#i *really* would like to be able to read the mount doom chapter on the feast of the annunciation

[fictionadventurer]

Potential March Reads

Wandering by Loren G. Warnemunde

Spe Salvi by Pope Benedict XVI

The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett

The Heir and the Spare by Kate Stradling (plus Maid and Minstrel and/or Brine and Bone)

The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien

The Light Princess by George Macdonald

The Hunger Games trilogy (and possible Sunrise on the Reaping by Suzanne Collins)

[themardlonk]

I just finished reading the books and I've come to the conclusion that I actually really like that Sam married Rosie and Frodo left? 

Before reading the books, the ending to ROTK used to lowkey upset me, because Sam and Frodo love tf out of each other! But Frodo leaves and Sam stays behind to get married to someone we don't know and is happy in the Shire without Frodo?? It bugged me. But after reading the books, I've come to the realization that in order for them to get the happy endings they deserve, Frodo needs to leave and Sam needs to stay. And Sam's life with Rosie is essential to his happy ending and completed character arc and is entirely separate from Frodo and Sam's love for one another. The reasons behind why I think their endings are perfect for them have to do with autonomy and the difference between choices made selflessly vs. choices made in self interest.

TLDR; Frodo and Sam’s endings are perfect for them (imo) because they get to choose them for themselves. Both hobbits spend the entire trilogy sacrificing everything they are for the Good of Middle Earth. Frodo leaving is The Good Ending for him because he is suffering the traumatic effects of the Ring; Frodo isn’t happy in the Shire and chooses an adventure of his own to Valinor so that he can heal. Sam staying and getting married and becoming part of the community is The Good Ending for him because he is invested in the Shire; from the moment he returns to the Shire, he chooses to pour his time and love into its restoration and abundance. Sam is a gardener and he chooses the Shire because it brings him happiness, but Frodo can’t find happiness there and so chooses to leave because that’s what’s best for him. (And then eventually, after Sam’s lived his happy ending in the Shire, he sails to Valinor to live with Frodo, and they both get that happy ending, too.)

There’s a little mini essay on Frodo and Sam that I put under the cut because it’s just me rambling, but if I didn’t make my reasoning clear enough above, it might clear it up. (Forewarning: These notes are probably uncoordinated af, because they were jotted down in my phone while I sat on the floor of my kitchen for 3 hours in a feverish ADHD-med-fueled determination to wrap my head around the LOTR ending.)

Frodo and Sam have the same goal (destroy the Ring), but their jobs differ. Frodo is tasked with the actual job of carrying the Ring (the metaphorical weight of the world) to Mordor. On top of physical, Frodo suffers through enormous mental and spiritual anguish to complete this task. Sam, meanwhile is tasked with protecting the Ring Bearer, and every decision he makes is in Frodo's best interest before anything else. He handles the Ring very little and his suffering is mainly physical, but he spends the entire time as Frodo's second, and defers to Frodo's choices and well-being above his own the entire time.

When they return home to the Shire, of the two of them, it's Sam who takes the lead in the resistance against Saruman. Afterward, it's Sam who spreads the dirt and plants the mallorn from Galadriel. It's Sam who takes an active role in saving and restoring the Shire. Of the four hobbits, I noticed that Frodo seems to be the one most affected by the Scouring of the Shire. While they're all affected, Frodo is the only one who doesn't actively start rallying troops and planning attacks. Instead, he takes on advisory duties and then withdraws as soon as he is able.

All four hobbits come back physically changed, but the book makes it pretty plain that on top of this, Frodo is also experiencing chronic PTSD, depression, and withdrawal from the Ring. Frodo isn't completely present in his life because he's trying to cope. He tries to be there for Sam, he even lets Sam and Rosie move in with him after they marry, but on the whole, Frodo is really, really sick.

Sam explicitly states that he loves Frodo, and he tries to be there for Frodo through Frodo's sickness. But unlike the trek to Mordor, there's really only so much Sam can do for him. I think Frodo is aware of this, and it's why he encourages Sam to actively pursue happiness (Rosie, a home, a family, social standing, etc.). Frodo loves Sam and wants him to have the happy ending that Sam wants, but Frodo can only give so much of himself as he is currently. Sam is in love with the Shire, but Frodo's happy ending isn't in the Shire. He's not happy there, and Sam is. Frodo can't give Sam what he needs, and vice versa. They have a conversation about this in "The Grey Havens" chapter. Frodo asks if Sam would be willing to travel with him, and Sam says of course, but that he can't go too far from the Shire. They love each other, but their needs are different, now. Frodo needs help with trauma recovery, and he can't stay in the Shire, but he's also not going to ask Sam to leave it behind to be with him while he recovers. Frodo doesn't need Sam to go with him, and he actually kinda needs to do this himself. And it's really important to Sam's character arc that Sam says he wants to stay.

Sam's life with Rosie is essential to his happy ending and completed character arc. Sam spends the entirety of the books looking after Frodo, caring for him, risking his life for him, and making sure they both go "There and Back Again." For 15(ish) months, Sam is on constant Frodo Protection Duty, and looking at how Sam addresses him and treats him beforehand and during the journey, Sam has honestly probably deferred to Frodo his entire life. But in order for Sam to really complete his character arc, he needs to choose his future for himself. When they get back to the Shire, he begins the process of self actualization, and Frodo helps it along. On the topic of Rosie, it doesn't matter that Sam marries HER necessarily, but it does matter that he settles down and gets to live a quiet life of gardening and family and community, because that's what he WANTS. And it's important that he himself chooses it, independently of anyone else's well-being.

For Frodo, it's both very similar and the exact opposite. He spends the journey to Mount Doom inside his head, facing things he can't physically fight, and he has to lean on Sam the entire way. Frodo DOES make the choice to take the Ring to Rivendell, and then to Mordor. It could be argued that every step he takes toward Mordor is a choice, but it's never his personal choice. It's a choice between Good and Evil. From the very beginning when Bilbo leaves him the Ring to a year later when he finally returns to the Shire, Frodo's one and only choice is the big picture question: Will you choose Good or Evil? Will you give up, or will you continue to put your mind and body through intense trauma so that your entire world doesn't burn? They're both terrible options, but they're the only ones he's given, and both are detrimental to him personally.

When Frodo returns to the Shire, he could go back to living quietly there for the rest of his life, and he actually does try to do that for a little while. But he has choices available to him now, and it quickly becomes clear to him that he's not happy there. He's been changed so much by the Ring and the experiences he's been through and the wider world around him that his journey can't end in the Shire. It's impossible for him pick up where he left off, because he's not that same hobbit anymore. He's unhappy and unhealthy playing that role, and it would be antithetical to his journey and the opposite of character growth. For Frodo, his happy ending looks like trauma recovery and a kinder adventure that he gets to choose for himself, and that's why Valinor is such a good ending for him.

Before he leaves, Frodo does as much as he can to put the Shire to rights and set Sam up to live his happy ending (he INVITES Sam to live in HIS HOUSE, did I mention that? I love them), and then Frodo leaves for Valinor to heal and find his own happy ending. And he gets it. He does heal, and after he's much recovered, Sam comes to live with him after he himself has lived a full happy life in the Shire.

OTHER (other) THOUGHTS:

(((This ending also makes sense, because if Frodo can't live happily in the Shire after going on a huge journey to save it, SOMEBODY better.)))

I also think it's nice that Sam and Rosie get to be in love, and that Sam is allowed to love multiple people. And I think it's lovely that his love for Frodo is not diminished in any way by his love for Rosie. "You're allowed to love multiple people deeply in your life, and that love is not made lesser because it's being given to multiple people" is SUCH a good message.

[nerdypanda3126]

Playing with Fire

Hope you had a Happy Valentine's Day, @bloody-no-kissu! I stepped in as your @lovebugs-and-snakecharmers secret admirer 😁💖

The prompt I chose to go with was: fantasy, the princess falls for the dragon instead – marinette is a princess and bc of a curse she is locked in a tower with a dragon (luka). while she waits for the destined knight to save her from her curse she spends more and more time with luka. they fall in love.

So I did take a few liberties on this to weave it together, but I really hope you like it! Huge thanks to @writtenbyrain for the beta read on this!  

Read on Ao3 

First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Marinette had been told the story of her curse so many times she could recite it by heart. 

“You were a baby,” her dad would tell her. “A tiny little thing, still all wrapped up in diapers. And that… thing—” he always growled at that, as if the dragon she’d been found curled up with had personally insulted him. He would shake his head, and give her a pitying look. “—It stole you from us. And by the time we found you, you were already cursed… already...” he would gesture to her at that point, indicating the way she was every night as soon as the moon slipped above the horizon.

Every night she was engulfed in a blue flame that made it impossible for anyone to come near. Impossible for her to be touched. 

What she was never able to find out, though, was why. Why the dragon had apparently chosen her to curse, why it hadn’t killed her outright when she was barely out of diapers. Why she kept dreaming of sleeping safely within its coils, her fire cooled as if that was where she had always belonged. 

She knew where it lived now. Everyone knew. It had taken up residence in a lonely tower high up on the mountain. Everyone said it was guarding a valuable secret; why else would it be there? Of course, people had tried to find out, although they often came back singed and babbling. Something about a dark sorcerer or a beautiful prince or a shapeshifter or… the stories always varied. 

Finally, a reward was offered. The dragon had been a menace for far too long, the writ proclaimed. Anyone able to bring back its head would be handsomely compensated.

More people flocked to the cause: soldiers from far away places wearing shiny armor and bearing sharp, glinting swords, sorcerers with staffs and books claiming they had this method or another to calm the beast. None of them returned. 

Night after night, Marinette’s flame burned hotter, brighter. And night after night she dreamed of the dragon. She couldn’t tell anymore what was memory and what was a dream. She thought she remembered the dragon plucking her from the river she’d fallen into, breathing life and fire into her lungs, curling up around her to keep her warm until her parents found her. But that couldn’t have been true. The dragon was dangerous, everyone said so. And it had left her with this unbearable curse. 

“I’m going after it,” she proclaimed to her parents after the worst night she'd had in all of her eighteen years of bearing the curse. 

Her dreams had been strong that night. She had awoken to her mom shaking her, screaming, desperately pleading with her to wake up. Her hands and arms up to the elbows had been irreparably burned in the process. It wasn't until Marinette had struggled into consciousness that she realized she’d been burning their house down in her sleep. 

Her parents shared a look after her declaration. One of, “We shouldn’t let her, but what else can we do?” 

Marinette winced as she caught a glimpse of her mom’s burned forearms, still wrapped in bandages and salves to soothe the shiny, blistered skin underneath. Her eyes slid over to the corner where she slept, with only her silhouette outlined in the charcoal her fire had left behind. 

“I have to do this,” she said resolutely. “If there’s one good thing to come of this—” she gestured to herself and to the flames that spit and crackled around her “—it means I can’t be burned if I go at night. With the money, you can fix what happened. I'll stay in the stone tower after the dragon's gone where I can't hurt anyone else. Everyone wins," she finished glumly. 

Her dad sighed in resignation and wrapped an arm around her mom’s shoulders.

So the next day just before dusk, they packed a meal for her to take with her, kissed her fondly on both her cheeks, and waved goodbye as she started up the path. 

For it was goodbye. A sacrifice Marinette was more than willing to make. 

As she trudged up the mountain path, the forest grew darker and more foreboding. The only saving grace was that as the light faded, her flame started burning, providing her with light to see by, although she did catch a branch or two on fire as she went. She poured her water out carefully on each one, putting it out without wasting her own resources. If she ran out before she made it to the stone tower, it was entirely possible she’d burn the entire forest down, and it would spread back to her village, back to her parents’ house. 

She soldiered on, even as brambles tore at her skirt and arms, as she grew weary of walking, as she ran lower and lower on life-saving water. 

It was the dead of night when she finally reached the tower, and the dragon wasn’t anywhere in sight. She walked up to the tower using the flagstone path, admiring the well-manicured garden from afar. The tower was quiet, almost as if it was slumbering along with the dragon.

She ran her hand along the cool stone wall as she mounted the steps one by one, dreading what she might find when she got to the top. 

Halfway up, though, she ran into—well, if there was a beautiful prince trapped here, then it must be him. He was tall and pale, with a shock of dark hair and enthralling blue eyes framed by deep purple circles, as if he never slept. He seemed startled to see her at first, though she was used to that. A girl on fire was a startling sight.

But then he reached out a hand, smiling. She flinched away from him. His kind smile shifted to sympathy and he dropped his hand. 

“That’s quite a power you’ve got,” he noted easily. 

She shifted uncomfortably away from him. He didn’t seem affected by the heat she always emanated, but she was still careful not to get too close to anyone. 

“The dragon cursed me with it when I was a small child,” she said.

His head quirked sideways, as if he were appraising her or trying to remember something. When he didn’t respond, Marinette tried again. 

“I’ve come for the reward. Is it asleep?” 

“He,” the man said stiffly. “And he’s gone for now. He disappears at night. You’re welcome to come back in the morning to try your luck.”

There was a note of despondency in his tone, and he scooted past her in the narrow stairwell to continue on his way down. 

She considered continuing up the stairs, but if the dragon was gone, there was no point to it. She hesitated before she followed him—the prince, he had to be—down and back outside. 

There was a pool of moonlight in the very center of the garden, and he walked over to it and lay down as if basking in it. The sigh he let out was at once content and terribly lonely. For some reason, it pulled at her heart. She knew that feeling. She had come to terms with her curse, with her lot in life. But that didn’t make it any better when she was unable to sleep soundly without worrying about her flames burning out of control.

She came as close to him as she dared and sat cross-legged on the flagstone path. 

“You’re not… trapped here?” she asked. Every story she’d ever heard of the handsome young prince was that he was trapped, doomed, kept prisoner by the monster. 

He didn’t open his eyes, but he smiled again. “Oh, I am.” 

“But…” she glanced around. There were no fences, no guards, no magical barriers. She had walked right in, after all. “Can’t you just… leave?” 

He did open an eye at that. “Can’t you just… put that fire out?” He smirked before he closed his eyes again and settled with his face towards the moon. “I’ve been trapped here for longer than I care to remember and now…” He looked over at her again, his blue eyes glinting in the moonlight. “So are you.” 

She looked around again. Still, nothing that would prevent her, or him for that matter, from leaving. He sighed. 

“The dragon, he’s been waiting for you. That… well, some probably call it a curse, but it's more like a bond.” 

“A bond?” 

“You were a small child, you said? When it happened?” 

She nodded, and he nodded back in answer. 

“The dragon was young, too. A child in his own right. He wouldn’t have known…” He sighed and closed his eyes again. “He wouldn’t have known that if he shared his breath with a human, he’d be claiming them. Bonded with them for the rest of his life, tethered to them. Cursed to share a half-life with them.” 

“I’m… sorry... “ She struggled to comprehend what he was telling her. “You’re saying… I’ve been claimed?” 

“If I had to guess, I'd say your fire only burns at night, right? As soon as the sun sets? Maybe only while you slept at first, but it's gotten worse lately?” 

She blinked at him. Her mother’s burned arms floated back to the forefront of her memory. 

“You have a fire burning in you that’s never been yours to control. If you had stayed away from him any longer, you would’ve burnt out of control until everyone you knew and loved was dead. You’re his and he’s yours, for better or worse.” 

“I… wait… you’re saying…”

“You’re intended to be either the dragon's bride or his killer,” he finished bitterly, turning his head away from her. “Not that he has much say in the matter, either, if it’s any consolation.” 

“But if I do… kill him…” she started, grimacing at the thought, “do you think that would lift my curse?” 

“Yours and mine, too.”

“You don’t look very cursed to me,” she muttered. Other than being trapped, as he’d claimed, he seemed perfectly normal. Every bit the beautiful prince she’d heard tales of. With the moonlight falling over him, he was paler still and he looked like a marble statue that had fallen on the ground. His shaggy dark hair flopped over his ears in ragged lines, and even resting he looked tense.

To her surprise, he started chuckling, although there wasn’t any mirth to it. 

“What’s funny?” 

“Nothing,” he said, although he sat up and faced her. “I just wonder if you’ll still think that in the morning.” 

“What happens in the morning?” 

“The dragon comes back,” he said simply, and he pushed himself up to stand. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll turn in. I have a feeling I’ll sleep better knowing my savior has come at last.”

He quirked his lips in a funny sideways smile, then offered her a hand again. She shook her head at him and he rolled his eyes.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I promise.” 

She hesitated. The fear of hurting him flared strong and her fire started flickering and sputtering along with her anxiety. His eyes softened, and he reached forward, into her aura of flames. To her complete and utter surprise, his hand came through unscathed. 

“I told you, it’s okay,” he said. 

Stunned, Marinette  laid her hand in his and he helped her stand up. Her fire raced along his arm and arced over his body until he was just as engulfed as she was. But rather than being harmed by it, it seemed he was helping her with it, sharing some of the burden. In fact, when he released her, she looked down at her hands and was shocked to find that the moonlight was the only thing illuminating them. 

She looked back up at him and he smiled, although it was still tinged with sadness, and he gestured with his head to the spot of moonlight that still spilled across the grass.

She ran, giddy to be released from her curse for the first night in her entire life and fearful that it would come back before she could race back to the safety of the stone path. As she rolled in the cool grass, she couldn't help the giggles that escaped her, the pure bliss of being safe under the stars overtaking her. When she finally stilled, she sighed as she looked up at the bright, twinkling lights, unobscured for the first time. They were so clear, all the way up there, like she could reach out and touch one. She lifted her hand up and pretended she could, cupping the full moon between her hands as if she held it close.

She’d gotten so used to the flames crackling around her that without them the world seemed deathly silent. Peaceful, but eerie. 

When she sat back up and turned to look back at the path, she found that the prince had disappeared. To turn in, as he’d said, although he hadn’t told her where she might sleep.

She looked at her hands again, so foreign to her without the bright blue flames. They looked smaller. More fragile. 

Suddenly, she realized that was the one thing protecting her from the dragon. The reason she’d felt so confident in coming up here. She couldn’t be burned at night because she was already engulfed in flames. But he’d taken her flames away. He’d gifted her the ability to roll in the grass without burning anything down, sure, but he’d also stolen her protection. 

Even though her flames weren’t snapping around her, she felt the panic rise up in her chest. What if he was a dark sorcerer after all? What if it was his job to lure people here and steal their power? What if this had all been a trap? 

She stumbled to her feet and clenched her fists. He’d seemed so kind. She’d trusted him. She hadn’t thought he would steal from her.

She marched back inside, uncaring if the grass sizzled under her feet or not. The tower stairs only went up, so she followed them, winding her way up to the top, unsure of what she might say or do if she found him, but certain that she had to find him regardless.

The sound of heavy, deep breathing hit her first. It wasn’t human, that was for sure. It was something much bigger. 

She tiptoed around the last bend, her fear climbing with each step.

She held her breath as a large room at the top came into view. One wall was completely open, and there was a huge, sleek, black, serpentine figure wound tightly around itself in the moonlight that spilled into the corner. One wing was draped over its head, like a curtain.

She held her breath as she backed out of the room. 

Hadn’t he said the dragon wouldn’t come back until morning? Hadn’t he said it disappeared at night? Hadn’t he said—

She cursed the dark sorcerer, the beautiful prince, whoever he was, under her breath as she turned and tripped her way back down the stairs. He had also said she couldn’t leave, but based on the way he’d lied about everything else, that’s exactly what she would do. She would run, all the way back to her parents, to her village, even if it meant sleeping on a stone bed the rest of her life. 

As she ran towards the forest, her steps started sizzling underneath her again, and her hands started to flame up before she could stop them. Her tears dissipated before they even had a chance to fall. 

From the top of the tower, she heard a strangled cry, still inhuman, but closer to it, and filled with pain. It spurred her on, although the fire was starting to burn white around her hands, stinging her painfully, and she shook her hands, trying to put it out. The farther she ran, the more the fire seeped into her skin, making her cry out. 

There was a great whoosh of wind behind her, then footsteps, matching her pace, although more spread out. The pain was blinding, but still she pushed on against whatever unknown barrier was causing it. She cradled her hands to her chest and struggled as each step forward was now a shooting, searing, white-hot bolt of pain through her. 

Strong hands caught her from behind and pulled her backwards—the hands of the dark, beautiful sorcerer. She kicked against him, trying to pull away, but he held fast. The pain behind her eyes cleared and she realized he was taking the fire away from her again. 

“You… can’t… leave…” he huffed as he dragged her backwards. She tried to claw away from him every step of the way.

Finally, though, he’d pulled her back to the clearing and dropped her on the stone path unceremoniously. She bolted back up to her feet and he caught her around her middle and shoved her back down, moving at the same time to stand in front of her and block her path. 

“You can’t leave,” he panted again. “Or we both die.” 

“I’m supposed to believe you’re kidnapping me for my own good?” she spat and scrambled back to her feet. “And who the hell are you, anyway?” 

“Sorry. Luka. I’m Luka.” He held his hand out for her and she smacked it away. He winced. “You have every right to be upset. But listen to me. I’m just trying to protect you. You can’t leave this tower without me.” 

He was still trying to catch his breath, and she noticed for the first time that his eyes had changed to serpentine slits and there was a distinct black sheen on the backs of his hands that worked its way up his forearms.

As she watched, he grabbed her hand and shivered as she was once again engulfed in blue flames and he returned to normal. 

"We're connected," he explained softly. "We share the fire. It's mine in the morning and yours at night. Now that you've come here, you can't leave unless you're either with me or there's no fire to share, or it rips us both apart. So for your own sake, you either stay put or you kill me, do you understand?"

He released her hand, and she looked at them incredulously. That he'd taken her fire away and given it back was proof enough of what he was saying. 

"Kill you?" she asked, his words sinking in through the remnants of pain behind her eyes. "As in… you're the…the...?"

"Yes."

"But you're…" she gestured to him, to his humanness, and he shifted uncomfortably under her bewildered gaze. 

"I know. Like I said, it's yours at night. That was the first time in 18 years I've had the moonlight on my scales." 

She gasped for breath as her fire started spitting around her, casting off sparks that came dangerously close to the grass. "I can't… you're human, or half-human or… I can't… I can't do this!" 

"That's okay. Hey. It's okay." His hands hovered over hers, not quite touching her, leaving her fire with her. "What's your name? Can you tell me your name?" 

"Ma-Ma-Marinette…" she stuttered as she attempted to keep breathing. 

"Okay, Ma-Ma-Marinette." He smiled, trying to put her at ease. "Let's just take this slow, okay? Would you be willing to stay here tonight with me? We can talk more in the morning." 

"You're a dragon in the morning," she said, then a hysteric giggle burst out of her at how ridiculous that sounded. 

He chuckled with her and laid the back of his hand against hers. As her fire arced across to him, his eyes turned into slits again and his scales slid over his arm. "I don't have to be anymore." 

She gaped at him as he pulled his hand away again and slid back to humanity. 

"One night. That's all I'm asking." 

Her dream popped back in her head and she blushed even before the question was out of her mouth. "If I sleep… you know, touching you, or like, against you… would that…?" She gestured to the fire still burning around her and then to him. 

He smiled again and chuckled nervously. "Yeah, I think so. But everything's stone, so you won't burn anything down if you'd… you know, if you'd rather not." 

She considered for a moment until her curiosity got the better of her.

"One night," she agreed.

He let out a sigh of relief and gestured for her to lead the way. 

