#it's kind of like being a shell shocked or having a bucket of cold water dumped on you all of a sudden

[marshmallowprotection]

Kait, I'm so happy to hear that you're safe! What you've done is incredibly brave, you should be proud of yourself!

I can also imagine that it's incredibly exhausting. Please take all the time you need to rest and recover, and don't apologize for being inactive. You always give us so much support, now it's our turn to support you <33

I'm doing okay, thanks for checking on me, Faye! It still hasn't hit me quite yet that I made a decision that was bold and decisive. It's one of those things where you have to look before you leap if you want anything to get better. I did a lot of things I didn't think I was capable of and in that regard, I can say that I'm proud of myself for being able to feel like a person with my own autonomy. It's going to take a little bit for me to feel like myself again. But I'm sure most people understand that. When you've been put down your entire life, it can make the moment when you step out into the sun without looking behind your shoulder to see if something's chasing you feel overwhelming. The good news is that I'm going to be okay.

In the same vein that I know Saeran and Saeyoung will be okay.

[applsauss]

Letters | War-tober #18

Description: “Read it to me?” When you speak your voice cracks with disuse.

Fandom: Band of Brothers


Pairing: Ronald Speirs/Reader

Word Count: 1.9k+

Warning(s): None.

      “We ain’t get any letters for a while now…” O’Keefe breaks the tepid silence without thought, as if he doesn’t spend every moment not filled with gunfire spiraling with dread. 

“Nope,” Perconte says around his toothbrush. 

You squint up at the white sun, then close your eyes and chase the colors dancing behind your eyelids. It is a dull pain that takes the edge off the darker thoughts prowling the corners of your mind. The acrid smelling smoke rising from the cigarette in your right hand fills your nose, and you flick it so the ashes crumble, then are taken by the breeze.

Germany is peaceful. Spring is melting the frigid countryside bit by bit and when the wind picks up, you don’t shiver anymore. It is the type of cold like shade on a summer day, not something bone chilling and desperate--a reminder of the dead.

The birches planted along the road sway while the countryside takes another long breath, their leaves flashing silver under the pale blue sky, and you watch this marvel of nature without comment, utterly still. 

"You think they'll come in soon?" O’Keefe asks. 

“Nope,” Perconte responds again.

"Well, I hope they do," O'Keefe barrels on with an optimistic lilt to his voice. 

This is the final straw for Perconte. He pulls the toothbrush from his mouth and braces his forearm on his knee. "Why? Got a dame back home to get ahold of? O'Reilly?" 

You let out a sharp breath from your nose. No matter how much the replacements bother you, they always seem to drive Perconte the furthest up the wall. Everyone's lost their fuses since Toccoa, the Krauts have gone around the circle with scissors halving them. Discipline helped you survive Sobel, but you've traded that, along with your patience, in for the reflexes and nerves honed only in battle. 

You are not so different that you are unrecognisable as that paratrooper who spent that night of nights praying to god for mercy over the English Channel, but you are changed, like that person you were before was nothing more than a cast, and now the common Easy Company soldier is poured and forged of iron. 

O'Keefe seems to consider Perconte's question, then after a moment he fumbles over his answer. "...Yes?"

Perconte turns sharply towards you. "Now that's a lie if I ever heard one." 

You are tired, the memory of the fear you felt in that flying fortress enough to drag your heart down until it is barely beating. You bring the cigarette dangling loosely from your fingers up to your lips and take a drag to try and calm down. "Leave the kid alone, Perco," you mumble. 

Annoying as he is, O'Keefe is right about one thing. You haven't gotten a letter for a very long time. Not just because they haven't been delivered, though. Nobody's writing anymore--not even your parents. It's not that they don't love you, but you think that they've already finished mourning you. 

Everyone back home, they've made peace with never seeing you again. Whether you die today or live tomorrow, it wouldn't make a difference to them because you'd still be gone. They've moved on, not for any fault of yours or theirs, it's simply been too long since they've seen your face. 

This is just one more thing that drives the wedge between the common Easy Company soldier and replacements deeper. There is this deep, ugly resentment that seizes your heart and fills your mouth when you watch those boys walk around as if they are still loved, while you know in your body that you are not. 

What’s worse than that is that the funny thing the men have been saying is right. Germany is the best you've had it this whole war--better than France, or England or even your own Toccoa. Germany is the closest you've felt to home since you stepped foot on the train that dragged you away from it. 

Perconte clicks his tongue at you, then sticks his toothbrush back into his mouth, the bristles nearly flat from use. "Take that fuckin' thing outta your mouth," you grouse. 

"Not everyone wants to rot their teeth with them cigarettes," he defends halfheartedly. Squabbling is a comfortable pastime you've honed. 

"Perco,” you shoot back, “you're one annoying sunnuvabitch." 

"He's not that bad!" O'Keefe is quick to jump to Perconte's defense, and the sound of his voice makes annoyance pinch in your gut. 

Both you and Perconte round on O’Keefe at the same moment. "Shut up!" 

Nobody shuts up. O'Keefe keeps talking about home like it's down the road, Perco keeps sniping at him, his sharp words flying right over the replacement's head, and you take another drag from your cigarette, then stare down at the mud between your boots. Fuck, you wish you had a letter to read. 

Gravel crunches under foreign feet, and all three of you glance up as Captain Speirs walks past in that dangerous, prowling way he does. He doesn't look at you, but the sight of him churns your stomach--just not in the same way it makes Perco gulp nervously. Everyone in Easy has gotten a little more comfortable around Speirs (Bar Talbert, who tries to compare him to Winters every chance he gets, only to disappoint himself), but the air still changes when he's near. It is the shocking cold feeling of being alert. 

You wait till Speirs disappears from sight, then put your cigarette out in the dirt and pocket it, fed up with your current company. “I’m gonna go sniff around for some food,” you say before standing abruptly and stalking off in the same direction you last saw Speirs. 

---

He's in your thoughts more often than not. 

When you're staring down at the puppy chow the cooks serve you, when you're shivering under your thin blanket watching the stars, when you’re washing your face in a bucket of dirty water, when you're pressed up against your fellow soldier being shelled to bits, more often than not he's in your thoughts. 

Speirs’ face is leagues better than the last one you were stuck on (your neighbor's while he waved you off to war, two years older than you and a college boy, too smart for you anyways).

"Sergeant." You nearly jump out of your skin when Speirs' voice rings out from the dark alley to your left. He steps into the light, emerging from the liquid darkness like he is born from the obscurity. 

You startle for a moment, your hand settled over your stuttering heart, then you close your eyes. "Sir." 

Speirs hums quietly and says your name then, cradles it in his mouth before the affection bleeds through the syllables and your chest expands with warm breath and something else--some emotion entirely too strong for you to name. 

There is a delicateness to his features that seemed foreign until you traced it for the first time with your fingers, learned that he tastes of the same liquor you and your pals pass around the fire. 

Now when you think of Speirs, of that low camber of his voice, of his dark eyes as he watches you, his long eyelashes and the bow of his lips, there is no danger. You are as familiar with him as you are yourself. 

“Ron,” you utter, voice unchecked.

---

In your memories, it is morning. The winter sun is struggling to peak over the horizon and the dawn is a solemn blue-gray, as if it is afraid to break the silence. You are afraid to break the silence as well, as you pull the covers off your naked legs and take in your first breaths of wakefulness. 

The radiators have no such qualms. It is so quiet you can hear the house whispering with each breath it takes, and then they click on all at once and the house is filled with the sound of that comforting rumble, a promise of warmth.

You make your way through the house, bare feet sticking to the cold hardwood floor, and you hear your father in the kitchen, fussing with the coffee pot. There is something sacred in the mundane, in the everyday. This moment in time will live with you forever.

---

You spoon the warm beans into your mouth and close your eyes. Eating this meager dinner feels better than anything ever has before after two days without, but there is an exhaustion that sits right behind your eyes now--always. 

“We’ve got it better here than we’ve had it anywhere else. Isn’t it kind of bullshit?” Luz gripes from beside you. 

You are sitting at the top of the steps of some shop front, leaning against the awning. Luz and Johnny are cramped in beside you, and Cobb, Liebgott, Malarkey and Jancovek are sitting below you. Liebgott is resting his back against your shins, you can feel the warmth of him through your pants and when he shifts, his shoulder blades knock against your knees. 

You don’t pay much attention to anything said after that. The night is turning dark and the silver clouds obscure the stars from sight. Faintly you wonder if the Germans feel the same way you do, or maybe they’re more upset because now they are fighting in their own country. 

“Hey,” Liebgott says suddenly, shifting so your legs move with his weight. “Any of yous got letters to read?” 

The question makes your heart twist painfully. You’ve lost your appetite. 

---

Despite how hard you fight it, when given a moment of respite your thoughts, without fail, turn homeward. You are no longer in Germany, aware of krauts or guns and bullets, but you are a child and the smell of food cooking in the kitchen fills your nose. You are a teenager tripping over the shoes in front of the door, late once again to meet with your friends. 

You are unaware of the world, laying on the hardwood floor with stripes of sunlight shaped by the windows across your bare skin. The window is open, the breeze smells like baked asphalt and grass. A dog is barking. The leaves on the tree in your frontyard shimmer and flash like scales. 

Your mother calls your name. 

Your father laughs. 

Speirs sighs, and you blink your eyes, suddenly staring at the cracked ceiling of someone else’s childhood bedroom. 

Night falls quicker than you’re used to in this part of the world. Candlelight bounces off a pile of silver in the corner and is alight in Ron’s dark eyes. 

He is sitting up, back against the headboard, the blankets around his waist as he stares at a letter he received today. 

You huddle into the quilt, curled up in your side. You trace the lines of his face with your eyes before your attention drops to the letter. There is a bitterness in your mouth you bite back. A loneliness--a longing you cannot control. 

Home. 

You think of your home.

“Read it to me?” When you speak your voice cracks with disuse. You clear your throat before repeating the question once more, only with less confidence.

Ron’s eyes flick to you and he regards you for a long moment before his eyes soften with something like empathy, something like love--and maybe those two things are in practice, the same.

He clears his throat and begins narrating the letter from his mother without much inflection, though in just hearing the kind words of a mother you can pretend to feel the love of one. And with that you close your eyes and slowly, slowly drift to sleep to the sound of Ron’s voice filling the gentle darkness, traveling out the window and into the night--warm like candlelight and soft like the shade of a tree in springtime.

Masterlist | Posting Schedule | War-tober Prompts

[megalony]

There’s my girl

This is my first Peter Dawson imagine from the movie Dunkirk which I am in love with. I hope you will all enjoy it, feedback is always appreciated.

Taglist: @lunaticspoem @butlegendsneverdie @langdonzvoid @jennyggggrrr @rogmeddows @radiob-l-a-hblah @rogertaylorsbitontheside @chlobo6 @rogertaylors-lipgloss @sj-thefan @omgitsearly @luckytrashgooprebel @scarsout @deaky-with-a-c @killer-queen-ofrhye @bluutac @vousmemanqueez @jonesyaddiction @ambi-and-sunflowers @milanosaurus @httpfandxms @saint-hardy @7-seas-of-fat-bottomed-girls @mrsalwayswritex @rogerina-owns-me @peterquillzsblog @im-an-adult-ish @crazylittlethingg @allauraleigh

Masterlist

Summary: (Y/n) goes to Dunkirk with Peter on his father’s boat to save the soldiers but when a fight breaks out, she ends up falling overboard.

Enjoy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"We're going to war."

Those words seemed to spin round in (Y/n)'s head like a needle scratching on a record causing the same lyric to revolve through the air on repeat and (Y/n) couldn't seem to turn it off. Those words just hit her differently for some reason and she couldn't forget them or ignore them.

She knew it was where they were going, of course she did. She knew the moment she got on the boat with her boyfriend Peter, his father and their mutual friend George that war was their destination. They were going right into the heart of the war to save those that were lost and stranded, they were saving those that had no other way to get back home where they belonged. But it didn't feel or seem like they were going into war until now. It felt like they were taking a daring trip out on the water that could envelope them at any second if the tides turned.

But the moment the soldier scrambled over the side of the boat and collapsed in a puddled heap on the floor, it dawned on them all that this was it. They had reached the outskirts of the war and it was only going to get worse from here.

(Y/n) didn't think before she moved towards the man who was dripping water like he was melting on the spot. When his head snapped to look up at her and their eyes locked, there was too much terror and unspoken horror in his eyes for (Y/n) to even begin to comprehend so she decided not to. Her movements were slow and cautious when she reached out for him to try and help him to sit down rather than kneel on the floor like this and the moment he was sat down she moved to grab a blanket. The blanket was made of a rough scratchy material but it would soak up the excess water and keep him a bit more insulated.

Once the blanket was wrapped around his shoulders and pulled tightly around his back, (Y/n) stood up properly and took a few steps back until she was standing next to Peter, not wanting to overwhelm the man.

George came over to him and handed him a steaming cup of tea which he cradled so delicately in his hands like they had given him a bar of gold to protect, but he didn't move to drink any. He was shell-shocked, huddled up in a corner of the boat wanting to watch the waves roll by so he felt safe and no one dared move him if he felt safe where he was.

(Y/n)'s eyes danced over to Peter stood at her side when he quietly slipped his fingers into the groves between her own and gently pulled on her hand, tugging her off the deck and down into the cabin where there was a small kitchen in the corner.

"He needs some space." Peter knew crowding round the poor man when he was in such a state wouldn't be the best idea. Mr Dawson was making sure they were sailing in the right direction, George was keeping an eye out for any other survivors and drifting soldiers they could pick up. It was best to let the soldier have a moment to compose himself out of the way of prying eyes.

Peter leaned his back against the counter as (Y/n) rested her head on his shoulder, smiling when she felt his lips pressing to the top of her head. But they could both feel the nerves radiating off of one another, things were about to change.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(Y/n) locked eyes with Peter as she folded one arm over her chest and started to bite her thumb out of nervous habit.

The man looked like he was about to have a heart attack or let his rage loose whilst still being afraid of their destination. It felt almost cruel to make him go back to the place he had escaped from, but what else could they do? They were here for a reason and one man simply wasn't going to make much of a difference when there were still hundreds upon thousands of men waiting at Dunkirk for a way home.

They had come here to try and they couldn't turn around and go home without being able to say they had tried.

"I'm not going back. Turn it around." There was a laughable smile on his face as he felt like they were playing a joke on him or just messing with him to see how he would react. He had barely made it out of Dunkirk alive, there was no way he could go back and risk his life again, he just wanted to go home.

"We have to go, it's our duty." Mr Dawson was solemn even though his face was grave because he did understand even if he didn't agree.

"What? You're a pleasure boat, not the navy! You're made for weekend sailing not going into war!"

George leaned his weight back onto his hands that were braced on the side of the boat as Peter dragged his nails through his hair, his eyes still focusing on (Y/n) stood beside him, still biting her thumb out of habit. They all had their own opinions but it didn't feel right to voice them. They knew this wasn't a navy boat and they didn't look or seem like a rescue team but if the boys at Dunkirk were as desperate as they seemed, it wouldn't matter what kind of boat they got on as long as it came and found them.

"Alright son, take it easy-"

"No, no turn it around now. We're not going we have to go home!"

The shell-shocked man tried his best to lunge forward and get inside over to the wheel but Mr Dawson was stood in his way and both George and Peter tried to pull him back. They didn't want to hurt him or pin him down or contain him but they couldn't have him trying to turn the boat around when their destination was Dunkirk and they had a job to do.

The man clearly felt like he was under attack because he became very defensive whilst still trying to move and get to the controls. He flung his right arm out at his side and knocked George backwards onto the floor with a huff which caused Peter to stop for a split second to check on George. Leaving the soldier a few seconds to try and get past Mr Dawson once he knocked Peter off of him with another violent shove.

"Now come on son, we can't leave men behind, someone has to rescue them." Mr Dawson managed to push the man out of the cabin and away from the wheel he was desperate to turn but his words didn't have the desired effect.

"I'm not going back."

"Calm down, it's okay, you'll be home by morning and so will everyone else if we go and help them." (Y/n)'s words caused the man to falter for a moment but he spared her one glance before something overtook him, whether it was a memory or a fear, no one was sure but it unsettled him. He didn't want to go back into the face of torture, he wanted to go home into the face of safety.

When it looked like he was about to throw a punch (Y/n)'s way, Peter quickly placed himself in front of her before he lurched over to grab the man's wrist, trying to twist his arm out of the way but it only made the soldier struggle move.

Peter kept a tight hold over the man's wrist and arm and tried to hold his arm as still as possible behind him so he couldn't hit any of them or fight them but it wasn't enough. The soldier managed to knock Peter down to his knees and rip his arm free from the younger boy but Peter's ocean blue eyes watched in fright as the soldier moved much too quickly and unevenly.

No words left Peter's mouth but a look of horror overtook his face as he watched everything happen it what felt like slow motion.

(Y/n) gasped when the man's arm fired into her chest and stomach even if it was unclear whether he meant to hit her or not, just as the boat tackled a rather uneven, large wave that sent everyone's steps stumbling. The rocking of the boat and the man's force pushed (Y/n) back but she didn't realise how close to the side she was until her back forcefully hit the side of the boat. But she had no time to focus on the sudden pain in her back when the boat seemed to capsize to the left and with the side of the boat being so small, (Y/n) found herself falling overboard.

She tightened her arms to her chest, unable to stop herself from screaming as her eyes could only see the red of Peter's jumper before the icy water suddenly surrounded her. For a second or two it was as if (Y/n) didn't know where she was and she couldn't feel the water until her eyes opened and the salt was suddenly scratching at her eyes. When her eyes came into focus despite the salt and the odd sensation of peering through water, (Y/n) could see the side and bottom of the boat through the magenta blue water that was swaying awfully around her.

As soon as (Y/n) noticed the boat slowly becoming misshapen and distant and she realised she was sinking, she suddenly felt how cold the water was. It was as if she had fallen into a bucket of ice and her thick woollen jumper and warm winter leggings were doing nothing to prevent her from the cold that was seeping into her bones.

She couldn't move. The water's icy tentacles had wrapped around her and seeped into her bones until she couldn't move them anymore no mater how badly her mind screamed to move and save herself.

"(Y/n)!" The name tore from Peter's lips before he had a chance to stop himself but screaming her name did nothing to stop her from falling into the water. The thought of detaining the shell-shocked man in front of him vanished from Peter's mind completely as he scrambled to his feet and roughly pushed the man out of the way so he could lean over to see if (Y/n) was floating or sinking into the depths of the ocean.

Peter collapsed down on his knees and leaned over the side, feeling the edge of the boat cutting rather uncomfortably into his lower chest and stomach but he paid no mind to it as all of his concentration was focused on the water.

"She's not coming up." The fear in Peter's voice overwhelmed the urgency he was feeling when he could see (Y/n)'s body under the water but she wasn't becoming any clearer meaning she wasn't rising to the surface yet.

"Peter no!" Both Mr Dawson and George hurriedly grabbed one of Peter's arms each to stop him from diving down into the water himself after her. They couldn't let him dive straight in like that because it was dangerous and the water this far out had a very unkind temperature. But the way that Peter looked up at his father was not an expression that Mr Dawson had ever witnessed before in his younger son.

"She isn't coming up to the surface-" Peter writhed in his father's grip. It was his fault (Y/n) was here, he allowed her to step onto the boat and stay just like he did with George. He let them both on the boat and didn't tell them to leave, it was his fault she was in the water.

"Just give her a few seconds, Peter."

The hesitation in Peter's eyes was clear before he tore his gaze away and looked back down at the water he submerged his hands into. He wasn't going to dive right in but he needed his arms in the water to reach out for her when she did start to come up to the surface so there was something for her to reach for and hold on to.

(Y/n) couldn't decide whether she was starting to float or sink when the image of the boat above her was moving but it wasn't clear if it was becoming distant or just distorted. But the moment her burning lungs in-took a flood of water, it seemed to kick-start everything else and her paralysed body slowly became unstuck. If she weren't in the water (Y/n) was sure she would have been crying in fear, she was fine going in a boat and being on the ocean but being in the ocean was something else entirely.

She wasn't the best swimmer out there and the thought of drowning always scared (Y/n). To breathe in water until she went unconscious and drowned was a terrifying thought and if she didn't blackout she would be awake for several minutes until the water killed her and dragged her down to the depths of the ocean like she was a shipwreck destined for the sea bed.

When a sudden flash of red submerged into the otherwise deep blue water (Y/n) knew it had to be Peter's jumper and she tried her best to reach her arms up to the sky in order to reach for him and her legs kicked out to give her a push up in the right direction.

She felt Peter's familiar hand glide against her own but she wasn't high enough to grasp it properly and the water made it much harder to try and grip his hand that was like a lifeline held out to her. With another kick of her feet, (Y/n) tried to move through the water that just laughed and enveloped around her before she thrust her hand up and felt for Peter's hand.

The moment Peter felt (Y/n)'s hand in his own he deadlocked his fingers around her hand, digging his nails into her skin for added grip when it felt like he was going to lose her. As soon as their hands were secured together, he leaned further into the water until it was smothering his chest and reaching his neck and chin so he could grab (Y/n)'s elbow with his other hand in order to hoist her up to the surface.

It felt and looked like a miracle when Peter leaned up and (Y/n) suddenly broke through the water, with her hair folded back on her head and clinging to her shoulders and a burst of water spluttering from her pale lips that were almost turning blue. Peter's lips curved into a relieved smile that was full of nervous tension when (Y/n) was finally above the water and within his sights again.

There's my girl.

Peter pulled (Y/n) up a bit more before he let go of her hand so he could wrap his arms around her waist to help pull her back up onto the boat again. (Y/n) dug her fingers into Peter's shoulders, reassuring herself he wasn't going to drop her back into the water or let her slip through his fingers as she moved her feet to press them against the side of the boat so she could get up a bit easier.

When her foot slid from the edge of the boat and her frame slipped down, Peter's name escaped (Y/n)'s lips in a choked whimper and she forced her head into Peter's neck as his arms tightened around her to assure her he wasn't letting the water take her again.

Peter could feel her teeth chattering against his neck and her frozen skin was making him shiver and feel the cold but he paid no mind to it.

"I've got you, I won't let go I promise." He whispered the words against the shell of (Y/n)'s ear so no one else would hear. He could feel the panic in her shivering body but he wasn't letting her fall again. He straightened up so he was no longer leaning over the side of the boat and pulled (Y/n) up and over to him.

Mr Dawson and George reached out to hold onto (Y/n) for added precaution so she didn't slip back into the water, a mixture of worry and relief in their eyes when they watched her collapse onto her knees on the floor in much the same way the soldier had done a few hours previous.

The moment (Y/n) felt her knees firmly on the floor she felt tears of relief falling from her eyes before she started to shake. Her hands stayed firmly on Peter's shoulders who was kneeling in front of her and his arms tightened around her when she pushed her face into his chest wanting comfort and to stop herself from choking on the water she had inhaled. Peter tilted his head down so he could press his lips to her hair, breathing in her scent that was now tainted by the saltwater smothering her and he moved one hand to hold the back of her head, keeping her firmly encased to his chest.

"I-is she alright?"

"Does she look alright?" Peter didn't mean to snap and when he looked over at the solider he was curled up in the corner with such sadness in his eyes that made Peter feel guilty.

(Y/n) lifted her head enough to look up at Peter but she couldn't say anything or tell him she was alright because she still felt like there was water in her lungs that she needed to cough up. She knew she was okay and she would be perfectly fine in a little while when the shaking subsided and her breathing felt more natural, she had a lucky escape from the water, all things considered.

A small, tight-lipped smile pulled at (Y/n)'s lips when she felt George draping a blanket around her and Peter who was also shaking but she couldn't tell whether it was because of the water or because she was shaking so violently in his arms.

"She'll be fine in a little while, just like you, son. Peter, take her down to warm up and get a drink."

"Come on, love."

Pushing himself to his feet, Peter kept his arms around (Y/n) and carefully helped her to her feet, noticing the way she was still shaking and looked like she wasn't going to be walking very well or far. (Y/n) kept her arms around Peter just in case her knees gave way beneath her and when they passed the soldier, she gave him a small nod and a smile to let him know she knew he didn't hurt her or mean to hurt her. (Y/n) couldn't have the solider worrying he'd hurt her when it wasn't his fault, he was in shock and they had unintentionally made it worse for him.

The moment (Y/n) felt the small soft bed beneath her in the little cabin room, she felt like she was going to pass out. The shaking in her system seemed to double for a few seconds when she sat down before gradually tapering off until it was starting to become subtle.

