#fist fighting him at the back of a dennys

[zerogutzz]

I need Sol in a way that I cannot explain to any you. not because its explicit but because there's so much that I would need to lay down for you to even begin understanding. qwille when I get you qwille

[glorious-spoon]

a miserable pile of secrets [9-1-1 | Eddie Diaz & Hen Wilson | 1/1]

1.8K words | friendship | emotional hurt/comfort | implied/referenced cheating

a miserable pile of secrets [on AO3]

She finds Eddie up on the rooftop, which makes sense, given that Buck is currently working out his feelings on the heavy bag after Bobby finally snapped at the two of them to get their acts together unless they wanted to be benched. Chim's down in the weight room with him, which means that Hen is up here in the warm night air to talk some sense into the other half of their codependent little unit, who is currently perched on one of the folding chairs that they usually leave up here. He's as still as a statue, tense like he's afraid of what his body might do if he lets it move.

"Hey," Hen says, and he gives a jerky little nod of acknowledgement. "Mind if I sit?"

"Go ahead."

"Thanks." She pulls out one of the other chairs and sits down. "So."

"Bobby sent you."

"I sent myself," she corrects mildly, and watches Eddie's shoulders hunch a little. "I don't think I've ever seen you and Buck fight like that."

Though the truth is, she really only caught the tail end of it. Buck's frustrated voice rising on, "Do you hear yourself? How did you think this was going to work out? Have you even thought about Chris? What, you were just going to introduce him to her like—"

"Chris? Since when is how I parent my son any of your business?"

"I don't know, Eddie, you kind of made it my business when you put me in your fucking will!"

"Yeah, well, maybe that was a mistake!"

There was ringing silence in the wake of that. Then Buck said something quieter, inaudible from where Hen and Chim were standing frozen outside the locker room door, and Eddie spat, "Go to hell. I'm done talking about this."

The door slammed open and he stormed out, only pausing for a moment when he saw the two of them standing there. It wasn't until he'd already stomped up the stairs to the loft that Buck emerged, scowling.

"I don't want to talk about it," he snapped, before either of them could speak.

That was six hours ago. Neither of them has said a single word to each other since outside of the bare minimum on calls. The tension in the back of the truck has been thick enough to cut with a knife, and none of Chim's increasingly desperate jokes has done a damn thing to lighten the mood.

Hen doesn't blame Bobby for being fed up with the pair of them. She's caught somewhere between that and worry, herself. This isn't like them. Either of them.

Eddie shrugs again, tense. "I don't really feel like talking about it."

"Mm." 

Hen kicks her legs out, relaxes into the chair and waits him out. It doesn't take long. Maybe two minutes before he lets out an angry little huff and says, "Marisol dumped me this morning."

"Oh," Hen says. That explains some of the mood, anyway. "Well, I'm sorry to—"

"I cheated on her. She found out."

She closes her mouth. For a moment she just looks at him: his tight jaw, his hands in fists on his thighs, so tense he looks like he's about to snap. Like looking through a warped mirror to a younger version of herself, and maybe that's why she manages some gentleness when she says, "That doesn't sound like you."

"Yeah. That's what Buck said. Shows what he knows."

"Why'd you do it?"

"It doesn't matter. It was stupid. I fucked up."

"If you're waiting on me to tell you otherwise, you'll be waiting a while." Eddie lets out a sharp, bitter little bark of laughter, and Hen adds. "I've been there, you know."

"Yeah. But it's not—Karen forgave you."

"Eventually, yeah. She didn't have to."

"Yeah," Eddie says, and then doesn't say anything else. 

"Is that what you and Buck were fighting about?"

He shrugs again. Like talking to a damn teenager, Hen thinks. Not Denny, with his easy sweetness, but like one of the other kids who come through their home sometimes on temporary placements: already on the defensive, claws out, ready to fight. 

"I guess," he mutters finally.

"You put him in your will?" Eddie scowls at her, and she shrugs. "Hey, if you want it to be a secret, maybe don't have your domestics at the top of your lungs in the locker room we all use."

He scoffs, clearly annoyed, but doesn't get up and storm off, so she's counting that as a win. Finally, he says, "Yeah. He's down as Chris's legal guardian if something happens to me. Since—uh, since I almost died in that well collapse a few years back."

Oh. Hen contemplates that for a moment, squares it up in her head with what she already knows about Eddie. It's not, she'll admit, completely out of left field. But still. "And you think maybe that was a mistake?"

Eddie groans, dropping his head back. "I shouldn't have said that. I didn't mean it."

"Maybe you should tell Buck that."

"He's pissed at me."

"Seems mutual."

"Yeah," Eddie says, wry and still kind of irritated. But then he sighs. "You ever do something where you know the whole time you're doing it that it's going to blow up in your face, and somehow that still doesn't stop you?"

"Yep," Hen says, remembering a dark little motel room and the sharp cut of Eva's smile. A whole damn pile of fuck-ups, that relationship was, and she dragged it along with her to almost ruin the best thing in her life.

"I keep thinking I see Shannon. It's like she's just around the corner, like if I turn around fast enough, she'll be there, and I'll be able to go back and make it right. But I can't."

"No. You can't."

"It's been five fucking years."

"No timeline on grief."

"I went on a date with a woman just because she looked like her." Hen raises her eyebrows at him. He slouches lower in his seat. "A couple of dates. It—didn't end well."

"Mm. You mean because she turned out to be a whole damn person who wasn't Shannon, or because your girlfriend found out?"

"Both," Eddie mutters. "Believe me, I already heard it from Buck."

"Oh, I believe it."

"But he's—" Eddie snaps his mouth shut.

"Kind of a hypocrite on this particular subject?" Hen offers.

"That's not what I was going to say. He's with Tommy now. So."

"So?"

"Never mind. It doesn't matter."

Hen would dearly love to interrogate that line of thinking, but she keeps her mouth shut. For a little while, they don't speak. It's a transient kind of peace; their next call could come at any minute. But for now, the city's as quiet as it ever is, lit up and beautiful in the distance.

Eventually, Eddie shifts in his chair, straightens up like he's bracing for something, then says, abruptly, "Can I ask you a personal question?"

Hen raises her eyebrows. "Go ahead."

"Have you ever been with a guy?"

"Excuse me?"

"Forget it," he says quickly, hunching in on himself again. "I don't even know why I asked. You can tell me to go to hell."

She almost does tell him to go to hell. Has her mouth open and everything. But then she takes another good look at his face and lets the words dissipate. 

"No," she says finally. "Kissed a couple of boys in high school, but I pretty much always knew it wasn't for me."

"Oh." Eddie's mouth twists. He's still staring a hole in the concrete by his feet, and Hen wishes like hell that this was easier for him, that he could have stumbled into it with wide eyes and open arms without leaving a trail of wreckage in his wake. Buck managed it, but it's not like that for everyone. She knows that.

"Karen was engaged to a man, you know," she says, and she watches him still, watches him turn, finally, to look at her. 

"I didn't know that."

"It was a long time ago. College sweetheart. She called it off a week before the wedding. Broke his damn heart, from what I hear. Probably better in the long run, though, all things considered."

Eddie laughs at that, a raw, horrible little sound. "I was a bad husband to Shannon. I loved her so much, and I still could never—and I always thought that maybe, if we'd just had more time, maybe I could have gotten it right, and we could have been a family again, and it would have been okay."

"But she died."

"She asked me for a divorce."

"Oh." Hen takes a breath, lets it out. Careful, careful. "I didn't know that."

"Nobody knows that. I mean. Bobby does. But nobody else. Because she died two days later, so I never had to—to tell anyone. I never had to admit it. I could keep pretending. But it doesn't even matter, because I've also fucked up every relationship I've been in since. So it's kind of obvious where the problem is."

"Mm. You know what my mama used to say?"

Eddie cuts her a look. "What?"

"Get down from that cross, we need the wood."

When he laughs this time, it sounds a little more real. Hen nudges her knee against his, and for a minute they sit there together in silence.

"I fucked up," he says again, but it's calmer.

"Yep."

"What the hell do I say to Buck?"

Not Marisol, Hen notes. Though the truth is she's pretty sure that whole relationship was dead and gone long before whatever went down this morning. Maybe from the very beginning. Eddie's just got a bad habit of dragging those corpses around. "Sorry might be a good start."

"He's gonna ask why. I don't have a good answer. I can't—" He looks over at her, and all Hen can think is that he looks so damn young. "I can't."

"So tell him that. You know he's not gonna push it."

"Yeah, he will."

"He's worried about you."

Eddie scoffs. "Yeah."

That was, Hen surmises what the fight was about in the first place. Unstoppable force, immovable object. Sometimes she wishes she could just knock their stubborn heads together until they showed some sense.

"He loves you," she says, and Eddie flinches.

"I know that," he mutters.

Hen sighs. "Just talk to him. You don't have to tell him anything you're not ready to tell him, but just—talk to him. Okay? For all our sakes."

"Yeah, okay," Eddie says, sounding defeated. "Sorry about that."

"We'll survive," Hen says. She bumps her knee against his again, and they sit there together in silence, watching the city lights, until the bell starts going off below.

[streamafterlaughter]

Safe

masterlist | nav

summary: a night out with your friends turns sour, but you’re rescued by an unexpected hero

A/N: i wrote a chapter based on this post for my main fic, but feel a desperate need to write it again putting more detail into it bc i love a fictional man covered in blood idk what to tell you!!! let me know if you want a part II, im feeling a miniverse comin’ on (dw, chapter 23 of FD is in the works, i promise!) reblogs and comments always appreciated!

tags/tw: friends to lovers, mentions of sexual harassment, blood, violence (eddie gets in a fight), swearing, slut shaming, confessions, drunkish!eddie. (lmk if i missed something!) fluff, angst, slight hurt/comfort. reader and eddie are about 22-23, out of high school, happy etc etc. best friend!robin and best friend!steve feature, of course.

—

Your friendship had been simple, at first. You and Eddie had met as kids, before boys had cooties and girls were lame. Eddie had been cornered on the playground, by some giants in the grade above you. They'd shoved him against the chain link fence, their greasy leader demanding he hand over his lunch money. When Eddie blubbered that he didn’t have any, that he hadn’t eaten lunch in weeks, the goons cackled at him, shoving him to the ground while calling him things like “trailer trash.” You couldn’t stand it, even at eleven years old. The poor kid, with hair buzzed closely to his scalp, dressed in all black, carrying around a battered notebook with doodles of dragons on its cover. Your face had warmed with anger, hands balled into fists ready to swing on the group that would outnumber you five to two, or five to one if you were being realistic. This kid clearly wasn’t a fighter.

“Hey!” You had shouted, stomping your worn out converse against the mulch of the playground. “What the hell are you doing, Jared?” You hadn’t been afraid to get in the kid’s face, brows furrowed together as you jabbed your tiny finger into his puffed out chest. “What’s he ever done to you, huh? I don’t think it’s his fault your mother left.” You know now, it wasn’t the nicest thing to say, but it had worked. Jared’s goons had gone silent, anticipating his retort, but all he’d done was cry. What a bitch.

When he’d run, tail tucked between his legs, you’d turned to the cowering boy behind you, offering your hand. “You okay?”

He’d nodded, clearly still shaken up but trying to be brave. “I can take care of myself.” Of course, it had been embarrassing. Not because you were a girl, or younger than him, but you were braver. You didn’t give a shit what people thought of you. Even then, he could tell. You were fucking cool.

”Yeah, sure looked like it. Whatever. I’m Y/n.” You held out your hand to him again, this time to shake, like you were a seasoned lawyer, or something.

“Eddie.” He’d taken your hand, given it a brief shake, but you could tell he was nervous by the way your palm stuck to his.

”Hi, Eddie. You wanna walk to Benny’s with me? Get some burgers?”

He’d shaken his head. “I don’t have money.”

You’d only shrugged. “I got it.” You didn’t think mentioning that Benny was your uncle, or that you and your friends could always eat free, was worth mentioning. From that day on, you and Eddie had been inseparable.

—

The Hideout is loud. You’re wrapped around your best friend’s arm as he leads you through the bar. It’s the only time you’ve seen this place busy, let alone filled with people that don’t qualify for a discount at Denny’s.

The crowd must be the fault of the band. They're full of life on the tiny stage in the back of the bar, somehow convincing patrons to take to the sticky wooden floor to dance.

“You wanna drink, sweets?” You hear him even over the loud music, like a siren call meant only for you.

“Yes, please!” You look up at Eddie, who’s already staring at you. His rich brown eyes sparkle in the dancing stage lights, and you find your tongue in knots at the sight of him.

He nods, sliding his jacket from your shoulders before seating you at a table. “I’ll be right back!” He promises before skipping off to the bar. You keep your eyes trained on him, hypnotized by the way he glided towards the bar, weaving between the mass of gyrating bodies.

You can’t exactly pinpoint when your feelings for him started changing. You assume it had to have been high school. He started growing his hair out, dressing in leather and denim, and listening to a lot of heavy metal. Something about it was attractive to you, watching your best friend become the man he is now, at twenty three years old.

Even with an exterior most find scary, Eddie is still the kindest soul you know. That’s what really pulled you in. He’s always treated you with kindness and care, never once letting you leave his house angry, and knowing just what to say to calm you down. He always makes sure you’re home safe after a night drinking, sometimes even willing to forfeit his own fun to drive you to your place, or crash at his trailer.

Of course, these feelings have stayed stuffed deep, deep down. You can’t bring yourself to ruin what you have with him, risking your closest friendship to maybe be told what you want to hear.

“Hey! You still in there?” Eddie waves his decorated hand a few inches from your face, and you’re dragged back to earth. He places your drink on the table in front of you.

“Yeah, sorry.”

“Penny for your thoughts?” He rests his chin on his knuckles, full attention on you, and you feel your face warm.

“Just happy to be out with you is all.” Not a lie, but not exactly the truth. Safe.

“Alright.” He’s never been one to pry. “You wanna dance?” The song has changed to something slower, and you try not to read into his timing as you nod your head cautiously, taking Eddie’s hand as he leads you to the floor.

Eddie places his hands on either of your hips, and you can’t help but stiffen. “This alright?” He must have felt it too.

“Yes, yeah,” You stumble to reassure him, nervous you’ll scare him off. He’s always been such a gentleman, so careful with you.

You drape your arms around his neck loosely, casually. Safely. Still just two friends, swaying to some angst ridden tune you can’t understand the words to.

—

It’s later when Steve and Robin arrive, already drunk from spending the night at a concert in the city. You’re still not down for the count, and Eddie’s nursing his sixth drink of the night as the music has switched from guitar driven to computer beats coming from a turntable.

“Since when does The Hideout hire DJs?” Robin shouts over the bass driven music, eyes squinting in the bright lights.

“Ever since the place sold to some big wig in Indy, they’ve been doing this shit on weekends!” Eddie informs her as Steve starts talking about how “this is actually a great business tactic.” You decide now is a good time to slip back to the bar for a refill.

Unfortunately, you are one of about fifty people to have that idea, and you groan as you fight to find an open space along the counter. You mumble “excuse me” after “sorry” after “move, please!” until you’ve almost reached the front. As you’re about to order, you feel a hand squeeze your ass.

