#he looks like a spider folding in on itself and the worst part is he can fucking do it

[blorbologist]

dorian, morrighan, and dariax - freedom, longing, devotion

[I'm sorry there's no Morrighan and uh very little longing in this. Three characters is a Lot and I had very specific Thoughts I wanted to explore after yesterday's episode. Because I'm a biologist and spiders are really cool. Will edit once I get access to transcripts to clean things up! Also available on AO3.]

[TW for a lot, a lot of mention of spiders.]

Do you remember the first time you saw, oh, a butterfly? Or a mouse, or a grasshopper, anything as benign as that? Probably not. They’re parts of the periphery of life that stop really standing out once you’ve seen them once or twice. Maybe once they were subject of stories - omens of change, or a brave needle-wielding warrior, sage little advisors - but now just swift movement in a busy world. 

Dorian remembers the first time he saw a spider, because it was so - it was just - well, it went a little like this:

He was outside and quite small, made all the smaller by the big wide sky around him. The endless (at the time) tends were constricting, and all he remembers about the why is that he had to be out there. For some reason that left him red-eyed and stormy-haired.

And while staring at the white clouds and white-blue beyond and white glare of the sun, and really getting a bit cross-eyed, something very little drifted by. Even smaller than him, if you can believe it. 

It was a grain of rice, or two, with delicate hairs - or, nope, those were legs - holding onto a cloud just its size. Drifting in the sky without a worry. Dorian would have been very worried, if he was this thing, because it was really being thrown into loops and dives and almost hanging, still, when the wind got tired of playing with it.

So little Dorian held out his hand and caught it. 

It, you might have guessed, was a tiny spider. Slowly moving over his hand, like it was dizzy. Or maybe just tired. 

Being a child - no, more than that, being Brontë - had immediately forgotten whatever had him in a state to find Cyrus. That’s when he learned this was a spider, a baby spider tossed around on the breeze to find a new home.

He’d decided this would be its home. Put it in a little jar with what twigs and leaves could be tossed to this altitude. 

Dorian never did find out if it escaped. Or if it died, perfect little legs curled into a fist. 

--

It’s weird, how many stories have spiders as the villains. Terrible glutted things guarding secret passages, or lying to brave adventurers, or pulling silk-strings of their puppets to make them dance. Dorian thought it unfair - it’s not like spiders were that bad. They were fragile, and quite pretty, and with talent matching the finest weavers he’d seen. Maybe it was artistic envy, to paint them as the worst in every story?

Sorry - it was weird, back then. Dorian knows better now. There’s a little grain of truth in every tale, after all. It turns out this one is not a grain of rice, but the girth of a god.

Dariax was staring at him. Or, well - he couldn’t be sure of that. Because his eyes were still inky black, the shiny abdomen of a bloated specimen. But Dorian definitely felt stared at. Angling his handheld mirror revealed not even the littlest blemish. 

He still tasted black ooze at the back of his teeth. It reminded him of when a fly launches itself at the back of your throat at mock-fuckyou and gives you both a bad time. Except he wanted to enjoy the flavor. 

That tang was in his mouth as he matched the lullaby. On his tongue during the nightmare, too.

Dorian glances away. The Circlet is still in the center of their camp. With all the spindly thorns, he can’t decide if it looks like its legs are folded neatly beneath it, or if they’re thrown up in the air. 

--

Dorian notices spiders more, now. He’s not sure if it’s true for anyone else. He definitely doesn’t ask Opal about it.

But the dainty little creatures are a lot less innocent to him. Noticing them more means seeing their habits too: how they’ll sit motionless in their webs. Or methodically repair their tapestries. He’s seen them hunt now, too. They never seem to fail: the fly or butterfly or mayfly or dragonfly tangles in the web and then it’s over. And then everything goes still again.

Others watch him, scrambling away when he moves. Those have the biggest eyes, he finds, and almost fly from perch to perch. Light little windwalkers, just like him.

All of this should scare him, it really fucking should. Something deep in the back of his head shivers and recoils. This is dangerous, the stories say. We taught you to fear this. Please do, please do.

Dorian’s tongue pokes, just behind the rightmost molar, and he tastes the bile again. And he can’t do anything but admire them, and what they have, and what they do.

Opal sits a little more still, now. But not quite still enough, he thinks. And she moves erratically, like four limbs are four too few, and - gods, it’s awful. He has to dust out his mind to keep it free of cobwebs. 

He catches himself each time. Or most of the time. And he always turns to Cyrus, and nudges him into a conversation, and studiously ignores the eight eyes watching them both.

--

Spiders don’t eat like this, he knows it, he knows it, he knows it, he’s seen it. 

They restrain and wrap and pierce and and and they leave something whole behind. A little husk you can pretend is a beetle or a moth if you don’t look closely enough. He’s seen it a dozen times. 

He can’t stop seeing his brother in two pieces. He can’t really pretend otherwise. The little bugs, they don't scream. They didn't. He did. He did, his brother did.

And the spiders, the spiders - spider in the purest sense of the word, unhindered by what the world demands of them to survive, uniform. With no place but as villains. 

What does that make Opal? Royalty, probably, outfitted in a bombastic black carapace like a ballgown, skittering legs like a train. The spiders around her like attendants; Fy’ra at her side, making her and the gems gleam with sick light from her hair. A Champion. If there’s one thing villains have going for them, it’s being the star of every fable they show up in.

It could have been him. 

No, not really. Male spiders are disposable - they’re tentative little things looking for love, and then dying quite happily if they get it right or in really, really awful ways if they get it wrong. And maybe that’s not necessarily all that different to him (go to Orym). 

He got the sense Lolth wanted something a little more effective. She’d have eaten him alive. Or Dariax. Or - 

(He can’t say Or Cyrus. Can’t when he’s half-sure that’s what’s happening now.)

Everything hurts. Dorian isn’t sure if it’s from the running or the fighting or the pain in his heart that stretches outward with every breath. Pooling in his temples, the back of his throat, his stomach, his lungs. He wants to cry, but he’s half-sure that if he does webs will pour out. 

So he chokes on the feeling, swallows it whole, and keeps moving. Dorian imagines it burning, lit on fire and shriveling. 

And yet Dariax has no idea what to do. No idea? Like vengeance isn’t the answer, like Cyrus’ body and Opal’s everything weren’t played with by this thing. Like if he doesn’t keep twisting and billowing he’ll be still, and that feeling will come back. 

The strings of his lute feel like web, pulled taut. Wonderful. The tapestry a quiet beauty no longer, given a voice by his hand. What had he thought, about spiders and artists? "Let's put the question in a song," Dorian says, and places it in Dariax's lap. 

Last Dorian tried - tried getting the answer in the form of a tune - it had been the eerie Undercommon lullaby that draped the inside of his head. 

The Spider Queen did have designs on Dariax too, once upon a time. Made his cheerful eyes blank and black, made him wake and sleep back to back with Dorian. But apparently he was still blind, still deaf to the worst of it. Deaf to more than that, actually - Dorian winces at the first painful strum of his poor, poor instrument. But Dariax does not echo that lullaby. 

"I don't know if I'm in a place right now to be fighting gods and monsters," Dariax says, and Dorian smiles and laughs and looks away and anything to not reply we're not in a place to do otherwise. We're already caught in their web. Don't you see?

He feels venomous. Maybe that's what the bile was all along: a deadly little bite of his own. If they're in a web, they'll need a sharp blade to cut it.

Go to Orym, she said (who is she anymore?). Find the Tempest. And he will, he will, this little windwalker will bring the wrath of the storms on these gods and monsters and monsters who are gods. A fitting bookend, given how all this started. 

His hand curls into a fist, a delicate and useless little fist, and he turns invisible. 

[joyfulsongbird]

i would come for you

the six of crows kanej fic that I wrote a long time ago and don't remember coming up with or writing at all!! but it's where Inej actually gets one of her legs broken when she's kidnapped at the beginning of crooked kingdom and ALLLL of the angst that follows when kaz gets her back. the aftermath... it's about the Angst(TM) ok??? enjoy!

(literally pls ignore any typos I am not rereading this before posting it LMAO)

ao3 link if that's what you prefer!!!

**

INEJ

Inej knew pain well. It was something she was intimately familiar with, a long time friend.

She had found comfort at times, in a world where cold numbness was a few steps too close to death, a sharp pain was a welcome reminder of life. She’d never desired it, of course not, but there was something oddly soothing about waking and realizing that you were wholly alive. She could push through almost anything, if she pushed herself far enough, if she distanced herself from the pain enough. It was a skillset she had mastered long ago and it had served her well in this new life she had carved. She knew pain, as her scars could attest to, as her wariness could speak to, but this was different.

This was not the welcome type of pain.

She was alive. She knew that for sure. But pain usually was not usually accompanied by this deep and penetrating sorrow.

She laid on her back in this same dark room, minutes blurring into hours as she fought the urge to scream; to cry, to do something, anything. The pain in her leg was all consuming, and the knowledge that her future was destroyed did not help. It was just the one- just her right- that had been damaged. She tried to push the memories from hours earlier out of her mind, already the fear was dulling the edges of this memory. The way the terror caused it to fade in and out of her mind was the only welcome factor at the moment. All she knew at the moment was terror and pain. Through these two things, she tried to think. But she had already exhausted herself of any sort of plan. How was she supposed to escape with a bad leg? The answer was that she could not. Van Eck had said he was being merciful. Merciful. She’d wanted to tear his tongue right out of his mouth as he had said that. The other one tomorrow then, he had said, when it was done. She wasn’t quite ashamed, but she was close. Her voice had been so weak sounding, she wished more than much that she could have taken it, could have gone through that ordeal with tight lips and a steely expression. In the end, she was just a girl. A girl who had everything already taken from her and was somehow losing more.

So she simply laid on her back in the dark, praying to all of her Saints that… well, she didn’t know. What could she even pray for anymore? For Kaz to come for her? If he did at all- which she highly doubted- when he saw her state, wasn’t it more likely he would turn on his heel rather than risk anything for a broken spider? And what else was there to do but hope that something changed? She could lie here and hope she died in the dark but no, she didn’t truly want that. She wanted to escape the pain but not like that. There was so much she had left to do, and even if her foundation was crumbling beneath her, she still had her mind. She still had her voice. It was all she could ask for, maybe she should lower that expectation as well… nevertheless, she still had a few more fights left in her. Even if it didn’t feel like it, she still had life left to live.

The next night came. She prepared herself for the worst, for a repetition of the night before, for death itself. But no. Kaz was coming. Kaz for coming for her.

She laughed. She did not know why. If she was asked, it would be impossible to discern the reason. Maybe it was because she was drunk on pain, on her terror. Maybe it was because she knew Kaz would have no use for her after he found out she was damaged beyond repair. She was not finding humor in anything, but she laughed anyways. This was the nightmare of nightmares, and she was never going to wake up.

Noon tomorrow.

She counted the hours, the minutes, the seconds. Again, the reason she did not know. It only drew out her agony. But she wanted to see them again, wanted to see him again, even if she never did after. Perhaps she wouldn’t be blind folded at the bridge, what was she going to do? Run? They had already done what she didn’t dare fear would happen to her, she could not run, she could not slip away from them like she might have a few days ago. Things were different now and all she wanted was to see Kaz, to have one last image of him in her mind that she could hold onto. And perhaps it would be cold, it would be cruel as he often was, but she didn’t care. That would be enough for now. That would be enough of a goodbye; the closure that she desired. She was no longer an investment with anything to back it, she wasn’t worth anything anymore. Per Haskell would throw her out, Kaz would turn his back on her, and she would be alone again. In debt and desperate, again.

She closed her eyes against the dark, tightly. She was determined not to cry, not to show any more weakness than she already had. So when Van Eck’s men came again (a little earlier than noon she assumed), she steeled herself. Two men held her tightly between them, making it so that she was slightly elevated. She did not want to be carried, at least this gave her some false sense of autonomy.

“Shackle her arms.” Van Eck was turned away from her. She nearly spat at his feet right then.

“Sir, I don’t think-” one of the guards holding her began. She did not recognize him.

“Just do it.” Van Eck snapped. “Today will not be the day I underestimate one of Brekkers.”

She almost smiled then. At least she still brought him a little worry, at least she still held some power. Inej held onto that feeling as she was moved, shoved around and into the back of some carriage. The pain was the most intense she’d ever felt, the bones in her ankle and calf were ruined. Van Eck had been very deliberate in what he had wanted done to her. Make it so that she could not scale walls anymore, make it so that it caused her pain with every step. He had not cared about her excuses about Kaz after hours of thought.

“He will come,” he had said while leaning over her. “I know he will. And I think you know he will, too.”

She hadn’t, not truly. But when she’d heard that he was coming, that he was there, something in her twinged with relief. Perhaps it was selfish, to want to be saved when she had no use for him anymore, but she found herself being relieved that she was wrong. Who could blame her? She was preparing for the worst in every single scenario, and Kaz not turning up really wasn’t very high on the list of “worst things”. It was a lot closer to reality, and it hurt to acknowledge that, but at least it had been something she was mentally prepared for. This hope she felt fluttering in her chest was a little too powerful for this darkness she was shrouded in, she wanted to let it go. Let it fly away so that she wouldn’t be crushed by disappointment when another terrible thing inevitably came around, but she couldn’t seem to lessen her hold on it.

She was a little too relieved when they did not blindfold her, instead pulled a hood over her head, concealing her face in a shadow. She kept her chin down, forced there by the two guards holding her. No one would be able to see her face but she knew that the rest of the Dregs would easily be able to pull her out of the small crowd they had. She didn’t exactly blend in, the small, black clad girl being held as tightly as a death row prisoner. She kept trying to glance up but couldn’t make anything out, she saw a few pairs of shoes in front of her, but the moment she tried to lift her head, one of the guards jostled her. Causing pain to go up her leg, she put her head back down. She could faintly make out the sound of voices, muffled by the distance and her own pounding head. She was being hit by all of the human necessities she had been neglecting, her hunger gnawed at her stomach, her throat was so dry, and the pain amplified every single movement.

She hadn’t been ready when they dropped her to her feet, her weight dropping onto her injured leg the same way it wouldn’t any other day where she was not injured. It was horrifying, the way she crumbled. She dropped to her knees, which only caused the pain to worsen. She burned, everything burned; with humiliation, with sorrow, with pain. The Wraith didn’t fall, and when she did, she got right back up. She rolled with the motion, she lifted herself even when it seemed like there was no way to get up. But she wasn’t The Wraith anymore, she couldn’t be. It had been stripped from her the same way her identity had been stripped from her at the Menagerie. She was just a Suli girl, on her knees, struggling to her feet once again.

The silence was only interrupted by the soft swishing of water underneath the bridge, she bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood. No one moved, she didn’t even seem to breath, as she pushed herself to stand. This was her lowest, she knew. This was not how she wanted to meet Kaz’s eye, as she lifted her head, hood falling back. Her hands were shackled in the front, knives tucked into her jacket, but her legs were free. She wasn’t sure why, maybe to make her walk. Maybe Van Eck had only insisted on her arms so that everybody would watch her struggle to do the barest of tasks. It was humiliating and she felt her face burn along with every other part of her, but she kept her expression steely.

Kaz was looking at her, his expression also hard and concealing something underneath that she couldn’t discern. She wanted to be able to lift whatever veil separated them, hear his thoughts word for word. That was an impossibility, she knew, but it didn’t stop her from yearning to know what was going through his head at that very moment. Each step was an agony, flames licking at her chest, behind her eyes. But she forced herself to walk that 20-or-so feet to where Kaz stood, her injury was the most obvious thing about her at the moment. It was easy to act as if it was better than it actually was, though, she could pretend that she just had a simple limp. That she had sprained her ankle and it would heal within the weak. Inej was good at that, she would not show the world this kind of shame. That would come indoors, in the dark, when no one could see that she was broken. That would come later.

“Your knives?” was the first thing out of Kaz’s mouth. She was unsurprised.

“They’re packed inside my coat.” she replied, forcing the tremble to stay out of her voice. He cut the bonds that kept her arms in front of her, she rubbed her wrists absently, keeping all of her weight on her left leg. She caught Kaz’s look down at her right, trying to figure out what was off with it. He still had that cold expression on, she couldn’t possibly try to read it. Whatever plan he had had, it was screwed up now. She was dead weight, a factor which he hadn’t prepared for. She didn’t know what came next but she knew exactly what train of thought must be going through his head. What was he supposed to do with her?

Her vision was swimming, the pain in her leg was growing with every moment, she didn’t know how much longer she could hold on for. But she wouldn’t pass out now, not when she was so close to freedom. Or what she could reasonably call freedom at the moment. She would do what she had to do, doom herself to even worse than she already was, if it meant they all got out of there safely and in one piece.

And then, chaos erupted.

Everything whirled around her, she was vaguely aware of being moved again (the agony wasn’t easy to ignore) but the swirling of color and sounds of voices were overwhelming. Her senses were all over the place but she felt herself being slightly lifted and moved not so gently towards the wall that separated them and the water below. She heard Kaz’s gruff voice say something in her ear but she didn’t catch it. Then she was going over the ledge of the bridge, oh Saints what’s going on? But she wasn’t falling, she stayed suspended in midair for a moment. She looked up. Kaz was holding onto both of her wrists, his gloved fingers curled tightly so that she would not fall. She met his eyes, there was a message that she could understand. At least that was something. She glanced down, and below her was a flower boat, rowing down the river. She looked back up and gave Kaz a single, resolute nod. His expression was a little different now, as if he understood that dropping her from this height would cause her indescribable pain. Not quite apologetic but there was something like it there. This was something that she would have been able to do with ease a week ago, but now, she breathed in deeply through her nose and let go of Kaz before he could do the same for her.

She was the Wraith, she had to be, even just for one more single moment. The drop was quick, her heart dropped into her stomach, and before she knew it, she was hitting the boat. It was a small boat, and she didn’t have as much space to make her landing work the way she would’ve liked, but at least her muscle memory was still intact. She covered her head, tried to spread the impact as much as she could without spilling over the side of the boat.

She did not feel strong. She was broken, there was nothing more she could do but lie there. She had failed in every regard, she had lost her purpose, she had lost her title, her identity. And now, she would lose Kaz, she would lose the Dregs, and she would lose the dream of hunting slavers someday. Cruelest of cruelties.

Her vision faded in and out, she was not in her body. She was slipping into the dark, as she had done often before, a welcome comfort. She was disappearing into the shadows where the pain would be dulled and she would be soothed by the coolness of being all by her lonesome. And when she woke- she did not want to think about what would happen when she woke. Maybe for once she could move in the now, in the moment, instead of thinking of every step that was to come. Every jump she had to make, anticipating everything before it happened. She could simply settle and rest. Saints, she really wanted to rest.

She could not escape her demons however.

“Inej.” Kaz’s voice was enough to cause her to open her eyes slightly, everything slightly blurry. “Inej, you have to stay with me.”

Her mouth tasted like metal, she couldn’t form any words. Finally, she murmured, “I’m tired, Kaz.” because really, what else was there to say?

And it all went dark.

KAZ

He had known something was off the moment he had laid eyes on her. The way she held herself, the way the men around her held her. His Wraith was proud, she would not allow herself to be held tightly like that unless she needed it, desperately. He hadn’t anticipated her to fall however, he would’ve rushed forward to help her stand had 1. many very armed people had not been surrounding her and 2. he had expected the moment at all. Inej didn’t fall, it was something she prided herself on. She never stumbled, she never lost her footing. To see her on her knees like that tore something in his chest, a switch flipped and all he wanted to do was set Van Eck’s trousers alight and watch flames consume his body. She’s hurt. He suddenly wanted to go back on the deal, keep Alys to them, and spit at Van Eck’s feet, before remembering that having Inej come back unharmed was never part of the deal. He should’ve said something, he shouldn’t have let something as important as that fall into ambiguity.

It pained him to watch her fall, even if it wasn’t that far of a fall. He rushed as fast as he could to follow her onto the boat, doing his best to track the others’ movements before going after the flower boat. Panic started edging at his thoughts as he saw her there, sprawled and barely breathing. But breathing nonetheless. He considered shaking her awake, he considered splashing water on her, but instead, he went against every single one of his instincts and simply placed a gloved hand on her arm. He gripped her softly, if she was even semi awake he hoped this would communicate his presence well enough. It made him feel better, anyways, to have her there, physical proof just under his palm.

His entire plan had fallen apart the moment he saw her hit the cobblestone of the bridge, the foundation of his house of cards becoming flimsy. A simple breeze would be enough to cause it to crumble at the open. There was much he had to think on, futurewise, but at the moment, the most important thing was getting Inej somewhere safe and quiet. Which would be considerably more difficult now that she was incapacitated but he would get this simple task done. He would do her this much, at least. After failing her in this matter and so much more, he could do this.

So this was how he found himself in the basement of the closest safe house he owned: tired, heated with anger, and searching for a word that felt stronger than worry.

He’d set Inej down on a cot in the corner, her frame thinner than he remembered, her weight so much lighter than the last time he’d carried her. He leaned against the wall, his grip on his cane like iron. There was nothing strong enough to describe the thoughts in his mind, the feelings rising in his chest. He’d always been protective of Inej, it was something understood in the Barrel. You didn’t touch Kaz Brekker’s Wraith. Of course, if you did it was likely she would handle you before word even reached him, but it was understood. Inej could take care of herself but his protection meant there were very few people who would attempt to hurt her. Van Eck was one of those people who crossed that line, apparently, and Kaz was ready to march back up those stairs and force the man to face the consequences Dirtyhands was preparing for him.

There wasn’t anything he could do while he waited. Plot his enemies demise, yes, but other than be consumed by his own thoughts, he had nothing to occupy him while Inej slept. So he just sat against the wall, his knees pulled up to his chest. He knew he must’ve looked a little ridiculous but he refused to leave, to do anything other than wait and know for sure that she was alright.

It was only an hour or so before she stirred, the rustling of the sheets deafening in the quiet of the dark room. He rose to his feet, taking several long strides to reach her bedside.

“Kaz?” she blinked up at him, eyes finally clear and expression less severe, if a little twisted from whatever pain she was experiencing. “What’s- where are we?”

“Somewhere safe.” he answered, crouching down to be at about her eye level. She tracked him, meeting his gaze evenly. “A safehouse. No one will find us here.”

She looked away, her eyes leaving his to stare up at the ceiling. “Did everyone get out?” “I think so.” he said. “It was more complicated than I expected, but everyone was prepared for worse than that.” She nodded softly, something he couldn’t quite understand in her expression. He watched carefully as she began pulling herself up into a sitting position, which she could do easily enough. That was a relief, nothing from the waist up was hurt enough to keep her lying in bed. The rest of her however…

“What did he do to you?” he couldn’t help himself, his anger was stronger than anything. His words were biting, every bit of disgust and fury he felt seeping into them. He tried to back off a bit, though, when he focused on the present again and saw her. She looked… well, she looked a few steps away from timid. Not quite there, Inej could never be timid, but she twisted her sleeve between her fingers, the gesture was enough to make Kaz believe there was something more weighing on her. He could sense it easily, Kaz was smart, he knew Inej, knew what was important to her. She was an acrobat and an acrobat was nothing without their legs to keep them steady. To have that pulled from her- no matter how temporary it was or wasn’t- must be incredibly difficult to manage mentally. He wanted to reach out, to place his hand on top of hers and stop her anxious twitching. Comfort her in some way.

He didn’t do that, though, he simply sat back on his heels and waited in the silence.

“He- uh-” she bit her bottom lip, fighting against a quiver at the edge of her voice. He didn’t say a word, he let her collect her words before speaking again.

“He broke my leg.” she said finally, her voice steady in a way that was easily discerned as fake. Her hand curled into a fist beside her, gripping tightly to the sheets she sat on. “He broke my leg, Kaz.”

He still didn’t know what to say. He supposed any other person in this moment would move to comfort her but he was not that person, he was not the right person for this moment. He should have the right words prepared, shouldn’t he? What had he wanted someone to tell him when he broke his own leg? He wasn’t sure. Their two situations were far too different from each other, in his mind, he couldn’t try and compare them. Saints, why couldn’t he just know what the right thing to do was? He was supposed to be self assured, confident, but when it came to things like this… yes, he was more than a little lost.

“It’ll get better,” he said finally. “Rest and a good medik. We’ll get-”

“That won’t-” she cut herself off, eyes looking off into the distance but the distance was really just the wall opposite the bed. “Not with something like this. Bed rest won’t put my bones back together. I won’t- it’s not going to ‘get better’.”

That silenced him, he pressed his lips together tightly. He had no rebuttal. He knew very little about medicine, so he couldn’t offer her any assurances in that regard. He wouldn’t be able to tell her one way or the other, so he just said nothing about that again.

“He made sure of it,” she went on, her voice weighed with hundreds of pounds of anger and grief. “He made sure it was broken in a way that would never be the same. It’ll never- I won’t ever be the same.”

“I…” he didn’t have the right words to console her. There wasn’t anything he could say that would bridge the gap between them, her anger and sorrow was warranted, and he was simply along for the ride. He had never been one for comforting words, it was never his forte. He simply let his presence speak for itself. If he cared enough to be there, that should be enough. He found many others didn’t agree with that, but to him, it was enough. If he didn’t care, he wouldn’t waste his time. He had never wanted to be better at formulating comforts as much as right then. He wanted to reach across this divide between them he had cultivated with every cold shoulder and every moment of distance, but it was a divide he had created for a reason. He could not breach it now, he felt that it was too late. There was a time and place for everything, besides. The time and place for rocking the boat was not now, most definitely.