Moving her head, (Y/n) leaned her cheek on Peter's shoulder when he wrapped his arms around her and gently pulled her into his chest whilst keeping the blanket tight around her to try and fight the cold out of her system.

(Y/n) took a moment to scan her eyes around the tiny room that on any other occasion would have made her feel claustrophobic but right now simply made her feel warmer and more connected to Peter. Being mindful of the pile of life jackets on the other end of the bed, (Y/n) slowly curled her legs up and rested them on the bed before she laid down and rested her head and shoulders on Peter's lap. She was cautious and slow in case Peter didn't want her to lay over him but his arm instantly laid over her shoulder and his hand held hers whilst his other hand near her head started slowly carding through her hair that was dripping water.

"You're alright, love." Peter spoke quietly before he leaned over her so he could kiss her cheek and tuck his face into her neck. He was thankful they'd gotten her out in time and that she seemed to be okay, he didn't know what he would do if he didn't get her out in time.

[pixelated-pogues]

Yacht Date (r.c)

Requested: Yes, thanks for opening my thoughts to this idea. Thinking about Rafe planning a date like this is so cute, oops.

Summary: People don’t expect Rafe to be the type of boyfriend to plan cute dates, but when it comes to you, he’ll do anything he can to show you how much you mean to him.

Warnings: None, other than the fact that you might need some milk after reading because of how sickly sweet this is.

————————

If you asked anyone what type of boyfriend they thought that Rafe would be, they definitely wouldn’t have guessed that he was a hopeless romantic. He enjoys planning dates, no matter how much it “dampens” his reputation. So when he texted you in the middle of the day, you weren’t all at surprised.

Hey, just so you know, you have dinner plans with me tonight. ~R

Your lips curled into a goofy smile, your eyes rolling at the slight boldness of the text. You shake your head and call him, figuring that you’ll get more information out of him that way.

“Dinner plans, huh? And what would you do if I told you that I already have dinner plans?,” you responded as soon as you heard the call tone cut off.

“You don’t. I already told your mom that I’m stealing you for the night,” he explains matter of factly, the smile he wore on his face evident in the tone of his voice.

“Oh really? Getting my mother involved is a pretty serious offense Rafe,” you joke, standing up from the lawn chair you were seated in, casually strolling along the neatly painted deck beneath your feet. “These must be pretty great plans if you went to her directly.”

“I mean, I don’t want to give myself too much credit but,” he sighed dramatically, earning a chuckle from you. Rafe loves getting praise for the things he does. “It’s going to be a good night.”

“Well, why don’t you tell me what we’re doing and let me be the judge of that,” you hummed persuasively, raising your eyebrows hopefully as you waited for his response.

“Meet me at my house at seven,” he commanded cheekily before the line cut off.

“Rafe,” you stated, planning on pushing him for more information but he was already gone. You rolled you eyes again, an excited smile on your face as you shook your head at your boyfriends antics.

“Who was that, hun,” your mom asked, stepping into the porch with a glass of wine tucked between her fingers.

“Rafe,” you smiled, walking closer to her with a sickly-sweet smile on your face. “Do you know what he has planned?”

“No, I don’t,” she admitted nonchalantly, planting herself in the lawn chair that you had previously been seated on. “And if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”

“Mom,” you groaned humorously, dramatically falling into the chair next to her.

“What? The boy puts so much effort into making sure you’re happy. I wouldn’t dare to be the one to ruin a surprise,” she explained, sipping at her wine casually. You rolled your eyes playfully, laying back in the chair. You fell into a comfortable silence; you mind wandering to the possible scenarios of what your night might look like.

————————

As planned, you pull up to the Cameron residence at 7 o’clock on the dot. He was vague on what you guys were doing so you opted for wearing a cute, but casual outfit that you know he likes. You shut your car off and walked towards the house, only to bump into him as he was walking out.

“Hey,” a wide smile etched on his face as he pulls you into his chest. He presses a quick peck against your lips before dragging you towards the backyard.

“Rafe, what on earth,” you state, laughing at his excitement. “Where are we going?” Your eyes search the yard for any clues as to what was going on but nothing looked too out of the ordinary as he led you onto the dock.

He abruptly stops in his tracks, laughing as you smack against his back in surprise.

“Rafe, what are we doing out here?” You ask, scribing your nose in confusion. He places his finger against your lips, shushing you as his free hand dig into his pocket. A proud smirk forms on his face as he pulls out a key, only furthering your confusion.

“I stole the keys from my dad’s study,” he explains, clearly proud of his accomplishment. “We’re having dinner on the water, baby.” You inwardly coo at his excitement, watching as he steps on the boat before reaching out his hand to help you climb on after him.

“Does your father know about this,” you ask, hesitantly taking his hand to allow him to pull you on after him.

“He has a business trip in Nassau with Rose for the weekend,” he replies nonchalantly. “They left this morning.”

“Rafe,” you warn, knowing full well the amount of trouble he’ll get into if Ward finds out.

“Relax, Y/n. He won’t find out. They’re going to be gone for days and I paid Wheezie to keep quiet,” he promises, staring into your eyes deeply. “It’s going to be fun.” Part of you wants to protest, but you immediately crumble at the look in his eyes.

“Alright,” you submit, smiling as he pulls you in for a celebratory kiss.

“Okay so,” he pauses, turning around to look for something before facing you with a bouquet consisting of an assortment of all of your favorite flowers. You quietly gasp at the sight of them, surprised that he remembered. “Those are for you. I also brought you a blanket and your favorite sweatshirt because you always get so cold.” You wordlessly follow after him as he leads you to the top of the boat where the wheel is. He gestures for you to sit before putting the key in the ignition and excusing himself to make sure everything is set so that he can take off.

He returns a few minutes later, a focused expression adorning his face before being replaced by a content smile at the sight of you. He takes his spot at the wheel, pushing a few switches before turning the boat on and driving it towards the open sea.

Somewhere in the time spent getting to wherever he was driving, you’d gotten up to stand next to him, carrying on in casual conversation as you studied the world around you.

As you’re talking to him, sharing about how much you’ve always loved the idea of being on the open water, he gently pulls you in front of him before retuning his hands back to their original position on the wheel; placing a chaste kiss to your cheek before leaning his chin against your shoulder. You wordlessly lean against his chest; feeling at ease as you take in the scenery.

“This should be good,” he mumbles to himself, one hand cupping your waist as he leans around you to make sure everything is in place to shut the boat off. “Let’s go eat,” he smiles, tangling his fingers with yours to lead you into the living area on the boat. Before you enter, he steps behind you again, now covering your eyes.

“What are you-,”

“Just trust me,” he shushes you, carefully guiding you forward. You walk a little further, Rafe giggling at you clumsily tripping over your feet, before he stops. You open your mouth to say something just as his hands fall from your eyes, revealing the dining area.

“This is so cute,” you gasp, taking in the room. A small trail of rose petals lead to the table, set for two, a bottle of champagne resting in a bucket on the neat table cloth. A few strings of lights hang across the ceiling offering soft lighting in the dark room. You spin around to face him, pressing a passionate kiss against his lips, as your heart flutters in your chest. It’s such a simple setting, but it’s perfect. When you pull away, Rafe gestures to the table, pulling your chair out for you so that you could sit.

“One second,” he tells you, and you watch as he exits the room briefly, walking back with a basket. “I was going to try to cook for you, but I thought you’d enjoy this a little bit more.” You watch curiously as he pulls out a few containers, your eyes furrowing when you realize that he’d ordered food from your favorite italian restuarant. He sets your plates sliding yours in front of you before finally taking his own seat.

“Rafe, you did not have to do all of this,” you murmur, slightly shell shocked by the sweet gestures.

“I know,” he shrugs, a proud smile adorning his face. “I just thought we deserved a nice night by ourselves.”

“Well, I love it,” you admit, smiling at him endearingly. The proud smile on his face only grows at your statement as he reaches to pop open the bottle of champagne, pouring a glass for each of you.

“Here’s to a nice night with my favorite girl,” he raises his glass, winking as you clink your glass against his.

————————

You spend the rest of dinner talking about anything that your mind wanders too. You heart clenches when Rafe’s hand mindlessly takes yours across the table while his eyes gleam with excitement as he talks about the future.

Your cheeks hurt from the amount of time you’ve spent smiling, feeling so content with being away from the distractions on the island.

After you finish dinner, you make your way out into the bow of the boat, curling up on a blanket beneath the stars.

“Thank you for all of this. I really don’t knkw what I did to deserve this kind of treatment,” you murmur, looking up at him after a few moments of silence. “But it’s been nice to get away from all of the noise.” He nods, shifting so that you were both laying on your sides facing each other.

“I’d do anything for you,” he responds, pushing your hair away from your face so that he could look into your eyes. “I love you.” Your hesrt dwells again as you lean in to break the space between the both of you.

————————

You laid out there for hours, just enjoying each other’s company. Sometimes you got caught in conversation and other times you just basked in the sounds of the night around you.

Rafe was in the middle of a story when he looks at you and realized that you’d fallen asleep curled against his chest. He carefully moved out from underneath you so that he could carry you to bed.

He effortlessly hooked his arms under your legs to carry you, bridal style, to the back room so that you could sleep comfortably on the bed. With that, he climbed in bed next to you, curling against your sleeping frame.

————————

A/n: This was supposed to be a headcanon but then I got lost.

I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Thinking about Rafe going over and beyond to show you how much he loves you is kind of everything honestly.

[onmywaytobe]

Dissidia Writeblr March 2021 – Week 4

yes i am ashamed this is so late and so long but thanks to @kiljoytrout i didn't have to come up with like half of this stuff! thanks for taking my boyo and bringing him out of his shell and writing your piece for both of us. as always thank you to @dissidia-writeblr for putting on this event!!

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

When Leo opens his eyes, he finds Zeph smiling at him serenely. The amount of oxygen in his lungs is dizzying. He’s barely conscious as Zeph pulls out heavy black chains and binds his hands together. “These won’t hurt at all,” she says, her pasted-on smile some semblance of reassuring. “They’re just a precaution to nullify any magic or advanced tech you might have.” When Leo doesn’t resist, she adds, “Thank you for your cooperation.”

As if he could fight someone like her. With those wings, and her magic, he’d be ended in an instant. And he doesn’t want to fight back. What kind of thanks would that be for what they’ve done for him? The new sensations in his body are overwhelming, but there is no doubt in Leo’s mind that he has been healed.

He’s never felt like this before. Clear lungs, free of the constant phlegm that plagued him his entire life. No shooting stomach pains, no cramps, nothing like the variety of symptoms he was used to telling him that one of his organs was malfunctioning. He is now at the peak of health. It would take a little getting used to.

Leo barely notices as Zeph leads him into a cell and leaves him there. Leo is glad of the chance to rest, but after an hour or so passes he begins to get antsy. There is so much energy coursing through his body and he doesn’t have anywhere to go. He satisfies himself by looking around the room. There’s nothing to see besides the uncomfortable chair he sits on, its twin across from him, and a bucket in the corner. His nose wrinkles at the sight, but he knows he won’t be in there long enough to need the makeshift toilet. He’s a little hurt that the Chikara would heal him only to dump him in a holding cell, but Zeph said it was all just a precaution.

Precaution or no, Leo wants to make sure he can get out if things go sideways. The chair’s frame is rusty enough that he is able to tug some of the spokes free from the underside. The long pieces of metal are a little on the thick side for what he wants, but they’ll have to do. He examines the lock on his chains, allowing himself a small grin. He needn’t have worried. This would only take him a moment to remove.

Content to wait, Leo twiddles his thumbs until the door to the cell slams open, most unexpectedly. A woman with short, blond hair and dark green eyes runs in, and she’s wearing a soldier’s uniform. Leo raises an eyebrow at the sudden intrusion. “My name is Tess, and I’m here to help you escape.” She unlocks his chains. “Do you trust me?”

Leo doesn’t get the chance to tell her no. The door to the room opens again, and two Chikara walk in with another man, also wearing the black chains. Tess curses under her breath, and golden light starts dancing along her skin like fire. This is enough of a surprise to the Chikara that she is able to pull the stranger away from them and try to take his chains off too. Leo still hasn’t moved from his seat, despite his hands being freed. He’s not a fighter.

The Chikara are still coming for them, and at that moment Tidis arrives. He smirks when his eyes land on Tess. “And one of the rebels returns. Today is my lucky day.” Light and darkness start swirling on his skin.

Tess curses again and pushes Leo and the stranger to the door on the other side of the room. “Leo, Lindy, find Wayne. He’s rescued Warren. He should be going to the hangar where they keep their ships,” she hisses under her breath at them. She pushes them through the door and locks it from the inside.

Leo immediately turns to his companion. “Were you also summoned?” he asks. He would need to know as much as he could about his new ally if they ran into any more trouble. “How do you know-”

The guy gives Leo a cold look, and Leo quiets, falling into step alongside his new friend as he stalks off. Leo is quite shaken by his removal from the cell, and still adjusting to his new body. It made him bold enough to join this stranger on whatever mission he was so intent on. Besides, anything that took him further away from the magic battle was all right with Leo.

The stranger is observing the space around them, taking it in with what Leo could only describe as awe. Perhaps he was familiar with these sorts of things. It would be helpful for someone who knew what was going on to be on Leo’s side. He grimaces, rattling the heavy chains still locked around his arms. Leo notices, patting his pockets for the makeshift lockpick he’d fashioned earlier, and finds it missing. Must have dropped it in all the commotion. He spots an antenna on the wall that would be much better suited and twists it off, making a move to unlock his companion’s chains.

Leo hadn’t said anything, since the other guy (Lindy? Was that his name that Tess had shouted at them?) didn’t want to talk, and now found himself being smacked into the side of the corridor. “What the hell, man!” Leo sputters. “I was just trying to pick the lock on your chains.” He definitely should have explained first. That’s what he gets for trying to be considerate.

“Oh.” Lindy doesn’t apologize, but helps up Leo from the floor and wordlessly stretches out his arm for Leo to have easier access to the lock. After a few twists, the chains slip off easily. Leo keeps the antenna, and grabs one of the locks as well. Never know when these things could come in handy.

They continue walking, and the echo of their footsteps in the silence makes Leo lonely. He misses the comforting presence of Warren. They had been a much more agreeable companion than this Lindy fellow. At least Lindy seemed to know where he was going, his pace measured and sure, never hesitating at crossroads. Leo wondered how he knew, and how Lindy had ended up in the same chains as himself if he was so familiar with the way the Chikara lived.

“Who is Warren?” Lindy asks suddenly.

For a second, Leo wonders whether Lindy can read his mind. If he wasn’t already convinced that this was a dream, he was considering the possibility again. But after his moment of shock, he’s more surprised that Lindy’s even said anything at all, considering they’ve spent the last few hours in complete silence.

“Why do you want to know?” Leo replies pointedly. Why not ask about this Wayne, for instance?

Lindy doesn’t answer, only pausing to shoot Leo a sideways glance. It looks a little too close to sympathy for Leo’s liking. Leo narrows his eyes at Lindy, who of course doesn’t notice.

After another few moments of uncomfortable silence, Leo sighs. He might as well talk to this Lindy person, if only to get him to stop looking at him with such pity. “They were one of the first normal people I met when I got summoned to this place. Got to know them pretty well. We were separated a little while ago though.”

“Oh.”

Leo rolls his eyes. That seemed to be half of this guy’s vocabulary. He was so glad he’d made such an effort. Clearly Lindy thought the conversation would be of some benefit to Leo, but Leo would have been just as content with silence.

They walk on in silence for a few more minutes when Lindy comes to a stop. Leo stares at him curiously as he starts to tap his finger against a sheet of metal on the wall.

“This shouldn’t be here,” Lindy says thoughtfully.

Leo is in no mood to be civil. Apparently this sheet of metal meant more than a human conversation. “Well, it obviously is there, so I don’t know what to tell you.”

Lindy just stares at Leo for one beat with those watery blue eyes, and it’s as good as any death glare; the hair on Leo’s neck prickles. “What I mean is that there should be an entrance here to the hangars, but it seems that they’ve blocked this one up.”

“We just have to take it down then,” Leo says nonchalantly. “It’s just flimsy sheet metal.” He kicks at the metal covering and immediately regrets it. Pain radiates through his bones like an alarm blaring, and he falls to the floor. Lindy looks down at him, expressionless, while Leo groans. “Oww.”

“It’s not sheet metal,” Lindy explains. “It’s probably either titanium reinforced Kevlar, or some otherworld material. You can tell from the lack of sheen that it’s durable.”

Through gritted teeth, Leo manages, “Why didn’t you tell me that before I kicked it?”

Still staring down at him, Lindy replies, “You didn’t ask.”

Eyes watering, Leo takes the hand that Lindy offers with more than a hint of irritation. It was becoming apparent that Lindy did not care one whit for Leo.

Lindy, paying him no mind, is surveying their surroundings. “Give me a leg up,” Lindy says, nodding to a panel he’s noticed above their heads. Leo follows his gaze and understands immediately. He boosts Lindy up on his shoulders. Besides the painful protesting of his ankle, it’s not too bad. Maybe the healing process had made him stronger.

After a bit of tinkering, Leo hears a creak from up above, the weight on his shoulders vanishes, and Lindy’s hand extends from up above to help him up.

“Are you sure that’s stable?” Leo calls, but he’s already taking Lindy’s hand, so he’ll find out one way or another. Lindy doesn’t respond anyway.

Leo cranes his neck around the cramped ventilation shaft, in which both of them are crouching down as low as they can. By the soft indentation in the metal, grooves caused by the unmistakable impressions of knees and hands and occasional banged heads, he can tell that this is certainly more than your run-of-the-mill ventilation shaft.

“This way,” Lindy says, motioning to the left of their loose panel. Leo falls back behind him and the two crawl down the seemingly endless shaft. It only occasionally quivers in a way that makes Leo nervous that it can’t support their weight.

Leo finds himself yawning as they go along. He never thought that getting summoned to another universe would be so tiring, or so dull. Almost in response to his thoughts, he hears a huge bang from the other side of the tunnel.

They both freeze.

“What does that mean?” whispers Leo.

After a beat of silence, the banging starts to get closer. Lindy turns pale.

“It means that someone’s in here with us.”

[365daysoftododeku]

26th December 2019

Author: Karma

________________________________________________________________

Under a sea of lanterns and firework jellies (I see your dragonfly heart take flight, ignite)

“Have fun! Be safe! LINE me when you get home.” Izuku sighs as his friends disappear into the crowds.

Ochako had promised Tsuyu some goldfish, and Kaminari and Iida had a whole date itinerary planned out. The Kendo-Pony-Momo-and-Kyouka quartet were already off on their own double date.

Leaving Izuku as the lonely, singular wheel wobbling down the road. It’s a better existence than the unnecessary third or fifth or even ninth wheel, but being extra always stings at gatherings like this.

Izuku would go home, but there are fireworks to be had, and a surplus of sparklers to light and watch die out.

Heaving the bucket with him, Izuku walks for a long while, until he reaches the old Hachiman shrine that’s leagues away from all the festivities. The worn, faded white torii is settle atop one of the scarce hills in the middle of town, and as such it is always Izuku’s preferred firework viewing spot. He climbs up the grassy incline, clutching his yukata and sparklers close, and slips only once on the wet grass as he goes; he thanks the god of the shrine for the green color of his festival-wear. Finally, Izuku settles well above the line of most buildings, and the world with its busy routines and individual stories passes him by makes him feel small and invisible in the best of ways. His spot, being as far away as it is from the festivities, is completely unoccupied except for himself, and he relishes in, at least, the solitude that the area grants him.

If Izuku weren’t feeling so damn lonely and miserable, he might even feel giddy over the fact that he gets this view to himself.

As it stands, he’s just counting down the minutes until the light show starts.

Start it does, with a few test shots to draw Izuku out of his own head.

The light show is fantastic, as it is every year. Fireworks launch to musical numbers and themes, and two shows even do the same song, a Halloween classic if his American friends are to be believed.

The one that steals his breath, however, is the one set to delicate piano music. Fireworks pop in place, then another, and the effect almost looks like a dragon chasing something in between and around the stars. Firework shells hover and float gently across the night sky, and at one point there are so many of these shells in the air that it seems like a group of fireflies have been unleashed, or like the stars are being brought unto the earth itself. It’s magnificent, it’s mesmerizing, the way the wind blows and curls the smoke around him makes his world feel small and foreign, exotic and the flickers of colored smoke that drift down from the fireworks only add to the mystique of the show’s magic.

Eventually, however, that show ends, and Izuku is left half-listening to the introduction of sponsors and themes for the next group.

Something soft tickles his nose; it seems like one of the parachutes that held the fireworks aloft had come to say hi.

It’s kinda cute, Izuku thinks, it almost looks like a jellyfish. A few bob on the wind in front of him, and he tells them, “A firework jellyfish! That’s what you are!”

As the wind picks up, more of these so-called firework jellies drift downwards toward him, and soon it feels like he’s ended up in some sort of jellyfish field. Some of them still carrying glowing embers and ashes, and the way the small lights from the mirage echo throughout the thin paper makes Izuku feel like he’s opened his eyes to a world underwater in the middle of the day. Lights dance and flicker like candlelight or sunbeams over the thin caps of the firework jellies, and each jelly picks up the light from the next, so that light is everywhere with no definitive source.

It’s only when the sounds of the festival change that he starts trying to escape from the sudden swarm. There’s a snarling nearby that makes Izuku think of the frequent warnings that have been coming about bear sightings, and for one second he’s terrified that one of the beasts has made it into the heart of town.

But as his sight clears and the swarm of jellyfish depart, he sees that the snarling thing is no bear at all. It looks like a flying worm, with a mane of furious red and white hair down its body and teal scales sprinkled in amongst the silver.

It looks almost like one of the dragons of legend.

Izuku hadn’t been aware that a dragon kite had been part of the parade. Or that they had been made so flexible and mobile in the past year.

Something splatters on his cheek, and pieces of paper whap him in the face as the dragon passes over head.

The liquid turns out to be blood, when he drags his fingers through the wetness to examine it, and the papers? Little people cut out of rice paper that take off into the air when he peels them off of him. One of them flutters angrily at him when he pinches its tail to take a closer look. He lets it go in fright, and it immediately soars off after its fellows.

“Ah! Sorry!” He calls after it, but it is impossible to see against the shroud of night.

Izuku peers once more at the blood, and frowns. Was the dragon real? Was it hurt?

Izuku decides, in the small part of his brain not currently occupied with screaming about the existence of dragons, that yes, it must be real, and yes, it must be hurt. That small piece of brain also concludes that it might be the fault of those paper men, and so Izuku hurries to grab his sparklers and lighter.

He sets a handful of them in a fan pattern, and yells for the dragon. “Mr. Dragon! Down here!”

By some miracle or breath of wind, his words are carried up to the dragon, and it arcs into the sky before nosediving at him. Izuku ignites his sparklers and holds them in the sea of papers that trail the dragons, and soon enough, the whole flock is aflame. The dragon hovers behind him and admires his handiwork.

When the sparklers have run their course and the little monsters not but soot and ash in the breeze, Izuku drops the spent impromptu weapons into the water bucket. He stiffens when he realizes that the dragon’s snout is now right behind him, and he can feel breath both searing and freezing through the back of his thin, sweaty summer yukata. His hair stands on end, but after a moment’s stillness, during which the dragon chooses kindly not to eat him, Izuku slowly turns to look into its eyes.

“Wow, even your eyes are two-toned…” Izuku mutters in awe. Because it’s true. Where the dragon’s mane is red and white, where its scales are silver and teal, the dragon’s eyes are brown and blue and striking. All fear is forgotten, even though teeth as big as Izuku’s forearm are hovering near his heart, and instead Izuku chooses to gawk awkwardly at the magnificent creature before him. Even when it opens its maw, the fear does not return, though Izuku isn’t sure if he’s been bewitched or is simply shocked stupid.

“Human.” Comes a soothing voice.

“Uh, ah, yes?”

“You have saved me.”

Izuku scrubs his head, and his hand comes away sooty. “Not really? I just, felt kind of bad that you were being attacked?” A huff of that hot-cold breath has him opening his mouth before he can think his words through. “You’re a dragon, and you can breathe fire, right? Why didn’t you use that to defend yourself?”

The mismatched eyes blink at him. “Because that is exactly what those infernal things were designed to do. I refuse to breathe the fire I inherited from my sire.”

