#get a tiny tattoo that is hard to notice which he will try to erase when they have their first fight with Bucky

[anavilante]

[Modern AU]

Gale *sighs*: Love is a weakness and an evolutionary mistake… Benny: You are literally making a Valentine's card for Bucky. Gale, pointing his hot glue gun towards Benny: You're on thin fucking ice, DeMarco!

[mollymauk-teafleak]

Benzaiten Steel and the Case of Mistaken Identity

Ben has a very awkward morning on the Carte Blanche...

Just a fun little scene from a happier, better universe where Ben is alive and happy and committing intergalactic crimes with his brother and their new family.

Please consider reblogging or leaving a comment over on Ao3!

---

Contrary to popular belief, there were a lot of differences between the Steel Twins.

Sure, there was the obvious stuff like the hairstyle and the general disposition, how you could tell which one you’d bumped into on any given day by whether they were smiling or scowling. There was the dress sense and the scars and the tattoos that didn’t match, except for the one. And, of course, the different number of eyes.

But Benten had always thought it was the smaller differences, the ones nobody noticed, that mattered. That made them Juno and Benzaiten, not just the Steel Twins. Not that he resented being seen as one of a matched set, of course not. It was wonderful to work with Juno on the Carte Blanche, to live in the same space as him again and see him every day, tired in the mornings and working furiously into the evenings, to sit with him and have meals as a family with the rest of their crew. To always have him in arms reach, to show him a funny video on his comms or hang off his shoulders as they stood together. To use their nearly but not identical faces in their work, making people believe there was only one of them and seeing their faces when it all fell into place.

Benten knew how it felt to lose his brother and he never wanted to go back to that.

Still, it was nice to have their own individual quirks even if they went unnoticed. Like this, like how Benten was always the early riser while Juno would stay in bed as long as decent society allowed him. He’d gotten used to it as a kid; the three buses he had to take to his dance class had meant getting up just before sunrise six days out of seven. Juno’s hobbies, which were what Ben charitably called his obsessions, his research or his work meant he stayed up late buried in files and data, seeing patterns in it that no one else would, with one eye or two. Often when they were teenagers, he’d be up and about to head out just as Juno was dragging his carcass to bed.

That had led to an intimate familiarity with another difference, how each twin took his coffee.

Benten had the kitchen of the Carte Blanche to himself, the SimSun lights just kicking into gear. Soon the ship would come to life, the noises of some mechanical fix going on from the cargo bay as Jet began his first task of the day, Buddy humming to herself as she sat in her cabin and made the impossible possible, the clatter of Vespa sharpening tools in the med bay either to hurt or to heal, the hammering of fingers on keys as Rita worked at her comms, over the too loud chatter of her stream. And Ransom...well, Ransom doing whatever he did on a morning with his usual eerie silence. All that would come but for now it was quiet, just the sound of his bare feet sticking to the tiles as he moved around and the song he was whistling.

Today was going to be a good day, Benten told himself triumphantly. They were back in charted space which meant he could video call Mick, hearing his boyfriend’s voice and seeing his beautiful, ridiculous grin for the first time in weeks. The thousands of miles between them would shrink to the width of a comms screen and everything would feel better.

And it would start with coffee. He did feel a little pang of guilt at only making two cups, one for him and one for Juno, but it was hard to break traditions that were decades old. He’d always left one waiting for his brother in their crappy little Oldtown kitchen, for when he’d reluctantly follow him into consciousness. He’d always wanted the first thing Juno knew when he woke up was that someone was looking out for him. And to drink some coffee because he probably looked like shit.

Juno liked to pretend he was the toughest, meanest lady around, making Benten wonder if anyone else knew he took his coffee with three sugars and enough cream to make it barely a few shades above white. He mixed in each spoonful of freeze dried coffee and powdered, stasis milk carefully, though it would never taste like the real stuff you got planetside. There was a lot about long haul space travel that sucked. The food was ninety percent of it.

Still, it was hot and sweet and prickling with caffeine, in the mug Rita had painted herself with ‘world’s best boss’ printed on the side, and Benten knew his brother would really appreciate it. It would make him smile in that rough, crooked way he did, the smile that didn’t come out very often but Ben wished it would. People deserved to see it.

He stopped whistling as he balanced the mugs in his hands, trying really hard not to slop any over the sides. Sure the cleaning bots would take care of any spills but Benten had always felt mean about giving them any work to do. The kitchen door slid shut behind him, the mechanism not quite what it had been when the ship was new and making more noise than it should. Juno’s room wasn’t far, none of them had spread out much from the others even with all the rooms to choose from. He should only be a few doors down.  

But as Ben moved past the bathroom door, he heard the sound of running water and his brother’s unmistakable rough voice, singing as he showered. Ben grinned to himself, pausing a moment to listen while Juno butchered a peppy, upbeat dance number that had come on the radio the other day. He had a good voice, though he’d never admit it, this just wasn’t his vibe. Still, he sang it cheerily and Ben could imagine him bouncing on the balls of his feet and swaying his hips in time to the beat as he soaped his hair.

Why was he up so early? What had him in such a good mood? Ben wondered briefly before realising he didn’t care all that much. What mattered was Juno smiling, singing, dancing, it didn’t matter why. Clearly, life on the Carte Blanche was doing him good, shaking him out of the dark place he’d been in ever since he’d lost the eye, regained it and lost it again. Just as Ben had hoped when he’d agreed to come with his brother and live as an interplanetary thief.

He had to take a few deep breaths so he didn’t cry then and there, just hearing his brother doing something as simply alive as singing in the shower.

Benten kept walking, thinking he would just leave Juno’s coffee in his room for him to come back to. And then maybe he’d ask him to play video games or watch a stream or ask if he could work on the stuff for their next job in his room. Anything just to be near him and see the light back on in his eye, to know for sure that he’d really got his brother back.

Benzaiten was still lost in his own thoughts as he approached the bunk Juno had claimed as his own, the one with the glitter covered sign that read ‘Mister Steel’s Room’ in Rita’s handwriting, the same as the ones she’d made for all of them on their first day aboard. He was so distracted, he couldn’t even be startled when the door opened before he was anywhere near it.

Or when Ransom stepped through, wearing nothing but a tiny pair of boxer shorts that covered very little and suggested very heavily what they did cover. That and a shirt of Juno’s that Ben recognised immediately, oversized so the neck draped to leave one shoulder bare. A shoulder covered in dark, mouth shaped shadows.

Ben stopped dead, eyes snapping wide. Every time he’d seen Ransom before now, he’d been perfectly made up and poised to the point of near absurdity, in his sleek, expensive outfits and coiffed hair and sharp smile. He’d been practically scared of the guy, not least because of how Juno reacted to him and wouldn’t say why, no matter how many times Benten tried to steer the conversation that way to find out more.

Now he wished he knew less.

Ben opened his mouth but couldn’t get any sound out, he was too stunned at the realisation that Ransom was actually human and not a perfectly styled doll of some kind. So Ransom just yawned, exactly like a cat would right down to the way he smacked his tongue after, and blinked, eyes useless with sleep and without his glasses.

“I thought you were showering, dear heart,” he mumbled, his slick accent muddied and rougher than it ever seemed.

And then, before Ben could make any kind of protest, Ransom closed the distance between them and kissed him languidly, hand slipping around his waist to grab a handful of...something that erased any doubt Ben had been clinging to as to what this man was doing in his brother’s bedroom.

Instantly, Ben froze solid, eyes wide with the kind of panic only rabbits facing down the headlights of oncoming cars and people in this exact situation could experience. A heartbeat later, Ransom did the exact same, unfortunately leaving him in that position for a handful of agonsing, painful seconds. When he finally jumped back, he looked very, very awake. In fact, he looked like he might never sleep again.

“So…” Ben cleared his throat, grimacing, “You’re sleeping with my brother, huh?”

Ransom’s blush was fearsome, more than a master thief’s really should be, “I...my sincerest apologies, Benzaiten, I was only...um, your brother...I…of you have any concerns about his...um, his virtue-”

Ben could have screamed cutting across him quickly, “I really do not want to hear the slightest thing about my brother’s virtue. Just...give him this,” he thrust the coffee at Ransom, “And never speak of this again. To him but especially to me. Agreed?”

Ransom took a deep breath, taking the coffee and hiking the shirt up to his neck, like that would erase the hickeys from existence, “Agreed.”

Eventually Benzaiten would realise he was happy about this. He would recontextualise a hundred glances between him and Ransom, he would learn to read the emotion in Juno’s voice whenever he talked about him, what was masked in the intensity of it. He would realise that finally someone loved Juno exactly how he deserved to be loved.

But for now, he was going to lock his door, call his boyfriend and scream into a pillow and wish with all his heart that more people would learn to see the differences between him and Juno.

[xaviermayne]

My Brother's Favorite Toy

Grayson was out getting groceries, and Ethan was in his bedroom getting close.

The vibrator in his ass buzzed hard against his desk chair as Ethan sat stroking his dick, his shorts and underwear around his ankles. Ethan looked down proudly at his dick as his hand slid up and down all 8 inches. Grayson was right, Ethan thought. This does feel amazing.

Grayson had been raving about this vibrator for weeks, which irked Ethan to no end, especially since Ethan had checked online and, because of the pandemic, it was backordered for months. Ethan had been hearing Grayson every night. Around 10pm, like clockwork, Ethan would have to pause his music because he could hear the quiet whirring of the vibe and his brother's muffled groans. Last night Ethan even got up and pressed his ear to the door, seething with jealousy.

So, when Grayson went on his Thursday morning grocery run, Ethan knew this was his only chance. When the garage door closed, Ethan had slowly counted to ten, then darted to Grayson's bedroom. Idiot, Ethan thought, when he found it barely hidden in Grayson's dirty clothes hamper.

Now Ethan knew what all of Grayson's fuss was about. Pushing up on the balls of his feet, Ethan leaned back in his office chair as the vibe pulsed and hummed in his ass. He almost felt like he was having waves of orgasms just from the toy flitting against his prostate, without even cumming. Of course, precum still drooled down his dick, which Ethan quickly swiped with the side of his finger as extra lube for jerking off. He felt another wave of p-spot pleasure rise up on him, when he started to feel his balls tingle too, and he knew a full climax was coming. He grabbed a dirty pair of underwear to use as a rag for his impending load, and then—

"Ethan, I'm home!" Grayson shouted as the front door slammed shut.

Ethan felt all of the blood evaporate out of his body.

"They were out of almond butter so I got cashew butter," Grayson shouted. "Try not to cry about it."

Ethan sat frozen in shock for a moment, then the adrenaline kicked in and he scooted back in the chair, and ripped the toy out of his ass with a thwop.

"Ah, fuck!" Ethan screamed, then slapped his own hand across his mouth. It turned out that quickly ripping out an anal toy can kind of hurt. Sweat began beading across his forehead as he looked down and also realized that, in his act of adrenaline, Ethan had also broken off the tip of the base of the vibrator. The tip with the charging port and the power button. No, no, no, no, no, Ethan thought.

Just then, Ethan's door swung open. Had he really forgotten to lock it?

"Dude it's not even gonna taste that diff— dude, what the FUCK!" Grayson screamed as he looked into Ethan's room. There sat Ethan, naked and drenched in sweat, face as white as the precum dribbling down his boner, with dirty underwear in one hand and a vibrator in the other. And not just any vibrator.

"Dude, what the fuck are you doing?" Grayson screamed, only slowly being able to process the scene before him. "Is that my fucking vibrator? Were you using it?!" Ethan gulped hard. "Whoa wait, and you fucking broke it?!"

There was a stunned silence that, to Ethan, felt like it lasted eight entire years.

"Dude, I can explain," Ethan finally croaked. Then he looked down at the broken bit of the toy dangling from the base. "O-okay. Actually, I guess I can't."

To Ethan's surprise, Grayson just shrugged. "You know what, don't even bother, bro. I know exactly how you'll make it up to me. Just pull up your fucking shorts for now and help me with the groceries."

Stunned, Ethan pulled up his shorts, rearranging his still-throbbing wood into them, and followed his brother out.

That night, just around 10pm, Ethan got a text.

Grayson: Yo, remember how I said you'd have to make it up to me?

Ethan started typing, then erased it.

Grayson: Your punishment starts now. Come to my room.

Ethan tossed his phone on the ground and put his head in his hands. What the fuck am I about to have to do? he wondered. Then begrudgingly, he stood up, and sulked to Grayson's bedroom. He cleared his throat awkwardly and rapped on the door.

"Yeah. Come in."

Ethan turned the doorknob and let the door slowly swing open. Grayson lay at the edge of the bed, his feet firmly on the floor. He had his phone above his head, the light of the screen dancing across his face. He was totally nude, save for a pair of clean white socks on his feet. His dick wasn't hard, but it wasn't totally soft. Ethan knew this since he'd seen his brother's dick soft plenty of times before — only because they lived together and had played sports together though, nothing gay. Well, not until now, at least.

"Ummmm, what are you doing?" Ethan asked, eyes fixed on his own shadow stretched out before him.

"You broke my toy," Grayson explained. "It's backordered for months. And I can't cum without it."

"Look, bro, I'm sorry," Ethan said. "I know it's super weird that I even borrowed it. And then to break it... I mean it was a freak accident!"

"Shut up," Grayson commanded flatly. "I can't cum without something in my ass. And I really, really need to cum."

"Okay," Ethan shrugged. "Do want me to, like, get a pickle from the fridge for you or something?" He laughed at his own joke.

Grayson grabbed a plastic bottle laying next to him and threw it at his brother, hitting Ethan squarely on the cheek. "It's not fucking funny," said Grayson. Ethan winced at the pain then looked down and noticed it was a bottle of lube. "Squirt some on your fucking finger and get to work." Grayson casually raised up his legs and let them rest in the air, revealing the tiny pink dot between his tanned ass cheeks.

Ethan stared at his brother's ass. He'd seen his brother's ass cheeks a hundred times, but never his brother's hole. It looked pristine and tight. It almost looked like a girl's, Ethan thought, if you didn't look at his masculine, muscular glutes or, y'know, his big shaven balls sagging down, one slightly lower than the other.

Ethan approached his brother and heard the tinny sound of a girl moaning — some porn video on Grayson's phone. He dropped to his knees with a sigh and squirted a few drops of lube onto his right index finger. Though this was the first time seeing his brother's hole, it actually wasn't his first time thinking about it. Sometimes, when Ethan was extremely horny — like, hadn't jerked off for days horny — he'd watch his brother during their workouts and would catch himself having weird fantasies, like picturing what his brother would look like doing those barbell squats naked. Ethan would think about Grayson slowly lowering down into the squat and his ass cheeks spreading, a bead of sweat dripping off his swaying balls. Ethan would find himself hard and wanting to play with his dick, but would quickly snap out of it and flush with shame.

But now, here it was. His brother's hole. He ran his lubed fingertip around it until it glistened in the haze of blue LED lights in Grayson's room. Then, carefully, Ethan slid in the very tip of his finger.

"Slow," Grayson barked.

Ethan sat for a moment, his finger right at the precipice of his brother's hole, as the girl in the porn video moaned delicately. Hesitantly, Ethan pushed a bit more in. Grayson seemed to wince, but stayed silent.

It carried on like that for a bit, with Ethan slowly sliding in and Grayson occasionally commanding him to go slower, or questioning how trimmed his fingernails were. Eventually Ethan had a full finger in, and Ethan noticed his brother's warm hole didn't seem to twitch and squeeze as much. He was loosening up.

Grayson switched videos, and that's when Ethan noticed his brother's ass really starting to open up. With a bit more lube, Ethan was able to get his middle finger in, too. He was even pretty sure he heard Grayson let out a little grunt of pleasure when he moved around in him.

That's when Ethan found it. A few inches in was Grayson's throbbing prostate. He pressed on it gently with his middle finger.

"Huh!" went Grayson's startled grunt. As Ethan rubbed it more and more, Grayson's growls devolved into breathless moans of pleasure. Ethan watched Grayson's dick slowly rise from a thick slab of meat lounging on his balls to a beautiful pulsing tower, quivering as precum leaked down.

"Hoahh," Grayson moaned, in a certain falsetto he'd never heard from his brother before. Not even last night with his ear pressed again the door. Was he fingerbanging his bro better than the toy? Encouraged, Ethan furrowed his brow and started hammering at his brothers p-spot, determined to drive him totally wild.

He looked up and smirked as he noticed Grayson's toes were curling inside his white socks. Ethan tilted his head to see beyond Grayson's dick to his face, and his mouth was wide open and his eyes were rolling back. He had thrown his phone onto the mattress and whatever video he'd been watching was now not only muffled by the comforter, but drowned out by Ethan's own guttural groans and squealing moans.

Suddenly Grayson pushed his hair back with his hand and said in a hushed tone, "Oh my god, I think I'm gonna—" Ethan's eyes lit up and he put his fingers into machine-gun mode. Then, with both hands gripping his own hair in confusion, Grayson let out a yelp and Ethan watched as Grayson's balls suddenly raised up and a heavy stream of wet white cum surged out of his dick. Ethan's eyes followed the load as it seemed to almost touch the ceiling, then come down with a splat on Grayson's tattooed leg. In fact, Ethan noticed, some of it even got on the jack-o-lantern tattoo he'd given his brother a couple of years ago.

Ethan curled his fingers again and Grayson's body convulsed, another thick stream beaming up and falling, this time settling in the valleys of Grayson's abs, flexed as he kept his legs up. Ethan smiled as he pressed again and yet another load shot up. He realized he was full-on milking his own brother's prostate. He kept pulling the trigger and watched as his brother shot load after load, until eventually it seemed like his dick kept straightening for another shot but there was nothing left to shoot.

Ethan slowly slipped his fingers out of his brother's hole, which quickly tightened right back up to the perfect pink dot it was before. Grayson groaned as he finally lowered down his legs. Cum was everywhere, on Grayson's thighs, his abs, all over the bed. A drop had even sprayed on Ethan's face. Ethan made sure Grayson wasn't looking, then tongued it off his cheek. I tasted thick and bitter and buttery.

Ethan looked down at his own dick, which was harder than he'd ever seen it, and the front of his shorts were completely drenched in his own precum.

Biting his lower lip, Ethan looked up at Grayson. "Sooo... my turn?"

[trentaafcsblog]

Don’t Watch Me Cry - Jorja Smith

Jadon Sancho

Oh, it hurts the most ‘cause I don’t know the cause

Maybe I shouldn’t have cried when you left and told me not to wait

There wasn’t any particular reason behind why he left you, he just did. You’d had arguments before where he stormed out and claimed he wasn’t coming back, but he always did, he couldn’t resist you. But this time was different. You stood at the front door sobbing as he slammed it in front of you, telling you not to bother waiting because he wasn’t coming back. Part of you knowing that he was telling the truth, but you’d be lying if you said you ignored what he said and stood at the window for nights on end waiting for him to come back. But he never did.

Oh, it kills the most to say that I still care

Now I’m left tryna rewind the times you held and kissed me back

It had been nearly a year but you still cared about him, you couldn’t help it. You’d spent such a large part of your life with him that it was difficult to just pretend he didn’t exist anymore. Laying in the same bed you shared each night and trying to remember the times where his arms were around you and his lips were attached to yours. Those feelings being something you would literally do anything to experience again, but it was too late.

I wonder if you’re thinking ‘is she alright all alone?’

I wonder if you tried to call but couldn’t find your phone

A tiny part of you wished that he thought or did those things, both of them acting as a way to try and fix your heart, a way to make you feel more at ease. Maybe he did still think about you the way you thought about him. Maybe he did want to talk to you again but he couldn’t because his phone had gone missing. The reality being a completely different situation, but you still tried to keep yourself happy with those ideas about him, even if he couldn’t care less about you anymore.

Have I ever crossed your thoughts because your name’s all over mine?