You whip your head around, and come face to face with a large, muscular man in a tight t-shirt and even tighter jeans.

“Hey, baby,” He winks, the disgusting smirk on his face sending a chill through your body. “You here all by yourself, gorgeous?” Your throat tightens. This is what it’s like, you know that. You shouldn’t be by yourself, that was your mistake. Your throat tightens, impossibly dry, before looking back up at this man. He is seemingly a foot and a half taller than you, likely able to break you in half using only his bicep, and he’s is standing way too close. You can even smell the whiskey on his tongue. “Uh, well,”

“Cmon, let’s go dance, huh?” He interrupts, snatching your wrist with an iron grip, and you squeeze your eyes shut as he leads you towards the dance floor, already formulating an escape route. You’ll say you need to use the bathroom, then you’ll find your friends and leave. Easy enough, right? Unfortunately as you reach the dance floor, the song slows again and you find yourself flush against this beast of a man, his big arms caging you into his chest. You feel the tears start to well in your eyes, blurring your already obscured vision. Your heart drops into your stomach when you realize you are completely, fully, and hopelessly trapped.

—

“Sooo,” Robin turns to Eddie, who’s been staring across into space, daydreaming about you for the last five minutes. “Where’s your girl?”

“What?” He’d heard her, but he wants to hear it again. And again and again.

“Your baby, dingus! You’re one true-“

“Would you shut up?” He interrupts her slurring of teasing, aching jabs, feeling his face heat up with every syllable. “She’s not my- y’know, she’s not mine.”

“Oh, please!” Steve snorts, causing Eddie to whip his head to look at him. “We all know she’s yours, and you’re hers, and all that romantic bullshit, okay? No use trying to squirm out of it. Be grateful you got that much. We all know she loves you.”

He rolls his eyes, but his heart is skipping with each word. He wants to believe them, desperately. He can’t bring himself to have those hopes, though, not about you. He’d only disappoint you, or scare you off when he got too close. It’s better, keeping you at a distance. Safer.

“Is that… No,” Robin looks beyond Eddie, and he turns to follow her gaze. He finds you easily, the only figure he’d recognize in such a loud, multicolored environment. You’re squished against a boulder of a man as you sway to the music, but he can’t see your face. Eddie feels his heart catch in his throat as he turns back to his friends.

“See? I told you she’s not mine.” He clears his throat when he hears his own voice crack. Not fucking now.

“Who is that guy?” Steve asks, craning his neck to get a better view.

“Probably just some club sleaze, she’s probably not even having fun.” Robin shrugs. Her comment clicks in Eddie’s brain before it clicks in her own, though.

“I gotta go.” He shoves himself from the table.

“Should I go with him?”

Robin shrugs. “That dude is gigantic. Maybe watch his back.”

—

“Hey, um,” The song has ended, and you need to get the fuck out of here. “I’ll be right back, I gotta use the ladies’ room,” You peel yourself away from him, but he grabs your arm before you can.

“Nuh uh, you can use the bathroom at my place. C’mon.” There will be no talking yourself out of this. Usually you can confuse a man into leaving you alone, but this guy’s different. You can sense the danger, the complete lack of empathy, like it’s a scent he’s giving off. You have to make a scene.

You twist your arm, writhing to get out of his grip, when you feel the cooling rings of a familiar hand on your shoulder. “Hey, sweetheart,” Eddie’s voice is low, so this man/monster can’t hear him. “I’m gonna get you out of here. Hang on.” He moves in front of you, between you and the giant causing him to drop your arm. There’s an angry red ring of his lasting grip around your wrist. “You gotta problem, buddy?” The guy puffs his chest out at Eddie, like some weird, animalistic instinct to seem bigger. Like he needs that advantage.

“Yeah, I do. Why were your hands on my girl?”

You try not to think about the words too much. Despite the situation though, you feel your heart skip. Steve joins him beside you, placing his hand on your other shoulder protectively.

“Your girl, huh? Well your girl’s a fuckin’ slut then, she’s been dancing with me for the last ten minutes.”

“What the fuck did you just call her, you prick?”

“You heard me bitch boy, she’s a slut! And I like my girls dirty.” Before Eddie can respond, the guy swings his arm into Eddie’s unsuspecting face as you watch, frozen and helpless. Your hands fly to your mouth to muffle the shriek, but you catch the attention of some nearby patrons.

Eddie doesn’t go down, though. The adrenaline keeps him on his feet. “Oh, we’re doin’ this now?” Eddie smirks as he wipes the blood from his split lip. “Cmon, I know you got more in ya than that. You’re massive!” Eddie taunts him before launching at the guy, managing to double him over with a punch to the gut. “You’ll have to do more than that if you want her, big guy. I’ll lay down my fuckin’ life in this bar for that woman.”

The crowd has now turned their attention to where Eddie’s got the brute in a headlock. He gets one more punch in before his opponent breaks out of his grasp, sending his elbow straight into Eddie’s nose. “Oh, ho, ho,” Eddie cackles maniacally as he lifts away from the counter, blood now dripping from his nostrils into his mouth, staining his skin and his shirt. “Look at you, tough guy.” He spits a mouthful of blood onto the bar floor. “Real big of you beatin’ on someone a quarter your size.”

Before anyone else can make a move, the bouncers are rushing up behind them, escorting both men out the front entrance while you follow behind with Steve and Robin. It takes six guys to move the giant, leaving Eddie to comply with the disgruntled manager. You watch as your adversary curses at Eddie before walking into the night, disappearing before anyone could think to call the cops.

“Oh my god, what the fuck?!” Robin is laughing nervously as she looks between you and Eddie, then to Steve with that annoying, know-it-all glint in her eyes.

“Eddie, he could have fuckin’ killed you!” Steve, ever the babysitter, scolds his friend with an elbow to his ribs, causing Eddie to wince in pain.

“Yeah, maybe, but if it meant keeping her safe-,” He cuts himself off as he meets your teary eyes. “Oh, no. Sweets, what’s wrong?”

You shake your head, barely able to look at the bloody boy in front of you. He’s hurt because of you. You were supposed to keep him safe.

“I’m so sorry, Eddie.” You whisper, afraid your voice will betray you for speaking at full volume. “You shouldn’t have done that, I shouldn’t have let you.” The tears are warm on your cheeks when they spill, and as quickly as they do, you have six arms wrapped around you.

—

“Get some rest, we’ll see you guys tomorrow.” You shut the cab door behind you before following Eddie into his trailer. You don’t want to be alone tonight, and Eddie has graciously offered a sleepover at his place.

“How’s your face?” You ask, already on your way to the freezer for an ice pack.

“I’m fine, honey, I promise.” His voice says otherwise, low and scratchy from a night of straining it. “How are you doing, though?”

It’s a loaded question. How are you supposed to feel, watching your best friend risk his life for you? You’re grateful, sure, but the guilt eats at you still. “I’m just so, so sorry Eddie,” You carefully lift your hand to caress his swollen cheek. “You really didn't have to do that.”

“What was I supposed to do? Let him hurt you? I couldn’t live with myself.” He shakes his head, wincing in pain. “I meant what I said. I’d risk my life to keep you safe.”

You shake your head, not accepting his answer. “Why?” It’s meek, barely a whisper as you blot the remaining blood from his lip.

“What do you mean why?” His words are muffled by the tissue.

You huff, getting upset despite yourself. “You’re telling me you’d put yourself in danger if it meant keeping me out of it? What’s the point? Why do that to yourself because I’m too stupid to make the right decisions? What do you gain from that?”

He shakes his head, clearly frustrated. “Do I have to gain something from it? I do it because I love you, y/n. Simple as that.” You gape at him, and he rolls his eyes, the beginning of a smirk twitching on his face. “Do I have to spell it out for you?”

“It would be helpful, yes.” You’re just about begging now, the nervous sweat causing your shirt to stick to you.

“Sweets, I accepted that I would die for you a long fuckin’ time ago. If it meant keeping you happy, I would tie myself to the train tracks. Or, in this case, let some fucker twice my size beat the living shit out of me.”

You can’t accept it, logically. Your brain won’t let you believe any of his claims. “But I don’t-“

“No.” His voice is stern, almost scolding. “No more of that ‘I don’t deserve you’ shit. Okay? Absolutely not. Because you do. You saved my life all those years ago, and I promised myself I’d make sure to protect yours, too. You are my best friend, and the absolute love of my life, so I’m gonna give you everything I’ve got.” He laces his fingers with yours, and you watch as his rings catch the light.

“It’s okay if you don’t feel that way about me, I’ll never ask you for that, it wouldn’t be fair. But I can’t stand by when you’re in trouble, it’s not what I do.”

Your heart is fighting to free itself from your ribcage. It wants to jump from your skin, straight into Eddie’s open palms. Though the ever present coward in you wishes to curl up inside yourself and hide from him, everything else in your body is being pulled towards him, compelled as if by nature.

Before you even notice you’re crying again, Eddie wraps himself around your shaking frame, rubbing soothing patterns on your back as you sob, open mouthed and ugly, into his t-shirt. “It’s okay, sweetheart. I’m right here.” He coos, and you focus on his breathing, matching the pace to calm the stutter of your cries.

You claw at his jacket, inhaling his scent of cigarettes and pine soap. You need him closer. He tightens his grip on you, and you look up to face him. His own cheeks are wet with tears, his eyes screwed shut trying to stifle the bite of the wracking sobs you know the strength of well. This is the only chance you’re getting, so you move with calculation. Despite the anxious pounding of your heart, and everything in your head telling you that he’s not yours and never could be, you crane your neck to reach Eddie’s split and swollen lips, squeezing your eyes shut as you place your mouth on his, ever so gently.

Before Eddie can react, you’re gone, face inches away from him as his eyes flutter open. “Whoa. Uh, w-what… what are you doing?” He sputters, face now bright red, and you feel your own cheeks blush.

“I’m- I am so sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed… ” You cover your mouth with your hand to hide the shame, feeling the fire in your stomach. You have just ruined years of friendship, and for one stupid kiss! But Eddie’s beaming, and he’s still gripping you close to him. “I've just wanted to do that for so long.” You admit shyly, shifting against his grip, ready to retreat, but he holds you tighter.

“Can you do it again?” His voice is more confident now. You’re not sure you’ve heard him correctly, but when you look at him, it’s undeniable.

You mirror his smile, nodding before leaning into him again. He makes the connection, taking the lead as your body contorts around his, lips locking together as he holds you flush against him. His lips are so soft, and he’s so gentle with you, even though you can tell he’s eager, like maybe he’s also wanted to do this for a while. The thought causes you to smile against his lips, and you feel his own lips stretch against yours as your hands move from his shoulders to his hair.

One of his hands moves from your waist to caress your face, holding your jaw like a precious pearl he’s discovered after years at sea. Your tears fall freely now, ones of overwhelming love for Eddie, ones you never could have hoped to shed, content letting them simmer in the pit of your throat if it meant keeping your best friend. You’re breathless when he lets you go, fighting the urge to chase after his lips. After almost a decade of wondering what Eddie would taste like, what kissing him would feel like, now you get to know. “I have been in love with you since that day on the playground,” He confesses, tightening his arms around your waist to keep you close. “But I’m such a chicken shit, I didn’t wanna ruin anything. You were so sweet to me, I couldn’t risk losing that, losing you.” The words seem to spill from him now, like he’s been craving to tell you. You suppose he has.

You take in the sight of your best friend, battered and bruised for the sake of your honor, like a knight thrown into battle without armor. He’s beautiful, even in black and blue. You bring your hand to his cheek, rubbing small circles on his skin as he leans into your touch. You could stay here forever, you think. “I love you too, Eds. I have for as long as I can remember.” He smiles at you, lip splitting again but he doesn’t even flinch. You return the grin, feeling your cheeks ache from how wide you’ve stretched your mouth. “Thank you for keeping me safe.” You kiss him again, letting yourself taste the blood he’d spilled for you, a silent promise that you’ll make sure he never has to again.

-

taglist @children-of-the-grave :p

[teriri-sayes]

Reactions to Cale Snow's Chapter 234

TL;DR - Baby snake goes with Cale and Raon. Eruhaben roleplays as Dennis's knight. Kendall and Rasheel's fight continues. Clopeh is planning a sneak attack while in hiding with Lock.

Raon and the Baby Snake The scene between the two today were so cute. 🥰

Snake: *snuggles to Cale* Cale: Aren't you going? Aren't you going to return to your mommy? Snake: …I don't wanna go. *rubs face to Cale's cheek* Raon: *clenching fists and huffing and puffing as if he didn't know what to do* Cale: *sighs and feels confused on how to deal with the jealous dragon and the stubborn snake* Cale: Your mommy is sick. Is it okay to not be with her? Snake: Seeing her is hard and heartbreaking... Raon: *flinches* Raon: Human, let's just go together! Didn't you say that we will meet that white snake's mommy later anyway? The snake can meet its mommy then! Snake: ... You're a good dragon? Raon: I'm a wonderful dragon! A very great dragon! Snake: ...A cool dragon? Raon: Yes! Snake: ...A great dragon? Raon: Yes, a very great dragon! Cale: *amazed at how quickly they got along* Eru: *laughing*

Knight Eruhaben Our goldie-gramps is back to his roleplaying. He's pretending to be a swordmaster again, and King Dennis's knight. The reason is because the nobles who sided with the empire have begun to move.

Duke Tols was the leader of the faction opposing the king, and was famous for worshipping the Holy Empire. However, he was the best mage out of the only 3 mages of the Har Kingdom.

And this duke had requested an audience with the king. Dennis and Eruhaben guessed that the Holy Empire had noticed that something was wrong, so they quickly moved Duke Tols to "inquire/investigate" the situation.

Indomitable Rasheel Most of the chapter focused on Rasheel's fight. Sure, he was being beaten by Kendall, but he did not give up. Rather, he was embarrassed at the thought of being seen in this state by Lock or Gashan.

And when Kendall remarked that Rasheel was alone, Rasheel could only find that remark funny. Because it was true. The dragons of Nameless 1 lived alone and had no one by their side, so Rasheel did not feel that this remark was an insult.

He realized that the forces on this world was not on his side, and Kendall's attribute of victory also contributed to his current situation. But it was the perfect situation for his attribute, Indomitable, to shine. Our tsundere dragon did not give up and was slowly becoming stronger.

However, there was one thing Rasheel was wrong. Clopeh did not escape. Rather, Clopeh was hiding together with Lock, waiting for a chance to launch a sneak attack against Kendall. And poor Lock was troubled, having recalled the advice of Raon to be careful of Clopeh who had a few loose screws on his head. 😂

Ending Remarks Today had a lot of funny and warm moments. Raon's interaction with the baby snake was cute and heartwarming. 🥰 Rasheel's fight made me cheer for him, and Clopeh... 🤣🤣🤣 I wonder, will Cale arrive just in time to intervene in the fight? Will Rasheel turn the situation around? And will Clopeh's plan for a sneak attack be successful? I guess we'll all find out the answers next Friday!

