.

"I spent the time in my room modifying it to activate the force shut down on the workers of this ship," he explained. Hiyori was impressed but the thought terrified her.

"This means we can shut down the Auto!" Hiyori said, a weight lifting off her chest.

"No, the Auto was not created on this ship. That type of function has to manual," Tenjin sighed, "Which means we have to get him to willingly let us."

"Or it means we'll have to force him," Kazuma stated, sheathing his sword. Hiyori looked at the kind Secur-T with shock, while the captain just wore a hard expression.

"Captain," Kazuma took a step towards them, "You're the only one who can. You're the only one who knows his blue-prints." Hiyori looked over at Tenjin, his face grave with a scowl.

"Yes, I understand. But I want him up here, away from the passengers." Tenjin insisted. Kazuma nodded in agreement. He rather that psycho away from Bishamon.

"We also have to open the Hallo-Detector! Yato and Yukine are guarding the plant right next to the pool deck!" Hiyori reminded them. Tenjin looked at her with a determined expression.

"That I can do," a thought came to him, "Eve, I'll need you to bring up your security camera. Major General, start up an official announcement to every tv, advertisement, and personal screen on this ship. Secur-T, you are to take that traitor to the jail cell and guard him with at least one other guard that you can trust." The last words were deep with importance.

"Yes sir!" The three saluted. Tenjin hovered forward towards the glowing green button. It's casing was cracked from the fight but it flashed with just as much urgency as the first time. Tenjin flipped the lid and pushed it down, causing the entire ship to turn green.

[i-got-these-words]

Okay, so this isn’t the first time that Tumblr has eaten up a post of mine and I’m seriously considering taking my business elsewhere (especially since the Tumblr Management Community seem more baffled than me about this).

Rant over.

Thank you, anon. This was fun to draft.

And, guys, lemme know your thoughts - either about Tumblr’s disappearing posts issue or the ZhanYi fic below ;)

A/N: There is a brief glossary of terms at the end of this post.

~~~

The vertiginous passage of spectral city lights, vivid and voracious. The near-silent hum of a hybrid vehicle as it navigated through three am traffic. The taste of victory at the back of his mouth like the inside of a sports cup at halftime.

Brooding and unblinking, his cell phone was a polished brick in his palm. Holding its breath for a text that was never going to come. But holding anyway. Hoping.

Zheng Xi repressed a sigh, feeling spent and sore. Nailing his first Stanley Cup did nothing to cushion his come-down from a post-win high – a come-down that was more a crash-down, and a high that made him question the quality of what he was shooting up with. Except, if he was being honest with himself, Zheng Xi knew it wasn’t about quality; there was nothing more raw or unadulterated than being the youngest NHL team in the division and defying all odds to reign as this season’s champions.

But raw did not compare to piquant purity, and unadulterated had nothing on divine defilement; the kind of drug that had Zheng Xi tripping at first sight, and intoxicated at first taste.

“Third building on the left,” he intoned as the Prius steered towards a bank of high-rise apartment complexes.

The Uber driver caught Zheng Xi’s gaze in the review mirror. A question in his close-set eyes. A trace of recognition. They’d barely exchanged two words during the ninety-minute drive, plenty of time and opportunity for the driver to study his sullen profile, the wide-set of his shoulders, the square of his jaw – unmistakeable even through the carbon shell of a wire-caged helmet.

As the car slowed to a stop, Zheng Xi snagged a crisp fifty out of his wallet.

“Congratulations on the Championship,” the driver hedged, hesitant. Likely because the dejected customer in the back seat was nothing like the fierce D-man in the rink, or the fervent player at the postgame conference a few hours ago. “My son is a huge fan.”

Quelling the urge to wince at being recognised, Zheng Xi mumbled a thanks. Realised what a dick he was being. Slipped another fifty out of his wallet. “Do you have a pen?”

With a nod and a fumbled affirmative, the driver pulled a ballpoint out of the breast pocket of his lined shirt. Zheng Xi uncapped the pen and scrawled the Chinese characters that corresponded to his name onto one of the bills.

Handing the tip and the autographed fifty-dollar note to the other man, Zheng Xi thrust the car door open. “Have a good one.”

“Thanks, man,” the driver beamed. “And, uh,” – a pointed glance at the tall building to their left – “good luck with everything.”

Zheng Xi flinched. If only. But all the luck in the world wasn’t going to smooth this over.

He let the door slam shut behind him, teetering slightly because, after a game, his feet were more accustomed to balancing on a set of blades than swaying in an unfamiliar pair of Futurecraft 4Ds. As the Prius rolled away, he swiped a thumb across his phone screen. Hit the last number he’d dialled.

“This phone is currently switched off. Please try –” He hung up, swallowing jagged-edged knots of despair and disappointment down his dry throat.

Strides sluggish, he made his way towards the black glass of the front door, his reflection looming and growing larger with each step he took, his sense of self-worth growing smaller. He let his fingers hover over the metallochromic buttons of the intercom mounted on the wall, debating for a minute. And then thumbed through his phone for the app with the electronic passkey – the one that was issued to him back when the flat on the fifteenth floor was like a second home to him, when the man who lived in it was more than just home.

Zheng Xi flashed his phone over the digital reader and a musical little ding announced an approval. As he pushed through the unlocked door, his cell jolted in his grip with an incoming call. Zheng Xi’s throat constricted and cut off a breath mid-exhalation.

But it wasn’t him.

The name illuminating his screen reminded him of the late hour. Of how it was way past curfew. Of how, right now, he should’ve been tucked in a hotel bed, trying and failing to get some shuteye, because tomorrow was another long bus ride back to the capital, a champions’ ceremony, a team interview, a fans’ meet. All the things that had once meant something. But he couldn’t, for the life of him, remember what.

Slinking past the elevator, he pocketed his phone – Coach could chew him out later – and took the stairs two-by-two, the drumbeat of his heart dissonant and deafening. When he finally reached that familiar door on the fifteenth floor, he was a little winded, not from exertion or exhaustion, but expectation. The expectation that this was all going to go to shit.

But I gotta know for sure.

Zheng Xi took a deep, steadying breath before gently rapping his knuckles against the smooth wood. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d knocked like a guest. A stranger. Maybe at the very beginning, once or twice, before he was spending more time here than at his own bachelor pad in the next city over.  

A long moment of silence followed his knock. And, so, he rapped again, harder this time. More urgent. Desperate.

A muffled thump indicated movement in the apartment and Zheng Xi stepped back, panicking because the speech he’d prepared on the journey here now sounded ponderous and pathetic. He wet his lips as the door handle rattled slightly. And cursed the way his own hands rattled even more.

The door opened just enough for the man on the other side to peek through the gap.

“Zheng Xi?” Jian Yi’s voice was a seraphic solo made sweeter by the sleep underscoring his cadence. “What… What are you doing here?”

What was he doing there?

“Hey,” Zheng Xi croaked. Cleared his throat. Crammed his hands into the pockets of his flight jacket. “You weren’t at the press conference.”

A puzzled purse of strawberry-pink lips. “I don’t… I cover baseball now.”

Yeah. Don’t I fucking know it.

A soft squeak as the door swung wide open. A sibilant shuffle as slim, bare feet brushed a little closer. An audible swallow as Zheng Xi took in the sight before him.

Jian Yi in nothing but a creased, oversized nightshirt, his compact toes painted a frosty-periwinkle, his mussed hair sleep-curled and longer than had it been when Zheng Xi last ran his fingers through it six months ago.

“Why are you here, Zheng Xi?” The little wrinkle between fair brows made Zheng Xi want to reach out and smooth it down with his fingers. With his mouth.

I fucked up.

“You know I’m not… good with words,” Zheng Xi began, the weight in his chest growing heavier with every passing second.

Jian Yi tilted his head, perplexed but patient.

“Maybe we could talk inside?” Zheng Xi asked, daring to hope.

Stiffening, Jian Yi looked away. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Zheng Xi nodded like he understood, but all he really understood was how big a mistake this was. He knew it then; Jian Yi was going to say no. And the rejection was going to kill him.

“It was all for nothing,” he confessed, because, at this point, he didn’t have much left to lose. “Week after week of drills til we were dead on our feet, skating til we couldn’t stand straight, playing til we passed out.” The vile taste of victory was back in his mouth again, and Zheng Xi’s stomach heaved. “NHL Champions but I’ve never felt less like a winner.”

A small, sad smile on those pink, pearly lips. “I watched the game. It was solid, D-man. You deserve the title.”

I don’t fucking want it.

“It doesn’t mean anything.” Beseeching, broken, he scanned Jian Yi’s bright gaze. “Not without you.”

A flutter of motion as Jian Yi hugged himself. A flutter of pale lashes fanning downcast eyes. A flutter of Zheng Xi’s battered heart as it braced itself.

“Jian Yi. Please.”

Shaking his head, Jian Yi staggered back. “No. I’m done being your dirty little secret.”

The words kronwalled into Zheng Xi, and the weight in his chest bottomed out.

That’s how he made Jian Yi feel?

“I’m sorry, I didn’t –”

“You don’t need to apologise, Zheng Xi,” Jian Yi softly interjected. “I know how much hockey means to you – so much that you can’t even be seen out in public with me, an openly queer sports journalist.” He shrugged or shuddered; Zheng Xi couldn’t tell. “I respect that you don’t feel ready to come out, and I would never ask you to do that for me. But all the lies and the secrets and the sneaking around… made me feel like a bad habit. Not a boyfriend.”

A prickling wetness pecked at the corners of Zheng Xi eyes. With a sharp nod, he turned on his heel. But Jian Yi closed the distance between them before he could walk away. Run away. Hide.

Tugging him down by the front of his jacket, Jian Yi wrapped his arms around Zheng Xi, the embrace tight and tender all at once. “Own it, Xixi. All of it,” he whispered.

It was over before it began, Jian Yi pulling back before Zheng Xi could snuffle those layered locks one last time.

A glint and a twinkle in a gold-flecked eye. “That’s different. After a win, you usually smell like a bar,” Jian Yi tittered. “Or eau de puck bunny. Tonight you just… smell like you.”

Zheng Xi’s lips lifted with a loose smile at that teasing tone. And fell again as Jian Yi waved a farewell and sidled back into his apartment, the resounding snick of the latch loud and lasting.

As he stumbled back down fifteen flights, Zheng Xi tapped away at his phone, searching for nearby Uber cabs. He ignored the searing sting behind his eyes, just like he ignored the missed calls and the multiple notification icons at the top of his screen; he wasn’t ready to deal with the aftermath of posting the Instagram video he had recorded at the back of the Prius. All the inevitable the ‘D’ in D-man jokes. Not yet.

But, as he huddled outside the building waiting for his ride, he thought back to how the Uber driver had treated him despite overhearing him come out to the world.

Just another pro athlete his son looked up to.

A sportsman. Not a sexuality.

And the crash-down slowed down to a free-fall til it almost felt like he was floating.

Knowing the PR team was already going to ream him out come morning, Zheng Xi hit the Twitter app on his homescreen and typed out: ‘Lacing up my rainbow skates. See you on the ice. #NHL #LGBTQAthlete #OwningIt.’

~~~

Glossary ~

Stanley Cup: The NHL championship trophy.

D-man: Defenceman; blueliner.

Kronwalled: A signature back-pedalling hit made famous by pro hockey D-man Niklas Kronwall.

[laurens-lil-fics]

Picture Perfect (Matt Murdock x Reader) Pt. 4

Summary: a local photographer finds herself in a spot of trouble after taking a couple pictures in the wrong place at the wrong time. She seeks out Page, Nelson & Murdock for help, but it comes in a form she doesn’t anticipate.

Word Count: 2489

Warnings: Angst, violence, trauma, slow burn

Author’s Note: Here’s the fourth chapter! So unfortunately links on posts are deleting the posts from the search tag? It’s really weird, but if you want to look back at previous or future chapters, I’m tagging this “Picture Perfect” on my blog. So just search it in my blog and you’ll find all the chapters there. Than’s so much for reading and sorry for the inconvenience!

Whatever words Detective Mahoney and Foggy were exchanging did little to bring (Y/n) back to reality.

All she could do for the moment was memorize the details of the messy table she was currently sitting at in the precinct’s break room. The painstaking process of counting every grain of spilt sugar on the table was interrupted by a warm, wet cloth brushing against her cheek.

(Y/n)’s gaze shifted to Foggy, staring into his eyes as he gently brushed off the specks of blood that had splattered onto her skin.

“Are you hearing me, (Y/n)?” Foggy asked, setting the cloth on the table and clasping her hands. She gave a slow nod in response, worried any attempt at talking would manifest as a hoarse, weak croak.

“We’re going to take you to your apartment, okay? Brett’s going to have some trustworthy cops guard you while you’re there, okay?”

“It’ll take some time to gather more evidence against the guys in those photos,” Brett spoke up, causing (Y/n)’s unblinking gaze to shift to him, “But you’ll be protected until we can get them to court.”

Foggy released (Y/n)’s hands as he stood straight and resumed his earlier conversation with Brett. (Y/n) only tuned it out again and rested her hands in her lap, this time opting to count the tiles in the break room.

Foggy gently clasped (Y/n)’s arm and helped her stand. Her body went into autopilot as she blankly followed him out of the precinct and past a couple news reporters that attempted to swarm them, shouting questions about the shooting and if they had seen anything.

The drive to the red roofed apartment building was quick, at least to (Y/n) it was. She didn’t even realize there were two other police vans escorting them until she exited the one she and Foggy had rode in.

One moment she was entering the building, the next she was at her kitchen island, watching the police scan her apartment for any intruders before setting up shop outside her door.

“That was Matt and Karen,” (Y/n) looked up at Foggy, who had apparently just gotten off the phone, “they’re glad you’re safe, Matt’s negotiating a shorter stay at the hospital so they can come check on you. Knowing Matt and that hard head of his they might be here in the next two hours-”

“I don’t want them to.”

Foggy was very clearly taken back by this. The first thing (Y/n) had said to him since the bathroom and she was rejecting Matt and Karen.

“I don’t want them to come here... I’ve put you all through so much trouble, you should all go home and rest.”

The lack of emotion in her voice did little to convince Foggy that she was being genuine. “I understand that you’re exhausted and want your privacy... but we need to talk about what happens from here, how we’re going to go about keeping you safe until the trial.”

“Can’t we do that tomorrow?” (Y/n) asked, feeling and sounding more and more human by the second as she continued speaking. “That way Matt can have more time to recover... Karen can get some sleep... And you can see your girlfriend.”

Foggy’s expression softened at that and (Y/n) offered him her best attempt at a smile. “I heard you talking about her earlier... The last thing I want to do is keep you from her.”

Foggy was obviously reluctant to agree, but after more convincing from (Y/n) he thanked her for the night off and swore he would be back with Matt and Karen first thing in the morning.

The second the door shut behind him, (Y/n) released a breath she didn’t realize she had been holding. She looked around her apartment, taking inventory of everything and the place it was in. Once she was sure everything was exactly how she left it prior to the night of her camera mishap, she retreated to her bedroom and prepared for a much needed shower.

“What the Hell do you mean you left her alone, Foggy?” Matt hissed into the phone, ignoring the way Karen and the cabbie both glanced at him.

“Matt she said she wants to be alone right now, and Brett’s got some of his best guys guarding her.”

“Foggy, it’s not enough. Karen and I just left the hospital, we’re on our way-”

“Matt, I’m serious, let the girl sleep!” Foggy interrupted. Matt heard him sigh on the other end of the call, his patience obviously wearing thin. “If you want to see her so badly, go as the other guy. If anything happens you can step in.”

Matt huffed before mumbling in agreement and wishing Foggy a goodnight. He instructed the cabbie to drop he and Karen off at their respective apartments, earning curious glance from Karen.

“We’ll just see her in the morning I suppose...” he sighed. 

“I’m sure she’ll be fine, Matt...” she assured, only earning a curt nod from Matt.

The pizza the police had ordered surprisingly hit the spot. (Y/n) had no idea how hungry she was until one of her guards brought in the box they had ordered just for her. Cheese only since they didn’t know how she liked her pizza.

She could hear them conversing outside, their muffled voices offering some comfort, assuring her that she wasn’t left completely alone.

With her teeth brushed and her belly full, she crawled into bed and nestled herself under her covers. She woke up every now and then, managing to go back to sleep once she heard the guards outside. It was about 3 in the morning when she woke up and didn’t hear their voices.

She slowly sat up, listening closely, and she did in fact hear voices. But it was nothing like the light, friendly conversations she had heard earlier.

(Y/n) tiptoed to her front door, taking a deep breath before looking through the peephole. One of the guards standing directly in front of her door crumpled to the ground. (Y/n) made a move to unlock the door and check on him, when a dark figure stalked into her line of sight. 

