#i do in some ways understand the thing with the whole system being slanted against you like that

[beatcroc]

I just wanna say thank you for reblogging all the stuff spreading awareness of recent antisemitism that you have recently. You are the only person I follow who isn't jewish who I've seen do so at all (Unless I'm mistaken and you are jewish too). I know not everyone is aware of every single bad thing happening in the world at any moment, and don't think people HAVE to reboot about negative events or whatever, but how much you seem to care really warms my heart and reassures me we aren't alone (Unless, once again, I am mistaken and you are jewish)

👍but nah i'm not jewish, just pissed off

[samwisethewitch]

Witchcraft and Activism

The word “witch” is a politically charged label. If we look at how the word was used historically, it referred to someone who existed outside of the normal social order. The people accused of witchcraft in the European and American witch trials were mostly — experts say between 75% and 80% — women. They were also overwhelmingly poor, single, or members of a minority ethnicity and/or religion. In other words, they were people who did not follow their society’s accepted model of womanhood (or, in the case of accused men, manhood).

If you choose to identify with the witch label, you are choosing to identify with subversion of gender norms, resistance to the dominant social order, and “outsider” status. If that makes you uncomfortable or uneasy, then you may want to use another label for your magical practice. Witchcraft always has been and always will be inherently political.

In her book Witches, Sluts, Feminists, Kristen J. Sollee argues that the “slut” label is in many ways a modern equivalent to the “witch” label. In both cases, the label is used to devalue people, most often women, and to enforce a patriarchal and misogynist social order.

Superstitions around witchcraft are connected to the modern stigma around abortion (and, to a lesser extent, contraception). Midwifery and abortion were directly linked to witchcraft in the European witch hunts. Today, women who seek abortions are condemned as sluts, whores, and murderers. The fight for reproductive freedom remains inextricably linked with the witch label.

During the women’s liberation movement of the 1960s, the socialist feminist group Women’s International Terrorist Conspiracy from Hell (W.I.T.C.H.) used the image of the witch to campaign for women’s rights and other social issues. They were some of the first advocates for intersectional feminism (feminist activism that addresses other social issues that overlap with gendered issues). They performed acts such as hexing Wall Street capitalists and wearing black veils to protest bridal fairs. The W.I.T.C.H. Manifesto calls witches the “original guerrillas and resistance fighters against oppression.”

In her book Revolutionary Witchcraft, Sarah Lyons points out that both witchcraft and politics are about raising and directing power in the world. In a postmodern society, most of our reality is socially constructed — it works because we collectively believe it does. Money only has value because we believe it does. Politicians only have power because we believe they do. Our laws are only just because we believe they are. Like in magic, everything in society is a product of belief and a whole lot of willpower — and that makes witches the ideal social activists.

Lyons argues that witchcraft is inseparable from politics, because witches have always opposed dominant political power. She makes a connection between the witch trials and the rise of capitalism and classism. She connects the basic concepts of magic to historic activist groups like the AIDS Coalition to Unleash Power (ACT UP), who used ritual as an act of protest.

Not every witch is a hardcore activist, but every witch should have a basic awareness of political and social issues and be willing to do what they can to make a difference.

Ways to Combine Witchcraft and Activism

Perform a ritual to feel connected to the earth and her people. Activism should come from a place of love, not a place of hate. Make sure you’re fighting for the right reasons by frequently taking time to reconnect with the planet and the people who live here. This can be as simple as laying down on the ground outside and meditating on all the ways you are connected to other people, as well as to the ecosystem, animals, and the earth herself. If getting up close and personal with the grass and dirt isn’t your thing, try to find a beautiful place in nature where you can sit and journal about the interconnected nature of all things.

Unlearn your social programming. This is the most difficult and most important part of any activism. Before you can change the world outside yourself, you have to change your own psyche. Think about how you have been socialized to contribute to (or at least turn a blind eye to) the issues you want to fight against. For example, if you want to fight for racial justice, you need to understand how you have contributed to a racist system. You can do this in a variety of ways: through meditation, journaling, or divination, to name a few. Note that whatever method you choose, this will probably take weeks or months of repeated work. Rewriting your thought and behavior patterns is hard, and it can’t be done in a single day. Also note that if you are a victim of systemic oppression or prejudice, this work may bring up a lot of emotional baggage — you may want to involve a professional therapist or counselor.

Go to protests. Sending energy and doing healing rituals is great, but someone has to get out there and visibly fight for change. If you are able to do so, start going to protests and rallies for causes you care about. Don’t just show up, but be an active participant — make signs, yell and chant, and stand your ground if cops show up. Be safe and responsible, but be loud and assertive, too. If you want to go all out, you can don the black robes, pointed hats, and veils of W.I.T.C.H.es past, which has the added bonus of concealing your identity.

Turn your donations into a spell for change. When you donate to a cause you care about, charge your donation with a spell for positive change. You can do this by holding your cash, check, or debit card in both hands and focusing on your desire for change. Feel this desire flowing into the money, filling it with your determination. From here, make your donation, knowing that you’ll be sending an energy boost along with it.

Organize an activist coven. Do you have a handful of friends who are interested in witchcraft, passionate about activism, or both? Start a coven! Go to protests together, hold monthly rituals to raise energy for change, and collect money for donations. Being part of a group also means having a support system, which can help prevent burnout. Make a plan to check on each other regularly. You may even choose to do monthly group rituals for self care, which may be actual magic rituals or might be as simple as ordering takeout and watching a movie. Activism can be intensely draining work, so it’s important to take breaks when you need them!

Hold public rituals with an activist slant. Nothing gets people’s attention like a bunch of folks standing in a circle and chanting. Holding public rituals is one of the best ways to raise awareness for a cause. You might hold a vigil for victims of police brutality, a healing circle for the environment, or some other ritual that is relevant to the issue at hand. These rituals serve a double purpose, as they both bring people’s attention to the issue and give them an opportunity to work for change on a spiritual level. Use prayers, chants, and symbolism that is appropriate to the theme, and ask participants to make a small donation to a charity related to your cause.

Begin your public rituals with a territory acknowledgement. If you live in the United States, chances are you live on land that was taken from the native people by force. If you seek to have a relationship with the land, you need to first acknowledge the original inhabitants and the suffering they endured so you can be there. Use a website like native-land.ca to find out what your land was originally called and what indigenous groups originally lived there. Publicly acknowledge this legacy at your ritual, and publicly state your intention to support indigenous peoples. (Revolutionary Witchcraft has an excellent territory acknowledgement that you can customize for your area.)

Make an altar to your activist ancestors. If activism or membership in a marginalized group is a big part of your life, you may want to create a space for it in your home. Like an ancestor altar, this is a space to remember influential members of the community who have died. Choose a flat surface like a tabletop or shelf and decorate it with photos of your “ancestors,” as well as other appropriate items like flags, pins, stickers, etc. As a queer person, my altar to my LGBTQ+ ancestors might include images of figures like Sappho, Marsha P. Johnson, and Freddie Mercury, as well as items like a pink triangle patch, a small rainbow pride flag, and dried violets and green carnations. You may also choose to include a candle, an incense burner, and/or a small dish for offerings. Just remember to never place images of living people on an altar honoring the dead!

Do your research. Staying educated is an important part of activism — not only do your actions need to be informed, but you need to be able to speak intelligently about your issues. Read the news (on actual news websites, not just social media). Read lots of books; some I personally recommend are Just Mercy by Bryan Stevenson, Love and Rage by Lama Rod Owens, and (as previously mentioned) Revolutionary Witchcraft by Sarah Lyons. If you can get access to them, read scholarly articles about theories that are influential among activists, like the Gaia Hypothesis or Deep Ecology. Read everything you can get your hands on.

VOTE! And I don’t just mean voting for the presidential candidate you like (or, as is often the case, voting against the one you don’t like). Vote for your representatives. Vote for city council. Vote for the county sheriff. Voting gives you a chance to make sure the people in office will be susceptible to your activism. Yes, your side might lose or your electoral college representative might choose to go against the popular vote. Even so, voting is a way to clearly communicate the will of the people, and it puts a lot of pressure on the people in charge. It’s important — don’t let anyone convince you otherwise.

In my experience, combining activism with my witchcraft is a deeply fulfilling spiritual experience. It strengthens my connection to the world around me, with helps grow both empathy and magical power. I truly can’t imagine my practice without the activist element.

Resources:

Witches, Sluts, Feminists by Kristen J. Sollee

Revolutionary Witchcraft by Sarah Lyons

The Study of Witchcraft by Deborah Lipp

The Way of Fire and Ice by Ryan Smith

[stovetuna]

CW: character death and Tony lack of self esteem and self preservation. Ignore if not ur jam

(¬_¬) psssttt angst time. post-Endgame Steve accidentally ending up in 616 and meets that Steve and Tony. And after failing to wrestling ANY info about why this Steve is here, 616-Tony figures out other him is dead and this Steve is taking it badly and this has Tony trying to make MCU-Steve feel better by saying something like well that me probably deserved it??? All us Tonys do (This does not make MCU feel better. Nor does it make 616-Steve very happy)

ANON MY HEART! IT CANNOT TAKE THIS! (she says as she mulls over this prompt for DAYS and even snaps out of half-sleep to write a little bit of it)...

but like, imagine it. Somehow or other Steve ends up in 616!universe—a spell of Dr. Strange’s gone awry, maybe, or a clusterfuck while returning the time stone—and he’s ended up in 616!Tony’s workshop. It’s late, he’s confused and disoriented and grieving, and he’s already making for the ratty sofa (thinking fixing this is a problem for future steve) when he realizes there’s already someone stretched out on it.

not someone. someones. together. wrapped around each other like koalas on a branch. one of them is Tony—no amount of darkness can smother that blue light, or so Steve once thought—and his heart is breaking all over again, when the person wrapped around him, partially hidden behind Tony’s shoulder, raises his head, eyes alert, and Steve realizes it’s him. Himself. Steve Rogers, from another dimension. Universe. Tony would know which. 

Rogers snaps to attention and is standing and interrogating Steve and he manages to not wake Tony up the whole time. This Tony sleeps like a rock, or maybe that’s just because of Rogers, and Steve is spiraling over the fact that maybe that’s all it would have taken to make things right—better—in his own universe. He could have been brave, he could have been strong enough for both of them to walk up to Tony and ask him out, kiss him, something. Instead he lied, and hid, and ran. He’s still running. Meanwhile this taller, broader, stronger version of him chose happiness, because what else could life with Tony Stark be? 

Rogers is grilling him in the semi-darkness, asking questions Steve isn’t sure he’s allowed to answer (the rules of the time heist are still fresh in his mind), but the questioning stops when Steve starts crying and asks him how long they’ve been together. If it was enough to stop their fight, and everything that happened after.

Rogers tells him they were too late to stop the Civil War, but they pulled their heads out of their asses eventually. When Steve mentions Thanos, Rogers’ face flashes recognition but not the same level of grief Steve feels like a railroad spike lodged in his heart. Whatever else has happened in this universe, Thanos hasn’t, and this Steve and Tony are together. Steve can’t stop thinking this is all just a cruel nightmare disguised as a tear in the fabric of the universe. 

And then the lights come on at a dim 30%, revealing a Tony Stark who is whole and alive and very, very different from the man Steve knew. While Steve stands there poleaxed in crisis mode (Stark mentions “blue screening” which is a reference Steve does get and he hurts all the more deeply because of it), Rogers fills Stark in on what he knows about Steve, when he showed up, what they’ve talked about. When Rogers mentions Steve’s question about their relationship, something brightens in Stark’s blue eyes.

“Your universe’s Tony Stark is dead, isn’t he?”

Steve makes a sound that is something between a sob and a laugh. Of course Stark would figure it out with the least amount of information at hand. In response, Rogers grabs Stark’s hand. He’s gone deathly pale, as if the very thought of losing Tony is too terrible to imagine, and he shares a look with Stark that speaks volumes, because Stark looks just as grim. Something happened there, Steve thinks—one or the other of them died, or came close enough to put the fear of it in them for life. 

And then Stark opens his mouth and says “If your universe’s Tony Stark was anything like me, and categorically speaking he probably was, he probably deserved it.”

Steve’s gut plummets because Jesus Christ, does Tony Stark not have any sense of self-worth, in any universe?? Apparently he and Rogers are the same wavelength—shocker—because he rounds on Stark with “Tony, we’ve talked about this” while Stark waves him off with a scoff. 

“This isn’t low self-esteem talking, Steve—you know my track record when it comes to near death experiences. How many would you say have been the inevitable result of my own actions?” 

Rogers’s face flattens. His lips and eyes narrow. “Too many.”

“Right. So am I right, or am I right?” Stark asks Steve, but Steve’s tongue has cleaved to the roof of his mouth. Of course, Tony Stark was always able to talk enough for three people, even if two of them were, technically, the same person. “He probably went down thinking he was the only one who could fix whatever was broken, walked right into a coffin he made himself, literally if not figuratively.” 

Steve swallows. “Actually,” he says, thinking of the gauntlet fused to Tony’s armor, which had fused to his arm, “it was something like that.” 

Steve’s eyes laser in on their joined hands, tearing up when he sees Stark squeeze Rogers’s fingers. A small touch of reassurance, stabilizing and loving, to remind Rogers he was still here. Still breathing. Still alive. The look Rogers sends Stark is so warm, so full of things Steve doesn’t have the strength to name, it threatens to shove him deeper into an already devastating downward spiral. 

So of course Stark chooses that moment to look at Steve and be his usual smart self, because some things are truly universal, and Tony Stark’s intelligence and ability to read people is one of them. 

“You never told him?” 

Steve shakes his head. Rogers makes a small, hapless sound, like the thought of never telling Tony Stark his feelings, being with him, is too sad to consider. It is—Steve can honestly say it is, and of the two of them, Steve is the only one who has to live with the consequences of the choice he made (and made, over and over again) for the rest of his life.

Whatever nonverbal communication passes between the two men, Steve doesn’t see it. He’s too busy staring through blurry eyes at the floor of the workshop, wishing this nightmare would end so he could go back to his own universe and not have to be confronted with the life he wishes he could have had with a man who was now dead. 

He’s so wrapped up in his own misery, he doesn’t register movement until two socked feet stop in front of his shoes and he looks up to see Stark standing there, eyebrows knitted in concern and wonder and, worst of all, understanding. Like he’s been where Steve is, lost and bereft, irreparably heartbroken. Did this Tony lose his Steve? How? Rogers is standing right there. But Steve has seen Stark’s expression in his own mirrored reflection every morning for the past year, and while he was never on par with Tony Stark’s genius, he could read people too. Stark knows this kind of loss as deeply as Steve does now.

“We’ll get you home first thing,” Stark tells him, but it sounds like a line to quell Steve’s nerves, which it does, and a good thing too, because Stark is moving into Steve’s personal space as he says it, breathing his air and meeting his gaze straight on. “Nod if you understand?” 

Of course Stark would be considerate of Steve’s inability to speak when they’re this close. Steve nods. 

“Can I give you something, Steve? If I know myself—and I do, really, even if my judgement isn’t always perfectly sound—your Tony would have wanted to give it to you himself. But life wasn’t fair to either of you, I think. Not that it ever is, but, I’d like to correct the imbalance in some small way. Is that okay?”

Steve nods before he realizes he’s doing it, like his body knows what’s coming before his brain does and he’s helpless to resist. 

Logically, Steve knows this isn’t his Tony. Not because his Tony is dead—although that does play a major factor—but because this one is so unlike him. This Tony, Stark—he’s too tall, Steve’s mind supplies, too young, too broad; his hair is too dark and his eyes are too blue. 

But Steve Rogers would recognize Tony Stark anywhere, in any dimension. In any universe. And if it means getting to give Tony everything he was too scared to offer him in life, even for a second—let alone getting some of it back—then so much the better. 

Stark pulls him in for a kiss like it’s second nature to him. Muscle memory. But to Steve, it’s a shock to the system. Every hair on his body is standing on end. He gasps against Stark’s lips and suddenly fingers are buried in his hair, tugging him closer before he can stop and ask them if this is okay, if they know what this means to Steve, if he can actually have this. 

A sob sticks in his throat as he finally musters the wherewithal to kiss back. Stark takes it handily, licking a hot, wet line across Steve’s bottom lip before Steve slants left and kisses him hard and deep, wrapping his arms around the similar-yet-unfamiliar frame.   Kissing Stark, Steve realizes, makes him happy, in a profoundly genuine, comforting way he hasn’t felt in years, and the only way to express it is to wrap a hand around the back of Stark’s neck, just below the nape, and suck the moan right out of his mouth. Even if that happiness is soured by his implacable grief, he can shove that into the back of his mind long enough to luxuriate in the feeling of Stark’s tongue brushing against his soft palate, those hard, scarred workman’s hands sliding up under his shirt to splay soft across his lower back. He feels safe, and happy, and loved. 

And if he imagines his Tony in Stark’s place, no one has to know. And if they did, Steve doesn’t think either of them would judge him for it. His instinct is confirmed when Steve pulls away long enough—breathing hard, just like Stark, who looks for all the world like someone who just fell off a Tilt-a-Whirl ass-backwards—to look over Stark’s shoulder at Rogers, who’s staring hungrily at both of them like he doesn’t know whether to pounce or stay put. The tent in his sweatpants speaks for itself. 

Before Steve can piece two coherent thoughts together—like does he feel weird about an alternative universe version of himself being turned on by this? or does he need to stop kissing Stark before this gets out of hand? how is he supposed to get home? how is he supposed to live without this now that he’s had a taste of it?—Stark is pulling him back in for a kiss that tunes out all the noise and warms him through, tucked in the safe, quiet, happy circle of Stark’s arms.

Steve holds the man and the moment as close as he can, as long as he can, and he’s grateful, for the first time in his life after coming out of the ice, for the silence. 

[feralphoenix]

HOWMST BELL THE CAT? - A treatise on one aspect of how the Pale King sealed the Radiance

sup hollow knight fandom, i’m back with the picante takes again after having Noticed A Thing.

as with my previous essays i’ll put this guy up on dreamwidth later for accessibility purposes, since my layout text may be too small for high-res pc users. i will attach that in a reblog at a later point.

CONTENT WARNINGS FOR TONIGHT’S PROGRAM: This essay discusses canon-typical body horror and bodily boundary violations, with some side mentions of colonialism.

all game screencaps are mine. the screencap of the wiki is from the “developer notes” (style guide) section of the “cut content” page.

ALSO: if youre from a christian cultural upbringing (whether currently practicing, agnostic/secular, or atheist now), understand that some of what i’m discussing here may challenge you. if thinking thru the implications of this particular part of hollow knight worldbuilding/lore is distressing for you, PLEASE only approach this essay when youre in a safe mindset & open to listening, and ask the help of a therapist or anti-racism teacher/mentor to help you process your thoughts & feelings. just like keep in mind that youre listening to an ethnoreligiously marginalized person and please be respectful here or wherever else youre discussing this dang essay, ty

HOWMST BELL THE CAT? - A treatise on one aspect of how the Pale King sealed the Radiance

We understand more or less how the Pale King’s plan was supposed to work. Stuff Radiance into a no-thoughts-head-empty and silent Pure Vessel to trap, isolate, and silence her, both putting an end to the Infection and killing her for good. Stick that vessel in the Black Egg, which harnesses Void BS to both keep the vessel alive indefinitely and to cover Hallownest (and its neighbors) in a time-defying stasis so that the Pale King could successfully hoard his favorite shiny FOREVER, threatened by nothing. Then put a seal on the Black Egg to prevent anyone from getting inside and harming said vessel while it’s strung up and helpless. And THEN, put protective seals on the anchors (the Dreamers) to the Black Egg seal to protect them from any external harm: The stasis means the Dreamers won't die of old age or starvation.

All in all, a pretty foolproof plan!

...except that the Dreamers are still vulnerable to having their minds breached with the moths’ magic... and the Pale King failed to take into account that his Pure Vessel was a person actually and the amount of toxic stress his training/upbringing put on them made them REALLY POORLY SUITED FOR THEIR JOB... and also that killing 99% of his million children and turning the Abyss into a landfill for baby corpses would take enough of an emotional toll on his wife and #1 enabler the White Lady that she would walk out on him, ensuring he’d only ever have one shot at this whole deal...

Basically it’s the sort of plan that an emotionally constipated, low-empathy sort of guy who pours all his points into INT and has a big fat zero for WIS might think is foolproof. It has big holes in it that the Pale King did not consider to be big holes until he got owned by the various consequences of his actions and fell down said big holes, making the shocked pikachu face all the while. Rip in die, my guy.

Anyway, there’s a lot of incidental information scattered about the game that gives us more insight into the stages of TPK’s plan. Looking at Monomon’s notes in the Archive suggests that she was probably involved in designing the Black Egg; the hidden room in the Weavers’ den points to their being the ones to blueprint the Dreamer seal; the White Palace’s hidden rooms reveal both TPK’s morbid fascination with the Void and his mea culpa wrt his motives and the Path of Pain is certainly suggestive of a lot of things. The White Lady tells us straight out that she walked out on the Pale King because she wanted no part in a second vessel batch, but how TPK didn’t handle that is only revealed via map design and some incidental dialogue from the Old Stag.

This stuff presents us with, if not a full picture, then at least a decent connect-the-dots of certain aspects of crater politics and Pale Court drama at the time, and how exactly TPK’s plan came together.

But there is still one glaring question that these cookie crumbs do not provide us an answer to:

Who shall bell the cat?

How did TPK et al manage to stuff Radiance into Hollow in the first place?

This is the subject of a lot of memes and jokes within the fandom because it's so absurd. Radiance fuckin hates that dude! She’s probably gonna be pretty wary of him considering how he stole her people in the first place! And considering the anti-colonialism slant of the writing - beyond the general sympathetic view Team Cherry gives of each indigenous bug society, Seer makes it very clear that Radiance has very good reason to take violent action against Hallownest - the answer is probably not something like “she’s just that stupid” or “she rolled a crit fail”.

Well... I have an idea of how TPK managed to get Radiance in there. It raises about as many questions as it answers, mind, but it may be someplace to start.

