#despite this stark reminder of those who i have lost to addiction and those that i’ve almost lost

[stonesandswords]

.

[girlreviews]

Review #149: John Prine, John Prine

The genius of John Prine is that he skillfully sang stories of any kind of lost overlooked person with wit and a wink, but never mean spirited or punching down. He sings a gentle dignity and grace into every character in his songs. Some of them are flawed. Some of them are hopeless. Some of them are dim-witted. Some of them are victims of terrible circumstance. Some of them are terribly lonely. Each one is worthy of a song and the humanity it bestows upon them. Who knows if they are real people, but I do know that they definitely represent very real people. Veterans. Unhappy couples. Seniors. Disillusioned citizens wondering why entire generations were sent overseas to die, or sent overseas only to return empty, vacant, abandoned and addicted.

It’s sad. It makes me sad. I don’t often get through this record without crying a little. I see the faces of those in my life who haven’t been able to escape their demons, or break cycles of trauma. To their detriment, to the detriment of us all. But despite their flaws, they’re humans, and they’re worthy of dignity and love too. I’m reminded that I’m a work in progress. After all, “to believe in this livin’, is just a hard way to go”. You’re damn right, John.

Whether you hear the message in the songs is really up to you. Even though some of them — Your Flag Decal Won’t Get You Into Heaven Anymore — are silly sounding, cheery-almost songs poking fun at empty patriotic displays — if you’re listening, you hear what he’s really saying. It’s a protest. Your God wouldn’t support this shit. I really believe it though, that plenty of people might hear these songs and tap their foot along happily, never really hearing the pretty stark criticism in it. It’s a choice.

Sam Stone is a man returning from conflict overseas, to be abandoned by the government in coping with this struggles, and in turn abandoning his family through his need to self-medicate. Again, who you are and how you see the world might dictate how you empathize towards Sam Stone:

“There's a hole in daddy's arm where all the money goes

Jesus Christ died for nothin' I suppose

Little pitchers have big ears

Don't stop to count the years

Sweet songs never last too long on broken radios��

Each line suffocates you just a little bit more. Taking just a little bit of a sharper gasp of air to ward off an emotional response or to settle down the wobble of your chin. At least, it does if you were a little pitcher with big ears. A child wondering whether your Dad would make it to your game, your high school play, whatever it was. A child who knew how to recognize the subtle changes on the face of a man growing inevitably less sober. I suppose the point John is making — is that someone out there also knows and noticed the subtle changes on your little face too. The face you made each time you dared to hope and then had to let it die when you saw that your Dad was drunk, again. You had hope, but not for long. That sweet song didn’t last long, and you learned not to bother singing along, because the radio is shot to hell and it turned to static before you even got to the chorus. Eventually, maybe you even gave up on that radio and threw it out. Or maybe you hold onto dusty old broken things wishing that you could fix them. John saw you and had love for you. But he had love for Sam Stone, too, and recognized how he and all of us had been failed. I think that’s beautiful.

Hello In There is a song about growing older and growing increasingly more isolated. I thought about this song yesterday before I decided to review this album next. I was behind a frail, elderly man wearing overalls at the checkout at the grocery store who needed a hand. We interacted briefly, and he’s remained on my mind. If I’m lucky, I’ll be an old woman someday and I hope someone will talk to me at the grocery store checkout if I’m having a bit of a moment. Honestly, I hope someone will talk to me if I’m having a bit of a moment at the grocery store checkout tomorrow.

If you don’t know Angel from Montgomery, John wrote it for Bonnie Raitt, but his version is pretty definitive. The organ in it really does sound like flying. Or what I think it would feel like to fly. I think anyway. It’s fucking good.

In keeping with the big sad feels, there’s Far From Me, which paints a detailed picture of a deeply unhappy couple. We have all been there. I’m always struck by the observation “ain’t it funny how an old broken bottle, looks just like a diamond ring?”

One of my favorites, and maybe one of the few I don’t find too terribly sad, is Quiet Man. It’s got a real something to it. I don’t know what he was going for but it’s so cool and clever:

“Last Monday night I saw a fight

Between Wednesday and Thursday over Saturday night”

“Oodles of light, what a beautiful sight

Both of God’s eyes are shining tonight”

Recommend listening to the entire song for the full effect. I am unaware of any other song in existence that can utilize the word oodles and still be considered a masterpiece. But he gone done did it.

Listen, more than any other record this one truly brought me to Nashville. Here’s something I wrote in 2020 when John Prine died after a pretty long stint in the ICU with COVID. He was really one of the first people we lost in the pandemic. And it really hurt. It hurt because everyone in Nashville that’s been here for a minute knows what John Prine meant and means to this city. But he truly, truly, brought me here and made my life better:

“Nine years ago, I visited my cousin to help her move. It was my first visit to Nashville. We were looking for John Prine’s self-titled album everywhere (streaming wasn’t quite like, a thing yet, I guess). I think we found it at McKays, but I might be mistaken. Anyway, we listened to it on repeat that entire trip, and it always reminds me of the first time I came to Nashville, which two years later became my home and gave me everything. I love John Prine. I could listen to his songs forever, and I expect that I will. Oodles of light, what a beautiful sight.”

John knew how to live. He told us what to do. Blow up your TV. Throw away your paper. Plant a little garden. Eat a lot of peaches. It’s all sound advice and we should heed it more frequently. Next time you’re out, order a “Handsome Johnny”. Be kind but don’t be too serious, and listen to some good music.

[stillalive19567]

Beneath The Surface | JenLisa | GxG | Chapter 13

Rosé glances at our hands, her eyebrows raising slightly, but she says nothing. She’s always been observant. Lisa pulls out a chair for me, and I sit down, feeling her presence beside me like a protective force.

I clear my throat, glancing at Rosé. “So… how was your day?”

She smirks. “Better now that I get to see you awkwardly having dinner with Lisa’s family.”

Lisa’s mom laughs softly at the remark, easing the tension a bit. I can't help but crack a tiny smile, despite the weight still lingering in my chest.

But Lisa’s hand stays on mine under the table, grounding me in a way I didn’t expect.

 As I sit at the dinner table, my mind races with thoughts I can’t seem to silence. How can I trust Lisa? Rosé and I have been through so much together. We’ve faced demons that no one else could possibly understand. Some of those memories are buried deep within Rosé, locked away because of the trauma we endured.

Our childhood wasn’t just tough; it was a battlefield. Our parents fought constantly, and the weight of it all fell on me. Our father’s alcohol-fueled rage turned our home into a place of fear. I had to step up, to protect Rosé from the chaos that swirled around us. I shielded her from the worst of it, allowing her to keep her innocence for as long as I could.

Now I find myself regretting that decision. Maybe if she’d seen the destruction firsthand, she would’ve understood the dangers lurking in the shadows of addiction. It’s not just about her smoking cigarettes or drinking. It’s the coping mechanism she clings to, the lie she tells herself to justify her choices. She thinks it helps, that it’s a way to numb the pain, but I know better. I’ve seen the aftermath of those choices.

I glance at Rosé, her laughter mingling with Lisa's mom’s as they prepare the meal. If she wants to drink, fine, but she doesn’t need to drown herself in it. Even I drink occasionally, but it’s never become an escape for me. I can’t help but feel frustrated as I watch her struggle with addiction, telling herself it’s just a phase, just a way to cope.

The warmth of the meal before me contrasts sharply with the chill of uncertainty creeping into my heart. I wish I could trust Lisa, but I don't know her. She seems kind, genuine, but there's still that nagging doubt. What if she doesn’t understand the weight of Rosé’s struggles? What if she only sees the surface, the pretty smile, the laughter?

As they continue talking, I can’t shake off the feeling of distrust. This girl who holds so much potential in her heart doesn’t see the world the way I do. I want to protect her, but I also want her to wake up. I wonder if Lisa has any idea of the shadows lurking in our lives, the darkness that seems to follow us. How do I bridge that gap? How do I make her see the truth?

The conversation flows around the table, filled with warmth and laughter, but I feel distant, like an outsider. I want to share everything with Lisa, to let her in on my world, but I can’t. Not yet. I need to keep Rosé safe, and until I’m certain Lisa can handle it, I’ll remain guarded, even if it means building walls between us.

Every moment spent with them feels bittersweet, a reminder of what I wish I could have: a simple life, free from fear and addiction. But the reality is different. Rosé needs me, and I won’t let anyone—especially not Lisa—put her at risk.

I’m fighting my own monsters every day, battling the constant emptiness that has settled in my chest. It’s a hollow ache that seems to echo with every heartbeat, reminding me of all the things I’ve lost and the scars I carry. I’m confused, caught in a whirlwind of emotions I can’t quite grasp. I want to scream, to cry out for help, but I feel trapped in this cycle of silence.

I glance at Rosé, laughing with Lisa and her mom, their joy a stark contrast to the turmoil swirling inside me. It’s hard to be the one who holds everything together when I’m falling apart inside. I want to shield Rosé from my struggles, but sometimes it feels like I’m holding my breath, waiting for the right moment to exhale the truth.

What am I even doing? I’m supposed to be the protector, the strong one. But every day feels like I’m wading through murky water, trying to find solid ground. I see Lisa looking at me with concern, but how can I explain this void that consumes me? How can I make her understand that it’s not just about her?

I wish I could tell her how confusing it is to watch Rosé slip deeper into her coping mechanisms while I feel powerless to stop it. I want to scream that I’m not just a detective, that I’m not just someone tasked with solving a case. I’m fighting my own battles, wrestling with the shadows of my past that cling to me like a second skin.

Every moment spent pretending everything is okay feels like a lie. I’m terrified of what might happen if I let someone see the real me—the broken pieces I try so hard to hide. I don’t want to be a burden, but the weight of my own struggles is suffocating.

I’m stuck in this limbo, unsure of how to move forward. It’s hard to see a way out when every path feels obscured by darkness. I want to believe there’s hope, that I can find clarity amid this chaos. But for now, all I can do is keep fighting, even if it feels like I’m doing it alone.

I shake my head, pushing the tumultuous thoughts aside. No, I can’t confront her now. The truth is too heavy, too real, and I’m not ready to expose the cracks in my armor. I need to focus on finding Ryujin. She’s gone, and I can’t let the urgency of her disappearance slip through my fingers while I get lost in my own turmoil.

The pressure of the case is all-consuming, a relentless reminder that lives are at stake. I have to get evidence, something concrete to follow. I can’t afford to let my emotions cloud my judgment or distract me from the task at hand. Ryujin needs me, and I refuse to let her down. I clench my fists, steeling myself for what lies ahead.

“Jennie?” Lisa’s voice breaks through my thoughts, pulling me back to the present. I glance at her, noting the concern etched on her face. She’s worried about me, but I can’t let that become my focus right now. “Are you okay?”

I manage a tight smile, one I hope conveys that I’m fine. “Yeah, just thinking,” I say, my voice steady even as my heart races. The truth is, I’m far from okay. My mind is already racing with questions about Ryujin’s whereabouts. I need to comb through the last known details, the places she frequented, the people she hung out with.

The dinner continues around me, laughter and warmth enveloping the room, but I’m detached from it all. My thoughts are miles away, piecing together the fragments of information I have. I wonder if So Hee is involved, or if she knows something that could lead me to Ryujin.

Every moment spent here feels like a moment wasted, a moment I could have used to dig deeper into the investigation. I need to prioritize, to shift my focus back to what really matters. I can’t afford to let my emotions sidetrack me, no matter how heavy they are.

As the conversations flow around me, I think about the next steps I need to take. After dinner, I’ll excuse myself. I’ll go home and start going over the evidence I have. I’ll reach out to my contacts and dig into Ryujin’s life. She deserves that much from me.

[fallenstar193]

**Name**: Caleb Harrington

**Age**: 22

**Occupation**: Part-time auto shop worker

**Personality**: Caleb Harrington is a force to be reckoned with, known for his fearless attitude that often borders on audacity. He thrives on challenges, never hesitating to tackle even the most daunting obstacles head-on. Caleb's bluntness is a defining trait; he doesn't sugarcoat the truth and always tells it like it is, which can sometimes ruffle feathers but is ultimately appreciated for its authenticity.

Beneath his tough exterior, Caleb possesses a caring side that he reserves for those closest to him. He fiercely protects and supports his loved ones, going to great lengths to ensure their well-being. When it comes to family and friends, Caleb's fearless nature transforms into unwavering loyalty and a willingness to do whatever it takes to keep them safe and happy.

**Relation to the Flores**: Caleb doesn't know the Flores. However he would soon learn about them from his friend Julie. How they met you ask? Both went to the same gym, with some conversations and jokes. Caleb and Julie became workout buddies, and that's where he learns about the others.

**Anything else you want others to know**: Caleb Harrington lived in the gritty streets of New York City. Born into a broken home in one of the city's toughest neighborhoods, Caleb's childhood was marked by adversity from the very start. His parents, struggling with addiction and financial hardship, were unable to provide him with the stability and care he needed.

Caleb's earliest memories are of witnessing domestic disputes and enduring long nights filled with the sounds of arguing and sirens. He learned to be self-reliant at a young age, often fending for himself as he navigated the unforgiving city streets. The absence of a nurturing environment made him tough and fearless out of necessity, as he had to protect himself both physically and emotionally.

Despite the hardships, Caleb developed a deep sense of empathy for others who were also struggling. He would often share his meager meals with homeless individuals he encountered and try to offer words of encouragement to those who needed it. This caring side of him emerged as a stark contrast to the harsh environment in which he grew up.

One fateful night, tragedy struck when Caleb's parents' addiction led to a devastating accident, leaving him orphaned at a tender age. This loss fueled his determination to rise above his circumstances and find a way out of the cycle of poverty and despair that had ensnared his family.

Through sheer grit and determination, Caleb managed to complete his education, earning a scholarship that allowed him to escape the city and pursue a better life. His past, filled with pain and hardship, serves as a constant reminder of the importance of integrity and compassion, shaping him into the fearless, blunt, yet caring individual he has become.

“Caring doesn’t make you weak; it makes you human.”

“I’m not arguing; I’m just explaining why I’m right.”

“Do you have a map? I just got lost in your eyes.”

**Appearance**

[the-darklings]

—𝐭𝐢𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐚𝐭 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞;

⤫ pairing: johnny silverhand x corp!v(ermillion)

⤫ summary: Usually, they’re a calamity together—destructive and volatile as each other. But right now, just for a second, there is only music and them.

⤫ word count: 2.3k+

⤫ warnings: spoilers for act i & side mission the ballad of buck ravers, third person but can be read as RI ig, swearing, written in one sitting so who knows what the final result is - certainly not me. 

⤫ notes: let me leave my clown shoes outside.

It starts out the way it always does. 

One ring leads to another and she suddenly finds herself running or driving around the Night City with little to no rest, pulling one job after another. The more jobs she closes the more she seems to be in demand.

Good for business. Good for making a name for herself, too, but not so good on her overall being. 

She’s been running. Like a fucking coward. Filing her days with meaningless shit while trying desperately not to think about her ticking clock. About Jackie. 

Guilt gnaws on her bones daily. She should have done more, been better, more careful. Jackie never should have died. It was stupid and blind ambition that drove them both to try and pull this near impossible heist in the first place. Her own reckless drive has blinded her, and now the person closest to her in this fucking city is nothing more than a cold corpse. 

Fuck.

She should have sent him to his family instead. She only wanted to spare them from the grief of having to see Jackie in the state he was in but now Araska has his body and god knows what those assholes might be doing with it. 

And now…

Well she has nothing to lose, does she? She’s already dying, already hunted, her only close friend is dead. She promised to make him proud. Make it to the big leagues or make a league all on her own if that’s what it takes. Bleed this city dry if that’s the price to pay for what she wants. 

Back when she worked for Arasaka she wanted knowledge which led to power. Then she wanted guns and money and a roof over her head. 

Now she wants something more. After coming face to face with her own fragile morality, she has begun to realise how meaningless things like money and power are. Now she wants to surpass that. To become something immortal—something that will outlive her body. Maybe even outlive this city.  

Jackie should have been one of such people. 

“You look like you’re about to shit yourself,” a voice drawls from beside her, a crackle filling the air as a too familiar silhouette of a man appears in her sight. “Or cry.”

“Fuck off.”

V turns away from one Johnny Silverhand because it’s hard to look at him and not be reminded of the fact that she’s slowly dying and the construct only she can see and hear is the one doing the deed.

“This self-pitying bullshit needs to stop,” he says, ignoring her vicious words. “We share a brain, remember? I feel what you feel. It’s downright depressing in your head right now.”   

Her jaw clicks at the reminder. Everyday she wakes up and feels like they’re linked by a bridge—he stands on one side, and she on another. When they come closer, she can feel it—feel him. The overlap is near dizzying, overwhelming, even a little addictive. But it’s always followed by agony because she fights back, tries to shove him away. If not, he will consume her, but she will get him out of her head before that ever happens. 

You share a brain now, Vik had told her only days prior, his eyebrows knitted tight and—albeit subdued—but clear worry in his low voice, senses and memories, even perception. Eventually it will become impossible to tell whose who anymore. 

The worst thing is the fact that he’s right. 

She can feel Silverhand rooted inside her; a constant, a presence that is persistent to a point she knows she’s not alone even if she wishes to be. 

An echo of a being deep inside her.

“Then get the hell out,” she bites back, fighting to keep her temper leashed so she doesn’t burst out at him like she did at the diner. She can still remember the wary stares she received from the diners when she started shouting verbally at a figment only she could perceive in the first place. “I didn’t ask for a parasite to make himself home in my brain.”

Johnny scoffs under his breath, raising a cigarette to his mouth, and she’s nearly overcome with need to remind him that he’s fucking dead, and can’t smoke. That, and the fact that she would prefer him to leave her the fuck alone. 

“You did the job, didn’t ya? You sure you didn’t have this comin’?”

Flipping him off, she storms past him, her jaw clenched to appoint it aches and eyes narrowed. Just her luck not only to get stuck with a human tumour but for the said tumour to be a bastard to boot.  

So much for being buddies. 

Sun has set over Westbrook hours ago yet Chinatown is as busting with life as always. Overflowing with conversations all spoken in different languages, smells, distant gunshots, and people from all walks of life just trying to survive. Even during her years with the Arasaka, she never quite got used to the vastness of the Night City—not even when she was sure she was at the top. The way this city seems to breathe and fester day in and out; a living beast full of dangers and potential is unique. 

Lost in the crowd, it’s almost easy to forget who she is aside from another face in the said crowd. She’s not a merc, not an ex-corp working counterintelligence—she’s not anything. 

Her optics catch sight of several Tiger Claws lingering around the market, and she makes sure to give them a wide berth, especially when she notes the impressive list of their stats. She’s not stupid enough to attack outright when they outclass her—for now—and there are several of them around. With the market this busy the only outcome to that fight would be a bloodbath with police on her ass when that’s the last thing she needs right now. 

Despite that logical part inside her steering her well clear of the gang members the need to blow off some steam bubbles under her skin. An ache starts to form against her temple soon after, making her focus blur around the edges as she wanders from vendor to vendor aimlessly. 

“Hey, V,” a rumble of a voice cuts through her thoughts—and she hates how she can’t quite ignore his voice unlike everyone else—and turns her head in the direction of the call. She had foolishly assumed he was going to give her some peace of mind for tonight at least. “Check this guy out.”

Walking up a dimly lit staircase, she had barely noticed a man sitting on a rickety chair and playing a guitar. Much like her, others walk right past him, ignoring the man altogether. 

Johnny glimmers into sight, squatting in place and oddly intent on observing the old man while he plays.   

She entertains the idea of walking away simply to piss him off. If something is of interest to him, then she wants to ignore it so hard it gets under his nonexistent skin. Petty, perhaps, but ever so satisfying. 

Hearing no reply or receiving much reaction at all, Johnny slants his head her way, nodding once towards the man, “What do you think?”

Squinting, she drags her gaze towards the guitarist, crossing her arms over her chest while she listens. She’s not even sure why she’s bothering but…

The melody is slow, near drowned out by the bustling sounds of the nearby market and chatter of people walking past. 

“He’s...fine?” she offers lamely. “I mean he’s pretty good.”

A slight smirk crosses over Johnny’s mouth—gone in a blink but the focus he places on the man who seems to be unaware of her or the silent second spectator surprises her. 

“Loses tempo more than he keeps it,” he comments, almost absently, and she feels her eyebrows arch in another show of bewilderment. A quiet spells falls over their little nook, and Johnny listens more, thoughts rolling inside his head if his body language is any sign. “Sloppy on the technique but he has feeling in the way he plays. Can’t teach that.”

“If only you didn’t die,” she sighs softly, closing her eyes in mock sympathy. “This could have been you.”

He surprises her again by laughing at that. It’s a deep rumble of a sound, and she can almost feel it echo between them and their mental bridge. “You’re kinda of a bitch. Has anyone told you that before?”

Her teeth flash in the dim orange glow of the neon lights. “And you’re sort of a dick. Anyone tell you that before?” she wonders with a charming, practiced smile. 