“You’ll be okay, Wraith.” it was the best he could come up with, which he knew was woefully insufficient. Worse than insufficient, in hindsight, it was one of the worst things that could’ve fallen from his mouth in that moment.

“Don’t you see, I can’t be your Wraith anymore, Kaz!” she burst out, turning to look at him with shining eyes and pain written on every part of her face.

His lips parted in understanding. It hadn’t gone over his head, the thought that this injury would keep her from wall climbing or jumping from rooftops. He just hadn’t stopped to think about (or maybe had avoided it altogether) how that would affect… whatever it was that held the two of them together. They were held together with a thin piece of thread, constantly having a fear looming over them that they would snap apart and be unable to put the pieces back together. That once the string broke, they would no longer fit together anymore. He couldn’t imagine doing any of this without her, even just the week she had been kidnapped by Van Eck had been a misery. What was he to do if she left the Dregs?

“I’m not a valuable investment anymore.” she bit out finally, her words cold. “You shouldn’t have come for me. You wouldn’t have, had you known.”

It was something he couldn’t stand to feel fall on his ears. His anger was stronger than anything else, at Van Eck for doing this to her, at himself for making her believe all of these things she said. He knew he had been the one to plant the seed of doubt in her mind from the very beginning. Every harshness, every time he turned away, he had made her believe she was nothing more than an investment that, when expired, could be easily tossed aside. He couldn’t let it stand, he wouldn’t. “I would come for you.” he said, this time without hesitation. It was something he had to say. He had to. And when she shot him a look filled to the brim with doubt, he said it again. “I would come for you. And if I couldn’t walk, I'd crawl to you, and no matter how broken we were, we’d fight our way out together — knives drawn, pistols blazing. Because that’s what we do. We never stop fighting.”

There was a long stretch of silence and for a moment, he partially panicked. He might’ve said the wrong thing, might’ve upset her further. Since when did he care about the right or the wrong thing to say? He was Kaz Brekker, and he didn’t care what opinions others held for him and he never had. That was a lie, of course, one he told himself in the late hours of the night and every minute of the day when he couldn’t shake the feeling he got every time he looked at Inej. It was the biggest lie anyone had ever told him, and he was telling it to himself. He cared about her opinion, he cared about her opinion of him, and more than anything, he simply cared about her. Cut and dry. Simple as anything.

She didn’t reply, simply turned her head slightly to the side, a soft shadow obscuring any expression that might’ve broken through. She nodded after a minute, and that was the end of it for now. He stood, leaning against his weight against his cane. The walk from the river to this safe house had been difficult on him, he’d had to carry Inej and his cane in his arms, forcing each step. He would feel it tomorrow, most likely, but he did not regret it. He walked to the desk on the other side of the room, pulling out some crackers and a waterskin. He handed them to her in silence, watching as she tentatively bit into the cracker, chewing slowly. She was already small to begin with, looking at her and seeing so much less caused a little worry to nag at the back of his mind. He pushed it aside, she would be alright.

“Rest.” he said finally. “We’ll meet the others in a bit. For now, just rest.”

[cuttoothed]

For the kissing prompt meme: jonmartin + in the rain

Guess who listened to the S5 trailer and is already thinking of soft fix-it scenarios???

SPOILERS FOR THE SEASON FIVE TRAILER BELOW. ALSO SOFTNESS.

*

All his life, Jon believed that the anticipation of something bad is worse than the thing itself. Waiting for it, fearing it, the mind can conjure all sorts of terrible, inescapable outcomes. But once the thing happens, it can be dealt with. Even if it’s the worst possible scenario, it’s happened; it’s done, and you can begin to move on.

He can’t believe he was ever so ignorant.

He’s spent years fearing this - the Unknowing, the Dark Sun, all those failed rituals that threatened to swallow the world in terror. And now that it’s finally happened? It’s worse than anything he could possibly have imagined, a sweet, agonizing symphony of fear and pain and knowing and knowing and knowing and KNOWING and what he knows most clearly of all is that this is it. There is no moving on, no new normal: things will be precisely this bad forever.

The world is changed; it will not change again.

There’s no weather anymore. No sun but the vast eye staring lidless down at them; no wind but the howling of a million savage throats; no hail or snow or miserable autumn drizzle that soaks in through the soles of your shoes and leaves you damp all day. Jon had been complaining about the rain, the day the world changed. Hadn’t wanted to go out for a walk with Martin in the morning, which was why Martin had gone himself when he got back from the village, leaving Jon to his statements. He’d give anything for some rain now, for any semblance of the normal world back.

Martin’s doing his best, and Jon loves him so fiercely it aches in his chest. He thinks that loving Martin might be the only thing that keeps him holding on, sometimes; keeps him from giving up and giving in to the horrifying rightness of it all. Martin keeps talking as if they can make it through this, as if there’s some way out at the end of it all.

“How are you feeling today?” he asks, as if there’s such a thing as a day anymore.

“We need to decide what to do,” he says, as if there’s anything they can. He folds out a big road map of the UK on the kitchen table and starts plotting a route to London in red ink, along the back roads and away from major towns. The fears - their manifestations - might be more concentrated in densely populated areas, he suggests. Jon thinks of the tiny village that once stood in the valley below them, and doesn’t voice his doubts.

Neither of them have been outside since it happened, but Jon knows what’s out there (and knows and knows); he doesn’t think they’d get very far.

“We’re safer here,” Jon insists. They have enough dried and tinned supplies to last them weeks, as if Daisy was ready for the end of the world herself. Nothing’s attacked them here, not yet. And they’re together. They haven’t had enough time together, not nearly enough.

“We can’t just stay here waiting to die!” Martin snaps.

“We might as well do it here as anywhere else!” Jon snaps back, and then it turns into their first real fight since the world changed - their first real fight in years, in fact, since the days when Jon was nitpicking Martin’s Latin and Martin was lecturing him about spiders.

“I’m not letting you just - just bloody give up!” Martin is almost shouting by the end, his voice hoarse and hurt. “You didn’t let me, so you don’t get to now, okay?”

He storms out and slams the door behind him, and Jon sits there quietly for a long time, turning over the cold, heavy weight in his stomach, examining it from all angles. Outside he can hear the howling, screaming cacophony, endless and terrible and glorious and god he wishes it would rain.

He finds Martin in the bedroom, sitting on the bed, staring at his hands. Jon goes and sits beside him, their shoulders pressed together, and feels the tension thrumming through Martin’s body as if he’s ready for another fight. Martin’s hands clench on his thighs.

“I’m sorry,” Jon says. “You’re right, we can’t give up. If we can get to London, find Basira and - and the others, maybe we can...I don’t know. But you’re right, we need to try.”

He needs to try, because he owes Martin that. He owes Basira and Georgie and, god, poor Melanie who fought so hard to free herself from all this. He owes Daisy, if there’s anything of her left in this changed, unchanging world. The worst has happened, and Jon is so, so afraid of what comes next, but he can’t let that fear own him. He’s done with that.

“I love you,” Martin tells him, a simple statement of fact, and Jon knows it. Not like he knows all the rest of it, all the pain and terror of this world. He just knows.

Whatever happens, at least they’ll be together.

Jon dreams of rain. Or rather, it rains in Jon’s dreams: a torrent, a downpour. It drums against the metal lab benches, soaks the doctor’s lab coat, washes away the blood from those obscenely beating hearts. It smears across the woman’s computer screen, making it impossible to read the scrolling lines of text, running into her eyes as she types desperately. It taps on the yellow door and turns the dirt to flowing mud and carries away legions of ants, legs and antennae waving frantically in the flood.

He turns his face to the sky, and he cannot see through the sheets of water tumbling down. For a moment, he cannot see the Eye.

“Jon!” Martin is whispering urgently, his hand on Jon’s shoulder, shaking him gently. Jon sits bolt upright, his heart racing.

“What is it?”

“It’s, ahh...I - I think it’s raining?” Martin’s tone is equal parts disbelief and wonder. Jon’s breath catches and for an instant he wonders if he’s still dreaming, but no, there it is, the sound of rain hitting the roof tiles overhead.

“What the hell?” he mutters, and goes to look. It’s still dark out, but he can see the drops striking the window, running down the glass in quick little rivulets. Martin comes up beside him.

“This shouldn’t be possible, right?” he says, excited. “You said, with the way things are, it shouldn’t be - ”

Jon kisses him. Martin makes a muffled sound against his mouth, and then his arms go around Jon and he kisses back with enthusiasm. When they part, Jon keeps hold of Martin’s shoulders, clutching him, breathless and almost laughing.

“I had a dream, Martin,” he says. “About the rain.”

“You...had a dream?” Martin’s eyes go to the dark window, spattered with rain, and then back to Jon, wide. “You mean, you made this happen?”

“I - I don’t know. I might have just anticipated it? Some sort of - of sympathetic psychic connection, maybe? But...maybe?”

“Maybe,” Martin repeats. “So maybe...things can change after all.”

“I mean, yes? Perhaps?”

Jon’s trying not to get too excited about it, because he’s still not sure exactly what happened, it might be nothing at all. But he was thinking about the rain, and then Martin talked sense into him, made him realize he needed to do something, and then all this...it seems like rather a wild coincidence. He brought this world into being, after all, and he knows it so intimately; it makes a sort of sense that he would have some influence. The nightmare logic these fears are so fond of.

But if he can, then maybe...maybe there’s something to be done after all.

“So,” Martin says, grinning at him, “Is it just the rain, or can you do other kinds of weather too? Bit of sunshine wouldn’t go amiss, if you’re taking requests.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Jon says, and they’re both laughing now, giddy with something that feels a lot like hope, while outside the rain keeps falling.

[shakespeareanwannabe]

Protective Instincts

Santiago Pope Garcia x F!OC

Summary: After everything he’s done, Santiago ‘Pope’ Garcia can’t fathom the idea of bringing a child into the world. But sometimes, life doesn’t work out exactly as you’ve planned. *Based off of some wonderful headcanons written by @darksideofclarke*

Warnings: Pregnancy fic (so if you’re not into that, please don’t read), swearing, reference to smut (but it’s only like one line), references to blood, death (of adults and children), and PTSD

A/N: Hi everyone! So this is my first fanfic post on Tumblr (I have an active account on ff.net, and if anyone is interested in reading that, I can send you my account name). I really enjoyed writing for Pope, it was really nice to spread my wings outside of the Supernatural fandom, so please let me know if you enjoyed this, because I’ve got so many ideas for how to turn it into a series. Hope you enjoy! And let me know if you want to be tagged in any future chapters that come out.

15 steps to the left.

Stop.

Turn.

15 steps to the left.

Stop.

Turn.

Repeat until the worries of the mind and the heaviness of the heart disappears.

“Hey, baby, I’m home!” Pope’s voice calls out, causing Rebecca’s steady steps to stumble.

“How can I face him? How can I tell him?” her mind anguished.

She found herself stopped in front of their large bay window, staring out into the street as her wonderful, loving boyfriend walked up behind her. He wrapped his arms around her, not noticing how she flinched as he hands come to rest on top of her still soft stomach and planted a gentle kiss on her neck.

“How was your day?” he questioned, seemingly content with the picture of domestic bliss that they undoubtedly made, as he nuzzled his nose in between her shoulder blades.

“It was fine,” she murmured quietly, folding her arms around her chest.

Pope shifted, his nose gently brushing her ear as he twisted to look at her profile.

“What happened?”

What had happened? How could she answer that when every molecule in her body was seemingly at war with each other? When her heart was rejoicing but the tiniest voice in the back of her mind was throwing up red flags because they had never talked about this before and she had no clue how he was going to react? When every instinct inside of her was screaming ‘protect’ and every emotion was yelling ‘share’?

“I…I think we should sit.”

Pope felt his heart stutter but nodded as he gently led her to the couch. Was this the moment he had been dreading? Was this when karma kicked in and took away the best thing that had ever happened to him?

“Bex, please…” he kept his hand on her thigh as they settled next to each other on the leather couch. “Are you okay?” Hesitantly, she nodded, and Pope sighed with relief. “What’s going on, baby?”

She shifted slightly, pulling away from his hand and playing with her fingers in her lap. “Umm…you know how I haven’t been feeling great the past week or so?”

He nodded, leaning forward. “Yeah, did you go to the doctor today like I asked?”

He had had to beg her to go. She had insisted that it was just the flu, probably coupled with her oncoming period in the next couple of days. She usually felt like shit when that time of the month rolled around, but the constant vomiting had been new, so he had pleaded with her daily for the last four days to go to the doctor. In hindsight, she had been resistant because she had a sneaking suspicion, but, again, her instincts had been at war with each other.

“Yeah, I went…” It wasn’t until her breathing hitched and Santiago lifted his hand to brush away a tear that she even realized she was crying.

“Baby…” Rebecca looked up and met Santi’s dark eyes. She could read the fear reflected in them and it only made her feel worse. Her sweet, burdened man had fought a war, lost friends, and here she was, scaring him in the comfort of his own home.

“I’m pregnant,” she blurted, wanting to see that worry washed away from his expression.

Instead, she saw the walls slam up in his eyes.

*******************************************************************************************

Pope had the unfortunate experience of being too close to an explosive as it detonated. He’d felt the shrapnel dig itself into his body, felt the heat burn his skin, but, for Pope, the worst part was the ringing in his ears. When the dull sound of tinnitus overtook everything. He’d had men, friends, best friends, screaming in his face but had been unable to hear them. The roar of the fire and the scream of bullets flying sounded like he was hearing them from deep underwater, Catfish could be hollering in his ear that they had to move, but he couldn’t make out the words.

“I’m pregnant…” Rebecca blurted, hesitantly glancing back and forth between his face and her lap.

Now, he was sure that she kept talking. Hell, he could see her lips moving. But the words…they weren’t reaching him. Everything was white noise, he was moving through water, the scar on the back of his neck started to burn.

One thing the military had taught Santiago ‘Pope’ Garcia was how to listen to his instincts. He was a damn good leader, he had a loyal crew of men who depended on him and had his back, and that was partially because his instincts were usually pretty spot on. If that feeling in his gut told him to stop, they stopped. If it told him to run, he was dragging his team alongside him at a dead sprint. If it told him to shoot, he shot.

Now, his fight or flight was telling him one thing.

Pope rose from the couch, his eyes just skating past Rebecca’s panicked expression, his brain not really absorbing any new information, like how her lips were moving in a repetitive pattern.

“Santi…Pope…Santiago…Please…Santi…Pope…Santiago…Please…”

His ears were ringing, but his eyes knew her lips well enough to understand, even if that information wasn’t making it to his brain.

Wordlessly, emotionlessly, almost lifelessly, Pope paced to the front door, shrugged on his leather jacket, donned his sunglasses, pulled his keys out of his pocket.

Open the door. One step over the doorframe.

Turn.

Close the door. Lock it.

Five stairs. Fifteen paces.

Unlock car. Get in. Key in ignition. Seatbelt on.

Start car. Shift gears. Peddle on the right.

Drive.

Santiago had no destination in mind, no plan. For once, the man with a plan had no plan.

“I’m pregnant…”

He felt the whizz of a bullet flying by his cheek.

“I’m pregnant…”

The blood of a civilian spurted through his fingers as he tried to put pressure on the wound.

“I’m pregnant…”

The bodies of kids lined up outside of a village that had just been bombed, that they hadn’t gotten there in time to save.

“I’m pregnant…”

“I’m pregnant…”

“I’m pregnant…”

Every echo of Bex’s voice brought a new memory.

Car bombs exploding in Afghanistan.

The numerous deaths of innocent civilians in Iraq.

The countless executions of sicarios in Colombia by the police force.

Tom and the complete fuck up that he had led his friends into.

Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz.

Pope looked down for a split second and saw Rebecca’s photo lighting up his screen.

It was a photo they had taken on the Fourth of July. He had taken her out to Will’s cabin out in the middle of the woods, deep enough that none of the seasoned veterans would be able to hear the fireworks exploding overhead. She had spider-monkeyed her way around him as he sat on a log next to the campfire, arms wrapped around his shoulders, legs around his waist, and chest pressed tightly up against his back, and when Benny had seen the way he had smiled at her over his shoulder, he had snapped the photo with his phone.

For a split second, Pope was torn. Did he cave to the guilt that was starting to gnaw at his gut and answer the phone? Did he shut his phone off so he wouldn’t have to hear the rattling sound in his cupholder? In the end, he did neither.

His instincts were driving him to continue down the road, and his heart wouldn’t let him shut off his phone, so he ignored it. He knew she would begin to panic if his phone sent her straight to voicemail but leaving it on allowed her the peace of mind to know that he would answer…eventually. When he was ready.

Pope didn’t pay any attention to his dashboard clock, nor did he pay any mind to the sun that was slowly crawling its way across the sky. He knew hours had passed, he knew that Bex was calling him every ten minutes or so, and he knew that the emptiness of the road and the repetitive hum of the tires below him was soothing his mind.

When his truck dinged, alerting him to the news that his truck had about ten miles left before it ran out of gas, he pulled over, stopped, and refilled the tank with what was left in his gas can before continuing.

He paid attention to the traffic and to the periodic buzzing of his phone, that was it.

Hours passed, his phone buzzing every ten minutes like clockwork until the sun hung low in the sky. Until his phone stopped buzzing.

At the first ten minute mark when his phone didn’t buzz and his and Bex’s smiling faces didn’t appear on his screen, approximately six hours into his drive and approximately around the time when Pope realized he had been driving in circles for at least the last four, he glanced down to make sure that his phone hadn’t died.

Ten minutes after that, he pulled onto a farm road, slowing to a stop on the side of the dirt road. His heart was racing as though he had been running for the past six hours, and he couldn’t understand why.

13 minutes after that, his phone came to life again, a pixelated likeness of Catfish’s face appearing in the dimming light of the sunset. Bex was in that photo too, Frankie pressing a kiss to her cheek while winking at Pope behind the camera.

Pope sighed and cleared his throat, hoping to convey a lightheartedness when he greeted, “Hey Fish, what’s goin’ on?”

Pope heard a screen door slam shut as Frankie growled, “Estúpido hijo de puta.”

Pope pulled the phone away from his ear, making sure it was actually Catfish calling and not some crank call. “Frankie?”

“Santi, do you want to tell me why I’m here with your hysterical girlfriend and you’re not?”

Pope felt his heart sink in his chest. “Fish, I—”

“Bex nearly gave me a goddamn heart attack when she called,” Frankie talked over him. “Sobbing so hard she couldn’t get the words out. I gunned it over to your place thinking you had been kidnapped or something, man. Had an SOS text ready to send to Benny and Will, only to find out that you had just left and you weren’t answering her calls. What the fuck, Pope?”

Pope stepped out of his truck and leaned back against the door, staring out at the reds and purples and golds of the sunset.

“…she’s pregnant, man.”

“Yeah, and?”

“And?” Pope wrenched himself away from the truck and began pacing up and down the abandoned stretch of road. “And I don’t know how the fuck to be a father! I don’t know how to raise a kid to be a benefit to society and not a colossal fuck up! After all the shit I’ve done, all the blood on my hands?” Pope took a shaky, shuddery breath, pressing the phone up to his forehead as he wished he could keep it together. He shouldn’t be saying anything. He should bury all the shit so deep down it never sees the light of day. He should, but it was also Frankie Morales he was talking to. His ride or die since day one. The guy who, no matter what was happening, always gave it to him straight. The brain behind Pope’s brawn.

“What gives me the right, Frankie?” Pope mumbled as he brought the phone back to his ear. “I’ve killed people…I’ve gotten people killed…I’ve let people die…That kid is gonna come into the world all innocent, take one look at me, and see a killer. H—How am I supposed to raise a kid when I can barely keep my own shit together half the time?”

The line was silent for a long time, and Pope helplessly dashed at the water that had pooled in his eyes.

“No sé cómo hacer esto, hermano,” he whispered.

Finally, he heard the telltale rasp of Frankie running his hand over his face. “Chill the fuck out, bro,” Frankie told him in a voice that somehow managed to be both soothing and commanding. “Holding that kid will be the best thing you ever do in your life. The only thing that makes all of the shit worth it.”

“But—”

“No buts, Pope. You wanna know how you’re gonna raise that kid? You’re not,” he said simply. “You and Bex are gonna raise that kid together. You’re gonna make mistakes, and screw up, and so will she, but as long as you’re there, and you love that kid hard, and you actually give a shit, then you’re gonna be leaps and bounds above half the dickheads out there that call themselves dads.” Pope squeezed his eyes shut to stop the tears that were threatening to roll down his cheeks. He didn’t know if Frankie knew that his partner and friend was tearing up in the middle of nowhere, but he also knew that Frankie (and Bex) were probably the only two people on the planet who wouldn’t give him shit for it.

He just couldn’t help it. Six hours ago, his world had exploded, and now Frankie was helping him put it together piece by painful piece. Worst of all was how badly Pope wanted to believe him. He wanted to believe that the kid would make all the bullshit he had gone through worth it, but he didn’t dare imagine it. It was too good to be true. He was too broken, too beaten down to make a good father.

“Listen man,” Frankie grunted, and Pope’s keen ears picked up a shuffle in the background that told him Frankie had sat down somewhere. “I’ve got the same blood and shit on my hands that you do. Worse, even, if you consider that mess I got myself into without you. Does that make me a bad dad?”

Pope was already shaking his head. After the mess in Colombia, after Yovanna had decided that he wasn’t worth her time, Pope had come home and settled a few blocks over from where Frankie and his fiancée at the time (now his wife), Charlotte, had settled down. Pope had seen Frankie with his son, Mateo, more times than he could count.

“Frankie—”

“Exactly. And considering where my head was at when Charlie told me she had a bun in the oven, I shoulda been. I could’ve messed that kid up bad…I thought I would, but I didn’t.” Frankie sighed again, and Pope could visualize him scratching at his facial hair. “Santi, bringing that kid into the world is the only thing that’ll make up for all of the shit. Believe me.”

Because it was Frankie, his right-hand man, his best friend, Pope allowed himself to hope. He allowed himself to close his eyes and imagine it. A little baby nestled in his arms, curling up against his chest like he hadn’t killed countless people. Dark eyes looking up at him the way their mother looked at him, with love and kindness, like he didn’t have blood on his hands. A chance to do some good in the world, to bring some light into his life. A chance to raise a kid who could be better than he ever was. Who wouldn’t tear the world down in a storm of bullets and bombs, but maybe, just maybe, build it back up with smiles and love.

Pope choked back a sob. “Frankie, I fucked up.”

“Nah, hermano,” Frankie chuckled. “Your girl loves you. The only way you can fuck up now is if you don’t come home. Then, I’m morally obligated to hunt you down and castrate you.”

Pope chuckled a watery laugh as he climbed back into the cab of his truck. “I’m on my way now.”

“Good, my ass is getting cold from sitting on your front steps,” Frankie laughed.

Pope laughed again, a real laugh this time. “Go home, cabrón.”

“Hey, I’m not the one who has some major ass kissing to do, jackass.”

Pope waited as he could hear Frankie getting into his car. “Seriously, man. Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it, bro,” Pope heard Frankie’s car start in the background. “Just fix it.”

“I will.”

“Oh, and I call godfather!”

Pope laughed as he hung up and sped down the road. If he kept on this road and obeyed the speed limit, he could make it home in half an hour. He was determined to make it home in twenty.

*******************************************************************************************

It may have been the worst parking job Pope had ever done, with half the car parked on the grass, half on the asphalt, the back end blocking most of the sidewalk, and a few inches between his rear, driver’s side tire and the back end of Rebecca’s car, but he didn’t care. The jovial spirit that had overtaken him at the tail-end of his chat with Frankie had vanished as he got closer and closer to home. He needed to see his girl. He needed to make things right.

He waved as the lights on Frankie’s minivan flashed twice before pulling away from the curb across the street, grateful that his friend had stayed until he had gotten home, and jogged up to the front door, quietly unlocking it and stepping into the silent house.

The lights in the living room were off. As Pope stumbled over the jumble of shoes at the front door, he caught sight of the pile of tissues sitting on the coffee table and felt his heart sink and those tears he had been choking back fight their way up his throat again.

A dull light shone from behind the kitchen door, and Pope tentatively approached it, pressing gently at the swinging door to take a peek inside.

When he caught sight of her, his heart shattered inside his chest.

He’d always thought Rebecca was beautiful, from the second he had caught sight of her at the physiotherapy clinic. Drenched in sweat and red-faced, that had been his first impression of her, but her smile and the playful glint in her eyes had bewitched him in an instant.

He’d seen her dressed to the nines, looking like she’d stepped out of one of those fashion magazines that she kept in her bedside table. He’d seen her in sweats after a day of cleaning house. He’d seen her naked as the day she was born, whimpering and moaning as he painted her chest with his cum. She’d always been beautiful. Stunning, gorgeous.

Even now, Pope had to acknowledge the melancholic beauty that surrounded her. The remnants of tears that clung to her eyelashes, the blotchy red patches that stained her skin, the weariness that tugged her whole body down until she was slumped in her seat at the kitchen table, feet propped up in his seat, her phone just barely visible from where he stood, propped up against her bent legs, one elbow laid across her knees while the other arm was bearing the weight of her head, hand cushioned in the sleeve of her oversized white sweater.