Izuku quickly translates that into normal human speak. “But, but, your father isn’t the one breathing fire for protection here, you are?”

The dragon snorts, and gradually raises its massive head into the night sky, graceful and slow as any swan. “I wouldn’t expect a human like you to understand.” He coils like he’s preparing to launch into the dark shroud around them.

“Wait!” Izuku calls. The teal eye peers down on him. “You’re still hurt. Can I see? I may not know how to treat dragon wounds, but I’m still first aid certified, and I wouldn’t feel right letting you leave without having at least checked out your injuries, and I may not be able to help, but at least you’d know-“

The dragon cuts him off. “Very well.”

Izuku blinks. “Really? I mean, okay. Can you come back down here so I can get a closer look?”

The dragon swoops down once more, obligingly. “You’re a funny little thing, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know, I mean, uh, maybe?” Izuku busies himself with looking at the scrapes and paper burs on the dragon’s snout and behind his head. Some of the redness in his mane is from blood, and with a careful hand, Izuku scoops a small handful of water from his bucket and pours it carefully over the non-wounded but bloody parts. Eventually, the ruff of fur runs clean, and Izuku steps back. “All good, sir.”

“…Shouto.” His voice resonates deep like thunder, and comes out of nowhere.

Izuku jumps a little; they’d been silent for so long he hadn’t been expecting a response. He’d figured the dragon would just leave once he gave the all clear. “Shouto, sir.”

The dragon’s form… gurgles? It bubbles and rolls, and soon the dragon explodes into a thousand paper petals. What’s left is a man about Izuku’s age, with striking red and white hair, and eyes that are equally as mismatched. He stands primly in a kagirinu, and he stares in Izuku in way that can only be described as mystified. His voice, when Shouto speaks, is far less thunderous, but no less soothing and mellow. “How did you come to the spirit layer, Izuku?”

Izuku can’t recall having ever given the dragon his name. “I… don’t know? There were firework jellies and then…”

“Firework jellies?” Izuku sees Shouto’s lips and nose twitch.

‘Yeah? The little caplet things that float down after a firework has gone off.” Izuku feels kind of silly for naming them, now.

“No, no, I understand.” Shouto sighs, looks around, and holds out his arm to Izuku. “Would you… like to be shown around? I can give you a tour before you return to the human realm.”

Izuku looks around for the first time, and takes in the world. It is night here too, and a blood red, full moon hovers overhead, low and heavy and dripping into the shimmering black waters below it. The world is aglow in flickers of candlelight and red festival lanterns, and Izuku can feel the beat of drums and whistles of the flute inside his chest just as much as he can hear them. “Yes, please!”

Shouto holds out an arm. “Then, allow me.”

Izuku takes it delicately, and is immediately swept down into the heart of the town. The crowds milling here feel the same in energy, but appearance-wise differ so much that Izuku would have to be blind and dumb to miss it. If the dragon-human standing beside him wasn’t proof enough that he was in a different world, then the sight of these bird-headed, many armed, and multicolored peoples would certainly be proof. Several greet Shouto, and gaze curiously at Izuku, but they hardly stop to talk.

“You mustn’t stay longer than the dawn, but there’s much to be seen at this time of year.” Shouto whispers into his ear. They’re moving towards the water, Izuku can tell by the way the moon looms closer in all its red glory.

“That’s okay! I have to go back at some anyways, my friends will worry!” They settle onto some pavement with a view of the lake, or maybe it’s an ocean?

“Mm.”

More of the strange people flutter around, in the stalls and streets behind them, on the shore below, across the water. “Shouto, do you know why I’m here?”

The dragon huffs, and doesn’t look him in the eye. “No.”

“Are you sure?” Izuku leans forward to catch his gaze, to no avail.

“No.” The dragon nods to a feathered man who approaches them, who immediately backs away. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“The show is starting.” Drums start pounding in unison rhythm, and they steal the breath from Izuku’s chest before he can continue with his line of questioning. It’s difficult to talk and even think, when the world trembles so under the weight of the percussion. Screaming whistles accompany shrieking burst of wind, and light filters slowly onto the water. Izuku is so mesmerized by the way the warm firelight interacts with the red light of the moon that it’s only when Shouto places a clawed hand under his chin and guides his gaze upwards that he notices where the secondary lights are coming from.

Ships sail across the water, shallow boats with large masts, but instead of being buffeted across the water by sheet sails, lanterns fill the spaces instead. An unmanned fleet of these pour into view, and they swirl once within the waters before heading to shore. As the boats reach the shallows and the ‘sails’ loom overhead, the wood flats morph into animated stick-like men, who pass the masts to waiting people before shambling back into the water.

The men carry their new acquisitions through barely-there paths in the crowds, and as Izuku watches them bounce along the road, embers spark and fly into the night sky.

<img class="mobileimage" src="https://ohmatsuri.com/assets/uploads/reports/003_reh_AkitaKantoTop.jpg" width="60%" height="60%" />

“Come on.” Shouto tugs him to his feet, and they join the ensemble of people who follow the impromptu parade down the road. As they move, music joins the layers of drums and flutes, and soon the lantern sails start swaying in time. The crowd’s moving gains a cadence, and soon the dancing begins. Izuku is dazzled by the swirling colors, but a hand on his elbow draws his focus back to his companion.

“May I?” Shouto murmurs, chin tucked into his chest.

Izuku feels the swaying at his back, and wants nothing more than to join the dance. “Please.”

Shouto takes Izuku’s hand in his, puts the other on his waist, and twirls them into the flow of parade, and Izuku decides to rely on the dragon to guide him and his steps.

Fireworks, small and intimate, launch into the air just overhead of the crowd, and when the cinders float down they don’t burn at all. The contrast of the dark ash and the glowing flickers in Shouto’s hair, with his multitude of colors, only heightens the brightness of his appearance, and the entrancing vision has him stumbling over his feet.

Shouto, thankfully, has quick reflexes, because he pulls the two of them immediately from the crowd and into a side alley, allowing the milling dancers to move past them seamlessly. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, you’re fine. I mean, I’m pretty. Wait, no, you’re pretty fine- Gah!” Izuku’s tongue trips, and he sinks to the ground in mortification.

Thankfully, the dragon doesn’t appear to be offended, because he joins Izuku on the ground, his lips twitching.

“You’re laughing at me.” Izuku moans.

“Perhaps a bit.” The dragon’s eyes crinkle. “You think I’m pretty, huh?”

Izuku groans, and curls into himself further. “You’re a bully.”

“I’m not hearing a no.” He rises to his feet. “Come on, there’s still a bit of time before you have to head back.”

Izuku peeks out of the shelter of his arms, to see a hand stretched out to him; his face lights up even as a grin splits his face. “Ugh, fine.” He remains hidden until he can school the grin off of his face, but the redness won’t go away.

The hand tugs him to his feet when he grasps it, and then the two of them move back into the crowd. The sails have long since moved on, but their light bounces back across every surface, so that the world remains aglow in fire. The dance has shifted, to something light of foot, and now there’s a layer of people dance through the sky above the ground. It makes for quite a sight, and also for a less crowded street.

Shouto must follow his gaze, or at least see the way Izuku can’t look away from the partiers above them, because he asks, “Do you want to go up there?”

Izuku feels his breath catch. “Could we?”

Shouto nods. “Give me a moment.”

Wind tugs at Izuku’s curls, gentle at first, then fiercer and fiercer, until the two of them stand in the midst of a gale. It steals the gravity from them, and weightless Izuku is carried into the sky. Some of the revelers around them shout in outrage, but others seem to enjoy the sudden onslaught of wind. The music swirls in the air around them, just as audible as ever, and Izuku wonders if there’s magic even in the sound here.

“Once more?” Shouto says. Izuku turns back to him, and his silly, hopeful eyes. Like Izuku can answer any other way.

“Of course.”

They dance their way across the night sky, above everyone else, the music and the sparks and the lights chasing their footsteps through the stars. But all too soon, the wind is letting them down towards the earth, and Izuku realizes that they’ve returned to the spot where Izuku first met Shouto.

Looking around, he can see that the eastern sky is indeed gaining some pink light, so distinct from the festive glow of the earth below them.

They delicately alight on the hill, Shouto still supporting him from their dance. They separate, and Shouto slowly, physically turns him, so that Izuku’s back is facing him. “Turn around, face the sun. Put your back to this world.”

Izuku does as he’s bidden, but he can’t just let the night end like this. “Will I ever get to see you again?”

A heavy breath whooshes over his hair, though it’s not enough to hint at a fully sized dragon. Which means that Shouto really is just that close. “I wished that someone would come. That they’d look at this droll, boring world of mine with new eyes and see as something other than my prison. Thank you, Izuku.” Something soft presses into his hair, and Izuku can hardly dare to hope. “Stand on this hill, the night of the full moon, face the west, and we may meet again. Now, close your eyes.”

Izuku does so, thankful that this isn’t a goodbye. That there’s more to come.

The sound of rustling paper returns, and when next Izuku opens his eyes, he’s back in his own world, facing the quiet of sunrise.

The kiss in his head burns and freezes, and Izuku knows it will follow him around until he next sees Shouto.

He can hardly wait.

[melodiouswhite]

Oh No, Emotions! Ch. 07

7. Training with the flame-headed Cassandra

Edwina came to the training room and warmed herself up for half an hour, just like her agreement with Luise had been.

First the mandatory stretching and breathing exercises, then she moved on to sit-ups and that stuff.

“Alright”, she muttered, “If I don't manage a hundred sit-ups, I'll go fucking bal-”

“Don't overdo it before your combat training”, a foreign female voice interrupted her.

Edwina shrieked in shock and whirled around.

In the door frame stood a red-haired woman, who couldn't be much older than her. She was tall, freckled and overall pretty damn attractive.

“Whoa, calm down! Sorry, didn't mean to startle ya!”, the newcomer cried, lifting her hands in appeasement.

“What the fuck?”, Edwina gasped and clutched her heart. “You couldn't have knocked or something?”

The redhead ignored the reproach and asked: “Are you Edwina Hyde? The new lodger?”

“Uh, yes?”, the brunette comfirmed cautiously.

The other woman grinned: “Awesome! I'm Alma Donovan, Luise's youngest sister! So good to finally meet someone remotely my age! And a girl too!”

Oh. So that woman was going to be her training partner today? And she was really related to Luise? She didn't look anything like – oh wait, she had the same ice-blue eyes.

“Wow, you look just like I pictured you!”, the red-haired woman

Edwina scoffed: “What, you pictured a 4,8ft short, slight brunette with acid green eyes?”

Alma grinned. “Believe it or not, yes!”

The brunette laughed: “Either you're joking or you're crazy.”

“The latter. But that's the lot for people like me. But enough talk! Let's start training! After all, that's what we're here for, huh?”

Edwina sure had a fun training session with the youngest sister of her landlady. The redhead didn't treat her with kit gloves and she liked that. And the taller woman was certainly skilled at street fighting.

“For someone who didn't practise much in the last two years, you're pretty good. You sure can hold your own.”

Edwina shrugged: “Well, I learned it pretty early. And you?”

“Learned from Aoimoku and a professional street fighter. Aoimoku trained me in martial arts, so I'm pretty good at that too. But the freedom of street fighting just suits me more.”

“What kind of martial arts?”, Edwina asked curiously.

Alma shrugged. “A variety of stuff. I forgot the names of all the arts.”

They sat down on a bench. “But enough of that! Tell me about yourself! How old are you? What's your full name? What way do you swing?”

Edwina frowned. They had just met! This was way too intrusive!

“You go first!”, she demanded.

Alma beamed, obviously all too happy to talk about herself.

“Okay, so my full name is Alma Alexandra Donovan, I just turned 19, I like knives, dancing and getting into bar fights, I hate guys who don't leave me or my girls alone, I'm a lesbian – what's the matter?”, she asked worriedly, when the small brunette's frown deepened.

“You're not going to flirt at me, are you?”, she asked worriedly.

Vigorously, Alma shook her head. “Of course not! You're pretty cute, but Luise told me why I shouldn't do that. Besides, I already have three girlfriends.”

Edwina stared at her. “Three girlfriends?!”, she repeated incredulously.

Alma grinned and nodded. “Damn right! I'm in a polyamorous relationship! They're the best girls in the world for even putting up with a maniac like me! But now it's your turn! Fess up!”

“… Fine. I'm Edwina Aloise Hyde – but don't call me Aloise or you can say goodbye to your knee-caps – I'm twenty, dunno which way I swing, I like this place (so far), I hate people in general, was a street rat for half of my life and spent two years in prison for manslaughter and some other stuff.”

“Only two years?”, Alma queried.

Edwina nodded. “Mild circumstances. I wasn't quite eighteen yet, the manslaughter was in self-defence, I turned myself in and confessed everything. Then I tried my best to behave in prison.”

The redhead nodded appreciatively. “Smart of you. All that stuff usually lessens the sentence.”

“I know”, the brunette replied, “I read about it at some point. They would have caught me anyway. I saw surveillance cameras all over the place where I killed that fucktard.”

“Bummer”, Alma muttered, “Why did you kill him anyway?”

“Tried to rape me.”

“Huh. Happened to me too. I just castrate those fuckers.”

Edwina looked at the taller girl. “Have you ever actually been raped?”

“Nah. Close, but I always was able to hold my own. Stuff like this is why Luise forced me to train. And you?”

“Countless times.”

“Oh shit.”

“Yeah.”

Alma sighed: “Well, if my mum was still alive, she'd probably sympathise with you.”

That made the brunette curious. “Why?”

The other ruffled her own flaming hair. “You probably know that Luise is only my half-sister. We have different mothers. Mine was a prostitute. So she'd probably understand you.”

A sharp, red-hot pain went through Edwina's chest, as if she was being struck by lightening.

“Did she love you?”, she asked quietly.

Alma blinked in surprise. “Of course she did! I still remember her sweet smiles, her lullabies, her warm, soft arms, her gentle voice, how she always smelt like coffee and dark chocolate and how she called me her little fairy. But when dad died, my older half-brother took all the money he left to mum and me and ran off, Devil knows where. That broke mum's heart and she died too. I was only seven at that time, so Luise took me in.”

Now Edwina was hurting even more.

She'd been abandoned right after birth. Her mother hadn't wanted her. And Edwina knew for certain that she had almost been aborted twice.

And this other mother, a prostitute no less, had cared so much for her children, that the betrayal of one had caused her to die of heartbreak?

“Hey! What's the matter? Why are you crying?”, Alma asked bewildered.

I … I'm crying?

“I'm not crying, you're crying!”, Edwina choked, trying to fight back the other tears that wanted out.

Alma muttered a curse, before wrapping her hands around the brunette.

Edwina hated this entire situation.

She hated body contact, hated that a girl one year her junior was seeing her cry, hated that her memories about her childhood had been brought up like this …

But everything hurt, it felt like she was falling apart, and she now she was left alone, she would-

Another two pairs of arms joined Alma's.

When Edwina looked up, she recognised Luise and Henry looking at her with great worry.

“Edwina, what's the matter?”, latter asked gently.

“What happened?”, Luise demanded to know, looking at Alma.

“I don't know”, Alma replied helplessly and stepped back, “I just talked about my mum and she started crying!”

“You idiot!”, Henry cried in outrage, “How could you assume that it wouldn't hurt her to hear that you don't have mother issues?!”

“I'm not an idiot!”, she snapped back. “Besides, she asked me if my mother loved me or not! Was I supposed to lie?!”

“Enough!”, Luise said sharply. “Henry, don't call my sister an idiot. She's not. But Alma, he does have a point. You shouldn't have brought your mother up. Now away with you two. I will not have my sister and my friend start a catfight right here and now. This situation needs a professional.”

Edwina felt Henry's large hand stroke her hair once more, before he let go reluctantly.

They both left and the brunette allowed the Lady's arms to encircle her fully.

It hurt Luise to hear the girl's anguished wailing and to feel her quaking in her arms.

Poor child … she deserved so much better.

“That's right”, she whispered, “You can cry. Let it all out. Shhhh …”

Edwina cried harder and buried her face in Luise's shoulder.

This went for about half an hour, before the brunette's sobbing finally quieted down and her trembling ceased.

“Feeling a bit better?”, the blonde asked kindly.

The young woman sniffed and nodded.

“Come on, sweetie”, Luise cooed and dried Edwina's face with her handkerchief. “Here, wipe your nose. You're a mess.”

“Thank you”, the brunette croaked and wiped her nose.

“Anytime, dear”, she replied gently and pat her shoulder.

They were of the same height. Luise enjoyed having someone in her house she didn't have to look up to.

“I still don't get why you're so nice to me”, Edwina mumbled.

Luise smiled. “Because you need someone to be kind to you. And because, despite all of your hardships, you somehow managed to keep your good heart.”

“It has never brought me good before”, the girl muttered bitterly.

“Well, now it does”, the blonde chuckled. “When I first met you – when you tried and failed to rob me-”

“Don't remind me!”, Edwina groaned, “That was, like, super embarrassing!”

“-I looked into your mind. I saw so much anger, grief and pain. But it took me only a second to dig deeper and there I saw the selflessness and kindness you buried under your protective, tough shell.”

“You think I'm a good person?”

The girl's voice was hoarse.

Luise nodded.

“No one has ever told me that before …”

“Well, then it's about time that someone did, isn't it?”, the blonde asked gently.

“What were your parents like?”, the brunette wanted to know?

Luise frowned. “Don't make me hurt you more than you already are.”

“… So they loved you.”

“Yes, but rarely showed it. They were mostly really strict and pushy.”

That wasn't a lie, but it wasn't the entire truth either. Her parents had shown their love through small, simple gestures, but outright tenderness had been nigh taboo (at least in front of others).

“I got the supernatural thing from my father. He was even stricter than my mother.”

“On a scale from one to ten?”

She snorted: “Ten. It was like growing up in an army barrack!”

The brunette looked at her with huge eyes. “You're exaggerating.”

“No, I'm not!”, Luise laughed. “If I didn't get up at point 5am, he would strut into my room with a bucket of ice-cold water. He'd bark at me to get up, then give me one more opportunity to do so, before I got soaked! Five more minutes? Not an option in my family!”

“Seriously?!”

“Yep. Bad grades were no option either.”

“So you had to excel in everything?”

“Yes. Problem is I suck at higher mathematics and art. My father didn't care about art, but my mother was so disappointed.”

Edwina frowned. “One can't be good at everything, that's stupid.”

“I know”, Luise agreed, “Completely stupid. But with a high position come high expectations. I wasn't raised like a fairy tale princess, wearing pretty dresses and jewellery, dancing and playing with golden balls all day. That's not how being an aristocrat works. Being famous is like walking on glass. You can afford only so many mistakes, before your reputation is ruined for good. And without a reputation to speak of, you're practically powerless.”

Edwina considered.

The older woman's explanation sounded perfectly logical.

It had never occurred to her, that there could be more to it. All she had seen were those rich people drive around in expensive cars, wear priceless designer clothes and go to fancy celebrations with dolled up, fake-looking models at their arms.

“Some people are like that, it's true”, the blonde confirmed distastefully. “I hate them. They're spoiled brats who think they can do whatever they want. But if they suddenly became poor, they would be completely unable to take care of themselves.”

Edwina scoffed.

The countess continued: “You became homeless at the age of ten, went through the worst things and you're still here. Most of my rich acquaintances wouldn't last a week in the streets of London.”

“True”, the brunette muttered, “But you know … sometimes, I used to meet people who weren't the scum of earth, before they became homeless. There was a group of elderly professors skulking around Covent Garden. Smart people from rich families and now they have no home and must beg for each penny to survive. And other people who worked hard and still have nothing.”

She teared up. “It's not fair!”

“I know”, the older woman said gently. “I don't think it's fair either.”

“But you're rich!”, Edwina cried out in frustration, “You live in the poshest area in London in a luxurious villa, you employ over several dozen servants.”

The therapist nodded patiently. “Yes, that's true. But trust me, I know the meaning of the word 'suffering'. I learned it the hard way. When I was ten, I was kidnapped and used as a labrat in an evil scientific facility. They wanted to research the hell out of my abilities. That was awful.”

Holy shit!

“Then it happened again, when I was seventeen.”

“Whaaat-”

How could her parents let that happen?!

Luise, obviously knowing what she was thinking, raised her hands. “It wasn't their fault. First time I was kidnapped, while playing in the garden with our dog. Second time on a Ladies' restroom in a shopping mall. Both times, where it was possible for them to keep an eye on me. My father got hysterically overprotective after the first kidnapping, but of course he couldn't follow me into the restroom. And my mother was dead at that point.”

Oh … yeah, that makes sense.

“Then I got another hard lesson on life, when I was eighteen. That one was my fault though.”

“Really?”

“Yup.”

That got Edwina curious. “What happened?”

The old woman laughed: “Well, I was extremely explosive after the second kidnapping and on top of that I was going through my bratty phase. My father tried to be easy on me, but at some point, he just got fed up with my attitude. So he decided I should get a big piece of humble pie and learn a lesson about life and the world at the same time.”

“After being kidnapped twice?!”

“Yeah. To his defence though, I was a sheltered child at that time and knew nothing about the life of poor people. He got fed up with my bitchiness towards everyone and dared me to last a month on the street, with no access to my bank account or credit card.”

Edwina snorted. “And you agreed to that?!”

“Being a hot-headed, inexperienced 18-year-old, yes. So he took my phone and credit cards and threw me out. That was legal, because I was an adult and he technically did no longer have to provide for me. Of course I quickly found out that, even with the help of my training and abilities, life on the street was super difficult. It was pretty mind-blowing to me, that I suddenly wasn't a privileged blue-blood anymore. Just another street rat with nowhere to go. No better than all the others.”

“Did you last a month?”, the brunette asked curiously.

Luise snorted. “Kinda. I came crawling back to dad after a week, but he refused to take me back, until he could be sure, that I had learned my lesson. It baffled me how hard street life really is. I wouldn't have made it through without help, but all these people had done it for months, years or even decades! They were the ones who helped me and I saw that they were no different from you or me or the others.”

The ex-convict grinned lopsidedly.

She knew nothing but misery, but it still wasn't hard to imagine how stunning it must have been for a spoiled, rich teenager to no longer be spoiled and rich.

Still though …

“And your father did nothing all the while?”

“Oh, he watched over me from afar. He thought I didn't notice, but I totally did (he was never good at being sneaky). If I had got into real danger, he would have interfered.”

The countess said that with such certainty, that Edwina couldn't decide, if she was relieved, envious or sad. That woman's parents might have been really crass, but they had loved her in their own crazy way …

“Let's no longer talk about that”, Luise cut her off gently. “Let's see if the other two are still arguing out there. Knowing them, they totally are.”

Edwina needed a moment to understand whom the blonde meant, but then she suppressed a giggle.

“They don't like each other that much, do they?”

“Oh, they get along just fine”, the other laughed, “They're just the kind of friends, who bicker at every opportunity.”

The young woman grinned. Oh yes, she knew that kind of people.

Just like Luise had predicted, Henry and Alma were still bickering like five-year-olds.

She rolled her eyes, before speaking to them: “Good grief, still at it? How old are you two again?”

They shut up immediately and turned to the two women.

Alma began: “Henry said that I never think before I speak, even though he himself-”

“Well, you said, that-”, Henry interrupted her, but then Luise interrupted him in return.

“Shush! I do not wish to hear any of your nonsense this early. We will talk about this later.”

She shook her head. “Really, you two are lucky I love you so much!”

“I know”, Alma chuckled, “We certainly are, Lulu.”

“What did I say about calling me Lulu?! For god's sake, Alma, I'm fifty years old!”

“Oh sorry, I forgot … Lulu!”

Luise threw her a mock-glare and Alma stuck out her tongue in return.

Henry turned to Edwina. “Are you feeling better?”, he asked gently.

The brunette nodded and smiled. “Yeah, much better.”

Then she turned back to Luise and Alma: “One thing I wanna know, though. You said you are sisters.”

“That's true”, they answered in unison.

“So, if Luise has paranormal abilities … do you too?”

Alma nodded. “Yup. Precognition. That means I can predict the future.”

“Sounds pretty cool”, Edwina stated.

The redhead shrugged. “It can be. Not always, though. A lot of my visions are unpleasant. Then there is another nasty catch.”

The brunette tilted her head. “A catch to an ability you were born with?”

