#crimes never seen to mankind before now to get my teeth in those. i love hip dips. i love ass of any size. i love being bisexual

[theinfinitedivides]

saw someone i follow elsewhere (not this hellsite) post a pre-gym workout photo with the ass and the hip dips a couple days ago and got so light-headed i almost blacked out. htg i'm still woozy

[thehollowprince]

Penny Dreadful: City of Angels

Episode 1: Santa Muerte - Recap and Review

SPOILER WARNINGS ARE IN EFFECT BELOW THE CUT

The episode opens with a Mexican standoff (ba dum tsh) between Santa Muerte (Lorenza Izzo) and her “sister” Magda (Natalie Dormer), who seriously has to be roasting under the Southern California sun in that black leather outfit.  (Sidenote, how does a Mexican folk spirit/deity have a British woman as a sister?  Guess she was adopted.)  Anyway, Magda is monologuing, as villains tend to do, saying “All mankind needs to become the monster he truly is, is being told he can.”  They go back and forth for a minute, and I was eerily reminded of the movie Constantine that came out many moons ago.  Y’know the one, right?  Loosely (and I mean loosely) based on the comic character?  Played by Keanu Reeves?  That was the vibe I go here, with Santa Muerte and Magda making some kind of bet about the “worthiness” of mankind.  (I also got strong jealous ex vibes from Magda in this scene, but we’ll see how that goes).

So we start the action by showing a field of Mexican-American laborers working the fields with a little boy sitting on the truck, picking the music they listen to.  His father jokes about his choice of music before getting back to work.  Now I’ll be the first to admit that everything that played out next was just this side of tone deaf.  I understand that Magda is the villain here, and wants to see humanity burn, but having a white woman set fire to a field full of brown people, resulting in several deaths kind of defeats the message they’re trying to send with this show, but I will suspend my disbelief for a little while to see how all of this plays out.

All in all, it was a beautiful shot, as gruesome as it was, with the flames, and then seeing Santa Muerte cradling the boy’s father as he died in the flames all while La Llorona played in the background.  The boy tries to save his father, but Santa Muerte uses the Force to push him away, despite not even two minutes earlier claiming she “had no heart for the living”.  Must be something special about this boy.

Cut to 1938 and the boy is all grown up.  Tiago Vega (Daniel Zovatto) just passed his exam to become a detective, the first Chicano detective in Los Angeles.  His Mamá (Adrianna Barraza) prepared him a cake to celebrate the occasion, and we get to meet the rest of La Familia Vega.  First there’s Mateo (Johnathan Nieves), who is seriously adorable.  Next is Josefina (Jessica Garza), who is the baby of the family.  And then finally we get the big brother, Raul (Adam Rodriguez), who “mysteriously” isn’t a part of the main cast.

Anyway, Raul is not happy about his baby brother being a detective, given the Mexican and Mexican-American relations with law enforcement, which... valid.  He has a point.  But Mamá quickly shuts Raul down when he tries to be a Negative Nancy and they celebrate as a family.  Cut to later, and Mamá is walking Tiago to the bus, and they remark about the construction equipment at the end of the street.  Here we’re introduced to the main conflict of the story.  Their neighborhood is set to be demolished to make way for construction for the Arroyo Seco Parkway, the first of the LA freeways.  Mamá remarks about the machines, likening them to animals baring their teeth at her, before Tiago gets on the bus to go to his apartment, because he’s the only member of the family to move away from home.

By the way, I will never complain about the size of my apartment again after seeing how tiny Tiago’s is.

Cut to the next morning, where the phone rings, waking Tiago up, and it’s his new partner on the phone.  Congratulations!  You get to start two days early with no prep time.  Said partner, Detective Lewis Michener, is played by Nathan Lane like you’ve never seen him before.  And as an aside, just hearing him drop the F-bomb made my day.  The reason they’re starting early is because their was a homicide, and the captain himself called them specifically.  The murder is a family of four, dropped in the Los Angeles river bed, their faces painted in Dia De Muertos makeup.  Also, there’s a message scrawled nearby in blood (or red paint)

TE LLEVAS NEUSTRO CORAZON TOMAMOS EL TUYO 

“You take our heart, we take yours.”  If you haven’t guessed it by now, the hearts of the four victims had been removed.  This all ties back to the Arroyo Seco Parkway and how it’s planned to cut through the heart of the Chicano community.  Michener makes the connection as to why they were called, “It’s a spick thing.”  (Fair warning, that kind of language, while not super common in this show, isn’t exactly uncommon.)

Elsewhere, Mamá is getting off the bus in a fancy part of town, because she’s a maid to Peter Craft (alum Rory Kinnear), who is a German immigrant with two sons and a wife that looks a little strung out.  This scene is pretty filler, but it establishes the dynamic of Craft’s household, with him talking to Mamá before his own wife.  He leaves for work, listening to tape recordings in his car as a way to practice on getting rid of his accent to blend in and “be more American”  It was kind of adorable.

Back at the police precinct, Tiago got blood on his cuff from the crime scene and MIchener tells him to just throw the shirt out.  Que the racist cops who harass Tiago, because the audience needs to understand just how unwelcome a Chicano detective is among his all white peers.  The two visit their captain and discover that their four victims are a wealthy family from Beverly Hills, which judging by everyone’s reactions in the scene is a pretty big deal for some reason.  There was a horrible moment where the captain says “You have no idea how much I wished those bodies were Mexican” before he realizes who is in the room and adds a halfhearted “No Offense.”  I have to say, Tiago has way more patience than I do for shrugging it off.  The captain decides that it’s obviously Mexicans behind the murders and Michener suggests pachucos. 

Now we’re back with Craft, who is a pediatrician, and his current patient is the son of... Natalie Dormer... but now she’s blonde?  Elsa is concerned about her son Frank’s breathing problems and talks with the doctor privately about it, revealing that she’s also a German immigrant, originally from Berlin, “but now we’re in Boyle Heights, with the Jews” (seriously not a fan of how she said that, which I’m guessing is the point, but only time will tell).  There’s a moment between the two, with him offering her his handkerchief when she starts crying.  

After she leaves, we get one of the most disturbing scenes I’ve ever seen.  It takes a lot to unnerve me, but this scene unnerved me.  If you’re going into this show blind, let this be the moment when you find out that all the characters played by Natalie Dormer are all Magda, who shapeshifts into other people to further influence the negative emotions of those around her, bringing out the worst in humanity.  Well, “Elsa” enters the elevator with her “son” and unbuttons her blouse before placing his head against her stomach.  She absorbs him back into herself like some sort of weird reverse-birth, taking him “back to the womb” as it were.  It wasn’t overly graphic, but it unnerved me nonetheless. 