[the-lisechen]

~6.7k. gen. copia/f!oc. the cardinal has a cigarette with a fan. from there, it gets a little weird. (or: copia gets into a fist fight at 3am in a denny's parking lot over theology. metaphorically speaking.)

header by the divine @enjoy-my-swearing

(the fic that started it all and has eaten my brain ever since. don't mind me, i just wanted to reformat this one and also have it on my tumblr for posterity)

some kind of cosmic rearrangement - ao3

(full series here)

religious discussion, catholic character that isn't an asshole, unresolved sexual tension. tw: catholicism

Copia stepped out into the night, face paint mostly cleaned off, save for the black around his eyes. He couldn't even remember the name of the town they were in. Somewhere in the American South, the air warm and heavy with humidity that felt like silk against his skin. He settled his shoulders against the brick of the alleyway, and sighed, his blood still fizzing from the ritual. The comedown from the adrenaline dump always left him a little hollowed out and shaky.

As he passed a hand over his face, the car in front of him trilled out like a bird and flashed its lights. He turned to the sound of boots up the wet pavement. A small figure, female, dishwater blonde hair, head down, hands stuffed into black skinny jeans. Humming something he could recognize as one of his songs, and that never got old.

He watched her approach, curious. When she at last stepped into the light, she looked up at him, and startled like a deer. Her hands flew up to her mouth, and she squeaked out a breathless “Oh shit!” It took her a moment to recover, and my, wasn't that an interesting shade of pink. He’d seen people blush, of course, but this was remarkable, that red, that quickly.

He had to smile, even bowing a little. “Bunoasera, signora."

"Um! Hi! You are very good at your job!"

Her purse plopped next to her feet, and she knelt down to recollect it, the blush deepening to the color of late spring roses. "Sorry, I'm sorry--" she said, hands shaking as she scooped spilled detritus back into her purse, pens and lip balm spilling from her fingers.

He bent over to help her, smiling. "It is no trouble, signora. Not the worst I've seen." He paused, sitting back on his heels, and picked up a battered paperback the color of burnt orange. "'The Liberation of Theology.'" He looked up at her, mismatched eyes sharp, assessing. "This is what you read? At my show?"

The girl-- woman, really-- went still. She got to her feet and took half a step back, widening her stance, her shoulders squared. "Yeah." She tilted her chin up. "Is it really that strange?"

He flipped it to read the back cover, and her spine relaxed a fraction, with his focus off of her. "Perhaps... somewhat unexpected." An understatement. He stood, slow, putting himself further into her personal space, eyes still on the text in his hand. He read the subtitle. "'An instrument in human liberation.' Has it been?" He looked down at her, not exactly trying to loom, but not exactly going out of his way not to. "In your experience."

The woman folded her arms, leaning back against her car. Keeping her distance. "It can be. It should be." She flipped her keyring, once. "And in my experience? Yes, actually. But I am fully aware my experience may be-- atypical."

"In what way?"

"Well." She looked up, exposing the long pale line of her throat, and her Southern accent became gradually more apparent as she spoke. "I converted to Catholicism. Not really from anything, you understand, unless you count the vaguely agnostic Protestant background noise in America. And I did my catechism classes with a Capuchin Franciscan. A lot of mysticism. And a lot of social action to offset the navel-gazing that comes with that. The culture was-- it's different. I mean, how much do you know about liberation theology?"

"For the purposes of this conversation?" He idly tapped her book against his thigh. "Let us say... not much."

"In simple terms: feed the hungry, clothe the naked. Like the guy said in the book, right? It's both defending the poor and taking aim at the structural issues that are actively oppressing people. Real basic."

"You need a God to tell you this?"

He saw her warming to the subject, eyes alight and not quite on his. "Of course not, but it's a useful framework. And some people do! Whatever provides incentive. Besides that, it works on a practical level, if the Church is your primary social apparatus, that's a structure in place to distribute resources if the state is failing. I mean, the Jesuit approach in South America is not quite the same as the Black church in the Civil Rights movement in the USA in the Sixties, but it's not too far off, either. It's like--" and she cut herself off, the blush coming back, eyes cast downward. "It's just what's supposed to happen. What it says on the tin."

He ruffled the pages with a gloved hand a few times, watching her. "Incentive." He gestured at her with the book, halfway to accusatory. "If someone is doing something in expectation of divine reward, then they are, I'm afraid, an asshole."

"Man, I truly do not care about the motive. I care about the effect it has on the world. But faith without works is dead."

"You believe this."

"Yeah."

"You are this passionate about it, and yet you came to see me. My songs are nothing but blasphemy. Why?"

"Look, as blasphemy goes-- and I'm not trying to denigrate anything you're doing here-- this is just not that big a deal."

He stared at her. "I am literally praising the devil. Literal songs about, literally, devil worship."

"Yeah, and it slaps. Can I have my book back?"

He held it out carefully, as if it was a chunk of meat and she was a strange animal. One that might bite. "What is it, then, that qualifies as blasphemy? In your opinion."

She took it, opened the backseat door to her car, and tossed it in, careful not to turn her back on him. "I dunno. Start with that 'prosperity gospel' bullshit. 'If you're rich, it's because Jesus wants you to be rich!' Joel Osteen can bite the fucking curb. It's lazy exegesis, is what it is." Again, he saw her restrain herself, and she ran a hand through her hair, embarrassed. "I can go on. Obviously. But I think if you're getting bent out of shape about this kind of thing, you need to reassess your priorities."

"No, this is-- at least amusing. You haven't chased us out with torches and pitchforks yet, so I will continue to assume good faith." He smiled. "So to speak."

"Trust me, I am leaving a lot of stuff out." She fished around in her purse, picked out a brilliantly blue pack of cigarettes, and tapped them rhythmically on the heel of her hand. "So what's your deal? I don't know a lot about theistic Satanism. Pop the hood on it, man, tell me how it works."

"In simple terms?"

"Sure." She cracked a smile, thumbing a cigarette out of the pack.

"We honor the serpent that brought knowledge to Eve, as a liberator from the oppression of the corrupted demiurge that you call God."

"The snake, this was one of those gnostic things, right? That was, what, the Ophites? I thought they found it at Nag Hammadi."

"Fragments. References. But we have had the Syntagma for centuries. This was Hippolytus, yes? We borrowed a few things from Marcion of Sinope, as well. From those texts, and other pieces of what you would call apocrypha, we solidified a doctrine. Eventually. These things take time, no? Remind me, when did your people decide on the canon?"

"Council of Rome. I wanna say three..." she tapped the unlit cigarette, "...eighty seven? Somewhere in there. Fourth century, anyway."

"Just so. As a, you'd say-- distinct movement, yes? I would say sometime around the twelfth century that we came together."

"Hold on, twelfth century, evil demiurge-- what was this, like a splinter of the Cathars?"

"Not unrelated. When it came to that kind of dualism, we merely decided to side with the physical world."

"By running straight to the devil."

"Eh. No half measures."

"I'm just kinda surprised it got traction in that environment."

"Mostly on the-- margins, you would say? We had solidified the clerical structure some time before, modeled on the Catholic church. Camouflage, yes? But it was with the obvious corruption of the fourteenth century that we started to gain momentum. Acolytes. A whisper network of proselytization."

"That is neat. Like, what, a Dark Reformation kind of thing?"

"...That is, perhaps, somewhat reductive. But not inaccurate."

"Oh that is so cool. It's like finding a whole new life form in the Marianas Trench. No, I can see a kind of sense to it. Get far enough away from Rome, look as close as you can to the actual Church, you might get away with it."

"They did burn us. Your people did do that."

"I am sure that they did," she said, with a certain blithe amicability. "Burnt a lot of Cathars, too, makes sense. Sir-- Father-- I'm sorry. What is the title?"

"Cardinal."

A blink, barely perceptible. "Cardinal, then. Your Eminence, if you want me to stand here and apologize for every atrocity the Church committed, we're gonna be here all night, and it'll get boring quick. And, forgive me, at what point have I attached a moral judgment over your faith?"

He spread his hands, smiling a little. "Very well, I concede the point. You can understand if I am somewhat-- defensive."

"Yeah, of course." She grinned, mostly to herself. "And here I am, a good Catholic girl. Everything you rail against."

"Eh. It could be worse. You could be a Baptist."

She let out a laugh at that, an entirely inelegant sound, and Copia felt as if he'd won something.

"Oh. No. No, I couldn't. Too diffuse. A million different opinions going every which way. I'm also not into sola fide--"

"'By faith alone.'"

"Yeah. Not my bag. If it doesn't inspire you to help your fellow human beings and not just focus on your own salvation, it's probably bullshit." Finally she put the cigarette she'd been fidgeting with into her mouth. "Man. Cathars and gnostics." The woman brought out a burnished zippo and flipped the lid, a faintly musical sound. She didn't light her cigarette, but shot him a sidelong look, eyes alight. "Sounds more like heresy than outright blasphemy."

"Oh, now I'm offended." He was not, in fact, offended. He was fascinated. He wanted to study her under a microscope. "Certainly, that's the first time I've heard that. Maybe I should send you to talk to the-- ehh, how is it? The protestors. What do you call, the evangelicals, yes?"

"They don't like Catholics, either. The veneration of Mary, y'know? Idolatry." Finally she sparked the lighter, her face turning to alabaster in the light of the flame. "We're both going to hell in their lights. Just different neighborhoods." She bent her head to the light. A long drag on the cigarette, exhaling a plume of smoke upwards. "So no, I don't think going to a concert counts as a sin. There's just some songs I can't sing along to, is all."

Copia leaned back against the wall, arms folded, considering her. "You know that your Church would call this blasphemy. What is it, then, that you think I'm doing, if not spreading the word of Satan?"

A long drag of her cigarette. "Sick tunes, man," she said, around the smoke. Shrugged. "It's fun. And fun is underrated, as a concept."

"Signora, I don't think 'fun' is what brought you here." He leveled her with his mismatched stare, and she dropped her eyes.

"No," she said, studying the cherry on her cigarette. "No, fun would not be enough."

He took a step closer, not quite edging into her personal space. "What, then? What could possibly bring you to deny your programming, when you clearly believe with such conviction?"

The back of her shoulders hit the top of her car, but she tilted her head up at him in challenge. "Call it joy, then." A defiant kind of vulnerability. "That's what I hear in your songs. And that's a rarer thing."

"What a monstrous thing, to deny joy. To yourself, to others. That sounds to me like blasphemy. What abnegation of the self. We are not hurting anyone. I am not hurting anyone. Why not do as you like?"

"'An it harm none, do as thou wilt.'"

"Precisely."

"Isn't that, what, Louÿs by way of Crowley? Nineteenth century. I thought your stuff was older than that."

"That is beside the point and you know it. Answer me."

"Because that's where it falls apart for me! To begin and end with 'do no harm' does not work. You cannot always do exactly as you like, you have an obligation in society! Feed the hungry. 'Do what you want, whatever,' that's too passive. And being passive in the face of oppression is oppression! Come on, man, you must know this. You're too smart not to know this."

"I'm sorry, you want to talk about oppression? With the literal Catholic Church? With the colonialism and the forced conversion and the actual literal Inquisition? Even laying that aside, the harm it's doing now, how can you still stay with it?"

"Because that's not all it is! Not all it could be. Because it can be just, it can be equitable, and it can be used as a tool for liberation. I believe that, I do. And if if I'm in it-- and oh boy you would not believe how much I'm in it-- then I have a moral obligation to try to shape it towards those ends. Because those people--" she flung a hand out, gesturing towards what, he couldn't say, and he took a step back. "Those bullshit assholes that want to strip people of healthcare and gut the social safety net-- they're in my house! And they don't get to fucking win."

"You must see that this is about control. You are too smart not to know this."

The woman slumped back against her car, and took another long drag on her cigarette, before dropping it and crushing it under her boot, an oddly fussy swiveling motion. "I dunno, man. For me it's about service. You just don't fix something by walking away. And anyway I'm committed."

"I think you are tilting at windmills." He watched her, the last tendrils of cigarette smoke from her exhale the same blue-grey of her eyes, letting the silence linger until the smoke cleared entirely. "What is your name?"

She flicked her eyes back up at him, and then away, coming to a decision. "Sophia Turner." She bit her lip. "Sophie."

"Sophie. That's lovely."

"Thank you. And what do I call you? Feels a little weird, saying 'Your Eminence' to a guy whose faith you don't subscribe to."

He tilted his head in the faintest approximation of a bow, biting back a smile. "Copia."

"Well. I am delighted to make your acquaintance." Her accent more pronounced with the formality, a distinctly Southern drawl.

"You say you're committed. How? You don't have to stay anywhere forever."

"Oh. Oh boy. Um." She looked down at her hands, picked at the edge of a painted nail, and then turned to him, watching his mismatched eyes for a long moment. She smiled, a little rueful. "I am taking my vows in a few months." And to his blank look-- "The Maryknoll Sisters of St. Dominic." He blinked, recoiled a little, and she flinched, turning to look down the street, not seeing the rain on the asphalt, the streetlight shining on the fire escape. "I still don't think it's a sin. But it's-- maybe a little harder to square. After that. Wanted to see you while I could."

Her face composed. No-color hair hanging in grey eyes. He wanted to reach out, to brush it away, to see her clear, to make her look at him. A gulf between them, on the narrow sidewalk. Something twisted in his chest, at the waste of it, the thought of a fire like that locked in a cloister. And yet: "I could never fault someone for devotion to their faith. The discipline is admirable. Truly. But I would-- Are you allowed? To fraternize with the enemy?"

"Well. Maybe in the spirit of friendly ecumenical dialogue." She looked up at the streetlights, shoulders tensed. She chewed at her lip. "We are allowed to have friends, you know."

He had to drop his gaze, at that, a sharp inhalation. "Ah." And again: "Ah. Hm." He looked back up at her, at the tense muscle in her jaw, her face still resolutely turned away from him. "I wonder--?"

She darted a quick look at him, not quite daring to look at him full-on, yet, and made a motion for him to continue.

He had to smile, even if it was with a little trepidation. "Do you have another cigarette?"

That rough bark of a laugh again, and yes, it felt like a victory. "Yeah. Yeah, man, sure." She pulled out the cigarette pack and extracted one, holding it out with the slightest self-deprecating hint of ceremony. He took it between his gloved fingers, careful not to touch her. When he put it to his lips she leaned in to light it in a movement that seemed both courtly and instinctual, an ingrained habit. He couldn't quite look at her when she did it, shocked by the casual intimacy of the gesture. The warmth of the flame through his gloves, the first rough hit of smoke at the back of his throat and the head-swimming nicotine rush. An awful taste, and completely satisfying. He closed his eyes at it and drew in deep, amazed all over again at how much tension dissipated on the exhale.

When the initial wave of the nicotine high had passed, the fatigue settled in, and he tilted his head back against the bricks, eyes still closed, too tired to be on guard. "Where are we? I confess, I lost track."

"...Asheville, honey." A pause."D'jeet yet?"

Well, that certainly got him to look at her. "I'm sorry?"

"Oh, that was very pronounced, wasn't it? My apologies. Have you eaten?"

His brain felt like static. It was all the answer she needed. "What I figured. C'mon, I know a spot."

"I should--" He stopped, inexplicably stricken. "We're leaving in the morning. I don't remember where's next. Charleston, perhaps?"

"I'll have you home before bedtime, scout's honor." He hesitated. Gently: "I don't have designs on your virtue, Cardinal."