“Baby…” he murmured, pushing his way into the kitchen and standing in the low light cast by the lamp in the center of the table.

It took her a moment, but she finally looked up, tears welling back up in her red-rimmed eyes as she gasped out a sob at the very sight of him.

Whatever had been holding Pope up until that point – call it stubbornness, call it pride, call it resolution – dissolved at that sob.

One step.

Two steps.

His knees hit the hardwood floor as he choked out a sob, tears finally spilling down his cheeks.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” he cried as he buried his face into Rebecca’s thighs. “I’m so, so sorry…”

He didn’t know how long he knelt there, tears turning her pale blue jeans dark, pain radiating from his knees, up to his neck and throughout his limbs, voice growing hoarse as he repeated the words again and again and again.

Finally, finally, Pope felt that touch of grace as she slowly, gingerly raised her hand and began to carefully card it through his thick salt-and-pepper curls. Her touch of kindness only served to make him cry harder as he raised his head and gazed upon her tear-stained face.

“I’m so sorry, mi alma,” he rasped, shuffling forward until his forehead was pressed into her lower belly, where the life they had created together was just beginning to grow. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered into the small band of skin that was revealed where her sweater had ridden up.

After what felt like hours, Pope stirred, slowly peeling himself off the floor to stand in front of her. With a hopeful look in his eyes, he extended his hand to her and prayed to a god he wasn’t sure he believed in that she would take it.

*******************************************************************************************

Rebecca eyed his extended hand suspiciously. Part of her wanted to slap it away, scream at him for the anguish he had put her through the past few hours, and make him sleep on the couch until the baby was born. But the other part of her, the part that could see the tremor in his arms and legs as he stood there and the pleading look in his eyes and the deep lines that were etched in his forehead, that part of her coaxed her into gently unfolding from her curled up position and taking his hand.

Gently, Santiago helped her to her feet and led her out of the kitchen, down the hall and into their bedroom. She stood there in the doorway as he moved around the room, dropping his black t-shirt and dark jeans into the hamper, placing his watch on his nightstand, and plugging his phone into the charger, until he stopped by her side of the bed, tugging the covers down and looking at her with that same pleading gaze.

Slowly, hesitantly, she followed his lead, stripping down to her bra and panties and sliding under the covers that he was holding up for her. In a flash, Santiago slid into his side of the bed and pulled her tightly to him, her back to his chest with one of his hands gently cradling her still flat belly.

As he pressed a gentle kiss to her bare shoulder, she couldn’t help the shuddery, teary gasp of that one word that had been at the forefront of her mind since he had shut the door in her face and locked it behind him: “Why?”

Rebecca heard him sigh, a long, weary breath out that spoke of exhaustion and trauma.

“When you told me…everything just kind of shut down. All I could think of was to protect.”

“Protect who?”

She felt him shrug. “Protect myself. Protect you from me and all my bullshit. Protect the baby from the fuck up they have as a father.”

“Santi…” she whispered mournfully. “You know I don’t—”

“I know,” he interjected before clearing his throat. “It’s just…I’ve done some really bad things in my life, Bex. I’m not a good person,” he continued in a whisper. “You know some of the stuff that I’ve done, but most of it is so classified I doubt I’ll ever be allowed to talk about it. And I don’t want to. I don’t want you to ever hear about it. So, when you told me we were having a baby, my mind just kind of shut down. All I could think of was how many people I’ve killed; how much blood is on my hands.”

He trailed off as a dark silence loomed over the room.

“You scared me…” she finally whispered.

He chuckled darkly as he rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. “I scared myself,” he admitted. “I just…I couldn’t imagine how any good could come out of this. I…” he paused, and Rebecca rolled over to face him, watching his Adam’s apple work in his throat. “I don’t deserve to be a dad, Bex.”

She nodded, tears springing to her eyes again at his admittance. She wished he could see what she saw. He was good with kids. So good with them. Watching him with Frankie’s son Mateo was one of the most adorable sights she had ever seen. He would be such a good father. But…she couldn’t force it on him. She knew he had baggage, knew it when she met him, but things had been so good between them that she had hoped they would be okay.

“I…uh, I’m not gonna make you do anything you don’t want to do, Santi,” she murmured, desperately trying to keep the tears out of her voice. “You can be as involved or—”

“Oh baby, no. No, no, shh…” he pulled her into his chest, banding his arms tightly around her back until her head was nestled into his shoulder and his face was buried in her hair. “I’m gonna be better, okay? I swear to god, I’m gonna be better for you and this kid. I called Will on the drive home, and he’s gonna help me find a group to talk to about all this. I can’t promise it won’t happen again but I’m gonna fight as hard as I can to be there for you one hundred percent.” He peeled his face away from her neck and angled himself to look directly into her eyes, their noses almost touching. “I’ll read all the parenting books and go to any and all classes you sign us up for. I’m gonna be there for every appointment. I’ll learn how to give massages if you need me to rub your feet or your back, and I’ll go out for any cravings you might have, even if I have to drive all the way across town at 3 o’clock in the morning.” Tears began pooling in her eyes again, except this time there was a small smile on her face. “When the baby comes, I’ll do whatever you want me to do. You can break my hand if you need to during labor. If you want it to just be us, it’ll just be us. If you want a whole damn camera crew there to document the whole thing, I’ll make it happen.” He pulled her closer and cupped her face in his hands. “I’m gonna get a good job, baby. No more side jobs, no more private sector. I’ll take whatever 9 to 5 I can find to help take care of us. Hell, I’ll take two jobs if you want to be a stay at home mom. Or, if you want, I’ll stay at home with the kid. Whatever you want to do, we’ll do it.”

Finally, Rebecca laughed as happy tears streamed down her face. “You’re rambling, babe.”

Pope laughed too, a happy, relieved sound as he pressed his lips to hers for the first time that evening. “I know, I know,” he whispered, wiping her tears away with his fingertips. “I just need you to know that I’m all in. Whatever you want, whatever you need. Whatever this kid needs. I’m here. I’m gonna be a dick sometimes, and I’m gonna make mistakes, and I’m gonna be so far out of my league between you and this kid, but I’m gonna be here. I swear to god.”

Rebecca giggled, pulling her hand from his chest to play with the grey baby curls at the back of his neck. “That’s all we need,” she whispered as she pulled him closer to plant a sweet, loving kiss on his lips. She pulled back and ran a fond hand over his cheek. “Just promise me, next time this happens, you let me know. Just a word or a gesture or something?”

Pope nodded, ashamed of his actions. He was always the first to go in, guns blazing, no thought to his own safety if it meant protecting his team. But the second he found out about the baby, he had left his most important teammate behind to fend for herself.

“I promise, baby. And I’m so sorry…” he nuzzled into her cheek and pressed a gentle kiss to her dimple.

She smiled at him as she rolled over and rested her head on his bicep. “We’re gonna be okay, babe,” she yawned, her eyes drifting closed after the emotional day she had had.

Pope nestled in behind her, not leaving an inch of space between them. Lying there, happy with the woman he loved in his arms, Pope took a deep breath and allowed himself to drift off, her words echoing in his mind. They would be okay. He’d make sure of it.  

*******************************************************************************************

Tags List: @darksideofclarke, @writefightandflightclub, @eternallyvenus, @rae-rae-patcha

[oliviaischillin1204]

i can’t hear you

Pairings: Platonic Analogical

Word Count: 1,994 words

i had my first training course for my new job today and i spent about an hour writing this wip in my head instead. anyways smash that mf like button

also maybe warning for more intense tickles toward the end? i don’t really think it’s that bad tbh but if you have super ticklish feet u may wanna proceed w caution

It was a game they played. Logan knew that. He knew all of the signs: Virgil coming into his room late at night, his headphones casually slung around his neck. He’d sit on the end of Logan’s bed awhile, looking around the organized yet cluttered room. Logan would acknowledge his presence, but would keep his attention on whatever book he was reading that night. The room would fall silent, and then Virgil-- amazing Virgil, evil Virgil-- would put on his headphones.

That was how the game always started. Logan knew that. But it still didn’t make the fluttering feeling in his stomach go away.

He huffed a sigh, a small smile already curling on his lips. Virgil didn’t respond or even react: his attention was (allegedly) completely on his phone as he scrolled through his Spotify. Logan watched him in anticipation for a few seconds before slowly marking his page and setting the book on his bedside table, folding his hands in his lap.

As soon as he did that-- as if Virgil has been waiting for him-- the anxious side made a satisfied noise as he selected a playlist. He tapped play and set his phone to the side, and spent the next minute or so merely bopping his head to the music. His fingers would tap little rhythms on his thighs, then on the mattress, then on the top of Logan’s ankles. It was just enough to make the logical side squirm, watching the gradual movements with a building wariness.

Without warning, Virgil wrapped an arm around both of Logan’s ankles, hiking them up so he could hold them between his arm and his torso. The sudden motion yanked Logan down the bed.

“Oh goodness--!”

The exclamation slipped out before Logan could stop it, and he’s sure Virgil would be laughing at him if he heard it. Luckily for Logan, there was no way Virgil could hear him over the music in his headphones; it was so loud, Logan could hear its tinny sound in the otherwise silent room.

Well. Relatively silent. Because as soon as Virgil got Logan’s legs firmly trapped under his arm, his nails began dancing against the balls of his feet, and Logan fell into startled giggles.

“Nohoho,” he mumbled through his laughter, dropping his face into his hands. His feet twitched involuntarily, but other than that he made no move to pull away from Virgil’s tickling fingers. That was how the game went.

Virgil slowly slid his fingers down Logan’s soles until they were toying at his arches, easily reaching both feet at once with his one free hand. He glided his nails down the wrinkles and lines of Logan’s feet, causing him to curl his toes with a strangled whimper.

“Please,” Logan started to beg before stopping himself. One of the worst (read: best) parts of the game for him was the total silence his reactions were met with. Virgil was blissfully unaware of the noises Logan made when they played this game. But Logan knew. Every squeak, squeal, titter, and giggle that escaped his lips seemed to echo around his room before being thrown right back into his face. It wasn’t that he wasn’t ashamed of his laughter; it was really just the knowledge that Virgil was completely taking him apart without even listening to his pleas for mercy, leaving him to fall into helpless laughter in isolation, that Logan found so utterly embarrassing. And so utterly delightful.

Meanwhile, Virgil seemingly decided that he’d paid enough attention to Logan’s arches, because his fingers suddenly switched positions, choosing instead to scritch-scratch right against Logan’s heels. Logan yelped at the unexpected change, and to his distress a stray snort or two began escaping in his laughter. He hid his face in his hands again, somewhat grateful that Virgil hadn’t heard those particular noises. The taunting that would’ve resulted from them would almost be unbearable.

Virgil began humming along with his music, some nonsense tune that Logan couldn’t identify when he was so throughly distracted, but in his hypersensitive state the wordless melody began to sound like a tease itself, the rise and fall of Virgil’s voice as his fingers expertly circled and skittered all over his heels causing even more butterflies to flutter around in Logan’s stomach.

He wasn’t expecting for Virgil to suddenly jab his thumb into the middle of his sole, throughly massaging the sensitive spot while his other four fingers still managed to mercilessly attack his heels. Logan gasped, snorted, and broke into louder laughter in rapid succession, and his arms wrapped around his torso as he upgraded from giggles to full on cackles.

Virgil went back and forth for a while, choosing seemingly random (yet completely evil) spots to torture with harder tickles while the surrounding skin got gentle, teasy tickles. Logan took deep breaths to avoid getting the hiccups (like last time-- Virgil had laughed himself to tears when Logan couldn’t stop even after the game was finished), but all he succeeded in was making his laughter louder and louder.

Then Virgil abruptly stopped the hard tickles. Logan, foolishly, felt grateful for about half a second, until he felt Virgil begin to spider his nails back up his soles. Towards the balls of his feet. Towards--

“Ah-hahahahaha! Virgihihil!”

The words came out traitorously high pitched, almost a squeal, and he felt his face flush hot at the sound of his panicked voice against the soft quiet of his bedroom. 

To his surprise, Virgil froze for a moment, his fingers resting right underneath Logan’s deathspot. Logan watched his back in a mix of confusion and sheepishness-- he didn’t want the game to end already, but he certainly didn’t want to say that.

Virgil didn’t turn around, though, and he didn’t let go of Logan’s feet. Instead, Logan watched with a growing nervousness as Virgil’s free arm moved to the side, picked up his phone, and quickly hit the volume button several times. The barely-audible music from his headphones grew louder, and he dropped the phone back on the bed with a satisfied nod before turning all of his attention back to Logan’s feet.

Logan blanched, especially when Virgil’s fingers started moving again, skittering back and forth across the balls of his feet, but with a greater intention. Like he was purposefully building up to something. Logan’s stomach swooped.

“Virgihihil--”

No response. 

“Virgil, wahahahahait!”

Nothing. In fact, Logan thought Virgil might’ve picked up the pace, darting from spot to spot and giving little pinches to the soft skin. Each touch had Logan jumping, shocked noises escaping among his growing giggles.

“No, nohoho-- not there! Wait--!”

Virgil didn’t wait. His fingers shot down to spider at his arches once more, before they began slowly making their way up, up, up.

“Vihi-- Virgil, Virgil, noho--”

Logan was red faced and teary eyed and grinning so wide he felt like his face would split. And Virgil wasn’t stopping.

“No!”

But Virgil did not hear him, and finally, his fingers dove in to scratch and squeeze and tickle in between every single one of Logan’s ticklish, helpless toes.

Logan bucked and screamed, his hands tangling in his bedsheets as he finally fought to pull his legs back. His head kept alternating between falling back to his headboard and falling forward as he curled in on himself, but neither position gained him any relief. He just had to sit there, feet utterly trapped and pleas completely ignored, as Virgil tickled underneath all ten of his ticklish little toes.

He tried to look for a pattern, anything that would lessen the horrible unpredictability of the tortorous sensations, but Virgil didn’t seem to have any rhyme or reason to his tickles. A pinch at his pinky toe, then his nails would spider across all of his toe pads before coming to rest at the middle toe of his other foot, scratching up and down the stem before poking his way back to the other side. All of his toe tickles were interspersed with quick, random tickles to the balls of Logan’s feet, keeping him frantically guessing when the tickles would switch between very bad to even worse.

To say Logan was loosing his composure was an understatement. He wheezed with laughter when the nail of Virgil’s index finger throughly attacked the spot right underneath his big toe, or when his thumb suddenly corkscrewed in between his pinky and ring toes. He bounced on the bed, his hands desperately clawing at the bed sheets and at the hem of his shirt and at his hair, anything to distract himself from the awful ticklish torture he was suffering on his feet.

At one point Virgil hit a certain spot on the ball of his foot, and Logan cried out in ticklish ecstasy, yanking his foot back as hard as he could. It went nowhere, of course, but it didn’t go unnoticed. Because Virgil, to Logan’s horror, suddenly grabbed both of his big toes, pulling them back and stretching out his entire foot.

Logan gasped. He gave an experimental wiggle, only to find that he could not only not move his feet, but he could no longer curl any of his toes at all. Their precious, sensitive undersides were exposed to the entire world-- and more importantly, to Virgil.

The next second felt like it happened in slow motion: Logan’s eyes darted from his feet to Virgil’s index finger, which wiggled menancingly in the air inches from hit feet. He screamed wordlessly, desperate babbles as he continued to yank against Virgil’s hold, but in the end, there was absolutely nothing he could do to keep Virgil from tickling that one spot, right at the bottom of the space between Logan’s first and second toe, scratching his nail with a nightmarish precision at Logan’s absolute death spot.

It was game over.

Logan shrieked, a sharp, piercing sound that he would absolutely go to his grave before admitting he made. He launched forward, clutching the back of Virgil’s hoodie and yanking on it for dear life.

“Stohoh-- stohohop--!”

Virgil let go of his legs before the word was even fully out of his mouth. He scooted to the side, watching over his shoulder as Logan immediately pulled his knees up to his chest, covering his toes as soon as his hands could reach them.

Virgil caught Logan’s gaze, still gasping and laughing with residual tickles, and let a small smile creep onto his own face. He reached to his phone and stopped the music, pulling the headphones off to rest around his neck again.

“Oh, Logan, were you back there the whole time?” he asked innocently. “Sorry, I was distracted. Music, you know.”

Logan huffed, flustered and frazzled, his legs still pulled defensively against his chest.

“Distracted,” he spat, but the wobbly smile on his blushing face took any poison out of the words. “Of course.”

Virgil gave him a more genuine smile now, summoning a bottle of water and passing it up the bed to the exhausted side. He grabbed his phone and shifted himself backwards until he was sitting next to Logan at the head of his bed. As Logan caught his breath, he unplugged his large headphones and swapped them for a pair of sleek, black earbuds.

“I found this creepy-ass true crime book,” he said casually, eyes on his phone once again as he scrolled through his library. He popped one earbud into his ear before wordlessly offering the other to Logan.

Logan eyed it for less than a second before he laughed lightly, shaking his head in wonder. 

“Sounds very interesting,” he replied, taking the other and putting it in his ear. As the two leaned back to listen to the book, he let his eyes slip closed. All in all, even though it was flustering and embarrassing and overall torturous, Logan could never hate this game that he and Virgil play-- especially when it always manages to end like this.

[baoshan-sanren]

Part 15

to the fucking NieLan arranged marriage AU I can’t stop thinking about - seriously guys, someone give me a title for this thing

pt.1 here | pt.2 here | pt.3 here | pt.4 here | pt.5 here | pt.6 here | pt.7 here | pt.8 here | pt.9 here | pt.10 here | pt.11 here | pt.12 here | pt.13 here | pt.14 here

Wen Ning does not have much time. 

He moves quickly, head lowered, hoping to avoid notice. It is rarely possible, for him to cross the length of the palace without some incident, without at least some of the guards deciding to torment him for their own amusement. Although he is under Wen RuoHan’s protection, as fickle as such a protection can be, they had learned quickly that he will bear their harassment in silence. Perhaps, if he was still allowed to carry his sword, they would not think him such an easy prey. But he thinks it is more likely his sword would have painted a larger target on his back.

The lack of his sword has been on his mind a great deal lately.

It is not the only concern crowding his mind. That same morning, a string of urgent messages from YiLing had completely annihilated every part of the plan Wen Qing had painstakingly pieced together.

The Second Young Master is dead. The Violet Spider had mounted the Second Young Master’s head on a pike, and is currently burning her way across YiLing, heading straight for the Nightless City.

The first message states that both the Jin Sect and Jiang Sect are riding at her back, something even Wen Ning knows to be impossible, as the two sects are on the opposite sides of QiShan. The second message claims that the Violet Spider is leading the combined forces of the MeiShan Yu, the LaoLing Qin, and the LangYa She. This message, Wen Ning does not know enough to dispute. The third message is even more ridiculous than the first two, claiming that it is not the Violet Spider who had killed the Second Young Master at all, but Madam Jin, and that Madam Jin is now leading half of the Jin Sect across YiLing.

Wen Ning thinks that the men who had sent those messages should probably not face Wen RuoHan again, not if they mean to keep their heads attached to their shoulders.  

Overall, Wen Chao’s death matters very little in the larger scheme of things, and by itself, it should not have affected his sister’s plans at all. But the messages had triggered a string of events, like ripples across clear water, spreading to every corner of the Nightless City. Suddenly, guards are stationed in places where none had been the day before. Two of the City gates are now sealed shut. The guards around Wen RuoHan have doubled, and every servant, including Wen Ning, has had their room tossed. Wen RuoHan is now convinced that there is a spy in the palace, and had been furious that the traitor could not be uncovered. In his rage, he had pulled Lan XiChen from his cell, and had him savagely whipped in the main hall.

The day is only half over, and Wen Ning already knows that everything else which can go wrong, is likely to go wrong, and very quickly. There is no time to contact Wen Qing. There is no time to ask for advice. Their contingency plan looms large and terrifying in his mind, even more impossible to achieve now than it had ever been before.

His sister had always had such faith in him, no matter how often he failed, no matter how often he disappointed her expectations. To this day, she believes him more capable than he has ever thought himself to be. Now, that he is utterly alone, with nothing to rely on but his own wits, he hopes that she was right all along, and that he will not let her down.

Back in his chambers, he burns the talisman for good, leaving only a small pile of ashes on the floor. The room is bare of personal belongings. This had never been Wen Ning’s home, and there is nothing he regrets leaving behind.  

--

They move at dusk.

The Nie Sect does not attack the way any other sect would. There are no drums and trumpets and neat formations. There is no warning, no battle declaration, and some would say, no honor in their tactics. But the Nie Sect is descended from men who had spent their entire lives wading through ankle-deep blood, who were born and raised in the dirt, who cared little for eternal judgment. To the QingHe Nie, honor is a fool's prize, and glory is of no use to the dead.

The first wave appears out of the evening fog some three hundred li inside the enemy lines. Half of the Wen camp is slaughtered before any manage to raise an alarm. By the time the horn signaling an attack echoes across the plain, the cavalry is already on the move. The Wen do not expect mounted archers to follow a ground attack, and their formation falls apart as quickly as it is assembled. Blood saturates the damp grass. Rows and rows of tents go up in a blaze, one after another, the risings suns of QiShan Wen engulfed in flames.

Wen Xu, located in the main cap some two hundred li from the border between GanQuan and QiShan, is not caught by surprise. By the time the Nie Sect crosses the plains, a wall of archers is already waiting. The arrows blacken the sky. Men and horses fall, and are trampled, their screams drowned by the battle drums. The Nie Sect does not falter. Only a third of their number reaches the first line of archers, shattering the wall they hold, spilling into the sea of ground troops. They are outnumbered twelve to one, but each pushes forward, the sabers swinging wildly, leaving carnage in their wake.

A smart ruler leads from the back, and Wen Xu is safely concealed behind thirty hand-picked guards. With his younger brother gone, he had promised his father that he would take no unnecessary risks, and withdraw to the safety of the Nightless City walls the moment the battle looks to be lost. But he can see Nie MingJue in the distance, still mounted, surrounded by the sea of red robes. The beast’s head helmet, its features twisted in a terrible grimace, seems to be mocking him from a distance.

He despises Nie MingJue with a singular type of vehemence. The man’s marriage to the First Jade of Lan is an abomination; Wen Xu cannot understand how the Gusu Lan could have ever stooped so low. The fact that the rest of the cultivation world would choose such a man to lead them is abhorrent beyond belief. The Wen Sect had descended from emperors; their supremacy is nothing less than Heaven-ordained. It is no simple affront, to have the Wen Sect dominance challenged by a man who is only a little better than a peasant. It is the worst type of insolence; it is a blasphemy against the natural order.

Everyone knows that there is no honor in battling butchers. But Wen Xu wants Nie MingJue’s head. He wants to mount it on a pike, as his younger brother’s head was mounted, and he wants to carry it with him back into the Nightless City. Perhaps his father will present it to the Young Master Lan as a wedding gift. Wen Xu is has no interest in Nie MingJue’s leftovers, but once the war is over, the most beautiful Young Master of the cultivation world will need to be married into the Wen Sect. First, however, Wen Xu intends to make Young Master Lan a widower.

When he moves into the fray, his guards move with him. Their bodies are a shield, but like any shield made of flesh and bone, it does not hold up for long. This does not matter. Wen Xu is not his younger brother. He does not carry a sword out of obligation or duty. The blade was his first toy, his first comfort, the first thing he learned how to carry. He has killed hundreds of men, and none had ever given him a fight worthy of remembrance. He does not need thirty guards to cut his way across the field.

Another battle horn echoes from the east, but his only focus is straight ahead. He sees Nie MingJue lose his horse, and soon after loses his own. A cultivator from the Jin Sect gets in his way, and loses an arm. Another is cut in two. There seem to be more golden robes now in the field than the deep green ones of the Nie Sect, but Wen Xu is so close, that he would not turn back now, even if he could. The Nie will fold when Nie MingJue is dead. The Jin will fold right after. The beast’s head helmet appears and disappears, it falls, then rises.

Finally, it is in front of him. His blade crosses with the heavy saber, the spiritual power of their combined force flashing brightly, knocking down both ally and enemy alike. The night is falling quickly, and the ground is slippery with blood, but Wen Xu is inconvenienced by neither. He has never wanted someone dead this badly, so badly that he can taste the victory in the back of his throat. The blades clash again and again, the saber cutting into his thigh, his own sword finding the soft flesh under Nie MingJue’s arm. The man is good, but Wen Xu had expected better. He knows he will win.

The tip of his sword catches the helmet, and the twisted, blood-spattered piece of armor tumbles to the ground. Wen Xu freezes in astonishment. It is a moment, a single breath, but it is an instant he cannot spare. The saber catches him under the navel and slices up, lodging between his ribs.

Nie ZongHui smiles.

[pendragonfics]

Darling, Are You Going to Leave Me?

Paring: Frank Castle/Reader

Tags: Female reader, heavy angst, break up, Frank Castle angst, infertility, vigilantism, minor character death, babies, accidental baby acquisition, swearing, canon-typical violence, idiots in love, Frank Castle cares, angst and hurt/comfort, whump, fluff and hurt/comfort

Summary: After trying for a while, and finding negative test results for fertility, Frank and ________ hit a rough spot, and split. But that doesn't slow her down: she turns to a life of vigilantism, becoming East Wind, a courier to those in need. However, not all nights are as rough as this one on the job...