Back at the doctor’s office, one of his nurses asks what he wants for lunch and he says he’ll be going out.  He walks over to his closet and opens it, revealing a Nazi flag and uniform.  Abort!  

Abort!

At the city hall there is a meeting of the City Council, or some division of it involving transportation.  Its a meeting to discuss the Arroyo Seco Parkway, with almost everyone in attendance being Mexican, led, of course, by Tiago’s older brother Raul.  Gotta have that brother-against-brother angle.  The guy leading the meeting is some douchebag named Townsend (Michael Gladis).There’s a standoff between him and Raul over this parkway, with Townsend telling them to “go back where they came from”, which Raul responds rather cheekily to the fact that he was born in the Los Angeles County Hospital, same as him.

Raul: “When progress becomes barbarity, it ceases to be in the public interest.  We are the public, sir, no matter the color of our skin, and we will not be moved.”

Townsend: “Then you will be pushed.”

Naturally from there it ends in police brutality, with the cops on scene beating Raul with their clubs as they drag him from the city hall, despite it being open to the public.  And people wonder why no one likes the police? Although, I do love the fact that they made Raul so well-spoken.  Given how they’re presented as poorer, it would have been so easy to fall back on that illiterate Mexican trope, but they shied away from that, and I’m grateful.

After the meeting, Townsend is walking down the hall with Natalie Dormer by his side, this time as a gray-haired, middle-aged woman?  Man?  It’s unclear at first, until we get a wide shot and we see that she’s wearing a skirt with her masculine suit and tie combo, so definitely a woman.  Personally, I would have been okay if this persona - Alex - had been a man, but that’s just me.  Anyway, Alex is just feeding this blowhard’s ego, and he equates himself to Mussolini, and then Hitler (ABORT!).  The topic turns to more motorways, stuff to keep Townsend in the papers for some unknown purpose.

And we’re back to the Michener and Vega hour, where the two detectives are enjoying their lunch break when we hear drums and look up to see Nazis - I’m sorry, the German-American Bund - walking down the street in full regalia with Craft at their head.  Craft gives a big speech about staying out of foreign affairs (it’s 1938 and WWII is just about to start), saying “America First”.  Michener is giving them the stink eye and it’s at this point I remembered that he’s Jewish, so odds are he knows full well what the ideology behind the Nazi Party, even if their worst crimes are still ahead of them.

Michener insists they go, with the two heading over to Beverly Hills to investigate the home of the murder victims.  Inside there’s a portrait of who I thought was Joseph Smith above the fireplace, which I guess means these people were Mormons.  The radio, when turned on, is playing some Radio Evangelist (this is before Televangelism became a thing), and I think the woman preaching is the last member of our cast, Sister Molly (Kerry Bishé).  The two investigate the house and determine that the family wasn’t murdered there, though they do discover that the father was one of the guys behind the Arroyo Seco Parkway.

The plot thickens.

Cut to a shadowy meeting at the bluffs between Townsend and Baron von Strucker from the MCU.  Ugh, more Nazis.  The new Nazi talks to Townsend about getting him the position of Mayor of Los Angeles, to further their own agenda, and warns him that his driver is a Gestapo agent and has been told to shoot Townsend if the meeting does not go their way.

Later that night, we’re in downtown L.A., presumably in a Mexican-American neighborhood where Mateo works.  There’s some hanky panky going on in the store where he’s stocking shelves where some random dude and his sister, Josefina, are getting to second base.  Mateo puts the kibosh on that quickly, chasing the boy from the store while shouting obscenities, before arguing with this sister, until Mamá shows up and sets them both straight.  There’s a poignant moment between mother and son where he remarks about how as a Chicano, his options for the future are limited, that Tiago was the exception, not the rule.

Speaking of Tiago, he shows up to ask about Santa Muerte and if his mother had heard anything about something going on, as he recognized the face paint on the murder victims.  It’s revealed that he doesn’t believe in Santa Muerte, though his mother does and remarks about him being “marked”, revealing that he was the little boy from the beginning.  We all know that something bigger is going on, but Tiago is unconvinced, and this is the one time we see him and Mamá butt heads.  There’s a moment where the two calm down before we get a really cute scene of Tiago dancing with his mother.

That moment slides into a moment between Los Hermanos Vega, which starts nicely but ends up tense and serious, as they talk about the construction of the parkway to begin on Monday, which requires Tiago to be with the police but his brothers will be with the neighborhood.  I think they’re taking this brother-against-brother thing a little far.

Mamá is praying to Santa Muerte, begging for help, and Santa Muerte actually shows up, calling Mamá “Old Coyote” (I think).  The two argue, with the former mentioning a prophecy and the Vega matriarch begging for any kind of help because she wants to protect her children.  After Santa Muerte leaves, Mamá goes to Tiago’s apartment and implores him to try and stop the protest the next day, before chugging his whiskey.

As the episode started, that’s how we end it, with a Mexican standoff, this time between the police and the residents of Belvidere Heights.  Tiago hands his gun to Michener and tries to talk down his neighborhood, to avoid bloodshed, facing off directly with his brothers who are at the front of the opposing crowd, but unbeknownst to all of them, Magda is there (in her “true” form) pacing in front of the police.  She finds one officer and we see her whispering in his ear, which leads to him firing his gun, killing one of the protesters.  Gunfire erupts and chaos ensues, leading to a full blown riot.  Magda ends up whispering to Raul next and he takes a gun and starts shooting police officers, eventually aiming his gun at Michener.  In a heartbreaking moment, Tiago shoots his own brother to stop him from killing his partner, all while La Llorona is once again playing in the background.

All in all, I’d give the episode an 8/10.  It was a great start, introducing most of the key players involved and getting the conflict started right away, but there are still a lot of questions.  Also, there were too many Nazis in this for my liking.  I understand the point they’re trying to make, being a parallel to today, with Nazis being everywhere and no one batting an eye about it, but it’s still unsettling.

Can’t wait to see how this all turns out.

[spideyxchelle]

love is universal. it spans time and distance. and sometimes, on the rare occasion that love doesn’t quite get it right the first, love spans for more than one lifetime.

in their first life they are called Femi and Marcus. in their last they are called Peter and MJ.

but before those lives, they were immortal. this is that story.

Ares wove a string of myrtle in the boundless curls of Aphrodite. The Goddess of Love, naked and glowing like she had been dipped in a river of gold, contently hummed, “You have nimble fingers. For a solider.”

The God of War wrapped his arms around her lithe form and pulled her against his chest. With more affection than mere mortals could ever comprehend, he buried his nose into her neck. She breathlessly laughed and his immortal heart sang. He would have leveled cities, civilizations, no, entire worlds for her laughter. 

“War is delicate. Precise.” With the dexterity of a master swordsman, he engaged his fingertip down her torso, lower and lower, and her breath hastened. His touch might as well have been a blade. It cut straight to her bone every time. 