“Yep. Almost no one believes my prophecies. They strike me at random and to other people it sounds like I'm rambling, when in fact I mean to warn them, give them advice or cheer them up. Just yesterday I told my oldest girlfriend to take an umbrella with her, because it was going to rain. But the sun was shining, so she didn't believe me. Needless to say, she was completely soaked, when she came home.”

She huffed in frustration. “Maybe I should become a weather forecaster. Perhaps more people would believe me then.”

Luise didn't need Alma's prophetic abilities to predict what would happen next.

“So … I don't know, if I will be an exception in that regard …”

“You won't”, Alma deadpanned.

The small brunette scratched her head awkwardly.

“Okay, still though. I know it sounds corny as fuck and you probably get that question from a lot of people, but …”

Luise threw her sister a warning glare, before she could interrupt again.

“… Will I ever find true love?”, Edwina asked shyly.

Alma laughed: “Yes, but I don't need to be a prophet to know that.”

���She's right”, Henry agreed, “You're a loveable person, Edwina. You will find someone who will treat you with the respect, affection and care you deserve.”

“I can only agree with the other two”, Luise confirmed with a smile.

The twenty-year-old blushed and sputtered like no tomorrow.

“Seriously though”, the redhead continued, capturing everyone's attention. “Your soulmates are just waiting for you to find them, even though they don't know it yet.”

“Several?”, the brunette echoed confusedly. “But who-”

“I can't tell you that”, Alma replied, “My visions aren't that clear. And like I said, they strike me at random.”

Should I tell her, who it is?

“No”, Luise responded telepathically.

Meanwhile Edwina was frowning at Alma. “I don't believe it”, she said simply. “No offence.”

“None taken”, the teenager relented graciously, “I knew you wouldn't.”

Sure enough, Edwina's thoughts were speaking for her statement: Several people loving someone like me?! Impossible! That's fucking ridiculous!

Luise shook her head. That young girl would need an ego boost once they were done here.

Finally, it was Henry who relieved the awkward atmosphere.

“Let's not stand here in the hallway like a bunch of idiots. I'm sure everyone has better things to do.”

“Like what?”, teased Luise, “Your husband and mine are at work, you're on your holidays, my first client won't be due until 2pm, Alma's date with her three graces won't be until noon – until then you should better freshen up, young lady! – and Edwina has no duties to attend to at all.”

“Uhm …”

“Let's train once more!”, Alma suggested eagerly, “Let's fight and kick the awkward out of each other!”

Edwina grinned. “That works for me!”

“Sure”, Luise consented, “Give me just a minute, I still have to wear that dress later.”

She dashed off and returned less than five minutes later in a judoka suit.

“Alright!”, she said with a shit-eating grin and cracked her knuckles, “I'm ready to kick your collective behinds!”

The other women grinned back. “Challenge accepted!”

Henry couldn't help but being a little intimidated by how belligerent the three were.

“Not mine, please”, he begged, “I'll be more than content with being a spectator.”

He might have been comparatively fit for his age, but he was a poor fighter. Not to mention how vicious Luise and Alma could get during their training, especially when they used weapons …

“What's the matter, Harry”, the latter taunted, “Are you chicken?”

That hurt his pride – he wasn't chicken! – but he kept his cool.

“ No, but I'm a doctor and a scientist, not a fighter. And I'd rather still be able to move later, thank you”, he retorted.

“At least do the warm-ups with me”, Luise compromised.

Henry considered. He knew he wouldn't get away with just sitting there, but some warm-ups wouldn't hurt. Hopefully.

“Fine.”

He quickly regretted it. Not only, because he had much more trouble than Luise in the exercises. He got distracted very quickly, when he looked up once to see what the two younger women were doing.

Edwina and Alma were practising street fighting and martial art techniques.

And god, were they good at it!

Both seemed to be in perfect control in their bodies. It was as if they were gliding through the air. Like two hummingbirds. Just with the intention of overpowering the other.

It didn't seem like fighting at all.

It seemed more like a dance.

“Henry, are you still with us?”

Luise's voice startled him back into reality.

“Huh? O-oh, yes, yes, I'm present! What's the matter?”

Luise was looking at him strangely. “You just sat there like an idiot and stared at the two girls over there. Their training really entrances you, doesn't it?”, she added teasingly.

Caught red-handed, the doctor blushed bright scarlet. “I … I … it just looks so …”

“So expressive? So raw and powerful?”

He nodded awkwardly.

“Well, I can't blame you”, Luise laughed and clapped her hands. “Girls! I'm good and ready! And you? Are you ready to lose?”, she teased.

“Hah!”, Alma cried, “If anyone loses, it's you old woman!”

She mock-gasped and clutched her heart. “Look at this audacity!”, she cried, “Such language towards her own sister! Oh, it's so on, you two!”

Luise started and quickly proved, that she hadn't lost her touch just yet. She needed less than ten minutes to overpower the two younger women.

And still she stood up and noted: “Hach, I have to practise more again, I'm out of shape!”

“Out of shape?”, Edwina echoed incredulously, “You defeated us like it was nothing!”

“Well, it was my advantage, that you two were already exhausted. And I do have the power of experience on my side. Besides, I just warmed up.”

She helped them up and turned to leave. “That was fun. But now we should shower, since-”

“Aw, but I want to do sword training! I haven't worked off all my energy for the morning just yet!”, Alma whined.

Luise rolled her eyes and whipped her smartphone out of her pocket.

Why does she have her smartphone in the pocket of her sport suit?, Henry wondered.

Then she dialled a number, said something in Japanese and put the phone back.

In suspiciously short time, a small Asian woman in a black kimono appeared. Aoimoku, the Japanese handmaid.

“Your little sister wants to sword fight”, Luise told her.

Aoimoku responded with a coy, innocent smile that could only mean one thing: she was ready to kick arse.

“Also”, Luise continued, “I don't think you've met my new lodger yet? Aoimoku, this is Edwina Hyde. Edwina, this is Kurogawa Aoimoku, my handmaid and second youngest half-sister.”

“Konnichiwa, Hyde-san*”, the Japanese greeted politely and bowed.

Henry mentally facepalmed. Couldn't that woman at least put some effort into greeting English people in their own language?!

Of course, Edwina was confused. “Uhh … hi?”

The Japanese's ice-blue eyes widened. “Ah! Gomennne** – I'm sorry! I don't notice when I speak Japanese sometimes! Hello, Miss Hyde! Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise”, the brunette finally answered awkwardly.

“Don't worry, Aoimoku is very nice and friendly-”, Luise assured her.

Henry sighed: “Isn't that a trademark attribute of Japanese people?”

The handmaid giggled, obviously flattered.

The noblewoman glared at him sharply. “I wasn't finished, you twat!”

“Sorry, sorry!”

“-But you should know that she has the ability to make herself invisible. And she likes to play pranks. They're harmless, though.”

Aoimoku laughed awkwardly, but didn't try to justify herself.

Edwina snorted: “You mean the “this house is haunted by a ghost” variety of pranks?”

“Pretty much”, Luise, Alma and Henry answered in unison and chortled.

“Don't laugh at my expense, while I'm still here!”, Aoimoku huffed. “I'll make you pay for this!”

Then she took on a professional expression and handed the keys to her mistress.

Luise thanked her and unlocked the other training room.

Edwina's heart made a leap, when she caught a glimpse of the training room she had seen two days before.

“Can I watch?”, she blurted out.

The other three women turned to her, blinking.

“I won't touch anything, promise! I just want to see how you do it! Pleeeeaase!”

She made the cutest puppy eyes she could muster. Because, come on! It was sword fighting! Like hell she would miss that!

Luise rolled her eyes, but she smiled. “Fine. I guess I can't stop you.”

“YAY!”, the brunette cheered and beamed at the others.

The four exchanged fond smiles, before entering the big training room.

It was just like Edwina remembered. Too bad she had to stay in the background, while the other three women unlocked the cabinets and each chose a sword.

The brunette wondered, if they always regarded the weapons with such fascination, before using them for combat.

But then they charged at each other and her mind was captivated.

She stood up to see more, but Henry put his hand on her shoulder.

“Stay back here”, he said, “Once they got the flow, they're absolutely vicious in their sword fighting. It's so brutal, you'd never guess that they're just training.”

Five minutes later it was apparent that he hadn't been joking.

Luise, Alma and Aoimoku were moving like flashes, the clashing of their swords the only noise in the room. Aside from their breathing and occasional battle cry of course. They didn't just use their swords. They fought with their entire bodies.

Edwina could hardly follow their faces, but they looked so fierce and concentrated, as if they were actually fighting a deadly foe. Every move seemed to be perfectly masterful, enough to make all those martial artists pale in comparison.

“Wow”, she marvelled.

Henry nodded. “Compelling, isn't it? Aoimoku stars in martial arts movies sometimes, but most of the time, she's Luise's handmaid.”

“Who has a handmaid in the 21st century?”, Edwina questioned.

“Well, what can I say?”, Luise piped up through the fight, “I'm extra like that.”

Then the small blonde backed away. “That's enough for today, girls! I suggest that we all freshen up. Thank you for your time, Aoi, you can go back downstairs. Alma, you can use my bathroom and go first. Hurry though, I want to take my shower before lunch. And where do you think you're going with that sword?”, Luise added sharply, when the redhead attempted to sneak away with her weapon. “I thought I said something about any of my weapons leaving this room.”

“Oh come oooooon, Luise!”, Alma whined.

But the German shook her head. “No.”

Aoimoku did the same.

Alma looked at Henry, but he just snorted: “Don't expect any support from me! I would never trust you with any weapon out of Luise's sight!”

“Spoilsport”, she grumbled, but put the sword back in the cabinet, where it belonged.

Edwina laughed.

Good to know that the Countess wasn't only apprehensive towards her, when it came to handling her weapons. That was fair.

---

*Konnichiwa, Hyde-san - Japanese: Hello, Ms. Hyde

**Gomennne - Japanese: I’m sorry

[scripttorture]

What torture could I have a character use if they only have access to their victim for a short amount of time, want to cause a lot of pain for an extended period afterward without leaving an obvious mark of torture, and have to pass it off as some type of "routine procedure" or "test" because they're being watched by someone who would not approve of torture, but is morally grey enough to let a bit of roughness slide? I was debating some kind of irritant or injection, disguised as being a (1/2)

(2/2) “routine medical procedure” however I think it would leave a mark on the skin & I was looking for something more along the line of clean torture for others to look at & dismiss as the character overreacting to it because there’s nothing/hardly anything showing up visibly. In this scenario the torture is taking place to instill fear. Kind of a “even if you think you’re safe because other people are watching, we can still hurt you” kind of thing. (This ask probably sounds really creepy…) 

Ithink we’ve safely established that my threshold for ‘creepy’is a bit different to most people. :)

Thebit that really gave me difficulty here was passing it off as a testor treatment.

You’reright that injections of most irritants would leave marks, but thesemarks wouldn’t be permanent and could probably be dismissed. Thesort of redness and swelling this would most likely cause can bepassed off as something else very easily because a lot of medicalinjections cause exactly the same redness and swelling. For somevaccinations it can be a positive sign, showing that the immunesystem is responding. They’re also symptoms of very common skindiseases and some allergies. Insect bites can look similar.

ButI’d hesitate to use injections this way because this is moreskilled and more high tech than most torture. (This said one of mysuggests for a torturous treatment involves injections even if inthis particular case they’re easier to administer-)

Thereare a lot of things I can think of that would fit the ‘test’ ideawithout the time limit. Generally the sort of scenario you’redescribing makes me think of clean beatings and aggressive use ofrestraints justified by the ‘rebelliousness’ or ‘disobedience’of the victim in an institutional setting.

Restrictingthe victim’s food and water intake is a possibility and requires nodirect contact between the torturer and the victim. Just instructionsto the right people. Whatever shape, age or physical condition thevictim is in the torturer could probably find some way to justifymessing with what they eat and drink on ‘medical’ grounds. Thevast pseudo-scientific diet industry would help the torturer herebecause it can be used to make severely restricted and unsafe dietsappear ‘healthy’. The US government actually used the dietindustry to justify starvation in Guantanamo.

Thetorture itself is long term and causes long term pain but the contactbetween victim and torturer is minimal.

Allof the other things that are coming to mind were used as ‘treatments’at one point.

I’m….basicallythinking of historical ‘shock therapy’, cold shock, insulin shockand electric shocks.

Iamgoing to talk about electricity. I think it could fit what you’reafter perfectly, but I have misgivings about using it in this contextbecause…while I think it could fit in this story it would lookextremely superficially similar to many of the patterns/tropes Iadvise against. Not apologist ones but…things that are inaccurateand pervasive in pop culture without actually encouraging torture.

SoI think I’ll start by talking about cold shock treatment.

ModScix on ScriptLGBT talked about this a little bit here.

Idon’t know a lot about this practice in terms of homophobiaspecifically. Rejali talks about it briefly in the post-war period assomething that was used as an attempted treatment for ‘shell shock’(which usually means PTSD but can refer to other conditions too).

Itessentially involved forcibly dunking someone in ice water (water at0oC,sometimes maintained by periodically adding ice). The head wasn’tsupposed to be submerged but the body could be strapped into icebaths for several minutes. In torture scenarios freezing water isoften applied for hours at a time. Prisons generally use showers,though buckets and exposure to the weather are sometimes used.

Rejalidoesn’t really focus on this much. I get the impression it was morecommon at the beginning of the last century then in this one andRejali’s focus is on the present day.

O’Marais muchmore useful when it comes to cold shock. He quotes a lot of researchon the effects of immersion in cold water as part of his moredetailed discussion of waterboarding. In fact, if you can afford toand you want to use cold shock, I’d recommend picking up O’Mara’sbook WhyTorture Doesn’t Work.I think you’d find it very helpful.

O’Maragoes into a lot more technical detail about this process but thebasics of it is this. If a person is suddenly immersed in cold water(especially the chest and face) they have a very fast physiologicalreaction to it. They gasp. They start hyperventilating. Their heartrate slows then rockets up. The change in blood pressure and wherethe blood is being directed to (the body’s core functions becausethe body thinks it’s drowning) can cause disorientation, confusionand sometimes fainting. This all happens in around 15 seconds.

WhenI say ‘can cause’ I want to be clear about the context of thoseresponses.

Inwilling volunteers who knew what was going to happen and had thephysiological process explained to them in advance, before being putin chest deep 11oCwater for 60 seconds disorientation and confusion was reported insome volunteers. In the same set up when the physiological processwasn’t explained two volunteers fainted. All of these people werecalm beforehand, knew what was happening and did not believe theirlives were in danger. It is highly likely that confusion,disorientation and fainting would be more common if the victim didn’tknow what was about to happen and genuinely feared for their life.

Historicallythis was used to ‘treat’ PTSD and a host of other mentalillnesses or perceived social ills. The idea was that a ‘shock’could reset the body’s nervous system to a healthier norm.

Inthe case of cold shock there’s no evidence that works.

Buta villainous character couldprobably argue that it was a ‘treatment’ based on outdatedresearch. They could also claim that they were testing the victim’sreflexes or the nervous system response that underlies this process.It doestechnically show that the victim’s breathing and heart rate arefunctioning as expected. But that could just as easily be done byasking them to run on the spot.

There’salso a niche ‘health’ movement that claims regular immersion incold water is good for you. I have honestly not looked into theseclaims in any detail so I can’t make a judgement on their accuracy.But a lot of things that can be positive in a consensual context withunderstanding of the process are torturous without informed consent.And health movements have been used to justify torture in the past.Usually without the consent of the organisations involved.

Whencold shock has been used in prison contexts the victim is usuallystripped and forced to stand in a cold shower for hours. In this caseI’d suggest keeping the character fully clothed because the actualimmersion/splash of water is going to be so short lived. If thecharacter is clothed their clothes will soak up the cold water andthey’ll continue to be uncomfortable (or possibly in pain dependingon the water temp) for several hours afterwards. If the charactersuffers from chronic pain, such as joint pain (possibly due to otherclean tortures) this would probably exacerbate that pain.

Therewouldn’t be any lasting marks.

Insulinshock was a ‘treatment’ used historically on a similar principal.That ‘shocking’ the system would cure mental illness.

Itbasically meant injecting insulin and inducing hypoglycaemia.

Ifthat sounds dangerous…that’s because it is.

Symptomsinclude confusion, memory loss, dizziness, shaking, heartpalpitations, sweating, coldness, nausea, headaches, pins andneedles, blurred vision and lack of coordination. In extremelylow-sugar states people can have seizures or lose consciousness. Andnot all of these symptoms will show up in every case for everyperson.

Howfast symptoms set in is highly dependant on the dose, the individualand the type of insulin used, some kinds act faster than others. Thetorturer would need to be reasonably careful with the type and doseso that the character doesn’t end up in a coma. After consultingwith ScriptSpoonie (you can find them here: https://scriptspoonie.tumblr.com/) a sensible time frame for symptoms to startbecoming obvious is 45-90 minutes after the injection.

Insulincan be relatively easily administered because it is sold ineasy-to-inject packaging with pre-measured doses. With the labeltaken off the torturer could probably pass the injection off assomething else. The symptoms wouldn’t manifest until much latermaking it easier to dismiss the victim’s claims that the tortureris to blame- especially if they’re suffering from a degree ofconfusion.

They’dfeel absolutely wretched until their next meal when the symptomswould suddenly fade. Which would probably also make it easier forpeople in authority to dismiss them as ‘faking it’.

Insulinshock has no therapeutic value and while insulin isan essential medicine like any other medicine it can be dangerous.This scenario is essentially an overdose of an unneeded medication.

Itwould also probably be incredibly frightening because the victimdoesn’t know what these symptoms are or why they’re happening.And they’d feel pretty sick for quite a while following theinjection.

WhichI think brings us to electrical shocks.

Iusually hesitate to suggest electricity in a medical orpseudo-medical context for a couple of reasons. The first is there’sno evidence of the type of ECT machine usually depicted in torturescenes ever being used to torture. They’re too big, complicated andobvious. The second is that there are people out there who find ECTgenuinely helpful for their conditions and the continued linking ofit to torture doesn’t help them access treatment.

Inthis case however electrical torture really stands out as apossibility. It’s can be clean. It can cause long term pain andelectricity hasbeen used to treat a variety of medical conditions (with varyinglevels of success).

ATaser or stun gun doesn’t really work in the kind of scenarioyou’re describing because they’re designed to….basicallytemporarily knock out the connection between your nerves and muscles.And, for the reasons I described above, I don’t think an ECTmachine would be a good choice.

Ithink what I’d suggest in this case is making up a fictionalelectrical device based on electrical muscle stimulation.

Inthe real world these devices are used by athletes and in certainkinds of physiotherapy to encourage muscle growth, regeneration orsimply to prevent muscles dying when patients can’t get as much usefrom them just yet. They produce a low level of electricalstimulation that isn’t painful and leaves no marks.

Obviouslythe real device doesn’t fit what you want for the story. Butpassing off a different sort of electrical device- something thatcauses pain and massive muscular spasms, as the same ‘therapeutic’idea could work for what you have in mind.

Thetrouble with this as a suggestion is that…..it’s too easy tothink that the device and scenario is real and I think it cansometimes be difficult in fiction to stress the fictional nature of aparticular element. If we lived in a world with greater understandingof torture generally and electrical torture in particular…I’d bea lot more comfortable with this.

I’dapproach this by stressing that the machine is supposedto cause mild muscular spasms and that in this case the machine iseither adjusted or faulty, the spasms are much more intense. Youcould also describe this as a treatment that is usually done when thepatient is anaesthetised, in the same way that ECT is now conductedwhen patients are unconscious. (It’s done this way so it’s lesspainful and distressing for the patient). I’m not sure that coversall the necessary ground, a lot is going to depend on how you writeit.

Electricaltorture, of a kind that causes muscular spasms, causes lastingmuscular pain as well as the pain of the shock itself. It’s usuallyconducted when victims are restrained and small (or indeed large)injuries caused by spasming against the restraints are common. Inextreme cases victims have broken bones. This sort of electricaltorture could also cause burns on the skin at the point of contactbut doesn’t necessarily. There’s increased risk of heart failureand seizures, which can be fatal. There’s also a pretty high chanceof the victim biting off their own tongue, torturers would generallyuse gags when there’s a risk of spasming to prevent this whichincreases the risk of the victim suffocating.

Ifthe torturer can persuade other people that this is treatment they’dlikely restrain the victim (probably to a hospital bed) and putsomething in their mouth. The victim could sustain small cuts andbruises being restrained.

Theactual injuries from electrical torture vary hugely with the typedevice. In this case if you’re inventing a device you can decidewhat you need for the setting. Which is muscle spasms but no burns.With softer, looser restraints broken bones are less of a risk thoughthe victim might still get a broken jaw biting down on whatever is intheir mouth.

Shockingsomeone who has been given a pain killer or an aesthetic looks prettymuch the same as shocking a conscious person from a distance. Acombination of neglecting to administer a painkiller and musclerelaxant plus the usually harmless nature of the device could be usedto undermine the victim’s story. Especially if there is a workingdevice as well as a faulty one, meaning that other people could beundergoing the ‘same treatment’ without complaint.

OverallI think this is an interesting scenario. It certainly stretched mycreativity but hopefully I’ve given you enough options to pick whatyou feel works best for the story. Remember that the misgivings Ihave about particular techniques here don’tmean you should rule them out; they mean that if you choose to usethem you should be aware of the potential pit falls and implicationsthat come with them.

Ihope that helps. :)

Disclaimer

[ninasikorawrites]

Chapter One

The rain tapped its curious fingers on the glass that surrounded her, yearning for the feel of her skin but instead colliding with the clear roof above. She stood there in the thick, green air of the glass house, head tilted back with a small smile, listening to the wild midday downpour raging around her.

Her ash brown curls were weighed heavy with the ten minutes of rain she had trudged through before she had spied this place. The pastel blue of her work shirt had turned a bright azure with the drenching and lingering drops ran down her arms. They coalesced at her fingertips, leaping to pool gently at the pavers beneath her bare feet.

Her shoes, cheap and uncomfortable, dangled from her hand, taken off barely five minutes into her impromptu walk home. The grass at the bank of the road infinitely more comfortable than their worn soles. An odd lump at her hip the only evidence of her socks, stuffed deep in her pocket.

She shivered, the memory of the cold outside still prickling at her skin. Her breaths were haggard from her run across the expanse of lawn, the shelter of the glass house having beckoned to her as she had walked down the side of the far road.

The storm had taken Eleanor by shock. The early afternoon sky had been bright as she had set out, the sun high in the unmarred expanse of blue. The darkness rolling in with the clouds had been another misfortune to add to the list that had made up her already shitty day. Still, she couldn’t help laughing, arms out by her sides ready to embrace the life she had begun to carve out for herself. The feeling of freedom, though exhausting and apparently quite wet, was worth all the misfortune it had cost her.

It was worth the forty-five-minute walk she had been in the middle of when the storm had hit. Worth dealing with the unreliable rust bucket that the ad hidden in the back of the newspaper had misleadingly called a car. Worth every blister on her feet, worth the ache in her back from the monotonous back and forth across a peeling linoleum, hands laden with cherry pies and fry ups.

All of it was worth it, a price she’d pay ten times over to have her future finally uncharted before her. A feeling she suspected was joy swelled in her chest. It expanded up into her throat and down into her belly, buoyant and heavy all at once.  

“Ha!” she exclaimed at the bright lilies growing at her feet. The true recipient of her smug exclamation too far away to hear it.

Thank fuck for that.

Her mother was on the other side of the Irish Sea, and that was still not far enough away.

Lillian Reid was probably in one of her cream pantsuits, pristine and uncrinkled, hair perfectly coifed in a severe bun and man-eater red lipstick touched up to perfection. None of those things made Lillian Reid a villain.

No, it was her actions that did that. Her appearance just happened to match.

Eleanor’s oldest memory swam into the forefront of her thoughts. She had been three, stuffed casually into a dog crate and left in the basement in the dark while her mother entertained upstairs. Once the cocaine had worn off, three days had passed and Eleanor needed to be rushed to hospital for severe dehydration. She had barely survived.

Marta, the cleaning lady, had found her and taken her to the local A&E. She was fired for her troubles and slapped with an NDA by Lillian’s lawyers. At least she hadn’t been rough housed into silence like Dorothy had been.

The matronly cook had tried to take Eleanor away, the bruises on her chubby toddler arms and legs causing the woman too much pain to ignore. Eleanor had spent less than 24 hours with protective services. Dorothy could barely walk when she left their Knightsbridge home. Her left leg had dragged uselessly across the marble hall as she limped out of their lives.