As she mounted the stone steps again, her fire—his fire, she corrected herself, he'd shared it with her—bounced off the smooth stone and flickered along with her nerves. This time at the top of the stairs, she paused to look at the room Luka had called his own for 18 years.

There was a nest of pillows piled in the corner, a stack of books with open pages fluttering in the breeze that flowed through the wide opening, a lyre leaning against the smooth wall, and bits and pieces of armor lined up along the wall like trophies. She recognized a few here and there and gulped. No wonder they hadn't returned. 

She half-turned to him, her question dying in her throat, and he pressed his lips together in a thin line.

"Tomorrow," he said, gesturing for her to continue past everything. She did, but paused before her flames touched the pillows. 

"Here," he said, and threw out a hand for her to take. Tentatively, she took hold of him and watched as he shivered and his transformation took hold. 

He kept eye contact with her as scales slithered over his arms, his hands turned to claws, wings erupted from somewhere around his shoulders, and his body elongated until it was a solid length of powerful muscle.

She slid her hand to what was about his neck and he blinked slowly at her before lowering himself to the pillows and coiling his body tightly around itself, tucking his legs in what seemed to be a familiar position. 

It was a bit awkward to maneuver herself into his coils without taking her hand off him, but they managed and he draped his wing over her, for warmth she assumed, because the breeze that was drifting in was nipping at her exposed skin. And he was warm, she realized, like having his fire returned to him made him a living furnace.

She could see it, when she twisted to look at him: a deep blue illuminating the thinner skin at the base of his neck and flaring brighter in his chest as he breathed. 

She curled into him and fell asleep with his deep, heavy breathing in her ears and his sleek scales shifting under her hands.  

[themurphyzone]

PatB/BatB AU: If I Can’t Love Him Ch 1

Summary: Sequel to Imprisoned and part of the PatB BatB AU.

The Beast knows he’s too far gone, in too deep to ever have hope of regaining what he lost. But one action leads to another, and through a series of mistakes, discovers he may have been wrong about so many things.

Pinky is running for his life. He knows he made a promise, and he finds the servants charming, but he can’t stay. The castle was not and will never be his home. But things aren’t always as they appear.

AN: OK ok technically the disastrous dinner request does happen first (as of posting this first chapter, the dinner request scene has not been written yet but I do hope to get around to it), but I just wanna write the West Wing and its aftermath ok lemme have my angst.

This will be a 4 chapter story, each chapter named for a lyric from If I Can’t Love Her from the BatB Broadway musical. It’s a really heartwrenching song and every time I hear it I just wanna hug poor Beast.

AO3 Link

Ch 1: Careless and Unthinking

The Beast heard music drifting from the large dining room, traveling along the wind until it reached his usual haunt on the castle roof just above the West Wing.

Though he was too far to properly hear the lyrics, he recognized that irritatingly catchy melody to Be a Pest, a song the Warner siblings performed on a semi-regular basis ever since the curse upended their lives.

He should’ve known the Warners wouldn’t leave the prisoner alone in his room to starve.

The Beast huffed, a misty cloud forming in the frigid air.

He wasn’t sure why he said that when he didn’t actually want the prisoner to starve. It was counterproductive to breaking the curse.

And that mouse was far too foolish to suit his purposes. Arguing every order, determined to defy him at every turn, uncaring of self-preservation when he skipped into the castle and announced his presence without the slightest attempt at stealth.

Not that anyone else bothered to heed his orders, despite his higher station, but it was especially irritating from someone who was supposed to be a prisoner.

Surely all his hopes of regaining his rightful position weren’t dependent on an idiot whose head was permanently up in the clouds!

Rage mounted in the depths of his deformed body, and though he tried to hold back, he couldn’t stop the primal roar that worked its way past his throat.

It echoed off the trees, a flock of faraway birds taking to the air to get away from a perceived predator.

He struck the roof with one clawed, oversized hand. Several loose tiles spiraled into the abyss below.

The rush of adrenaline was overwhelming. It felt good to be so powerful. His old body was woefully lacking in strength and height.

He’d never been able to climb onto the roof before. A mouse was far too small and fragile to ever attempt something so death-defying.

Nor was he able to tear furniture apart so easily. But now he could.

Give in, a voice whispered, sweet and tempting and malicious all at once. Why resist your anger? Give in now, and you won’t be hurt ever again. I promise.

Anger was the only emotion worth feeling. It was blissful to not experience anything other than splintered wood and torn cloth under his claws. No worries, doubts, or fears to hold him back. When his thoughts became nothing but a simplistic chant of destroy, destroy, destroy.

Then all coherent thought would cease, and only instincts were left.

But anger was a fickle companion. It would encourage him, drive him forward, yet it would suddenly flee. It didn’t stay with him in the wake of his destruction.

And the guilt came.

His shortsightedness robbed everyone of a comfortable life. Nobody was spared. Not the innocent toddler, not the orphans or stray animals seeking a safe haven, nor the regular household staff.

On that first long, horrible night, he’d promised to break the curse. They’d be back to normal before they knew it, and they’d only remember it as one odd, terrifying nightmare.

But his plan didn’t work. And he made that promise again. Then his next plan failed before he set it into motion.

Tomorrow night. I’ll break it tomorrow night for sure.

For the past five years, he made that same promise every night.

But the curse wasn’t broken. The nightmare wasn’t complete.

Every plan failed. He tried everything.

That is, he tried everything except for the condition laid out from the very beginning.

The beautiful witch’s voice haunted him, mocking him through every waking hour and dream, taunting him with fate-sealing roses and mirrors that reflected the monster he was.

“If you can find somebody to love, and earn their love in return, my enchantment upon your castle shall be lifted. Fail in your quest, and you shall remain a beast for all time.”

The condition was an open secret in the castle, though only the Warners dared to bring up the topic within his vicinity.

He laughed, but it was a harsh, guttural laugh, completely devoid of joy.

Love? How could he possibly love anyone?

Love only brought pain.

As a foolish child, he loved his parents.

Then they abandoned him in favor of the lavish court. His existence was a scandal unto itself, and he was secreted away to a province with little royal oversight.

He let out an ugly snarl, cruel fangs digging into his upper lip.

The harsh, unnatural sound only served as a reminder that nobody would ever love him back. His mind, which once held ideas on how to reclaim his throne and improve life in this neglected province, was now dull and dimming further by the day.

He couldn’t read or invent anymore. His hands were too large for the delicate machinery, his claws ripping apart everything he touched. He barely remembered how to stand on two legs, and the few times he tried, he quickly lost his balance and had no choice but to stalk the hallways on all fours, stripped of all dignity.

Intelligence was all he had. And even that would be gone soon.

Nobody wanted a dumb, slavering, mud-colored beast for a lover.

A chilly wind blew snow into his fur, startling him out of his ponderings. The night had quickly grown dark and cold, the land below shrouded in an early winter. The moon and stars were hidden by thick, low clouds.

He didn’t hear any music. The prisoner had likely eaten his fill by now.

The silence unnerved him.

It was quiet on the rooftop, but without the background noise of the servants working or screaming from the unfortunate souls who were assigned Warner or Mindy duty, it was far too quiet for comfort.

When it was silent, the most unwelcome thoughts nagged at his deteriorating mind.

He sighed, regretting his decision to ponder on the roof this long. But then, it seemed his entire life was just one bad decision after another, so he was hardly bothered.  

Stretching his sore limbs, he carefully gripped the slippery tiles as he descended down to the West Wing balcony. The wind whipped at his cape, and his exposed fur stood on end to keep his body warm.

This body was more resistant to the cold, able to endure conditions any weak, normal mouse would hide themselves from.

He was powerful.

But that thought quickly came to an end.

He lost his grip on a handhold, sliding several inches on the slippery stone.

The brief scare made whatever remained of his shriveled heart leap in fear, and he was reminded that regardless of physical prowess, he was still mortal.

On some nights, being mortal was a good thing.

He took hold of a thick, tangled growth of ivy that crept up the stone walls over the years, so thick that even his sharp claws couldn’t cut through it. The servants had valiantly battled the plants over the years, but there was only so much they could do.

The castle would crumble once the curse took hold permanently and become nothing more than a relic lost to time.

He crept down the ivy to the West Wing balcony, allowing the mysterious, cruel light of the enchanted rose to guide him to safety in the darkness.

Brooding over a rose and making doomed plans in the vain hope of breaking this curse.

That’s all he was good for these days.

Just as he set foot on the balcony, his ears perked at the sound of footsteps within his chambers. He growled quietly to himself.

He wasn’t in the mood to deal with the Warners’ antics tonight. Not when their advice proved little use against the prisoner’s stubborn refusal to have dinner with him.

But the footsteps sounded…different. Lighter.

Not brassy like Yakko’s, wooden like Wakko’s, or clinking like Dot’s.

The Beast inhaled sharply.

No.

It couldn’t be.

His prisoner was an idiot, but surely he wouldn’t break the only rule he’d been given. He should’ve been thanking the Beast for his leniency with the guidelines to follow for his stay within the castle property.

Don’t go into the West Wing.

But the mouse was right before his eyes, still on the far side of the room, twirling around in awe at the torn draperies, splintered wood, and haphazard bedding.

“Narf. This room could use a good sweep. I’ve seen pigsties cleaner than this!” the mouse tsked, shaking his head at the sorry state of the West Wing.

Really? The Beast wanted to scream. That’s your main concern right now?

Never mind that the West Wing was a grim testament to just how far he’d fallen, the shadowed lair of a beast, the broken décor scattered and abused throughout the years because it felt so good to lash out at something without guilt, and his prisoner commented on the mess of all things?

His claws brushed against a shard from a broken vase, and he sullenly flicked it aside. The ceramic remains skittered across the balcony.

Alright, so maybe the West Wing was a little messy…

An odd sense of embarrassment washed over him.

He crouched behind a thick tangle of ivy, feeling very much like a predator lying in wait for unsuspecting prey. Perhaps he wouldn’t have to do anything, and the mouse would just leave on his own.

The mouse picked his way through the West Wing, stopping to gawk at a shredded mattress and pile of ragged blankets that served as the Beast’s bed. He plucked at a strip of fabric that had fallen on the floor, and the Beast growled lowly. His sleeping area wasn’t a spectacle.

It was simply where he woke up from a nightmare, only to find that he never truly left.  

The mouse gasped, his ears twitching. For a fleeting moment, the Beast believed he’d successfully chased him out of the West Wing. But the mouse turned to a portrait in a golden frame, one that had been painted so long ago, in a faraway life.

He’d dragged his claws across that painting many times, when he could no longer take the image of himself as a prince, mocking him with his dead-eyed stare and prestige.

Reminding him of what he used to be.

Though he wanted nothing more than to be rid of it permanently, some part of him couldn’t bear to throw it away. He didn’t know why.

He was tempted to spring out of his hiding place and tell the mouse to get out right now, but the gentle, almost reverent way the mouse pulled the hanging scraps of the portrait up to what remained in the frame made him hesitate.

In the entryway of the balcony, the rose sparked within the bell jar, its ethereal glow blinding for just a moment before it settled once again.

His hesitation cost him.

Slowly, the mouse approached the enchanted rose. The glow was always mesmerizing, always the only beautiful thing in an otherwise dark and ugly room.

Sometimes he fantasized about shredding the rose to pieces and scattering the petals to the wind, so that he wouldn’t ever have to look at it anymore.

But he wasn’t the only one affected by the curse, though he was the one who bore the brunt of it. Too often, he’d come close to forgetting that.

The rose floated just above a small, elevated platform. Five petals had fallen so far, lifeless and dead. More would join them soon enough. The pink glow illuminated the mouse’s unusual blue eyes, which were already lit up in idiotic wonder and curiosity.

With a surprising amount of strength for a mouse so slim, the prisoner carefully lifted the bell jar and set it aside.

The sheer stupidity of that action stunned the Beast.

Then the mouse reached out, fingers outstretched, just a few inches away from-

THAT FOOL WAS GOING TO DAMN THEM ALL!

All-consuming fear and fury seized hold of the Beast’s mind, his vision filled with red haze as he sprung out from behind the ivy thicket.

Protect the rose. Protect the rose at any cost.  

The Beast snarled, ignoring his prisoner’s startled gasp. The mouse tripped over his own feet as the Beast snatched up the bell jar and slammed it over the rose.

For a moment, he feared he was too rough with the precious items. Though no petals fell, he wouldn’t allow himself any relief.

Not until the intruder was dealt with.

He gripped the bell jar tightly, slowly turning to face the mouse who thought he could just barge into the West Wing without any consequences whatsoever.

“What are you doing here?” the Beast growled, blocking the rose from the mouse’s view.

The mouse held his hands in front of his face. “I…I’m sorry!” he stammered.

Did he truly believe a simple placation would work? That he broke the one rule, a rather generous rule, just to satisfy his own curiosity?

“I warned you NEVER to come here!” he snarled, caring nothing for the apology.

The mouse stumbled over the corner of a ceramic vase which had oddly survived the carnage the Beast had wrought over the years. His eyes were wide, his ears limp. He squeaked something in protest, pitifully trying to justify his poor reasoning.

“DO YOU REALIZE WHAT YOU COULD’VE DONE?”

A roar tore out of his throat. He was dimly aware of a terrified scream, his large paws smashing a vase into jagged shards, and all he knew was the pleasure of unleashing his wrath upon anything that couldn’t fight back.

He only saw red.  

“GET OUT!”

A pile of broken wood flew past the mouse’s head. He let out a ragged cry and fled the West Wing. His piercing scream echoed in the Beast’s ears, banishing the red, vengeful haze that overtook his mind.

Broken furniture surrounded him.  

Downstairs, the servants pleaded in vain for the mouse to stay. A cold wind blew through the castle, icy enough to pierce through his defenses.

The Beast turned to the rose, just in time for the sixth petal to fall.

It had a wicked sense of humor.

The enchanted mirror reflected cruel, sharp fangs as he panted for breath. The portrait’s gaze bore into him, dead-eyed and mocking and judgmental.  

And the twisted black horns which adorned his head were heavier than before.  

AN: I’m sorry mice, I love you, I swear…

No I did not start the BatB AU as an excuse to torture Brain as much as I already do. It’s kinda sad that many character traits of Disney’s Beast and Brain overlap. Short temper, arrogant, a goal they want very very badly but their own vices prevent them from ever obtaining it, brooding, someone they love so much they’ll do anything for, even give up their own desires, but they don’t believe they can be loved back…yeah. 

I tried to do the West Wing justice cause it’s such a great scene in the movie, but I don’t think it translates well to a text based medium. Oh well, you can just listen to the soundtrack, but I think I did well enough with it.

[thegoodgayshit]

Luz’s mother really doesn’t want to send Luz to camp. She knows once she leaves, there is no going back. But Luz has a knack for getting into trouble, and one day she stumbles into the same type of people her mother would have preferred she avoided. After helping Luz dissolve her high school bully into dust, Eda and Lilith know right away that this kid is just like them - a child of the gods. So Luz hops on a Pegasus and heads to Camp Half-blood, where she embarks on a dangerous quest that makes her both friends and enemies... and she might even save Olympus along the way.

Chapter Twenty Seven: I Decide Now’s a Good Time to Call in Backup

“That’s my sword,” Luz whispered, turning to look at Amity with wide eyes. “That’s my sword and your shield! Why are my sword and your shield outside Belos’ cave?”

“This wasn’t always Belos’ cave,” said a low voice from behind them. Luz jumped, turning to face Nessos, who was watching the entrance with sad, wistful eyes.

“For centuries, this cave was the entrance to Mount Pelion, where the best and the bravest Greek heroes would come to seek out the centaurs for training. But long before that… it was sacred ground. The place that held the wedding of Peleus and his wife Thetis. This mountain is named after him because in a way he almost founded it. All the history of the centaurs and this land leads back to him.”

“And Belos kicked the centaurs out,” Luz said slowly, her eyebrows knitting together.

“It was a valiant fight, we didn’t roll over and cower,” Nessos retorted, and Luz put her hands up, her eyes widening in alarm.

“I didn’t say that!”

“Come now, Nessos,” Pholos murmured, his eyes set on Luz with the same wistfulness. “You know her intentions. Belos took advantage of us.”

“What do you mean?” Amity asked, her mouth set in a frown.

“Demigods have a strength on this mountain unmatched to any other land,” Nessos explained his tail swishing anxiously as he glanced over at Achilles and Theseus. “Centaurs are strong on their own, but compared to a demigod here, we are outmatched. Even on his own, Belos was able to drive us out.”

“So we’re doomed,” Willow mumbled, adjusting the glasses on her face. Luz shook her head, clenching her fists.

“No, we’re not. They might be demigods, but so are we. We’ll be able to push them out and the centaurs can return to the cave.”

“She is right,” Pholos said, nodding approvingly, “but you also have another advantage, one that they will not be expecting.”

He reached down and pointed at Luz’s ring and Amity’s bracelet. “These are the keys to Mount Pelion. They will guide you to complete your quest, and protect you from any enemies, demigod or not.”

Luz looked down, her hand hovering over the ring. “They will?”

Pholos watched Luz for a moment, and it felt like he was reading her whole soul. Eventually, he smiled.

“Even celestial bronze has memories embedded in their core. The blade you have is not cursed, Luz. Sometimes, when we don’t understand something, it is easy to look past a blessing.”

Luz thought on that for a moment, before Gus tapped her shoulder urgently.

“Uh, guys, if we want to get in that cave, we better move.”

He was right, Achilles and Theseus seemed to get over whatever conversation they were having, and instead turned and headed back into the cave, the hilt of their sheathed weapons glinting as the light hit them for the last time.

“Augustus is right,” Nessos said, pushing them forward. “You must go. There is no time left to spare.”

Luz’s friends nodded, beginning to walk out of the forest and towards the cave. Luz hesitated, looking back at Pholos. There was a silent question in her eyes, which the centaur replied too with a simple nod.

Taking a breath, Luz and her friends left the centaurs and headed up the path to the cave, doing their best to walk quietly and not alert the retreating figures of Achilles and Theseus that they were there.

They crept up behind the statues, and Gus leaned forward checking that nobody had seen them. Achilles and Theseus had headed down the cavern, their muffled voices bouncing off the cave walls. Luz wanted to pay attention to what they were saying… it was probably important. But her heart was pounding so loudly she could feel it rising up to her ears, and couldn’t focus on anything but that.

Eventually, Gus must have decided it was clear to move. He nodded, and together they began to sneak inside, careful to stick to the edges of the open door as it headed downhill towards the room.

The cavern was much longer and much darker than it had been in Luz’s dreams. It seemed to sink deeper and deeper, and without much light besides the flicker of torches hanging on the wall, she could barely see two feet in front of her face.

Suddenly, Gus stopped, and Luz had to catch herself so she didn’t slam into him. Amity grabbed her shoulders, and the four of them pressed against a nook on the wall, shielding their bodies. There was a wave of light that passed them, and Luz realized why they stopped.

They had reached some kind of armory. It was a separate tunnel that stretches away from the main cavern, and it was packed with revived demigods.

Theseus and Achilles were there, and though Achilles went without armor, Theseus had put on a bronze chest plate not dissimilar to the ones Luz used at camp. Behind Achilles, Luz recognized Orpheus, who was holding a bow and scowling as he talked to another demigod next to him. Thankfully, his lyre was nowhere to be seen. There was a handful of other demigods Luz had never seen, but considering most of them were wielding a weapon, Luz knew they were in trouble.

Gus was breathing so heavily near Luz’s leg that she was certain he was going to give them away.

“Gus, you need to relax,” Willow whispered, and the son of Athena shook his head.

“Do you know who some of those demigods are? That’s Hector and Actaeon, and… Holy Zeus… is that Meleager? How are we going to outmatch these guys?”

“The centaurs said we’ll have an advantage,” Amity insisted, keeping her voice low. Her body was right behind Luz’s, and her breath was so close to her ear it felt like she was shouting.

“We’re outnumbered twelve to four,” Willow said, and while she wasn’t nearly as panicked as Gus, Luz could tell she didn’t like the odds of the fight. “And these won’t be easy wins. These are demigods who have been around for thousands and thousands of years.”

Doubt swirled in Luz’s belly. She didn’t want to lead her friends into a death trap, but right now she didn’t know what other choices she had. If they went back, surely someone would see them. If they charged, they would be outnumbered in seconds.

Amity seemed decently confident that the centaurs had been right about their weapons. Luz didn’t know how exactly Aletheia would help in a three on one situation, but she didn’t want to rely on it. Luz didn’t know if that was just because she was still reeling from finding out Amity was keeping something from her, but even if that was the case, this was a situation she knew they wouldn’t be able to get out of alone.

They needed backup.

Backup… Luz’s face suddenly split into a grin. Around her neck, the bronze whistle seemed to burn against her skin.

“I have a plan,” she said, and though she couldn’t see them squished into the darkness of this nook, all three of her friends moved, their heads turning towards her. “Get your weapons ready.”

When she told them what her idea was, Willow and Gus didn’t seem too enthusiastic.

“Not that I don’t trust you Luz, but how do we even know this is going to work?” Willow asked, and Luz shrugged her shoulders.

“We don’t, but we’re stuck here either way. We have to try.”

“This is a suicide mission,” Gus mumbled, but nevertheless, his hand hovered over his spear. “Ok, I’m ready.”

“Me too,” Willow said, though she didn’t look happy about it.

Luz turned her head to Amity, who was watching the three of them quietly. “Amity? What do you think?”

Luz couldn’t see her, but she felt her shaky exhale against her face. “I think I’m owed a rematch with Achilles. I’m in, no matter what the plan is.”

That sinking feeling in Luz’s gut returned. Amity was never this reckless, she never liked charging in without a well thought out plan.

Luz decided that Pholos had been right. Amity was definitely keeping something from them.

Pushing away her doubt, Luz did her best to focus on the mission. “Alright, as long as we stick together, everything is going to be fine. Are you guys ready?”

There was the briefest movement, hopefully of a head nod, and Luz pushed herself off the wall and stepped out into the light. She drew her weapon, which shifted into her sword, and there was a startled yelp that came from the revived demigods as Luz and her friends stepped out together, weapons and shields drawn, staring them down.

“Hey everybody,” Luz said, doing her best to sound intimidating. “Do you mind pointing us in the direction of Hestia?”

Theseus and Achilles spared them a look of surprise, before Theseus’s expression turned murderous and Achilles grinned, rubbing his hands together like he had been waiting for a fight.

“Daughter of Hermes, you’ve finally arrived,” Achilles chuckled, drawing a wicked-looking spear from off his back. Around them, the other demigods drew their own blades, hovering behind them and waiting for their orders. “I’ve been waiting to see if you’re a worthy enough opponent to challenge me. I can only spar with Theseus here for so long.”

Amity clutched her sword, stepping forward. “Enough, Achilles. I want a rematch.”

“Very well, daughter of Aphrodite,” Achilles said with a shrug, his huge muscles rippling under the tank top as he did. “I will make sure you don’t get away from me this time. I hope you have a coin for the ferryman.”

Theseus scoffed, drawing his own xiphos. “Blunt as always, aren’t we Achilles?” His gaze flickered back to Luz. “I must admit I’m surprised you’re here. I knew you slew the Minotaur, but I thought my sow might be a more worthy challenge.”

“Enough, Theseus,” Orpheus interrupted, gripping a bow tightly between his fingers. “I want this one. She broke my lyre!”