Word Count: 3,348

Current Date: 2020-03-10

The worst pain of all came across you when the conversation ended. It could have been all shouting, for how sadly you felt, but it had only been words shared at barely above a whisper. Claire had taken a sample of your reproductive product and anonymously, the same from Frank. That had happened a month ago and now having read the information revealed, it felt like a noose had lowered from the ceiling above and was slowly stringing you above.

“Say something,” you whisper, throat thick. Frank kept quiet.

The apartment groaned with the wind outside, and Max whined at your feet and inched toward your feet, which even in socks, felt as cold as death itself. It was a feeling that you somewhat wished for, in the silence waiting for Frank to share what he had read silently on the paper. It had been two or more years since cohabitation and a little less than that since you had first fallen for him, the man that most knew as the Punisher.

“…” He looked up but said nothing. A hand wiped across his face, and it was then you noticed that it was bristly with multiple days' worth of stubble across his chin. He took a deep breath, and then, gravelly, he spoke, “…’m sorry.”

You blink, unsure of what he means. “Frank?”

You move to him. He had chosen to sit on the coffee table - a salvaged chunk of timber from an alley, and you on the dilapidated couch, but as you slide to the edge, he stands, leaving the paper with the test results that he had read from.

But he’s already in the fridge and has cracked open a can by the time you read the paper. When you look up, he’s downed nearly all of it, and while you know he’s not usually one to drink, it must be bad. You know it is, but that’s only because now you’ve read the results.

You don’t quite understand what all the jargon means, but if you read into it...your sample is good, apparently normal. But Frank’s isn’t. He was sample B, and it seems that from what you understand that -

“You deserve someone who can give you what you want,” his voice is shaky, unsure, and looking to Frank, you’re sure that what he’s saying is not what you want to hear. But he doesn’t let you interrupt, and cracking the tab of another beer, he stares off at the other end of the room. “I’m - I’m not good for you, babe.”

“There has to be another way,” you try reasoning.

“I can’t put you through all that, ________ - you deserve the world -,”

“Oh, fuck the world!” you cry. The paper is crushed in your hands, and you sink back to the couch. "I want you!"

But the night didn't end that way. He didn't hear your words as pleas, and you perhaps didn't get through to him, because in the next day, you had gathered your things from his dresser, and took yourself to a hostel in Hoboken for cheap. It hadn't ended with a fist through a wall, just enough tears to have a hard time finding your Lyft. By the time you manage to find sleep, you can’t help but feel like you’ve been suffocating all evening, and by the time morning comes, your cheeks are wettened still.

---

In a year, you are stronger, and not just physically. The days where you find yourself caught on the opening line of the news broadcasts are few and far between, and the name of the man you had loved, trusted and fought for is no longer on your lips. Spider-Man looks over Brooklyn, Luke Cage is known as Power Man in Harlem, and there’s no reason to return to Hell’s Kitchen when Daredevil prowls the district. There’s a trickle of information that comes from the whisper trail you keep, and when you hear that he nears your operation, you pick up and leave to another place.

You’re no superhero, but to some people, you are a hero. Dressed your signature hoodie and jeans - being inconspicuous is best - you’re essentially a ferry to remove people from bad situations. It’s mostly kids from abusive households, victims from other heroes’ exploits that you lend a hand in helping. They’re people, vulnerable people, and every day when you feel like quitting, when it’s too hard, you remind yourself that it’s something that anyone with your connections would do.

It’s not like you’re on a first-name basis with the freakin’ Avengers.

Your client is a young mother. You don’t know the details, but she didn’t want the child and had been kept against her will by a family. By the time you arrive to make the window, as swift as ever you collect her, hide, and begin the process of extraction. She’s terrified, and clutches her newborn, and moves slow. You don’t know what pain she’s in, but from what you can tell, it’s recent since her delivery, and she must be stronger than you to be moving with you. But you must keep quiet to evade those seeking you both, so you don’t confess your admiration to her.

You rarely work this high up in Manhattan, but from what you can tell, she’s desperate. Something about crossing a powerful family, but you’re not sure how that correlates to the bundle that she clutches at in her arms. Luckily this end of the city is so densely populated, as it’s easier to hide when there are others around. That’s what makes a good spy chase; being hidden in plain sight. Hundreds of thousands of people around you and your client; the best camouflage that money didn’t buy.

You’re crossing the street, briskly making the tail end of a walk light when you smell tyres, hear yells, and gunshots. Looking up, you barely make it in time, yanking the young mother by the fabric of her sweater onto the curb as a trio of black sedans roars past. How was it that rich, bad people all had the same cars? One of the windows opens, and in the split second that they pass, the person inside makes eye contact with you, with the woman you are helping, and you know.

You’ve been made.

“Come on!” you yell. You feel bad, but there’s no time to waste. “We’ve got to go!”

Pushing through the crowd is hard; nobody parts for you in everyday life and they sure as hell aren’t parting now. You try to muscle your way through, but they are resistant, and it’s slow. Eventually, you make it through to the nearest alleyway, and it’s empty enough to sprint.

“I - I can’t!” she wails, weeping. “Please,” she pleas, “take Jude.”

You turn back, about to bolster her, but you see the agony on her face. She’s made it this far, so recently after giving birth, but she leans against the building for support, her legs buckling underneath her. Rushing back, you scoop the baby from her arms. Grateful, she almost weeps, but it’s then she cries out in a shout of pain and falls to the earth beneath her.

There’s no noise of a gunshot, but you know what a silencer sounds like. You turn the way that she had fallen, holding Jude closer to your chest. Your heart beats faster when you find that you can’t see the killer at first, but then they come from the shadows. A white man, 40, dressed down from a suit stands there with a sardonic smile. The pistol in his hand is raised to the sky, waiting, and the way his feet are pointing, you know that you’re the next one to be shot.

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” he drawls. Boston accent.

“You killed her!” you shout. However loud you are, it’s still lost to the wail of the city around you both.  

He lowers the gun so it’s facing you, and you feel your breath catch. He starts to laugh and takes a step toward you. “And you took her from us. She was living a good life, you know. Best that money this side of the river could buy,” he shook his head in disbelief, “and you meddling bitch got her killed.”

Despite the pistol on you, you bite back. “She didn’t want your dirty money.”

“She could have had the life of a queen!” he roared, his other hand coming up to support the gun. You brace yourself, turning away so the baby in your arms is away from the gun’s line of sight. “I’m not to be crossed, don’t you know who I -,”

BANG!

He crumples to the pavement, the gun misfiring as he lands unceremoniously. The shot clatters off a dumpster and disappears into the alleyway, and you almost cry out in fear, afraid. Never in your life have you had such a night go so badly! Shakily, you fold back the blankets around the swaddle and peer inside. Jude sleeps on, unphased from the events that have transpired, exhaling and inhaling as normal. By the time you look to the mobster, there’s another man there.

“East Wind?” he says.

You blink because it’s him.

At this distance, you know it’s him from the marking on the vest, from the smears of red that you remember washing off with loofas back when you shared a shower. You know that voice, and hearing your code name from his mouth, it sends a chill down your spine. Only clients knew of that name, that, and people who spoke of ghost stories of the hero who carried people from danger like an Angel of Death.

“You saved me,” you breathe. He can’t hear you but saying it doesn’t make it feel any more real than it is.

Frank Castle nears, seemingly not looking your way, but instead at the fallen man he had taken down. The way he stalks around it, like a vulture inspecting a carcass is foreign to you, and you watch, silent. He kicks him over, and the face of the man is smothered in the pool of his red. He kicks him once more, but you look away at that, only hearing him when he spits.

You start to walk away. The contact on the outside is still expecting you at a strict time, even if you just had a delay. But you’re not three feet away when you hear him calling after you.

“You can’t go walk away like nothin’ happened,” he shouts. You stop in your tracks, still facing the way that you’re going.

“I’m not the kind of person like you.” You reply.

“There ain’t nobody else like me,” He fires back, and you can tell he’s getting impatient. “Look, lady. There are other guys, more guys like this pisshead - you ain’t safe to do what you do. I mean, all due respects.”

You feel a smile tug up on the corner of your lips. God, how you missed him. It was like returning to a thrill, a drug, an endorphin rush, something so very good and nice after going cold turkey, and it took all your power to stay where you were. You could hear his big combat boots thumping their way toward you, approaching. He seemed to slow as he neared, and for that, you were grateful.

“All due respects,” you draw the last word out, “I can take care of myself.”

He huffs. “Look, East Wind - you’re some hero, but -,”

“I’m not a hero!” you burst, turning to him. The hood falls off, and your face is unveiled.

“________,” he’s as disarmed as you, but unlike him and his guns, your weapon is your wits.

It catches Frank off guard; he almost takes a step back, but steels himself. This close, you can see uneven patches of stubble across his face, the way his eyes look raw and sore, the cuts up his forearms. There are more dings to his vest than ever; even the spray-painted skull looks morose. You try to keep it together, but you can’t break down. Not now, not here, and especially not with your dead client’s child in your arms, considering what the last words shared with Frank were about. A beat passes, and both of you stay quiet until the little one in your arms begins to fuss.

“Is that a -,” he begins.

“A baby, Frank,” you snap, diverting your attention to the child. In her wrap, she wriggles unhappily.

It seems to be that time where her small baby belly aches for sustenance, and unfortunately for you, there isn’t anything to quench her thirst on hand. In your time, you’ve taken care of many different ages of children, from this age to voting age, but you’re not sure if any stores sell formula this late at night.

“I know, I know,” you whisper, fussing over her, “it’s okay.”

Pulling out your phone with your spare hand, you try one-handedly to type. Apart from the fact it’s not your more dexterous hand, you’re tired, and can’t focus on searching for a nearby late-night bodega. You don’t notice Frank closing in until he’s taken your phone from under your nose. He completes the search quickly, and at this point, you’re more focused on taking care of the child in your arms than worrying about being this close to the estranged antihero slash the love of your life. That, and he’s getting smudges of red on your phone, but hey, you’re due for a new case anyway.

“There’s a place, about a block from here,” He says, quietly.

You look up in time to see him looking at you, and your breath catches; it’s so natural, and he’s so attractive, and you can’t help but yearn for him while he’s so close. You don’t say anything, just holding her close, unable to keep the eye contact with him. Frank Castle is a difficult man. He didn’t cry openly and shouted at the TV, he killed killers, had a feud with the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, and in all the time that you shared quarters he wasn’t the most open of all people. You can’t blame him, but now, it’s hard; you just want him back.

“Was this hers…?” he asks, looking to the woman.

“Yeah. I don’t usually…I didn’t even get her name,” you bite at your lip, feeling awful. You’ve never been this close to being caught, being killed, and it’s shaken you. You turn, taking your phone from Frank, and type a slow text to your contact, and walk away. “Lead the way. This girl’s hungry.”

He’s quiet, but he throws a jacket over his red-dirtied torso, hiding it. Once you both merge with the main thoroughfare of the city, he leads the way through the considerably less busy streets. It’s late, and yet the lights are still bright at this end of town. Frank moves toward a 7-11, and waits outside when you go in, and fill a basket with a tin of formula and the last doughnut on the shelf, half-stale from sitting there all day. The clerk who scans barely looks your way, tired, but you’re sure if a soccer mom saw you buying the formula, you’d get an earful of mommy-blog politics about it. But they ring you up, and you lead Frank to a Burger King, where you order a drink to sit at the table and start mixing up the formula in a paper cup for baby Jude as best as you can.

All the while, Frank is quiet.

It’s unnerving.

“…you know, I’m good at my job. And even if you didn’t show up, I would have been fine.” You talk, to fill the silence. If not, all you’d hear is the couple in the corner arguing about who cheated on who, and the probably teen hacker who types faster than you think at a beat-up laptop by the door. “But thanks. I’m just paying it forward - you won’t have to see me again.”

“Don’t go,” he says.

You pause, not sure you heard right. “Frank?”

“I fucked up,” his voice is gravelly, perhaps on the verge of emotion. If you didn’t know any better, this was as close to tears that you’d ever seen him. “It’s been hell without you. Can’t eat, or sleep. Max misses you. Karen stopped talking to me when she found out, same as Claire. Life sucks without you.”

“Frank…” you intone.

“I - I was after that family for the last month. Lousy bastards, the lot of them.” He growls. You don’t even realise that you’ve stopped mixing until Jude whines, and you keep at making the formula. You’re not a pro by a long shot, but it’s hard to focus on it, and Frank. “That guy got away from the scene, and when I saw - I had no clue you were East Wind.”

“East Wind is a fantasy made up by people who want a hero,” you mutter, testing the consistency. As you begin to feed Jude the mix, she laps it up, and you fixate on her, trying to focus on feeding her. “I’m not a hero.”

“But you are,” he rebuts. “To me. Baby, ________, please,” he pleads, leaning closer to you over the table. “I need you. I’ve been to hell and back but being where you ain’t is worse.”

You’re quiet, silent, taking in what he’s saying. Jude finishes lapping up the mix, and you position her on your shoulder, close to your neck. The couple arguing has stopped talking so loudly, and the kid on the laptop has stopped clacking at the keys. Even the machinery and noises of the Burger King are quieter, or so it seems.

“I -,”

“________, sorry I’m late,” Misty, your contact comes in, her street-clothes looking just as worse for wear as you feel. “Traffic was hell. This is the kid?” She asks. She looks between you, and Frank, and purses her lips. “You’re goddamned lucky I’m off-duty now, and too tired to care that I’m seeing the Punisher before me,” she grits between her teeth, glaring at Frank.  

“Friend of yours?” he asks you.

“Have you been to the scene yet?” you ask her, and she nods.

“I’ve sent my guys that way, it’ll be taped up in no time,” she replies, and motions to Jude, where she’s snuggled against your chest. “I’ll collect this little one now. Direct the heat off you and whatnot.”

“Has anyone said you’re an angel?” You smile.

“They’ve said the opposite, but then again wasn’t Lucifer one of them?” she grins and reaches for the baby. You’re hesitant to relinquish her; she’s grown warm in proximity to you, and as soon as she’s in Misty Knight’s arms, you feel slightly empty, like something’s missing. Damn. You never got this attached. “I see you’ve been busy.”

“You’ll be needing this stuff,” you replace the formula in the bag the cashier gave you. With a nod and a silent goodbye, Misty doesn’t spend a minute more in the building.

“I know how much you can’t give you that,” Frank whispers, glum. He takes a deep breath, and exhaling starts to leave. But you can’t help it but reach to him, hold him from going.

“You’re right,” you reply. “You can’t give me that. But there’s more than one way to have a baby. And there are too many damn foster kids, homeless kids, kids in vulnerable spaces that need caring for before I can even think of having one myself.” You lick your lips, wetting them for further exposition, but Frank interrupts you, closing the distance across the table with his mouth on yours. It feels good, tastes like black coffee and smells like iron, but it doesn’t fail to disarm you. “Frank…” you moan.

“I’m an idiot for letting you go.” He says, quiet. Just to you. “Come home. Please.”

You nod. “Okay,” you agree. “But Frank…” you tell him, looking into his eyes. “With you, I’m always home.”

[arabrot]

Who Do You Love by John Doran

Who Do You Love?

We drove 5,000 miles of barbed wire.

You’d think that by travelling that distance around a country you could get the measure of it. Especially if the country was only 361 miles from top to bottom and even less from East to West. You’d be thinking reasonably but not accurately.

Despite journeying the equivalent of one fifth of the circumference of the entire Earth in 31 days, all we got to see was the road itself. England endless. What we experienced was just a percentage of a splodge, a smidge of a blotch on the coastal fringe of Europe that deserved neither the sobriquet Great, nor the title United. How did such a small area of land contain such extravagant lengths of major road? In the same way that a human body could house a tapeworm 33 metres long. Probably not comfortably but hopefully not fatally either. Undoubtedly, in May 2015 - general election month - England had beauty to spare: it’s just that none of it was visible from the motorway.

We met on the forecourt of a petrol station near an airport. Heat haze was already starting to rise from the tarmac. The Driver was dressed immaculately in a tight-fitting black suit, shades and wide-brimmed black hat. His concession to non-monochromatic decoration was silver chains carrying cocks and crosses. He looked like Asa Hawkes, the “blind” preacher from Flannery O’Connor’s Wise Blood - but much thinner. He tipped the brim of his hat hello. This was not his stage hat but his everyday hat. His stage hat, the kind of prairie Stetson featured in the opening scene of Holy Mountain was massive and kept in the kind of box that suggested it was an essential part of a drum kit. It had its own carefully allotted slot in the back of the van with the tons of amplifiers, speaker cabinets, guitars, synthesizers, boxes of books, suitcases full of clothes and bags and bags of oranges we were taking with us. There was only one way to fit all of this stuff into the vehicle, and packing it correctly was like 3-D Tetris. All it took was one giant, impractical hat in the wrong place and then everything had to be taken out again and reloaded in the correct position.

He was the colour of milk, which made the angry red scars up either side of his neck all the more vivid. He looked like the missing link between human being and some future race of Lovecraftian eel-men who would be able to breathe via gills under water.

As well as me and the Driver, there was the Passenger. She looked more like she had stepped straight from the set of Bladerunner than a Jodorowsky or John Huston movie. This was to be their last tour as boyfriend and girlfriend as they were headed straight to a deconsecrated church in rural Sweden to get married as soon as the trip ended. I was merely a temporary guest in their world. A road voyeur with a month long pass.

Within minutes of setting off we hit the M25 we became enmeshed in May Day traffic. I realised that most of the month was going to be spent looking at slow moving traffic on motorways.

But just as driving to Brighton was slow and painful, leaving it the next day was a dream. On the motorway, time stretched and contracted simultaneously in temporal doppler effect. The days seemed longer but time blistered, popped and broke apart pleasantly as the brain switched down a few gears into a near pure experiential mode. There was little to worry about. All I could do was count the pylons and pretend I had a flamethrower to aim at UKIP billboards and hoardings; to luxuriate in motorway sign typography and listen to Maggot Brain as loud as it would go. Miles Davis’ Agharta was the soundtrack to us speeding out of the south up the M1 towards the Rainy City. Al Foster’s ringing, open hi-hat was our fuel. And then it was nothing but John Coltrane, Electric Wizard and NOMEANSNO until we reached our destination. It started raining the second we hit Stoke. And then before long we were on the Mancunian Way heading for Piccadilly in torrential rain, parking the van under a tangle of flyovers. When I planned this jaunt it was a thing of beauty. I took an AA road map and unfolded it until it covered half the floor space in my tiny living room. I took a sheet of stickers from my son’s Thomas The Tank Engine magazine and created a spiral of towns and cities, first round the edges near the coast and then spiraling in toward the centre. Our proposed journey looked like an occult temporal and spatial message only discernable from the god perspective. What I planned was a perfect thing. But after you plan your perfect thing what happens is this: promoters start phoning you up or emailing you. ‘We’ve double booked you with a Stereophonics tribute act’; ‘There’s actually a bar mitzvah on that day’; ‘It’s Record Store Day.’ And then the perfect thing falls to pieces. By the time we hit the road the perfect thing looked like that terrifying film of a spider on LSD trying to spin a web. And there was only one thing worse than a spider on LSD trying to spin a web and that was a spider on caffeine trying to spin a web.

We stopped for several coffees en route to Sunderland the next day. The weather was beautiful. Fields of golden rape seed glowed under a blue sky. But I gave up counting the UKIP billboards. There were just too many. The purple pound signs zipped past in a blur. We’d been on the road for five days and I hadn’t seen a single sign for Labour. It was almost a relief when we passed a huge hoarding in an arable field next to a broken tractor which proclaimed: “Prepare to meet your Lord!” We pulled in soon after to stretch our legs in front of a petrol station that shared a forecourt with a sex shop wrapped in a large tarpaulin hoarding, proclaiming: “Under new management!” Next door was a garden centre flying a row of ten confederate flags and two Union Jacks. There was a knackered and rusty jet stream caravan serving up plastic cups of filter coffee.

It became clear early on that the Travelodge was our friend. Every Travelodge the Driver, the Passenger and I shared was identical. A family room. One double bed, one fold out couch bed, minimal decoration, very interesting mass produced art, scant furniture, tea making facilities and a portable telly, often chained to the wall. The Travelodge may have had less furniture in it than the average bail hostel and may sometimes have smelled like a suburban pet shop from 1984 but it was totally fine as we were low ranking touring musicians and writers, not visiting dignitaries from Saudi Arabia.

After Leeds, our Travelodge was situated in a motorway retail park so the following morning we walked just a few hundred yards to the Toby Carvery for breakfast. Pushing open the double swing doors we were confronted by a man in stained chef’s whites, with hair pushed under a light blue plastic turban crowning a jowly and crimson face. He was methodically and noisily applying a large cleaver to a foot long cylindrical sharpening steel with a schnick-schnick sound.

“Hello!” said the Driver cheerfully. “Are you Toby?”

The chef looked up slowly and a pendulous and translucent bead of sweat swayed under his nose. His eyes were like drill holes in gammon. Bruised udders of flesh were hanging below each of his nicotine-stained ocular orbs. He was possibly the most hungover man I had ever seen. He jawed away silently, his eyes flickering dully with rage as he started straightening up. The BPM of metal on metal increased. The three of us circled round him gingerly and headed rapidly for the breakfast counter past tables rammed full of people who looked like they were about to die. I had never seen so many morbidly obese people in one place at one time. It was like God’s waiting room with unlimited fried egg.

Oh England, you are sick.

It was only £5 per head and you could eat as much as you wanted but the choice was only bacon, sausages, roast potatoes, black pudding, fried egg, fried bread, beans and mushrooms. The thrill of the open road. Unlimited roast potatoes and bacon for breakfast.

(We spent just one night at the supposedly more upmarket Premier Inn, and it was relatively more luxurious but due to its incomprehensible automated reception machine, it took us an hour and a long conversation with two angry Premier Inn employees to gain access to our room. “Getting into this hotel was like the opening scene from a new episode of Black Mirror”, said the Driver, a recent convert to the show. “There’s nothing like waking up in some shitty English town, before eating some shitty English breakfast before driving slowly down some shitty English motorway for 12 hours before loading into some shitty English venue and playing a shitty gig to ten people before going to some shitty Travelodge just to watch a really well made English TV series which explains to you exactly why everything is so fucked”, he told me gleefully.)

Any hotel room was actually very much like home as long as you had a laptop, a handful of Nick Cave CDs, some Right Guard and a copy of Threads on DVD, which happened to be the exact contents of my overnight hotel bag.

Waking up in another identical Travelodge on another identical Motorway retail park the next day I realised finally that this was literally the worst place for a writer to be during general election month. Nowhere had wifi that worked. It was like being in a bubble of ignorance for 31 days. We had to choose these parks to minimise the chances of the splitter van getting stolen with all of our gear inside it. Every Travelodge we stayed in was essentially the same, surrounded by a handful of other outlets - a Toby Carvery or a Harvester or, if you were really unlucky, both of them. Then maybe also a Costa, a Boots and an Esso petrol station as well. They were all accessible from a motorway roundabout that wasn’t really near anything other than either an airport, a prison or an industrial estate. A vague hangover from reading JG Ballard as a schoolboy led me to believe that there would be some kind of mind-expanding nourishment to be had from this aspect of the venture but these motorway retail parks were all identical. They were the most co-opted and least free spaces of all.

After breakfast, outside, sitting on a wall drinking a cup of tea in the sunshine, I looked intently at a semicircle of rooks surrounding a single bird of their own kind. They were slowly advancing in toward it. The bird in the middle was stock still and not moving. It didn’t look like a friendly encounter. The Driver and the Passenger came out and joined me. The parliament were just about to attack the accused in order to peck it to death but just as the corvine jury bore down, they were disturbed by a loud noise from above. The Red Arrows flew over the Travelodge in formation causing them to scatter  It felt almost as if the Driver existed in a bubble of weird, uncanny, apocalyptic and esoteric events that moved with him wherever he roved. But it was also as if he barely noticed any of them. I stood pointing at the sky.

“Yes, yes” he snapped irritably as if he was sick of seeing this kind of thing. “Let’s get in the van and get off otherwise we won’t get to Digbeth in time.”

That night I dreamt that the solid iron core of the Earth was about to slough us all off until the planet stood raw and bleeding in space, just roiling magma with no skin to contain it. The utter indignity of being born between waves, the scions of a pusillanimous age we were all about to be cast into the void with the filthy scab of a country we called England. A flat and unmagical land. A depressing and tawdry place. When I opened my eyes Toby was stood in the corner of the room, sharpening his cleaver, schnick, schnick, schnick, schnick. Empty eye sockets carved out of rancid, fly-blown gammon.  

“We have to stop eating lunch at the Harvester!” I sprang out of my fold out bed and shouted at the Driver and the Passenger, waking them from their sleep. “The full rack of ribs is fucking killing me!”

Fuck the Harvester. Fuck Toby Carvery. All of the clothes that were hanging off me on May 1 were now snug and it was only May 12. My ears were ringing with the premonition of some future blue cheese dressing related pulmonary event.

It was easy to see how ruinous life on the road could be, even when you didn’t drink or do drugs. I felt sorry for younger bands who felt they had to go out partying every night after shows. After a couple of weeks it must end up hellish.