She sighed, “Ares.”

“Aphrodite,” he sweetly kissed her shoulder. 

The cosmos heard:

“War.” 

“Love.”

Aphrodite shut the viewport down to Earth. She could not watch anymore. The war between the mortals was beginning to grow out of hand. The Romans and Greeks seemed to compete on who could be more cruel, more abhorrent. Scores of innocent people fell every day and the Gods turned it into sport, cheering on their brutes and villains for fun.

Peace was an option that the humans never took. They did not know how. They had never been given the chance to seek a better path. The Gods did not interfere in mortal matters.

Ares blearily stumbled into her viewing room. He was naked and unreasonably beautiful. He saddled up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. “You closed the viewport?”

She leaned back against him. He was built for battle—firm in all of the right places. “I could not watch,” she admitted.

He turned her around in his arms and brushed her curls off of her shoulder. She paused. As a Goddess, she had been celebrated, honored, adulated by all of mankind, but none of that worship even came close to the way Ares looked at her. Hidden in the depths of his eyes were the cure to her endless aching. And she did ache.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“The Titans, the Gods keep letting these humans kill each other senselessly—”

“Not senselessly,” he interrupted. “It is their duty. Their honor to fight for their country.”

Aphrodite slipped out of his arms, “Why should they fight at all?” Ares rested his hand on the viewport. She restlessly began to walk around the room, “They could live in peace. There is enough food, resources, culture for all of them.”

“Men don’t fight for food or resources or culture. They fight for power.”

Aphrodite countered, “Innocent people die.”

“Yes, they do,” Ares replied. “What would you have us do?” She answered. Her mind was made up. She would not sit aside, proper and irreverent, to suffering any more.

And Ares, more in love with her than his own life, threw away everything to help her.

The guards came for them in the middle of the night.

Ares was wrapped around Aphrodite and her hair, intricately braided, ticked his cheek. He kissed her bare shoulder blade in his sleep and she playfully rolled over in his arms.

Impatiently, she nudged him awake with a bite. His eyes fluttered open and his smirk was muffled in the seams of her blankets, “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“Do you have any idea how much I don’t care?” She stole a kiss from him. She was a thief and took another. He was too content, too in love with her, to stop the pilfering. Ares allowed her to take whatever she wanted. He always did.

In all the universe, she was what mattered most to him.

With a push, she knocked him on his back and straddled him. Ares drew loopy patterns of his name with his fingertip across her skin. She laughed and she saw the sound hit him square in the chest. His smile was too big for his face. “I love you,” he said, as if he could not help himself.

Her eyes softened. Whenever he said those words, she felt something crack in her chest. It was the good kind of fissure, because it allowed the light to flood in. She leaned down and kissed him ever-so-gently, “I love you more.”

He shook his head. Ares brushed his thumb across her cheekbone, “I love you most.” Her breath hitched.

She was mere inches from his mouth, to run away with another kiss, when the guards pulled her from him. She yelled and battered against the hellions that subdued her.  

Ares leapt from the bed and blindly searched for his sword.

The captors restrained him next.

She tried to catch his eye in the heavy darkness, one final, merciful, dazzling look, but she was pulled away.

It would be many  years before she saw him again.

Aphrodite heard her heavy prison door unlock. The bars that had been built by her husband, heavy and impenetrable, swung open. The sweet smell of spring flowers filled the cell and she knew before she even looked up that Persephone had arrived. She turned away from the Queen of the Underworld and rested her matted hair against the grimy wall. She had been a prisoner for several mortal years as the Titans deliberated. She was in no mood to entertain the sometimes Spring, “Go away, Persephone.” 

“You have a visitor,” she said. Aphrodite huffed. They had torn Ares from her arms. They had cast him into the pit of hell to face the shades as they awaited their trail, as the Titans decided their fate. There was no one, nothing anyone could say to her now to give her comfort. 

“You smell terrible,” Athena sniffed.

Aphrodite’s heart caught in her throat. She could not help herself, she whirled around to face the Goddess of War. Athena looked so like her brother, so like Ares. Bitter tears stung her eyes.

Aphrodite swallowed the heavy lump in her throat, “Athena—“

“I cannot stay long. If they knew I was here...” Athena words trailed off. “They are sentencing you and my idiot brother tomorrow. Take care Aphrodite, they will not be kind. You broke the rules.”

“Have you come all the way down to hell to chastise me?” She sighed, “If so, it was a wasted journey.”

“I have come to help you,” she snapped. “Despite what I think of you, Aphrodite, and I think many things, I love my brother. And tomorrow I will lose him. The Titans will not forgive you for your crimes. We have but one rule and you broke it.”

Aphrodite pulled herself from the dirty floor. She was a Goddess and would not be talked down to like a child. She knew better than anyone that love could combat war and win. Her and Ares were proof of that. “The law is unjust.”

“The law is the law,” Athena roared. “Who are you to question it?”

“You would never question it?” Aphrodite challenged. “You would shut your eyes to what is right and leave millions of people in suffering?”

Athena’s jaw ticked, “Mortals.”

“They have a right to life, Athena. I would not let them suffer.” She knew what the other Gods thought of her and her affection for the humans. She knew the other Gods thought her soft hearted for leading with love and compassion for their plight. She knew, perhaps, it would be easier to close her eyes to pain and misfortune and injustice and allow things to continue on as they had been for a millennia. But she could not endure it any longer. She would not. 

“You are a fool,” Athena said flatly. 

“I would rather be a fool than leave those that cannot defend themselves to the hounds.” Aphrodite slowly retreated to the corner she had been left to rot in and asked plainly, “Why have you come?”

Athena ground her teeth, “To help you. If I could get to my brother—” Athena gulped. Aphrodite observed the warrior. It was the most vulnerable she had ever seen the Goddess look. Athena worshipped her brother. Ares adored his sister. For an eternity, they had raced their chariots into battle with the gleeful exuberance of children first learning to ride the stars.

Once, the thought of war, of fighting for anything, felt archaic to her. Then, on one summer night, she watched Ares join the battle of some forgotten war. From the heavens, he looked like he was fighting for sport, for his own honor, but in the thick of battle she saw him protecting a small mortal boy. He could not have been older than twelve. Ares beat back every opponent that tried to harm the boy, and when the war was won, Ares had helped the boy to his feet. He thrust a shield in his arm and said, “Chin up. You fought bravely.”

The boy threw his exhausted arms around the God, and Ares did not hesitate wrapping his arms around him. He whispered something Aphrodite could not hear from the heavens in the boy’s ear. Then, he sent him back to his people with the shield still in his arms. The shield of a God. The boy would never fall in battle with the enchanted protector.

Ares had saved him.