He was wearing some sort of costume, one that masked his features. The only distinct detail was the white bullseye that contrasted the navy blue of his body suit. He held something in his hands, if (Y/n) looked had to guess they almost looked like the crystal shards from the chandelier lamps that hung in the hallway.

(Y/n) sighed shakily, slowly moving away from the door before darting to her bedroom. She opened one of the windows to her bedroom, then cracked open her closet. She could hear the intruder banding against the door, trying to bust it down.

At the last second, (Y/n) tiptoed to the kitchen and ducked behind the counter, just as the door broke off the locks and burst open. (Y/n) clasped her hands over her mouth, trying to mask her breathing the best she could. 

The man paused in the center of the living room for a moment, surveying the area before making a beeline for her room.

(Y/n) slowly circled around the kitchen counter, her eyes glued to the entrance of her bedroom as she made her way towards the hallway. Once she was outside she ran over the layout of the floor in her head. The elevator would take too long to get to her floor, plus it would alert him to her presence outside. She would have to run to the stairs and hope she’d be faster than him.

One...Two...

Her feet carried her down the hallway faster than she had ever ran before. Not caring the sound of her bare feet echoed through the hallways, she rounded the corner and continued heading for the stairwell.

The sound of something ricocheting off the walls caught her attention just seconds before she felt something slice her calf. With a shriek, she was sent falling to the floor.

Glancing down at her injured leg, she recognized one of her kitchen knives that now lay beside her, dripping with her fresh blood. (Y/n) clutched her calf and attempted to get up, but the hand supporting her weight on the cold floor soon gave out as another one of her knives grazed it.

Finally looking up at her attacker, (Y/n) gripped the knife that had grazed her leg and pointed it at him in a feeble attempt to hold him at bay.

That face was familiar despite the cowl he was sporting, and his eyes, it was almost like there were red rimmed bullseyes in them, honing in on her quivering form.

“As much as I love the thrill of the hunt, I wasn’t sent here to play cat and mouse with you...” he smiled, twirling one of the last crystals between his fingers.

Out of nowhere, just as the man prepared to strike, a red figure leapt out from the corner and tackled the attacker to the ground. (Y/n) screamed as the two wrestled for dominance.

(Y/n) sat there, shocked as who she now recognized as Daredevil pinned the intruder down and began throwing merciless punches his way.

He gripped onto the attacker’s black suit and slammed his head against the floor, stunning him long enough to look in (Y/n)’s direction.

“Run!”

If (Y/n) hadn’t been so shooken up, she would have recognized that voice. Instead she heaved herself off the ground, trying her best to ignore the pain in her calf, and resumed her try towards the stairwell.

Panic stuck deep in her lungs as the sound of Daredevil grunting in pain and being thrown against the wall echoed through the hall.

Not having the courage to look back, (Y/n) swung the door open, shrieking as a crystal shard hit the back of the door. She gripped the iron railing and began sprinting down the stairs, sobbing as she heard the door above her open, followed by the thudding of heavy boots trailing close behind her.

She rounded a corner, screaming as a shard flew right past her face, just barely missing her. Daredevil joined the fray once more, tackling the man down the stairs and landing right behind (Y/n).

With the man distracted, (Y/n) exited the stairwell at the 5th floor, hoping she would lose them with her change in course. She limped towards the elevator and slammed her hand against the button, repeating the action in hopes it would arrive faster.

The stair door opened, and much to (Y/n)’s dismay, the navy clad man stepped out, bloody but looking triumphant as she made his way towards her.

“You,” he paused, pointing his last shard in her direction, “must be very special for the Devil to step in like this.”

(Y/n) gulped and slowly backed away from him. The pain in her leg finally caught up to her and she tripped over herself. Unwilling to stop trying to put distance between them, she continued crawling backwards until her back hit the wall.

She noticed Daredevil silently exiting the stairwell, his footsteps light so as not to alert the man standing above her. Her gaze didn’t linger on him long so as not to alert the other.

“I was supposed to do this quick and quiet...” he mused, studying the shard before tossing it away and pulling his neglected pistol from its holster. “But where’s the fun in that?”

The pistol now aimed between her eyes, he prepared to pull the trigger. Before he even had the chance, Daredevil ran at him and pushed him out the window just above (Y/n) with all his might.

The two sat in silence, too tired and exhausted to acknowledge each other at first. Daredevil eventually moved closer to her, freezing as she flinched away from him in fear.

“Don’t be afraid... I won’t hurt you...” His voice was deeper than before, coarse... but that didn’t stop (Y/n) from letting down her guard.

Slowly, he wrapped his arms around her and scooped her up bridal style. She was suddenly aware of how her sleep shorts left little to the imagination, but all worries of indecency left her mind when her calf began throbbing.

“Is he gone...?” she asked quietly, slowly wrapping her arms around her savior’s neck.

He seemed almost as nervous as she did at their closeness, but maybe that was just (Y/n) reading to far into things. “He got away... But I won’t let him come anywhere near you again. I promise...”

(Y/n) absentmindedly leaned her head on his shoulder, listening to the sound of his breathing the whole elevator ride up to her apartment. He carried her back into her bedroom and sat her down on her mattress.

“The police are on their way, do you have a first aid kit?”

(Y/n) slowly nodded and pointed towards her bathroom. It took him a moment to begin walking in that direction, (Y/n) figured he was just disoriented from the fight.

When he returned, he asked her permission before lifting her leg into his lap. He cleaned and dressed the wound, then let her leg ease back to the floor. He then gingerly held her arm and repeated his actions, cleaning it and dressing it.

“How did you know I was in trouble?” she asked suddenly. The question didn’t deter him from finishing his work. His fingers lingered over her skin for a moment before he pulled back and shut the first aid kit.

“I was in the neighborhood... heard the struggle with the police and Pointdexter, and knew I had to come stop him.”

“That was Benjamin Pointdexter?” Daredevil slowly nodded at her.

“I won’t let him near you again... I’m going to protect you.”

That was all too familiar. His voice had softened, his gloved hand rested against her back. This was all familiar. (Y/n) slowly looked up at him, studying him closely.

Before anything could click, he turned towards her window and stood up. (Y/n) heard the police shouting in the hall and she carefully got up, gently gripping his gloved hand.

“Don’t go, please. Don’t leave me alone.” she pleaded.

He turned back to her, assuring her he would be watching over her until he knew she was safe.

(Y/n) bit her lip, unable to mask her disappointment. Without thinking, she closed the distance between them and hugged his neck, feeling her body melt against his warmth.

“Thank you...”

She could have sworn she felt him shiver against her. His hands slowly found their way to her waist as he returned the hug, only for a moment. The call of her name prompted them to separate. 

Without another word, he walked across the room and jumped out her open window.

She gasped and ran to the sill, looking outside just in time to watch him land on a nearby rooftop. He looked back at her, she couldn’t see it from her window, but a small smile graced his features.

Tag list:

@farfromjustordinary @ilovemattmurdock

[mythicalmythology]

Cupid’s Bow

@a-prince-in-disguise encouraged me to write this

Fandom: Percy Jackson/ Heroes of Olympus

Characters: Ocs Kristen Jackson and Nick di Angelo (Percy and Annabeth’s daughter, Nico and Will’s son)

A/N: this is suppose to mirror/ be symbolic to Nico’s coming out that happened with Cupid many years ago cause Cupid is a bitch and we also just love symbolism:’))

.

.

.

“Oh, I remember you…” the voice is raspy and low, it sends a chill in the air as the shadowy figure speaks from the dark. There are those heartless red eyes boring into Nick’s soul.

The temple is complete shambles as columns crumble and settle. Kristen rolled out of the way of one as she trained her eyes back to the figure in the shadows but was met with nothing. Nick was standing in the center, a small sliver of tinted red light cast across him. His chest heaving, eyes welled with danger and rage. He was looking for the mysterious voice as well.

There’s a whiz of an arrow that had her ducking to her feet as a sickening thunk lands in a toppled over column and shoots out limestone and marble everywhere. Nick had moved out of the way, stepping closer to the darkness. His hands gripping his bow tightly ready to shoot his own arrow into the shadows.

“Show yourself you bastard! Where are you!” Nick shouted as he sent an arrow flying only for it to come straight back at him and whizz inches past his face. A low, threatening chuckle cuts into the air. The eyes appear on the side of temple now, the figure looking like water swimming in the blackness of Hell.

“Testy testy. What a temper on you. I don’t remember you being so quick to shoot, Nico.”

Kristen blinked at that. “Nico? You have-”

“Nico is my father! Who the hell are you?! What does my father have to do with this?!” Nick shouted as he notched another arrow ready to aim. She rushed over beside him and took a stance, ready for what was to come. The unblinking red eyes squint at them both before another chuckle is let loose and they dissolve once more. The sound of footsteps echo on the title and nick sent an arrow flying yet never hears it lands as he footsteps draw nearer and nearer until Kristen felt a hand on the back of her neck that tosses her to the very ground a few feet away from Nick. Her back hitting against a jagged piece of marble as the temple floors shake and shower her with more limestone. The wind knocked of her made her head spin wildly and her vision blur as the sound of a whizzing arrow comes by her and nicks her cheek before landing inches from her head.

He’s going to kill us, Kristen thought, how is he doing this? Why can’t we see him?

In the very faint red light, she sees the arrows are painted a deep blood red with an arrow head in the shape of a heart that is painted black. It’s been stained by some of her blood.

“Kristen!” Nick’s panicked voice flooded her head as she turned to see him coming for her by by some invisible force, his feet are pulled from under him and he’s dragged back to the center of the room, his battered bloody body laying on the floor once again showered in the eerie red lighting.

“You're not him. No… you’re even better than him. You’re his son; Nick di Angelo. Oh, what a beautiful tragedy this is. You di Angelo’s have a habit of falling painfully in love don’t you?”

“Shut up! Shut up shut up shut up!” Nick sounded like someone had twisted an arrow straight into his heart. She hadn’t heard him sound like this since Daniel went missing. She struggled to look at him be held down by this invisible force of a being.

Kristen tried to stand to her feet and picked up her clattered sword from the ground and plucked the arrow from where it stuck. She examined it over as she painfully flashed back to visions that weren’t hers. No these were of ones of a much younger looking Nico, almost a mere split image of Nick. This younger Nico facing off against a man who was so beautiful it was frightening, down to his very pure white wings and ink black hair. There’s another man there, he’s blonde, has a scar on his lip like Piper’s. She never met this man before, but she knows this is Jason Grace, a wave of sadness came over her knowing this must have been him months before his death. The man speaking to Nico and Jason talks about Psyche and Aphrodite, about love and the monstrosity it was.

When the visions fade Kristen held her head as felt woozy again and fights to stand up right. She looks to where Nick is and swallowed painfully hard.

“You’re Cupid,” she choked out, “you’re no god to love you’re nothing but a monster.”

Her words are met with a mocking and menacing laugh as it echoes around them. Nick struggling to stand and sways on the spot as he tried to shake off what had happened. Cupid’s footsteps click against the marble but the sound echos too much it's hard to pinpoint where they’ll stop.

“God, monster, lover, I’ve been many names miss Jackson. You’re not a stranger to it. You’re easy. You’ve accepted your love and your downfalls with it. You remind me of my wife when she was young and foolish. You have done everything to have the man your heart aches for just as my darling little Psyche,” Cupid muses as the footsteps stop.

“Go to HELL! She gave you everything ! She did everything so she could be with you! How does she wake up next to a monster like you!” Nick screamed at him as he goes to grab his follow bow only for it to be pushed away.

“Love is blind, child. Love has no bound or ties to it; only pain. Pain of joy , of sadness and anger. Sometimes you love someone it just hurts so much. You understand, don’t you Nick? Though in your case, you love too much. Does she know Nick?” Cupid’s words are sadistic and have a bite of laughter to them. Mocking him and edging him on to confess.

In an instant a man, much like in Kristen’s vision, manifested before them. The white wings, the ink black hair and of course the painful red eyes piercing down at Nick. He’s handsome as he is dangerous and his crisp white shirt and jeans seem out of place for someone like him. He stands just a few inches away, eyes fixated where Nick's heart lay as if calculating the perfect spot to strike. Kristen stood where she did, a horrible feeling swelled in her chest and her heart ached as if Cupid was squeezing it too tightly. This was the last thing to get Daniel back, the third and final test was not meant for her it was for Nick. When Cupid casted his gaze to her another painful vision swam in her eyes of the younger Nico confessing his love for her father. The vision came as quickly as it went and left her whole body feeling nauseous. This was no normal confession; Nick had to confess his love.

Cupid circled Nick like a hungry vulture. Nick’s whole body trembling in anger and fear as Kristen longed to reach out and just touch him but knew she risked putting him in danger even more. Cupid plucked an arrow from his quiver and twirls it in his fingers, those murderous eyes going back and forth between the two of them.

“She doesn’t know, does she? How sad, di Angelo. And here I was beginning to think you were different from your father. Like I told you, your family knows how to love tragically don’t they? Now go on, tell her how you feel. Tell her who you love.” His lips curled into a sneer as his fingers grip the arrow tightly.

“Nick please just tell me! Just let me know nothing you’ll say is going to change my mind about you!” Kristen strained her voice to fight back tears. She watched Nick turn around to stare at her as Cupid continued to watch him in a hungry manner. Slowly and dangerously. In the stream of the red light it was very evident that tears leaked form the corner of his eyes.

“I’ve been in love with you, Kristen, I’ve fallen in love with you,” Nick choked out as Cupid stopped right behind him. A monsterous grin seeping across his face.

“And? You’re not finished yet. Tell her how you really feel.”

“Nick I… I don’t know what to say,” Kristen managed to say, “it will be fine everything is going to be okay.”

“Kristen if you knew the truth… you wouldn’t understand. You can’t understand.”

“Maybe I won’t Nick! But you have people who do! You’re not all alone!”

Cupid groaned and rolled his eyes. “Tick tock, di Angelo! Prolong and you are not closer to what you desire. Now tell her the truth.”

“Leave him alone Cupid!” Kristen shouted at him. “You’ve done enough to him!”

Cupid glared in her direction as he narrows his eyes but says nothing. He brings the arrow to his lips and seems to give it a light kiss before directing his attention back to Nick. “I know it’s killing you. You can’t come to terms with yourself, your fear outweighs it all. But what will it be? Your fears or your heart? In the end they both kill you, one is just less painful.”

Nick set his jaw tightly and held her head up. “I’m not fucking scared of you! I’m not scared of anything you tell me and I’m not-”

Nick’s words are cut short by an arrow being plunged straight through his heart and a blood curdling scream leaving him. He dropped to his knees clutching where he had been stabbed as Kristen watched on in horror of it dripping with some of his blood before it vanished into thin air and left no trace of injury behind expect for the small pool of blood on the floor. Hot tears of anger ran down his face as his hand clutches right over his heart. His screams are still echoing off in the Underworld as even in here everything runs silent.

“I will repeat the same words I told your father all those years ago: tell her, Nick di Angelo, tell her why you’re afraid of yourself, tell her why you fear your own love. Tell her your true feelings of who else you love aside from her! Tell her how your heart splits and beats for two not one! Tell her-”

“Because I love him too! I love Daniel Grey as well! That’s the big secret!” Nick screamed at Cupid as he raised his head and saw the god of love staring back down at him with a happy smile on his face at hearing his painful confession.

“Are you happy you sadistic mother fucker?!” Nick yelled at him through the tears.

Cupid casted him this almost sympathetic look and looked over to Kristen. “As I said before, love is pain. And you have finally faced the pain of loving too much as you have also faced your truths. That alone is how you beat me.”

Cupid vanished in a puff of smoke.

There’s nothing where the god once stood, all that was left was chunks of limestone, marble and drying flecks of blood. Nick was still on his knees eyes trained at the ground. Kristen was a whirlwind of emotions and feelings, though none were very negative. She looked down at the arrow she still had that Cupid had shot and let it clatter to the floor along with her sword. She carefully made her way over to Nick as she knelt down in front of him, her hand gingerly placed over his that laid over his fast beating heart. She slowly drew his hand away to find there was some blood on his fingertips.

“Kr-Kristen I’m—”

She threw her arms around him in a tight hug. Kristen felt him return with an equally tight squeeze as she allowed him to settle his head in her neck and cry. Just cry everything out and have someone to hold as she started off into the dark abyss of Hell as she played with his hair. Becoming entangled within her own train of thoughts and feelings.

[hellospunkiebrewster]

A (Beaumont) Brother Abroad - Part I

Summary: Maxwell makes his way to a Picta-model-that-he-can’t-remember’s party. Will he even be able to get in the door? What sort of fun awaits him there? 