[desc: the hollow knight's entry in the hunter’s journal. top text/ghost’s comment reads: “Fully grown Vessel, carrying the plague’s heart within its body.” bottom text/hunter’s comment says: “The old King of Hallownest... he must have been desperate to save his crumbling little world. The sacrifices he imposed on others... all for nothing.”]

Here we have Hollow’s bestiary entry. Most of what we’re concerned with here is the top text, which says the seal has literally trapped Radiance inside their body. (First of all, ew, TPK.)

We already knew Radiance is literally actually inside Hollow, though: The Infection is leaking out of their body, and to get to fight Radiance, Ghost has to go traipsing into their sibling’s mind. So what’s significant about that here?

[desc: screencap of the outside of the black egg temple, post-infected crossroads. there are large infection blobs in the foreground and background, connected to each other by veins that come from inside the temple.]

The infection blobs are weird and get weirder if you kill enough Lightseeds for the Hunter to tell you their origin story, i.e. that the literal actual sun has been having a very long bad day and cried a lot, and some of the liquid coalesced into living flesh, and some of that living flesh took on a mind of its own to become Lightseeds. (Hollow Knight is a WILD place.)

Lightseeds are Radiance’s accidental children and share a lot of her traits: They are harmless creatures that try to avoid conflict if possible but if pushed will get creative and find ways to fight regardless of their physical limitations. (For the Lightseeds this involves hiding inside Broken Vessel’s corpse and puppeting it around to try to stab you.) They even have her same distinctive yell. And according to the Hunter, they’re born from the infection blobs. These enemies only ever appear in the Ancient Basin, which both Radiance and the Void have ransacked, and in the Infected Crossroads.

The infection blobs are connected to and sort of a weird extension of Radiance because the Infection itself is sort of a weird extension of Radiance. In the game’s internal style guide Team Cherry explains that the Infection started as an accident, not her original intention but what happened when Hallownest tried to block her out.

[desc: screencap from the wiki of style notes attached to seer that describe a sketch of radiance’s finalized backstory. text reads: “The moth tribe were (perhaps) descended from Radiance. However, the King convinced them somehow to seal Radiance away. I guess so he could rule Hallownest with his singular vision, as a god/monarch with no other gods. The moths sealed Radiance away by forgetting about her. Hallownest was born and flourished. However, the memory of Radiance lingered (eg [sic] the statue at hallownest’s crown) and soon she began to reappear in dreams and starting [sic] exerting influence. The King and the bugs of Hallownest resisted this memory/power and it started to manifest as the Infection. Thus the first attempt to seal Radiance failed, and the King had to try another method - the Vessel.” emphasis mine.]

Some fans have posited the blobs as deposits of pupa juice, but given Team Cherry's description of the Infection’s origins I don’t know how likely that is. Since the Void also sticks its squamous tentacles into things via veiny looking things and the Nightmare’s Heart has similar veiny nonsense in the Nightmare Realm, I wonder if it isn’t just a Meddly God Shit thing in general.

Whatever the case, the blobs are very much connected to/a part of Radiance.

And when you’re hanging around them, you will notice two things: They pulse like they’re part of a circulatory system, and you can hear Radiance's heartbeat emanating from them.

[desc: screencap of the game’s title screen with the infected menu theme in use: a glowing orange ball at the center of a lot of black tendony webbing.]

Let’s also think of the Infected menu theme, which you unlock after getting either of the endings where Ghost takes over from Hollow and absorbs Radiance out of them. Ghost is infected and then sealed inside the Black Egg in Hollow's place. It’s suggested by the animation’s staging that Radiance briefly struggles to get out of Ghost after absorbed but is ultimately stuck in them, at which point the seal is reestablished.

If you haven’t used the Infected menu theme yourself, the... interesting thing about it is that it moves organically. The light ball expands and contracts - y’know, sort of like a living organ - and so does the black webby stuff around it.

Also, Radiance’s heartbeat is included in the theme's ambiance.

[desc: hollow’s bestiary entry again]

To cut to the chase, this part of Hollow’s bestiary entry that says “the plague’s heart”? I don’t think that’s just Ghost/Team Cherry being poetic. I think there’s a good chance it’s LITERAL.

I think TPK is the sort of person who could cram a native woman’s literal living beating heart inside his own child’s body so they can use it as... say, a focus to absorb and trap her mind/spirit inside their body, too. Mr. No Cost Too Great is capable of a lot in the name of keeping other people’s claws off his Big Shiny kingdom. This is kind of his whole brand.

But also, like, yuck.

This fits the worldbuilding too; generally speaking Hollow Knight is Body Horror City. Also there’s the case of Grimm: While he and Radiance are loose counterparts at best with WILDLY disparate outlooks and ethoses, his existence serves as precedent that a Higher Being’s heart specifically can be separate from the rest of them.

As I said before, though, this DOES raise as many questions as it answers. If this is another piece in the puzzle of how TPK belled the cat, we’re now left wondering how he got Radiance’s heart to use as Hollow's focus to begin with.

We know he has access to the Dream Realm because that’s ultimately where he hid when Hollow’s seal failed, but who did he send to do the stealing and how did they get away with it? (TPK certainly wouldn’t have gone; his own life’s the one cost too great for him to willingly pay.) Was Radiance’s heart separate from her like the Nightmare’s Heart, or was it a part of her body? (I think the latter is more likely just from her personality; Grimm’s hidden heart makes sense because of how he keeps even his own servants at arm’s length emotionally, whereas Radiance is all heart all the time. I think this makes more sense with their equal opposites schtick too. But this would make for a WAY riskier mission.)

I can imagine all kinds of possibilities. None of them are definitive, but the thing they have in common is that they are all Awful... and how on-brand that is for Hollow Knight as a whole is, maybe, the most persuasive argument for It’s Literally Actually Her Real Physical Heart there could be.

[zuholymama]

In The Same Boat

Pair: Zuho x reader (female)

Warnings: Profanities, mentions of alcohol

Here I am again. Chugging down my sadness away with my favorite poison. It's been a fucking month, why can't I get a grip yet? Why is it so hard to forget the things he had done?

"Damn you, Taeyang..." I cursed under my shaky breath. I bet the bartender is looking at me with sorry eyes. Yeah, that's right, hate to admit it but I do need some sympathy right now. Where my girl friends you ask? I came alone today. Nobody's accompanying me.

And honestly, I'm hoping someone would take me home tonight. Help me forget about the bitter things.

But being here with my sadness, honestly I don't feel that awful. The music that's been blasting off behind me actually sounds dope. I don't hate it. Before I realized, I find my head bopping along with the beat. I leave my table with the cash, walking to the dance floor to mingle with the other strangers. I let myself go, enjoying the vibe that platinum haired DJ's offering us. Ah, it's him again. If I remember correctly, his name's Zuho. Right?

As I dance my heart out with his music, I couldn't care less about my troubles. I couldn't care less about my friends. I'm here, just here to sooth myself out of my bad mood. The night is young and Zuho's music is my company.

Before I know it, 30 minutes already passed by.

"What? No way..." I whined. During this month I've only came thrice. Every time I visit, Zuho would be the DJ for the night. I guess Saturday is his schedule. I've never paid attention to him before but how could I not now that I've listened and danced to his performance three times? And with that slicked back platinum hair? His visual always catches my eyes.

"Thanks, guys. Have a good night!" That Zuho shouted before he left the stage. I screamed in return, hyping his departure. Maybe it's the alcohol's that running in my system but I feel really hyped, my chest's still beating rapidly from all the fun before.

But I'm still sane enough to go back to my seat. My whole body is sweating. In a small attempt to cool myself down, I pull my collar repeatedly to fan myself. It helps a little, I guess. But I bet it's better if I just go home and then take this dress off.

"You need a drink?"

A sudden deep voice came uninvited from beside of me, almost making me jump from my stool.

Holy. Fuck. That's the hot DJ from before. What is he doing in front of me, holding a full bottle of water...?

"Uhm... Y-yeah, thank you." I managed to reply albeit sheepish. My hand takes the water from him, opening it and immediately gulps it down. Okay, this cold water helps calming me down in this sudden turn of events.

The DJ grins. He leans back by the bar with his elbows on top of it, looking at the people passing by as he waits for me to finish drinking. I can see his side profile from here, and I gotta say... His nose is so sharp and cute. It's like his defining feature. And that square jaw and small lips... Some beads of sweat forming on his visible forehead. Okay, wow, he's this handsome up close? Fuck. He's making me nervous.

"Is it fun staring at me?"

I spitted out my drink. God damn it.

"I-I'm not staring at you." I muttered, definitely not selling it.

"Whatever you say." He smirked. Dammit. His hand then takes the bottle I was holding. He doesn't hesitate to bring it to his lips, drinking the rest of the water to quench his thirst. His bopping adam apple manages to keep my focus on it, staring at him like an idiot. Again.

After he's done drinking it empty, Zuho crushes the plastic bottle and then puts it on the table behind him, letting the bartender does the job to pick it up. His attention goes back to me, looking down on me with his slanted eyes for the longest time tonight, holding me captive on my stool.

"Nice to meet you, I'm Zuho." He introduced himself whilst offering a handshake. "And you are?"

"I'm y/n. Nice to meet you too, mister DJ." I excitedly answered as I firmly shake that hand back. "You were amazing. I really like your songs." I added my compliments. He deserves it, I've always wanted to say that to him.

"Thanks, y/n. I already know you do, though. You always gave your all on the dance floor everytime I performed." He pointed out. His eyes seemingly glint in amusement.

Has he always paid that much attention on me? Amongst many people on there? Oh God this is embarrassing. Why do I feel so self-conscious!?

"Am I that obvious?" I laughed nervously, "I'm just one among many other drunktards who danced to your songs, why approach me?"

"Hm... I wonder?" He raised an eyebrow, teasing me with a vague answer, "Take a guess." He smiled as he looked down at me again, his head resting on his palm.

I'm starting to believe that it's definitely the alcohol's acting up in my veins. I somehow find the courage to act bold against his teasing.

"Am I cute?" I smirked. "My colored hair hooked your interest?" I twirled my hair around my fingers.

"Hahaha," The tall guy laughed, cute. What's up with his deep voice and cute laugh? You can't do this to me. "I can't deny that. You are pretty cute, and that color suits you." After shamelessly admitting that in front of me, he then shakes his head off to tell me that I'm wrong, "But that's not why, y/n."

"Then I have no idea." I quickly gave up. My curiosity gets the best of me.

Smiling for a while, he shifted his body to face me properly. I can see his face's feature even better, such as the hint of sympathy within his eyes. "I know your ex."

My eyes immediately widened in disbelieve. Did I hear that right?

"No way? Yoo Taeyang?"

"The girl he kept while he was dating you? She was my girlfriend."

"...What the fuck?"

"I know. Pretty fucked up, huh?" He chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. "She didn't stay that long in my life, only 5 months. But still, getting cheated on sucks."

I'm speechless. I have that kind of connection with him? His girlfriend, I mean, EX-girlfriend, was the one who snatched Taeyang away from me? Or it's the other way around I don't fucking know. Doesn't fucking matter anymore. How could she leave this man behind? I mean, look at this guy. Zuho, a DJ, I bet he makes lotsa money. I've seen his name in many night club brochures. I bet his IG followers are at least 100k.

Me? Taeyang left me would make sense. I'm no one. A klutz. Doesn't have a stable job. Busy eating chips under my blanket, binge-watching shounen animes that have 100+ episodes. A year with me should've shown him plenty enough that I'm not the best woman out there.

"...How do you know me?" I questioned him. My throat feels dry from the tension despite of the water I just chugged down.

"I have my connections. Saw your IG since weeks ago," Zuho replies nonchalantly, "in your story I saw you hanging out here. I realized you're a usual patron of this club. It's a good coincidence to have because I'll lit this place up on weekends until next month."

"...So you've paid attention to me for some time now, huh?" I scoffed, amused with all the coincidence happening. At the same time, I'm happy to know someone who shares the same fate as me. "Well, should I order some drinks for both of us? To celebrate our failed love life?" I grinned, somehow finding a fraction of saving grace from his company here. Tonight might be different.

"Hm... I've had enough of my fair share in griefing. I'm more interested in something else."

"What's that?"

Suddenly, Zuho walks to my front, leaning down closely to my ear as his arm cages me by the bar. His face is so close on me that I could feel the heat that's radiating off his skin. I don't understand why he's doing this, but why can't I find the strength to fight him away?

"I know you've tried to drown your sadness away here. Either with the alcohol or dancing to my musics." He whispers lowly, giving me shudders down my spine. "How about I help you instead? As a fellow victim of those two."

Oh my God. Is this what I think it is...?

"What do you mean...?" I breathed out.

"You know what I mean, y/n." Even though I can't see his face, I know he's smirking again, "Your place or mine. Up to you."

Fuck me. I'm definitely sober to hear that clearly.

Also sober enough to make a choice.

"...Mine."

Fin.

[mobius-prime]

246. Sonic the Hedgehog #177

Home, New Home

Writer: Ian Flynn Pencils: Tracy Yardley! Colors: Jason Jensen

As the Egg Fleet approaches New Mobotropolis, Nicole erects a forcefield-like shield around the entire city, protecting it from the bombardment that Snively, leading the fleet, begins dropping on it. With the shield protecting everyone, however, a slightly more immediate concern reveals itself - namely, the many criminals that have been teleported here along with the actual residents of Knothole, who see an opportunity to not only break free of the justice system, but take a few of the citizens with them.

Amazing speech on your part there, Mogul. Really, it's a wonder everyone didn't immediately fall at your feet. Sonic and Sally are impressed at Nicole's foresight, only to become concerned when her hologram begins flickering and she appears to show signs of pain in response to more shells hitting the city's shield. She tells them that she has to devote most of the city's power supply to keeping the shield up, and reassures Sally that she'll always be nearby even when they can't see her before disappearing. Sally and Elias address the crowd of rescued civilians, telling them that right now they can trust Nicole to keep them safe while they come up with a plan and that for now everyone should find their new homes. Sally stops Sonic, however, and orders him to go get medical attention before he does anything else, something he's predictably a bit grumpy about.

Okay, so this is where we address one of the most controversial things Ian ever included in the comic. It's controversial for good reason. We've already established that one of the major things Ian has been doing for the comic since taking over as head writer is bringing the world of the comics more in line with that of the games, and this includes the various characters and their attitudes. Vector is no longer as insufferable as he was under Kenders, Knuckles is one of Sonic's closest allies now rather than a distant rival, and so on, but this is where the age discrepancy between Charmy from the games and Charmy from the comics becomes a problem. If you'll recall, Charmy is six in the games but sixteen in the comics, and obviously a sixteen-year-old is going to act pretty different from a six-year-old. So how exactly does one take a fairly mature teenager, who's a prince of a lost kingdom and literally engaged to someone else his age, and make him act like a child? Well, I don't have any particularly good ideas myself, but Ian's highly controversial solution was to give him brain damage. From this point on, Charmy suffers from some substantial memory loss, and generally has a much more childlike personality than he once did. There's many problems with this, and others have gone into this topic much more in depth than I care to, but suffice it to say that while giving a character brain damage simply as part of their character arc isn't inherently a bad thing, and can even be a positive if handled right, giving a character brain damage purely as a plot device to make them act more like a child feels incredibly insensitive and insulting. From what I understand, this isn't totally Ian's fault; Sega was pressuring him to make these changes, and I suppose at the time this was all he could think of for the Charmy problem, but I know he has stated later on that he wishes he'd handled this particular issue better, so at least he's acknowledged how bad this whole thing seems. Furthermore, he does appear to treat Charmy as a character with as much respect as possible in future issues, so there's that at least.

Anyway, Saffron is relieved when Charmy happily confirms that he remembers who she is and hugs her, and Dr. Quack moves on from Charmy to take a look at Sonic. It doesn't take him long to confirm his suspicions that indeed, all the magical ring energy Sonic's been exposed to have given him a high resistance to injury as well as apparently an accelerated rate of healing, something which is quite fascinating and I wish would have been expanded upon in this universe's worldbuilding at some point. As Dr. Quack heads off to find his own family, we take a quick look at the Chaos Chamber on Angel Island, where Finitevus appears to be doing some kind of weird ritual with the Master Emerald, reciting Tikal's prayer. Scourge runs up and informs him that Dimitri has run - err, floated off, presumably to contact Knuckles and warn him of Finitevus' treachery. Finitevus, however, merely tells him that this was part of his plan all along, and he isn't concerned, as he'll bring back Enerjak one way or another. Sounds quite ominous indeed…

Hey man, someone needs to remind Antoine that bravery isn't a lack of fear, it's standing up to danger even when you are afraid. Sally becomes lost in thought for a moment, remembering all the times she led the Freedom Fighters into danger in the past, long before she was ever thrust into the role of acting ruler or forced into a disastrous arranged marriage. She suddenly stands up and reminds Bunnie of her old hairdressing ambitions, and asks her for one more favor before they begin their defense against Eggman's attack… Meanwhile up in the sky, Snively continues to try to break through New Mobotropolis' shield, only to become startled when a single, tiny aircraft begins firing onto his flagship. His robots prepare to return fire, but he suddenly orders them to stand down with a look of shock, and contacts the plane… having recognized it as the plane that Hope built. Hope yells at him through the comm when he opens a channel, furious that she took his advice and went to Station Square, but when she tried to return to Knothole, which she still considered home, it was in ruins. She blames him for all of it, too ashamed to show her face to the Mobians again after leaving, and begins to sob.

I absolutely love the way that these comics continue to humanize Snively more and more. I feel so bad for Hope here, especially knowing that none of the Mobians would blame her for what happened, but as for Snively, it's clear that despite his nature, he does value family, and does care about Hope. He's gone from being the cowardly, sniveling, silly minion of the evil Dr. Robotnik to an actual human with flaws, feelings, and attachments. From inside the city shield, Tails watches the bombardment continue with his parents and Merlin, and Amadeus expresses that though the destruction of Knothole was a tragedy, all in all this may actually be a good thing for the populace, as he believes that such a major event will prepare them for "the shift in thinking" that he plans for them. Merlin, however, warns him not to push ahead with any reforms he has in mind too soon, as the monarchy will also be very tense from all this chaos. Rosemary expresses her belief in her husband, and Tails excitedly says he'll support his father no matter what, but the sentiment is interrupted by Eggman's furious screaming from outside the city walls, banging on the shield with his battle suit and yelling for the Freedom Fighters to come out and face him, infuriated that his perfect victory has been stolen from him. Sonic cheerfully interrupts his tantrum, suddenly standing outside the shield, and Eggman is initially pleased, mocking Sonic for not learning from his initial defeat mere hours ago. However, it turns out that Sonic has learned, and with the knowledge that the battle suit was created to counter Sonic and Sonic alone, he and Sally have come up with the perfect plan while Eggman wasn't looking.

The entire Freedom Fighter and Chaotix force descends on Eggman's battle suit, and they're all able to locate weaknesses that Eggman hadn't anticipated in its construction. They tear it apart piece by piece while Sonic gleefully reminds his nemesis that there are more heroes on this planet than just himself, and that anything he can't handle on his own, the others definitely can. In the end, Eggman is left with barely half a shell of his precious armor, furious and humiliated, which leads into perhaps one of my favorite pages of this entire era - perhaps even the entire comic.

Eggman, still unwilling to let victory slip away despite his situation, orders his fleet to fire directly on their location, meaning either he was somehow unaware that this would kill him too, or he was aware, and was more concerned with killing his foes than surviving. Honestly, my bet is on the latter - it seems like something he'd do if angry enough and feeling sufficiently cornered. However, he's forgotten that Nicole has full control over the nanites in the city, and since everything in the city is made of nanites, she's able to stretch the city's wall out to create a wall between everyone out on the field and the bombardment from the Egg Fleet. She projects her form to Eggman and urges him to reconsider his decision, as frankly, Sally is showing him more mercy than he deserves by a long shot. And honestly, she's right - it would be a much better decision to either kill him right there, or, if they're feeling too honorable and whatnot, at least arrest him and shove him in a cell next to Mammoth Mogul…

Well hello there, old haircut! I will say, I did enjoy Sally's long hair while she had it - I thought it looked good on her. But hey, cutting one's hair as a show of maturation is a common fictional trope, and in a way, it's nice to go back to seeing Sally rocking her old look. I will actually note here that while I've mentioned before that Tracy's pencils have standardized the design of a lot of characters, I actually don't care much for his redesign of Sally as a whole. While I appreciate her proportions becoming more like those of every other Mobian - the human body that a lot of other artists gave her looked kind of weird, to be honest - her facial features have actually been significantly altered by his style. She always had a distinctive slanted-back eye shape and a more gentle slope to her nose, but by making her eye shape closer to than of characters like Bunnie and Tails, I feel she's lost some of her unique visual charm. That isn't to say that I think Sally is lesser as a character for this change - she's still one of my top favorites in the series - nor that I disapprove of Tracy's art style as a whole. And in the end, her hairstyle change here marks the beginning of a new era - one where she begins to act once more like her old self and once again joins the others on missions just like old times. She's worked through a lot of the trauma and self-doubt that she's been plagued with ever since Sonic's return to Mobius, and now we can look forward to new adventures with her, in a new location. I mean that "new era" thing literally, by the way. Congratulations, we've reached the end of the comic's fifth era - many of the eras beyond this one are significantly shorter than the ones we've seen previously, but that also means we'll be moving through distinctive arcs a little more quickly, and furthermore, the next era holds some pretty exciting new surprises! Shall we now - how do they say - do it to it?

[fashionkingcarney]

ravenous, ravenous

one | two

When he looks up and spots her, standing paces away, his whole face lights up. “Eurydice,” he says, breathy and hopeful, and damn him for how her name sounds in his voice.

Home, he'd promised her.

“Eurydice,” he says gently, prying her hands off his shoulders and clutching her fingers. “Do you want this with me?” 

chapter two - read here on AO3

The lock on Orpheus’s door is rusted over. He fumbles through his pockets with one hand, dropping crumpled scraps of notepad paper on the dusty floor, apologizing with every breath. Still, he holds her hand tight, as if she might make a break for it if he lets go. Even as he struggles, reaching crosswise to his left pocket, he refuses to release her.

“Hold on a second,” she tells him, swallowing the ridiculous giggle that bubbles up in her gut.  