Theseus sighed, rolling his eyes. “We’re all better off without it, Orpheus. I swear to the Emperor, you only know how to play three good riffs.”

“Take that back!”

Luz lowered her sword, looking to her friends in confusion. Were they just going to bicker this whole time?

“If you don’t mind?” One of the demigods shouted from the back, gesturing to Luz and her friends. “We should deal with them before the Emperor knows they’re here.”

“Gods, you know how to take the fun out of everything,” Achilles retorted, rolling his shoulders. “It’s no wonder I killed you back in Troy.”

“Hector makes a good point,” Theseus shrugged, gesturing to the Luz and her friends. The revived demigods sneered, stepping closer and closer to them. “So, Luz Noceda. Which one of us would you like to be killed by?”

“None of you are killing us today, Theo,” she insisted, and Luz reached under her shirt, pulling out the bronze whistle.

She prayed to every god she could think of. Please let this work. Please.  

She pressed it against her lips and blew. It made a shrill keening sound, and around her, everybody winced. The whistle shattered between her hands, the pieces scattering to the mountain floor.

Of course, nothing happened.

All the revived demigods laughed, and Luz felt her heart sink. Next to her, her friends all clutched their weapons, ready for a charge.

“What was that supposed to do? Deafen us?” Theseus said through laughs. He cleared a tear away from his eye, and then lifted his sword to the air. “Enough of this. Kill them!”

There was a roar as the revived demigods charged, and Luz tensed, ready for the swords and spears to inevitably crash into her. She closed her eyes, ready for death, and next to her, her friends all pressed together, weapons pointed.

But she never felt the blades hit her.

There was a booming crash, and Luz and her friends were thrown backward, skidding across the floor. In front of them, the demigods shrieked, and there was another huge boom. The smell of ozone split through the armory, and Luz heard a familiar whoop of delight.

Luz shakily got to her feet and looked, not believing her eyes.

Eda, Lilith, and King were standing there, weapons drawn, and had blasted Theseus back with a bolt of lightning. Around them, the revived demigods watched nervously, gripping their weapons tightly.

Eda turned her head, her gold eyes meeting Luz’s with that signature toothy grin. “Hey, kid! About time you let us have some fun.”

“Eda!” Luz exclaimed, getting to her feet. Next to her, her friends stood up relief splitting over their faces.

“No time for pleasantries! We can talk after,” she said, spinning her spear in her hand. Luz watched as it shifted into a sword.

“I love shadow travel!” King squealed in delight, crouching at Eda’s side. “Luz, you’ve gotta try it with me sometime.”

“I have… so many questions,” Luz mumbled. She turned to her other friends and saw just how relieved they were to have backup. She nodded to them, gripping her own sword.

“You guys ready?”

“Always,” Willow said, as Gus and Amity nodded. Luz didn’t even need to give any kind of speech to get them ready. They were all grinning, looking ready for battle than Luz had ever seen them.

They could do this.

“What are you all waiting for?” Theseus screeched from where he’d been knocked down. He stood up on one knee, pointing to Luz and her friends. “They’re still outnumbered! Get them!”

The demigods seemed to remember that little fact and split into a roar, charging towards them. Luz jumped into action as one charged at her, deflecting their blade and shoving them hard with her shoulder, sending them spinning into Eda, who slashed against their helmet. There were sounds of metal clanging against metal as the armory split into a battlefield.

Luz watched as Willow and Gus deflected swipe after swipe. With one push of his spear, Gus sent a demigod sailing into a weapons rack, hitting the ground with a thud. Lilith and Eda were shoulder to shoulder, deflecting the swings of at least four different demigods, and managing just fine. King ran between their legs, taking huge bites out of whoever was stupid enough to forget he was there. Next to her Amity was charging at Achilles, and met the first blow of his spear with her new shield.

As Luz took on a demigod with her own sword, she kept a watchful eye whenever she got the chance. Amity had been doing fine, but then Achilles grew frustrated and swiped with the back of his hand. Amity yelped as she got smacked, stumbling backward and towards a group of demigods who had been waiting for her. Luz slammed the hilt of her sword down on the demigod she was dueling, leaping towards Amity and deflecting one of the stabs the first demigod made.

“Watch your back!” Luz exclaimed, and Amity spun around, quickly recovering.

“Thanks!” She replied as she swung, pushing one demigod so far back he stumbled into another one.

They were able to deflect a few more swipes, but it was becoming clear that despite their backup, Luz and her friends were clearly outnumbered. Their circle was closing in, and soon, they would be completely outmatched once again. She shared a quick look with Amity and saw that eyes had that same recognition in them. Amity bit her lip and nodded to her, and Luz felt a newfound strength enter her. She would not let Theseus and his bullies hurt her friends.

With a roar, she swung at the next demigod and managed to clip the top of his helmet. He went sailing backward, knocking into the demigod behind him and they both hit a weapons rack, collapsing to the ground. Luz blinked, that should have been near impossible. She hadn’t hit him that hard.

Next to her, Amity pushed against one with her shield, and his feet were actually knocked off the ground. Luz’s eyes widened as Amity turned to look at her, equally shocked.

“What was that?”

“Your sword!” Amity gasped, looking at it.

Luz looked down in awe. Aletheia was glowing a faint bronzy color, and as Luz held it out towards Dikē, the shield also started to hum, glinting in the torchlight of the cave. The longer Luz looked at it, the more strength she felt flow into her body. She… she felt unstoppable. Like the whole mountain could come crashing down and Luz could hold it up with her bare hands. When Luz looked back at Amity she gasped. Her eyes… they weren’t gold anymore. They were that same bronzy glow as the weapons.

“Peleus’ weapons!” Amity exclaimed, looking just as refreshed as Luz was feeling. “Pholos was right!”

But they didn’t have time to sit there and awe over what they’d just discovered. When Luz turned her head, Gus had been knocked into by a demigod, and he barely managed to avoid getting skewered as he rolled. Eda and Lilith were getting backed into a corner, and they would soon be overtaken if they didn’t get help.

Down the end of the mountain path, there was another roar. Footsteps were thundering down the mountain, and Luz knew that the demigod's reinforcements were on the way.

“We need more backup!” Amity yelled, knocking another demigod flat against the ground.

“Where are we going to get more backup!” Luz retorted as the one Achilles was arguing with earlier saw an opening and charged at her. She blocked his first swing, going for the untraditional route of punching him in the throat. “I don’t have any more bronze whistles!”

“I have an idea, but it’s actually crazy! There’s no guarantee it’s going to work!” Amity said, kicking Hector in the side and sending him reeling into the wall of the armory.

“Seems on-brand for us,” Luz said with a shrug, and Amity nodded, flipping her sword around and pointing it towards the ground.

“Cover for me! I only saw dad do this once, and if it works, it’s going to take a lot out of me!”

“On it!” Luz said, already blocking another demigod from getting any closer.

Amity took a deep breath, closing her eyes and raising the hilt of her sword. “Grandfather Ares, I offer you my sword and the blessing of Peleus. Arm me with soldiers made of mountain and stone!”

With a grunt of effort, she pushed down the blade right against the mountain floor. Luz’s jaw dropped. It should have just deflected right off the hard stone, but instead, the xiphos sunk a foot and a half into it, like it was cutting through layers of paper. Amity dropped to one knee, and the mountain began to tremble. Out of the floor began to rise about two dozen of these… creatures. They were dark grey, and about six feet tall.

There were shouts of alarm from Belos’ men as the creatures seemed to solidify and take shape, immediately rallying behind Amity and charging, swiping demigods left and right, and roaring this sound that would have sent any sane person running.

Gus, out of breath, stumbled next to me, followed by Willow as they took a protective stance behind them. Amity exhaled, removing her sword from the ground, and stood. Luz had to catch her on the way up and steady her. The bronzy glow in her eyes was still there, but it occasionally flickered in and out.

“Are you alright?” Luz asked, biting her lip. She had been right, whatever she had done clearly took a lot out of her.

“I’ll be okay,” Amity said, as Gus and Willow watched her in awe.

“Amity, how did you do that?” Gus exclaimed in awe. Now that the creatures were helping, the demigods had more to deal with than usual. Even Eda and Lilith had the pressure taken off, now swinging a lot more artistically, like they were enjoying themselves. “You just summoned Ares’ Abominations!”

“He’s my grandfather,” she said with a shrug. “I thought it might work, so I gave it a try. I guess he likes me.”

“Are you okay to keep fighting?” Luz asked, and Amity nodded, already clutching her sword.

“Definitely.”

There was a sudden deep rumbling from the mountain, and it was so strong it nearly knocked Luz and her friends off their feet. Luz tightened her grip on Amity, and when the tremors subsided, they looked to one another in terror.

“Let’s hope that was from the summoning,” Amity mumbled, and Luz couldn’t help but agree.

The four of them threw themselves back into the fight. Amity with her abominations at her side went straight for Achilles, charging into him with such a fury that Luz wouldn’t wish on her worst enemy. Gus and Willow were battling around her, so she figured for the moment Amity was probably going to be fine.

Luz peered towards Eda and Lilith and saw Eda scrapping with three demigods, including Theseus. She was holding them off, but judging by the clench in her jaw Luz knew she could probably use some help.

She broke into her best battle cry, running towards Theseus and leaping, clinging to his back and making him stumble. He spun in a circle, knocking one of his own demigods over in the process.

“Augh! Get off me!” He roared, and Luz clutched tighter to his back as Eda stabbed. He cried out in pain and collapsed, and Luz rolled off him, hitting him in the head with the hilt of her blade so hard he was knocked unconscious.

“Nice kid!” Eda yelled, and Luz turned towards her and grinned.

“Thanks! It’s my signature move,” she said, waggling her eyebrows.

“Luz, you have to go find Hestia!” Lilith said from next to her, while she stabbed her spear towards a demigod. “That tremor was proof enough, we’re running out of time!”

“We’ll hold the demigods here,” Eda added, smiling reassuringly. The second wave of Belos’ reinforcements had arrived, but they were clashing with abominations the second they got in. Luz realized that now was her chance. She could hurry and run down the rest of the cavern, and there was a decent chance nobody would notice.

“Are you sure you’ll be okay?”

“With little Blights abominations on our side? Absolutely,” Eda insisted, gesturing to the rest of the armory, which was currently being torn to bits by the abominations.

King took another bite out of the leg of a demigod. “We will be victorious! But not if this mountain falls on us first.”

Luz hesitated. She didn’t want to leave her friends, but she knew that they were right. If she left, she could find Hestia and end this right now.

Sparing one last glance around the battlefield, she watched as Amity roared, swinging at Achilles and knocking him flat on his back. Willow and Gus took out two more demigods in a synchronized double strike, and next to her, Eda and Lilith were clashing their weapons together, the level of ozone in the room slowly rising.

They would be fine. Luz had a job to do.

So she turned tail and fled, racing down the mountain caverns and towards the caged goddess of the hearth.

[arotechno]

The Heartless: Chapter 5

Read on Inkitt

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Chapter V: in which the proverbial dam breaks

We stayed with Esther for three days. We’d spend the daylight hours working in the field, and in the evenings we’d sit outside and listen to Esther’s stories while the sun sank into the far-off horizon and gave way to the cool summer night. Sometimes, she’d help us in the garden or sit by the back door with the baby; other times she’d spend most of the afternoon in the house, and we’d see her carrying out crates of old-looking memorabilia, like our hard work had inspired her to finally clear out the detritus of an old life that she didn’t lead anymore.

Over those three days, we razed the overgrown garden rows, trimmed back the bushes, and cleared the creeping vines from the side of the house with the old rusted garden tools from the dusty, cobweb-laden wooden bin by the back door. There were several moments where I considered disappearing overnight, dragging an unwilling Petra back home with me before something could go horribly wrong. But every time, the thought of sleeping another night in the treetops and the mental image of Esther waking up one morning to find us gone convinced me to stay, at least until the work was done.

On the morning of the fourth day, Petra and I gathered up our measly belongings from the stable and bid our goodbyes to Esther and the baby, standing between the freshly shorn raspberry bushes with the whole truth sinking into the sun-baked earth unspoken. I began a thousand sentences in my head without finishing any of them, but thankfully, Petra picked up the slack.

“Thank you so much, ma’am, for everything,” she said with a polite nod.

Esther returned her thanks with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Of course, dear. It was nice to have some helping hands around for a few days.”

Petra went in for a quick hug, and if I’d had a heart, I believe it would have leapt into my throat and stayed there, permanently, until I choked on it and died. Instead, I found myself suddenly frozen to the ground where I stood, a thousand panicked thoughts buzzing under my skin until I saw Esther reach her free arm towards me and took a practiced step backward, a trillion possible endings to a million possible nightmares playing out in my head in that one instant.

“Thank you,” I choked out, startling Esther out of the bewildered expression that had crept onto her kind face. “Sincerely, I’ll never be able to thank you enough. More than you will ever know.” I gave her a polite nod to match Petra’s and turned to go, but when we were halfway to the road, she stopped me.

“Ace!” Esther called after me.

I turned around to see her look of confusion soften into something bordering on sorrow.

“I don’t know what it is, and I don’t expect you to tell me,” she began, “but whatever it is, no matter how bad you think it is, it doesn’t matter. You’re always welcome here, if you ever decide to come back. That’s a promise.”

“Please don’t make a promise I can’t expect you to keep, ma’am,” I answered honestly, and then I turned to go, Petra marching solemnly alongside me with her hands clutching the straps of her now full bag.

“You’re good kids, both of you!” Esther shouted, her voice carrying her desperation through the raspberry field down to the road’s edge. “I really mean that!”

I said nothing in return, and looked back only once, to see the baby reaching that chubby hand out toward me from afar. As the tiny house and Esther’s slowly shrinking form began to disappear at our backs, I thought quietly about the argument Petra and I’d had amongst the too-tall weeds that first day, and was left wondering which of us was right.

* * *

Bertrand greeted me with cold indifference when we finally arrived back in the Village of the Heartless. The house was stuffy; it felt more oppressively stark and empty than I remembered, as if I’d been gone for months instead of less than a week. It didn’t seem like Bertrand had eaten much, unless he’d managed to get more food in my absence—the more likely scenario was that he’d been brewing away at failed cure after cure in his study the entire time I had been away. It wasn’t as though he did much else when I was home, for that matter.

The sweltering summer dragged on, slow and sticky like pulled taffy. The weeks passed in much the same way as the ones that came before; Bertrand and I rarely spoke, and I spent long afternoons in the shade of the forest grove having target practice with Petra. She and I had taken to doing odd jobs for the neighbors in exchange for food or supplies, scrubbing kitchen floors on our hands and knees or picking fresh vegetables for the summer harvest until the sun had dappled new freckles across our noses and the tops of our shoulders. Whenever I couldn’t sleep at night (which was often), I’d climb to the top of the oak tree by the village gates with my bow and arrow and wait for someone to show up. No one ever did, aside from Petra—though her escapades were admittedly few now that our days were occupied by work.

Eventually, the days began to grow shorter and the summer heat faded into the crisp early autumn. The leaves on the big oak tree lost their green hue and the air grew drier day by day as the year commenced its twilight march to the cold, dark winter. The mounting tension in our tiny house came to a head on one cool autumn night, when my tired bones finally gave in to the deceitful throes of sleep.

* * *

My parents were very good at hiding the fact that I had no heart in my chest, and they had to be—harboring a Heartless child was against royal decree and would likely get them imprisoned, or worse. The people of Swallow’s Point didn’t suspect a thing, and I was content to keep it that way. I saw no reason to ever be discovered; I was living an ordinary childhood simply by pretending to be ordinary, and it was working.

It was just a beautiful, average day; the neighborhood children were out playing in the grass. In an act of heroics, Basil climbed atop a tree stump, wielding a stick like a pretend sword. We were playing knights, like we always did.

“I’m going to be king!” Basil declared gleefully to our group like a ruler addressing his people.

I turned up my nose and protested, “Basil, we’re all supposed to be knights! That’s the point of the game!”

Basil frowned, fists landing on his scrawny hips. “No, stupid, I mean in real life! I’m going to be king someday!”

"Sure you are,” retorted a kid who reminded me of Knife Boy. “You have to be related to the king to do that.”

Basil shrugged. “Maybe I am.”

“I don’t think so. You’re too weird to be related to King Brutus,” Marcus taunted.

“Don’t speak that way to your future king!” Basil joked, hopping down gracefully from his stump. He landed with a soft thud, worn-out shoes kicking up a cloud of dirt. The dust coated his face and clothes as he and the other boy began play-wrestling in the dirt road where we lived, laughing all the while, and warning bells resounded in my head. I could sense the impending danger from a mile away; it was an instinct I had been honing even throughout the most carefree years of my life, in case I ever needed it.

"Basil,” I muttered, hoping he would hear me and no one else, “maybe you shouldn’t—”

I stopped short, choking on my own breath as the group went dead silent. Marcus had gone to push Basil away and in doing so had placed a hand to Basil’s empty chest. He froze that way, eyes wide, and Basil paled considerably, realizing the gravity of what was happening. The moment cemented itself in my mind’s eye as tension soaked into the air, heavy and still.

“Why were you tricking us this whole time?” Marcus grumbled in a voice too low and too angry to ever come from a child. “You’re cursed! You could doom our whole village!”

“I just wanted friends,” was Basil’s whispered reply, so quiet I almost didn’t hear him. I saw him take a deep breath, chest rising, and then he spoke again, this time louder, bolder, “It shouldn’t matter! We were all friends until just now when you decided something was wrong with me! But that doesn’t change what I’ve always been!”

The entire group of children, save for myself, turned on him in an instant.

I backed further and further away from the scene but couldn’t look away, and in my mind’s eye their pretend-sword sticks became distorted until they resembled Knife Boy’s grimy dagger. I reasoned with myself, assuring myself that he was spry enough, light enough on his feet to escape. But poor, ten-year-old, Heartless Basil who had just declared himself king stared me dead in the eyes with a look that told me to run. So I did. He was foolish to let his guard down, I told myself. It was his own fault for becoming complacent. I almost convinced myself it was true.

  “Ace! Ace, wake up!”

I jolted awake, the residual terror warping the shadows cast by the lantern light into something macabre. It took a moment to will my body to move; my limbs had been reduced to lead, like if I played dead whatever demons haunted my sleep could not hurt me.

“Fuck,” I finally choked out, the hoarseness in my voice making me realize I had been screaming. I hadn’t woken up screaming from a nightmare in years, and it was at that point that I at last noticed Bertrand hovering beside my cot, the soft light from the lantern illuminating his stony features. There was something genuine in his expression—I realized belatedly that it was concern, and for some reason, it made me uncomfortable. Bertrand did not admonish me for my language, but instead stared at me patiently, expectantly, and somehow that made it worse.

"Sorry," I rasped. "For waking you."

Bertrand shook his head. “I was not asleep,” was all he said.

It occurred to me that Bertrand was the only living soul to whom I had ever told the details about Basil’s disappearance and the day I left Swallow’s Point. I had spilled to him one night as a child, the first time I woke him in the middle of the night with my screaming. He hadn’t said much, but he’d made me a cup of hot tea and let me lay my ten-year-old soul bare to him despite the ungodly hour. It had helped at the time, but it didn’t feel like an option now. I tried to steady my breathing, but I couldn’t, not with him looking at me so earnestly like that; it was as though my blood itself were vibrating just under my skin.

“I need to take a walk,” I said, swinging my legs over the side of the cot and reaching for my shoes. I met Bertrand’s gaze, daring him to challenge me, but though he said nothing, his expression softened into a sort of resigned understanding.

“Are you sure you’re in any condition to do that?” he finally asked as I was putting on my cloak with trembling limbs.

“No,” I responded shakily, walking out the door unarmed.

Once I was outside, the fresh air immediately took some of the edge off, and I walked a short ways before my legs gave out like a newborn deer’s and I flopped backward onto the grass. I inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly, in and out several times until my breathing began to steady into something approaching normal.

This couldn’t go on any longer. I needed answers, some form of closure, someone to tell me straight to my face to get lost or die for all they cared, something more tangibly final than the memories that haunted me.

That night, I made a rash decision: I had to return home to see my parents.

When I eventually struggled to my feet and headed back inside, Bertrand was nowhere to be seen, but there was a mug of freshly brewed tea waiting on the table, the kettle still steaming on the stove as the crackling fire slowly burned out.

[jacyevans]

Happy Laura Hale Appreciation Week - Tales from the “She Stood Tall” verse

So. This happened.

I've wanted to write the stories of how Laura invited each person into the pack since I wrote "A to B," the finale the She Stood Tall verse, back in 2018. I could never figure out how to get the words on the page.

I should have known better than to plan - the original 7 fics were born of unexpected inspiration and wacky, random happenstance. Of course, these stories would be, too.

Some of these chapters will be posted as @laurahale-appreciation goes on. The rest will be posted sometime next week. Todays theme is “Laura Didn’t Die.”

I hope you enjoy returning to this verse as much as I do. And with that, I give you:

Tales from the Verse - Or: Eight times Laura Hale offers someone the bite. Or: How Laura Hale rebuilds her pack and re-learns what it means to call Beacon Hills home

This Chapter - Scott - feat. Laura Hale, Scott McCall, Stiles Stilinski, and Derek Hale; Rated T.

[NOTE: You do not need to be familiar with the rest of the verse to read this fic, but it would definitely add to the experience. TL;DR, Laura survives both Peter and the Argents and reestablishes the Hale pack with Derek in Beacon Hills.] (Read on AO3)

Laura asks Scott about the Bite after a lacrosse game his senior year of high school.

He’s filling in for someone on the field, lungs burning from lack of oxygen. She can hear him panting from all the way up in the stands. During a time-out, he rushes to the bench, grabbing the inhaler Stiles has been holding in his hands and taking a long, slow puff. Coach tugs him to the side, asks if he’s okay to keep playing. Scott narrows his eyes, nods, tosses Stiles the inhaler, and rushes back onto the field.

They win the game 10 - 9, but Scott walks with his head down as he approaches Laura’s car and climbs into the back seat.

“You were awesome out there tonight,” Stiles says; he isn’t just pacifying Scott. He smells of disappointment that he was once again left on the bench, but warm elation for his friend.

“Yeah,” Scott mutters, buckling his seatbelt. He leans back in his seat and slouches down.

“Dude, I’m serious--”

“Seatbelt, Stiles,” Laura says, cutting him off. Stiles makes a face. He yanks the seatbelt across his chest, struggling to find the correct clip. Scott takes the buckle from his hand without complaint, strapping Stiles in with a click.

“Thanks, bro.” He grins. “Come on! Smile! You made the first goal! You kicked ass out there, man.”

“And Coach almost pulled me off the field right after when I stumbled onto the sideline because I couldn’t breathe,” Scott snaps. Stiles frowns, but he nudges Scott in the arm, pressing their shoulders together before he turns to pester Derek instead.

She pulls up in front of the Stilinski house. Stiles unbuckles his seatbelt and opens the door.

“Hey, Scott, hang back a minute,” she says, catching his eye in the rearview mirror. Scott frowns and exchanges a puzzled look with Stiles.

“Don’t look at me. I got nothin.’ Ack!” He yelps as Derek grasps onto the collar of his jersey, dragging him into the house. Stiles bitches about handsy werewolves who need obedience training as the door shuts.

Scott reeks of teenage angst - a particular smell she could only describe as teenage sweat mixed with anxiety turned up to eleven. Beneath that is bitter resentment, no doubt at what he perceives as his own failure.