A moment in time don’t watch me cry

A moment in time don’t watch me cry

He was on your mind twenty-four-seven and you couldn’t even deny that. His name tattooing itself across your mind so that any thoughts immediately became related to him. No matter how hard you tried to stop thinking about him, he always managed to appear - in the middle of the supermarket, at 3am, whenever you went on a date with someone else. He’d attached himself to you in a way in which you couldn’t escape, but you managed to erase yourself from his memory in no time at all.

I’m not crying ‘cause you left me on my own

I’m not crying ‘cause you left me with no warning

At the start, that’s all you’d cry about - the fact that you were left on your own in the place you planned to spend forever in, and also the way he’d left you without any notice. The home you bought together suddenly seeming so much bigger when you were in it on your own, the hole in your heart growing even bigger at the same time. The lack of warning hurting you more than you ever could have imagined. Your near-enough-perfect relationship clearly not being good enough for him, which was why it hit you harder than anything, knowing he wouldn’t be able to find what you had somewhere else.

I’m just crying ‘cause I can’t escape what could have been

Your wedding, your babies, your dogs, the happiness you’d experience until you took your last breath. That’s all you’d ever wanted. Someone to call your own, a family to look after, a happiness like no other. You’d both planned out your future, everything gradually seeming to fall into place. Your heart almost erupting when you’d accomplished each little milestone. Finally being able to build the life you’d always wanted with the person who meant the most to you, and then in the blink of an eye, that was all gone.

Are you aware when you set me free?

All I can do is let my heart bleed

The truth was, he wasn’t aware at all. He was selfish and he only cared about himself, he didn’t care about you, or your future, or all of the things you’d planned to do together. He’d completely destroyed you and he didn’t even know it, let alone care. Your heart was bleeding, aching, stinging, and no amount of self-love could ever fix that. You just wanted his love, the love that meant the most to you. But he’d taken that with him, along with a piece of your heart - a piece of your heart that you’d given to the wrong person, a piece of your heart that you’d wasted, a piece of your heart that you’d never get back.

[juleswolverton-hyde]

Dream Ashes (Yoongi x Reader)

Genre: Smut, Angst, FwB AU, HYYH AU

Pairing: Yoongi x Reader

Warnings: Allusions to self-harm, smoking, drinking and domestic abuse, toxic relationships, unrequited love, Top!/Dom!Yoongi, unprotected sex (ALWAYS do it safely, lads and lasses), (semi-)public sex (if sex on a rooftop counts), swearing/cussing

Summary: Not every night under each roof is pleasant, filled with arguments and the broken dreams of aspiring artists held back by parents either having no faith in their child’s talent or, if they acknowledge it at all, in a future pursuing a dream. A mixture of the two continues to kill the aspirations of the black sheep of the Min family, a delinquent deemed a pyromaniac by the ignorant eyes that solely know how to shallowly judge.

But there is a guardian angel with love who bears his burden gladly on lonely nights.

Even if it comes at the cost of her own heart.

Masterlist

Not every night under each roof is pleasant, filled with arguments and the broken dreams of aspiring artists held back by parents either having no faith in their child’s talent or, if they acknowledge it at all, in a future pursuing a dream. A mixture of the two continues to kill the aspirations of the black sheep of the Min family, a delinquent deemed a pyromaniac by the ignorant eyes that solely know how to shallowly judge. However, the open-minded individuals who can see beneath the tough exterior will be met by a musical genius who is forced time and again to give up the sole reason to live.

Music.

The piano.

‘I don’t have a dream. Besides, what’s the point in having one?’ Those words have become a steady statement to make whenever the conversation turns to what can be done after leaving behind six good friends and dropping out of high school. Whether any help is needed, in any regard, because a girl ran away from home herself is more than knowledgeable in how hard it can be to survive without anything to fall back on.

Though eventually a safe haven was offered freely by the actual leader of our little band of troublemakers guarded by a mistress of lies, another runaway living in a train yard outside of town. 

Withal, tonight a new worrying addition is spoken after a habitual check-up text sent from Joon’s refurbished container after patching up Taehyung’s latest wounds inflicted by a raging drunk of a worthless father. The boy with the curious square smile stubbornly continues to hide the true cause of the physical and mental pain despite his fellow graffiti artist having hinted multiple times at wanting him to open up about the issue. Notwithstanding, it would seem the real cause of the harm will only be entrusted to the boys' confidante, the guardian angel helping tattooed aqua locks keep the rabble in line. 

For as far as that is possible. 

‘They take everything from the inside and throw it away.’

‘Who is they?’ Throat constricted by concern at this new detail, fingers stop combing through caramel locks finally fallen asleep after grunting through the medicinal care while precariously avoiding making eye contact with Monie. 

‘Everybody.’

‘I don’t, I would never. Neither would Jungkook, Jimin, Taehyung, Hoseok, Namjoon and Seokjin.’

‘Bullshit.’

‘No, it’s not!’ No response, the last text remaining to be noted as read. ‘Yoongi? 

‘Yoongi, answer me! You’re not gonna do anything stupid, you hear me?

‘Yoongi, please!’

Nothing.

Nothing at all.

‘Oh God.’ The exclamation comes out on a short breath, panic rapidly overtaking as thoughts refer to the past.

‘What?’ Namjoon looks up from designing a new piece of art to place somewhere on a bare city wall, an eyebrow curiously cocked.

‘I- I need to go.’ Gently, Tae is laid down on the mattress. Futilely, the unconscious boy tries to wrap arms around the upper legs to pin them where they are before moving away. They have to, because time has become precariously precious again. Hence, all that the sleeper gets is a quick platonic peck on the forehead. ‘Right now.’

‘What’s going on?’ The leader notices the distress, turning halfway on the worn seat and about to get up.

‘It’s Yoongi. He’s not responding anymore and I think I know why.’

Shredded paper, beautiful notes turned awry thanks to disregard by the public, compositions torn apart to be hauled through a shredder or be burned in the next fire leading to an arrest.

Scarlet.

Glistening metal. 

More silver lines added to the ever-expanding canvas on pale thin limbs.

‘Honestly, why doesn’t he just come here? We’ve both said multiple times he should.’ Honey digits remove the simple beanie to run through blue short strands, defeated in the wager as to why the pianist remains on the flight instead of retreating to the home we have created. 

Regardless of the severity weighing heavily on shoulders moving towards the door, a sympathetic smile can be managed to put Joon at least somewhat at ease. One person carrying the burden of Time is more than enough and if someone should be to blame for being too late, it should be the guardian angel. ‘Because he can’t see the point, the good it’ll do him. He doesn’t know he has a home.’

It should be me.

‘He’d rather see his dream burn than move in with us.’ A mutual deep sigh erases the only sign of comfort that can be given at the moment as a hand reaches towards the latch. ‘One of these days I’ll drag him here myself and just lock him in. It’ll be full house, but I’m sure we could figure something out.’

‘Good luck with that, Monie. I’d help, but I value my life. He’s a tiger. One that’s hopefully unharmed by the time I reach him.’ Because, once more, it are solely the black wings engraved into the back which know the truth while the rising bird is kept in the dark regardless of begging in silence for the last sliver of complete trust even telling of hardships they do not know about. ‘I’ll see you later.’

Gritting gravel surrounding neglected railways beneath open twilight gradually transforms into asphalt broken up by holes in the districts ruled by crime and smooth steady ways in good neighbourhoods forming the residence area of families of which the children will either become something akin to the grandness of a doctor or a nine-to-five, if not worse, office worker. And it is here the phone put into the pocket of the denim jacket buzzes, the screen lighting up thanks to a new message that is a blessing and a curse at the same time. ‘Not home. Ran away. Warehouse. Roof.’

‘When did you run?’ The answer might seem fairly obvious were it not for the memory of the first time created melodies were destroyed by the paper shredder and parents furiously yelled at the aspiring producer to actually go back to school and get a proper education.

A good life.

Meant for someone else.

Not for an artist.

These same bordeaux Puma sneakers stormed through the front door and up the stairs after mister Min opened up, about to ask who in their right mind came calling around midnight. Absolutely not giving a damn about the consequences and solely focused on reaching a familiar door hiding ignored hardship. 

Truth be told, none of us ever has.

Because we live.

Young, wild and free.

Or so we will, after all of us have escaped the judgmental cage created by a society looking down on creative souls trying to make a change. To leave a worthy legacy meant for generations to look back on and learn from. 

After feathers break free from the egg. 

But more than a single care was given upon warily approaching the figure in the secret studio least of all serving its original purpose of a bedroom, crawled away from the door to hide in the corner while clutching anxiously at freshly bleeding cuts. The knife was put aside, undeniably used and cruelly lying on the ground beside us.

Instead of directly speaking, we merely sat across from each other in a heavy hush wherein confidence was regained by calmly waiting for dark eyes to make contact. Which they eventually did, trembling bloody palms removing the white headphones given as a collective birthday present together with Joon and Hobi. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘For what?’ Regardless of knowing what was meant, locks nevertheless tilted to the side in feigned wonder because any direct reference to the difficult situation would lock the oppressed musician up immediately.

And invite the cruel blade upon leaving. 

‘For being so fucking worthless. For making you come all the way here, just to see this good-for-nothing criminal.’ Unjust cracks appeared evident in the barely composed raspy voice of salt-streaked tears. Crimson fingertips plucked at baggy clothes concealing the frame that had become ghastly thinner due to the stress placed upon young shoulders forced to see dreams burn over and over again. 

As always, helpless heavy-weighing playfulness was resorted to in the quiet hope of brightening the mood enough to break through the impenetrable walls which are always built when Yoongi is put down. ‘Shut up.’

Colourless irises, the passion sucked out of them until all they knew was how to cry, looked up in a sharp sneer. Or so it wanted to be, but could not due to an inner voice constraining the harshest negativity which turned the expression grave rather than judgemental. ‘It’s true, Y/N. You know it is.’

‘No, it’s not.’

A shift of subject made it more than clear the current topic did no longer serve any purpose, completely disregarding the smeared headphones and fresh cuts. Curiously, it changed to inquire about the well-being of the equally, albeit not to the same degrees, abused boy with whom often arguments were started merely because of being followed. Followed by the one who looked up to him, the rebel who will one day fully make the right decision and flee from beneath this harming roof permanently. ‘How’s Tae?’

A resigned sigh gave into the shift reluctantly, a tiny sliver of gladness spreading warmth throughout the limbs grown cold at the miserable sight and calming a rapidly beating heart unable to not worry about the wounds. ‘Bruised ribs, split lip, a cut on his cheek and an ugly bruise beneath the left eye.’

‘Please tell me he’s crashing at Namjoon’s.’

‘He is, as always. Mended for as far as possible and asleep.’

‘Good.’ Absently, as if drifting off into the forcefully created crumbled world once more, Yoongi nodded while repeating the confirmation under sharp breath. ‘That’s good.’

‘You, on the other hand, aren’t doing so great.’ It could not be helped, the dark carmine droplets staining ashen sweatpants creating hideous murky brown stains could not be ignored. Ugly yet alluring ghosts tempting the eye into being looked at. ‘You could have come to the train yard.’

The subtle suggestion resulted in the habitual denial of all help, any former softness sharpened like a dagger and flowing from a snarling tongue. ‘I’m fine. Just go.’

‘Where’s the first-aid kit?’ It had always been part of the dynamic, ignoring what the composer said in favour of a better outcome or serve as the company that was wanted but the wish of had never been explicitly stated. Withal, the guardian angel would triumph once more due to the trump card of iron determination, speaking in a tone that would not let anything of the pain due to the confrontation with self-destruction filter through. 

‘Go.’ Sullenness preceded, as per habit, the fierceness of the tiger beneath the skin. Stained fingers moulded into fists gripping at oversized clothes, trembling with rage but trying incredibly hard to contain it to not do something to regret in the second after rashness. 

‘Where?’ The characteristic raised sarcastic eyebrow was not appreciated, still only so on very few occasions nowadays. 

‘Just fucking go!’

The lashing out would have chased away any of the other guys, but not the girl merely scoffing at the show both minds knew was nothing except fakery. ‘Have it your way. I’ll look for it myself.’

As expected, it was stored away in the lower compartment of the bathroom sink adjacent to the small bedroom, thus leading to the swift return to a cherry-haired tiger meticulously observing every movement from a safe spot. Withal, without shrinking as if wanting to melt into the scenery. Instead, he stared on in wonder of the help coming to the rescue of both a friend and a precious bond.

‘Give me your arm.’ No response at first, even at the beckoning hand any other might mistake for being impatient yet was all but that. It was desperate, frightened to death by the flowing carmine. ‘Yoongi, arm.’

Despite not stating it outright, the mere act of putting it in the cross-legged lap calmly without grumbling said more than words could at the moment. Henceforth, a tense though comfortable hush descended while cleaning the wounds after disinfecting them, checking up on an expression continuously returning to stoicism with every hiss. 

Notwithstanding, in spite of missing the change betraying bodily hurt that by no means outweighed the mental burden of both parties, there was a fascinated warmth in irises drained of life time and again as digits bandaged the visible part of the damage up.

‘There, that’s better.’ Glad hands put down the first-aid kit as the last freshly carved scar had been concealed by ivory linen, sighing in calming relief. All in all, it did not take long to patch the musician up but the pressure of time flowing away made the instance appear longer than it really had. 

‘Why?’ Furrowed brows regarded the first step to physical healing, almost as if uncomprehending of how it would help. Of course, it would not aid mental stability but it did allow for the rescue of a soul who would have gone too soon.

‘Because we’re friends and I won’t let you fall. I’d never let you down.’ Trembling in hesitance, the palm of a barely recovered from the shock voice reached out to a pale cheek, the thumb languid in caressing the denied tears away. ‘You’re an incredible musician, Yoongi. No matter what anyone says or whether you believe me, it’s true. We, the guys and I, think so. No, we know so.’

‘You speak of them as if they’re my friends too.’ Had the genuine broken persona living beneath the skin of the rebel kicked out of school been unknown to the girl sitting across from him on the floor, the end would have happened right then and there. However, the opposite was the truth and thus the sneering tone was disregarded in favour of establishing at least a sliver of conviction of reality.

Something to believe in. 

Something to hold on to. 

‘They are. They disregard the fact you don’t contact them at all because, as I said, they know you’re going to make it big someday. They still continue to support you. None of them has forgotten about you.’ Lips pursed in careful contemplation, calculating the impact of each word which wanted to be said without angering the only temporarily subdued tiger. Eventually, such an argument was formed in good faith. ‘And you haven’t forgotten about them either because you wouldn’t have asked after Tae if you had.’

‘Still, you’re the only one here.’ A pale palm folded perfectly over the one on the salt-streaked cheek, the broken dreamer leaning gratefully into the touch with lashes fluttered shut and a voice as if drifting off into slumber. A blissful place away from cruel reality. Away from here. ‘You’ve always been.’

‘That’s not tr-’ The protest was cut short by an unexpected kiss, lips meeting in soft urgency. A whirlwind of emotions kicked up at the suddenness of the action, Reason and Fancy at war due to never having thought the tiger would do such a thing. 

Nor expect to hear a new level of despair in the whisper temporarily breaking up the kiss, sounding strange as it was caught between genuine clarity and relieved sobbing begging to not be left behind. ‘It is. Only you love me.’

Thus, the truly vicious cycle began of coming to the rescue both mentally and physically only to end up in the sheets to fully calm down. See to it Yoongi can rest easy even while one heart falls deeper and deeper into chaotic love.

It has been for the past two years of denial.

But it cannot mean anything.

It should not.

Because, once it does, it becomes a passion.

A dream to pursue.

And that is forbidden and therefore it will shatter or be burned like music.

Until all there is left are merely ghosts.

The only type of changing the meetings of scared hearts have undergone is a shift in location after the rebel dared to run away again the day Jungkook almost ended it all on the edge of the highest skyscraper.

Barely in time could the youngest of the chaotic band be rescued, the man like an older brother pulling the maknae by the back of an ivory and rose checkered blouse and holding on to the boy until both had regained enough breath after spilling tears of frustrated relief. After all, Yoongi had sworn during the last meeting with the entire group beneath a nightly sparkling spring sky to be a support pillar because he knows what living while feeling useless is like, vouching to do so while Kook rested on his shoulder. Through the high-rising flickering amber flames of the fire pit, the two seemed content at last.

For a little while, everything was okay.

We would be fine.

Would be.

But tonight, on the roof of the abandoned warehouse in the harbour where on the lower floor stands a dusty brown piano, we are not. The damaged knuckles and chafed skin beneath sullen irises tells of barely escaping another arrest after being kicked out a bar again and drunkenly searching for a fight, the scent of cigarettes indicating music has been burned again because the pieces were not good enough.

They never are.

Not to society.

But, to the girl approaching a wild tiger, they are everything.

Though the producer is blind to see it.

‘Yoongi?’ No reaction to the greeting comes as the heavy door to the roof closes and bordeaux Puma sneakers pad with a heavy heart over the asphalt still warm due to the day’s heat. They come to a halt a mere step away from the brooding tiger. ‘You never answered me over text and make me come all the way out here to get a response.’

‘Does it matter?‘ Without so much as a sideways glance, entwined damaged slender fingers maintain a steady melancholic gaze over the dark quiet waters of the harbour. A mocking grin tugs at the corners of the mouth but does not form completely, essentially as joyless as the denied dreamer.

 ‘It does! It fucking does!’

For once, please believe me when I tell you that you’re not nothing.

‘To who, hm?’ At last, colourless irises grace a worried soul with a challenging look but at least attention is pulled enough to actually listen and not simply hear. 

‘To the guys.’ A palm slaps against a rapid beating heart in a constricted chest as lips tremble and a cracking voice rises in volume. ‘To me.’

‘Bullshit.’

‘No, it’s not. We care, Yoongi, all of us.’ The last bit of distance is breached as a hand naturally folds over a frozen shoulder clad in a military green jacket, resting there without being violently shrugged off. 

A sign of listening. 

And thus the argument is pursued on a calmer and more steady yet equally urgent tone. ‘What about Jungkook? You promised to be his supporting pillar. Taehyung is over at Joon’s again, beaten up by his dad and you know it hurts you. Just as much as it hurts us.’ 

Upper arms are enveloped as briefly locked gazes break up, ashen strands hanging low in stubborn ignoring of the guardian angel crouching in front of them. ‘Us, Yoongi. The Bangtan Boys and me. Our family.’

‘I have no family. They were the first to destroy it all.’ Regardless of being unable to see it, lips are undoubtedly pursed in a fight to prevent new tears from falling. Woven digits tremble in barely suppressed crimson nicotine anger, vision blurring with tormenting memories of refusal. 

‘But we build it up together, didn’t we? You know you aren’t-’

‘Shut up.’ An arm lashes out to undo any contact, the impact of the action causing a fall backwards. Nothing but agonizing exhaustion radiates off the snarl on the handsome face that has become loved as more than a mere friend. 

Even while it extorts another for pleasure.

A means to forget.

It means nothing. 

‘I’m tired of speaking. Tired of thinking. We both know where this goes anyway.’ Each sentence is accentuated by a firm demanding kiss sealing off any chance of protest after being roughly helped onto two unsteady feet, the tables turned as it now are the arms of somebody trying to help which are grabbed tightly. 

Held dear and cherished in an incomprehensible manner.

But it is better than nothing. 

‘We can’t keep doing this.’ Had this been pure desire, the shape pressing hotly against the thigh would have been appreciated in a whole different way. Interpreted in a manner not remotely close to the reality of us because it is not sensual wanton craving.

It is pent-up frustration coming to a boiling point.

Fruitless.

A wandering ghost.

A heap of ashes. 

‘Shut up.’ The hands creating an abyss by pushing against a sturdy chest are given other purpose. Nevertheless, the meaning of the distance remains: foolishly to be able to be filled with sincerity. 

One hand is placed on the hip and the other below, simulating a laughable imitation of actual craving as another kiss adds to the poor fancy. ‘Just do what you’re told for once.’

Lips connect once more in saltwater carrying broken wishes and all the dreams that cannot be because of emotions warring with ideals, the correct way of life stained by nicotine and the sharp yet sweet tang of cheap soju. 