With her free hand, she reaches into his pocket, digging through the copious amounts of crumpled newsprint, until she finds something cold and metallic, with teeth on the end. It’s a skeleton key tied to a length of torn red cloth, frayed along the edges.

“You can open it,” he offers, “If you’d like.”

A door for her to open; Eurydice can’t remember the last time she’d had one of those. She fumbles with the key, using the end to push aside the flap. She jams it in the wrong way on her first try, the metal creaking angrily in protest. She turns it to try again, the end of the key scratching hideously against the surface of the lock. It takes try after try, of turning the key clockwise and then counter-clockwise, and then back again. Orpheus is entirely unhelpful, holding her left hand sandwiched between both of his, when she pulls her right out of his grip.

Finally, a wiggle and a twist to the right and the pins click. The doorknob turns and the hinges on the door groan as the door swings open. He beams down at her, eyes alight.

Eurydice swallows another ridiculous giggle.

Orpheus’s apartment, a second floor walk up on top of the liquor store, is little more than four walls and a roof. The door opens to empty space, a kitchen and what must be a dining area with a makeshift table; a piece of plywood over a rusted metal frame, and a single stool. There’s a trio of chairs lined up one side, each with a bent leg or a slanted wooden seat or a contorted backrest. Scavenged furnishings and do-it-yourself projects; she isn’t surprised. She’d expected as much, when he’d offered her that paper flower.

And still; it’s four walls more than she’d had, wandering the streets.

“Well?” she slips off her coat and hugs it to her chest, setting her bag down at her feet. “What can I do?”

“I can take your coat,” he offers, taking it from her and draping it over a hook on the barren tree in the foyer. “Do you want some tea? Lady Persephone left me some from her hibiscus garden, before she left for the winter.”

“Orpheus.” Six steps and she’s crossed the room to where he is. She curls her hands around the leather straps of his suspenders and yanks him close. Until he’s standing flush against her, so close she can feel the thrum of his heart. “You wanted me to come home with you.”

He swallows. “Yes. Yes I did.”

“Well then, lover,” she purrs, “What do you want me to do?”

“I…I don’t know,” he stutters.

“What about this?” she leans up on tiptoes and presses her mouth to his jaw.

His breath hitches. “Is this what you want to do?”

“That’s not important,” she takes him by the hand, leads him to the rightmost chair. It creaks when he sits, the legs teetering like a seesaw when she gently pushes him down with her hands on his shoulders, standing between his legs. “You brought me home. Tell me what you like.”

“Eurydice,” he chokes out. “I didn’t ask you to come home with me because I wanted this.”

Her grip on his shoulders tighten. “Well why did you, then?”

He looks down at his hands. “To talk to you, I guess. I just feel like I need to know you.”

Need; she could scoff. How fanciful a life did he lead if he had the luxury of using need in the context of this? A musician with his head in the clouds, by the state of his apartment, she should’ve guessed his grasp of the reality of this broken world to be less than practical.

“You want to know me,” she corrects. “Need is something else, lover. Let me show you.”

“Eurydice,” he says gently, prying her hands off his shoulders and clutching her fingers. “Do you want this with me?”

“You’re giving me a choice?” She chokes on a laugh. “There is none. Not for a thing like me.”

“What do you want from me, then? What did you want with me?” he swallows. “You came back, you said you wanted to come home with me. Why?”

That she’d been cold and hungry, and he’d seemed decent enough that she might offer herself to him to solve one of those problems—she can’t explain that to him. He, who doesn’t understand the difference between need and want, or perhaps just places want before need. The wants of his mind over the needs of his body. She’d resigned herself to bartering her flesh. Her body for a place to sleep, it’d seemed reasonable. But it’s her he wants and not the physical of what she’s willing to trade. She’s not for sale. She’d come to him as her last resort, but she’d sooner freeze than barter her soul.

Eurydice can’t stay.

She picks up her bag, heaving it up over her shoulder, wincing as the strap bears down on that line of muscle in her back that’s ready to give out. “This was a mistake. I should go. I’m going to go.”

“I’m sorry,” he says in a rush, “If it’s something I’ve said or done, please, I’m sorry. You don’t have to go.”

“Look, I’m offering you sex and only that,” she squints at him. “But that’s not what you want, is it?”

He runs his fingers up his hair, mussing it even more. “Where will you go?”

What he doesn’t say: he doesn’t want sex, if it’s something she’s offering for trade.

She could laugh at his privilege.

“I’ll figure something out.” She picks her coat off the hook he’d draped it on. “Goodbye, Orpheus.”

The door closes gently behind her. She’ll find a way. She’ll have to.

  The doors to the train station close at eight in the evening, but there’s no lock on the door. Just a deadbolt on the outside that slips open with a tug at the latch. The lights are turned off, and the heating system’s creaky old pipes that had whined all day are silent. Eurydice exhales in a huff of frost. The place hadn’t been inviting in the light of day, but in the dark of night, it’s downright haunted.

There are slabs of wood on concrete blocks serving as benches, placed intermittently along the station’s walls. Glass panes form the exterior walls, and the black sealant is broken in places. Day had brought a touch of warmth, the furnace heating the space, but the nights are colder and with the heating powered down, the chill creeps through the cracks.

Eurydice picks the bench farthest from the windows and sets her bag down. Months ago, she’d had bedding, a roll of blankets with a pillow sandwiched in the hollow. No bed of feathers, but something to lie on, something to cover her legs. That’s gone now, lost on a train somewhere in the Midwest. All that remains are the clothes off her back. The wool on her coat unravels in tufts, the silk slip she’d repurposed into a dress offers no warmth. Her stockings have runs, where they’d caught on hooks and nails, gauging the skin underneath. She’d bled and then healed, the torn flesh scabbing and then scarring, but the wounds to the delicate nylon weren’t so easily healed.

Her coat is her blanket, her bag, a pillow. She clutches it to her stomach, curling her legs up and around all her worldly possessions. Eurydice yawns, wincing as the movement sends a fresh wave of pain through her stomach; she’d journeyed so far and so long, and all for this. A bench in a train station and a worthless three quarters to her name. She’d slept sitting up on dirty hay, dozed off while standing, holding onto a railing inside a train car. There’d been a rhyme and a reason to that struggle then, she’d given up her feather bed for—honour. There’s no honour to being homeless in the winter; pride will neither feed her, nor provide her shelter.

Fatigue pulls her under now, she drifts, her eyes heavy.

But the wind picks up, the building rattles. Something tugs at her bag and she jerks awake, clutching the coarse canvas satchel so tightly her knuckles turn white. The door to the place had opened easily for her, it would be just as easy for someone else to come in take all she has. A meagre nothing, but her nothing all the same.

And though the day—the days—had been interminably long, her eyes stay glued to the horizon as the morning light bleeds through the night.

She can’t do this again.

[elialys]

Ten x Rose - The Afterglow

This is a direct follow up to the story I posted last week, ‘A leap of Faith’. I think the title is rather self-explanatory.

Pretty much just more post-TSP softness/smuttiness.

[Read the first part on AO3] [Read this part on AO3]

There is…peace, for a while.

A kind of quiet in his head he’s not experienced in a long time. It doesn’t last, of course.

But it’s nice while it does.

He tries clinging to the sensation, of being unburdened, almost weightless, nuzzling his nose further into the crook of her neck, her skin warm and more than a little damp. It doesn’t quite work, as pinning himself more snuggly to her body only makes him more aware of his own, his nervous system more sensitive than it’s been in ages.

(Maybe decades)

(Possibly centuries)

Despite how many of their limbs are currently entangled, he’s moved enough to get off her chest at some point. Well, he’s mostly off her chest.

One of his hands remains on said chest, his thumb apparently unable to stop grazing the underside of her breast. Meanwhile, one of her hands is still beneath his shirt, her fingers tracing his spine over his lower back, following the slow rhythm of his thumb.

Trying to keep his busy thoughts and unease at bay is pointless. It’s as pointless as trying to keep himself from touching her has been, tonight – obviously. That is, after all, how they ended up like this in the first place.

Him, trying to quell that sudden and unshakeable certainty that Rose is about to be ripped from him.

Maybe not now.

Maybe not even tomorrow, or next month, or this year.

But she’s…slipping, he’s certain of it, that knowledge throbbing deep within his skull, pulling at both his hearts all at once.

Which, somehow, is why they are (mostly) naked, and in fairly similar post-coital states – he suspects hers to be slightly less conflicted. Guilt is already joining in with his dread, spreading straight from the pit of his stomach.

All these reasons he gave himself for staying away from her…all these things he told her, more or less kindly, about how whatever she thought was going on between them, they would never be more than what they were, because no matter what, she was doomed to die and leave him all alone.

These reasons haven’t gone anywhere; they’re still real, and still true. If he’s to listen to that fear traveling deep beneath his skin, these reasons are actually more relevant than ever. And yet, intoxicated with her taste and lost in the feel of her, he convinced himself that this was alright, more than alright.

He did almost lose her, today, and she’s slipping, and there is nothing he can do about it, about any of this, so he should just as well give in and cling to her while he can, imprint her even deeper into his very soul.

But it’s not fair on her.

He doesn’t know where his premonition comes from, he never does. What he does know is that this, what they just did, it will…change things. Physical intimacy is a big deal, for many species. He must admit that, pinned as he is to her, with the feel of her heartbeat against his forehead and her slow, soothing breath in his hair, he almost understands why it is such a big deal.

There is nothing much he can do to fight the growing tension in his body as more minutes pass, though, eventually forcing himself to stop the slow brushing of her breast, because whatever she’s going to ask him, or say to him, it will come with ‘expectations’, and he’s got to get himself together.

He’s got to make it clear that nothing really changed – except for the fact that they’ve had sex, and that he wouldn’t be against doing it again.

“Is that the Himalayas?”

Her voice is soft, barely above a whisper. It’s also full of that quiet wonder he never tires of hearing from her.

His surprise at her choice of first words is swiftly washed away, replaced by curiosity. He (somewhat reluctantly) pulls himself away from her neck, shifting and lifting his head off the couch to look at her.

She’s staring at what he knows to be the Earth’s projection overhead. Her cheeks are flushed, the roots of her hair dark with perspiration.

She’s beautiful.

When he doesn’t answer, she moves her gaze to meet his eyes. “There,” she says quietly, her turn to shift upon the couch, bringing her arm back between them, blindly looking for his hand. She links their fingers together, before pulling their hands up.

The Doctor lays back down as she does so, lying fully onto his back, letting their sides press against one another, his temple nothing short of squished against Rose’s as he finally looks up to where she’s pointing.

Their joined hands follow a white, slanted line he knows to be mountain tops covered with snow, the bright colour contrasting with the darker landscapes around.

“Well spotted,” he says, his voice almost a full octave lower than his usual tone. His hand moves to cover hers, sliding his fingers through hers, directing her next move. “This,” he tells her, tracing a large shape with her finger, “is China. And there’s Nepal. Which makes this…” He points at one specific part across those icy tops. “…Sagarmatha.”

Even though he says the name in its native language, letting the sounds roll off his tongue, his TARDIS automatically translates it for her.

“Mount Everest,” she repeats in a whispers, before going quiet for a moment. “You mean…tallest mountain on Earth and all that?” He forces a lazy noise out of his throat, nodding against her. “Looks tiny,” she concludes.

Another sound escapes him, something close to a breathless laughter, looking away from the slowly rotating planet above to nuzzle the side of her head. “You, Rose Tyler, are getting a bit too blasé about all of this. Even structures that are big enough to be seen from space are going to look small when viewed from this distance. Simple physics, really. What you mustn’t forget is that, like so many other things when it comes to this wondrous little planet of yours, these mountains actually are the expression of something huge and formidable. Tectonic forces, in this case. Drove the crustal plates of India and Asia right into one another, forty million years ago or so. Even now, the mountains keep on rising, about one centimetre a year.”

Rose has tilted her head, so that her nose is pressed against his, none of them watching the view anymore, their linked hands slowly coming back down. He can’t see much, pinned as they are, but he feels the way she’s slowly shifting against him well enough. Her free hand is moving over his chest, the graze of her nails enough to cause him to shiver, even through the fabric of his shirt.

“You’ve got such a crush on Planet Earth and its humans,” she says quietly against his lips, a smile in her voice, her fingers now pulling slowly at the already-loose knot of his tie. “You should hear yourself…” she whispers as she begins undoing the top button of his shirt. He doesn’t stop her, letting her slowly remove one of his very last layers. “I’d be jealous, if I wasn’t human myself.”

Although there is definite humour in the words she’s saying, he chooses to reply honestly.

“There’s just something humbling about Earth and its inhabitants,” he admits. “Such chaos, anger and haste. And yet, if you stop and look, you’ll always find beauty.” He moves his head as he says those words, meeting her eyes. “You’ll find courage and ingenuity. Kindness and compassion.”

She hears his unspoken words, the shadow of a smile pulling at her lips, his shirt and its remaining buttons forgotten for the time being, as she raises her hand to his cheek. He realises he’s said too much, exposed himself yet again, making him more vulnerable than he’s been in centuries.

Even with the warmth of her palm upon his skin, and that soft look in her eyes, his insides twist in dread, once again overcome with that…certainty.

“Can we go there?” she asks him quietly, her thumb caressing his lower lip.

Her request refocuses him, helps him ignore his apprehension. “Mount Everest?”

He feels her shrugging. “Let’s put her settings on ‘Random Mountains’, see where she takes us, yeah?”

“Probably underwater,” he notes wisely, and her smile and small laughter beat anything he’s ever seen, on Earth or anywhere else in this galaxy.

She’s released his hand between them, sneaking her whole arm under his head until she’s circling his neck, pulling him into a hug, the angle slightly awkward, but the way she squeezes him is real and nothing short of fantastic.

“Show me more,” she whispers in his ear, and somehow, she manages to make these three little words sounds a lot more suggestive than they ought to be, considering he knows she’s talking about the projection above.

Possibly.

They shift again, with him fully on his back, while she snuggles up against his side, one of her hands having slid inside his half-opened shirt, resting upon one of his hearts. He raises a hand again, pointing at the Earth, which has rotated just enough in the last few minutes to offer them a different portion of land and oceans.

“See those plum-like swirls in the water? That odd colour pattern near the coastline?”

She nods against him, even as her fingers begin to move under his shirt, soon resuming her earlier task of unbuttoning it properly. “Pollution?”

He shakes his head. “Nope. They are what humans call ‘phytoplankton blooms,” he announces, before swallowing hard, Rose already distracted, not looking at what he’s showing her at all, given the way her lips have found his throat, her fingers on the last of his buttons. “They’re caused by a high concentration of these microscopic, photosynthetic, unicellular organism,” he carries on anyway, unable to keep himself from sucking in a breath when she presses her tongue to his skin. “They thrive on sunlight and warm water you s-see, so when they come into contact with river deltas, the nutrient-rich water causes the swirls to grow larger.”

The sigh that escapes him at the end of this breathless sentence resembles a hum, her hand having descended lower, lightly grazing her nails across his inner thigh.

“N-Now, the really fascinating thing about this is that depending on which mineral is more abundant in the water, it will change the colour of the swirls. Calcium, for example, will make them appear almost milky wh – ”

But the rest of his words get chocked up in his throat, her warm fingers now wrapped and moving around his hardening length, her tongue carrying on teasing his throat. Given her current ministrations, it does not take long at all before he’s fully erect again, unable to keep his hips from rising off the couch. She sneaks a leg between his to keep him there, shifting most of her upper body to bring her face back to his.

She’s just as assertive in the way she kisses him, deeply and languidly, her other arm hooked around his neck, fingers weaved in his hair, while his own fingers dig in the softer flesh of her bum, pinning her more firmly to him as she carries on with her torturous caress.

He’s always known her to be supple, a quality that has proven to be quite useful, having more than once used it to their advantage by making her crawl through all kind of cramped spaces. Tonight, she uses that flexibility of hers to smoothly untangle their limbs and move, until she’s snuggly straddling his lap, her whole body pressing upon his. He buries his fingers in her hair to pull her closer still, their kissing following the sway of her hips upon him, creating a kind of friction that draws similar gasps out of them.

Her teeth tug at his lower lip as she parts from him, straightening up. He wants to follow her, drawn to the warmth of her skin the way a moth is drawn to a flame, but he finds himself momentarily frozen, nothing short of mesmerised by the sight of her as she shrugs off her loose pyjama top, which has been hanging low on her arms.

He basks in the lovely expanse of pale skin offered to him, her milky complexion having taken a slightly bluish hue from the planet above.

He cannot quite comprehend nor believe that he is allowed to touch said skin, and yet, here he is, the feel of it so soft under his own. As he cups both her breasts in his palms, squeezing and pressing upon her taunt nipples, she begins to rock her hips again, rolling into him with definite intent, and his pleasure stirs deep and low, as does hers, watching as she tilts her head back, mouth agape, the colours in her cheeks darkening.

She’s a sight to behold, the pinnacle of the human race, her body the only pantheon he will willingly pray to.

This belief of his only becomes stronger moments later when she moves with more intent, pushing herself off him just long enough, slowly guiding him inside of her, at which point she becomes the only thing that exists, the only thing that matters.

He watches, transfixed, as that beautiful dark flush spreads from her face all the way down her neck and heaving chest, her head once again thrown back, all raspy breaths and hooded eyes, knowing her to have lost herself into the sights above. The Doctor does not glance up.

Why would he, when he’s got her to look at?

His hands slowly roam her thighs as she rocks upon him, his fingers squeezing her as she squeezes him deep, drawing a moan out of him. That sound refocuses her, lowering her head to look at him, enveloping him further in everything that she is, soon reaching down for his tie, and pulling.

He comes up to meet her, moving and shifting together as she helps him discard of his shirt, the only piece of fabric remaining between them being that tie, which is quickly forgotten, lost in the sensations of her chest against his chest, wrapping himself around her, her arms equally tight around his shoulders and neck.

Kissing has become unessential, his face buried against her neck, muffling any sound she draws out of him as she rocks and undulates, and it’s all he can do to match her rhythm. And yet, even now, lost as he is in the feel of her, that lingering dread still refuses to be quelled, sprouting thorns somewhere deep between his hearts.

How could she possibly be slipping away from him, when they’ve never been this intertwined? From her entire body enfolding his, to the thread of her timeline, so tightly entangled with his.

Lies…he tells himself, just as he told her earlier when she voiced her concerns about the Beast’s foreboding words.

His Rose, his beautiful, strong Rose…

Lies…lies…lies…

She’ll never let go, never let him go, her hold on him so tight, her fingers digging all the way through his skin and the muscles beneath…down down down into his bones, carving her name into his morrow while her humming, scorching breath whispers unspoken words of forever into his ear.

The universe be damned.

He is not losing her.

[civilorange]

behind the writing.

So, I’ve been pretty open about my writing style which is “plan nothing, but make it seem like you do”, and sometimes there’s things that just don’t work out. Not just whole snap shot ideas, but the theme/plan of them. The post-snapshot 50 arc of the swap came around probably ten or fifteen chapters earlier when I sent @randomthingsthatilike123 a really unhelpful word document that literally looked like this;

E-ONE: 13, 37, [33], 50 / E-TWO: 15, 31, [24], 47

Looking back, I understand that I intended to swap Kara Danvers, who is 24, with Kara Callaghan, who is 33. Nothing else planned, just, “I want to do this. So I will.” The plot behind how it happened didn’t matter, because I knew I’d make it happen somehow. So with the knowledge that I was going to be doing this eventually—shrug, when exactly, I didn’t care—I began typing up a meeting between Kara Callaghan and canon!Cat Grant.

Having done forty-six chapters since coming up with this plot idea, the tone of the whole event has changed—not to mention Alondra who was a spur of the moment addition while I wrote snapshot 51. No, literally, I was like, “I should make them have another kid” and worried about the details later.

But, anyway, I figure I’d let you guys enjoy the madness that is an unfinished snapshot that’s been scrapped because I’ve changed my mind too many times and it’s no longer relevant. Not that you might not see some similarities to the actual chapter of this meeting.

Note: Yes, those little brackets are part of my system, I don’t even write chapters in chronological order, I jump around as I like and then connect them.

The day starts out as usual.

“Laura,” it isn’t yelling, it’s talking loudly.

Even if it doesn’t end that way.

Your new assistant staggers just a little too long, and trips over her gaudy wedge heel and into the mail cart that is—by your estimate—a half hour late. No less than three bodies hit the floor, and there’s no hope for the papers that are submerged by the tumbling coffee cup. Kara’s computer hobbit stares on in complete horror. Arms, and legs, and cursing in at least two languages later, your assistant walks in with a laminated layout, slicking away coffee with the bottom of her shirt.

“H-here you are, Miss Grant,” she stammers, offering you the dark roast scented sheet, “The layout you asked for.” She’s shaking enough that you can practically hear her knees knocking together from underneath that insistently spring themed romper.

“I don’t recall requesting that it be dipped in expresso,” intoning, hand on hip, eyebrow cocking.

“I—no—of course not, but—you see,” she’s not going to last long, you can see it in the flush of her neck, and the way her fingers jumble and screw together. “There was an accident.”

You almost feel bad, almost—not really, “I have eyes, Laraine. I see how you maintain yourself with all the grace of a cancelled CW show.”

You spend the next fifteen minutes squinting at what might be passible English if you had suddenly reverted to a uneducated ten year old who speaks a very regional dialect of Swahili as their primarily language. But as it stands you do speak English—quiet well, on even your worst of days, which this is shaping up to be—and you expect the same from your writers.

Aren’t you just an unreasonable bitch?

Which explains how—an hour after that realization—you’re being politely reprimanded by Human Resources, which is led by a small seventy-three year old woman who thinks you would like to partake in her decade old strawberry foiled candy whenever you’re asked to explain why there’ve been a rash of firings that don’t seem to have much precedent prior to the incident.

You’re CEO, own fifty-nine percent of the stock options, and your name is on the damned building for fuck’s sake—can you outlaw the term the incident?

Does that break any fair employment act?

If it does Human Resources will probably add it to the folder with your name on it—again, you own the company, you don’t see how your name isn’t on all the folders—with the words incidents underlined and bracketed.

Sufficed to say, the day begins its slow tumble into hell an hour after lunch—give or take a diatribe; the drain on society that is social security, and the work ethic of millennials.