She turns around in her seat so she can see his face. She and Derek discussed this weeks ago; she wanted to make sure they were on the same page. “I wanted to ask you something. Have you ever considered taking the Bite?”

Scott’s head snaps up, eyes wide. “You mean like - becoming a werewolf?”

“No, I mean that hickey on your neck the size of Mount Doom.”

Scott slaps a hand to the left side of his neck, grimacing when he hits the bruise. Go Allison.

Laura grins. “Yes, becoming a werewolf.”

“I don’t know. Haven’t really thought about it.” His frown deepens. “Is this about how shitty I played tonight?”

“You scored a goal,” she says, re-emphasizing Stiles’ earlier reassurance.

“Danny scored two,” he grumbles.

Laura rolls her eyes. “And that’s still one more than most of the other players on your team. There was nothing shitty about anything you did on that field.”

“You don’t know what it's like.” Scott stares down at his lap. His hand clenches at the bottom of his jersey. “You’ve never had to worry about getting a paper cut, nevermind barely being able to breathe some days just from walking down the stairs.”

Every so often, one of the humans will throw that in their face, that as werewolves, they don’t know what it's like to suffer from physical illness, usually while they’re whining about a stuffy nose or the flu. Most of the time, she ignores the comment.

Every so often - like when Scott couldn’t find his inhaler fast enough and started wheezing on the couch, or when the sheriff got into a car accident on his way home from work and broke his wrist in three places - the reminder stings. “I know that, Scott. That still doesn’t negate anything you did tonight.”

“I guess,” Scott mutters. He clears his throat, a cautious hope twisting around the edges of his scent. “So, if I become a werewolf - no more asthma, right?”

“I’m not saying it’ll be easy,” Laura says gently. “Your lungs will work just fine - better than fine, even. You’ll be able to run a mile in ten minutes without breaking a sweat.” His eyes light up. She shakes her head. “But the first few months are… painfully difficult for a new wolf. You’ll have to adapt to enhanced senses and heightened emotions. Your body is going to move in ways you aren’t used to. You’ll probably wolf out if someone so much as breathes too hard in your direction, and that’s nothing compared to how aggressive you’ll feel on the first few full moons until you find your anchor and learn control.”

“You know, you’re doing a horrible job of selling me on this,” Scott says, and when he gives her a small smile, she rolls her eyes.

“Listen wiseass,” she says, grin widening when he huffs a laugh, “I’m just making sure you have all of the information so you can make an informed decision.”

He bites his lip. “Do I have to decide tonight?”

She barks a laugh. “Hell no. I’m not biting you until you’re at least eighteen, so you have plenty of time to think about it.” She shifts in her seat, leaning her elbow on the headrest. “I just wanted you to know you have the option, if you want it.”

His smile is genuine this time. “Thanks.” Laura reaches back to ruffle his hair. He ducks her hand, opening the door.

Laura follows him out of the car. She waits until he slings his bag on his shoulder and shuts the door to add, “Oh, I also need to talk to your mother first.”

“Oh, come on!”

[gofancyninjaworld]

Some manga predictions

Been told my predictin’ game’s getting a little weak lately.  Truth be told, there’s been so many jinks in the manga that I’ve been quite happy seeing what the heck happens next in the story, but can’t take that lying down.

Btw, I haven’t forgotten my random list of predictions for the next chapter of the webcomic!  Be fun to see which ones pan out.:)

So, let’s have some more story predictions. Serious enough this time for me to stick by. I’ll take a told ya so if I’m wrong. :)

Short Hits!

Well that settles it!

Metal Bat’s going to get his rematch. We can finally stop wondering what would happen if he brought his bat down squarely on Garou’s head.

Then he’ll collect his slice of Humble Pie, same as everyone else is getting.  It’s fresh, it’s hot, it sticks in your throat but you can’t cough it up. 

Speaking of humble pie, I predict that Golden Sperm gets to hand out free slices to just about everyone still standing. No need to have Amai Mask telling us that this is a difficult foe even for their combined efforts, show us!  And that Garou shows up to save them all... for himself.

No, I don’t dare make any predictions for Genos other than he gets to have a whole Humble Pie. There’s just too many opportunities for catastrophe, from the shining Angel of Annihilation perched on top of the impromptu Mount Doom to the varied nasties crawling out of the rubble.  Speaking of varied nasties, onto prediction two!

One Last Land Mine

One thing that sticks with me was Gyoro-Gyoro/Psykos noting that some monsters undergo unexpected rapid growth and act as jokers in the pack.   We’ve said hello and goodbye to two of them: Rhino Wrestler and his buddy, Phoenixman (now was that a joker or what?).

It’d hardly be fair if none of the cadre (fair? Nothing fair about it -- I mean insufficiently entertaining for us) turned out to be land mines.   I am predicting that Bang fighting Fuhrer Ugly is going to give us some truly sickening transformation and not go down so quickly.  Bang will win, of course, but it should be an extra extra fight first.

Phew, that was Close!

This one is as much prayer as it’s prediction.  I’m predicting that the transport convoy sent for Waganma juuuust escapes the carnage wrought by Tatsumaki pulling up the Subterranean city.   On one level it has to as several of them are transporting wounded heroes, and heroes never die, but there’s no guarantee for all of them.  Why do I care?  Keep reading!

Long-Range Hits!

Saving the Hero Association

The Hero Association is on the rocks in the webcomic.  Between public criticism, internal dissension, donors deserting, and the Neo Heroes leaching talent, political goodwill, and money from them faster than they can comprehend, they really don’t know where to turn right now.

Seriously, the Hero Association can’t afford to fall, unless the story is going to turn into a tragedy where mankind ends up scattered into a few small enclaves, Attack on Titan style only it’s not a lie about what lies beyond the walls. 

 I’ve been hoping that the convoy gets away because when the manga gets to this point, they’re going to need Sekingar. They need Sekingar’s insights on two levels.  The immediate one is to understand the nature of the threat they’re facing.  Sekingar may be inclined to give heroes the benefit of the doubt, but he’s not a gullible fool either: 

If he’s alive, then he’s going to have no trouble at all figuring out that someone is awful keen to usurp the Hero Association, as well as Metal Knight’s automated tech and telling Sitch about it, who is no fool himself.   It will be their first chance to understand what kind of enemy they’re facing.

Second, they’re going to need someone on the Executive Board who actually understands what hero work is like. Even if they see off the threat the Neo Hero threat off, they’re going to need to be able to sort through the varying suggestions of what needs to be done and actually get those changes implemented.

Since so far Sekingar continues to be a manga-only character (since chapter 20!), I have no idea where their insights might come from in the webcomic.  Of course... Sekingar might not make it back in which case they’re no better off in the manga either.

So When You Said Countless, Did You Mean More Than Six?

Here’s something I’m going to stick my neck right out to predict: I’m predicting that we’re going to find out that Genos hasn’t been a cyborg for all that long, rather than four years the way we tend to think.   I present to you four pieces of circumstantial evidence.

First, how has he been getting away with roaming the planet and burning bits of it out of existence?  I’m not the only one to have wondered how it is that Genos never got stopped for carrying weapons -- was it somehow legal?  Turns out, it’s as illegal as hell -- no wonder the Hero Association was on his trail. He’s not even subtle. At its worst, a demon cyborg special sees absolutely everything, even rock, destroyed by extreme heat for kilometres.  [Becoming a hero has really clipped his claws.] For him to have avoided being intercepted by them for weeks? Sure. It’s a big place and he’s very mobile. But evading the Hero Association for years? No chance.

Second, when he said he was inexperienced, he wasn’t joking. Learning to not take his eyes off a monster is such Fighting 101 stuff it’s painful.  Conversely, Saitama may have no technique to speak of, but his awareness of where a hit may be coming from has been absolutely top-notch, something Suiryu notes with admiration.

Third, body count. As of chapter 80, Genos was only on Body Four.  We know what happened to the rest -- the third body got crushed by Gouketsu, the second body got melted by the Deep Sea King and the first one got cut up by Mosquito Girl. I can totally believe that if he’s being Drive Knight cautious, actually doing research on his targets before he strikes, bodies will last a lot longer than we’ve been seeing him go through them but four years of use?  Hmm!!!  I doubt that.

Fourth, becoming a cyborg is a process, not an event.  Thanks to the webcomic, we’ve got an appreciation that body modification is not easy (or safe or sane past a certain point) and it takes months to be functional.  So, some non-negligible fraction of the last four years of his life has been spent Not Dying and Learning to Walk Again. 

Adding it all together, I’m expecting it to turn out that he’s really quite new at all this.  That said, Genos never said he’d been searching for all four years. We just assumed.

[elopez7228]

Scenic Route 29/47

Read on AO3 : https://archiveofourown.org/works/18268208/chapters/43229774 

Start over : https://elopez7228.tumblr.com/post/620919089893933056/scenic-route-0147

***

Closing his eyes to savor the moment, Ben ran his tongue along her folds, tasting her, reverently exploring every inch of her body that she would allow—learning what she liked and what made her fall apart.

She moaned as his tongue skimmed just past her entrance, arching her back and melting against the windshield as her fingers clenched in his hair.

He did it again, relishing the fact that she trembled in his embrace. His lips trailed higher, seeking her clit and latching onto it, licking again and again as Rey cried out her pleasure. She arched her back even further and ground her hips against him, willing his lips closer to her aching core.

Her grip on him was compulsive now, her hands and hips following the brutal pace of his tongue, her body on the verge, on the very edge of unraveling. Every lick sent shivers down her spine—when had she ever been loved like this? With so much reverence and not an ounce of reservation...had it always been this way?

Finn had always been sweet, a patient and attentive lover. But Ben, Ben was something else entirely. His instincts were keen and almost animalistic. If she responded in the slightest to his touch, he would latch onto her pleasure and take her even higher.  

Rey felt too much and not enough as the pressure mounted, her clit swollen and her core throbbing restlessly under his ministrations. Words and rational thoughts escaped her as they melted into sighs and whimpers. Even if she managed to speak, she wouldn’t have been able to describe it.

The pleasure swept through her body in waves, starting where Ben had placed his fingers and his tongue and radiating like an electric current to her breasts, her lips, and all the way down to the tips of her fingers. It was the sweetest torture. Her hands trembled, twisting in his hair again to regain some semblance of control.

Control, it turns out, that he wasn’t willing to give her yet. His mouth let go of her suddenly, she lamented the feeling of cold air on her skin.

“No, come back,” she whined, bereft. But he continued to disobey, and when she finally opened her eyes she found him staring down at her with clouded eyes.

He smiled an unfamiliar smile, his lips glistening with her slick as he bent down and kissed her once more.

She could  taste his mouth and the remnants of her own desire, a heady, addictive combination. She drank from his lips greedily, his mouth pliant, ever willing. His hand ghosted along her sex, slipping one, two fingers inside. She arched her back again, hissing in pleasure. This time she ended the kiss, gazing up at him with hooded eyes.

“No more teasing, make me come,” she groaned as she wrapped her arms around his neck. Hearing no discernable response, she looked up to find him smiling again.  Somehow knowing she had abandoned all pretenses.

“Oh no, sweetheart, not now. Not yet,” he whispered in her ear.

“You bastard...” was all the response she could muster before she latched onto his mouth once more.

He shifted beneath her, grabbing the hem of her top and sliding it over her head in one motion. Rey suddenly found herself entirely naked. Reflexively, she moved to cover her chest, but Ben’s hands were quick to stop her. His grip was gentle but insistent, not seeking to deter, but to reassure. Slowly, she let her arms fall back to her sides.

He contemplated her for a moment, taking in her unabashed nudity. Her breasts were small and perky, dusky nipples hardening in front of him like pearls. He didn’t dream of hesitating.

He took one in his mouth, licking a few times before sucking on it, hard. At that, Rey nearly collapsed, heat rushing down to her pulsing core. She wanted to scream. She wanted more than anything to take him, to take all of him and make him fall apart in the same  way he was making her unravel. As he sucked on her right breast, she canted her hips forward, carnal in her own right as she chased the friction between them.

Her efforts were interrupted as he moved his hand against her aching core again—she cried out as he pumped her with one finger, crooking it just so before adding a second.  Finally, she reached out to fumble at his jeans, feeling for the buttons and unclasping them clumsily in her eagerness.

She didn’t bother with the zipper as she reached down and wrapped her fingers around his cock, hard and slick with the evidence of his arousal.

It suddenly dawned on her that this was the first time she had done this in a long time...the first time she had experienced this with anyone other than Finn. Not long ago, she’d been sure that he was the only man she would ever touch again. But here she was, holding Ben Solo in the palm of her hand, hard and aching for her.

She wondered if he would let her taste him, let her take his pleasure as he had taken hers. But that was out of the question for now, because he had her pinned down—quite literally—with two fingers still inside her and his mouth against her breast.

He raised her lips to hers once more, kissing her with newfound tenderness. She melted contentedly in his embrace this time. His soft lips burned against hers.

“I don’t have any condoms,” she sighed when they finally broke the kiss.

“I have one...it should be in my pocket.”

Rey sat up all too suddenly, almost bashing him in the face in the process.

“So you were just walking around with condoms on you? Did you plan on this?”

“No,” Ben shook his head, reaching for her lips again, “I always carry a couple. I mean you never know, right?”

She dodged his attempt to kiss her. “So do you always accidentally hook up with people like this?”

Ben leaned back to look at her, perplexed. She flinched as he withdrew his fingers. “Yeah, so what? I’m a consenting adult, are you really mad at me for having condoms for protection? We can stop here if you want.” he replied.

Rey closed her eyes, making a decision. “No, of course not,” she smiled. “In fact, I forbid you to stop here.”

She licked teasingly along the seam of his mouth before adding, “It seems you have a vested interest in making me come, Kylo Ren...don’t you?”

She swore against all logic that she felt him harden ever more slightly at the mention of his chosen name. He returned her kiss eagerly.

“As you wish...” he whispered.

He rose, shucking off his boots before struggling with one pant leg and then the other. Rey pondered if it was impossible for anyone to undress in a sexy way, like they did in those romantic films. Alas, they were all doomed to hop around inelegantly on one foot after the other.

When he was done he turned to face her, her gaze still on him from atop the car. He held out his hand and she took the foil packet from him, tearing it open and gently rolling the condom over his erection.

Part of her wanted to take him in her mouth, but judging from the way he was looking at her it was not one of his priorities. Instead he helped her lie back, pressing his lips to hers as his fingers searched for her clit again.

“You know what?” He murmured against her ear, “I think we should start right where we left off.”

“Okay,” Rey breathed, not sure what he was asking for.

With almost disconcerted ease, he took her by the waist and pulled her to his chest. She wrapped around him readily, one hand clutching the nape of his neck while he gently guided her body down to where he needed her most.

Rey hissed as she finally took him, relaxing to allow her body to adjust. She felt full, a certain sort of possessiveness washing over her as she tried to take him deeper while sucking greedily on his bottom lip.

“Oh fuck,” he whispered hoarsely. Rey giggled.

He was clearly suffering as he tried to keep still under her ministrations while balancing their combined weight. It only made her straddle him harder as she began to move, grinning proudly at his blissed-out expression and the way his grip on her tightened as his control slipped. She ground against him again and again, chasing her own climax even as she felt him straining beneath her.

“The tent...we can use my tent,” she said breathlessly.

Wordlessly, he pulled out and set her down on her feet. She ran to unzip the tent, pushing him inside as he approached. He landed on his back on top of the narrow pallet, struggling to readjust to a position that would be comfortable for both of them.

“Here, let me,” Rey said pushing him on his back again. She crawled on top of him on all fours, stopping when her sex was  just above his face.

“I want this again,” she said as she looked down at him at him.

He obeyed, placing his mouth against her core again while he gripped her waist with both hands. He ran his tongue along her  folds, pausing to suck at her clit now and then.

He could feel her on the edge again, her hips bucking against his chin, her essence dripping from the corner of his lip, her blood pulsing madly as she rode him into oblivion.

She tasted faintly sweet, warm and pliable against his mouth, his for the taking. He freed one hand to pump his own cock, thrusting a little to take the edge off as he continued to take care of her.

“More,” she whispered, “Go on, make come, Kylo,” she taunted him.

“Not a chance,” he replied, stopping abruptly even as Rey struggled to remember exactly what she had said. “If you come, you’re coming with me. Only with me, sweetheart.”

“You can’t control everything, Ren,” Rey huffed. Despite her irritated tone, her cheeks were flushed and her eyes hazy. “You can’t stop me.”

“We’ll see,” he grinned back, suddenly taking her by the waist again to slide her body down his own. A moment later he was inside her with a single thrust. Rey startled, her shock turning into a soft moan at the fullness of him.

Riding him like this felt like floating in the ether. It left her flushed, breathless, and alight with infinite pleasure in a way she couldn’t possibly describe out loud. She balanced herself against his chest, her hands running down his enviably taught frame. From there, she used her hands as leverage to be able to bounce harder, smirking as she gained advantage. He threw his head back, mouth open in ecstasy, gripping her tighter in protest.

But Rey didn’t stop. She ground her hips even harder, increasing the friction as she ran ran her nails against his chest, leaving angry red marks on his skin. Finally, she contacted her muscles all the way from her back to her abdomen, growing tighter and tighter against him as she sank down, pausing only to adjust to the feeling of having him sheathed to the hilt. From this angle, she was able to rub against him too, setting her body on fire.

Instinctively, Ben reached up and cupped her right breast, pinching the nipple between his fingers.

She cried out, grinding her hips one last time as her body gave in. Her orgasm crashed around her in waves, the tension in her core giving way to an electrifying feeling that shot through her like lighting as her vision went white and her muscles spasmed around him again and again.

Eventually, she was able to blink her eyes open. Ben’s climax had been wordless, but just by looking at him she could tell that he was also just coming back down to earth.  His jaw was still slack, cheeks still flushed, stare still vacant and chest still heaving. She shifted enough for him to be able to gently pull out of her.

Suddenly, she found herself fighting the urge to laugh. She burst into giggles, a sweet cathartic laughter for no other reason than to express the sudden happiness that had taken ahold of her. She curled up against Ben’s chest.

In a reassuring gesture, Ben removed the condom and knotted the top before putting it in a corner. He turned onto his side to face her. He traced her body with his fingertips, trailing along her shoulder, down her arm, and across the delicate curve of her hip. She was magnificent.

Never in his life had he seen a woman who was so beautiful while so thoroughly debauched, her cheeks burning and her eyes sparkling in the dim light. He bent down to kiss her tenderly, and she let him. She let him pull her against him, their bodies fitting together perfectly under the sleeping bag that they were using as a makeshift blanket. She let him explore her even now, as he cupped one breast or absently ran his fingers through her hair. He trailed his lips against the shell of her ear,  the nape of her neck and her shoulder. As he closed his eyes he hugged her tightly to his chest, afraid that she would disappear. As he fell asleep she heard him whisper against her ear.

“Fuck, Rey, I love you so much...think it’s driving me crazy.”

She said nothing, closing her eyes and letting sleep take her too.

Inside the Falcon, BB8 was moping. She needed to go for a walk, not that anyone seemed to care.

[occasionalfics]

worth my while // p. 2

main masterlist | thor masterlist | ko-fi | p. 1 | p. 3

Summary: After being banished from his home, Thor Odinson has stopped at nothing to prove himself worthy of his throne, title, and power.

After losing the love of your life, you turned to a power you didn’t understand.You know you shouldn’t get involved.

But how could you not?

Pairing: Thor x Reader (Hercules au…kind of…)

A/N: Me: *uses the same gif two chapters in a row*

also me: *sees a new pretty one* OOH YES LET’S CHANGE THINGS UP A BIT

Aaaaand here I go, stealing whole ideas straight outta Hercules. Oops ;) Let me know what y’all think, as usual 💖💖💖

Warnings: Violence, lots of angst, borderline abuse and definite manipulation, eventual smut, way too many feels, major character death (eventually). A little more harassment on Hades’ part this time around.

Words: 3,641

“You do understand how powerful Von Doom is, don’t you?” Hades asks the next day.

Just like you had at Captain America, you roll your eyes. “Listen, it’s not my fault, okay?” You watch as he paces the room, and think about the night before. “The Avengers showed up to bust the place for...God only knows what. Captain America gave me an ultimatum, I couldn’t refuse, so I walked out.”

Hades sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Babe,” he says, using the nickname you absolutely hate, “our hostile takeover isn’t proving to be very...ya know, hostile.” When he looks at you, you can see the flames behind his navy irises.

You’re in trouble.

You sit back against the couch and cross your arms. “We can use this,” you offer. You try not to imagine the lighting-laced eyes of the other Avenger as you go over your exact process from the night before. “You want to take out the Avengers. The Avengers attack Victor Von Doom, who you want to help take out the Avengers. Now he has a personal reason to do it.”

Hades pauses. He faces you, fingers on his chin as he scratches his stubble. And he stares long enough that you know you’re not totally off the hook - Hades isn’t known for his patience, after all - but he’s at least considering what you’ve said.

Then he chuckles once and shakes his head. “Oh, you sweet summer child,” he mutters, giving off gruff and insulting sounds as his brows raise. “You’ve got so much to learn. But you’re not wrong - we can use this.”

Just as Cerberus - one of them, anyway - comes marching into the room, straight to your lap, Hades picks up a remote from the table that serves as the only thing separating your bodies. He turns around and powers up the mounted television, and just like magic, there’s a news segment on discussing an upcoming Avengers celebration.

Celebration? You think. They destroy everything they touch. What are we supposed to be celebrating, exactly?

You’re one of those who had once sided with the U.N. and Tony Stark. You didn’t care for the billionaire - after working for Hades, you more or less hated every billionaire - but you did think that the so-called heroes needed to be held accountable for the destruction they left wherever they went.

This party, though, seems to be a celebration of the fifth anniversary of the Battle in Manhattan, which seems...so ridiculous to you. Why would you - or anyone - want to celebrate that? So what if six people saved the world from imminent danger? They’d still nearly let millions of people die or be injured in their messy attempt to kick alien ass.

Also, wasn’t the man behind that plan that Thunder Guy’s cousin or something?

More personally, however, the drunk driver that had killed Rick was drunk because his wife had perished in that battle. He’d been drunk every night since her funeral. The jury had taken his grief into account when they sentenced him to prison, giving him a light sentence instead of life behind bars.

You’re so busy letting your cold heart grow colder that you miss the point of the segment. Stark is interviewed, but you don’t listen. You almost know what’s going to happen anyway, so why bother giving it your attention now?

Hades waits until the segment ends, then puts the television on mute. He turns to you, puts the remote down, and actually comes around to sit on the table.

You lean even further back against the couch. Hades never gets this close unless he’s got a mission for you. Cerberus watches you both, head lifted from your lap as he whines.

A second Cerberus pads into the room, sitting politely on the floor between you.

“Sending me to that thing isn’t gonna get us Von Doom,” you tell Hades. You’ve gotten quite good at reading him since he’d cashed in his price for Rick’s life. You had to - the only other alternative was to let the formidable Lord of the Dead control your every move. Which he kind of did anyway, but at least you could keep up with him this way.

He shrugs, like that’s part of his plan. “Maybe not. But we can stir up some trouble.” His smirk is undeniably mischievous. But you know that’s the only way he operates.

You stare at him like a frustrated parent might at an indignant child. “And what good will that do us?”

Us you think, like I have any say in the matter. Like he’ll actually listen to me.