Trembling fingers envelop damaged cheeks as slender musically gifted hands tug at the edge of pants, beckoning them to lie down before undoing the belt fastening bleached ripped jeans only to be warmly welcomed again by the palms that only get to hold the face they love in this repeated loveless lovemaking. Knowing the impatience of the tiger, any restrictions to allowing the heated wantonness pressed against the thigh earlier have been removed before wiping away returned tears and lovingly caressing ashen brown locks.

Don’t get your hopes up. It won’t mean anything. It’s just a means of comfort.

Everything is familiar, a piece of the past tainted by crimson and smoke to cling to. 

The warmth spreading throughout as separate souls effortlessly become one, unprotected in wordlessness and thus letting actions say all that tongues cannot. 

The speed of snapping hips, uncaring about pleasure and merely wanting to fuck the pain away. 

The agony of the tug on each tendon keeping the heart inherently belonging to the occasional groan breaking through heavy breaths whispering into the side of the neck. 

The urban scent of cigarettes, ashes and blood.

The possessive iron-like grip on the waist, desperate to be grounded in the moment or simply an anchor into this world while the mind it belongs to tries to flee.

The chase after temporary oblivion together, though one soul remains a step behind to not frighten the other into love.

After all, it has no meaning.

None of this.

It is a ghost we keep.

Preventing us from finding happiness together.

The chance to hear three simple words spill at least once before or after a troubled mind finds brief peace in the arms of the woman he said, no, knows loves him. Nevertheless, Yoongi cannot return the affection.

Cruelly, the hope remains even while lying on the warm concrete, the heat seeping through dishevelled clothes covering the upper part of the body, and embracing the musical genius drifting somewhere in a pleasant ignorant limbo. The same state of being that lashes turned to a beautiful sparkling sky did not reach again and never will during these meetings. Still, it is not minded for this is a more meaningful type of contentment.

Simply lying here among the ashes. 

But it cannot mean anything.

It should not.

Because, once it does, it becomes a passion.

A dream to pursue.

And that is forbidden and therefore it will shatter or be burned like music.

Until all there is left are merely ghosts.

[avenging-fandoms]

Lie To Me / Sweet Pea

*not requested *in which y/n and sweet pea broke up, and neither love each other anymore, but they still miss each other with every ounce in their bodies. *WARNING: angst!! a teeny tiny bit of fluff *PLEASE send me requests!!!!! i can do whoever :)

MASTERLIST

*based off of the song “Lie To Me” by 5 Seconds of Summer ft. Julia Michaels

I saw you looking brand new overnight. And I caught you looking too, but you didn’t look twice. You look happy, mm. You look happy, oh.

sweet pea leaned his arm on the table of the poorly lit club, the newest hot music playing from the dj, a drink in his hand as his sad eyes scanned the club. his deep brown eyes spotted you across the room, and he was hypnotized like the first time he saw you.

you looked as beautiful as ever, like you were a new doll out of the box. you didn’t look heart broken, you looked as happy as ever. you grab your drink from the bar and pay, heading to the booth with your friends. sweet pea’s eyes follow you until you sit at the booth with your friends. you take a sip from your drink and your eyes meet sweet pea’s, and you quickly turn away, not looking at him once again. 

sweet pea wanted to take his eyes off you so bad, he couldn’t bare to see you so happy without him, and with a new guy, your neighbor fangs. but he couldn’t help it, you were the love of his life. you were the reason he was so grounded, so humble. now you were doing that to someone new, and you were much more happier. 

sweet pea downed the rest of his drink, slamming it on the table and he finally peeled his eyes from you, walking down to the dance floor where the girl who flirted with him before was dancing. “do you want to dance with me?” he asked in her ear and she nodded, an arm draped over his neck as their hips swayed together. 

Flashing back to New York City, changing flights so you stay with me. Remember thinking that I got this right.

“pea! take a photo of me in front of broadway!” you throw out your arms behind you and put on a big smile, sweet pea smiling the whole time as he takes a couple photos on his phone. he locks it and puts it in his pocket, going over to you and holding your face, kissing you sweetly. 

“god, you are so breathtaking” he whispered against your lips and you smile.

“you’re too sweet. come on, baby, we have to get back to your hotel, i have to pack my bags” you start to leave and sweet pea grabs your hips, twirling you around and making you fall into him, your hands on his chest. “sweets, i’m serious”

“no, no, baby girl, why don’t you stay here one more week? i’ll change your flight, i’ll even pay for it. please, baby girl, i want you to stay with me, i’ll miss you too much” he kissed you again and you smiled, wrapping your arms around his neck. 

“okay, i guess i can stay for one more week. but that means we do what i want for the time being. there’s still so much for me to see!” you smile and he chuckles.

“whatever you want to do, we’ll do it, i promise baby”

It’s 3 AM and the moonlight’s testing me. I know that you’ve been holding on to someone else, and now I can’t sleep. I ain’t happy, oh I ain’t too happy, ohhh

you laid on your bed under the sheets, your mouth quiet but your mind screaming. your eyes flickered to your phone, you pressed the home button and the white numbers said ‘3:27′. you groan loudly, your eyes looking out the window to the moon who shined brighter than it did the other night. 

in the moonlight, you saw a vision. a vision of sweet pea and that girl he was dancing with, how he was holding her like he once held you, and it make your mind scream louder. your eyes squeezed tight together, your fingers gripping your hair as you tried to erase what you just saw. 

there was no way your were getting any sleep now, the thought of the love of your life holding onto someone else the way he held you fucked up your mind, and your sobs were loud, trying to shut up the screams of your mind.

you fooled everyone into thinking you were okay, that you were happy, that you weren’t thinking of sweet pea. but that’s all you thought out. you weren’t thinking of the guy who slept in the house next to yours, the guy who sweet pea hated. you thought sleeping with fangs would get sweet pea off your mind, but every time you saw fangs’ serpent tattoo, sweet pea was all you thought about.

Now I wish we never met, cause you’re too hard to forget.

it was like you casted a spell on each other, where every time you look at something you thought of each other. you always thought of sweet pea next to you, holding you and playing with your hair as you cried. that wasn’t the case at night anymore, because sweet pea was the reason you were crying. you missed sweet pea more than ever, more than when he was away for 5 weeks in new york. 

sweet pea’s mind was filled with you. you were all he thought about. he hooked up with the girl from the bar, and as soon as she fell asleep he left. he didn’t leave his number, social media, anything. he thought she could get rid of the thought of you, but she wore the same perfume you did. sweet pea even remembered the name, it was ‘fresh and clean’ from victoria’s secret. he had a bottle of it on his dresser, and sprayed it on your pillow for when he missed you, which consisted of every minute of every hour. 

the relationship was so hard to forget, because everything reminded you two of each other. 

{While I’m cleaning up your mess I know he’s taking off your dress}

the apartment was trashed, the chairs on its sides and the drawers pulled out of the dresser after you rushed to pack your things. the broken mirror had glass scattered on the floor from when you threw a shoe. 

you believed sweet pea cared about his job more than he cared about you. and all he saw was red, so he agreed. “yes, i do, because i get to be away from you for weeks and weeks!” and it broke you. he tried to retract his statement, but you didn’t believe he didn’t mean it. 

“no, fuck you, stephen! i wait and wait, my heart aching as you’re away for so many weeks, and you don’t even fucking care?! what, are you going to get sluts when you’re in different cities?!” 

it was so hard for you to calm down. you were so pissed, so disgusted, so heartbroken. you threw one of his dress shoes at him, sweet pea dodging it and the mirror shattered. “that’s 7 years of bad luck, y/n, nice job!” 

“well, i already had 3 of those years with you!” your bags knocked over the chairs, and you sped away in your car. 

sweet pea swept the last of the broken glass into the hand sweeper, dumping it into the garbage can. he put away the duster, picking the chairs up and sighing. he stalked into the room, staring at the bed where he was your dress being unzipped, not by sweet pea, but by fangs. sweet pea shook his head, gripping his hair in his fists and falling into your pillow, sobbing. 

While he’s taking off my dress, I know she’s laying on your chest.

fangs unzipped the back of your dress, kissing your neck as you hummed along. fangs slid it to the floor, pulling you on top of him. he rolled you over so you were under him, and his kissed trailed down your stomach.

you stared up to the ceiling and saw the girl from the club sleeping on sweet pea’s chest, his fingers playing with her hair. you squeeze your eyes together, not because of pleasure, but because of the thought of another girl laying in your favorite spot on sweet pea as he played with her hair. that was your thing, and god, it hurt you so much to think of him doing that to you. 

And I know that you don't, but if I ask you if you love me, I hope you li-li-li-lie, Lie to me.

you sat in the corner of your favorite cafe, trying to ignore the cuddling couples scattered in the shop. your laptop played an episode of ‘Shameless’ , a hot cup of coffee right next to it. the bell dung, indicating someone new walked into the cafe. 

you regretted looking up, because in walked sweet pea. you looked down at your laptop, trying your best to hide your face so he didn’t notice you, but he could point you out in a crowd of a million people.

sweet pea grabbed his coffee, thanking the barista and turning to leave the cafe. he stood in his place, looking at the ground and thinking for a moment, before turning around and sitting across from you.

you hit the space bar on your laptop slowly, taking out your ear buds and setting them on the keyboard. “hey.. y/n”

“hi stephen” you answered, and he ran his tongue over his teeth before speaking again.

“how have you been, y/n?”

“i’ve been fine, you?”

“i’ve been.. yeah. i have a question”

“what is your question, stephen?”

“do you.. uh.. still.. uhm... love me?”

the question really made you think. did you really still love him, or did you love the thought of him? did you miss sweet pea, or did you miss the way he kissed you? the answer was.. no. you didn’t love him, nor did you miss him. you missed the thought of having a long time boyfriend, but now that he was gone, you didn’t. 

“yes, i still love you, stephen”

[lucaniisdellamorte]

Title: At The End of The World

WC: 1800

Pairing: n/a (could probably be seen as Joseph/Dep but you gotta squint)

Summary: How to go from Deputy to Judge in the span of an apocalypse (based on the theory that the Dep is the Judge in New Dawn found here) 

There is a ghost that haunts the bunker, he knows because he sees her drifting occasionally from room to room. She is almost always completely silent, no sounds of footsteps in the bunker besides his own, no other voice besides his own when he prays. Her eyes are always downcast, shoulders hunched, and her cheeks are always tear stained though he never hears her crying. For a time his sympathy for her is squashed under the weight of his self righteousness, because he was right and she was the one that brought them here so this is all her own doing. For a time he lets her flounder under the weight of her own guilt and loss, he is so lost to his own grief that he's willing to watch her drown in hers. That way she can feel how he felt every single time she so ruthlessly, so callously killed off a member of his family.

But fate is funny and fickle thing.

He notices that she's slowly wasting away, not just mentally but physically as well. In fact when he really starts to pay attention he notices that she isn't eating and a quick count of the food stores proves that since they entered the bunker, she hasn't eaten at all. His righteous anger wars with the growing loneliness in his chest for days. He wrestles with the choice to let her waste away completely as punishment for her sins, or to save her and let her start earning forgiveness through penance. It's not an easy choice to make, though it's one that needs to made sooner rather than later. So he prays for guidance, for wisdom, for the strength to forgive.

When he opens his eyes, they're drawn to a picture of Dutch and his family from years and years ago. It's not a concrete answer but it's enough of one that he can make a decision.

She is the only family that he has left now after all, that was what he told her when they first entered the bunker.

So the next time he eats, he sets two places at the table, leaving a few things warming on the stove as he goes to collect her. The bunker isn't large so it doesn't take long to find her sitting on the edge of her bed, elbows on her knees, and head in her hands so her dark hair is obscuring her face. At the site of her, anger swirls in his gut but he shoves it away. She is family now and she needs him. When he places a gentle hand on her back, she doesn't move, doesn't react at all not even to shrug him away like he had kind of expected after everything. She doesn't even look up at him. If it wasn't the steady beating of her heart under his hand, he might have worried that she had died.

"Come," he says gently, "you need to eat." Her only reaction is a deep and shaky sigh. So he moves his hand to her lower back, the other going to wrap around her upper arm -and that's when he notices just how thin she has truly become. Her baggy clothes and his previous indifference had hidden just how quickly and badly she has been deteriorating.

He guides her to stand with firm pressure on her back and her arm, not roughly though just unwavering and constant pressure. When she does stand, her legs wobble a little but he is there to help keep her upright while she gains her balance again. Then he leads her to the kitchen table and sits her down at one of the two chairs before he serves them both their meal.

She doesn't eat, doesn't even make a move for the silverware, or do anything but keep her eyes downcast and breathe. That old saying comes into his mind you can lead a horse to water. He stands slowly and makes his way to her side of the table, resting his hand on top of her bowed head.

"Slowly killing yourself isn't penance, it will not earn you forgiveness, it will not absolve you for what you've done. Those are things you earn with time and effort, you solve nothing by wasting away," he keeps his voice soft to lessen the blow of his words. She is already broken under the weight of her own sins, she doesn't need him swinging a metaphorical mallet at her already crumbling foundation. "Eat," he instructs before he sits back down on his side of the table. For a few minutes it doesn't seem like his words have reached her, besides the rise and fall of her chest as she breathes she doesn't move.

But then she moves her arm, lifting her hand to grab the fork next to her plate. At first she pushes the food around the sound of silverware scraping against ceramic grating slightly on his nerves but then she lifts a tiny bite to her mouth. And then another. It's not the ravenous eating he had been expecting given how long it's been since she's eaten anything but he will take her picking at her food and eating a small amount over nothing at all for now.

That becomes their routine for a while, him guiding her to the kitchen for meals, her picking at her food until he's done with his and they both go their separate ways until it's time to eat once again. Slowly she starts eating more and more, slowly her body starts looking more human and less skeletal. She still doesn't look at him, doesn't speak to him, and the only time she is in the same room as him is when he goes to find her. He reminds himself to be patient.

He is rewarded when as he listens to an old record, she joins him though her eyes are still on the floor and she remains silent. For a moment she lingers in the doorway before moving to sit in the corner on the floor, facing him despite not looking at him. He says nothing but turns the music up a little more so she can enjoy it too.

Eventually she finds a pad of paper and a pen, so she starts to write. Sometimes he reads the things she writes since she doesn’t bother to hide them, just simply leaves them on tables or the floor where she was sitting when she finished the page. Her thoughts are scattered, words written hastily as she tries to get them all out. One one page she wrote about her friends before the Collapse, little things that she remembers about them, only to end the page by writing that she can’t recall the Sheriff’s face anymore.

He realizes then that he has a hard time recalling a few faces he knew as well.

One day while they eat she slides a folded piece of paper across the table to him. She doesn't look up at while she does this nor while he's reading what she's written. Her handwriting is better than he has seen in the past, neater and less frantic, though her thoughts still seem erratic. She explains that she has taken a sort of vow of silence, unwilling to use it again after using it to bring on the Collapse, which she apologizes for. She expresses deep regret and a deeper desire to atone for what she’s done, to be cleansed and to follow him. It brings him a sense of joy that he hasn’t felt in a very very long time.

“Then you shall be cleansed,” he says, resting his hand on top of hers. After that she follows him almost as close as his own shadow. They take their meals together -sometimes they cook together as well, otherwise they share that chore- and they pray together. He starts preaching again to his little flock of one but she soaks in every word like a sponge. Slowly she starts looking at him though never into his eyes, her gaze only ever goes as high as his chin usually resting on the tattoo on his chest. He accepts it because it's better than her continuing to look at the floor.

They listen to music and have conversations, usually she asks him a question by writing it down on her paper and showing it to him. He answers out loud most days, sometimes he writes his answer underneath her question when he has a pen of his own in hand. They become more like family.

When he starts talking about finally leaving the bunker, she becomes nervous, scribbling a note to him too quickly and he has to ask her to write it again because it's nearly illegible. Please give me a mask I am afraid. No one can know me. Let me judge as your judge and then the judgement will be right and just. If I listen to you, it's good, and right, and I can help, and I can save people.

He reads the words once and then twice before looking up from the paper to her. She wrings her hands to try and hide how they tremble as she looks down the hallway to the entrance of the bunker. For a moment he considers what she’s written before he nods and sets the paper aside.

“Then you shall be reborn like the world,” he tells her, drawing her attention back to him. He frames her face with his hands, drawing her close so that he can press his forehead against hers. “Cleansed of your sin and your name, you shall be my Judge.” She releases a long exhale as if she had been holding her breath, waiting for his decision, and she visibly relaxes.

Thank you Joseph, thank you Father.

They spend days making her a mask out of things they find in the bunker. Its nothing fancy, nothing special because it doesn’t need to be. It is a simple round white mask that will cover her face except for her eyes, erasing who she was. She is neither the deputy who tried to arrest him at one time, the deputy who killed his siblings, nor the woman she was in between those times and as she lived in the bunker. She hides the rest of who is under baggy clothes, a hoodie to cover her hair and form, gloves to hide her hands, and a pair of pants that hangs off her hips. She is no one from nothing now, with no way for any potential survivors to recognize her, letting her truly be just his Judge.

When they emerge into the new world, shielding their eyes from the too bright sun, they are ready to make a new Eden, to cleanse the souls of the survivors.

[daphnegeeksout]

If You Were Here (4/9) [Tony Stark x Reader]

Read it on AO3

By: daphnethewriter

It’s hard to live this way… to only see someone through the other side of a screen. Tony stumbles across a computer bug that’s more than just a bug. You need his help, but first you need to win his trust. Hopefully you can do it before time runs out.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

Words: 2,219 Chapters: 4/9 Language: English

Chapter 4

Tony watches your hologram pace the edge of the observation area. He suspects you do it for his benefit, since you can't actually have nervous ticks. It's just one of the tiny ways in which you try to be human. The little connections like that get to him.

<What's the point of using anesthesia?> you ask. <I can't feel anything that's going on down there.>

"It's just a precaution," Tony says.

<It seems like an unnecessary risk.>

"You don't know that." He leans into his chair, looping his arms over the backs of the seats beside him. "Maybe you'll be sucked back in at any moment. You don't really want to wake up with your skull missing."

Your hologram moves to the side of the observation room to peer into the surgical area below. Again, it's pointless. You can view the surgery perfectly well from the cameras placed there. This is you interacting. He's noticed that you do that when you're nervous. You put your hologram in his presence, seeking his attention.

"Dr. Cho is the best," he says, an attempt at reassurance. "She knows what she's doing."

<We should have tried harder to contact Strange. He's the top of the field.>

"Strange would have taken one look at your scan and written off the entire thing. You still look braindead on paper. At least Helen knows that you're real."

You grumble and the hologram sits in the seat next to Tony. It's bald now, an update you made that morning when Tony shaved your head for the surgery. He thought you would put up more of a fight, but you shrugged and assured him it wasn't the edgiest look you've ever had.

The surgery is painstaking, moving by inches and Tony contracts some of your antsy behavior. He would prefer to be in his lab, but, with the mesh created, there's nothing for him to do there now. He knew that you would be here, wanting to see how things turn out.

"So, what's the first thing you're going to do when you get your body back?" Tony asks. It's a loaded question. Will you stay? Will you leave me?

<Eat everything,> you say, completely circumventing his thoughts. <Just get really, really fat. I miss Thai food. And pizza. And eggrolls. And Dim Sum. Ooh, and ice cream cake.> Tony laughs and your hologram smiles, a sort of sheepish gesture.

"Your grandma will be happy to see you," he says. The words leave a bitter taste in his mouth. He tries not to dwell on the thought of what happens after this, when you leave and your laughter no longer fills the lab, when he can't count on your hologram popping up beside him the second he needs something.

<I suppose so.> Your hologram rests her chin in her hand. Behind her ear, revealed when Tony had run the razor over it, is a lotus flower tattoo. <I bet she was excited to meet an Avenger, huh?> Another playful smirk and Tony's heart clenches.

The anchor mesh that Tony created floats in a bath of sterile liquid, shimmering under the blaring lights of the surgical room. Dr. Cho removes the back of your skull, exposing your brain to the sterile air of the room. She places the mesh through the opening, allowing the material to sink into the folds of your brain.