Suddenly Killmouth, with its little rocky beach and single main street, didn’t seem far enough away. The pokey little seaside town had seemed so safe when Eleanor had first driven through, exhausted and dirty from her desperate directionless drive. The only destination she’d had in mind was “away”. A hand-painted sign above the out of place hardware store had beckoned her.

“Room for Rent, cheap and clean”.

The O’Leary’s, a kind elderly couple, had taken a shine to her upon their meeting, even directing her to the Abacus Diner in St. John’s Bridge, a larger town up the coast.

A larger town that had a chain supermarket and a local school but definitely no bridge. They did have a dusty old video store though, that made Eleanor feel like a time traveller whenever she went in. Which was every one of the three Fridays she had spent there, an end of the week treat.  

Faye, the woman who owned the Abacus, had given her the same look Mr. and Mrs. O’Leary had. Pity mixed with a sort of approving respect that only women suspected of running away from their abusive husbands seemed to get.

Eleanor didn’t have a husband. She did have the bruised cheekbone back then though. One she certainly did not get from running into a door.

Whatever misconceptions the middle-aged woman had about Eleanor had worked in her favour. That afternoon had found her wiping down the wooden beads that ran over the dividers between each booth, the name sakes of the place. The promised pay enough that she wouldn’t have to be thrown out of her room when the pennies she’d saved over the past year inevitably ran out.

She was an independent woman. At twenty-three, she was only a few years late to this independence schtick. That filled her with pride.

Shaking off memories of her mother, she ran her fingers over the greenery around her. Lush and so alive. She strolled down the corridors the growth created, letting the colours and smells around her bring back the sense of freedom she had begun to cultivate. The air felt thick with humidity and she pulled it into her lungs, its layered scent bombarding her senses. The sound of the thunderstorm rolling over her made her feel even safer, ensconced away from the bruised sky and heavy rain.

Before long she found herself at the end of the glasshouse, the roof curving down into the earth, forming a semi-circular sunroom. Heavy peonies grew around a plain bench, their fresh scent a balm on the air. Her legs tired from her earlier shift and impromptu walk, she sat down to wait out the rain, her chin soon drifting slowly to meet her chest.

***

He still wasn’t used to the echo his steps made as he walked through the empty house. A snort escaped him at his word choice. This place resembled more of a hotel than a home, the comfortable word ridiculous when juxtaposed with his stately surroundings.

Dean still wasn’t used to the vastness of the dilapidated Burbell House. His mother and father had refused to move out of their sweet little home in Douglas, a choice he had understood, but he had been sick of being under their feet. No longer needed like he’d once been, he decided on moving halfway to Dublin when his great uncle Henry had carked it. It had seemed like a brilliant solution at the time.

He’d quit his bartending gig at the local pub, another in a string of dead-end jobs, sick of the same drunken bastards that swarmed there each night. The thought was that he’d renovate this shell of a manor with his savings and sell it on. Stop living without a future and maybe go back to university. Get a real job. It wasn’t too late.

He winced at the idea of restarting his degree, the thought of being in his late twenties surrounded by eighteen-year-old’s stinging like crazy.  

Pulling himself back to the task at hand, not one to get ahead of himself, he heaved the stinking curtains more securely into his arms. The lopsided front door creaked as he swung it open and the rental skip he had hired as soon as he’d arrived came into view.

Three days into his grand plan, the doubts had begun to surface. The roof leaked in the master bedroom, there were doves roosting in the attic and a swarm of ants had set up keep in the great kitchen. That wasn’t to mention the doors that stuck, swollen with water damage, the peeling wallpaper and the mouldering windowsills. Last night a tile in the shower had nearly conked him on the head.

This place was a death trap.

The glasshouse was it’s only saving grace. His doddering uncle had loved that place at the rest of his estate’s expense. Dean remembered hours spent there as a child, before life got in the way of their family visits and before aunt Pen had passed away.

Henry had never been the same after that, mom and dad finally stopping their visits when he had started to truly lose his mind. Their concern for their children’s wellbeing, his and his younger sister Lacey’s, overpowering their concern for Henry himself.

Twice his parents had bundled Lace and him up, unceremoniously dumping them with their grandparents whilst they set off to talk some sense into his aging uncle. Plans to sell up that old house and move him closer to the rest of their family had floated above his head at the dinner table the nights coming up to their departures, their voices too tense and rushed for his young ears to understand them fully. Both times his parents had returned frustrated, having been thrown out by the old man, who refused their help.

Over the years they’d learned to forget about the bitter bastard until a phone call had delivered the news. The estate had passed onto him, Dean, and him alone. He had been shocked, angry, but when he had seen the glasshouse upon his arrived it had made sense. Lacey had been uninterested, and Mom and Dad had stayed indoors enjoying the grand halls and whiskey.

It was Dean that would sneak out, find Aunt Pen, already old and frail, tending lovingly to her gardens. He remembered looking up once, hands deep in the moist dirt with the old woman’s instructions guiding him to do what she could not. His uncle stood there, watching them with the oddest mournful expression, not uttering a word before he abruptly turned away. Leaving them undisturbed.

That anger he had first felt at the outcome of the will had boiled through him, his sister passed over and his parents forgotten. It had settled when he had realised he could fix it, patching the house up and selling it on, splitting the money fairly. It was another part of the reason he’d packed up his things, tossed them in the back of his truck and travelled all this way. The main part, if he had to admit it to himself.  

But fuck, he had a long way to go.

The moulding curtains billowed through the air as he tossed them into the rental skip, the sound disturbing the evening quiet. The earlier rain had threatened to turn the huge metal container into a stinking swimming pool, the curtains hitting the water with a wet slap.

He wiped his hands on his dusty jeans and cross his arms over his chest, taking in the burning sunset from the front of Burbell. The light was thick in the air, fresh from the thunderstorm that had rolled through earlier. It burnished the lawn and glanced off the glasshouse, blinding him.

Without much thought he wandered forward over the lawn, the open air sweet in his lungs after the hours he had spent working in the looming house behind him. Three days it had taken him to patch up the major holes and to start clearing out the furniture and coverings that were only good for kindle. He felt grime all over his skin, his white t-shirt (a stupid choice) more a miserable sort of brown now that it was the end of the day. After the depressing state of the house, he just wanted to be surrounded by life. Life that wasn’t pests and vermin.

The humid warmth of the glasshouse enfolded him as he shut the door. He closed his eyes, shoulders relaxing at the exotic smells around him. Nostalgia for times that were easier, before life had taught him lessons, flowed through him. Lessons he hadn’t been ready to learn. That’s what this place held for him. Nostalgia.

The light turned from a burning gold to a sleepy navy as he wandered the aisles of ferns and shrubs and flowers. Everything around him a lazy blue rather than green.

He stopped in his tracks, nearly falling over a wayward root at the sight of the woman curled up on the sunroom bench. He froze, shock dousing him like burning fire. Scared to even breathe, he took her in.

You can keep reading The Girl in the Glasshouse here

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[darknessfactor]

Avocadon’t, Maybe?

A/N: I hAD TO

Based on this quote.  Ignores the Ragnarok post-credits scene.

They were aiming for Norway.  They didn’t hit Norway.

Or at least, that’s what Thor cheerfully tells him when Hulk finally cedes control back to Bruce.  Apparently it’s only be three days this time, and Hulk was mostly content to spar with Valkyrie when he got bored.  Then their ship had started to hurtle towards Earth, and then they’d crashed, and Hulk claimed boredom before shrinking back down to Bruce.

“If we didn’t get to Norway,” and Bruce doesn’t even know why they’d wanted to go to Norway in the first place, “then where are we?”

Korg pops out of nowhere, and Bruce nearly jumps out of his skin - one, because what the hell, and two, because the only other person he knew who was capable of that was definitely not a tall rock person - and says, “The nice fella I just talked to said we’re in some place called New Zee-land.”  

Bruce drops his forehead onto his knees and starts laughing.

Thor isn’t very thrilled when he sees exactly where New Zealand is in relation to Norway, but he cheers up slightly when Bruce explains that it’s where Lord of the Rings was filmed.  

“An excellent tale of your people,” Thor praises.  “Except the elves, they’re pretentious pricks.”

Bruce catches Valkyrie’s eye, and gives a very deliberate cough.  Valkyrie hiccups.

At any rate, their crash won’t have gone unnoticed.  They need to figure out where in New Zealand they are, and they need to find out where civilization is.  For now, they seem to be out in the jungle, and while they have plenty of food on the ship, it won’t last forever.

Bruce immediately volunteers to try to find a town.  Korg got vague instructions from the guy he’d talked to, but looking at a map, Bruce thinks he can pinpoint where it is.  Valkyrie volunteers as well, claiming that she’ll be protecting Bruce, but as soon as they’re on the road, Bruce gives her the side-eye.

“You just want a drink,” he accuses.

“What?  Noooo,” Valkyrie says.  “Well, yeah, but not just that.”

Bruce shrugs.  “’S okay.  It’s refreshing, to be honest.  You’re one of the few people who doesn’t treat me like a ticking time bomb.”

Valkyrie startles him by laughing.  “What?  You and Hulk, a ticking time bomb?  Yeah, right.  You’re both fucking teddy bears, you are.  Hulk’s just a bit of a bigger teddy bear.”

Bruce raises an eyebrow, unsure what to do with that mental image.  “Thanks, I guess?  You should probably realize that humans are a bit more, uh... fragile.”

“Yeah, I guessed that after you broke your neck to get Hulk to switch with you.”

Bruce snorts, but concedes the point to her.

There’s a goat, tied to one of the posts holding up the town’s sign.  It’s called Ono.  It seems appropriate.

There are a few stores, and a few places to eat.  Valkyrie makes a beeline for the liquor store, in her Sakaar leather-clad regalia.  No one gives her a second glance.  It’s Bruce who draws more confused looks, probably because he’s once again dressed in Tony’s clothes and really wishing he wasn’t.

He ends up following Valkyrie into the liquor store, only to find her arguing with the owner over prices.  That’s when he remembers that none of them exactly have any human money, and he sighs.

“Val,” he calls, and she spins around, looking confused.  “C’mon, we’ve seen what we needed to.  We should head back.”

She opens her mouth to argue, but something about his expression must convince her, because she follows him back out the liquor store and into an Internet cafe where he can use the phone that Thor gave him.  He breathes a sigh of relief when he discovers that Tony has kept his account open, and manages to get some cash from the disgruntled teller at the bank.

“Here,” he says, shoving half at Valkyrie.  “Don’t go too nuts over it, okay?”

“Sure,” she answers, thumbing through it with a frown.  “By the way - ‘Val’?”

“Valkyrie’s more like a title than a name.”

“Val.”  She says it with the air of someone trying a new kind of food for the first time.  “Well my real name is shite, so I’ll take it.”

While Valkyrie is buying as much booze as she can (Bruce doesn’t have the heart to tell her that it probably won’t affect her), he manages to use some of his so-called ‘awkward charm’ (named by Natasha) to get information from some of the townsfolk at the local coffee place.  All their gossip centers around the jail, where their first criminal in over twenty years is being held.

“What’d they do?” Bruce asks.

Dan, who’s had a few too many shots of espresso, leans forward and half-whispers, “Stole seventeen of Harry’s avocados, would you believe it.  Seventeen!  Looked like fucking Santa Claus, she did, carrying that thing over her shoulder.”

Bruce is sorely tempted to tell the man that he’s sharing a body with Hulk, and has been spending the last two years on an alien planet.  He decides to let Dan marvel at their avocado thief, however.  

Two minutes later, the town sheriff comes into the coffee place and orders drink with three shots of espresso, before turning to Bruce with an irritable glare.

“Your friend Val’s locked up,” he says.  “Ned down at the liquor store says she assaulted him?”

Bruce sighs.

Valkyrie is in the process of becoming best friends with her cellmate by the time Bruce manages to get the teller to withdraw enough money to cover bail.  He’s pretty sure that the teller’s opinion of him has plummeted down into the negatives, and it doesn’t help that his current outfit belongs to a self-proclaimed asshole.

“I’m Tony Stark,” he mutters, and has the insane urge to giggle.

The deputy sheriff pops her chewing gum in his face when he asks to see ‘Val’, before grabbing the keys and trudging over to the cells.  Valkyrie is in the midst of howling with laughter at the story her blond cellmate is telling, thudding her fist against the ground and only making the floor shake a little.

“Someone was nice enough to post bail, Val,” the deputy says, unlocking the cell and opening the door.  

“Hey!” Valkyrie snaps, holding up a hand.  “Story’s not over, don’t interrupt.  Rude.”

“So then,” the blond continues, and Bruce’s heart nearly stops.  She’s facing away from him, so he can’t see her face, but - 

“Then, Steve turns around and looks at me and just says - completely deadpan, like, you would not believe the deadpan this guy can pull - ‘I thought there’d be more ass’.”

Valkyrie starts laughing again, hard enough that there are tears streaming down her face.  The deputy is standing at the open cell door and has taken out her phone, scrolling through what looks like Tinder.

“Well, I guess I’m off, but I’m very happy I got to meet you,” Valkyrie says.  There’s a little tilt to her voice and Bruce has to think about it for a second, but - yup, Valkyrie is definitely flirting.  “Maybe you wouldn’t mind if I came back and visited after your trial?”

Natasha - because it has to be Natasha, he’d know that voice anywhere - flirts right back.  “Mm, yeah, I wouldn’t mind.”

Valkyrie shoots her a wink before she saunters out of the cell.  “Hey, Bruce,” she says, clapping him on the back hard enough that he stumbles.  “That didn’t take long.”

That catches Natasha’s attention, and she spins around in her cell, finally giving him a good look at her face.  He’s startled by the change - she looks like she’s aged ten years instead of the two since they’re seen one another, with dark circles under her eyes and wrinkles around her mouth.  But her eyes still carry the wicked glint he’s familiar with, even when they’re round with shock.

“Bruce?” she says, her voice cracking.  Her composure returns almost immediately, and she smirks at him.  “Channeling you inner Tony, I see.”

Bruce winces.  Valkyrie’s good humor has abruptly vanished, and her gaze is moving between the two of them, assessing.  “Can we maybe not do that?” he asks.

Natasha’s smirk falls from her face.  “Alright,” she says.  She nods at Valkyrie.  “It was nice meeting you, Val.  Please, do come visit.”  Her attention turns to the deputy sheriff in a clear dismissal.  “So - what’s for lunch today, Ella?”

Bruce is half-dragged out of the station.  He and Valkyrie make their way down the street until they leave town, heading back to their ship.  He still can’t shake the whole shell-shocked feeling of seeing Natasha again.  It’s like a bucket of ice-cold water, but he can’t deny that it brings back the longing with a vengeance.

Halfway back to the ship, Valkyrie gasps.

“Shit,” she says.  “You’re hung up on her!”

Bruce would like to disappear now.  That sounds nice.

“And she’s hung up on you!  Great, there go my chances.”

“Wouldn’t discount yourself just yet,” Bruce mutters.  Natasha’s had two years to move on.  It’s the smart thing to do.

“Well, obviously there’s only one thing to do,” Valkyrie says, her voice hardening.

“Yeah, get back to the ship and figure out how we’re gonna feed thousands of hungry - “

“Break her out of prison.”

“ - Asgardians - Valkyrie, no, that is not what I said - “

As it turns out, once Valkyrie gets an idea in her head, she apparently just... doesn’t hear any protests against that idea.  She finds Thor as soon as they get back to the ship, hurrying away as Bruce asks weakly, “She could’ve broken herself out, so why hasn’t she?”

Thor, of course, is overjoyed by the prospect of seeing another teammate of his.  He’s even more excited at the idea of breaking her out of jail - never mind that the reason Natasha’s in jail could be important, Bruce knows that much at least - and in spite of the fact that New Zealand is a small country and they don’t have very far to run if they bring the local law enforcement down on their heads.

Loki takes one look at them, with their heads bowed together, and walks away, muttering to himself.

At first, Valkyrie and Thor try to come up with some kind of plan.  Bruce suggests paying Natasha’s bail.  They both dismiss his idea.

“You could just let Hulk smash the place up a bit,” Valkyrie suggests.  Bruce can practically feel Hulk perk up at the suggestion, and is reminded that Hulk missed Natasha as well.

“I don’t think that’s the best idea?” he hedges.  

“Hulk was last out for three days,” Thor says, clapping Bruce on the shoulder.  “I say Bruce should get three days as well.”

“Seems fair,” Bruce agrees.  In the back of his head, Hulk grumbles, but concedes.

In the end, Thor and Valkyrie give up on a plan.  They just decide to go into the jail, smash up stuff up, grab Natasha, and leave.  Hopefully before Ono decides to come after them with pitchforks.

The trek back into town takes half an hour, and this time all three of them draw stares.  Bruce shifts uncomfortably under the scrutiny as they make their way to the sheriff’s station, though he notices that the looks Thor gets are actually appreciative.

Of fucking course.

Thor bursts into the police station with a grin, says, “Hi, we’re here to get our friend,” then marches over to the cell and rips the door off.  The deputy blinks at them and then says to Thor, “Can I get a Snapchat with you?”

Natasha makes a show of dusting herself off as she leaves her cell.  She catches Bruce’s eye.  He mouths, “This wasn’t my idea,” at her.  Her mouth quirks in amusement.

Valkyrie looks thrilled.  “Wow,” she says, looking Natasha up and down.  “Not only are you, like, wow, but Thor says you’re one of the greatest warriors on the planet.  Nice.”

“You keep talking but all I see are biceps,” Natasha teases back, eyeing Valkyrie just as appreciatively.

Valkyrie preens.  “Yeah, I know.”

Thor finishes taking selfies with the deputy sheriff, and heads over to envelop Natasha in a hug.  Natasha hugs back just as tightly, smiling with genuine warmth at Thor.  

“Why are you in prison, anyway?” Thor asks her.

“I stole some avocados.”

“Jesus,” Bruce mutters.  “I thought they were joking.”

That’s the moment the sheriff shows up, with an actual gun this time, and starts shooting at them.

Loki takes one look at who came back from Ono with them, and promptly disappears.  Bruce almost snickers.  

Almost.  Because somehow Thor and Valkyrie have given them the slip, leaving the two of them in one of the corners of the camp so that they can... what?  Talk it out?  Bruce isn’t even sure where to start.  Ultron still feels like yesterday for him, but Natasha...

Before he can say anything, however, he finds himself wrapped up in her arms.

“I’m glad you’re safe,” she murmurs in his ear, before pulling away.  “Tony and I didn’t know... we couldn’t figure out where you were.  Less surprising, since you were on another planet, but... I was worried you’d been captured somehow.  With the Accords and everything, it’s dangerous out there.  For people like us.”

Bruce has no idea what the Accords are, but they don’t sound good.

“I’m glad you’re safe too,” he says.  “What’s with the hair?  And why were you in jail for stealing seventeen avocados?”

Natasha snorted.  “I’m on the run.  Again.  Most of the Avengers are, except Tony.  And Rhodey, I think.  A disguise seemed like my best bet.  Though this is actually the third time I’ve dyed it.”

“It looks good on you.”

“Thanks.”

They lapse into silence after that, during which time all of Bruce’s pent up feelings rise to the surface again.  He still doesn’t know where to start - it doesn’t quite feel like he missed her, but at the same time, he has missed her.  Does he say that?  Does he talk about what happened on Sakaar?

None of those things, apparently, because the first thing out of his mouth is, “You still haven’t told me why you stole a bunch of avocados.”

“Dip.”

Bruce pauses.  “...what?”

Natasha shrugs.  “I was hungry.  I wanted dip.  I was out of money.  I stole seventeen avocados so that I could make dip.”

“Bullshit.”

“Avocados are a super food.  What’s so hard to believe about that?”

Bruce shakes his head.  “And you just let them take you to prison?”

Natasha shrugs.  “This time was for a dumber reason.  It’s not as bad as last time, when I got caught spray painting buildings in Russian.  Or the time before that, when - “

“Have you just been... shuffling yourself through jails?”

“...maybe.”  Natasha pauses, thinks about it for a minute.  “I might’ve been a bit reckless.”

“You think?” Bruce mutters.

“Also, the town was called ‘Ono,’” Natasha adds, sniggering.  “Too good an opportunity to pass up.  My mug shot will be on the wall in their sheriff’s station for all eternity.  Like, ‘Ono, Natasha was here’.”

Bruce wonders if he’s fallen into some kind of fever dream, but something about the terrible pun and her casual attitude towards being in prison strikes him as definitely being Natasha.  And in that moment, the ache of missing her fades, like they’ve never been apart.

Natasha notices.  “What’s that smile?”

“Nothing.”  Bruce reaches out, pauses to give her time to move, and takes her hand.  “I’m just really happy you’re here.”

[theburglcr]

“Finders keepers, suckers!” note: i haven’t added a quote for every single thing in the game, but it’s still a long read. i mostly just came up with the relatively ‘important’ quotes. that said, please enjoy.