The road to Hull was paved with UKIP signs. Only Necrosis by Cadaver played at ear disrespecting volumes kept us sane. It was dark as we drove into town and ghosts lined Ferensway waiting to greet me. The cinema where I’d had my first date in town, the pair of us just turned 18 - watching Shirley Valentine no less, saying, “Imagine being that old” about Pauline Collins and Bernard Hill - was now a bingo hall. The war memorial that I regularly drank sherry in front of on a bench. The Welly nightclub where I saw a punter swan dive off a balcony and go headfirst through the corner of a formica table. When they took him out on a stretcher there was a blanket pulled up over his face. And then down past my old house on De Grey Street and into the car park of the Adelphi. And then the ghosts waved us back out of town.

The drive to Great Yarmouth was gruelling and 13-hours long because of traffic - we got stuck behind no less than three serious road accidents. Bodies strewn across baking tarmac. Bloodied travellers weeping in incomprehension at the hard shoulder. Slow moving the traffic might have been but at least we had plenty of long albums to listen to. Just like a mattress in a shared student house or the narrative flow of the Bayeux Tapestry - Kendrick Lamar’s To Pimp A Butterfly sagged in the middle but it was very, very long, making it ideal for the van.

Eight hours later, after the show, we flew down the A47 unimpeded like we were clinging to a rocket, listening to Slayer albums sequentially at full volume, gabbling like a bunch of four-year-olds as we went. By the last day, I felt like I was about to die and constantly on the verge of tears. I didn’t want it to end. It was the best of times. It was the worst of times. It was the worst of times. It was genuinely the worst of all times. And yet I’d crawl over broken glass to be able to do it all again right now.

You know, if you really want to get the measure of a country don’t drive round it. Take a train or walk. Maybe buy a bicycle or a skateboard or something.

We drove 5,000 miles of barbed wire and parked the splitter van by the roadside.

John Doran, Bangkok, Thailand, December 2017

[almostrealdudes]

The Heat (Peter Parker x fem!S/O)

A/N: Hi. Hello there. How are you, my dudes? I am here to welcome you into my weird ass journey on researching spiders and their sexual tendencies. Starting with me thinking about what else could a spider bite give Peter beside his strength and senses, oh wait, senses? As in sensitivity? Hold on what if— Then skip to me googling such things as “spider sex” and “the most NSFW spider sex practices.” My searching history is… pretty questionable, to say the least. Basically, I was searching for something like “spider heat.” I found nothing similar, although spiders are indeed sex freaks, and not in a cute way. However, although spiders don’t have heats, I decided that Peter Parker will. You know, for content. This piece, besides being a smut for smut’s sake, introduces a concept of Peter Parker going into heats. His spider senses provide him with hyper sensibility and periodical extreme horniness. This is totally inspired by the Sex Pollen series, written by the lovely @lousimusician. Be sure to read it, it's so goddamn good! I couldn't resist exploring a similar concept of unrelieved arousal. Also, that’s a long-ass introduction for a smut, lmao, let’s move on. Pairing: Peter Parker x fem!S/O Word count: 1.8k Warnings: Smut. This time not direct, but still strongly smut-related. Seriously, it’s so filthy. Just the way you like it Summary: After starting his sex life in a relationship, Peter found out his spider senses have a perk(debatable) that comes with his strength and the sense of danger. It’s the reoccurring heat - a terrible sense of horniness, which can only be relieved through sex. And we all know how that goes.

PART 2

                                                         * * *

She tried to always be with Peter during his heat periods, because, first, it was a serious productivity block and there was no chance Peter could do anything in heat and second, to put the sex itself aside, it was a serious torture for him; his sensitivity being through the roof, Peter couldn’t even lie still, because anything his skin touched caused a huge wave of arousal to go over his body, sending Peter into spasms and shudder. Peter and she were tracking his heats: marking them to be able to prepare in advance, canceling plans and staying in when it happened. They weren’t happening that often, every six months or so, but exactly because they were rare it was easy to forget about them.

She really tried to stay with him. But as far as luck goes, there are always unfortunate exceptions. Peter was out in the city, patrolling the streets; he knew she had plans with her friends, so he wouldn’t see her until tonight, which was fine. They’ve been living together for a while now, and it wasn’t anything unusual. Peter was swinging in between the buildings when he felt his body tingle a bit. He was getting gradually warmer. He brushed it off at first: it was a sunny day out and he was under direct sunlight a lot. But then, the warmth started slowly travelling down to the lower part of his body and it hit him.

Fuck. Oh fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

He forgot. He absolutely forgot. How could he forget? He shot another string of webs but missed the building and nearly fell down, catching himself last moment and landing on a nearby roof sloppily, rolling head over heels. Catching his balance, Peter finally balanced himself and looked down: the bulge on his crotch was already growing bigger and his suit was not helping at all; it was emphasizing the problem if anything.

“Shit,” Peter mumbled. His breath was already heavy, and not from the web swinging he’s been doing. He was pretty far from their shared apartment and didn’t have a change of clothes or his phone with him. He had to make it back home before the heat became worse, cause if he’s late, he’ll be stuck somewhere in the city with an infinite huge boner, unable to move. Peter cursed again and quickly looked around, trying to understand his current location. Suddenly, the tightness of the suit started to feel even tighter than usual, and Peter’s cock twitched, forcing out the first mewl out of him.

He had to move fast.

Finding the right direction, he shot out the webs and proceeded to move through the city, as fast as he could. His body was growing hotter every second, his mouth was starting to salivate more intensely, and the head of his penis was beginning to hurt as if the heat somehow saw the discomfort of his position and rushed to catch him before his return. Peter’s mind was slowly going hazy and casting off into various sexual images. He started thinking about his girlfriend: her hands were roaming his body; he swore he could feel the wetness of her lips on his skin. There she was, caressing his earlobe with her teeth, slowly getting down on him, unzipping his pants and—

“No no no no no, you stop that,” Peter panted, shaking his head. He was getting close to home, as the tall skyscrapers gradually changed into shorter apartment buildings. But she was also getting close, her lips dangerously near his already pulsating member. Peter’s cock twitched again, and he shot his webs past the building, losing his grip and falling down. Thankfully, he was swinging pretty low and his fall onto some street wasn’t as painful as it could be. The impact sent his body into a spasm from oversensitivity, and Peter moaned loudly as he tried to get up. Looking up, already unable to see clearly, Peter saw people gathering around him, taking out their phones. One of them reached their hand and touched his elbow, helping him up. A light human touch almost sent Peter into oblivion, because it felt like someone wrapped their lips around the head of his cock. He was already leaking precum, and this was a terrible sign: he had minutes before his body would reach the heat in its entirety. The image of his girlfriend was back. Resting against asphalt on his elbows, Peter suddenly saw her underneath him, her tongue out, grinding against his hips. His cock was so hot now, it felt like he was ins i d e  h e r

Peter whimpered as the image of his girlfriend disappeared again. He was losing it. Using the last bits of his strength, he looked up to try and understand where he was. And thank god, he recognized the neighborhood. Their apartment building was right around the corner. He only needed to web himself up one last time and swing into the window.

“Hey, Spiderman, you alright?” someone asked in concern.

“I’m f-fine,” Peter whined and shot the web in front of him. Gladly, it clung onto the wall and allowed him to yank himself up in the air one last time before shooting another web right near their apartment’s window, which oh my god was left open. Peter flew inside in one motion, collapsing onto the floor. He immediately pressed a button on his chest and released his body from the suit, moaning as it slid down his skin, which felt like dozens of hands caressing him. His girlfriend was back underneath him, holding his cock against her flaming hot folds

Her image was dispersed by Peter’s saliva dripping onto the ground from his parted lips. He whimpered, completely out of breath, struggling to close his mouth. Shaking, Peter got up and made his way to the nightstand to grab his phone.

the heat we forgot babe come back please come back

He finally climbed onto the bed, taking his pants off on the way. Grabbing his cock, he squeezed it, trying to relieve the pressure but ending up only adding more to the tip. It was leaking lavishly, making Peter whine without rest. He closed his eyes shut and bit on his lip, trying to hold himself together. His body was on fire: his senses were through the roof and even the slightest contact of the sheets with his skin, the smallest motion around the bed sent a jolt of arousal through him, making him moan. He felt like the entirety of his body was one huge erogenous spot, and he was being teased, touched and licked all over and at the same time, nothing was actually being done to him, and his body longed for these sensations with desperation.

A moaning mess, Peter turned himself over, pressing his face into the pillow, and started jerking himself off vigorously, in fast rough motions. His girlfriend was right at his ear, losing it, whining his name, as his palm turned into her folds, similarly wet from all the precum leaking all around his shaft. Salivating all over the pillowcase, Peter brought himself extremely close to an orgasm, but his arousal stopped moments before the very peak and did not move any higher, denying him the relief. Peter sobbed, biting harder onto his lip, buckling his hips into the mattress, desperate for facilitation. That was the worst part of it all: Peter was not able to orgasm without his girlfriend. Such intense excitability needed direct contact with a pu—

“Fu-uck,” Peter moaned, unable to even think of that word anymore. He had no sane thoughts left in his head. All there was were endless images of his cock sliding in and out of his girlfriend’s cunt, her tongue running up and down his length, moans, wetness, friction, and continuously growing hotness. Grabbing his phone again with his free hand, Peter looked at the chat, hoping to see an update.

But there was none.

His messages had the ‘received’ check, but they were still unread.

Of course. She’s with her friends, she probably doesn’t even have her phone near her. If she never reads those messages and only finds out after eventually getting home… Peter didn’t know if he could make it through the day. He wasn’t even sure if he could make it through the next hour. He could feel his cock pulsating, it was pounding in his ears and sending impulses through his entire figure, teasing every inch of his body.

“Ple-ease,” he sobbed, coiling in desperation, tears prickling in his eyes. Peter was on an unending edge. And he didn’t know how much else he would last.

                                                        * * *

She loved spending time with her friends. They kind of separated since high school, but their meetings, although now happening less often, were always filled with life updates and stories, because everyone had a ton and a few kilos of info they were willing to share with each other.

“So, yeah, although it has been two dates already, I’m still not sure if he’s boyfriend material,” one of the girls ended, shrugging her shoulders. The other one, sitting next, quickly caught the thought.

“By the way, about boyfriend material,” she stirred the drink in her glass with a straw, “how’s the nerd king doing?”

No names were called, but it was pretty obvious the girl was referring to Peter. “The Nerd Queen,” as she has been hailed as, jerked her head upwards at the change of topic.

“He’s great,” she said, fixing her hair.

“Is he still doing that Stark Internship of his?”

“Yeah, he’s pretty busy,” she smirked to herself, images of Peter in his Spiderman suit swinging around the city passing through her head.

“Damn, I wish I had such a solid job opportunity. I bet he doesn’t have to worry about his future at all!”

“Of course not, it’s only fair! With brains like his…”

“It’s not perfect. Yeah, it’s a solid job, but it’s… pretty tough,” she said, now recalling all the times she had to fix Peter up after his missions. Oh, about Peter.

“Actually, thanks for reminding me. I should probably check on him, see if he’s done working.”

She took her bag, which was hanging on her chair and calmly searched for the phone. Finally getting a hold of it, she took it out to find a few pending new messages from Peter. Speak of the devil, she thought. Her cheerful demeanor, however, was quickly gone when she read the content of the texts.

Shit.

Shit shit shit shit shit shit.

“The heat!”

She jumped up, her heart beating like insane. These messages were sent three hours ago. How long has he been like this? Oh no. Oh, she's so stupid! How could she forget? Why didn't she look at the phone sooner? This is bad.

“The heat?...” one of her friends raised her brow, looking at her in confusion. Realizing she said it out loud, her lips parted, her mind searching for an explanation.

“…er.”

“Er?”

“The heater. I-I-I forgot to—to—to turn off the heater!”

“Are you okay?”

“I gotta go! I’ll see you later, okay?”

She grabbed her bag and took off, running as fast as she could.

“Oh, Peter, please, hang in there. I’m on my way.”

_________

PART 2

[ks-caster]

The Future is Infinite (Chapter 2)

Chapter-specific warnings: slightly graphic descriptions of violence in battle, suicidal ideation, character experiences a panic attack, vomiting.

Start

“Steve Rogers,” Steve introduced himself to the strange woman, holding out a hand.

“Octavia,” she responded, switching her sword to her other hand to shake his. Her bare upper arms both seemed to be intact, which was strange, since Steve was absolutely certain her arm had been broken a moment ago. Before he had a chance to comment, a bright yellow light appeared to his left, and all four of them jumped to ready stances, only to be faced with a similarly exhausted and grime-covered group of people limping out of the portal.

“Tony!” Bruce exclaimed, having finally freed himself from the wreckage of Veronica. Steve’s breath caught in his throat - his genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist former friend was indeed limping through the portal, supported by that spider kid from the airport and holding his bleeding torso.

“Time stone,” one of the newcomers was listing as he leaned down to retrieve the glowing dot of green, placing it in an ornate golden pendant he was wearing around his neck. His red cape fluttered eerily against the light breeze.

“What, did Thanos just drop it?” Tony demanded in confusion as the man took a few steps forward to pick up the orange stone, letting it hover over his scarred hand.

“Octavia hacked some of them off the gauntlet before he retreated,” Steve responded. “Where’s…”

“Soul stone,” the grey-streaked man said, holding up the orange gem, and then turned to Octavia. “And the reality stone, safely inhabiting one Octavia Blake. Welcome to Earth your majesty,” he added with a respectful nod to her. Her eyebrows both arched, but her face gave nothing more away.

“And what should I call you? Other than disturbingly well-informed?” she asked coldly, folding her arms across her chest.

“Dr. Strange,” he introduced himself.

“Inhabiting?” Banner repeated, looking quickly between Strange and Octavia.

“The Aether, or Reality Stone, appears in multiple forms,” Strange explained quickly, weaving more golden light around the Soul Stone until it was encased in magic, then releasing the spell to leave a faintly glowing orb of material about the size of a pool ball lying in his hand. “It can be solid, it can be gaseous, or it can inhabit a living host. In this case, it’s inhabiting Octavia.”

“Guessing that’s why my arm suddenly works again,” she responded, flexing the muscle, face betraying nothing about how she felt regarding all of this strangeness. The doctor nodded, pocketing the soul stone and turning to T’Challa as he emerged from the woods, Bucky, Sam and Okoye on his heels.

“And also why your ribs are no longer puncturing your lungs, and so on and so forth,” he finished for her before switching conversations abruptly. “I take it the army has retreated?”

“Moments ago,” T’Challa responded, eyes moving quickly between everyone in the clearing. “Thanos?”

“Ran for his life,” Strange chuckled, “but still has two of the stones in his possession - Space and Power. He’ll be back in search of the others.”

“Then it is imperative that my sister finish removing this one from Vision,” the king responded. “We cannot in good conscience destroy it if it is attached to a living being.”

“Destroy— what the hell did I miss?” Tony demanded as Rhodey emerged from the forest and immediately took him from the spider kid.

“Medical attention first,” T’Challa decided, placing his own shoulder under Steve’s sagging weight, “explanations later.”

“Octavia,” Dr. Strange addressed her, and Steve turned to look in her direction, just in time to see her face go completely blank as she slumped to the ground in a graceless tangle of limbs.

“Her body needs time to get used to its new symbiote,” Strange explained dispassionately as Bucky strode over and lifted her up in a fireman’s carry, her fallen sword fitting neatly into his belt. “Anyway,” he added with something that sounded almost like compassion, “she’s had a worse day than any of us. She could probably use some rest before I make it worse yet.” 

-0-

Every cell in Octavia’s body was on fire. The pain had begun after the Big Purple Bastard had slammed her into the ground, but it wasn’t just the feeling of all the bones that had surely shattered at the impact. Before she’d even had a chance to comprehend that pain, the burning had started, covering her whole body and filling her mind with white noise until she could hardly keep from screaming. She’d felt the burn intensify around her back, ribs and broken arm, but then those areas faded back into the agonized mass that was her body a moment later.

She’d forced herself to her feet, tried her best to be aware of her surroundings, but once she knew that her enemy had escaped, all of the energy she’d been expending to keep herself on her feet seemed so pointless. Without really meaning to, she let herself crumple, face pressed into the sweet-smelling grass for what she hoped wouldn’t be the last time.

Still vaguely lucid, she felt someone lift her, and heard snatches of conversation as they went wherever the hell they were going. Pressing her eyes shut, she breathed through the pain, trying not to vomit all over the guy carrying her.

Apparently the Big Purple Bastard’s name was Thanos; he’d gotten one of the gem thingies from Dr. Strange a few minutes before he’d arrived to fight Steve Rogers, and Dr. Strange had known she and Steve would be there to keep him from taking the stones any further when he’d given his up. That was more than a little presumptuous of him, she thought sourly, and the injured man named Tony seemed to agree. 

After that, she could no longer focus on anything but how her body felt. At some point her center of gravity moved and she was on the ground again, her stomach heaving up bile and probably nothing else - when had she eaten last? Three days ago? Four? Someone was holding her hair back, and then time seemed to smear itself around her, and she was lying on her back in a bed, with entirely different voices conversing above her.

“When Jane had the Aether inside of her it was killing her!” a man was insisting, loud and agitated.

“Octavia’s people and those on Earth here and now share a common ancestor,” Dr. Strange was explaining tiredly, “but she’s several evolutionary steps farther along. She’ll adapt and survive.”

“Her cells are mutating to handle the stone’s presence,” a reedy woman’s slightly accented voice explained. “Based on the pattern here, I’d say she’ll have reached an optimal balance in about two hours.” 

“But if the idea is to blow the thing up, shouldn’t we...” someone else muttered worriedly, and Octavia recognized the voice of the man who’d told Bellamy and the others to stay put. She wondered if they had.

“You don’t blow up an Infinity Stone,” Strange enunciated slowly, cutting the speaker off, and Octavia could almost hear him rolling his eyes. “Sure, Wanda Maximoff’s abilities could have fragmented the mind stone, but only because it would have regenerated inside of her due to the shared nature of her power. No, the stones are here to stay.”

“The ‘here’ part worries me,” interjected a speaker, accompanied by a slightly pained shuffle of footsteps. What had the man in the big red armor called him? Tony?

“You shouldn’t be up yet,” Strange admonished, and a number of other voices began speaking all at once. The cacophony of sound was too much for Octavia to follow, and she drifted again.

-0-

The pain faded to a warm ache that reminded her deliciously of the way her muscles felt after a good workout, and Octavia breathed deeply, savoring the welcome change. She blinked, her eyes taking in the well-lit room without the normal headache of awakening to light in her eyes that she expected.

“Back with us?” Steve’s voice greeted her, and she turned her head to see him in the bed to the right of hers, sitting up, one of his arms wrapped in bandages. Behind him, a man in blue leather armor with some sort of metal sleeve over his arm leaned sideways to look at her around Steve’s torso. Octavia glanced to her left, taking in the continuous row of white-sheeted beds and the clearly injured patients in them, and sat up gingerly, not sure she trusted the newfound relief in her body.

“I came to your planet on a refugee ship,” she started, wanting to rip the bandage off quickly. “Has anyone—”

“T’Challa sent a delegation to welcome them and see them to temporary habitation until there’s a chance to properly relocate them,” Steve assured her. Then he paused, looking uncomfortable. “Dr. Strange instructed the team not to let any of them know you were here. Is… everything okay?” Octavia blinked, taking in the wounded puppy look he was giving her, the way he hunched forwards, and the softness in his voice - and the way his brunette friend’s face was carefully blank, but his eyes were barely restrained from rolling.

She burst out laughing. Doubling over and clutching her miraculously healed ribs, she let her body shake out mirth until she couldn’t breathe.

“What? What did I say?” Steve was asking from somewhere above her.

“I’m sorry,” she giggled helplessly, wiping her eyes. “First I step on you, then I laugh in your face… I’m making a terrible first impression! Not my worst one, I guess,” she added sourly as she got herself under control. “It’s a long story,” she declined to explain, clearing her throat and reached up to pull the last of her hair free of her ruined braid. 

“No idea how Dr. Knows-Too-Much knows about it, but I guess he does,” she grumbled.

“Yeah,” a young voice explained suddenly, and three heads lifted to see a teenager reclining in a hammock that was apparently stuck to the ceiling, “Mr. Strange did the time stone thingy and looked into like 14 million different futures while we were on the titan planet.” Lifting himself free of the hammock, he walked down the wall like it was a flat floor and jumped lightly down between the beds.

“How long has he been up there?” the brunette man demanded in a gruff whisper. Steve shrugged helplessly.

“He said there was only one where we win, so I guess this is it. Or I hope so anyway. Hey, they said you basically swallowed an infinity stone - what did it taste like?” Octavia’s eye twitched. Undeterred, the kid forged ahead. “What planet are you from? They were saying you had a common ancestor with humans - I didn’t know that was a thing, like there are other planets out there with other humans on them? That’s so cool!” 

“Let her breathe, Peter,” A deep, even voice instructed. Octavia vaguely recognized the richly robed man as the one who’d worn the strange black armor. “I’m sure you have a great many questions,” he added as he reached the end of her bed. She swung her legs over to the left side, avoiding the now-apologizing teenager on her right, and reaching a hand out to shake his offered one. “I am king T’Challa, of Wakanda - the country you are in now. You are welcome here, and at the request of Dr. Strange, we have extended asylum to you until the political situation among your own people can be resolved.”

“Yeah, a resolution would be me dying - or leaving,” Octavia said bluntly, locating her sword leaning against a small table and reaching for it. “I hadn’t intended to stay this long - didn’t expect killing the big purple bastard to be more than one fight.”

“Cocky,” the brunette in the background commented.

“I’m missing something serious here aren’t I?” Peter said quietly.

“Ya’ think?” the brunette hissed. 

“Bucky,” Steve said warningly.

“Well,” T’Challa responded calmly, “any plans that involve you dying will need to be postponed - according to our analysis, you’re functionally immortal while the Infinity Stone remains in your system.”

Octavia blinked, not sure what to think about that. She blinked again. And again. King T’Challa was opening his mouth to speak again, and she could see Steve out of the corner of her eye - he had that look again, like he was going to ask if she needed a hug, and— 

“Yeah, that’s—” she felt herself saying, “that’s not going to work for me.” 

“I understand that you may—” he started, but she cut him off, her words coming out in a sharp growl.

“Shop of! Yu getin laik nada, nomonjoka!” She shoved past him - he reached out to catch her arm but she shook him off. He made another grab, and as she whirled her arm in an arc to dislodge his grip, a blast of red light exploded from her skin where he touched her. 

King T’Challa went flying head over heels - Octavia saw Peter jump in and catch him safely out of the corner of her eye as she fled the room.

Her heart was pounding in her throat. People were shouting behind her, and two sets of footsteps started to catch up. She didn’t look back to see whose they were.

Couldn’t even kill one guy.

Couldn’t even walk away afterwards.

Strangers knew everything about her.

Functionally immortal…

She wished the floor would open up and swallow her.

And then she was falling, watching neatly cut sections of floor after floor passing her by. In the space above her she saw Steve and Bucky’s faces staring in shock at her descent, and somehow that snapped her out of whatever state she’d been in; the next floor was solid and she smashed into it. With a bitten off cry of pain she pulled herself to her feet and took off running in the first direction that suited her. What the hell had just happened? 

Infinity stone.

Cells mutating.

Functionally immortal.

She fell to her knees in the middle of some hallway somewhere, heaving up bile again. Voices speaking in an unfamiliar language approached her, and she stumbled to her feet again, eyes searching the space for an escape route.

“Octavia!” she heard Steve shout, just as she located an outside window. She bolted for it, unsure of what she hoped to find on the other side: a manageable drop so she could run off into the woods, retrieve her bag, and keep going until she was far, far away from everyone and everything - or a fall far enough to kill her and put her out of everyone’s misery.

With a wave of her hand, she peeled open the glass like a curtain, flinging herself out towards the setting sun. 

The fall was long. But before she could get anywhere close to the ground, a sparking gold circle opened up beneath her, and she had the sudden sensation of falling upwards for a moment before crashing back onto a wooden floor. Rolling to her feet in a ready stance, she drew her sword as the portal closed.

“Stephen wasn’t kidding,” a portly man in dark red robes commented with a deep belly laugh. “You really are a live wire.” 

Trigedasleng Translations:

I had to make up a couple of words because I couldn’t find the translations online - if you notice an error in my use of trig, please feel free to message me and let me know what it’s supposed to say!

Shop of! Yu getin laik nada, nomonjoka! = Be quiet! You understand nothing, motherfucker!

To Be Continued...

[shadowofmytime]

>> some of my absolute favorites ! like and reblog if you save and enjoy ! happy reading and give some kudos to these amazing writers ! always feel free to send me some of your favorites ! ! <<

>> There is a bit so for your convenience they are in alphabetical order ! The ‘s’s are some of my all-time favorites ! ! <<

>> min yoongi x park jimin <<

All the seasons of your love - 5k+ [college au]

The movement in the library was still slow in the first week, so Yoongi could easily remember the few people who came by. That's why he pays so much attention to a certain dark-haired freshman who walks in on a Wednesday afternoon - or at least that's what he tells himself. He goes over to the front counter and asks Yoongi for directions to the Economy 101 session and, God, his voice is as sweet as his eye-smile.