She went to him that night and watched him pound away at the dents in his armor from his doorway. “Why did you help that boy?” she asked.

He did not look up from his task. He continued to chip away at his work. Ares said, “Despite what you think, Aphrodite, I find no pleasure in watching boys die for men’s wars.”

She pushed herself off of the wooden doorframe and glided across the room. She sat on the bench near his work station and watched his steady hands work. In all the years, the horrible, endless years she had been married to Hephaestus, she had never truly sat and watched him smith. Yet, with Ares she could not look away. Her eyes flickered from his hands to his face. She recalled how beautiful she had thought him that night, drenched in orange light from the glow of the fire. “Why fight at all, then?”

He met her eyes in the firelight. Something significant pulsed between them. She inhaled sharply. He whispered, “Because some things are worth fighting for.”

He taught her about war, about fighting for something. And she taught him about love and peace. Together, they built something knew that rattled the stars. It defied them.  

And now, they were being punished for it.

“They won’t let you see him?” Aphrodite gently asked.

Hurt flashed in Athena’s eyes. She shook her head, “If they did, I would never have come here.”

Aphrodite pulled a wilted myrtle flower from her hair and crushed it in her fist. She let the petals slip from her grip and fall to the ground. “What will they do to us?”

Athena joined Aphrodite on the floor, at once making them equals and not the fallen prisoner and honored Goddess they were. “I cannot say. I do not know. But I have been told this—you have the power to save him, Aphrodite. And you must. Please, promise me you will save him.”

Aphrodite felt truly helpless. “Save him from what?”

The hell hounds yipped in the distance. Persephone stepped into the cell and touched Athena’s shoulder. “We must go. They will know you were here.”

Aphrodite repeated, “Save him from what?”

Persephone pulled Athena to her feet, “We are out of time.”

Athena sent one last regretful look over her shoulder at the Goddess of Love. Desperate and alone, Aphrodite practically shouted, “Save him from what?” Hephaestus’ impenetrable prison doors slammed shut and the deafening silence of eternity swallowed the room whole. Aphrodite pulled her knees into her chest and willed herself not to cry. She spotted the crushed myrtle flower petals on the floor.

They were dead.

The Three Fates— Mistresses of the Universe, the Titans of Time, Space and Grace— sit perched on the edge of their immortal throne. The constellations lifted them up over the accused as their trial began.

Aphrodite had been dragged before The Three Fates and tossed at their feet. She looked up at them and schooled her features into something irreverent and bored. She would not give them the satisfaction of smelling her fear.

In that moment, two guards of hell hauled Ares before the Court. He snarled and fought against his restraints. They had tortured him for mortal days, months and years, and still had not stripped the fight out of him. Her heart flipped. Ares.

He spotted her and tried to wrench himself free of their grasp. “Aphrodite,” he gasped. The guard slammed the butt of his weapon against the back of his head and Ares fell forward. The strength of the two guards kept him on his feet.

She wanted to scream. She wanted to shout for help, but there were none here that would answer her call. Aphrodite was in a nest of vipers.

They tossed his body before The Three Fates and he fell to his knees with a resounding thud. They were close enough that she could hear his breathing. She turned to look at him with tears in her eyes, and he smiled, “I missed your face, Love.” She laughed and a pesky tear slipped free. Her stupid, beautiful Ares. Even now, at the trial that would no doubt end in their assured unhappiness, he seemed overjoyed to see her.

“Even now, War?” she teased.

With absolute sincerity, he nodded, “Always.”

Time raised her hand and the room quieted. All of the other Titans and Gods watching the trial sat. Aphrodite could fell the heavy weight of Athena’s eyes on her brother’s back. She could almost imagine her terrified, clenched fist in her lap.

Space stood and the stars orbited around the billows of her skirt. The Three Fates had no irises. Their eyes were infinite light. They saw all. They knew all. They decided all. The universe was theirs to command and foster and level. Their voices did not boom. They curled like soft whispers in every ear that was honored enough to hear them speak.

Space tilted her chin down to look at the two disgraced Gods. “You stand accused of breaking our most divine law— enlightening mortals.”

Ares replied, “The law is corrupt.”

Grace, the softest of The Three Fates, inched forward, “You have great spirit, Ares. But the humans abuse knowledge. They have proven this time and time again.”

“And so, we should stop trying to help them? They are capable of change, of growth, of understanding. I have seen it.”

Time remained sitting on the curved edge of a constellation, “We are here to discuss your crimes, God of War.”

Aphrodite invited the discord, “If we never allow them to change, if we never change, the world will never be better. We will get stuck in this circle of violence and hatred.”

Space rolled her golden ring of stardust around her finger, “Circles can be instructive. Circles can be cruel.”

“And a circle,” Time picked up, “is what you will get.”

Aphrodite strained for Ares hand. The heavy chains weighing down their wrists were impossible to lift. Hephaestus’ work. She desperately looked at Ares and he gazed back. The fight was evident in his tense shoulders. He wanted to hold her as much as she wanted to hold him. To be close but unable to touch was an acute form of torture. The years trapped in hell did not hold a candle to this moment.

“Our role is not to interfere in humanity,” Grace echoed. “It can be hard to do nothing, but if things are to happen in their natural order, we must allow the humans to make their own choices, their own mistakes.”

“Something you once knew well, God of War,” Time noted.

Ares did not stop looking at Aphrodite. And she was helpless to do anything other than look back. Her dearest love. “I love you,” he said. He did not bother addressing Time. It was more important to him to speak to her now, before they were ripped apart.

“I love you, too,” she said. Her bottom lip wobbled.

“Therefore,” Time continued, nonplussed, “you will be cast from the heavens, stripped of your divinity and be of mortal flesh and blood.”

Aphrodite felt her heart drop. She had suspected they would be exiled, but to be made mortal was unspeakably cruel. She had always hoped she would have had several lifetimes with Ares, that together they would live a thousand years wrapped in the warm embrace of their love. To be sentenced to one mortal life together was not enough time.

As if she could hear her thoughts, Space twisted her dream, “And when your first life ends, you will be reborn.

Grace added, “You will be cursed with love and war and death.”

“This is your punishment,” Time agreed.

Despair swept over Aphrodite and sound turned into a white hum. She saw Ares shouting at The Three Fates, thrashing against his chains, but she did not hear his words. Space was right—circles could be cruel.

A thought occurred to her. Sound came back to her slowly, like liquid. Then, it crashed into her body.

She heard Ares shouting obscenities, cursing all of the Gods that stood idly by their judgement.

Aphrodite felt her voice carry over the crowd, over the noise. She silenced the room like the Goddess she was born to be. “For how long?”

Grace tenderly replied, “As long as it has to be.”

She began to imagine the loop dragging into eternity. Lost and mortal and helpless. And cursed. Forever. All for the crime of hope.