He was tired, and sore, and his head was starting to hurt somewhere behind his right eye. He could feel the dried sweat on himself, like a film, absolutely revolting.

"Alright," he said.

She led and he followed, falling into step at her left elbow, almost without thought. "This is the South, yes? We won't-- we might attract. Attention."

"Mm. I might would worry about it somewhere wasn't Asheville. Here'd probably be fine."

"That seems to be an awful lot of weight to put on 'probably.'"

"More worried about someone from your show running into us and losing their minds, be honest with you."

"As in, dropping their purse and squealing?" Was he enjoying this? He was.

"Oh you think you're funny. And I did not squeal."

"Heh. It was a little bit of a squeal."

"Ain't gonna argue the point with you."

The nicotine felt wonderful. He grinned up at the streetlight filtering through a magnolia tree, the orange light reflecting on the leaves, the faint citrus scent hanging in the thick air. He couldn't restrain himself. "You are not, I hope, leading me into temptation?"

"Oh, foul! Foul. Get thee behind me."

"Equally terrible, signora."

They lapsed into silence for a while. Copia came to the last quarter inch of his cigarette, pinching off one more drag before dropping it down a storm drain. The smell would linger, but it had been blissful in the moment. "So."

"So."

"Where are you taking me?"

"Barbecue joint, open all night. Just up here, actually. You had barbecue yet?"

"I have not."

"You in for a treat, then."

They rounded the corner, heading into the jaundiced sodium light of a patchy parking lot, under a flickering red neon sign. 'Little Pigs Genuine Pit BBQ.' It seemed somehow ominous, but the set of her shoulders reassured him. Somewhat. She pushed open the door with its small jangling bell to red vinyl booths, formica tabletops, wood paneling. Vinegar and roasting meat.

He could feel the eyes on them as she ordered for them both, in a dialect so thick it was almost incomprehensible to him. He stepped closer to murmur, "Coffee for me, please, signora," while he surveilled the crowd. Not outright hostile, had seen stranger things, maybe, but a collective flicker of curiosity before sliding off of them. That flat and unsympathetic gaze. Her accent helped. His obvious manners did as well. Still, he was on edge.

He stayed on edge until he slid into a booth opposite her with his back to the wall, and even then it only let up slightly, a background hum to go along with the labored air conditioning. The barbecue was very nearly worth it, salt and sweet and vinegar and umami, along with the blunt force animal pleasure at hot food after a long time without. He looked up at her, making an inarticulate noise of shocked delight through the sandwich, and she nodded in eager agreement with her mouth full. Swallowed. "I know, right?"

"You cannot convert me."

"Okay. Wasn't trying."

"If you could, this might do it."

"Welcome to the South. It's got problems, but there are compensations."

"So I see."

They lost themselves in the food for a little while, and Copia, a usually fastidious man, found that it was actually impossible to eat a barbecue sandwich neatly. After a while he gave up trying, grateful for the strange softness of American paper napkins. It made sense, if the food was like this. He eyed her iced tea, wondering about it, if that was also an American custom, or if it only applied to the region.

She caught him looking after half a second, and passed it over with barely an eyeblink of thought, the most natural thing in the world.

"Oh, and you've lost me. This is an obscene amount of sugar."

"They do call it 'sweet tea' for a reason."

"Are you sure that this isn't just colored sugar water?"

"Reasonably so. Might be accentual, brings out the depth of flavor, like. Least it isn't corn syrup."

"This is a nightmare dystopia you live in."

"Could be. Try one of them hush puppies, then you get back to me."

"Mm." Then, after following instructions, "I will concede on the food."

"Yeah. There's nowhere and nothing that's bad all the way through."

"Perhaps." He took another sip of her tea, pleased at her sputter of mock-indignation. "This brings me to where it falls apart for me. An omnipotent, omniscient, omnipresent, omnibenevolent God."

"That is the doctrine."

"Why, then, evil? Why suffering?"

"We going with theodicy, then?"

He motioned for her to continue, a little gleeful.

"Which answer would you like, from the, oh, four-five thousand years that this has been a question?" She tossed the rolled-up sleeve of her straw in his general direction, smiling. "Why you coming at me with this shit, man?"

"Ehh. I want to know what you think. You, not your Church."

She nodded, and poked at the ice in her tea with her straw while she gave the question the consideration it was due. Finally: "I like Simone Weil for this. You read any Simone Weil?"

"Let us say that I haven't."

"Okay." The vinyl booth squeaked as she leaned back. "This isn't necessarily unique to her, it's got a lot of similarities with-- a Jewish creation story, yeah? But creation is where God withdrew. If God is everything, for creation to exist, there has to be places where God is not. If there's places that God is not, then almost by definition they are not, inherently, holy. It's apophatic, unknowable, like John of the Cross or Kierkegaard or what have you-- I'm getting into the weeds here. Evil is the form which God's mercy takes in the world. Affliction-- she's got a specific term for this, she's talking about spiritual affliction more than physical affliction-- doesn't create human misery, so much as reveals it. And it drives us towards God."

"That sounds, if you will pardon me, fucking horrific. The act of a sadist."

"I don't know that I'm explaining this well. We are created matter, and with affliction we are consumed by God. In the Incarnation, God suffers affliction, is made matter, and consumed by us. It's reciprocal. And if you can go through affliction and still love, and recognize your fellow human being as someone else who has suffered like you, then your duty is to help."

"No, still terrible."

"How do your people explain it, then?"

"By not having an omnipotent deity, to start."

"...I walked right into that one. I surely did. Evil demiurge, again?"

"All about control," he replied, amiable.

"Fair enough. I'm not a Jesuit, I could maybe get at this better if I was. My whole thing with it is, there's a difference between affliction-- which is personal-- and, say, generalized oppression, right? The personal makes you more empathetic with the collective."

"I can see the logic there, yes. I do not know if I agree, but I can see it. But do you truly need to suffer to sympathize with another's suffering?"

She turned her glass around in her hands, focusing hard on the ridged plastic edges. "I'unno. Some things you don't understand till you've been through them. Difference between empathy and sympathy, I guess."

"This is, what. You say, 'the personal is political?'"

She cracked a grin at that. "Oh, you done a lot of reading on second-wave feminism, then?"

"Condescending and uncalled for," he said, wagging a finger at her, mock-stern.

She held up a hand. "Fair point, apologies."

"Te absolvo."

"Thank you." She turned her glass in her hands, trailing through the condensation with a chipped fingernail. "My point being. For me. Affliction leads to empathy, and empathy leads you to act. What's the quote. 'Misery as a collective fact expresses itself as an injustice that cries to the heavens.' That's Oscar Romero, I think? Yeah. Oscar Romero. Anyway the thing he gets at-- Saint Oscar Romero, excuse me, did a lot of stuff in El Salvador in the the seventies, but the idea being: turning people into commodities for economic oppression, that's sin. The idolatry of wealth, of 'national security systems,' that's sin. Divine love should be mediated through justice. Gloria dei vivens homo--"

"'The glory of God is the living person.'"

"Yeah, exactly. Romero was on some-- gloria dei vivens pauper, which I think is probably about right."

"'The glory of God is in the poor.' Hm. And how well did that work out for him?"

"Well. They shot the guy during Mass in nineteen eighty."

"A martyr's death. Isn't that what your people aspire to?"

"Not me, man. I wanna live. But yes, he did lean in hard after his friend was killed. That was an inciting incident. I won't deny it."

"So, what, it is acceptable for one death, if it spurs on 'the greater good?'" He made air quotes at her, and she frowned.

"Not gonna debate the very concept of martyrdom with you, but I'm gonna say no, of course not. But like. Me personally? Rather that than have it go to waste. Some right wing fascist chucklefuck takes me out, I'd sure hope my people'd leverage it for all it's worth."

He sat back and tipped his coffee at her. "Bleak."

"Maybe. We each owe a death. And I mean, despite the guy being beatified, he isn't even necessarily the main dude in Latin America. None of these are exactly new concepts, you understand. But as a modern movement, really, it starts in nineteen sixty-eight, with the Medellín conference in Colombia, kind of as a response to Vatican Two, and from there--" she stopped herself, and raised her glass of tea at him in mock-salute. "Minutiae. The point, and I think I'm cribbing from Ernesto Cardenal here, is that while God is love, love can only exist in accordance with equality and justice."

He tilted his head, raising his eyebrows in total skepticism. "I can only say that this has been-- the opposite of my experience. To put it in the most, eh, diplomatic terms possible."

"The Church has done horrible, fucked up things. Continues to do horrible fucked up things. In a space that big, though, there are always going to be practices that are inherently contradictory. This one is mine. And I have the benefit of being fucking right."

"You do see, don't you, how that-- attitude? Mentality, yes? Is dangerous. Even you! Even if I happen to think that you're right. Which I actually do. The benefit of Satanism, I find, is that we do have room for differences. It is, you would say, I think, built in? There is no wrong way to approach. You find your own way. Nobody will lead you, nobody will control you."

"And how far has that kind of rugged individualism progressed the reduction of human suffering?" she snapped.

"At least it doesn't perpetuate it!" he shot back.

They glared at each other over the formica, not quite snarling, equally frustrated.

The diner had gone quiet. Blank suntanned faces, the lone clink of a spoon in a coffee cup, the somehow awful bubbling of the deep fryer. A lot of people, for one in the morning, he thought. They looked at each other in mutual alarm for one tensed breath, and went for their wallets at the same time.

"No," he said, firm, fishing past Euros for American dollars. "You are taking a vow of poverty and I am an actual rockstar." He shot a stern glance at her opened mouth and felt a stab of immense satisfaction when she shut it, apparently- miraculously, even- chastised. He threw down enough to cover the bill and the tip and reached to drag her out, stopping short of actually touching her elbow at the last moment. "Come."

She went.

They escaped with the perversely jaunty ring of the bell over the door into the thick warmth of the night, and she brayed a laugh again, not quite on the edge of hysterics.

"Go, go, this could get ugly." But he was laughing, too. Madness. He'd seen these exact sort of people outside of a venue, enraged, faces red, carrying hateful picket signs. One small woman and one man frankly built like a noodle could be in real danger. Still, their laughter echoed down the gravel-lined drive they had ducked into, their boots crunching in a staccato rhythm in the stones. This was far too much adrenaline for one night, he thought.

While they slowed to a walk, he watched the fireflies darting upwards in the undergrowth, the ascending dashes of yellow-green light seeming fantastical to him, otherworldly. You heard of great masses of them, in America, but in such quantity it was like seeing a fairytale with your own eyes. They thinned out as the landscape started to shift, from residential suburbs to side streets.

"This was-- good. It was good, to get out. To talk. A lot of this, it is, ehh." He waved a hand in the general direction they were moving, to the venue, the concert, the tour. "Movement. Instinct. There is, by definition, no quiet. And that is fantastic, I enjoy it, I love what I do, I am fortunate in that. But it is not often that I get to speak about these things." The thud of their boots, and the high monotonous drone of a cicada somewhere off in the distance, blending with the faraway hiss of a car on the damp streets. "Thank you," he said, soft. "For this."

Her eyes forward, mouth closed tight. It took her a few steps before she spoke. "You are very welcome." She cleared her throat. "And I appreciate the outside perspective."

"Interesting thing, is it not? Having a vocation."

"Being called. Yes."

"What I do not understand-- and I do not wish to, as you said, litigate the very idea of martyrdom, of course--"

"Of course. That's above my pay grade anyhow."

"But the denial inherent in your practice. The self-denial. It seems to me a, hm. Turning away from joy. You say your God is love, very well. This is removed from my experience with Christians, but I do understand that it should be the intent. To claim that divinity is love and then to willingly cut yourself off from the experience of love seems to me contradictory. Not merely the physical, although that alone seems hideous. Some people of course are not interested, but this cannot be true of all your monsastics, your clergy, your unmarried."

"This is also an old question."

"You cannot tell me it is not vital. Few people are physically martyred, and I can see the value there, even if I think it grotesque. But this seems to me a martyrdom, and willing. And pointless. Everyone should be loved, yes? Is that not your very doctrine?"

"It is, but there's different kinds of love--"

"You are dissembling. Do me the courtesy, Miss Turner, of your honesty."

Copia heard her sharp intake of breath. He had stung her, and he very nearly regretted it.

"Discourtesy wasn't my aim, Cardinal. It's an old question, and people struggle. It's maybe the struggle, for most people, the stumbling block. How can I answer you? It's kind of a personal question, y'know?"

"I can see how it would be. I do not wish to intrude, but come now. What, you offer your suffering up to God? What kind of God would ask you to give up love in the very name of love? It's monstrous!"

"The standard answer is that one becomes the bride of Christ. My thinking is, in turning away from the singular, you're better able to focus on the collective. To focus, to pay attention. And attention in its highest form is prayer."

"You deny yourself. In denial, you turn away knowledge. You said this yourself, how can you understand suffering if you have not suffered? You should know joy, or else how can you understand joy? You should be free to do that, to be in the world, and the world is here! You are here, and while you are here you should be here fully. You should allow yourself to be loved!"

He had actually raised his voice, and his words hung in the thick air, almost suspended with the humidity. He couldn't take it back, and he fell silent, mortified. They had fallen to a stop.

"It's discipline," she said, helpless. She couldn't look at him, and he had to look away at her expression.

"In any case." He cleared his throat, and resumed walking. "Discipline I understand. There is discipline in my practice, you know."

"I can see that. Dedication, certainly. Seems like the whole world's against you. The dominant social climate is not accommodating to being that outspoken about, well, anything to do with sincere belief, really, but especially in your case."

"No. And in this situation, it is easy to-- tend to isolate. To stay in one's own community. Safer. Especially in a hostile environment. Anger is easy, you would say."

"Don't I know it. You do have to live in the world. I think you and I both have cause to be angry. Hell, we're probably angry at a lot of the same things. Coming at it from opposite directions, is all."

"The hypocrisy is galling," he agreed. "If I am a monster in the eyes of these people, let me be an honest monster. They feed their children poison and tell them it is virtue, to hate, to fear, I do not--" he cut himself off, blew out a laugh. "We are angry about the same things. The work is the same. We are both called to liberate, yes?"

"Yeah, I would allow that's fairly definitional."

"Here, you take that side, I will take this one, and we will meet in the middle and cast off all oppression," he said, grandly, sweeping out an arm as if he were back on stage. He echoed her smile on pure reflex.

"And all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well."

"Julian of Norwich. An anchoress." Something in the concept, and in the simultaneous hope and resignation in her face, pierced his heart all the way through. She was remote, and lost to him, a marble statue of a saint. The nature of his ministry was to encourage pleasure, of mind and of body, and he did want to break her out of the cell she'd walled herself off into. Perhaps merely for his own satisfaction, when freedom was the whole of his law. Even her freedom to walk into her own cage. "Not so much to be consoled as to console," he said, halfway to himself, watching her.

"Francis of Assisi. But I think you knew that."

"I did."

"You are something else, aren't you?" She looked at him, pleased and reassessing. He felt seen, almost entire.

It was not an entirely comfortable feeling. "Ah," he said. "Perhaps."

He recognized, now, the alleyway they had walked down, the venue shuttered for the night. The only lights inside were deep in the back, distant. Likely everything had been packed away, or near enough. Likely the ghouls were wondering where he was. And she was small, and faith alone would not protect her.

