#first chapter to be posted soon

[ricky-mortis]

Yesterday was the 100th anniversary of The Great Gatsby being published, so I drew Gatsby and Nick to celebrate :)

[stellewriites]

by chance you and your emotionally unavailable husband meet a friendly couple that invite you stay at their farmhouse in scotland. however the time spent there with johnny & kyle has you questioning if there’s a dark side to them you didn’t see before.

a speak no evil au

pairing: soapgaz x reader

notes: manipulative johnny & kyle, piv, noncon, somno, never explicitly acknowledged abusive relationship between reader and her husband (financial, physical, emotional, coercive control), drinking, murder, it’s dead dove horror people!! no one’s particularly nice, heed the warnings

chapter 1

chapter 2

email guidelines

completed.

[orion-archives]

A kid and his 12-meter tall adoptive dad

[inkyrainstorms]

Martian Stan AU - Aftermath & Discovery

The Beginning (1), Aftermath (2) (here), The Journals (3)

Extra! (The Apology)

Ford didn’t know how long it took for him to pry himself off the floor, but it felt like hours later when he managed to trudge his way upstairs, eyes burning and throat raw. There was new blood on his knuckles, and Ford couldn’t remember if it was Stan’s or his own. He’d tried to scrub the blood off of the portal, but most of it had been too high and Ford was so tired.

He couldn’t fall asleep in the basement, he chanted to himself, again and again and again and it only occurred to him once he stood swaying at the top the of the stairs, that is didn’t actually… matter, anymore.

It didn’t matter what Bill did, or didn’t do.

The portal was broken beyond repair. His brother was dead.

The journal is gone. his mind whispered insidiously, and he couldn’t remember if he’d always been so cruel to himself, or if it was a byproduct of Bill. You got what you wanted, Sixer. How does it feel?

Ford hobbled to the bathroom as fast as he could manage, and hurled his guts out into the toilet. When all that came up was acrid bile, though, and Ford wondered idly when we he last ate. It didn’t matter.

None of it mattered, Ford decided firmly, hands clenched on either side of the porcelain bowl so hard that they looked bloodless in the harsh white light. It didn’t matter what he felt, or didn’t feel.

Not anymore.

The journal was gone. That was a good thing, it meant that the portal could never be rebuilt again. Stanley made an honorable… he. He’d made an honorable sacrifi—

Ford hunched over the toilet and heaved again. Nothing came out.

Impossibly, time kept moving.

Ford was left drifting in the current, from room to room, machine to first aid kit to paper to specimen to paper to circling the door of his lab again and again like an anxious sentry. He didn’t process any of it, and eventually, the door was the only thing left in the house that felt truly real. It was the only mystery left that Ford could pay any real mind to, and most of the time he wanted nothing more than burn the whole thing to the ground.

Sitting against the door, head leaned back and staring at the ceiling, Ford searched his mind for something. Anything.

A plan, a goal, fuck, he’d take the will to actually get out of the house and get groceries despite the constant chance of being watched at this rate. There was near nothing left to eat in the cabinets that wasn’t rank with age, and Ford knew he was wasting away like this.

But there was nothing. No part of him cared.

He knew he’d always had the wildest aspirations as a kid and as a young man, that he’d never stop reaching for bigger and better heights, but the light had blinded him with its promise, and now he’d fallen. He’d fallen so far.

He’d said Icarus didn’t flap hard enough, when Fiddleford tried to warn him of his own hubris all those weeks ago. Now he was just glad he wasn’t an English major, because it had taken him all of this just to realize that Icarus had found the sun, been embraced by the promise of warmth, and burned for it.

Trust no one.

Ford traced an idle finger against the freshly bandaged burn on the underside of his hand.

And no one should ever trust you.

…

The worst part, Ford thought to himself as he brewed another pot of coffee and searched for a clean mug, was the uncertainty of it all. There was a grief in loss, of course, but not knowing could be so much worse.

Stanley could still be alive out there, among the creatures of the Nightmare Realm, all alone. He could be dying. He could be dead. He could be sitting on the other side, waiting, hoping Ford could open the portal and bring him home—

Ford slammed down the sole clean  coffee cup he had left hard enough to startle himself, and then sighed.

He’d have to go clean up the remains of the portal, eventually. Before he fell asleep and Bill…

Ford poured out the coffee and leaned heavily against the counter as he took a sharp swig. It burned the whole way down. 

What did he have left that Bill wanted? What reason did Bill have to keep him around if his research was beyond saving, if he couldn’t be threatened or tortured into complying anymore?

The next time he fell asleep…

Ford didn’t know what’d happen to him, and despite everything, damnit, Ford didn’t want to die. He couldn’t let Bill win, couldn’t become another footnote in the history of the world because he was just another one of the poor schmucks who fell for Bill Cipher’s lies.

Taking another gulp of liquid courage, Ford pulled his coat tight around himself and marched to the door of his lab before he could talk himself out of it.

Forget not sleeping in the lab. Ford couldn’t sleep at all until he found a way to sever Bill from his mind for good. Project Mentem had been a bust last he’d checked, but it was worth another shot. What else hadn’t he tried? There was something… a protection spell? A charm?

Ford contemplated his options all the way down the stairs, one hand keeping him steady on the wall while the other held his mug. 

He still wasn’t sure exactly what he wanted yet, or what his next step was, but Ford could do this. He just had to secure his mind, like he’d planned, and then get rid of the blasted portal once and for all. Nothing had changed.

Nothing had changed. Nothing had changed. Nothing, nothing, except that Ford felt hollow where there must’ve once been something warm and vital in his chest. He didn’t know if he’d ever feel warm again. He didn’t deserve to.

Ford remembered a detail about sleep deprivation, as the elevator neared the basement level again and his heart dropped in time with the doors hissing open. Hallucinations were a common byproduct of the resulting sensory overload and exhaustion. They could take auditory or visual form, though visual hallucinations were a more common symptom by over 52%.

That was the only explanation he could conjure for the faint singing that echoed through the dark, cavernous sub-level before him. 

“It’s not real,” Ford whispered to himself, hands a vice around the coffee mug. He felt cold. “Auditory hallucinations are an expected and well documented symptom to experience in conditions less dire than these. Focus on your intellect, Stanford. Focus, focus, it is not real.”

For a long stretch of time, seconds, or perhaps minutes, Fords feet were glued to the floor of the elevator. No matter how hard he tried, no matter what he said or did, the singing, or the static, remained steady and quiet. 

It wouldn’t go away unless Ford made it. 

Finally, Ford forced himself to creep into the basement, and then the control room to set his mug down on the desk. The music was louder now, more distinct here than it had been before. Had Ford left a radio on down here? Was that it?