Catch on A Brother Abroad here: Prologue

Perma-tags: @madaraism, @mfackenthal, @flyawayblue56, @blackcatkita, @darley1101, @bella-ca, @theroyalweisme, @pbchoicesobsessed, @never-ending-choices, @writtenbycandy, @katurrade

Tags: @breaumonts, @thedepthsremember, @beysenpai

When he gets to the street corner, Maxwell pulls out his phone again to call a car. Within minutes his Dryve is there and he gives them the address.

“Beverly Hills? You’re headed to one fancy neighborhood my man. Headed to something fun, I hope?” The driver begins to strike up conversation.

Maxwell leans forward in his seat, his head as close to in between the front seats as he can manage, and tells the driver the story of what led him to be here at this moment in time. The driver was laughing, enjoying the elaborate tale of love, nobility, assassinations, and finally a happy ending.

“Wait so you, some kind of flouncy noble, took on an actual assassin, armed with a piece of a chandelier? This sounds like a movie.” He laughs.

Maxwell grins. Anytime he told this story people’s reactions were the same. Amazed at the drama and romance, practically at the edge of their seat at the suspense. He loved it, it egged him on to share more. It had resulted in him learning a lot about people he had only just met. It led to him learning about this party tonight. He thought he and Hunt were going to enjoy a quiet night of whatever odd, underground, eccentric thing he had planned before he told him earlier in the day he had some business to take care of. Maxwell was always good at adapting, so he found something else to do.

The car turns off of a main road onto a manicured and well lit street. The houses lining the drive were not huge, but definitely expensive and modern. Their yards were grassy and lush, flower beds filled with perfectly pruned bushes and plants.

“Here we are.” The car rolls to a stop at the end of the drive, in a cul-de-sac. The largest house on the street and any of the surrounding ones Maxwell had driven through tonight in this car sat in front of him. He could hear the dull hum of music through the car’s windows. He nods to the driver and opens the door to get out of the car. The music thrums harder than before and Maxwell can feel all of his hairs stand on end. There was something about a party atmosphere that excited him more than anything in the whole world.

He stands on the curb for a moment after the car drives away, breathing in the static that hung in the air, feeling the best of the music in his ears. After a few seconds, he makes his way to the front steps of the large mansion.

A large, muscled man stands at the door, clipboard in hand. Maxwell puts a smile on his face as he approaches, he was going to have to charm his way in. He swallows hard before the bouncer asks for his name.

“Maxwell Beaumont, but I’m going to be totally honest with you, I’m not on that list.”

“Then you’re not getting in.”

“Oh but I am, and I’ll tell you why. I’m basically one of the most famous people in one of the trendiest Mediterranean countries right now.”

The doorman looks him up and down. He doesn’t respond.

“You had to have heard of Cordonia, our king just got married. It was televised all across the world.”

“Nope, now if you’ll step aside.” The doorman motions to some girls standing behind Maxwell, scantily clad and wearing some sort of iridescent, glittery body paint.

“Welcome to the party ladies.” The girls step around Maxwell and past the doorman into the party. The music rises instantly when he pulls the door open for them and fades slowly as he closes the door, he doorman’s eyes lingering on the round bottoms of their ass cheeks barely peeking out from under their skirts.

“I don’t think they were on the list.”

“Don’t have to be on the list if you’re hot.”

“I’m telling you, I’m famous. I’m nobility. I’m in the tabloids practically every week.”

“Don’t care.”

Maxwell clenches his jaw, this dumb lug of a man was not budging. He did well at meatheaded doorman academy. You didn’t have to be too smart to follow a simple rule: no name, no entry.

“What if I could prove to you that I was famous? Or that I’m like a world class dancer?”

The doorman shakes his head.

“Dudes just like you come to these parties in droves. What they’re always lacking is chicks. I’m not letting you in man.”

“What if I told you that some of my very hot friends were on the way here right now?” Maxwell turns to the street, as if looking for an approaching car.

“How many?”

“A few, several,” Maxwell shrugs. It was best to not be specific.

Headlights peeled around the curve a bit down the street, hopefully this was his chance. If a few girls stepped out of that car in front of this house, he’d have to be really quick and precise with his words to fool the doorman.

As expected, the car comes to a rest in front of the house. When the door opens, a few girls in their twenties spill out of the back seat. Maxwell shoots the doorman a grin and a shrug.

“You’re finally here ladies!”

“Yea we are,” one exceptionally loud and already drunk girl shouts. She’s bubbly and her blue eyes look welcoming. She tosses her blonde hair back and it cascades behind her in waves. She looks over her friends then back to him, her lips parted in a genuinely happy smile. She was impeccably dressed, much better than her friends, purple was her color. If he wasn’t so desperate to get into the party, he might’ve struck up a conversation right here with her. Maxwell knows she’s the perfect mark if this is going to go over well and he’s going to get into the party.

“I’m so glad you all could join me,” he says, grabbing the hand of the drunk girl and kissing the back of it. “Shall we?” He offers her his arm, feeling tense and hoping she was tipsy enough to play along. She giggles and slips her hand into the crook of his elbow and Maxwell sighs in relief.

“You’re cute,” she whispers.

He leads the group up the lawn to the door, where the doorman looks obviously disgruntled at Maxwell’s shenanigans.

“They’re not with you, she’s just drunk.”

“I am not drunk!”

Maxwell chuckles, “She always says that when she’s drunk.”

The girl gasps and smacks his upper arm with her free hand, “...do not.” She turns her gaze to the bouncer and says to him, dead pan and unblinking, “So are you letting my friends, my boyfriend, and me in or what?”

The doorman looks over the group and sighs. “Fine.” He steps aside and Maxwell reaches to open the door. Just as with the group before, the music rises the moment the seal of the door cracks open and Maxwell feels the thrill of entering another Hollywood party. Once they’re out of sight of the doorman, the girl drops his arm and salutes him, motioning for him to go on his way. She turns to her friends and starts making her way to the bar. Maxwell doesn’t notice when she glances back at him, her purple dress shimmering in the party lights.

The party buzzed electric, the beat of the music thumped so hard Maxwell could feel it coursing through his body. He works his way quickly towards the back of the house and the pool, before the doorman wises up and stops him from egressing further.

The press of young, beautiful people all around excites him; the lights, a fun combination of magenta and teal, mesmerize him. He didn’t remember what Pictagram model was throwing this party or why, but he didn’t care. This was his element. He wanted to get noticed tonight, to have an adventure. He didn’t realize someone already had their eye on him.

Maxwell hops up on top of a platform meant for dancing, raising himself above the shoulders of much of the pulsing throng of revelers. He moves to the beat, bobbing and twisting wherever the music tells him to. He’s caught the attention of a few other party goers around the platform and soon a small crowd is cheering for him. He sees someone out of the corner of his eye clamber up onto the platform beside him. He turns to her, her blonde hair and purple dress a mess as she realizes the small stage is higher than she anticipated. Her blue eyes meet his for a moment, pleading for help.

He lifts her by the waist, she was a tiny waif of a girl, and helps her stand.

“My hero,” she whispers, inaudible against the thump of the bass. Her hands rest against Maxwell’s chest, her hips pressing against him, and she pulls him into a dance with her. Maxwell obliges, never one to turn away a dance with a beautiful girl. She was good too, almost equally matched. The two of them swayed together, her lips curled in a mischievous smile as she moves with him. She twirls away and falls into some 90s choreography that Maxwell recognized as something that changed his formative years. He focuses for a moment on the music playing and realizes the DJ has been playing some sort of fun 90s mash up the entire time and they were now dancing to Hit Me Baby One More Time.

He catches her eye and joins in with her seamlessly, visions of him dancing along in his bedroom as a young teen in his mind, until the song transitions to another. She looks at him, laughter in her eyes, and motions off the stage. When he doesn’t answer, still mentally caught in the choreography from before, she pulls him down to her and finds his ear.

“How about we take a breather?” He can feel her lips brush against his ear and it makes all his hairs stand on end. Maxwell nods and takes her hand to help her down.

Once he is down beside her, his hand finds her waist and pulls her so he can speak in her ear, “You find us a place to sit, I’ll get us some drinks, what would you like?”

“Surprise me.” She grins and walks off into the crowd towards the end of the party away from the DJ.

Maxwell works his way through the pulsing, dancing crowd to the bar where he first asks the bartender if they have any whole pineapples before darting behind the bar and mixing up his signature drink himself. It only takes a couple minutes and his wild concocting and tossing of bottles and the shaker draw attention to the bar.

“I’ll have what he’s making,” one party goer asks the stunned bartender on duty. They begin grabbing whatever bottles they thought Maxwell had used and mixing up numerous cocktails as more and more people began to request them. Maxwell is long gone before they manage to get out the first of many cocktail travesties trying to replicate him.

He finds the girl he was dancing with away from the party, along a back glass wall overlooking the city below. She’s sitting on a sleek acrylic bench. It’s quieter here, the party’s music reaching them but feeling like an afterthought. He hands her a glass of his Pineapple Paradise Surprise Punch, the bar sadly did not have any whole pineapples to serve as a glass. She takes the glass and nods a thank you to him. She raises the glass to her lips and inhales the sweet tropical aroma, like suntan lotion but in a good way, takes a sip, and nearly spits out the drink.

“That’s deceptively… strong.”

Maxwell laughs, “Well that’s the surprise. Wouldn’t be my Pineapple Paradise Surprise Punch without it.” He sits beside her. “I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced, I’m Maxwell, Maxwell Beaumont.”

She laughs, he was right. “Hi Max, I can call you Max right?”

“Please do, I love nicknames.”

“Well Max who loves nicknames, I’m Addison Sinclair.” She raises the glass to her lips again and takes a thoughtful sip.

“Nice to finally meet you Addy.”

A beat passes as neither of them really pick up the conversation but instead catch their breath in the quiet. Maxwell notices the way she keeps looking down at her knees or gazing off into the Hollywood hills. She looks like she wants to say something, but doesn’t.

“What brings you to this party?”

“A friend invited me, his costar was throwing it but he ended up not being able to make it last minute.” She finally looks back at Maxwell, “He got really hurt a couple days ago on a shoot. They’re flying him back home, but he’ll probably be in the hospital for a while.”

“Oh wow, I’m sorry. Really sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to saddle you with all this. We only just met, I’m sure you weren’t expecting that from someone you just met dancing on a platform at a party.”

“Don’t be.” He bumps his shoulder against hers and she smiles up at him.

“You’re not from here.”

“That’s right. How could you tell?”

“Your accent, it’s subtle but it’s there.”

“Man… here I was thinking I was doing a good job concealing it.”

“So where are you from?”

“Cordonia, a small Mediterranean island country. Have you heard of it?”

“Have I heard of it?” She laughs. “Most everyone in the States has heard of it. It’s only the setting for the absolute hottest TV show right now. And you all had that beautiful wedding only a couples months ago, right?” She stops then realization lights up her face.

“Wait a second. Beaumont. Maxwell, Beaumont.” She looks him up and down and speak again. “The same Maxwell Beaumont who was the Man of Honor at the Royal wedding?”

“The very same. I guess I’m not very inconspicuous.”

“You could’ve at least used a fake name. I do.”

He chuckles. “Good idea, a fake name. Wait you... why?”

“Let’s keep that a secret for now,” she says, winking, as her phone buzzes. Maxwell reaches into his pocket for his own phone and pulls up his browser once he unlocks it. He opens the search bar and begins typing her

“That’s my friends, they think I’ve gone missing or been kidnapped.” She grabs his phone that he’d just taken out to search for her online. Addison types in her phone number and texts herself from it. “There, you have my number.” She passes his phone back to him, her fingers grazing his, and her eyes move quickly up to his from where their hands touched. Her cheeks flush lightly.

“This is so not like me,” she laughs. “Want to maybe do something tomorrow? I have something I need to do in the morning, but we can meet up after.”

Maxwell nods, “I’ll see you tomorrow then.” She takes a final gulp from her drink and disappears into the crowd. When Maxwell looks down at his phone, it buzzes in his hand. A message from Hunt.

[qqueenofhades]

Starlight & Strange Magic, Chapter 2: In Which Garcia Flynn Blows Things Up

Rating: M Summary:  Lucy Preston, a young American woman, arrives in England in 1887 to teach history at Somerville College, Oxford. London is the capital of the steam and aether and automatonic world, and new innovations are appearing every day. When she meets a mysterious, dangerous mercenary and underworld kingpin, Garcia Flynn, her life takes a turn for the decidedly too interesting. But Lucy has plenty of secrets of her own – not least that she’s from nowhere or nowhen nearby – and she is more than up for the challenge. Available: AO3 Previous: In Which Lucy Preston Makes An Entrance

For a long moment, even as the zeppelin continues to burn and thunder down in pieces, which hit the grass like meteors just a few feet away from Lucy, the world seems eerily silent. So this is him, the man buying enough guns to start a dozen turf wars, who has just shot down a passenger airship and is a wanted criminal across the city – what the hell is he doing here? Aside from the literally flamingly obvious, and he clearly doesn’t intend to be here much longer, as he’s halfway across the lawn and almost out of sight. There is every good reason in the world for Lucy not to go anywhere near this man, especially given what he has just done. If they can prove it was him, at any rate. He could just be a garden-variety psychopath who enjoys watching the world burn (is he Jack the Ripper?) All of it is very likely. But nonetheless, Lucy starts after him.

She has to weave an obstacle course through the hail of fiery debris, sees someone trapped under a plank, and stops to haul it off them, helping them to their feet and telling them to run while still staring ahead into the darkness for Flynn. He is hurrying across the park, has almost reached the London Zoo on the far side, and Lucy has to outright run, never the easiest feat in long skirts, to keep him in sight. He pushes through the gates of the zoo, as if he’s just going to go chill out in the monkey house and wait for things to calm down, and Lucy fights a demented urge to laugh. Or is he going to make a clean sweep, and blow this up too?

Either way, no time to dawdle. She ducks behind the gatehouse as Flynn, as if sensing he’s being followed, looks around sharply. She draws the Colt out of her pocket, checks that a round is chambered, and debates whether to leave her bag behind, as it’s heavy and will slow her down. As well, it contains the rifle that Karl gave her earlier, which might be an unpleasant tip-off that she has now popped up twice to uninvitedly involve herself in his scurrilous business. But if she drops it here, is she going to be able to get back to it?

Very cautiously, she peers out an inch, careful not to break from cover. Flynn has apparently decided that he’s in the clear, because he starts to jog again, and Lucy decides it’s too risky to leave her bag. So she edges out and stays low, darting through the decorative shrubbery and brick-cupolaed, shingle-roofed buildings. London Zoo in this age is no enlightened model of animal welfare; they’re kept indoors in cramped cages, and Lucy can hear distant howls and gibbers and shrieks as they smell the smoke and panic. With flames still scorching the sky an eerie orange behind her, it gives the place an unsettlingly infernal air, as if she has stumbled down into hell in pursuit of the devil, and these are the torments of the damned. She raises her gun, eyes stinging as she squints. She can possibly wing Flynn from here, but it’s risky. If she hurts him but doesn’t finish him, he will be very motivated to run back and express his displeasure. She is a small woman, and he is a tall and formidable-looking man with clearly extensive experience in this sort of thing. She is under no illusions that she can take him hand to hand.

Up ahead, Flynn alters course sharply, cutting toward a small shed behind the African mammals enclosure that might, for all Lucy knows, actually contain a live lion. She hesitates. She has no obligation to go after him alone; she’s a civilian, he’s crazy, and there will be plenty of awkward questions and red flags raised if she is caught with him. Any chance of decent intel on Rittenhouse while she’s in London, not to mention the rest of it, could go up in (more) smoke. But he’s just vanishing inside, and after a final instant, she flings herself after him.

The shed is low and dim and smells strongly of animal fodder, and Flynn has his back to her, checking what looks like a makeshift electric chair. It definitely is something he is going to tie someone to and commence on further unpleasantness, at any rate, and one of the three crates of guns acquired from Dooley this morning is set to the side. Where the other two are, who knows. Probably distributed to his henchmen, who are – what? Dragging survivors off the airship and shaking them down for all their valuables? Is this the most over-the-top and spectacularly overkill jewelry heist in history? If he wanted that, why not just hit up a bank, or –

No time for that. Lucy has the drop on him for an instant longer, and she had damn well better take it. She raises the Colt, training it on the back of his head, and cocks it with a click. “Put your hands up and turn around slowly.”