"I'm going to need you to wear the Stark Industries logo for the rest of your life," Tony says. "I hope that's okay."

Your hologram smiles. <If this works, Tony, I will let you personally tattoo your logo on me wherever you like.>

"I'll hold you to that. Five by three inches. You think you have that much spare skin?"

<I can probably swing three by one, depending on how visible you want it.>

Tony smiles. He can't worry now about what you will do once you're back to yourself. There is a more important piece of the puzzle to place now. With the mesh implanted, he can move on to the software phase. How is he going to make the transfer without accidentally deleting you?

#

Tony sits at his computer, like a composer at a piano. His fingers dance over the keys, weaving code from thin air.  The software will configure the mesh that now wraps your brain like a present. It's the final piece that will let you make the jump between your digital and physical homes.

<Tony, no, that's not going to work,> you say, halting his cursor as Tony started another unnecessary subroutine.

"Quit erasing while I'm typing or I'll boot you from the system again," he says.

If you had eyes, you'd roll them. As it was, you were immersed in Tony's code, not bothering with the holographic form for once. Tony wouldn't be paying attention to it anyway. <That's counter-productive and you know it.>

"Just let me get it down, okay? Can I get it down, just once, before you jump all over it?"

<I don't see the point. You're doing it wrong.>

"I am not doing it wrong. If you would just let me finish—" He springs one of his many traps (when does he make these things?) and you're too preoccupied for a moment to micromanage his coding.

<Fine,> you say, relinquishing your hold on his computer. You flit into the surrounding lab, twirling one of the bots in a lazy circle as you pass. He's been at this for a few weeks now. You hadn't expected it to take that long. Tony is living mostly off of coffee at this point. His usually neatly groomed goatee has turned a little scraggly, grown in with scruff. He's focused on this and all for you.

Meanwhile, you're trying not to think about what happens next—which is hard because you can process dozens of thoughts in a second. The next phase is all up to chance and your own abilities. Bruce thinks that the survival instincts of your body will stay intact. You shouldn't have to worry about getting your breathing and heartbeat under control right away, but that is not certain.

In theory, in theory. It's all theory. Nothing like this has been attempted. You can't run any tests. You can't try it then back out if it doesn't work. It's possible you'll get stuck somewhere in between. You don't know if the way your brain works will even be compatible with… whatever you are now.

But staying here isn't acceptable any more. You can't bear this, sitting on one side of the screen while Tony sits on the other. You've seen his fingers linger on the back of your hand and you want to feel it.

12:55 am.

Tony sits back from his workbench and the lab falls into silence for the first time in days. You perk up from where you'd nestled in the background processes of the Avengers' system, monitoring him, but otherwise keeping your profile out of the way. You whir to life, conjuring the hologram back into being.

<Are you done?> You lean your holographic form over his shoulder, as if you're looking at his work.

"Yeah." The word is hushed, oddly subdued for Tony.

You flit through the program, feeling it in a way you couldn't describe to Tony even if you could describe it to yourself. The pieces settle together like interlocking fingers, a safety net of purpose. Done. It's done. You can go home now.

Tony stands abruptly. "I'll get Bruce."

You disentangle yourself from the program to focus on him. <Right now?>

"You want to get this done as soon as possible." Tony's standing a little too stiffly, his voice tilting higher than normal.

<Yeah, but… right now?> After weeks of waiting, everything is falling into place. Why… why aren't you jumping at this?

What if it doesn't work? What if you really do get lost in the space between where you are now and where you're supposed to be? What if… what if you don't ever get to see Tony through actual eyes?

"Don't worry," Tony says. "Check it over. I'll get Bruce and we'll have you sorted out in no time."

'No time' turns out to be fifteen minutes, woefully little time to prepare yourself. Faced with two paths of possibility—humanity on one side, oblivion on the other—things you hadn't thought to say well up. Tony and Bruce stand in the medical suite with your body. Everyone else is asleep. You prefer it that way. If you don't make it through this… well, at least, fewer people will witness your death.

"Ready?" Tony calls to the room. He rubs his hands together.

No, you're not ready. There are things you need to say. Thank you, for one. Sorry, for another. Tony put so much effort into this. He really gave you his all. If this doesn't work out… you'll be the one leaving him. There won't be any piece of you left to comfort him—and you know he'll never forgive himself

<Tony,> you say. Your voice is uncertain. <I just want to say something, just in case—>

"You can tell me after you come through." He's busy double-checking the monitors even though he's done that already.

<Yeah, but, just in case something goes wrong—>

"Nothing's going to go wrong," he says. "You double-checked everything yourself."

<Tony, I—>

"I'll see you on the other side."

<…Okay.> Why can't you just fucking say it? 'Thank you for everything' 'I'm sorry if I die. It's not your fault'. Is that so hard?

He flips switches, watches as his servers whir to life. There's one shot at this. If you don't get back into your body this time… well, that's not worth thinking about. You double-checked his math. And his math is always right.

"It's all up to you." He activates the program.

#

The lights in the room dim with an audible hum. Tony looks around, but the machines are still holding. So far, so good. Another switch, another stage. Your body convulses with the current of electricity that flows through it, the current that should allow you to make the leap back into your own biological circuitry. The hum grows as power surges through the system. Tony feels a flutter where the arc reactor used to sit in his chest. With a last surge, the lights in the room grow brilliant, then go out completely.

"Tony…" Bruce says.

"It's okay." Tony rolls in his chair over to the other console. "I thought this might happen."

The backup power kicks in and the lights come on. Tony looks expectantly to you. You lie in the bed, still as ever. Your chest rises and falls with the rhythmic beep of the monitor.

Maybe you didn’t go through…? "Cheshire?" he calls to the empty space of the ceiling. No answer. Tony wheels to your side. "Rise and shine. Time to get up." He pushes down the panic that rises in his chest. He runs his fingers over your cheek. You don't respond. The lights on the monitor don't respond. A flicker of doubt flashes in his mind.

"Tony…" Bruce warns.

"It's okay." Tony's hand goes to your shoulder. "It might take a minute for her to get settled. Reboot or whatever." He ignores Bruce taking your wrist in his hand, feeling your pulse.

Bruce looks to the EKG. "Tony, there's nothing—"

"Just—" Tony stops and swallows the panic in his voice. "Just, give her a minute."

A minute passes. An hour passes. Your condition doesn't change. Tony paces the edge of the room while Bruce sits dutifully at your side, watching the EKG.

Tony returns to your side to take your hand. "Come on, baby," he says, realizing he'd used the endearment only after it had slipped off his tongue. He'll overanalyze that later. "Don't do this to me." He holds your hand in his, his lips pressed to the soft skin of your fingers, the lace pattern that covers your knuckles. The beeps on the monitor stutter. Tony looks up at it, eyes wide with hope. Then his heart plummets as the line on the monitor becomes erratic.

Bruce moves in front of him. "She's going into cardiac arrest."

Tony stands by helplessly as Bruce preps you, moving over your form with medical precision. When he pulls out the defibrillator, Tony's brains surges forward as if it had been jumpstarted. "No! If you do that, you'll fry the connectors!"

Bruce shoves him off. "If I don’t, she'll die."

Tony staggers back, suddenly struggling to find oxygen where there had been plenty before. He had thought he might lose you, but not—not really. Not without saying goodbye.

Bruce shocks you three times. Three agonizing moments for Tony, watching as the current surges through your body—every muscle seizing—and rips through the fragile mesh that connects your consciousness to your body, frying every connection that holds you in a physical form. Destroying every thread that could bring you back to him.

In the end, he leaves the room.

"Tony—" Bruce calls after him, but Tony ignores it.

What's the point? Bruce saved you. Your body is alive, but only a vessel. Now, there is nothing that could ever fill it.

Tag List:

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[bellarkefanfiction]

Baby, we're an artistic coincidence

written by: josefine / @selflessbellamy

prompt: "You keep requesting the book I need so I can’t have it the whole time and we leave each other passive aggressive notes in the margins" for anonymous 

word count: 2564

If Athena had lived today, her black dress would be set aflame by the ravaging war behind her, there would be a chess piece tattooed across her collarbone: the knight, symbolizing strategic warfare. No doubt she would have a bruised face with a cut lip but her pace would carry her proudly through the battlefield. At least, this is how Clarke Griffin captures her in a modern format, drawing all of the curves and lines that make up a goddess.

She’s been reading The Iliad for reference. Despite her interest in mythology she’s never actually read that classic before, but now that it’s vital for her studies, she has to. If only the asshole that keeps reserving the book from the library would just let her have it for more than a week at a time.

Annoyed, she’d walked into the library that morning, sipping on her hot chocolate. The first unsuspecting librarian she encountered was the target of her frustration (but not even that could possibly cloud how cute he was).

“Isn’t it possible for me to have this book for longer? I really need it for my studies.”

“I’m sorry. It’s the rules. The other person claimed that he needed it to write a novel, but I don’t know. He looked like a college student to me.” At that, the librarian had smirked, just a tiny pull at the corner of his mouth, but that was enough to send her away, since she wasn’t keen on getting distracted by anything — at least not until her project was finished.

For hours, she sits by one of the tables in the library, struggling to finish the portrait of Athena before she has to turn the book over, which she does. However, she still has three art pieces to go: Artemis, Nyx, and Nike. Feeling exhaustion seep into her bones, Clarke makes an impulsive decision that she knows she’ll most likely regret, but before she has the time to, she opens the book and scribbles a short message in the margin of the first place.

Now, are you really writing a book or is it a bullshit excuse?

I need this book, otherwise I’m gonna fail my course.

Hope it’s a damn good WIP.

Then she closes it again before handing it over to the cute librarian, and they exchange smiles. Somehow, it places guilt in her heart, sort of like she’s disappointed him in a way by writing in the book… Whatever, she doesn’t even know this man.

***

A week later, the book is hers again, which leads her to the library. By now, her drawing of Athena has been filled in with gorgeous watercolors, and she’s surprisingly proud of it. Since her dad died last year, her inspiration has come and gone like a tidal wave, which is more than frustrating when your future depends on the work that you create.

Grinning slightly this time, the librarian hands her The Iliad, and suddenly a question emerges from Clarke’s lips without permission. “Sorry, but would it be weird if I’d like to know your name? We see each other so often by now, it just… feels a bit strange—“

“Not at all. My name’s Bellamy.”

She smiles. “I’m Clarke.”

When she opens to book, ready to start her drawing of Artemis, a mysterious blue Post-It has been placed in the margin of the first page, directly below where she wrote her passive aggressive message a week ago. Now, that’s been erased.

On the Post-It, the other Iliad-reader has written:

DON’T YOU KNOW IT’S WRONG TO WRITE IN BOOKS, PRINCESS?

SHAME ON YOU ;)

(AND YES, I AM IN FACT WRITING A BOOK)

Block letters? Who writes in block letters like that? Well, when they’re not yelling at someone on social media, that is. Needless to say, it’s uncommon. Thought #2: What the hell is that winking smiley face supposed to mean? As everyone knows, the use of it can be interpreted in a million different ways, so… is this guy a creep? Is he just trying to be sassy, what’s going on?

Before her mind loses to all of the unanswered questions, Clarke stops her train of thought, reminding herself that she has some very important work to do, and she has no intention of letting anything prevent her from it.

It takes a few minutes for the full image of a modern Artemis to take shape in her imagination, but when it does, Clarke wastes no time. Keeping a strict focus as a young huntress starts to appear on the piece of paper, she hardly notices someone brush past her. Later, she finds out that it’s Bellamy, because he reveals it once she’s about to leave.

“I hope you don’t mind me trying to sneak a peek at your drawings. They’re really good… Are you doing a project?”

At those words, Clarke lights up, spinning around on her heel so that she can walk back towards him. “Yes. It’s a series of art pieces that depict some Greek goddesses in modern time,” as soon as she’s said that, Bellamy’s eyebrows shoot up, exposing his interest and surprise.

“Which ones are you doing?”

“Oh, you like Greek mythology?”

He chuckles at her question, running a hand through his curly, dark hair: it’s attractively messy, and for a moment she’s more than tempted to move it out of his eyes. Nevertheless, she catches herself at the last minute, placing her hand on the counter.

“I’ve read The Iliad myself a couple of times,” he admits at last, grinning.

Curious, she meets his dark brown eyes for a second before her gaze unconsciously drifts to the dusting of freckles across his cheeks. He would be difficult to draw, she notes: the lines of his face vary in hardness, and there seems to be no shortage of beautiful features that she would hardly be able to do any justice, like the small crinkles around his eyes. Before she becomes too carried away, Clarke starts to tell him more about her project. “I’m doing five different ones. Athena, Artemis, Nyx, Nike, and Aphrodite… I’ve only done two by now, and the project is due in two weeks. This is why I keep returning for the book.”  

Bellamy hesitates for almost an entire minute, then says, carefully, “Wouldn’t it save you some time if you bought a copy?”

Worrying her lips, Clarke explains, “I’ve looked, but they’re all newer versions and somehow restored. I wanted my references to be as traditional and unrestored as possible just so that the pieces could have some authenticity.”

If his facial expression is anything to go by, Bellamy didn’t expect that reply at all. When he finally speaks, the only words that emerge are of understanding, “Yeah, okay. I see that…”

Shrugging, Clarke heads for the door again, saying, “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I need to buy a copy. Thank you. See you tomorrow.“

But she’s barely taken two steps towards the door before Bellamy stops her in her tracks, “Clarke, wait! I— Maybe I can talk to the other reservation-holder and ask if he would mind letting you have the book for the next couple of weeks?”

Turning her head, she manages to smile at him. “No, I wouldn’t want you to go through that trouble for my sake. Have a nice evening—“

“But…”

She can tell that he’s holding something important back and he’s pulling himself together in order to say it, yet meanwhile, amid the silence, Clarke’s eyes dart to a small stack of blue Post-it’s at the left end of the counter. It doesn’t take her long to put two and two together, and while there’s still a possibility that she’s wrong, she decides to jump the gun. “… So you’re writing a book. Is it in block-letters?”

At that, he looks up, noticing the smile on her face, and he immediately seems relieved that she’s not angry with him.

“No, I’m using my 20th century typewriter. That’s why it’s taking so long,” he jokes, making her laugh. That alone is enough to baffle her, since most people haven’t been able to make her laugh in the past months. Her dad passing doesn’t have her in tears anymore, but the traces of the grief sadly still linger, which has made it more difficult for her to enjoy things. “I’m sorry about the Post-It,” he continues sheepishly, pulling her back to reality. “But I can’t bring myself to write in books… Unlike some people.”

“Are you judging me?”

He shakes his head as his smile grows wider. “No, and you can have the book. I’ll just use the old one I have at home,” Wait, if he already had The Iliad at home, why would he need the one from the library so badly? Before she can gather the courage to ask, Bellamy apparently reads her mind, because he explains, “The one I have is an heirloom that’s been passed on through three generations. When my mother died, she left it to me because she knew that I loved it so much, but I’m afraid that it’s falling apart now. The spine is ruined, and the pages can’t handle much more turning—“

Before he can speak any more, the thought that has struck Clarke’s mind eagerly escapes her throat. “You know what? We should share the book… How do you like your coffee, Bellamy? You look like a ‘none of that sugar-and-milk bullshit’ guy to me,” with that, she winks, prompting him to wink back at her, which indicates that she was right.

***

They take the book to the nearest coffee shop. Once they’ve received their orders of caffeine, Bellamy pulls out a notepad from his bag and Clarke places her favorite set of pencils on the table. “I never asked you what your book was about…”

At that, his smile turns crooked as he lets his pen graze the tip of her nose. “Well, I think you’ll like it. It’s about the ancient Greek gods and goddess in our modern world.”

Obviously, she thinks he’s joking at first, because there’s simply no way that they’re working on the exact same idea, but he looks really serious. Sending her a crooked grin, Bellamy seems to be aware of her doubt and decides to pass her his notes as evidence: In block letters, there are incredible details about Athena’s tattoos and outfit choices, about Artemis’ pact with nature, about Aphrodite’s self-love.

“Maybe we can help each other out.”

Chuckling, he replies, “Yeah. If you promise me you’ll never write in a book again.”

So that’s what they do every day for the next two weeks. They meet up in the library or in the coffee shop to share their ideas and keep each other company while they work, even if it’s for hours on end until the stars come out. Quickly, they discover that they have a shared passion for snacking while working, but in order to do that, they’re forced to change the location of their meet-ups. Luckily, the park seems like the perfect spot.

“What did you bring for me?” He teases when she shows up, carrying a plastic Target bag, but she only sticks her tongue out at him.

“Not for you. For us… Skittles, Oreos, Hershey’s and Nerds.”

“You read my mind.”

Sitting on the grass next to Bellamy as rays of sunshine fall onto his face is distracting; it makes his skin resemble growing bronze and his eyes remind her of the forest floor on a summer’s day. Worrying her bottom lip, Clarke asks for his opinion, “Aphrodite… She’s difficult. How do you picture her?”

Clearly thinking hard, Bellamy picks a purple Skittle from the bag, offering her a red one, since it’s her favorite. Then he says, “I picture her having long strawberry blonde hair and green eyes. And she would wear one of those maxi dresses, for sure.”

“White or pink flowing fabric?”

“Pink, definitely.”

As Clarke sketches, she senses Bellamy’s gaze on her, which makes it a little more difficult to focus, and yet a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth at the thought of him being interested in her work. In fact, having someone else care about her project has made her more passionate about it, and she has even gone back to the older sketches to add more details after talking to Bellamy about them.

“You’re extremely talented,” he murmurs, his breath ghosting over the shell of her ear. “The way you capture silhouettes is just… Does it run in the family?”

At his question, Clarke stalls, the pencil hovering over the drawing while she tries to prevent herself from trembling. Judging by the way he places his hand on his shoulder comfortingly, her sadness peeks through her rough exterior despite her efforts to hide it. Swallowing, she croaks, “My dad was an artist. He never got to witness my acceptance at RISD.”

It’s easier to talk to him about it, knowing that his mother’s gone, too. Losing a parent is unimaginable to most people, and the only ones who know just how deep the pain of it cuts, are those that have experienced it.

“I’m sure he would be proud of you.”

That’s it; those words break her shield, make her walls crumble, so that tears are running down her cheeks before she’s even realized it. To no avail, she attempts to catch them all with the back of her hand, but when Bellamy turns around to hug her, she finds that the soft material of his blue Henley absorbs them a lot better.

After a minute, she stops crying and pulls back to let the sunshine dry her cheeks, yet Bellamy’s thumbs do so first. Overwhelmed by his softness, she says, “I want to draw the cover for your book once it’s published.”

“If it is published, you mean,” he smiles sweetly, but she shakes her head.

“No, when it’s published.”

He’s already promised her the honor of being the first person to read the prologue of the novel, which is nearly done, and she’s practically buzzing with excitement at the thought. No matter what, she intends to be his biggest supporter in finishing it, not only because it sounds amazing, but also because he is much kinder than he gives himself credit for.

In fact, it seems very much as if he doesn’t give himself any credit at all…

***

When she receives an A for the art pieces, Clarke desperately wants to give him the credit that he deserves for being an amazing encourager and partner during this project. Knowing that she can’t, however, causes her to find another way to thank him for everything.

He’d given her The Iliad on the last day before she had to turn her project in, assuring her that she needed it more than him at that point, but now she’s ready to return it after having placed a new sticky note on the front cover.

Would you like to go out some time?

- C

When she hands it to him, and he reads it, Bellamy radiates, deciding to act like an adorable dork by writing his response below her message instead of telling her.

Some time like now? I’m off. Coffee? ;)

There’s the winking smiley again, although this time, Clarke’s not at all confused by the meaning of it…

-

[ficdirectory]

Somewhere Inside (Disuphere series #4) Chapter 64

(To listen, click here) - 17:04

For a long time after that, Frankie can’t talk or anything.  The anger is too big in her throat.  She really wants to throw Dominique’s phone, but she doesn’t.