It was too much for him. "It is very late. And I do not know if-- do you have a place to stay? This is not, I think, your home."

"I don't and it's not." She waved him off. "Was planning on just sleeping in the car. The seats fold down, I got a pillow, it's fine."

"I don't like it."

"Ain't about what you like." She dropped her head. "I apologize, that was rude."

"No, it is only--." He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. "I do have a hotel room."

"No." It seemed reflexive. But he could see the split second flash of her face cracking open with sheer want. Watched her snatch her composure together just as quick, even as the afterimage lingered in his brain like the echo of a lightning strike. "No, I-- I do not think that would be a good idea."

"There is a couch, even. I could take the couch."

"Copia." Oh, and it was costing her. Painful to watch. That wretched self denial. "Please." A brittle little laugh, accent creeping back in as she forced herself to sound brighter. "I seen you bounce around that stage, you gonna need a mattress."

"Nothing you do not wish, Miss Turner. Never that," he said, as gently as he could. A breath of silence strung out in the thick air, the space of a heartbeat. "Anyways." He considered his position, took a breath, and made the leap. "It would be good to-- I would like to continue this argument. You have some time, no? Before you are-- fully committed. Come to Charleston. My guest. In the spirit of, eh, ecumenical dialogue."

That got a smile out of her. "I'll think about it."

"Please. Do."

"I will. I will think about it."

"In that case." He straightened his spine by three degrees, took the smallest step forward, and picked up her hand in both of his. Even though the gloves it made something catch behind his sternum, the stutter of some cog in engineering. He bowed over it as deeply as he ever had on stage, registered the barest breath of the smell of her, leather and nicotine and something like amber, a clean animal scent. It was only an instant, and he straightened with some regret. "I have enjoyed your company, Sophie."

"I--. Yes. Yeah. Me too." She squeezed his hand, once. "Very much. Be well, Cardinal." And then she slipped away.

He watched her carefully measured walk to her car, head held up with the dignity of the condemned. She opened her door and looked back for the space of one brief inhalation. Orpheus, he thought, nonsensically. He stared at her taillights, the red glow like eyes, the dragon's breath curl of exhaust, long after it had faded into the wide restless night.

It was another twenty minutes before one of the ghouls dragged him back inside.

[reincrimination]

so, have you flirted with everyone in this bar yet?

9-1-1 | eddie diaz x evan buckley

content warnings: hurt no comfort, anger issues

collection: buddie week 2021 (reposted sept. '24)

read on archive of our own

Buck nods, then takes a long sip of his drink. It’s ice cold and soothes the burn in his stomach, but doesn’t stop the icy rage that is still flowing through his bones. He wants to sock Eddie in the face- he wouldn’t, ever, in a million years- but he wants to see if Eddie is capable of feeling anything, anymore. Maybe he would hit Buck back, and then again, and again, and again, until all his anger is gone and they can be something other than this ever again. No fists fly. Buck nods, unconvincingly. “Thanks.” “I’ve got your back,” Eddie mutters. Is it sour in his mouth? Buck feels it in the back of his throat even though he hasn’t said those words in as long as he can think. “Don’t-,” Buck exclaims. “Don’t you dare.”

It’s the same bar the 118 always goes to when the adults want a night out. Hen and Karen drew the short straw, and are hosting Christopher and Harry for a sleepover with Denny while Eddie, Buck, Ravi, Bobby and Athena throw the world’s smallest, saddest goodbye party for Eddie.

Buck is starting to think that Hen did not actually draw the short straw, but rather picked it on purpose, because there is no place in the world that Buck would rather be less than at this stupid bar.

Everyone is holding on by a thread. Ravi is practically handing round after round to the lot of them, trying to drive out the awkwardness with tipsiness. Bobby and Athena are pretending to argue good-naturedly over something, attempting to draw Buck and Eddie into their debate with little success.

Eddie is sat in the corner of their booth that’s in the corner of the bar. His back is to two walls and his eyes are on the door, and still, he holds the tension in his shoulders like it’s welded to his spine.

He’s had the least to drink out of all of them, still lapping at the same IPA as he ordered when they got here an hour and a half ago.

Buck is sat as far away from Eddie as he can get, squished with Bobby and Athena opposite Eddie. He’s got one leg hanging off the booth and Athena’s animated gestures keep jostling him, but it’s better than feeling the heat of Eddie’s thigh against his for what he’s sure would be the last time. As it is, he doesn’t remember the last time they sat shoulder-to-shoulder like partners, and he prefers it that way because it’s one less moment he can agonize over to wonder where he went wrong.

Buck’s drinking more than he has in a while, enough that he’s lost count and he’s feeling a little woozy. The throbbing headache he gets every time he drinks any more than two beers (at Eddie’s, his brain helpfully supplies) is making him want to leave even more than he already did. Every time his eyes betray him and glance at Eddie, glance at the shielded, steeled expression resting on his face that Buck used to know so well, the ice bullet in his head ricochets around before melting and flooding his body with ice-cold anger.

Eddie catches his eyes and gives him the thinnest, tightest-lipped smile he’s ever shared, and Buck can’t handle it. Buck gets up in the middle of Athena’s latest story and leaves, his cup unattended on the very edge of the table.

He could leave, he could walk out, but it could be the last time he sees Eddie and he isn’t strong enough to do that.

Instead, he braces his forearms on the bar and waits for the bartender to notice him. What happens first is a stranger hops onto the stool beside Buck and leans onto his elbow, so close Buck can’t ignore him in his peripheral vision.

“Hey,” the man says. Buck looks over.

He’s tall, and muscular, and looks like he’s seen his share of bar fights. Despite that, he doesn’t seem threatening, just mildly intrigued. There are a few scars on his face, some stretching near his hazel eyes and head of dark hair that subtly reminds Buck of Eddie. In another time, in another life, Buck might go for him.

Not tonight. Not with a woman he wants to love at home and the man he wants to not love at a booth in the corner.

The bartender finally walks over, and Buck orders an IPA without even thinking about it. He’d been drinking something harder before, but the man leaning over next to him has his brain a bit fried.

The bartender turns to the man in question and takes his order, and then says, “So, have you flirted with everyone in this bar yet?”

There’s an edge of warning to his tone, and Buck stiffens. The man’s eyes flick to the bartender with a touch of irritation, and then he flashes a grin to Buck that is ten times less genuine than whatever Eddie grimaced at him a moment ago. 

“Come on, man,” he says, “Just trying to find the one, you know?”

Buck can’t wait for his IPA to be given to him. Then, the bartender looks at him expectedly, and he realizes that since Ravi’s been buying all his drinks, his wallet is still on the table at the booth. He pats his pockets to confirm, and then groans in exasperation when he realizes.

“It’s on me,” the man insists, before telling the bartender, “Put it on my tab.”

“With the rest of them?” the bartender chuckles, and then raises his eyebrows at Buck like, I warned you. Then, he’s gone, and it’s just the two of them.

The man is radiating body heat, it’s leaking into Buck’s personal space along with the aroma of his cologne. It’s familiar, and cheap- one Buck might’ve used himself in his old days.

A hand on his thigh makes him jump, and he flinches away from the touch. “Hey, man.”

“Don’t panic, it’s 2021,” he laughs. “It’s alright.”

“Not that. Not that- at all-,” Buck stutters, his eyes unconsciously flicking to his table. Eddie is watching. “I’ve got a girlfriend.”

“You love her?” he asks. Isn’t that the question of the year, now?

“Enough to not want to cheat on her,” Buck snaps, and then he takes his IPA and goes to leave.

A hand on his shoulder stops him. He hears Eddie say something, far off.

“I bought your drink, least you can do is hear me out,” the man is saying, but then a familiar figure is behind him and clearing his throat.

“He said he’s not interested.”

Of course it’s Eddie. It’s always Eddie. Part of Buck wants to pull the stranger close and kiss the life out of him just to see if it would make any expression other than apathy show up on Eddie’s stupid face.

“This your girlfriend?” The man coughs out another laugh, like Buck is nothing more than a joke, a trivial little toy that keeps surprising him. “Wow.”

Then, he’s gone, and Eddie is standing where he was.

“You good?” Eddie asks, low.

Buck nods, then takes a long sip of his drink. It’s ice cold and soothes the burn in his stomach, but doesn’t stop the icy rage that is still flowing through his bones. He wants to sock Eddie in the face- he wouldn’t, ever, in a million years- but he wants to see if Eddie is capable of feeling anything, anymore. Maybe he would hit Buck back, and then again, and again, and again, until all his anger is gone and they can be something other than this ever again.

No fists fly. Buck nods, unconvincingly. “Thanks.”

“I’ve got your back,” Eddie mutters. Is it sour in his mouth? Buck feels it in the back of his throat even though he hasn’t said those words in as long as he can think.

“Don’t-,” Buck exclaims. “Don’t you dare.”

“Buck-?”

“Don’t you dare take the only words that are still sacrosanct to me and twist them into- into this! Into whatever this is, into whatever we are now,” Buck growls, fighting to keep his tone low, his teeth gritting. “Don’t talk to me, you never wanted to before, so don’t.”

“Buck, stop,” Eddie placates, hand out. He leans against the bar, leans close to Buck. “We don’t have to do this.”

“We? You’ve just decided this for us?” Buck spits, whirling to face him fully. “Like you decide everything else?”

Idly, Buck realizes the background chatter has stalled as people tune in to listen.

“What are you talking about?”

“The will! You, leaving. That’s okay, though, because it’s all for the good of Christopher!” Buck yells. “Right? Or, are you using him to hide your feelings, like you have been since you got back from the war!”

Eddie’s jaw is so tight it clicks while Buck watches. He can’t do this. Eddie steps forward and wraps Buck in a hug, shoving his chin into his shoulder as his fingers tighten in the fabric of his jacket. Buck isn’t pushing away, but he isn’t hugging him back, either. Eddie holds on for one more, aching moment, and then steps back.

He reaches out, holds Buck’s jaw in his shaking hands, looks into his eyes. Sees the anger, the ice reflected back at him.

Then, Eddie turns away and walks out of the bar. Buck chokes on a sob and turns to put his head down on the bar, shoulders shaking as Eddie walks out on him, as he leaves, again.

[hannahhook7744]

27, 30, and 39 for the merlin ask game

27. Why does Arthur rise, in your opinion?

I think Arthur could rise for any number of reasons.

It could be because his friends/his wife and sister need him.

It could be because of mass war/poverty/injustice.

Or maybe because magic is close to being revealed or had been revealed.

Could be anything.

30. Who reacted the worst to having their memories back?

Will.

Will, who was in Albion watching all the shit Merlin went through because he was one of the first to die.

Will gets his memories back and starts swinging.

He is not at all happy with several of the other people who got brought back.

Oh and seeing as Arthur, Merlin, and Gwaine kidnapped a druid kid briefly, who turned out to be his kid, and his wife was originally going to be betrobed to Arthur?

Man is like, triple pissed.

That's not even including taxes still being a thing or the fact that Arthur is back, which means shit is about to go down.

Or the fact that Morgana, Mordred, Edwin, and fricking Morgause (who though, are now redeemed, are evidence that some of Merlin's other enemies could have been brought back) are back with their memories.

He's also not happy that Kilgharrah is dead because he wanted to fist fight him in a Denny's parking lot for Merlin's huge guilt complex now.

39. What mysteries is Merlin responsible for in modern day?

Bermuda triangle? Check.

Any dragonlike creature sighting? Check.

Some disappearances/deaths? Check.

Also a couple of alien sightings and a lot of the legends surrounding Arthurian myth... Man really liked pulling people's legs and telling tall tales when Leon was the only one around to stop him (he did, not, in fact stop him).

[monsieuroverlord]

Hellverine #3 Thoughts:

No.

Okay, but seriously though. I keep hoping one day that Marvel learns their lesson and actually treats Akihiro with respect, but today is NOT that day.

My last hope is that final issue comes in clutch (and I'm very likely gaslighting myself with this), and the writer pulls some bullshit out his ass like Logan having to fight Bagra-Ghul and then wins Aki's soul.

(I mean, the adamantium armor ~conveniently~ reactivated Logan's healing factor in the Wolverine Finale, why not?)

Then Akihiro is fine and stays far away from Logan for the time being.

Summary:

The issue basically opens with General Harms' backstory. He was a soldier, commander of a shadow unit -- stereotypical, vague American black ops plotline. He was a nasty dude who did nasty work in the name of U.S.-branded freedom.

On one mission, he tracked the families of enemy fighters to an ancient church, came in contact with a demon skull, got shot then infected with demon magic and now is a soldier of hell. But also the U.S. Government secondly.

We go back to the pages we saw in the preview, where Logan gets a bike from the family of one of the hellfire destroyers (now dead) and rides off.

We shift back to General Harms, where he is called to deal with an incident in the Pentangle-demon-hellfire-whatever-its-called lab.

The lone survivor of the unit that became the Hellfire Destroyers showed up, mostly by calling in a few favors. He eventually volunteers to become a Destroyer as he feels he's the only one who can reign them in. They've never tested a living subject before, so it could go any which way.

Our scene then turns back to Akihiro, where he's called to Washington DC, and ends up doing a stakeout on top of the Washington Monument, waiting for demon signals.

Then back to General Harms and Madame Secretary, and she's telling him to get it together or he's ending up forgotten in federal prison. The Hellfire Destroyers show up, attack, and manage to kill the Madame Secretary. General Harms is caught, but Hellverine/Akihiro shows up and kills one, leaving only one left.

General Harms is a douche-canoe and shoots Hellverine/Akihiro with a fancy holy water bullet.

Hellverine/Akihiro lets out a high-pitched, agonizing scream (that only every dog within a 50-mile radius and Logan can hear) as he escapes, which alerts Logan.

Logan shows up, and because Logan was the OG host, the Hellverine transfers over to him, leaving Akihiro an empty husk.

Akihiro also says all of two words:

Thank you for the tragic "Dad," that was depressing.

And I'm sincerely hoping this is just a one-off thing, but he's referred to as "Daken" again:

Goddammit.

My Thoughts:

Bravo for managing to find a way to disappoint me further. The bar was already on the dirt floor and they really handed me a shovel and a one-way VIP ticket to hell with a scenic view.

But no seriously, I don't care how they do it at this point. I don't even care if its "bad" writing.

Just have Logan fist-fight the demon in the back of a Denny's parking lot for Akihiro's soul and I'd be happy.

The demon Bagra-Ghul is supposed to the "Great Stitcher" or whatever. Do it again.

I just -- three issues and he's dead again. We've seen this so many times before (latest one less than a year ago). Its so much the same song and dance. I just want it resolved and over with.

My predictions for the finale:

-- Big showdown -- OG Hellverine/Logan vs. General Harms vs. Hellfire Destroyers -- Logan wins because its his book.

-- the "living" Destroyer manages to talk his comrade down and all is well somehow. Either the dead one returns to death. Or they become independent crime fighters fueled by hellfire rage. Either long-term or they destroy the pentangle from within then die. Maybe the living one also intentionally chooses to go to hell to join his buddies.

--General Harms is consumed by the demon fully and sent straight to hell, likely because the demon turns out to be the "real target" of Bagra-Ghul, just waiting for the right moment.