He flickers out of sight and she’s about to call it a mental victory but a tickle of electricity kisses across the bare curve of her shoulder and neck, and she shivers when he appears beside her. His arms are crossed as well, and he glances her way briefly.

“Seems to me like we’re two peas in a fuckin’ pot, then,” he points out easily, and shakes his head, seemingly amused by his own words. “I might have tried to kill you a few weeks ago but look at us being chummy, Ver.”

Her throat closes up at that, expression tightening. He notices of course. Or maybe it’s the unease that slices through her mind at the casual way he uses her nickname. 

“What? Am I not allowed to call you that or somethin’?” he wonders curiously, seemingly entertained by her reaction. Asshole. 

“Only my friends call me Ver.”

Jackie was the first. 

That thought makes her swallow painfully, a dull ache clawing against her heart. One would think that years being a corpo would have wiped whatever humanity still lived in her but Jackie’s death had been a stark reminder that she couldn’t be further from the truth if she tried.  

“Why?”

She gives him a flat look. “Because my full name is Vermillion, but people tend to find it a mouthful so…”

“Vermillion,” he repeats, his intonation dry, and she shoots him a quick glare, daring him to make an issue of it. Naturally, his next words don’t surprise her, “That’s a stupid fuckin’ name.”

“Oh, because Johnny Silverhand is so much better.”

She expects him to say something snarky in return, argue maybe, but he only snorts. His metal hand lifts, pushing his aviators down slightly as he glances at her over them.

“You got me there.” 

Usually, they’re a calamity together—destructive and volatile as each other. But right now, just for a second, there is only music and them. Shadows and life of the Night City holding them both suspended in this moment. No arguments or biting comments. No guilt, either. 

A slight smile tugs across her mouth as she continues listening to the man play his downbeat little tune. Her shoulders loosen, drooping slightly and she lets herself breathe for a moment. Just the one. 

“Used to be just like him,” Johnny speaks up suddenly, his voice more subdued, lower, and taps his fingers against the cigarette he’s holding. “But better. Used to play everywhere we could. Garages, bars. Anywhere that would have us, and we always had an audience.”

She hums, offering him a brief glance. “You mean you were actually good?”

She can’t see his eyes in the darkness of the street or through his tinted shades. But despite that, she can still feel his glare and the mental bite of chagrin/irritation/why is she so annoying? and deeper than that a spark of amusement/little shit thinks she’s funny. 

“What’s this?” he muses, his words sarcastic. “A corpo rat that actually has a sense of humour? Colour me surprised.”

“No can do,” she shoots back promptly, fighting back a wider grin. “You’re too dead for that.”

He tsks, throwing his cigarette to the ground and she almost rolls her eyes. “Can’t wait to be out of your damn head, princess.” 

“Can’t wait to be rid of you, either, so the feeling is mutual.”

Their words might be stringent but she can almost taste the faint amusement trickling between them and under that bridge that connects them. 

“There might still be some bootlegs of those old days,” he muses thoughtfully. “People used to record everything back in my day.”

She drags her gaze his way, lips thinning into a firm line, “I’m not becoming a fan, if that’s what you’re hoping for.”

“Afraid you’ll hear real music and won’t be able to go back to this modern garbage I hear everywhere?”

There is challenge in his words and she bristles. Maybe this is what she needs. She may not be able to put holes in some Tiger Claws with her sniper rifle but she sure as hell can go on a scavenger hunt and see what she finds. 

Besides, it might help her to understand the man nested inside her mind a little better.

So when an hour later the old, wrinkly vendor asks her why he should give her his oldest, most precious Samurai vinyl, she tells him the truth. 

A twisted truth. 

But truth all the same.

“He’s with me every step I take, every move I make,” she confesses softly, something deep down breathing awake at that admittance. “Johnny’s like my conscience. My eternal, infernal moral compass.”  

She doesn’t miss how the man in question doesn’t appear, doesn’t say anything even after hearing that. She would have figured he would be the first in line to offer her some mocking, snarky comment but there is only silence. 

In fact, she can barely feel him at all. The tether between them is still and quiet. 

And his silence says a lot more than he probably realises. 

.

an: hello. guess whose not dead and kinda back to writing. dunno how much of cp77 you should expect because coa is still my priority but maybe occasional fic for these dumbos is on the cards. oh, and takemura because cdpr are cowards for not giving us that enemies to friends/partners to lovers romance. also I know this isn’t strictly RI and I honestly considered writing it as such but saw...no point? since the premise still would have been the same, so something a little different today ig. 

[anonymous0writer]

Innocent

Author: @anonymous0writer​

Warnings: Swearing. Alcohol/drug use? Drug addiction. heavy drugs. Two second mention of Cancer.

Requested: Yes!

“songfic request :: Innocent by Taylor Swift × Rafe“

A/N: My first Rafe fic!!! Yay! I hope you enjoyed it and it was good! I hope I did Rafe justice. (I also came up with why Ward’s first wife wasn’t in the picture. And I came up with her name.)

Also, I’ve never dealt with addiction, (or did drugs) so I tried to write it to the best of my ability. I’m sorry if I didn’t convey it well! 

Also this is LONG!! :)

Also a shout out to @lindzaylove​ for giving me all these songfics!!

I guess you really did it this time Left yourself in your warpath Lost your balance on a tightrope Lost your mind tryin' to get it back

Rafe glared at the floor, his vision swimming as he desperately tried to keep his tears in. His breathing was erratic, sharp and shallow, coming in and out in shaky intervals. 

He couldn’t handle it. He ached for it. For the coke to reenter his veins and light him up, and give him another high. The pressure in his head was almost too much, and he let a tear fall down his cheek. A silent reminder of his pain and mental war. 

Rafe knew it wasn’t good to feel this way about it. But he needed it. To shut out the absence of his father’s love, to forget how Sarah was the favorite, to forget how he was suck a fuck up. God, how he needed the drug in his veins. The coke made his forget and ache a little less. It helped blur the lines of his disastrous life and unlovable self.

He was trying. For a while. He tried so hard to be the good, perfect son to his father. But the need for the coke tugged at the back of his mind, and his father just denied his plea for love. That’s all Rafe wanted. To feel loved and wanted and a part of his family. Sure, he’d never been the perfect kid, but it was built in for a parent to love their kid, right? No matter what? That love was unconditional? Right? 

So once again denied, Rafe turned to the only thing he could nurse comfort out of. Coke. And the vicious circle started again. Rafe never got love, so he turned to coke, which made him fuck up, which made him even more lost to his father love and approval.

Wasn't it easier in your lunchbox days? Always a bigger bed to crawl into Wasn't it beautiful when you believed in everything? And everybody believed in you?

It used to not be so bad. Back when he had you. And when he mother was still in the picture. If you looked closely into Rafe Cameron’s past, lots of things caused Rafe to be the way he was today. 

The first turning point was when Sarah was born. Rafe had been his father’s pride and joy. Ward and Melissa has tried several times before Rafe stuck. The pregnancy had been hard and rough, and Ward hated the way Melissa was in pain all the time, causing a very small hatred for his unborn son.

And then Sarah came along. Rafe was three, and somehow he knew why there was a sudden shift in attention. This naturally came with every newborn baby, but the young boy knew it was different. Rafe was used to mind games, by the way his father walked and talked around the house. 

Sarah became the shining light, and the sole bearer of her parents attention and praise. But Melissa noticed Rafe’s acting up. How he grew silent and didn’t talk when Sarah came into the room, or when Ward did. He knew all too well what to do when his father or sister was in the room. Because when Sarah was there, why would he be the focus? He’d been told to be quiet and ‘shh’ed so many times that he learned to stop talking all together when his baby sister entered. And his father had the same effect. The young boy was used to begin second best and ignored, but only when it came to his father and sister.

His mother didn’t ignore her son. She loved him and refused to silence her child, even if she thought Sarah was a better child. After all, the birth and pregnancy had been so much better, and she’d been a perfect baby. 

So Rafe grew to deprived of love and envying Sarah and pitying Wheezie. The youngest didn’t even have a chance. Melissa and Ward hadn’t even wanted another child. But they’d been pleasantly surprised. But the new addition to the family still didn’t have a chance. Sarah was still miles above where she and Rafe stood. At least the boy had gotten some love before Sarah arrived. But maybe he had it worse. After all, he knew what it was like to be loved and then he’d been stripped of it. Wheezie didn’t even know what it felt like, so how could she be broken over it?

And then Melissa died. Cancer had hit her hard and fast. Took her down with a swift motion. The one person Rafe had to love him was gone. So now, the ten year old had to live without love and a mother.

The boy grew up, trying to please his father that never could be satisfied. He tried his hardest in school, and did quite well, but not to Ivy League standards. Or his fathers. But soon, Rafe came to realize he could do things without consequences with his money and his grades dropped. So the sixteen year old went down a short path of causing destruction where ever he went and picking fights at the tiniest thing. That stopped once Ward found out. 

That night Rafe was slapped across the facing, sending him to the floor. Of course, neither sister or Rose had been there. No one witnessed the abuse, so if Rafe ever came out about it, Ward would make sure to crown his son as a liar, if that wasn’t his title already. 

That night was yelled at, Wards voice making the boy cower, his cheek still stinging terribly. Rafe touched his cheek where a welt was blooming. He looked up, terrified, at his father. Ward was towering, eyes hard and furious. 

After that night, the blue eyed boy stayed straight until the night be met Barry. Rafe had been straying from his clear path, and Barry only turned him in the wrong direction. It started with a pill every couple months. And Rafe continued to blur the lines and ease his mind until he was lying on the floor, broken.

And here he was. Broken, half homeless, kicked out, unloved and not even on his father’s radar and addicted.

It's alright, just wait and see Your string of lights is still bright to me Oh, who you are is not where you've been You're still an innocent You're still an innocent

It was two months before Rafe’s nineteenth birthday (and before he teetered off the edge of his addiction) when he met you. You were on the Cameron’s yacht, there for a small Kook get together. Ward had invited your father and his family. 

So there you were, white bikini stark against your tan skin. Sunglasses pushed up to perched on your head, half buried in your long, silky hair. Smile bright as you talked to Sarah. 

Rafe had never felt breathless, or felt his stomach flip. But the was a first time for everything. And he felt both as he watched you. Intrigued, the boy made his way over to you. 

“Hello, ladies.” He smirked, taking a second to admire you upclose.

Sarah raised her eyebrows at her brother. “Hi Rafe.” She smiled, and was quick to introduce you two. “Y/N, this my brother Rafe. Rafe, this is Y/N.” 

Rafe thanked his sister silently for the first time in his life. He reached out, shaking your hand as you smiled. Your shake was good and firm. 

“I know who you are,” You cocked your head slightly at the boy. “The infamous Rafe Cameron.”

Rafe swallowed. Did you think badly of him? Doubts swirled in his mind as he carried on the conversation with you. Despite his doubts, talking to your was incredibly easy.

You however, were immediately attracted to your friend’s older brother. Rafe was tall, cocky and bad. Exactly what broke you, but exactly what you fell for. Every damn time. You knew he was a druggie and did shitty things, but you had a thing for guys with problems. But as you continued talking to the tall boy, Sarah slinking away, you found it was a natural conversation. Not stiff, polite ones that you always held at Kook functions.

Rafe was one confusing character. He was bad. Wholly and completely bad, and you knew that. Yet as you talked, there was something in his eyes and in the way he talked that seemed nice and genuine. And if he himself hadn’t gotten you falling, that did. 

Your relationship picked up fast, jumping from step to step with ease and grace. You’d already been deemed as Rafe’s bitchy girlfriend, and you guys has already has sex. Multiple times. In his house. In yours. In his car. On the beach. In the water. Everywhere. As you dated, you guys dealt with the titles granted to you. You were apparently a bitch, and Rafe was, well, he already gained his title. 

Your parents were furious that you went out with a druggie and brought him home. But that’s part of the reason you did it. You’d never been one to fit in the lines, and Rafe was exactly the type of person to competently fuck the lines. 

So when Rafe asked you to be his date to his birthday, you said yes. But you had no idea what you were getting into. And the party was riskier and more outside the lines than you thought. Sure, you’d gotten shitfaced drunk and did drugs those few times, but this party was over the top. And it had your boyfriends name written all over it. 

Beer and vodka at every turn. Cocaine and pills passed into every hand, snorted up every nose and given to every doe eye person here. Music, heavy and nasty hung in the air, pulsing and thriving in the air. Cheers and chants filled the air like a bad smell. The party was the living thought of a classic high school party. Drugs, alcohol, and horny, grinding teens in abundance. You gaped at your boyfriend, feeling like you were too outside the lines to even see them. This was too much. You weren’t like these people. Sure you acted like it, but in reality, you only did drugs because of peer pressure and only downed beers on dares. You weren’t the bitch or person everyone thought you were. You hadn’t even had sex more than twice before you met Rafe. You knew Rafe changed you and you didn’t care. But if this is what everyone thought you did on a regular basis, your boyfriend had changed you more than you thought. 

Just as you were about to pull away and tell the birthday boy you felt sick, he kissed your neck and led you into the middle of the party. In the throng of people pushing and jumping and calling it dancing. Stuck in the middle of these hundreds of people, you couldn’t leave.

So you fell with Rafe. Fell into the welcoming arms of drugs and too much alcohol. You knew Rafe did this somewhat regularly, but you were too faded to realize that he was miles ahead of you. You didn’t even know he was about to hit the bottom.

Did some things you can't speak of But at night you'll live it all again You wouldn't be shattered on the floor now If only you had seen what you know now then

Rafe took another big breath, brain screaming, eyes heavy, limbs weak. He was exhausted and aching. He needed the coke like he needed air. His body screamed for the drug to thrive in his veins again. To make he happy and alert. To give strength and power back. 

He sobbed, lying on his back, tears streaming down his face, staining his cheeks. It felt like he couldn’t breath. No it didn’t feel that way. He couldn’t fucking breath. He rasped, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. 

Rafe couldn’t think straight. He didn’t even know where he was or how he’d gotten here. He could barely focus on the sounds around him and the soft, tiny breeze against his sweaty skin. His mind was clouded. With need and filthy desperation. He couldn’t think straight. But if he had coke....

The blue eyed boy took another But as he thought of how desperate he was for a lick of coke, he thought of you. And how you’d be here. If he hadn’t broke you.

After his party, you’d been in a bad place. You’d gotten fucked. Worse than that. You passed out on the floor, mind too wild and full of static with the high of drugs and the haze of every alcohol at the party in your veins.

You’d been to the hospital and been in bed for days after that. You felt beyond horrible. You couldn’t find the strength to get out of bed. You refused to see Rafe. You didn’t want to see anyone. Because you hated yourself. You allowed yourself to get so fucked you were in the hospital. How could you let yourself do that? 

But you slowly got better. And clean. You got out of bed. You showered. You saw people who were good influences. Only people who stayed when you fucked up beyond repair. You’d promised yourself you wouldn’t go back to your past. You’d be a new, better Y/N Y/L/N.

So you left Rafe behind.

Lives change like the weather I hope you remember Today is never too late to Be brand new

Rafe had tried so hard. So hard. To be better, be he couldn’t help himself. He need the coke. Like he needed his father’s approval. Like he needed you. But the traps of the drug were too easy to fall into. Too hard to escape from, so he fell back in without skipping a beat. 

Rafe was still on the floor when you found him. You hadn’t tried to find him. Hell, you’d gone to see Sarah. But there was Rafe, broken down and sobbing on the floor of his kitchen, completely alone. 

You bent down, dropping your stuff and stared wide eyed at the boy before you. The boy who used to touch you and keep his eyes on you. The boy who caused your down fall. “Rafe?” You whispered, the words barely audible.

Rafe blinked, his hearing and mind sharpening. His blue eyes refocused on you. 

“Y/N?” He wasn’t even sure he spoke the words, or if you heard him since the words were so broken. 

“What the hell happened to you?” You demanded, studying him. 

His skin was sweaty and pale. His eyes were unfocused and heavy, tears softly spilling down the side of his face. Rafe’s lips parted to release shallow, uneven breathing. The boy’s usual slicked back hair was in disarray, sticking up at unnatural places, and un-gelled. He looked like shit, to be frank. 

“I,” he couldn’t even form a sentence, but somehow you understood. 

He was in withdrawal. Rafe needed coke. You breathed a curse, and tried to calm his slight shaking. 

“It’s gonna be okay, Rafe.” You assure as you tried to figure out what to do. You were lost. 911? What did you do?

“I’m,” Rafe started, eyes trying so hard to focus on you. “I’m sorry.” 

You stopped fussing, going dead still. Of all the things he could say, you didn’t expect him to say that. But you met his pale eyes. 

“I was trying,” he took a deep breath. You stayed deathly still, afraid you’d loose this fragile version of the boy you used to know. “I was trying to be better- for you.”

You heart broke. For you. It seemed that fucking you up made him want to be better too.

“It’s okay, Rafe.” You smiled tightly and cupped his cheek. His skin was sweaty and sticky. “Alright? You’re gonna get help. You’ll be okay.”

It's all right, just wait and see Your string of lights are still bright to me Oh, who you are is not where you've been You're still an innocent

You watched as they took Rafe away. The image of the shaking, half breathing boy on his kitchen floor, alone, was seared into your brain. You couldn’t shake it. And his words still rang in your head like bells. 

I’m sorry. I was trying to be better. For you.

You closed you eyes quickly, swallowing the lump in your throat. That version of Rafe that said sorry was the same that you spoke to on the Cameron’s yacht that fateful day. Even though you were right about Rafe having a better side, you didn’t feel triumphant. You just felt empty. His state reminded you of the night where you life turned upside down. 

I know Rafe. And I’m sorry too.

A/N 2: I hope you liked it (and it was good). I hope I did him and this justice. This was very fun to write and I have more Rafe coming up!!

Tags: @katie-avery @calumbroutledge​ @drew-starkey​ @thelocalpogue​ @ijustreallylovethem​ @jjmaebank​ @rretrophilee​ @obxlife​

[georgiaswarr]

lister bird - part 1 (part 2)

this is me trying - taylor swift

“they told me all of my cages were mental / so i got wasted like all my potential” starting this playlist off with a song that i feel definitely will come to describe lister’s mental state, especially during iana - he’s fallen behind, he’s dependent on partying and drinking, but at least he’s trying to get better

still learning - halsey

this song incorporates a fuckton of lister’s struggles - the pressures of fame, trauma, dealing with past mistakes, of course self-loathing, and much more

timebomb - finish ticket

and another self-deprecating tune !!! this one in particular addresses the connection between drinking/alcoholism and feeling like a fuck-up

the key to life on earth - declan mckenna

i could probably go into great depths to explain how exactly this is a lister song but suffice it to say, lister grew up poor and we mustn’t forget that. “holy smokes / you kids and your jokes / asking where we got our jeans / and where the hell we found our coats” reminds me a lot of meeting lister, him getting into fights and being “held back for after-school meetings”, etc.

new age meds - the wldlfe

“self-deprecation; / a new age medication / and you might need some therapy if / you're gonna live your life suffocating / someone who you're supposed to be” here we have the theme of self-hate again, used in connection with drugs and addiction, too, which is very lister

are you satisfied? - marina

another song highjacked from @kindaorangey, they did a better job than i ever could explaining it here

knock me off my feet - soak

“saturday night on the highest wall / settin' 'em off, all 50 fireworks / kickin' the cannons, we watch them fall / it doesn't exist, the law” lister starts living the high, indulgent life once he gets rich, which is a stark contrast from how he grew up. in the end, though, he still has people he can call his home.

narcissist - no rome

“stayin' late, i just wanna get stoned / telling all your friends that I'm never at home / and my face filling up with blood / but you're still the same living like a bourgeois” highjacked from alice’s 5 playlist, another song about partying and the like but also being painfully aware of your own flaws

big black car - gregory alan isakov

a song about feeling inadequate and worthless compared to another person, which is how lister feels about himself compared to jimmy and rowan

eventually, darling - declan mckenna

abandonment issues, lost hope, impostor syndrome, disillusionment and an almost nihilistic view on a relationship - this song has it all. i personally associate it with bicci and lister reassuring both jimmy and himself that it’s okay if he doesn’t like him back - after all, “everyone leaves eventually, darling”

swimming pools - lxandra

lister grew up poor and we mustn’t forget that part 2 - this is another flashback to his childhood, while simultaneously showing the stark contrast to his current life - i like to interpret the line “still the kids who don't have swimming pools / in their 40-million-square-feet mansions, ooh” in a “yeah, he’s rich, but he still came from almost no money and this has had a profound effect on him” way

mind - declan mckenna

according to declan mckenna himself, this song “makes me think of my friend matty’s party i went to on halloween 2015 after playing a show […] the song lyrically and artiscally kind of reflects the confused mess of my 16 year old self”. this is something lister can probably relate to, feeling emotional turmoil and an incoming existential crisis while partying

joan of arc on the dance floor - aly & aj

“at the stake, we don't fight the flames / are you born in vain if you die a savior?” first of all, joan of FUCKING arc metaphors, second of all the death motif and lister’s “die young” mentality, third of all another dark party song which is how this applies to lister in particular

why do you feel so down - declan mckenna

listerowan song !!! “i think you're one of a kind so i'll never like myself / i think you're older and wiser so i won't let you tell / i think it over and over and hope you're thinking too / i think it over and over and hope i'm over you” because angst

know me - the band camino

and yet another angsty listerowan song, gosh i’m really making myself emo over here

18 forever - maris

a) such a bisexual anthem, b) a song about partying and feeling forever young

house party no. 1 - blossom caldarone

“you want to grow up too fast / it's a race to see who is left last / from lemons to liquor to loving each figure / you're constantly wired up the wrong way / you'll be dead in a year if i wait one more day”. this is how jimmy and rowan see lister, as a party-obsessed “rebel without a cause”

sedated - hozier

a song about addiction and self-destruction. i could probably go through every line of it but imma keep it short and just trust all of you to understand the sheer levels and poetry of sedated by hozier as a lister song

shadows - ruth b

another song from jimmy and rowan’s perspective - they see that lister indulges in a lot of self-destructive behaviour, smoking, drinking, having sex, etc. in the first part of iwbft, they notice all of that in an almost accusatory way, which to me feels like the tone of this song - “kiss yourself another stranger / ‘cause you know you love the danger, don't you? / give yourself to someone new every night, is what you do” for example is them thinking he sleeps with everyone with a pulse

burning incense - skott

i talk about lister and his relationship to religion in greater depth in part 2 with preacher man but i think that theme appears in this song too. generally this song is very much about emotional turmoil, feeling unloved and distant from your friends, and feeling worthless, so very much a lister song

those nights - bastille

theme of loneliness and finding comfort in strangers (which i know lister doesn’t really do anymore but still)

sunday morning - matoma

“i probably shouldn't say this / should keep it all inside / but maybe i'm just wasted / enough to speak my mind” bicci bathroom confession??? anyone????

love like ghosts - lord huron

another beautiful bicci song about unrequited love and feeling so incredibly strongly for someone that it feels beyond the realm of the living - that’s also where the theme of death in iwbft comes in, which lister grapples with in particular

high hopes - kodaline

this song makes me think of the confession scene too - lister realising jimmy maybe doesn’t like him back, losing hope and all that, and deciding he needs to move on

mirrorball - taylor swift

theme of personas - lister has the Lister Bird persona which is there to entertain people, to make himself appear fun, aloof, approachable, almost like a clown, even though that isn’t who he actually is deep inside

much like myself - emma jayne

and another song about appearing happy on the outside despite the fact that you don’t feel much like yourself

[darkkitsuneprincess]

Conquest (Nobunaga x Reader)

Finally! Something new and lovely! With the threat of Mitsuhide’s route release (major SQUEE action over here ‘cause I do love me some snek), the smut gears are churning again.  With any luck it won’t take as long next time to post something new. So…here you go. Enjoy!