Or how librarian Yoongi fell head over heels for cute freshman Park Jimin who, unfortunately, was very much straight - or so Yoongi thought.

Bon Voyage - 47.9+ [tourist! au]

Yoongi was meant to be taking the trip of a lifetime with his boyfriend. But now he's in Paris, alone and miserable. That is until he collides - quite literally - with one Park Jimin.

Boys who talk shit - 26k+ [college au]

When Yoongi enrolled in BTS (aka Boys who Talk Shit) Boarding School, he wasn't really expecting to be the only 'straight' (to be read sarcastically) guy in a room of seven geniuses (aka children aged five to ten, honestly). Plus four pet spiders. Yes, plural.

Chaotic episodes in A Place of Love and War, where Yoongi learns all about True Love via Park Jimin, Music and Marriage. Sort of. Brain bleach and earplugs are strongly recommended.

Conflicting arrangement - 162k+ [fake boyfriend au]

"Absolutely not," Yoongi deadpanned. "Namjoon-ah. I value you as a friend, and I think I'd even go as far as to say that you're my best friend, but absolutely fucking not."

"You owe me," Namjoon pleaded. "Come on, Yoongi, it's not a big deal."

"Your boyfriend's best friend's best friend needs a fake boyfriend to come out to his family this Chuseok, all the way in fucking Busan," Yoongi repeated drily without pause, making Namjoon wince. He flipped a page of his textbook, picking up his highlighter. "Not a big deal, Namjoon. Amazing."

Cotton Candy - 240k [high school rock band]

"He could get used to sitting next to Yoongi like this. To have him around. To have the band around. To smile and feel happy. To see Yoongi sitting in front of an instrument and having him play just for him.

'If this was my happy ending,' Jimin thinks, resisting the urge to lean his head on Yoongi's shoulder, 'if I wasn't who I am, I'd just let you have me whenever you want. You could have me anytime.'"

As spring turns into summer, school band Cotton Candy unexpectedly loses its singer and the members are forced to look for a new vocalist. Six boys find one in the form of the promiscuous pink-haired boy Park Jimin who makes a home in their hearts and finally finds a place he belongs

Daegu drift - 53k+ [motorcyclist / playboy au]

Jimin stops in Daegu for a big motor show and gets caught up with the locals. Specifically one Min Yoongi.

Sneak Peek:

Yoongi has his arms folded as he stares Jimin down.

“Are you going to join the rally, or not?”

Jimin takes his time answering because he likes the way Yoongi is looking at him. “Sure. I guess it could be fun. But you do realize none of you have a chance against a Bugatti, right?”

“It’s not the car that wins the race,” the other man says. “It’s the driver. You could have the fastest, best-equipped car in the goddamn universe, but if you’re a shit driver, it doesn’t make a difference.”

Goodbye from lonely - 65k+ [uncle yoongi!]

Park Jimin works two jobs that he loves and is going to college to get his teaching degree.

Min Yoongi is a personal assistant who hates his job and spits in his boss' coffee every day.

Kim Taehyung has been infatuated with his clueless co-worker for the better part of a year.

Jeon Jeongguk has a three-year-old daughter that he'd do anything for.

Somehow the tiny human brings them all together.

Or

Tae is in love with Kookie -> Kookie's daughter takes Jimin's ballet class -> Yoongi is Kookie's stepbrother -> Jimin and Yoongi meet because of Kookie's daughter.

In your eyes (it’s where I wanna be) - 5.5k [coffee shop! au]

Jimin pauses with his marker inches away from the cup, because — is he really going to do this? Isn’t it a bit old-fashioned to write something flirty on a coffee cup? But no matter what his churning gut says about the danger and what the hell are you doing do you want to die, this guy is — with no better way to put it — totally Jimin’s Type with a capital T.

(Or: Jimin accidentally starts a nickname war with the cute blonde who likes his coffee way too bitter.)

Inked flowers - 6.4k [tattoo artist / florist au]

Something stopped him. A sound of a piano. He looked around and saw a light coming from the window on the other side of the street. On the third floor was an open window. A light and the sorrowful sound of a piano flew out of the room. Jimin looked closer and saw a figure or at least a top of someone's head.

The melody was so sad and sorrowful that Jimin wanted to cry. He started thinking, what could possibly go inside that person’s head? What were they thinking? Jimin just hoped that they weren’t sad and alone.

(let me see you) get high then low - 4k+ [photographer/model au]

"The light-haired model is the kind that fascinates Yoongi, and at the same time, he prefers to steer away from. He's all smiles and flowers, drawing you in with his cuteness until he's not anymore. Suddenly, he’s something else entirely; he's that false calm, the ocean that looks smooth on the surface but will drag you down to its depths if you dare to touch it."

or

Min Yoongi works in a photography studio with some (very questionable) friends that can't get any work properly done without making a bit of a fuss.

Park Jimin is a model handcuffed against his will and bored. Also a little bit horny, maybe.

Math Tutor - 11.7k [bad boy! yoongi]

Min Yoongi is the school's resident Bad Boy™. He's covered in tattoos, is pierced, curses like a sailor, smokes like crazy, doesn't give a shit about anything, possesses a hot temper that has people steering clear of him, and is desperately in love with Park Jimin, the adorable math nerd. When Jimin is tasked with tutoring Yoongi in math, who is in danger of failing the class and being held back a year, both boys are hesitant. Yoongi because he can't think straight around the boy with startling red hair, and Jimin because Yoongi is scary as hell and looks like he can easily kill someone. Gradually, though, the two grow closer, and Jimin finds that Yoongi is nothing like how he'd imagined.

Maybe I hate you can be our always - 35.9k [enemies to lovers]

When Yoongi thinks about it, really gives it genuine thought, it's possible that Park Jimin isn't the worst person in the world.

//

(Or, Yoongi and Jimin get off on the wrong foot.)

Ode to yoonmin - 4k+ [texting]

yoongi and jimin are in very much in love but they're the only ones who don't know it

OR

chat fic with a bunch of bad jokes and memes ¯\_(ツ)_/

Out of my system - 101.6k+ [one night stand]

Yoongi likes one night stands and he understands how they work. What he doesn’t understand, however, is how he ended up in bed with a probably-not-legal kid crying in his arms about his broken heart, because he’s pretty sure (and correct him if he’s wrong) that a babysitting job was not what he was looking for when he went to the opening of his friend’s new club

Standing on the brink of 376 - 42.9k+ [street racing]

When Taehyung woke him up at three AM to go to a street race—an illegal one, no less—claiming it would help his social anxiety, Jimin never actually expected it to do much for him, except maybe make him cry hysterically. He found that he really wasn't too far off-kilter with that assumption, but it was only after he'd suffered through countless bouts of insecurity that he realized, hidden behind each stuttered breath, every inevitable tear, every spark of unavoidable fear, and even the customary cloud of cigarette smoke itself, lay a tremendous amount of affection for a certain platinum haired street racer that he can't even begin to justify. But when his opinion of fact, fate, and even life itself continues to blur with each push of the gas pedal, he thinks he just might be able to forgive himself for falling in love with a criminal, when the nonsensical moonshine of the present mutes the anxiety that had been a constant within his heart up until this November.

Strawberry lube - 82.7k+ [college au]

Yoongi remembers little to nothing of their crazy drunken night out. But of two things he's absolutely sure, one: he's not gay, two: he just slept with Park Jimin

The Paradiso Lounge - 192k+ [photographer/stripper au]

“Do I have to pay you for that service?”

This isn’t a dream (let me love you) - 26k+ [highschool au]

As captain of his high school’s basketball team, Min Yoongi dedicated all of his attention to his team and their games. His focus on the game never waned, not once for anything or anyone.

Well, until head cheerleader Park Jimin flashed his abs during a solo cheer and made him fuck up his shot

Trying to Behave (but you know we never learned how) - 329k+ [non-idol! au]

It's been years since Yoongi's last seen him and the younger boy is a shell of his former self in a way that makes his heart twist in his chest. And yet, after all this time and countless days of convincing himself to let him go, he's still unconditionally, head over heels in love with Park Jimin.

(Jimin and Yoongi grow up together.)

Valentino Summers - 657k+ [‘80s gangsters]

Whether or not Jimin was smuggling drugs really didn’t matter. He was hustling, and these days that was all there was to it.

Hustle and survive or struggle and die.

Y/N masterlist  << check it out !! xoxo

[elisaphoenix13]

To Lose Everything And Then Gain Something Back (Ch.1)

This is NOT connected to Supreme Family Chaos but will still dip into the Mama Bear trope. Let me know what you think of this idea so far!

Don't worry, Supreme Family Chaos and related series will be continued!

___________

Wong nearly had to throw him out of the Sanctum so Stephen would stop hiding away after the events of the war with Thanos. He had been wallowing in guilt and continuously blamed himself for the death of Tony Stark, even though after fourteen million different timelines it was the only one they had won. Wong had tried to convince him that Stephen was in no way at fault, but the Sorcerer Supreme was stubborn. He was convinced that it was his fault that Earth lost its best defender.

The other sorcerer eventually got fed up and told Stephen to take a walk and pick up some lunch for them on the way back. Not that he had much choice. Wong literally pushed him out the door while simultaneously throwing a winter coat at him, and the cloak barely had enough time to follow its master and take the form of a scarf. The walk helped. It did. Just not with his self loathing. Stephen walked around for a little bit, and when an hour had passed, he had decided it was long enough and Wong would let him back in as long as he brought lunch.

He was halfway to the Sanctum with a bag of sandwiches, when the cloak (in scarf form) nearly choked him by pulling him in the direction of an alleyway. Once it had the sorcerer's attention, it unraveled itself from the man's neck and floated into the alley, causing Stephen to sigh.

"What has your attention? It better not be another cat." Stephen grumbles.

The cloak had gotten his full attention when it fluttered frantically over someone half hidden behind some empty cardboard boxes, and from Stephen's angle, completely motionless. The cloak never concerned itself with the homeless before so he had to wonder if it was someone he knew. With that thought, Stephen slowly crouches in front of the body and reaches out to carefully peel away the scarf wrapped around the person's nose and mouth, and immediately feels his blood run cold. It was someone he knew. Someone he had fought beside just months (and years) ago.

It was Peter.

And he was cold to the touch.

Stephen presses shaking fingers against the teen's pulse point and sighs with relief when he finds a faint heartbeat. He would have to act fast though because it was fading by the second. Thank the Vishanti Wong didn't have the mind to take his sling ring. Stephen opens a portal after throwing the bag of sandwiches to the still hovering scarf, and scoops the icy teen into his arms before stepping though the portal. It closes behind him once the cloak follows him and Stephen takes the stairs two at a time before heading to his bedroom.

"WONG!" He shouts and shoulders his bedroom door open before carefully depositing his burden onto his bed.

He was halfway through getting the top part of Peter's clothes off when the other sorcerer walked in, and the man narrows his eyes. To be fair, it was a little bit of a suspicious scene, but once he caught a glimpse of who exactly Stephen was undressing, Wong was more understanding.

"I said bring lunch, not a kid."

Stephen glares at Wong over his shoulder. "I did bring lunch! The cloak has it, I need you to bring me some extra blankets."

Wong stays a little longer when Stephen finally pulls the teen's shirt off and nearly tears off his own, and leaves the room when the Sorcerer Supreme yanks back the bedcovers and climbs into the bed. He lays down, pulls the blankets over himself and Peter as high as possible, and then grimaces when he finally pulls the boy against his bare chest. It was like cuddling with an ice cube. Wong returned briefly with a couple extra blankets that he helped lay on top of the comforter, and after turning on the small television for Stephen, went back to the Sanctum's library.

It took an hour for Peter to finally respond to his body warmth, and it came out as a pleased sigh and the teen getting even closer to Stephen. Any other day, the sorcerer would feel uncomfortable with a situation like this, but it was quite literally a life or death situation for Peter. At the moment, he was a doctor.

Peter didn't wake up for another couple of hours, and when he did, he slowly blinked his eyes open, and furrowed his eyebrows when he found himself staring at a pale collarbone. Stephen didn't move when the teen suddenly ripped himself away from his head source and stared at him before sitting up to look around and take in his surroundings. Something bothered Stephen though as Peter processed his new situation...and it was that the teen hadn't said a word. He knew for a fact that the kid had a bit of a motormouth, even in battle, so he was expecting Peter to stumble over apologies as soon as he woke up.

But nothing.

Stephen finally sat up and held his hands out to calm the panic rising in brown eyes. "It's alright. You're safe. I found you nearly frozen in an alley and brought you to the Sanctum to warm yoh back up." The panic thankfully subsides a bit and Stephen lowers one of his hands, the other moving up to rub his eyes. "Peter...why aren't you at home with your aunt?"

Stephen pulls his hand away just in time to catch a pained expression leave the boy's face, but Peter still says nothing as he turns his attention down to his hands. So, something must have happened with May? He had met her briefly at the funeral and she was a kind woman that didn't seem the type to kick Peter out for anything, so Stephen had to assume the worst. Perhaps May was gone and the teen was homeless now? He was sixteen though. He was still young enough to be put into the system.

Oh.

"I want you to drink something warm. I hope you like tea." Stephen says as he moves out from under the covers and to his feet, putting his shirt back on. Peter merely responds with a nod. "Lay down and rest. I'll be right back."

Stephen didn't stick around for any kind of affirmation though. He was more concerned about getting Peter something hot to drink and something to eat. He couldn't have been out on the streets for long, but he had felt thin and Stephen had to wonder just how many spider attributes the teen took on from the spider bite he had mentioned while they were on Titan. He was in the middle of brewing tea when Wong walked into the kitchen with his arms folded.

"Spiderman right?" He asks calmly.

"Yes."

"What happened?"

"I'm not sure. He was half frozen in an alleyway and I only found him because of the cloak."

Wong frowns. "Shouldn't he be at home?"

Stephen grabs the bag from earlier and looks inside to find his sandwich still in it. "I asked him the same thing, but he's not talking. He gave the impression that something happened though so I can only assume the worst."

"Is he staying?"

"For now. Will that be a problem?" Stephen asks with a raised eyebrow.

"No. I just need to prepare myself for a little more noise. He may not talk but I've seen that kid fight. He's probably clumsy."

Stephen chuckles. For a kid that could crawl on walls, he had seen Peter trip over his own feet a couple of times. There were probably rooms in the Sanctum the sorcerers should make off limits to the teen.

"Maybe he should stay. That's the first time I've seen you smile in months." Wong says before turning and leaving the kitchen.

The smile falls slightly from Stephen's face as he makes his way back to his bedroom, and he finds Peter curled up under the covers watching the tv blankly. A far cry from what he was used to on the boy. This was a kid that drove Tony crazy with pop-culture references, and now acted as if his world had crumbled around him. Which, to be fair, it had. Tony had obviously been a father figure to Peter, and he was gone. If Stephen's earlier assumptions were correct, so was May.

Peter had no one.

Stephen kind of felt like he could relate.

"Here." The sorcerer holds out the mug of tea and the bag containing his sandwich. "Finish both." Peter sits up and takes the tea but looks at the bag skeptically. As if he knew that it was supposed to be Stephen's lunch. "I imagine you need it more than I do right now. I can wait until dinner."

The teen slowly takes the bag and pulls out the sandwich, and Stephen blinks in surprise when the teen hands half of it back to the sorcerer. This kid. He didn't argue though. As long as Peter ate something, Stephen would agree to the terms. He could always make sure that Peter had extra at dinner. The tea on the other hand? The teen barely brought the mug to his lips before he made the most disgusted look on his face and gave it back to Stephen who looks at him incredulously.

"I thought you said tea was fine?" The doctor takes the mug back. "Peppermint is usually something everyone likes." Peter scrunches his nose when Stephen mentions peppermint and a proverbial lightbulb flicks on. "A trait from the spider bite I take it?" Peter nods and Stephen sets the wrapped half of his sandwich on the nightstand. "Green tea with honey?" Another nod. "Alright."

It didn't take long to make the new cup of tea, the peppermint given to Wong with the promise that it was poisoned (The other sorcerer just rolled his eyes when he accepted it), and Stephen returned to his room to give it to Peter. His half of the sandwich already gone and eyeing the other half he had given back.  Stephen sits on the bed with his own cup of tea and grabs the other sandwich half off the nightstand to silently offer back to Peter while figuring out what the teen was watching on tv. To his relief, the young Avenger took it and tore into it. Peter probably didn't realise how hungry he was until he ate his half.

Once the sandwich was a distant memory, they sat in comfortable silence with only the noise of the tv to fill the room, and drank their tea. Stephen had chalked up Peter's silence to be partially from shock, and partially from emotional pain, but he would have to try to coax some kind of explanation from the boy soon. If May was truly gone, Stephen would have to go about getting things taken care of. Peter obviously didn't want to go into the foster system and he couldn't blame him. The teen was a mutant super human and that could be hard to hide. From what he knew, he somehow managed to keep the secret from May for about a year before she found out. Now he had nowhere safe to go, but Stephen would offer that to him if he needed it. Peter was respectful and wasn't helpless (if anyone attacked the Sanctum).

Peter's head lolls onto the sorcerer's shoulder, distracting the man from his thoughts, and he peers down to find the teen fast asleep. His mug still in his hands but empty. Stephen carefully moves the boy back down onto his back and lays the comforter over him, sits back against the headboard with a refilled mug of tea and crosses his ankles, and then returns his attention to the movie playing on the tv.

By the Vishanti...he was going soft.

[silenthillmutual]

if the heavens ever did speak

we were born sick, you heard them say it.

writing exercise thing, warning for some pretty bad feelings under the cut y’all

his life has always been a kind of race of one life-ruining decision after another, so his death is - more or less - to be expected. it’s the kind of thing he could have approached nonchalantly, if taka would just realize he wasn’t worth the arguments and let things be. but even after he’s shown his cards, admitted his guilt, lined up for the firing squad, he is still knee-deep in denial.

there is no part of this mondo enjoys. there is no quantifiable “hardest” or “worst” part about it, because every single second feels just as terrifying as the next. he acts out of impulse and a lack of self-control and he doesn’t sleep and he more or less just waits around for them to find him, and he thinks, to himself, ‘the worst part is that i have killed a living being again’. and then once that’s sunk in and he’s started to feel so terrible that everything is numb, he thinks, ‘the worst part is now ishimaru will hate me’.

about the last part, he’s wrong.

the worst part is that he doesn’t. the worst part is that he beats down every accusation until he’s almost physically falling apart from the strain of it all. the worst part is that even when he’s accepted what mondo’s done he doesn’t even hate him for it. the worst part is watching makoto try to hold him back from doing something dumber. the worst part is hearing that he voted for himself. and again, all of that absolutely pales in comparison to the absolute pinnacle of worst parts, which is the fact that the last thing he ever hears is kiyotaka ishimaru screaming for him as he’s dying.

dying, itself, isn’t that bad.

there’s a pretty big disparity between what mondo thinks he knows, and what he realizes he actually knows when he wakes up. it’s like when your alarm clock goes off, but you don’t wake up, you just hear the buzzing in your dreams. that’s what taka’s screaming sounds like, and he is trying so desperately to think and he can’t over the sound. and then, it’s cut off, abrupt, and he knows that it’s because taka has run out of voice. and somehow, that’s just worse.

that’s it. it only ever gets worse. 

he doesn’t have that moment where he thinks he’s alive and the slow, horrifying memory that he is, in fact, dead that he’s read about so much in fiction. he knows that he’s dead. it just doesn’t help matters much. he thinks he’s stuck where he is, facing white walls and monochrome tile and somehow it all looks more bleak than it did this morning. 

he’s wrong, but what else is new? he can move, just not like he did before. he can’t move on his own terms. 

if he thinks it was bad before, it is absolutely nothing. not even death is a reprieve from the consequences of his actions. 

it’s funny, how daiya used to say that when people died, they went to sleep and never woke up. it’s more like being awakened, and never being allowed to go back to sleep. here’s a fun fact: kiyotaka doesn’t either. 

his body (or what passes for it now) is tethered to every minute movement kiyotaka makes, and it’s like being a partner in a dance but you are blindfolded and also deaf and mute and in fact you do not exist at all. everything is one long stretch of silence punctuated by jerks. which should be kind of funny, because every memory he has of taka makes him seem so practiced. 

speaking of memory. he has so many. 

they don’t “flood”. that’s another thing he’s seen - that when you get temporary amnesia, it will all come back to you in chronological order. it’s kind of gross for him to think about every memory montage that ends with some guy running to some girl and kissing her at the end because when he follows that train of thought to the last stop he certainly has a lot of memories and they involve running and they involve kissing and they involve kiyotaka and he is aware that he didn’t have any of these until he woke up and saw white. they are both new information and old. 

worse. worse, worse, worse. it’s worse that for the past however many days they’ve been here he’s acted like such a tool. lining up for his execution he thought about how taka blamed himself for mondo’s actions and mondo thought about how funny-but-not-funny-haha it was that if he had actually let kiyotaka into his life earlier he might have learned something about self-control. not that it was taka’s job to teach him things he should have learned long ago, learned from his first five hundred mistakes, but it couldn’t have hurt to know.

he feels something crawling on his back, like when people make spiders of their hands to tickle and scare you. he never liked it at age 13, and he doesn’t like it any more now that he’s dead. 

there’s something in his head about kiyotaka running his hands through his hair because he’d let it stay down out of the shower, and taka told him it suited him and he told taka he’d better not tell anyone else about it. and then he’d laughed, a lot different from how he laughs now, because only mondo could hear him. 

right now, the real kiyotaka, the alive kiyotaka who doesn’t remember the things he does, is looking at his hands. 

he’s not sitting on the bed, or anything. he’s standing by it, like a toy put up on a shelf so that he can’t be brought down and played with in the middle of the night. just standing there, still in his boots, staring at his hands that are shaking. 

mondo kind of wants to blow him over. he kind of wants to say hey, do you remember the first time we held hands, and you apologized because hands were sweaty and you didn’t know how to do it properly, so you kept letting go and trying again and saying it was for ‘practice’ and i pretended to be embarrassed about it?

but it’s kind of hard to say any of it without a mouth.

taka opens his own mouth, but no sound comes out.

makoto is probably trying to help. it’s hard to really tell anything when he has to see it all from over taka’s shoulder, but his consciousness swings around wildly and he doesn’t get to direct where it’s aimed. he wants to get a good look at taka’s face, but at the same time he’s afraid to. everyone who catches a glimpse of it looks away in guilt, and if mondo could still talk he’d call them cowards.

no one but makoto actually makes an effort. 

all in all, mondo feels something like blurred surprise that taka even bothered to leave his room. hours passed with him just breathing, not making a noise or even crying. he moved, eventually, from standing by his bed to sitting next to it, never on it. to mondo’s knowledge, he never slept, just stared at the walls in grief until it was time to meet everyone for breakfast.

he didn’t change his clothes, and he doesn’t eat. mondo remembers it with flashbacks to pets he’s loved that slunk away to a corner and starved themselves at the end of their life. and it’s getting worse still that he can see what ishimaru is doing, but a, no one else seems to care, and b, there is not a damn thing he can do now to stop it. 

the whole class is gone for about fifteen minutes when he stands up and walks back to his room, his boots making echoes of the floor. 

“i wish you’d talk to me”. 

it’s the first thing taka says in more than 48 hours. there is elation somewhere beneath the surface where he still has experiences he can’t physically interact with. his voice is strained and thick from overuse and tears. mondo was such an idiot to ever think he’d want him to stop talking. it’s karma.

if he really tries, he can move his point of view enough to see taka’s face. his eyes are pointed at his lap, his knees drawn up to his head and his arms on his legs. it’s not a comfortable position. he can’t remember what it feels like to wear the same set of clothes for two days straight but he knows it can’t possibly feel good. 

“i know you’re there.” 

worse and worse and worse. is any part of this what mondo wanted? had he wanted to stick around and watch over taka, like he could keep him out of trouble?

bringing pain to people, even in death. yeah, that sounds like him.

he feels like he’s sliding off to the left and tries to hold himself in place so he can watch as taka pulls his head slowly, eyes staring at nothing. 

the hands on his back start to take shape, from restless blobs into restless fingers.

when taka hears about alter ego, mondo can practically feel the manic energy vibrating off of him. 

there’s a kind of danger in the false hope. he’d like to think that taka doesn’t know it’s there. he’s so cautious in everything he does, in the way mondo remembers him buttoning up his jacket every morning, and rebuttoning it every time he stood up, folding out the creases from sitting or laying down. every habit he’d instilled had been an effort of manual programming. 

mondo remembers hating it the same way he remembers loving it: small moments, built up over time. and it takes a good deal of time to establish standards, but not much time at all to burn them to the ground.

he thinks and he shouts with as much force as he can, don’t go. and for now, taka listens.

there is something rotten in the state of denmark. 

mondo remembers reading hamlet. a play about a teenage boy who has seen so much tragedy that he starts to slip. attempts are made on his life, even by his friends. he sees ghosts everywhere. his personality fractures into something barely resembling the person he used to be. in short, he doesn’t cope.

what mondo remembers most is discussing this play first year and ishimaru being very loud in his opinions. the question had only been, were the ghosts real? toko said it didn’t matter, taka said it did. she said they only existed as a rule of symbolism. taka said denmark needed better mental health services. 

that was like him. that was like him then. but he knows ghosts are real now.

he gets another note under his door, slipped in the middle of the night when he has, for once, taken at least his shirt off. he hasn’t eaten in at least four days, and it’s starting to show.

