#foreigners god closely followed by sedated

[ironmandeficiency]

the hobbit + hozier songs

characters included: kíli, bilbo, dwalin, thorin, nori, bofur, ori, fíli, dori, tauriel

word count: 1166

a/n: the amazing and precious @wordbunch inspired me to write these bc of her lotr/th characters as taylor swift songs posts & i couldn't be more excited to finally post this labor of love!! thank you bestie for listening to me scream abt this for nearly two months lol

kíli: foreigner’s god

he loves outside of his race and this fact causes undue scorn to be thrown at his feet. it’s unheard of for almost any dwarf, let alone one from the line of durin, to do such a thing. this does not deter him - it empowers him; if his heart could go against the traditions forged into his bones, molten in his hot blood, how could it not be true? the strength of his love is what helps him ignore the doubts shouted by the prejudice plaguing those who know nothing of his heart. that, and the sound of your laughter at his antics, the soft smiles only given to him when he’s being a little too charming… he could go on.

bilbo: like real people do

as much flack as bilbo gets from the company for not being conventionally tough, he’s not weak by any means. he’s familiar with the pain of loss, and how the ways one tries to rise above the grief that follows aren’t always savory. he knows there’s a respect to be found in the absence of prying questions, choosing simply to coexist in the feelings and allow answers to come in their own sweet time. he’ll put some tea on to cook and scrounge up some leftovers from the previous meal, sitting beside you and letting the comfort flow naturally, his soft lips soothing the most tender aches.

dwalin: work song

just looking at him, you wouldn’t think dwalin a sap. but with his insanely strong sense of loyalty and stalwart dedication, he can’t be anything but. he’s faced down innumerable evils in his time, braved the fiercest of storms that many of his comrades didn’t; none of them even come close to keeping him from you. your arms welcome him home without question after each fight he braves, and your letters tucked into secret compartments in his armor keep him warm between embraces. he’ll read them by the fire every night when he’s away, every gentle word carrying his mind away from thoughts of the day’s turmoil.

thorin: sedated

this sweet, sad man doesn’t think he deserves good things in life. this, unfortunately, includes having someone love him despite his flaws and past mistakes. he couldn’t resist admitting his feelings for you and was ridiculously shocked that you reciprocated & allowed him to love you. on nights when he feels his failures deeper, he’ll try to convince you that he doesn’t deserve you. vitriol will escape from worried lips and terrified heart, piercing you in the way only a lover knows how. a soft kiss, gentle words, and a few strokes through his hair will soothe these wounds from him for a time and allow him some of the peace he’s fought to find, but doesn’t always believe is earned.

nori: it will come back

it was decades since the last time nori thought of love, even longer since he believed himself worthy of it. meeting you only solidified his disbelief; how could someone look at him and see someone that deserved such a pure thing, after everything he’s done in his life? he’s stolen, lied, cheated, and killed to survive (and sometimes not for mere survival). his attempts to spurn you away from him only increased your determination to break through the fortress he built around himself. he could only be strong against your advances for so long before he crumbled, reluctantly accepting the love and peace and safety you offered so freely.

bofur: nobody

bofur’s done a lot in his time. he was born in the blue mountains, a colony that never seemed to find the prosperity needed to do more than simply survive. he is a brother, uncle, cousin, friend, toymaker, miner, member of the great company that reclaimed erebor. but through all his adventures and hardships, he never lost his playful streak. he wants to have fun with who he loves, wants a little bit of mischief to make his laugh louder and brighter. bofur is a fun-loving soul who, despite his wandering past, will always choose you over anywhere that you’re not.

ori: francesca

ori’s life has never been a peaceful one. being raised by dori and being followed by the whispers of his late amad’s reputation (not to mention nori’s) without a mountain to call home, it weighed on his shoulders. even his craft, the pride of every dwarrow worth their beard, happened to be one seen as miniscule in importance compared to smithing. every moment spent with his one, doing anything or nothing at all, eases the burden he carries and makes every moment of strife worth it just to be with the soul made to mirror his.

fíli: i, carrion (icarian)

your love for him seems almost too good to be true, the remnants of stories told in dusty tomes written by those with far more eloquence than he can claim to possess. that being said, he is definitely not one to look a gift boar in the mouth. he relishes in each tender moment, every second spent in your presence that carries him far beyond the constraints life has placed upon him. but he recognizes that life isn’t always so simple, retreating into your arms and wishing that everything around you both just disappears. there’s always reality, waiting patiently outside of your chambers for one faulty misstep to throw you both askew. that’s why he dedicates himself to showing you that if life does what it does best and deals harsh blows, he will be there for you through it all.

dori: shrike

dori never had time for love; he had two brothers to protect, one more wily than the other was young. his focus was on getting his brothers through the days, putting food on their plates and the semi-frequently used stash of bail money well-stocked. he allowed his feelings for his one to fall to the wayside in the name of preservation. he ignored their call for decades and braved out the pain that came with such a silence. he begged for his one’s forgiveness every time they called for him. but once the mountain was reclaimed and his brothers safe, he yearned for what he could have had. he would approach his one with much regret and sorrow for the time lost, but a pure hope that they could find forgiveness in their heart for him.

tauriel: unknown/nth

to earn her love is a feat unlike that which the world has known for a long time. being seen as worth all these mortal struggles and painful toils in the eyes of an elf, let alone one as fierce as tauriel, is quite the achievement to anyone outside looking in. to the red-haired warrior in question, though, giving her love to you has the same unthinking ease as breathing; it’s beyond instinct to do and just as necessary to her survival. you’re worth every century spent alone, every moment after knowing you spent away from you.

[rosewaterandivy]

caught in the throes

Summary: Were you praying at the Lares shrine? || He supposes it could've gone better. || a crawl til dawn blurb

Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!reader

WC: 522

Warnings/Themes: 18 +, MINORS DNI. Series contains graphic depictions of violence and sex. Psychological horror/trauma, botched forced sterilization, abortion, memory loss, body horror, dark and sacrilegious themes, and mutual corruption.

A/N: been missing my babies, so i figured a blurb was in order.

Please do not interact if you aren’t 18+.

Nota bene: Reblogging, commenting, and liking my work is always appreciated; reposting, however, is not.

Enjoy! 💜

series masterlist | playlist | currently spinning:

TO: DIRECTOR OWENS

FROM: ██████████ █████

ACTION: EXTRACTION 

STATUS: COMPLETED

4 JAN 1996

SUBJECT: Operation successful. Team apprehended the volatile subject with minimal injuries incurred. Subject had to be sedated for transport and has remained stable on board. En route to base; anticipated arrival 0800. 

Bruises bloom on her cheekbones, mottled and purple and he knows they’ll be gone by wheels down. Aside from a few scrapes and bruises, she remains serene and maybe it’s the cryo talking but he’s never seen her that beautiful. But it’s a tragic kind of beauty, like Ophelia in the river hair tangled among the waterlilies. In the back of his mind, the dark depths of his heart he’s always known that when the reaper comes for her, it would be a fool’s errand; beauty like that is too cutting to be buried under a tombstone.

The jet remains quiet, the steady pulse of machinery and coiled tension in the cabin. He can sense Hop’s apprehension as he steps toward him. A few steps closer and then:

“Don’t,” He warns. 

Robin perks up at that, her lip thankfully clotting now, shouldn’t have ever been in the field but here they were. And it had been them, of fucking course who else would it be, that had taken most of the licks; her assaults always had a flair for the dramatic. Rob huffs a disbelieving laugh as Hop comes to a halt several feet away; and oh, he’s never loved them so much.

Love, the word feels foreign on his tongue. Love, it’s a complicated thing. He knows what he has with Rob is a forever deal - a sister, or as close as he would get to one now, and the father he never quite had. The pair of them seeing her that feral, well… it was upsetting to say the least. Since Steve’s rescue, they’d created some semblance of family, or normalcy in what could only be described as a clusterfuck of a situation. But he knew that the hollow ache in his chest wasn’t matched by anyone at present. 

Hop, bless him, has always been careful - with his words and his actions, always slow to judge and never one to assume. 

“Steve,” his voice is soft and low, soothing, “Ya need anything?” 

The thought is nice, and he knows the old man means to help but there’s nothing to be done. He knew in completing this extraction, the one favor he’d needed from Hop, that there was a chance she’d be too far gone; who’s to say that the miracles worked by intensive therapy and a cocktail of meds could be successful again?

And god, he could kick himself - he really could, but he’d already lost so much time. Months gone to cryo, then recovery and therapy, followed by that joke of a recruitment attempt from Owens. He could fall to his knees in tears from all the years wasted in not having her. But he was desperate to get her back, he would claw his way to hell and back if it meant she was safe. 

He runs a thumb down the slope of her neck in thought, “No, I’m good.” 

He watches as her jaw tenses and god, she always was a teeth grinder, wasn’t she? He can feel rather than see Hop nod and fuck off back to the cockpit, leaving him and Rob to their silent observations.

Everyone wants to be saved, right?

Only time would tell.

[boop-le-snoot]

PARTY FAVOURS I CHAPTER 17

First time reader click here

TWs/Summary: Feelings! PTSD! Anxiety! Clint! Team bonding! Reader is a badass 😍 And comic book medical accuracy .

Un-beta-ed.

"It smells like a liquor factory in here," Bucky's voice came from the kitchenside, followed by noises of the team's arrival. Via portal, because the elevator made zero noise.

"I suggest you avoid the area around me and Clint. It might be contaminated." My voice sounded sharp to my own ears. I sat in silence for several hours, waiting for the team's return, while Clint restlessly dozed next to me.

My words caused the team to freeze in their tracks, owlishly blinking at me and at Clint laying sprawled on the floor, surrounded by plastic bags and biological hazard containment units. Tony's helmet swiftly covered his face - I heard muffled sounds coming from within, probably Friday's explanations. In seconds, the helmet retracted, showing an extremely worried Tony.

"How do you feel, Princess? Any weakness, any pain?"

"No symptoms, Tony. Just a fuckton of anxiety," I admitted, avoiding the concerned looks of Tony's teammates. "I almost drowned the room in alcohol but warned you just to be safe. Also, your alien pathogen protocol sucks."

"We made it so unauthorized personnel wouldn't get their hands on Thor's or Loki's blood samples," Bruce supplied meekly from where he was leaning against Steve, wearing a tattered hoodie and his hulk-out pants. "Off to decon we go," The scientist sighed. "Friday, code seven-zero-three-five-five. Pull up the data you gathered. In the shower." The man was exhausted, yet the call of science seemed to give Bruce a tiny energy boost. With newfound determination, he waddled to the communal showers, the rest of the team in tow.

Natasha's stare was truly unnerving. I was fully aware she and Barton had long history; the fact that I had to respond to one of the deadliest assassins if I had made even the slightest mistake - anxiety mixed with blind terror in me. I fought the nausea and the headache, focusing on Clint's hair between my fingers. His steady breathing.

He'd be okay. He had to be okay.

"You did great, Princess," The time passed in a blink. Bruce's warm hands were encompassing mine - gently pulling me away from Clint. I looked at Banner's face with unseeing eyes.

"I heard what Friday said and I can only applaud your quick thinking. You saved his life," Strange, sounding uncharacteristically quiet and bashful, parroted Bruce, hovering behind the scientist. His angular face was contorted in sorrow. "I believe I should apologize for dropping Barton onto you like that. I underestimated the extent of his injuries." The man sounded so, so guilty.

"I saved his life," I repeated in disbelief. Surely they were exaggerating.

"You did, malysh. For that, I am grateful," Natasha's hand found my own, squeezing briefly, before following Steve that had picked up a still-sleeping Clint, to, presumably, carry him to medical. "Come on, Banner, we need you."

Banner gave me a brief squeeze of his own, taking his leave, scurrying after Romanoff. I was left awkwardly standing in front of Strange, both of us disheveled and dazed.

"I ordered pizza," I said, just to fill the grim silence.

"Okay," Just like that, he snapped out of his trance, sitting down on the couch and picking up his food.

The others trickled in, Bucky, Pete, Thor, Loki, Sam, Wanda, Pietro. I saw it all like it was tinted by a thick fog. Their words made a jumbled cacophony when they reached my ears. Tony's arm around me - that woke me up, slightly. I focused on my favourite thing in the world - the faint smell of him, a mix of soap, machine oil and expensive cologne.

"She's shellshocked," Bucky suddenly said, pointing at me.

"No," I frowned. "No. I may be a fumbling idiot but I don't have PTSD."

Tony's breath stuttered in his chest. Promptly, I was turned around, a pair of intelligent brown orbs sharply gazing into my eyes. "Princess?"

"I'm so glad y'all are alright," I choked out, fisting the cotton of his shirt in my palm. "Even Stephen the asshole. Team bonding wouldn't be the same without his sarcasm," Hurrying to hide the fact that I was scared shitless, I did what I do best. I joked.

"Gods, you two are really a match made in heaven," Wanda's tired voice had 110% eye-roll in it. "So much self-deprication, almost as much as brilliance." The witch usually refrained from commenting on people's private thoughts. Usually, but not that day.

"I am relieved to know you hold me in high regards," Stephen's sarcastic remark made it's way around a mouthful of pizza.

Bucky's phone beeped. "They're saying Clint will be out in a few hours. No permanent damage, the gash on his leg won't scar and he's demanding Tony buy his saviour a cake," With a smile, the soldier read the text's contents out loud. "Also, the resident doc wants to hire you." Bucky pointed at me with a teasing grin.

"I, umm, I," Stammering, way to go. "I just - uh, I googled and I improvised? I'm not a doctor or a scientist, I'm a high school student," I replied, voice raising half an octave higher.

"Told you Tony, she's a friggin' genius," Peter sounded way too smug for someone who had a bruise half the size of his head.

"That she is," Tony's voice... Was different. It was honeyed and warm, blanketing me, surrounding me with safety. His arms tightened around me - not uncomfortably so, just enough to ground his presence in my personal space. I snuggled into him happily - he didn't mind at all. The cold glow and faint humming of his arc reactor calmed me. "Friday, cake. Princess cake from the bakery on Seventeenth."

Wow, Tony knew my favourite kind of cake. That was amazing.

"On it, boss." The AI immediately replied. "Well done, Miss." Friday addressed me with the same tone I heard in the lab. Gentle and understanding. It was so very strange.

We mulled around the living room until the pizza was gone and half the occupants were snoring away, dead where they sat. It was an unanimous decision to pull out the unfolding couch and form a cuddle pile of sorts - after such a long and grueling mission with one of their own facing the brink of death, all the superheroes were more than a little unsettled. I didn't exactly know where I fit in that. Obviously, all of them were close in one way or another. Even Loki and Stephen, seeing them get cussed out by Thor for attempting to leave was kind of amusing.

But it got me wondering. Maybe they felt like imposters, too? After all, I wasn't special. Loki wasn't considered a good guy. And Stephen was too much of a lone wolf. All three of us were comfortable alone, used to dealing on our own.

One look from Tony, Stark-patented puppy eyes, and I was making space for myself and for Stephen. Even if Loki insisted on grumbling all the way through, his exhaustion showed in the way he leaned on Thor's arm, using a weakly glimmering spell to summon himself a book and then closing his eyes for a moment.

Muted cheering broke out the moment elevator doors opened, showcasing a pale but smiling Clint held up on both sides by Natasha and Steve, Bruce half asleep on the blonde's other side.

"Looking pretty good for a dead bitch," Clint grinned in my direction.

I couldn't resist the bait. The boomer knew his memes, after all. "She's alive!"

He patted my leg, making his way to a free spot on the ginormous sofa bed. "Aw, pizza," He groused, spying the empty boxes.

"Should arrive in ten minutes," Bucky quipped, waving his phone. Then, the brunette super-soldier looked at me pointedly. "We usually order double after long missions."

"Duly noted, y'all hungry peoples." I said, filing it away for later. Thinking about more missions, more near-death experiences wasn't something I wanted to handle that very moment.

"So, uh, what exactly happened? My memory is pretty spotty," Clint demanded once he got his hands on some food.

"I also need to know. You're going to have to sign a statement and a mission report," Natasha stated apologetically.

I looked at her, confused. "Like... How many details do you need?"

Tony shifted beside me uncomfortably. I put a steadying hand on his leg - my palm was immediately dwarfed by his own. Natasha gave him a Look. "Fury's eyes only, but SHIELD needs to know how you figured out to neutralise a potential alien threat. Bruce ran some tests and this pathogen is... Pretty nasty, to say the least. It has the survivability to be classified as a potential weapon." Natasha's voice was apologetic, once more.