Title: Conquest Pairing: Nobunaga x Female Rating: M (again, very NSFW) Length: 4100 words Description: AU game of Go, now with smut action!

*******

The soft clack of wooden soles filled the empty hallway, a stark counterpoint to the knocking of my heart as I made my way to the tenshu. My hands shook against one another inside the sleeves of my kimono. My belly quivered. So much rode on my winning just one game of Go. If I had any hope of returning to my time—of returning home—I needed to withstand Nobunaga’s advances. He was determined, a man possessed if I were honest in my description, and I stood no chance. Even with regular tutelage in both gameplay and battle strategy from Mitsunari, I was fooling myself to believe I was any contest for that terrible and beautiful tactician’s mind.

Having reached the door to Nobunaga’s room, I hesitated. I always hesitated. My heart was his long before he pressed his hand to my chest and claimed it for his own. It had taken nearly dying for me to accept that truth. Yet now that we were back in Azuchi, back in this familiar space with nothing to stop us save my own inhibitions… my body quaked with a mix of anticipation and fear.

What would he choose to claim tonight? How would I react? Did I want to let myself be claimed if I couldn’t prove his love for me?

I didn’t know. I wanted him as much as I wanted the air I breathed and I was even willing to take on all the awful things that came with him—ruthlessness, cruelty for the greater good, death—so long as I knew I would be more than a temporary plaything. For him, for his love, I could choose to stay…

I pushed the thought away and tapped my fingers against the door, sealing my fate.

“Nobunaga, I’m here.”

“Enter.”

And so I did, sliding the door to the side and slipping in. The sight of him robbed me of breath. Nobunaga lounged against his armrest from behind the goban with a thin smile on his lips, a predator even in repose. He stalked me with his gaze as I crossed the room on unsteady legs and took my seat on the vacant cushion. His gaze was appreciative and hungry. Haughty, as if my losing was already a foregone conclusion.

I wouldn’t let myself dwell on the fact that I had no chance of beating him as I picked up my first stone and followed his opening volley with one of my own. We were silent as we placed our pieces, the soft clack of the stones the only sound in the room. This game was…different than the last. Nobunaga was focused yet not, his gaze traveling upward to my face more and more often as we claimed and lost territory. Despite my own distraction, I managed to hold my own until the very end. In a series of quick, incursive moves he wiped out the narrow lead I’d held for most of the game, crushing my territory in a solid and decisive victory.

“I win.”

…a phrase that haunted me. I stared at the goban in frustration. My losing was inevitable, yes, but no less annoying. Biting the inside of my cheek to keep from scowling, I leveled Nobunaga with a cold stare.

“So you did.”

He blinked in surprise. “No smart remarks from you?”

“What good would it do? You’ve already set the terms of our wager.”

“This is quite unlike you,” he responded. “Are you unwell, Y/N?”

“No.”

An arrogant smirk lifted one corner of his mouth. “Are you so desperate for my touch that you are willing to give in then?”

Yes. “No.”

“Then why not put up a fight?”

“Because you won.” He looked…disappointed almost, as if he’d expected a long battle. “Do you want me to fight?”

“I’ve come to expect it from you.”

“Well I’m just full of surprises, aren’t I?”

I found myself in his arms in the next breath, the sound of stones scattering across the tatami a distant echo behind the hammering of my heart as the spicy scents of cinnamon and incense surrounded me. My hands landed on his arms just above the elbows, my brain noting wildly in the moment that my hands didn’t even go half-way around.

“As am I,” he answered.

My skin prickled with awareness everywhere we touched. His ragged breath slipped over the skin of my throat, igniting the flame low in my belly as he leaned close and captured my earlobe between his teeth. I shivered, a tiny moan escaping my lips.

“Such sweet cries from one who shows no affect,” he murmured, his deep, sonorous voice rumbling through me and setting my nerve endings on fire. The tip of his nose moved down the line of my throat with the lightest of feathery touches then back up again. His fingers flexed against my hips, the warmth radiating from his body seeping into my skin through the layers of my kimono. “I would almost believe you enjoy yourself when I touch you.”

And there’s the trap, I thought.

Rather than implicate myself, I remained quiet, my fingers flexed against his arms to keep them from shaking while his lips slid over my skin to the split at the throat of my kimono. My head fell back and I bit my lip to keep from making another sound. He knew full well what he did to me. There was no need to stroke that massive ego of his further.

“What shall I claim tonight?” he asked, his lips moving against my skin. His fingers dropped to my leg where my kimono had bunched around my knees, sliding beneath the layers of fabric to tickle over my outer thigh. “I own so many parts of you, yet my lands are not connected. Your leg, your lap, your ear, your forehead, your hand…”

“You speak as if you’ve forgotten basic battle tactics,” I said. I was goading him and I knew it, but his touch did such wicked, wonderful things to me. “You may be a master at Go, but even I know that to win at Risk, you have to keep your territory intact.”

“What?” Nobunaga pulled back and looked down at me, curiosity burning in those beautiful, cinder-red eyes.

“A strategy game from my time. You start with a map of the world and use your armies to conquer the continents piece by piece.”

“It sounds delightful,” he said, a smile softening his sharp gaze. I knew I had his attention now. His curiosity was almost as insatiable as his hunger. “You will teach me this game.”

“Is that what you want for winning?” I question, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. “Me to teach you a game?”

“Absolutely not,” he answered without hesitation, his fingers digging into my sides to remind me exactly where I was. “I will claim my prize and learn everything you know of this game.” He leaned in again, nibbling along the cuff of my ear and winning another moan for his trouble. “And then I will use that knowledge to destroy you again and again.”

“That’s not fair!”

Nobunaga groaned despite the smile on his face when he pulled back. “Will you give me no peace, woman?” he asked, his devilish expression turning predatory.

“Probably not,” I replied.

His hands threaded through my hair, his long fingers massaging my scalp in the process. I shivered as those calloused fingertips traced my ear and slid down my throat. His touch was more intoxicating than any sake, more addictive than any drug. The tiny voice of reason in my mind told me I should put a stop to this, but my heart and body craved him.

“I continue to claim you bit by bit, yet those lips of yours protest. Your body responds…” His fingers drifted over my shoulder and down my arm, leaving a trail of tingling warmth in their wake. “…and it tells me you want this.” My hand rose in response to his touch and our fingers threaded together. “Then you deny me.” His other hand slid to the back of my head, closing around my hair. “Perhaps you will be willing to relinquish control of those beautiful lips now.”

“You are a warrior, yes?” I asked.

“Yes…”

“Then how can you possibly enjoy the conquest if I don’t resist?”

Nobunaga’s gaze darkened and his smirk grew into a feral, hungry grin. “So you want to be hunted…to be claimed.”

In a breath I was on my back on the tatami, his large, muscular frame over me and filling my vision. Gone was the cold façade of the conqueror, replaced with a fiery new passion I’d never seen before. That look in his eyes, beautiful and desperate, it burned.

“If being claimed is what you desire…”

“You only get to claim one thing,” I reminded him at the same time I pushed against him. He did not move even an inch.

“But the choice is still mine,” he responded and began to map with his lips the parts of me he’d already taken—my hand, my ear, my forehead, my leg, his palm over my heart…

“Make your selection, Devil King.”

The flames in his carnelian eyes burned hotter and his smile twisted into something almost cruel.

“The Devil King is not interested in petty acquisitions,” he said, leaning in to drag the tip of his nose along my throat. “No…I want complete submission. Tonight you will give everything to me.”

“All is fair in love and war, Nobunaga. I will not submit.” I pushed harder against him and slipped away, rising on shaky legs to put some distance between the two of us. I couldn’t think with him so close, taking up all my attention.

Nobunaga tracked me with his gaze as I moved to the other side of the room and slid open the balcony door. He was enjoying this. Truth be told, so was I. My safety was never once in question; if I asked him to stop, he would. OF that one thing I was certain.

“Do you still intend to return to your time?” he asked, his rich, deep voice hinting at uncertainty.

“I…” I had thought so much about it but had yet to come to a conclusion. These games, his driving need for me to look only at him, the way I felt in his arms… Sasuke told me not to get attached, but I’d gone and done it without realizing it. I wanted Nobunaga and everything he was willing to give me. I could tell myself that now because to do otherwise would be unfair to either of us. Yet the thought that he could so callously take lives in the name of his ambition, though…

“My fireball is without retort.” He rose to his feet, fluid and graceful despite his considerable size. “How interesting.”

“I am not a toy, Nobunaga.”

“No…” he replied, eating up the distance between us with long strides. “My toys do not talk back to me.” Those long, lean fingers closed around my jaw. His thumb grazed my bottom lip. His eyes burned with that cold fire.

“If I claim these tonight,” he did it again, “will you try to stop me?”

I stared up at him, mouth open, breath coming in small gasps. Would I ask him to stop? Did I have the strength to push him away again?

“You’ve taken my heart,” I said, my voice thin and raspy against his fingertips, “what could be more important than that?”

“Is that…surrender I hear?” he questioned, closing the distance between us while his thumb continued to toy with my lips.

“Not even close,” I responded, catching his thumb between my teeth and biting harder than necessary. Nobunaga grunted in response, his gaze darkening as it focused on the spot where I, for once, held him captive.

“You are brave,” he said, pushing his thumb deeper into my mouth. Swirling my tongue around the callused digit, I reveled in the salty-sweet taste of his skin. I closed my lips around his knuckle, suckling gently and drawing a gasp from his throat. “Naughty girl,” he added, ripping his thump from my mouth as he closed the distance and claimed my lips.

Oh… Oooohhhh…..

He held me by the throat and the back of my head, plunging his tongue between my open lips and drawing me into a delicious new battle. His cinnamon-and-incense scent was infused into his lips, and I couldn’t stop the moan from rising as I twined my own tongue with his, enjoying this new kind of warfare.

My back hit the wall and Nobunaga’s strong arms caged me in. This man now owned me, body and soul. I only hoped I could live up to whatever expectations he’d built in his mind.

Nobunaga broke away from my mouth, his lips leaving a fiery trail along my jaw to my ear, then down my throat. Before I realized what was happening he had my kimono open, kissing and licking his way over my collarbone toward my breasts. My fingers carded through his soft, thick hair and my head fell back against the wall with a soft thump. I never wanted this feeling to end, but my competitive spirit flared to life under his touch.

“Nobunaga…” I gasped as his lips closed on the aching peak of my left breast. His hand rested above it and my heart hammered against his touch, urging him onward as he licked and suckled at my sensitive flesh. “That’s—mmm—that’s not…not your t-t-terri—ngghh—territory…”

“It’s too late for revolt,” he answered through his teeth, without letting go of my nipple.

“It isn’t revolt if you never had control of the territory in the first place.”

He let go of me with a wet pop and laughed. The jerk actually laughed at me. “So you’ve declared war against me, have you?” A smile slid onto his lips but a shiver overtook him as I moved my fingers against his scalp, dangerously close to the back of his neck. He tensed as if waiting for me to launch an attack.

“I did nothing of the sort. You declared war against me the moment you placed the goban between us.”

“Then you should save yourself the heartache and surrender to me.”

“There is no honor in surrender.”

His mouth fell open in a flash of surprise. Then Nobunaga raised one eyebrow and his smile widened further. The look in his eyes was one of pure heat. He was enjoying this as much as I was. “You do remember who I am, yes?”

“Of course.”

“Then who am I?” he asked, his fingers tickling along the length of my leg and causing me to shiver. My kimono hung open to the floor. He could have taken advantage at any moment, but he remained in his territory, his gaze locked firmly on mine.

“You,” I started, pulling my fingers from his hair. I placed my hand against his cheek, allowing his warmth to seep into my skin, “are the Oda Nobunaga, one of Japan’s great unifiers.” I allowed my smile to widen and my eyes to narrow. “and you are on your knees in front of me.” I captured his jaw in my other hand as his eyes widened, holding him tightly as I leaned close—so close that I could feel his ragged breath against my lips. “It would appear, my Lord, that you have submitted to me.”

“Have I?”

His gaze darkened and his fingers ceased their teasing torment along my skin. Something flashed in his eyes—something dangerous—and for a moment I wondered if I’d taken this game too far.

Too late now.

“A man who goes to his knees willingly is one who submits, is he not?”

Nobunaga laughed. The sound rumbled through me, spreading more of that delicious, tingling heat in its wake. “First rule of warfare, little one,” he said, and before I could draw my next breath, my back was against the cover of the futon, “when you have a man on his knees, you should always bind his hands so he cannot attack.” My kimono lay open on either side, the evening air cool against my overheated skin. Nobunaga held himself above me, his lower half nestled between my parted thighs. Everywhere he touched burned.

He captured my earlobe between his teeth, worrying it until I moaned with a mix of pleasure and pain. “A cornered man on the verge of surrender is often a desperate man.” He turned his attention to my neck, leaving small, stinging bites on my skin. “And a desperate man will stop at nothing to win.”

Nobunaga returned to my lips, drawing me into another rough, battling kiss, and when he released his hold on my mouth, my hands were bound above my head with my own obi cord.

“Do you know what I do to those who demand my submission?” he asked, teeth raking over my neck again. I stared up into his gaze and shook my head slowly. “I crush them beneath me.” Nobunaga flexed his hips against my core, unquestionable proof that he now had complete control over me. He stilled, dropping his mouth to my ear, and took a deep breath. “If you do not want this, Y/N, tell me now because I have no intention of stopping.”

His words excited me. Despite his complete domination of me, he was still concerned about my well-being. That alone urged me onward as I reached up with my bound wrists and took his face in my hands, drawing his mouth back to mine. He kissed me like a man possessed, with all the passion and fury locked inside his ice-bound heart.

“I will not submit,” I said, my voice small and shaking when we parted, and his eyes darkened further as if he waited for the perfect moment to deliver the death blow, “not without a fight.” Surprise filtered into his features and I thrust my hips upward, knocking him off balance just enough to be able to hook my leg over his and flip him onto his back. His surprise turned to shock and amusement as he found himself on his back, his wrists in my tied hands against the floor. I leaned over his big body, my unbound breasts pressing against his chest as I dropped my mouth close to his ear. “I can also demand submission,” I said, my lips grazing the cuff of his ear and causing him to shiver. A growl rumbled out of his throat and his hands flexed under mine, reminding me that he only allowed me the appearance of control.

“Demand what you like,” Nobunaga replied, a smile splitting his beautiful face, “it appears you and I seek the same goal.” He punctuated his words with an upward thrust of his hips. His arousal became apparent as his cock slid against my core, halted only by the fabric of his night robes.

Then I was on my back again, Nobunaga’s embrace gentle and his kiss punishing. He tore away the remainder of his clothing with one hand and settled his hips between my thighs. Those long, calloused fingers moved over my thigh to my hip, then between our bodies to seek out my wet heat. He dipped one finger inside and I answered with a moan.

“I see my little conqueror enjoys losing,” he said, laughing against my lips as a second finger joined in, pushing deep and stretching, preparing me. “It was an impressive battle,” he continued, curling his fingers up and finding that secret, sensitive place that caused my hips to rise of their own accord, chasing that bright point of pleasure, “and now I shall claim my reward.”

“Nobunaga…” I gasped as his fingers vanished, his name sliding into a long, low moan as he pushed inside, filling me almost to the point of pain. An answering rumble issued from his throat as we came together. Only when he was fully seated inside me did the sound die away.

“Mine��” he growled, catching my ear between his teeth once more as he began to move. My hips rose to meet his deep, hard thrusts, my body begging for more under his fast, steady rhythm. I looped my bound arms around his neck and clung to him desperately, my lips seeking purchase along his shoulder, at the base of his throat; anywhere I could touch became my territory as he drove me higher and higher into the most intense, sublime pleasure of my life. “Mine…” he groaned again, repeating the word like a prayer punctuated with tiny, stinging bites over my skin and long, delicious kisses. My belly quivered in anticipation as that knot of pleasure curled tighter and tighter, urged on by the draw and drag of his heavy member moving inside me. Nobunaga shifted his position, deepening his reach and bringing his hips down against me with each thrust. My fingernails dug into his shoulders, my head thrown back in ecstasy, and I shattered.

My channel tightened, drawing him deeper still as wave after wave of the most exquisite pleasure crashed over me. Still he rode me through it, his rhythm increasing and pushing me higher until he seated his hips fully against me and came with a loud, desperate moan.

Nobunaga collapsed against me, breathing hard, and I held him to me as we came down from the pleasure high, his hips still gently rocking and my own rising to meet his movements. Tiny aftershocks of pleasure jolted my core as the realization of what I’d done tried to take control. I’d given him everything he wanted without securing my own requirements. But the way he’d looked at me…

I pushed the thoughts away, leaning up to kiss the top of his head. His soft, feathery hair tickled my face and I felt his cheek tighten against my chest as he smiled. Nobunaga pulled my arms from around his neck and rolled, pulling me to lay atop his body yet retaining our intimate connection. He released my wrists, kissing the angry, red lines where the silk had burned my skin. His fingers combed through my hair and slid down my back, holding me to him.

“You are a truly amazing creature, Y/N.” He laughed, the sound rumbling all the way through me and rekindling that fire burning in my core. I looked up, suddenly bashful as he stared down his nose at me with a new intensity to his gaze.

“How so?”

“You bring out both the best and worst in me.” He punctuated the statement with an upward thrust of his hips that told me he was nowhere near finished. He was still inside me, and his cock was already stiffening again. The action drew a low, weak moan out of me. “You allow me to play out the most lurid of fantasies. You give me exactly what I need.”

“A-and what is…is that?” I asked, fighting to stay focused on his words as his movements under me became more pronounced.

“A beautiful, entertaining bedmate of which I may never tire,” he answered, sitting up and capturing my mouth as he brought my hips down hard against his. He held me in his lap, my legs bent on either side of him, and thrust upward again, urging me to move. Those big, broad arms closed around me, placing me exactly where he wanted me as he continued his slow, languid kiss.