Holding his breath, Ford crept around the trashed room, checking behind spare sheets of metal that had been propped up against the walls, kneeling to look under the control panels, and then behind them too. All the while, the music droned on, buzzing and humming and settling under his skin like an itch. 

-any- wind blows—

It got louder as he neared the very back of the room, the words filtering through the humming static and becoming clear. Ford couldn’t deny it anymore. That was a voice. He shivered hard, jolting like ice had been pressed to the back of his neck, and hurried forward. 

-really matter to me… To me. 

There was a pile of debris, in the back of the control room, farthest from the door where he’d entered. Stanley must’ve crashed into it, when Ford and him had been… when he’d…

-just killed a man —a gun against his head…

Ford slowed his pace, staring down at the dented metal plates and machinery that had fallen loose in a heap on the floor, the stray wires and screws jutting out of the mess every which way. Slowly, Ford sank to his knees and pressed his aching palms onto the cool floor beneath him.

He could hear the singing now. Warbling, staticky. Familiar.

-Life had just begun, and now I’ve gone and thrown it all away.

Ford choked on his next inhale, thin and trembly as it was, and searched through the wreckage with wide eyes. 

There. Nestled between a dented panel with half its screws undone, and a jumble of wires and smaller panels of sheet metal, was the source of the sound. 

For a long, long moment, all Ford did was stare.

Oh mama… oh ohh oh. Didn’t mean to make you cry.

If I’m not back again this time tomorrow…

Ford’s hands trembled as he reached out, carefully prying the radio out of the scrap heap and holding it up in the dim light.

Carry on, carry on…

As if nothing really matters…

The voice faded out. Static.

Ford set the radio down on his lap, gently, as it would shatter into a million pieces otherwise, and pressed a trembling hand to his mouth.

“Stanley?” Ford choked out, and it was like trying to breathe glass. But he had to know, he had to, because— because…

He sat there, dully staring down at the radio Fiddleford had cobbled together months ago, when they’d still been in the implementations stage of the data and blueprints they’d collected, when the preliminary tests had begun. A device to send and collect waves and other information from beyond this dimension without actually opening a rift.

And here it was. In Fords hands, dented and scratched and still whole despite everything. Ford had turned his sights completely to the portal before the it’s completion, since Bill had deemed the entire endeavor a waste of time and energy and an ineffective outlet for his genius.

Fiddleford must’ve completed it, back when he was still just as enthralled in the project as Ford was. He missed his old friend, but Fiddleford was likely back home by now, in California to try and reconnect with his wife and child. As bitter as Ford was, he hoped Fiddleford was successful. His old friend deserved as much and more. 

There was no reply to Ford’s question, except, Ford brought the radio to his ear and strained to listen through the faint static. Was that… humming? 

Doo- doo doo, yeah, no poindexter, I‘m done, man. That’s the last song of the evening, I’m not paid for overtime. 

Moses, wish I were getting paid for this.

Ford jumped, wincing at the sudden burst of noise loud enough to make his ears ring, then processed what Stanley, because that had to be Stanley, had said.

“Stanley! Where are you? Are you in the Nightmare Realm? You must be… what sort of method did you find to transmit your signal? Are you al—“

But Stanley continued speaking as though he hadn’t heard him. A thrill of irritation  went through him. Was Stanley ignoring him? Was this some kind of petty revenge tactic?

When’d that song come out anyway? ‘75? 

He hummed.

Sounds about right.

Ford shook the radio and bit back a growl, before he remembered that the technology in his hands was damaged and sorely in need of a repair and upgrade, and loosened his grip again. He set it down in his lap.

“Stanley, I need you to take this seriously, please, for once.”

Wow, that song was everywhere back then, wasn’t it? I remember thinkin’ Ford probably liked it when it came out, wherever he was. The nerd was probably in college.

“Stanley?” he tried again, but he wasn’t expecting a reply anymore. Stanley soldiered on, rambling about everything and nothing and Ford could almost hear the smile in his voice if it didn’t sound so tired. 

Hell, where’d I first hear it? Must’ve been over at a gas station in… eh, Kansas? Somewhere over there, the big ol’ middle states. 

We sure aren’t in Kansas anymore.

Ahh, those were the times. Me, the open sky, and so, so much dirt in my hair. Seriously, where did the dirt come from. I roll around in one haystack and suddenly i’m fishing filth out of my hair a month later.

Stanley went quiet again, before he laughed. 

Aw man, I actually like this story. Buckle in folks, and I’m taking us back to that weirdly cold summer day in Kansas, where I had to steal 5 prized chickens. For some reason.

Look man, when someone pays you a hundred bucks and tells you he wants chickens, you don’t ask questions. 

Anyways, I’d been-“

For the past few… well, it had to have been days since Stanley fell through the portal by this point, if Fords state was anything to go off of, Ford’s mind had been eerily blank. He’d been a hollowed out shell of his former self, a ghost in his home and life that held onto the living plane by only the barest threads and pure spite.

It was like a switch had flipped. Ford’s fingers drummed on the outside of the radio as he forced himself to his feet, mind whirling at a hundred miles per hour and making calculations and theories and discarding some and contemplating others, and he was nearly jittering as he walked out of the control room entirely. He’d need to find a way to secure this side of the portal from Bills influence, recollect his journals, and then, he was bringing his brother home.

He stopped just before he got into the elevator and turned around to stare down the wrecked portal that loomed overhead. The once perfect inverted triangle, now ruined and warped nearly beyond recognition.

He grinned in a way that was more just like baring his teeth.

“You may be a god, Cipher, and you may think you can control me, but never forget. I am a scientist.”

The portal stood dead as it had been, but Ford didn’t care. He whirled around and stalked into the elevator. He felt more awake than he had in days. And he had research to collect and a demon to banish.

Stanley was still talking, as the elevator began to shudder and rise, and Ford’s adrenaline shot began to ever-so-slightly wane. Something about… attack pigeons?

-And when I finally think I’m in the clear, I duck around one of the hay bales and come face to face with, and I’m not kidding here, a cow wearing heavy duty armor, like a helmet and shit the guy in ‘Nam would wear. It even had holes for the ears!

There was a strange sound then, and Ford realized with a start that it was coming from him. He was laughing. It wasn’t even than funny, really, but something about Stan delivery made Ford wheeze. 

When was the last time he’d laughed? It must’ve been before this whole thing started, when he’d been with Fiddleford or B—

The laughter died in his throat. Oblivious to Fords inner turmoil, Stan kept on jabbering.

And there I was, 5 chickens smuggled into my coat and in my bag —and if you’ve never tried to carry 5 chickens, never do, it’s hard as hell and not worth it at all— staring down ol’ Bessie. 

And then, because this fucking farm couldn’t get any weirder, the cow started moo-ing like it was setting off a tornado siren, and all the other cows in the whole place started mooing in sync too. It was fucking terrifying man.