What have I gotten myself into? I was just trying to save a friend. "First of all, I'm not working for Men in Black, like, ever," I made the point to look her in the eyes. A brief moment later, she nodded. Tony relaxed, exhaling soundly. "Okay, get your reading glasses on. It went like this..." I retold the story, taking careful note to voice my thought processes as much as I remembered them. Save for a few surprised gasps and Tony haphazardly kissing the top of my head, the team gave me no interruptions.

Bruce was the first one to react once I was done. "But... How did you think of bloodletting? It's such an unusual solution," He mumbled more to himself.

"I've watched enough horror movies to know better than to introduce a foreign bacteria, such as antibiotics, to a person with an alien infection," I deadpanned, spying a satisfied smile on Stephen's face. "Worst case scenario, the substitution of infected blood with healthy would have diluted the amount of parasites or deflected their attention from eating away Clint's nerve endings. Him going bazinga from pain was my main concern," I admitted, the archer's pained cries once again filling my ears. The memory was still fresh.

"That makes sense," Bruce nodded.

"And what would you have done?" I asked, unable to withhold my curiosity.

"Sedated Clint while I examine the specimens," Banner replied with the obvious. "Then figure out how to cure the infection."

I nodded along slowly. "I considered that option but ultimately, I was too chicken to entertain the possibility of the parasites interacting with heavy sedatives. Fentanyl affects some of the blood components the parasites eat so only God knows how it might have ended."

Banner was impressed, that much was obvious. Tony's lips once again landed on the crown of my head, gentle and warm. More and more people in the room were giving me impressed, happy, grateful looks. It was strange and I squirmed in my spot, putting the half-eaten pizza slice back in the box, Steve immediately eyeing it in contemplation.

"Have at it, you human garbage disposal," I muttered, laying down comfortably. I was still shivering from the adrenaline rush and the soft blanket cocoon I shared with Tony and Stephen - their combined body heat under it - called to me like a siren.

"Are you well?" Loki noticed my state, casting a dark look over the edge of his book.

"Yeah, just cold. Us humans shiver when coming off an adrenaline rush," I remarked absently, pressing myself closer to Tony.

The engineer laid down, spooning me, tangling our legs together. We slept like that, all over each other, every time I stayed in his bed. It felt comfortable, like home, and nobody seemed to mind. Peter and Wanda, already snoozing away, were in a similarly indisposed state, octopus-ing their nearest teammates. Friends. Family.

My eyes drooped. My chest was about to burst with an odd sort of content - quiet, steady and welcoming. Tony's beard tickled my neck, breaths coming in soft puffs against my nape, spreading warmth all over me.

And there was something - someone warm in front of me, too, I could smell the sandalwood and spices of his cologne. Abandoning all reservations, I shamelessly wrapped both of my arms around a larger, more muscular one, taking note to avoid Stephen's scarred, sensitive hands. The flat of his tummy under my palm was rising and falling steadily, his breathing almost in sync with Tony's and mine.

All of us were safe and alive. It mattered to me, perhaps, more than I'd ever cared to admit out loud. As much as I refused to let them all in, for real and beyond silly gimmicks, they still wormed their way inside my heart, inside my brain. Not with long discussions and talking feelings - hell no, that's the hard and the boring shit, but with simply their presence.

Hugs. Mario Kart tournaments. Cake after I'd done good at something. Sunday morning pancakes for all. Homework. Sciencing together. Catching up on memes and just watching funny YouTube videos together. Playing Twister and Monopoly.

For the first time in my life, I had a stable presence. I belonged somwhere. It felt too good to deny, so once again, I allowed myself to be selfish.

✨ Taglist of my lovelies ✨ still open.

@another-stark-sub ​ @mostly-marvel-musings  @vozit ​ @littlegasps ​ @pilloclock ​ @shereadsinquiet @downeyreads @hermione-grangers-wife ​ @individualistfem ​ @sleep-i-ness @capbrie @lillsxd @agustdowney @dee-vn @justanotherblonde23 @fanngirl19 @persephonehemingway @softie-socks @schemefrenzy @letsby @cutenessloading

[dario-the-deer]

From the Tongues of Witnesses [pt 4]

[Part 3]

Dario had approached dangerously close to the antagonizing being, watching different avenues of sedation, or attempts at such, take place. His eyes looked up as the fog dissipated in a seemingly ominous departure. The sudden grasp of Milae onto him caused his run to slow considerably, but without a full stop he maneuvered the goat back onto his back, careful not to distract from his end goal. His gaze caught the sight of a dragon carrying a familiar duo of father and daughter with impending impact straight into the beast, along with the image of a young half-breed watching the same in awe out of his peripheral vision.

“Lia-”

The sudden eruption of light and pressure had hit before Dario could even fathom avoiding it. In an instant, he threw himself and Milae to the ground and surrounded the goat with his own body, not knowing if this blast would send the pair flying. The feeling of varying temperatures against his skin was overwhelming, and it didn’t take long before his surroundings fell silent once more. The onset of rain against his skin was almost... refreshing. He situated his body in a way to observe Milae, who was now somewhat responsive and seemingly coherent. Without losing a single moment, the goat returned to his position on Dario’s back, and the deer stood back on his feet and continued towards the last place he could remember seeing the eldest Arnason child. Though it seemed as if the being posed no more threat to the Rebellion, Dario remained cautiously aware of it. There was no telling what would come next.

He could hear the strained cries of Liam Arnason in the distance, and followed until he could see the young half-breed sprinting into the ruins. Dario picked up his pace to get himself into close enough proximity before calling out.

“Liam, I can help, please! Don’t get yourself too close-”

He wasn’t sure if his words were heard -- Liam kept running, as the stag knew he would. He maintained a safe distance behind, ready to aid if something were to transpire. He could still hear the frustrated, tired yelling out of a young man’s mouth; a plea in a tone that was almost foreign coming from Liam.

You two... please, Gods, just be alright.

[addcolortomysky]

1, 9, 20, 22, for ask game!

THANK YOU FOR LETTING ME DO THIS

1. When did you start listening to Hozier?

I don’t remember what year it was, I’m pretty sure I was still in high school, so 2014 at the latest. I was of the mindset that anything played on the radio was trash, because I was a ‘hipster’. So I wasn’t paying enough attention to really notice Take Me to Church. But then I saw the video from The Tonight Show, and Andy stares at the camera at one point, and it was like his eyes burned into my mind and said ‘You Will Hear Me’. I did. After that I heard bits and pieces of the self-titled album, Cherry Wine and Like Real People Do and From Eden mostly. It wasn’t until Nina Cried Power (because by that point I had grown out of the Popular = Inherently Bad mindset) that I was really like ‘holy shit I love this’. And then Wasteland, Baby! happened and became my favorite, and the rest is history. Though, I really didn’t start consciously following and blogging and things until after I saw him live in November, I needed that spiritual jumpstart I think.

9. In your opinion, which song of his is most underrated?

Are you asking me to launch into the Better Love powerpoint??? Because I will. Better Love is a masterwork and deserves far more recognition than it gets, it was the only good thing about that absolutely cursed Tarzan film, and just because it isn’t on one of his releases I feel like it’s passed over very often. Too often. I will also fight over Sedated, Run, and those poor, poor souls that dislike Foreigner’s God.

20. Show us your favorite picture of him.

I have two that aren't memes!!! I love the ethereal ones, as you can probably tell.

22. What’s a song you wish had a music video?

I gotta go with In The Woods Somewhere. The story is so clear, and I can actually see a video in my head, shot-for-shot. Close second is Wasteland, Baby!, because it’s my favorite and I think would lend itself well to a video.

[satan-chillin]

What Is and What Should Be

Summary: The injury is more than a mere connection to Chuck, Sam realizes as he sees various flashes of alternate realities that center around him and Rowena.

(Where the God wound comes to a head within the second and third episodes.)

Also available in Ao3 & FF.net

There’s a sedated air on their way to return to the high school, and all things considered, the atmosphere is pretty lax.

 No one spoke during the entire return trip, and upon their arrival, they go on their separate ways. Dean goes somewhere half-expecting Sam to follow while Cas makes a half-hearted excuse to check on the residents.

 Watching Cas leave after his gaze lingered on Dean’s back makes Sam want to sigh in exasperation for the both of them but mostly for his brother. Really, they need to get their shit together.

 “Yikes,” Belphegor says when he reads the exchange. “Not that I care, but is nobody going to take care of that?”

 “They’re big boys who can handle their quarrel,” Rowena says when Sam thought she was the first to leave them. “Samuel and I have things to discuss.”

 Sam frowns at her, though he’s more startled when she takes his right arm and leads them both away from Belphegor. He’s too exhausted to protest or pry himself from her hold, which is surprising, especially her strength. That, or Sam’s letting her out of his confusion.  

 Then again, this is Rowena he’s talking about.  

 “Rowena?” he finally asks when they stop in front of the school library. “What are we doing here?”

 “Luring the Chief to make out with him somewhere quiet and secluded.”

 Sam blanches and feels warm at the back of his neck. “Wha—”

 Rowena smirks up at him and pulls him inside with her. The room smells musty and the specks of dust are almost visible, but her sudden absence from his side is the first thing he notices.

 “Sit,” she orders, and Sam’s too dumbfounded that he sits at the nearest monobloc.

 While Sam is fully aware that she’s pulling his leg and flirting is second nature with her, he can’t help but be self-conscious when she stands in front of him and gives him a quick glance over.

 Rowena edges closer between Sam’s long, spread legs, and, okay, she’s clearly teasing him if her smirk is to go by, but the twist of anticipation in Sam’s stomach is unmistakable.

 All too quickly, Rowena leans back and crosses her arms. “So you shot Chuck.”

 It takes Sam a swallow and a moment to register what she said. That was intentional, he realizes. She wants to take him off-guard. Rowena raises an eyebrow further up, waiting for an answer.

 “I did,” Sam replies once he’s composed enough.

 “And?”

 “And what?”

 “The wound, Samuel,” she says. “What did you do with it?”

 “I cleaned it with disinfectant.”

 Rowena stares at him a second longer. “That’s it?”

 Sam shrugs his good shoulder.

 Rowena rolls her eyes. “Fine. Show me.”

 Sam hesitates. He remembers when Cas checked on it and the flashes it brought in the forefront of his mind. Sam didn’t have the time to dwell on the images of him with dark eyes and snapping Dean’s neck with his former psychic abilities, but now that he does…

 It’s all behind him now, Sam tries to convince himself. There’s no way that is a future they’re leading on, not when it has been years since he last consumed demon blood.

 Sam falters when he knows it’s not impossible for it to happen again.  

 “Och. I suppose you don’t always get a woman asking you to strip first,” Rowena says, pursing her lips. Her small hands find the buttons of Sam’s shirt, and the next thing he sees is her pushing the flannel back to expose his injured shoulder.

 In a different scenario, Sam is aware that he’ll find it exciting that someone’s taking control over him, but what he feels now is worry.

 Worry that Rowena will see something more terrible, like the injury festering and becoming fatal and will take Sam soon than he expected. Worry that Sam will see more flashes of him drunk on demon blood again and killing Dean and everyone else, like the civilians they’re presently protecting, Cas, Rowena…

 Sam dreads to see a vision of him killing her.

 Rowena murmurs a Latin incantation, and Sam waits for the painful prick on the wound similar to when Cas did it.

 Except the sensation that spreads throughout Sam is a cool wave of magic coming from Rowena’s fingertips, and against his better judgement, Sam relaxes, the weariness from the day seeping into his bones as if preparing him for rest.

 Sam almost melts on the seat, absently noting that Rowena’s incantation shifts to Gaelic. His eyes dart up to Rowena’s face of immense concentration, and Rowena’s purple ones meet his unwaveringly.

 Sam flushes when he recognizes how close they are and makes the mistake of looking at her red, moving lips. There’s something intimate in their present situation that Sam is afraid to voice out since before this, before when—

 There’s no pain to alert him for the tumultuous flashes of visions that assault him.

 Sam sees a sea of green, but it’s the woman that stands perilously at the edge that catches him. It’s Rowena, her red hair cascading on her back and clashing against the whiteness of her dress. She turns around to him with a smile and his name on her lips.

 Sam sees a throne next that is all sharp edges and dark luster. On the throne sits a woman—it’s Rowena, with an obsidian crown atop her head and her dress a heap of black fabric torn at the edges that touches the steps that lead to her. She looks at Sam, and she calls him her king.    

 Sam sees the next scene where Rowena is perched on a chestnut horse, her hair and yellow dress billowing in the wind while she runs freely with her steed. She halts near Sam and waves, sending him a blowing kiss.

 Sam sees an altar with gleaming foreign idols where at their feet is a person kneeling down in a prayer. The silvery veil is flimsy enough to show streaks of scarlet hair. It’s Rowena’s face that greets Sam when she stands, though younger, much younger, and when she finds Sam her smile lights up even her young emerald eyes.

 Sam sees her again, only this time amidst the crowd and under the dim lighting and neon lights. The air is smoky, but like a beacon, Sam spots the red hair and the swaying woman in a skimpy, glittering dress. She’s laughing when she catches Sam’s eyes on her, and with a wink, she beckons him closer while the music plays.

 And Sam gets more flashes that send his mind reeling as if watching multiple channels at once and trying to understand what’s going on in all of them.

 The one thing they shared is Rowena associated in different scenarios, always looking at Sam held with fondness. They’re all her but at the same time not at all.

 “Samuel?” Rowena—his Rowena—speaks, her voice effectively cutting through the flood of images. Her familiar face hovers worriedly over Sam, and it finally occurs to him that she already stopped using her magic. “Are you alright?” she asks gently.

 They might be brief visions, but they’re plenty enough for Sam to know the differences between the Rowena touching his face now and those he saw.

 Sam doesn’t understand still how they all connect with the gunshot wound, but what he saw… they’re an improvement with the first one.

 “I’m fine,” Sam croaks out, unconsciously leaning to her touch. He likes the feeling of her fingers splay across his cheeks. “Just…”

 “What is it, Samuel?”

 Sam sighs and his arms encircle her waist. He pulls her close until his forehead is against the silky fabric of her blouse. He wants her to hold him for a while like this.

 “Of course, dear,” he hears her say, and Sam thinks he must have said his wishes out loud.

 Doesn’t matter if it’s embarrassing. Certainly not when Sam breathes and it’s the smell of lavender and raspberries that fill him.         

  “Earlier, you never told me what you saw,” Rowena says later, during nightfall when everyone turns in, and she and Sam are camped to the tiny space of the chemistry lab.

 Sam can’t will himself to sleep yet, and Rowena doesn’t seem like she’s eager to fall asleep on a threadbare sleeping bag. They’re lying on their side and facing each other, and Sam can see a peek of her bare milky shoulder. He glances away before he can be seen staring.

 Something tells him she already did.

 “Eyes up here, Samuel,” she remarks with a quirk of her mouth. She gets the desired effect to see him blush—Sam’s doing a lot of that in the last ten hours, he notices. “So? What is it?”

 Sam shifts. “I don’t know exactly,” he admits.

 “Can you be more vague?”

 Sam smiles wryly, and, faintly, he wonders how she’ll react if he says he only saw different versions of her. “Thank you, by the way.”

 “I didn’t heal you, Samuel. I only got to sense the strong foreign magic from your wound, which, I suppose you already know without my help.”

 “I didn’t know it has a touch of magic.” Sam is particularly concerned when she said it’s strong, and as much as he hates that there’s a lingering essence of Chuck in the injury, he can’t do anything about it at the present, not when there’s the immediate need to send the souls back to Hell. “Dean doesn’t needle me about it because I told him it’s healing the same way a normal gunshot wound does, but I’m aware that it’s anything but normal. Cas too, I think.”

 Rowena hums and accepts it. “Then you’ll have to let me see that again tomorrow. After we close the rupture.”

 Sam doesn’t like to be reminded of the big day, but at this point, it’s ridiculous of him to think so. Still, there’s anxiety whether they can do it. It’s not that he doesn’t believe in Rowena, but a lot can go wrong in the plan no matter how solid it was made. And for this one, any form of mistake can be catastrophic. It’s not just their lives on the line here.

 “You’re too young to worry too much, Samuel,” Rowena says. She reaches up to flick his forehead, dissolving the deep frown that appeared on Sam. “I’m the only one who can do the spell perfectly.”

 Sam doesn’t disagree. He might as well be speaking to the strongest witch of the era, and she’s right there beside him, camping on a high school when the world is possibly a frail barrier away from the end of it.