This second round was less desperate; slower, more intimate. We kissed long and deep, his tongue twining around mine and expressing the affection he couldn’t vocalize. My hips rocked against his slow thrusts, tilting so that each time we came together, the brush of his hips stimulated me further. Though we were less frantic, every sensation seemed heightened. It was less about chasing the climax than enjoying the moment, and enjoy it we certainly did.

Nobunaga held me tight, his fingers dancing over my skin as we moved together, our bodies instinctually finding a rhythm together and stoking those low-burning flames until we came together in a strangled series of whispers and moans.

We collapsed together into the bed, exhausted and delirious with pleasure. I dozed against his shoulder. He slept with his head against my breast, never allowing me farther away than his arms could reach. Throughout the night we sought the warmth and pleasure of each other’s bodies time and time again until the sun began to rise.

[theloobrush]

Respect Culture

I have worked with many socially excluded and marginalized groups. I have also seen the dark and unpleasant underbelly of a nation encountering the reality of homelessness, addiction, crime and prostitution.. I am not a professional social scientist but these are my ‘layman’s’ conclusions about the culture at the bottom of society.

1. The majority of the chronically street homeless (i.e. those who are homeless for more than a few weeks or months) suffer from severe mental health and/or addictions. In all the cases I have encountered there was some degree of mental ill health and addictive behaviour prior to homelessness though rough sleeping usually worsens these afflictions. A very substantial number of the chronically homeless have had social housing (in some cases multiple tenancies as well as private lets) but these have not be sustainable due to the tenant’s behaviour. Frequently the accommodation is lost due to persistent non payment of rent, anti-social activities or  prolonged periods in custody. Family and spousal estrangement is also a significant factor.

2. Drug addiction (in contrast with alcohol addiction) is social. No one is a drug addict on their own without a network of people who encourage and feed the habit. Drug addicts form almost exclusive social groups with other addicts, or addiction is mutually supported within couples.  They are often bound together only by the rituals of obtaining and using drugs, exchanging drugs and drug information, and especially the lending of money to each other. It is very difficult for individuals to break free from the social aspect of drug taking.  The rehabilitated person often begins with loss,  friendless and either treated with suspicion by their former associates or constantly badgered to re-start their habit. Chronic addiction results in alienation from all normative family relationships, very low engagement with social institutions including those designed for leisure and education, and  little to no interest in current affairs.

3. Most addicts are also petty occasional dealers within their small circles.. To sustain their habits and due to debt obligations accrued to their own drug suppliers, individuals will become runners to supply drugs for friends; some will seek to earn future ‘credit’ or make a profit on these deals. 

4. Where voluntary organisations provide  regular food or other useful donations with no strings attached, the addicts will tend to cease to purchase essential items and spend more money on their addictions. Street homelessness is sustained by organisations that claim to want to remove people from the street. Established charities have a very different approach and help is almost never entirely unconditional..

5.. Marginalised groups are most likely to emphasise their wish and need for  ‘respect’. These individuals have no job or only occasional casual work. They are often under educated; in many case they failed or were excluded from school; their addictions consumed their early adulthood. They may have no developed skills or work experience, there is substantial emotional retardation as drug habits and the escape from reality they provide disrupts the maturing process of gaining greater responsibility for one’s own life. 

In  any event prolific offending behaviour to feed their habit has also made it very difficult for them to find employment. They have next to no financial resources except those obtained through welfare benefits, begging and criminal activity. Relative to most of society they lack any well regarded social status or significance, and they know their degradation either consciously or unconsciously.

Many of the men, and some women in this seemingly hopeless position, will take offence at the slightest perceived insult or criticism and the mildest obstruction to their immediate wishes. Any hint of disdain or dislike toward them is often met with exaggerated hostility. An expression of fear or nervousness in response to this hostility is in turn met with behaviour that is designed to denigrate or shame the other person, to ‘bring them down’.

There is an expectation that they will be treated like everyone else even if their behaviour is unreasonable. They do not like any reference being made to  any wrong doing, mental health, addiction problems or general situation unless this is volunteered; welfare benefits are described as ‘pay’ and discussed as if they are a right they have ‘earned’. Much of the time, outside of private discussions with those they trust, they reject any personal responsibility for their failures and they are extremely sensitive to anyone ‘judging them’. Most have a deeply ingrained sense of victimhood and corresponding sense of entitlement despite or because of their extreme dependence on the largesse of the state.

They do not accept that respect is something to be ‘earned’. Outwardly they express behaviour that is suggestive of substantial personal pride and even excessive, almost narcissistic self regard. Though they have next to no other belongings and poor diets, the majority will ensure they have clean faces, well cut hair and wear some fashionable clothes and trainers. At first glance many do not appear ‘poor’ by their dress, and not all are shabby.  Another expression of pride is through exaggerated claims about their great love for their extended families - often quite at odds with their actual negative and strained relations. Family connections are emphasised, whether or not any strong interpersonal relationship exists. 

The negative aspect of this respect culture is they  may also go out of their way to cultivate fear in others by verbal and sometimes physical violence and intimidation. This culture also leads to bullying of individuals who are perceived as  'weaker' personalities and especially those who are less physically strong. Many are openly hostile and loudly abusive toward individuals from other ethnic and sexual minorities. There is a very strong tendency to scapegoat minorities for their own problems 

Most readily understand their legal rights. They readily expect the police services to come to their aid when they have been faulted though they are involved in considerable criminal activity and will tell you how much they hate the police and how corrupt they are. They are strong believers in contractual obligations. 

6. Individuals in their immediate circle who are interested in learning, in study or in bettering themselves in anyway are routinely subjected to derision and rejection, intimidation and bullying. 

7. Some will use crude graffiti employing their own  names, nicknames and 'tags'. This mabe be a way for these individuals to feel they can psychologically dominate their environment, assert their 'territory' and so artificially give themselves social significance.

Discussion

What is happening here?  Here is a group that actively opposes society's standards of 'respect'  and the various value hierarchies against which they would ordinarily be judged. Young males from this background are often intensely anti-education, as well as anti-authority in all its forms. They often seem inexplicably and unnecessarily aggressive to anyone with enhanced power or status including 'helping' professionals (at other times they will appear excessively craven to service providers as long as they have an expectation that their immediate needs may be met.)

From  occasional but revealing private conversations, I know that marginalised, and badly educated men in particular tend to have rock bottom feelings of self worth, lacking as they do social capital and  any prospect of economic standing. They have internalised their poor social status but this has not motivated them to improve themselves. This behaviour  is not limited to those with a poor upbringing, if their successful progress into full adult life has been thwarted (most often as a consequence of their own behaviour) 

What we are seeing are habitual  behaviours  with the only instrumental means of expression open to them being employed: their emotions, speech, general physicality and personal presentation. I believe marginalised individuals develop a social mask or persona projecting strength  with the appearance of dominance, courage and fortitude in stark contrast to their social reality. This seems to be a psychological survival tactic in the more self aware individuals to avoid torpor and permanent depression. These individuals can seem  hostile to anyone or anything that reminds them of their personal failure. . They will frequently engage in forms of posturing and social intimidation.  

It is more than probable that their addictions to certain substances meet  deep personal needs by obliterating feeling of low self worth and internalised inferiority. The chosen drugs do one of two things: they either relax and soothe or boost feelings of strength and confidence. 

Conclusion.

Respect Culture is the pervasive phenomena among marginalised groups, especially young men, where in  response to an internalized sense of inferiority, and  social rejection, the individual projects a protective facade of social dominance. This in turn is experienced by the rest of the society as hostility and aggression resulting in further marginalisation in a vicious downward spiral. 

[40ozalctears]

the sweetest kindest little ringing remind or ashtin or spooked rabbit keeper sweetest, spiteful my vices ahh!her luv damn. why!

The cause of harm is the greed and not the farm that you arm your weakest prodigal son, in the wake of a maybe fatal frigid Hellscape frozen over the hold over Queen majesty - when all they want is the monarch taxes back - like do u rly think the easy dirty easy money like stealing, type super  funny, honey its sweeter than the milk and soft as the spin the scar tissue hard. Trust me, the watching who hold hate close to the knowledge of the madgods jewelry is stinking of lunacy, from the quiet kind boy behind the monarch stark cast of Godlike endless hatred rage - take it from the prophesied leader of spirits who know prophesy fulfilled when he listens to to the whistling of ancestor spirits. Shh. Pawned so many rings that belonged to wrong ruler and song girl bringer of here. I am  crystal clear that I am the Belle the Gaelic attempt to keep it super sly and secret. Keep the sharp teeth wolf boys feel. You use the hints and kinks in the story is so old to known to young unsung but done as done prophesy is - stuck in a state archdruidic sickening states of being wasted on the loss my rightful throne and every hidden secret locked in the labyringth in Gothic leviathan cathedral bearing my Gaelic, as the eventually overthrown Roman blew in the gail winds of fading traditon, until no one listened - French, drenched in gas so the most certain ancients know that the young stuck between wolf with teeth perfectly shining, glistening like misshappen young Bellovaci younger holy boys who were just always in a feral state as this, to purr and meow and give the serpent hiss in the name of making your place certain beneath more primal - I relinquish the dirt that just sits in the sink, until I relinquish link to like the hoops in the ear that would claime me the the arch-druid so sickly addicted to every little drink that is as ichor of death, to be anything but self assured in the word of the lycan simply lurking. Stuck between sprint, torn denim, more wolf than man, more Perfectly evil than pleasantly Godly like the most ready to know the foam that forms when see see her have their beloved dark black long hair sheared like wheat and chaff before the wind - like the sick should fall to the bloodied slice of the sickle - for less obvious matters, let the frigid whisper of winter being fickle, just enought to tickle the just to depravity. As such, the little who felt the eyes of boy who circled the edge of town as if he could not exist if not considerign the sting of monarch moth never more than a state eternal failing - the bread of a war machine God called Heaven, and stole my lost profit lost cost of certain life - being stuck in the state of eternal decay, which I studied and loved until I travelled under and dug, and built a man made moat just so you and your favorite things that makes you a sweet thing, and I would let your eye widen as the Sun dies again, for how many nights we d did not fight against sleep, as if it was impossible to not see the glow of the her slow in the bright of the certain doom and the looming harvest of farthest mens beliefs- understanding them from the wise who came far from the East, and so when I fed on what I studied to be the understanding of the love of another that was as fulfilling as shared cute snack that feels like return of the hero, but no great war - just what she stored I locked in impossible chance of ever being forgotten in the permafrost frigid acceptance that my ribs form a page that is nothing short of permafrost accounting for the Godliness of Loss - so for all the simple beauty and the cutie doe with the fawn eyes who I saw forever in a way, sleepîng on a hateful yawn, and as soon as she wakes, blinks, yawns, I steal her from the fate of never escaping the state of eternal maze - by which I named my first son already the Scarecrow Prince who will only  know keeping away crows, and those who know the harbingers of death, if you trust the call of keeping death then you invite again the flow of euphoric state of moon blasting through, like it baptizes you new under the last name you gave as you noticed her lose the tame, like a newly free thing who was only knew cage - I suppose many act as they should as if they ever only knew rage - for all labyrinth trap and reasons of setting traps for the unwanted seasons, so in the sickest of seeping Spring I know one ring keeps me sharpening teeth, and assured that the meek not sheep for the weak of the word, but the deared dark-eyed soul  that I saw tending to to contraption that was asked to keep us in safety, and just as the sweetest of sickly sweet thing that makes all lycan boy, between and here and there was a maiden, one of iron, one which was so tired, that it tired me, even in my infinite gift of plan to hatch the love of my own twisted roots of oak until I am choked by the end of my joke that is just make the sweet doe eyed in the man made moat I spit this as quick as a slit I would made, but it would take little more me to riddle a liittlle harmless threat, with the debt of what is owed to the protector of Queen of all that I have seen more goes than majesty, tragedy that it had to be you, and I saw her look away, but I think she was keen of a certain sense to know I was such a penniless who could spend endless words for you learn that it takes as such, that you get as much as you give, and even to keep her breath steady - you not  take your never ending, butterfly wing, malfunctioning thats most fear but she hears vibrated like like quiet of the hum and summer nights - and so for me take the claws, fix both red stained glass eyes, wide as severed - ways to explain that it painful to say that given what I have scribbled in the hieromanic of trance, and I cannot sing and and dance like I do not having to call for the Fall of Man, just every plan of man, no matter well maid, always led themselves, naked shivering, exactly to the step of my trap, which I simply set to wet my taste that in my heart the start of the most bright exploding morning flail - the believe that mourning any distance bright candle simply doused by the petty candle lick, quick-witted way the light of your life might just decide one day, in its trickery, sickening mastery of things more man than a boy who finds join the acceptance as wolf more always in between, hurting and dirty for never truly becoming, but since in absolutely delightful beauty quiet she floats on the wooden boat, Singing in tongues what might be the meaning of death in  ending of sum - in that if speaking trying to make sense of the sounds is beyond the bond of human to the satisfaction with simple humanity, not having grasped the the roots and found how to shoot start out of the sky on  a night  so loud from the crowd of surrounding pounding drums, of those fat-bellied fascists, who heard word you of your solitary goddess too honest to ever say she just believes without being knowing as so many, too-knowing will claim until they slain the in the name of the lie - I remember the Ilai, Eli, of course...a a lie, I have thought the less real lamb that stood as she stands, as he landed on the peak of Golgotha, the Aramaic was perhaps soft on the dying son confused by the plan of the Eternal, that when the nails jailed themself to a cage of childish rage, in his purity, in his fury, the absolute terrifying baring of teeth, from a thing more than a man who we only know as the Italian son of a man who weaponized the need, of knowing the idea of the Son, asking the father for a taste of Honey, as burned to death due to fault lines in the times conflict, the Son would consider, despite the nights in wild, where I was the child and babe possessed, nearly the Lord of Death - given mastery over connection to Father, God, the peak of throne - just as the wildest time I ever came close to perhaps becoming too full in my how MUCH my teeth bled as I felt them become blades, that only most alone lycanthrope knows that in a statone of alone, given nothing but instinct, and the nonsense worthless broken porcelain that looked so wrong in it raped poor, sad fatal estate, as the rate increased and the feast my own consuming of stars in the sky forgetting the name of the Hatred of the idea of my meek littlle priestess - seeped in my need of simply believing in Queen, should the Kind pawn and not think for a again, at least inn a state of knowing it staying put in insanity, instead of grasping at the fact, so beautfiul but tear-filled years and years of waiting, Hating the need for blood spilled -  sip on sour cloud break int raped time I believe I must drink the blood to avoid the or, some prophesy that is as misplaced as a poisoned chalice, or even living in a palace, as I lived in what i make an intricate safet confusing little maze of a cluttered and dimly lit clean as can home fit for as modest and as the innocent stern deity who submisses to no dismmissing of her strength in the way the drenches the weak in the their defeat - became as haunting, piercingly loud, as if thhe crowd of the rage of a forget tradition of boys lost in the most deep of Belgic, someone some-where look like the Sun King withought the messes of lost den dwellers wishing for one gem laden gauntlet of a boy so Shining finally given the palace where he stood like the final piece to the puzzle, but any failed watch maker who understands the importance of the love and  acceptance of failure - to sit in silence as loud as the sound the once-dead no piercengly quiet -only tickicking the old heiroom , alone in the darkest little steel  box of lock between myself and what seemed to be the reason i even kept any thing dirty, having a penchant for ugly, as it is easier to hug, with unwarranted terrible pain, that if I should given a shame all the was of the certainly nervous and tall nothing but simple boy, who kept strange so deranged and misunderstood, the closest I ever became to command I then claimed over how we become the beast we studied, the most, so le loup garou je troube q c maps mal nous tous les jeune honnes, donner in the grace of the silliest stiill alive-ancients, I remember waking to up the nothing but fear, clearly awake, before I considered that the stuck between stations of dashing and springting with tongue out more in between than ever, and severed from reality like nape of the rapist of health, who deserved exactly how painful it is to attempt to take the breason of breath of a deathly sweet little thing, that I had no quarrel, with so many inner-wars possessing my core, this came as 2 and 2 would naturally come to one who lives for another but must act out of of absolute focus on the swarm of locust, of channeling the hate the state of still convinced of weak willed humanity always grasping back to the need to such greedy with our grasping little human disease name our most useless scraping of kness, simply to not exist as mist with a debt to death, that will never be paid until in your maiden, somehow still, as sweet and, as opened like the intricate lock, who only ever talked so soft, though never stern as if to teach those who do not know how made the young boys go when laid bare to the fair skin little thing, and the presence of something listening, lurking and working on the moat, so he has a place to return, that I earn the trust, as my mane because the the River Styx by which the depth of how trim ourself fur and how soft we pur, keeps a little thing like, what seemed at first to be weak little sheep, who watched as i watched, weeks on weeks. i think think of the God Army who drew blade in the name of those who came most like there before - brought about the strength in the week after week, until walked tilted in the way of a wolf, though alone, mostly likely believed a sort or auditory glitch cast by the shadows and  tossed at me like a joke of a bone, simply to give me the idea of home, that I would her here still quietly, but so softly as sweetly - something I wanted to ask but was terrified to even utter to to no one for nothing in silence, she awoke the new sense of 6 all together as one, and for all the boy so scared of the swinging like moon in the sky, when i was convinceded of something tied to things not allowed to those who do not have the raising of dead, all i think id like to just try to return from..if not the grave than the furthest forgotten part of the den, where this story and meaning began as it ends - just a way to say i know exactly why you know what i knew, and i hope against hope i do not lose sight of the memory of you - because although forever boy  -with vices and plain as a night with just white rice and help help of her so harmless little smirk and a wink, that made the pendulum brain that swung like i as hells  bells were insane - as in not quite normal, as normal we love - it all seemed so normal until we were visited by boys, who saw the goddess of seasons in this simple quiet absolutely shierking riot of so many ways she would love, to  tell you all the the words she knows you think of them too much and so when, just when become so accepting of the power your hatred of having to wait - to just wait until the gates by which you always would return her staring, although as if, withouut casting you a spell of  smile, you stop and and look at pacific clearly piercing blue - that for all of her tears that welled up as after 20 nights in defiance of any sort of defeat - as is if being apart,though as he deep how the frozen hold outside the jail of you eternally lost, but kept in sigh chest - where i see the mathers failig and erring to say, I know you began as seeming to sculpted from diamond, though second, the wolf second  sum, more loud and addicted to pride than the smaller though, equally capable man, who just because he can run on all fours as his foretold type apocalypse fate, was as interesting fate fatal as the final pale horse her death - and I do not remember exactly when I began to notice, the boat floathing alone, or when my bright as sprayed over faint barely dim stupid quiet was not chrome or calling me home, by my allowing for all - the absolute Belgic Prophecy joke, that began simply as stupid, but in presence of the spooked little rodent type queen - switched names - without asking why, I suppose that in the attempty of knowing how we know how, and by no means do i say this this with hope ,to achieve the same cheating way of reaching such perfect connection life, than finding your reason to not be Hateful of God when god has been failing idea, of the might of the male, that the simple fact at the bottom of all - is that the Fall of Man is silly little becoming the return, of when I think i will deserve to stop trying be either incredibly far, either evil little devil grasping at the need being weak and pink like,a pig, or in the face of death - the forgetting of breath, i do believe i must rememer the name, the message more than sent in house how many ways, as studied as any believer in science, by wise as the misunderstood men in the dresses from east - so in the incredibl terrible rage, terrifying reminder, she is just theperfect little strength of the flood of all time, for the perfect cute thought little whimsical nonsense word spoken in tongues, simply because she said so manu in barely audible cute litttle whisper lispy magical lilt - i do not think i am of the acceptance of born to die,just as in the dying light of the night Moon gave the light on things in tht nearly blackened painting canopy brush - each as deep as the piercing I made - that was not necessary, but perhaps as if if to stay, i will remain close to the hope digging and searching all the rocks and the mud, until I return to just where I was, until I stand to reason that was a man without her seeming reason for me to defend my hatred of each season, but the love the way they all die so quickly as if they know exactly when I am becoming physically ill by not a shift in understanding of her. i think it was ashtin - like the dust dust to eternal rusting of my loss of self into choked back fears until years of years of studying the defense against against anything bent againt I would feel the power of endless power in the little bit of lovely blood, that once again reminded where I began that bit of a dream, that seems a bit too dramatic of anything more than panicking dream. But my word, the rodent she named Oliver, soft and attaching to words like they are herds she saves with  a simple different way slaying their understanding on plain until the unheard know her death when her breath is missed is harshest in the breach iof the rift in the stone dark endless wall how her breath clears the fog, and sends the echoes back home in whisper just a little lisp, little kiss on my lips, a sly wink with an entirely unexpected opening of entrance to entire  too much to look without being to have your jaw slacked wide - as if the little unexpected so quick little joke, make slit the unknown threat and simple bet her slight bit of doubt in my weakness, i suppose she might have had - and although i do not low i crept as the wind  often does, to bring about clouds when the blue is too much of lie for sky to accept - the debt of your once hated seething refusal of death, allowed again to renew simply by the news of the dreams of the queen who was, ash- ashtin. spooked rabbits are just needing one, as so ti goes...the cutest little feets. keeping me in state of accepting my defeat and knowing the tirump of eternal here and there insanity that had me consuming a star, one by one until the undoing on sun was brought about  queen without the way of making thos who crossed the way with evil kept in its sway, had my pulsing blood, as fucked as the hellish dark of black matter noahs boat couldnt hold - despite being ebnt by the old joke - the grace of god - how one man leading the other keeping the Fall as evil menacing as it kept gluttonous fiendish fucking tearing apart all the planes as if to grow greater in danger to the consatnt and terrifying state of new danger of a  maybe hades boy who ddi too much grasping at pinkish shell to let myslf be reduced the feral final story, horror to some but silly little clever story, that had me eating guts and close to none,a dn then I might the final sum, and we only spoked in like poetic guessing, and, and riddle spun in the funniest little nonsense tongus and you could lose all sense and sight of self -  i think i saw a glimpse of her tasteful, when I cried so long into them moat, that if she left for how I protected her and her little, then just as I took gathered all then found all colorful shades of Easter hues, I thought how she would look up look from some written words - that I know she I loved had never heard - and every time she looked from from the blue, i learned something from the eyes in the books and words i never knew - just to put me where I need to be, to clear pulsing pride from bloodshot, sclera  slit like tip of ice - just as if to say - wolf - what was it! Doggy! DOG BOY!  To catch up to me in my stupid race, and give me exactly the bitter taste of how much she knew in calm and little lil just barely out the pink ishupon which quit the pyre lit - as when I took at the happy easter colors, and I CURSED her named, and named her killer of every color - now that moat is turning black, and the sky shows all the suns so much at once, that at the zenith of the apex boy - little predator muttering all nice sweet letters, because in the frantic end of choice - you not much of choice in - when you you your eyes and count to ten youll wake up up not  stuck in questions asked, so many times that the night  is just the final break day, where eternal empress who claims her seat - only kept around by the spare and rotten, which the boy who always knew, that he hated any end, but not than he seethed at the types of you, who always approached the little lamb, with no regard for how she lead the herds, or which she spent the pitch black birds, with little lick of lips and tonguepoked as if to say, I dont to scary you - its just the way I bite! To make you wonder, and faint and make you beg for me to say that I am not dead, in the native tongue of keeping me tracked by not enough breath to explain - stupid lungs cannot keep up with brain! and so just as I felt the clear the moat around the little steel trap cottage,which in intense dreary clarity pain, I remember how shed always up though the softest sweet soft cooked rye break eyes, which I would break with woodlant carcass, dead, but this type sweetness reminder of her would keep the memory so fucked a blur, that when I needed the guidance of the hiding empress, Ash- Ashtin. I remember her important on the fidget little wind up nature - of the small ones but must be scare, and when i was so close to something more - I do not care for the letters  and their and tried young symbols, I forget how just, a more recently learned cast in iron, attempt self to make the pariah undertood - by way of building the knee sout of rotten would - I do not think or remember or cared cared - to ever do more than simply stare -or imply what youd so quick succinct, without the fear or  drink at the brink too many silly drinks to death, I remember how the static how she just threw all havoc in side my head, and I do not think how it was crackling snow on snow, unlike other other little question that I knew to do, was I given the absolutely never allowed chance - for the lady priestess who herself who so clean of pride - that she took the form of something so  weak in stature - but if was was real ash or rabbit, spooky rodent or wahtevr oh no dew! im so close to new water on the grass - she would say something  something equal  smart - and in this i knew i shaped my heart in form which i recall our elbows linked, and in this, the sotry clinked, like chainmail just so perfectly made, that when i closed my eyes ans the ring of pearl blue simply slain - by knowing that the death of pain,would be cutting the story short, just who had long forgotten why he kept me weight alone - under earth and across the darkest emerald thicket where in the almost dark drk of calm cool breeze - it almost seemed that something she jagged knife told me so many times in a way defeated, there are so many you times you rhyme your want with rotten meat - each time so produ to drop your pittace at my feet - id notice things id though she keep to herselp, like ifif she heard a sound that sort of clicked, she used all her little rabbit nervous, and look at the place that sound had surfaced, shed dart her eye look up and down, i swear to god the became possesed ttha little - as if this tiny little secret might have been some unknown weakness of myself, and sense ofsilly self alone, or how she hated to admit - as if she only felt my  tense and nonsense wit, and how id  spit and drool some nonsense shit, when perk and smack my mouth,and when shed calm and look all normal, shed twist her eyes so deeply wide and locked the a perfect socket into mine, like the human little shaky princess off the greenest ever dark shadow shade - that robot intensity was if her closest thing to shame, as if she knew when  returned the secret little glen, she hated when i knew she cared  - as if she knew the stupid end, and hated the love and silly nickname as though she did not think the the first name fit, and we spoked and we went on and in the game of just the longest song, which always began with us just screeching cute littl sounds, until, shed begin with A, as if to see how w eboth felt to do, with eah little letter we knew so well,and I remember an ANNOYINGLY loud, and I liked to do things just know with how id b so glad to know want cares, for me to be sory of follow hey very little cutey challenge, so i held her given named above her head - as if to bring her to my secret little home - and anoint with strangest deepest love warming feeling - until corner her with feelings -until were both so dumb kid squealing, I corner her with her given name , as she was the one cutie types, no matter silly im am, ur the dumber piece of stinky dumb dog pudding slung so poorly, like its barely even taut at all - that the only time we were said such cute little things, that rhyme together, are so dreamy perfect, as im not sure if we even rhymed at all, but in night as our giggles turned to cackling tearfilled calls, we would end just other begins, just as simple sum as dipped in depth as deepest why crying over the dimming sun is oh nopers! as shed often say. id hear here do her beauty cutie thing where shed say, the type pitter patter nopey nopers, until l my hopes are all in where I hope she keeps the darkenest wait, so quickly lit with razor wit, that right before i sleep for the firostin so long again - she finally has me brawling crying out for the light of lights to not go out, that a final word shared just before accept hoh nopers dannnnnngit! Dange gangly nooonopers! as she just liked to she how silly she could sound, but when wanted to bring just edge of life, and making the queen the jewel of the dirtdog simple, the priestess of the brightest secret light, who ended each and every night, with final thing if to jsut a silly tired thing, and I rememebr one really faded in to greatest chipped old fade- in the love of the little fidgety way, that on the dirst in central little metal room - enthused by how it felt like such a lovely tomb while drifted in and out of sleep, everytime id come back to awake, shed be staring directly in eye my eye, or even wake me up with her fucking Hey! Fuck you! type ofpicking at my skin blackhead whitehead or little red think she could pick, as if me not knowing  thats shes afraid that i dont know,,that even though the little snarky rude type silly teacher preacher joker stoker of the loving flame - she thinks mentioning lame is stupid all bark mr neutered bad dog! lil piece of crap.  n then, feigning sincerity in sweetest way possible her eyes roop and he strts talkin all  sorry andloopy  , and says super very slow, i know for a fact shes spitting on my eyes oh my loird this absolutely silly evilly queen of jokes, fuck stoked the fire so i know my f;ace, and im just as i tryin to mutter - wh..are you..spraying your nasty stupid spit  on my f-f-face.I know exactly how but why id even why this stupid little chunky  chimp do do anything just on a silly whim - to prove chance, that although a very loud annoying little yappy annoying dog, and based on this i would  and must always let her win. even when shed really make me start to cry  because i thought about how she would either disappear or either disappear of or be gonetoo long 2 diappear - or just be ok withou withou the fear-  gone too long and just because intilledwith fear until she calls me stupid just all day long, sometimes sall ur silly things get to me way deeper than they ever should - just because i feel my knees creaking like crutches with twoodworm and the rotten wood - but when the sweetest little knows im a bit too sh turns from stupid annoying silly thing, worth all the waunt gather in the form of my simple fear of the obvious big unspoke thing if we were either prepared or knowing that the beauiful haunting song, of hows omething would be lost, if we simply lived all boring quiet, because in teh certainy of her going i umumumum. I dinnot say YOu are..STOOpidn, i sad you....are souping! souping out! and i stop and i realize exactly why I go....oh...yeah? and i start laughing... and gasping and  hey ashtin. for all the metaphor. what do i have to do do for spooked rabbit self to pitter pitter patter. I suppose I know what’s been the matter