MY BIGGEST HOPE: there's some bullshit, where Logan wins the big showdown, and the demon Bagra-Ghul, even more twisted into a force for good and eating evil, leaves Logan and as thank you, restores Akihiro to life.

All loose threads are wrapped up all nice and tidy just like X-Force and Wolverine were! The End.

Like seriously, haven't we proven Akihiro is popular enough to sell a book? Both issues of Hellverine went to 2nd print. AND, before it came out and the big spoiler was revealed, I read a lot of comments dismissing it as too gimmicky.

Wolverine as a character is very oversaturated. The loyalists pre-order naturally, but its not common that his books go to 2nd print just because of the volume of variety. So clearly this book is something that piqued people's interest and I don't think Akihiro played a small part in that. That's just my personal opinion.

Also, also, we got X-Factor, Marauders, and then Alpha Flight for a bit. At the very least, Aki has a decent enough following. This is just insulting.

Anyway, I'm going to go lay down in the middle of the road or something. I'm so damn tired.

[shiorimia]

Team Star's Bullying: Reimagined

So I finished SV and while I LOVE Team Star, their backstories were lacking IMO. Bullying playing a huge role in how they became friends was a great idea, because it’s so relatable! But the game’s reasons for them being targeted basically amounted to “they were bullied because THEY WERE TOO COOL 😎” which was hard to take seriously...

SO I wrote my own ideas for why each Team Star member was targeted at the academy! Enjoy-

(CW for mentioned bullying and homophobia)

Canonically, Mela was bullied for…being too cute? I’ll expand on that. 

Mela is a very pretty girl, even without any makeup. Her natural beauty and (at the time) soft demeanor caught the negative attention of a clique of girls, and they pretended to be her friends. 

Mela eventually told them that she was actually bisexual (having a preference for girls), thinking she was in safe company. The clique IMMEDIATELY spread this private info around in a negative light, claiming that Mela pushed herself on one of the girls. Mela got in trouble and she felt complete betrayal and heartbreak over the actions of her so-called “friends”, who had just wanted dirt on her. 

The bullying and gossip that resulted from this situation caused Mela to completely close down, steel her heart, and keep others at arms-length with fiery threats and emotional glares. She underwent a complete transformation in order to protect herself from being hurt again.

Giacomo actually used to be somewhat of a bully himself, in an attempt to fit in with the other students. He would taunt and goad others to impress his shitty ex-friends. 

He ended up becoming the scapegoat when one of the bullying victims had a breakdown, and all of his friends pinned the blame on him when the teachers interrogated them. After this, he was quickly shunned at the academy and was surrounded by rumors and gossip. 

Experiencing the effects of bullying firsthand made Giacomo realize what an asshole he'd been, and that his old 'friends' weren't so cool after all. He still feels immense guilt for the things he did in the past, and works to make up for it by being overly protective of Team Star. 

Seriously, he will NOT hesitate to throw fists. He will beat someone up in a denny's parking lot just for them.

Ortega is, obviously, on the feminine side and very short. (which is apparently a huge deal for men…) He quickly became a target for being "girly", short, not masculine enough, and rumors that he was gay spread like wildfire. Ortega's love of fancy outfits only added fuel to the fire. 

This made him extremely self-conscious about his identity and his appearance, and caused him to develop a short temper around others. Despite his fuse and tendency to lash out verbally, Ortega doesn’t actually like initiating physical fights; they make him anxious and scared from past experiences. He relies on his silver tongue to shut down jerks.

Ortega often bottles up his emotions and puts on a smug facade, because he believes he has no right to complain or feel upset, considering his wealthy upbringing. While Ortega still has a bratty attitude with the rest of Team Star, he's much softer around them and cares about them….though he’s too embarrassed to admit it.

Eri's bullying involved her body. Society is incredibly harsh on girls who don't fit the "mold", so to speak. Girls are expected to be short, soft and skinny, otherwise you're immediately outcast. Eri, being big-boned and much taller and more muscular than most girls, was the target of many vulgar and gross comments.

Eri, despite what others thought, DID take these insults to heart. She had always been a caring, motherly person, and was sad to see that this is what others thought of her behind her back. She dealt with these feelings through Pokemon battling and training herself until she was too tired to think.

Despite her intimidating aura/stature, Eri does not like to participate in violence unless absolutely necessary. She knows her own strength, and doesn’t like hurting others. She will not be taunted into a fistfight by some random student, as she KNOWS they’re goading her. However, if someone lays a hand on one of her friends, she will not hesitate to fling them into a wall.

Atticus was always an odd person who stood out. His interests were unique, even as a child. Being neurodivergent, the way he expressed himself and communicated was different. Having a love for art and fashion, Atticus was drawn to the more unique and unsettling themes in the industry. He loved to wear makeup considered "creepy" and wear outlandish, fantasy-like outfits. 

He was immediately known as "the weirdo/freak" and was avoided, amongst rumors that he acted creepy towards other students and claims that he followed people around like a stalker. None of which was true, but still resulted in Atticus being alone. He didn't particularly mind…really.

Much like Ortega, Atticus dislikes physical fights. He knows his limits and capabilities. Why bother punching someone when you could recite poems on how pathetic and slimy they are? Or point out how ugly their haircut is?

[holylulusworld]

Ready for destruction (Prologue)

Summary: Six and Lloyd are at each other’s throat most of the time.

Pairing: Sierra Six x fem!Reader x Lloyd Hansen

Characters: Denny Carmichael

Warnings: concurrence, language, Lloyd being Lloyd, implied sexual harassment (not really/I’m not sure/just to be safe - not Lloyd/Six), mentions of character’s death

A/N: This is a short prologue to get into the story.

Ready for destruction masterlist

“That was my kill, sunshine,” Lloyd growls in Sierra’s direction. Sierra Six to be correct. They are at each other’s throats again, and you try to ignore their banter. “Why do you always steal my kills?"

“He’s dead. What’s your problem? Mission accomplished,” Sierra bites back. He’s unimpressed by Lloyd’s antics. He prefers to stuff another chewing gum into his mouth.

While Lloyd paces back and forth and throws a tantrum like the man-baby he is, Sierra cranes his neck to watch you talk to Carmichael. He huffs, as said man places his hand on your back.

“The bastard touches her again.”

Lloyd stops in his tracks. He whips his head toward Six before turning around only to watch Carmichael whisper something in your ear.

You chuckle as Carmichael tells you about Lloyd’s predilection for awful nicknames. 

You're new to the team. It has only been five months into the job, but you know one thing, you dislike Carmichael. He always makes sure everyone knows he’s the alpha of the team.

Six squares his jaw as you pat Carmichael's shoulder. “I’m going to kill him,” he mutters under his breath. “Who does he think he is?”

Six doesn’t know you use neuro-linguistic programming to manipulate Carmichael. You are more than an analyst and the girl Lloyd and Six like to fight over. They just never took their time to find out more about you.

Lloyd is ready to explode as he says, "You cannot steal this kill. My sweet cupcake is mine."

“She’s not yours,” Six retorts. “And I thought you are best buddies with Carmichael.”

“He knows I like Y/N,” Lloyd says, clenching his fists. He grunts as you glance over your shoulder to look at him. “I told him to keep his hands to himself. It's bad enough that he’s banging Suzanne. I can’t even yell at her because of his dick.”

“Can you keep your shit together for once?" Six grunts. “I don’t want to have another meeting with HR again. I'm done with your attitude.”

“Well, then,” Lloyd grabs Six by the throat. He breathes in his face smirking as Six doesn’t even fight back this time. "Stay away from Y/N. She’s mine.”

“Ahem…” Six smirks as you tap Lloyd’s shoulder. He could’ve easily broken out of Lloyd’s grip and beat the shit out of his opponent. However, he sensed your presence and didn’t want to mess up his chance to win you over. “I’m not yours, Mr. Hansen. I think you should talk to HR again."

“The only one needing to talk to them is Carmichael. He had his hand on your ass,” Lloyd drops his hand from Six’s throat.

“It was my lower back, Sir,” you grunt. “And this is none of your business. I got it handled.” You point your index finger at Lloyd. “Stop acting like I’m your girlfriend.”

Six smiles at your words. "The same goes for you,” and his smile fades as you point at him. “This is not some game. You can’t always fight over the next kill or who can ask me out. I’m not interested in any of you. I dislike violent men.”

You turn on your heels and storm off.

"That's your fault," Six murmurs. "You ruined my chance with her.”

“You are mistaken, sunshine,” Lloyd smirks darkly. “I told you before and I’m telling you again, my sweet cupcake belongs with me…”

>> Part 1

Tags in reblog.

[flatoutin-eaurouge]

Misunderstood

Pairing: Mika Häkkinen x Michael Schumacher

This cute fic idea was brought to you by the lovely @kimizilla. I had so much fun writing this. Thank you so much! 💕

Michael walked back to his garage with a smug grin on his face. He was beaming with pride over yet another win. At this point he was gaining trophies as if he was gathering berries. His worth on the drivers market was going to the roof.

He slapped the sidepod of his Benneton B194 with adoration. The beast. The machine. He felt extra blessed with his legendary machinary when he thought of his childhood rival Mika Häkkinen, who he had the fiercest but fairest battles with on track. The boy, who he really rated, probably didn't have the start of his Formula One carreer he had expected or hoped for.

Of course no one expected Mika to fight for the wins in the Lotus car, the green team being in financial trouble, but the McLaren car... how could that Team of Titans change for the worse when Mika signed. The Peugeot deal was the worst decision of them all. Not to mention the delay in putting Mika in that McLaren cockpit. Michael Andretti was a frail shadow next to the mighty Ayrton Senna. Back then Michael reckoned already that the Finn - who he had an unexplicable soft spot for - would be a way thougher challenge for Ayrton. It just didn't sit him right and it was weird to be bothered by it so much, but for some reason it was way less fun to share the podium with someone like Damon Hill. He missed his battles with the Finn.

When he walked to the pitwall pumping his fist in the air, he was greeted by a very proud Flavio Briatore. The man had really put all of his efforts into bringing Benneton to the top, and he had done everything to convince Michael to drive for them. A top tier driver for a fast developing team with a cunning mission. From the very first start of his Benneton adventure, Flavio and Ross had showered Michael with compliments. And not without reason. Michael was driving like an experienced veteran. His learning curve was as steep as a canyon in just his third season in Formula One. His car was an extension of his body. Hitting the apex of corners as smoothly as was humanly possible... or inhumanly possible, because the German was that good. Michael was on cloud nine, very much in contrast to his childhood rival.

Flavio took his 'surrogate son' in a heartfelt embrace and slapped him on the shoulder. "Michael, my man! Another victory. Another pristine drive."

Elsewhere, in the McLaren garage Ron Dennis held his golden boy in an embrace for different reasons. The engine of the McLaren MP4/9 had given up again and was out of the race. The glory days of McLaren seemed to be over for now. Ayrton Senna had left a sinking ship early in the season, before his passing, and the young and talented Finnish rookie ended up with an unreliable car.

Mika sighed. His fourth season in Formula One - and his third full season - and it was still not going to happen. He thought of his Formula Three-days where he and Michael lapped the entire field and dominated the competition. Michael had made a questionable move in Macau and Mika had made a stupid decision to leave his overtake to the tail end of that race, but he never held any grudges towards his rival. It was ok. It happened. It was part of racing.

Still he felt sad over his meager successes in Formula One and wondered whether he was good enough for the top competition. Nevermind the performance of the car, he crashed the thing at times he didn't need to. Ron had told him it was not his fault. That he was just pushing the car to the limit and that the engine just wasn't good enough to handle being wrung out by his talented hands. His team boss was kind like that, but it still made him insecure about his performances.

"It's ok, Mika. It's not our season, but it will come with time." Ron Dennis was just glad for Mika's loyalty to stay with the team. The boy was really fast, and Ron had always been convinced that one couldn't teach speed to a driver. So the trust in Mika remained.

"Thank you, Ron. I am sorry." Mika let go off his team boss and carded a hand through his blonde hair. "I am going to congralute Michael. I will be back soon."

With those words he left the garage and walked past the line of various garages and motorhomes towards the Benneton garage. He noticed Michael talking to Johnny Herbert and looked forward to having a chat with his rival and former teammate whom he both knew so well.

"Yes, I don't understand why he was given so much trust, time after time. The guy was so much slower and crashed his car all the time," Michael said to Johnny, raising his hands in disbelief. "How?"

Mika heard the conversation and came to a halt, quickly hiding behind a rack of Good Year tyres, because this seemed like a conversation he was not supposed to hear. Who the hell were they talking about?! Mika couldn't stop himself from eavesdropping the driver pair. Why were they so mean to someone? Who deserved that?

"I know right. The mediocore guy. How could Ron Dennis not have seen this earlier?" Johnny replied, shaking his head in disblief. "He just isn't F1 material."

Mika froze on the spot. A sudden chill washed over his body and made goosebumps appear on his skin. Ron Dennis? Mediocore guy? Not F1 material? Were they talking about him?! Mika felt his heart rate going up in anxiety. Certainly they weren't talking about the legendary Ayrton Senna or Martin Brundle, who had been in F1 for so long already.

"McLaren should sort its things out. Can't believe they put him in the cockpit of that car!" Michael frowned.

Mika felt his cheeks turn red in shame. They must be talking about him. Why would they say such things?! How can they be so mean?! He barely noticed his eyes starting to water, tears threatening to fall down his cheeks. It was as if someone had stabbed a dagger in him from behind, as if someone had pierced his heart with a sword. It hurt. It really did.

He felt the tears streaming down his face, falling onto the tarmac below him, frizzling in the heat of the Italian sun. He couldn't believe both Michael and Johnny said such things. All of a sudden he felt so stupid and small. He quickly put his helmet back on because he didn't want anyone to see his miserable face - thank God he had brought the thing - and made his way out of the Benneton terrain. Far away from those mean guys.

"Yes, Michael Andretti didn't deserve that seat as much as Mika. Just because his father Mario was such a hotshot in his Lotus days."

Johnny nodded in agreement. "If Mika would have started in the beginning of 1993, he could have shown his worth. He was such a friendly teammate."

Mika ran towards the McLaren garage, not bothering to greet Ron or the mechanics. On his way to his motorhome he came across Steve Hallam. He flipped his visor slightly open and told the mechanic that he was feeling unwell and didn't want to see anyone for a few hours.

He opened the door to his motorhome, took off his helmet and threw it into a corner with a frustrated sigh. He didn't bother to take his race suit off as he flipped onto his bed, face down into the pillows. He cried, bitter tears of shame and anger. His pillow was slowly turning damp. He wanted to punch something. He lifted his face and punched the mattress with his fist. Stupid guys!

However, in the back of his mind he was afraid they were right. His anger made way for doubt. How many points had he scored? Was it in reasonable contrast to how many cars he had crashed when he pushed them to the limit?

Maybe he really was just a shit driver. He bit his lip. He wanted to talk to someone about his doubts, but there was no one around he saw fit to share his thoughts with. Should he call his mum? No! He wasn't a pathetic child! And her opinion wouldn't be completely objective anyway. She would probably go like: "Mika, kulta! Don't say that! You are a very good driver!"