 “I can’t help it,” he says. “Overthink, I mean.”

 “What, part of the big brooding man charm?”

 “It shouldn’t be charming, but I guess you can say that,” Sam humors her. He wants to avoid thinking about tomorrow, and if there will be one after. He wants to stay optimistic like the first day, that they can do this, and once all is done and with Chuck finally gone, it’ll be alright again in this world.

 So Sam says, tactlessly, the first unrelated thing that enters his mind: “So you and Ketch.”

 Sam immediately knows it’s the wrong thing to say when Rowena actually looks delighted. “What about us?”

 “You know,” he says vaguely, already regretting mentioning it.

 “Ah.” Rowena raises an eyebrow, lips curling to a triumphant smirk of sorts. “Why, jealousy is unbecoming of you, Samuel.”

 “I’m not—you know what? Forget I said it.”

 “Hm. Hard not to,” she says with a lilt in her voice. “Especially when we’re lying here mere inches from each other. What’s a girl to think, Sam?”

 Sam can’t stop the small huff of laugh that escapes him. “I don’t know. How about thinking someone just cared?”

 For a millisecond, she looks startled at the admission. “Truly? Huh. That’s… touching, but I’d say that they forget I can take care of myself.”   

 “You know it’s not about that. It’s—You know Ketch. You mentioned that he tortured you before, and that wasn’t really a healthy start.”

 “And you think I deserve someone better?” Rowena snorts. “Do you propose that you’re better, Samuel?”

 Sam tries not to flinch at her bluntness. No, he doesn’t think that—in fact, if one is to ask that ugly part of him, it’ll say that he’s even worse; Sam has hurt and killed numerous times, and he has a hand in a couple of deaths. And for what? To save Dean and those he loves.

 Sam is no better than any killer out there: he merely finds the right justification and with the power of ‘the greater good’ behind his decisions.

 “I’m not. Better, I mean,” he answers, though he’s unable to meet her eyes.

 Something softens in her features like she knows exactly what’s going on inside Sam’s head. “If you think you’re no better, then I wonder what you think of me,” she says quietly. She’s thoughtful for a moment, lips twitching. “They say that we’re more inclined to people we think we deserve, which is why the company a person keeps says a lot about someone.”

 Sam shifts on his back, gaze at the bluish ceiling above. That sounds about right, he thinks wryly, it explains a couple of things.

 He hears the rustle of blanket and finds Rowena mimicking his position. “Ketch could have been a fine distraction. Strapping and a capable man like him,” Rowena says wistfully after a while. “Though if I’m to choose someone to spend the rest of my time with before the end of the world, I know it won’t be him.”

 Sam is aware what’s left unsaid, and he considers saying the same, but he’ll be lying, not because he doesn’t want it to be her but rather he knows he’s one of the people who won’t accept the end.

 He’ll be one of the people who will do everything to stop it.

 The fact that Rowena is here means she’s that kind of person too.

 Sam’s right hand moves and latches on to a smaller one with fingers seeking to entwine with his. Sam turns up his palm and weaves their fingers together.

 He falls asleep holding her hand and to the lull of various visions not quite unrelated to what he saw earlier, except there’s more to them now, more detailed with intimate moments like Sam holding a version of Rowena, kissing her, falling asleep beside her, eating together with her, laughing with her, and sitting side by side watching the sunset with her.   

 For once, there’s clarity in the scenes as if they’re painting a picture or telling a series of stories to him, and Sam readily welcomes them and acknowledges that he’s living in one of them at the present.   

  The funny thing is, Sam’s right in the end: nothing ever goes as planned.

 He takes comfort on the fact that they’re not scrapping the bottom of the barrel yet; there’s a Plan B, and that in itself keeps him optimistic still.

 He can do this, he convinces himself while most of the texts on the note fly over his head. He’s distracted by the noises coming from outside, coming from the rupture. Sam should be out there with Dean, fighting.

 But Sam’s needed here too, with Rowena, and he knows she’s right that magic is fighting too.

 What Sam doesn’t understand is how he’s suitable for this kind of offense as well. The closest to magic he did are the exorcisms here and there and the psychic abilities he used to have.

 “I can’t memorize it within a short time,” he admits with a regrettable sigh. “I’ll still help you, but I don’t think I can do much with the spell.”

 Sam expects her to roll her eyes at him and tuts that it’s not the right time for Sam to bring out his dramatic insecurities. However, Rowena merely blinks at him patiently and with a look of understanding.

 “How’s your wound?” Rowena asks instead, incongruously.

 “It’s not hurting.” Not since Rowena’s magic touched it, he thinks. “Rowena, what does it have to—”

 She looks relieved. “Good. Let’s hope it won’t act up at the wrong time then.” She fusses around the makeshift altar and places the ground myrrh in the bowl.

 “Rowena—” Sam begins.

 “Och. No second-guessing yourself now, Samuel,” she tells him. She stares at Sam and holds his gaze firmly. “I meant what I said when you’re the closest to a seasoned witch I got, and I don’t throw that line carelessly, Sam. You have the right aptitude for witchcraft, and with the right guidance, we can make a skillful warlock out of you.”

 Sam considers her words. He’s absently fascinated with witchcraft, especially the kind used by the very few white witches he knows, but with Rowena, a powerful witch, throwing the possibility right at his face that he has never thought of before makes him think of what-ifs.

 After his addiction to demon blood and the good that it did him, Sam learned to be averse with his own capabilities despite knowing his psychic powers were a part of him since he was an infant. He hates his abilities due to the unsavory remembrance that comes along with them, of the beings like Azazel and Ruby that he wants to desperately forget, and of the horrible phase he went through.   

   But what if he could use them for good? What if he turns it to something positive that can empower not only the broken part of him that holds all the blood on his hands but others as well, others who need his help?

 Sam is barely aware when Rowena crosses the distance between them. She steps inside his bubble with certainty in her steps and determined eyes.

 She reaches for his face, gingerly turning him to her. “You can do this, Sam. I believe in you.”

 And, oh, she means that. She’s not saying it for the sake of snapping him out of his nerves.

 There’s a quake that breaks the moment, but it doesn’t lessen one bit the surge of resolute Sam feels. He nods at her with new resolve, and Rowena smirks at him with pride.

 Rowena holds up her hands at him and Sam readily joins theirs together.

 He and Rowena can do this.

  Sam understands only half of the words he’s uttering, but he feels it.

 He’s unsure what ‘it’ is, yet he’s confident that something is happening now, with the rupture, with him, with Rowena, with the spell they’re performing, with the connection between them, with the atmosphere that surrounds them, and with the wound on his shoulder.

 And Sam might be imagining it—call it wishful thinking, even—but he thinks somewhere distant, something is happening to Chuck too.

 Then all of a sudden it starts to go wrong, and when Sam calls Dean to ask what happened and racks his brain for the remaining options they have if there’s any at all, Rowena is removing the last resurrection sachet from her shoulder and claims that only her death will only fix the situation.

  Sam breathes in and out.

 She’s testing him, and he knows it. Rowena knows that the sure-fire way to egg Sam on to kill her is to throw at his face the stakes, and what greater stake than the world is there for Sam other than Dean?

 Rowena knows them, knows that they’ll do anything for each other and damn everything else if it’s Dean’s or Sam’s life on the line.

 Sam breathes in and out.

 “No,” he says, and there’s no surprise in her.

 She thinks she did it, that she could push him.

 Sam’s hand remains steady on the knife, and there’s a force in Rowena’s grip that’s pulling enough for the pointed end of the blade to press dangerously against her stomach.

 The flashes of scenes with Rowena in them returned ominously, and they feature death and blood and a lot of regrets. It’s only about her again, except this time she’s dying over and over in different ways and with Sam unable to do anything about them.

 Sam breathes in and out.

 He drops the knife and lets it clatter on the ground.

 “You have to kill me, Sam.” There are tears when she hisses at him. “It’s only you who will bring my permanent demise.”

 “No,” Sam insists. He holds her arms, and he wants to shake her if that’s what it has to take to make her see sense. “There has to be another way. I know it.”

 He chalks it up to denial, this conviction, or perhaps it’s the refusal to accept her request, or his unpreparedness to lose her.

 Maybe it’s all at once.

 No. Sam won’t lose her today.   

 His wound begins to sear, though there’s no intense pain. It aches though only to make itself known as if wanting Sam to acknowledge it in the middle of the turbulent emotions he’s experiencing.

 It’s a subconscious of sorts when he finally does.

 It is a pure force, a pure white bolt of energy that unfurls from his shoulder. Sam thinks that this is how being hit by a strike of lightning must have felt like, only it doesn’t kill him but rather opens his consciousness, his body, and his mind like it flays every atom that makes up Sam Winchester.

 There’s an outside pull, and Sam sees a series of links made up of bright purple hue that insistently seeks to make a connection with him. They’re all Rowena and her magic, and Sam allows them, reaching and enveloping all that force in a blanket of his own making as his attempt to protect her, effectively binding the two forces together into one.

 A gasp resounds from the plane outside of where Sam is in. He crosses the threshold and returns back to the present by simply opening his eyes.

 He sees Rowena—not only the Rowena in his arms and pressed against his chest but all the versions of her across multiple realities who are at death’s door: the older one to the younger one; the one with curly red hair to the one with long flowing block locks; the one with emerald eyes to the one with hazel ones; the one who acts on the stage to the one who is homely—

 Life breathes them back, and they wake simultaneously with sharp exhales.  

 He sees himself, too, as the person who loves the same woman who is apparently brought back by a miracle: the daughter of a high lord, the Queen of Hell, the head priestess of the gods, the woman who enjoys her newfound freedom, the woman he randomly met in a bar—

 There’s a multitude of him and her, and yet Sam sees the two of them more clearly than ever.

 When Sam kisses her, the same thing happens across several space and time.  

                         Sam feels weightless, in the sense that he no longer feels the gravity of the situation.

 He snaps, and solely through his will, he lets the chaos right itself.

 The fabric of the universe morphs into what it thinks will appease him, like a creation that can bend and stretch itself in all directions to satisfy its own creator’s wishes.

 “Thank you,” he whispers to no one and to everything there is.

 For now, he savors the time he’s given with the woman he wants to spend it with.    

fin

[for-peace-war]

[Part 1/3]: The Eye of the Storm

I’m going to be doing the next 3 hour writes on different portions of the field after the first event.  Different format, but since the Hyrkanian outrider’s segment won’t be until Wednesday it’ll let me catch up on things!

THE TEMPLE OF LONGING.

Follows: Prologue.

Follows Part I.

Follows Part II.

Follows Part III.

Part IVa.

GORALUS THE GUNDERMAN glared grimly at the girl.

It was the first sandstorm he had experienced.  If Bori blessed him, it would be the last.  Outside the palanquin, winds crashed against its heavy, oaken sides. He had seen Argossian phalanxes shattered under lesser force—that this Turanian carriage withstood it, well, that was a miracle.  Goralus had never been a man to believe in miracles.  But then, he had been forced to reconsider what he did believe in.

For he had heard it—this storm—shout its name: Baal’ka.

There were men that broke under pressure, he knew.  It didn’t make them weak—it was just the point they snapped. Strong, reliable, good men, who after enough time—broke. Was be breaking?  It would have been the only way to make sense of it.  Why else was he there?  Why else did he sit across from a veiled concubine, within the belly of a rampaging god?

The Bossonian hastatus, Arestes, had been swift to rush back for their companions. That was good training—a good man, he. During his fight with the big blackamoor blademaster, whose blood was still staining his spear, Arestes had dropped his famed Bossonian bow and charged into the fray.  Together, with the stalwart princeps, Bellona, had they broken the Turanian guard and sent them running.  It had been a close fight: the Hyrkanian outrider was still absent, but save for the loss of one of the velites, they had managed to pull through.

But pull through to what, he wondered.  Just what the hell was going on?

“You should relax,” the girl across from him said.  She had not stopped reclining against her cushions since he entered.  “This storm will not pass for some time.”

“Is it of your making?” He asked.

She smiled behind her veil.  He could partially make out her lips, but it was her eyes—green and blue—that revealed her amusement.  “No.”

Despite himself, he believed her. But he didn’t like it—didn’t like her.  Her voice was too easy and her manner, too relaxed. Arestes had been right upon finding her, alone, among the concubinage’s carriages:  you speak as though you are no longer the satrap’s slave.

Her confidence.  Her poise. Where did they come from?

Goralus did not look at her overly long.  Though glaring seemed to be the best way to regard her, it was of little effect.  This woman, with the white snake wound about her arm, seemed the more dangerous of the two animals before him. He had seen women that were like her at the camp. Mirza Hashem, the legatus’ Iranistani lapdog, had brought more than enough fleas to suck the blood and life out of men. But she was different than those—different even than the concubines they had found in the other palanquins.

She had a plan.

He hated people that had those, too.

This woman was a creature that had been forged for pleasure.  He knew a good weapon and the sign of a master craftsman: it had to be weighted right, sit in the hand properly.  Each curve she possessed was made just for that: her full breasts, her rounded hips.  There was softness to her that seemed almost a lie in a way, which made him think that whatever dark god had crafted her—well, it did so with the express purpose of making the poison seem pleasure.  She didn’t make men want to fuck her—she made men need to.

His will was tested even in that moment.  He resisted the urge to reach out for her, but only just.  No, he wasn’t that kind of man—and despite appearances, he knew she was not that kind of woman.  Not really, anyway.  Not when the sheath was absent she was free.

“You killed Wagih.”

He started. “What?”

“My favorite guard—Wagih.  Big, black.”

“They were all big,” he said. “And black.”

Her veiled smile. “Bigger.  Blacker.”

“Aye. My big spear went through his bigger, blacker chest.”

“Poor Wagih,” she said.  Perhaps she sighed.  Perhaps it was a chuckle.  “You do have a lovely spear, though.  May I touch it?”

He snatched his spear away and glared. “Reach for it and you will feel it and nothing more.”

“Is that a promise?”  Her voice was enchanting and rich.

He glared and said nothing.

It had been a close thing—that fight, killing Wagih.  He had seen the black devil rushing free the line, near nude save for the cloth that covered his absent member.  This Wagih—this black devil—was a master with the axe-bladed polearm he wielded.  Grace and agility like a jungle cat; strength and anger like the raging sun.  His fury had broken his defense—nearly killed him. Left him with wounds that had yet to heal.  How close he had been to missing the sight of Ramma once more.  How close he had been to missing the sound of his son’s voice—of his daughters’ cheers when he returned home.

Outside, there were bodies that littered the storm feasted upon—bodies that would be buried it for an eternity.  Black bodies that baked beneath the sun and then were encoffined within grains of sand beyond number and before time.  He did not doubt that the fallen veles was lost to that as well: that white or black, skin baked and rotten, sloughed and faded.  That bones would be all that remained, out there, in some foreign, gods-forsaken land.

Sometimes people broke.  He couldn’t—not yet.

The palanquin hadn’t been made for a man his size. At least, it had not been made for a man his size and another living person.  He took up more than his fair share of it, but the girl—who had not yet given her name—had coiled up, like the serpent about her, and eyed him with lazing interest.  Was she luring him into a sedate state so she could strike?  One of the girls had lunged for Arestes.  The Bossonian, true to his training, had nearly cut her two. Then he showed restraint.  She came at me, sir.

Yes, she did.  Good lad, he thought. He would go far.

There were others in the legion that would know what to say to her.  Those such as Brutalus, the Flavian cohort that had given him his mission.  It was not on a few occasions that he had seen him in the company of the Iranistani concubines, dabbles in their oils and perfumed by their presence. Had he—or perhaps even Arestes���been given reason to speak with her, then all manner of mystery might have been revealed.  But for him, there was only waiting it out—waiting to see what Bori bade him do; waiting to see if he made it through the night.

Waiting.

Her eyes unsettled him.  Upon arriving in the east, he had heard the same tale as all the others—be mindful of where your weapon was.  Creatures of the desert were resourceful, cunning, and quick.  They could attack with a maddening fury: strip a man of his life in the second it took him to gasp.  Physically he had no doubt he could overpower her, and yet there was something else there—something that made his hair stand on end.

“How long will the storm last?” He asked.

Her shoulders rose and fell, delicate—easy. “I am no seer,” she said. “I merely see.”

“What does that mean?”

“That however long this storm lasts, it will last.  I see that—so do you.”

“Do not tell me what I see, girl.”

“Very well,” she said. “Then you do not see it, but should.”