There is one brief instant where Lucy has the vaguely satisfying impression that he has been completely taken off guard, is shocked and horrified for it, and is scrambling to think how to respond. Then Flynn does as ordered, raising his hands and turning around slowly, so she looks at him full-on for the first time. A flip of dark hair falls over his forehead, and his eyes glitter in the sharp, angular lines of his face. His nose is long, his eyebrows dark and expressive and somehow managing to communicate a singular amount of sass before he’s even said a word. He surveys her up and down, clearly not expecting to be held at gunpoint by a petite woman in tweed and velvet. “Let me guess,” he says, not sounding terribly concerned. “You’re the one that Karl was complaining about this morning.”

This, to say the least, is a rather blasé reaction to someone pointing a gun at your head, no matter who they are, and the smiling-sociopath theory ticks up a few notches as a possibility. His accent isn’t English, or for that matter Irish; it sounds European of some sort. Slavic, if Lucy had to guess. The Times did say “gipsy,” which could mean anything from Czech to Romanian to Hungarian, though most of that is presently part of the Austrian Empire. Mysteries of origin aside, Lucy can already tell that everyone is right. He’s a terrible pain in the ass.

“You shot down that zeppelin,” she says. “Didn’t you?”

Garcia Flynn shrugs. “So?”

“So?” Lucy takes a few steps closer, can see his eyes following the barrel of her gun, and knows as before that if she does fire, she better not miss. Or for that matter, let her attention slip for a single instant. Despite the faint, stinging residue of smoke, his gaze is almost tocker-level unblinking, until she wonders if this man is somehow also powered by wheels and gears instead of flesh and bone. It’s cat and mouse, but even though she has the gun, she has a strong feeling that she’s the mouse. “Is that just what you do, murder people for fun?”

“I – ” Flynn looks first confused, then exasperated, then angry, as if he can’t believe that this tiny historian can appear from nowhere and think she is entitled to an explanation for his recent spectacular spree of homicidal recreation. “Who the hell are you? You’re no peeler, not that they’d risk popping their monocles and taking on women. Just get out of the way, you have no idea what you’re interfering with. We’ll call it square once, but if you try again – ”

“Why did you shoot it down?” Lucy tightens her grip on the gun and aims it between his eyes. As far as her marksmanship skills go, she is not Annie Oakley, but she can hardly miss a broad target less than three yards away, especially when he’s standing there and staring a hole through her. “What’s this, planning to take someone hostage and torture them – for what? Fun? Information? Feed them to the tigers once you were finished, cover your tracks?”

Flynn raises one of those insolent eyebrows at her, as if to remark that she said all that, not him, and he admires her vivid and gruesome imagination. He takes several steps closer, outright daring her to pull the trigger, until they’re only a few feet apart in the dim, earthy-smelling shadows. “You’re brave,” he says. “Coming out here alone. I can respect that. One last offer. Get out, or I kill you. I don’t want to do that, but I will.”

Lucy raises the gun, as if to remind him that one of them is empty-handed here, and it isn’t her (not that she thinks he’d actually need a gun to do it, and she has let him get within grabbing range without firing, she needs to back up). But just then, the door of the shed bangs open, and Lucy whirls around just in time to see Karl and one of the thugs from this morning, dragging an unconscious man. Her gaze locks with Karl’s, there is a mutual and very unfortunate moment of recognition, and she remembers an instant too late that she should not have taken her eyes off Flynn. But he isn’t quite lunging at her – he’s taken too long to react, he’s still just standing there – and as Karl drops the man’s arm, draws his own gun, and points it at Lucy, Lucy spins and fires at Flynn. It’s a wide shot, fast and reckless, just trying to create enough disruption for her to escape, but he stumbles backward, hand to his neck, and a spurt of blood slaps the dark air. She hikes her skirts, hurdles over the unconscious man in her way, and bursts out into the night. There’s a lot of shouting from inside. Karl and the ancillary thuglet might be after her to pay her back for wounding the boss, and whatever temporary truce she established with them in the Croft is very definitely off. She puts her head down and runs like actual hell.

Lucy is winded, gasping, and stabbed agonizingly with a stitch by the time she navigates around the still-burning wreckage of the zeppelin, out a side gate, and into the dark streets of London. This is not a safe time to be wandering around any city, especially this one, and she remembers that the automaton could be waiting for her back at the boarding house. She puts the Colt back in her jacket and removes the tocker dropper instead, checking that she knows how to load and prime it, then pulls the pump to send a crackle of blue energy coruscating in the barrel. If she isn’t careful running with it, she’ll electrocute herself instead, so she dials back the charge, but keeps it tightly in hand. Her heart is hammering, her mouth is dry, and she feels in a state of mild shock. She doesn’t know why. It’s definitely not the first time she’s shot someone.

Once she’s put some distance between herself and Regent’s Park, and because Lucy physically can’t run anymore, she slows to a crawl. Her feet are absolutely killing her, and she might just shuck the boots and walk the rest of the way barefoot, but that is definitely a horrible idea. She limps and labors, wonders if she’s really up to facing that thing if it’s there, and diverts course into one of the narrower, shabbier lanes of Covent Garden. She staggers up to a certain establishment with a red-glass lamp before the door, heads inside, and buys a room with the last of the money she has with her. It comes with a whore named Bella, who is probably about sixteen and looks younger, and Lucy tells her to go to sleep. She pulls off her overskirts and her boots, winces at the mess of her feet, then crawls into the bed and very determinedly does not think too much about what she’s lying on. She wondered if she might lie awake, but instead she passes out to a level barely compatible with continued brain function.

It takes a long time for Lucy to be stirred the next morning, remember why exactly she feels like total death, and why she’s lying in the none-too-clean sheets of a bed in a Victorian brothel. Filmy, indeterminate sunlight slants in the grimy window, and while she will definitely want to wash thoroughly when she gets back to the boarding house, it’s better than being murdered by one of any number of potential culprits. Lucy sits upright slowly, grimacing, and catches sight of Bella digging through her bag, as most whores will when a client (even if, in this case, only in the loosest sense) falls asleep. “Hey. Hey, leave that alone.”

Bella jumps and drops the bag with a clunk. She looks at Lucy guiltily, and with a hint of fear and respect alike. “I’ve never seen a lady as has so many guns, mum.”

“Yes, well.” Lucy rubs her face. “Never mind that. Did you steal anything?”

“No, mum.”

“Are you sure? It’s important.”

“No, mum.” Bella holds out her hands, as if in proof. “Only nick from the ones who deserve it.”

Lucy grimaces. After a pause she says, “Have you heard of the Church Penitentiary Association? It’s for women of your – of your profession. It’s not a workhouse, and it would be better for you than here, could teach you a different kind of trade, if you want. I could take you over there.”

Bella goggles at her as if Lucy’s asked if she wants to walk on the moon. “The what?”

“The Church Penitentiary Association for the Reclamation of Fallen Women.” It’s a mouthful, and Lucy hopes it still exists here, since as far as she knows, William Gladstone established it in 1848. For everything you can justly say about this era, at least the institutional church is concerned with actually helping widows, orphans, the poor, the homeless, prostitutes, thieves, and other members of the invisible underclass, in a way that other incarnations of it could take a lesson from. Protestant evangelism and social reform is very much afoot, in other words, and Lucy just doesn’t want to leave this child here to get brutalized by however many more men. She can’t save all the whores in London, but still (and besides, you won’t want to be a lady of the evening in Whitechapel in 1888). “Look, I know where it is, I’ll take you. Do you want to go?”

Bella looks justifiably frightened, as if this is a trick or test to catch her out or take her somewhere even worse. “Mr. Carr, he who owns the house. I don’t think he’d be ‘appy.”

“Well,” Lucy says, nodding at her bag. “Guns.”

“Why’d you do that, mum?”

“Because I’d like to.” Lucy stands up, and immediately regrets it as her raw-hamburger feet hit the floor. She can’t face the prospect of stuffing them back into her boots, which is a problem, but maybe she can just suffer it for a little longer. “If you want to go.”

Bella considers that. Finally she offers, “I can please you if you want, mum? I know how to do it with ladies.”

“No, no thank you,” Lucy says hastily. “I don’t want that in exchange, or anything else. If you really want to stay here, I suppose I can’t stop you, but… I just thought I’d offer.”

The young whore blinks, still confused and waiting for a catch, but then she looks up and firms her chin. “I wouldn’t mind seein’ you shoot Mr. Carr, mum, and that’s God’s truth. S’pose if them church types are too bad, I can run away again.”

With that, she gets up, puts on her slippers, and grabs a small calico bag out from under the floorboards, which probably contains all her worldly possessions. Lucy wonders what her parents died from – typhoid, dysentery, cholera? Any of the epidemics that still can take out entire tenements, though less so since Joseph Bazalgette finally finished his pioneering outfall sewer system about ten years ago and reduced the virulent pollution and stink of the Thames. Bazalgette is one of the unsung heroes of the Victorian or any era, a civil engineer who saved countless lives and introduced the concept of modern sanitation systems and waste treatment, but as Lucy has noted, even the new technology and science and magic (if that’s what you want to call it) available here has not made the lives of the grindingly poor any more enjoyable. It almost personally offends her. All this possibility, and you still don’t do anything with it?

She sneaks Bella down the back stairs as the rest of the brothel is waking up and doing its morning laundry and shooing out hungover johns who want to stay later without paying. They emerge into the alley without being caught, and walk as quickly as Lucy can, but she gets Bella to the headquarters of the Association on Harley Street and into the care of a pair of ward sisters. Bella squeezes her hand with her small, grimy ones, and solemnly promises Lucy that if she can ever help her sometime in the future, she has only to say. She won’t forget this, mum, she won’t.

Lucy tells her it’s all right, makes her promise not to run off, and then finally departs, feeling like she’s been beaten with a nightstick and desperate for a proper bath and sleep. She can’t help but wondering if she has now added Mr. Carr, who sounds like the kind of well-adjusted, respectful-of-women, and not-at-all-violent man who owns a brothel in Victorian London, to her sizeable list of enemies, once he finds out that some of his property is missing and a funny American woman was the last person spotted with her. Between him, Flynn and his gang, the automaton, and Rittenhouse, it will absolutely be a miracle if Lucy gets out of this city alive. Maybe she should just leave for Oxford today. It seems safer than staying here any longer.

At last, Lucy staggers up to the boarding house, where Mrs. McBride is volubly relieved to see her. “Thought ye might have gotten mixed up in the airship disaster, Mrs. Preston. Hear about that? All over the papers this morning. A zeppelin crashed in Regent’s Park, and Mr. Stanley missing. A terrible shock for everyone, sure. But they’ll sort the villain that did it, you’ll see.”

“What?” Lucy has already decided that she does not need to tell this nice middle-aged Irish Catholic landlady the least thing about how wildly eventful her last twenty-four hours were, nor that she almost sorted the villain herself, but at that, she frowns. “Mr. Stanley?” That name sounds familiar. “Which Mr. Stanley, and why is he missing?”

Mrs. McBride pushes the morning edition of the Times at her. A black-and-white photograph of the burning zeppelin is splashed all over the front page, and the banner headline blares, AIRSHIP TRAGEDY SHOCKS LONDON; FAMED AFRICAN EXPLORER MISSING; CULPRITS STILL AT LARGE. Underneath, the article goes on to explain how the passenger service arriving from Brussels last evening was downed by an unknown incendiary device, crashing in Regent’s Park with considerable property damage and public terror. Loss of life has been thankfully minor, as most people managed to escape in time, but there are still six confirmed dead, as well as ten or twelve unaccounted for. Several dozen have suffered injuries of some degree, and both Houses of Parliament are in an uproar as they demand a full investigation into the outrage and prompt punishment for those responsible. Everyone from Irish republicans to anarchists to Marxists are being blamed, sometimes all at once. To compound the insult, Henry Morton Stanley, famed for his voyages to the Dark Continent of Africa, may be a victim. He was traveling aboard the airship, and has not been seen hide nor hair of.

At that, a bolt of lightning goes down Lucy’s back. Henry Morton Stanley – yes, he’s one of the major explorers of the Victorian era, he of “Dr. Livingstone, I presume?” fame, upon locating the lost Scottish missionary deep in the African bush. He goes to find the source of the Nile and the Congo basin and other expeditions to Africa that earn him the pomp and approval of imperial Britain, including eventually a knighthood. He’s also a terrible, terrible person even by nineteenth-century imperial British standards: virulently racist, fond of force, instrumental in opening central Africa to plundering, colonizing, and exploitation, and the right-hand man of Leopold II of Belgium in running his genocidal empire in the Congo. He’s supposed to be in Africa right now, in fact, but if he was returning from Brussels to London, he was probably meeting Leopold on the down-low. As she stares at the photograph of the esteemed explorer, Lucy realizes that she knows exactly where Henry Morton Stanley is right now. Or rather, where he was last night. In a shed out behind the African mammals exhibit at the London Zoo, unconscious, as she jumped over him and ran.

“Mrs. Preston?” Mrs. McBride frowns at her. “You look a bit peaky, if you won’t mind my saying. Perhaps I should put the kettle on?”

“That – that would be nice.” Lucy sits down heavily, still staring at the newspaper, as the landlady bustles into the kitchen. Her head is whirling. Did Flynn shoot down an entire airship just to get his hands on Stanley? He must have been tipped off somehow, learned that he was planning to travel on that crossing, and pulled together this whole operation at extremely short notice. While Lucy can’t say that she disapproves of the irony of feeding Stanley to lions and tigers, as she suggested last night, she doesn’t see Karl and the others going to the bother of saving him from the crash just to kill him outright. Flynn was going to pump him for information, or at least he was. Then Lucy shot him in the neck, which probably threw a wrench into his plans for the evening. What the hell?

Mrs. McBride returns with her tea, which Lucy sips in a state of extreme distraction. Flynn did say that she didn’t know what she was interfering with, and this suggests a considerably more sophisticated degree of strategy and intention than just blowing something up to see it go boom. Knowing Stanley was going to be on the airship. Getting enough weaponry to take it down, and then successfully doing that. Having his men in position to drag the explorer out of the wreckage and convey him to a prepared location for interrogation. Ask him – what? It can’t just be how he sleeps at night, though Lucy wonders that too. Unless –

Oh God. Is Stanley Rittenhouse? He fits the profile a little too well, but not every terrible person in history has been part of a cultish secret society. Sometimes people are just awful dicks because that’s humanity for you; you don’t get the luxury of putting them all in one bad-apple box. But given that Lucy is here because there is reason to suspect that Rittenhouse is trying to expand their operations, and because she was just thinking yesterday that they might target Queen Victoria, they have plenty to offer Stanley. Maybe that is why he cut his expedition short and returned to Europe. Is Leopold part of the package too? You’d hardly think he could get any worse, but if Rittenhouse has promised to make sure that his regime endures –

This is at least plausible, much as Lucy wishes it wasn’t. But the problem is that it would require Flynn to know, or at least suspect, that Rittenhouse had made overtures to Stanley. Which in turn would mean that he knows… about Rittenhouse.

That isn’t possible. That isn’t possible for any number of reasons. He could have been targeting Stanley because he’s actually an ass-backwards vigilante Dark Knight who is giving racist imperial mass murderers what they deserve. And since Lucy doesn’t know if Stanley is in fact Rittenhouse, or even approached by them, this is a lot of conjecture with very little solid basis. For all she knows, Stanley is involved in shady business deals and owes a lot of money to Flynn’s racketeering schemes. Lucy is not about to put her back out of joint rescuing this jackass, but she would be unwise to let this go entirely, and she needs to be careful. People must have seen her around the Croft yesterday, with Dooley and then with Karl, and it must be already whispered in the underworld that Flynn is responsible for the airship downing. They’re not going to take the risk of grassing on him to this strange American woman. (Definitely for the best that they have no idea how strange.)

Lucy is still dangling from the horns of her dilemma when the door opens, Mrs. McBride looks up, and utters a sharp sound of consternation. “Seamus! What happened to you, love?”

“I’m fine, Mam.” Her son in fact looks quite a bit less than fine, as he has a handsome black eye, a cut on his cheek, and blood running from his nose. “Gang of gobshites in the street, they threw a paving stone at me and said it was probably the filthy Catholics had blown the airship up. Scarpered like cowards. I promise, it’s not that bad.”

Mrs. McBride does not appear inclined to take his word for it, and as she is fussing over him with hot water and a cloth, Lucy doesn’t feel that the time is right to butt in and ask if either of them spotted a large and dangerous automaton outside last night. Instead, as she does know exactly who blew the airship up, she can’t help but feel obliquely responsible, even though she isn’t. She gets up, goes upstairs, and has a quick wash. Then she changes out of her bedraggled clothes, forces her abused feet into a pair of much sturdier and plainer shoes, and reloads the Colt. Puts the derringer in her jacket, the tocker dropper in her bag, and thus liable to clank slightly when she walks, heads out.