Vaguely, she heard The Three Fates curse Ares further for his impertinence. He would remember, they said. In every life, he would be cursed with knowledge of his other past mortal lives, weighed down and broken by memory.  

“No,” Athena begged, from just beyond the judgement slat. Ares flinched. “Please no!” She shouted.

The sound of Athena’s voice struck Aphrodite. The Goddess had told her that she had the power to save him. Aphrodite looked wildly around the room, trying to grasp the meaning of that ominous warning. If she could save him, she had to know how. It was a circle. Circles could be broken.

A wild, outrageous, crazy thought began to take shape in Aphrodite’s mind. It was as fuzzy as the sunlight on a foggy day, but just like the sun on those days, it was there. Shining just beyond what she could grasp.

The sound of enchanted metal shattered. Her wandering mind was pulled back to focus when Ares was suddenly sitting on his knees in front of her. He was cupping her face between his bloody palms. He had torn through the metal. It was impossible. Yet, so was he.

Aphrodite shuttered. He kissed her desperately and she so willingly tipped into the never-empty well of his passion. It was a bruising, loving kind of kiss. She realized it was a goodbye.

He was torn from her mid-kiss, hauled backward thrashing. “I will find you!” he called out. “I swear, I will find you.”

Now that she knew the chains could be broken, she began to fight. She needed to get to him. To whatever end. The world be damned. The chains did not even rattle. “I will never stop fighting for you!” she wept, as another set of hands pulled her to her feet. She was held up, in abject horror, as Destiny approached Ares. The Titan looked a reluctant party to their judgement.

Still, she wrapped the twine of mortal life around the crown of Ares’ head. He attempted to writhe away. The coil began to glow an angry, heated red. His screams sent Aphrodite into another useless attempt at escape.

Destiny spoke too softly to Ares. And then, he was gone. Vanished. Ripped from the cosmos. As if he had never existed at all.

Athena wailed.

Aphrodite ceased to feel. She was devoid of anything. The shock was almost palatable. It made the hurt disappear.

When Destiny twined the mortal coil around Aphrodite’s head, her eyes remained fixed on the place where Ares had once stood. It was still empty, missing of him.

“Aphrodite,” Destiny said so softly that she was certain only she was able to hear them. She blinked her dewy eyes up at Destiny. “I give you this gift.”

The searing pain of the coil began to heat around her head. She had never felt pain quite like her immortality, her divinity being stripped from her. And still, in the thick of all of that pain, she heard Destiny whisper, “Michelle.”

There was a flash. As misty as a memory.

Then, she was gone.

[yer-a-nerd-harry]

John, I’m sorry.

hello, beings that still exist on Tumblr. I wrote a story a couple years ago and actually I’m kind of fond of it and would like to continue but I kinda want some feedback so here it is! Please tell me stuff... Also yes I know some of it is crap but I’m still working on it.

I am Sherlocked Blog Post # 156 11:37 P.M

It was a dark and stormy night. The rain pelted down on the windows of 221B Baker Street, where a sleeping Sherlock Holmes lay nestled on his tattered couch illuminated only by the light of a slowly dimming candle on the mantelpiece. It had been a long week. First the kidnapping of London’s premiere clothing designer, Elisabetta Valentine, just hours before the opening night of her new line at Burberry. Next the robberies at the Natural History Museum, where hundreds of priceless specimens had vanished overnight. And of course, Sherlock’s greatest foe James Moriarty was still terrorizing London and the boys at 221B Baker Street.

This time he had taken to picking off the members of the Baker Street Irregulars one at a time. To the general public this may have seemed like a service, but to John and Sherlock, it was a monumental problem. The BSI were their eyes and ears on the ground. They knew London better than the back of their hand, because who actually knows the back of their hand anyway? If Sherlock needed information on anyone or anything, from the Queen of England to The Tower of London, he could count on the Irregulars to get it for him in less than 24 hours in exchange for a warm meal or a new pair of socks. But now that Moriarty was on the hunt and taking out Sherlock’s favorite group of misfits like flies, the remaining members had disbanded and sworn off contact with Sherlock.Although he promised he could keep them safe with the help of Scotland Yard and his trusty “sniffer dog” Detective Lestrade, the Irregulars couldn’t help but think of all the times where Sherlock had been unable to keep his word. The bombings, the thefts, the murders, all things Holmes had promised to put an end to but couldn’t. He was just one man after all, and they could find their warm meals and new socks somewhere else.

So after an almost incredible week of attempting to solve all these crimes by himself, without the aid of John due to the influx of maimed and murdered Irregulars at Saint Bart’s, Holmes was exhausted and had fallen asleep at the ripe hour of 4 A.M. He wasn’t keen on the idea of sleeping either and had reminded John of that many times. In fact, earlier that night they had fought about it.

“Let’s go to bed Sherlock,” John whined from his spot on the couch while Sherlock paced the length of 221B, stopping in the kitchen and jamming his head in a cupboard.

“These crimes aren’t going to solve themselves John and the ordinary bumpkins Lestrade calls detectives aren’t going to do it either. Besides, sleep is for those who are disinterested in being awake and have nothing better to do.And I have something better to do John; there’s always something better to do. My mind palace isn’t going to fill itself you know,” Sherlock retorted his voice muffled and echoed from his spot inside the tea cupboard.

“If you think for one minute I’m going to let Moriarty get the upper hand then--”

“SHUT UP.”, John shouted, exasperated.

Sherlock jumped, his head smacking the top shelf, knocking several teacups onto the tiled floor with a great shattering noise.

“What was that for,” Sherlock growled through gritted teeth, pulling his head out of the cupboard to face John. His hand was gripping the back of his neck and his face the colour of Molly's lipstick last Christmas.

John rose from his chair and swiftly walked towards the window overlooking Baker Street. It was a quiet night, and only a few cabbies dared to drive through the rain-filled potholes down below. He turned to face Sherlock, their faces matching in colour. He opened his mouth and a voice deep and thick as the night came out.

“I AM SO SICK OF YOU TRYING TO TELL ME WHAT I DO, AND DO NOT KNOW. I AM SICK OF YOU TRYING TO ACT LIKE YOU’RE BETTER THAN ME AND THAT I DON’T KNOW YOU. OH, I’M THE GREAT SHERLOCK HOLMES AND NO ONE WILL EVER UNDERSTAND ME,” John mocked, pulling an incredibly accurate face and continuing on his tirade, “FOR GOD SAKE SHERLOCK I KNOW YOU BETTER THAN ANYONE.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened, and his jaw dropped. He had never seen John, his sweet and caring doctor act like this before. It was shocking, and if he was honest a little attractive.

“John--” Sherlock began.