“If we can scatter them, cause a real scene at their own event, we might be able to attract more than just Von Doom. Better than Von Doom.” Hades nods at his own assumption, but you don’t like where this is going. Not one bit.

“Like who?” you counter. Von Doom is another billionaire. He has money, technology, and apparently, superhuman abilities of his own.

“Norman Osborn,” he replies without hesitation. “Otto Octavius. Wilson Fisk. The list goes on.”

You don’t even know who the last guy is. Still, you groan. “Osborn is an actual goblin, and Octavius is just a scientist. Plus, they can’t even handle themselves against that Spider-kid. You think they’ll be a match for the Avengers?”

You know you’re right, but either Hades doesn’t care or has deluded himself beyond the point of return.

Or, you dare think, that he can see beyond what you can. He is immortal, after all. He has to be right at least some of the time, you figure.

Maybe he sees this as a calculated risk he’s willing to take for the endgame.

Hades stands and starts to leave the room. He only stops to tell you, “United we stand…”

--

The event is really lovely, actually. Central Park is full of festivities from one corner to the next. There’s no way to do all of this in a day, you think, but as you watch people actually enjoy their existences again, you know no one cares.

So you stop caring about that, too.

You hear, about midday, that the Avengers will make an appearance in Sheep Meadow at some point later, so you decide to stick around that area for the day.

There are food vendors everywhere. All kinds of different food, too. Smells and sounds rule over the lawn, and for once, New York doesn’t feel like a death sentence. It feels like a place where people live - real people, civilians that have normal, superhero-free lives. It’s not really a place where aliens fall out of portals in the sky and threaten the status quo.

But sometime around 3, the Avengers show up, and suddenly New York is that place. Lightning Guy is living proof of that.

Your eyes find him just as easily as if you actually knew his name. You remember hearing...something about him, a few years back. Before the Manhattan attack.

He’d shown up somewhere West, claiming to be a Space Prince while he paraded around after an astrophysicist and her little team. Something had attacked there, too, but he’d defeated it. He had to, otherwise, he wouldn’t be standing across the lawn from you with his dangerous friends surrounding him.

Why he hadn’t gone home then, you couldn’t say. But he’s still here, on Earth, causing more and more damage to buildings and people and a way of life he only just acquainted himself with.

Tony Stark signs autographs. You only notice because you force yourself to stop looking at Lightning Guy. You watch Captain America, now without his stupid winged helmet, pose for a Charlie’s Angels picture with two women he probably doesn’t know. But they fawn over him once the picture is taken, and you roll your eyes.

Falcon and...the other birdman stand off behind the more well-known members of the team. You decide to go in for them, first.

“Some crowd,” you say as you sidle up next to Falcon.

He smiles down at you - a playful look, clearly intrigued by your approach - and nods. The other birdman doesn’t seem to care much, which works just as well for you.

“One of the bigger ones, believe it or not,” Falcon says to you, shrugging like it’s no big deal.

“And yet, you’re unattended to,” you say, attempting polite banter like you know Hades is expecting out of you. “‘S a shame. You’re one of my favorites.”

To be fair, he kind of is. He wasn’t around for the Battle of Manhattan. He did help take out that government facility in D.C. a while back, but you’d heard it’d been infiltrated by Nazis. So, for that, you forgive him.

Generally, he’s one of the lesser-known, newer members of the team. He seems much more approachable, much more amenable. And when he asks, his smirk growing by the second, “Oh, am I, now?” you can’t help but laugh a little at his enthusiasm.

It’s genuine laughter you’re feeling, for the first time since...everything. You know it because your stomach already hurts from just this little muscle contraction. The feeling is foreign and that is...somehow unfair.

But you manage to nod. “Those other guys are overstated,” you say with a shrug. “I like the ones that feel more like...us, you know?”

And he nods, too. “I do,” he says, and you believe him. You appreciate the gap in between his front teeth - it’s kind of adorable, truthfully - as he holds his hand out to you. “Sam Wilson.”

You place your hand in his, and he lifts it to his lips to place a chaste kiss on your knuckles. He’s quite the charmer.

“(Y/N),” you say back, forgoing the your surname because, really, does an Avenger need to know that? Even if he is one of the only ones you like? “And thank you for your service.” You’d read somewhere that he used to be in some branch of the military, so you let him take the compliment however he wants.

“‘Course,” he says. And then, after a beat, “I hope you’re enjoying such a lovely day.”

You know Hades would say to lay it on thick, here, to distract at least some part of the team. You try not to be too thick as you respond, “It’s much better now.”

But, of course, that’s when another person joins your group. You might be okay if it was just another fan asking Sam for an autograph or a picture or something, but no. You don’t have that kind of luck.

Lightning Guy steps up, clad in a plain shirt beneath an open plaid button-down and a pair of light jeans. Sans-armor, the guy is still huge and still looks like he’d be an absolute boulder in a fight. Formidable - that’s the best word you can come up with.

But there is something...a little more personable about his smile. You don’t let yourself fall for it, but you at least acknowledge it.

“Ah, (Y/N),” Sam says, “you know Thor, of course.”

Right you think. He’s the Norse God. You used to think he just borrowed the name, but then you’d seen an interview on the Today show one morning where he’d confirmed that he and the legend are one and the same. Now you remember.

“We’ve met, haven’t we?” Thor says, giving you a curious glance.

You wonder if you should tell him. You don’t really blame him for not recognizing you immediately - you’d only met the once, only for a few minutes, and under very different circumstances. You are now sans golden dress, sans glowing skin, and sans uncomfortable sandals.

But he is unforgettable. For more than one reason, more than just the fact that he’s an Avenger and a Space Prince.

It’s those eyes. Lightning Eyes, to match his power.

Working with Hades for so long has left the impression that you can tell a lot about people by their eyes. And Thor’s are...a dreamy, warm shade of blue that reminds of you storms.

“We have,” is all you say. You think giving too much away right now might cause problems down the line, and you have a distraction to be the cause of.

He holds his hand out, just like Sam did. You shake it, but he doesn’t kiss your knuckles like Sam did. His kind of charm is different - not showy in the same way, but still a little over the top. Everything about him is over the top, though.

Thor sizes you up as you pull your hand back. You ignore the pang of something that crawls up your fingers, passes your elbow, and stings your shoulder at the lack of contact.

“Oh, you have?” Sam asks, his smirk turning cocky as he raises a brow and turns to Thor.

It takes him a moment, but he must find something remarkably memorable in your face. His eyes widen and he almost takes a step closer before stopping himself. Then his brows drop and his expression turns colder, clouds filling his blue eyes with gray.

“You were the woman with Doom the other night,” he says.

Sam turns back to you, the glee on his face slowly fading. He was there that night - you saw him, briefly, on your way out, but he hadn’t thought to look in your direction then.

“I was.” You cross your arms and lean back a bit. “And I’ve been wondering why you and your friends burst in on my business.” You say it seriously, but not without tipping your head a little flirtatiously. You’re not angry - just curious, and, again, a distraction.

Briefly, you wonder when Hades is gonna put whatever his plan is into action.

“Saving the city, as we do,” Thor answers. He’s still a little put off, but now he’s just as coy as you are. You ignore the fact that you kind of like going toe-to-toe with someone that looks as intimidating as he does. “We were wondering what a lady, such as yourself, was doing with him.”

“I’m sure you were,” you say.

And now neither of you have given anything away. You almost know what the Avengers were called in for - it’s not like Victor Von Doom is known for being a safe man. But you’ve been trying to figure out exactly what was going on at that party that would require Captain America’s presence.

You’ve almost forgotten Sam is still beside you. Sam Wilson, Falcon, an actual hero and celebrity, and you’ve more or less pushed his existence into the back of your mind.

That is, until he clears his throat and steps between you and Thor, muttering, “I’m gonna let y’all have your moment I guess,” before moving on to stand with the rest of the team.

Thor won’t take his eyes off you, and you won’t take yours off him. You can feel your chest and neck heat up, but you don’t do anything to signify it’s happening to Thor. He can’t know. You won’t even admit to yourself that he’s the cause of the flush.

“You could’ve been hurt,” he says, unaffected. Not like someone that would actually care if you had been hurt, but just as a matter of fact.

You shrug. “I wasn’t. Like I said, I knew what I was doing.”

You can see in his eyes that he doesn’t believe you. They never do you think. But that’s why you’ve sworn off men.

Well, that and the whole Rick situation. But now’s not the time to dig that mess out of its grave.

Thor gives you a not-at-all-inconspicuous once-over, but his eyes settle on yours again. That’s new you think.

“You’re not quite like many Midgardian women I’ve met, I must admit.”

You lean on one hip, absolutely hating that kind of line. But because he’s still looking you in the eyes, and because you’re now too enthralled in this tête-à-tête, you let him explain himself.

One more thought for you to ignore: you’re breaking every single rule you’ve given yourself over the last few years in regards to attractive men.

“Most are far more forthcoming.”

At that, you laugh. Not because Thor’s wrong, but because he’s probably right. You can’t speak for everyone, but you know you’ve become a secretive, manipulative person. It’s not like you’ve had much of a choice, post-Rick’s Resurrection.

“Good for them,” you respond.

Something in his face changes - his expression flattens into confusion, but it doesn’t seem to be pointed at you anymore. It’s like he can hear something far off, that he knows something isn’t right.

You know it, too. And, truth be told, you’re glad Hades is finally barging in.

But just like your body craved Thor’s touch after he shook your hand, you need him to look at you again. The second his lightning eyes are focused on the shaking ground, on the direction from which the vibrations are coming from, you want to pull him back to you. Not as a distraction, but for you.

Instead, he lifts an arm and holds his palm outstretched, as if he’s waiting for something. The sky darkens, and the distant vibrations get closer as screams are heard from blocks away.

A blast of air shoots past you, cut off only when Thor’s meaty fist wraps around the handle of a large, heavy-looking hammer. It’s edges are slanted and the markings look Scandinavian if you have to guess.

A flash of lightning, and Thor is no longer in civilian clothes. Scaled armor shines down his arms. His chest is covered in a dark chestplate that match dark pants that do nothing to hide the curves of his calves. Not that you’re looking or anything. A long red cape billows as the wind picks up around the park and the skies fill with heavy, burdened clouds.

You don’t even have time to move. Thor is off, flying through the air toward whatever Monster Hades has conjured. You don’t want to see the fight - not really - but you can’t force yourself to turn away.

Sam shoots you a look as you stand, stoic and observant, but ultimately chooses his team over some weird chick he only met moments ago.

People all around you are running. A huge purple beast peaks through the park, shaking everything in its wake that it does not automatically destroy. It’s claws are as long as your body, it’s teeth as sharp as broken glass. It yells in a terrible, metallic noise that rings in your ears.

The Avengers go after it. Most of them do, anyway. War Machine, to your surprise, stays on the ground and helps corral people away. Black Widow does, too, especially when she gets a look at War Machine falling behind.

You take in the running, the screaming, the looks of utter terror. For a second only, you let yourself feel guilt.

Because in the next second, you back up. You turn around and walk right into a black suit with a silk navy pocket square sticking out of the blazer. Your thoughts automatically shut off as Hades put his arm around your shoulders, despite you having told him time and time again how much you hate him touching you.

He steps lightly but quickly, zooming past the crowd, around screaming people that you have to block out. You need to.

Hades lives for the Dead. He loves the sound of screaming humans. Loves the idea of disaster, because disaster almost always means more bodies to fill up his dark, twisted world.

But you are not a God of the Underworld. You are not a being of the Underworld at all - not in theory or practice. Even if the God of the Underworld owns your soul, even if he’s tethered you to his kingdom, you are still a human, and you cannot live with yourself if you idly watch people die, knowing it’s your fault.

You’re just about to head into another section of the park when Hades stops. He looks over his shoulder as you try to regain your footing - transporting via God isn’t always the easiest thing to put a human body through.

A crash of thunder. A roar louder than the rest - much more easily recognizable as a person, rather than a monster. Raindrops pelt at you, slowly but heavily.

Then, silence.

It lasts a beat before the murmuring. You turn around, too, and realize that Thor is no longer around. Every human being has stopped moving - even the purple Monster has stopped moving, though it looks much more satisfied than anyone else around you.

A woman screams. A child cries. Hades chuckles.

His favorite kind of soul is the immortal kind. You still have trouble grappling with that idea.

Lightning breaks out across the sky. The storm is suddenly furious, the wind coming so fast it could knock you down if you weren’t being held up by Hades.

And then the lightning springs from inside the Monster. Its yelling is cut off, as is its elongated neck from its head.

You step away from Hades to get a better look.

Thor stands on the decapitated corpse, hammer raised, innards hanging off of his limbs and armor. Even from your distance, you can see he’s breathing is labored.

The crowd cheers. You take another step forward, unable to help the smile that comes over you. There’s a warmth in your chest that you can only deny because you’re wearing a jacket over your t-shirt.

But before you can rush over to the Avengers, before you can celebrate with the other humans around you, Hades catches up to you. His hot hand rests on your shoulder, and just as quickly, he brings you back to the Underworld.

[dramaticironyoflife]

Baby Bird (Fly Home) - Chapter 12: Who Was the Last?

Summary:

The story continues! It is perhaps the most disheartening to learn what you have once you have lost it. Patton is trying to return to life before the boys, the boys are trying to maintain some control over their lives, and Mrs. Strand just needs to stop reading so many parenting books.

Notes:

I am back and ready to give you all more angst! In repentance for the last heartbreak I gave out, I also offer you some fluffy boys being comforting towards each other.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

-------- 

Virgil hated how quickly he adapted. The routine of accepting the pity of others because the grownups told you that you didn’t have a choice. He shot a glance at Logan, making sure that he was alright. They were walking home from school. They had been placed with the Strand for the time being while lawyers and attorneys argued back and forth about their future. The world was never kind enough to pause while unfortunate sufferers tried to gain some footing. The world kept turning, high school still sucked, and he was sure that he was the hottest topic at his previous workplace.

Logan hated how he couldn’t get Virgil to talk to him openly. He had to quicken his pace to keep up with Virgil’s long strides, his backpack jostling as he did so. Virgil seemed dead to the world. His hood was up, and earbuds plugged his ears. Logan knew better though. He could see the bright eyes partially hidden under the bangs. They darted back and forth quickly, assessing every person, sometimes dwelling on someone for a millisecond longer. Logan had learned to both trust and fear Virgil’s mind. He was always ready to jump to Logan’s rescue or protection, always on edge. At the same time, though, he was always on edge. He didn’t trust anyone, and his mind was constantly twisting the normal world into paranoid ‘what ifs’. Virgil was the first person to run to in danger and the last person to ask for optimism. Logan watched him wearily now as they slipped back into the gated community that the Strands occupied. He wondered how much longer he would be forced to wait until he got his Virgil back again. Patton hated how quiet it was. He ran the vacuum in the now empty apartment that had been Virgil and Logan’s. The furniture he would sell and give the money to the boys. The rest of the room he simply cleaned and got ready to show to other possible guests. At the same time, however, he didn’t want to give it away. The idea of that felt like he would be accepting that they were really gone. Not that it made too much of a difference. They were gone and the sooner he accepted that, the better. He bit his lip and blinked hard. He turned the vacuum on and ran it over the carpet for the fifth time. He really did hate the quiet. Roman hated the traffic. He placed his chin on his hands, staring out the windshield with a bored expression. The people around him crawled forward and he groaned as his phone began to ring wildly. It had been three days since he’d seen the picture of the boys in the paper. Logan and Virgil were their names. Since then his life had been chaos. He’d tried in vain to find and contact his sister, cancelled at least a dozen different appointments, and convinced his agent that he could drive himself somewhere for a change. That didn’t stop people from calling and pestering him, though. He cocked an eyebrow at the mobile device before resolutely turning it off and tossing it into the back seat. No distracted driving! He chuckled at the irony of the situation as he realized that he wasn’t actually driving anywhere. Man, he really hated traffic. Mr. and Mrs. Strand hated when the boys were moody. At least, that’s what Virgil had concluded. Mrs. Strand got a very forced smile whenever Virgil and Logan returned to the house and didn’t return her cheerful greetings. They were new to the foster system, that much was obvious. Logan was polite but closed off. Virgil watched Logan as he neatly hung his backpack on the wall and nodded to Mrs. Strand. Virgil let his own bag fall to the floor only to have Logan pick it up and shoot him a look. Virgil sighed apologetically and Logan huffed in forgiveness. Mrs. Strand cleared her throat and smiled. She hated how the boys seemed able to communicate without her knowing what was going on. “Virgil, that was very nice of Logan, what do you say?” The boys blinked. They looked at each other in surprise. They both knew exactly what Mrs. Strand wanted and they both reached the conclusion that giving into such a ridiculous request was the last thing they wanted. You didn’t have to say ‘thank you’ or ‘you’re welcome’ if you were the Storm boys. You looked out of one another and did without a second thought. If one was in the wrong, you owned up to it, if you were in the right, you fought for it. They didn’t owe each other anything because everything they did for one another was an act of protective love. The difficulty was trying to explain this to a grownup who had never been in their position. The idea that they would have to had never occurred to the boys. Now, here they were, with Mrs. Strand staring them down and growing impatient, “Virgil.” She said, jerking her head in Logan’s direction. “That’s quite alright, ma’am.” Logan said sincerely, “Virgil doesn’t -” “No,” the woman cut him off with a raised hand, “Virgil, what do you say to Logan?” Virgil’s face turned red with embarrassment and then pale with anger. Logan read his expression and his mind flew. In a flash he assessed the situation and formulated a plan. If Virgil was surprised when Logan suddenly charged down the hall and past Mrs. Strand, the woman was stunned. The small boy pushed past her roughly and didn’t look back. He mounted the stairs quickly, clutching the railing as his glasses bounced up and down on his nose. Mrs. Strand turned a confused face after Logan and then looked to Virgil and then back towards the stairs. She couldn’t seem to make up her mind as to whether she should chase after the boy or drill the teen about what was wrong. She seemed on the verge of making up her mind when Virgil moved past her too, “Logan?!” He disappeared up the stairs, leaving Linda Strand to stare on in silence. Virgil found Logan sitting quietly on his bed. The boy looked up expectantly as Virgil entered. He seemed to relax somewhat, “Oh good, I was afraid Mrs. Strand was coming up and not you.” Virgil smirked, “You don’t like her either?” Logan looked ashamed, “No, she’s not the type of person I would ever imagine would have interesting kids. Or kids at all for that matter.” He slid over so Virgil could settle next to him. The teen wrapped a comforting arm around him, and Logan took the invitation to nuzzle close to the dark warmth and solid body next to him. “How’re you feeling?” Virgil asked as he ran his fingers through Logan’s hair. Logan shrugged, “The pain medication I took earlier is starting to wear off.” Virgil tensed, “Pain medication? What?!” Logan did his best to hide a flinch, “I had a headache this morning. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.” Virgil took a deep breath, “No, no, sorry for freaking out. I think I still have some stuff in my room from Patton. I’ll get you some.” It wasn’t a question, but Logan nodded. He sighed as Virgil drew away. He immediately missed the warmth of the other individual, but the teen was back in a matter of moments. He handed his brother a single pill and a half empty water bottle. Logan obediently swallowed the pill and chased it down with a few gulps of water. He let himself fall back against Virgil. “Tomorrow’s another day.” He stated with a feeling of dread. Virgil huffed, “Redundant but you’re not wrong.” Logan groaned and sunk deeper into the comfort of his brother’s grasp. Virgil looked over him worriedly, “You okay?” Logan shrugged noncommittedly before staring thoughtfully off into the distance. Virgil watched the brown eyes trace imaginary lines through the air, darting around. His face grew relaxed as he let thoughts drift in and out of his active mind. Virgil could tell when a particularly interesting thought captured his attention. His eyes lit up and he got very still. Virgil playfully poked the younger boy’s side, “What’s going on in that brain of yours?” Logan blinked a few times before he smiled sheepishly. “I was thinking about the time we planned to sneak out and buy some hair dye to change your hair.” Virgil smiled at the memory, “Oh yeah,” he laughed softly, “we were so excited and then we both fell asleep. You were so bummed about it the next day. It was almost funny.” Logan huffed and shoved Virgil away, only to have the older and bigger boy tackle him and pin him under his larger form. Logan grunted and shifted, wriggling around. He finally let himself go limp and resigned himself to his fate. Virgil got comfortable and let his eyes close. It was peaceful. A small pocket of quiet carefree fun in the midst of unknown realities and the feeling of impending doom that haunted them. Virgil felt sleep tugging at him when Logan spoke up again, “We should really do our homework.” Virgil turned his head so as to see Logan better, “Don’t act like you haven’t done it already.” Logan sighed, “Yes, I have. Have you, though?” Virgil smirked. “Yep.” He popped the ‘P’ happily, “We had a sub for my last class and while the rest of the class watched a movie, I did homework.” Virgil was fairly behind the rest of his age group. Neglecting one’s education to work full time to support a plan to take care of your little brother, turns out, does have consequences. Despite this, Virgil was catching up fast and he had one on one meetings with teachers to help him progress. Virgil had always been a good student, when given the opportunity. He had trouble staying motivated, though. His passions drove him to pursue English, writing, art, and subjects that allowed him to express himself and his thoughts behind the safety of a piece of paper or some other material. Math and science, on the other hand, drove him to resentment. He understood that the material was somewhat important but that didn’t change the fact that he had no desire to invest himself in those areas. Logan’s finger dug into Virgil’s cheek. “Are you listening to me?” The brown eyes flashed an amused light from behind the glasses. Virgil blinked a few times, “Uuuuuuhhhhh…I agree completely with whatever it is you just said?” The emo offered a toothy grin. Logan raised an eyebrow, “I asked you a question, Verge.” Virgil’s grin grew slightly wider, “Ah.” Logan rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Okay, first, get off me you weigh a ton!” He shoved at Virgil’s shoulders to emphasize his point. Virgil let himself relax completely for a moment before rolling off the smaller form. Logan grumbled and straightened himself out somewhat. “Secondly, I asked if you were still interested in dying your hair.” Virgil blinked. The dream of having a mop of unnaturally colored hair was one that Virgil had promised himself that he would someday do. However, it was hardly something that he had given much thought to in the past few years. He had been busy pursuing other plans and fantasies. Now, though, he could see some of the old Logan eagerly anticipating his answer. A request for adventure, to be Lolo and Verge once more with no thoughts towards parents, responsibilities, or eyes watching their every move. Virgil smirked and Logan’s whole face lit up. He jumped up and shot a glance at the clock; he estimated they had two hours before dinner would be ready. Plenty of time for them to sneak away, purchase the necessary supplies, and return before either of the Strands would come looking for them. Virgil seemed to read his thoughts because he dragged himself to his feet and disappeared into the room he was staying in. He returned with a wallet and a box of snake cakes, “Ready?” He asked as he slid the window open. Logan nodded eagerly and, together, they climbed out into the dying light. Patton woke to the sound of his phone going off. Blearily, he waved his hand around, searching for the device. He squinted but, without his glasses, it was impossible for him to see the number. Stifling a yawn, he accepted the call. “Hello?” He muttered sleepily, “WHERE ARE THEY YOU…” The rest of the sentence was lost as Patton threw his phone across the room. He blinked in surprise before scrambling to turn on a light and find his device. He clambered about for a few seconds before he finally located it. Luckily, it wasn’t broken. He carefully brought it to his ear once more. “Hello?!” The voice on the other end was a man’s voice and it was, thankfully, much quieter than the original speaker. “Y-yes?” Patton breath shakily, trying to wrap his sleepy mind around what the heck was going on. “Is this Patton Sanders?!” “It is…who is this?” Patton shifted uncomfortably. Who could be calling him at, he glanced at his clock, 11:42 PM? “My name is David Strand, we met when you brought Logan and Virgil Storm to the police.” Patton’s heart sunk, “What happened?” He demanded. His voice sounded small and strange and far away. There was a beat of silence on the other end. “We were hoping you could answer that.”