London is abuzz with nothing else but whispers of the drama. Everyone seems to have their own theory on what has happened, though most of these lack even a vague acquaintance with the truth (possibly for the best). Lucy makes her way back to University College, where – apparently properly chastened by Ada yesterday – Hubert the porter meekly lets her into the Royal Historical Society archives without complaint. The Analytical Engine seems to be running, though there is a weedy undergraduate in a three-piece suit who is instructing it to fetch him apparently everything ever written on Ancient Rome, and who gives Lucy a miffed look that she won’t just stand there and let him hog it for the next five hours. Finally, when she’s cleared her throat for the third time, and he has enough to be getting on with anyway, he scoops his books out of the tray and scurries off, and she waits for the gears to cool down a little. Then, since this time she has a better idea what to look for, she says, “Garcia Flynn AND crime AND London.”

It’s known as a Boolean search (George Boole was another contemporary of Ada and her intellectual circle, a mathematician and logician who helped establish the technological information age) and Lucy figures it will work here. That way, she won’t get results about every godforsaken Flynn that has ever been written about, but just whatever contains Garcia Flynn, crime, and London together. That should make it a lot easier to sift through.

Indeed, the stacks of newspapers and a few booklets that roll through the trapdoor are much less intimidating in size, and Lucy scoops them up. She will only be able to access information in the public domain, and which University College owns a copy of – in other words, she won’t get any secret state papers or private dossiers that the Government (she has found out that Gladstone is still prime minister, doubtless Not Amusing Victoria, who famously complains that he speaks to her as if she was a state meeting and not a person) might have compiled on a known threat. But maybe it will get her started.

It does, at that. The first reference she can find to Flynn’s presence in London is in February 1885, just after the end of the Berlin Conference – a three-month-long event where the European powers formalized the “Scramble for Africa” and all staked their claims as to who got what piece of it. Lucy recalls that Stanley was there as an American delegate, even though he’s English (or strictly speaking, Welsh) by birth. Otto von Bismarck chaired the whole thing, and among other things, it’s where the gathered European powers confirmed Leopold of Belgium’s right to his “Congo Free State” (viz., murdering up to ten million Africans for rubber and ivory). Has Flynn been hunting Stanley, or other attendees of the Berlin Conference, all this time? Yes, that is the kind of sordid and evil world-domination event that Rittenhouse would want to get in on, and there could have been all kinds of potential recruits that they might have tried to tap as a result, but that still assumes that Flynn knows about Rittenhouse. He can’t.

Lucy rubs her eyes, trying to focus on the lines of smeared old type. The papers, when they mention Flynn’s activities at all, do so in the disparaging tone of the establishment who can’t understand why this upstart doesn’t see that society is perfect the way it is, and it’s not very informative. There are dark rumors. In January 1886, one of the more sensationalist newspapers, the Daily Trumpet, informs its readers that the mysterious crime lord Garcia Flynn killed his own wife and child, which Lucy takes with a considerable grain of salt. However, the claim is then repeated in the Telegraph, with somewhat more information: the murders took place in 1884, in the Kingdom of Dalmatia, the coastal sliver of Croatia that is presently part of the Austrian Empire. Flynn ran for it after that, and has otherwise not behaved like an innocent man.

Considering that he threatened to kill her when they were face to face at the zoo, Lucy has to admit that it doesn’t seem out of character. She puts the papers down with a frown, thinking that the last thing she needs is a repeat engagement with this man, especially after she shot him and disrupted his carefully planned capture and interrogation of Stanley. But she also has questions that she can’t see an easy way of getting an answer to, and she doesn’t want to leave London, wise as it may be to do so, without them. Assuming that she’ll still be alive in a fortnight to go up to Oxford seems like a gamble, but as Bella said, she does have guns.

Lucy gets up, puts the newspapers back in the tray, and leaves University College, stepping out and trying to decide on her next move. She could go back to the Croft, as Flynn is clearly well-known and infamous there, but good luck trying to get someone to talk, and Dooley, if he just sold three crates of weapons used in the scandal of the decade, has probably packed his bags and gotten the hell out of Dodge. Finally, Lucy remembers that there’s a pub on Tower Hill that caters to the same general clientele as the Croft, and indeed is informally known as Traitor’s Gate, after the portcullis in the Tower of London where condemned prisoners entered by boat from the Thames. Someone there has to know something. She can try.

Traitor’s Gate is not the kind of place that should be visited by night or even, for that matter, by day, but Lucy is armed, and she is used to people underestimating a small and outwardly not-frightening woman. She takes a hackney to Fenchurch Street, then gets out and walks. It’s a cold, sour-looking day, wind whipping hard off the murky Thames, and she claps a hand to her hat to stop it from blowing off. A few passing gentlemen give her odd looks, as if an unescorted lady is a terrible affront to their patriarchal sensibilities, but at least they don’t push it.

Lucy reaches All Hallows-by-the-Tower, an ancient Saxon church where William Penn was baptized in 1644 and John Quincy Adams got married in 1797, crosses the garth and looks for the door at the bottom of the steps, and uses the same key she did for the Croft to open it. There’s a long, low tunnel that briefly forces even her to stoop, and then she emerges into a taproom built into the ground. She can hear the thump and treadle of steam pumps rattling through the pipes in the brick walls, keeping the Thames from flooding in. It’s warm and dim and smells like tobacco and cheap alcohol. There aren’t many patrons here in early afternoon, but all the heads that turn toward her wear expressions that are far from friendly.

Lucy takes a deep breath, reminds herself that she has as much right to be here as anyone, and touches the Colt in her skirt pocket, reminding herself that it’s there. She strolls up to the counter and leans on it. “One whisky, please. Neat.”

“We don’t serve ladies.” The barman, sporting an impressive set of mutton-chop whiskers and a stained serge waistcoat, doesn’t even turn around. “Especially not strangers. Suggest you leave, mum, before it’s difficult.”

Lucy grits her teeth. Slightly louder, as if he might not have heard her the first time, she repeats, “Whisky. Neat. And I’m not a stranger, by the way. What exactly would Flynn think, if you didn’t serve me?”

This, obviously, is an utter bluff – Flynn is the last person in the world who would care whether or not she got served in a bar, given that she, you know, shot him – but she intended to make the barman panic, and it works. He whirls around, stares at her up and down as his brain clearly cannot quite process how she might know Flynn, but can’t take the risk that she doesn’t. He grudgingly pulls one of the whisky bottles off the rack and decants it into a glass, and Lucy pushes a few coins over the bar. She takes a very small sip, as whisky isn’t her usual tipple, but it’s rare enough to see a lone woman drinking in public at all, let alone such an uncultured working-stiff libation as this, that she’s definitely drawn notice. Good. She can’t really find Flynn herself, so the best option seems to be to let him find her.

Lucy nurses the whisky in brief, burning bits, supposing that they probably don’t have a kitchen here to order late lunch, and wonders how long it’ll take. Depends on how angry Flynn is, most likely. She has seen a few men whispering in the corner and glancing at her, and one of them gets up and casually drifts out. A faro game has been abandoned, and the glowing green dregs in a glass, along with the distinctive whiff of anise, means that someone has been drinking absinthe. Lucy almost wants to try it, just for the experience, but she needs to keep a clear head right now. She hopes this doesn’t turn into a shootout, but she has to be prepared for anything.

At length, the man who left reappears, as Lucy has mostly finished the whisky and feels just buzzed enough to be fearless. He goes back to whisper to his comrades, and then they all stand up, crack their knuckles, and start toward Lucy. She lets them think she hasn’t noticed for a moment longer, then gets to her feet, draws the Colt, and turns around. “Afternoon, gentlemen.”

There are startled looks at the presence of a firearm, which strikes her as stupid – she had one yesterday, she nailed their boss with it, did they think she suddenly forgot? There seems to be a brief discomfort with the idea of getting rough with a woman, but the one nearest to her appears to feel that he can shoulder the noble burden. He makes a grab for her, Lucy whirls aside, and the barman squawks in distress. “Mulroney, don’t, she’s one of – ”

Mulroney is clearly about to inform this idiot that no, she definitely is not one of theirs, but at that moment, a door swings open with a bang, a hush falls over the entire taproom, and Lucy doesn’t even need to look around to know who just entered. A chill goes down her back – yes, she wanted this to happen, but she’s now officially on extremely thin ice – and she knows that this coterie of experienced criminals are not scared of Flynn just because the Daily Trumpet prints hand-wringing articles. That is a certain and definite power, to silence an entire bar when you saunter in, and she turns her head, though she doesn’t need to confirm, to see.

Garcia Flynn looks much too tall for the low-ceilinged room, and has inclined his head slightly so as not to hit it on the mossy bricks. The side of his neck is clumsily stitched up – it looks like he might have done it himself – and he’s wearing a white shirt, suspenders, and crisp pinstriped trousers that look too nice for these breeds of ruffians. His suit jacket is slung over his arm, and he throws it over the back of the nearest chair; the other man who was sitting at the table grabs his drink, jumps up, and vacates it at high speed. There’s a holster strapped over Flynn’s left shoulder, containing a heavy Prussian revolver, and that’s only the gun Lucy can see. He probably has half a dozen more God knows where.

“Afternoon,” Flynn says, once he has deigned to break the silence. Even without the smoke, his voice is gravelly, rough and intense. “Anybody going to buy me a drink?”

There’s a collective scramble as the patrons hurry toward the bar, the barman is already pouring something, and Flynn reaches over for it with the same cool, unhurried demeanor. He takes a sip, staring straight at Lucy. With a graceful, sarcastic gesture, he says, “I don’t believe we have been formally introduced, madam. You are – ?”

Lucy hesitates just long enough to make it obvious that she’s fishing for a lie, and Flynn gives her a warning look. “I wouldn’t.”

“Lucy.” It feels kicked out of her, but she draws herself up and stares at him as defiantly as she can. “Lucy Preston.”

“Lucy Preston.” He repeats it, his accent giving it a particular lilt, then jerks his head at the table. “Well, Lucy. We have to stop meeting like this, don’t we?”

It’s on the tip of Lucy’s tongue to ask him where exactly he gets off saying that to her at their second meeting, but since the choice is clearly either to sit down by herself or have the goons drag her, she makes her way over and takes the chair with cool, icy dignity, smoothing her skirts. Flynn sits across from her, which doesn’t really reduce his size. He solidly blocks out the air around him, broad-shouldered, barrel-chested, and arms heavily muscled, and he could clearly snap her like a twig if he took a mind to it, even if she might be able to get a few shots off first. She instinctively shifts back, trying to establish more space, but it doesn’t work. She just has to stare at him, as everyone makes a valiant effort to look as if they’re going back to their business and have just made a tactical decision to become abruptly blind, deaf, and dumb. Then, plucking up her nerve, she says, “Where’s Stanley?”

One of Flynn’s eyebrows raises. Then he shrugs. “Read the newspaper this morning, then?”

“That and a few others.” Lucy clenches her hands in her lap. “Apparently you have a reputation.”

Flynn grins, as if he doesn’t see why he should bother denying it. His teeth are very white and straight; he probably has a nice smile when he isn’t, you know, being psychotic. “What do you want, Lucy? Turning up here after what happened last night? That is very foolish, don’t you think? Especially now that I know your name. I already told you once to get out of my way. You should not count on there being a twice.”

Lucy has no reason to believe he doesn’t mean it, and is well aware that she is already playing with fire (literally, given his apparent propensity for explosions). She needs to choose her next words carefully, and he lifts his glass for another drink, never taking his eyes off her. She did shoot him last night, he’s not about to underestimate or laugh off her danger, and though she senses he might be genuinely impressed, it’s not enough on its own to protect her. Finally she says, “I’m not interested in rescuing Stanley. I was just wondering why you wanted him.”

“He is a dick.” Flynn still appears to be enjoying this somehow. “Isn’t that enough?”

“Yes, he is, but no, it’s not.” Lucy holds his stare. “How long have you been trying to get your hands on him? Since Berlin?”

That, finally, catches Flynn off guard. He glances away, and his eyes have lost their amusement when they flick back to her. “So you have been reading up, haven’t you? What else did you find out about me?”

Lucy hesitates, but only briefly. He has to know, or at least guess, that she’s come across it. “You killed your own family.”

Flynn’s mouth twists. He doesn’t answer at once to confirm or deny it, though he polishes off his drink in a long slug, throat muscles working, then shoves the glass aside and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Who are you?” he says instead, low and sleek. “Some plucky American lady detective who has read too much Arthur Conan Doyle? You walk in here – in here – and think I’m going to tell you what I’m doing. . . why?”

“Because.” Lucy really isn’t sure if she should do this, but she’s backed herself into a corner now, and sometimes the only way out is through. “I’m wondering if it has anything to do with Rittenhouse.”

There’s a moment of total, stunned silence, and then Flynn’s eyes flare like West End floodlights. His hand flashes out, fast as a viper, and snatches her wrist, half-dragging her over the table toward him; she knocks his glass off and it falls to the floor with a crash. “What,” he breathes in her face, half a whisper and half a snarl, “do you know about Rittenhouse?”

Lucy would normally be too busy being floored that he knows about Rittenhouse, but he still has hold of her wrist, and his grip is bruisingly strong. She pulls at it to no avail, trying to loosen his fingers, until he finally looks at her face, seems to decide that she won’t run, and lets go very slowly. “Is that why you were there last night? To kill me and rescue Stanley? You’re one of them, aren’t you? Of course. That explains it. Well, Lucy Preston, I’m very sorry, but as that’s the case, I am unfortunately going to have to – ”

“I’m not one of them anymore. I used to be.” Lucy can feel her pulse hammering in the indents of his fingers. “They took everything away from me. I’m – I am not loyal to them.”

If Flynn doesn’t believe this, she’s toast, but something about the rawness and anger in her tone catches at him. He sits back and stares at her as if the Rosetta Stone has just dropped into his lap, as if this might be a new and exciting opportunity he has never considered. Lucy’s head is still spinning, because – how? To put it in the simplest possible terms, Rittenhouse is not from his reality. There is no way, at least that she has ever encountered (and that is a lot) for him to know.

There is a very, very tenuous pause as both of them size each other up. Flynn licks his lips, looking as if he’s on the verge of marching her off to continue this conversation somewhere more private, and Lucy is pretty sure she’ll have to put up a struggle if that happens. Then the door bangs again, making everyone’s heads swivel once more, and a large, red-faced man storms in, waving a heavy stagecoach pistol. “Where is she?” he bellows. “Where’s the American bitch? Heard she was here, bring her out!”

Lucy has just enough time to consider that her plan to reveal herself to the underworld has really gone far too well, but she has no idea who this man is, much less why he would be looking for her. But as she jumps up, Flynn grabs her adroitly from behind and spins her around in front of him – evidently he feels that if there’s any chance of shooting, it’s her turn to catch a few bullets, especially since she was the cause of him doing so last time. He also seems interested in discovering the source of the commotion, and calls over, “You mean her?”

The angry bloke wheels around, spots them, and comes charging over. Lucy is starting to have a bad feeling she knows who he is, and in another moment, that hunch is unfortunately confirmed. “You! Are you the bitch who stole my working girl? You’ve robbed me, thieved me! Either we go right now and fetch her, or I’ll make you go back in her place!”

“Mr. – Carr?” With him in front of her, spraying spittle, and Flynn behind her, arm still around her neck, Lucy is honestly terrified, and her knees feel like water, but she struggles to lock them and speak as calmly as she can. “I presume?”

“Yes, you bloody well presume, bitch. What did you do with my Bella? The girls said she vanished from the house this morning, with some meddling American cunt. You fetch her bloody back, I said, or you can – ”

“Mr. Carr, you have absolutely no right to Bella, or for that matter, any of the other women.” Lucy wonders if she can get to her gun, but her arm is awkwardly pinned to her side by Flynn’s grip and she can’t solve all of her problems by shooting them. There are too many witnesses, and to say the least, she’s already in enough trouble. “I’m not going to tell you where she is, and I’m certainly not going to take up her former employment, so why don’t you just – ”

At that, several things happen at once. The first is that Mr. Carr spits full in her face, thick and phlegmy and whiffing vilely of tobacco, the second is that she lets out an involuntary squeal of disgust and struggles to get it off, and the third is that Flynn, never letting go of Lucy, shifts his grip on her to the other arm, draws his revolver, and shoots Mr. Carr point-blank in the head. The report, directly next to Lucy’s ear, is deafening, and she can only hear a muffled, tinny ringing on that side, in a way that means it’s going to take a while for it to come back. There is an explosion of blood and brain and broken skull, and Mr. Carr goes down cold.