You try to split your dislike of the generations equally.

[ something happens here ]

[ probably nothing too important ]

[ TALKY TALKY ]

“The balcony,” the voice comes in from said balcony, and you turn to see Kara, one hand against the railing, the other pressed to her temple like she has a headache—which is fairly interesting because there is very little doubt in your mind that your former assistant is indeed the last daughter of Krypton. “It’s facing the wrong way.” She isn’t looking into the office, but up, like the outside of the building might explain whatever conundrum she’s in the middle of.

Stepping around your desk, and walking toward the sliding doors, you take in your resident hero—she’s wearing the usual fare, a pale cream colored shirt, with what seems to be very stylized ducks stenciled onto the fabric. It’s properly bohemian, and you don’t completely hate it, but it clashes with her skin tone. Her slacks are a little tighter than she usually wears them, snug and—dare you say—clingy, and you’re ready to say the outfit is a general success. If success could be measured in levels of failure—and then she turns to face you.

You’ve been a proprietor of the written word for the entirety of your life, you’ve spun sentences about the most beautiful sunset in the isles off the coast of the Philippines, you’ve woven stories about the crisp air at base camp of Mount Everest—you’ve taken people on journeys without ever asking them to step outside their homes.

So why can’t you define what’s different about Kara tonight?

Her eyes are the proper shade of extraterrestrial blue—bright, and drowning, and all manner of appealing—and her hair is the same burnished gold that too many socialites have to turn to the dye bottle to achieve. She’s curved, and firm, and so giving—despite the fact that you know she is anything but. She’s molten rock, and supple waves, a walking juxtaposition of herself.

“I didn’t realize you had architectural aspirations, Keira,” you drawl, tucking hands into the loose pockets of your slacks, leaning your shoulder against the doorframe. “And here I am, underutilizing your obvious expertise.” She’s looking at you like she’s having difficulty breathing, chest stuttering, and eyes widening—there’s a darkness in them, you notice, a shadow that you’ve witnessed in the hungry children of Africa, or the soldiers who flinch from a backfiring car. Has it always been there, or has it only been there since Myriad?

You’re growing concerned—which you’ll never actually admit—because she’s blinking rapidly like something has gotten caught in her lashes, and she’s trying to remove it—but can’t. Sucking air through her teeth like she’s not of the mind to open her mouth properly, trying to get as much air into greedy lungs as possible—desperation, and confusion, slanting the smooth lines of her face.

And she’s moving toward you.

No—stumbling toward you.

Feet hardly articulate enough to navigate around the furniture still between you, she hits the chair’s arm, and—as you figure—it spins out of her way like it never existed at all. She’s right in front of you before you can properly assess your options. Hot, hot palms bracketing your cheeks, and you’re not accustomed to being touched without explicit permission given on your part, so you flinch—which makes her flinch, but she doesn’t release you. If anything her grip tightens, not hard enough to cause pain or discomfort, but it is firm and unyielding.

“Zrhueiao,” she says, and her voice is different—not horribly so, but lower, and slower, like she has to pluck the words from her mind carefully before she’s able to say them. You don’t recognize the word from any of the three—and a half—languages you speak. “Something’s wrong.” Assertive, but her words are still shaking, like they’re simply trembling out of her mouth and falling into your ears. You lift your hands to cover hers, trying to pry her hands from your face—but they’re like steel.

Aptly so.

Kara isn’t usually this careless. She’s so good at pretending to be pliant, to bend how humans bend, that sometimes, when you’re tired, you forget that she’s really indestructible. When she hisses as her toe hits the edge of a desk, when she shivers and shakes. This tremor is different—like the plates of the earth rumbling until they come together in earthquakes and tsunamis.

“Keira,” you begin, and then amend, “Kara.” And now you’ve got her attention. Little swirls of star dust and the pitch cast of black holes in eyes that are wet, and glistening—and you see a blatant difference.

No pock mark near her eyebrow—no little scar that tethers absolutely ordinary Kara Danvers to impossibly extraordinary Supergirl.

Just smooth skin, and a furrowed brow.

Later, you’ll blame the fear beginning to mix into your blood, or the air of intimacy that Kara’s cultivated far too easily—but you’re lifting your hand to brush your thumb over the offending area. There’s nothing there, not that you truly expected to feel anything. She’s watching you, intensely, and doesn’t flinch or shy away from your touch like so much of you thought she might, despite the scalding hands still framing your cheeks.

“It’s gone.” You say, not able to help yourself.

She frowns, “What?”

“Your scar.”

Now she does move away, a stumble, like how she moved toward you, and when she spins to rest both hands on the railing, you don’t move closer. There’s a crackle to the air around her—a snap and fizzle in the night that doesn’t sit comfortably in your stomach. Kara’s threading hands through her hair, gripping tight enough to make her knuckles go white, and her forearms quiver.

[ some other paragraphs, or something ]

[ probably some dialog too ]

“How do you know you can trust me?” You ask, because she’s been here for less than an hour, and she’s willing to trust you with her deepest secrets, ready to fold you into her truths without any struggle, any effort. “You’re not exactly from around here.” And Kara—your Kara, your mind supplies—struggles with that trust. Keeps that last veil between you, and so much of you can’t even blame her, because at the slightest sign of trouble—you pushed her away. You tried to foster the idea of professionalism, which was really just poorly hidden vitriol.

She’s walking closer, an amble in her step, thumbs hooked into the loops of her too tight pants, and something simmering in her eyes. “Are you saying you’re the untrustworthy type?”

You scowl, to hide the jump in your heartbeat, “Hardly.” You scoff, “I’m saying—how do you know?”

“You’re not that different than her—my Cat, that is—a little sharper at the edges, but,” she hedges, but there’s something dark and promising in the way her extraterrestrial lips wraps around my Cat. It’s intimate, and throaty, and you like how it sounds on her tongue too much. “Underneath all that is the same heart.”

So you deflect. You push away the sudden hammering beat of your heart, and the clammy feeling of your palms from where you’ve clenched them into fists. Your arched brow is your shield, and your words a trusty dagger, “Well, you’re definitely the same naive, blindly trusting do-gooder as Keira.”

“Why do you call her that? You say my name, so you know hers.”

[ CUE STUNNED SILENCE ]

[ or some desc with no talk ]

[ fuck talky ]

“Your mother calls me that—Keira. Says I’m not worth knowing properly.” Her breath is fanning against your cheeks, and her eyes seem as dark as the sky above—glittering abysses that threaten to consume you, to make your knees weak and shoulders curl. “Is that the case, Miss Grant? Is she not worth knowing?”

[ stuff ]

“Honestly? I don’t know what to make of you without the cape,” you say to this stranger wearing her face.

[fanfictrashdump]

Queening a Pawn, 21

If you’re new: this is my procrastination fic. It is what I drabble around with when I’m being my worst self, and ignoring all my other WIPs and responsibilities! Enjoy!

X

Summary: During the Time Heist, Loki stole the Tesseract and escaped. He did not expect, however, to be pulled through a Time Loop that delivered him to a Midgard more than a decade older, wiser, and bitterer. Having just lived through his unsuccessful attack in New York, Loki must learn to live in Midgard after the defeat of Thanos (post-Endgame). The question is, who is Loki without a quest for a throne or total domination?

Pairings: Loki x OC

Warnings: Language, suggestive themes, one (1) stuck shapeshifter, threat of stabbing, and flooooff

=

"Hey, Reindeer Games. How's the amplifier working?" Tony asked, his hologram joining Loki as he carried a covered bundle towards the trash shoot.

"I destroyed the toaster."

Tony scrunched up his nose, lowering his yellow-tinted glasses to stare at the bundle which turned out to be the defunct toaster. "What? How?"

"I gestured to press the lever, like I do every morning and it exploded," he explained, carefully. A large grin blossomed on his face. "It's bloody brilliant."

"Er… does Honeybun know you're blowing stuff up around the compound, or…?"

"She's scrubbing out the scorch marks from the granite, as we speak." Opening the shoot door, he tossed the hunk of metal into the metal recycling pile. "It's a lot more intuitive than I was expecting. I think I might have to work on subtlety of intent."

"You do that. Just… try not to burn down the place and maybe don't accidentally kill your girl." Tony called after Loki who turned around, walking backwards with a mischievous smirk until disappearing from view.

He turned the corner and waltzed into Delilah's apartment, stopping to rest against the wall to observe her. She had gotten up onto the countertop on her hands and knees and was scrubbing the surface within an inch of its life to lift the dark grey singed streaks. Loki's grin only grew wider as he watched her body cant back and forth with the scrubbing of her brush.

"Stop looking at my ass and help, Mischief." Delilah had yet to turn around to gaze at him.

"Stop distracting me, then," he complained, pouting just the slightest, considering the possibility of using his magic to erase away–

"What did you do?" The scrubbing had stopped and Lilah sat up on her heels.

Loki's face pinched in a frown, cutting the space between them in two long strides. "Pardon?"

"It's gone. What did you do?" She watched Loki flounder for about a minute for an explanation before she sighed. "Maybe you should take the amplifier off whenever you aren't specifically using it."

The Asgardian snorted, rolling his eyes. "My wedding band? Sure, you can pry it out of my cold, dead hands when I'm done with it."

"And here I thought you wouldn't take the suggestion seriously," she retorted, deadpan.

His thumb and forefinger took hold of her chin, forcing her eyes on him. "I am deadly serious. You can take it off when I'm due for Valhalla and not a moment sooner." He eased away the frown on her lips with a kiss. It was a simple gesture, but he was fairly confident that she couldn't technically be angry with him if he was being cute. "Shall I make you breakfast now, darling?"

"Can you keep from burning down my apartment?"

Loki rolled his eyes, every bit a petulant child. "Even if I did, we both know there is no reason for us to have separate residences." His easy confidence shrunk significantly at her look. "Never mind," he mumbled with a pout, turning to dig through the refrigerator for eggs, butter and milk.

Delilah pulled out a large metal prep bowl and a griddle. Setting the bowl next to Loki, she put the griddle on the stove and set it to heat. Loki smiled to himself, a small shiver of delight running down his spine at their familiarity. They never had a problem operating around each other, to begin with. Still, Loki liked to think that as their relationship evolved, the way they danced around with one another also improved. He quietly whisked at the batter he was preparing, adding flour bit by bit while he distractedly watched her wash and cut a bunch of fruit with sharp, precise knifework.

Einherjar wandered into the kitchen, jumping into one of the stools at the kitchen island to watch his humans cook. He mewled delicately and Loki smirked. "No, Einherjar. How dare you suggest that your mother's angry?" Another mewl. Loki feigned a surprised gasp. "Are you saying that she is being difficult for the hell of it? Bad kitten!" The kitten pawed at Loki, as if he was protesting the use of his meows to wind his caretaker up. "I cannot believe you, Ein. This woman has given you a home, a warm bed, food–and this is how you treat her!"

"Leave him alone, Lo," she admonished, though there was a grin poised on her lips. She leaned her face close to the kitten's, giggling when the massively fluffy face rubbed against her own with a loud purr. "Good baby."

"I can purr, too, you know." He glanced over his shoulder at them as he ladled pancake batter onto the warmed griddle.

Only a delighted giggle came as response. Einherjar was licking a long stripe on her cheek, one of his paws balancing him against her shoulder. "Oh, I know, baby. Loki is just grumpy."

"I am not!" He muttered under his breath, flipping the first round of pancakes.

"Case and point," she whispered, running her fingers through the kitten's fur and smiling. "Go give your dad some love," she whispered and the kitten wasted no time in trailing over the countertop before taking a flying leap onto Loki's back, scaling his jumper and onto his shoulder.

The loud rumble tickled at Loki's ear, and he could not keep the feigned frown on his face for very long. He surrendered to a chuckle, reaching up with his free hand to scratch the kitten under the chin and say soft things to it under his breath. The duo remained in their positions, much to Delilah's delight, for as long as it took Loki to make several pancakes for the both of them.

It had surprised her the first time he had shown any sort of prowess in the kitchen, but cooking was as much of an art as it was a science. And Loki was nothing if not careful and precise. Nowadays, he commanded the kitchen with such an ease that she could have sworn that he had been a Midgardian in another life.

Taking hold of a platter stacked high with cakes, he turned back to the kitchen island. The pancakes were placed next to the fruit and warmed syrup at once. Loki clicked his tongue twice, and Einherjar leapt into his open arms without a hint of hesitation before the god set him down on the floor.

"Good boy, Einherjar," he muttered, a piece of bacon mysteriously making its way to the floor with a smirk.

"Then you dare say I'm the one spoiling him."

"You are the one spoiling him. I simply reward good behavior."

"Making him a special piece of bacon requires premeditation, Loki Odinson." Her tone was deadpan, though there was a tender edge to her voice and sparkling gaze.

He didn't respond, opting instead for dropping into one of the stools and dragging her into his lap. Lately, it had not been uncommon for them to choose to stay in during meal times, enjoying the quiet and as sitting close together as they wished. More often than not, that meant she ended up in his lap and they would share a plate of food between them and kiss lazily until either of them was needed at work.

"Pygmy puff?" Tony's voice over the PA system sounded apologetic.

"Yeah, Tony?"

"When you're done with breakfast, can you deal with the shambles that is Receiving's. They messed up their ledgers, again and even I can't figure out what the fuck they were trying to do." He sighed, resigned. "No need to rush, though. I know you and Bambi are doing the whole cutesy thing."

Delilah giggled through a mouthful of pancakes and strawberries. "I'll deal with it. I think I've got their system figured out by now." A bit of syrup dribbled from the fork she was offering Loki over her shoulder, and he promptly licked it off her neck with a satisfied hum, making her gasp.

"Thanks, babe!" There was an awkward stretch of silence. "Are you two…?"

"No, but I would like to, Stark," Loki interrupted with a wicked grin.

"Understood. Use protection!"

"Oh, shut up!" Delilah irrupted. "I'll be by Receivings in a bit if you want to warn them to get their shit together before I get there."

"I thought we were spending the day together."

She sighed, smoothing her hand down the sharp planes of his cheekbones and trying to lessen the valleys that formed with the dejected question. "We are. This will only take a few minutes, I promise." The sea glass of his eyes had lost a bit of lustre. "Ten minutes, babe. Twenty, tops."

"That's alright. You have a job to do. I understand." His accompanying smile looked more like a grimace. Delilah caught her breath several times, as if she was poising herself to speak, but opted for slanting her lips to his and hopping off his lap.

When she left the bathroom, free of syrup and pancake bits, her living room was eerily empty. On the floor, Einherjar hopped around a bundle, gently pawing at the dark material as he purred loudly. It wasn't until she was near enough the bundle that an angular head, a little smaller than her fist, twisted toward her and tasted the air with forked tongue.

With a gasp, she snatched the kitten away, stumbling backwards onto the carpet and scrambling back. Her widened eyes remained glued on the snake as she shuffled. It wasn't obscenely large–it was about the average size you would get from a pet store. Its scales were an opalescent charcoal, though it bore a ring of deep golden on its neck that looked vaguely familiar, as did its bright jade eyes.

Delilah felt insane when the question bubbled past her lips. "Loki?" The snake tilted its head in what she could only imagine was amusement. The beast slowly uncoiled, slithering steadily up to her leg and starting to climb onto her cherry red Doc Marten boots before twisting around her leg. When she whimpered, it stopped completely, resting its head down on her thigh and waiting patiently for her approval. "Loki!" She called a little louder, in case he was hiding somewhere else. There was no response, other than the snake brushing its muzzle against her thigh and Einherjar's struggle to get loose and rub against the reptile.

Heart in her throat, she shuffled onto her feet, smoothing down the old My Chemical Romance t-shirt over herself with shaking hands. The snake ventured upwards, winding up around her arm to pull itself to a more comfortable spot. Though still terrified, Delilah could not help but appreciate the delicate skill it took for the creature to wind up her body and rest itself around her shoulders.

"I suppose this means you want to come with me," she whispered, and the snake responded with a tickle of its forked tongue over her neck. "You better behave, Lo."

No one had really batted an eye at the fact that she was walking the halls with a rather large snake twined round her neck, but she could tell it made the men in Receivings uncomfortable. Still, she had not acknowledged the new addition when she greeted the four older gentlemen who dealt with the incoming packages and goods.

The head of the department, Frank, was the first to crack. "Cute. You got a problem with cats and dogs, Lilah?"

She laughed, shaking her head. "No. I like them just fine. I have a kitten. Why do you ask?"

"New pet?"

A smirk graced her lips and she shrugged. "Of sorts, I guess." Carl, one of the newer employees, reached out to stroke the snake's tail. Delilah caught Loki's head when she felt him twitch to strike and blindly rubbed her thumb under his chin. He settled down immediately, hiding his face in the crook of her neck. "Done soon," she whispered.

"When are you going to leave that Asgardian clown and let me treat you like a real lady?" It was Frank again. He had a bad habit of shamelessly flirting with her whenever she had to come fix their issues. She secretly thought that they mucked up their ledgers every other week just to get Delilah to come over. Thankfully, she had long learned the pattern of their disruption, and fixing the books was a piece of cake.

Loki had not dared attack the man for the comment, but his face had migrated to the shoulder nearest the old man. His green gaze had become fixed to his, to the point that it was making the other uncomfortable.

"That a gift from him? I hear he can talk to creatures. Maybe that's why that thing is so freaky."

"Lady Lilah! There you are!" Thor's friendly voice boomed down the corridor as he bounded over. "You look radiant as ever!" He patted her back and made her sway forward indelicately, but his infectious smile drew one of her own.

"Thank you, Thor. What can I help you with?"

"Can Barnes and I acquire permission to take the children to the outer grounds?"

Delilah nodded, putting down the StarkPad containing the Receivings ledger, after all its contents got uploaded into the cloud. "Anywhere you want, as long as they are on facility grounds. So, no forest, OK?"

"Many thanks," he offered, rustling her hair. The shift of her hair brought attention to the glistening black scales across her shoulders. "Oh, brother, I had not seen you there! It's been years since you've opted for a snake's form!"

Frank, whose eyes were still hostage to Loki's, blanched. "What!?"

"Oh, he's a snake now? I thought he was still a chameleon!" She fibbed, finally turning her neck to watch Loki dance slightly on her shoulder. Her hand ran up the shiny scales of his spine and rubbed his head until he lolled sideways in satisfaction. There was a little feeling of mischief that resonated within her that was not entirely her own. It felt good to throw the weight of their combined power around, and it felt even better to know that Frank would think twice in the future before making an inappropriate remark. Afterall, he had just been getting started, if experienced served her right.

"You know we was jokin', rig–" Loki's hiss cut whatever excuse Frank was cooking up, short.

"Behave, my love, or else," she admonished, though the threat was empty. She felt a little like a real snake charmer–nimble and good at her job, but knew full well it was the snake who was in charge. "Well, gentlemen, I'll write a code to make your ledger making a little more seamless. Should take a few days before I get it going, but I think I can make it automated. No more worrying about audits," she remarked. The group did not look as excited as she secretly felt. "I'll get out of your hair. See you later."

Delilah sauntered back into the corridors, enjoying the cool glide of Loki's scales across her shoulders and the gentle nudges of his head against her neck. "What would you like to do now, babe?" There was no response, other than the odd flicker of his tongue on her skin. He didn't seem terribly bothered by the world beyond his perch.

With half a shrug, she walked out the double doors to the outer training fields, enjoying the crisp spring sunshine bearing down on them. Everything was green and new, and the air smelled of freshly cut grass and wildflowers. One lungful of air made her feel considerably more calm. She assumed it did the same for Loki, who had not really attempted to venture out into the wilderness other than the occasional jog around the facility. In theory, there was currently nothing keeping Loki from taking to the streets and disappearing into the sunset. Well, apart from her presence…

The sun glittered high above their heads, instantly warming the air-conditioned chill away from their bones and replacing it with exquisite incandescence. The snake's muscles rippled and shuddered at the temperature change, something like a sigh leaving his angled mouth. When Delilah twisted her neck to press a kiss against the smooth skin, he offered no protest or skittish reaction, as a regular animal would. "Let me know if you get too hot, OK?" The murmur was received with a flick of the tongue on her cheek, causing her to giggle.

Picking out a spot near a great big oak tree, she settled onto a dense patch of grass overlooking an obstacle course. On any other day, current and new hopeful SHIELD recruits would be working on their physical skills. Skills that Delilah did not care for, but that were important to agents. She did not know how to carry twice her weight in supplies when she A) spent most of her day behind a computer, and B) had a life partner who seemed more than excited to do the heavy lifting for her. At the moment, though, the obstacle course was being used by tiny seven year old's, a demigod, and a super soldier. All of whom were more interested in Bucky's silly detachable arm antics than they were on climbing a rope ladder.

Sighing, she lay back on the ground, giving Loki enough time to slither out from beneath her head to twine over her arm, and ultimately curl on her chest. The angular head rested heavily on her sternum and when he tasted the air, his forked tongue would barely graze her warmed skin. He was very still, and a lot better behaved than she would have ever assumed him to be. At this point, she assumed he would have been trying to scare crowds or hissing at strangers going past. He looked so content to simply be, he hadn't even bothered turning to stare at the sky, as she was or at the children. Instead, his head angled slightly to keep a watchful eye on her.

"Wonderful day for training outside, yes?" Thor asked happily as he dropped beside her. Delilah swore the ground shook with his momentum. Loki remained undisturbed.

"Mmm. I'm not much for training, but it is a beautiful day," she responded dreamily. Her fingers skimmed black scales, feeling them just short of feverish. "I might have to take Loki to the shade in a bit, though."

Thor frowned. "His Aesir form is not as sensitive to heat. Why does he not simply transform back?"

Delilah snorted. "Oh, he is one hundred percent stuck and thinks I haven't noticed." The snake rose up sharply to look at her. After a minute or two of blankly staring and neither yielding, he huffed and settled back down. "He'll figure it out, eventually." She added, running her fingers down his back. "Or I'll put him out of his misery and help him."

Thor chuckled, giving them both an affectionate look. "I must admit, not being able to talk suits him." Loki bared his fangs at the god of thunder, only to be laughed at, once more.