Notes:

My sister told me that I need to stop ending chapters on cliff hangers...I refused.

Tag list:

@bunny222

[clacolu95]

Don’t Want to Let You Go Chapter 8: Chad Wellington

Previous Chapter: Chapter 7: Wicke Knows

Next Chapter: Chapter 9: Mixed Signals

17 hours and 28 minutes.

That was how much time had passed after the unrequited kiss between the President of the Aether Foundation and the Champion of Alola, the time being so clear in his mind as the scene of the female trainer running away from him repeated itself over and over in his mind. The mental picture of the simple white clock on top of his office door marking 6:37 p.m. was permanently stuck in his brain as the time stopped for him after the clear rejection.

She had ran away from him. There was no doubt about that. And after her quick confession the day before... he couldn’t really understand why.

17 hours and 28 minutes. That was how much time it took for his mother to burst into his office uninvited with an envelope in her hand, managing to take him out of his thoughts as the glassed door was smashed against the wall, not shattering into a million pieces only by pure miracle.

“What is this?!” His mother snapped as she threw the yellow envelope on top of his desk. A mad expression pretty clear in her face.

Ever since she resigned to her job as president and started working on the department of public relations of the company his mother had been taking care of the foundation’s public image. She never appeared on public, as she knew there were still people that didn’t trust her in Alola due to Nihilego’s incident, but that didn’t keep her from handling the department from the shadows.

She was good at what she did, and she was his mother, after all, that’s why Gladion had kept her working for the foundation’s interest without minding her occasional rampages about his public appearances and relations with potential associates. Even though she was hard on him her intervention had helped him develop social skills he didn’t have when he started as the CEO of Aether.

“What is it now?” he asked her tiredly not long after he recovered himself from the shock of her sudden outburst.

“You tell me” She answered in a calmer voice as she signaled the yellow envelope, inviting her son to open it.

He took the piece on his hands as he saw Wicke come inside the office muttering an apology, clearly embarrassed by her former boss behavior. As soon as he took out the photo from inside of the envelope his body froze. His grip on the paper grew tighter as he turned his gaze away from the picture and towards his mother.

“Well?” She asked him expectantly “Are you going to explain to me why you suddenly lost interest in keeping away from gossips and maintaining your professional image?”

He covered his face with his left hand as his lips let out a long sigh.

A single picture.

That was how much it would take for his well-cared image of a dedicated president to go down the sink.

The picture of him and Moon kissing inside of his office rested on top of his desk as he silently regretted not closing the blinds of the office that day. Both of their faces focused through the office’s glassed walls at just the right moment.

“Wicke go find the snitch, please” He silently muttered as the purple haired woman looked at him startled.

“Yes Master” She quickly replied as she retired from the room quickly, ready to have some serious conversations with the employees in order to find out who had done it.

Wicke closed the door behind her, leaving just Lusamine and her first and only son to debate freely.

“I was careless”

“No kidding!” The tall blonde complained to his vague answer “I need you to fix this. Now”

“How did you even get this picture?” He asked as he looked at it with the corner of his eye, a light blush slowly heating his face by the memory.

“After all the bad press you got after your first ‘incident’ with the champion I made a friend at the edition department of that stupid gossip magazine…” She explained with an angry glare “He says they’re publishing this tomorrow. So I only really see two options” She crossed her arms over her chest as she looked at him, disappointed, angry at him.

“I’m listening…” The young president muttered. His public image did matter to him, after all. His mother and him had worked so hard to achieve the respect that the foundation now had at his charge, and that careless moment was about to ruin everything.

“We can bribe the magazine into not publishing the article. A practical solution, though a very expensive one as well…”

He couldn’t keep himself from looking at the photo. If that was really going to be the cover of some gossip magazine he was going to be in so much trouble with his sister. The media had talked and theorized about him and Moon for a month last time, if that picture really became public he was sure there would be no stopping them this time. He was doomed. They were doomed.

“What’s the other solution?” He asked the former president as he massaged his temple with two of his fingers, already feeling stress taking over him.

“You could make your relationship public before this gets out. You’ll kill the article and it won’t look so bad for the media if you’re actually a couple…”

That last option stung Gladion like a million needles, but he forced himself to keep calm in front of his mother, dismissing her comment.

“Can’t do that” He spoke with a one-sided grin “We’re not into a relationship”

“What do you mean by that?! I didn’t raise a player!” The woman snapped at his apparently carefree comment. “I need you to fix your little mistake Gladion. Now. I swear I never thought you’d get involved with that girl again… After all that you went through last time…”

His head stung and his heart ached at his mother’s comment.

She was right. He should have been more careful. But the fact that he finished his friendship with the Champion so many years ago didn’t mean he didn’t feel anything for her.

He’d buried his feelings on work. Covered them with documents that needed to be read, contracts that needed to be signed. Locked them up and shoved them aside as he busied himself with meetings and partnerships with other associations.

She had always meant something. He just couldn’t admit it.

“Get out” He muttered with his fingers still on his temple, Lusamine’s comment resonating in his head as he tried to think of a solution to his newfound problem. He had been an idiot for breaking up with Moon, yes. But he was surely not playing with her.

“I sent you the contact information of my friend. Talk to him” She commented, though it sounded more like an order than a recommendation.

“I said get out” He repeated, feeling his headache grow more and more intense with every word that came out of the blonde’s mouth.

Having exposed her wishes, Lusamine retired from his office. Leaving him alone to think about his options, though in reality, everything he could do was look at the photo.

It was troublesome, a threat to his public image and an unnecessary risk for the company, but as he saw the Champion’s eyes closed, the light red tint on her cheeks and her clear enjoyment of the moment, he couldn’t help but smile a bit to himself.

He would have to pay her a visit.

It had been so long since he last visited Mount Lanakila.

He regretted not bringing gloves as he shoved his hands into the not warm enough pockets of his white Aether coat.

He looked at his surroundings as he sneaked towards the back door of the Elite Four building, hiding from the ace trainers that guarded the main entrance of the edifice.

He needed to get to the emergency door for two reasons: The first being that he wasn’t used to battling anymore, and, even if he was, he hadn’t brought his team with him.

As for the second one...it was related to Nanu not being in there with him.

After he had ended his relationship with the Champion he had came back to the Elite Four lots of times, always with the intention of seeing her, but never managing to take the step towards the elevator that would get him to the Champion’s throne.

It wasn’t that he wasn’t able to beat the elite four members, cause he did everytime he visited. It was more of a matter of courage: He couldn’t bring himself to look at her in the eyes and confess he had hurt her for the foundation’s sake. It wasn’t right, as much as he regretted it.

He couldn’t bear to look at her eyes and remember how watery they were that day at the conservation area. He had hurt her so much… And being with her was now a completely selfish thought for him to have, after all, he had heard from Lillie how much time it had taken the Champion to go back to battle.

She had retreated to her house for one month: One whole month without filling the Champion’s Duties, one month conveniently situated after his mother’s press conference, one month in which media knew nothing about her.

He wanted her to be happy. And if she had already forgotten about him… Then maybe he needed to respect that.

He only visited the building when Nanu covered for that girl Lillie had introduced him at the party, Acerola. The old kahuna had always understood the young Aether boy, covering him with the rest of the elite four members after seeing his failed intentions to visit Moon the first time. He always told them he’d beaten him, even when that was far from the truth most of the times, as he knew he probably didn’t want Moon to find out about his occasional appearances.

“Please be the same” The blond murmured as he exhaled hot breath over his hands in an attempt to warm them a little before typing the password the kantonian girl had set for the emergency door the first day she started as Champion.

The password was one of their inside jokes, so the odds of her still maintaining it were pretty slim after their separation. He sighed as he entered the words and waited for the device to load, preparing himself for the imminent rejection of the entry and turning around towards the rocky path that would take him to the base of the mountain when he suddenly heard a click.

He looked back, surprised, as he watched the emergency door open in front of his eyes. The young president proceeded to enter the building as he looked around, making sure no one noticed his entrance. With the media already on the edge, he needed to be as discreet as he could be.

“Cause I’m not interested in a boyfriend, that’s why” The champion stated, trying to terminate the conversation with the persistent challenger in front of her.

“Well, I’m not asking you to be my girlfriend…” The curvy haired ash blond stated as he focused his blue eyes on her “Let’s go out together… have some drinks, maybe more.” He insisted “I mean I know you’re just playing hard to get”

The kantonian girl’s body felt tenser with every second she engaged in the conversation, her head aching as if it was being pierced by a million daggers at the recurrent trainer’s perseverance. She called back her pokémon and stored the pokéballs in her bag, ready to leave the scene and the annoying challenger with it until she felt a grip on her arm.

“Come on Moon, I know you can’t resist me”

His stare was heavy, and his grin grew larger with every inch his face got closer to hers, making her shudder at the sight of his lips nearly locking with hers.

“Stop it Chad!” She screamed, releasing the boy’s grip and standing steadily on the ground, her hand already reaching for her bag to grab her pokéballs if needed.

She wasn’t a weak woman, and she was already fed up of that loser.

“How many times do I have to tell you I don’t like you!?” She asked clearly irritated as she reached for her Decidueye’s pokéball.

The trainer’s cocky smirk turned suddenly into an offended expression, annoyance clear in his factions as he steadied his expensive tie and tried to pull himself together again.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, my Champion” He stated, closing the distance between them again, careful not to make it as abruptly as before. “We’re perfect for each other. I mean I’m perfect, and you are perfect” He spoke, connecting his blue eyes with her gray stare. He extended his hand, nearly touching her face as he spoke “Let’s go now, it’s getting late”

The girl backed off, her rejection completely ignored by the pedantic challenger that had only gotten worse since the day he started pretending her. She readied her arm to throw her pokémon towards him when suddenly the ash blond was thrown towards the ground.

It took her a fraction of a second to realize what was going on, her stare focusing on the tall blond pinning Chad to the floor, his green eyes radiating with fury.

“She told you she didn’t want you” He spoke as Moon recognized his voice as Gladion’s “So get the fuck out”

Continue Reading on AO3

[worryinglyinnocent]

Fic: A Streak of Luck (1/?)

Summary: Lady Belle of the Marchlands sets out to break the curse that has doomed all the women of her family line for centuries, seeking out the legendary sorcerer Rumpelstiltskin to aid her in her quest. Even if she finds him, will he be able to help her break her curse?

Rated: T

[AO3]

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CW for this chapter: Death in childbirth.

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A Streak of Luck

One

To say that the entirety of the Marchlands was on tenterhooks when Lady Colette was revealed to be expecting the heir to the duchy would have been an understatement. The lineage of the Marchlands nobility had always been an area of great interest for everyone who dwelt within its borders.

Every single person, without fail, including Lord Maurice and Lady Colette, were praying that the unbroken line of male heirs that had continued throughout the past three hundred years would remain constant. There had not been a girl born into the Marchlands duchy in all this time, and the land was incredibly pleased with that.

Still, as the time for Colette’s confinement drew closer and closer, Maurice could not help but worry. What if this child was the one to break that line? What would happen to the Marchlands then?

There was nothing to say that a woman could not inherit the duchy. In fact, the Marchlands had been one of the very first lands within the kingdom to do away with the archaic rules that only men could hold titles in their own right and abolish male primogeniture.

That, however, was before the curse.

Sitting in his study in the top of the castle that had been his family’s home for over a thousand years, Maurice looked over at the carving that was set into the stone above the window. Many of his forefathers had tried to remove the stone or somehow chip away at the writing that was indelibly marked upon it, but their efforts had all been to no avail. The curse that his family suffered under was set in stone and it was here to stay until someday, someone found the means to break it.

For the past three hundred years, the family had remained untouched and untroubled by this curse. If his and Colette’s child was a girl, however, then he knew that the curse would come into full effect, and quickly. It had been waiting and biding its time for so long, cheated of a victim by the fact that his bloodline had produced only boys, immune to its effects. Maurice did not know magic, but he knew how unpredictable and fickle it could be, and just how vindictive.

When the time finally came for Colette to be delivered, Maurice knew. Everything looked bleak from the outset. The midwives and physicians who had been brought to the castle from all across the lands were worried, he could see that much as he paced up and down outside Colette’s room, listening to her screams of agony, helpless to do anything except wait. People scurried in and out with towels and basins of water and potions upon potions, all of them with grim faces, refusing to give him any news of what was happening with in. It only served to give further light to his suspicions.

When everything went very quiet, he knew that it was all over, and he sat down heavily in the chair outside the door that had been placed there for him several hours ago. It was a long time before the physician came out of the room, but Maurice had already heard the whispers within.

“My lord, I am very sorry. We could not save your wife.”

Maurice nodded, he had already surmised as much.

“The child?” he asked, choked.

“A healthy baby girl,” the physician said. “Although I must warn you…”

“She already bears the mark of the curse,” Maurice finished for him.  “I know.”

The midwife brought the baby out to him, swaddled in blankets, but they couldn’t hide the white lock on her brow in amongst the wisps of dark, downy hair. Maurice touched the little white patch; he could already feel the magic humming through it. The curse that had lain dormant for so long was at work once more.

The first girl had been born into the Marchlands noble lineage for over three hundred centuries, and there would not be another heir, not now that he had lost his beloved Colette. All hopes of breaking the curse now lay in his daughter’s tiny, helpless hands.

X

Twenty years later

“Belle, this is madness. You’re going to get yourself killed, I know it.”

Belle turned around from where she was securing Philippe’s saddle and bridle and ran a hand through her hair in frustration, feeling the warmth of the magic that flowed through the white streak that she’d had since she was a baby.

“At the rate I’m going, I’m going to get myself killed simply by existing sooner rather than later,” she said. “I’m not asking you to come with me, Will. In fact I remember expressly telling you not to come with me and telling you to make sure that no-one else followed me either. This is something that I have to do, and it’s something that I have to do alone. If I’m going to break the curse, then this is what I have to do.”

The stable boy sighed. “You don’t have to. You know that you don’t have to do this to break your curse. All you have to do is survive, and going off on madcap adventures to find mythical sorcerers that no-one even knows if they really exist or not is really not the way to survive. You’re just asking for trouble!”

“My very existence is asking for trouble,” Belle snapped. “I’m amazed that I made it this far with all the near misses that I’ve had. I think that despite the curse, there’s some kind of guardian angel looking out for me up there. They want me to break this curse and they’re making sure that I have the opportunity to do it.”

Will didn’t look at all convinced.

“Personally I just think you’ve got good luck,” he muttered.

Belle raised an eyebrow. “The entire point of the curse is that I have bad luck,” she pointed out. “Every girl born into the noble house of the Marchlands is cursed to lead a miserable and incredibly short life filled with bad luck, unless she can find a way to break the curse. If my life is destined to be both miserable and short then I’d rather spend it trying to break the curse, if I can.”

Will had already given up trying to persuade her away from her course, Belle could tell that.

“Will you at least tell your father where you’re going?” he pleaded.

“No, because his reaction will be the same as yours, only he’ll send out a mounted guard to come and bring me back.” Belle left Philippe and came over to Will, giving him a hug. “If my life is to be cursed either way, then I’m in just as much danger here in the castle as I am out there, taking my chances in the wider world. At least this way, if I do die, then I know that I spent my days doing something useful and trying to break my family’s curse.”

Will nodded gloomily. “I’ll miss you, you know.”

“I know. I’ll miss you too, Will. So much.”

Will had been her only friend in the castle for as long as she could remember. Oh, she got on well enough with her father, of course, but there was a part of him that was always distant and closed off from her, a part that had died alongside her mother when she had been born. The rest of the castle’s staff and her father’s advisers had always treated her with deference and kid gloves, but they had never really made the effort to get close to her. She had never made a friend amongst them. She was cursed after all, and destined for misery. No-one wanted that for their own children and their own lives. No-one except Will, who was an orphan himself and was quite happy to have some company in his misery. It was Will’s friendship that had prevented Belle’s childhood from being quite as miserable as her curse had perhaps hoped that it would be.

“I’d best be getting on,” she said. “I’m going to leave a note for Papa. That will explain everything to him, even if it doesn’t tell him exactly where I’ve gone.”

“Belle, you don’t even know that this man you seek exists. All you know of him is from old wives’ tales and rumours.”

“Well, if I don’t find him then I’ll come straight home and we can think up another plan,” Belle said brightly. “I’m not giving up before I’ve even begun just because it might be difficult. I might as well just lie down now and wait for the curse to claim me.”

“Belle, don’t be dramatic.”

“I’m not being dramatic. I’m trying to be positive. For my entire life, I’ve constantly been told that there’s no point in me doing anything because of this stupid curse that’s been haunting us for hundreds of years and that no-one currently living had anything to do with. Don’t you think it’s time that we stopped being at the mercy of something that happened hundreds of years ago?”

“Well, I suppose that when you put it like that, it does make sense.”

Belle smiled. “I knew that I could persuade you to see my way of thinking. Now, I just need to go and leave the letter for Papa. I won’t be too long.”

She left Will with Philippe in the stables and made her way back up through the castle. It was the middle of the night, and the sky was overcast, no moon to light her way. She knew that taking off in such conditions was a risky idea, but there was always so much risk in whatever she did that she didn’t think waiting for clement weather would make the slightest bit of difference to her.

The rest of the castle was fast asleep, and her father’s study door was unlocked and open, inviting her in. She stepped inside, laying the note that she had written earlier in the day down on his desk where he would see it the next morning, hopefully before she was discovered to be missing.

Dearest Papa, she had written. By the time you read this, I will be far away, on a journey to change my destiny. All my life I have been told that I am cursed and that I am doomed to a life of misery, so I have taken it upon myself to try and break this curse. To that end, I have gone to seek out the most powerful sorcerer in all the realms. I know that Rumpelstiltskin is a legend, a tale of warning to desperate souls, but with a curse so old and complex as ours, I believe that he has the best chance of being able to break it.

I will send word as soon as I can, and if my journey proves fruitless then I will of course return, but I will not give up this quest. No matter what, I cannot be protected from this curse, it claimed me from the moment I was born and keeping me shut away in the castle will not change this destiny, but perhaps I can change it myself.

With all my love,

Belle

She held up her candle and looked at the inscription in the wall that had been set there so many centuries ago, the identity of the caster long since lost to the annals of time.

For as long as my curse endures, all ladies born to the noble house of the Marchlands who bear the maudlin streak will be doomed to a life of strife and suffering as I was. Should a lady survive till her crown is as white as her streak, the curse will be lifted and the lineage restored.

Break the curse and the streak will be broken.

Belle touched her fingertips to her own maudlin streak, pure white that no stain or dye had even been able to darken. Whoever had cast this curse had invoked a terrible and powerful magic for it to have endured for so long and still be so powerful after so much time.

She knew that she could not have been the first to try and break the curse, as so many people within the household had told her that it had long since been thought to be impossible. None of the books that she had read had ever mentioned the curse or anything remotely like it, and had given no hints as to what might possibly be able to break it. That was why Belle was seeking out a legend.

Rumpelstiltskin, the greatest sorcerer in all the realms, called upon by desperate souls. Although Belle would never admit it, she was a desperate soul herself. She was determined that she was not going to be cowed by this curse. She was even more determined that when she did eventually marry and have children of her own, she would not pass on this curse to any daughters that she might have.

Of course, suitors for a cursed woman were few and far between, and Lord Maurice had privately given up all hope of the line of Marchlands nobility ever continuing, but Belle still believed. Everyone else in her family may have given up or become complacent from the three hundred years of first-born sons securing the bloodline, but Belle wasn’t.

Her conviction was unwavering as she made her way back through the castle and out to the stables where Will was still waiting with Philippe. She was doing this for herself, certainly, who wanted to live with a curse when they had the chance to break it? But more than anything, she was doing this to secure the future of her family and the peace and prosperity of the Marchlands that had always been her family’s home. If the noble family could not continue, then the place would fall into ruin and disrepair, carved up by the greedy landowners on either side of them. Belle would not let that happen, and if undertaking this dangerous  journey was the only way to help herself and her home, then that was what she would do.

“You’re definitely going then,” Will said as she came back into the stables.

“Of course, Will. I’ve made up my mind. I’ll write to you as soon as I can and let you know how I’m getting on once I find him.”

“I’m not going to say that he doesn’t exist, because you’ll only correct me.” Despite the melancholy air of their parting, Will was still smiling at Belle’s stubbornness, and she pulled him into a tight hug.

“Take care of yourself, Will, and please look out for my father for me.”

“I always have, Belle. And you make sure that you take care of yourself, too.”

“I will. I’ll see you soon, and when you next see me again, I’ll have broken this curse.”

“Your optimism is both inspiring and exasperating. Just… Don’t stay away too long, Belle. It’ll be lonely without you.”

It would be lonely on the road without her only friend, too, but Belle had to do this. She couldn’t sit around and wait for her hair to turn white, knowing that time was ticking away from her.

She finally released Will with a little reluctance and he gave her a leg-up onto Philippe’s back. She tightened her grip on the reins and checked that her packs were fastened into his saddlebags securely.

“Good luck, Belle,” Will called as she set off out of the stables.

Belle just waved to him in return. Luck was one thing that had never been on her side, and one thing that she was certain to need an awful lot of.

A few rays of pale silver moonlight were just beginning to push weakly through the cloud cover as she trotted down the lanes away from the castle.

Now all she had to do was to find Rumpelstiltskin.

[the-voice-of-hell]

Rent is Theft, part 24

Read from the beginning here, read the previous chapter here.  Note:  My MC is a Filipina trans woman and I am not.  If you have notes on that or anything else, hit me up.

                                                      ***

      The air was thick with heat.  Was it my imagination, or was the ceiling softly glowing orange?  I felt like there was a wind coming from somewhere, like what you’d imagine the wind felt like in Mount Doom that was blowing Elijah Wood’s shag around.  I felt it in my ears and it made it hard to hear myself or Leimomi.

      But I persevered, running through any faerie tales I could remember, and making them as baroque with silly details as I could manage.  The little mermaid had a waterlogged beanie baby collection with individual names, Bluebeard’s bride stuck her sisters back together with novelty Hello Kitty duct tape stolen from his sex dungeon.  I couldn’t hear a word of it outside of my thoughts.  Was I making a sound?  Was I even breathing?

      A building ache finally forced me to face biological reality again.  I had to pee.  My skin was on fire, the world was on fire, but it was still an invisible flame - nothing smoking, nothing scorching, no yellow inferno roiling out of my ruined flesh.  It was just a feeling of dangerous, alarming heat, dancing over everything.  Were there actual heat waves coming off my skin?  I couldn’t tell.  Sweat rained over my eyes and I blinked it away, but I forced myself to stand up.

      I felt like a wooden skeleton.  No muscle, just clacking fake bones.  How was I moving?  I reached the bathroom, stumbled through the door and almost fell down.  Instinctively I reached for something to hold onto.  I grabbed a dangling hand towel.