In the split second while everyone is staring at the dead brothel owner, Lucy moves. She jabs an elbow ferociously into Flynn’s gut, stamps on his foot, and twists herself out of his arm lock, punching him hard in the face as he lunges at her. He drops the gun, she grabs a drink from a nearby table and throws it in his eyes, then vaults over it, tearing her petticoat on a loose nail. The crowd is already pushing and jostling to every side, some toward Flynn and some toward the dead man and some for the goddamn exit like sensible people, and he can’t catch up to Lucy, especially as she reaches the passage on the far side and runs flat-out. Oh God. She doesn’t know why Flynn shot Carr, aside from the fact that he was clearly a mad dog and was going to make trouble, but she certainly isn’t staying to ask. Oh God. Flynn knows about Rittenhouse. How, how does he know about Rittenhouse? More than that, he was ready to kill her if she was working for them, and does that mean –

Lucy doesn’t know. Right now, she just wants as much space between her and this place as possible, and she doesn’t dare look back. Finally reaches the end of the tunnel and scrambles up the stairs on all fours, scraping her palms, and staggers out into the cold dusk. Shit, it’s past sunset, she’s too late. She can’t go back to the boarding house now (and it might not be smart to go back for a while, what with the draco dormiens she has sharply and repeatedly titillanded in the oculus). It might have to be Harley Street after all. Maybe she and Bella can be roommates.

There’s a crash from the tunnel below, and distant shouting. Lucy doesn’t wait around for further inspection. Once more, like escaping London Zoo last night, she runs.

[everlark-your-own-adventure]

Mockingjay Manor - Ch 8

Chapter One /// Chapter Two /// Chapter Three /// Chapter Four /// Chapter Five /// Chapter Six /// Chapter Seven

It’s Tuesday everlarkers, and that means it’s time to visit Mockingjay Manor again! Last week’s action-packed installment gave us some much-needed smut, but also found our foursome reduced to a trio and under attack on two fronts. You voted for Katniss to shoot the nefarious Dr. Snow and SAVE HER MAN! What happens now? Let’s check in with @xerxia31 to find out….

This chapter is rated M for canon-typical violence and lots of bad language.

As always, you have 48 hours, until noon EDT on Thursday, October 19th, to cast you votes in the notes or reblogs, not in the tags!!!

I’ve been shooting a recurve bow since I was barely tall enough to hold it, but a crossbow is a different animal, and this one is larger and more powerful than any I’ve ever shot before. Military-grade, in all likelihood. Deadly accurate in the right hands.

Mine are not those hands, not with this bow anyway. Not with my heart pounding like a jackhammer. Not with the wildly flickering lantern light, and with Finnick and some sort of deranged wolf-mutt screaming just feet away. But what choice do I have? I can’t let that madman drag Peeta away.

There’s no time to think. I lift the heavy crossbow with shaky hands, and aim. Snow is using Peeta’s much larger body as a shield, practically laughing at me from behind the semi-conscious form of the man I love. I take a deep breath, settle my body into the correct archer’s stance, and try to block out the chaos all around me. I can’t afford to miss my mark. Peeta’s life depends on it.

Snow has a single red rose in the lapel of the white jacket he’s wearing, I catch glimpses of it each time Peeta sways to the left. It’s what I hone in on as I gently squeeze the trigger.

And then Finnick and the wolf-mutt careen into me, slamming me into the wall, knocking me off balance.

The clattering cacophony of crystals crashing into each other is my first clue that the arrow has missed. I glance up from where I’ve landed on my knees on the carpet to see the chandelier swaying wildly overhead, one of the chains that secure it to the ceiling having been neatly severed by the erstwhile arrow. My heart sinks.

Snow starts laughing, an awful, gurgling cackle. I turn my gaze to him. He’s released Peeta, who now lies slumped and still on the carpet. Snow’s bent over, blood dribbles down his face, a Rorschach blot on his pasty-white cheek. The syringe full of Devil’s Breath I’d jury-rigged to my arrow - the one I’d intended to fire at the mutt - has somehow detached and pierced the old man right through the eye. I shudder in horror and revulsion.

He meets my stare with his one good eye, that single beady snake-like eye searing into my own, silently judging. Then the eye flickers shut and he falls to the ground.

Behind me, Finnick is frantically calling my name. The mutt has him pinned, only his strong legs braced against the creature’s chest keep the evil beast from reaching Finnick’s jugular. I heft the crossbow into my arms again and load another arrow. It strikes the creature between the shoulder blades, but it barely seems to even notice.

Several of Finnick’s and my earlier arrows stick out of the mutt like porcupine quills, I don’t know what kind of genetic engineering is at play but I’m starting to think it’s indestructible. It glares at me over its shoulder as I nock another arrow, those creepy jewel-green eyes almost sentient. I don’t even think twice, aiming the bow right at a green orb. This time, my shot is true, and finally the thing, whatever it is, collapses, landing on Finnick’s prone form.

With both Snow and the beast dispatched, I’m momentarily paralysed by indecision. Finnick, to my right, is under the mutt, only his face visible. Peeta, across the room, is completely soundless, body twisted onto itself. They’re both unnaturally still. “Finnick?” I whisper, barely audible over the blood thrumming in my ears.

His eyes flutter open. “I’m okay,” he says, his normally jovial expression stoic and serious.

Reassured, I dart across the room and drop my weapon on the carpet as I fling myself at my boyfriend. “Peeta?” I say softly. I brush the damp blond strands of hair back from his forehead, find the pulse drumming against my fingers at his neck. Sigh in relief. He’s alive.

His lashes flutter open and his eyes meet mine, unfocused. The pupils are blown wide, black pools swallowing all but the thinnest ring of summer blue. His features register confusion, disbelief and something more intense that I can't quite place. As if in slow motion, he lifts his arms, reaching for me, to caress my face, I think.

My lips are just forming his name when his fingers - those long, artist’s fingers I’ve loved since we were just children - lock around my throat.

I try to yell his name, but all that comes out is the consonant, followed by a squeak. He’s not squeezing as hard as I know he’s capable of, but he’s not joking either and I can’t breathe. I grapple with his arms, trying to pull him away. Claw at the rock-hard muscle, panicked and afraid as he stares at me, unblinking. I manage to dislodge his thumbs enough to suck in a lungful of precious oxygen. “Peeta!” I wheeze, and recognition flickers in his eyes.

His hands loosen, just a little, and he whispers my name, as if he’s not certain I’m real. His pupils contract to pinpoints, dilate again rapidly, and then return to something resembling normalcy. An expression of pure horror crosses his face as he takes in our positions, his hands on my neck, my shuddering gasps, and lightning fast he releases me, scrambling backwards until his back hits the wall.

The madness of our situation fades into the background as we stare at each other, uncertainty and apprehension thick between us. I regret coming to this house of horrors, regret every decision I’ve made since the reading of Haymitch’s will. No amount of money is worth having Peeta look at me like this.

A heavy hand lands on my shoulder and I scream, my elbow instinctively flying backwards, connecting with soft flesh. “Dammit, Katniss,” Finnick yelps, doubled over and clutching his stomach. Peeta cowers, flattening himself even more against the wall.

“Shit, Finnick, don’t sneak up on me like that,” I bark. Finnick opens his mouth, no doubt to deliver a snappy comeback, but then he catches sight of my throat, where I can still feel the impressions of Peeta’s fingertips. He glances over at Peeta, maybe evaluating the potential risk, but the way his expression softens at the image of Peeta trembling in fear tells me that he knows this particular danger is no more.

“What happened?” he mumbles, crawling closer until he’s kneeling right in front of Peeta, who flinches, as if he doesn’t even recognize one of his oldest friends.

“Snow shot him full of something. The Devil’s Breath, I think. A whole syringe full.” My voice breaks and fear claws at my stomach. “I think Madge used all of the antidote on you and Jo.” Used it saving their lives. I shudder, thinking about what Madge said about their hearts possibly stopping, like her aunt’s had. Like my uncle’s had. But Peeta is conscious, surely that means he’s going to be okay?

“The stuff that was in those freaky wasp’s stings?” Finnick asks, and I nod. His lips form a silent O. “That shit made me hallucinate pretty badly, see all kinds of awful things I’d have sworn were real,” he says, “and I only got maybe a dozen stings.” He pulls Peeta’s arms away from where he’s hiding behind them, shielding his face. My boyfriend looks almost childlike in his palpable fear. “Hey, buddy,” Finnick says gently, softly, as if talking to a spooked horse. “I know you’re seeing scary things, but they’re not real, okay?”

Above us, the house gives a mighty shake, plaster dust snowing down. I glance uneasily at the ceiling, then over to where Snow lies unmoving, and finally towards the door where the golden wolf-mutt is sprawled in a pool of blood. I think plenty of the scary things Peeta is seeing are, in fact, quite real.

“We’ve got to get out of here, Finn. This is too big for us, we need to call the cops.” I know both his phone and mine are dead, and I haven’t seen Peeta’s since the attic. Our only hope is to get to one of the neighbouring houses. I reach for Peeta, to tuck my shoulder under his arm and get him to his feet. “Can you help me with--” my words cut off sharply as Peeta recoils from me.

“I’ve got him,” Finnick says, glancing at me with something akin to pity. I swallow the hurt. Now isn’t the time. “Where’s Jo and your cousin?”

I shrug helplessly. “They disappeared back into that dumbwaiter, but surely Madge wasn’t crazy enough to head back for the attic?” The shrieking of birds has stopped, but periodic thumps still rock the building, along with faint groans, as if the very walls are in pain.

“We’ve got to trust that they’re someplace safe,” he grunts, struggling a little under Peeta’s weight. I don’t try to help.

We pick our way out of the room and try to navigate in the darkness. I’ve long since lost the floor plan Plutarch gave me, and I don’t think we’re in a section of the house we’ve explored before. Finally, the narrow corridor opens into a kitchen, large but dated. Thin moonlight streams through the windows, falls across Peeta and Finnick and my heart plummets. Finnick is covered in blood, his own or the mutt’s I can’t tell. And Peeta is barely conscious. In the moon’s pale glow, the circles under his eyes look like bruises. If Haymitch wasn’t already dead, I swear I’d kill him now for subjecting us to this.

“There’s a door,” Finnick says, breaking me from my homicidal thoughts. He’s right; at the far end of the room is our way out. Though my every instinct is to bolt for that door and leave this place far behind, we instead skulk along slowly, cautiously, aware that every black shadow could potentially hold more horrors. Somewhere from deep in the bowels of the big house, a clock strikes midnight. It feels like an omen. Finnick starts singing under his breath.

Are you, are you Coming to the tree Wear a necklace of rope, side by side with me. Strange things did happen here No stranger would it be If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree.

I elbow him in the gut again, and reach for the door. Unlike the front door, this one swings open smoothly, clearly it’s been recently used. We emerge onto a flagstone patio that overlooks what must have been gardens at one time, but is now no more than dimly illuminated overgrowth. The rain has stopped, but the full moon is still mostly cloud-obscured. “This must be the back of the house,” I guess and Finnick nods.

We skirt along the outside of the mansion in the shadow of the imposing facade, walking through wet, waist-high grass and even taller weeds, grumbling the whole way. Wind whips around us, making the trees whisper and wail, a devil’s lament.

As we round the corner, under a massive bow window, Finnick suddenly grabs my arm and tugs me down, pressing me flat against the cold stone of the foundation. My shoulder bumps Peeta’s as I crouch, and he whimpers. I glare at Finnick, but he raises a finger to his lips, then peeks around the corner, gesturing me to follow suit. Finnick extends his free arm, pointing to a car parked on the grass, its headlights shining on the side of the house not fifty feet away from where we hide.

It’s a car I recognize, a sleek Jaguar SJ that I know was custom ordered in gold, to match it’s owner’s hair. “Oh shit,” I murmur, squinting. Sure enough, I catch sight of a flash of brass in the passenger seat. “Aunt Effie,” I hiss. “I should have known that Haymitch’s gold-digging wife--”

“Forget about her,” Finnick growls. “We have a bigger problem.” I move my gaze from the car to where Finnick is pointing. Illuminated by the car’s headlights, a man who can only be Seneca Crane is splashing something over the house. Only when the pungent stench of gasoline hits my nostrils does it finally click. That bitch is trying to burn down my house! Whether to destroy the evidence in the attic laboratory, or to prevent me from taking half of Haymitch’s fortune I don’t know, and I don’t care.

“What do we do?” Finnick asks, an edge of hysteria in his voice. I know he's thinking about Jo, worrying. Peeta’s car, and along with it the promise of escape, is no more than a hundred yards away. But how can we run when our friend is still inside that house, and a crazy person is trying to burn it down?

We need help, real help. Peeta is no use to us right now, not without the antidote to the poison that’s polluting his body and mind. Finnick is injured and we’re all unarmed and exhausted. I have no idea if Seneca or Effie might be armed - they’re mad enough to commit arson, it’s certainly not a stretch to think they could also contemplate murder if we confront them. But running to Peeta’s Jeep and alerting the neighbours and authorities will take precious time that we just might not have. There’s really no good decision to be found here, but we have to make a choice: confront Effie and Seneca, or run for the Jeep?

[lilynibelung]

Unhealed Scars

The little girl ran as fast as her short legs would take her, her breath coming in sharp ragged gasps.  In her arms she carried a squirrel, the critter surprisingly allowing itself to be carried and not wriggling free of the small child's arms.  The pounding of her heart echoed in her eardrums as she ran, desperately seeking escape from her tormentors.  Shouts and jeering came from just behind her, growing louder despite her attempts to outrun them.  She glanced behind her frantically to see how close they were... a costly mistake that would slow her just long enough.

The first rock clipped her on the shoulder, jolting her with pain and spinning her to the ground.  She fell hard, shielding the animal in her arms protectively to prevent her body weight from crushing the animal.  She felt the sting of a second and third stone as they pelted painfully into her back.  A boy's laughter could be heard before another rose up, then another.  The girl looked up to see the faces of twenty-some older children looking at her.  Soon a chorus of mocking laughter assailed her from the assembled throng, singsong teasing soon following.

"It's just a stupid squirrel!" "'Beast Girl', 'Beast Girl', Hahaha!" "She even looks like one too!"

The little girl whimpered as they approached.  The first impact of a foot in her side caused her vision to blur as the breath was knocked out of her body. The child endured the beatings, her only focus on trying to keep her little charge safe.  Mercifully, the beatings would eventually stop as her tormentors grew bored and wandered off.  She groaned and stirred, red hot pain shooting through her leg.

Somehow, she knew that her leg was fractured, as though she had lived through this moment before.  The pain had been a small price to pay to keep her tiny animal companion safe.  The girl eased into a sitting position and opened her palms.  The lifeless eyes of the squirrel stared back at her, having been smothered in her grip as she was attacked.  A strangled sob escaped the girl as she cradled the little creature's body in her arms.  Unbidden, the darkness crept forward, choking out the light and leaving her in inky silence.

***

The nude Hyur knelt on an obsidian dais, hundreds of images revolving around her in an endless dance.  Like the facets of a gem, the images would fade in and out of focus, each one a different story.  One, a morbol bearing down upon the frightened little girl, threatening to devour her whole.  Terror gripped her heart as the creature opened wide its maw to consume her, but it never came.  Another image appeared, this time a lass with a bandana riding away leaving the heartbroken Hyur behind.  Each moment of pain bit into the woman, carving away a piece of her.

The Hyur wrung her hands as each image spun around her chaotically, each one taking its place to torment her.  Each vision was a single piece in a cacophony of stories.  Some she had experienced, some she had imagined, but all were cruel and painful.  Yet another image flashed into view.  This time, a pale-green-haired Lalafell woman was being beaten by a large Miqo'te with a savage axe while she watched helplessly.  The Hyur reached out a hand desperately towards the image, as though she could somehow alter the course of events with that gesture.

Unable to change anything as the Lalafell was brutalized and beaten near to death, she squeezed her eyes shut.  She jolted with the sound of each impact, felt each blow as they landed on the Lalafell as though each hit was striking her.  Sensibilities overwhelmed, she cried out for someone to help her, to bring her back... but only mocking laughter came back.

When she opened her eyes, the woman was on a dark forest path.  Around her, several indistinct figures closed in.  The dark forms loomed all around the woman, flitting just out of her vision.  Indistinct and devoid of detail, they shifted in and out of focus, ever on the edges of her field of view.  Voices darted in from every which way, the speaker always unseen.  The words were mostly incomprehensible, though bits and pieces were sometimes audible.  There could be no mistaking the tones though, filled with derision and scorn.