He glowered.  Her eyes lit once more.

Maddening!

“There was a man outside—Rakim.”

“There is no man outside named Rakim.”

“You are wrong, seer.  It was he that indicated where you were—a minister.”

“You were lied to, thief.  There is no minister named Rakim.”

“I am no thief, girl.”

“And I am no seer.”

He grunted.  Her meaning was taken.

“They call me Goralus.”

“Zaliki.”

Normally, he would say ‘well met.’  He felt the moment pass.

“This man—this Rakim.”

“There is no man named Rakim.”

“You quick test my patience, Zalithi.”

“Zaliki,” she corrected. “And you test your own patience.  No man named Rakim served the satrap.”

“How do you know?”

“It was my duty to know.”

He forced a laugh, mirthless. “More castellan than concubine, are you?”

“No. I sucked cock quite often—quite well.” Her eyebrows lifted.  He felt himself pull back.  Ramma—think of Ramma.  “But one needn’t have a position to be mindful of places.  Names.”

Arestes had been correct.  If they could return this woman to the legatus, who knew what she could reveal of the satrap and his positions?  Goralus was no great thinker, but he was not a fool.  Knowing strongpoints—knowing weak points, those were the ways that a man won a battle without heavy losses.  Those were the ways that a man returned home.

He spoke to himself. “No seer, you merely see.”

“You understand now.”

“Go on.”

Zaliki—if that was her name—sat forward.  In doing so, she revealed the grace with which she moved.  There was more than sensuality in the sinew that shifted; more than seduction to her silken thews that were revealed in the momentary shifting of her slit, harem dress. There was strength—stealth, steel to her.  Goralus was mindful of where his dagger was.

Doubtlessly, she was as well.

“There are dark things in this world, Goralus—dark gods.  But all darkness needn’t come of them.  Men have their own methods of madness, I have found.” Her hands, with nails that were long and capped in expensive golden cuffs, moved from her sumptuous, silken thews, to rest upon his hand.  “But you know something of darkness, don’t you?”

Her veiled smile.  Her soft hands.  Her seductive eyes.

Goralus had never been a man that believed in taking women—any woman, no matter the reason or rationale behind it.  The legatus had placed strict admonishments against soldiers engaging in such barbarity, as he called it, but Goralus�� reservations went beyond that. It was not that he had never lain with a woman other than Ramma—he was a man, after all—but never had he seized what hadn’t been offered; never had he demanded what hadn’t been for request.

So when this woman—perhaps the most beautiful creature had had ever seen—placed her hand upon him, it was something that tested his mind.   He would not fall upon her in a lustful haze, no, but there were other things she wished of him; other things that welled in his heart. The darkness—the anger.  The shaking.  He knew well that there was darkness in men.  He knew more than something about it.  Her touch was one that placed pressure on those parts of him that held it at bay.

But he would not break—no, he could not break.

He moved her hand away from his own.  “Aye, I do.”

To his surprise, her smile only grew.

“Good.  That is a start.”

“A start?”

Zaliki drew back and placed her hands on her legs, then tilted her head as she looked at him. “That man, he lied to you.  Why? Because he wanted to live.”

“He seemed to hate you.”

“Most men do,” she said. “If they are not fucking me—or killing each other for the chance to do so.”

Goralus huffed again. Was he laughing? “I see.  Hard life.”

She gave him her easy shrug once more.

The winds continued to howl.  Would the sand bury them?  He looked from the woman to the sealed port. “Well, if you’re right—if he lied, then he’s a dead man.”  He looked back to her for confirmation, but was surprised.

Her eyes no longer glowed.

Her smile was gone. 

“That is even worse,” she said. “In these times, you will find—dead men rarely remain dead.”

[mayanangel]

Also I forgot to ask this for so long! What are some Hozier songs you would suggest? I have only heard the same one or two that have made it to radio.... but if he is like Ramsay and Taylor then i really want to hear more!

I wouldn’t say that Hozier is strictly like Taylor or Josh, but he’s definitely a class act of his own. I guess my music tastes are just all over the place, lol. 

Anyway, as a whole, his music is very indie rock, with heavy influences of blues, R&B, and soul. If that’s your thing, then I pretty much recommend most of his discography; but if you prefer something more fun or pop-inspired, I suggest songs like Almost (Sweet Music), To Noise Making (Sing), or Jackie and Wilson. 

If you want something more bluesy (aka what they mean when they say Taylor’s Don’t Blame Me was Hozier-esque), I suggest songs like Sedated, Talk, and It Will Come Back. 

My personal favorites tend to be somewhere between those two extremes. Foreigner’s God is, hands down, my all time fave, followed closely by Work Song. And then there’s songs Like Real People Do, Shrike, and Wasteland, Baby! that showcase his guitar playing skills, and they’re like, a whole playlist of their own.

Hope this helps! To be honest, I am also somewhat of a Hozier newbie, but I just love his music in it’s own way. 

If Taylor Swift’s Lover is summer days, dancing in the kitchen, and laughing in the backseat of cars; and if Marianas Trench’s Phantoms is toxic relationships, late nights spent crying, pining for the past, and longing for lost love - then Hozier’s Wasteland, Baby! is late summer sunsets, warm beds and cozy blankets, steaming cups of coffee in the mornings, hearty pints of pub beer at night, sleeping in, and just spending time alone to be with yourself.

It’s great, tbh.

[vampyr-boyfriend]

RED ICE - Ch 14

Author’s Note: I don’t remember a thing about this chapter and I don’t want to go back and read it, so I don’t know what the warnings, characters, etc are. Sorry.

RED ICE Masterlist

A crease formed between Connor’s brow. “What is Kamski going to do?” he asked. “How is he going to help her?”

Hank shrugged. “I guess we’ll find out.”

Chapter Fourteen - I Am Machine

Tuesday, February 15, 2039 // 10:34am

Pain. Unimaginable pain. This is your first remembrance as you are gently roused from sedation - searing flesh, limbs being ripped from your body. The fingers on your right hand twitch and suddenly there’s an odd pressure. Muffled sounds swirl through the air around you, but you can’t make out anything in particular. Your head is fuzzy, mind clouded.

And then the fingers on your left hand twitch and the fog in your head is replaced with confusion. You were awake. You were awake momentarily after the explosion and in the hospital after the surgery. You knew your left limbs had been taken from you… so why were your left fingers twitching? Someone is shaking you and the muffled sounds become louder, a hint of clarity around their edges. You squeeze your eyes shut and lift your right hand to try and swat away whoever is trying to rouse you, but it’s caught and held tight. You turn your head to the left, then the right. You can’t make sense of what’s happening. Everything is dark, your body feels strange, and all you can hear now are the beeping of a heart monitor, the dripping of saline and morphine, the puff of a breathing machine… The burn unit. Those sounds were from the burn unit. They’re absent here.

You can feel a hand cupping the left side of your face, but it doesn’t feel right. A dream? Searing pain only barely dulled by morphine, androids working tirelessly to change your dressings like clockwork, and that burn unit room with its stark white walls and bright lights… was it all just a dream? Were you still dreaming, even now? You clenched your left fist. You had to be dreaming. Your left arm was gone, wasn’t it? Or was that the dream. Was there no explosion?

The muffled voices sound wrong. The thumb stroking your cheek feels wrong. The hand holding yours feels wrong. Your heart beating in your chest, your lungs filling with air, your skin - it all feels wrong.

Someone whimpers, the sound soft and fragile. Was that you? Did you make that sound? There’s a pressure on your forehead and you can hear a voice very close by. You can hear what they’re saying, it’s crystal clear now, but you can’t understand it. It’s as if it’s in a language you don’t speak. You lie completely still, afraid to move. You don’t understand. You don’t understand what’s happening. You don’t understand why everything feels so wrong.

A warm tear rolls down your cheek and is softly brushed away by a foreign hand.

“(Y/N).”

You recognize that word, spoken so gently and with such care.

“(Y/N)?”

There it is again. You know it, but you can’t place it. It’s right there, right at the forefront of your brain. You know that word. You know it. You know… your name. You know your name. That word, spoken with such worry-tinged warmth, is your name.

“Come- me...”

Someone was talking to you, but you could only understand some of what they were saying.

“Wake- (Y/N)...”

You want to open your eyes, to see who’s caressing your face, calling your name so gently, trying so desperately to talk to you. You can’t, though. You can’t open your eyes, despite wanting to so badly.

“(Y/N).”

That voice again. Soft like velvet, low-spoken words rolling smoothly from their tongue to dance through the air.

“(Y/N), wake up.”

Those words make sense to you. Wake up. Wake up. You’re trying. God, you’re trying. You just… can’t… It’s like a ton of bricks has been sewn into your chest and head, weighing you down, pulling you into the black abyss of unconsciousness, no matter how hard you try to fight it.

“Please, (Y/N). Wake up.”

I’m trying.

“I need you.”

Wake up, you demand of yourself. Wake up. WAKE UP.

Another tear rolls down your cheek as you struggle to return to consciousness.

“I’m sorry,” you hear another voice say. This one is different. This one you don’t recognize.

“No,” the soft voice replies and you feel a heavy pressure on your chest. “No, please. She’ll wake up. She has to wake up.” Your hand is being squeezed tighter. The one that was caressing your face now grips your left arm tightly. Whoever is laying over you is shaking.

“She has to wake up,” the soft voice cries, voice muffled by the fabric of the bedding as he buries his face in your chest.

I have to wake up. Goddammit, wake up! WAKE UP!

The hand holding yours is squeezing tight, holding onto you for dear life. But who is it? Who is crying over you? Who was brushing away your tears? To whom does the soft voice belong? You know the voice. You know you know it, but like the words that you couldn’t understand, you just can’t place it.

“I’m sorry, Connor.”

Connor.

Your mind is bombarded with fragments of memories at the mention of that name. Brown hair slicked back, with a rogue strand that falls over a chocolate eye. A white dress shirt beneath a grey jacket. Stiff movements that learn to become more fluid. An android that learns to become more human.

Connor.

You squeeze his hand hard.

Connor. Your Connor.

I’m awake! you scream in your head. I’m awake! Just open your eyes. Open your eyes.

The hands are caressing your face again, this time more urgently. Your name is being repeated over and over as soft thumbs rub frantic circles on your cheeks.

“Come back to me,” he pleads. “Please. Come back. Wake up.”

All you can see at first is a silhouette as the android leans over you, his head blocking the light in the ceiling above, surrounding him in a halo of blue. You squint to try and see him better, blinking a few times. You feel a cold exhale of breath across your face as his hands find their way around your back. He wraps his arms around you and pulls you into a sitting position, holding you close to his chest, hugging you tightly.

Your head falls into the crook of his neck and you breathe him in. Torturously slowly, you are able to raise your arms and wrap them loosely around his waist. You feel him laugh in relief as he nuzzles into your hair, and the sound is mimicked by three other voices.

“I’ll be damned,” the unfamiliar voice says quietly, and you can hear the soft smile on his lips.

“You’re okay,” Connor mumbles into your hair, and you can hear the happiness in his voice, as well as the waver that gives away that he’s crying. “You’re okay,” he says again. “You’re okay.”

Your arms fall limp and he pulls away, holding you up with one hand behind your head and the other supporting your back. Your vision isn’t quite right, but you can see him fully now that he’s more than a backlit silhouette. A smile tugs at the corner of your lips and his turn up in a grin at the sight.

“I-” You lick your lips. Your throat is raw, voice hoarse from disuse. There’s movement to your right and you’re able to look over just enough to see a grey-haired older man hand you a cup of water.

Hank, you smile.

Connor gently lowers you back down onto the bed, propping you up on pillows so that you’re still somewhat in a sitting position. The android helps you take a few sips of water before he returns the cup to the Lieutenant.

“How do you feel?” There’s someone standing at the foot of your bed, just to the left.

Gavin? No, Gavin doesn’t wear his hair like that… unless you’ve been unconscious for longer than you realize.

“I…” You squint, trying to see the man better. Your right eye is crystal clear, but your left keeps changing, like a camera going in and out of focus. “I can’t see properly,” you manage to say and the man furrows his brow, coming around the left side of your bed.

He does look like Gavin, but as you follow his route to you, you see your partner in a chair against the wall. He puts a finger up in front of your face, blue eyes staring intently at you.

“Focus on my finger,” he says.

You follow his instruction. He moves closer to you, causing your eyes to cross, then backs away. You’re ordered to keep your head still and follow his finger with your eyes as he moves it to the left, then the right, up and down. He pauses right in front of your face.

“Focus,” he commands. “Focus on my finger, nothing else.”

You do as he says and slowly your left eye stops its bickering.

“Better?” he asks with a smile as he takes a step back. You look around the room.

It’s large, with modern furnishings and a big window wall to your left. You’re laying in a king sized bed with black and silver silk sheets. You’re very obviously not in the hospital anymore. To your left is Gavin and his doppelganger, to your right sits Connor on the bed beside you and Hank stands next to him, smiling.

Everything is mostly clear, though your left eye does take a moment to focus on whatever you’re looking at.

“Better,” you answer the doppelganger's question, turning your attention to him.

He’s wearing a black band tee with faded jeans and his hair is undercut, the longer top part pulled back into a tidy bun. He has a sharper jawline than Gavin and his eyes are blue as opposed to brown. Despite this, they are strikingly similar.

The blue-eyed man looks you over. “Can you move?” he asks.

“Um…” You clench your right hand into a fist, then release it.

“Good. Can you do the same with your left hand?” the man asks.

Your fingers twitch as you attempt to get them to mimic your right hand. Your brow furrows in concentration.

“I don’t understand…” you say as you manage to get your pinky to bend.

The stranger puts his hand up, shaking his head. “I’ll answer all your questions after we see if you’re wired up properly,” he informs you.

Wired up properly? You silently wonder what he means, though you do have an inkling. The warehouse wasn’t a dream, which means that neither was the hospital. You lost your limbs, you were covered in third-degree burns. And yet here you sat looking as if you hadn’t been in any sort of critical condition.

After a few moments, you’re able to curl your fingers into a fist and the man smiles, followed by silent cheers from your gathered friends.

“Very good,” the man says. “My name is Elijah Kamski.”

He offered his left hand for you to shake. Your new prosthetic arm rose unsteadily, fingers outstretched toward the man who had put you back together. With a triumphant grin, you grasped his hand in yours, feeling the pressure of the handshake, the warmth of his skin.

You couldn’t help the sob that escaped past your lips as he dropped your hand and you brought it up to your face to study. Connor’s arms were around you in an instant and you laugh-cried into his shoulder. It looked so real, synthetic skin matching what you remembered your real skin to look and feel like.

“You… I don’t…” You couldn’t find the words to express what you were feeling. Not only did you have a new arm, but you could feel that you had a new leg as well. You wiggled your toes beneath the bedsheets and bent your knee.

“She’s got the hang of it already,” Kamski said with a smile. “You chose a fighter, Connor. I can see why you like her so much.”

Gavin scoffed, but you looked over to see a playful smile on his lips.

“Mind giving us a minute?” Kamski asked, looking first to Hank, then to Reed.

The Lieutenant offered you a nod of the head and you noticed a shine in the corner of his eye - the only indication that he was fighting back tears of relief. He said nothing to you as he made his way out of the room and you assumed that it was because he couldn’t trust his voice at that moment. That was fine with you; you’d have time to talk later.

Gavin hesitated and Kamski turned to him. He inclined his head toward the door. “You too, cousin,” he said.

Gavin rose from his chair and came over to your bed. He rested a hand on your left shoulder. The pressure felt odd, but reassuring.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” he said with all sincerity.

You smiled. “Thanks.”

He nodded and moved toward the door. It closed behind him with a click and Kamski stepped around to the right side of your bed to sit on its edge.

“So,” he said, blue eyes boring into yours.

Connor pulled away from you and scooted up to sit next to you properly on your left, legs crossed.

“So…” you mimicked. Kamski’s gaze was intense as he studied you.

“I think you’re making her uncomfortable,” Connor said quietly.

The engineer lowered his gaze and smiled. “My apologies,” he said, eyes finding yours again. This time they were softer - they weren’t searching, but simply seeing.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

You cleared your throat. How did you feel?

“Well… I’m kinda dizzy and my head hurts a bit,” you said.

“Okay,” Elijah answered with a nod. “That’s to be expected. What else?”