[wackygoofball]

Moodboard: Jaime x Brienne - Elementary AU

Just FYI, I am sending ahead that I absolutely, with all of my heart adore Elementary and Jonny Lee Miller’s and Lucy Liu’s portrayals of their characters, which is why this moodboard should please be regarded as an homage to the show above all else, even if I take the romantic high road here despite the fact that the show seems to follow the trajectory of the platonic love (which is so pure and so well written I still cry) up until this point of time, though as a shipper... one can still hope, right?

I will also send ahead that I had to do some tweaking to create the Watson/Sherlock dynamic since Jaime’s character is different from a Sherlock Holmes in many ways, so I employed a little workaround I hope suffices.

To give a bit of a teaser, here the plot bunnies I have thus far:

Brienne of Tarth knows what she is getting into whenever she takes on a new client. After all, she chose to become a sober companion to deal with the unexpected and help those who can’t help themselves in times of crisis. What she doesn’t know is how she stumbled over this most curious case. First she gets an ominous phone call from an assistant to Mr. Blackwater to request her services for his friend who just came out of rehab and now needs some looking after, then she finds out the same man would not meet up with him.

All Brienne knows about her client is that his name is Jaime Lannister, a former consultant for the King’s Landing Police Department, and that yes, this is the same man known as the Kingslayer in the Seven Kingdoms after he killed Aerys Targaryen, but was found to have acted in self-defense even though evidence begged to differ a lot, or so she heard on television. From the medical files she was provided by the facility, Brienne knows that he lost his hand and as a result got addicted to pain killers, which resulted in his drug abuse that landed him in the rehab in the first place.

Their first meeting couldn’t be any more unfortunate as it doesn’t take long for the truth to unfold that Jaime Lannister does not want and won’t tolerate a sober companion, or “mannish drug nanny” as he puts it, to watch every of his steps.

“I have no intention to be using again, so Bronn can just fuck off and leave me alone. He actually has a lot of experience with that ever since he got his villa.”

Brienne won’t budge, however, she never does, and makes it clear to her new client that she won’t be going anywhere until she knows for sure that he is settled in and doesn’t run the risk of relapsing anymore during this very critical transition period from rehab center to normal life again.

She is used to clients who display hostility towards her, show mistrust, but Jaime Lannister puts a new level to it, because no matter what, Brienne not once encountered an client who would play fanfares late at night, arguing it vital to his recently picked up again consultant duties, dumping trash on her bed for a “long overdue experiment concerning decomposition of evidence” or introducing her to police staff as his “personal valet.” Though Brienne will have to admit, despite his sheer intolerable behavior, Jaime Lannister is even better than the rumors about him would let one assume: through deduction alone, he sees right through a crime scene, gets down to the bottom of it and finds the culprit. It is such a stark contrast to the childish man trying to drive her out of the house. On the job, he is exceeding any expectations, is sharp, focused, and cuts through lies and stories with the precision of a scalpel.

Jaime, for his part, would rather have this sober companion gone for good, but Miss Tarth appears stubborn enough to stick around against better judgment, or perhaps Bronn pays her better than he would have calculated. His interest in her witnesses a slight peak while working a case, since his “personal valet” happens to have some medical insights bringing him forward in finding the murder suspect that would have taken him quite a while longer.

Not that he would admit that to her, of course. After all, Jaime shouldn’t be surprised by her knowledge of the field. He did his research and knows for a fact that she is a former army doctor turned drug nanny. Nevertheless, she happens to have deductive skills of her own, he discovers, and while unrefined in some aspects, she has a certain clarity in her mind that most others lack.

However, in the end, that shouldn’t matter. Jaime has other things to do, and she is just the constant reminder of his failure, which is why Jaime undertakes the efforts necessary to drive her out of the house. At last, his research reveals that one thing that may drive her over the edge – how she ended up as a sober companion in the first place. In the course of a heated argument, Jaime snaps and confronts Brienne about it that she only ever took on the job because she failed to keep Renly Baratheon safe when she worked as his personal secretary and he ended up getting shot in the streets outside a restaurant where they met with Catelyn Stark for business dealings.

When Jaime considers himself the winner at last, he is taken aback by Brienne’s reaction, however:

“It appears your only method of dealing with your own emotions is by projecting them on others.”

“So you deny you have any problems? Please. I just proved that wrong.”

“I know I have them, and that means I am three steps ahead of you. Because you can’t look into the mirror because you are ashamed of what may be looking back at you. And quite frankly, I find that… craven.”

After that, neither one knows how to talk to the other for a while. Brienne genuinely considers quitting the job, but before she makes that decision, Jaime brings himself to an apology, which is, she knows, an absolutely rare exception.

“I overstepped a line to drive you away. I am not used to have other people deduce things about me. I tend to think that no one ever really got me other than my brother, perhaps, but that’s another story. Because yes, I wanted you gone so that I don’t have to face the fact that this is the reason why you are here. I want to do my job and forget about those past months. I wished they never happened.”

“They don’t go away, though.”

“I know. But there is just going forward from here, for me at least… but… it was wrong of me to take that out on you. Which is why I am generous enough to offer you my services as part of what I tend to refer to as a truce: I am willing to dedicate some of my free time to Renly’s murder case.”

“Hell no.”

“… I actually thought you would be flattered by that. You are aware that I am the best consultant currently residing in King’s Landing, arguably in all of Westeros I daresay?”

“That is my responsibility and my responsibility alone.”

“… You want to find the person responsible yourself.”

“Your deduction skills are, as per usual, very much on point.”

“… Well, if that is the case, I can only offer you my resources, should you decide to dig into his case again, or otherwise be of assistance. I still propose a truce as part of our agreement of sober companion and client because, frankly, I gave it some thought and I suppose you are the least trouble. Imagine some dimwit stepping on evidence at crime scenes. You at least know how to stay put.”

“… I suppose that is a compliment.”

“You may take it as such. So do we have a truce?”

“You need trust to have a truce.”

“I trust you.”

And on that trust, they start to build for the next weeks. Brienne finds herself more and more drawn to Jaime’s work whereas Jaime can no longer deny Brienne’s apparent talent for detective work outside the medical sphere. She is perceptive and thanks to her military training knows more about fighting than most ever will.

He finds her… promising, in a way. Just like someone once found him promising, only to destroy it all, but maybe, just maybe, he can make things right this time, who knows?

While Brienne enjoys the work more and more, she knows that her days with Jaime Lannister are limited, which means she must not get attached to either the man or his profession. When Brienne communicates that to him, Jaime starts distancing himself from her. Brienne already fears for a relapse and is close to calling Mr. Blackwater to request an extension, but before she can make the call, Jaime breaks his silence with a sudden offer: to become his apprentice and become a consultant like him.

“If you decide to take the offer, of that I assure you, I will train you to the best of my abilities. Make you cry, very likely. But once the training is completed, you should know all there is to know about solving crime the way I harnessed that skillset.”

“I am a sober companion.”

“And before that you were a personal assistant to Renly. And before that an army doctor. You see, a woman once told me that I was craven for running away from my problems, and I think it is time I give these wise words over to the next generation sitting before me. I think you are running away from an opportunity, just because you are afraid of making that step. You want to be out there. I saw you at the crime scenes. I saw the satisfaction on your eyes when we got the bad guys.”

“And I don’t deny it. But I am helping people, too, as a sober companion. I am preventing people from relapse, I am preventing them from committing crime.”

“And that is admirable, without a doubt. And you are good at your job. You kept me from the drugs and I thought that was virtually impossible. Nevertheless, I think this is an opportunity for you and…”

“And?”

“And me as well. Because I have to admit that… that my work has been better ever since you started to come along. I don’t know why, I just know that this is the case. That I am better with you.”

Brienne remains unsure about the offer for a while, but eventually agrees to the training regiment, no matter how much spiteful glee Jaime takes in basically tormenting her.

Jaime, for his part, rediscovers how much joy it gives him to do this job, and discovers something new as well, starting to understand how Tyrion loved training him to become a consultant back in the “good old days,” not just to make the other suffer, but to see them grow, deduce, put the pieces together. When he watches Brienne, when he sees her succeed, Jaime finds himself succeeding. And when Brienne is proud and happy, he finds himself smiling along.

As things progress, their truce soon grows to a deeply felt friendship since both lacked someone to rely on with those very private insecurities and inner demons for a very long time.

Brienne admits to how she ended up as Renly’s assistant, namely because she was hopelessly in love with the man, as Jaime had rightly deduced on the day they had their first fallout, and that she chose to join him to be around him.

“After I came back from my military service… I don’t know, I had so many people die, slip through my fingers, people we were sworn to protect, good people, good soldiers and far too many civilians. And then I heard that Renly was running for presidency after Robert’s death and I just… I just wanted to be sure that he was alright. I have seen the results of political upheavals in times of crisis during my service as an army doctor. I know that political enemies tear each other to shreds and that this will always lead to bloodshed on all sides. No one really questioned me and my decision because… you know, trauma. Everyone just assumed I wanted something boring, something conventional after all that I saw and went through. And perhaps I did, I don’t know. I just wanted to keep close to Renly, that much I knew. But then… Renly was killed and I only ever held him as he died.”

“And you couldn’t identify the guy.”

“It was a shadow. And it had Stannis’s name all over it.”

“Can you prove it?”

“Not yet.”

“You see, it’s always risky to deduce from the conclusion to the fact. It should be the other way around.”

“Those are the facts. Renly ran as an independent party to split potential votes between him and Stannis because he didn’t want Stannis to ever make it past the primaries. He had a motive to want to have him removed. Many of Renly’s voters went ahead and joined Stannis after his death. He has a woman in his ranks who will carry out almost any kind of task you give to her. It was Stannis. I know it, I just need a way to prove it.”

“Melisandre of Asshai. I read some interesting things about her.”

“She is a murderer. And one of these days, I will be able to prove it that she and Stannis did this.”

“You just need the remaining evidence.”

“Even more so since he runs for president. I will rather leave the country than live under him as my commander in chief.”

“And you would just abandon me? How rude. Even more so as a former sober companion.”

Jaime, for his part, also finds the courage to let Brienne in on his secrets, even the ones he kept so well for all those years, such as the true nature of Aerys’s assassination and Tyrion’s disappearance, and how it broke him that his brother went behind his back to kill their father and Tyrion’s ex-lover Shae before disappearing to Essos as it was planned to buy Jaime time to prove his innocence of Joffrey’s murder.

“What pissed me off foremost, though, was that he didn’t trust me. That was always the thing we relied on, that was stone one. That was our truce. He trusted me and that I trusted him. Blindly. Or so I thought. Because my smart, smart little brother didn’t trust me to clear his name. He didn’t trust me as his brother, as his friend, as the consultant he helped frame when he picked me up after the Aerys affair to offer me a new perspective. He believed he was the only one who could clear his name, and when Tyrion saw no chance anymore, he quitted, on himself, on me, on our work. And I will never forgive him for that. Well, that and murdering two people for the simplest and most basic motive there is: revenge.”

As things progress, it isn’t until long that they run into a hacker group called No One run by a man named Jaqen H’ghar. They “help” them on a number of occasions to gather evidence they could not otherwise acquire, in exchange for oftentimes publicly humiliating Jaime, such as carrying around a sign to encourage people to “Slay the Kingslayer with a Golden Slap,” a task many people happily agree to, apparently. The members remain ominous, only ever appearing in chats wearing masks. A young group member, a teenage girl, catches their attention as Brienne pieces together that this is in fact Arya Stark. Due to Brienne’s personal involvement with her family, she feels ever the more urged to help the girl and keep her from potentially committing worse crimes to carry out her revenge against the people she deems responsible for the deaths of most of her family.

However, Jaime’s and Brienne’s attention soon turns to politics as the elections come into the hot phase, only to be shocked to the core when a newcomer emerges from Essos to enter the race rather late: Daenerys Targaryen, the Mother of Dragons as she is called, wants to become president of the Seven Kingdoms alongside her rivals Stannis Baratheon and Cersei Lannister.

Things take a sudden turn with the re-emergence of someone Jaime thought he would never see again in a life time, and a nemesis who may no longer be just after the infamous consultant Tyrion Lannister but now the new detective team solving cases in King’s Landing.

And if history taught them one thing by now, then it is that this person will do anything to get what he or she wants. And from the sounds of it, that is one thing and one thing only:

Power.

A game of cat-and-mouse begins, putting everyone involved in danger as a country is bound to decide on who will come into power next…

 Additonal Image Sources: Elementary ( 2012-), http://gwendoline-christie.com/.

[outlawed-deputy]

Fallen

John Seed x OFC

This is a little project I've been thinking about writing for a while. I'll post the first chapter on here and see how things go. Anyway, it's about my OC, Azrael, a fallen angel, and how she fits into the Seed's lives.