Delilah shifted when the bed sunk beside her at half past midnight. She had spent the majority of the day taking Loki wherever she pleased, snake wrapped around her shoulders. It appeared, though, that he had finally figured out how to ease back out of his reptile form. He patted himself down before sighing in relief. Almost immediately, he pressed himself against Delilah's body.

"Welcome back."

"Good to be here," he rumbled against her neck. "When did you notice I was stuck?"

"When you didn't stab Frank. Or Thor."

"Right." Loki remained silent for a long while and she assumed he had drifted asleep. "Don't make me give it up, please." His voice was so soft she almost assumed it had been a rustle of sheets that had made the noise.

"I'm not going to make you give up your ring."

"I'll get it to work. I had a lot of time to think when I was a snake. I think... I think I have to rely more heavily on my instincts."

"Why's that?"

"Because you do. And you made it. And whenever something happens it's always because of something I did because of you." Delilah made a noise of curiosity. "I wanted to make you breakfast before you woke. Then I wanted a way to stay with you all day without getting in the way. And now I wanted to hold you," he whispered, tightly circling her waist with his hands.

"See? I knew you'd figure it out. Though I did love having snake you around. You were gorgeous."

"Thank you, darling. I'll make it a point to use the form more often."

"Good. I did miss you like this, though. I love you like this the second-most."

"What's the first?"

"As a frost giant. Just as you," she responded through a yawn.

The breath caught in his throat at the confession. Despite himself, his Asgardian form drifted away, leaving her to shudder in her arms. He went to make some distance between them only to lock her arms with his and hold him fast to her body. Loki could feel the goosebumps prickling up on her skin, but she was adamant about keeping him close.

"Back to slumber, doll," he murmured against her hair.

"Mm-hmm. I love you, Loki."

"And I love you, sweet."

[rynhaswritersblock]

giant teddy bears (hc) | p.p.

summary: first dates are awkward, peter sucks at dance dance revolution, and the night ends with a giant teddy bear and something sweet.

warnings: IM SORRY I THINK THIS ONE IS A BIT LESS CHAOTIC THAN THE OTHERS IM SORRY I KNOW THAT'S LIKE MY BRAND LOL BUT I JUST AAAAAAAAAAA

+ + +

- are you ready?

- i'm listening...

- no that was weak come on guys!

- i said ARE YOU READY?!

...

- i think we can do better than that

- i said ARE YOU READY?!!!!!

- YEAHYEAH!!!!!!

- i'm so sorry i just watched a gif of sebastian stan doing that thing where he gets super hype and then just starts laughing but i really harvested that hype energy

- pro tip: go back and read that first bit in seb's voice you Will Not Regret It

- after writing one normal imagine, i am back to writing another hc

- the next one will be normal though LOL

- guess what

- chicken butt

- jk IT'S TIME FOR THE ARCADE WITH Y/N AND PETER!!!!!

- HELLS YEAH

- y'all r never gonna guess what i'm doing

- i am listening to one direction WOW

- heart attack is an underrated song 😔

- you guys said the emojis in italics made you lose ur mind so

- they're staying

- fuck it slant 😀😀😀😀😀😀😀😀😀

- fun fact i got pretty far into writing this and then was like "Hmm... no yeah This Ain't It" and so we're back and we're switching up the prompt a little bit

- so YAY

- so peter's balls finally dropped or something idk and he got his bitch ass together and asked you out!!!!!!!

-  yay peter!!

- he was super nervy while doing it y'all were just walking home from school as per usual and this is how it went down

- y'all were passing the local arcade

"y/n- did you, uh, did you wanna go to the arcade tonight?"

"ooh yes, that sounds like so much fun"

"awesome... it's a date"

- and even though peter muttered that last part

- YOU HEARD IT

- who has super hearing NOW bitch

"a date?"

- you look over at peter and quirk a brow

- but on the inside ur like AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

- YEAHYEAHNASDBFKSDNGLSFNKDC

- penis man gets flustered as FUCK

"oH-! well uhhhhhhh only if you, uhhh only if you want it to be"

"looks like i'll be dressing slightly better than normal"

- at this point y'all are at ur apartment building so you quickly peck him on his cheek (we're confident today ladies and gays!) and run up the steps, waving as you shut the door

- peter's in Fucking Shock.

- eyes wide, cheeks Red As Hell, standing there like Nobody Move! 0_0

- it takes some weirdo person idk to bump into him as he walks by to get him out of his trance

- (he jumps and turns to look at them, throwing his arms in the air like ?? before just sighing)

- (then he remembers Holy Shit I HAVE A DATE WITH Y/N AAAAAAAAAAAA and sort of like Skips away like how he does in far from home after the kiss you get the deal)

- u make sure to put on ur Cutest Fit

some inspo <3

- IM KIDDING

- jk the Ball Pit Dress Blanket Thing is a look and a half 😼

- in case u were wondering (no one is) this is what i would wear:

- when reading fics i Always have to have what im wearing in mind otherwise i am very bothered idk why

- anyways thank u pinterest for the style inspo

- shameless self promo my pinterest is in my bio and we can send each other memes on there <3

- ofc u can choose ur own outfit 😌😌😌😌😌😌😌😌😌

- Not Me putting on jeans and feeling Fancy 😂🤏👋

- N E Ways! u put on ur dope fit and get all nice smelling n shit

- hair all pwetty

- cue (queue? i hate this word) that scene in homecoming of peter getting ready for the dance

- except he doesn't wear a suit (DEFINITELY WONDERS IF HE SHOULD THOUGH) and instead opts for this fit:

- Mhmm..... yea.... Yup.

- look at the SHOES

- anyways i think peter would wear that One Fit from the beginning of hoco with the blue sweater over the button up or maybe something a bit nicer idk

- the look i put is superior 😔

- he's finally ready and smells gr8 and hair is done just how he knows u like it

- may is fucking spitballing tips like a madwoman

"give her all your attention, peter"

"let her win most of the games, but don't make it look like you're letting her win"

"oh and god peter BUY HER A GIANT TEDDY BEAR"

- peter's like Yup Yup Got It May on the outside but on the inside he's fucking taking notes like the nerd he is

- bae

- just as you finish ur final touches ur phone buzzes

whale penis On my way :)

- fyi a whale's penis is called a dork 😌 the more u know 😀😀😀😀

- you quickly text him back and before you know it this Puta is in front of ur door and his heart is going ZOOOOOOOOOM

- but since the two of you are so close and in sync he can usually hone in on your heartbeat even from a far ish distance so he focuses and finds your heartbeat easily

- ur heart is racing too and it makes him feel better

- he finally gets the balls to knock on ur door and Does Just That

- you open it SO FAST (you were secretly standing just outside the door waiting for peter but he doesn't have to know that)

"hi, peter"

- the look on peter's face

- he in Awe

- u look so pretty!!!!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAa

- this is a lovepage for that little 'a' at the end of that scream. idk why it makes me smile. it's like the underdog

- i need to fucking Restart my Brain jesus christ

- i get attached to little things so easily MOVING ON

- Beter finally regains himself

- shit excuse me

- 🅱eter finally regains himself

- there we go

"you look.... wow"

- ur face gets SO HOT

"thought i'd go for something other than leggings and oversized t-shirts"

- aka my whole wardrobe

- Very Basic White Girl of me

- (assuming the Fit ur wearing is the picture i put) (if not you can just ignore this little bit) ur like cleavage or whatever is out and it is Definitely Not What Peter's Used To Seeing!

- the Collarbones

- Sexy

- u catch peter's eyes linger on ur chest for a second and u 0_0 for a second

- but then it's like YAY FOR ATTRACTIVE FEATURES

- THANKS PUBERTY????????????

"you look wow as well"

"oH well i dress like this pretty normally i think it's really not that big of a change i probably should've dressed better-"

"you always look good, peter"

- Faking Confidence! hoping peter can't hear ur heart banging against ur sternum!

- but he can... Little Shit

- VERY RED FACES FOR THE TWO OF YOU

- VERY FLUSTERED

- peter is such a gentleman

- waits for you to lock ur door before holding out a hand nervously

- you take it ofc and he intertwines ur fingers and sort of Rubs His Thumb AGainst Ur Skin???? when i put it like that it sounds weird

- i appreciate writing headcanons because i don't have to think things out so that they sound pretty i can just Braindump and y'all r like Yea!! 😀❤

- a very nice feeling <3

- the two of you walk down the sidewalk together

- eventually the awkwardness of Woah We're On A Date!? is gone

- peter starts swinging your hands and you can't stop smiling

- a few people look at the two teenagers just giddily and dramatically swinging their arms together and laughing as they walk down the street

- but those people find it very cute

- y'all talk about the weirdest shit too

- peter rambles about his theory of there being a multiverse

"i mean, what if there really is a multiverse? like, i refuse to believe that we're the only living beings in this whole universe, much less believe that this is the only universe. and, when you think about it, it's like a whole new set of doors of knowledge are suddenly there for us to explore, i mean it just completely changes how we understand the initial singularity. we're talking about an internal inflation system and then how would that even work with all the quantum-? it's insane-!"

- he looks over at you and you're just smiling

"sorry"

"don't apologize for being a genius, peter"

- the ffh reference 😼

- his insides are like lkdsfhskjdfbg at that

- you also have ur nerd moment (i'm making this about reading because.... I Think We Can All Agree)

"what i don't get is all the imbeciles at school who think reading is stupid. they're all like, 'i haven't read a book in like two years! ha ha!' and i'm like 'oh! no wonder you're so stupid!' because not only do they think it's quirky for whatever reason to not read, but reading genuinely makes you smarter and they're all missing out on it! moreover, the feeling of getting sucked into a book and going on the story with the characters and feeling everything they're feeling and when you finish the book it's like holy shit i can't even process this and- oh i'm rambling"

- peter's just looking at you in awe

"this is why i like you"

- NOBODY MOVE

- you Cannot Breathe for a second and the two of you stop walking (still holding hands doe)

"you..?"

"i did ask you on a date, didn't i?"

- you scoff

"you muttered that it was a date and the only reason that fact was established was because i heard it and acted on it"

- peter sighs exasperatedly, still grinning like the Fool He Is as he lets go of your hand to swing his arms dramatically

"well, sorry i'm not super smooth and suave all the time!"

"yeah, cause you're never smooth and suave"

- now he :o

"hey-!"

"that's why i like you, too, parker"

- SMILE GETS EVEN BIGGER

- BIG CHEESY MOMENT

- the two of you clasp hands again and you hug his arm as you continue walking

- i wanna hug a boy's arm

- you get to the arcade and he opens the door for you

"m'lady"

- he's such a dork i hate (love) him

- now here u guys....

- guess who's like genuinely never been to an arcade...

..........

- 🙋‍♀️

- it me!

- yes yes we know i have no life

- SO BASICALLY

- i'm just gonna like fucking Spit-Ball the adventures of y/n and peter at the arcade

- if ur confused rn i am too

- OKAY

- SO U WALK IN

- imma walk up to him and imma push him and imma say I HAVE AIDS no wait thats so strong hold back, savor it, BUILD to that

- i know i didn't get all the words right whatever

- at first it's like Sensory Overload! but then 🅱eter drags you over to the front desk and y'all get ur tickets

- and then it's STRAIGHT TO THE PACMAN BOOTH

- he looks so FUCKIGN CUTE cause his tongue is like sticking out as he focuses

- y'all try the claw machine SO MANY TIMES

- not you managing to actually make it work and getting a spider-man toy

- nOT YOU GIVING IT TO PETER AND HIS CHEEKS ARE JUST 🔴

- the slant on that emoji i'm fucking losing my mind

- you absolutely crush him at the basketball game thing

- and y'all play that thing that has the weird seats or whatever and you're racing

- he lets you win

- y'all KILL IT at dance dance revolution

- peter trips over his feet and you laugh So Loud the people around you are like o_0

- uhhhhh what the fuck else is at an arcade

- i just KNOW i'm gonna forget something and y'all will be like BUT WHAT ABOUT THE _____

- my apologies in advance

- at the end of the night y'all get pizza from the little restaurant they have (idk if that's an actual thing arcades do but fuck it now they do)

- and peter wins you a giant bear and you smile SO BIG!

- peter can't stop smiling at u and u both r so so happy

- guys i need to get a graphic design is my passion in here.....

- getting a bit worried cause idk where to put one 0_0

- not sure where to go with this now... may just read some fics to get inspiration and completely forget to come back to this <3

- i promise i won't i wanna get this up tonight AAAAAAAAAAAA

- okay i will be back after i get inspo

- update it's been an hour and i got distracted have yet to find inspo i'll be back

- update part 2 i went downstairs to get a snack to Fuel My Brain and ant-man and the wasp was on so... watched that

- FUCK INSPO I CAN DO THIS MYSELF

- but i have the brain of a strapless croc.... whatever

-OKAY

- SO YOU GOT YOUR BEAR RIGHT

- YAY

- then you can peter are like "we should probably go" cause it's getting late and it's new york and yes peter's spider-man but y'all are on a date! and we don't want to get attacked!

- huzzah!

- so you leave

- holding hands

- (screaming inside)

- ur other hand is just holding the large ass bear to your chest and peter cannot stop SMILING

- the chaos level has gone down i'm sorry i'm tired

- here's some normalcy!

- you start walking home and see delmar's and peter's like "MR DELMAR WILL GIVE US FREE SOFT SERVES :D" so. you go to delmar's

- you walk in still holding hands and the Second mr delmar sees you he (¬‿¬)

"what brings you two kiddos in so late?"

- peter's BLUSHING

"we, uh, we went on a date SO YOU HAVE SOFT SERVES RIGHT?"

- he's so fucking flustered and it's adorable

-  mr delmar just laughs

"on the house just for the lovers"

- now who's blushing

- your name

:o

- "your name" i was feeling spicy huh

- I HAVE TO PACK FOR MY TRIP TOMORROW

- HAHA OOPS

- mr delmar hands you the ice creams and y'all thank you

- he winks you sly bastard

- the two of you walk out and sit on the bench outside to eat your ice cream

- hands are feeling lonely cause you needed to hold your ice cream 😔

- at first y'all are just silent and then you look over at him just happily licking his ice cream

- he's got chocolate ice cream next to his mouth and you laugh

- he turns to you

"what?"

"messy eater"

- you mumble as you raise a hand and wipe it off with your thumb

- you wipe your thumb on your napkin and look back up at peter and suddenly the air has changed cause he's just staring at you or your lips really and oh wow now the air has left your lungs and your heart is racing

"can i kiss you?"

...

- peter tastes like chocolate.

HERE'S A MEME TO MAKE UP FOR THE LACK OF GRAPHIC DESIGN IS MY PASSION

- what if we kissed on the jouch? 😳

- hi lizthearies shoutout to our pinterest convos

- alright story = over

+ + +

THIS TOOK ME SO LONG TO WRITE AND FOR WHAT

ily all, treat yourself and others with kindness (dream with harry had me crying within the first five minutes i love him so much), and WEAR A MASK (unless you're in a safe place aka not the US lol)

AND DONT FORGET TO CONTINUE SIGNING PETITIONS AND SPEAKING OUT!! BLM IS NOT A TREND!

<3

[whatwouldfrogsdo]

⛄

A little fic for Day 2 of the @omgcpwinterextravaganza, the prompt being a SMH Snowman Building Competition.

AO3

Holster strode between the entries, clipboard in hand. Chowder suspected that he was only pretending to make notes, but he and Ransom had been so keen to come to Samwell and judge the Annual SMH Snowman Competition, that nobody could turn them down. Despite the fact that Bitty had looked like a shoo-in to win before they even started gathering their snow, simply for the amount of baked goods he had given them, and the announcement that he was going to attempt a Snow Tater.

Holster stopped next to Chowder’s creation. “Snow man, Chowder. What part of man don’t you understand?”

“Also, it’s totes cheating to have your girlfriend help,” Nursey added from where he was trying to patch up the hole he had accidently pushed into his snowman.

“Why would it have to be a man?” Caitlin asked. “Don’t be so sexist, Birkholtz.”

“That would be a great argument, Farms, if you weren’t there building a castle.”

“It’s not just going to be a castle,” Chowder told Holster. “Just wait until we’re done. Cait and I won the Sandcastle Competition at my local beach this summer. We have a plan. The castle is just the kingdom.”

“Well... As long as you don’t get a chisel out or anything.” Holster threw a dirty look at Dex, who scowled back from where he was sat on the porch steps, having already been disqualified.

“It wasn’t a fucking chisel. It was just my pocketknife.”

“No tools, Poindexter! You know the rules.”

“Okay, well what about the help issue? If I’m disqualified, C is definitely disqualified. Cait’s not even on the hockey team!”

“We’ll add it to the rules for next year, but unfortunately, they found a loophole because Farmer’s not on the hockey team,” Ransom explained. Chowder threw Dex a smug grin from behind Holster’s back, and held his fist out for Caitlin to bump.

*

“TIME!” Holster and Ransom shouted, in unison, an hour later.

“Everyone, step away from your snow people. Oliver Lucas O’Meara, stop that.”

Ollie dropped his hand hastily from his snowman and moved away.

Chowder sat down next to their grass-moat, made from clearing all the snow around their snowcastle. Caitlin snapped a picture of him, with the sculpture, on her phone before joining him, and the two waited as Ransom and Holster looked at each entry in turn.

“Nice and traditional, Whiskey. Good effort. It’s easily the biggest here, so ten points for that, but it has to be a C minus for originality.”

“What’s the scoring system?” Tango asked. Ransom ignored him.

“It’s only biggest height wise,” Caitlin pointed out.

“We’ll get to you two,” Holster said dryly. He cast an eye over their work, rolled his eyes and moved onto Ollie and Wicky. “Now, I have to say, despite the whole, no team members work together rule, you two have somehow managed to end up with identical snowmen and there’s something a little suspect about that.”

“Then there’s the way they’re looking at each other and the gloves are clearly reaching out for a fist bump,” Ransom added. “We couldn’t judge these individually because they work as a joint piece and there’s no way of distinguishing between them, but if we judged them together then they would clearly be in breach of the rules.”

“My fellow judge and I will have to discuss this after seeing all the entries,” Holster decided.

“What do you mean you’ll discuss it later? That’s a disqualification!” Dex grumbled.

They carried on looking at the team’s snowmen in turn, praising Ford for her creativity in dressing an otherwise mundane snowwoman and commiserating with Tango for how his snowman ended up slanted. They were full of advice for the new frogs about what they could do in future years to make their work stand out, and to prepare for the competition beforehand. They laughed in Nursey’s face for his.

“It’s not my fault!” Nursey said, when Holster gently nudged the gaping hole in the snowman’s stomach.

“It’s completely his fault. He fell over. He’s a walking disaster.” Dex punctuated his statement with a snowball, which hit Nursey’s snowman in the nose. The celery stick Nursey had used for the nose snapped in half and fell to the ground.

“Hey! Sabotage!” Nursey ducked down to gather some snow to throw back at Dex.

“You’d already lost, Nurse,” Ransom pointed out. “Dex, stop heckling.”

When they came to stand next to Chowder and Caitlin’s snow sculpture, the two juniors bounced to their feet and grinned at each other. Okay, there were two of them, but they had done the most. Theirs was the most complicated and the most creative and given another half hour they could have finished refining it into perfection. Even how they had left it, their mini snowmen were the only things which didn’t quite have the detail they wanted.

“It’s very nice. A good castle, and wow that shark... But the competition was for building a snowman.”

“We have thirty-two snowmen,” Chowder said.

“Those tiny little balls of snow?” Holster asked.

“They are clearly snowmen!” Caitlin argued. “Two balls of snow on top of each other, that’s what makes a snowman. If we had a bit more time-”

“You didn’t have to build a castle,” Ransom pointed out.

“You said the castle was good.”

“Okay, okay, full marks for originality and creativity and the snow shark, but you’re not in the competition for the best snowman. If it was snow sculpting, you’d win, but your snowmen... How are we supposed to judge them if they’re only two inches tall?”

“Size doesn’t matter,” Chowder said. When Nursey snorted, he grabbed a handful of snow, and chucked it in his direction, but it broke apart in mid-air and ended up showering Nursey with snow instead.

Holster had crouched on the ground to look at the snowmen. “Is this one Pavelski?”

“It is!” Chowder said.

“How did you put the C on his chest?”

“Caitlin used her fingernail.”

“I like the goalie pads, too.”

“Thank-you!”

“You still haven’t won.”

Chowder’s face fell, and he and Caitlin sat back down again while they moved onto Bitty’s Snow Tater - the last to be judged.

“Ours is the best, though,” Caitlin said into his ear, in that stage whisper she used whenever she was trying to be subtle. Chowder had to nod in agreement as he looked at Bitty’s. It was a standard snowman, shorter than Bitty, with a large strawberry for a nose, a blueberry mouth, milk chocolate cookies for eyes, and the number 7 drawn into its back. There was nothing special about it.

“Results are in!” Holster announced. He and Ransom had taken their place on the top of the porch steps to declare the winner, and Dex reluctantly moved out the way, to stand by his own abandoned snowman between Nursey and Chowder. “In third place, we have Whiskey with his traditional Frosty. In second place, Ford, with Mrs Scrooge. And the winner is Bitty for his Snow Tater.”

“It’s a total set-up,” Dex muttered. Chowder hadn’t noticed him or Nursey creep closer to them, but now he looked down as Dex placed a snowball in his gloved hand.

Chowder turned the snowball over and grinned. Caitlin had prepped her own snowball on his other side, and the four of them didn’t need a countdown to aim their shots and fire the snowballs at Ransom and Holster.

“Bros, seriously?” Ransom asked, already scooping up some snow to retaliate.

“That’s for being biased,” Nursey told him.

“Nursey? Are you kidding me? Your snowman is terrible.”

“But Bitty’s is better than Chowder’s?”

“Hey!” Bitty said. “No need to be a sore loser.”

Dex turned and aimed his next snowball at Bitty, who shrieked and ducked behind Tango’s snowman. A well aimed shot from Ford hit him in the back, and the next moment, snowballs were flying all over the yard, as Bitty darted to the Haus.

“Aw, come on Bitty!” Ransom called when Bitty had barricaded himself inside. Five snowballs splattered against the kitchen window, and then Whiskey managed to hit Holster in the back of the head and war broke out.