They must’ve been calling the attack pigeons, because those suckers came back, and they started dive-bombing my sorry ass, and really, that was when I reached my limit.

I dove into the hay bale like a damn football player going for the end line, and even though it was by far the itchiest thing to ever happen to me, it saved me from death-by pecking so I’ll take take it. 

The itchiest, of course, save for my stint in Albuquerque.

Ford could almost imagine Stan shaking his head as he paused again. With a start, he realized he was still smiling.

Just. Don’t try selling pillows in Albuquerque is all I’ll say.

Stan gave an audible shudder. 

So many feathers… And itch powder. The itch powder didn’t help. 

Ford couldn’t help the chuckle that slipped out of him at that.

Tags! (I’m sure I’m forgetting someone, pls tell me if you want to be on the list! Or just follow the tag that also works) @aroace-get-out-of-my-face @pleasantartisanhottea @littlelilliana15 @empressofsamoyeds @pinesfamilycatsau

Super Epic Secret Surprise!

[technikki]

LISTENUP FUCK HEADS WE GOT SOOSY TOMORROW

[javierduffy]

ch2 javi gives boaz a chili pepper leaf once as a treat (because javier himself loves chili peppers) and the capsaicin gives him a tummy ache but javi doesn’t know that capsaicin is bad for horses so he has no idea what the problem is and is freaking out a bit so he very incredibly begrudgingly drags himself to kieran, whom he knows probably will have an answer, and kieran is like “he just has a tummy ache, he’s okay :)” and javi is so unbelievably embarrassed but kieran was so nice to him that he’s also a little … charmed ?

[sableeira]

please humor my self-indulgent artwork for the historical AU I mentioned like half a year ago and finally started writing. Detective Dazai and swordsman-for-hire Chuuya teaming up to solve crime cases during the Meiji period ✨

close-up because after a decade on this website I still haven’t figured out how to get images to look sharp

[stump-not-found]

.

what's happened to me that a 10k word chapter now feels short

[myokk]

Eloise🥹💓

[dailyeohkakyoin]

First | Previous | Next

[erinwantstowrite]

god forbid the person i become if someone or something prevents me from writing tomorrow... i have an itch i can not scratch. if i don't write i will get hives. you know like when you're hungry and you don't know it yet and you get so bitchy and then you eat and you're like "ohhhh that's what it was" that's me but with writing. they try to stop me and i will bite them

[charlie-rulerofhell]

Contra Cruciatam

chapter 1: You shall honour your mother and father

The second part of the Holy Mother Church is the secular lords. Their duty is to defend the law of God, to protect the servants of Christ, and to oppress the ministers of the Antichrist, for this is the reason why they bear the sword. This state is dangerous in three ways: Because it is prone to be overcome by pride, by worldly greed, and by the perishable pleasures of the body.

a few words ahead: this is not the full story. in fact, this is only the beginning of the first chapter in six (plus an epilogue), which is also the reason why this won't be posted under the KCD tag yet. i still wanted to share it under 'janosh uher', to let all you other janosh freaks know that this story is coming, because this is, essentially, about him. the story is set both in 1412, and in the past (pre-1403). it follows the events of my previous story, Sed Proditionem (so if you're wondering who Stepan or Mirtl or Magnus or this Jagiello fella are, you can read about that whole adventure here on AO3), but you won't have to know Sed Prod to understand Contra Cruciatam.

also, for the curious nerds among you, the quote above is (just like all the other quotes before the coming chapters will be) loosely translated by me from a latin sermon of jan hus. so yes, we're going there too. but also to so many other places. places that might make you laugh. places that might break your heart.

and now enjoy the read!

* * *

The biting stench of paint and vinegar filled the room, drow­ning out the sweet scent of old but polished oakwood, of dusty tapestries and molten wax. Even the smell of the food was si­lenced under that stench, but it was not quite done yet either. A soup with onion, carrots and cabbage, and a few hard cured sausages inside, served together with roasted bread and strong, aged cheese. The sausage Janosh had made himself from a stag Henry had brought him. It would allow Samuel to eat from the soup as well, and he hadn't minded the work either, the distrac­tion it had offered, as the memories had come back to haunt him. Worse than it had been in a long time. And caused only by the foolishness of that boy.

Janosh turned the spoon around a few more times, before he finally lifted his eyes off the pot. The boy was looking at him with an expression of sadness and regret. Finally. “Are you angry with me?” Speaking so quietly now, after having protes­ted loudly enough before when Katherine had scrubbed his face clean. I'm not a child anymore, he had said, and You're tearing all my hair out! There was not much to tear out to begin with. And a child? Janosh doubted that any child would have been smart enough to think of something so ridiculous.

“You lucky you still alive.”

“It went well enough.”

“For you. Not for others.”

The others in this case were the two unlucky boys who had pulled the cart on which Štěpán had throned. Dressed in old clothes he had been given by Mirtl. His face painted like a common whore, or what a green, inexperienced boy like him imagined a whore to look like. Mirtl had only laughed at him. Laughed, when all she should have done was to scold him! Not for dressing up as a prostitute, the people of Prague had seen far worse than that, but for doing so while handing out mock letters of indulgence to the curious crowd, and while having the two students pulling the cart shout: Beware, good people, here comes the Pope!

At least Štěpán, up on his wagon, had been quick enough to notice the city guard as they had shoved the townsfolk aside to storm at the heretical procession with their weapons raised. The two other boys had not been that lucky.

“You make it sound as if I acted carelessly.”

“Careless too good of word.”

The boy pouted. He pouted. Two years in which Janosh had known him, two years in which he had become a proper bacca­laureus at the Karolinum, in which his voice had become dee­per, firmer, his features a bit sharper, his chin growing at least the shadow of what could one day be a beard. And yet, it could just as well be nothing more than two days, because in the end, Štěpán was still a boy. Nothing but a boy. “It was needed. Pope John is desecrating the holy sacrament with his actions.”

“Don't speak like priest, boy, you make law, not church teachings.”

“And as a student of the law I am well aware of the fault in this indulgence of the cross. Absolution should not be for sale. And even if it were to be sold, it should not come as cheap as support through money or arms in the his crusade against Pope Gregor and King Ladislaus of Naples.”

“A crusade not seem cheap to me.”

“Yes, which is exactly the point!” He spoke louder now, more agitated. The heat in the air of the kitchen was more op­pressive than what the fire of the hearth could have caused. “You cannot tell me that it is just to expect faithful Christians to either offer their hard-earned money or their life for some­thing that should be granted to them by the priests' officium alone.”

“If they not want pay, don't need pay.”