"Stupid bitch, look what you did!" "You failed him!  You did this to him!"

The Hyur sat on the bloodstained grass, hugging her knees.  A discarded lance lay nearby, as did the body of an animal - an antelope whose eyes were glazed over in death.  She rocked back and forth, tears streaming down her face unchecked.  Her cheeks were spattered with the blood of the beast, a macabre sight when paired with the whites of her frantic eyes.  The body of an Elezen boy laid nearby, drenched in blood and gored from several wounds.

"You can't do anything right!" "He was a fool to count on you!"

The blonde haired woman quivered on the brink of breaking as the voices closed in around her.  She let out a choked sob as her resolve deserted her. Collapsing to the ground, she curled into a fetal position mewling like a babe.

The silhouettes bore down upon her, arbiters of judgement.  "Please stop..." she pleaded in a whisper over and over again.  The relentless phantoms came as one, chaotic forms beginning to mingle together as each darted in to deliver a barb like a swarm of angry hornets.

The phantom of an emerald haired scholar scoffed: "I'm only your friend because you spread your legs when I ask." A miqo'te in a maid's uniform spat upon her prone form: "You worked me near to death - my illness is -YOUR- fault.” A giant of a Roegadyn bore down upon her, maelstrom armor clanking in the darkness: "You take advantage of how much I care about you - you disgust me!" A spirit veered in, this one with the tall black ears of a viera.  "I cannot fathom why I even had an interest in training you.  You are lackluster in every sense of the word.  You are a mistake.

As one, the phantoms began to chant together, the sound growing until it was a roar despite the Hyur's efforts to cover her ears.

"The sentence is death." "The sentence is death." "The sentence is death."

She heard the hollow sound of metal scraping as swords were removed from their scabbards.  The voices began to crescendo, a chorus of a mob demanding retribution.  As one their chants grew in strength, the volume increasing until the woman could not think, could not breathe.

"Death.  Death.  Death.  Death.  Death."

A skeletal wood wailer grabbed her chin, forcing her to gaze upon her executioner.  Her father.

"Pathetic, useless excuse for a daughter.  I know what you do."  She could feel the scorn in her father's voice as he spat his words at her.

"You spend your time at a whorehouse, fucking anybody that will pay attention to you.  Useless whore, you shame our name.  You're better off to me dead." he sneered.  The man took hold of the colossal claymore at his side, hefting it easily.  The weapon was raised up in an overhead arc before rapidly descending.  She struggled to move, but her body would not obey her.  She could only watch the blade's descent towards her exposed neck.

"NO!  AHHHHH!"

Lily's desperate scream rent the tranquil night's silence.  She bolted upright, panic in her eyes.  Her body was drenched in sweat as were her bedsheets.  She struggled for several long minutes, trying to control her panicked breathing.  Her sunken eyes and the fatigue lines upon her face made the Hyur look absolutely ragged.  Large bags had formed under her eyes accentuating her look and the normally beautiful woman looked quite frail indeed in that moment.

Another night, another nightmare.  It had been several days since she had slept without one disrupting her sleep.  Tears poured down her face as she clutched at the blanket on her bed.  She huddled there, afraid to close her eyes lest the same dream come again to torment her.  She shivered involuntarily, longing for the comfort of touch that would not come.  Her mind wandered back to the events earlier in the evening when she had gone to the Whispered Wish.  Exhausted and seeking comfort in the company of her friends, she had managed to make an absolute mess of things.  Lily thought of Zozola and how terrible she had likely made her feel that evening.  The last thing she had wanted to do was cause pain to her friend, but she had managed to do just that with her callousness.

She found it hard to think, the fog of fatigue and the wild emotions from torturous dreams running rampant through her head.  She looked to her linkpearl, wondering if she should apologize but she quickly decided against it.  Zozola likely didn't want to hear her stupid little voice anyway, was likely regretting her friendship with her even as she sat there in her bed miserable.  Lily collapsed back into her bed shaking.  She -deserved- this, she realized.  This was recompense for a lifetime of failure and disappointments to those that were close to her.  She would find no respite this night, nor the next as she lay there staring unblinking at the ceiling to her chamber.

***

The shadowy creature couldn't help but smirk.  All the pieces were falling into place, and she so loved when a plan came together.  There wasn't much she could do in this accursed prison, but with the Amdaporian magic holding her gaol together finally waning, she was able to send little slivers of her will out.  It was just -so- easy to manipulate the mind of this one, as insecure as she was.  A subtle thought at just the right time, and the woman became a blubbering mess.  She couldn't believe her luck when the little fool had wandered nearby a few days ago.  Possessed of a large quantity of aether but a weak will, it was easy to mark her and keep in contact with her.

And so, the creature had started sending the nightmares - ensuring the woman wouldn't get a full rest's sleep for many days.  As she felt the girl's fatigue begin to set in, she sent a subtle suggestion to her, one that was not easily ignored.  Every day that passed would cause the wretch to slip a little bit further into her delusions, and she wouldn't even be aware.  Her call would not be denied and would ensure that the girl would find her way to her... and when she did, she would be waiting to devour this morsel whole...

[yourplasticlittlespastic]

ᴏᴜʀ ᴡᴇʙ ᴏꜰ ʟᴏᴠᴇ – Peter Parker fanfic (8/of many)

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 SERIES

40

fricking

minutes

sitting on the floor waiting for my dad to get out, waiting for some answers, thinking about what he's there where Peter Parker lives...

"Yeah, I know my way out" dad's voice rings in the hall and I hear the door creaking "Thanks for that walnut date loaf May! Peter needs to talk to you about an excursion coming up!" I see through a corner that my dad closes the door. What I do know? should I follow him? or should I knock on Peter's door...

As soon as he enters the lift, I take out my phone and call Happy.

"Hap, hey...where are you?"

"In the tower now, security stuff"

I sigh not taking my eyes from the door "well, just wanted to tell you I'm just arriving at the house, safe and sound"

"Oh god, that's great, do not tell your dad about this ok?"

"Of course, I'm going to eat something and just do homework, have fun" I end the call and step in front of the apartment debating whether to knock or not

But I do knock. Instinctively I knock. And feel panic running in my veins. What should I tell him? I need to think of an excuse quickly. But I'm startled when the door opens revealing the same woman I saw. Wavy hair with soft highlights, white blouse and she's young.

"Hello!" She flashes her pearly teeth at me

"He-Hey, I'm Tannie and I'm looking for Peter Parker uh ... I... need his help with a tech situation" I smile at her, she seems nice

"Oh of course dear, come in. I'm May, Peter's aunt" She crooks her hand for me to step in  "Is Peter waiting for you?"

I rub my hands nervously  "Yes! he... is"

"Perfect, I'm preparing some salad if you want to... want something to drink?" she walks to the kitchen and quickly scan the area "oh! I know what you'll love, I prepared some walnut date loaf, pretty good recommendations" she winks at me in the kitchen

I nod "Yes please, you're very kind" I smile at her and she offers me a plate with a piece of loaf

She gently pushes me in front of the hall "C' mere... that's his door" she points out

I mouth a soft 'thank you' and proceed to step further. Quickly opening the door. The first thing I catch a glimpse of is his very messy desk. I slide myself inside and shut the door behind me. He looks up sitting n his chair and he almost falls

"Ta...Tannie! what are you doing here?" he clears his throat trying to stop his wobbly voice

"I need help with a project and I asked Ned for your address...I hope that's ok..." I innocently shrug and he stands up walking in front of me

"oh yeah sure!" he rubs his hands in his pants and quickly spins to awkwardly organize the chaotic blankets in his twin bed "please take a sit, sorry it's a little messy hehe"

I snort and stride to perch myself in the edge of the bed "it's ok... nice house, your aunt is friendly and young..." I bring the small piece of food to my mouth

"Maybe you shouldn't eat that" he points at the loaf in my mouth  "she's not the best cook" he breathily laughs and the bitter taste actually confirms it but I painfully swallow it  "so... uh, what do you need help with?" he shifts in his chair

"Oh yeah" I take my backpack and open it, taking a notebook

It's now or never

"I'm stuck in this question you see... what was my dad doing here?" I dart my eyes to his contracted pupils and unblinking eyes

"wha... what do you mean... Tannie?" he coughs and slumps his back against the chair

"I saw my dad's car downstairs and then I followed him and he comes here and it happens that this is where you live... coincidence?"

"He... umm... I applied for an internship at your dad's foundation October foundation?"

"September" I correct

"That and uh ... I got accepted so he came here to congratulate me and to tell me about a trip I'm doing...work yeah" He stares back at me, still no blinking, I see how he doesn't even flinch when he speaks

Well, you got your answers spying Tannie. Was waiting for something juicier.

I scratch my head "Oh... cool I guess...well, congratulations Peter. My dad's a little tricky to work with but you'll be great. Wait, wait... a trip?"

He leans forward, shoulders and hands relaxing "Yeah is part of the internship, to Germany..."

Germany? isn't where the Barnes/Rogers situation is taking place?

I quickly blink "When are you going?"

"He told me that tomorrow... so I don't know for how many days may be just the weekend? Need to talk to May though"

I stay quiet processing everything, what are my dad's intentions? Something smells fishy.

His snort breaks my train of thoughts "You really don't need help with something right?"

"mmm nope, just an excuse"

A knock outside his door booms and I close my backpack again

"Come in!!" Peter shouts

I rapidly scan his bedroom. Dartboard in his wall. Thick books about Algebra and clothes and shoes swinging in the racks of his built-on closet.

"Hi, guys just checking in!" May slowly waves at us

"Everything is fine, Peter helped me, he's so smart" I stand up placing my backpack in my back "I need to go now but I'll see you tomorrow, thanks for the help"

"You're leaving?" Peter lifts his brows

"Yeah, my dad will worry where I am" I spin to May "but thank you for the loaf and for receiving me"

"Anytime honey, let me walk you to the door" she palms my back

I leave the building immersed in thoughts and questions without answers. An internship, a trip to Germany? I walk to the crowded subway breathing the thick and hot air below. After some minutes of being squished between people, I finally step outside where the crisp air of the day hits the light layer of sweat in the back of my neck. I hurry up and walk across the big garden. I place my hand in the bio-reader and tiptoe to my room.

I stay still for a moment, catching my breath and throwing my backpack aside. The sound of steps coming closer makes me slide to the corner of my bed. The door opens revealing my dad.

"Hey!"

"T... where were you? thought you were at the D+A room but no?

"I just arrived from Harley's house... this robotic thing we're doing it's time-consuming" I gulp

He nods and strolls sitting beside me "oh yeah! how is he by the way?"

"He's fine, a pain the 'private parts'"

He snorts gently patting my head "Told you...listen, I'm flying today again to Germany..."

I sigh rubbing my temple "Something smells fishy, dad"

He winces sniffing his hands "Are you sure? I ate sushi in the car but I washed my hands"

"I'm serious dad, what are you not telling me? something is wrong, first the bomb, then Barnes scaping and Steve and Sam following him?"

"It's way more complicated than that Tannie," he tells me with a serious voice

"Then try me, I can't stand being in the dark and not when it's about people I love"

He rocks himself in the mattress and sighs "Let's just say that Steve is wrong about a lot of things ok? he's protecting a dangerous man who was years ago his best friend but that man doesn't even recognize him now and I need to stop him before he actually goes from Captain America to the Criminal of America"

My eyes go wide "You're going to arrest him?"

"I-I don't know but, I have some plans. Time is running and let's just say that the United States of America gave me 36 hours to control this situation... Tannie, please... this situation is bad..." he stands up and walks to the door "I need to go now, take care"

With that, he leaves the compound. I silently stare at the jet waiting for him. His body steps inside and I lean my forehead against the glass. Maybe I can talk to Steve? Sam? This is going to end badly... I can feel it. I look up at the sound of the turbines and the jet takes off.

The sudden remembrance of what I said to Spider-Man yesterday pops into my mind. I have two choices. To do nothing or to try to do something. A deep sigh full of frustration escapes my lips and I walk to my room again, unwillingly taking my books to start studying.

Flipping pages and devouring the chapters, dusk begins to settle outside the compound. The rumble of my stomach waking me so I pace to the kitchen spotting Wanda reading a book and a very creepy Vision staring at her. I start preparing a sandwich when the boom of an explosion makes my body jump. All pairs of eyes fixated outside where a cloud of smoke and fire starts growing.

I quickly jog to the window, Wanda following behind "What is it?"

"Both stay here, please" Vision goes through the window to check

I open my mouth to ask Wanda but in the blink of an eye, she briskly spins me behind her. I see how she compels a knife and throws it. My eyes manage to catch the fast moment and the air stops in my throat seeing Clint pushing the knife away.

"Guess I shoulda knocked"

I jog next to him. Giving him an 'it's been a while' hug

"Oh my god! What are you doing here?" Wanda gasps probably relieved she didn't kill him

Clint rapidly walks forward "Disappointing my kids" He shoots arrows to both sides of the room "I'm supposed to go water-skiing. Cap needs our help. Come on" He grabs Wanda's arm but stops in his feet turning to me "Lock the doors, you stay here, didn't see anything"

But before I could protest Vision goes through the wall.

"Clint! You should not be here"

With a sigh, he fully spins around "Really? I retire for, what, like five minutes, and it all goes to shit" his eyes leaving Vision and go to me "you didn't hear that"

"Please consider the consequences of your action" Vision slowly walks meters from us

"Okay, they're considered" suddenly Vision is electrocuted by the arrows Clint threw making me flinch at the sound "Okay, we gotta go"

I bet my eyes are as wide as they could be, I'm seeing the scene not knowing what should I do. I see how Clint runs but Wanda regretfully sees the tensed body of Vison under the shocks.

"It's this way" Clint points

"I've caused enough problems," Wanda says with her thick accent, Clint frowns jogging to her

"You gotta help me, Wanda. Look, you wanna mope, can go to high school"

"Hey!!" I gasp

"Sorry kid...You wanna make amends, you get off your ass... shit!" Vision breaks from the electric field with the mind stone and immediately pushes Clint to the floor.

Wanda spins to me "maybe you should go to your room...?"

I nod walking backwards around the fight scenario in front of me "yeah, don't worry I'll be there and I won't say a thing" she nods gratefully

Clint's grunts are behind me as I walk to the hall. My lips curving at the crazy idea I have. I reach to my room but only lock the doorknob and close it from the outside.

"I'm doing this...I'm doing this..."I whisper to myself pondering what I'm just about to do

I get out of the house only with the clothes I'm wearing and my phone, I see a car parked outside... this is where they plan to leave, luckily it's unlocked so I open the trunk and get inside. Yep, this is my plan. I rock my body to a more comfortable position and kick whatever is pinching t my back. I take out my phone and text Happy:

After some minutes Clint's disembodied voice appears "Come on"

I cover my mouth hearing how the doors shut. The engine begins to vibrate and the car moves forward. There's no turning back this time. I'm going to where they're going. Period

"What's our next stop?" Wanda asks the same question I have

"San Francisco, California... I know a guy who lent me a jet"

The drive was short and I hear Clint getting of the car and Wanda as well.

"There's a convenience store, you want anything? there's no food at the plane" Clint's voice sounds closer to the back of the car

"I come with you, need some gum," Wanda says and I wait at least two minutes

I half-open the trunk slowly peeking through the small opening. The blinking lights of the small store at the end of the area. With a double check that there's no one there, I fully open the trunk and swing my legs to the ground and close it behind me. My breath getting heavier as I spin to search for the jet Clint was talking about. My legs start running as soon as I spot it in the corner of the runway. I see the attached stairs so I get inside. My eyes hurriedly scan the space to find where I could myself in.

I lower myself to see the pair getting out of the store so I crawl to the end of the jet. I look up to find a closet just in front of the bathroom. I open it and smile when I see it's the perfect size to get in. A small area for me to sit. I curl my body to the confined space and quickly close the door sliding the lock. No light coming inside.

Clint and Wanda start talking but the closet door stifles their voices. In silence, the jet begins to move and the turbines high pitch sound begins to fill the air. Slowly, my body feels the tilting of the takeoff, my stomach rumbling until I doze off.

My head bangs with the wall so I instantly wake up from the pain.

"Auch!" I rub the back of my head uncomfortable stretching my back

"His house's over there, I'll park this thing here...let me go talk to him..." Clint says just in front of the closet I'm in

10 minutes

15 minutes

I lean my ear to the door to hear properly

"Seriously he remembers me? that's so cool man!" someone says with excitement

"yeah yeah, make yourself comfortable, it's a long flight"

"Oh hi! I'm Scott Lang!"

"Wanda Maximoff"

"Wait..." Scott pauses and I hear he walks closer to the closet

Shit

"are those Hot Cheetos? Man, I love them, can I have some?"