Shovel- “Truly my best friend.” Pickaxe- “I love the rocky irony here.” Razor- “This is why people don’t have beards.” Hammer- “Any work well done just begs for a load of this.” Lucy the Axe- “Between you and me, he thinks ya look sharp.” Feather Pencil- “My grammar is better than most.” Brush- “Never been the hairdressin’ sort, myself.” Saddle- “But is it comfortable for the animal?” Salt Lick- “Don’t taste-test, don’t taste-test...” Miner Hat- “Never thought I’d find one again!” Endothermic Fire- “All sense is gone along with the darkness.” Mushlight- “Will my stomach glow if I eat this?” Willow’s Lighter- “I should never be trusted with this.” Bottle Lantern- “My brightest idea so far.” Buoyant Chiminea- “Water can’t steal the fire from me now.” Backpack- “Imagine all the money you can fit in there.” Piggyback- “Here’s hopin’ it’s not as sweaty.” Bug Net- “What a fearsome, vicious hunter I am.” Fishing Rod- “I hope to catch hidden treasure with this.” Straw Roll- “Sleepin’ with straw gettin’ in your clothes. Great.” Fur Roll- “This feels morbid somehow.” Umbrella- “Not today, elements.” Compass (generic)- “Wish it could point me towards treasure.” Luxury Fan- “I bet I could fly with two of these.” Siesta Lean-to- “I’m a shade master.” Pretty Parasol- “Frilly, but will do.” Telltale Heart- “Why do I hafta fix them if they mess up?” Booster Shot- “Rot injected through a bee stinger. Healthy!” Water Balloon- “Takin’ a bath the fun way.” Whirly Fan- “The things I do for a lil’ coolin’...” Bernie- “Ya don’t look like you’d be worth much.” Bundled Supplies- “Oh hoh! The thrill this brings me!” Booty Bag- “Where have ya been all my life!?” Silly Monkey Ball- “The humane solution to their meddlin’.” Anti-Venom- “Tropical insurance.” Crock Pot- “I ain’t no cook, but it should help me.” Bee Box- “They work hard, then I steal from them.” Bucket-o-Poop- “Ew. Good thing I wear gloves.” Science Machine and Alchemy Engine- “This is where the magic happens.” Thermal Measurer- “Let’s see the cold sneak up on me now.” Lightning Rod- “Never hurts to lessen the chances.” Gunpowder- “No safe is too strong!” Cartographer’s Desk- “Closest thing to an artistic outlet.” Accomploshrine- “I don’t know what I did, but I did it?” Spear- “I miss my daggers.” Boomerang- “A loyal weapon if I’ve ever seen one.” -- (hit self)- “$!@#! That smarts!” Blow Dart- “I ain’t no coward, but when in Rome...” Fire Dart- “Fear the albino dragon!” Sleep Dart- “Should I worry if I yawn after usin’ this?” Football Helmet- “I’m wearin’ the pig’s butt as a hat.” Grass Suit- “... Sure this will protect me.” Log suit- “I’m not on board with being hurt. Heh.” Marble Suit- “This armor’s the direct opposite of what I am.” Bee Mine- “Boom, bees.” Tooth Trap- “Come get a piece of me now, doggies!” Shelmet- “Function over fashion...” Snurtle Shell Armor- “A less dignified way to hide from trouble.” Scale Mail- “I’m this hot on my own, thanks.” Electric Dart- “Can’t come up with a joke. I’m shocked.” Tail o’ Three Cats- “I’m not even using it and I feel sorry already.” Spear Gun- “Now this is more my style!” Trident- “This means mermaids exist around here, right?” Cactus Spike- “Like my daggers, but much weaker. Shame.” Cactus Armor- “Always been told I’m kind of a prick.” Birdcage- “Reminds me of jail.” -- (occupied)- “I know the feelin’.” Pig House- “Wait, does this mean they have stuff inside?” Chest- “To store my stolen goods.” Scaled Chest- “Summer ain’t gettin’ to me or my stuff.” Mini Sign (drawn on)- “What? I’m an artist too, ya know.” Friendly Scarecrow- “His smile looks like my mom’s.” Wardrobe- “If it’s purely green on the inside, that wasn’t me.” Potted Succulent- “Her name is Erikita.” Sand Castle- “Totally sure this is not a waste of time.” Seaworthy (Vanilla or ROG world)- “Buenas!” Sea Chest- “Bring your stuff everywhere ya go.” Rope- “I use this often.” Purple Gem- “The downfall of the greedy.” Nightmare Fuel- “This stuff makes me uneasy.” Marble Bean- “Is there a money bean, too?” Empty Bottle- “Not very interesting on its own.” Prestihatitator- “Prestowhat now?” Shadow Manipulator- “Not sure I should be anywhere near this thing.” Pan Flute- “Makes pickpocketin’ so much easier.” Night Light- “See to $!@# believe.” Dark Sword- “Knew I had a sharp mind, but this...” Chilled Amulet- “So this is what cool people use, huh?” Nightmare Amulet- “Makes me see what I shouldn’t see.” Life Giving Amulet- “Could make a pretty penny off of it!” Telelocator Staff- “Probably dumb to mess with this. I’m doin’ it anyway.” Old Bell- “Do the work for me, big fella.” Moon Dial- “I’ve been mooned. Heh.” Piratihatitator- “Para... Piri... MAGIC $!@#!” Straw Hat- “This’ll prevent fires from startin’ on my head.” Beefalo Hat- “Convenient humiliation.” Beekeeper Hat- “I look honest in my stealin’ with this.” Feather Hat- “Probably the most colorful I’ll ever look.” Top Hat- “Rich people headwear. I hate it.” Puffy Vest- “I’m warm, but at what cost...?” Bush Hat- “Disguise 101.” Garland- “How to look pure and unsuspectin’.” Cat Cap- “I’m sorry, kitties...” Fashion Melon- “All the green doesn’t make it less embarrassin’.” Floral Shirt- “This one was made for me.” Eyebrella- “Rain is in the eye of the beholder.” Desert Goggles- “Got somethin’ in my eye... just kiddin’.” Blubber Suit- “Eugh! It’s noisy!” Windbreaker- “I’ll stop giggling when I forget its name.” Particulate Purifier- “For when chili night gets outta hand.” Shark Tooth Crown- “Bet I can impress the mermaids with this.” Dumbrella- “More like... oh, wait.” Log Raft- “I mean... nah, can’t defend this.” Raft- “It’s a slight improvement.” Armoured Boat- “Safe piratin’.” Iron Wind- “Doubles as shark chopper, too!” Boat Cannon- “Can’t be a proper pirate without this.” Sea Trap- “One step closer to a fancy dinner.” Trawl Net- “To steal junk from the sea.” Super Spyglass- “Could only dream to see this far until now.” Captain Hat- “Makes me feel like a sea cop. Feh.” Pirate Hat- “Ahoy, ye scallywags!” Obsidian Machete and Obsidian Axe- “Hot and sharp, much like me.” Obsidian Coconade- “I can feel it burn with anticipation.” Sail Stick- “To sail away from my problems faster.” Thulecite- “My highly valuable object senses are tinglin’.” Thulecite Medallion- “Ain’t useful here.” -- (calm)- “Nothin’ worth notin’.” -- (warning)- “Woah, something’s happenin’.” -- (nightmare)- “But what does it mean?” The Lazy Forager- “Nobody can blame me for snatchin’ their stuff now!” Magiluminescence- “I’m brilliant. Heh.” Construction Amulet- “Of course the green gem is the most economic one.” The Lazy Explorer- “Catch me if ya can!” Star Caller’s Staff- “Do the stars grant wishes too or...?” Deconstruction Staff- “ ‘Tis like a magic hammer.” Thulecite Crown- “Should be worth a fortune!” Houndius Shootius- “Those ancient guys were geniuses.” Birds of the World- “I like the tauraco leucotis one.” Applied Horticulture- “Good, I’m no farmer.” Sleepytime Stories- “I can’t tell if it bores me or it’s workin’.” The End is Nigh!- “Good thing I enjoy readin’ during storms.” On Tentacles- “I’ve read enough on them to know where this is goin’.” Joy of Volcanology- “Adds more than a lil’ spice to your current situation.” Kittykit- “Cute and clever, just like its momma.” Vargling- “Cachorrito!!!” Ewelet- “Smelly but soft.” Broodling- “Gosh, so ugly yet so endearin’.” Glomglom- “I ain’t one for hugs, but you’re just so fluffy.” Giblet- “Always wanted to have a chicken.” Candy Bag- “I wanna fill it to the brim with chocolate coins.” Gift- “The best things are the ones ya don’t hafta pay for.” Winter’s Feast Tree- “I feel something growin’ three sizes inside of me! Is it my wallet?” Lucky Whistle- “I HAVE THE POWER!” Charcoal- “Oh. Christmas came early.” Pine Cone- “I stole that tree’s baby. Nice.” Marble Tree- “Okay, now gold trees must be a thing.” Totally Normal Tree- “Tremblin’ like a leaf here. Heh.” Living Log- “Same.” Flower- “Green with a dash of pretty.” Evil Flower- “Green with a dash of evil...?” Cactus- “That one’s still got its daggers.” Tumbleweed- “Let’s see the trash it’s collected!” Jungle Tree- “Sensin’ lots of loot from that tree!” Snake Den- “I can hear ya hissin’, ya know.” Brainy Sprout- “The sea’s got a comparatively tiny brain.” Palm Tree (sapling)- “I’m callin’ ya Rosie.” Regular Jungle Tree- “You’re goin’ down like a sack of bricks.” Beehive- “It contains sweet, delicious treasure.” Killer Bee Hive- “Heck no.” Hound Mound- “Those barkin’ pests come from there.” Bones- “Mine will not be found like this.” Harp Statue- “Unlikely as it sounds, I don’t have the head.” Rundown House- “If you’re gonna steal an idea, make it better at least.” Merm Head- “My nose begs for mercy.” Pig Head- “This world does make ya lose your head...” Boulder- “Destruction comes with a reward.” Gold Nugget- “I might’ve been a hero in a world without this.” Grave- “Time to work!” Grave (dug)- “A job well done.” Wooden Thing- “It feels... incomplete.” -- (fully assembled)- “Long as I can take my gold with me.” Ring Thing- “What use is a ring with no jewels?” Worm Hole- “Disgust and logic say no...” -- (open)- “... Morbid curiosity says yes.” -- (exited)- “Disgust and logic were right.” Skeleton- “Thanks for the free stuff, man.” Spider Eggs- “Wonder if I can teach them to pickpocket?” Walrus Camp- “Gives a rich Walrus vibe somehow.” Mini Glacier- “Wonder how many ‘cool’ jokes it gets.” Hollow Stump- “It’s fulla hairballs on the inside.” Glommer’s Statue- “Looks important and exploitable.” -- (mined)- “Hope it was neither.” Skeleton (self)- “I meant to do that.” Florid Postern- “Got the feelin’ its beauty is just for show.” Magma- “Great, more things to be burned by.” Stagehand- “Far too pretty and harmless. I don’t trust it.” -- (walking)- “I’m always right.” Loot Stash- “Nobody leaves something like this all on its own.” Prime Ape Hut- “My old room pales in comparison to that disaster.” Magma Pile- “Now if that doesn’t beg to be dug up...” Steamer Trunk- “The sea smiles upon me today!” Volcano- “Dangerous. Something valuable must be inside.” Slot Machine- “I know better than to linger ‘round this.” Electric Isosceles- “For the insanely lazy explorer.” Octo Chest- “We’ve made a fair trade, friend.” Debris- “Ain’t proud of that one.” Wildbore Head- “Looks mad he’s dead.” Seashell- “One of these’s gotta have a pearl inside.” X Marks the Spot- “My fingers itch in anticipation!” Rawling- “I’m deranged enough, I guess.” Watery Grave- “That’s one heckuva way to die. Hah-hah!” Wreck- “I can wreck it all the more.” Volcano Staff- “If only it made it rain money instead.” Plugged Sinkhole- “A poor attempt at hidin’ a hole.” Rope to Surface- “Shame some sunlight is neccessary.” Splumonkey Pod- “Imagine all the valuable junk they’re unaware they have.” Odd Skeleton (complete)- “Well, curiosity sated. Or is it...” Ancient Statue- “Now that’s one statue worth a million.” Ancient Pseudoscience Station- “A museum would pay a lot for this, probably.” Ornate Chest- “How temptin’! It must be a trap.” Large Ornate Chest- “Outside matches the inside.” Nightmare Light- “Shouldn’t be ‘round this, however convenient it is.” Ancient Chest- “My greed is far too great to leave it alone.” Ancient Murals: -- (first)- “Those guys sure look miserable.” -- (second)- “Can’t read this...” -- (third)- “What’s that covering them? Ink?” -- (fourth)- “Eww! What the heck!” -- (fifth)- “What was that all about?!” Coffee Plant- “I did not expect these to grow here.” Elephant Cactus- “Dagger-filled cactus ready to fire!” Obsidian- “Almost sure this costs as much as it did to get.” Charcoal Boulder- “I’d save Santa some work if I mined this.” Burnt Ash Tree- “What did ya expect?” Dragoon Den- “Looks like the ideal thieves den if I’ve ever seen one.” Woodlegs’ Cage- “Nobody’s gonna be left behind bars while I’m around!” Clockwork Knight- “A knight of shinin’ metal.” Clockwork Bishop- “Never been the religious type.” Clockwork Rook- “Can hear it stomp from all the way over here.” Charlie (the darkness monster)- “Who’s there?” Charlie (attacked by)- “$!@#! Ya coward!” Hound- “Stand back! Don’t make me run!” Red Hound- “They’re fireproof now!?” Blue Hound- “They send a chill down my spine!” Hound’s Tooth- “I’m not tremblin’, you’re tremblin’.” Krampus- “You’re not even sneaky. Bad thief!” Krampus Sack- “Ah, a proper sack for a burglar.” Tentacle Spots- “Be right back, burnin’ my gloves.” Big Tentacle- “Surface doesn’t seem so bad all of a sudden.” Werepig- “I thought I could trust ya!!!” Ghost- “This time ya might just disappear.” Tam o’ Shanter- “No newsy cap, but still nice.” Mosquito- “If ya steal my blood, I’ll steal yours. Fair warning.” Mosquito Sack- “Didn’t think I could take my threat literally...” Cave Spider- “Now that’s just unfair.” Spitter- “Can’t blame it. They’re uglier up close.” Batilisk- “Yeesh, it looks so full of hate.” Meat Bulb- “Thinks it can trick me. How cute.” Fleshy Bulb- “My personal, living trap.” Eyeplant- “The plant spies with its little eyes.” Slurper- “It leeches off my lunch. Yuck.” Dangling Depth Dweller- “If they weren’t so aggressive, I’d adopt one.” Depths Worm (lure)- “Something’s very off ‘bout that.” Varg- “No! No! No no NO!” Ewecus- “Walkin’ ball of wool and gross.” Floaty Boaty Knight- “Great, the mechanical navy is here.” Poison Mosquito- “Ya can keep the poison, thanks.” Stink Ray- “Woah, man! What’s that funky smell?” Swordfish- “This fish got its own natural dagger.” White Whale- “All white, fearsome and hates everything. Like me!” Dragoon- “Sadly, they’re not intelligent enough for a truce.” Killer Bee- “Okay, I get it. I should buzz off.” Pig (normal)- “I could mug him if needed.” -- (follower)- “I’ll teach ya to steal for me.” Bunnyman- “A white ball of adorable. Like me!” Bunny Puff- “Hope they can forgive me.” Frog- “Rana o sapo?” Rock Lobster- “Well hello, potential bodyguard.” Pengull- “Lookit all that meat waddlin’ about.” Splumonkey- “Stealin’ from the thief. The nerve!” Catcoon- “I appreciate its eye mask.” Volt Goat- “I want one.” -- (charged)- “Maybe gettin’ one can wait.” Blue Whale- “Is it cryin’? Nope, just wet.” Bottlenose Ballphin- “I love you so much.” Prime Ape- “More like a prime pain in the $!@#.” Wildbore- “Doesn’t look like someone ya can steal from.” Gobbler- “Only I steal food ‘round here!” Chester- “A burglar’s second best friend.” Mandrake (planted)- “Should be picky with this one. Heh.” Glommer- “I want a statue for doin’ nothing, too.” Grass Gekko- “Your tail is grass and I’m gonna mow it.” Hutch- “There’s empty space where its brain should be.” Canary (poisoned)- “Keep your distance.” Shifting Sands- “Sure, hide like I do- I mean a coward!” Sharkitten- “One day you’ll grow up to be as fearsome as me.” Packim Baggims- “Stop hoardin’ my fish.” Parrot Pirate- “A bird after my own heart.” Seagull- “We just want to survive. Am I right?” Doydoy- “I feel sorry enough for this thing not to kill it.” Fishermerm- “Finally, someone I can steal from without consequences!” Tallbird- “Something can only be so territorial over one thing.” Tallbird Nest (with egg)- “Looks cozy in there. I can fix that.” Tallbird Egg- “Could sell this as a dinosaur egg...” Hatching Tallbird Egg- “Am I gonna be a mom? I don’t wanna.” Smallbird- “Expected ya to have more leg. Huh.” -- (hungry) “Don’t have to regurgitate something for ya, do I?” Smallish Tallbird- “I ain’t tellin’ it about the birds and the bees.” Treeguard- “I stole too many tree lives.” Spider Queen- “Gonna need a bigger sandal.” Spiderhat- “Thinks whatever a spider can.” Deerclops- “Well, $!@# me.” Ancient Guardian- “Whatever it is you’re protectin’ will be mine.” Bearger- “A thief doesn’t share her food, bud.” Moose/Goose- “Sorry, I just haven’t laughed this hard in a while.” Moose/Goose Egg- “Can’t mess with something this big.” Mosling- “Curiosity is likely gonna kill the cat.” Dragonfly- “It was nice to meet me.” Bee Queen- “Gimme your sting, Imma give that thing right back.” Bee Queen Crown- “Fool bees, get honey.” Klaus- “Lookin’ different, Santa. New haircut?” Stag Antler- “Ya better be worth all that mess.” Toadstool- “This ain’t no prince!” Sporecap- “That thing just screams magic.” Reanimated Skeleton- “It should not be alive.” Ancient Fuelweaver- “Almost wish I didn’t have to bring ya down.” Bone Armor- “It protects a lot more than you’d think.” Bone Helm- “I’m scared of usin’ this...” Shadow Thurible- “Why does it smell like money?” Palm Treeguard- “Nothin’ a good bit of fire can’t fix.” Quacken- “The bigger they are, the more loot they give!” Chest of the Depths- “Seein’ this is very satisfying.” Sealnado- “Time to break some wind.” -- (seal form)- “Killin’ it would be easy. Far too easy.” Tiger Shark- “Tigre y tiburón... Tigreburón?” Maxwell- “He used my greed against me.” Pig King- “I can smell his richness from afar.” Wes (trapped)- “What do I get if I help ya?” Abigail- “Sucks to be you.” Bigfoot- “I need new pants.” Abigail (revival failed)- “I feel kinda sad it didn’t work. Just a little.” Antlion- “I know that face. The ‘I want your things’ face.” -- (upset)- “What did I do now?!” Yaarctopus- “Snazzy getup, man.” Egg- “Like a fragile chest with tasty treasure.” Monster Meat- “This is far from a good idea.” Morsel- “Meatling.” Leafy Meat- “I can make it tasty. Just leaf it to me.” Fish- “Dad used to eat these a lot.” Eel- “Think I’m feelin’ eel.” Winter Koalefant Trunk- “Looks warm and big enough for me to wear it...” Cooked Frog Legs- “How is this fancy food?” Dead Swordfish- “Could make a good weapon if it didn’t smell so bad.” Dead Jellyfish- “I’ve always liked jelly.” Cooked Limpets- “Should stick my pinky out while eatin’ these.” Shark Fin- “The pest’s hat.” Delicious Wobster- “Now this can be called a delicacy.” Bile-Covered Slop- “May as well eat manure.” Extra Smelly Durian- “Smell’s stronger than a corpse’s.” Halved Coconut- “For the true tropical experience.” Red Cap- “Never trust red fungi.” Green Cap- “Still hardly sane to consume.” Blue Cap- “Mixed feelings...” Cactus Flower- “I see flowers awfully often ‘round here.” Bacon and Eggs- “English breakfast is weird.” Butter Muffin- “Don’t think killin’ the butterfly was neccessary.” Dragonpie- “Hopefully not as hot as it looks.” Fishsticks- “I bet a cat would love this.” Fish Tacos- “And now they will swim in my tummy.” First Full of Jam- “It doesn’t help I’m a messy eater...” Froggle Bunwich- “A delicious blasphemy.” Fruit Medley- “More delicate-lookin’ than I’m used to.” Honey Ham- “Surprisingly, it works really well.” Honey Nuggets- “Oh... gonna enjoy every part of it.” Kabobs- “I’m a culinary genius.” Mandrake Soup- “I consider this a good idea somehow.” Meatballs- “Missed these so much!” Meaty Stew- “I’d be stewpid to let it go to waste.” Monster Lasagna- “Only dogs would like this.” Pierogi- “How do I even know how to make all these neat recipes?” Powdercake- “Wouldn’t even feed this to a dog. My prey, however...” Pumpkin Cookie- “Interesting. And tasty.” Ratatouille- “Used to eat this a lot back before all this.” Stuffed Eggplant- “It’s as fillin’ at it looks.” Taffy- “Good thing I don’t care that much ‘bout health.” Turkey Dinner- “I ain’t festive, but this deserves celebration.” Unagi- “Deelicious! Heh.” Waffles- “Always wanted to try these. Mmmm.” Wet Goop- “Somethin’ went wrong.” Flower Salad- “Yes, I’m eatin’ the flower too.” Guacamole- “Not baa-aa-aad.” Ice Cream- “Ahhh, so refreshin’.” Melonsicle- “Perfect to chill with.” Spicy Chili- “ ‘Tis what I call dragon food.” Trail Mix- “What’s that I hear? Is it... jealous gobblin’?” Jellybeans- “These fattened me up as a kid.” Banana Pop- “I stabbed this banana.” Bisque- “Picky in ingredients, but worth it.” California Roll- “Fancier than I’m used to.” Ceviche- “It’s funny to see other people try to pronounce it.” Coffee- “Not a huge fan.” Jelly-O Pop- “Wonder if I can make one with peanut butter?” Lobster Bisque- “Everyone goes nuts for this one.” Lobster Dinner- “Now this is the kinda rich people food I can get behind.” Seafood Gumbo- “Dad would have a ball with this.” Shark Fin Soup- “Don’t think I can eat it with a good conscience.” Surf ‘n’ Turf- “Sure’s got a fun name.” Fresh Fruit Crepes- “Wow, looks pretty.” Monster Tartare- “Eugh! If I really gotta.” Mussel Bouillabase- “Buy... bi... uh, food.” Sweet Potato Souffle- “Sorta looks like a big muffin.” Seeds- “Normally I steal what they produce...” Honey- “Sticks to my gloves.” Butterfly Wings- “The loot of a dead bug.” Butter- “... Well then.” Rot- “Nothing is eternal, I guess.” Rotten Egg- “Takes one to know another.” Phlegm- “I’m gonna hurl.” Blueprint- “Bet this’d burn nicely! Just kiddin’.” Gears- “It’s not murder if it ain’t organic, right?” Ashes- “Nothing valuable ever winds up like this.” Red Gem- “A lively ruby.” Blue Gem- “Sapphire! So refreshin’.” Yellow Gem- “Not gold, but good enough.” Green Gem- “The best color, period.” Orange Gem- “Garnet? I’m not sure.” Manure- “Gotta be pretty bad for me to need this.” Melty Marbles- “Oh, canicas.” Fake Kazoo- “Maybe it can still hold some value.” Gord’s Knot- “Need to read that story sometime.” Gnome- “This could kill a zombie.” Tiny Rocketship- “It ain’t blastin’ off again.” Frazzled Wires- “Don’t remember cutting these off...” Ball and Cup- “Mastered this as a kid.” Hardened Rubber Bung- “Rubber harder than the sole of my boot.” Mismatched Buttons- “I’m cuter.” Second-hand Dentures- “Hope I can find a proper toothbrush instead.” Lying Robot- “Please. Brutal honesty is where it’s at.” Dessicated Tentacle- “Got the feelin’ this will make me very happy...” Webber’s Skull- “Fine, I’ll respect the dead just this time.” Pile o’ Balloons- “If only I had a reason to party.” Codex Umbra- “Smells like a bad idea.” Leaky Teacup- “Wonder if there’s a matchin’ teapot?” White and Black Bishop- “Kinda miss playin’ chess with dad.” Bent Spork- “Get bent.” Toy Trojan Horse- “This one’s actually really cute.” Unbalanced Top- “Lil’ nostalgic lookin’ at it, broken as it is.” Back Scratcher- “Ya scratch my back, I steal when you’re not lookin’.” Beaten Beater- “How much is this worth? Beats me.” Frayed Yarn- “Kitties would find it more endearin’ than I do.” Shoe Horn- “Boots are better for a reason.” Lucky Cat Jar- “If that pig’s got taste at all, he’ll know how important this jar is.” Air Unfreshener- “Should be poop-shaped instead. Ugh.” Potato Cup- “Now I, too, can drink potato-flavored water.” Wire Hanger- “My clothes may be tattered and dirty, but no longer wrinkled!” Iridescent Gem- “I like to look at it... is it lookin’ back at me?” Moon Caller’s Staff- “Now I can moon others too.” Shadow Atrium- “It should not be beatin’.” Beach Toy- “Some sandy guy could use this.” Crumpled Package- “Ya know what they say. One man’s garbage...” Venom Gland- “Fight fire with fire.” Dubloons- “Yes!! Proper money!” Message in a Bottle- “Not now, I’m busy lookin’ for treasure.” Snake Oil- “Tryin’ to fool me. For shame.” Orange Soda- “Sodarn excited to find this.” Voodoo Doll- “Do I or do I not have the heart to ‘play’ with it?” Ukulele- “Well, Aloha O’e.” License Plate- “M’sure I can use this for something...” Ancient Vase- “Ancient things are for museums. Museums pay for this.” Brain Cloud Pill- “Can’t remember what it does. Memory’s foggy.” Wine Bottle Candle- “Waste of good wine.” Broken AAC Device- “Doesn’t seem at all valuable like this.” One True Earring- “Sounds like something worth a fortune!” Old Boot- “Looks good to kick bums with.” Sextant- “Heh. Heheh.” Toy Boat- “I wanna paint a skull and crossbones on the sail.” Soaked Candle- “May have some use still.” Sea Worther- “Feel like a scallywag for not knowin’ what this is.” Iron, Bone and Golden Key- “It unlocks something important. I can feel it.” Tarnished Crown- “Doesn’t seem like sellin’ material.” Failed (Adventure Mode)- “That was a waste of resources.” Obelisk (sane, down)- “This thing gives me a bad feeling.” -- (insane, up)- “So it wasn’t decoration!” -- (sane, up)- “Lemme guess. I can’t blow it up.” -- (insane, down)- “Whoa, who chopped it down?” Divining Rod (before being picked up)- “Why is that radio on a stick?” -- “You’re gonna be a useful friend.” -- (cold)- “Who knows where it is...” -- (warm)- “Must be in this area.” -- (warmer)- “Gotta keep my eyes peeled!” -- (hot)- “It’s mine now!” Maxwell’s Door- “A creepy door in the middle of the woods. Hm.” Maxwell’s Phonograph- “Make that thing stop!” Maxwell Statue- “Vandalism just waitin’ to happen.” Maxwell’s Tooth Trap- “Nice try, old man.” -- (went off)- “Nicely done, old man...” Nightmare Throne- “My butt hurts just lookin’ at it.” Generic- “Heck if I know.” Freedom- “No prison is eternal!” Freezing- “$!@#, I’m cold!!” Battlecry- “De España con amor!” -- (prey)- “Right behind ya.” -- (pig)- “Time to smash the piggy bank!” Leaving combat- “Not my kinda approach anyway.” Dusk- “The sun hides as crime awakes.” Hounds are coming- “I hate that sound.” Deerclops is coming- “What the heck was that!” Eating (painful food)- “Oof. That wasn’t wise.” Hungry- “El hambre...” Lightning miss- “Gave me a $!@# scare!” Overheating- “I’m meltin’...!” Tree shelter- “Nature ain’t so bad, after all.” Giant arrival- “I know for a fact that’s no good.” Refusing to eat Eternal Fruitcake- “I’ll never be desperate enough.” Cave-in warning- “Keep movin’! Keep movin’!” Encumbered (carrying heavy object) - “Hrng... Huff...” - “I ain’t... made for this...!” - “This... is no work... for a thief...” - “Ugh... my everything...” Volcano eruption warning- “Be prepared.” Volcano eruption- “Run like heck and don’t stop!” Sea hounds are coming- “Not even in the sea...” Sealnado is coming- “Pretty windy today, huh.” Map border approaching- “A dead end. Or is it?” Entering map border- “Who knows by this point.” Exiting map border- “Whatever the case, we’re here now.” Riding wave- “Yeehaw!” Formal Set- “Nobody suspects a thief under this perfect look.” Survivor Set- “Sometimes, to find the diamond in the rough, ya gotta become rough yourself.” Shadow Set- “Now acceptin’ worship in the form of your valuables!” Halloween Costume Set- “Monkey business afoot.” Rose Set- “I am now even more of a prick.”