“And face repercussions and threats for it? Pope John's com­missio indulgentiarum is campaigning through Prague as we speak, holding mass to convince the people that their souls were damned if they refrained from supporting the Pope's cause. I heard that Wenzel Thiem, the head collector of said commission, has been given the right to arrest everyone who threatens to get in his way, such as the Knights of Saint John. Clerics fighting other clerics over who gets to rob the people first and harder, it's madness.”

“Speak like Hus.”

“As everyone should. Master Hus knows what he is talking about. Well, in most cases, that is.”

Master Hus, Janosh wanted to answer, has demanded way too much from this little band of ours already, and I doubt he will be done demanding any time soon. Oh no, if anything, things would only become worse. They already did with every passing day. And Janosh had seen too much senseless suffering in his life, had lost too many good people to some fight for jus­tice that had grown too big for a single man to understand, so big it eventually collapsed and crushed everyone underneath. And what good could justice do? When King Jagiełło had gran­ted him a place at his council as compensation for the failures of the former King of Poland, had it eased the pain? “The title perhaps,” Jagiełło had offered, “if not all the properties. It would only be just.” Janosh had declined. No justice could ease the pain, no justice could bring them back.

“And it's not like I'm alone in this either,” Štěpán continued, still in his youthful fury, unaware of what his fight could cause. “Henry was there too, and Hans, and Godwin has helped me get the paint, Žižka has brought that cart.”

“And they all painted too like whore?”

“Oh, so it is about the paint? Is it also about the paint when Godwin walks up a podium to preach to the masses about the prelates' greed? Do you think the Archbishop or the King will hear him any less because his face is not painted?”

“And because Godwin high on podium, you get high on wagon at square of Old Town, handing out letter of Pope like food to hungry on Green Thursday?”

Štěpán widened his eyes in taunting surprise. At some point in the past two years they had stopped looking like two large plates filled with mushed hazelnuts, and had instead taken a shape that was narrower and perhaps more like what the lasses around him would see as attractive. Janosh missed the plates. “So it is about the wagon now, eh, not about the paint!”

“Is about you,” Janosh responded a little harsher, hissing almost as loud as the splashes of soup on the hot stone did. ”Godwin and Henry and the rest, they can do as want, is not my concern, because they are not you.”

“And you are not my father.”

The soup hissed, the wood in the fire splintered with a crack as loud as a bone breaking. The air smelled of old tapestry and wood and dust and vinegar, and a little bit of carrots and cab­bage too.

Štěpán lowered his eyes to his feet, his slim shoulders dropped so much they formed a crescent around his neck.

“You not child to me,” Janosh said, and his voice sounded distant now, as if lost in the past. “You make me think of Janosh when was young. Make me think of Adder. And Adder is dead.” Adder is dead, Žižka had said, back then at the lake, the last night before they had left for Grünfeld. When they had sat together to fish and talk and make plans for an uncertain future. We need to find our own way. Janosh had wanted to. Had tried. Had failed.

He stirred the soup again, the spoon was trembling between his fingers. “Go to others,” he whispered. “Food is soon ready.”

* * *

The sitting room of Godwin's house alone was bigger than his former accommodations in the university had been, and they had shared that room with all ten of them at times. Winning a war definitely paid well. And having a good relationship with the dean of Theology at the Karolinum, which was just on the other side of the street, and perhaps making said dean annoyed with his long-lasting presence, that too, not to mention the pre­sence of his nine loud, wine-and-blood-reeking friends. But what did it matter how Godwin had acquired this house? It was a good place to stay at, Štěpán found. Or to live in for the past half a year now. Big and warm and homely. An attic filled with beds where the others could sleep when they visited, a sitting room that offered enough tables and chairs for all of them to get together, eat, laugh, talk.

There was no talking this late April evening. Only awkward silence and the hammering of the pouring rain on the windows. But they had all busied themselves to pass both wait and si­lence, and to consider on which side in this conflict they wan­ted to stand. For Hans and Henry at least, it seemed to be the same side. Hans was sitting in front of the fireplace with a book on his lap, Henry was standing close by with crossed arms, face turned towards the cornflower shield on the wall.

For both Samuel and Mirtl as well as Žižka and Katherine, things looked different. Mirtl had not been present at the square today, but she had helped Štěpán with his costume, much to Samuel's dis­content as he had thought the whole endeavour to be entirely foolish. So they sat separated, Mirtl on a table with Kubyenka, Godwin and Žižka, playing a round of farkle in which none of them had rolled a single dice in a long time, while Samuel had joined the company of Katherine and Mag­nus.

Magnus was, other than his name suggested, anything but big. For a one-year-old he was, in fact, rather small, and so weakly built, Žižka had once jested that they “should have named him Štěpán.” Magnus was also a little shit, as Kubyenka rightfully called it. And apt to produce way too much of the same. Furthermore, he was a child that had never heard of nightly sleep, it seemed, because he did not care the slightest for the hour of the day or whether the sun or the moon was shi­ning. Magnus was always awake, always blabbering or wailing or screaming, always shit­ting.

He was also the only one talking. Or trying to, that was. The rest of the room had become unbearably silent. Lost in the events of this very morning. The protest on the Old Town square, the growing uproar amongst the crowd, and then the arrest of Kasper and Derslaw. While Štěpán, for one, was lost in a far more distant past. One that he failed to fully grasp.

He turned his head, regarded his own reflection on the rain-shrouded window pane. Like Janosh, when he was young. Like Adder. The rain dampened the torchlight appearing down on the street, made it flicker in a mismatched rhythm to the song that the men's clattering armour made. The flames were still bright enough to illuminate their coats. A dark cloth, Štěpán did not have to see the colour to know that it was red as wine, be­cause the three white towers were clearly visible. Prague city militia. The protest had made waves, like a boulder tossed into a lake, but as of now, there was nothing to fear. They did not know that they were looking to the wrong side.

The three watchmen stood under Saint Margaret's bay win­dow chapel for a while, looked up to the impressive Rotlev pa­lace that was the university, then to each other, gestured and spoke words Štěpán could not hear over the sound of the rain. They went for the Karolinum's door, found it locked. One of them pounded against the wood with his iron gauntlet, so roa­ringly loud that Kubyenka and Žižka lifted their eyes from the disregarded dice shaker, and that Magnus started to cry again. Katherine cradled the child against her breasts, held his head, sang a quiet song that reminded Štěpán all too much of the ele­gies the Polish soldiers had sung in Grünfeld. The university's door was opened, the three soldiers stormed inside without as­king any questions. They would turn every stone and book to find the culprits. And would fail. Jan Hus was not living in the Karolinum anymore, neither was the boy whose face they had only seen under a thick layer of paint and who was silently watching them unbeknownst this very moment.