“No! Fuck. Nursey, stop!”

Chowder turned to see what Dex was yelling about and was greeted by a faceful of snow. He wiped it off and narrowed his eyes at Caitlin. They tumbled to the ground when he tackled her. Her hand slid around his neck and she giggled into his chest.

“It’s like how we first met.”

Chowder grinned back at her. “Except that time we weren’t lying on a castle.”

“Oh no! We ruined it.” She twisted her head back to look in disappointment. “Is SJ Sharkie okay?”

“He’s okay, but I think we’ve massacred the defensemen,” Chowder said, poking at a lump which used to be Brent Burns in miniature.

“That’s so rude, Chow,” Nursey said. Chowder turned to see him and Dex lying in the snow a couple of feet away, both panting heavily. Dex had snow poking out the top of his pants, and Nursey’s jacket had come undone. Nursey’s snowman was also ruined, and its head seemed to have exploded over Dex’s chest.

“Well those lasted long,” Caitlin said dryly. “Maybe Bitty did deserve to win, after all.”

Sure enough, when Chowder sat up he could see that the Snow Tater was the only snowman still standing.

[imagineclaireandjamie]

Can we please have some more "Our story?"

What happens after Claire calls Jamie in “Our story?”

anonymous asked: When will we get a continuation of “Our Story”, this is a really great fic and I can’t wait to discover if Jamie and Claire will finally meet after all these years apart. Thanks to all the writers, you’re each doing a terrific job with your own world and creation. Keep up the great work :)

[December 24th, 2007]

When another deadline flies by, Jamie is flying at 10,000 feet, Boston-bound with a mouthful of pretzels. He can almost see Geordie in his Glasgow office, fat fingers typing misspelled threats into a text: droppING representaton, beach of contract, an etc. etc. dripping with career-ending venom. But no matter. How could anything matter, when the sea is a sheet of blue glass below? When a woman—his woman—is waiting for the sound of his knuckles on the other side of her door?

Later that evening, Jamie’s rental pulls up outside Claire’s home. He does not move from his seat, but waits, wanting to see what fragments of life he can snatch from the trees, the waft of peanut butter from the swaying pinecones. The house is large and painted brick, with a mismatched patch of white above the garage. Roman Column instead of Lily of the Valley. (He imagines a man, Frank, on a ladder; Claire looking up, shielding her frustration from him and the sun). The grass is freshly cut, and Jamie knows that if he wanders to the back, he will find a garden. Marigolds sleeping until spring.

Jamie thinks, with a certain sense of awe, This is the place. This is the place and that is the yard and that is the door. Inside, there is the kitchen where she has eaten breakfast, the table where she’s done her taxes, the mirror that has fogged with her breath when she leans close. (He remembers being that close, once.)

Finally, he gets out of the car.

The slats of thin metal clank when Claire pulls at the blinds. She sees Jamie striding up the pathway, looking as impressive as he does on glossy paper, or in the intricate webbings of her late-night brain. She smooths her curls and her skirt to tame whatever has burst inside her. (Loneliness, that old friend—just a puff of smoke.)

The first thing Claire says when she opens the door is, “You broke your nose.”

There is no intonation at the end, implying doubt, or criticism (“You broke your nose.”). Rather, there is only quiet evidence that Claire has not forgotten, still knows Jamie and the once-sharp bridge of his nose, through and through.

And Jamie, seeing Claire, says, “Aye, and you’ve gone a bit gray.”

Similarly, it is not a question or an insult (he thinks she looks wiser, wants to see what she’d look like in all white), but merely a quiet recognition that time has passed, they are older, and he does not care.

“I’m assuming there’s a story to go with it.”

Claire squints, trying to mine the story from his face. The possibilities: a horse, riled by the teeth of flies. An angry lover, whose palm soars, its heel shoved outwards and up. It’s unsettling, almost, how Claire can only fill these blank spaces with assumptions.

“Aye, there’s always a story,” Jamie says.

With her face pinched this way, Jamie can read the years in the crinkles of her forehead. He sees the spot where the furrow is at its deepest, the place where she probably wonders, “What other parts of you have broken?” He wants to put his lips there, tell her about every splinter and fracture without speaking them aloud. 

Claire’s eyes travel downwards until they sparkle. Apparently, she has found something in the cut of his jaw because she puts a hand to her chin, saying, “I’m going to assume…an unfortunate encounter with a mountain lion? No. A bear. A grizzly. Are there grizzlies in the Highlands?”

“Nay, unless ye count Rupert,” Jamie replies and, as if on cue, a roar comes from a nearby porch. A man staggers towards an idled taxi, all hairy haunches and pale flanks in the streetlight. “Merry Christmas!” he shouts to no one, voice ringing with booze. He draws up when he spots Jamie and Claire across the way, and his lips are spit-shined when he puckers them, cooing, “Now kissssssssssssss!”

Jamie laughs quietly, so that Claire must work to hear it once the engine putters awake. (When she moves a bit closer, she does; decides it is still the best thing she’s ever heard.)

“Well, there appears to be a small population of them in Boston,” she jokes. “Now’s your chance. I’ll hold those flowers while you two go at it.”

Christ, he’d forgotten the flowers. 

“Thank you,” he says, placing them in her arms (the pulse of an old grief when she cradles the roses). “Make sure ye dinna crush them, mind. The woman I’m taking to dinner wouldna appreciate crushed flowers.”

“Better crushed flowers than a crushed date. Not much you can do with that.”  

Whether either of them realizes it, the four feet between them have become one, and if Jamie were to extend his arm, he could wrap it entirely around Claire’s waist. Instead, he jerks his head towards the car, and she follows him.

“But if a ghastly beast did break your nose, I’d love to hear about it.” 

“The story’s not as exciting as all that,” he replies, opening the passenger door, taking an extra second to admire the clumsy way she ducks inside. “Just a rugby match against the Mackenzies.”

“Beasts enough,” she says, once he’s in his seat. “Was it worth it?”

Already, the new-car smell has been replaced by hers: that fertile spring scent, moss and rain and opening flowers. Jamie rubs his nose and wonders if, after all these years, Claire’s green thumb would set it straight by simple touch. Crunch, click, wholeness.

“A broken nose in exchange for Dougal on his arse, doing the splits for all king and country? Worth it, I’d say.” 

“Oof.” Claire cringes. “Think I could die happy without that one.” 

“Aye, there’s a few other things I’d rather see…” Suddenly bold, Jamie lets his words become a suggestion. A flush blooms across Claire’s cheeks as she reaches toward the dashboard. 

“Easy there, lad.” 

Jamie notices how her fingers waver in the air, seem to yearn for the knob of his knee. But Claire freezes, suddenly self-conscious, and only turns the radio dial. When Joni Mitchell sings through the speakers, she hoots, “You’re still listening to this stuff?”

“Always,” he wants to say. 

“Better than what’s on nowadays,” he says instead, tapping the cracked CD case on the consul. “And my iPod broke.” 

“Broken nose, broken iPod…” Claire looks out the window and hums. (What other parts of you have broken?)

It’s as though the music is dragging them from Jamie’s car, pushing them into a crooked Edinburgh flat where a needle crackles and the record spins. The soundtrack of their newlywed bliss, “Blue”—forever playing in tune with the creak of their cot, the groan of the pipes behind their heads. Lying awake at night, they had dreamt aloud of the 70’s—of history—believing they’d both been born late, two souls adrift. (“If you could be anyone, who would you want to be?” they had asked each other. But whatever time or place, the answer was always, “Yours.”)

“So where exactly are you taking me?”

“That’s for me to ken and for you to find out.” 

“I do hope it’s at least remotely interesting,” Claire replies. 

“Jury’s still out. Awaiting yer judgment.”

“Hope you remember I’m a difficult one to please.”

“Not as difficult as ye think,” he says. Another suggestion. Suddenly, Claire remembers bubble wrap and a weightlessness where there was nothing but the flutter between her legs. Jamie remembers her face, gone slack, and her heavy-lidded sighs above him.

“No,” Claire says, “maybe not.” 

And when she smiles, it is just as Jamie remembers (the most beautiful, the best thing). He feels himself wrap and wind, like a red string, around her finger.

Jeanne’s, the place is called, a tiny French joint where a glass of water costs $2 and the tablecloths feel like spider silk. It is a short walk from Jamie’s hotel and a much longer drive to Claire’s home, out in the suburbs. Both of them silently agree to ignore the implications of these distances, shunting away thoughts of alabaster shoulders and muscled calves under a hotel bedspread. 

“So tell me,” Claire says, their meals ordered, “why this place?”

“You have to promise ye won’t laugh.”

“Promise,” she says (though she will giggle halfway through, a teenager’s star crossed giddiness). “I won’t laugh.” 

So this is what Jamie tells her: that he’d once looked up restaurants in Boston, and found this one. That he’d used it as a reference—a stage set in his mind, which he could place Claire easily inside, see her occupy. That, in knowing the menu and the wine list and the painting near the bar, his memory of her could be something more than memory. Something just short of real because there she’d be, ordering from the menu and the wine list, sitting beneath the painting that he’d memorized from the bookmarked Yelp page. (This, Claire understands. It’s why she used to read the articles, why Frank shredding her collection seemed like the greatest theft.)

There’s a synchronicity to their movements as they eat. When Claire reaches for the salt shaker, Jamie’s hand is already there, passing it to her. And when Jamie spills his whisky, Claire is already advancing with a napkin, blushing as she grazes his lap and feels a hardened promise in his trousers. At one point, there is a crumb at the corner of Claire’s mouth, and Jamie does not feel shy about telling her it is there, about flicking it away with his finger (but God, does he wish it was his tongue) when her own cannot seem to find it. 

“There.” 

They talk about everything: Sorcha the horse, the online forum, Laoghaire, Frank. The random moments when they were reminded of each other: a particular slant of light on a penny, a navigation system set to British English. They smile, they laugh, and begin to think that a span of fifteen years is no significant thing. No time at all.

But for all their honesty, they are skirting around the great, fat elephant. It squats in the middle of their table, fattening itself on the bread basket, until it grows too large to ignore. A breathing wall that Claire considers hopping, sticking one brave limb over the edge; testing, testing. Are ye sure about this, Claire? 

Their conversation halts when a fight breaks out beside them. A couple, much younger than they, lips curling with their fists. Everyone—Jamie and Claire included—braces for the smack of a cheek or the slosh of drink, but a waiter intercedes and guides them out. The combatants rush into the night, huffing a trail of hate that only lovers know.

Claire seems to wilt then, her shoulders and eyes lowering. The last bite of coq au vin is left untouched.

“I suppose we should….” She pauses, bullying a lone mushroom onto the table. “We should talk about some things.”

It is then that Jamie realizes what is to come and that—no matter how hard he wishes it wouldn’t—it must. He straightens himself in his chair, gives a noncommittal, “Mmm.” And only after Claire’s lips tremble does he realize his mistake: like so many years ago, he has not said the right words. 

“Ironic,” she says. “You seemed to have a lot to say about it in your books.” 

He stares at his plate. 

“You’re not going to say anything?” 

“Not here, no.”   

“Ever?” 

Jamie’s gaze falls further, to the floor. The hardwood is darker than in the pictures, he thinks. More mahogany than chestnut. Suddenly, he feels betrayed, like his picture-perfect stage was built from rotten planks all along.

When he finally looks up, he sees Claire’s empty chair, spots her back as she spins through the revolving door. 

“Wait!” he shouts (A word! A word!). He slams $100 onto the table and weaves his way to the entrance, rattled nerves rattling wine glasses. Once he’s outside, he finds Claire leaning against the building. Eyes like smothered coals in the full dark. 

“Mo nighean—” 

“Don’t say it,” she barks, so fiercely, that he shuts his mouth. “You don’t get to say that. Not yet.” (He had forgotten her fury, how her tiny body could hold so much of it, wield it carefully or recklessly whenever she wanted.) “You know, I’ve never heard you say her name since that day.”

Jamie thinks his gut has been sliced open. Believes that, if he looked down, he would see his liver, his intestines, his kidneys—a collection of his organs—soaking into the sidewalk. Streams of his blood trickling into five letters. 

No, he hasn’t said it. Can’t.

“Of course I remember,” he grumbles.

“Then what else do you remember?” she asks, but she gives him no time to respond. “Do you remember that morning, Jamie? The half-empty church? The too-full cemetery?” She shakes her head, laughing. “No, you wouldn’t, would you? Because you weren’t there.” 

“How was I to know what to do?” he yells, his own grief-rage pouring out. “I was 23, just a kid!”

“And I was your wife. You know, that person whose side you promise to stand by? But you weren’t standing by me, Jamie. You were in a bloody prison cell.”

“I did it for you. For her! We had no money, and I thought—”

“Which part did you do for us? The prison part? The not being at the funeral part? The let’s-just-make-another-child-and-things-will-be-better part?” 

“Jesus, Mary, and Bride. I’m trying to explain myself so that you can understand, if you’ll only give me the chance.” 

Claire takes a staggering step forwards, drives her index finger into his chest. She cranes her neck to look at him, unafraid. “No, I want you to understand first. I want you to understand what it was like, standing there, surrounded by “Beloved Mothers” and “Devoted Fathers.” All these people who’d lived long enough for that kind of stuff.”

She whirls away again, caught up in memory.

“And the priest, the damn priest! Jamie, he couldn’t even say your name right. Faith Eraser. Like some sick joke. I didn’t know who I hated more. Him, for not being able to pronounce it right. Or you, for having that stupid name.” She pauses, catches her breath so that her words don’t break when they hit the air. “In the end, I remembered: it was you who I hated more. Because at least the priest was there.”

“You’re the one who left. You’re the one who didn’t even try.” 

“I tried. I—” 

“Nay, give me just one second, because I think you’ve got it in yer head that ye somehow own this grief. The grief of—” He swallows. “Of Faith. But ye don’t. Ye werena there when I finally took the crib down, or when I brought all the wee clothes to the charity shop because I couldna look at them. I pretended—Christ—I pretended they were my niece’s because I couldna allow myself to think I had a daughter. That I was ever a father.” 

“You were a father. You still are.” 

“Aye, I ken that now,” he says. “It was too painful, though, at the time. To think of what I had, to remember what I’d lost. And then there were the phone calls, all the questions: Where’s Claire? Is she all right? When is she coming back? The worst of it all, really, because I didna ken the answers. Wasna sure you’d ever come back.”

Claire looks down, but he can see the beads on her lashes, the thin stream flowing down her neck, inside her collar.

“Why did ye leave? How could ye leave?”

“I don’t know,” she whispers. “Back then I thought I did. You couldn’t look at the crib or the clothes? Well I couldn’t’ look at myself, or you, without seeing her. Remembering everything: how she felt, what she smelled like. What it was like to hold my entire heart in my arms, just for a moment, and then watch it break.” 

(She wants to tell him about the butterfly ears and about the sheets—Please, please just to remember—but is afraid of them, even now.)

“The day I came home, she was everywhere—on the walls, in the little flower mobile—and you weren’t. And then when you were, I would look at you and there’d be a split second, just a blink of time, where I’d forget. Because how could she be dead if she was still there, in the bones of your face?” Claire is sobbing now. Streaks of mascara under her eyes and snot from her nose. (Grief: such an ugly, ugly thing.) Jamie steps forward, waiting for her to shrink away, but she doesn’t. Welcomes his arms. “The moment after that—where I remembered again—was more painful than anything else. Y-y’know?” 

“I understand, Sassenach. I do.”

“I’m sorry,” she says softly. “I—I don’t think I should have left. Jamie, I really shouldn’t have left.”

“I’m sorry too. And I wish you hadn’t.” 

“God, we fucked everything up, didn’t we? Made a real fucking mess.” 

“Aye, perhaps we didna do—or say—the right things. But it’s nothing we canna fix.”

Claire’s laugh is mirthful when she says, “Fix? How can we ever be the same?” 

(Jamie was asked a similar question, years before, in a cabin up in the Grampians. He had doubted it too, then, thinking of nothing more irreparable than a speechless husband, a fleeing wife, and a baby who never cried. But that was long ago and before this night, where he is hugging Claire and feeling a ring beneath her blouse.)

“We can’t, Sassenach—but I dinna want to be the same. I dinna want to make the same mistakes.” His head bows, an oath. “I willna make the same mistakes.” 

“You’re really willing—”

“Yes.” 

“And even though—“

“Yes.”

“Will you stop bloody cutting me off?”

Jamie’s silence. Claire’s pointed look.

“Oh sorry. Wasna sure if ye were going for a dramatic extended pause or no’.”

Jamie grins, and it pulls at the corners of Claire’s mouth.

“You’ll forgive me?” she asks, then. Shy. “And trust me enough to know that I won’t run off? Because that’s what I do, Jamie. I disappear.”

“And I get too quiet, and I dinna say the right things—or anything—when I should. Too prideful, too ashamed.” 

“But you do, eventually. Say the right thing. The perfect thing.” 

“And you come back, Sassenach. Eventually.” Jamie tweaks her chin, brings his forehead to hers. “Can ye no’ see it? You are my courage, and I am your conscience. We canna be whole if yer no’ here to bring the words out of me. If I am no’ here to bring ye home.”

Claire rubs a sleeve across her eyes.

“Bloody writer,” she chokes, and he kisses her. (A second passes where they are 21 and 22 again, two young things dashing through the streets of Edinburgh. All this life ahead of them.) When Claire tries to break apart, he keeps her to him as if wanting, somehow, to fall into her.

“Are you going to write me into your bed tonight?” she asks, breathless.

“Is that a proposition?” 

“Merely the question of a curious reader.” 

“I thought I might drive ye home first and see where the story takes me. Dinna like working from an outline.”

“All right. Spontaneity’s nice. I like a good plot twist.”

“Are ye ready, then?”

Claire reaches for his hand, and he gives it to her. Jamie squeezes, she squeezes back. She leads him toward the car. He follows, holding the keys and her heart. 

“I’m ready,” she says. “Take me home, Jamie.”

(At her doorstep, Jamie will give Claire a Christmas gift: a vase wrapped in old hopes, tied up with a sweater ribbon. Because of this, she will say, “Want to come in?” and will allow him to shuck his shoes on the rug, kiss her in the moon-drenched foyer. It will be immediate—the dissolution of their separate mouths and the resurgence of a familiar knowledge—once Jamie’s shirt parts and Claire’s skirt drops. Blue stripes and liquid gold on the floor.

She will let Jamie lay her down—gentle, so gentle—in front of the fireplace. And Jamie will bend—reverent, so reverent—and lick the pale tributaries of her inner thighs, inching towards the most tender part of her. “Please,” she’ll say, and he will make her say it again.

“Please.”

There are old lines. Ones they will know, remember as a soft curve or a particular bulge of muscle. Theirs to re-meet, reclaim and own.

There are also new lines. They will cut their teeth on them, tasting each other’s now-bonier spines or the looser skin of their upper arms. Jamie’s hands will still be larger—so much larger—than hers, and he will grasp the soft side of her knees, spread, and sink. “God,” Claire will think he says, and then wonder if he’d ever prayed in an empty church. Found some kind of grace in religion, as she had done, during those lonely, intermittent years.

Claire will kiss Jamie’s jawline, remembering that he likes it. Jamie will nip Claire’s neck because he knows it makes her shiver. And they will both be happy when they see that they’ve remembered correctly, that he does, yes, still like it when she kisses his jawline and that she does, yes, still prickle with goosebumps when he nips her neck. Please. God.

Jamie will begin to move faster, pushing Claire up and up until stars fall into her open mouth, then pour out again onto his shoulder. The bite marks there will glisten. 

Not long after, Jamie will follow, the fullest kind of breaking. And this time—oh, oh, oh this time—she will hear his whisper. Not “God” at all, but: 

“Claire.” 

And maybe, she will think, her cheek finding his steadying beat. Maybe this is what God is. The sound of your name in a lover’s mouth. Your face inside his heart.)

[tb5-heavenward]

artwork by the fantastically talented @birdologist and animation by the lodestar of my heart, the inimitable @awkwardarbor

With the caveat that there is still an epilogue to come, here is the last chapter of Heavenward. Thank you for reading.

You can find Heavenward on Tumblr // Ao3 // ff.net

a_moment_of_dawn - part 20

Two weeks isn't a great deal of time to find and secure appropriate housing, at the onset of the fall semester, in a town that's crowded with new students waiting to begin their college careers.

Admittedly it's easier when one has the resources to drop nearly a million dollars on a brownstone condominium, already outfitted and furnished, and right across the river from MIT. This place is only about a twenty minute walk from campus, practically a straight shot over the bridge across the river. It's as close to perfect as it could possibly be. There'd been no question that Jeff Tracy would make it happen, if it was what his boys really wanted.

And he thinks it is. Something about this whole arrangement seems right. Even if he's uncharacteristically nervous, standing alone in the building's lobby with the keys in hand, waiting for Scott to arrive with John and Alan, Jeff's still reasonably sure that this isn't a mistake. Kyrano's dutifully vetted all of the neighbours, made sure that no one nearby could present any kind of threat. He's gone with Scott to pick John and Alan up at the airport, left his daughter behind to make a final, prudent sweep of the building, just to be safe. Kayo had been the one to outfit the apartment itself with a custom security system, including direct, encrypted lines back to Tracy Island. The place is as secure as she can make it, without bulletproofing the windows and adding a panic room.

Jeff had been the one to talk Kayo out of bulletproofing the windows and adding a panic room. Despite the degree to which Kayo's grown protective of her brothers, especially in Jeff's absence, there's such a thing as inviting trouble. It's why he'd refrained from buying the entire building outright. It would've been excessive.

So the building itself is a beautiful old brownstone, nearly two hundred years old, and in an exercise in restraint, Jeff Tracy only owns the sixth floor of it. Two bedrooms, a bathroom, kitchen, living room. The place is relatively modest. Quiet, safe, in a good neighbourhood. Of a better caliber than some of the places Jeff's hidden out, in the three years that he's been gone. It'll be home to Alan for the next four years of his college career, or for as long as it suits him.

Probably it won't ever be home to John, however long he decides to stay here. Jeff has a better idea than most of just how hard it's going to be, for his son to feel like he belongs anywhere, these days. When the idea of home is a person rather than a place, being left behind makes it far, far easier to come adrift in the world.