All of a sudden, Mari’s there in front of her.  “You need Sister Time?  In private?” she checks.

Frankie nods.  She thinks Dominique might be surprised when Francesca doesn’t let go of her hand at all - includes her in sister time.

They go out to the one step thing where Fran and Mari ate donuts one morning when Levi came over all upset from Peanut Butter Cookie, probably.  It makes Francesca feel like screaming.  All the feelings make her CP side feel extra tight.  Walking and balancing are even harder.

Out on the step, Francesca sits down and buries her head in her arms.  Mariana asks to hug her and Frankie shakes her head no.

“I need to scream so bad!” Francesca growls in an angry voice.  “But I can’t because I don’t wanna make anybody’s trauma worse!”

Dominique leans back and scoots open the sliding door.  Calls inside.  “Hey, Levi?  Is it okay if we sit in your car for a bit?”

Francesca doesn’t understand, but soon Dominique’s back with Levi’s keys and they’re all walking together.  Dominique opens the door, and they all get in the back seat together.

“You can scream in here,” Dominique says, like it’s no big deal.  “I did earlier.  It feels really good.”

Francesca lets out a really tiny scream.  It sounds like a little dog yipping, but not like Cleo.  

“How mad are you?” Mari asks.  “That Moms said that to us?”

Francesca turns hot eyes on Mariana.  “Madder than anything in the world.”

“Anyone.  You’re a person with feelings, Francesca.  It’s okay to feel mad.” Dominique says, gently.

Francesca’s heart’s beating hard.  She kicks the seat in front of her.  Punches it.  Grunts a little.

“Will you scream with me?  I’m mad, too,” Mariana says.  “Can we be mad together?”

“As loud our madness?” Francesca checks.

“As loud as your madness,” Dominique nods.  “I actually might wait for you guys on the step, though.  I usually do screaming by myself, in private.”

They wait til Dominique gets out of the car and is far enough away on the step and not watching, because Fran and Mari don’t like people staring.  Then, Francesca looks at Mariana.  They count together:

“One, two, three…”

And then Francesca lets out the biggest, loudest scream ever.  But she’s not alone because Mariana’s screaming her loudest, too.  Which is very loud.  Francesca’s kicking and punching the seat in front of her, which she is never allowed to do at home, and isn’t so sure she’s allowed to do here, either.  But Mari’s not telling her to stop.

They scream for a while longer, until Francesca’s voice is tired.  Until she feels small and weak and like screaming won’t make any difference at all.  She covers her face.

And tears.  And it’s like Francesca might never stop crying.

Mariana whispers again, “Can I hug you?”

This time, Frankie nods into her hands, and she feels Mariana’s arms come around her.  She can feel Mariana holding onto her and hear her sniffing loud and breathing shaky and Francesca’s pretty sure Mariana’s crying too.

In a while, Mariana starts talking.  “You should be in our family.  You should.”

That just makes Francesca cry more.  Because when Moms say stuff like that it makes Francesca feel like she should just disappear.

“Do you feel it?” Frankie asks.  “Like you shouldn’t be in the family when they say those things?’

“I feel…” Mariana starts, still with a shaking voice.  “Like they don’t love me now.”

“That’s the same as I do.”  Frankie nods, sniffling.  “But I love you now.  Before and now.  Both.”

“I love you now,” Mariana says, kissing Francesca on the head.  “And tomorrow.  And forever.”

Francesca thinks back, to the night when Moms had been talking to Mariana outside and she came barging into their room, wrecking, and screaming, and swearing at Francesca.

“That night?  Why did you swear at me?” Francesca asks, peeking at her.

Mariana opens her mouth.  Closes it.  

“I won’t tease you.  I promise.  I just…  Did they...like...say something mean to make you this mad?  Only back then?  When we couldn’t scream in cars?”

“Yeah,” Mari nods.  

“So you wanted me to get out?” Frankie checks.  

“Yeah.  Like when Elsa gets mad...and she can’t control her powers.  I didn’t wanna hurt you.  But all I could say was...that.”

“So, you weren’t really mad at me?”  Francesca checks.

“No.  I was mad at myself.  And Moms.” Mariana explains.

“Felt like everybody was mad at me that night…” Francesca confesses.  “I felt really sad.  And lonely.”

“I wasn’t...I just...couldn’t.  When there’s strong emotions?  Words are harder.” Mariana says.

“When I was having strong feelings, my CP felt extra tight,” Francesca confesses.  “Walking was harder.”

“So, yeah, kinda like that.” Mariana nods.

Francesca takes a deep breath but it doesn’t work because her nose is stuffy and plus all she smells is Levi’s car.  She opens the door to breathe some real air.  She gets out of the car and waits for Mari to get out too.  They walk back to the step where Dominique is together.

“Look,” Francesca offers, showing her hands.  “I didn’t do it.”

Dominique opens her arms.  Francesca goes into them.  “I am so proud of you, babe.  That was some tough coping you did.  I can tell that coping muscle’s getting big and strong.”

“It’s still hard,” Francesca admits.  Sitting on the step between Dominique and Mariana.  “Mari and me?  We don’t wanna go back.  Right, Mari?” she checks.

“Try never,” Mariana scoffs.

“I’m sorry, guys,” Dominique says.  “I wish you didn’t have to ever go back.”

“Mariana, you scream the loudest,” Francesca points out, admiring.

“Thank you?” Mari asks, smiling a little.

“What can I say except you’re welcome!” Francesca sings, like Maui.  It makes them laugh.

“I did get an idea while I was sitting here.  For something we can do at Feelings Time.”

Francesca doesn’t think she can wait to find out Dominique’s idea, but it turns out she can.  Because they can go back inside right then, they all agree.

“Levi, I did your coping thing,” Francesca tells him.

“Yeah?  How was it?” he asks.

“Good.  I kinda hit your seat and kicked it, though.  Sorry.” Francesca apologizes.

“Hey, it’s seen worse.  Don’t worry,” Levi reassures.

“Guys, but Dominique has a great idea for Feelings Time, though.”  Even though it’s got to be past 8:00 now, Mariana and Jesus don’t say anything.  They let Francesca sit back down with all of them.

“Ooh, what’s your idea?” Pearl asks.

“Well, I was thinking...how all of us have kinda...negative thought loops?  Where it’s not really easy for us to think positively about ourselves.  So, I was thinking, what if each of us takes time to write down three words to describe positive characteristics in your fellow Avoiders.”

Francesca raises her hand.  

“Yes, Fran?” Dominique asks, smiling.

“What’s a characteristic?  Just, like, a thing we think of when we think of them?” Francesca wonders.

“Something positive.  About their personality.  Think about things each person does well.”

“Like nice?” Francesca asks.

“Can you be more specific about nice?  Nice about what?  And...I kinda wanna avoid...physical compliments if we can.”

“So just good personality things,” Francesca checks.  “Not, like, pretty.  Even if you are pretty.”

“Thanks, babe, but yes.  I need to take some small steps toward accepting a compliment like that.  Not quite ready for it yet.”  Dominique clarifies.  She hands out lots of Post-It notes and pencils.

“So, three things for each person.  15, total?” Francesca checks, doing the math in her head.  “Or 18?  Do we have to include ourselves?”

“No.  But I think that hearing from your friends about what they see that’s good in you can help you be able to eventually see it in yourself.” Dominique points out.

Francesca gets to work, writing:

MARIANA:

Powerful

Smart

Loving

JESUS:

Feelings

Coping

Protecting

DOMINIQUE:

Noticing

Listening

Singing

LEVI:

Fun

Fast

Strong

PEARL:

Advise

Being clear

Hot chocolate

--

Mariana’s staring at her stack of Post-Its when Jesus scoots in next to her.  

“I don’t know about you, but I need our twinbrain for this…” he confesses, quiet.  “I’m overthinking everything.”

“Lucky.  My brain’s empty.” Mariana returns.  

But when they put their heads together, eventually, both have lists.  They, ironically, don’t need help at all for each other’s:

JESUS:

Compassionate

Advocate

Artist

FRAN:

Curious

Feels deeply

Same

DOM:

Honest

Creative

Aware

PEARL:

Willing to learn

Recognizes limits

Deep thinker

LEVI:

Genuine

Gentle

Thoughtful

--

With Mariana’s encouragement, Jesus is able to eventually put pencil to paper without erasing a thousand times, or thinking everything he writes is wrong:

MARI:

Open

Intuitive

Encouraging

FRANCESCA:

Playful

Funny

Considerate

PEARL:

Role model

Love in action

Open hearted

DOMINIQUE:

Blunt

Photography

Kind

LEVI:

Phoenix

Backup

Honest

--

Right about now, Dominique’s not sure about everyone else, but she feels about due for some focus on some positive things.  And to focus on the positives in her friends?  All the better:

FRANCESCA:

Positive coping!!!!

Sloth-speed shopping

Trustworthy

LEVI:

Poet

Soulful

Generous

MARIANA:

Reliable

Dependable

SAFE

jESUS:

Knowledgeable

Respect

Boundaries

Pearl:

Loyal

Confident

Asks for feedback

--

Even now, Pearl finds herself feeling like a bit of an outsider.  She’s not altogether sure she can come up with 15 words to describe all of these people in their best light.  Because 15 words just doesn’t seem like enough.

LEVI:

Sweet

Caring

Thorough

JESUS:

Non-Judgemental

Integrity

Follow through

FRANCESCA:

Recognizes others’ progress

Helpful

Emotionally in tune

MARIANA:

Attentive

Facilitator

Patient

DOMINIQUE:

Good Listener

Logical

Authentic

--

Levi figures it’s just as well to try and distract himself from the note that seems like it’s tattooed onto the backs of his eyelids.  From Carla.  It takes a while for him to be able to start writing at all.  And when the words start coming, he’s not sure he can stop them:

PEARL:

Keeps trying

Understanding

Believing

DOMINIQUE:

Unflinching

Careful

Guarding

MARIANA:

Best hugs

Great talks

I feel seen

JESUS:

Basic needs

Warm

Shares

FRANCESCA:

Mediator

Original

Wise

--

When Francesca gets her five Post It Notes she crams them all into her waist purse so she can read them later when she really needs them.  

It’s okay because she isn’t the only one who is saving their good things.  Everybody else is, too.  It’s like, they’re not ready to realize those parts of themselves yet.  And definitely not with people looking and waiting for them to, like, cry or something.

Even though the Avoiders wouldn’t do that.  They respect emotions.  And each other.

She’s starting to get tired, but doesn’t wanna admit it.  Under the table, something gets passed to her, from Levi.

“Stress cow,” he whispers.

“Huh?” Francesca asks.

“You should get a stress cow.  For when you’re stressed.  Squeeze it,” he encourages.

Francesca does.  It feels weird and good and squishy.  And actually, she could really use a stress cow in real life.  So she’s not always squeezing into her bare hands.

She hands it back.  “Here, I’m not stressed anymore,” Francesca tells Levi.  “You keep it.  In case you need to squeeze it.  Your coping really is good, by the way.”

“My sitting in the car and screaming?” he asks, like he doesn’t believe she’s being serious.

Francesca nods.  “It feels so good to scream and not get yelled at, right?”

“It does,” he nods.  “It actually really does.”

“So, you have great ideas,” Francesca tells him.  “I should ask Mari if we can keep doing that idea when we go home.  But Moms will probably worry about us looking weird or somebody hearing us and calling the cops,” Francesca realizes.

“Could always ask somebody to drive you somewhere quieter.  Away from your moms.  To scream and not have them worrying about how it looks,” Levi suggests.

“You mean, like, Jesus or Dominique, right?” Francesca checks.  “Not a random person?”

“Right.  Someone you trust.  A safe person, like you guys say,” Levi points out.

“I wish you lived in California and right by Avoidance,” Francesca sighs.  “Then, I’d ask you to drive.  You’re safe.”

“Aw,” Levi smiles.  “Thank you.  You’re safe, too.”

“But don’t ask me to drive,” Francesca cautions, giggling.  “I’ll run into everything.”

“I ran into a mailbox…” Levi confesses, out of the corner of his mouth.

Francesca just keeps laughing.  It feels so much better.  So much better than all the screaming and sadness.  She unzips her waist purse softly, so Jesus won’t hear the zip.  Looks at all the good things the Avoiders said about her.  

She’ll definitely have to Google Levi’s.  

Still Francesca flips through them under the table, trying to make all the good things sink in.  So she’ll be ready, and strong, when it’s time to go home.

[zblackiez]

I Am Me

"And we are just minutes away, ladies and gentlemen, from announcing our top five contestants that will be progressing in the 2018 Spring Story Contest."

Fingers tapping against the wood, their tips trembling like microscopic earthquakes. Eyes, violet like a newborn galaxy, narrowed with concentration, staring strongly at the computer screen before her.

All around her, the sounds and smells of the library swirled, from the students quietly scribbling on their assignments at the table to the small group of children who read a single story in unison. Beeps rose from the front desk as novels departed their home for a vacation. The double-doored entrance opened, and closed. Opened, and closed. With it came faces of all shapes and sizes, all eager to indulge in their own universes.

But she paid her surroundings zero attention, as if she had already transported herself to another dimension—one where only her and the computer monitor breathed existence.

On the other side of the screen, two men sat behind a desk, both old enough to sport receding gray hair. However, their ancient age lost relevance once the focus shifted to their pristine suits and overall charismatic auras.

"What did you think of this year's entries, Jeralt?" one asked.

"I thought they were all amazing!" the other answered, his smile bright. "Honestly, I would love for each one of them to win."

"Same with me. But, sadly, we can't all win here." The aged man set his fingers to the earpiece he wore. "Hang on." He gave a nod. "I'm receiving confirmation that the winning pieces have finally been selected." Behind the pair, a blank list numbered 1-5 appeared. "We will now announce them, beginning with the fifth slot."

She held her breath, her heartbeats rapid like a thunderous drum.

"At number five, we have Jacqueline Roseman."

She clenched her fist.

"Coming in at number four is Cody Maxwell."

Her muscles tensed. And as each name after was announced, she could feel them growing tighter, could sense the frame of her soul crumble with no rhythm.

Finally, when the full list came to light, she opened her fist and let loose a sigh. She looked over the names, over and over and over again, hoping that one would, by the touch of God, transform into another, whose syllables would retain familiarity. But no matter how long her gaze lasted, the letters would not morph, their disconnect to her remaining everlasting.

One moment—that was all it took for her heart to shatter, its pieces scattering like stars plummeting from the serene night sky. Her eyes grew glassy, and it took every ounce of her strength to not let them spill.

Again, she thought. By now, why should I even be surprised?

With pleasure thin like air, she shut off the monitor, erasing the list that she now had no business with. With that came the blackness of the monitor's screen, allowing the teenage girl to see, to study, her own reflection. Skin white like snow, soft like an infant's, with cheeks permanently marked with a soft blush. Eyes whose size only an anime girl would possess, shielded by a pair of circular, bookworm-esque glasses. Hair as black as a raven fell gracefully to her shoulders, as tousled and unruly as natural bed hair.

She wiped her face with the sleeve of her wool sweater.

I just can't catch a break. It's like this every time.

I'm always just no good.

Bzzzzt! Bzzzzt!

As her lament hugged her body close, she felt a gentle vibration race in her skirt pocket, urging the girl to reach her hand in and fish out a smartphone. When she turned the screen on, she saw the notification for a text message from the contact "May ❤" It read, "I'll meet you at the Sugar Factory in ten minutes. Hooray for Super Sweet Saturdays! :)"

Realization popped in the girl's head like a balloon.

That's right, she thought. I'm supposed to meet with May today.

However, the idea of just burying herself in her blankets offered a mountain of temptation.

She shook her head. I can't leave her like that. Besides, maybe talking to her might make me feel better.

In the end, the girl rose from her seat and walked away, leaving behind a den of disappointment for, hopefully, a resort of sunshine and rainbows.

Beautiful, the girl thought, watching her companion eat away at a chocolate sundae. Dressed in a simple gray T-shirt and black cargo shorts, she had delicate, fair skin, along with a slender figure. Irises as green as emeralds blessed her eyes, matching well with the silky orange hair that fell down her head, only to curl up at her ears. Freckles, like natural faded tattoos, dotted her cheeks.

The girl of orange hair swallowed a spoonful by the minute.

"This sure is the best!" she said, shining a teethless smile. "They can take my money any day of the week!"

"Mm," the girl of glasses hummed. She felt her own heart beam, if only by a little. Looks like coming here was the right choice, after all.

Her lips curled into a small smile,

one that came and went.

Even so . . .

No matter how hard the girl tried, she couldn't shake off the raincloud that floated over her head—the gray giant that showered her with deepened sorrow.

The girl of orange hair noticed her soulmate's ice cream, which had melted enough to now be considered a drink.

She lowered her own spoon and asked softly, "Ellequin, what's wrong?"

From the girl of glasses, another tiny smile. "Nothing. I'm having a blast." She twiddled her thumbs. "I'm . . . having a great time."

The two sat on opposite sides of a restaurant booth, with gentle chatter twirling into their ears like notes of a song.

The emerald-eyed girl studied Ellequin for a moment, spotting each and every blotch of sadness that stained her face. She then set her spoon down completely and sent her hand to her partner's.

Ellequin's eyes widened a little at the sudden burst of warmth that spread through her fingers, her skin. And as she looked forward, she caught sight of a sweet smile that stretched across her companion's face.

"Ellequin," she said softly, "we've known each other for twelve years, and we've been together for six, so don't think you can trick me with that smile of yours. You don't have to hide your feelings from me."

At first, Ellequin seemed stunned by those words, but as the seconds passed, she lowered her head, shame clinging to her chest like an ache.

"Sorry, May," she whispered.

The girl of orange hair, May, shook her head. "Don't be. You're entitled to your feelings. I just want to let you know that you don't have to go at it alone. I'm here for you, from now until the end of time."

At those tender syllables, genuine joy bloomed within Ellequin, adding some sunshine to her garden of emotions.

You always know just what to say.

"Thank you, May," she said.

"Why, don't ya mention it," May replied. She straightened her posture but kept her ice cream untouched. "So, is this about the writing contest?"

Ellequin nodded. "Did you see the results?"

"No, but judging by your reaction, I can kinda already tell what they were."

After a light sigh, Ellequin slouched and rested her head in her hands.

"That's the sixth one," she said. "The sixth contest, May, where I didn't even make it to the top five. I bet they didn't even bother looking at my story. I wouldn't blame them."

"Are you kidding me?" May asked. "I bet it was torturing them whether or not to put yours in. You're a good writer, Ellequin. I've seen what you can do."

"Thanks, but I get the feeling you're just saying that out of obligation. You know, a lover's required kindness, or something along those lines."

May leaned in. "Ellequin, you know me. You know I try not to hold anything back. I wouldn't tell you I liked your writing unless I really thought so."

Ellequin planted her head on the table. "Somehow I still find that hard to believe."

To that, May simply rubbed her beloved's head.

A motherly touch.

"It's the truth," she promised.

Ellequin blushed.

"In any case," May said, "I'm sure you'll rock it for sure in the next contest!"

"If there's a next contest," Ellequin told her.

"What do you mean?"

The hopeless writer turned her head so that her gaze could pierce through the window with half-open blinds.

"Maybe I should just throw in the towel," she said. "It's been so long, and I'm not very good at it, so what's the point?"

Then again, what am I good at to begin with?

What's the point of me even being here?

Again, a stroke of the hair—warmth that only a mother could provide.

"Well, I won't tell you not to," May said, her expression a fusion of bliss and blue. "In the end, it's your life, not mine. Just know that whatever path you choose, I'll be right there beside you. The only thing I can do is tell you that you'll be making a big mistake if you quit writing. You'll regret it."

"How's that?"

May sent her stare to another table, where a little boy drew on a menu with an assortment of crayons.

"You'll always think about what could've been," she whispered.

Ellequin finally set her sights on her dearest, noticing the melancholy that painted May's cheeks like makeup.

"May?" she asked.