“Um…” you looked around the room at the soft grey walls and massive window with dark curtains pulled back to allow the soft winter sunlight to filter through the glass. The fingers on your right hand trailed up your new arm. Again, it was an odd feeling. You could feel the pressure, the soft touch, the warmth, but it was muffled… or… perhaps it was too crisp, too clear? You couldn’t tell, but something was off. Though, perhaps that was to be expected with a new android body part. It was when you trailed your left fingers over your right arm that that same feeling didn’t make sense.

“Feels weird, doesn’t it?” Kamski asked, reading your mind.

You nodded.

“Things will feel a bit off to start, but as your systems calibrate, hopefully it’ll start to feel more natural.”

“As my systems calibrate?” you asked with brows furrowed. “What do you mean? You’re talking to me as if I’m an android.”

Elijah nodded hesitantly, gaze focused on the silk bedding beneath his hand.

You cocked your head to the side. “You do realize that I’m human, right?” You turned to Connor. “You did tell him that I’m human.”

Connor shuffled next to you, seemingly struggling with what to say.

“I don’t understand,” you said. “Why are you acting so strange? Why are you treating me like an android? I’m not an android.”

“You might as well be,” Kamski said lowly, picking at a loose thread on the bedsheet.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” you snapped. “A prosthetic arm and leg don’t make me a fucking android!”

“(Y/N),” Connor said, regaining your attention.

He took your left hand in his, stroking your fingers, stimulating the artificial nerves.

“Do you remember what happened at the factory?” the android asked.

“We were attacked,” you answered quickly. “The factory blew up.” Tears were welling up in your eyes and you tried hard to blink them away. “I felt my limbs get ripped off, my skin burning. And then… I- I think I passed out from the pain. I remember waking up in the burn unit.”

Connor nodded. “I pulled you from the building and held you until the ambulance came. Everyone kept telling me that you weren’t going to live. The EMT’s, the doctor, the nurses… Hank.”

“So? I’m here. I’m alive. But I’m not an android.” A tear escaped despite your best efforts and Connor brushed it gently away.

“You were badly burned, (Y/N).” The android said softly. “One hundred percent of your body was covered in third-degree burns. Luckily it was only third degree; the damage didn’t reach your muscle or bone. Mister Kamski was able to replace the damaged tissue with android plastic and synthetic skin.”

“But-” you looked at your right hand, the one you knew still belonged to you. “No, I- I…”

Connor took your hand in his and brought it to his lips, kissing your knuckles softly. When his lips met your flesh, the synthetic skin retracted slowly, revealing stark white android plastic underneath. You stared in awe… and disgust. This wasn’t you. That wasn’t your hand. This wasn’t your body.

You pulled away quickly, as if Connor was a snake that had bitten you, and watched as your skin returned to cover the plastic. Missing the look of hurt on the android’s face you turned your hand this way and that, then curled your fingers into a fist. The tears were falling freely now, silent and cold.

“What…” Your eyes were wide, staring blankly at the door across the room. “Where did all the human go?” you asked, voice so low it was barely audible, even in the silence that had descended. “I’m… I’m not…”

Kamski rested a reassuring hand on your bedding-covered knee. “Take it easy. Your skin wasn’t salvageable, so I replaced it with android plastic and synthetic skin, that’s all. You’re still you. Your muscle, your bone, your organs. That’s all still you.” He removed his hand and rested it in his lap as Connor wrapped a comforting arm around you. “The only parts that are completely android are your left eye and both of your left limbs.”

“You said I might as well be android,” you hissed. “What did you mean?”

Kamski nodded. “In order to get everything to function properly, my team and I had to do some poking around in your brain,” he explained, gesturing to your head. “We had to wire up the new limbs and eye to your nervous system and the parts of the brain that allow them to function like your real limbs do.”

You sniffled and wiped your eyes.

“Unfortunately, there were some… hiccups along the way,” Kamski continued. “This was an experimental procedure, after all.” He paused, allowing you to try and compose yourself.

“Hiccups?” you asked quietly.

The engineer nodded. “We had to tamper with more of your brain that we would have liked. There’s a lot of artificial wiring in that head of yours now. It shouldn’t pose a problem, but it does make you more android than you would have been otherwise.”

“So… what, I’m like a- a cyborg or something now?” You weren’t sure what to think about this. You were thankful to Kamski for helping you, for fixing you… but were you truly you anymore? You seemed to be more android than human. Was there enough human left that you could even be considered human, or were you some sort of half-creature created by a madman?

Kamski chuckled dryly. “If you like,” he answered in response to your question. His gaze went hard and his smile wicked for only a moment before they softened again, and you were left wondering if you’d really seen that subtle change or if your mind was just playing tricks on you. “I like to think of you as CyberLife’s newest prototype,” he continued. “A hybrid of sorts. Part human… part machine.”

So that was it. Kamski was a madman, and you were his latest project… his latest experiment. Your blood ran cold, heart stopping in your chest. What had you become? What had he made you?

A monster.

Elijah Kamski was Frankenstein... and you were his monster.

@ghistwrite @rk800downloading @deviantconnorarmy @glitch-girl318 @chichiguitarist123 @into-the-stratosphere @fandomblitch @chocolattaee @projectcherry12 @urban-eagle @padme4000 @datweirdname @ipostcoolthingssometimes @ecnelovelamm @derpydanandphil @thecrazybluefangirl @pickelope @pokengirl2 @berjhawn @0-why-do-i-exist-0 @fandoms4everyone @cool-haleychapman @trashytwenties @piemeadows @haikyuu-imagines-and-others @layinglonely @peter-maximoff-trash @i-resent-this-hellsite @poodlegods @astridstark13 @havanbcby @hello-i-make-bad-decisions @qtmeryr @thothandstarlord @hundefrau @negotiator-on-site @nikkidawnlight @lizzietheizzie @sinviix @tropfenlady

[starksnack]

// Febuwhump: Taken // Stony // 1k // TW: Blood, drugged

Everyone always said that Starks were made of Iron. Tony just wished for once that he was made of something that didn’t get him kidnapped so often… Money. Tony wished he wasn’t made of money, so douchecanoes didn’t keep kidnapping him for ransom that was barely a couple of quarters off his dad’s back. Not to mention, that Stark Industries didn’t negotiate with terrorists so that always meant a couple of extra beatings for Tony.

He felt the car underneath him roll to a stop, and then doors were opening and slamming shut, foreign voices talking in low tones. All the sounds were muffled by the damp black bag pulled over his head. It smelled like the inside of a granny’s purse, like those weird strawberry candies and old people. His hands were zip tied behind his back which made lying in what he assumed was the footwell of the car extremely unpleasant.

Tony wondered if his kidnapper of the week took cues from shitty D-list movies. Honestly, Tony could arrange a better kidnapping for himself. The bed of a truck would be more inconspicuous because you could pull a tarp over the top. It wouldn’t look out of place. The bumps in the road indicated they were somewhere in upstate New York.

Foreign hands hauled him out of the car and like cattle, he was prodded across what felt like a mucky field. What an exciting change from the usual backdrop of an abandoned warehouse. Tony crossed the threshold of wherever they had hauled his sorry ass to. He found that out when his feet met the door jamb and he was sprawling on his face, raucous laughter echoing around him and transporting back to his middle school days. He felt his shoulder pop out of his socket, and boy was that fucking painful. Tony gritted his teeth against the shocks running through his arm, squeezing his eyes tight against the panic in his heart.

Just as he got his breathing into a semblance of control, he was yanked back to his feet by a hand, gripping his hair over the bag on his head. He screamed as he felt some of the silky strands being pulled out. He didn’t blow an arm and a leg on shampoo and conditioner to be treated like a peasant.These assholes should be bowing down to him, he clearly had the preference of the hair gods.

Tony tried to calm himself down by twiddling his thumbs behind his back as he was pushed on to his knees, the bag ripped off his head as bright white light flooded his vision. There was a skylight above him letting in the incandescent sun and Tony felt like crying in it’s beautiful radiance. At least this place had a view. The natural light really opened up the room, made it look less serial killer and more stockholm syndrome.

The clouds in his vision slowly ebbed away as the drugs they had sedated him with earlier finally wore off. It sucked because the loopy calm and nonchalance he had lulled himself into disappeared as the drug left his system. That’s when the true terror and panic set in as Tony’s heart picked up the pace in his chest. Just because he got kidnapped often didn’t make it easier to bear. He twisted around trying to get his hands under him so he could push himself to his feet.

“Not so fast.” A boot made contact with his stomach and he doubled over, coughing as his internal organs gurgled in a way that Tony had never experienced before. He tried to straighten against the burning pain stretching across his abdomen but found himself hunching over again as a stinging slap connected with his cheek. This certainly wasn’t how kidnappings usually went. Most were too uptight to get their hands dirty roughing up a billionaire genius child.

“My dad will give you the money,” Tony groaned lurching violently as his hair was pulled. “Just please stop hitting me.”

There was a blade at his throat, pressing just enough to draw blood, but not hard enough to be anything more than a thin line. Tony squealed anyway like a stuck pig, trying to push back and away from the stinging sensation far too close to his jugular.

“I don’t think I told you to speak.” The voice was cold, calculating. Clearly American, though Tony couldn’t deduce much else because of the panic swelling in his chest and freezing his heart in his ribs. Tony resisted the urge to shiver, knowing the motion would only press the blade closer to his throat. He forced himself to relax, panicked tears welling in his eyes as he pursed his lips together to keep from crying out again.

“Let him go,” the voice behind him was distinctly female following the clack of heels as a strong slender woman stepped into his view in a burgundy pencil skirt that could make even Pepper cry. “We do not want your father’s money, Mr. Stark.” She rubbed her fingers together, nails painted an ugly red as she looked Tony up and down. “We need someone to head our weapons development. You will leave here after you give us what we want, or you will leave here in a body bag. The choice is yours.”

Tony steeled himself, setting his jaw. He was better than these assholes. He was the son of adversity and hope. He could overcome any problem he set his mind to and these assholes would never hold a candle to his pure unadulterated genius. Intelligence swirled in his whisky eyes, defiant as he tilted his chin up. Stark men are made of Iron. Tony was made of courage and bravery and strength. Like the gladiolus his mother grew in the summertime. Like the vibranium his father used to craft the world’s most recognizable shield. It was time to test his mettle and prove his worth.

“Go to hell.”

They were valiant last words.

[summoner-kentauris]

I don't really ship zacharid but I'm curious about it so.... any headcanons? How do you imagine their dynamic would work?

ALRIGHT! I figure I better answer this before book III comes and destroys all the happiness in Zenith anyway

some headcanons first:

Hríd fell for Zacharias way before Zacharias did

sort of like this:

hríd: greetings I am hríd crown prince of nifl and this is zacharias, my future prince-consortzacharias: *pause* *blinks* wHAT

Hríd ‘yes I went off to fight surtr one on one what of it’ and ‘hello new allies did you know one of you is a traitor :D’ is an impulse decision maker you can’t change my mind

I headcanon Hríd as fairly forgetful of details and appointments and what have you, meanwhile canon Zacharias seems to know every obscure piece of information in the nine worlds, so:

He always leaving notes for Hríd all over the place. Most of them are important reminders, but a lot of them are just fluffy.

Hríd often wonders why Zacharias doesn’t just go ahead and do the whole ‘letter writing’ thing but he’s got Emotional Issues related to His Past

eventually he works through it, though

speaking of askr Hríd refers to Zach as an Askran most of the time and it drives Zacharias up the wall

“I’m not Askran.” “But you were raised in Askr?” “Well yes, but-” “Ah I see! Emblian-Askran” “nyoU CAN’T BE BOTH” “Well then, what are you??” “AHHHHHHHG”

this:

Zacharias, offhand: gods I have a headacheHríd, appearing out of nowhere: :3Zach: NO WAIT I TAKE IT B-*captured with freezing cold Nifl hands*

I have a lot of ‘Hríd likes poking Zach with a metaphorical stick’ headcanons, as you may be able to tell.

It’s a good way for Hríd to see if Zacharias is too lost in his own head and his own guilt and his past.

Meanwhile, Hríd’s pretty stable, even after everything he’s been through, which Zacharias appreciates. It’s nice to have someone to lean on, who you don’t have to worry about hurting or protecting constantly, vis a vis pretty much everyone else in his life

However, Hríd is one reckless sonofa and if I have to stitch you back together one more time I swear

As names go, I figure Hríd get somewhat caught up between ‘I owe him the formality and respect due a foreign prince’ versus ‘this guy rolled up while I was half-dead and said call me Zacharias’

He often ends up solemnly going through the entire Prince Zacharias Bruno of the Emblian Empire while Zacharias tries very very hard to be supportive and not crack a smile

I’m going to talk my way right through the book III Feh Channel at this rate so MOVING ON

Dynamics!

AGH I’m running out of time oh god anyway

Hríd takes his Niflian ‘you saved my life, now I owe you’ responsibility very seriously. It causes friction at times because Zach is fairly uncomfortable with “this niflian life-debt business” and also a little nervous re:‘…do you only like me because you feel you have to? Meanwhile, canon Hríd currently appears to take Niflian traditions seriously, and is dedicated to Niflian sovereignty and, one might assume, culture. There’s not really a big chance of him dropping the you saved me issue. So that’s a point of contention between the two.

I think he also wouldn’t let Zach get away with feeling sorry for himself, while also being good at acknowledging everything that happened. I think he’s good at helping zach figure out what is ‘yes, I did that’ vs ‘no, that wasnt my fault’ vs ‘either way, its over. lets move forward’.

Now while Hríd is, so to speak, the healer of the two I think Zach is the Preventer of Bad Things. The ‘Hríd what have you got there’ ‘a KnIFE’ ‘NO’ of the two. Hríd runs off to do things like ‘fight an immortal demigod’, and ‘join the OoH even though he’s…possibly the reigning monarch of an independent nation?’. Zacharias has his own flaws in how he handles problems, but I think he’s a great counterpoint to most of Hríd’s ‘I’m going to do this, but I’m going to say it in a very Sedate and Stately way so it seems legit’ ideas. So it would go more like:

Hríd: im going to go fight surtr by myselfZacharias: wh- no. no thats a terrible idea dont do thatHríd: oh. well when you put it that way

Alternatively, both of their tendencies to solve problems in the most dramatic and unfortunate way possible could collide, leading to an Even Worse decision as in:

Hríd: im going to go fight surtr by myselfZacharias: THAT’S A TERRIBLE IDEAZacharias: If I come with you, we can close all the gates to muspell after we get there that way no one can follow usHríd: YES BRILLIANT

I also think Hríd can be…not the most diplomatic person at times. See, again: “hello alfonse have I mentioned Zacharias betrayed you? no? well thats because im just kidding it could be anybody. including me! :D :D :D” Meanwhile, Zacharias son of the last Emblian emperor flew undercover in the heart of the Askran kingdom for years and years and years. He may not be great at keeping curse things under wraps but when it comes to everything else? Also, he’s a god-tier researcher/information gatherer. Which I think would balance out Hríd’s more blunt and straightforward tendencies very well. especially when it comes time to rule Nifl in a post-zenith-globalization world.

ANYWAY

I don’t have time to keep on but uh

as yall maybe can tell I have too many thoughts about these too. I am also about to miss the Feh Channel, so!

THANKS FOR THE ASKr

askr. get it. haha. punny. *cries* im sorry

[doctorlaelia-ffxiv]

.|faith

Dawn had barely broken when Laelia heard hammering at her door. 

“Doctor! Please! There’s an emergency, please-- please open up--!”

What would have usually been a slow and drowsy process of waking up came instantaneously; she didn’t even pause to wonder where Lucius might be at this hour. The only pause she took was one to haphazardly throw some clothes onto her bare form, tripping over herself as she hopped into her boots and ran to the door. Outside was one of the young girls from the village - a sweet faced Highlander named Elouise - with big eyes filled with tears.

“I’m sorry, it’s so early and they told me not to come, but--” 

“What’s going on?” Laelia asked, soft but urgent, touching the girl’s cheek and then her arm as she leaned down some to look at her. The girl sniffled and wiped her nose with the back of her hand.

“My big brother-- he’s been sick for two days now but my mama told me not to get a doctor. A couple of priests of Nald’thal h-have been praying over him b-but it isn’t doing anything! H-He’s just getting worse!” the girl wailed, collapsing into the front of Laelia’s shirt. She embraced Elouise, squinting up at the house on the hill that she’d run down from. Yes, there’d been a lot of activity going on over there for the past couple of days, but she hadn’t thought anyone was ill... 

“It’s okay. It’s okay, Elouise,” Laelia replied, trying to calm the child. “Come inside while I gather my supplies, and tell me what’s going on with your brother. Okay? The more I know before I get there, the faster I can make my assessment.” 