He didn't need his mum's advices.

He wiped his tears, blinking rapidly to dry his eyes, hoping the tears would stop. But it was to no avail, more tears were coming.

Should he call Keke to ask for advices? No, he didn't want to show weakness to his manager. He grabbed his pillow and threw it into the corner with force, where it joined his abandoned helmet. He would have never expected Michael to belittle him behind his back. Of course they've had there moments, but off-track it had always been very friendly. He also felt sick to the stomach because his former teammate, he thought he could trust, had agreed with Michael's stupid opinion. Who did Johnny Herbert even think he was?! He had out-scored him both of his Lotus seasons for fuck's sake, and it was only luck that Johnny had ended up in a better performing team.

The next race in Jerez, Mika qualified his McLaren-Peugeot in third position. Of course behind the ultra-talented German starboy and Damon Hill, but he was satisfied. Although his satifaction had more to do with the fact that he had successfully schooled his insecurities behind an impassive mask, than his position on the grid. It didn't mean he had forgotten about the conversation he overheard last race. He didn't greet Michael when he entered the paddock this morning. He neglected him, because even if Michael was right about his mediocore performances, he should tell him that to his face so he could defend himself.

A thundercloud formed above his head. Goddamnit, why couldn't it just leave him unbothered. He had been very quiet in the garage. He was still so insecure, but at least he could put his insecurity into agresssion when he rammed his car over the Jerez circuit this morning.

Right now, as he closed the door to his motorhome, the doubts flooded his mind again. He fisted his hands in his hair and pulled at the golden strands, as tears dribbled down his cheeks. What was a third place on the grid if he wouldn't end up on the podium anyway!

A few hunderd meters away from him, Michael sighed as he made his way to his own Benneton motorhome. He should be happy with yet another pole, but something didn't sit him right. Something that he thought was very important: he had no idea what was wrong with Mika. The Finn had been neglecting him ever since the previous race in Italy. Usually Mika would come over for a chat and congratulate him with his win, but his childhood rival was nowhere to be seen. Michael had a bad feeling about it. Was Mika angry with him? But why? Why would he be?

There must be a reason Mika had been avoiding him and Michael didn't know what it was, but he didn't want to congratulate him on his third position and risk angering the Finn even more. He would leave him be. For now.

The next day at Jerez the cars lined up on the grid for the race. It was this year's European GP, and winning it was quite prestigious. At the start, the drivers became one with their car. Visors went down, emotions and grudges were shut out for the moment. The engines started and made the mechanic bodyworks roar.

The race was pretty uneventful for Michael, as all three of the top-placed drivers on the grid got P1, P2 and P3. However to Mika the end result meant the world. He was so glad his insecurities hadn't influenced his driving, and he was so pleasantly surprised the engine hadn't given up despite his agressive driving style that afternoon. He had something to prove and he would risk everything for a decent result. Third was quite good for the McLaren shitbox.

As the three drivers went up onto the podium, Mika knew it would be akward and he didn't give a damn. He ignored Michael completely, sprayed his champagne only on Damon and then aimed his bottle at the McLaren team standing on the tarmac below them. The German was completely clueless about it. Good! Let him be!

Michael just didn't understand what was wrong! Mika seemed so angry with him. It was as if the Finn loathed him, and didn't tolerate him in his presence. The champagne spraying was painfully awkward. Michael felt a sudden sadness consume him, giving winning the European GP a bitter aftertaste.

On their way down the stairs, Michael grabbed Mika's arm. He needed to know. "Hey, what's wrong?"

Mika yanked his arm from the German's grip instantly. "You know what is wrong. And if you don't... maybe you should discuss with Johnny what you think is wrong!"

The conversation was short and unsatisfactory. Michael still had no idea what he had done and what Johnny had to do with it. "Mika?"

The Finn shook his head with an unforgiving look and turned around. Probably heading towards his motorhome, where he would lock himself in.

Michael chose to follow Mika, albeit slowly and quietly. There was no reason to rush the already furious Finn. Imagine kicking your foot between the door and the doorpost like a Jehova's witness. Mika would probably give him hell for it.

He arrived around five minutes later at Mika's trailer. On the way there he had to shake off some journalists. He didn't care if it made him look arrogant on camera, he was determined to find out why the relationship between Mika and him had chilled. To say Michael wasn't hurt by it would be a lie.

He knocked on the door. "Mika, can we please talk?"

It stayed silent on the other side of the door. Mika sat on the ground, his face wet with tears and his hands in his hair.

"Mika, please!"

It sounded genuinely desperate, but Mika didn't care. "Go away!!!"

The knocking on the door increased. "Mika whatever you've heard must be a misunderstanding! Please!"

Mika grabbed his walkman from the nightstand and put some music on so he couldn't hear his rival. He didn't really listen to the music, he just wanted some noise cancelling. Hell, he didn't even know the song that was playing. Deep down he hoped Michael was right about the whole thing being a misunderstanding, but what if it wasn't? He very clearly heard them mention "Ron Dennis" and "McLaren". Who else would they have been talking about? He needed Michael to suffer like he had suffered... just in case.

After a while Mika put his walkman aside and went to open the door for a breather, hoping the wind would dry his still damp eyes. However, he didn't come far... A really upset German Benneton driver pushed him back inside the motorhome and closed the door behind them.

Mika startled. What the fuck!

"We do need to talk!" Michael noticed Mika's puffed face and red-rimmed eyes and immediately softened. "Gosh, what's wrong Mika?"

Mika let his tears escape. His hands balled into fists and his shoulders started shaking on the rhythm of his sobs. "You think I am a shit driver and so does Johnny! Why Michael? Why? Am I that much of a loser to you!"

Michael was shocked. "But Mika...!"

"Why didn't you just say it to my face, you coward!"

"Mika it is a misunderstanding!"

"A mistunderstanding?!!! How could Ron Dennis not have seen this earlier? McLaren should sort its things out? Mediocore guy? Not F1 material?" Mika was fuming. "Yeah Michael, I know everything by hard."

Michael gasped. "Oh Mika." He shook his head in disbelief. "Mika, Mika, Mika. We weren't talking about you."

The Finn froze and stared at him with teary eyes. Secretly he wanted to punch Michael in the face, but he wasn't the kind of guy to throw punches. Except for his mattress and pillow, he couldn't remember ever hitting someone. "Ah no, I get it. You guys were talking about Ayrton. Sure!"

Michael shook his head again. "Mika your amazing career was put on hold by someone."

Mika froze again. His heart rate sped up. He didn't know what to say.

"Yes, we were talking about Michael Andretti, Mika."

"Were... were.. you really?"

Michael nodded.

Mika stumbled backwards until his back touched a wall. He slid down to the ground against it and covered his face in his hands. "I am sorry, Michael."

Michael's heart broke in a trillion little pieces. Before he knew it, he kneeled next to Mika and tried to remove the Finn's trembling hands from his face.

He was crying again and Michael felt his throat thighten. "Poor Mika, how could you think we were talking bad about you?" He enveloped the Finn in his arms and tucked his fluffy-haired head under his chin.

"It was just so coincidental with my bad performances lately," Mika sobbed.

"You're such an amazing driver, Mika. Don't talk yourself down. I reckon you will be a World Champ in a couple of seasons."

Mika thightened his arms around his guardian angel and smiled. "You're so kind, Michael."

"Only to you."

[kindred-sims]

Henry had been walking home from school the day he met her again.

Carrie had gone to visit with Genie for a while, asking that he let their parents know where she was as soon as he got back. He'd agreed, although he hadn't been in much of a hurry to return. Papa had been giving him so many chores lately, which really hadn't been leaving him with much reading time, and Mama had her hands full with Louisa and the new baby to even spare him a second glance.

That wasn't to say Henry was at all annoyed with his parents. On the contrary, he still loved them very much. But sometimes even ten year old boys needed their own space, and he just couldn't find that at home these days.

For that, Henry decided he would take his time, and chose the long route back to his family's farm, relishing in the scenery and reciting some of his favorite lines from his poetry book as he went.

"Stop it, please! Go away!"

Glancing ahead, Henry was startled to find none other than Dennis Gale in all his bullying glory, almost wanting to tuck tail and run the other way.

Until he spotted her. Millicent. That girl from town, the one with the pretty hat and long blonde hair.

And Dennis seemed to be picking on her!

Any fear he'd felt was replaced by a simmering anger, and before he could talk himself out of it, he'd ran up to the two of them, as Dennis laughed meanly, nearly shoving the poor girl into the dirt.

"Dennis, leave her alone!" he'd cried, fists balled up as tight as they could go. Dennis spared Henry a passive glance, snorting loudly.

"Or what? What exactly do you plan on doing?" he teased. "You're still half my size, Four Eyes, I could knock you down right now if wanted to."

"Yeah? So could my sister," Henry reminded him. "If it's a fight you're looking for, I can always just go find her, tell her what you said."

"Heh, you really think I'm still scared of her? That fight was a long time ago--"

"How come you still avoid her at recess then?"

Dennis flushed deeply, arms crossing.

"Forget it, you ain't worth it. Neither of you," he huffed. "I've gotta get home anyway."

With that, he turned and stomped off, both children watching as he went. Soon as he was out of sight, the girl -- Millicent, turned to Henry, amazement all over her face.

"My goodness, that was so brave of you!" she gasped. "Didn't he frighten you at all?"

"Aw, nah. Not really..." Henry felt his face heat up, just as it had that first time. "I mean, Dennis is a jerk, nobody should have to deal with him by themselves. It wouldn't have been fair to just leave you with him."

"That's so kind of you, truly. How can I ever thank you?"

"Oh...you don't have to--"

"Oh but I must! Mother always says that it is the proper thing to do, after all," she insisted. "I know! Why don't you walk back home with me? We can have tea and cookies, if you'd like!"

Tea and cookies certainly sounded tempting to Henry, and he was almost ready to accept until he remembered his folks were expecting him home soon, and the last thing he wanted to do was cause them any concern.

Even if he wasn't in a hurry to get back to his chores...

So much as it pained him, he politely refused Millicent's offer, but since it was on the way, asked if he could still walk her home.

"Just in case Dennis shows back up, you never know," he'd said.

Millicent happily accepted.

Since her house was just up the hill, it wasn't that long of a walk, but just long enough for formal introductions to be made. A short ways into their conversation, Millicent soon recalled their brief meeting in town a while back, much to Henry's surprise.

He hadn't thought she'd have remembered.

When they'd arrived at the house, Henry was immediately taken aback by its grandeur, staring up at it in awe for about a minute before running to catch up with Millicent. He wasn't sure he'd ever seen anything so big and lavish before, least not up close! The most he'd seen of it were glances, when he'd walk to and from school with Carrie. They'd always used to wonder if anyone lived there, and Carrie had surmised that it was probably haunted.

Judging by the fact that Millicent apparently lived here, that didn't seem to be the case at all.

"Well, here we are," Millicent announced, stopping at the front door. "It was very nice meeting you again, Henry, and properly this time!"

"Likewise! You're good company, Millicent."

"As are you! I'm only sorry you have to go so soon, are you sure you can't stay long enough just for a cookie?"

"Sorry, I don't think my Mama would appreciate me spoiling my dinner," Henry laughed. "But...maybe..."

"Maybe?"

"Maybe...I could always stop by after school sometime, you know, for the tea and cookies. If that's still an offer..."

The smile Millie gave him in return was just as shy as his voice, and there was just the slightest hint of pink in her cheeks.

"It very much is, yes."

[the-loveliest-lotus]

Kloktober 2023: Day 19 - Inspired by an UN-Metal Song

Today's prompt features an idea that I actually hope to eventually have the time to draw because the image (mainly of a mentally exhausted Magnus) is too damned funny.

Featuring Magnus Hammersmith, a passed out Toki Wartooth, Vater Orlaag, my OC Lucy Skye Desmond, and @gibbouschild's adorable OC Sunni Daye. 🖤

Inspiration taken from Caramelldansen. 🖤

Magnus was beginning to think revenge wasn’t worth it. Once a week for the last month, Toki and Lucy had been taking him to underground warehouse raves that went all night and into the morning, loading him up on substances that he hadn’t even thought about in at least 5 or 10 years, and then doing god knows what until long after the sun came up. The two little spitfires were irritatingly starting to grow on him. But the post-rave babysitting... Dear god...

All he wanted right now was sleep. Or maybe at least to get out of the damned sun. And yet here he was in a pair of Lucy’s black and patched JNCOs, a denim vest, a fishnet top, and make up, sitting on a bench outside of a Denny’s at 8am on a Thursday morning. “How do we always end up at a fucking Denny’s?” Probably because the one time they ended up at a Waffle House Lucy and Toki tried fist fighting someone in the parking lot.

Toki was passed out on the bench, head in Magnus’ lap like a pillow, flopped at angles that the kid would probably regret later. Or not, the limber little shit. Lucy however, was utterly bouncing. How did she still have this level of energy? Did she ever fucking stop? He heard Lucy gasp and he closed his eyes slowly, silently begging any deity that was listening that she wouldn’t-

“You two are so pretty!”

Magnus could tell she was about to try to stand up and get closer to whoever had just walked over, so he quickly wrapped his arms around her and just leaned against her shoulder. His expression looked almost as though he were in pain. “Lucy, please, for the love of Satan below, stop hitting on every hot couple that goes inside.” Magnus looked over at the two of them. They were definitely attractive, more so than any of the other couples that had gone inside, but there was no way this was happening right now. He said to them, “Please ignore her, we’re just waiting for our ride. It’s been a long night.”

Vater and Sunni exchanged looks, Sunni blushing furiously, but with a little smile on her face. Sunni smiled at Lucy, “I love your hair. And your outfit. Your whole look.”

Lucy was beaming, “Thank you!”

Magnus got a little after wave of euphoria from whatever ecstasy was left in his system and was rubbing his face against Lucy’s shoulder like a cat, which was enough to distract her and she turned her attention back to him.

Vater and Sunni took the distraction as an opportunity to walk inside. “Well, that was… Interesting,” the tall redhead didn’t entirely know the odds of running into two members of Dethklok and the former member of Dethklok at a Denny’s of all places, but this would be something to bring up at the next meeting. Then the gears started really turning, “Wait, did she just call us-“

“She called us pretty,” Sunni said, smiling in a way that Vater found almost painfully adorable. He couldn’t help but crack a smile.

[astrxlfinale]

HC; Values.

A life like Lighter's wasn't made from the happiest circumstances. Finding himself as a life growing up in the Outer Ring, someone who found that their grit and tenacity could make a form of living. Survival needs a foundation, a form of sustenance, and ultimately it was this fashion of living solely for survival that wasn't truly living at all. Money remained a solitary goal to endlessly work for, and for a long time, he never allowed Dennies to work for him. It wasn't a mindset he knew actively existed at that point.

Ultimately this is what made him find a living in the underground. A place that helped tremendously in sculpting Lighter's fighting prowess. Wealth, a sense of power, there was multiple 'advantages' that felt like they were finding the means to bloom. So why did each success, each bitter lost, shattering bones and having his fractured in return net anything worthwhile? The gritter inner void found itself leading to his late teenage/early adult years to be a pit of frustration he failed to healthily translate.