"Uh, sure..."

I want Hot Cheetos too...

It's been an eternity now and I'm getting tempted to play something on my phone but I don't have too much battery so I try to sleep. What time is it in New York? 6:30 am, I should put my world clock to the German time zone now... I'm going to sleep, it's the only thing to do here.

Again my head bangs into the wall making me twist my eyes in pain.

"We're here"

No kidding Clint

"Let me see if I can start a car so we can go to the airport"

"Hey, wake up Scott, we're here" Wanda whispers and I try to stay as quiet as possible to hear

"Jesus, that was so fast, I'm so sleepy right now... by the way, where are we going?"

"Need your help tiny man," Clint says

"It's Ant-man" the man called Scotts corrects. Their voices fading away

There's silence. So I lightly open the door and peek once again, it's empty. I crawl to the door which luckily it's still connected with some stairs. I peer my eyes and see them walking to the parking lot beside the jet. I take advantage that they're facing back at me so I run downstairs quietly following them. I stop when they stop, hiding behind a car. I lift my head and see Clint trying to open the door of a white van. Two kicks more and it slides open motioning Scott and Wanda to get in.

How on earth I'm going to get there?

"Wait!" I hear Scott yelling "I need to go to the bathroom, please"

Clint groans in frustration "Why You didn't go on the plane?"

"I was sleeping genius, jet lag is a bitch!" I softly laugh at his statement and see Clint rolling his eyes

"Well go on, we don't have much time" Clint sighs and walks away, taking his phone and dialing

Now it's only you Wanda...

She rambles through the parking lot only to lean against the other side of the van. This is my chance.

I lower myself as if I'm squatting. Slowly, I approach the van and look to where Clint is. Still talking and Scott meters away. I pinch my lips getting one foot inside praying it doesn't creak. I slide into the back of the van and crawl below the last pair of seats. I curl my legs to my chest and scoot all the way to the corner so no one can see me. Fortunately, the seats in front of me are blocking the sight

"Thanks, guys, my bladder is thankful with you," Scott says sitting in the seats in front of me

"Iugh" Wanda whispers, her voice farther than Scott's

"Ok, next stop Leipzig/Halle airport," Clint says and I pat my pocket and take my phone to search for the airport.

Stupid, I know. But it's until I see the small dot of where I am is when it fully hits me that I'm in fricking Germany and probably grounded until my 80th birthday.

"I'll be sleeping ok? ok..." Scott mumbles

The drive was quiet, except for my stomach twisting in despair. I feel how the van turns too many times until it stops.

"... We're here, level B2, yeah see you in some minutes Cap"Clint breaks the silent atmosphere " they're coming"

"Good... should I wake him?" Wanda snorts

"Nah, let him dream with ants a little bit longer"

It wasn't that long. A rusty engine pops just outside. Another car is approaching. The driver's and co-pilot's door open so I try as hard as I can to hear what's happening outside.

"Cap" Clint speaks, a knot in my chest knowing I'm going to see Steve

"You know I wouldn't have called If I had any other choice" His gravelly voice appears

"Hey man, you're doing me a favor. Besides, I owe a debt" Clint answers

"Thanks for having my back"

"It was time to get off my ass" Wanda speaks

"How about our other recruit?" Steve asks

I hear someone walking to the van and sliding the door, making the light abruptly appear.

"He's rarin' to go...Had to put a little coffee in him, but... he should be good"

I see Scott's body abruptly getting up

"What timezone is this?" Scott says with a drowsy voice

"Come on... Come on..."  Clint says and I see Scott walking away leaving the door open

"Captain America!!"

"Mr. Lang"

"It's an honor. I'm shaking your hand too long. Wow! This is awesome! Captain America!...  I know you, too. You're great!... Jeez. Ah, look, I wanna say, I know you know a lot of super people, so . . . thanks for thinking of me...Hey, man!" Scott's wobbly voice makes me smile

"What's up, Tic Tac?" Oh man, Sam is here too...

"Uh, good to see you. Look, what happened last time when I-"

"It was a great audition, but it'll . . . it'll never happen again" Sam laughs

"They tell you what we're up against?" Steve asks Scott and I try to slide out of the narrow space

"Something about some . . . psycho-assassins?"

I stop. What? what is he talking about? they must have talked about it while I was sleeping.

"We're outside the law on this one. So, if you come with us, you're a wanted man" Steve adds

Now or never Tannie...

"Yeah, well, what else is new?" Scott says

I cough a little and try to stretch my numb legs gaining some balance and peeking my head out

"Hi!" I simply say and everyone's eyes widen looking at me, even Sam jumping back

Scott raises his hands "oh God! I swear we didn't kidnap a girl!... I don't even know her!!"

Steve sighs, his shoulders heavily dropping "no... that's Tony Stark's daughter" Steve says staring at me

A/N: Hope you liked it! Also available in Wattpad! https://my.w.tt/sw2CZNdCv1

[therake-1996-blog]

Pure Chap 3

Chapter 3

Normalcy

 A few days pass. It was hard at first, trying to get into the swing of things, now having to travel to the gods’ mansion directly after school instead of staying at home. I found that I was constantly pinching myself to see if I’d wake up, and, along with that, I keep catching glimpses of that strange shadow everywhere. I can never pinpoint what it is or what it belongs to, as when I do a double-take, it’s gone.

Zyglavis also connected the door to my closet to the door to the mansion, which is located somewhere in the country, so it doesn’t seem like I actually leave the house.

That doesn’t make it any easier, though.

I’m on a very tight leash right now. School, the mansion, and then home for dinner and bed.

“You know, I do have friends,” I tell Zyglavis as I enter his room that Ichthys showed me to on this dreary Friday afternoon.

The walls of Zyglavis’ room are cream-colored, and the carpet is white. There is a large window at the back of the room, covered by a pretty, thin beige curtain, letting in lots of natural light. His bed is neatly made, the frame black and at the footboard, the symbol of Libra is engraved in silver. There’s a fireplace to the right of it, and a bookcase that matches the bed is diagonal from it, filled with colorful spines of blues, yellows, reds and greens. I notice that the books are the only actual colors in this room. The rest are shades of white and black. Looking to my right, I see a medium sized dresser and mirror, a desk with papers stacked neatly dead center, and, directly to my right, Zyglavis sits in a black leather chair, a pretty, shiny table in front of him, a matching chair to his left.

“I’m sure you do.” He says, his voice little more than a mumble as he looks over papers. I sigh, and let my book bag slide from my left shoulder to the ground. At this, Zyglavis lifts his head and narrows his clear eyes. “Do not leave that there. Someone could trip.”

I resist the urge to stick my tongue out at him like a five-year-old and grudgingly do as I’m told, picking my bag up and stomping over to the chair beside him and smacking it down on the seat. As he continues to look over his papers, he says, “The chairs are meant for sitting.”

My eyes widen in irritation, and my temper flares.        

“Well,” I say. “It’s just you and me in here, so you know what? I’m not moving it.” Zyglavis looks at me, staring at me silently and unblinking for a very long time before I avert my gaze. I still don’t move my bag.

As I turn my back to him, I notice there’s a large fountain slightly to the right of the window. I cock my head, my eyebrows pulling down as I approach it. “Please refrain from touching the reflecting pool.” I nearly jump out of my skin at Zyglavis’ hard, authoritative tone, and, before I can stop myself, I turn and look at him.

“It’s not a decoration?” I ask. He sighs, rolling his eyes, and pulls himself gracefully to his feet.

“No. It’s an important tool for my work. You’ve been told that I and the members of my department punish humans who do wrong. Well, this pool shows me my punishment targets.”

He walks up to the side of the reflecting pool and beckons me forward with his gloved hand. I hesitantly come to stand at his side.

Once I’m beside him, he waves a hand over the still water and suddenly it shudders, turning shades of purple, blue, and silver as it gradually begins showing us an image of a man walking down a busy sidewalk in a city. My eyes widen as I stare slack-jawed into the waters. I never thought anything like this could exist. In a way, it’s incredibly cool.

I’m starting to believe a little more.

Zyglavis lifts his right hand and a list on yellowed parchment appears. His eyes flit quickly over it, and he lifts his left hand, his fingers poised as if to snap.

“Paul Shorbert. Twenty-six. A con-artist who pretends to be elderly people’s children or grandchildren to extort money from them. Three old people have died because of his actions.” He speaks in a robotic tone, his eyes narrowing ever-so-slightly as he tells me the crime this man committed. I look down in to the pool, my eyebrows furrowed.

“That’s awful,” I whisper.

“It certainly is. And so, he must be punished.” Zyglavis’ chin lifts as he stares coldly down into the reflecting pool. “May this man bear the arduous weight of his sins for the rest of his days.”       

At those words, concern flares in me, and I open my mouth, but my words are choked back into my throat when Zyglavis snaps his fingers.

The man, who had been crossing the street, is suddenly hit by a car that ran a red light, his body flying up in the air. I gasp. “No!” I can’t help myself from crying out. The man’s body hits the ground with a sickening smack, making me cringe. After he hits the pavement, he doesn’t move, but Zyglavis couldn’t be less concerned.

He waves his hand impassively over the pool, and, without thinking, I grab his wrist. He slowly turns his head to glare at me, and I meet his gaze with a glare of my own.

“What if that man died?” I cry. “You’re just going to leave him there?”

“Gods are not permitted to kill humans,” Zyglavis says, wrenching his wrist from me.

“But still!” I insist. That man will have to live with the side effects of his injuries for the rest of his life, he’ll never be the same again, and this god…this god literally doesn’t care.

“Are you honestly fighting for that man when I told you what he’s done?” Zyglavis asks me, his voice accusatory. I hesitate for a moment, my hands balling into fists at my sides. “Are you saying that we should forgive everyone, no matter what they’ve done?”

My mouth opens before I think. “Yes. Forgive.”

Zyglavis looks at me for a moment, then scoffs, his face filled with disgust.

“You have no idea the beings gods are,” His voice is impossibly cold, his eyes sharp and definitive. “I know what you think; that we’re kind, loving creatures who watch lovingly over you humans. You all twist and bend the truth so that it benefits you, no matter how wildly untrue it is from reality. Allow me to tell you something, Eden James: not everything is the way humans believe it to be. You might as well get used to that.”

My eyebrows twitch is aggravation and frustration, my lips tight and angry tears stinging my eyes. That’s one of the things I hate about myself; whenever I get so angry, I cry. It’s a knee-jerk reaction, something I can’t control, and I hate it.

“What about mercy?” I whisper, not trusting my voice. “Everyone deserves a second chance.”

“Mercy?” Zyglavis repeats the word incredulously. He huffs, then straightens his gloves, the light of dusk coming in from the window making his hair seem almost violet. “I have no use for foolishness like mercy. I punish humans as only a god can, with absolute justice.”

I can’t say anything more after that. I know if I try I’ll just start crying. So I stand silently beside Zyglavis as he continues dispassionately punishing people, one after the other.

  As I lay in my bed later that night, I stare at my ceiling, imagining patterns that aren’t there on it. It’s after midnight, but sleep just doesn’t seem to want to grace me with its presence tonight. I sigh, lifting my right wrist and running my fingers over the tattoo of the heart I have on it, one half colored blue and the other colored green, the color each of my parents’ eyes had been. David had allowed me to get the tattoo on my sixteenth birthday, so long as I didn’t tell Lorraine. And when she found out—obviously she sniffed us out a mile away—she lectured us on secret keeping, but she said she could live with it, since it was for her sister and brother-in-law.

I pull myself to a sitting position on my bed and slouch there for a bit, staring blankly at the window across from me. The punishments Zyglavis doled out earlier are still vivid in my mind, and I doubt they’ll fade any time soon. I don’t understand it. Yes, those people did wrong. And yes, they deserved punishment, but nothing like what Zyglavis did. Getting hit by cars, falling off high places, accidentally shooting themselves…it was all too much for me. All of those people have their own families, too. What will happen to them? I run I hand through my tangled mess of hair, even though I haven’t been asleep yet.

Heaving another heavy sigh, I swing my legs over the edge of my bed and throw on my light sweater.

What I like to do when I can’t sleep is to walk around in the woods behind our house. The sound of owls and other nighttime animals soothe me when I can’t be soothed any other way.

As I walk cautiously in the dark, the cool wind of the first October night blows against my skin, gently rustling my hair. I hum a tune to myself, to a song by 10 Years. They’re a great band. I looked them up when David told me that he and my dad had bonded by listening to their music.

I wish that all of this is just some weird, vivid dream. I wish to go back to my normal, human life with absolutely nothing interesting about me. That may sound weird, but it’s what I want. I’ve always been perfectly comfortable with my B average, with my small circle of friends, and my sweet, loving family. Now I’m in this world of gods and dark kings. I just want my normalcy back.

The sound of the grass crunching softly under my shoes is melodic, the hoots of an owl a few miles away carrying on the gentle breeze. I sigh through my mouth slowly, forcing my heavy thoughts away and enjoying the dark, quiet, coolness of these familiar woods. I make the mistake of closing my eyes, and of course, I trip over a tree root, grunting as I struggle to catch myself. I manage not to fall, but end up smacking into a tree, and a sharp pain hits my left palm. I hiss and groan to myself. Great. I gave myself a splinter.

I squeeze the skin around where the pain is, hoping to get the splinter out without having to trek all the way back to the house, as I’m not ready to leave yet, but since it’s so dark and I don’t have my phone, I have no success. “Dammit,” I moan to myself.

Struggling with the stubborn splinter, I don’t notice when the owl stops hooing or when the wind stops. I only notice when I feel the presence of something…sinister.

The hair on the back of my neck stands up, my body shivering in the sudden frigid air around me. My heart kicks up in a nervous beat, my breath coming in quicker, my eyes darting around in the dark to try and locate the threat. There’s no animals around here that would be dangerous to humans, at least, not this close to the entrance of the woods. Maybe wild cats and raccoons, but nothing like wolves or bears or coyotes.   In the dark, I can barely make out the shape of someone, a man, but I can’t see his face. All I can sense is a malevolent energy, an aura that wants to harm other living things.

Is this that shadow?

My lips move, saying a name before I can think.

“Zyglavis…!”

In the next instant, I feel a warm hand at my back, and there’s a scent of clean linen. I look up, startled, but am quickly relieved when I see that it is him. He somehow knew where to find me. Either that, or he somehow heard me, which I doubt. Silently, he lifts his other hand, but the man standing a few feet from us vanishes before he can do anything.

The air quickly warms back up to the fifty degrees it had been before, and the owl starts hooing again. I breathe a sigh of relief.

However, that relief is short lived.

Zyglavis snatches up my wrist and drags me back through the woods to my backyard, none too gently shoving me in front of him.

“What in the name of all that’s holy do you think you’re doing, walking around in the dark, alone?” He demands of me, looking extremely irritated. Under the pale light of the moon, his skin looks translucent and his eyes seem black.

“I-I do this all the time!” I gasp.

“Have you completely forgotten what’s after you?” Zyglavis hisses. I see that his hands are in tight fists at his sides. “You can’t be doing something so absurdly stupid like walking around in the woods by yourself! That thing that was threatening you, that was a dark god. I put a protective ward on your house so you can’t be harmed there, but out here—”

“You did?” I ask, surprised. Zyglavis throws a glare my way.

“It wouldn’t do much good for either of us if I didn’t, now would it?”  

I gulp. Zyglavis is definitely pissed. I nervously dig my fingernails into my palms, and then, I feel a sharp pain deep in my skin, making me yelp. Zyglavis frowns as I lift my left hand and run my fingers over the skin of my palm.

“What is it?” He asks, though he doesn’t sound all that concerned.

“I tripped when I was walking, and ran into a tree. I got a splinter,” I reply, my voice like ice. Zyglavis watches me struggle under the dim light of the waning gibbous and after a moment, he sighs, closing the distance between us and taking my hand.

He looks down at it, and, before my brain can even understand what’s going on, he puts his mouth over it, sucking on my skin. My body tenses, a sharp inhale of breath entering my lungs, but before I can even think to yank my hand away from him, he releases it; it falls limply to my side. As I stare dumbly at him, he spits the splinter out of his mouth and flicks it onto the ground, all of his actions completely nonchalant.

“Did you just—”

“You need to go to sleep,” Zyglavis doesn’t let me finish what I was saying, cutting me off cleanly. “Humans require at least eight hours of sleep a night, and it is almost one in the morning. Go inside.”

“Hold on—” Zyglavis narrows his eyes at me and points to my house, his mouth fixed in a straight line. I find myself unable to say anything, so, irritated, I turn on my heel and stomp back to my house.

I have to refrain from slamming the back door.