But when the girl of emerald eyes looked back to her soulmate, the sadness magically vanished, as if Ellequin' very existence acted as the cure.

"Like I said, it's your life," she said. "Whatever choice you make, I just want you to know that I'll always be with you." May brushed her fingers against Ellequin's cheek. "I'll never let you down."

In that moment, a million words rose in Ellequin's chest, longing to rush past her lips, to let the girl before her know just how much that message soothed the shadows of her very soul.

In the end, however, she decided on merely three:

"I love you."

May's lips curved ever so sweetly, and she lovingly kissed her beloved's forehead. "I love you too."

The two then went back to their posture of straightened spines.

"Now, then," May said, picking her spoon back up, "let us enjoy these frosty treats, to celebrate the high scores we got on our tests!"

Rather than shoveling ice cream into her mouth like her lover, Ellequin just allowed another type of shame to invade her from the inside out.

"About that . . ."

"ARE YOU KIDDING ME!?"

A monstrous roar, powerful enough to make her bones quake. A fear so profound, she wondered if it transcended the very laws of logic.

Ellequin perched herself upon a seat at the dining room table, soaking in the light that shined from the lamps overhead. Beyond the windows, a realm of night smiled at her—a dimension which she longed to escape to.

Before her stood a beefy man dressed in a police uniform. His features matched hers, from the same shade of his short, raven-black hair to his eyes of violet. His shadow towered over the teenage girl, adding more menace to his character, along with his hardened glare.

In his hand, he held a piece of paper.

"What is this?" he growled.

"My . . . My test . . ." Ellequin answered. She wouldn't dare meet his eyes, her head sunk low.

"No, I get that!" He pointed to the C+ written at the top in red ink. "What I wanna know is what this is?"

A bolt twisted upon the girl's lips, maintaining her silence.

Wham!

The table wailed as the man slammed the paper on the table, causing Ellequin to tremble like an frightened puppy.

"ELLEQUIN STARLET!" he hollered. "What do you have to say for yourself!? Hm!?"

"I'm sor—"

"Sorry?" the man mocked. "You're sorry? It's like this every time, Ellequin! I just–I just don't understand how you're bringing in such idiotic grades. I just don't. Look at your brother. Your little brother. He's two years younger than you, and you don't see him bringing me embarrassing grades. Only the best of the best." He leaned his face in towards hers. "Look at me, girl."

No compliance.

Wham!

Again with the table.

"Look at me!"

Terror chewing in her veins, Ellequin tilted her head up, letting her watery eyes meet the man's.

"Are you stupid?" he asked. "I'm genuinely curious: Are you a fucking idiot?"

A weak shake of the head.

"Are you sure?" the man asked. "Because up until now, all you've done is show me how much of a big fucking moron you are!"

Ellequin's lips quivered as she tried to fight back the tears.

The man straightened himself, then shot out a heavy sigh.

"Just get out of my sight," he ordered. "Just go to bed. Go do the one thing you're decent and act like you don't exist. Go!"

Slowly, the terrified girl rose her seat, then trudged to her bedroom, all while letting the streaks of tears dribble down her cheeks.

Darkness enveloped Ellequin like a starving cloud, providing her with bleakness that she could've sworn bled from her own heart. She stared into the ceiling of her room, a blanket covering her from head to toe. Nearby, the window sang a little tune—a simple rhythm that was brought only by the raindrops that clashed against the glass.

The kind girl sniffed the mucus back up her nostrils and wiped her cheeks.

It always ends like this, she thought. No matter what I do, I just can't be good enough. What's the point of me even being here if all I can do is fail?

She shut her eyes tight.

Maybe . . . just maybe . . . I don't belong here.

Maybe I don't belong anywhere.

Krrrrrrrk!

A gentle creak, rising from the door off to the side.

Ellequin kept her eyes shut, maintaining the false slumber. Anything to save herself from the neverending wrath of the beefy man.

"I know you're awake."

A voice lighter than she expected, one belonging to that of a teenage boy.

Still, the girl never moved her eyelids.

"Ellequin," the voice said.

"What?" she answered weakly.

"I, um, I heard what happened between you and Dad."

"Yeah? And? Did you come here to rub it in my face?"

"No. Nothing like that." Awkwardness fluttered in the boy's throat, sticking to every syllable that slipped past his lips. "I just . . . I just wanted to let you know that you're not me."

"I thought you said you weren't gonna rub it in," Ellequin pointed out.

The boy sighed. "I'm not. You didn't let me finish. You're not me, and vice versa, I'm not you." He paused for a second. "I guess what I'm trying to say is . . . you're your own person, Ellequin. Remember that, okay?"

She didn't say a word.

After waiting for an answer, the boy just said, "Good night, Ellequin." And with nothing left to offer, he disappeared back into the night, shutting the door behind him.

Ellequin merely gazed back at the ceiling, her visitor's message bouncing in her mind.

Her response: My own person . . . just isn't good enough.

Silence, drifting around the classroom—a student who had everywhere, yet nowhere, to do her work. Instead, she peered at the other occupants of the space, spectating as they sat within the sea of desks. Some indulged in their assignments, scribbling in their notebooks like mad, while others just doodled on whatever surface they could get their hands on.

Among the mass of students was the sweet girl Ellequin, whose seat resided at the far corner, near the row of windows that made up one of the walls. She had her hands held together, squeezing harder and harder with each passing of time's frames. Her heart raced like a cheetah, pounded like a ball dribbling, went wild like a fresh storm. On her desk lay her notes, written in her beautiful handwriting.

I practiced, she thought. I practiced. I'll be okay. I'll be okay.

Before long, the teacher—an elderly woman—rose from her desk at the front of the room.

"Okay," she said, her voice frail, "I think that's more than enough time for review. Let's get started with our presentations." Behind her, a projector screen descended, blocking the whiteboard. "Who would like to go first?"

No hands went up.

Silence amped up her awkwardness, shooting the off feeling into several spines.

The old woman sighed. "I didn't want to use these, but . . ." She reached into her desk and pulled out a mug filled with popsicle sticks. "I guess we'll let fate decide."

The bile in Ellequin's stomach grew restless.

I practiced. I practiced. I practiced.

That duo of words vibrated in the girl's head, stripping most of her focus away from her peers speaking. Whatever she did manage to pay attention to, though, she considered it amazing. All these people, as confident as ever, their messages flowing from them as smooth as web jetting from a spider.

A display of the lion's heart—a treasure Ellequin could only ever wish for.

Eventually, the dreaded moment came to pass: when the aged teacher pulled a stick and said aloud, "Ellequin."

The young girl's heart plummeted to her gut, disturbing her stomach's contents. Her bones quaked. Her fingers twitched. As all eyes darted her way, Ellequin forgot how to breathe.

"Ellequin?" the teacher asked.

"Y-Yes," Ellequin responded. Slowly, the brave girl lifted herself from her desk, carrying her notes with great care. From there, she marched to the front of the class, a walk that lasted for ten eternities, or so it felt. When she finally managed to reach, she turned to face her peers, the army of gazes that seemed to pierce her very soul. And it was in that moment, that iota of time's design, that she froze.

"U-Um . . ." she uttered.

They waited.

The relevance of her notes vanished, with all words known to humankind disappearing from the girl's vocabulary. Her breaths became nothing more than shallow clouds of air. Her heart, thumping faster than sound itself.

"U-Um . . ."

"Ellequin?" the teacher asked.

No response; only lips that felt as though they'd been sewn together.

The brave, brave girl could feel the moisture rising in her eyes.

The old woman sighed. "I should've expected this from you. Just take a seat, Ellequin. You can hand me something written later for half-credit."

At that order, Ellequin began her humiliating journey back to her desk. But with each step, relief did not supply her systems. No. As her peers stared at her, the girl could recognize only shame—a blend of disgust and defeat so profound, it twisted her very sense of existence.

When she finally sat back down, only one thought whispered in her head:

I'm just a failure.

Fingers wrapped around the handle; the index, rubbing gently against the trigger. The muzzle, the cool metal, pressed against her temple, awaiting the final order to unload.

Tears spilled from her eyes, racing down her cheeks in glistening streams.

Clenched teeth.

Quivering pupils.

A soul that just couldn't take any more cracks.

As Ellequin sat on her bed, the dusk of night drifting all around her, she pressed the handgun against her head.

I'm . . . no good. All I ever do is fail, fail, fail. I don't deserve to be in this world.

The broken girl pushed the handgun deeper into her skull.

It wouldn't matter if I was gone. It wouldn't matter if I just disappeared. Right? Maybe . . . just maybe, it'll be better this way.

Hesitation, slowly fading.

Dad will be happier. Nedri won't have such a poor excuse for a sister. May . . . May . . .

Like a rose blossoming in the desolate garden of her mind, the girl of orange hair and a bright smile emerged. With her appearance, Ellequin thought of that final message she sent to her beloved, that farewell she'd been contemplating for weeks now.

"Thank you for everything, May. Really, thank you. You've always been there for me, no matter how bad I got. You were always there to pick me up, and I appreciate it from the bottom of my heart. That's why I love you so much. I promise that I'll always be watching over you, so keep pushing along, okay? You were meant to do amazing things, and I can't wait to see what you accomplish. Goodbye and good luck ^_^"

The response: "Ellequin, what are you talking about? Why are you saying goodbye?"

The brave, brave girl gave no answer.

"What do you mean by you'll be watching over me? Ellequin, please answer!"

The girl who was only human choked on her sobs.

"Ellequin, I'm on my way! Don't move a muscle!"

I'll never be good enough, she thought. I'll never make anyone proud.

May sprinted to the house's front door, then slammed on it with her fist.

"Please!" she screamed into the night, her breaths running short. "Please, someone answer! Ellequin!"

What's the point of being alive if I have nothing to show for it?

Finally, the beefy man opened the door.

"Who the hell is making all this noise?" he growled, his face twisted with rage. When his eyes fell on May, however, his expression morphed to one of a calmer acrimony. "It's you. Do you have any idea what time it is!?"

"Ellequin . . ." May choked, anxiety gripping her throat. "I need to see Ellequin."

"You ain't seeing jack shit!" the man roared. "You're lucky I don't arrest you right now for disturbing the peace!"

Screw this, May decided. I don't have time for this. She needs me.

Her hesitation zero, the young girl bolted past the man and into the home.

"Hey!" he hissed. "What the hell are you doing!?"

Please, May begged. Please, don't let me be too late.

Finally, she mustered the courage, bracing herself for the next world to come.

I don't want to disappoint anymore.

I don't want to be a failure anymore.

I don't want to live like this anymore.

She shut her eyes tight, clenched her teeth hard enough for them to break.

I just . . . want to go.

Suddenly, her bedroom door flew open.

"Ellequin, don't you fucking dare!" May roared.

Pop!

You know, I've never really been good at anything. From the time I was born, I always felt as though I could only disappoint. I could only let the people I care about down, harder than ever. They had such high hopes for me, their expectations higher than any moon I could ever hope to reach. Was it their fault, for putting too much faith in my existence? Or was it me for simply not being strong enough? Time and time again, I pondered upon that question, more often than not concluding that it was me that forced my undoing. That if I had not been born an automatic failure, I could've brought smiles to my loved ones, not frowns.

Though I suppose that that was fate's design from the beginning.

Nothing I can do to change it.

But as I lay here, surrounded by my doubts and demons, my gaze landing upon nothing but dusk everlasting. I can see it—a tiny speck, glimmering in the distance. Always, it shines its weak shine, urging me with a promising smile to come forward. But I shake my head. Surely, my fingers won't reach, not without the almighty lion's heart.

Still, it begs, promises.

Perhaps . . . Perhaps today, I'll listen. I'll view this glistening speck, this dainty star, as something more, something phenomenal.

Let me just stretch my fingertips

and try to hold

this shred of hope.

Breaths, soft. Chest, rising and falling, as calm as an ocean's waves. Heaviness took her eyelids hostage, its willingness to release the prisoners kept nonexistent. However, as the seconds rolled, she became the greater force, opening her eyes with great care.

Instantly, bright lights flooded into her pupils, and she had to shut her vision to spare herself the pain. She blinked a few times. Open, and close, Open, and close. Eventually, her eyes adjusted, allowing the brave, brave girl to witness the world around her.

She lay in a comfy, white bed, within what looked to be a pristine hospital room. Slim monitors beeped to her left, while a window leading to a world of night occupied her right. Warmth enveloped her body from head to toe, courtesy of the blanket that embraced her. But her hand felt hotter than the rest, as if actual tender flames coasted across her fingers.

"Onto the next question!" Following, a round of applause.

That volume. That type of sound.

A television.

She carefully tilted her head up to see the old-school, black box hanging in the upper corner of the room, displaying what appeared to be some sort of game show.

However, her attention on that briskly dissolved as her gaze fell upon another—the source for the extra heat caressing her hand. Despite her blurry vision, the girl in the bed made up the make, the outline, of her visitor: slim figure, fair skin, and hair as orange as could be.

The girl in the bed, as silent as a mouse, reached towards the counter to her side to have her fingers meet the cool touch of her spectacles. She put them on, enhancing her vision tremendously, allowing her to see the TV just in time for the game show host to study his note card.

"All right, Evelyn," he said, "here is your next question: How many moons does the planet Venus possess?"

An instant click for the answer.

"None," Ellequin whispered. "As far as we know, anyway."

A tighter squeeze of the hand.

Calmly, the visitor swiveled her head, letting the bedridden girl admire those emerald eyes.

Ellequin gave a teethless smile.

"Hi, May," she said. "I—"

A hush, as the visitor lunged forward and held Ellequin close.

"You're awake," she said softly. "Thank goodness, you're finally awake." For the embrace, she poured in even more love. "I . . . I didn't think I'd ever see your eyes again."

Just then, as shock pooled in Ellequin's face, the door to the room opened, and in waltzed a slender young man in a lab coat.

"All right, May," he said, looking at his clipboard, "how do think she is tod—" But his words plummeted to an abyss, and his jaw hung as he saw the bedridden girl have full consciousness. "Miss Ellequin, you're awake." He smiled. "You're finally awake!"

May retreated a little from her beloved, wiping her runny nose with her sleeve.

Ellequin sat up.

"I'm Doctor Malvin," the man said.

"Hello," Ellequin said. "Doctor . . . Where am I?"

"The hospital."

"Hospital? Why? What happened?"

Both the doctor and May wore troubled expressions.

"You mean, you don't remember?" May asked.

"No," Ellequin answered, and for those first few moments, that response held true. But as time passed, the realization struck her like a bolt of lightning. The scenes, playing in her head like a rushed film, reminding her of every feeling that latched to her reality.

Slowly, she brushed her hand against her temple.

A bandage.

"You tried to commit suicide, Miss Ellequin," the doctor said. "A few days ago."

"Days?" Ellequin asked. "I've been asleep for that long?"

"Yes. Somehow, you fired the weapon at an angle, and by the grace of God, the bullet did nothing more than leave a deep scrape on your skull."

I . . . I missed? Ellequin wondered. How did I . . . ?

Piece by piece, the puzzle completed itself, until the answer presented itself to the confused girl.

A door suddenly opening.

A startled reaction.

Right . . . I flinched.

Ellequin rubbed her wound once more.

"We patched you up as best we could," Doctor Malvin said. "Replaced the missing bone with some metallic weaving, in order to keep the brain as well-protected as possible. I'd say you're good to go from this room after a couple of days."

"Thank you, Doctor." Ellequin set her sights back on May, who couldn't stop wiping her eyes.

An awkward quiescence.

"I'll, um, I'll let you two talk in private," Doctor Malvin said, backtracking to the exit. "I'll let your father know you've finally come to, Ellequin."

"Thank you," she said.

With a final nod, the doctor fled the scene, transporting the two girls to their own personal bubble.

For a time, not a single syllable dribbled into the air.

Not until Ellequin hung her head in shame.

"I'm sorry, May," she said.

"That's right," May responded. "You should be sorry."

"I—"

Another embrace, with just as much love as before, if not more.

"How dare you try to give up on yourself?" May asked. "You don't deserve that kind of end."

Ellequin, before long, began crying herself. "I . . . I'm just no good. I can't write. I'm not good at school. I can't even talk in front of people. There's nothing I can do. I'm worthless. There's no reason for me to even be alive."

May swallowed this claim in all its false truth, then leaned back so that their faces were only inches apart.

"Ellequin," she said, "you know I love you, right? I love you more than anything. But do you know why?"

The broken girl kept her lips sealed.

"I love you because you're kind," May listed off. "I love you because you genuinely care about other people, even those you barely know. I love you because you always try your best. I love you because you can always make the worst of situations seem like a breeze. You inspire me to be the best I can be.

"It doesn't matter if you can't write. It doesn't matter if you're no good at school. Because at the end of the day, what defines you"—she pointed to Ellequin's chest, where the almighty lion's heart already lived—"is this. Ellequin Starlet, you're an amazing human being, brighter than any of us could ever hope to be. Sweetie, you have to understand: you were not born to live up to anyone's expectations. You were not born to make anyone proud except yourself. Do you understand that?"

As she sobbed her soul out, as her pieces finally stuck back together, the brave, brave girl nodded.

"I am me," May said. "And you are you. Our skills do not define us. We're both only human, and I think we're both doing a great job at being just that."

Another nod.

Another hug.

"Besides," May said, "even if you are bad at something, it doesn't mean you can't get better at it. I know you get what I mean. If you didn't, you wouldn't have entered the story contest six times in a row. You just have to remember that any change has to be because you want it. It has to be you who you want to make proud."

Once more, they separated, their eyes peering into the depths of their souls.

"Don't give up," May said. "I know you can do great things, my love."

Gently, she kissed Ellequin's forehead.

"I'll believe that till the day I die."

Several days later . . .

Backpack, check!

Homework in backpack, check!

She studied herself in the mirror one more time.

Natural bed hair, check!

Then, a smile, albeit a tiny one.

Confidence, half-check!

Ready to head to the jungle of wolf packs and misfits, Ellequin departed from her bedroom and made her way to the front door of the house. Before she left, however, she made a quick pit stop at the kitchen, helping herself to a handful of honey buns. While there, she made sure to make no eye contact with the beefy man in the police uniform, who sat peacefully while enjoying a nice cup of coffee and a newspaper.

She made her way to the front door.

"Ellequin."

From behind, that voice that knew only of sternness.

The girl turned around cautiously and responded, "Y-Yes, Father?"

To her relief, however, no wrath erupted in the household; only clumsiness in the form of verbal language.

"Um," Ellequin's father tried. "Just . . . Just try your best today, okay? I know you can do it."

She nodded, somewhat confused by the lack of rage.

"Have a good day," her father said.

She nodded again, then melted away from the scene, delivering herself to the outside world, where the sun smiled her way.

On her porch, Ellequin spotted the girl of orange hair standing near her lawn.

"My girl Ellequin!" May cheered.

Ellequin waved, then approached her dearest. And when the two could, they interlaced their fingers.

"Let's get to it," May suggested.

"Mm," Ellequin hummed.

Together, the two commenced their journey.

"And it is with this that the Pendulum Theory came to fruition," the aged teacher said.

She presented herself before the sea of students, whose actions ranged from serious note-taking to serious napping. Among the squad of the former, Ellequin's pen scratched her paper like crazy. From a glance, one could've sworn she'd written part of a novel.

Eventually, the elderly woman asked the question, the string of words that always managed to make Ellequin's heart drop to the floor:

"What are your questions?"

No one made any movements, all willing to cage up their confusion.

But Ellequin took the first step, despite how shaky her bones became, despite how hastily her heart raced. She decided that the status quo was meant to be shattered, not maintained, and after taking a deep breath, she did the unthinkable: she raised her hand.

At the sight, the teacher's eyes went as wide as quarters.

"E-Ellequin?" she asked. "You have a question?"

All eyes darted to the girl, causing her cheeks to burn up. But she marched forward, insisting that her lion's heart was no fake.

"Y-Yes," she said. "I just don't understand how it all goes together. Would you mind explaining that part one more time?"