He hated it. Lighter didn't find purpose here, only a place that finds benefit for his skills, and nothing truly worthwhile found themselves growing from such spiritually dried grounds. Eventually, he found himself tearing away from such a lifestyle, the figures that wanted him chained for his expertise having no hopes of holding him back.

What he holds here is a question that managed to permeate his mind for who knows how long. In the scope of taking odd jobs, it wasn't until he found himself in the hand of the Sons of Calydon, being given a deal beyond Dennies, that he'll discover the answer to agonized flame in his heart did he ultimately come to agree to the deal of the Old Calydon head.

Needless to say? The fact he remains, says more than enough.

Lighter discovered that values like integrity and this form of honor they exercise inspires him. It's not a line he adheres heavily towards or any sense of the world, the streets made him too wise to be staunch. On the other hand, it's this value of actually having his abilities find purpose in benefits not 'solely' clients. But friends, those that are lost, those who come to depend on his strength that he begins to see a hint of his personal 'bigger picture.'

These sorts of values are what makes him reach beyond the material, to actually understand a hint of the spirit that rests within him for such a long time. It's through this very brand of fire that he finds his improvement reaching scales not only in power, but understanding, in inner strength. People like him ultimately need an inner cause to direct their fists towards at the end of the day.

In this era of his new connections, he wants to showcase his own loyalty to those that offered so firmly.

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

Blood and sand - Chapter Sixteen

In the weeks since Luke had come here, this number of onlookers had never come to watch, and those who did were clearly between shifts—often drunk, always rowdy. Not these people. Not today.

>>>>READ ON AO3 OR BELOW<<<<

----------

Chapter Sixteen: John

At breakfast, the King declared all current remaining warriors “finalists.” There would be no wagons of new combatants today.

“Battle Royale,” announced Dennis, who seemed to know something was going on, and eyed Luke’s little group suspiciously. “And as it’s a true fight to the end, you’ll be facing the King’s champion.” For all the talk about Charlie Dowd, Luke had not yet seen him. Now, he would.

Luke knew exactly what this was: he was being given a shot. One shot to make this compromise work. He’d never felt so determined in his life.

“Battle Royale,” said John, low. “Athur, stick with me.”

“I can do this,” Arthur said, slamming his fork down and baring his teeth.

“We will do this,” John growled.

“I can help,” Arthur snapped.

“You will,” said John. “By helping Luke.”

Arthur didn’t want to help Luke. He didn’t have to verbalize it. “I can do more than that!”

“Not now, you can’t,” John growled. “Fucking fill your role.”

Arthur clenched his fists.

“We’re almost done,” said Luke, who didn’t know how to fix this, who had no idea how to calm them down. “It’ll work.”

“Dowd,” Arthur said, low.

“He’ll be free. We all will,” said Luke, who for once in his life, lied. They would be free. He licked his lips. “Take Parker with you.”

Arthur stiffened. “What?”

“If something happens to me,” said Luke.

“If something happens to you,” said John, “Parker won’t—”

“Be dead anymore,” Arthur broke in. “Yes. I know.” His voice was rough.

John growled.

Arthur bared his teeth again. “This is what’s happening. Deal with it!” he hissed.

John growled again. “A life-debt is dangerous.”

“This will satisfy requirements,” said Luke, drawing the phrase from some long-past overheard adult conversation. “I’m certain.”

Arthur snorted, then suddenly laughed. “Sure,” he said. “All right. Satisfy requirements. All right.”

The warning trumpet sounded, loud and blatting.

Luke stood and immediately had to brace on the table. His legs felt weak, his knees useless. It was fear, plain and simple. Nothing was physically wrong.

This would work because it had to. That was all. “Come on.” He headed for the door.

#

The arena was different today.

Longer, somehow, though not wider; the sand was pristine, white, gleaming, casting tiny sparkles back at the double suns. The stands were, for once, occupied, if not packed; all the guests were there, but also the entire staff of this place, from nurses to cooks, and they didn’t quite behave as sports fans might be expected. They were largely silent, muttering, and watching very hard.

In the weeks since Luke had come here, this number of onlookers had never come to watch, and those who did were clearly between shifts—often drunk, always rowdy. Not these people. Not today.

Whatever was going on might genuinely be a one-off. This was it. Their one chance.

Luke stayed at the back with his new partners. “Right. Everyone know their timing?”

“Yes,” said John.

“Yes,” said Arthur a moment later.

“You sure you can do this?” said John.

Luke hesitated. “I can get most of them,” he said. “I don’t know if I can get everyone, but I can get a lot. Then…”

“We’ll take care of the rest,” Arthur said grimly.

“And then we’re making our wish,” said John.

“Don’t you try to be a bitch about this,” said Arthur.

Luke had to trust them to be grownups. “Get ready.”

“Fuck me, there he is,” said John.

Luke peered. At the far, far end of the arena, guarding the only exit door, stood a nude man. He was muscled; tattooed runes circled his biceps, reached around his calves, covered his stomach. He carried two enormous, spiked maces, and he wore a mask—smooth and white like Hastur’s, mouthless. Two black eye-holes stared at them.

“What?” whispered Arthur. "He’s here? How does he look? Is he okay?”

“He’s… I don’t know,” said John. “He’s wearing that pallid mask.”

“Fuck,” said Arthur, low. “Luke, he’s going to see what you’re doing.”

“What I’m doing?”

“Casting magic. We’re going to have to be very careful about this.”

“Hey,” said John. “That’s an idea. I wonder if you could see with the mask on now.”

“No,” said Arthur.

“But Arthur—”

“No. I might be about to die, and I won’t with that fucking thing on my face.”

John’s many limbs sagged a little, as if Arthur's hatred of the mask—the handiwork of the King—hurt John personally.

Hastur had assumed John wanted nothing to do with him, but that wasn’t the vibe at all. John had reacted badly to news that Hastur wanted to die, too, though he hadn’t exactly gone running to prevent it. This was complicated.

The second trumpet blasted, and the horde attacked itself. Attacked itself (Luke couldn’t help thinking) the way a really sick body did, going after its own cells with its own defense systems. Some held back, like Arthur and John and Luke, waiting to see who was left standing, but most did not.

A few, however, did make a run for that exit. They didn’t last long.

Luke hadn’t expected Dowd to be so fast. His bare feet dug into the sand as if he’d been born to it, and he swung his maces so quickly they were black blurs.

Luke gasped, pressed back against the wall.

Blood, brains, bone spattered the sand, the arena. Dowd calmed again, waiting, stationed in front of that door.

John grunted.

“What?” said Arthur.

“He moves like a monster,” John mumbled. “I don’t know how he’s been enhanced, but he has. Arthur… we have to do Luke’s plan. I don’t see how we can beat him without killing him.”

“We were already going to do it,” Arthur snapped.

Without warning, the horns-all-over guy—the one with multiple heads who had exploded fake Dennis—suddenly turned and ran at them.

“Watch it!” John bellowed. Arthur and John may not share a body anymore, but they moved as one, even though Arthur couldn’t see. Arthur grabbed Luke and pulled him back, and John moved in the way, meeting the oncoming charge with so much power that he grabbed, hefted, and slammed the enemy down with a bone-aching crack.

The attacker lay still.

Luke looked. Not dead. Very thoroughly concussed. Luke resisted the urge to heal, to help; he had to save every drop of everything he had for the key moment. Still, it was hard to resist.

The eerily quiet stands, the intensity of Hastur’s presence, the weirdness of Dowd’s presence—all of it combined to make insanity, to add a strange desperation to everyone there, as if… of course. Luke hadn’t been the only person to figure out that new people kept being brought in, and that this was maybe the only chance to actually win that wish. Desperation didn’t cover this mood, didn’t even come close. These beings were fighting for so much more than their lives today. They fought for that one wish.

Above the arena, above Dowd, the King in Yellow loomed, his robe billowing, brighter than both suns.

Luke steeled himself. “Steady.”

“Fuck!” said John, grabbing Luke, grabbing Arthur (“Hey!”), and taking off at a run.

The spell hit where they’d been, sizzling the white sand gray, hissing and spitting.

Luke cried out.

“What the fuck, John?” Arthur cried, tucked under numerous arms.

“Curses,” said John. “Someone’s throwing them.”

“How-ma-ny-peo-ple-are-left?” Luke said, voice unsteady as he bounced with every step.

“Too many,” snarled John, and kept moving.

Held as he was, Luke couldn’t see; he was facing the sand. The breath kept leaving him as John leaped and landed, and bodies—injured, screaming, unconscious—filled the space around John’s tentacle-feet.

Luke resisted. Closed his eyes tightly. Resisted the urge to heal.

“Almost there,” muttered John, and then suddenly dropped them both into the sand. Luke shouted as something launched over him, something John grabbed and deflected and rolled away with, snarling.

Arthur reached for Luke, and Luke grabbed him. “Stay down!” Arthur snapped, and pulled Luke close enough to shield him.

“We have to get closer to the front!” Luke shouted, closing his eyes again as booted feet spat sand in their direction in passing.

Arthur began crawling, keeping low, holding Luke to his chest.

“Left!” Luke shouted, and Arthur dodged. A hammer came down where they’d been, spraying more sand.

John came out of nowhere and ate the hammer-guy.

Ate him. Just grabbed with many limbs, held him in the air, and then… John’s hood fell back. He had a white mask like Hastur’s, exactly the same, except chipped, and beneath it opened a maw that would haunt Luke’s dreams for years to come. John bit the guy in half. Gulp.

Arthur was moving again.

Luke’s breath felt high and wheezy. Never again, he’d never fight again—

“Dowd!” warned John, and Arthur suddenly changed direction.

Luke stared up to see Charlie Dowd coming for them. His eyes behind his mask were insane, wide, bloodshot. He didn’t seem aware of his nudity, or much else, except that Arthur had come too close to the door.

There was no time left. Luke used his spell.

It was like lifting an elephant, like holding back a cargo ship with will alone, like controlling a vast and terrible storm with his hands. It reached into every single body on the arena floor, into their brains, into their circulation. Searching and finding a universal need for oxygen, though it varied; major arteries weren’t all in the same places, and oxygen requirements varied by species.

But he didn’t need specifics. He knew how to increase oxygen to the brain, to ensure extra help. So now, he cut it off.

It took precious seconds. Everything seemed to slow down, or maybe he was just skipping moments, tied to his heart beat. Blink: everyone frozen, blood drops hovering in the air. Blink: bodies falling, eyes rolled back, faces turning bad colors. Blink: the entire arena of warriors was down, scattered, gasping, most already unconscious.

They had a little air. Luke would not kill unnecessarily. And it hadn't been precise. Arthur was unconscious, too, because Luke hadn't been able to aim it, and fuck a grown man was heavier than Luke realized.

John was still conscious. That had been a gamble; he was a god, and he may breathe, but he could resist this human spell. Unfortunately, thanks to Hastur, so could Charlie Dowd.

Luke wriggled, shifted, dug his heels into the sand and struggled out from under Arthur Lester (who was snoring again). His head felt like a thousand little hooks had found it, each one sharp and yanking. He had to keep everyone unconscious. Had to.

John was doing everything in his power to just… stop Dowd from doing more damage. Luke tried to look, and his gaze and his power slid off; whatever protections Dowd had, Luke could not take him down. But looking like that, Luke could see tendrils, dark gold magic, reaching down from the King. There was no quarter given. They had to win this, for real.

Dowd got his arm loose again and swung the mace.

John took the hit, then took the mace.

Dowd growled like an animal and fully focused on John, and Luke couldn’t see what he did, but ichor flew. John bellowed in pain.

Luke stood, his head a thousand pounds, and walked toward them.

John roared. In the mostly asleep arena, it rumbled, rattled, shocked. Dowd screeched like some kind of ancient dinosaur.

Those tendrils—

Luke had one shot, and he took it. He gathered himself, ran, and leaped.

John startled badly as Luke climbed him, using those many uncountable limbs as hand and footholds, over John’s asymmetrical shoulder, until he came face-to-face with Charlie Dowd.

Luke was quick. He’d always been quick.

Dowd was quick, and wrenched his other arm free and raised his mace.

Luke was quicker, and pulled off Dowd’s mask.

Under it, Dowd was pale, gray, ragged. His lips were cracked, and his nose had been broken and not set right. His eyes—wide and insane, then wide and horrified—looked like they belonged to a man who hadn’t slept in a year.

Luke hit him with the spell.

Dowd went down like a chump, eyes rolled back.

John panted, shaking.

“Down,” hissed Luke. “They’re stirring. Get down, damn it!”

John hesitated. Looked toward Arthur.

“Down!” said Luke.

John sighed. “Don’t fuck it up,” he muttered, plucked Luke off, placed him on the sand, and then dramatically and with much flailing flopped onto his back.

And just like that Luke was the last one standing.

The arena broke into howls.

Luke turned, panting, inundated by a thousand thousand voices, and looking directly at the King in Yellow, held the mask up over his head.

[chapter seventeen] [masterpost]

[timaeusterrored]

(One Band, A Girl, and a bar)

“Why is that fair? Why do you get Nancy?”

“Because I’m gonna need her support for when we go through our messy divorce and I start crying in front of cameras. Someone is going to have to tell them to fuck off!”

Nancy, Denny, Henry, and Rogue had an on going bet that Kerry and Johnny were going to get married one day. Before that, obviously, they have to figure out who gets what in the inevitable divorce.

“I already said, I get Denny and Nancy, you get Henry and the apartment, and Rogue comes to my place every other week!” Kerry argued, his face bright over the fact that Johnny was taking this seriously. It was difficult to argue about divorce when you were sitting in his lap though, arm around his shoulders and his arm around your waist. But so was the life of Kerry Eurodyne.

“Wait wait wait. Why does Rogue have to be split custody?” Johnny asked, his hand resting on Kerry’s hip, the other hand holding a beer on his knee.

“Because I want her but you’d actually fight me for her so she doesn’t have a choice in the matter.” Kerry explained.

“But what if I wanna live with Kerry full time?” Rogue asked, earning an offended glare. “Just saying, his house is the fun house.”

“There’s no way in hell you are actually getting involved with this.” Johnny argued, making Kerry laugh loudly.

“Oh absolutely I am. If you bring me into this, I’m getting involved, and I wanna live with Ker.” Rogue had her head rested in Nancy’ lap, the two laid out on the couch.

“Henry, back me up here. Since I get you.” Johnny turned to where Henry was getting another beer, and trying to hide his laughter.

“Sorry man.. I think I got stuck with you because I’d rather live with Ker too.” Kerry fist bumped him, then got shoved off of Johnny’s lap.

“Awww baby.. guess we’ll just have to make up. Let’s not fight in front of the kids now.” Kerry innocently rested his chin on Johnny’s knee, staring up at him.

“Okay this is getting dangerously close to a public blow job. We have bedrooms for a reason.” Denny stated from her spot tucked behind Nancy. Henry came over and she laid her legs over his lap.

“Awww Dad and Dad made up, does this mean we can stay?” Henry asked, grinning over at Johnny. The man was obviously a sucker for the face Kerry was pulling.

“Fine. But if we get married, we aren’t divorcing. You’re stuck with me. Cry in front of cameras all you want.” Johnny let Kerry back into his lap, and let him steal his cigarette.

“Whipped.” Rogue muttered.