The door was closed, the light of the torches swallowed. Ště­pán blinked a few times, saw his own reflection again, distorted by tilted streaks of rain. The black hair perhaps, but his eyes were brighter, and there was a defiance in them that he had carefully groomed over the past year, a look that he had never seen in Janosh's eyes, which were always filled either with kindness and jest or utter sadness, as if there was no in be­tween. And Adder? “Who was Adder?”

Hans lifted his eyes from the pages of his book. Henry, Sa­muel and Katherine turned to him in surprise. Kubyenka brought his hand down on the table and made the shaker top­ple, dice rolled over the table, one of them fell to the ground. Not a one, and not a five either.

“He was a friend of ours,” Žižka finally started in an unu­sually cold tone. “One of our pack. But you know that.”

“I do, and I know of the others too. Such as that gambler Ranyek, or the one who became a priest. You have told me plenty stories about all of them, about the Devil even. But it's different with Adder. As if none of you wants to share anything about him, even when he seems to have left a hole in this group that not even time could fill.”

“Adder's story is not ours to share, lad,” Kubyenka replied without looking up from the scattered dice. “Janosh was closest to him, closer than you can even imagine. He's the only one who should talk about him.”

“But better not to ask him,” Henry added. “He's in a bad enough mood as it is.”

“Ts.” His brother crossed his arms, leaning against the floral ornaments of a slim, but towering bookshelf. “I wonder why that is.”

“But what happened with him?” Štěpán pressed on, without paying any attention to their quarrel. “Surely you can tell me that much at least.”

The door was opened. The delicious smell of the soup floo­ded the room like the people flooded a church on Sunday mor­ning, creeping closer with every step Janosh took. He placed the pot in the middle of one of the tables, went out to get the second one. No one spoke a word. Henry and Hans and Samuel sat down silently, Katherine placed little Magnus in a cradle, before she came over to sit down with them too. The soup emitted its pleasant scent, but it only managed to make Štěpán feel sick tonight, the ten wooden spoons sticking out of the brazen pots reminded him of the heads of snakes.

Janosh sat down on the other side of the table and began to eat. Silently. The rain fell, the fire crackled. The spoons clanked against the walls of the pots and against each other, the sole of Hans's right boot hammered a swift but monotonous song into the floor boards as he nervously lifted his leg up and down, up and down. The carrots were well-cooked and sea­soned in such a way that they unfolded their full sweet taste, the meat was fat but crisp, roasted before it had been added to the soup, every spoonful was rich of pepper and nutmeg and even saffron. To Štěpán, it could have just as well all been no­thing but the plain rain water.

“They are leaving,” Mirtl said, and when Štěpán raised his head, he saw the torchlight of the Prague soldiers disappear left, down to the now empty Havel's market.

“Without arresting anybody,” Katherine breathed out. “Thank God.”

Godwin shoved the spoon into his mouth with his right hand, wiped his mouth with the left one. “I wonder, however, how long it will take them until they start looking on the other side of the street.”

They continued to eat. In silence. The drumming of the rain, the clanking of the spoons. Janosh's dark eyes were clouded. Lowered onto a piece of carrot on his spoon, averted from the faces of the others, so unlike he would normally do when he would look at them curiously, searching for their pleasure and joy over the food he had made for them. There was no joy to­night.

“Who was Adder?”

Janosh lifted his gaze. The moonlight painted the shape of raindrops to the table, to Janosh's kaftan, to his eyes.

“Who was he really?” Štěpán continued. “What was he like? I would love to know more about him. To know his story, his full story.”

“Why?”

“Curiosity.”

Janosh did not reply, did not move a muscle. The answer had not satisfied him.

Štěpán swallowed. “Because he matters so much to you. And I'd like to understand why.”

“Hm.”

“You're the only one who can tell me, aren't you? The only one who properly knew him.”

Rain and the rhythm of Hans's boot, but no clanking of the spoons anymore. Everyone had stopped eating. They only stared. At the moon and at the fire, and at Štěpán and Janosh.

Janosh stood up. Left the table, went over to the door, dis­appeared into the next room. Kubyenka shifted the dice around under the hollow palm of his hand. Katherine regarded Magnus with a worried look, as the child had started mumbling in his sleep. Henry continued to eat. He was the only one.

Štěpán already wanted to leave the table too, walk up to his room, hide under the cover of his bed and just let this horrible night drown in the past, when Janosh returned. He held a piece of parchment in one hand, quill and ink in the other, and placed it all on the table in front of Štěpán.

“Here,” Janosh said. “I will tell story. But only when you write. Write just as I say.”

“Yes.” Štěpán's voice was only a whisper against the noise of the rain. “Yes, I will.”

“And listen good so you leave no thing out. Will only tell once.”

“I will listen carefully. You can trust in me.”

“I do.” Janosh smiled. The faintest smile, before he turned his back to the table and to the others, walked over to the fire­place.

Štěpán took the quill into his hand, which was shaking with excitement, and waited. Waited, while Janosh's shoulders lifted and fell heavily under deep breaths. Waited, while his gaze had got lost somewhere in the embers of the fire.

“We need start before Adder,” Janosh finally said, and it seemed like even the rain was quieter now, was listening. “Much before. We need start with Janosh. Because story about Adder is story about Janosh. We need start in beginning, when Janosh was young. We start with Janosh Gilet.”

* * *

Janosh Gilet was five years old when his whole word fell apart.

[lizardkingeliot]

the moment i allowed myself to think "could this rockstar lestat/photographer louis fic be a multi-chapter thing tho" i doomed myself to it not only absolutely being a multi-chapter thing, but one of those multi-chapter things that starts exploding in my head to the point i need a notes doc to keep track of the vibes and the yearning and the scenes that force their way into my head while i'm just trying to live my life and do my lil tasks...

[spock-adoodledoo]

short translation of a chinese translation of chapter 49 (corresponds to "Beating the Heat" in the LN) in the GX manga because i like how they did this scene and what they added after maomao leaves the room... it feels like it hints a lot more explicitly at jinshi's secret than both the LN and the other manga, which is fun! also basen almost letting it slip before gaoshun slapped a hand over his mouth and again after their whispered conversation is extremely funny to me

edit: fantranslation got here! this post can retire <3 mangadex

[wandering-tides]

So the Purification Ritual is over... But CJG is still asleep.

Who the hell does he think he is? Sleeping Beauty?

Wake the heck up already.

What is he waiting for? True love's kiss?? tsk..

[thetomorrowshow]

visions, visage, gentile, genteel ch. 2

esh au sequel jsyk

cw: blood and violence

~

Apparently fWhip is taking more of an active villain role lately, because Scott finds himself up against the man after he, for some reason, demolishes half of a restaurant.

"Come on, fWhip, I'd expect this of Solidarity, but not you," Scott teases as he halfheartedly throws a snowball at fWhip.