The Highlander came toppling in quickly after Laelia’s invitation. She was almost already as tall as the fully grown Garlean woman, and only at nine years old. She blinked a few tears out of her eyes and sat in the Tonberry chair behind Laelia’s desk as the woman went about gathering a variety of medical supplies, listening closely to what the child had to say.

“W-Well... He said a couple of days ago that his belly was really hurting, and then he had a fever that has just kept going up and up. H-He’s been throwing up and he has an upset belly but he said his belly hurts so much that he can’t g-get out of bed... All sweaty and groaning in pain...” 

Laelia bit the inside of her cheek, looking to the surgical instruments sitting inside of her dresser in their metal case. Yanking open a drawer, she grabbed an assortment of medications. The rest of what she needed were already packed in her bag. The chirurgeon hauled it over her shoulder and hurried back into the main living area, gesturing for Elouise to get up and follow her outside. 

“I think I know what’s wrong. A couple of days, you said?” Laelia asked, glancing over to the child as they hurried up the hill to the humble house that sat atop it. The girl nodded furiously in reply and pushed the wooden door open. From the entryway of the three room house, Laelia could hear the chanting of the priests, smell the heady scent of the burning incense, and she grimaced. 

“Elouise! Is that you? Where did you go--” 

A towering Highlander woman emerged from one of the rooms, her hair done intricately in braids that spilled over her shoulders. Her dark skin seemed to glow in the light of the sun streaming in, and her eyes narrowed at the much more petite doctor, immediately drawing her arms in to her sides and straightening herself up as her jaw tensed.

“You aren’t needed here,” she said shortly. “Elouise, why are you bringing this woman here? We don’t need her help. The gods will help us.” 

“He isn’t getting better, mama,” the child said tearfully. “Big brother isn’t getting any better with all of the prayers! I thought... I thought the doctor might know something about how to help him...” 

“Ma’am, I’m sorry for the intrusion, but from what your daughter is describing to me, your son has a ruptured appendix -- or one that is very close to rupturing. There are a hundred other complications that can come with a ruptured appendix if it isn’t treated--”

“I said that you aren’t needed!” the woman said, her voice booming and angry. 

Laelia’s jaw set, and she looked to the room where the smoke from the incense was streaming. The voices of the priests were so loud she was surprised that she hadn’t heard them the night before. Perhaps they were growing more earnest the worst the young man got. Laelia knew this family. The father -- an Ala Mhigan -- had left to fight for the liberation of their nation against her own people and had not yet returned, with no word of where or if he was. The boy, a young man of just eighteen, was named Nef. He was training to be a warrior just like his father, was the primary breadwinner for the family. What would happen to them if something happened to him?

“I have to insist... Please. I agree that faith has a time and a place, but I have to believe the gods want us to be self sufficient to some degree--”

“Those of weak faith are those of weak heart. You think they can’t heal my child?” the woman shouted, growing more agitated by the second.

“I think that they won’t,” Laelia replied, looking back up to the woman. “Because some issues are mortal ones, and mortal ones alone. Would you go looking for Elouise if she was missing, or would you wait for the gods to deliver her home? Come now, Rainah. I know... I know you don’t trust me, or like me. You don’t have to trust me as a person or like me as a person. But I promise to you that I can save your son’s life, and that I will. Trust me as a doctor. Please.” 

“Mama,” Elouise said weakly, tugging on her mother’s arm. Suddenly, a wail of pain came from the incense-filled room, heartbreaking in its agony. Rainah’s eye’s widened, and she looked between the doorway to her daughter, lips parted. One could practically hear the gears working in her head. 

“W-...What did you say he has? A ruptured appendix?” 

“Yes. I believe he does-- I can’t be sure without an examination. But if he does, and it continues to go untreated, he may have an infection that turns into a worse infection. It could kill him, Rainah, very easily. To be honest with you, if it’s been forty eight hours then I’m surprised he’s alive still to begin with.”

“He’s a fighter,” she whispered. “Just like his father.” 

“I am insisting that you let me attend to your son. He will die if I don’t operate, Rainah! I can assure you of that,” Laelia said, an unfamiliar edge to her voice and foreign steel in her gaze. 

Even long after the priests were cleared out of the boy’s bedroom, the scent of their incense lingered, burning Laelia’s nostrils. It was difficult to perform any surgery alone, and so she had sent Elouise out to grab one of the mothers in the village who knew the most about medicine and first aid to assist her. There was no anaesthesia to give Nef, and she was out of the heavy sedation and pain medication she usually had until later that night. He had to suffer it through with whiskey alone. Not Laelia’s preferred method, of course, but it worked in a pinch. A really big pinch. 

“Okay,” Laelia said, wiping her brow on her shoulder as she slowly and carefully stitched the boy’s abdomen back up. “As I was worried about, an infection developed since we waited so long to remove the appendix. The surgery should have taken about an hour, but I needed some extra time to remove the infected tissue in his abdomen. I’ll give him some medication to help prevent any further infection and have pain medication for him by this evening, at the latest.” 

Rainah had sent Elouise out of the room, but she had stubbornly stayed to watch organs and tissue removed from her son’s abdomen, silent the entire time. The Mi’qote woman working across from Laelia and assisting her was a quiet helper, doing as she was told and making a valiant effort to not look repulsed by all of the blood that soaked the blue gloves Laelia had told her to put on after scrubbing up.

Now, Nef lay on his bed, still groaning in pain and covered in sweat. Blearily he opened his eyes to watch the doctor strip off her gloves and smile at the Mi’qote, thanking her for her help. 

“An angel came down to help me,” he said weakly, and Rainah jumped, looking over to him as he spoke coherently for the first time in twenty four hours. Laelia glanced over and smiled, walking to his bedside. 

“Just... stay still and try not to talk for now, Nef. Once the whiskey wears off, there’s going to be a period where you’re in a lot of pain. Save your strength for that, alright? I’m going to change and then come back to monitor you. A couple of your friends ran to Ul’dah for me to bring me sedatives and medication. They’ll help you out once they get here with the discomfort.”

“Thank you,” he mumbled, eyes fluttering closed again. 

“...Thank you,” Rainah echoed, her voice quiet. Laelia was in the process of disinfecting her instruments -- though the bulk of it would need to be done back home -- when the woman spoke, and she looked up at her.

“For saving him. I... It’s the way we’ve been raised, all of us in this village. Don’t trust medicine. If faith can’t heal you, then... maybe you weren’t meant to be healed. Maybe you are some sort of... otherworldly being. Maybe you were the one who was sent to save him.”

“I wouldn’t overthink it,” Laelia replied, her voice gentle once again. “I’m no creature sent by a divine being. I’m just...” She looked to the boy on the bed. “This is what I have always wanted to do. Help other people.”

Rainah and her shared a silence, the doctor closing her eyes as she leaned against the rough-hewn wooden table by the window. She was grateful for the bright sunlight streaming in to make the surgery easier. Surgery by candlelight was always more uncertain. It was warm on her skin, seeping down into her bones. Since the first time she’d woken up, it felt like she could breathe again. A holy thing, the sun. Maybe she ought to thank Azeyma for the blessing.

The thought almost made her laugh. Who was she to debate faith? She, a Garlean, raised on the backbone of science and war and control. The only faith one had in Garlemald was in the Emperor, the most divine in all the nation. But... she liked the thought of higher powers -- ones made of benevolence and love. Maybe just one? She wasn’t sure what to make of faith in the sense of otherworldly beings. The idea, though, of something bigger than these people and these creatures that roamed upon a planet, was both terrifying and comforting to the medicus. She had seen even the staunchest of Garlean atheists praying when their loved ones were on the operating table.

There are no atheists in a foxhole. 

“Was I irresponsible?” 

The trembling question broke the silence, and Laelia opened her eyes to see Rainah staring down at her son. 

“Was I irresponsible for not seeking a doctor for him?”

“...No,” Laelia replied, shaking her head. “You did what you thought was best for your child, Rainah. It is difficult to unlearn what has been taught to us since we were born. I won’t tell you that prayer doesn’t help. I don’t know that. But what I do know is medical science, and practice. And I know that you made the right decision in letting me in here. Thank you for letting me do this.” 

“You have no right to thank me,” the Highlander woman snapped, wiping a tear from her cheek. “If Elouise hadn’t come to you, he would have... we would have lost him... let him go to Nald’thal.” 

“Your son is alive, Rainah,” Laelia said earnestly, leaning forward some and focusing her gaze on the mother. “Alive, and a fighter, just like you said. He’ll recover quickly. I know it hurts, the idea of ‘what if’... but ‘what if’ didn’t happen,” Laelia added, watching the woman from across the room. “It’s gone. It’s over. ‘What if’ doesn’t exist anymore.”

She had heard this a thousand times; the strings of ‘what if’s’ coming from family members of her patients. What if I had done this or that differently... What if we hadn’t come right at this moment... What if he hadn’t told us something was wrong right when he did... What if, what if, what if? 

“Have faith that you made the right decision,” Laelia added with a half smile. “Have faith that you’ll be able to do it again.”

“There are...” Rainah’s eyes darted to Laelia and away again, “...still good people in this world. For so long, my family has only known strife... tax collectors, loan sharks, Brass Blades who only take from us... the Garleans who took my husband’s homeland and way of life. But you... You remind us. There are still good people. How do I repay you?”

“By remembering that there are still good people,” Laelia replied, looking to Nef on the bed before looking to his mother. “And... by knowing how grateful I am that you count me among them.” 

The Garleans who took my husband’s homeland and way of life.

I was not one of them, Rainah. And I am so sorry. If my people have taken your husband... then the least I can do is make sure that you keep your son.

[sansloii-a]

( 3/3 )

>TIME: 6:04PM

         A soft groan slips past the thief’s lips and their fingers twitch as they wake, dark brows furrowing a little as they shift uncomfortably. They crack an eye open as they reacquaint themselves with the waking world, cracking one eye open… then the other before blinking as their eyes adjust to their surroundings. The redhead lifts their head slowly, mindful of how their vision begins to swim at the slightest movement they make but still attempting to power through it.

         At that moment, a sharp pain slices through their disoriented sense and blooms right between their eyes. The shock earns an equally sharp hiss and the thief is nearly awake in an instant, leaning forward and cradling their forehead reflexively. The pain is soon followed by other aches and various degrees of throbbing, each one unique in the way it earns a reaction from the thief. Everything hurts and their dizziness was doing them no favors either, seeming to make the pain worse. The objects they registered in their direct line of sight were nothing but blurs and though they tried to get a hold of themself and focus, they just… couldn’t.

         Mikah closes their eyes again and slowly leans back, their hands dropping to their lap as their back meets the wall behind them again. They roll their head back until the back of it meets the wall as well, their face contorting a little bit as a wave of nausea washes over them the moment they do. God, they really couldn’t do anything without some part of them protesting in some way.

         They don’t know how long they sit there following that, slipping in and out of conscious multiple times and struggling to keep their head from rolling back into its hanging position. Their body, of course, continues to object to every little thing they do as well—involuntary actions and not. Their moments of clarity—what few they have, at least—are very brief and aren’t enough for them to even begin to make sense of what had happened to them. Every stray thought that their mind latched onto slipped away from them as soon as they’d gotten a hold on it. One after the other, again and again, and they wondered why. They were usually sharper than this… they should be sharper than this. A headache ( or migraine—it was starting to feel more like that, right now ) shouldn’t be enough to disorient them like this… It shouldn’t—

         Their frantic grab for the thoughts inside their head come to a screeching halt at the sound of something unlocking ( a door, maybe ) and opening ( definitely a door ). Mikah stills and they listen carefully, cracking their eyes open a tiny bit as the sound of footsteps reaches their ears. The noise stops just to the left of the thief and is promptly followed by some shifting.

         What jolts Mikah into opening their eyes then and there is the feeling of foreign fingertips brushing against their skin, slipping underneath the silver chain about their neck and lifting it. Their hand snaps up immediately and their fingers wrap around the wrist of the offending limb, squeezing it with all the strength they could muster ( which, right now, wasn’t ). Thankfully, their vision clears up somewhat and after a couple blinks they can make what few objects occupy the room with them.

        Unfortunately, they can also make out the being crouched down next to them as well.

         If it’s even possible for their blood to run cold, it does so at that moment. Anger threatens to bubble up in their throat but, due to their current state, it doesn’t get very far before it is dwarfed by fear. The overwhelming urge to shrink away from the Ajin next to them but they swallow it, instead opting to glare harshly dig their nails into wrist in their grasp.

       “Oh don’t look at me like that.” he chastises, wrapping his hand around the chain of their necklace completely. “You’re still in one piece aren’t you? I wasn’t allowed to lop your head off so… count your blessings.”

         With that, he gives a sharp tug and the silver chain snaps. The bell that had be securely kept on Mikah’s person is lifted out from under their shirt despite their protests, as weak as they may be. Joseph says something—no doubt something callous and insulting—but their attention remains on the bell the fucker had taken from them. When he moves to stand and steps from them, they’re quick to follow suit ( as bad as an idea that is ). They stagger to their feet, earning a soft, amused breath from the other occupant of the room, and immediately go for what rightfully belongs to them. Jassie gave that to them. He couldn’t take it—they couldn’t let him take it.

       “This is what you’re worried about? This little thing?” Yes, that little thing. “Where’s your bark, Mikah? Your bite?  Where’s it gone now that you’re conscious, hmm?” They don’t know. They didn’t care. They just needed that bell back. “My, were you under for too long? You’re so slow now.”

         They can do little but watch as Joseph tucks the bell away, wanting to be angry—craving it, actually—but failing miserably to summon any of their anger. They couldn’t summon their ghost, they couldn’t summon much of anything, and it frustrated them. Why couldn’t they concentrate? Did he sedate them? With what? Why was it so strong? They’ve been sedated before… but nothing like this. This was horrid.

       “—but you’re still so persistent.” Following the emphasis, they’re jerked forward and receive a swift, but firm, blow to the abdomen. That alone, somehow, is enough to bring the poor thing to their knees. Their fingers slip from his wrist and they crumple to the ground, wrapping an arm around their stomach and using the other to keep their face from meeting the cold floor. He’d only punched them once and yet, they felt like all the wind had been knocked out of them—from one punch.

        This was pathetic.

         Again, Joseph crouches down to their level. They fix him with another searing glare when he forcefully lifts their head. His nails now dig into their skin, earning a very audible noise of discomfort from them as they try to pull their face out of his grasp.

       “You—hey. Sit still.” His fingers press painfully into their jaw, making their eyes water some. They don’t listen to him, though, and proceed to claw at his hand, dragging their nails over the back of his hand. Mikah sits back, kicks forward, and struggles vehemently. The hits they land on him do nothing, they know, but they’d be damned if they were just going to sit there and listen to him. They would not. They would not. Even if they couldn’t summon their ghost, they would not.

       “Sit still.”

         His hand inches down and strong fingers wrap securely around their throat. He squeezes without warning, cutting  the air to their lungs effortlessly. The thief continues to claw and scratch at his hand but with each effort they make, their actions grow weaker. Their vision swims, much like before, and they’re rendered light-headed­ in a matter of moments.

       “You need to relax and stop struggling. You’re only wasting your own energy, hmm?” Why was he reprimanding them. He was the reason they were like this. It was his fault. “It’s not like you’re going anywhere anytime soon so… why not calm down? You’ll hurt yourself if you don’t…”

       Fuck you.

       “…I’ll hurt you if you don’t.”

[imaginemycroftholmes]

Cute one-shot about teen Mycroft and small Sherlock please 💙

“Mycroft hurry up!” Sherlock complains loudly as like a bull in a china shop he tries in vain to keep up with the barn owl flying overhead while traipsing over the abundant dry brush.

For one so small he makes short work of the terrain hidden under the darkness that it almost seems comical for him to be armed with a troch as he more or less went without it swinging wildly on at his left hand.

While not having the advantage of height to slip past the worst of the thicket Mycroft struggles to push forward as not to lose his only brother in the darkness of the forest.

He finds that even with the lantern shifting its light between the ground and the overhead limbs pushing out into his face Mycroft can’t seem to catch a brake let alone Sherlock.

“Sh…Sherlock, don’t stray too far ahead,” Mycroft called after him lamely as he struggled to make headway over a fallen tree.

Its limbs may have given Sherlock enough room to crouch under but for Mycroft-he was liable to get stuck and given at Sherlock’s pace trying to go around it would separate them further.