“No, Sherlock, I don’t want to hear it. Not tonight. Tonight was supposed to be special.”

Sherlock looked around the room, taking it in for the first time this evening. The candles lit on the mantelpiece had long since burnt out leaving little pools of wax in their wake, the meal John had prepared had gone cold, the roses he had given Sherlock when he came in, left on the table to wilt.

“ I’m such an idiot,” mumbled Sherlock under his breath.

“You think,” retorted John, already halfway to the door, buttoning his jacket.

“Wait,” Sherlock whimpered, tears welling up in his great blue puppy-dog eyes.

“Happy Anniversary,” John said with a quiver in his voice Sherlock had never heard before.

The door slammed, and John was gone. Sherlock got to the window just in time to see John jump into a cab and sputter off away from 221B and away from him. Sherlock waited as long as he could for John to return, fiddling with a small velvet box in his pocket. He had found it under the cupboard after John left when he was cleaning the broken china, he knew he put it in there somewhere. It must’ve fallen out when he hit his head. He was so preoccupied with finding that little box, and it’s precious contents that he hadn’t paid any attention to John all evening, not to the candles, or the flowers, or the beautiful meal that was now packed away in the fridge. Just before he fell asleep on the couch waiting, Sherlock stole one last look inside the box, at the gleaming golden band inside engraved with the words “The Game is Afoot” and, although a proclaimed atheist, he prayed that his doctor would come back to him.

God, I think to myself, is this really what I want to write? I mean I love the story and the characters, don’t get me wrong. But what if people don’t like it? What if they think it’s boring, stupid, or cliche? What if my fans think I could do better, or write more thoughtful and exciting pieces? I mean puppy-dog eyes? Come on. I put my laptop at the foot of my bed and jump in. I look out my window at the vast expanse of the Vancouver skyline. Rain beats down on the windows of my apartment making it impossible to make out the buildings. The Sinclair Centre is my favourite. It’s old and historic and gives me such incredible wanderlust. Every night I look at it and dream of visiting London, seeing where Arthur Conan Doyle got his inspiration for my favourite boys, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Alas, that won’t be happening anytime soon. I’m broke, and Sherlock Holmes isn't even real. He's just a fictional detective and it's all just a story, and a heterosexual story at that. Even though they’re clearly meant to, John and Sherlock will never be, thanks for that one Steven! But I can at least provide the fandom with the first chapter of my next story.

I clamber out of bed and make my way to the kitchen, it’s late, and everyone is asleep. I turn on the tap and fill the kettle, placing it gingerly on the stove. Digging through the cupboards I find my favourite mug, it’s big and heavy and has a worn out Union Jack on it because of course, it does. Every time I’m about to post a new story or chapter I make a cup of tea first, it’s warm and comforting, and it makes me feel like everything is going to be okay. Tonight’s tea of choice is Earl Grey, quintessentially British and my favourite. The kettle begins to squeal just as I drop the tea bag in my cup. In goes the water, two sugars, and a splash of milk. I head back to bed scared of what awaits me. My laptop sits open where I left it, the upload page, mouse hovering over the submit button. Well, here goes nothing. Tea in hand I’m about to click submit just as my twenty pound tabby jumps into my lap, spilling tea all over the keyboard.

Fuck Stamford, I snarl, swatting away the fat cat and rushing to save my computer. I make a note to myself to put him on a diet and grab a towel from the laundry bag in the corner of my room, making haste cleaning up the growing puddle on my bed. Just as I’m about to clean my computer, I realize it’s still plugged in. Well, that would have been a disaster, I think to myself leaning over my bed to unplug it. The moment my wet hands make contact with the outlet, everything goes black. I feel a searing pain rushing from the tips of my fingers to my temples, but I can’t seem to open my eyes enough to focus on it. I fall back into bed thoughts whirring through my head. Am I dying? No, you overdramatic idiot, it was just a little shock! Why do I feel so bad, why can’t I see anything clearly? Is my computer okay? Did my story save? Who cares right now? Just try to focus on something. I try to open my eyes but can only see the faint outline of the city and a helicopter flying by in the distance before I pass out.

My dreams are weird. Must be from the shock. First I’m flying in the TARDIS with Jon Snow from Game of Thrones, then I’m a sheepherder in Ireland, then I am the sheep, then I’m Neil Armstrong, taking one small step for man and one giant leap for mankind. Then I feel a distinct wetness, must be Stamford licking my face. He does that when I don’t feed him on time. I try to push him away, but the moistness persists. It starts to feel more like a dripping than the sandpapery scratchiness of Stamford’s tongue on my cheek. I reach out to try and find him, but my hand falls through the air and onto something hard and cold. I pick up a handful of whatever lies beneath me, struggling to focus on the smooth, wet multicoloured ovals I find when I open my eyes. What the hell? I must be having another dream.

This time I’m laying on the shores of what looks to be the River Thames. I can see the Tower Bridge in the distance, all sparkly under the glow of the moonlight. I’ve had this dream before but never this vivid. It’s pouring, and something is digging into my back. A stick and it fucking hurts. Funny, I’ve never felt pain this acutely in a dream before. I try to stand up but feel woozy and sick. My foot catches on a lump of material plopped in front of me, and I face plant into the stones and knock myself out. I have an irrational fear of falling, from high places, low places, even just tripping on my shoelace so a fall like this in a dream should wake me.

But when I feel myself being shaken awake and the glow of the morning sun hitting my back, I turn to find not the gentle face of my mother but a man I’ve never seen before. He’s about six feet tall from what I can see from my spot on the ground. He’s wearing a dirty plaid shirt underneath a puffy hunting jacket. His blue jeans are ripped and muddied and almost as greasy as his hair and scruffy beard.

“Get up lass,” he says in a gruff and scraggly voice.

“We’ve got to keep moving if we want to stay out of the gutter.”

I must still be dreaming. I shake my head and pinch my cheeks but I’m still in London, and this smelly old man has still got a vice grip on my arm. I try to pull away, but he keeps insisting we move as quickly as possible. He’s dragging me now, but I’m not about to get abducted by some crazy old man with as many teeth as I have fingers.

“LET GO,” I shout, my breath emerging as a cloud in the crisp London air.

“Suit yourself then. S’not my problem if you’re the next to go.”

He turns away from me and jogs off down the path past a group of American tourists taking selfies with the Tower Bridge in the background. I’ve got to wake myself up. I look around, ahead of me are tourists crowding a paved walking path, taking photos of the river and sipping their morning coffees. To my left is a park filled with birds and old couples holding hands. To my right, about twenty feet away is the river. No wonder my back hurts, I think, as I look down at the multicoloured pebbles that line the riverbank.