[comfort-blankets]

*Scenario?*

Important:

A long time ago I made a matchup with Widowmaker and it was probably the best thing I’ve ever written?? But the matchup was so much like a scenario that I decided I would post it as it’s own thing now because only 6 ppl saw it and I keep going back to reread it ;;

I hope the one who was matched with this didn’t mind me using it as a regular scenario ahaa,,, if you do friend then just tell me and I’ll take it down.

The reader is a female and I’m struggling with writer’s block (;﹏;) pls have mercy on me!

It took her a while, so I dearly hope you’re patient.

The sky was a quilt when you first met, and it stayed that way for as long as you could remember whenever you saw her. The fabric of the sky was dark, a few dreary clouds etched in by a white moon. You were lucky enough to catch a spider off of her job.

Despite how she puts it to Ana of being the shell of a woman, people often speak their own truths. No longer the Amélie that she was, brainwashed and used as a weapon. It is understandable her hesitance to let herself feel again, to have a soft spot for someone when all that she knows how to do is pull a trigger.

But not even her gun can bring her the feelings she desires.

There are little pricks of emotion sometimes, but she avoids them. Sometimes the feeling of guilt seems better than emptiness, but the mess of becoming a person again sounds rough, and it’s much easier just to kill and have nothing than too much.

But the right amount of kindness downright confuses her.

Amélie meets you in a Café, having been fully planning on going in and out. One she visited hidden in the corner of town once a week, enough to make her feel normal sometimes. The people who work there are too terrified to make conversation, and for a good cause. The few parents who sit at tables with their small children when the sniper arrives leave, rumors from a small town enough to make you feel like more of a criminal than you already are.

Amélie gets it. She’s terrible and she knows. They can stop rubbing it in her face, as it isn’t their business, and they don’t know how truly horrible she really is anyways.

She tells herself she doesn’t care, but in reality has no idea how to feel.

Maybe it’s because she doesn’t.

The killer grows used to the silence of the cooks in the kitchen, already knowing her order and too chicken to ask if she wants anything else. What does she want? Is this how it will be forever, and wherever she stops?

‘That woman is so cold and nasty that her skin turned blue.’

Something pricks under her skin, but this time Amélie understands it.

Loneliness. Sadness.

She doesn’t need anyone anymore, she isn’t humane. There are no morals to be put in her book. You kill, and the job gets done. You get paid, and then you rest.

The café hires a new waitress. That is you standing there, a uniform of however you decide, with a face showing whatever you want. Whatever you feel, you get to express. You are never neutral, have passions and opinions. Amélie finds jealousy in between the pages of the novel she reads whilst resting in her seat.

Everything she could ever want, a life and an exciting future, looking young and stupidly unafraid.

Why do you spend it trying to speak with a cold woman?

The first few months are rocky, a collection of passive aggressive insults, hoping to scare you away with a sharp accent on her tongue. It flickers like a snake with her words, but her reality is confusion.

How long will it be until I hurt you? Why won’t you leave me alone, listen to the people of your happy little town in your happy little life?

When Amélie finally understands that you won’t leave her be, the cold insults stop. Her next move is in avoidance.

The sniper doesn’t speak to you and your cheery conversation starters, and she ignores the prick under her skin when you say you look forward to her visits.

Amélie thought about finding a different café before, but will never admit the fact that she promised herself to come again when you said that to her.

The spider woman begins to explore the menu she never tried, taking your casual recommendations into mind from your previous conversations. She doesn’t answer them, but it is obvious she is listening. She finds herself a little grateful that you don’t point it out after she orders a new drink, a small gleam in your eye.

She finds a new emotion under the dust.

And she figures out that she is terrified of the friendly way you gaze at her.

The light really does point out everything, doesn’t it?

Amélie finally answers to your greetings, talks back a little bit. For the first time she isn’t rude, but her facial expression never changes. Most would take it personally, but even when she somehow manages to make you laugh her lips never curve. She wishes for once that she had the ability to enjoy laughing, even if it was just to see you flourish in this moment. The barrier between feeling nothing and having small doses of emotion blurs, and Amélie can hear the voice in the back of her mind telling her to shut these interactions down slowly be drowned out by the wonderful high of speaking to someone again.

You mention wanting to travel, and she states that there’s a nice store out of town you could be interested in. In return, you tell her about a nail salon you heard had good reviews.

When the sniper leaves for 2 weeks to finish up a job, she comes back to see an optimistic smile. Having someone say they missed you while they were gone has never felt so nice. Amélie eats up the attention without noticing, and says that she ‘somehow found something odd missing’ while she was gone. It was the closest thing to a compliment that she could manage, but it seemed more than enough for you.

Amélie brings back a souvenir for you, something she saw at an odd looking store in a dreary town. The sharp eyes of a spider look for things that she didn’t realize she needed, catching the name of the place after her scope finishes a job. You mentioned liking witchcraft, and drinks the look you give her when you open the little present. She forgets to tell you to not get used to it.

She doesn’t want to.

After all, the only reason why she paid for it was because she couldn’t quite remember how to wrap presents correctly.

It wasn’t even near holiday, why was she buying things for you? Why did she keep buying them? What was the point of catching you out the door when you finished your shift late at night, and why did she give in to the urge of pulling you so close to her?

Why did you reciprocate her deadly kiss?

A prickle under skin turns into a bucket of water poured over her body at her realization. How foolish of her to want things when she was who she was, and how terrible of her to make you fall in love with a monster.

A sun is sewed into the sky’s quilt for a few days, but the creator seemed to dislike the design. It is quickly pulled from it’s strings.

Why did she stay with you for a few days?

But most importantly, why did she leave?

Amélie didn’t want them to figure it out. Her emotions, her soft spot. And they never did, because she found herself empty again while you were gone.

While she was gone.

An entire month without you, something odd had turned normal. She wished she could have spoken to you sweetly with her venomous lips before she left.

Her novel reminds her too much of the café and chocolate drinks you recommended, and she leaves it near the bottom of her bag. She hopes that when she returns you will find someone else, but another part of her finds the thought brings an unhealthy pit in her stomach. Being empty has never felt worse.

There is no reason to cry.

The monster sheds tears in it’s quarters, missing something it can never have.

A new mission, a life for another to keep living. Amélie doesn’t look at the names, but recognizes the town. Somewhere outside the one she usually resides at, making her think about moving.

The prickles move over her entire body in disagreement, but she keeps walking.

You were travelling for something, somebody hired her to kill an old grudge. Someone really hated this person and happened to have a lot of money. Amélie doesn’t really care about cash since she has enough of it, but it was something to pull her forward.

Food to buy, groceries to be put away. All for one person in a nice apartment. The memory of it is lonely now.

But there is no reason to think of home right now

She finds her gun aimed at you from a small window, glad that nobody is around to see her shaking fingers.

Why doesn’t she look at the names of her victims?

It is her job, her consequence for letting someone close. She has a chance to end this weakness.

There are no prickles to be felt, because everything hits her at once. An emotion to add to the pages of her book, shock. So far she has envy, terror, happiness, shock, and incredible, terrible, yearning.

A list of things that describe what one is doing:

Holding a quivering finger over a trigger, with a finely done nail from a place someone dear to her recommended.

An eye that keeps coming in and out of focus, dehydrated thing, making water for itself to spill over the table of skin.

A professional that becomes a rookie.

Amélie screams in the back of her mind, and the Widowmaker breaks.

The job is done, but the shot misses.

The noise of a bullet sounds, but it hits nothing. Whether it became one with the Earth or the concrete she didn’t know, because one moment she was perched from her web, an old torn roof, and the next she was pulling you by your arm out of town.

Amélie’s expression shows, and it is murderous.

Protectiveness. Add another page to the novel.

She gives you no time for questions, simply telling you that you are in danger, to come with her immediately. Something in her mind chirps at her that maybe you will agree with her plan, to run away with her and let the spider keep you safe. Your optimism is rubbing on her, and she swipes away the thought as quickly as it came.

You have a right to your anger on her disappearance, and when she is sure that nobody has seen you, she answers every single one of your questions. Honestly. That was a first as well, being so eager to open up to everything.

Her crimes, her terrible mentality, her job. It’s shoved into your head and the Widowmaker speaks so lowly of herself that the venom on her tongue doesn’t seem to ever have been aimed towards you.

She rereads the page covering the topic of shock when you agree with her plan, thinking that you surely would’ve left her.

Amélie sees her tears on your face.

Why do you feel her pain?

Amélie files the job done, but kills the buyer instead. There will always be people who dislike you, but this way you were safe from another being hired to end you. Someone who was much, much worse than she, probably.

A kind of domesticated life falls over her, something she used to look down upon sickeningly. She doesn’t know how to to feel about it now.

But this time, she actually can.

What did Amélie want with this new life? A new job, a new future?

No.

It all came as a package deal with you, and together you placed her morality where it needed to be. You reminded her that she was always there, no matter if she had changed. Widowmaker and Amélie were the same person, even if it wasn’t how she wanted to be, right in between.

So the spider no longer picked up her gun, and rerouted her life to a new, calm direction.

She finally found her money useful again, running away with the most cheerful woman she’d ever met, and indulging with her those childish activities.

Those cartoons you like? She acts as if she hates them, but is content enough to speak sweet words to you while she plays with your hair, the television running in the background. Later on you have a discussion about a character you like, knowing details not even you noticed.

Her lips are no longer coated in venom, and you have never felt safer with the world’s most accurate sniper behind you.

The quilt in the sky sheds it’s somber colors, and a new fabric used to stitch together a new blanket.

A brown dog is etched in at the side.

And when you bring him home, the Widowmaker lets you name him whatever you please.

[flaux-pg]

In Another Lifetime, Maybe

Summary:  AU. When Raphael got captured, he expected pain. He expected hours of interrogation and torture. He was prepared for it. He wasn't prepared to find mercy at the hands of two young mutants who've been living in darkness for far too long. No OCs.

A/N: Heh— this is a bit of a test run, I guess. So I’ve been drawing and drawing stuff for this story here on tumblr. And some of you guys like it, but I haven’t actually published the story on this site... so I just wanted to try and if you guys liked it I could post it here too. :P I am pretty comfortable in my ff.net corner but I just wanted to give it a shot here... heh! 

Honestly tumblr kind of intimidates me a bit when it comes to fanfiction. Anyways here it goes and I hope you guys like this little dark plot bunny of mine!

Betas: Ravenshell (chapter 1 - onward), CelandineGranger (chapter 10 - onward).

Warnings: Violence, language, torture, pain. Lots.

Disclaimer: I do not own this franchise.

1. Shredder's Plan

The way he sees it, there are two ways out. Either he rots in this hole or Leo saves his shell - again.

But just the prospect of Leonardo bursting through the cell door with his perfect polished katanas, slashing the chains with a flawless kata back flip and double sword combination, makes Raphael want to roll his eyes.

Smug bastard.

It almost makes him wish Leo wouldn't come. Almost, because as much as he hates to admit it, Raph's pretty screwed. He needs help and at this point he doesn't care if it's his 'oh so perfect older brother' waltzing in to save the day again or the freaking Easter Bunny. He just wants out of here.

Three days, Raph growls to himself, trying to calm down. He's been trapped here for three days with no food or information or demands. Just a bucket that, frankly, is stinking up the cell pretty bad now. He doesn't know if the tiny window near the ceiling of his prison is a curse or a blessing. It sits there, letting light in, but also taunts him with the world outside.

Seriously, he'd figured at least Shredder cared. He'd never had trouble endlessly monologuing about his vendetta in the past. It doesn't help that Leo is taking his precious time to make a fearless entrance.

Or maybe the reason Shredder hasn't shown up is because Raph is not the only prisoner in this dungeon. Raph shudders. The idea of his family or friends being interrogated sends a wave of nausea down his stomach, a feeling that Raph is not ready to admit. His mild irritation suddenly morphs into rage and then cold, shaking fear.

Jagged breaths escape him, making his throat sore at the lack of water in his system. His hands ball into fists and not for the first time, jerk at the chains.

The rusty metal manacles bite the already raw skin on his wrists. He can do this. Raph growls louder, as if the chains' resistance depend on how much sound he makes. He pulls harder.

A clink later the chains fall in place at each of his sides, forcing him back to an unbearable kneel against damp rock. He falls against the wall once more with a sharp gasp. The iron rattles and echoes against the concrete and rock.

"Arg!" Raphael finds his voice engulfing the entire cell. He punches at the air when nothing happens -when no one comes- drawing even more blood from the shackles.

Shredder's trying to drive him nuts! "What's taking so long!? Doing your nails, Shredder!? I'm right here! I can handle it! Come face me if you're so tough, you sick coward!"

"There is no need to shout, Raphael."

Raph freezes on the spot.

The door, unguarded and wide open, frames the armored man's silhouette. Shredder's face is shadowed as he walks pleasantly into the cell with his arms at both sides. And even if his gauntlet blades are sheathed, Raph cannot help but feel his heart beat faster with each step the man takes towards him. Raph snarls at him and raises his chin in defiance, putting up a pretty convincing bravado mask.

Shredder stops right in front of him, towering over Raph. "I am sure even a creature such as yourself can understand the concept of a civilized conversation."

Raph spits at his feet.

To his disappointment, Shredder acts as if nothing has happened. He considers Raphael for a moment. Raph prepares himself for a blow. However, the man doesn't move to strike him. He looks like he is annoyed at Raph's little act of defiance.

Raph smirks then. Shredder must have realized he's not getting to him.

In an instant, Shredder's blades slice out of his gauntlets and Raph can't help but stiffen at the sound.

This time Shredder laughs. The sound echoes on the walls as if proving a point. Raph growls at him and silently berates himself for showing how truly helpless he actually feels. "Tell me where Splinter is, turtle."

"Why, let me go check his calendar," he starts pleasantly until there is a slice on his right shoulder. He gasps, both in pain and shock.

It takes him a few moments to recover; his shoulder is burning with agony and flowing with fresh blood. Raph clutches his eyes shut before glaring up at Oroku Saki.

"Tell me where your Master is," he repeats.

"Bite me!" Raphael yells and to his surprise Shredder steps back.

There is a beat of silence. Raph's eye catches the blade drenched in blood at Shredder's side. The blood falls in uneven drops and threatens with another promised slice. He swallows thickly.

"Well?" he hears Shredder speaking, snapping Raph's attention to someone in the shadows, behind Shredder. "Aren't you going to do as he asks?"

Raph's confusion turns to horror when he realizes that Xever is jumping towards him. Suddenly the fish's fangs are biting his already hurt shoulder. Raph growls like a wounded lion. However, the agony doesn't last long.

The venom's effect is instant. A wave of dizziness spins his head to the side. His limbs feel like jelly. At least the pain in his shoulder is forgotten, like some old, faded memory, as the drug takes him over.

He can't afford this; in this condition Raph knows his mind and tongue will betray him. His arms are no longer working. Distantly, Shredder's voice reaches his ears again.

"Splinter, turtle." He is now lifting him by the neck. "Speak, while you still can."

But he can't. His throat is parched and his tongue might as well be made of rubber. Raph struggles to catch a breath. The pressure around his neck increases and there are black spots in Raph's eyes.

"Master Shredder," Tiger Claw interrupts carefully. Just how many people are inside this ridiculously tiny cell, anyways? "I believe the poison is far too strong, the cub won't last without an antidote."

Shredder growls in frustration, realizing his mistake far too late. He drops Raphael to the ground. Raph groans but makes no effort to move. He barely has the strength to try and keep awake.

"You!" Shredder calls to some soldier behind Tiger Claw; Raph cannot see who it is, everyone seems like a blurry shadow at this point.

The soldier jumps to his feet and bows his head, waiting for his Master's command.

"Make sure he doesn't die." It's more of a threat than an order.

There are footsteps now and a loud clank as the cell door shuts, leaving Raph alone with the poor soul destined for the impossible task. The soldier bolts towards Raph and kneels before him. Shaking hands grab his face. Raph tries to pull away but he is too weak to do anything but uselessly bleed on Shredder's floor.

The hands are moving again, this time inspecting his arm. Raph groans as the bastard takes a blood sample. He feels his bile rise up and when he finally pukes he hopes that at least the vomit reaches this asshole.

If it does, Raph cannot tell. In the end, there is a slight pinch on his arm as the injection penetrates him. Slowly, his senses start coming back to him and with them, the pain.

His shoulder is on fire but now he is lucid enough to grab the needle from the soldier's first aid kit, pick the lock on one of his anklets and kick the bastard as far away as he possibly can.

The Foot lets out an 'oof' as he stumbles back and collides against a wall on the other side of the cell. Raph gets to work. Time is of the essence. He needs to pick the locks on the remaining manacles and anklet before the Foot soldier recovers. It's been a while since he's done this and never has he picked a lock with a needle, but adrenaline is making him faster and more alert by the minute.

He manages to free himself in record time - take that, Fearless! He rises to his feet and grabs a scalpel from the first aid kit the soldier left on the floor.

The adrenaline is wearing off. He doesn't care and launches for the Foot soldier anyways.

The poor guy is leaning against the wall for support. He looks up, and realizing what's going on, he panics and moves away.

Raph crashes against the wall. Disorientation blurs his eyes. He shakes his head, trying to clear his vision and spots the Foot near the first aid kit. This time he is going to attack faster.

After one glance at Raph the Foot puts his arms up in the air.

"No. No! Wait!" The - kid?- says and Raph hesitates for a half second before making up his mind once more. This is his way out. But before he can even reach the soldier - kid - Foot, there is a massive pain in his head and he falls to the ground with a thud.

The Foot is rushing to his side again, mumbling to himself as he kneels in front of Raph. "Come on, come on, come on," his tone is practically begging as he looks over Raph's shoulder and the amount of blood on the floor. He pulls some bandages from the first aid kit and starts wrapping up the wound. "Don't die, don't - come on, don't- No!"

Raph's eyes snap open and for the first time he looks up at the Foot and really sees him.

"You have to stay awake," the boy says in a soft but determined voice, shaking Raph a little bit. "You can sleep later, but right now, you need to stay awake."

Raph is not listening anymore. When the Foot turns around, Raph recognizes the unmistakable edge of a turtle shell behind bony shoulders.

"Well, I'll be damned," he grunts at the hallucination. The worst part about Shredder's plan was that it was working. "Leo?"

A/N: Thank you if you’ve read this far! 

[wokethesleepers]

the sound of the empty | self-para

It had taken one rise of the sun and another rise of the moon for Davos Seaworth to see Lady Melisandre’s face again after she had fled the top of the Wall in a rush. The Onion Knight hadn’t stalled any longer then, returning to the chamber where the former Lord Commander’s body rested, surrounded by three of his close friends and the direwolf who refused to shut its eyes. Since then, they had essentially faced a siege from Alliser Thorne’s forces, broken only when the choir of shouts of the Wildlings kicked the gates down and stormed inside, finally allowing the cornered men to come out of their hiding. Tormund had taken the sight of Jon Snow’s cold and stiff body in a surprising manner, seeming a lot more affected than anyone would have expected from a Wildling faced with the death of a Crow. Just when everyone was about to lose grip on their hope, the Red Woman had shown her face again, muttering words of how the flames had shown Jon Snow in the flames, surrounded by snow in a wide field and by the Stark banners hanging over the walls of Winterfell. Ultimately, everyone present had clung to this last thread of hope, begging her to attempt one last miracle, one last test of her faith.

And the miracle had taken root.

His first breath was the sharpness of the blades twisting in his guts all over again, flooding his lungs like a flurry of flames. Flames, and heat, and fire, flames everywhere, fire in his bones, heat in his limbs, the fracturing of his innards and shredded heart mended by this whirlwind that had turned his blood into ashes. It was a fraction of a second, but it all felt like an eternity, one during which he could have sworn he was bathing in a sea of flames as well. When that second finally vanished, all the feelings and all the sights were swallowed by the morose ceiling of this dimly lit room, his lungs just now starting to let passage for actual oxygen to let blood rush through his veins again, to let his heartbeats drum wildly against his chest. He couldn’t see it, but he was certain the greyness in his skin had immediately faded, washed over by this breath of life that wrapped all around him. For a moment, there was silence, but a hollow silence, one which offered him nothing. He wasn’t absorbed by any thoughts of feelings, a part of him still resting in the pitch darkness he had been pulled out from. But a distant creaking of the floor and the feeling of a wet snout rubbing against his palm finally severed that last tie. And he blinked. He was now aware of the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the sounds of his own pants like an avalanche in the quietness. He also became aware of the numbness in his bones, how strangely rigid he felt. In some thoughtless attempt to seek relief from this strain, he attempted to rise from his position, but he found it much more difficult than he’d thought. It took a great gathering of strength to finally get him to move, to unglue his naked back from the table underneath and to slowly ascend to a sitting position. With these final traces of death removed, humanity bloomed inside of him like a flower in spring.

He became aware of everything: of where he was, of where he’d been lying down, of his bare figure. It launched a number of emotions, starting with confusion. And as his breath settled in, he realized the heavy wheezes whirred through the chamber weren’t his. Darkened by a scowl, his gaze tentatively swiped to his left, capturing the sight of two familiar faces, Davos Seaworth and Melisandre, both of them staring at him in utter shock, their faces pale with a mix of dread and awe. Why were they so frozen and silent? Why were they staring at him like that? In trying to find an answer, he focused on himself again, on the bizarre gaping pit in his stomach and the sudden instinct that called for his gaze to descend toward his torso. And what he saw rendered his mind to an immediate blank state. His stomach was peppered with open wounds, skin torn apart in the rawest of forms. As his fingers moved toward them, he noticed the last one, the most important one, the wound embellishing his chest. Instead, he traced his fingers over that one, not giving it much initial thought. Not until underneath that wound he felt the drumming in his chest, realizing that it rested right above his heart. Like someone had just poured a bucket of icy cold water over his head, a frenzy of memories rained down on him at once, adding the last piece to the puzzle of his rebirth, forcefully stuffing his identity back into what would have otherwise been a hollowed shell. Jon Snow. He was Jon Snow. He remembered everything; his childhood, his vows, his losses, and, most importantly, he remembered why he was there. When his fingers started violently trembling against the wound on his heart, it wasn’t long until an entire wave of panic was rattling his bones. He couldn’t even think properly when he tumbled off the table, luckily being caught by Davos’ arms just in time for his body to not collide with the hard wooden floor. His breathing was erratic, eyes wide like a deer’s faced with an arrow. He didn’t even feel the blanket that wrapped around him or when Melisandre provided him with a chair that he was pushed to sink into. Over and over again, the memories of that night haunted him, the pangs of the daggers twisting in his guts, the frightening feeling of his last breath leaving his lips. A stronger grip to his shoulders summoned him back from that dark pit.

“…Focus, ya hear?” Another squeeze. “Look at me. And take in a deep breath.” Another squeeze and now Jon looked up, finding Davos’ eyes, his bottom lip quivering as his entire frame struggled to come down from the trembles that had splattered small beads of sweat over his skin from the intensity of them.