The night was unbearably muggy in a way that made his hairs stick to his face in a most irritating way that rivaled that of the bugs that were attracted to the torch and his blood.

“Blasted things,” Mycroft grumbles as he tries in vain to crawl through the limbs that kept the tree from falling indefinitely to the forest floor only to have his knees scraped, his sleeves dirtied and gnats dive bombing his eyes causing him to blink rapidly in defense.

“MYCROFT YOU BETTER KEEP UP OR MUMMY WILL BE CROSS THAT YOU LEFT ME,” Sherlock shouts from somewhere in the darkness up ahead. .

And oh wasn’t mummy one to blame for this predicament?

Father had finished reading to them about owls as per usual of their studies. Of course Eurus and Sherlock were fascinated if not for different reasons; Sherlock for the bird’s anatomy (can you REALLY see their eyeballs from behind their ears??!) and Eurus (They spit out their preys bones WHOLE.)

Mycroft already had an appreciation for the animal as it alludes to more scholarly learning and introspect but when mummy decided it would be a great idea to go out looking for owls at night Mycroft was less than pleased.

“Mummy but the bugs will be out.”

“The bugs are always out Mycroft.”

“But we could get lost in the woods.”

“Mycroft the woods are hardly that big behind the house and I’ll leave the lights on  the upper story to help guide you back.”

“But mummy we could get injured and die out there.”

“Mycroft if you die in our backyard then there’s really no hope for you.”

It was little compensation that Mummy and Father had taken Eurus east to look for any owls while he was tasked with Sherlock but Mycroft had to preserve or they would both be cross with him.

And Lord knows Sherlock was already cross for being paired with him,

There is crunching, tripping and shrieks from Sherlock that follow along with the tiny torch light swaying madly in the trees but Mycroft counts it as a good thing until the noise becomes more stressed.

Finally free from the branches and dusting himself off Mycroft is greeted by a disgruntled Sherlock.

His face is wild as it is marred with dirt, debris, leaves, and strangely enough war paint (when had he done that?) as Sherlock badgers him thusly.

“Are we done making ourselves all prim and proper,” he sneers (Mycroft of this is sure even with the torch pointed at him directly) , “This is the wilderness Mycroft. There’s no need for formalities out here!”

Sighing at the attitude Mycroft corrects him. “No, this is our backyard.”

“Which is a forest-”

“In our backyard,” Mycroft interjects giving Sherlock the eye, “but regardless of it being our backyard I would still appreciate that you stay close to me rather than running up ahead.”

“Well if its our backyard then it shouldn’t be so ‘dangerous’ and what’s taking you so long anyway? Can’t get your elephant legs over a pebble?”

Its times like this that Mycroft starts to reconsider his position as the oldest. To what could he possibly hope to gain out of a relationship such as this? A complex? Control issues?

Even for an overly mature teenager such as himself it got to Mycroft so much so that upon resting his elbow on a nearby stump to rethink his life an white barn owl had decided to perch on his arm.

If Sherlock’s eyes could get any bigger Mycroft was sure that they would engulf their best china plates held in the cabinet by the dinning area and if the muffled shrieking was anything to go by Sherlock was likely to explode.

Now Mycroft while knowing everything you could ever want to know about owls had limited physical knowledge on how to deal with them.

Hell, the last time Mycroft had attempted to hold a bird it was at Jamie’s 10th birthday party and to impress a girl that he found intelligent and that had ended up with his parents buying the birthday boy a whole flock of parakeets to replace the one that escaped through his fingers.

But he wasn’t going to let Sherlock know that. Sure this bird could potentially scalp him, destroy his face with its talons or worse however the twinkle in Sherlock’s eyes as the owl continued to do its grooming on his arm was priceless.

So in an effort to ignore the talons on the owl digging into his arm and the free of the wild beast attacking either of them Mycroft began to narrate.

“And here we have the Bubo scandiacus, native to Arctic regions in North America and Eurasia.”

Unlike most times that Mycroft attempted to talk to Sherlock was riveted.

He was listening onto every word as Mycroft described the bird’s habits and facts while watching the bird in childlike fascination.

It wasn’t until Sherlock asked the dreaded question: “Can I pet it?” that Mycroft started to realize how dangerous this could be.

The owl could be carrying foreign bacteria that could get Sherlock sick, the bird could attack Sherlock and scar him or worse but the look on his face made Mycroft want to risk it if only to have this brotherly bonding.

“Of course but be very careful Sherlock while I distract our avian friend,” Mycroft says a bit nervously.

If the bird was to bit he would rather it be at him so taking his free hand Mycroft distracts the bird as Sherlock slowly comes from behind to stroke its feathers.

Gently, slowly, please don’t bite my brother…

Mycroft found it a miracle that the bird allowed Sherlock to stroke its feathers briefly before letting out an ear shattering shriek and flew off into the night.

Considering how brief the petting was Mycroft expected Sherlock to be miffed but it was the contrary.

“MYCROFT THAT WAS SO COOL I PETTED A WILD OWL AND EVERYTHING,” Sherlock  continued to gush as they walked back to the house.

“Yes, indeed you did,” Mycroft adds while he absently rubs his arm that served as a perch for what felt like an hour. The bird didn’t break the skin thank God but there will be marks in the morning he was sure of it.

When they get closer to the house Sherlock grabs his hand and says so very softly, “Thank you for taking me out  here.”

“What was that?”

“I said thanks! What? is all that fat clogging up your ears?” Sherlock bursts out before he thinks better of it and tries again with, “I mean, thank you for taking me out. I know you don’t like playing outside but what you did with the owl-that was wicked.”

“Like wicked cool?”

“Don’t ruin the moment Mycroft,” Sherlock says pointedly as he releases his hand and runs full speed at the back door.

Mycroft watches fondly as he follows at a more sedate pace. These are what happy memories are made of.

[shewearsherselftoat]

So I posted this on Reddit like a few (maybe three years ago), and they had the nerve to say something rude and bam me from using their website. Thank God, because that is how I found Tumblr - through a friend Jessie - and started my own conspiracy theory blog, but that has been closed down and not recovered even though my name is very similar - capitalization may be off. Anyhow, next post will be the email they sent to me after my post and follow-up comment here.

michelejean1

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michelejean1 commented on MY C-Theory: JonBenet Ramsey wasn't just a cover-up; it's involved.

•r/JonBenet

•Posted byu/michelejean1

michelejean1

1 point

·

22 minutes ago

Now....for another eye-opening moment here: Let's take a look at the ransom letter (as taken from the book by John Douglas and Mark Olshaker, authors of Mindhunter and THE ANATOMY OF MOTIVE), pp.271-273.

Mr. Ramsey,

Listen carefully! We are a group of individuals that represent a small foreign faction. We [cross-out] respect your bussiness but not the country that it serves. At this time we have your daughter in our posession. She is safe and un harmed and if you want her to see 1997, you must follow our instructions to the letter. <-----Last line, note that they make clear if you want her to LIVE to see 1997, you must follow the instructions; however, there is no promise of an exchange or 'pick-up' of the daughter. She can live, but not be delivered back home; or what else? Because this is a very vague statement/promise. There is no promise of her safety, even if she does continue to live.

(Now this first paragraph misleads. In one hunch, the author(s) want us to believe that they are illiterate. Set-up #1. Who is or Who are the individual(s) being set-up for the murder of JonBenet Ramsey? Let's continue as I believe there are various authors to this letter. Look at grammar, context, VOICE, semantics, use of commas, capitalizations, and wording/vocabulary). Also, don't forget tone - At times, there appears to be contriteness, but more of a menacing underlying tone.

(new paragraph according to book - new line plus indentation)

You will withdraw $118,000.00 from your account. $100,000 will be in $100 bills and the remaining $18,000 in $20 bills. Make sure that you bring an adequate size attache to the bank. When you get home you will put the money in a brown paper bag.

(Another pause - why the heck in a brown paper bag!??? What reference is this, or what is it in reference to? It's more than random, but nothing is coincidence. I believe that randomness either comes from free association (see psychological terms) or ???? Could it be a slight to the Mother? Were brown paper bag lunches a thing of the time? Were groceries placed in brown paper bags? Because this is confusing me. You wouldn't put such valuable things in a brown paper bag, which at best is flimsy and can be blown away - it is lightweight and not secure). Now, for a "RANDOM" example, a HUGE retailer (Bloomingdale's) sells a plastic handbag with the following writing on it: Little Brown Bag. Valued at $26. Why do I post this? It must be random.

📷

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NOW ENOUGH WITH THIS - ONTO THE NEXT LINE FROM THE SAME PARAGRAPH:

(cont'd - continued in same paragraph)

I will call you between 8 and 10 am tomorrow to instruct you on delivery. <------How do they know what time they (family/parents) are going to "find" her? Or NOT going to find her? So hazy parts here: According to one source, there was a party the night before. A Christmas Party. What was the family's history of behavior when it comes to family gatherings and outsiders? Another source claimed that is was celebration party for the promotion and bonus the father had received from work. Yet, they usually kept to themselves is what I read somewhere. So this seems out of the ordinary. Truth was, the father was relieved from his job. So was the motive...money-based, or was it meant to look money-based? The "party" the night before, or if it was a gathering, could've been the moment to frame the parents/family for the upcoming crime. Hunch: So it was still someone on the inside.

Let's continue.

The delivery will be exhausting so I advise you to be rested. <-----exhausting? WTH (What the heck!?) And why is the word 'advise' sticking out like a sore thumb to me?

If we monitor you getting the money early, we might call you early to arrange an earlier delivery of the [Page 2] money and hence a earlier [cross-out] pick-up of your daug hter. <-------Change in the lines - from line-to-line. contriteness here plus why use the word 'getting' right after a fancy-pants line? There is substantial inconsistency throughout the letter. AS I previously mentioned: Look at grammar, context, VOICE, semantics, use of commas, capitalizations, and wording/vocabulary). Also, don't forget tone.

(new paragraph according to book - new line plus indentation)

Any deviation of my instructions will result in the immediate execution of your daughter. <---- This line implies NO MERCY.You will also be denied her remains for proper burial. <-----WTF (What the f***)! This is more than sinister. The two gentlemen watching over your daughter do not particularly like you so I advise you not to provoke them. <---So, this line implies that (a) there are two other men involved OR (b) it is classic projection. The men writing this part, or this sentence, are filled with animosity towards (a) daughter and/or (b) father/family AND IN ADDITION are using a guilt tactic to prevent father/family from fighting back. Essentially, the blame is placed for the daughter's abduction upon the shoulders of the father. They mean business, but they are also very psychological beings (not in a good way).

BREAK-TIME AND THEN NEW THREAD!!!!!!!l

MY C-Theory: JonBenet Ramsey wasn't just a cover-up; it's involved.

r/JonBenet

•

Posted byu/michelejean1

1 hour ago

1 Comment

MY C-Theory: JonBenet Ramsey wasn't just a cover-up; it's involved.l

r/JonBenet

•Posted byu/michelejean1

1 hour ago

MY C-Theory: JonBenet Ramsey wasn't just a cover-up; it's involved.

So, here's a bit of a conspiracy theory for you all: JonBenet Ramsey is NOT dead. I've done some research for approximately less than 1 year, and it's been a hard one to solve. I've went from desperate to resourceful; I've shopped some theories, but then I stopped short, because another's bias will lead me down the same trail. To a dead end. Instead, I believe I got creative. And at first, I was all over the place. For one door opens endless possibilities. But then I tried to taper some of these theories into legit (legitimate) trails.

Hunch #1: She is still alive. Although the legitimacy of this seems an empty trail, I have a strong gut on this BECAUSE of the following (now I have discovered things that area all seemingly circumstantial and some are far-fetched as well) BUT I will post little by little and you be judge to call-out or reconfirm my best and worst work. Feel free to prove me wrong.

Source(s) #1: The INTERNET. Wow. Look at all the websites and information, or actually lack of information about her biography prior to her abduction. You have ONLY the reigning beauty pageant child; America's beauty queen, a child. NO websites mention her personality. No information is exact EVEN FOR her beauty pageantry history. So why is this information misleading? All of THEM only focus on a few key things: Dates she won pageants; Some titles she won; her family; and the 24-hours prior to her abduction and everything thereafter (all the events AFTER her abduction). There is no mention of what kind of child she was - her personality; her friends; her hobbies (other than pageantry); did she frequent Church (with the family); who, outside of her family, was she exposed to or friendly with? Because the child's personality is KEY here. And I'll use a GREAT EXAMPLE: BRITNEY JEAN SPEARS. She is known to be painfully shy when she is off-stage and around others. But she would come alive on the stage.

Now in a digression, I want to touch upon an example which may explain my theory:

OR we can go to Amanda Bynes. Read this excerpt from an article:

“Many a ‘True Hollywood Story’ has been told about show-business kids going bad,” the New York Times wrote then, “but Ms. Bynes seems remarkably self-possessed and far more sedate than the highly caffeinated characters she plays on television.” In the same article, Dan Schneider, who produced nearly everything Bynes had starred in up to that point, reinforced the Times' confident assertion: “I’ve seen kids in her position experiment with drugs and be too promiscuous, but Amanda has avoided all that. My wife, who knows her, says she’s almost like Marcia Brady in that she’s so clean-cut and wholesome.”

From what I remember (My personal recollection of Amanda Bynes from televised interviews), Amanda Bynes was always very calm and mannerly (kind) in interviews. She was graceful. And reserved. As was Britney. Now, when the lights came up or the camera rolled, these two child stars portrayed a much different and more confident air and act for the audience or stage (what-have-you). As they were reserved (why? this for me is confusing because what causes a person to be reserved? Is it introversion? I don't believe so, but again, I can be wrong. But a reserved personality is also a block and a block creates a position that can be misread)---> Let's do this again: As they were reserved personalities, private or SHY people (which shy can be misleading for private when it simply is a barrier or obstacle to overcome), SOMEONE, whether from close-by OR afar could've read the situation and created doubt or an introduced an unkind influence into the young ladies' lives and then corrupted the foundations and protection they had and EXPLOITED them. And framed them - but for what?

In another scenario, what if, there was no outside influence, but there was an attack that led to everything being covered up? Again, you will all call this far-reaching, but those with motive and (sorry Research Methods Professor from Binghamton, I forgot the other attributing _________ word) - those with motive and _____ don't necessarily need the means or even abilities to achieve their desires and desired outcomes. *Note: They are different - desires and desired outcomes.* - *Sometimes they may be the same, but let's not exclude anything.*

BACK FROM THE DIGRESSION:

What does this have to do with JonBenet Ramsey?

Greatness - The greater you are perceived to be, the more people want to topple you over and drag down. Why is "success" a draw? Is it competition? Is it jealousy? Is it envy? I can go on with the list...Why is the motive, but HOW is what drives the point home. You can't establish one without the other.

[dragonnan]

The Tiger and the Shark

Chapter 11 Story Excerpt

Spoilers for this excerpt - 

While the story, as a whole, is a far darker tale, this is one of the moments I was particularly proud of involving Sherlock and Molly.  Fair warning, it does reference the sexual abuse both of them had suffered (though is not remotely graphic and is merely a reference).  Also, while there is a strong Sherlolly component this is NOT a romance story.  The emotions expressed are genuine, but are also brought to the surface more from trauma than passion.  All that said, it leaves a door open for something that a possible future story may more fully address.

I hope you enjoy!

_________________________________________

       Sherlock pulled up his collar as he entered the morgue. He'd slept fourteen hours after returning to the flat and his subsequent conversation with John. He'd suspected a sedative of some sort; briefly. However, John had put to rest such a suggestion with adamant denial. As it was, a test of the previous night's tea confirmed the absence of any known medications. Enduring the storm of raging, that had followed, Sherlock had pointed out that John had threatened sedation on no less than sixteen separate occasions. He was, however, forced to admit that John could, in such instances, be a bit of a windbag.

John had then resorted to another, familiar, threat of physical violence.

All in all it had proven to be productive afternoon.

That evening, after an early dinner with John and Rosie (who, as of late, had begun insisting on sitting in her Godfather's lap during mealtimes with the express purpose of trying to share her food with him. He couldn't recall the moment he'd signed up for having sticky baby fingers shoved into his mouth), Sherlock bundled into his coat and left the flat. Never a long wait for a cab on Baker Street, he caught one just minutes after reaching the pavement.

Ten minutes later he arrived at Barts.

Paying the cabbie, he stepped out onto the curb and took a moment to pull his coat tight about himself. Though it was chilly there was also an, admitted, comfort in burying himself in the heavy wool. Eyes closing for only a moment, he breathed, and stepped towards the doors.