The snow's melting with a temporary warming of the weather—expected for November—and Scott definitely hasn't been moping because of it. That does mean, though, that his fighting is a little less impressive while he waits for the weather to get cold again—it isn't bad by any means, but his winter fighting style is built on the assumption that there's snow and ice around him, and his summer style kind of needs warmer air or rain, so he has to jury-rig something in-between for days like this.

Which is all to say, if he misses his shots, it isn't his fault.

And he's not really trying to hurt fWhip. He's just putting on a show, right now.

fWhip dodges his snowball easily, chuckling. "We both know Solidarity is dead, don't we?" he ribs back.

Scott does kind of hate that fWhip knows so much about Solidarity's whereabouts, but there's nothing to do about it. The man promised not to reveal anything about Jimmy's identity or current living status, and Jimmy (for some odd reason) seems to like hanging out with him, so Scott can tolerate his presence in his life. fWhip had helped to rescue Jimmy, after all. Scott ought to be grateful.

Gratitude, of course, is a difficult thing to feel when the intended recipient is launching mini missiles at him.

"Do you mind?" Scott grunts, ducking out of the way of another one of them.

"Hey, you're the one who won't leave me alone!"

"You destroyed a restaurant!"

fWhip scoffs. "It was a chain restaurant, you can't tell me you care that much."

"It was a source of work for many people," argues Scott. "And food for others. You can't just destroy private property, fWhip!"

Instead of responding, fWhip launches another missile at him.

And that's when it happens.

There isn't a bang, this time. There's no big noise, no announcement of whatever surge is about to hit.

It's just that suddenly, for the first time since the deli incident three days ago, Scott is everything.

He is the icicles hanging from the wheels of every parked car in the city, the slush on the sidewalks downtown, the great melting piles of dirty snow in parking lots that freeze more firmly and spread as he becomes them. He follows the water pipes under the ground all the way along, freezing over as they go, to a townhouse where a woman with brown hair is snapping on her sunflower-themed superhero mask—

It's just the slightest bit easier to pull himself back into his body this time than it has been in the past. Maybe seeing Pearl had shocked him just enough, or maybe it was some unknown influence, or just chance, but Scott can feel his fingers again and pulls himself out of every piece of ice in the city and returns, head reeling and bile rising in his throat.

When he can get a hold of his bearings, desperately trying not to vomit, it’s not quite the same as it was moments ago.

It's snowing.

It hadn't been snowing, but now it is snowing and Scott can't quite comprehend why.

The forecast had said no chance of snow. Not for a couple more days. Scott remembers that very distinctly because he'd complained to Jimmy about it over breakfast.

There's a dark cloud directly above him in the sky, and snowflakes swirling down around, and Scott feels. . . .

So much. 

So powerful. So unnervingly powerful.

He doesn’t like it at all.

The handful of watching bystanders and the singular reporter/cameraman pair are shivering, pressing closer to each other for warmth, snowflakes settling on their shoulders and hair.

fWhip's the same way, and he glares at Scott, arms wrapped around himself to find warmth where his thin coat can't offer any.

"Dude, what was that for?" fWhip demands. "You're hurting civilians."

Is he hurting people? Scott still isn't really sure what he did, or why it's snowing, or why he feels so dizzy, but he knows that it was his own burst of power that made the air so frigid. Of course it was. How could it have been anyone else?

Scott glances around at them. The reporter gives him a shivering thumbs-up, so Scott turns back to fWhip, ready to call a bit of a break so he can take the time to reverse this.

fWhip, however, is gone.

Scott mutters a curse under his breath. His power’s got to be teleportation, then. Maybe Scott's a little full of himself, but he thinks he would've noticed superspeed. Some little breeze as he ran or something, right?

That isn't really important, though. As much as it stings to let fWhip get away, it's even worse to accidentally hurt innocents. How could he let this happen again? How is it that he can still feel so much beyond his body, his senses present and yet far away?

No time to really contemplate that now. There's people around him, and new fights to find, so Scott returns to the moment at hand to attempt to unfreeze the civilians around him.

And as he travels home that evening, Scott can feel every arm of every snowflake in the city.

-

"We've never seen anything like this from Major. He somehow created a wall of ice that was over thirty feet high, images shown here. Observers said they felt a noticeable drop in temperature and that it even started to snow. One witness said that it got so cold that frost started forming on his shoulders. When—"

Scott shuts off the TV and flops back onto the couch. The gossip magazines had been fine. He's always on the cover of some magazine or another. Everybody knows not to trust those, that they spread rumors and lies.

But the news? Channel 9? Sure, he's been a little bit out of control lately. That doesn't deserve an entire news story. He's fine.

If he closes his eyes, he can feel every bit of ice in the neighborhood.

It's too much. It’s so much that Scott can barely keep from vomiting with how dizzy he is.

Where did this even come from?

At first—was it really only a week or two ago when this started?—, the all-encompassing connection faded after a couple of minutes, leaving a lingering sense of nausea but no other ill effects. Now it lasts for hours at a time, ready to grasp his senses if he relaxes for even a second, a far-too intense amount of power to hold back forever.

This morning, Scott had frozen his tea. His toast had frosted over in his hands. His chair still has icicles hanging from it.

And he hasn't managed to find the courage to tell anyone, either. How is he supposed to be the Primary Protector if he can't even keep a hold of his own powers?

How can he be a good husb—boyfriend if he can't stop freezing things at random?

As summoned by the thought of him, a key turns in the front lock, and four little pairs of cat feets patter to the door. Despite himself, Scott can't help but smile at Elle as she trots past him, abandoning her place on the armchair.

Jimmy enters smiling, nose pink from the cold, and Scott almost completely forgets about his worries as he stares at that smile.

Even back at the beginning, when Jimmy’s eyes had been dead and his face cloudy, he was beautiful. Watching the light and life return to his face had been like watching a butterfly tear free of its chrysalis, transformed and radiant.

Radiant. That’s a good word to describe Jimmy’s smile.

He could stare at that smile every morning for the rest of his life, Scott thinks.

"I'm so gay," he says out loud.

Jimmy snorts, leading the two cats to the kitchen. "Is this news?"

Scott doesn't dignify that with a response. Instead, he pushes himself to his feet, stretches, and follows Jimmy.

"How was your day?" Scott asks, checking the clock. It's getting close to dinnertime, he ought to get started on something. Spaghetti, probably, since he left it so late. Something quick and easy, that even he can't ruin.

"Good! Real cold, you would've loved it."

Maybe. But now Scott can't help but wonder if it was so cold because of him.

Can he actually affect the weather that much? Sure, he'd made it snow that one time, but only directly above where he was.

If he was really affecting the temperature of the city, Scott assures himself, he would've seen something on the weather. As far as the meteorologists have reported, the temperatures are accurate and expected.