“i think i’m starting to remember something,” he says to the ceiling. 

the note passes under at some point in time he thinks is after midnight. and he reads that too-good handwriting and mondo knows that it’s hiro’s, but he also knows from over two years with the guy that he has never figured out a damn thing in his life and he never will. this is a trap, and he whispers to taka because he figures it doesn’t need to be said, don’t go.

and taka, this time, doesn’t listen. 

when things flood, and they do this time, it’s like everything just behind where his ears should be is screaming. he’s known that he can’t stop this, and has felt fists grabbing full hold of his back and tugging. but his grip on ishimaru is other-worldly. he wouldn’t stay here for anything else, and he’s not leaving until he absolutely must. 

what is forming into his head as he’s standing half-there between ‘existing’ and ‘not’ a pounding that just goes worse, worse, worse. he can hear it, now, clocks ticking and footsteps and when he tries to grab ishimaru’s hand to make him look at what’s coming for him he hears that same wheezing out-of-breath laughter no one else but him ever has, or ever will, get to know. 

he wouldn’t tell anyone if they asked, but: kiyotaka ishimaru goes out with a smile.

[krugerevengeinej]

When the Water Begins to Recede Ch. 3 - Learn From Your Mistakes

Synopsis | Ch. 1 | Ch. 2

Song Inspo: Cringe -Matt Mason,  When I Was Older - Billie Eilish, Mr. Rattlebone - Matt Maeson, The Only - Sasha Sloan

AN: It is here, as promised, extra long and extra angsty! This took me so long to write, and I really hope you guys like it. Comments and rbs are most appreciated as always, tell me what you think. What did you like best, and what needs work? I crave feedback please don’t leave me in the dark.

Desc: Kaz struggles with Inej being gone, and all the chaos that is happening in the city, but is even more disturbed when she arrives from sea early with awful news.

------------------------------- 

The pain in Kaz’s leg had been a constant and bitter reminder of the current state of the weather. It seemed to echo his concern for Inej and the painful longing for her return. He’d already been frustrated by her insisting to leave as soon as storm season hit, and he could hardly bear the thought of her being held up in some foreign port as she waited for the sea to settle, or worse shipwrecked, drowned, attacked by pirates. She’ll be fine, he tried to console himself.

He needed to stop worrying, but while she might have been able to handle the pirates even his wraith—Inej, he remined himself, was no match for the ocean’s wrath. He was antsy enough it had begun to plague his already-minimal sleep. He seldom found it and when he did, she was there too, as she had been on that stack of crates, blood pouring from a wound he could not locate, and whenever he tried to help her she seemed to slip further away.

She might be swallowed by the water and he would dive in after her. He’d try to grasp for her hand, and she would flicker and vanish, so he would faze right through it.

Those weren’t even the worst dreams, no not even close. There were dreams where she never came back, where he waited for years, thinking maybe he’d caught a glimpse of her ship, but it was always a trick of the light. Sometimes she did come back, but she never regarded him, spoke to him even looked at him. He could chase her down the street, but she always ran faster.

But those still weren’t the worst, the worst was when she did come back. He’d receive the news that The Wraith had returned, but then she was nowhere to be found. He could turn the city upside down; search every crevice and scour every rooftop and she was simply gone. Yet he could feel her, she was somewhere in the city, he heard her laughter in an echoey room, saw the glint of her knives in a dark alley, and tried to get a glimpse of her shape, but it was like trying to catch his shadow. It was frustrating and confusing and terrifying all at the same time, and all he wanted was to see her again. 

It went on for three weeks, it was when she’d said her first letter was meant to arrive, but she had instead. He’d been worried as much as relieved when Pim had come into his office to inform him The Wraith was on its way into port. It was raining and great gusts of wind formed great swells that knocked the ships about.

Kaz had planned this out numerous times as he lay awake at night. He would not rush to the docks when she arrived. In fact, from now on he would stay away from her ship as often as possible. It had even been foolish of him to see her off that first time. The last thing either he or Inej wanted, was rumors about this new business of theirs. That was enough of a hassle, considering he still had so much work to do, and so much had been going on in Ketterdam.

There was his working with Wylan who was taking his father’s place in the Merchant council. As well as figuring out what the hell to do with his stake. Now that Pekka was gone the city seemed to be folding in on itself and there was lots of opportunity for new dealings and partnerships. The plague scare had worn off and left the Emerald Palace as well as several other Dime Lions’ establishments, could be bought for cheap and renovated. He’d always loved the idea of having one of his own gambling dens in the Lid.

But some bad things had been happening too, members from his gang were going missing, being tortured, beaten bloody and returned to him with alongside threats.  He had to guess it was angry Dime Lions who thought they could fill the hole he’d left, or possibly bring the Kaelish King (that’s what people were calling Pekka now) back. But they wanted revenge on Kaz and the Dregs first. This was less about information than sending a message and getting event. Oh, how the tables have turned, he thought wistfully.

He was partially grateful Inej was no longer a member, at least she wasn’t at risk. But it would be very useful to have his spider’s help with this.

Kaz’s spectacle with their leader certainly hadn’t gone unnoticed by the rest of the barrel either, he knew that. But he’d been furious to see it in The Ketterdam Print along with a blurry photograph of him. It wasn’t particularly harmful. That didn’t mean he liked this kind of publicity. But the stadwatch certainly weren’t about to get involved in a gang war. Even if they saw him in public they weren’t cocky enough to try and pinch him.

The Dregs’ reputation had soared in the past months, He’d taken on new members and seen extra fear in people’s eyes when he walked down the street. However, it had seemed so much better when Inej was there with him, and he paced listlessly in his office as he awaited her arrival.

She still had to dock, unload and manage to think of a good reason to pick her way through the barrel to come see him without arousing any suspicion. It’d been hours, and he still paced back and forth. He was used to using Per Haskell’s old office now, though it had been a bit strange at first. It was a proper desk, with a high-backed leather chair, and the room itself was much larger than his attic one. He still slept up there, but it was an improvement to have his own space on the ground floor.

Then he felt it, the nearly imperceptible shift in the air as Inej entered the room and shut the door without a sound. He did his best to seem at ease as he turned to face her, leaning casually against the desk. He was about to crack a smile before he caught sight of her expression, solemn and cold. Her eyes were heavy with guilt and remorse and the horrid weight on an unspoken confession. He stared at her, allowing the silence to stretch out like a rope between them as she gathered her words.

Her lips parted and she blew out a shaky breath, closing her eyes for a moment, before she said hoarsely, “we lost half our crew.” In simply speaking the words, tears had begun to well in her eyes. She was clearly cutting open wounds that had just started to heal.

The silence stretched thinner, agonizingly taught as her words sunk in. He knew how much pain she was in. Inej may not have known those people for long, but she did not take lost lives delicately. Not when they had been under her command.

Tears started to stream down her cheeks, and that hurt him. Inej did not cry, he’d only seen her do it once, but she’d been joyful as she wrapped her arms around her parents. This was different, there was pain and shame in the lines of her face, and for once he understood it. Loss was a terrifying thing, so sudden and strange, but it was especially awful to lose people who put their faith in you. It was too easy to think they blamed you for it. But whatever happened wasn’t her fault, he knew that.

“It’s alright, it happens. Inej, it wasn’t your fault,” he croaked, “I know what its like to lose a crew, and whatever you think it was it wasn’t—”

“I killed eleven, fucking, people, Kaz, it’s not alright,” her voice was laced with bitter sorrow, “and it was my fault.” Her hands curled tightly at her sides, “they listened to me, t-they trusted me, and I was irresponsible. I failed them, and now I can’t bring them back. How is that alright?”

“They took the risk, didn’t they?” He spoke plainly, didn’t try to coddle her, she’d only despise him for that. She nodded. “Then how is it your fault? They knew their chances going out this late in the year, and I told you something might happen.” She stilled, her gaze sharpened on him.

“It wasn’t a storm,” Inej said lowly.

“What happened?”

“It was another ship, a slaver ship.” His eyes widened in shock, she wasn’t supposed to be attacking any ships on this mission, just spying out a slaver outpost in the southern colonies.

“Did they, attack you?” He asked hesitantly.

She shook her head, sighing shakily before she continued, “no I—I just, I knew, the ship Kaz.” Her gaze fell to the floor and realization struck him before she spoke the words, “it was the same ship that brought me to Kerch. I had to do it. I thought we could handle it, and I was wrong. They killed half our crew and they didn’t even have any prisoners. We didn’t even save anyone, and I failed them.”

He was disappointed, and she could probably tell. She’d seemed so hopeful when she bounded off into the snow three weeks ago, but now she seemed to regret even mentioning a ship.

“You’re not the only one who makes mistakes Inej,” he said, “I’ve lost crews because of stupid decisions and I’ll never forget that. You can’t learn how to lead if you don’t screw it up first.”

She wiped her tears away with her sleeve, and sighed, “This is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.” That really was a lot to say considering how much she’d suffered through these past few years, he’d marveled at her strength but he couldn’t stand that this had nearly been enough to break her.

“I know it is,” he moved closer to her, “but you have to be the strong one when everything goes to shit, don’t ever let your crew see you like this.” That was the first thing he’d learned about leadership, no matter how bad things got people would always look up to their leader for direction, and security. If he panicked, everyone would start to panic. It simply wasn’t an option.

She reached out cautiously and took his ungloved hand. He slowly let their fingers entwine, and she smiled weakly.

“I want to find that ship and turn it to splinters,” she muttered.

Then he smiled too, “I think I can help with that.”

“Oh, how can you?” she asked.

“When you came to Kerch, you didn’t go on an auction block right? Heleen was waiting for you.”

“Yes,” she confirmed.

“Then she must have been informed by whoever picked you up,” he explained, “I’d bet good money Heleen knows who owns that ship. I’m sure with a little spy work you and I can figure it out.” He hesitated, “she’s got a lot of sources though. It may take a while, but I think we can handle it.”

She squeezed his hand and her smile widened. “Thank you, I’d be glad to stay in the city awhile if it means we can find the ship.”

“Who knows? Maybe we’ll burn down the whole menagerie.”

She actually giggled, “oh I’d really like that.” They stood there quietly for a bit, just enjoying each other’s company after so much time apart. Then suddenly a call had sounded from outside.

“Boss!” screeched Anika, “there’s another one!” Oh saints dammit not now, he thought frantically, releasing Inej’s hand and snatching his gloves from the desk. He pulled them on, grabbed his cane and sprinted out the door, offering no explanation but Inej followed him regardless.

 He threw open the Slat’s front door and pushed past the crowd of people. There lying on the ground was wiry Roeder, the boy he’d been using as a spider. He’d been absent for days, but that was nothing unusual. His face was swollen and bruised, body broken and bloody, but most important was his eyes. Inej was standing next to him and she looked in horror and confusion, one hand covering her mouth. They were nowhere to be found,

In their places were silver dimes

“Kaz what’s going on?” Inej asked.

Tag List:  @whydoineedtowriteanamehere @celestial-melodyy @literary-nerd  @otherworldsivelivedin @hysteriaas @august-cabin7 @wylansflute @ashleyking03 @thequeenofeveything @the-regal-warrior @sassydefendorflower @jxsperfahey @the-jennster @lonep55 @lupineteddy @gutsgaskarth  @city-of-fae @thewoofster @peach-sm 

[sirius-archive]

Young gods (Sirius Black x Reader) Part 2

Pairing: Sirius Black x Reader, Regulus Black x Reader, Remus Lupin x Reader

Warnings: Swearing, Social anxiety mentions, touches on grief and unhealthy coping mechanisms. 

Word Count: 5149

A/N: YISSSSS I got this done before I go away!! YAY!! okay so this chapter a Lot of Shit goes Down and the extreme feminist in me was like ‘hoe don’t do it!!!!......oh my god’ but this is necessary for the plot. also, above gif is mine and is from my masterlist

Chapter Two: Bad Liar or Beathe 

One of the worst days of your life begins with Sirius Black.

He is the first thing you see in the Great Hall on Monday morning, sitting at the Gryffindor table looking like one of your most beautiful daydreams. He looks so effortlessly handsome; those lips, those stupid lips that you want to do things to, are pulled back into a lazy grin, and your heart falters, trembles, quivers like a butterfly tangled in a spider’s web, and Merlin he is an amalgam of broken hearts and every single synonym of the word beautiful.

Which is why you need to put as much distance between you and him as possible.

You mince to the other side of the Great Hall, ducking your chin and avoiding eye contact, deciding to stare at your feet.

“(Y/N)! Where are you going?” Kaitlyn paces up to you, struggling to keep up, “Our table is over there.”

“I know,” you murmur, curtaining your hair over your face, “I just-I’m going for a walk.”

Eventually, you make it to your house table and slide into your seat, ignoring Kaitlyn’s stare. Kaitlyn leans forward as you begin heaping food onto your plate.

“You know, he’s never going to notice you if you keep avoiding him,” she murmurs.

“I know,” you snip, avoiding her eyes, “That’s the point.”

“So, what? You’re just going to ignore him for the rest of your life?” Kaitlyn asks. You give her a silent response, so she continues, “What is the point of agonizing so desperately over someone that you’re never going to chat to?”

You heave out a sigh, still not meeting her eyes as you start eating. Kaitlyn plucks a piece of bacon from your plate and takes a large bite out of it. Your gaze snaps up to her as she gags, tosses the bacon rashers back onto your plate, and spits into her napkin.

“Bacon is still fucking gross and is an abomination of nature. No wonder Kamilah’s a vegan.”

“Well, why would you try to eat it?”

“I thought it may have changed,” Kaitlyn shrugs, “And I also wanted to get your attention because you were ignoring me.”

You roll your eyes and pile some fresh fruit into a separate cereal bowl, “I just don’t know what to tell you. He’s never going to notice me because I’m not…” you pause, thinking of Kamilah, “…I’m not noticeable.”  

“Maybe that’s because you don’t want to be noticed,” Kaitlyn muses, biting into a strawberry, “Maybe you’re feeling a little insecure.”

“Of course, I feel insecure! Sirius Black is handsome and gorgeous and beautiful…” you sigh, pushing your food around with your fork, “…and I’m-I’m me. The dreamer who doesn’t know the first thing about boys. I can barely talk to Professor Flitwick, and he’s my Head of House!”

Kaitlyn sighs and smiles softly as she steals a blueberry from your bowl, “You just have to learn to love yourself.” You scowl at her and Kaitlyn chuckles as she continues, “Look, self-love isn’t meditating and drinking spinach juice. It’s just listening to your...” she trails off, tilting her head, brows creasing as she studies something over your shoulder.

You raise your brows expectantly, “What is it?”

Kaitlyn refocuses on you and clears her throat, fidgeting with her glasses, “Nothing. As I was saying, self-care is listening to, not only your mind, but your heart. Knowing what you want.”

There is a beat of silence where neither of you says a word, mulling over Kaitlyn’s advice, but it’s broken by Kamilah Siad, who sits next to Kaitlyn wearing a dazzling smile.

“If you break into a corny song and cheesy dance routine, I will stab myself in the eye.”

A strange expression crosses Kaitlyn’s face, but before you can question her it’s gone, replaced by a thin smile, “Well, we all can’t have the confidence of a Siad.”

“That’s what makes us so special,” Kamilah winks, flashing another radiant smile, only this time it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She begins piling fruit onto her plate, not meeting your eyes, “So, guess who I ran into on the way over?”

You and Kaitlyn exchange a look, shrugging simultaneously, “Who?”

“Regulus Black,” Kamilah says, scandalously, and heat tickles your cheeks at the memories that his name resurrects, “Didn’t you and Regulus used to be friends in first year?”

“Yeah,” you mumble, something heavy and familiar twisting in your gut, “But that was years ago. Regulus is different now.”

“I’ll say,” Kamilah chimes, “He’s grown a lot taller. Not as handsome as his brother, unfortunately, but he still has that look.”

“What do you mean?” Kaitlyn asks, taking a sip of her pumpkin juice.

��You know, that ‘Noble House of Black’ look? Aristocratic and filthy rich? He’s got pretty eyes, too.”

“I suppose,” you murmur, your finger sliding along the curve of the moon crescent on your necklace, “But it doesn’t matter now. We’re not friends anymore.”

“Shame, really,” Kamilah sighs, twirling a ribbon of silky, black hair around her slender finger, “He genuinely looks like he wants to be playmates again...”

You glance over at the Slytherin table, where you spot Regulus sitting with his friends. Your gazes connect for a moment before you hastily turn away, “It’s complicated. And he knows why.”

“Oh well,” Kamilah heaves out another dramatic sigh. She still hasn’t met your eyes, “He’s definitely boyfriend material. If I wasn’t–”

Kamilah cuts herself off and ducks her chin, impaling a strawberry with her fork. Both you and Kaitlyn share a look, brows raised.

“If you weren’t what?” Kaitlyn asks, though a part of you already knows the answer to her question.

“Nothing.”

“Come on, Kamilah,” Kaitlyn presses, a strange, stern look crossing her face like a shadow, “What is it?”

“I said, it’s nothing!”

You lean forward, trying to match her gaze. A hint of a blush creeps up her swan-like neck, blossoming beneath her olive skin.

“Are you blushing?” you gasp, and Kamilah glowers at her food. A few of your housemates’ toss curious glances over at the three of you.

“No,” Kamilah grimaces, like she’s trying to convince herself that it’s true, “Now would you two stop? People are looking.”

“Not until you admit it,” you snip, leaning forward and poking her. A sweet laugh tumbles from Kamilah’s lips, and she finally meets your eyes.  

“Okay. Fine. I’m…seeing someone,” she whispers, glancing at Kaitlyn, “But it’s all very new.”

“How new?” Kaitlyn asks, folding her arms over her chest.

“Well, we decided to start the relationship part on Friday night.”  

“Was that where you were during the Halloween party? With your…significant other?” you ask, thinking back to the crowded dungeon and the thumping music.

“My boyfriend,” Kamilah suddenly beams, the word like honey on her mouth, “And yes. I was.”

“Why didn’t you tell us–”

“–Who is it?” Kaitlyn interjects, her tone curt and carefully clipped, “Tell us who your new boyfriend is, Kamilah.”

Kamilah drills Kaitlyn with a sharp, unforgivable glare.  

“Alright,” Kaitlyn shrugs, apathetically, “If that’s how you want to play it, then fine. Just…remember what’s at stake here.”

You take a very loud sip from your pumpkin juice, suddenly feeling smothered by the tension clouding your friends.

“You sound like you already know who Kamilah’s boyfriend is,” you bleat a nervous laugh, “Besides, it’s time for Potions, and Professor Slughorn will have our heads if Kamilah is late again.”

Kamilah nods and begins to collect her things, flinching beneath Kaitlyn’s penetrating stare. As they collect their bags, you throw a furtive glance over to Sirius one more time, just so you can frame him in your mind for the rest of the morning.

Sirius is already gone.

***

“So today, my young pupils, we will start our studies on one of the most difficult potions of this class,” Professor Slughorn flicks his wand, and a stick of chalk spells out the name of ‘The Draught of Peace.’

You nudge Kaitlyn but she only shrugs, a strained smile playing on her lips. She’s still simmering from her argument with Kamilah.  

Kamilah is the complete opposite. It already looks like she’s completely forgotten about the argument as she sits upright on her stool, perfectly composed, her wrist flourishing as she draws lazy, languid circles on her book. Like Sirius, Kamilah’s attention must be earned, and, clearly, Potions with Professor Slughorn is not worthy enough to warrant her full attention.

“Now, since I don’t trust any of you to focus on your work,” Professor Slughorn begins, ambling toward Kamilah with his hands in his pockets, “I have arranged a seating plan, and whoever you sit next to will be your partner for the rest of the year.”

A loud groan of protest issues over the classroom and Professor Slughorn flaps his hand dismissively. A sharp thread of nervous energy hooks itself around your stomach and yanks it into your throat at the thought of sitting next to anyone who isn’t your friends. You begin to frantically rub your necklace, your knee bouncing nervously beneath the table.

“Right, once you lot learn to grow up,” Professor Slughorn begins, sniffing as he adjusts his glasses onto his face and holds up a sheet of parchment, “I will call out who is sitting where.”

Professor Slughorn goes through the entire class, students reluctantly tearing themselves away from their friends and sitting with their assigned partners. When he reaches your name, he lowers the parchment and considers you over his glasses, smiling fondly.

“I wonder what it’s like to be a Slug...?” Kamilah murmurs, a teasing glint in her dark eyes.

“Miss Siad,” Professor Slughorn chides, “Two things: First, I am Professor Slughorn to you. Second, you will be sitting next to Mr Victor Crabbe.” Kamilah opens her mouth to protest but Slughorn holds up his hand, “Well, Miss Siad? Run along now.”

Kamilah grips the edges of her books and stomps toward Crabbe, who looks as though he’s won the lottery (He, like many, has had a crush on Kamilah since first year). Crabbe has been known to emit a particular odour which, at one point, was so strong Professor McGonagall had to force him into the showers. So, when Kamilah pinches her nose in disgust and turns away from him, no one can blame her.    

“Anyway, as I was saying,” Professor Slughorn turns back to you, “Miss Ashton. You can stay where you are, but your partner will be…” he pauses, eyes scanning the room, “Oh, yes. Mr Black.”

You blink, jaw slackening, your grip on your necklace tightening.

“W–What?” you splutter, your breath an uncomfortable lump caught in your throat

“Mr Black, I expect you and Miss Ashton to create wonderful potions, given your shared skill on the topic.”

You hear the scrape of Regulus’ wooden stool and his footsteps clapping against the floor as he approaches the empty seat beside you. You don’t even dare to look at him, your body completely rigid and still as Regulus nervously taps the tip of his quill on his parchment. He doesn’t say anything, either; he keeps throwing glances at his friends in the corner of the room.

Finally, Professor Slughorn finishes, looking up from his parchment with a small, satisfied grin. He barks a laugh at all the glum expressions of his students, having been separated from their mates.

“Oh, do grow up you lot,” Professor Slughorn scolds, “It’s only for a couple of hours. You’re not going to die without them, surely.”

Silently, you beg to differ.

***

Professor Slughorns usual, rambling lecture stretches over half an hour, yet you’ve barely heard a word.

You’re strangely hyper-aware of everything around you, sensitive to Regulus’ movements through your peripherals. In fact, you’re so alert to Regulus and the space around him, you don’t even realise when Professor Slughorn stops talking.

It’s only when people start moving around you that you snap back into yourself.

“Should I–”

“-I’m going to get the ingredients,” You snap, shrilly. Without giving him a second glance, you rip yourself away from the table and rush over to the shelves, ingredient list in hand.

“–how (Y/N) feels!”

You freeze at the sound of your name and peek around the corner to a conceive of shelves. Kaitlyn and Kamilah are having a whispered argument. Kamilah’s hands are resting on her slender waist and she keeps shifting her weight; a classic nervous tick that you pick up immediately. Kaitlyn has her arms crossed, closing herself off from Kamilah.

They both look extremely pissed off.

“I will tell her, Kaitlyn!” Kamilah hisses, “I’m just...I’m...”

Kaitlyn barks a derisive laugh of disbelief, “You’re scared! Because you know you’ve fucked up and Kamilah Siad can’t fuck up, no she has to be perfect.”

“You know that’s a lie!” Kamilah seethes, voice cold and deadly. Kaitlyn isn’t afraid. She’s never been afraid of Kamilah.

“Is it though? Because if you weren’t afraid, you would tell her. Right now.”

“What am I going to say?” Kamilah snaps, venomously, “Oh, sorry (Y/N), I’ve been fucking your crush on the side for nearly four months!? Do you realise how much of a bitch I would sound?!”

You take a sharp breath in; it feels like the tip of a knife pressing against the wall of your throat. No, you must have misheard...

Kaitlyn gives a cold, derisive scoff, “Oh, no Kamilah, you have transcended every single layer of bitchiness. In fact, you are so far up Satan’s ass you’re basically living in his throat, and the fact that you can’t see that makes everything worse. What were you thinking? After everything (Y/N) has been through, everything she’s done for you...”

Kamilah irons out the front of her skirt, flicking her hair over her shoulder, “It’s not like (Y/N) was going for it! Besides, she doesn’t have a claim over him just because she likes him... I like him too!”

“No, Kamilah, you don’t like anyone,” Kaitlyn says, glowering at Kamilah, “You’re just vain and selfish and you enjoy the attention you get from boys like Sirius Black because you can use that over (Y/N).”

Kamilah opens her mouth to argue but Kaitlyn holds up a hand, “Just say something. (Y/N) deserves to hear the truth about you and Sirius and this whole fucking mess.”

Tears prick your eyes as you rush away, dashing toward your table. With trembling hands, you place all the ingredients on the table and get to work, wordlessly. Regulus doesn’t say anything, as he starts to help you.

“Can you please pass me the dried bat wings?” You whisper, voice cracking as you struggle to clamp down on your quivering emotions. Regulus hands you the bottle and you try to measure out a tablespoon with shaky hands.

“Would you like me-?” Regulus begins, raising his hand to cover yours as he tries to pry the spoon away.

“I’m fine,” you breathe, and as you say it, you manage to pour the powder all over your apron and onto the floor.