And it seems to be something they have in common, he and John, the fact that it's proving very hard to come home again.

But for Jeff's part, at least, it's about to get marginally easier.

Because the fact that John's left Tracy Island gives his father tacit permission to finally return home himself. It's not clear whether John knows this or not, whether his decision to help get Alan started at MIT---or for that matter, Alan's decision to go to MIT at all---was made with an awareness of the reasons Jeff hadn't returned home yet.

The notion that his son might sacrifice anything further on his behalf---it's more than Jeff thinks he could stand.

Maybe that's why he's nervously pacing the parquet floor of the small lobby. Late afternoon sunlight slants through the building's glass front doors. The street outside is quiet, local traffic is minimal. Just inside the door there's a neat row of mailboxes, and the one on the end awaits a new nameplate. Behind him, further inward, six flights of stairs rise up and around, short corridors leading to private entraces to each apartment. There's a bench against the wall beneath a rather insipid attempt at abstract art, the sort of placeholder piece of decoration that he's always found personally offensive.

Still, at least it's something to look at, and he drifts over to the wall it hangs upon, tries to glean some deeper meaning from the splatters of bright colour, at odds with the impressionistic forms of dark blue and black across of the rest of the canvas. The whole thing's oddly composed and has a feeling of haphazardness about it, but it distracts him to the point that he doesn't hear it when the building's front door opens behind him. He doesn't hear footsetps crossing the hardwood floor, doesn't hear the it when his son first clears his throat. Jeff Tracy is sixty years old and though he wears his age fairly well, his hearing still isn't what it used to be. So he doesn't realize that John's there, until he hears him say, just softly--- "Dad?"

He doesn't startle, exactly, but Jeff does feel himself freeze up. This isn't the way he'd been expecting this encounter to play out. He'd been expecting Scott, escorting his brothers and running interference, helping to defuse some of the tension that feels like it must be inherent to this interaction. He'd been expecting Alan, all anxiety and excitement about the start of his college career, to draw focus and hold everyone's attention. He'd been expecting John to want nothing to do with him.

Jeff hasn't spoken to John since Zurich and even then, it had just been an unheard goodbye at his son's bedside, a gentle squeeze of his hand, before John had even been conscious. And then Jeff had just left, covering guilt and shame and remorse with action, as though if he does enough on John's behalf, it might make up for even a fraction of what John's lost in his father's name.

It won't, of course. Privately, Jeff knows that nothing ever will.

Turning, even just the sight of his son is enough to stab that same guilt right through the heart of him. It's impossible not to give John a quick once-over, considering the state he'd been in when Jeff had seen him last. It goes without saying that he looks better, though in some ways that's almost worse. John's neatly, impeccably dressed as always, but there's something like fatigue in the way he carries himself. He wears a simple woolen peacoat against the early autumn chill, not his usual grey, but a deep, mournful black. Sharply tailored lines can't cover the way his shoulders slump, the way the sleek messenger bag he wears across his chest seems to weigh him down. Some of the gauntness has softened from his features and he's no longer ashen pale, but the fact that he's gotten some colour back can't disguise the bruise-dark circles beneath his eyes, or their watery, melancholy blue. He looks tired. And there's an unmistakable sadness to him.

"John," his father says, and hates the way it sounds perfunctory, distant. Practiced neutrality drowns out everything he feels at the sight of his son. He hates the ease and the falseness of the pleasantry that follows, natural and automatic, "You're looking well. It's good to see you."

Well is the wrong word. Better is more technically accurate. As to whether it's good to see him---it's hard to feel as though he deserves to. Hard to know whether John will be able to stand his company. At the same time that he's ashamed to look at his son, he also feels starved for the sight of him, and deliberately needs to keep himself from staring. Out in the world, Gordon and Scott have both been better company than their father feels he deserves. On the homefront, Virgil and Alan have put up a wall of frigid politesse, presumably on their brother's behalf, delivered updates about his health dutifully, but without a great deal of warmth. That's fine. Jeff's not sure if it's cowardice or guilt that's had him keep his distance, but that distance has been closed now. And he doesn't know what else to say, beyond pleasantries and platitudes as empty of meaning as the painting on the wall behind him.

"I suppose I'm as well as I can be." There's a distinct sense of recitation about the way John answers, neutral and unemotional, as though he's already had this answer planned out, practiced. He goes on, explaining why he's here alone, "Scott and Alan wanted to take a look around campus. I said I was tired. Kyrano dropped me off. They'll be here soon."

"Oh. Well, you---I mean, that's understandable. That you'd be tired. You were very sick." The banality of it all is still infuriating, the way he's fallen immediately into the trap of mindless smalltalk. But this wasn't ever the place or the time he'd imagined, when he'd thought of seeing John again. He's been caught off guard, and everything he'd thought he might say to his son feels like it would be wrong, here and now.

"Yeah."

Jeff retrieves the apartment's keys from his pocket, weighs them suggestively in his hand. "Did you want to go upstairs, have a look at the place, or...?"

"It's Alan's place. He should be first."

"Oh...of course. Yes, of course. We'll wait." It's almost certain that Alan wouldn't mind, but John's immediate dismissal of the idea permits for nothing else. Instead, Jeff steps aside from the bench against the wall and nods at it, means to be considerate, sympathetic to the fact that John's just said he's tired. "If you wanted to sit---"

"No, I'm fine."

Of course not. As though John could possibly want anything his father has to offer. Not that Jeff has a great deal available, standing in the small lobby of a building he doesn't own, with nothing in his pocket but two sets of apartment keys, his wallet and phone---but he feels he should be able to do more. It's so strange to be caught here, in this little pocket of nowhere-in-particular, in the middle of Boston. And in the company of the son he'd nearly lost---nearly killed---with no idea of what to say to him.

John doesn't seem interested in making this any easier, nor should he be.

Awkwardly, fumbling as silence passes without a further word from his son, Jeff looks him up and down again, and seizes on the first thing that comes to mind. "You're still wearing...?" He gestures, his fingertips brushing the bridge of his nose, moving to touch his left ear, even as he continues, "I didn't really think they suited you, but---" He means the piercings, and realizes too late just what he's said, the staggering lack of consideration for what they might mean to his son. He cringes inwardly, braces for the impact this is going to have, and damns himself for a fool.

But John's unfazed, doesn't react except to shift his weight slightly, one of his hands coming up to close around the strap of his bag, crossing his chest above his heart. He looks down for a moment, then glances back up to meet his father's gaze. His voice is steady and even, but there's undeniably a certain sadness in it, when he answers, "You still wear your wedding ring."

That's true.

Unbidden, the fingertips of his right hand go to the ring he still wears on his left. Jeff's never felt the need to take it off, and even with Lucille sixteen years gone, even just the thought of doing so still plays over that old ache of grief. It hasn't diminished. It's changed, certainly, grown familiar. The lack of her hurts no less, only hurts differently. Sixteen years on, and Jeff still finds new ways to miss her, and knows he will for the rest of his life. He misses her now, for all the ways he can see her in their son.

It's a terrible truth to have in common with John, that they've both suffered the loss of a soulmate.

Because there's nothing that can be said about that. Nothing will help. There's nothing he might tell his son that would even begin to reach the depths of the pain he's in now, nothing that would offer any kind of respite. The truth of recovering from a loss like this is that there is no recovery. There's only the long, awful process of trying to find a new way forward, in a world that's been fundamentally, irrevocably altered from what it was meant to be.

Looking at John, he no longer sees Lucille, but himself as he was sixteen years ago, fresh and raw and newly bereaved. The fall of his son's shoulders, the shadows beneath his eyes, the way he stands with his hands drawn close to heart, protective of something that just isn't there any longer. Jeff knows what John's feeling, because he's felt it himself, and feels it still, every day of his life.

It's a terrible thing that they have in common. But maybe it's also the only thing John's father has to offer him; the truth about what he's going through.

And so the truth slips out, unasked for and simply stated, the only thing Jeff can think to say. Somehow his voice remains unbearably light, conversational. He sounds almost casual, as he tells his son something he's never told anyone before---

"When your mother died, I wished more than anything that I could have, too."

He's not looking at John as he says it. Jeff lets his gaze drift to the painting on the wall again, all its meaningless abstraction, because he can't look at his son as he talks about this. He needs to keep the subject almost hypothetical, a fundamental truth about the nature of loss, if he's going to let his son know that he understands. "You've wanted that, haven't you? Not to have to be here, to do this---without her. It's a terrible way to feel. And it's not like you can tell your brothers---all they want is for you to get better. They think you're going to get better. They think the fact that you're still alive is something to be grateful for, while you're still wishing you could've died in the same moment you realized she'd gone, and not had to keep trying to live through something so awful. It's still awful. It's so much worse than anyone can understand. Of course you'd want to die. I know I wanted to. God, more than anything."

There's no answer from his son, but he doesn't really expect one. John's silence is stillness, like he's frozen, rooted in place. No one will have said anything like this to him, yet. It takes a widower to know a truth like this.

And Jeff goes on, talking about the twofold ideation of his death and his son's, as though it's nothing more consequential than the weather, "It so seemed wrong that I should have to go on without her. More than just unfair, but wrong. I thought I wasn't meant to live a life without her in it. I didn't think of what it would do to any of you, to be without me. It didn't seem to matter---nothing did, compared to losing Lucy. Sometimes I wonder if that's why I thought I could leave the five of you the way I did, because you'd all already been through it. Losing a parent. And you all did more for each other, when your mother died, than I did for any of you. I had nothing to offer. I was barely there, and I didn't want to be. I wanted to be wherever she was, even if it meant being dead. It took a long, long time to stop wanting that."

There's a glimmer of hope, when John speaks, because his voice has slipped out from its formal, neutral cadence, and it breaks a little with carefully restrained emotion. He sounds young---impossibly young, just the same as he had in Munich, when Jeff had first seen him again---and heartbreakingly vulnerable.

"...but you did?"

"Mostly." Jeff has to look up at that, to offer John a sad smile and to shake his head. "I'd be lying if I said there weren't days when I still do. And I wouldn't be surprised if you wanted it, too. And not just for yourself, but for me. If you wish I'd never come back, John---if you'd rather I was dead---I'd understand. There's part of me that wishes that, too, knowing what I've cost you. Your mother would've hated me for it, and that's the worst thing I can say about what I've done. I know I'm why you lost EOS. I know I'm why she's gone. And I know I'll never be able to apologize for that. I can only promise you that I never meant for it to happen, and if I had known how to stop it happening...if I'd known how to stop her, John, I swear---I would have."

It's as close as he's gotten to an apology for something he can never apologize for. And he's ready for his son to hate him; he deserves it, for his son to hate him. It would only be right---would only be fair---for John to hate his father. After everything he's lost, everything he's suffered, and all of it in vain, there's no question that John should hate him.

So Jeff doesn't know quite how to take it, when his son says, softly, "No."

"John---"

But John won't be interrupted. "No, you didn't---you couldn't have. Stopped her, I mean. That wasn't---it wasn't---you. It wasn't your fault. You didn't make her do anything, you couldn't have. You weren't why she did it. Once she knew what had to be...what she...what she had to do---that's when it was over. It was over as soon as you explained the problem. She would've known, then. She was that smart. You wouldn't have stopped her. Not if I couldn't."

The way John's voice runs away from him, it's like something inside him has just come unbound. Possibly it has. But then the way it falters and fails, the way he trails off and falls silent---it's like he knows that by saying it aloud, he makes it real again, has to go through it all over. Jeff could almost swear he sees his son shudder, trying to hold it all back, and watches as his hands twist and tighten where they've clasped the strap of his bag, shutting it back down and closing himself off again.

And maybe he shouldn't press any further, maybe it's selfish to wedge his fingers into the chinks in his son's already flimsy armour and try to get at the bleeding, aching heart of him---but this is also the first time Jeff's seen John in weeks. And there's more to it than selfishness---there always is, despite what everyone assumes of him, despite his reputation. There's a need here, a void that no one else will have known to fill. None of the rest of the family were close enough to what happened for John to be able to talk about it with any of them. They won't have known the right questions to ask. Probably John's needed to talk about it. More than that, probably he's needed someone to listen.

Jeff doesn't have a great deal to offer his son, but he can do that much, at the very least.

But not here. It's late afternoon, the end of the work day, and there'll be people returning home, sooner than later. Kyrano will be bringing Scott and Alan back. This is a conversation his son deserves to have, and he deserves to have it somewhere private, without danger of observation or interruption.

So carefully, tentative, he edges one, then two steps closer to his son, and puts a hand on his shoulder. This place is public, impersonal, and exactly the sort of place where John hates to find himself, when he's feeling vulnerable. It's been a long time since Jeff's really known his boys, but he's at least always known it about John, that he craves privacy above all else. So he's firm, a little more insistent this time, when he makes the suggestion, "Let's go upstairs."

"It's Alan's place, I shouldn't---"

"There's supposed to be a little garden on the roof. I haven't seen it yet." It's a lie, Jeff's been over every relevant inch of the building, including the tiny scrap of artificial green space affixed to the top. It's not much, but it'll be more private than the lobby of the building. "Let's go take a look. Come on, John."

John doesn't agree so much as he gives in, his shoulders falling again as some of the taut, defensive tension in him relaxes somewhat. Jeff thumbs the button to summon the elevator, and remains privately grateful for the fact that John hasn't shrugged out and away from the hand on his shoulder, that he's permitting his father to retain that modicum of comfort in contact, though he steps away as the elevator arrives on the ground floor, and Jeff's hands end up in his pockets again.

The elevator doors have closed and they've ridden in silence for over half the height of the building before John finds his voice again, not that his father had expected him to. He'd expected to have to nudge the conversation along again.

But there must be something of a confessional air about the elevator car, something about the wood paneled walls that summons up some sort of deeply latent catholicism, a generation distant, the long-forgotten faith Jeff had lapsed out of as a younger man than any of his sons. Something has to be the trigger, the reason his son swallows and makes an admission of his own, with his voice breaking even as he does---

"I wish this was your fault. Because then it wouldn't have to be mine."

And in that moment, Jeff realizes that his son, blaming him for what had happened to his partner---is nothing, compared to how it feels to know that his son blames himself. The elevator comes to the top floor and stops, the doors chime and open out onto a rather, charming rooftop garden and the soaring Boston skyline. Neither of them see it.

There's nothing for Jeff to do but reach for his son, then, because John just breaks. He starts to cry in a way his father hasn't had three weeks to get used to, but which he has the bedrock of thirty-one (admittedly patchy) years of fatherhood to remember how to deal with. It's just instinct to reach out and pull his son into a tight, insistent hug, and to say a whole litany of things that don't matter, won't help, but which a father still needs to say to his son, when his heart is broken.

Shh, I'm here. I know. I know, I'm sorry. I'm here, I love you, I'm so sorry. It's not fair, I know it's not fair. I'm here. You're okay.

It takes a long time for John to recover to the point that he can start to get his breath back. By the time he does, Jeff's got him sat down on a bench nearer to the garden's center, near a burbling water feature with koi and a fountain, to cover the raggedness of his breathing and to give him something to watch while he calms down. White and gold and copper flicker and flash through dark green water. It's cooler on the rooftop than Jeff had expected, and he's glad that his son's still wearing a jacket against the wind and the rather unseasonable chill in the air.

But the cold isn't the reason that John shivers bodily, and wraps his arms tight around his chest, shaking his head. Jeff sits next to him, and his hand hasn't left his son's shoulder, except to rub gently up and down his back. The other rests on his knee, gives a reassuring squeeze as John coughs and sniffles and rubs at his eyes, and then coughs again. He shakes his head and his voice is raw as he tries to tell his father, "I'm the worst thing that ever happened to her."

"That's not true, John. She wouldn't have thought so."

John just shakes his head again, despairing. "I wish I'd never known her. I wish she'd never found me. I never should've asked her to stay. I should've known I couldn't keep her safe. I never should've made her feel like she owed me anything. Every time something bad happened to her, it was because she thought she had to save me. I'm not worth losing her, I'm nothing compared to what she was. She was important---she was so important. There'd never been anything like her before. She was new and she was alone and she...sh-she..."

John's already breaking down again as his voice runs out on him, but what should be said next is just so obvious that Jeff can't help but say it, softly and with his head bowed close, so that it sounds like a secret between them---

"She loved you."

That's just true. But it's true enough that saying it out loud cuts John off, so he has to draw a sharp breath and try to choke back a sob. It doesn't work, and he ends up just wilting further against his father, as Jeff tightens his grip on his son's shaking shoulders and pulls him closer.

She'd loved him so much that she hadn't needed to say so; loved him in a way that was just true and simple and obvious, such that Jeff had just been able to tell, from the very first time he'd met EOS. There'd been a depth of love to her that had gone beyond the bounds of humanity, and broken new ground. Whatever arguments might've been made for consciousness or sentience or anything else, more than anything else Jeff had seen, it was her capacity to love that best defined her right to exist.

But it's that single, implicit truth that his son's going to have the hardest time making sense of, because it's also the reason why EOS made the choice that she did.

He knows enough to move away and give John some space, when his son's shoulders shift slightly and he starts to pull away. Jeff sits quietly on the bench beside his son, counting bricks in the garden pathway, as John presses tears out of his eyes with his palms and pulls a cotton handkerchief out of his pocket, blows his nose. Jeff speaks up again, still just as careful and gentle as the situation merits, "I won't pretend I knew EOS, John. I wish I'd gotten the chance. I only really got to speak to her once---just once, one to one. And we talked about you, how lucky we both were to have you in common. She said it outright, you meant more to her than anything had before. And speaking as one person who loves you, son, there was nothing more obvious about EOS than the fact that she did, too."

"Yeah." Still short and clipped, emotion making John sound more terse than he means to. But he takes a few more moments to collect himself and there's a raw, unmistakable honesty in him, when he says, "I loved her, too. I never even said so. I wish I had told her."

"John, I promise, she knew."

John coughs at that, and then, hollowly, "I still should have said. I can...I can still hear all the things she would've said to me. Just when I'm alone. A-and sometimes---if I don't think about it, sometimes I can forget she's gone....but it only makes it worse when I have to remember. Dad, I don't know what I'm supposed to do without her. I can't do it. I don't know how to be alone like this. I'm...I'm never gonna be okay again. I don't want to be, how could I? I don't deserve that. This is never going to get better."

"No. It won't."

Jeff knows his son too well and loves him too much to lie to him about that. He knows, maybe better than anyone else will, just what his son is going through. But---in just the same way as he knows that John won't be able to believe it yet---Jeff knows that it isn't forever.

He puts a hand on John's shoulder again, and goes on, "But you learn to live with it. It doesn't get better, but it starts to be different. One day it'll be something entirely new. One day you'll go to bed, and realize you went the whole day without thinking of her. Or you'll wake up, and the first thing you think of won't be the fact that she's not there. And that's a whole new kind of grief. You'll hate yourself a little bit, when that day comes---but then you'll remember; she loved you most when you were happy. She would've wanted you to be happy. And that's when you'll start trying to find a way to be happy again."

John doesn't answer, because John probably doesn't believe him, and he's right not to. His father wants to make the promise that one day things won't be so bad as they are now---but it would require a different kind of faith than what his son's capable of, right now. It's true for a different version of his son than exists right now. And that's just what this is.

Jeff clears his throat and the hand he'd laid on John's shoulder comes up, gently strokes his son's hair, just the same colour as his mother's, in the late afternoon light of the sun. "Until then, I hope you can remember that I love you. And your brothers love you. And your grandmother and Kayo and Kyrano, Penelope and Brains---everyone wants you to know, you're not alone in this. You're loved. And we'll all do everything we can to make sure you remember that's true, John."

John doesn't respond immediately. Eventually, maybe for lack of anything else to say, John's only answer is a quiet, "Thank you."

"I hope it helps."

Silence falls between them once again, but of a slightly different tone than the last time. Jeff lets it pass It was always something between his son and his soulmate, the qualities of particular silences. This one stretches out over a long minute, and on into two. The city sounds far away and distant, a shadow falls across the rooftop as a cloud passes in front of the sun. He finds himself thinking of EOS, and the things he's promised his son were true about her, not because he'd known them any better, but only because John needed to be told.

For having known her for only three days, when his son had known her for only three months, after three years of absence, what had always seemed most amazing about EOS was how much she'd reminded Jeff of his son, like the most essential parts of his soul, mirrored into existence. How everything about her had been so carefully crafted, calculated and chosen, how nothing she'd ever done had been without purpose. How her last act had just as much meaning as her last words; a gesture of incredible, perfect faith and trust. One day, Jeff hopes, he'll be the one to explain it to his son.

He doesn't know for certain what the last thing she'd said to John was, but it's not as though it's hard to guess. For his own part, as he looks over at his son again, he has her last words seared into his memory, the last thing she'd asked of him.

The wind comes up just slightly, and the shift of the breeze catches John's copper gold hair, has him look up, out over the edge of the rooftop and towards the city skyline beyond. His eyes are still wet and red-rimmed, the pale blue of them still seems to be the exact colour that sadness would be, the sky on a morning just before the clouds start to gather. He still has his handkerchief twisted up in his right hand, and the other is balled into a fist, resting on his knee. Looking at him, it's impossible not to see the hardship and the heartbreak, and to know that he has a long, lonely road ahead.

And John's father hears a tiny silver voice in the back of his mind, sweet and sad and hopeful, asking for the last and only thing she could have wanted, at the end.

Look after my Thunderbird.

And as best as he can, he will.

[sometimesrosy]

Academic, chapter 10: The Intern

rosymamacita

Chapter 10 Read on AO3  read from the beginning Academic

: The Intern

It's the end of Clarke's year of being a visiting professor at NYU, so as far as her friends are aware, she should be ready to make their Bellarke dreams canon, in real life... but instead, The History Channel has asked her to hire Bellamy as "The Intern," on their show, much to the dismay of her friends who are sure she won't allow herself to get involved with her employee.

Ah, Bellarkers... always hoping, always having their hopes delayed. Again.