I get up, still dizzy and make my way towards the water. It’ll be cold this time of year, but it should be enough to wake me up. I take my shoes and socks off, leaving them by the water’s edge and slowly wade into the water. I’m up to my knees, and it’s freezing, but I have to do it.<

“3, 2, 1,” I say to myself and dunk my head in. I struggle to breathe under the weight of the freezing water, but I force myself to stay under just a few seconds longer. Suddenly, I feel a hand grabbing the back of my collar, pulling my head up with a jerk. It's the old man and this time he’s not letting go.

“Come on girly, Moriarty’s men are close by, and they're not letting any of us kind get out alive.”

I can feel his breath on the back of my neck, it's hot and moist and smells like black coffee and day old bread. I rise out of the water, and for the first time since I “woke up” here I take stock of myself. I’m not wearing the pyjamas I went to sleep in but rather an ensemble quite like the old man, ragged black track pants and a baubled red sweater that has certainly seen much better days. The man is pulling me away from the water now and into the park. I look back towards my shoes, sitting on the rocks, just as two burly looking men with military haircuts and cell phones to their ears scoff and kick them into the icy abyss.

We finally stop, after running for what seems to have been miles, but in reality, it was probably only a dozen blocks or so. The sun is still high in the sky, but it has become shrouded in clouds, a sure sign of rain. A crack of thunder bursts through the air, and the downpour begins. Brightly coloured umbrellas start popping up all over the street as families and groups of students on term break rush into various teahouses and souvenir shops that dot the street. The old man and I take refuge under the awning of “Sir Lumiere’s Fine Chocolates and French Pastries”. A hand painted wooden sign dangles underneath, swaying in the wind. It reads “Try the Grey Stuff; It’s Delicious”. I chuckle to myself; I can’t resist a good Disney reference.

“Us Irregulars got to take care of each other,” the old man says after some time of heaving and panting. And that’s when it dawns on me. I'm not in a dream at all. The pinching, the falling, the ice cold water, it all should’ve woken me up. And once this old man, who’s now introducing himself as Wiggins, mentioned the Irregulars, it all comes together.

I’m in my story, and I’m being hunted by the greatest criminal mastermind of all time, James Moriarty. It must’ve happened when I shocked myself after Stamford knocked my tea onto my laptop. I turn to face Wiggins, but he has already gone. There’s only one person that can help me now, and I know exactly where to find him. After hours of struggling to understand the tube and London’s bizarre transport system. I finally arrive. The rain has let off, and the sun is setting, bathing the old brick building in a beautiful pink and orange glow. I walk up the crooked wooden steps to the black iron door. Taking the golden lions head knocker in hand, I knock three times and hope for the best. It seems as though hours have passed before the door creaks open. I can hear the TV in the background playing reruns of Bakeoff as I peer in and am eye to eye with an older woman wearing a knitted sweater and loafers.

“I’m sorry deary, but he’s not seeing any clients right now. You’ll have to find help elsewhere.”, she says and begins to close the door.

I’m dumbfounded, that’s not the detective I’ve come to know and love. I've come all this bloody way and I'm not about to be denied just because a certain moody someone is going through relationship troubles that I may or may not have caused.

“But I need him; he’s the ONLY person who can help me.”

“Like I said, dear, he’s not taking any clients, and he’s in a bloody state right now, so it’s best you go before we wake him.”

“Now shoo,” she says with a whoosh of her hands, waving me down the stairs. “You’re making a right mess of my porch.”

Just as she’s about to close the door, I shout the only thing I can think of as a last-ditch effort to save my skin and fix this mess.

“Sherlock Holmes, I know you're up there and I know about John,” I holler towards the second story window.

The woman rolls her eyes, muttering something about nutters and increasing the rent, and from the crack in the door, I can see a light flick on at the top of the stairs. A silhouette appears, tall and thin and from it, a voice emerges, smooth and thick and just as beautiful as I imagined, god he is beautiful.

“Get in,” he hisses. I step over the threshold of 221B Baker Street about to meet my dearest, darling, Sherlock Holmes.

[megsblackfirewrites]

Two for the Road: Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Hanzo looked around the gorge and smirked. “Not exactly much to look at,” she teased.

Jesse shot her a pout as he pulled his hat down over his eyes. “Now, that ain’t nice,” he huffed.

Hanzo laughed as she pushed her hair out of her face and tipped her face into the wind. The air was hot and unbearable, but the wind was blissfully cool. She inhaled deeply before she shifted away from Jesse. She walked a short distance away before scaling her way up the side of a building. She heard Jesse laugh below her as she leaned on the railing.

She closed her eyes and tipped her face towards the sun. The air was thick with the scent of cigarillo smoke and she smiled. It was a scent she missed dearly and couldn’t get enough of it now. She let out a long sigh and rested her weight on the railing.

“Hanzo, down,” Jesse said suddenly. “Duck down and don’t move.”

Hanzo backed up and ducked down, pulling out the handgun she had from Switzerland. She’d never gotten a chance to return it to Overwatch and, all things considered, it was easier to carry with her than her bow. She braced her back against the doorframe of the building, shifting just enough to be out of sight but still hear everything happening below her. She couldn’t see Jesse, but she could see the three men advancing on their position.

“Now, boys, I ain’t lookin’ fer trouble,” Jesse called out. “Y’all can put those guns away.”

“McCree,” one of the men snapped. “Yer a dirty rotten traitor.”

“Now, that’s a strong word to use,” Jesse said. “I don’t even know who you are.”

“Arrogant…!”

“Can it, Hutch,” another man growled. “We’re Deadlock, traitor.”

“Ah,” Jesse laughed. “Well, that explains it. Sorry to disappoint you, but I ain’t in the mood fer yer belly-achin’.”

Hanzo shifted forward, pressing herself against the wood of the deck. She moved slowly, keeping the men in sight at all times, and trying to line up a better shot. Jesse was talking with the men, distracting them, no doubt, from the fact that he was more than capable of killing them in a split second. If they knew who he was, they had to know that he was dangerous. She really didn’t know what they were hoping to accomplish.

She paused and rolled behind the corner of the building, hissing as she peeked out around it. There was a man making his way to stand directly over top of Jesse. She shifted her weight and braced her shoulder against the side of the building. She lined up the shot and waited.

The man pulled a handgun out and leaned over the railing. Hanzo fired twice and the man tumbled over the railing. Jesse and the men shouted in surprise as the corpse slammed into the ground.  The men backed up and Hanzo rose to her feet. She pulled the sleeve on her left arm up and leaned on the railing, levelling her handgun with the three men staring at her in disbelief.

“You boys want to try anything else?” she asked. “Or are you going to leave me and McCree alone?”

“You bitch!” one of the men snarled.

“Minami,” she growled and touched her dragon’s head. “All yours.”