"Jerry sent us all home with a couple of cookies, which was nice of him! His wife made them for the office," Jimmy continues. "I asked, and they don’t have almonds, so we can both eat them." He gestures toward a little bag of six or so cookies on the table.

Scott's heart warms a little bit. Jimmy didn’t have to do that. He never has to do anything like that, but he's always been one of the most selfless people Scott knows. It's a small act, checking for one's partner's allergens, but huge in the scheme of the relationship. He can't wait to enjoy the cookies with his boyfriend.

But dinner first.

"I was thinking of making spaghetti tonight," says Scott, once again checking the time. "Unless there's something else you want?"

Jimmy shrugs from where he's bent over, feeding each cat a treat. "Whatever you want sounds good," he says, something sappy in his tone. Then, straightening and turning to Scott with a bit of a frown, he asks, "Unrelated—were you warm, babe?"

Scott blinks. He's not, not really. He happens to have a built-in cooling system and can dust his skin with frost any time he likes. And sometimes he does turn down the house temperature, but usually only in the summer. "Uh, not particularly?"

"Oh," Jimmy laughs a little. "Well, it's kind of cold in here. What's the temperature?"

It doesn't really feel cold, but Scott heads into the hall to check the house temperature at the thermostat set on the wall, if only for Jimmy’s peace of mind.

The number he sees displayed there stops him in his tracks.

42°F.

No way.

If he's—he usually has to consciously exert energy to make an entire house cold, and here he'd done it without even noticing. That's—that just isn't possible. He can tell the differences in temperature, he knows what hot and cold feel like, he knows—

Scott bashes the button a couple of times to turn it up to 70°F, checking over his shoulder to make sure that Jimmy doesn't look at the thermostat. He doesn't want to worry him. He doesn't want Jimmy to think something's wrong, when nothing's wrong, everything's fine and normal.

"You're right, it was pretty chilly," he calls back to the kitchen. "I set it for seventy, so don't worry about it."

Scott's going to worry about it, though.

The entire house. He brought the entire house nearly down to freezing temperatures. No wonder Elle and Norman were cuddling like they rarely do.

Scott doesn't know what's wrong. Of course, nothing's wrong. This is just a slight hiccup. Nothing bad is happening.

And suddenly, it gets very intense very fast.

One moment he's there, staring stubbornly at the thermostat, telling himself that he’s in control and he needs to shape up—and the next he's all the way across the city, creeping up windows and the sides of houses and freezing water in gutters and he feels free, he feels everything, he feels like he's going to vomit—

And then there's a shout, and arms around his incorporeal waist, and it's only Scott's instinct that gives him the ability to toss up ice around himself without even seeing through his own eyes.

He's still so far away, crawling into the coffee of a worker in an office building, blowing through a vent in a high school classroom open for robotics club, curling around the ankles of pedestrians as they trudge through the slush on the sidewalk, all at once and so much more.

It's not like looking through a kaleidoscope, it's like being a kaleidoscope, spinning and fractured and put-together in new ways and new places, and Scott is remade thousands of times before he finally finds a metaphorical rock in this river that has swept him away.

That rock is a tiny bit of frost curling around the fingers of his lover, who holds Scott's unmoving body under a dome of ice.

He needs to get back to Jimmy.

Scott drags his way back to himself, expending almost a physical effort, clawing and scraping through time and space and many swirling seas of ice until he can finally see through his own eyes.

He gasps in a breath and chokes almost immediately, dust filling his lungs. His mouth and throat are dry and chalky, and he can't hold back a coughing fit even as something heavy hits his back several times and helps eject the dust from his throat.

When Scott can breathe again, tears streaming from his eyes, he pulls his aching body (he can feel his body, every part of it, cold and tired and nauseating and his head hurts) to his knees and blinks over at Jimmy.

Jimmy's fearful eyes peer out at him from a face white with dust, more of it powdering his hair and in almost a splash across his chest. He looks shaken, but otherwise unharmed.

"Are you okay?" Jimmy asks desperately, trembling hands finding their way to Scott's face.

Scott swallows dust, then croaks, "Yeah, I think. You?"

Jimmy nods, hands still tenderly cupped around Scott's face. One grimy thumb wipes away a tear. "Yeah. Good thinking with the ice."

Scott glances around, sees the strong little igloo that he's thrown around them.

And he's not entirely sure why.

"What happened?"

"The wall collapsed," Jimmy says shortly, dropping Scott's face to dig into his jeans pocket. "It's not good. This is why I always carry a mask—you never know when it might come in handy—"

A mask?

Scott barely even has time to process what Jimmy's saying before a mask is being snapped over his eyes, the elastic pulling funny around his hair.

Why would he need a mask? If the wall collapsed—

"Was that not . . . you?" he asks, gesturing out. It's something that would have happened years ago, before Jimmy got control of his powers. Maybe something went wrong, maybe Jimmy felt the burst of power that went through Scott (and if he releases his tight focus just the tiniest bit, he'll be swept away again into that river of power) and as a result, his own powers kicked in and the wall fell in.

The wall of their house, their things, Elle—Norman—

"It was something more than me," says Jimmy grimly. "And there's someone else here. Get ready to fight."

Isn't that nice?

So Scott dusts himself off a bit, flexes his toes (no shoes for a battle is just asking for trouble), and lets the ice melt away.

For a wild moment, he thinks that he somehow ended up outside.

Then he realizes that he’s still in the house—the front of the house is just gone.

Hanging out of their gutted house is his and Jimmy's bed, half of their shower, and their entire sofa. Books are spread across the day-old snow from where their shelf had collapsed, and their front door is lying on the doormat, the yard a mess of drywall rubble.

Almost poetically, a snowflake lands on Scott's nose. That hadn't been on the weather radar this morning.

He stands, slowly, head spinning, and takes a step off the splintered wood floor and into the yard, snow soaking his socks. He takes another step, then another, until he can see around the side of the tree in their front yard.

There's no one there. Nothing moves. The only sound is his gasping breaths.

And, like an idiot, he starts to let his guard down. He thinks maybe Jimmy was mistaken, that he had destroyed it by accident and hadn't realized.

So Scott lets his fists lower, lets his eyes turn back to the house, looking for any sign of his cats.

A shadow passes over him, followed by the sound of something rippling through the air, and Scott whirls back around.

He's just in time to see a woman land on the ground behind him.

He isn't in time to block her punch.

Her fist glances off his face—he manages to turn his head just enough that it won't be lights out but his vision does spark as pain explodes across his face—and Scott stumbles back, tripping over his own heels until he hits the ground.

For a moment, he can feel everything—and when he tries to quickly pull away from it, he pulls some of it back with him.

The light flakes of snow that have been floating down increase. The sky above begins to darken. Ice crackles down Scott's arms, coating them in the best protection he can create.