Molly was alone in the lab. She smiled when she saw him enter and Sherlock, counter to the instincts that had ruled him for most of his life, hesitated. Right now, she was content. Right now, she was a woman who had overcome horror and had taken control of her life. Of course there were scars but who was he to reopen them? He – who knew, with blistering clarity, the agony of reopened scars. It was unbearable to that he could be the death knell to her current peace of mind.

“Something I can get for you? God, I feel like a waitress. 'The kidneys are fresh off the slab; would you like chips with those?'”

Sherlock smirked. This was not a side to Molly that he'd seen before – her humor tending towards hesitant and clumsy at best. Her little quip had actually been... rather amusing. It also sapped some of the tension from his limbs – allowing him to step further into the morgue.

“Nothing, tonight.” He was uncertain where to proceed, after that. This was a dynamic foreign to him. Prior interactions with Molly had always taken a specific pattern of engagement. He went to her when he needed something from her – be it body parts for study or the safety of her flat during the two years he'd played dead. But then... the dynamic had changed. He could remember the exact moment; standing before her, much like this, and asking her if she wanted to solve crime with him. Yes, he had needed someone to impress – he would no longer deny that. Yes, he had been missing John's presence, terribly. That, too, he could acquiesce. But... he had also wanted, her, with him. And he had felt an undefinable and unpleasant emotion when he'd understood that it could not be more than that one time. Regret. It had taken quite a long time to grasp that feeling – brought much more fully into the light when Mary's blood had covered his hands – listening to John make those horrified and agonizing sounds...

Long, long before Eurus's vicious games he had known his friendship with Molly had become something different. In what manner, he was still uncertain. Her comfort, in his presence, was one he had not experienced in the early years of their acquaintance. More fascinating was his comfort in hers – something he had not known with any person before John. It was apparent, as well, that their similar traumas had also made headway in altering their dynamic. And it was that topic which he now found locked up within his throat.

“Sherlock? I asked if you were alright?” Molly was before him. He had not been aware of her movements – caught within his own mind.

He swallowed. “Molly I... I wanted to ask if you'd... like to come with me to dinner, tomorrow night? At Baker Street.” he added.

Molly's body straightened in that familiar posture of unease – lips drawing tight as she looked away. After a moment she dropped her chin. “Sherlock, I know you're dealing with a great deal but I'm just... I'm-I'm not certain this is an appropriate reaction...”

His brow lined at her nervous stumble – familiar, yes, but not the response he'd expected. Certainly it wouldn't be the first time she'd have partaken in dinner at his flat – a regular occurrence on the days she minded Rosie. Nor was it the first time he'd asked her out for a meal. Granted, the last time had been after the false Ripper case and... oh...

“Molly, you misunderstand. I have something I need to share with you and I believe a social setting, such as a restaurant, would be uncomfortable for the topic at hand.”

Molly lifted her head – confused for only a moment before her eyes widened. Her fingers fiddled with the hem of her jumper and, for a moment, her eyes closed. “You...” She breathed; her eyes finding his, “you found him...”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes.”

◦

John and Rosie had eaten with them – the little girl giggling around bites of pasta that she charmed from every plate around the table with giant, pleading, eyes. Not even Sherlock was immune – though he did insist upon proper manners from the young Watson. “One does not slurp spaghetti and spatter tomato sauce across one's face and hair. You first twirl the noodles onto your fork and, should you prefer, you may use a spoon to assist.” He demonstrated while Rosie, as well as the rest of the table, watched without a sound. He didn't notice the wide grin on John's face nor the wistful smile on Molly's.

“There! Now, pop open your lips.” Rosie obeyed; mouth going wide as Sherlock held out the small twist of pasta. Leaning forward, she gobbled the bite; chewing as she rocked back and forth.

“What do we say, Rosie-Posey?” John smiled at his little girl.

Hopping on her heels, tottering slightly, Rosie grinned up at her benefactor. “Tay you, Pop Pop Shoo-Shoo!”

“You're welcome, Watson.”

Giggling, Rosie scampered back to Molly – arms high. “Up!”

Gathering the child, Molly held her for the rest of the meal.

Some time later, after John had taken Rosie upstairs for bed, Molly sat in his chair across from Sherlock.

“Your friend from University. Connie Doyle.”

Molly nodded – her eyes showing recognition at the forgotten name; though not enough familiarity to connect the pieces. Sherlock, in rare hesitation, rubbed his fingertips together – missing the firm rubber of his old squash ball. “Bradstreet was her fiance. He'd known you were going to be there, that night...” he waited, never lowering his gaze, knowing what this would do, “because she had told him so.”

Molly blinked; huffing a laugh, as was often her first instinct. She shook her head; though her smile was tight. “No. No, I don't believe that.” Her hands pushed against the arms of the chair, as though to stand, before she sank back down. “I don't believe that she... sh-she wouldn't... she...”

Sherlock said nothing more while her mind pulled the information together. Additional details would not be as powerful as her own memories – spotty though they were from the drugs that had been forced into her system. Her brows pushed down as she fell silent – replaying; squinting, at times, when the memories appeared difficult or impossible to retrieve. “I... met him. I remember – why hadn't I remembered?” Her eyes moved back and forth as her recall built in her mind. “He... would show up after classes were out for the day to take Connie home. He would always ask if I wanted to come along... come along for drinks, and...” she gasped; both hands covered her mouth as something sharp and quavering burst though her fingers.

Still at a distance, Sherlock lowered his eyes. “It was why she came to your home, afterwards, and told you she was sorry. It is also the reason you never saw her afterwards. He chose his victims; but it was Connie Doyle who prepared the drugs for his use.”

One hand still clamped over her face, Molly squeezed her eyes tight as tears dripped over her fingers. Choked off sorrow caught in her throat – composure racing away as long lost questions began to find answers.

Knowing well enough that there was nothing that could be done to make this better, Sherlock remained silent. There were wounds that went too deep – cut into vital parts of anatomy – left one bleeding internally for decades. What words could possibly heal such damage?

Relocating to the kitchen, Sherlock began to prepare tea. He remained there, while the kettle heated – selecting a blend free of caffeine, given the late hour. He passed on the biscuits – this was not a conversation that welcomed digestion.

Molly had drawn into herself by the time he returned – saying nothing as he set her cup on the small table beside her chair.

They held their teacups – each finding touch points within the room to hold their stares. For Sherlock it was the fireplace – the low flames a poor replacement for his mind palace but it had proven to be an acceptable option with his mind closed to him.

There were no more words until the cups in their hands emptied. Sherlock stood, taking the cup from Molly and returning them to the sink.

She followed him – her steps soft on the rug. She didn't speak while he washed the cups and set them on the rack to dry. How very like those quiet moments in her flat – in the days before his secret departure abroad. So... domestic. It had grated on him, then – the inactivity – the dull monotony grinding against the unacknowledged anxiety... fear. So many years later – carrying out actions that had long since become familiar with repetition. Odd... they did not trouble him, now. Odder still – he welcomed the quiet harmony of his actions.

“Thank you.” Her soft voice was hardly above a whisper. Sherlock dried his hands and turned. Molly had looped her fingers in the sleeve of her jumper – red and cream flowers in a heavy knit. “It doesn't....” She lifted her chin. Her eyes were red – the flesh below hollowed and damp. Fine hairs had pulled free from the loose twist arranged at the side of her neck. She brushed them back from her eyes with fingers half hidden in her cuff. “It doesn't change... anything. Knowing. Not really.” Her teeth tugged at her lower lip before she licked it – sniffing. “But I'm glad you told me.”

Sherlock nodded. “Of course.”

Her smile was an attempt that failed before it even formed – tugging into a sniff filled with tears.

“May I?”

She looked at him, only for a moment, before nodding.

His arms went around her shoulders and she rested her body in his embrace – letting herself cry while he held her.

He said nothing. She said nothing in return. Somehow, that was enough.

◦

It was quite late when Molly prepared to leave. While knowing she was fully capable of making the journey unaccompanied, Sherlock shared the cab back to her flat. She hadn't wanted to be alone and, truly, neither had he – even with John just a floor above.

“Will I need to make a statement?”

No need to clarify her question. Sherlock tipped down his chin. “Do you wish to make a statement?”

She shrugged. “No. I don't know...” She rubbed her hand between her brows before looking out the window. “Does it make me a coward if I don't want to...”

“No. Of course not.” She turned back to Sherlock and straightened up a bit – eyes losing some of the devastation that had lingered in them for most of the evening. The soft shush of tires passing through standing water and the dull hum of the motor filled in the spaces between their conversation. The heater had been turned up a few degrees too warm and Sherlock felt sweat collect beneath his hairline.

“Thank you.”

He glanced towards Molly – her attention had turned back towards him.

“You've already thanked me, once. And there is no need, Molly.”

Her hand slid to his – tentatively resting over his knuckles. He turned up his palm to hold her fingers.

“I mean, for not... not leaving me alone. For coming home with me...” She suddenly flushed bright – pulling her hand back to cover her face. “Oh God – that came out all wrong!”

Feeling none of the awkwardness that had overtaken his companion, Sherlock hesitated a moment, at her embarrassment, before holding his hand out to her. It was interesting to realize that it was not purely for her comfort, that he offered his touch. No. As her hand returned to his, her face still warmed with blush, it was her touch, in return, that he wanted to feel. Quite without intending, his thumb traced across her knuckles.

They spoke, nothing more, the rest of the journey.

Instructing the cabbie to wait for him while he slid out of the cab behind Molly, Sherlock pulled up his collar as the brusque wind flapped his coat about his legs. Molly hunched and shivered – hands diving into her pockets as she hurried to the door. At a less rushed pace, Sherlock followed behind – rubbing his fingers against the chill.

He stood with her in the alcove, the space blocked in either side by large hedges, while Molly pulled her keys from her oversized bag.

She hesitated, however, before opening the door. “Do... do you want to...” She closed her eyes and shook her head; teeth catching her bottom lip. “Sorry; stupid... stupid...” Her voice was almost lost to the rushing wind. Her hands, clutching the keys, balled into fists before her.

Sherlock couldn't understand his own hesitation – only knowing that he felt compelled to remain. While not always so; in the years of their acquaintance, Molly's presence had become very agreeable to him. He would go as far as to call it pleasing. While never fully losing her nervousness, certainly she had become more comfortable with him, as well. They could spend hours in the lab, together, with no need for conversation. And, when they did speak, he found a woman with quick intelligence and cleverness that was nearly a match to his own. She was not the same as John – no, and nobody could be. John was his own person and Sherlock's match in ways that were different – more lent to excitement and adventure. John was both safety and the guarantee of danger and those warring elements made him the ideal friend. He'd lived life without that, for 2 years. He could not fathom a repeat of that absence.

With Molly, though... he found something that even John could not provide. There were few memories he could draw on to inform on the emotion, though there were some. The most powerful involved a collage of images; a fireplace roaring around oak logs – a mug of honeyed tea – his mother's soft touch through his wild curls...

He felt a compulsion pushing against his chest. Sentiment. Since Eurus and Sherrinford he'd been able to understand the missing pieces of his own mind – locked away for the bulk of his life. Emotion had pushed to the surface with greater regularity yet he'd also felt more in control of those emotions – understanding, finally, where they originated. But...

But since his rape, those emotions had scattered like chaff in a hurricane. He could no longer grasp them – could no longer control them as they whipped through his mind at random. Anger – fear – even odd elation when there was no clear trigger to warrant any of those feelings.

And now... Now something new, again. Was this nostalgia? No – he was familiar with that unwelcome sensation – the more bothersome of emotions, certainly, and one that had plagued him with regularity while tearing through Moriarty's network. This... this... desire... was different.

“May I...?” His hands shook. His breath stuttered. His heart slammed like a heart attack beneath his sternum. All of the sensations he'd come to associate with an anxiety attack save one, baffling, symptom.

He didn't want it to stop.

Molly had her hands knotted together – twisting them. Sherlock carefully tugged at her fingers; easing them open – resting his palms beneath hers and feeling the tremble in them both. Molly sniffed – shivering through another hard gust of wind.

“You should go inside. You are not dressed properly for the temperature.”

“You may.” Molly replied – non-sequitur creasing his forehead. Until her thumbs rubbed against his hands and her face tilted towards him. “Whatever you need.” She swallowed, flushing pink. “You may.”

Their hands still together, he leaned – watching her eyes for alarm. Instead of fear, however, her mouth pressed tight – edging into a shaky smile. Close enough that her breaths felt warm against his jaw, he rested his lips against hers – the softest caress gliding across her mouth. Head tipping the other way, she pushed up into his heat – adding intensity that cracked open a door he'd thought he'd locked years ago. Ache. Want. Pain – always pain. Her arms left his hands to tighten around his back – her cheek dropping to his chest and her soft assurances bringing awareness to the tears slipping down his face. It made no sense. Emotions so rarely made sense; a leading motivation for avoiding them in excess. No more, however; his mind swamped with decades of repression. As though every feeling that he'd ever locked away, denied, or crushed had struck him en masse. He clutched at Molly – furious – terrified – grieving all at once as his face pressed into her shoulder.

He held her until the cold sank into his limbs – feeling her body shudder in the icy wind that billowed their clothing – sliding beneath their layers to freeze against the flesh.

Whatever happened with his waiting cab went unnoticed as she led him inside. Well used to her flat, his steps did not require his eyesight – compromised by the hands he pressed against his eyes. Would the sorrow never leave him? Eurus had been right about him. Emotion was a destructive force that would tear him apart. He was not equipped to fight its power.

I am never going to get better. I no longer know my own mind. I can no longer walk its hallways. Even now – when I attempt it... I find only... he shuddered; teeth clamping tight around the rest of it. That he could still, even now, find the same dungeon – the same chains – and Gruner. Moriarty had become a relief, now; wandering outside of the palace with all of the brash confidence Sherlock had once known.

She let him stand near the door while she moved to the kitchen – soft light snapping on. A touch against his legs sent a dart through his chest – though reaction was only a tilt of his head to take in the small tortoiseshell winding around his shins.

“Sorry – he's hungry.” Molly walked quickly back through the room to collect her cat; cuddling the creature as she carried it on towards the kitchen. What was its name? Thomas? Tiberius?

“That's a good boy, Toby. You ready for some din-dins?”

Ah, Toby. Of course. Popular pet name, it would seem.

Using his thumb to clear the lingering wet from his eyes, Sherlock slipped out of his coat and draped it across the back of a chair – dropping down at the dining room table and letting his face fall into his hands. Exhaustion dragged against his limbs and he may have slept for several minutes – perhaps longer – because the sound of a cup tapping against the table shuddered him to awareness.

“Sorry... I made tea...” Molly sat across from him – sipping at her cup.

Sherlock inhaled the mild brew – chamomile. He appreciated the mild flavor; for once welcoming anything that could quiet his mind.

Molly set down her cup – fingers playing with the handle. “You can stay here – tonight. I made up the bed – for you, I mean. I'll sleep on the couch.” Blushing, once more, as she stuttered through her words.

Sherlock frowned. “Nonsense. I will not take your bed from you. The couch will be sufficient.”

“I can't believe we're having this argument again.” At Sherlock's confusion, Molly shook her head – lips twitching into a smile. “You insisted on taking the couch the last time you'd stayed here, remember? It's too short for you but you said it would be fine. The next thing I know, I'm woken up by my lamp smashing on the floor because you'd kicked it in your sleep.” She laughed – then – and Sherlock managed a smirk.

“Well it had been a hideous lamp.”

Molly laughed harder and Sherlock chuckled as well.

Afterwards, they finished their tea and Molly, firmly, demanded that Sherlock take the bed. Utterly knackered, he gave in – silently pleased to drop down onto her mattress. Soft – but not overly so – with just the right amount of give. Her wardrobe may suffer but Molly had excellent taste when it came to beds.

It smelled of her.

He turned his face into the pillow – clean but still scented of her shampoo. He faced the door – listening to the hushed preparations just beyond the painted wood. Her steps to the loo – the sound of running water as she brushed her teeth – the flush of the toilet – and then the movements back to the sitting room. She spoke, her words indistinct, as she conversed at her feline. Shortly thereafter she fell silent – asleep.

The familiar sounds of the flat were soothing. Sherlock's breathing deepened – eyes rolling shut – lulled by the distant sound of wind shaking through tree branches. His mind wandered into a room filled with gentle laughter and soft hands – crackling fire and a cup of hot, sweet, tea.

He was out within minutes.