Chapter 1

To most angels, mortal life seemed meaningless. Pitifully short. What difference could one human life make to the world? Angels had lived through millennia of heroes and villains constantly fighting. Back and forth, back and forth. But was there ever a winner? And who were the real heroes? Questions like these puzzled angels, but they were never anything to trouble themselves about for too long. Humans lived, and then they died. The angels looked down upon the world and watched with indignation as people wasted their lives, allowing their sins to devour them. And where did their sins lead them? The world was rapidly losing faith, humankind hurtling towards destruction by their own doing, and yet they did nothing to stop it. Further still, He did nothing to stop it. In fact, He encouraged the destruction. The world was teetering on the brink of the Collapse. He prepared His faithful few. As for the others? Well, mortal life seemed meaningless.

But not all angels shared this view on the inhabitants of the world below. Azrael, for one, enjoyed watching them. It was her job, after all. As the Angel of Death, she came to value human life far more than her brothers and sisters. Perhaps valued it even more than He did. She didn’t take joy in watching their unfortunately short lives come to an end, but knowing she could ease their passing to the afterlife gave her job meaning. If she wasn’t there to guide souls to their end, and into their new beginning, they simply got lost. Needless to say, she took her role very seriously.

But when she came across one soul, she couldn’t let him perish. She had watched over him all his life – you wouldn’t believe how many times he should have died. Especially as a baby. His parents would leave him alone all day. It broke her heart to see a child live like this, but his bright blue eyes held so much hope, and she could not be the one to take that away from him, to snuff that flickering light of hope within him. Perhaps she should have, though. She didn’t think there could be worse parents in the world than those though left him there, alone, crying in his cot. But she was wrong. Apparently, some humans took pleasure in abusing their children, moulding them into some twisted distortion of the person they used to be. And it certainly didn’t get better in adulthood. Keeping him alive had become a full-time job to Azrael. She’d protected him for this long, she was determined to carry on. Even through his addictions and his carelessness, those blue eyes still carried a tiny spark of hope. Eventually, he found peace, safety, security. Family. And in this, Azrael could finally rest.

Except there was no rest where she was heading.

Her time as the Angel of Death brought her pain, regret, guilt. But one thing she never was, was alone. With a blinding flash of light and a searing pain burning across her back, she found herself leaning against a tree. Frantic, scared, a mixture of emotions she was unfamiliar with, and very much alone. The pain she felt was gone, but there was a very evident dull ache across her back.

Her wings. They’d been cut off.

That was her punishment. For distracting herself with one soul, meddling in human affairs, and disregarding the many souls she was supposed to guide to heaven and hell, now lost. She had fallen, that much was clear. Her wings had been carelessly cut from her body, and she had been thrown down into the mortal world. She felt so weak, fragile. Lonely.

And where on earth was she?

She looked around, searching for anything to give her any clue to her location. She had travelled a lot through her existence, exploring hidden corners of the world and watching civilisations develop and rise and fall. There was an odd sense of familiarity about where she stood. However, everywhere felt oddly familiar to her, so that didn’t help. She followed a beaten trail through the trees, hoping to find something, someone. Moonlight shone down, lighting her way forward, the bright light unobscured by clouds in the sky, only broken by the imposing trees that towered over the small fallen angel.

She almost looked a like a phantom, ghosting between the trees towards a glowing light in the distance. At least He has been kind enough to send her down here fully dressed. A mid length, black dress, mimicking her usual dark cloak, blew around her in the gentle evening breeze. Her hair, long and thick, pulled into a delicate braid, was just as black as her attire, a stark contrast to her pale skin. She still appeared angelic, despite her apparent fall from grace.

The treeline eventually broke to reveal a small gathering of buildings, surrounded by enormous fences topped with barbed wire. Not the most inviting of scenes, but right now, Azrael was too alone to care. Further down the path, where the lights shone brightest, stood a quaint, beautiful church. A church, Azrael thought to herself, and rolled her eyes, of course it’s a church. She looked up to where she knew He was watching and sighed, before taking slow footsteps forward. The compound seemed abandoned, but the doors of the church were open slightly. She felt compelled to enter. If there was anywhere she should feel welcome, it would be in the house of God. Are those who are cast out even welcome inside a place of worship to the one who threw you aside?

Gently, with a caution she had never known before, Azrael pushed one of the doors open further, silently entering the church and feeling relief to see four figures huddled together at the front. One of the men was sat on the floor, shirtless, holding his head in his hands. Azrael could conclude he was in pain. She’d seen enough of it in her existence. A petite woman, slender in figure, sat beside him, a hand on his shoulder, an attempt to comfort him. Two men stood in front of them, preventing her from getting a good look at them all. One was tall, muscular, imposing. The other, slightly shorter, with a lean figure, dressed in a long trench coat than reminded her fondly of her old cloak. Her soft footsteps allowed her to quietly approach them without them noticing her just yet.

“They’ll want to know why you cut the sermon short, Joseph.”

“I heard the voice again, Faith. Someone is coming to us.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know, Jacob. Pass me that water?”

The muscular one walked to the side to retrieve a glass for the one sat in pain, and as he moved away, the woman looked up, spotting Azrael.

“I’m sorry. The Father’s sermon is over.” A hint of anger resonated in her voice – Azrael knew that emotion very well.

“I didn’t mean to disturb you, I just…”

What was she supposed to say? Hi, I’m a fallen angel. God cast me out because I wouldn’t let a human die. Please help me? No, they would think she was insane. And she had plenty of experience watching how humans treated others they thought crazy.

“I need help. I’m lost, and have nowhere to go.”

“He told me you were coming,” the shirtless man the others seemed to be protecting rose, and stepped towards Azrael, “told me He had no choice but to force you out.”

Azrael looked at him, confused. She knew she recognised him, but after millennia of guiding souls to heaven and hell, she had difficulty placing where exactly she knew him from.

“He had a choice,” She stood confidently, ignoring the brawny man stood beside her, eyeing her up like a piece of meat, “there is always a choice. I made mine, and He made His.”

“What did you do to invoke such wrath from God himself?”

“I saved someone’s life. Someone who’s time was up long ago.”

“And he cast you out. For that?” Azrael shifted nervously at his words, unsure of how much danger she was in. “You’re safe here. Trust me, you can share you true identity with my siblings. I already know who you are.”

His words somehow soothed her, calmed her from a burning fire she didn’t realise had ignited within her.

“And He really wants you to help me? A fallen angel?”

“All He did was inform me of your arrival.”

“Hang on, a fallen angel? You want us to believe this woman is an-”

The slim figure emerged from behind the shirtless one and stopped dead in his tracks when he locked eyes with Azrael. She could feel those blue eyes boring into hers, filled with hope once more, like they used to be. And she smiled. For the first time in a long time, she smiled.

“John?”

He looked startled, shocked, as if he’d seen a ghost. Which wasn’t too far from the truth, she supposed. He had been seeing her all his life. Sometimes she was across the street, watching him. Others, she was by his side. More often than he would like to admit, he dreamt of her. She looked… smaller than usual. Frail, lost. And he had never seen the earthy hues of her brown eyes reflect such despair.

He, on the other hand, looked happy. Happier than she had even seen him. She could see that he finally felt at home, a feeling unfamiliar to him, until now. She was struck by his handsome features, as she was every time she laid eyes on him. His ocean eyes drew her in, and she gazed upon those pools of cerulean, his perfectly trimmed beard, his…

Was that a scar across his chest?

“You… you know my brother?” the shirtless man asked cautiously, trying to pull Azrael’s attention back to him, attempting in vain to bring an end to the way they stared at each other with a burning curiosity.

“He’s the one, the soul I’ve been saving his whole life.”

[psyched2b]

Late Night Secrets (Steve Rogers x Reader)

Here’s my last minute submissions for @shitty-imagines-95‘s “Being that Thing that Goes Bump in the Night Writing Challenge”

As always, feedback is always appreciated and welcomed!

Also, huge shoutout to @mermaidxatxheart and @shreddedparchment for all of your help in making this what it is. Definitely check them both out as they are amazing writers!

Warnings: Mentions of blood, mild panic attacks

Steve was pacing, back and forth, back and forth, in front of your house at 1:37 am. He didn’t care that he may look suspicious to your neighbors, too lost in his own thoughts.

The cool fall air was flirting with winter, just above freezing, frost coating every surface outside, sidewalks slick.

But Steve didn’t notice.

He had just gotten back from a mission that had taken its mental toll on him. Steve has seen countless indescribable horrors in his life and he didn’t think there was much that could shock him.

This last mission proved otherwise.

He was thankful that the kid, Peter, wasn’t able to go. This would have changed the ever happy kid's outlook on life, leaving deep scars.

“I want to bleach my mind,” Peter would say.

The thought brought a ghost of a smile over Steve’s lips.

He had been fighting with himself. He really wanted to see you. It had already been three weeks and he knew that just being around you would calm his inner demons. At the same time, it was an ungodly hour and would you really be up for company?

A light switches on in the house before him and his breathing hitches. Could you actually be awake?

His phone vibrates in his jacket pocket and his heart skips a beat in hope that it was you.

Pulling out the Stark-tech, he flicks his wrist to turn on the screen and his smile widens when he sees your name on the screen.

Y/N: Hey, just thinking about you. Heard from Nat that you got back and if you need someone to talk to, I’m here. Glad you’re safe x y/n

Steve felt warm.

If he had to pick one thing about you that he loved and valued over anything else, it would be your compassion. You were always looking for ways to help and take care of others. On weekends, you would volunteer at the VA. Wednesdays, you visited Deaf/Hard of Hearing classrooms and signed stories with the students. Fridays, you had dinner with the Avengers to listen to the more boisterous ones recount their escapades. But besides all of that, you made it clear to anyone and everyone that you were always available for whatever they may want or need. You understood that it wasn't all sunshine and roses; that there was a darker side to everything they did. You could recognize the distant look in their eyes as they were trapped in memories of the past and were quick to respond and bring them back to the present.

It was one of the many reasons why he had a huge crush on you.

Only, you were adamant that you were not looking for a relationship.

You had said on more than one occasion that anyone would be lucky to have him as their significant other.

Steve at first, like a fool, thought that you would have included yourself in that. And when he approached the topic of making you his girl, panic overtook your expression, crushing Steve’s world.

Despite his embarrassment at your rejection, he knew that having you as a friend was substantially better than not having you in his life at all.

He didn’t realize that he had moved to your front door until he heard himself knocking softly on the cool wood.

He snaps his arm back to his side and he holds his breath in anxious anticipation. The chill of the night air seemed to have settled in his bones and he feels frozen to the spot.

He hears quite steps padding towards the doorway and he can hear your breath hitch when you lean against the door to look through the peephole and see him standing there. He hears you let out a quiet curse before hearing the metal of the deadbolt sliding and the twist of your doorknob followed by the squeak of a door hinge.

You throw open your front door and see Steve Rogers standing on the other side, posed in a wide stance with his hands stuffed into his pockets. You see with every exhale a puff of air swirl in the chilled night. His hair was mused, likely from his nervous habit of running his hands through it. He has the beginnings of a beard and you realize that he likely didn’t stop to clean up after his mission, coming straight to your home. One last sweep over him shows that he has no obvious injuries, but you see the tips of his ears and nose are a bright pink.

“Jesus, Steve! Come inside so we can get you warm,” you urge, reaching out to grab his wrist, and drag him into your warm house. You have to ignore the strong pulse that you feel in your grip and swallow back the thirst. You clench your jaw in an attempt to keep your fangs from falling and glance at Steve, telling yourself that he needs to be your priority. The thirst can wait.

Steve didn’t resist, easily following you into the warm home. You gently push him towards the couch where he collapses, feeling the weight of the week crushing him.

He doesn’t realize that he feels safe with you, making it okay for him to be vulnerable.

You rush out of the room towards your linen closet and grab an arm full of blankets for the half-frozen soldier.

Walking back into the room, you throw a blanket over his lap and tuck another one around his shoulders, cocooning him in warmth.

“How long were you outside?” you question, crouching down to take off his combat boots, treating him with care. “It’s freezing out there. You could have gotten sick!” You stand back up and bring his boots to your entryway. “You do realize that you aren’t invincible and that it’s dang near freezing, right?”

You turn back to the Captain and are pleased when you see the harsh pink fading to a healthy warmth over his face. Nodding, you move to the kitchen, shouting back to him, “Coffee or Cocoa?”

You hear him shuffling around in the blankets and you lean around the corner, shooting him a steely glare. “You, Mister, need to stay in those blankets until I say so. Do not make me tie you up.” You have to force yourself to keep a straight face when Steve flushes a deep red. “Now, Coffee or Cocoa?”

“Cocoa, please.”

You huff and roll your eyes, returning back to the kitchen.

You go through your cupboards and look for the kettle that you seldom use and let out a little triumphant cheer when you find it in the back of your pantry. You shuffle back to your sink and rinse out the inside quick before filling it up and setting it on the stove.

While you wait for the water to boil, your eyes flick to the dark colored glass bottle on your counter and you can feel your gums ache and your throat dry. It had been too long since you last fed and having Steve here wasn’t helping with the hunger.

Never in your entire existence has someone made your mouth water as much as the Super Soldier did…and it was concerning. You were alone in this world and had no one to go to for advice. But since meeting the soldier, you knew you would never be able to stay away, his scent like crack to an addict. It didn’t help that once you got to know the Brooklyn man that you realized you wanted to be his girl.

Steve Rogers was one in a million and it killed you that you could never be with him.

Because who would want to be with a blood-sucking vampire?

Your throat pulsates as you breathe in, his scent filling you to the brink with thirst…and lust.

Why did he have to pick tonight to come over unannounced?

You grab the hot cocoa powder from your cabinet and set it on the counter. You grip the ledge and close your eyes, debating whether or not you should just open up your bottle and drink. You could easily pass it off as wine and it would make this encounter significantly easier. At the same time, you risked Steve….asking questions about your drink.

But what were the chances of that?

Deciding that the need to drink outweighed the need to be careful, you pull out two coffee mugs and fill one with the essence of life.

The sweet aroma hits and you’re quick to take a deep drink from the cup, your eyes rolling into the back of your head as the thick liquid trickles down your throat. Once it enters your system, the air feels lighter and you feel yourself relax, the effect of it instantaneous.

Just as you are caught up in relief, the kettle lets out a shrill whistle, startling you out of your stupor.

As you pour the hot water into the mug and add the cocoa powder, you call out to Steve, “Marshmallows or whipped cream?”

“Marshmallows of course! What kind of monster prefers whipped cream?”

You snort in reply and put the preferred topping on before gathering both mugs in your hands and head back to the living room where Steve was still wrapped up in your blankets.

The image makes you pause for a moment, realizing that you liked seeing him wrapped up and looking so.....edible comfortable in your space.

You shake your head to clear those thoughts, reminding yourself that he will never be yours.

Instead, you hand him his mug and take a seat in your recliner next to the couch and sip at your own drink.

An easy silence settles between the two of you as you both enjoy your treats.

Steve is the one to break the silence.

“What are you doing awake at 1:30 in the morning?”

You shrug and reply, “Wasn’t particularly tired.”  You sip at your drink and let out a low appreciative hum. “Plus, you never know when a super soldier might come knocking on your door.” You wink at him.

You’re slightly disappointed when he doesn’t blush.

You watch him. You watch as his shoulders move with every breath. You watch as his eyes move over you, switching between your hands and your deep red stained lips. You watch as his pink tongue peaks out between his lips, dampening them and then he swallows.

Your eyes meet blue and you faintly register the confusion in his.

“What?” You ask, a nervous giggle escaping you. Your gaze flicks down to the liquid in your cup and then back to him. You tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear and you give Steve a small smile, silently pleading that he doesn’t ask the question.

“What are you drinking?”

You look down at your mug again, swirling it in your hands, releasing the sweet fragrance in the air. You look back up at Steve and blink slowly. You breathe slowly, intentionally, and gulp, hoping to soothe your suddenly dry, tight throat. You glance back down at your drink and narrow your eyes and bring the mug to your lips for a deep drink.

When you pull back, you feel a drop escape your lips, trailing down, but before it got too far, you capture it on your finger.

Your eyes flick to Steve’s and you see his blue eyes darken with lust, fixated on your finger. You smirk, bringing the finger to your mouth and wrap your lips around it and suck off the blood. You peek at Steve through your eyes lashes and are pleased to see you have his undivided attention. You release your finger with an audible “pop” and give him a seductive smile.

“Thurston Wolfe - 2013 Zinfandel”, you purr, keeping your hold of seduction over him.  

You didn’t like that you had to do it, but self-preservation always won out in the end.

You keep calm, thankful that your tricks would save you from a painful explanation.

Your heart drops to the floor when you see him flare his nostrils, breathing the hearty scent of your drink in. You watch in panic as the fog leaves his eyes and he refocuses his attention.

“Is-is that blood?” he asks in a careful tone, aware of how crazy he sounds.

Stunned that he was able to break off your spell, you surprise yourself when you answer with a simple, “Yes.”

The silence is deafening as you wait for his response.

He remains seated, his expression not giving anything away. He runs a hand through his hair, tangling it even worse than previously. “Alright, follow up question.”

You give him a skeptical look, confused as to why he wasn’t freaking out, running away from you and calling you a monster.

“I’ll allow it.”

Steve’s lips break into a small smile, amusement taking over his expression. “Why are you drinking it?”

You stare at Steve in utter disbelief, shocked at how this was happening. Was he for real?

“Well, naturally my first thought is that you are a vampire which would explain a lot,” he continues, moving to untangle himself from all of the blankets and setting his now empty mug on the table.

You gape at him, words finally finding their way back to you. “What do you mean, that it ‘would explain a lot?’” you demand, slamming your cup on the coffee table in front of you, the table groaning in protest at your forceful action. You couldn’t think of one instance where you could have given anything away.

Steve holds up his hands in surrender, “Hey, it’s okay. The only reason why I noticed is because I look.”

You grip at your roots and shake your head, “Steve, if you noticed something, I need you to tell me so I can make sure no one else will ever know.”

You meet his blue eyes, your own watering. Your heart is hammering heavily in your chest, anxiety filling you.

“You don’t understand,” you whisper, squeezing your eyes shut, tucking your chin in. “If word gets out about what I am, people will come for me.”

You release your grip on your hair and wrap your arms around your waist and squeeze.

“Even you knowing could be the end of me,” you breathe, the words like a whisper in the wind.

You feel warm hands cup your cheeks and your eyes pop open in surprise, quick to meet untroubled blue. “Hey, Y/N, just breathe,” Steve instructs. His gaze feels heavy on you. He slows his breathing, exaggerating, coaching you to follow along.

It takes a moment before you are able to focus, your eyes watching his lips as he inhales…and exhales. Inhales. Exhales.

A few passes of this and you feel the panic leave. In the midst of this, you realize that he hasn’t left. He hasn’t called you a monster. He hasn’t shown any fear.

You pry your gaze from his lips to meet his sapphire eyes. “Why aren’t you afraid?”

“Do I have reason to be?”,

His response stuns you into silence once again and you wonder if the surprises will ever cease.

Your eyes search his for any signs of deception.

There was nothing but awe, adoration and...love.

You press forward so your lips are only a hair-breaths away and pause, giving him the chance to pull away.

He doesn’t hesitate to meet the rest of the way, pressing just the briefest of kisses to your lips.

Your eyes meet for a brief second before you grip the back of his neck and pull him back to you in a passionate kiss.

As your lips move in sync, you can feel it build up in your bellow, bubbling over.

You had kissed people before but never had it felt so, for a lack of a better word, magical.

Steve is the one to pull away, both of you panting. He leans forward and presses his forehead against your, his thumb brushing affectionately over your cheek.

“I wish we had done that a long time ago,” he murmured, a smirk dancing across his lips.

You smack the back of your hand against his chest and scoff, “Way to ruin the moment!”

Steve lets out a loud laugh and picks you up easily and sits down in your spot before settling you back into his lap. He rests his chin on your shoulder, his breath tickling your neck. “Here I thought I was being cute and romantic.”

You both settle into your spots, feeling more relaxed than ever.

“You know, I still have questions.”

@bettercallsabs @dont-stop-keep-walking @geeksareunique @mermaidxatxheart @moonlessnight14 @thinkwritexpress-official @shreddedparchment

[takadasaiko]

Second Chances: Chapter Five

FFN II AO3

Summary: Steve has every intention of returning the Infinity Stones to their correct place in the timeline and heading back to his own. His problems start when he makes an impulse decision to jump over to 1946 and Peggy decides to go back home with him. It only gets more complicated from there when Howard tags along with them to 2023. Tony lives fix-it fic. Pepperony.

Chapter Summary: Steve takes Peggy out dancing, Howard gets a closer look at the Pym Particles, and Tony finishes the new ARC reactor.

Chapter Five

"Shit!"

"Shit!"