Scott pulls himself to his feet, reeling at the nausea that comes from using even a tiny bit of the power that the city has to offer. He's not sure he can do much more than defend himself right now, so ill-accustomed to trying to harness whatever this is. But he steadies himself and looks up at his attacker, properly taking her in for the first time.

She has goggles like fWhip's instead of a normal mask pulled over her eyes, her thin face framed with long, blond hair. She's tall, as tall as Scott is, and she stands more confidently than most minor villains. Her costume is somewhat uncommon for what Scott usually sees—she's dressed like a cosplayer, old-fashioned puffy shirt and breeches with tall, leather boots. Definitely not suited for the weather, but she doesn't seem to even notice it, her leather-wrapped knuckles not even shaking despite it certainly being below freezing.

Scott's never seen her before in his life.

"Major," she growls, as if he's her worst enemy.

"Who are you?" Scott gasps.

Instead of answering, she takes another swing. This one Scott manages to dodge, leaning back far enough that he barely feels the wind as it passes.

She goes for another hit (which she again misses) before rocking back on her heels and pulling from the holster around her waist that Scott has only just noticed—a gun.

A fascinating gun, one with showy gears and mechanisms that Scott only knows about because a snowflake flutters its way inside the weapon (and he sees and feels and is that snowflake), but a gun nonetheless and Scott is very much not bulletproof.

And he knows, through the little specks of frost growing on the gun, that she pulls the trigger, setting off a series of chain reactions inside the workings.

He reaches for a wall of ice—

There's a scream, to his right—Scott's head whips in that direction—a teenager has stepped out of the house next door, phone pressed to their ear as they watch the battle—

And then something hits Scott hard in the arm and he's knocked back from the force of it, stumbling backward through the snow until his foot slips and he crashes, flat on his back.

There's more screaming, and a very loud noise, and Scott looks around as if in slow motion and gets pulled beyond his body once again.

The man across the street, peering fearfully through his window as frost spreads across the glass. The teenager practically screaming for help on the emergency line as a flurry of snowflakes land in their hair. A family, hiding in their van instead of getting out and into the house, their tires icing over. A young man who had been out for a walk with his dog just staring down the street, where a familiar superhero (though in street clothes) is lying on the ground, the snow around him slowly turning red.

 And then, like whiplash, Scott is forced back into his body.

And it hurts.

"Did I get shot?" he hears himself mumble, and before he even has time to process his own words he looks down at his arm to see an awful lot of blood seeping out of his bicep. That can't be good.

The pain really amps up, then. It’s all Scott can do to not scream as more and more blood stains the snow, bathing his arm in red.

He needs to get up, needs to keep all those watching people safe, but just thinking about moving his arm makes him want to throw up. It hurts, and badly, a burning hole in his upper left arm and every breath is a gasp that tears at his throat and every movement sends pain jangling down his entire body.

The woman is standing above him. Blurrily, Scott sees her gun pointed right at his head.

"What's going on?" she demands, the words coming as if from underwater. "What has happened to us?"

Scott blinks. What's going on? He doesn't know what’s going on. All he knows is that he's feeling kind of dizzy and his arm hurts and everything smells like blood.

He blinks again, and Jimmy's there, appearing upside-down above his head. He looks pretty from this angle.

"I'll kill you," Jimmy probably says. Whatever he says is low and threatening, and defending Scott. That's nice of him.

And he probably does something. All Scott sees is that the sky gets very very dark, and a roaring sound fills his ears, and the snow gets thrown about and the grass gets torn out of the ground with the force of the wind.

And then he blinks, and the storm is dying down, and Jimmy's kneeling beside him—

Scott screams and everything comes into clarity, and a Jimmy made of a sharp edges is twisting a shirt around Scott's arm right where it hurts the worst—his world is on fire and he can't even think, it's so so so bad—

"Breathe, Scott!" Jimmy commands, cutting harshly through the echo in his ears. Scott sucks in a breath without thinking. It's cold and burns his lungs, but it feels good after screaming.

"An ambulance is coming," Jimmy tells him, clearly and carefully. He looks blurry suddenly, going in and out of focus. "I can’t come with you, but you’ll be okay. Keep your mask on, okay?"

Scott stares at him.

"Cool," Jimmy says, patting Scott's hip. "I'm going to call Lizzie to come here and look for Norman and Elle, so don't worry about that. Did you put your wallet on the bedside table?"

He usually puts his wallet there. Scott nods, then gasps when the movement of his neck pulls at his arm in some way that he didn't think was possible. It hurts. Why does it hurt so much? Surely . . . surely he's had worse. Surely a little . . . a little gunshot wound is nothing.

"Right," mutters Jimmy. He looks away, calling out to someone Scott can't see. "Hey, you! Go in the house through there, okay? Look for a thin wallet on the bedside table and bring it here."

Then he turns back to Scott, and for some strange reason, starts rubbing his hand.

The one attached to his arm. His arm that hurts.

Scott grits his teeth and tries not to scream.

He's been shot. He's been shot, and he needs to man up and deal with it. He's been through . . . like, way worse, after all. Not long ago, he broke his arm and got a concussion at the same time. He ought to at least be better put together than he was then.

Scott struggles to sit up, feels his stomach and head turn at the same time. He pushes through it—he has to get up, he has to help Jimmy fight the woman—but a hand firmly pushes him back down.

"Do not sit up," Jimmy instructs. "You're injured. Hear those sirens? They're coming for you, big man."

Now that Scott thinks about it, he can hear sirens. They probably aren't that important, though, so he focuses on Jimmy, Jimmy and his chattering teeth and his red hands and his concerned eyes.

"Are you cold?" he thinks he asks. Maybe he doesn't say anything, though, because Jimmy doesn’t reply, instead turning away.

Then he blinks again, and someone who is not Jimmy leans over him.

"Where's—" not Jimmy, don't say Jimmy, secret identities and all that— "Where's Solidarity?"

The woman frowns. "Major? We're taking you to the hospital. Do you remember what happened?"

"Where's Solidarity?" Scott asks again, as clearly as he can. He just wants his boyfriend here with him, is that too much to ask?

The woman's face grows serious, but she doesn't say anything else to him. She backs up, making room for some other people who lay a stretcher beside him.

And then there's a lot of pain as people move him and settle him and lift him, and Scott is horribly conscious of all of it, from the ground to the ambulance bed, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from crying out.

He wants Jimmy. Why isn’t Jimmy here?

He feels so dizzy, though. So very dizzy, and sick—and someone’s snapping in his face, telling him to keep his eyes open, but his eyes are open, he’s deliberately holding them as wide as he can despite the blackness fuzzing over his vision.

He should be okay to take a little nap, though. That should be fine.

Maybe, when he wakes up, Jimmy will be there.