;)

This is a prompt from my 2k followers celebration, asking me to add a chapter to the abandoned story. And I did. :) Thanks @miraculoushipping

miraculoushipping said:Hi! I really hope this doesn't come off as rude since I know that a lot of authors don't really like being badgered for updates, which is completely understandable, writing is HARD. But do you have plans to update/complete Academic? It's sosososo good and I love it, I couldn't stop grinning (Nubile little nymph, made my night 😂) and it just has everything I could possibly want in an AU fic PS Kane totally ships Bellarke PPS Clarke not telling her friends they're dating out of pettiness? Gold

Chapter Text

They were at the bar, near the end of the school year. “So that sucks, right?”

Clarke gawked at the ridiculous number of hits for the new youtube vid of Bellamy at the Boys Club in his old neighborhood where he had raised Octavia. The theme was “Everyday Heroes,” and apparently, the whole internet was in love with the Bellamy Blake.

Clarke couldn’t blame them. She was in love with him too.

“How could this possibly suck? He’s a sensation. That has to be good for him. He’s my friend. Why would I want him not to have success?” She was still staring at him on screen, even though the volume was turned down low and she couldn’t hear the stories he was telling about the disadvantaged kids of the inner-city, their struggling parents and the people who were advocating for them. She swallowed and looked at Jasper, who looked back at her in exasperation.

“Duh, Clarke, because The History Chanel wants him to work on our show as ‘The Intern.’ You’ll be his employer! You’ll never be able to get together, now.”

Clarke looked at him, her face carefully neutral. “Have you been reading fan fiction again, Jasper?” she asked.

“I’ll have you know that Bellarke is not the only ship your man is in now. There’s Caesamy. They’ve paired him up with Caesar, isn’t that awesome? And Zeusamy. Quite the fireworks in that one. A bit of Aphrodellamy… but Aphrodite always sounds vaguely like you anyway. My favorite is a little out of the history geek wheelhouse. Riplamy.”

Clarke couldn’t take it anymore and rolled her eyes. “Riplamy? Which greek god is that?”

“No greek god. Ripley. From Aliens!” Clarke stared at him. His eyes were wide and excited and she took a bite of pizza while he gushed about Bellamy fighting aliens in space. It turns out that it wasn’t that hard to distract Jasper from things she didn’t want to talk about.

Clarke called for a round of shots and made sure that when they came, Raven and Wells were sitting as close as they could in the booth, penned in on both sides by the enthusiastic Jasper on one side and a VERY friendly Monty and Miller on the other, who had apparently come to some agreements about what they were to each other, if the cuddling and smiles and the way they kept crowding into Raven’s space, pushing her closer to Wells had anything to say about it.

Clarke tossed back her shot and smiled at the way Raven blushed under Wells gaze. Honestly blushed. Raven couldn’t even look at Wells as he stared down at her and asked her if she was okay.

Raven was not okay. Wells put a hand to her forehead and Raven blinked up at him. Her lips parting ever so slightly. It was awesome.

Her phone in her back pocket buzzed.

“As much as I’d love to stay and watch all— “she waved her hands at the general friendness of her friend group, getting closer in ways that made her happy, not the least because she liked their matchmaking hearts being stung by cupid’s arrow. “I really need to get out of here. I have a business call from China coming in a bit. And I need all my notes. You guys keep on doing what you’re doing.” Her friends barely noticed her. Miller was entranced by Monty. The mighty Raven was laid low by Wells’ attention and Jasper was staring sadly at his phone. HE was next on the list. She’d find someone for him, to get him out of his Bellarke obsession. It wasn’t healthy. He needed to focus on his own life, not hers.

Clarke shrugged her bag over her shoulder only to be confronted by the sharp green eyes of Octavia. “I’m sorry he couldn’t make it tonight.”

“Who?” she said. As if she didn’t know.

Octavia pursed her lips. “My brother,” she snapped.

Clarke let out a soft laugh. “Oh Octavia,” she said, fondly. “I told you. You don’t have to feel bad about me and Bellamy. We’re friends.” They were. It was true. Friends. He was one of her best friends. Best.

Octavia scowled at her. “There was something between you.”

“Hmm,” she said noncommittally. It was true.

“There IS something between you.”

Clarke smiled and nodded without saying anything at all. It was true.

“Stop acting like it doesn’t bother you that you couldn’t get together!” Octavia said. It was almost yelling, but her voice was quiet. Hissed almost.

“Babe,” Lincoln said behind her, taking a hold of her arm as if he were trying to hold her back.

Octavia shot a frustrated look back at Lincoln. “Why did you let The History Channel hire him as your stupid intern. He’s more important than that.”

He was. “Things worked out for the best, Octavia. They really did. This could really open doors for him. I’m excited for him. You should be, too.”

Octavia’s scowl turned even fiercer. “I am. I just wish….”

“Babe,” Lincoln said and wrapped a soothing arm around her. “Let it go.”

“But they could have been so good together,” she grumbled to her boyfriend.

Clarke had pity for Octavia. She leaned down to the table and gestured towards Raven and Wells. “See that? Wells has been in love with her for ages. But Raven? She doesn’t believe in love.” She thought back to all the anguish that Raven had suffered over the years, all the broken hearts and pain. “She thinks love is for suckers.”

Octavia slanted her eyes over at them, the way Wells kind of loomed over Raven and the way Raven kept looking away, but still oriented towards him, as if her body couldn’t help it.

“But she tried to get you and Bellamy to fall in love.”

Clarke shook her head wryly. “No. She tried to get us to hook up. She thought if we had sex, I’d get him out of my system and be able to move on.”

Octavia shot her piercing glance back at Clarke. “But you didn’t do that, right?”

“If I hooked up with your brother,” Clarke said and her heart started racing, “do you think I’d just be able to move on and forget him?”

Octavia raised her chin like a challenge. “No, I don’t.”

“Good,” Clarke said and stood up. “So work on that over there.” Wells had a crooked grin on and Raven was on some rant with multiple curse words and much disdain for whoever she was ranting about, but there was a high flush on her cheeks.

“Yeah, maybe,” Octavia said and turned her attention down the table while Clarke made her goodbyes and left the bar.

****

She turned the key in her apartment. It was quiet. Clarke closed the door behind her, locking it. Latching it too. Cautious.

She slipped off her shoes and hung her bag over the back of the chair, stepping quietly, not wanting to break the silence, in case….

“Bellamy?” she called.

“In here.”

She smiled. He had his serious voice. All the different versions of Bellamy still thrilled her. The academic one. The sexy one. The contentious one. The protective one.

She dropped her sweater as she walked back to her bedroom and stood in the doorway.

He was in her bed, shirtless, reading a huge tome. It was his favorite way to be, she’d found out. And she loved it. She loved him.

She laid down next to him. He raised his arm so that she could cuddle up against his side and that’s what she did, kissing the skin of his shoulder and laying her head on his chest, just happy to be there.

“They were talking about you at the bar,” she said.

“Hmm, yeah?” he said distracted by his book. His hand petted up and down her arm. “What were they saying?”

“Oh, that it was a pity The History Channel had hired you as “The Intern” on my show, and that meant I was your boss and couldn’t hook up with you. They were sad.”

He sighed, amused and turned the page. “And you couldn’t tell them that they hired me as your love interest because they loved the internet nonsense and wanted to jump onto the whole Bellarke frenzy just like our friends?”

“They didn’t,” Clarke purred, stroking his flat belly, playing with the little hairs above his waist band. “They hired you because of your passion for history and your screen presence. They liked the idea of a regular guy coming in to challenge me.”

“If that was what it was about, you never would have agreed to it.” He smiled as he read, but she got the feeling he wasn’t paying much attention to his book anymore. “You never needed a man to make your show good.”

“True.” His abs were so nice. “But I do so like having you around.”

“Uh huh,” he said doubtfully, still pretending to read his book.

“I do. You keep me on my toes, Bellamy. You make sure I’ve got the whole picture and I don’t get too laser focused on my own opinion. You make me better.”

He put his book down. “You’ve got it backwards, Clarke. I’m always trying to keep up with you. To think bigger. To question my beliefs. You make me better.”

She smiled. “Together we make a good show. Plus with added sexual tension.” She let her fingertips slip just barely underneath his waistband.

“So you’re going to enjoy working with your impressionable, young and nubile intern.” he pulled her towards him and kissed her temple, nuzzling the skin there with his nose. “You’re such a predator.” The motion of his hand became slower on her back, stroking down her spine to the curve of her ass, before sliding back up again, under her shirt and around to fondle her breast.

“Yeah, you’re a real innocent.” She just breathed, feeling the sensations while he nibbled at her ear and slipped his fingers inside of her bra. The muscles of his chest under her hands were warm and firm and she reached for the snap of his jeans. He lifted his hips just slightly to meet her hands, but she stopped. “Are you okay, though? With this game we’re playing? Pretending not to be together, working on the show. Teasing not just our friends but the whole world? You— you’re such a good guy, Bellamy, you can’t like lying.”

He laughed and the low vibrations went through her. “Oh baby,” he said and pulled her shirt over her head. “I’m not that good a guy. They set the rules. They fucked with us first. So we get to fuck with them.” He reached behind her and released the clasp on her bra, slipping the straps down and throwing the scrap of lace over there, somewhere. He bent down to kiss the soft skin at the top curve of her breast and she surged up to meet his lips, but he simply petted down her side and smiled at her.

“Hey, they’re paying me a shit load of money to argue with you about history and justice and also to travel to amazing places that I’d never go otherwise. We’re filming around my academic calendar. Miller has the bar. This is going to be really great for my career… I HAVE a career and I’ve only been in college for one year. I think you’re really failing to understand just how much of a win this all is for me. And the best thing of all, I get you out of it. And I get to flirt with you and make that angry glint come into your eye when I challenge you… do you know how MUCH I loved that when you were just my professor? That little glint. I knew how much fire you had inside you.” He laughed under his breath and his hand drifted down to undo her jeans and slip inside.

She gasped.

“Yeah that’s the fire.” His grin was crooked and beloved. “That we get to screw with our friends and mess up their betting and also make them wonder about us for the whole filming? That’s just bonus, huh?”

But Clarke really couldn’t follow the conversation anymore. Not with the electricity Bellamy was striking inside of her. “Stop talking,” she breathed. “Do you really want to keep talking about our friends right now?”

“No, I don’t,” he said, and his mouth came down on her nipple while his hands brought her higher. She peaked under him and laughed, pulling him close to her and kissing down his chest.

“Is that how I get you shut up?” she asked, so happy in that moment that it felt like the universe was revolving around them.

“Pretty much, yeah,” he said and kissed her.

[michellelewis7162]

A Local SEO Firm - Why You Needed to have Them

A Local SEO Firm - Why You Needed to have Them

 If you possess a pipes business in Vancouver, WA, at that point you need to have to become on web page some of Google for that keyword phrase "plumbing system Vancouver WA" when a person appears it up.

 That would certainly not prefer to possess their site # 1 on Google for their keyword phrase? To be actually capable to complete this you need to have on webpage and also off webpage hunt motor marketing. App Development Companies

 Whatever organisation you are actually in you must possess your internet site rank on webpage one in the 3 primary hunt motors for the major keyword phrase that illustrates what you carry out as well as the area or even city you perform that in. If you perform certainly not, you are actually leaving behind leaving behind heaps of service on the desk.

 Unless your web site is actually unbelievably sturdy, or even powered/sponsored through one more giant web site, you will definitely need to carry out some off web page online marketing. This mostly features obtaining targeted backlinkses.

 Considering this truth it has actually ended up being parallel for neighborhood business to become in leading positionings for their nearby key words if they desire any type of type of notable online targeted visitor traffic.

 When folks wish to appear one thing up or even or need to have details they go to the Internet. Of training program our company all understand that Google is actually the best hunt motor they make use of.

 Regarding on webpage SEO goes your web site needs to have to become coded the right way along with the suitable CSS, your URLs require to become correctly labelled as well as improved, you require to contend the very least 150 to 350 terms of keyword wealthy information on every touchdown web page, your H1 and also H2 tags need to have to become readjusted for your intended key phrase in addition to additional keyword phrases, you require to possess graphics, and also your connecting constructs requires to become structured in a manner where the "Public Relations extract" all circulations to your homepage yet is actually additionally handed down to your below webpages based upon exactly how crucial they are actually.

 As soon as you have actually finished this you are actually just midway performed.

 Seems like a great deal. That is actually merely your on webpage SEO marketing. What I merely pointed out takes a considerable amount of job which is actually merely on your genuine internet site.

 And also every person prefers all of them!

 Are they neighborhood. You really want to discover an SEO provider that is actually knowledgeable along with the location so they may create material similar to the where you are actually at.

 It takes a ton of job to carry out this. When you really want a to become positioned at the face of phonebook along with a greater advertisement than everybody else you simply spend even more and also they put you there. It occurs as quickly as you authorize your annually arrangement.

 It may take control of twenty man-hours merely for the on-page marketing. The off web page marketing may take equally lengthy and also often a lot more.

 Second, you require to ensure any sort of Best Local SEO Companies possesses many teams of professionals. This industry is actually multi-faceted and also someone can easily certainly not efficiently perform whatever alone. I am actually certainly not signifying a possible SEO business needs to possess 100s of workers however you desire to observe that they contend minimum many certified technicians that service various aspect of your site.

 It is actually certainly not that simple any type of longer. Google.com has actually dealt with over half of the connecting tactics internet search engine optimizers utilized simply 4 years back. Currently there is actually a fee for post creating, social media sites manual advertising, connecting with various other blog writers and also web site managers, quite targeted web link substitutions, listing entries to particular niche listings, as well as paying for a higher Public Relations web site to "evaluate" your web site (formally purchasing any kind of hyperlinks is actually a huge no no along with the large G).

 Right here is my factor. If you are actually nearby provider you perform certainly not possess the amount of time to accomplish whatever that I merely stated. You may attempt to accomplish your very own online marketing to become positioned first for your wanted keyword phrase however unless you possess opportunity to opportunity on your palms and also the knowledge you are going to certainly not have the ability to perform it.

 If there are actually any type of concerns you additionally desire to possess accessibility to all of them. Site modifications, style problems, and also specialized inquiries turn up consistently. You carry out certainly not intend to be actually getting in touch with a provider 3 opportunity regions away.

 Receiving great backlinkses to assist your natural positions utilized to become a lot easier. It still took a ton of job yet there were actually additional slants through which you can acquire all of them. It was actually simpler to go down web links in online forums, you might publish reviews as well as offer on your own a web link back, provide 100s web links as a whole listings, extensive web link substitutions, etc.

 This is actually the main reason why a Local Seo Companies will definitely prefer you to authorize some form of the middle of to lasting agreement along with all of them. They are actually heading to be actually generating a ton of cash upfront to bring in and also consequently position your web site. You might be actually stunned through just how much a really good SEO firm intends to bill you monthly yet in truth they shed amount of money on you for the very first 6 months at lowest.

 They actually find yourself creating their amount of money when they possess pleased consumers that are actually ranking # 1 for their hunt phrase, on top of Google, plus all they must carry out is actually preserve your site as well as maintain it apex, it goes without saying the first effort has actually been actually carried out.

 When you really want to be actually put at the leading of the hunt motors it takes opportunity and also a whole lot of attempt. All you may perform is actually place your web site, or even your customer's site, in the ideal posture to perform that.

 To create a nice write-up enjoy this one you need to investigate your subject matter and also devote an excellent hr blogging about it. If you are actually certainly not a proficient copy writer if you take numerous hrs. This is actually the main reason why you require to contract out every one of your SEO to a certified as well as experienced nearby online marketing firm that provides services for this industry.

 Our experts possess customers that are actually along with my local SEO Virginia Beach firm that our company have actually devoted manies thousand on acquire all of them to the best of their preferred hunt condition as well as will definitely certainly not recover our amount of money for a year. To create it worth it for our team our company require some form of warranty that a customer our team strive on along with visit our team for at the very least a year.

 If they can easily certainly not create this you understand they either are actually existing regarding what they may do or even they are actually bad at what they perform.

 Third, talk to any sort of hunt motor marketing provider to offer you referrals. You must observe that they have actually placed a number of web sites for their preferred key words on web page one of Google.

 Just before you choose a regional provider that focuses on seo as well as various other SEO solutions you require to inquire many inquiries.

 A Local Seo Companies that is actually assembled effectively are going to possess numerous divisions. It will certainly possess visit setters, a purchases group, internet site developers, programmers, directory site submitters, post as well as web content authors, as well as some kind of customer care division. It takes a total team of every person collaborating to place a site on webpage some of Google.

 Like I pointed out previously, also for a general web site, the marketing procedure can take 40 male hrs for on webpage and also off webpage SEO.

 Every urban area currently possesses numerous SEO providers functioning in all of them. In every urban area there are actually merely 2-3 extremely gifted organizations that truly recognize what they are actually carrying out and also it is your project to discover all of them.

 Why Your Online Marketing Efforts Need Assistance From a Local SEO Company

 The complication that one conflicts in performing therefore is actually the transparent measurements of the World Wide Web, which stashes a company web site searching for local area customers deep in hunt motor end results. Organisations appearing for a neighborhood appeal online usually tend to tap the services of a local SEO provider that gives knowledgeable as well as proficient experience for using various approaches to understand as well as enhance the company job in the nearby area as an alternative of in the global market. Listed below are actually a couple of causes why you will certainly enjoy tapping the services of a local SEO company in your place 23454.

 Assists in Successfully Targeting Local Online Customers

 . Protects Against Ordinary Barriers for Local SEO

 No matter of just how you have actually gone in advance to develop your web site, it has actually ended up being popular to assume the brand-new website to retrieve hundreds of site visitors and also leads immediately. This is actually due to the fact that such nearby websites are actually made for appearing excellent, certainly not for feeling free to the hunt motors and also the guests. As a reality, a large number of Web style business completely concentrate on concept and also are actually least worried about to guarantee effective hunt marketing 23454.

 Your organisation absolutely demands a local SEO tactic that may take these nearby searchers to your website, that are actually searching for certain neighborhood provides. It is actually merely a credible as well as well-informed local SEO business that may supply you this knowledge VA

 In purchase to maintain these obstacles at gulf, the support of a local SEO business is actually unavoidable VA

 A Local SEO Company will definitely assist you to recognize your aim at market much better which is actually a vital variable to accomplish effectiveness in your service. Listed below local SEO companies may provide beneficial company as they understand greatest exactly how to make a best intended market claim in purchase to create the photo of your provider customer-friendly Virginia Beach.

 Coming from the website's lay-out and also design to the information as well as applicable back links, every thing participates in an important part in establishing the integrity of an internet site. Along with the level of popularity of the social media getting to indecipherable elevations, regional organisation sites require to be actually enhanced for a particular niche place or even population studies to take in possible presence. In the middle of such meticulous clouds, it is actually simply the qualified SEO agencies that can easily deliver preferred lead to your web site.

 Search Engine Optimization is actually the phrase of Search Engine Optimization as well as if performed correctly and also successfully, it may operate marvels to create your service contact a brand-new elevation. In purchase to get this solution, you should take on the door of a qualified SEO provider which will definitely aid to enhance your website for the hunt motors.

 . Advantages of Availing Services From a Local SEO Company

 When a site is actually being actually improved for the online search engine, the business gains perks in pair of techniques. It is actually revealed at a greater opening on the hunt motor lead web pages, thus it experiences much better hunt motor exposure and also second of all, it receives an amount of certified internet website traffic which shoulders the prospective to turn right into potential purchases leads.

 2. It is actually necessary to choose a local SEO provider if you select to carry out the on-line advertising of your organisation like publicize discount vouchers or even introduce any type of special deals. As soon as your web site increases exposure, these advertising promotions would certainly reach your reader effortlessly.

 3. Yet another opportunity of tapping the services of a local SEO business is actually that they will definitely be actually a lot more knowledgeable concerning the regionally well-liked fads and also they will definitely be actually much better geared up along with the expertise of regional environments, so they will certainly reside in a much better job to choose which advertising and marketing techniques will definitely benefit your service.

 If a SEO pro utilizes the kind of foreign language that is actually regionally well-known, that are going to make a considerably a lot more ideal effect on your consumers and also aid all of them to experience instantly hooked up to your internet site. Utilizing regionally well-liked foreign language as well as referring to local area activities go a lengthy means to entice your consumers.

 5. Working with a local area business implies that the firm has to be actually located in the locale where your provider additionally functions and also hence you may effortlessly connect along with the SEO crew as well as create all of them knowledgeable about your specific demands as well as needs.

 6. If you want to trigger your purchase a gigantic increase you can easily launch lots of highly profitable deals, toss available a lot of competitions as well as such various other possibilities, yet all these are going to return you efficient end results if they are actually propounded participate in adequately and also listed here a local SEO business could be quite beneficial.

 Through contracting out to a Best Local SEO Companies, you will definitely currently possess a full team that may work with every facet of your project. Through this, you merely need to purchase contracting out as opposed to the added staff members you need to tap the services of. It is actually absolutely an extra economical technique.

 They Have the Expertise.

 Their specialists recognize the ins-and-outs of the industry, coming from its own formalities to its own nontechnical facets. They understand what your organisation requires to increase in regards to SEO attempts, and also they recognize what the downfalls that you need to be actually steering clear of.

 Carrying out SEO by yourself will definitely certainly not just remove a lot of your opportunity, yet may additionally cause failing or even suboptimal end results due to your shortage of know-how and also expertise. That is actually why the aid they can easily offer your provider is actually vital.

 Apart from reducing expenses, delegating to local SEO companies will certainly make certain that you will definitely be actually getting top quality solution coming from professionals. Given that you may not be an SEO professional, you carry out certainly not possess an understanding of the roundabouts of local SEO.

 Your Costs Will Be Actually Lessened.

 Local SEO is actually a sophisticated method that features website design, web content creating, hyperlink structure, PPC, as well as far more. It is actually an incorporated advertising method which needs every component to operate to bring in the initiative an excellence.

 Local SEO has actually been actually verified to be actually successful for improving services as it targets consumers within your place. Listed here are actually some factors why you need to be actually contracting out to a SEO provider for your initiative.

 Right now, if you are actually mosting likely to work with workers to compose information, style your internet site, as well as handle your SEO; you will certainly be actually emptying a ton of your funds. Furthermore, you are going to additionally be actually using opportunity as well as assets you must apply in qualifying all of them.

 Why You Should Be actually Outsourcing To A Local SEO Company Right Now.