You curse, exhaling a shaky breath as Regulus pulls out his wand and mutters a spell. The powder floats through the air and retreats back into the bottle. You drop onto your stool, vision swimming in salty tears.

“Do you want a tissue?” Regulus asks and you lift your gaze to match his, studying him shrewdly.

“Do I want a tissue?” you repeat, somewhat sardonically. Regulus shrugs.

“Asking if you’re okay seems like a stupid question so...would you like a tissue?”

You sigh and wipe away your tears, “I’m going to need a lot more than just tissues to mop up this mess.”

Regulus sits down beside you, his hand hovering, hesitating over yours. He ultimately decides to rest his hand next to yours, close, but not touching, “I get that.”

“I’m not sure you do...” you mumble, curtaining your hair over your face to hide your tears.

“Well, regardless if you think I understand or not, just know that I’m still here for you,” Regulus reassures, the tip of his finger ghosting over your own, “I’ve always been here for you.”

You force a tight-lipped smile across your face and sigh, “Even after all this time?”

“Of course,” Regulus flashes a gentle smile, “It wasn’t that long ago that we were best friends, you know...”

“Yeah, shame you allowed your parents' views to influence you.”

Regulus winces, tearing his gaze away from yours and dropping it to his feet. He runs a hand through his silky, black hair, “Let’s try to keep politics out of this...”

“Politics is the whole reason I left, Regulus,” you hiss, and Regulus snaps back up at that, eyes pinning you with a glare.

“No, it wasn’t,” Regulus spits, “The reason you left was because of Sirius Black.”

“And how are things going here?” Professor Slughorn queries, bending over to peer into your cauldron, “You two haven’t even started your potion!”

You tear your glare away from Regulus and slide off your stool, standing upright as you begin pouring in the ingredients.

“Sorry, Professor, we just got distracted. It won’t happen again,” you force a smile onto your face and Professor Slughorn gives a little grunt, nodding before leaving your table.

You refuse to talk to Regulus for the rest of the lesson.

***

When you spot Remus on your way back to your common room, you nearly burst into tears right then and there.  

Remus’ smile fades when he notices your upset expression, unmasked and bare to him. You can’t help it; he has a way of drawing your deepest thoughts out, but in a way that doesn’t threaten or assume. You could offer him your broken, bleeding heart and he’d still somehow be able to stitch it back together again.  

Remus whispers something to James Potter, who glances at you and grins before stalking off toward the Great Hall.

“(Y/N)! What’s wrong?” Remus asks, concern weaved heavily into his words like a thick thread, “What happened? Who hurt you?”

You give a little sniffle and avert your watery gaze, “It’s K-Kamilah, she–”

A sob tears up the length of your throat, leaving a dry ache in it’s wake as you dissolve. Remus envelopes you in a warm hug, arms folding around you like they could shield you from the entire world.  He rubs your back soothingly, running a finger down your spine, and you shudder in his arms, burying your face in his chest and breathing in the subtle scent of cinnamon.

“It’s okay, I’m here. Always.”

You peel yourself away from Remus’ embrace and swipe your tears away, “It’s so stupid, all this drama, but it-it still hurts.”

“Of course it does,” Remus rests a hand on your shoulder, ducking his gaze to meet your eyes, “Lets go for a walk, ‘kay?.”

Remus delicately tucks a strand of hair behind your ear and traces a finger down your jaw. The warmth of his hand ghosts over your skin as his fingers trail down your neck, taking in every inch of you as he can. A shiver rolls down your spine and you close your eyes, inviting the warmth and letting it sink into your trembling soul.

Then, quite suddenly, he tears away, leaving your skin cold in the wake of his hasty departure. Your eyes snap open to find Remus’ deep blue eyes touched with apologetic regret.  

“Sorry I-“

“-No, it’s okay,” you mumble, your voice soft and caught in the back of your throat.

You and Remus walk through the courtyard as you pour out everything that has been tightly bottled inside of you, and Remus seems to know this; he listens with rapt attention as you tell him everything. By the time you finish, you can taste salt on your lip and your cheeks are damp, stinging from your tears.

There is a brief silence when you trail off where Remus seems to soak up all the information, and then he stops, roping you into a hug. You return the hug, wrapping your arms around his waist and pressing your head to your heart, where you can hear the rhythmic beating of his heart, allowing it to anchor you.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs into your hair, rubbing soothing patterns onto your back as though he were trying to massage your worries away, “You don’t deserve any of this.”

You break away from him and peer up at him. Remus wipes away a stray tear, letting his hand drift across your cheek and linger on your skin.

“But I should have said something sooner,” you rasp, voice broken from your sobbing, “I can’t be mad at Kamilah for pursuing a relationship that makes her happy…”

“Kamilah betrayed you, (Y/N),” Remus says, a distinguishable sharpness in his tone, “She knew how you felt and she deliberately chose to hurt you. She could have said no.”

“But I wasn’t dating Sirius,” you murmur, cheeks reddening, “I just like him…” you trail off, sliding your bottom lip through your top teeth and Remus rubs a comforting hand on your shoulder.

“(Y/N), the reason why Kamilah didn’t say anything to you was because she knew she had done something wrong. She was too scared to admit she was in a relationship with someone you–” Remus pauses reluctantly and winces, before his face relaxes into an encouraging smile, “–Look, you did nothing wrong. You shouldn’t have to feel guilty.”

You hesitate, considering him carefully. He’s always had a way with words, but this time, you really do believe he’s right. So why do you feel like you’re to blame in this whole ordeal?

A blood-curdling shriek wrenches through the air, shattering the moment. You and Remus give each other one final glance before following the sound of the noise, picking up the speed as the shrieking gets louder.

You round the corner and find a crowd knotted together, standing around something. You and Remus shoulder past, mumbling soft apologies until you find out just what they were staring at.

Kaitlyn and Kamilah stand opposite each other. Kaitlyn’s glasses are askew on her flushed face and she’s clutching her shoulder. You allow your eyes to travel from Kaitlyn to Kamilah and you–

You gasp, clamping a hand over your mouth and rushing toward Kamilah.

Kamilah’s make-up is streaked with tears, her lips trembling, her eyes wild and panicked, widened with fear, but that’s not even the worse bit–

It’s her hair.

Kamilah’s long, luscious hair has vanished, replaced with a mop of hissing, writhing snakes. Kaitlyn must have hexed her with some ancient magic you’re both learning about in Advanced Defense Against the Dark Arts class.

“I’m going to go and get Professor Flitwick,” Remus says, dashing away from you. You turn back to Kamilah and rest a hand on her shoulder.

“She did this to me!” Kamilah screeches, pointing a shaky finger at Kaitlyn, “She turned me into–into–oh my hair!”

“Maybe then you’ll learn a lesson in vanity,” Kaitlyn spits, as venomously as the dozens of snakes thrashing around atop of Kamilah’s head.

“You crazy bitch!” Kamilah barks, “You stupid, crazy bitch!”

Kamilah begins to rattle off curses in Urdu as she charges toward Kaitlyn. You step between them and Kamilah immediately backs away, not wanting to hurt you, “Stop it. Both of you.”

“It’s her fault,” Kaitlyn points an accusing finger at Kamilah, “She started all of this shit.”

“I don’t care,” you snap, “I can’t believe that, at a time where witches should be working together, you’re pitting yourselves against each other. And for what?”

Both Kamilah and Kaitlyn avert their gazes, ashamed of their outburst for a moment. Then, Kaitlyn juts her chin at Kamilah. 

“Go on, then,” Kaitlyn juts her chin at Kamilah, “Tell (Y/N) what this is really about.”

Kamilah drops her gaze, cheeks burning in shame, “I–I’ve been sleeping with Sirius, (Y/N).”

You blink, not realizing how much of a profound impact Kamilah’s confession would have on you. It stings in that spot right in the center of your chest and radiates outward, but you manage to keep a cold, composed expression fixed over your heartache. You inhale deeply, letting the air swell in your lungs, focusing on the churning energy inside of you.

“I know,” you murmur, calmly, and Kamilah straightens in surprise, her mouth flapping open. Her mouth moves around strings of silent excuses but before she can say another word, Professor Flitwick comes storming through the crowd.

“Alright, you lot,” Professor Flitwick’s voice washes over the crowd, “Show’s over. If you don’t leave now, I will have to start taking points.”

Professor Flitwick turns to the three of you, mutters a counter-curse, and Kamilah’s thick, black hair rolls back down her shoulders again. Kamilah rakes her fingers through her tresses and tugs on them appreciatively, bringing them up to her face and beaming.

“Thank you, Professor,,” Kamilah sighs. Kaitlyn rolls her eyes.

“Don’t thank me yet, Miss Siad,” Professor Flitwick says, his tone leaking with disappointment, and Kaitlyn grimaces at the sound of it, “Right, Miss Siad, Miss O’Hara and Miss Ashton, please come with me. Mr Lupin, thank you for coming to get me.”

Remus glances at you as you walk past and you reach out, grazing a finger across his hand. You still feel his eyes following you as Professor Flitwick leads you away and toward his office.

***

All three of you are silent as you walk back to the Ravenclaw common room.

Not only did Professor Flitwick deduct twenty points from Ravenclaw, but he also sent Kamilah and Kaitlyn to two months’ worth of detentions. Kamilah will be spending it in the Potions dungeons, cleaning up dirty cauldrons with a special polishing scrub. Kaitlyn has been sentenced to helping Hagrid clean up after Care of Magical Creatures classes.

As for you, well, your detention-free record remains unblemished, for now.

Kaitlyn’s lips are twisted into a thin, tight frown as she stomps ahead of you, her fingers curled into white-knuckled fists at her side. She has refused to look at Kamilah since she left Professor Flitwick’s office.

Behind you, Kamilah ambles lazily, stroking her hair appreciatively. Usually, arguments slide off Kamilah like butter, but today she is uncharacteristically silent. You suppose having one of your best friends turn your beloved hair into snakes wouldn’t help the cause.

When you finally reach the Great Hall, a hush rolls over the table, everyone trying to catch a glimpse of the three of you. Eyes follow you as you walk down the hall to the Ravenclaw table, and they watch you as you sit down, spread out from one another. Your cheeks burn, all hot and itchy beneath your skin. You want to shrink into a crack in the earth and live there forever.

Kamilah flounces off to her other Ravenclaw friends, who begin smothering her in pitied looks and coos. She plays on their attention, even shedding a few, shameful tears, and they up their efforts.

“Must be nice having your tiny cock in everyone’s mouth,” Kaitlyn snaps, loudly enough for Kamilah and her friends to hear. Kamilah’s smile falters.

“Did you hear something?” Kamilah asks, cocking her head to the side, “It’s probably nothing.”

Kaitlyn opens her mouth to bark out another snappy retort but you slam your fork onto the table, “Would you stop it? Please?”

Kaitlyn considers your pleading, tearful eyes and sighs, her face softening, “I’m so sorry about all of this.”

You shrug, arranging your face into a mask of apathy, “I’ve been through worse things.”

A peel of delighted laughter echoes across the table. You glance at Kamilah’s side of the table, and a sharp pang ripples across your chest.

Sirius has sauntered over to her side of the table and is now playing with her hair, pushing it back so he can trail kisses down her neck. Her other friends smile, equal parts envious and in awe, as they watch Kamilah lean in to kiss Sirius.

“I’m not hungry anymore,” you whisper, springing from your seat and racing back toward the Ravenclaw common room.

You really need today to be over already.

*** No matter how many times you twist and turn in bed, you can not fall asleep.

The entire day seems to play on loop in your brain like a horror film, recounting the events minute by minute. You sigh, rolling in your sheets, tears of frustration pricking your eyes. Maybe a walk will help…

Quietly, you peer through the curtains of your four-poster bed. Everyone is still asleep, which should make sneaking out easy.

Carefully, you slip out of your bed, throw your robes over your shoulders and pin your Prefect badge to your chest. That way, if anyone questions you, you can brush them off with a fairly realistic excuse. Slowly, you sneak of your room, creep down the winding staircase, and out of the Ravenclaw common room. You release a sigh of relief when you hear the door click shut behind you, grateful that you managed to slip out without waking anyone up. You make your way down the tightly-winding spiral staircase and lose yourself in the castle.

You love the Castle at night.

It’s quiet and empty, with none of the noise that the crowds carry through every corner and corridor. You especially love exploring on a full moon. Some nights, when you’re on Prefect duty, you allow yourself to wander directionless, just so you can bask in the moons ghostly shadow, allowing it to soak into your skin and spread through your body like moon dust.

You reach up to fiddle with your necklace, allowing your finger to slide across the cold, white-gold moon pendant. The last gift you ever received from your parents was this necklace, and you have never taken it off since. You’re tempted to allow your mind to drift to that very dark crevice in your mind, to allow it to swallow you whole and embrace all of those bottled memories you’ve carefully hid away.

You know for a fact that it’s unhealthy to bury everything deep inside of you but, sometimes, it’s too painful to crack open old tombstones and watch the memories spill out like unsettled spirits. That day had been so long ago; you were just a child, young and naïve and really, truly believing that you would see your parents again, that they would be protected in the same way that they protected others–

You scream as someone yanks you behind a tapestry and clamps a hand over your mouth. They’re strong, pulling you against them and holding you against the wall, an arm wrapped around your waist so they can tug you close to their chest.

You try to thrash but they have you locked in place. Your heart pounds against your chest like a fist threatening to punch its way out. Your screams are lumped together in your throat like a dry pill stuck halfway through.

“Don’t. move.” 

Today really needs to end.

who do you think it is????? let me know! 

tagging: @whysoseriouspadfoot @ashkuuuu @sly-vixen-up2nogood 

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[scripted-dalliances]

Rest In Peace: Chapter Sixteen

Title: Rest In Peace

Chapter: 16

Summary: A part of Faithless Fairy Tale, a more in depth look at how they brought Laura back to life. Appearance of old faces, creation of new ones and if you’re looking for canon, it left a long, long time ago. If you squint you might be able to see some pieces from the book.

A/N: I feel like I need to make a note of why I use Anubis rather than Jacquel. It’s mostly because Laura’s first intro to him is in death, where I feel he is more “Anubis than Jacquel” and same with Ibis, as meeting him in the funeral home. 

+ I also want to explain of where Isis and Laura are by the end of this, if any of you have read the book, you’ll recall Shadow hanging out “behind the curtains” -where he eats and drinks, and generally has a rad time without Odin. This is what I sort of imagine the after life of the Egyptian gods is.

“Stories,' the green-eyed Sigrid said, unperturbed, 'are like prayers. It does not matter when you begin, or when you end, only that you bend a knee and say the words.” -Catherynne M. Valente

+

In the new room, Nephthys is a welcomed old face, one that Laura finds herself needing as Anubis coldly directs her remove her clothes and get up on the table. He is all business, as he moves around the room, while the two women talk.

“You knew your sister couldn't bring me back to life.” Laura says, kicking off her shoes and socks. Nephthys bends to pick them up, “You could have said.”

“I said she wanted to help, and she is.” The goddess replies, helping Laura to remove her shirt, jeans and everything else. Folds them as if precious and sets them aside. “We all will. It feels...”

“Good.” Anubis finishes, coming up behind them. An old set of tools in a thick leather case in his hands. Old enough that Laura thinks they should be a in a museum. “To work together as a family, to all play our part in a new story. We have not been afforded much of those roles.”

Laura doesn't really know what he means by that. So she simply gets up on the table and attempts to relax. The room is just a sterile as the funeral home, but far less homey. Her eyes struggle to take in everything, and not feel like the corpse she clearly is, but eventually the duo start working and she finds herself more entranced by the two working around each other.

Before, Ibis had helped, but even his presence had been off kilter in the sense that he mostly stood to the side, filling her head with false incentives.

Ibis had been commentary from the peanut gallery who kept her distracted. For what end, Laura doesn’t know, but at least here she knows that is not the case. Nephthys is a stark difference, as she takes one side of Laura while Anubis takes the other. Letting silence fall over them like a blanket, only occasionally broken by one needing a new tool.

Together, they work about her. Cleaning and fixing her broken and rotting body. Anubis undoes the stitching on her arms, belly and chest. Takes the miles of blackened thread and throws it away.

For each one he undoes on her, Nephthys slides her hands beneath the opened skin and gently performs her funeral rites. Taking time to remove the parasites and rot that infect Laura's bones and flesh. Normally the body would be fresher, the organs completely removed but this is different. The end they prepare her for isn't the customary type.

When all is done, Nephthys sews her up with gold thread, heavy but so fine and thin that it reminds Laura of a spider's silk. How she manages to keep it wrapped around a needle is magic in itself.

They each take the time to scrub away the dirt and grim from her skin, from under her nails and brush her thick matted hair until its glossy. It makes Laura feel like a little girl again, letting herself be taken care of.

For a long time the duo works in silence, before Laura finds herself breaking it.

“Does she know?” Laura questions. The two gods stop and look at her, “That I tried to rob her? The casino.”

Anubis goes back to his work, but Nephthys stops and peers down into Laura's eyes.

“She does. Though for what it is worth, you did not physical do so, nor did you succeed. My sister does not hold this against you, she has always been very good at seeing past crimes to the person behind them. She knows why you tried.”

Anubis shifts awkwardly, and after a long moment, speaks too. Voice softer than Laura expects as he fixes her nails.

“Once upon a time, Isis had a brother. Set was messy, chaotic and ambitious to the point of ruin.” Anubis looks at Laura pointedly, “He was also a loud mouth who never learned.” He says this in a tone as if he is talking about her. “-but no matter what he did, she still called him brother.”

“So, you're saying she is helping me because I remind her of her brother?”

“No. I am saying she heart big enough to forgive even the worst crimes.” At this, Laura glares and he mirrors the expression. “Do not make that face, it might stay like that. Rigor mortis is a thing you know.”

“What he is trying to say, very badly, is that she loved her brother. Always.” Nephthys runs her nails through Laura's hair. Fixing it to perfection. “In the grand scheme of things, Odin stole something far more precious from us. He did it with the selfish design for himself, right in our town, to one we considered ours. No offense, but comparatively, your crimes are of a child stealing a cookie before dinner. We might use money to garner attention, but we are not attached to it, not like mortals are.”

“Thanks.” Laura replies glibly.

Nephthys catches her tone, “What did you expect? To be punished indefinitely for such a soft crime?”

“Shadow did time for that soft crime, I made the biggest mistake of life after it. Everything even slightly good in my life went to shit after I tried to rob this place…so yeah. Maybe I was thinking it was borderline divine punishment.”

Nephthys glances at Anubis, whose gaze is fixed on the glue he is using on Laura's nails. Determining that he is distracted, she leans down to whispers mischievously in Laura's ear.

“Want to know another secret?”

“Always.”

“Those scales, the ones you are so scared of? Don't weigh crimes like you think. It weighs your heart, and that is a very complicated thing. It holds all your secrets. Every lie. Every truth. All the little dirty details, all the moments you felt light and loved.” She rests her weight on her arms to better peer into Laura's eyes. “All the times you felt alone and hurt and didn't say a word. Your heart has taken those seeds of pain, sowed it within and kept them.”

“This doesn't sound like a secret.”

“The secret, impatient one, is that it takes a great deal of sin and malice to tip those ugly scales. Guilt makes a heart heavy, but the worst ones are the hearts that feel no guilt at all for the terrible things they’ve done.” She reveals, “Only you can know the truth of your heart without those scales, and it is no secret that you judge yours too harshly.”

There is a knock at the door. Disallowing Laura any chance to comment on the state of her heart.

It was time.

+

“We'll have to take it out. The coin.” Isis told her, watching Laura come before her. They are back in the grand marble ballroom, alone. Above their heads, the night is black, without even the smallest star. Looking up at it, Laura feels as they've left Earth, like they are alone on another planet.

“I will be dead if you do. Seems a bit of a step back.”

Isis takes her hands and drags her to the center of the room. The white dress Nephthys had dressed her in was glowing in the darkness of the starless sky. There, at their bare feet is a pale gold dish, with just a hint of water nestled in the bottom. It takes Laura a second to register that it was moving. Soft, gentle waves so small a raindrop would disturb it. The mock ocean in the pan kept her attention until Isis gripped her hand hard in her own.

“The water will carry your spirit out of this body, and you will be put in a sort of...spiritual body. It will hurt. Forming a spiritual form is easier than bringing you back from the dead, but I can not promise it will not hurt. The stronger the spirit, the harder it is to pull it away.” Isis tells her, rolling her shoulders and closing her eyes. “Now, close your eyes. Do not open them until I tell you. Clear your mind and think of what makes you want to breath again.”

Laura was in process of closing eyes, but suddenly finds herself glaring.

“Low blow. We both know I don't.”

Isis tilts her head, purses her lips and mockingly replies, “Oh? Really? Nothing comes to mind?”

Laura wants to tell her, no. She really fucking doesn't. She's a dead woman, with an ex-husband with no money, no job and smells like rotted pork chops. She wants to tell Isis that she's got nothing but her own selfish desires at this point, to want to feel whole and warm again.

-but then she thinks of Mad Sweeney's massive warm hands on her hips, lifting her like a precious bubble of spun sugar. Making her feel not a beat of a heart, but a gust that swelled her lungs. How she inhaled and exhaled in the aftermath.

-but then she recalls of touching him as he slept, when he shined so softly she could almost taste the light on her tongue. Making her blood boil and coat the very inside of her veins with liquid sunlight; the soft, perfect Sunday morning kind, where you felt like it was wrapped around your whole body. How she had nearly kissed him out of desire.

-but then she recalls his angry rant, of him telling her she has him. His luck, his heart and faith. How he had said with such fury, such hate, that it was just enough to make his confession honest. How he told her in not so many words he loved her, spitefully and painfully, and she believed him.

“Oh fuck.” Laura whispers to herself, shutting her eyes in pain as she becomes more and more aware of revelations. Of herself; when had she stopped wanting to slit his throat every time he spoke? When did she start smiling at his stupid insults? Before their deal? Before she slayed Odin to save him?

Of him; His antics, he soft tones and side glances. How he complained and bitched, dragged his feet, but never once lead her astray. Never tricked her or mentally fucked with her until she thought she was better off dead.

Oh, he repeated himself almost daily on why she should leave Shadow, to give up on that dream, darlin' cus it's deader than you. He told her many times to give up her old life, her husband and the dumb mission to save him. She had his coin, yes, but it was clear if he only waited another week or two, she would have rotted to pieces just like he warned.

Instead, he continued to try. One dark car trip after another. 

All awhile, shedding coins of knowledge before her. Secrets of himself, of her and what was to come. He didn't have to do that, he could have lied. Could have tricked her from the start, and she wouldn't have known until it was too late.

She had already lost the coin once, and it was in his hands, and yet he still reached into her filthy corpse and put it back. 

Like she deserved another chance, like he wanted her to have her vengeance and come out on top of this whole damn war. To get not just her life back, but to teach these new gods a lesson only a sacrifice could.

Because for whatever reason, he believed she deserved it, and so she did.

Water crashes against her feet, enough to make her cry out.

The water is warm, and rises quickly. The only reason that she does not move or kick away is because Isis still has not let go. Even when the water floods around her, hitting her ankles, knees and hips within seconds. Try as she might to ignore the sensation and keep her eyes closed, it was a struggle.

Mind on high a alert and wariness growing. She wanted to know what the fuck was happening, because how could there be ocean tides in this room, how could it feel like nothing was below them, how could it not drown them in seconds?

The water covers her head, and she chokes.

It's a violent sudden awareness that has her body clenching forward on instinct. Pitching her out of Isis's grip but into her arms. Beneath the water, they sink together, with Isis's strong grip holding on to Laura's shuddering body. As it rocked, twisted and shook.

As it splinted apart.

Laura’s mind races, trying to understand the reaction at all, she doesn’t need air, she has drowned before. Under Mad Sweeney’s furious grip at that, but this feels different. Less like drowning and more like splintering. More like the water was filling her body and pushing her out.

This was her spirit forced to leave a shell it didn't want to let go of.

The pressure builds and builds until finally, it happens.

She breaks.

Her lungs popped first, her spine bent unnaturally in agreement. She became a doll with cut strings in Isis’s hold.

Every nerve screamed in tormented harmony with her bones that cracked over and over like eggs against a bowl. That quick and easy. 

The rest of her organs were slower, they took their time with her pain. Waiting their turn between cracks to slide in. A bloat of the bladder, a pinch of the kidney while her guts twisted in their own merry away. Without much care where and when she felt the pain, only that she knew it was always happening. A background pain that would soon also drown under the loudest of all.

Her heart.

It beat once, then twice.

By the third beat, she is breaking the surface of the water. Taking deep, shuddering intakes of air that burn, but just as quick heal and fill her lungs too.

Everything aches like a new sickness, but she reveals in it.

“Open your eyes, Laura.” Isis whispers, still holding her. Letting the girl lean against her in the great waters of this unknown world. Together, their hearts beat slow and sure. An echo to the other, in that way only a heart can, to prove it's existence to all. That only it can provide the predictable beats for.

Laura opens her eyes to the same endless galaxy from her first time in the after world and breathes.

If this is life in the after world, she finds she doesn’t mind it. 

Later, they walk hand in hand, out of the ocean to a warm beach white sand, black mud and grass so green it redefines the meaning of the word. It's only when they are climbing out of a bank, when she turns to look behind her that she realizes the ocean wasn't an ocean at all.

It was a river.

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