“I’m dead,” he willed himself to say, still not fully returned to reality, not fully saved from this abyss of despair he was swimming in. His voice was ghostly and raspy, likely due to the freezing over of his vocal chords while he’d laid outside in the snow. Were his eyes blue? Was he about to turn? Was that the beginning of a wight or a White Walker?

“Clearly, you are not,” Davos returned, his voice carrying a calmness that made it easy to cling to as a beacon of stability.

“I’m dead,” Jon repeated, taking one step into reality if only to dig into what little ration he had left to justify his very presence. “I died, I know I did. They murdered me. Why am I here? I’m not supposed to be here. Am I one of them now?” His voice broke on the last question and panic flooded his being again, body immediately tensing up, wishing to do nothing more than get up and run away screaming. A gentler touch on his leg both startled him and soothed this rush of despair.

“You have died,” Melisandre spoke, slowly succumbing to a crouch in front of him and by Davos’ side. He found her eyes and, for the first time in forever, he didn’t see an abyss of destructive flames in her scarlet eyes. There was nothing but the same kind of sparkling fire that had carried him away from the darkness. “You are not wrong about that. But the Lord of Light has brought you back.” There was a genuine emotion in her voice and face, her eyes filled with glistens, staring at him intently, clearly drinking in every edge of his very being as if she was in awe at his mere presence. Who wouldn’t be, truly? Somehow, this helped Jon settle in slowly. He was still silent for a very long moment, processing it, accepting it, trying to find some sort of rein of composure, all while he was gently swaying back and forth in his seat, constantly receiving the soothes of Davos’ hands meekly rubbing at his shoulders. There were still too many questions to be asked, but the simple relief of knowing he wasn’t on the verge of becoming a soldier in the army of the Others was enough for now. And, thus, he crumbled under the weight of this revelation, burying his head in his hands soon after the heaviest sigh of his life – or, apparently, lives – had left him.

“Bring him some water, will you? He’s gone a couple of days without anything to drink,” Jon’s heard Davos say. This prompted for his head to rise from the confinement of his arms, a small furrow of his brows gracing his features.

“It’s been two days?” Davos nodded. Jon didn’t know what to make of this information. It was… just there. He hadn’t even noticed Melisandre return to the room, not until she handed him a goblet of water which suddenly made him hyper aware of just how thirsty he was. Once in his hands, he downed the liquid hastily, not caring about the spillage at the corners of his mouth.

“Do you remember?” Davos suddenly asked and as he wiped at his mouth, Jon realized sensibleness must have kept him from asking this question sooner. He didn’t need to tap into his memories to provide an answer.

“I remember,” he confirmed, his voice abruptly falling into a blanket of sorrow. He could recall every single face and the one that was now causing him the most ache was Bowen Marsh’s, whose dagger he had also felt the most, plunged deep into his chest to silence his heartbeats. Thinking back on that night made another question arise, indicative that steadily and slowly, his mind was starting to thaw. “Where are they now?”

“The Free Folk have stormed the castle and imprisoned them,” Davos replied.

“The Free Folk?” Jon was bewildered. “What have they come here for?”

“For you, I wager. That ginger fellow seemed quite heartbroken.”

Tormund. Suddenly, he became hyper aware of the extensions of his death and his thoughts wandered to all the people that must have sat around his corpse, either weeping, either grinning. And from that crowd, his imagination plucked out Daenerys’ face. Stupidly, perhaps, his head rose, gaze offering a quick swipe to the room. This made him realize that Ghost had silently made his way by his side sometime during all of this, but also that there was no one else in there. It wasn’t easy to see why his thoughts would wander to dark places.

“Where is everyone else?” he asked in a small voice. “Edd, Grenn, Halder… Daenerys.” Oh, gods. Daenerys. He had been gone for two days, hadn’t he? What had Thorne done during this time? His eyes quickly traveled to Davos’ face. “Where is Daenerys?”

“Your friends are well,” the Onion Knight sighed. “Lady Daenerys, I’m afraid I do not know. Last I’d seen of her, she was on her way to pay her final respects.”

His heart stopped once again for a brief second. “Final for me or final for her?”

A moment of hesitance. Still, Davos replied nonetheless, “Both, I imagine. She seemed aware of the fact that Alliser Thorne would send her away.” He sent her away. Another sharp blade to strike him down. There was no room for denial or subtleties anymore. Everything that was thrown at him crashed right into his being at full force, leaking through the tears in the fabric of his soul. With one foot in a pit of despair, it was so simple to let even something as seemingly small as this to give him yet another push over the edge. He didn’t even realize when his head was buried in his hands once again, screams, and sobs, and growls all frozen in his throat, dancing on his tongue, fueled by the shadows waltzing in his head. Slowly, though, this ruthless despair was starting to melt away, the immediate moment he processed the impact of this reality. He had reacted before understanding the reasoning, but now he did. He understood this would have perhaps been easier with his hand in hers. He understood that he wouldn’t have minded falling in her embrace, that he would have maybe started to heal with her head on his shoulder in front of a fire, with amethyst eyes to get lost in, with a warm caress on his cheek.

From that point onward, he had succumbed to numbness. To blankness, to a hollowness that had washed away all feelings, good and bad. By the time Edd, and Grenn, and Tormund, and others were spilling inside of the chamber, there was nothing left of him to leap at the joy of their faces. He had to be reminded to sit up from that chair, to slip in some clothes again, that there was a whole wide world outside of the walls of this chamber. And the whole time, he had nothing but a gaping pit – in his head, in his stomach, in his heart. It didn’t help that his friends were clearly nervous, clearly uncertain of how to behave around him. Whether it was the fragility of his state or the doubt of his very humanity, he couldn’t tell. After some time, he stepped out of that chamber, followed closely by Ghost the entire time. A sea of blurry faces unveiled before him, gasps and whispers, sounds of wonder and quivers of fear. He noticed them all, but they never stuck with him. He had had dreams a lot more vivid than this cold reality where he felt like a wandering spirit with a soul in the faraway skies. The only presence he truly noticed, that he basked in, that soothed him, that was Ghost’s. The direwolf’s warmth reeled off him and the intensity of his gaze was the anchor he needed for every step he took. When he had died, the direwolf had died with him. And now they both wandered among the ruins of their own spirits.

He paid a visit to the mutineers in their cells after that, but none of them wanted to speak. They were terrified, he could see that. Not only was he a dead man walking, but he was also the one who’d pass the sentence to deliver them to the realm of the deceased. What an impossible occurrence, it was. But after that, Jon was very adamant about being given a couple of hours before the execution, retreating to his chamber and locking the door behind. He still hadn’t fully processed what had happened, he was aware of that. He sat in silence in front of the fire, an empty gaze drowning in the flickers, thoughtless and completely void of any energy that might let him come to terms with this bubble inside of him that threatened to burst. Those two hours had drained by like they had been two minutes. A knock on his door made him realize that. Disheartened, he stood up and Longclaw felt in his hand heavier than it had ever been. In the courtyard, plenty of people had gathered, a telling sign that this was an event eagerly awaited by many. Again, Jon climbed the steps toward the six men aligned underneath their nooses completely detached from this episode, his mind still elsewhere, yet void of any thoughts regardless. Looking into their eyes, one by one, all he did was take note of their emotions, ranging from disgust to sheer fear, electing to quickly move past them. All he wanted was to hack at that rope and walk away, return to that chamber and to that fire and be left alone with his emptiness. When he turned his back to the mutineers, Alliser Thorne’s voice rose up.

“Not any last words, Lord Snow?”

Jon wheeled around numbly. “Go on if such is your wish.”

“My wish?” Thorne laughed bitterly. “Such is the custom. I have granted this right to your steward and whore before I sliced their throats.” No, not yet. He still felt empty. This punch was empty. It landed a blow at nothing, for there was nothing inside of him to react. He was still in a dream. None of this was happening. “If you search by the Silent Tower, you will find his body. Sadly, hers is not here to find. We threw her out to the hungry wolves. Whatever there was left of her, at least.” His irises sparked again. Eyes that had been gazing beyond Thorne’s frame focused on his sight again, his words coming now from behind like a whirring arrow. Or, rather, like a knife that sliced at his abdomen with every word, gutting him open. He realized now that he was shaking again, though whether it was the sheer intensity of the realization or the deep rage that boiled into his stomach, he couldn’t tell. It all clashed in a fiery dance of despair and anguish, but there was still a small part left in him that kept him footed, that reminded him of where he was, of how he needed his composure. It wasn’t long before his eyes had contorted into a deep narrow, consumed by a dark hatred that swallowed every humane light sitting in their greyness. From the corner of his eyes, he noticed that his reaction had been enough to warrant a shrieking yelp and a desperate shake from one of the mutineers. In that split of second, Jon wished he could have reached out, clawed his way into Thorne’s chest with his bare fingers, pushed his nails through skin and flesh, crumbled his bones in his fists. Whatever ungodly force had brought him so close to this edge had also brought him back, but even Thorne seemed to be visibly pale as he stared down at him in utter shock.

“Wise last words, Ser,” Jon uttered darkly, realizing the grip on Longclaw’s hilt had turned his knuckles white. “Very fitting of your life.” He didn’t want to hear any more witty remarks, any more cruel words, any more acts of bravery. In one swift swing, he broke the rope that kept the six men tied to life and decided to immediately leave the stage the moment the sounds of their collective chokes and gargles echoed behind him. But as he rushed through the stunned crowds, he could feel how his anger was slowly leaving room for panic and for denial, the one sentiment he hadn’t experienced since he’d taken his first new breath. In other circumstances, he would have celebrated the rise of these emotions, telling that maybe he hadn’t returned as a hollow shell devoid of feel and purpose. He didn’t even realize when he halted by the Silent Tower, his breath stopped in his throat as wide eyes clashed with Satin’s lifeless figure succumbed into the snow painted crimson with his blood. There was barely any time to process this sight, for his thoughts had leaped over the whirlpool of emotions to something that had doubled the panic which now started to rattle his bones, leaving him with shaking fingers and dryness in his throat. Denial only grew. He launched off the spot he had frozen in, not even realizing when his step had broken into a sprint, a sprint toward some stupid and naïve tread of hope, voices in his head scolding him for having the audacity to believe that his path to Daenerys’ room wouldn’t end up the way he thought he would, that she’d be there, that he could claw his way out of this canyon of agony and torment. When he burst through the room, the door quaking in its hinges, nothing that filled it mattered as his gaze desperately searched through every corner through the fierce panting that kept spilling from his lips. Only when her presence did not arise did he finally let this string be cut, arms falling numbly by his sides. The chamber materialized in his sight and he only then observed the chests, the clothes, the belongings. He pushed the door closed slowly, barely sparing a blink as he numbly paced through the room, staring at the objects in his path. There was a book, a hairbrush, and a dragon shaped pin. He stopped there, fingers reaching out toward it, recognizing it as his thumb glossed over the motifs. She had given it to Alys Karstark the night of the wedding, he remembered. And then he remembered when he had seen it before. And with that, he came to remember so much more.

In the silence of her chamber, he could also let the sight of Satin sink in. Thoughtlessly, his hand stuffed the pin into a pocket as his head fell backward, eyes staring at the ceiling in a silent plea for the gods to release him from this bubble that he had just felt pop, starting to flood him with the deep sorrows it had nested while shock had been coiled too tightly around him. It all came crashing down on him at once. His death, the betrayal, that he didn’t belong here anymore. Satin. Oh, gods. Sweet Satin. And Daenerys… The pictures painted by his imagination of all the things Thorne and his men could have done to her threatened to paralyze him completely, so he chose to shun them away by succumbing to the anguish that had been there all this time, cloaked by the emptiness that had served as nothing but a barrage to keep the flood at bay. He turned around, desperately seeking an escape, but he stopped abruptly by the door, where a hand rested on the handle and another pressed into the wood alongside his forehead, stopped by the scent, and the voices, and the memories, and the ghost of touches that had once been of comfort and yet now were only there to torment him with their haunting. His eyes shut tightly, feeling the sting of tears that gathered underneath his lids, urged to surface by grief, by guilt, by bitterness, by fear, by the hollowness that had blocked these emotions up to this point. His fingers curled into a fist, which he hammered right into the door, shaking it in the threshold the moment a few stubborn tears made it past his eyelids. And, suddenly, in a moment of clarity amid this chaos, he remembered the root of it all. He remembered the letter, the one that had blanked his ration. Arya. Arya was still alive. She had to be alive. Ramsay Bolton couldn’t even lie about it. He was so desperate to keep this ray of light in his sight that he didn’t think twice before tearing the door open, headed with furious steps toward Edd’s chambers, ignoring the curious glances that undoubtedly noticed the teary trails staining his cheeks and the redness in his eyes as he crossed the yard. He gave a few strong knocks with his fists, waiting not a single moment for Edd to speak before he did.

“I’m leaving,” Jon announced, his voice nothing like what it usually was, shaken to the very core, barely making it past a throat tightened by the still present need of a wail to break through.

Edd’s eye’s widened immediately. “--- What?”

“I’m leaving,” Jon repeated, impatiently.

“Leaving the—the Watch? Jon, you can’t be serious.” As Edd was protesting, Jon was already removing the cloak from his shoulders, hastily dropping it in the other man’s arms. “Hey. Hey! Jon, just wait!”

Jon was already turned on his heel, but turned around nonetheless. “They killed me because I wanted to save my sister,” he spoke simply. “I’m going to save my sister.” She was the last thing he had in that dark moment. He didn’t have Daenerys, he didn’t have Sam, he didn’t even have himself anymore. He didn’t know who he was. Or what he was. But he refused to drown in his emptiness or in his anguish alike. If he had died for a cause, make it so that at least it would see itself fulfilled, make it so that he would have at least one thing left in this godforsaken world, something to keep him from completely sinking to the bottom. He nodded toward the cloak in Edd’s arms, a sniff attempting to break the whirlwind of torture that constantly had him on the edge of simply collapsing to his knees. “I’m leaving you in charge.” Again, he didn’t want to hear anything else. Edd’s protests faded in the background. His next location was the Wildlings positioned outside. They were a lot more lenient and understanding. All it took was for Jon to pose the question of whether they would follow him at this upcoming war and they all agreed to it without any curiosities regarding the morality of his decision. And just as he had been incredibly eager to first set foot in Castle Black, he was equally eager to leave it as he mounted his horse, Ghost steadily following after him, seeming to share the same sudden feeling of liberation that helped him regain his composure.

[comfort-blankets]

*Matchup*

Ya'll are seriously the cutest blog💖 I'd like a match up if it's still open! I'm a cuddly pan girl that loves food, boxing, cartoons, puppers/doggos, and witchcraft. Very optimistic and open,I can't stand when people feel unloved or unappreciated.

So sorry for the long wait lovely, but thank you so much for the compliment! I thought about this for a while, and found a match based on the information given, but I also had trouble picking between a few other characters as well.

Take in mind that I did think about Genji, Zenyatta, and Pharah!

Have a nice day my friend <3

@raewillmaketheflowersgrow

I ship you with….

Widowmaker!

I’ve actually never found a nice fit for her before based on how cold she can seem, and although the meetings didn’t start out nicely, she really does care about you earlier than you think. I don’t even know if she realized her emotions when she had them.

It took her a while, so I dearly hope you’re patient.

The sky was a quilt when you first met, and it stayed that way for as long as you could remember whenever you saw her. The fabric of the sky was dark, a few dreary clouds etched in by a white moon. You were lucky enough to catch a spider off of her job.

Despite how she puts it to Ana of being the shell of a woman, people often speak their own truths. No longer the Amélie that she was, brainwashed and used as a weapon. It is understandable her hesitance to let herself feel again, to have a soft spot for someone when all that she knows how to do is pull a trigger.

But not even her gun can bring her the feelings she desires.

There are little pricks of emotion sometimes, but she avoids them. Sometimes the feeling of guilt seems better than emptiness, but the mess of becoming a person again sounds rough, and it’s much easier just to kill and have nothing than too much.

But the right amount of kindness downright confuses her.

Amélie meets you in a Café, having been fully planning on going in and out. One she visited hidden in the corner of town once a week, enough to make her feel normal sometimes. The people who work there are too terrified to make conversation, and for a good cause. The few parents who sit at tables with their small children when the sniper arrives leave, rumors from a small town enough to make you feel like more of a criminal than you already are.

Amélie gets it. She’s terrible and she knows. They can stop rubbing it in her face, as it isn’t their business, and they don’t know how truly horrible she really is anyways.

She tells herself she doesn’t care, but in reality has no idea how to feel.

Maybe it’s because she doesn’t.

The killer grows used to the silence of the cooks in the kitchen, already knowing her order and too chicken to ask if she wants anything else. What does she want? Is this how it will be forever, and wherever she stops? ‘That woman is so cold and nasty that her skin turned blue.’

Something pricks under her skin, but this time Amélie understands it.

Loneliness. Sadness.

She doesn’t need anyone anymore, she isn’t humane. There are no morals to be put in her book. You kill, and the job gets done. You get paid, and then you rest.

The café hires a new waitress. That is you standing there, a uniform of however you decide, with a face showing whatever you want. Whatever you feel, you get to express. You are never neutral, have passions and opinions. Amélie finds jealousy in between the pages of the novel she reads whilst resting in her seat.

Everything she could ever want, a life and an exciting future, looking young and stupidly unafraid.

Why do you spend it trying to speak with a cold woman?

The first few months are rocky, a collection of passive aggressive insults, hoping to scare you away with a sharp accent on her tongue. It flickers like a snake with her words, but her reality is confusion.

How long will it be until I hurt you? Why won’t you leave me alone, listen to the people of your happy little town in your happy little life?

When Amélie finally understands that you won’t leave her be, the cold insults stop. Her next move is in avoidance.

The sniper doesn’t speak to you and your cheery conversation starters, and she ignores the prick under her skin when you say you look forward to her visits.

Amélie thought about finding a different café before, but will never admit the fact that she promised herself to come again when you said that to her.

The spider woman begins to explore the menu she never tried, taking your casual recommendations into mind from your previous conversations. She doesn’t answer them, but it is obvious she is listening. She finds herself a little grateful that you don’t point it out after she orders a new drink, a small gleam in your eye.

She finds a new emotion under the dust, nails scraping at the dirt around it.

And she figures out that she is terrified of the friendly way you gaze at her.

The light really does point out everything, doesn’t it?

She adds the feeling to her novel of life anyways, writing shaky and unlike her usual perfect cursive.

Amélie finally answers to your greetings, talks back a little bit. For the first time she isn’t rude, but her facial expression never changes. Most would take it personally, but even when she somehow manages to make you laugh her lips never curve. She wishes for once that she had the ability to enjoy laughing, even if it was just to see you flourish in this moment. The barrier between feeling nothing and having small doses of emotion blurs, and Amélie can hear the voice in the back of her mind telling her to shut these interactions down slowly be drowned out by the wonderful high of speaking to someone again.

You mention wanting to travel, and she states that there’s a nice store out of town you could be interested in. In return, you tell her about a nail salon you heard had good reviews.

When the sniper leaves for 2 weeks to finish up a job, she comes back to see an optimistic smile. Having someone say they missed you while they were gone has never felt so nice. Amélie eats up the attention without noticing, and says that she ‘somehow found something odd missing’ while she was gone. It was the closest thing to a compliment that she could manage, but it seemed more than enough for you.

Amélie brings back a souvenir for you, something she saw at an odd looking store in a dreary town. The sharp eyes of a spider look for things that she didn’t realize she needed, catching the name of the place after her scope finishes a job. You mentioned liking witchcraft, and drinks the look you give her when you open the little present. She forgets to tell you to not get used to it.

She doesn’t want to.

After all, the only reason why she paid for it was because she couldn’t quite remember how to wrap presents correctly.

It wasn’t even near holiday, why was she buying things for you? Why did she keep buying them? What was the point of catching you out the door when you finished your shift late at night, and why did she give in to the urge of pulling you so close to her?

Why did you reciprocate her deadly kiss?

A prickle under skin turns into a bucket of water poured over her body at her realization. How foolish of her to want things when she was who she was, and how terrible of her to make you fall in love with a monster.

A sun is sewed into the sky’s quilt for a few days, but the creator seemed to dislike the design. It is quickly pulled from it’s strings.

Why did she stay with you for a few days?

But most importantly, why did she leave?

Amélie didn’t want them to figure it out. Her emotions, her soft spot. And they never did, because she found herself empty again while you were gone.

While she was gone.

An entire month without you, something odd had turned normal. She wished she could have spoken to you sweetly with her venomous lips before she left.

Her novel reminds her too much of the café and chocolate drinks you recommended, and she leaves it near the bottom of her bag. She hopes that when she returns you will find someone else, but another part of her finds the thought brings an unhealthy pit in her stomach. Being empty has never felt worse.

There is no reason to cry.

The monster sheds tears in it’s quarters, missing something it can never have.

A new mission, a life for another to keep living. Amélie doesn’t look at the names, but recognizes the town. Somewhere outside the one she usually resides at, making her think about moving.

The prickles move over her entire body in disagreement, but she keeps walking.

You were travelling for something to buy at an odd store out of town, and somebody hired her to kill an old grudge. Perhaps they really hated this person and happened to have a lot of money. Or maybe they didn’t care at all, killed for fun with free time. Amélie doesn’t really care about cash anyways since she has enough of it, but it was something to pull her forward.

Food to buy, groceries to be put away. All for one person in a nice apartment. The memory of it is lonely now.

There is no reason to think of home right now.

Amélie has trouble finishing her side of the agreement.

She finds her gun aimed at you from a small, hidden space, glad that nobody is around to see her shaking fingers.

Why doesn’t she look at the names of her victims?

It is her job, her consequence for letting someone close. She has a chance to end this weakness.

There are no prickles to be felt, because everything hits her at once. An emotion to add to the pages of her book, shock. So far she has envy, sadness, terror, happiness, shock, and incredible, terrible, yearning.

A list of things that describe what one is doing:

Holding a quivering finger over a trigger, with a finely done nail from a place someone dear to her recommended.

An eye that keeps coming in and out of focus, dehydrated thing, making water for itself to spill over the table of skin.

A professional that becomes a rookie.

Amélie screams in the back of her mind, and the Widowmaker breaks.

The job is done, but the shot misses.

The noise of a bullet sounds, but it hits nothing. Whether it became one with the Earth or the concrete she didn’t know, because one moment she was perched from her web, an old torn roof, and the next she was pulling you by your arm out of town.

Amélie’s expression shows, and it is murderous.

Protectiveness. Add another page to the novel.

She gives you no time for questions, simply telling you that you are in danger, to come with her immediately. Something in her mind chirps at her that maybe you will agree with her plan, to run away with her and let the spider keep you safe. Your optimism is rubbing on her, and she swipes away the thought as quickly as it came.

You have a right to your anger on her disappearance, and when she is sure that nobody has seen you, she answers every single one of your questions. Honestly. That was a first as well, being so eager to open up to everything.

Her crimes, her terrible mentality, her job. It’s shoved into your head and the Widowmaker speaks so lowly of herself that the venom on her tongue doesn’t seem to ever have been aimed towards you.

She rereads the page covering the topic of shock when you agree with her plan, thinking that you surely would’ve left her.

Amélie sees her tears on your face, why do you feel her pain?

She files the job done, but kills the buyer instead. There will always be people who dislike you, but this way you were safe from another being hired to end you. Someone who was much, much worse than she, probably.

A kind of domesticated life falls over her, something she used to look down upon sickeningly. She doesn’t know how to to feel about it now.

But this time, she actually can.

What did Amélie want with this new life? A new job, a life, a new future?

No.

It all came as a package deal with you, and together you placed her morality where it needed to be. You reminded her that she was always there, no matter if she had changed. Widowmaker and Amélie were the same person, even if it wasn’t how she wanted to be, right in between.

So the spider no longer picked up her gun, and rerouted her life to a new, calm direction.

She finally found her money useful again, running away with the most cheerful woman she’d ever met, and indulging with her those childish activities.

Cartoons? She acts as if she hates them, but is content enough to speak sweet words to you while she plays with your hair, the television running in the background. Later on you have a discussion about a character you like, knowing details not even you noticed.

Her lips are no longer coated in venom, and you have never felt safer with the world’s most accurate sniper behind you.

The quilt in the sky sheds it’s somber colors, a new fabric used to stitch together a new blanket.

A brown dog is etched in at the side.

And when you bring him home, the Widowmaker lets you name him whatever you please.