      It immediately slipped out of its perch, causing a weird floppy piece of shiny garbage to double over and splatter to the ground.  It was my improvised *redacted*  How had I not noticed it sitting where I left it, at any point in the last few days?  Where it hit the floor, a spray of green trash slime splurted out of the midsection, onto the tiles and my feet.  It smelled like a dumpster.

      I was just glad I didn’t fall on the floor, either from the incident or from despair, because I knew I would have pissed myself where I lay.  I turned to the toilet and laboriously went through the necessary motions.  In my imagination, the flushing toilet would have blown miraculously cooled pisswater back in my face, granted a moment’s surcease from the invisible flames, but no.  This air wouldn’t take moisture, and that water was probably warm enough to slow boil eggs.

      I walked again, the burning wooden skeleton, clacking away.  In the bathroom door I was arrested by the scene before me.  There were our little beds, like funeral biers - mine empty and Leimomi’s occupied by a limpid melting Ophelia.  The upholstery glistened like the sweat on her body, drenched.  The lighting fixtures held a dull light as if the heat in the air was pure electricity half waking them from the slumber we’d induced.  Was that blackening along the walls, in the areas nearest the ceiling?  The ceiling itself was definitely glowing orange now.

      Leimomi lifted her head - clearly an agonizing thing to do - and tugged a pillow under it so she could more easily look at me.  Drops ran down her face, but were they sweat or tears?  She was too weary to make a facial expression that would tell.  “Courtney,” her voice was minute, distant, rippled the way light is rippled by heat waves.  “Tell another.”

      As I walked back to my bed, black curls of slow-burned posters crumbled in my wake and fell like dry leaves.  I surrendered to gravity carefully, one hand, one more, my hips, rolled over, feeling like dead weight.  “I love you,” I said, not hearing a word of it.  I took up my water bottle again, dribbling what I could past the lips, then told another story.

      Were these thoughts without sounds?  Could she hear them?  Could she hear them with her mind, our bodies burned away from our souls, free to listen without ears?  I didn’t know.

      Once upon a time there was a young gal with a bad family.  Maybe dad died, leaving her in the care of wicked stepmom, or maybe that was her real mom but she liked to pretend it wasn’t, due to the pain that somebody biologically obligated to care for you just doesn’t, a way to not feel like that was her fault - that she was inherently and uniquely horrible.  People called her Cinderella because she was covered in the ashes of rock star posters.

      Stepmom and three stepsisters made her do all the chores and such, but you know, that sort of thing isn’t usually like they say it is in stories.  It’s not like, do these chores or we cut you, you ugly slag.  It’s more like, “Oh I just can’t right now, could you please?  You’re so much better at that,” or malicious compliance where they do the chores so bad it makes the more responsible person stop asking.

      They’d make Cinderella do emotional labor too.  The girls would gab about their drama all day, say “You’re such a good listener,” but never afford a moment of reciprocation.  Stepmom would get home from work and need to take a shit, but had constipation so she’d be in there a long time.  At some point back when Cinderella was eleven, she invited her into the bathroom, so she could pass that time venting about coworkers she hated.  Cinderella was too young to realize this was a flavor of child abuse, putting worries onto someone who doesn’t deserve them, isn’t equipped to understand them - and also making it pretty likely she’d grow up into that “amirite ladies” culture of woe and bitchery, unable to have a conversation of her own about the nice things in life, only ever able to talk about who was a bitch to whom, or who’s getting fat, or whatever.

      And there she was, a young lady, still not out from under the shadow of that porcelain throne.  But somehow she hadn’t absorbed that particular type of damage - she still had the ability to dream, to think of things beautiful and interesting.  It was worn down every time her stepmom spoke, but it still remained.  She had a spark of life.

      One day prom was coming - man I’m like the five hundredth person to turn this into a modern high school thing aren’t I? - and Cinderella really wanted to go.  She just wanted a chance to feel beautiful, to maybe dance with somebody.  There was no dream she would be loved, but just that she could feel something glittering and sweet.  It went without saying then, that she was not going.  Nobody had specifically forbidden it, nobody made any mention of it, but all preparations and discussion revolved around stepsisters and their needs.

      The night of the prom came and those kids were out the door.  Cinderella knew it was coming, but somehow spaced out on it until the last minute, until there was no denying it.  As the door clicked shut, stepmom put up the legs on her recliner and turned up the volume on a commercial for the Kia Summer Sales Event.  Cinderella walked upstairs like a ghost, and fell down crying in the hall.

      The door to the linen closet opened, and a beautiful little figure in taffeta, purple,and rhinestones appeared, hair a beautifully piled coiff of glossy black ringlets, a pencil thin moustache on their lips.  She looked up in amazement, not able to see clearly through the tears, no idea if she could trust what she was seeing.

      “Prince?,” she asked.

      It was indeed Prince, and he was funky.  Perhaps in becoming a ghost he had lost a foot of height.  But why was he appearing to her, and not to Morris Day?  He said, “Yes, Cinderella. This is no dream.  I was sent to make your life beautiful - but only for one shining moment.”

      “Wow.  But aren’t you a total *redacted* hound?  How can you be a fairy godmother?”

      “I might be the crown champion of boy vs. girl ball, but do I look like someone afraid to be called a fairy?”

      “And you did that homophobic song about how a lesbian girl needs to learn to be straight.”

      “Like I told Lisa and Wendy, we don’t talk about the back catalogue, girl.”

      “Is this your punishment for something?”

      “Being a Jehovah’s Witness.  Turns out telling babies not to get crucial healthcare is a bad thing.  But let’s focus on your problems.  What is keeping you from the prom tonight?”

      “My stepmom and stepsisters don’t care about me, just want me to slave away for them forever, never have a time for myself.”

      “I will make them care about you, make them slaves to you, and make this time be only for yourself.”  He pulled out a magic guitar, spraying sparkles across the beige carpet.

      “No!  I don’t want any of that.”

      “But you want to go to prom, right girl?”

      “Yeah.  Yes, please, my lord.”

      “I love the respect, but I am not allowed to be addressed as such, at this stage in my career.  And so again, pray tell, what keeps you from this promenade?  If you would not have me remove your problems, perhaps there are boons that can be offered.”

      “Well, I don’t have a dress, or makeup, or nice hair, or a way to go to the school.”

      “Crucial.  I can work with this.  Come.”  He clapped twice above his head and led her into her bedroom.  While he was unusually small, his magic guitar was full size and dragged on the carpet behind him.

      In Cinderella’s room, under a silver shaft of moonlight, he did a little dance and grabbed his crotch.  It was part of the magic, completely justified.  Her room was basically a walk-in closet, and some of her cleaning stuff was jammed in there as well.  He pointed his finger at a mop with a spray of sparkles.  It transformed into a beautiful silver-white wig.  He spun his finger in the air and it flew onto her head.

      “Wow,” said Cinderella.

      He picked up the guitar, did a spin, then played a cool riff.  Her ratty sweats changed into a fuchsia ball gown with neon purple lace and a bodice covered in purple rhinestones.  “It’s so beautiful,” she cried.

      “You know it,” he said.  “Now let’s sort out this situation.”  He pointed the guitar’s head at her face like a gun and played a wild guitar solo.  She could feel the ashes sliding around her skin, changing shape.  Looking at a dingy mirror, she saw the carbon condense into eyeliner, eyeshadow, and glittering lipstick, leaving her skin clean and clear.

      “I’m gonna cry again, I’m sorry,” she said, hand on her heart.

      “Don’t ruin that makeup, girl.  There is one item left to attend to.  Thy conveyance.  Approach me.”  He turned his back to her and with a wave of his hand the window opened.

      She came near to the little man, not knowing what to expect.  As she drew near, he seemed to increase in size - no, the whole world was increasing in size, or she was shrinking!  He scooched forward on his guitar, leaving room for her to straddle it in the back, and then it started to fly.  She grabbed his little waist and they flew off into the night sky.

      Smoke then, curling around my body like tendrils from incense, rising to pool and eddy at the ceiling.  It intensified, white and opaque at the corners of my vision, but inverted to darkness as it reached the glowing orange expanse - a negative print of the ocean, the opposite of water.

      Prince flew her to school and daintily alit to the gymnasium roof.  “I’ll wait for you under the north bleachers of the baseball field.  If you aren’t there at midnight, I cannot help you get home.”

      “Thank you so much, Prince!  I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

      “All I really need is to know that U believe.”  He pointed at the sky and took a tiny bow.

      Cinderella found a hatch to get down from the roof.  There was a ladder to a catwalk high above the gym floor, and she could see the prom below.  A few people bustled to do the last minute preparations, but there was only one dim light on.

      She wandered around looking for a way down and found nothing.  What good was it to be at prom if you could only watch it from afar?  But at last she found a rope to climb down on - one of the ropes they’d use in PR class, with knots at regular intervals.  She tossed it down and started climbing.

      When she got to the bottom, she realized she was in the middle of the dance floor.  As party lights came on and the rest of the students came in, she was the center of attention.  “Who is she?”  “How did she get in here?”  They were impressed.

      She humbly demurred and headed to the punch bowls.  A chaperone was glaring at her and not noticing somebody else spiking the punch.  It was going to be one of those nights.  The DJ led off with “Fight for Your Right to Party,” which was ironic because fighting for your right to party is expressly against policy at school events.

      Phew, I thought.  Are we alive or dead?  Will this ever end?  I can’t stand it.  Christ.

      A kinda short dapper gentleman approached Cinderella and said, “Hey babe, I haven’t seen you around the school before.  Wanna cut a rug?”

      “There’s no rug, but I’ll dance.”

      “Let’s buff this basketball court wax to a high shine.”

      They danced and chatted softly between songs, and enjoyed each other’s company.  Occasionally people would congratulate the dapper gentleman on his fortune in monopolizing the attention of a radiant queen.  People would smile at them and ask questions, take pics of her dress on their cellphones.

      Her own stepsisters didn’t recognize her.  It was a magical and glittering moment.  But best of all, she was really starting to feel like a woman, like a person who could be sought after by a dashing suitor.  It was the dapper gentleman that was making her feel like that, with his smooth ways.  Maybe he felt the need to stay with her because he was insecure about his height, or maybe she was just that appealing to him, but he was gently affectionate and suave and cool, and he knew how to dance.

      I could see myself limned in blue and yellow flames like a gas stove burner.  The world above the orange glow of a furnace, the walls around cracking and blistering, the world below a whorl of charcoal and soot.  In between the flesh cooked with no end.

      Proms crown people, right?  That’s why people make Cinderella into a prom story on Nickelodeon or whatever, so they can get the prince in there.  So ceremony begins and they crown dapper gentleman and mystery girl!  They say come to the stage, so we can crown thee at the stroke of midnight.

      That reminds her that she’s about to lose her magic, miss her ride.  But will it be worth it?  No, if she was left in dingy sweats and a mop wig on stage, she’d never live it down.  This was supposed to be a glittering and magical moment, but now it would end in tragedy.

      She couldn’t resist, she kissed him one time, then said, “I’m sorry,” and bolted for the door.  People were too surprised to react fast, and she lost any pursuers on her way to the baseball field.  Would Prince be there?  Midnight was so close.

      At the stroke of midnight she was halfway to the field, when she saw him rise into the night sky, momentarily silhouetted by the moon - Prince, straddling a magic guitar.  And just like that, the mop head fell into her hands, the ashes spread over her skin, the dress became dirty sweats.

      A whirlwind of ashen scraps blew past my face and I choked on the burning trash.

      There’s more, there’s more.  I swear.  I can do it for you, Leimomi.  I can do it for what’s left of you.  She, um, she went home on foot, right?  Fuck, glass slippers.  There’s supposed to be slippers.  I forgot them.

      I know, facial recognition technology.  Yeah.  So dapper Deandre is going through the school after that, using the facial recognition software on his phone, comparing all the girls with the mystery lady on his phone.  The stepsisters are all like, me, me, but...  No, that doesn’t even make sense.

      She’s going to get found, like, maybe she’s the equivalent of a TA but for the janitor instead.  A JA, that’s our Cinderella, and he takes a pic of her face almost by accident and it matches and he’s like, baby it’s me.

      She can’t see that, doesn’t want to be known the way she is now, which the janitor thinks is lame because you shouldn’t be ashamed of your class, you know?  Patrick’s a janitor.  Ugh, where was I?  She like, um...

      Bursts of sparks and chunks of molten rock fell in random splashes around us.  If any of that touched our boiling meat, it would bore a hole straight through like industrial acid.  No escape was possible, only luck of the draw.  Who would survive and what would be left of them?, like the movie said.

      Cinderella!  Dapper Deandre prom king finds her and says, “It’s OK, sometimes your clothes and your hair and stuff are gonna suck, but you’re beautiful and cute and I will never forget our night together.  If you don’t wanna be with me, that’s cool, but I just hope, I dunno...”  And she kisses him   It’s romantic because she looks gross but he’s like.  Fuck.

      The world was coming apart into orbs of light raining into an abyss.  Nothing remained between what had once been the floor and ceiling, and no one.  There was only a heat too intense to even bother with becoming fire.  It had become another state of matter, or nothing at all.

      At last the light was consumed with black.

                                                        ***

  Read next chapter here.

[dfroza]

Love is trying to connect with us.

(God is Love)

but not all people are open in heart to receive it, to welcome the Spirit of Light and truth. for the Spirit of our heavenly Father is illuminated in the eternal truth of the Son. this is God’s silence (His Heart and thought-life) that illumines our own to see the sacred truth of grace and the significance of rebirth that renews the heart & mind. and this is why conserving it in the Scriptures has been such an important work, along with translation to be able to communicate with all people here on earth.

for God is not silent, and the Son is known as the Word who communicates spiritual truth to the spirit. even nature speaks as a True living Voice of our Creator who made earth and its life, along with the pure wonders of the heavens.

Today’s reading of the Scriptures from the New Testament is the 22nd chapter of the book of Luke that points to the purpose of the Son being born as a Man 2,000 years ago as the True Passover Lamb:

As the celebration of the Passover Lamb was approaching, the Jewish religious leaders and scholars of the law continually schemed to find a way to murder Jesus without starting a riot—for they feared the crowds.

At that time Satan himself entered into Judas the locksmith, who was one of the twelve apostles. He secretly went to the religious hierarchy and the captains of the temple guards to discuss with them how he could betray Jesus and turn him over to their hands. The religious hierarchy was elated over Judas’ treachery, and they agreed to give him a sum of money in exchange for Jesus’ betrayal. Judas vowed that he would find them a suitable opportunity to betray Jesus when he was away from the crowds.

On the day the Passover lambs were to be sacrificed, Jesus sent for Peter and John and instructed them, “Go and prepare the Passover supper so we can eat it together.”

They asked him, “Where do we make the preparations to eat the meal?”

Jesus gave them this sign: “When you enter the city, you will find a man carrying a jug of water. Follow him home and say to the owner of the house, ‘The Teacher told us to ask you, “Where is the room I may use to have the Passover meal with my disciples?” ’ He will then take you to a large, fully furnished upstairs room. Make the preparations for us there.”

They went and found everything to be exactly like Jesus had prophesied, and they prepared the Passover meal.

When Jesus arrived at the upper room, he took his place at the table along with all the apostles. Then he told them, “I have longed with passion and desire to eat this Passover lamb with you before I endure my sufferings. I promise you that the next time we eat this, we will be together in the feast of God’s kingdom.”

Then he raised a cup and gave thanks to God and said to them, “Take this and pass it on to one another and drink. I promise you that the next time we drink this wine, we will be together in the feast of God’s kingdom.”

Then he lifted up a loaf, and after praying a prayer of thanksgiving to God, he gave each of his apostles a piece of bread, saying, “This loaf is my body, which is now being offered to you. Always eat it to remember me.”

After supper was over, he lifted the cup again and said, “This cup is my blood of the new covenant I make with you, and it will be poured out soon for all of you. But I want you to know that the hands of the one who delivers me to be the sacrifice are with mine on the table this very moment. The Son of Man must now go where he will be sacrificed. But there will be great and unending doom for the man who betrays me.”

The apostles questioned among themselves which one of them was about to do this.

The disciples bickered over which one of them would be considered the greatest in the kingdom. Jesus interrupted their argument, saying, “The kings and men of authority in this world rule oppressively over their subjects, claiming that they do it for the good of the people. They are obsessed with how others see them. But this is not your calling. You will lead by a different model. The greatest one among you will live as one called to serve others without honor. The greatest honor and authority is reserved for the one who has a servant heart. The leaders who are served are the most important in your eyes, but in the kingdom, it is the servants who lead. Am I not here with you as one who serves?

“Because you have stood with me through all my trials and ordeals, I am promising you the kingdom that the Father has promised me. We will celebrate in this kingdom and you will feast with me at my table. And each of you will be given a throne, twelve thrones in all, and you will be made rulers on thrones to judge the tribes of Israel.”

“Peter, my dear friend, listen to what I’m about to tell you. Satan has obtained permission to come and sift you all like wheat and test your faith. But I have prayed for you, Peter, that you would stay faithful to me no matter what comes. Remember this: after you have turned back to me and have been restored, make it your life mission to strengthen the faith of your brothers.”

“But Lord,” Peter replied, “I am ready to stand with you to the very end, even if it means prison or death!”

Jesus looked at him and prophesied, “Before the rooster crows in the morning, you will deny three times that you even know me.”

Then he said to all of them, “When I sent you out empty-handed, did you lack anything?”

“Not a thing,” they answered. “God provided all we needed.”

Jesus said, “But now I say to you: Take what you need. If you have money, take it—and a knapsack and a sword. Danger is imminent. For the prophetic Scripture about me ‘He will be accused of being a criminal’ will now come to pass. All that was prophesied of me will be fulfilled.”

The disciples told him, “Lord, we already have two swords!”

“You still don’t understand,” Jesus responded.

Jesus left the upper room with his disciples and, as was his habit, went to the Mount of Olives, his place of secret prayer. There he told the apostles, “Keep praying for strength to be spared from the severe test of your faith that is about to come.”

Then he withdrew from them a short distance to be alone. Kneeling down, he prayed, “Father, if you are willing, take this cup of agony away from me. But no matter what, your will must be mine.”

Jesus called for an angel of glory to strengthen him, and the angel appeared. He prayed even more passionately, like one being sacrificed, until he was in such intense agony of spirit that his sweat became drops of blood, dripping onto the ground.

When Jesus finished praying, he got up and went to his disciples and found them all asleep, for they were exhausted and overwhelmed with sorrow. “Why are you sleeping?” he asked them. “You need to be alert and pray for the strength to endure the great temptation.”

No sooner had he finished speaking when suddenly a mob approached, and in front of the mob was his disciple Judas. He walked up close to Jesus and greeted him with a kiss. For he had agreed to give the religious leaders a sign, saying, “The one I kiss is the one to seize.”

Jesus looked at him with sorrow and said, “A kiss, Judas? Are you really going to betray the Son of Man with a kiss?”

When the other disciples understood what was happening, they asked, “Lord, shall we fight them with our swords?”

Just then, one of the disciples swung his sword at the high priest’s servant and slashed off his right ear.

Jesus stopped the incident from escalating any further by saying, “Enough of this!” Then he touched the right side of the injured man’s head and the ear grew back—he was healed!

Jesus turned to those who had come to seize him—the ruling priests, the officers of the temple police, and the religious leaders—and said, “Am I a criminal that you come to capture me with clubs and swords? Wasn’t I with you day after day, teaching in the temple courts? You could have seized me at any time. But in the darkness of night you have now found your time, for it belongs to you and to the prince of darkness.”

The religious leaders seized Jesus and led him away, but Peter followed from a safe distance. They brought him to the home of the high priest, where people were already gathered out in the courtyard. Someone had built a fire, so Peter inched closer and sat down among them to stay warm.

A girl noticed Peter sitting in the firelight. Staring at him, she pointed him out and said, “This man is one of Jesus’ disciples!”

Peter flatly denied it, saying, “What are you talking about, girl? I don’t know him!”

A little while later, someone else spotted Peter and said, “I recognize you. You’re one of his, I know it!”

Peter again said, “I’m not one of his disciples.”

About an hour later, someone else identified Peter and insisted he was a disciple of Jesus, saying, “Look at him! He’s from Galilee, just like Jesus. I know he’s one of them.”

But Peter was adamant. “Listen, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Don’t you understand? I don’t even know him.” While the words were still in his mouth, the rooster crowed.

At that moment, the Lord, who was being led through the courtyard by his captors, turned around and gazed at Peter. All at once Peter remembered the words Jesus had prophesied over him, “Before the rooster crows in the morning, you will deny three times that you even know me.” Peter burst into tears, ran off from the crowd, and wept bitterly.

Those who were guarding Jesus mocked and beat him severely. They also made fun of him, blindfolding him and slapping his face and saying, “Prove that you are a prophet and tell us which one of us hit you!” They blasphemed and heaped insult after insult upon him.

At daybreak the high priests, the experts of the law, and the top religious leaders convened and had Jesus brought before their council. They asked him point blank, “Tell us, are you the Christ, the Messiah, or not?”

Jesus responded, “If I tell you the truth, you won’t believe me. And if I question you, you will not answer me or release me. But from today on, the Son of Man will be enthroned in the place of honor, power, and authority with Almighty God.”

They all shouted, “Then you do claim to be the Son of God?”

He said to them, “You are the ones who say I am.”

They all shouted, “We’ve heard it from his very lips! What further proof do we need?”

The Book of Luke, Chapter 22 (The Passion Translation)

Today’s paired chapter of the Testaments is the 30th chapter of the book of Job that continues his lament:

Job: But now they mock me,

these young men whose fathers I hold in such contempt.

I wouldn’t trust them with my herds

as I do my dogs.

What good does their strength do me?

Their potency has wilted.

Gaunt from starvation, haggard from hunger that drives them to gnaw the ground in the night,

a ground all wasted and hollowed-out,

They are left with the desperate foods of the famished—

plucking mallow from the bushes by the salt marshes,

and making the ashy broom tree root their staple.

The people from the town chase each one out of his neighborhood;

they howl at all of them as if they were common thieves,

And push them out to live in the deep valleys of the wadis—

those desert streams that come and go—

So these outcasts seek shelter in the overhangs and crumbling caves

that line the banks of no-man’s-land.

Braying like donkeys from the bushes,

huddled together in the prickly undergrowth are

Fools and sons of no-names,

driven by lashes out from the bosom of the land.

And now they sing of me in taunt and parody,

and make my name a byword among them.

They abhor me, keep their distance,

and feel free to spit in my face.

Because God has unstrung His bowstring and stricken me with suffering,

they are no longer restrained toward me.

To my right, the horde arises.

They seek to knock me off my feet,

piling their disastrous ways against me.

They lay waste to my path

and benefit from my destruction,

and no one is there to stop them.

As through a wall breached, they advance easily.

Their thunderstorm of wheels rolled across my ruins.

Alas! A storm of terrors has turned toward me and is upon me;

my dignity is blown away as by the wind;

my prosperity vanishes like a wispy cloud.

And now my own soul is drawn out, poured over me.

The days of misery have taken hold of me;

I am firmly in their grasp.

By night, my pain is at work, boring holes in my bones;

it gnaws at me and never lies down to rest.

With great force, God wraps around me like my clothing.

He binds tightly about my neck as if He were the collar of my tunic.

He has pushed me off into the mud,

and I am reduced from man to dust and ashes.