"A-Absolutely!" Excitement coursed through the guidance of the next generation. "It would be my pleasure!"

Ellequin smiled. This time, I'm getting a B.

Two years later . . .

"And we are just minutes away, ladies and gentlemen, from announcing our winner of the 2020 Spring Story Contest."

Fingers tapping against the wood, as steady as a sculpture's. Eyes, violet like a universe in full bloom, narrowed with concentration, staring strongly at the computer screen before her.

She dwelled in the walls of the library, surrounding herself with sounds and smells all too familiar.

"I think our top five this year were amazing!" one of the men on the screen said. "All definite winner material!"

"Without a doubt!" the other acknowledged. "To whoever doesn't make it out of this one, I only hope that they don't give up, because each writer here shows a tremendous amount of talent!"

Heart beating at a regular pace, clear of all forms of panic.

One of the men set his finger on his earpiece.

"Oh, is that so?" he asked. Then, to the audience, "This just in, folks, the results are in!"

She held her breath.

"And the winner of this year's Spring Story Contest is . . . Mister James Wyvin!" On the screen, the image of a teenage boy appeared. "Congratulations, James, on your piece, Souls of the Innocent. A real masterpiece, that one was."

Yet again, a name unfamiliar, along with a face she could never recognize.

However, this time, there were no tears; no fractured souls; no doubt as to how this path would end.

Instead, the brave, brave girl only smiled and clenched her fist.

I'll get 'em next time.

Just you wait.

[theysaywhatasadsight]

No rest for the wicked, part 2

(A/N: IT’S HERE!! PART 2!! Coming in at a whopping 1028 words. Turns out, I did rock a pre board, so I could finish this today. Enjoy!)

Part 1

Summary: You’re no angel and Spiderman’s no villain, but something keeps drawing the two of you together

The one high point of your day had been handing over the cash at the refugee center, representing a bogus institution. The lady at the desk at just shrugged.

The test, as expected, went horribly.

Sigh. The one time I actually try to study.

Had it not been for Peter, who sat next to you, you probably would’ve failed. Realising this, you caught him at Lunch.

“"Hey, thanks for telling me the ester reaction, i don't even know what they are''

"It's fine. Ummmm…..” he leaned in.

“You might want to erase the footage from the ATM. Felony and all that.” Smiling at you, he walked away.

“Wait, WHAT?!!” you almost yelled, but he had gone out of hearing range, or had he?

Was Peter Spiderman? The vigilante?

For the better part of 6 months, you had the words Peter and a spider inked around your wrist, the indicator of a soul mate. If he had ever noticed it, he hadn’t said much.

For Peter, the stress of the alien technology was definitely on his mind, but in some corner of his brain, he was glad you knew.

 I said, "You're such a sweet young thing, why you do this to yourself?" She looked at me and this is what she said

A week later, another robbery.

This time, you expected Peter to show up, and he did.

You simply smiled at him as he tied up the crooks, and started on your merry way.

“Wait up! (Y/N)!”

“What?”

“Why’d you take the money? I mean, it’s you, you’ve got to have a better reason than this…”

“Hey, I don’t do it for myself, okay? I donate it all. Everyone’s yammering about how they want refugees to go get a job, and helping the centre means helping them, ok?”

“ I guess?”

“Just don’t rat me out, ‘kay?”

“I won’t, on one condition.”

“Which is?”

“Let’s go to homecoming, together.”

“This is blatant bribery, but I’ll let this slide. 7 sharp. Bring a corsage.” Saying this, you walked away.

Peter stared after you, open mouthed. He finally did get the courage to ask you out. To not scew this up wouldn’t be hard. Hopefully.

“(Y/N), I’m sorry. I need to go” Peter ran as you stared, open mouthed. After all, you had made the effort of dressing up, only to be stood up.

A sudden epiphany struck you. What if he really, really needed to save the world? Or New York, at the very least. You could help him, right.

I mean, you’ve got no powers. How?

I’ll figure it out.

You realized Ned had also vanished from the scene. You set out to search for him.

You coughed at the dust as the building crashed right in front of you. You hopped off the stolen car and tore your heels off. Ned had said this was where he had last tracked the Vulture for Peter.

Shit, this place is huge. How the hell am I going to find him?

The cries of help were getting louder. The asshole had crashed a building on top of Peter.

Soulmate or no, Imma kill the Vulture with my bare hands.

“Peter!”

“(Y/N)! I’m down here!”

There was no entry point. He was trapped beneath two huge blocks, which even Spiderman was having difficulty I lifting. You could still hear him, though.

“(Y/N), I..I can’t do this. He’s-he’s too powerful”

“Of course you can! You’re Spiderman! You’re a superhero!”

“But what good am I? I let those robbers go!”

“So what? The Avengers, supposedly the Earth’s mightiest heroes, might’ve had a few failures, but everyone still loves ‘em, right? Come on Spiderman! Go save the world! Or New York!” It felt slightly useless, motivating Peter when god only knew how bad he was stuck.

Peter chanted this to himself, as he moved the blocks. You screamed with joy as he came out of there.

“You give a mean motivational speech.”

You flipped your hair. “Just one of my talents.”

Spiderman started walking away.

“Where are you going?”

“Off to save the world.”

As he went away, you promised to yourself that if he came back, you’d tell him about the whole soulmate thing.

You watched in horror as the flying…thing went shooting across the sky. You had called up ned and asked him to track the jet, but flying so high above, you couldn’t be of any use to Peter.

As you ran the streets of queens, you passed by an electronics shop that was saying something about fires near Coney Island. You hoped he was okay, and caught the train home, looking rather worse for wear.

Sick with worry, you were pacing your room when Peter landed with a thud outside your window. You could barely hold your smile back.

“Saved the world?”

“New York, at least.”

“Hey, that was great on the spot.”

You saw him looking at the tattoo on your wrist. ‘Peter’ had changed to ‘Spiderman’. You smiled at him and shrugged. He showed you his wrist, inked with your name.

“You knew!” you threw a pillow at him, which he easily caught and smiled at you.

“Fine, I’ll do the honors” saying this, you kissed him.

“Wait, didn’t your parents say anything? Its pretty late for to come back.”

“Who do you think I am, juvie level? I sneaked in.”

“Ah, you thief…” You shut him up, by kissing him, of course.

 You were waiting outside the Avengers headquarters. Peter had called you in the morning, promising a date after this ‘tiny errand’.

As he came out, he spotted you and ran over.

“So, you’re an official Avenger now?”

“Nah, I got homework. Too much of pressure. World-saving can come later. So, what do you wanna do today?”

“Let’s go rob a bank.”

He gasped.

“I’m a freaking superhero, (Y/N)!”

“And I’m not. See, I even brought along disguises.” You held up a couple of Iron Man masks.

He merely laughed and shook his head.

Oh there ain't no rest for the wicked Money don't grow on trees

I got bills to pay, I got mouths to feed There ain't nothing in this world for free

[noonmutter]

Etiquette

(Another round of modified chatlogs. Terry and Dwyn regularly compete with Leon and Pin for cuteness points, but only when they’re alone. This takes place just after the last Dragoon meeting, which I missed for purely OOC reasons because I’m a dumb.)

The directions Shedwyn leaves for Terry guide him to the far side of the lake from the Cathedral. It's a bit of a hike or a short boat ride, one that she apparently made on her own, because by the time he arrives she is sitting on a blanket with a picnic basket. As he approaches, she pulls out a bottle of liquor and a pair of glasses. She pours just one glass, for now. It's not exactly a public place, but seeing her out of bed with all her illusion spells off is unusual. Showing off all those scars, tattoos, and her "weird" eyes isn't her style. Of course, the gold "dress" isn't really her style, either. It's far too exposed.

The hike itself isn't too difficult for him, not after running about in the rocky mess of the Shore. Really, his reflexive checking for fel pools slows him down more than anything else. Once he sees her, but doesn't see the chair, he's immediately impressed. The booze gets a bit of a smile, and the...visibility of her more of one, after a moment's surprise. When he's only a few feet away, he pries off the heavier bits of his armor and drops them carelessly to the grass, and closes the remaining distance barefoot. "Y'look good, babygirl."

"I always do," she smirks, and offers the glass up to him. "I feel good. It felt like the thing to wear."

He settles onto the blanket beside her and leans over to kiss her cheek, only then taking the glass. "Did y'actually walk up 'ere?"

She laughs. "Not all the way, no."

"Tch. 'Ere I was about t'be impressed." He takes a drink with a quiet sigh of satisfaction.

She looks him up and down, and leans over to plant a little peck on his shoulder while he drinks. "You look like hell. But I'm so happy to see you, hon."

He really does, at least compared to his standard. Most people probably wouldn't think the softness to his features was anything significant, but she sees him too often for that. "Nah. 'Ell's a dif'rent shade o' green. But I missed you too."

Chuckling, she pours herself a finger of whiskey. She leans away a bit to watch him while she savors her drink.

He's really enjoying that drink, if only because the only booze one is going to find on the shore is cheap stuff soldiers sneak in. He's worn, in that have-slept-but-not-enough way, but healthy otherwise, and content for the moment. If she doesn't interrupt him, he'll finish his glass without saying stopping. Not chugging, just...savoring it.

She's content to enjoy the whiskey and the view with him in silence for a few minutes. Once he's done, she silently offers to refill his glass.

With another small smile, he nods and holds it out. While she's pouring, he takes his turn to watch her, not skipping an opportunity to see what she normally hid even from him.

She's a little sad, a little nervous. As she pours, she says, "I have a question, but first I should tell you something."

Well, he isn't sad, but he's certainly nervous, now. "All right?"

"I could hide it from you indefinitely with little effort, and I considered doing so. It seems to me it will only hurt you... But if I want this to last, I should tell you. It certainly won't if you find out on your own." She frowns a little and brushes the back of her fingers down the side of his arm. "Do you remember when I said there were others, but nothing serious, when we recognized that you and I are... well, perhaps not 'serious,' but significant?"

From nervous to scared in record time, congratulations Dwyn! "...yeah?" He doesn't move, but there’s enough tension in his face to momentarily erase the apparent weariness he's been fighting off.

She curses under her breath and looks away, putting the cool glass to her forehead. "I'm so bad at this." She looks back up at him. "The others were irrelevant, no one you're ever likely to meet, but one of them was your brother."

His brain runs in slow motion while he's parsing what he's been told and making sure it doesn't involve him having done something wrong. Then he goes over it again, looking for something she did wrong, and alarm klaxons go off right at the end. His eyes don't widen, they don't narrow. He doesn't outwardly do anything except stop blinking.

She swallows hard on the knot that had been trying to form this entire time. "It ended up being just the once, but still." And there she goes, looking away in shame. Both from sleeping with his brother and trying to justify it so lamely.

"...You're not still, are you?" He makes wholly unhelpful motions with his hands. "I know Leon does that... swingin'...thin'..."

"No." Offense catches up to and surpasses shame. "No! I-! No. I cut him off. Hell, until the other day when I had this same conversation with him, I hadn't seen him in weeks, not since the day I cut him off."

The stiffness in his shoulders is only really noticeable because it suddenly goes away, and he finally starts blinking again as he leans back. "I mean... I 'aven't been with Rhiswyn in ages. A while b'fore Alynore'd ever said anythin' t'you. I ended it with 'er, too."

Shedwyn shrugs and shakes her head. "I didn't think you had, really." She makes a face and sips her drink quickly. "That will certainly be a nightmare for a while, but no, I never really thought you might still be seeing her. And I told you, I'm yours. Only yours. I'm not going to touch anyone else unless you and I - us - changes."

"Babygirl, I'm not Leon... I don't really care tha' much 'o fucks 'im. I mean... I know it's kind'f a, a sore spot for 'im, but... this ain't th' same."

Shedwyn nods, ands looks away, thinking. "It really isn't."

"There was this girl, Lilith, 'o'd wander int' town back in th' day. Most'f th' lads figured she was a bored 'ore 'o came 'round whenever th' local law got too pushy. She'd entertain 'erself--and us--fer a few weeks, then shove off again back t'wherever she came from. Y'know.

"I pointed 'er Leon's way one time. 'E was a quiet li'l dork an' 'e was never gonna get anywhere if 'e was th'only one 'o 'ad any say innit, so I thought I was doin'im a favor, y'know? Get 'im 'is first. Mighta been 'is last, but at least 'e'd 'ave a first…"

Shedwyn scrubs at her face. "Yes, I know what happened there. It's one of many reasons I was afraid to tell him. Interesting to hear your side of it, though."

Terry looks down at his empty glass. "Yeah, well. Iunno what 'e was expectin' back then. Either way, tha's not me. Pers'nally I'd rather not know 'o 'e's stuck it in." He pauses, then closes his eyes in a very 'god damn it, man' way, realizing what he just said.

"Heh. No. I suppose you wouldn't, but if you found out from someone else..." She sighs, bumps his shoulder with hers, and then moves away to crawl toward the basket. "How does steak sound for dinner?"

Yes, she is trying to distract him from imagining Leon fucking her.

Not expecting an offering of food, he looks up at her and then at the basket. "What? Oh. Yeah. 'Ell yeah. Mess at Deliv'rance Point does pretty good but, y'know.” He paused, then quietly followed up with, "Thanks fer ownin' up. But, uh. It's okay."

She pulls out a pair of covered plates. A good, rare steak, with garlic mashed potatoes and some grilled vegetables is passed off to him with a shrug. "Thank you for being understanding. And for explaining a bit. But it makes my question feel even more silly, now." Scallops, rice, and butter-drowned vegetables for her.

Anyone judging by his expression would think she'd just stripped in front of him and said 'have at it,' the way he looks at that food, and especially once he's smelled it. He actually makes a tiny little 'hee' sound in the back of his throat when he takes the plate. "What question?"

She picks up her drink to sip it and wait until he's not eating, drinking, or holding anything that will break if he drops it from laughing too hard. Still, she can't help but smirk from behind her glass at how silly her question feels (especially with how it may be a touch tardy). "Is it alright if I fall in love with you, or would that be too serious for your taste?"

Good decision. He chokes on air and nearly drops the plate even though it's in his lap. Once he's not coughing, he's chuckling, putting the plate down on the blanket next to him and wiping his mouth. "This from th'girl 'o made fun o' me fer usin' 'fancy'? 'Is it all right?'"

She shrugs. "It is rather adorably quaint slang." She's smiling at both their silliness, now. "I've been with men - and sometimes insisted on the rule myself - where getting that attached was not alright."

Leaning over a bit, he nudges her with his shoulder. "Adorably quaint, pff. Don't get smug on me now, babygirl, y'were doin' so well."

"Humility is not a good look for mages."

"Can be. Y'look amazin' on yer knees."

"So do you." She pops a scallop in her mouth and tries not to smirk up at him.

Someday Terry's gonna have words with himself about how easy it is to make him blush. "Only t'you."

She hooks a finger in his shirt collar and pulls him in close, affecting a sharkish grin that loses most of its edge because she's trying not to laugh. "Only for me."

He can't quite help the way his eyes widen when she does that, even if he does know she's messing with him. It happens and goes away after a second, but it definitely happened. Then he closes the remaining distance between them to kiss her, if only for a peck. "True."

She leans back, still grinning, but gestures at his dinner. "Am I to take it that means it's alright?" Another scallop, still with her bare fingers. Terrible manners on this woman!

Bit of a 'damn' to his face when she doesn't let herself stay distracted, and he picks up a bit of steak he'd cut. She started the terrible manners, he's allowed. "Can't very well stop y', can I?"

She shrugs. "I can choose to fall in love, I can choose to not, no?" She winds her arm around his and leans against him, picking at her food with her free hand. "Besides, you know I already love you dearly. If you wanted, I could be happy with just this, for as long as we have."

He sets his hand on her hip almost without thinking, and rests his head on top of hers once he's done chewing. Wouldn't do to get crumbs in her hair. "Dunno. Can y'choose t'turn somethin' like tha' off?"

"Pft, I can do anything if I put my mind to it." No, no, she can't, but she's not about to admit it right now.

"Mm. So, I got a question fer yer question."

"Fire away."

"Are y'askin' if it's all right, or are y'askin' if I feel th' same way?"

"... I don't need you to be in love with me, Sam. I don't even need you to love me, or 'care deeply,' however we'd like to put it, which I-" She pauses and clears her throat quietly. “It would be nice, but it's not necessary. I just don't want to make you uncomfortable, either by holding you at a distance or pulling you closer."

He's quiet for a bit, eventually curling his other arm around her waist and shifting to sit a bit more comfortably. "Y'din't answer my question, babygirl. Are you askin' me what you actually wanna ask me?"

"I am not asking if you're in love with me, Terry. That would be... Incredibly rude, for lack of a better way of phrasing it. I'm not playing any silly games. I'm asking exactly what I want to know."

"Then m'answer doesn't really change." Ducking his head, he kisses her cheek. "I can't very well stop y'."

She sighs, smiles and exasperated little smile, and continues eating with her fingers. "Eat your dinner, old man."

"Old man! Aren't you older'n me?" Chuckling, he picks up another steak bit.

"Hm, how old are you?"

"Th--" He pauses and squints upward for a minute. "...irty one? I think? Did I miss thirty? ...No. Thirty-one's this year. Yeah. Thirty fer now."

"Then yes. I am older than you are."

"Oh no y'don't. 'Ow old?"

"Thirty-four."

"Gods, I'm stuck with a crone."

"An eternally youthful and beautiful crone, thank you." She tweaks his chin. "You're not stuck with anything."

"She says with 'er arm snaked so tight 'round mine."

"Oh? And that arm around my waist is for balance, I suppose?"

"No, it's t'keep a girl 'o loves me from gettin' away too fast."

"Hmf. Won't be leaving unless you give me reason to." She huffs. "Besides, you're the one always going where I can't follow."

"I 'alf expect t'turn 'round an' see y'comin' up be'ind me t'wreck shit, anyway."

"Soon, I think. I have some ideas..." She shakes her head.

"Pursue 'em. I wanna see my girl beatin' th'shit outta th' demon 'ordes."

She tries to pull away a bit so she can properly look him in the eye again. He won’t stop her, at least not unless she scoots too far.

"Please remember that above all else, no matter what else happens, I am your friend and want to see you happy and healthy. Right?"

His smile fades a little, one eyebrow rising. "Well...yeah. I wasn't questionin' tha'. Should I 'ave?"

"No. I just want to make certain you remember it. No silly self-sacrificing to save me, or worse, my feelings."

"Can't necessarily guarantee th' first bit, babygirl. Y'kin take care o'yerself but some shit's just reflex."

She pouts, but nods. "And the second?"

"Well... I don't 'urt y’ on purpose." He waves his fingers underneath his chin for a second. "When t'shut up. Y'know."

"We both have that problem. As long as we don't leave it at shooting off our mouths, I think we'll be alright."

Terry nods after a minute, then tilts her chin up with a finger. "Kin I 'ave my kiss now?"

"Nope."

"Why not?"

"Because I want mine, first."

Smirking, he leans down until his eyes are level with hers, lips damn near touching hers, and stops. "Take it, then."

She cups both hands under his jaw and barely brushes her lips against his, then turns his head to continue back along his jaw toward his ear.

That is less of a kiss than he expected, but he's not about to pull away, going as close to statue-still as he can manage when he's bent at such a sharp angle. She is, after all, rather wee. The soft little groan that simple brush of her lips along his ear draws out of him is nothing but satisfying.

It ends with a frustratingly short tug on his earlobe with her lips before she goes back and murmurs, "Your turn, Sam," against his mouth.

She barely gets to finish the 'M' before he's mashed his lips into hers and is pushing her down to the blanket.

The best part is that she can't manage an evil cackle when she's too busy giggling giddily. She has just enough sense to shove plates out of the way.

"Evil li'l bitch" is all he manages to say, mouth still pressing hers down. If she hadn't moved the plates, he would have...eventually...probably. After he's spent a good five seconds trying to steal her soul, he lifts his head with a lazy grin. "Yeah... yeah, I think it's all right with me."