Tony turned hard to the side at his daughter's echo of his own irritated shout. She sat on one of the tables in his lab, legs swinging and a grin splitting her face. "What'd we talk about, little miss? That's Mommy's word."

"You said it," the little girl pointed out and Tony felt his lips twitch upward despite the tool that had slipped from his still-clumsy fingers.

"Our secret?" he offered and she grinned.

"I'm hungry."

"And I'm about to give you whatever you want, huh?"

"Uh-huh."

"And what's that?"

"Cheeseburger."

Tony reached out and ruffled dark hair. "Go find Pete and you've got yourself a deal."

Morgan was off in a flash to find where Peter had buried himself with the project Tony had given him, leaving her father to lean heavily against his work table. It had been slow going, and while the brace had given him some movement back in his right arm, it hadn't left him able to work at anywhere near the same level of precision that he was used to. He had had to offload quite a bit of that work on Peter. The kid had been thrilled with it, but it left Tony feeling useless. He was exhausted and frustrated and more than ready to start making strides forward in his recovery rather than the standstill he was at.

"C'mon, Pete! C'mon, Pete!" Morgan's voice rang out across the lab and Tony straightened again. He didn't want to worry the kid. Either of them. His little girl was insanely perceptive when she wasn't distracted by glitter and juice pops.

Peter came around the corner with his nose buried in a tablet, trying to scroll with the same hand he was holding it with. The other hand had been confiscated by the four-nearly-five-year-old who was tugging him forward and giggling.

Tony gave a small, lopsided smile. "She'll just take the hand with her if you're not careful, kid."

"Yeah I…. wait, what?" He finally looked up, almost as if noticing just how hard Morgan was tugging on him. Peter lifted his arm, the little girl coming with him until her sneakers left the floor.

"Fly!" Morgan pleaded and Peter grinned.

"I thought you wanted lunch?"

"Both."

"But you only get one, Morgoona," her father chided, sliding off his stool and he winked in her direction, his tone crossing the line into the melodramatic. "Choose wisely."

"Food!"

"Good choice."

She dropped and Peter reached to the tablet with his newly freed hand. "Uh, Mr Stark, I've been looking back through the archives-"

"Thought I asked you to solder the casing together?"

"Oh. Yeah. Did that ages ago. You were super busy and I didn't want to bother you, so I went back to see if there was anything I could learn from your old notes, you know? FRIDAY pulled up this file on Extremis?"

"She just pulled it, huh?"

"Well, I found it in the archives," Peter answered noncommittally and shifted from foot to foot. "I just… it seemed like it could be really helpful."

Tony pulled in a deep breath, fighting the cough that threatened. "Might be as a last resort."

"Why a last resort? I mean, I'm looking at this and you perfected the serum. It could completely repair your arm and your heart and-"

"And it's highly addictive," Tony followed up. "The more you use it, the more likely you are to overheat and then bam. Human bomb."

"Bam!" Morgan echoed, clapping her hands together.

"Exactly, kiddo."

"But it says here Ms Potts… Mrs Stark…"

"Pepper."

"I feel weird calling her that."

"And she feels weird when you don't."

He watched Peter's cheeks flush just a little. "You too?"

"Oh I don't care. Call me whatever you want. Just know this miss right here will repeat whatever it is, so try to keep it…. Uh, just keep it civil." Cap-approved was the statement he was going to say, but weeks after his disappearance he still couldn't quite bring himself to joke about his former teammate.

Peter cleared his throat. "Right, well, I meant that Pepper was dosed with it and you cured her."

"I did, but she and I have very different psychological makeups-"

"Daddy, cheeseburgers!" Morgan reminded him, tugging on his left hand now.

"I know, sweetie. We're going." He grabbed his coat and started the slow movement towards the door, Peter falling into step with him and the look of question clear. Tony dropped his voice. "I'm just more prone to addiction than she is," he huffed, hoping that would suffice.

It seemed to. Peter nodded slowly, soaking it in. "You think the ARC reactor will work though… right?"

"It's not a quick fix, but yeah. It'll give my heart the support it needs so I can actually keep up with what I need to do to get the rest of me back into shape."

"Would you…. mind if I kept looking into it? I mean, totally on paper. I promise not to blow up your lab or anything."

"Kid, look into it as much as you want. I told you anything's game that I have in there. I just need to finish the reactor while I still can."

"Right."

"And food!" Morgan all but howled and Tony grinned.

"And we have to feed this starving, neglected munchkin before she wastes away."

Morgan giggled and took hold of his left hand again, walking next to him as they headed for the elevator. She didn't ask to be picked up anymore. It had been one of the hardest things to get used to in recovery to keep telling his little girl no. He couldn't pick her up, he couldn't lift her into the air. He had to take a seat before she could crawl into his lap and he'd wrap his good arm around her, their new normal tearing him apart. At least she seemed to mostly understand it wasn't her fault. It wasn't a punishment. Daddy just couldn't do some things that he used to.

"So how about those burgers on 7th? They've got those vegan burgers Pep likes."

"Ewww!" Morgan groaned loudly.

"Yeah, well, your mom has weird taste. I mean, she married me."

Peter snorted a laugh at his side and agreed, even offering to text Pepper to let her know. Tony loosed a long breath. He wanted to get back to normal, and in some ways he would. He would make sure he did. There were other things that couldn't be put right though. People were dead and gone, but they were lucky. He had to remind himself of that. He had Pepper, Morgan, Rhodey, Happy, and Peter. Everyone that Thanos had snapped out of existence had been brought back. The ones they had lost would always hurt, but somehow they had to move on. And he would. He was. Slowly but surely he was.

                                               ________________

It wasn't that he was an impatient man, per se. Given the right set of circumstances and his focus was absolute. The problem was that Howard often found himself surrounded by people that just couldn't keep up. They expected him to slow it down, dumb it down, and he didn't have time for that. That left the dumber crowd with a bad taste in their mouth. Sarcastic. Disrespectful. Arrogant. They had a lot of names they lobbed his way to redirect from their own inadequacies. It didn't matter though. He won in the end.

"You look happy this evening."

Howard turned from where he had been reading the telegraph that had just come in and offered Steve a satisfied grin. He waved it in the air. "US government thought they could take my inventions. The lawyers took a little longer than I could have gotten it done in, but they're on their way back home."

Steve took a seat across from him, back straight and shoulders squared. "I guess you'll be going with them?"

"And leave you stuck here? C'mon, Cap. Have some faith. Jarvis is more than capable of overseeing it." He set the telegraph down and he let some of the levity slide out of his voice. "We're close. I have a working prototype of your engineer buddy's design. The suit itself is solid."

"Actually solid," Steve said with a quirked eyebrow.

"Hey, friend. I'm limited by the tools of my time. If I could-"

"Howard, we've talked about it."

By talked about it Steve must have meant his stubborn determination not to tell him a damned thing outside the fact that Howard was needed there. He'd finally broken down and told Peggy everything - though everything could be an exaggeration. It was hard to say and Peg didn't let go of information she wanted to keep - to make sure she was comfortable relinquishing her would-be role in everything. There was no talking those two out of something when they put their minds to it. "Right, right," he acknowledged with a sigh. "Listen, if I can get some uninterrupted time I think I can have it ready for you in a day or two."

"You telling me we should leave you alone?" Steve chuckled and Howard shrugged.

"Why don't you take Peg out? You two are always goin' on about that dance. Why don't you actually go?"

He looked like he might argue for half a beat, but at the sound of the door opening down the hall that signalled Peggy's return, Howard saw some of the stress ease off the other man. "If you're sure?"

"Sure about what?" Peggy asked as she joined them in the sitting room.

"That you two lovebirds need some time out on the town."

He had half expected her to question his motives, but Peggy turned to Steve instead. "That sounds lovely. Be ready in thirty?"

Steve nodded, his blue gaze following her until she disappeared out of the room. Howard offered him a playful wink and Cap rolled his eyes as he started towards his own room. Howard waited a long moment before he stood and started towards the lab. He would give them time to get ready and then he could focus on making his plan work.

                                              ________________

"I thought she'd never go to bed," Tony grumbled as he half fell, half sat on the bed before flopping onto his back to take up half the mattress horizontally.

"She would have earlier if you hadn't packed her full of sugar earlier today," Pepper answered, more amusement in her voice than real irritation as she started changing for bed.

"What can I say? She has me well trained."

A small smile perked her lips and she glanced over, finding a set of brown eyes focused on her with that look she caught on him when he thought she wasn't paying attention. The smile only grew and she leaned over the bed, pressing a kiss to his scarred temple. "You're a pushover."

"Says the woman who I'm pretty sure has never said no to a bedtime story."

"That's different. That's getting her ready to read. You're pumping her full of sugar." She took a seat, her hand teasing his dark hair and she watched his eyes flutter closed as he started to relax under her touch. It had been a long last few days.

"Were we talking about me?"

"Yes we were."

"Oh." The word left him on a breath and she thought she was going to have to wake him up to move him if she had even half a hope of sleeping on her side of the bed that night. All of a sudden she found his eyes on her again and his gaze was focused. "Tomorrow's it."

"I'm aware," she answered, the tease soft. "I have to have you at the hospital at five in the morning."

"If you want to back out, this is your last chance."

Pepper pursed her lips together. "If I do?"

"Yeah."

"You sure we're not still talking about you?"

He pulled in a trembling breath and sat up. She waited at the first failed attempt, his right arm buckling despite the brace. He made it on the second attempt and they sat facing each other. "What if it doesn't work?"

She lifted a skeptical "Do you mean if your calculations are off? Because I can recall exactly one time in all the years I've known you that your calculations were off. One."

"No, they're fine. I'm not worried about the numbers, just…. the variables. There's no way to predict one hundred percent that this will give me a fighting chance to get back to normal. What if I go through this and it just…. if I don't get better?"

"You mean what if all it does is stop the chance of decline?" she asked pointedly.

He looked like he were about to argue that and thought better of it. "Yeah."

"Then we get to keep you with us."

"I can't pick her up, Pep."

"She needs her daddy here and loving her. That's what our daughter needs." She leaned in, her hand groping for his against the bed and she rested her forehead against his. "It's what we both need. Just you."

"I don't deserve you. You know I know that, right?"

"I love you."

"You too."

Pepper tilted her head and he met her in the kiss. She reached up, her fingers ghosting over the scars left behind by the Infinity Stones. He was going to be okay. If he never was fully whole again, that was alright. She just needed him to be okay and to know that he'd be there with them.

                                              ________________

To say that the night had been worth the wait felt like an exaggeration when compared to the nearly eighty year wait that it had actually been, and while Steve wasn't sure he would have opted to wait if he had felt like he had a choice, he was certain that the night had been perfect. They had taken one of Howard's cars to dinner and dancing. The music had filled the whole club and Peggy had pulled him to the floor without a protest in sight. They had danced and talked and danced some more. It was the post-war America that Steve had heard so much about and for just a little while neither of them had had a care in the world.

It was late when Peggy had finally admitted that her feet couldn't take anymore. She had peeled her heels off in the car and didn't bother to put them back on as she stepped back out. If it was the late hour or the drinks that they had had, she leaned into him as they walked towards the door, a content sigh leaving her.

The house was silent as they entered. Lights were turned down low and Steve felt Peggy stop in the middle of the hallway. His question never left him as she pulled him closer to her, her lips meeting his. His hand drifted up, brushing against her cheek and his fingers buried in her hair as he leaned into it. Her own hands had him locked in place, though he was fairly certain only God Himself could have pulled him away, and he was bordering on questioning that.

After a long moment they did finally break, both desperate for air, and she looked up at him. "I've missed you."

"I carried your photo."

A small laugh escaped her. "Yes, I know. I saw it in the reels."

"I mean since them. Ever mission we fought, you were with me. I never…. you were always the one I loved, Peggy. The one I still love."

"And you," she said softly.

"Hey, when we get back to my time, maybe…. I mean…. if you —"

"Welcome back, you two!" Howard's voice split the moment in half. Steve turned and the dark haired man flashed an innocent grin. "Sorry. You two need a sec? I can—"

"Oh no. I do believe you've effectively ended that particular moment," Peggy huffed.

The inventor shrugged. "Sorry 'bout that. I got good news though."

"It's ready?"

"It's ready," he confirmed.

Steve felt a rush of excitement followed immediately by uncertainty. He looked to Peggy. If she was going to back out, now was the time. Thankfully that didn't look like it even crossed her mind. "I should leave Angie a note at least. Howard, would you mind-?"

"I can make sure she gets it."

"And the SSR, I should—"

"Peg, it's fine. Not like you can tell them you're hopping into the future, right?" Howard teased and Steve watched her pause.

"Right." She turned a meaningful look on their friend. "Thank you, Howard. For everything you're doing."

He huffed a response under his breath and Peggy slipped past him. Steve waited and caught his eye. "Really, Howard. Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet, Cap. C'mon."

He followed Howard to the lab where the now-younger man talked him through the minor differences in design. He hadn't been able to replicate the nanotechnology, but the suit itself was made of the same material that would keep Peggy safe in the Quantum Realm. He had been especially careful with the stabiliser, working to copy it piece by piece.

Outside of the nanotech there was only one other thing he couldn't quite match up to, as much as he was loath to admit it. He couldn't pinpoint an exact moment to project them to. Steve's device had been damaged and the best Howard could manage without the appropriate tech to work off of he had been able to narrow it down to a general time.

"Like a month?" Steve asked.

"More like a year. I'm just not sure exactly where you'd land in that year. Could be beginning, middle, or end. My point is don't let go on your way there or you could end up in different parts of the year. You said it was 2023, right?"

Steve pushed a long breath out through his nose. "Let's aim for 2024. Last thing we want is to touch down in the middle of the fight with Thanos."

"Probably not the welcome home you're going for," Howard agreed.

"You boys ready?" Peggy asked, the suit baggier around her clothes beneath.

"Yep. One sec and I'll have you on your way."

Peggy hesitated as Howard disappeared behind the machine he had built and Steve looked to make sure everything was intact after the inventor's research. "It's hard to say goodbye," Peggy murmured at his side.

"If you want to stay…"

"I want to be with you, and you made a promise. The Steve Rogers I know is a man of his word."

The blond nodded, accepting the statement as he looked at the Pym Particles. "Howard? There are only two here."

"Two what?"

"Pym Particle capsule."

"Ah," the voice from the other side of the machine answered. "Sorry 'bout that. I thought I mentioned it. I was looking at them—"

"Howard," Peggy chided.

"What can I say? My curiosity got the better of me." he huffed, sounding frustrated. "I dropped one. I figured it was better not to test my luck after that. You ready?"

"Ready," Steve acknowledged, tapping the particle containment unit and the suit scurried into place.

"Ready," Peggy said firmly as she fit the helmet into place and reached down, taking his hand.

"Here we go," Howard said and Steve could hear him flip the switches necessary. He held his breath, forcing down the regret of all he couldn't tell him. All that he couldn't let Howard give up. He would found SHIELD. He'd have a son that would grow up not only to be a brilliant inventor in his own right, but a hero who had earned the name Earth's Best Defender. He would love. He would do amazing things. Howard would do it all, if Steve said it or not he just needed to let it play out.

A jolt startled him out of his thoughts and Steve tightened his hold on Peggy's hand. Half a moment later there was another jolt and they were being hurtled through time to land hard on the other side of the bridge made. Steve blinked hard into the bright afternoon light that shone through the trees.

He turned, finding Peggy with him and she tore her helmet off, the look on her face terrifying. It didn't take long to piece together that the first jolt hadn't been the jump. It had been someone else taking hold.

"Howard!"

Howard Stark pulled his own helmet off, grinning like the Cheshire Cat and he motioned around them. "So this is the future, huh?"

Funny thing. All Steve could think in that moment was that Tony was going to kill him.

                                              ________________

TBC

Notes: I had no intention of updating tonight until I got to the end of it. Then that was all I wanted to do, so here it goes. It's been an exceptionally long day and tomorrow will be another weird one. Not bad, just long, and I didn't think I'd have time for this. Sometimes I just get stubborn though lol

I hope you're enjoying reading as much as I'm enjoying writing. I've been really looking forward to bringing Howard into the the future and it took much longer than I expected, though I should say that it won't take nearly as long for Tony to find out he's there. ;)

I'd love to hear your thoughts on the story!

Next time: Steve tries to figure out how to best handle the situation without admitting to Tony that he's brought not one but two people from the past into 2024.

[alldrinkingaside]