I call out to You, God, but You refuse to answer me.

When I arise, You merely examine me.

You have changed.

Now You are cruel to me;

You employ Your strength to attack me.

You pull me up into the wind and make me ride upon it

until I am fractured and dissipated in the storm.

I know where this ends.

You will send me off to death

and usher me to that meetinghouse where all the living one day go.

And yet does not a person trapped in ruins stretch out his hand,

and in this disaster does he not cry out for help?

Did I not grieve for the hard days of another

or weep for the pains of the poor?

And yet when I longed for the good, evil came;

when I awaited the light, thick darkness arrived instead.

I am boiling on the inside,

and it will not quit;

yet the days of misery still come for me.

I drift in darkness, the sun absent;

I arise in the assembly

and call out for help.

But who will come now that I am roaming the wilderness?

I am a brother to jackals, a friend of ostriches.

Despite my earnest cries, my skin burns until it is black and flakes off,

and my bones burn with fever.

And so my harp is tuned to the key of mourning,

and my flute is pitched to the sound of weeping.

The Book of Job, Chapter 30 (The Voice)

my personal reading of the Scriptures for friday, may 7 of 2021 with a paired chapter from each Testament of the Bible along with Today’s Proverbs and Psalms

A post by John Parsons that looks at theology and seeking truth:

Everyone is a theologian of sorts, though not everyone thinks clearly or takes the time to reflect on the meaning of the words they use, and therefore studying theology is necessary because so much muddled theology exists... Generally speaking "theology" (θεολογία) may be defined as reasoning (λόγος) about God (Θεός), though such reasoning is grounded in the philosophical activity of apprehending truth about ultimate reality. And just as everyone is a theologian (either a good one or not), so everyone is a philosopher of some kind or another, that is, a person who opines about the ultimate questions of life. To be a conscious person (as opposed to being numb or asleep) implies that you are haunted by "big questions" (for example, "Who are we?" "Where did we come from?" "Why are we here?" "Where are we going?" and "What does it all mean?"), and therefore every self-reflective soul cannot escape the need to think clearly. Indeed disciples of Yeshua are called talmidim (תַּלְמִידִים), that is, “learners” who have a duty before God to know and live the truth. We are to “study to show ourselves approved before God, rightly understanding the Word of Truth” (2 Tim. 2:15). The alternative to being talmud chacham (a wise student) is to be muddled about what you believe and why you believe it. Faith is called the conviction (ἔλεγχος) or “argument” of truth (see Heb. 11:6). Not knowing the truth makes you vulnerable to various forms of philosophical deception and theological error, as it is written: "Beware lest anyone cheat you through philosophy and empty deceit, according to the traditions of men, according to the basic principles of the world, and not according to Messiah" (Col. 2:8). "However, we speak wisdom (σοφία) among those who are mature, yet not the wisdom of this age, nor of the rulers of this age, who are coming to nothing, but we speak the wisdom of God in a mystery (σοφίαν θεοῦ ἐν μυστηρίῳ), the hidden wisdom which God ordained before the ages for our glory" (1 Cor. 2:6-7). Knowing the truth sets us free (John 4:24, John 8:32; 2 Cor. 3:17).

Because we must both love the truth and discern what is false, clear thinking is required of us. "Good philosophy must exist, if for no other reason, because bad philosophy needs to be answered" (Lewis). Now philosophy is philosophy, but loving God is something more... Faith is not just a “head trip,” but a “heart trip,” and therefore it is essential to immerse the passions in all that we do. There is a real danger of "intellectualizing" faith, becoming something of a "professor" about God or a “Bible answer man” where you live “up in your head,” full of sophisticated thinking about abstruse matters while disregarding the existential pathos and demands of the gospel.... Over the years I have read theologians that make God seem so remote and abstract that you wonder who or what is being talked about, after all. There is a danger to regard God as an "object' of knowledge -- a glorious, superlative, and supreme thing to study -- but a "thing" none the less. Tragically those who argue about theology have yet to learn the first lesson that true philosophy can offer, namely, that most of the time we don’t really know (or fully understand) what we are thinking or saying. Being aware of our own blind spots requires forsaking our supposed infallibility and humbly acknowledging our own ignorance. We see “through a glass darkly.” The intellect can act as a "defense" against what the Living God says to the wounded heart. That's always been the danger of mere "religion," after all, offering recipes and rituals, dogmas and assured theological confessions, while forgetting the desperate and hurting souls who must find God or die.... [Hebrew for Christians]

5.7.21 • Facebook

Today’s message from the Institute for Creation Research

May 7, 2021

The Soul Exchange

“For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul? Or what shall a man give in exchange for his soul?” (Mark 8:36-37)

The lives of many people revolve almost completely around the stock exchange, and they never stop to realize that it easily may become a soul exchange where they exchange their very souls for the imagined blessings of the great god Mammon. “For the love of money is the root of all evil: which while some coveted after, they have erred from the faith, and pierced themselves through with many sorrows” (1 Timothy 6:10).

Similarly, many are greatly exercised about their monthly profit-and-loss statements. But the Lord Jesus asks whether there is really a profit, even if one acquires the wealth of the whole world at the cost of his soul, and the answer to such a rhetorical question has to be: “No!” For “the world passeth away, and the lust thereof: but he that doeth the will of God abideth for ever” (1 John 2:17).

Furthermore, the words “life” in verse 35 and “soul” in our text are actually the same word (psuche) in the Greek original. That is, to lose one’s soul is to lose one’s very life, for they are inseparable. A life centered around money is not only a soul lost but a life wasted as well. On the other hand, if we lose our lives in Christ, then we find true life, eternal life, beginning here and now, and continuing forever. This is a good exchange!

God may well bless a Christian with material wealth, but this should not be his motivation. “Charge them that are rich in this world,” Paul says, “that they do good, that they be rich in good works, ready to distribute, willing to communicate [i.e., share]; Laying up in store for themselves a good foundation against the time to come, that they may lay hold on eternal life” (1 Timothy 6:17-19). HMM

and so we share...

A tweet by illumiNations that is a global collaborative effort of Bible translation:

@IlluminationsBT: 65-70% of the world's population live in religiously restrictive countries. #iwtkbible

5.7.21 • 11:00am • Twitter

[prettieparker86]

Playing with Fire || Part 4

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3 & Part 5

Pairing: Steve Murphy x Reader

Warning: Sexual Themes

Gif Credit: @wescravn & @narcosedits Thank you for letting me use your beautiful gifs. Full credit, They’re stunning!

Tag: @emislayyyy74, @hannahmariea, @lainey-lane, @mr-musings, @labeteenmoi Many of you inspired this chapter or story for me, all of you are the reason I keep writing it. So Thank You! And I wanted to give an extra big shout out for your support last chapter. That was really scary for me to post and you guys really helped me put my fears to rest.

If anyone else wants to be tagged just let me know.

My Intent: This story is a tragedy really. When you read it, I want you to be torn between rooting for these two and having an unshakable sense they were doomed from the start. I want you to see how an innocent connection that started out of loneliness and need has transformed into something much deeper and more dangerous. While also seeing the high price they both are paying for playing with fire. I wanted this story to feel like being pulled in two incompatible directions, unsure which way to go.

“Leave me out with the waste, This is not what I do It’s the wrong kind of place to be cheating on you It’s the wrong time, but she’s pulling me through It’s a small crime and I’ve got no excuse”

It’s been painful ever since you and Steve crossed the line there’s no going back from. 

You’re riddled with guilt and remorse. You’ve never done anything like this before, been with someone else’s man. 

You aren’t that kind of person. You respect the scared bond of marriage. 

But you did, and now you’re struggling to live with it. 

Live with becoming a person you don’t like very much. A person capable of doing things you would have looked down on others for.

 It’s easy to see Steve’s isn’t fairing any better. 

He can’t meet your gaze for more than a few seconds, and when he does you always see guilt fighting its way to the surface. 

He barely says a word to you, and avoids you as much as possible, which is quite the feat for such a small apartment. 

You’ve noticed he’s been calling his wife back home more than you ever remember him doing before. 

And you’ve caught him more than once lost on a picture of her as if frozen by the image until he notices you’re there and quickly moves on.

 But the worst part, the part that eats you alive, keeps you up some nights lost in your self-loathing… Is that a part of you still wants him. 

A part of you still heats up with the memory of his smothering kiss, the strong grip of his hands, or the feel of him full inside you. 

You catch yourself watching him sometimes, when he doesn’t notice, like a moth to a flame, unable to fight this hunger building up inside you. 

Wanting something you should have never had to begin with.

 You hate yourself in those moments. Wonder how and when you became this kind of person. The kind of person who longs for someone that isn’t yours to have, someone already spoken for. 

But for all your anger and self-loathing, you can’t seem to make it stop… And you’re not the only one.

You catch Steve looking at you when he thinks you don’t notice too. 

Feel the weight of his stare prickle and tingle on your skin, make your heart beat a little faster with the sense of him, but as soon as you look his way, his eyes dart off as quick as they can. 

The tension between you feels almost tangible it’s so thick.

 This apartment is too small and that fact has never been more clear to you then now. 

Trying to slip past Steve as you come out of the bathroom, towel wrapped tightly around your naked body, trying to not feel his eyes roam over you as Steve moves to get around you as quickly as he can. 

Or, the time your door wasn’t closed all the way when you were getting dressed. Standing in your bra, you were pulling your jeans on you when you felt the tingle of his stare, your face whipping around to the door only to realize your mistake as you catch his shadow dart from the doorway. 

Whatever he came to see you for long forgotten. 

And for a moment your guilty heart wonders if the self-destructive side of you forgot the door was cracked on purpose.

The tension between the two of you feels palpable, suffocating at times even and still mounting. 

And some days you don’t know how much longer you can take this before you totally lose your shit.

Days like today, when you feel his eyes repeatedly on you as you lay sprawled across the couch, reading a book. 

Your eyes are glued to the pages, but you’ve long given up reading the words. Steve sits across from you in his recliner having just finished his dinner. 

He thinks you don’t notice, don’t see him, but you catch sight of him out of the periphery of your eyes, over the top of your book. 

But even if you were blind, you’d know. Steve has a powerful gaze, those intense blue eyes of his make your senses come alive, your skin flush with heat without ever meeting his gaze.

 You keep trying to draw your attention back to your book, but after realizing you’ve read the same line for probably the tenth time, you give up. 

Letting out a long breath, you close the book and sit up on the couch. 

Just as you predicted, Steve’s gaze shoots away from you as if it had never been there to begin with. 

Rising unceremoniously off the couch, you turn on the television and settle for the news before lowering back to your seat.

Another all too familiar story is unfolding; Los Pepe’s has taken out another one of Pablo’s men in a particularly grotesque display with a cheaply scrawled message pinned to the body.

 Your head shakes in disgust with the graphic imagine. 

“It’s sick, but you gotta admit, their methods seem to be effective.” You comment casually, trying to kill the awkward tension in the room. 

You miss being able to talk to him, share space and quiet moments like you did before, but instantly you regret your choice of words as a huff leaves Steve.

“Fucking vigilante justice. They’re no better than Pablo.” He scoffs, before pushing off his chair, grabbing his empty dinner plate and moving for the kitchen with a heavy step.

 Instantly, you feel like an asshole. Great, things were already awkward and now he’s angry with you too. 

You hadn’t meant your words to come out the way they did and now you’ve only made the situation worse.

Rising from the couch, you go after him. He’s been extra tense all day. Somethings clearly weighing on him. You can tell its work related. 

He called you from the airport the day before. Gave you a heads up he was flying out of the country and would call you once he knew more, but then he had arrived home late last night with no further word and you knew better then to ask. 

Whatever it was, he’d been in a foul mood since.

 “Hey listen, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean it like that.” You try to explain, but Steve doesn’t even acknowledge your words as he rinses off his dish in the sink and places it to dry.

Reaching for his arm, you press Steve to hear you out, and stop ignoring you for you damn minute.

“Steve-“ 

But your words die mid-breath as Steve turns to meet your gaze and you realize you’ve made a mistake. A big irreversible mistake. 

Instantly your met with all the tension and tightly wound hunger blinding in his eyes. 

A rattled breath escapes from you as you stand froze by the thinly veiled desire between you. 

Steve’s eyes run over your body in the blink of an eye as your heart begins to pound. 

His intense blue eyes darken sharply in a flash as his breath draws out deep and slow.

 In that moment, as you hold onto the darkness of his gaze, feeling it run through every inch of your equally hungry body, you know you just fucked up again.

Without further warning, you feel Steve’s hand wrap around the back of your head, pulling you into a desperate kiss. 

You should push him away. Stop this as fast as you can, but you don’t. 

The sense of relief that bursts open inside you with the taste of his lips has your arms quickly wrapping around him, fisting wildly at the back of his shirt as you pull him closer to you. 

You had no idea how badly you missed him until that moment. 

Steve’s hands slip and move from your hair down along your back and up again, roaming urgently over your body as he steals the breath off your lips.

 Heart pounding hard in your chest, every nerve in your body begs for his touch as Steve clumsily guides you both to the nearest countertop. 

His hands grab at your ass, hoisting you up onto the surface of it without missing a beat. 

You find yourself deliriously drunk off the taste of his mouth as Steve pushes his way between your legs, pulling you closer to him as you wrap them around his waist. 

You can’t get his shirt off fast enough and he seems to feel the same as his hands insistently roam your skin. 

Your head falls back, digging into the cupboard behind you as your back arches with the feel of Steve’s warm hungry mouth working its way down to your breasts. 

Somewhere deep in the recesses of your mind alarm bells are sounding off as your fingers rake wildly through his hair and breathy moans vibrate off your chest with the feel of his lips. 

But here at the surface, you can’t hear them past the urgent need sweeping through your veins, tightly coiled for so long it’s finally just snapped.

 After you find yourselves giving into temptation for the third time you and Steve stop pretending it isn’t going to happen again. 

And so it begins, this beautiful disaster, that fills your heart and poisons your soul. 

The guilt of it eats at you daily, finding a permanent place to burrow into your soul, but the twisted truth is it doesn’t feel wrong when you’re lying in his arms. Not the way you know it should. 

Steve feels so right it scares you, and that’s what makes it all so much harder. 

After a few weeks of playing this dangerous game, you’ve found yourself falling for a man who can only ever be yours in secret spaces. 

Who can only be yours by poisoning something else you know he cherishes dearly. 

Only yours if you compromise the very things you believed about yourself. 

This mess you’ve created is an ugly perfect contradiction, a doomed voyage, and yet, God help you, when you’re with him you’ve never felt more at home. 

You’ve come to realize you’re the villain in your own love story, but it’s the only way you can hold him.

 You find yourself spread out in his bed. Where you sleep more often than not over the past few weeks. 

The sheet tucked under your arms, hanging loosely across your chest as you lay on your side staring at Steve, taking in the sight of him beside you. 

Lying on his back, sheets forgotten down around his hips as he stares silently up at the ceiling. 

You can tell he’s thinking about something, lost miles in his head. You’ve learned the signs. 

You know him now, more than you ever should of. 

The focus of his gaze, the furrow of his brow. 

He’s been this way since last night. Whenever he thinks you don’t notice, his mind drifts to something heavy that’s plaguing him.

Reaching out, you gently run your thumb along the cease of his brow, garnering his attention as he turns his face to the side to look at you.

“Whatcha you thinking about?” You quietly ask, reaching out to him.

“Nothing baby, I’m good, really.” He tells you, his big hand reaching out to gently cup your face as he rolls onto his side to face you.

 But that’s a lie, he’s not fine, that’s obvious for you to see. 

And if there’s one thing you want to be for him, it’s a soft place to lay with all the shit eating him up inside. 

You can’t talk about what you’re doing, what it’s costing him. That’s too damn painful for both of you. 

So it’s important to you to be there for him in other ways. Be what he needs. 

You know the work he does comes at a steep price to him. 

You aren’t some doe eyed innocent, you don’t want him protecting you from the garbage he has to wade through either. 

His burdens are your burdens. You can take it and you need him to know that too.

Giving his shoulder a little shove, you push Steve onto his back as you slide your leg across him and climb on top of him.

 You feel his hands grip the curve of your bare hips, squeezing your flesh in the palms of his hands as you settle across him. 

Your hands skim down along the contours of his chest, both strong and soft, as he rocks your hips gently against him, his eyes rolling back as a quiet hiss leaves his lips.

“You’re gonna be the death of me, baby.” His husky breath strangles out, satisfied smile edging on his lips.

 You’d be lying if you said watching Steve come undone underneath you didn’t leave you aroused and wanting more, but that’s not why you climbed on top of him. 

Swatting his hands away from your hips, you flash him a playful smirk when his eyes open in surprise.

“As much as I love taking you for a ride that’s not why I’m up here.” You explain.

“No?” Steve questions you through dark eyes, doubting you, as he gazes up at you with a well arched brow.

“No,” You confirm with a subtle shake of you head as you lean your naked body down across his, popping yourself up on your elbow as your other hand tenderly strokes the hair off his face.

“Tell me what’s going on?” You ask gently.

 You gaze down into Steve’s piercing blue eyes and feel his breath deepen as he gazes up at you. 

Holding your gaze for long a moment, you know he wants to, but you can feel the ‘but’ coming before he even shakes his head.

“Baby I can’t. The work I do. I can’t talk about it with anyone.” He explains on a heavy breath.

That answer’s not good enough. It’s not right. It’s not fair that he’s just expected to carry all this shit around with nowhere to put it.

 Sitting back up on him, you lean back to gather the sheet in your hands, but you’re momentarily distracted as you feel Steve begin to palm your breast, the pad of his thumb rubbing circles against the sensitive peak of your nipple. 

A wave of delicious heat washes over you as a shaky breath involuntarily leaves your lips. 

Biting down on your bottom lip, you try to suppress the moan reverberating through your body with his touch, resisting the urge to grind down on him and satisfy the growing ache between your legs. 

He could be such a fucking tease sometimes.

 Forcing yourself to refocus to the task at hand, you pull the sheets up as you lie back down on him, pulling the fabric over both your heads like a tent.

Meeting him face to face once again as his hands wander aimlessly around the curve of your ribs and hips, you stare deep into his eyes.

“Nobody can hear us in here.” You tell him, resting your forehead tenderly against his own as your nose gently nuzzles his face and you feel him do the same in the return.

“It’s only me and you in here. We’re on our own little world. A far off galaxy where no one can hear us.” You whisper to him as your palm cups his cheek, the scruff pricking at your skin.

 “Just me and you, huh?” You hear him repeat, his breath warm against your lips.

Pulling back just far enough to really look into his eyes, you nod. “Just me and you… Talk to me.”

Steve stares hard into your eyes as you feel his hand find your face. 

His knuckles frame the edge of it, before his fingertips trace the curve around your eyes, the slope of your nose, ending on your lips where you give the pad of fingers a little kiss.

“We got one of Pablo’s top guy’s. His right hand man… We’re so close to getting him, baby… Had the whole thing set up, but somehow, he still knew and never showed. We were so close…” Steve slowly hesitantly reveals to you what’s been plaguing his mind. 

His gaze drilling into you with the passion he holds for this mission and the trust he needs to tell you all this.

 “You’ll catch him, babe.” You tell him with absolutely certainty, your thumb dragging across his cheek as your eyes hold unflinchingly with his.

“You really think so?” He asks, the slight waiver in his breath revealing a side of Steve he never shows. 

That small sliver of doubt that wonders if after all these years, all the time and energy, all the missed opportunities and lives spent, if he’ll actually get to see this guy brought to justice.

You cup his face more firmly his time as your eyes implore his. 

“I do,” You swear it.

His palm gets lost on your cheek once again as you feel him drag your forehead down to his. 

Your eyes fall closed as your faces nuzzle gently together in a tender embrace, as you feel his hand get lost in your hair, his body warm and solid beneath your own.

“What would I do without you…” Steve whispers on a husky breath, his lips brushing faintly across your own as he speaks, but it’s the weight of his words and the way he says them that reaches deep inside you, shooting you right through the heart.

 A shaky breath leaves your lips as you breathe him in, take him in, your hand clutching him tighter, losing yourself to the intimacy of the moment, to the deep unabating connection you feel with him.  

“God, I love you.” The words slip heavy from your breath like an exhale before you can stop them.

Instantly you feel Steve tense beneath you, you’re pretty sure you tense too as your heart drops. 

You swallow hard as you realize you just completely fucked up.

“Don’t say it,” You quickly blurt out, trying to cover the damage you’ve just created.

Your eyes squeeze tightly shut as you feel his fingers dig into your scalp.

“I’m sorry,” Your words shutter, your breath heavy with remorse.

 “Baby…“ You hear Steve start, his warm breath against your lips, but you can’t, neither of you can.

Pulling back, you move just enough to find his face and look deep into his eyes.

“Don’t.” You stop him.

Steve’s piercing blue eyes stare up at you with enough guilt to drown you both and you’re pretty sure your own must mirror the same shame.

“Don’t say anything.” You tell him on a shaken breath, your chest suffocatingly tight as your heart aches, mourning what can never be.

The hand on your cheek grips you a little tighter, his thumb dragging heavily across it as he stares up at your with unbearably heavy eyes. 

“Nothin’?” He asks on a torn and tortured breath.

 You can see he wants to say something, but your gut already warns you that’s a bad idea. 

Anything he has to say will only cause more damage one way or the other. 

You ruined it enough with your own admission, no need to make matters worse

You shake your head slowly no as a rattled breath slips past your lips from a heavy heart. 

Your answer contradicting your heart’s desires, but you both know what this is and what it can never be. 

The guilt is already hard enough. You can’t make it worse.

 Respecting your wishes, Steve pulls your face back down to his without another word. 

His mouth waiting for you with a tender passion driven kiss that makes your heart start to pound once again as his palm holds your face desperately close. 

His arm slips across your back to hold you to him as he rolls you against the mattress until he hovers over you. 

You gasp against his mouth when you feel his hand find its way between your thighs, making all your thoughts disappear as you give into the feel of fingers before they slip free and he pushes inside you.

Eyes closed, you let yourself get lost in Steve’s kiss, in the rhythm of your bodies, and forget about what can never be, but Steve’s not ready to forget.

Breaking the kiss, you feel Steve’s breath heavy against your face as his hips move at a slow and deep pace within you.

“Baby,” He whispers huskily over and over again against your flushed skin, his thumb dragging over your cheek with emphasis as his lips pepper your jaw and neck with tender kisses.

Your hands roam and grip at the muscles that contour his shoulders, big and strong in a way that always makes you feel safe as Steve pulls back from your neck, hovering over you.

“Look at me,” His deep ragged breath practically begs as the hand on your cheek clutches you a little tighter.

 Your eyes open and immediately you’re swallowed up by the power of his stare barreling down upon you. 

You’re lost on the depth of his piercing blue eyes as Steve grips the back of your thigh around his hip, pushing deeper within you. 

You fight to remember how to breathe as he hits that spot he knows makes you unravels. 

His eyes desperately locked onto yours as you hear him, hear what Steve’s feverishly trying to express without words - like you asked - in the only language safe enough to share… 

He loves you too.

“And is that all right? To give my gun away when it’s loaded Is that all right? You don’t shoot it, how am I supposed to hold it? Is that all right?  Is that all right with you?  …No”

Damian Rice - 9 Crimes. 

This song has provided the mood to this story for many parts. If you haven’t check it out before I strongly suggest you do. Link is in the lyrics.