"Hwuh? Oh... Good." She tries to blink away the confusion, but just looks unsurprisingly dazed. "Skipping dessert, are we?"

"I want y't'appreciate right now 'ow much I care 'bout you, tha' I am not makin' any cracks about chocolate at this moment."

She gives him a fake little smack, further ruined by the way her hand just stays there as she catches his earlobe between her fingers. "I appreciate you not being a lazy bastard just because you love me sooooo much."

Turning his head to kiss at her wrist, he leers sidelong at her. "There is a rest'raunt somewhere tha' makes a fancy sundae with gold foil on, though." One hand flicks the shiny material of her clothes.

She sighs and rolls her eyes. "No doubt. There's also one that makes an amazing fruit tart with the fruit piled several inches high."

"Callin' you a fruit tart seems t'be in...poor taste...too." He nips her wrist, grinning unrepentantly.

"But easier to stomach when I haven't been compared to it my whole life."

Shifting smoothly into Suramarian, he says, "{And yet you quiver so, should I refer to your kiss as the cool brush of an evening breeze.}"

Her eyes go wide, but then she scowls. "I hate you so much."

"Do you?" Reaching up to hold her hand in place, he begins kissing his way down her arm. "Why?"

"Mmm, making fun of my weakness - hf - for decent lines of poetic flattery."

"{Decent, she says, even as she holds back another mewl.}" There's a nibble this time.

"You don't believe me when I tell you they're good!"

"{Then quiver, my tiny darling, quiver for me, and speak to me of quality in a language I know.}"

She groans, and it's only partly exasperation. "What am I going to do with you, Terrence Samuel Ambroce?"

"I kin think of a few thin's, but they're a lot less soppy than th'shit I've been sayin' in th' last few minutes." The grin has no shame. The grin does, however, fade into a thoughtful line before he kisses her palm again. "{...do you love me, then?}"

"Rude."

"{Rudeness holds no sway over the classless.}" He smirks. "{Do you love me?}"

She scowls, and says in Thalassian, "{Like the honeybee loves her hive.}"

"{A curious love. The queen is slave to the hive, unable to leave and ever producing, ever expanding the hive.}"

"{It is no better for the workers. They may leave the shelter of the hive, but must always return with all they have for the hive. But queen or worker, what you call slavery, others call purpose.}"

"{You speak of obligation, not love.}"

She sighs noisily. "{I speak of a metaphor that has entirely changed meaning by being examined too long. I wonder if it would be more accurate to say 'as the hive loves the honeybee,' then?}"

"{Perhaps accuracy is best found in literal terms, rather than metaphor. You asked my permission to fall in love with me. If you are not already there yet... what do you feel now?}"

"Protective. Admiration and respect. Frustration. And... there's a, a glee at how well we fit, that made me wish to ask if it was alright to fall in love with you, and to express it." She threads her fingers into his hair. "To allow myself to be possessive, and proud that you are not just my friend, but mine."

He's a bit startled at the language switch and his eyes dart from side to side for a split second like he's actually afraid someone will overhear, but it's there and gone. Her hands are in his hair and he's settled a bit, though she can easily feel the surge of warmth that rolls through him at the way she says 'mine.' "...Do I..." Irritably, he switches back. "{Do I have yours?}"

She tilts her head. "My what- oh!" The genuine smile that brings on turns wicked. "You know, any other woman might feel intimidated into agreement by having you pinning her to the ground."

"Any other woman'd not get th' offer."

She grins at that. "Oh, you're 'offering' to fall in love with me, are you?"

He grins back. "Weren't you t'me?"

"I was asking permission. Not offering. Very different. But." She tugs him downward. "You're welcome to try."

"Yer a terrible liar, babygirl." He settles on top of her to rest his forehead against hers. "But I'll take tha' as permission anyway."

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, just enjoying how close they are for a minute. "...I would not suggest it as a wise course of action. But please do."

"I'll let y'know if I do." He kisses her again, not waiting for her to respond.

( @shedwyn , @rhiswyn for mentions )

[readbookywooks]

5 Another force to contend with. Another power player who has decided to use me as a piece in her games, although things never seem to go according to plan. First there were the Gamemakers, making me their star and then scrambling to recover from that handful of poisonous berries. Then President Snow, trying to use me to put out the flames of rebellion, only to have my every move become inflammatory. Next, the rebels ensnaring me in the metal claw that lifted me from the arena, designating me to be their Mockingjay, and then having to recover from the shock that I might not want the wings. And now Coin, with her fistful of precious nukes and her well-oiled machine of a district, finding it's even harder to groom a Mockingjay than to catch one. But she has been the quickest to determine that I have an agenda of my own and am therefore not to be trusted. She has been the first to publicly brand me as a threat. I run my fingers through the thick layer of bubbles in my tub. Cleaning me up is just a preliminary step to determining my new look. With my acid-damaged hair, sunburned skin, and ugly scars, the prep team has to make me pretty andthen damage, burn, and scar me in a more attractive way. "Remake her to Beauty Base Zero," Fulvia ordered first thing this morning. "We'll work from there." Beauty Base Zero turns out to be what a person would look like if they stepped out of bed looking flawless but natural. It means my nails are perfectly shaped but not polished. My hair soft and shiny but not styled. My skin smooth and clear but not painted. Wax the body hair and erase the dark circles, but don't make any noticeable enhancements. I suppose Cinna gave the same instructions the first day I arrived as a tribute in the Capitol. Only that was different, since I was a contestant. As a rebel, I thought I'd get to look more like myself. But it seems a televised rebel has her own standards to live up to. After I rinse the lather from my body, I turn to find Octavia waiting with a towel. She is so altered from the woman I knew in the Capitol, stripped of the gaudy clothing, the heavy makeup, the dyes and jewelry and knickknacks she adorned her hair with. I remember how one day she showed up with bright pink tresses studded with blinking colored lights shaped like mice. She told me she had several mice at home as pets. The thought repulsed me at the time, since we consider mice vermin, unless cooked. But perhaps Octavia liked them because they were small, soft, and squeaky. Like her. As she pats me dry, I try to become acquainted with the District 13 Octavia. Her real hair turns out to be a nice auburn. Her face is ordinary but has an undeniable sweetness. She's younger than I thought. Maybe early twenties. Devoid of the three-inch decorative nails, her fingers appear almost stubby, and they can't stop trembling. I want to tell her it's okay, that I'll see that Coin never hurts her again. But the multicolored bruises flowering under her green skin only remind me how impotent I am. Flavius, too, appears washed out without his purple lipstick and bright clothes. He's managed to get his orange ringlets back in some sort of order, though. It's Venia who's the least changed. Her aqua hair lies flat instead of in spikes and you can see the roots growing in gray. However, the tattoos were always her most striking characteristic, and they're as golden and shocking as ever. She comes and takes the towel from Octavia's hands. "Katniss is not going to hurt us," she says quietly but firmly to Octavia. "Katniss did not even know we were here. Things will be better now." Octavia gives a slight nod but doesn't dare look me in the eye. It's no simple job getting me back to Beauty Base Zero, even with the elaborate arsenal of products, tools, and gadgets Plutarch had the foresight to bring from the Capitol. My preps do pretty well until they try to address the spot on my arm where Johanna dug out the tracker. None of the medical team was focusing on looks when they patched up the gaping hole. Now I have a lumpy, jagged scar that ripples out over a space the size of an apple. Usually, my sleeve covers it, but the way Cinna's Mockingjay costume is designed, the sleeves stop just above the elbow. It's such a concern that Fulvia and Plutarch are called in to discuss it. I swear, the sight of it triggers Fulvia's gag reflex. For someone who works with a Gamemaker, she's awfully sensitive. But I guess she's used to seeing unpleasant things only on a screen. "Everyone knows I have a scar here," I say sullenly. "Knowing it and seeing it are two different things," says Fulvia. "It's positively repulsive. Plutarch and I will think of something during lunch." "It'll be fine," says Plutarch with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Maybe an armband or something." Disgusted, I get dressed so I can head to the dining hall. My prep team huddles in a little group by the door. "Are they bringing your food here?" I ask. "No," says Venia. "We're supposed to go to a dining hall." I sigh inwardly as I imagine walking into the dining hall, trailed by these three. But people always stare at me anyway. This will be more of the same. "I'll show you where it is," I say. "Come on." The covert glances and quiet murmurs I usually evoke are nothing compared to the reaction brought on by the sight of my bizarre-looking prep team. The gaping mouths, the finger pointing, the exclamations. "Just ignore them," I tell my prep team. Eyes downcast, with mechanical movements, they follow me through the line, accepting bowls of grayish fish and okra stew and cups of water. We take seats at my table, beside a group from the Seam. They show a little more restraint than the people from 13 do, although it may just be from embarrassment. Leevy, who was my neighbor back in 12, gives a cautious hello to the preps, and Gale's mother, Hazelle, who must know about their imprisonment, holds up a spoonful of the stew. "Don't worry," she says. "Tastes better than it looks." But it's Posy, Gale's five-year-old sister, who helps the most. She scoots along the bench to Octavia and touches her skin with a tentative finger. "You're green. Are you sick?" "It's a fashion thing, Posy. Like wearing lipstick," I say. "It's meant to be pretty," whispers Octavia, and I can see the tears threatening to spill over her lashes. Posy considers this and says matter-of-factly, "I think you'd be pretty in any color." The tiniest of smiles forms on Octavia's lips. "Thank you." "If you really want to impress Posy, you'll have to dye yourself bright pink," says Gale, thumping his tray down beside me. "That's her favorite color." Posy giggles and slides back down to her mother. Gale nods at Flavius's bowl. "I wouldn't let that get cold. It doesn't improve the consistency." Everyone gets down to eating. The stew doesn't taste bad, but there's a certain sliminess that's hard to get around. Like you have to swallow every bite three times before it really goes down. Gale, who's not usually much of a talker during meals, makes an effort to keep the conversation going, asking about the makeover. I know it's his attempt at smoothing things over. We argued last night after he suggested I'd left Coin no choice but to counter my demand for the victors' safety with one of her own. "Katniss, she's running this district. She can't do it if it seems like she's caving in to your will." "You mean she can't stand any dissent, even if it's fair," I'd countered. "I mean you put her in a bad position. Making her give Peeta and the others immunity when we don't even know what sort of damage they might cause," Gale had said. "So I should've just gone with the program and let the other tributes take their chances? Not that it matters, because that's what we're all doing anyway!" That was when I'd slammed the door in his face. I hadn't sat with him at breakfast, and when Plutarch had sent him down to training this morning, I'd let him go without a word. I know he only spoke out of concern for me, but I really need him to be on my side, not Coin's. How can he not know that? After lunch, Gale and I are scheduled to go down to Special Defense to meet Beetee. As we ride the elevator, Gale finally says, "You're still angry." "And you're still not sorry," I reply. "I still stand by what I said. Do you want me to lie about it?" he asks. "No, I want you to rethink it and come up with the right opinion," I tell him. But this just makes him laugh. I have to let it go. There's no point in trying to dictate what Gale thinks. Which, if I'm honest, is one reason I trust him. The Special Defense level is situated almost as far down as the dungeons where we found the prep team. It's a beehive of rooms full of computers, labs, research equipment, and testing ranges. When we ask for Beetee, we're directed through the maze until we reach an enormous plate-glass window. Inside is the first beautiful thing I've seen in the District 13 compound: a replication of a meadow, filled with real trees and flowering plants, and alive with hummingbirds. Beetee sits motionless in a wheelchair at the center of the meadow, watching a spring-green bird hover in midair as it sips nectar from a large orange blossom. His eyes follow the bird as it darts away, and he catches sight of us. He gives a friendly wave for us to join him inside. The air's cool and breathable, not humid and muggy as I'd expected. From all sides comes the whir of tiny wings, which I used to confuse with the sound of insects in our woods at home. I have to wonder what sort of fluke allowed such a pleasing place to be built here. Beetee still has the pallor of someone in convalescence, but behind those ill-fitting glasses, his eyes are alight with excitement. "Aren't they magnificent? Thirteen has been studying their aerodynamics here for years. Forward and backward flight, and speeds up to sixty miles per hour. If only I could build you wings like these, Katniss!" "Doubt I could manage them, Beetee," I laugh. "Here one second, gone the next. Can you bring a hummingbird down with an arrow?" he asks. "I've never tried. Not much meat on them," I answer. "No. And you're not one to kill for sport," he says. "I bet they'd be hard to shoot, though." "You could snare them maybe," Gale says. His face takes on that distant look it wears when he's working something out. "Take a net with a very fine mesh. Enclose an area and leave a mouth of a couple square feet. Bait the inside with nectar flowers. While they're feeding, snap the mouth shut. They'd fly away from the noise but only encounter the far side of the net." "Would that work?" asks Beetee. "I don't know. Just an idea," says Gale. "They might outsmart it." "They might. But you're playing on their natural instincts to flee danger. Thinking like your prey...that's where you find their vulnerabilities," says Beetee. I remember something I don't like to think about. In preparation for the Quell, I saw a tape where Beetee, who was still a boy, connected two wires that electrocuted a pack of kids who were hunting him. The convulsing bodies, the grotesque expressions. Beetee, in the moments that led up to his victory in those long-ago Hunger Games, watched the others die. Not his fault. Only self-defense. We were all acting only in self-defense.... Suddenly, I want to leave the hummingbird room before somebody starts setting up a snare. "Beetee, Plutarch said you had something for me." "Right. I do. Your new bow." He presses a hand control on the arm of the chair and wheels out of the room. As we follow him through the twists and turns of Special Defense, he explains about the chair. "I can walk a little now. It's just that I tire so quickly. It's easier for me to get around this way. How's Finnick doing?" "He's...he's having concentration problems," I answer. I don't want to say he had a complete mental meltdown. "Concentration problems, eh?" Beetee smiles grimly. "If you knew what Finnick's been through the last few years, you'd know how remarkable it is he's still with us at all. Tell him I've been working on a new trident for him, though, will you? Something to distract him a little." Distraction seems to be the last thing Finnick needs, but I promise to pass on the message. Four soldiers guard the entrance to the hall marked Special Weaponry. Checking the schedules printed on our forearms is just a preliminary step. We also have fingerprint, retinal, and DNA scans, and have to step through special metal detectors. Beetee has to leave his wheelchair outside, although they provide him with another once we're through security. I find the whole thing bizarre because I can't imagine anyone raised in District 13 being a threat the government would have to guard against. Have these precautions been put in place because of the recent influx of immigrants? At the door of the armory, we encounter a second round of identification checks - as if my DNA might have changed in the time it took to walk twenty yards down the hallway - and are finally allowed to enter the weapons collection. I have to admit the arsenal takes my breath away. Row upon row of firearms, launchers, explosives, armored vehicles. "Of course, the Airborne Division is housed separately," Beetee tells us. "Of course," I say, as if this would be self-evident. I don't know where a simple bow and arrow could possibly find a place in all this high-tech equipment, but then we come upon a wall of deadly archery weapons. I've played with a lot of the Capitol's weapons in training, but none designed for military combat. I focus my attention on a lethal-looking bow so loaded down with scopes and gadgetry, I'm certain I can't even lift it, let alone shoot it. "Gale, maybe you'd like to try out a few of these," says Beetee. "Seriously?" Gale asks. "You'll be issued a gun eventually for battle, of course. But if you appear as part of Katniss's team in the propos, one of these would look a little showier. I thought you might like to find one that suits you," says Beetee. "Yeah, I would." Gale's hands close around the very bow that caught my attention a moment ago, and he hefts it onto his shoulder. He points it around the room, peering through the scope. "That doesn't seem very fair to the deer," I say. "Wouldn't be using it on deer, would I?" he answers. "I'll be right back," says Beetee. He presses a code into a panel, and a small doorway opens. I watch until he's disappeared and the door's shut. "So, it'd be easy for you? Using that on people?" I ask. "I didn't say that." Gale drops the bow to his side. "But if I'd had a weapon that could've stopped what I saw happen in Twelve...if I'd had a weapon that could have kept you out of the arena...I'd have used it." "Me, too," I admit. But I don't know what to tell him about the aftermath of killing a person. About how they never leave you. Beetee wheels back in with a tall, black rectangular case awkwardly positioned between his footrest and his shoulder. He comes to a halt and tilts it toward me. "For you." I set the case flat on the floor and undo the latches along one side. The top opens on silent hinges. Inside the case, on a bed of crushed maroon velvet, lies a stunning black bow. "Oh," I whisper in admiration. I lift it carefully into the air to admire the exquisite balance, the elegant design, and the curve of the limbs that somehow suggests the wings of a bird extended in flight. There's something else. I have to hold very still to make sure I'm not imagining it. No, the bow is alive in my hands. I press it against my cheek and feel the slight hum travel through the bones of my face. "What's it doing?" I ask. "Saying hello," explains Beetee with a grin. "It heard your voice." "It recognizes my voice?" I ask. "Onlyyour voice," he tells me. "You see, they wanted me to design a bow based purely on looks. As part of your costume, you know? But I kept thinking,What a waste. I mean, what if you do need it sometime? As more than a fashion accessory? So I left the outside simple, and left the inside to my imagination. Best explained in practice, though. Want to try those out?" We do. A target range has already been prepared for us. The arrows that Beetee designed are no less remarkable than the bow. Between the two, I can shoot with accuracy over one hundred yards. The variety of arrows - razor sharp, incendiary, explosive - turn the bow into a multipurpose weapon. Each one is recognizable by a distinctive colored shaft. I have the option of voice override at any time, but have no idea why I would use it. To deactivate the bow's special properties, I need only tell it "Good night." Then it goes to sleep until the sound of my voice wakes it again. I'm in good spirits by the time I get back to the prep team, leaving Beetee and Gale behind. I sit patiently through the rest of the paint job and don my costume, which now includes a bloody bandage over the scar on my arm to indicate I've been in recent combat. Venia affixes my mockingjay pin over my heart. I take up my bow and the sheath of normal arrows that Beetee made, knowing they would never let me walk around with the loaded ones. Then we're out on the soundstage, where I seem to stand for hours while they adjust makeup and lighting and smoke levels. Eventually, the commands coming via intercom from the invisible people in the mysterious glassed-in booth become fewer and fewer. Fulvia and Plutarch spend more time studying and less time adjusting me. Finally, there's quiet on the set. For a full five minutes I am simply considered. Then Plutarch says, "I think that does it." I'm beckoned over to a monitor. They play back the last few minutes of taping and I watch the woman on the screen. Her body seems larger in stature, more imposing than mine. Her face smudged but sexy. Her brows black and drawn in an angle of defiance. Wisps of smoke - suggesting she has either just been extinguished or is about to burst into flames - rise from her clothes. I do not know who this person is. Finnick, who's been wandering around the set for a few hours, comes up behind me and says with a hint of his old humor, "They'll either want to kill you, kiss you, or be you." Everyone's so excited, so pleased with their work. It's nearly time to break for dinner, but they insist we continue. Tomorrow we'll focus on speeches and interviews and have me pretend to be in rebel battles. Today they want just one slogan, just one line that they can work into a short propo to show to Coin. "People of Panem, we fight, we dare, we end our hunger for justice!" That's the line. I can tell by the way they present it that they've spent months, maybe years, working it out and are really proud of it. It seems like a mouthful to me, though. And stiff. I can't imagine actually saying it in real life - unless I was using a Capitol accent and making fun of it. Like when Gale and I used to imitate Effie Trinket's "May the odds beever in your favor!" But Fulvia's right in my face, describing a battle I've just been in, and how my comrades-in-arms are all lying dead around me, and how, to rally the living, I must turn to the camera and shout out the line! I'm hustled back to my place, and the smoke machine kicks in. Someone calls for quiet, the cameras start rolling, and I hear "Action!" So I hold my bow over my head and yell with all the anger I can muster, "People of Panem, we fight, we dare, we end our hunger for justice!" There's dead silence on the set. It goes on. And on. Finally, the intercom crackles and Haymitch's acerbic laugh fills the studio. He contains himself just long enough to say, "And that, my friends, is how a revolution dies."