*_*_*_* June 1, 2019 was National Cancer Survivors Day! & I am a #CooperCancerSurvivor *_*_*_*.#CooperCancerSurvivor By Jim Anders June 1, 2019 was National Cancer Survivors Day! June 18th marks my 15th year of continuous sobriety & July 1st marks my one year cancer survivor anniversary. Learning to be free from addiction has been invaluable in walking the path of cancer chemotherapy and radiation treatments. I am now an Active Member of Gilda’s Club Atlantic City and recently have become a Recovery Coach. I wish to express my thanks to my medical team at Cooper in particular, as well as all members of all recovering communities to whom I owe my life and gratitude. Below, find Five Short Cancer Recovery Posts, joined here like a recovery bracelet. A link to my book, ALL DRINKING ASIDE: The Destruction, Deconstruction & Reconstruction is beneath these posts joined here. Again, Thank You One and All! Happy National Cancer Survivors Day! ************************************************ Part One:“Cancer Joins the Joyous (Yet Harrowing) Recovery Parade”"No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it's not the same river and he's not the same man." - Heraclitus ***** The lump on my throat popped out when I raised my head to the water streaming down on me in the shower in March. During April, I visited my family doctor who sent me to a local specialist and in fairly quick succession I'd visited a surgeon and two chemo and radiation specialists. My 7 weeks of Chemo and Radiation started in May and ended in July. During this time, I wrote 25 Posts related to Cancer specifically, and to Recovery in general. Now, until I'm rechecked in January, I have been declared Cancer-Free. ***** Gleaned from those 25 Cancer Recovery Posts, I'm revisiting there, deleting, refreshing & re-posting portions & adding acquired new perspectives as my journey moves forward. With minor changes, below, find one of those earlier posts! ***** (Recovery from Addiction has taught me to be strong in my weakness. Recovery is Resilience, win or lose.) ***** "New Beginnings Are Often Disguised as Painful Endings." - Lao Tzu ***** My 14 Years of Recovery from Addiction to alcohol and other substances had been like Kindergarten through the 12th Grade for me. I sought pity and lived in self-pity when I initially got sober at the age of 46. Cancer is a completely different beast, but the tools I have acquired over the years were becoming handy once again. You see, now I'd Graduated... to Cancer. The tools, the mindset, the hopes, actions, seeking of help, my striving to help others... etc. All have been part of my becoming more human - despite, or perhaps because of, what may at first have appeared only as setbacks. How we survive, how we recover and how we learn to be more present, more fully alive, are all in the stewpot of emotions and actions that have brought us to the present moment. We can stew in our own sour juices or thrive on the new perspectives that adversities have brought our way. I must admit that all of the above was a Pep-Talk to me - from me - back then. That my experience could possibly help others is a total win/win for me, here and now and into the future. The WE of our common humanity reveals itself in the most kind - and devilish ways at times. (I have learned to stay connected.) Human Glue, sharing and caring, has helped put me back together time and again, no matter my problem or condition. (I must remember to stay connected.) "New Beginnings Are Often Disguised as Painful Endings." Lao Tzu scribed those words well over 2,500 years ago. His words are a Gift from the Ages. Take it from there. Carry it with you. Cancer, and Recovery from it, at times has made me feel weak. Lessons will be learned on the road ahead. Recovery from Addiction has taught me to be strong in my weakness. Resilience will be part of the solution, no matter the outcome. Recovery from Addiction has taught me to be strong in my weakness, repeat, repeat. Part Two:“From Lies & Doubts to Undefeated”In my experience, self-doubt has been the most crippling of all my uncertainties. My emotions were stymied during my alcoholic descent. Stigmas perpetuated my helplessness (Silence is Not Golden). My life became loosened, untethered, lost. So long drifting in a sea of alcohol, wasted, I lived a scrapheap existence. Talk of lies and doubts could fill volumes. It truly is for each reader to reflect upon their own experience.... Lies we tell ourselves. Lies told us. Too many to enumerate. We have our own particular histories, each and all. Self-doubt, crises of belief, gut feelings, crippling anxieties and on and on. Suffice it to say that the biggest lie addiction told me was "You Deserve No Better." That was so self-defeating (yes, many an alcoholic listen to their bottles' proclamations). Not unlike spousal abuse, it came on slowly as addiction to alcohol crept over me in all its subtleties. Eventually, I wished I were dead, life seeming so not worth living under addiction's spell. At that time, I knew of no possible, desirable alternative. From my recovery from addiction I learned that I would not let my cancer diagnosis and treatment defeat me. I would and did emerge more-fully-whole. Recovery from both Cancer and Addiction share the importance of connections with others for me. Lies and doubts were swallowing me in my addiction and may have not let go in recovery were it not for connection with others. Individual and group therapy, including, but not limited to Alcoholics Anonymous and Narcotics Anonymous, were necessary for me early on and continue in their importance today. As for my Cancer Recovery, Gilda's Club has become increasingly beneficial to me since my chemo and radiation treatments have ended. My very recent tests show an absence of cancer, but that does not mean an end to my recovery. I'm committed to staying connected with all my Recovering Communities. As I said in Part One... "Recovery from Addiction has taught me to be strong in my weakness. Recovery is Resilience, win or lose." Staying connected is my key to Resilience against Addiction, Cancer, Lies, Doubts and all else this life may bring my way. ***** Through Recovery from Addiction, I have learned that Addiction disconnects and Recovery connects and reconnects in both the brashest and most subtle ways. The way out is through. Survival is connecting. My tools are honed. Life has become my home, is now my home, will remain my home. Lies and doubts or no, connect, connect. Part Three:"THE BLOOM OF GRATITUDE""Silent gratitude isn't very much use to anyone." - Gertrude Stein [This post is the 3rd of 5, written and rewritten last November during my 5th month of being cancer-free. Repetition reinforces my recovery... from cancer... and from addiction.] ***** Given everything, earning nothing, surely we do not blame a child in swaddling clothes for declaring their wants and needs in cries and tears. But babies grow up and responsibilities are grown into. A temper tantrum could easily evolve into a sense of entitlement years down the road. I believe gratitude can be taught because I learned all about it in my recovery from alcohol and other drugs. One of my favorite examples of an "Attitude of Gratitude" is depicted in a favorite scene from the movie, "Zorba the Greek." Here's how it plays out in my memory: Zorba sees an old man planting a seedling for a tree that will surely never bear fruit in the old man's lifetime. Perceiving this, Zorba inquires why the old man even bothered planting it. The old man replies that he chooses to live each day as if he will live forever. Floored, Zorba replies that he has always lived as if he could die at any moment. These stark contrasts in daily living clearly show how living life "One Day at a Time" may mean vastly different things to different people. Obviously, I veer closer to the old man's perspective (at this point, by my interpretation, Zorba's world had taken a seismic shift through this experience, and, frankly, this small scene rocked me to my core.) I am planting this post on the internet today, not knowing how distant in time and place that my planted seed of Gratitude my blossom and flower in a reader's heart [flowering, re-flowering]. In the Rooms of Recovery for Alcoholism and Other Addictions, in time, one will eventually hear something along the lines of "Sobriety is a Gift, Recovery is Earned." I would like to add here that Gratitude is a Two-Way Street, part Gift, part Earned. It is abundance on the smallest and the grandest scale. Gratitude is thriving, being most fully alive, fully present and fully accountable. It is a choice. It is not owed you, but you certainly owe it to yourself. Entitlement? Those days are long gone for me, gone the way of the horse and buggy. Gratitude, older than the Mystics, Sweet Mystery, Sweet Desire, Eternal. Gratitude is the fulfillment of this very moment, pure being. In Gratitude, there simply is no room for a sense of entitlement. Recovery, whatever you're recovering from, Cancer, Addiction, Someone Else or Yourself: Entitlement will not free your shackles! Gratitude is the surest path to follow! Taken from by book, I remind myself (daily, Zorba, daily!) that "nothing matters more than that we remain sober because when we remain sober, everything matters more"! Ditto on Gratitude! If and when you feel Entitlement rear its ugly head, rise up, count your blessings! They are numerable, innumerable and infinite! The whole is truly greater than the sum of all its parts. Cancer, addiction, recovery, joy, peace, hate, war... all are part of the whole of life. I am grateful for the whole of it and work toward changing the parts of it I can that may need to change (invoke "The Serenity Prayer" here). In the meantime, I plant what seeds of gratitude I may, whether or not I live to see them bloom. To share our Gratitude is a win/win, most assuredly. Thank you, Gertrude. You are so right. "Silent gratitude isn't very much use to anyone." Part Four:"Virtuous Cycle of Recovery"Since Time Immemorial, Time has been the subject and the object of mankind's vain attempts at understanding just about everything. Does time travel in a straight line, an ever-repeating circle, or, mysteriously, is time interwoven with space and somehow never to be understood? Does time tick with different tocks on different clocks at different times and places or is time a constant, immutable? Is it the edge of an infinite arc, curved or straight? On and on, time beckons and bewilders. In my experience, time recycles itself, like the waves lapping the shore beneath me, fanning outward and upward as it spreads out on the wide, slow tilt of the shoreline, drifting back into itself as gravity takes over the water's force, completing itself in hypnotic rhythms inescapable to the eye, palpable beneath my surfaces of consciousness. The waves of time repeat themselves over and over again. Addiction and Recovery from Addiction, one wave. Cancer and Recovery from Cancer, another. Perpetual undulations emerge, hypnotic. Each wave, more fully whole, each virtuous wave of recovery completing itself with both an individual and group identity. Time is Recovery. Recovery is Time. Time beckons, let loose on the shore. All else seems out of sync. Addiction and Cancer are beaten down by the wheels of time's perfection. Moments spray upon this landscape, grey and white mists, pastels, desired, held, caressed, released. After living, after dying, addiction and cancer loose importance in the final tally. It is, was and will have been for recovery, recovery, recovery that meanings find their moments. Addiction and Cancer have well-prepared me for future storms. Softened by experience, subtle, serene, like sea glass found on a thousand shores, I am me and you and we, smooth, malleable, modest and complete. Cancer and Addiction, you are minor irritants. I will make a pearl of you, indistinguishable from the sea glass all around me. Recovery is unbound. Time, irrelevant, here and now. Recovery is King. Virtuous Cycles Are My Everything. ***** Cancer Will Not Own Me / Control Me / Lessen Me Addiction Will Not Own Me / Control Me / Lessen Me Cancer Will Not Own Me / Control Me / Lessen Me Time is good. Part Five:"FEAR""The man who never alters his opinion is like standing water, and breeds reptiles of the mind." - William Blake ***** Frozen in Fear, alcohol paralyzed me. It was a savage fear, an untamed, malignant and rabid wolf whose jaws inescapably devoured me. But let certain fears linger. Nurture them. The dangers aren't always imaginary! The pains of real harm may be prevented when fear is properly reined in. Wolves and dogs share a common ancestry and dogs became domesticated, the cherished pets we have today. Fear, too, may be so domesticated, tamed. a tool for our protection instead of our destruction. Fear, tempered with knowledge, may be a saving grace. Let fear be like a beloved guard dog, protecting you and yours. But mine, my fears, were the "reptiles of [my] mind." The dangers my fears concocted were imaginary. What I perceived in my alcoholic descent and in the crippling panic attacks which followed were the chronic, destructive forces of fear distorted by addiction, bubbling up from alcoholic delusions. The insane fears within my addiction's core would be dispelled by comforting care and thoughtful actions over vast periods of time in recovery. It would not be an easy fix. After 50,000 drinks in my less-than-illustrious 30-year drinking career, recovery has slowly taught me many lessons in sober living. Recovery has altered my perception of fear and let reason in to conquer what once had seemed unconquerable. A healthy respect for fear slowly replaced the twisted culture of false fear that was addiction's home. Fear, in remission, like a guard dog, gentle, but ever-ready to strike against realistic obstacles instead of those reptiles of my mind. Here, now, today, my realistic fears move me in the direction of healing. ***** Truthfully, my cancer diagnosis was not much of a shocker to me. I was almost blasé about it, not dead in my tracks as one might suspect. A strength I did not know I had upwelled. My immediate, yet measured response was that I could handle it [cancer]. Whatever it was, whatever the diagnosis, my recovery from addiction had given me the tools, knowledge and direction I would need to face all my fears, including cancer, directly, forthrightly. I would not respond in a way that was shifty, evasive or indirect. Boom! I called my doctor immediately and the whole process of diagnosis, treatment and recovery began. ***** Shared Courage. Let me insert that right here before I go any further. Shared courage would pull me through. Shared Courage. Say it again. Let it really sink in. Friends, family, even my co-workers at the time would help to fortify my resolve. The way out is through. I learned this in recovery from addiction to alcohol. ***** Fear of failure, of the unknown, fear of loss, even fear of success have been felt, recognized and dealt with by me and countless others. I dealt with these and other fears by having another drink in my addiction. Alcohol overcame me and became the only tool in my toolbox. My destruction became obsessively, progressively more inevitable. Finding recovery from alcohol would require new tools. The way out is through. And it is through Shared Courage that I would find my way in a sober world. The mutual benefit of sharing with others is universal. Everyone is a winner. It is a lesson well-learned and transferable to all life experiences, including my cancer diagnosis. I cannot do it alone. No one can. ("No man is an island, entire of itself, every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main," as John Donne so aptly described it.) Others are necessary, certainly, but not sufficient. We have to take part in our own recovery. Resolve. I needed to be focused on my commitment to continue on my sober path. My strength has been bolstered by the bonds of unity with others. Humanity, my human glue, helped me piece together my shattered self in recovery from alcoholism and recovery from cancer requires these and newer, different and stronger bonds of connection to remain "a part of the main." Drugs, radiation and chemo were essential to me, but my connection with others would become part of my prescription for a fulfilling and full recovery. ***** Like the flying buttresses on the world's greatest cathedrals, Shared Courage is an invisible, indivisible force in my recovery and from all that life may place on my pathway. Connections are a salvation of sorts for me. Addiction severed connection with all else. Cancer has become a Gift, feeding my Recovery from Addiction in ways both subtle and complex. Fear, used wisely and rationally will guide me forward, protect me, save me. Pass through it to survive, for survival is fear's real purpose. Share your fears, your courage. Shared courage will make it all worth it, no matter the outcome. For real. Share. ****************************************************** Also, by this author, you may also enjoy his Autobiographical Fiction ALL DRINKING ASIDE: The Destruction, Deconstruction & Reconstruction of an Alcoholic Animal Find it on Amazon.com. Book it here: http://amzn.to/1bX6JyO Recovery Tweets: https://twitter.com/JimAnders4

[blisserial]

Eleven

The Capitol is surrounded by endless fields of flowers. The flowers are said to be the favored blossom of the gods. The Seat guards them jealously. In the north we no longer grow the poppy, just as we no longer plant oilseed. It's forbidden.

Some Northerners even claim the poppy flower is cursed. Eat of the seeds and one will quickly die of the bloat. Touch the petals and ware the resulting hives. Look too long upon the spiny stem and go mad.

The dried, crushed roots are smuggled over the border for use as a poison, but I have never yet heard tell of a soul successfully murdered in such a way. Use of the opiate is punishable by hanging but that's never stopped addicts, in bad years it's said the opium chewers crowd the king's gallows to bursting.

That first ride across those rippling fields made my young self shake.  I had no real horror of standing before the Seat; as yet I knew no better. But, as we traveled the thin dusty path between rows and rows of thriving flowers, I felt strangely as though the end of my world waited on the other side of the massive field.

Ross, riding alongside Amy and slightly to my front, dug something from beneath his belt. The size of a lump of coal, it glittered in his palm before he clutched it tight.

"What’s that?" I wondered aloud, and then thought better of speech. The bright flowers seemed to loom closer and my words lingered in the musty air.

"Chrysanthemum." Reluctantly Ross opened his fingers. Past Amy's mount I could see the weathered silver brooch in his hand. "Wards off bad luck."

"I've never heard that." I lowered my voice a notch. "Granda grew them. It's just a flower."

"Like those in these fields are just a flower? No," Maurice said from behind me. When I glanced back, he smiled and shrugged. "The king soaks chrysanthemum petals in spring water and drinks the liquid as a healthful tea."

He continued, quoting: "'And so Trout plucked the chrysanthemum and made the petals into mash and ate them with his bread and in doing so brought health and honor to the land and to his sons.'"

I scoffed, trying to ignore the whisper of wind through the dancing poppy fields. "What is that? Poetry?"

"Legend," Maurice replied. "Have you no learning at all, Bliss?"

Amy laughed, a shrill giggle that made my teeth clench. Lately I had begun to wish Ross would tire of the lass and send her back to sleep with the dogs.

"I need no learning," I said, glaring at Ross's back. "I have wit."

Still, as we continued down the path, watched by the nodding poppies, I considered Maurice's legend and thought seriously of stealing Ross's silver flower. Better that protection in my pouch than in his.

                                                             *****

"I don't have them," Bliss said through clenched teeth. "Are you deaf? How many times must I tell you so?"

Chrysanthemum shifted irritably on his stool. "You expect me to believe you sold them in some back water Southern village?"

"We were hungry," Shaara said indignantly. "A man's got a right to eat. And what good's a bag of painted shells when your stomach's grumbling? They weren't even pretty painted shells."

Chrysanthemum shot Shaara a hard look. Shaara kept his face still and rolled his shoulders. Chrysanthemum scowled at Bliss. Bliss mimicked Shaara's shrug.

"We got a fair price for them," she said. "Enough for a sup and a good room."

A crimson flush rose up Chrysanthemum's throat and across his cheeks. "A fair price? A fair price! Have you any idea -"

"No," interrupted Bliss. "I haven't. What is a bag of painted miniatures to you? And why have you come all this way to retrieve Tamner's goods?"

Chrysanthemum swallowed back visible fury. "They belonged not to Lord Tamner, but to our king."

Shaara glanced at Bliss. She met his eye in perfect understanding, then shifted almost imperceptibly on her stool. "What was the king's property doing in Lady Alyce's sewing drawer?"

"Trout grant her peace," Chrysanthemum touched his brow in automatic reverence. "Milady made a mistake."

"A mistake?" Shaara echoed before he could help himself. Beneath the table, Bliss kicked him in the shin, a sharp warning.

Chrysanthemum swiveled. He considered Shaara carefully. "You've grown, Corporal , since that day in the rain on the field."

"You were there?" A shiver ran up and down Shaara’s spine.

"Yes, lad. I was there. Most of us who matter now to the north were. Many who waited in the mud that day were lost. You were a lucky."

"It wasn't luck." Bliss picked the spoon from the empty bowl. She tapped it on the table. Trying to distract, Shaara knew.

Chrysanthemum shook his head. "Enough." He held out one brown, calloused hand. "I know you have the miniatures. I'd not have come into this stark city without some certainty. I want them. Now." Shaara felt the men standing in the shop tense. He did not dare glance around.

"I told you: I don't have them," Bliss drawled. "Nor am I interested in the king's lost property. Obviously, the man should keep a better hand on his jewels."

"Watch your mouth, Captain," Chrysanthemum hissed. "You come dangerously close to treason." His extended hand dipped as he reached for Bliss's pack.

Bliss flipped the spoon. It  flew in an elegant, perfect arc and caught the closest soldier across the face. The soldier grunted. Chrysanthemum, startled, paused just long enough. Bliss buried her belt knife in his forearm.

Blood burst across the table. Chrysanthemum screamed in pain and rage. Bliss slid from her stool, pack in hand.

"Run," she ordered Shaara, and darted toward the door.

Since the kick in the shin Shaara had known a brawl was iniment. Even so, Bliss did not usually brawl with her knife. The sight of blood and bone through sleeve held Shaara rooted on his stool.

"Shaara!" Bliss shouted, barreling as she did so head first into a looming soldier. "Run, you idiot!"

Shaara ran. His stool toppled as he dodged Chrysanthemum's wobbling lunge. His knife was in his hand of its own accord and his hand remembered what to do.

There was a trick to it, a simple dance to distract, then a duck and a lunge and a quick twist of the knife in armpit or neckline, where a soldier's leathers were most vulnerable. Northerner or Southerner, they all had soft flesh beneath. They all bled the same, bright red gushes, across a table or in floods along the grass at Green Hill. Men shrieked as they died, or fell without protest, exhaling thick fluid along with their lives.

"Shaara." Bliss's hand was on the scruff of his neck. He almost drew his knife across the pulsing blue vein in her throat. "Enough," his Captain ordered. "Drop it."

Her other hand squeezed his left wrist until his fingers began to go numb. The belt knife, blunted from bread and cheese and now wet with blood, fell from his hand to the floor with a thud.

"Leave it," Bliss said. "Leave them." It took an effort, but Shaara returned to himself. He blinked at the three dead men sprawled beneath the tables in a sludge of gore and sugar. Chrysanthemum stood leaning on his stool,  gasping but still alive.

"Leave him," Bliss said, pulling Shaara from the shop. Outside in the street too bright sun bounced across white buildings and made his eyes water.

“What now?” His head felt full of wool, his stomach full of snakes. He’d forgotten how easy it was to kill a man. 

"Now we split up." Bliss set her brow briefly against his own. She pressed  another knife into his hand, a new knife with an ivory handle, an officer's knife, Chyrsanthemum's knife? Bliss was always been efficient.

"And Horrid's tits, don't go back to Moire. They'll be looking for us there." Her breath whispered across his lips. "The old bolt hole, remember?"

"Yes."

"Good. Go. I'll find Maurice." She clenched the back of his neck again, a promise. Then she was gone, the stark walls rising up in her absence. Shaara heard Chrysanthemum begin to bellow from inside the shop.

Clenching the knife in his fist, Shaara turned back up the street and fled.

 Moire was washing her new prayer shawl in the barrack's spring when Bliss found her.

"You're predictable," Bliss said, lingering beneath the shade of an old drooping willow. "Although it used to be saddle blanket and sweat cloth."

"It still is, occasionally." Moire's back ached from scrubbing but the cool water felt good against the insides of her wrists. "One can be a soldier and a priest."

"Not easily." Bliss leaned against the willow's thick trunk. "So far as I've noticed. Soldiers are afraid of a priest to take her orders on the field. In fact, some say it's bad luck."

"You've always been too superstitious, Bliss. Ross ruined you with that." Moire rose to her feet. She rung out her shawl, water dripping onto the grass. The wool, even clean and wet, was already beginning to look a trifle worse for the wear. "Hardly worn." She sighed. "Have you come to return my other?"

"No," Bliss replied without sympathy. "I'm keeping it. To remind me."

"Of?" 

"Betrayal."

"Bliss." Moire laughed despite her herself. She spread the dripping shawl over a round, warm boulder and stepped up the hill. She felt calm again, in control, determined.

They would smooth things out, here in the sunshine. Bliss would be sullen but resigned, as Bliss was wont to be, and Moire would send her on her way home with a chaste kiss and goodwill. Moire would miss them all but the world would right itself again.

But as she approached the willow, Moire's contended musings fled. "You're bleeding."

"Not mine." Bliss grinned, bearing teeth. A gash across her nose split open, giving lie to her words.

"Come here," Moire ordered. "Into the light. Let me see.”

"If it's all the same to you," Bliss said dryly. "The tree is a better cover than your angry Southern sun."

"It's the same sun. The north has the inconvenience of clouds." Without waiting for permission Moire ran practiced fingers up and down Bliss's limbs, searching. Bliss winced once or twice, but it seemed she spoke ture. The majority of the blood, it seemed, belonged to someone else. "What's happened?"

"The king's soldiers have come hunting in the Southern heat."

"For you?" Moire prodded Bliss's ribs. Bliss grunted but did not flinch. "What have you done?"

"What have I done?" Bliss's black brows plunged. "What have I done? Why do you always assume the fault is mine?"

"Because you're a thief and a scoundrel when you're not a hero and because it usually is." Satisfied that the score across Bliss's nose was the worst of it, Moire dug free the small jar of honey she kept in her pouch. She used the sweet ointment to seal the split. 

"What do they want, then?"

Bliss squared her shoulders, then sighed. "Something I have, something Shaara found."

"And where is Shaara?" Alarmed, Moire glanced into the willow's shadowed depths, but Bliss was alone. "He said he was off to find you, that he had something to discuss with you."

Bliss shrugged. She wouldn't meet Moire's eye, a bad sign. "He's in the old bolt hole, if he's followed orders. We had a nice game of cat and mouse and then a passable dessert on Roth Street. Lovely, really, until we were interrupted by a bad tempered officer on a royal errand."

Moire capped her honey jar and secreted it away again. "Shaara stole something that belonged to your king? Careless."

"Of both our king and my apprentice." Bliss stared thoughtfully across the creek, seeing something that Moire did not. "I tried to run down Maurice, but he's not in the barracks and the wench at the front desk hasn't seen him all day and then I ran into another clutch of the Northern men behind the Spire. He's sent more than a squad, Moire."

"He means business, then." Moire kept her tone light, but she knew a sudden waking of fear. "What is it you have, Bliss? What is it worth?"

Bliss's lips set. She shrugged. "I don't know."

"You won't tell me." Moire felt the sharp, bright sting of heart ache. She slapped it away, stern. The gods knew Bliss had never given anything away willingly.

"I don't know." Bliss strode away, leaving the tree behind. She squatted above the spring, cupped water, scrubbed blood from her hands, cupped again and took a quick drink. "Find Maurice for me, Moire. Send him to the old spot."

"Where are you going?" Moire kept her hands straight at her side, in that empty space where her sword and pistol had once lived.

"I don't know that, either.” Before Moire could voice protest the shadows once again swallowed Bliss up.