Her guardian erupted out of her flesh with a roar, rushing forward to attack the men. She vaulted the railing as Kita rippled under her shirt, rolling into a crouch as the men shot at Minami as he toyed with them. Jesse tipped his hat to her as she rose smoothly to her feet and rested her handgun on her shoulder. Kita growled in her ear as she emerged from under her shirt, baring her teeth at the men trying to harm her mate.

“Minami, to me,” Hanzo shouted.

Minami zipped over to her without hesitating, growling happily in her ear as he pushed his bloody muzzle under her jaw. Kita leaned over to clean her mate’s face, scolding him for being so filthy. Hanzo ran her hand down Minami’s back as the three men stood staring at her, shaking down to their boots. She lifted an eyebrow before she unbuttoned her blouse and tossed it to the ground, rolling her head back on her neck.

Their eyes moved over her tattoos and they started backing up. Hanzo smirked and patted Kita’s neck. Her guardians growled and shook themselves off, opening their jaws as their whiskers trembled. They roared and flew at the men, jaws open as they attacked. Hanzo retrieved her blouse and dusted it off, smirking as her dragons tore the three men apart.

“I see they haven’t lost their touch,” Jesse chuckled as he walked over. “They don’t drain you too much?”

“Not as much as they used to,” Hanzo admitted. “When they are like this, they are easy to summon. I will most likely not be able to stand in a few minutes though.”

“So you want prince charming to sweep you off yer feet,” he teased.

“I want my cowboy to ride off into the sunset with me,” she teased back. “On his steel horse.”

“How ‘bout chrome?” he chuckled as the dragons returned and wound themselves happily around the both of them. “Well, hello, Minami. Missed you too.”

Minami rubbed his bloody muzzle against Jesse’s cheek and purred happily. Kita draped herself over Hanzo’s shoulders, growling softly as she lounged. Hanzo ran her hand over Kita’s nose, cooing to her guardian as Jesse scratched under Minami’s jaw.

They collected Jesse’s bike after they were certain that the Rebels were dead. It was best not to hang around where Deadlock still had stakes. Jesse apologized for the whole incident, but Hanzo just smirked and kissed him.

Nothing like a little firefight to liven the day up.

“I grow worried,” Genji admitted as he walked with Zenyatta along the path up to the monastery.

“You worry about a great many things, Genji,” Zenyatta chuckled. “What plagues your mind today?”

“There are reports coming in from every corner of the globe about increased crime rates not seen since before Overwatch,” Genji shook his head. “I am worried, anata.”

“I miss the grandeur of Overwatch,” Zenyatta agreed. “It was harmonious for the most part, but even those who were still finding their way were striving for the betterment of mankind. And omnickind, of course.”

“Does anything make you sad?” Genji teased as he reached out and took Zenyatta’s hand.

The warm metal settled against his palm and Zenyatta readily linked their fingers together. Zenyatta’s face might have been unmoving metal, but his aura was filled with happiness. Genji could feel it pulsing and rolling over him, wrapping him in close so that he did not feel the cold. Genji brought his husband’s hand up to his mouth and kissed gently over his knuckles.

“I am a very positive individual,” Zenyatta chuckled. “But I do experience sadness, mostly where those that I care about are concerned. Genji, if I ask you a question, will you be honest with me?”

“Of course, Zen,” Genji blinked at him.

Zenyatta tipped his head to the side before he stopped in his tracks. Genji turned to face him, tilting his head up at the tall omnic. Zenyatta brought Genji’s hands up to his chest and set them against the warm metal. He rolled his hands over Genji’s, his aura turning quiet and contemplative. Genji tilted his head slowly to the side before he reached up to cup Zenyatta’s cheek.

“What plagues your mind, my love?” Genji asked softly.

“There are many secrets in this world,” Zenyatta said slowly. “It is impossible to know them all, but I grow…agitated as of late. My thoughts are muddled where there was once clarity. I must ask you, Genji, and please do not be angry, but are you positive that Gabriel Reyes and Jack Morrison are dead?”

Genji felt the names hit him like a blow to the stomach. He let out a soft hiss of pain and Zenyatta’s arms wrapped around his waist. He accepted the support, tucking his exposed face into Zenyatta’s warm neck. Zenyatta’s hands rolled slowly through his coarse white hair, soothing him as he struggled to breathe.

It took longer than Genji felt comfortable admitting before he pulled away. He rubbed at his eyes and swallowed. Zenyatta held his hand the whole time, squeezing just hard enough to let Genji know that he was there for him. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“I was there when Gabriel and Jack were buried,” Genji said. “I am certain that they are dead, Zenyatta.”

“I am not so sure,” Zenyatta murmured as he rubbed his hand over the back of Genji’s. “I reach out into the world to see how our friends are doing and there is something dark and familiar just on the edge of my mind. It isn’t evil, but it is not good, either. It is walking the line, trying to find answers that only it and the soul walking beside it can find. They are so familiar to me, Genji, but they are also so different. I am positive that what happened to the Commanders is untrue.”

“Gabriel Reyes’ head was removed from her body,” Genji said gently. “She can’t come back from that, Zen.”

“You were pronounced dead when you were brought to Dr. Ziegler,” Zenyatta murmured. “And here you stand.”

“I wasn’t decapitated,” Genji chuckled before he cupped Zenyatta’s face again. “Do you believe that it is our lost commanders?”

“There are no other souls I know of or have ever felt that are like them,” Zenyatta nodded. “They have been changed by their experiences, but I am certain that if we went to find them, we would find the Commanders.”

Genji pursed his lips before he shook his head. “If they were still alive, why wouldn’t they contact us?”

“Because we live in a remote monastery up the ass-end of a mountain in Nepal,” Zenyatta twittered happily. “The fact that we get wifi up here is astonishing to most people.”

Genji let out a snort of laughter and tossed his head back. “Oh no! I’ve corrupted the sweet monk!” he teased before he cupped Zenyatta’s face and pulled him in close. He covered the warm metal in kisses and enjoyed the sound of Zenyatta laughing. “He is sassy and using swear-words! Mondatta will have my head!”

“If you think that you turned me sassy, my sparrow, you are most mistaken,” Zenyatta laughed.

Genji chuckled as he nuzzled his nose against Zenyatta’s face. “I love you,” he murmured. “We should talk with Mondatta about what you’ve felt. Maybe he’ll have an idea of what you’re seeing.”

“That would be wise,” Zenyatta nodded. “I wanted to run it by you first.”

“I appropriate it,” Genji smiled as he took Zenyatta’s hand.

They walked back up to the monastery and darted to the side in time to avoid getting bowled over by Pet as she trained with another group of monks. They waved as she recovered, giggling as she charged at them again and did her best to dodge their attacks. Zenyatta and Genji shared an amused look as they continued on towards Mondatta’s study.

fffffffffYcS_pg